Something blue

Johnny knew a sinking, softening feeling. Temptation. Sit in the back room; let it go. Give up and be comforted. You've done all you could. This was Kate's charm, he realized. Kate was on the side of the weak. Kate would sit with him in a sad and seamy world and comfort helplessness. McCauley's frustiation. Nathaniel's. Not mine, he thought grimly.

He said crisply, "Do you know any of the servants at the Bartee place?"

"No. No, dear."

"Anybody who worked there seventeen years ago?"

"Aw, no," Kate soothed.

Johnny whirled around. He said to the men at the bar, "Ally of you know anybody who worked for the Bartees seventeen years ago?"

"No," they said. "No," and shifted weight.

Johnny stood thinking.

One man said suddenly, "My uncle's best friend, I used to hear him say he seen the kid's car on the upper road that night."

"The night of the murder? Where is the upper road?"

Both men told him with gestures.

"Where can I find this man? What's his name?"

"Name was Ruiz. He moved away. He's not around any more. We don't know where he went," they said.

CHAPTER 12

Nan drove fast. Wind whipped their hair.

Dorothy said, "Aren't we going to Riverside?"

"We are not."

"Calm down, hon."

"You listened to that horrible creature!"

"If Clinton McCauley didn't kill his wife," began Dorothy mildly.

"I don't care who killed his wife!" cried Nan. "Dick didn't!"

"Good idea to be sure," said Dorothy cheerfully.

"You can stop talking hke that," Nan said, "Or you can get out of this car. And go home."

Dorothy looked at her white profile.

"I'm going right straight to Dick and tell him what that sickening woman is saying," Nan cried.

"Good idea," said Dorothy gently.

Nan roared up the Bartee's private road and into the half-circle among the trees. Brakes screamed. Nan tumbled out.

Dick Bartee popped out of the front door. "What's the matter?" Nan raced up the wooden steps into his arms. "Now, hush." He held her and stroked her hair, and looked at Dorothy.

As Dorothy came slowly up, Blanche came out of the house. "What is it?" Blanche asked nervously.

Nan was sobbing. "Johnny and some horrible woman-saying you killed Christy."

"I knew this would happen," said Dick with a heavy sigh, "I wanted to tell you last night but your boy friend talked me out of it. Love, love, this is an old story." He held her a httle away smiling down.

"You—you knew about it?"

"Of course, I knew about it. People on McCauley's side, fighting to save him. Love, this was said about me, tested and settled, years ago."

"Oh," said Nan weakly.

Blanche said tensely, "We just must forget the whole thing."

But Dorothy said, "If there's a man in prison who says he didn't do it . . ."

"All men in prison say they didn't do it," snapped Blanche. "But he did. For heaven's sakes, come inside."

They went in as far as the hall.

Dick still held Nan in his arms. "I asked John Sims, last night, if he had heard this story about me. He said he had. I wish I'd done what I wanted to do. Told you about it. Don't be upset, love."

Nan wept, and it seemed as if she wept for herself, now. Dick, over her head, smiled at Dorothy.

"They proved you didn't do it, eh?" asked Dorothy brightly.

Blanche said stiffly, "Clinton McCauley did it. Will you please—"

"There must have been a to-do about you, though," said Dorothy to Dick. "Aunt Emily had heard this story."

Nan half turned; Dick shifted her within his arms. His gray eyes rested on Dorothy's face.

Dorothy said boldly, "Jo^^^^y did go to the hospital, the night he was called."

Nan took her head from Dick's breast.

"What did Aunt Emily tell him?" Dick asked in a cool, hght voice.

"Why, I suppose she remembered from the newspapers. She certainly knew your name had been connected with a murder. That's why she flew home. She really didn't Hke the idea of Nan marrying a murder suspect." Dorothy smiled. Tou can't exactly blame her."

He didn't move. He just looked at her.

"Why didn't Johnny say sol" Nan stormed. "Why is Johnny acting the way he is! I despise it!'

"Johnny got this job," said Dorothy, "to—well, natin-ally, since it isn't Dick who went to jail, I mean, Johnny isn't saying Dick is guilty—"

"Damned white of him," Dick said dryly.

"It was," said Dorothy staunchly, "white of him to try and see how much there was to the story before he spilled it out and upset Nan."

Nan wept.

Dick said, "Don't cry, love." He looked at Dorothy, "Somebody upset her. It wasn't I."

Blanche made an abrupt gestiure. "The Callahan woman— completely bad. A liar. You can't beheve a thing she'd say. You shouldn't have been taken anywhere near her." Blanche was furioiis.

"Now, Blanche," said Dick soothingly, "no harm." He kissed Nan's hair. "I only wash I'd saved you the shock." Then he said to Dorothy, in that cool hght voice, "What did Aunt Emily say to Sims in the hospital?"

"I told you," said Dorothy shortly. "Aunt Eimily loved Nan. Didn't want her hurt. And Johnny feels the same."

"Does he, though?" said Dick, with a suggestion of a smile. (Nan raised her head.) "I think he wouldn't mind getting rid of me, if he could. Don't blame him too much, love. Fact, he admitted as much last night. I told him to go ahead and have a try."

Nan's eyes began to shine. "Oh, Dick!" she said.

"I'm going to change," he said, "and take you girls to

lunch. Wash your face, sweetheart. I have a thought, Blanche. Ask John Sims to come to dinner."

"No," said Blanche flatly.

"What's this?" Bart Bartee had come into the wide hall from the back of the house. "We're due in the village, Dick. We're late."

"It's Sims checking whether I killed Christy,'' said Dick easily.

"Why do you want to ask him to dinner?" Bart said.

"Look," said Dick, "the poor guy's in love with my girl. So he's all over town. Better we talk to him."

Blanche said, "Please, Bart, I don't like this. Stop this Sims. Tell him to go away."

"I can't do that, Blanche," Bart said almost absentmind-edly.

"Of course not," joined Dick. "But I agree with Blanche that it's nothing to like—all over town. Best we talk to him ourselves. Tell him everything we know and straighten him out."

Blanche stared at him.

Nan said primly, "If I could only make Johnny realize that I am going^:o marry you."

Dorothy felt an impulse to hit her.

Dick laughed. "He'U catch on." He started Nan toward the stairs.

"What about our appointment?'' Bart said.

"Another day. You don't mind?" Dick kept walking.

Bart twitched his shoulders. A sardonic expression crossed his smooth face. Blanche's hands were twisting. Blanche's eyes seemed sunk deep into her head.

"Bart, he cannot come to dinnerl I won't call himl"

"I think it's not a bad idea." Bart's voice was quiet. "I'll call him."

Blanche winced as if he had whipped her. "No, I will—" she murmured. She turned to go.

Bart said, "You're not upset. Miss Dorothy?"

Dorothy said slowly, "No, although I am beginning to think that Clinton McCauley may be innocent."

"Are you?" said Bart with interest.

"He was guilty!" cried Blanche. "Everyone knowsl And anyway, it was seventeen years ago."

1 don't see," said Dorothy, "what difference the years make."

"Neither do I," said Bart.

Blanche put her head down and hurried away.

Johnny Sims got back to his motel about five p.m. His legs were weary. He had been everywhere in the town of Hestia. Hunting for the bus driver. Gone. Trying to find out where the uncle's best friend, one Ruiz, was now. Nobody knew. Looking for Bartee servants. Somebody said the Bar-tees' old yardman now hved in a Httle crossroads settlement about eight miles to the south. This was all he had gleaned. Almost notliing. He had run into more doubt.

Society, he reflected, punishes a man. The climate is against him. But after seventeen years, the climate has changed. Society wonders. Only evidence can stand up. Evidence is that which remains. In this case, there had not been enough, either way.

He kicked off his shoes, and sat down by the phone. Called San Francisco. Copeland. Reported.

"She knows, at least, that rumor was Dick Bartee did it," Johnny finished forlornly.

"How did she react?" the lawyer asked.

"She was angry."

"McCauley's still in the hospital," the lawyer said gloomily.

"No better?"

"Not much. What's your opinion now on Dick Bartee?"

"I'm getting the feeling he did it," said Johnny and exploded, "I've absolutely got to have more than just a feeling . . ." (He didn't trust his feelings.)

"You tell Nan the rest of it," Copeland said severely. "Or I will. Have you talked to Grimes?"

"Not today."

"You talk to him youseff," said Copeland, "and tell that girl the whole business. Quick."

"You're right," said Johnny. "I'll tell her. No later than tomorrow."

Johnny hung up, called Roderick Grimes.

Grimes was annoyed by Kate's story about housebreaking.

"No sense to it," he fumed. "If Dick Bartee killed Christy, then Dick Bartee got Christy's pin then and there out of the safe."

"Supplied Nathaniel with it?"

"Right. So why the housebreaking? What would he or anybody else be looking for in Kate's house?"

"Nothing taken."

"And that's helpful," Grimes snapped. "Well, I'll ponder it. Blood tests, eh? You watch the timing, lad. Looks like he'll rush the wedding. You don't want to prove he did it, afterwards."

"Prove—" Johnny sent a groan the five-hundred-odd miles.

"You been shot at or anything?" Grimes asked curiously.

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"You think a killer won't kill twice?"

"In my case, he doesn't need to bother," said Johnny savagely. "I'm not getting anywhere."

Grimes was silent.

"Copeland said to call you," Johnny remembered. "What's up? Any ideas?"

"A few," Grimes said. "By the way, do you own a hat?"

"A whati"

"Hat, I said."

"I don't wear a hat," said Johnny. "What's that got to do with . . . ?" He :s^as in a state of sputtering frustration.

"I brood," said Grimes. "I brood, you know. I got an idea."

"What?" barked Johnny.

Grimes said, after hesitating, "For a title."

"Title!"

"Yep. Pretty tricky. 'A Life for Two Pins.' How's that?"

"Just ducky," said Johnny bitterly and slammed down the phone.

Grimes in his armchair with his fiction-oriented mindl Johnny felt lonely and futile. Maybe he ought to take Kate Callahan's advice. Let people go. Nan was in love and that was her fate, her foUy, or her privilege, and there wouldn't ever be a way to prove that Dick Bartee had killed poor Christy. If he had. Too long ago. Too many people dead, or gone. If Nan did marry Dick Bartee, McCauley would just have to bear it. Well? He was a saint, wasn't he?

Johnny Sims would have to bear it, too.

In San Francisco, Copeland was saying on the telephone

to Roderick Grimes, "You didn't tell him, then? Well, it's hopeless, anyhow."

"Who says it's hopeless?" Grimes protested. "Sims doesn't wear a hat. I didn't think so."

"Evidence," said Copeland. "What are you going to take to court? Six flower petals?"

"You are confused," said Grimes cosily, "between evidence and clue. Six petals of ceanothus, caught in the trunk seam of a rented car—that is a clue. Who said it was evidence?"

Copeland groaned.

"Let me outline it for you," Grimes continued. "I sit and think. Occurs to me, a killer wHl kill again. I note that Dick Bartee was here, in this city, the night that Emily Padgett died. With—if he is the ring-tailed doozer we suspect—a fine fat motive to get rid of her. So, I query the good doctor. He turns out to be uneasy about that heart. Also, a patient of his across the court from Padgett's room saw a man in there. Doc thinks it was Johnny Sims. Man wore a hat, however. Did not take it off. Discourteous, you see? Sims has good manners, as we know."

"That's evidence?" said Copeland bitterly.

"That's a clue," said Grimes. "Who was the man with a hat on? Tripped the bhnds, he did. Well, I go poke around the airport on hypothesis. Very scientific. Bartee got off a plane close to seven that night, rented a car. Returned it on the Monday. Tuesday, I get there, and the car is in. Six flower petals in the trunk seam. Ceanothus. Even I can recognize. What else is blue?"

"You couldn't count the ceanothus in Cahfomia," the lawyer said. "It's second name is California hlac."

", see?" Grimes went right on, "and tall enough to shed on the trunk of a car. I went—personally, mind you—to snoop around that hospital. Looking for a ceanothus in bloom, along the curb. Sure enough, there was one."

"I can see the jury."

"I can, too," said Grimes cheerfully, "when we produce this old chap, walking his dog last Friday night, who gets amused when the three letters on a license plate spell a word. He gives us the same three letters on that rented car, mider the ceanothus bush. Coincidence? Yahl"

"Not proof."

"Sometimes the human mind will jump the proof and reckon up the probability. Just as humans did when Mc-Cauley was convicted. You don't think this human world goes by logic, do you?"

The lawyer was silenced.

"Now, Grimes went on, "we've got Bartee's car near the hospital."

"He wouldn't know that Emily was there."

'I don't care about that," said Grimes bhthely. "If we can put him there, tlien we know that he knew. We'll find out how he knew some other time. You absolutely cannot prove that a man doesn't kjipw something. So don't worry about it. Now, for the leg-work. I've stiired up the police. Their legs are legion. Checking every patient in that wing. Who visited?"

"Take weeks," groaned Copeland.

"I don't think so. Two rooms to worry about/'

"Two rooms?"

"Padgett's room was second from the end of the wing. Nobody in the end room on her side. So, the two rooms on the opposite side of the corridor, between her and-lhe door. Bartee wd^ldn't walk through the hospital."

"Listen," said Copeland, "I am willing to suspect . . . But even if he knew which hospital, how could he know which room?"

"I'll tell you," said Grimes. "What about the florist who called and asked if Emily Padgett was in there and if so in which room? And what about nurses who say, 'No flowers for Padgett/ ever?"

"Somebody goofed," said Copeland feebly.

"You don't beheye that," said Grimes. "You're just as human as I am. We both know Bartee killed Emily Padgett."

"If he did ..." Copeland raved.

"The rest is leg-work. Find some witnesses. If any visitor saw him and can identify. Let's short-cut this thing. You take room 409. I'll take 411. BeHeve me, they are the ones that count."

"Why didn't you tell John Sims?" asked the lawyer.

"Because," said Grimes, "better he get nowhere. Bartee must be pretty confident that nobody will ever prove he killed a woman seventeen years ago. But if he killed a woman

last Friday night, that's difiFerent. Sims knew the Padgett woman well. He couldn't hide that suspicion. Bartee could get nervous. And a killer may as well kill three times as twice."

"Poor Emily," mourned Copeland. "Poor Nan. Poor httle Nan."

"Everybody's going to be safer," said Grimes, "if we assume this Dick Bartee is mighty dangerous."

The phone rang in Johnny's room in the motel. Blanche Bartee seemed to be inviting him to dinner.

"I'd hke very much to come, Mrs. Bartee," Johimy's manners concealed his astonishment. "Thank you."

"Seven o'clock, Mr. Sims?" Blanche said in a hostess' voice, with no human warmth in it.

He agreed, hung up, breathed deeply in.

Maybe Nan needed him! He could see a vision of her in his mind. Nan subdued, shrunk back into her shy shell, forlorn, lost, wondering, feeling the doubt. The Bartees would be concerned about her. They would ask him to come to the house and they would want things clarified. They would want to know what Johnny had done to her.

Poor little Nan.

CHAPTER 13

The dining room, which lay back of the long parlor, was red and white. There was a red carpet and red damask hangings at the several long windows. The walls were white. The chandeher was crystal. At the oval table, Johnny sat on the left of his hostess, who, in white with peals, was discoursing on the subject of the climate here.

To his left sat the old lady, in black, attacking with greed and relish her cake.

Bart, at the head of the table, bent to Dorothy on his left.

Dorothy wore a soft apricot-colored dress and had her blonde hair swept high.

Nan (poor httle Nanl) was wearing red. A red velvet band held her dark hair back from her sparkhng face. Bonds, spun in the air, but almost visible, held Nan hugged close, allied in loving faith, to Dick Bartee, who sat between the two pretty girls, being charming.

In the parlor, before dinner, under the shock of finding his vision of Nan to have been about as inaccurate as it could be, Johnny had rallied. Well, then? Here he was. What was to be accomplished?

The old lady had not been in the parlor and he had been afraid she would not appear. For, he reflected, the old lady hked him. Maybe he could try again with her. Glean all he could before the politeness and the charm broke open and he was told why he had been asked. Or asked what he had been told. Or told to stop asking.

Now the old lady was here. But Blanche did the talking.

Bart was telling Dorothy something about the process of turning grapes to wine, as was done in a complex of buildings about two miles from the house.

"Some of ourjnechanical equipment is pretty old," he iSid. 'We are going to have to^replace it."

Nan said brightly, "Dick and I are going to replace it. We want to, don't we, Dick?" We. We—showing Johnny for the hundredth time that she was part of this family, belonged here, was gone from Johnny's reach.

Dick said, "Right. I seem to be marrying a peck of money. We could do the whole thing at one whack. Grandma is going to sell us her interest, cheap. Aren't you. Grandma?"

The old lady sucked coffee. "It would have gone to your papa," she said. "I'll give it to you."

"I never did see," said Dick, "why a wife shouldn't put her money into her husband's business."

He didn't send this as a question to Johnny directly. But Johnny answered.

"I don't eitlier," he said amiably. "That is, of course, if the business has been impartially analyzed by some reliable party. As an investment." Johnny smiled.

Johrmy had charm, if that was what was wanted.

"Naturally," Dick said. "And of course, the investment safeguarded with the usual rights."

''Of course," Bart said somewhat dryly. But Johnny saw a look of desolation cross his face. He turned to Blanche, "Before I forget," he said suddenly, "could you and would you tell me, Mrs. Bar tee, the names of the servants here seventeen years ago?"

Blanche brought her wits slowly to his question. She said, "I can't tell you. I wasn't hving here, then."

"Mr. Bartee?" Johnny leaned to ask his host.

"I was stationed East at that time," said Bart, "in the army." His reply was mild, unresentful.

So Johnny looked into the gray eyes across the table. "Dick?" he said easily.

"I doubt if I can remember," Dick said. "They came and went."

So Johnny turned upon the old lady. "Then you are the one to ask, I guess," he smiled. "You'll tell me, won't you?"

''Tell you what?^' She was munching the last bite. For the first time in all the dinner time, she looked at him.

"The names of your servants, seventeen yeai-s ago?"

Nothing seemed to occur to the old lady. Her face was blank. Bart said gently, "Mother forgets. Perhaps there are some records in my father's papers. Is there anything else?"

The tone of the question betrayed no sarcasm. But Johnny wasn't sure it held none. He thought, O.K. I'll be charming.

So he leaned back and he said pleasantly, "I'm sorry to talk my shop. But I wonder whether you understand. My job, you see, is to pick up descriptive bits, atmosphere, trifles that make a story more vivid and interesting. And it is a story. None of you, I suppose are, in any sense, writers? If you were, you'd understand. The sort of thing that Grimes turns out, you know, is closely alUed to fiction. I am a picker-up of color."

"The servants could give you color?" asked Dick.

"I would think so. Perhaps you don't realize," said Johnny, "what an unusual old house this is, for instance. Or how romantic your very business sounds to the ordinary reader. Or what a glamorous figure the old gentleman must have been."

They were listening. One pair of eyes disapproved of his blarney. Dorothy Padgett's blue eyes.

But Johnny went on, "Or how interesting a character you still are, Mrs. Baitee."

The old lady bridled. "I've had a life," she said. "I sit in the comer, nowadays. But I've had a life."

"I would tliink so," purred Johnny.

"Two husbands. Dead now. My daughter Nelly, dead. Nathaniel—all gone. Christy, too."

"Christy," said Johnny softly, "dead the way she died. The murder of a beautiful young woman in such a house as this. I wish I could make you see how fascinating . . ."

"You're not Hkely to do that," said Bart dryly.

"I don't think we should talk your shop any more, Mr. Sims," said Blanche. "Can't we discuss more cheerful . . . ?"

The old lady said, "Bart gone. Nathaniel, too."

Bart, Jr., said to his wife, "On the contrary, my dear.'' (She looked white.) Bart turned courteously. "Mr. Sims, you were asked tonight so that we could talk your shop, as you put it. We are interested in your project to the extent that we would like to put you straight. Isn't that what you said, Dick?"

"'Right," said Dick smiling.

"I wish for noting better," said Johnny promptly.

"Then, tell me," said Dick easily, "do you conclude that, in my youth, I killed Christy?"

"Clinton McCauley killed Christy," the old lady said promptly.

"To whom had you spoken, Sims?" asked Bart," ignoring his mother, 'l^esides Kate Callahan?"

"I had a very nice chat with your father, Mrs. Bartee," said Johnny to Blanche.

"How is Dad?"

"I stumble on things," said Johnny. "Forgive me. But you and Dick used to date?"

"Once or twice," she said. Her eyes were not focused on anything.

"I never stumbled on that," said Bart Bartee mildly.

Nan sat still and looked at the dishes. The disapproval had gone from Dorothy's eyes. They were alert.

"That's right, we did date once or twice," said Dick.

"A million years ago?" said Johnny genially. "As Miss Callahan would say. Fact is, this roommate of yours, Dick, told me you dated practically everybody."

"Roommate? Oh, yes. Old George. That's a trifle, all right." Dick laughed.

"He got out nights from that school," said Johmiy. "Fact, he was out that night. As you said you knew."

Blanche leaned back and hit the chairback with a thump. Bart said, "Mr. Sims, you want to make out that Mc-^ Cauley is innocent?"

"I beHeve that McCauley is innocent," said Johnny. Dick spoke. "Too bad that so many people are dead and gone and can't be talked to. You think McCauley is innocent?' But you didn't answer my question. Am I guilty?"

Bart said, "Dick's alibi won't hold? What about that, Dick?"

"Ah, well," sighed Dick, "George didn't want to admit being out. No more did I."

Nan looked as if she didn't know what anyone was talking about.

Bart said sharply, "Where were you, then?" Dick said, "We were young. It mattered, we thought. Nobody wanted to be expelled from school or get into trouble with our elders." He looked at Blanche who had no color supporting her make-up. "Fact is, I had a better ahbi."

"I asked you not to rake this up," said Blanche to her husband in a flat voice. "But you wouldn't stop. Dick was with me that night, while Christy was being killed." "Where?" Bart said icily. "At my house."

"Midnight?" Husband and wife spoke down the table's length.

"Yes. He threw sand at my window and I went downstairs. We talked on the side porch. He wanted me to sneak out and go dancing. It was too late, I told him. It was midnight."

Dick sighed. "A crazy kid. Old George got out and I . . . Well, seemed to be a point of pride there. Bartee wasn't going to stay in like a good httle boy, if the Ukes of George Rush had gone out."

This rang perfectly true to Johnny's ear. "But I'd made no plans, no date." Dick shrugged. "WeU, I tried to talk Blanche into a date. And no luck." He smiled at her.

"Why didn't all this come out at the time?" Bart spoke

to his wife alone. "A murder easel Your own father was counsel for the defense."

"Dad had forbidden me to see Dick any more," Blanche said. "I'd promised. Dad was in bed and the house dark— and I took care not to wake him." She ktoked angry. "The school gave Dick an alibi. Why should I?"

"Not to tell the whole truth," said Bart coldly, "is the same as lying."

Blanche winced. The old lady was eyeing her. Johnny turned suddenly upon the old lady. 'TDid you pick the pin off the floor of the study and give it to Nathaniel?" he said boldly.

Bart's eyes flashed anger.

But the old lady answered quickly, pulhng in her chin, "Of course not. That woman had it."

"What woman? Kate Callahan?" Bart stared at his mother. ''You knew that, Mother? But you swore , . ."

"Nathaniel didn't realize it was an heirloom," said the old lady. "I understood, I wasn't angry. I simply told him he had better get it back before his father found out. His father never understood Nathaniel. Nathaniel is gone," she added. ^

"Got it backl" Bart's voice was edgy. "How and when did Nathaniel get the pin back?"

Blanche said, "Oh, we got it back for him. Dick and I." Her face was bitter. "We broke the law. I've been afraid of that old fooHshness for too long. I may as Well stop 'lying' altogether."

The old lady giggled.

"You broke into Kate's?" said Johnny alertly.

"I have always known," said Blanche drearily, ''that Dick could never have done that thing, because he was with me. And I have always known that McCauley did do it. Because he was lying about the pin. I could have proved it. I asked you not to rake this up."

'Will you prove it, now, please?" asked Johnny.

'Why, the pin wasn't in McCauley's pocket. It was in Kate Callahan's dresser drawer."

'My father," said Dick, "wasn't made of the stuff for

i^l intrigue. He was in a panic. Grandfather would have been

rough on him. He begged me. Well, at the time, it was

nS quite a challenge. Nothing loathe, Blanche and I did a

spot of burglary. In a good cause." He was smiling. "Crazy kids."

"You found that pin in Kate Callahan's room after the killing?'' Johnny was brisk. "On the Sunday night?"

Dick's eyes shifted to his face. Dick said softly, "Yes, the Sunday night. You do get around." "I foimd it," Blanche said. "Took it?"

"Of course," said Dick. "Saved my father's life, you might say." Now, he sounded amused.

Bart said, "Blanche, you let your father go to court to defend this man, while you had this kind of knowledge secretly?"

"I was young," she stammered. "I'd disobeyed to go with Dick at all. And what we did was illegal. And anyhow I had gone away to school before the trial. I wasn't here." She raised her head. "And what diflFerence would it have made?" she cried, "It simply proved that Kate Callahan was lying. That McCauley had tajken Christy's pin. Everything I knew only proved what the jury beUeved, anyhow."

"You weren't the jury," said Dorothy Padgett intensely. "You weren't the judge , . ."

"Kids," said Dick sighing. "Kids don't snitch on each other. We had an adventure. And of course, it was for my father."

Nan said, "He did it for his father's sake . . .'' Johnny felt the hole in his mind, the sinking again. "FooHsh," said Dick. "Oh, well, at least everything is clear, now. Not so?" Johnny said, "Clear?"

Dorothy said, "Lies and secrets and the poor man in prison ..."

Blanche said to her pityingly, "But he did the killing, Dorothy. There was no injustice."

Bait said, "You come with me, Sims." He rose. .1

"Bart?" Blanche's voice trembled after him, but her hus- i| band did not stop or turn.

Johnny followed him into the wide hall, past the stairs, into the study. Johnny's thoughts whirled.

In the dark, he was thinking. A young girl, sneaking downstairs in a dark house. A young girl, breaking and entering, excited—thrilled as they say—in a strange room

and smely almost in the dark. Whatever Blanche thought she knew, Johnny did not know it. Did not know it, at alll

The square study was dark. Bait turned up a light.

He began to rummage in a low drawer under one of the glass-doored bookcases. "I've kept a lot of stuff," he muttered. He pulled out manila folders. He rose from the squat-ing position. "The servants' names, maybe."

"It was so long ago," said Johrmy slowly. "I didn't know the people."

"Neither did I, it seems," snapped Bart.

"Tell me about Nathaniel," Johnny said. "An artist, was he?"

"He used to paint," Bart said dryly.

"I don't know what to think," said Johnny rubbing his head. "Do you?"

Bart stood still. "No, I don't. My mx)ther was fantastically devoted to Nathaniel. He took shelter in her, and that 'flattered her, I suppose. Whereas I struck away on my own. But I am the son who takes care of her, as my father did." Johnny suddenly saw this to be a tenet of his pride.

Bart had paused. Then he said, "Nathaniel was a liar. He hed when he claimed he'd had nothing to do with Kate Callahan. My mother knew that much. But he got 'Ay mother to cover for him—and lie." Bart's mouth was a little bitter. "He got his son to cover for him—and steal. I am as anxious as you are to get to the bottom of this, now." Then he was blimt. "You want to think Dick had done it?"

Johnny said, "What I want is outside this matter, I hope. Did Dick get your wife to cover for him, too?"

Bart said, "In the dark?"

"Who told her what time it was?" Johnny said gently.

Nervously, Bart opened a folder. "What about this money?" He raised his head. "Dick claims not to have knovwi that Nan was any kind of an heiress. But did he know?"

"He may have," said Johnny cautiously. "I've thought of that, too."

"The reason I ask—" Bart said. "Has it ever struck you that Dick is attracted to Miss Dorothy?"

"No," said Johnny with shock.

"Watch him," said Bart grimly. "She is a beautiful girl and a most magnetic one. A plum, that Dorothy I Why is a man hke Dick attracted to the Httler one? Littler, in every sense."

Johnny said stiffly, "Nan was always shy."

"I'd like you to understand about the business," Bart said, verring. "There are replacements to be made. We need bot-thng machines, crushers, tractors. I'm into the bank already. Now my mother will give her interests to Dick. I have no right to stop her. They amount to a small percentage. Now, if Dick produces a hunk of capital immediately, I ought to take his money, count him a full partner. My mother expects it." Bart's face was hard. "I have been in this business for years. Dick has been what they call 'around.' He's done the so-called adventuresome stuff. He is tough, you'd tliink?"

Johnny murmured, "Hadn't thought . . ."

"Dick is the weak one," Bart said. "He never, in his life, stuck to a thing and pulled it tlirough. Z am tlie stronger man."

"I believe you," said Johnny softly.

Bart turned his eyes. "I am committed, of course," he said. "Now, let's see. Account book. Household. Yes, here's the year."

Johnny copied names in his notebook. Bart had no idea where the cook was nor the upstaiis maid or tlie weekly cleaning woman. The yardman's name was Delevan.

"But would he have been here at night?" asked Johnny.

"As a matter of fact, he was here that night. I know the poHce heard his testimony. But he was never called."

"What was his testimony?"

"That I don't know."

"How come he was here?"

"Why he—There used to be a hammock slung between two trees in the grove out at the front. It seems when he had worked late, and wanted to be here early the next day, he'd sometimes beg a meal in the kitchen and sleep in the hammock. My father discharged him when this came out. The hammock was supposed to be exclusively for the family." Bart seemed to stand, with the family's pride falling raggedly across his shoulders.

"He was never put on the stand at the trial?"

"No."

"I wonder why not."

"Must be that he saw absolutely nothing," said Bart Bartee.

"Is there any kind of address? Wait . . ." Jolinny snapped

his fingers. "I know where he is. Somebody told me he lives in some little settlement. Twomey? His testimony alibied Nathaniel!"

"Nathaniel," said Bart contempuously, "couldn't kill spiders. My mother used to do it for himi."

CHAPTER 14

Johnny followed Bart along the red carpet. In the parlor, Nan was tucked close to Dick on a pale yellow sofa. Dorothy and Blanche were seated apart. The old lady had vanished.

As Bart strode in, Blanche sent him a begging smile. Her thin face, upon which the high-bridged nose seemed so prominent, became pathetic.

"Any luck?" asked Dick.

"Not much," said Johnny, when Bart did not answer, ^t^am-had gone out^f Bart. Whatever he had intended to do or say, he now hesitated.

"Well, do you give up?" Dick said impudently.

Dorothy said, as if she could hold this in no longer, "It's just incredible to me! People mustn't do that!"

"Do what?" asked Dick alertly.

"Conceal things. Make private judgments about the truth in a—in a public matter. A matter of murderl I'm sorry, but I think it's frightening."

No Bartee spoke. Nan said, "But, Dotty, when Dick's father asked for help, Dick wanted to protect him."

"You mustn't protect," cried Dorothy fiercely. "You must have the faith not to protect. I think there has been a terrible wrong done somewhere."

Dick said, "Kids, Dotty." His eyes rested on her.

"I understand," said Dorothy. "But that doesn't excuse. You can understand all you want to and all you ought to, but that doesn't mean you approve. Or that WTong is not wrong."

"She is right," said Bart firmly. "Too many people didn't tell all they knew. Mother. Nathaniel. You, Dick. Blanche."

"Oh, Bart, please," Blanche began to cry.

Dick said to Johnny with an air of anger suppressed, "Now that you've got Blanche in tears and the whole house unhappy, do you think you have proved McCauley innocent? Or me guilty?"

"No," said Johnny.

Nan raised her lashes. Her brown eyes were somber. "Johnny, you have done enough damage, really you have. Now, that you understand it all, please, will you just stop?" He didn't speak and the eyes began to glisten with tears. "Do you like making me unhappy? The past is past. I thought you . . ."

Johnny looked at her. Doubt was not for Nan. To tell her who she was would make no difference. It would only be unkind.

"I had better go," he said.

His hostess in tears, his host distracted, Dick unanswerable. Nan unhappy. And Christy McCauley dead these seventeen years. Yes, he had better go.

Dorothy went with him to the door. Johnny had nothing for her but a sad shake of his head. No proof. Nothing, in all that had come out, proved McCauley innocent. Must Nan, then, ever know who she was?

Dorothy, of course, did not know who Nan was. Dorothy said furiously, "There is too dam much that never was told straight. Johnny, what is the meaning of it? Who did kill Chi-istyr

"How do I know?" said Johnny gloomily. "How can I find out who killed Christy? It was seventeen years ago."

In the parlor, Dick said into Nan's ear, "You are right, love. Past is past. If we were only married, we could go away—go somewhere and just be happy."

"—just be happy," she echoed in a whisper.

"Let's," he breathed. "Those tests should be ready on Friday, at the latest. Maybe even on Thursday. I can put some Bartee pressure on."

"How long must we wait, then?"

"Why, not at all."

"Tomorrow is Thursday."

"Let's not wait at all. Friday?"

"I haven't anything to wear," Nan said foolishly.

"Wear red," he said. "My darling, you look so beautiful in red."

"A bride doesn't wear red, sillyl"

"Wear white," he said, "Wear blue."

"Dotty has a white dress. We could turn up the hem."

"Turn up the hem," he whispered, "love, if you love me."

Johnny said to Dorothy, by the door, "Good night. Dotty. Be kind to Nan. She needs somebody—" He went out and the night air was chilly. The fields were dark. What must I do for Nan's sake, he kept asking himself. He kept seeing Dorothy's eyes.

In the big back bedroom at the Bartee house, the cousins quarreled that night. Nan did not think Dorothy was kind.

Dorothy began it by another spirited denunciation of people who withheld information for any reason.

"But Dick didn't do anything really wrong," flamed Nan. "He just wasn't a tattler. And he helped his father. What's wrong wdth that? Everybody doesn't have to start telling all about absolutely everything he ever knew, just because somebody gets murdered." Nan was trembling. "Dick had absolutely nothing to do with the killing, no matter what anybody else ever said or did. And we are just tired. We are going to be mairied as soon as those tests are ready. Any day"

Dorothy said, "Honey, don't . . ."

"Then we are going away. We may get the license tomorrow. So Friday—"

"Oh, no!"

"Yes," said Nan. "Dick is asking Blanche about it. If she doesn't want to go to the trouble—well, then, well go to some minister's house, Dick knows about."

Dorothy was in her nightgowTi. She had begun to pull off her robe. Now she began, without thinking what she was doing, to pull it on again.

Nan said, "Dot, you are going to be at my wedding, aren't you?"

"Certainly," Dorothy said vidthout spirit. She felt stunned.

"Dot, Blanche wants it to be here . . ." Nan looked happier now. "Just a quiet ceremony with nobody but family—and that wouldn't take much getting up. If she does, could I wear your white silk?"

Dorothy said, "Wait." She sat down and they were knee to knee. "Nan, this is just not very smart. Why can't you wait?"

"I can be married in red," said Nan proudly. "Dick doesn't care. I can certainly wear my blue."

"I'm not talking about clothes. I'm talking about marrying into this family."

"I'm marrying Dick." Nan's eyes were dark and stubborn.

"Nan, don't you care that there was a murder?" said Dorothy quietly. '"That a young woman was beaten to death in this house?"

"Nothing to do with me," said Nan.

"But, there's all that about Nathaniel. Honey, he had the reputation of being a har. A coward—"

"He's dead. It's all past."

"He's going to make a swell ancestor for your kids," said Dorothy brutally. She got up and began to walk around.

Nan wa5 in tears, but sitting stiffly on the edge of her bed, not succumbing to them.

"And old Mrs. Bartee, their great-grandmother? She's cute, all right," Dorothy said. "Judge and jury. Blanche, too."

Nan said, sobbing and choking, "Why are you against me?"

"I'm far you," Dorothy said.

"No, you're not. You know I love Dick with all my heart. And he loves me. And we are going to be married. So why can't we^"

"But Nan, don't you want to see this straightened out? That poor man in prison all these years . . ."

"But he did itl" Nan said. "And he ought to be in prison and I don't see—"

"But if he didn't do it," Dorothy said slowly, "then he's in prison because somebody in this family, lied."

"You don't know that," sobbed Nan. "There's no reason to beheve that. And anyhow, I didn't kiU Christy. 1 didn't put the man in prison. I just want to marry the man I love."

"Honey," Dorothy sat down beside her and put her arm around the tense shoulders. "Just listen a minute, please. Johnny and I do care. And the one we care about the most is you. Now you know that."

i

Nan's head went down.

"Aunt Emily, too. Remember?" said Dorothy gently. "Honey, you had a wonderful dream. A wonderful man from a wonderful background came out of the blue and you fell in love. You did just exactly that. You fell. You were going to be married and live happily ever after. Now, you are fighting to keep that dream just as it was. But you shouldn't. Really, you shouldn't. There are some strange things about the Bartee family . . ."

"I don't care," sobbed Nan. "There probably are strange things about everybody's family. But people get married, when they're in love."

Dorothy said, ''True."

"I think it is too wonderful and rare!' Nan said. ''You just can't believe it."

Dorothy looked stem and sad. "I guess I'll have to tell you something."

"What now?" Nan sighed.

"Dick's awfully interested in your money."

Nan's body stiflFened. It wrenched itself from Dorothy's grasp.

"I'm going to tell you," Dorothy continued grimly, "no matter how it sounds, that if it weren't for your money, Dick would have fallen for me." -' ' ''

Nan said in a hushed voice, "You must be out of your mind! You can't say such a thing to mel"

"I guess you can't hear it, when I do," said Dorothy sadly.

Nan jumped up, vibrating. "Of all the conceitedl Why, he didn't know about the money. I didn't even-know about the money . . . You're just—you're just crazy!"

Dorothy sat on tlie edge of the bed, looking down at her feet. Now, she began to slip out of her robe.

"Are you jealous?" Nan cried. "Of me? Youve always had all the boy friends. Youve always been the popular one. Just because I found Dick! Dotty, please! How can you say a thing like that? You must be jealous!"

"I guess so," said Dorothy stolidly.

"But I'm going to marry Dick! I love him! You can't stop that!"

"I guess not," Dorothy said.

She had the robe oflE. She stepped, then, from Nan's bed

to the edge of her own. She put her knee on the bed. She said, "Good night."

"And Johnny's jealous, too!" Nan raged. "Both of you want to spoil things! Well, you won't—!"

Nan flew into the bathroom, sobbing.

Dorothy lay in the cold sheets' embrace.

In a Httle while, Nan came out of the bathroom, switched oflF the hght, got into her bed.

Dorothy said into the dark, "You can have my white dress, hon. Or anything else of mine. Except a He."

CHAPTER 15

Johnny Sims, unable to sleep, ordered himself to think.

Very well. Two jeweled pins. Call one Nathaniel's, because it had been given to Nathaniel's wife and he had it after her death. CaU the other one Christy's.

Take Nathaniel's first. Nathaniel gave it to Kate.

Did Johnny beheve this? Kate said so. Now, after seventeen years, old Mrs. Bartee also said so. And Dick said so. Blanche said so. Yes, Johnny believed it and had beHeved it when Kate Callahan first told him. He thought she was too soft, too tolerant and yielding to have told a hard He and stuck to it for seventeen years.

So Kate had Nathaniel's pin. But this was just exactly what the jury had not beHeved, seventeen years ago.

Did it make any difference to McCauley?

That depended. There were two alternative careers for Nathaniel's pin, after Kate got it. First, it had been loaned to McCauley and was innocently in McCauley's pocket, the night of the murder. If this were the truth, a big hunk of evidence against McCauley disappeajed. A difFerence was made. Who said this? Kate said it. McCauley said it.

But, second, Nathaniel's pin had been in Kate's drawer that night, (or, at least, two nights later.) Who said this? Dick said it. Blanche said it. If true, McCauley was guilty.

What began to worry Johnny was the thought that Kate could not be sure that it wasn't in her drawer. Even McCauley might not be sure. Suppose McCauley, in his cups that night, having the pin in his pocket, intending to return it, had actually slipped it into Kate's drawer. Suppose he had wiped out the memory, an impression already fogged by alcohol, and built up his martyr role on this forgetting? (He must also have forgotten that he opened the safe, took Christy's pin, quarreled with her, hit her. But all this was psychologically possible.)

So, which alternative career of Nathaniel's pin did Johnny believe?

His mind veered. He tried to imagine the scene between a weak frightened man and his bold rough-and-tough fifteen-year-old son. The man begged the boy to save him from banishment? Or did the bold son offer to go steal back a pin, partly for the hell of it? Whose idea was this housebreaking? Nathaniel was dead and could not say, and was a liar, anyhow.

Johnny could not help wondering whether the bold son was craftier than Nathaniel could have known. To take with him a scared young girl, and involve her in doing what was forbidden, doing what was illegal, and fearfully exciting, and done in the^ght and in the dark.

Why did Dick take Blanche at all? Johnny started up from tie mattress. Unless it were for the purpose of fooling her in the dark! So easy to do!

Again, there was a choice of what to believe about this Dick Bartee. Believe a tangle of craft and deceit, deep plotting, improvisation at that, a quick snatching at opportunity. Or, beheve something much simpler—just a wild kid who didn't see why a spot of burglary wouldn't be fun, in a good cause.

(Take care, J. Sims, which way your own prejudice and your desire is going to point you.)

He tossed. Try the other pin, then. Christy's pin. It had been in the safe. Agreed. Taken out at the time of the killing. Agreed. By whom?

If by McCauley, then McCauley put it in his pocket where the police found it. Simple. Believable. And believed for seventeen years.

But if by Dick, then Dick not only took it away with him

but had had the incredible nerve to keep it handy. Then, in a day or so, Dick had seen the wonderful opportunity to get rid of it and in so doing, 'prove' his own innocence, with Blanche for witness, and also frame McCauley—in depth and in secret. For protection. The protection of whom? Of Dick Bartee.

Doubt. Johnny could not help doubt. On both sides. What nerveless crust to keep that pin handy I

Johnny didn't know who had killed Christy.

In their big front bedroom, Blanche and Bart were not asleep, either. They faced each other in anger.

''You are a grown man," she said, "and honest. Maybe you can't miderstand a child who was afraid and wasn't altogether honest. Although it made no difference!"

"If he fooled you—"

''How could he fool me? You are the one he fools," Blanche said, "right now. How is it that you permit your mother to give Dick her bit of stock in the vineyard? How is it you permit Dick to put up Nan's capital and come out with half of your rightful business? Where you've put your life. That's just your pridel" she cried furiously. "Your mother would Like it."

Bart tightened his lips.

"And you fooled me," she cried with no restraint. "I thought I was going to be your partner. I thought this was going to be my house. I am not your partner but your servant. And this is your mother's house. All right, I understand. I know she is old and it was her house and you didn't want to dethrone her. Because of your pride, Bait. She never preferred you. So you proudly will defer to her. It's coals of fire."

"Be quiet," he ordered.

"I could have waited," Blanche sobbed, beyond obedience. "I was waiting. I thought it was generous of me. But now, you've given my share, here, to your mother all these years. If you now give your share to Dick Bartee, Bart, I won't stay—"

"Be quiet," Bart said and it was not a command. "Please, Blanche," he begged her. "I am committed. I can't help it, nowl If Sims can ever prove—" Bart said. "I must be careful. It's too easy to believe what you'd hke to believe."

106

She was quiet and in a moment he said painfully, "My mother hasn't been generous towaid you."

"No," Blanche said.

"Nor have I," he said. "But I want you to stay. This is your house."

Johnny woke late to the ringing of his phone.

Bart Bartee was calling him. He was taking the girls on a tour of the winery this morning. Would Johimy like to join them? For color? For atmosphere?

Johnny sensed something changed in Bart. He accepted.

It was nearly eleven o'clock, before the tour shook itself together and began. Johnny, the two girls and Dick, Bart led to the spot where the wine-making process normally began. (All of them were passive under Bart's guidance as if, by sheer fatigue, hostilities were in abeyance.) The grapes were harvested, Bart explained, in the fall. Trucks brought them in and dumped them upon a water-washed sunken platform, from which they were sluiced into a slot and conveyed to the crushing machine.

The machines were silent now. Bart did not linger here. Johnny received the impression that here was one place where money was needed.

They followed the pipes through which the juice of the grapes would nm and came into the building where, in huge imcovered vats, it was left to ferment. They were shown the sumps in the floor, filled with cooling apparatus, used Bart said, to control the fermentation, especially in the making of sweet wines. Johnny 'learned about the natural yeast on the grape, the killing of it, the substitution of the vintner's own strain.

Bart knew what he was talking about.

Nan was being brightly attentive. This was her future. Dorothy was relishing the sights and smells. It was Dorothy who perceived the nature of this business. "The grapes do it by themselves," she exclaimed.

Bart smiled. "Nature, given conditions that are just so, makes a fine wine," he told them. "If the conditions are not just so, nature makes a fine vinegar. We watch. We test. We try to control. Sometimes we alter the timing. But you are right. Miss Dorothy. The grapes really do it themselves. Now, here is one of our storage or aging cellars."

He led them into a building, not a cellar in any sense of being below the surface of the ground. It was a room filled, packed, with huge redwood tanks that were nothing in the world but mammoth barrels.

Sudden pygmies, Johnny and the girls looked about them. Each tank held something hke 20,000 gallons. A tank was made of staves—staves that were almost 3 inches thick. It was hooped with metal hoops. These monsters stood in the dimness they created, haunch to haunch, and all around them rose the acid-tinged smell of the wine.

Bart began to point out the two valves at the bottom of each tank, to explain how the wine was pumped in, pumped out. Portable pumps were used, he said.

In each huge curving side, low down, there was an oval—marked by a seam, a possible crack—to the center of which oval a handle seemed attached. The oval looked to be no more than 14 or 15 inches at its widest. When Bart explained that after a tank had been emptied, and its inside needed cleaning, this oval piece could be removed to admit a hving man, the girls murmured astonishment.

Bart found one of the big buxom barrels even then being pumped out. He promised them that, in a few minutes, they would see for themselves how the oval was tapped with a rubber mallet, pushed inward, and then removed.

At the other end of the place, a steep flight of wooden steps went up to a catwalk. Bart said there were bungs above, which must be removed when tlie wine was being drawn out at the bottom, lest the top of the tank be sucked inward. The girls followed him up the steps. Dick and Johnny climbed behind.

From above the sight was very strange. The walks had handrails, but one could see straight down into the dizzy depths of the narrow spaces, between the barrels, to the distant floor. Bart leaned upon the rail, talking, talking.

Johnny found it all mildly interesting. But not especially colorful. The old romantic image of laughing peasants with their bare empurpled feet faded reluctantly from the furniture of his mind.

Johnny began to think about other things. Bart had the girls' attention. Johnny said to Dick, "Did Nathaniel Baitee have much to do with the business?"

"My father?" Dick looked sideways. "He painted."

"Did he sell his paintings?''

Dick said amiably, "Not many. Why?"

Johnny answered only with a shrug. He walked away from the group, along the narrow boards, gazing absent-mindedly downward. He saw a man come into the building. He recognized Blanche's father, the lawyer, Marshall.

Marshall spoke to the worker at the tank. Bart saw him and called down.

"No hurry, Bart," Marshall called back. "I'll wait."

Bart turned back to his audience. "A European,'' he was saying, "doesn't miud lees in the bottle. He knows they signify age, which is good. But Americans want a wine that is perfectly clear. So we have what we call a polishing filter."

Johnny, hands in his pockets, strolled farther, gazing down. The workman was moving away. He had, indeed, opened that oval place. Marshall stood waiting, looking cmiously about him. Johnny could see, on the top of his head, where the hair thinned.

Dick Bartee came up behind Johnny. "What was in your mind," Dick asked softly, "about my father?"

Johnny didn't look at him. "Oh, that safe. The money. I understand you knew how to open the safe?"

"The combiotttion wasn't much of a secret within the family," Dick answered, rather casually.

"I understand your grandfather didn't always count his money?"

"He had a kind of petty cash. Where do you pick up this stuff?" Dick was friendly, easy.

Johnny was straining to see back seventeen years. He could see Dick, in the school, getting out for no better reason than that his rooDimate had gone out. Dick, needing cash. Could enter the house. Could open the safe. Christy, awake, perhaps on accoimt of her baby, hearing something. Christy downstairs, to protest. To threaten to call the old man. Dick angry. And one blow vdth a candlestick. Then, what?

What about the pin? Had it fallen, having been somehow on top of things? Had Dick put it in his pocket? Then, fading silently away from crime and punishment, forgotten he had it?

Then, when Nathaniel's pin had miraculously put Mc-

Cauley on the spot, Dick keeping thankfully still. And using Christy's pin . . .

Johnny said aloud, "You stole from Kate, you admit. It came natural, did it? I have one question. Why the devil did you keep Christy's pin? How could you have known you could use it later?"

Dick didn't reply. His face looked hard.

Johnny paid vague attention to Marshall below, who now crouched to peer curiously into the egg-shaped hole in the side of the great cask. It would be black dark inside. Mr. Marshall took a packet of matches from his pocket. Johnny, his mind misty with imagining the past, yet knew that Dick Bartee stiffened, and did so too late for this to have been a reaction to Johnny's question. Dick Bartee had both hands on tlie rail and they tightened.

It was Bart who shouted from the far end of the walk. "Drop it! Marshall! Don't light that match!"

"What?" Marshall looked up.

"Drop it!" Bart shouted.

"O.K., O.K." the lawyer said in the huff of the startled who had meant no harm.

Johnny watched Dick Bartee's hands relax.

Bart raced towards them, leaned and spoke down. "Why do you think we put up No Smoking signs?" he barked. "That tank has just been emptied. It's full of fumes. You could blow the top off!"

"Say, I . . ."

Johrmy turned his head slowly and looked at Dick.

"Close," said Dick sighing.

"Blow the top off?" said Johnny in a sUghtly high voice.

"You'd have had it, Sims," said Bart. "You see that, Dick?"

Dick said, "We'd both have had.it! Whew!"

"Come along," barked Bart, "and get on wdth this tour. 'Whew' is right!"

"I'm sorry," Marshall said below. "I didn't know . . ."

"No harm," said Bart. "Just close."

Johnny looked at Dick Bartee. "Wasn't it?" he said, with satisfaction. Because he knew! %.

Marshall sitting in Bart's office a little later said, "Say, I nearly goofed with that match, eh? I guess it would have been serious?"

"You bet," said Bart crisply. "A fool thing to do. Well, you didn't know any better. What can I do for you?"

It took Marshall a moment to remember. Finally he snapped his fingers. "You and Dick never got down to draw up the papers on the business. Occurred to me I'd better tell you. Fellow in L.A., name of Harris, called me a month ago. Asked me what I knew about Dick. References, character."

"Why?"

"This Harris lends money. Said Dick was in to see him a month ago. Well, I kinda stalled on Dick. Talked you up pretty good."

"Me?" said Bart a trifle tartly. "Am I Dick's secmity?"

"This is what I—Harris didn't say what security he was being offered."

"What security could Dick offer a month ago?" Bart frowned.

"His fiancee's money? I just felt I should mention . . . Since Sims got here and stirred up some doubts."

Bart looked cold and stiff. "Quite a few things have been stirred up," he said, "since Sims got here."

"What things?"

Bart said, "Doubt. Not proof."

"Where's Sim&now?"

Bart glanced out the window. "His car is gone. I think you ought to talk to him." Bart drummed on his desk. He looked so grim and withdrawn that the lawyer went away.

CHAPTER 16

Johnny knew!

Reason had nothing to do with it. It was experience. He knew, clear and plain, that Dick Bartee would just as soon have seen Johnny seriously injured, hors de combat, or even dead, by accident, in the winery. He would have taken the

risk to himself to be rid, and innocently rid, of Johnny Sims and Johnny's questions. Not too much risk, actually. Dick would have saved himself, since he was warned; he knew what to expect if Marshall lit a match. But he had made no warning sound for Johnny's sake.

The tour speeded up and became a perfunctory walk through various rooms. It ended in a reception hall where a young woman was ready to pour the guests some samples of the product. At this point, Bart excused himself and took Marshall off to his oflBce.

So the girls and Johnny and Dick, waited at the counter for the young woman to pour them sherry.

"Better give John Sims a double dose," said Dick. "His nerves are shot. Cheer up," he said to Johnny. "A miss is as good as a mile."

The man was made of brass!

Nan turned, "Oh, Johnny, too badi The wine might help." She was sorry for him and his weakness.

Johnny, standing there, knew that his conviction had shaken him. To his surprise, it was worse than the doubt. Now that he knew, he looked like a man who had had a bad shock. He said, "Nan, I want to talk to you alone." "Oh, not now, Johnny ..." "Now," he said.

Nan took a wine glass and turned it in her fingers. She lifted her chin. "Johnny, I don't think we will ever talk alone again," she said gently. ''You must understand. I am going to be mairied. Won't you di'ink to that?"

(What is known as a "winning smile," said something cynical in Johnny's head.)

"All right," said Johnny. "TU drink to that, if you want. Then, will you listen to me?"

Dick's arm came aromid her. "What do you want to say?" he inquiied. "The same old pitch? I killed Chiisty Mc-Cauley?"

"Oh, Johnny," said Nan, in a voice of impatience and disappointment.

Dorothy said, bright-eyed, "You see, we can't believe that, Johnny."

"Then, please excuse me," Johnny said tightly. He felt alone in the world. Let down. Ineffectual.

What had he not done? Where had he not looked yet

for the evidence? The proof, damn itl He had no proof and the law would want it. He must get proof for the law because the law could take Bartee away from Nan.

An hour later, he eased his old Plymouth into the crossroads settlement called Twomey.

It didn't take long to locate the Bartees' old yardman, whose name was Delevan. Johnny caught him in his backyard. "I'm hunting up people to talk to," said Johnny, "about the McCauley murder, seventeen years ago."

Delevan was about fifty, strong of limb, with a crooked nose on a pushed-in face. He leaned on his spade.

"I understand you were there. In a hammock, or so I heard." Johnny liked this man at once and grinned at him companionably.

'That's right," said Delevan. "I was in the hanunock. So the old man fired me. That was a long time ago. I used to sleep up there more times than the old man heard of. Hadn't been for the cops—" Delevan leaned on the spade handle and took out cigarettes. "Why do you want to talk about it?"

Johnny made his speech about Roderick Grimes.

"But you weren't called as a witness, I understand?" he finished.

"Nope. They didn't bother." Delevan looked up at^the sunny skies. '^ nice night, that was. I was swinging and having a smoke . . ."

"When?"

"Around midnight. Around the time. Somebody killed a woman in the house and there J, was, swinging and smoking and thinking."

"This haiimiock was among the trees at the front of the house?"

"Right."

"Then you must have heard Clinton McCauley."

"Heard him and saw him, too."

"Start from the beginning."

"Where does it begin?" Delevan grinned. "I was swinging and thinking. I heard just what you hear in the night. Little crickets. Wind blowing. I hear cars."

I'Cars?"

"Sure. Planes, too. You know what you hear in the night."

"The boy, Dick Bartee, had some kind of car, didn't he?"

"Yup. Some kind of car."

"Did you hear that car, that night?"

"Buddy, this was seventeen years ago," said Delevan tolerantly. "I tell you, I hear cars. On the roads."

Johnny said, "The Upper Road is the one that goes by in back of the Bartee house?"

"Right."

"Could a car come in from that Upper Road and get to the back of the house?"

"Why not? Only I'd have heard a car come that close."

"You couldn't have seen?''

"Couldn't see through the house."

"He could have walked—You tell it." Johnny subsided.

"O.K. So I'm swinging there. I heard the bus. You can tell a bus. They got a woosh to their doors. So I know who this is coming. CHnton McCauley."

"You know him?"

"I knew everybody in the house. This McCauley's got no car. If anybody's getting off the bus in the night, why it's him."

;;Well?"

"I douse my cigarette. He doesn't have to know I'm there. Takes a long time before I hear him on the road. So pretty soon I can see him weaving up the front steps. So he unlocks the door and he goes in."

"Then what?"

"Nothing. For a while.''

"You couldn't see the side of the house?"

"Nope."

"Where the study is? No lights?"

"Sure, I could see hghts."

"What Hghtsr

"Well, like I told the police, there was always a light in the hall downstairs. And I can see that, kinda dim, through the glass in the front doors. I can't tell from where I was, whether the study's got a light or not. I can only see the hght upstairs."

"What light upstairs?"

"Nathaniel's room."

"Which was that?"

"Front and to the right when you're facing like I was. I could see him plain."

"You mean, he was up and around?"

"Sure he was. He was painting a picture."

"When could you see Nathaniel. Before or after Mc-Cauley got there?"

"Both," said Delevan. "I told you, I was swinging and enjoying the night. Fact, I was thinking about Nathaniel Bartee and me. There he had the big house, the money behind him. But I was thinking I'd rather be free and swinging out there in the hammock with practically nothing to my name but the clothes I had on—than I'd be Nathaniel who wants to paint pictures and has to do it in the night when the house i.s sleeping and the old man can't catch him."

"How long were you watching Nathaniel?"

"Oh, a long time. He had on some kind of funny shirt. He's standing up in front of this picture. I'm smoking—oh, two or tluee cigarettes. Then, I hear the bus. I put my cigarette out. I can hear McCauley on the road after a while, but I can't see him yet, account of the trees, so I don't botlier looking. I'm watching Nathaniel.

"So, as I say, McCauley goes inside. Few minutes later, the Hght goes on in the old man's room."

"Where is that?"

"Front. On the left. Old lady turned it on. Nathaniel heard something when the hght went up. He stopped p^int-ing.

"Now, wait a minute. You are telling me that you had your eyes on Natlianiel for quite some time before McCauley got tliere, up to and after the hghts went on in the old man's room?"

"Yup. That's what I'm telhng you."

"You told the police this?"

"I did. Listen, I was Nathaniel's alibi. He never left that painting 'til—oh, I'd say quite a while after the Hghts were on in the old man's room. Then he heard something, because he takes off that crazy shirt, quick, and gets into his bathrobe. Then, I can't see him no more.

"Then the hghts go on downstairs, front right. And lights start popping all over the house. Well, I don't know what's going on. I just He there. The pohce showed up, maybe fifteen minutes later."

"What did you do?"

"I went and talked to them."

Johnny looked at him with respect. "I see. You went and told all that you knew?" "Right."

"You heard no quarreling, no voices?" 'Didn't. Couldn't have."

"Why didn't they call you at the trial, I wonder?^ "Listen, nobody was trying to prove Nathaniel did anything," Delevan said. "They didn't need me to say that McCauley walked into that house."

"Could she had been dead when he walked in?" "How could she been? Nathaniel was painting his picture. He didn't hit her. The old man didn't hit her. I saw him getting up out of his bed before the old lady pulls the shade. The cook and the maid, they're sleeping downstairs in the back wing. Why would they hit her? McCauley was the only one who woulda hit her." "And you heard no car?"

"I told you I heard plenty cars. Loud at night. Up and down the roads."

"Somebody could have got into the house at the back, on foot, without you seeing?"

"You're pushing,'' Delevan said, "Sure. They could, all right."

"Do you think it's possible that the boy, Dick, might have got into the house at the back?"

"Mister," said Delevan patiently, "it's possible. A whole platoon coulda got in at the back. Anything's possible." "You think it was McCauley?"

Delevan shrugged. "It wasn't Nathaniel. That I know. He was a sad kind of guy." Delevan frowned. ''Well, see, it was pretty quiet. Now, I'd have heard a window breaking—not that one broke. I'd have heard a screen being cut-not that one was cut. One thing I might not have heard. That's somebody with a key, sneaking in at the back door. But this is nothing."

"Nothing," agreed Johnny. "Can you tell me exactly how long it was between McCauley's entering the house and the hghts going up?"

"Few minutes," Delevan shrugged. "I was swinging and thinking. And time, you know—unless you go by the watch-it don't always seem to take the same time for a certain time to go by." Delevan kept frowning.

Johnny perceived that there was doubt. But doubt wasn't enough.

He went back to his motel in Hestia. Tried to call Grimes. No answer. Tried Copeland. He meant to beg tlie lawyer to come down. Nan would talk to him, alone. But neither of Copeland's phones answered.

I need help, thought Johnny in panic. She's going to marry a killer and I can't stop itl I am the la^t one who can stop it!

CHAPTER 17

That Thursday afternoon, the old lady was pleased as punch that there was going to be a wedding in the house tomorrow. She talked about weddings she had known and her nurse, Miss Adams, sat by, making dull agieeable, nmse-like remarks whenever the old lady lost the thread of her recollections, ^an seemed to be listening to them pl^ECidly" while she, slowly, with the daintiest care, put tiny stitches in a new hem on Dorothy's white silk dress.

Dorothy, following a busy Blanche around the house, helping where she could, thought Nan looked like a httle girl, curled up in tlie chair, hfer dark hair han-ging around her cheeks, the wide silk skirt spread over her lap. A little girl in a dream. Dorothy had not argued with the dieam today.

The Bartee men had not been about since the winery tour. A house preparing for a sudden wedding, Blanche said, was no place for a man. Blanche, in some different way, was in charge of the house.

Blanche had made a very short list. ". . . just one or two couples, very close friends." She had said to Nan, "And your Mr. Sims, of course."

But Johnny was not to be found. Dorothy had called the motel three times dming the afternoon. No answer. Wherever Johnny was, he did not know yet that tlie wedding was being arranged. Dorothy worried.

Nan sewed peacefully. Nan pressed the new hem, tried the dress on, with Blanche present. Then Nan said she would wash her hair, would pack, would nap. Dick was coming for her very late in the afternoon, when they would go for their Ucense.

By four o'clock, the clergyman was promised, the guests bidden, food planned, marketing accomplished, the big parlor pohshed. Blanche sent the old lady out of the parlor. Blanche was mistress of the house today; the old lady went meekly. The old lady had retreated to a position of being the ancient pet, there—but not in charge.

"We'll do more flowers in the morning," Blanche said to Dorothy. "I'd better order the corsages. What are you wearing?"

"A pink dress," said Dorothy. "Nearest I have to looking hke a bridesmaid."

"Then I'll wear pink, too. That might look nice. Let's see how well we match."

Dorothy went softly into the back bedroom. Nan, on the bed, slept, or played possmn. Her hair in pins. Face innocent and fair. Dreaming. No use to try to wake her. Dorothy took her pink dress into Blanche's bedroom.

"What a huge room!"

"Isn't it glorious? This used to be the older Bartee's, 'til we had to move mother downstairs. This dress might do."

Her pink matched Dorothy's well enough. "So that's that," sighed Blanche.

"You must be tired."

"Sit down, shall we? I'll have a cigarette. No, I'm not tired. I think the house will look well."

"Will Nan and Dick hve in the house?" Dorothy asked.

"Oh, I don't know," said Blanche, "whether they will at an/'

"You'd rather they didn't?"

Blanche lifted her chin. "This place is Bart's. I'd rather Bart—we—didn't give up any part of it." Blanche was not meek today.

"I can understand that," Dorothy said.

"You're not awfully pleased about this wedding, are you?" asked Blanche. (They were two females with their hair down.)

"No, I just wish they had waited."

"But you do know Dick never killed anybody?" Blanche sighed. "I'm so glad all that is out in the open."

"Were you fond of Dick? Ever?" Dorothy asked.

"Fond?" frowned Blanche. "I was fifteen years old."

Dorothy said sagely, "I guess there is no such word as 'fond' when you're fifteen years old. You can be awfully flattered if a famous wolf pays any attention."

"I think that's exactly so." They smiled at each other. "I just love Bart," Blanche said hke a child. "I think I was afraid of Dick, really."

"You're not afraid of him now?"

Blanche didn't answer. Dorothy was sitting on the edge of a big four-poster. She put her cheek against the tall mahogany post. "But McCauley is innocent, so Johnny says."

"Surely he doesn't say so, now?" Blanche showed surprise.

"The man must be obsessed then," Dorothy said, sadly.

"Obsessed?"

"McCauley himself, I mean. You know, Johnny talked to him."

"Oh, did he? In the prison?"

"Yes."

"It's sad," Blanche said.

Dorothy felt nervous and restless suddenly. "The "McCauley's lived here? Where did they stay?" she asked.

"The room you girls are in. Mother Bartee once told me. All three of them, I beheve."

"Three? That's right, there was a baby."

"Yes."

"Kate said she felt sorry for the baby." ("Her mama killed, her papa sent up, and not true, either." Dorothy remembered what Kate had said.)

"I'm sure," said Blanche, "that was very kind of Kate."

"What became of the baby?"

"We don't know."

''Don't knowr

"The aunt took her."

"Aunt?"

"His sister. What was her name? She was a little tiger. Dad says. I never saw her. I was away at boardingschool by the time she came back and raised all the fuss. They say she fought and fought. Oh yes, she took the baby. Can't think of her name. I know it began with an E."

if:.' I

1.

Dorothy's hand squeaked on the mahogany post. "What was the baby's name?'' she asked.

Blanche concentrated. "Mary."

Dorothy relaxed. "Why didn't the baby stay here?"

"Well, I believe Mother Bartee thought in terms of bad blood. Father a criminal, you know? Then, of course, the aunt was so determined. She was going to take the baby away and keep the whole thing from her."

"What do you mean?"

"The child wasn't ever to know what really happened to her parents. That's why we don't know where she is or anything about her."

"I see," said Dorothy. She felt another wave of nervousness. "Look, you must want to rest a while . . ."

"The truth is," said Blanche smiUng, "I had better wash some stockings. Thanks for all your help, Dorothy."

Dorothy hurried downstairs. Her breathing was upset. She tried Johnny's number again. Still no answer.

The house was very quiet. Ready. Waiting for a wedding.

Dorothy had forgotten Blanche, Bart, Dick, every Bartee. "Emily—" she whispered to the empty hall.

She snatched the phone book to hunt for a number.

"Miss Callahan? Do you remember two girls who came with Johnny Sims?"

"You must be the blonde." Kate recognized her voice.

"Yes. Please tell me. Do you remember Clinton Mc-Cauley's sister's name?"

"First name? Edith, I think it was."

"Oh. Well, can you remember what she looked like?"

"That's kinda hard. She was shorter than me. Kinda thin. I can't see her face no more."

"Then—tell me, how old was the baby?"

"About three. Clint was sure crazy about that baby.''

"After the trial, the aunt took her?"

"She sure did."

"Do you know where?"

"No, dear, I don't. Nobody does. See, she was going to change their names . . ."

"Oh, she was?"

"And, you know, disappear? Give the little kid a chance, she said. Poor little thing. Of course," Kate said, "I guess Clint would know where she is. The baby's own father."

Dorothy saw movement through the glass of the front doors. "Thank you very much," she said and hung up quickly. She moved away from the phone. She didn't know what to think-

Dick Bartee came in. "Hi, beautifull Where's Nan?"

"Asleep."

"Blanche?"

"Blanche is upstairs, too. Your grandmother is resting.''

"Kind of the Enchanted Castle," he said, standing close. In the quiet of the big house, intuitions of many things began to pulse between them. Dorothy closed her eyes. "Dick," she said faintly, "please don't marry Nan tomorrow."

"Dear Dorothy," he said caressingly, in a moment. "But it is all arranged."

Her eyes flew open. She tested this man with every tendril for understanding she could send out of her brain or her heart. "Do you love Nan?"

His eyes shone. But they had no depth. "Sweet Dorothy." He touched her cheek with his forefinger, the hghtest tap. "Of course, I do. Why else would I be marrying her to-1 morrow?"

Dorothy, from some deep interior caution, now, willed ..her face to change, fo seem to awaken to a new thought. She put hands to her had. "OhI Dick, will you lend me your car?"

"But how can I?" he said. "Nan and I must go to the : doctor's office and then to the license place."

"Would Blanche? Would anybody?" Dorothy danced away.

"Why?" He pursued her.

Dorothy was into the guest-closet to snatch her coat.

"Where do you want to go?" he persisted.

She danced away and started for the stairs. "I'll ask Blanche. Oh, wait, here's Bart."

"What's up?" Bart said in his pleasant way. He smiled up at her where she stood on the third step.

"She wants a car," Dick said, '^but she won't tell why.''

"Take mine," Bart said, pulled out keys so promptly that it made a vote of confidence.

"I don't know what I've been thinking of all day," Dorothy cried. "Nan cant get married tomorrow." (She paused, on purpose. Without eyes, but with all her other senses, Dorothy inquired of Dick Bartee, his true reaction.) "I'm not

going to let her get married," cried Dorothy girlishly, "without a wedding present from me!"

She knew Dick Bartee now breathed, who had not been breathing.

"My purse," muttered Dorothy and flew up the stairs. (Now she knew there must be a terrible secretl She had to get to Johnny!)

Below, Bart turned. "That's right. Weddings mean presents. What would you like?"

Dick let out his breath in a sigh. "Oh, half the business will do."

"A bit difficult to tie in ribbons," Bart said genially. He went into the study. He sat down at his father's desk. When he was alone, his head bent into his hands.

Dorothy came flashing down again. "Oh, Dick, tell Blanche, will you please? If I don't make it back by dinner time, nobody worry?"

He didn't answer.

When she had gone, he went upstairs. Blanche was standing near the back bedroom door. "Who ran downstairs?"

"Dorothy."

"Everything is ready for tomorrow, I think." Blanche's manner was polite but not afraid. "Shall I call Nan for you?"

"What's wrong with Dorothy?" he asked her. Some animal sense had been touched to alarm.

"Nothing." Blanche was surprised.

"Yes, there is something."

"I suppose she tliinks the wedding is happening too soon. That's all I can imagine . . ."

'That's all?"

"Of course, Dorothy's confused about McCauley. That John Sims, you know. He believed some sob story McCauley told him. Of course, Dorothy did say—"

"McCauley told him?" Dick repeated.

"When John went to talk to him, I suppose John believed the man. That's been the whole trouble."

"Talked to him? To McCauley?"

"So Dorothy said. In the prison, of course."

Dick turned away.

"Nan may be napping," Blanche said. "Shall I see?"

"I'U wake her," Dick said.

'1t seems a shame to wake her."

"It will have to be done," he said, rather grimly.

Downstairs, Bart was on the telephone. "Mr. Harris? I believe my nephew was in to see you last week? About a rather laige loan? Could you tell me what security he was offering?"

"I don't think I can," said the voice. "Sorry. Ask him."

"I only wondered," said Bart smoothly, "whether he was proposing to raise money against his fiancee's inheritance, a month ago?"

Silence on the other end. The voice said finally, "Sorry, Mr. Baitee, but if I tell my cUent's business I'd soon have 1 no clients. You know that."

"Thank you," Bart said.

Late afternoon, Johnny's phone rang. It was Marshall. 'TL.ike I to talk to you," the lawyer said.

So Johnny went out to his car and drove to the lawyer's I office.

First, Marshall apologized again for nearly blowing Johnny

»

I up.

Johnny brushed this off. He had thought of one more check [ to make. He said, "The night that Christy was killed, you ^ were at home, weren't you?"

"Right. Until McCauley caUed me from the jail."

"He called you?" Johimy sat up. "When was that?"

"Oh, one-thirty. Close to. I went right down."

"Got up, did you? Went to see him?"

"Of course," said Marshall. "Although, I hadn't been to bed so I didn't have to get up."

"Wait," said Johimy. "Now, slowly. One-thirty a.m., and you were not in bed?"

"I'd got involved in a bogk," Marshall said. "My wife died many years ago. I sometimes don't sleep too well."

"You were reading?" gasped Johnny. "Not in the dark, then?"

"Hardly. What's the matter^'

"Where were you reading?"

"In my den."

"With the Hght on?"

"Of com-se."

"The door closed?"

"Door of my den? That's never closed."

Johnny said, "You'll swear to that?"

"Yes, I will. What's the matterr

"I think you just broke Dick Bartee's second-string alibi and broke it good."

So Johnny talked. A girl is awakened by sand on her windowpane. She sneaks downstairs in a dark house. Her father mustn't be aroused. She creeps out to the back porch. The boy shows her his watch. "Midnight," he says. Perhaps he says, "Only midnight, see?"

"But Blanche would have known if your den hghts were on?" Johnny demanded.

"She couldn't have missed them," Marshall said soberly. "Blanche—and quiet all these years."

"So Dick Bartee was not there at mignight!"

"My house wasn't dark until after one that night," said Marshall, "and I can swear to it."

So Johnny said, "He fooled her. If once, then possibly, twice." He talked about the breaking in to Kate's place.

Marshall said, "This . . . What are you going to do?"

"Call San Francisco."

Johnny called Copeland's house. Mr, Copeland, a woman's voice told him, was not in and could not be reached, and the woman didn't like it, at all, because they had a social engagement.

Johnny eased himself oflF the phone.

Marshall said, "Come home with me now, and we'll eat and kick it around. The legal side. What can you take to a judge? You've got no proof 1"

In San Francisco in a bar. Grimes said, "Sol She saw a man with a hat on, coming out of Padgett's room. Fhie! Good!"

Copeland said, "She saw that. We've got that. And the time, seven-thirty or close to. Trouble is, she did not see the man's face. She can't identify."

"Listen," Grimes said, "/'tt get together with the pohce. You get down to Hestia."

"Me?"

"Right. Whatever sheriff is going to have to move on a Bartee to arrest him, may need his hand held."

"Listen, you haven't got liim. You've got six blue petals,

three letters on a license plate, a hat, and a red-haired woman who didn't see his face."

"Well, it piles up," said Grimes cheerfully. "You get down there."

"I'll either fly first thing in the morning or drive tonight. What about you coming along?"

"I am a coward," Grimes said. "I don't want to be anywhere near this kiUer."

"What about Sims?"

"He's too close. Makes me nervous."

"You don't care how close I get?" grumbled Copeland. "I'd better call home."

"Oh, Charles," his young wife wailed, "you are not going off anywhere tonight. We have a bridge date."

"I can fly first thing in the morning, then," he said.

"Oh, why?" she pouted. "Why must you leave me? What's happened?"

He had never told her much. She was sensitive and so young and so excitable. He felt he should keep the seamy side away from her—so young, so fair. If she were to get the notion that he was going near a dangerous killer—Charles Copeland would protect her. "Some sad news to break," he said. "About a death. I must, dear. I'm sorry."

"Anyone I kiiow?" she gasped. Her voice pleaded fxn: it not to be anyone she knew, because death upset her.

Copeland didn't see why she must be told that Emily Padgett had been murdered. So he said truthfully, and yet deceptively, "The name is McCauley, Just don't think about it, dearest. I'U come right home. I' won't leave until-^moming."

CHAPTER 18

Johnny came dragging into the motel at about 8 p.m. "He and Marshall had found no solace in the story of the two pins. Marshall had told Johnny about the man Harris and

the loan. "Nan wasn't to get the money 'til she was twenty-one," Johnny said. "But I suppose her prospects . . ."

"I suppose so, too," Marshall had said.

Neither of them had any doubt that Dick was not only a killer but a fortune-hunter. They had no proof.

Johnny was unlocking the door of his room when Dorothy Padgett materialized suddenly at his side. "I've been waiting for hours!"

"Where did you come from?" he said wearily. "Wait, 'til I try a phone call, can you? Then, I've got things to tell you."

"I have things to ask," said Dorothy ominously. "Do you realize the wedding is tomorrow morning at eleven?"

"Oh no, it's not." Johnny strode into the room, grasped the phone, put in a call for Roderick Grimes again. Dorothy had followed him. She stood with her hands in the pockets of her soft gray ulster, staring at his tired face.

The operator began to singsong up the coast.

Johnny said, "He did it, Dot. Dick Bartee killed Christy. I know it in my bones, as they say. I don't know how I'm going to prove it."

Dorothy said quietly, "Was our Aunt Emily's real name Edith McCauley?"

Johmiy reached out with his right arm and gathered her j close to him. "Now you know," he sighed.

Grimes was saying, "Hello? Hello?"

Johnny began to tell him about the ^^'inery incident, the alibi broken, the loan application. "So now I am convinced," j he woimd up, "and I am going to Nan, and make her listen. ' Where is Copeland? I want him down here."

"He's coming down," Grimes said. "What do you mean, i make her listen? You haven't told her!"

"I am about to tell her ."

"You better," said Grimes sharply, "and quick. If you don't want that girl to marry a lousy murderer. You go ; stop it. Work on the giil. That's all for you to do." 1

"Can you put any pressure on this man, Harris," said Johnny, "and fiiid out what security?"

"Yes, yes," said Grimes impatiently. "Listen, don't worry j what you have to do to make her stop this wedding. Say j you'll kill yourself or something. There's a time for scruples but this isn't it." Grimes hung up.

Johnny turned to Dorothy. Grimes had sounded frantic, i

Johnny's own mind was dark and his heart was heavy. "How did you know who Nan is?"

"How did you?" she countered. "Did Emily tell you?''

"Yes."

Dorothy began to draw away.

"Ah, Dotty, Emily gave up her identity to keep that secret," he said tiredly. "McCauley gave up the acquaintance of liis own and only child. An awful lot was sacrified, for seventeen years, to keep that secret and to keep it from Nan. How could I blurt it out in five minutes? McCauley, himself, asked me to make sure . . ."

"Sme of what?"

"Whether Dick killed Christy. He was willing to believe he might have been mistaken—for Nan's sake."

"For Nan's sake," Dorothy repeated slowly.

"How did you find out?"

"Oh, Blanche said there was an aunt. Then I talked to Kate. Kate says he was crazy about the baby." Dorothy was looking at events past with troubled eyes.

"McCauley? Yes, 'Polly McCauley' he used to call her. Silly pet rhyme."

"Polly McCauley." Dorothy tried to smile because she was beginning to feel like crying.

"McCauley isfi't psycho," Johnny said sadly. "He is saintly. What a comment on the times, that I couldn't tell the difference! He's worried himself sick over tlie whole thing. Knowing he didn't do it. BeHeving Dick did. And yet," Johnny hit one hand with the edge of his other palm, "having the incredible charity to remember 'about being in love, when you are young."

"Oh, poor mani Poor Emilyl Johnny, you ought to hava told us."

1 wasn t sure.

"It wasn't necessary to be sure," she flamed. ''Who elected you the judge? You can't be the judge! Johnny, she cant marry Dick, not knowing all of this. You must not let her break her father's heart all over again in ignorance!" cried Dorothy. "Johnny, that's wrong!"

He said grimly, "Poor Nan."

"Poor Clinton McCauley," said Dorothy, blazing.

Because Dorothy must return Bart's car, they went in it

together. On the way, Johnny told her about the old man having sent money for the baby, and the possibility that Dick had hunted Nan out.

Dorothy was neither surprised nor impressed. "I knew there must be something," was all she said.

"So he went for the money," Johnny said, "from the be-giiming. I think he must have been furious that the old man left him no part of the family business. If we could make Nan see that."

Dorothy shivered. "Johnny, Dick is a monster, isn't he?" "A ring-tailed doozer," Johnny muttered. "And not a drop of proof. The secret alibi was faked. We can't prove why. But I can't imagine why, unless he knew when Christy died. Can you?"

Dorothy said, "Didn't they put McCauley in prison without a lot of real proof, Johnny?"

"Seems so, now. Now, that the cUmate has changed." "Poor Chnton McCauley."

Johnny started to say, "Poor Nan" again, but he did not.

Bart himself opened the door. "Come in," he said cordially.

"I hope you've had dinner? We are all sitting meekly in the

study, because the parlor is not to be contaminated. Seems

it is ready for a wedding. Come on back."

Dorothy slipped off her coat and dropped it on a hall chair. They followed Bart. Neither had done more than make a polite sound in the throat.

In the small squaie room a fire was buj-ning, for other pleasure than its heat. The old lady was still up, stationed in the corner where Johnny had first laid eyes on her. She looked disgruntled. (She had been ordered out of the living room by Blanche and Bart.) Blanche was the hostess here. She greeted them with smiles. "Everything is ready as it can be. The corsages are coming early."

"Mayest hear the merry din," said Dorothy, in a strange voice.

There was a black leather chair to the left of the fire. In it, sat Dick Bartee and, on the black leather footstool, close to his knee, sat Nan. She hardly seemed to notice the newcomers. Her face wore a look of dreaming wonder. 'The guests are met, the feast is set, mayest hear the merry din,' " Bart quoted. " 'Held off, unhand me gray-

beard loon . . I' Sit down. Miss Dorothy. I'll fetch another chair."

"Don't bother," said Johnny. "I'd as soon stand for what I've got to say." Dick Bartee put his head back sharply. Nan didn't even seem to hear.

"I am the 'graybeard loon/ I guess," said Johnny. "Something has to be told, right now." He felt tense and determined. "Emily Padgett told me a secret."

''What's he saying?" the old lady mumbled. "What are you saying, young man?"

"You must listen to me carefully,'' Johnny said to her. "Chnton McCauley and his wife Christy had a baby girl."

"Yes," said the old lady. "Little girl. Mary was her name. Mary Christine."

"Nan is that baby girl."

Bart who had been leaning on the wall bent forward in surprise. Blanche bridled.

"Who?" said the old lady.

"This girl," said Johnny loudly and distinctly. "Nan is your great-granddaughter. Her real name is Mary McCauley."

The pair in the black leather comer had not moved at all.

''The man in prison is your father, Nan," Johnny said, trying for a gentle voice. "He didn't kill your mother. He beheves that Di^k did. Do you understand?"

"I know," said Nan dreamily. She leaned backward and Dick's torso came forward, and they were close.

"We figured that out this afternoon," Dick said, amiably. "It's the only explanation. Why Aunt Emily flew home, why Sims has been acting this w'ay. As soon as I^found out he had been to see McCauley, it all came to me." He kissed Nan's hair. "Well?" he inquired.

Johnny was absolutely stunned.

Dorothy said, "Nan, that is why Aimt Emily flew back. She had kept this secret since—since you were three. Then you gave her Dick's name, of all names, on the telephone. Do you understand?"

"Of course, I do," said Nan. Her face kept the wondering glow. "I felt it, anyhow. I could tell that I belonged here."

Bart said briskly, "Now, you are sm:e of this, Sims? You aren't inventing?"

"I am not inventing," Johnny said wearily. "Ask Charles

Copeland, in San Francisco. Emily's lawyer. Or ask Clinton McCauley, who is alive, who is suffering . . ,"

Nan's face had not changed. It did not change now. (She is lost, thought Johnny with a terrible pang. Lost to Emily, who trusted me. Lost to McCauley who trusted me, too.)

The old lady said, "Christy's little girl? Why then, she is my daughter's daughter's daughter 1" She began to beam, pleased as punch. "Why, my dearie!"

"Great-grandmama?" said Nan shyly. "And I suppose my uncle Bart?"

Bart said, "Dick, how long have you known this?''

"I guessed it, this afternoon," Dick said.

Nan leaned back against him. "Now we understand . . .''

"Understand what?" said Dorothy bluntly.

"Why it was that we fell in love, so suddenly, so—so deeply." Nan looked shyly aglow. "It was because we had known each other already—years ago. Dick knew me when I was only three and I—I adored him. There was an old groove in our hearts." (Johnny felt sick!) "We aren't related at all," said Nan, "but we belong! And we sensed that."

Dick's arm came around her waist.

Johnny felt sick, heart and soul. He knew now that he had been fighting with the wrong weapons. He had been using time to track down trifles—alibis and pins. Evidence, he had been after. Reasonable proof. But Dick Bartee had used his time to deal with more potent things. Dick had got into Nan's heart and mind—and got there first. Dick had seen to the climate there. Dick had taken the edge off this news. Transformed it. Put it inside the dream.

Stupid, stupid, Johnny accused himself. The very idea that Dick was a killer—Dick had taken all the sting out of that. Nan had been soothed and satisfied. And a tenuous collection of wispy facts—Dick's car rumored to have been on the Upper Road, Dick fooling a girl in tlie dark, a man reading a book with his hghts on. Nothing there with any power.

God help me, thought Johnny, if I am relying on reason.

But he must reach her. "Your own living father thinks Dick killed your mother," he said flatly. "Your father is alive, Nan. Won't you go to see him?"

"Of course," she said. "Some day."

^'Some dayl" Dorothy exploded. "What's the matter with you?"

"But I'm being married tomorrow," Nan said patiently.

Johnny said, "You can't be married tomorrow, Nan. Listen to me. Your father has loved you, all the years of your life ..." ^

"I don't remember him," she said. "I've never seen him, since I can remember . . ."

"—loved you enough, never to see you since you can remember. Sacrificed . . ."

"But Dick didn't kill Christy," Nan said earnestly. "And 1 didn't know my father was in prison. It's not my fault that I never knew, is it? I don't know^ whether he killed my mother. He says he didn't. I'm—I'm sorry. But I do know that Dick didn't do it and Dick loves me—whatever, wherever my father is."

"Your father is sick over you," cried Johnny. "In anguish. Nan."

Her dark eyes looked into his. They were honest, according to her lights. "But he doesn't need to be in such anguish," she explained. "Don't you see? I'm sorry he has made himself sick and for what he thinks, but that isn't Dick's or my fault.

The whole r©om was listening, except possibly, the old lady who was staring at' Nan and moving her Ups, soundlessly.

Finally, Dorothy said, "Nan, don't you care?"

"I only care for the truth," Naij said, flinging up her head.

"The truth is," said Johnny calmly, "your father is right."

Now Dick put Nan to one side and rose from the chair. "Say that once more."

"Gladly," said Johimy. "McCauley is right. You killed Christy."

Dick's muscles prepared to deUver a blow.

Bart said, "Just a minute. None of that." He was between them. "Why," he demanded of Johnny, "do you say so?"

"For one thing," said Johnny, "he faked the alibi with Blanche. I can prove that. He wasn't with her at midnight."

"So I must have been here, murdering Christy?" said Dick, sounding dangerous. "Because you would hke to think so?" Dick loomed.

Nan jumped up. "Dick, pleasel Johnny, please!" She

clasped her hands together. ^'Johnny, if you will just listen and believe me. No matter what happens, ever—I would never, never marry you."

Johnny looked at her. She was so young. If she was just a tinge pleased, he would try to forgive her. "I know that," he said solemnly.

Dick used both hands to put Nan gently back upon the leather stool. Bart had paid no attention to her. "Anything else, that makes you think Dick killed Christy?"

"The fact that he would have liked to see me blown up this morning," said Johnny.

Dick Bartee said, "And been blown up, too? You don't seem to understand what is going on at all, Sims. I'm being married tomorrow. I then, take my bride on our honeymoon. I've got more important things to do than argue with you about an old story, seventeen years behind us." He loomed, big, dangerous, clever. "Do you really think we will put ofiF our wedding?" he scoffed. "Because you keep insisting that I am some kind of villain? I am one kind of villain in your eyes, Sims. I stole your girl! And that is the bottom and the essence of what ails you."

"Oh, Johnny, you mustn't be so wicked!" wailed Nan. She believed it.

The old lady stirred. "Blanche, go, please get Christy's picture?"

Blanche got up, dazed, "Mother, hadn't I better take you away . . . ?"

"No, no," said the old lady, "not a bit of it. I want the child to see her mother's picture."

"Oh yes, please," breathed Nan. "Great-grandmother?"

Bart had his hand on Johnny's sleeve. He said, "I don't see that you've proved anything, Sims."

"There's been enough trouble," Blanche said pathetically. She went out into the hall.

Dorothy had her arms crossed, hands on her own shoulders, head bent.

Dick Bartee said, "One more word about that kilhng, Sims, and I will throw you out bodily. In fact, I tliink we would all like it very much if you would go."

Johnny said rapidly, "Old Mr. Bartee sent Emily five thousand dolliirs, every year, for the baby." He saw Bart's

face react. "It was put into a fund by Mr. Copeland. The money you have, Nan, is Bartee money."

Nan's eyes went to Dick and she smiled.

"Listen to me," pleaded Johnny. "Dick knew you were an heiress. He needed money to buy into this place. He wants this place."

"Of course, he wants to buy in and be Bart's partner. It's all family," Nan said. "It's wonderfull"

Bart's eyes were narrow. "Nan's money came from my father?"

"That is so," said Johnny. "Check it. Ask Copeland. And tell me this. Why would Dick take a letter to San Francisco by hand?"

"Because I was asked to," said Dick, "and I don't think you heard what I said . . ."

Bart moved between them again. Blanche came hurrying back with a small canvas, about a foot square. A painting of a woman's h^ad. "This is Christy," she said. "Nathaniel Bartee did this." She looked at their faces nervously.

Dorothy rose slowly and looked at it from one side. Johnny looked from the other. A young face, laughing. The cheek bones a trifle high. Hair a hght brown, curling away from the fair brow. Eyes a brilhant blue. Dehcate brows. (Johnny swallowed. He liad not questioned the climate of opinion about Natlianiel Bartee apd his painting. But the man had been talented. He had been among PhiUstines.)

"Give it to me," commanded the old lady. "Now, child, come see your mother. Wasn't she a pretty httle dear?"

Nan moved.

Johnny said hoarsely, "She was beaten to death where you are standing, Nan."

Nan said, with the quick tears of old sparking from her eyes, "Johnny, don't be horrible I Go awayl" She dropped to her knees beside the old lady. "She was pretty . . ."

"Dick wants the money. Nan," Johnny said loudly. He felt as if he were shouting from a far, far place. She knelt, her back to him. She did not even turn her head.

Dick said, "Get out of the way, Bart."

"You are not going to hit anyone in my house," Bart said. "Sims, I think you'd better go."

"It doesn't matter, Johnny," he heard Dorothy say. He

looked at her. "They are going to be manied tomorrow," she went on calmly. "There is nothing we can do about it."

So Johnny turned and walked out of the study and along the red carpet of the hall, Bart was walking close behind him. Bart reached ahead and opened a leaf of the front door. "Sorry," Bart said.

"What about?" said Johnny bitterly. "That he gets away with murder?" Their eyes met and Bart's were troubled. Johnny said, "Good-bye."

"Good-night." The door closed.

Johnny stood on the porch. Had no car. He plunged into the drive, emerged from the trees. The landscape, carpeted with the low gieen, was yet as desolate as the moon.

CHAPTER 19

The phone rang in Johnny's room about half past nine in the morning. Friday.

Nan's voice. Hope jumped.

''Johnny, I'm sorry for anything I said last night or if I sounded mean."

". . . all right."

"I will go to see my father, of course. Dick and I will do all we can to make liim feel—all right about us. So everythmg is going to work out."

He got out the necessary word, ". . . glad."

"But, Johnny, I don't want you and me to be fighting. And on my wedding day."

Now, he felt very cold. "I'll stay away," he promised quickly. "Don't worry about that."

"But, Johnny, that isn't ... I wish you'd understand. These are my mother's people. But I don't mean to ... I wouldn't offend you or Aunt Barbara ..."

"You're not asking me to be there, Nan?"

"Well . . ."

"Did Dorothy talk you into this?"

"No, she didn't. We didn't even stay in the same room last night. Everybody thought . . . Well, I wanted to be alone. But she's going to stand up with me. So I should think . . ."

"You want me to—?"

"Oh, not to stand up or . . . You see, Uncle Bart is my very own uncle and he ought to be the one to give me away." Nan's voice was gayer; it was losing its trouble. This was her wedding day. "Only Blanche and Bart think we should be at peace, Johnny, or—it's not lucky."

"What about Dick?"

"Oh, Dick says that if you promise not to talk the way you've been . . . Dick says he hasn't anything against you. Just if you'd stop, oh—busybodying." Her voice trailed off. It came back, coaxing. "So, Johnny? Won't you come to my wedding and wish me happiness?"

He didn't know whether he could. He couldn't speak.

"For Aunt Emily's sake, then?"

The flash of rage that had been ready and waiting, went through him now. But he said quietly, "All right. Nan."

"About a quarter of eleven? It won't take long. And afterwards, I suppose, you'll be driving Dotty home."

"All right, Nai^" he said, keeping control.

Grimes had told him that Copeland was coming down. But Copeland hadn't come, nor had Johnny's call to Roderick Grimes, this morning, been completed, when the hour was upon him and he must go to Nan's wedding.

The maid let him in. Four or five strange people were standing in the parlor. Flowers everywhere. A Httle lectern before the mantel. The old lady, with a soft pink shawl around her shoulders, held coiurt. A man said, "I'm Dr. Jenson. We are groom's. You must be bride's, I guess."

Johnny didn't say which he was. More names were given. Hands shaken. He nodded toward but did not go near the old lady.

Bart came in through the doors from the dining room.

"Morning."

Bart looked him over with deliberate care. "You haven't changed your mind," he pronounced quietly.

"I am a symbol of something," Johmiy's face felt as if it were splitting and tearing, as he grinned. Bart said, "Nan has one of the pins now." Johnny pressed his hps very tightly closed. "The one supposed to be Chiisty's," Bart said. "The one from McCauleys' pocket. Kate's pin." Johnny's hps opened.

"I don't know what can be done," said Bart quickly. "You have no proof."

"What makes you change your mind?"

"I believe Dick sounded out the chance of a loan on Nan's prospects too soon. I can't prove it."

"You lend your house for this wedding? You give the bride away?" Johnny felt sick.

Bait said, "How will it help if they elope?" He was stiff, proud, helpless. "To make a scene?"

They stared at each other sadly for a moment. Then Bart said, "Miss Dorothy is in the dining room. Go on in."

Dorothy was wearing a pink dress and a pink and white corsage. She was standing very straight beside one of the ; heax'y old carved chairs. "Oh, Johnny," she said warmly. "You didn't have to comel You don't have to watch this, feeling the way you do. You go away! She can't have every- ,j thing."

"I don't know how I feel, Dot," Johnny said heavily. "Are you all right?"

"I'm O.K." She seemed surprised. "'Wondering who I am, of course."

"Who you are?"

"Nan is Mary McCauley. Am I Dorothy O'Hara, I wonder?" "O'Hara?" he said absently. "Dot, did you know Bart be-heves me now?"

"I believe you, too," she said. "But Nan has been told and told—and if she beUeves in Dick, instead . . ." "It's going to be a tragedy."

"You mean, you will prove it, sooner or later? And then?''

"Then Nan will have a husband in prison for murder."

Dorothy said, "Johnny, maybe she will. But that's not the

tragedy." He stared. Her blue eyes were clear and steady.

"The tragedy happened when she fell in love with a monster."

"Yes, that's right," he said. "The dream. That's how he's

beaten me all along the line. Do you beheve a rough tough

fifteen-year-old boy ever looked twice at a three-year-old baby girl?"

Dorothy moved her head sadly.

"Grooves in their hearts." Johnny clenched his teeth, in a bitter grimace. "But she believes it! If we ever could have broken the spell, made her believe—"

"That he wants the money?" Dorothy understood at once. "I tried to tell her that."

"You know that? How come you are convinced?"

"I am convinced because the first time we met him, there was some reason—a reason for his choosing Nan. Oh, Johnny, I could tell. I had caught his eye. He just deliberately . . . The truth is, I ^ill attract him and I've told Nan so."

"People keep saying . . ." Johnny looked at this plum. This Dorothy. "Dotty, you know when a man is attracted, don't you?"

"And when he isn't," she said, blinking her tears. "Of course, I do."

"Then why doesn't Nan know that he isn't?"

"Because she was always built up," said Dorothy, ''arti-ficially. She's been told and told to assume she'll have romance, as if it's automatically her due. But that's not so, Johnny. Don't^ou know. Aunt Emily and your dear mother, too, they gave her you^. Johnny, for a gift? For free. So she never scuffled for a boy's attention. She never had any practice. She never learned that it is not absolutely inevitable for a girl to be loved or even popular. That you have to achieve tliis. You have to think how. You don't get attention for nothing—or aflFection, either. You have to deserve it. You have to pay attention to what other people hke. But Nan was protected. She was too easy for Dick to deceive. Oh, what am I saying?"

She spoke to his stricken face. "What good is it to blame old times? I'm sorry, I don't mean to blame you as much as I sound. I blame myself, too. Everybody ought to stop and think before he makes a sacrifice. Please, Johnny, don't feel bad. If you spoiled her, it's because you're kind and responsible."

"Don't spoil your face," he said, to her tears that would spill any moment. "I guess people ought to stop and think-"

(People ought to stop and think before they proudly keep a stupid promise, Johnny mused.)

"I hope there are no ghosts," Dorothy shivered, turning away. "I don't want Christy's ghost to watch this wedding." She turned back. "Oh, what can we do? I wish we could kidnap herl Do something smashing and yet—" Dorothy looked and sounded so very humanly confused that Johnny's sore heart warmed.

"And yet, Nan is choosing," he said, "/ can't think what to do, Dot. I'm no detective, no psychologist. I teach biology. I don't know anything to do."

"There's nothing!" Dorothy's hands fell. "I'd better go. They were almost ready. Do you know what tlie 'something old' is, Johnny?" Dorothy was fierce again. "It's that pin I The old lady got it out and gave it to her. Nan has it pinned on!"

"Something old?"

"Oh, they were all ready except for that superstitious rhyme. "Something old, something new.' Blanche loaned her a brand new hanky, so they are counting it for 'something borrowed,' too. They are running around up there looking for '.' If they've found it, she is ready."

She looked up into his face yearningly.

Johnny looked down. "?"

(I am a biology teacher, he thought, suddenly.)

"You know, the silly old rhyme," Dorothy closed her eyes despairingly. "It's too late. I laiow. We'll have to let her go. It will serve her right," said Dorothy woefully, "and I won't like it at all."

"I want to see Nan," said Johnny. "Right now.''

"Johnny, they won't let you see the bride."

"Yes, they will." He caught her by the hand and pulled her through the door to the hall. (It's not Nan, he thought. I could let her go. It's not Emily, either. Emily is dead. But I am not going to let this happen to Clinton McCauley!)

"Johnny, what . . . ?"

"Follow me. Listen to me. Believe me, Dotty."

He started up the stairs, dragging her. There was nobody below the stairs to stop them but Blanche stood at the top.

"Dorothy, dear? We are ready. Mr. Sims, please . . ."

"I've got to see Nan."

"But you can't."

"Yes, I can," said Johnny loudly. "I am bringing her a wedding present."

"Not now, Mr. Sims." Blanche was propriety outraged. "Please go downstairs at once."

"No, Mrs. Bartee." Johnny stood his ground. "I have something to tell her."

Dick Bartee came out of a door up the hall. Big. Thunderous. "What's this?"

Dorothy said feebly, "I don't know."

Johnny swung around. "Bartee. I came up with a wedding present. Let me give it to you both at once. Where is Nan?"

"We don't need anything from you," Dick said truculently.

The door of the back bedroom shook. Then it opened. There was Nan, in white, without a veil, her bridehood in her face. Young and fair and solemn—in the dream.

Johnny didn't move toward her but he sent his voice. "Nan, please let me tell you both something? Something to make you glad."

Nan said in a low voice, "I don't need to be told. I know Dick is innocent."

Dick moved and put his frame between her and the others. "If you are still trying to mess up this wedding, SiuQS, I' can throw yotTdown the stairs and that right quick,"

Johnny said, "For Nan's sake, let me explain." He looked earnestly into the gray eyes, which were hot and suspicious. "Then I will dance at your wedding," Johnny said. "Believe me."

Bart came up the stairs. "What's holding . . .? What's this?" Blanche made a nerve-wracked sound.

Dick said to Nan tenderly, "You don't have to Hsten to him, love. Shall I take him away?"

"If Johnny wants to apologize," she said, with the little prim dignity of old, "I think we should let him do it, Dick. We all want to be happy."

Dorothy wailed suddenly, "Johnny! Dancel"

Blanche said, "The guests will hear."

Bart said, "Get into a room. We'll have this out.''

Johnny said, "Where is Christy's picture?"

"I have it," Nan said.

Bart brushed off the pawing appeal of Blanche's nervous hand. "Whatever this is, we can't just say hush-hush," he

told her sternly. "Now, get in here, all of us and let me close the door."

Bart closed the door and stood against it. His smooth face was inscrutable. But Johnny knew Bart was on his side.

So they were all in the back bedroom, closed in. The room was not neat. A girl, getting ready for her wedding, had left her fragrant traces. There on the dresser, propped against the wall, was Christy's picture.

Johnny seized it with both hands. "And me the young scientist!" he said. "Me, the biology professorl Look at this!"

Christy's young face laughed out at them all. "Nan, dear, here is '' for the bride. Do you see her blue eyes?" Johnny had taken the floor. He commanded all the attention. He had to do it with a certain overbearing flamboyance. "Now look at Dorothy!" he cried.

"But why should I look at Dorothy?" said Nan, bewildered.

"Because," said Johnny, "Aunt Emily changed you two around! You are not Christy and Clinton McCauley's child. You cannot he. So Dorothy is."

Dorothy said faintly, "What?"

"Science." Johnny put the picture down. ''! don't care what anyone says. You can't get away from discovered laws. Don't forget, I saw Clinton McCauley in prison. And his eyes are hlue, blue, blue." He hammered it at them. This was the touchy moment. (Johnny gave thanks that Bart was on his side.)

"Well?" said Dick Bartee distastefully.

Inside Johnny, something relaxed. He didn't let it show. 'Don't you know what that means?" he cried. "It means that Nan cannot be their child. Dorothy is. Emily protected Nan in depth, I guess. Don't ask me why she did it. But it has absolutely got to be so. Your eyes are brown, Nan."

"Well, I—know they are," Nan said in confusion.

Bart stirred, "That's true," he said flatly, "two blue-eyed people—"

"Cannot have a brown-eyed child," finished Johnny, in almost a shout. "Of course, it's true!"

Dick Baitee said, still with that air of distaste, ''What are you trying to do, now?"

"I am only trying to show Nan," Johnny turned to her. "See what this means? What is Clinton McCauley to you?

An uncle you never knew. I am setting you free of the whole

ancient history. It wasn't your mother."

"You mean I'm not . . .? You mean . . .?"

"Clinton McCauley never mentioned to you which girl was his daughter?" asked Dick scornfully.

"Chnton McCauley used her right name," snapped Johnny,

'Mary,' he used."

"Miss McCauley? In the hospital? On her death bed?"

"Kept up her deep defense, yes. But she didn't know she was on her death bed. Emily didn't expect to die."

Johnny thought the gray eyes reacted. (He had already noted the easy use of the right name for Emily.) Dick said, a trifle stiffly, "And why didn't you think of this before?"

"Because I'm stupid," said Johnny promptly. "Because I first saw Christy's picture under conditions of stress."

"This means you are willing, now, to concede that I never killed anybody?" Dick's voice was loud and a Httle angry. "How is that?"

"Perhaps I was reaching," Johnny said. "I had a reason.''

'Tou sure had," said Dick angrily.

"I don't know what to think," gasped Blanche. "How could—?"

Bart's handj^ightened on her arm and she was still. '

"Yes, hold on a minute," Dick said. "You mean to tell me the lawyer who handled the money? Come oflF it, Sims," Dick smiled. But he wasn't easy. The big animal was wary.

Johnny said, "Look, / don't legislate the laws of nature. But I teach this stuiS, I know what they are."

(It wasn't going to work. Yes, it must. Johnny had a desperate idea.)

"Listen, please, all be quiet. Try an experiment. Be quiet, everyone." He still held them. Nan's face was puzzled. Dorothy looked dazed. Dick was listening, watching, taut as an animal in the woods. Johnny looked at no one person, said into the silence, softly, "Polly? Polly McCauley?"

Nan stared at him as if he had surely lost his mind. But Dorothy lifted her face. Her blue eyes softened. "Polly McCauley," she repeated, just as softly.

"You've heard that before?"

"Yes." She looked at him, trustfully.

"Who was it," Johnny said, in the deepening hush, "used to call you 'Polly McCauley'?"

''My—my father?" Then Dorothy looked around as if she woke, and burst into tears.

Johimy reached out to hold her. He blessed her in his heart. He held her tightly.

Bart said, 'T remember that. He did call the baby 'Polly McCauley.' You remember that, Dick."

"Yes, I do," said Dick Bartee in a colorless voice. He had gone within, remembering.

(He had things to remember. Emily, on her death bed, crying, "You'U never many Clinton's child!" Damn the womanl He'd gone too fast. He ought to have made sure what she meant.)

Nan said, "But don't cry, Dotty? Why should she cry?'' Dorotliy's head was pressed to Johnny's shoulder. Bart said aloud and clearly, "But then, the money must belong to Miss Dorothy?"

Deep silence enclosed the sound of Dorothy's small sobbing. Nan said, "I guess—Does it, Johnny?"

Johnny said impatiently, "The point is. Nan, you are clear of it. So there's my wedding gift. And I hope we are friends." "Oh yesl" said Nan radiantly. "And everything is better 1 Dickr

Dick said in a warm thrilling voice, "Darling!" Bart said, "I can't help it. I am somewhat concerned— what about the money?"

"No doubt about the money. At least one letter exists," said Johnny confidently, "to show that your father meant the money for McCauley s child."

Dick was Hstening; he was alert; he said nothing. "And we can piove that Nan is not McCauley's child," Johnny went on. "In court. Any time."

"You and Dorothy can prove it?" said Dick, in mahcious innuendo.

"That's right—" said Johnny. His grin was triumph. Antagonism was raw.

"I begin to understand your reasons better," Dick purred. "Fancy? I thought they were sentimental."

"That's that," said Bart, with finahty, as if he punctuated thoughts of his own about the money.

"But what shall we do?" quavered Blanche. "The people

downstairs? Shall I go tell them the ceremony is postponed?"

Nan said, "No, no. Not at all. Dotty will be all right, in

a minute. Dotty, don't cry any more. We'll be right down, tell them." Nan was pumping up the dream. "Johnny, thank you. But you go downstairs now. And, Dick, darling, go down and wait for me?"

Dick seemed to hesitate. Johnny said to him, mockingly, "Why don't you call Copeland long distance? Check up on the matter? Before the ceremony?" Johnny's green eyes met the gray eyes.

"What is there to check?" Dick said easily. "Nan is still Nan. Is Dorothy surely all right?" he added.

Dorothy straightened her back and lifted her head. "A little powder and paint," she said in her normal voice. The blue eyes were wet.

Johnny kissed her. Dick Bartee was there to see. Then Johnny went out of the back bedroom. Blanche followed, and passed him, scurrying down the stairs to her social responsibilities.

Dick Bartee came out. Johnny turned his head. Johnny could read nothing in the eyes. "Well," Johnny said with his ov\Ti face a blank, "wish you luck."

"Luck to you too." The hps drew back from the perfect teeth. "When and if we meet in court."

"You are sure you want to meet me in a court?'' aSked Johnny.

Dick's eyes lost any look of seeing. They went dead. They blotted Johnny out. Dick turned away.

Johnny started down, hunting back for the exact flavor of the exchange. Bart caught hirn up. Their eyes slid sideways to each other's.

"Science is a wonderful thing," said Bart dryly.

CHAPTER 20

Dick Bartee mtent along the upstairs hall toward the front of tlie house. He stopped before a door on the right and listened. Blanche and Bart were hosts, downstairs. So he

swung boldly into their bedroom, where there was a telephone.

Waiting for the long distance call to go through, he held his jaw clenched. It was the only sign of his anger.

Mr. Copeland's office regretted that Mr. Copeland was not in today.

"Try his home," Dick said. The operator got the home number.

A woman's voice answered there.

"Long distance, calling Mr. Charles Copeland."

"He's away. This is Mrs. Copeland. Who . . .?"

"I'll talk to Mrs. Copeland," Dick broke in.

The operator retreated.

"Can you tell me where I can reach your husband?" He sent his voice purring north. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but it's rather important."

"Well, he flew down to Hestia," the voice said. "I don't know exactly where. I'm sorry."

"Can you tell me how long he'll be there?" Dick said in a moment.

"Oh, I should think not very long." The voice was responding to his puir. It wanted to please. "He only had to break the news of a—a death, you see. I'm hoping he will be home this evening, since he flew."

"I see. That's sad."

"Yes, it is," she said plaintively. "Of course, I suppose it was his duty." The voice was brave and lonely.

"You wouldn't know the name of the people, Mrs. Copeland, where I might call?"

"The name. Yes, he did tell me. It's McCauley." She went on when she heard no reaction. "That's all I know. I don't suppose that helps . . ."

"It may help," said Dick softly. "Thank you very much.''

"Not at all. Whom shall I say . . . ?"

But he had hung up.

His eyes flickered; the lids came down. He took two strides out the door. In the hall he patted his tie. He was frowning. Then he walked, and his feet dragged, toward the stairs.

Johnny went into the parlor, became a wedding guest. Marshall was there. They nodded but did not speak. The

minister was waiting in the study, for a signal. The parlor waited. Johnny waited.

(Would it work? Science is the bugaboo today. People, believing in nothing else, beheve in science. Let him beHeve it, Johnny prayed. Let him think he isn't marrying the money. Keep him unable to remember that McCauley's eyes are brown. As Bart remembers. Let him betray that it's the money.)

Upstairs, Nan said, "Can you fix your face, Dotty? Don't spoil my wedding."

Dorothy was holding a cold, wet cloth to her eyes. "I'll be all right."

"I wonder," Nan wandered on the rug, "which of us is the older, then?"

"I don't know. Not much difference. Doesn't matter." Dorothy inspected her eyes, picked up a cake of make-up.

Nan, waiting, fingered the small jeweled pin on her shoulder. "I guess you should have this," she said, in rather a wistful voice. "It's not mine, at all. It's your mother's pin."

"I wouldn't touch it!" said Dorothy violently. "Kate's pinl"

Nan seemed to stagger and step back.

"When my father's been locked up, away from me> Jor seventeen years' because of it? When I could have had a father, all this timel I wouldn't touch it—I'm going to see him tomorrow."

Nan said, "Tomorrow?" Her eyes were wide and solemn.

"The quickest I can."

"Johnny will take you, I guess," Nan said reniotely. She looked as if she were tasting and examining this emotion. This reaction.

"I look all right," sighed Dorothy. "Come on. Let's get you married to this Dick, since you insist, Johnny and I can start north by noon."

"Bart is your uncle. Dot. Old Mrs. Bartee is your great-grandmother. These are your own people."

"They never gave up things for me," said Dorothy. "They thought my blood was bad. Emily is my people. I don't forget the years of Emily. But I wish she'd told me, from the beginning. I could have taken it." Dorothy looked tall, vibrant and strong.

"I—I could have taken it, too," said Nan weakly. "I mean, if it had been me. Dick and I were going to see—Mr.

McCauley, of course. I just put Dick first, because I'm in love." It was as if Nan saw the reaction one ought to have had, a little too late.

"So am I." said Dorothy. "I've been in love with Johnny Sims these three years gone. I just adore him." The cousins stood still, facing each other.

Nan said, in a moment, "Well, I suppose you can have Johnny. And you'll have the money and all. I'm glad."

Dorothy said contemptuously, "I don't need the money. I wouldn't bother with it. Johnny half loves me already and I'll study to please him with all my heart. You take the money."

Nan blinked.

"You can call it my wedding present," said Dorothy recklessly. "All / can think, is that I've got a fatherl And Johnny, to help me find out the truth about my mother's murder."

"But if your father—did it?" Nan was looking for absolution.

"I'm not afraid of the truth," Dorothy said. "But if he didn't do it. Nan. I won't make any sacrifices or keep any secrets, for anyone's sake."

Nan knew what was meant.

"What would you f-feel," quavered Nan, "if Johnny were accused? You'd believe in him." Nan's eyes were clouded.

"Ah, but Johnny," said Dorothy, "I know. Also, I know and I like his ancestors. That's a little different. Come on. Ready?"

The bride's throat moved. She looked into the glass. "Ready," she said.

Johnny stood in the parlor. Someone had put a record on the player. The people hushed. Blanche moved in to stand beside the old lady's chair. Everyone stood quietly waiting.

The minister came, wearing a robe, carrying his book. He put it on the lectern. He stood quietly.

Dick Bartee and one of the men (Johnny didn't know him) came in together. Stood to the minister's left. Dick was composed, at least on the surface. The gray eyes rested on the minister—cold and even faintly hostile.

Dorothy came in, walking gracefully, her head up. Her

eyes were brilliant and met nobody's eyes. She went to stand at the minister's right.

The groom looked at the bridesmaid. His throat moved.

Then, Bart came in, with Nan on his arm. Here came the bride, in white, head down, dark eyes shy. Walking with that fmmy little dignity which was a defensive vanity. Johnny knew she wasn't sure of herself. Somebody should back her up, he tliought with an old pang.

The music was the only sound.

Bart brought the bride to the groom. The groom did not look at her, looked over her head, at the bridesmaid.

The minister began the famihar phrases. "Dearly beloved . . ."

He came to "Who gives this woman to be married?"

Bart drew away. Nan looked very small. Now nobody backed her up.

There was an extraordinary tension in the room. The bride swayed. The minister stopped speaking. His eyes were full of doubt and question. For just a moment the ceremony seemed to have frozen, to have come to a stop upon a point where the equiUbrium was perfect, between yes and no. Then decision rippled across the group like fire in grass. .-•

The groom's ^and came under the bride's elbow. The groom's head bent, solictiously. The bride's head came up. She smiled. The minister cleared his throat.

The ceremony continued. Until it was over.

They were married.

The wedding guests closed upon the couple with little coos. But Johnny Sims moved disconsolately away into the hall, out through the double doors, to stand upon the porch, to look into the thicket of trees, seeing nothing but defeat. So much for tricks, he thought.

Someone came out behind him after a while and it was MarshaU. "Too bad."

Johnny couldn't lift his tongue to make an agreeing sound.

The bride cut the cake. For some reason, the wedding guests were more comfortable making a fuss of the old lady. The old lady rather expected it. So the groom said into the bride's ear, "Change, love? Let's get away soon."

"Should we?"

'^ho cares whether we should? Hurry. Do you want Dorothy?" He looked impatient. "You girls will talk."

Nan picked up the white skirt in her two hands and turned her foot. "No, we won't. I don't want to talk. I want us to get away. I don't need Dorothy. I'll change."

"Do, love," he approved softly.

The bride sHpped out of the dining room and up the stairs. The groom drifted past the bridesmaid.

"Help Nan?" he whispered in her ear.

Dorothy turned briUiant eyes. "Of course," she said graciously.

But when Dorothy got up to Nan's door and opened it. Nan said coolly, "Don't bother. Dotty. I can manage. You go back down."

"All right," said Dorothy placidly. She withdrew, closing the door.

Nobody was in the upstairs hall—except the bridegroom. He came to her before she reached the top of the stairs. "Dear Dorothy," he said and put one arm hard and tight around her shoulders. His otl:ier hand came cruelly to her face. It held her jaws and the pain shocked her. The violence shocked her.

Then he put her on his hip and more or less carried her down the deserted hall to the front bedroom that used to be Nathaniel's. He stood her on her feet inside the room. He was able to manage her with one hand, one arm, because her bones were so softened, her muscles so flaccid, her flesh so sagging with shock and fear. He closed and locked the door behind them.

Downstairs, Johnny Sims re-entered the house. He strode down the wide re-carpeted hall to the study, the room where Christy had died. He found the phone and dialed long distance. He had failed and Grimes, Copeland, Father Klein . . . You stood up to failuie. He had failed, and Clinton McCauley would have to be told.

Dorothy could not speak. The big man's big hand would not permit it. His eyes were not such as to be spoken to. "Dear Dorothy," he said, "a rotten error. I would rather have had you my hving bride."

Her feet could not resist against the floor, could not even touch the floor, as he swning her toward the side of the room. "But I'll hang you in my closet," said Dick Bartee,

''like an old suit I don't bother to take. Hang you by your pretty neck . . /'

His lips came and kissed her neck. Her flesh crawled. She arched and struggled to no avail.

"You'll be a suicide," Dick said, "Lovely Dorothy. So young. But I'll have the Bartee money."

She tried desperately to wag her head, no.

"Nan's your only family," Dick said. "McCauley is dead. ' Never mind how I know."

He had the closet door open now. "You don't think I'll do this?" He was amused. "You don't think I dare? I'll do it and no one will believe I did it. They'll all say I wouldn't have dared." He chuckled. "People have always been saying I wouldn't have dared. But, you see, I do dare."

He had a flannel sash from a bathrobe in his free hand.

"It takes so httle time to kill," he told her. "You'll be surprised."

She knew he was beyond the reach of any word, even if she could have spoken. She couldn't speak, or cry out— couldn't fight his bulk and strength. She was helpless.

"One blow for Christy," he said. "Took one moment.-4t did surprise me. Took longer for Miss McCauley."

The sash was coming around her neck but Dorothy did not even feel it. Her heart was sinking in such horror and such sorrow. "Five minutes," Dick said, "which is a long time. I wanted to be sure. And I couldn't leave a mark... It won't be so long for you. The time you take to die in the closet," he said, "I can use to change my coat."

The sash tightened. His one hand had two ends of it at the back of her neck and were twisting. When the sash was effectively choking off her breath and speech he used both hands to make the knot.

"I'll rush Nan out of here," he told her. He was smiling confidently. "Nobody will find you, for quite some time. We'll be far away. Honeymoons are spent in secret places. Take time to find us. They won't imagine. If you are just bold enough—Did you know this. Dotty? You are practically invisible. You can do whatever you want."

Now he had her by the waist in one hard arm, lifting her. The other hand was fixing the sash somewhere high.

He finished the task. He looked into her eyes. "I wish I had known" he said a httle regretfully. "I wish I'd paid at-

tention." His voice went into exasperation. "I never bothered about the color of people's eyes."

Then he let go at her waist and her weight came down. Her head went tight and then light. She writhed. She vaguely knew he was fixing an old suitcase near her feet, but she lost the abihty to hear or to see . . .

Dick closed the closet door.

Into the phone downstairs Johnny said, "Emilyl Emilyr

"Warrant out for him," Grimes was barking on the far end of the line. "Sherifi's oflfice. Copeland ought to be there, by now. Listen, we haven't got him, Johnny. We haven't absolutely got the proof."

"What have you got?" Johnny gasped.

"Got his rented car near the Schmidt Memorial, right time. Got a man with a hat on, in the room. Got a redheaded woman saw the man with the hat come out. But she cUdn't see the face. Can't identify. Don't you admit that, mind."

Johnny said, "Emily!" once more, and then, although he made no further sound, he thought ttiat he was cursing in a loud voice.

Grimes said, "Wait for the law. Then try to rattle him. Get an admission. Trick him, if you can."

Johnny hung up. Then, he was in tlie hall and he saw Copeland there, with Marshall and Bart Bartee.

Copeland said, "I took a cab. Deputy's slow. Close behind me, though. I hope."

Johnny said, "Where—?"

Bart Bartee answered, divining the real question. "Gone up to change. Nan and Dorothy, too. He's upstairs."

Johnny thought he was raging, shouting. Actually he made no sound with his mouth but liis feet pounded on the Bartee's stairs.

The three men followed after, exchanging panted bits of information.

Johmiy banged open Nan's door. She was in her slip, alone. She squealed, "Johnee^ ... /"

"Where is Dick Bartee?"

"You stopl" she wailed. "You leave us alonel"

"Where is he?"

"I won't tell you." She stamped her foot—a child in temper.

Johnny turned and went down the hall slamming doors )pen. A place of deep shelves, a bathroom, an empty bed-oom, Dorothy's perfume . . .

He came to the door to the front bedroom that used to be ■^athaniers. This door was locked.

"Bartee!" he shouted.

No answer.

"Water's running someplace in there," puffed Marshall.

Bart said, "His bathroom. He can't hear."

Johnny hfted up his foot and began to kick at the lock of he door. Loud, hard blows.

Blanche came hurrying up the stairs.

Dick's voice said, inside the room, "What the? Come in, vh>' don't you?"

"Unlock the doorl" bawled Johnny.

"It's not locked."

Johnny kicked it again.

Then the key began to work inside, at the lock. Dick opened he door. "Who locked my door?" he said, looking astonished. What's going on?"

Johnny raged through, feeling nine feet tall.

"Now, just a mlflute," said Dick Bartee and his fists curled, lis shoulders tightened for the giving of blows.

Johnny knew about foot-fighting. Johnny's long right leg wung up and Johnny's shoe caught Dick Bartee on the ide of the jaw. He staggered back and fell.

Marshall and Copeland and Bart Bartee had come into he room.

Johnny stood, dead white v^dth fury, and he thought he was houting curses, looking down.

Dick Bartee, on the floor, presented a face of astonishment md even respect. Violence impressed him?

Then Nan was screaming. Nan, in her shp, pushed through he men, screaming, and flung herself dov^oi upon Dick.

"Shut up. Nan," said Johnny in a voice of thunder. "Shut ip! Be quiet!"

He wanted the noise to stop, the noise of the curses in lis brain, the thundering and roaring of his own blood. He vas almost deaf with the noises, but not quite.

His brain was getting a little signal.

And Johnny, with a mighty effort of his will, began to

listen to the brain. There was tapping somewhere in this room—a rat-a-tat. What? Where? Inside this door?

Johnny yanked open the closet door and there was Dorothy hanging in the closet, her pink dress flowing downward, her toes chattering on the wall, her body turned and swayed and turned around, from where it was hanging by the neck.

Nan screamed again on a pitch of terror.

Johnny stepped into the closet and grabbed the swaying body in both his arms. He Hfted. He held it with one arm. His other hand fumbled and tugged to try to loosen the terrible tightness of the cloth around the neck.

Marshall's hands came, helping to tear the sash, away from the high hook.

Johnny staggered and went down on one knee with Dorothy's body across the other.

Nan was screaming, "Dotty! Dotty." She had turned her face into Dick Bartee's shoulder and he said loudly, "What's going on herel Dorothy!"

Then Bart Bartee was saying to Johnny, "Doctor Jenson is downstairs. Give her to me."

CHAPTER 21

Johnny looked up from the wreck of beauty, the havoc of Dorothy's face. He looked up at Bart and their eyes held.

"Too late," said Johnny.

"I'll take her. Try . . ." So Bart took her up in his arms and Copeland helped. They carried the limp pink thing out of the bedroom and Bart was shouting, "Doctor Jenson"—and then the door closed. Johnny turned to face Dick Bartee.

Dick had scrambled to his feet by now and Nan was on her feet, too, held up in his arm.

"Dorothy!" said Dick with bulging eyes. "How the devil did she get in there?"

"What is it?" wailed Nan. "Oh, what is it? What happened?"

Johnny was taking a deep, deep breath and resolution was pouring through him. "Sit down on the bed, Nan," he said in a voice of command, "and if I hear one more girlish shiiek from you, I will throw you out of this room."

"Oh, no, you won't," said Dick angrily. "My wife—'' But he had let her go and Nan was staggering toward the bed. She sank upon it.

Johnny said, "Going to get this plain. Here and now. First, you killed Christy. We broke your alibi."

"That's right," said Marshall heavily.

"Don't be silly," said Dick Bartee. "For God's sake, what happened to Dorothy?"

"You killed Emily Padgett," said Johnny. "In the hospital. Your car was seen there. You were seen in the room. Seen in the corridor. A woman can identify—"

"Ridiculous," said Dick. "Nan, pay no attention. This man is obsessed . . ."

"Dick was with me," said Nan. "Johnny, you're crazy."

"Shut up, yoji Httle fool," said Johnny coldly. "His specialty is fooling young girls. You're not the first one."

The door opened and Copeland came in. He shook his head. "The sheriff's deputy is on the way. Should be here. With the warrant." He looked nervous.

"Warrant? For what?" snapped Dick.

"For you. Murder of Emily Padgett."

Nan didn't scream. Nan leaned on both arms; her dark eyes were bewildered. "Mr. Copeland?" she said feebly.

Copeland said, "Did Dick Bartee know Emily was in that hospital? Did you tell him?"

Nan said, "But he wouldn't—"

The door opened once more. Outside, somewhere in the house, a woman was weeping, loud, shuddering sobs. Blanche? Bart closed the door behind himself, shutting oflE the sound. He looked at Johnny and said tensely, "The doctor can't get a reaction. Sorry—"

"Now, you've killed Dorothy," Johnny shouted. "You lousy murderer!"

"I! Killed Dorothy! Look herel"

Nan said, "Johnny, why do you say Dick's a murderer?"

"Because that's what he is," said Johnny.

'Dorothy? How?" Dick said. "But she must have got in, locked the door. I was in the bathroom. You think I hung up Dorothy in the closet and then calmly went to wash my face I You're crazy 1 She did it to herself. Must havel"

"Suicide?" said Bart sharply. "Why would she do that?"

Dick mopped his face. "How do I know? Oh, Lord, poor Dorothy. The disgrace, maybe. Her father? Her mother . . . ?"

Nan said slowly, "But Dotty didn't . . . feel disgraced." Her dark eyes were open very wide. She stared at Dick."

Johnny said, "Are you waking up? It was the money."

"What money?" Dick exploded. "Now, hsten and I'll have to be ungentlemanly because this man is obsessed. I happen to know Dorothy—thought about me—too much. Nevertheless, I married Nan."

"A broken heart?" said Bart Bartee and his voice was thin with contempt and disbelief.

Nan said, "But Dorothy—Dorothy's been in love with Johnny these three years gone, she said."

"Ah, httle Nan," said Dick Bartee, with pity. "So innocent . . . What Dorothy said."

"He wants the money," shouted Johnny. "Can't you get that into your iimocent little head. He has always wanted the money and nothing but the money—unless it was Dorothy."

Dick Bartee's eyes flashed. "And how will this get me any money?"

"I don't know," said Johnny to himself.

Nan sat straighter. "No," she said primly. "No, it isn't the money and I've proved it. I didn't tell Dick what Dorothy said. Dorothy said she didn't want the money, I could have it. But I thought if he married me, just me, then that would prove."

She looked around at the stony faces and her chin began to shake. "Prove . . ." Her voice went up. "Provel" She looked as if she'd fly to pieces. "Dotty?"

Charles Copeland went to her, sat down beside her, held her.

Marshall said, "But it's incredible! That he could do such a thing I Hang a giil! Herel Nowl"

"Preposterous," said Dick. "Whatever happened to poor Dorothy, you will never prove that I had anythiag to do with it." ,

"You don't give up yet?" said Johnny softly.

"Give up? Give up what! What do )'ou think you can do to me? Where is your proof?" The splendid animal was fierce and brave.

Johnny stepped backwards, took the door knob, opened the door to the hall.

"Here I am," said Dorothy Padgett in a tortured voice that had to come from a mangled throat.

Something behind Dick Bartee's eyes gave up—and Johnny saw it. But Dick's body sat down and crossed its legs.

"He told me how long it took to kill the others," croaked Dorothy. "Emily!" Her face was no longer that terrible color but it was teiTible.

Johnny had her cold fingers in his own. "All right, weVe got him," he said in a shaking voice. "Will somebody keep me from killing him, here and now, before the law comes?"

Johnny could feel how Dorothy was trembling. Dorothy's fingers clutched his and she said hoarsely, yet clearly, "I would hke to be the one to tell him."

"Yes," said Johnny.

". . . that n^ Uncle CHnton McCauley's eyes are htOwn/' said the blue-eyed girl.,.

Johnny watched Dick's eyes with bitter pleasure.

Bart said, "You bit, Dick. You never paid any attention. You didn't even remember the baby's eyes. Sims rattled you."

Dick rose. "McCauley is dead," he said stiffly.

"What gave you that idea?" said Charles Copeland. "And what's the difference! Nans his daughter. The money has nothing to do with Dorothy."

"I?" Nan said.

"You had manied the money," Johnny said to Dick Bartee, "all cosy. You were home safe. You bet you were. Not now."

From Nathaniel's front windows they could all tell that a car was coming in.

"There's the law, thank God," gasped Copeland.

"Dick?" said Nan. "You didn't? It isn't true?"

Dick Bartee didn't even look at her. "Sorry to skip out on my honeymoon," he said jauntily, "but I don't think I'll wait for the law."

He turned to the side window. He wagged his hips and

crashed the glass out. He put one knee on the sill and his head and shoulders through before anyone could move.

Nan screamed. "No, Dick, not Don't leave mel I believe in youl I do! I know it isn't truel"

She was away from Copeland, oflF the bed, crawUng and scrambling after her dream. She caught at Dick's leg. He lifted it to kick her ojff. But Nan had it embraced, clutched fiercely. She was on her knees and she fainted backward. Dick had no balance, now. His other knee slipped oJBF the sill. His body came in and downward. Upon the jagged shard, left in the lower sash, his naked throat came dov^ni.

Four days later, Johnny pulled his car up at the prison, got out and helped the girls out.

Nan whimpered. "I'm afraid."

"Don't be afraid," Johnny said mechanically.

Nan was so small, so forlorn. Although she was better. Johnny and Copeland had got Nan away from the law, (although there would be ordeals, inquiries, suspicion of manslaughter—before they could get her altogether free.) Dick Bartee was dead and gone. So they'd got Nan back north, and into the strong hands of Johnny's mother. Barbara Sims had pumped courage into her, helped her, got her in some measure, together again.

Now, of course, this was going to be an ordeal.

Johnny helped her to walk. Dorothy walked by herself. It was Dorothy who had stayed behind, two days, in Hestia and stood up to all the questioning.

Father Klein welcomed them. "He is waiting, my dear. He has been waiting for this a very long time."

McCauIey was better. The resolution of the dilemma had put him back together again, rather swiftly. He'd be out on parole soon.

"We won't go in," said Johrmy. "You go, Nan."

"No, Johnny, Dotty, please? Come with me?" Nan was shivering.

"He wants to see all three of you," the chaplain said.

The frail little man was waiting in the chaplain's office, white head bent down.

McCauley said, "I am a little afraid. Is it really she?"

Nan's face began to change. "Don't be afraid," she said. "Father?"