SYNOPSIS
David Mallory, In search of newspaper
Work in New York, is forced to accept a
job as switch-board operator in a swank
apartment house, managed by officious
Timothy Higgins. There David meets
Miss Agatha Paget, a crippled old lady,
and her charming niece, Allegra. One
day. talking with Higgins in the lobby,
David is alarmed by a piercing scream.
David finds the scream came from the
Ferriter apartment, not far from the
Pagets. The Ferriters include Lyon and
Everett, and their sister, lone. Everett,
a genealogist, is helping Agatha Paget
write a book about her blue-blooded an
cestors. Inside the apartment they find
a black-bearded man—dead. No weapon
can be found. The police arrive. Hig
gins, who actively dislikes David, in
forms him that he is fired. David is
called to the Paget apartment. Agatha
Paget offers him a job helping write her
family history—which will unearth a few
family skeletons. He accepts the offer.
Meanwhile, police suspect Lyon Ferriter
of the murder. Jerry Cochran of the
Press offers David a job helping solve
the murder. David accepts. He is to
keep on working for Miss Paget. Later
David meets Grosvenor Paget, Allegra's
brother. Then, that night, David sees
Grosvenor prowl through the Ferriter
apartment. David confronts Grosvenor
with the story. He is told to mind his
own business. Then David goes to Hig
gins’ basement flat to retrieve his lug
gage, In the darkness he brushes against
an unknown person, and in attempting to
capture him. falls over his own suitcase.
David’s landlady tells him that a woman
had called upon him. The mysterious
lady would leave no message or name.
CHAPTER VIII—Continued
—10—
When I looked up from my work
again, Allegra stood in the doorway.
“Hello.”
“Good morning.” I scrambled to
my feet and speech left me again.
I saw the quick rise and fall of her
breast beneath the tweed cloak.
There was something in the silence
that disturbed both of us. She broke
it.
"Is there soot on my nose?” she
asked a little wildly.
“No,” I said and cleared my
throat “I was just—I was just real
izing what a beautiful person your
aunt must have been.”
She came in and sat down, with
a ghost of Miss Agatha’s chuckle.
“Thanks,” she told me. “That is,
if I follow you. I can believe that
your sister-in-law is very, very love
ly, too. Is she also a good liar?”
Her mouth was merry but her
eyes were grave. I managed to
meet th«m.
“What?”
“You heard the first time. You
can drop the pose of deafness—or
is it dumbness?”
Her voice sank. Little gloved
hands were locked in her lap.
“Grove,” Allegra said, “has told
me everything.”
I kept my face.
“I see."
“Grove,” she said, “is in love
with lone Ferriter.”
That opened up new avenues of
surmise. I did not turn toward them.
I asked:
“And you don’t like it?”
“It, or her. She’s older.”
“That,” I said, “isn’t necessarily
fatal. So was Mrs. Browning and
Mrs. Disraeli and Mrs. Mary of
Scotland and Mrs. Oedipus and—”
“Skip the Phi Bete erudition,” she
broke in, but her eyes were less
tragic. “Grove is an infant and al
ways will be. He’s all the family
I've got. I don’t want him hurt but
he will be. Grove won’t listen to
me. He doesn’t care what I think
any more.”
“It’s just possible, isn’t It, that
lone loves him? Does your aunt
know?”
She smiled and shook her head.
“She knows, I think. But Grove
is supposed to be adult and Agatha’s
religion is minding her own business.
I can’t speak to her about it I
promised Grove I wouldn’t, but he
said last night I could explain to you
why he was in lone’s flat.”
“And, sooner or later, you’re go
ing to?”
The girl looked at me and smiled.
“Meaning,” she interpreted, “that
I talk too much. Grove’s had a
Ferriter latchkey for a month. He's
been meeting lone there.”
She stopped and looked at the win
dow and the smile had left her face.
I waited.
I wish,” she said slowly, that
I could like her. Up to now, we’ve
always liked the same things, Grove
and I. I’m not jealous. I know what
they’re doing. They’re keeping this
thing under cover until after Grove’s
birthday, next week. You see, if
Grove marries without Agatha’s and
my Uncle Stanley’s consent, they
could hold up his inheritance. That's
in my father’s will.”
I told her: “You haven’t yet ex
plained why he was in—”
She said impatiently: “Oh, he had
the idea that maybe he could find
some clue the police had ignored—
something that would clear the Fer
riters. That’s the sort of a mind he
has.”
I said:
“One doesn't love a person for
his brains.”
“All the aphorisms are edifying,”
she told me with a flash of her
aunt’s spirit, “but they don’t solve
anything.”
"You could have saved yourself a
lot of wear and tear,” I answered,
“by telling me in the first place
what you wanted solved.”
Allegra looked at me hard and
then smiled.
"All right, Admiral Crichton. Find
out who killed that man.”
"Yes, ma’am,” I told her, “it’s as
good as done.”
She held out her hand toward me.
Then she turned.
Neither of us knew how long Miss
: Agatha had been on the threshold.
Nothing in her face gave us a clue.
She rolled into the room and spoke
crisply:
“It’s bad enough to be a refuge
for all my family’s grief-smitten,
without posing as aunt to the New
York City police. Captain Shannon
has been telephoning. Lyon Ferri
ter escaped from the Babylon last
night.”
“How long,” I asked suddenly,
"did he stay after I left?”
There was a glitter in her eyes.
“About a quarter-hour,” she in
formed me, "and I’d be quite con
tent, David, if you’d confine your
criminal investigations for the pres
ent to my own ancestry.”
“Yes, Miss Paget,” I said with
meekness that made her chuckle.
I know now she had heard at least
the conclusion of my talk with her
niece. She turned to Allegra.
“Lunch in a half-hour, my dear,”
she said, and the girl left the room.
“He seemed pleased,” I replied
“—to see me and my bag
spread all over the floor.”
The old lady started to follow and
paused:
“David,” said she, “I hope your
head is stronger than I’ve any rea
son to think it is.”
“I hope it’s stronger than I think
it is,” I answered.
She lingered an instant and then
nodded.
“Perhaps,” she comforted, “it’s
better than either of us thinks,” and
trundled herself away.
The door opened. Allegra looked
in.
“A message from Miss Paget,”
she said with mock gravity. “There
is an extra place at the table this
noon that she wishes you would oc
cupy. Mr. Everett Ferriter is in
disposed again.”
CHAPTER IX
Linen’s frosty glow, the cool glit
ter of silver and china were like
friends long absent. They lifted my
morale. I caught Allegra’s glance
as Lyon helped her into the chair
beside his, and grinned. I sat be
tween lone and Miss Agatha with
Ferriter opposite, on her right hand,
and I selected the bouillon spoon
boldly, because I thought they might
wonder if I could.
I found myself disliking the scent
lone wore and her as well, for no
clear reason other than that I ob
jected to sultry brunettes.
My neighbor said in her husky
voice:
“I haven’t thanked you, Mr. Mal
lory, for what you did that—awful
night.”
I wondered if it were only the
shock of that evening that harried
her now.
"TnanK me, i asKea, tor treat
ing you rough?”
‘‘Exactly. I needed it. I don’t
usually—fall apart like that.”
Lyon spoke with the odd devo
tion in his eyes he reserved for his
sister.
“She really doesn’t. She wintered
with me in Alaska, but that, after
all, isn't preparation for finding—”
He checked himself and turned to
Miss Agatha with an apologetic
movement of his hands.
"I beg pardon. There is no ex
cuse for dragging—”
“Nonsense,” the old lady cut in.
“My dear man, closets are the worst
possible places for skeletons. It’s
far more wholesome to leave them
out in the air. If you can stand it.”
“We have to,” he said a little
grimly. “Until the police get the
idea that people who weren’t there
could not have done it.”
I had wished, a half-hour earlier,
that I might be included among Miss
Paget’s guests. Now I was unhap
py. I knew too much and suspected
too much more. I was tense and
saw portents in actions outwardly
innocent. For a moment, I had
thought lone’s seizure had concealed
terror. Now the sanity of the well
ordered lunch, the calm beauty of
the room, the decorous speech of its
occupants jeered at my suspicions.
The talk veered away to less in
tense matters. The meal was clos
ing when Miss Agatha said sudden
ly:
“Allegra, Grove called up while
you were dressing. He won’t be
home till late. You will have to
find another escort for the opera to
night.”
The girl nodded without expression
and for an instant her eyes strayed
to lone who asked the old lady:
“You don’t go. Miss Paget?”
The composure in her rich voice
once more mocked my suspicion.
Miss Agatha shook her head.
“My dear,” said she, "I was
reared in the Paget tradition. I
went to the opera as regularly as I
went to church. Being a cripple, I
had no conflicting engagements. I
went. I still have my father’s seats.
Allegra and Grove pretend to like
it I grew tired long ago of hearing
nonsense sung in one language by
folks who speak another, to people
who don’t understand either.”
“As a rule,” Lyon said, "operas
could stand a deal of editing.”
“Extermination,” Miss Agatha
told him, “is the better word.”
I laughed and so did he, and catch
ing my eye, he asked:
“By the way, were you coming
out of the cellar last night when I
left?”
Once more my spine prickled—I
thought that a hidden something
lurked beneath that easy question.
Out of the murk a new theory sud
denly jumped at me. Perhaps the
prostrated Everett after all had been
my basement antagonist. I gath
ered my wits and tried to drive
into the open whatever fear hid be
hind Lyon’s query.
“Yes."
Me smiled.
"After I passed, I thought it had
been you. At the moment I imag
ined that it was just another de
tective following me around. I
haven’t dared look under the table
this noon, Miss Paget, for fear of
finding one.”
"I can vouch for this company,”
Miss Agatha said dryly, “unless Da
vid is one in disguise.” I wondered
what she meant but Allegra asked,
mockingly:
“Just a social call on Casanova?”
Out of an eye corner, I saw that
lone held her fork motionless above
her salad.
“No," I said. “I went to get my
suitcase. I didn’t see Higgins til]
later.”
“Later?” lone repeated.
I looked at her, but her make-up
might have been a mask.
“You see," I told her, “the help
ful Higgins had left the suitcase in
the basement hall. I fell over it,
which pleased him, I think.”
“The swine,” said Lyon and his
calm disappointed me. “That’s how
you hurt yourself, eh?”
He nodded at*my trampled left
hand. I shook my head, weighing
the merits of reticence and complete
exposure. I chose the former and
merely said:
“No. Someone else gave me that.”
"I hope,” said Miss Agatha and
bit that invisible thread, “that you
skinned it on Timothy’s jaw.”
“He seemed pleased,” I replied,
"when he came out and turned on
the lights, to see me and my bag
spread all over the floor.”
With the others, I followed Miss
Agatha's chair into the living room
and looked at my watch.
"It’s time,” I told the old lady,
“that I stopped being a guest and
became an employee.”
lone, bright and exotic as a tropic
bird, smiled at me as I backed to
ward the hall door. Lyon’s right
hand went through the movements
of the sword salute.
“Oh, I say,” he checked me as
I turned to leave, “why not stop in
when you leave this afternoon? I’d
really like to have you see my col
lection of blades, if you’d be inter
ested.”
“Thanks,” I said, finding no way
to refuse without seeming churlish,
“I’d be glad to.”
“Splendid. At what time?"
“Between five and six?”
“Right. I’ll be looking for you. I
wish there were room for us to fence
a bit, but I’m afraid that’s impos
sible.”
“I’m glad there isn t, I tcld him;
"I’m very rusty,” and went back
to the workroom.
It was five when I finished and,
under Annie’s convoy, took the com
pleted copy to my employer. She
sat in the living room at her version
of afternoon tea—solitaire, a ciga
rette and a highball.
I waited while she read the script
slowly and without expression. When
she had laid the last page aside, she
said:
"You’re very able as well as will
ful. You’ve done it exactly as I
should—if I had your gift. Will you
take Allegra to the opera this eve
ning?”
The question, flung at me while I
was a little unsettled by her approv
al—I had not had much praise in
the last few weeks—was like a punch
in the stomach. I gasped. She chose
to misread my confusion.
"A purely business proposition.
Allegra was going with Grove. All
the other young men she knows have
engagements. She can’t very well
go by herself and if you’ll escort
her—"
"I can send in my bill tomor
row?” 1 asked. "No, Miss Paget.
I’m busy this evening.”
“There are times, David Mallory,
when I could slap you,” Miss Aga
tha said and sat very straight in
her wheel chair.
"That goes double,” I answered.
She chuckled. She liked defiance.
/TO BE CONTINUED)
*
Draft History to Repeat
As Uncle Sam Gets Busy
The Burke-W adsworth selective military service bill, which calls
to military service men between the ages of 21 and 35, inclusive,
recalls the scenes of 1917 when Uncle Sam drafted his army for the
World war. As in 1917, there are not enough arms to go around,
and some draftees may be forced to train with wooden guns. Physi
cal requirements will not be as strict as those used in selecting men
for the regular army in peacetime.
Fairness and impartiality marked selection of the first draftees
in accordance with the selective service regulations during the
World war. Here you see Secretary of War Newton D. Baker, blind
folded, drawing the first draft capsule from a glass bowl, in 1917.
Scenes like this, showing draftees checking in at Fort Slocum
during the national call to arms in 1917, will once more be the rule
now that the Burke-Wadsworth military training bill is in effect.
Draftees being examined by a military medical staff in 1917.
The army of 400,009 men who are taking the oath of allegiance
under the Burke-W adsworth bill will be the healthiest conscrip
tion group in the nation's history.
Countless rolls of cloth in the
quartermaster’s department in
Philadelphia soon tvill be cut
into soldiers’ uniforms.
Scene in the Philadelphia
quartermaster s depot showing a
tailor examining a completed
uniform on a clothes dummy.
Draftees training with wooden guns during the World war.
GUESSWORK
se
By CARLTON JAMES
(Associated Newspapers.)
WNU Service.
1 . ■■■ I
HEAVY, dense fog engulfed
the city. Great clouds of it,
resembling phantom ships,
rose from the river bottom
and floated spectra-fashion beneath
the yellow eye of light that was the
street lamp.
Inspector Joe Warren paused to
watch the curious apparition. For
a moment he stood in the deep shad
ow near the bridge's ironwork, his
hat pulled down and coat collar
turned up against the bleak, wet
cold.
He shivered and was about to
move on when a figure emerged
from the darkness beyond and came
into the light of the street lamp. The
figure was that of a man, and at
sight of the inspector standing alone
there he came forward.
As the stranger drew near, War
ren saw that his face was drawn
and white, and that his eyes held a
frightened look.
"You're Inspector Warren, aren’t
you?” he asked, and Warren peered
at him in some surprise. Queer,
he thought, that this stranger should
recognize him at a glance.
Without waiting for a reply the
other man rushed on. "You’d bet
ter get help! A man just now com
mitted suicide! Jumped off the
bridge there, into the river.”
Warren was used to emergencies,
had schooled himself for quick think
ing. Scarcely before the stranger
had finished speaking, he had pro
duced a police whistle and was blow
ing it shrilly.
Dimly, out of the darkness came
an answering whistle, and seconds
later a uniformed policeman materi
alized out of the fog and gloom. A
second followed and then a third.
Warren issued short, crisp orders.
The policemen vanished as quickly
as they came. Warren and the
stranger were alone again.
"They’ll get him,” Warren said.
"May be too late, though."
"Good. I hope so. It was aw
ful.” The stranger nodded nervous
ly and moved away.
"Wait a minute.”
The other man paused, looked over
his shoulder inquiringly.
"What’s your name? May want
to look you up later.”
“Oh!” The stranger turned, came
back. "Name of Blair. George
Blair. I was coming across the
bridge,” he further volunteered.
"Saw a man standing near the rail.
As 1 approached he climbed up
and—
“Let’s walk back,” Warren cut in.
"You can show me the exact spot.
Maybe,” he added, as if by way of
apology, “we can help the cops.”
Blair seemed to hesitate, seemed
to recoil at the idea. He said after
a moment, “All right.”
The two men walked silently out
on the bridge. Midway across Blair
halted.
“There’s his coat, there.” He
pointed to a dim outline on the
ground. Warren made out a crum
pled coat, weighted down by a small
box. “He was standing here,” Blair
went on, “when I came up. I grasped
at his arm and he turned on me
snarling."
“What did he say?” Warren
asked.
Blair seemed to reflect. Present
ly: “Something about letting him
alone. A man could do what he
chose with his own life. Then he
dropped the box he was carrying
and struck me in the chest. By the
time I had regained my balance he
was overboard.”
“Hum-m,” said Warren, and
peered over the high railing into
that black void that lay below. Os
tensibly he was listening for sounds
of the rescuing policeman. Suddenly
he turned.
“Blair, you’re lying! If those cops
down there And the body they’ll find
the body of a man who has been
murdered!”
Blair’s eyes bulged. He seemed
on the point of collapsing. But War
ren continued: “Get a grip on your
self, man! Let’s have the story. It's
your only chance.”
“Only chance of what?" hopefully.
“Only chance of not making things
worse. I suspect you had a reason
for killing him.”
“I didn’t kill him! I didn't! He—”
i There was a sob in the man’s voice,
i He seemed to be struggling to main
tain his senses. “He—he stole some
| jewelry from my store. I came from
i the back room in time to see him
going through the door. I gave
chase, caught up with him on the
bridge. He dropped the box and
| flung off his coat. We struggled. He
tried to throw me over the railing,
almost succeeded, but I managed to
break loose. I struck out fiercely.
The blow knocked him off balance
and he fell into the river below.” He
finished, panting heavily.
“And you thought you killed him,”
Warren went on. “You beoame
frightened, and then, instead of go
ing to the police like you should
have done, you thought up this sui
cide gag. Is that it?”
“No one would have believed me,”
the man pleaded. “It looked bad.
I thought it was all right—then I
saw you.”
“And wondered how long I’d been
around, eh? You knew if I’d been
here long I'd have heard the strug
gle and the splash as the chap fell
Into the water. Well, I heard nei
ther.”
"But, how—”
"Guesswork, mostly," Warren
■aid briefly. “That and a few ob
vious blunders you made. Easy to
see you’re no professional at the
game. But here come the cops.
We’ll see how true your story is.”
Bulky figures were emerging out
of the darkness. Policemen. Two
of them carried a limp form be
tween them. A third came behind.
“We’ve sent for an ambulance,”
one of the uniformed men said, ad
dressing Warren.
“Dead, is he?” Warren asked.
“No. Not quite. Pretty well
fagged out. He had managed to get
to the dock, and was hanging on to
a stringer when we arrived.”
“Any marks on him?”
“A bruise or two on his face. No
real damage.”
“Good. Do what you can for him,
till the wagon arrives.”
Warren turned to Blair. “Go on
home, mister. And sleep it off. But,
first, pick up your box of jewels
from where you placed them on this
bird’s coat"
Blair turned, stopped, then
straightened up. “How,” he asked,
"did you know I placed them there?
What made you suspicious, any
way?”
Warren permitted himself a smile.
"Guesswork mostly. I’m used to
dealing with real criminals. Ama
teurs like yourself are easy to figure
out." He paused, then: "Next time,
be more careful. If things had hap
pened as you said they did, the box
of jewels couldn't possibly have been
on the coat”
One Woman
By JOHN C. HAYWOOD
(McClure Syndicate—WNU Service.)
WOMEN have entered very little
into my life. Except one. The
memory of her face, not beautiful in
regularity of features but in expres
sion of love and tenderness is with
me still. The tones of her voice
haunt me. I cannot forget her. I
have lost all trace of her although
I have tried diligently to And her,
aye, even hired a detective to bring
me news of her, alive or dead.
It was dusk when I left my office
uptown and entered the subway. In
a happy mood I took my seat.
A few seats away across the aisle I
saw her. Shabbily dressed but neat.
Then I saw her face, half turned
to watch something on my side of
the car. I guessed, from the gurgles
and occasional shrieks that rose
above the noise, it was a baby. And
such longing, such passionate ten
derness as shone in the woman’s
face stirred me deeply. What was
her story? Had she lost a little one?
It could not be that for there was
no sadness in her look. As I specu
lated she turned her face to me. I
am twenty-eight. Not ill-looking. My
clothes stamp me, I believe, for
what I aim to be, a prosperous man,
but through the drift of circum
stances I am not that. Yet, from
my well-polished shoes to my gray
fedora the woman looked me over.
Calmly. Casually. Then turned with
soft gaze upon the child.
At Fourteenth street I folded my
newspaper and prepared to leave.
The woman, holding in her hand a
little purse, moved onto the plat
form of the car.
About half way up I saw she had
dropped her purse. Gladly I picked
it up. With a thrill of joy I called
“Madam!” Now I should have
speech with her. She stopped and as
I reached her side and handed her
the purse she clutched it and leaned
as though faint against the side wall.
*‘I am glad,” I said, “I happened
to be behind. You might have lost
it."
“Lost it!” her voice came thinly.
An echo. “And it is all I have in
the world.” She put her hand to her
chest. Tears came into her eyes.
“Come.” I put my hand on her
arm. "Let me help you up. In the
air you’ll feel better.”
“Thank you.” Together we mount
ed the stairs. There were many
passing. They jostled us. With the
woman leaning upon me I felt con
spicuous.
“Come out of this crowd,” I said
in a don’t-contradict-me voice, and
led her into the entrance way of a
closed store. “Now, cut out that
weakness. You have your purse,
haven’t you? Be glad.” She wiped
her eyes. And smiled, not exactly
a whole smile, but a good sample.
In the half light I saw her eyes
glint fiercely at me. She bit her
lip, then with wonderful self-con
trol, said:
“You must let me go. I—I think
you misjudge me. You have in
deed been wonderful. I—I liked
you—” She gave me a tender glance
—“I forgot you were a stranger.”
“Don’t go. I'm sorry! Tell me
about yourself. Perhaps I can help
you.”
t or a moment we were ooui si
lent. Then impulsively she took hold
of the lapel of my coat and told me
her story; the sordid story of an or
phan’s struggle in a workaday and
heartless world. And as she told it,
her face lighted by a memory of
good in some man, “wise and kind
and intelligent as you are” she had
said, her hand trembled on the
clutched lapel and she shook me in
her vehemence.
I felt love growing in my heart
for her. She told me her name was
Aileen Turner and she lived in a
cheap boarding house on the East
Side. I promised to call. But I
did not. I put her in a taxi and paid
the fare from some loose change in
my pocket. When the car disap
peared, there went with it my watch,
my wallet and considerably more
| cash than I could afford to lose.