Duke McCale, private detective, hav
established an enviable reputation In Bos
ton In a short time by solving some
difficult cases. He Is consequently sur
prised and chagrined when Miss Ade
laide Bigelow, extremely wealthy and
aristocratic old lady, engages him to
guard the presents during the festivities
surrounding her niece’s wedding. McCale I
accepts the commission only because he
senses that Miss Bigelow Is afraid of
something, and that she wants a com
petent detective around the houge in case
of some outbreak. "If something were
stolen, If something did happen, you'd
have to Investigate, wouldn’t you?” in
quires Miss Bigelow, meaningfully. Mc
Cale grasps the obvious hint.
CHAPTER II
A nursemaid’s Job to a lot of iced
tea spoons. '‘Phooeyl” The big
young man bitched his long legs
over an arm of the chair and snort
ed in Irritation. ‘‘Holy Mike! What
are we—broke? I thought we were
definitely out for the big stuff—no
more small time. I run my
legs off getting dope on this Val
laincourt guy—and what for? What
has the bridegroom got to do with
seeing that the friends of the fam
ily don’t snitch all the silver plate?
I suppose you expect him to run
around the corner to the hock shop
with the punchbowl between the
ceremony and the reception.”
Ann Marriot came in on the last
part of the harangue. She set a
coffee percolator on the desk, and
busied herself with cups and sau
cers.
‘‘Keep your shirt on, Tiny,” she
said to the big fellow. “Duke has a
hunch. Why not let him do the
talking? We only work here.”
Rocky made appropriate noises,
adding, “So this is a conference?”
“What did you think it was—the
wedding breakfast?*
“All right, all right. So Duke has
a hunch. Go ahead, master-mind.
Go into your trance and tell us all.”
McCale helped himself to a sand
wich. “There isn’t anything defi
nite, Rocky. The old lady Bigelow,
aunt of the bride, comes in here to
hire special service—that of guard
ing the wedding gifts. That’s her
story. But look here. She doesn't
want half a dozen men planted
here. She’s after only one incon
spicuous man; not for the day of
the wedding, but starting now—for
the duration. That in itself is
screwy. Besides that, she doesn't
want the police and she’s turned
down operators from all the big
agencies. To top it off, she acts as
though the Four Horsemen of the
Apocalypse were tracking her
down.”
Rocky's eyes narrowed. ‘‘Skip
ping the mythology, maestro, I
think I do see a glimmer of light.
In other words, she doesn’t give a
hang if the wedding feast is lousy
with kleptomaniacs. She’s got oth
er troubles.’’
“Exactly.”
"Go to the head of the class,”
•aid Ann.
“Well, where do we come in?"
McCale accepted coffee from Ann
and lit a cigarette. He spoke into
the first puff of smoke.
"You’ve got me there. I’m not
sure the lady knows herself, but
it’s certain she wants someone
around. We’re elected, anyway. So
my first move is a file on the family
and the dashing bridegroom, just
in case. What did you get on Curt
Vallaincourt?”
Mystery Surrounds
Vallaincourt
“Not much, I’m afraid.” Rocky
flipped open a notebook. "Showed
up around these parts about a year
ago. He’s from New York City, or
so he says. Definitely not Harvard
nor Blue Book. Seems to have plen
ty of dough. Lives in a swank
apartment on the Riverway. Doesn’t
work. Goes everywhere with the
society crowd. The gals all do cart
wheels whenever he shows up any
where. Anyway, he’s marrying
twenty million dollars next week.
Make anything mysterious out of
that?”
McCale shrugged. "Plenty if I
wanted to let it run away with me.”
' He turned to Ann. "Did you line
up the Bigelows for me?”
"Well,” she began, “the Perkinses
and the Bigelows go right back
long before the Tea Party—if that’s
the sort of thing you want.”
"Skip that. Bring us up to date.”
"Okay. The money all comes
from cotton mills in Lowell, and
clipper ships and the Oriental trade
before that. The Perkinses and the
Bigelows intermarried, and so on.
Adelaide Bigelow, our client, and
her brother, Joel, are and were,
respectively, the last of the line.
Adelaide never married. Joel mar
ried twice. His first wife is dead.
Is that clear?”
"Perfectly.”
"Joel’s second wife, Sybil, is ap
parently not of the royal purple.
Her family only seems to go back
a generation or two. Probably she
was considered fast or nouveau
riche or something, as she was a
widow when he married her. She’s
a lot younger than he, too.”
“Where did you get the nouveau
riche stuff?”
"Oh, I didn’t. Just surmise. In
fact, I don’t know whether she has
any money of her own, or not. He
was seventy when he died, five
years ago, and she was forty-three
then. She had two children by her
first marriage, a son. Stephen, and
a daughter, Victoria. Their name
was Bennett, but he adcpted them,
and they changed to the Bigelow
surname.”
"Then Veronica, the bride, is a
daughter of this second marriage?”
“No. The first Mrs. Bigelow died
in childbirth—that is, in giving birth
to Veronica. Hie old gentleman
married Sybil Bennett three years
after. Am I bawling this up?”
“No, indeed. It’s very clear. Go
on.”
“There's not much more. Stephen
was married two years ago. He
didn't go to Harvard or *Groton, like
the rest of the Bigelows. M.I.T., I
believe. He’s an airplatie designer
at present He married a girl from
St. Louis—Swedish descent, but so
cial and all that. A Karen Cristofen.
Not much fuss around here about
it.”
“What’s that?" He picked up a
folded square of paper that had
fluttered from her lap to the floor.
“Oh, I nearly forgot that. It’s a
rotogravure cut of Veronica Bige
low from the Sunday Herald of a
few weeks ago.”
McCale unfolded it and spread it
flat on the top of the desk. The
likeness of a very pretty girl looked
up at him. It was a carefully light
She held op a long legal envelope
that had been lying beside the
model.
ed study of the photographer’s con
ception of how a well-groomed,
quiet, aristocratic young woman
should pose.
“That really doesn’t do her jus
tice, I should say,” mused Ann. “1
understand she has gorgeous red
hair and a beautiful figure.”
“Well, we shall see,” said Duke,
handing it back to her. “Tuck it
away with the rest of the data and
transcribe Rocky’s notes for a file
on Vallaincourt. I’m due at the
ancestral mansion for tea with Miss
Adelaide at five—or thereabouts.”
“Wheel” It was Rocky. “No
blesse oblige and old pewter mugs.”
“Quiet, stooge. You and Ann hold
the fort here. I don’t even know
whether our client expects me to
take over twenty-four hours duty or
not. I’m darn sure she’s not really
worried about the wedding pres
ents. If by any chance she is, you
may have to put on crepe soles and
pussyfoot around there through the
wee small hours. I’ll call you.”
McCale Senses That
Something’s Amiss
The Bigelow house was on that
mound of Beacon street that slopes
gently to Charles street and the
Gardens. It was almost in the shad
ow of the State House dome and you
could have thrown a pebble easily
from the front stoop onto the paths
of the old Common. Four stories
high, its narrow dusty brick facade
gave the lie to the roominess and
depth within.
Adelaide Bigelow was waiting for
McCale in the drawing room on the
second floor. A butler, old and quiet
and unobtrusive, had answered his
knock and led him through a dim
hallway, preceding him up dark,
thickly carpeted stairs.
The room was at the front of the
house. Heavy red draperies at the
wide high windows were already
drawn. Frail Miss Bigelow stood
in its exact center, small and patri
cian, against the background of a
huge black marble mantel.
He bowed slightly, and as she
sank onto a Victorian sofa, he made
a half-hearted gesture of fumbling
for a cigarette. A clock on the man
tel ticked a long minute as he hesi
tated to light it
“Please do smoke,” Miss Ade
laide said in her soft, troubled
voice. “This room is rather over
powering, isn’t it? It has never
been changed since the days of my
grandparents. It takes the chil
dren to cheer it up. They should be
along soon. There was a rehearsal
at the church this afternoon.” She
sighed.
McCale struck a match, thinking
that there was something wicked
about hereditary possession and
what it could do to people’s lives.
“If you’d like to mix yourself a
drink, Mr. McCale, there’s a vari
ety of liquor on that table.” He
shook his head.
‘Til wait, 1 think.”
He was obsessed with the thought
that although her voice was calm,
unhurried, there was something
empty and trembling in her. She
seemed to be watching, too, watch
ing the way the firelight flickered
across his lean, hart^, jaw, and
reaching out to him in some un
certain way for strength.
Letting the smoke out of his lungs,
he said slowly, his voice low, “Per
haps you have something t tell me
before the others arrive.”
She looked up quickly, one fist
tightly clenched in her lap. “Oh,
no.”
“Damnation,” thought McCale.
“What is the matter with this wom
an? Or is it me? Am I getting out
of practice? I can usually catch
something significant in my own
subtle way, but this baffles me. I’ll
stake my life that there is some
thing seriously wrong in this room,
in this house. Something is going
to happen. The Irish in me tells me
so. It’s crawling up the very small
of my back. I’ve got to hgve some
thing to go on.”
She rose and walked past him to
the door, her dress rustling like dry
leaves. “I want you to see the
wedding gifts,” was all she said,
closing the door of her mind sharp
ly in his face.
A quick black anger flared up In
him. His impulse was to stalk from
the house, but reason held him, rea
son and the disturbing unrest that
had remained in his brain and
nerves ever since her visit to his
office that morning. He followed
her downstairs.
Heavy double doors intricately
carved in designs of fruit opened
off the lower hall into an immense
dining room. There was faded
scenic paper on the walls and huge
sideboards against opposite sides of
the room. Two exquisite crystal
chandeliers, wired now for electri
city, hung over a long narrow table.
Along the dado which outlined the
room, a dozen or more Adam chairs
arched their dignified backs. Table
and sideboards were loaded with
silver, lamps, expensive glassware;
rare, beautiful, odd, pretentious
gifts for the bride and groom.
McCale walked around the dis
play slowly, nodding at Miss Bige
low’s remarks: “Very valuable; an
heirloom; priceless,” and so on. He
marveled at the value placed on
some simple piece, shuddering at
the ostentatiousness of others. He
was ready to grant the necessity of
protection for this collection, was
beginning to push away the odd
hunch he had been playing all day,
when he felt, rather than saw, a
sudden change in his client.
A quiver rippled over her frail
shoulders. Her hands fluttered help
lessly as she came to a sudden fro
zen stop. They had reached the far
end of the table. He heard her gasp
and looked down to see the strang
est gift of all.
It was a model, to scale, of a
small modernistic house, set in
miniature landscaped grounds.
Complete with casement windows,
sun deck, glass-walled patio, it was
an architect's dream of the plus
ultra in a civilized dwelling place.
There was even a tiny roadster on
the curved highway, a swimming
pool in the rear, a statue in the
small, geometrically plotted gar
den. The model had evidently been
on display somewhere, for an en
graved card attached to one corner
of the base read:
Model of 1942 House—The Nest
Crystal Cove, Nahant
Architect—Christopher Storm
Beside McCale. Miss Bigelow
swayed. Her face blanched. With
eyes half-closed, she reached for
and held up in her trembling fingers
a long legal envelope that had been
lying beside the model. From it,
she took a folded document, opened
it slowly. Over her shoulder, Duke
saw it was a deed, ceding the prop
erty and buildings of Christopher
Storm at Crystal Cove, Nahant,
Massachusetts, to Curtin Vallain
court.
Beautiful Blonde
Enters the Scene
Wordlessly, as McCale bit his lip
to keep silent, Adelaide Bigelow re
placed the deed in its envelope. She
turned slowly, motioning him to
leave the room with her.
The bright brilliance of "The
Firebird” rippled through the gloom
of the upper hall on a shaft of yel
low light from the open drawing
room door. Someone was playing
the Stravinsky and playing it well.
McCale, following Miss Bigelow in
side, saw that the room was now
occupied by three women and a
man.
As his client drew him forward,
to the woman at the piano. She
was exceedingly beautiful in a al
most cinematic way. Her body was
long and thin and exquisitely draped
in a white jersey tea-gown, the wide
sleeves of which swung rhythmical
ly as she played. The high cheek
bones of her face shadowed the
faintest of hollows. You could have
swept the floor with her lashes, be
hind which glowed humorous Dlue
eyes. Her mouth was sensuous, and
thick with vermilion lipstick. As if
all this were not enough, hair the
color of flax hung in a long bob to
her shoulders.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
THE REVOLT
President Truman is a President
among Presidents! He has just
come out openly with a statement
that he considers fishing a waste of
time!
_•
He caught some fish on the Ber
muda trip without posing for photo
graphs. This supplemented a simi
lar thumbs down on newsreel pic
tures of him holding a fish in Puget
Sound last year. What’s the Presi
dency of this country coming to,
anyhow?
We think Harry Truman lost the
fishermen’s vote by this attitude.
But he more than offset it by gain
ing the vote of their wives.
•_
It has been an inviolable custom
for Presidents to act as if they liked
fishing, no matter how they really
felt. Tradition has required that any
White House occupant get himself
into fishing regalia, go fishing and
invite the photographers.
No President ever looked as sad
In fishing clothes as Cal Coolidge,
but we loved him for it. Herb
Hoover never seemed the type in a
trout brook, but it helped with the
votes.
_•_
Roosvelt was a great one for
photographic angling. Grover Cleve
land is better known as a fisher
man than as a ruler. Even Hard
ing fished in response to the public
demand. But now comes a Presi
dent who says: "I say it is spinach
and the heck with it!"
•
Personally, we think Harry is an
old fresh-water, Missouri type fish
erman who can go for bullheads
and catfish, but thinks nothing else
counts. But we welcome his posi
tion. It may be that nothing would
do America more good today than
less fishing. It certainly must inter
fere with reconversion.
_•_
Truman might make a tremen
dous hit by a White House state
ment declaring that fishing takes
too much time, that it is far too
unproductive, that it encourages de
ceit, causes pneumonia, breeds al
coholism and, furthermore, that
most fishermen go fishing to avoid
necessary work around the house.
_•_
The fisherman never lived who
was 100 per cent honest and reliable.
Fishing makes liars of the best of
us. It is a racket conducted for the
benefit of bait salesmen, tackle
stores and rowboat renters. Long
live Harry Truman. (Hi Phillips
has wasted most of August trying
to catch one striped bass.—Editorial
explanation.)
• • •
Desire
Let me build me a house by the
side of the road—
(If those race tracks are com
plete) ;
A house unpretentious but still a
home
That won’t balk some racing meet;
I crave a home of the modest type,
With fireplace quite new—
(If the builders of some new grand
stand
Can spare a plank or two!)
Oh, I yearn for my home by the
side of the road,
With four walls, even three—
(If the boys who are building the
paddock sheds
Will waive their priority) —
A little house where the sun comes
in
And contentment seldom fails—
(If the lads who are rushing the
clubhouse plant
Can spare me a couple of nails!)
Oh I care not for any handsome
manse—
Just a plain four walls will do—
(If the contemplated amusement
park
Doesn’t need stuff P. D. Q.)
All I want’s a place fit to hang my
hat.
And I’ve got an outside chance—
(If the football parks and the new
fight clubs
Plan no superdoopcr plants!)
Oh, give me a shack by the side of
the road
(If the play world has enough) —
A little place for the wife and me
(If no night club needs the stuff);
Just a simple hut with a chimney
there
Which need not be extra thick—
(If the race tracks, parks and the
honky-tonks
Will just give a guy a brick!)
• • •
The influences of the movies on
child life is getting pretty terri
fying. We heard a nine-year-old
child decline an offer to go to a
picture the other night because,
‘‘I’m sick of murders with just
guns and hatchets; I Wanna wait
for a good poison story.”
• • •
The time seems at hand when we
shall hear of a peace conference
delegate being decommissioned for
somebody with more modern arma
ments.
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