THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS BY M. W. GLIDDEN *** He was known as the Auto- maton, because of his logical, relentless method of tracking down criminals. And when Ted Gorman was found mur- dered at a fashionable dinner party, the Automaton who happened to be one of the guests, was put in charge. What the other guests did not know, however, was that Carey Brent, sweet, fluttery and ineffectual, was in reality one of the shrewdest of U. S. Secret Service operatives and the silent partner of the Auto- maton on all of his cases. How this strangely assorted pair solved a series of unusual killings makes "The Long Is- land Murders" a gripping and fascinating tale of mystery. THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS The Long Island Murders . (1 by < • M.W.GLIDDEN • < > Phoenix Press Publishers :: New York COPYRIGHT, 193 7, BY PHOENIX PRESS Printed in the United States of America '/' 47-37 All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and are not intended to portray persons in real life. THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS CHAPTER I BATHING and shaving, Larry watched his new wife dressing in the bedroom of their little camp, and felt that he was not awake. He had not felt awake for hours, when she was not in his arms. It had all been so quick, so rushing. He watched her, slender and lovely, as she brushed that waving hair that was all loose curves yet never actually untidy. He saw her luminous eyes turn to him; they smiled at him and he awoke to the one reality of these last hours—his love for her. She looked away, and the dream-like haze closed down on him again. That dance, at Vera's, two nights ago ... he, young, unmarried, and meaning not to marry ever— a man whose duty to himself did not concern him greatly and his duties to others not at all. The dance had bored him. Red-lipped, pale-faced, hot-eyed girls feverishly pursuing pleasure in their pointless, use- less lives; and Vera, their hostess, more hot-eyed than them all when in his arms. For weeks he'd known that Vera loved him and characteristically he had let her love without attempt to check or spare her disillusionment. Abruptly to- night her clinging ardor irked him. He felt a passion- 13 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS ate relief when Ted Gorman, a sleekly handsome youth whom Larry hated, cut in, releasing him. In a few moments he saw Vera and Gorman pass from the ballroom through the wide exit to the moonlit garden. Lary West knew they had been engaged. He wondered why she had the rotter here. One slight shape among the crowd attracted Larry, its grace that of some delicate winged insect, elusive, indeterminate. He watched her for a time, then made for the blond girl, thinking, "A fool, but clean and sweet. No stinking make-up." But the sweet blonde fluttered from the room. Evading Vera's imminent return, Larry left the ballroom and wandered through a long hall. To his right moonlight streamed through open doors, but Larry turned left, to the smoking room where Vera's butler, a tall Chinese, was serving drinks. Harry had a highball and smoked a cigarette with a jolly cuss named Newbold Howard, but the room was close and hot and he deserted Newbold and went back to the vacant hallway. He strolled toward the cool whiteness of the flooding moonlight and saw the hall ended at the doorway of a room massed with growing plants, unlit except by the moon. He remembered then; Vera called it her flower room, an exotically furnished, fragrant place. Through Aung-back doors leading from the flower room to the garden Larry glimpsed trees, shrubs, but on the threshold of the room he stopped. Someone 14 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS was in the flower room. A rustle came to Larry from the shadowy corner at his left, untouched by moon- beams. Someone moved softly, then a girl sped into the path of moonlight and out into the garden. No longer bored, Larry raced after the flying mistily white shape. It doubled on itself, stopped beside a fountain playing in a little pool, then slowly returned to the house and crossed the wide veranda that ran along the ballroom. Larry, close if cautiously behind, watched the girl slip in among the dancers. Instantly a tall man claimed her for a dance. Larry knew the man: Jean Farrel, a rising criminologist. The two swayed toward Larry. He saw her face, and his strange dream days began. He lay in wait until the dance had ended, then faced the girl. "Ours next," he said and looked into the dark eyes startled at the unknown voice. The eyes widened, fused in his. He felt the sudden enchantment that had drawn him irresistibly close down on her, and he saw excited relief as she left Farrel. Larry had led the dark-eyed girl toward the ve- randa. "Where have you been all evening? Why haven't I seen you?" "I came late, and was—delayed, outside the ball- room." Her low voice matched her magnetic eyes. Larry asked, "Who are you? Where have you come IS THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS anism started. With the stalking but unawkward gait that was part of his weird attraction, he headed for the door leading to the veranda, but stopped as he recognized the pale young matron sitting near the door, alone. He went to her and she started nervously at his metallic tone. "Won't you dance this with me, Mrs. Ainsley?" Flora Ainsley flushed. "I'm not dancing, Mr. Mc- Farland. I came with Lucile, John and Newbold, be- cause John wouldn't come without me." Her flush receded; she looked worried: "I want very much to see my husband. Could you find him? He went toward the flower room." She looked across the room, spoke quickly. "There he is now!" She rose and McFarland saw a feverish anxiety come over her. She instantly forgot McFarland as John Ainsley came to her. McFarland, moving toward the veranda, thought her dark, slim young husband seemed more jerkily uneasy than usual as he hurried to his wife. On the veranda as the Automaton paused to light a cigarette, the Ainsleys' voices came clearly to him, the wife's tense, terrified: "Did you see him, John?" "Yes." The husband's voice was low, strained, as if he held it down with difficulty. "I so hoped you would not find him, John! Why do you look like that? What happened?" 18 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "Don't excite yourself, dear; it's bad for you. Noth- ing happened. I only saw him. We didn't talk. Come outside and quiet down." They left the ballroom for the veranda, as McFar- land moved on still searching for the volatile blonde. He remembered hearing that Mrs. Ainsley was going to have a child which would account for her nervous excitability. In the garden he ran into Jean Farrel. In the pale light they peered at each other, then Farrel spoke cordially. "If it isn't the Automaton! Haven't seen you since I landed your client, Miss Carey Brent, in jail for withholding evidence. Odd I should run into you just now; I was looking for the lady. I've seen her flutter- ing in the distance, exquisitely blond and gay. Evi- dently her horrible experience hasn't depressed the effervescence of the Butterfly." "Nothing could, but it's left its mark. Burned fin- gers, you know—there's not the same insane interest' in murder. I may have helped the cure. I felt it right to talk to her severely before I got her out. You have gone far since then, Farrel. We're rivals, but suppose we join forces in a bit of sleuthing. I also am looking for the Butterfly. You take the garden, I'll cover the house. She's sure to be hovering over flowers." "Sure thing," said Farrel, "but I'm betting on the Butterfly if for once shais sick of dancing and hiding out." They separated and Farrel stopped to light a ciga- 19 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS rette before heading for the remoter section of the large garden. He looked back as the Automaton's measured stalk began, and smiled. Easy to imagine the machinery whirring. ... The young woman wanted was not hovering over flowers, but she was occupied, had been for several minutes. Just before John Ainsley joined his wife the much sought Butterfly was flattened against the out- side wall of Vera's unlit flower room behind an enor- mous thick-growing shrub close to the open double door. There was nothing indeterminate about her now. She listened tensely, scarce breathing as she waited in forced inaction. There was something wrong inside. That dark length on the floor beyond the stream of moonlight, the vague shape bending over it. . . . Was someone hurt? At last, inside sounded quick, light steps going toward the hallway. She peered around the door in time to see a man leave the moonlit room, slowing down as he passed through the long, dim hall and turned into the ballroom. At first she could not recognize him, just saw his hair was dark. But as he wheeled against the light, an odd rebellious lock stood straight up from the rear end of his part. He smoothed it down as he passed through the door. Carey Brent glanced toward the garden. It was de- serted, and the jazz roared on; safe in both quarters. In a flash she was inside, stooping over the dark length in the shadowy corner. A tiny flashlight gleamed. She 20 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS Farrel detached her clutching hands. Queer, this girl always mixed up with crime! "Steady, Miss Brent. I'm not on the force now, but—" McFarland's raucous voice broke in, "Come here, Farrel. It's pretty awful. Find the light switch, will you?" Farrel went in, the Butterfly close on his heels peer- ing timidly around McFarland. He commanded harshly, "Don't look, Miss Brent. Go call Miss Mont- joy, but no one else. She'll have to know. They are engaged." The Butterfly, on her way, called back, "Not now, they're not. She broke—" Her words were lost in rapid flight as Farrel found the switch and hurried to Mc- Farland. The overhead light flooded the exotic blooms and the body on the floor. The gay music strangely paused. McFarland rose. "Nasty. Stabbed in the jugular. And his head is cut—struck that square iron pot when he fell. Queer. No perfect crime, this; oddly careless." Jean Farrel was stooping now. "Yes. That perfect print in blood, on the shirt front, below the deluge from the jugular. Small, the print." "Evidently a woman's. Gorman was a swine, I've heard. I hate these cases. The police are welcome to this one. It should be simple, unless—" Farrel looked up quickly. "Unless someone found this before you. Someone's coming along the hall. Vera and Miss Brent, probably." 22 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS Gorman. Find Lucile Graham. Ask her why she ran wildly from this room, stopped beside the pool. Ted Gorman has not been seen since then." The Butterfly cried out, "Vera, how can you? That sweet Lucile—" Vera faced her quietly. "Lucile feared and loathed Ted Gorman, with good cause. She is charming, but— murder is murder. I—" A woman's voice called from the hall doorway, "Is Lucile here?" They turned toward the voice. Flora Ainsley stood in the doorway, her eyes searching the flower room. Far down the hall John Ainsley hurried after her, just as she moved on inside the room. He stopped abruptly on the threshold. Still looking for Lucile, Flora spoke. "We've hunted everywhere. She's gone." Her seeking eyes had found the body. Fear darkened her eyes, balanced her pale face to ghastly whiteness. Rigid, moved beyond thought of caution, her terrified eyes turned back to 'her husband, questioning fearfully. He stared back, suddenly oblivious of all but her, trying to read her look. Slowly his eyes cleared in hor- rified understanding. "No, no! Not—" He started toward her as she crumpled, but McFar- land caught her before she struck the ground. as CHAPTER II JOHN AINSLEY, the horror frozen in his eyes, took his wife from the Automaton. "Carry her to the library, John," Vera spoke up. "She mustn't see the body again. I'll come with you." Carey Brent, observing Ainsley closely, perceived mixed reactions. He seemed dazed yet blindly carry- ing out some preconceived purpose. "I must get her home. If someone will hunt up her brother, he'll get the car." Farrel started to find Newbold Howard. McFarland asked him to call the police, and then stopped Vera as she hurried away with Ainsley and his unconscious wife. "Miss Montjoy, I must talk with you. Carey will go with Mr. Ainsley." Carey fluttered eagerly forward, but Vera glanced at her with swift scorn. "She'd be helpless. My maid will know what to do. Call her, Carey." As Carey ran away, Vera returned to the Automa- ton. She ignored the dead man and looked intently at the living one. He saw she was studying him. Why? He let her study him, waiting for her to show her hand. 26 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "You want my story; I've practically told it." "Sketched it, startlingly. Do you still accuse Miss Graham?" Vera did not answer instantly. Her perusal of Mc- Farland deepened: "Surely. Why not?" "Mrs. Ainsley's emotions on seeing the body were remarkable, her husband's more so. You are observant. You must have seen the fear—" "I saw an hysterical result of shock. The fear was for Lucile. Flora knows her intimately, and she knew—" She hesitated, then went firmly on, "She knew that Lucile hated Gorman." McFarland was certain she had not said what she intended. Complex, this dark, striking witness. But his opaque black eyes showed nothing of his thoughts. He gave Vera her head. "Your reading of Mrs. Ains- ley's emotion is plausible. Later we'll take up the re- lations between Miss Graham and the murdered man. Now I want what you saw and heard. You were in the garden? I saw you go out there with Gorman about an hour before I found his body. I didn't know who he was at the time." Vera's intent look at him sharpened. Had she un- derrated him? But she could see no undue interest in her in this routine quest for evidence, and he had not opposed her interpretation of Flora's behavior. Her acute observance of him continued. "Yes, I went out with Ted Gorman, but not far from the house. I wanted to talk with him alone; we were engaged. I ■ 27 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS wanted to settle something." Vera paused, anticipating questions, but there were none. "We talked a few min- utes, satisfactorily. Ted was facing toward the house. Suddenly he excused himself. Would I mind going back alone? He had seen a man he had agreed to meet tonight. I was glad to be rid of him, but"—she smiled queerly—"I didn't believe he was going to see a man. "I walked toward the house and saw Ted go into this room, but I didn't hurry. It was so cool and sweet out there. Then I stopped. A high, angry woman's voice came from the flower room." "Did you know the voice?" "No. It was too changed. But I knew I'd been right about Ted. He'd lied and cornered a woman in that room. I couldn't hear his voice but hers broke out often; it sounded frightened too. Then there was si- lence. I thought I'd better go there and started, but just then Lucile rushed from the flower room and ran headlong toward the pool. She stopped beside the pool, bent over. Knowing Gorman, I decided he had botfr> ered her again. But she'd gotten away, so I went back to my guests. In a few minutes I saw Lucile come in from the garden and Jean Farrel waylaid her at once. Then Larry West came in from the garden. I had no chance to speak to Lucile till you and I found her in the garden with Larry." McFarland saw a sudden tightening of her face as 28 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS she ended on Larry's name. Carey would know this Larry West. "Miss Graham came late to the dance? I remember you said you'd given her up." "Yes. I had not seen her till I saw her run from the flower room." "After Gorman left you, did you meet or see anyone in the garden?" "Not a soul." "And when you went out with him? Was there any one about?" "No. Flora Ainsley's brother, Newbold Howard, went out just ahead of us, but I didn't see him any- where. He must have been on the veranda somewhere, smoking or looking up some girl." McFarland did not speak at once. She looked at him expectantly. "Miss Montjoy, are you absolutely certain that Gor- man did not come into the ballroom after Miss Gra- ham ran from the flower room?" Vera's long, dark eyes were scornful. "Absolutely. And several men who had been in the smoking room and in the garden asked for him. We thought he had gone." "That, of course, is not conclusive. Your house is large, also the grounds. If you are right, you were the last to see Gorman before he was murdered. Your re- sponsibility is great, Miss Montjoy, as your evidence 29 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS worked over Flora Ainsley. Across the couch John bent anxiously over his wife and the Butterfly hov- ered around the edges, her vague gaze shifting from the worried husband to the unconscious woman. Suddenly Carey spoke tremulously. "Her eyelids quivered. Now they're—" Flora's eyes opened on her husband, her look blank, confused; then it darkened. Her lids closed. John Ainsley raised alarmed eyes to the efficient Mary op- posite. "She's out of it, Mr. Ainsley," the maid assured him. "She'll be all right now, but she's weak." But Mary motioned significantly to the door and rose herself. John followed her outside. Their foot- steps died away. Carey noiselessly drew back out of Flora's vision, watching. Flora had heard her husband and the maid leave the room. Her eyes opened, dilated. She tried to rise and Carey darted to her, gently moving her back against the cushions. "You mustn't, dear. You're weak still." Flora Ainsley grasped the kindly hands and looked beseechingly into the pretty, silly face. "I want to get away—at once." "But you can't yet, Flora. You should spend the night here. Vera'd love you to—" "No, no, Carey; it's too terrible here. And that 32 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS dreadful robot—he frightens me. I must get home; there's a reason." Carey Brent blessed the assumed idiocy which pre- sented her as a harmless confidant. In the futile man- ner of the Butterfly she tried to quiet her friend. "If it's Mac that frightens you, don't let it. He's a dear, really. And you won't see him, Flora; he'll be too busy. Vera has asked him to take the case." Flora Ainsley started; her great brown eyes stared up at Carey. "Are you sure of that?" "Of course; I heard her ask him. He's talking to her now." "So much the worse; he'll be questioning everyone. Carey, find John. Tell him I— There he comes now!" Carey moved back as John Ainsley came quickly to his young wife. They ignored the Butterfly. Her vacuousness merged in serious scrutiny as she tried to read the strange long look that passed between the two. Then Flora sat up excitedly. Her husband dropped beside her and drew her to him but she shrank away. He held her still, gazing at her, his eyes hurt, pleading. Carey Brent could not see the wife's face, but suddenly Flora clung to him. "Take me home, John!" The hurt in John's eyes vanished. He soothed her. "Very soon, darling, if the doctor says it's safe. I've put in a call for him; Mary suggested it. The shock was bad, just now. Mary will talk to him and let us know. You feel all right, Flora?" 33 t CHAPTER III CROSSING the long hall, Carey saw the door of the flower room closed, but she heard the dance music. So Mac had not announced the murder. Good busi- ness, decided Carey Brent. Why create a sensational furore? And wiser that the guests should not know of the murder in case the killer was among them. Vera's maid came toward Carey from some distant section of the big house and Carey stopped her. What had the doctor said? Mary reported that Mrs. Ains- ley could go home. The doctor would see her in the morning unless disturbing symptoms appeared that night. Carey went into the ballroom. Vera was dancing, but the Automaton was not there. Farrel was. He sighted the Butterfly at once and came to her. They danced and Carey sensed a keen alertness in her part- ner and she saw his eyes were busy. The Butterfly's light voice queried, "You look so— sleuthy, Mr. Farrel. Are you?" Jean Farrel's dark blue eyes left the crowd and glanced down at the pretty creature in his arms. "By proxy, yes. McFarland asked me to keep an eye on the guests—for possible suspects." 35 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS He smiled as the Butterfly took the bait. "Suspects! How deliciously exciting! Then you and he don't suspect that sweet Lucile? It was so silly of Vera—" "McFarland didn't say, and I'm not guessing. It's not my case. Glad to oblige him, of course, and more than glad his commission placed me here. You're won- derful, Miss Brent, like a bit of sea foam." "I feel like lead, I'm so very tired. After this I'm leaving." But her interest in crime seemed unex- hausted. Did Farrel know if Lucile had really gone? No, he didn't, but he hadn't seen Miss Graham since she left the ballroom with Larry West. The Butterfly persisted avidly. "When was that? Before Mac found the body? Or—" "Strong as ever on detection, I see, Miss Brent, but I can't help you, as I didn't note the time." "Too bad. If it had been before it would have been so nice for her, if she has gone." "I've failed you, Miss Brent; I'm not a proper sleuth. I should have sensed that crime was in the air and looked at my watch." "I wish you had," the Butterfly said sadly as their dance ended. Ten minutes later Carey drove herself away. Farrel had insisted on leaving his post to see her in her car; which pleased her. He knew that she had departed without seeing the Automaton since she left the flower room with the Ainsleys. But Farrel did not know— 36 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS Carey smiled as she drove swiftly. This fencing with Jean Farrel was exhilarating. Five miles from Vera's home Carey Brent turned off the highway, drove down a quiet road, and stopped. Bright lights off, she waited. The wait was long; she fell asleep. The Automaton talked briefly with the medical ex- aminer. The two wounds puzzled Mac. Had the head wound happened in the death fall or earlier? And that hand print—which wound had covered that small hand with blood? The Chief Medical Examiner, keenly in- terested, promised prompt tests. They agreed that the body should be secretly removed by the garden en- trance to the estate. McFarland left, heading for the shallow pool where Vera claimed to have seen the fly- ing figure of Lucile Graham stop and bend over the water. The pool was a tiny affair, less than four feet across, set in a miniature Chinese garden. The Automaton loosed and turned up a cuff, pulled up one sleeve, and crawled around the foot deep water exploring the sand- strewn concrete bottom, throwing his flashlight with his free hand. Alarmed goldfish bunted into his search- ing fingers; a small smooth rock beneath his hand came suddenly alive as a small turtle paddled hysteri- cally from that strong, insistent touch. But the hand had stopped. It closed on something on which the turtle had been resting. 37 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS McFarland rose to his feet, dried his dripping hand and the turtle's roost on his large, immaculate hand- kerchief, then shot his flashlight. A highly polished metal object lay in his hand, a small paper knife shaped like a dagger, its edges ground to deadly sharp- ness. McFarland slipped the paper knife in a pocket and started for the house, thinking on the way. A maid hurried to him as he reached the long veranda and gave him a note. He read it by the light from a win- dow of the ballroom. So Carey had gone, and she didn't want the Ainsleys questioned, tonight. She'd tend to that end, anyway. However, he would see this Larry West; he might know where Lucile lived, if he were still here. But Larry West was not among the dancers and the Automaton learned from the doorman that Mr. West had driven Miss Graham away an hour or more ago. The Automaton rushed to the telephone in the now deserted smoking room and looked up Larry West in the book. A lawyer, on his own, lived at his club— that would be the brilliant young criminal lawyer. McFarland called the club but Larry was not there. Likely he and the girl had gone on somewhere. Check, for the time. Now for Farrel. As the Automaton appeared in the doorway, many eyes fastened on the rigid, well built figure, the strik- ing olive pallor of the face set off by coal black hair and eyes. He located Farrel, caught his eye, then 38 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS didn't like it." He pivoted to Farrel, eyes moving only as his body wheeled. "Odd she didn't retain you on the case." Jean Farrel met the strange eyes frankly and an- swered quickly, "Not so odd, in Vera." His mobile face was suddenly intent. "I know her very well—too well to suit her." Had the queer cuss sensed his meaning, wondered Farrel? His face told nothing, but the strident tones enlightened. "Thanks, Farrel; that helps. I admit she puzzled me. I'm off now. If you care to follow the case, I'll be glad to see you any time." Farrel admitted interest and watched the rigid fig- ure disappear. Certain factors in this case did interest him, extremely. Five minutes after McFarland's car left Vera's house, Farrel drove swiftly after him. Carey Brent roused suddenly, instantly wide awake. McFarland stood outside her car, his grotesque rigid- ity relaxed to his normal angular cohesion. As Carey stirred, he slipped in beside her and drew her close, warm and sweetly fragrant in her light white summer furs. For a too brief moment he held her silently, re- joicing in this human side of the real Carey Brent which he had awakened. Still holding her, he forced his mind upon their work. "I'm glad you slept, Carey. I had to drive nearly to New York, then cut back to you, to escape Farrel." 40 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS Carey drew back from his arms. "He trailed you so soon? To see if you met me, of course. He's certainly in earnest. Are you sure you slipped him, Mac?" "Dead sure. He didn't dare drive close behind me." "Forget him, Mac. What did you get from Vera? Did she see Lucile run from the flower room and stop beside the pool?" McFarland gave her a cigarette and smoked one himself. "Miss Montjoy claims that, and another dam- aging fact. She and Gorman were in the garden. He left her and went to the flower room to meet a man, he said, but she heard a woman's voice, angry and frightened. The voice stopped and Miss Graham ran from the room." "Do you think she was lying?" "I'm afraid not, Carey. And she was correct about the murder weapon. I found it in the pool. Here it is—an odd foreign affair. Is she capable of lying? I don't know her well." "She's capable of it, to gain her end, and it's evi- dent she wants to fix the crime on Lucile. I can't see why, yet, unless—" She had turned on the small dash- board light and was looking at the Chinese paper knife. "The handle's a coiled snake—a nasty thing. And the eyes—they look straight at you!" "Miss Montjoy was a very frank and eager witness, Carey, so eager that in implicating Miss Graham she risked danger for herself. She insists that she was the last person with Gorman before he was killed. I don't 41 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS say Vera killed him, but the skunk had likely given her plenty of cause for a motive; and her instant ac- cusation of Miss Graham won't help her any." "Good Lord!" said Carey Brent. "How many more could have easily killed Gorman?" "Just what do you mean, Carey?" "Never mind now, Mac. Give me the highlights of your talk with Vera; it's ghastly late. But first, did Lucile really leave?" "Yes; with Larry West, and after Gorman was killed." "That's bad. Go on, Mac." "You've had nearly all she said, but there were things I saw." He described Vera's intent study of him, her interpretation of Flora Ainsley's horrified fear as she looked at her husband after she had seen the murdered Gorman, and Vera's hardness when she named Larry West. Here Mac slipped in Farrel's men- tion of Larry's absorption in Lucile. Carey stopped him. "That might explain Vera's hav- ing it in for Lucile. Vera's mad over Larry, as she was over Gorman till she found him out. That's enough of Vera, tonight. What have you done, Mac? Tried to locate Lucile?" "Yes, through Larry West, as Vera didn't know where she's stopping. But I couldn't get him at his club. Either he and Miss Graham went on somewhere or he's spending the night with friends. I didn't ask 42 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS the Ainsleys. That fear of Mrs. Ainsley's might have concerned the girl—" "No, Mac, it didn't. It was far too intense; it was her first conscious thought. And she's afraid of you. They both wanted to get away. You made it easy for me to observe them, and no one fears the Butterfly. I might have been a chair or rug for all the notice they paid me." Carey lit a cigarette, considering, then went on swiftly. "We've a neat assortment of potential mur- derers—one that you don't know about, as Farrel in- terrupted after I found the body. The police will have a gorgeous time when they nose out the evidence. / could easily have done it and Gorman would supply the motive as he could for hosts of women; he's been odiously attentive to my brainless double, for the money, of course. You're out, Mac, because no one knows we're engaged. Lucile Graham is obviously sus- pect, then Vera, and last, John Ainsley." McFarland turned quickly to her. She gave him back the paper knife. "John has been in China, Mac, and that's not all. I was outside the flower room for a time before I found Gorman. I had heard someone inside, moving furtively. Someone was bending over something. At last the bending figure rose and hurried from the room, slowed in the long hall and turned into the ballroom. It was John Ains- ley." Mac's memory jumped. His staccato tones startled Carey. He told her of his casual talk with John Ains- 43 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS ley's wife, her feverish desire to find her husband. She had said he had gone toward the flower room. And McFarland had heard them talk when her hus- band came to her, the wife's voice terrified, his tense. Carey spoke excitedly. "That checks with Flora's terror when she saw the body, and with what I over- heard when I left her with John and her brother. They know something awful about Gorman—something that concerns Flora. And she thinks John killed Gorman!" "But a woman had been beside the body; witness that small print in blood on the shirt front. And we have only Vera's word that Lucile Graham and not she had been in the flower room." Carey spoke slowly, mechanically, her mind grap- pling with other phases of the riddle. "John Ainsley has small hands for a man—thin nervous hands. We must have his prints as well as the two women's." "I don't believe it was a man's print; the fingers are so very slender. Farrel and I both realized that a woman may have found Gorman before you, Carey; that head wound strengthened the idea. But Ainsley's being there knocks that out." "Not out, entirely, Mac. The woman may have been there first, before John. I don't say he killed Gorman; I say he could have. What about the head wound? Didn't he get it when he fell dead?" "He may have, but the M.E. thought as I did that the wound was not as fresh as the death- wound. A bit more clotting—but the excessive flow from the jug- 44 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS ular might account for the difference. The tests may prove by the age of the blood which wound drenched that hand. The damned print messes things." Carey spoke rapidly. "Tomorrow I'll see the Ains- leys, get his prints as a precaution, and Lucile's ad- dress and pass it on to you. And I hope to get more. We've got to know what they know about Gorman. Flora's brother was bitter; he may be helpful. John could be arrested on my evidence in spite of Vera's accusing Lucile, and of course the police will question me when they learn that I was in the flower room. I want to get at the Ainsleys before the police get at me; I want to know how strong a motive John Ainsley may have had for killing Gorman. That will decide how much I tell. I couldn't see John's face in the door- way of the ballroom; it was too far away. I knew him by that cowlick and his gesture—" McFarland seized her, turned her to him and tried to see her face. "For God's sake, Carey, don't try that trick again!" "There'll be no trick, Mac. No one will ask about the cowlick. I'll tell the truth in any case. If I find reason to think John murdered Gorman, I'll volunteer the cowlick. Now let's go." The next morning Carey telephoned Flora Ainsley, but talked with John. Flora was ill, not seriously, the doctor hoped, but the shock had been great. Yes, she'd like to see Carey, that afternoon. 45 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS The Butterfly had asked for Lucile's address; as usual she'd forgotten where Lucile stopped in New York. But John didn't know. Lucile had come in a taxi to their house for dinner; her hotel wasn't men- tioned. This Carey relayed to McFarland. He tried to reach Larry West, and failed. Larry had not been to his club and his office reported that he had called up to say he would not be in till late that afternoon, and that he was sailing that night for Europe. So the Au- tomaton embarked on a tedious telephonic convassing of New York hotels. By noon Lucile Graham's was spotted, but not Lucile. She had left early that morn- ing, but had not given up her room. The Automaton went to the hotel and ran into a police detective who had also located Lucile. So Vera Montjoy had talked to the police. . . . McFarland, who preferred not to mix up with the police at this stage, kept on to the desk and learned that a tall young man had called for Miss Graham. Late that afternoon Vera Montjoy waited restlessly for word from the Automaton. She had heard from him that Larry and Lucille could not be reached and that Lucile had left her hotel very early in the morn- ing, with a tall young man. That had not cheered nor quieted her. She did not know of McFarland's find in the pool and she had eased her angry disquiet by searching it. She stared uncertainly at the limpid water of the shallow pool. Had the Automaton searched last 46 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS night? Why had he not— Her Chinese butler appeared suddenly beside her. The Automaton was on the tele- phone. As Vera hurried to the house, the Chinese butler followed her, but branched off to the smoking room. Softly he lifted the extension telephone. The Automaton's voice cut sharply into Vera's ear. His secretary, Henry, who served often as under-cover man, had been posted at Miss Graham's hotel, and Henry had reported: Lucile Graham had not returned to her hotel but she had telephoned, asking to have a maid pack her belongings for which she would send a messenger with a check for her bill. Henry had waited for the messenger, but in view of this rather odd pro- ceeding of the girl so wanted by McFarland, he had thought best not to question the lad but trail him. The messenger had a taxi at the door. Henry had followed in another. Traffic had delayed but not de- flected Henry. More than a block behind the messen- ger's taxi the persistent Henry had seen it stop at Larry West's club. The messenger leaped from his taxi, carrying two suitcases, and ran to a car parked just ahead of the taxi. A second later he landed the two suitcases in the rear of the car which instantly drove away and turned off east. Henry rushed his driver after the car in time to see it turn south on Fifth Avenue, jammed thick with cars and impeding buses, and lost his quarry. He had gone back to Larry's club and learned— 47 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS Vera did not hear the rest. A white, cold fury gripped her. That faint alien trace in her long eyes grew stronger. First Ted had fallen for that girl, and now Larry. But Larry shouldn't keep her. . . . Vera had forgotten to ask the Automaton about the murder weapon. In the smoking room, when the Automaton ended, the Chinese butler replaced the telephone. 48 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS him. Idly he noticed an ugly stain, dark red, on the under ruffle, now on top; that claret punch, probably. Too bad. As he left the camp, he heard the sound of running water. So Lucile had seen the stain. Thank God she wasn't the sort that beefed about such mis- haps. In the main camp he marshalled his dream-hazed brain and ordered lunch sent in. Against his will he listened to the cordial greetings of the manager, Mc- Donald, who had not been about when Larry and his new wife got in after midnight. Larry, an ardent sportsman, was a charter member of the well ap- pointed fish and game club, and McDonald was puz- zled by his arrival in this off season, and secretly amazed at his appearance with a wife. Larry, sensing this, but true to type even in his befogged state, cared nothing for the inner views of the man who ran the club, but told him he and his wife were here for tramp- ing and canoeing to the chain of outlying camps, and lounged off but McDonald stopped him. Would Mr. West like to see the New York papers, just arrived? There was a juicy murder the other night, quite in his line, as a criminal lawyer. But Larry had no use for news today, and he hated shop talk always. He arranged for his usual profane but efficient guide, Wid Morgan, for their long trips, and escaped McDonald. Larry had not escaped the news, however. Lucile was not in their camp, nor could he see her 50 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS anywhere outside. No use to hunt; he'd only miss her, and he'd better unpack his own stuff. In the small bedroom, delicately fragrant from his wife's belongings, Larry's grips were empty. So she'd done that too! Yes, his dark city clothes hung starkly beside that fluffy white thing that was stained, the un- der ruffle flopping damply. Funny, like a dream, a woman's things in his room! He wanted Lucile now, to dispel the dream. Maybe she'd gone to the lake. He hurried through the living room and almost collided with Wid Morgan, his guide, balancing a tray on one weather-beaten hand and lugging a basket of hot food. Wid's language at the near collision was graphic. Larry wished Lucile were here as the woodsman hauled out a table and set out the food after their warm greetings, Wid's consisting largely of affection- ate profanity. His eyes, oddly blue in his tanned, seamed face, sparkled when Larry told him he and his wife intended the longest, roughest trip, up North, along the wild stream that fed the lake. "Get the outfit together, Wid. We'll start tomorrow at daybreak, but don't mention where we're going. Some damn fool member may want to make the trip, and we want to be alone. I'll fix things with Mc- Donald." Wid was only too willing to keep mum. Many times he and Larry had roughed it and he wanted no ama- teur camper tagging them. If Wid had his doubts about a woman on the trip he kept them to himself. Si THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS As a final touch to his handiwork, he laid a folded newspaper on the table and departed. Larry, vaguely anxious about his absent bride, stood outside their camp, listening and watching. Surely she would not have strayed off the trail into the dense woods? He intended hallooing, and then he heard light steps on the trail from the lake, saw Lucile coming. But he did not start at once to meet her; her face had halted him. Pale, troubled, her eyes cast down, she walked slowly, wearily. Through the nebu- lous state of Larry's mind the first misgiving slanted. Had he done right to let this dream rush go through? Dimly uneasy, he started toward her. Lucile heard him and looked up. Her dark eyes lit up as she ran to him as if released by the sight of him from some dark mood. But he sensed only her joy at being with him. However, they must eat and he led her in. As he seated her, Lucile's eyes fastened on the folded news- paper; they never left it as Larry talked about their trip next day and served her, not noticing her fixed stare. When he sat opposite her, her gaze darted to his happy face and hers relaxed, but very soon she reached for the paper, opened it. The wide sheets hid her from her husband. Resenting this, he leaned across the small table to draw away the screen, but stopped as Lucile spoke. Her voice was not quite steady. "You didn't see the paper, Larry, when you ordered lunch?" 52 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "No. I hurried back to you for fear you'd vanished, dream girl!" He dragged his chair beside her. One arm drew her close, his free hand pulled the paper from her, dropped it on the floor. "Papers don't interest me today, darling, and they shouldn't you. We're here to get away from everyone, everything." He tried to turn her face to him but she kept it down against his shoulder. "There are things you can't escape, Larry. I've tried. I know." "Have they found us out in New York? Started a scandal? What do we care?" "I shouldn't— It's not that. Something horrible hap- pened at Vera's." The depression of her low, insistent tone disturbed him. She must be tired, nervous; they had arrived so late. But even with her close, the dream was crowding in on him again. "Did the horror invade our garden, Lucile?" "No," she whispered. He felt her body quiver and the dream state crept closer. He fought it off, clung to her soft, sweet reality, spoke lightly. "If the horror didn't invade our garden, I'm not interested. I'm in no mood for horrors." She raised her head, looked straight into his eyes. "You must hear, Larry," her mood changed. Her eyes glowed into his. "But not now, dear. You're right. Why- drag horrors into—this?" In the enchantment of her the depression of her S3 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS dark mood left him. Lucille had to drive him to his place across from her. She was all eager interest over the plans for the next day. "I've never tented out, Larry, but I can paddle well. And such a wild trip! Cut off from everything. But must we have a guide? It would be so wonderful to go alone." "Not so wonderful on this trip. Bucking the river, making camp each night and the carries are mean hard work, not to mention shooting the rapids. And you don't mind Wid. You'll scarcely see him; he'll be too busy." She leaned across the table. "Oh Larry, can't we get away today?" "Why not? I know a place we could make tonight, at dusk. In the tall woods there's a boiling spring. What a place for your first night in the woods!" Her excitement overflowed. She would not let him wait for Wid to call for the dishes, but hurried Larry away to rush their escape into the wilderness. As he rose to go, she was clearing the small table. As he passed through the door, he heard the rustling of the newspaper as she gathered it from the floor. That rustling of the newspaper brought things back to Larry West, as he followed the narrow trail to the main camp—her morbid mood, her low, unsteady voice, those words: "There are things you can't escape. I've tried." What did she mean? What had she seen in that 54 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS damned paper? The uneasy memory was blocked by Wid, appearing suddenly around a corner, and Larry turned him back to speed up arrangements for the trip. Lucile West stood with the newspaper in her hand till Larry's steps had died away. She straightened the paper, spread it on the table, leaned over it, face set and white. As she read, her face twitched, her slender body trembled, but she clenched her hands, steadied herself. Her mind commanded her: "You must not give way. Larry would see. You have been wicked, but at least you may give him these days of happiness, cut off from civilization, hidden. And then? Oh, Larry!" The thought of him unnerved her as her own trouble could not. But she would not weep. Larry and Wid found her dressed in the knickers, sturdy shoes and thick white sweater bought in New York before their sudden marriage. Wid's inner regrets were vanquished at the sight of her genuine interest in him and in the river trip; and she was so small and light that she should be clever in the woods. As she slipped away from them into the bedroom, Wid turned to Larry. "Cute as hell, ain't she, Mr. West?" Larry noticed that the newspaper had disappeared. Burned, probably, and with it her dark mood, thank God. Their city clothes were left behind, the white dress 55 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS like a wan ghost beside Larry's dark clothes. In mid- afternoon McDonald watched their two canoes cross the lake. He knew only that they were off for weeks of tenting out wherever their fancy guided them. 56 CHAPTER V CAREY BRENT was not disturbed when McFar- land telephoned her of Lucile's disappearance with Larry West, but she was surprised. "It's not like Larry. He's never cared a hoot for women except to play with them. If Lucile killed Gor- man, it's not likely Larry knows it and it's a pity he doesn't. He'd not have helped her run away. Innocent or guilty, it's the worst thing she could have done. They'll see the papers, wherever they are, and he'll bring her back to face the music. Of if he won't give up the honeymoon, he'll write and clear up the bad im- pression of her flight. And he must communicate with his office again; he can't leave things at loose ends." Mac broke in to remind her that Larry West was due to sail tonight for Europe. It was likely he had made all arrangements. "Not Larry. He'd leave things till the last. Better check on that sailing, Mac. I'm off for dinner with the Ainsleys. Flora is better but nervous and depressed, and I volunteered to cheer her. They couldn't very well refuse. When do you see Vera?" "Soon as I can get there. I've just talked to her. She was upset." 57 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "Over the elopement? What did she say?" "That's just it. She said nothing; the line seemed dead. I want to get at her in that mood; she may be careless. May I come to you tonight, Carey?" "Yes, but very late. We can't be too careful now. It's a bad break, Farrel's knowing I was in the murder room. Good—" "Just a second, Carey. About Miss Montjoy—that foreign look of hers about the eyes; the shape, the set, and the expression when she's moved in any way. How do you classify that?" "Mongolian." "It struck me so. Odd." "Yes—in one of Vera's classic pedigree. But occa- sionally you see such freaks." "Perhaps—" "Why did you ask, Mac?" A soft click answered Carey. McFarland had forgot- ten to say good-by. Queer, in him. What was on his mind? Suddenly she remembered the Chinese paper knife. . . . Carey arrived at the Ainsleys' well before the dinner hour, just as Newbold Howard left the house. He was boyishly glad to see the Butterfly as Flora, though feeling better, was still in bed and it was darned lone- some. Newbold was on his way to select fresh flowers for his sister and Carey might go right up. John was not back yet; he'd gone to his office this afternoon as Flora was so improved. 58 THE LONG ISLAITD-MURDERS Carey Brent ran up the carpeted stairs to the second floor, but outside the slightly opened door of Flora's room she stopped. Newbold was wrong; John Ainsley had returned. His voice came from the bedroom, low, anxious. Carey caught a few words that genuinely alarmed her for his gentle wife and the child she was to bear. John was worried about his wife; she should not be up. He wanted the doctor. Then Flora's voice sounded higher, carrying, and Carey stood rooted to the spot. Flora Ainsley had looked up strangely at her hus- band bending over her, a hand on each arm of her chair. She seemed to shrink from him as she spoke. "I'm no worse, John—just horribly unhappy. And if I were worse, if the child were coming too soon, I should not want the doctor." "Flora! What—why do you say that? It's not like you. And why do you seem afraid of me, avoid my touch? I thought I had convinced you that—" "I am afraid for you, John—but not only about last night. That's why I won't have the doctor. He would know. Oh, can't you understand without my saying it? Haven't you been afraid yourself, John?" Her husband's eyes were suddenly horrified, then filled with tender pity. He dropped before her, drew her to him. "You poor, poor kid! I never thought—" "How could you help it? We were married so soon after. How can we surely know the child is—yours?" John's face, above hers, was suddenly furiously con- 59 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS torted, but his voice was gentle as he released her. "I heard the street door close; that will be Newbold." He closed and locked the door, went back to her. Carey Brent had already left the hall. Newbold Howard must not find her there. She ran up to the next floor, to the small den used by John and New- bold. Her thoughts raced wildly. A motive for John's killing Gorman was established, but she would have no hand in— Yet there was Lucile. Shielding John would not be fair to her. Newbold's cheerful voice called from below, "Where are you, Insect? Won't you fix these flowers?" Carey threw her furs on the divan, left the den and leaned over the stair rail. "Coming, New." She ran down to him. "Flora's door was closed— she was resting, I guess—so I went up to your den. I love those Chinese curios of John's. Do please ex- plain them after dinner. What ducky roses! If the maid will give me a vase—" Newbold went to a door and called a maid, then came back to Carey. "Sure I'll show you the Chinese junk, Insect, but it's not John's; it's mine. I was with him in China for a while after I graduated. I'm mad over the country and the people. They're great scouts and the decent ones are up against it. They need—" With singular abruptness Newbold stopped, but the Butterfly heeded not. The maid had brought a vase and her one-track mind was on the flowers. But some 60 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS recess of her vagrant brain had been stirred by New- bold's zeal for the Chinese. "Were Flora and John engaged before he went to China, New? I'd think he'd have hated leaving her; they're so devoted." She glanced vaguely in his direc- tion, saw a shadow fall on Newbold's face. "Yes. John caught her young. He married her inside a month when he came home." Carey Brent, fussing ineptly with the roses, saw a shadow darken Newbold's face. He seemed to have forgotten the Butterfly, as people did. "I wish to God he'd never left her." He pulled up short, glanced quickly at the Butterfly, saw she was not listening. His voice rose normally. "He's a good sort, John. It's top-hole of him to let me hang out here. Say, Insect, won't you ever finish with those roses? They'll be dead before Flora gets them! Stick that last one in and let them rip; you're too darned artistic. I'll take them up." John Ainsley came from Flora's room, closing the door, as Newbold reached the landing. Newbold stopped. "You're back! How is she? May I go in with these?" Carey could hear John answer soberly. "Do. And try to make her go back to bed. She would get up. Better not stay long, New. She's still fearfully upset." Newbold's low tone was savage. "No wonder. That damned cur to get himself bumped—" 61 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "Steady, New. And control yourself with her. Carey come yet?" Carey retreated to the living room where John Ains- ley came to her. His dark face showed strain, his eyes were tormented, but he was really glad to see the friendly Butterfly. Flora, he said, was very tired but she would see Carey after dinner, if she felt better. The shock last night had taken hold of her. "It was dreadful, for anyone," the Butterfly said earnestly. "Of course he was a beast, but—" She shud- dered, switched suddenly. "I do hope Flora hasn't heard about Lucile. That would worry her." "What about Lucile?" John asked absently as New- bold joined them. "You haven't heard? Don't you read the papers? But you wouldn't, today. Why she's suspected—or at least Vera practically accused her—of killing Gor- man." John's absent mood departed. He stared at Carey. Newbold spoke vehemently. "Lucile suspected! Vera accusing her? Are you sure, Carey?" "Of course I am, New; I heard Vera. And Lucile is missing. They're hunting for her. It's in the papers." "You must be wrong, Carey. That lovely, gentle creature—and she hardly knew the swine as far as I know. Who said she'd disappeared?" John Ainsley watched darkly, one nervous hand smoothing that cowlick. Newbold's indignation grew, his eyes dilated, the off center line in them more 62 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS marked. The Butterfly, innocently happy at being in the limelight, chattered on as they went out to dinner. As she paused to attack her fruit cup, Newbold let off steam. "There's something you've got wrong, Insect. You're always off your nut when there's a murder. Vera can't have said that; she's fond of Lucile. And Lucile's van- ishing—that's nonsense, newspaper talk. She's got sense, and even assuming the impossible, that she had bumped off Gorman, she wouldn't run off. And she wouldn't have known that Vera—" "But she has gone, New, just as I said, with Larry West." "What? With Larry? You didn't say that—" "Didn't I? Well, it's so, New. That's in the paper, too." "Now I know it's hooey. Larry doesn't know Lucile." "If you don't believe me, call up the police. They gave the story to the paper." The two fought on after their habit, and John Ains- ley's dark, strained attention relaxed when the subject of Gorman's murder merged in amazed discussion of the sudden disappearance of Larry and Lucile. The Automaton was sitting tight, as always. For once the indeterminate Butterfly had worsted Newbold. He had found the neglected evening paper and surrendered, but he was still wildly indignant over the suspicion of Lucile. 63 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS After dinner, as a peace offering perhaps for doubt- ing Carey, he offered to exhibit his Chinese curios; they could have coffee in the den. On the way up John looked in on his wife, thought her sleeping, went on up to the den he shared with Newbold and sat smok- ing over his coffee, sunk in his own tormenting thoughts. The Butterfly was flitting from one queer specimen to another, breaking into Newbold's histories of his curios and annoying him with her inconsequential re- marks. Evidently he was set on holding that wander- ing attention. "There's one thing in your line, Insect. Wait till I get it. It has a nice gory story." He walked to the desk. "Where is the thing? Perhaps the maid—" He pulled out drawers, hunted. "That's funny. I always keep it here." He spoke over his shoulder to his brother-in-law. The Butterfly, her interest held at last by the mention of gore, watched the two. "John, have you seen that dagger thing?" John Ainsley had looked up at his name and started nervously. "What's that you said, New? Dagger?" "Yes, my Chinese paper knife. You know, the famous Snake—the murder weapon." Carey's mind jumped at the weird coincidence, but, as the Butterfly, she spoke eagerly: "Oh, wonderful! Do find it." 64 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS the door. She went swiftly up the stairs and into the den, seized the gold-meshed bag lying with her furs. John's prints would be on that chair arm. She worked deftly, rapidly. When the doctor rang, she gathered her furs and started down the stairs. John had left the bedroom and, seeing Carey, remembered her at last. Would she stay with Flora while he met the doctor? Carey went on to Flora, stooped over her. Was there something she could do? Flora was pathetically glad to see the Butterfly, sweet and kind, and intuitively quiet in her sympathy. And there was a blessed relief in seeing someone who knew nothing of the painful circumstances. Yes, the Butterfly could help. Flora was worried about the household. Men were so helpless, and a nurse would complicate things. Would Carey stay for a few days? She got on so well with everyone and the servants adored her. The Butterfly was radiant. In her pain and trouble Flora smiled at her eagerness. John, entering with the doctor, was relieved at his wife's smile. As Carey slipped away, he whispered that she had done Flora good, and he was most grateful that she was staying on. When the nurse came, she would go to her pent- house for her things. Carey Brent could hardly credit her good luck. She wanted to be in this house. She must be certain that the famous Snake was not in the house, and she must 66 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS study John. She did not relish her job, which was unusual. She waited restlessly for her release. She reached her penthouse just as the telephone rang. Mac's harsh tones asked, "All clear?" "Not tonight, Mac." His metallic voice broke in, "It's not that damned Farrel?" "Oh no. You're hipped on him. He's just curious, I think. But I must talk to you, though not for long. Anything interesting to tell me about Vera?" "Plenty. It's a queer household." "If it's any queerer than— But never mind now. Meet me in half an hour at the little house." 67 CHAPTER VI McFARLAND had lost no time in reaching Vera's estate in Huntingdon. A maid admitted him and his pale shadow, Henry, whose official status was secre- tary to the weird entity who represented Carey Brent. The maid was awed by the tall robot-like detective whom rumor credited with strange powers. Timidly she informed him that Miss Montjoy was dining. Would the gentlemen wait in the reception room? The Automaton, who did not wish to be announced yet, agreed raucously and instructed the maid not to disturb Miss Montjoy until she had finished dinner. He would prefer to wait outside. He herded Henry through the great Colonial hall, passed by wide open doors into the garden, and headed for a section en- closed by a high hedge. The interior seemed in the twilight to be a small garden of some sort. The Auto- maton ordered curtly, "Go in there, Henry, and look at the flowers. I'll call for you when you're needed." Henry, used to blind orders, entered the enclosure and stared at the plants, scantly blooming in Sep- tember. The Automaton, choosing high shrubbed paths, stalked silently toward the house. The dining room 68 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS was sure to face the garden. Rounding a wing of the great house, he stopped; he had recognized Vera's voice, coming from a room to his right. The maid had said she was dining alone, but her voice, though petu- lant, was not the voice of a mistress talking to a ser- vant. McFarland could not hear her words, nor could he see inside the room. He stole as near as he dared, keeping just within the shrubbery. Then he saw her, in the candle light, her face hard, angry, alone at a table in a small, informal dining room. But she talked on, head turned to someone beyond McFarland's vision. He heard her words now through the open window: "I'll not stand it. It's maddening, and quite unnec- essary. I've kept my agreement to the letter." A low, queer voice was alien inflections reached Mc- Farland, but he caught few words: "You make precautions . . . most unwise . . . ad- missions . . . Gorman . . . inquiries . . . lead." Vera spoke hotly. "So, you listened? It's unbear- able—" The alien voice went on as if she had not spoken but the words still came scrappily to the Automaton as the voice rose and fell: "Disappearance . . . menace, for you . . . proved against her . . . fingerprints." Vera rose abruptly. "How could you know? All de- tails were not published. I tell you this must stop. I order you to leave the house 1" 69 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS Silence, that enraged Vera: "Why don't you speak? Why don't you go?" Still silence. Then Vera spoke, her eyes still on that presence invisible to McFarland, her tone frigid. "I shall see—him, and end this." She moved away from the table. "It's no use to look like that. I know him, as I know you, but I'd rather stand. . . ." Her voice was lost as she passed from McFarland's sight and a door closed. He waited. A tall, slim man walked to the table, his face expressionless—Vera's Chinese butler. He crossed the room and left by the service door. The Automaton pivoted and reclaimed Henry, still stationary in the now dark enclosure. "The interview will be brief. When I dismiss you, tail the Chinese butler, but cautiously." They skirted the house to the front entrance. Mc- Farland pressed the bell. The Chinese butler appeared, impassive, smoothly civil. Miss Montjoy was expecting Mr. McFarland as the maid had informed her of his visit. McFarland looked him over while he spoke in fluent English with odd inflections—tall, well made, a high type of Chinese, an intellectual evidently. Trailed by Henry, McFarland followed the Chinese to a small sitting room where Vera Montjoy greeted him. The butler waited imperturbably at the door. Vera's long, dark eyes slanted in surprise to the gangling Henry; then she remembered and her lips 70 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS curled slightly. That absurd pose of the Automaton— transcribed evidence, to impress his clients! She could not know that the keen, sound brain of Carey Brent had evolved the system from the startling suggestive- ness of the written word and her own insistence on accurate reports. Henry betook himself to a corner and Vera turned carelessly to her butler. He could serve coffee here. The Chinese bowed ceremoniously and vanished. The Automaton's well set head wheeled his opaque black eyes to Vera as she spoke with a hard eagerness. "Have you traced Lucile Graham and Larry West?" Henry, in his corner, produced pen and pad and wrote rapidly. McFarland drew a chair near Vera's. "No, Miss Montjoy, the trail is blind, but you may help me. First, I want Miss Graham's background. There seems to be plenty from certain of your statements last night— but we'll come to that later. The urgent matter is to trace the fugitives. This marriage is a very sudden affair." She broke in scornfully, "Marriage? You don't be- lieve he—" She stopped impatiently as a maid came in with coffee and cigarettes. The unhuman eyes of the Automaton were steadily on the mistress as she waited tautly for the maid to serve and go. A splendidly graceful woman, Vera Montjoy, lithe in every motion and with a hint of fierce strength beneath the ease with which she moved. 7i THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS quenched. "It is humiliating, what you need to know. You will remember I was engaged to Gorman. Lucile was visiting me. One day I surprised them together in this room. He was making furious love to her; she was resisting fiercely. Neither saw me and I overheard. He was madly infatuated, and he had been annoying her for weeks. He swore he would never give her up." "Her resistance seemed genuine?" "Yes; I thought so, then. She appeared to hate and fear him. I had heard rumors of Gorman's reputation, and I had seen things, but I had not let myself believe. That scene convinced me. I confronted them and broke with him." "And Miss Graham—what was her attitude to you?" "All that it should have been. I was sorry for her. She had wanted to tell me, to open my eyes to Gorman, but she was afraid I would not believe her. She was right; I should not have. I had to see." "Miss Montjoy, last night, when explaining Mrs. Ainsley's reactions to the murder, you said that she knew Miss Graham intimately and she knew— Then you hesitated, added that Mrs. Ainsley knew Miss Graham hated Gorman. That last bit was an after- thought. What had you meant to say?" Vera listened curiously. This poseur was keener than she had thought. She answered with apparent careless frankness, but she watched him with a new alertness. "You're wrong, Mr. McFarland." She smiled a little. 73 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "You have imagination—too much for your profes- sion. Just what do you think I suppressed?" "You substituted Miss Graham's name for Gor- man's. You were about to say that Mrs. Ainsley knew Gorman thoroughly. I want to know just what she knew of him." Vera could control her face but not her pupils. She shook her head. "Curb that surprising imagination, Mr. McFarland! I suppressed nothing." The Automaton swivelled to his secretary. "You may go, Henry. Wait for me in the car." Henry effaced himself. They heard his steps recede toward the front of the house. McFarland's rigid body wheeled back to Vera Montjoy, directing his opaque gaze on her carefully indifferent eyes. "Miss Montjoy, we must come to an understanding if I go on with this case. In justice to yourself, you must be frank. You have made startling statements, which must be proved. One statement, that you saw a woman running from the flower room and stop beside the pool—" Vera broke in sharply. "I saw Lucile—" "You saw a woman whom you believed Miss Graham, but your identification is weak. At a distance, even in the moonlight, a face would not be clearly seen. Although you have not admitted it, you may have suspected that Gorman was going to meet Miss Graham in the flower room; it would be easy to imag- ine you saw her face in that of the fleeing woman. It 74 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS may have been Miss Graham in the garden but so far only your story places her there. That someone stopped beside the pool I have practically established. I searched the pool and found what might easily have been the murder weapon. But even that is—" "You searched the pool last night? What did you find?" "Until we come to an agreement, I shall not tell you. For some reason of your own you are telling me only what you want me to know. And you have talked freely to the press. If I go on with this case, I must insist on honest answers and that you follow my in- structions." Vera's head came up. Her tone was insolent. "I cannot see the reason for your attitude. What have I to do with the murder of Ted Gorman? I retained you to solve this murder, not to direct me." The Automaton's tone rang like a hammer on an anvil. "You are in great need of direction, Miss Mont- joy. Concerning the case alone, you have been most unwise. Publishing the fact of Miss Graham's disap- pearance is the worst thing you could have done. Wherever she is, she will see the papers and know she is suspected. And if she chooses to confide in her hus- band, she will be advised by a brilliant criminal law- yer. You have greatly increased the difficulty of finding her and discovering the truth of your accusation, if she is found. Concerning yourself, you have been rash in the extreme." 75 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS Graham; it will not wash. Admit that you could not see clearly the face of the woman who ran from the flower room." Vera's calm broke. Anger flamed in her face as she started to her feet. "Never that! I will take my chance." "I'm sorry. I've exceeded my province in advising as a lawyer. We must wangle through as best we may. The first urgent step is to locate the Wests. You know that he was booked to sail tonight for Europe? He did not sail. Have you any idea as to where he may have taken his wife? They would be likely to want seclusion." He saw his allusions galled her, but she guarded her expression well as she considered. "I know that he is very strong on hunting, fishing. In the season he buries himself in some wild place, but I don't know where. Some of his friends may know—" "Or his office. A good suggestion. Now for our sec- ond step. The strange reactions of Mrs. Ainsley to Gorman's murder—" "But I—" "You said: 'Her fear was for Lucile.' Your inter- pretation did not satisfy me. That stark fear was not for her friend. And I distinctly recall your hesitation, and amendment. Miss Montjoy, what does Mrs. Ains- ley know of Gorman that would so alarm her when she saw his body?" 77 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "It may be necessary to see the servant later. Is the person still with you?" "No." She replied promptly, but he knew she lied. "She, or he, should not be hard to locate. Before I leave, Miss Montjoy, won't you reconsider your refusal to retract identification—" "No!" She hardened instantly. "Then you must take the consequences; they may be unpleasant." He took leave of her, pivoted to the door, stopped suddenly and wheeled. "I forgot. You asked about the thing I found in the pool. It's a curious weapon—a paper knife, with cruelly sharpened edges, a Chinese paper knife." Her hardness left her. Sudden fear leaped in her long eyes, remained. Her lips formed the word Chinese. Then Vera gripped herself. She spoke coolly. "That's an unusual murder weapon. May I see it? Have you it with you?" "No. It is a valuable exhibit. But you may see it when I come again." "You will come tomorrow?" "If anything turns up that you should know, yes." "Something may, here. You had better come to- morrow. I—" She seemed to struggle with herself, to force herself to speak. "I realize that I should accept your judgment. I may retract—" She watched the angular figure of the Automaton go, stood staring at the empty doorway, anger and indeci- 79 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS sion warring in her eyes. Then anger won; the door- way was no longer empty. The Chinese appeared. In his impassive face his long eyes glittered. He came in, went close to Vera. Her alien look increased until it seemed that two Chinese faced each other. The Chinese spoke between thin, rigid lips. "You fool. You fool/ Too dull to know that the robot is no fool." 80 CHAPTER VII THE timid maid, still awed by McFarland's me- chanical motivity, gave him his hat and coat, and let him out. Henry was not in the car. McFarland started it, drove on beyond the estate, smoked and waited. He doubted if that blond snake would be long, and he was not worried. Henry fancied himself as a detective, and with good cause. Without initiative or imagination, he had a positive genius for snooping under orders, and his brain and optics appeared sensitized, so accurately did they register sounds and sights. A valuable, if colorless, creature, Henry. Before McFarland's cigar was finished, Henry slithered from Vera Montjoy's garden and his chief ordered him in the car. Henry had easily located the Chinese butler, in the library which was at some distance from the room in which McFarland had talked with Vera. The butler had stood stock-still, listening, until— McFarland rasped, "Listening! To what? Over the telephone?" "No, sir." Henry continued glibly and his chief's amazement 81 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS grew. His secretary ended with the butler's visit to Vera Montjoy and a word for word account of his terse, hard words. McFarland asked, "You're certain the Chinese did not hear or see you?" "He did not, sir. The house is very well arranged for our purpose. It was not difficult. There is a large closet in the hall, just opposite the library." McFarland thought hard, decided quickly. The Chinese had outside contacts; he would work at night. McFarland instructed Henry curtly. Henry left the car, slid back to Vera's garden and wriggled through the high hedge. The Automaton drove back to New York alone. Arrived in his severely panelled private office, Mc- Farland called Carey Brent. After the brief talk with her he went back to his car and drove South on Fifth to Greenwich Village, skirted Washington Square, then headed into the Italian quarter. A few minutes later, his car parked in the public street, Carey's right-hand man stalked down a dark alley, opened a gate and strode through a small yard to the rear of an old, shabby, unlit house and unlocked the door. Inside, he pressed a switch, stood for an instant looking about the neat, small kitchen, then moved on to the adjoining living room and put on a softly shaded lamp. The room was low-studded, quaint, furnished with rare old furniture. A fire was laid in the low, wide 82 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS fireplace. In the hall outside twisting, narrow stairs wound to the second floor. The tall McFarland, standing at the stair foot, could see the bedroom at the head, ascetically dainty. Wist- fully he gazed, no longer the weird being with un- human mannerisms; a very human and strikingly good-looking male, his motions somewhat rigid, his expression not mobile but intelligent. On this founda- tion Carey Brent had built the famed Automaton, through whom she worked. Impersonal herself, given wholly to her secret sleuthing, she had failed to recog- nize one trait in the man—his strong and passionate power for loving. Usually he concealed it from her by his strange gift of muscular control, but one night her nearness, her unthinking touch had broken his control, and roused the woman in her. He loved this house. Here he could be alone with Carey, secure. Even in their late, secret consultations in her penthouse there was always the strain of possible discovery by the late pleasure-seeking social set whose sated senses fed on the effervescence of the golden Butterfly. Her sudden renovation of this old house, long in her family, was accounted one more of the Butterfly's whimsies. If she were seen entering or leav- ing it, it would excite no comment. The closed house was musty, chilly. McFarland lit the fire, stood by it, smoking, thinking. Carey was late, and she would be in a hurry. Unconsciously he sighed; the conditions on which Carey had surrendered her 83 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS hitherto impersonal self were difficult. He was forever longing for her, but he was contented to get her on any terms. A taxi tore up, braked suddenly. McFarland bolted to the door, stood waiting, the door unlatched, till the taxi drove away. Carey came in with less of her usual energy and she clung gratefully to McFarland. He led her to the davenport by the fire, took off her hat. He thought she looked tired and said so as he drew her close to him. But she denied it. It was just that she had seen and heard sad things, unpleasant things. But she asked at once for Mac's experience at Vera's. What was so queer? He repeated Vera's words to the unseen man in the dining room, and the few words from the man that he had heard. His natural voice was harsh but less metal- lic than that he used in public. At his announcement of the unseen man's identity Carey sat up straight: "Moy-Sha-su! So you were right, Mac; there is something in that alien look of Vera's." "There's a lot, if I'm not mistaken. She is spied on in her own house. But how it ties up with Gorman's murder, I've yet to see." He gave Carey the gist of his talk with Vera, con- densing liberally, as she would study Henry's written evidence tomorrow. He described Vera's flat refusal to take back her identification of Lucile. Graphically he sketched Vera's behavior when he 84 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS told her of the Chinese paper knife, her suggestion of retracting her recognition of Lucile West. Carey's eyes shone as she leaned to him, the firelight flickering on her short, fair hair. "She is afraid. But why of the Chinese paper knife? It was not hers! It belongs to Newbold Howard and he's lost it. Oh Mac, it looks bad for John Ainsley— unless Vera stole the paper knife, or Lucile; either could have. And Lucile has married with suspicious haste and vanished. But Vera surely fears the knife—" "She fears more than that, Carey; listen. Before I went to her, I set Henry onto shadowing the Chinese butler at an arranged signal. Henry spotted him in the library, stock-still in the middle of the room, listening. Henry, from his hiding place outside the room, heard my voice and Vera Montjoy's, coming from the library, but he could not get the words." "A dictograph!" "Yes. It looks as if every room where Vera enter- tains her friends is wired. An elaborate, cleverly con- cealed system. Moy-Sha-su had heard my first talk with his mistress in the flower room. He has also a shut-off in each room. When I left Vera, he left the library and went towards her sitting room which is several doors away and around the corner. Henry delayed an in- stant, hoping he might still hear. No sound of any sort reached him. He took a chance and followed, stopping short of the corner of the long hall. From the sitting room Moy-Sha-su's voice came to him distinctly. 85 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "Henry peeked around the corner just as the Chinese, his back to Henry, closed the door, but Henry had glimpsed Vera Montjoy, angrily defiant. Then Henry wisely came to me. As you know, I left him there and ordered a car sent to wait nearby. If the Chinese leaves, Henry will need it." "He was wise. There must be no more spying there by any of our men. Mac, I must get back and finish my work tonight. It's the best chance as John and New- bold are absorbed in Flora. You can drive me back. I sent my suitcase by the taximan and I have a key, so no one need see you. Mac, take over Vera entirely. You're planning to get her prints?" He had watched her narrowly. She had not men- tioned the shadowing of Moy-Sha-su. He knew that swift, excited mood: her plans were laid. But he an- swered her before he questioned. Vera had threatened, in the dining room, to see someone, evidently a Chinese, and she had wanted to see the Chinese paper knife. "I shall ask her to come to my office. I can easily get her prints, and when she leaves she will be shad- owed. It will take a clever chap, preferably a Chinese. Perhaps The Man—" "Excellent; go to it. We'll need such a man for Moy-Sha-su—" Mac seized his chance as she rose to go. "How about the Chinese, Carey? He must be watched inside the house." 86 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "There's just one person who can do that, safely— the Butterfly. Somehow I'll manage, if I have to break away from Flora. Her nurse seems a nice sort, tactful with the maids, and the Butterfly is given to quick changes; no one ever holds a grudge against the little fool. And Vera likes to have me with her. She's fond of me in a scornful, condescending—" "But Farrel? He's there a lot, Carey. You know he's keen—" Carey laughed and kissed him. He made the most of that but his joy was brief. She drew away to answer, "I'll take care of Farrel; I have before. Now hurry, Mac. It's late." In the car she asked if Mac had checked on Larry's sailing with his bride that night. The fact that he had not, interested her; also that faint clue to their destina- ion indicated by Vera. "It's rather odd. You'd think, with his passage booked—" She stirred restlessly beside Mac, spoke slowly: "It begins to look suspicious, his change of plan, as if he were afraid, for her. If they are in the woods, he may not have seen the papers. He may know nothing." Larry West slept soundly in the early Aart of that first night in the woods with his wife. He arid Wid had worked hard and fast to put up tents, and gather balsam boughs for a bed, for Lucile must know the real thing. 87 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS So soundly did he sleep that he did not know his wife was wakeful. She lay very still within his arms, trying to draw comfort, courage from his strong young body. Toward morning Larry awakened, too drowsy to know what roused him. He heard nothing. Abruptly he was wide awake; Lucile was not in the bed. He felt she was not in the tent, but he called to her. She did not answer. Amazed and slightly worried he got up, groped for his clothes to find his flashlight, but stum- bled first on Lucile's small grip which held her toilet things. He knew she had a flashlight and felt for it. Paper crackled beneath his fingers; then he found the light. He slipped into his mackinaw and moccasins and started for the tent flap, throwing the light low to keep from tripping. The beam showed him Lucile's tidy pile of clothes, her still open grip. He stopped, stared into it, uneasy thoughts stirring. That newspaper which had disturbed her—she had not burned it. He hurried from the tent, stood listening. It was very still. The first gray light of morning tinged the dark sky. Larry's thoughts were like that. Somewhere in the still dark woods Lucile was wandering. Something was wrong; she had tried to tell him. But he did not sift the memory of her dark mood; he had caught a rus- tling of leaves from the direction of the river and hastened toward it, his soft shoes soundless. At the edge he saw her, a faint, dark shape against the gray light of the open space above the river. She moved toward the water and Larry called to her. She 88 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS turned quickly as he ran to her and took her in his arms. He felt her body taut against him, then suddenly she relaxed and clung to him, weeping wildly. He held her tight. "Don't, darling! Tell me what's troubling you. I was a beast not to let you, but I didn't understand." With one long-drawn gasp her crying ceased. She spoke brokenly. "I must tell you, Larry. I wanted to before you married me, but I was afraid of losing you. Then I tried not to for these few wonderful days. I could have held out if you hadn't found me, now. I—" He stopped her. She was shivering in the long warm coat he'd bought for her and her feet were bare inside her moccasins. He led her back to the covered embers of their campfire, brought it up. The flame showed her white face, her frightened eyes. Their look of fear brought back the fog and oppression of his dream days. He went to her and drew her to him, but the fog would not lift. In dread, for her, he listened to her unhappy, hesitating words. "It's very awful, Larry. It happened just before we met. It is in that paper; I kept it. It's in my bag. Gor- man was killed in the flower room. I—" "Stop, Lucile!" The dream had crashed. With lightning clearness Lucile's every act and look that night stood out. . . . 89 CHAPTER VIII CAREY BRENT let herself into a silent house, assured herself that the first floor and basement were deserted and stole upstairs. Through Flora's open door she glimpsed the nurse beside her patient, both motion- less. John, Carey knew, was sleeping in the dressing room, off their bedroom. On the third floor Newbold's bedroom door was open and the bed had not been slept in, but Carey knew he was not in the house. She had not seen all of Flora's room, but it was not likely he was there, and he might return any minute. She went at once to the den beside her own room, drew down the curtain and put on the light. Newbold's pet curio might have been mislaid. Deftly and thoroughly she searched Newbold's Chinese treas- ures, the large desk used by him and John, all the men's litter in the little room, and the entire den. The Chinese paper knife with the gory history was missing. Might either man have carried it to another room, and forgotten? She put out the light, disappeared into the dimly lit hall. Soon she returned to the den, convinced that the his- toric paper knife was not in the house. She switched 90 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS on the light over the desk and went through every drawer and cubby-hole, her mind reviewing the reason for her quest. The Chinese motif was strong in this murder phantasy. John Ainsley had lived in China. The Chinese weapon had shaken Vera's vicious intent to implicate Lucile, and Moy-Sha-su—he was strangely interested in the flower room killing. Carey drew out another drawer as her thoughts tore on. What hold did Moy-Sha-su and his associates have on Vera? And Gorman—was he involved in the— Her searching hands stopped. Mechanically she had opened a long, unaddressed envelope, removed a stiff, large sheet. She stared hopelessly at the engraved Chinese words, followed them down the sheet. Her glance halted. She sat quite still, staring at two names written in English. Downstairs the front door closed. With silent speed Carey replaced the paper, left the desk as she had found it and gained her room. In a moment she heard Newbold's bedroom door close. Poor kid, she thought absently, walking off his anxiety for his sister. The front door had closed again, very quietly. Someone crept up the stairs. Carey peered over the banisters in time to see John Ainsley, hatless, steal to his dressing room. One more item for the amazing train of thought started by Carey's find in the desk. It opened the trail to the discovery of Gorman's murderer, but rough snags still blocked the way. There was still that print 9i THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS ton's interest quickened. He said, "Come up," unlocked his door, and put the Chinese weapon away. The Snake's green eyes gleamed up at him as he closed the drawer; they focused on you at any angle. As McFarland stiffened to his robot role, a gentle knock came at the door and at Mac's impatient bid- ding, it opened a crack and a blond head protruded. Then Henry's body slithered through and stood just inside, his pale blue eyes fixed on his chief. "It seemed best, sir. The Chinese butler had gone to bed; I made sure of that before I left." "Why come to me for that, if nothing happened?" "But something did, Mr. McFarland. I concealed myself in the garden as you instructed where I could watch the windows of the house. In half an hour after you left, Miss Montjoy went to her room. Very soon her lights went out. Then the butler entered his room on the ground floor. It looks out on the garden and the curtains were up. I saw him retire, switching out the light after—" "Good God, Henry, skip the bedtime stories and get on. What happened that you thought I ought to know?" Unmoved by his chief's tart tone, Henry skipped. "I kept the butler's room in sight and the rear and side doors of the house. I was on that little rise, hidden in the evergreens. The small pool with the fountain was just below me, but the trees concealed it. The fountain was shut off, and it was very dark. 93 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "All at once I heard a gentle splashing of the water. I parted the trees and could just see the pool. Someone in dark clothes was crouching over it. I could just see the faint blur of a bare arm reaching to the water. Then a flashlight shot on the water once. It was a man's arm, sir. Then the crouching figure moved on around the pool and the water splashed softly as the arm moved through it. Twice the man circled the pool, his arm dragging always through the water. Then he stood up, cursed in a hoarse whisper, and started stealthily away toward the house. I trailed him, but slowly, as I had to keep high shrubs between us. "The man did not enter the house. He skirted it and headed for the road. As I reached the hedge, he passed me quickly. In a moment I heard a car start beyond the estate. I looked through the hedge and saw a car drive off toward New York. I chanced it and crawled through the hedge: the man was not in sight, and, as the road is straight, he could not have dis- appeared unless he was in that car. You will have noticed, sir, that there is open ground on either side beyond Miss Montjoy's place. The taxi you ordered didn't come. I caught a bus for New York." "Could this man have come from the rear of the house without your seeing him?" "No, sir; only from the front. Dim lights are on everywhere in the halls. I would have seen the light if a door opened." "And he had a car, so it's not likely he came from 94 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS the house. When he passed you, could you see him clearly enough to recognize him? His build, his clothes, even if you did not see his face?" "No. There is no street light there. His coat was long and dark and he wore no hat. I saw that from the back glow when he shot his flashlight, but I could not see his face clearly. His hair looked dark, but I can't be sure. I'm sorry I couldn't follow him, sir." "No fault of yours. The taxi people slipped. Go get some sleep. Report early at the office and type your notes of the interview tonight; then detail everything you've told me of the butler and the snooper at the pool. Have a drink, Henry?" Henry's pale eyes looked pleased. He accepted gin- ger ale and slithered from the room, leaving his chief to ponder the bare-headed snooper at the pool. The blazing campfire in the Maine woods made the dull gray of morning seem still dark night as Lucile shrank at Larry's sharp arresting tone. But he still held her close. "You must not tell me, Lucile. You say it's in the paper. Just what—" "I am suspected. Vera saw me running from the flower room." "I saw you, too, but no one knows that. Is other evidence mentioned?" "Yes. A bloody hand print—a woman's. It's terrible for you. Why don't you hate me?" 95 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "Gorman was unspeakable. I'd blame no woman for—" He pulled up short. "Who found Gorman?" "The Automaton. He's hunting for me." "Did you read all it said?" "Only what I've told you. I was afraid you might come back." "Wait here. I'll get the paper." In an instant he was back, spreading the paper be- fore them in the firelight, holding Lucile hard against him. But she did not read. She watched her husband's face, set, expressionless, the lawyer uppermost, so dif- ferent from the ardent face of the last rushing hours. She closed her eyes, relaxed against that protecting, loyal body. A staccato sound from Larry startled her. His face was still controlled. He laid aside the paper, spoke crisply, holding her cold hands in his warm, strong clasp. "I've changed my mind, Lucile. Tell me what hap- pened in the flower room. But first explain Gorman. I can well imagine, but I must know details of this par- ticular rottenness." She talked on, steadily now, but after a time she paused and seemed to steel herself; her tones grew hard, her words clipped as she forced herself. As she reached the episode in the flower room she stopped dead. She closed her eyes. Her face was white. Larry ached for her, but he must know. Her eyes still closed, his wife went on, her voice so 96 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS low that he bent close to hear. His jaw set savagely. She could feel his muscles fiercely stark; his grip on her hands hurt. Then abruptly her endurance broke. "How can I tell you? Oh, Larry, Larry!" He answered that wild cry. She trembled in his arms, her face crushed against him. Her voice came faintly. "I feel so soiled." He raised her face and kissed her lips. Her trembling stopped. She drew back from Larry and went on. When day broke fully, Wid Morgan was well on his way to the Club Camp, carrying a telegram—but the message was not to Larry's office. 97 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS At once he signed to McFarland to take the extension on West's desk. McFarland, sensing a message from West, whose voice he did not know, listened in with interest. At the first sound of the quiet, steady tones, the muscle in his lip twitched. He knew the voice. "Mr. West has asked me to tell you that he will be away indefinitely as he merely postponed his trip to Europe. If anything turns up which you feel you cannot handle, call in Feverell. Get it all right?" "Yes, but—" Evans broke off and looked across at the Automaton. They laid down the instruments. "Funny," Evans said; "line's dead." McFarland's harsh voice asked, "You knew the voice?" "Not from Adam. Did you? It was a New York call." McFarland ignored the question. "Try to trace it." Evans tried, and learned it was from a public booth. "Unfortunate," clanged McFarland. "I'm anxious to locate Mrs. West. You've read of the Gorman mur- der? And of West's elopement? Miss Montjoy talked to the press before I could advise against it." Young Evans nodded. His troubled eyes proved realization of the inference of West's move. His crooked smile twisted McFarland's mouth and Evans' expression eased at his words. "West's hard hit. He'll come to later and you'll hear IOO THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS from him. I understand he's strong on the woods and often buries himself there. Know where he goes?" "Not definitely. You put it right; he literally buries himself. Wants to cut off from everything on a vaca- tion. But it's way up north, somewhere in Maine, where it's damn cold. I've seen his outfit and heard him talk because he knows I like roughing it. There's a wild river there—Fish River." The Automaton elevated himself. "Let me know if you hear from him, or if you pick up anything indi- rectly." Outside West's office, George McFarland entered the first public telephone he struck and called the Floyd Bennett Airport. At a quarter of eleven he was in his private office talking to a disappointed Ling-foy. McFarland had changed his mind; he preferred not to use Ling this morning as he would take no chances on his being seen by Vera. Ling would be indispensable later, but an American would be wiser today. As the Chinese left the office, McFarland's unlisted telephone buzzed. The familiar call came to him: "All clear? Has the Chinese operative reported? I need him." "Yes. Just leaving. Hold it." He hurried to the door, caught Ling and told him to wait in Henry's cubicle which opened from the pri- vate office and had another door to the hall. Ling was IOI THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS ordered on no account to show himself. His spirits rose as he slid off. Mac returned to Carey's voice. "Did you stop him? Have him at the little house at two. I must talk with you first. Has Larry been heard from?" "Indirectly; not located definitely. Someone called up for him. I was there and heard the voice. Queer—" "Whose voice?" Henry's knock—that would be to announce Vera. Mac delayed admission as he answered Carey Brent. "The voice of a very curious gentleman. A client has just arrived. See you at one." Before admitting Vera, McFarland made sure that the door to Henry's cubicle was barely ajar. Carey, in her penthouse, wondered excitedly. "A very curious gentleman." Her smile flashed, but there was no time to enjoy her mischievous interpretation or to speculate. John and Newbold might get home for lunch. She stowed a small camera in her suitcase and hurried from the penthouse. At the Automaton's metallic permission his door opened slightly and Henry's pale eyes peered through the crack as his high thin tones announced Miss Montjoy. His eyes withdrew and Vera swept by him as if he were the worm his behavior oft suggested. 102 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS McFarland moved rigidly to meet her and seated her before his desk. "May I see the thing you found in the pool, which you believe Chinese? I haven't a lot of time." He did not at once produce the paper knife. "I hoped you had not come only for that, Miss Montjoy." "You mean, have I decided to retract my identifica- tion of Miss Graham?" He corrected imperturbably, "Of Mrs. West, yes. Compared with that your inspection of the murder weapon is negligible." Her face had stiffened at his mention of Larry's wife. She spoke coldly. "I am considering your advice, but I cannot think I am in danger. The police have not been near me since—" "The police at present are busy trying to locate Mrs. West." He pulled out the flat drawer of his desk. "Your turn will come." He saw she was not listening. Her gaze was on his hand. He drew out the Chinese paper knife and laid it on the desk before her. The Snake's green eyes stared straight at her. He could not see her eyes, but her lips tightened and every muscle of her body set in hard control. Suddenly she bent over the paper knife. As suddenly she relaxed, looked up at McFarland. He saw she tried to speak indifferently, but there was a strange ring in her voice which she could not quite suppress. "It is Chinese—and very valuable. It has a history. 103 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS I know Larry and Lucile well. My theory is just com- mon sense." "f/«common sense is needed for this case, Miss Montjoy. You are obsessed by the idea that Mrs. West killed Gorman." "Not obsessed, convinced, by what I saw and heard that night. And you have convinced me of another thing. The search for the murder weapon by the man whom you believe unknown clears me from danger of suspicion. I shall not retract; I saw Lucile run from the flower room and stop beside the pool." The Automaton did not oppose her. She had risen and he also, but she stopped on the way to the door. "Have you learned anything of the runaways, as you believe them?" "Mr. West sent a message to his office, this morning. Someone telephoned for him. Evans did not know the voice. Mr. West will be away indefinitely." "Where was the call from?" "It was a New York call." Vera's lips curled. He saw with satisfaction that she had reverted to her poor opinion of him. "You see? That does not look as if he had left New York. The operator called for him, of course." "No, Miss Montjoy. It was a man's voice. I heard it, and I knew it. It was a voice you know—Jean Farrel's." 106 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS Her pupils contracted. Her expression froze. Then she thawed to casual interest. "Jean calling for Larry 1 Odd. What would it mean?" "To me, just one thing. You have a powerful imag- ination, and you enjoy deduction on your own. Think it over. Where can I find you today if I have word for you?" "I shall be at the Ainsley's for an hour or so; after that, shopping. I shall be home for dinner. You know that Mrs. Ainsley is ill?" He thought she waited anxiously for his answer. "I have heard nothing from the Ainsleys. I scarcely know them." Her anxiety abated and she left him. Her car was at the door; well behind it a roadster waited. As she drove off and turned a corner the roadster followed, driven by a slim young man. Alone, McFarland put The Snake in his pocket and called Henry in. "Get it all right?" "Every word, sir." The Automaton indicated the spot where Vera's hand had rested on the desk. "You'll find a good im- press just there. Take it, then type your notes. Tell the Chinese boy to be at this address at two o'clock. He need not wait now. I'm going out. If I'm wanted, you can find me up to three o'clock at that same ad- dress." He handed Henry the address and telephone number of the little house in Greenwich Village. 107 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS When Carey reached the Ainsleys', the third floor was deserted and she shut herself into the den and approached the desk. Would the Chinese script still be there? She pulled out the drawer and sighed in vast relief. The blank envelope lay there and the foreign script was in it. She hid the script in her bag, put the envelope back and closed the drawer. It would be safer in her room, and the light was better. She stole away, listened in the hall. No sound of John or Newbold. She locked herself in her room, laid the Chinese script on a table where the strong morning light would strike it, drew the small camera from her bag and photographed the script. Within two minutes the Chinese document was back where it belonged and Carey Brent was in her window- less bathroom working swiftly by a red lantern. At half past twelve Carey telephoned for her car and left her room, still carrying her grip. Her purposeful speed merged in the pleasant aimlessness of the Butter- fly as she sought out the waitress, Annie, in the hall below and explained that she would not be in for lunch. Her kindly way endeared the Butterfly to all who served her and encouraged confidence. The maid had read of Gorman's murder and of Vera's implication of Lucile and resented it. Miss Graham was so lovely and so gentle. And she had seemed very tired that night. When they had coffee in the den, Mrs. Ainsley had made her rest on the divan— The Butterfly flicked in, "That's like Mrs. Ainsley, 108 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS to think of. I hope it did her good," she ended vaguely, watching for her car. "Miss Graham? Oh yes, she fell asleep and they left her there till it was time to start for Miss Montjoy's dance. Miss Montjoy must be terrible. I always thought she looked hard, Miss Brent, though she's so handsome. That day she looked very stunning." The Butterfly's wits seemed unusually divergent. "That day? What day, Annie? Who looked stunning? Where?" Annie was used to her and amiably explained, "Why, Miss Montjoy. She called that morning, the day of her dance. Mrs. Ainsley was out and Miss Montjoy waited. Though I shouldn't say so, she had a lot of cheek, with Mrs. Ainsley out. She went upstairs. I was working in Mrs. Ainsley's room." Carey appeared mildly interested. "That was rude, Annie. Did she see you, speak to you?" "Oh, yes, Miss Brent. She said she was going to the den, to look at Mr. Newbold's curios." "And she actually went there?" "Yes, and stayed there till Mrs. Ainsley—" Carey broke in, "There's my car. I must hurry, Annie." She left word for Flora Ainsley and rushed away to meet McFarland. 109 CHAPTER X VERA MONTJOY did not spend an hour at Flora Ainsley's. She did not get in at all, as the doctor had forbidden visitors; nor did she shop. The slim young man, Athelstan, trailing warily under McFarland's orders, was forced to buy an expensive and unmascu- line lunch at an exclusive tea room on Fifth Avenue after assuring himself that there was no second exit from the tea room either to the street or building. From his obscure table he saw that Vera ate little. Soon after one o'clock she rose. Her shadow left before her, hurried to his roadster parked around the corner and drove slowly to the Avenue and beyond Vera's car just as she started her motor. If she were not going north as they were headed, she must turn east or west. Vera drove north to Central Park, passing Athelstan, then west to Broadway which she followed to Ninety- First, turned left and drove through to Riverside Drive. On the Drive she turned north again to Grant's Tomb, stopped at an apartment house opposite and went in. Athelstan circled the Tomb, parked on the right and walked opposite the house. He could see where Vera no THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS had gone in, and in a moment he saw her back near the window of a first floor apartment. She was stand- ing, waiting evidently. Very soon she moved abruptly forward, away from Athelstan's vision. For a few minutes he watched. Then Vera came out with a man and Athelstan sauntered to his car, started the motor. In an instant Vera had circled the Tomb and passed him. Athelstan had a clear view of the man on her right—a Chinese, very erect, his face expres- sionless. Probably the Chinese butler McFarland had described, but McFarland had not expected— Vera leaned a little forward to clear the roadster and Athelstan saw her face was angrily flushed. He gave her a good lead until cars piled in from the left. Then he followed rapidly keeping her Rolls Royce in view. Vera led him to Twelfth Avenue. Close to Hoboken Ferry she turned left on Twenty-Fourth. He stopped just short of the turn and saw her draw up a few doors from the corner. She and the Chinese entered a narrow doorway beside a store. Athelstan locked his car and hurried after them. His pass key opened the door and stairs confronted him. Low voices came to him from far above, then steps sounded, ceased. A woman's tone came to him, clear, hard, disdainful. "Not a third flight, in this nasty place?" A door creaked. Steps again, going toward the front, and the creaking door closed. Athelstan went outside and looked up at the third THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS floor windows, three of them. In the one at his left a sign flared: "Office for rent." Within a minute he was shut in the dusty, vacant, narrow room, close to the loosely fitted door connecting with the room that Vera and the Chinese had entered. He was speaking: "Now you may talk. It was not safe there, with the servants. You should not have gone there. You know that." "I warned you that I should see him and I did not know of this place. I have nothing to say to you, Sha-su. Where is Moy-Chen-fo? Bring him to me!" "You will accomplish nothing by seeing him. I have his orders concerning you." "I shall free myself." "You cannot. Moy-Chen-fo needs you. He has an- other hold on you through the murder of Gorman, and the Snake." "That does not frighten me. I have learned some- thing which you could not overhear, Sha-su." For seconds there was silence. Athelstan heard soft steps, away from him. They halted and the Chinese spoke. "It will be well for you to see Moy-Chen-fo. He will convince you that what you call freedom is not desirable." A door opened, closed, but not the door into the hall. Athelstan heard no sound from Vera. Evidently she waited, motionless, for the door to open. It must have, 112 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS have stolen that paper knife, as she was alone in the den." "And by the same token, so Vera could have." Carey pushed back her crowding curls. "Good Heav- ens, yes! All our suspects were glued to the den the day of the murder, when they were not snooping around Gorman's body—all except Vera. We don't know that she was in the flower room." "That Chinese butler may know." "That's an idea, Mac. Best not question him yet. He must think we accept him as just Vera's butler. That Mongolian look of hers suggests strongly Chinese origin as one reason for his hold on her. But there's more behind it, and Gorman's murder may tie up with it. His signature is on that script, and one other; you'll see, when the Chinese boy comes. But we must go slowly; there's so much to learn before we move. And now Jean Farrel's in it. Of course it was his voice you heard. That means Larry knows that Lucile's in danger and has sent for Farrel." "And Farrel's gone to them. I called the airport. He telephoned from there and left at once, flying north." "It bears thinking over, but it may work out right. We must find Lucile." She rose, intent, eager, imper- sonal, and went close to Mac: "The one who killed Gorman is very clever and will be hard to break. The murder was planned, for months. But that bloody print could not be foreseen. We must have Lucile's impression. You have Vera's? I have "5 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS the signature of the president, Moy-Chen-fo. Gorman had signed as secretary. McFarland's eyes were on that Chinese name. Moy —that was the family name. And Vera's Chinese butler was Moy-Sha-su. Would Ling know anything of— He glanced at Ling and his glance stayed. The boy's eyes were excited. McFarland asked the question he in- tended. "Ling-foy, have you ever heard of this secret society, or of this Moy-Chen-fo?" Ling's eyes clouded: he ignored the first query. "Moy-Chen-fo is very learned, famous, very old Chinese." "And the society, Ling?" The boy's eyes grew bright again, then troubled. At last he answered, "Of the society I have known noth- ing, but—it has made me think." "Think what, Ling?" "Sir, I am sorry, but I must not say. And I may think wrong. I must speak first to my master. Maybe he will let me put you wise." "You mean that O'Connell's on some Chinese case?" Ling's eyes went blank but he spoke civilly. "I must not say that." He seemed to struggle with a desire to help McFarland and his ingrained training by O'Con- nell. Suddenly he said, "It is very queer break. You must speak with my master." Before McFarland could agree the telephone rang and he went to it. Henry, talking with the concise speed 117 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS drilled in him for emergencies. Athelstan had called the office. McFarland absorbed the message quickly, then turned to Ling. "You're coming with me. My car is round the corner, near the alley. Go warm it up." Ling vamoosed and Mac pivoted as Carey ran in. "Athelstan has sent a hurry call. He's trailed Vera and her butler to this Moy-Chen-fo. The old chap speaks only Chinese. Sha-su has taken Vera to some secret place, but they'll be back. Stay here." Carey watched him go with shining envious eyes, tempted as always by adventure. But Athelstan was there and Ling; the secrecy on which her work was founded must not be shattered. And she had much hard thinking to do. Before beginning, she called John Ainsley's house. Newbold answered and Carey inquired for his sister; she was coming on well and John was with her. Newbold delayed the Butterfly; he'd wanted to talk to her: "I'm fearfully worried over this hunt for Lucile. It's such damned rot. Do you think the Automaton sus- pects her?" "How should I know, New? Better ask him." "D'you think he'd see me? You know him so well since the cases you fell into. I'd like to talk to him about Lucile—explain her. And I'll tell him a thing or two about Vera. If the robot suspects Lucile as the police do, it's Vera's doing." 118 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "That would be a good idea, New; at least, there's no harm trying. Oh, New, did you find the knife?" "Knife? What knife, Insect?" "Why, the gory knife you spoke of—the Chinese one." "Oh, that! The paper knife. Haven't thought of it since. Fix it up for me with the Automaton, will you?" "I'll try, New, but don't count on it. I've no influ- ence. Would you like him to dine with us tonight? A good meal might tempt him; and he's a lonely, home- less soul." "Sure thing, Carey. Wait a sec. John wants some- thing." Carey could hear John's voice, but not distinctly. Then Newbold's clearly, protesting: "Why not have him, John? It might help Lucile." John had come close to Newbold; the two men ignored the Butterfly. "Flora has a horror of the Automaton, New. I—" "But she won't know he's here, John." "New, / don't want him—" His voice was cut off suddenly as his hand clamped on the mouthpiece. Even the Butterfly must not hear. In her little house Carey Brent hung up the receiver. She had heard John speak when he came close to Newbold Howard. Newbold did not know where she was, and she wanted Mac to dine there. He must seem to learn that the Snake came from that house at first hand, not through the gossip of the Butterfly. Carey 119 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS would risk no clue to her secret work. John couldn't turn Mac out when he arrived through the heedlessness of the Butterfly. Athelstan's directions had been clear. McFarland and Ling-foy had easily found him in the small room next to Moy-Chen-fo. Vera had returned. The old Chinese was speaking and McFarland signed for Ling to stand close to the door. Moy-Chen-fo spoke briefly. No one answered him. Then Vera's voice, unlike hers, shaken, horrified, her Chinese labored. . . . Moy-Chen-fo's high, weird in- flections. . . . Abruptly Vera's voice, in English: ''Stop him, stop him, Sha-su! I can't think Chinese, now. Tell him I didn't know—that I will—" Moy-Sha-su's hard tones: "There is no need to tell him, Moy-Sai-ti. Your face speaks for you." As he finished, the listeners heard the rustling of rich silks close to them; the sounds receded. Vera's Chinese butler spoke again, less harshly. "Rest for a time, Sai-ti. Compose yourself. I will come back soon, and drive you home. You are not fit to drive yourself." Steps crossed the room and a door closed. McFar- land motioned to Ling and Athelstan and all three stole from the room. In his office McFarland, with Henry taking notes, received Athelstan's detailed report and dismissed him, then called in Ling-foy whose memory equaled 120 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS Henry's. Ling gave his literal translation of the Chinese dialogue clearly, but not calmly, nor was McFarland's mind calm. Seeing that the Chinese boy was tremen- dously excited, Mac deported Henry to his cubby and faced Ling-foy. "Ling, it's plain that through this job for me you've struck a clue to something O'Connell's working on. You've told me nothing, which was right, and I won't ask you until I've seen your master, but you can an- swer this. Have the two Moys or any member of this secret organization ever seen you?" Ling denied definitely, which relieved McFarland. "You're capable and trustworthy, Ling-foy, and you will be invaluable. I may have delicate work for you. You may go no." Ling-foy lingered, his expression anxious. "What's on your mind, boy?" "Can I tell Master what I have seen and heard today?" "Sure you can. He'll know I'm working on the Gor- man murder. I hope it helps his case." THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS afraid. The knife cannot be traced to me. I did not kill him. The woman did.' "The horribly amiable voice of Moy-Chen-fo rose and fell: "T shall not let you endanger us by your vicious folly in this murder. Listen carefully, Sai-ti. Remember what you saw, below. You are very beautiful, and you have Chinese blood. If you refuse assistance, you will not free yourself. You will—' "She broke completely. Her Chinese forsook her as she cried out to Moy-Sha-su to silence the old Chinese. Sha-su's hard tone checked her: There was no need for words. Her face had told of her surrender." Carey had listenel tensely. Now she lit a cigarette, but she did not relax. "Sensational, regular tabloid stuff; but I wish I might have heard. What do you make of it? Not of what frightened Vera—that's plain enough—but the bearing of the whole Chinese intrigue on Gorman's murder?" "It doesn't tie up, yet, that I can see. We must know more about Gorman and the secret organization. Of course, Moy-Chen-fo's words implicate Vera in threat- ening her with Gorman's murder, unless Moy-Sha-su killed him, knowing he could frame Vera. Gorman may have doublecrossed." "Or threatened to; that's good thinking, Mac, and plausible. But you're right; the Chinese motif doesn't tie up yet. It never may, directly. We'll not know till we break the killer." 123 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "You said that before, Carey; you sound like the police. Just what do you mean?" "Exactly what I say, but we shan't use police meth- ods. It may take time." She rose and took up the print of the Chinese script. McFarland went to her, turned her to him: "Carey, you said a while ago you had been blind. Do you know now who killed Gorman?" "How can I know? But I suspect, as you must—" She caught herself, went on: "I forgot; there are things I haven't told you. One angle concerns Lucile. John showed deep distress on her account, and Newbold Howard wants to talk to you about Lucile and Vera; he's fearfully worked up over Lucile. You're dining there tonight, against John's wishes: he's afraid of you. Before you go there, you must know. . . ." She talked on rapidly, then she spread the photo- graphed Chinese script on the table and pointed to the name of the new member. "It was that name, not Gorman's, that shocked me into seeing. Again the startling power of the written word has helped. You must talk with John Ainsley soon, but not tonight. Tonight your one objective is to discover for yourself that the Chinese paper knife was in his house. Before you talk with John, we must compare his fingerprints and Vera's with that on Gor- man's shirt front. I'll break away and meet you after midnight at the penthouse." 124 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS McFarland asked: "You say I am to talk with Ainsley? Just what line—" "Use your own judgment, but at least he must know you have found the murder weapon and that you know Lucile could have taken it. The killer must—" "I get you, now, Carey. How about Mrs. West? Am I to go after her?" "We'll decide tonight. You may not need to hunt for her. Farrel will be back and he may persuade her to return, unless she admits that bloody print is hers." Suddenly she clung to Mac. "I dread tonight. If John or Vera did not make that bloody print, it narrows to Lucile. It will be difficult. So much depends on what I plan to do." She drew back from Mac as suddenly as she had gone to him. "I must forget my feeling for Lucile and work as if she were a stranger. Tomorrow you must see Vera. She may take back her identifica- tion of Lucile since the scene with the old Chinese, which will help Lucile. If Vera will not, she can be forced." "Yes; after I've seen O'Connell, or The Man, if O'Connell can't talk. I'll get hold of him before I see you at the penthouse." Carey was at the door but she turned back. "A good thought, Mac. Get all the facts you can. There may be a lot of forcing needed on this case, and not only for Vera Montjoy." 125 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS The pilot had landed squarely, taxied toward Wid and stopped just short of him. A tall man climbed out, removing goggles from keen blue eyes. Three hours later Jean Farrel's eyes were serious as Larry West finished his wife's story concerning the murder of Ted Gorman. Lucile, white and still beside her husband, watched Farrel's face. Incongruously across the silence Wid's cheerfully profane singing reached them from beyond the fire as he washed the dishes. At last Farrel spoke. "Lucile, when you were alone in the flower room before Farrel surprised you, did you hear or see any- one in the hall, or in the garden?" "Someone stopped at that door into the garden just after I went in. It was the Chinese butler, but he went on—" Larry said quickly, "But Sha-su was in the smoking room, serving drinks, just before I heard you in the flower room. You couldn't have seen him." "But I did, Larry. He's unmistakable; he was evi- dently looking for someone." Farrel's quiet voice asked, "Which way was Sha-su headed? Toward the ballroom?" "No, away from it." "Could he see you?" "Not my face; perhaps my dress, my skirt. I was on that divan, to the right of the door from the garden." 127 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "You wore white that night: he wasn't looking for anyone in white, it seems." Farrel's thoughts flew back to Vera's jade-green gown. But why should Sha-su be looking for her? His duties were assigned. Vera planned her parties like a general. "You're certain you saw no one else about—no woman?" "Certain, up to the time that Gorman came. After that, I wouldn't have noticed." "You went at once to the flower room when you got to the dance. Did the Ainsleys know that, or Newbold Howard, or anyone?" "No one knew. I was too tired to dance, but I didn't want to spoil the others' fun." Jean Farrel spoke to Larry West. "You're deter- mined on the plan you outlined before I heard the facts?" "Yes. You don't approve?" "No. I see your reasoning and I admit your wife's case is hopeless as it stands, but I believe evasion of the law will hurt her more. McFarland will know just why you're doing it." "You think he suspects her?" "You can't tell what he thinks, but whether he actu- ally does or not, he must follow up the clue of the woman's print in blood, as the police are trying to do. Your wife's apparent flight incriminates her. Come back with me tonight and fight it out on the ground." 128 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS Lucile spoke excitedly. "I want to, Mr. Farrel, and leave Larry out of it." Larry cut in, "Impossible. They'll get her prints at once; that, and Vera's evidence will mean Lucile's prompt arrest." "Better that than the fatal inference from her disap- pearance. I'm not so worried over Vera's accusation." Lucile stared at him. Larry, knowing Farrel, waited curiously. "But she says she saw me—" "Yes. But we don't know where she claims she was. To identify you surely at night she must have been pretty close. I know Vera, well; I've known her for a long time, perhaps you don't know how long. She didn't want me on this case. She won't be pleased when she finds I'm on it, in your interests." Lucile leaned eagerly toward him. "Then you will help me, even if Larry won't let me go back?" "On two conditions." He spoke to Larry. "I'll com- promise with you. I'm going back tonight and I'll go alone if you'll agree to produce your wife at once when I want her, even if it's tomorrow. Leave Wid at the main camp where I can reach him by telephone. My second condition is that you leave the sleuthing entirely to me. You know the law, Larry, but you don't know my job. Here's my plan: You won't like it; it will hit you hard." He fired his bombshell and Lucile started nervously, 129 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS looking blankly at her husband. He held on to himself till Farrel ended, then exploded. "Good God, man! You're going straight over to the enemy's camp. You're crazy." "Not yet. It's the only logical thing. We've lost a lot of time. This way we'll know all he knows." Larry argued hotly as Farrel lit a cigarette and listened unmoved. He had his way. They needed him. Hours later Jean Farrel, flying toward New York, glowed with secret satisfaction. A certain pet problem of his was in a fair way to be solved through Larry's acceptance of his scheme. That cursed Butterfly had haunted him for a year. He mistrusted coincidences: The Gorman murder was the third big case of McFarland's into which the But- terfly had fluttered. In two she had been a vital wit- ness. In this one she had been with the Automaton in the flower room right after he found Gorman's body— or was it after? Was she the blithering idiot she seemed? The blithering idiot had engineered successfully the dinner at John Ainsley's. John, a gentleman to his fingertips, had accepted Carey's blunder kindly and civilly received McFarland. Nervous and reserved at first, John had quieted and expanded when he saw that his rigid guest showed no professional interest in him. The Automaton even refused to talk with Newbold about the case that evening, but offered audience at his office in the morning, his excuse that he must 130 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS practically eat and run. Carey maneuvered coffee in the den and Mac easily secured his first-hand knowl- edge that the famous Snake was missing. After McFarland left, John Ainsley sat with his wife till her nurse drove him from the room. Then he joined Carey in the living room below, announcing that he should go to his office to attend to matters neglected these last worried days. Would Carey mind if he left her? Newbold was around somewhere, puttering in the den, probably. Curled over a book, Carey didn't mind, but John seemed reluctant to leave after all, and very restless. Then abruptly he appeared to force himself to action and hurried away. A few minutes after he was gone Carey heard a motor start. Odd, if he were going only to his office. She had not known the car was there; it was not when she parked her own. She looked out in time to see John's roadster driving south, then turn east. He was not going to his office! His harried rest- lessness came back to her. Her wrap was in the hall. She caught it up and called to Newbold that she was going to her penthouse. He did not answer. She left word with Annie and rushed out to her car. The lights might hold up John's roadster. They had, at Third Avenue. As Carey drew near cautiously, he crossed Third, drove straight east, then turned south and drove on recklessly. Carey's Marmon purred to sixty, seventy, slowing 131 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS only as her quarry slowed for lights. But at the bridge she lost the roadster. A motor officer had followed and held her up to caution her for speeding. The Butterfly's smile worked overtime as she promised to be good, but the officer was sternly conscientious and Carey was forced to listen and show her registration. When he let her go, John's car had disappeared and Carey dared not speed while the eye of the law was on her. But she had seen John's roadster on the bridge. Once across herself, she let the Marmon out, but she stopped once to telephone Mac at O'Connell's in case she should be late for their meeting at her penthouse. Mac had not come and she left the message. A wild goose chase perhaps, chancing the roadster's destination, but during the slow minutes on the bridge she had had time to think. 132 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS Service had been given a straight lead to the solution of an obscure case on which Ling's master had been working. Ling had been quick to see the real purpose of the Chinese secret organization. McFarland's questioning of Ling was brief. The Chinese case was up to the Secret Service; it concerned Mac only where it touched Vera Montjoy, and one other; and O'Connell's further work would provide the facts. The getting of those facts would insure the delay that Carey had thought she needed for her scheme of breaking the murder of Gorman. But would she need delay now? "I understand that the younger Chinese, Moy-Sha- su, was not suspected till today?" McFarland asked. "Sir, no. He was never seen. Only old Chinese. My master learned Moy-Chen-fo much talked of in China- town. He seemed very mysterious, very old, very rich, but no Chinese know what he does. That's why my master make me work for Moy-Chen-fo's Chinese cook as helper when old Chinese have members meet there. But I can never learn anything. All seems innocent business. Moy-Chen-fo—" "You're sure he never saw you, Ling?" "Dead sure. Moy-Chen-fo leaves all work business to old fat cook who came with him from China. To- night late, I go to help cook." "And the cook—he's not onto you?" Ling-foy looked scornful. "Cook onto me? Sir, no. Cook is stupid, greasy, low-class Chinese." Ling's eyes 134 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS nominally Sam was on the Homicide Squad. Only offi- cials of the Secret Service knew he was ace-high in that department. McFarland knew that unusual quick astuteness lay behind that surface lightness. McFar- land filled his pipe. The two men talked. . . . By eleven McFarland reached his office to wait for word from Carey Brent. At a quarter past eleven the telephone bell shrilled. It was not Carey's voice. Moy- Sha-su was speaking. McFarland's muscles contracted as he listened. His black eyes grew denser. He answered in staccato tones, "I'll come at once. Have you called the police? . . . No? . . . You want me to? All right. Don't touch anything. Just a second, Sha-su. Did Miss Montjoy have visitors tonight, beside the unknown man? No woman?" The butler's cold tones replied instantly. "No woman." He cut the line. So Carey had worked under cover. She might be out there still, or on her way back. He must leave word at her penthouse. He'd save time by flying. Plenty of open ground out there. He'd need Henry. O'Connell should be in on this, but he could drive out. McFarland called the two. . . . His car was at the door. He drove first to the pent- house but Carey was not there. Within twenty minutes he had picked up Henry and a third man by arrange- ment with O'Connell, and the three were racing for the airport. 136 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS Carey Brent, on reaching Huntingdon, drove past the road that led to Vera's home. John Ainsley's roadster stood before the front entrance. Carey drove on to the rear of the estate and left her car some hun- dred yards from the entrance to the garden. She drew her dark, fur-trimmed coat together to hide her light evening gown and started for the high, thick hedge which shut in the estate. She had visited Vera often; all details of the grounds and house were familiar. The early September night was balmy and the windows would be open. She en- tered the grounds by a small gate in the hedge arid approached the house. The night was cloudy and the great garden dark. Soft light rays slanted from the open windows and door of Vera's flower room and Carey crept toward it. But surely she was not there 1 Vera was hard, but scarcely hard enough for that, so soon— Carey stopped. Vera's voice, from the flower room. She was cold-blooded. Carey stole nearer, then reversed herself and headed for the windows of the butler's bedroom. She must locate Sha-su, make sure that he would not discover her. Undoubtedly his room was wired for eavesdropping and he was listening to Vera and her guest, but Carey must be certain. The window of Sha-su's bedroom was closed, the room dark. But Carey saw the minute red glow of a cigarette, and faintly voices came through the pane from the listening device. 137 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS Softly as a cat she retraced her steps and hid her- self in the great shrubs from which she had seen John Ainsley stooping over Gorman's body. Now she could see Vera in a lounge chair just where Gorman's body had lain, but she could not see the man she had trailed from New York. He was evidently on the divan beyond the door, seated on the end not seen through the window. His voice was low and steady. At first Carey could not catch his words. Just as her ears were attuned to the low pitch, Vera broke in acidly. "You men all fall for Lucile." She checked herself, and her voice lost its edge. "I can't blame you; she is very lovely. But arguing is useless; I saw what I saw." The low voice protested: "But Vera, why are you so set on implicating her? If she had killed Gorman, which she didn't, he richly deserved it. Why not take back what you said—admit you couldn't see distinctly and let Lucile take her chances with the robot and the law?" Vera moved impatiently. "You've said all that, and I've explained that I've no personal grudge against Lucile. It's entirely a matter of plain justice. Don't go over it—" "It's justice you're after, Vera? All right. Ill oblige you. No more arguing and persuasion. I'm out for jus- tice, too—for Lucile." Vera looked oddly at him. "How do you mean to get it? I won't retract—" "Not yet. I've tried to persuade you to do the decent 138 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS thing for the girl you've known so long, and for your own sake. Your accusation reflects on you—" "How?" Vera asked sharply. "You know as well as I— On your loyalty, for one thing. Women usually stand by one another." Her long eyes and her red lips sneered. "That's abso- lutely silly in a case of murder. One is expected to tell all one knows." "Who's arguing now? I've accepted your decision, and it's forced my hand. I can clear Lucile. I know who killed Gorman." Vera looked at him intently. "You think you know who killed him because you suspect the Chinese Snake was used. But you're wrong. That wouldn't clear Lucile. She stole the paper knife that night, at your house." The steady voice answered with a deadly certainty. "She did not steal it. I know who used the Snake." Vera's intent look held. Her eyes widened, then suddenly her face filled with fury. In one lithe move she rose and passed for a second from Carey's vision, reappeared before the window, her profile to the gar- den. Her voice carried bitingly. "You do know. But you will not inform." "I shall, if Lucile is arrested and indicted." There was a sound of scraping as the heavy divan moved from the sudden rising of the man at the ter- rible anger in Vera's face. She went on recklessly: "I said you will not inform. I can disgrace you, in 139 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS two ways. You will not dare to speak. I know what Gorman did to Flora. The child was not your—" Carey saw the man's hands grip Vera's shoulders. "For God's sake, Vera, you'd never do that! Your hatred of that girl has crazed you! You're talking wildly!" Vera tried fiercely to wrench free from the holding hands. "I mean every word. And there's something else. It will shame you publicly. That Chinese society —you don't understand. I didn't, until today." Some faint gleam of reason made her hesitate but her fury drove her on. "You've been a fool, as I have, and you're in it deep. Ted Gorman was, too, but he knew the terrible business, and we should have sus- pected. Moy-Chen-fo is—" Abruptly she faced the door from the hall, grew rigid. As Carey moved forward, stared toward the door, the lights in the flower room went out. For a second she heard nothing, then a sharp short cry. The shrubs rustled just outside the door to the garden, the switch clicked just inside the door and the lights came on in the flower room. Outside Carey heard and saw no one after that faint rustling of the shrubs near her, but through the window she saw the man's hands still gripping Vera's shoulders. Her head had fallen forward. Her body seemed to sag. Carey still heard nothing in the garden, saw no one. She must reach a telephone, call Mac. Cautiously she 140 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS left her hiding place, but at the first step blackness fell hard and swift upon her. As O'Connell, Henry, and the third man left the plane and approached the rear of Vera Montjoy's estate McFarland spoke to Henry. "The butler does not expect us yet as he does not know we came by plane. We'd better scout around a bit, outside." He turned to the third man. "Do you care to take a hand, or will you wait?" The third man answered crisply; he appeared keen on scouting and the Automaton divided up his force. "I'll take the grounds. Each of you start at the front and circle the house, one on each side. All windows on the first floor are long, to the ground, except in the service ell. We'll meet at the front in ten minutes, unless one is delayed in which case the others will wait. We should go in together. The butler must not know we're checking on him." The Automaton did not go at once inside the grounds. He assured himself that Carey's car was not in the neighborhood, nor was there any car before the house. If she had trailed anyone from New York, she was after him now. That meant that she was unaware of the night's event at Vera's. He found the gate in the hedge that Carey had used. As he started through it he heard a car coming on the road behind the estate, and waited. Beyond Vera's rear entrance the car slowed, a door closed and the car went 141 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS on. A servant returning, perhaps, to the next estate as McFarland could hear no one in the grounds. He passed through the gate. Except for the servants' quarters and the dim lights in the hall the house was dark. Through a window he saw a group of maids hud- dled in the service sitting room, heads together. He easily located the room of Moy-Sha-su from Henry's description, and as he did so lights sprang on within. The shades were down, but the tall slight shape of the Chinese butler was silhouetted against them as he moved about. Sha-su crossed the room, a shadowy door opened and his shape merged for an instant in the door, appeared again clearly on the shade getting into a coat. Interested, McFarland skirted the house and met Henry and the third man in the road in front. Henry slid up to McFarland. "The Chinese butler has just returned by the side door. No car had been out. I checked on them. The motors were stone cold. And close to the flower room I stumbled on this, on the ground beside some bushes at the left of the door." The Automaton took the small thing from him and knew it by the touch. Carey's ridiculous bead bag hold- ing skeleton keys and her tiny deadly pistol. It was not like her to drop it and not know it. But if she had seen what had happened and trailed, she would have been in a rush. His uneasiness returned—but he must get to work. He sent off Henry to the town to tele- phone Miss Brent and to call the office in case Susie 142 CHAPTER XIII THE Medical Examiner bent over Vera, turned her head. "Stabbed, like Gorman, but evidently with a narrower blade." He touched her flesh, raised a limp hand. "Dead about two hours." The Automaton was standing between the window and the divan, staring at the floor. He looked up at the Medical Examiner. "Come here, Doctor." The M. E. joined him, followed the direction of his stare. Then their eyes met. McFarland called in Sha- su. He came and faced the two across the body of Vera Montjoy. "Just how did you find your mistress?" McFarland asked. The Chinese looked squarely at the body, then up to the Automaton. "As you see her now." The M. E.'s glance switched quickly from the floor to the impassive butler. McFarland questioned, "You saw no weapon, I as- sume." "Surely. It is beneath the couch." Surprise glued McFarland's eyes to the Chinese, but sounds from the Medical Examiner deflected his atten- tion. Dr. Folsom was on his knees reaching beneath 145 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS the divan. He straightened, got to his feet, holding a thin, shining dirk in a queer contraption which served to pick up an object and secure it without injury to fingerprints. So highly polished was the steel of the narrow blade that it had easily been wiped clean. McFarland merely glanced at the thing then turned back to Moy-Sha-su. "Tell us all you know of this. You said just now it was the lighted room that made you enter. Why? Miss Mont joy often sat here." "That is as you say, sir, but earlier, at half past ten, when I went my usual rounds to attend to the lights and close up the house I had heard the mistress talk- ing with a man in this room. I had not known she had a caller. I postponed my duties. Later, at a few min- utes before eleven, I heard a car leave and supposed the man had left. I went my rounds again. This room was lighted but I heard no voices. The mistress often left the lights on, so I went in. It was evident that Miss Montjoy was dead, and I called you at once." "You spoke then of Miss Montjoy's guest as an un- known man. Could you see him on your first approach to this room?" "No. I came by that door in the long hall close to this room. This door was almost closed, only ajar. I could see neither my mistress nor the man." "But you heard his voice, and hers. You did not know his voice?" 146 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "No. I have a poor ear for American voices. They all sound alike." "Would you know his voice if you heard it again?" "Perhaps, if I should hear it very soon, but it's doubtful." "Did the voices of the two seem angry?" "As to that I cannot say exactly; very earnest. The male voice seemed protesting, but American speech is always vehement. It is hard for a Chinese to judge. And I heard the voices only for a second as I with- drew at once." "You caught no words, no names?" Sha-su did not answer instantly but his long eyes told nothing of the reason for his silence. The Auto- maton gave him time and the Chinese spoke, his tone cold, unhesitating as it had been before. "Is it necessary that I should answer that?" "It will be best for you to tell me everything you know. Why do you ask?" "I do not want to harm this stranger man, or the woman of whom he spoke, but I must protect myself and all the servants. I understand that we will be ques- tioned, perhaps suspected, by the police. It will be very stupid to suspect us, as our mistress was a kind and fair one." The M. E. glanced at the Automaton. A shrewd, keen chap, this Chinese butler. But the robot was in- tent on Moy-Sha-su. "Undoubtedly stupid to suspect any of you, but if 147 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS garden. But one door is never locked during the day, the side door from the garden. A passage from that door leads directly to the flower room. The mistress' intimate friends use that door, often." "You said Miss Montjoy looked tired and ill this afternoon when she got back. Did she also seem wor- ried, unhappy?" "Now of that I cannot judge, sir. It is not respectful for a servant to look too closely." "Do you know where she went?" "Of that I can inform, in some measure. The mis- tress was in New York. She knew that I also was in town on house business, and as she was very tired, she telephoned me at the market to drive her home. I fre- quently act as her chauffeur. She employed no regular chauffeur, only a mechanic, as she preferred to drive herself." McFarland thought, "Damned clever. The servants would know he was out and drove her home." Aloud he asked, "Miss Montjoy may have made an appoint- ment with this man in town. Where did you meet your mistress?" "At Mrs. Ainsley's home at about half past twelve." "Did she spend any time there?" "I do not know. The mistress was coming out as I arrived." "And then?" "I drove her to Fifth Avenue where she had her 149 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS lunch. After that she shopped for a time, but it wearied her and she left town early." McFarland listened with admiration to Sha-su's adroit interweaving of fact and fiction. Either he had followed Vera from the time she left home in the morn- ing or there had been confidence from her on that un- happy drive from the old house near the ferry, a forced, unhappy confidence it must have been for Vera Montjoy. At least Sha-su did not know that Vera had been trailed. A clever devil, the Chinese, but there was one point— "Sha-su, when did you lift your mistress' body from the floor and lay it on the divan? Before you called me, or after?" For the first time the blank eyes of the Chinese came alive. In real surprise he stared at the Auto- maton. "I did not lift her. I found her as you see her." "That's strange. Come here. Look on the floor." The Chinese did not stir. "If you are asking me to see the pool of blood, I saw it. My mistress was mur- dered on the couch; the blood ran down." "She was not on the couch when she was stabbed. The doctor will explain." Moy-Sha-su faced the Medical Examiner and Mc- Farland watched the Chinese. His stoic calm was on him again as he listened to Doctor Folsom. "Miss Montjoy was on her feet when she was stabbed, or she was thrown to the floor and killed, ISO THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS which is not likely. The blood could not have reached the floor from where she lay; it would have seeped into the covering. Also, Sha-su, blood does not flow after death. There is no stain on the covering of the couch, which proves that your mistress was not on there when she was stabbed. She died practically at once. The gush came only as the blade entered her neck." The Chinese looked steadily at the Medical Ex- aminer, then back at the Automaton. "Sirs, I assure you I touched my mistress only to know if she were dead. Also I held a mirror to her lips. I found her as you see her now." Cold, hard as the man was, in this the doctor and McFarland believed him. "Yet someone laid her on that couch. A singular—" The doorbell interrupted McFarland. "That will be the officer, or my secretary. Let them in, Sha-su." "Shall I return with the officer?" "No. He'll call you later on." Sha-su disappeared and the Medical Examiner queried: "What were you saying when the bell stopped you?" "Just what was in your mind, Doctor, most likely. A singular killer, to lay his victim out and leave his knife." The Medical Examiner looked curiously at the Auto- maton, spoke slowly. "Yes, if the killer raised the body—" I 151 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "Careful, Doctor. The butler's coming back, with O'Connell. I hear their voices." He swivelled to the door as Moy-Sha-su came in. Behind him trailed the tall, bare-headed O'Connell. Sha-su told McFarland that his secretary had asked for him. "Tell him to wait," ordered McFarland and the Chinese went back to Henry, as O'Connell entered the flower room. Sam's bright blue eyes were serious. He stopped just inside the door, watching the Automaton. Moving with a quick precision, McFarland closed doors and windows and drew down shades. He made a circuit of the flower room, inspecting the walls. At a rich tapestry he stopped; the thing bulged ever so slightly. His fingers groped behind the tapestry, worked quickly. Then he turned to the keenly interested men. "Now we can talk. This room is wired as all the liv- ing rooms, a shut-off in each room. Sam, you'll find out things for yourself and make your own decisions. No need to tell you that the case is too obvious; better go slow. And there's one point I'm keen on; don't make an arrest tonight." O'Connell's eyes sparked. "You mean the Chink? Not on your life, Mac. We've got to tie things first." "Right. But even if you spot the unknown man who was with the woman when she was killed, hands off, but shadow him, as well as the butler. You've a good man with you? You may need two. I'll lend you Henry. He's waiting for me to report on another case that may 152 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS take me away at once. I've talked only with Sha-su. You'll round up the rest of the staff." His hand on the doorknob the Automaton delayed. "There's one thing Sha-su won't tell you unless you see fit to force him, which I don't advise. He went out to- night, after the murder. Came back in a car, not one of this outfit, sneaked through the garden to his room." Sam's crisp voice held McFarland at the door. "Any more hints, Mac? Our cases overlap. I don't want to block yours. This murder must mess things for you." "In some ways, yes; in another it eases it. Use your own good sense. You've plenty. If I don't get back now I'll see you in the morning." The door closed firmly on him. McFarland took Henry out to the road in front, well beyond hearing. Henry had not raised Miss Brent at her penthouse, and Susie Warner had not called the office. McFarland sent Henry back to the house. "You're working for O'Connell tonight. Ask the M. E. to drive back with the officers. Tell them I'm off for New York, and see that the butler hears it." Carey's silence troubled McFarland and puzzled him. She must have left, as her car was nowhere about. She should have been back in New York long ago. And her dropped bag stuck in his mind. He skirted the gar- den, entered by the hedge gate and headed for the garden door to the flower room. Door and windows were closed, shades down as he had left them. Voices 153 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS came faintly to him and the tall shapes of O'Connell and Sha-su showed upon the shades. McFarland threw his flashlight, shading its strong ray from the flower room, and located the tall bushes described by Henry. The bushes seemed undisturbed, but the Automaton moved on to the far side of the shrubs, and his light shot closer to the slender brittle branches; several were badly broken. A bit of fur had caught on a sharp point. He threw the flashlight on the ground just outside the bushes. Sharply defined in the soft loam were large footprints going toward the bushes, ending just short of them, gouging the earth deeply as the feet turned and retreated. Beyond the large impressions, clear cut were small prints of high heels coming away from the flower room, the front of the shoes barely showing. The light moved on beneath the bushes. More small foot- prints, these very deep and distinct of the whole slim foot, the toes pointing toward the flower room. Mc- Farland looked up. From the bushes he could see the door and one window of the flower room. Vera Mont- joy had been stabbed just inside that window, and Carey had been watching. The thing flashed before Mac. She had seen the mur- derer, but she could not act herself; it would have be- trayed her sleuthing. She had turned to steal away and get word to him, but at the edge of the bushes she had stopped suddenly; the deep heel marks showed that. Or had someone stopped her? Someone who knew that 154 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS she had seen and heard? She had crashed back against those bushes, and she had dropped her bag with the gun inside and left it lying there. Why? Knowing Carey, there was just one reason—brute force. Moy-Sha-su had been out, returned in a car, and Carey's car was missing! The car that Mac had heard was going toward New York. He started headlong for the flower room and Sha-su, but pulled up short. His hands were tied. Without sure proof he could not risk destroying Carey's carefully planned coup for the solu- tion of the Gorman murder. He could not prove that Sha-su had been off the place or that he had removed Carey in her own car. It might have been that other man who was with Vera when she died, the man whom McFarland thought Carey had trailed from New York. That man would have used his own car. One thing he had yet to do before he left—impres- sions of the man's footprints must be made by O'Con- nell, but Carey Brent's must not be seen. He effaced hers, then hastened from the grounds and toward his plane. 155 CHAPTER XIV McFARLAND landed at the airport in drenching rain and skidded to a stop. As he climbed down a mechanic ran to him. His office had been calling. There was a message; John Ainsley was anxious to see him at once. A guest had disappeared. Grimly the Automaton hurried to his car. John Ains- ley was smoothing the way. John's roadster was at the door when the Automaton drove up, but Newbold Howard let him in. Newbold was pale, his freckles rampant, his queer eyes squint- ing rather badly, and he fairly pushed McFarland into the living room and closed the door. "We mustn't wake my sister. She'd suspect some- thing was wrong. John will be here in a minute. Did they tell you why we want you?" "Only that a guest had disappeared. I assumed it was Miss Brent, as she—" "Yes. She left the house a little after eight telling the maid she was going to her penthouse. Annie says she called to me, but I had gone out. Her leaving must have been a sudden whim, as she hadn't mentioned it to John. But the Butterfly is sudden." John Ainsley had come in from the library, stood 156 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS listening anxiously as the Automaton answered New- bold. "Miss Brent is unaccountably sudden. Knowing her, why are you worried?" John said, "Because she isn't at her penthouse— hasn't been there. Her maid was in the rooms; she told me." "Miss Brent was on foot?" "No, she went off in her car." "You're sure of that? You saw her go?" "I didn't see her, as I had gone to my office, but the maid said she drove away." "You were out all evening?" "Yes. Got in about half past twelve; I worked late." "The maids wouldn't stay up till then, would they? Miss Brent may have called up." "She didn't. One maid stayed up till we came in as she was worried. She said Carey seemed terribly ex- cited." "She'd had no telephone call?" "No. Newbold and I were here till eight o'clock. She left a few minutes after and drove off like mad, so Annie said." The Automaton's lip twitched but his voice was even. "I think you're worrying unnecessarily. The Butterfly has merely flown off on a tangent—probably stopping with some friend. Any idea, either of you, where she might have lit?" Newbold answered excitedly, "I thought she might 157 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS have driven out to Vera Montjoy's. I—" The Automa- ton clanged in. "Why should you think that?" "She's all worked up over the Gorman murder and terribly distressed because Vera practically accused Lucile; we all are that. We talked about it this after- noon, and Carey knew I wanted to see you and tell you things about Lucile and Vera as you don't know either well. Carey was strong for it, but she may have thought she could do a better job herself by seeing Vera and dissauding her from testifying, or she may have had some crazy hunch about the case and thought she could scare Vera into retracting. The Butterfly's nuts on murders, you know; thinks she's a detective because she's stuffed herself on murder fiction. But she didn't go there. I telephoned a half hour before you got here. That cold-blooded Chinese answered." The Automaton had listened with amazing patience, but at Newbold's final sentence the harsh voice ques- tioned and the opaque black eyes fastened more in- tently on the vehement youth. "You say the Chinese butler answered. Did you ask for Miss Montjoy?" Newbold hesitated irritatedly. "Of course, but Sha- su said she could not come to the telephone." The Automaton persisted forcefully. "He told you nothing more about Miss Montjoy?" "No. Why should he? I asked at once about Carey." McFarland spoke as if thinking aloud. "He did not explain. That's very strange." 158 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS The insistence of the metallic tone and its abrupt stop struck home. John Ainsley, his worried eyes ques- tioning, moved nearer the Automaton. Newbold's oblique gaze lost its impatient irritancy at the robot- man's digression. The two seemed to wait in suspense for his next words. "I was on my way here on an urgent matter—but let's decide about Miss Brent. I can't feel her failure to show up need trouble you; her performance is en- tirely in character. Of course if you insist on tracing her at once, I'll do what I can." They did not insist. They agreed perfunctorily. Their anxiety for Carey had given place to that odd suspense created by McFarland's questions about Vera Montjoy. He caught the surcharged atmosphere and launched the attack advised by Carey Brent. "The Chinese butler told the literal truth when he said Miss Montjoy could not talk with you. She is dead." John Ainsley stiffened, stared at him. Newbold started visibly, glanced swiftly at John, then back at the Automaton and cried incredulously, "Vera, dead? She was perfectly well. How—" "Murdered, in her flower room, close to eleven to- night. I have just come from there. Her butler called me." "Good God!" exploded Newbold. John Ainsley came to life, but his lips were dry and 159 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS stiff as he spoke to McFarland. "This is the urgent matter you referred to? Why come to us about it?" "Because you are close friends of Mrs. West's. You know that she is under suspicion in the Gorman mur- der—" Newbold broke in, "But Vera's death helps clear Lucile. Vera's testimony would have been deadly." The Automaton pivoted to Newbold and shot swift words at him. "Dead, Miss Montjoy implicates Mrs. West more seriously than alive. Miss Montjoy was stabbed as Gorman was. And her murder may have more far-reaching implications. The Chinese butler de- clares that he heard a man talking with Miss Mont- joy in the flower room at half past ten. His further evidence proves that this man was with her when she was stabbed." For a second John and Newbold did not speak. John seemed to withdraw into himself, but his hands trembled; he thrust them in his pockets. Then Newbold burst out, "But if a man was there when she was killed, why do you say it looks bad for Lucile?" "For two reasons. We have only the butler's word that this man was there, and neither the butler nor anyone else saw him come or go. A woman was outside the flower room last night. I saw her footprints. She stood there, hidden for a time, then went toward the flower room. Just before Sha-su discovered the mur- der, a few minutes before eleven, he heard a car drive 160 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS off. The woman, and the man, if a man was there, es- caped in that car." Newbold's eyes clouded; he squinted horribly. "But it's rained hard. The prints will be washed out, and Sha-su did not hear or see the woman. Must you tes- tify to what you saw?" John Ainsley answered, "Don't lose your head, New. Of course he must. He's on the case—" Ab- ruptly he faced McFarland. "But are you on the case? There's no one to retain you." "Nominally the police are in charge, but as Miss Montjoy's murder ties up with Gorman's by pointing to the principal suspect—" Newbold flared fiercely. "I can't see why you say that. Nothing's been proved against Lucile! And to- night Sha-su heard a man in the flower room—" John seized his arm. "Calm down, New. Things do look badly for Lucile, but McFarland's here on her ac- count. You'll help her more by listening, not barking at him." Newbold choked down his indignation. "Sorry. It gets me, this suspicion of a girl who couldn't kill a fly." McFarland watched Newbold with increasing inter- est. "I haven't said I suspect Mrs. West, Howard, but the evidence against her is stronger than you know, and the presence of the unknown man stresses it in this sec- ond murder. The police will be quick to place him as 161 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS the man who had the most powerful motive for clearing her of Gorman's murder." Intense confusion appeared in John Ainsley's eyes, but Newbold Howard had abruptly quieted. His eyes focused crookedly on McFarland. His voice was coldly skeptical. "You can't mean Larry?" "Who else? He has already hidden her." "But that's absurd, their being at Vera's tonight. It's generally known that he left town with her. They were seen driving away from his club—" "That report can mean absolutely nothing. West is fully capable of laying a false trail. But he's over- reached himself by evasion of the law. The disappear- ance of his wife is the most telling point against her, and it's one reason for my coming to you. Mrs. West is a close friend of yours, more especially of Mrs. Ains- ley's. Mrs. Ainsley was searching anxiously for the girl when she came upon Gorman's body and her reactions, close on the heels of her search, showed fear for her friend." Newbold cried angrily, "Why drag my sister into this?" Again John restrained him. "Be quiet, New. Let him finish." John's face was drawn as he waited for the raucous voice ignoring Newbold's protest. "Except that she slept at her hotel, I know nothing of Mrs. West's move- ments up to the time of her driving from West's club with him, and only the fear that you might warn her 162 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS because you scarcely know the girls. I can tell you things about them—" "You can tell me one right now. This evening you said your Chinese paper knife was missing. Just when did you last see it?" John's hand dropped from Newbold's shoulder as he stared at the Automaton. Newbold's face went sud- denly blank. At last he asked slowly, coolly, "What has the Chinese paper knife to do with Lucile, or Vera?" "I don't waste time on footless questions, Howard." "I've no idea when I last saw it. I only missed it last night." John said, "I distinctly recall using it Tuesday, the day of Vera's dance." McFarland asked, "What time of day was that?" "Just before dinner. I cut the leaves of a new book." Newbold's blank look left him. "I remember now! I saw the Snake that night, after we got home. It was in your book—" The Automaton checked him. "Impossible, Howard." Newbold flushed as his mercurial temper rose. "Do you mean I'm lying?" "Not consciously, perhaps; just the power of sug- gestion. You did not see the Snake when you got back that night. Gorman was killed with your Chinese paper knife. And Mrs. West dined here that night. I found the paper knife in the pool. And soon after Gorman was stabbed, I saw Mrs. West come in from the garden." Newbold's hot blood receded. His eyes crossed hor- 164 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS ribly as he stepped fiercely toward McFarland. John gripped him hard but could not silence him. "So you do think Lucile killed Gorman! You've tricked John into proving that she could have stolen the Snake—" McFarland's voice came cold and sharp, "I have only shown you that Mrs. West's case is desperate. You, Howard, did not deny seeing her after the murder before she left with West next day. You've shielded her in every way, illogically ignoring the strong circumstantial evidence against her. It looks as if you know something about these murders that frightens you for her, and that you know where she is. Holding out on me is not the way to save her." "You're wrong, about Lucile. I know nothing against her. And I don't know where she is. But I do know something about Gorman's murder. I—" He wrenched away his eyes, glanced in agony at John then back to the Automaton. "For God's sake don't make me talk! It would kill my sister." McFarland's rigid body wheeled his eyes to John Ainsley. As the strange eyes released him, Newbold bolted from the room. Dazed and dumb, John faced McFarland, one shak- ing hand mechanically smoothing that outstanding cow- lick. McFarland watched him. Gradually he pulled himself together, tried to speak naturally. "New's taken this thing hard, about Lucile. He must be off his head—" 165 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "He's not. I forced him and he told the truth, as far as he went. Ainsley, why haven't you told me you visited Gorman's body in the flower room, and where did you go in your car tonight?" John drew breath quickly, let it out slowly. He was quiet now. "I've been expecting that, about the flower room. I should have told you, though you wouldn't have believed me; you won't now. I was looking for Gorman. I found him in the flower room, dead." "Why were you looking for him?" "I can't tell you that. But about the car tonight, I—" Both men turned as a bell burred softly somewhere in the house. "That may be Carey," John said. "Forgot her key, or lost it." He started for the door. McFarland waited, without hope. John came back alone. A Chinese boy wanted to see McFarland; he wouldn't come in. Outside the front door McFarland found Ling-foy. Ling motioned to close the door, talked swiftly. Mc- Farland's lip twitched as Ling talked. He sent Ling to wait in his car, went back to Ainsley and told him he must leave at once on an urgent call, then curtly laid down the law. "Your brother's inference and what I know and you admit make things look badly for you, Ainsley, but I don't want to upset your wife till she's stronger. Will you agree not to leave New York?" 166 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "Gladly. It's decent of you. But I want to tell you about tonight. I didn't—" "That must wait. This call is deadly serious." He swivelled and hurried from the house. The main object of his visit was achieved, but through Ling-foy. And Carey's scheme had been tried out and worked. The torturing restraint of the last hour was over, but not his fear for Carey Brent. John Ainsley went straight to Newbold's bedroom door and rapped softly. The boy did not answer. John went in and closed the door. Newbold stood across the room, the one light show- ing his face set in blankness. John strode close to him: "Good God, New, what got into you? It's all very well to defend Lucile, but not at—" Newbold interrupted dully, heavily, "He drove me to it." "To shielding her at my expense? I warned you—" "What do you mean? I didn't mention you." His dull indifference infuriated John. "Your words and look pointed directly at me. I'm practically under arrest. I—I—" Afraid of his own wrath, he rushed from the room as Newbold's eyes came suddenly alive with startled horror. 167 CHAPTER XV McFARLAND, with Ling-foy, drove furiously North to Central Park, wheeled sharply for a left turn then braked to avoid a suicidal drunkard. Ling spoke quickly. "The lady said you were not—" "I don't give a damn what she said." The car jumped to high but Ling persisted: "But sir, there is much safer way. She is closely guarded. You will be seen. And they do not mean to harm her yet." The boy was right. McFarland's terror had paralzed his brain. And Ling had not had time to tell his story. McFarland cut hard to the left, back toward his of- fice. Horribly rigid as always under stress, McFarland listened to Ling's terse tale, his own mind reconstruct- ing the events, tying them to what he knew of Carey's night adventure. After eleven last night Ling-foy had gone to help the cook at Moy-Chen-fo's. The Chinese organization, dis- covered to McFarland through Carey's find of the Chinese Script, was meeting. "When I get there, fat cook is not in kitchen. Pretty soon he comes and tells me the master has other work 168 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS for me tonight, if I can drive car. I say I am some driver. Cook says old Chinese has had bad news; young niece of his has been hurt bad in car accident in the country. Her Chinese friends can't come all the way here and old Chinese has just fired American chauffeur. I am to take old Chinese's car and go to meet niece at Jamaica and bring her here. Cook tells me carefully the spot where car will meet me. "At lonely spot just outside Jamaica I wait. Then car comes, driven by Chinese, low class, stupid man. I see no one else in car but Chinese gets out, opens back door, lifts girl out, comes across to me and tells me to open door of limousine. "Girl is very still. I don't like it. When I open door, I switch on light but Chinese tells me quick to put it out. I do, but I have seen. Girl's face is very white. Her eyes are shut. She looks Chinese and she wears Chinese clothes, very rich clothes. "Chinese lays girl on floor in back and tells me to drive like hell. He goes to his car, turns and drives off like hell himself. "I drive on fast but not too far. I stop, get out to look at girl. Just as I put on light, her eyelids wiggle and I know she isn't dead, but she doesn't come to. There is terrible bruise on forehead, dark under make-up. But she does look Chinese, all painted, ex- cept cheeks. So I drive on to New York." McFarland cursed silently. She had seen Ling-foy as he put on the light, but she had let the thing go 169 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS through. He wrenched his thoughts from her to Ling's tale. "Two, three blocks from Moy-Chen-fo's, I hear tap on window behind me. I turn very quick. Girl is sitting up, leaning hard against partition. Strong street light shows her eyes very, very blue under black painted eyebrows. I open glass behind me. She speaks Eng- lish. "'You're Ling-foy. I've heard of you from the Auto- maton. I help him sometimes. Where are you tak- ing me?' "I tell her very fast and say she must not go there. I will take her to you, pronto, and make up some lie for old Chinese. I say I work for him, but she stop me. "'You must take me to Chen-fo's. If you don't, he'll know you for a spy. It will spoil O'ConnelFs game, and the Automaton's.' "I say that can't be helped. She must not go to old Chinese. Then I think she's a little crazy. She say, 'I'm not afraid; it will be fun, and you can't stop me. There's a policeman coming. If you don't go on at once, I'll call him and tell him I'm a relative of Moy-Chen- fo's, that you held me up and slugged me and were carrying me off. There'll be a lot of newspaper talk. O'Connell can't get you off without showing his hand.' "Sir, I see she's right. It will be very bad. My mas- ter needs me in this case. Old Chinese would be wise to me. I have to do as she says, and I hope very much I am not doing wrong as she said she help you. But she 170 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS make me drive slowly while she speaks, and I think still more she's crazy. "'Go straight to the Automaton, Ling. Tell him Chen-fo has caught the Butterfly because she saw and heard things, but he must not rescue her till she sends him word. Tell him to look up Vera Montjoy's will. Now hurry all you like. Let Moy-Chen-fo think I'm still out. It will be easy to pretend. My head is awful and I'm weak as a rag.' "She slips back on the floor. At old Chinese's I carry her in." "By which door?" "By front door. Fat cook has told me." "Infernally clever, dressing her in Chinese clothes; open and above board in case any one should see. Where is she now?" "In inside room, very nice furnished, but has no win- dow. Just small hole high up, looking on hall." "Anyone with her?" "Fat cook's wife is with her. Tall, strong woman, evil-faced, and deaf and dumb. And old Chinese's room is just opposite girl's." "You saw Chen-fo?" "Sir, yes. He meets me at door. After I carry Miss Butterfly to inside room old Chinese sees me again. I've made hit with him. He asks me to be his chauf- feur. I say yes." "What? Why didn't you tell me that before?" "Sir, I said there is much safer way to rescue girl. 171 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS When we get here, you order me to start at beginning of night's happenings." Ling's brisk manner dropped from him. He gazed anxiously at McFarland. "Sir, I hope I did not do wrong. I know you and my master count on me with these Chinese devils. I was in bad fix." "You were, Ling. Your Miss Butterfly's specialty is inventing bad fixes for herself and others. She's an old client of mine; the Butterfly's her nickname. Her name is Brent, and she thinks she helps me. Ling, there's been a second murder in this case. I suspect Miss Brent has blundered into it and been caught listening. They're afraid of her. What makes you think they don't mean to harm her yet? There's every chance—" "If old Chinese mean that, he would send her to- night to old house near ferry. He's very wise guy. He does no dirty work in flat. Everything there high-class, respectable." "For just that reason it's a safe set-up. When do you start working for Chen-fo?" "I go back to sleep tonight; I get clothes on my way to find you. Cook will let me in. Old Chinese say I am to help cook as not much driving." "It's plain they need an extra man about with Miss Brent to guard and it's damn lucky. Where's your room, or don't you know?" "I will sleep in basement under room occupied by Miss Butterfly Brent." McFarland reached in a drawer, pulled out an auto- 172 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS stabbed, in her flower room; a duplicate of Gorman's murder, except for the bloody print." The line was quiet for an instant, then a steady voice reached McFarland. "I've just landed. I'll clean up and change and come to you. It's a hell of a note, isn't it?" "More hell than you know, Farrel. There are com- plications, which keep me here. You'd better get some sleep. I'll have breakfast sent in, at nine." Farrel did not want to sleep. It was daylight, any- way. He's be with McFarland in an hour, but mean- while he wanted to know things. "Who discovered this murder?" "The Chinese butler, and sent for me at once." "Anyone else in the house, beside the servants?" "One caller, the butler claims. Declares a man was with Miss Montjoy in the flower room up to a few minutes before eleven. The M.E. says she was killed between ten and five minutes of eleven. Sha-su heard their voices, but didn't know the man's." "Fishy. Seems to have been fond of snooping round that flower room." "Just how do you know that, Farrel? Did you see him the night Gorman was killed?" "No, but someone else did. I'll tell you when I see you." He cut the line and as he showered and dressed his thoughts were busy. So the Butterfly was not in at this death. Or was McFarland holding out on him? 176 CHAPTER XVI AS day broke fully in the forest camp where Larry and his wife had spent their first night together, an excited guide roused the manager, McDonald. Mr. West's car was gone! McDonald, grumpily half awake, was not impressed. What of it? The Wests had probably changed their plans again and gone off in a hurry. The guide, in charge of members' cars, protested. Wid wasn't back, and— McDonald stopped him. "Wid will be in, later, with the outfit. You'll find the light canoe on the shore. Take care of it. Mr. West will call us during the day." He went off to have his sleep out. The guide started after him, thought better of it. If the old grouch didn't care, why should he worry? Still, the thing was queer. He had found the Wests' light canoe, but— Two hours later McDonald was worrying, violently. Wid had returned, and with him Larry West. Farrel poured himself more coffee and scooped up sausages and scrambled eggs, noting that McFarland 177 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS ate next to nothing and that he seemed more inhuman than usual. "So that's why I'm here, McFarland. West was strong against it. Will you join forces?" McFarland's mind had whirled. Farrel, who had sensed something of the true Carey in the Butterfly, wanted to work with him. Ticklish, yet a stroke of luck. McFarland decided instantly as Farrel ended. "I'll work with you, Farrel." His crooked smile made the set rigor of his face ghastly. "I expected to work hard to get what you can tell me, of Mrs. West. I knew you'd gone to them. I was in West's office when you called up yesterday. I had their hideout located fairly accurately and meant to go after her today." Jean Farrel looked intently at him. "Just what's your opinion of Mrs. West?" "The case against her is the deadliest I've ever known." "It's deadlier than you know, McFarland. Do you think she killed Gorman?" "I'll answer that when I've heard her story. What I've forced from Vera Montjoy is bad; that, and Gorman's beastliness provides motive. And the bloody print was not Vera Montjoy's." "The print is Lucile West's. She—" "Just a minute. What did you mean by the Chinese butler snooping round the flower room?" "Lucile saw him come to the door, stop, then go on 178 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS to the garden. Seemed queer as he was on duty in the bar." "This was before Gorman was stabbed?" "Yes. Lucile was alone in the flower room. Gorman came in just after— But you'll hear that in order, when you're ready." "Did Mrs. West see anyone else about before Gor- man came in?" His guarded look came over Farrel, then he smiled. "Not a soul, not even the Butterfly, and she seems to have been all over the place. You'll recall we were both looking for her when we met that night. I hadn't seen her in the ballroom for an hour. Odd, her landing in the flower room just as you found the body. She seems to have a nose for crime." McFarland had been braced for a finesse from Farrel and he countered automatically, "Unluckily, yes. Last night it proved disastrous. She is the complication in the Montjoy murder which keeps me here." His suspicion leaping, Farrel asked, "She was out there, last night?" "For some unknown reason, yes. She must have seen or overheard; she has been abducted. It's all tied up with both murders. I know where she is but I must not rescue her, yet. Every minute I expect a call— But I want your story." Farrel, his suspicions of the Butterfly checked for the time, told Lucile's story unreservedly, but as he 179 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS talked he felt the taut suspense of the Automaton beneath his hard control. "You see, it's bad," concluded Farrel, and waited for the robot's verdict. "Yes. It's well you didn't insist on West's bringing her back at once. She must not come yet. I'll tell you why." He talked, describing first his work on the Gorman murder, crediting himself with Carey's deductions and hating that as always. The Ainsley angle, he admitted frankly, he had gotten through the garrulous confi- dences of the Butterfly. McFarland broke his story, "Do you know anything about the Chinese butler, Farrel?" "Not a thing, but I never liked him. A slinky, hard- boiled heathen." "Do you happen to know if Vera Montjoy made a will?" Jean Farrel straightened, looked keenly at McFar- land. "No, but I've wondered where her money would go. She has no relatives. She was an only child and, oddly enough, so were both parents." "I'll know about the will in a few hours, perhaps sooner. Do you know much about her history?" "Considerable. She lived in China when she was a kid. Her grandfather made his money there and her mother grew up in China and married Montjoy there. He worked for Vera's grandfather in Peking. Montjoy died a few years after the marriage. I begin to see your 180 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS drift; Vera looked Chinese. I know a man who knew her mother well in China before she married Montjoy. I'll look him up, at once." He subsided, listening in absorbed silence to McFar- land. At half past eleven, Henry returned. Vera Montjoy had left no will. Her mother had. Its contents were startling. At noon there was still no word of Carey Brent and soon after twelve Jean Farrel rose to go. "If I can help in rescuing the Butterfly, call on me—" The shrill call of the telephone stopped him. McFarland swivelled to hide the twitching of his lip as he seized the instrument. His voice grated harshly. As he listened, his grip eased; his tone was normally metallic. "Has anyone seen her? . . . Lucky. Don't let her talk. Hold her till— No I can't leave. Bring her over. . . . She won't come? Pig-headed, is she? Tell her this. . . ." He talked briefly, replaced the telephone and faced the interested Farrel. "That was Sam O'Connell, speaking from Head- quarters. He's— Who's that?" The door had opened. Ling-foy slid in and closed it. McFarland strode to him. "Why did—" "Excuse, sir. I knocked, but you were talking and I must not waste time." "Never mind that. Why did you leave her?" 181 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "What did O'Connell want? Or doesn't it concern me? You were talking of a woman." McFarland jerked out of his harassed thoughts of Carey Brent. "It does. We've got to talk before they get here. I hope you'll take this over, Farrel, but I've a scheme that may help you out." At his next words Farrel's mobile face showed acute surprise. He sat down close to the Automaton. Five minutes later they heard steps in the outer office. McFarland elevated himself. Farrel rose lithely, doused his cigarette and turned as the door opened. Lucile West came in. O'Connell loomed behind her. Lucile stopped just inside the door, her dark, deter- mined eyes seeking the Automaton but Farrel was in her line of vision. Her firm look wavered as she saw Jean Farrel. Then she faced O'Connell. "You said you'd bring me to the Automaton!" McFarland defended Sam. "O'Connell didn't know Farrel was here. Why don't you want to see him? He advised your coming back." "I hoped to fix things before he'd talked to you. Can I see you alone?" "Yes. Farrel, meet Sam O'Connell. Give him Ling's report, will you?" Farrel and Sam filed out as McFarland seated Lucile beside him. She wore the long woolly coat Larry West had bought her; unfastened, it showed her camp rig. The break in her plans had let her down. She looked worn, weary, and her eyes had a wild fixity of purpose. 184 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "I'm here to give myself up and keep Larry out of it. No one but Jean Farrel knew surely that we'd gone away together or that we're married. They must not know. But I couldn't tell how much you'd guessed; that's why I went to the police. That man wouldn't arrest me or let me tell my story." "O'Connell was right. But I can't see how you meant to put this over, Mrs. West. Your husband will follow you at once, and there's the license, and the minister." She spoke with feverish haste. "I'd thought of that. I stole it, and destroyed it before I left. It will be their word against mine. And he won't follow me. He'll hate me. I shouldn't have let him marry me without telling him what I'd done, and now I've run away, after all his faith and goodness. "With me away, Larry will realize what a cowardly, selfish thing I am. It's been just like a dream to him, our marriage. He's wide awake now. I mean to confess the truth about Gorman, to the police. I shall say I only dined with Larry in the country that night after the murder, that he brought me back to New York and I ran away alone because I was afraid of what I'd done. I've had hours start of Larry. If he should come after me, my story will be told, and they'll have my fingerprints. I'm going to do this, and you know I ought." The Automaton stood up. "Mrs. West, whether or not you're convinced that you need guidance, you've got to take it, and from Farrel. We guessed why you 185 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS had come here and we decided not to let you mess the case. We know from O'Connell what the police are doing. For that reason and a more vital one you must stay lost for the present. Farrel will explain matters. I'll send him to you." His tone eased as he saw her unhappy eyes. "I'm sorry I was rough, but you needed it." Lucile watched him stalk from the room and close the door. What next? She dreaded Farrel's coming. She longed for Larry, yet at the thought of him her gloom increased. Defying his judgment, sneaking from him while he slept, stealing his car, that note of which she had not dared tell the Automaton—and she would have done what she had threatened had Larry pursued her. She shuddered, and felt more kindly toward the Automaton. In the next room the two detectives looked curiously at McFarland. McFarland had turned to Farrel. "You'll have no trouble now. I've put the fear of God into her, exag- gerated facts. Here are the keys to the little house. Miss Brent would be glad to have her use it. Better take her there at once. No telling who may blow in here. Someone at Headquarters may have seen her and Ainsley's likely to show up, or Howard. When West lands, send him to his wife but tell him to keep her under cover till we send for her." A moment later Farrel and Lucile left the inner 186 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS office and McFarland, entering with Sam O'Connell, at once forgot Lucile. "Farrel's told you about tonight. Just how keen is your boy Ling? He's quick and smart, but—" "Keen's the word, Mac, and he knows his people." Mechanically McFarland produced cigarettes. "He im- pressed me that way, but it's a bad business, and frightful for my client. Ling should be back there long ago which makes me a bit easier. If he is right about tonight, it's the safest way. It should be simple." "It strikes me so, but I didn't like to boost it as it's a hot chance for me to make the pinch. I might seem prejudiced." "You're having the butler watched, of course?" "Sure. Left a good man there, openly, as it's natural after a murder. My man will follow him if he leaves, but he showed no sign of it when I heard at eleven. He's keeping away from this end of the job, but that won't help him. Your man's seeing him go with Miss Montjoy to the house by the ferry, and you and Ling hearing him puts him on the spot. What's bothering you, Mac?" McFarland was pacing restlessly, smoking inces- santly. He jerked to a stop and faced Sam. "Something does bother me. It seems incredible, Moy-Chen-fo's trusting Ling, as he surely does. But you've found that Chen-fo doesn't stir from his flat except for these trips we know of to Twenty-Fourth Street. With Sha-su it's different; he must have gone about a lot to arrange the 187 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS sion of the narrow street which bordered Chen-fo's house, and halted. "No sign of them yet," McFarland said, "and it will be like old Moy to drive openly to the front. It's likely the cook and his wife will be with Miss Brent. Sha-su would take care of Ling and will come later. Carry on as we planned. If I see them going to the rear, I'll join you." O'Connell went on along the narrow street and wheeled to his right at the alley back of the houses. McFarland let himself into Chen-fo's old house and waited just within the door flush with the sidewalk. Cleaning the dirty door panes, he could see up and down the street. He would not let himself think, but he could not escape his fear for Carey Brent. The fear grew as time passed, and thought crowded through. Abruptly he flattened himself against the wall. On Twenty-Fourth Street Chen-fo's limousine ap- proached, driven by a large Chinese so broad and high that he eclipsed a good two thirds of the rear seat. A smaller Chinese was beside him and through the glass behind this man McFarland glimpsed a form in Chi- nese clothes. Even in that flashing view the form im- pressed him horridly. It seemed to lean at an acutely twisting angle against the window. As the limousine came near it slowed, turned cau- tiously to the right into the narrow street down which Sam had sprinted. McFarland raced after it in time to see it turn to the right again into the alley and stop 190 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS at the small yard behind Chen-fo's house. He was be- side it and had the rear door open as O'Connell cata- pulted from the yard and yanked open the front door beside Moy-Chen-fo. McFarland was staring inside the limousine. That strangely leaning shape was not Carey. She was not in the car. McFarland whirled to the front as the stout cook jerked his door open and tried to run. McFarland collared him, heaved him back and leaned across to Moy-Chen-fo. "Where is Miss Brent?" The old Chinese sat unmoved, his snaky eyes shift- ing from Sam to McFarland. When McFarland rasped at him, Chen-fo looked blankly at him, shrugged and shook his head, but turned it quickly as O'Connell broke forth in a stream of queer but glib Chinese; McFarland caught Carey's name, Ling's, Sha-su's in that amazing flow. Moy-Chen-fo listened in stony silence. When Sam stopped on a sharp, incisive note, the old Chinese spoke suavely, briefly. Sam interpreted: "He knows he's pinched but he won't break. Says he never heard of Miss Brent or Ling. The Chinese woman is his cook's wife. Her people live here, in the basement. The woman's sick and they were bringing her home. She looks dead." He opened the rear door, examined the Chinese woman. "Not dead. Shock, or a bad heart. No use to us anyway, as she's deaf and dumb; Ling told you." McFarland ordered quickly: "Get them all inside. 191 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS Quick dilation of Sha-su's eyes veiled their vicious- ness. "He took her in his car. I saw her carried to it." "Why carried? Was she—out?" Sha-su's eyes were wary. "She seemed weak and sick. She stumbled and fell. The cook carried her to the car." McFarland went into the house, called for O'Con- nell. Moy-Chen-fo still stood in the passage unper- turbed. Sam raced up from below, talking as he came. "We've got them cold, before they could ship the mer- chandise. Men and women down there, like animals, behind bars." McFarland's face stopped him; his voice came strained and terse. "Sha-su admits that Miss Brent was in the limousine. Tell Chen-fo that, and tell him Ling is here. Perhaps he'll talk now." Sam's brisk Chinese started. The old Chinese's cold eyes watched him. When Sam ended, Moy-Chen-fo considered, then spoke, his silken tones horridly accen- tuating his cruel eyes. Sam translated: "He admits Miss Brent was in his car. The rest is rotten lying. He says Miss Brent had fainted before they put her in the car. As she seemed out for keeps, he did not watch her, but in a crush of traffic he thought he heard a sound behind him. When he looked, Miss Brent was gone. Both doors were closed and the Chinese woman was on the floor, un- conscious. He declares Miss Brent must have escaped 194 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS and banged the door against the woman's head as she tried to stop her. They stopped the car, but they could not see Miss Brent." "Utterly impossible. He didn't dare risk bringing her here, but to blind the trail he started with her in the limousine, then switched her to another car. Try to get from him where Sha-su took Miss Brent last night before he sent her to New York, and make him de- scribe the place. There's a slim chance they'll hide her there." The question was a test. In suspense McFarland waited while Sam questioned in his weird Chinese and the old man replied. At last Sam turned to McFarland. "He's given me the address; says it's a summer place of his, a mile from the Montjoy house. But he swears Miss Brent's not there, that he told you the truth about her getaway." "She's not there, or he wouldn't have told the place, but she never escaped from that big Chinese woman. Miss Brent had no weapon and there's no bruise on the woman. There's just one chance. . . . I'm going after it." O'Connell was on his knees beside the cook's wife on the floor, feeling over her head: He bent closer, exclaimed, "By God, she's— Wait a second, Mac." But McFarland was gone like a racing greyhound. 195 CHAPTER XVIII IN Carey's little house in the village Lucile had ex- plained the reason for her flight and had listened in confusion to Jean Farrel. He had told her just enough for her to realize that, for her own sake and Larry West's, McFarland's decision for concealment must be carried out. Also, she knew that she must account for that bloody print to the Automaton. Farrel had given him bare facts only, as he felt that McFarland should get the story from her; her personality would help. And it was McFarland's case, anyway, the Gorman murder. He had a right to Lucile's admissions at first hand. Farrel got to his feet. "I'm going to call my office. Larry may have tried to get me." Her eyes showed their first gleam of hope. "You still believe he'll—" But Farrel was at the telephone, in the hall. In a moment he called to Lucile, still holding the line; Larry West had tried to get him and had left a message. He had traced Lucile's drive to Bangor, her flight from there by plane. Larry was in the air now on his way to New York. Farrel had given the address of the little house to his operative in case Larry called 196 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS again. Farrel turned back to the telephone. "What was it you had to tell me, Homer?" "McFarland's office has been calling. Someone wants him badly, a Miss Susie Warner. She seemed frantic to get at him. They don't know where he is. He went off in a rush with O'Connell." "Tell them to try Headquarters. They may know where O'Connell went." As he cut the line, he heard a startled exclamation from Lucile. From where he stood behind the half- closed double doors, he could see her, staring at the doorway from the kitchen. Through the crack of one door he saw what she saw. A Chinese girl stpod transfixed in the doorway from the kitchen, staring back at Lucile West. Her jet black oily hair, elaborately dressed, was slightly off center. Under the heavy make-up on her forehead, above the straight black eyebrows, a dark discoloration showed. Her eyes were so dilated that they matched the eye- brows. Her rich robes were disheveled. She moved slowly forward, limping, while Lucile dumbly watched her. Farrel could not see her now but he could hear. "How did you get here, Lucile?" Lucile's face was a study. She thought she knew that light, fitful tone, but the girl looked so Chinese. Still staring hard, Lucile answered without caution, "Mr. McFarland sent me here." "Do you know where he is? I must get at him. I've important evidence, and he'll be so anxious—" 197 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS Still groping, Lucile said, "He was at his office when I left with—" "I've tried there, just now; he wasn't in. They didn't know—" Abruptly she seemed to realize Lucile's puz- zlement. "Don't you know me, Lucile?" "I know your voice, but—" The Chinese girl smiled, a vague sweet smile that contrasted queerly with the set lines of her make-up. Her eyes suddenly were not black. "Look, darling." Her hand grasped her straight black hair, pulled at it, and Lucile gasped at the springing mass of short gold curls, the very blue eyes. "Carey! I couldn't believe my ears. What in the world—" "They kidnapped me. It was pretty awful, but I know a lot and I must get at the Automaton. I think he knows about me, because a nice Chinese boy must have told him. I'll call his office again." As she limped forward, Farrel came in and Carey stopped in her tracks. As he spoke she caught, with misgivings, a new note in his voice. It had not the kindly tolerance usually shown the Butterfly. He spoke seriously, as man to man. "You should get in touch with McFarland at once, Miss Brent. Ling came to him last night. I am working with him now, on Gorman's murder. We're keeping Mrs. West under cover. This noon Ling-foy reported his suspicion that you would be taken from the flat tonight. Evidently the move was pushed ahead and 198 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS somehow you've escaped. I've just heard from McFar- land's office; he left in a rush with Sam O'Connell a little before one. McFarland must have been alarmed when you were not with Chen-fo, and he wouldn't stay there. You might reach him through Headquarters, as he may have asked for a general alarm and gone—" The Butterfly broke out excitedly, "I'll go straight there. My taxi's outside because I couldn't pay him. Then I'll catch him if—" He stopped her as she turned to go. "In that rig, Miss Brent, and with that ankle?" "In anything. He must be wild, and I—I think there's been another murder, in the flower room. I went out there to see Vera, about Lucile, and I heard things. Was she killed?" "Yes, as Gorman was." "All the more reason for telling what I heard." She hurried painfully from the room, suddenly re- membered Lucile and called back without pausing, "Why ever you're here, dear, I'm glad and so sorry to be rude." Farrel was at her heels. "You shan't walk on that foot. It hurts you like the devil." He picked her up, holding her flat across his arms. "Where's your taxi? In the alley?" She told him meekly it was on the side street, where she had stopped to get her key from the boy who cared for her house. As Farrel moved on quickly, he looked down at her, spoke whimsically. "It may interest you 199 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "You look done up. Rest all you can. There may be action any minute." "You've talked to John?" "Last night. It worked. And Lucile West is in town. Everything's set." Carey tried to rise. "I know she's here and that Vera's killed. I'd better call the Ainsleys. There's a good excuse, as they must be worried about me." He put her back. "A half hour won't matter. And they've other things to worry over. Ainsley's given me his word not to leave town. Tell me how you got away from Chen-fo; I know what happened outside the flower room." He told her how he knew, and of Ling's report of the later events. "Then you know that I was absolutely cornered, helpless. I couldn't even tell the time as they'd stripped me of my belongings. I don't know if this move today was planned or sudden." "Sudden. Sha-su had come to the flat. He recognized Ling. Must have seen him leave my office, yesterday." She went on calmly. "There had been no sign of action until Chen-fo came in and signed for me to leave the room. He went on ahead and through the back door of the flat. The deaf and dumb woman was at my heels. I hoped Ling would drive the limousine— you might have planned with him to rescue me—but a fat Chinese was at the wheel. I was still pretty wobbly from last night and just outside the car I stum- 202 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS bled over something and fell hard. My leg pressed against the thing that tripped me. I pretended I was out and reached for the thing and clutched it under my Chinese coat. It was a big wrench. The large, fat Chinese must have dropped it. "The large Chinese lifted me and laid me on the back seat of the limousine and the Chinese woman crowded in beside me, doubling up my knees which all helped to hide the wrench. Chen-fo didn't watch me so I knew he thought I'd really fainted, and the heavy glass behind him was closed. I waited for a crush of noisy traffic. You can guess the rest, Mac." "You lammed the woman on the head, which knocked her out, and got away. She couldn't yell, of course, when she saw you move." "Then I didn't kill her?'.' "No." He answered absently, eyes on this casually reckless girl who did her work with the cool precision of a gangster when the need arose. She was speaking evenly. "I slipped into the crowd, caught a taxi and tele- phoned you, then went straight to the little house so we could be alone there when I did get you, and ran smack into Lucile and Farrel. But I didn't know he was there. He's found me out, Mac; he'd just learned that Susie Warner had called your office, and he heard me tell Lucile I'd called you. Of course he doesn't yet know of my work for The Man and perhaps he never 203 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS need know. He says he's working with you. Did he bring Lucile back?" "No. She ran away from West, went straight to the police to tell her story and keep West out of it. Fortunately she struck O'Connell and he called me. Farrel had told me her story, but not in detail. It's complicated, but the bloody handprint is hers. She was going to confess that." "Good Lord! You're certain Farrel will keep her under cover till—" "Certain. He knows your plan, as mine, of course, damn it; stealing your thunder gets my goat. But you'd better know what happened at Ainsley's. He sent for me last night; they were worried over you, but I couldn't be sure it wasn't a blind. You see, Sha-su had heard a man in the flower room with Vera and I guessed you'd trailed him there." "Sha-su heard him! He saw him. You must know what I heard, and saw." She told him. "You see, I couldn't prove it. I hadn't seen the murder. That's why I wanted you to look up Vera's will. You did?" She was intensely satisfied with Mac's report. "More of a muddle than I looked for. It accounts fully for Vera's actions and will settle her murder, but Gorman's must be cleaned up first. Tell me about last night, at John's." She listened in ever increasing excitation as he con- densed his talk with John and Newbold but she seemed 204 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS restlessly uneasy. When he finished, he could no longer keep her on the couch. "You chose the right time, Mac. He was all worked up after Vera's murder and frantic over Lucile's dan- ger. Her coming to New York and being in your hands should do the rest. I'll see, or call him at once. You go to the little house and get Lucile's story; we'll need that. Then come to John Ainsley's." "You're going to break this case yourself, Carey?" "The Butterfly is just the one to do it. He hates you now. You'd infuriate him and he might suspect a trick. Hurry!" When McFarland left, Carey Brent was at the telephone. 205 CHAPTER XIX LUCILE was alone with the Automaton. Farrel had insisted that she tell him her story of knowing Gorman. She looked directly at McFarland, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, but she spoke quite steadily. "It began when he was engaged to Vera. I was visit- ing her. He was infatuated with me. I don't believe he ever loved Vera; it was just her money, as it was with Carey Brent, but he couldn't get Carey. "Gorman made love to me, shamelessly, in Vera's house. It was difficult, there, to avoid him without a scene. I wanted to tell Vera, but she was wild about him then and I was afraid she wouldn't believe me. But she found it out, surprised him persecuting me the last day of my visit, and she had heard other things. It was very dreadful; Vera broke the engagement." "What was her attitude to you?" "She was good to me. I thought then she didn't blame me. But she must have, to inform against me. It's hard to believe." She brought herself back to essentials, and she seemed to steel herself. "I left for home that day. I lived with my uncle, in Chicago. Soon Gorman came out there. I was alone 206 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS in the house. He was entirely unrestrained, desperate for love of me, he said. He would have me. Even then I didn't know what was in his mind but I loathed him, and he frightened me. I told him so but he didn't care. He took me in his arms, held me. He was going back that night and I must go with him. I fought him, but suddenly he let me go. My uncle had come home. "Gorman left the house. I did not see or hear from him again until that night at Vera's. We arrived late and I was really very tired and dreaded dancing, though I couldn't imagine Gorman would be there after his treachery to Vera and what she knew of him. I got away from Flora and slipped out to the garden for a while. Then I went into the flower room. "It was so restful there. I sat down on that divan, leaned against those pillows at the head, but in an instant I was struggling wildly. Gorman had darted in behind me from the garden. "His strong arms held me close, his hot breath was on my neck; his lips— I fought him like a tigress and managed to get on my feet, but he caught me by the shoulders and held me at arms' length. He was furious now and in deadly earnest. If I didn't come with him, then, he'd carry me off by force. No one would hear if I screamed, with all that jazz. I told him it would be no use; I'd never marry him. He sneered, and then I understood his terrible words. He'd never thought of marrying me. I'm poor, you know. I forgot to be afraid. I wrenched away from him but he reached for 207 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS at the time. Later, I supposed he had struck his head in falling." "I know you were in the Ainsleys' den before the dance, and you were there alone. Do you remember seeing that treasured specimen of Newbold Howard's, the Chinese paper knife?" Her eyes came back to him, startled, no longer dream-haunted. "Gorman was stabbed. Do you mean he was stabbed with that paper knife? Do you think—" His voice was gentle now. "The case is beyond thinking now. Gorman was killed with the Chinese Snake. I found it in the pool, where you had stopped, after you ran from the flower room. You ought to see that my question is not trivial." She answered slowly, but tone and eyes were guarded. "I did see the Chinese paper knife. John Ainsley's book was on the couch where I was resting when they left me. The paper knife was in it, to mark John's place. I took the knife out and tried to read but I fell asleep." "And when you woke was the knife still on the couch?" Her eyes shifted to her nervous hands. "I don't re- member. They called me and I woke suddenly." She did not lie easily, McFarland thought. "Who called you?" She would not look at him. "Flora." "Did she come into the den to wake you?" 209 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "No. She was downstairs." "You were very tired and therefore pretty sound asleep. You heard her light voice?" "No, they had to—" She raised her eyes, densely dark, frightened. "Don't ask me any more! I see what you are getting at, and you're trying to help me— but I can't tell you." "You have told me by your evasions. The paper knife was gone when you awakened. And Mrs. Ainsley did not call you; her husband did and came into the den to do so." "No, no! That is, he did, but—" Suddenly she rose, faced to the hall, her face filled with a new terror, of suspense. A door had closed. Larry West's voice came to her clearly. "Where is she?" Then Farrel's, low, insistent. The door to the living room was flung back and Larry came in. McFarland faded instantly to the kitchen and closed the door. Backed to the hall door, Larry West stood for an instant staring at his wife. She stared back at his reproachful eyes; hers, imploring, fear-filled struck at him. He rushed to her. In the kitchen of Carey's little house Farrell and McFarland heard nothing from the living room, but they were not worried. Farrel had seen Larry's rush to his wife. Jean Farrel looked inquiringly at the Automaton. 210 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS McFarland had been gone a bare fifteen minutes when the telephone rang. Farrel scarcely knew John Ainsley's voice: "McFarland there? He's wanted, here— Hold on a minute; there's someone at the door. It's McFar- land—" The line went dead. When McFarland left Carey, she did not call John Ainsley at once but sat on by the telephone in deep thought. Soon she called her chauffeur and ordered her car brought round. Blakely was to come up and help her down as she'd hurt her ankle. But still she did not call John Ainsley. She lit a cigarette, considering. This was no snap job. It must be right, and it must be timed correctly. Mac must have a chance to get there after he had heard Lucile's story. Then Gorman's murder, and Vera's, would be clear to the last detail. There were points, in Gorman's that she had never understood, and the sudden darkness which had covered Vera's must be penetrated. And yet Carey was uneasy over her delay. Outside her rooms she heard the elevator door roll back and Blakely come to her door. She called to him to wait, and her uneasy thoughts ran on. Mac had forced things strenuously hours ago. There was the danger of flight. She must not risk delay. She got another of the absurd little bags which held the tools of her trade and left the penthouse. THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "It's queer, his thinking that of you. That's why he asked me so many questions about—last night." On edge for hours, her vagueness irritated John. "What do you mean, Carey? What has your adven- ture last night to do with Vera's murder? Where were you, anyway?" The Butterfly's eyes focused solemnly on John. "I was at Vera's last night—outside the flower room. I heard the unknown man, and saw his hands, close to her throat." "Did you know the voice, the hands?" "Of course I did, John!" "Have you told McFarland?" "No. He—" She started nervously, looked at the door. "Why, New! I hadn't heard you. You came in like a ghost, but you don't look like one!" Newbold did not. His cheeks were flushed, his queer eyes shining and his voice loud and cheerful. "I knew you were back, Insect. You gave us an unholy scare. Good Gosh, but you're banged up! John, Flora's ask- ing for you. The nurse is getting some food ready for her. Let me see Flora later, will you? I'm cutting off for a few days. I want to say good-by." John looked anxiously at Newbold, then at Carey. "You were a trump, Carey, not to tell. Stick to it." He hurried from the room. THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS She forgot her fear of him and leaned closer. "New, he's got her!" "You mean McFarland's found Lucile?" "He didn't find her, but he has her, shut up." "But that's not possible. She wasn't in New York." "She ran away from Larry, but I don't know why." "You say he has her shut up. You mean arrested?" "I suppose so. He's working on her. He'll make her talk. You know his eyes!" "Carey, are you sure of this? How would you know it?" "Larry told me, New. He followed Lucile here. When he got here I was in McFarland's office, but Lucile was gone. You can call Larry, or the Au- tomaton—" Newbold had risen, suddenly still as death. The But- terfly watched him anxiously. As suddenly as they had quieted, his spirits soared. "Insect, don't worry. I can help Lucile. You came in the nick of time. I was leav- ing town to get out of all this worry. You'd have missed me. I am leaving, going down the valley, but I'll straighten things out first." He turned away, but the Butterfly was on her feet, her eyes not vapid. "What do you mean, down the valley? That place of yours between the mountains?" Newbold looked back at her. "What else should I mean? Good-by, Carey—" Over his shoulder his divergent eyes stared wildly at her. Then he was gone. 218 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS Carey limped after him, waited at the stairs foot. In the hall above she heard John come from Flora's room. The two men talked low. Then Newbold went on to Flora's bedroom. When John had disappeared downstairs, Newbold went softly to the door of John's dressing room and fumbled with the lock, turned back to Flora's bedroom, went in and closed the door. John joined Carey in the hall below. "New seemed quiet and he says he's going away, so I let him see Flora." The Butterfly clutched John. "There's something » . very wrong; he frightened me. Call the Automaton, at my little house." She started painfully up the stairs, stopped, as John had not moved. "Get the Automaton, please! He'll know what to do." Her white intensity struck John as an agony of terror. What had Newbold said to her? His own fears overwhelmed him and he started for the telephone and dialed McFarland's office, forgetting Carey's orders. He swore fiercely when his error brought back her words, and dialed the little house. Carey had climbed the stairs and crept to John's dressing room. The door was locked. Her own key opened it and she stole inside. The door to the bedroom was part way open and Carey hid behind it. Just beyond the door Flora Ainsley was propped in a great chair. She was looking up at her brother standing close to her. "John says you're going away, New. I'm so glad. 219 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS You've not looked well. Why New, what—why do you—" He had bent to her, reached to her, kissed her lips. Suddenly his embrace slackened, as someone tried the door and found it locked from the inside. The nurse's voice called anxiously to Flora and got no answer. As she started for the dressing room and hur- ried in, Newbold darted from the bedroom and up the stairs. The nurse rushed through the dressing room to her patient and Carey limped from behind the door to the hall. Below she heard Mac's voice and John's, but she did not want them yet. As she started up the second flight, the nurse came out and called to John. He hurried up and into the bedroom as Carey reached Newbold's closed door. She stood there, listening. No sound came to her. Softly she tried the door. Locked. Delicately she inserted her pass key, turned the lock and quickly opened the door. Newbold How- ard stood by his desk. Carey gave one swift look at him, cried out loud and sharp and rushed at him. As she threw herself upon him, McFarland leaped for the stairs. As he made the second flight, John Ainsley rushed from his wife's room, closing the door. "Carey screamed. What's happened?" McFarland was already up the second flight and John raced after him. Newbold's door was wide open, but McFarland stopped dead in the doorway. Newbold lay prone on the floor, arms stretched 220 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS above his head, his hands clenched tightly. On top of him lay Carey. She shook her head at the two men and her lips formed, "Wait." Newbold was motionless. Beyond his clenched hands lay a small bottle, unstoppered, empty. John moved suddenly, but McFarland, his eyes on Carey Brent, gripped John and drew him to one side out of sight of the man on the floor. Carey had struggled to her knees and stooped over Newbold. The Butterfly's light voice came brokenly. "New, New dear! Why did you want to die?" His voice was muffled, leaden. "I'm just a rotter." "But, New, that's not so. There must be a reason, and it would kill Flora if you—" "No." He was on his feet now, looking morosely down at Carey, so deep in his unhappy thoughts that he seemed not to know his brother-in-law and Mc- Farland were outside. "You shouldn't have interfered, Carey. I told you I'd straighten things out." Her eyes flew to the small bottle, came clouded back to him. "But how would that help Lucile, New?" "I saw to that, and I'd be out of it and they'd be spared—" "There's no sense to what you say. Why, why did you try to do this? And what do you mean by 'seeing to it?'" "I wrote a letter to John. It's in my desk. But there's no need of it, now. I'll tell him." 221 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS left him. Your story must check hers correctly. She also admits she had outrageous provocation which gives her a motive." Newbold Howard answered with sudden anger. "She would have provocation with that beast, but not what I had." He quieted, went on with grim satisfaction. "I had been laying for him. I'd planned it for months, and my behavior before and after. Vera's dance seemed a safe bet, with crowds of people and that huge house. Before I left the ballroom for the smoking room, I had seen Gorman go out to the garden with Vera. I didn't think they'd be together long; I might catch him alone. There were a lot of men in the smoking room drinking and talking. They wouldn't notice when I left, or came back. "Gorman wasn't in the garden, nor Vera. I went back by the flower room and fished around in the dark for a match. I almost fell on Gorman. I couldn't see who it was till I squatted beside him, as he was lying where the moon didn't strike him. I lit a match. At first I thought he was dead, that someone had beaten me to it. Then I saw he'd only been knocked out; he was coming to. "The jazz was going full blast. No one was about. I reached up and put on that small lamp on the table, sat back on my heels and watched him. The Snake was in my pocket. The light just hit his head. He was on his back, about as you found him. His head had a bad cut and had bled a lot. He was pretty woozy and didn't 226 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS know me, as he didn't look up—just knew some man was there and began to mutter. He talked foully. I leaned toward him and he saw me, and he saw the knife, tried to get up. Then I killed him." McFarland asked, "You threw the Chinese paper knife in the pool?" "Yes, on my way back to the smoking room. It seemed safer, if the body was found that night. I planned to get it back before I left, but I had no chance as I had to drive the car home early." "The next night you tried to find the weapon?" "Yes. How do you know that?" "My man saw you. I expected the killer would try to get the Chinese paper knife, which I had found. Also Vera Montjoy required watching, and there were strange doings in her household. Your try for the knife hurt your brother-in-law. My man Henry said your hair looked dark, like Ainsley's. Red hair will, at night. Did you suspect the knife had been found?" "No. Thought it was imbedded in the sand. I meant to try again." The Butterfly's mania for criminal investigation got the better of her. "But New, why did you say the Snake was lost? It was so silly. No one might have noticed, or known that it was yours." "Just playing safe, Carey, in case John missed it be- fore I got it back. I didn't know then it had been found, and if it were and declared the murder weapon, it looked better for me to have missed it." 227 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS But the Butterfly was insatiable. "You said you'd planned all this, and your behavior— How did you plan, New, so as not to be suspected?" McFarland pivoted to her. "That's not material, Miss Brent." "But it's so interesting! I'd like to know." Newbold explained patiently to the kindly creature who had saved his life and so let him fully clear Lucile and John. "From the time I planned to kill Gorman I schooled myself to keep from any show of feeling against him that might suggest motive for his murder. Most espe- cially, I decided not to talk at all about it or any sus- pects. Silence is safer. But that small bloody print upset me, linked with Vera's evidence and Lucile's disappearance. I knew Gorman was crazy about her; he was capable of persecuting her to the point of strik- ing him that night in self protection." "He did, but she did not strike him. She managed to push him from her. He fell and struck his head. But his beastliness provides her with a strong motive for his murder. Yours must be stronger, Howard, to offset hers. You have not told us yours." John started forward. "He can't tell you that!" Newbold had flushed darkly: "Surely you don't need that, McFarland?" "I did need it, but I got it. Your admission that there was such a motive was necessary to prove to me that my theory was sound. I hope it may not have to 228 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS flower room that night. I saw her go there though she didn't know it. If I told that I'd found the body I'd have been grilled and I'm no good at lying; they'd have seen through me. I didn't think she'd meant to kill him, or that she really had, but I couldn't tell how he'd been killed in the dark. Then when my wife saw Gorman's body, it was plain she thought I'd killed him. If she thought that, who in God's world wouldn't? I know I lost my head; no one but Newbold knew what we knew; I wasn't really in so much danger. Later, when I'd convinced my wife, I realized that and you didn't seem interested in me. Suspicion centered on Lucile, but I could only help her by holding my tongue, as I was the only one who knew surely she'd been in the flower room that night. It's been tough." McFarland asked, "You never suspected Howard?" "Not till after you talked to us last night. Newbold's not vicious, and no one knew Gorman had been killed with the Chinese paper knife." He turned to Newbold Howard. "Why did you choose the famous Snake? It was a rotten careless thing to do." The Automaton raucously confirmed this, to a degree. "The Snake led me to you, Howard, but not at once. Vera Montjoy was fearfully disturbed by it which, coupled with certain Chinese complications, misled me for a while, and the Chinese curio also im- plicated your brother-in-law. Why did you choose it? I've a notion it was not a random choice." As the Automaton talked directly to Newbold, he 230 CHAPTER XXII "GIVE me a cigarette, Mac, and we'll think things out. It's a queer situation, ours, isn't it?" They were in the den with the door closed. Mc- Farland supplied Carey and smoked himself as he car- ried on her thought. "It is queer, Carey. With Vera dead, I've no official standing on the Gorman murder; it must be referred at once to the police. Of course, in Vera's murder I butted in when the butler gave me the chance, largely from worry over you, but also because I was certain her murder tied directly to Gorman's; and it did through her vicious hatred of Lucile West. I ought to get O'Connell right away. He covered Vera's murder with me, but—" "Just a minute, Mac; I want to think. The Moys won't get away, nor will Newbold Howard, and this is a most awful mess for John and Flora." McFarland watched her intent eyes veiled now and then by smoke, emerging more blue than ever and fixed, not on him but on the problem in her mind. She spoke at last, still not looking at Mac. "Newbold is not vicious. John said that, didn't he? He's quite right, as far as he went. The terrible affair 235 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS with Gorman's murderer. Athelstan would cover the front of the house. Athelstan and Henry started up the stairs and the Automaton hurriedly left the house. Jean Farrel arrived a bit late at the final round-up at Carey's little house, chosen because safe from inter- ruption. In the know to some extent concerning Carey's camouflage, he was disappointed by not seeing the ac- tual Carey Brent. Abominably pretty in her silly way, her spirits fermenting violently, she scarcely saw Jean Farrel as she talked to Sam O'Connell. "It's too—too wonderful! I can't believe it! It's awful of me, I know, but I can't help being glad he's out of it. Of course, if the Automaton had been there it never would have happened. Do tell me how—" True to form the Automaton suppressed her. "You shall hear about it later, Miss Brent. O'Connell wants to get on with his case. Your evidence is important." "I was at Vera's last night, because—" "We know all that. Get on with what you saw, and heard, when you hid outside the flower room." "I couldn't see New then and afterward, only his hands, but I saw Vera all the time, except when the lights—" McFarland stopped her. "Don't anticipate. What were they saying when you began your snooping?" "He was talking, but at first I couldn't hear." "All right. Then begin with what Miss Montjoy 237 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS unconscious they wouldn't lock me in and I could get away. So I made myself lie still no matter what hap- pened. It was lucky I did plan that for just then a hand touched my eyes. Then it felt my pulse. The steps went away and stopped. I heard a paper crackle and opened my eyes a crack. A tall man, in black clothes stood by a desk, sideways to me. It was the Chinese butler. He was looking at a paper. He put it in a pigeon-hole, and went out of the room, and closed the door, not locking it. And he had left the light on. I knew then that he thought I was unconscious or he wouldn't have left me like that, and I wasn't so fright- ened then; it was all so exciting—just like a book. I was sure they'd kidnapped me for ransom. I saw there was a window, and I might be on the ground floor—" McFarland crashed in. "Tell us what happened. O'Connell will want to know about the paper Sha-su was studying." The Butterfly refused to leave at once the limelight of her own achievements. "I got up and my head swam, but I managed to get across to the window. But it was shuttered and I didn't dare make a noise. I still felt dizzy and I touched the desk to steady myself. Then I remembered that paper the butler was reading. It was a big square paper, like the one I found at the Ains- leys', all in Chinese writing, when I was hunting for the Chinese paper knife Newbold lost. I had thought the first one was a will. It seemed so funny that a 239 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS mother did not break with young Moy, for years at least. She must have been tremendously infatuated, but lacked stamina openly to oppose her father when he found her out. Young Moy may have seen his daugh- ter and given her the Chinese name. Of course, Vera was a Moy. Mrs. Montjoy's history indicates great weakness, or she would not have been forced so easily to conceal her daughter's illegitimacy and Chinese origin; her sort would carry on secretly." The telephone stopped him and O'Connell sprinted for the instrument. "That must be my Chink. Maybe he's traced—" The Automaton waited gravely and the Butterfly breathlessly, but Farrel looked puzzled. O'Connell was speaking. "Good work, Ling. I'll take care of it. Go home." He cut the line, came back to the three, ruffling his fair hair excitedly. "Ling's beaten the force to it. How- ard sailed for the Argentine this afternoon. It's a long, slow trail, but sure. I've got to start things, and there's the murder charge against Sha-su to tend to. You'll ex- cuse my haste, Miss Brent." He rushed from the house and they heard his motor roar. The Butterfly said fervently, "I do hope they won't—" Suddenly she remembered she need not act for Far- rel, but he was not looking at her. His amazed voice asked McFarland, "Howard got away? From the po- lice?" 250 THE LONG ISLAND MURDERS "Yes. Forgot you didn't know. You've been tied up with the Wests and that friend of Vera Montjoy's. Howard got away through his bathroom. I'd warned my men about it, but they were not allowed to pass it on in time. I'm afraid they're a bit tickled; the police are so cocksure." "How did Newbold Howard work it?" "You know the layout? A second door from his bath- room leads to a small back hall and the back stairs. My man Henry was in Howard's room with him and Athelstan was outside the door into the front of the house. The officer in charge insisted on Henry's leaving Howard and answering some fool questions in the hall outside Howard's closed door. Henry tried to protest and repeat my orders, which antagonized the officer, but Henry, who though not forceful is persistent, finally got the idea over, too late. When the homicide man raced to lock that extra bathroom door, Howard was gone." A curiously guarded look came over Farrel. "And he's off to South America, where he can easily lose him- self in the High Andes. And he must have had funds handy. Looks as if he were all set for a getaway." Carey Brent's voice made him turn to her. "It does look so, doesn't it? John was alone with him for a time, Mac tells me, and Newbold's arrest would have been pretty awful for Flora. I can't blame John, and as for Newbold's killing Gorman—" Farrel scarcely heard her. He was staring at the ac- 251