DE
PIR/\Tt#HEAD^
ISABEL WAITT^-^
CHAPTER I
Pirate's Head always reminds me
of a Summer squash. Its long neck
juts out of Rockville, Mass., into the
wild Atlantic. Once, according to
legend, this rocky promontory was
the lookout for buccaneers, who hid
their treasure in a deep fissure
called the Pirate's Mouth. Just the
mention of that slippery shelf in the
foamy sea makes my flesh creep!
It began to creep the day I re
ceived a queerly fat letter, the first
week of my visit at the inn. How
would you feel to receive a missive
from an unknown, containing forty
old twenty-dollar bills?
Postmark, Boston. Date blurred.
Penmanship, sprawly, as if an at
tempt had been made to disguise it.
Spelling, excellent. Astonished, I
read:
"The old church should go for a
song at the auction. Please bid for
one who doesn’t wish to be known in
the transaction. Sentimental rea
sons.
“In return, you may later use it
for tearoom or lending library, rent
free.
“Please don’t tOT a soul, but buy
at any cost If not enough, will re
imburse. If too much, keep the dif
ference and oblige
“A FRIEND."
Nobody knew I was summering
at the inn. As for the auction of
the homely little church, scheduled
for July 3, the following day, I’d
planned to go just for fun. Every
body at the Head would be there to
take a whack at buying that deso
late, long-unused place of worship,
standing on the bluff.
That odd letter, though I didn’t
realize it at the time, was my first
clue in the series of dreadful things
which were to occur. Thrilled to
death at the mystery, and speculat
ing as to my unguessed correspond
ent, I pinned the bills into a stock
ing and tucked the missive itself un
der the lining of my top bureau
drawer.
Maybe this vacation wasn’t going
to be so dull, after all! I'd visited
my Aunt Nella before, and found it
deadly. But then she'd never had
any murders to offer. I’ll say this
for murder—it’s never dull.
Aunt Nella runs the inn at Pi
rate’s Head, the only one there. In
a way it was a comedown for her to
open her lovely old colonial home
to paying guests. For more than 150
years it had sheltered the Gerry
family in decent privacy. They
might have been comfortably off, ex
cept for the failure of the Lane
Bank. This crippled Uncle Wylie,
Aunt Nella’s husband, worse than
his rheumatism. Old Man Lane put
a bullet through his head when his
pet went into receivership, dragging
down all his neighbors, but Aunt Nel
la went to making blueberry pies.
That’s where I came in. She whee
dled me into being hostess and gen
eral factotum, greeting the tourists
and answering the phone while her
hands were in the dough, as she put
it. "You’ll have a nice change,”
she said. “The Head is always so
quiet and peaceful.”
My funds were minus X, and I’m
without near relatives, my parents
both having died in a plane crash.
Even Aunt Nella was only a play
aunt, who had been my mother’s
dear friend.
We had only a few guests the first
of July. Nice people, all of them,
apparently, but merely names to
me: The Reverend Jonas De Witt,
Miss Lily Kendall, Hugh Norcross
and his sister, Bessie; Mr. Tbaddeus
Quincy and Mr. Potter. The house
staff consisted of Aunt Nella, Uncle
Wylie and myself. A town girl came
in to wash dishes, but she lived out
and had nothing to do with the
things that happened.
’ You can wager I didn’t mention
my letter to a soul. Visions of tea
rooms danced in my head. I’m go
ing to skip the auction here, except
to say that I bid for the old church
and got it finally for $300. I still
had $500 of somebody’s money!
Along with the squat old building
came sturdy, hard benches for seat
ing maybe 125 people, a few dilapi
dated hymn books, and down in the
basement the most wonderful sea
chest you ever saw. Cedar. “There's
my hope chest,” I gloated. “A lit
tle polish and a lot of elbow grease
—!” The thing was locked when I
examined it after the sale. I was
prying at it with a bobby pin when
Uncle Wylie said Aunt Nella wanted
me right away back at the inn.
Not until evening did I escape.
Then I discovered Mr. Quincy out
on the porch sitting patiently in his
wheelchair, as usual. I liked Thad
deus Quincy, perhaps because he re
fused to use his infirmity as a topic
of conversation. Though about 66,
wizened and always alone, still
whenever he was included he was
the life of the party. Just then he
looked dejected enough, amusing
himself by strumming on the piazza
rails with the malacca cane he al
ways had handy.
“Want me to take you for a ride?"
I asked. "My, the fog is creeping
u in ”
“Would you. Judy? Just down the
ramp? Then I can manage for my
self." He called me Judy since the
first day, and I liked it, from him.
To the others I was Miss Jason.
“How'd you like to see the inside
of a church?” I asked. I held my
breath while we made the planks
Uncle Wylie had put over the side
steps of the porch for this wheel
chair.
“Saw all 1 wanted to this after
noon at the auction,” he answered.
•‘Yes. From the outside. Shout
ed your bid through the door. Only
made one bid. Why?” 1 asked.
‘‘Wanted you to get it cheap.
Think I’d bid against you? What
d’you want of that old eyesore?”
‘‘Wait till I get it fixed up. Tea
and crumpets. My, it’s getting fog
gy! Left my handbag down in the
basement Taking you down while
I get it. Guess how much money
I have left?" I queried.
He eluded my little trap, but ap
peared grateful for the companion
ship. ‘‘How should I know what
scads you make at the inn? Tell me
something about the Lane castle.”
He pointed at the great stone man
sion that loomed up ahead of us,
beyond the inn but to the left of the
church, known to Pirate Headers
as the castle. Hideously ornate it
was, by daylight, with too many tur
rets. It had been vacant for years.
"Not much to tell," I replied.
‘‘Ijpen closed since Mr. Lane com
mitted suicide after his bank failed,
three years ago. There was a nasty
scandal hushed up, implicating son
Roddy—Roddy, Jr.—whom you saw
at the inn last night. He lives out
West and never’s come back here
From beneath the cover of the
chest a dead white hand protruded.
since. His mother went mad on ac
count of his escapades, they say, and
leaped into the ocean from one of
those towers. No wonder the old
man shot himself."
"Nice family," Mr. Quincy said.
“Who's that?" A figure scuttled
ahead of us, across our path to the
Lane driveway. Believing it to be
one of our guests, 1 called good eve
ning. There was no response. I
had thought it the shadow of a wom
an until Mr. Q. said: “So-o-o-ciable
fel-l-low." He received the bump
from the hubbled path uncomplain
ingly. . “Somebody’s in an awful
hurry. Suppose it was Lane? No
light in the castle.”
“Oh, I doubt if it was Roddy.
After the reception he got last night?
Bet he left town. Didn’t show up
for breakfast at the inn, as or
dered.”
We were passing the old fish
house, from the cracks of whose sin
gle window a feeble light shone. Mr.
Quincy was all curiosity. Had I
seen the old man who wras staying
there, he wanted to know.
“No, and nobody else,” 1 said.
“Only Uncle Wylie, and he at a dis
tance, when Mr. Brown was fishing
off the rocks earlier in the season.
Sort of a recluse, I guess. Stone
deaf. Uses an ear trumpet, funny
old-fashioned kind, Uncle Wylie
says.
Not a star to guide us. It was all
I could do to keep on the path, but
finally we reached the church, which
faced the ocean.
“Got a match? I won’t be a min
ute. Left my bag at the auction and
have got to get a key out—”
“That you, Judy Jason?” Up rose
a behemoth of darkness. As we rec
ognized the voice of Miss Kendall,
one of our guests, she became con
scious of the wheel chair. “Why, if
it ain’t Mr. Quincy!” She gave the
“C” an “S” sound, instead of the
correct ”Z.” “Been watchin’ the sun
set Must of dropped off. Lemme
push you back? Oh, I get it! Two's
comp'ny.” For once the kittenish
Lily wasn’t going to butt in.
As she moved away chuckling. 1
heard Mr. Quincy breathe, “Thank
Heavens!” Poor Lily Kendall—cor
pulent, gabby, good natured, lova
ble, 40-odd, forever twisting her
countless string of beads till they
spilled all over the house, and heav
ens—what a pest! She’d seen mighty
little of a sunset in all that gather
ing mist.
Once the door was open, I struck
one of the two matches Mr. Q. had
given me and hurried down the aisle
of the musty auditorium. Wrong
word for this little meeting place,
but never mind. The flame went
out, and for a moment 1 stood hesi
tant, listening to the ghostly lashing
of the waves on the rocks. But I'd
promised Bessie Norcross, our fus
siest guest, a key for her door, hav
ing swiped said key from Albion
Potter, our artist boarder. His key
fitted Bessie's room, too. and he nev
er bothered to close his door, let
alone lock it. He’d probably never
miss it I’d stuck it in my hand
bag, having intended to go to Rock
ville and have a duplicate made.
The bag must have been left in the
basement near my new hope chest
when Uncle Wylie called me away.
The basement stairs, very narrow
and steep, led from a door at the
side of the front platform, the
church being built back-to, in a way.
I didn’t want any more complaints.
I’d promised Bessie she'd have her
key. I didn’t want to break my
neck, either. I groped down a step
or two, clinging to the stone wall.
Then I decided it was too precari
ous. The other match should last
until I snatched the bag and started
back, so I struck it.
The damp chill of that black little
cellar penetrated my thin blue
dress. Shivering, I hurried as best
I could. There weren’t many steps.
The church had literally been built
on a rock, so the floor was uneven,
one end having a patch of dirt floor.
A strong breeze came from some
where,
I remembered the chest was
against the wall abutting the sea. I
could have reached it more easily
by taking the path around the cliff
to the tiny basement door, but I
knew that would be locked from
the inside. I’d told Uncle Wylie to
lock up when he'd summoned me.
He’d said he had, and hung the en
trance key where I’d just found it.
He was absent-minded, but in an
emergency could be relied upon. Yet
holding up that tiny flame I could
see that the basement door was open
a crack, and was swinging wider—
wider!
Would the match last till I closed
the door, locked it and found my
bag? I measured the distance with
my eye, approaching the while, and
kicking at the door as I passed.
From the darkness something twin
kled at me. Was it a firefly? An
other step. I held the flickering
match closer. It couldn’t be! I
was seeing things. A final spurt and
the glow faded, burning my fin
gers. Automatically I dropped the
match. The pain brought action.
“You musn’t faint! You mustn’t
faint!” I kept tellfhg myself. In
utter darkness, with the moan of the
sea and the creak of the door that
wouldn't stay closed unless locked,
I staggered for the stairs. Nothing
on earth would have made me take
the cliff path. It's raighty lucky I
didn't, as it happened.
Finally I found the stairs, missed
a step and stumbled. Down, down,
down, I rolled to the bottom. Every
second I expected someone to reach
out and grab me, I scrambled to
my feet, more careful this time, but
sobbing till I made the main floor.
My skin prickled. The middle
aisle—the door! I stumbled ahead,
straining my eyes at the shadows.
It wasn't a firefly I'd seen by that
flickering match. From beneath the I
cover of the sea chest a dead white
hand had protruded, and on it a
huge square - cut diamond had
winked at me. I’d admired it—was
it only yesterday?
Somebody was screaming terribly.
Below a door banged. Blindly I
bumped into a human being near
the entrance.
"Judy! Stop screaming! What’s
the matter, child?”
Thaddeus Quincy! In relief 1
grabbed at and nearly threw him.
Not till afterward, in the safety of
my own room, did I pause to won
der how he’d ever managed to reach
the spot where he stood unaided.
"Quick!” I cried. "He’s after us!”
"Who’s after who? What are you
talking about?”
I yanked at his arm, my one
thought to get out of the church.
"Now then,” he panted. "Who’s
after us?”
“The murderer. I — I heard it
squeak.”
"Are you crazy?”
"The door, I mean. When he ran
out of the cellar. After he killed
Roddy Lane!”
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Bright Colors and Dependable
Fabrics Distinguish Woolens
By CHERIE NICHOLAS
SMART simplicity, dependable
fabrics, "cheerio” colors; such
is the fashion formula "all set” for
now and the duration.
No cloth-wasting hems, just an
average depth; no billowing skirts,
instead a graceful width; no pocket
flaps, ingeniously contrived slits in
stead, no needless shirrings or su
perfluous gestures—it is rules of this
sort that define the technique which
designers are employing in creating
their smartest fashions.
That is really good news, for, not
withstanding the multitudinous en
forced restrictions that have come
to be in the field of costume design,
astute fashion folk feel that the new j
government regulations are defi
nitely proving to be in the interest
of good style and good taste.
The thought to hold in mind is
that whatever we buy should be
measured by standards of simple
outline and excellent fabric. It is
far better to have one garment with
long life and good lines in a depend
able material than several which
fail to give extended wear and sat
isfaction.
Because of the importance at
tached to serviceable fabrics the
suit or dress that is made of 100
per cent virgin wool is the prized
possession that is the "big news”
in the winter fashion picture. Note
the models pictured in the above
illustration for they typify the vogue
that calls for best materials styled
with utmost simplicity. Their at
tractiveness is heightened by the en
chanting color story they have to
tell.
Speaking of color, to offset the
"don'ts” in styling restrictions, de
signers are making a dramatic play
on color. A suit or a dress, be it
ever so simple, lacks nothing of
glamour and eye-appeal il it is col
orful. The little wool dresses that
are outstanding in the winter mode
are just like that—classically sim
ple and gloriously colorful. Bright,
singing reds are so universally ac
cepted they are considered as basic
as blacks or navies or browns.
There is a new warm yellow brown
in fashionable wools that is second
only to black in popularity. There
are many vibrant blues, “uni
form” blue being a special favorite.
A bronzy green and a softer grayed
green are being chosen by blondes
and brunettes alike. Then there are
the much-talked-of fuchsia shades
that stress purples and rich reds.
There is the new ginger color and
an attractive gold hue. And "win
ter white” wools make conversa
tion wherever they go.
The vogue for simplicity is artful
ly interpreted in the dress pictured
to the right in the group illustrated
above. Fashioned of Forstman 100
per cent virgin wool, it carries a
thoroughbred look that is recognized
at a glance. Note how expertly it
is detailed with unique darts in bod
ice and skirt. The accompaniment
of a huge pillow muff adds to its
chic.
Very style-right is the dress to
the left. Made of choice wool, this
gown is slim-silhouetted to a nicety.
Touches of trapunto quilting, so
popular this year, lend interest to
the simple lines. Note the tight
sleeves and the subtly molded bod
ice Each feature points to fash
ion trends of the future.
Centered in the group you see a
version of the modern business girl
—fresh, tailored, efficient, but not
too much so. Her suit of the same
high-grade virgin wool as that which
fashions the other modes is the
type that retains day-long good looks
even when given strenuous wear.
Released by Western Newspaper Union,
Leopard Trimmed
Here is a smartly styled outfit
that makes use of the popular fur
trim. Flattering, too, is the brimmed
black felt hat, rolled high on the
left side like the military sombrero
worn by the Australian. Spotted furs
are very popular this winter, and
designers are using them intriguing
ly for the entire coat, or as trim
ming, or for hat, bag and muff en
sembles.
Bib-Shaped Dickey
A bib-shaped dickey comes with
long ends that can be wrapped
around the neck like an ascot tie or
looped into a big, floppy bow.
White Gloves Seen
For Winter Wear
We will have with us this winter
white gloves in greater numbers
than for many a season past. They
look charming worn with the new
white hats that are so fashion-right
this winter.
Included in the gloves shown in
current displays you'll find perky
little short gloves with notched
wrists to wear with your suits and
your furs. These little white lamb
skin types are washable
There are also white string gloves
lined with cozy wool which will com
panion perfectly with your man
tailored tweeds. White pigskin for
gloves is this year's rage. You’ll
like, too, white capeskin gloves
with a swoop of white fur about the
wrist. Cunning are the snowy bun
ny-fur types, and it's difficult to
keep them in stock, what with every
'teen-age girl making a firm resolve
to be the happy possessor of a pair.
For the most formal and gayest of
evenings you will find lovelies that
are long, longer, longest. These have
wee pearl buttons at the wrist.
Exotic Flower Prints Are
Embroidered W ith Sequins
Just about the prettiest print
frocks that imagination might pic
ture are the new black crepes pat
terned with perhaps not more thaD
two or three huge flower prints in
gorgeous colors
But that tells only half the story
of their fascinating charm, for these
exotic flowers scintillate with multi
colored sequin embroidery. Newly
arrived, these eye-entrancing prints
have a big future before them. To
see these beautiful gowns is to feel
that you must have one.
Released by Western Newspaper Union.
Christmas Card Centennial
THE Christmas card is celebrat
ing its 100th birthday this year.
The first known example of what
has become an essential part of our
holiday celebration was published in
England in 1842 and this is the way
it looked:
The original of this card is on
display in the British museum in
London but its history is obscure.
It is said that this card was etched
by a 16-year-old English boy named
W. M. Egley but other details of the
incident are unknown.
Somewhat clearer is the record of
another Christmas card which ap
peared four years later and which
gave to its author some claim to
the title of the “Father of the
Christmas Card.” He was Sir Hen
ry Cole, later famous as a social
and educational reformer, who had
already begun applying the fine arts
to manufacture and was the pioneer
in illustrating children’s books with
woodcuts of famous paintings.
In 1848 Sir Henry sent to his
friends a Christmas greeting card.
Just where he got the idea is not
known. Possibly it was from the
greeting card issued in 1842 or it
may have been from some other
source. Lover cards and illus
trated writing paper had been popu
lar in Europe for many years. In
Germany illuminated cards were
sent on Namenstag, the feast of
one’s patron saint. In 1844 some
unknown person in the city of Leith,
Scotland, is said to have sent out
New Year’s cards to his friends
bearing a laughing face and the
words “A Gude New Year to Ye,”
but since this did not have a wide
circulation, it is doubtful if Sir
Henry got the idea there. He may
have got it from the custom of Eng
lish school boys of writing “Christ
mas pieces” on paper which they
decorated with many scrolls and
much flourish of penmanship.
But wherever Sir Henry got his
Inspiration, after deciding to send
out cards to his friends at Christ
mas time, he went to J. C. Hor
sley, a member of the Royal acad
emy in London, for the design, and
this was the result:
■ ■ ' . .. ^ ■»
The German influence may be
seen in the Germanesque style of
leafy trellises which divide the card
into three panels. The smaller side
panels show two of the acts of char
ity-feeding the hungry and clothing
the naked—and the central panel
shows three generations of a family
party at the festal board quaffing
their Christmas cheer. This card
was six by four inches, colored by
hand, and a thousand copies were
issued. For some unexplained rea
son, Horsley issued his design under
the nom de plume of “Felix Sum
merly.”
Since this card Dears tne inscrip
tion "A Merry Christmas and a
Happy New Year to You.” it can
be regarded as one of the first, if |
not the first holiday greeting card
ever printed and sent out as the,
forerunner of a custom that was |
to become world-wide. Strange to
say, Sir Henry Cole's friends were
not especially pleased at this re
membrance and it is said to have
received much unfavorable criti
cism. So he did not repeat the ex
periment and it looked as though the
Christmas card idea was to die
a-borning.
However, in the early sixties or
namented note paper and envelopes
began to appear in the stationers’
shops around the holiday season and
the use of these began to increase
each year. Next these d*”igns were
stamped in relief in the center of
a card with colored or embossed
edges decorated by stencil or by
hand. Thus the business of making
Christmas cards got under way
slowly. It was even slower in get
ting started in America and it was
not until 1873 that the beginnings
were apparent in this country.
In that year Louis Prang, a
lithographer of Boston, exhibited
samples of his flowered business
cards at the Vienna exposition. He
had an agency in London and one
of his women employees there sug
gested to him that he put a greeting
in place of the name of his firm
and issue them as Christmas cards.
This was done the next year, so
1874 marks the beginning of the
Christmas card in this country. By
1876 the Christmas card idea be
came widespread due to the exhib
its of printers and lithographers at
the Philadelphia Centennial.
By VIRGINIA VALE
Released by Western Newspaper Union.
SOME movie stars can ap
pear in public without be
ing recognized, if they choose
to, but not Gary Cooper.
Several times lately your
correspondent, doing a spot
of dog-walking, has met him
striding along one of the
streets of the neighborhood—
his New York residence is nearby.
With his hands in the pockets of his
dark blue overcoat, the hero of "For
Whom the Bell Tolls” marched past
women out doing their marketing
and nursemaids out with infants—
and left behind him a trail of people
with their heads turned, looking aft
er him. He’s so tanned and so
thin and walks so well that he'd be
noticed anywhere.
-*
Incidentally, Director Sam Wood
did a smart thing on the new Coop
er-Ingrid Bergman picture; not be
ing sure how the Hays office would
react to certain scenes, he shot two
versions of each one—one for possi
ble censor objections, one as Hem
ingway wrote it.
-*
Claire Trevor thinks a red coat is
just the thing to be murdered in.
When buying her own wardrobe for
i “Street of Chance,” a murder mys
CLAIRE TREVOR
tery in which she's working with
Burgess Meredith, she bought a
nurse’s uniform, a print dress, a
green suit—and the significant red
coat.
-*
Remember that old favorite, Matt
Moore, one of the popular screen
brothers of the movies’ silent days?
He’s working in Metro's “Half Pint
Kid”—it is his first appearance at
the studio since 1934. He’s been do
ing stage work in the meantime.
-•#
Pedro, a baby airplane, battles a
mighty mountain in a raging bliz
zard so that the mail can go through,
in one of the sequences of Walt Dis
ney’s "Saludos Amigos”; this is the
picture based on the three-month
tour of South America made by Dis
ney and a group of his artists. Don
ald Duck, Goofy and a sporty par
rot share honors with Pedro. RKO
will release the picture early next
month.
-*
Mapy Cortes and Marcy McGuire
make their Hollywood debuts in
“Seven Days’ Leave”; keep your
eye on them, for they’re discoveries
of producer Tim Whelan. Formerly
a gag man on Harold Lloyd’s pic
tures, he’s acted, written scenarios
and directed—and he discovered
Vivian Leigh, and brought to screen
prominence Geraldine Fitzgerald,
Laurence Olivier, Maureen O'Hara
and Wendy Barrie.
-*
Bill Robinson, the 64-year-old tap
dancer, returns to the screen after a
four-year absence to play the lead
ing role in 20th Century-Fox’s
"Thanks, Pal,” a cavalcade of Ne
gro music and entertainment. Re
member the delightful scenes he and
Shirley Temple used to do together?
-*
Claudette Colbert’s planning to
raffle off a lock of Joel McCrea’s
hair the next time she goes to Mex
ico. After the barber got through
with him on the set of “The Palm
Beach Story” one morning, she sal
vaged the lock, put it between sheets
of cellophane, and announced her
plans. Just why she’s waiting till
she goes to Mexico to do it she didn’t
say. After all, he’s a favorite in this
country too!
-*
Franchot Tone and his wife, Jean
Wallace, celebrated their first wed
ding anniversary during the filming
of "True to Life,” in which he stars.
The part of the celebration she’ll
remember longest is the lesson in
riding his motorcycle which he gave
her.
-*
ODDS AND ENDS—Veronica Lake,
uho died without honor in “l Wanted
Wings,” dies most heroically in “So
Proudly We Hail,” just to even things
up .. . Cecil B. DeMille’s learning to
ride a motorcycle, a sight which Holly
wood certainly never expected to see—
but his teacher accompanies him . . .
Bob Hope gels married for the first time
on the screen in “They Got Me Cov
ered"—she’s a dancer, “Gloria the Glow
Girl,” played by Marion Marion . . .
Mimi Chandler, daughter of Senator
Chandler of Kentucky, has the feminine
lead in “Henry Aldrich Plays Second
Fiddle”—perfect training for an aspir
ing starlet.