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Mannfactnred and Sold by
THE CLINTON MACHINE CO.
Clinton. Michigan.
ONE COMPLETE SET of 5.50-44 Firestone
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BRODAHL JACKSON CO.
Wahoo Neb.
FARMS AND RANCHES_
FOR SALE—160 acre farm near Creston.
Ia.. level to moderate rolling. 120 acres in
cultivation. Rock road, V* mile to church,
1 ml. school. RFD. Membership R.E.A.
Large house and barn, plenty water, a
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acre. W. J. IIAMMANS. Alton. Iowa.
1*0 ACRE farm. 2 miles north of Fairfax,
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EUGENE F. YOUEL Fairfax. Missonrl
FOR 8ALE. Immediate possession. 920
acre, well improved ranch. Close to town.
130 acres level wheat land. All fenced,
with two wells. Winter feed on ranch.
Price $20 with good terms.
Write C. S. POLLARD, Farnam, Nebraska.
EASTERN NEBRASKA FARMS
CASS COUNTY
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WALTER J. WUNDERLICH
*1«1 or 2171 - - Nehawka, Nebr,
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ro* c
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M£HENTOfc ANO
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^^H^gerald brown
f w N.U. FI ATURC •
Duke McCale, private detective, le in
vestigating the murder ol Curt Vallaln
court, who was about to marry Veronica
Bigelow, heiress to thirty million dollars.
McCale extracts some damaging admis
sions from Shari Lynn, singer and former
wife of Vallalneourt. Later Victoria,
Veronica’s sister, calls at his office and
asks his help in recovering some let
ters from Vallalncourt's apartment. Me
Cale tells her that the letters are not
In the apartment, bnt hints that Shari
Lynn may have them. Because of cir
cumstantial evidence, the police believe
that Veronica Is the murderer. McCale
does not think so, but has not yet formed
a conclusion. There are many contra
dictory clues.
CHAPTER XI
The telephone was ringing insist
ently. McCale rolled over, opened
one eye, swore, and finally grabbed
the extra pillow, bundling it under
his head. He fumbled with the light,
snapped it on, lifted the telephone
off its cradle.
"McCale speaking," he growled.
"Rocky, boss."
“Where are you?”
"Comer of Aspinwall, opposite
the Vallaincourt den. Didn’t you
tell me to keep a lookout?”
"Oh, yeah. All quiet?"
“All quiet now. Listen, boss,
’long about five this morning—”
"All right What happened at
five o’clock?”
Sleep still hugged him tightly and
there was an unreasonable barb in
his voice.
"Okay, okay. Around five, a girl
showed up with a key to the Val
laincourt ron-day-voo.”
"Who was it?”
"Hold on to your hat, now. It
was Victoria Bigelow."
"Victoria Bigelow?" Surprise
Jerked him wide awake.
"Uh uh. She was after some let
ters of hers, she said.”
“Well, well.” Victoria had cer
tainly had a busy night, he thought
"The place was clean, like you
said. No secret panels, either. I—
that is—I finally helped her hunt
for them.”
“Go home and grab yourself
some grub and shuteye," said Mc
Cale. "Get here about one o’clock.
I’m going to be busy this morn
ing.”
At eight forty-five he called Ann
Marriot on the telephone.
To her cool ’'hello," he said,
"Good morning. This is your boss."
"Oh, good morning, dar—boss.
Anything important? I’m on my
way in about five minutes.”
"No hurry. In fact, this is just to
say you might shop for an hour if
you want to and then do an errand
for me. I want you to drop in on
Shari Lynn. Suite 802."
", . » And pray what shall I use
as an excuse for dropping in, as you
say? Don’t tell me you’re sending
me along to smooth the way for you
—a more subtle approach, so to
speak?”
"No—and that’s comedy enough
for now, my girl." He grew serious.
"I saw her myself late last night,
for that matter.”
"You rat!”
"I'd like a line on how she is this
morning. You know—sad, gay, ex
pectant? Ask her for her auto
graph. Anything to get in. Talk
about Vallaincourt if you can with
out being thrown out."
"That all?”
“Yes. Just a check-up to satisfy
a point that's been nagging me.
She’s fairly transparent. It ought
to be easy.”
“Oh, yes, indeed. It sounds too,
too easy. All right. I'll do my best.
See you when?”
"About noon. Here. ’Bye, sweet.”
He dressed leisurely and careful
ly. He felt like a twentieth century
warrior going forth to civilized bat
tle. He knew that to solve this
problem, he had first to break down
the buttresses of tradition that sur
rounded the Bigelows. He knew he
was up against something that even
the overestimated awe, or if vou
will, majesty, of the law could not
upend. He had to break down that
smug superiority which was so se
cure in the belief in its own intelli
gence that it made its own rules as
it went along. He rather pitied
them momentarily, and smiled
wryly at the pure cynicism of his
own thoughts.
Sybil Becomes
Implicated
On impulse he dialed police head
quarters and asked for Donlevy.
After a slight delay, the curt, inci
sive voice of the lieutenant came
through.
"Donlevy here."
"McCale, lieutenant."
“Oh—sure. Not out yet hunting
the foul criminal?"
“On the way. I’d like to know
what the Bigelow women were wear
ing when they came in yesterday
outside of the green thingamajig
Veronica sported."
"Of course. Didn’t I mention
that?”
"No."
“Well, here it is. Victoria, an
oiled-silk affair, yellow; Karen, a
black velvet suit, black cape; Sybil,
a light brown raincoat. That help?"
“Uh uh. It was Sybil, then, who
walked away into the fog.”
“You think so? She claims to
have been at the drugstore."
“Not for my money."
“I kind of think not. That fam
ily! It’s almost impossible to get
them to admit anything. They're
all protecting one another. What?
I’ve had a devil of a time and got
nothing so far.”
"You'll get less, very likely, now
they’ve had a chance to compare
notes.”
There was a pause. Then Don
levy said, almost cheerfully, "I
guess Veronica’s our girl.”
“You really think so?”
"The Lynn woman’s evidence will
put the finish on it.”
"Oh.” McCale pondered over that
for a moment, then decided* to add,
"I’d keep a sharp watch on the Lynn
woman.”
"Why?" Donlevy’s Interest was
immediate.
“I would. That's all.”
"Now, Duke, you must have a
reason. Why be mysterious?"
"I’ll drop in to see you later in
the day. Okay?"
"By all means."
McCale dropped the receiver onto
its cradle. An emotion of concern
crowded his mind and he sighed a
sigh of sheer desperation. His brain
seemed dulled, inactive, depressed.
There was something there, some
thing that would make it clear. It
was evading him. Until he could
grasp it, he must blunder along,
without help, without even the con
fidence of the ones he was trying
to help. Damn the medieval re
serve of such people, anyway.
“I want those letters. Do I get them?"
The police commissioner had
come and asked a few pertinent
questions, stayed barely an hour,
and departed. At eight o'clock the
district attorney had attempted to
bully the police in charge as well
as the suspects. He had left at
eleven in a huff.
The body had been removed to
the morgue and laboratory for full
er examination. Lieutenant Donlevy
and his squad had finished with
the preliminaries. The hungry press
had been thrown a bone to nibble
on. Men had been sent to Vallain
court’s apartment to look over pa
pers and belongings for a possible
clue. The orderly hubbub of official
procedure was over, for a time at
least. The night had been quiet—
the quiet of nervous exhaustion per
haps, but quiet.
Then, at nine this morning, a
plainclothes man had interrupted
breakfast with an urgent request
for Veronica. He was politely in
sistent that she must come at once
to the office of Lieutenant Donlevy
for further questioning. She was
not to be alarmed. It was a matter
of routine. But—
Miss Adelaide Agrees
To McCale's Plan
The library was dim and still and
only the sound of a piano being
played in the drawing room up
stairs came through the oppressing
quiet as Adelaide Bigelow finished
her recital of events, and looked at
McCale sadly. McCale did not
speak for a minute The weight of
his senses closed down on him like
a stone. He wondered idly whether
it was the gloom or the helpless
ness in the old lady’s voice that
caused this feeling of futility. He
wondered why Karen Bigelow was
playing the Liszt Preludes so pas
sionately—those romantic things so
richly interlaced with religious
mysticism. A strange woman,
Karen, but merely more obviously
strange than the others. Only the
woman before him. resigned, deter
mined, with great courage, seemed
to belong in that house. Her voice
brought him awake again with a
start.
“What are we going to do?” she
asked.
“I think,” he answered, “that I
may be able to see a little further,
get a little more than the police
were able to. That is, if I can gain
their confidence. If you will ask
them to come in”—he rose as she
got up, smiled and added—“one by
one, if you please. It might be eas
ier that way.”
“To trap them, I suppose,” she
murmured, surprisingly.
“Why, of course.” He bowed, the
smile leaving his lips.
He felt the subtle antagonism
leap between them. Then she came
over to him, impulsively putting a
thin patrician hand on his sleeve,
“Forgive me,” she whispered.
"It’s only that I am so upset I
know how things must be from now
on. I see a whole way of life dis
appearing before my eyes, an em
pire slipping away. I know—”
"That below the surface, things
have not been what they seemed
for a long, long time,” he inter
jected, keeping the pity carefully
from his tone of voice, for he knew
that this she would not have.
“Yes—yes. You won’t need me
again?” She spoke as if that would
be abhorrent to her.
"No. It is better that I do my
—dirty work alone.” He smiled
once more, as he watched her leave
the room.
He stood by the fireplace, staring
moodily into the ashes of last
night’s fire, until he heard the door
open and close behind him. When
he turned, he saw Stephen Bigelow
standing irresolute and nervous in
the gray morning light.
It was clear, as he sat down in
the chair opposite McCale. that he
was completely shaken. Although
it was no doubt partly hangover,
McCale intuitively sensed that not
a little of it was due to the fact
that he was on his own. A complex
lad, this one, he thought, riddled by
complexes. He had seen enough
of Stephen to know that in spite of
his high-nosed arrogance, he was
lost without the support of his wife
and silly mother. He pondered as
to which one of them had been clev
er enough to send him in first, so
that either or both could expertly
deny any break he might make.
In a business like way, McCale
said, "I am willing to take the po
lice report of your actions yester
day afternoon verbatim. However,
I’m more interested in something
that may not seem relevant to the
murder. If you will only have con
fidence in me, I can assure you it
will probably go no further. I ask
it entirely in the hope of helping
your foster sister, Veronica, out of
a ticklish situation. I know, of
eourse, that you are eager to be of
any assistance possible to her."
“Oh, quite." The answer came
readily enough. McCale studiously
Ignored the contemptuous curve of
the lips that accompanied the re
mark.
"Very well, then. I’d like to know
if you had known Curt Vallaincourt
before he became engaged to Veron
ica. What you know of him. What
you thought of him, to be exact.
How, for instance, did it happen
that he came so suddenly to this
city to be taken up immediately by
your family? I’d welcome anything
you can tell me."
He saw relief come over Ste
phen’s face, relief that the question
was not the one he had feared. Ste
phen smiled—a thin-lipped, uneasy
smile.
"I met him in Chicago,” he said
calmly, "about six years ago. Vic
toria was running around with him.
I had gone there for a couple of
months. Just to renew a few old
acquaintances."
"Anyone in particular?"
Stephen Tells of
His Chicago Trip
"No.” His hands shook a little
as he fumbled for a cigarette and
lighted it. "Just a couple of fellows
I had known in the navy. At one
time, you see, things were not very
—well, pleasant at home. I ran
away and Joined up. I made a few
friends while I was in the service.
I corresponded with them from
time to time after I got out. We
are not a particularly happy group.
McCale, en famille, so to speak. So
when things got boring again, and
—er—a little squawky, 1 decided to
hop out to Chicago and visit a chap
who had since married and done
quite well for himself.”
"Sort of run away again, is that
it?” McCale’s grin was sardonic.
He thought—as you’ve run out on
everything unpleasant since you
were a kid, I can bet.
"Well, I suppose you could call it
that."
"You took Victoria with you?”
"No, she came to fetch me back,
as it were. All is forgiven, you
know. That sort of thing. Victoria
had met Curt in some of her wan
derings I had met Karen by then
and didn’t want to leave until there
was an understanding of some sort
between us. We stayed almost a
year, until I married her. Vicky
corresponded with Vallaincourt for
a while after she came home. It
was she who finally got him here.
Ran into him by accident in New
York or something, and she brought
him along for a visit. He just
stayed, that’s all.”
He settled back in the chair, a
little less jangled, as if a job had
been done and rather well done.
McCale settled back in his chair
and looked at Stephen Bigelow with
unconcealed disgust. Then he de
cided to try a shot in the dark and
see what it would hit
"Of course you know that Curt
Vallaincourt was married at soma
time In hi» lively career.”
"Oh, yes. He was,” Stephen ad
mitted, completely off guard.
"To Shari Lynn?”
"Sarah Linsky to you,” Bigelow
blurted, then bit his lip, reading
the trap.
"You knew her, too?”
(TO BE CONTINUED)
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