The Danger Zone and Other Stories

I

Charlotte Ray came into my office, and her eyes looked as though she’d been crying. “I swear,” she said, “I don’t know what’s going to become of that man, Miss Graham.”

She dropped into a chair and slammed the big office checkbook down on the desk.

“Overdrawn again?” I asked.

“Overdrawn!” she exclaimed. “Overdrawn is no name for it! Last month we took in five thousand two hundred and sixty-four dollars and nineteen cents. We should have had a balance of two thousand six hundred and four dollars and thirty-two cents, and the bank’s sent me a notice that we’re overdrawn three hundred and forty-two dollars and seven cents.”

“Banks are so heartless,” I said sympathetically.

Charlotte Ray took life seriously, and she took our bank account more seriously than life. Frosty haired, tight lipped, austere, she acknowledged forty-seven summers, and I had a shrewd suspicion that she was passing up about fifty percent of the winters. However, she could certainly keep books, and she could handle the income tax as well as anybody could with Killigen’s finances.

Killigen came in while Miss Ray was still sitting there.

“Hello, everybody,” he said, cheerfully tossing his hat at the hatrack in the corner, and pausing with his hand on the knob of the mahogany door marked Mr. Killigen, Private. “Cheer up, Miss Ray; it’s only the twenty-fifth of the month. There won’t be any bills to pay for another six days.” He grinned at me.

“I suppose,” she said acidly, “it wouldn’t interest you to know that you have absolutely nothing with which to pay any bills.”

“Not in the least,” he told her, grinning.

“Moreover, I’ve just received a notice from the bank that you’re overdrawn again.”

“Fine,” he said. “Some people have a checkerboard career. I have checkerboard finances — all black and red.”

She couldn’t take his kidding. She turned away, blinking back tears.

“Why can’t you be sensible?” she pleaded. “When you want to draw money, why don’t you let me check it out of the account? In that way we can at least keep the account balanced.”

Killigen seemed to be giving the idea grave consideration. “How would that help?” he asked.

“Can’t you see?” she said. “I’m trying to keep the books of this business. You sign checks and scatter them around like confetti at New Year’s. I think we have money in the bank, and it turns out we’re broke. You might at least tell me when you draw a check. Then we wouldn’t have overdrafts.”

“How much are we overdrawn?” Killigen asked.

“Three hundred and forty-two dollars and seven cents.”

“Now then, let’s see,” Barney said. “Under your system, we wouldn’t be overdrawn, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“In other words, when I wanted money, I’d come to you and get it.”

A ray of hope showed in her face. “That’s right.”

“And under those circumstances, you’d have stopped me drawing out that last three hundred and forty-two dollars and seven cents?”

“Exactly,” she said.

“In that event,” Killigen said, “I’d have been poorer by three hundred and forty-two dollars and seven cents, or looking at it the other way, the bank would have had that much more money, and I’d have had that much less. Therefore, Miss Ray, it seems to me you should be working for the bank instead of me. Under the circumstances, I think our system is excellent.”

He walked on into his private office, and left us sitting there, Miss Ray looking as though she were on the verge of hysterics.

“I swear,” she said, “I never saw a man like that in my life. Of all the irresponsible, scatterbrained individuals, he’s the worst.”

“Well,” I said, “there’s one satisfaction. He doesn’t have a huge pay roll to meet.”

“Well, he has us two,” she said. “I don’t know how you feel about your salary, but I want mine on the first, and... and there isn’t anything to pay it with — there never is.”

“Cheer up,” I told her. “We always get it before the tenth. He’ll turn up something. He always does.”

She found that I wasn’t going to sympathize with her so she picked up her checkbook and went back to the outer office. A few minutes later, she rang my phone and announced that a Mrs. Frank Whiting was waiting in the outer office to see Mr. Killigen on a matter of the greatest importance.

I put on my best office manner and went out to see if Mrs. Frank Whiting offered any possibilities of ready money.

One look at her and I knew the answer was negative.

Her hands were the hands of a woman who has worked all her life. Her face had the drab expression of one who has forgotten how to laugh; her eyes looked at me with pathetic resignation. I’ve seen the same expression in the eyes of a dog that had been whipped too much, by too many different people.

“Good morning,” I said. “I’m Miss Graham, Mr. Killigen’s private secretary. You wanted to see him?”

She didn’t have any objections to telling me her business, which was another sign she didn’t represent ready money. People who intend to pay a reasonable retainer always at least go through the motions of refusing to talk to a secretary.

“Yes,” she said, “I wanted to see Mr. Killigen. They say he is very sympathetic and understanding.”

“He’s all of that,” I told her. “What did you want to see him about?”

“My daughter.”

“What about your daughter?”

“She’s been arrested, charged with burglary — and my daughter’s honest. She couldn’t be guilty. Of course, she’s living in a different age from what I did when I was a girl, and things are different, but—”

“Just a moment,” I said. “I’ll tell Mr. Killigen you’re here, and see if he wishes to talk with you.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” she said.

Charlotte Ray caught my eye, and made a wry grimace, as though she’d bit into a lemon.

That’s a funny thing about the bookkeeping complex. It never occurs to a bookkeeper that clients are human, and that fees represent one phase or another of human misery. All a bookkeeper can see is figures, marching in columns down ledger pages.

I walked past her, through my office, and into Killigen’s. He was seated, tilted back in his swivel chair, his feet up on the desk. He looked up at me over the sporting page of the morning newspaper, and said:

“Hi, Wiggy. Want to bet on the ball game?”

When I first started to work for Barney Killigen, I’d put the dictating marks on his letters, “BK: wig,” the “Wig” standing for Winifred Ilsa Graham; and so Killigen started calling me “Wig.” Later on he made it “Wiggy.” I’d become so accustomed to it, I considered it my real name.

“No takers,” I told him.

“This is a swell bet.”

“Not for me, it isn’t,” I said.

“You’re getting too conservative,” he told me. “I think it’s association with Miss Ray that’s made you that way.”

“I came to tell you there’s a client in the outer office.”

He grinned. “I hope that cheered Miss Ray up, Wiggy.”

“You should be more considerate,” I said. “She’s more loyal to you than you are to her.”

“Quite possibly,” he admitted, “that’s true, but she worries too damn much. I don’t like to worry. It would make me lose my spontaneity, and that wouldn’t be so good for my business.”

“But,” I said, “you could be more considerate. Charlotte Ray deals in figures; they’re her life. Your casual offhand manner in regard to money is bad enough, but when you throw her balance all out, that’s worse. I suppose you’ve been gambling.”

“Gambling?” he said, arching his eyebrows. “Why, no.”

“I gather,” I said, “that outside of your regular expenses, you’ve written some twenty-five hundred dollars’ worth of checks in the last thirty days.”

“I suppose so,” he admitted casually, as though dismissing a minor matter, unworthy of serious consideration.

“That,” I told him, “sounds like gambling to me.”

“It isn’t,” he protested. “Mostly it was charity.”

“Charity?” I asked.

“Uh-huh. I got interested in some of the boys who were laid off when the sash and box mill closed down.”

“How in the world did you get interested in them?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said; “just dropped in on a meeting — natural curiosity, I guess. They’re awfully nice people. You know, Wiggy, we make a mistake looking on laborers as laborers and businessmen as capitalists. We forget that we’re all human beings and, down underneath, all American citizens.”

“Well,” I said, “the first of the month is rapidly approaching, and a Mrs. Frank Whiting is waiting in the outer office. Mrs. Whiting has neither looks nor personality. Moreover, she has no cash, connections, or sex appeal. Her daughter has been arrested for burglary. Mrs. Whiting doesn’t look as though she could be the least bit of financial help to you in connection with your overdraft. However, I have on occasion seen you perform startling feats of financial legerdemain with the juice of a turnip. The point I’m getting at, however, is that Mrs. Whiting’s troubles are very, very serious to Mrs. Whiting.”

“Naturally,” he said, “they would be. What does she look like?”

“Late forties,” I told him. “She looks as though she’d been taking in washing ever since she was twenty. The world has kicked her around, this way and that. She quit fighting back at least ten years ago.”

“Look as though she had any friends who had money?” Barney Killigen asked.

“No. She probably had to hock something to raise the carfare to come downtown.”

“I’ll see her,” Killigen said.

He folded the sporting page of the newspaper, opened the right-hand top drawer of his desk, and dropped the sheet in.

“That,” I protested, “is your important drawer. It contains correspondence I’ve been weeding out for the last two weeks. Things which really require your immediate answer.”

“You wouldn’t expect anything to be more important than the sporting page, would you?” he asked, in surprise.

I quit arguing with him. What was the use?

I went out and brought Mrs. Whiting in. Then I eased out of Killigen’s private office and gently closed the door behind me.

If the woman had had money and the ability to take life in her stride, I don’t think Barney Killigen would even have wasted time talking with her. As it was, I could hear the rumble of his voice, from time to time, and the thin, reedy notes of hers. I couldn’t distinguish words; all I could get was tones and the mutter of conversation through the door.

I could have told her one thing: if Barney Killigen took her case, he’d get results. Heaven knows how he’d get them, or what they’d be. He does things in a weirdly unconventional manner. No one can ever predict what he’s going to do next, least of all Killigen. He has an instinct for the dramatic, an uncanny ability to make his buildups seem convincing, and an unfailing faith in the power of classified advertising in the newspapers. I never could figure whether he delighted in accomplishing a logical result by utterly illogical means or whether the means really were logical, and it was simply the unconventional inhibitions of my mind which made them seem utterly ridiculous at the time.

Of late, I’d begun to suspect the latter as being the case, because, on occasion, I could see some real underlying reason for some of the things Barney Killigen was doing, when Charlotte Ray would feel the man should be committed to an institution.

II

Barney Killigen called for me to come in and take notes when Mrs. Whiting had been closeted with him for about fifteen minutes.

“Wiggy,” he said, “I’m accepting employment from Mrs. Frank Whiting to represent her daughter Estelle. Estelle Whiting is accused of first degree burglary. Now, Mrs. Whiting, I’m going to dictate some notes to my secretary. I want you to listen carefully, and if anything I say is incorrect, correct me.”

She nodded and Barney Killigen started to dictate:

“Mrs. Dwight Chester-Smith’s son, Dwight Chester-Smith, II., was married Monday night at the Chester-Smith home. It was also the bride’s birthday. Wedding and birthday presents were in a room on the second floor and were guarded by Robert Lame, a private detective. Sometime, shortly after midnight, a man pushed a ladder against the building and noiselessly climbed to the window of the room in which the wedding presents had been placed. Lame, the detective, was just finishing a midnight lunch he had brought with him — sandwiches and coffee from a Thermos bottle. The robber pushed his head over the sill, smashed in the glass of the window with the muzzle of a revolver, commanded Lame to stick them up. Lame had no chance to go for his gun. The man reached through the broken windowpane, unlocked the window, raised it, entered the room, and cracked Lame over the head with a blackjack. Lame fell to the floor, unconscious.

“It is, of course, assumed that the burglar collected his loot while Lame was unconscious. It just happened that one of the guests heard the crash of glass and started an investigation. The burglar evidently heard people approaching the room and hurriedly grabbed up some of the more valuable presents and thrust them in his coat pocket. Then he climbed out of the window and down the ladder. An accomplice was waiting for him at the bottom of the ladder. Lame regained consciousness before the robber and his accomplice had reached the car. He staggered to his feet, pulled his gun, lurched to the window, and saw a man and a woman running, carrying a ladder with them. He opened fire with his revolver. The couple jumped in a car and made their escape. Lame reports he was able to make out the first four characters on the license plate. They were ‘IVI3—’

“Estelle Whiting, Mrs. Whiting’s daughter, spent the evening in company with James Grayson, the young man with whom she has been going. She says, and Grayson says, that he took her home about midnight. Mrs. Whiting didn’t hear her come in, doesn’t know what time she arrived. Estelle got up Tuesday morning and went to work as usual at Cutter & Baggs Department Store. She says that Jimmy Grayson called on her about ten Tuesday morning, very much excited, and presented her with a beautiful engagement ring, a large white diamond surrounded by emeralds. He told her a man to whom he’d loaned some money years ago had struck it rich and had given him this ring in payment. Police arrested Estelle about two hours ago, and claim she was the young woman who held the ladder and assisted Jimmy Grayson in perpetrating the robbery.”

Barney Killigen paused, and I caught up on the last few words, held my pencil poised, and glanced up at Mrs. Whiting to see if she had any comments to offer.

“That’s right,” she said, “but you’ve forgotten about the burglar having a hole in his pocket, haven’t you?”

“That’s right, I did,” Killigen said. “Make a note of this, Wiggy. It’s a peculiarly suspicious circumstance. The police are acting on the theory that the burglar, rattled by the sound of persons approaching, hurriedly pushed the gems into his coat pocket. That pocket had a hole. The gems spilled out as he and his accomplice ran, carrying a ladder.”

Mrs. Whiting said, in the voice of woman who has suffered so many of life’s vicissitudes that she has learned to take grief as a matter of daily routine: “I guess that’s all. That’s everything I’ve been able to find out from the newspapers, talking with the detective, and the few minutes’ visit they gave me with Estelle.”

“And she’s being held in jail?”

“Yes. They fixed her bail at fifteen thousand dollars.”

“Now then, do you know exactly what’s missing?” Killigen asked.

“No, I don’t. I know there’s ten thousand dollars in cash and this ring, and they found some stuff there in the driveway which the man dropped when he was running to the car.”

“There was ten thousand in cash?” Barney Killigen asked.

“That’s what they tell me. A rich uncle gave one hundred hundred-dollar bills — that makes ten thousand dollars.”

Barney Killigen frowned and said musingly: “That’s the irony of fate. Had the burglar been affluent, he would have worn a coat which didn’t have a hole in the pocket; but, because of the very poverty which forced him to resort to burglary, he was deprived of the property he’d taken. What does Jimmy Grayson say about that hole in the pocket of his coat?”

“I don’t know what he says; I haven’t talked with him.”

“Do you know if he has a lawyer?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well,” Killigen said, “I’ll do what I can for your daughter. Don’t worry about her.”

“I suppose,” she said, picking up the purse which lay on her lap, “you’ll want a retainer. I’ve been saving some money — not much, but putting away a little here and there.”

She started counting out one dollar bills. Giving her roll a hasty appraisal, I figured there couldn’t have been over thirty or forty dollars in it.

Barney Killigen brushed her offer aside with a gesture. “Don’t worry about fees,” he said; “not right now, anyway. How did you happen to consult me?”

“I heard you helped people out when they were in trouble and sort of fixed your fees according to what a body had. Now, I haven’t much except what I can take in from my washing, and I don’t know about Estelle’s job. I’m afraid even if you prove she didn’t do it, she won’t have any job left because—”

Barney Killigen swung out of the office chair, crossed over to pat her reassuringly on the shoulder.

“That’s all right, Mrs. Whiting,” he said. “Just quit worrying. I’ll take care of your daughter. Anything which can humanly be done, I’ll do.”

“Don’t forget the hearing comes up day after tomorrow,” she said, “and they’re going to put on a lot of testimony—”

“I won’t forget it,” he assured her, as he escorted her through the door. And his confidence was so contagious that he had her smiling before the door closed. He turned back to me and danced a little jig on the carpeted floor. “Tell Charlotte Ray the good news,” he said. “Tell her to wipe the grim, tight lipped expression off her face. Tell her to sweep the gloom bugs into the wastebasket. Tell her to ring up the bank and notify it—”

“That you’ve accepted a case from a woman who hasn’t to exceed thirty-five dollars in the world?” I asked dryly.

“Now, Wiggy,” he said reproachfully. “That’s not like you. You’re more of my type. That caustic, sarcastic, cynical crack would have been more becoming to Miss Ray than you. Good heavens, girl, it’s six days until the first of the month, and here we are plunged right into the middle of a case which is attracting all sorts of public attention! A burglary in the Four Hundred — people who are reeking with wealth have lost some of their dough — a girl is snatched from behind the counter of a department store and dragged down to jail, because her sweetheart gave her an engagement ring! Think of the human interest! Think of the sob sister stories! Think of the—”

“But just how do you expect to make any coin out of the case?” I interrupted.

He looked at me in surprise. “How should I know? I’m not a prophet. I’m just an opportunist. Don’t worry. A way will open up. How about you and me having a little drink in celebration?”

“O.K. by me,” I surrendered, “but don’t make it too heavy because it’s early in the morning, and I have to transcribe these notes.”

“Bless your soul,” he said. “You don’t have to transcribe those notes. I just dictated them for the moral effect. It helps to reassure a client if he feels you’re taking down all the facts for future reference and study. How about four fingers of Scotch?”

“Two,” I said firmly.

“We’ll compromise on three,” he said.

Charlotte Ray came in on us as we were just getting ready to drink. Barney Killigen raised his glass.

“What ho!” he said. “Success! Prosperity! Wealth is just around the corner! Quit worrying about your bank account. Quit bothering about your books. Within the next forty-eight hours — as the police love to express it — I shall pour wealth into our coffers. You can walk down to the bank and make a deposit so big—”

She looked at me in stem disapproval. Charlotte Ray knew her office conventions. The idea of a secretary drinking with the boss at eleven o’clock in the morning was more than a violation of the conventions. It was sheer sacrilege. “In the meantime,” she said dryly, “the cashier of the bank has telephoned and requests me to advise him just what we expect to do about this overdraft.”

“What we expect to do with it?” Barney Killigen echoed. “Why, we expect to pay it — of course.”

“I believe he’ll be quite relieved to hear that,” she said. “He’ll probably ask when.”

“Tell him,” Barney Killigen said, “that I have a five thousand dollar retainer fee I’m bringing down to deposit within a day or two, that I’m too busy to get down to the bank now.”

I saw her face flush with pleasure. “A five thousand dollar retainer?” she said.

Killigen nodded.

“Give it to me,” she said, “and I’ll deposit it right away and—”

“Not so fast,” he told her, “not so fast. I always like to carry a little pocket money with me; and then it’s good discipline for the banks to wait. Tell them we’ll make a deposit on Thursday, or Friday, but tell them in the meantime please not to bother us with trivial matters. Tell them I’ve had much larger overdrafts than this.”

She said: “The overdraft has been increased by two hundred dollars. Another check came through this morning. The cashier says unless we can give him satisfactory assurances, he won’t cash any more checks, and, furthermore, he says this is absolutely the last overdraft the bank will ever tolerate.”

“He’s said that before,” Barney Killigen said, tossing off the last of his whisky. “It does seem to me he’d find something new to say. He’s like the police — completely lacking in originality.

“And now, Miss Ray, you’ll pardon me for finishing this drink without offering you one? I’ve just had one with Wiggy. Do you feel I should have one with you?”

“A drink!” she exclaimed. “At this time in the morning!”

“Why, certainly,” Barney Killigen said, “or, if you think it’s too early, we can wait for five minutes — well, five minutes is perhaps too long. We could wait, say, two minutes, Miss Ray.”

She turned and started for the outer office, her chin up in the air.

“Don’t let a mere overdraft interfere with your carousal,” she said acidly.

When the door had slammed, Barney Killigen looked at me and sighed. “That,” he said, “is the way with conventional people. They have no sense of adaptability. All right. Wiggy, get your nose powdered and your lipstick distributed evenly and regularly because you and I are going out and look things over.”

“You need me with you?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “I simply can’t concentrate without having you along to talk to. I think out loud better than I just think — just thinking is so damned unsociable, you know, and I crave society and companionship for my cerebrations.”

“Shall I put a shorthand notebook in my purse?”

“Have you got room for that whisky?” he asked.

I looked at the flask and shook my head.

“Well, then,” he said resignedly, “make it a shorthand notebook.”

III

On occasion, Barney Killigen could be as plausible as a politician explaining a broken election promise, and to the butler at Mrs. Dwight Chester-Smith’s home, he was disarmingly polite. “I suppose,” he said, “Mrs. Chester-Smith has left orders that she is not to be disturbed in connection with the unfortunate affair of a few nights ago.”

“Quite right,” the butler said frostily.

“Under those circumstances,” Killigen observed, “you may show us around. You look like a man of more than average intelligence, and I don’t think it will be necessary for us to disturb Mrs. Chester-Smith. In fact, I promise you that I won’t do so except upon a matter of the greatest importance.”

“What did you wish to see?” the butler asked.

“First,” Killigen said, “we’ll take a look at the place where the jewels, which were recovered, were found. We’ll take a look at the place where the ladder was placed against the side of the house, and then we’ll take a look at the room itself.”

The butler said: “Really, these things have been gone over time and time again.”

“Of course,” Killigen said, with just the right air of authority in his voice, “if you wish to insist upon my calling Mrs. Chester-Smith, I can do so.”

The butler gulped a couple of times, then said, “Very well sir, step this way, please.”

He led us out around the house to the north side.

Killigen said: “There’s soft ground in the spaded flower bed. Doubtless there were tracks?”

“No footprints, sir,” the butler said, “but the marks of the ladder, yes.”

“We’ll take a look at them,” Barney Killigen said. “I presume they’ve been photographed?”

“Indeed, yes,” the butler said.

We bent over the indentations in the soft, muddy soil pointed out to us by the butler. There were two of these indentations in the form of perfectly marked outlines where the ends of two-by-fours had been pushed into the soil. They were spaced about eighteen inches apart. The one on the left flared out just a trifle to the east, the one on the right a trifle to the west. “Ah, yes,” Killigen said, in that suave, courteous tone which indicated absolutely nothing of his thoughts. “And now where were the gems found? Right along this driveway?”

“Yes, sir. They were found scattered along here as though they’d been dropped in flight. Although they weren’t exactly on the driveway, they were slightly to one side.”

“On the right or the left?” Barney asked.

“Some on one side. Some on the other.”

“I see. You couldn’t point out the exact spot where the things were found, could you?”

“Some of them,” the butler said. “Over here the diamond necklace given by Mr. and Mrs. C. William Pennybaker was lying in the grass. Over here was a platinum wrist watch, a gift from the groom’s uncle, William Dewitt Huntley.”

“Ah, yes,” Killigen said, “the wrist watch. And what was the condition of the wrist watch? Was it running, or—”

“No, sir; it had evidently hit something rather solid when it was dropped. The crystal was broken, and I understand expensive repairs are necessary to put it in order. It’s a dastardly outrage, if you’re asking me, sir.”

“Quite right,” Killigen said, “and, at the same time, quite wrong.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“I meant to say,” Killigen observed, “that it undoubtedly is an outrage, and that I’m not asking you.”

The butler flushed, started to say something, then checked himself.

“And now,” Killigen said, “we’ll take a look at the room where the crime was committed.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” the butler said, “but this has been gone over time and time again. Would you mind explaining the necessity of this visit?”

“Mind?” Barney Killigen exploded. “Of course I’d mind!”

“But it seems so unusual, sir. After the complete investigation, which—”

“Get Mrs. Chester-Smith at once,” Barney Killigen said, fixing the butler with a cold eye.

“Mrs. Chester-Smith has left orders that she’s not to be disturbed under any circumstances. She is already—”

“Get Mrs. Chester-Smith at once,” Killigen repeated, “or I’ll get her myself,” and he strode toward the house.

The butler broke into a jog trot to keep up, explaining, expostulating, and apologizing; but Killigen was adamant. At length, the butler gave in.

“Very good, sir. If you’ll be seated for just a moment, sir, I’ll get Mrs. Chester-Smith.”

He was back in a few minutes with a woman in the late forties, who regarded us as though we were some sort of insects, stuck with pins, and mounted on cards. Her facial expression was naturally haughty; her hands glinted as they moved. Diamonds sparkled from her earrings. She took to diamonds as naturally as a duck takes to water. Called on for a two word description, one would have said, “Diamonds and dignity” — and that would just about have covered the woman’s character.

“I’m afraid,” Killigen said, “I shall have to report your servant for insolence. He—”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” she interrupted. “Armstrong tells me that he has been most patient with you, and most considerate, and I have no reason to doubt his word. You police are assuming altogether too much authority. If you would put in half of the time trying to recover my property, which you have taken in snooping around the premises, you—”

“I beg your pardon,” Barney Killigen interrupted, “but I’m not from the police.”

“Not from the police!” she exclaimed.

“Why, certainly not,” Killigen said. “I’m an attorney, and I certainly never intimated that I was from the police. I was afraid your butler might have thought I was passing myself off as an officer — which is one of the reasons I insisted he call you. I don’t mind a servant being a bit cheeky, but when he presumes to confuse an honest criminal lawyer with a policeman, he’s becoming too damned insolent.”

The butler stared, agape.

Mrs. Chester-Smith said, in a voice filled with loathing, “A criminal lawyer?”

“But I certainly thought he was from the police, madam,” the butler said.

“Come, come,” Killigen remarked briskly; “you had absolutely no grounds for any such assumption.”

“He started right in, ordering me around, just like the police do,” the butler explained to Mrs. Chester-Smith.

“It’s absolutely outrageous,” she said. “I never heard anything like it. Whom do you represent, Mr.... er—”

“Killigen,” Barney Killigen said. “Here’s one of my cards.”

“And whom do you represent, Mr. Killigen?”

“Estelle Whiting, the young woman who has been falsely accused of this crime.”

Mrs. Chester-Smith’s eyes flashed. Her face darkened. “Do I understand that you intend to try to acquit that woman?”

“Yes.”

“Get out,” she said chokingly, pointing an imperious finger in the direction of the door. “Out at once! Out of this house! Out!”

Killigen said affably: “And because I understand, Mrs. Chester-Smith, that you intend to absent yourself during the trial, so the common herd won’t have an opportunity to gawk at your aristocratic features, I am herewith serving a subpoena upon you to be in court at the day and date therein designated, to testify as a witness on behalf of the defendant.”

Barney Killigen whipped a folded oblong of paper from his pocket and pushed it into her hand. She dashed it to the floor, stamped on it. The butler moved ominously forward.

Barney Killigen squared himself to face the butler. “Of course,” he said quietly, “if you want to start playing rough, Armstrong—”

Evidently Armstrong didn’t. He looked at Mrs. Chester-Smith for instructions, and, receiving none, stood perfectly still, not wishing to retreat, yet afraid to go forward.

Barney Killigen said to Mrs. Dwight Chester-Smith: “The service of the subpoena was complete, Mrs. Chester-Smith, when I placed the document in your hands. Any disobedience will be a contempt of court. I feel quite certain you don’t want that to happen. Come, Wiggy; we’ll leave.”

I was afraid the woman was going to burst a blood vessel before we reached the door.

“Scum! Shyster! Crook!” she screamed. “I’ll have you disbarred. I’ll... I’ll—” Barney Killigen held the door open for me.

“Fat people,” he said calmly, and apparently apropos of nothing, “should never excite themselves. It’s quite a strain on the heart. Promise me you won’t ever get fat, Wiggy.”

“I won’t,” I promised him, as we filed out.

And Barney Killigen, beating the butler to it by a fraction of a second, was the one to slam the door with such violence it shook the side of the building.

IV

Barney Killigen sat tilted back in his swivel chair, his feet on the corner of the desk. A lighted cigarette was held in his fingers, but he wasn’t smoking it; instead he was holding it where he could watch the smoke spiral upward. It was his theory that watching a thin stream of smoke spiraling upward was conducive to concentration. Formerly he had used an incense burner, but now he found cigarettes more convenient.

On the desk, in front of him, were three or four pieces of thin glass, slightly curved and broken, with irregular, jagged edges. The outer surface was coated with silver.

“What in the world,” I said, as I stared at the broken glass, “are you doing with that?”

He looked up and grinned, that peculiar, boyish grin which indicated he was thoroughly enjoying life.

“I am engaged,” he said, “in solving the burglary of Mrs. Dwight Chester-Smith’s exclusive residence.”

“You look like it,” I told him. “I have some bad news. Do you want it now or later?”

“Now,” he said, “and all in a lump. I’m just in the mood for bad news. I can shake it off as a dog shakes off raindrops. Give it to me in large doses, begin in the middle, and work simultaneously toward both ends. In other words, don’t break it to me gently, hit me with a wallop.”

“Jimmy Grayson,” I said, “is an ex-convict.”

“How do you know?”

“I picked it up from a friend of mine, who is in the Bureau of Identification.”

“Male or female?” he asked sharply.

“Female,” I said. “A stenographer. She wasn’t betraying any particular confidence. The D.A.’s office is going to announce it in the newspapers.”

“That’s fine.”

“What is?” I asked. “About his being a criminal?”

“No,” Killigen said, “about your friend being a female. If it had been a male, I’d have either had to fire you, or shoot him. Either alternative would have been disagreeable.”

“Why the violence?” I asked.

“Information is a two edged sword,” he said. “Sometimes you’re giving information when you think you’re getting it. You can control your tongue with another woman, but you can’t do it when you’re talking to a man — not if you’re sweet on him.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m not sweet on anybody. I’m heart-whole and fancy-free.”

“Wonderful,” he said, and his eyes were back on the curved fragments of glass on his desk, his thoughts evidently far away.

“Would you mind if I asked what that glass has to do with the burglary?” I inquired.

“I found these pieces of glass by the side of the driveway,” he said. “I fancy there were more of them, but the butler was so irritatingly suspicious that I didn’t have an opportunity to make any further investigation. I think we’ll rush some want ads to the afternoon editions, Wiggy.”

That was invariably a sign of Barney Killigen’s cerebrations. He’d work around on a case for a while, playing with some angle no one else would ever consider as having any possible bearing on the case, and then suddenly he’d put want ads in the newspapers, asking for some of the weirdest things. Yet, by the time the case came up for trial, he usually had a plan of campaign laid out, so completely unconventional, so wildly unorthodox, that anyone who didn’t know the mechanism of his chain lightning mind would have thought that only the most insane combination of coincidence would have made his solution possible.

“The first ad,” he said, “will be for a live, very active, and untamed skunk, or polecat. You may offer a hundred dollars for a proper specimen.”

My pencil simply refused to get near the paper. I found myself staring at him with wide eyes. Accustomed as I was to the vagaries of the man, this was the crowning climax. However, he seemed to see nothing unusual about either the request or my reception of it.

“Specify,” he said, “that the skunk must be in good condition, very wild, and exceedingly active. In order to obtain the best results, the animal should be delivered under the influence of an anesthetic, but it must be specified that he will recover from the stupor, or the anesthetic, within at least two hours after delivery, and delivery must be made before ten o’clock tomorrow morning.

“Now then, we’ll offer a prize of five hundred dollars to the artist’s model having the most beautiful figure, who presents herself at two o’clock in the afternoon at the address mentioned in the ad. There are absolutely no strings attached to this offer. Five hundred dollars will be deposited with the newspaper, coincident with the filing of the ad. The newspaper will turn over the money to whichever contestant bears a certificate of award from the judges.”

“Five hundred dollars?” I asked dryly.

“Yes,” he said. “Make out a check, and I’ll sign it.”

“Have you,” I inquired, “made any deposit during the last two days?”

“Deposit? No,” he said. “Why?”

“I was thinking about the attitude of the bank in regard to the overdraft.”

“Oh, forget it,” he said. “I’ll drop in and make a deposit one of these days. Don’t take financial matters so seriously. We have Miss Ray for that. She does our worrying.”

“And who,” I asked, “is going to judge the artist’s models?”

“Oh, yes,” he told me, “get F. C. Underwood on the telephone.”

“You know his address?” I asked.

“No, I don’t,” he said, “but I know he’s a building contractor, and I know he’s a close friend of Lame’s. He probably isn’t too busy right at present. Get him on the phone; I’ll talk with him personally.”

I found F. C. Underwood listed as a building contractor, and was satisfied that he answered the telephone in person, although he went through the motions of pretending to be a secretary, answering the first time in a high pitched tone of voice, saying, “Very well, I’ll call Mr. Underwood,” and then answering gruffly: “Hello, hello. Underwood speaking.”

Barney Killigen took the telephone.

“Hello,” he said, “this is counsel for Associated Bathing Suits, Inc. We’re going to do something to increase the interest in swimming, not from the standpoint of featuring any particular make of suit, but simply to popularize swimming as a sport. In order to do this, we’re going to try to bring people to the beaches, and, for that purpose, want to call their attention to the scenery which the beaches have to offer... Yes, Mr. Underwood, don’t be impatient; I’m coming to that. Give me a moment, please... Briefly, we’re offering a prize of five hundred dollars to— What’s that?... We want you to be one of the judges... No, there are no strings tied to it, whatever. The money will be paid over to the person you and the other two judges name as the winner... The other two judges? We haven’t decided on those. I can assure you they’ll be persons whom you’ll find congenial... Yes, it happens that one of my clients knew of you, and said he thought you were amply competent to judge... No, no, nothing like that; but you’re a man with an appreciative eye, and you know beauty when you see it... Tell you what we’ll do, Mr. Underwood. We’ll let you select the other two judges. Suppose you give me their names right now.

“Milford? Never heard of him. What does he do?... Oh, yes. Well, you see he’s a building contractor, and you’re a building contractor, Mr. Underwood. It would look a little better if you had someone who was in an entirely different profession... How’s that? A doctor? Well, with a doctor, there’s always a feeling that his judgment is more anatomical than esthetic. We’d like someone who is in an entirely different branch of work from what you are. A baker, an undertaker, a detective, a— How’s that?... What’s his name?... How do you spell it?... Oh, Lame. L-a-m-e; yes, Robert Lame. You say he’s a detective?... Yes, that’ll be fine. He’ll make an excellent second judge. Now, whom would you want for a third?... Charles Sweeney, and he’s in the real estate business. That’ll be fine, Mr. Underwood. Now, the judging will take place at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, two o’clock on the dot. I’ve rented a sample room in the Maplewood Hotel. The girls will be instructed to come there... That’s right, you’ll award only one prize — five hundred dollars in cash... Yes. Now, if you’ll kindly ring up the other judges and make certain they can serve, then call me back and let me know. My number is Bayshore 69237... That’s right; ask for Mr. Killigen.”

Killigen hung up the telephone, and grinned at me.

“Now, what,” I asked, “is the big idea?”

“Giving the girls a break,” he said.

“You’d better talk to the cashier of the bank before you issue that check,” I warned. “You know it’s a felony to issue checks without funds in the bank.”

“Phooey,” he said. “There are enough loopholes in that law to drive a horse and buggy through. Besides, no one pays any attention to it these days, anyway. However, if you insist, I’ll have a talk with him. Get him on the telephone.”

I got the cashier. Barney Killigen turned loose his personality. Yes, he had a deposit which was coming through within two or three days, rather a substantial deposit, he couldn’t tell the exact amount, somewhere between five thousand and ten thousand dollars. And, incidentally, he was issuing a five hundred dollar check — unless they made the check good, the fee wouldn’t come through, and then the bank would lose the amount of its overdraft... Oh, sure, he’d sign a note for it, but there’d be no need of going to all that bother, because he’d be down within a couple of days with a deposit. The fee’s already in the bag... Yes, definitely, before the first of the month.

He hung up, with a breezy nonchalance. “All right,” he said, “that’s settled. Now then, we need the skunk and the bathing beauties.”

“I take it,” I asked, “this whole thing is engineered for the purpose of getting Detective Lame at a certain place at a certain time?”

“You,” he told me, “are getting rather observing. Now, here’s something I’d like to have you do for me — that is, if you’re game.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Drop around to Lame’s bungalow. Give him any name which comes to your mind. Tell him you’re going to enter the bathing beauty contest, put on by Associated Bathing Suits, Inc., and that you want to be certain you win the first prize.”

“Say,” I protested, “what are you talking about? A man like that will try to—”

“Sure, he will,” Killigen said, “and you’ll hand him a great line.”

“Precisely what,” I asked, “is the idea? Do you intend to enter me in that bathing beauty contest?”

He looked me over appraisingly, and said: “We’d be pretty certain to keep the five hundred dollars in the office, if I did, but I don’t intend to subject you to that indignity. I just want to make certain that Lame appreciates the possibilities of the situation, and considers that bathing beauty contest an absolutely essential part of his life. Moreover, you’ll plant the skunk in—”

The telephone rang. Barney Killigen scooped up the receiver, and said:

“Yes, Mr. Underwood... They did, eh?... Well, that’s fine... That’s right... Yes, I’m a lawyer. I handle a general practice. You’ll notice an ad in the classified column tomorrow: ‘Bathing beauties wanted, professional models. A five hundred dollar check for not more than ten hours’ posing given to the lucky model.’... That’s right, professionals only. We want them to look well in bathing suits... Why the devil should we care how you pick them? Just get us someone who looks like a million dollars in a bathing suit... Use your own judgment. Have them stand on their heads and swivel their eyes, if you want them to... All right, thank you. Good-bye.”

Barney Killigen grinned across the desk at me. “Hook, line, and sinker,” he said.

“And where do you want the wild skunk delivered?” I asked.

“To the office,” he said, “in a box suitable for carrying, with holes bored for ventilation, and the owner must guarantee that the skunk is in a... er... quiescent state when delivered.”

“Now, let’s get this straight,” I said. “All you want me to do is to call on Robert Lame, and tell him that I want him to pick me for the winner of the beauty contest?”

“Well,” Killigen said, with a grin, “there’s one other little thing you’ll have to do.”

“The skunk?” I asked.

“Yes. You’ll take this quiescent, stupefied, slumbering skunk, and surreptitiously plant him in Lame’s bungalow.”

“Perhaps it’s an apartment,” I said.

“No,” he told me, “it’s a bungalow. I’ve looked him up. His wife is away, visiting her mother. He’s there alone.”

“What,” I asked, “is the idea?”

“The idea,” he said, “is multifarious — and nefarious. The whole case hinges on Lame. Lame identifies the defendants and their machine. Yet Lame can’t swear the defendant, Grayson, ever touched a single gem. Lame was unconscious all the time Grayson was in the room. Now, much may happen while a man is unconscious. I can argue that point to the jury — and the jury won’t listen. I need to clinch the point — drive it home — and a live skunk is the answer.”

“I know almost as much as I did before,” I said.

He nodded. “So many people don’t,” he remarked conversationally.

I gave up. “Now listen. I’ll tell you exactly what I’ll do, and that’s all I’ll do. I’ll go to Lame’s bungalow. I’ll pull the bathing beauty line with him, but I won’t go any farther. I won’t let him date me. I won’t even bother to kid the man along, and if he comes within two feet of me, I’ll slap his damn face.”

“And you’ll plant the skunk?” he asked.

I sighed. After all, there was no resisting Barney Killigen. “All right,” I said, “I’ll plant the skunk.”

V

Barney Killigen always claimed you could get anything on earth by using an intelligently written want ad in the newspapers, and the “quiescent” skunk which I carried in the little black handbag, perforated with breathing holes to keep the air fresh, went a long way toward proving his contention. It had been supplied by a doctor, who had gone in for vivisection in a large way, lived out in the country, and was not at all averse to picking up the extra money — supplementing the rather meager income of a small practice. A faint odor of ether emanated from the bag, but none of the polecat smell was detectable.

I parked my car on the opposite side of the street, crossed over to the bungalow which had the number I wanted, and rang the bell. After a second or two, I heard the pound of masculine feet. The man who opened the door was shaving; lather was still on one side of his face. He looked at me, looked at the handbag in my right hand, and said: “No magazine subscriptions — and what do you want to work your way through college for, anyhow? You’re too good looking to waste your time in a college.”

He was the beefy type, with a good-natured grin, rather thick lips, black patent leather hair, slicked back smoothly, black, bushy eyebrows, and twinkling gray eyes. Looking him over, I just had an idea he was going to be a pretty tough customer to handle on cross-examination. I certainly hoped Barney Killigen had some idea of how he was going about that cross-examination.

I gave him a coquettish smile. “I’m glad you think I’m pretty.”

His eyes became wary and watchful. “So what?” he asked, losing the banter in his voice.

“Just how pretty,” I asked, “do you think I am? No, not just my face; look me over.”

I swung around slowly, so he could get a good look.

He did.

“Well,” he said, with an appreciation which he tried to keep out of his voice, “I’d say you were tops.”

I laughed, and said: “I’m afraid a fortune teller would tell you that your head line dominated your heart line, Mr. Lame.”

“Oh, you know who I am, then?”

“Of course,” I said. “Why do you think I came here?”

“I’ll bite,” he said. “Why did you come here?”

“Dame Rumor hath it that you’re judging a bathing beauty contest this afternoon, at two o’clock. I’m one of the applicants for first prize. May I come in?”

He hesitated a moment, while he put two and two together in that methodical mind of his. Then his grin lost all of its caution and threatened to engulf his ears. “Come on in,” he said. “Come right on in!”

I went in and took a seat on the door side of the living room. He indicated his face, and said:

“You’ll have to excuse me for a few minutes, while I get some lather off, and slip into a coat.”

It was that simple. The skunk came out, an inert, slumbering polecat, which I slid in under a davenport with the edge of the handbag. Five minutes later, when Lame came out, I was glancing through a magazine.

He sniffed the air, and said:

“Something smells funny. What is it?”

“Ether,” I told him.

“How did that smell get in here?”

“From the hospital,” I said. “I just came from there. My sister was struck with an automobile, and has a broken leg. They had quite a time reducing the fracture. They used ether. I was standing by her, and got pretty well saturated with it.”

“How’s she coming?” he asked.

“She’s going to be all right,” I said, “but it’s going to take money, and that’s what I wanted to see you about. I need five hundred dollars in a hurry.”

He licked his chops.

“There’s five hundred bucks in it for the winner of that bathing beauty show this afternoon,” I said. “I’m going to enter. What do you think of my chances?”

I decided to give him a glimpse of silk stocking, just to make the play look good — not too much, just a bit of a gesture.

He fell for it in a big way.

“Now wait a minute,” I told him, as he lurched up out of his chair. “This is a business proposition. You and I understand each other. I’m talking with you now. You’re doing the listening. I want that first prize. The contest is at two o’clock this afternoon. You see that I come out of there with the blue ribbon and the five hundred bucks, and, after that, you do the talking and I’ll do the listening.”

“The bird in the hand,” he told me, “is worth two in the bush.”

“It depends on the bird — and the bush,” I said, picking up my empty handbag and starting for the door. “I just wanted to drop in and get acquainted.”

“This,” he protested, “is a hell of a way to get acquainted.”

I smiled back over my shoulder, with my hand on the doorknob. “Isn’t it?” I agreed, and stepped out into the bright sunlight.

VI

That was all I ever knew of the mechanics of the thing. That was one thing about Barney Killigen: if anybody had to take chances, walking around the outside of the gates of State’s prison, it was Barney Killigen who took ’em. You did what he told you, and you kept yourself in the clear; but, for the most part, you didn’t ask questions, and, sometimes, you didn’t particularly specialize on deductions — you just tagged along and played ball.

Barney Killigen was representing both James Grayson and Estelle Whiting by the time the preliminary hearings were called, and the D. A. indicated he was going to try them together. At any rate, so far as the preliminary examination was concerned.

Judge Tammerlane was the magistrate, and Judge Tammerlane was absolutely fair. He had a sense of humor, and I think he really enjoyed Barney Killigen’s antics. He called the case of The People vs. Grayson and Whiting. Carl Purdue, one of the most aggressive trial deputies of the district attorney’s office, announced that he was ready for the prosecution. Barney Killigen signified the defendants were ready, and the show started.

Mrs. Chester-Smith was there in response to our subpoena, and was mad as a wet hen. I think the deputy district attorney really wanted her there, but he didn’t dare to antagonize so influential a person by hauling her into court as a common, ordinary witness. I think he was secretly pleased that we had done so.

The prosecution called Dwight Chester-Smith, II, to identify the diamond and emerald ring. He testified he was the bridegroom. He had been married the night of the robbery. The ring was one of the wedding presents given by a mutual friend. His uncle had given ten thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills. The currency had been in an envelope, and the suggestion made by his uncle was that the money should be used to defray the expenses of the honeymoon. There had also been other presents, various and sundry pieces of jewelry in addition to huge quantities of linens and silver which would be of value in housekeeping. The jewelry, he explained, was given by the bride’s relatives and his relatives. It was primarily for the bride. The day selected for the wedding had been her twenty-fifth birthday. She had thought it would be nice to be married on her birthday.

He was an innocuous little snob, and probably more to be pitied than blamed. He was the product of inherited wealth, an indulgent mother, and a silver spooned birth.

One by one, he identified articles of jewelry. Carl Purdue turned him over to Barney Killigen for cross examination. Barney Killigen, after seeming undecided whether to tear into him or to let him go, decided in favor of letting him go. The young man tripped off the witness stand with a self-conscious air of blatant virtue which made me want to kick him in the pants.

The butler took the stand. He identified various articles of jewelry as having been recovered the next morning in the grass, along the driveway.

“Why weren’t they recovered before the next morning?” Barney Killigen asked on cross-examination.

“Because it seemed inconceivable that the thief should put such valuable jewelry in a pocket which had a hole in it,” the butler said. “The police were looking for the car. They weren’t particularly interested in looking where the car had been. It wasn’t until the next morning, an hour or so after daylight, that these gems were discovered.”

“Who discovered them?”

“I did.”

“Where were they discovered?” Barney Killigen asked.

“In the driveway, just as I told you.”

“On the driveway, or on the side of the driveway?”

“Well, to the side.”

“Some were on one side, and some were on the other side, were they not?”

“That is correct.”

“Now then,” Killigen said, “assuming that the thief had put this very valuable property in a coat pocket, and that there was a hole in the coat pocket, the thief must have zig-zagged once or twice across the driveway in running to his car. Is that right?”

“The thief was under fire. Naturally, one would zigzag under those circumstances.”

“Have you ever been under fire?” Killigen asked.

“Me, sir?” the butler exclaimed indignantly.

“Yes, you,” Killigen said.

“Certainly not.”

“Well, I might put it another way.” Barney Killigen grinned. “Have you ever been fired?”

“Objected to as incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial, and not proper cross-examination,” Carl Purdue shouted.

Judge Tammerlane suppressed a grin as he sustained the objection.

“Well, let’s get back to this under fire business,” Killigen said. “If you’ve never been under fire, how do you know that a person should zig-zag when he’s being shot at?”

“From reading books.”

“Textbooks on the subject of how to behave under fire,” Killigen asked, “or fiction?”

“Fiction.”

“Ah, yes. Detective stories?” Killigen inquired.

“Yes, sir,” the butler said.

“And do these detective stories teach you any of the fine points of crime detection?”

“I think so. Yes, sir.”

“Most interesting,” Killigen said. “Now who discovered the imprints of the ladder under the window?”

“I did — that is, I pointed them out to the police.”

“The police were with you at the time?”

“Yes.”

Carl Purdue said: “One of my next witnesses will identify those ladder imprints if you’re interested, Mr. Killigen. I’m mentioning it at this time so you won’t waste time cross-examining this witness as to his recollection. A plaster cast of those imprints is to be a point of our case and we will introduce such a cast in evidence.”

“Thank you,” Killigen said. “That’s all.”

“I would not have presumed to call Mrs. Dwight Chester-Smith from her important engagements,” Carl Purdue said, in unctuous, mealy mouthed tones, “but, inasmuch as she is here in court in response to a subpoena of the defendant, I wish to put her on the stand to establish certain preliminary matters. Mrs. Chester-Smith, will you come forward and be sworn?”

She marched down the aisle to the witness stand, oozing indignation from every pore. By her, Carl Purdue identified the various and sundry items of jewelry which had been found near the driveway and brought out the information that only the envelope containing the ten thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills remained missing. That and the ring had been the only two things which the butler had failed to recover in his morning search.

Barney Killigen said, “No cross-examination,” and the witness was excused.

Carl Purdue, with something of a flourish, announced, “My next witness is Robert Lame.”

Lame took the stand with an air of smirking self-importance, but the man was smart and he was watching his testimony with a care equal to that of the deputy district attorney. He testified that he was a private detective, that he had been employed to act as guard for the wedding and birthday presents. He mentioned that he had just finished his supper of sandwiches, pie, and coffee, when a masked man, who he knew was Grayson, smashed in a pane of glass in the window with the barrel of a gun, turned the gun on him, raised the sash, and then knocked the witness unconscious. “The burglar,” he explained, “had climbed a ladder which had silently been placed against the house.” He told of regaining consciousness, of the flight of the burglars, of seeing the man and woman running away, taking the ladder with them. He testified he had been able to see four numbers of the license plate on their car, that he had called on the pair to halt, and then fired six shots from his revolver. He told of subsequently making an investigation, of finding where the ladder had been placed against the house, and described the indentations where the ends of the ladder had been imbedded.

The deputy district attorney introduced a plaster of Paris cast of these ladder marks, and Lame identified them, told of being present when the casts were made.

Carl Purdue turned him over to Barney Killigen for cross-examination.

“The man who held you up was masked?” Killigen asked.

“Yes.”

“But you recognized him?”

“I won’t say that I recognized him. No. But there were certain things about him which I noticed. Subsequently, when I saw the defendant, Jimmy Grayson, I realized that he and the man who had held me up had many points of similarity: the color of the hair, the slope of the shoulders, the shape of the neck, the size, weight, and voice. I take all of these things into consideration and say positively that Grayson was the one who held the gun on me.”

“Now, how about the woman?” Killigen asked. “Do you absolutely identify her?”

“I’m not so positive of her identity as I am that of Grayson,” Lame said, choosing his words cautiously, yet creating an impression of fairness which I knew was going to be deadly to the jury. “You must remember, Mr. Killigen, that I was looking down on her from a window. I didn’t see her in the light of a room. On the other hand, she wasn’t masked. I would say that the woman who accompanied Grayson as his accomplice in the robbery was about the same age, size, build, and complexion as the defendant, Estelle Whiting. I can’t swear positively that it was she who was with Grayson.”

“But you do swear positively that the burglar was Mr. Grayson?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Now, you had just finished eating your midnight lunch?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Is it your custom to take lunch with you when you go to guard gifts at social functions such as this?”

“It is. Quite frequently more guests attend than the host plans on. In that event, there aren’t many refreshments, and you can leave it to the servants to see that they don’t suffer. The hostess frequently forgets the detective who is on guard. You can’t summon the servants to have them tell her you’re hungry, and you can’t go to the kitchen yourself without leaving your station. I carry my lunch and eat when I m hungry and have my coffee so it’ll refresh me and keep me awake. People who don’t like it, don’t need to employ me.”

“I see,” Killigen said. “Now let’s come back to the ladder. Let me call your attention to the plaster cast showing the marks made by the base of the ladder. Do you notice anything peculiar about them?”

“Nothing,” Lame said.

“You’re a detective?”

“Yes.”

“And as such, you specialize on making deductions from clues?”

“Well, you might call it that, yes.”

“And yet you see nothing strange about the imprints of this ladder?”

“No, certainly not. Those are the imprints of two two-by-fours which formed the uprights of the ladder. When the ladder was placed against the side of the building, and the defendant climbed up it, the two-by-fours were imbedded into the soft earth.”

“Let’s take another look at these,” Barney Killigen said. “And in order to illustrate the point I have in mind, I’ll take a carpenter’s square. Now then, we’ll place this square on one of the imprints made by this two-by-four. Now, do you notice anything peculiar about the imprints of the ladder?”

“Well,” Lame said slowly, “the second imprint is an inch or two out of line with the square, but, of course, a man making a ladder doesn’t have to make it just the way a carpenter would.”

“I understand that,” Barney Killigen said, “and, as I gather it from your testimony, the man and the woman who had robbed the house carried the ladder away with them, did they not?”

“That’s right.”

“Notwithstanding the fact that you were standing in the window shooting at them?”

“That’s right. I didn’t shoot at first, of course. I yelled at them to stop. I was groggy, punch drunk, and it took me a little while to get out my gun and... well, a man just doesn’t start shooting at people without giving them every opportunity to submit to arrest.”

“I understand that, and I think the jury will agree with you that you used most commendable restraint. But let’s get back now to this ladder. You will note that when I put the carpenter’s square on the other imprint made by the two-by-four, it’s about the same distance out of true as this first imprint.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now then, in making a ladder,” Killigen said, “two stringers are placed in approximately parallel positions and crosspieces are nailed to them. Now, in the event those cross-pieces are nailed tightly to the two-by-fours, it’s absolutely necessary for the two-by-fours to be squared, isn’t it? In other words, for the two-by-fours to be on an angle, it would be necessary for the crosspieces to be nailed in such a way that they didn’t rest tightly against the stringers.”

“Yes, I guess that’s right,” Lame admitted.

“And that’s impossible to do unless you’ve cut a recess in the two-by-fours for the crosspieces to rest in, and, under those circumstances, you’d have to cut each one of those rests at an angle, isn’t that right?”

Lame seemed to be getting nervous.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Carl Purdue said: “After all, your honor, this cross-examination about the ladder isn’t of any particular importance. A man doesn’t have to be a carpenter in order to be a robber.”

“Do you wish to object to it?” Killigen asked.

“No, no. Go ahead,” Carl Purdue said, with a magnanimous wave of his hand. “I guess I can stand it, if the court can.”

Judge Tammerlane said: “I think you had better confine your comments to the making of objections to testimony and arguments addressed to the court, Mr. Deputy District Attorney.”

Purdue managed to make his facial expression that of one who has been wrongfully rebuked.

“Let’s approach this problem of the ladder from another angle,” Killigen said, and by this time, it was obvious to everyone in the courtroom that Lame was worried about questions concerning the ladder. “Let us suppose,” Killigen went on, “that a man had stood in an upper window with a length of two-by-four scantling. Suppose that he had pushed that scantling down into the ground with all of his weight, then withdrawn it and moved it about eighteen inches to one side, but that he himself had not moved from his position in the window. Suppose he made a second imprint in the ground by the same method. Under those circumstances, his hands, holding one end of the scantling would have formed the center of a circle, and the two imprints in the ground would have been segments in the perimeter of such a circle, isn’t that right?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lame said sullenly.

“I’ll express it in another way,” Killigen said, peering steadily at Lame. “If there hadn’t been any ladder at all, Mr. Lame, but if you had decided that you were going to fake a holdup and had stood in the window and had pushed a length of two-by-four scantling into the ground in order to make it appear that a ladder had been placed at the window, those imprints would have been just at about the angle of these imprints shown in the plaster cast. Whereas, on the other hand, if the ladder had been placed against the side of the building; it would have been impossible for those two imprints to have been at that angle, isn’t that right?”

“I don’t think so,” Lame said, his eyes furtive, his face flushed. “There was a ladder there all right, and a man standing on it. And if you’re insinuating I faked this burglary, you’re lying.”

Barney Killigen calmly opened a box, took from it two of the curved fragments of silvered glass, and approached the private detective.

“I’ll show you two pieces of glass, Mr. Lame, and ask you if you know what they are.”

“No.”

“Suppose I told you these were found by the side of the driveway of the Chester-Smith residence, at a point near where some of the jewelry had been recovered. Would that mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“Suppose I further pointed out to you that these glass fragments constituted broken pieces from the glass container which goes on the inside of a Thermos bottle. Would you still say that you failed to appreciate their significance?”

Lame squirmed uneasily in the chair.

Carl Purdue said: “Your honor, I think this is improper cross-examination. It’s argumentative and—”

“Overruled,” Judge Tammerlane snapped. “I want to hear the witness answer that question.”

“I don’t know anything about them,” Lame said.

Killigen was smiling affably. “I suppose, Lame, that when you saw an envelope containing one hundred bills each of one hundred dollar denomination, you saw an excellent opportunity to get away with ten thousand dollars. You knew it would be dangerous to take jewelry because, sooner or later, jewelry could be traced to you. You tried to figure out some method by which you could make it appear there’d been a holdup. You looked across to where they were building a garage and saw a long scantling which had evidently been used in scaffolding. You got that scantling, leaned it up against the side of the building, and returned to the room where the gifts were located. You watched your opportunity, impressed the end of the scantling deeply into the soft earth near the flower bed, and then tossed the scantling back toward the garage.

“You calmly walked over to the table where the gifts were on display, selected some of the most valuable gems, and tossed them out of the window in the general direction of the driveway. You removed the container from your Thermos bottle, cracked out the bottom half, and threw that out of the window. In the interior of that Thermos bottle, you stuffed the envelope containing the ten thousand dollars in currency and the ring which you wished to use to frame the defendant in this case. You already knew of the defendant and knew of his criminal record. You smashed the window with your gun barrel, fired six shots, then cracked yourself over the head so that you could show a bruise, and started yelling for help. Subsequently, you gave the police a description of the defendant. You didn’t make it too good because you didn’t want them to pick him up until you’d had an opportunity to plant that ring where he d find it. You felt certain that if he found such a ring, not knowing anything about it, he’d accept it as a windfall. So you gave the police the first four numbers of the car you knew the defendant was driving and—”

“It’s a lie,” Lame screamed. “You can’t prove it.”

Barney Killigen looked him squarely in the eye. “Would you,” he said, “be willing to let the deputy sheriff go to your house, unscrew the lid of the Thermos bottle which you have there, and investigate the contents?”

Lame fairly screamed, “I tell you this is a frame-up, a dirty frame-up!”

Barney Killigen smiled at Judge Tammerlane, walked back to his chair at the counsel table, and sat down.

“I have no further questions on cross-examination,” he said.

Judge Tammerlane glanced at Carl Purdue and said: “Well, the court has questions, and I think the district attorney’s office should have some.”

Purdue said: “I’m going to ask the witness to remain in custody until deputy sheriffs can check up on that Thermos bottle.”

Lame said sullenly: “It’s a frame-up. I can’t be responsible for all the stuff a man plants in my house.”

“I presume,” Barney Killigen said, with a smile, “that it’s your idea the money has been planted in your Thermos bottle by the defendants, Lame?”

“You shut up,” Lame yelled. “I’ve stood enough from you.”

Judge Tammerlane said: “The court will take a thirty minute recess. During that time, the court will leave it to the sheriff to see that Robert Lame is kept under close surveillance.”

It was a hectic half hour. Newspaper reporters took flashlight photographs of Barney Killigen in his pose of cross-examiner. Judge Tammerlane held a long, secret conference with the district attorney and the sheriff, and then the deputy sheriffs returned. They carried with them one Thermos bottle which was entirely empty, but when the glass container on the inside was removed, the lower half of it had been broken. In the interior of the Thermos bottle was a tom scrap of paper with just a bit of writing on it. It was as though someone had tom up an envelope, but a piece of that envelope had inadvertently been allowed to drop back into the lower part of the Thermos bottle, in the space opened up by the breaking of the glass container.

Handwriting experts proved that the paper was exactly the same as that in which the envelope, containing the bills, had been placed; that the bit of writing on the scrap of paper had been written by the man who had made the donation, and that the ink was of exactly the same chemical constituents as that which came from his fountain pen.

Judge Tammerlane released the defendants, and ordered Robert Lame into custody.

The police went to work on him to find out where the ten thousand dollars was hidden. They were ungentle in their methods.

We walked out of court in a blaze of glory. Estelle Whiting was kissing Barney Killigen, her mother was crying, and Jimmy Grayson seemed as one in a daze.

VII

Miss Ray stared with bewildered eyes at the big roll of currency Barney Killigen tossed on her desk.

“Take it down and deposit it,” he said.

“Where in the world did it come from?” she asked.

“Just a contribution made by a grateful client,” Killigen said.

“Well, it’s about time,” she asserted, relief in her voice. “The bank was becoming most insistent. They were particularly displeased with that last five hundred dollar check you put through, on the promise of making a prompt deposit.”

“Banks are always displeased about something,” Killigen said easily. “And, oh, yes, by the way, Miss Ray, your salary is due. Here it is.”

He handed her two bills, one hundred dollar bill, and one fifty dollar bill.

“Come on in the office, Wiggy,” he said to me.

I accompanied him to his private office. He opened his billfold and tossed me three hundred dollar bills.

“Here you are, Wiggy,” he said, “another month’s salary.”

I stared at them for a moment, then held them under my nose.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Don’t they smell right?”

“I have rather sensitive nostrils,” I told him.

“Good.” He smiled. “And what does the bloodhound smell?”

“A very faint odor of coffee,” I said, “and a very definite odor of polecat.”

“It couldn’t be your imagination?” Barney Killigen asked.

“No,” I said.

“How’s Miss Ray’s sense of smell?” he inquired.

“She hasn’t any.”

“Well,” he said, with a grin, “that will simplify matters. You’d probably better spend that money at your earliest opportunity, Wiggy.”

“I will,” I told him.

He opened the bottom drawer of the desk, pulled out his flask of whisky and two glasses.

“Well,” he said, “we’ve got that case cleaned up.”

“What happened to Estelle Whiting?” I asked.

“She got married,” Killigen said. “Judge Tammerlane married them. You should have seen the old boy’s face when he kissed the bride — I guess she gave him something to think about.”

“She was giving you something to think about after the case was finished,” I said.

“Yes,” he observed, “she was grateful.”

“Does Grayson have a job?”

“He can’t get one around here,” Killigen said easily; “his record’s against him. He had one long enough to save up a little money, which he very foolishly put into making the down payment on an automobile. Then some detective told his employer about Grayson’s criminal record, and the fat was in the fire, and Grayson out of a job.”

I pressed the point, feeling that I already knew the answer. “Exactly what did he get married on?” I asked.

Killigen said: “Well, it’s a peculiar thing, one of the wedding presents he received was an envelope with two thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills.”

“Do you suppose,” I asked, “that those bills smelled of coffee and polecat?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Killigen said, his eyebrows elevated. “My sense of smell isn’t very acute. I would, however, say the money was clean.”

“Slick and clean,” I said.

He grinned.

“Of course,” I went on, “putting two and two together, and knowing you as I do, I realize that if a person had been going out on a most important engagement — or one which he thought was most important — say, for instance, looking over a lot of feminine pulchritude in the altogether, and he discovered a skunk in his bungalow shortly before he was due to leave, he’d naturally have shut up the skunk in the kitchen, or whatever room in which he had discovered the animal, and would leave the windows open, hoping to get rid of the skunk, or at least to get rid of the odor.”

“That’s a natural enough deduction,” Killigen admitted, smiling.

“And,” I went on, “if someone had known to a virtual certainty that this man was going to be away during certain hours, judging said feminine pulchritude in the altogether, it would have been a relatively easy matter for such a person to have entered the house and found the Thermos bottle. At that, Lame was rather clever. He knew enough about crime to know that the most effective hiding place was one where no one would ever think of making a search.”

Barney Killigen lighted a cigarette, smoked it for a couple of puffs, and then held it out to watch the smoke drift upward.

“Rather interesting reasoning, Wiggy,” he said. “You wouldn’t, by any chance, have thought of all that unless you happened to know me as well as you do, would you?”

I admitted, “I wouldn’t.”

“Excellent,” he said. “You’re the only one who knows me that well. And if poor people are going to be wrongly accused of crime, someone has to pay for defending them. But Estelle Whiting had no money with which to secure high priced legal services.”

“Sort of a vicious circle,” I suggested.

“Exactly,” he agreed, “and when one gets in a vicious circle, the thing to do is to cut right across the middle.”

“Is that what you did?” I asked.

“I,” he said, “acted as a force of retributive readjustment. Dwight Chester-Smith, II, is a nincompoop, an innocuous nincompoop as yet, but a nincompoop, nevertheless. Too much money will eventually ruin him. He suffers from a surplus of unearned wealth. Estelle Whiting suffered from a shortage of earned wealth. I strove to rectify the situation.”

“I see,” I said. “And as for the law?”

“The spirit of the law was observed,” he said. “I’m a great respecter of the law, but when the spirit of the law conflicts with the letter of the law, I’m a man of spirit rather than of letters. How was it you described this choke-a-horse roll of money?”

“Slick and clean,” I said.

“Exactly,” he agreed, grinning. “However, I’d prefer to say clean as a whistle. How about four fingers of good Scotch?”

“Two,” I told him.

He grinned. “We’ll compromise on three,” he said.

And we did.