The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 5, No. 1 — April 1922)

I

The coffin was carried from the house by eight pall-bearers, all in the uniform of the force. The narrow street was crowded with men, women and children, all of them eager for a last look at the plain brown casket.

While the coffin was being lifted into the hearse, the men bared their heads; most of the women held handkerchiefs to their eyes. Even the children kept an awed and reverent silence. All but one of them. A lad of about seven, red-headed, chubby, strong-necked and slightly bandy, pushed his smaller sister and called out, “Look! Cap’n Jimmy’s in that!”

Cap’n Jimmy — that’s what he was to his friends in the neighborhood — and by “friends” we mean everyone within a radius of five blocks, old enough to walk, crawl or be wheeled about in the streets. As a boy and young man he had been merely Jimmy; then he “made the cops” and after a phenomenal career of seven years reached the rank of captain. But even at that he was never promoted from Jimmy to James.

The parents came out of the house and entered the first coach. Then came Commissioner Anderson and by his side Alan Nevins, a plain-clothesman with the rank of sergeant.

Nevins had come half way down the stoop, when he suddenly faltered. The commissioner seized him by the arm and said, rather roughly, “Come! come! Don’t go to pieces! Steady now!”

Thereupon the commissioner had a violent coughing spell, which was strange, considering it was a warm April day, that he had no cold, and that nothing he had tried to swallow had lodged in his throat.

So Captain of Police James Cornell was buried.

II

Five days later, Sergeant Nevins called at the Cornell home. In the little front parlor a girl was waiting for him. Slight of build she was and of the fragile loveliness of an anemone; her dark eyes were the more sparkling because of the pallor of her cheeks.

The Sergeant came toward her and held out his arms as if to take her into them and hold her close. The girl took a sharp breath, stepped back a pace and nodded toward a chair. Nevins sat down and nervously tapped the brim of his derby against his fingers.

Marguerite Cornell had been in Europe as traveling companion to a wealthy woman when her brother Jimmy died. She had come home too late for the funeral. She now spoke to Nevins (her fiance) with the detachment of a person discussing a purely professional matter in which she had no personal interest at all.

“The news reports are always garbled,” she said. “And I can’t bear to speak of it to mother or father. Tell me — give me the facts straight.”

Sergeant Nevins cleared his throat. “We know nothing definite about — about — Jimmy was found — a roundsman stumbled, by accident, over his body, in an empty lot. That was at three o’clock in the morning. Jimmy was in uniform at the time, but not on duty. On — on his chest was found a small, plain white card — an ordinary visiting card — bearing the words The Mogul in a flashy handwriting. Jimmy was dead.”

“How — many wounds—?”

“Three. The one in his forehead did for him instantly.”

“Did he have a chance to — fight—?”

“Evidently. Two of the cartridges in his gun had been exploded.”

“Five shots — and no help—”

“He wasn’t shot in the lot — that’s the explanation. He was brought there in a car.”

“Who or what is The Mogul?”

“We don’t know. We surmise — that is — there seems to be plenty of evidence to support the theory that quite a bit of the crime in this city is organization-crime. We are often able to link crimes together — different types of crime — counterfeiting, robberies, assaults; something in the manner in which they are executed, something in the precautions used by the criminals to avoid detection, seems to indicate that there is a central idea, a single brain, if you will, that is giving directions. We have, however, no inkling as to this person’s identity, nor are we able to point out the individuals who are the links in this chain of hirelings. Every member of the department was questioned, of course, but only one had previously heard the name The Mogul.”

“Yes?”

“Two men seemed to be having an argument in the Bird’s-Eye, a dance hall on lower Third Street. A detective came as close as he dared, but one of the men ended the argument with ‘The Mogul has slapped his O. K. on the scheme, so I’m going ahead, whether you like it or not.’ ”

“I see. The Department infers that Jimmy, by accident or design, stumbled upon The Mogul and was shot—”

“For knowing too much.”

“Damn them!” The girl was standing near a small round table. Her cheeks became whiter, she suppressed a sob and shrank back; she had become suddenly aware that with her oath she had unconsciously layed her hand upon the family Bible.

With this realization, a strange, mystic light glowed in her eyes. She stared straight ahead of her, and it seemed beyond, beyond everything material and into some other world. Quite gently she put her hand upon the Bible again.

And now her voice was as from out of the distance, low and echo-like but distinct. “Jimmy! Jimmy! Do you hear me? I’m keening for you, Jimmy, and my mourning shall be long and bitter! And the heart of me shall be torn and smarting with hate, and I shall be fierce and cruel and pitiless till my vow is fulfilled.

“Jimmy! Jimmy! I’ll get them for you! Each one of them, Jimmy! And may the soul and flesh of me writhe in agony, may the mind of me be in torture and torment, till my mission is done!”

Quietly Marguerite came over to Sergeant Alan Nevins. “You said this — Bird’s-Eye dance hall is on lower Third Street?”

“A respectable girl doesn’t go there — if that’s what you’re intending,” replied Nevins.

He rose suddenly, alarmed by the strangeness of her manner. “Look here, Marge, don’t attempt anything foolish! You can’t mix with that gang! You’d die of nausea—”

“If Jim isn’t avenged, I’ll die of shame!”

“Put you’re no match for them. You are kind, they are pitiless; you are fragile, they are robust; you are innocent of all evil, they are practiced in every conceivable kind of crime and violence.”

And now the bright round eyes of the girl narrowed till they were as two slits; her rich, red lips were drawn thin. “Against all of that, I match my courage! A courage that will be eternally fired and fanned by the memory of Jimmy, lying there in a lot—”

Once again Alan Nevins came toward her with outstretched arms. Again she drew away.

“Mr. Nevins, from now on, and until that gang has paid, you and I are strangers!”

III

The Step Lively Club was giving a dance at the Bird’s-Eye. Among those present in the crowded, smoke-smelly hall, was a slender, brown-eyed, dimpled girl. Her delicate hands, fine features and something in her manner indicated that she was of a decenter stock than the motley crowd surrounding her. But her cheeks were heavily rouged and her nose was a plaster-cast white; and she chewed gum. If you looked long enough, you began to feel that perhaps the refinement was a delusion on your part.

She sat at a table with six others, but she was not “in with them.” She “wall-flowered” through five dances before receiving so much as a smile from anyone in the hall. There was a reason; the girl was an outsider and the tribe that hangs around the Bird’s-Eye is suspicious of strangers.

Then the band played a waltz.

Some four tables to the left of the girl, two men and a woman were holding a whispered discussion. The woman was a tall, coarse-featured, capacious-chested blonde. One of the men was of the dark, slender, olive-skinned, small-moustached type you see in every movie; he’s the fellow who has his head broken by the hero in the last reel. The other man was a stunted, narrow-shouldered specimen, bleery of eye, pasty of hair and splotchy complected When the band started the waltz, the woman shrugged her shoulders and said, “Well — go on then and try her.”

So it came that the runt stood at the table of the brown-eyed girl, “Are you dancing, Miss?”

The girl gazed at him vacantly and switched her gum from her left cheek to her right. “Yeh, I dance.”

“My name’s Breen, Rudie Breen,” he volunteered, as he took her arm. “Y’ever been in this place before?”

“No. I’m in the town only a week. My name’s Rita Daly.” As they danced, she gave him the address of the house in which she roomed, on Fourth Street, near Avenue B. She also consented to let him join her at her table and buy her a drink.

“The waiter will put a kick in it, if I wink at him,” he suggested.

“All right. Ginger ale and wink,” she smiled.

But the drink was never served.

Above the din in the dance hall, there suddenly came the sounds of a scuffle in the barroom. Then harsh cries, oaths, the crash of broken furniture and the tinkle of splitting glass.

“Raid!” exclaimed Rudie.

The dance hall was on a level with the street. Some few feet from their table was a window. Rudie Breen seized the girl’s hand and pulled her toward it; but when he raised the lower frame, a uniformed officer poked his head through the frame-work and pointed a gun at them. They shrank back into the hall.

And now policemen rushed into the place through every opening; they came from the barroom, through the windows and through the door leading into the street, the door opening on the hallway. Every exit was covered. Mingled with the policemen was a goodly number of detectives.

An officer whose white cap and stripes showed his rank of inspector, and who seemed to be in charge, got up on a table, raised a hand, and when the place became hushed, he said: “No need for alarm, ladies and gents. We’ve found what we want in some barrels under a false floor in the cellar. Just pass out quietly in single file; all those not armed will be permitted to go.”

The procession started. The members and friends of the Step Lively Club were put to the indignity of having their pockets emptied and their handbags looked into before they were hustled through the door leading to the street.

Our brown-eyed girl with the chewing gum quid, took in the scene calmly. But of a sudden she felt that the hand still folding hers was trembling. Somewhat surprised, she turned to the young man and saw that his yellow complexion had turned a sickly pallor. His eyes shifted nervously about the room; he was evidently thoroughly frightened.

“What’s the matter?” asked the girl. “Got a gun on you?”

“N — no. But — this raid for booze is a blind — a cover. They’re diggin’ for snow — and if they find—”

Now if the truth be told, the girl had no idea of the meaning of Rudie’s words. She was sure of one thing, however; Rudie felt himself threatened by a terrible calamity. And reflecting upon this fact, it occurred to the girl that Rudie would be very grateful to the person who helped him get outside that hall. And if she had one good friend in that crowd — that would be a start.

“If — if someone could manage to put out the lights—” she suggested.

“Fat chance. The switchboard is in the barroom.”

“Locked?”

“No. They keep the board open for emergencies like this. The cops must have come in on them too quick for—”

“Which way do you work—?”

“You couldn’t go wrong. There’s only one lever — you pull it from left to right. But how you goin’ to get at—?”

“Oh!” The girl’s exclamation interrupted him. He noticed that she was staring hard and that a flush had come into her cheeks. He was too confused, however, to notice that the object of her stare was the detective who covered the door to the barroom.

“You pick out your exit,” she whispered to him. “I guess, maybe I can make it.”

With that she pushed aside several others and joined the line which was winding its way slowly out the side door. The process appeared too slow for her; she stepped out of line and came quickly forward. But she did not head for the door leading to the street; instead, she dodged past a policeman and ran toward the barroom door. She had almost reached it when the officer caught up with her and gripped her shoulder.

“No you don’t, Miss. You go out the same way as—”

For a moment, the girl looked up at the detective standing in the open barroom door. That gentleman suddenly startled, recovered quickly, and then favored the policeman with a frown.

“Why can’t I go out any way I please?” demanded the girl.

“Nix, Fritz, lay off!” muttered the detective.

The policeman grinned, released his hold on her. And the detective let her slip by him.

Thereupon things happened.

The searching process was going on in a slow, orderly way, when suddenly every light in the building went out.

In an instant everything was in a bedlam. Screams and terrible oaths, pleas, wailing cries of pain rang out in the darkness. The line broke; everyone fought viciously for freedom. Tables were overturned and windows smashed. The police dared not use their revolvers or clubs out of fear of injuring each other.

When the lights were switched on again, the hall was half empty. Most of those who remained were women; women with bleeding faces and torn hats and dresses.

Inspector Carrigan mopped his forehead. Then he looked with pity upon the cowering humanity before him.

“Send for an ambulance,” he instructed. “And go easy with them poor broken dolls. What we were after got away in the dark.”

IV

At five o’clock the following morning, the mother of Sergeant Alan Nevins was startled by the raucous ring of the door bell. Looking out of a front window, she saw a girl standing at her door. A moment later, Alan Nevins was being shaken out of a profound slumber. “Miss Cornell is at the door, Alan. Alan! Wake up!”

When Alan, dressed completely, up to and including the correct knot in his scarf, came down, the girl was waiting in his sitting-room.

“But my dear Marguerite,” he began.

“Miss Rita Daly, if you please,” she corrected. Then, “I’ve come to inquire whether your little raid of last evening was a success.”

“We didn’t get a blamed thing on anybody,” he confessed, dejectedly. “But do you know, Marguerite—”

“Miss Daly!”

“Do you know, Miss Daly,” fiercely — “that they could almost give you life for turning out the lights?”

“They could, Mr. Nevins, if they had caught me. I crawled out right through the legs of the fat cop at the front door — honest I did,” she smiled disarmingly. “I’ve come for my lesson.”

“Lesson?”

“My lesson in slang. First, what is snow?”

“Snow!” — he leaned toward her eagerly: “Then there was snow in that place last—”

“What is it?” she insisted.

“Drugs, in powdered form.”

“And what is a gat?” she asked. “And a goof, and a billy, and a cake-eater, and a sniffer, and a hard-boiled egg, and a finale hopper, and a belly-wash, and a wet-blanket, and a dumb-bunny. And what do you do when you pull in your ears, kid, you’re coming to a tunnel, and when you should hope to kiss a pig, and when you shake a wicked shimmy, and are paralyzed above the Adam’s apple?” She crossed her legs and smiled wistfully. “I hoid all dem woids las’ night at the dance and I dunno wotinell dey mean. See?”

Sergeant Nevins scratched his chin. “Five o’clock in the morning is hardly an opportune time, Mar — Miss Daly, for a les—”

“All right. I’ll find another instruc—”

“No! No!” he seized her hand and pulled her back into her chair. So the lesson commenced.

And when she was up on definitions, she once again smiled wistfully into his sleepy eyes, and said simply: “Now teach me to swear.”

He glared at her with all the dignity a man of twenty-five can put into a glare, but the smile did not fade from her face.

So he taught her.

V

Two nights later, Rita Daly, on her way home from the department store in which she worked, found Mr. Rudie Breen waiting on her corner.

“I missed you last night, Miss Daly,” he said. “I–I kind of owe you something for that stunt you pulled. Will you let me take you to supper?”

“Where would you — take—?”

“Well, personally, I lean to Chinese grub. But you can name the place—”

“A chop-suey joint it is,” said Miss Daly. “I won’t have to change costumes.”

She had guessed — and correctly — that Breen would sit in one of the private booths with her. And it was part of her scheme to encourage his friendship.

“Where ya hail from, Miss Daly?” asked Breen, after they had been served.

“Chicago.”

After a long pause, Breen leaned across the table. “Now look here — I got more than fat above my ears, and while I ain’t perfect, conceit ain’t none of my faults. So I ain’t believin’ you pulled that trick that saved me because you were head over heels in love with sincerely yours.” He lowered his voice. “I take it consequently that the dicks got something on you, or, that you were getting square with ’em for something that happened previously. Now which is it?”

Then, for the first time was Rudie Breen favored with a smile. “Listen, Mr. Breen, my quarrel with the cops is a private affair. That’s that.”

“I ain’t inquisitive, Miss Daly. When you say you got a quarrel with ’em, that’s enough for me.

Again a pause.

Then Rudie, “Where you workin’?”

“Stapleton’s.”

“Gettin’ much?”

“No!”

“Can you typewrite and stenographate?”

“Little.”

“H’m.” Breen took a morning edition of a newspaper from his pocket and passed it to Miss Daly. He pointed to a want-ad. “Now here’s a job for someone with — brains. Someone like you.”

Rita Daly read the advertisement. J. Stanley Bradshaw, Trinidad Building, Broadway, wanted a stenographer.

“What makes it such a good job?” asked Rita.

“Well — I happen to know — never mind how — that this J. Stanley is a tricky customer. He’s in the promoting game and he generally promotes thin air. Now a person workin’ on the inside might get the goods on him and—”

“Squeeze him a hit, eh?”

“You ketch on fast, Miss Daly.”

“Thank you. But without references, how could I get—”

“I’d fix that part — the references. Well?”

“Almost anything is better than a department store,” said Rita Daly...

The next morning, when Rita came out of her house, Rudie Breen handed her a white envelope. On her way downtown in the subway, she took the letter out of the envelope and read it.

It was typewritten on paper which bore the letterhead, Hygrade Novelty Jewelry Co., 111 Fifth Avenue. It assured “whomever it may concern” that Miss Rita Daly had worked four years as stenographer for the undersigned and had always given splendid and efficient services. Harold Creighton was the undersigned.

Rita smiled rather grimly as she replaced the letter inside the envelope. She had evidently rendered a great service to someone when she turned out the lights of the Bird’s-Eye and that someone — or perhaps someones — was repaying the favor.

J. S. Bradshaw, a tall, white-haired, black-eyed man, theatrically handsome, took on Miss Daly immediately after reading her letter of introduction. After some two weeks, he made her his private secretary.

So began the maelstrom of incidents which was to sweep the lovely Rita into the net of the most powerful crime-organization in the city.

VI

The Bradshaw Mines Co., so Rita learned, had gone into the business three months before she entered into the employment of the firm. On the strength of a preliminary report by experts that the company actually owned mines in Mexico and that the mines actually held silver, Bradshaw sold stock.

Then, after Rita was private secretary, she inadvertently opened a letter addressed to Bradshaw and marked personal. This letter was the final report of the experts. It informed Bradshaw that it was hardly worth while to push his project since the value of the silver deposits in his mines could not possibly exceed ten thousand dollars. And Rita knew that over eighty thousand dollars’ worth of stocks and shares had already been sold.

Bradshaw was not in the least disconcerted by the fact that she had read the discouraging report. He shrugged his shoulders, put the letter into his safe and remarked to her, “Well, that needn’t worry us any. We’ll go right ahead.” And he did.

Thus was Rudie Breen’s shrewd guess as to Bradshaw’s character verified.

Now, all of Rita’s actions thus far, had been merely a blind groping stumble along a path which she felt instinctively would lead eventually to the companionship of men and women who would not be strangers to The Mogul.The hit-and-miss method was necessary since she knew of no direct connections. For the present, the important thing was to become involved in criminal acts and to get an unsavory reputation. If she could not seek The Mogul, she could at least make it worth while for him to seek her.

As to Bradshaw, she had no scruples about ruining him. He was a crook and a good share of his money was coming from women who may have been widows. She therefore took Rudie Breen into her confidence and invited him to join her in forcing Bradshaw into a position where he’d have to pay for their silence.

“If we can get his book of accounts showing that over one hundred thousand dollars worth of shares have been sold,” she told Rudie, “and if we can get that letter from the experts, he’ll have to come across, or beat it, and he doesn’t want to do that, at least for a while. Business is still good. He’s been using the mails to carry his advertising matter — that makes it a federal offense.”

“Well — I never sneeze at money. And I still owe you for—”

“Bradshaw keeps his account books and that tell-tale letter in his safe. That’s where you might—”

“What’s the model?”

“Illington.”

“Illington! Keeps his papers in an old ash can like the Illington? There ain’t a respectable crook in the business couldn’t open that safe in twenty minutes.”

“Soup?”

“Not for the Illington. I’ll solve the combination...”

Five nights later, they made the attempt. Bradshaw had inaugurated a follow-up campaign and worked after hours with Rita, dictating letters to prospects in the sucker class. Rita supped from six to seven; then Bradshaw went out for an hour, so that Rita was alone in the office from seven to eight. And before eight, persons could still enter the Trinidad Building without registering in the hall-book.

Rita waited till Bradshaw had been gone for about ten minutes. Then she raised and lowered the shade of a front window; that was Rudie’s signal.

There were no lights in any other office on the fourth floor. While Rudie was busy manipulating the tumblers to Bradshaw’s safe, Rita kept a look-out in the hall. She stood at a point some fifty feet from her office, where the north and the west corridors crossed. The elevators were on the west corridor; in the event of Bradshaw’s unexpected return, she expected to have plenty of time to run along the north corridor and shoo Rudie away.

She had kept her vigil some ten minutes, when, on turning casually she saw Bradshaw standing before the open door to his office! He must have walked quietly up the stairway in the rear of the north corridor!

Bradshaw hesitated only a moment; then he rushed into the room. There came at once a scuffling sound and the thud-thud of blows.

Frightened, but eager to continue actively in this dangerous and unlawful adventure, Rita ran along the corridor and watched the struggle from the doorway.

The powerful Bradshaw was having the best of it. The runt Breen was quicker and more skilled with his fists, but the room was too small to permit of scientific boxing.

Bradshaw drove a straight right to Rudie’s face; the force of the blow hurled Rudie across the room and against the wall. With a snarl of triumph, Bradshaw seized a chair, raised it above his head, and rushed at his adversary.

Rita choked a cry.

Breen stood humped against the wall as though too exhausted to raise a hand to ward off the blow which must surely crush his skull. Then, in the wink of an eye, and just as Bradshaw began the downward swing of the chair, Breen shook off his coma, drew a stiletto from his coat pocket — and struck!

The chair clattered to the floor and Bradshaw tottered. But Breen had not yet finished with him. With his left arm he hugged Bradshaw close; with his right hand, he kept twisting the handle of the stiletto. Bradshaw kept emitting low guttural moans.

Then finally, Breen drew out the blade and pushed Bradshaw away. In falling, Bradshaw, half turned. Rita saw that his white silk shirt was stained a deep red over the heart; from this stain, thin red lines trickled... dripped...

At this point she became somewhat dizzy.

Rudie Breen pulled her into the room, locked the door, led her to a chair and fetched her a cup of ice-water.

“Take it easy, sis. Nothin’ more serious than murder. Happens occasionally in the very best circles. That’s it. Feel better?”

“What — will we—?”

“There are at least a dozen things we could do. This is nothing to worry about at all. You leave it t’me.”

He picked up the telephone and when he had made his connection, he said: “Harry? Rudie speaking. I’m in a little mess in the Trinidad Building. Listen. How soon can you make Thirty-ninth Street and Seventh Avenue? Good. Now get this: southeast corner, red and white, Daly, good evening, cane. Right?” He hung up.

Thereupon he scribbled a note, and handed it to Rita.

“When you’ve delivered this, you’re through with this job,” he told her. “I’m handling the rest. Here’s your end of it: You take a red and white taxi to Thirty-ninth Street and Seventh Avenue. On the southeast corner a man will be waiting for you. Tall, slim, black moustache. He’ll be holding his cane up against his shoulder. He will address you, ‘Miss Daly, good evening.’ You give him this note. That’s all. And tell the chauffeur to drive like hell.”

The girl stumbled out of the office. She went through her performance mechanically, almost as one in a trance. And after she had delivered the note, she went home — to her own home, the home she had not seen in over a month. But even in her stupor she did not fail to take a circuitous path, lest she be tracked.

Alone in her own room she threw herself face down on her bed and wept. But out of no pity for Bradshaw. She knew him to have been thoroughly corrupt and remorseless. On his part, he too would have killed and shown no regret.

Her feeling was one of pity and sympathy for herself. She manipulated that strange psychological absurdity whereby a person can be thoroughly emotional and subjective and yet consider self in an objective way.

In her memory flashed the image of a slight, wistful, lovely girl taking a terrible oath of vengeance.

“May the soul and flesh of me writhe in agony” — such was her vow — “till my mission be done!”

Well... the tentacles of the monster Evil had gripped her. There could be no quitting now. When planning the theft with the rat Breen, she had made him promise to come unarmed. He had not kept that promise. She was now chained to him and his kind by the crime in which she had participated.

A sardonic Fate seemed intent on forcing upon her an exquisite torture and wringing from her the ultimate in sacrifice, before granting the sweet satisfaction she knew must be hers...

VII

Judging by every standard and precept by which she had hitherto lived, it was clearly Rita’s duty to submit to arrest. But emotionally such an act was utterly inconceivable. The fierce hatred and cruelty that had been generated by the killing of her brother Jimmy quite precluded the cessation, at the present time, of her campaign for vengeance.

And as the night wore on and her confusion and torment subsided, it became apparent to her that to surrender now was an unsound step from a logical point of view. The greater guilt was Rudie Breen’s; he had broken his word to her, he had come armed, and he had killed.

Why should she suffer alone? She could not be sure that the police would catch him, and even if they did — suppose Rudie denied complicity and with the help of his crowd proved an alibi? It would be her word against his. No, clearly the thing to do was to put off action until she had Breen in a position where he, too, could be punished.

Before dawn, Rita left her home and went back to her room on Fourth Street. She fell quickly into a dreamless sleep from which she did not waken till eight o’clock. On raising her shade she saw what she expected: Rudie Breen was waiting on her corner.

She went down at once. He did not look in the least like a man who had committed a murder on the previous evening. His manner betrayed no excitement or anxiety. The inevitable cigarette hung carelessly from his lips.

And now, for the first time, Rita became curious about Rudie’s actions after she had left the office. This, strangely, had up to this given her no concern; she had been too worried about the enormity of the crime to wonder about the steps Rudie had taken to protect himself. But now she was all eagerness to ask questions.

“What’d you do, Rudie? How’d you—?”

“We’ll have breakfast together,” he broke in. “The Chink will fix us up something.”

When they were once more in a private booth at the Chink’s, Rudie talked.

“Mr. J. Stanley Bradshaw has disappeared,” said Rudie. “That’s all.”

“But how—?”

“Me and my friend Harry — the gent you slipped my note to, have fixed it. Bradshaw’s office is on the fourth floor — his outer room window faces a courtyard. Darker than a coal mine that courtyard — and you can get into it from a nice quiet street. Harry brought me a long rope — then he went down into the yard and I lowered the body. We had a closed car waiting. Me, I cleaned up his office. No sign of anything — Simple, what?”

“Where is the body?”

“Well — there’s a nice deep river within four blocks of the Trinidad Building.”

“What do I do?”

“Go to work, as usual. Bradshaw won’t show up. He has no family. Maybe his housekeeper will ask the cops to find him. They may question you and the rest of the office force. All you know is that you left his office last night while he was still out to supper. They’ll think he skipped.”

“Will they find the records that show he’s been doing a fraudulent bus—?”

“Nix. I opened the safe and took that letter from the mine experts.”

“That’s where you pulled a bone, Rudie. You should have left that letter. Then the cops would know he’s a crook and that would motivate the disappearance.

“You’re a wise little cracker,” grinned Rudie. “But it so happens we don’t care a rap what the police think about Bradshaw’s disappearance, and remember this: it’s always a good policy to grab inside information whenever you can; Bradshaw may not have been running this thing alone. See? And if anyone else pops up to continue his scheme — why with the help of that letter, we’ll be able to squeeze ’em. At any rate, them was my sentiments; and besides, orders from The Mogul is orders and — what’s the matter?”

The Mogul! Rita had started and fumbled her cup when the words were spoken. With her very first adventure she had stumbled into a scheme in which The Mogul was involved. So The Mogul had given orders that Bradshaw’s letter was to be taken in any event!

“What’s the matter?” repeated Rudie.

He had noticed her astonishment. It was impossible now to feign indifference. The safest maneuvre, she felt, was to be frankly curious, and also a bit angry because of the meddling of an outsider.

Emphasis was called for. She overcame her natural aversion to profanity and asked boldly, “The Mogul? And who in the hell is The Mogul?”

“That,” replied Rudie pleasantly, “is none of your damn business...”

It was two weeks before the official investigation into the disappearance of Bradshaw got seriously under way. Meanwhile, the employees (besides Rita, there were but three — a bookkeeper, a typist and a file clerk) had hunted up other jobs. Rita was questioned by the police and said that on the evening of Bradshaw’s disappearance she had left the office at seven-thirty while he was out to supper. The hall man remembered seeing Bradshaw come back from supper, but he couldn’t place the time definitely; he guessed it was before eight.

The shareholders in Bradshaw’s mine formed an organization to inquire into the matter. It took several months before they discovered the details of the fraud. But this investigation, since it did not solve the question of Bradshaw’s whereabouts, does not interest us.

We must keep pace with Rita.

VIII

Whatever slight inclination Rita may still have had to confess her part of the crime against Bradshaw disappeared entirely in that moment in which Rudie Breen spoke the words The Mogul.

Now that she had somehow wedged into the scheme of things in which The Mogul was the pivot, her mind became once again a single-track mind; she excluded every thought except those which were directly connected with her problem of running down her quarry.

Rudie Breen was the medium through which she had established contact with The Mogul’s sphere; she therefore clung to Breen tenaciously and encouraged his friendship in the hope that he would try again to involve her in some of his machinations. In this hope she was not disappointed. Rudie did not use her again in his personal ventures. He did more; he introduced her into society — a society which practised crime in its more refined forms. With the explanation that he still owed her something for rescuing him when the police raided the dance hall, and regret that he could not pay the debt himself, Rudie offered to introduce her to “some friends of mine who may be able to do something for you.”

The friends lived in a private, brown-tone house on Eighty-first Street. You have already met the occupants of the house. They are the couple who were with Rudie at the dance hall and who, like Rudie (Rita was not aware of this) escaped while the place was in darkness.

“Meet Mr. Harold Creighton,” introduced Breen. “I think you’ve met before.”

“On the southeast corner of Thirty-ninth Street and Seventh Avenue,” smiled Rita.

Mr. Harry Creighton introduced the statuesque blonde, “Miss Daly — my wife, Judith.”

With no further comment Breen stepped out of the room and Creighton locked the door. He motioned Rita into a rocker and joined his wife on the settee.

“We know everything about you that Breen knows,” began Creighton. “It appears obvious that your head is more than a garage for bonnets — for which reason you interest us. Here’s our proposition: In our — business — we can occasionally use an intelligent, attractive and unattached girl. How we will use you will depend upon the talents you show you possess — more of this some other time.

“It is enough to say now that we work always with a minimum of violence and that we will so arrange matters that the dangerous part of your work will be done by someone else for you. In return for your services we will offer you a room in this house — you pass as Judith’s sister — board, clothing (in this respect you can go the limit) and a fifty-fifty split on the profits of such ventures in which you play the leading role.”

Creighton paused and stroked his glossy, black hair, then easily: “You will, of course, be in a position to squeal, in which case we could suggest to the authorities that you had not told the truth in regard to the disappearance of Mr. Bradshaw. But we wouldn’t. We’d just kill you. Well?”

“I’d like to go into this thing with my eyes open,” replied Rita. “Of course, I can’t expect you to take me entirely into your confidence at the present time. In one of our talks Breen spoke of The Mogul. You give me an earful about this gent and I’ll give you my answer.”

Creighton began pulling at his waxed moustache. “Since Breen’s been so damn careless, I can at least be frank. You’re here by The Mogul’s invitation. The Mogul, part of whose business it is to know everything the police would like to know, has learned of the courage and quick-wittedness you displayed at the dance hall and in connection with the Bradshaw business. He suggested that you be brought into our circle. His identity and whereabouts must remain a secret to you until you have graduated from the actors’ class to the ranks of those who can also direct. For the present you will be under orders to me. That’s all I can say.”

“I like it here,” said Rita, “I think I’ll stay.”

That night, in her comfortable bedroom in Creighton’s home, Rita vowed again her terrible vow against The Mogul. She was now in one of the inner circles of his scheme of operations; she felt that circumstances would inevitably bring her to the circle’s centre and face to face with the man who had taken her brother’s life.

A kindly Fate helped her to win her way quickly into the complete confidence of her associates in crime. As Rita suspected, the Creightons first used her as a bait to lure philanderers to their ruin. The first victim offered by Fate was so detestable a specimen that Rita actually enjoyed the part she played in the slaughter.

Rinault was his name; he was the florid, flabby, fat type, with a wrinkled, greasy stout neck. We will gloss over the details of his brief courtship. Rinault was not original; he mingled braggadocio with flattery and indulged in all the inanities of his breed. He made two mistakes; he wrote letters to Rita and, in a careless moment some years back, he had married.

That made it easy for Creighton. After Rita had ten letters, she was excused from bothering further with Rinault. Creighton handled the dangerous work — the negotiations for the purchase of the missives. The deal netted four thousand dollars.

After that first success, Rita became a member in good standing in bad society. No secrets were withheld from her; she was of the initiate. She got to know the members of the organization and the nature of their work. The ramifications of the organization astounded her; there was no type of crime in which The Mogul did not dabble.

He was a systematic gentleman. His followers were divided into cliques, each of which specialized in one particular type of crime. Each clique was bossed by one of The Mogul’s personal representatives — Henry Wortz was head of the counterfeiters, Tony Iglano was generalissimo of a strong-arm squad, Frank Yost directed the dips, George Geiger, an ex-jeweler, acted as fence, Rudie Breen was the safe expert, and Harry Harker managed the crew that trafficked in drugs. Add the Creightons, experts in the gentle art of blackmail, and your list of The Mogul’s lieutenants is complete.

Naturally Rita was often in a position where she could have betrayed one or more of her delightful companions to the authorities, but she sat tight till all possible doubt of her trustworthiness was removed. Then finally there was presented to her the chance to lop off — without risking self-betrayal — a most important branch of The Mogul’s organization. And once this feat was accomplished, the incidents of her career led swiftly to a startling and dramatic denouement.

IX

It was the solicitude of Sergeant Alan Nevins — one time fiance, more recently “stranger” to Rita — that made her first triumph possible. Rita had put him on his honor to attempt no interference with her plans; but a little thing like honor is of no moment to a gentleman who happens to be in love and who thinks his fair lady is in danger.

So the dishonorable Mr. Nevins tried to track his wandering girl to her lair, in which fell purpose he had no luck at all till he heard, through police channels, that a Miss Rita Daly had been questioned in connection with the disappearance of one J. Stanley Bradshaw. Nevins had her watched by a friend on the department, and it was his lover-luck that said friend was busy spying on the day Rudie Breen took Rita to the Creighton home.

The Creightons, it may be said, had no standing at headquarters; they had never been finger-printed or mugged, no one on the cops knew anything about them. Proving again that a fellow can be a good crook without help from the police.

But Nevins decided, in view of Rita’s avowed and terrible intentions, that the Creightons must be phoney in some respect or otherwise Rita wouldn’t be living with them. To shadow the Creighton home was next to impossible; however Nevins did pass through their block in a taxi every evening at about seven-thirty.

After two weeks, his persistence was repaid. The Creightons, with Rita, came out of their home, got into their car and headed downtown. Nevins, in the taxi, followed.

The two cars crossed the Queensborough Bridge and drove into the pretty Long Island suburb of Kew Gardens. Creighton’s car finally stopped before a beautiful, many-gabled house on Willow Avenue. A few minutes later, Nevins’ taxi sped past.

Some fifteen minutes later, Mr. Franklin, of 117 Willow Avenue, received a phone call from his friend, Captain Webb, of the Kew Gardens Police Station. Captain Webb wanted to know whether Mr. Franklin objected to having a pleasant young man sit on his porch or in his library for about an hour or so that night. Mr. Franklin said:

“Sure, let Mr. Nevins come. No; I don’t know much about Geiger. I think he’s in the jewelry business. But I don’t like him — he’s too noisy.”

So it came about that Rita Daly, sitting at an open window in the parlor of Geiger’s home at 120 Willow Avenue, was startled to see a good-looking young man whom she recognized at once, walk into the gateway of the Franklin house across the street. There was a light in the Geiger parlor, so that Rita, framed by the window, was clearly visible. The young man paused momentarily under the arc-lamp before the Franklin house; he looked up at Rita and instinctively began to tip his hat. While in this process, he undoubtedly recalled that he was a “stranger” to her; therefore, after his hat was raised, he scratched the top of his head and then walked on into the house.

A few minutes later, a light was turned on in the library of the Franklin home. The library was on the first floor front. Although the shade was drawn, there was a shadow upon it; a man sat near the window. His pompadour betrayed his identity.

Our heroine frowned. So... that’s the kind of a gentleman Mr. Nevins was, eh? That was his idea of honor — to swear by all the alphabet not to butt into her business and then to chase her all the way to Kew Gardens and shadow her from a house across the street.

It was while Rita was trying to decide whether to cut Mr. Nevins dead for ever and aye, or to waylay him and give him an earful, that she heard Harry Creighton asking, “How much to you expect to get for the stuff, George?”

“Thirty-five thousand, anyway,” replied Geiger.

“They are worth at least sixty,” protested Judith Creighton.

“The shape of the diamond in the lavaliere is too unique — it’ll be recognized at once, unless it’s recut,” explained Geiger. “And recutting is an expensive operation and reduces the value of the stone to us.”

“When is Ashley coming?” asked Creighton.

“Ten-thirty.”

“Sorry we can’t stay,” from Creighton. “But we’ll have to leave at ten to make Bronxville at eleven. Miss Jahn is a meticulous ass and insists that her guests be on time. I might worm more out of Ashley.”

“Some day when I’m rich,” said Rita, "I'm going to become one of Geiger’s customers.”

Tony Iglano, top-sergeant of The Mogul’s yeggs, spoke up. “Do you like that pear-shape stone, Rita? I had to croak a guy to get it. It has blood on it.”

“A little thing like that doesn’t trouble our pretty friend,” put in Geiger, his lips twitching into a cruel, sarcastic smile. “Remember Bradshaw!”

The taunt stung. Rita flushed; she popped out of her seat and flared angrily: “You quit that, Geiger! I’ve had enough of your—”

“Dry up,” broke in Judith. “The neighbors’ll think we’re having a fight.”

Geiger lit a cigarette. “Excuse me, my sensitive young lady. I had no idea you were finicky on that subject.”

So the matter was dropped. At, least, so they thought. But the fury of the embittered Rita did not abate. To be twitted on a murder was not her idea of good humor. And while Geiger’s insult blistered and burned in her heart, her mind strived eagerly to concoct a swift vengeance. Thinking along these lines, she remembered Nevins, and looking up, she saw that his shadow was still on the shade of the house across the way. A few moments ago she was angry with Nevins for having followed her; now, strangely, nothing would have pleased her more than to have Nevins in the same room with her, and see him hand Geiger what was known in the parlance of her set as a swift slap in the snoot.

Still sitting at the open window, she fell into a moody, thoughtful silence. She often affected this pose; the others disregarded her and continued their conversation. Meanwhile, Rita’s troubled mind — and conscience — urged and spurred her to immediate vindictive action.

When she came to the Geiger house that evening, he showed her the jewels which had been stolen by Tony Iglano and one of his gang. Geiger had never come under the suspicion of the police, but he played safe nevertheless. He never kept stolen articles in his safe or in any other place which was likely to be searched. During such time as he had them in his possession, he kept the pilfered treasures in the hollow of the moulding which ran across the wall between the two windows in his parlor. That’s where the stolen jewels were now, in the hollow brass-lined moulding that ran across the wall one foot from the ceiling, from the window near which she sat to the other end of the room.

There was a lavaliere, a pearl necklace and several rings. The lavaliere had a pear-shaped blue-white stone, the rings were engraved with initials and dates. The necklace clasp bore a scratch number. That made all of the jewels easily identifiable. She knew that circulars describing the pieces had been sent to all the police and to private detective agencies.

Tony Iglano had been surprised during the burglary and he had shot and killed. If the jewels were found by the police, Geiger and Iglano could be held on a murder charge.

And friend Nevins, a detective, was across the street, less than a hundred feet away!

And yet the difficulties which blocked her betrayal of Geiger seemed almost insurmountable. For this one point must be kept constantly in the foreground of the reader’s, as it was in Rita’s thoughts; she could under no circumstances commit any act which would disclose her identity. She had to retain the confidence of her circle till she penetrated to its centre, The Mogul.He, after all, was the one she was seeking; if she revealed herself now as a spy, all her previous suffering would have been in vain.

She could, therefore not cry out nor send any message to Nevins or to the police. Her problem was to communicate with Nevins by some method that would escape the attention of the other persons in the room with her. And the message would have to be complicated and of some length; it would have to tell the secret of the hidden jewels.

Such a message could be written or telephoned, but neither of these agencies was practicable. She had neither pen, pencil nor paper, and if she asked for them her request would be certain to arouse some curiosity on the part of her “friends.” And even assuming she could write a note, how could she have it delivered? If she dropped it out of the front window, it would land on the roof of the porch. If she tied it to some heavy object and threw it out, that would be sure to attract attention — and it probably would escape the notice of Nevins who was sitting on the other side of a drawn shade. And, of course, it was altogether impossible to have a note carried to Nevins; she couldn’t run across the street herself nor could she stop a passerby. All this would too obviously arouse the curiosity of the Creightons.

Neither could she telephone. That was one respect in which Creighton guarded her anxiously. Though he appeared to trust her absolutely in all other matters, he always tried to listen in when she phoned.

The task seemed hopeless.

Then someone on the same block started his victrola playing the foxtrot, “Say It With Music.”

Say it with music. Rita could have kissed the man who wrote that song, the band which made the record and the man who had the inspiration to play it at that particular moment.

Rita looked meditatively up at the silvered moulding which held the loot. Her eyes then rested on the mountain landscape which hung on the wall between the two windows. She continued her reflections a few seconds longer, then she sauntered leisurely to Geiger’s victrola and began examining the list of his records.

Geiger fortunately, was an inveterate jazz-fiend. His cabinets held hundreds of records. He had all the popular songs from “Sweet Rosie O’Grady” to “When Frances Dances With Me, Hully Gee!”

There were six titles which especially interested Rita. Her heart beat furiously as she dug out a record, put it on the machine and cranked up the motor.

At that moment, the clock on Geiger’s mantlepiece tolled one, indicating half past nine. She would be leaving in half an hour. There would be just time enough to play six records.

But — would the “stranger” across the street tumble? It was late August; her windows were open — there was a screen in the one at which Nevins was sitting — it was a quiet neighborhood — the other victrola had stopped playing — Nevins would hear clearly the music that was poured from Geiger’s machine. Did Nevins have the intelligence, the quick-wittedness to—

Rita cut short her reflections. All she could do was to chance it and — hope.

“You need a little noise in this joint,” she said to Geiger, “we’re falling asleep.” She put the needle on the record and then took her seat at the open window again.

From Geiger’s victrola poured the sweet voice of Margaret Romaine, pleading “Do You Hear Me Calling?”

Almost instantly Alan Nevins raised his shade!

Rita sitting with one arm on the window sill waved her handkerchief across to him once. The light in his room was turned out and Nevins came down to join several members of the Franklin family who were sitting on the front porch.

“I think that’s an awfully pretty record,” said Rita, keeping her head turned toward the window and fighting desperately to ward off a feeling of faintness.

“Put on sumpin we c’n dance to,” said Tony Iglano when the song had run down.

“Nice fox-trot?” asked Rita, hurrying to the victrola. “Here’s something with pep. Come on, Harry.”

So they paired off, Rita with Creighton and Iglano with Judith; and they danced to the tune of “Blue Diamonds.”

“I’ll try Tony this time,” smiled Rita as she cranked up the machine again. “I want to see how he foxtrots.”

“And I’ll rest,” said Creighton.

“Which leaves Judith for me. Thank you,” grinned Geiger.

So they danced again. This time to the music of “Look For The Silver Lining.”

“Now give us a waltz,” suggested Geiger. “I got a couple of good—”

“I like the sentimental ones best,” put in Rita. “Who’s my partner this time?”

“At your service,” volunteered Geiger.

“I like my old man best for a waltz,” said Judith, pouncing on Creighton.

“You can sing this one Tony,” laughed Rita.

And Tony did — “O — vah da hill — O — vah da hill.”

“I like the voice of Nora Bayes better,” — from Rita. “Let’s give her a chance.” So Nora was permitted to warble “In a Little Front Parlor.”

“We’ll have to be going in a few minutes,” said Creighton, “if we want to reach—”

“One more fox-trot,” pleaded Rita. “Tony does them so beautifully.”

Tony bowed his appreciation and whirled Rita around to the melody of “The Dangerous Blues.”

That completed the musical program. Judith and Rita powdered their noses and put on their hats; then Creighton led them to his car. As they started off, stranger Nevins, still on the front porch of the Franklin house, once again raised his hat, once again caught and stopped himself and scratched his head. Rita, from the back seat of the car, waved her handkerchief to him once, quickly...

On the trip up to Bronxville, Judith talked to her but Rita did not appear interested in the conversation. Rita’s brain was in a turmoil of mingled hope, anxiety and dread. Had Nevins caught on? Had he solved her music-cipher? Would Geiger fight if he were raided and would Nevins be hurt?

The fact that Nevins had clearly responded to her first signal “Do You Hear Me Calling?” encouraged her to hope that he had understood not only that she was saying it with music but also in titles.

Geiger’s stolen jewels were hidden in that part of the silvered moulding in the parlor, which passed over the picture depicting a mountain scene. And Rita had signaled “Blue Diamonds... Look for the silver lining over the hill, in a little front parlor — Dangerous Blues.”...

The Creightons with Rita arrived home from the Bronxville party at two o’clock next morning. The phone was ringing as they entered the house. Creighton answered it.

When he joined the two women who were removing their wraps in the sitting room, his face was somewhat flushed and he spoke rather shakily. "Geiger was raided at twenty minutes past ten last night,” he announced. “Four detectives. They got in by ringing his door bell and insisted upon searching his parlor. He figured it was a bluff and let them go to it. They browsed around a bit and then pried away the moulding between the two front windows. Iglano tried to shoot but they flattened him. To make matters worse, Ashley blew in while the search was going on and they nabbed him too!” He turned toward Rita, but his gaze appeared to be concentrated on the tip of his cigarette. “It — it looks damn queer.”

“My God!” exploded Judith. “Where’d you get—?”

“That was the High Chief himself that had me on the phone.” (High Chief was another name for The Mogul.)

Judith became enraged. “And while this raid was going on, where in the hell was James?”

“James,” explained Creighton, “is at headquarters in New York. This raid originated in the police station in Kew Gardens. James knew nothing about it till it was all over.”

Creighton looked up from his cigarette and stared straight at Rita, but though the heart in her threatened to burst, she returned his glance fearlessly. He shrugged his shoulders. “Well... good night ladies...

X

Early the next morning, Mr. Harry Creighton attended a meeting held in a small rear room of the Bird’s-Eye dance hall. Some ten men were present, including a white-haired gentleman who appeared to be in command. The discussion lasted an hour and was, at times, rather acrimonious. The gist of what transpired is evident from what Creighton said to his wife Judith when he got back to his home again.

“Sergeant Nevins handled the raid,” explained. Creighton. “There was a squeal somewhere, that’s a cinch, but James, at headquarters, hasn’t learned yet where Nevins got his tip. That Nevins, by the way, is a wise bird. He’s keeping his mouth shut.”

“What about Rita?” asked Judith.

“Yost, Harker and Wortz were for conferring upon her the order of the wooden kimono. Wortz doesn’t like her anyhow — she snubs him — and he offered personally to wring her neck. But the High Chief isn’t satisfied she’s the nigger in the woodshed — and damned if I can see how she could have squealed. She didn’t know the gems were in Geiger’s house till after she got there, and she certainly didn’t signal from the place — not while I was conscious.”

“What’s the word?”

“James will keep an eye on Nevins for us. We’ll try to run the mystery down from that end. Meanwhile, Rita is to have an absolutely loose rein. She’s come across with the goods for us several times and she’s to be trusted unqualifiedly. The Mogul figures that if she is against us, the quickest way to find it out, is to give her enough rope to hang herself...”

XI

That evening, Rita, knowing that Detective Nevins was generally at home between the hours of six and seven, telephoned him from a public booth and asked for an interview.

“I’ve been followed all day and some fat boob is watching my house now. Where are you?”

“Times Square.”

“Tell you what. You can make my place in fifteen minutes. Come right away. I’ll go out now and trot my fat friend around town for half an hour or so. That’ll give you a chance to slip in while the house is uncovered.”

Rita was admitted by Sergeant Nevins’ mother, who ushered the girl into the kitchen. “The front parlor is taboo now that they’re watching our home,” explained the old lady.

Nevins returned after some twenty minutes. “I brought him back home with me,” he said. “He’s leaning against a pole across the street. I’ve a notion to punch his jaw.”

“Are you aware,” asked Rita, “that someone on the force is having you shadowed?”

“Some one on the force?” Nevins shook his head, incredulous.

“My gang,” said Rita, affecting pride, “has a man at headquarters who gives us advance dope when we’re goner be bit. Sabe? Ask me not further info. That’s all I’m wise to.”

“James — James — first or last name?”

“Search me.”

“Hm. There are hundreds of Jameses on the cops. Well—,” he tossed off his troubles. With outstretched arms, he pleaded, “Come to me, my musical friend, and let’s forget—”

“I came here on business,” frowned Rita.

Nevins affected humility. “I stand corrected. What business?”

“I know the name and address of a nice little counterfeiter who makes beautiful money, really. Does that interest you?”

“Somewhat.” Nevins drew out a note book. “Name, description, street and number, please.”

“Henry Wortz,” replied Rita, and added a number on Christopher Street. “Printing shop on first floor. On second and top floor, four rooms which should be searched in the event the shop yields no flukey stuff.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. And now, may I ask how you managed that raid last night?”

“My hardest job was to convince the captain of the Kew Gardens police station that I wasn’t loco. The rest was easy. Geiger admitted us when we rang and we went directly upstairs to—”

“Then you had no trouble deciphering my message?”

“Well — not to be unduly boastful — matters like that are in my line. But even so — I’d never heard that song, ‘In a Little Front Parlor,’ before, and the words of the record were not clear. But Mr. Franklin cleared up that for me. So of course, that’s where we went directly — into Geiger’s parlor. We could hardly avoid seeing the hill on the picture and when we looked over the hill we saw the silver lining. Simple.”

Then, after a pause, “But for heaven’s sake Mar — er — Miss Daly — you’re certainly going about this thing in a haphazard way. May I suggest that a trained investigator does not depend upon chance and his wits alone, but always uses some set of signals — signals which are sure to be recognized by another investigator? We may meet again — and there may be no phonograph around.”

Rita was duly humbled. “Won’t you teach—?”

“With pleasure, sweeth — stranger. Now there’s the Morse Code, for instance. That’s a system of communication by means of dots and dashes which are used instead of letters. Your — friends — are undoubtedly acquainted with this code. But there are many ingenious ways of employing it. F’r example: there’s the case of the old lady who sent a message in the Morse Code by embroidering it on the edge of a towel. Is that clear? She used French knots to indicate dots and a long straight stitch to indicate dashes. And the design she embroidered, spelled a sentence! Clever, wasn’t it?”

“I’ll stay awhile,” said Rita. “Mr. Nevins, will you teach me the Morse Code and some of the methods which—?”

“I sure will.”

An hour later, Nevins escorted Rita through his backyard into the kitchen of the house next door. The neighbor allowed Rita to walk out her front door. “Good night,” called Nevins, “and remember your lesson.”

XII

After her feeling of exhilaration because of her first signal triumph over The Mogul, Rita suffered a fit of depression and nausea. After all, one’s natural impulses cannot be inhibited indefinitely. The whole business was repulsive to her.

She began brooding over the Bradshaw affair; she could not drive the tragedy from her memory. Although not directly responsible for this part of the regrettable affair, she felt that most of the blame was hers.

And strangely enough, of all her associates, Rudie Breen, who had crossed her, was the only one she could not bring herself to dislike. She could not explain this. It may have been something about his eyes; generally they were bleary, but they were always calm, never shifty. Sometimes she caught in them an expression of utter resignation. He was a criminal, to be sure, but at times there was that about him which seemed to indicate that he was a child of Fate and aware of the tragedy of his life, but powerless — or perhaps too tired — to struggle against it.

But all this did not cancel the fact of Bradshaw’s death.

In a moment of abject despair, Rita wrote a complete history of the sorry affair and mailed it in a sealed envelope to Nevins, suggesting that he hold it unopened six months and then turn it over to the district attorney.

Rita, morbid with dread, self-reproach and anxiety, determined to play the game desperately and swiftly. She decided that a furious offensive on her part might force The Mogul to strike back at her. She had a feeling that when he did strike, it would be directly and not through a medium. She would meet him face to face — what happened then, lay in the hands of the gods — and Rita was not afraid.

Accordingly, when Creighton informed her that on the following Saturday night a batch of new money was to be turned out at Wortz’s, Rita at once wrote to Nevins, saying that nine o’clock would be a good time for a raid.

Then, late Saturday afternoon, Creighton sprang a surprise. Rita had never been at Wortz’s. Now Creighton coolly informed her that The Mogul had decided that she was to be used as a shover for awhile. “The money we’re turning out would get by the U. S. Secretary of the Treasury himself. An attractive, prosperous-looking girl like you should have no trouble changing twenty-dollar bills.”

Then he added, “You’re to go with me tonight and get an inside line on how the stuff is made, what it looks like, how it differs from real money and so on. We want you to know your business thoroughly.”

Rita’s first impulse was to try to have the raid called off. But after thinking it over, she decided that she must let matters run their course. If Creighton did not take her to Wortz’s till after nine, the raid would precede them, in which case they would be in no danger. If they went before nine, she would probably be caught... Well, the federal authorities would probably handle the raid, but Nevins would be sure to be in it. And Nevins, dear old “stranger,” would have the intelligence to permit her to stage an escape.

XIII

They made the trip in Creighton’s car and reached Wortz’s place a bit after eight o’clock. They passed through the print shop, up a narrow flight of stairs and into one of the rooms on the second floor. Two tables were in the room — one in a corner, one in the centre. At the centre table, three men were playing pinochle: at the corner table, four men were playing a game of their own concoction with two sets of dominoes. One man was still fussing around downstairs in the shop.

Creighton and Wortz, with Rita between them, sat down on a couch; the initiation of Rita into the gentle art of counterfeiting began. Wortz spoke of presses, plates, dies, inks, stamps, the fibre in paper; he explained how forged signatures were worked into the process.

At eight-thirty, the pinochle game broke up. One of the three players went with Wortz to the door, another drew Creighton aside and engaged him in a conversation. Rita strolled over to the table at which the four men were playing dominoes, and watched the game. When the three card players had gone, she rejoined Wortz and Creighton on the couch.

She fumbled for her handkerchief in her sleeve; then she remembered she had put it into her mesh bag. She had left the bag on the couch.

Now it was gone!

Rita sighed resignedly; she had had experiences of this kind before. Mingled with The Mogul’s crowd, were a certain number of “gents” who attended to minor details — dirty work — and who were inherently incapable of being honest with anyone. The bag was of no great value, so Rita said nothing about the matter.

Wortz continued his explanation of the mysteries of his art. Then, at eight-forty, the man downstairs in the print shop, called up from the hall, “Telephone call for Mr. Creighton.”

When Creighton came back from the print shop, his face had turned a grayish white. “Raid!” he cried.

Instantly the four men playing dominoes, jumped to their feet.

“No need getting excited,” cried Creighton. “They’re due here the minute of nine. We’re absolutely safe till that time. James at headquarters sent the tip to the High Chief who just had me on the phone. Nevins is in on this thing — damn him! Now shake a leg — get your plates and paraphernalia and money into suit-cases and beat it. Don’t all go in the same car — go in two or three cars. Eighty-six Bay Road — four rings. Jenkins stays here and is printing handbills when the cops arrive. Hurry!”

The four thugs and Wortz ran downstairs. From the hallway upstairs, Creighton kept shouting orders to them.

While the preparations for the escape were being made, Rita tried frantically to think of some way to leave a message for Nevins, which would betray the address to which the counterfeit money was being taken. Eighty-six Bay Road. She was sure Creighton would force her to leave before the detectives came — how could she tell them where to go?

To write it would have been simplest, but her pencil and notebook were in the mesh bag which had been stolen from her. She searched the room — not a thing to write with or on.

Still, there must be some way — Nevins had recommended the Morse Code — but how was that possible?.. She ran about the room in a kind of frenzy — Morse Code — eighty-six Bay Road. Nevins would search this room — she could not fail him — she must think—

Then her eyes rested on the table on which lay dominoes, some of them turned face up. There were dots on the dominoes! This fact struck her with trip-hammer force. And the blanks could indicate dashes!

Nevins, who had spoken of the Morse Code for one whole hour the last time she saw him, could not possibly miss...

She ran to the table. Thank heaven, there were two sets of dominoes. She could use letters in duplicate. Eighty-six Bay Road. Swiftly her fingers brushed aside such pieces as were useless. The others she lay, face up, in a certain order. When Creighton came into the room again, she had finished.

“You little rat!” he leered. “We’re going to eighty-six Bay Road. Suppose you see if you can tell Sergeant Nevins that!”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Rita calmly. (She was standing with her back to the table.)

He took her mesh bag out of his pocket and dangled it before her. “Your pencil and notebook are in here and I gave orders to Wortz that there was to be no writing material in this room. The Chief trusted you — but I didn’t.”

“Are you accusing me of—?”

He seized her roughly by the wrist. “Come along. You’ll find out soon enough what you’re accused of. You sit next to me on the front seat of the car. I’m going to keep a gun with a silencer pressed against your side. If you cry out I’ll shoot six pretty holes into you!”

XIV

The raiding party, consisting of ten members of the federal secret service and four city detectives, including Sergeant Nevins, hit Wortz’s print shop at precisely nine o’clock. The place had previously not been shadowed; it was feared a shadow might be noticed and a raid suspected.

In Wortz’s place, the raiders discovered such things as can be found in any print shop and one meek little man who was printing handbills. The searchers passed through every room; they tapped for false floors and walls; they overlooked no nook or corner.

“You got a fine tip, I must say,” commented Captain Wayne, who headed the federal detectives.

“I got my tip from the most dependable person in the world!” retorted Nevins.

While this discussion was going on in the hallway, Tim Tripp, a city detective, was standing before a table in one of the rooms on the second floor. There were dominoes on the table; most of the pieces were piled in neat heaps in a corner. But in the centre of the table lay several other dominoes, face up, and something about their arrangement attracted and held Tripp’s attention. So that a better comprehension of what followed can be had, we will lay before the reader the dominoes as Tim Tripp saw them spread before him:

The dominoes forming an arrowhead were turned face down.

After Tim Tripp had stood before the table a few moments, he called, “Hey, Al, come in here and look at this.”

Nevins, with several other detectives, gathered around the table. “Do these dominoes mean anything to any of you fellows?” asked Tripp.

After a silence of a few minutes, Capt. Wayne volunteered, “Well — the arrangement certainly appears — deliberate — and not accidental. Take that arrow now — if it is not intended to draw attention to the other dominoes, then why is it there?”

“If a signal — a message was intended,” said Tripp, “it is obvious that some code was used.”

“Code,” muttered Nevins. “Code — code — what kind of a code—?”

“Well, in the Morse system,” reflected Capt. Wayne, “dots and dashes are—”

“Morse Code!” exploded Nevins, brushing aside several men and edging closer to the table. He was trembling with excitement. “Of course it’s the Morse Code! The dots on the dominoes are dots, and the blanks are dashes. It’s clear—”

“Keep inside your shirt,” protested Captain Wayne. “Let’s try to figure this out calmly.” Then, after a pause, “From the arrangement, it would seem that the domino at the bottom — the one with the two blanks, is a signature. In Morse, two dashes stand for the letter M. Does M signify any—?”

“Marguerite!” cried Nevins. “Marge is with us, boys! She—”

“All right” interrupted Wayne. “Now assuming that each domino denotes one letter, that would make the first letter in the word at the top — h’m — let me see — dot stop two dots—”

“That’s an R,” said Nevins.

“The next letter is dot dash — that’s an A,” went on Wayne. “The third letter is dot stop dot — that’s an O. The last letter is dash two dots, which denotes D. That makes the word ROAD — which doesn’t mean anything at all!”

Again a pause, this time a long one.

Then Nevins. “The third letter, the O, spoils the sense. Now assuming that Marge wanted to use two dots instead of dot stop dot — there is no way of denoting two dots with one domino. You must either have dot stop dot or two dots dash. If that third letter was really intended for two dots — that would make it an I. And the word would be RAID!”

“Al,” said Captain Wayne, “you’ll be of great help to your mother when you grow up... We’ll go on with the deciphering. Dash four dots stands for the number 8. Three dots stop three dots has no meaning, so we’ll have to read it six dots, which signify the number 6.”...

Translated first into Morse and then into English, the domino cipher read as follows:

“Raid 86 Bay Road!” thundered Wayne. “I’ll say we will!” He nodded to one of his men. “You stay here, Gus, and watch that runt printing handbills downstairs. Let’s go!”...

XV

Eighty-Six Bay Road was a cottage of the Queen Anne type in Pelham. Harry Creighton paid little heed to traffic regulations in getting there; he made it in forty minutes. Rita, at his side on the front seat, was not in the least inclined to attempt an escape. Rita, you see, was on the sunny side of twenty and engaged; she possessed all the confidence — and recklessness of youth. She expected to be in for an exciting evening and in this expectation she was not disappointed.

They were admitted into the house by a man in the garb of a butler. To judge by his face, he’d have made a better bouncer. He whispered a few words to Creighton, after which Creighton led Rita into a room on the lower floor. Creighton spoke no word; he kept pacing the room nervously. Rita sat down on a settee and wondered how soon Nevins would drop in... she expected, of course, that he would see her message at once, decipher it in one or two seconds and come chasing after her... we’ve remarked on her confidence.

While they waited, several men came into the house (they were admitted by the butler after ringing four times) and went up the stairway to the floor above. Then, after half an hour or so, Rita and Creighton were asked to follow the butler.

They went up one flight and entered a large square room. There was no furniture except ten chairs and one table. The chairs were arranged in an arc with the table in the centre. One chair was vacant — the second from the right — Creighton sat down on it. “It appears as though they’re peeved,” thought Rita. “They’re going to let me stand.”

The butler entered the room, too, locked the door and stood leaning against it.

Rita, glancing swiftly at the men in the arc, recognized Wortz, Larry Harker and Rudie Breen. Breen sat on the end chair, left. “A rather serious minded convention,” mused Rita. “And that gentleman, in the centre, at the table—”

Abruptly, that particular reflection was broken off. Rita ran forward, stopped, and then screamed.

The man at the table, the ringleader, the tall white-haired, black-eyed, theatrically handsome man was J. Stanley Bradshaw!

Of that there could be no doubt whatsoever! Bradshaw was sitting within a few feet of her, Bradshaw was alive, and grinning at her with that cruel, straight, thin-lipped mouth!

Again Rita screamed. Then... there had been no murder!... “Good old Rudie — I felt — I knew he couldn’t have been so callous!”... There was no blood on her hands... she was free — free of a terrible nightmare... but why was Bradshaw here?... here, — at the head of — head... he was The Mogul — he must be The Mogul — but if that was the case... “You killed Jimmy!” she screamed. “And I’ve got you at last! I’ve got you!” — she ran to the table and pounded upon it... she felt faint... where — where was Al? — dear old Al—

If this description of Rita’s immediate reaction is a bit incoherent, it is because her thoughts and acts were incoherent. Frenzy, exhilaration, amazement, cold dread, rage, bewilderment, all these sensations were hers. Then, collapse — Nature’s method of procuring a period of rest for an exhausted body and mind.

When she recovered, she found herself being supported by Rudie Breen.

“If you don’t mind, Chief,” Rudie was saying, “I'll stand. She can have my chair.”

No objection was raised. Rudie Breen led her to the seat he had occupied.

The man at the table turned to Rita. “This room is practically sound proof,” he said. “You may scream to your heart’s delight.” Then addressing the men, “I have called you together to consider the case of Miss Marguerite Cornell, sister of Captain James Cornell of whose — disposal — you are all acquainted. Miss Cornell is responsible for the arrest of Iglano, Geiger and Ashley; she worked in conjunction with Sergeant Nevins.”

He paused. “If — if Miss Cornell were a — man — the matter would, of course, be simple. But both because of her sex and her evident connection with the police, I have called you in conference, as I did when the fate of her brother was agreed upon. Miss Cornell must, in some manner be — removed — or eliminated as a factor in the war being waged against us by the authorities.”

The Chief paused and calmly lighted a cigar.

“A few months ago,” spoke up Wortz, “I volunteered my services as — eliminator. But, of course, if you’re against hurting a woman—”

“I am against nothing. If a majority decides in favor of — blotting her out — so be it. I insist only upon a safe method.”

Frank Yost, leader of the dips, put in a word. Yost, it must be said, had been out of town the greater part of the last six months; he was not “up” on all the incidents of Rita’s career. “Who got this girl in with—?”

“I did,” interrupted Rudie Breen.

“You’re some fathead, I’ll chirp,” said Yost.

Breen disregarded the comment. Slowly he turned his head to Rita. And looking up, she saw his eyes half-close and his lips twitch into a faint, brief smile. And after that, somehow, she was certain, absolutely certain that she had one friend in the crowd.

“The blame isn’t Rudie Breen’s,” explained the Chief. “For your benefit, Yost, and also for the girl’s — I take it she’s interested — I’ll clean up the details of her breaking in’ with us.

“A few weeks after we settled James Cornell, there was a raid on the Bird’s-Eye. Rudie Breen had struck up a chance friendship with this girl, who was in the hall and who passed under the name of Rita Daly. While the search was going on, Miss Cornell slipped into the barroom and turned off the lights that enabled Larry Harker, who was in the place with several thousand dollars worth of snow — I believe you know gentleman, where we keep it — to get away. The girl told Breen she had crossed the cops because she had a private quarrel with them.

“Well — she certainly saved us a lot of trouble that night. I became interested in her through Breen and a letter from Creighton, manipulated her into my employ as secretary — I was selling mine stock in the Trinidad Building at the time.

“Then, with Breen, she tried to steal a letter from me and blackmail me. That, gentlemen, showed her intelligence — intelligence, that is, from our point of view. Well, I had worked the mine game to the limit and wanted to disappear anyhow — so Breen and I staged a murder. He killed me when I surprised him at my safe, see? He used a ‘property knife’ — a knife whose silvered wooden blade can be pressed up into its handle which is filled with red ink. The blade thus became stained red — and so did my shirt front. After I was dead, he sent her out of the office and the next day he told her he had disposed of my body with Creighton’s help.

“That stunt served several purposes. I disappeared; I had the chance to observe Miss Cornell during a trying moment, and by bluffing her into believing she had been in on a murder, I got a grip on her. Is that clear?

“Well — I decided she had the courage, the wit and the — attractiveness to be useful to us. The Creightons took her in. Then she somehow tipped off Nevins about Geiger. We allowed her a free reign, but James at headquarters kept an eye on Nevins and ran down his history. He found that Nevins had been a friend of James Cornell and was engaged to Cornell’s sister Marguerite. We looked up Marguerite and found she was missing from her home. We got several good descriptions of her — and these descriptions tallied with the appearance of Rita Daly!

“James phoned that news to me this evening. Later, he phoned again and said that Nevins would raid Wortz at nine. I called up Wortz’s place and had them all come here and bring the girl with them. Then I sent for the rest of you. That is all, gentlemen.”

XVI

Rudie Breen cleared his throat. “Since, after all, I was the sap who nearly queered this gang by picking up the girl, why not let me square myself with the gang by relieving you gentlemen of any trouble in regard to her — blotting out?”

They considered the proposition. “If Iglano were out,” said Harker, “he could manage it neatly. But with him in J—”

The door bell rang.

They were in a room from whose windows a person at the front door could not be seen. After a moment’s silence, Bradshaw instructed the butler, “Run down, Benny, and see who it is.”

Benny went out of the room and left the door leading to the hall open. The others heard him go down the stairway. Then the house door was opened, and then closed again with a bang. There came a crash of broken glass, then two shots, then faintly, Benny’s voice, “Cops!”

Instantly everyone in the room jumped to his feet. During the commotion, Rudie Breen edged Rita toward the door, keeping himself between her and the others.

Bradshaw waved his men back and snarled, “Another squeal! Well, Miss Cornell, this is your last.” He drew his gun and leveled it.

The somewhat muffled report of an exploded cartridge followed. Bradshaw pitched forward on his face, blood pouring from a hole in his forehead.

Rudie Breen, smiling the inevitable cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, had fired from his coat pocket and he had hit his mark. And this time it was not a stage killing.

Oaths, exclamations from the others. Everyone drew, but Creighton fired first. Breen, still smiling, crumpled silently to the floor.

In the confusion, Rita had run from the room. Fleeing down the stairs, she tripped and fell, which was a fortunate accident. Creighton had followed her into the hall; his bullet sped harmlessly over her head.

The next shot was fired by Sergeant Alan Nevins, who was leading the raiders up the stairway. His bullet bored through the body of Creighton, just over the heart.

Yost and Harker put up a fight and had to be shot into submission. (Neither of them was seriously wounded.) The others, finding themselves outnumbered, surrendered.

Rita came to in the arms (naturally) of Nevins. She at once staggered to her feet, climbed unsteadily up the stairway, ran into the room and fell down beside the body of Rudie Breen.

She took his head in her lap. “Rudie! Rudie! I’m calling you!”

Rudie opened his eyes. “I–I hope I’ve squared it with you, Miss Cornell for—”

“I forgive you, boy! I wanted you to know I forgive you!”

“Thanks — that’s — nice of you — Miss Cornell.”

She leaned closer and spoke in a crooning voice, “You’re — through, Rudie. But don’t be — afraid, boy, don’t be afraid.”

“Me? — afraid — I could die many times like this—”

Captain Wayne, standing nearby, took off his hat — and then turned away. “I can’t help it,” he said. “When I see a guy pass out with his head up — crook or no crook — it — it gets me, somehow.”

XVII

The Mogul’s tribe, having lost its leaders, disbanded and scattered to the four corners of the earth! Frank Yost squealed and pleaded for mercy; that’s how they solved the mystery of “James” at headquarters. “James” was “John Ames,” a detective whose record showed several suspensions for drunkenness and disorderly conduct. The gang had run his initial and last name together and called him “James” so as to cover his identity...

Sergeant Alan Nevins tore up the envelope which contained the history of Rita Daly’s murder of J. Stanley Bradshaw.

Sergeant Alan Nevins arrested Miss Marguerite Cornell and brought her before the district attorney on the charge of having been implicated in the blackmailing of one Mr. Rinault. The district attorney looked at Miss Cornell over his nose glasses, said, “Hum, hum,” and promised to look into the matter.

The district attorney investigated one Mr. Rinault.

A week later, Sergeant Alan Nevins again towed Miss Cornell before the district attorney. The district attorney invited them to have dinner with him at his home that evening and then he threw the two of them out of his office.

April. The anniversary of the death of Police Captain James Cornell. A slender girl with wistful eyes and a handsome young man are standing at Captain Cornell’s grave. The girl is holding a small note-book which is turned open to a page bearing the following inscription:

There was no mention of Rudie Breen, who had atoned by giving his life to protect a woman.

“If Jimmy could see this book, what you do think he’d say?” asked Marguerite Cornell.

“Jimmy would be proud of the fine courage of his little sister,” answered Alan Nevins. “But he would be profoundly grieved because so much suffering was necessary to atone for his death.”

“Hold a match to this note-book, Alan.”

So they watched the book burn to ashes.

Then — we have said it was April — it rained. The two were holding hands, but in his free hand, Nevins had an umbrella. It never occurred to him to open it, nor did Marguerite ask him to. Perhaps the two had noticed the sun smiling behind the cloud. Or perhaps they considered the shower a blessing upon them from above...

(The End)