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THE
BLACK
PIGEON
AUSTIN



1817
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BEQUEST OF
ORMA FITCH BUTLER, PH.D., '07
PROFESSOR OF LATIN


82
A7353 b
1929


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THE BLACK PIGEON


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BLACK THE
PIGEON
By
ANNE AUSTIN
VIE
2
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS


COPYRIGHT 1929 BY
N. E. A. SERVICE, INC.
COPYRIGHT 1929 BY
GREENBERG, PUBLISHER, INC
First Printing, March 1929
Second Printing, March 1929.
Third Printing, October 1929


FOR
RUTH HOVEY





Bequest
0.4. Butler
11-21-59
DOR
THE BLACK PIGEON
1 - 28 - 39
0


PART OF FLOOR PLAN OF THE SEVENTH FLOOR OF THE
STARBRIDGE BUILDING
Facing Thirty-Fourth Street near Seventh Avenue

BORDENS
RECEPTION
ROOM WW
712
BORDEN'S
PRIVATE
OFFICE
20
CORRIDOR
SHAFT
OTHER OFFICES
OTHER OFFICES
WASH
ROOM
CORRIDOR
Sonido
52
SINGLE
OFFICE
t(0)
HAYWARDS
RECEPTIONE
ROOM
742
HAYWARD'S
PRIVATE
OFFICE
OTHER OFFICES
The above diagram shows the relative positions of the office suites occupied
by Henry P. Borden, murdered promoter, and John C. Hayward, insurance
broker. Note that the windows opening upon the narrow airshaft from both
Hayward's private office and the private office of Henry Borden are directly
opposite each other.
A-Benny Smith's desk in Borden's reception room, Suite 712
B-Large table for callers in Borden's reception room, Suite 712
C-Ruth Lester's desk
D-Borden's desk in his private office
E-Hayward's desk in his private office, Suite 742
1-Elevator nearest Borden's offices, run by Micky Moran
2-Elevator nearest Hayward's offices, run by Otto Pfuger


THE BLACK PIGEON
CHAPTER I
BLACK pigeon, its iridescent breast gleaming in
A the sunshine of the January morning, circled warily
above the open window, then fluttered to the white stone
ledge. The tiny head jerked back and forth, a brilliant
black-diamond eye cocked suspiciously, as the little three-
toed feet pattered just out of reach of the hand extended
invitingly, palm upward.
"Satan, you old humbug!” the girl laughed softly.
“Don't Ritz me! I'm sure I don't look so different this
morning that you don't know me. Is it because I have
no crumbs to give you, greedy?”
The black pigeon stood still and studied the girl, his
graceful head cocked consideringly. Then, as if reassured,
the gleaming black wings spread to the cold sunshine and
a second later the tiny red claws were gripping Ruth
Lester's forefinger.
As if they had been waiting for a signal from their
leader, whom Ruth had named Satan, a flock of pigeons
whose home was the roof of the seven-story Starbridge
Building, came swooping down upon the broad ledge of
the window outside the private office of Henry P. Borden,
to pay court to the suddenly revealed beauty of Borden's
private secretary.
Ruth, with an exultant laugh, which was rich with
new tenderness, spread her arms wide, leaning far out


THE BLACK PIGEON
of the window. In a moment she was a living pigeon
perch. On her little white hands, along her pink-sweatered
arms, on her shoulders, even on her golden head, pigeons
settled trustingly. Brown pigeons; blue-gray pigeons with
enchanting breasts of bronze and gold and purple; black-
and-white pigeons; white pigeons-no, only one that was
pure white and only one, Satan, that was inky black.
An exclamation made the girl raise her blue eyes, but
did not startle her, for she had been expecting it. Directly
across the narrow airshaft that separated the two wings of
the Starbridge Building, a broad window, exactly like the
one from which Ruth leaned, framed a young man's head
and torso.
Ruth leaned further out of the window, impetuously,
her arms reaching toward the man to whom she had be-
come engaged only the night before. Jealously, the pigeons
took wing and fluttered indignantly away-all but the
black pigeon, which clung stubbornly to her finger, his
beady black eyes flashing from the girl to the man.
"Oh, beautiful!” Jack Hayward called softly. “Little
snow princess with the sun on her golden hair! You're too
beautiful! Go put on your big yellow spectacles and slick
back your hair. I'm jealous even of Satan and he's jealous
of me. Look! I believe he'd like to peck my eyes out!”
Ruth laughed, then very gently, so as not to frighten
Satan away, she reached into the pocket of her shell-pink
sweater. In a moment she was holding the struggling
pigeon against her breast, as her quick, deft fingers
wrapped a slip of paper with a typed message"I love
you”-about one of the tiny red legs, securing it with a
bit of black silk thread.
"If you have any bread crumbs, Mr. Hayward,” she
laughed, "you may be able to learn something to your
advantage.” And she let the black pigeon flutter away.
Then, because she heard the opening of the door to the
outer office, where she was supposed to be sorting the morn-
ing mail, she drew in her golden head, and crossed the


THE BLACK PIGEON
soberly but richly furnished room where “Handsome
Harry” Borden conducted a business which had need of
every artificial aid to make it appear respectable. For
Henry P. Borden was one of those financial vultures that
prey upon the cupidity of men and the credulity of
women who have hard-earned savings or small legacies to
invest. His favorite boast to the sleek-haired, collegiate
young stock salesman who worked for him was that he
was “always within the law," but Ruth Lester, in growing
disgust, had come to hope that the law would not always
be so obligingly elastic.
But now there was no need for her to worry about
Harry Borden's crookedness or about his offensive private
life, or about anything in the world. For since exactly
twelve o'clock last night she had been engaged to be mar-
ried to John Carrington Hayward, who was listed on the
bulletin board of the Starbridge Building as "Insurance
Broker.” Broker! Ruth smiled tenderly at the boyish
bravado of that title, for Jack hardly made enough selling
insurance to pay the rent of his suite of two small offices,
and the fifteen-dollar-a-week salary to the incompetent
stenographer whom he grandly referred to as "my private
secretary.” She loved his boyish cocksureness of success,
but then she loved everything about him, every inch
of his tall, lean body, every hair on his coppery-brown
head. ...
"Hullo, Ruth! Any mail for the future President of the
United States?" a cocky, nasal young voice called from
the outer office.
Ruth smiled, a dimple which she did not have to re-
press any longer tugging at the corner of her adorable
little mouth. Then she stepped through the door that
divided Borden's private office from the big outer office
which served as a reception room for clients and as an
office for Borden's secretary and office boy.
Benny Smith, seventeen, and just beginning to be very
girl-conscious, was sprawled in Ruth's narrow-backed


THE BLACK PIGEON
doing at last, Benny! I'm being myself! Do you like Ruth
Lester herself?”
Benny rose slowly from Ruth's chair, then lifted a
crooked elbow as if to ward her off. “Gosh, woman! Turn
them lamps off me! You'll blind me! Where're your
specs? Better put 'em on, or I'm liable to get primitive!
And say, what have you done to your hair?”
"Nothing-but turn it loose!” Ruth laughed. "It's
really too long to be worn as a bob, but,”
"But gosh! You didn't have to slick it back till your
head looked like a yellow onion,” the office boy protested,
curiously angry with her. “I used to think your hair'd
pull your eyebrows out by the roots. Say! Maybe that was
what give you that scared rabbit look-your hair skinned
back like that, pullin' at your eyebrows, and them big
yellow, horn-rimmed specs of yours, coverin' half of your
face. But say, your skin looks diff'runt too—not pale and
sickly~"
Ruth opened the top drawer of her desk and took out
a box of powder, which she showed him triumphantly.
"See! Rachel-tinted powder, very heavy. See how yellow
it is? Plenty of that slapped on, and my milkmaid com-
plexion was successfully hidden. But, I've got to get to
work, Benny! Be a good infant and get me some water
for my sponge, and sharpen a bunch of pencils, won't
you?”
"Say!” Benny sputtered. “You ain't gonna shut up and
not slip me the low-down on why you done it, are you?
... To think that all this time- Gosh! I didn't even
know you had a figger!” he accused her, his eyes traveling
over her beautifully dressed little body again. "You always
wore them long-skirted, dark old things- "
"Scatter, Benny!” Ruth commanded, her cheeks very
pink, her blue eyes brimming with tender mirth. “Re-
member, this is Saturday—a half holiday. I've something
else to do than listen to you sputter 'Gee!' and 'Gosh!'


THE BLACK PIGEON
down my neck. No, I'm not going to tell you why I did
it! Take these pencils and put a long point on each of
them, please.”
Her competent little hands began to open the big stack
of mail. Only one letter marked "Personal” this morning-
another of those big, square, orchid-tinted envelopes with
the distinctive, angular handwriting in violet ink. The
handwriting of a woman of culture and strong character,
Ruth had decided long since. She wondered anew why the
sight of one of them made her employer so furious. The
pencil-sharpener had been grinding recklessly, but now the
sound dragged, stopped altogether.
"Say, Ruth! I guess I ain't so dumb! I know why you
made up to look like a Lillian Gish slavey in specs and
long dresses.”
"Clever boy!” Ruth laughed, laying aside the orchid-
tinted letter, unopened of course. She was too happy to
scold Benny this morning.
"You done it so's you could keep your job!” Benny
deduced triumphantly. "You knowed-all right! knew
that the minute 'Handsome Harry lamped you he'd fall
for you like a ton of bricks. Bet that's the reason too that
you've worked so many places since you got out of busi-
ness college, ain't it?”
"Benny, you've been meddling in my desk again!”
"Aw, I ain't either! I just happened to see a bunch of
letters of recommendation clipped together and I glanced
over 'em,” Benny protested. “Say, they had me goin'
sure! I couldn't figger out why a whiz of a steno like you
worked two or three weeks in a job and then had to blow,
and why the guys you worked for give you such swell
recommendations if they didn't wanta keep you. I guess
they all tried to 'make you, didn't they?"
"Shut up, Benny, and get to work!” Ruth scolded, her
cheeks scarlet.
"Yes, sir, 'at's the ticket, sure's you're born!” Benny
applauded his own powers of deduction. “Gosh! I can just


THE BLACK PIGEON
imagine! Married man hires you—and who wouldn't? I'm
askin' you! Wifey blows in, lamps new secretary-wham!
‘Either she goes or I go!' wifey lays the law down. 'Nen-
'I'm awful sorry, Miss Lester, but-er-necessary to re-
trench-do without a secretary for a while. Best of recom-
mendations, of course— All 'at stuff! Am I right, fair
frail?” Benny concluded, with an impudence he had never
been interested enough to show her before.
Ruth's golden head nodded slowly. Yes, Benny was
right. No boy of seventeen could know how terribly ac-
curate his slangy version of her past as a business girl was.
"Sure, I'm right! Think I'll be a detective when I get
grown. I mean,” and Benny blushed violently, "now
that I am grown! Guess it was just as bad when you got a
job with a single man, wasn't it, Ruth? Guess it didn't
take any guy more'n five seconds to fall in love with you,
and more'n two weeks to work you out of a job if you
wasn't havin' any, thanks. ’At right?”
"Right!” Ruth agreed. “But do shut up, Benny. If you
don't let me do my work I'll spank you."
"Hunh!” Benny snorted. "I'd make two of you. Bet
you don't weigh mor'n ninety pounds. ... Well, I gotta
hand it to you, kid! You sure slipped something over on
'Handsome Harry.' No wonder you've stuck here for four
months. Sheiks like him don't go round fallin' in love with
girls that look Orphant Annies, dying of gallopin' con-
sumption.”
At that, joy flooded Ruth's heart, and spilled out in in-
discreet words. "One man did, Benny!”
The pencil-sharpener, which had begun to grind again,
stopped with a jerk. '“Hey! Spell that out, will you? You
ain't gone and got engaged, have you, Ruth? Or-or is
it 'Handsome Harry'?” And the boy's freckled face turned
a sudden dull crimson. "Guess I mighta knowed that
'Handsome Harry' wasn't missin' nothin'-Gosh!” The
last word was a wail of adolescent misery.
"Don't be absurd, Benny!” Ruth cried. Then she rose,
wasmaht?” Ruth a cork I'll spankmake two of all, I gotta


THE BLACK PIGEON
dram went to him. She tu into his eyes. "It is 'm engaged to
drawn to her feet by the boyish agony in Benny's face,
and went to him. She tilted his quivering chin with a fore-
finger and smiled shyly into his eyes. “It isn't Mr. Borden,
Benny. It's—can you keep a secret, Benny? I'm engaged to
Mr. Hayward. It just happenes last night, and oh, Benny,
I'm so happy I don't think I can bear it!”
The boy did a surprising thing then. He seized the
finger which was tilting his chin and pressed it hard
against his lips, while a blush ran in crimson waves from
his throat to his brow. For an instant his prominent pale
gray eyes were not the eyes of an adolescent boy, but
those of a man.
"Won't you say you're glad, Benny?” Ruth coaxed
tenderly.
"Oh, sure!” the boy mumbled. "Sure 'm glad. Why not?
He's a great guy-best-lookin' sheik in the Starbridge
Building. Gee! What a swell pair you two'll make!” He
gulped back his tears manfully. "But say, Ruth, you'd
better douse the glim before 'Handsome Harry' surges in.
I'm tellin' you,”
"Talk English for a change, Benny!” Ruth laughed.
" 'Douse the glim?'”
"Put on them yellow specs of yours and slick back your
hair like you been wearin' it,” the boy urged, with a cu-
rious sort of desperation. “Honest, Ruth "
"Mr. Borden's affections are so thoroughly engaged at
present that I don't think we need worry,” Ruth laughed.
"But to please you, Benny, I'll revert to the 'Lillian-Gish-
in-spectacles' role.”
She was reaching into the top drawer of her desk for the
big, yellow-lensed, horn-rimmed spectacles which made
her blue eyes look a sickly, pale green, when the telephone
rang.
"Pennsylvania 3500," she announced. Then, after a
pause during which she raised her eyebrows significantly
as she glanced over her shoulder toward Benny: "No, Mr.
Borden has not come in yet. . .. I don't know. I'm sorry


THE BLACK PIGEON
... What name shall I say? Oh ... Thank you!” she
hung up the receiver and shrugged. “The woman with the
lovely contralto voice. I wonder who she is. I put Mr.
Borden on the line once when she called, and he told me.
to remember her voice and never do it again. Some old
flame, I suppose. I can't help feeling sorry for her, though
why she should want him back"
She pushed back the telephone and was reaching for the
disguising spectacles when the outer door opened and
Henry P. Borden stepped into the room. Ruth swerved her
chair so that her back was turned toward her employer.
If only he would go right on into his private office, so that
she should have time to
"Morning, Miss Lester. Anything important?”
Borden was striding toward the door that led into his
private office, not vouchsafing a look at that pallid little
nonentity whose only appeal to him was that she was an
incomparable secretary.
Henry P. Borden, known along Broadway as “Hand-
some Harry” Borden, deserved both the adjective and the
slight sneer with which it was accompanied. For handsome
he undoubtedly was, in a bold, striking, black-and-white
way. If he had chosen the movies instead of dubious finance
as a career he would inevitably have been cast as the
“heavy”-the drawing-room, silk-hat type of villain. He
was tall and large, but not at all fat. Sleek, thick black hair,
into which forty years of self-indulgence and at least
twenty-years of fast living had not introduced a single
strand of white. Bold, wide, black eyes, which had a trick
of staring at a woman until her heart fluttered and her
cheeks went either pale or crimson-according to the
purity of her heart and the type of response which "Hand-
some Harry's” eyes called up in her. A stubby black mus-
tache. Extraordinarily fair skin, for a man, despite the
thick growth of beard which he shaved close twice a day.
Rather thick but well-shaped red lips, always slightly
moist, as if he had just run an anticipatory tongue over


IO
THE BLACK PIGEON
them. If rumor could be trusted, anticipation had nearly
always become realization for "Handsome Harry” Borden.
"Nothing very important, Mr. Borden,” Ruth answered,
without turning her head. Oh, if he would only go on into
his office and close the door!
But Borden paused, his hand on the knob of his door.
"Any calls?”
Ruth's hands shook a little as she adjusted her spectacles
with fumbling haste. "Only one,” she answered, in her
meek, timid little voice. "The woman with the beautiful
contralto voice. I asked her if she would leave her name,
and she said no.” She rose, gathered up the mail, the orchid-
tinted letter topping the stack, and faced her employer, in-
wardly quaking.
"That voice may sound beautiful to you, but believe me,
I'd rather listen to a riveting machine. ... Hullo! What
have you done to yourself?”
As Benny Smith had done, Harry Borden took her in,
from the top of her curl-crowned head to the toes of her
new snakeskin pumps. Nonot quite as Benny had done,
for the boy's eyes had been clean and young and frank,
while the man's eyes were bold and suddenly calculating,
after the first blankness of astonishment.
Ruth pursed her mouth, banishing the dimple and look-
ing as much as possible like the mouselike little creature he
had become accustomed to and had ignored. “I—it's just
these clothes, Mr. Borden. K-I saved some of my salary,
and—but, please, Mr. Borden, there's a letter from Hen-
drickson in Chicago. He's sold ten thousand shares of that
Nu-Gas stock, in spite of what the chemist reported—”
The potential lover vanished and the shady financier
took his place. “Hendrickson's a fool, but a damned good
stock salesman. Wire him to ”
They passed on into Borden's private office, and as her
employer gave her instructions regarding Hendrickson
Ruth laid the stack of opened letters, topped with the


THE BLACK PIGEON
II
orchid-tinted “Personal” envelope, upon the immaculate
green blotter of the flat-topped brown walnut desk. Be-
fore she reached her chair on the opposite side of the desk
Borden flipped the orchid letter aside, with a muttered
oath, then picked it up and thrust it, with an angry ges-
ture, into the breast pocket of his vest.
"I wonder if he ever answers one of those letters, and
why she keeps on writing him if he doesn't,” Ruth re-
flected, then looked up from her notebook to find her em-
ployer's eyes regarding her quizzically, calculatingly.
"Little Miss Cinderella in person!” he chuckled. “Funny
what a permament wave and a box of rouge will do for a
girl.”
“Yes, Mr. Borden,” Ruth answered meekly. "There's an
urgent letter from Nathan in Los Angeles. He's demanding
a larger commission on Bakersfield Oil, since the new field
is failing. What shall I write him?”.
Borden consented to be lured into dictation. His manner
instantly became sharp, incisive, his words rapid, but Ruth
wrote happily. Thank God, he wasn't going to annoy
her. .::
"Write me out a check for five hundred cash," the pro-
moter said at last, flinging his personal check book across
the desk to her. "And go to the bank yourself, won't you?
Then stop at Penn station and get me a drawing-room and
two round-trip tickets for Winter Heaven-train leaving
at 2:15 this afternoon. Wire the Hotel Winter Heaven for
a suite-best in the house. Reserve the rooms in the name
of Mr. and Mrs. H. P.-let's see what other surname be-
gins with a B, so the initials on my luggage will match?”
"Benton?” Ruth suggested, in a small, innocent voice.
"All right. But make a note of it on the ticket envelope
fer me, please. I was in Atlantic City one time with a tem-
porary missus, and forgot our name. It was damned
awkward. 'Mr. and Mrs. H. P. Benton,' eh? Good enough,"
he chuckled. "Guess who Mrs. Benton will be, Cinderella.”


12
THE BLACK PIGEON
atenny who iemy, who endd desperated and thean't see with
"I—I think I'd better not know, don't you, Mr. Bor-
den?” Ruth answered timidly. "Here's the check. Will you
sign it, please, and I'll go to the bank right away, before
it's jammed.”
"Little prunes-and-prisms!” Borden laughed, grasping
the small hand which extended the check. “You know
something?-I believe you've been stringing me! I don't
think you're half the timid little rabbit you've been pre-
tending to be.” He drew hard on her hand, so that Ruth's
small body was strained against the desk. “Come on! Let's
see how you really look. Take off those hideous spectacles
and let me see your eyes"
"Please, Mr. Borden!” Ruth gasped. "I-I can't see with-
out them. My eyes are so weak. And—and they blink with-
out my glasses,” she lied desperately.
It was Benny who ended the scene, a stormy-faced, sullen
Benny who jerked open the door as if he had been listening
at the keyhole.
"What the devil-?” Borden began furiously. "Have
you forgotten how to knock?”
Benny swung the door shut and slouched against it,
sullenly defiant. "There's a guy out there wantin' to see
you. Says him and his wife's been gypped outa their life
savin's—"
Borden stared at the boy as if he thought Benny had
suddenly gone crazy. Then the dark blood of anger stained
his peculiarly white skin. “Get the hell out of here, or I'll
shake your teeth down your throat! And get rid of that
man, whoever he is. You know damned well I never see a
person of that sort. . . . Wait! You'd better handle him
yourself, Miss Lester. Here! Don't forget the check. Five
hundred in tens and twenties, please. Here's a fifty to get
the drawing-room and railroad tickets. I want to have at
least five hundred in ready cash, and this fifty is too big a
bill anyway.”
The promoter had drawn a handsome brown leather
wallet from his pocket, and as he extracted the fifty dollar


THE BLACK PIGEON
13
banknote, Ruth caught a glimpse of another yellow-backed
bill, but did not see its denomination. It might be a hun-
dred or even a five-hundred-dollar note, Ruth knew, for
"Handsome Harry,” playboy of Broadway, loved to flash
golden-tinted bills before the dazzled eyes of headwaiters.
Later, a harsh-voiced, flinty-eyed detective would be de-
manding of Ruth Lester a minutely detailed recital of every
event of that Saturday morning, expecting prodigious
feats of memory of her. Then, everything would be of im-
portance, for murder would have made them so. But now
nothing seemed important to Ruth Lester but that she was
free to leave Harry Borden's private office, free to close the
door upon his staring, bold, greedy, black eyes.
Not even the old man who was tremulously reiterating
his story of terrible and crushing financial loss through one
of Borden's fake stock schemes seemed important to her
then. She eased him out of the office as gently as possible,
her ears almost deaf to his muttered threats of vengeance
against Henry P. Borden. She had listened to many such
stories, heard many versions of the old man's bitter prayer
that God should make Harry Borden pay with his life for
his sins. But as she hurried into her fur coat and jaunty
little felt hat, her heart was singing again, her joy not
touched by the slightest hint of premonition that those
prayers would be answered so soon and so horribly.
It was half past ten o'clock. In less than three hours she
would join Jack Hayward at the elevator, go to lunch with
him to celebrate the engagement which had taken place
last night. The miracle of it! He had loved her before he
knew she looked like this! And Ruth smiled at her own
reflected beauty, thoroughly appreciated by herself for
the first time.
"Didn't I tell you?” Benny demanded in a furious whis-
per. His freckled face was very pale, his hands clenched.
"Didn't take him ten minutes to begin pawin' you, the
dirty "
"Hush, Benny!” Ruth interrupted, with an apprehen-
littched by the slamnswered so 500 less than three unch with
be answerechint of pre again, her.jaunty
would join Jacate the engage! He had lo smiled at herte for


CHAPTER II
M ICKY MORAN, the jolly, impudent, red-headed
M1 Irish boy who was lord of the elevator directly
across the hall from the Borden offices, did not recognize
in the pink-and-white-and-gold little beauty the timid
secretary who had been a daily, mouse-quiet passenger of
his for the last four months. His bold eyes took her in at
a glance, then he began to whistle significantly: "Yes, sir,
that's my baby!”
Just before the elevator reached the ground floor Ruth
Lester asked, in the hesitant, meek voice which had been
part of her "disguise”: “Is your father recovering from
that awful automobile accident, Micky?”.
Before the astonished boy could reply, Ruth, laughing
at him over her furred shoulder, stepped into the lobby of
the Starbridge Building.
"Vain little imp!” she characterized herself, as a gust of
January wind tugged at her coat. “But oh, I'm so glad
I can be me at last. Four months of being some one else!
But worth it, worth it, worth it!" she chanted under her
breath, as she joined the Saturday morning shoppers who
milled about the busy corner-Thirty-Fourth Street and
Seventh Avenue.
It was uncanny how accurately Benny Smith had di-
agnosed the absurd situation which had made a disguise
necessary. Perfect blond beauty had been a pleasant pos-
session, so long as her father had been alive to shield her.
Ruth had been as proud of him as he of her, for Colby
Lester had been one of the greatest criminal lawyers in


16 THE BLACK PIGEON
New York—a criminal lawyer whose greatness lay in his
keenness as a detective rather than in jury-swaying ora-
tory. During the last five years of his life Colby Lester
had talked over all his cases with his daughter. Many a
night they had sat up until dawn, Ruth curled kitten-wise
in his arms, her childish brows knit, amusingly, in the
same fashion as his, her logical mind keeping pace with
his and sometimes leaping ahead of it.
"Good work, Infant! You've got the makings of a
Grade A detective under those yellow. curls. But, please
God, you'll never have to earn your living in any such
sordid fashion as this,” he had told her once, when she
had pounced upon the missing link in a chain of evidence
which was to acquit a man of murder.
A dignified home, exquisite clothes, private school,
association with keen and cultured minds—all these things
Ruth had enjoyed until Colby Lester's sudden, tragic
death. He had been defending a woman on the charge of
poisoning her lover, a married man, and had been shot
down by the grief-and-jealousy-crazed widow of the vic-
tim, because she had believed that Colby Lester would
win the defendant's freedom for her. And he had, although
his funeral took place while the jury was bringing in its
just verdict of "Not guilty.”
Even now Ruth could scarcely understand why there
had been so little for her when her father's estate was
settled. But his books showed that he had defended more
penniless victims of tragic circumstance than wealthy
ones, because their cases presented problems which in-
trigued his detective instincts. And he had been a con-
noisseur of comfortable living, had thought he could
always make enough money to gratify the exquisite tastes
he had cultivated in himself and his daughter. And then
he had died. ...
Ruth Lester shivered, but not because a high January
wind was whipping about her slender legs. She mustn't
think about her father's death now. She was happy again,


THE BLACK PIGEON
17
and he would be happy, too, at last. For Ruth had had
the feeling all through the two years since her father's
death that Colby Lester was wandering about, an earth-
bound spirit, stricken with remorse that he was not able
to protect her from the wolves who wanted to gobble her
up.
She had used what little money there was to take an
eight months' secretarial course, and had come out of the
Miller Business College primed with all sorts of useful
knowledge, her fingers capable of astonishing speed in
shorthand and typing. Her only desire had been to be-
come an expert secretary and to earn a decent living by
her work. But men had not let her do it. Apparently no
man could look at her without wanting to touch her. She
had had to flee, from this job to that, from one humiliat-
ing experience to another. As Benny Smith, the office boy,
had guessed, the wives of the married men she had tried
to work for had been the worst. . . . But those scenes
would not bear thinking of now, when she was so
happy. ...
It was a motion picture, finally, which pointed a way
out of her difficulty. Out of work, having had ten jobs in
eight months, she had gone forlornly into a movie theater
in an effort to forget her rather absurd troubles. And she
had seen, on a screen, a timid, mousy little secretary
with skinned-back hair, ill-fitting clothes and horn-rimmed
spectacles, suddenly transform herself into a beauty, so
that she might win the love of her employer.
The next day, Ruth Lester, transformed from a beauty
into an exact copy of the motion picture's heroine as she
had appeared in the earlier reels, presented herself at the
offices of Henry P. Borden, who had advertised for a
secretary.
And for four months, although "Handsome Harry”
Borden was notoriously fond of beautiful women, Ruth
had been permitted to work in peace. Sometimes it had
been cruelly hard to keep her pose and her deliberately


18
THE BLACK PIGEON
achieved homeliness, for three of those months had been
the loneliest she had ever spent. In all that time no man
had asked her for a "date." But, oh, this last month!
Ruth drew a deep breath of joy. The pain of recalling
the past had been wiped out by the ecstasy of arriving, in-
evitably, at Jack Hayward's name. Her little high-heeled
pumps clicked a staccato accompaniment to her joy as she
turned in at the bank. Reaching into the inside pocket of
her fur coat she retrieved her spectacles, straddled her
short nose with them, so that the teller could recognize
her and make no difficulty about cashing Borden's check
for five hundred dollars.
In the street again, on her way to the Pennsylvania
station, to buy two tickets and a drawing-room for Harry
Borden and the woman he was to take to Winter Heaven
with him, Ruth had a few more precious minutes in which
to review her strange romance. ...
She laughed softly as she remembered how she must
have looked, in her "disguise,” leaning out of the window
opening upon the airshaft, coaxing the black pigeon to
her with crumbs held invitingly in the hollow of her palm.
But the young insurance broker, watching her across the
airshaft, had not laughed. He had smiled, a frank, jolly
smile. And she had smiled, forgetting for the moment
that the dimple must be sternly repressed. Two days later,
when she was feeding the whole greedy flock with crumbs
sprinkled upon the window ledge, Jack Hayward-she
had learned his name, of course, from the bulletin board —
had tried to lure them away from her, with crumbs of his
own. It had become a game between them or rather, be-
tween the handsomest man in the Starbridge Building and
the dowdiest, most timid-looking little secretary.
Then one day he had appeared at the elevator-not the
elevator in his wing of the building, but at the one across
the hall from Borden's offices.
She could hear him now:
"I wonder if you'll let me lunch with you, Miss Lester.


THE BLACK PIGEON
19
so I can find where you get such potent bread crumbs.
My greatest ambition in life is to have that black rascal
of a pigeon eating out of my hand!”
She had wanted to turn back then, into her own office,
for five swift minutes at the mirror-just long enough to
remove her spectacles, scrub off that sickly-yellowish pow-
der, release the golden glory of her curls, but the elevator
had come, and her opportunity to show him how Ruth
Lester really looked had been lost.
It was during that first luncheon of theirs that Ruth's
resolve was made. For Jack Hayward had talked to her as
no man since her father's death had talked as if she had
a mind worthy of his; as if she were something more than
a beautiful little scrap of femininity made to be gobbled
up by a man.
"I won't show him the outside me until he has a chance
to learn and love the inside me,” Ruth resolved, and trem-
bled lest the great experiment should fail, for she already
loved him—the outside and the inside of him. What if he
should only like and feel congenial with her mind, and
fail, because of her disguise, to love her as a man must love
the woman he marries?
But that would have to be her risk, she resolved.
"Oh!” Ruth came to herself with a start, and smiled at
the ticket agent. She had not even realized that she had
arrived at the station. "Two round-trip tickets and a
drawing-room for Winter Heaven, please. The 2:15 train
t this alhe ticketmployer at the I to the starouldnt but for
When the ticket envelope was handed to her, she jotted
upon it, as her employer had requested, the name under
which he would register at the Winter Heaven Hotel-
H. P. Benton. As she hurried back to the Starbridge Build-
ing, she wondered who “Mrs. Benton" would be this
time. And she shivered a little, at the thought that but for
the grace of God, it might have been she. Soon such sor-
did things would not touch her, for she would be Jack
Hayward's wife. Mrs. John Carrington Hayward! ...
lings would it mighitle, at the top moudge Build


20
THE BLACK PIGEON
But oddly enough, she shivered again, and wondered if
she were taking cold.
.. "Hul-lo, Miss Lester! Is God's gift to women in his
office? I phoned and he's expecting me. Oh, pardon me!
I thought it was Miss Lester! But I guess Handsome Harry
canned her, the poor little scared bunny! Can't say I
blame him—why!-what-?”
Ruth turned in the little swivel chair and faced the girl
who had announced herself so nonchalantly. So it was Rita
Dubois who was going to be “Mrs. Benton” for a week-
end! Ruth was hardly surprised, but a little sorry, for she
liked the vivacious, dark-eyed, black-haired little French-
American, singer and dancer in the noisiest, most garish
night-club in the city.
"I've just turned my hair loose,” Ruth smiled, putting
on her timid manner and peering upward at Rita through
her enormous horn-rimmed spectacles.
"Attagirl!” Rita applauded, as she touched up her
already vividly rouged lips. “So you've fallen for Hand-
some Harry, too, you poor little simp! Been to the movies
and got a few hot tips on how to vamp your boss? ...
Well, Bunny, don't be jealous of little Rita, no matter
what you hear! You can have him-next week! But lis-
ten, don't you toddle in and tell him I said so, after I'm
gone, or I'll snatch those golden curls of yours out by
the roots. . . . Pretty stuff!” And Rita, finished with her
- lips, lifted one of Ruth's curls and fingered its yellow silk
almost tenderly.
Ruth laughed, then glanced apprehensively toward
Harry Borden's closed door. "The curls are out in some-
one else's honor. Miss Dubois. And don't you tell Mr.
Borden, but—I'm engaged to be married. It just happened
last night, you're the second person I've told—”.
"Good child! Wise little baby!” Rita approved, her
the game


THE BLACK PIGEON
21
voice curiously gentle and low. Then she stooped and laid
her heavily rouged and scented lips against Ruth's cheek.
"That's the only way, Infant! Lasso 'em with a wedding
ring when you're young and you won't have tomoh,
hul-lo, Harry! The top of the morning to you, darling!”
Harry Borden held his door wide, and, regardless of
Ruth's presence, his arms, too. “Glad to see you, sweet-
heart! Miss Lester's just bought the tickets. Drawing-room,
too, if you're a good girl!”
"You mean,” Rita corrected him coolly, "If I'm not
a good girl! But remember, Harry, I haven't said I'd go
yet.”
As Harry Borden, laughing indulgently, was about to
close the door, Rita Dubois turned her head and gave
Ruth a confidential, mocking grin, along with a signifi-
cant wink.
Ruth's fingers were flying over the typewriter keys
again when Benny Smith's voice, sullen and indignant, in-
terrupted her.
"Hunh! Thought it was a secret—you getting engaged!”
he flung at her from his own desk in the corner. " Nen
you go and tell everybody!”
"I haven't told anyone but Miss Dubois and you, Benny,"
Ruth protested.
"Well, if you gotta whisper your little secret, looks
like you'd pick out somebody besides one of Handsome
Harry's dames,” the boy persisted sullenly. "I thought you
just told me 'cause you—you sorta liked me"
"I do like you, Benny—lots,” she said gently. "Now
be a darling and don't interrupt me any more. I want to
be through by one.”.
"Then I guess you don't want to be told that Handsome
Harry's frau is coming for her alimony this morning,” the
boy retorted, grinning again.
"Oh, I'd forgotten that today's the fifteenth!” Ruth
cried. “Does Mr. Borden know she's coming?”
Benny chuckled. "I didn't tell him. He was talking to


22
THE BLACK PIGEON
:his Dubois dame on the other line when his missus called
up, and then you come back and I forgot to mention it.
I'm going to be forgettin' a lot o' things if you don't slick
back them curls again.”
"Benny, remember that I'm an engaged woman!” Ruth
laughed. “But what am I going to do if Mrs. Borden comes
while ?"
There was a faint rat-tat upon the outer door and Benny
sprang to answer, knowing who it was, for no one but
Harry Borden's wife bothered to knock when she came
to his offices.
"Morning, Mrs. Borden,” Benny mumbled, as he opened
the door wide. “Say, Ruth, I gotta beat it to the post-
office for them stamps. Anything else you need?"
"No, thanks, Benny. Fifty twos, a hundred ones, and
ten specials. ... Good morning, Mrs. Borden. I'm sorry
I wasn't here when you telephoned. I'd gone to the bank
for Mr. Borden.”
Ruth had risen as she spoke, and now faced Mrs. Bor-
den nervously, but smiling the little timid smile which
Mrs. Borden would expect of her, for it had greeted her
once a month for four months. .
Elizabeth Borden was the kind of woman whom Ruth
had met when her father was alive-well-born, cultured,
gentle. Colby Lester would have called her a thorough-
bred, and that was the label which his daughter instinc-
tively gave her. A rather faded, tired thirty-eight, as
against Harry Borden's triumphant forty. Soft, fine skin,
going a little lax beneath high, aristocratic cheek bones,
and wrinkling faintly around tragic eyes and a patient
but bitter mouth. Leaf-brown eyes, no longer glowing
with the fire of spring. Leaf-brown, smooth hair, touched
with the rime of premature winter at temples and brow.
A thin, high-bridged nose, whose nostrils quivered with
pain when Harry Borden flung some veiled insult at her.
The ghost of a pretty woman, perhaps of a beautiful one,
for Handsome Harry Borden would never have married


THE BLACK PIGEON
23
spered Ryanced orden an drie o in contes
a homely girl. But a ghost who had not done with suffer-
ing. ...
Of all the varied duties which she was called upon to
perform as Harry Borden's confidential secretary, none
was so painful to Ruth as this monthly encounter with
Mrs. Borden. For Borden forced his wife to come to his
offices that he might humilate her. There had been a legal
separation, but no divorce, and Borden had arrogantly
stipulated that he would pay the court allotment of $500
a month for the support of his wife and two children, a
boy of twelve and a girl of seven, only if Elizabeth Borden
came to him each month and asked for it. And Ruth
knew that if Elizabeth Borden had had only herself to
consider, she would have died rather than so humiliate her-
self before him.
"Benny told me Mr. Borden was in,” Mrs. Borden an-
swered Ruth's greeting.
Ruth glanced miserably toward the closed door, behind
which Harry Borden and Rita Dubois were arranging de-
tails of their week-end trip to Winter Heaven. “Yes, he's
in, Mrs. Borden, but he-he's in conference.”
A burst of high-pitched laughter penetrated that closed
door, and Mrs. Borden flinched, her nostrils quivering, her
gloved hands clenching upon the handbag she held. Ruth
did not consciously notice the discarded wife's reaction
then, but later, when every tiny thing was of so much
importance, she remembered—and wished she could for-
get.
"I—then 1–” Mrs. Borden stammered. “Shall I come
back a little later, Miss Lester? I brought the children
downtown with me, and they're waiting in the rest room
of a department store. I—you know it is necessary that
I-that I ask that I see Mr. Borden today.”
"Yes,” Ruth nodded. Harry Borden's ultimatum was
that the monthly five hundred would be paid on the fif-
teenth day of the month and on no other. If his wife did
not call for it then, and ask in so many words for what


24
THE BLACK PIGEON
was hers and the children's by right, she would have to
wait until the same date the next month. “I suggest, Mrs.
Borden, that you come back in about an hour. I am sure
he will be out of-conference by then.”
Mrs. Borden flushed. “The children have a dentist's
appointment at twelve, and then I'm to take them to
lunch. I wonder if Mr. Borden will be here about half
past one?”
Ruth agreed eagerly. She was glad she would not have a
to see poor Mrs. Borden again on that, her own happy
day. "Yes. He will be here until nearly two. He told me
so just a few minutes ago. I'm sure half past one will be
fine.”
"Thank you.” Mrs. Borden was turning toward the
door, when another burst of laughter-treble wedded to
bass—shook the ground glass panel in the door between
the outer and inner offices.
Ruth saw the slight, frail body sway, sprang to put her
arm about the older woman. “Please sit down just a min-
ute, Mrs. Borden. Here! In my chair. And lay your head
on the desk. It's the heat-they keep these offices stifling.
I'll get you a drink of water. There! Feeling better?” she
asked, as she helped Harry Borden's wife to the little
swivel chair and forced her gently down into it.
Ruth darted to the water cooler in the corner near
Benny's desk, then discovered that the paper cup con-
tainer was empty. But there was a carton of them in the
bottom drawer of her desk. She ran, frightened a little, for
Mrs. Borden looked terribly white and ill. The drawer
stuck a bit, and the older woman was leaning downward
to help, with trembling hands.
"Don't bother, dear Mrs. Borden,” Ruth begged.
"There! It often sticks. ... The cups are here some-
where ... Oh!” She snatched her hand from the pulled-
out drawer as if she had touched a snake. Then she
laughed, shakily. "What a goose I am! Please don't be


THE BLACK PIGEON
25
frightened, Mrs. Borden. I keep forgetting that the gun is
in there "
"Gun?” Mrs. Borden quavered, shrinking away from
the drawer, her hand going to her throat.
Ruth laughed nervously. “Yes—an automatic pistol.
Isn't it ridiculous—my having a pistol? But there were
so many hold-ups in the building last month that a-
friend of mine,” she could not yet toss off Jack Hay-
ward's name nonchalantly—"bought one for me, and for
himself, too. He has offices in this building, and he was
terribly in earnest about my keeping the thing here in
case of another hold-up. As if I'd touch it! I'm more
afraid of it than I am of a bandit! Here are the cups. Sorry
to be so long."
Five minutes later-just four minutes after Mrs. Borden
had left, looking so strange and ill that Ruth was genuinely
frightened—the door of Harry Borden's private office
opened and he emerged, or rather was pulled along, for
Rita Dubois, in high good humor, was tugging at his
hand.
"Don't worry! I'll be at the station on time,” the dancer
was reassuring him gaily. “I can do more shopping in a
couple of hours than most girls could do in a day. And
mind you don't call up the stores and limit these charge
accounts, old dear!”
"Mind you don't fail to keep your part of the bargain!”
Harry Borden reminded her, as they reached the door.
"I'll keep mine—all of it! But—no double-crossing, Rita!”
Ruth glanced up, her spectacled eyes taking in the laugh-
ing but mutually suspicious couple. She saw Harry Bor-
den wave good-bye to Rita, and many hours later she was
to try to recall every detail of that picture, though now
she only noted, idly, that the man seemed to be waving a
torn banknote, and that Rita's finger-tip kiss was for the
torn bill rather than for Harry Borden.


CHAPTER III
L ARRY BORDEN was chuckling as he closed the
IT outer door upon Rita Dubois. “They all fall sooner
or later, eh, Miss Lester? Some little jazz queen—Rita.
You ought to see her and her dancing partner, Ramon
Romero, do their turn at the Golden Slipper. Maybe I'll
take you some night-hmm? Make Rita jealous. A little
jealousy's good for 'em. That would be a neat way of
paying her back for keeping me on the anxious seat for
a week. . . . Hard to ‘make'-Rita. But I don't like 'em
if they're too easy.”
Ruth said nothing, but her back was rigid and her fin-
gers, flying over the keys, were spoiling a letter by inter-
polating, "Now is the time for all good men to come to the
aid of their party.”
"How're the letters coming on?” Borden suddenly be-
came brisk and businesslike again. "Nearly through?
Where's Benny?”
"Gone to the postoffice for stamps,” Ruth answered.
"He should be back any minute now. I have five more
letters to write, including that long one to Hendrickson.
. . And oh, Mr. Borden,” she detained him meekly,
"Mrs. Borden was here while Miss Dubois was with you.
I told her you were in conference and she said she would
return at half past one. You'd said you would be here un- ,
til about two."
Harry Borden dropped an angry oath. Then, “I don't
know whether I'll be here or not. Why the devil didn't
she come earlier in the morning? She knows damned well
that if she doesn't ask for her money-my money!-on
the fifteenth, she'll have to do without. It would serve her
right if I cleared out at one.”
26


THE BLACK PIGEON
- 27
A vision of Elizabeth Borden's white, suffering face
turned Ruth ill. “Then won't you please leave a check
with me for her?” she pleaded, raising her spectacled eyes
to the man who stood scowling in the door of his private
office. "I'll be glad to wait here until she comes, although
I have an engagement for one myself—"
"No!” Borden was curiously violent. "I'll be here, and
I'll make her ask me for it, make her beg for it. It's an out-
rage that I have to fork over five hundred a month for her
and the children. The judge that made the award was a
sentimental fool. Three hundred would be more than
ample.”
Ruth's eyes, looking very meek behind their spectacles,
did not falter, however. “Hadn't I better leave the door
on the latch? You might not hear her knock—"
"Let her pound on it, then!” Borden retorted grimly.
"You know I never stay in these offices alone without the
door being locked. What with hold-up men and belly-
aching investors dropping in with their pretty little
threats because they haven't the guts to take their losses
like men, my life wouldn't be worth a nickel, if I hung
around here alone with the outside door unlocked. Don't
you worry your pretty head—and who'd have guessed it
was pretty?-over Mrs. Borden, child. She looks soft, but
beliebe med over Mrs. Borden, chud
Benny Smith's noisy arrival cut short whatever con-
fidence Harry Borden may have been about to make. The
employer spoke curtly to the office boy: "Well, Benny,
about time you were drifting back! Been shooting craps
in the alley again?"
"No, sir," the boy mumbled, flushing darkly. "They
was a long line at the stamp window."
"There's always a long line at the stamp window when
you go to the postoffice,” Borden agreed sarcastically.
"Listen--and get this through your thick head: I want
you to go to my apartment and pick up a couple of bags
that my man has packed for me. Take them to the station


28
THE BLACK PIGEON
and check them, bringing me the checks. And make it
snappy-hear?”
Borden passed into his private office, but almost im-
mediately reappeared. “Bring in the letters you have fin-
ished, Ruth. I'll sign them now, and Benny, you'd better
hold down this office until Miss Lester comes back. I don't
want it to be left unattended. No telling who'll stroll in.
I'm expecting Adams this morning, and if he comes in,
tell him to wait.”
At Borden's first use of her Christian name Ruth flushed
with resentment, but she obediently gathered up the fin-
ished correspondence and followed Borden into the private
office, but not before she had caught the look of sullen
hatred with which Benny was glaring at his employer's
back. So Benny had noticed that casually dropped "Ruth,”
too, and was resenting it passionately. ...
"Guess I'm sort of nervous today,” Borden confessed,
with a wry grin. "A week-end at Winter Heaven will do
me good. . . . Who was that chap that came in this morn-
ing, all het up over losing money on some of my stock?”
he asked suddenly.
"He wouldn't give me his name,” Ruth answered. “He
insisted on seeing you personally-said he would be back.
I dealt with him as tactfully as I could—”
"Tact and efficiency are your long suits, aren't they,
child?” Borden smiled. “Draw your chair around to this
side of the desk. We'd better go over the figures in this
letter to Nathan. I'm not sure I'm going to let him hold
me up for a bigger commission. Looks confoundedly like
blackmail to me.”
There was nothing for Ruth to do but to obey. She
dragged her chair from its usual place at the big flat-
topped desk opposite to Borden, and placed it where Bor-
den indicated, with a pointing finger-so close to his own
chair that the legs almost touched. Borden drew out the
stenographer's leaf of the desk and shifted the letters to
it. Ruth sat very still, her little hands tightly clasped in


THE BLACK PIGEON
29
her lap, as Borden dipped his pen in the onyx ink well
and leaned toward her-closer and closer, so that her
nostrils were assailed by the odor of pomade with which
he kept every lock of his black hair in gleaming order.
"Lõok!” he pointed to the letter under his large, well-
manicured hands. “Wouldn't you think that was a big
enough commission for any fly-by-night like Nathan to
make?”
Ruth leaned forward and peered through her spectacles.
Borden laughed suddenly. "Bet you could see better with-
out those goggles, Ruth! Come! I'm going to take 'em
off for you. I'll bet a hundred dollars your eyes are just
the right shade of blue to go with these yellow curls of
yours," and his hands reached out, were about to lay hold
upon the last item of the girl's disguise, which men of
Harry Borden's type had made necessary, if she was to be
allowed to work in peace.
Ruth's head jerked back, her hands going up to restrain
his. “Please, Mr. Borden! The light really hurts my eyes,”
she lied frantically
Then somehow she was out of her chair, and Borden's
left arm was about her shoulders, as his right hand reached
determinedly for the spectacles. A hundred times, after-
wards, she reproached herself bitterly for the scream that
tore out of her throat. After all, he was only trying, half-
jokingly, to take her glasses off. ... But as his flushed
face almost touched hers, and his eyes glittered with some-
thing more than laughter, she lost control of nerves which
had been curiously taut all morning-and screamed.
"What are you trying to do, you little devil?-arouse
the building?—make them think I'm murdering you?”
Borden demanded furiously. "Look! That chap's getting
an eyeful across the airshaft and-get out of here and
stay out, or I'll knock those pop eyes out of your head!”
Ruth, who had obeyed his command to look, and who
was taking a staggering, uncertain step toward Jack Hay-
ward, framed in the opposite window and being forcibly


30
THE BLACK PIGEON
restrained by another man from leaping through it,
thought at first that Borden's last furious sentence was
directed at her. But Benny's voice from the doorway told
her the truth.
"If you're hurting Miss Lester, I'll—I'll — Benny
**If you ring, his fists clerown business and gesticulating
"Get out, and mind your own business! You, too!” Bor-
den added viciously, nodding furiously and gesticulating
toward Jack Hayward, who was calling out something in
a rage-strangled voice. "Sit down again, Miss Lester,” he
added, more normally. "And keep your confounded
glasses on, if you're so crazy about them. Where's that
letter to my lawyer?”
Before she obeyed, Ruth turned toward the window
again, shaking her head slightly and laying her finger
against her lips. Then, trembling, she sat down and was
not again molested while Borden signed the letters.
"Tell that fool office boy to go on to my apartment for
my bags,” Borden reminded her grufily. Then, "I'm sorry,
Miss Lester, but damned if I can see why you kicked up
such a fuss. Didn't mean any harm.”
"It's all right, Mr. Borden,” Ruth said meekly. "And
-I'm sorry I screamed. I'm--easily frightened.” And in-
deed she was sorry she had screamed, for now the blight
on her perfect happiness had been communicated to Jack
Hayward. But her remorse then over having "kicked up a
fuss” was nothing to compare with the agony of self-
reproach which was to come to her later. ...
She found Benny Smith at her desk, bending over the
pulled-out bottom drawer. "What are you doing, Benny?”
she demanded sharply. "You must keep out of my desk!”
"Looking for a towel,” the boy muttered. Then, tensely:
"Listen, Ruth, if that guy gets fresh with you again "
"Hush, Benny!” Ruth cut short his threat. "Run along
to his apartment now for his bags. I can take care of my-
self, Benny. It's sweet of you to mind, but I don't want
you to lose your job on my account,” she added gently,
nothing to comparto her later.nding over the


THE BLACK PIGEON
31
The boy closed the bottom drawer of her desk and
snatching up his overcoat and cap, strode out of the of-
fice, fancying himself, Ruth reflected tenderly, every inch
a man, and—what's more-a man in love! "Oh, I wish I
hadn't screamed!” she told herself disgustedly.
The door had scarcely closed upon Benny when it opened
to admit Carl Adams, one of Borden's dapper, collegiate
young stock salesmen. Few of the men worked on Satur-
days, since it was a half holiday.
"Hullo, Miss Lester. Saw Benny at the elevator. What's
this about you and Borden? Benny seemed to think you
might need protection. And I don't wonder. ... What
have you done to yourself? Why, the scared little bunny
turned into a beauty! ... Greetings, chief!” the sales-
man broke off his confidential compliments and hailed his
employer jovially.
Come on in, Adams,” Borden answered grimly. "Bring
me Adams' sales-record, Miss Lester, please.”
Except for an unimportant telephone call or two, Ruth
was allowed to finish her letters in peace, for the confer-
ence between Borden and his dilatory stock salesman
proved to be a long one. It was ten minutes after one when
the flushed, angry-eyed young man jerked out of the
office, and twenty minutes past when Ruth, the last letters
signed and stamped, hurried to the elevator to keep her
overdue appointment with Jack Hayward. She had tele-
phoned him, in a guardedly low voice, that she would be
a little late, and she knew that he would be waiting. ...
If only she hadn't screamed, so that nothing but joy could
have entered into the rest of this day. ...
“Lord, darling! I thought you were never coming. Just
one more minute and I'd have gone in after you,” Jack
Hayward greeted her. “Did that beast-?"
"Sh!” Ruth warned. "Look! Here come Minnie and
Letty, lugging their brooms and scrub pails, poor things!
I wonder if they'll recognize me? ... Hello, Minnie!
Letty! Aren't you going to speak to me?”


32
THE BLACK PIGEON
The two calico-clad, gray-haired, stoop-shouldered old
women who had been gossiping together as they plodded
down the hall, stopped and stared, then grinned humbly,
apologetically.
"They really don't know me!” Ruth laughed, hugging
Jack's arm delightedly.
The older of the two women nudged her companion
with her broom handle. "It's Miss Lester, Letty! Now,
don't that beat all? Ye've took your specs off, ain't you,
dearie? My, what a change! Letty, maybe if us girls ’ud
take off our specs we'd catch us a beau, too, eh?” and
Minnie cackled shrill mirth at the idea.
Letty Miller shook her gray head slowly. "Reckon our
day is over, Minnie. But it's nice to see a young couple
sweetheartin', one as handsome as the other"
"Just for that, Letty!” Jack laughed, drew a dollar bill
out of his pocket, and tucked it into the torn, sagging
pocket of the calico dress.
The arrival of the elevator cut short his cleaning-
woman's eager thanks. As they stepped into the car Ruth
squeezed her sweetheart's arm and whispered with mock
severity: "Prodigal! Don't you know you've got to save
money now? But it was dear of you!”
As the car shot down to the main floor Micky Moran,
the elevator operator, commented with impudent frank-
ness on Ruth's changed appearance, and it amused the girl
to see how jealously Jack resented the boy's familiarity.
Imagine being jealous of Micky! They were passing
through the lobby of the office building when Ruth sud-
denly remembered that she had left her savings-bank book
in the office.
"Wait here for me, darling,” she told Jack. "I forgot
something. Be right back. No, don't come up with me,”
and she darted back into the elevator.
A few precious seconds were lost while she fished in her
handbag for her key. Darn Harry Borden anyway! Afraid
to stay alone in his own offices if the outer door was un-
As the
operator, compearance, and it is's familiari


THE BLACK PIGEON
33
voice to the filing cabiness. At last, afteshe found the ver's
she jerked "opilarry Bordeon its hook.
locked! Praying that he would not hear her, she ran to the
filing cabinet and pulled out a folder marked "Ruth Les-
ter-Personal.” The bank book was not there. She went
through the contents of the folder twice, then darted to
her desk and searched through the two top drawers un-
successfully. From Borden's office came the rumble of his
voice. Probably he was talking over the phone. Whirling
back to the filing cabinet she dug into half a dozen folders
with panicky aimlessness. At last, after at least five or six
precious minutes had been wasted, she found the thin
brown booklet in the folder devoted to her employer's
returned checks and bank statements. As she thrust the
passbook into her handbag she heard the sound of a re-
ceiver being slammed upon its hook. In her haste to be
gone before Harry Borden could come out to investigate,
she jerked open the outer door so violently that it struck
her across the mouth.
She was panting a little, her handkerchief pressed to her
bruised lip, when the elevator, which she had just signalled,
stopped at her floor and Jack Hayward emerged, his face
very white, his eyes stormy with anger and fear.
"What kept you so long? Why, Ruth! What's wrong?
You're crying!” And almost roughly, as Micky Moran
looked on, Jack pulled Ruth's hand from her mouth and
saw the swelling lip. “God! That beast! I'll kill him for
this! I was afraid—let me go, Ruth!”
"Jack, please, darling, please!” Ruth begged, pulling at
his arms frantically. "Come on into the elevator. It wasn't
Mr. Borden! I swear it wasn't! I struck my face against
the door! You've got to believe me! Jack!” Her voice
changed suddenly, became ominously quiet and steady, as
the young man flung off her clinging hands. "If you don't
come with me now, if you won't believe me when I say it
wasn't Mr. Borden who hurt me, in spite of—what you
saw this morning, I'll take back the promise I gave you
last night. I mean it!”
Jack Hayward came to his senses. He shook his head, as


34
THE BLACK PIGEON
if to clear from his eyes the red mists of anger. “You-
mean that, Ruth?” She nodded, her blue eyes imploring
him through tears. "All right! But on one condition—that
you give Borden notice on Monday morning. I'm not go-
ing to have you in that devil's office another day!”
Ruth would have promised anything to get him to go
quietly with her. The elevator boy regarded the silent,
flushed pair with humorously upraised brows, as he shot
the car down to the main floor.
"Where shall we eat?” Jack asked in a strained, unnat-
ural voice when they had reached the sidewalk.
Ruth swallowed hard at the lump in her throat. "Any-
where, dear. The--the McAlpin Hotel? It's closest—"
What did it matter now? Jack thought she had lied to
him, believed Borden had kissed her so violently that her
lip had been bruised . . . Her "perfect day” was spoiled.
... She shivered, could not stop shivering, even as she
followed her fiance into the big, warm dining room of the
McAlpin.
"No, thanks,” she quavered, as he reached for her coat.
"I'll keep it on. I'm-cold. Oh, I'm so sorry!”
She stood miserably beside the table while Jack and the
· Waiter stooped to pick up the widely scattered contents
of her handbag. Suddenly she knew she could not get
through the meal which was to have been so gay, without
the relief of tears. “Will you excuse me a minute, dear? I
want to telephone,” she choked, and fled.
She found the ladies' rest room deserted. Flinging her-
self upon a settee, Ruth Lester shed hot tears for lost
ecstasy. Joy would come again, she knew, but today, which
was to have been so perfect, was hopelessly blighted. ...
Maybe Jack was feeling as cheated and unhappy as she
was. . . . The thought pulled her out of despair. She
bathed her eyes, powdered her face, and was smiling trem-
ulously when Jack looked up from the menu card he was
studying grimly.


36
THE BLACK PIGEON
er left the ordered for young lady, waite: The
and finish that beast, and I don't mean maybe. . . . The
broiled mushrooms are for the young lady, waiter, the
sweetbreads for me. I ordered for you, honey.”
The waiter left them in peace for several minutes, for
his services were in demand elsewhere. They scarcely
touched their food, for neither had an appetite just then
for anything but long, sweet, significant glances.
"You'd better have some very hot coffee,” Jack decided
suddenly, as Ruth, wrapped though she was in her thick
fur coat, shivered again, uncontrollably. He signalled the
waiter. “Wonder what time that matinee begins—2:30 or
2:45? Maybe the tickets say—" and he took out his wallet
to consult them. "That's funny! They're not here, and
yet I distinctly remember Miss Barnes' handing them to
me this morning. . . . By George, I left them on my
desk! I remember now. Cowan came in just as she gave
them to me and I laid them down to shake hands with
him. ... Waiter! Bring a pot of very hot coffee for the
young lady, and some almond ice cream, with a lot of
those little buttery cakes. Right, darling? . . . I'll dash
back to the office and get the tickets. Won't take me more
than ten minutes. We'll have ample time to make the
theater. It's only ten of two now," he added, looking at his
watch.
He kissed her with his adoring eyes, and she watched
him swing down the room, her heart almost bursting with
pride and joy in him. He was so tall and lean and hand-
some, so vital, with his dark, red-brown hair, his tanned
skin, his bronze-brown eyes. . . . Oh, she loved him!
Even his jealous rage against Borden was precious, because
it sprang out of his love for her. ....
"No," she roused herself from her reverie several min-
utes later, to answer the waiter. “There's nothing wrong
with the ice cream, thank you. I'm just not hungry. Oh,
yes, I would like another cup of coffee. Bring a pot for
two. The gentleman will be back soon.”
But, strangely, he was not. When her second cup of


THE BLACK PIGEON
37
coffee had been drunk, Ruth consulted her tiny wrist-
watch, and was startled to see that it was five minutes
past two. Jack had been gone fifteen minutes! Her whole
body was shivering with a chill as she poured her third
cup of coffee, and sipped it slowly. Fear mounted in her
heart until she felt nauseated. . . . Ten minutes after
two
A couple leaving the next table obscured her view of
the door for a minute and Jack was almost at her side be-
from she saw him. “Oh, darling!” she cried out with re-
lief. "I was getting so worried—why, Jack! Jack! What's
the matter? What has happened?" Her lips went white
and cold. "Borden?”


CHAPTER IV
I
TACK made an impatient gesture toward the waiter
J who had hurried to the table, order pad in hand. "No
dessert. But you can bring the check. . .. What do you
mean-Borden?” he demanded of Ruth, in an odd, con-
strained voice, as the waiter was removing Ruth's dish of
melted ice cream.
"You-you look so queer that I thought you might
have had a quarrel with Borden,” Ruth quivered, oblivious
of the waiter's presence. “Oh, Jack, what is the matter?
Did you see him?”
Jack frowned, then poured himself a cup of coffee with
a hand that trembled slightly. “Why should I see him?
Watching Borden isn't my favorite indoor sport!” He
must have realized then how violent his voice was, for he
softened it suddenly. "There's nothing the matter, honey.
I-just thought I'd gather up some work to do over the
week-end,” and he pointed to the big, well-filled brief-
case he had propped against the wall.
"You're going to work tomorrow?” Ruth asked
slowly.
Jack smiled at her, with oddly pale, taut lips. "Just dur-
ing the day. We'll have our evening together. Sorry to
have kept you waiting, sweetheart. A little matter of busi-
ness came up while I was in my office—something I-
hadn't expected. I've been very unchivalrous today; I've
kept two ladies waiting!” he added, with a sorry attempt
at lightness.
"Yes?” Ruth could not trust herself to say more. What
38


THE BLACK PIGEON
39
had happened? Jack was keeping something back, some-
thing important. ...
"The first lady of the land—” he jerked a courtly little
bow in her direction, "and my friend, Letty. She was just
about to clean my office when I got there. She wouldn't
stay, though I urged her to. I always feel like a dog when
I keep one of those poor old women from their work.”
He was talking rapidly, not looking at her, and Ruth knew
he was deliberately trying to divert her attention, so that
she would not question him.
She tried gallantly to play up, though her heart felt
like a stone in her breast. "Poor Letty! She's like a ghost,
isn't she, dear? A drab, gray old ghost, haunting a scrub
pail and a mop. But I'll never forget Letty. You know,
darling, it was your sweetness to old Letty that made me
first realize that I loved you.”
His smile became more natural, eager. "Yes? I thought
you said last night you'd loved me since the first time you
saw me, when you were feeding the pigeons.”
"Of course!” she nodded, almost happy again. “But I
didn't realize until the other day—Tuesday, wasn't it?
How long ago it seems now!-when you were showing me
your offices so proudly. Remember? You'd sent Miss Barnes
out for a quart of hot chocolate, and you made poor old
Letty have some, too.”
"Oh, Letty and I are pals,” Jack laughed. “Ever since
her first day in the building, when I noticed that she was
new, and told her I was glad to meet her, she's thought
your precious Jack is a 'really remarkable fellow.'”
"And he is!” Ruth cried, completely happy again. Then
she laughed softly, her blue eyes limpid with love. "Dar-
ling, I'll never forget how comical you looked last night
when I came back into the room without my spectacles,
with my curls turned loose and that awful yellowish
powder scrubbed off my face”
"That was a mean trick to play on a man!” Jack chided
her tenderly. “Let him get himself engaged to one girl and


40
THE BLACK PIGEON
then find himself saddled with an entirely different one!”
"Are you sorry, darling?" she teased, the dimple tug-
ging at the corner of her beautiful little mouth.
"I suppose I'll have to make the best of you,” Jack re-
torted. Then, to the waiter. "The check? Oh, yes.”
Ruth, watching his face because she loved it so, saw a
frown pass quickly over it as his eyes scanned the check.
And again joy fled from her heart. . . . She tried to
grasp its flying wings: "Oh, no! Jack isn't stingy! Why,
he's the soul of generosity. I've seen him tip Letty and
the elevator boys—"
She turned away her eyes, lest she see that the tip was
small. . . . She could not have borne that-not today!
"Your briefcase, sir!” the waiter called to Jack, as he
and Ruth were leaving.
Jack accepted the heavy bag with muttered thanks and
Ruth thought he looked at it with distaste-disgust even.
"The poor dear doesn't want to work, but feels that he has
to, now that he's an engaged man, planning to get mar-
ried!” she deduced, trying to recapture joy. “Of course!
That's why the bill dismayed him. He wants to save for
our home-now.”
At the theater Jack refused the singsong offer, “Checle
your hat and coat and bag, sir. Check your hat and—”
with a curt "No!” And he nursed the heavy bag on his
knees during the entire performance of the play.
The show they had chosen so happily the night before,
when making their plans, proved a disappointment. It
was a murder mystery, with the action taking place in a
courtroom. Ruth had wanted to see it because of her fa-
miliarity with the law and with trial procedure, but un-
fortunately the district attorney looked something like
her father, who had lost his life in a courtroom, and dur-
ing the second act she burst into tears and cried so hard
that people around them looked at her with impatient dis-
approval.
T'I think we'd better duck the rest of this,” Jack urged,


THE BLACK PIGEON
41
his mouth tight and grim. "I never realized—I'm not en-
joying it any better than you are, darling. I've already
guessed who the murderer is anyway-pretty obvious, and
it's rather a sordid way to spend our big afternoon.”
"No, let's stay,” Ruth choked. “I-I want you to get
your money's worth.” When she had said it she could have
bitten out her tongue. Her only excuse was that by this
time she was so nervous and ill-she must be taking a
dreadful cold!--that she hardly knew what she was saying.
They sat through the third act, their hands touching
only once. And she had dreamed all morning of that
glorious opportunity for holding hands!
"Let's go to the savings bank first, then on to my apart-
ment for dinner,” Ruth suggested, almost timidly, when
they left the theater. "I want to cook for you—to get into
practice.”
"That's the spirit!” Jack applauded, but the smile on
his lips scarcely touched his eyes. What-oh, what had
happened? Ruth wondered desperately.
But in the bank, open Saturday afternoons for savings-
bank depositors, he seemed more himself again, teasing her
about her thriftiness, and gallantly relieving her of her
handbag while she made out her deposit slip and endorsed
her salary check.
"Peeking to see what kind of lipstick I use?” she laughed
at him, when she left the teller's window.
Jack closed her little brown leather handbag, and
flushed as if he had been caught in the act of stealing.
"Just curious to see what a girl stuffs into a handbag,” he
grinned at her. "I never saw one that didn't look ready
to burst. I see that the little inside mirror broke when you
dropped your bag in the hotel dining room. Are you super-
stitious?”
Ruth shivered. "Seven years bad luck, you mean? Pooh!
You can't scare me! I've just entered on seven years divine
luck—and seven more and seven more and seven
more” she chanted.


42
THE BLACK PIGEON
Jack's mobile, sensitive face went grave again, almost
shadowed. "Please God, you're right, dear.” 1
And do what she would that evening and the next eve-
ning, Ruth Lester could not long keep the shadow of
trouble, even fear, out of her lover's eyes. True, he ate the
dinner that she cooked for him, and praised her culinary
art extravagantly. But after the dishes were washed and
restored to the tiny cupboard in the miniature kitchenette,
he slumped into gloom again, forgetting to kiss her for as
long as half an hour at a time. Ruth spent most of Sunday
in bed, but contrary to her fears, an actual cold did not
develop. There was just that odd shiver that ran along her
nerves at the most unexpected moment. ...
Sunday evening they ate dinner in the little restaurant
to which Ruth had taken Jack the first time they had ever
eaten together, in obedience to his whimsical request that
she show him where she got such potent crumbs that the
black pigeon would eat out of her hand.
"Oh, Jack, the poor pigeons!” Ruth remembered the
birds contritely. "I was so happy yesterday that I forgot
to buy peanuts to feed them before I left for the week-
end. I meant to do it when I was getting Mr. Borden's
money and tickets. Poor Satan! Do you think he'll starve
to death before Monday? I'll take a lot of crumbs with me
in the morning—”
"I don't like that black pigeon!” Jack surprised Ruth
by saying the absurd words grimly. “He looks too much
like his namesake—'Handsome Harry.'”
"Darling!” Ruth laughed. “I do believe you're jealous of
the black pigeon! He's a greedy scamp. But have you no-
ticed how the little white pigeon adores him? She's never
far from his side, although she's too timid to eat out of my
hand yet. I wonder if most of the pigeons aren't ladies who
are in love with Black Satan. He struts about as if he were
the lord of creation. ... I wonder, too,” she mused,
"how Rita Dubois is enjoying this week-end. I know she
doesn't really care for Harry Borden—"


THE BLACK PIGEON
43
"Let's not talk about that man again!” Jack interrupted
vehemently. Then, as Ruth's delicate little face flushed and
quivered: “Sorry, darling! I'm all on edge. . . . Keyed-up,
I suppose, to my new responsibilities. Shall we go out to
Scarsdale with Cowan next Sunday and look at the lots?
Oh, Ruth! I do love you so! Forgive me for being so dif- ;
ficult last night and tonight. I-lots on my mind. Got to
plan a future for Mr. and Mrs. John Carrington Hayward.
Love me? Say it, Ruth!”
It was not until she was dressing to go to the office Mon-
day morning that Ruth realized that Jack had not re-
minded her of her promise to resign her position as Harry
Borden's secretary. “But—why should he remind me?"
she reasoned. “He knows I'll keep my promise, and I can
understand his not wanting to talk about it under the cir-
cumstances.”
She arrived at the office at nine fifteen, though Borden
never required her presence until half past. And his train
was not due from Winter Heaven until twelve-ten. There
was a great pile of letters on the floor, beneath the slot in
the door, but there was something Ruth had to do before
she opened, read and sorted the mail. She had not forgotten
the pigeons this time. Benny Smith had not arrived, al-
though he was supposed to open the offices at nine o'clock
sharp. Of course he was taking advantage of Borden's ab-
sence. ...
Ruth took the dried sponge out of the little glass dish on
her desk, then emptied into it an envelope of peanuts and
a larger package of crumbs. Satan and his harem should
have a feast and not have to wait until noon for it, either!
Smiling, she opened the door between the reception
room and Borden's private office, and, with the glass dish
in her hand, stepped across the threshold. The ghastly spec-
tacle that met her eyes robbed her of all power of motion
for the moment, and the pigeons of their meal. The glass
dish fell to the floor, the peanuts and crumbs scattering
upon the thick velvet rug. . . . But Ruth did not see


44
THE THE
BLACK PIGEON
them, for her eyes were fixed in a trance of horror upon
the thing that lay near the window on the floor. ...
II
Slowly, her feet feeling as stiff and cold as the thing
that lay on the floor, Ruth Lester backed toward the door
which led into the reception room, her hand groping for
the knob, in a desperate need for something to cling to,
for her whole world was whirling madly about her. But
her staring, unwinking blue eyes could not tear them-
selves away from the sight which filled them—the pros-
trate body of her employer, "Handsome Harry” Borden.
Even in death he looked handsome. His still face, very
white against the polished dark brown wood of the floor
and in contrast with the sleek blackness of his unruffled
hair, was pillowed upon his up-flung left arm, so that he
looked as if he slept. But the rigid stillness of that sprawled
body was not the peace of sleep. From beneath the slightly
raised right shoulder-he had fallen upon his side-some-
thing which had once been warm and red had spurted,
forming a dark, irregularly shaped pool, dry now at the
edges.
Ruth Lester had a queer, half-mad desire to apologize to
the man she had served for intruding upon the awesome
peace which had come somehow, terribly, swiftly, to put
a period upon his forty years of turbulent living. Oddly
enough, knowing the man as she did, her first conscious,
coherent thought was that he had killed himself. And in-
stinctively her eyes, breaking away after long seconds or
minutes—she never knew which—from their horrified
contemplation of that strangely ennobled face, searched
the room, or as much of it as she could see without advanc-
ing again into that chamber of horror. It was only when
she saw no pistol or other weapon that the word "mur-
der" went zigzagging through her mind like a streak of


THE BLACK PIGEON
45
lightning. She whispered the word, her lips feeling icy as
they touched each other. But—who? Why?
Her groping hand found the door knob, and she clung
to it, swaying dizzily for a moment. Then, frenzy taking
the place of stunned horror, she banged the door upon
that ghastly sight and staggered across her own office, both
hands reaching for the outer door. When she had come
in, she had left it on the latch, so that visitors to the office
might gain access, and as she let it swing shut behind her
fleeing, horror-driven figure, she had the impulse, born of
long habit, to click on the latch, so that no one could enter
during her absence.
"Nobody can hurt him now. He needn't be afraid of
unlocked doors any more,” Ruth's mind babbled crazily,
as she ran down the hall, past the suites of offices that lay
beyond Borden's, turned the corner, raced on.
From the very first moment of discovery there had been
only one thing she could do. She must see Jack. The jour-
ney along the two corridors had never seemed long to her
before, but now she felt as if she would never reach the
man she was engaged to, the man who ... But as if
something too frightful for contemplation were pushing
upward from her subconscious mind, she veered her
thoughts. Why hadn't she stepped to Borden's window and
called across the airshaft to Jack, screamed at him until
he answered? But to do so, she would have had to step
over the stiff, still legs of that thing that lay so near the
window. ...
Two men who had offices in Jack's wing of the Star-
bridge Building looked at the white-faced, running girl,
but she did not see them, did not hear one of them call out
to her. If she had, she would not have answered. No one
but Jack could do now, and he ... Oh, no, no!
She found his outer office door closed but not locked,
tore it open, gasped out Jack's name to the girl who was
calmly opening mail.


46
THE BLACK PIGEON
"Mr. Hayward? Yes, he's here, or rather, he's in the
building. Just stepped out of the office a minute. Won't
you wait for him?” Miss Barnes asked, her light-brown
eyes taking Ruth in curiously, then with a little cynical
half-smile, which betrayed her thought that the engaged
couple had quarreled already. “Go right into his private
office, Miss Lester. I'll see if I can find him for you. I think
he went into the typewriter agency next door"
Ruth had no power to listen, did not know that she shut
the door of Jack's private office upon the uncompleted
sentence of his secretary. Gasping, her hand pressing hard
upon her heart, she sank down into Jack's desk chair, her
whole body trembling so that the chair quivered and
squeaked:
If only Jack would come! Come quickly and take her
in his arms, and tell her what to do, tell her that he
hadn't- Oh, no! not that! She mustn't go mad, with so
much to do.... Afterwards, Ruth had no memory of
reaching a shaking hand down, down, to the bottom
drawer of Jack Hayward's desk, no memory at all of jerk-
ing it open. But there memory began, recording a moment
of such transcendent horror as was never to be entirely
erased from her mind.
Every finger of her groping hand seemed to have an
eye, as if her wide, terrified blue ones were not enough. But
all the eyes in the world could not have found Jack's au-
tomatic pistol in the drawer, for it was not there. . . . For
a frantic minute, kneeling now beside that pulled-out
drawer, she pawed among towels and rubber-banded
bundles of ancient life-insurance "literature," but she
knew that the thing she had never had the courage to
touch but which now, if she had found it, she would have
hugged to her breast in a transport of relief and joy, was
not there—not there . .
She heard Jack's voice in the outer office. Rose, trem-
bling and nauseated, from her kneeling position. Held
tightly to his desk for support as she faced him.


THE BLACK PIGEON
47
"Hello, darling! Sweet of you to pay me a good-morning
visit," his cheerful, eager voice began. Then he saw her
white, stricken face, the horror in her widened blue eyes.
"Why-what's up, Ruth? Wait! Hold everything! Jack's
here, sweet!”
And his arms were about her, steadying her, holding her
close against his heart. Her fingers dug into his shoulders.
"Mr. Borden! He's dead! Murdered! Blood, Jack-oh!
What am I to do? The police oh, Jack!"
The young man's arms went lax for a moment, then
tightened about her so that she gasped for breath. “God!
That you had to see it!” His exclamation, uttered on jerky
gusts of breath, might mean anything anything!
Ruth struggled in his arms, hid her eyes against her
elbow. "My fault! I-I screamed! If only I hadn't
screamed, Jack! I won't have to tell the police, will I, Jack?
I'll lie! I'll lie, Jack! Nobody will have to know! I'll lie!"
The man seized her roughly, shook her a bit to stop
that hysterical babbling. “Shut up, Ruth! Do you hear
me?-stop it, I say! You've got to get hold of your nerves,
darling! Oh, my God!” he groaned, pressing his cheek
hard against the golden curls. “Listen, Ruth. The man
deserved to be shot. Hold fast to that, darling! He de-
served it, I tell you! There's only one thing for you to
remember—that we love each other. Now, we'll go over
there—” and he nodded, his face grim, to the window
across the airshaft, “and face this thing together. Take
my arm, darling. Hold tight!”
Dimly Ruth heard the man she was engaged to, the
man who loved her so much that he—but she mustn't
think, yet!-give instructions to his secretary, but she did
not take in the words, had no idea whether Miss Barnes
had heard any or all of their conversation. The two corri-
dors seemed infinitely long, stretching away like inter-
minable paths in a nightmare, but at last they were in her
own office again. Jack gently unlocked her rigid fingers
from his arm and lifted her bodily into her little swivel


48
THE BLACK PIGEON
at the boy our hat and cost the whole of he had returned he
chair. She laid her head on her desk, pillowing it on her
crossed arms, while Jack, in a brisk, businesslike voice,
called police headquarters. Fragments of his conversation
pierced the swirling chaos of her mind — “Yes, Borden!
B-o-r-d-e-n. Henry P. Borden. Murdered in his office,
suite 712, the Starbridge Building. ... This is John C.
Hayward speaking. . . . Of course I shall stay until po-
lice arrive."
As from a great distance, Ruth heard him turn the knob
of the door which she had closed upon the thing which
had been "Handsome Harry” Borden. He must be look-
ing. ... Oh, how could he? His automatic gone from the
drawer of his desk. ... That heavy briefcase which he
had not let out of his possession after he had returned to
her at luncheon, during the whole of the matinee. ...
"Check your hat and coat and bag, sir. ..." Jack's scowl
at the boy, his curt refusal. . . . All the time, even when
they were holding hands across the briefcase, that horrible
thing of blue steel had been there. ... Oh, no, no! Ruth
wrenched her mind back, forced it to reconstruct the
events of Saturday afternoon. But that, too, was more
than her mind could bear, without shuddering away and
being dragged back. . . . Her bruised lip. Jack's white-
hot anger against Borden, his refusal to believe that it had
not been Borden who had hurt her. . . . His threats, in-
sanely uttered in the presence of Micky Moran, the eleva-
tor operator. ... She had had to hold him back with all
her strength to keep him from forcing his way into Bor-
den's offices. ... His declaration that he had forgotten
the theater tickets, his return to his office to get them. ...
Had he really forgotten them, or had he intended to do
what-oh, she mustn't say it, even to herself! Again that
agonized wrenching of her mind, to bring it back to the
subject, no matter how horrible it was. . . . Had Jack
seen Borden across the airshaft? Oh, God, why had the
architect set two windows exactly opposite each other, so
terribly close? ... Had Jack furiously delivered an


THE BLACK PIGEON
49
ultimatum to Borden about her? Had they quarreled then,
so that Jack's fury became insanity? What easier than to
snatch his automatic from the drawer of his desk and fire
at Borden, drawn to his own window by the quarrel?
Suddenly Ruth's small body was galvanized with pur-
pose. If Jack had done this thing, he had done it for her-
for her! And now, before the police came, she could do
something for him. ...
"Where are you going, Ruth?” Jack demanded, harshly.
"Stay out of there! It's no sight for your eyes. Stop, I tell
you!”
"Oh, let me go!” Ruth sobbed, tearing at his hands.
"I've got to go! I've got to do it before the police come!
Don't you—understand?”
"Do what? Are you crazy? Please, darling, get control
of yourself! It wasn't your fault, really! The man deserved
to die ”
"Don't say that again! I can't bear it!” Ruth screamed.
"Don't you realize?—I've got to close the window, before
the police come!”
He let her go, or her strength for the moment was
greater than his, for she flung herself upon the connecting
door, tore at the knob until it yielded, stepped in—then
stumbled backward into Jack's arms.
"The window's closed, Jack! Closed! Do you hear?
Closed! Oh, God, I thank thee! Forgive me, Jack—”
There was a loud knock upon the outer door, followed
immediately by the turning of the knob. The police had
arrived to inquire into the death of "Handsome Harry”
Borden.


CHAPTER V
IN the brief instant between the turning of the knob of
1 the outer door and the entrance of the police, Ruth
had time to get control of her nerves. For fear so horrible
that she now wondered how she had been able to bear it
had been lifted from her mind and heart. The window of
Borden's private office, opening upon the airshaft, and di-
rectly opposite to Jack Hayward's window, was closed.
How could she, even for a moment have believed her man
was guilty of murder? Her reasoning was exquisitely clear
and simple: The only way Jack Haywood could have shot
Borden was through the window. She herself had left
Borden's door locked, because of his deadly fear of
hold-up men or the assaults of loss-crazed investors in his
stocks. Borden would never in the world have unlocked
it for Jack Hayward, for it was his custom, she knew, to
demand to know who wanted to see him, if he was alone
and unprotected in his office. The only person, probably,
whom he had admitted was his wife, whom he was ex-
pecting, and she undoubtedly had already called before
Jack's return to his office to get the forgotten theater
tickets.
"Henry P. Borden's offices?" an aggressive voice de-
manded unnecessarily, for the name was painted on the.
door. "What's happened here?”
Ruth Lester was still standing in the protective circle
of Jack Hayward's arm. She looked curiously, no longer
afraid, at the detective in plain clothes who was addressing
her. Behind him stood two policemen in uniform, but Ruth
scarcely saw them. The detective towered over her-a
gigantic man, at least six feet three inches tall and broad
' in proportion. He looked as if he had grown grizzled in
so
proportion, at least six feetective toweriform, but Run


52
THE BLACK PIGEON
floor of the building. A flock of pigeons nests on the roof
and I've been feeding them at noon for several weeks. I-
I was so startled at seeing Mr. Borden—when I opened
the door that I dropped the little glass bowl full of crumbs
and peanuts.”
"Hmm!” McMann beetled his eyebrows at her, then
strode about the room, his eyes searching the floor, the
walls, the desk. Then, at last, after so long a time that
Ruth felt like screaming to him to get it over with, he
went and knelt beside the dead man's body and lifted the
outflung right hand, whose fist, Ruth noticed for the
first time, was clenched convulsively.
"Stiff!” McMann pronounced. "Dead a good many
hours, I'd say. Shot through the heart. Must have died
quickly, but Dr. Nielson will tell us that. Rand—” he ad-
dressed one of the policemen—"put in a call for head-
quarters. Tell the chief it's murder all right, and to send
Dr. Nielson over right away. And Biggers, you stand out-
side the door in the hall and keep the crowds away. The
news will go through the building like wildfire, once it
gets started. Did you spill it?” he demanded of Ruth.
She shook her head. "I told no one but Mr. Hayward. I
went to him immediately after-after I saw Mr. Borden.
Mr. Hayward has offices on this floor, around in the next
wing. We are-engaged to be married. That's why I went
to him.”
"That so?” McMann's little, squinted gray eyes studied
the pair in the doorway. He seemed about to ask some
questions concerning their relationship to each other or to
the dead man, and then, to Ruth's great relief, to decide
upon a query of more immediate importance. “Did Borden
keep any money or valuables in the office? Do you know
what he had on him Saturday? Looks like he must have
been murdered as long ago as Saturday.”
“I know that he had five hundred dollars in tens and
twenties,” Ruth answered steadily. "He had me go to the
bank to get it for him, as he was going to Winter Heaven
man, and the immediate ime office? Dhe must have


THE B.LACK PIGEON
53
for the week-end. His train was to leave at 2:15. I don't
know how much more he had. I caught a glimpse of a
yellow-backed note in his wallet when he put the five
hundred in, but I didn't see the denomination. He also
had a pair of railroad tickets with a Pullman drawing-.
room ticket, which he had had me buy for him.”
As she spoke, the detective was searching the pockets
of the dead man's coat, trousers and vest. "Here are the
tickets O.K., a couple of baggage checks and some loose
change in a pocket. But there are no banknotes at all. ...
Hmm! Looks like robbery."
"There have been a number of hold-ups in the building
in the last few weeks,” Jack volunteered. “Someone who
knew Miss Lester to be Mr. Borden's secretary may have
seen her cashing the check for five hundred and—”
"I'll do the maybes on this job, thanks!” McMann inter-
rupted harshly. "Now, Miss Lester-by the way, any re-
lation to Colby Lester, the lawyer?”
Tears sprang into Ruth's eyes. "He was my father.”
McMann's glinting gray eyes were gentle for a moment,
as they took in the small figure, with its crown of golden
curls and wide, limpid blue eyes. "Sorry, Miss Lester! I
had no idea. Do remember the boys saying he had a kid
I mean a daughter-that he was crazy about. . . . Now,
child, in your own words, tell me all you know about this
business. When you last saw Borden, everything of im-
portance that happened Saturday, anything you can think
of to help me.”
"Please, may I sit down-in my own office?” Ruth fal-
knew her ca the map Now, the lar
lation to Colby i Now, Miss Lestethanks!" McMann
terede detective toolllow paper, as since it is a hahe desk
note saturday began, 5 knit in an then B
The detective took a chair beside Ruth's desk, making
notes on sheets of yellow paper, as the girl told her story.
"Saturday is always a quiet day, since it is a half holi-
day,” Ruth began, her hands tight-locked on the desk
before her, her brows knit in an effort at concentration. "I
arrived first, at half past nine, then Benny Smith, the of-
fice boy came in—"


54
THE BLACK PIGEON
"Where is he now?” McMann rapped out, as he made
a note of the name.
"He hasn't come in yet,” Ruth admitted. "He some-
times soldiers on the job when he knows Mr. Borden is out
of town. He was to go away for—"
“The boy's address?” McMann demanded, pencil poised.
"Why, I don't know,” Ruth acknowledged reluctantly.
"I have an old address on file, but his family moved the
first of January. I told him to give me his new address,
but someone interrupted, and I'm sure he didn't.”
"Guess he'll stroll in later,” McMann dismissed the office
boy. "Now go on, please. When did Borden come in Sat-
urday?”
"About ten, as usual. Some woman, who would not give
her name, had just called for him on the phone, and I
told him, describing her voice. He knew who she was, but
he didn't mention her name.”
"Ever hear her voice before?” McMann was instantly
alert.
"She had called several times during the four months I
worked here,” Ruth answered. “Once I put her through
to Mr. Borden, and he told me to remember her voice and
never do so again. She has a beautiful, throaty con-
tralto. . . . Yes, I'd know it if I heard it again, over the
phone anyway.”
"All right. Go on,” McMann, obviously disappointed,
urged her impatiently.
"Mr. Borden dictated for about half an hour.” The girl's
clear voice faltered as she remembered that foolish first
scene between her and Borden, when he had seized her
hand and tried to pull her toward him across the desk, urg-
ing her to take off her spectacles. Perhaps Benny would
tell of it later when he was questioned, but now she could
only pray that he would not. ...
"Any trouble between you and Borden, Miss Lester?"
McMann pounced.
"Trouble? Oh, no!” Ruth protested, flushing. "He was


THE BLACK PIGEON
55
always very considerate of me, till the very day of his
death-” Which was literally trueuntil the very day of
his death! "He dictated, as I said, until Benny interrupted
to say that an old man was in this office, demanding to see
Mr. Borden. I went out to talk with him, because Mr.
Borden wouldn't see him, of course”.
"Why 'of course'?” McMann demanded.
Ruth gazed at the detective blankly for a moment, then
her blue eyes filled with a sudden, glad light. How could
she have forgotten that the old man had muttered threats
against Borden's life? . . . But, oh, he had looked so ill
and beaten! Her eyes clouded again, but she answered
honestly: "Mr. Borden would never see any one who had a
grievance. The old man-he wouldn't give me his name,
insisted on seeing Mr. Borden—said he had lost a fortune
--all his savings—in one of Mr. Borden's stock promoting
schemes."
“Did the old man make any threats against Borden?”
"Yes,” Ruth admitted slowly. “But I thought he was
just talking, as people do who are furious and helpless.
They frequently say things they don't mean—" She
checked herself abruptly. She mustn't babble like this and
give Jack away. Of course he hadn't killed Borden, but
McMann would seize upon the least thing.
“Suppose you describe the old man and let his lawyers
worry about his defense, if it comes to that.” McMann
brought the girl back sharply to the business in hand.
"Remember, Miss Lester, your employer has been mur-
dered, and I'm counting on you to help me find out who
the murderer is.”
Ruth pressed her fingers into her temples, in a mighty
effort to remember clearly. "He was old-about sixty, I
think,” she told the detective slowly, and did not see
McMann, who was past fifty himself, wince at her unin-
tentionally cruel words. "He was wearing a shabby black
overcoat with a velvet collar, which had flakes of dandruff
on it, I remember, for I felt sorry for him, he looked so


56
THE BLACK PIGEON
helpless. I can't tell what color his eyes were, but he had
on old-fashioned steel-rimmed spectacles. His hair, sort of
long, I think, was gray, and his face thin and hollow, with
deep lines. He seemed tall, but I'm so short that nearly
everyone seems tall to me,” she confessed. "I can't really
remember what he said, for he was muttering most of the
time, but he did make threats of 'getting even.' Said he'd
teach 'that crook’ a lesson, bring him to his knees—things
like that. I don't really remember, for I was trying to
soothe him and get rid of him. I had a lot of work to do,
and I knew it was all so hopeless, that Mr. Borden wouldn't
see him or make any restitution.”
McMann, who had been jotting down her description
of the defrauded old man, scowled and then told her to go
on with her story.
"Before writing the letters I went to the bank and to
Penn station to get Mr. Borden's tickets for Winter
Heaven. After I returned and gave the money and tickets
to Mr. Borden, Benny told me that Mrs. Borden had called
on the phone to say she was coming in. She and Mr. Borden
were not living together.”
"I know. Legal separation, with court allowance for her
and the children. About five years ago,” McMann interpo-
lated. “What did she come to see him for?"
"To get her separation allowance,” Ruth answered re-
luctantly. “Mr. Borden had been ordered by the court to
pay her each month on the fifteenth, and he made her
come for it in person. Torto get news of the children, I
suppose,” she added, in a futile attempt to gloss over the
dead man's malicious cruelty to his wife.
"Well? Did she come?” McMann asked, busily taking
notes.
"Later,” Ruth answered, flushing. "But before Mrs.
Borden arrived Mr. Borden had another caller-Miss Du-
bois, Rita Dubois.”
"Oh!” McMann whistled, raising his thick eyebrows.
"The dancer from the Golden Slipper, eh?”
Ohad been onth, and he children, he


THE BLACK PIGEON
57
“Yes. Mr. Borden saw her there two or three weeks ago,
and-and-liked her.”
"So the other ticket and the drawing-room were for
Rita Dubois!” McMann deduced triumphantly. "Rand,
get headquarters on the line again or say, have the cen-
tral telephone office tie up one of these lines for head-
quarters calls. Tell the chief to have Rita Dubois brought
here as soon as she can be found. What's her telephone
number, Miss Lester? I suppose you know it, if she and
Borden were friendly.”
Ruth reached for her desk calendar and turned to the
leaf devoted to the previous Tuesday. “It's Trafalgar 0400.
Miss Dubois has a private phone and I don't know her
address.”
"Got that, Rand? . . . All right, Miss Lester. Did Rita
and Borden quarrel? Will you please tell me exactly what
happened?"
Jack Hayward sat down upon the edge of Ruth's desk
and laid one of his hands upon her two clenched, icy little
fists. She looked at him gratefully, her eyes brimming
with love, before she went on: "No, they didn't quarrel.
They-seemed very happy. I could hear them laughing,
although the door was closed, while they were in—there,"
and Ruth jerked her head toward the private office which
was a temporary morgue for the man who had laughed and
loved on Saturday. “Mrs. Borden came while Miss Dubois
was with Mr. Borden and I told her he was in conference,
and she made an appointment to come back between half
past one and two. Mr. Borden had told me he would be in
his office until about two, since his train would not leave
until two-fifteen and he planned to lunch on the diner.”
"With Rita Dubois?" McMann shot at her.
"He did not tell me who was to go with him,” Ruth
answered truthfully. "And Miss Dubois did not take me
into her confidence either. I do know, however, that he
planned to take-a woman, for he had me wire for reser-
vations at the Winter Heaven Hotel, in the name of Mr. 4
And Miss Do, go with him.” Rose
r confidendly


58
THE BLACK PIGEON
boy's deskonnection, there or see anye
and Mrs. H. P. Benton. The drawing-room reservation was
made in that name also.”
"All right!” McMann made a note. "What next? When
did Rita leave?”
"Shortly after Mrs. Borden-about five minutes,” Ruth
answered. McMann's constant interruptions and questions
had shunted her off the subject of Mrs. Borden, but she
was not sorry that there was no opportunity now to tell
him of the poor, discarded wife's jealousy and humiliation
—a humiliation so keen that she had become ill. Why tell
McMann now about Mrs. Borden's having seen the auto-
matic pistol in the bottom drawer of the desk? Time
enough to tell if it should become necessary. ...
McMann turned again to the policeman who sat at the
telephone, an extension of which was on the absent office
boy's desk. “Get me Captain Foster, Rand.” As he waited
for the connection, the detective turned to Ruth with an-
other question: "Hear or see anything between Borden
and Rita when she was leaving?”
Ruth knit her brows. "Mr. Borden and Miss Dubois
came out of the private office together, laughing and talk-
ing. Miss Dubois said something about shopping. Said she
could do more shopping in two hours than most women
could do in a day. And jokingly told him not to call up
the stores and limit the charge accounts he was opening
for her.”
"And what did Borden say?" McMann demanded, his
pencil busy. “Gold-digging him, eh?”
"He answered something which I didn't understand
about her keeping her bargain and he'd keep his. He said,
‘Mind you don't double-cross me, Rita'-or words to that
effect. But he was in great good humor, and waved good-
bye to her—"
"Just a minute,” McMann interrupted, and reached for
the phone extension on Ruth's desk. "Hello, Captain. Mc-
Mann. ... Yeah. Oh, sure! Robbery or a passion crime,
I don't know which yet. Might even be revenge. Too many


THE BLACK PIGEON
59
leads, if you ask me. . . . Say, chief, send Clay out to get
Mrs. Borden—Wait! I'll get the address.”
Ruth supplied it, from memory: "Mrs. Elizabeth Bor-
den, No. — East Sixty-first Street." Her lips felt dry and
stiff as she uttered the words. After all, Mrs. Borden was
Borden's wife or rather, his widow! And she loved him.
... It had been so painfully obvious to Ruth on Satur-
day, when the wife had been forced to listen to the ribald
laughter of her husband and his new love, that the wife
did love him, was jealous. ...
"... That's right, chief. Tell Clay not to spill the
beans, see? Just tell her she's wanted at her husband's of-
fice, see? . . . Yeah! Plenty! . .. Dr. Nielson's just
leaving? Good? Say, Chief, guess who Borden's private
secretary was? Colby Lester's little daughter! Fact! .
Sure I'll show her every consideration. No man could
help it—"
Jack Hayward leaned close to whisper to Ruth, the first
smile of that dreadful morning twinkling in his bronze-
brown eyes. “Better get out your spectacles, darling!”
McMann continued his telephone conversation with the
chief of police. "And say, Chief, have Ferber, the finger-
print expert, come right over with his camera. . . . Yeah,
I've got this wire plugged up with headquarters until fur-
ther notice, but there's another line. Rand will take all
calls coming in on it; may get some tips that way. ...
And send me over two or three plainclothes men, won't
you? All right!” He hung up the receiver and turned to
Ruth again, dismissing, to her vast relief, both Mrs. Borden
and Rita Dubois, with his first question: "Now, Miss Les-
ter, what other visitors did Borden have Saturday morning
and when did you leave the office?”
Ruth considered. "No one else-oh, I'm forgettting Mr.
Adams. He's one of the stock salesmen. Mr. Borden had
asked him to come in on Saturday to go over his sales rec-
ord. Mr. Adams had been in a slump"
"Quarrel?” McMann tapped impatiently with his pencil.


60
THE BLACK PIGEON
"I didn't hear any quarrel, but Mr. Adams looked rather
exasperated when he came out of Mr. Borden's office"
Ruth was interrupted by Patrolman Biggers, who had
been stationed outside the door in the hall. “Lady here
wants to see Mr. Borden,” he announced to McMann,
winking broadly. “Says she's his"
"I am his wife!” a quivering voice cut short the police-
man's explanation. “I want to see my husband! ... Oh!
Has anything happened to Harry? I knew it! . . . Oh,
Harry, Harry!”


62
THE BLACK PIGEON
here. Won't you step in, please?” and McMann held the
door wide.
Ruth cried out sharply at that cruel invitation, but the
detective silenced her with a scowl and a peremptory ges-
ture. After returning his scowl with a long, level, con-
temptuous look of her blue eyes, Ruth bent over the widow
and assisted her to rise. The detective made no objection to
the girl's entering the room, nor to Jack’s following, his
tanned face drained of color.
For many nights to come Ruth Lester was to be haunted
by that long-drawn wail of agony and grief that rose from
Mrs. Borden's throat when she caught sight of that which
lay sprawled and still on the floor. For a dreadful second
that seemed eternal Ruth thought the widow was going to
kneel in that horrible, brownish, drying pool of blood,
but she must have seen it just in time, for she shuddered
away from it, then flung her body beside that of the man
who had been her husband and the father of her children.
Ruth tried to tear her eyes away, so that she might not
see that lifting of the stiffened face, the cradling of it upon
a bosom Harry Borden had scorned in life and come back
to in death.
McMann stood by, grimly, watching that heartbreaking
tableau, listening for the widow to betray herself. But the
only words that came were choked endearments, spaced by
shuddering sobs and moans of grief. At last the detective
bent over the kneeling woman and gently forced her con-
vulsively clinging hands from the dead face. With con-
siderable care, McMann restored the body to its exact for-
mer position, while Ruth on one side of her and Jack on
the other half carried the widow into the outer office.
McMann joined the group, and spoke quietly to the col-
lapsed figure in the chair. “Mrs. Borden, why did you
come to see your husband this morning?”
Mrs. Borden raised a shaking hand and passed it over
her dazed eyes. "Please! 1—feel—faint. I'll be better in a
moment.”


THE BLACK PIGEON
63
"I'll get you a drink!” Ruth offered pityingly, eagerly.
As she ran to the water cooler in the corner she had a vivid
mental picture of performing that same service for Mrs.
Borden on Saturday, saw herself pulling open the stuck
bottom drawer of the desk, with Mrs. Borden's assistance,
saw again the blue-black Colt’s automatic lying on a stack
of clean towels, heard again her own hurried explanation
to Mrs. Borden of the gun's presence there. . .
"Thank you, Miss-oh, yes, Miss Lester. You're very
kind. Will you tell me why-hekilled himself, sir?” Mrs.
Borden addressed the detective with an effort, after she
had moistened her lips with the water Ruth had brought.
"My question first, please, Mrs. Borden,” McMann an-
swered. “Why did you come to see your husband this
morning? You have had ample time to think of a good
reason.”
"Oh!” Ruth cried, but Jack, taking her hand and press-
ing it hard, warned her to silence.
Mrs. Borden stiffened. "I came this morning to tell my
my husband that our daughter, Betty, is ill. Harry—Mr.
Borden-is—was very fond of Betty, and Betty of him.”
Waveringly, she raised her handkerchief to hide the trem-
bling of her lips.
"You were here Saturday, Mrs. Borden. Was Betty ill
then?”
"Oh, no, she was quite well then, but Betty is delicate,
easily upset. She awoke this morning with a fever, and
cried for her-her father.”
"I see,” McMann said, with apparent sympathy. "You
came Saturday morning and were told Mr. Borden was
busy and that you had better come back later?”
"Yes.” A brief spasm distorted the pale face. Ruth,
watching her with her heart in her blue eyes, knew that
the widow was hearing again those bursts of treble and
bass laughter. ...
"You said you would return about half past one?” Mc-
Mann pressed. “And did?”


64
THE BLACK PIGEON
Fresh tears swam in the widow's leaf-brown eyes. "I did.
Harry-Mr. Borden-”
"Just a minute, Mrs. Borden! How did you get in?
With your own latchkey?”
Humiliation flooded the woman's face with scarlet. "I-
had no latchkey, Mr. McMann. Mr. Borden and I—were
living apart. I came to give Mr. Borden news of our chil-
dren and to-to "
"To get your monthly allowance check for five hun-
dred dollars, which he stipulated that you must ask for in
person on the fifteenth day of the month, without fail
unless the fifteenth fell on a Sunday?" McMann supplied
with slow significance.
The color became mottled on Mrs. Borden's thin cheeks.
“Yes, sir. I knocked on the door, then when no one an-
swered, I realized that Miss Lester had gone for the day
and that Harry—Mr. Borden—was in his private office.
I tried the door and found it locked, then I knocked quite
loudly. He came and—and let me in.”
"Was your husband glad to see you?” McMann shot at
her.
Ruth quivered, but Mrs. Borden's reclaimed dignity
was equal to the answer. “He was—courteous, as-always.
We did not-quarrel-ever."
"Hmm!” McMann commented, nodding his head and
narrowing his hard gray eyes. "Just exactly what hap-
pened, Mrs. Borden? Everything that you can remember,
please.”
"Harry-Mr. Borden-asked me into his private office,
and I sat down across the desk from him. I-I told him
little bits of news about the children, and he asked par-
ticularly about-about Betty. Then—then he wrote the
check and gave it to me"
check and we
"Did you have to remind him to do so?”
Ruth felt like screaming at the man not to persecute the
poor woman so. But Mrs. Borden, quite pale again, an-


THE BLACK PIGEON
65
swered simply: "It was part of the the separation agree-
ment that I should specifically ask for the allowance. I did
so. And Harry wrote the check immediately. I have it here
with me. I was going to deposit it to my account this
morning. The bank was closed Saturday afternoon.” And
she drew the unpaid check from her handbag and passed
it to the detective, who scanned it briefly and put it in his
pocket.
"By the way, Mrs. Borden, at exactly what time did you
arrive Saturday?” McMann remembered to ask, as he
jotted down notes on her story.
"It was just two or three minutes after half past one
when I left the children in the lobby of the McAlpin
Hotel, where the three of us had lunched. It must have
been twenty minutes of two when Mr. Borden admitted
me. I had rather a long wait for the elevator, I remember
walking was slow through the Saturday crowds. Yes, it
must have been as late as twenty minutes to two."
McMann considered, then: "Now, Mrs. Borden, was
there anything at all unusual in Mr. Borden's manner?”
Again that wave of scarlet. "He was obviously in a
hurry,” she faltered. "He said something about having to
catch a train. He was much the same as-usual, except
perhaps a little more-more exuberant, as if—as if—" her
voice choked on a sob—"as if he were delighted about
something. I'm-glad he was happy. Something terrible
must have happened later to make him want to-to com-
mit suicide. Did he learn that he was to be arrested for-
for promoting a-an unsound company, Mr. McManna...
• The detective regarded her narrowly for a long time,
as if trying to make up his mind whether she was acting
or not, before he answered:
"Your husband did not commit suicide, Mrs. Borden.
He was murdered.”
The slight figure which had been holding itself rigid
under McMann's bombardment of questions slumped sud-
ide. Didened later toe is happy. Sendelighted ab her


66
THE BLACK PIGEON
McMann's.this hardly believe yoand why and, as in the de
denly, and again Ruth ran to her side, offering water, with
little soothing murmurs of consolation which the widow
obviously did not hear.
"Murdered! My husband_murdered? Who? Why?”
McMann's tall, big body teetered slowly back and forth
on its heels as his hard gray eyes met and held those horror-
filled brown ones. "I believe you can answer both those
questions, Mrs. Borden-who-and why."
The widow thrust out a wavering hand, as if groping
for support. Ruth gave it, her eyes blazing upon the de-
tective. "I?—I don't know-what you mean, sir!"
McMann spoke slowly through hard, straight lips: "Let
me remind you of several things, Mrs. Borden: You were
separated from your husband and you still loved him: You
suffered agonies of humiliation each month, through hav-
ing to beg him for support for yourself and children. You
came here Saturday to see him, and found that he was
closeted with a girl he loved, a girl with whom he meant
to spend the week-end at Winter Heaven. You were crazed
with love, jealousy and humiliation. You came back here,
demanded that he give up his trip with this other woman,
quarreled violently with him after he had given you the
check, and, when he laughed at you for your interference
-you shot him! Doesn't that answer both your questions,
Mrs. Borden—who, and why?”
As McMann's ruthlessly logical sentences peppered like
bullets upon poor Mrs. Borden's shrinking figure, Ruth
Lester thanked God that she had not told the detective
about the automatic pistol in the bottom drawer of her
desk—that fearsome blue-black thing which Mrs. Borden
had seen and shuddered away from on Saturday. Even if
the pistol was still there and unfired—as it undoubtedly
was, Ruth told herself, McMann would believe that the
sight of it had planted the idea of murder in the jealousy-
tormented mind of the discarded wife.
Ruth's own small body stiffened with indignation and
sympathy as Mrs. Borden pulled herself together to answer


THE BLACK PIGEON
67
McMann's brutal charge. Tears in the leaf-brown eyes were
suddenly dried in the fire of anger. A brilliant flush took
the place of the pallor which had spread over the sensitive,
aristocratic face. Words, when they came, were uttered
quietly but firmly:
"I did not kill my husband, sir. He was alive, well and
-happy when I left him Saturday afternoon. I never saw
him again until—a few minutes ago."
Whatever answer the scowling, obviously skeptical de-
tective might have made was checked by the opening of
the outer door and the entrance of three plainclothes men,
whom McMann greeted curtly, assigning them rapidly to
their tasks:
"Carlson, I want you to take charge of all visitors whom
Biggers stops at the door. They'll be stock salesmen and
other business callers who don't know that Borden is dead.
Herd them into Suite 715 down the hall. It's vacant. Ques-
tion all comers and send for me if anything develops. Get
the alibi of every salesman who reports. Biggers is holding
a couple of them now. ... Yeah, that's all, but don't let
anything slip through your fingers. . . . Covey, get hold
of the superintendent of the building, and tell him to
round up every employe that was on the premises Saturday
afternoon. Ask him also to make an office to office canvass
for every tenant that was in the building after one o'clock
-not many of them, I guess. Question them one by one
as to whether they heard a shot, and when. Keep a com-
plete record, of course. Better get the 'super' to give you
another vacant suite for your job, and have the gang
brought to you, one by one. I don't want them to have a
chance to compare notes. And don't put out anything,
see? Just ask for information, don't give it."
Covey, a little bright-eyed, gleeful-looking detective,
nodded happily. “And shall I send the elevator boys to you
straight off, Chief?”
McMann nodded, but his attention was not so engrossed
with his subordinates that he did not see Ruth Lester start,
-not mantenant that was in make an office remises Saturday


68
THE BLACK PIGEON
grow very pale, and reach instinctively for Jack Hay-
ward's hand. And he missed not a flicker of the changing
expressions that succeeded each other rapidly on the young
insurance broker's handsome face-sudden realization of
what that order to Covey meant to him and to Ruth,
fear-then grim determination.
Ruth did not hear a word of McMann's instructions to
Birdwell, the third of the plainclothes men, for she was
re-living that damning scene with Jack Hayward at the
elevator, when he had come up to rescue her, as he thought,
from Borden's amorous importunities. The room spun
dizzily about the girl, as she realized that Micky Moran,
the elevator operator, would tell—would be forced to tell
-how, with her bruised lip trembling with fright and her
eyes swimming with tears, she had struggled with Jack
to keep him from forcing his way into Borden's of-
fice. ...
The crushing pressure of her sweetheart's hand steadied
her finally, so that she became conscious of what was going
on about her. McMann was bending over Mrs. Borden
again, demanding sternly:
"Now, Mrs. Borden, just one more question for the
present: did you encounter any one as you left your hus-
band's offices Saturday afternoon?”
What sounded like a sigh of relief quivered the white
lips of the widow. "No one, sir. . . . No, wait! There was
a scrubwoman coming out of the office next to the eleva-
tor, across the hall. I remember thinking how old and bent
she was, how-how harshly life must have used her. ...
That is the only person I saw, Mr. McMann, before the
elevator came."
Ruth wondered how many people poor old Minnie Cas-
sidy, the cleaning woman who "did" Borden's offices, had
served in this ironic way. She, too, had never been so
downhearted but that a sight of rheumatic, bent, but
humbly cheerful old Minnie had made her think to her-
self, gratefully: “Thank God, I'm better off than that. I
servenhearted but ld Minnied, I'm bett


THE BLACK PIGEON
*69
have a lot to be thankful for.” Now, for the first time,
with unspeakable ordeals stretching ahead of her and her
sweetheart, she fleetingly wished that she could change
places with old Minnie, who could not, by the most absurd
stretch of the imagination, become involved in this im-
placable, hard-eyed man's investigation into the murder of
Henry P. Borden. ... The convulsive pressure of Jack's
hand told her that he was following her thoughts, and
she looked up fearfully into his eyes. He was smiling, but
his face was very pale, with two little knots of muscle to
indicate that his jaws were clenched. She wanted to reach
up and touch those clenched jaws, to reassure him: "I
know you didn't do it, darling! Remember, the window
was closed, closed! Don't you see? They can't really think
you did it, no matter what Micky Moran tells!” But she
did not dare, with McMann's narrowed gray eyes flashing
keenly from her face to Jack's. ...
"Oh, hello, Dr. Nielson! Glad you've got here!” Mc-
Mann strode to the half-closed door and extended his hand
to a slender, oldish man, whose bared head was thinly
covered with graying fair hair, through which the scalp
showed pinkly. Pale blue eyes, enlarged by thick-lensed
spectacles, surveyed the room diffidently. "The body is in
the next room, Doctor, exactly as Miss Lester here found it
when she came to work this morning. It's pretty obvious
that death took place as long ago as Saturday afternoon.”
"Nothing is obvious, my dear McMann,” the doctor
protested mildly. "The building is open on Sundays, I
take it?” Without waiting for an answer, the medical ex-
aminer stepped over the threshold, removing his gloves as
he did so. "Ah! Near the window, I see.”
"Yes,” McMann admitted, following the doctor and not
bothering to close the door behind him. "He was killed
in his private office, and not near the door. Looks pretty
certain that whoever bumped him off was known to Bore
den; otherwise he-or more likely she wouldn't havu
been admitted to the private office.”


70
THE BLACK PIGEON
"These Sherlock Holmes deductions are your field, not
mine, my dear McMann,” Dr. Nielson said placidly, as he
dropped to his knees beside the corpse. "Hmm! Shot
through the heart, I think, but of course only an autopsy
can tell us the exact facts. No powder burns on the coat
or vest, so the weapon must have been fired at a distance
of some feet. I'll take a sample of this blood, naturally,” he
added, opening the small black bag he carried. “The ex-
tent of coagulation will help us to arrive at the approxi-
mate time of the murder. I presume it is murder? Have
you found a weapon?”
McMann indicated the floor of the room with a wave of
his hand. “No gun anywhere near the body, doctor. He
could have committed suicide and flung the weapon out
of the window as he fell, but the window was closed. It
was closed when you arrived, Miss Lester?” and he whirled
toward Ruth, who was standing beside Jack Hayward in
the doorway.
"Oh, yes!” Ruth cried eagerly, too eagerly, so that the
detective's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I did not go near
the-the body or the window and Mr. Hayward just
touched his hand to be sure Mr. Borden was-dead. He
never touched the window, either.”
With a piece of chalk the medical examiner outlined
the sprawled body on the polished, rug-free strip of floor.
Around the upflung arm, the head half-pillowed upon it,
the out-thrust right arm, down the torso, around the big,
long legs rigidly crooked in death, the chalk speeded, lift-
ing only to avoid that dark, drying pool of blood. While
the doctor worked a thick, pugnacious young man, shoul-
dering a camera, pushed his way into the room, saluted
McMann, grinned appreciatively at Ruth, then went about
his first gruesome task—that of photographing the dead
man where he lay. At the explosion of the flashlight Mrs.
Borden, still sitting in a forlorn huddle in the outer office,
screamed, and Ruth turned back to her, to comfort her


THE BLACK PIGEON
71
ing that'n Mr. Borden was the cleaned Satuleaning woman
with an explanation and little murmurs which were
scarcely words.
But she could hear McMann's big voice: "I've left every-
thing just as it was till you got here, Ferber. Finger-prints
may play a big part in this case. Go over the whole room,
especially the desk, doors and windows. Oh, Miss Lester!”
Then, as Ruth reappeared in the doorway, "Were these
windows looking out on the street closed, too?”
"They were kept closed in the winter,” Ruth answered.
"Ventilation came from the window on the airshaft be-
tween the wings. Minnie Cassidy, the cleaning woman,
must have closed it when she cleaned Saturday afternoon,
although Mr. Borden was still here. It's a rule of the build-
ing that no windows are to be left open over night.”
"Think the woman cleaned, do you?” McMann shot at
her.
"Why, yes,” Ruth answered, surprised at his lack of
astuteness. “The wastebaskets have been emptied, as you
see, both in my office and in Mr. Borden's. Minnie came
down the hall toward this office just as I was getting on the
elevator Saturday afternoon. I suppose she cleaned then.”
Her lips went dry with fear that her ordeal was upon her
—that McMann would question her then and there about
her departure, would learn that she had come back for
her forgotten bank book. But the detective merely nodded
as he said:
"I'll get Minnie's story when Covey rounds her up.”
"The cleaning women don't come on duty week days
until four,” Ruth volunteered. “Saturdays they work from
twelve to four.”
McMann thanked her with another curt nod, then, since
the finger-print expert had finished with Borden's desk,
he began to pull out drawers. "I don't see any gun here,"
he remarked, to no one in particular. "In view of all these
hold-ups in the building, I'm surprised he didn't keep
one.”


72
THE BLACK PIGEON
Because she knew his search would soon extend to
her own desk, Ruth volunteered, a little breathlessly: "I
have an automatic in my desk, Mr. McMann. A Cole's .38,
I believe it is.”
"What!” the detective exploded. Then, “Bring it to me!
No, wait! I'll get it,” he corrected himself grimly, with a
significant glance at the finger-print expert, who followed
close at his heels as McMann strode into the outer office.
"Show me where you keep it.”
Obediently, without glancing at Mrs. Borden, who was
straining forward to see, Ruth pulled open the bottom
drawer of her desk, and pointed, shrinking a little, as she
always shrank from sight or touch of that blue-black
thing.
"Where?” McMann was burrowing among the clean
towels, cartons of paper cups, and bundles of old station-
ery with which the bottom drawer was filled. “There's no
automatic here, or any other kind of gun!”
"Not-there?” Ruth repeated stupidly. “Not there!
Why—" and involuntarily she turned on icy feet and
stared at Mrs. Borden,


CHAPTER VII
ETECTIVE MCMANN'S eyes were like glinting bits
of steel as he surveyed Ruth's small body from the
topmost golden curl to the toes of her beige kid pumps.
Those hard gray eyes did not miss the fact that her little
hands were locked tightly together, her blue eyes fixed in
a wide, unwinking stare of horror—upon Elizabeth
Borderthien did you last the whole truthd be familiar
"When did you last see your automatic, Miss Lester?
Come now—the truth, the whole truth and nothing but
the truth! Colby Lester's daughter should be familiar with
that phrase, and know that the truth is always the best
policy.”
Ruth nodded weakly, and moistened her lips. "I-saw it
Saturday morning, when I opened the bottom drawer to
get a new carton of paper cups. It was there then, lying
on top of those clean towels. I—I never saw it again, Mr.
McMann. I never touched it. It frightened me even to look
at it.”
McMann's narrowed eyes searched her face. “Who else
knew you kept a gun in that drawer?”
Ruth silently prayed that Mrs. Borden would forgive
her, as she answered: “A number of people. I can't remem-
ber all of them at the moment, but Benny, the office boy,
of course, and Mr. Borden, and—and Mrs. Borden—"*
"Ah! So Mrs. Borden knew!” McMann interrupted tri-
umphantly. "And how did Mrs. Borden know you kept a
gun there? Did she ask you?”
"She-saw it there," Ruth said faintly, reaching out
dizzily for the desk. A low exclamation, that might have
been either of fear or of startled realization had broken
from Mrs. Borden's ashen lips.
73


74
THE BLACK PIGEON
Saturday, led out the itting at myand I explan the
“When?” McMann barked.
"Saturday morning,” Ruth admitted in a low, trembling
voice. "I pulled out the drawer to get the paper cups and
Mrs. Borden, who was sitting at my desk, helped me with
the drawer because it stuck, and—and I explained how I
happened to have a gun-about the hold-ups in the build-
ing, you know.”
"And why was Mrs. Borden sitting at your desk?” Mc-
mann caught her up sharply, relentlessly. "You'd made
her sit down because she was feeling faint, hadn't you?
And you were after a cup to give her a drink, weren't
you?"
Ruth stared her amazement at his accurate deduction.
“Mrs. Borden did not look-well, so I thought—"
"Look here, Miss Lester,” McMann interrupted her
stumbling speech. “This is murder, you know, and I'm
here to find out who did it. If you're trying to shield Mrs.
Borden—"
"I'm grateful.” Mrs. Borden, who had risen and was
holding to her chair, finished his sentence for him. “And
I don't want you to bully this child. It is true: I did see
the weapon. I was feeling sick and faint because I heard a
woman and my husband laughing loudly together."
"You admit that?” McMann demanded. "I guess we're
about through here, doctor," he called to the medical ex-
aminer who was still in the private office with the corpse.
"Mrs. Borden, I ar”
"Wait, Mr. McMann!” Mrs. Borden commanded, and
Ruth admired the calm courage which had come to Harry
Borden's widow. "I have made no confession, and will
make none, for I did not kill my husband. I have merely
: relieved Miss Lester of a painful duty—that of telling what
happened between her and myself Saturday morning. I
admit that I was hurt-jealous, if you will-because my
husband was so evidently finding happiness with another
woman. But for many years he has given me cause to be
liss Lester did not made neich had.com


THE BLACK PIGEON
75
jealous, and I have borne it uncomplainingly for the sake
of my children.”
McMann nodded, his lips twisting in a brief, cruel smile.
“But on Saturday you reached the end of your rope, didn't
you, Mrs. Borden? You quarreled with him about this
other woman, after he had given you your check ”
"I did not!” Mrs. Borden interrupted firmly. “We
parted as amicably as usual, and my husband was alive. I
did not even remember that Miss Lester had a pistol in her
desk. My husband gave me no cause to remember, and I
was thinking only of getting back to the McAlpin, where
I had left my children.”
Again McMann grinned, but he suddenly switched his
glinting, hard gaze to Ruth again. "Did Borden buy the
automatic and instruct you to use it on bandits, Miss
Lester?”
"No." Ruth breathed the word, rather than spoke it.
"I bought the gun for Miss Lester, Mr. McMann," Jack
Hayward spoke up. “As I told you, we are engaged to be
married. I bought the automatic several weeks ago, after
there had been two hold-ups in the building, but she was
afraid to learn to shoot it.”
McMann scowled at the young man, thought deeply for
a moment, then pounced upon Ruth again. "If you were
so afraid of the gun, Miss Lester, how did it happen that
so many people knew you had it?”
The memory of past humiliations painted Ruth's cheeks
scarlet. "Mr. Borden made me get it out sometimes and
show people that we we were armed,” she faltered. “It-
amused him to see how frightened of the gun I was. Sev-
eral of the stock salesmen were in his office one afternoon,
and he made me bring it in—and—and pretend I was a
bandit."
"Swell sense of humor!” McMann commented. “You
weren't so crazy about your boss, were you, Miss Lester?”
he challenged suddenly.
therried. 1 poke up... Kor Miss Yord, rather..


76
THE BLACK PIGEON
Ruth stared at the detective with frightened blue eyes.
"I-he was always a considerate employer. I had no cause
at all for complaint, until the day of his death.” She could
have bitten her tongue after she had again uttered that
phrase of double-meaning, but apparently it had made
no impression upon McMann, or he had accepted it at its
face value.
"You seem pretty sure that Borden died on Saturday,
Miss Lester,” the detective commented. “Let's see what
the medical examiner has to say. He must be able to give
some sort of report by now ... Oh, Doctor!”
Dr. Nielson appeared in the doorway between the two
offices, his pale eyes blinking mildly behind his thick-
lensed spectacles.
"When was Borden killed, Doctor? Of course I know
you can't say to the minute or even the hour, before you
perform the autopsy but it would help me in my work if
you could tell me approximately when death took place.”
The doctor cocked his thin-haired head and smiled quiz-
zically. “You have so little regard for the niceties of sci-
ence, McMann. It is truly deplorable. But, offhand, and
on the condition that you shall not hold me to this opin-
ion or make a hasty arrest based upon it, I shall say to you
now that the deceased has been dead between forty-one
and forty-five hours. I draw my conclusions from—"
McMann waved away the medical explanation. “So he
was killed after one o'clock Saturday, eh? Let me know
later, Doc, if you can fix the time more accurately. Of
course we may have a dozen witnesses among the employes
and tenants of the buildings as to when the shot was fired.
And say, Doc, phone me as soon as you extract the bullet,
won't you? I'll bet you a hundred it's a .38 calibre, if
you're in a betting frame of mind.”
"Not this morning,” the doctor repudiated the offer
dřily. “Now, if I may, I'll phone the morgue to send for
the body.” And he stepped to the telephone.
"Where the devil is Covey?" McMann began to fume,


THE BLACK PIGEON
77
but before the words were well out of his mouth, the
outer door opened and the plainclothesman appeared, fol-
lowed by two very young men in the uniform of the
Starbridge Building.
"Elevator operators on duty Saturday until six,” Covey
introduced them to his chief.
"All right, boys. Come on in,” McMann invited. “I'm
not going to arrest you—yet,” he added with grim humor,
as the boys continued to hug the wall. "Guess this room's
getting a little crowded. I'll take you boys into the private
office and treat you to a sight you'll never forget.”
Micky Moran and Otto Pfluger, whom Ruth recognized
as the silent, tow-headed boy who ran the car nearest Jack
Hayward's offices, stumbled nervously across the outer
office in the wake of the detective. Covey, chuckling, in-
dicated by pantomime that the boys had no idea what
had happened.
Ruth had no answering smile for his chuckles. The mo-
ment, which had been hurtling toward her like a flaming
meteor out of hell, was upon her. Micky Moran was be-
hind Otto Pfluger, and before she realized the folly of
her action, Ruth caught his eye with her imploring, ter-
rified gaze, then raised a finger to her lips, shaking her
head ever so slightly.
"Don't, darling!” Jack whispered, his breath stirring
the curls over her ear. "Just keep a stiff upper lip. You've
been marvelous. And I love you, no matter what,"
"Will he let us listen, do you think?" she whispered,
clinging to his hands, afraid to have him finish that omin-
ous sentence.
Micky did not close the communicating door behind
him and the young lovers dared take their place within it.
McMann, seated at Borden's desk, glanced up, but did
not object. Possibly Ruth thought, he wanted to observe
their faces as the elevator operators told their stories.
"Which of you runs the elevator just across the hall?"
McMann demanded “You? All right,” as Micky Moran
McMannet. Possibly fator operatator just a


78
THE BLACK PIGEON
este Tew—?” McManon an eerie soublack pigeon
stepped jerkily toward the desk, his eyes turned to that
awful, huddled thing on the floor. "Henry P. Borden was
murdered Saturday afternoon, and undoubtedly, or rather,
in all probability, his murderer-or murderess rode up
and down in your elevator, my lad. What's your name?”
"Michael Dennis Moran,” Micky answered automati-
cally, then: “Gees! Murdered! Do I have to stay in here,
boss? Honest-ow!”
"What the devil—?” McMann sprang to his feet, as the
boy's howl of fear followed upon an eerie sound.
Ruth enlightened him, her eyes upon the black pigeon
which was flying about the airshaft window, as if seek-
ing admission: “It's just a pigeon, Mr. McMann. Sometimes
they fly into the glass, thinking the window is open."
As she spoke, McMann strode to the window and peered
out interestedly, just as the black pigeon settled upon the
white stone ledge and began to strut up and down, peck-
ing at something-
"Lord! And I nearly missed it!” McMann shouted.
"Here, Ferber! Look! Have you photographed this win-
dow for finger-prints? Fine! I can open it then. . . . Has
Nielson gone? Hey, Doctor!”
A minute later Ruth, in a bitterly lucid flash through
the darkness of horror and fear, rechristened the black
pigeon. She would never again call him Satan. His true
name was Nemesis. ...


CHAPTER VIII
N R. NIELSON, with his little black bag of instruments,
D and Ferber, the finger-print expert, with his camera,
were crowding the detective at the window as McMann
pushed up the sash. Ruth, still not knowing what had
caused the detective's jubilant excitement, stepped forward
slowly on icy feet, a cold little hand dragging at Jack
Hayward.
"Look, Doctor! What would you say that is—and that,
and that?” McMann pointed from spot to spot on the
white stone ledge of the window which opened upon the
airshaft.
Nielson smiled his diffident, wintry smile. "I'd say, un-
officially, that it is blood, my dear Sherlock, but only a
laboratory test-"
McMann barked out a laugh. "And what would you
say made those peculiarly shaped blood spots, Ferber? You
don't have to be so confoundedly cautious in your opin-
ions. Look!”
The heads of the two men bumped together as they
studied their find.
"I'd say they are the footprints of a pigeon, made in
blood,” Ferber answered, awe in his voice. "Now-how
the deuce, if the window was closed?"
McMann drew in his head and dropped to his knees,
going over every inch of the strip of bare floor which
bordered the rug, from the farthest corner of the room to
where the stiff, crumpled body of Harry Borden still lay.
A sharply triumphant exclamation announced discovery.
79


80
THE BLACK PIGEON
“Look, Ferber-Nielson! The same identical tracks-
two of 'em, between the body and the window! Three-
pronged tracks, as clear as the nose on Doc's face! Funny
I didn't notice them before, but naturally I was working
on the theory that the window was closed when Borden
was shot. Let's see the finger-prints you got off this win-
dow, Ferber, as soon as you can. If I'm half the Sherlock
that Nielson is so fond of calling me, those finger-prints
will be as good as a picture of the man or woman who put
a bullet through Borden's heart. Right, Ferber?”
"You might be if there were any finger-prints," Ferber
grinned. “It happens that the window had been wiped
clean. I'm afraid Borden's murderer was a little too clever
to leave a calling card, McMann.”
McMann scowled, his brows beetling so that they almost
hid his glinting gray eyes. "He or she may not have
left a calling card, but the pigeon did. Nice, obliging
bird, that black pigeon!”
It was then that Ruth Lester renamed Satan. In hor-
ror and fear she rechristened him Nemesis. For long before
McMann reached the inevitable conclusion to which the
footprints of the pigeon were to lead him, Ruth had real-
ized fully what ungrateful payment the black pigeon, or
one of his flock, had made to her and Jack Hayward for
the crumbs they had fed him every day.
"I'm afraid my stodgy, scientific mind fails to follow
your brilliant deductions, McMann," Dr. Nielson gibed
mildly. “I'll play Watson to your Sherlock. Just what do
these alleged footprints of a pigeon in blood tell you, my
dear Holmes?”
McMann flushed with resentment at the doctor's mild
raillery, but decided to answer. “I should think it is ob-
vious, Doc, even to a stodgy, scientific mind. This window
was open before and after the murder, and possibly while
it was being committed. Certainly it was open afterwards,
or the pigeon could not have flown into the room and
walked about in Borden's blood. Also Borden's body was


THE BLACK PIGEON
81
to who the detective involuntaf the mur
alone in the room when the pigeon entered, unless-by
George!"
"Please don't go mysterious on me, Sherlock,” Dr. Niel-
son begged. "I assure you I'm all agog. Unless—what?"
"Unless,” McMann explained impressively, "the room
was occupied by someone the pigeon was not afraid of-
to whom it was accustomed!” On the last portentous
word, the detective swung about so that he was facing
Ruth Lester, who involuntarily cried out, as if he had
accused her then and there of the murder.
Jack Hayward flung a protecting arm about the shoul-
ders of the trembling girl. “McMann, I resent the insinua-
tion you have made against Miss Lester! I-".
"Please, Jack!” Ruth begged, in a panic of fear as to
what his next words might be. She turned to McMann
then, her exquisite, pale little face lifted bravely to meet
any verbal blows he might give her. "The pigeons are ac-
customed to no one but me, Mr. McMann, and I was not
in this room when Mr. Borden was shot, or afterwards,
until I found him this morning.”
"In the next office, perhaps, with the door open?” Mc-
Mann shot at her.
"No!” She was trembling no longer, was almost glad
that his suspicions were directed against her, rather than
against Jack Hayward. She knew she was innocent. ...
"Gees!” an awed voice broke the tension.
McMann swerved instantly to the red-headed elevator
operator, who was regarding Ruth with a curious mixture
of awe, admiration and fear.
"All right, Moran! Snap out of it! You've got to do a
' lot of plain and fancy remembering, my lad, if you don't
want to spend a night in jail to refresh your memory,"
McMann snapped at the instantly terrified boy. “First, I
want you to give me the name of every person who used
your elevator after one o'clock Saturday.”
Micky Moran rumpled his red hair in despair. "Gees!
'At's gonna be a big order, boss. Nearly every tenant and
fator, who wish and fear. ort of it! You're you don't
admiration an! Snap embering, mash your memoirst?
il to refresified boy who used
want to senapped ate the name Saturday, despair. 14 and


82
THE BLACK PIGEON
steno on this side of the building beat it at one o'clock.
Car was jammed, boss, for two or three trips.”
"Give me as many names as you can,” McMann ordered,
seating himself at Borden's desk, to make notes. “Wait
a minute! ... You're getting samples of blood from
those pigeon footprints outside and inside, aren't you,
Doc? And Ferber, you'd better photograph 'em before the
Doc scrapes 'em up. . . . Now, Moran-”
The boy drew a deep breath and then rattled off a dozen
names, which McMann listed, with the number of the
office to which each belonged. “Now, Moran, when did
Miss Lester leave? With the others at one o'clock?"
The boy shot an apologetic glance at the girl who was
waiting, breath drawn in, hands tightly locked over Jack
Hayward's rigid arm. “No, she didn't get off till the rush
was over. Musta been about a quarter past one. Mr. Hay-
ward was waitin' for her at the elevator. He usually goes
down in Otto's car, on the other side, but when he's got
a date with Miss Lester"
"All right, Moran,” McMann interrupted. “Mr. Hay-
ward was waiting for her and they got into your elevator
about one fifteen-”
"One twenty,” Ruth corrected. "I had looked at my
watch several times, as I knew I was keeping Mr. Hayward
waiting. Mr. Borden had to sign some letters before I could
leave, and Mr. Adams staid until after one.”
"All right-one twenty,” McMann accepted the cor-
rection and made a note of the time. "Anything unusual
happen as the couple went down in your elevator, Moran?
Did Miss Lester or Mr. Hayward seem upset or worried,
or anything out of the ordinary?”
Micky considered. Then his face lighted up. “Gees!
Guess I did most of the talkin', boss. I just couldn't get
over how different Miss Lester looked, and I kept tellin'
her som”
"Different?” McMann pounced. "Was she crying, or
waiting. Mr. Blomes, as I knewested. "I had loo
pale?"


THE BLACK PIGEON 83
"Gees, no! She was lookin' swell! If I hadn't seen her
when she went out on an errand in the middle of the
mornin', and spoke to me so's I'd recognize her, I'd never
a-knowed her, honest! Like I told her, she looked like a
movie star, only sweller. And I said to Mr. Hayward I had
to hand it to him-he could pick a winner that anybody
else woulda passed up.”
McMann knit his brows in a puzzled frown. "I'm afraid
I can't see why anyone would have passed up' Miss Lester,
Moran. What do you mean?”
The elevator operator chuckled. “If you'd a-seen her
Friday or any day before that, boss! Hair all slicked back
tight so's her ears showed, and great big yellow spectacles
over them swell blue lamps of hers, and old-fashioned
clothes that looked like they come from the Salvation
Army. Guess she was disguised so's 'Handsome Harry'
wouldn't make no passes at her.”
"I see!” McMann commented drily, his narrowed gray
eyes flicking from Ruth's exquisite, flushed face to the
angry, tight-lipped face of the man to whom she was
engaged. “And this amazing transformation had taken
place for the first time on Saturday, Moran?”
"It wasn't no transformation. It's her own hair. Any
guy with half an eye could see that! She'd just had it
slicked back tight till Saturday,” Micky corrected in-
dignantly.
McMann had been answered. In the utter stillness of the
room the tap-tapping of the detective's pencil upon the
edge of the dead man's desk sounded as loud as hammer
blows. Then suddenly McMann spoke, and his words were
directed to Ruth Lester:
"Twice this morning you've used the phrase, 'until the
day of his death.' Borden, you said, had been a considerate
employer—'until the day of his death. You had never
quarreled with Borden—'until the day of his death. But
- what about the day of his death, Miss Lester?”
Every vestige of color left Ruth's cheeks and lips, but
foom the the deaddenly become


84
THE BLACK PIGEON
her blue eyes were steady as she answered: "I meant, of
course, until and including the day of his death.”
McMann rose slowly from the desk and strolled toward
the girl, towering over her as he summed up: “You feared
the effect of your beauty on a man like 'Handsome Harry'
Borden. You wore a sort of disguise to keep him from
wanting you. Saturday, happy in your engagement to
Mr. Hayward, you left off your disguise of homeliness
and let Borden see what he'd been missing. He made love
to you, just as Mr. Hayward had feared he would—”
"Mr. Hayward!” Ruth repeated indignantly. "He him-
self didn't know I was any prettier than I seemed until
Friday night after we became engaged! It never occurred
to him that Mr. Borden ”
"But he gave you an automatic pistol to protect yourself
against a man who was notorious where women were con-
cerned,” McMann interrupted sharply. "And Saturday,
when Borden saw you as you really are, you were glad you
had that means of protecting yourself, weren't you, Miss
Lester?”
"Gees!” Again Micky Moran's awed exclamation shat-
tered a moment of intolerable suspense. "You didn't shoot
him when you come back, did you, Miss Lester? ...
Gees! A little frail like that, and a big guy like him!” And
Micky's wholly admiring gray-green eyes popped from
Ruth to Borden's body and back again.
"When she came back?” McMann repeated triumph-
antly. "Suppose you tell me all about Miss Lester's return
to the office, Moran.”
Ruth's blue eyes were so piteous with fear and frantic
appeal that the elevator operator flushed and stammered
as he began his story. But Ruth's terror was not for her-
self. ...
“She came right back up. I heard her tell Mr. Hayward
she'd forgot her bank book, and aw, gees, boss, I didn't


THE BLACK PIGEON 85
mean nothing by what I said,” Micky Moran protested
unhappily. "Honest, she couldn't a-killed him! Why, boss,
you only gotta take one look at Miss Ruth to see she
wouldn't hurt a fly—"
"Stick to your story, Moran!” McMann jerked him up.
"Miss Lester came right back up to her office, you say. Mr.
Hayward with her?"
"Naw, she told him to wait for her in the lobby, and
he did. I took her up and was gonna hold the car for her,
but I got a signal from the fifth floor and had to shoot
down again. Mr. Hayward was walking up and down
in the lobby nervous-like, and looked awful worried
when he seen I hadn't brought Miss Lester down with me.
Pretty soon—*
“How long?"
“Oh, four or five minutes, I guess, maybe six or seven.
I dunno,” Micky protested miserably, “Honest, I dunno!
Mr. Hayward kept draggin' out his watch and lookin'
at it, then finally he rushed into my car and told me to
shoot up to the seventh floor. We was nearly there when
the seventh floor signal flashed on, and there Miss Lester
was, breathin' hard, like she'd been runnin' and tears in
her eyes"
"Tears!” McMann interrupted. “You're sure of that,
Moran?”
"Sure!” the boy affirmed eagerly. “She'd banged her
head against the door and hurt her lip. She was holdin' her
handkerchief up to it, and when Mr. Hayward pulled her
hand down I could see her lip was swellin' up and gettin'
red. Mr. Hayward thought 'Handsome Harry' done it
and was raisin' an awful roughhouse, down in the hall, but
Miss Ruth-"
“Just what did Mr. Hayward say, Moran?” McMann
interrupted
· "Gees, I dunno! Somepin about killin' Borden for
hurtin' her-just like any guy'd say if he thought—"
"Stick to your story, Moran!” McMann commanded


86
THE BLACK PIGEON
curtly. "Tell me exactly what happened. What Hayward
said, what Miss Lester said, what they did.”
Micky stuck out his lower lip sullenly. “Gees, I'm tryin'
to, ain't I? Mr. Hayward started toward Borden's office
and Miss Ruth swung onto him and held him back. She
told him it wasn't 'Handsome Harry' that had hurt her
lip, said she'd banged it on the door, like I told you. And
she said if Mr. Hayward wouldn't believe her, she'd take
back the promise she'd made him. That cooled him off
and he piped down, but he told her she'd have to resign
Monday. She said she would, and she got him in the car
and I took 'em back down, and honest to God, that's all
I know about it, boss!”
McMann's pencil tapped an ominous accompaniment to
the slow, painful beating of Ruth's heart. Finally she
could stand that slow tapping no longer. She stepped to-
ward the desk. "Please, Mr. McMann! I ask you to believe
me when I say that I didn't see Mr. Borden when I re-
turned to my office to look for my savings bank book. The
door between the offices was closed, and Mr. Borden was
talking over the telephone.”
McMann looked up at her from under beetling brows.
"And I'm to believe, too, that you spent from four to
six minutes looking for your bank book?”.
"I did! I had filed it in Mr. Borden's bank folder by
mistake, instead of in the folder I use for my personal
papers. I looked everywhere before it occurred to me that
I had done so. I tell you, I didn't see Mr. Borden, that my
lip was bruised against the door when I swung it open.
I was in a hurry to rejoin Mr. Hayward—”
"Moran, your car was down at the main floor all the time
you were waiting for Miss Lester, wasn't it? You couldn't
have heard a shot if one had been fired on the seventh
floor? Or did you hear one?"
"I didn't hear no shot!” Micky Moran denied em-
phatically. "I swear to~"
“Aren't you forgetting, McMann, that Mrs. Borden has


THE BLACK PIGEON
87
already told of seeing Mr. Borden alive at twenty minutes
of two?” Jack Hayward interrupted, his voice quivering
with anger.
"I'm not forgetting anything, Hayward—thanks!” Mc-
Mann grinned crookedly. “If you want to know, here are
three things I'm not forgetting: first, that you had given
Miss Lester a gun to protect herself against Borden's ad-
vances, if he ever took a fancy to your girl. Second, that
everything points to the conclusion that Miss Lester's
· changed appearance had just the effect on 'Handsome
· Harry' Borden that you had feared it would. Third, that
five hundred dollars in cash—the exact amount of Mrs.
Borden's separation allowance is missing from Borden's
body. Get my point?”
"I'm afraid I don't!” Jack retorted furiously.
"All right, if I have to spell it out in words of one
syllable! Miss Lester comes back for her bank book. Bor-
den is alone, hears her return, comes out, tries to kiss her,
does kiss her so hard that her lip is bruised. She struggles
with him, manages to reach her desk, gets out her gun,
holds him off with it, until he backs into his private
office ”
Jack Hayward laughed abruptly, sarcastically. "I was
wondering how you were going to get him back in here!”
“Is that so?”? McMann almost snarled. “Any man'll back
up if a gun's leveled at his heart! She gets him in here and
thinks she's safe, but he starts for her again, knowing she's
afraid of the gun, doesn't think she'll have the nerve to
shoot it. He starts after her again and she lets him have
it. She sticks the gun in the pocket of her fur coat and
tears out of the office, crying and panting for breath. You
meet her at the elevator. She forcibly restrains you from
pounding on Borden's door, to make him let you in to
beat him up because she knows he's already dead!”
Jack laughed again, harshly. "I didn't know a detective
could have such a sense of humor, McMann! Again I re-
mind you that Mrs. Borden came here about twelve min-


88
THE BLACK PIGEON
utes after Miss Lester had left the building for the day
and found her husband—”
"Dead!” McMann interrupted. “Why not? She didn't
report the murder because she was afraid to, afraid she'd
be accused of it. The body was still warm, you know. And
she needed that five hundred she found on him when she
was feeling his heart to see if he was really dead. She knew
well enough that the check he'd written for her and left
on his desk was nothing but a scrap of paper, since he
was dead. Isn't that right, Mrs. Borden?” And the detec-
tive's glinting eyes shifted suddenly from Jack Hayward's
livid face to the cowering, trembling figure of Borden's
widow, who was holding to the jamb of the communicat-
ing door to support herself.
"No! No, no!” Mrs. Borden sobbed out the denial.
"Harry was alive when I came-alive when I left! And
while you're wasting time accusing first me, then this
poor child, the real murderer is escaping! Oh, you're being
cruel and stupid-stupid!”
“Stupid, am I?” McMann flushed darkly. "Stupid be-
cause I've hit on the truth, and you don't want to admit
that you robbed the dead body of your husband? Stupid,
because I've found the explanation of that closed window?
I'm stupid and I'm cruel and I forget,” he reiterated the
charges against himself, with heavy sarcasm. “But I haven't
forgotten that someone closed that window after Harry
Borden was killed, after he'd been dead long enough for
a pigeon to take a stroll in his blood!”
"And why did Mrs. Borden close the window, Mc-
Mann?” Jack asked more quietly, taking Ruth's shud-
dering little figure into his arms and holding her close.
"For the same reason that made her come here this
morning,” McMann retorted. “Because she loved her hus-
band. No wife who loved her husband would want a
January wind blowing in upon him, even if he was dead
and unable to feel it. And knowing he was dead, she came
here this morning to claim his body. ... Going, Dr.
18 to claim owing he was it he was dead


THE BLACK PIGEON
89
want for thle a law i have,
Nielson?” the detective broke off to inquire, as the medical
examiner stepped softly toward the door. "You can tell
the chief just how stupid McMann is, and ask him to pre-
pare a warrant for the arrest of Ruth Lester. My only hope
is that she gets as able a lawyer as Colby Lester to defend
her, but I don't suppose she'll have much trouble getting
out of it, under the circumstances.”
Jack Hayward lunged toward McMann, trying to free
himself of Ruth's convulsive embrace, but a mild, dif-
fident voice halted him.
"Before you arrest anyone, especially Miss Lester, my
dear Sherlock,” Dr. Nielson spoke from the doorway, "I
advise you to interview the woman who cleaned these
offices Saturday afternoon. She, at least, would have no
reason to conceal the murder. The chaps from the morgue
will be here any minute now, and I'll phone you a report
of my findings after I complete the autopsy. Good day-
and step softly, McMann."
Ferber, the finger-print expert, shouldered his camera
and picked up his kit. “I'll amble on, too, McMann. I'll
develop these negatives and send you copies in an hour or
so.”
As the two men were leaving, Coghlan, superintendent
of the building, pushed his way in. "About through with
my boys, chief? My elevator service is crippled.”
McMann had risen and was pacing the office, from the
airshaft window to the desk and back to the window again,
his face darkly flushed, his eyes almost hidden under his
bushed eyebrows. "Get substitutes!” he shouted irritably.
"I'm not through with them and won't be any time soon.
... By the way, Coghlan," he demanded suddenly, stop-
ping at the raised window and peering out of it, "who has
the office directly opposite?”
The superintendent made a wide detour to avoid the
thing that lay on the floor. “Let's see,” he considered,
scratching his head. “This murder's got me so upset I can't
think right clear,"


90
THE BLACK PIGEON
Ruth had feared that question and its inevitable answer
so long that she had no power now to feel more fear as
Jack Hayward interrupted, his voice quiet and matter-of-
fact:
"That is my office, McMann.”
McMann looked from the corpse upon the floor to the
window near which it lay, then, squarely facing the win-
dow, he stood for a moment, before staggering backward.
A choked scream checked his too-realistic pantomime of
the falling of a mortally wounded body.
"Stupid, eh?” he gasped, as he righted himself, without
a glance at the dead man whose last movements he be-
lieved he had imitated. “Moran! At what time did Hay-
ward return to his office?”
"He didn't so far as I know!” Micky Moran retorted.
McMann was nonplused only for a moment. His point-
ing finger aimed itself at Otto Pfluger, who had been lean-
ing, silent and sullen, against the wall during the entire
time he had been in the room. "You, there, towhead! You
run the car nearest Hayward's office, don't you? What
time Saturday afternoon did you bring him up?"
Ruth did not scream again. Now that the inevitable
had happened strength and courage came to her from
somewhere, possibly from the thought that whatever Jack
had done, he had done for love of her. ...


CHAPTER IX
TTO PFLUGER hunched his shoulders and rammed
U his hands deeper into the pockets of his uniform. “I
dunno-about two o'clock, I guess. I ain't keepin' tabs
on them that's got a right to come and go.”
"Isn't there a register record for Saturday afternoons,
Coghlan?” McMann demanded. “You require every one to
sign in and out, don't you?”
Coghlan shook his head. "Not until four o'clock Sat-
urdays. Too many tenants coming and going before then.”
"I can tell you almost to the minute when I returned
and when I left the building,” Jack settled the question
matter-of-factly. “Miss Lester and I went to lunch at the
McAlpin Hotel, and just before dessert was served I dis-
covered that I had left the theater tickets on my desk.
We were going to a matinee. I looked at my watch, found
that it was ten minutes to two, and walked rapidly from the
McAlpin to the Starbridge Building—a distance of less
than two blocks. I didn't have to wait for the elevator, so
it must have been not later than five or six minutes of
two when I got off at the seventh floor. I went to my
office and"
“Just a minute!” McMann interrupted, sharply. "I'd
just a little bit rather have Otto's story before you have
a chance to tell him what he remembers. And you might
unclench that fist of yours, Hayward. I'm afraid you'll
sprain your fingers, and that would be too, too bad! ...
Now, Otto, how long was Mr. Hayward in his office be-
fore he went back down again in your car?”
91


92
THE BLACK PIGEON
"I ain't saying he was in his office a-tall,” Otto denied
sullenly.
"Oh!” McMann pounced. “So you saw him head toward
this wing of the building when he left the elevator, did
you?"
Otto Pfluger shrugged, and slouched lower against the
wall. “Naw! I ain't sayin' he was in his office or he wasn't
in his office, because I didn't follow him-see? I 'tended to
my business and that was runnin' my elevator.”
"And right now, young man, your business is to answer
my questions civilly!” McMann retorted angrily. "I may
not give you a tip to keep your mouth shut, as Mr. Hay-
ward evidently did, but I can give you a free pass to the
jail if you don't open up and spill what you know.”
"Mr. Hayward didn't give me no tip Saturday-naw,
nor this mornin' neither!” Otto anticipated the next ques-
tion of the angry detective. “He tips us boys reg'lar the
first of the month, like most of the other tenants do. ...
Aw, all right! I'm tellin' you, if you'll let me! It was
about ten minutes after I took him up before I took him
down again, I guess, because I sent my kid brother, what
was hangin' around in the lobby, over to the drug store
across the street to get me a cup of coffee, right after I'd
took Mr. Hayward up, and I'd drunk it before he rung
for me to take him down.”
McMann grinned crookedly as he made rapid notes of
the boy's story. "You didn't have any other passenger dur-
ing those ten minutes, Otto?"
"Naw."
"And when Mr. Hayward left, did you notice anything
peculiar about his behavior?” McMann suggested.
Otto glowered. "Naw!”
Ruth could have kissed the sullen young towhead for his
failure to mention a fact which might yet assume vast im-
portance that Jack Hayward had returned to his office
empty-handed and left it with a heavy briefcase.
Who else rode in your car between two and four
· Haywato get me a lobby, over kid brothtook him


94
THE BLACK PIGEON
the implan look time for up,” Michd look, a
expression of youngster overcould cheerfully
about to go into a stubborn silence. Then, "I dunno! Pretty
soon after I took Benny down, I guess. After half past one,
anyway."
"Did you notice her manner? Anything unusual?” Mc-
Mann rapped out.
"I didn't pay no attention to her. She didn't mean noth-
ing in my young life,” Micky retorted. "She just got in
the elevator and I took her up that's all.”
"And when she came down?” McMann was having hard
work to restrain his anger and impatience. “Was she up-
set? Crying? Pale?”
"Gees! I didn't give her a second look, after I seen it was
the same lady I'd took up,” Micky protested disgustedly.
"I ain't got no time for dames her age.”
McMann looked as if he could cheerfully have clouted
the impudent youngster over the head, but he limited the
expression of his anger to a black scowl. “Any one else?”
"Sure. A frail that was here Saturday morning, and two
or three times before then,” Micky answered sulkily.
"Looked like a chorus girl.”
"Rita Dubois!” Ruth cried. “I thought she was to meet
Mr. Borden at the station—"
"Just a minute,” McMann silenced her peremptorily.
Describe the girl, Moran-hair, eyes, clothes, anything
you can remember.”
"Black hair, black eyes. Kinda tall and slinky, like a
movie vamp,” Micky obliged. "I didn't notice her clothes,
'cept she had on a swell fur coat with a real live white
orchid pinned on the collar.”
McMann looked at Ruth, who nodded an eager confirma-
tion of the girl's identity. "All right, Moran. When did
you bring her up and what happened, that you know of?
Did you talk with her?”
"Not when I brought her up,” Micky answered the last
question first. “She was looking so sore, tapping her foot
and acting so impatient, that I kept my mouth shut.”
"When was this?” McMann pounced.


THE BLACK PIGEON
95
"Gees, I dunno! 'Bout half an hour after Mrs. Borden
ieft, I reckon. I ain't got no way of tellin' the time each
party come up. I let her off at the seventh floor and then I
went back down. While my car was down, the telephone
in the booth started ringin' and I answered it. The starter
goes off at half past one, and they wasn't anybody else but
me down there."
“Yes? What of it?” McMann demanded impatiently.
"How long before Miss Dubois rang for the elevator?”
"'At's what I don't know-not exactly,” Micky ad-
mitted, flushing. “It-'at was my girl on the phone, and
I made a date with her for Sunday, and—and kidded her
along for awhile, 'nen when I got back in my car the
seventh floor red light was on.”
"Five minutes? Seven minutes? Ten minutes?” McMann
suggested impatiently.
"Maybe ten minutes, maybe more,” Micky admitted, his
flush deepening. "This Rita dame looked sore because I've
kept her waitin', and I jolly her up a bit. I says to her,
'Sorry if I kept you waitin', Miss. I was makin' a date with
my sweetie,' I says. 'Nen she says, 'Well, be sure you don't
stand her up, old dear. Nothing makes a girl more sore
than to be stood up,' she says, tappin' her foot again, like
she was sore as all get-out. An' I says, 'Gees! Did Borden
stand up a swell frail like you?' An' she grins a little at
that an cracks right back, ‘I'll say he did! And how!'”
“What else?” McMann demanded.
"Gees, ain't ’at enough for one trip?” Micky grinned.
"She got off and beat it out of the elevator, like she was
in a hurry. She run into the telephone booth and that's
the last I seen of her, 'cause I had a call from the fourth
floor then-or maybe it was the fifth. Naw, it was the
fourth. Old man Cohen-wholesale shoes.”
"Any other passengers for the seventh floor Saturday
afternoon?” McMann demanded impatiently.
"Naw, not a soul,” Micky answered promptly. "I
thought Borden had gone down by the other elevator, for


96
THE BLACK PIGEON
2
some reason or other. Gees! He musta been dead already,
and his sweetie thought he'd stood her up! Gees! She
musta stood there poundin' on the door—”
"That'll do, Moran!” the detective cut him short. "You
and Otto can get back on your jobs, but don't leave the
building till I give you permission. Understand?”
When the door had closed upon the elevator boys, Mc-
Mann faced Jack Hayward, his eyes narrowed to glinting
gray slits. “Well, how about it, Hayward? I suppose
you're going to tell me it took you ten minutes to find
those conveniently forgotten theater tickets.”
Before Jack could answer Patrolman Biggers appeared,
with the information that the men from the morgue had
arrived to remove the body of the murdered man.
"Just a minute, Biggers. Hold 'em back until I get
Mrs. Borden out of the way. I'll put her in Covey's charge
down the hall till I need her.”
Some of Ruth's hatred of the detective evaporated as
she witnessed his gentleness with the widow whom he had,
a few minutes before, tried to bully into confessing that
she had killed her husband. But when the body had been
removed on a stretcher, and McMann was free to devote
his entire attention to Jack Hayward, fear for the man
she loved fanned her hatred of McMann into a high, hot
blaze.
"Well, Hayward,” McMann opened the attack with his
short bark of a laugh, "you've had plenty of time to
figure out why it took you at least ten minutes to find
those theater tickets.”
Jack flushed darkly but his voice was steady: "I had no
trouble finding the tickets. They were in plain sight on
my desk. But when I entered my office the phone was
ringing and I answered it, of course.”
And talked ten minutes? Who was the girl?” McMann
was heavily sarcastic.


THE BLACK PIGEON
97
"The call was from an insurance company with which
I do business,” Jack answered, his flush deepening and his
eyes involuntarily glancing toward Ruth.
"A business call at two o'clock on Saturday afternoon?
Pretty thin,” McMann commented drily. “I suppose you
can give me the name of your caller?”
"I can," Jack answered reluctantly. "And also the sub-
stance of the conversation, though I had hoped to spare
Miss Lester the bad news for a while longer. The call came
from the branch manager of the Pinnacle Life Insurance
Company. He was still in his office, and took a chance on
finding me in mine. He called to tell me that Mr. T. Q.
Garnett, whom I had signed up for a fifty thousand dollar
policy, had been turned down after a medical examina-
tion, because of high blood pressure." His handsome young
face was very grim and pale as he acknowledged the col-
lapse of his plans for an immediate wedding.
"Oh, Jack, darling!” Ruth reached for one of his tightly
clenched fists and laid it tenderly against her cheek. "You
should have told me! If you had—” But she checked the
sentence that was tumbling out on the receding tide of
doubt and fear which had made the last two hours a
nightmare. So much was clear now-his worried, harassed
manner on Saturday, his moodiness Saturday evening and
Sunday evening, that work-stuffed briefcase-
"Birdwell!” McMann shouted, and the detective who
had been stationed at the telephone in the outer office, in
place of Patrolman Rand, appeared in the doorway.
“Check up on this by phone. Pinnacle Life Insurance
Company. Ask for the manager. Find out if and when he
called John C. Hayward Saturday afternoon. ... Any
news, Birdwell? That phone's been ringing enough.”
Birdwell, middle-aged, laconic, and permanently bored
with life, answered tiredly: "Much ringing, little news.
Clay's out to round up the Dubois woman.”
McMann consulted his notes, checked an item or two,
then demanded irritably: "Hasn't that office boy blown
Sundays on sat umuch she had out on But she cheek. htly
led eiredly: Dubois womaan item of blown


98
THE BLACK PIGEON
in yet? . . . No? What's the last address you have, Miss
Lester? We've got to pull him in.”
Ruth got the information from her files and gave the
memorandum to Birdwell, without comment.
"I'll put Callahan on the job, sir,” Birdwell volunteered
wearily. “Anything else?”
"No. Yes, wait! Hayward, you say you and Miss Lester
lunched at the McAlpin? ... Which table?”
Jack answered concisely, coolly, but Ruth, who had re- ·
turned to his side, tightened her hands convulsively about
his rigid arm.
"Tell the manager of the hotel to send me the waiter
who served this couple on Saturday, Birdwell, and tell him
to make it snappy,” McMann directed.
"Biggers is holding off a swarm of reporters out there in
the hall,” Birdwell volunteered uninterestedly. "Ready
for 'em yet, sir?"
"No!” McMann barked. “Just tell the boys that De-
tective Sergeant Thomas H. McMann expects to make an
arrest within a few hours. And that's no lie! Be sure they
get my name spelled right. . . . And Birdwell, bring
Rita Dubois to me as soon as Clay drags her in.”
McMann waved his subordinate away, then concen-
trated upon Jack Hayward again. "So it took you ten
minutes to answer the phone and pick up a couple of
theater tickets. That right?”
"Not exactly,” Jack answered evenly. "I was pretty
well knocked out by the bad news from the insurance
company, since I'd counted on the commission to get
married on, so I sat at my desk for two or three minutes,
trying to get hold of myself before seeing Miss Lester
again. I didn't want to spoil her day—the first after our
engagement—” He drew a quick, sharp breath, then
smiled down at the girl who was clinging to his arm.
"Needed money pretty badly, didn't you, Hayward?”
McMann interrupted significantly
"I was sorry to lose the commission, because it might


THE BLACK PIGEON
99
mean a postponement of our marriage,” Jack admitted
curtly. “Then it occurred to me that since I'd lost that
commission I'd better be lining up other business, so I
packed my briefcase with work to do over the week-end.
It took me several minutes to find a list of prospects I
wanted to work on, for I'm not familiar with my secre-
tary's filing system. When I had found it I left the office
and rejoined Miss Lester at the hotel.”
"At what time?"
"At ten minutes past two. I glanced at the big clock
in the hotel lobby as I passed through it on my way to
the dining room, and congratulated myself that we
wouldn't be late for the matinee, although I had been
gone longer than I had intended.”
"You've got the time down pretty pat, haven't you?”
McMann insinuated, grinning crookedly as he made a
note. Then, more directly, “You were already thinking in
terms of alibis, weren't you, Hayward?”
"You're certainly open-minded, McMann!” Jack
laughed contemptuously. "First you sum up a magnificent
case against Mrs. Borden, until the poor woman herself
must have half-believed she did it. Then you make an
equally strong case against Miss Lester, and now both of
them must give way to your new favorite-John Car-
rington Hayward!” And the foolhardy, angry young
man bowed ironically.
"Oh, Jack, don't!” Ruth cried. "Please, darling"
"Give him enough rope” McMann shrugged, but his
face was livid with anger. "I admit your charge, Mr. Hay-
ward: I am open-minded, and you can oblige me with a
little more information. You saw Borden across the air-
shaft, didn't you?”
Ruth held her breath, then released it with a sigh of
relief as Jack retorted emphatically: "I did not! I never
even went near the window. I had other things to think
about, besides Borden.”
"And yet you knew he'd been making violent love to
en totally strongeli-believed som the sum up a ma


100
THE BLACK PIGEON
Miss Lester,” McMann reminded him. “You'd threatened,
in the presence of Moran, the elevator boy, to kill Borden,
remember!”
"I did—before she had assured me that Borden had not
touched her,” Jack answered evenly. "I believed Miss Les-
ter when she assured me that she had hurt her lip against
the door.”
“Yes, you did! You believed her so firmly that you
came back later to kill Borden!” McMann shouted, bang-
ing his fist upon the desk. "Come clean, Hayward! You
own a gun yourself, don't you? You didn't spend good
money-hard up as you are to protect Borden's offices
from hold-up men and neglect your own safety-did
did! You beliden!" McMan, Haywardd good
you."
Again, when she most needed it, courage from some
unseen, beneficent source sustained Ruth Lester, just as
sickening waves of nausea began to pour over her brain.
* "I own a .38 calibre Colt's automatic, exactly like the
pistol I gave Miss Lester,” Jack answered steadily. "You
will find it in the bottom drawer of my desk, unfired. I
have never used it.”
As he spoke, Ruth stared at him in terror she was
powerless to conceal, wanted to clap her hand over his
mouth to hold back that damning admission. Then light
broke through the blackness of her despair. “Why, he
doesn't know the gun is gone!” she realized, with almost
hysterical joy. “He doesn't know! How stupid I've been!
Of course he'd have cleaned it and put it back if he had
killed Borden! He had plenty of time"
McMann rose. “As you say, Hayward, I'm open-
minded! I'll have a look at that gun, and then, still open-
minded, I'll wait for Pederson's report on whether it's
been fired or not. Pederson's our firearms expert, and if
he says it's never been fired, I'll take his word for it
but not yours. Pretty clever of you to admit possession of
a gun, but you knew damned well that the record would
show when and where you purchased it.” He strode to


THE BLACK PIGEON 101
ceded, with teils he opened thim on the th
the communicating door, opened it, flung it wide, and
addressed the detective who was talking over the tele-
phone: "Back in a minute, Birdwell. Keep an eye on this
couple for me, won't you? Come on out—both of you!”
and he motioned to Ruth and Jack, who still stood beside
Borden's desk.
Flushed, but with heads held high, they obeyed, silently
taking seats at the large table in the center of the recep-
tion room, where every word they uttered could be heard
by Birdwell, who had taken possession of the desk of the
unaccountably missing office boy.
"I haven't scattered the reporters yet, sir,” Birdwell
volunteered. “Been busy on the phone. The waiter's com-
ing right over.”
"Well, guess I'll have to give 'em a minute,” McMann
conceded, with feigned reluctance, smoothing his hair and
adjusting his tie, as he opened the outer door.
A barrage of questions halted him on the threshold.
"No, nothing for you yet, boys," the massive detective
shook his head, raising his hand impressively for silence.
"Just say the murder of Henry P. Borden, known as
'Handsome Harry' Borden, promises to be one of the big-
gest crime sensations of the year, and that Detective Ser-
geant Thomas H. McMann, in charge of the investigation,
expects to make an arrest before the day is over. ..."
News photographers pressed forward, cameras were
aimed, flashlight powder, already prepared, exploded,
while the flattered detective posed in the doorway.
"Is it true, McMann, that the widow is under sus-
picion?” a reporter asked, when the photographers had
finished.
“Mrs. Borden's testimony is of the highest importance.
She is being detained for further questioning,” McMann
answered. “But really, boys—"
"Just a minute, Chief,” another reporter insisted, using
a title that could not fail to flatter the detective sergeant.
“What about Borden's secretary-Ruth Lester? Head-


102
THE BLACK PIGEON
quarters tells us that she is a daughter of the late Colby
Lester, the big criminal lawyer. That right? Is she being
grilled, too?”
Ruth uttered a low, strangled cry and her sweetheart's
arms went out, embraced her trembling little body with
fierce pity, as McMann closed the door upon whatever
answer he made to the importunate reporters.
"Don't mind so terribly, sweet!” Jack pleaded. "He's
just a blundering fool"
"Oh, don't!” Ruth shuddered. "Try not to antagonize
him, darling! Listen—" and her voice dropped to a whis-
per, as she glanced over her shoulder fearfully.
Birdwell's weary but watchful eye was upon her. She
knew then that it was useless to try to warn Jack. Totally
unprepared, he would have to face McMann when the
detective returned-empty-handed, gloating over the
disappearance of his latest suspect's gun. ...
After what seemed an interminable time to Ruth, but
was probably not more than ten minutes, McMann re-
appeared, calling over his shoulder to some one in the hall:
"Wait outside here till I call for you—and don't talk."
As the detective strode on across the reception room of
the suite toward the private office, he commanded the
couple to follow him, with a jerk of his leonine head.
"Well, Hayward,” the detective opened his attack with
one of the short, ugly barks that served him as a laugh,
''spin your yarn! You've had ten minutes to think up a
good one. Where's the gun? We'll find it, you know,
sooner or later, and you might as well come clean!”
Anger gave way to startled surprise on Jack Hyward's
face. Ruth drew a shuddering sigh of relief; his surprise
was as genuine as the anger which had preceded it.
“What do you mean, McMann? The gun is where I told
you it was—in the bottom drawer of my desk.”
"I don't doubt it was there Saturday, Hayward, but I
guess you weren't taking any chances on cleaning it and
disapfter what sect more thaulder to somed don't ta
coupleell, Haywrt, ugly, be had ten ll find i


THE BLACK PIGEON .
103
putting it back,” McMann retorted. “All right! I'm wait-
ing—what did you do with the gun, my lad?”
"I tell you, McMann," Jack answered furiously, his
face very pale now, "I have no more idea where that gun
is than you have! All I know is that I had a Colt's auto-
matic, that I kept it in the bottom drawer of my desk,
and that I haven't seen it for at least a week.”
McMann's short laugh barked again. "I told you I'm
open-minded, Hayward! I bite: when did you see it last?"
The young man flushed at the sneer in the detective's
voice, returned the pressure of Ruth's cold little fingers,
then answered readily: “When Miss Barnes, my secretary,
gave me a stack of fresh towels last Monday morning.
The delivery man for the towel service makes his rounds
every Monday. Miss Barnes usually puts my towels in
that drawer herself, but last Monday I happened to be
sitting at the desk when she brought them in and I pulled
open the drawer, shifted the automatic slightly to the
front, where it would be easily accessible in case of a
hold-up, and placed the clean towels behind it. That is
absolutely the last time I saw the thing.”
"Used one towel all week, eh?” McMann sneered.
"No." Jack was obviously fighting for self-control.
"Miss Barnes puts out a fresh one for me each morning
before I get to the office. We have a cabinet with towel
rack above the stationary washbasin in the outer office,
just as this suite has. Miss Barnes can tell you whether the
gun was there Saturday or not. I don't know myself, for
I didn't open the drawer.”
"She says it was there, all right,” McMann assured him.
"Real handy for you when you had your quarrel with
Harry Borden.”
"I had no quarrel with Harry Borden,” Jack denied,
wearily. "I have never spoken a word to the man in my
life.”
"Is that so?” McMann exclaimed triumphantly. "Bird-
before Barnes Purwas obviolek, che thing.hind it. Thatta


104
THE BLACK PIGEON
well! Birdwell!” he shouted till the room reverberated
with the sound. When his subordinate opened the door,
the detective sergeant barked out an order: "There's a
chap named Cowan waiting outside in the hall. Bring him
in!” He turned to the couple who were gazing at each
other, the girl's eyes frankly terrified, the young man's
face very pale, but under better control. “Your good
friend, Bill Cowan, Hayward! Won't you be glad to see
him? I found him waiting for you in your office—said
he made an appointment with you for this morning.
Made it Saturday morning when he was in your office-
remember?”
"Yes,” Jack answered quietly.
"I thought you'd remember,” McMann agreed signifi-
cantly. “Funny, but your friend Cowan didn't know
his old pal, Borden, had been murdered. I had to break
the news to him, and I wonder if you can imagine why
Cowan wasn't as surprised as he might have been?”
The badgered young man was saved the necessity of
a reply by the entrance of Bill Cowan, the real estate man,
ushered in by Birdwell, who immediately retired to his
duties in the outer office.
Ruth, clinging to her sweetheart's arm for much needed
support, turned to face the man who undoubtedly had it
in his power to send Jack Hayward before a grand jury.
She saw a medium-sized, foppishly dressed man of thirty-
eight or forty, running an embarrassed hand over sleek
brown hair.
“Lord, Jack. I'm sorry I stumbled into this! Tough
break, old boy! If I'd seen a paper—" Cowan began
nervously, apologetically.
"You wouldn't have kept your appointment,” McMann
finished his sentence for him. “That right? You'd have
been pretty sure that your friend, Jack Hayward, was in
trouble, wouldn't you?"
"I—I wouldn't say that,” Cowan hedged miserably.
"But no man wants to get mixed up in a murder case"
Loppishnard bendoubt uch nes


THE BLACK PIGEON 105
"I'm afraid you are mixed up in one, Cowan,” McMann
interrupted. “And I don't need to remind you that it's the
duty of a citizen to aid justice in any way possible, when
circumstances force him into the unpleasant rôle of wit-
ness. Just repeat the story you told me, Cowan. I may
as well tell you, Hayward, that your friend gave you
away by accident, when I told him you were being ques-
tioned concerning Borden's death.”
"That's right, Jack, old man,” Cowan assured the grim-
faced young man anxiously. "God knows I wouldn't for
the world"
"That's all right, Cowan,” Jack interrupted, his pale
lips twitching into a faint smile. "Naturally it's your duty
to tell anything you know which may seem to have any
bearing on this case. But I want you to know, Cowan,
that I had no more to do with Borden's murder than you
did.”
"That's fine, old man!” Cowan thrust out a hand with
eager friendliness, and seemed much relieved when Jack
shook it. “As Mr. McMann here has just said, Jack, I
spilled the beans accidentally. Said something foolish and
hasty about being afraid Saturday that there'd be a row.
He wouldn't let up on me till I'd shot the works, of
course.” The embarrassed real estate man mopped his
brow. "Lord! If I'd only learned to keep my mouth shut!
... I had to tell him, Jack, about that nasty little busi-
ness Saturday morning, when you saw Borden struggling
with the young lady here -'
"Pardon me, Cowan. This is Miss Lester, my fiancee,”
Jack interrupted. “I believe I told you Saturday that Miss
Lester and I were to be married soon.”
"Glad to meet you, Miss Lester," the embarrassed man
acknowledged the introduction. "I told Jack Saturday
that I didn't blame him for going off his nut when he
saw Borden getting fresh.”
"Both you and Mr. Hayward were mistaken as to Mr.
Borden's intentions,” Ruth said, in a clear, calm voice.


106
THE BLACK PIGEON
McMann, didn't it, Cow Miss Lester a head again
"Mr. Borden was merely trying to take off my spectacles,
and I was determined to prevent his doing so.”
"Get on with your story, Cowan. We're wasting time,”
McMann ordered curtly. "You told me that both you and
Hayward, standing in that window across the airshaft,
saw Harry Borden struggling with Miss Lester, his arms
about her, and that she screamed. Is that right?"
“We-ell—that's what it looked like,” Cowan stam-
mered and flushed. “But I guess it doesn't take much to
make a girl scream.”
"In this case, there was enough to make Jack Hayward
want to jump across an eight-foot airshaft and kill the
man who was forcing his attentions upon Miss Lester,"
McMann pointed out. “It took all your strength to hold
Hayward, didn't it, Cowan? And he swore he'd kill 'that
beast' if he laid hands on Miss Lester again, didn't he?”
Cowan mopped his glistening forehead again. “Some-
thing like that. I can't remember his exact words. I asked
him why he was so 'het up' about Borden's making love to
his secretary, and he told me then, after I'd got him away
from the window, that he and Miss Lester were going to
be married and that that was why he was interested in
buying a lot in Scarsdale, the suburban property I rep-
resent. I advised him to have Miss Lester resign her posi-
tion with Borden, and to get married immediately. He
said that's just what he'd do, and agreed to talk with Miss
Lester that evening about building a home in Scarsdale.”
"All right, Cowan,” McMann prodded the unwilling
witness. “Get along to the telephone call.”
Jack and Ruth both started, and stared at each for a
moment in obvious bewilderment. Then Jack spoke di-
rectly to Cowan: "I had no call from you, Cowan.”
McMann let out his harsh, short laugh. "For a very good
reason, Hayward! But tell him exactly what you told
me, Cowan. I'm anxious to wind this business up.”
"You see, old man,” Cowan began reluctantly, turn-
ing to Jack and the girl who clung to his arm, "I was at


THE BLACK PIGEON 107
Penn Station, just a block away, to see my wife off for
a week's visit to Winter Heaven, when I remembered
that I'd left my blueprint of the Scarsdale property on
your desk. I knew I'd need it to show my Sunday pros-
pects, so I took a chance on finding you still in your office
and called you on the phone. The line"
"Just a minute, Cowan,” McMann interrupted. “Ex-
actly when did you make the call?”
"At ten minutes after two,” Cowan answered un-
hesitatingly. “I'd put my wife on the train, and when I
was crossing the waiting room on my way toward the
telephone booths I noticed the clock-nine minutes after
two, and glanced at my own watch to see if I was with
the railroad time. Then I stepped into the booth and
called Hayward's number. The line was busy—"
"If it was, it was someone else trying to get me on the
phone,” Jack interrupted, his voice steady but em-
phatic. “For I rejoined Miss Lester at the McAlpin Hotel
at ten minutes after two."
"That would be a perfectly swell explanation and I'd
be the first to congratulate you upon it, Hayward-ex-
cept for one little thing,” McMann chuckled.
"And that is?” Jack demanded, with angry contempt.
"The accident that happens to nearly every 'perfect
alibi,'” McMann retorted. “Cowan' didn't get the busy
signal. He was plugged in on a busy line!”


CHAPTER X
in Borden!" Rudon giving you therely told Mr. A
TACK HAYWARD shrugged angrily. "Then maybe
Cowan can tell me who uses my phone in my absence.
The bills are outrageous. I've told you before, McMann,
and Miss Lester has corroborated me, that I rejoined her
in the dining room of the McAlpin Hotel at ten min-
utes after two. It is obvious that I could not have been
talking over the telephone in my office at the same mo-
ment. Central probably gave you a wrong number as
well as a busy number, Cowan. If you think you recog-
nized my voice, you're mistaken—that's all.”
"I didn't say I recognized your voice, Jack, old man,”
Cowan protested unhappily. "I merely told Mr. McMann
that I heard Borden giving you the devil”.
"Borden!” Ruth and Jack exclaimed simultaneously,
incredulously.
"Yes-Borden!”. McMann repeated triumphantly.
"From what Cowan says, there not a doubt in the world
but that you called Harry Borden on the phone, and
had your quarrel with him in that way, rather than across
the airshaft.”
"And shot him over the telephone, too, I suppose?”
Jack retorted contemptuously. "Very ingenious of me,
I'm sure.”
"Please, Jack!” Ruth begged, her voice piteous with
terror. “Mr. Cowan,” she turned tremulously to the em-
barrassed, unwilling witness, “Isn't it very possible that
you're mistaken in thinking you recognized Mr. Borden's
voice over the phone?"
"Oh, sure! Of course!” Cowan succumbed instantly to
the appeal in those blue eyes.
108


THE BLACK PIGEON 109
But McMann was of sterner stuff. “Look here, Cowan!
You told me that you heard a man's voice, which you
recognized as that of your friend, Harry Borden, shout-
ing, in great anger: 'I'm not going to have you interfer-
ing in my affairs! Who are you, to tell Harry Borden
what he can do and can't do?' Is that the truth, Cowan?
Are those substantially the words you heard before you
hung up the receiver?”
The harassed real estate man mopped his brow again.
"As near as I can remember-yes.”
"You distinctly heard the speaker call himself Harry
Borden?” McMann insisted.
"Yes, I did, for a fact,” Cowan admitted unhappily.
"'I said to myself that there'd be trouble yet between
those two, but I never dreamed—”
"Well, I guess my case is pretty clear,” McMann broke
in, smiling with grim satisfaction. “Saturday morning,
Hayward, you see the girl you're engaged to struggling
in Borden's arms. You threaten to kill Borden if he lays
hands on her again. Cowan has to hold you by main
strength to keep you from trying to jump across the air-
shaft to get at your man. You meet Miss Lester at one
twenty; she comes back to her office for her forgotten
bank book, has another struggle with Borden who bruises
her lip in kissing her—"
"I've told you that is not true!” Ruth cried.
McMann went on as if she had not spoken: "You find
her at the elevator with tears in her eyes and her lip swel-
ling, and it takes all her strength and threats of breaking
the engagement to keep you from killing Borden then.
You two go to lunch together, she confesses that Borden
had manhandled her"
"That also is not true!” Ruth interrupted furiously.
McMann ploughed on imperturbably. inexorably.
"You're so angry with Borden, Hayward, that you leave
the hotel dining room in the midst of your luncheon and
hurry back to the Starbridge Building, determined to have


I10
THE BLACK PIGEON
it out with him, possibly with your mind already made
up to kill him. You call him on the phone"
Jack laughed contemptuously. "That's likely, isn't it?
If I had wanted to telephone Harry Borden, I could have
done so from the hotel, without making a trip to the
Starbridge Building."
"But you couldn't have shot him from the hotel!” Mc-
Mann retorted angrily. "Maybe you did forget your
theater tickets, as you say you did, and had to come back
for them. Maybe you didn't intend to kill Borden until
after you quarreled with him over the phone. It's not up
to me to figure out just why you telephoned Harry Bor-
den before you shot him. All I'm concerned with is that
Harry Borden was shot as he stood in front of that win-
dow, that he had been heard defying your threats over the
telephone, that you had a gun, which is missing now, and
that the window of your private office is directly op-
posite the open window at which Borden was standing
when he was killed. That's enough for me!”
"But not for me, Mr. McMann!” Ruth cried, her blue
eyes flashing as she shook off Jack's restraining hand and
stepped toward the detective. "And I know enough about
criminal law and criminal court procedure to know that
it will not be enough to warrant Mr. Hayward's arrest.
Remember I'm Colby Lester's daughter!”
"You had a good teacher—the best in the world,
Miss Lester,” McMann answered with surprising gentle-
ness. “But I am also remembering that you're engaged to
be married to Jack Hayward, and I believe he killed
the man who insulted and mistreated you. I'm mighty
sorry,”
"Please listen to me for a minute, Mr. McMann,” Ruth
pleaded. "I know you're only trying to do your duty-
that you want to be fair. But there are so many things
you aren't taking into consideration. First, you are mak-
ing a mistake in believing that Jack had a motive for
killing Mr. Borden. I admit that he saw, from his window,
enoun Lesther
o rememberind with suron the world


THE BLACK PIGEON
III
the struggle that Mr. Cowan has told you about, but Mr.
Cowan will gladly assure you that Mr. Borden was not
making love to me-kissing me, or anything like that.
He was simply trying to take off my spectacles, and it
was foolish of me to scream. I admit that I was afraid
Mr. Borden would like my appearance too well, if he saw
me without my glasses. I knew he liked pretty girls, and
other men had made my business life rather hard for me,
before I made myself as plain as possible. But that is
absolutely all that happened between Mr. Borden and
myself, I did not see him when I returned for my bank
book, and I was able to convince Mr. Hayward that Mr.
Borden was not responsible for my bruised lip.”
The detective shifted in his chair. “I'm afraid all this
isn't getting us anywhere, Miss Lester—"
"Please!” the girl begged. “The second important fact
that you're ignoring is that my automatic is missing, too!”
"I'm not exactly ignoring that fact, Miss Lester,” Mc-
Mann answered, not unkindly, "but I didn't like to drag
Colby Lester's daughter into this case as an accessory
either before or after the fact.”
"I–I don't know what you mean!” Ruth gasped. "No,
please, Jack!” she pleaded, as the young man sprang to-
please, wie Mann's deskool that temper it's already go
"Better try to control that temper of yours, Hayward,”
McMann advised grimly. “I'm afraid it's already got you
into enough trouble. . . . What I meant, Miss Lester, was
that a frantic girl may hit upon strange ways to confuse
evidence, when she fears for the life of the man she
loves. I'm not saying that you hid that pistol of yours
this morning after you discovered that your employer had
been killed and that your sweetheart's gun was missing,"
Ruth went very pale, but her voice was steady as she
challenged the detective: “What makes you think I knew
his gun was missing?”
McMann smiled. “You betrayed yourself when Hay-
ward mentioned his automatic. He has better control of


112
THE BLACK PIGEON
his expression than you have, child; he should have warned
you that he was going to admit ownership of the gun. But
I didn't rely entirely on reading your expression. Miss
Barnes told me that you were alone in Mr. Hayward's
office for two or three minutes this morning, when you
went there to tell him what you had found in here. It
was easy to deduce how you had spent those minutes
and why. You were afraid your sweetheart had killed
your employer, and you looked for his pistol, to make sure.
You didn't find it-and came to the same conclusion
that I did.”
"You're wrong there, at least!” Ruth blazed. “I did
find that his gun was gone, but I know Jack Hayward
did not kill Harry Borden!”
"And how do you know that, Miss Lester?” McMann
asked quietly.
"Because the person who killed Borden was in this
office, not in one across the airshaft. Oh, I know a shot
could have been fired from one window through the
other, but there are two excellent, irrefutable proofs that
the person who killed him was in this office either during
or after the murder. First—the body was robbed of five
hundred dollars—"
“Just a minute!” McMann interrupted. “We have no
proof that Borden was robbed, beyond the fact that the
money is missing. How do you know that he did not
give the money to some one before his death?”
"He gave Mrs. Borden a check!” Ruth flashed. “And he
had no other visitor except Mrs. Borden until Rita Du-
bois came, according to the evidence of the elevator op-
erator, Micky Moran. ... Oh, yes! Benny Smith was
here, too, about half past one, but surely you can't im-
agine Borden's making his office boy a present of five
hundred dollars! Can't you see that it isn't fair to Jack
to convict him in your own mind until you've talked with
Rita Dubois? We know she was here"
"And that she didn't see Borden, in all probability,


THE BLACK PIGEON
113
if we're to put the natural interpretation on what she
said to Moran, the elevator operator, about Borden's
having 'stood her up,'” McMann pointed out patiently,
"That's ridiculous!” Ruth cried, forgetting tact in her
anger. “The natural supposition is that she was referring
to Borden's having failed to meet her at the station, to
take her away on the week-end trip to Winter Heaven, as
they had planned. Why give her the benefit of the doubt,
when you've been so ruthless with Mrs. Borden, Jack and
myself? Oh, please be fair! Don't you see how likely it
is that it was Rita Dubois who—who last saw Mr. Borden
alive? Since for some reason he failed to keep his appoint-
ment with her, he would be expecting her here. Probably
she telephoned him and he asked her to come, or she
simply came to see why he had 'stood her up' at the sta-
tion. He would admit Rita, would unlock the door for
her, but not for Jack Hayward. And don't forget-
someone closed that window after Harry Borden was
murdered. Jack could not have done so. He couldn't
have got in. He has no key to this office, of course”
The girl's passionate outburst was interrupted by Bird-
well. “Phillips, the waiter from the McAlpin Hotel has
arrived, sir."
“Just a minute, Birdwell,” McMann answered, then
turned to the real estate man, Bill Cowan, who was ob-
viously eager to escape. “Cowan, I'm inclined to let you
go on about your business and not hold you as a mate-
rial witness, if you give me your promise not to talk
with any one-reporters, your wife, any one else-about
this case, and will promise further not to leave town, but
hold yourself available for further questioning."
Cowan gave both promises with almost ludicrous
alacrity and bolted, after another apologetic grip of Jack
Hayward's hand. The waiter, Phillips, was ushered in
a small, neat, middle-aged man in a well-brushed black
overcoat, snugly buttoned over his waiter's uniform.
After preliminary questions as to his name, place of
not, Phillips' well, buniformice of


114
THE BLACK PIGEON
residence and occupation, McMann asked: "Ever see this
couple before, Phillips?”
Meek brown eyes studied Ruth Lester and Jack Hay-
ward conscientiously. “Yes, sir. They lunched at one of
my tables in the McAlpin dining room Saturday.”
"At what time?”
The waiter shrugged slightly and smiled apologetically.
*That I could not say, sir. After the twelve-thirty to
one-thirty rush, sir, I should say.”
"Did you notice them particularly, Phillips? Anything
at all to fix this couple in your mind?” McMann pursued.
"Well, sir, there were several things,” the waiter began
deprecatingly. "I thought it odd that the young lady
wouldn't take her fur coat off, sir, as the dining room was
quite warm.”
"Ah!” McMann commented with satisfaction, as he
made a note of what he undoubtedly considered an im-
portant point.
"I didn't take my coat off because I was chilled-felt
as if I were taking cold,” Ruth explained, taking care to
keep defiance out of her voice.
"You seem to have recovered from the cold,” McMann
reminded her. "Perhaps there was something—beavy in the
lining pocket which you didn't want the waiter to feel
or see?
Ruth knew that he was referring to her missing auto-
matic. “There was nothing in the pocket, Mr. McMann!”
McMann smiled, shrugged, then turned to the waiter
again. "You said there were several things that impressed
this couple on your memory. What else, Phillips?”
"Well, sir, the young lady dropped her pocketbook and
while I was stooping to pick up the scattered contents of
the bag, the little lady excused herself, saying she had to
telephone"
"To warn Borden not to let Jack Hayward into his
office?” McMann pounced, his glinting, narrowed gray
eyes fixed upon Ruth.


THE BLACK PIGEON
IIS
To sweetbere broiled swear to kann demandady-
The girl's face flamed. "No! I simply made the con-
ventional excuse, and went to the ladies' rest room tom
powder my face. I telephoned no one.”
"Hmm!” McMann obviously did not believe her. "What
else, Phillips?”
"While I was picking up the scattered objects, the
young gentleman was studying the menu card,” the
waiter went on, in his deprecating, hesitant manner. "He
put the things back in the young lady's bag and gave me
the order, without waiting for the young lady-
“What was the order?” McMann demanded.
"I wouldn't like to swear to that, sir "
"I ordered broiled mushrooms on toast for Miss Lester,
and sweetbread patties for myself,” Jack interrupted.
"They were on the ready-to-serve list, and both of us
are in the habit of eating light luncheons.”
"That's right, sir! I remember now!” the waiter cor-
roborated eagerly. “I brought the orders right out, but
first, before the young lady came back, I brought the
rolls and butter and gave the young gentleman the key—"
"The key! What key?” McMann demanded, his eyes
taking quick note of Ruth's startled surprise.
"Why, sir, the key that had fell out of the young lady's
handbag. I kicked against it when I was putting the rolls
and butter on the table, or I would never have noticed it.
I handed it to the young gentleman, sir.”
"And what did he do with it?” McMann prodded, a
twisted grin of supreme satisfaction upon his thin lips.
"I didn't notice, sir.”
"Did you see him reach for Miss Lester's handbag to
put it there?”
"No, sir. I'm quite sure he didn't, sir, at the time, at
least. Probably he handed it to her when she returned to
the table, sir.”
"Do you think so?” McMann grinned. “Just what kind
of key was this, Phillips?”
"An ordinary Yale lock key, sir.”


116
THE BLACK PIGEON
"Miss Lester, show Phillips your key to this suite,
please!” McMann rapped out.
Ruth obeyed, going to the outer office to get her hand-
bag. When she returned she silently handed a Yale lock
key to the waiter, who fingered it briefly, then laid it
upon the extended palm of the detective.
“Is that the key, Phillips?”
"It looks like it, sir, but of course I couldn't say—"
"Or is this the key you found on the floor?” Ruth
asked, with quiet triumph, offering a second key, differ-
ing only slightly in size and shape from the first, which
she took from a small coin purse.
The waiter shook his head helplessly. "It looks like it,
miss, but since most Yale keys look alike"
"Exactly!” Ruth cried. "Mr. McMann, this" and she
handed him the second key—“is the key to the office. You
can try it and see for yourself. Yale lock keys are so
much alike that I was always mistaking my apartment
key for my office key, and the other way round. So I
solved the difficulty by keeping my office key in my coin
purse, and the apartment key loose in my handbag. And
the coin purse, which has a firm fastening, and fits snugly
into its pocket in my handbag, did not fall out when I
dropped the bag. That is correct, isn't it, Phillips?”
"Yes, miss. I didn't pick up a coin purse," the waiter
agreed eagerly. "And it must not have come open, for
there was only the one key and no small change on the
floor.”
McMann chuckled again, as if the by-play amused him
immensely. “All right, Phillips. Anything else to impress
this couple on your memory?”
"Well, sir, the gentleman excused himself to the young
lady pretty soon after I'd served the entrees, and left the
dining room,” the waiter resumed his story.
"How soon after? And how long had they been there
when the entrees were served?” McMann prodded.
“As I said, sir, the entrees were ready in the kitchen


118
THE BLACK PIGEON
Borden.' That's all I heard, sir, for I left the table then
to get the check from the cashier, with the amount
stamped on it.”
"I'm afraid, Miss Lester,” McMann turned to Ruth,
"that, like most people, you're inclined to forget that
waiters have eyes and ears, as well as hands.” Before the
flushed, indignant girl could answer, the detective turned
to the waiter again. “When did the couple leave, Phillips?
Give me the time, as nearly as you can place it.”
The waiter shook his head. "I really couldn't say, sir.
I go off duty at three, and all I can say is that I worked for
some time after the young couple had gone."
"In quite a hurry to get away, weren't they, Phillips?"
McMann suggested.
"I couldn't say as to that, sir, except that the young
gentleman left his briefcase and I hurried after him with
it.”
"His briefcase, eh? Pretty heavy, was it, Phillips? Sides
stuffed out?"
"Do you think, Mr. McMann, that it's fair to lead the
witness like that?” Ruth demanded furiously. "In a court
Wf law" isn't a The question, uite hea
"This isn't a trial—yet,” McMann reminded her
grimly. "Answer the question, Phillips.”
"It was a large bag and quite heavy, but I don't re-
member whether it was bulging or not,” the waiter an-
swered conscientiously.
“Did the gentleman leave you a big tip, Phillips?” Mc-
Mann asked, grinning; nd rimod
The waiter shrugged and spread his hands. "He left the
lofthe
change from two one dollar bills and a half dollar. The
bill came to two forty-five, sir.”
McMann roared with sudden laugher. "A nickel tip!
No wonder you've got such a good memory where this
gentleman is concerned, Phillips!”
Jack Hayward's face flamed with humiliation. With
furious haste he thrust his hand into his pocket and drew


THE BLACK PIGEON
119
out a dollar bill. “Here, waiter! I apologize. I don't think
I even looked at the amount of the bill. God knows no one
has ever before been able to accuse me of being a nig-
gardly tipper. Here!”
But McMann halted the advance of the waiter's eager
hand. "Put up your money, Hayward! What would have
been a big tip on Saturday might look to the jury like a
small bribe to make this man forget some of the things
he has unfortunately for you so well remembered!”
Birdwell opened the communicating door. "A report on
Benny Smith, the office boy, sir.”


THE BLACK PIGEON
121
Mme. He's ind, another stically to
according to Mrs. Wilbur. She says Miss Dubois spent the
night with her daughter, and that after breakfast this
morning the two girls went downtown together to do
some shopping. They expected to have lunch with Mrs.
Wilbur, and mentioned that they would be back by one
o'clock.”
"Well, I guess there's nothing to do but to wait,” Mc-
Mann admitted grudgingly. "By the way, Birdwell, Clay
didn't tip off Mrs. Wilbur that Rita was wanted by the
police, did he?”
Birdwell smiled slightly. "Not Clay! He's watching the
house and has instructed the central telephone office to
plug in any calls from or to the Wilbur number on the
phone I'm holding down out here. Just in case Mrs. Wil-
bur might try to warn the girl, you know.”
"Good!” McMann applauded. “That's all—no, send
Covsy in to me. He's in 715 down the hall, you know.
... And now, Hayward, another question, if you can
spare the time," he called out sarcastically to the young
man who stood at one of the two front windows, his arm
about Ruth Lester's shoulders, as they both stared with
miserable, unseeing eyes downward at the mid-day
throngs in the street below.
"Yes?” Jack wheeled, swinging Ruth's slight little body
with his, not dropping his arm.
"You've said you and Miss Lester attended a matinee.
Which theater? When did the curtain go up?"
Ruth saw the drift of the question before it was ap-
parent to Jack, but there was nothing to do but to stand
quietly in the circle of his arm as he answered:
"The Princess Theater. The play was 'Murder.' The
curtain rose at two forty-five.”
"Murder!' Rather a neat coincidence, eh? I hope you
both enjoyed the show?"
Ruth, remembering how she had wept uncontrollably
during the second act because the district attorney re-
minded her of her dead father, did not answer except


I 22
THE BLACK PIGEON
with a nervous flicker of her eyelashes, and Jack's only
response was a tightening of his arm about the girl's
shoulders.
"Two forty-five curtain, eh?" McMann nodded, his
eyes narrowing to points of steely light. “You say you
were not in your office at 2:10 when Cowan was plugged
in on a busy line after he'd called your number, that you
were rejoining Miss Lester at the McAlpin Hotel at that
moment. Right?”
"That’s correct,” Jack retorted curtly.
McMann shuffled his notes, pretending to consult them
to refresh his memory. "And yet, Hayward, you were in
such a hurry to leave the hotel that you didn't take time
to read the figures on your check, and started off in a
rush without your briefcase. According to the waiter's
story, you didn't have dessert after you got back to the
hotel. If, as you say, it was only ten after two when you
returned, what was your hurry?”
"I was not in a hurry,” Jack contradicted. “I had a
cup of coffee, sat talking with Miss Lester for a few min-
utes, and left the dining room at two twenty-five. We
were both under the impression that it was a two-thirty
curtain and walked directly to the theater, which is five
blocks from the McAlpin Hotel.”
"Hmm!” McMann considered. Then, “So you were
among the first arrivals, eh? The doorman and the usher
would be likely to remember you, I suppose, and could
corroborate your story?”
Jack's hand closed so tightly over Ruth's shoulder that
she winced, but his voice was steady as he answered: "No,
we were not among the first arrivals—in the theater, it-
self, that is. There was a notice in the lobby, giving cur-
tain time, and we turned away, walking about in the
neighborhood of the theater for ten minutes or so.”
"Really?” McMann was politely surprised. “With Miss
Lester suffering from a cold, you walked her about in
Saturday's high wind? I'm surprised at you, Hayward!”
corrobore likely to remerch? The doormin "So you wer


THE BLACK PIGEON
123
"I was not cold any longer. I'd had two or three cups
of hot coffee while waiting for Mr. Hayward!” Ruth cut
in determinedly. "I preferred walking to sitting in a drafty
theater."
"I suppose you checked your briefcase, Hayward?"
McMann demanded, after a brief, measuring glance at
Ruth.
Again that convulsive pressure on Ruth's shoulder.
"No. I kept it with me-my overcoat also.”
"Not taking any chances on the check room girl's
curiosity, were you?” McMann insinuated.
"I don't think she would have been interested in the
contents—life insurance literature and lists of prospects,"
Jack answered evenly. "There was no gun in that brief-
case, McMann.”
"That's your story and you're going to stick to it, eh?”
McMann growled. “Listen, Hayward, you must realize
that I've got the goods on you! Three people the elevator
operator, Moran; Cowan, a friend of yours, who would
have lied to protect you if he had dared; and Phillips the
waiter—have told substantially the same story: you were
in a white-hot rage against Harry Borden and threatened
to kill him. By your own admission you returned to your
office, where you kept a gun. Your secretary says it was
still there Saturday morning and it's not there now. Cowan
hears Borden defying your interference and threats over
the telephone at ten minutes after two. I submit that Bor-
den came to the window on the airshaft, directly opposite
your own window, not knowing that you had been tele-
phoning from your own office, that you saw him, reached
for your gun and shot him down before he suspected his
danger; that you then came to his office, opened the outer
door with the key so providentially placed in your hands
by the waiter, closed the window without taking time to
notice that one of the pigeons had already betrayed you,
by leaving tracks of blood outside the window as well
as on the floor inside the room; that you then robbed the


I 24
THE BLACK PIGEON
dead man's body of the five hundred dollars so that it
would look like the work of a hold-up man, or because
you badly needed the money. That's my case, Hayward,
and if I were a prosecuting attorney, I'd be willing to take
it to court as is!”
“Just a minute, Jack!” Ruth cried peremptorily, as the
furious young man started forward. “Listen, Mr. McMann,
before you make a false arrest! I know you don't want
that blot against your record. I admit that, as you sum it
up, it looks like a strong case against Mr. Hayward, but
remember that you've got to find someone who saw him
in this wing of the building after he returned to his office.
There were cleaning women and undoubtedly other ten-
ants on the floor, and Rita Dubois was certainly here
about the time you insist that Jack was in Borden's office.
I know he wasn't, for he couldn't have got in, and my
evidence about the key would not be ignored in court as
you have chosen to ignore it.”
There was a flicker of admiration in McMann's hard
gray eyes as they studied the girl. “When did Hayward
return your key, Miss Lester?” he asked at last, very
quietly. “The key to Borden's office?”.
"He did not return it, because he had never seen it or
touched it,” Ruth denied passionately. “As I explained a
while ago, the key the waiter found on the floor could not
have been the office key. It was my apartment key, the only
one that could have fallen out of my bag when I dropped
it. He returned it immediately to my bag, for it was there
when I reached the apartment Saturday evening, and the
bag had not been out of my possession after I returned to
the table before Mr. Hayward left for the theater tick-
ets." But as Ruth was concluding her argument in a
triumphant rush of words her too-clear memory betrayed
her. Like a scrap of motion picture film, a scene passed
before her mind's eye: Jack and herself in the bank Sat-
urday evening; Jack, waiting for her to make her deposit,
and holding her handbag for her; Jack's guilty flush when


THE BLACK PIGEON
125
she rallied him on having opened it: “Peeking to see what
kind of lipstick I use, darling?”
"Haven't you remembered something you'd like to for-
get, Miss Lester?” McMann asked, almost kindly.
"No!” Ruth denied. No, no! She had told him the truth.
It must have been her apartment key which had fallen
out of her purse and which Jack had been returning.
But—why hadn't he explained then?
"Detective Covey, sir,” Birdwell announced, and the
jaunty, jolly little detective swaggered into the dead man's
private office.
“What about the cleaning women, Covey?” McMann
demanded impatiently.
"Haven't been able to find either one of them—Minnie
Cassidy and Letty Miller are the names, sir,” Covey an-
swered cheerfully. "The Cassidy woman left home at ten
this morning, according to her daughter, to visit some
friend of hers in another part of town, but the daughter
don't know the name or address, and the Miller woman
hasn't been living at the address Coghlan, the superintend-
ent, gave us, since about the first. It's a rooming house and
the landlady says old Mrs. Miller didn'u leave a forward-
ing address.”
"I suppose there's nothing to do but to wait until they
show up for work at four this afternoon,” McMann
growled. "All right, Birdwell—what is it?” as his other
subordinate again appeared in the communicating door-
way.
"Dr. Nielson on the phone, sir,” Birdwell answered.
"Ready with his report, sir.”
As McMann reached for the extension on Borden's desk,
Ruth's cold right hand went involuntarily to her throat.
If the calibre of the bullet which had killed Borden matched
the calibre of the pistol missing from Jack's desk ...
"Hello, Dr. Nielson! McMann speaking. What's the
dope? . . . Fine! And can you tell me any more defin-
itely when death occurred? . . . Hm! Close enough, I
name or add of town, but to visit som


128
THE BLACK PIGEON
As she was powdering her face with hurrying, trembling
hands, McMann appeared in the communicating doorway,
and spoke to the detective stationed at Benny Smith's desk.
“Phone down to the Childs Restaurant on the corner to
send me up a couple of sandwiches, some apple pie, and a
cup of coffee, Birdwell. Better have them send up your
own lunch, too. I'm too busy to leave here now. . . . By
the way, Miss Lester, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to
stay all afternoon. You undoubtedly know more about
Borden's business and personal affairs than anyone else.”
"I'll be glad to stay, Mr. McMann,” Ruth assured him.
"I'm more anxious than you can possibly be to have this
mystery cleared up.”
"Have a good lunch,” McMann called, almost gently,
as he closed the door upon himself again.
Biggers, the patrolman stationed outside Borden's offices,
proved extremely useful in holding off reporters as the
girl and her sweetheart waited for the elevator, but not
even he could prevent the explosion of a flashlight or two
as cameras were aimed at the couple who, reporters knew,
were involved somehow in the investigation into the death
of "Handsome Harry” Borden.
Ruth was grateful for the presence of other passengers
in the car, since Micky Moran was prevented from asking
embarrassing questions. As a matter of fact, the red-
headed elevator operator was a much subdued youngster,
with the fear of the law heavy upon him.
"Where shall we eat, darling?" Jack asked, when they
were upon the street, drinking in deep draughts of cold
air and freedom.
"Anywhere but the McAlpin,” Ruth shuddered. "How
about our own little tearoom? But no! We've been too
happy there. Let's not go back there until we've waked
up from this awful nightmare.” ,
"Then the Colonnade is as good a place as any," Jack
decided. "I want to talk, and there's no chance in this
mob. Since it's a cafeteria, there won't be any waiter hang-


THE BLACK PIGEON
129
ing over us,” he added grimly, as he guided her through
the storm doors.
A few minutes later they deposited their lightly bur-
dened trays upon a small table in a far corner of the big,
noisy room. Ruth automatically raised a spoon of luke-
warm vegetable soup to her lips, then repudiated it with a
violent gesture.
"Oh, Jack, I can't eat! Talk to me-say something!
Oh, I'm sorry! But-it's been so-so horrible!”
Jack Hayward quietly laid down his fork and reached
for the girl's twisting, cold hands. “You want me to say
I didn't do it, don't you, darling? Do I have to say it in
so many words? Well, then, darling–I didn't kill Borden.”
"Thank you, Jack!” Tears welled up in her eyes, splashed
upon her pale cheeks. "If you had, I would have stood by
you. You know that, don't you? But Jack, who did? And
where is your gun? You didn't take it home, did you,
to have it out of reach, in case—?”
"No!” Jack denied, his hands tight upon hers. “When
you first told me this morning I thought you had done
it- ”
"I?” Ruth cried.
Jack nodded, his bronze-brown eyes pleading with her
to forgive him. “From some hysterical things you said
about it's being your fault”
"I meant it was my fault that you had killed him," she
interrupted. "I had discovered that your gun was missing.
I didn't know mine was, too. I thought you had quarreled
with him when you came back Saturday afternoon, and
had shot him before you realized what you were doing.
And I knew that if you had, it was my fault, for having
screamed and hurt my lip against the door. But tell me
again that you didn't!"
Jack frowned and withdrew his hands, and Ruth knew
that he was hurt and angry at her insistence. "I did not
kill Borden, Ruth. I don't know who did. I wish to God
I did know."


130
THE BLACK PIGEON
"Thank you, dear,” she repeated, smiling at him eagerly
and not casting a glance toward the man who had followed
them along the food counters and taken his seat at the
next table. There was no need to look; she knew that his
apparently uninterested gaze was upon her and Jack
Hayward, that, although he was not close enough to have
heard their low-voiced conversation, he had "listened”
nevertheless. For Ruth had recognized in their "shadow"
a man who had testified in one of Colby Lester's cases,
for the prosecution-a detective who was a trained lip
reader. So that was why McMann had permitted her and
Jack to lunch together! He had hoped to get a confession
in this way, since all other means had failed. If Jack had
been guilty-Ruth shuddered to think of the desperate
chance she had taken when, knowing that the "shadow”
was reading every word that fell from their lips, she had
dared lead Jack into declaring his guilt or innocence. But
it was innocence, thank God! McMann might not be con-
vinced, would not be, of course, but she was, ... No
chance now to explain to Jack, or everything would be
spoiled. ...
"Aren't you going to eat?” Jack asked, a little stiffly.
She smiled at him, brilliantly, through tears. “I'm not
very hungry, but I'll eat one bite for every bite you take.
And when we've finished, we'll talk about the house
we're going to build in Scarsdale. No more murder talk
now, darling! We're too wrought up. All that matters is
that you didn't do it and I didn't, and we love each
other. . . . Oh, Jack, I do love you so, even if you are a
hot-headed, detective-baiting young idiot! Come, now!
Bite for bite!”
When they had finished their lunch, Ruth, smiling to
herself at the lip-reading shadow's undoubted annoyance,
insisted on taking Jack to see Macy's window display of
modernistic furniture, refusing all the while, with almost
hysterical gayety, to discuss the murder or any scrap of


THE BLACK PIGEON
131
evidence that had developed in the morning's investiga-
tion.
In the elevator she had a chance to whisper an explana-
tion to her bewildered fiancé, for the lip-reading shadow
had not boarded the car with them: “We were followed,
darling. I had to make you repeat your assurances to me
for the benefit of the detective. We mustn't forget that
McMann is clever.”
Loving admiration routed the shadow of resentment
from Jack's eyes. “You're worth two of him—Colby Les-
ter's daughter!”
They parted at the door of Borden's offices, Jack to go
to his own suite, where his comings and goings would un-
doubtedly be under closest supervision.
As Ruth entered her office, Birdwell hung up the tele-
phone receiver and announced to McMann, who stood in
the communicating door: "Clay's got the Dubois woman,
Says he'll have her here in fifteen minutes.”


CHAPTER XII
“M ISS LESTER,” McMann called to Ruth, who was
IVT hanging up her hat and coat, “you're familiar
with Borden's letter files, of course. I wish you'd go through
them and bring me every letter you can find that contains
a threat of any kind. A promoter of his ilk is bound to
have made bitter enemies, and I don't want to overlook
any bets. Also, bring me his cancelled checks for the last
year. If he has been paying blackmail to anyone, I'd like
to know it.”
"Yes, Mr. McMann,” Ruth agreed eagerly. She was
grateful for any task that would keep her mind off Jack
Hayward's almost inevitable arrest. And her respect for the
detective rose. He was not letting the blackness of his
case against Jack Hayward make him indolent or careless
in opening up new avenues of investigation. A detective
-McMann; not just a third-degree bully as she had
feared.
A few minutes later she entered Borden's private office,
which the detective had made his own, and laid two bulky
folders before him. “When I first came to work for him,
Mr. Borden told me he received many blackmail and death-
threat letters from ruined investors, and instructed me to
file all that I found in his mail in this folder. He pre-
tended to laugh at them, but I'm sure he was afraid. I
think he had a private detective or some sort of body-
tere all that's from rur received Est
guard.”
McMann, obviously impressed, opened the folder and
began to riffle through the odd collection of letters it
contained. “That so? What gave you that impression, Miss
Lester?”
"A big, uncouth-looking man, whom Mr. Borden called
132


THE BLACK PIGEON
Jake—I never heard his last name was in and out of the
offices frequently, and Mr. Borden always saw him,” Ruth
answered eagerly. "And if a new threat had been received
in the mail, Mr. Borden always called for the folder when
Jake made his next visit. Frequently, also, when Mr. Bor-
den was still in his offices when I left, I saw Jake hanging
around in the hall, as if waiting to protect Mr. Borden.
At least, that is the only explanation I could think of.”
· McMann frowned in intense concentration. Then: "Did
this Jake have a key to the offices, Miss Lester?”
Ruth shook her head. "I don't know. I don't know any-
thing else about him at all. Of course I never asked Mr.
Borden any questions, and he never volunteered any in-
formation.”
McMann left the room, apparently to give instructions
to Detective Birdwell in the outer office, then returned and
began to study the letters again, frowningly. "Nothing
recent here,” he said at last, closing the folder, “but of
course I'll put a man on this job. Something may turn
up, but I doubt it. Now let's see these cancelled checks.
You checked his bank statements for him, I suppose?”
"Yes. It was difficult, for he seldom made an entry on
a check stub, and when I questioned him about a blank
stub, in an effort to keep the record straight so that he
would not overdraw, he would say, 'Oh, I don't know!
Two or three hundred, I guess. Just charge it to 'cash,”
Ruth answered. “Sometimes he drew as much as two or
three thousand dollars out of the bank in a single week.”
"Any checks to women?” McMann demanded.
"Only to Mrs. Borden,” Ruth told him.
"So 'Handsome Harry' was no woman's fool,” McMann
approved, smiling crookedly. "Any charge accounts for
his lady friends?"
Again Ruth shook her head. "No, not in his name at
least. But from what he said to Rita Dubois on Saturday,
I gathered that he had given her letters to the credit man-
agers of several shops. I imagine the accounts were to be
the bam, as much to cashow!
So Hand Mrs. Boromen


134
THE BLACK PIGEON
opened in her name, with his name as guarantee of pay-
ment, but of course I can't be sure.”
"Just one of the little points that Rita can clear up for
us," McMann commented drily. “By the way, how long
had Borden's affair with the dancer been going on?"
"I don't think it had really begun,” Ruth answered
honestly. “From what I overheard between them on Sat-
urday and from what Mr. Borden said after Rita had
left,"
“What did he say?" McMann interrupted sharply.
"Something about 'they all fall sooner or later,' and
that he liked them when they weren't too easy,” Ruth
answered, flushing. "He met Rita Dubois at the Golden
Slipper about three weeks ago, and was infatuated with
her from the first. He talked about her to me, and when
she came to the office it was easy to see that he was in
love with her.”
"And she with him?" McMann pounced.
Ruth's flush deepened. "N-no. She hated for him even to
touch her hand. I was surprised that she had agreed to go
to Winter Heaven with him Saturday.”
McMann studied the girl keenly. “There's something
else, Miss Lester. Out with it!”
"Well,” Ruth admitted reluctantly, "she practically ad-
mitted to me that she was gold-digging Mr. Borden. That
was Saturday morning. She noticed the change in my ap-
pearance, too, and charged me, good-naturedly, with hav-
ing 'dolled up' to 'vamp' Mr. Borden. She laughed then,
and said I could have him ‘next week,' implying that she
would get all she wanted out of him over the week-end.
Then she warned me not to tell Borden what she had
said. I replied by telling her of my engagement to Mr.
Hayward. Mr. Borden came out of his private office then
and ended the conversation between Miss Dubois and my-
that she
sele, ended Mr. Bordelling her tell Bordver the
"Hmm!” McMann frowned, as he scrawled notes on a
sheet of yellow paper. "No wonder she was sore when he


THE BLACK PIGEON
135
it was, to remind me so,"
'stood her up.' Now, Miss Lester, I'd like you to tell me,
if you can, who preceded Rita Dubois in Borden's affec-
tions. There was someone, of course?”
Ruth hesitated, loath to involve another woman, prob-
ably as innocent as herself of Borden's murder, but she
realized that now, when the shadow of arrest hung over
the man she loved, was no time to be scrupulously ethical.
And if she did not tell, McMann would learn from other
sources. ... "From the time I came to work for Mr.
Borden until he met Miss Dubois," she began slowly, “Mr.
Borden was very attentive to a Miss Gilman-Cleo Gil-
man.”
"Were they lovers?” McMann asked bluntly.
"I don't know, but-I presume so," Ruth answered re-
luctantly. "I heard her remind him, on the fifth of Decem-
ber, I believe it was, that her rent was due, and I saw him
give her cash to pay it. She did not come to the office very
frequently, but until he met Miss Dubois he made an en-
gagement with her by telephone nearly every day.”
"Her telephone number and address?” McMann de-
manded.
"I don't know her address but the telephone number
was Circle 3412,” Ruth told him.
"And did they quarrel over Miss Dubois?”
"I don't know. He simply stopped calling her on the
phone and gave me instructions to tell her he was not in,
if she called him. She only called twice after that, I be-
lieve.”
"And what did she say to you when you told her Bor-
den wasn't in?”
The ghost of a smile tugged at the dimple in the cor-
ner of Ruth's enchanting little mouth. "The first time
she left word for him to call her, and he didn't, of course.
The second time she laughed and said, 'Well, well! So
that's that! Listen, darling, tell him Cleo says 'Good-bye,
good luck and God bless you.' She never called again when
I was here.”


136
THE BLACK PIGEON
"You sure of that? Sure she wasn't the woman who
called him Saturday morning and wouldn't leave her
name?” McMann prodded.
"No. The voice was not the same at all,” Ruth replied
unhesitatingly. "The woman who called Saturday morn-
ing had a beautiful, throaty contralto voice. Miss Gilman's
is a little nasal and quite high-pitched.”
McMann reached for the extension of the telephone
which he had had hooked up with police headquarters.
"Hello! That you, Captain? McMann speaking. Another
little job for one of the boys. Have a good man sent out
to bring in Cleo Gilman. Yes—that's right. One of
Borden's lady friends, that he broke with about three
weeks ago. Telephone number, Circle 3412. . . . Yes...
Too damned much rather than too little. I got enough
suspects to crowd the Tombs. ... No, I'm not making
any arrests yet. ... What's that? The boys didn't find
a gun in either place? ... Well, I didn't think they
would. . . . By the way, Captain, any report on Borden's
manservant, Ashe, yet? I told Birdwell an hour ago to
have him brought here. . . . Not at Borden's apartment,
eh? Well, I want him brought here as soon as he shows up.
... Yes, here! I'm making these offices my headquarters
for today, at least. . . . Yes, she's a lot of help to me,
and I don't want to drag her down to headquarters, if I
can help it,” and McMann nodded and smiled at Ruth, to
indicate that he was referring to her. “Mrs Borden? I sent
her home at noon. She has a sick child. No, no danger of
her blowing. ... Oh, sure, she's still in the picture.
O'Brien's keeping an eye on her. ... All right, Captain.
See you soon,” and McMann hung up the receiver, just as
Birdwell opened the door between the two offices.
"Detective Clay and Rita Dubois, sir.”
"Good! Show Rita in. I'll speak to Clay out there,”
McMann directed as he rose from Borden's desk.
"Shall I leave the room, Mr. McMann?” Ruth asked,


THE BLACK PIGEON
139
ready to keep my bargain. I got to Penn Station at two,
and went to the information desk, where he'd said he
would meet me. At five minutes after two, I began to get
nervous for fear we'd miss the train and decided to phone
him. There's a telephone booth near the information desk,
and I called from there, where I could see Harry if he
came while I was phoning. His line was busy, so I knew
he'd not left the office. I waited for about five minutes
more and called again, and his line was still busy—”.
"Just a minute!” McMann interrupted. “Can you fix
the time of that second call exactly?
"Sure! Ten minutes after two," Rita asserted confi-
dently. "I had my eye on the big clock.”
Ruth did not need the flick of McMann's narrowed gray
eyes in her direction to remind her that the dancer had
partially corroborated Bill Cowan's damaging testimony
against Jack Hayward-that, when he had called Jack's
number at 2:10, he had been plugged in on a busy line
and had heard Harry Borden's voice raised in violent
anger. With a tremendous effort of will she controlled
the waves of dizziness that were pouring over her brain
and braced herself to listen to McMann's next question:
"Did you call his number again?”.
"Of course!” Rita answered promptly. "I knew he was
in his office or his line wouldn't be busy. I waited about a
minute, and then I got him, and he told me to come over
to the office "
"Wait!” McMann interrupted sharply. "Exactly what
did you say to Borden and what did he say to you?”
The dancer hesitated for a moment, while Ruth held
her breath. "Well, he didn't give me a chance to say much.
I said, 'My God, Harry, do you know what time it is, or
have you forgot you were to catch a train at 2:15?' And
he said, 'No, I hadn't forgot, Rita, but I've been unavoid-
ably detained. What time is it?' I told him it was twelve
minutes after two and he swore a blue streak, and then
he said we'd have to take a later train and for me to come


140
THE BLACK PIGEON
on up to the office, that we'd make new plans when I got
there.”
McMann frowned and tapped his pencil against the
dead man's desk. Ruth held her breath.
"Well, Rita, go on,” McMann directed at last. "You
came, and you were hopping mad, too, weren't you?”
"Well, I wasn't what you might call delirious with de-
light,” Rita admitted flippantly. Then her eyes widened
with fear. "Say, what are you trying to do? Pin something
on me? Well, you've got a fat chance, old dear, because I
didn't even see Harry, much less bump him off, if that's
what you're insinuating."
McMann's thin lips twisted in that slow, crooked grin
of his. "Stick to your story, Rita. When did you get
here? What happened?”
The dancer's hands gripped each other so tightly that a
knuckle cracked. Her big black eyes flashed from Mc-
Mann's heavy, grinning face to Ruth's pale one, as if seek-
ing help. Then, on a quickly drawn breath, Rita answered:
"I came right over from the station, just a block away.
Just took time to check my bags. I suppose I was here
within five minutes after I hung up the receiver.”
"You got here about eighteen or twenty minutes after
two, then?” McMann asked, with pencil poised.
Rita shrugged. "I guess so. Maybe a minute or two
sooner—I don't know. I knocked on the door and there
wasn't any answer. I knocked several times and then tried
the knob and found the door was locked, som I went away
again. There wasn't anything else to do," she added de-
fiantly.
"Of course not!” McMann agreed blandly. "Nothing
to do but to turn right around and go right back home,
and wait for Borden to call you there, so that's what you
did, eh?”
"Yes," the dancer agreed eagerly—and fell headlong
into McMann's trap.
“Then, Rita,” McMann asked, as Ruth leaned forward


THE BLACK PIGEON
141
tensely, "how do you account for the fact that you spent
at least ten minutes on the seventh floor?"
"I didn't!” Rita denied recklessly.
Ruth could hardly suppress a gasp of relief. Now, at
least, Rita Dubois was lying. Micky Moran, the elevator
operator, had said that after taking the dancer to the
seventh floor he had spent at least ten minutes in the tele-
phone booth in the lobby of the Starbridge Building, in
conversation with his girl. But of course Rita could not
know this
Suddenly an incident which she had completely for-
gotten until that moment recurred to Ruth Lester like a
flash of lightning across a dark sky. "Please, Mr. McMann,”
she cried, her voice quivering with excited hope, “may
I speak with you privately for a minute?”
The detective led the trembling girl to a far corner
of Borden's office, while Rita stared after them with enor-
mous, frightened black eyes.
"I've just remembered something, Mr. McMann,” Ruth
whispered, as the big man bent low to listen. “Saturday
morning, when Mr. Borden was in the outer office with
Rita, he waved good-bye to her with the torn half of a
yellow-backed banknote. I didn't see the denomination,
and I didn't think much of it at the time, but now I be-
lieve I know what had happened, and what Mr. Borden
meant when he said that about keeping his part of the
bargain if she kept hers.”
"Yes, yes,” McMann urged impatiently, as Ruth paused
for breath.
"I'm sure now that they had been scuffling playfully,
Rita trying to take the bill away from him, and tearing it
in two. I'm sure—sure!—that he let her keep half of the
torn bill, and had promised to give her the other half
after she'd kept her promise about—about going away
with him.”
"Well?” McMann grunted, frowning in deep concen-
tration.


142
THE BLACK PIGEON
"Oh, don't you see?” Ruth implored. "If she's telling
the truth—if she really didn't see Mr. Borden again, she
still has her half of the bill! But I believe she's lying! I
believe Mr. Borden was alive when she came, and that
he either gave her the other half of the bill, as he had un-
doubtedly promised he would, or that—that they quar-
reled because he wouldn't, and she-she” Her whisper-
ing voice faltered. She could not bring herself to utter
an accusation of murder. "Oh, Mr. McMann, please be-
lieve I'm not just talking wildly, to—to help someone else!
I know Rita must have been desperate for money, and yet
I don't think she's just a gold-digger either ”
McMann frowned prodigiously, in deep thought. Then,
"Was Borden in the habit of carrying bills of large de-
nomination?”
"He was, he was!” Ruth replied in an eager, breathless
whisper. "He was terribly vain about money-loved to
flash hundred dollar bills. Just last week he showed me a
five hundred dollar banknote told me to take a good
look at it, as I might never see one again. I told him he
was foolish to carry such big sums on his person, but he
just laughed at me and looked pleased with himself.
Maybe-maybe he showed it to Rita Saturday morning,”
She faltered again, her blue eyes raised imploringly to
McMann's stern face.
McMann nodded slowly, the frown clearing. “And
Borden's half of the bill was not on his body this morn-
ing. Of course whoever took the five hundred in smaller
bills might have taken the useless torn half—"?
"It wouldn't have been useless to one person-Rita Du-
bois!” Ruth reminded him. “And she could have passed
it, no matter how she got it, for she would have thought
no one knew of Borden's having had the other half!
Please ask her for her half of the bill, Mr. McMann! If she
still has it, I'll believe she did not see Mr. Borden when
she came back Saturday afternoon."
· Detective Birdwell interrupted the whispered confer-


146
THE BLACK PIGEON
minutes after two? Did you use the key Borden had given
you?”
Ruth gasped her surprise, and the dancer, apparently,
was no less startled. “I–I didn't have a key,” she retorted
defiantly, her agitated hands instinctively gripping her
handbag.
"Oh, yes, you did!” McMann laughed harshly, as he
rose, strode to the girl and forced the expensive alligator
bag out of her desperately clinging hands. Ruthlessly,
without apology, he dumped its contents upon the desk
top, until a Yale lock key clattered upon the polished sur-
face. “And here it is! You amateurs are always so sloppy,"
he reproved the dancer jocularly. “An old hand at the
game would have remembered to throw this thing away.”
"How did you know I had a key to Harry's office?"
Rita demanded.
"Because of a little memo that Borden jotted down on
the envelope that held his railroad tickets,” McMann en-
lightened her. “'Get key from Rita.' Now, why didn't
Borden 'get key from Rita,' if he was alive when you en-
tered these offices Saturday afternoon?”
Ruth saw only too clearly the drift of McMann's ques-
tions. He undoubtedly believed that the promoter was
dead when Rita arrived, that he had been shot immediately
after his telephone conversation with her, in which he had
told her to come to the office, that she had arrived,
knocked, received no answer, entered with the key Bor-
den had lent her, had found her would-be lover dead, and
had, in her desperate need for money, robbed the body.
If only Rita had not had a key, could not have entered un-
less Borden had been alive to admit her, then Jack Hay-
ward would automatically have been eliminated as a sus-
pect. But Rita was answering, and Ruth forced herself to
listen.
"He forgot to ask me for the key, I suppose,” Rita re-
torted defiantly. “Anyway, he made a date to meet me at
the station for the 5:32, the next train for Winter Heaven.


THE BLACK PIGEON
147
He wouldn't have needed the key before then, since he
told me he was going to stay in his office all afternoon.
He'd given me the key Friday when I was having lunch
with him-breakfast for me, lunch for him. I was to meet
him at the office about six Friday evening and go out to
dinner with him, and he said as he might not be in when
I got there, I'd better take the key and let myself in with
it, so I would not have to wait in the hall. Later he phoned
me to meet him at the Crillon, instead, and I did, and
forgot to give him the key. But I didn't use it Saturday—
didn't even remember I had it. I knocked and he let me
in. He was expecting me, of course, but before he opened
the door he asked who it was and when I shouted, Rita,'
he let me in.”
"And then?” McMann grinned skeptically, as Rita
paused. “What explanation did he give you for missing
the train?”
Rita hesitated, flushed, then seemed to choose her words
carefully. "He didn't give any explanation—just apolo-
gized, and promised to make it up to me. He he seemed
to be in a hurry to get me out of the office, as if he were
expecting someone. I thought he'd been having a row with
Cleo Gilman over the phone and that he was afraid she'd
come while I was there. Harry and Cleo had been
'friends for about a year before I met him. He had told
me about her, said he was through with her—"
"Did he mention Miss Gilman Saturday afternoon?"
McMann interrupted.
"No, he didn't mention any one's name, except Jake
Bailey, who was always hanging around, like a body-
guard or something. I jokingly asked him if Jake was go-
ing to Winter Heaven with us, and he said no, that Jake
had left Friday night for a week-end visit with his people
somewhere upstate—he didn't say just where,” Rita an-
swered, still in that careful, hesitating manner which was
branding her as a liar in McMann's eyes, as Ruth could
clearly see.


148
THE BLACK PIGEON
Her fear was confirmed when McMann asked, smiling
twistedly: "You're sure he told you that Saturday after-
noon, Rita? Wasn't it Saturday morning or Friday eve-
ning?”
"It was Saturday afternoon,” Rita replied stubbornly.
"Borden was in a hurry to get rid of you but you took
time to joke with him about Jake Bailey, eh?” McMann
grinned. “All right, Rita, all right! Go on with your story.
How did he happen to give you the other half of the five
hundred dollar bill? Why didn't he wait until you were
in Winter Heaven? He wouldn't give it to you Saturday
morning, remember!”
An ugly splotch of red suddenly glowed on the slim
throat of the dancer. "I asked him for it. I was pretty sore
because he'd missed the train, and he wanted to make up
with me, so he gave me the other half of the bill. I told
him I might miss the 5:32 if he didn't so he gave it
to me.”.
McMann chuckled. "Just like that, eh? You make an
awfully poor liar, Rita. . . . Here! Keep your shirt on!”
he commanded uglily, as the dancer sprang toward him,
her teeth bared, her slim, long fingers curved into talons.
“So you went to the station to make the 5:32, did you,
and he stood you up again?”
Rita hesitated, then answered desperately, angrily, "Yes,
I did!”
McMann leaned back in his chair, grinning and nodding
with what seemed, to Ruth, like ghoulish satisfaction.
"What do you think the police department has been do-
ing all day, Rita? I'll tell you one little job they've cleaned
up: you beat it from here, after stopping in the lobby to
telephone someone, straight to the station, got the bags
you'd checked there, and took them to your hotel. And
you didn't take them out again Saturday afternoon! You
did take out a small overnight bag about midnight Sat-
urday, on your way to spend the night with your girl
friend, Willette Wilbur. Now how about it, Rita?”


THE BLACK PIGEON
149
The red splotch on the dancer's throat extended to her
face, suffused it. She swayed dizzily for a moment, clos-
ing her terror-stricken black eyes. "I–I didn't go to the
station,” she gasped. Then the words came in a passionate
torrent: “I was only going away with him to get the five
hundred. I-I needed it, and I won't tell you why, if you
kill me! After he'd given it to me, I didn't care what
happened between him and me later. I was just happy that
I didn't have to-to pay for it, by_by_” She choked,
and suddenly began to cry, horribly, without hiding her
convulsed face.
"Listen, Rita,” McMann urged, almost gently. "You've
admitted you needed five hundred dollars in a whale of
a hurry, that you were willing to do almost anything to
get it. Now admit just a little bit more and tell me the
whole truth. I'll put it up to you straight: either Borden
was alive when you came and you killed him—wait till
I'm through!-killed him to get the money that would
come too late if he waited until night to give it to you, or
he was dead when you got here. No, wait! Isn't this what
happened?-you came, got no answer to your knock,
used Borden's passkey, found him dead on the floor-yes!
just where you're looking,” he interrupted himself, as the
dancer's eyes involuntarily shot a glance of horror toward
the spot where Borden had lain in death— "You remem-
bered that he had the other half of the five hundred dollar
bill he had given you; you looked for it, found it and
more than five hundred more in smaller bills, took it all-
over a thousand dollars counting your half of the bill—”
"No, no!” Rita screamed, beating the air with frantic,
clenched fists. “I didn't rob a dead man! I'd die first! He
was alive, I tell you—alive! He gave me his half of the
bill, and not a cent more! Not a cent!”
Birdwell's weary, bored voice from the doorway inter-
rupted Rita's passionate avowal. “Ferber's here with the
pictures of the finger-prints, sir. And Borden's manservant,
Ashe. Mrs. Borden's come back, too, sir.”
for it, Fundred dollar
No, no!sand dollars more in the


THE BLACK PIGEON
153
"There's a paste pot in plain sight on Benny's desk,”
Ruth could not refrain from telling the detective.
McMann glanced at her and smiled slightly, as if to
assure her that he was very much on the job. Then, with
the suddenness of a cat pouncing upon a mouse: “What
did you do with the gun, Rita? Of course we'll find it
sooner or later, but you might as well save us the trouble!”
Ruth gasped, tried to realize all that McMann's ques-
tion meant, as Jack's hand again closed with fiercely ex-
ultant pressure upon hers.
"Gun? What the hell are you talking about?” Rita al-
most screamed, in a fear-roughened voice. "I've never
had a gun in my hands in my life"
"The .38 calibre Colt's automatic that you found in
the bottom drawer of Miss Lester's desk" McMann in-
terrupted coolly. "You were looking for it, and you found
it. Borden had told you, as he had told several other people,
that Miss Lester owned a gun, kept it in her desk in case
of a hold-up. Borden wouldn't give you the other half of
that all-important five hundred dollar bill, and you were
desperate for need of it. You couldn't wait till Saturday
night. You quarreled with him, pretended to be leaving,
went into the outer office, got the gun out of the drawer,
and-shot him.”
Rita had gone dead white as the detective summed up
against her, but when he had finished she laughed, her
vividly rouged lips twisting in an ugly loop of disdain.
"Sounds simply swell, don't it? But listen here, and get
this straight: I didn't know Baby-face had a gun in her
desk; there wasn't one in the bottom drawer when I
looked for the paste, and I didn't kill Harry Borden!
That's the truth, and you can third-degree me till hell
freezes over if you want to!”
"Then someone else had already killed him with that
gun when you looked for the paste to stick together that
bill you'd taken off his body?” McMann shot at the su-
perbly defiant dancer.


154
THE BLACK PIGEON
"Wrong again, big boy!” Rita answered insolently,
though her cheeks were still chalky white. “He was alive
when I came and alive when I left, as I seem to remiember
having told you before!”
Ferber said something to McMann in a low voice, and
the detective frowningly studied two photographs of
finger-prints. Then: "I suppose Borden helped you look
for the paste tube, Rita?”
The girl flushed. "No, he didn't. He went over to the
cooler and got a drink while I was going through Miss
Lester's desk.”
"He didn't touch the desk?” McMann persisted
strangely.
"No!"
"And yet,” McMann said slowly, to no one in particu-
lar, “Borden's finger-prints—or rather his right thumb
print-is on top of the wooden handle of the bottom
drawer of Miss Lester's desk. The other four fingers would
be inserted beneath the long wooden handle, of course.
That right, Ferber?”
"Yes. I didn't photograph the underside of the handles,
but I can, by removing them,” Ferber answered.
"Not necessary,” McMann assured him. “Miss Lester,
did Borden, to your knowledge, open the bottom drawer
of your desk on Saturday?”
"No," Ruth answered. “To my knowledge, he never
opened a drawer of my desk during the entire time I
worked for him, but he may have when I was not there,
of course. Benny Smith, the office boy, opened that drawer
Saturday morning. He was looking for a towel, he said,
when I asked him what he was doing at my desk. I'd just
come out of Mr. Borden's office, after having taken dic-
tation.”
"That accounts for these thumb prints,” Ferber said
to McMann, pointing to a picture. “Found a number of
them on the kid's desk.”


THE BLACK PIGEON 155
"Any one else touch your desk Saturday that you know
of?” McMann asked Ruth.
"No. I did, of course. I opened the bottom drawer, as
I have told you, to get a paper cup to give Mrs. Borden
a drink. She started to help me, but didn't touch the
drawer—and she had on gloves, I remember,” Ruth an-
swered.
"One of Borden's thumb prints half obliterated by
Rita's thumb print,” McMann mused, in a low voice, that
was just loud enough for Ruth's straining ears to catch.
"That means he opened the drawer first-
"Well, if he did, he did it before I came!” Rita cut in.
"He certainly didn't touch that desk while I was with
him.”
Ruth's head spun with conjectures. If Borden had
opened that bottom drawer on Saturday afternoon, after
her departure, and before Rita's arrival, was it not pos-
sible that he had done so to get the gun, to protect him-
self against some threatened trouble—trouble arising from
that mysterious telephone call which had kept him so
long that he had missed his train? But Bill Cowan had
testified that Borden had been connected with Jack Hay-
ward's number! Had McMann, whose ability she was be-
ginning to respect as much as she feared it, arrived at the
same conclusion? If so, he had again arrived at Jack Hay-
ward as the most likely suspect. . . . Ruth forced her
mind away from that too terrible possibility. Supposing
Borden, fearful of an attack at the hands of some one who
had not yet come into the investigation-for she herself
was convinced that Jack had not talked to Borden over
the phone or across the airshaft-had taken the gun from
her desk. When Rita came-Ruth went on building up
her suppositious case the gun was on top of Borden's
desk, handy for his defense against the person from whom
he undoubtedly feared a visit. Else why should he have
planned to remain all afternoon in his office, instead of
e had done so mita's arrival, waarnoon, after
walified that Bhad millegame calluble trouble protect , pos-


156
THE BLACK PIGEON
-spending the hours between trains with Rita? But that,
she told herself despairingly, was built on the theory that
Rita was telling the truth about the agreement between
her and Borden to make the later train.
Why suppose Rita had told the truth? She had lied so
much! No, it was better to hold tight to facts. Borden
had undoubtedly opened the bottom drawer of the desk.
In all probability he had done so to get the gun kept there.
Rita had come. She had quarreled with Borden. She had
seen the gun on his desk. She had shot him to get the
money he would not give her. Then Rita had robbed the
body. Perhaps she was telling the truth about the paste-
or part-truth! Who could say how Rita's mind would
function after she had killed Borden? The bill was all-
important. It was torn in two. In an office there would be
paste. She had hunted for the paste in the outer office,
and in the meantime the black pigeon-or one of his flock
-had flown in through the open window, had dipped his
tiny feet in the fresh-flowing blood of the dead man,
leaving telltale tracks behind.
But why had Rita come back into that death room to
close the window? Ruth knit her brows in a terrific ef-
fort to think straight. Then light burst upon her. Rita
had heard the flutter of the pigeon's wings or the sound
of its body caroming against the glass of the upper sash
and had run back into the private office, frightened half
to death. She had seen the pigeon-or maybe several of
them-on the window ledge, and had had a sudden horror
of the feathered creatures pecking at Harry Borden's dead
face. Instinctively cautious, even in her panic, she had
closed the window with her gloved left hand, so that
there were no finger-prints. Ruth started to draw a deep
breath of relief, when suddenly the whole structure top-
pled and fell, stricken by one question which her relent-
lessly logical mind insisted upon asking: if Rita had done
all this, where did Jack's missing automatic fit into the
picture?


THE BLACK PIGEON
157
Then hope thrust up its head again. Why try to fit
Jack's gun into any theory of the murder? It was miss-
ing-true. But wasn't it entirely possible that Jack's gun
had been stolen by a petty thief, prowling through the
almost deserted office building, glad to lay his hands on any-
thing of value? The long arm of coincidence, of course,
but wasn't real life full of just such amazing coinci-
dences? But Ruth knew, even as she consoled herself with
this philosophic reflection, that Detective Sergeant Mc-
Mann would emit a loud roar of derisive laughter if she
told him her theory. He might be trying, with true police
conscientiousness, to bully Rita Dubois into confessing to
both murder and robbery, but Ruth was sure that in his
heart McMann believed the dancer had done nothing
worse than rob a dead man's body, after Harry Borden
had been killed by Jack Hayward, in a jealous rage.
The newly discovered evidence that Borden had had
Ruth's gun in his possession that Saturday afternoon would
do much, Ruth realized sickly, to confirm McMann's sus-
picions against Jack. He would argue, undoubtedly, that
Borden and Jack had quarreled over the telephone-that
inexplicable one-sided conversation of Borden's which Bill
Cowan had overheard when he had called Jack Hay-
ward's number at ten minutes after two—and that con-
sequently, fearing an attack upon his life, Borden had
possessed himself of Ruth's gun, had gone to the open
window with it in his hand, and had been shot down by
Hayward before he could aim Ruth's weapon.
But-Ruth argued with herself desperately—if McMann
believed this to be the truth about Borden's murder, how
could he account for the disappearance of her gun? Would
he be so stupid as to try to convince himself that Rita Du-
bois had stolen it, too, along with the money on Borden's
body? Ruth herself was sure that if Rita had come into
Borden's office and found him dead, with a gun lying on
the floor, she would have concluded that he had committed
suicide, would not have dreamed of touching the weapon
posseshow w before
Burard before he comhand, and had gone to the had


158
THE BLACK PIGEON
Bo "Was an afternoon.coor panels".
with which he had done it, for fear of its being found in
her possession and incriminating her. ....
"Miss Lester!” McMann's harsh voice broke into the
girl's troubled maze of theory and conjecture. “Do you
know when the glass panels of these office doors were
washed last?”
Ruth considered for a moment, then answered confi-
dently: "On Friday. The window washer always comes on
Friday, and does the door panels at the same time. It was
late Friday afternoon.”
"Was any other woman, besides yourself, Rita and Mrs.
Borden in these offices after the window-washer's visit?”
Ruth shook her head, her puzzled blue eyes taking in
the fact that McMann's narrowed eyes were fixed upon
a set of photographed finger-prints. "No. Not while I was
here, Mr. McMann.”
"Well,” McMann grunted, frowning, "some woman was
here all right. She left her calling card on the glass panel
of the door between this office and the outer one. Three
fine finger-prints.” He reached for the phone, which was
plugged up with police headquarters." "Hello! Captain
Foster, please! McMann speaking . . . Oh, Captain, any
report yet on Cleo Gilman? ... Is that so?”


CHAPTER XIV
D UTH LESTER'S hand tightened convulsively over
N Jack Hayward's as she listened, with incredulous
hope, to McMann's half of the telephone conversation
which the detective sergeant was carrying on with his
superior officer at police headquarters.
Te So Cleo skipped out Saturday noon, bag and baggage,
eh?” McMann spoke into the mouthpiece of the telephone,
his voice registering the frown which was beetling his
thick brows and snarling the corners of his mouth. “Who's
on the job? . . . Clay, eh? Put him on the phone if he's
there now, please . . . Hello, Clay! What's the dope on
this Gilman dame? Did she say where she was going?
... No? ... Oh, back Monday or Tuesday morning,
hunh? Well, be on hand to welcome her home and tell her
that McMann wants a chat with her. . . . Sure, go
through her apartment! What do you think this isma
tea party?”
The detective slammed the receiver upon the hook,
strode to the door between the private office and the
outer office of the Borden suite. “Birdwell! Take Mrs.
Borden and Miss Dubois down the hall and put them
in Covey's charge until I need them again. He's still in
that vacant suite, isn't he?"
"Yes, sir-interviewing tenants who could have heard
the shot fired, sir,” Birdwell answered in his weary voice.
"Frank Ashe, Borden's manservant, waiting to see you,
sir.”
"All right-show him in,” McMann directed, as he held
the door wide for Mrs. Borden and Rita to pass through,
the widow thanking him with a faint, sad smile, the dancer
wrapping her fur coat about her slim body with assumed
159


160
THE BLACK PIGEON
nonchalance, utterly belied by the chalky pallor of her
face.
As a gray-haired, anemic-looking man was about to
enter the private office, McMann held him back with an
arm stretched across the doorway, and turned his head
to address Jack Hayward:
"That's all for the present, Hayward. Thanks for the
finger-prints,” and he grinned crookedly. “Guess you knew
they wouldn't help us much, since you'd been here this
morning after Miss Lester discovered the body. By the
way, while you were out to lunch, I performed an inter-
esting experiment.” He reached out for the door and
closed it in the manservant's face.
Jack Hayward's steady bronze-brown eyes did not
flicker, nor did his color change. “Yes?”
"Yes! ... When I was in your office this morning,
looking for the gun you seemed to be so sure I'd find in
the bottom drawer of your desk and which wasn't there
-oddly enough!- I found something else. A missing link,
you might say,” and the detective paused, his terrible,
twisted grin widening until Ruth felt she must scream.
"That's interesting,” Jack said evenly, despite the fran-
tic warning of Ruth's tightened fingers upon his arm.
"May I ask what it was?”
"Oh-nothing much," the detective grinned. “Just a
nice long ten-foot pole with a hook on the end of it-
the kind of pole that's ordinarily used to pull windows
down from the top, but which—as I took pains to prove-
can be used very nicely for closing windows across an
eight-foot airshaft, if a chap gets just the right leverage.
A nice useful sort of pole, if a fellow very badly wants
a window closed and doesn't want to be seen walking
along a hall and unlocking another fellow's door in order
to close it. You found it very handy, didn't you, Hay-
ward?”
Jack's handsome, tanned face darkened with anger, but


THE BLACK PIGEON
161
his voice was steady as he answered: "I did not close Bor-
den's window with a pole or in any other manner, Mc-
Mann. There was no reason why I should. But it must
have been a very interesting experiment. Did you also
demonstrate to your own satisfaction how I robbed the
body and secured Miss Lester's automatic, all with this
very useful window pole?”
McMann's grin widened. “I admit that at noon I was
a little bit worried about those details, but a charming
visitor has pretty well cleared them up for me.”
Ruth could remain silent no longer. Her voice quivered
with anger as she lashed out at the self-satisfied detective:
“That's not fair, Mr. McMann! Rita Dubois has cleared
Jack by insisting that Mr. Borden was alive when she
came here Saturday afternoon at seventeen minutes after
two, at which time Jack was with me in the McAlpin
dining room.”
The grin left McMann's broad, thin mouth. He looked
at the angry, trembling girl gravely, almost compassion-
ately. "I'm sorry, Miss Lester, but what Rita Dubois says
doesn't mean that to me!” and the detective snapped his
fingers. “You saw me catch her in lie after lie. The facts
are all I'm interested in: Rita had a key to this office. She
could have entered, whether Borden was alive or dead.
She got from him-alive or dead-half of a five-hundred-
dollar bill and five hundred more in smaller bills. At least
we know she got the torn half of the five-hundred-dollar
banknote, and we can take the other for granted, I think.
Alive, Borden wouldn't have given her a cent until she'd
come across—kept her part of the bargain, which was to
go away with him and become his mistress. You heard
him say so yourself. Therefore, she got the money from
Borden dead, not Borden alive.”
But Ruth was not defeated by the detective's logic.
"Then you think she was so greedy that she stole my gun,
too-walked out of here with the very weapon which she
him say so youbt Borden aliveed by the


162
THE BLACK PIGEON
must have believed had killed Mr. Borden? And which did
kill him! I know it did—”.
McMann shrugged. “And Hayward's gun? What about
that?"
Ruth tried to control her anger, to speak reasonably,
convincingly: "Mr. McMann, I don't believe the disap-
pearance of Mr. Hayward's gun has any connection at all
with this case. He himself told you he owned it, where to
look for it. Was that the action of a guilty man? Won't
you work-just for the sake of fairness on the theory
that Mr. Hayward's gun was stolen by a petty thief,
prowling through the building Saturday? There was a
gun in these offices-please don't forget that! We know,
from the thumb prints on the bottom drawer of my desk,
that Mr. Borden opened that drawer, in all probability to
get the gun to defend himself against threatened attack.
Maybe he always kept it handy when he was alone in the
office. I don't know! But he almost certainly had it in his
possession or on his desk Saturday before he was killed. An
unknown woman was in these offices sometime Satur-
day afternoon. You have her finger-prints. I believe
that Rita was telling the truth when she said that
Borden was alive, that he gave her his half of the five-
hundred-dollar bill to make his peace with her, for hav-
ing missing the train to Winter Heaven. After all, she
had kept her part of the bargain. She had waited for him
at the station; he could not know that she would ditch him
after getting the money. The five hundred dollars, for
some reason, was of vital importance to Rita Dubois.
Either Mr. Borden gave it to her of his own accord, or-
she killed him in desperation when he refused. That is
the only reason why Rita Dubois would have taken my
gun away with her“because she had used it upon Harry
Borden."
McMann had listened patiently, even respectfully to
Ruth's long, passionately sincere speech. When she paused,


164 THE BLACK PIGEON
in the past, thinking that he was giving Mr. Hayward's
number. Remember, he did not hear Jack's voice-only
Borden's!”
McMann chuckled. “You're very clever, Ruth Lester.
You can have a job under me any time you like. ...
That's all for the present, Hayward. You can get back
to your work.”
"Thanks!” Jack bowed ironically. Then, to Ruth, in a
low voice: "You're a darling and I love you.”
"All right, Ashe!” McMann called through the door by
which Jack was leaving.
The gray-haired, bloodless-looking little man who had
been Harry Borden's manservant slipped noiselessly, diffi-
dently through the door, and took the chair which Mc-
Mann indicated—the one opposite to his own-at Borden's
desk.
"Sit down, Miss Lester,” McMann invited. "I may need
you. . . . Now, Ashe, how long had you been with Mr.
Borden?”
"Ten months, sir."
"When did you last see your employer?”
"Saturday morning, sir. He left his apartment at half
past nine, as usual. He told me he would be out of town
for the week-end, and that I was to pack his bags. I was
to expect him for dinner Monday evening-him and a
young lady,” the valet answered.
"Did he say who the young lady was?”
"Yes, sir. He said Miss Dubois would dine with him.”
"Where were you Saturday afternoon, Ashe?” McMann
pounced suddenly.
The valet looked startled, then faintly indignant. “I,
sir? I had lunch with my daughter-my married daugh-
ter, Mrs. Bernard Williams, in Washington Heights, and
took her to a neighborhood movie—my daughter and her
two children. At half past four her husband met us in
the lobby of the theater and all of us".
"All right, Ashe!” McMann interrupted the iron-clad


THE BLACK PIGE IN
'165
alibi impatiently. "Now tell me: have , ou any knowledge
or suspicion as to who killed your master?”
The anemic little man straightened in his chair, then
leaned forward slightly toward the detective as he said
in a curiously impressive voice:
“Yes sir. I think I have, sir!" .


CHAPTER XV
ETECTIVE SERGEANT MCMANN betrayed no
U surprise or pleasure when Frank Ashe, Borden's man-
servant made his startling assertion, but Ruth Lester leaned
forward tensely, one hand trembling against her throat.
"So you think you know who killed Borden, Ashe...,
Well, who was it?” McMann asked matter-of-factly.
"I don't know her name, sir, but I do know he was in
mortal terror of a woman, sir," the valet answered earn-
estly.
"Tell me what you know, Ashe, and make it snappy,"
McMann directed, with pencil poised over a pad of scratch
paper.
Well, sir,” the valet began, with diffident eagerness,
"it happened on Christmas Eve. Mr. Borden was going to
a big party at the Dancing Bear, with Miss Gilman, but
to dinner and the theater first—"
"With Miss Cleo Gilman?” McMann interrupted sharply.
"How do you know?”
“I heard him talking with Miss Gilman over the tele-
phone about the party, sir,” the valet answered readily.
"He had had me call her number, as he frequently did.
Miss Gilman was—” the man coughed apologetically-
"Mr. Borden's lady friend until recently, sir, until he took
a fancy to Miss Dubois, the dancer at the Golden Slipper,
sir.”
"You didn't let much slip past you, did you, Ashe?”
McMann grinned. “Well, I'm glad you didn't. Now what
happened on Christmas Eve?”
"Mr. Borden came home about six o'clock to dress for
dinner, and Mr. Bailey was with him."
"Jake Bailey?” McMann cut in.
166


THE BLACK PIGEON 167
"Yes, sir, Mr. Jake Bailey. Mr. Borden never said so,
but I got the idea that Mr. Bailey was a sort of bodyguard
to Mr. Borden. I know that Mr. Bailey carried a gun, for
I have seen it in his hip pocket when he'd take his coat
off to play poker with Mr. Borden late at night sometimes,
when Mr. Borden couldn't sleep and wanted company. A
nervous sort of man, Mr. Borden was. On Christmas Eve
the two of them came in together, and Mr. Borden told
me to mix some cocktails. He wanted creme de menthe in
them, and it happened that the bootlegger, who's on the
third floor of our apartment hotel, though I hope, sir, you
won't use this against him ”
"I'm not in the prohibition enforcement department,"
McMann grinned. “Go on. You went down for the stuff,
eh, because the bootlegger was behind on his Christmas
deliveries?”
"Why, yes, sir,” the valet assented, surprised. "And
knowing I'd be right back, and that Mr. Bailey was with
Mr. Borden, I left the foyer door on the latch-clicked it,
you know, to save the bother of unlocking it when I came
back with my hands full. Mr. Borden wanted a few other
things besides the creme de menthe, since I was going to
the bootlegger's anyway. She must have been watching
and waiting for her opportunity~"
"She? Who?" McMann broke in sharply.
"I don't know her name, sir, but the woman who was
quarreling with Mr. Borden when I came back with the
liquor, sir. The three of them—Mr. Borden, Mr. Bailey
and the woman were in Mr. Borden's bedroom with the
door closed when I got back. I could hear Mr. Borden's
voice and the lady's voice and I knew they were quarrel-
ing, but I couldn't hear what they said. I didn't want to
be mixed up in any trouble, sir, so I went about my busi-
ness-mixing the cocktails that Mr. Borden had ordered.
That was in the pantry, right off the dining room”
"But you did hear the woman's voice?” McMann inter-
rupted. "What sort of voice? High, low, harsh, soft?”
som id. I about por dere


THE BLACK PIGEON
169
"Yes, sir. Sure of that, sir," the valet nodded emphati-
cally. “As I was saying, I mixed the cocktails, and just
as I was shaking them I saw, through the archway be-
tween the dining room and the living room, a sight that
fair turned me sick, sir.” The valet paused dramatically.
"Well, what was it?” McMann demanded.
"A woman being half dragged, half carried, from the
bedroom through the living room to the foyer,” the valet
said impressively. "Mr. Borden holding her up by one
arm, Mr. Bailey by the other. She looked like she was
drunk or asleep, but it wasn't that, for there was blood
on her mouth, which Mr. Bailey wiped off twice as they
crossed the living room. Knocked out, she was, sir.”
“What did she look like-hair, eyes, complexion,
clothes?” McMann rapped out, thoroughly interested at
last.
"I couldn't see so plain at that distance, sir, but I had
the idea she was not old and not young, and her eyes
were closed, so I couldn't say as to the color of them. She
was wearing one of those little tightfitting hats, but there
was some dark hair-black, maybe-against her cheeks.
Very white, they were, sir, in spite of her rouge. As to
clothes I couldn't say, except that she looked like a lady,
sir-dressed fine, but quiet, in a dark cloth coat, I believe,
with a fur collar, but I couldn't be sure. They stopped
at the door and I heard Mr. Borden say something to Mr.
Bailey, then Mr. Borden held her up while Mr. Bailey
came running for some of the brandy I'd just bought from
the bootlegger. He spoke pretty rough to me, sir, told me
to get into the kitchen and stay there till I was called for.
When I came out, Mr. Borden having called me from the
dining room, he was alone. He took two or three drinks,
one right after the other, and then Mr. Bailey came back.
I gathered he'd taken the poor lady down and put her
in a taxi, after she'd been brought to a little with the
brandy."


170
THE BLACK PIGEON
"Any conversation between Bailey and Borden about
the woman, that you overheard?” McMann demanded,
when the valet paused.
"Yes, sir. While I was pouring out drinks for both of
them, Mr. Borden said to Mr. Bailey: ‘Jake,' he said-he
always called him Jake—that was a rotten thing to do,
but honest to God, I thought she was pulling a gun on me
when she opened her handbag. And next time it'll be a
gun-if there is any next time.' And Mr. Bailey laughed,
like he was trying to make Mr. Borden feel better, and
said, 'You let Jake take care of her, Harry, and there
won't be any next time. Either that, or give her what
she wants.' Mr. Borden slammed his fist down on the side-
board and said, 'I'll be damned if I do!' And then he
noticed me and told me to run his bath. And that's all,
sir, except that after that, until last Friday night, Mr.
Bailey slept in the apartment, and hardly let Mr. Borden
out of his sight.”
"Did the woman telephone again?” McMann asked,
frowning mightily.
"No sir. Nor come back either, so far as I know."
"Do you know Mrs. Borden by sight, Ashe?" McMann
asked suddenly.
"Yes, sir. Mr. Borden sent me to his wife's home on
Christmas day with presents for the children, and I
talked with her then. She sent Mr. Borden a gift, sir,
though he hadn't sent anything with her name on it.”
"You're sure Mr. Borden's visitor was not Mrs. Borden?”
"Absolutely sure, sir. There's no resemblance at all,
sir, except that both the ladies may be about the same
age,” the valet answered positively.
For half an hour longer the detective quizzed the valet
on every possible phase of Borden's life, but beyond the
fact that Borden had entertained rather frequently, giving
"wild parties” in his apartment, Ashe could tell nothing
of importance. From him, however, McMann got the names
of three of the dead man's male friends, though Ashe


THE BLACK PIGEON
171
seemed dubious when asked to choose "friends” from
among the murdered promoter's host of convivial com-
panions.
"And where is Jake Bailey, Ashe?” McMann concluded
his rapid-fire grilling of the valet.
"That I couldn't say, sir. He left Friday night for a bit :
of vacation, since Mr. Borden was to be away for the
week-end. He had given up his room at the Mills Hotel,
where he was staying until Christmas Eve, and was staying
with Mr. Borden nights, as I've told you. I expect he'll
be back tonight, sir, unless he stays away to keep from
being questioned. A man don't relish being a witness in
a case like this, sir.”
"You're right, Ashe, and thanks for coming in,” Mc-
Mann said, extending his hand with sudden heartiness.
"Stay on at Borden's apartment for the present and let
me know anything at all that develops. The police de-
partment will take charge of his mail, of course. Give my
men any assistance you can when they go through Bor-
den's apartment tonight. I may be along myself. Of course
you know you're not to leave town until this thing is
cleared up?"
"Yes, sir," the valet admitted gravely, as he sidled diffi-
dently toward the door.
"Well!” McMann drew a deep breath and flashed a hu-
morous glance at Ruth Lester. "There are enough women
in this case to make up a Ziegfeld chorus. It shouldn't be
hard to get a line on a woman with a voice like you and
Ashe describe. I believe the poor old duffer fell in love
with her voice. I thought he was going to bust into poetry.
You say she called Borden at ten o'clock Saturday morn-
ing?”
“Yes. Just before he came in. When he asked if there
were any calls, I said that the woman with the beautiful
contralto voice had called and he said something that I've
just remembered: “That voice may sound beautiful to you,
but I'd rather listen to a riveting machine, and he shud-


172
THE BLACK PIGEON
oue hoy cried to see Miss" Le tell you! Po
dered, as if the thought of her frightened or disgusted
him,"
She was interrupted by the sound of a scuffle in the
outer office, and of a body hurling itself against the com-
municating door. A moment later the door was torn open
and Benny Smith, fighting off the restraining hands of
Detective Birdwell, plunged into the private office.
"I wanta see Miss Lester, I tell you! Turn me loose, you
big stiff! I gotta see Miss Lester-oh, gosh, Ruth! Gee!”
the boy cried weakly, as Ruth ran toward him. He put
out his hands blindly as if he were going to faint. ...
"Here's Ruth, Benny!” Ruth cried, flinging her arms
about the swaying figure of the seventeen-year-old office
boy. “Oh, Benny dear, what is the matter?”
The boy clung to the girl weakly, his pale gray eyes,
suffused with tears, searching her face in an agony of
suspense. “Aw, Ruth, they ain't pinched you, have they?”
"No, Benny, no!” Ruth was laughing and sobbing at
the same time. “Who said I'd been arrested?”
"Micky Moran. I'm gonna knock his block off, the big
liar," Benny gasped, swiping a sleeve across his unmanly
tears. "I knowed you didn't do it—"
"And how did you know, Benny?” McMann demanded,
in a deceptively casual and friendly voice, from his chair
at Borden's desk. “Come on over here and tell me all
about it, if you're able to walk. . . . Been sick all day,
Benny? Just what seems to be the trouble?”
"Who wants to know?” the office boy countered in a
quavering, belligerent voice.
"This is Detective Sergeant McMann, in charge of the
investigation of Mr. Borden's murder, Benny,” Ruth told
the boy gently.
"Pleased to meetcha!” Benny slumped into the chair
the detective was indicating and jerked his head in a funny,
frightened nod.
"Now that we've been properly introduced, Benny,"
the boy s
to mendicating


THE BLACK PIGEON
173
McMann grinned, "suppose we start all over again. Why
didn't you come to work this morning?"
"Cause I was sick, mister,” Benny quavered. “Honest to
God I was! Sick to my stummick. Guess I et too many
hot dogs yesterday. Or maybe it was ptomaine poisoning.”
"Or maybe” and McMann leaned toward the boy
across the desk—“the thought of killing a man sort of
uspet your stomach!”
Benny shrank from McMann's narrowed menacing eyes
as far as the back of his chair would permit. "Me?”
Benny's adolescent voice quavered and broke. "I ain't
killed nobody! Gosh! You don't acshully think I killed
Mr. Borden, do you, mister?”
"Please, Mr. McMann!” Ruth begged. “Don't frighten
him to death. Of course Benny didn't do it! Why in the
world should he?” And she laid a hand protectingly,
fondly upon the boy's shaking shoulder and challenged
the detective with flashing blue eyes.
"When did you last see Henry Borden, Benny?” the
detective demanded sternly.
"Saturday, 'bout half past one,” the boy answered sul-
lenly. "I had to come back to the office for something I'd
forgot—"
"What was it?" the detective interrupted harshly.
To Ruth's amazement, color flooded the boy's pale,
freckled face. "I-I—just something I don't remember,"
he stammered.
"Listen here, my boy, I'll clap the handcuffs on you
too quick to talk about if you don't answer my questions
and answer them truthfully!” McMann threatened, em-
phasizing his words with a thump of his fist upon the dead
man's desk. “What did you come back for?”
Benny cowered lower in his chair and shivered, his
prominent, pale gray eyes looking wildly toward Ruth for
help. "Tell the truth, Benny," the girl urged, pity and
fear in her wide blue eyes.


174
THE BLACK PIGEON
"I–I come back to get Miss Lester's—gun," the boy
gasped. “I took it Saturday before last for target practice
out in the country and brought it back Monday morning,
without Ruth knowing nothing about it. I didn't mean
no harm-”
"Oh!” The exclamation seemed to burst from Ruth's
despairing heart, rather than from her throat. If Benny
had taken her automatic, McMann would of course con-
sider the mystery entirely solved. With that troublesome
second weapon thus eliminated, how could she expect the
detective to have any doubt that it was Jack Hayward's
gun which had fired the fatal shot? And it was she who
had urged Benny to tell the truth!
"All right, Benny!” McMann interrupted harshly.
"Where's the gun now? Did you bring it in with you?”
At Ruth's cry of anguish the office boy had raised his
terror-stricken eyes to search her face. But at the detective's
question he faced his tormentor, his chin thrust out bellig-
erently. "I don't know where it is! I didn't take it Satur-
day, 'cause it wasn't there! And that's the truth, so help
me God!”
Ruth, in her joy, could have kissed every freckle on the
homely young face, but the detective's savage effort to
make the boy confess that he had lied killed that joy in
the moment of its birth.
Finally, since the boy, miserably ill and frightened
though he was, stuck stubbornly to his story, McMann
tried a new tack: "And you saw Borden, did you, when
you came back to swipe Miss Lester's gun?”
"Wasn't gonna swipe it; was just gonna borrow it,"
Benny quavered. “Yes, I seen him all right. He was set-
tin' at his desk. I seen him through the door. Old Minnie
left it open when she was emptyin' his wastebasket. I
was closin' the drawer of Miss Lester's desk, and he thought
I was her, 'cause he called out, 'That you, Miss Lester?' and
I stepped into the middle of the office, so's he could
see me, and I said, 'No, sir, it's me, Mr. Borden.' And he
was closer, 'cause he camiddle of the, Mr. Bor


THE 1
BLACK PIGEON 175
yelled out, 'Then what the devil are you hangin' around
here for? What are you lookin' for in Miss Lester's desk?'
And I said I was lookin' for a stamp, and he said to get
t'ell out of here, and—and I beat it. An' 'at's all—honest
to God!”
"Benny,” Ruth asked quickly, before McMann could
spring his next question, "did you see my pistol on Mr.
Borden's desk when you were talking to him?”
“You keep out of this, Miss Lester!” McMann said
sharply. "This lovesick young puppy would swear black
was white if he thought you wanted him to."
"I didn't see the gun, but I wasn't looking at his desk,"
Benny answered the question, in defiance of the detective,
but his freckled young face was beet-red at the charge
McMann had cruelly made against him.
"Did any one see you leave Borden's office?” McMann
shot at the boy.
“Sure! Old Minnie, the cleaning woman. She come back
with the wastebaskets just as Mr. Borden was yellin' at me
to get out.”
"And just what time did you come back?” McMann
sprung his trap casually.
"Back?” Benny echoed, blankly. "I didn't come back,
and if anybody says I did, he's a double-dog liar!”
"Then I suppose you've got an alibi for the rest of
Saturday afternoon?” McMann suggested, his narrowed
eyes holding the boy's grimly.
"You mean—what did I do Saturday afternoon?” Benny
was obviously stalling for time. “I—I went to a movie
down on Fourteenth Street, 'nen I went home to supper ”
"Went to a movie alone?”
"Naw—with a frail—I mean, with a girl"
"Her name?”
"I–I don't know her name. A dizzy little kid I picked
up,” Benny confessed, in an agony of embarrassment. “She
said I could call her Fritzie, 'cause 'at wasn't her name, but
what she liked to be called. A tough baby. I didn't try


THE BLACK PIGEON
177
eyes upon the little detective. "Did all these men hear the
shot fired, Mr. Covey?" she asked innocently.
Covey chuckled. "Five of 'em think maybe they did and
maybe they didn't and if you can get any two of 'em to
agree on the time, I'll give you my nice silver shield. Accord-
ing to these birds—no offense, fellows!--guns were popping
off in the Starbridge Building last Saturday afternoon
from half past one to half past three o'clock, but just try
to pin one of these guys down, Miss Lester, and he'll craw-
fish instanter—tell you that at the time he thought it was
the backfire of an automobile, and that he really didn't
pay no attention. Can't say I blame a chap with a business
of his own to look after-nobody's fool enough to want
to testify in a murder case that may drag out for weeks
and be tried two or three times. Ho, hum! It's a great
game, Beautiful!” and he grinned impishly at Ruth. “But
it has its compensations. . . . Have you seen this extra?”
he added, reaching for a paper which he had tossed to the
floor beside his desk, "Got a gwell snapshot of you—you
didn't duck your head quick enough,” he chuckled. “Your
sweetie looks sore enough to bite nails in two, but he's
a good-looking guy at that. How the sob-sisters will love
him! Wanta see, girlie?”
"No," Ruth shuddered, warding off the proffered sheet
with a trembling hand. “I—I'll go back to my office now.
Will you please send Minnie Cas"
"Here's the old girl now!” Covey interrupted cheer-
fully. "All togged out in the what the well-dressed scrub-
woman will wear. Took your time, didn't you, Mother
Machree?”
Minnie Cassidy's work-roughened hands plucked nerv-
ously at the baggy front of her calico dress. “I'm sorry to
have kept you waiting, sir, but one of the cleaning ladies
was sick—kinda fainty, and 1”.
"Sure, sure!” Covey interrupted, chuckling. “Wanted
your bit of gossip, didn't you? Well, I can't blame you. It


178
THE BLACK PIGEON
ain't every 'scrub lady' that can brag of being one of the
last to see a murdered man alive. Come along now and
have a good time telling it all over again to Detective Ser-
geant McMann. ... No, reckon I'd better stick right here
and keep an eye on Mrs. Borden and Ritzy Rita. Can't
tell what might happen.”
"I'll take Minnie to Mr. McMann,” Ruth volunteered
eagerly, so eagerly that the little bantam rooster of a de-
tective gave her a long, measuring glance before he opened
the door and permitted her and Minnie Cassidy to pass
into the corridor.


CHAPTER XVI
DOOR dearie!” Minnie Cassidy, the cleaning woman,
murmured commiseratingly, as she and Ruth started
together down the hall toward the Borden offices. “They
..do say the fool cops are sayin' your man did it, but as me
and Letty was tellin' each other not five minutes ago, Mr.
Hayward is not the boy as would hurt a fly—so kind-
hearted and open-handed he is. Just you pray the Blessed
Mother, miss, and oh, Lordy! What's that?”
"Flashlights,” Ruth informed her, behind hands she had
flung up to cover her face.
"Me picture in the papers?” Minnie cried, as delighted
as a child. “And me with this old calico mother-hubbard
on!”
"Let's run!” Ruth begged, dragging at Minnie's gnarled
old hand. Patrolman Biggers, still on guard outside the
Borden offices, grinned sympathetically as he swung open
the door for them.
"Mr. McMann is in Mr. Borden's private office, Minnie.
I'll take you in-oh!” she broke off, with a startled ex-
clamation, then ran to her own desk, where Benny Smith
was sitting, his head bowed on his outflung arms, terrible
sobs shaking his thin, adolescent body. “What's the matter,
Benny? Benny dear, what is the matter?" she implored,
stroking his sandy hair.
"The big stiff! The big old bully!" Benny sobbed. “I'll
punch his nose through his face, I will—”.
The door to the private office opened, and McMann's
curt voice interrupted any confidence that Benny might
have been about to make.
“Come in, Miss Lester! Is this Minnie Cassidy?”
179


180
THE BLACK PIGEON
lot ofann? ::
Son your Capta
"Missus Minnie Cassidy!” the cleaning woman corrected
the detective with surprising spirit. "And ye're Tommy
McMann. Me husband-God rest his soul!-was a rookie
along with ye, Tommy McMann. Many's the poker game
he's won your good money off ye and brought it home to
Minnie Cassidy.”
McMann chuckled and thrust out a big hand which
Minnie Cassidy seized and shook warmly. "So you're Tim
Cassidy's widow, Minnie! Poor Tim! As grand a 'big-foot'
as ever walked a beat! Come in, Minnie. Miss Lester will
stand by and see that I don't use any third-degree methods
on you."
"As if ye could!” Minnie wagged her head at him de-
risively. "I'm on to ye cops, I am! Hot air and bluff, the
lot of ye. . . . Now what did ye want to know, Tommy
McMann? ... So ye're a detective sergeant now? My
Tim would-a been your Captain if the gangsters hadn't
got him.”
"I'm sure of it, Minnie!” McMann answered heartily,
with a humorous lift of his bushy eyebrows toward Ruth,
who had slipped into a chair beside the one he had drawn
up for Minnie Cassidy. "You cleaned these offices on Satur-
day, Minnie?"
That I did! And not a slipshod job like most of the
girls get by with on a Saturday,” Minnie answered emphat-
ically. "Emptied the wastebaskets, wiped off the desks
and window sills and chairs with me oiled rag—"
"That's fine, Minnie!” McMann' grinned. “You left us
a fine surface for finger-prints. But to go back a little
Was Mr. Borden in this office when you came to clean,
and at what time did you come in here?"
"That he was, and looking like he'd live to be a hun-
dred!” Minnie answered. “It was near the death of me,
and yes, of Letty, too, when Mr. Coghlan, the superin-
tendent of the building, told us the poor gentleman had
been murdered.”
"What time was it when you cleaned these offices, if


182
THE BLACK PIGEON
Mr. Borden's wastebasket, emptied it into Miss Ruth's
wastebasket, and then took hers out into the hall and
dumped the papers into the big sack I'd drug up to the
door from Mr. Green's office. When the sack's full, the
porter takes it down to the basement"
"All right, Minnie,” McMann interrupted. "Benny says
you overheard Borden telling him to 'get t’ell out of here.'
Is that right?”
"I didn't pay no attention, I tell ye!” Minnie repeated
stubbornly. "The boy left while I was here that's all I'll
swear to, Tommy McMann!”
"O.K., Minnie,” McMann chuckled. “I don't blame you
for being sorry for the kid-after hearing Borden bawl
him out and fire him.”
"Did he fire the boy now?” Minnie asked, with bland
innocence, so that the trap, if such it was, which McMann
had laid for her, failed to spring.
McMann did not answer, but opened up a new line
with his next question. “You say you wiped off the win-
dow sills, Minnie? And closed the windows, I suppose, as
your duty requires you to do?"
"Sure I wiped off the window sills, inside and out, and
the window frames, too. I ain't a slacker, even if I am
gittin' old and rheumatic. But I didn't shut the windows.
The two front ones, looking out on the street, was al-
ready closed, or the draft would have blowed the poor man
away, what with the window open on the airshaft, like
it was. I did pull it down to wipe it clean, but Mr. Borden
told me to push it up again. He said he'd shut it when
he left at two."
The last vestige of hope Ruth had unreasoningly nour-
ished in her heart that the window had been closed until
after Borden had been killed died then. Of course she had
known all along that it was foolish to entertain that hope,
in view of the incontrovertible evidence of the pigeon's
footprints in blood both inside and outside the airshaft
window. But weak though it was, it had been hope, and


184
THE BLACK PIGEON
will be back in a minute,' and she said, 'Then I'll hold the
wire, thank you,' as sweet and ladylike as you please”
"Wait!” Ruth cried, leaning toward Minnie excitedly.
"What kind of voice did she have, Minnie? Oh, please try
to remember! Was it?”
"Just a minute, Miss Lester!" the detective reproved her
sternly. "No leading the witness, if you please. Describe
the woman's voice, if you can, Minnie. Anything at all
unusual about it?”
Minnie Cassidy reached out and patted Ruth's hand,
as if to console her for McMann's sharpness. “As sweet a
voice as ever I heard, Tommy McMann! Put me in mind
of a singer I heard one time on my daughter's radioan
alto singer, she was—”
"The woman with the contralto voice!” Ruth cried
triumphantly.
“Alto or contralto, it was a pretty voice, and fair did
me good to hear it,” Minnie asserted cheerfully.
"And did Borden talk with her when he returned?”
McMann demanded.
"No, that he didn't! He done the same as you've done
asked me what kind of voice the lady had, and I told him
same as I've told ye, and he said, sharp and real mad-like,
'Hang up the receiver!' and I was gonna do like he told
me, though it went agin the grain I can tell you, when he
said, 'Wait a minute! Tell her to call me again in fifteen or
twenty minutes. I can't talk to her now. I'm expecting my
wife any minute,' he says, 'but don't tell her that,' he says
real quick.”
"And what—" McMann leaned forward, betraying al-
most as much suspense as Ruth-"exactly what did the
lady answer?”
"Let me see now,” Minnie Cassidy considered leisurely,
immensely enjoying the fact that "Tommy” McMann, who
had once been a "rookie cop” with her husband and who
was now a detective sergeant, was hanging on her words.
"Jist what did the sweet-voiced lady say? Seeing as how


THE BLACK PIGEON 185
polen the halidn't,"mocking as did youtsd ferventlhe poor
she was on the telephone, and not here to kill the poor
man, I reckon it won't do her no harm for me to tell ye
what she said, Tommy McMann. She said, 'Tell Mr. Bor-
den that if he is wise, he will talk to me when I call again.'
Then she hung up the receiver, and I told Mr. Borden
what she'd said and then I took me things~".
“Just a minute, Minnie,” McMann interrupted. "What
did Borden say when you gave him that threatening mes-
sage?"
“He didn't say nothing—just grunted and slammed
the door behind him when he went back into his private
office. And that's the last sight I ever had of the poor
man, so help me God!” Minnie answered fervently.
"As you left Borden's offices, did you see anyone getting
off the elevator or knocking at Borden's outer door?”
"That I didn't,” Minnie answered. “I took my things
down the hall and left them just outside the door of Mr.
Feldblum's office till I could go to the supply room, where
us cleaning women keep our pails and brooms and rags
and suchlike. My bottle of furniture polish was empty
and Mr. Feldblum is mighty particular about his desk,
SO "
"Could you have heard a shot fired in this office while
you were in the supply room?” McMann demanded.
"That I couldn't, Tommy McMann—and I didn't!”
Minnie Cassidy answered emphatically. "If I had, I
wouldn't have paid no attention. I'd have said to meself,
I would—“That's another of them dratted automobiles,
explodin' like a pistol shot ”
All right!” McMann shrugged, frowning at the notes
on the case which he was shuffling through his big, thick
hands. Suddenly a memo in his own handwriting caught
his eye. "When you were coming out of Feldblum's offices
you saw Mrs. Borden leaving. That's right, isn't it? She's
already told me a scrubwoman saw her.”
"I did see a lady come out,” Minnie acknowledged, "but
I didn't know it was Mrs. Borden till I saw her pictures


186
THE BLACK PIGEON
in the papers. One of the cleaning ladies had all the papers,
and I pointed to Mrs. Borden's picture and told her I'd
seen her leaving Mr. Borden's office when I was coming out
of Mr. Feldblum's reception room down the hall.”
Ruth, whose mind had been a welter of speculation,
shot through with vivid rays of hope that at last real
progress was being made in the investigation, suddenly
leaned toward Minnie Cassidy, forestalling McMann's next
question with one of her own:
"Was there some reason why you noticed Mrs. Borden
particularly, Minnie?”
McMann leaned back in his chair, tacitly giving his
consent to question and answer.
Minnie hedged. “With so few comin' and goin' on Satur-
day afternoon, why shouldn't I notice her? And I don't be-
lieve for a minute that the poor lady would shoot the father
of her two little children "
"Was Mrs. Borden crying, Minnie?” McMann suddenly
interrupted. “I must have the truth”
"Well, cryin' she was then,” Minnie admitted belliger-
ently. “And why shouldn't she be? Separated from her
husband and still lovin' him, like the papers say. Not takin'
on, jist dabbin' at her eyes with her handkerchief, then
pressin' it hard against her mouth.”
Detective Sergeant McMann strode to the door and di-
rected Birdwell, in the outer office, to send for Mrs. Bor-
den, who was being detained down the hall by Detective
Covey. While awaiting the arrival of the newly made
widow, the sergeant resumed his questioning of Minnie
Cassidy.
"Now think hard, Minnie,” he directed, with brusque
kindliness. “Did you see anyone else at all enter or leave
these offices on Saturday afternoon?”
"Do ye think I had nothin' to do but watch Mr. Bor-
den's offices, Tommy McMann?” Minnie demanded in-
dignantly. "I had me work to do"


THE BLACK PIGEON
187
"Answer the question, please, Minnie,” McMann in-
terrupted impatiently.
"Haven't I answered it?” Minnie was curiously trucu-
lent.
"Did you see the dancer whose picture is in the papers,
too?” McMann tried a new method. "Rita Dubois, her
name is. She's admitted she was here, so you needn't be
afraid of getting her into trouble,” he added, with some-
what weary sarcasm. The scrubwoman's reluctance to give
any information which would incriminate another was
undoubtedly wearing his patience thin.
"That I didn't,” Minnie retorted emphatically. “When
I finished Mr. Feldblum's offices I went around into the
other wing of the building, and was busy there until about
half past two, then I went to the supply room again, to
rest meself a bit, though ye needn't be tellin' Mr. Coghlan
I said that. He thinks us girls is all wheel-horses ”
"I shan't tell on you, Minnie,” McMann chuckled. “Oh,
all right, Birdwell. Show Mrs. Borden in. . . . Sorry to
bother you again, Mrs. Borden,” he apologized brusquely,
as the pale-faced widow slipped into the room, "but this
morning I neglected to ask you how you spent the rest of
Saturday afternoon—from the time you left your hus-
band, I mean. About ten minutes of two that was, I
believe?"
Mrs. Borden answered in a quiet, controlled voice: "As
I told you, sir, I had left my children at the McAlpin
Hotel, while I came to see my-my husband. I had left
them in the ladies' parlor, in charge of the maid on duty
there. She had told me she would be on duty until two
o'clock, when she would be relieved by another maid. I
promised to be back by two, and I was, for she was still
there, though she left immediately after I had tipped
her for her services. I took charge of the children myself
then, and was with them continuously until they went to
bed in the evening. The three of us attended a motion


188
THE BLACK PIGEON
would be shake could notat down, agalenched right. She had
picture downtown—a war picture that my little son was
eager to see.”
"I see,” McMann commented noncommitally. Then, in
rapid succession, he fired a half dozen questions designed
to pick a flaw in the widow's alibi, his flying pencil mak-
ing notes of the detailed information she gave him as to
the name of the theater, the time she and her children had
arrived there, even the musical and dancing numbers of
the prologue which had introduced the feature picture.
Ruth knew, as the detective left the private office for a
conference with Birdwell in the outer room, that every
detail of that alibi would be carefully checked, that even
Harry Borden's children would be pitilessly cross-
examined, but she had little hope that Mrs. Borden's alibi
would be shaken-and, looking at the sad-faced, bereaved
woman, Ruth could not but be glad. ...
McMann returned, sat down, again faced the widow,
who was standing, with one hand clenched tightly upon
the back of the chair in which Minnie Cassidy sat. She had
refused a chair for herself. “Mrs. Borden, Minnie Cassidy
here has corroborated what you said about your seeing
her when you left your husband's office about ten min-
utes to two on Saturday. But—she also says that she saw
you wiping tears from your eyes. Is that true?”
The pale face quivered, but the leaf-brown eyes were
steady. "It is true. I don't think I ever left my husband's
presence after our separation-without tears in my eyes.
I loved him, and grieved that he would not return to me
and our children.”
The detective looked at her steadily for a long minute,
then said abruptly. "That's all, Mrs. Borden. You may go
home to your children, but of course you are not to leave
town and are to hold yourself available for further ques-
tioning at any time.”
"Thank you,” Mrs. Borden said in a low voice, as she
turned toward the door.
"Please, Mr. McMann,” Ruth begged urgently, "may


THE BLACK PIGEON 189
in afraid I carutally Mr. ne sociallysed the
I ask Mrs. Borden just one question?” The detective
nodded, frowning slightly, and Ruth turned eagerly
toward the murdered man's widow. “Mrs. Borden, I know
it is painful for you to have to think of such things now,
but won't you please tell Mr. McMann whether Mr. Bor-
den-to your knowledge—knew a woman with a pecu-
liarly beautiful contralto voice?"
Color flamed suddenly in the pale, aristocratic face of
Harry Borden's widow. She drew in her breath sharply
and her eyelids fluttered, before she answered, almost
haughtily: "I am afraid I can give you little help along-
those lines, Miss Lester. Naturally Mr. Borden's intimate
women friends were not known to me socially.” She
opened the door, passed into the outer office, closed the
door behind her.
Ruth shrank in her chair as if the widow's words had
been blows in her face. But beneath the throb of humilia-
tion two things clamored for recognition—the fact that
Mrs. Borden had not really answered her question and the
suspicion, amounting to a certainty, that the widow had
known only too well the answer to that question. But
why should she try to shield, by concealing her name, one
of the women who had undoubtedly possessed Harry Bor-
den's love-temporarily at least-after his wife had lost
it? Ruth suddenly felt too tired and bewildered to bear
any more, but she raised her head, listened wearily as
McMann concluded his interview with Minnie Cassidy.
"That's all, Minnie,” McMann was saying. “And here's
something to pay for a special mass for old Tim's soul,
God bless him. . . . How's the baby, by the way? I re- .
member Tim was always bragging about his girl child—”
"Baby?” Minnie cackled. “Ye should see her now!
Growed up on me, she did, Tommy McMann. Twenty
come June, and as pretty a lass as ye'd hope to see. Ain't
that right, Miss Ruth?”
"Rose is a little beauty,” Ruth admitted, as heartily as
weariness and discouragement would permit. “And a good


190
THE BLACK PIGEON
girl, too. She helps Minnie here with her work, when the
rheumatism is bad.”
"A good girl," Minnie repeated, tears springing into
her watery old eyes. "I'll tell Rose ye was askin' for her,
Tommy McMann. It's been hard, with Tim gone and all,
but I've tried to do everything for the childer that Tim
woulda done.”
"And I'm sure you have,” McMann agreed absently, his
eyes on his notes again. "What's the name of the woman
who cleans Hayward's offices? ... Letty Miller-that's
right. Send her in to me, won't you, Minnie?"
Suddenly Ruth remembered something-something
which might be of vital importance to Jack Hayward.
Her weariness routed by hope, she eagerly awaited the ar-
rival of Letty Miller. . .,
wouldad I'm sure you in. "What's.t.. Letty Mille


THE BLACK PIGEON
193
"I thought so!” McMann interrupted grimly. "All
right, what next? When did Mr. Hayward leave? I sup-
pose you're going to be very helpful and tell exactly when
he did leave?”
Both Ruth and the scrubwoman glared at him then, but
McMann did not seem to mind. He did seem a little non-
plussed, however, when Letty answered defiantly: "No,
sir, I'm not, because I don't know when he did leave! I
wasn't in that corridor then. When Mr. Hayward come
back I took my pail and mop and broom and went around
the corner to an office I knew was closed for the day, be-
cause it's always closed all day Saturday. And from there
I went to the office next to it. I didn't come back to Mr.
Hayward's office till after half past two, like I said, and I
didn't see him again.”
The hope that had routed Ruth's overpowering fatigue
when she had remembered that Letty Miller had seen Jack
on his return to his office died a violent death, leaving the
girl utterly crushed, and so tired that she felt she could
not even lift her eyes again, no matter what happened.
If only Letty had waited, had watched for Jack to leave,
had been in his office from two until ten minutes past two,
so that she could have refuted Bill Cowan's damning story
about the telephone call!
While McMann continued his questioning of the clean-
ing woman, Ruth sat in a small, inert heap in her chair,
staring with despair-dulled eyes at her lax hands. Dimly
she realized that McMann gained no further information;
Letty had not worked in the corridor on which Borden's
offices were located, hence had not had opportunity to
witness the arrival or departure of the dead promoter's
visitors; she had not heard the shot fired, or, if she had,
had not noted it consciously; when she had cleaned Jack
Hayward's offices she had not glanced across the airshaft,
through Jack's window to Borden's, had, therefore, neither
seen the promoter nor noticed whether his window was
closed or open. As to Jack's gun, Letty had never seen it,


196
THE BLACK PIGEON
have forgotten if Adams had returned. Of course if
Adams came back with the intention of killing Mr. Bor-
den, with the gun he knew was kept in my desk, he would
have walked up, but if the quarrel had been so bitter as
all that, Mr. Borden would not have admitted him, and
Adams had no key."
McMann regarded the girl steadily through narrowed
eyes, and slowly a smile twisted at his grim mouth. "You're
a new experience to me, Ruth Lester! You'd give your life
to save Jack Hayward's, if it comes to that, but you won't
throw the weight of a word against any other person that
you don't believe is guilty.”
"I want the truth to save Jack,” Ruth answered quietly.
"I know he is innocent, but I can't blame you for sus-
pecting he is guilty-except for one thing. All this long,
dreadful day, Mr. McMann, no matter how much I wanted
to help Jack, I have told you the truth, and have sup-
pressed nothing-nothing! And I ask you now not to for-
get that I have corroborated Jack's alibi—that he rejoined
me at the McAlpin Hotel at ten minutes after two, and
did not leave me again. According to Bill Cowan's story,
Borden was alive and talking over the telephone at ten
minutes after two”
“With Jack Hayward!” McMann reminded her, with
curious gentleness.
"No!” Ruth cried desperately. "Perhaps with someone
in Jack Hayward's office, but not with Jack Hayward!
I'd stake my life on that. I've pointed out the similarity
of Jack's and Mr. Borden's telephone numbers. Either
Cowan or the operator could have got the wrong number.
And though I know you don't believe her, believe instead
that she robbed a dead man's body, Rita Dubois has told
you that Borden was alive until half past two-when Jack
and I stood in the lobby of the Princess Theater."
"Then you believe that Rita killed Borden?” McMann
asked suddenly.
| Ruth struggled with temptation, then raised her miser-


THE BLACK PIGEON
197
able but wholly honest blue eyes to meet the narrowed,
probing gray eyes of the detective. “I-don't-know,"
she answered despairingly. Then, desperately, her voice
like a sob: “No, I don't believe she did. But I know Jack
didn't!”
"I don't think Rita did it, either,” McMann said quietly,
"Because of this,” and the detective thrust a hand into
the pocket of his coat, brought out something which he
extended toward Ruth on the palm of his hand.
Ruth Lester's hand crept out, but her cringing flesh re-
belled. She could not force her fingers to close upon the
small, flattened-out lead bullet which lay upon the palm
of Detective Sergeant McMann's big hand.
"The—bullet which killed-Mr. Borden?" she gasped.
"But I don't understand. ... It's—flat”
"Yes, it's flat,” McMann agreed, with dreadful signif-
icance. "And it's not the bullet which killed Borden. It's
the bullet he fired in defense of his life—but just an in-
stant too late.”
Ruth shrank into her chair, a trembling, pathetic heap,
with enormous, pleading blue eyes. "Please tell me. I don't
understand.”
McMann's hard gray eyes dropped before the misery in
the blue ones. “Detective Carlson found this bullet while
you were out to lunch with Hayward. He found it on
that strip of cement seven flights below," and McMann
pointed to the window overlooking the airshaft. "And
after Carlson found this,” the detective returned the
flattened bullet to his pocket and rose from Borden's
desk- "I found something else. Come here!”
Ruth followed him jerkily, on ice-cold feet, to the
window. Two pigeons, strutting about the window ledge,
took flight, but she scarcely saw them. Her frightened eyes
followed the direction of McMann's pointing finger-
a spot in the brick wall beside Jack Hayward's window.
See?” McMann persisted, but without triumph. “A
new scar in one of those old bricks. I've examined it—and


198
THE BLACK PIGEON
it's new all right. That is where this bullet struck-harm-
lessly. It was aimed at Harry Borden's murderer, who stood
in Jack Hayward's window, but the finger which pulled
the trigger was that of a man mortally wounded or the
shot would not have gone so wide of its mark. Do you
understand now, Miss Lester?”
Ruth raised her trembling hands to her face, pressed
her icy finger-tips into her throbbing temples. "No! No!”.
she cried. "I don't understand! All I know is—the person
at whom that shot was fired was not Jack Hayward!”
McMann turned from the window, strode to Borden's
desk, took his seat again. Ruth followed unsteadily, her
knees so weak with fright that they could scarcely support
her small body.
"What became of your pistol, which we know from
finger-print evidence that Borden had secured after you
left Saturday, bothered me considerably until this evidence
turned up,” McMann said slowly. "I believe that Borden
was shot as he stood against that open . window, that, as
he fell, mortally wounded, his pistol-or rather, your pis-
tol-clattered out of his hand to the cement below. His
murderer retrieved it, disposed of it along with the weapon
with which he had killed Harry Borden.”
"Retrieved it?” Ruth cried, suddenly electrified. “How?
How? If you mean Jack Hayward when you say 'his mur-
derer,' how could Jack possibly have retrieved my pistol
on Saturday? Otto Pfluger, the elevator operator on Jack's
corridor, has told you that Jack descended in his car not
more than ten minutes after Otto had taken him up.
There is no way of entering that court below except
through a basemenť door. I know, because I once dropped
my handbag out of that window and had to go clear down
to the basement and through a door leading from the
basement to get it. If Jack had done that, he would have
been seen. Moreover, he did not have time to walk down
seven flights of stairs, counting the basement stairs, and
all the way up again, in the ten minutes he was in the
ali in flights of over, heck had don


THE BLACK PIGEON
199
building. And there has not been one shred of evidence
from either of the cleaning women or any tenant, to con-
firm your earlier suspicion that Jack used my office key to
get into this office after Mr. Borden was killed, to retrieve
the pistol provided it fell to the floor instead of out of the
window.”
McMann frowned thoughtfully as the almost hysteri-
cally triumphant girl made each of her points. Then, when
she had finished, he asked slowly: "What about Saturday
night or Sunday? Knowing that the pistol lay there, he
could have taken his time about coming back for it.”
"And there is no record of his being in the building
Saturday night or Sunday,” Ruth told him triumphantly.
"I haven't seen the register for those days, but I'm sure
you have, and since I know Jack wasn't in the Starbridge
Building after two o'clock Saturday until nine this morn-
ing, I know his name is not on the register. That's true,
isn't it?"
"Yes,” McMann admitted. “But he could have walked
down to the basement without using the elevator, or with-
out being seen by the one man on duty after four o'clock
Saturday.”
"But that exit door to the court is kept locked,” Ruth
cried. "It had to be unlocked for me, by a porter. Further-
more, Jack never had the key to this office, so he could
not have come here Saturday night or Sunday and gained
access to Mr. Borden's office, even if he could have entered
the building and left it unobserved by the elevator man.
You must believe me when I tell you that the key which
the waiter picked up and handed to Jack was the key to
my apartment, not my office key. No, Mr. McMann, you're
on the wrong scent. Please believe me, please keep an
open mind for some theory which will explain all the
facts.”
"And one of those facts," McMann pointed out, “is that
Harry Borden fired a shot which grazed a brick in the
wall beside Jack Hayward's window."
here some othecer observe you Jack McMaho keep the


200 · THE BLACK PIGEON
that he had nowhere else tinterrupted, ae office and
"And what does that prove—against Jack?” Ruth chal-
lenged. “I'll grant that Mr. Borden was standing near that
window when he was killed, but how can you be sure that
he was facing the window when he took aim? If his mur-
derer-or murderess—fired at him in this office, isn't it
easy to picture Mr. Borden's arm flying out, after he was
hit, so that the bullet with which he had meant to kill his
attacker, was discharged through the window? Why as-
sume that he had aimed at someone in Jack's window?
There was simply nowhere else for the bullet to go "
"Just a minute!” McMann interrupted, as Detective
Birdwell opened the door between the private office and
the outer office. "What is it, Birdwell?"
"Commissioner Weeks on the wire from headquarters,
sir.”
McMann reached for the instrument on Borden's desk,
but before he removed the receiver he spoke to Ruth:
"That's all for the present, Miss Lester. Please remain in the
outer office till I need you again. You might open and
sort the afternoon mail. I'll take charge of it and go over
it later, of course.”
As Ruth slipped through the door which Birdwell held
for her she heard the detective sergeant greet his superior,
the police commissioner, deferentially.
Sadly she realized what that call from the head of the
police department meant. Commissioner Weeks was fa-
mous for his choleric temper, his impatient demand for
quick results, especially in sensational cases, like the mur-
der of "Handsome Harry” Borden. His motto seemed to
be “Arrest somebody-anybody—and find out the truth
later.” In this particular case, Jack Hayward would un-
doubtedly be the victim of Commissioner Weeks's avid ap-
petite for newspaper praise.
Fifteen minutes later, as she sat at her desk, trying to
concentrate upon the thick sheaf of correspondence ad-
dressed to a man who would never read it, Police Com-
missioner Weeks arrived.


THE BLACK PIGEON
201
Ruth knew the commissioner personally. In the old
days, before her father's death, Weeks had occasionally
dined with the famous criminal lawyer, Colby Lester. She
rose and faced the tall, lean, distinguished-looking man
who had barked out a curt greeting to Detective Birdwell.
"How do you do, Mr. Weeks?” she faltered, trying to
make her trembling lips smile naturally. "I wonder if you
remember me?”
Light sprang into Commissioner Weeks's cold, pale-blue
eyes, a broad smile flashed suddenly beneath the stubby
white mustache that adorned his long upper lip. "Remem-
ber you, child?” he exclaimed cordially, taking her hand
in both his. “Who could forget your pretty face? You're
Colby Lester's daughter, of course. And while I'm mighty
sorry that you're dragged into this miserable business, I'm
glad to see you again. How are you, my dear?”
"Well, and very happy,” Ruth answered steadily.
"You see, Mr. Weeks, I'm engaged to be married to a man
I love with all my heart-Mr. John C. Hayward. I'm
going to invite you to my wedding.”
"Hayward?” the commissioner repeated, his eyes going
cold again. "Isn't that the young man—? Oh, hello, Mc-
Mann! I'm renewing an old friendship with little Ruth
Lester.”
Ruth sank slowly into her chair as the two men—the
detective sergeant in charge of the investigation into the
murder of Henry P. Borden, and Police Commissioner
Weeks-passed into Borden's private office and closed the
door behind them. Had she helped or injured Jack's
chances by her desperate, indirect appeal to a man who
had never been known to permit friendship to interfere
with the performance of his duty? Well—and her body
sagged tiredly-she had done her best for Jack. ...
The next hour was a nightmare of suspense for Ruth
Lester. From five until six o'clock the rumble of voices,
sometimes loud, the words almost intelligible, sometimes
low and earnest, came to the girl through the closed door.


202
THE BLACK PIGEON
There were infrequent interruptions, when Birdwell re-
ceived reports from headquarters or other detectives work-
ing on the case, which he had to relay to his superiors
closeted in Borden's private office. From these one-sided
telephone conversations which Birdwell carried on at
Benny Smith's desk, Ruth learned that Cleo Gilman had
not yet been found, that no information at all had been
gleaned as to the present whereabouts of Jake Bailey, the
murdered man's bodyguard; that Benny Smith, permitted
to return to his home, followed by a detective, was so ill
that a doctor's car had been parked before his home for
more than an hour.
At six o'clock came the order which Ruth had been
expecting and dreading. McMann, looking pale and har-
assed, opened the door and spoke sharply to Birdwell: “Get
Hayward-and Rita Dubois. Rita's in Covey's charge,
down the hall. We'll have Hayward in first. Miss Lester
will answer the phone if it rings while you're gone."
The phone did not ring during the detective's absence.
Ruth, standing tremblingly beside it, wished it would-
that something would happen to make those long minutes
shorter. At last the door opened and Jack Hayward pushed
in ahead of Birdwell. Ruth's anxious, loving eyes devoured
him. He had evidently just brushed his thick, copper-
colored hair, for the deep waves in it gleamed wetly in
the electric light. Not the act of a nervous, or a frightened
or a guilty man. . . . And his bronze-brown eyes, wide-
open, candid, clear, smiled at her. ....
They both forgot Detective Birdwell as they moved
toward each other, their arms outstretched. They did not
even realize that the detective had considerately turned
his back.
"Poor little darling!” Jack murmured, his low voice rich
with pity and tenderness.
Ruth wanted to warn him that arrest lay before him,
to tell him of the flattened bullet found in the court be-
low his window, but he stopped her first words by laying


THE BLACK PIGEON
203
his lips against hers. That kiss, which Ruth wanted des-
perately to prolong forever, lest the next time their lips
met it should be from between prison bars, lasted until
Detective Birdwell slowly crossed the room and opened
the door into the private office.


sateleg man, who waking upon a shadowed bly
CHAPTER XVIII
"N OW, young lady, if you mention the word 'mur-
IV der' one more time before you've drunk every
drop of this hot broth and eaten exactly one-half of this
gorgeous broiled chicken, your future husband will an-
ticipate his prerogatives and give you a sound spanking!”
Jack Hayward addressed the golden-haired girl whom he
had just forced down into the biggest, softest chair that
her small apartment boasted.
Ruth Lester's great, fatigue-shadowed blue eyes stared,
as if they were looking upon a divine miracle, at the tall
young man who was busily, competently setting her little
gateleg table with her own gaily patterned dishes and
serving the food which he had ordered sent up from the
nearest restaurant. Suddenly, as she watched his untram-
meled hands-hands which an hour ago she had expected
to see shackled with steel bracelets—she began to sob,
shudderingly, so that her whole small body was terribly
shaken. Instantly Jack Hayward forsook his dinner prep-
arations, dropped to his knees beside her, drew her head
to his shoulder.
"Don't, sweet! You've been so splendid, so brave! I'm
here with you now because of your faith and courage.
Don't you think I know that if it hadn't been for you I'd
be in jail tonight, instead of holding my own darling girl
in my arms?” Jack pleaded.
"McMann believes you're guilty, and so does Commis-
sioner Weeks!” Ruth sobbed. "They've just let you out,
like a dog on a long leash, to see if you'll run to a buried
bone, and—and give yourself away.”
Jack laughed and kissed her wet eyelashes. "Then the
204


THE BLACK PIGEON 205
dog is grateful for the leash, darling, since it's long enough
to reach to you, and he's going to begin worrying a bone
right now—a nice, juicy drumstick.” And he sprang to
his feet, to pull the big chair, with the tired girl in it, to
the gateleg table.
"Do you think Rita has been arrested?” Ruth dared
revert to the subject of the murder, when Jack had grudg-
ingly agreed that she had eaten enough for one small
person.
Jack dragged her chair to the little fireplace, gave an
expert poke at the smouldering logs, and seated himself on
a hassock at Ruth's feet, before he answered, gravely:
"I rather imagine she's been let run loose-on a leash,
as I've been, and that the cop on the other end of the leash
will find her digging for her buried bone-if Rita isn't
careful.”
Ruth's eyes widened incredulously, but with shamed
hope in them. “You think Rita is guilty, Jack?”
The young man's hands closed tightly over hers. “Some-
one did it, darling. You mustn't be too horrified tomorrow
if it develops that Rita Dubois is the one. One big reason
why McMann did not arrest me was that he knew he did
not have all of Rita's story. I'm sure he'd rather know
what Rita did with the five hundred she admits she got
from Borden before he takes a chance on clapping me in
jail.”
Ruth flinched, but nodded in agreement. “She gave it
to someone else, of course—someone who was in dire
trouble, someone she will shield, even if she has to go to
jail to protect him.”
Jack laughed. “Him?”
"A man, of course,” Ruth retorted. "The man she is in
love with, whoever he may be. She loathed the very
thought of going away with Mr. Borden-because she was
in love with someone else. And, of course, if she'd simply
needed the five hundred to pay bills with, she'd have told
readily enough what she did with it. Maybe the man saw


206 : THE BLACK PIGEON
her with Borden, suspected she was planning to go away
with him, followed her to Borden's office, in a jealous
rage”
"Forced his way into the office, in spite of Borden's fear
of strangers with possible grievances, found your pistol by
instinct, fired one shot at Borden and one through the
window, took the rest of Borden's money and your pistol,
then strolled over to my office and completed a pleasant
afternoon's work by robbing my desk of my automatic,”
Jack interrupted, smiling broadly. “Pretty thin, sweet-
heart.”
"Well, what if it is?” Ruth cried. "Any theory that
could fit all the facts would sound almost as absurd. I'm
just groping in the dark, Jack! Someone did it! But who,
how and why? It's like an awful puzzle of which you
have all the pieces but to which you can't find the key."
"I know, dear,” Jack assured her contritely. "It's beastly
of me to joke about it. Suppose we try, just you and I-
didn't intend to make a rhyme, sweet, so don't frown at
me-to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. I know you've
been trying all day, but McMann sort of cramped your
style. You were trying so desperately to convince him that
I didn't kill your unpleasant boss, that you had little time
to wonder who did. Now, I didn't do it. That's agreed,
isn't it?” he added, with sudden gravity, his bronze-brown
eyes very steady, but so wistful that her heart contracted
sharply with pity.
"Of course, darling!” Ruth protested, smiling at him
through a mist of tears.
"All right. But let's consider the case against me, as
McMann sees it,” Jack began briskly. "Three people have
testified that I threatened Borden's life, if he laid a hand
on you again. Motive. As to opportunity—I was in my
office for eight or nine minutes, possibly ten, between a
few minutes of two and two or three minutes after two,
and that office is directly opposite Borden's private office,
with two open windows between us across an eight-foot


THE BLACK PIGEON 207
airshaft. A bullet fired from Borden's office toward mine
scars a brick beside my window and is found on the cement
floor of the court below. My automatic, which my secre-
tary, Miss Barnes, saw in my desk Saturday morning, is
discovered to be missing on Monday morning. Accessibility
to weapon—the same make and calibre of weapon which
killed Harry Borden. At ten minutes after two, according
to Bill Cowan's story, Harry Borden was in telephone
conversation with someone in my office. Naturally the
police don't say 'some one'-they say Jack Hayward. But
you and I know that at ten minutes after two, according
to your watch and the clock in the lobby of the McAlpin
Hotel, I was rejoining you to finish our interrupted lunch.
Now-look at that section of the puzzle, little Miss Sher-
lock: which piece doesn't fit?”
Ruth smiled bravely, trying to meet his mood. “The
telephone call, of course, and the shot fired toward your
office. Of course Cowan may have called Borden's num-
ber, instead of yours, due to the similarity of numbers, or
the operator may have made a mistake”
"Let's not try to explain away the pieces that don't
fit,” Jack urged. “For the sake of argument, and probably
for the sake of truth, let's admit these two fatal pieces into
our puzzle, and shift them about until they fit. Let's say
that Borden was talking with someone in my office at ten
minutes after two-"
"And for several minutes before ten minutes after
two,” Ruth interrupted. “Rita says she called Mr. Borden
from the station at five minutes past two and his line was
busy; that she called again at ten minutes after two and
it was still busy, and that at eleven or twelve minutes after
two she talked with him. If, as McMann thinks, Borden
was already dead when Rita arrived about five minutes
later, he was killed immediately after she talked with him,
by someone in your office, undoubtedly the person with
whom he had been quarreling over your telephone. But
here is another piece that won't fit into the puzzle: why


208
THE BLACK PIGEON
should Rita, even if she robbed the body, take the gun
with which Borden had fired at his murderer?”
"No earthly reason that I can see,” Jack agreed.
"Equally, there seems to be no reason why Rita should do
the real murderer across the airshaft a good turn by clos-
ing the window, and since that real murderer was not I,
he would have had no reason himself to close Borden's
window by using the window-pole in my office. He'd not
have cared a whoop about diverting suspicion from me,
the lawful tenant of the office "
"Wait!” Ruth cried, her delicate little face become
illuminated with inspiration. “What if the real murderer-
supposing that he was in your office, was a friend of yours,
and did want to protect you from the consequences of his
deed?”
"That's a thought!” Jack agreed soberly. "But—that
brings us to—Cowan, doesn't it? Cowan is the only friend
I have, so far as I know, who also knew Harry Borden.”
"And he admits that he had left a blueprint in your
office, which was his reason for telephoning you!” Ruth
clapped her hands softly together. "Who can corroborate
his story that he called you from the station at ten min-
utes after two? Suppose it was Cowan! Suppose he him-
self talked with Borden over your telephone, quarreled
with him over some woman, then”
"Hold up!” Jack laughed. “Before you slip the noose
about Cowan's neck, tell me first how he got into my
office, how he knew I had a gun—".
"Wait!” Ruth interrupted, her brow wrinkled in
thought. "I'm about to get something. Let me think! ...
Oh, yes! It was a fleeting thought that occurred to me
this afternoon when your cleaning woman, Letty Miller,
was telling her story to McMann. She says she was already
in your office, had just entered with her cleaning things,
when you returned. I think we have there the explanation
of how the murderer gained access to your office!"
"I don't quite see,” Jack acknowledged, frowning.


THE BLACK PIGEON
209
left iedly after you door when yo4or his
"The cleaning women nearly always leave the outer
door on latch, so that they won't have to bother with un-
locking it each time they make a trip in and out of the
office. Minnie does, I know, for Mr. Borden came back to
his office one evening after we'd all left for the day and
found the door unlocked, with Minnie emptying the
wastebaskets into the sack in the hall. He bawled her out;
told me about it the next morning. Probably Letty had
left your door on latch, for convenience, and in leaving
hurriedly after you returned, she did not click it on again.
Did you try the door when you left, to see if it was
locked?” She waited breathlessly for his answer.
Jack's thoughtful frown deepened. Then, slowly: "I
can't remember giving the door a thought. I was too cut
up over the loss of that big insurance commission, and its
effect on our wedding plans, to think of whether the door
was locked or not. And, of course, I expected Letty to
return immediately to clean.”
"I thought so!” Ruth was triumphant. "I'll have Mc-
Mann ask her tomorrow if she didn't leave the door on
latch, and if, as I'm sure she will, she says she did, one big
piece in the puzzle slips into place. Someone besides your-
self had access to your office. I suppose no one besides you
and Miss Barnes has a key?”
Jack shook his head, then grinned. “No. And McMann,
being nobody's fool, considered the possibility of poor little
Miss Barnes having murdered the man across the airshaft,
possibly because she didn't like the way he wore his hair
or the color of his necktie. But Miss Barnes immediately
gave an iron-clad alibi. She'd gone to lunch, immediately
after one o'clock, with Miss Parkes, a stenographer across
the hall from my office, and the two girls had shopped
after lunch, finishing up a Saturday afternoon orgy with
a movie. He checked her alibi then and there and found it
perfect. But to get back to your case against Cowan-
poor, unsuspecting devil! Supposing that he did kill Bor-
den, for motives we can only guess at, there still remains
pipe had access to has a key?"orinned. “T
selid Miss Bars his head, nsidered the man ac
! with Miss . the twofternoon of found it


210
THE BLACK PIGEON
your pistol in Borden's office. Cowan could not have had
time to go after it before Rita arrived, or if he had had
time, how could he have got in? We can be very sure
that Borden's door was locked. And again, if Cowan did
not—and why should he?-retrieve the gun with which
Borden had tried to defend himself, firing toward his
murderer in my office window, we come smack upon the
foolish conclusion that Rita herself, after robbing the
body, took the gun away with her, too. No, darling, I'm
afraid it won't wash.”
"No-0-0,” Ruth agreed reluctantly. She had no love
for Bill Cowan! “But Jack, there are other bits of the
puzzle which we haven't considered at all. The woman
with the beautiful contralto voice and—why, Jack! What
is the matter?”
"Nothing's the matter!” Jack Hayward denied, with
peculiar emphasis. “What were you going to say about
the woman with the contralto voice?”
"You started and blushed—and you're still blushing,"
Ruth accused him wonderingly, and a little jealously. "I'm
sure my description reminded you of someone you know.”
"What about this woman with the voice?” Jack evaded,
reaching for the poker, so that Ruth could not see his eyes.
The girl stared at him, bewildered and hurt, then an-
swered steadily, a little coldly: "You were present this
morning when I told Mr. McMann about a telephone call
for Mr. Borden at ten o'clock Saturday morning. I was
familiar with the voice calling then, for the woman had
telephoned several times during the four months I worked
for Mr. Borden. He always refused to talk with her, though
she never gave me her name. Saturday morning Mr. Bor-
den came in a minute or two after I had hung up the re-
ceiver, and when I told him that the woman with the
beautiful contralto voice had called he said: “That voice
may sound beautiful to you, but believe me, I'd rather
listen to a riveting machine,' or words to that effect.”


THE BLACK PIGEON
2II
"Not enough to hang her on," Jack commented drily,
still poking needlessly at the fire.
"Of course not, dear,” Ruth answered reasonably,
though her voice trembled slightly. “But the story Minnie
Cassidy told definitely brings the woman with the con-
tralto voice into the puzzle. While Minnie was cleaning
in our offices shortly after half past one Mr. Borden left
his office for a minute or two, asking Minnie to stay until
he returned, since he had no key and didn't want her to
go away and leave the door unlocked for him. While he
was gone the phone rang, Minnie answered, told the woman
to hold the wire. When Mr. Borden returned, he asked
her to describe the voice of the woman calling, and Minnie
did so, saying the woman had a lovely, sweet voice, like
an alto singer, as she puts it. At first Mr. Borden told her
curtly to hang up the receiver, then considered a moment,
and directed her to tell the woman to call again in fifteen
or twenty minutes.”
“Well?" Jack said impatiently, as Ruth paused.
"The woman, so Minnie says, gave her this message for
Mr. Borden: 'Tell Mr. Borden that if he is wise, he will
talk to me when I call again:'"
Jack shrugged. "Not nearly so definite a threat as I
made against the man.” Then, as Ruth stared at him with
wide, hurt blue eyes: "If you're thinking that the woman
with the voice made her final telephone call over my phone,
I'm afraid I can't see it. Fifteen or twenty minutes after
Minnie's conversation with the lady of the voice, I was in
my office myself.”
"I hadn't reached that conclusion yet,” Ruth said
slowly, coldly. “But your reasoning strikes me as a little
odd. The woman could not have known that Mr. Borden
had a train to make, hence may have delayed a little until
she reached the Starbridge Building. Jack! Look at me!”
she commanded with sudden urgency. "You're probably
the world's clumsiest deceiver. It's written all over your


212
THE BLACK PIGEON
face that you know something about this woman. Is this
any time to conceal that knowledge from me? It's for your
sake, remember!”
Jack shrugged, then laughed ruefully. “I'll never be
able to get away with anything, with a wife like you! ...
And may I have a kiss to make up for all I'm going to
suffer at your hands in the future? ... Umm! ...
Now, darling, imitate that voice for me as perfectly as
you can. I know you're a good mimic. I've heard you take
off Borden, Benny, old Minnie Cassidy, and poor, timid
Letty Miller. Go to it, sweet!”
Ruth laughed, happy again, then, her lovely little so-
prano voice as obliterated as if it had never existed, she
enunciated in a throaty, throbbing, exquisite contralto:
"Thank you so much, my dear Mr. Hayward! You are too
kind!” Then, triumphantly, in her own voice again:
"There! You started and blushed again! You can't deny
you've heard that voice before or the one I imitated.”
"You're right, of course," Jack admitted reluctantly.
"I do know the woman-slightly. She came to my office
about two months ago, to inquire about insurance."
"Just picked you out blindly?” Ruth asked skeptically.
"Or had someone given her your name?"
"She didn't say, and of course I didn't ask," Jack an-
swered, a little stiffly. "I asked her into my private office
and gave her a lot of information about various types of
policies—straight life, twenty-year endowment, etc. I
didn't think, at the time, that she seemed particularly in-
terested, though she had asked for the information "
"I imagine,” Ruth interrupted suddenly, “that she
was more interested in the occupant of the office across the
airshaft.”
"You've hit it again, though I didn't think anything
of it at the time,” Jack admitted. “Before she left, with
her hands full of insurance literature, she stepped to the
window and looked out, perhaps towards Borden's office,
maybe at Borden himself. I thought she was interested in


214
THE BLACK PIGEON
advanced stage of tuberculosis. And again—she stood at
my window, looking out. ... I felt damned sorry for
her,” Jack added, in a low voice.
"Frank Ashe felt sorry for her, too,” Ruth said slowly.
And then she related, briefly, the story that Borden's man-
servant had told Detective Sergeant McMann-how the
woman with the beautiful contralto voice had come to
Borden's apartment, gained entrance by watching her
chance, and had been knocked half senseless either by
Borden himself or by Jake Bailey, his bodyguard.
"Motive!” Jack commented, but without triumph.
"Now as to opportunity. Let us suppose she came to the
Starbridge Building Saturday afternoon, before calling
Borden on the telephone as he had asked her to, through
Minnie. But why come to my office to make the call, even
if she did remember that it was directly opposite Borden's
and that she could see his face, as she talked to him?"
"Maybe she realized that you were interested in her,
would go out of your way to do her a good turn. Perhaps
she intended to appeal to you to help her plead her case
with Borden,” Ruth suggested hesitatingly. “She found
your door unlocked, thought you were in, and entered.
Once inside, she took the liberty of using your phone,
although you were not there, quarreled with Borden-
and shot him through your window.”
“But how did she know I had a pistol?” Jack objected.
"You've just said you gave her a lot of insurance liter-
ature,” Ruth pointed out eagerly. "You keep stacks of it
in the bottom drawer of your desk. Why couldn't she
have seen the pistol while you were searching for the
printed matter you wanted to give her?"
"Possible, but not highly probable,” Jack conceded.
"But-if she killed him from my office, how can you ac-
count for the disappearance of your gun? Miss Manning
could hardly have entered the dead man's locked office,
would have had no reason to do so, in the first place"
"Then maybe she induced Borden, by threats of some


216
THE BLACK PIGEON
office and the outer office—three clear finger-prints, the
only finger-prints on the glass panel, which the window-
washer had cleaned late Friday afternoon. Maybe she had
a key to Mr. Borden's office--but no, that's impossible,
for Mr. Borden had the lock changed after I started to
work for him only four months ago, and all that time he
has refused even to talk over the phone with the woman
of the contralto voice. ... Oh!” she sighed suddenly,
and slumped in a pathetic little heap. "I'm so ghastly tired
I can't think.”
"You're going to bed, darling," Jack commanded, con-
trition and compassion in his voice and eyes. "I could do
with a little sleep myself, and it's a shame to keep my poor
'shadow standing out there in the cold so long. He'll be
all the better for taking his 'dog' for a walk on the leash.
You're going to the scene of the crime tomorrow morning,
I suppose?”
"Me?” Ruth laughed shakily. “Why, I'm going to take
charge of the investigation-after I've done one errand-
with my own 'shadow trailing me. . . . No, I won't tell
you what I intend to do. Go along. I want to-pray, and
then to sleep. Good night, my darling. I love you."


CHAPTER XIX
DERHAPS it was because she was so tired and suddenly
I so sleepy that the prayer for help which Ruth Lester
addressed, with childlike faith, to her Heavenly Father,
ended in an extremely unorthodox manner, designed to
confound a less understanding God than the One in Whom
she believed. For her last words, before sleep settled upon
her, like a smothering eiderdown comfort, were: "Please
come back to me, Daddy. I'm not clever enough to save
Jack without your help. It's just the kind of case you al-
ways loved, darling. You could make all the pieces of the
puzzle fit. Come back and laugh at me for being so stupid
-so stupid.”
And with miraculous suddenness, part of that drowsy,
naïve prayer was answered. Subconsciously, Ruth Lester
knew that she was dreaming, that her actual body-aching
with fatigue—was lying on her couch bed in a tiny
bachelor-girl apartment, that her adored father, Colby
Lester, always referred to as "the famous criminal lawyer,"
was dead. But her prayer was being answered, and what
did it matter that it was only a dream? But she mustn't
haid it makes soon. a kindly father's librated' blue
The dream was a kindly one, not fantastic or absurd.
She was back again in her father's library, curled kitten-
wise in his arms, watching with fascinated blue eyes as his
long fingers arranged and re-arranged bits of a jig-saw
puzzle spread out on the desk before him.
"What is that big, square-shaped piece, Daddy?" she
heard her own voice inquiring, as those expert fingers made
a quick re-arrangement of the pieces of the puzzle.
That, Infant?” She distinctly heard his beloved, famil-
iar chuckle. “Why, that's the orchid-tinted letter, of
course ”
217


218
THE BLACK PIGEON
Perhaps, Ruth mourned later, if she had not cried out
so sharply at that she would not have awakened, would
have seen the complete solving of that jig-puzzle under
the expert manipulation of Colby's Lester's fingers. But
she did wake up, with her own exclamation of self-disgust
and her father's last words ringing in her ears.
With the sharp clarity of mind and memory which
comes in the small hours of the night, Ruth recalled every
detail of a scene which she had forgotten throughout the
dreadful first day of the police investigation into the mur-
der of Henry P. Borden. She saw again the large, square,
orchid-tinted envelope, with its distinctive, angular hand-
writing in violet ink, saw herself seated at her desk in the
outer office of Borden's suite, sorting Saturday morning's
mail, laying aside unopened the exotic missive marked
"Personal”; saw, later, the gesture of repulsion and anger
with which Henry Borden flicked the unwelcome letter
across his desk, then heard again the muttered oath with
which he picked it up and thrust it, unopened, into the
breast pocket of his vest.
In her excitement, Ruth sat straight up in bed, her
hands clasped to her wildly beating heart. Where was that
letter now? She had seen Detective Sergeant McMann go
through the murdered man's pockets, could clearly recall
now every item he had taken from them. And an orchid-
tinted letter had not been among them!
Had Borden, sometime between his receipt of the loathed
letter and his death, taken it out of his vest pocket, read
it, torn it across and tossed it into his wastebasket? Cer-
tainly he had not done so before she herself left the office
at twenty minutes after one, for her last act of service to
the man who had been murdered had been to help him
clear his desk of accumulated memoranda and advertising
matter issued by other promoters on stock as dubious as his
own. She had tossed the worthless papers into the empty
wastebasket which stood beside his desk. Perhaps he had
read the letter and thrown it into the wastebasket after
her et of his up and gain the the unworn


THE BLACK PIGEON
219
she had left, but if so, it was the first of the orchid-tinted
letters, of which he had received several during the four
months she had worked for him, to find its way into his
office wastebasket and thence, possibly, into the possession
of a curious reader. But if it had not gone into the waste-
basket and been taken out, with the rest of the papers, by
Minnie Cassidy, where was it now?
If, as McMann seemed to believe, Rita Dubois had robbed
his dead body, why should she also steal a letter writ-
ten to Borden by another woman? There was no possi-
bility that Rita herself was the writer. The orchid-tinted
envelopes marked "Personal” had been coming to Borden's
office long before he had ever met and fallen in love with
the dancer. If Mrs. Borden had killed her husband before
Rita's arrival and robbing of the body, she could not have
known of the existence of the letter, could have had no
motive for taking it if she had known, for the letter had
not been written by Elizabeth Borden. Ruth knew the dis-
carded wife's handwriting very well, had seen her delicate,
precise signature each month as an endorsement on Bor-
den's check for separation allowance.
Suddenly the obvious course of action occurred to the
excited girl. There was no use in puzzling and worrying
over the letter now, but tomorrow morning . . . She lay
back on her pillows, welcomed the waves of sleep which
immediately began to dull her brain, for maybe Colby
Lester, her father, would come to her again. ...
Colby Lester did not come again that night, but the next
morning his daughter woke, feeling strangely happy and
comforted, quite equal to performing the two errands she
had set herself—without benefit of police sanction-and
then, as she had impudently expressed it to Jack Hayward
the night before, to taking charge of the investigation into
the murder of Henry P. Borden.
While she was dressing, a sudden thought occurred to
Ruth, and she ran to the front window of her tiny apart-
ment. As she had expected, she saw a man strolling


220
THE BLACK PIGEON
leisurely up and down the sidewalk across the street from
her apartment house, his head turning now and then to
glance casually toward the cheaply pretentious entrance.
Ruth blew a finger-tip kiss to the unconscious watcher,
laughed exultingly, then whirled back to her dressing-
table. “I'm going to lead you an awful chase, dear, obvious
old 'shadow !” she promised him.
And she kept her promise. Twice, as the detective's taxi
drew almost abreast of hers, the girl thought she was going
to be stopped and questioned, but undoubtedly the man
had his orders not to jerk on the leash. .
The first was not a long trip. Ruth's taxi drew up before
an old but dignified apartment house in East Sixty-first
Street.
"Please wait. I shan't be long,” Ruth directed her driver.
"Mrs. Borden is not seeing anyone, miss,” the uniformed
doorman told her, when she had asked to be announced
over the house telephone.
"Please get Mrs. Borden on the phone, and tell her that
Miss Ruth Lester wants to see her on a matter of vital
importance,” Ruth directed crisply.
Three minutes later the dead man's widow and his secre-
tary confronted each other in the large foyer of Mrs.
Borden's apartment. Deep shadows from a sleepless, griev-
ing night lay like black moth wings beneath the widow's
eyes, and accentuated the ghastly pallor of her once-pretty
face.
Before Mrs. Borden could frame her dignified protest at
the intrusion, Ruth put the question she had come to ask.
"Mrs. Borden, won't you please tell me what you know
about Martha Manning?”
At that name, color flooded the pale face and the leaf-
brown eyes flashed angry fire. Ruth was almost sorry she
had come. ...
"How dare you mention that woman's name to me?"
Mrs. Borden gasped, her hand at her throat, as if the words


THE BLACK PIGEON
221
were choking her. Then, by a visible effort, she regained a
measure of control: "I-don't know whom you mean, or
why you ask, Miss Lester! If Mr. McMann has any further
questions to ask me”
"Oh, please, dear Mrs. Borden!” Ruth pleaded. "I know
you want to protect your husband's past from the news-
papers, but—he is dead, and it is your duty to tell any-
thing you know which might help"
"I have nothing to say to you, Miss Lester,” Mrs. Bor-
den interrupted coldly.
"I am sorry to have troubled you, Mrs. Borden,” Ruth
said gently, "and I want you to know that you have my-
my deepest sympathy," and without waiting for a reply,
she reached for the knob of the door bv which she had
entered.
Her question had been answered, far more completely
than the murdered man's widow could suspect. Ruth knew
now why Mrs. Borden had refused on Monday to identify
the woman with the contralto voice. The mother of Harry
Borden's legitimate children would die before she would
admit, and thus publish to the world, her knowledge of
the existence of an illegitimate half-brother of those chil-
dren. How dreadful a burden that knowledge must have
been all these years. ...
It was a saddened, subdued girl who gave the next ad-
dress to the taxi driver.
"That gyp cab's following us, with a dick inside,” the
driver told her, out of the corner of his mouth, as she
climbed into her taxi.
"I know,” Ruth smiled at him reassuringly. “The 'dick'
is only doing his duty. There won't be any trouble.”
The driver shook his head, hesitated about starting his
motor. "I don't want to get mixed up in nothing, miss”
“Very well,” Ruth agreed cheerfully, preparing to dis-
embark. "If you don't want to drive me, I'll get the 'dick'
to take me in his cab. I'll save taxi fare."


222
THE BLACK PIGEON
"Guess it's all right,” her driver concluded, grinning
at her self-confident impudence.
This time the trip was a long one, over Queensboro
Bridge and on into Long Island City, but at last she
reached her destination—the little grocery store over which
Minnie Cassidy lived in two cheerless rooms. Ruth had
made the trip once before on Christmas Day-to visit
the old scrubwoman, temporarily bedridden with rheu-
matism.
Entrance was through the mean, dirty little store, ineffi-
ciently run by Minnie's son-in-law, with the help of the
girl, Rose.
"Hello, Rose!” Ruth greeted the pretty, untidy girl be-
hind the counter, “I want to see your mother.”
"She's upstairs, Miss Lester. Bud isn't here, and I'm alone
in the store. Would you mind going up alone?”
Ruth found Minnie Cassidy puttering about a disor-
dered kitchen. "Good land, child! What brings ye here?”
Minnie greeted the girl. “Here take the weight off your
pretty feet! ... Phut! Don't bother! That's only the
cat's saucer and it was cracked anyway... Now, what's
Tommy McMann been up to? Has he arrested your young
man, and do ye think old Minnie can help ye out?”
"I do think you can help me out, Minnie,” Ruth
smiled, "but Mr. McMann has not arrested Mr. Hayward
yet. . . . Listen, Minnie, and try hard to remember:
when you were emptying Mr. Borden's wastebasket, did
you notice an orchid- or lavender-colored letter? It may
have been torn up, of course, but I thought you might
have noticed the unusual color”
"There! I knowed I'd forgot something—what with
Tommy McMann pestering the life out of me with his fool
questions!” Minnie Cassidy interrupted, slapping her fat
old thigh with a triumphant hand. "I seen the very letter
ye mean, child, but not in the wastebasket. A-reading of
it the poor man was, his face as black as a thunder-cloud,
smiled, “but sten, Minnie, Mr. Borden sed letter? It


THE BLACK PIGEON
223
and his fist pounding up and down on the drawer, as if
he wished it was the poor lady's face he was poundin', not
a drawer without feelin'_"
“Drawer?” Ruth repeated blankly. McMann had gone
through every drawer in Borden's desk ...


CHAPTER XX
66D UT I tell you, Mr. McMann, there must be another
drawer,” Ruth Lester insisted. She had arrived at the
murdered man's offices at half past ten, and had almost
autocratically brushed aside the detective sergeant's
brusque inquiries as to the chase she had led the plain-
clothesman who had been assigned to the task of "shadow-
ing" her. "Minnie Cassidy described the drawer as no
deeper than a case knife is broad, and insists that it was
pulled out in front of Mr. Borden as he sat at his desk.
She had to pass directly behind him to get to his waste-
basket, and his obvious anger-pounding on the edge of
the drawer with his clenched fist-aroused her curiosity,
so that she looked over his shoulder as she passed. He was
evidently rereading the letter after he had read it once and
put it away in the drawer. Minnie is positive that it was a
sheet of orchid-tinted notepaper, closely written in violet
ink.”
"Then why the devil didn't she say something about it
when I questioned her?" the detective grumbled. But he
pulled out the two-inch deep middle drawer of the desk,
and, stooping, inserted a hand and tapped against the roof
of the cavity exposed. A hollow sound rewarded him.
"You're right. There's a drawer above this one, a secret
drawer. And no apparent means of opening it.”
"Let me try!” Ruth suggested, and began to press her
fingers against the elaborately carved strip of walnut which
was undoubtedly the front end of the secret drawer,
though it appeared to be only the edge of the desk top.
Her efforts met with failure until her fingers pressed hard
upon a carved leaf directly above the right corner of the
of the cavite inserted a hleep middle e grumbled.
You're right, exposed. A hand tapped a
224


THE BLACK PIGEON 225
unconcealed middle drawer. The carved strip swung slowly
inward, revealing a shallow drawer less than an inch deep.
Triumphantly, the girl pulled it out. There was not one
orchid-tinted letter, but six of them, with the last received
on top, at the front of the little drawer.
"Don't destroy finger-prints!” McMann warned Ruth.
"Here- let me handle it." And with infinite caution the
detective drew the letter from its large, square envelope,
touching only one corner of the sheet as he shook it out
and laid it on the blotter of the dead man's desk.
“May I read it?” Ruth begged, and as the detective
grunted assent their two heads-one grizzled, massive, the
other small and golden-bent over the exhibit which Ruth
had brought to light. There was a single sheet of note-
paper, closely written on both sides.
Harry, my darling-(the letter began, below the two
words, Friday afternoon) "After what happened between
us on Christmas Eve, I swore that I would never appeal to
you again. Oh, Harry, to think that you could strike me
and curse me, after all the happiness we have known to-
gether! But my pride which was one of the qualities you
admired most in me, you used to say—has been leveled to
the dust. I would rather die than ask you for anything for
myself, Harry, but where our son is concerned I have no
pride-only love, and a ghastly fear for his future. He is
your son, Harry-as much your child as Betty and Harry
Junior. It was your own suggestion that I place him in
boarding school last September, so that he might have his
chance at normal little-boy happiness and education. You
promised then to pay for his board and tuition, but
"Finished?” McMann grunted at Ruth, and, as she
nodded mutely, he turned the sheet over.
Ruth's tear-misted eyes resolutely left the signature to
the last:
your somit was your September, som
-the money never came. Almost the last cent I had
in the world went to pay for his first half year, and now


THE BLACK PIGEON
227
he did end for with a
f his offices.com on the lar you? If she
sarcastically. "Trying to pull Borden's leg, I guess. Black-
mail ... Well, we'll have a look at this dame, and listen
to her carol her story in her 'beautiful contralto voice.'”
The detective was striding toward the door to give an
order to Birdwell, who was still on duty in the outer office,
when Ruth stopped him with a question:
"And you'll send for Letty Miller, won't you? If she
says that she did leave Jack's door on the latch when she
first went in to clean his offices, a big part of the mystery
can be cleared up, for we shall know then that someone
besides Jack could have entered and used his telephone
and his gun.”
"Letty Miller would admit anything if she thought it
would help Hayward,” McMann commented skeptically.
"He must have greased her palm with a good bit of silver,
first and last. But it won't do any harm to ask her. Just
don't bank too much on your pretty little theory, Miss
Lester ... Oh, Birdwell!” he called, as he opened the
door into the outer office. "Get hold of Carlson for me.
He's on the floor somewhere, talking to tenants. Send him
over to the Acropolis Hotel for Martha Manning. That's
right-M-a-n-n-i-n-g. If she's not in, or checked out, tell
him to get all the facts and let me know immediately. ...
And Birdwell, have headquarters send somebody for Letty
Miller, one of those scrubwomen I was interviewing yes-
terday. They don't come on till four o'clock, and I don't
care to wait till then.”
"Yes, sir,” Birdwell answered. "Did you get the Miller
woman's address, sir? You remember we couldn't find her
yesterday morning. She'd moved from the rooming-house
address the superintendent gave us~"
"Oh, damn!” McMann exploded. "I forgot to ask her.
See if Coghlan, the superintendent, did. It's his job to keep
up with his employes' various changes of address”
"Yes, sir. Just a minute, sir,” Birdwell interrupted his
chief, as the telephone rang. He listened for a moment,


THE BLACK PIGEON
229
have you done to yourself, darling? You are the priceless
pearl of a secretary, aren't you? But I seem to remember
you as a timid little slavey, with horn-rimmed spectacles,
Salvation Army clothes, and your hair dragged into a knot
on your neck. I wonder! I wonder . . . And yet I'd been
led to believe that it was the fascinating Rita who had
Oh! Hawkshaw!” And Cleo rounded her seductive lips to
blow a cloud of smoke toward the returning detective.
McMann, pretending not to hear, strode to Borden's
desk, took his seat opposite Ruth, poised his pencil over a
pad of scratch paper. "Well, when did you see Borden last,
Cleo?”
"Miss Gilman-to you, darling—just until we know
each other a little better,” Cleo Gilman drawled, arching
silken brown brows over wide, topaz-colored eyes. "Don't
scowl so, Hawkshaw. I'm sure you'd be an awfully attrac-
tive man, if you'd just cultivate a jolly smile . . . Oh,
very well! If you don't want to be sociableYou asked
when I last saw Harry, I believe. Well, let me think—"
and she regarded the burning tip of her cigarette with a
charming frown.
"Last Saturday, wasn't it?" McMann barked.
Cleo Gilman's carefree laugh rang out. "Poor Hawk-
shaw! You must be terribly hard up for a suspect if you've
picked on me! No— I'm awfully sorry to disappoint you,
but I haven't seen 'Handsome Harry' since January sec-
ond. He dropped in to pay the rent on the apartment and
to break the sad news to me that all was over between us.”
"Just like that, eh?” McMann growled. "I suppose you
quarreled?"
"Oh,” Cleo shrugged and smiled, “just enough to give
the old boy a good time. It would have hurt his feelings
if I hadn't pulled the regular 'you-done-me-wrong' line,
but to tell you the truth, darling, I wasn't at all sorry-
saved me a lot of trouble, for I was really awful busy on a
new enterprise "
“Just where were you last Saturday, after leaving your


THE BLACK PIGEON
231
-since the papers somehow got hold of the fact that his
little Cleo was being ‘sought to be 'grilled-oh, those
tabloids! They are insidious, aren't they? Arty has been
trying to purify my English–”
McMann drew a deep breath and spread his hands in a
gesture of defeat. "Sorry to have bothered you, Mrs.
Pendennis. And I hope we can hush things up so as not
to cause you any serious trouble with your husband—”
"Oh, please don't trouble your darling old head about
me!” Cleo interrupted quickly, her smile brilliantly care-
free. "Really, Hawkshaw, and you can call me Cleo, now
that we're so well acquainted—this is an awfully lucky
break for me. You see, I'd made a sort of general confes-
sion of—uh—naughtiness before Arty proposed to me
one of those blanket confessions that can cover a multitude
of sins and sinners, like Harry Borden, and he forgave
all. But dear old Mrs. Pendennis won't let her precious boy
come near me again, after she realizes that he has married
one of the 'women grilled in Borden murder'—which is
what I call a perfectly swell break for little Cleo!”
"You mean—you don't want to live with your hus-
band?” McMann stared at her incredulously.
"How quick you are, Hawkshaw! Little Miss Lester here
tumbled ten minutes ago, but for a man you're not so
dumb! Of course I don't want to live with Arty. He
bores me. Would you believe it?-he quotes a couple of
poets named Sheats and Kelly, or Shelley and Keats, I can
never remember which-quotes them by the yard, and for
weeks I've had to listen and say, 'Oh, da-r-ling! How per-
fectly sweet! And how beautifully you recite poetry!'
Arty, I may add, so that you will understand all, has
never been in a nightclub in his life and intends to leave
half his fortune to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
"If there is anything left of it when you've taken him
to the cleaners,” McMann grinned. "I suppose you've got
your marriage certificate with you?”
"Dated Saturday, and issued at Hartford, a bona fide


232
THE BLACK PIGEON
a Cleo laughed, han bodyguard? I used him out of it,
county seat,” Cleo assured him obligingly, as she extracted
the precious document from her large, snakeskin hand-
bag. "It took us two hours to drive to Hartford, and we
were married at two o'clock. Our honeymoon was spent in
the Pendennis shooting lodge, up in some ghastly moun-
tains somewhere I wanted to go to Atlantic City, but
Arty-”
"All right!” McMann interrupted brusquely, as he re-
turned the marriage certificate to its owner. "But just a
minute,” he detained the nonchalant beauty who had risen
and was wrapping her platinum caracul coat about her
voluptuously curved figure. "Perhaps you can help me.
... From your intimacy with Borden, do you know of
any one who had threatened his life, or of whom he was
actually afraid?”
Cleo laughed. “Harry was afraid of his shadow. I sup-
pose you know he had a bodyguard? I used to think he was
dippy on the subject, and I tried to kid him out of it,
wouldn't let him talk about it-but sure enough, some
one did bump him off, just as—”
"Did he mention names?” McMann interrupted.
"He gave me a long song-and-dance when I first met
him about the sweetie he had before he fell in love with
memused to tell me by the hour about how crazy she was
about him, and how scared he was that she'd try to get
even. But, Lord, all men talk like that about the women
they're through with!”
"Who was the woman you took him away from?” Mc-
Mann persisted.
"He wasn't hard to take,” Cleo laughed. “I gathered
he'd been ripe for picking a long time. . . . But-sorry,
Hawkshaw! I'm naming no names. Just write it down that
I don't know her name.” She drew on a beautiful, silvery
gray glove, smiling at the scowling detective with wide,
topaz eyes, as she added: "I've had a number of labels
pinned on me, first and last, and probably the Dowager
Queen Pendennis will think up a good, hot new one, but


THE BLACK PIGEON
233
-even Harry Borden, when he gave me my notice on
January 2, had the grace to say I was a good sport. ...
So long, darling! I've had a wonderful time. Good-bye,
Miss Lester. If I were as pretty as you are, I'd have grabbed
off the Prince of Wales, instead of poor old Arty.”
When Cleo was gone, McMann refused to meet the eyes
of the girl opposite him, making a great ado of shuffling
his memoranda on the case.
"A good sport,” Ruth said softly.
"Borden must have been crazy to ditch a peach like that
for Rita Dubois,” McMann agreed, lowering his head so
that his blush might not be so apparent.
Ruth laughed. “Maybe Mr. Borden was an exception to
the rule you follow, Mr. McMann-he was one 'gentle-
man' who really preferred brunettes. Mrs. Borden is
brunette, Martha Manning is—”
"Detective Carlson with Miss Manning, sir,” Birdwell
interrupted.
As he had done upon the arrival of both Rita Dubois
and Cleo Gilman, McMann had the woman shown into
the dead man's private office, while he conferred briefly in
the outer office with the detective who had brought her in.
In the brief interval before the detective sergeant's re-
turn, Ruth Lester had opportunity to study the woman
about whom her curiosity had been raised to an extraor-
dinary pitch-the woman who might never have been
involved in the investigation of Harry Borden's murder,
if it had not been for her-Ruth's interference.
Ruth saw a no longer young, but still lovely woman-
tall, very slender, graceful. Beneath the brim of a long-
worn but still smart blue felt hat a pair of great dark eyes
—their brilliance heightened by the mascara which frankly
beaded the lashes-surveyed the room in which her former
lover had died, then came to rest inquiringly upon Ruth.
"I'm Ruth Lester. I worked here,” Ruth answered the
unspoken inquiry, tactfully avoiding the name of the mura
dered man.


THE BLACK PIGEON
235
"Yes. I am employed there, as Mr. Carlson has undoubt-
edly told you,” the woman answered courteously, with no
hint of resentment.
"Just what do you do there?”
"I operate the switchboard. My salary, exclusive of my
room rent, is ten dollars a week.”
"And your hours on duty?”
"From six in the morning until half past eleven. I ac-
cepted the position because the hours are short. My health
is not very good, requiring me to spend a number of hours
each day in the open air,” Miss Manning replied calmly,
but then suddenly she betrayed either nervousness or the
call of a long-indulged habit, for she asked: "Do you mind
if I smoke?”
"Nervous?” McMann grinned, as the woman stripped
the gloves from her hands and opened her bag to extract a
package of fifteen-cent cigarettes. She had no cigarette
case. Perhaps, Ruth thought pityingly, Borden had once
given her just such an expensive case as Cleo Gilman had
displayed in that office an hour before, but if so, it had un-
doubtedly gone, along with Borden's other rich gifts, to
pay her small son's expenses at boarding school. Ten dol-
lars a week and a tiny hotel room for five and a half hours
work a day! Suddenly Ruth felt slightly ill, ashamed ...
“Draw your chair up to the desk so you can reach this
ash tray,” McMann suggested, his voice noticeably less
harsh.
"Thank you,” Martha Manning replied simply, and
obeyed. In the new position, her body was turned squarely
toward Ruth, but her head, on its long, slender, lined neck
-an age-revealing neck-inclined courteously toward her
inquisitor.
Miss Manning,” McMann began again, in a crisp, busi-
nesslike manner, "what was your relationship to Henry F.
Borden?”
"Rather less than--nothing,” Martha Manning answered
slowly. "I was merely a—former-friend."


236
THE BLACK PIGEON
"A former-mistress, you mean, don't you?” McMann
asked bluntly.
Natural color crept from that pathetically thin throat
and blended with the brilliant spots of rouge. Martha Man-
ning inclined her head in mute assent.
"When did you and Harry Borden become lovers and
how long did the relationship last?” McMann demanded.
The woman stiffened and her nostrils dilated. "I am
afraid I must decline to answer that question, Mr. Mc-
Mann! I have admitted the relationship, which ceased to
exist almost a year before Mr. Borden's—death.” The
lovely voice vibrated with indignation, but it broke just
before it uttered that last word.
McMann shrugged, his narrowed gray eyes fixed on her
flushed face. "Miss Manning, when did you last see Harry
Borden?”


CHAPTER XXI
66] HAVE seen Mr. Borden a number of times during the
1 last few months—at a distance,” Martha Manning
answered the detective sergeant's question.
"You mean you followed him about?” McMann
pounced.
Martha Manning smiled strangely, but did not answer.
But she tamped out her half-smoked cigarette in the ash-
tray which stood on Borden's desk, and dropped her hands
into her lap—as if she could not trust one of them under
the piercing eye of the detective.
"I ask you again, Miss Manning—when was the last time
you saw Harry Borden?” McMann asked with angry im-
patience.
"My last-interview with Mr. Borden was on Christmas
Eve. I'm afraid I took rather an unfair advantage of his
manservant's carelessness—as he has probably told you-
and succeeded in speaking with Mr. Borden.”
"Ah!” McMann raised his bushy brows. "And what was
the purpose and the result of that impromptu interview,
Miss Manning?”
"As to the purpose of that interview, I decline to an-
swer. Its result you undoubtedly know already,” the
woman answered calmly, but Ruth saw that her hands
were gripping each other tightly in her lap.
McMann laughed, an ugly sound. “You're a cool one,
all right! ... Yes, the man Ashe has told us that you
and Borden, in the presence of Jake Bailey, Borden's body-
guard, had a row that ended in a fight in which you were
almost knocked out. I see the cut on your lip has healed
237


238 THE BLACK PIGEON
... You tried to kill your lover then, didn't you?-and
didn't quite make a job of it?”
The woman's great dark eyes blazed with scorn. “May I
remind you that it was I, and not Mr. Borden, who was
injured in that encounter?”
"But—" McMann leaned forward toward her across the
desk, his gray eyes narrowed to slits—"you've hated him
and planned revenge ever since that night! That's true,
isn't it?”
"No!” The denial rang out sharply, then, in a voice
that quivered and broke with emotion: "I loved him. I
loved Harry Borden from the day I met him till the day
he died. I still love him wherever he is now, and will love
him till I die!”
The detective settled back in his chair, regarding the
trembling woman with that twisted smile of his which
Ruth Lester longed passionately to strike from his mouth.
"Suppose we get down to brass tacks, Miss Manning. I'll
tell you a few things, and then you tell me a few. Tit
for tat. Fair exchange. First: you have a son,” he said
with awful casualness, then paused to watch the blood
slowly drain from Martha Manning's thin face, leaving
the rouge spots in ghastly relief. “A son you have tried to
force Harry Borden to recognize and support as his illegiti-
mate child—”
"Stop!” Martha Manning half rose from her chair,
leaned toward the detective with clenched, trembling hand,
as if she were going to strike him. "Harry Borden did not
deny that he was the father of my son! He knew-oh,
my God, how well he knew!” and she sank back into her
chair and pressed her knuckles to her mouth to stifle the
sobs that were shaking her whole frail body.
McMann was apparently unmoved. He went on relent-
lessly: "You loved this man, you bore him a son, you lived
with him for years, and yet for months before his death
he would not even speak to you on the telephone. He left
orders with his secretary and with his manservant that if


THE BLACK PIGEON
239
'the woman with the contralto voice' called, Mr. Henry
P. Borden was 'not in.' How do you account for this, Miss
Manning?”
The woman raised her head, and with tight-clapsed
hands, fought a moment for self-control. “I asked some-
thing of Mr. Borden which he would not-or could not
do. I-demanded that he marry me, so that our son might
bear his father's name.”
“What do you mean—could not?" McMann caught her
ир.
"He told me that Mrs. Borden would not give him a
divorce. She knew-about my baby, and was determined
that her own children should never know of their father's
-sin. When I insisted, Harry-Mr. Borden-left me"
"Because he had fallen in love with Cleo Gilman. Isn't
that more like it?” McMann interrupted.
The woman shrank against her chair, but only her great
tormented brown eyes answered, with such pitiful appeal
that Ruth's own eyes stung with sudden tears.
"And so,” McMann went on, "you followed him about,
telephoned him here at his office and at his home, wrote
him letters which he did not answer, made an excuse to
enter another office in this building so that you could
observe your intended victim, then, by a lucky chance, dis-
covered how you could use that other office as the scene
of your crime”
"No, no!” Martha Manning screamed, springing to her
feet, her eyes blazing, but her face ashen, except for those
ghastly spots of rouge. "You're cowardly, despicable! You
know you have no foundation for a charge like that
against me."
"I haven't made any charge-yet,” McMann reminded
her grimly, as he too rose and pushed back his chair. “Come
here, Miss Manning!” and the detective seized one of the
woman's wrists and drew her by force to the window
looking out upon the airshaft. "Look!” and he pointed to
the opposite window. “Whose office is that?”


240
THE BLACK PIGEON
The woman snatched her imprisoned hand from the de-
tective's hold and rubbed her reddened wrist. "I don't
know! How should I?”
"Then let me remind you,” McMann retorted. "That
is the private office of Mr. John C. Hayward, insurance
broker, the very agreeable and handsome young man
whom you consulted, not so long ago, on the subject of a
policy in favor of your son. ... Do you remember now?”
Martha Manning seemed suddenly to get control of
her tortured nerves. Almost calmly, though Ruth thought
she moved hastily over the spot where Borden's life blood
had ebbed away, the woman walked across the room and
took her seat again. It was not until the detective was
also seated that she answered his question:
"I did consult Mr. Hayward about insurance, but that
is not usually considered a criminal offense, Mr. McMann.”
"And how did you happen to pick out that particular
insurance broker?” McMann asked sarcastically. "Is he
famous in his field?”
"I saw his name and business listed on the bulletin board
of the Starbridge Building,” Miss Manning answered de-
fiantly.
"One of those days when you were trailing Borden?
By the way, you were still living with Harry Borden when
he took these offices three years ago, weren't you? You
were pretty familiar with the layout of this floor, I sup-
pose?”
"When I went to consult Mr. Hayward about insurance,
I had no idea that his office was across the airshaft from
Harry's," was the positive, almost calmly spoken answer,
but Ruth saw a pair of thin, white hands twisting, inter-
twining-hands that could not lie, no matter how well that
beautiful contralto voice could be made to serve its owner's
hidden purposes. As Ruth watched those hands she got
an odd, subconscious impression that they had a message
for her-a message of vital importance-but with that
compelling voice to listen to, there was no time for Ruth


THE BLACK PIGEON
241
- heed the mute simind you that wou went to thace and
to heed the mute story that the hands were telling. ...
"Then may I remind you that when you were in Mr.
Hayward's office on two occasions you went to that win-
dow, which affords a view of the interior of this office, and
stood there each time for minutes, looking toward
and undoubtedly into this very room?"
"I did not look this way, because I did not realize that
by so doing I could see into Mr. Borden's office. My eyes
idly followed a number of pigeons circling about the win-
dow, but my thoughts were on my son, and how to provide
for him in case of my death.”
"Your natural death-or by way of the electric chair?”
McMann suggested brutally.
The frail body stiffened, but the contralto voice scorned
to make a plea for sympathy: “When I first consulted Mr.
Hayward about insurance I knew I was not well, but I
considered myself a passable insurance risk. But when I
saw him the second time, I went with the knowledge that
insurance was impossible, for my physician had told me
that I have pulmonary tuberculosis. It was with this
knowledge that I appealed to Mr. Borden on Christmas
Eve for help for my son.”
There was a brief silence, almost long enough for Ruth
to hear the mute message which Martha Manning's thin,
twisting hands seemed to be trying to give her-without
their owner's knowledge or consent. But not quite, for
McMann interrupted, demanded the girl's whole attention
with his next words:
"I submit, Miss Manning,” McMann began slowly, “that
your need became so desperate that you determined to stop
at nothing, not even a threat of murder, to force Harry
Borden to provide for your son. Isn't that true?”
"No!”
"You deny then, Miss Manning, that you have ever
threatened Harry. Borden's life?”
"I do! Of course I deny it!” The beautiful voice
throbbed with anger.


242
THE BLACK PIGEON
McMann smiled. “But you won't deny that you have
written to Mr. Borden a number of times in the last few
months?”
The woman's eyes dilated, then closed for a moment,
before she answered in a voice so low it was almost a
whisper: “No. I won't deny—that. Of course I wrote him.
I could reach him in no other way.”
"And when did you write your last letter to your for-
mer lover?” McMann persisted.
Martha Manning moistened her dry lips. "I-don't re-
member the exact time.”
"Then let me refresh your memory," the detective sug-
gested, slowly drawing a large, orchid-tinted envelope from
his pocket.
The woman half started from her chair, seemed about
to ask a startled question, then subsided, her great, stricken
brown eyes fixed in terrible fascination upon the closely
written sheet which McMann drew from the envelope and
laid before her.
"You recognize this letter? You admit you wrote it?”
There was no need for an answer, and Martha Manning
made none.
"You will note,” McMann pointed out obligingly, "that
it was written Friday afternoon—the day before Henry
Borden was-murdered. Now, if you will kindly read
aloud the last three sentences of this letter-” and he
turned over the single sheet of orchid stationery
One of those betraying, thin hands reached out, hovered
over the sheet, but did not touch it-dropped instead to
the green blotter with which the top of the desk was
almost entirely covered; lay there, quivering.
"You won't oblige me?” McMann asked cheerfully.
"Then let me repeat them from a very good memory: 'But
Harry, in all solemnity, I warn you that you will be sorry
if you do not do what I ask. I shall telephone you Saturday
morning. If your answer is still no-but I won't think of
that now!'"


THE BLACK PIGEON 243
That pitiful, quivering hand started to lift itself from
the blotter, but with the quickness of a sleight-of-hand
artist's the detective's big hand shot out and covered it,
flattening it against the green surface of the blotter. With
his other hand he seized a full ink well and tipped it, so
that the fluid ran in a dark tide beneath the pressed-down
fingers of the woman.
"How dare you?” Martha Manning gasped, struggling
to release her hand. “What are you doing?"
"Merely saving time by taking your finger-prints my-
self, Miss Manning!” the detective answered, as he lifted
her ink-stained hand and pressed the fingers upon a sheet
of white paper.


CHAPTER XXII
D UTH LESTER felt that she, as well as the frail,
tortured woman beside her, could not bear the sus-
pense of the next slow minutes. With nerve-racking
deliberation, Detective Sergeant McMann drew another
sheet of paper from his pocket--the enlarged photograph
of the three finger-prints discovered by Detective Ferber on
the glass panel of the door between the outer and the inner
offices of the Borden suite; laid it beside the startlingly
clear prints he had just made, in ink, of Martha Manning's
fingers; studied both sets of prints through narrowed, gray
eyes, then, with maddening lack of haste reached into his
coat pocket, secured a small microscope and fitted it into
his left eget, secured a smay lack of hastah narrowe
At last he nodded with satisfaction, folded both sheets
of paper carefully together and placed them in a breast
pocket of his coat. Then he spoke: "Miss Manning, we
will save much time if you will tell me frankly at just
what time Saturday afternoon you paid your—farewell
visit to Harry Borden.”
The thin hands were working desperately now with a
handkerchief to remove the humiliating ink stains but at
the detective's question they gripped each other convul-
sively.
"I was not here at all on Saturday!”
"Then how do you account for the fact that your finger-
prints were found yesterday morning on the glass panel
of that door?” McMann demanded triumphantly, point-
ing toward the closed door between the two offices.
Martha Manning drew a sharp, quivering breath, then,
to Ruth's amazement she smiled, and the thin shoulders
shrugged slightly, as if their owner were admitting defeat.
"I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr. McMann, after your
244


THE BLACK PIGEON.
249
hoped, anak pected. He tried the door back
den's thinking that Jake had come back for some forgotten
last word. Of course I tried the door first, but it was locked,
as I had expected. He did open the door-wide, as I had
hoped, and before he could prevent me I slipped in.”
"Glad to see you?” McMann cut in sarcastically.
"No," the woman answered simply. "But—he did agree
to talk with me. We sat here—at his desk—" and the beau-
tiful voice faltered, broke.
"Borden opened the door between the two offices for
you, I suppose?” McMann suggested casually.
"Yes-of course! He was willing to talk things over,
as I told you."
"Then how do you account for your finger-prints on the
door between?” McMann sprung his trap.
The woman looked confused, then confident again. "I
remember! When I came out of this office-Harry did not
accompany me to the outer door—I felt dizzy, ill with re-
lief and joy—and I leaned for a moment against the door,
throwing up one hand against the glass panel to steady
myself.”
Again McMann looked so chagrined that Ruth could
have laughed, although Jack Hayward seemed farther than
ever from being cleared of the charge of murder which
might be officially lodged against him at any moment.
"So you were dizzy with joy, eh?” McMann grunted at
last. “What was the good news?”
"Harry-Mr. Borden-had agreed to establish a trust
fund for our son, promised me that he would take it up
with his lawyer the next day, or Monday at the latest,"
Martha Manning answered. "He did not live to do so."
“So” McMann leaned forward, and leveled a menac-
ing, triumphant forefinger at the woman-"you called him
on the telephone on Saturday morning and again about
half past one, just to tell him how happy you were, I
suppose? . . . Wait! No use thinking up another good
lie! I'll not mince words with you, Miss Manning! I don't
believe a word of this fine yarn you've spun to account


250
THE BLACK PIGEON
for these finger-prints of yours! In some way—I'll find out
how, all right!-you knew when Borden and Bailey en-
tered the building, and when Bailey left it, but when I
get hold of Jake Bailey I'll be able to knock your pretty
story into a cocked hat—”
As if the detective's words had been endowed with
magic, the communicating door opened at that precise
moment, and Birdwell's weary, bored voice announced:
"Jake Bailey is here, sir. He wants to know if he can
be of any help, he says”
"He's damned right he can!” McMann exploded. "Show
him in!”
A short, broad-shouldered man, his face composed of a
set of battered, unmatching features, on which a genial
smile set oddly, swaggered into the room, his surprisingly
falsetto greeting accompanying an enormous hand thrust
out toward the detective in charge of the investigation into
the murder of Henry P. Borden.
"Hello, Cap! Seen in the papers where my buddy, Harry
Borden, got bumped off, and that you was anxious to have
a chat with me. Anything I can do— Well, I guess you
don't need me after all, Cap!” he broke off, when, on
reaching Borden's desk and shaking hands heartily with
McMann, he got a full view of the face of the woman
whose back had been turned toward him as he entered the
room. “So—you got him, did you? Minute my back was
turned—”
“Just a minute, Bailey!” McMann interrupted sharply.
"You identify this woman?”
"Sure I know her! Harry hisself pointed her out to me
not a week after he took me on to look after him. “Jake,'
he says, 'take a good look at that woman and don't let
her get any nearer to me than she is now, or you'll lose
your job, Jake,' he says"
"When and where was this?” McMann interrupted im-
patiently.
"Now—lemme see!” Jake Bailey laid his gray derby on
het week now he woman), McMa.


THE BLACK PIGEON
251
his dead employer's desk and scratched his wet-combed
brown head. "Must a-been 'long about the middle of No-
vember, for I had my last bout with Battlin' Demon on
November tent'-a frame-up it was, too, Cap, I'll take
my Bible oath! All right, Cap! Keep your shirt on!” he
admonished the detective genially. “But you ast, didn't
you? Well, it must a-been about the middle of November,
then, and me and Harry was walkin' along Fifth Avenoo
when Harry pipes this dame gittin' off a bus. She makes
like she's gonna speak to him or bust, and then he says
to me, Harry says,”
"Yes, you've already told that!” McMann interrupted
impatiently. “Did she speak to him?”
"Say, Cap!” Jake Bailey grinned broadly. "Harry hopped
into a taxi so quick I almost got left!"
"Did you ever see her again?”
"Sure! Christmas Eve. That bird that putters around
Harry's apartment went to the bootlegger's downstairs and
left the door unlatched, and first thing me and Harry
knew-in the bedroom we was—there she was, no shame
at all-busting in on a man what's changin' his clothes!”
At that expression of Jake's outraged modesty, Martha
Manning laughed—a queer, startling blend of scorn and
ironic amusement.
“Yeah! You can laugh, can't you?" Jake Bailey's little
greenish-blue eyes glared at her with hatred. "You got him
-jist like he thought you would, and now you laugh!”
Martha Manning's brown eyes swept him scornfully, as
if he were an obnoxious insect, and dropped to the now
if he were ands in her lapis charge you What founwledge
in herious inseeyes swend now You Sor little
Mission on this
"Jake, this is a serious charge you're making against
Miss Manning,” the detective began. “What foundation
have you for this charge? Have you personal knowledge
of Miss Manning's guilt?”
"Personal knowledge-hell!” the ex-pugilist retorted.
"If you mean— did I see her do it?-no! I left town Fri-
day night and jist got back-"


252
THE BLACK PIGEON
"Before we go into your own whereabouts on Saturday,
when Borden was killed,” McMann interrupted, "sup-
pose you tell me exactly what happened on Christmas Eve,
between Miss Manning and Harry Borden.”
"Well, like I said-me and Harry was in Harry's bed-
room, when in she walks, bold as brass. 'Harry,' she says,
‘it's Christmas! Aren't you going to give me—and the
boy—a Christmas present?' she says, and by that time
Harry was at her, tryin' to walk her right back out of
his room. But she hung back-like a wildcat she was—
and she keeps whinin' something about not wantin' nothin'
for Christmas but his promise to git a divorce and marry
her, like he promised-oh, no! She didn't want nothin'
much!” he laughed sarcastically.
"And then? Borden struck her on the mouth?” McMann
prompted impatiently.
Something like a blush ran over the scrambled features
of the ex-pugilist. “We-ell, Cap,” he admitted reluctantly,
"I reckon that was me. Harry was payin' me a good sal’ry
to pertect him, wasn't he? I jist done my duty-'at's all!
But I never hit her till she snatched open her handbag-
like she was reachin' for a gun—and Harry yelled at me
to help him.”
"And did she have one?”
"No," the dead man's efficient bodyguard admitted.
"Reckon she was after a picture of the kid she had in her
bag. Had 'Merry Christmas for my Dad' wrote on it—"
It was not a laugh this time that told that Jake Bailey's
words had struck home. It was a long-drawn "Oh!” of
infinite misery, so heart-rending that Ruth Lester invol-
untarily leaned forward and patted those tight-locked
hands whose message she had not yet had time to read.
"And after you knocked her out?” McMann prodded
his witness.
"Well, me and Harry fixed her up with some brandy,
and I took her down and put her in a taxi. Paid for it,
too,” the ex-pugilist added virtuously.


THE BLACK PIGEON
253
"And did Borden later intimate to you that he feared
this woman would kill him?"
Martha Manning raised her head then and stared steadily
at the man who leaned nonchalantly against her dead
lover's desk.
“Sure!" came the emphatic answer in a cracking fal-
setto. "He said he'd a-swore she was gonna croak him that
time, and he bet she'd do it yet—"°
"So you offered to put her out of the way for him,
didn't you?” McMann asked casually, after a glance at
the notes he had made on the story of Frank Ashe, Bor-
den's manservant.
"Well, I didn't, so it won't be me ’at'll sit in the chair,"
Bailey retorted.
"And did you see Miss Manning again?" McMann pur-
sued his questioning
“Naw-guess she laid low and waited till I was out of
town,” Bailey answered.
“You didn't see her on Friday night?"
"No, I left town on Friday night, like I told you.”
"But you were with Borden before you left?”
"Sure I was. I went with him to the Crillon, a swell
feed joint, and waited outside while he et with his new
sweetie, that classy little dancer he picked up at the Golden
Slipper. 'Bout half past six it was when he met her there,
and around eight when him and her come out. He put
the frail in a taxi, and promised to see her at the Golden
Slipper about ten, before her act went on at eleven. She
wouldn't let him drive over to her hotel with her-always
acted pretty ritzy with him—that dame did. So him and
me hopped into another cab and come on over to his office.
Said he was dopin' out a new scheme and wanted to work
awhile before goin' to the Golden Slipper."
"And did you come up with him?”
"Sure! Harry wouldn't go into his own office at night
alone, if he could help it. Scared some sucker who was sore
at him because he'd lost his money might be layin' for
Ofriday nighfore you deilión, a Swew


254
THE BLACK PIGEON
him, or this dame here,” and Jake jerked his head toward
Martha Manning. “I come up all right, and we set here
awhile, chewin' the rag-told me about this dancin' baby
he was gonna take to Winter Heaven with him Saturday,
if he could get her boss to let her off.”
"How long were you with Borden?”
"Oh, 'bout half an hour, I guess," Jake answered read-
ily. "I didn't have nothin' to do but kill time before my
train left from the Grand Central-nine twenty-four, that
was. Must a-been 'round nine when I beat it-sure, that's
when it was! Eight fifty-five! I remember asking the
elevator man what time it was, when he shoved his book
at me to sign out. They make you write down the time
and your name and the office you've been in.”
"Please, Mr. McMann, may I ask a question?” Ruth
spoke for the first time since Jake Bailey had entered the
room. "I've just been wondering how Mr. Borden got into
his office, since he'd given his key to Rita Dubois Friday
afternoon and never did get it back.”
"That's right!” McMann agreed, rather ungraciously.
He did not enjoy having been caught napping. "How
did Borden get in, Jake?”
"Check, kid!” and Jake touched his forehead in a salute
to Ruth. “Harry didn't remember till he got to his door
that he didn't have no key, and since I never had none
myself, he had to hunt up one of the old janes that cleans
the offices to let him in with her passkey. He couldn't find
the old lady that took care of his office reg'lar, and had
to prove who he was by showin' a letter with his name on
it to the woman I scouted around and found for him.”
"Hmm! Letty Miller, I suppose. She's the only other
cleaning woman on the floor,” McMann commented, as he
made a note. “Where did you find her?”
"Down the hall,” Bailey answered promptly. "Said she
wasn't acquainted with the tenants on this corridor, but
was jist helpin' out the old lady who belongs on this part
of the floor.”
wasn't win the where did
of as jist heb ainted Bailey ar


256
THE BLACK PIGEON
you left Borden, and then immediately knocked on Bor-
den's door, counting on his thinking it was you, returned
for a last word.”
"Hell!” Bailey spat contemptuously. "Claims Borden
let her in-pretty and polite as you please, does she? Ho!
Not Harry! Not this dame! He'd as soon let a wildcat
in ”
"Mr. Borden carelessly opened the door wide, thinking
it was you,” Martha answered him calmly. "You just
told Mr. McMann that you kept a sharp eye out for me,
lest I follow Mr. Borden, and that you did not see me
again after Christmas Eve. That's correct, isn't it, Mister
Bailey?”
The man glared at her. "Well—what of it?"
"I couldn't have passed very close to you on the street
without your seeing me?” she persisted.
"Not on your life!”
"Then—" the lovely contralto voice vibrated with tri-
umph, "I think I can convince both you and Mr. McMann
that I watched you from the head of the stairs on Friday
night!”


CHAPTER XXIII
66 ALL right, Miss Manning,” Detective Sergeant Mc-
A Mann urged impatiently, as the woman's blazing
brown eyes swept dramatically from Jake Bailey to him-
self.
"The stairway door, Mr. Bailey, if you don't happen to
have noticed,” Martha Manning began quietly, "is next
to the elevator. As you waited for the elevator to take you
down, I had ample time to note—with some amusement
-your taste in shirts and cravats.”
Is that so?" Jake Bailey snarled. “What's wrong with
'em?” and he looked down at the blue-and-white striped
shirt and plain black necktie he was wearing at the mo-
ment—the latter obviously a tribute to his dead employer.
"Nothing—with those you have on," Martha Manning
smiled. “But Friday night you were wearing a shirt with
broad purple stripes, and a bright red cravat. The color
combination was-rather noisy."
"Were you wearing such a shirt and tie on Friday night,
Bailey?” McMann demanded, and Ruth Lester knew from
his frown that he was deeply chagrined.
"Well—what if I was?" 'Bailey retorted, his scrambled
features as red as the tie Martha Manning had accused him
of wearing.
"I suppose you yourself have an alibi for Saturday,
Bailey?” McMann changed tactics suddenly.
"Alibi? What t’ell do I need with an alibi?” Jake splut-
tered. “I left town Friday night at 9:24—went to visit
my folks up near Brewster. They live on a farm, and I
guess at least ten people can tell you that Jake Bailey, the
famous prizefighter, was spending Saturday, Sunday and
257


258
THE BLACK PIGEON
Monday with his family. I'd 'a' beat it home sooner, but I
didn't see a city paper till this morning, and then I took
the first train.”
"Just give me the names of a few of those ten people,"
McMann suggested, and Jake Bailey promptly obliged.
"You can go now, Jake,” McMann said, when that for-
mality was concluded, "but don't leave town. Where are
you going to live, now that Borden is dead?”
"Back to the Mills Hotel for Jake, I guess,” the ex-
pugilist admitted ruefully. "Sure, I'll keep in touch with
you, Cap,” he added, with his former geniality. Then “And
say, Cap, don't let this dame pull the wool over your eyes.
Take a tip from Jake Baileyshe got Harry!”
When the man had swaggered out of the office, McMann
gave an order to Detective Birdwell: "Bring in Rita Du-
bois. She's in Covey's charge down the hall.” Then, re-
turning to his desk and his inquisition of Martha Manning,
he asked the question which Ruth had been expecting him
to ask for the last hour: “Miss Manning, where were you
on Saturday afternoon? You've said your work at the
hotel switchboard keeps you only till half past eleven each
morning. Account for your time after that, please.”
"I did what I do every afternoon,” Miss Manning an-
swered calmly, though Ruth saw that again the thin, age-
revealing hands were twisting nervously in the lap of the
red crêpe dress. "I—walked. My doctor's orders are that
I spend at least half the day in the open air. He says it
is my only chance to conquer the-lung condition.” Again
her voice and manner made it clear that she was not asking
or wanting sympathy.
McMann tapped on the edge of Borden's desk with his
pencil. Then: "If I remember correctly—and I think I
do—Saturday was a very cold and windy day.”
"But the sun was shining,” Miss Manning reminded him
quickly.
"Where did you walk? And how long?”
"I had lunch first-milk and fruit and rolls-in my


THE BLACK PIGEON 259
ing lady would be caly, the compleasant; t from Irehen?"
The line?” A Minnie Cashe had been hout. "And In a minuta
room at the Acropolis, and then I walked the streets until
about half past one, when I went into a drug store to tele-
phone to Mr. Borden.”
"Which drug store?” McMann caught her up sharply.
Promptly she gave the name of one of the busiest drug
stores in the downtown district.
"And talked with Borden?” McMann suggested, with
an effect of casualness.
"No," Martha Manning smiled slightly. "A woman with
an Irish brogue answered the phone. Said she was the 'clean-
ing lady,' that Mr. Borden had just stepped out for a min-
ute, but would be right back, and please, wouldn't I hold
the line?" Amazingly, the contralto voice was gone, and
in its place Minnie Cassidy's pleasant, cracked old voice,
rich with the brogue she had brought from Ireland.
Ruth smiled, but McMann did not. “And-then?”
Martha Manning resumed her own voice. "In a minute
or two, the 'cleaning lady' told me that Mr. Borden would
not talk then, but wanted me to call him again in fifteen
or twenty minutes.”
"And you said—” McMann leveled a forefinger at her
and narrowed his gray eyes to slits~"you said: "Tell Mr.
Borden that if he is wise he will talk to me when I call
again. Your last warning, wasn't it, Miss Manning?"
"If you wish to call it that,” the woman shrugged.
"What I meant was that, if he did not keep his promise to
establish a trust fund for our son, I would go through with
the suit to make him support the child, as I had threatened
on Friday night.”
"And yet” McMann pounced-"you were so dizzy
with joy and relief when you went out of this office Fri-
day night that you had to lean against the door for sup-
port! How do you account for your sudden change of
heart?”
The great, dark eyes suddenly looked utterly weary. "I
was—afraid he had promised just to get rid of me on Fri-
day night. I wanted to talk with him again, to ask him if


260
THE BLACK PIGEON
he had seen his lawyer, as he had promised he would, or
had made the appointment to do so.”
Birdwell opened the door. "Here's Miss Dubois, chief.”
"Have her wait out there till I call for her,” McMann di-
rected impatiently. “Now, Miss Manning, why didn't you
call Borden fifteen or twenty minutes later? Why did you
waait until aftehing the womamas fear of meas they did. vait
vas, you arou deter hered that from Be
Ruth, watching the woman closely, her own heart beat-
ing heavily, wondered if it was fear or merely indignation
which made those great dark eyes dilate as they did.
"After two?” Miss Manning repeated. “I did not wait
until after two! I called at five minutes of two, and Mr.
Borden answered the phone himself. He again promised to
see his lawyer Monday~"
"Just a minute!” McMann cut in sharply. “Suppose I
tell you what happened! You came to the Starbridge Build-
ing to see Borden again, after you'd made your first call”
"That's not true!” the woman cried.
"Shut up and listen to me!” the detective commanded
harshly. "You came here, knocked on Borden's door, he
asked who it was, you answered, he recognized your voice,
refused to admit you, you determined to see him or talk
with him somehow; you remembered that John C. Hay-
ward's offices lie directly across the airshaft from Borden's;
you went to his door, possibly to ask him to let you use
his phone, even to solicit his aid in forcing an interview
for you with Borden—"
"No, no! That's not true! None of it is true!” Martha
Manning cried passionately, rising from her chair in her
excitement.
The detective's mighty voice ploughed through her pro-
testations: "You didn't find Hayward in, but because his
cleaning woman was careless, you found his door unlocked,
entered, telephoned Borden, quarreled violently with him
from a few minutes after two until two ten, learned that
he would do nothing for you—Wait!” He commanded
roughly, and with ruthless hands forced the agitated woman
his door uniuse his
ates after 1, quarreled


262
THE BLACK PIGEON
"I thunter acquaint, practically nostrils and
ning replied calmly, and named it. "And I called at five
minutes to two, as I told you. After my conversation with
Mr. Borden, I was sure he would do as he had promised,
and I went directly to Central Park, where I walked or sat
on benches reading, until half past four, when I returned
to the Acropolis arriving about fifteen or twenty minutes
to five.”
"Any proof that you were in the park? See any one you
knew?” McMann asked sarcastically.
Martha Manning smiled—that strange, ironic smile that
deepened the bitter lines between nostrils and mouth cor-
ners. "A lone woman, practically friendless, is not likely
to encounter acquaintances in the park.”
"I thought so!” McMann commented with grim ambi-
guity. Then he strode to the door and curtly requested
Rita Dubois to enter.
The little dancer showed signs of the strain under which
she had lived during at least twenty-four hours, but there
was a trace of the old jauntiness as she sauntered into the
room.
"Old home week for Handsome Harry's sweeties, n'est
ce pas?" she laughed, as her bright, young, black eyes took
in the older woman.
"You recognize Miss Manning?” McMann asked quickly.
"No-just a natural conclusion,” the dancer informed
him. “Keep your seat, Baby-face," she grinned at Ruth
Lester, who had risen to offer her chair. "I'm sure Mr. Mc-
Mann won't keep me long."
She was right. In a series of rapid questions McMann
elicited the following story from the dancer, regarding
Friday night: She had had dinner at the Crillon with Bor-
den, and had seen Jake Bailey join her "suitor” on the
sidewalk before the restaurant. Borden had joined her at
ten o'clock at the Golden Slipper, and had arranged with
the manager for her to have the night off on Saturday, so
that she could go away with Borden on the week-end trip
to Winter Heaven. Borden had had to pay in advance for


THE BLACK PIGEON
265
been fetched by the detective himself and stood beside
Benny's trembling, hot, right hand.
"Well, sir,” Benny began, after a strange, wistful look
out of his fever-reddened eyes at Ruth Lester, who waited
with pencil poised, as tears dropped upon her notebook,
"I lied yesterday when I said I didn't come back. I did
come back, but nobody didn't see me, 'cause I walked up.”
"Why did you walk up, Benny?” McMann interrupted.
« 'Cause I was sore at Mr. Borden, 'n I—I wanted to
have it out with him," Benny answered, his adolescent
voice going suddenly soprano on the last word.
“What were you sore about?”
" 'Cause he-he bawled me out!” Benny cried, rolling
his head from side to side against the brown leather back
of the chair.
"Isn't it true that you were more sore at him because
he'd 'got fresh' with Miss Lester Saturday morning?” the
detective suggested.
“You keep Ruth's name outa this!” Benny protested
shrilly. "I tell you—I was sore at Mr. Borden 'cause he
was always pickin' on me, 'n' Saturday he talked to me like
a dog, jist 'cause I wanted to borrow Ruth's pistol for target
practice.”
"Then you were also lying when you said the pistol was
not in Miss Lester's desk when you returned the first time
--at half past one?” McMann asked.
"Naw-it wasn't there. 'N' say, I didn't come back up
the second time to kill him—"
"But you walked up six flights of stairs so you would
not be seen entering the building,” McMann pointed out
grimly. "Listen, Benny, now that you're confessing, make
a clean breast of everything. Your actions prove you pre-
meditated murder.”
"No, I didn't!” Benny denied, his head rolling wildly
against the chair back.
"Well-go on,” McMann directed resignedly.
"I come back, like I said, 'n' opened the door with my


266
THE BLACK PIGEON
Thep To Ruths, phone, remembich Bill Hayward's Rita's
key,” Benny began rapidly, and was again interrupted by
McMann.
"At just what time?”
"I—" Benny looked pitifully confused. “I don't know
exactly. 'Bout two o'clock, I reckon—".
"Then,” McMann said parenthetically and trium-
phantly to Ruth, “my theory that Rita Dubois robbed the
body is correct.” Then, remembering the mysterious tele-
phone call, a fragment of which Bill Cowan had said
he overheard when he had called Jack Hayward's num-
ber at 2:10 and was plugged in on a busy line, and Rita's
corroborating story of Borden's line being busy from 2:05
to 2:15, the detective asked: “Have you any way of fixing
the exact time of your second return, Benny?”
The boy looked at the detective suspiciously, even fear-
fully, Ruth thought-though what could he fear now,
after confessing? “Naw, I don't know, I tell you, but it
was about two o'clock. ’At's all I know. I unlocked the
door and come in, and Mr. Borden was settin' at his desk,
'n' I-I come right in here, 'n' wewe had a row—”
"What about?” the detective interrupted sharply.
"Aw-jist about him pickin' on me, 'n'-everything!
'N' he picked up a-” his fevered eyes roved over the desk
and lighted upon the glass ink well, empty now, since
McMann had used its contents with which to take Martha
Manning's finger-prints—"that there ink well and started
to throw it at me, 'n' I grabbed Ruth's gun,"
"Wait! Just where was this gun?” McMann cut in.
"Layin' on the desk,” Benny answered. “Right-right
here!” and he laid his hand in the center of the big green
blotter. “The big stiff tried to beat me to it—'n' I thought
he was goin' to shoot me"
"After hitting you with the ink well?” McMann asked
mildly.
"He he put the ink well down,” Benny amended des-
perately. “'N' -I pulled the trigger, 'thout knowin'
what I was doin', 'n'-'n' the gun went off—'n' 'at's all!”


272
THE BLACK PIGEON
"I suppose some lip-reading detective has already made
a note of my slip of the tongue and if McMann is ever
bumped off, I'll be accused of the crime. But cut along,
sweetheart! I promise to be good!”
Ruth "cut along” rapidly, describing with wry humor
the various tilts between Martha Manning and Jake Bailey,
Borden's bodyguard.
"But against his will,” she concluded, "Jake did do Miss
Manning a good turn. His professional pride would not
let him admit that Martha could have been close enough
to him on the street so that she could see the pattern of
his shirt and tie, without his seeing her. So it all boils down
to this: Bailey himself, much as he hates Miss Man-
ning, because he believes she killed his boss, corroborated
her story of having been in the Starbridge Building Friday
night, from about half past eight till a few minutes past
nine.”
"A few minutes past nine?” Jack repeated thoughtfully.
"And she says she walked down the stairs and out of the
lobby at that time?”
Sudden comprehension illumined Ruth's lovely face. "I
see what you mean! Why didn't I think of that before?
That's just when the little army of cleaning women and
porters is pouring out of the building. I've seen them a
dozen times, at least. They're through work at nine. I'll
speak to Mr. McMann as soon as I get back to the office"
Jack interrupted, grinning: “I thought you were con-
ducting this investigation, young lady! Why not make in-
quiries yourself? Mrs. Pellow, the grand old dowager in
charge of the cleaning women, must be in the building
now. She comes on about two o'clock, I think, and acts
as a sort of housekeeper for the building, even before the
cleaning women come on. Let's have a go at her, darling.
Now- eat every leaf of that salad, or Papa spank!”
Ruth obeyed, but now and then a puzzled frown knit
her golden-brown brows, and her brooding blue eyes dark-
ened almost to sapphire.


THE BLACK PIGEON 275
minute. You 'check out the cleaning women as they leave
every evening, don't you—about nine o'clock?”
"I certainly do!” Mrs. Pellow agreed emphatically. "And
just let one of those old girls try to slip past me with any-
thing they haven't got a right to! Why, just before Christ-
mas-day before Christmas Eve, it was—I caught one old
lady trying to sneak out with a satchel full of Christmas
presents she'd swiped from—".
"Oh, how awful!” Ruth interrupted, with apparently
deep sympathy for Mrs. Pellow's troubles. “You stand in
the lobby and check them out, don't you?”
"Yes, miss, I do! Every single night in the week, from
nine o'clock till they're all gone, and Saturdays from four
till the building's clear.”
"You were on duty Friday night, weren't you, Mrs.
Pellow?”
"I certainly was! But none of my cleaning women stole
any gun out of your office, Miss Lester! I'll take my oath
on that!” Mrs. Pellow bridled.
"Oh, I didn't think that for a minute!” Ruth disclaimed.
"But, please, Mrs. Pellow, if you were in the lobby from
nine o'clock till—”
"Nine twenty-five!” Mrs. Pellow interrupted. “And the
time clock will prove my words!”
"Then, please, Mrs. Pellow, did you see a woman-
not one of the cleaning women, but a visitor in the build-
ing, come out of the stairway door and leave the building
Friday evening between nine and nine twenty-five?” Ruth
finished her question breathlessly, while her heart beat fast.
Mrs. Pellow's answer came promptly: "No, miss, I'd
take my Bible oath no woman visitor or any other visitor
or tenant come out of the stairway door between nine and
nine twenty-five Friday night.”
But Ruth persisted, describing Martha Manning accur-
ately. Again she received the same positive denial. “There
wasn't any such woman in our lobby Friday night at the
time you say.”


276
THE BLACK PIGEON
strong The doors kep No freight, afrom Mrs. Piektion, Ruth
"What about the stairs beside the service elevator?"
Jack thought to ask, and for a moment Ruth felt dashed.
But at Mrs. Pellow's answer hope flowed back, full and
strong: "No way for a woman to get in or out of them
stairs. The door's kept locked after six, when the elevator
man goes off duty. No freight accepted after six.”
When Ruth and Jack escaped from Mrs. Pellow's own
eager questions as to the progress of the investigation, Ruth
said thoughtfully: "I think that proves pretty conclusively
that Martha Manning was lying about Friday night, that
she must have been here Saturday afternoon instead or
how could her finger-prints have been on the glass panel
of the door? But if she was here Saturday, how could she
have managed both her entrance and exit without being
seen by any one? She's not a ghost, even if she is almost as
thin as one-oh!” and she broke off her spoken reflections
with a sharp gasp.
"Old subconscious working at last?" Jack' teased, just
as the elevator door opened for them.
of the door? But if her entrance and
if she is almost as


CHAPTER XXV
6VES-old subconscious working at last, darling!”
I Ruth answered, when the elevator had discharged
them at the seventh floor. Her cheeks were rose-pink with
excitement and her eyes were shining like blue diamonds,
but even if she had wanted to confide in her sweetheart, the
inevitable group of reporters clustered about Borden's door
would have prevented her.
Throwing Jack Hayward a brilliant smile by way of
farewell—a smile destined to grace the front page of an
extra a few hours later,Ruth slipped into her office, or
rather the office which had been hers until her employer
had been murdered.
She found Detective Birdwell with his feet on Benny
Smith's desk, his black derby tilted low over his perpetu-
ally weary eyes. At the girl's entrance, down came the
feet and off came the derby, but the expression of bored
gloom on the detective's face deepened.
"Has anything happened?” Ruth asked, as she hung up
hat and coat, and fluffed her golden curls before the wash-
stand mirror.
"Oh, nothing much,” Birdwell drawled wearily. "Noth-
ing except that Commissioner Weeks has been here hand-
ing out nice, hot little samples of hell. You'd think, to
hear that guy talk, that nobody hadn't done nothing but
twiddle their thumbs or play tiddledy winks since you
stumbled over Borden's stiff yesterday morning. As the
chief says to him," and Birdwell jerked his head toward
Borden's private office, where McMann was presumably
hard at work,” he says: 'Give us time, Commissioner. We
ain't been on this job thirty hours yet,' he says, and the
277


280
THE BLACK PIGEON
"Nothing to Martha Manning's child?” Ruth inter-
rupted.
"Not a red!” McMann answered. "I've just told you
that a man's will is a good index to his character. A bastard
more or less didn't seem to bother 'Handsome Harry. At
any rate, he makes no provision for the child that Miss
Manning claims is his. Maybe he had good cause to ques-
tion his paternity, but I doubt it. I'd stake my hope of
promotion for solving this case on that woman's telling
the truth-so far as the kid is concerned, at least.”
"I agree with you,” Ruth said soberly. “Did Mr. Bor-
den leave a large estate?”
"About a million and a quarter, according to Walters,
though the will simply says, 'More than $10,000.' The usual
thing, you know,” McMann answered. “Of course I asked
Walters if Mrs. Borden knew either the extent of her hus-
band's wealth or the disposition made of it in his will
and he answered 'no' to both questions. She must have been
pretty sure, however, that whatever her husband had would
come to her and her children, but since Borden was giving
them five hundred a month, I'm afraid we'll have to look
elsewhere for a motive that will hold water.”
"Mrs. Borden did not kill her husband,” Ruth stated
quietly.
"You seem pretty sure-oh, all right, Birdwell! What
is it?” as his subordinate appeared in the doorway.
"Captain Foster on the wire, sir. Wants to talk with
you."
While McMann was arguing and expostulating with his
immediate superior, who had evidently just been heckled
by his superior, Commissioner Weeks, Ruth sat staring at
the airshaft window, smiling strangely, her chin resting
on her interlocked hands. McMann, glancing at her once
or twice for approval of the way he was "standing up”
to the police captain, saw to his amazement that she was
not even listening!
Something did arouse her out of her smiling abstraction,


CHAPTER XXVI
D UTH'S attention was wholly diverted now from her
N own secret schemes and hopes. "The strangest clause
ever written into a last will and testament?" she repeated.
"The tabloids will eat this up,” McMann grinned. "Well
—this is the clause, shorn of the fancy legal trimmings
that Walters is so crazy about: In the event of his death
by foul play-murder, manslaughter or simple homicide,
as the case may be, Henry P. Borden bequeathes the sum
of $5000 to the person or persons instrumental in bringing
his murderer to justice. . : . Now what do you think of
that?”
What Ruth thought was temporarily beyond the power
of words to express, but the detective seemed content with
her wide-eyed amazement.
"No, sir, I never heard of a man so obsessed with the
idea that he's going to be bumped off that he took care of
the reward in his will,” McMann commented. Then, chuck-
ling: "I'm beginning to like that man! I can use five grand.
The wife's been deviling me to make a down payment on a
house in Floral Park "
The girl ruthlessly interrupted the detective's happy
counting of his chicks before they were hatched. “Did the
lawyer say who it was that Mr. Borden feared would mur-
der him?"
"I asked him, of course,” McMann assured her, “but
Walters says he named no names, just made a great point
of getting that clause in exactly right. I asked him if he
thought Borden had the Manning woman in mind, but he
said he frankly didn't know—that Borden had told him
of receiving a number of death-threat letters from suckers
who'd lost their life savings in his get-rich-quick schemes,
284


THE BLACK PIGEON
287
up, almost apologetically. “Mrs. Borden had already got
her check. No reason at all for her to come back and
shoot her husband, because he'd said a sarcastic word or
two to make her cry. Besides, the elevator boys swear she
didn't come back, and I can't see her walking all the way
up six flights of stairs, with cold blooded murder in her
heart—especially since it's pretty evident that she loved
her husband, rotten though he was. Hayward's the only sus-
pect left, now that the office boy is out of the picture. And
speaking of Benny reminds me of a bad turn the poor kid
did you when he was willing to confess to murder to help
you.”
Ruth was startled. "Benny? What do you mean?"
“Just this,” the detective began slowly, with dreadful
significance. "I think the kid was telling about as much
truth as lies. What became of your gun and who closed
this airshaft window "
"I thought you had explained that, satisfactorily to your-
self at least,” Ruth interrupted spiritedly, "by demonstra-
ing that Jack could have closed it from his own window by
using the window-pole.”
The detective grinned. "It would have been a good trick
-and maybe that's how it was done. But let's suppose
that Benny did come back Saturday afternoon—a second
time, I mean.”
"To murder Mr. Borden?” Ruth asked scornfully.
"Oh, no! For the same reason he came back the first
time—to borrow your gun for target practice. I don't be-
lieve it was gone out of your desk when he came back the
first time, but that Borden bawled him out for meddling
in your desk and sent him packing-just as both Benny
and Minnie have said. But Benny knew Borden was going
to Winter Heaven on the 2:15. Not knowing Borden had
been killed, the kid sneaks back, and walks up the stairs
as he said he did, so that he won't be seen and questioned,
possibly caught with the stolen gun. He has his key. He
comes in, finds the gun gone, and goes into Borden's office


288
THE BLACK PIGEON
to see if it is there. He finds Borden dead, and the gun
some distance away. No powder burns on the man's
vest, so the kid, used to firearms as he undoubtedly is,
knows that Borden had not committed suicide. He thinks
first of you. I third-degreed it out of him yesterday that
he had overheard Borden making love to you and your
scream. He thinks you did it, and takes the gun to pro-
tect you. Then he notices the open window and wonders
if it could have been Hayward, who, he knows, has seen
and overheard the love-making and scream business, too.
Furthermore, Micky Moran has admitted that he told
Benny, on the kid's first return, about your scene with
Hayward at the elevator at one twenty, when Hayward
again threatened Borden's life. He closes the window-in
case it had been Hayward who did it—Hayward whom
you're in love with, and who must therefore be protected,
too. With your gun accounted for, and the closing of the
window, and with Rita to rob the dead body of the money
that was missing, I can't see a flaw in my case against Hay-
ward-and I'm mighty sorry, for your sake.”
Ruth brushed aside his sympathy. “And you think you
can force Benny to admit to being an accessory after the
fact, when he was so anxious to protect me and the man
I love that he would confess to murder?”
McMann shrugged. "I've simply laid all my cards on
the table. I wanted you to know why it is my duty to
arrest John C. Hayward for the murder of Harry Borden.”
The girl went very white. There was no mirth, no as-
sumed meekness in her eyes or voice now. She rose, and
steadied her trembling body against the desk. “Mr. Mc-
Mann, you've been so good-so wonderfully kind to me.
Won't you please grant me one more favor? Won't you
promise not to arrest Jack before five o'clock today? I
can't explain now, but if you will let me leave here now,
with permission to be gone not more than one hour, I
promise you will not be sorry.”
The girl's intense earnestness apparently touched the
that was.md I'm mile his sympre ting are a me and


THE BLACK PIGEON
289
hard-bitten detective. “One hour? ... All right, Miss
Lester, but on condition that you do not go to the hospital
and do any more vamping on poor Benny."
"I promise. And thank you with all my heart!” Ruth
smiled through sudden tears.
"Where you going? Not going to try to take that five
2 thousand away from a poor, hard-working detective, are
you?” McMann grinned.
“If I do, I'll give you half—for helping me so much!”
she laughed, and ran.
It was a quarter past three when Ruth Lester left the
Starbridge Building on her unexplained mission, and just
four o'clock when she returned, her cheeks rose-pink again,
her eyes luminous with victory. Just outside the entrance
to the building she paused, and took from the pocket of
her dress the four tightly folded sheets of what she had
ruefully admitted to Detective Birdwell sounded “a lot
like fiction.” In a blank space on the first page, opposite
the numeral 4, she wrote in the answer to the questions
which she had gone out to ask. ...
"And again it is proved truth is stranger than fic-
tion,'” she murmured exultingly, as she refolded the typed
sheets and returned them to her pocket.
In the lobby of the Starbridge Building she ran plump
into just such a bit of drama as every New Yorker lives
in the hope of witnessing and so seldom does. A uniformed
policeman and a plainclothes detective-one of McMann's
innumerable assistants on the Borden case-were struggling
with a frenzied young man, a quite magnificent young
man of crow-black hair, jet eyes, perfect features, olive
skin and immeasurably elegant clothes. A young man who
was cursing violently in a foreign language.
"What is the matter?” Ruth cried, above the hubbub,
and the detective, who had just succeeded in linking his
wrist with that of the foreigner, volunteered the answer:
"A bird the whole department's been looking for, Miss
Lester, and we find him here! Yes, ma'am! Walked in not


290
THE BLACK PIGEON
five minutes ago, and I spotted him. When I told him the
police want him, he draws a gun on me-says he come
to kill his wife, that Dubois dame, for two-timing him
with Borden. ... Here, you! That's my arm you're jerk-
ing out of its socket! Come along quiet now, Romero, or
I'll bash your pretty patent-leather head in!”
Ramon Romero! Rita Dubois' dancing partner at the
Golden Slipper and her husband! Dazed, Ruth Lester
followed the trio into the elevator, the crowd having been
roughly forced back by the uniformed policeman.
When the elevator doors opened at the seventh floor,
Ruth ran ahead to open the door to Borden's suite, for
Ramon Romero's frantic efforts to escape were occupying
the entire attention of both the policeman and the detec-
tive.
In a chair drawn up to the large "library” table in the
center of Borden's reception room, the exhausted body of
a woman half sat, half lay, her head resting on the table,
her arms outflung in a gesture of infinite' weariness. And
crouching over her, so that the breath of his menacing
words stirred the dark, disheveled hair, was Detective Ser-
geant McMann.
"Sure I'll let you rest, and I'll let you eat and I'll let
you have a drink, when you come clean, Rita! You robbed
Borden's dead body! That's all I'm accusing you of! That's
all! Come on now, Rita-get it over with!”
Neither Rita Dubois nor the detective had heard Ruth's
almost noiseless opening of the door, but when a moment
later, Ramon Romero, dragged to the door by his captors,
spat out a foreign oath, the girl's body became electrified,
was out of the chair too quickly for human eyes to take
in each of her cat-like movements.
"Ramon! Oh, my God! Now they've got you!"
The too-handsome, swarthy face of the prisoner became
convulsed with hatred as his eyes took in the horror-stricken
face of his wife, but McMann roughly interrupted the tor-
1, let
homer18 of the der Per Ding yoou


THE BLACK PIGEON 293
Before Rita could reply, Birdwell interrupted to say
he had Madame Rosenstein on the wire. The detective ser-
geant, after identifying himself, put his questions with a
brutal conciseness and rapidity that must have been a
severe shock to the high priestess of "The Temple of Es-
thetic Beauty,”. but when he hung up there was no need
for him to admit to the room at large that Romero's alibi
had been corroborated.
“Now, Rita—no use for me to try to talk to that Span-
ish-jabbering husband of yours—Romero may not have
killed Borden, but he'd killed someone and needed money
for a getaway! Out with it, and save time. You know
damned well I'll get the goods on him anyway—"
"Then why should I do your work for you?” Rita re-
torted insolently.
"I think I can help you, Chief,” Detective Casey volun-
teered. “This is a bird one of them foreign countries
in South America somewhere, the Argentine, I guess it
was told us to keep an eye peeled for. Killed his sweetie
down there, for making eyes at another Hot Tamale. We
got his picture on file at headquarters. Guess one of the
boys from his old home town blew in and piped him at
the Golden Slipper and shook him down for blackmail
to the tune of half a grand.”
As if each of Casey's hard-boiled sentences was a bullet
which had found its mark in her exhausted body, Rita
sagged lower and lower, until she was again in the posi-
tion in which Ruth, opening the door had found her-
half sitting, half lying in her chair, her head on the table,
her arms outflung in utter defeat. And across the table,
slowly, uncertain of its welcome, came Ramon Romero's
beautifully manicured hand. At that familiar touch, Rita
raised her head and gazed at her husband with incred-
ulous hope. "You're not mad at me any more, Ramon?”
she asked, in such a wistful little-girl voice that tears
stung Ruth's eyelids. “You wouldn't really have killed
Rita, would you, Baby? Honest—there wasn't any other


294
THE BLACK PIGEON
way to get the money but to string Borden along. I didn't
ever mean to come across with him I was going to give
him the slip as soon as I got my hands on the cash. Honest
to God I was, Baby—"
Across the table Ramon Romero leaned as far as his
manacles would permit, and lifted his wife's hands to his
lips.
"I go with you now!” he said arrogantly to Detective
Casey.
"You're damn right you will!” McMann agreed grimly.
"Take this dancing sheik down to headquarters and book
him on a charge of violating the Sullivan Act, till we know
more about his comic opera past,” he added to the detec-
tive and the patrolman.
“May I go with him?” Rita begged, springing to her feet
as her husband was being led to the door.
"Sure! ... If you'll come across with a confession that
you robbed Borden's dead body!” McMann retorted, grin-
ning cruelly. “Maybe they'll give you a cell right next to
‘Baby's:-"
"Oh, my Gawd, can't you lay off that?” Rita cried with
weary scorn, as she wilted into her chair again.
"Please, Mr. McMann,” Ruth dared suggest, in the
painful silence that fell upon the group remaining after
Ramon Romero had been taken away, "it's 'way after four,
and the cleaning women are on duty by now. You're going
to have Letty Miller in for further questioning, aren't
you?"
"Letty Miller?” McMann gave her an harassed, puzzled
look.
"Don't you remember?—she's the woman who cleans
Jack's offices, and the one who admitted Mr. Borden Fri-
day night with her passkey,” Ruth explained meekly.
"Oh, yes!” the detective agreed wearily. “You have
some fantastic theory about the scrubwoman's having left
Hayward's door unlocked Saturday afternoon, so that any
one might have walked in and used his phone and his gun.


296
THE BLACK PIGEON
Dubois, at the big table in the center of the outer office.
"I've got to think,” he muttered, and proceeded to do
so, in frowning silence.
Ruth, whose chair faced the open door between the outer
office and Borden's private office, so that she had an oblique
view of the all-important airshaft window beneath which
she had discovered Harry Borden's body cold in death
and through which McMann obstinately believed that Jack
Hayward had shot the promoter, sat silent, too, but with
a tiny smile tugging at the corners of her lovely mouth.
As the silence continued unbroken, she saw the black
pigeon alight upon the sill of the open window, then, made
bold by the absence of human beings in the private office
and the utter silence of those in the outer room, the bird
which Ruth, in a bitter moment had christened "Nemesis,"
fluttered to the floor.
The girl shivered involuntarily as she saw the black
pigeon pecking at bread crumbs spilled upon the very spot
where Harry Borden's life blood had left its dark stain.
She was glad when the door opened and the slight sound
startled the black pigeon into flight, upward and out of
the open window. But the next moment her own blood
turned to ice in her veins.
For, from just behind Ruth's chair, came a shrill, Ban-
shee wail of sheer terror, rising, rising, breaking at last
on a note of supreme horror, as a fainting body fell heav-
ily to the floor. ...
pie The girl the floor. et moment"), the oute


306
THE BLACK PIGEON
the seventh floor of this building. I went to see her. I told
her I needed work very badly, would take anything. She
told me that one of the 'cleaning ladies'—her 'partner' on
the seventh floor, as Minnie called her-had just quit, and
that her place had not been filled.
"It was Minnie who took me to Mrs. Pellow the follow-
ing Monday, but late Christmas Day I had engaged a
room for a week in a horrible old rooming house under
the name of Letty Miller, and in the guise of Letty Miller,
just in case my address should be investigated. The gray
wig and this dress—” she looked down at the faded calico
thing she wore "had been given me as a sort of souvenir
of my part in 'Stairs,' a play in which I had made a rather
notable success just at the time I met Harry Borden. ...
I played the part of a scrubwoman. Yes, I was an
actress ”
“That explains a lot,” McMann commented grimly.
Martha Manning ignored the interruption. “No one
but Minnie Cassidy knew that the new 'cleaning lady'
had seen better days, was younger than she looked. Minnie
was a good friend. But don't think she suspected for a
moment that I killed Harry Borden,” she added quickly
as McMann reached for pencil and paper.
"All right,” McMann conceded. *I hardly think Tim
Cassidy's widow would connive at a murder. But-go on.
You laid your plans to kill Borden?”
"No!” Again that flashing denial. “I merely wanted to
be near him, to have easy access to his office, so that I could
see him alone some night and make him listen. I believed
he still cared something-for the boy, at least. But Jake
Bailey was always waiting when Harry worked at night,
and my chance for an interview did not come. Not even
Friday night, for it was nine when Jake left, and I had
to leave the building, or be sought for and discovered by
Mrs. Pellow. But I admitted Harry to his office that night
with my passkey and he did not recognize me.
"Friday afternoon I wrote one last urgent appeal to my


THE BLACK PIGEON
307
son's father, and on Saturday morning I telephoned to ask
for his decision. He was not in, or would not talk-I
could not know which. I called later at half past one, from
an office I was cleaning, and Minnie herself answered the
phone. I am sure that Minnie had no idea she was talking
with 'Letty Miller.' Harry gave her a message for me.
I was to call again in fifteen or twenty minutes. I—".
"One moment, please. How did you manage your trans-
formation each day from Martha Manning, switchboard
operator of the Acropolis Hotel, to Letty Miller, the scrub-
woman?” McMann asked.
"It was comparatively easy. Department store rest rooms
in the afternoon and any place in the dark-doorways,
subway lavatories anywhere. It was merely a matter of
putting on or taking off the wig and making-up or re-
moving make-up, according to the rôle I was to assume.
This afternoon I walked into Gimbel's rest room as
Martha Manning, and left it as 'Letty Miller,' without
your man, Carlson, suspecting that the two were the same
person. This afternoon I changed hats-carrying the extra
one in my coat pocket, and turned my coat inside out. It
is a reversible tweed, not the garment I wore this morn-
ing.”
"I see,” McMann agreed, obviously chagrined. "Now
about the second call to Borden Saturday afternoon,"
"I had just entered Mr. Hayward's office, intending to
make my call on his phone and then clean his offices—»
"Wait! You knew all along that Hayward had a gun
in the bottom drawer of his desk, I suppose?”
"No. I did not see it until I was 'Letty Miller.' I opened
the drawer to thrust in a towel which was hanging out
untidily, and saw the gun then. That was early last week
-Monday, I believe. But even then I had no idea of ever
using it. But I remembered it-later. On Saturday after-
noon, I entered Mr. Hayward's office at five minutes to
two, to telephone Harry as he had requested. I was happy.
I thought he meant to listen to me at last. Mr. Hayward
th No. I did not awer of his deskhat Hayward


308
THE BLACK PIGEON
came back for his theater tickets, and because the telephone
was ringing, I left him alone. I waited in an office across
the hall and as soon as Mr. Hayward was gone, I re-entered
his office and put in my call. I knew Harry was in, for I
had stepped to the window and had seen him sitting at
his desk. He answered. I pleaded with him to create a trust
fund for the boy, told him that I was ill and might not
live long to support Paul myself. He called me all sorts
of names—liar, parasite, and—worse. When he finally re-
fused pointblank, I told him a lie—I said I had already put
the case in the hands of a lawyer, who would file suit
Monday if he refused to settle out of court. He was
frightened, finally agreed to see me in his office that after-
noon. When he hung up, I stepped to the window and
looked at him. His face was black with hatred and anger.
"While I stood there, a girl came in-Rita Dubois. He
was apologetic and extremely-affectionate. He gave her,
at her request, as I looked on, the torn half of a bill and
by her expressions of joy and the kisses she gave him, I
knew it was a banknote of very large denomination. I-I
nearly went mad then possibly quite mad.”
"Hmm! Insanity defense!” McMann commented grimly.
“But-go on.”
"I don't think I shall need an insanity defense,” Martha
Manning retorted, with a strange smile. “When the girl
had left, Harry came to the window and stood there,
drinking in great breaths of the cold air. I forgot then
that I had on the gray wig and this dress and spectacles.
I called out to him. I don't know what I was going to
say, but—he recognized my voice, cried out, ‘My God!
Martha!' Then he turned and ran back to his desk and
picked up an automatic. I think it was stark fear of me
in my 'Letty' disguise, but of course I can't say what was
in his mind. I can only tell what he did. I saw him coming
back to the window with the automatic, and suddenly I
remembered Mr. Hayward's gun. I stooped and jerked open
the drawer. When Harry aimed his pistol at me, my own


310
THE BLACK PIGEON
but after a moment she continued: “The first thing I
forced myself to do was to close the window. I did not
notice the pigeon's footprints in blood inside and outside
the window. Then I looked for my letter. It was not in
his pockets or in his desk. I don't know where you found
it. But in my search for the letter I found the money. I
took it for Paul, but also with some vague hope that the
police would think Harry had been shot by hold-up men.
I also took the pistol from his—his hand. I was afraid that
if the police found the fired gun they might look every-
where--even outside the window, although I had closed
it- At any rate, my instinct to protect Mr. Hayward
made me take the gun, wrap it with the other one and
hide it in my pail.
"I at first intended to hide both weapons in my coat
pockets, and take them out with me that afternoon. But
I remembered that Mrs. Pellow has a keen eye for sus-
picious bulges in coat pockets when she checks us out
of the building. I didn't know what to do. I was afraid to
keep the guns and afraid to throw them away. I happened
to be alone in the supply room just before four o'clock-
somehow I forced myself to do my work; it was a relief
to be busy—and my eyes, searching desperately for a hid-
ing place for the pistols caught sight of an abandoned,
handleless old pail, much less deep than the one I was using.
An idea came to me. I tried placing the old pail inside mine
and found that the circumference was the same, so that
the rims met all around, but that a false bottom was
formed—a compartment deep enough to hold the two pis-
tols. I placed them there, still wrapped in the dusting rag,
just as Minnie Cassidy and one of the other women came
in. They noticed nothing—"
"And where are the guns now?” McMann demanded.
"There!” And Martha Manning pointed to the scrub
pail which she had set just inside the door when she had
opened it upon her entrance.
“Good God!” McMann ejaculated, when he had sepa-


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