The Dragon’s Teeth

V. Fists Across the Sea

The instant Kerrie gazed into her cousin Margo’s eyes, she knew they would be enemies.

In the midst of the hurly-burly of presenting her proofs of identity to Lloyd Goossens and Edmund De Carlos, whom Kerrie immediately disliked, of moving into and exploring the Tarrytown mansion and its broad acres, complete with woods and bridle-paths and hidden streams and unexpected arbors, of selecting personal servants and cars and of refurnishing her own suite of rooms, turning them from gloomy chambers into bright and chintzy places, of shopping and granting press interviews and the whole feverish process of settling down to her new life in the East... in the midst of all this, Kerrie had looked forward to her cousin’s arrival from France.

It was a peculiar anticipation, touched with sadness, for Kerrie felt as if she had lost something, and she wanted to make up her loss in another way.

But when she saw Margo Cole, she knew she had wished for the moon.

They all went down the bay in a cutter to meet the Normandie in quarantine — Kerrie, Vi, Goossens, De Carlos, and Beau. Goossens, brief-case in hand, boarded the liner to meet Margo; they appeared a short time later and descended the ladder to the motor-launch, which ferried them to the cutter.

Margo Cole stepped aboard in a swirl of furs and scent, followed by a pert French maid and a mountain of luggage. She kept chattering gaily with Goossens as her eyes flickered over Vi indifferently, paused on Kerrie, examined her briefly, tossed her aside, and traveled on to De Carlos and Beau. De Carlos’s bearded cheeks and toothy grin she greeted with a smile; but her blue eyes, slant, almost Egyptian, narrowed when they came to Beau, and then swept over him from unkempt head to disreputable toe with an astounding relish.

That was when Kerrie decided they were born foes.

“Licking her chops,” whispered Vi, pressing Kerrie’s arm. “The flashy type. Don’t let her step on you, hon. She’ll try.”

Margo Cole was a tall, strongly built woman — one of those splendid females who contrive to look vigorous even when they are lolling in a sun-chair. She was beautiful in a cold, majestic way, and she walked with a slow strutting poise that showed off her tightly draped hips.

“Either did a strip-tease or modeled,” said Vi. “I don’t like her. Do you?”

“No,” said Kerrie.

“She’s thirty, if she’s a day.”

“Thirty-two,” said Kerrie, who had been absorbing a little family history.

“Look at the so-called men goggle! You’d think they never saw a hip before. It’s disgusting!”

They murmured politely when Lloyd Goossens introduced them.

Then Margo slipped her arm through Beau’s. “So you’re the man who was supposed to find me. How nice he is, Mr. Goossens! If I had known, I should have ignored Mr. Queen’s advertisements in the French papers and waited for him to come find me.”

“I imagine,” grinned Beau, “it would have been fun at that.”

“Shall we go to my office?” asked Goossens. “Miss Cole, there are certain formalities — naturally you’ll put up at a hotel until we’ve... ah... checked your proofs of identity. Of course, if you’d rather—”

“No, no. Let’s have the dismal scene,” said Margo. “Mr. Queen, you’ll come?”

“How could I resist a smile like that?”

“Cynic! And... oh, of course, you, dear Kerrie! I should feel lost without you. After all, though I was born here, I’ve lived all my life in France—”

“That was France’s hard luck,” mumbled Vi.

Kerrie smiled. “I’d be charmed to shield you from the shocks of this rude, new world.”

“Ah, no, no,” said Edmund De Carlos. “That shall be my special province, ladies.” And he bowed first to Kerrie, and then to Margo, licking his bearded lips, meanwhile with the tip of his red tongue.

The cutter plowed up the bay.

Kerrie developed a headache on shore. She excused herself politely and drove off with Vi in her new roadster.

Margo waved gaily, watching with her cold Egyptian eyes.

Lloyd Goossens examined Margo Cole very sharply when they reached his office, but there could be no doubt of the validity of her proofs of identity.

She accepted a cigaret from the lawyer and a flame from De Carlos. “It seems odd to be called Miss Cole, or even Margo. You see, I’ve been calling myself Ann Strange ever since 1925.”

“How is that?” asked Goossens, filling his pipe.

“Mother died that year. I don’t recall my father, of course; we never ran across any one mother’d known in America; she hadn’t even a family. We used to travel about from town to town in France — Dijon, Lyon, a few years in Montpellier in the South, buckets of places — while mother taught English to French children and earned enough to keep me in the convent schools.

“I knew nothing about my family; mother never talked about them. But when she died I found letters, a diary, little mementoes, and they told me all about my Cole heritage. Especially,” she laughed, “about dear Uncle Cadmus and how helpful he’d been when mother, father, and I had been starving in a Parisian garret. You know, one letter of Uncle Cadmus’s drove my father to suicide. So I decided to change my name — wash out everything connected with the past.”

“You’ve brought those letters and things, Miss Cole?”

She produced them from an alligator shopping bag. The handwriting of the diary checked with the handwriting of Nadine Malloy Cole, a sample of which Goossens had from Mrs. Cole’s letter to Cadmus Cole in 1909, found among his effects.

There were also some faded old photographs of Huntley Cole and his wife, and one, dated Paris 1910, in which Margo was a chubby three-year-old with blonde hair and staring, frightened light eyes.

And there was Cole’s typewritten letter to his sister-in-law, dated 1909, in which he refused financial aid. Goossens and Beau compared it with the typed letter Cole had sent his sister Monica in 1918, preserved by Kerrie. The style and tenor were much the same, and Cole had initialed both in his bold, simple, block-letter script.

“Of course, we’ll have everything checked by experts, Miss Cole,” said Goossens. “You understand — such a large estate. Matter of form—”

“I don’t know what else I can say or do to prove I’m Margo Cole, but if you want to hear the story of my life—”

“We’d like to very much,” said the lawyer politely; but he glanced at Beau, and Beau’s left eyelid drooped. In Goossens’s desk there was the copy of a compendious report submitted by the French agency Beau had engaged weeks before.

The report carried Margo Cole’s history from infancy in Paris through the year 1925, where — they had been puzzled by this — the trail ended. But now the two men realized what had happened. Margo Cole’s change of name in that year to Ann Strange had brought the French operatives up against the back wall of a blind alley.

Margo described her life in detail from the time her mother took her from Paris as a baby until her mother’s death. After that she had drifted back to Paris and become a mannequin.

Margo looked demure. “I earned enough, and had sufficiently kind and rich friends,” she murmured, “to enable me to... retire, so to speak, in ’32. Since then I’ve been drifting about — the Riviera, Cannes, Deauville, Monte Carlo, Capri, the usual dull places in Europe. It hasn’t been too exciting.”

“Then somebody missed a bet,” said Beau. “Ever been married, Miss Cole?”

“Oh, no! It’s so much more fun having your freedom, don’t you agree, Mr. Queen?”

“Mr. Queen” grinned, and Goossens said: “Glad you think so, Miss Cole, because your uncle’s will... Of course, to complete the check-up, we’ll have to cable our French friends to verify your movements since 1925—make sure about your state of single blessedness...”

In two weeks everything was complete. The French agency reported that Margo Cole’s account of her activities since 1925, under the name of Ann Strange, was true in every detail. She had never been married. The French report also went into corollary matters concerning Miss Strange-Cole’s career in “the usual dull places in Europe,” but Goossens discreetly ignored them; he was responsible for facts, not morals.

Miss Cole, upon hearing the conditions of her uncle’s will, did not hesitate. She accepted, and to the accompaniment of an admiring press and public curiosity moved regally into the mansion at Tarrytown.

“Now that your work is done,” she murmured to Beau, “you won’t desert poor little me? I feel so lost in this strange, big country. You’ll come to see me — often?”

And she squeezed his hand ever so lightly.

They were in one of the formal gardens on the estate. No one was about, but Beau had caught the flicker of a curtain in a window of Kerrie’s Shawn’s bedroom.

He took the smiling woman in his arms suddenly and kissed her, She was still smiling when he released her.

“And what makes you think, Mr. Queen,” said Margo, “that I wanted you to do that?”

“I’m psychic,” said Beau. He watched the curtain. It fluttered violently and then was still.

“You clever man,” murmured Kerrie’s cousin. “And the dear little thing is so jealous. Do come again — soon.”

In the office of Ellery Queen, Inc., Confidential Investigations, Mr. Ellery Queen surveyed his partner sympathetically. Back from the Adirondacks, Mr. Queen, while leaner than usual, was browned and fit; but his partner was haggard, and two creases, like quotation marks, separated his gloomy eyes.

“I always knew you were mercenary,” said Mr. Queen, “but I didn’t think you were a quitter.”

“It isn’t the dough, I tell you! All right, it wasn’t much of a job, and Goossens and De Carlos insist Cole’s retainer of fifteen grand, plus expenses, was ample to cover it—”

“Princely,” agreed Mr. Queen.

“But the job’s over! Our agreement was that we’d find the two women. That’s what we were hired to do, we’ve done it, and we’re through. What more do you want?”

“I want,” replied Mr. Queen calmly, “to know why Cadmus Cole was so mysterious about the nature of our assignment. I want to know why he didn’t tell us the simple truth. I want to know what was at the back of his head.”

“Go see a medium!”

“Did he expect to be murdered? Was he murdered? And if so, who murdered him? And why? Cole may have hired us primarily to answer these questions, and for some obscure reason chose not to say so. But if that’s the case, we’re not through—”

“And fifteen grand doesn’t begin to pay for the job,” growled Beau, “and try to get more out of Goossens and De Carlos. You feeling like John D. these days?”

Mr. Queen said abruptly: “Beau, this isn’t like you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“There’s a reason for your unwillingness to go on with this investigation, and I don’t think it’s money. What is it?”

Beau glared at him. “All right, Master-Mind. There’s a reason, and it’s not money, it’s a dame. So what?”

“Ah,” said Mr. Queen. “Miss Shawn?”

“I’m not saying!” shouted Beau. “Anyway, I think she — sort of took a shine to me, and I can’t hang around and ball up her life, that’s all! She — this girl can’t afford to fall in love!”

“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Queen. “Deplorable situation. Well, then, make it plain you’re not in love with her — or are you?”

“None of your business,” snapped Beau.

“Hmm. Well, sir, since you’re in love with her, sooner or later you’re going to crawl back, you know. So you may as well do it now. I can’t take over, because you’re supposed to be Queen, and exposing our little fraud would mean, for one thing, having to give back that fifteen thousand, for another possibly alarming some one who’d be better off unalarmed.”

“But what excuse would I have to keep going back there?” Beau looked sullen. “Goossens and De Carlos gave me the bum’s rush yesterday, Kerrie’s sore at me... Of course, there’s Margo—”

“Of course there is,” said Mr. Queen. “A female who apparently enjoys your society. There’s no law against a young man calling on a female for social reasons. Just keep your eyes open. Hang around. Watch. I have a compelling feeling,” said Mr. Queen reflectively, “that there’s going to be trouble.”

“Trouble? There’s plenty now! Say...” Beau looked alarmed. “What d’ye mean — trouble?”

Mr. Queen smiled. “Beau, has it occurred to you that this whole thing arose out of a man named Cadmus?”

Beau stared. “Cadmus? Cadmus Cole? So what?”

“Don’t you remember the legend of Cadmus, or Kadmos, King of Sidon, who founded Thebes and brought the sixteen-letter alphabet to Greece?”

“No,” said Beau. “I don’t.”

“Where were you educated?” sighed Mr. Queen. “At any rate, mythology tells us that Cadmus went on a quest — those old mythological boys were always going on quests — and suffered many hardships and perils, and one of the silly things he had to do was sow the dragon’s teeth.”

“Look, friend,” said Beau. “I’ve gotta amble on up—”

“The dragon’s teeth,” repeated Mr. Queen thoughtfully. “Quite. Quite. Cadmus sowed the dragon’s teeth, and out of each tooth sprang — trouble. Trouble, Beau!”

“Oh,” said Mr. Rummell quietly.

“Our own Cadmus sowed a few dragon’s teeth himself when he wrote that will,” said Mr. Queen. “So watch, Beau. Everybody — especially De Carlos.”

“De Carlos!” Beau grew angry. “Yeah, De Carlos. I don’t like the way that baboon looks at Kerrie. And living in the same house... Maybe you’re right. Maybe I ought to stick around.”

Mr. Queen smiled. “And now that that’s settled, what have you heard from Santiago de Cuba?”

“No progress so far. Angus and the Argonaut’s crew have simply disappeared... Excuse me,” said Beau, preoccupied. “I think I’ll mosey on up to Tarrytown to see — Margo.”

“Send her my love,” murmured Mr. Queen.

The fairy princess, alias Cinderella, was unhappy. That was against all the rules, and Violet Day told her so emphatically. Vi was a tower of strength and comfort these days. Kerrie didn’t know what she would have done without her.

For one thing, there was Margo. Margo had begun to loom large in Kerrie’s life. She tried to dominate the house, even that part of it which was exclusively Kerrie’s. When she had her own suite redecorated in French provincial, she insisted the whole house be done over in the same style and period. Kerrie defended her maple and chintzes bitterly, challenging Margo’s authority. Margo said something in French which sounded unladylike, and Kerrie’s eyes flashed fire, and more than feelings would have been wounded had Beau not arrived at that critical moment. Of course, Kerrie instantly withdrew.

“Let her try,” said Kerrie passionately to Vi. “Just let her! I’ll punch her in the nose.”

Then there was Beau, or “Ellery,” as he was known to that turbulent household. He seemed always to be there. Kerrie tried hard to be polite to him, but her good resolutions broke down and she turned frigid. For he seemed to have become completely infatuated with Margo; he was with her constantly, flattering her, fetching things like a puppy, taking her out.

And Margo’s attitude, of course, was nearly impossible to endure. She was always glancing at Kerrie slyly, and then whispering to Beau, and the two of them would laugh as if they shared some secret, and Kerrie found them so hateful that when she saw Beau she would run away — to the stables for a furious canter, to swim in the big outdoor pool with Vi, to go sailing on the river in the little skiff she had bought, or for a tramp through the woods surrounding the estate.

“If I could only go somewhere,” she said fiercely to Vi. “Vi, she’s deliberately humiliating me! She takes every opportunity to wave him in my face, like a — like a flag!”

“Then why don’t you go away?” asked Vi practically.

“I can’t! I’ve asked Mr. Goossens, but uncle’s will calls for my remaining on the grounds a full year, and he says there’s nothing he can do about it. Vi!” Kerrie clutched her friend. “You don’t think she’s trying to... drive me away?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” said Vi grimly. “She’s the type. I s’pose if you lived somewhere else this year you’d be cut out of the will and she’d get your share?”

Kerrie’s eyes snapped. “So that’s what she’s up to! Isn’t satisfied with twenty-five hundred a week and wants mine, too!”

“Twenty-five hundred a week don’t go very far when you’re trying to corner the mink and sable markets, the way she’s doing.”

“Well, she won’t chase me away! I’ll fight her!”

“Atta girl,” said Vi enthusiastically. “Only let me get in a sock once in a while, will you, hon?”

After that, it was interesting. Kerrie no longer fled. She was careful to join them whenever they began to whisper. At other times she permitted herself to be cultivated by Mr. Edmund De Carlos, who had been quietly pursuing her ever since she had moved in. Mr. De Carlos began to glow with a hot, somehow sinister, light. He became insistent. She must go out with him — often. He had discovered New York. He would show it to her. They must be great friends. Once, she accepted — that was the night when Beau, squirming in tropical tails, escorted the beautiful Miss Cole to the summer theatre.

Everything went smoothly, and dully, until they were on their way home in De Carlos’s limousine. Then something happened. And after that Kerrie refused Mr. De Carlos’s invitations. In fact, she tried to ignore him, finding herself beginning to be terrified.

But Mr. De Carlos’s light glowed hotter and more sinister. His wild and reckless excursions into New York’s night life almost ceased. He spent most of his time on the estate — watching Kerrie. When she went riding, he followed. When she went boating, he followed. When she swam, there he was on the edge of the pool, a little tense. She stopped tramping in the woods.

Kerrie was thoroughly frightened. Vi suggested slipping poison into his soup, but Kerrie was not to be cheered by jests.

“Then why don’t you talk to Ellery about it?” asked Vi. “He’s a man, and a detective, besides.”

“I’d rather die! Oh, Vi, it isn’t just the way De Carlos looks at me. I’ve handled men with that kind of look before. It’s — something else.” She shivered. “I don’t quite know myself.”

“It’s your imagination. Why don’t you make a few friends? You’ve been here weeks and weeks and you don’t know a soul.”

Kerrie nodded miserably.

Vi sought out Beau. “Listen, you. I don’t like your taste in women, but I used to think you were a pretty decent guy once. If you’re any part a man, you’ll keep your eye on this bedbug De Carlos. He’s got what they call ‘designs’ on Kerrie, and I don’t mean the kind of designs they put on doilies.”

“Seems to me,” said Beau indifferently, “she’s sort of egged him on.”

“How quaint!” said Margo, slipping the strap of her bathing suit back over her magnificent shoulder.

“I wasn’t talking to you, grandma!”

“Well,” said Beau hastily, “I’ll keep my eye peeled.”

After that, Beau came even more frequently.

VI. The Knife and the Horseshoe

Someone struck by night.

Kerrie lay in her four-poster. It was warm, and she was covered only to the hips by a thin silk quilt. She was reading Emily Dickinson, absorbed in the lovely, piercing cries of ecstasy.

Kerrie’s suite lay in an ell of the mansion, one story above the terrace which encircled the house. There were strong vines and trellises of roses on the walls outside her windows.

The windows were open, and through the still curtains the gardens below sounded drowsy with the peaceful seething of crickets. There was an occasional river sound: a splash of oars, the stutter of an outboard motor, once the faint shouts of people being borne upstream by a Hudson River excursion boat.

It was quite late. Kerrie had heard Margo and Beau drive up two hours earlier, laughing intimately over some incident of their evening in town together. She had heard Margo invite Beau to stay the night, and Beau’s booming acceptance. They had settled down on the terrace below Kerrie’s windows with a portable bar, and after a clink of glasses there had been a silence.

Kerrie would have preferred noise. She had actually slipped out of bed and shut the windows to keep out that silence. But later, when she opened them again — it was so stuffy, she said to herself — and just happened to look down, the terrace was empty again.

Then she had heard De Carlos come home, lurching on the gravel driveway and cursing his chauffeur in a thick, liquorish voice. That was when she had got out of bed the third time and locked the door which led to the corridor.

But the house had settled into quiet since and Kerrie, intent upon the poet’s verse, almost forgot she was unhappy. Her lids began to droop; the lines swam. She yawned, saw that it was past three by her bed clock, flung the book aside, and turned off the bed-lamp.

And instantly things changed. Instantly.

Instantly she quivered with wakefulness.

It was as if the light had been a thick bright gate, and that turning it off had opened the gate to something that had lain in wait outside, in the thicker darkness.

Kerrie lay motionless, straining her ears. But there was nothing to be heard, unless it were the shrilling of the tireless crickets or that slight recurrent creak — like the creak of a slowly swinging shutter. The shutter! Of course.

But there was no wind. Not even a breeze.

Kerrie told herself indignantly she was a fool. She turned over on her right side, drawing her knees up to her chest and pulling the silk quilt up so that her nose and eyes were covered.

That creak.

Abruptly she sat upright in bed. In the darkness she concentrated all her forces of vision on the windows. The darkness was thin and soupy, as if it had been strained through a sieve. She could just make out the curtains.

They were stirring!... No. They were not.

There! Again!

This is ridiculous, she thought in panic. It’s a sudden breeze that’s sprung up on the river. It’s a breeze moving the curtains. A breeze...

Well, there was a simple way to find out. Just get out of bed and march across the floor to the window, and poke your head out. That’s all. Very simple. Then you would know it was a breeze, and that you’d been imagining things like a tot frightened by the dark, and you could go back to bed and sleep.

She slid under the quilt and curled up in a taut ball again, almost smothered.

She could hear her heart clamoring, as if it had slipped out of her chest and taken up a position just above her ear. Oh, this is childish! And she found her legs and arms shaking.

What should she do? Jump out of bed, race across the room to the door that led across the boudoir and into Vi’s room...

Her heart stopped clamoring. It seemed to stop altogether.

There was something — something — in the room.

Kerrie knew it. She knew it. This wasn’t imagination. This was knowledge.

She followed the steps that could not be heard with ears that could not hear... from the window, across the patch of hardwood floor to the edge of the hooked rug, on the rug... toward her bed, toward her, where she was lying in a ball under the quilt...

Roll over.

She rolled over and off the bed. In the same instant something struck the bed where she had been lying. There was a hissing sound, like the sound of a snake.

Scream.

Kerrie screamed. Screamed and screamed.

Her nightgown crumpled, her eyes still red from sleep, Vi met Kerrie in the boudoir.

“Kerrie! What on earth—”

“Vi, Vi!” Kerrie lunged for her friend’s high bosom and held on for dear life. “Something — somebody — in my bedroom — tried...”

“Kerrie, you had a nightmare.”

“I was awake, I tell you! Somebody — climbed up the vines — I think — tried to — knife me—”

“Kerrie!”

“When I screamed, he — it jumped back through the window — I saw the flash of the curtains—”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Oh, Vi—”

“You stay here,” said Vi grimly. She grabbed an iron poker from the rack of firetools at the boudoir fireplace and ran into Kerrie’s bedroom. She snapped on the light.

The room was empty.

Kerrie followed to the doorway, looking in, her teeth chattering. The curtains were still moving a little.

Vi looked at the bed; Kerrie looked at it. There was a fresh slash a foot long in the silk coverlet. Vi threw back the coverlet; the sheet and mattress were slashed, too.

She went to the windows and locked them.

“Got away clean. Kerrie, haven’t you any idea—”

“N-n-no. I couldn’t really s-see. It was too d-dark.”

“Kerrie. Hon. You’re—”

There was a sharp-and-soft rap on the corridor door.

The two women looked at each other.

Then Vi moved to the door and said: “Who — is it?”

“Queen. Did— Who screamed in there?”

“Don’t let him in,” whispered Kerrie. “You — I’m not dressed...” She felt calm suddenly.

Vi unlocked the door and opened it to a space of two inches. She looked at Beau coldly. He was in pajamas and his hair was a tumbled log-jam.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded in an undertone. “Where’s Kerrie? It was Kerrie who screamed, wasn’t it?”

“Somebody climbed in from the terrace just now and tried to knife her. She yelped, and whoever it was beat it.”

“Knifed!” Beau was silent. Then he cried: “Kerrie!”

“What do you want?”

“Are you all right?”

“Perfectly all right.”

Beau grunted with relief. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see.”

“Knifed, huh,” muttered Beau. “Listen. Don’t say anything about it. I’ll... I’ll keep my eyes open. And after this keep your doors and windows locked at night!”

“Yes,” said Kerrie.

Vi shut and locked the door. With Kerrie following her closely, she shuffled on her bare soles to the boudoir door and locked that. Then she locked her own bedroom door.

“I guess we’re safe now, hon.”

“Vi,” whispered Kerrie. “Are you — scared?”

“Not... much.”

“Would you mind if I spent the rest of the night with you?”

“Oh, Kerrie!”

Kerrie fell asleep in Vi’s bed, clutching Vi’s big warm body desperately. Vi lay awake for a long time, staring into the darkness.

Beau did not sleep at all. He returned to his room, dressed, and began a noiseless tour of inspection. He found the place where the intruder had climbed into Kerrie’s room — from the terrace directly under her windows. He climbed the vine like a cat, examining each foot of it in the light of an electric torch. But except for several bruises and, in one place, a snapped piece of trellis-work, there were no clues.

He sought out the night-watchman. But the watchman had seen and heard nothing.

In the house again, he stole into Edmund De Carlos’s bedroom. In the heavy half-light the man’s beard jutted toward the ceiling, his mouth open and his teeth palely visible as he snored. There was a smell of alcohol about his bed. He was sprawled on it fully clothed.

Beau listened to his snores, eyes on the motionless figure. The snores were regular, too regular. And there was a tension about the supine man which was not like the relaxation of sleep.

De Carlos was shamming.

Beau almost yanked him out of bed by the throat. But then he turned and quietly left the man’s room. He spent the rest of the night patrolling the corridor outside Kerrie’s suite.

De Carlos absented himself during the next three days. He was reported to be bucking an intimate little poker syndicate somewhere in town.

The morning he returned, livid under his beard and cursing his losses, Beau was not there; and Kerrie felt an overwhelming desire to get away from the house.

She dressed in a riding-habit and went down to the stables with Violet. A groom saddled two horses — Panjandrum, Kerrie’s white Arabian mare, to which she was passionately attached, and Gargantua, the big roan stallion Vi rode.

They trotted into the cool of the woods side by side. The nightmare of three nights before seemed far away, as if it had happened in a world of dark dreams. The sun’s rays seeped through the trees like sparkling water, splashing the bridle-path with drops of light.

Kerrie inhaled deeply. “This is the first time in ages I’ve felt really alive. Trees have an odor, Vi, did you know that? I never realized it before.”

“So have horses,” said Vi, wrinkling her nose. “Gee up, you plug!”

“You’re so romantic! I’m going to run for it.”

“Kerrie! Be careful!”

But Kerrie was gone, the little white mare skimming down the path, her fine neck extended, her slender legs contemptuous of the speckled earth. They vanished round a turn.

Vi kicked Gargantua’s vast sides but, turning his massive head in mild inquiry, he continued his lumbering trot. “Come on, you! Shift into high!”

Gargantua stopped altogether, his big ears twitching.

Somewhere ahead there had been a cry, a crash.

“Kerrie!” shrieked Vi. She began to belabor the stallion’s ribs so violently that he bounded forward.

She thundered round the turn and there, a hundred yards ahead, made out two figures, one moving, the other still. The white mare’s body sprawled on the bridle-path; she was thrashing about, kicking with three legs. The fourth, her right foreleg, was crumpled under her like a snapped twig.

Kerrie lay beside the path in a heap.

Gargantua drummed up and began to nose Panjandrum as Vi scrambled off his back and flung herself on Kerrie.

“Kerrie! Open your eyes! Oh, Kerrie, please—”

Kerrie moaned. She sat up, dazed.

“Are you all right, Kerrie? You don’t feel — as if — anything’s bro...”

“I’m all right,” and Kerrie in a sick voice. “I think I am, anyway.”

“What happened, Kerrie? Tell me!”

“Panjandrum threw me. It wasn’t her fault. She was galloping, and stumbled suddenly. I flew right over her head. Vi, it was a miracle. I mean, ordinarily I’d have broken my neck. But I happened to land in this heap of leaves, and they softened my fall. How is she?... Vi!”

She saw the mare, writhing in pain on the path.

“Vi! She’s broken her leg!”

Kerrie ran over to the mare, sank to her knees, stroked the rigid neck, forced herself to look at the snapped foreleg. The steel shoe dangled from the motionless hoof.

“Vi,” said Kerrie in a horrified voice. “Look... at... this.”

“What’s the matter?”

“The shoe on her broken leg. It’s... But it can’t be. I watched Jeff Crombie in the smithy only this morning. He shod her fresh — all four — a few hours ago!”

“I don’t get you,” said Vi slowly.

On hands and knees Kerrie began a feverish examination of the path, pushing leaves aside, flipping twigs away.

“Four of the nails are missing!”

“You mean some one—”

“Here!” Kerrie sat cross-legged on the path, fiercely examining two horseshoe nails. They were bent and scratched.

“Somebody,” said Kerrie grimly, “loosened these nails and pried them partly out of Panjandrum’s hoof with a pair of pliers.” And she sat very still, staring at the nails.

“You mean some one loosened the shoe,” said Vi, aghast, “so that it would flop free in a gallop and make Panjandrum stumble?”

“Except for the miracle of those leaves, Vi, I’d be lying over there with a broken neck this minute, and it would have been put down as an — accident.”

Kerrie smoothed the corded, silken neck with her palm. The mare lay more quietly now, her big eyes on Kerrie’s face.

Then Kerrie said in a hard voice: “Ride back to the stables and tell them to come for Panjandrum, Vi. I’ll stay here with her.”

“But, Kerrie, you can’t! Suppose some one — I won’t leave you alone here!”

“Please, Vi. And don’t say anything about the nails.”

There was something so coldly final in Kerrie’s tone that Vi gulped and mounted Gargantua and lumbered off.

After dinner that evening Kerrie, on the plea of feeling ill after her accident, excused herself and glanced pointedly at her friend.

Vi followed several minutes later; and Kerrie locked all the doors of her rooms.

“Well, Kerrie? What do you think?”

Kerrie was pale. “I’m the only one who rides Panjandrum, and the horseshoe nails were loosened deliberately. Somebody tried to kill me today. The same one who tried to kill me the other night.”

“Kerrie. Why don’t you call the — police?”

“There’d be no way to prove our suspicions. We’ve got to prove... some one did it — the one who did.”

“Or Ellery Queen. He’s a detective. He—”

“No! He’s... I just couldn’t. I won’t crawl to him for help, Vi.” Kerrie sat down on her bed and smoothed the spread. “There’s only one person in this world who would benefit from my death, Vi.” Her voice trembled. “And that’s Margo! She’s so terribly extravagant. Her weekly checks are mortgaged for months ahead; Mr. Goossens told me yesterday when I... I asked. She wants my share, and if I died, she’d get it. And then — she hates me because of... him. It’s Margo, Vi — Margo who climbed into my room the other night, Margo who loosened those nails this morning!”

“Let’s get out of here,” whispered her friend. “Give it up, Kerrie. You haven’t been happy here, anyway, with all that money. Kerrie, let’s go — go back to Hollywood.”

Kerrie’s mouth set stubbornly. “I won’t be chased away.”

“It’s not the money!” cried Vi. “It’s this big he-man of a chippy-chaser who looks like Bob Taylor! Don’t tell me!”

Kerrie looked away.

“You’re in love with him! And because you are, you’re proposing to keep living in the same house with a... a blonde swivel-hips who’s tried twice to kill you and won’t stop till she has!”

“She won’t drive me away,” said Kerrie in a low voice.

VII. Encounter on a Siding

Before Vi awoke the next morning, Kerrie stole out of the house and hurried down to the stables.

Jeff Crombie, Tarrytown blacksmith, was just getting out of his runabout.

“Oh, Miss Shawn.” He removed his hat, twisting it in his permanently blackened fingers. “I was just comin’ up to see you. I hear you had a fall yesterday.”

“It was nothing, Jeff,” smiled Kerrie.

“I sorta feel responsible, Miss Shawn,” said the smith. “Your groom told me on the phone the right foreshoe come almost off. I just shod the mare yesterday mornin’ with my own hands, and I can’t see how—”

“Now, Jeff, it wasn’t your fault. Forget it.”

“But I’d like to have a look at that shoe, Miss Shawn.”

“Such a bother about a little accident! Panjandrum must have caught her right forefoot in the cleft of a buried rock, and at the speed she was making the shoe was wrenched almost completely away from the hoof.”

“Oh,” said the smith. “I didn’t want you thinkin’ it was any carelessness o’ mine, Miss Shawn. You feeling all right?”

“Right as rain, Jeff.”

“Sorry about the mare. She was a daisy—”

“Is, Jeff.”

The blacksmith was astonished. “Ain’t you shot her yet? I’d be thinkin’ she’d be better off, poor thing, out of her misery—”

“Dr. Pickens told me about a certain veterinary in Canada who’s supposed to be able to mend horses’ broken legs. Some new method that gets them over the bad period and makes them good as new. So I’m shipping Panjandrum North today.”

The smith touched his eyebrow with two soiled fingers and drove off, shaking his head.

Kerrie went into the stable. The mare lay in soft straw, a temporary splint holding her broken foreleg stiff. Dr. Pickens, the local veterinary, had also padded and swathed her other legs from hoof and pastern to above the knees. Panjandrum’s great moist eyes looked dull and unhappy.

“How is she?” Kerrie asked the groom.

“So-so, Miss. Hasn’t done much kickin’. Doc Pickens was here again this mornin’ and gave her somethin’ to quiet her. But I don’t know how long she’ll stay that way.”

“Poor darling.” Kerrie knelt in the straw and stroked the glossy neck. “I’m having that stable car up from the New York yards just as quickly as possible. They’ll have it on the Tarrytown siding at eleven o’clock.”

“Doc says he’s goin’ along, Miss.”

“Yes, and I want you to go, too, Henry. We’ve got to save her life.”

“Yes, Miss.” Henry did not seem too sanguine.

Kerrie rose, brushing her knees. She said casually: “By the way, Henry, have you seen Miss Cole this morning? I wanted to ask her—”

“Why, no, Miss. She told me yesterday, after she brought Lord Barhurst in, that she wouldn’t ride today.”

“Oh, Miss Cole rode yesterday?” murmured Kerrie. “About what time, Henry? I didn’t see her on the path.”

“She rode before you did, Miss Shawn. Reg’lar horsewoman, Miss Cole is. Even unsaddled Lord Barhurst herself when she came in — wouldn’t let me touch him.”

“Yes,” smiled Kerrie, “she’s quite an enthusiast. How is she as a groom — any good?”

Henry scratched his head. “To tell the truth, Miss, I didn’t see. She sent me on down into town in her car for something — a new kind of saddle soap. When I got back — that was just before you and Miss Day came down for Panjandrum and the stallion — Lord Barhurst was unsaddled, right proper, and Miss Cole was gone.”

Kerrie’s heart leaped. So Margo had been in the stable, alone, before... There were plenty of tools about, and she was a powerful woman. It wouldn’t have been hard for her to loosen most of the nails in Panjandrum’s shoe... It had been Margo!

“Henry.” Kerrie tried to keep her voice from betraying her. “I shouldn’t want Miss Cole to think I’d been — well, you know, checking up on her. You know how women are about things like that.” She smiled at him. “So don’t mention that I’d been asking you questions about her; eh?”

“No, Miss,” said Henry, looking puzzled. “Not if you don’t want me to. Only it’s funny you should tell me that, just after Mr. Queen told me the same thing.”

“Mr. Queen?” said Kerrie, sharply. “He’s been here this morning? Asking questions, too?”

“Yes, Miss, and about Miss Cole, too. He said not to say anything to her, or to—” Henry stopped, stricken.

“Or to me?”

“Well — yes, Miss. I didn’t mean to, but it sort of slipped out.” Henry’s grip on the five-dollar bill Beau had given him tightened in the pocket of his jodhpurs.

“I’m sure you didn’t. Where is Mr. Queen how?”

“He had me saddle Duke for him and rode up the path.”

Kerrie sauntered out of the stables. She glanced casually over her shoulder after a few yards to see if the groom were watching her. When she saw he was not, she ran like a doe.

Kerrie sped up the bridle-path, her sports shoes making no sound in the soft earth.

So he was spying! He had heard about her accident!

The only one who could have told him was Margo. He hadn’t been at the house yesterday, but just before dinner last evening Margo had had a telephone call, and from her dulcet tone and coy air the caller could only have been... Kerrie tried not to think his name. Margo had murmured something about calling him back — later. She must have told him then.

And here he was. Furtively.

When Kerrie came to the turn in the path beyond which she had been thrown the previous morning, she stopped, warned by Duke’s distinctive whinny.

She stole into the woods paralleling the bridle-path and noiselessly made her way to a screen of trees and bushes near the spot where Panjandrum had fallen. She peered out through the leaves of a clump of wild blueberry bushes.

Duke was moving slowly along, nosing in the grass and bushes beside the path for succulent tidbits.

And he... he was on his hands and knees in the path, nosing, too. Like a bloodhound. He was skimming the surface of the ground with his palms, brushing grains of dirt aside. He knelt sidewise to her, his eyes intent on the earth.

Was it possible he suspected? But how could he? Of course! He knew about the first attempt in her bedroom. That was it. And, learning about her “accident,” he suspected at once that it might have been no accident at all. Or else... But Kerrie shut her mind to “or else.” There was a horrid possibility—

He growled exultantly, startling her. He was hunched over the path now, examining two pieces of twisted metal. The other two horseshoe nails — he’d found them!

He jumped to his feet and glanced suspiciously around. Kerrie shrank. Then he slipped the two nails into his pocket, leaped onto Duke’s back, and galloped off toward the stables.

Or else...

Kerrie came slowly out of the bushes. Or else he knew it was no accident. Or else... he was Margo’s confederate and had sneaked down here early in the morning to get hold of the telltale evidence of those wrenched nails, to dispose of... to dispose of the evidence!

Kerrie stood still in the path. It couldn’t be. He just couldn’t be that... But he and Margo were thick as — yes, thieves! Why not murderers? She had seen him kiss Margo that morning in the garden. They were always together. They were always whispering, running off into dark corners, hours of it... And later, Margo would look like a tigress after a full meal. All purrs and claws. Her white cheeks pink with an inner excitement. That hateful glitter of triumph in her slanted Egyptian eyes. And he...

He thought money was everything. He had said so, in a moment of what must have been unusual honesty for him. Kerrie thought she understood. There had been a time when money seemed all-important to her, too. He didn’t have much himself. Kerrie was sure of that. It wouldn’t be so unusual for a poor man under the spell of a ruthless, beautiful woman like Margo to help her plan the — death — of...

Kerrie cried out: “No!”

The sound of her own voice brought her to her senses. She became conscious of the woods, and that she was alone in them.

She started back for the house at once. First she went slowly. Then her stride lengthened. Then she began to trot. And then to run. And finally she was sprinting along the path between the sentinel walls of the woods like a frightened rabbit pursued by a pack of hounds in full cry.

Kerrie drove her roadster up to the station at a few minutes past eleven. The stable car she had ordered was lying on the spur beyond the station. Henry, the groom, was on the platform talking to the agent.

“Is Panjandrum all right, Henry? Did you get her into the car without any trouble?”

“She’s lyin’ in there snug as a bug, Miss Shawn.”

“Where’s Dr. Pickens?”

“He’ll be along in a few minutes. There’s still plenty of time for the eleven-fifty. Don’t worry about the mare, Miss.”

“I think I’ll sort of say goodbye to her,” said Kerrie slowly. “No, don’t bother, Henry,”

She trudged along the track to the siding. Outside the stable car she stopped short, frowning. Some one was in the car.

She approached the open door quietly and looked in.

Again!

She couldn’t see his face; but his wide back was unmistakable. He was squatting on his heels before Panjandrum, doing something quickly and powerfully, as if haste were imperative, to the mare’s left forefoot. Bandages and packing were strewn about the car’s floor.

Kerrie watched in a storm of breathlessness. What was he up to now?

Beau grunted with satisfaction and straightened up, and she saw what he had been doing. He had removed the mare’s left foreshoe.

He examined it hastily, then thrust shoe and loosened nails into the bulging pocket of his baggy sack-coat. And he bent over again to replace the packing and bandages. The mare lay still, and his big hands worked with rapidity.

Kerrie leaned against the side of the car, miserable. Of course. Margo must have loosened the nails of the left foreshoe as well as of the right. Just to make sure, she thought bitterly. No one had thought to examine it except... And how could he have known unless Margo had told him?

Removing the evidence of her guilt again!

Kerrie took command of herself. At least she had one card up her sleeve. He — she — they didn’t know she knew. She had passed her fall off as an accident. They thought she didn’t suspect. Let them! That was her only protection now.

She stole off a few yards and then approached the car noisily. And she called out in a voice she tried to make unconcerned: “Dr. Pickens! Is that you in the car?”

Beau appeared in the doorway instantly.

“Oh! Hello,” said Kerrie. “I thought it was the veterinary in there. What are you doing?”

He jumped to the ground. “I heard about your accident and—”

“Came to pay your respects to the horse?”

He said abruptly: “You all right?”

“Never better, thank you.”

“Well.” He stood frowning at the ground. “I guess I’ll amble along. Hope the mare can be saved.”

He strode away. Kerrie did not look after him. She went into the stable car. From there, she looked. He was pacing up and down behind the station — near her car!

She said goodbye to Panjandrum a dozen times. Finally, Henry appeared, and Dr. Pickens. They seemed to think her expression of alarm was caused by anxiety over the mare, and kept reassuring her that Panjandrum would be all right.

And finally the eleven-fifty rolled in, and she had to get out of the stable car. But she remained to watch the coupling of the car to the northbound train.

When the train pulled out and there was no longer any excuse for lingering on the spur, she trudged back to the platform, trying to appear preoccupied.

“Oh, are you still here?” she said. “I thought—”

He seized her arms. “Kerrie! Listen to me—”

“You’re hurting me!”

“You know what happened the other night,” he said in a low, hurried voice. “You’ve got to be—”

“Let — me — go,” panted Kerrie. She wriggled out of his grasp and slapped him, hard, on his blue-stubbled cheek. All the bitterness of weeks found expression in that pitiful act of violence. “You’re used to manhandling females, I don’t doubt,” she cried, “but that doesn’t mean you can manhandle me!”

His voice was oddly soft. “Kerrie, I just wanted to warn you to be careful. That’s all.”

“Careful?” Careful. He wanted her to be carefull.

The miracle of his solicitude, after all her fears, filled Kerrie with joy. Then it wasn’t true! He wasn’t Margo’s confederate after all!

“I mean,” he went on, and something in his tone smothered her joy, killing it with a sort of contempt, “you’ve got one hell of a way of getting into trouble. You’re a nuisance!”

Kerrie jumped into her roadster and drove off blindly. She did not therefore see how his shoulders sagged and the lines of his face deepened. She drove into the city.

When the police permit and revolver came, she felt grimly better.” It was a pearl-handled .22 of beautiful workmanship, and the ammunition was slick and deadly-looking.

VIII. Woman-Trap

The genuine Mr. Ellery Queen set down the horseshoe and the twisted nails gently.

“Kerrie’s got the finger on her,” said Beau.

The tone made Mr. Queen look up. Then Mr. Queen looked down, mercifully. He picked up a nail and turned it this way and that between his fingers.

“Deadly,” he remarked. “And a little terrifying. A woman in the grip of a homicidal mania, induced by jealousy and greed, doesn’t usually try to commit murder so subtly. Loosening the shoes of a horse!”

“Damn her.” Beau turned away.

“A murderess capable of that kind of plot can’t be reached through the customary channels. She’s probably immune to fear, because she’s too far gone in pure cussedness. I’d rather she had tried poison. There’s something realistic about poison. This — it’s fantastic.” He stared at the nail and then flung it aside.

“Just the same,” said Beau in his lifeless voice, “I’m not taking that chance, either. I’ve got an ex-policewoman in the kitchen as assistant to the chef.”

“You’re convinced it’s Margo Cole?”

“I found out from the groom that Margo had managed to be alone in the stable with the mare before Kerrie went riding. It was Margo, all right.”

Beau lay down on the sofa and turned his face to the wall.

“How about the other night?” Mr. Queen regarded him with pity. Really an impossible position, he thought. And the girl—

“We’d been in town, the beautiful Miss Cole and I,” said Beau without turning. “Having fun. You know, just a couple of innocent kids out on a tear?”

He sat up suddenly. Mr. Queen let him talk.

“We sat on the terrace and hoisted a few, and she got very, very chummy. I guess I wasn’t feeling so palsy that night. I tried not to show it, but she’s... smart.”

His eyes were bloodshot, Mr. Queen remarked. And he had a habit these days of working his jaws, as if he were hungry.

“I knew from the way she looked at me that she spotted my trouble. She knew Kerrie was bothering me. From the way she smiled... she gave me the shivers,” Beau said hoarsely. “I should have known then. But I never thought... She said good night as if everything was all right. I sat up a while and then went to bed. I couldn’t sleep. When the poor kid let out that awful yell—”

“Yes?” said Mr. Queen gently.

Beau smiled, and there was something cruel and naked in his smile. “De Carlos could hardly have climbed that wall. He was faking when I went in to look him over. Wasn’t asleep at all. But he was potted, too. He’d have tumbled to the terrace and broken his damn’ neck if he’d tried to climb to Kerrie’s room.

“But Margo...” He jumped off the sofa and began walking around. “She sleeps in the opposite wing, but it gives out on the terrace, too, and it would have been a cinch for her to slip down at that time of night and climb the vines and trellis. She’s an athletic bitch... Maybe what she saw in my eyes that night made up her mind.”

Mr. Queen sighed. “How does it feel to be fifty percent of the motive in an attempted homicide?”

“That’s not the worst of it, although God knows it’s a lousy enough spot for a man to be in!” cried Beau. “It’s what I’m forced to do to Kerrie that hurts. Every time I show a spark of interest, her eyes start shining like electric bulbs. She looks like a kid under a Christmas tree. She... And then I’ve got to douse the lights by deliberately acting like a heel. She’ll wind up hating my guts, if she doesn’t hate ’em already.”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” queried Mr. Queen. But he was thinking of something else.

“Yes,” said Beau quietly. “That’s what I want,” he burst out, “but it’s more than that, too! She thinks I’m signed up with Margo to put her out of the way!”

“Very natural. The appearance of requited passion, the attempt at murder... very natural for her to think so.”

“It’s easy for you to be calm about it,” said Beau bitterly. “You’re not in love with her.”

“I’m sorry, Beau,” said Mr. Queen in a gentle voice. “My specialty is murder, not romance.”

“What the devil can I do? I’ve got to find a way out of this mess somehow!”

Mr. Queen was silent.

“Hell, you’re not even paying attention!”

Mr. Queen looked up. “With half a brain. The other half is excogitating a great befuddlement. Beau, what’s the connection between these attacks on Kerrie Shawn and the events that preceded and accompanied Cole’s death?”

“All I know is that Margo Cole is out for Kerrie’s blood. Kerrie’s standing between her and me — she thinks — but, more important, Kerrie’s death means doubling her-income. Knowing Margo, I’d say the money motive was the stronger of the two. Not that it makes any difference to a corpse why he’s been bumped off.”

“You think the root of these attempts goes back into the past? The development of a plan made months ago?”

“I think,” said Beau savagely, “Margo was responsible for Cole’s death!”

Mr. Queen raised his eyebrows. “You believe she was on the Argonaut?”

“Why not?” Then Beau growled: “Or she wasn’t, and De Carlos did the dirty work for her. It’s not impossible those two are working together. They keep away from each other — De Carlos is concentrating on Kerrie, the damn’ chaser! — but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. It might be a cover-up.”

Mr. Queen looked dissatisfied. “There’s so much we don’t know,” he complained. “Heard anything on the crew and Angus?”

“I had a report this morning. One of my men picked up the trail of three of the crew and the wireless operator. They shipped on a freighter, and they’re on the other side of the world by now. Nothing on the others, nothing on Angus. It’s just as if—”

“Just as if?” echoed Mr. Queen.

Their eyes met.

“They were dead,” said Beau.

Mr. Queen picked up his hat. “Keep watching your light-o’-love. And don’t let your suspicions of Margo make you blind to... other possibilities.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Beau.

“Merely what it said. There’s only one thing about this case I feel sure of. And that is that it’s far less simple than it seems. In fact, I’ve the feeling it’s a case of complicated and subtle cross-purposes. You’ll have to be very careful, Beau, and I’ll help all I can from under cover. Keep your eyes open — to the four points of the compass. The break may come from the least-expected quarter.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“That’s not strange,” said Mr. Queen with a shrug, “since I scarcely know myself.”

VI pleaded with Kerrie to run away. “If that she-devil doesn’t kill you,” she cried, “the suspense will. Kerrie, you’re such a — a fool I could shake you. Do you really love him that much? Or this money? A fat lot of good it’s doing you! You look like God’s wrath. Give it up and let’s get out of here — while we can!”

“No,” said Kerrie stiffly. “I won’t. I won’t. They won’t drive me away. I won’t give in. They’ll have to kill me first.”

“They will!”

Kerrie trembled. “It’s something stronger than I am. It won’t let me go. Maybe it’s plain stubbornness. I’m scared too — I’m scared, Vi, but I’m more scared of what I don’t know. I’ve got to find out. I’ve got to.”

Vi looked at her with a sort of horror.

“I suppose you think I’ve gone dotty,” said Kerrie with a weak smile. “Maybe I have... I hate him!”

So it was that. Vi shook her head.

And then the enemy struck a third time.

It was a Sunday, and when Kerrie opened her eyes that morning she saw it would be a day of sun and cloudless skies.

“Vi, let’s have an old-fashioned picnic, just the two of us!” she cried. “We’ll drive into the country somewhere, and camp, and eat pickles and shoo bugs away and swim raw if we can find a stream!”

They found their stream, and gorged themselves on the good things the chef had packed in the bursting hamper, and for the first time in weeks Vi heard her friend’s unclouded laughter.

By the time they drove through the gateway to the estate it was dusk, and rapidly growing dark.

Vi yawned. “It’s the fresh air. Kerrie, I’m flopping right into bed.”

“Sleepy? With such beautiful stars beginning to come out? Here, I’ll let you out at the house and you can flop into your old bed if you want to. I’ll put the car away.”

Vi got out under the porte-cochère and Sir Scram, as she called the butler, opened the front door for her. She disappeared. The butler took the hamper from the car and went back into the house.

Kerrie sat still behind the wheel for a while, mooning up at the darkening sky, her thoughts dream-woven, afloat in a great peace. But soon the brightening stars made her think of what a lovely night it was, and the loveliness of the night led naturally to thoughts of romance, and romance...

She drove off abruptly, headed for the garage.

The garage, located behind the stables, was really six garages under one roof. It was a wide shallow brick building with six double-doors, and each car-compartment was separated from its neighbors by brick and plaster walls, making the individual sections complete in themselves.

Kerrie housed her roadster in the second compartment from the right, between the one where the station-wagon was kept and the one reserved for De Carlos’s powerful limousine.

In the glare of the roadster’s headlights the four double-doors to the left were closed; the two on the right stood open.

Kerrie noticed that the station-wagon was in its garage and wondered why the doors were not closed. But it was the wispiest kind of thought. She drove into her garage, raced her motor, turned off the ignition, withdrew the key, and reached over to switch off her headlights.

Her hand paused in midair. She thought she had heard the slam of a door.

Kerrie twisted in her seat and looked back. The doors of her garage were shut.

“There wasn’t any wind,” she thought, puzzled. “I guess they just swung shut by themselves after I drove in.” And, without turning off her lights, she got out of the roadster and snapped the switch on the wall which operated the ceiling-light.

Then she went to the double-door, pressed down the latch, and pushed. And as she pushed, she heard the click of the lock which was attached to the hook-and-staple on the outside of the door.

Kerrie stood still.

The thought seeped into her mind that, while doors may swing shut of themselves, locks cannot. Her lock required a human hand to slip it through the ring. A human hand to slip the ring through the slit in the staple. A human hand to snap the lock shut.

“You out there!” she called. “You’ve locked me in! I was just about to—”

There was no answer.

And Kerrie did not finish. She knew it was useless to cry out, and why it was useless to cry out. And her heart catapulted into her throat.

But it was so stupid. To lock her in. Sooner or later some one would come to release her. Even if she had to stay all night...

But another attack, a voice whispered. Vi’s gone to bed. The butler won’t remember. No one else knows you’re here — no one that cares. Another attack...

Kerrie laughed aloud, nervously. That was absurd. For whoever had locked her in had locked himself — of herself, she thought darkly — out at the same time. There was no opening in these walls large enough to admit a mouse. Not even a window. High in the right-hand wall of the compartment there was a radiator-grille; it ran through to the next garage, the one for the station-wagon. But the coils of the radiator were between the two garages, behind the grilles; only a fly or a bug could go from one garage to the other by that route.

“Let me out!” She pounded on the heavy doors. They did not even shake. “Let me out!”

She pounded until her hands were raw.

And then she became conscious of an undertone, a peculiar roaring hum, which seemed to come from the garage on the right... where the station-wagon stood.

She stopped pounding to listen.

It was the motor of the station-wagon. Some one had turned it on. And pulled out the throttle. It was roaring away. The penetrating stench of its exhaust came to her nose, floating through the grilles.

“Help!” cried Kerrie. “Whoever’s in there!” She raced back and shouted up into the grille. “I’m locked in the next garage! Help!”

There was an answer, but it was not in human accents. The doors of the adjacent garage slammed shut. And over the roar of the racing motor Kerrie heard retreating footsteps.

And now she knew. Now she remembered death, when it was too late.

Some one had imprisoned her in the garage, turned on the motor of the car in the next compartment, locked the doors, and fled — leaving her to die slowly as the odorless fumes of the deadly carbon monoxide gas being generated next door seeped through the radiator-grilles.

Now that death showed its face again, openly, Kerrie stopped shouting, stopped pounding the door, collected her thoughts with a cold deliberation that astonished the vague, fluttering, helpless part of her that was wilting and crumpling inside.

The garage was far from the house, from the servants’ quarters. The sole building within hailing distance was the stable, and only the horses would be there at this time of night. It was useless, then, to scream.

As a matter of fact, she thought, sitting down suddenly on the running-board of the roadster, she had better save her breath. She had better conserve the air in the garage. Mustn’t exert herself in the slightest. It would probably help to remain as close to the floor as possible. Didn’t gas rise? Or maybe carbon monoxide was heavier than air. If it was, it would sink to the ground... Well, there was only one way to find out...

Kerrie lay down and turned over, pressing her cheek and nose to the cold cement floor.

That wasn’t any good. She’d merely live a little longer. Sooner or later the garage would fill with the gas, sooner or later her lungs would exhaust the oxygen supply, and then she would die.

Die!

She sat up, thinking furiously. What could she do? There must be something she could do!

Theoretically, there were two ways to save herself: to stop the flow of the gas, or to get out of the garage. Could she prevent the carbon monoxide from entering her compartment?

She glanced up and discarded that possibility at once. It was conceivable that by stuffing the openings in the grille up there with material torn from her clothing, she might prevent most of the gas from seeping through. But to do that she had to reach the grille. And the wall was so high, and the grille was so high in the high wall, that even if she put up the roadster’s top and stood on it, she would still be unable to reach the grille.

Could she get out of the garage?

She couldn’t break through the walls. She might scrape through the plaster, but inside there was a core of brick. No windows. The door... She couldn’t break through. It was too thick. If she had an ax, she might; but she had no ax.

Kerrie became aware suddenly of a tightness across her forehead, as if the skin were trying to stretch; of a throbbing at the temples, like the beginning of a bad headache.

So soon!

Think. Think!

She examined the door desperately. And then she laughed aloud. What a fool she’d been! The hinges!

All she had to do was get some tools from the roadster’s kit — why, just a screw-driver would do it! Even if she couldn’t reach the upper hinges, she could remove the lower ones, push the whole door outward from below, and crawl to the safety of the air outside!

She sprang to her feet and stumbled around the car. She lifted the front seat joyously...

The tools were gone.

Sobbing, Kerrie hurled things out of the seat-compartment — match-packets, slips of paper, scraps of lint, things, things, useless things... searching like a madwoman, getting splinters under her fingernails, scratching one finger so that the blood ran in a brilliant stream. Anything would do. A wrench. Anything...

No tools.

Stolen.

She ran back and hurled herself against the door. Again. Again. No. Don’t do that. That’s silly. Think. Think...

She sank back against the door, exhausted, a severe headache pounding at her temples, the beginning of a dizziness, the beginning of a nausea...

Like a beacon in a foggy sea — the revolver. The revolver! She had slipped it into the side-pocket of the roadster very early this morning. Of course, she had left it for a short time... No. It was there. It was there. She could shoot the hinges off — the lock, the hasp, shoot, shoot...

Crying and laughing, she staggered back to the car, weakly opening the door, weakly thrusting her hand into the pocket on the inside of the door, ready to rejoice at the cold sensation of the metal on her palm, that blessed, loaded revolver...

Every drop of blood in her body stopped flowing.

The little pearl-handled revolver had been stolen, too.

Her last chance, her last hope.