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Duke McCale, private detective, U
guarding the wedding presents at the
Bigelow mansion. He senses that old Miss
Adelaid Bigelow Is afraid of something
more serious than theft. He meets the
bride and groom-to-be. Veronica and Curt
Vallalncourt, and Veronica’s mother,
Sybil, and her brother and sister, Stephen
and Victoria. There Is a sinister under
current that McCale is quick to catch. He
discusses the situation with Ann Marrtot,
his secretary and Aancer, while they
are dining at a fashionable night club.
They are Impressed by the beauty and
charm of the club's featured singer,
Shari Lynn. Shari goes to a table and
Joins a big, handsome man—Curt Val
lalncourt!
CHAPTER V
The flash of a million golden
sparks went by their table. McCale
looked out of the corner of his eyes
and saw that a tall woman with
hair the color of spun sugar was
passing. He recognized her imme
diately. It was Karen Bigelow. She
6aw him, but gave no glance of
recognition. Her eyes were fixed
straight ahead in a cold, hard glaze
at the table where Vallaincourt sat
with the torch singer* She deliber
ately walked toward them.
“That your Karen?” Ann whis
pered.
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, I do hope there’ll be no
trouble.”
If there was, it was remarkably
well-bred and closely held. Karen
reached the table and spoke quick
ly to Vallaincourt. He looked
amazed, shaken. He turned to Shari
Lynn once, blindly. But the Lynn
girl only sat there, utterly relaxed,
her mouth a sulky sneer. Karen
took something from her bag and
handed it to Shari. She looked once
at Curt, a long, searching, smol
dering look, and turned away. Val
laincourt made a move to follow
her, but Shari caught his hand,
drawing him back. He almost stum
bled in the alcove.
It was then that McCale, swivel
ing around to the startled Ann, had
his second shock of the evening. Not
five tables away, almost hidden in
a corner, sat Stephen Bigelow.
There was a row of empty glasses
in front of him as though he had
ordered them all at one time. Yet
he did not seem to be drunk. His
eyes were sunken in that face so
prematurely cadaverous but they
glittered with a cold, sardonic
amusement that was frightening.
Ann Marriot gripped McCale's
hand in an imploring gesture.
“Let’s get out of here.”
"Maybe the fun is only just be
ginning,” he said, rising with
alacrity.
On the steps, a slight altercation
was taking place. Karen Bigelow,
swathed in ochre wool, was trying
to restrain a slightly bedraggled,
fussily dressed woman. McCale
saw that it was Sylvia Bigelow,
bulging out of a sheath of satin.
Karen was saying, “You mustn't
go in, Mother Bigelow, you just
can’t. Let me take you home."
“Get out of my way!” the older
woman said.
“I can’t let you go in. Besides,
he’s not there, Sybil. He really isn’t
there.”
"How do you know?”
"I looked.”
"You came here to see him?”
“Yes, yes—but he isn't here.
Come home with me, Sybil.”
The grotesque Sybil hesitated a
moment, her bright feverish eyes
searching Karen’s face. Then she
pushed her forcefully aside with
crushing arrogance.
The Trail Becomes
A Little Plainer
“Let me by,” she said, her voice
rising hysterically.
There was a limousine at the
curb. Karen walked to it, moving
like a sleepwalker. She got into it
without a backward glance. It
rolled away into the dark.
“Well, well.” McCale spoke as
they settled back into their taxi. “I
am more than ever convinced that
there is a nigger in the Bigelow
woodpile.”
“I should say so.” Ann smiled
wearily. “As our good pal, Rocky,
would say—everyone seems one
leap ahead of a flt."
It was still quite early. Another
night, they might have gone on to
one or another of the nightclubs,
but McCale was in no mood for it.
He knew Ann’s evening was prob
ably spoiled, though she said noth
ing. He reached for her hand, ex
pecting more of her incurable flip
pancy, but she, too, seemed sunk
in a thoughtful depression. When
they drew up before the apartment
house where she lived, she kissed
him lightly before they got out,
made no remark when he told the
driver to wait. As he fitted her key
into the outside door, she spoke.
“Drink?”
“No."
“What are you up to? Where are
you going?"
“Places ladies don’t grace with
their presence.”
"I’m willing to forget I’m a lady
for tonight."
She had a secret yen for the
seamier side, the substrata, the ob
scure.
“We won’t go- into that now,” he
said. He turned her head toward
him. “Here.”
He kissed her hard on the lips,
noticing her complete calm indif
ference. She was angry.
"Thanks ever so.”
"Oh, Lord,” he groaned, "don’t
go giving me your impersonation
of Bette Davis now. I’m going to
the Print Club to see Jerry Tate." ,
"Oh, all right. Go ahead. I know
what you’re like when you smell
blood, you hound." She searched
his face quickly. "Does it look that
bad, Duke? I seem to have been
feeling it myself all evening, though
I’ve tried to tell myself it was my
proximity to you and one of your
fabulous hunches.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Some
thing tells me there is something
very dirty afoot. It’s only breaking
out in little places here and there,
but there’s bound to be an explo
sion of some kind in the offing. I’m
short on information, baby, and a
little late on the scene. What I do.
I’ve got to do quickly.”
"Well, go ahead, but be sure
when you pass the Old Howard to
stay on the other side of the street.”
She laughed, dismissing him with a
return to her old facetiousness.
“You are a jealous wench,” he
chided her, closing the door on her
retreating figure.
“Hello, Jerry,” nid McCale.
“Having your good-night quart?”
He chuckled to himself as he got
back into the cab, giving the ad
dress of the Print Club. The Old
Howard, local landmark of bur
lesque, was a standing joke be
tween them. During a former in
vestigation, he had got himself
mixed up, almost fatally, with a
girl whose profession was appear
ing in various night-club extrava
ganzas. In the glow of infatuation
he had nearly married her. They’d
gone to New York, where he had
intended to set up an agency for
himself after the completion of his
first case in Boston, but an offer of
seven hundred dollars a week from
the producer of a higher type of en
tertainment had estranged them.
He just couldn't see himself as the
husband of a woman who was be
ing cute in front of an audience.
He was not falsely modest and,
indeed, took a rather harsh, cynical
attitude toward vice. However, that
affair was permanently wrecked.
His inamorata had gone into her
show, got her seven hundred per
week, and McCale had given him
self one big horse-laugh. He had
retraced his steps to the Hub, start
ing his business there, relying al
together on the success of his one
case to get him going.
A Newspaper Man
Gives the Lowdown
He lit a cigarette and sat with his
feet up on one of the adjustable
seats of the taxi as it bumped along
Cambridge street. He thought he
had done rather well in the time
he had spent in Boston, in spite of
obstacles such as his decision not
to take divorce cases, not to hold
out on the police, not to get In the
way of rival agencies He had man
aged to keep his head above water
and had acquired a reputation of
honesty and discretion besides. His
lip curled in self-derision as he
laughed in the face of his own ex
pansive ego.
"No sense being so damned com
placent, boy.” He was talking to
himself like a Dutch uncle. "So far,
you haven’t got much forrader on
the problem at hand."
He sighed unhappily as the cab
drew up with a screech of brakes
before a tall, gray office building
Between this and another older
structure was a narrow alley, at
the back of which could be seen a
faintly lighted doorway. McCale
made for this. From behind the
stark walls on each side of him, he
could hear the rumble and roar of
machinery, for the presses of the
biggest newspaper in town had their
home there.
The Print Club, where pressmen
and reporters gathered to drink and
converse throughout the night, was
on the third floor of the narrow
edifice at the end of the alley. Duke
opened the door and went up the
winding iron stairs to the bare, un
decorated rooms which were fur
nished with square wooden tables
and chairs of the kitchen variety,
McCale went over to the bar and
asked for Jerry Tate. The barman
nodded in the direction of the
third room, raising a quizzical eye
at McCale's formal attire. McCale
threw him a hard, deliberate scowl,
and made for the door. Just inside
it, a young, irascible, nervous
looking man sat alone at a table,
playing solitaire. He did not look
up as McCale sat down facing him.
“Hello, Jerry," said McCale.
“Having your good-night quart?"
“Hi, sleuth." he said in a rasping
voice. “Where have you been—all
dressed up? Is there a convention
you had to attend?"
“Out to dinner.”
•'Well, well. Times have
changed."
“Isn’t it the truth! But you see.
I haven’t forgotten the old days. I
come straight from the lap of luxury
to visit my old pals.”
“I’m all agog.” The dark fellow
poured himself a finger of whisky
and swallowed it in one gulp. “No
kidding, Duke, I’m glad to see you.
However, you’ve probably got an
axe to grind. So give while I’m still
sober.”
“As usual I’m after Information.”
"So—”
“About a great big, husky, hand
some young man named Vallain
court.”
Jerry Tate gave a low whistle
and fixed McCale with a baleful
glance.
“So they've called in the Ogpu?”
“Who?”
“The Bigelows. Who else? How
much you soaking them?"
“Now, see here, Jerry. I haven’t
said—”
“You don’t have to. I don’t have
to be a detective—not even a lousy
reporter—to put two and two to
gether. What I can't get over is
why they’ve let it slide along to this
late day. You're a bit on the tardy
side, aren’t you?"
“I’ll say. The wedding is next
week, so I'm running around in cir
cles—but fast. What can you tell
me about him?”
“Very little, I'm afraid. He hits
the high spots, does a lot of gam
bling, plays around fast and loose.
Spends lots of dough.”
“Where does he get it?”
“Search me.”
“Oh, come now.”
“Well, rumor has it that it comes
from the Bigelows mostly."
“I doubt that.”
Tate shrugged. "Some other old
gal, then."
“What about his antecedents?”
"Don’t know. Springs from Chi
cago, I’m told.”
“How did he get aboard the May
flower—that is, how did he burrow
his way into the bosom of the Bige
low family?”
“Well, now, let's see. First time
I remember him around the Gay
White Way, he had Victoria Bige
low in tow. Vicky seemed to have
the upper hand there for a while.
Then there were whispers—very
soft—but whispers, my friend, that
Mrs. Stephen Bigelow was interest
ed—in a purely platonic way, we
hope."
“The beauteous Karen.”
Stephen Bigelow
Is Discussed
"It you like that type—pardon
me.”
‘‘Oh. well, it I had to be cast
away on a desert island or if some
rainy afternoon—or—”
“That’s it—just or—To proceed.
That little romance was short-lived.
Don’t ask me why."
“Maybe Stevie got wind of it.”
"Stephen Bigelow? That washed
up Romeo. One look from Karen
or Mother Sybil would squelch him.
I’ve seen them all together. It was
like a peek at the motive behind
Lysistrata—”
“Oh, my Lord. If you’re going to
quote—”
“I’ll spare you. Speaking of
Mama though, she had her day in
the sun, too. She was here and
there giggling and gooing over him
for quite some time. Nice set-up.
eh?”
Young Tate surveyed the table
top with wise old eyes. He shook
his head. “He finally did get around
to Veronica. Right through the
family to the pot of gold.”
“Kind of roundabout, you think?”
“Now, I don’t know. It may be
he thought he was being clever.”
McCale rose to go. “You don’t
know of any tie-up between him
and Shari Lynn, the singer that’s
doubling at the Abbey and Latin
Quarter shows?”
“Nothing I can vouch for. They
seem to be on pretty good terms.
By the way, I do know that pres
sure was brought to bear some
where along the line over a bit of
gossip Watts printed in his column.
Orders went through to squelch
anything more of the sort that
might come under the snooping
eye.”
"Which only shows that the great
can buy protection.”
"Oh, well. Come the revolution.”
"Just. Well, thanks, old boy.”
"For what?”
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Practical Comer Dressing Table
With Triple Mirror Is Easily Made
By Ruth Wyeth Spears
OTHER HALF OF -W H ' ~ “36 -
I PLYWOOD SQUARE \\ / '
,CWAHE»-SHELF $£
«*\ viL
cvrV) *
FRONT OFX
TABLE \
LIGHT BEHIND 'J«x
SWAG DRAPE
ROD AND RINGS
UNDER FRONT FRILL
IF YOU are having trouble see
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hair-do, here is a dressing table
that solves the problem. It fits
into a corner and is so designed
that you can sit up close to the
triple mirror.
It Is easy to make from a thirty-six
inch square of plywood which also pro
vides the material for the useful over
head shelf.
• • •
This practical idea is described more
fully in SEWING Book 8 which also con
tains illustrated directions for more than
thirty other things to make for your home.
A copy of Book 8 may be obtained by
sending 15c with name and address di
rect to:
MRS. RUTH WYETH SPEARS
Bedford Hills, N. Y. Drawer 18
Enclose 15 cents for Book No. 8.
Name_
Address __
I . : -
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Stays fresh .on your pantry shelf
J’&l yoWL (pBA&onaL Saavuhf.
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“I’ve smoked Prince Albert in my pipe for years,” says
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~
jm msrnm
“l like the way Prince
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rolling and straight too.”
L
