8*8 DEAD END STREET By Lee Thayer Albert Madison picked up a queer valet in an even more peculiar way. But the haunted look on his face remained. Sally Howard's inordinate curiosity seemed harmless enough but it was to lead to something . . . Then Patrolman Duffy was found murdered by a knife, his body having been dragged some distance and dumped into Spuyten Duyvil Creek. It was the cold-bloodedness of this crime and the total absence of clues that first aroused the suspicions of Peter Clancy. It was too slick, too harmless. The only conclusion was that poor Michael Duffy was "a pawn— that had to be taken—off the board." Dead End Street is a thriller of the first water. In it the reader will find a twisting, complex plot, moving with lightning speed and gathering suspense as the aston- ishing denouement draws closer . . . Peter Clancy is at his quick-witted best and the other characters, queer assortment though they be, are not likely to be soon forgotten. Some Recent Books By the Same Author DEAD STORAGE SUDDEN DEATH etc. $2000 PRIZE CONTEST The Red Badge editors and the Forum Magazine announce a new $2000 prize competition for the season 1935-1936 for the best mystery-detective novel by an American or Canadian author who has not previously had a book published under the Red Badge imprint. Manuscripts must be submitted before August 1, 1936. A complete prospectus setting forth all the details of the contest may be obtained upon request. Would You Like to Know how RED BADGE books are selectedt Each year, hundreds of detective-story manu- scripts are submitted to the literary editors of Dodd, Mead and Company. From these only a very small number receive the coveted Red Badge imprint. This is because every detective story that carries the Red Badge must first pass a rigid eight- point test—so severe that all but absolutely first- class mysteries are eliminated. If you would like to receive this eight-point test, we will be glad to mail you a copy without charge. Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. Department R B 449 Fourth Avenue, New York DEAD END STREET NO OUTLET LEE THAYER DODD, MEAD & COMPANY NEWYORK 1936 Copyright, 1936 By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, In& ALL RIGHTS RESERVED NO PART OF THIS BOOR MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRIT1NC FROM THE PUBLISHER PUNTED I H THE UNITED STATES OE AMERICA BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, N, Y. TO Jimmie Hall WITH MY LOVE o. r. jutl. e «, CONTENTS CHAPTER TAG* I The Beach at Waikiki 1 II 506 West Two-Hundred and Eighteenth Street 1 > III St. Peter's Cemetery 19 IV Broadway Subway at Two-Hundred and Fifteenth Street 32 V Apartment 426 44 VI The Street with No Name 53 VII The Summer House 63 VIII The Rooms Over the Garage .... 74 IX The Old Madison Mansion 81 X In Arthur's Bedroom 96 XI The Upper Gate 112 XII The Ruined Warehouse 127 XIII The Front Seat of the Limousine . . .141 XIV Again the Summer House . . . . .153 XV Behind the Entry Door 163 XVI Isham Park 172 XVII Up the Back Stauis 183 XVIII In the Morning 193 XIX Beixevue . . . .> 201 XX Stone Walls 210 XXI The Old, Old, House 220 XXII And Back 230 XXIII Four A. M 244 XXIV In a Glass, Darkly 254 XXV The End of the Passage 265 DEAD END STREET I 1 CHAPTER I THE BEACH AT WAIKIKI "Hold up, sir! Steady now. Don't try to grab or I'll have to give you a sock in the— Oky-doke. That's better. Just relax and leave it to me. I swum the English Channel once. Whu-f-f—. Could a swum back again—whu—if they'd a let me. Turn over on your back. Let's float a minute. Then I'll tow you in. What's the matter? Cramp?" "I—don't know." A gasp between the words. Arthur Madison's half submerged face was white. "It's gone now, though. I thought for a minute—" "That you was going instead. Sure. I seen you was in trouble. The life-saver watches the pretty girls. But he's onto us now. Here he comes." "Want any help?" A deeply tanned bronze young god came splashing alongside through the brilliant sun-lit water. "If this here young gent had waited for you to breeze out there wouldn't have been nothing to do because it woulda been all done. See? He's OK now. You can go back to your knitting." The life-guard grinned. "Don't mind if I join the party do you? You're pretty far out. And with your clothes on—" "Don't you worry about me, buddy. I swum the East River from Blackwell's— Never mind. You THE BEACH AT WAIKIKI 3 "Old John the baptizer can tell class when he sees it, even in nothing but a pair of trunks." The man's eye twinkled like a bit of bottle-glass in malleable red clay. "The minute I saw you, sir, I says to myself, 'John, old pal, there's a young gent as is a gent from back of beyond, and no kiddin'.' You see I've travelled in high society a good deal and I know what's what. I'm out of a job just now, but I've valeted some of the best dressers on Broadway, Park Avenue and points east. I'd be back in the old town now if my boss hadn't died on me out in China and left me stranded-like." "What brought you so far west—or east? I don't know which this would be from your standpoint." Young Madison's glance had lost much of its listless- ness. "Well," said Postlethwait a trifle hesitant, "it was just this and that as you might say. One bit of hard luck after another. First off it was a mail-order job I got stung on, and stung a plenty. Never again, swelp me—" He held up his right hand in an easy, fluent ges- ture. "Face to face and no phony business is my motto, from now on, see? I got too trusting a nature, sir, and that's a fact. Think I'm a wise guy, and a babe in arms could hand me a lemon, if you get what I mean." Arthur looked somewhat bewildered. "I think I follow you. It seems obvious that it's best to stick to one's own line, and a valet could hardly be expected to know much about regular commercial forms of enterprise." "You've said it, sir." Postlethwait blinked. "And if I ever find out who the guy was that— But that's 4 DEAD END STREET enough about me." He broke off suddenly and turn- ing modestly aside, jumped to his feet with a flirt of sand to windward. Though his shirt and trousers clung wetly to him in shapeless wrinkles, oddly enough "dapper" was the word that came to Arthur's mind as he looked up into the other's sun-reddened face. Perhaps it was because Postlethwait had mas- tered the trick of going into the water and coming up with his hair parted in the middle. It was a smooth and glistening brown and by its neatness somehow added a final touch of comedy to the round face and figure below. "Well, well, it's good to see you smile, sir." The man had already put on the shoes that he had left on the beach. Now he stooped to pick up a coat and somewhat damaged panama. "You'll be right as rain in a brace of shakes, I hope. Would you like I should look up your family or somebody? Maybe it'd be just as well—" "I'm travelling—alone." A shadow crossed the young man's face. "I have no family—now—nearer than New York." "Well, well, is that so?" Postlethwait spoke with an air of great surprise. He had thrust one wet arm into his coat sleeve. Now he drew it out again, folded the coat carefully and hung it over his arm. "In that case —would you maybe like to have me come along to the bath house with you, sir, and help you to dress? I've got no dates, myself, and if I could be of assist- ance . . . You still don't look like a heavyweight champ to me." THE BEACH AT WAIKIKI 5 "I— Why yes. I'll be glad to have you. I was wonder- ing how I could—" A faint color came into the boy's cheeks as Postlethwait helped him to his feet and keep- ing hold of his arm led him along the beach. "You're awfully good to take so much trouble," young Madison went on after a minute in a low voice. "I guess you saved my life just now and—" "Oh, forget it, sir. Nothing to it! It was only just luck that I happened to have my eye on you at the minute. This way, sir." "But I thought my bath house was over there." The boy stopped, confused, and pointed toward the left. "No, sir. It's down that far end. Right by that bunch of palms." "Why—what makes you think—" "The number's on the key on the rubber ring around your neck," Postlethwait explained glibly. He must have had remarkable eyes for the number incised on the disc that dangled from the key was small and worn down with handling. "Look for your- self, sir. The hundreds are all over this side of the entrance." "I must have been remembering yesterday," mut- tered Arthur. "I was bathing here yesterday after- noon." "Yes, sir. I know. I mean I know just how easy it is to get balled up like that. Here you are, sir. If you'll give me the key. Thank you, sir." With a swift and subtle change of manner, John Postlethwait now became the complete valet. Except that he talked too much and that his language left a 6 DEAD END STREET great deal to be desired his service might have been found acceptable in quite exclusive circles. Arthur Madison, just recovering from an illness, lonely and heartsick, was not inclined to be critical. He found John's tendency to exaggeration amusing rather than annoying; the picturesque speech with its flavorful Americanisms fell pleasantly on unaccustomed ears. The boy, just turned twenty, had followed his father's fortunes all over the eastern hemisphere but had not been in the States since he was three years old. At the time of his grandfather's death he was in school in Shanghai, and his father, Grantland Madison, had gone home alone. A flying trip. Father and son had never been long separated until— How much of his own story he told that evening as he and his self-constituted attendant paced the beach, Arthur did not realize at the time. It was the moment of reaction from the silence of crushed and dulled senses. Returning, obedient to his dying fa- ther's behest, to the land of his fathers, the first stage of the long journey had been spent in illness and iso- lation. The ship's doctor had recommended that he break the voyage at Honolulu and Arthur had ac- quiesced with a rudderless indifference. He had been in Hawaii three—no, four days now. The gaiety and beauty, the sparkle and fragrance was beginning to lift his mind and heart out of the dull agony of bereavement. His physical condition had im- proved, though the seizure in the water should have warned him to go slow. The sudden coming of his rescuer at that tense minute had released something in 8 DEAD END STREET "The best." The boy's voice was steady now. "You're doing just what he told you to do. Maybe you'll find your folks in New York are like what he was." "They couldn't be. No one is. And besides my Aunt Henrietta is old. Ten years older than my father. I was too little to remember her and I never saw her husband. He's younger." "Well, maybe you'll like him. Nothing against him is there?" Postlethwait had the insatiable curiosity of a somewhat volatile nature. Also he wanted to lengthen out this evening stroll. He had not yet en- tirely made up his mind how to act or what course would be likely to prove most advisable and profit- able. "Oh no. Quite the contrary." The boy answered the question without hesitation. "But Uncle Leon isn't likely to be much of a companion for me, you know. He must be forty at least, I should think, and besides he's had some kind of a bad illness; sort of a stroke or something. Isn't able to go about much. But he must be clever and a wonderful manager. Dad al- ways said the estate had been handled far better than he could have done it even if he'd been willing to stay in America. There's always been plenty of money from home whenever we needed it, though that wasn't so often. My father was pretty extravagant, I guess, but he was a great engineer." "And that pays, I'll bet." Postlethwait cast on his young companion a slanting glance. "You sure look like a million dollars to me. But then you're the type THE BEACH AT WAIKIKI g that makes any kind of clothes sit up and take no- tice." "You know how to wear clothes yourself." There was a smile on the young face as Arthur glanced down at the neat figure beside him. "Yes, sir. Thanks to you, Mr. Arthur. It was a lot too much for what I done, but I'm not denying I did need a new suit. The most of my wardrobe was stole as I told you, and being temporarily out of a job—" Postlethwait broke off abruptly. "I wouldn't go any farther if I was you, Mr. Arthur. Along down below here it's awful lonely and that wallet of yours might be a temptation to some guy that wasn't brought up proper. I haven't got a gat on me and I suppose you ain't heeled either." "You mean armed?" Arthur spoke absently. It was obvious that other thoughts were holding the fore- front of his attention, and he added, somewhat precip- itately, "I say—er—look here, Mr. Postlethwait! I don't know why I didn't realize ... I mean, you know, if you are free—and—and want to go back to the States . . . You said you wanted to get back. Didn't you?" They had stopped. A thickened growth of vegeta- tion shut out the wide wash of moonlight. The boy might have been puzzled by the expression that slowly dawned upon the face of his erstwhile rescuer, had there been light enough to see. After a minute Postlethwait said thickly, "Go back to New York? You mean that? All the way back to little old New York?" 10 DEAD END STREET "Why not?" The boy spoke impulsively. "We like each other. Come now. We do, don't we—John?" Postlethwait drew a long breath. Something heavy slid out of the hand he held behind him and dropped noiselessly on the sand. Softly he exhaled the air from his lungs and said: "Why sure, Mr. Arthur. Sure. You betcha!" "Well then, hurray, you're on." The boyish voice was light and eager. "We'll travel together. And if you wouldn't mind . . . I'm used only to oriental— er—servants. You're sure you—" "Wouldn't mind going as valet to a young gentle- man of your—like you—Mr. Arthur!" The man's voice surely sounded odd. "It's what I— Only I thought— Holy Moses! I couldn't of expected nothing better if I'd dealt myself. I'll serve you faithful, sir. You can betcher life on that. New York. Once more!" Stepping back he trod heavily on a hard lump of leather and lead, and executing a few gay improvised dance steps, buried it deep beneath the shifting sands. CHAPTER II 506 WEST TWO-HUNDRED AND EIGHTEENTH STREET Time—tide—and the affairs of men. Time flowing like an endless river, day after day, week after week. Tide surging, irrevocably, from farthest shore to farthest shore. And the affairs of men—from continent to con- tinent interwoven. Off-scourings of Seven Seas washed up among the native flowers of strange lands. How brought together? How preserved? And for what end? A far cry from the golden sands of Hawaii to the mud-crusted docks that thrust long fingers out into the waters of New York harbor, yet the same moon governs the tides that whisper secretly among them. In the deep, man-made canons of the city streets the moon seems far away, but the pull of her is felt in all the encircling waterways down to the narrow creek that makes Manhattan in truth an island. Who would deny that every tiniest drop of water rises and falls in obedience to law? Yet in the affairs of men . . . "He's there again, Mother." The girl did not turn as the door of the tiny apartment opened behind her. "Yes, honey?" The woman who had entered spoke in a low, absent tone. The girl at the window did not seem to notice. "Oh, dear, he does look so lonely and ill. I wish—I do wish we could do something for him, Mumsie." 11 12 DEAD END STREET "Don't be absurd, Sally. He probably has every care in the world. Those people must be very wealthy. You haven't forgotten what Duffy told you." "Of course not, darling. But he's only a policeman. What can he know of the circumstances, really." "Why he's lived up here since this top end of Man- hattan was just rocks and goats, he says, outside of the big estates. He knows all the traditions, and what was torn down to make room for what, and all the rest." Mrs. Howard moved a little nearer the window but she kept one hand behind her. "Well, Duffy may know a lot of old stories, but I noticed he couldn't tell us a thing about that poor boy except he thought he must be a nephew of Mrs. Ross. I wish we knew her, Mummie. At home we would have called on her or she on us if—" "It's different in a big city, especially in the North, my pet, as you well know. And when our circum- stances are so— Good gracious, Sally, what are you do- ing?" "Just snooping, ducky." The girl turned a brilliant laughing face but did not lower the opera glass that she had pulled out from under a pillow. "No one can see if I keep a bit behind the curtain. I can't help it, dear, really. You know how that wonderful queer old mansion has fascinated me from the minute we dis- covered it, and now—" "It is a strange old place," Mrs. Howard murmured, looking thoughtfully down. "As out of character as an eagle's nest with these rows of cheap apartments that have sprung up all around it. They seem as imperti- TWO-HUNDRED AND EIGHTEENTH ST. 13 nent as your opera glasses, Sally." "That funny-looking servant brought him out a tea tray a little while ago," Sally remarked imperturb- ably, "but he doesn't seem to be eating a thing. Poor dear." "What did they give him?" On impulse Mrs. How- ard took the glasses from her daughter who giggled appreciatively. "Oh, dear, Sally, he is a very fine look- ing boy—but so thin and—and—I wonder what is the matter with him." "Oh, it's none of our business and he must have everything money can buy," said Sally airily. She slipped her arm around her mother's waist and they both stood looking down. Looking down—and across —with an odd, ever-recurrent wonder at this evidence of the incongruity of the swift city's restless growth. Like a great ship left by some stupendous tide stranded upon a rock, the old mansion stood out against the sky at the very edge of the cliff that rises so boldly along the upper end of Manhattan Island. Below the house a small park of grass and rocks, shrubs and worn but stately trees, sloped steeply down and was walled in from the north and west by a long angle of tall new half-baked modernistic apartments from one of which the two women studied its in- triguing outlines. Withdrawn it seemed, like an old woman conscious of the heaviness of age and of the lack of distinction inherent in finer forms. An un- happy architectural era had furnished it in expensive fashion with gables, turrets, wings and porches. A porte-cochere of imposing size. A summer house be- i4 DEAD END STREET hind a wall. "He always seems to prefer being out of doors no matter what kind of weather it is," remarked Sally, watching as well as she could from that distance the movements of the slim figure that paced up and down the path before the old vine-covered shelter. "It must be nearly two weeks since we saw him first. . . . I've found out what I think his name is, Mummie." "Why, Sally, how could you?" "If you're no more interested than your voice im- plies, ducky, you might give me the opera glasses." "Yes, yes. Of course I want to know who the boy is and how you found out—" "If Miss Milly doesn't soon find me an old lady who wants to be read to I'm thinking of being a detective, Mother. I feel I have a flair for the work. Perhaps it wouldn't occur to you that Mrs. Ross is prominent enough to be in the Social Register and that the same may be consulted at a branch library by even a very impecunious damsel such as I. This afternoon I discovered many of the dark secrets of the Madison family of which Mrs. Ross—nee Henrietta Madison is one of the few remaining. It was rather clever of me I think to sleuth back through the Madisons and spot her brother, Grantland Madison and his son Arthur. It really wasn't so very smart because old Ethan Madi- son was evidently as socially prominent as his descend- ants. Since the Social Register doesn't seem to know of any others, and since our nice old Duffy says this must be a nephew of Mrs. Ross, I put two and two together and hazard the opinion that the charming young man TWO-HUNDRED AND EIGHTEENTH ST. 15 that occupies your distinguished attention is called Arthur by his friends and family and Mr. Madison by the world at large. . . . Are you listening, beautiful?" "Yes, yes, honey. It sounds quite reasonable. Did you stop in to see Milly Langham when you were out?" "I did, darling, but nobody wants a secretary or companion or what have you yet apparently. She's fussy about getting something suitable for us you know and says we'll have to be patient. The season isn't far enough advanced. I hope something will turn up soon." "Something will have to, Sally." Mrs. Howard dropped her pretense of looking through the glasses and faced her daughter with unhappy determination. "Our funds are getting dangerously low as you know —" "But Uncle Henry—we ought to get a reply to our letter any day.^' Sally faltered, then said hurriedly but with entire conviction. "You have an answer, Mother. Let me see." "No, darling. It isn't necessary." "Better let me read it, dear. No use trying to side- step." The girl drew the letter from her mother's re- luctant hand and read it through twice. "He might at least have put it a little more decently." Her young voice was husky with disappointment. "It isn't our fault if the depression ruined him too—if it has!" "Don't be bitter, honey. It does no good." Mrs. Howard folded up the letter very carefully and laid it in the desk drawer as if she were burying something. 16 DEAD END STREET For the minute she was staggered. Since her brother had failed her she felt there was no one left to whom she had the right to turn. Sally threw her strong young arms around her mother's neck. "Never mind, honey-lamb," she cried. "We'll manage somehow. The rent's paid till the first of October, thank goodness. That gives us two weeks more. We still have ten dollars left in the sav- ings bank and we can stretch that until it cries for mercy. Food costs so little and even Hamburger steak, prepared by your fine Italian hand has an element of the divine." She broke off to kiss the smile that was dawning on her mother's face. "And in the meantime dear Miss Milly will be sure to find one or both of us a job. Something's bound to turn up, Mrs. Micawber. I feels it in my bones. And, since we're not likely to have callers, ducky, let's have onion soup for dinner. I saw some marvellous onions down Seaman Avenue, ten pounds for a quarter. Tamed and untamed they'll last us goodness only knows how long. Shall I go get 'em?" "Great minds run in the same channel, honey." Mrs. Howard held her close for an instant. The con- tact seemed to bring her courage surging back into her heart. "I laid in a gorgeous supply this afternoon and I'll give you the kind of soup old Mammy Chaney used to make. You wait!" As her mother disappeared through the door of the tiny kitchen, Sally turned back to the window and absently picked up the glasses that lay upon the couch. TWO-HUNDRED AND EIGHTEENTH ST. 17 The boy whom she already called in her mind "Arthur Madison" was still pacing back and forth through the slanting shadows. Rich, lonely, ill. Inevitably she be- gan to weave about him the prismatic gossamer web of romance. A prince in an enchanted castle. The glasses brought him very near as he turned and looked up. Of course he could not distinguish anything at that distance, but Sally drew still farther back in the shelter of the thin curtain. She felt suddenly a little cold. His eyes haunted her. Presently she moved for- ward, dropping the glasses on the couch. He had paused and was still looking in her direc- tion. The window was four stories up. One of many— many, she told herself—and yet— With a sudden movement she pushed up the screen and leaned out. The sun had dropped behind the Palisades on the far side of the great hidden river. Night was stealing in. She could see his face, a pale oval, and his slim body scarcely discernible against the dark wall of the house beyond. For how long she did not know, Sally stood there looking down. Whether he saw her or not he, too, remained immov- able. At last a woman dressed all in white like a nurse, appeared around the corner of the house and took him in. The worn, reticent old park seemed strangely still. The noises of the great city, spread out on every hand, sounded faintly in this oddly remote spot, as if the well-nigh vanished wealth and aristocracy that once informed it had left about it an intangible wall, im- 18 DEAD END STREET pervious to commonness and noise. Against the east- ern sky the house loomed dark and ever darker, the few lights on the lower floor showed like eyeless sock- ets, but lapped in fascinating imaginings the girl in the window dreamed on. CHAPTER III sr. peter's cemetery An early October mist drifted sadly across serried ranks of headstones. Around an open grave a group of men in uniform stood, uncovered. It was the solemn moment when, dust to dust, the body of a comrade, dead on his humble field of honor, was lowered to its last resting place. A priest intoned the beautiful tragic words. Across the sad-faced mound of flowers sounded clear and sweet the silver notes of a bugle. Taps. The priest resumed his biretta and drew the folds of his great cape in to cover his vestments. The men in blue, who had passed Michael Duffy in rank but not in courage and kindliness, turned away with heavy hearts. "He was one of the best," said Captain of Detec- tives Kerrigan half aloud as he moved away beside* his tall, red-headed companion. "One of the finest and no mistake. You knew him over-seas, you said, Pete? I was surprised to see you here." "We're almost the only persons out of uniform," said Peter Clancy glancing about. "Poor Mike had no family?" "No. Only the police force. That's Mike Duffy's family and somebody's going to find it out—someday —if I live," said Captain Kerrigan bitterly. "I came up •9 to DEAD END STREET in a taxi, but if you're driving back, Pete—" "Sure. Wiggar's waiting right over there." "I'm mighty glad of a chance of a talk with you, Jake," Clancy continued as his car started forward. "Maybe you can tell me something that wasn't in the papers." He looked back at the pale mound of flowers that seemed to deliquesce in the mist. "Not to be able to do anything for a fine man like that but just—I don't believe in funerals but there didn't seem to be anything else." "No," said Kerrigan, grimly. "Not—yet." For a few minutes there was silence in the swiftly moving automobile. The ears of the wooden-faced person at the wheel were strained backward as far as their neat emplacement would allow, but the face and eyes were "front." Not for the world would Wig- gar have shown as much as an eye-flash of interest, but his master's concerns were as always faithfully his. And when Mr. Peter and Captain Kerrigan got to- gether their conversation was usually both interesting and instructive. It was not until they had turned from Eastern Boulevard into One-hundred and seventy-seventh Street and were moving swiftly westward that Peter Clancy broke the heavy silence. "I read the account in the Meteor," he said, as if there had been no hiatus in the conversation. "Was that pretty straight?" "As far as it went. Yes." Kerrigan roused himself from a maze of unprofitable thoughts. "Mike's body was found in the water. In that kind of a back-water ST. PETER'S CEMETERY 21 of Spuyten Duyvil Creek you know, alongside Inwood Park." "About where it joins Isham Park?" "No. West of there. Where Inwood runs north and south, between the Hudson and that place where Spuyten Duyvil broadens out." "Duffy's beat was along there somewhere?" "Yes. But on his trick of night duty, like he was, he'd have had no call to go away over there—espe- cially at that hour of the night." "The paper said the body was found about ten in the morning. How do you know what time—" Kerrigan interrupted with the impatience of pain- ful concentration. "He was alive and OK at twelve o'clock when he put in his report from the box on Seaman Avenue and Two-hundred and fourteenth Street. How soon after that—we can't be sure, but the medical examiner thought it couldn't have been more than an hour or so." "He was stabbed." "Yes. Straight through the left breast and 'way into the heart. He must have gone—like that." Kerrigan snapped his strong blunt fingers. "Any other marks of violence?" "None—while he was alive." "You're sure about that?" "I saw Dr. Stroud myself. Duffy was stabbed from in front—and apparently he hadn't put up any fight. We go well heeled at night these days—and his gun was still in its holster." Kerrigan turned slowly and looked sternly into the plain clever face of his friend. 22 DEAD END STREET "And what does the noted private investigator, Mr. Peter Clancy, make of that?" Peter returned the look. "He's just smart enough to get the same answer as the best detective on the police force. There's only one conclusion to be drawn there, Jake, I should think." "Yeah? And what is that? See if I agree." "Duffy knew the man that killed him. Had no suspicions. Maybe thought he was a friend." "A friend." Kerrigan nodded. "But strolling around in that out of the way part of the city. After mid- night. . . . What kind of a friend would that be?" "Some crook on parole—that Duffy was interested in—caught out on first?" Kerrigan's grizzled head moved slowly sidewise on his sturdy neck. "Mike Duffy was a patrolman, Pete, and not anything more—that is professionally. A fine soldier, see what I mean, but not capable of a thought beyond the ranks. Swell fellow for looking out for kids at crossings—directing traffic—seeing that the boys and girls in the parks came out before—too late. . . . Except for when he was over-seas at the time of the war he's spent all his years of service on that kind of jobs. There's nobody on the force, I'd say, that knew as little about gangsters and such as Mike Duffy. They've sort of come up since his time and he wasn't the kind to take on something new." "You're right about that, of course, Jake. But still—" Peter spoke slowly—"it's possible that he had befriended somebody . . . not a professional crim- inal . . . some kid, perhaps—had done something ST. PETER'S CEMETERY 23 desperate—and was sure Mike would find out. . . ." "That sounds pretty near it to me, Pete. Only— It wasn't in any of the papers, but I'm sure Mike's body was dragged some little distance before he was dumped into the water." "It was?" Peter spoke quickly. "How do you know that?" "Well, to begin with, there aren't so many places along there where anyone would be likely to be walk- ing close to the river. There's a lot of made land in that section, you know. Then there's the playground. And Isham and Inwood Parks. The roads and paths aren't right on the water. Near, but not right close." "Yes," said Peter thoughtfully. "I've been over that locality. Quite lately. I see what you mean." "Then, too," Kerrigan went on quickly, "his uni- form was rubbed—what they call abraided—on the shoulders specially. Not from ordinary wear. Duffy was a smart officer. Always neat as a nursemaid, and proud of his looks. The body certainly had been dragged. Not so awfully far. But he was a tall, heavy man. No kid could have moved it—even for a short distance. Of course there might have been more than one person in it." "If there'd been even as many as two wouldn't they have carried him?" Peter asked sharply. "It would be much quicker. . . . And a stabbing. . . . No. ... I hardly see more than one man in that picture. . . . Someone tall enough to strike a direct blow— and strong enough to drive a knife clean through a man's heart." ST. PETER'S CEMETERY 25 "You mean traffic-lights?" growled Kerrigan with a grim chuckle as they came to a sudden halt in response to the overhead flash of red. "They're the same, I grant you. And the law's the same, too. But, God! Pete, how're we going to enforce it when things happen like this? An officer—a clean guy like Michael Duffy—going his ways in the pursuance of his duty—bumped off— stabbed—to his face, as you might say! Where's the sense to it?" "He—interfered—with somebody . . ." said Peter slowly. "But who? Why? How?" Kerrigan pounded his broad knee. "What is there to go in a perfectly clue- less job like this? After the heavy rain early that morn- ing, any footprints anywhere along the edge of Spuyten Duyvil would have been washed out—supposing they had been there. The tide plays tricks through that narrow channel as you know, coming both ways like it does; in from the Hudson and up from the Harlem— washing either way—back and forth. Even if we knew the exact time the body went into the water we couldn't say for certain whether it was dropped east, west, north or south of the point where it was found. If I had a map I'd show you what I mean." Peter's quick upward glance at the little mirror above the windshield caught one pale eye alertly re- gardant. An instant later they were held up by cross traffic. Wiggar leaned swiftly sidewise, plucked a folded map from the pocket on the opposite door, turned with a murmured "Pardon, Mr. Peter. Thank you, sir," and had the car in motion again as the traffic 26 DEAD END STREET officer blew his whistle. "Service, and then some," Kerrigan commented with a lifted eyebrow. "What kind of a map is this, Pete? Something special?" "Something specially good," Peter replied absently. "Couldn't get what I wanted from an ordinary road map. Let's see." Kerrigan leaned nearer. Though the car ran smoothly on it was not too easy to see the intricate network of lines and legends. "Humph. The whole Metropolitan area. Long Island, too and the Sound. . . . Hum-m-m— Say, Pete," he broke off curiously, "what are these little red dots you've put along the Connecticut shore and the north shore of Long Is- land . . . and these others up the river—as far as Poughkeepsie? What do they mean?" "Just a game Wiggar and I've been playing. Maybe I'll tell you about it some day." "A game, Pete?" Something in his friend's tone made Kerrigan look up curiously. "What kind of a game?" "Button, button, who's got the button," Peter an- swered, but there was no smile on his clever intent face. "Some day I'll find out who it was that got that button. Nearly two years ago. A case I failed on, Jake—that is, up to date I've lost out—completely." "In the bright Lexington Avenue of youth," Kerri- gan wagged an admonitory finger, "there's no such word as fail, Mr. Clancy. And I don't seem to smell it on you—as yet. Sooner or later the Mountie gets his man. You've not given up this button—whatever said ST. PETER'S CEMETERY 27 button may be." "No," said Peter, gloomily. "Any day. He can't go on forever. Some day he'll make a slip—and then . . . Let's forget it for the time being, Jake. . . ." He pushed the map over a little way. "Here's Inwood Hill Park—and Isham. Where was it that—" "Look." Kerrigan indicated with his finger. "Here's the Hudson, running north and south. Here's where Spuyten Duyvil and the Harlem do their bits to make Manhattan a right little, tight little island. Just where they break through into the Hudson we have that part of Inwood running north and south like I spoke about. In here's the wide part of Spuyten Duyvil. See? Well, just at the south-east comer, as you might say, there's a few pleasure-craft, launches and such, tied up. On the shore beyond, maybe an eighth of a mile toward the west—about in here . . . that's where a young fellow in a rowboat found poor Mike's body." "Chap's name was—Tracy—if I remember." Peter had been following Kerrigan's exposition with keen concentration. "Yes. Tom Tracy." "Does he know anything?" "Not anything at all and hardly that. A half-wit— or maybe not more than a quarter. Say a nit-wit. That's nearer. But perfectly harmless. Everybody around there knows him." "Hum-m-m?" said Peter with an upward inflec- tion. "Yes. I know." Kerrigan replied to the implication of the tone. "Any abnormal person is a natural ob- 28 DEAD END STREET ject of suspicion. But Tracy is the empty, brainless kind. Looks about as wicked as an old wax doll that's been left too long in the sun. Features kind of run together, if you know what I mean." "Graphic to the point of poetry." Peter grinned. "The head is hollow, I suppose—and the body stuffed with sawdust?" "I believe he's ablebodied enough," said Kerrigan, thoughtfully. "But honestly, Pete, I don't think it's possible there's any harm in him. I, personally, put him through a course of sprouts. Severe as I could bring myself to make it. You know, dammit, a man can't be too rough on one of these—er—naturals. Makes your stomach kind of move over and sag. Ever have the feeling?" "I know what you mean," said Peter. He was still looking down at the map. "Where does this nut of yours—'innocents' they used to be called—where does he live?" "Most anywhere, apparently. Sort of drifts around. I imagine he sleeps out in the summer time, and holes up somewhere around there for the winter. The cops in that district all know him—but he's never been in trouble. Does odd jobs now and then. Fishes and swims in the creek. Has an old boat someone lets him use. He was funny about finding—the body. Insisted poor Mike was asleep. But no good to sleep in the wa- ter, Tracy said. If you did that they rolled you around and it hurt. Guess the poor guy must have been nearly drowned some time. Even he would remember that kind of a thing." ST. PETER'S CEMETERY 29 "Sounds as if he ought to be in an institution." "Oh they say he takes care of himself and doesn't get in anybody's way. There's plenty of room up in this Inwood section for him to roam around in." "Yes," said Peter. "Queer how New York changes. Wasn't so long ago that Tracy would have been warned off a big estate if he'd picked out that part of the city. Owned by some of the best old families. Vancortlandt, Madison, Isham, Delafield—and I don't know who else. Historic names. Fine old places. Given up to the city for playgrounds and parks by the public spirited. Sold off in sections by the less—hum—altruistic. Used to be very fashionable. Just remnants of that old high and exclusive society left here and there." "When you begin to drag in the aristocracy, Pete, dammit, I always get my back up. Haven't you any- thing better on your mind?" Kerrigan glanced sharply from the corner of a somewhat bulging blue eye. "A topper from London, I hope you noticed. Wig- gar wouldn't be satisfied with anything less. He said when it came to showing respect, even if it did come on to rain, there was no sense in being a piker." "Wiggar never said piker in his life. You're just talking now for the sake of talking. If you're tired of thinking about a plain cop that's been put on the spot, say so, Pete. I know you pine for wickedness in high places, where the swell guy you turned out to be can cut a wide swath. I don't expect you to waste any time on a case like this. Mike would be flattered to death if he knew you'd gone way out to his burying place. He'd never dream of suggesting—" jo DEAD END STREET "Look here, Jake, what's biting you? Have I ever said—" "No, you haven't," Kerrigan interrupted in turn. "That's what's the trouble. Have you said, I'd like to take a hand in this game, Captain Kerrigan, with your kind permission? No! You begin to fold up your darned old map and lead away down some other alley with a lot of historical guff. Not a suggestion we might look the ground over together, or that you'd be in- terested in seeing the nit-wit for yourself." Peter did not turn his face in Kerrigan's direction, only his eyes narrowed. Slowly a twinkle came into them. "Flash, flash. An S.O.S. from Captain Kerri- gan?" he drawled. "Can I believe my ears?" "An S.O.S. or an engraved invitation if that's what you're playing for, you divil," growled Kerrigan. "Though what you or anyone else can do, I don't know. Are you really interested in trying to find out about Mike? I know you don't have to think about money any more, Pete, but I wouldn't imagine there was enough splash and excitement in a senseless mur- der like this. Every way I've turned so far it's no thoroughfare and dead end streets. Just one of those unaccountable, sporadic—" "Are you so sure that's the word?" Peter broke in swiftly. "Sporadic? Yes. It means what happens on the side like, all by itself. I can use college words when I want to as well as you." "OK, Jake. But—sporadic—separate—isolated— Mike's death? I don't know about that." ST. PETER'S CEMETERY 31 "What do you mean, Pete? What in thunder are you driving at?" For a long minute Peter did not answer. Then he said slowly, "Maybe I'm crazy, Jake. Perhaps I've thought too much along certain lines—but I can't help believing that this may prove to be an involved, intri- cate game you've asked me to sit in on . . . and that in it poor Michael Duffy might have been merely a pawn—that had to be taken—off the board." CHAPTER IV BROADWAY SUBWAY AT TWO-HUNDRED AND FIFTEENTH STREET The wind that blew into the face of Captain of Detec- tives Kerrigan as he stepped on to the platform was damp and raw, but the rain still held off. The elevated structure, that had recently been the Subway, strode off northward through the night bearing upon its echoing rails the brilliantly lighted train. The station seemed dark by contrast. Kerrigan looked about him and then at the sturdy watch upon his wrist. "Can you tell me the time, Boss?" An untidy man materialized from somewhere in the shadows and came shuffling forward. "Must be about nine, ain't it?" "Nine it is, my man," said Kerrigan grinning oddly. "You first, Alphonse." The untidy man spoke in a very low voice. "I'll catch up with you after we've crossed out of the light." Kerrigan made no response to this but turned abruptly, pushed through the turnstyle, went rapidly down into Tenth Avenue, through the short block into Broadway, crossed that and did not pause until he came to a long flight of stone steps which at that point make a short cut for foot passengers to the top of a tall cliff of naked rock. Strange, wild, threatening and incongruous it towered above the rows of little BROADWAY SUBWAY 33 street lights; remote and inaccessible except for the lonely stairway of dark quarried stone. "Take a long breath, Jake, and up we go." The untidy man drifted alongside as quietly as the evening mist. "Why the costume piece?" asked Kerrigan on a note of derision. "Did Wiggar let you out like that?" "On sufferance and with suffering." Clancy chuckled to himself as they started upward. "I always have to persuade him." "Well, maybe you see a necessity for the fancy dress," Kerrigan grunted. "I'm sure I don't. Do you imagine you're such a public character that even a nit-wit will recognize you? Or do you just like to dress up funny?" "I'm not dressed funny," Peter retorted. "You your- self thought for a minute that I was a bona fide ex- ample of what the well dressed out-of-a-jobber will wear." "Well, granted. But why?" "I don't know. A hunch," Peter said with a glance that Kerrigan could not read. "Never know what may turn up. By the way, how'd you get on with that pent- house burglary that held you up this afternoon?" "Oh, we've got that sewed up all right. Not a bur- glary but an inside job. Finger-prints all over the place. Swell-looking dame. Did her last job in Seattle. Thought she was far enough away to try the same trick again. But the bureau had her checked up in five minutes. Wish all cases were as easy as that." "If they only were," said Peter, absently. "You don't 54 DEAD END STREET take much interest in out of town jobs do you, Jake?" Kerrigan paused for breath on the second landing of the long stair and favored Peter with a disgusted glance that lost most of its effect owing to the darkness. "Out of town, says you," he growled, swinging his arm in a circle that embraced the myriad lights pricking through the mist far below on every hand. "Do you think yon's a Sunday School that behaves when the teacher's not looking? Aw, shut up, Pete. What have we got to do with— I say. Have you been out of town lately?" "Off and on. Playing around. Nothing to write home about," said Peter in a tone his friend had rarely heard. "If you've your wind back we'd better shove on. I was sorry to have to get started so late." "Oh, it's time enough I guess." Kerrigan mounted beside Peter, step for step. "I know where we'll find Tracy. Or Finkleburg will tell us. I told him to keep an eye out." "Finkleburg?" "The cop that's taken over Duffy's beat." They had reached the summit of the precipitous rocks and at a word from Peter, Kerrigan stopped again. "What's the matter?" "Nothing," Peter replied in a hushed voice, "but would you ever think you were still on Manhattan Island, Jake? Look at those big trees inside the high iron fence. In this light the old mansion over there on the edge of the cliff looks as important as ever it did. Might still be an estate in the real country." "Humph," said Kerrigan, "thank God my eyesight's BROADWAY SUBWAY 35 good enough so I can see all the apartment houses be- low there and I can still make a pretty good guess about where I am." "Yes," urged Peter, "but look, Jake, how quiet it all is up here. You might be a thousand miles from a lemon. Trees all around. Old trees with real shade." "Isn't the shade real if it comes from new trees then?" grumbled the police detective starting along down the steep slope of the hill. "It is kind of an in- teresting spot though," he admitted, glancing about as they descended. "Street's evidently been cut down right through the old grounds. See? That must have been the stable over there on the other side. Same kind of old red stone as the house." "Yes. It's a garage now," said Peter. "You know quite a bit about it, don't you?" Kerrigan glanced up into the other's face as they passed the one street light a little below the old stable. "Must have been up here before." Peter did not respond to the upward inflection of his companion's last observation. Instead he touched the arm nearest him and pointed to the lowest reach of the tall iron fence beside which they had been walk- ing and in which a narrow gate was even now open- ing. "Well? What of it?" said Kerrigan. Two women came quickly out of the gate and went rapidly down the street. Peter was near enough to hear the snap lock in the iron wicket close with a sound of finality. "Nothing," he answered Kerrigan's question. "We 36 DEAD END STREET don't want to run into or over anybody, do we?" "You're awful dam'd elaborate about this job, seems to me, Pete. What's got into you?" "I don't know," said Peter uncertainly, "but I have a feeling in my bones—" "Oh, your bones," exclaimed Kerrigan. "I've heard about your bones before. Enough to make a whole skeleton. I'll say you usually have some kind of a frame- work—not to say a frame-up—" A sharp cry from the shadows below broke across Kerrigan's sarcastic voice. Like a flash Peter Clancy had dashed past him and was racing down the last bit of the hill. Kerrigan followed with more speed than his build would indicate and was in time to see a man lurch forward and meet Peter's fist with his chin. The two women were huddled against the foundation wall of the apartments at the corner. "You aren't hurt, ma'am?" Even in the exigency of the minute Peter managed subtly to match his inflec- tion to his clothing. The man in the gutter had struggled to his knees. Kerrigan stood over him, but as the older of the two women spoke, the police detective whirled on his heel and stood staring. "No, no," she said quickly. "He must be drunk or he wouldn't have tried to—to—" "Do you know this guy?" Peter asked with a sharp look. "He's the butler up there," the younger woman said with a toss of her head toward the great house on the hill. "His rooms are over the garage. Maybe it would BROADWAY SUBWAY 37 be better if—" She hesitated and stopped. "He attacked you, Miss?" Peter's tone was very respectful. "Then he'd better have a chance to cool off in the jug—I mean the station house, Miss." "But—but I don't want to have to appear against him." The girl's voice was sharp with a quite natural apprehension. "We'll see you aren't bothered any more, Miss." Kerrigan spoke gruffly as he stooped and collared the cringing offender. His back was toward the little group and without more words he hustled the limp figure ahead of him and around the corner. Peter stood for a minute uncertain. The older woman said in a rather breathless voice, "Oh, I hope there won't be any trouble, Sally." The younger re- sponded, "No, Mother. I'm sure there won't be. I—" She turned to Peter. "We'd like to thank you and your friend. You were very prompt—and effective." "It was nothing," said Peter, almost forgetting his role. "I hope—I mean if you're afraid—I'd be glad to see you safe, ma'am, wherever you're going." "It's light the rest of the way," said the mother, hastily. "And it's only around the block." "We're not a bit afraid," the girl added. "And thank you, very very much." She was prettier even than Peter had thought. The light at the corner struck her small heart-shaped face as she turned with a farewell gesture of gratitude that was as graceful as it was expressive. After a second Peter followed, keeping them in sight. Down at the corner of the next street Kerrigan was in the act of g8 DEAD END STREET turning the drunken man over to a young policeman. Upon which, what was Peter's surprise to see Kerrigan cross the roadway with a precipitancy that brought him immediately face to face with the two women they had just saved from a possibly dangerous situa- tion. Not only that, but the police detective bared his head with a flourish as Peter came near enough to hear him say: "Mrs. Howard! And Miss Sally! Whatever in the world are you doing here? And in clothes like that! God forgive me, but I thought you were the help com- ing down from the big house up there." "Mr. Kerrigan! Why Mr. Kerrigan!" The lady took the detective's big hand in both her own. "Captain Kerrigan, Mother. Don't you remember?" "Sure, and it's no matter, Miss Sally! My, how you've grown. A young lady it is, to be sure now. And a sight for sore eyes, the both of you. How comes it you're in New York? Are you living here, by any chance?" "Yes, for nearly a year." Mrs. Howard ignored the curious glance that the detective cast on her neat blue print dress which was hardly covered by a blue water- proof cape. The girl was wearing a white rubber cape and under it a short plain black dress with white cuffs. "We have an apartment around in Two-hundred and eighteenth Street. It's very airy and comfortable," she explained with considerable haste. "Come up for a minute, Captain Kerrigan," the girl broke in with eager cordiality. "Unless"— Her head turned fleetingly in Peter's direction. "Unless you're busy detecting or something." BROADWAY SUBWAY 39 "Good lord," exclaimed Kerrigan, "if I didn't nearly forget. Hey, Pete! Come here and meet some old friends of mine. Peter Clancy. Mrs. Howard. Miss Sally Howard. You must excuse his appearance." The police detective lowered his voice to a dark whisper. "Ordi- narily he's a decent enough looking chap but he has a strong weakness for play acting." "Are you both working on a case?" Sally Howard's big eyes flashed eagerly from one face to the other. "Oh, it must be thrilling! I—" "We mustn't keep the ladies standing," said Peter in his own quietly courteous voice. "As I suggested before, let us see you safely home, ma'am." Sally laughed. "You surely fooled me, Mr. Clancy," she cried as he fell into step beside her. "I wish you'd tell me what it's all about. It couldn't be . . . No. Of course . . . Oh, I know! Mr. Clancy, is it about that poor policeman that we read of in the papers? Duffy. That was his name. Mother and I knew him. Had spoken to him. Poor man. It was—horrible!" "Don't think about it, Miss Sally." They were walk- ing quite quickly through the long block toward the north. Now they turned the corner into Two-hundred and eighteenth Street. It was not so well lighted as Seaman Avenue, and Peter slackened his pace. Almost at once Kerrigan and Mrs. Howard caught up with them. Peter heard him say in a voice he hardly knew: "D'you think I'll ever forget, Mrs. Howard, what Dr. Howard did for me that time they sent me down to Johns Hopkins thinking I was about to die? And yourself welcoming me to your beautiful home in 40 DEAD END STREET Green Spring Valley when the doctor took me there before I was well enough to get back on the job?" "He was awfully interested in you, Captain Kerri- gan, and in what you stood for." The sweet voice dropped. "You knew he was—gone?" "Yes. Read it in the papers, of course." Kerrigan cleared his throat. "But I didn't know—I mean I hadn't any idea— Oh—" Mrs. Howard had stopped beside her daughter before the entrance to a pallid eyebrow- less unit in a long block of apartments. "Is this where you live now?" he finished somewhat blankly. "Yes," Sally put in with a jolly little laugh, "and it's very nice, Captain Kerrigan. Come on up and see." "I think I must go in—just for a minute if you don't mind, Pete." The gruff voice was lowered. There was concern and uncertainty in the shrewd penetrating glance. "Not at all. I'll be delighted." Peter's bow did not comport architecturally with his habiliments. The twinkle in his eye showed his companion that he had recognized and rejected the covert suggestion that he himself was not a necessary part of the party. "It's awfully nice of you to ask us," he added, holding the door for them to pass. "How many flights?" Kerrigan tried to sound per- fectly cheerful as he took note of the fact that there was no elevator. "Only three, and they're very easy," Sally answered. "You won't mind a bit." She took Kerrigan's arm with BROADWAY SUBWAY 41 friendly confidence. "You know I remember you per- fectly," she said. "You told me the most marvellous stories. I was very young then but I have a vivid recol- lection—" "Good gracious, you're very young now," Kerrigan remonstrated. "Let me figure. You can't be over nine- teen." "Nearly twenty," Sally corrected. "A great age!" The weariness that he allowed to appear was not all pretense. Peter and Mrs. Howard had turned the corner of the next flight before he spoke again. "Tell me, my dear," he said in a low voice, "why do I find you—like this?" The finger with which he touched the white cuff of her black sleeve was blunt and rough, but his voice was gentle and deeply concerned. The girl was silent. After a second Kerrigan went on urgently: "I might have thought it was some kind of mourning for your father. . . . But your mother's dress is blue. Blue print. And her hair combed so very plain. I remember it in bright gold curls." "Sh-h-h," whispered Sally. "It's all my fault. I made her do it. I insisted—" "Sally! You have the key, dear." Mrs. Howard was bending over the railing at the last turn. She glanced sharply at her daughter as she came running up, but said nothing more. In a minute they were inside the little flat. "Doesn't it seem close in here?" Sally asked as her mother switched on the lights. "It's been shut up all day. I'll 42 DEAD END STREET open this window, Mother." "Let me," said Peter. He raised the sash and looked out. The girl was standing close beside him. "A won- derful place you found, he said. A good situation. I hope it's satisfactory." "Oh, don't," she whispered with a catch in her breath. "It must be marvellous to be a detective. How did you guess?" For a split second Peter was bewildered. Then in a flash he realized that he was looking down into the grounds of the old mansion on the cliff—but from the side opposite to the gate from which mother and daughter had recently emerged. "Place. . . . Situa- tion." He had used the words in all innocence to ex- press the airy surroundings. Now he saw a different significance. An interpretation that explained the in- congruous costumes of the ladies who were now his hostesses. A waitress—and a cook. Working in the one imposing menage still left in that section. . . . There was no longer any doubt in his mind. He kept his face turned toward the window and his voice was very gentle as he said: "I wouldn't force your confi- dence for the world, Miss Sally, but if you're as hard up as that you ought to let your friends know." "Mother would never—" The girl glanced quickly aside. "Well, I declare if she isn't spilling all the beans to Captain Kerrigan! He must have guessed— Do de- tectives know everything, Mr. Clancy? If they do, I wish—" "Sally, come here." Mrs. Howard was laughing but her eyes were bright with tears. "Tell Captain Kerri- BROADWAY SUBWAY 43 gan that we're just crazy about our new jobs. We wouldn't give them up for anything. We're so amused and excited and thrilled. You tell him, Sally. I'm afraid—in fact I'm sure he's not believing me!" CHAPTER V APARTMENT 426 "It can't be that you know Miss Milly Langham, Pete. You're only bluffing." "I'm nothing of the kind. Don't you pay any atten- tion to Captain Kerrigan's scurrilous remarks, Miss Sally. Miss Langham was over-seas with the Red Cross. That's where I met her. In Italy." "Says you!" "She was over-seas, Captain Kerrigan. Started her employment agency when the war ended. She's been very successful because she knows everybody in New York. We went to Wellesley together." Mrs. Howard made a little gesture with her open hands. "She couldn't refuse Sally—anything." "Yes. Don't you see," the girl cut in excitedly. "She had me down for a secretaryship—old lady's com- panion. Something suitable which, of course, meant dull and respectable. And mother was supposed just to sit on the side lines and cheer. Or else find another old lady to read to—somewhere else. No home for either of us that would be our own. Wasn't that a prospect to make one shiver with joyous emotion?" "Well—" Kerrigan ventured. "Not well at all, Captain Kerrigan. Excuse me. I've hit on something far more interesting," Sally rushed on. "You'll never guess what a thrilling old place that 44 APARTMENT 426 45 is out there. We were crazy about it when we first laid eyes on it, standing up there against the sky, so old and lonely and looking so—what Dad used to call 'like Godalmighty to a little black beetle.' But of course we never thought we'd see the inside, until one day— Oh, let me tell it, Mumsie. One day, Captain Kerrigan, when I went to see if Miss Milly had found me an old lady, who should be sitting in the outer office but the very old lady we'd seen several times driving in her motor down Seaman Avenue, and somebody had told us she was Mrs. Ross that lived in the old Madison mansion. You know, it belonged to her father's family. Well, when I saw her my heart went pit a pat as you may well imagine. In I rushed to Miss Milly, only to find that it was a cook and waitress Mrs. Ross was look- ing for. Of course that seemed rather to write 'finis' to my gay young hopes—but—" "You'd better tell it all, Sally, now you've started— or let me," said her mother. "There's a young boy liv- ing in the old house, Captain Kerrigan. He's about the age our boy would have been—if he'd lived. Sally and I had been watching him, I have to admit it, through our opera glasses. He seemed ill—and quite alone. I mean no young companions. He'd sit out by the old summer house behind the wall for hours together. Never stayed in the house if the weather was even mod- erately fair. But he didn't get any better. They'd bring out trays to him—and he'd send them back practically untouched. So when Sally said—" "Now look, Captain Kerrigan," the girl interrupted, with flushed face, "I'm going to tell you the whole 46 DEAD END STREET honest to goodness truth. That day I saw Mrs. Ross in the employment agency, we were down to our last thirty cents. I mean that. Literally. Well. A cook and a waitress. Mother's the best cook the angels ever taught and I'm quick and neat handed. I've put plenty of waitresses through their paces when new ones had to be broken in. I'm good at it. So why shouldn't I do it myself? The wages are one handsome hundred and twenty dollars a month for the two of us, and every- thing found. That's the right expression, isn't it? We're going to be able to save money, my good sir, as soon as we pay back what Miss Milly advanced us against our wages." "You don't sleep there, then?" Peter's eyes were bright with interest and amusement. The girl's young brave spirit appealed to him immensely. But Captain Kerrigan was obviously not enjoying himself. "How about the servants you have to mix with?" he asked angrily. "If that butler to-night was a sample—" "It's the first bit of unpleasantness we've had, really, Captain Kerrigan." Mrs. Howard spoke uncertainly. "We were quite unprepared and I don't know exactly what ought to be done about it. The man—Roger is his name—has been careless in his work, but he was al- ways respectful enough. He must have been very drunk." "What will happen if he doesn't show up in the morning?" Peter asked quietly. "Oh, he'll be discharged. Like the chauffeur. They don't hesitate." APARTMENT 426 47 "Mrs. Howard, just what servants are there in that house?" "Why, not as many as you'd think, Mr. Clancy. We were quite pleasantly surprised. They don't use any of the upper rooms as they haven't been entertaining since Mr. Ross had a stroke—and I believe they are sort of in mourning, too. Mr. Grantland Madison, Mrs. Ross' younger brother died recently, abroad. So the house is kept very quiet. Only the one floor, really, in use. I fancy they may have had to economize like everybody else. The family is small. Mr. Ross has a nurse. Arthur, the boy I spoke of, has a man servant, a valet of a sort. There has been a butler and chauffeur —and Sally and I do the rest. It really—really is not too hard." "Well, you won't have the same butler to-morrow," said Kerrigan with a truculent gleam in his eye. "We can fix that easy enough. But will you be able to man- age without one?" "They'll get another very soon. Please don't worry, Captain Kerrigan." "What about the chauffeur?" asked Peter. "He was discharged the day before yesterday. Miss Milly is trying to get them another. They're very particular." "You must be pretty smart to get by then, Miss Sally," Kerrigan remarked. His brows were drawn to- gether and his lower lip pushed up the other until his mouth resembled that of a game fish. "Oh, you should see me. I'm sweet in the part. And besides, Captain Kerrigan, I'll have to fess-up that 48 DEAD END STREET Miss Milly told Mrs. Ross that mother and I had seen better days, and asked her to make allowances. The fact that we lived so near and that mother didn't drink, I believe had some weight." Sally grinned impishly. "Oh, dammit," said Kerrigan under his breath. "I don't like this business at all. It must be a lot of peo- ple for you to be doing the cooking for, Mrs. Howard!" "No, no. Really," she remonstrated. "You mustn't think of it, Captain Kerrigan. There's only the family." "And the servants. And what about company?" Ker- rigan grumbled. "Mr. Ross' doctor is almost the only person who ever stays to dinner. Now look here, Captain Kerrigan." Mrs. Howard leaned forward and laid her hand on the arm of the police detective. "Sally and I are managing all right with this. We're simply using it to tide over. Milly Langham will find something more suitable I'm sure before very long. And in the meantime we're not only making a good living, but I do think we are do- ing something for that poor boy." "Mother means she is," said Sally somewhat hastily. "At least he eats more, John says, than he has since he came." Peter had remained beside the window but had lost no part of the conversation. "John is the young man's valet?" he asked, and added without apparent rele- vance, "He doesn't take care of the grounds?" "Why, no. Of course not." "Was that part of the chauffeur's work?" APARTMENT 426 49 "No. The outside work, what there is of it, is done by an old Italian who comes in by the day." "The chauffeur sleeps in the garage?" "Yes. And the butler." "Curse him," Kerrigan muttered. "At any rate this one won't be sleeping there any more. I can promise you that. We'll fix him. That's easy. But what'll the next one be like? That's the question. How can we tell—" "Jake." Peter turned from the window. Kerrigan looked up to see a face squared by determination. "If Miss Langham remembers me as well as I do her there'll be no trouble about the Ross family's new butler." "Pete!" exclaimed Kerrigan. "What are you think- ing of? No mere amateur could—" "He won't be an amateur, Jake." Peter was grin- ning. "I promise you a professional of the purest ray serene. His name is—Wiggar." "Wiggar! For goodness sake! How will you ever get along without him? And how can you get him to sepa- rate himself from—" "I won't," said Peter coolly. "I'm going to be the chauffeur." "You're positively crazy, Pete!" "Oh, Mr. Clancy, we couldn't let you—" "My dear Mrs. Howard—" Peter crossed the little room and seated himself beside her. "I'd like to make character by pretending that I'm simply a knight er- rant, but such I must confess is not the crystal truth. It gives me great happiness to think that Wiggar and I APARTMENT 426 51 in her small, white face. "You said 'an answer to prayer.' And you couldn't possibly have known—" "Why, Sally, what's come over you?" There was wonder and distress in her mother's voice. "I never saw you look like this." "Oh, Mother, I didn't want to say anything. But— but— Oh, Mr. Clancy—what I thought—what I've been wishing—was almost like a prayer. And now you said—" "Yes, Miss Sally?" The enjoyment vanished wholly from Peter's inner consciousness. The glance that held the girl's eyes was steady and compelling. "What is it that you want to tell me?" "Mr. Clancy, there's something wrong with that house." "Wrong? In what way?" "I—I can't tell you—exactly." "But, Sally. That's absurd, darling." "The kitchen's all right. But the rest of the house—" "It's old and creaky, Miss Sally." Peter smiled reas- suringly. "Easy to imagine all sorts of romantic excit- ing things about it." "Of course," agreed Mrs. Howard. "And I've been making up stories. Just for fun. Sally, honey, I had no idea the queer old place was getting on your nerves." "Can you tell us anything definite, Miss Sally?" asked Kerrigan, the practical. "I think Arthur Madison ought to get well quicker." "Oh-h?" The police detective's eyebrows went slowly up his lined forehead. "Not suggesting your mother's putting poison in his pudding?" 58 DEAD END STREET "How old is this boy, Mrs. Howard?" asked Peter. "Just under twenty-one I understand." Sally flushed. "Yes, and he's very good looking," she said defiantly. "And I'd talk more with him if I had half a chance. So there. But I can't risk being out of character. I've only been able to speak to him a few times. And the last—only to-day—I hurried up and took his lunch out to him myself. And I said, "What's the matter with you, Mr. Arthur?' And he just stared at me—so queerly—and said, 'I wish to God I knew.' Then John came out and—and I couldn't say anything more." Captain Kerrigan smiled indulgently. "I'm afraid you've read too many novels," he said. "They've put romantic notions into your pretty head." "It isn't that. Oh, Mr. Clancy, you'll see. I'm sure you will if you— You won't go back on what you said about applying for the chauffeur's place?" Sally jumped up hurriedly and went over to Peter, who was again at the window. "No, Miss Sally," he said gravely. "I'll try my best to be your answer to prayer." High against the faintly suffused sky loomed the old Madison mansion, dark except for a row of tall win- dows on the ground floor, and as Peter looked these, too, went black. CHAPTER VI THE STREET WITH NO NAME "Are you going through with this, Pete?" "But of course. Why not?" "How can you get Wiggar to—" "He'll look like a wooden Indian when I tell him, but his heart will be dancing for joy." "I don't believe it." "Well, nobody's insisting that you have that much sense, but I do assure you we'll put on a show, Jake, that will be the kitten's step-ins." "Well, of course I'm glad enough on account of that crazy girl—" "And her very lovely mother," Peter added. "The both of them," said Kerrigan with a wave of his strong blunt hand. "If it hadn't been for Doctor Howard, some other guy would be pushing the shoes of an incompetent chief of detectives along the pave- ment beside you. You can take it from me. And I'll feel a whole lot better, on general principles, to have a couple of men servants there that at least won't be laying, for the ladies in a dark street. But, seriously, Pete, you don't take any stock in what Miss Sally said. About the house—being queer, you know." "She's imaginative and romantic, and very much interested in that Madison boy. You saw that, Jake." "Sure. I guess that accounts for her feelings. Her 53 54 DEAD END STREET mother wasn't worried." "That was obvious." They had come to the corner. Peter stopped and looked back. Across the street a new tall apartment house completely blotted out the hill behind it. From that point not even the roofs of the great house on the crest were visible. It might have ceased to exist, for all he could see, and the whole incongruous structure have remained only as a prod- uct of a too fervid imagination. Kerrigan touched his arm and pointed. A little farther along was a playground on made-land. It was deserted at this time of night and only faintly lighted from the street. The young policeman they had al- ready seen was coming toward them along the pave- ment. He saluted smartly when he recognized Captain Kerrigan. "The fella you turned over to me was too drunk or something to tell us his name," he reported, "but he's like to remember it in the morning, sir." "Yes, Finkleburg. Thanks. I'll attend to it. Now show us where we can find Tom Tracy. By the way, this is Mr. Clancy, a friend of mine, and he's like to be doing considerable private work in this vicinity from now on. You get me? I want you should take a good look at him, Finkleburg. His face, not his rig-out. He's a kind of an amateur chameleon for changing his skin. I don't want him interfered with. You tell the other lads." * "Right, sir." Finkleburg took Peter's outstretched hand with an eagerness extremely flattering. "Most of us have heard of you, Mr. Clancy. I'm proud to know THE STREET WITH NO NAME 55 you, sir." Kerrigan sniffed. "That's what it does to play to the grand stand, Pete. Looks like you had these young fellows buffaloed. Don't let 'em down—or me either. See? Now where's Tracy, Finkleburg?" "I'll show you where he sleeps mostly during the summer. This way." The patrolman motioned with his nightstick and led the way down a narrow curved street. The sidewalk was of smoothly laid concrete but the roadway was roughly paved and all about was the smell of marsh grass and mud. "West Two-hundred and fourteenth and fifteenth must come in together here," remarked Kerrigan glancing about. "I don't think I ever noticed that be- fore. What do you call this bit that runs along by the marsh?" "I don't believe it has a name, Captain." The young officer dropped his voice. It was very quiet along there, lonely, and dark. "All the houses face the cross streets so I guess it never needed to be called nothing." "That would be a good name for it though," said Peter half aloud. "Nothing Street. It looks the part." "Sure," Finkleburg agreed admiringly. "That's right, Mr. Clancy. It would be a darned good name. And this fella Tracy might almost be called the same. Yes, sir. You'll see." He raised his voice a little. "Hey! Tom!" There was no answer. Only an eerie echo. "For the love of Mike what kind of a place is this?" Kerrigan's flashlight was in his hand. The round ray flitted swiftly along a heavy stone wall perhaps twenty 56 DEAD END STREET feet in height. There were openings as if for windows, and at the bottom a tall dark rectangle that had once been a door. The top line of the masonry was broken and irregular. Another wall could be dimly seen run- ning north and south. There was no roof. "He couldn't live here," said Peter. "Oh, in the summer there'd be worse places, and it's not been cold much yet," the young policeman commented easily. "He's fixed himself up a little shel- ter in there. Hey, Tom!" Kerrigan moved nearer and sent the beam of his flashlight through the dark doorway. Instantly there was a scuttling sound. Something black slid across the silver ray and was gone. Finkleburg jumped, but recovered himself on the instant. "Tom!" he called out sharply. "Hey, you, Tom. There's a coupla nice gentlemen wants to see you. Wake up!" He went close to the dark opening. "The poor devil's in there all right, Captain," he said in a low voice. "I'm certain. Tom!" Kerrigan pushed him aside and thrust his torch through the opening. In his other hand was an auto- matic but he did not make of it a vain display. Re- vealed in the moving flash of light was the interior of what had once been a warehouse or some such build- ing, gutted now down to the broken stone walls, and everywhere open to the sky. Out of this one spacious chamber others led. The corners of the taller walls could be seen above the low broken jagged rifts. An irregular block of ruins old and crumbling like the wreckage from some monstrous tide. THE STREET WITH NO NAME 57 "I told you he was there," Finkleburg whispered. "You'll get more out of him, Captain, if you go easy." "I know," growled Kerrigan. "I've talked to him before." Peter, in the shadows, gazed at the figure that was uncoiling itself from a mass of straw under a rude shelter of plank, canvas and bits of corrugated tin. The man's attire was as motley as his summer villa. He crawled out slowly, muttering to himself. But when his face met the light there seemed to be nothing sinister in it—nothing but the vacuum that nature so justly abhors. Kerrigan's description of it had been decidedly to the point. The features were small with a kind of queer prettiness, but blurred by the absence of intelligence. His large oval eyes blinked as they met the light. "You remember me, don't you, Tom?" said Kerri- gan in a gruff but kindly tone. "Oh, yes. Tom remembers everybody," the poor creature answered readily. "Him. And him. And him." He pointed a long finger at each in turn. "But you never seen this gentleman before," Finkle- burg interjected with his hand on Clancy's arm. "Only in dreams you know." Tracy leaned forward and spoke just above a whisper. "When I'm asleep, they come. All around. Mostly they're nice and kind— like this one" (pointing), "and this one and this one. Kind gents all. But sometimes it's dark. All dark and wet. And I pull him out. And he don't move. He's asleep too. See? Asleep in the water. I don't sleep in the water. My bed's nice and dry. Hounslow gives me the 58 DEAD END STREET straw. You know Hounslow? He's a good guy. Yes, Mister. What you call a swell fella. Lets me sleep with the horses if it's wet and cold. Do you know horses?" He turned sharply to Peter and gazed close into his face. Peter thought oddly enough of the eyes on the mummy cases in the Museum—pointed oval—and blank. He nodded, gently reassuring. "Do you know the brown horse with the white star right here?" Tracy touched the root of his nose with his finger. His eyes, following it, became crossed. "He can talk—just like a man." He withdrew his finger and his glance was straight again. "He told me—what was it he told me? I—I can't remember now. But it was important. Very important. You know, don't you?" He seemed fascinated by Peter's steady eyes. "You know everything." "You see he's a perfect idiot." Kerrigan turned aside to whisper the sarcastic comment in Peter's ear. "Come on; why don't you ask him some questions." "Tom." Peter ignored Kerrigan and spoke very gently. "Tom," he repeated, quietly insistent, "do you ever wake up—and walk around—down here—in the night?" "No, no. I sleep," Tracy answered hurriedly. "I dream. But I don't wake up. No, no. It's a dream. All a dream." "What is?" Peter's voice was quiet, calm, impera- tive. "The stars are in the water when they are not in the sky. See? That's what's funny. But it's only a dream. And I don't do any harm, Mister. You wouldn't—" THE STREET WITH NO NAME 59 The poor being turned hastily to the man in uniform— "You wouldn't let them send me to that place where there's no sky in the summer. You know there's no harm in poor Tom. The other—" He patted Finkle- burg's blue sleeve—"he was kind. He let me stay. . . . And he had more gold. More gold than you. One," He touched the stripe that marked the shortness of the young policeman's service. "But he had more and more. Gold. That's nice. Gold. I know. But he was asleep. And the gold was wet. Wet. I couldn't wake him up. I tried. But I couldn't. And he was always kind to me." "Well," said Kerrigan clearing his throat roughly, "do you want any more, Pete?" "No," the red-headed detective answered slowly. "No. I guess that's enough—for now." "For now?" Peter did not reply. He took the unfortunate man's nerveless hand and was surprised to find it callous and the muscles strongly developed. "Would you do some work for me some day, Tom?" he asked on impulse. "Sure," listlessly accommodating. "I work good. Chop wood. Clean cellar. Anything you say." "All right," said Peter, patting the ragged shoul- der. "I'll be seeing you." "Thanks, Mister. Sure." "Well, what do you think?" asked Kerrigan as they turned away. "'And ever more came out at the same door,'" Peter murmured, in answer. There being no door, Finkleburg looked puzzled. THE STREET WITH NO NAME 61 "I don't know of any, but I haven't been on this beat so long, you know." Finkleburg sounded apolo- getic. "Oh, it's all right," said Peter. "You've been here nights since poor Duffy—went?" "Yes, sir. I was put right on." "Don't see many rough characters?" "Why no, Mr. Clancy. It's very quiet. No excite- ment at all. But then, I can't complain." Peter smiled. "You hoped for a few thrills?" "Well, enough to keep me from sleeping on my feet you know." The young policeman grinned. They had come into Seaman Avenue. Beyond the playground the sudden heights of Isham Park leaned against the sky toward the south. The tall old forest that crowned it was still in full leaf. A few far spaced lights pricked painfully through the darkness. "We could go around that way into the park—along the shore and through Inwood—to the place where Duffy was found, couldn't we?" Peter motioned with a sweep of the arm. "On foot you could. Yes, sir. It's a dead end for automobiles, though, and it would be a bit of a walk —and dark." "Now, look here, Pete, if you want to do a hike at this time of night, you'll do it alone," growled Kerri- gan. "What would you be able to see, for goodness sake?" "Nothing, for goodness sake," Peter retorted. "I'm just getting my bearings, and then I'm on my way home. I want a good night's beauty sleep because I've 62 DEAD END STREET a fine line of persuading to do in the morning. Thanks a lot, Finkleburg. Good night." "Good night, sir. Good night, Captain Kerrigan." The young officer saluted and went, clop, clop, briskly along Seaman Avenue. Peter glanced back once more down the dark curve of the street that had no name. . . . Their call must have definitely broken the rest of Tom Tracy for Peter was sure he saw the man's vacant face, like a pale lantern hanging in the shadows above the outer marshy margin of the half desolate roadway. CHAPTER VII THE SUMMER HOUSE "Your coat, sir. It's much too cold for you to be out here without it." "Oh, I say—" Arthur Madison had jumped to his feet letting his book fall to the ground. He looked a good deal confused as he took the coat from the hand of the pretty housemaid. "You shouldn't have troubled. Where's John?" "His afternoon out, sir." Sally looked at him de- murely. "Oh, yes. I forgot. Thank you. You're very kind. It was good of you to notice—" "My mother sent me. She saw that the wind was coming up from the east. It's treacherous this time of year." "You said—your mother?" "She's the cook, you know." Sally's voice was all that a nice young housemaid's should be. "She takes an interest in her work, Mr. Arthur. She hopes the food is to your satisfaction." "Yes, yes. Amazingly good. I'm getting quite an appetite. So the person that sends me out all those delicious lunches—is your mother?" "Why yes. You didn't know?" "I don't think anybody mentioned it. I—" The young man's manner was strangely hesitant. "I wonder 63 64 DEAD END STREET if you can tell me. I feel—so confused—sometimes. But I've seen you before—somewhere—haven't I?" "But of course. I've been employed here nearly two weeks. Perhaps you'd hardly notice—" "Oh, but I did. When you first came. And I've been puzzling about it ever since. I—" he laughed a little. The white strain showed less in his worn young face. "I meant—before that. I seem to know you. Absurd, maybe you'll think." Sally was not going to help him. If he had taken the trouble to use opera glasses he would have been able to identify the girl who used occasionally to show herself somewhat openly in that apartment window up there. She would not even look in that direction. In- stead she kept her eyes meekly downcast for about a second, then the frankness of her nature triumphed and she lifted them to meet the tired blue ones fixed upon her. "Perhaps you've seen someone who looked like me," she said, smiling, "in your travels. You've travelled a great deal, haven't you?" "Yes, but—" He shook his head. "I don't think it's that. . . . And another thing, Miss—" He waited ob- viously for a name. "Oh, no. Just Sally, please." There was a quick note almost of alarm in her voice. "I'm—I'm just a house- maid, you know." "It's a little difficult to remember," he said, glancing down at her hands and then, with a flicker of the eye, at her small arched feet. "You see I've been in the East so long—" THE SUMMER HOUSE 65 "Yes, yes. That's it," she put in hastily. "You just aren't used to American servants. We're—oh, quite different, Mr. Arthur. We mean no harm, but we take more interest in our—in our jobs, you know." "Was it interest in your job, as you call it, that prompted your inquiry yesterday?" There was some- thing very like amusement in his eyes. "You mean—I suppose you'd hardly understand, but it seemed quite natural to ask what it is that— well, you know,—if mother or I could only help you to get well!" Sally's lovely little face was flushed. Her eyes were filled with kindness and concern. "I had a brother. He would have been about your age. It makes it seem—" "Your brother died." The boy's face grew sud- denly strange. "Perhaps he was lucky. . . . I'm sorry," he added, conscious of her recoil. "That was brutal. Will you forgive me?" He sank into a low wicker chair and covered his face with his thin fingers. "Of course." Sally hesitated. "It wouldn't help you to—to talk to someone? I mean—" Without removing his hands, he shook his head. "I can't," he muttered. "Perhaps it's only—I had a bad fever. Doctor Browning says I'll be better—soon." "Doctor Browning should know. He has a fine repu- » tation." Sally bit her lip, reminding herself that the opinion of a housemaid could hardly be considered authoritative. Apparently Arthur did not notice the slip. "He's all right I guess—only—he can't know—everything." "You mean—" 66 DEAD END STREET His eyes flashed on her suddenly and she was shocked at the wildness of their expression. "I can't tell him. I won't believe—I mean there's nothing to tell. I'm just a little feverish now and then. I'm really better. You don't think—" "Excuse me, Mr. Arthur, sir." Sally jumped. She was sure the valet had said he was going out for the afternoon, but here he most certainly was and looking at her with considerable sharpness. There had been no sound of his approach across the thick old turf. "Excuse me, sir," repeated John Postlethwait, "but here's your aunt's compliments and she wants you to come along for a drive. There's a new chauffeur been hired and she and Mr. Ross want you should come out with them and get some air." "The change will do you good, sir," Sally managed to say in a very housemaidish manner. Her heart had suddenly given a big thump. A new chauffeur. Al- ready! What if Mr. Clancy had been too late? The thought lent wings to her feet as, once out of sight, she sped through the kitchen to the front wing of the basement, the windows of which gave on the turning space before the house. Herself concealed by the thin curtains, the scene lay clear before her, as if she were in the front row of the pit. Drawn up before the entrance was a handsome dark green limousine. The chauffeur was at the wheel and try as she would Sally could not see his face. Presently the house door opened and Mrs. Ross started down the flight of shallow steps. Instantly the new chauffeur THE SUMMER HOUSE 67 sprang out, went around the car and offered the elderly lady his arm in the most approved style. Sally had a swift glimpse of well-cut livery and—her heart bounded —a flash of red under the smart peaked cap. When he had settled Mrs. Ross in her place the new chauffeur 'turned again. This time there was no question in the little housemaid's excited mind. Schooled though it was to utter servantish blankness the face was the face of Mr. Peter Clancy. Fascinated, Sally remained with her eyes glued to an openwork strip in the curtain. Mr. Ross shuffled out, the wreck of a once powerful man, leaning heavily upon a stick. His nurse followed bearing rugs and pillows. Arthur Madison came last. For the minute he looked quite eager and interested. When they were all gone the front steps seemed to Sally strangely blank and empty. Only the nurse was there in her becoming white uniform. In a minute she, too, had disappeared, and Sally went back to her work. Peter's powers of persuasion had been effective in all directions. He had reason to congratulate himself as he drove away from the wide high porte-cochere. Not many could have put through what he had that day. Oddly enough the greatest difficulty had been about his uniform. The Ross chauffeurs were required to furnish their own and Wiggar definitely balked on Mr. Peter's wearing a second-hand suit of anything. The argument had been hot, and amusing only to Peter. Wiggar had remained white but determined. It was not until he learned that the uniform was com- ing from a costumer's and had been thoroughly cleaned that he unbent sufficiently to admit that a chauffeur 68 DEAD END STREET with a brand new livery would not be as completely convincing as with one that showed some marks of service. From then on Wiggar called it a costume, as applied to Mr. Peter, and was gracious enough to be pleased with the fit of it as well as the cut. Miss Milly Langham owed more than he would ever be likely to mention to Peter Clancy and he had little difficulty in securing her cooperation. Her confi- dence in Peter's powers was unbounded and one look at Wiggar was enough. "I could place a dozen like him any day in the week," she confided to Peter. "If you ever want to get rid of him— No. I see you leave me no hope. Well, then, Mr. Clancy, you might write out his recommendation." "Oh, no," said Peter. "He has British titles hang- ing at his belt. As for my humble self, I levied on the McLeods in Gracie Place. They're sufficiently well known and were good enough to say that I'd served 'em faithful, and they'd recommend me for any posi- tion for which I applied. I promise we'll give proper notice, Miss Langham, when we leave. We won't let you down. You can trust me." "I know." She did not tell him with how much more she would have trusted him than he had ever asked. . . . Armed with her credentials and their own, Peter and Wiggar, separately, presented themselves to Mrs. Ross and were immediately accepted. As they rolled along Riverside Drive, Henrietta Ross was even now congratulating herself that her servant troubles were over, perhaps for a long time. It had been a nuisance to have to change, but, as Leon said, Ellen THE SUMMER HOUSE 69 and Jackson were really too old to work satisfactorily and were glad to be settled down with their nice little pension near the old place in Huntington. With Saunders married and he and his wife in charge out there it left nothing to worry about so far as the country house was concerned. Leon was very par- ticular. More so, as was natural, recently, since his affliction. But even he was satisfied with the new ac- quisitions. A butler who had served in the family of the late Lord Deeping! It was a pity they couldn't enter- tain this winter. But best, of course, in the circum- stances. Had Mrs. Ross been able to see into her own home at that minute perhaps she would have had reason for further self-congratulation. Certainly the new butler, William, was taking his duties in thorough earnest. After having familiarized himself with the para- phernalia of the dining room, he proceeded, with a step as noiseless as that of a butterfly upon a flower, to acquaint himself with the rest of the menage for the correctness of which his would be the ultimate re- sponsibility. The drawing-room, decorated in the 'nineties and apparently unchanged since, was in good order. Wig- gar automatically plumped up a pillow and emptied an ash tray. The entrance hall was of imposing size but the dark walnut stairway and the heavy moldings of the paneled walls seemed to make the gloomy silence visible. He crossed it quickly and entered a formal reception room all gilding and puffy pink. There were a great many mirrors and two elaborate 70 DEAD END STREET crystal chandeliers. After the hall, even though the rose brocade curtains were nearly closed, the effect was somewhat dazzling. Wiggar raised the eyebrows of William the butler, shrugged his shoulders slightly and proceeded on his dutiful reconnaisance. A narrow passage beside the great staircase led to the northeast wing, occupied, as Wiggar had pre- viously learned, by Mr. Arthur Madison. The door to a sort of study stood open and he glanced within. It was well lighted by tall windows and had an oddly youthful though old-fashioned appearance. The tro- phies on the wall, the pictures and the furniture might have belonged to a boy of more than a quarter century before. Everything was neat and well cared for though somewhat faded and worn. The bedroom which opened out of it was of the same vintage and in much the same case except that one or two articles of the young man's wearing apparel had been left on a chair. The new butler's eyebrows went up still more. He started to correct the egregious oversight and then sharply desisted. I must speak to his valet at the first opportunity, I suppose, thought Wiggar, uncomforta- bly. Just how far Mr. Peter would wish him to carry his role he was not certain. If they were to be there for a few days only it seemed perhaps unnecessary to under- take the valet's reform, and yet from a professional standpoint the matter was serious. After a second Wiggar decided to let it ride for the moment and to be guided by circumstances. He straightened the shades at the two bedroom windows, glancing out at the ex- THE SUMMER HOUSE 71 panse of sky and down at the roofs that stretched at varying levels to the dim eastern horizon. It interested him to try to identify from that aerie various points in the great city with which he was already familiar and he may have been there longer than he was aware. It was at least many minutes before he resumed his some- what perfunctory professional observations. He had emerged from the passage, rounded the great staircase, and was about to proceed to like duties in the south wing when, he became aware of sharp voices in the narrow hall beyond the dining room. Distaste for any sort of quarrel was enough in itself to make Wiggar swiftly side-step into the inviting entrance at his elbow, and his wish to be previously informed at all points possible, caused him to remain within earshot. "What are you coming in here for, John?" Wiggar had no difficulty in recognizing the rather stickily sweet voice of Miss Fresno, turned somewhat acid though it was. Miss Florence Fresno, as could readily be guessed on account of a strong family re- semblance, was a young relative of Mrs. Ross. It seemed that she had taken training and was now acting as Mr. Ross' nurse. As a rule she kept herself to her- self, but when occasion demanded, made the difference of position very clear to the servants, as Miss Sally had mentioned to Mr. Peter. "Can't I see to things around the house if I'm will- ing to, Miss Fresno? I thought the windows might be open and it looks like we might have rain. Didn't I see you go out just now?" That was the valet's voice and Wiggar thought he 72 DEAD END STREET sounded nervous. "I forgot my glasses." She was obviously annoyed as a forgetful person often is. "I thought I'd go to see a picture. . . . Isn't this your afternoon out?" she added sharply. "Meaning we might go together, Miss?" John chuck- led. "It's nice of you to think of it but—" "Impertinence," said Miss Fresno with indignation. "You have no business in this part of the house. You'd better go back where you belong." "That's all right too," said Postlethwait, "but you come buttin* into our quarters—" "If you kept them properly tidied up I wouldn't have to," said Miss Fresno scornfully. "Mr. Arthur's clothes haven't been hung up." "So you've been in there again. I wish you'd let me tend to my own business." "If you would I'd be the better pleased. You watch your step, John. If Mr. Arthur had a little more sense of what's good for him, he'd have had a different valet long before this." "And who knows what's good for him?" Postlethwait retorted roughly. "Does the doctor? Do you? Can't you see he's not as well as what he was a month ago? Well, why don't somebody do something about it? That's what I'm asking." "Oh, that's what you're asking, is it?" said the nurse coolly. "You may be interested to know that's what we're all asking. Doctor Browning thinks he's being preyed upon—" "Preyed? How's that?" THE SUMMER HOUSE 73 "That he's under a bad influence, John. Is that plainer? I'm not suggesting anything in particular. We're all in the dark—so far. But we are all deeply attached to that boy, and we mean to save him in spite of himself. Is that clear?" John Postlethwait went off muttering. . . . In retailing the conversation, word for word to Mr. Peter that night in the seclusion of their quarters at the garage, Wiggar appeared much downcast. "It's a great responsibility, sir," he said. "Difficult enough to act as if I didn't know that Mrs. Howard and her daughter are ladies born, and to remember to call you—er—Peters—sir, but if I'm to have dissensions to contend with as well—" "Sh-h-h," said Peter. "If I'm not mistaken there's one of the dissenters. Unfortunate that John sleeps over the garage, too. It cramps our style somewhat. On the other hand . . ." Wiggar was used to his master's unfortunate habit of breaking off in the middle of a sentence, but this time he found it particularly irksome. "On the other hand, sir?" he prompted after a minute. "She wore a glove," Peter finished enigmatically and lapsed into absolute silence. CHAPTER VIII THE ROOMS OVER THE GARAGE That first night of their incumbency, Peter did not risk so much as a gesture that was out of character. As a matter of fact he thoroughly enjoyed this bit of play- acting with Wiggar as an appreciative and John Postle- thwait as an unconscious audience. He took pains to be the genial, happy-go-lucky chauffeur, wise in the matter of parking and traffic laws and the games by which slight infringements could be "put past" the police. Postlethwait soon began bragging in his turn and incidentally mentioning that he had saved young Mr. Madison from drowning, as it were with one hand, Peter was before long in possession of that story—up to a point. About it and about the various noted Broad- way actors he had valeted John saw fit to observe a certain reticence in spots. The one serious mistake of his life seemed to have been connected with "a mail- order proposition," in which he had "held the bag," and though he did not elaborate details, it was obvious that the memory of this experience still rankled in his confiding and unsuspicious nature. He did speak of having drifted out to Hollywood but forgot to tell of the master who had "died on him" in China. Certain colloquialisms, certain phrases that he used caused Peter to prick up his experienced ears, but he gave no 74 THE ROOMS OVER THE GARAGE 75 outward sign. The situation in its broad as well as its restricted sense was interesting him more and more. Was Sally Howard right after all in her romantic fancy? Was there really something "wrong" with the old Madison mansion, and was the somewhat equivocal valet some- how responsible. I'll have to check up on him, Peter thought, frown- ing to himself. It would be a nuisance to have to com- plicate issues but he knew he could not let Sally How- ard down in a matter that was so obviously near her heart—if there was anything he could do about it. "Well," he said at length, yawning and stretching as he sprawled in his chair, "I guess I'll be turning in." Wiggar arose as if on springs. It had caused him con- siderable discomfort to remain seated in Mr. Peter's presence and acute annoyance that John the valet should be doing likewise. The latter got up reluc- tantly. The chauffeur was a regular guy and it was good to have another wise one to wisecrack with. The Britisher was awful dumb, a pain in the neck, with his la-di-da manners, but he didn't count. John said, "Oky-doke, Peters. See you in the morn- ing," and went off to his room at the far end of the little upper hall. Presently a knock sounded on his door and the chauffeur's voice called out: "Have you got a glass, John? Don't seem to be any in my room and I'm thirsty as a bear." Wiggar started. Surely he had seen a glass in the little medicine closet over Mr. Peter's washstand when THE ROOMS OVER THE GARAGE 77 sible—" It took Peter a long time to get to sleep that night. It was not that the room and the bed were narrow, the one stuffy and the other not too well stuffed. He could accommodate himself to physical discomforts with the ease of an old campaigner, but every time his mind sought to shut off connection with his temporal brain there would flash up a disturbing glimpse of two eyes in an oblong strip of mirror. The eyes were large, of a peculiar candid blue. The small glass that reflected them was the one by which he had observed the rear- ward traffic through that long afternoon drive. It so happened that Arthur Madison sat where every now and then the mirror above the windshield reflected small horizontal sections of his pale face, and Peter found himself watching it with ever increasing intent- ness. At first it was interested, bright and lively as so young a face surely should be. A stranger, the boy was obviously asking questions about the contrasting sec- tions through which they passed, but it was not until they were some way down Riverside Drive that Peter was able to hear any part of the conversation. Here Mrs. Ross fussily insisted on a different arrangement of the windows. There was too much draft if any of the rear windows were open and too little air if they as well as the glass that separated the chauffeur's seat from the body of the car were closed. Peter had to draw off to the curb, stop, and make the necessary compro- mise which left his left hand window open and the glass behind him dropped. Mr. Ross was not too 78 DEAD END STREET pleased with the arrangement. His pale long face showed some annoyance and he grumbled at the stuffi- ness, but his wife was one of those gentle, stubborn creatures to whom it is far easier to yield in matters of small moment. It was a little after this that Peter heard the conver- sation that was to interfere with his sleep. It seemed in- nocent and without, so far as he could see, any special significance. Yet he could remember practically every word. Mrs. Ross said: "You look so little like your dear father, Arthur, I'd hardly believe you were his son if I didn't know." "But I understood you to say, Henrietta, that he was the image of—" Mr. Ross stopped abruptly. "I beg your pardon, dear. I didn't mean to bring that up." "Who am I the image of?" Arthur asked quickly. "Oh, I'm sorry." Ross' voice was troubled. "It's—it's nothing," said his wife, and added after a second in a firmer tone: "You look like your uncle Walter, my dear. Your father's twin. He—died—many years ago." "Oh!" exclaimed Arthur, "so that's who it is!" "Who what is?" Mr. Ross asked somewhat sharply. "The photograph I found in the desk in my room. I wondered. I guess you're right, Aunt Henrietta. It might have been a picture of me except for the funny clothes. The one my father had must have been taken when they were much younger." "Did your father never tell you about him?" Some- thing in Ross' voice made Peter glance aside so that he THE ROOMS OVER THE GARAGE 79 had a swift glimpse of the speaker's face. It was grave and disturbed. "Only that he—met with an accident and died—be- fore I was born." It was then that the blue eyes in the little mirror began to trouble Peter. "What sort of an accident was it, Uncle Leon?" "He swallowed some poison thinking it was cough medicine," Ross answered briefly and with evident re- luctance. "Your aunt has scarcely gotten over the tragedy of it after all these years. We won't talk about it any more, Henrietta." Mrs. Ross was obviously touched by his considera- tion. Perhaps he was not always careful of the feelings of his plain elderly wife. Even his affliction had left him a remarkably handsome man in an odd, almost equine way. A spirited horse that had been laid by the heels might resent his position with something the same bitterness. But he was patient with some of his wife's foibles. That was evident. The conversation dropped at that point and was not continued later. So what? Peter thought in the terms of his day. What was there in this mention of an uncle—dead for twenty years and more—to cause that haunting change in the eyes of Arthur Madison? . . . To be told you're like someone . . . who died . . . accidentally? Was that it? Was there a fear in the boy's mind—of fatality? It seemed bizarre—and yet . . . He was afraid . . . Afraid of something. Of course, for the moment, he was physically unfit. But youth . . . This way and that, this way and that. Peter tried to fix his own mind on more important matters—to no 8o DEAD END STREET effect. At last he resorted to the one thing that had never yet failed to bring quiet and eventually—sleep. It still remained to him from the time when his dream of what life might be had ended, leaving a long trail of white nights. He stretched his long frame and clos- ing his eyes repeated— "Where the quiet colored end of evening smiles, miles and miles o'er the solitary pastures where the sheep, half asleep, tinkle homeward—through—the twi- light—stray or stop—as they crop. . . . Was the site once . . . the site . . . once . . ." He did not wake until it was broad day and Wiggar's faithful hand was on his shoulder. CHAPTER IX THE OLD MADISON MANSION That first morning was an interesting experience for Peter. The awakening of a large establishment, seen as it were from the underside, he found distinctly enter- taining. To watch Wiggar in this setting was in itself as good as a play. The subtle nuances of conduct would have been impossible to any but a pastmaster. The def- erence he showed Peter and the Howard ladies when no one else was near, in contrast to his almost regal aspect before John the valet and his austere perfection when in the presence of his new employers, was a matter of marvel and admiration. Wiggar in his turn was proud of Mr. Peter as a pupil. Correct in conduct both below and above stairs. Very satisfactory. The butler was present when the new chauffeur took his morning instruction of errands to be done, and found little to criticize in his manner. Of course one regretted the red hair. Chauffeurs, ac- cording to Wiggar's severe taste, should be black, brown or possibly yellow. White suggested age and a certain lack of speed-consciousness. Red, while con- sidered by many to be of good omen for a bell-boy, had little to recommend it in other forms of service, though Wiggar had to concede that these aesthetic conven- tions were perhaps important only to the elect. The Madison-Ross family was all very well in its way, but 81 88 DEAD END STREET no doubt of the sort to be quite content with red. Peter was delighted to find that his first duties were to be undertaken without company. He was to leave a list at the grocers, have the car in order for Mrs. Ross' afternoon drive and so forth. Plenty of opportunity for a short but important private errand of his own. A public booth 'phone call to Kerrigan and to his own office and a small newspaper package deposited at the nearest precinct station made no perceptible inroad on his time. He paid for having the car serviced at an inconspicuous garage in Tenth Avenue and was back at the great house on the cliff as soon as anyone could reasonably have expected him. According to instructions he left the car standing at the side entrance and descended to the basement to wait for further orders. He found Mrs. Howard and Sally in the huge kitchen busily at work preparing vegetables. Sally, with an air of excitement called him to her. "Have you seen Arthur Madison this morning?" she whispered hurriedly. "He looks dreadfully," she con- tinued as Peter shook his head. "I'm sure something— oh, what's that?" It was Wiggar who, appearing suddenly at the foot of the service stairs, so far forgot himself as to beckon eagerly. In two strides Peter was with him. "What's up, William? You want me?" "If you could give me a hand putting some things on the top shelf of the pantry," the butler's manner be- came at once quite cool and correct, "I should be obliged." THE OLD MADISON MANSION 83 "Charmed I'm sure." Peter could not forbear say- ing it but his voice was very low. In a minute he found himself in the butler's pantry the door of which, in obedience to Wiggar's signal, he pushed open a frac- tion of an inch. Beyond it a screen shut out the view of the dining room but it was evident that the room was occupied and by several persons. Wiggar had already opened the door of the tall china-closet above the sink and had several pieces of table furniture in readiness for Peter's hand should occasion arise; they were, therefore able to eavesdrop at their ease. Towel in hand Wiggar listened at a small but discreet distance. "Mr. Arthur can have nothing to do with this mat- ter in the circumstances." Mr. Ross' voice was both angry and severe. It sounded as if he were seated at the head of the dining room table, which indeed was the case. Standing before him was John Postlethwait, red and almost speechless with fury. "It's a plant I tell you, Mister," he cried, shaking his fist. "What'd I be doing with blank checks? That ain't my—I mean how'd I pass 'em, eh? You got to be good to forge checks and pass 'em! I wouldn't be such a sap as to try it! Besides it's dishonest, sir, and I'm an honest man. Nobody's going to take my character away and not pay—" "If I don't have you arrested," interrupted Mr. Ross with considerable force, "it's only because I don't wish to be mixed up in an unpleasant affair, and also on account of my unfortunate physical condition, which makes it pretty fortunate for you. The evidence 84 DEAD END STREET is perfectly clear. Three blank checks missing from the back of young Mr. Madison's check book—and three blank checks on his bank found concealed in the lin- ing of your service coat. How would you explain that— to a judge?" Postlethwait wiped his forehead. "Would I be such a sap as to hide the checks in a coat I was leaving in the house?" he asked bitterly. "Do I look like that kind of a nut?" "On the principle that the darkest place is directly under the candle, your action seems quite understand- able." The master's voice had lost some of its heat. "Mr. Arthur doesn't want you prosecuted and that alone would be enough for his aunt and me." "Oh, yes, Leon. Don't let's have any trouble." Mrs. Ross spoke for the first time. "Get me my smelling salts, Florence, please, or else ring for Sarah. I'm really be- ing made quite ill over this unfortunate matter. Poor Arthur. To have one's life saved by a forger, or at any rate one who was planning to be a criminal! Dear, dear. No wonder the poor boy's all upset." "Are you telling me?" Postlethwait exclaimed darkly. "Upset and then some, he sure is, and not for the first time. What makes him like he is, I ask you? All jittery over nothing and getting worse and worse?" "He's had one of those bad Eastern fevers." Mrs. Ross spoke anxiously. "Dr. Browning thought he was better, and now you've made him worse, John. It's too bad of you, it really is. I don't know how much money you thought you'd get on those checks, but if you'd asked Mr. Arthur, I'm sure he'd have given you any- THE OLD MADISON MANSION 85 thing in reason. He was grateful—and trusted you so!" "That's just it. That's just it," cried Postlethwait with a fervor that should have been convincing. "That kid likes me—" "Kid!" moaned Mrs. Ross. "Oh, you know he really shouldn't be allowed! This is too much!" "It's a great deal too much," said the master of the house with intense severity. "You may consider your- self very lucky that I let you off like this." "Oh, I may!" said Postlethwait truculently. "Lucky, by grab! Is that what you call it? Why that was a—" "Silence," thundered Ross, half rising in his place. "We've had enough—and more than enough of your dishonesty and impertinence. Another word from you, and I'll send for the police!" Postlethwait tried to make some reply to this threat but his voice stuck in his throat. He looked like a dahlia after a heavy frost, but he managed to retreat if not in good order yet breathing threatenings and slaughter. As he went through the butler's pantry he favored Peter and Wiggar with a sour look of suspi- cion. Peter was equal to the occasion. Ignoring the man's expression he took the despondent object con- fidentially by the arm and led him down into the base- ment hall before he spoke. "Did you get the sack, John?" Peter was terribly sympathetic. "It's too darned bad, just when you and me and William was all getting on so friendly. Gosh, I'm sorry. Where you going now?" "What's it to you?" Peter started back with a hurt look. "Oh, nothing, 86 DEAD END STREET if you feel that way about it. I only thought—" "Well, come across. What did you think?" "That kid's fond of you. He'll wish he knew where to find you or I miss my guess. But you could write to him of course." "And maybe he'd get it." The ex-valet's tone was sarcastic. "Besides, I ain't so good at writing. D'you really think that kid'll ever want to see me again?" Peter was thinking fast but he did not hesitate. "If I know anything about people's insides, that boy's not going to forget what you done for him." "You believe that, do you? Say, Peters, I guess you're maybe on the up and up. If I slip you the word when I get located will you kinda see Mr. Arthur don't for- get?" "You betcha," said Peters with considerable fervor and John Postlethwait was quite sure his new pal was sorry to let him go. And in a way he was right. Peter had no intention of letting the little man slip through his fingers. There was, however, a certain conflict in his emotions. With John gone from the garage rooms, that which Peter proposed to himself in the way of nightly entertain- ment would be simpler to accomplish unobserved and unsung. Also early that evening in consequence of John's dismissal, another matter developed that was in turn to have consequences beyond Peter's wildest dreams. It was in the beginning perfectly simple, natural and logical. That Wiggar should be asked, pro tem, to take over John's very unexacting duties was, in the face THE OLD MADISON MANSION 87 of his superlative fitness, a foregone conclusion. Sally's eager hope that so it would eventuate was flattering to say the least and the emotional content of the kitchen bubbled over into song when, just before din- ner, Wiggar majestically accepted from Mr. Ross this extension of his sway, and came almost too quickly for dignity down into the basement to make the announce- ment to the master of his permanent choice. "With that awful person out of the house, and you to take care of him, Wi—William," cried Sally glee- fully, "we'll make Arthur Madison get well. Oh, it's so nice. Couldn't be better, could it, Mumsie? Aren't we a happy family down here, Mr.—I beg your pardon, Peters? Personally, I think it a marvellous lark and I'm willing to enlist for the duration of the war. How about you?" "Do you include my own private war, Miss Sally? That may last longer than you think," Peter replied soberly. "It hasn't really begun yet—and I may have to shift my line of battle—at any minute. Or I may want to stay here—for a long time. The task I've set myself isn't as simple as looking out for one sickly boy, you see. I mean so far as anyone but a doctor can look out for him. He's not physically in good condition. You realize that, don't you?" Sally shook her head with an obstinacy that was far from repellent. "I know. But it's something more, P—Peters. There's a malign influence—oh, goodness, I know that sounds like the pulpiest of the pulp maga- zines, but I can't help it. I feel it—here," she put her hand on her breast, "kind of in my stomach or some- 88 DEAD END STREET thing. I mean all over inside. It sounds silly, but I'm not an idiot. I'm really not, Peters." He smiled at her. His eyes were very thoughtful. "John Postlethwait is, I believe, a person not to be trusted with untold gold, but as for being a malign in- fluence—" He lifted a quizzical eyebrow—"I really can't see him in the part." "But at least he's not the sort of person Arthur Madi- son should have as a—well, someone—almost the only one—to talk to," Sally countered with spirit. "Now with your clever William at the bat, we'll be able to—" A sharp signal from the alert and calmly efficient Wiggar brushed the sentence off her red lips. Mrs. Ross was coming down the service stairs. She was very gra- cious to Mrs. Howard about the mushrooms sous cloche that were being prepared according to previous explicit directions. The little lady of the house was dressed for dinner and so hung about with jewels that she looked like a Fourth of July sparkler—especially so because though the diamonds were all apparently of the first water, they were not important in size but only in number. When she was safely gone Peter remarked upon it. "She keeps them in a little safe in her room," Sally informed him with an impolite grin, "in case you want to know. They're all presents from her husband. She told me so. He must care deeply for her." "I once knew a man," Peter remarked absently, "who bought his wife a piece of china every time he got drunk. When he died, every room in the house was full. A pretty story, don't you think?" THE OLD MADISON MANSION 89 "Fifteen minutes to go until serving time," Wiggar announced with the air of a royal seneschal. "If I may suggest—" It was a delicious dinner, beautifully served. Sally enjoyed her part hugely. As a director and stage man- ager, Wiggar, she felt, could make a fortune. Doctor Browning was there, and Arthur Madison was well enough, it seemed, to come to the table. Miss Florence Fresno, since she was in fact a sort of member of the family, had doffed her severe white uniform and ap- peared in a very beautiful and becoming evening frock. Though Sally did not like the older girl she had to admit her good looks, for the nurse's resemblance to her distant and very handsome young kinsman was quite striking as she leaned toward him with flatter- ing attention. Sally remarked to herself inwardly: "For a person of her age she's much too kittenish, and it wouldn't hurt my feelings a bit if William spilled a little iced champagne down her back. If I jogged his elbow he could hardly miss it. An expanse like that would require no aim at all and that svelt depression in the middle, that she's undoubtedly proud of, would act as a neat trough to carry it—" Fortunately at this minute her attention was completely deflected. Hav- ing been otherwise occupied she did not hear Doctor Browning's remark. It was Arthur's response that brought her thoughts to a sudden sharp focus, not so much by its matter as by the tense insistence of his manner and the fact that he had scarcely spoken be- fore. "Then you knew my father when he was a boy, go DEAD END STREET Doctor Browning?" "Why, yes, Arthur." The old doctor beamed ex- pansively. "We were all children together. I used to play here when your grandfather, Mr. Ethan Madison, owned all of this hill and right down to Spuyten Duyvil Creek. Henrietta and I used to trespass on the Isham property that bounded it over toward the south. Do you remember, Henrietta, that day we went fishing and the Isham gardener brought us home in a pony cart? And how you begged your father for a pony?" "The boys were so much younger but they had ponies. Father would never give me one. Dear, dear, how long ago it seems. I—" "Excuse me, Aunt Henrietta, if I interrupt you." Arthur glanced at his elderly relative and then leaned forward to fix his gaze on Doctor Browning across the table. "If you knew all the family, sir," he said some- what breathlessly, "you must have known—my Uncle Walter." "Arthur!" Mr. Ross spoke sharply, with a quick anxious look at his wife. "You did know my Uncle Walter, my father's twin brother, Doctor Browning?" the boy insisted. His face was pale and his eyes demanded an answer. "Why—" the genial old doctor looked uncomfort- ably from his host at one end of the table to his hostess at the other. "Why, yes, Arthur. Of course Hen- rietta and I were older, but I knew the boys well, when they were little." "Not afterward? Not when—" "When they were grown?" the doctor put in quickly. gs DEAD END STREET shield his youthful feminine acolyte. Something in his attitude brought Sally sharply to herself. Fortunately the intensity of her interest in the strange bit of drama that was being enacted had rendered her small face en- tirely expressionless. She was able, now, at a word from Wiggar, to begin to change the plates with some degree of composure. Scarcely had the two ladies disappeared when Ar- thur, resuming his seat, faced Mr. Ross with an air of nervous determination. "I'm very sorry, Uncle Leon," he said. "I wouldn't hurt my aunt's feelings if it could be avoided, but there are certain things I simply must know." "I gave you a hint in the car yesterday," said Mr. Ross sternly. "You should know better than to bring up the same subject again before your aunt." "I said I was sorry. It shall not happen again I prom- ise, if you'll tell me the truth, Uncle Leon." The boy's hands were clenched on the edge of the table. "Finish your dinner first. And don't get so upset, my boy," said the good doctor, helping himself to a very delicious pudding. "You know we of the medical profession, Leon, are coming to the conclusion that environment plays a much larger part than heredity in shaping one's—character and that sort of thing. No matter what—er— Ah— You were going to say some- thing?" He glanced rather nervously at his host. "It was I who wanted to ask a question, Doctor Browning." Arthur was holding himself in hand with a visible effort. "And I mean to have an answer. Par- THE OLD MADISON MANSION 93 don me, Uncle Leon, but a straight answer. I look like my father's twin brother. Yes. I do, don't I? Don't I, Doctor Browning?" "He was so young when I last saw him—" The old physician shook his head anxiously. "But he lived to be about my age. That's right, isn't it, Uncle? The photograph I found—in the old table in my room—he must have been nearly twenty when that was taken." "I never knew him," said Mr. Ross bending his head sadly. "But I believe he was only a little older when he—died." "Accidental poisoning they said it was, Doctor Browning." Arthur spoke through level white lips. "You must know something about that." "Er—yes. That is—" Having finished serving that course, the butler, un- obtrusive almost to the point of invisibility, collected his fellow ministrant with a well-nigh imperceptible movement of eye and hand, and they both vanished from view. "I'm afraid he must be told, George," said Mr. Ross unhappily. Sally's ear was glued to a crack that the ubiquitous chauffeur, Peters, was still carefully maintaining in the pantry door. The butler, ready to serve coffee, re- mained close at hand. "Well—of course—there's nothing to it really." Doc- tor Browning tapped his spoon on the edge of his plate. "It's only that Henrietta can't bear to have it 94 DEAD END STREET mentioned. Must have been a bad time for the family. But so long ago. And no one was ever sure—were they, Leon?" "Sure of what?" Arthur's eyes were more urgent even than his strained young voice. "Now, now, you mustn't take it this way, my boy," said the old doctor in his best soothing, bedside man- ner. "After all, there's positively no reason for you to be disturbed. There's not a thing in the world the mat- ter with you but a sort of hang-over we might call it, from that fever you had before you came. As soon as you are properly acclimated you'll shake that off and be as right as rain. Just relax. Stop worrying. Go to bed early—" "Oh, my God," groaned the boy, "why can't you say it in so many words? Do you think I'm a fool? I know you mean to be kind but it's worse than if you said it right out. Why can't you? Why can't you, now that Aunt Henrietta isn't here?" "Arthur! My poor boy!" Leon Ross dashed the one thick lock of white hair back from his forehead. "Don't take it so hard. There's nothing to worry you. We've only been troubled about your not recovering from the fever more quickly." "No, no. You can't say that," cried Arthur, trem- bling. "You watch me. I've seen it. You're all kind but you watch me. And I've found out why. You can't hide it any longer. My Uncle Walter didn't take the poison accidentally. Did he? I ask you, sir. Did he?" "It was never—proved," said Leon Ross, heavily. "The Coroner agreed that it was accidental. So it CHAPTER X in Arthur's bedroom "You're feeling better now, my boy?" William, answering a distracted bell, had hastily summoned Peters to help carry Mr. Arthur to his room. Doctor Browning had followed, fussily con- cerned, and was bending over the bed. "Oh, yes. I'm all right. All right now." Arthur tried to sit up but the doctor remonstrated. "No. No. Stay where you are. Be quiet for a little. You must relax, Arthur. Just relax." The boy's face was white. "I'd rather get up," he persisted. "I don't want to lie here. I'm all right now. I'll go back and get some coffee. That will brace me up better than anything else." "On the contrary, you're to stay right here, take a bromide, quiet down and go to sleep. Doctor's orders," said the good physician, smiling. He drew up a chair close to the bed and taking the patient's hand put his fingers on the wrist. "A bromide," he repeated half aloud. "Where's the boy's valet? He will know—" "Can I be of service, sir?" Wiggar stepped a pace nearer. "Mr. Arthur's valet left this morning and I am taking his place for the moment." "Ah. Yes. Well, see if there are any bromides left in that little wall cabinet over by the fireplace. Yes. That's it. They'd be in a box—a lot of very small bot- 96 IN ARTHUR S BEDROOM 97 ties. Yes. That's the sort of box. Bring it here. . . . Hum-ra m. Empty. Well, we must get some more. Who can take this prescription and have it filled?" After laying Arthur upon the bed, Peter had unos- tentatiously drifted back into the shadows, but he had seen fit to retire no farther and had taken up a position near a bureau that stood against the wall that separated the boy's sitting-room and bedroom. On the wall opposite, a tall mirror reflected the greater part of the room and in it Peter could watch the boy upon the bed without being himself observed. Within the last half hour his interest had grown almost to the pro- portion of Sally Howard's. Now he stepped quickly forward. "I waited in case, sir," said Peter stretching out his hand. He was of course still in livery and felt that his action required no further explanation. "Oh. Very good," said the doctor handing him the slip of paper on which he had been writing. "Be as quick as you can. I'll sit here quietly with you, Arthur, until he gets back." "Thank you. You're very kind, Doctor Browning." There was sincere gratitude in the young voice. Peter remarked it as he went quickly from the room. Mr. Ross in his wheeled chair, was waiting in the great hall. "How is he, Peters?" "Much better, sir. Doctor Browning wished me to get this prescription filled. That's right, I suppose? Thank you, sir." Not overly intelligent but able to do as he was told; that was the expression on Peter's face. 98 DEAD END STREET As he went on through the dining room, he heard Mrs. Ross' door close and hasty light footsteps in the passage that led from the south wing. Looking back when he reached the screen at the pantry door he saw Miss Fresno go to Mr. Ross by the entrance in the hall and lean upon the back of his chair. Almost immedi- ately she pushed it forward in the direction of the drawing-room and they passed beyond the range of Peter's vision. Sally threw herself upon him as he reached the bot- tom of the basement stairs. "There now! Did you see? What did I tell you, Peter? Isn't there something terrible happening? Oh, how is he?" She was scarcely articulate. "He's doing nicely, Mrs. Howard. Don't let this child go on so." Peter took both the girl's hands and turned her gently about. "I have to dash, Sally. He sure does need a bromide—and sleep. Sleep. I've an idea that may be one of his greatest troubles. The doc- tor's prescription." He showed it. "I'll be back in no time and hardly that. Steady, now, comrade." He put her in her mother's arms and went hastily from the house. Though his mind was in a flux of question and sur- mise, Peter's action was prompt and definite. Already the geography of this terrain was like a photograph on his brain. He knew that the nearest drugstore of reli- able appearance was at the corner of Broadway and Two-hundred and fourteenth Street. To reach it one must either go down the drive to the main entrance, down the long hill to Seaman Avenue and around the IN ARTHUR S BEDROOM 99 intervening blocks, or else go up the hill a little way to a small gate that was approached by a path leading from the rear basement door south through the grounds near the edge of the cliff. Through this exit one could get to the top of a street that had lately been cut through to that point. The rocky eminence on which the house stood slanted steeply toward the south as well as toward the west. By going down this newly finished street the distance traversed would be cut to less than half; no small consideration in the acting- chauffeur's then state of mind. Without an instant's hesitation, therefore, he chose this route. Only to find, much to his disgust that the small gate, furnished with a spring lock, was easy to open from the inside but once closed could only be reopened with a key. This daunted him for the merest fraction of an instant. Above his head a huge old oak stretched its branches. By jumping he was able to tear off a big handful of the strong stiff leaves. These he wedged tightly in the jaws of the nearly-closed gate and went hurriedly on his way. The grade had been cut down a good deal and the upper end of the new street was almost like an un- roofed tunnel. Old trees lined the top of the rocks on either hand. There was a sidewalk on one side only and both this and the narrow roadway were pretty dark, but Peter sure of his footing at least, sped on. Presently he came out of the cut and could see below him the street lights and the new apartment houses down at the corner. On his left a narrow belt of ragged trees and bushes slanted toward the top of the cliff. lOO DEAD END STREET On his right was quite a space of rocky land that had not yet been taken for building purposes. It sloped steeply down to a curved row of apartment houses the line of which was broken at one point by a little old left-over house, like a broken tooth in a new set, Peter thought as he passed onward to his goal. The name over the door was Spectre. An ominous one for a chemist perhaps, but there was no other drugstore in sight and Peter warned himself not to get fanciful. Besides magazines, a lending library, telephone booths and an icecream counter, the shop boasted in large letters a prescription department. This Peter lo- cated without serious difficulty and resisting the temp- tation to make personal 'phone calls in so exposed a situation, he amused himself with a golf game at a table in the corner, carefully losing ten pennies in as many minutes. At the end of which time he received the medicine, paid for it with money that Mr. Ross had given him, and returned at full speed the way he had come, not slowing perceptibly, even for the steepness of the grade until he reached the small wicket gate. This, to his surprise and dismay, he found tightly fastened. The fence as well as the gate were of up- right pointed iron bars, defiantly impregnable. A great sense of haste was upon him and Peter did not stop at the minute to reason why this odd thing should have occurred though he automatically pigeonholed it for future reference. The main gate he knew was open. He could see the light above it and wasted no time in reaching it. It was only a short distance from there, up IN ARTHUR'S BEDROOM 101 the drive, to the front basement entrance. "Good gracious, how could you go and get back so quickly?" Sally looked up startled by his entrance. "Occult powers, my good girl," Peter whispered. "Everything quiet above?" "I just went up to set up the card table for Mrs. Ross and to get her a handkerchief," said Sally, making a little face. "They are all serene now, at least. I slipped along the passage to the north wing to see if I could hear how Arthur was, but the doctor was still there so I didn't show myself." "Quite right. Don't take chances. See you later." Peter went quickly up the stairs at the other end of the basement passageway and came out, as he knew he would, into the entrance hall on the north side of the great staircase. He could hear voices in the drawing- room, the door to which was hidden by the curve of the carved balustrade. Making no noise Peter turned down the short passage at his right and came almost immediately into Arthur's study—or sitting-room—it had somewhat the aspect of both. Wiggar was watching for him. It was amazing that so expressionless a face should be able to convey any sort of information, but Peter knew at a glance that a complete statu quo had been maintained in his ab- sence. The valet stretched out his hand to take the medicine but Peter shook his head. "Let me," he said with his lips only, and crossed to the bed-room door. Doctor Browning was speaking. His well-trained voice was soothing, not to say soporific, but Arthur was terribly wide awake. Desperately wide awake, log DEAD END STREET Peter thought as, removing his smart military cap, he entered the room. "What! Back so soon?" The physician was evidently surprised, and appeared as evidently pleased. "Well, well. Where'd you get this? Spectre's Drugstore? You must have taken a car." Peter did not think it necessary to contradict this. He had gone quite close to hand the medicine to the doctor. "I hope it's all right, sir," he said. "Yes. Yes. Spectre's reliable. It'll be all right." Arthur said: "Thank you very much, Peters. It was kind of you to hurry." "Oh, it was nothing." Peter's smile at its best was rather like a flash of sunlight. "I hope you're feeling much better, sir." "Yes, yes," said the doctor, preparing the medicine. "But you must get your clothes off now, Arthur, take this, and go to sleep." "All right. I'll try," said the boy wanly. "May I help you, sir?" Wiggar came forward with the queer effect of not even displacing air. "Yes. Get him to bed," said Doctor Browning. "I really must run along, Arthur. I want to see how Hen- rietta is. I promised to play a hand of vingt-et-un with her to-night and if she's up to it she won't let me off, you know, my boy. A wonderful woman, your Aunt Henrietta. You'll be very happy back here, once you shake off that fever. Oh, and you'll do that. Yes. Quite right. You haven't the slightest reason to fear—er— No. No. I promise you'll be fit again soon. Very soon. I'll pop in and look you over to-morrow. Good night, IN ARTHUR S BEDROOM 103 my boy and pleasant dreams." "Pleasant dreams," the boy echoed as the doctor left the room. "Pleasant dreams." He leaped suddenly from the bed and went over to the tall mirror. There he stood, close in front of it for a minute, gazing straightly at his own image. It was a curious action. Peter, moving quietly toward the door caught a reflection of the boy's reflection and of the boy himself in the mirror that hung over the bureau where he had been standing earlier in the evening. The straight back in its well cut dinner clothes suggested youth, freedom, gaiety. But the face that regarded itself so intently was like a mask, devoid of movement—almost devoid of expression. Only the eyes burned, deep in their sockets. At any cost Peter meant to preserve his assumed character, but something in the frozen expression of the young face and a strange feeling that crept along his own spine as he looked, held him rooted to the spot. A horrid eerie sense of being watched—by some- thing inimical—took possession of his fancy to such an extent that he almost involuntarily set his features in an expression of well-meaning dullness. With an ef- fort he threw off this queer impression and started toward the door, but upon reaching it he allowed him- self to turn back. "Could I do anything more for you, Mr. Arthur?" he asked in a voice nicely balanced between sympa- thetic cheerfulness and respect. "William and me, we'd be very glad if we could be of any use." "Press that button by your hand if you will." Arthur 104 DEAD END STREET did not turn his head. "All the light there is," he added half aloud as the chandelier in the ceiling flashed out brilliantly. It was in the center of the ceil- ing directly opposite the great mirror and the effect was quite dazzling, but he did not flinch. After a minute, however, he seemed to realize that there were others present, and turned toward the door with an oddly suspicious glance. Peter had stooped quickly and was picking up some- thing that lay in a seam of the thick old carpet. He glanced back and held it out with an open, friendly smile difficult if not imposible to withstand. "Seems to be a little package of gum, sir. Hasn't been opened. What shall I—" "It was John's. Must have been John that dropped it." All at once Arthur's face became more animated and more—reasonable—was the word Peter used to himself. "I wonder if—" The deep blue eyes sought Peter's suddenly. "You didn't see much of John. No. Of course not. Nor William either. You'd hardly have had time to form an opinion. . . . But it would be on the level. I mean he might be more open with—with associates—than with—someone who was paying him a salary. You see what I mean?" Peter did see—much more than was expressed in words, and his heart warmed toward a young fellow who could take the dismissal for provocation of a man like Postlethwait, so seriously. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Peter imitated Wiggar's intonation and manner though he did not attempt the British accent which he knew was not in keeping with IN ARTHUR'S BEDROOM 105 his own more volatile makeup. "You mean do me and William think John was a crook. That it, sir? He come and told us why he was discharged." "Well," Arthur prompted with spirit. "What do you think, you and William?" He turned quickly and fixed Wiggar with haunting eyes. "What's your opin- ion, William?" "I believe, if you'll excuse me, sir, that you'll with- draw the question. On mature consideration. Quite so, sir. You wouldn't wish to put Peters and me in a difficulty and one man's opinion of another is only a man's opinion and may be quite erroneous. I can't say I'm a judge of what might or might not be a man's —what one might call criminal tendencies, but I will say that in some professional matters, John left some- thing to be desired. I must say that, sir. Your closet is not in the condition that one could view without pain, and your bureau drawers—" Wiggar conveyed the impression that words failed him. Peter scarcely wondered for the speech, coming from Wiggar, was of amazing length. Young Madison eyed his new valet with sudden sharpness, then he turned to the chauffeur. "And you, Peters," he said. "Do you feel it necessary to be equally non-committal?" Peter, smiling, shrugged his shoulders. "I think John has a good heart, sir. And I'm sure he's all for you." "But as to his honesty—" Arthur insisted. "Well," Peter began argumentatively, "what one chap thinks is honest and what another does ain't al- ways the same thing, sir, you know. A financier would 106 DEAD END STREET swindle you out of a million bucks and never turn a hair, but you could leave all your loose change on the bureau and he wouldn't touch a penny. See what I mean?" Peter's quick ear had caught the sound of a light footstep coming along the passage. For a second he was afraid that Sally's interest and curiosity had proved too much for her. Then he heard the soft swish of silk and an instant later Miss Fresno came into the dimly lighted sitting-room. Peter was still talking. "But I think, sir, that Willam's right about John not being so hot when it comes to his regular work and maybe it's best anyhow— Oh. I beg your pardon, Miss." "Doctor Browning wants you to quiet right down and go to sleep, Arthur." Miss Fresno's manner was nicely compounded of nursely authority and social grace. "I was to tell you so. Help him quickly, William. Oh, is that the new dressing gown? My dear! isn't it lovely?" "It is stunning," Arthur agreed as Wiggar relieved him of his dinner jacket. "Uncle Leon objected to my old one and we picked this out together when I or- dered those clothes at Eppling's last week. He pre- sented me with it, too. Awfully decent of him." "But don't put it on, Arthur, my dear," said Miss Florence quickly. "No, really. Doctor's orders. You must turn in before the bromide wears off. There's a good boy. I'm going. You see that he gets in as quickly as possible, William." "Yes, Miss." IN ARTHUR S BEDROOM 107 "And—oh, Peters—" The chauffeur had hesitated at the door for a minute and was even now turning away when the sweet voice stopped him. He stood rather stupidly at attention waiting for her to go on. "Mr. Ross wishes to speak to you in the drawing- room." "Now, Miss?" "I believe so. Yes." "Thank you, Miss." He stood aside for her to pass and followed at a respectful distance. The doctor and Mrs. Ross were seated at cards in one end of the drawing-room. Mr. Ross had left his wheel-chair and was half reclining on a couch at the other end. He lowered his paper as Florence Fresno came into the room. "Ah. Yes, yes. There you are," he said when he per- ceived the chauffeur. "Come here, Peters. Just some- thing we didn't attend to last night. I'd like you to go over the grounds before you leave and see that all the gates are locked at about eleven o'clock." "You mean I should go over the grounds now, sir. And lock the gates at eleven." This, with a quite obvi- ous attempt to be alert and capable. "No. No," said Ross shortly. "What use would there be in going over the grounds until you were ready to lock the gates." "Oh, I see. That's right, sir. At eleven I go over the grounds and lock the gates." "That's it." "Uh— Excuse me, sir. You said—gates?" 108 DEAD END STREET "I said gates." Ross repeated tartly. "There's a small one at the top and another at the bottom of the hill. They're very little used and this neighborhood has changed so that we keep them locked all the time. You'll just see that they're all right. The gates of the driveway you'll close after Doctor Browning goes. His chauffeur's coming for him about eleven. You under- stand now?" "Oh, yes, sir." Peter spoke hesitantly. He felt he was giving a very creditable performance and regretted that his audience must be kept from appreciating the fact. "Well, then, what's the matter?" "Beg pardon. You see, sir, the grounds is more ex- tensive than what I've been used to, sir. Being mostly apartments like Mr. McLeod's. Maybe you wouldn't mind letting me have a trouble light or something—" "A trouble light? You mean a flashlight?" Mr. Ross was looking at this ablebodied chauffeur with a hint of contempt in his manner. "You're not afraid, Peters, I hope." "Oh, no, sir," Peter remonstrated with suspicious haste. "Only it's dark under the trees and bushes and then there's that there dropping off place as you might say. If a guy was to topple off there it would be just too bad!" "It's fenced," said Ross with a short laugh. "You'll be safe enough. If you're afraid take William with you. I can't furnish you with a flashlight to-night. I'll see what I can do to-morrow. Remind me when we're out in the car." IN ARTHURS BEDROOM 109 As Peter made his way along the cross hall that led to the kitchen stairs he heard his employer laughing with Miss Fresno at the new chauffeur's lack of cour- age. As applause for a gratuitous entre act, it sounded sweet in Peter's ears. He wished, however, that he could feel himself a little more deserving of the con- fidence he saw in Sally Howard's lovely eyes when he found her watching for him in the kitchen. During the evening it had become obvious to Peter that the girl's concern for and interest in Arthur Mad- ison were prompted by something more than roman- tic, youthful fancy. The girl had character as well as beauty and charm. In spite of the neatness with which she played the housemaid role, Peter at least was aware that the boy was beginning to see in her some- thing of more than ordinary appeal. If Miss Fresno's sharp eyes saw it too, Sally's position in the house might be seriously jeopardized. This would not suit Peter's plans at all. He wanted time. Time to unravel the snarl that he had been working at off and on for nearly two years. If he could take the curious prob- lem that seemed to be developing in this house—if he could do that in his stride—well and good. If not— He spent an hour or more in the kitchen that night, counseling and explaining in low tones to his anxious listeners. At length Mrs. Howard thought they ought to go and Wiggar went with them. Peter remained there alone absorbed in his own thoughts. And grad- ually the quest that had seemed so important for so long a time receded from the foreground of his con- sciousness. In its place there came to him a picture of IN ARTHUR'S BEDROOM 111 which part of the grounds to investigate first, he heard the bolt slide home on the basement door. Miss Fresno was certainly of use in that household—in more ways than one, Peter thought, and then was a little disgusted at himself. Just because she had an unusually beautiful figure and a young and hand- some face was no reason to imagine—well, hell. Why shouldn't a cripple look kindly on his nurse. A rela- tive, too. At least a connection of the wife. The plain, elderly wife. . . . No one loitering in the bushes on the front lawn. No one on either side of the wall that, pierced with a gate, cut off that cloistered portion where the sum- mer house stood. There was a light burning in one of the apartments within view. On the fourth floor. Peter could imagine little Sally leaning in the window to watch the lonely boy. The light went out. They must have gone to bed—and Peter's day was only just beginning. No one in the bushes along the cliff. The fence was there but it was old and not too strong. The house, being based upon the edge of the almost perpendic- ular rocks left no room to pass and Peter was obliged to circle the building before he came again upon the path he had traversed earlier in the evening. He knew very well that the gate was shut (confound it), but it being part of his duty and not much out of the way he went to it and was about to give it a per- functory shove—when he saw that it was slightly open —and wedged with what appeared to be his own wad of oak leaves. CHAPTER XI THE UPPER GATE No accident this at any rate The small keen ray of a pocket flashlight not much bigger than a fountain pen flickered for an instant on the crushed bunch of leaves as Peter stooped to examine the spot. Rough shallow steps in the slanting rock had been hewn out to meet the lowered grade in the street. The footpath ended here, and above the lowest step the gate was set. There was no possible chance of footprints at this point nor for some way back on the path, for the native rock was on the surface. Nothing for Peter to fix his mind on but a few broken leaves jammed in the corner of the step. A bit staggering. Peter's thoughts shot back. He could not possibly have been mistaken when he came up the hill on the jump from Spectre's drugstore. This gate had been locked—as firmly as now when, remov- ing the clogging leaves, he quietly pushed it shut and tried it. Yes. Just like that. . . . Though there had been little time to think, the obvious inference was that some patrolman, knowing that the Rosses always kept these gates fastened, had found this one ajar and had closed it. . . . Fair enough. But it couldn't have been opened again without a key except from the inside. So. . . . Someone had taken advantage of the gate being unfastened . . . had noted how it had been fixed to stay slightly IIS THE UPPER GATE 113 ajar . . . had come inside . . . had secured his rear by letting the gate lock itself. . . . Then what? Not so easy that. A prowl around the grounds? Probably. For what purpose? The improbable pos- sibilities were so numerous that Peter passed that question. Then? The same person had returned to this point and restored the same—or a similar wad of leaves to the original position. Crouched in the dark shelter of the sunken step Peter let his tiny light play again upon the leaves. If these were not the same, there was at least one clue to the kind of person involved. It was too early in the autumn for the oak leaves to begin to fall. Only a person of agility and approximately his own height could reach the lowest branches. But after an instant he shook his head. These leaves had received severe treatment—and there were no others lying about. . . . Peter had gone just now about the grounds with practical thoroughness and not much more noise than a cat. That and the propped open wicket seemed suf- ficient evidence that the prowler had taken himself off. Whether the position the gate had been left in was merely an instinct to leave things as he found them, or whether the intruder had it in mind to re- turn later, did not seriously matter for the minute, Peter thought grimly, as he slipped through the tree shadows down to the main gate and passing out se- cured it carefully behind him. A key, he told himself, would now be the only practical means of getting into the old Madison grounds, and so far as he knew, only Mrs. Howard had been allowed such a key. 114 DEAD END STREET As he crossed over to the garage he glanced up to the head of the street. The dead end of it, where the stone steps came up from Broadway, showed a narrow gap between the trees against the sky. The long slant toward him was in shadow, but he took enough time in letting himself into the small door of the garage to be sure there was no sign of a human being there- abouts. Even as he opened the door he was startled to hear a telephone bell ringing stridently in the hall above. He took the steep narrow stairs two at a time, but Wiggar was before him. "Yes, Miss. Thank you. Yes. He's coming in now. You wish to speak with him?" Peter, questioning with his eyes, took the receiver out of Wiggar's hand as the latter whispered, "Miss Fresno." Then Peter: "Hello. Oh, yes, Miss, this is Peters. The car for Mrs. Ross at ten o'clock. Very good, Miss. ..." A pause. "Oh, yes, Miss. I checked the oil to-day. Will you please tell Mr. Ross it's OK. Ten o'clock. I'll be on time. Thank you, Miss." "So what?" said Peter glancing at the small receiver as he put it back on its hook. "This is only a house tele- phone. Handy for them. . . ." "But of course," remarked the valet, glancing cu- riously at his master. "A perfectly normal arrange- ment. . . ." "And the call," said Peter, frowning. "That was per- fectly normal too. Don't let's get fanciful, Wiggar." "Quite so, sir." "I'm changing to that other suit." Peter pointed to the closet where one lone worn outfit was carefully THE UPPER GATE 115 disposed on hangers. "I've an appointment with Captain Kerrigan at quarter past eleven and I'll have to make it snappy." "Thank you, sir." Wiggar's tone was one of utter self-abnegation. With as much care as if it were the evening raiment of his fond choice, he invested his master in the damaged attire and stood back to get the effect. "I think you're quite right, sir," he said in mournful approval. "I suppose I'm not to come with you?" "You're to get enough sleep for us both," said Peter, pulling a dingy cap down over his eyes. "I may be late but I hope not. Anyhow I'll come in quietly. Goodnight, Wiggar, and pleasant dreams." "Pleasant—I beg pardon, Mr. Peter—but that's what—I mean to say, sir, did you notice the way young Mr. Madison repeated the doctor's good night?" Peter paused and turned with his hand on the door- knob. "You thought it—peculiar, Wiggar?" "Quite so, sir. And the way he looked at himself in the glass. I don't know how to express it, sir—" "Haunted. . . . Hunted. . . ." Peter supplied slowly. "I think he doesn't sleep much . . . and his dreams—are not pleasant. I'm afraid, Wiggar, he has reason for the fear that he is like his dead uncle—in more than looks. . . . Poor little Sally Howard. . . . I think they are all wrong in hushing the boy up. If he could be made to talk it all out with someone . . . what he dreams about . . . and what he expects—and dreads to see in his own face. . . . Why he wants so much light—to go to sleep by. It's a case for a psy- 116 DEAD END STREET chiatrist, not for an old regular physician like Brown- ing, no matter how good his reputation may be. But I suppose Mrs. Ross is too set in her ways to want anything new. And after all, it's her responsibility, not ours." "No, sir." A slight upward inflection gave the negative a hint of wistfulness. "Well, I'm sorry for Sally Howard, too." Peter responded to the tone with a quick, troubled frown. "I don't blame her for being interested in the boy. He is—distinctly likable—in spite of . . ." His frown darkened and he tapped the floor with his foot im- patiently. "There's more than one thing I'd like to— But, here; I'm going to be late if I stand gossiping about our new masters. Kerrigan isn't too sweet if he's kept waiting." Peter's estimate of the police detective's state of mind when they met a few minutes later might be considered an excellent example of understatement. "For the love of seventeen different kinds of tripe, didn't you say quarter past eleven?" Kerrigan asked in an exasperated tone as Peter fell into step with him. "Here I've been pounding the pavement like a cop on the beat. So now where do we go from here?" "I've a nice place all picked out where we can talk," said Peter taking his friend by the arm. "A little walk will be good for your figger, Jake. Come on around this way." They had met at the southern boundary of the deserted playground. The wooded heights of the two small parks lay close aboard. Kerrigan allowed THE UPPER GATE 117 himself to be guided along the near side of Isham Park to the place where a series of posts and a sign warned automobilists to go no farther. Passing be- tween these, the two detectives went quietly on down a wide dark open space and into a still darker path that ran for a short distance through a mass of thick foliage and then came out near the edge of a marsh. Here, backed by tall, palisade-like rocks and shadowed by a large tree, stood a small park bench. Something in his companion's manner had kept Kerrigan quiet until now. "Well, ain't this nice?" he said, sarcastically, as he seated himself beside Peter. "Or maybe it would be if you were a pretty girl and I was twenty years more of a fool than what I am now. Why the hell you couldn't have picked out something better than this damp, dark—" "All right," said Peter in a very low voice. "Have it your own way. But I say, Jake, couldn't you learn to care for the view?" "Not much of it," growled Kerrigan, peering out over the misty marsh grass. "Just a few—" Peter's touch on his hand stopped him. 'Stars in the water when there are none in the sky." Faintly imitative, Clancy's voice sent an odd shiver down the spine of the police detective. "That's what Tracy meant. Look." Following the dimly seen pointing finger Kerrigan was aware of the riding lights of a few small craft and their reflection in the smooth waters of the little harbor. They were quite close in and strung along toward the north and east. Very silent and deserted 118 DEAD END STREET they appeared at this hour of the night. "You don't take any stock in what that idiot says." Kerrigan spoke a trifle uneasily. Peter shrugged. "It may be as well for him if he has no more sense than he appears to have." "What do you mean by that, Pete?" "Nothing, maybe. At least I'm not sure of any- thing—yet." "Well then," Kerrigan's tone altered and he sat forward alertly, "you're a little different from me, Mr. Peter Clancy. There's something I've tumbled to—and I'm sure of what I've got—as far as it goes." "Yes?" The change of voice and manner showed that Peter's interest was immediately aroused. "YeahI And it's one on you, Pete." Kerrigan grinned in the dark. "I've got the button!" "The button?" "Sure. Button, button, I've got the button." "Jake! You don't mean—" "Oh, keep your shirt on, Pete. I haven't not to say got it in my hand. But I know what the button is, I'll bet. Will you tell me if I'm right?" Peter nodded. The police detective could not see the expression of his face. "It's the diamond button of the Maharajah of Lahore." Kerrigan made the theatrical statement with as much drama as the picturesque words im- plied, but for a second there was no response. He spoke again insistently. "Am I right? Am I, Pete?" "Yes. You're right. How did you guess?" "Don't know. Just a hunch. You spoke of two years THE UPPER GATE n9 ago. And that was just the kind of a crazy wild job you would have been called in on." "Does sound improbable. Like the Arabian Nights," Peter murmured. "But it was a plain every- day fact. He was a guest of Mrs. Selden Rochester. And the diamond button was stolen from her coun- try place." "At Greenwich. I remember now. Greenwich. I say, Petel" "Yes?" "Wait a sec. That map of yours. . . . The red dots. . . . One was on Greenwich. . . . And the others? Why, Pete, why didn't I think? Of course I wouldn't be personally concerned, but I do read the papers. Oyster Bay. There was a red dot on Oyster Bay. And on Larchmont, too, and—" "Yes," said Peter with stern anger, "and on several other places where there have been mysterious rob- beries in the last two years. You're right all along the line, Jake. That's the little game I've nearly lost my mind over. The Maharajah's diamond (they call it 'The Light of Asia') was only one item. The other thefts occurred at some distance both in time and space. At first glance they had no connection, but if one studied them closely there were points .r. !** ■ "I remember," said Kerrigan, slowly. "Some galoot sprung a theory about a rope, but I didn't take much stock in that." "It was true just the same. I made it a point to ex- amine the evidence for myself." "A rope was found only in one case." Kerrigan ISO DEAD END STREET spoke tentatively. "Right. But one had been used in every instance that I have on the list," Peter stated definitely. "Marks on the sill—and some abrasions where it had been passed around some heavy piece of furniture. The rope was rigged with a loop or pin of some sort so that it could be recovered." "Sounds absolutely fishy to me," said Kerrigan, bluntly. "How did the rope get hooked onto the heavy piece of furniture you talk of—I mean in the first place? As I recall— Stop me if I'm wrong, sweet- heart—these scattered suburban burglaries were all in inaccessible positions from the outside, and I thought, careless idiot that I am, that they were in- side jobs." Peter did not rise to the tone of his friend's re- marks. "I'm with you," he said gravely. "They were from the inside—out, if you see what I mean. Remem- ber that the gems, in not one single case, have been recovered. . . . And they were always gems. More or less spectacular ones. . . . That in itself ought to tell us something." "Well, I'm willing to listen. What?" "The thief is either hipped on the subject of precious stones—or he is not in immediate want of cash," Peter replied, thoughtfully. "I don't need to tell you, Jake, that just now there's practically no market for rare gems. Few have the money to buy—" "It wasn't so bad two years ago." "But, so far as anyone knows, the 'Light of Asia' has never come on the market." p THE UPPER GATE 1*1 "Unless it was cut up." "I have a hunch—it wasn't," said Peter slowly. "It's a magnificent stone, by all accounts, and worth a lot more whole than in pieces—to a collector or even to a crooked merchant. . . . Besides which, look at the five other cases. They all involved important jewels, as I said before—that is, the principal part of the loot was a stone, or stones, worth fabulous amounts." "If they could be disposed of," Kerrigan objected. "And there are still countries where they could be," Peter asserted with confidence. "Out of the way places with picturesque rulers, commercial or regal. The Far East perhaps—or South America. . . ." "Where your swell cracksman has already gone, probably." "No, Jalte. He hasn't. He's still in this country." "Says you!" "And the last job he pulled," Peter went on as if the other had not spoken, "was the other night— when Michael Duffy—was murdered." Kerrigan started. He jerked around sidewise on the wooden bench and stared through the darkness at the pale, half-distinguishable mask that was the face of his friend. "For the love of heaven," he cried, "you can't think Mike was mixed up—" "Wait a minute, Jake, and don't talk so loud," Peter cautioned. "It's a long story—and I may be wrong at that. But there's more than one queer thing in this business. You say you read the papers. Well, then, what else happened the night poor Duffy was killed? Somewhere along in here he was stabbed to THE UPPER GATE 123 around so far from the street lights. He wasn't one to look for trouble. If that's all you've got, Pete—" "You're welcome to think my straws all put to- gether don't show anything about the direction of the wind, and if you don't care to listen I'll go home to Wiggar and my little garage room." "Oh, but I do, Pete." Kerrigan spoke hastily. "I mean I'm always glad to hear your wheels go 'round. And if you travel anywhere near a solution of poor Mike's death I'm with you for the entire trip." The words were light but the voice was serious enough. Peter responded to the tone. "Will you just put off thinking I'm crazy, Jake, till I give you the whole works? Maybe it was just a pipe dream to see any possible connection between these two things—and that burglary at Tarrytown." "Now, Pete! Except that they happened the same night— But miles apart—" "I know. And yet it's all on the same water-way. See what I mean, Jake?" Peter spoke very fast now —and eager. "Robberies at Greenwich, Larchmont, Tarrytown, Oyster Bay, Stamford. In every case the house where the burglary was pulled off was more or less immediately accessible by water. Yacht clubs and docks nearby where small craft could tie up with- out exciting attention. And all of those towns—even though they seem pretty widely separated by land, are really within a stone's throw of each other if you take this Spuyten Duyvil water short-cut into con- sideration. You may justly say, not much in that. But isn't it queer that on three of those nights the 124 DEAD END STREET harbor police sighted—and lost—a launch running without lights? WaitI And another point, that in every case the get away was made by climbing down a rope—" "Not in that Tarrytown job," Kerrigan contra- dicted sharply. "How do you know?" barked Peter. "Did you make an investigation? Well, I did. And I'm as certain as that I'm standing here that the thief slung a rope up over a carved kind of gargoyle—(the Strowbridge house is a regular medieval castle for looks) and got in and out by that means. No use going into it now. There were marks on the sill and other indications. I'm satisfied of the fact." "So what?" Kerrigan tried to sound sceptical but he was undoubtedly listening with great attention. "I'm offering you," said Peter in a very low voice, "at least five burglaries of a very special kind. Planned to a hair and carried out with unparalleled skill. All within a radius of forty miles of the spot where we are now sitting. There are points of difference, as well as similarity, showing that the thief is a man of imagination. He must be a gentleman to have been on the inside of the type of place chosen—or just possibly an upper servant. . . . He must be very active, athletic, and unquestionably a sailor." "Or a rigger—a steeple-jack. There's more people than sailors that can climb a rope, Pete." "True enough, Jake. But it's a sailor that would plan to make his get-away in a boat." Peter paused an instant and added, heavily—"And it might be a is6 DEAD END STREET Make no mistake, Jake. It's a gallows I'm looking toward." His voice was very grim. "He'd stick at nothing—the man I'm after. Betray a confederate— and now—I'm sure—he's a killer. I don't mean Duffy alone. . . . Maybe you remember that the body of the notorious safe-breaker, Con Grogan, was found off Sea Cliff—three days after the robbery at Oyster Bay. He wasn't drowned. He'd been stabbed to death." "That was only about three or four months ago. I remember," said Kerrigan, weightily. "A fight over dividing the loot. . . ." "That's what the police thought," Peter went on, "but they could make nothing of the fact that, by some miracle, Grogan still had a dark blue silk hand- kerchief clenched in a death-grip, in his right hand." "What do you make of it?" Kerrigan asked half- tauntingly. "Grogan pulled the mask off the man he was working for—and in return was fixed so he couldn't go in for blackmail or states evidence." Peter's voice was hard and he went on implacably. "Duffy got his —for something like the same reason. Only of course he was an utterly innocent witness—" "Pete! I think you're simply cuckoo," Kerrigan ex- postulated. "Just because a crook is stabbed and thrown into Oyster Bay or Huntington Harbor— and poor Mike is stabbed—and thrown into— What in God's name is that?" A piercing cry, only half human rang out over the water—and all was still again. CHAPTER XII THE RUINED WAREHOUSE "It came from over there," cried Peter, panting as he ran. "Dammit, this playground is all fenced in. We'll have to go around." By the time they reached the lights of Two-hundred and fourteenth Street Kerrigan was some distance in the rear but Peter did not pause. Without an in- stant's hesitation he plunged down the curved street that had no name. The entrances to the new apart- ment houses on the corner were dark now. Oppo- site them, on the other side of the narrow road, through the hollow places in the marsh a high tide lapped softly. That was the only sound except a little farther along in the darkness someone was moving with obvious caution. Peter's rubber-shod feet had made little or no noise. He slipped cleverly along close in the shadow of a wall until he came to a break in it, then flatten- ing his body against it he peered forward. Faintly silhouetted against the reflection from a swiftly moving flashlight was a big square shouldered figure topped with the smart military cap of the New York police. Peter recognized it in an instant. Some- thing had broken the monotony of Finkleburg's night duty. The light gleamed dully on the gun in his hand as he turned sharply in response to Peter's low voice. 187 128 DEAD END STREET "What was it, Finkleburg?" He stepped into the circle of light. "Oh, Mr. Clancy!" The young officer's startled recognition may have had in it a gleam of relief. "I can't find nothing, sir. Nobody. And not a trace—" "You heard that terrible scream?" "Sure. I was up on Seaman Avenue. Beat it down here fast as I could leg it. But there hasn't been noth- ing else, and I can't make out— Sh-h— Somebody coming. . . . Why! Captain Kerrigan!" "What's the trouble over here?" The deep chest of the police detective seemed to be trying to rid itself of the staccato syllables. His legs were much shorter than Clancy's but he had made excellent time. "Found anything, Finkleburg?" "Not a thing, Captain. Nor a living—" "Jake! Come here." Peter's voice was low but it had the imperative quality of a shout. His tiny flash- light pointed a thin finger at a broad broken piece of flagstone. A minute of tense silence, then Kerrigan said de- liberately, "Blood," and rose from his knees. "Not yet dry." Peter straightened and with a swift word of excuse caught the larger flashlight from the hand of the young policeman and thrust his own in its place. Softly and swiftly the three men moved forward searching every inch of the uneven surface of the ground. That one splash of deep crimson was just outside a broken opening in the wrecked walls of the old warehouses that at this point faced the dark- THE RUINED WAREHOUSE 1*9 ness of the marsh. Inside the roofless rooms there was comparatively little debris. The fire that had gutted them many years before had done a complete work. Only in one corner of this one was an earth- covered mound where tall grass, bushes and even a few slender trees flourished. Scattered weeds pushed up here and there through the cracks of broken stone and hard baked earth, but there were no more tragic signs of mortality visible. Rapidly once again Peter flashed his light upon the rugged walls. High up a few broken sills showed where the windows had been. On the opposite side from their point of entrance a ragged doorway was backed by a blank wall. As they drew near it, Peter was suddenly aware that the shallow space was not a closet but a passage. "What's here?" he asked glancing at Finkleburg over his shoulder. "Do you know?" "I only been over the place a coupla times," the policeman whispered back. "I think it just goes into another one of these here what you might call rooms. They all kind of connect up." "Let's see," said Peter shortly, and silently led the way. A stone floor not much damaged, dark with damp- ness—but with nothing worse. A turn in the narrow roofless passage, and an opening that had even lost * the shape of a door. Peter checked the man behind him with a quick movement. "The idiot. That Tracy fellow," he whispered in Kerrigan's ear. "This is the place he hangs out in. iSo DEAD END STREET We'd better—" Moving silently and swiftly they passed through the opening and crossed the spacious old stone cham- ber. In the far corner the little ragged hut clung like a hornet's nest to the wall. The end of an old pack- ing box that served for a door hung open on sagging hinges. Peter flashed his light inside. Only one look was necessary. Except for a few old dishes, some rags and straw, the little place was empty. "Good God. He must be found," cried Peter urgently even as he stooped to peer about the floor. "That scream. It was like—" Kerrigan nodded, instantly alert. "Spread out, Finkleburg," he said. "You go that way. I'll go this. Pete—" "No sign of a struggle," Peter responded hurriedly. "Nothing happened here if—" Neither he nor Ker- rigan troubled to finish an obvious statement or question. "Think he must have been outside when he yelled, if it was him." "Sounded like that," rejoined Peter. "We'll cover this part of the marsh and along down to the old coal dock." "Right." Quickly agreeing, the three men moved off in varying directions. Like will-o'-the-wisps, the small circles of light flitted hither and yon. Finkle- burg misjudging the solidity of a bunch of marsh grass slithered down into a mud hole and pulled him- self out, cursing softly. After that he proceeded con- scientiously but on definitely solid ground. Kerrigan THE RUINED WAREHOUSE 131 stopped to explore the one remaining part of the ruin of the old stone warehouses, and finding nothing to his purpose, followed on down the rutted road- way where he knew Clancy had preceded him. The black scaffolding of the disused coal shed loomed close at hand and the police detective was about to step down onto the rough planking at the end of the road when he heard a cry and then his own name. "Jake! This way!" Clancy's voice raised excitedly. A thud and again that familiar redheaded voice. "No you don't! Look out! I don't want to hurt—" Kerrigan's pocket flash spot-lighted the scene be- low him, and he too, leaped from the rough dock to the float that surged softly with the impact. "Hold hard, Pete! Got it? Pwhuf! That's right. Gimme the rope. Now, you!" The bent ragged figure in the small boat did not move. The face was hidden but recognition had been instantaneous. "You in the boat," Kerrigan called again, "Tom—Tom Tracy! What're you doing? Come in out of that!" Still no sign from the huddled figure on the for- ward thwart. Peter held the nose of the skiff inshore while Kerrigan gripped the line. "He was loosing her when I first saw him," said Peter in a low voice. "One jerk and she was free. If I hadn't jumped we'd had—a heap of wet trouble." Kerrigan blew a short blast on his police whistle and Finkleburg came pounding down the planks. But before he reached them, Peter had pushed the boat along in the water until he could lay his hand on its occupant. 132 DEAD END STREET "It's OK, Tom," he said quietly. "Get ashore and don't be afraid. It was you that cried out so loud a few minutes ago, wasn't it?" "Sure, Tom, you tell the gentleman." Finkleburg leaned far down to speak confidentially. "What got your goat, eh?" Fearfully the poor creature looked up sidewise out of the corner of his pale eyes. Apparently the sight of a uniform gave him some degree of confidence, but as Finkleburg caught him by the wrist he writhed away with an inarticulate moan. The young officer looked down at his own hand with a kind of indignant surprise. "He's got me all bloody. He's hurt!" "What?" Peter reached down strongly and half lifting the strange figure up onto the float he turned the light of the flash full upon the man's wrist. "Slashed," he said grimly. "The poor fool might have bled to death if he hadn't had sense enough to— Look, Jake. He did know enough to knot a rag around. But if he'd gone out in that boat, sooner or later he'd— Can you get me a little stick? Or a pencil would do. Thanks." Swiftly Peter had improvised a tourniquet out of the clean extra handkerchief that Wiggar would have supplied even in a suit of overalls. Tracy watched, wordless, almost as if this thing were happening to somebody else. "Who did this?" Kerrigan asked trying to fix upon himself the man's wavering glance. Tracy looked up and an awful pointless fear grew THE RUINED WAREHOUSE 133 slowly upon his face. "It was just a dream," he whis- pered. "Only a dream. . . . You won't tell. . . . The horse has a star on his forehead. Right here." Weird, in the round spot of light, his eyes turned inward, following the point of his finger as it touched the flesh between them. Instinctively Finkleburg moved to cross himself in the darkness against the evil eye, and then was half ashamed of the supersti- tion, for he was a very modern and enlightened young man. "What crazy notion has he got in his head?" mut- tered Kerrigan. "With his stars in the water and the horse with a star. Is there any sense at all in the man?" "There won't be if he isn't attended to pretty soon," said Peter. "That's a nasty cut. Better get him to a hospital and have it dressed, and if you don't mind my suggesting, Jake, it might be better to keep him in the hospital for the time being." "Yes." Kerrigan nodded. "He'll be as safe there as if we locked him up. Go ahead, Finkleburg." And as the stalwart policeman half carried the wounded man away, "Are you coming, Pete?" "Right o." One glance more at the boat he had again secured to a ring in the floating dock and Peter joined his friend. "Now what do you make of it all?" he asked. "Not one dam' thing," answered Kerrigan em- phatically, "except that somehow there's hell loose along Spuyten Duyvil Creek. Is that fool a fool or isn't he, Pete?" "You don't think he slashed himself like that?" 134 DEAD END STREET "He could have, if he's left-handed." "You noticed that?" "What?" "That he's left-handed." "Now what chance, Pete, had I to observe—" "When Finkleburg first showed him to us don't you remember that Tracy kept buttoning and unbut- toning his old coat with his left hand? He used his left hand to cast off that painter just now." "Maybe because the right was hurt," objected Ker- rigan, "and I don't believe it signifies either way. No sane man could get up the nerve to cut himself that deep. No. And I don't believe a crazy one could either. Or would. There'd be no object." "No," said Peter slowly. "Apparently there would be—no object. But equally—why would anybody want to hurt that poor idiot—unless . . ." "You have the most infernally annoying habit of stopping in the middle of a sentence," Kerrigan re- marked after a short but exasperated silence. They had crossed the waste land and were nearing the old stone ruins again. "D'you mind telling me what • you're thinking?" "Of course. Was just making up my mind that the splotch of blood we found was probably from Tracy's wrist." "It was not in his—er—apartment," commented Kerrigan. "Hello. Finkleburg's stopping with him there. For his pyjamas and tooth brush do you sup- pose?" They were near enough now to hear raised voices. THE RUINED WAREHOUSE 135 "You come along," urged the young policeman. "Your cat'll be all right. You can't take her where you're going. Understand? No. She isn't here any- how. You just come quietly, and to-morrow—" He broke off when he saw his superior. "It's a cat he's making all this fuss about, Captain," he explained. "A little skinny black back-alley mouser with nothing you can spot her by in the dark but two white feet. I nearly stepped on her the first night I took over this beat. He's that fond of her he keeps her in his pocket half the time. But she isn't here now, thank God, so maybe we can get him to the hospital without that little pest. Come on, Tom," he added in a louder tone. "If we don't get your arm fixed you won't be here to feed your cat in the morning." Weak from loss of blood the afflicted man yielded at last. They were lucky enough to see a taxi cruis- ing along Seaman Avenue. Kerrigan hailed it. Finkle- burg put Tracy in and waited for orders. "I'm taking him over," said the police detective. "A few things I want to make sure of for myself. By the way, Pete." He stepped back to speak in a low- ered voice. "I almost forgot. I got the drinking-glass you sent in this morning. Was it important? I mean if you're in a hurry, I'm sorry. I had so much on my mind. But it's safe in a drawer of my desk and I'll attend to it first thing to-morrow. Do you mind?" "No. No, Jake. It's all right I guess. Only don't forget. To-morrow. I'll try to 'phone you. Good night." Peter watched the cab drive off. Finkleburg ob- 136 DEAD END STREET viously would have liked a lengthened discussion on the events of the night, but it was very late and Peter got away as quickly as he could. Kerrigan's belated remarks about the glass that had upon it the finger- prints of Mr. John Postlethwait brought Peter's mind back to the garage where Wiggar would be perhaps anxiously awaiting him. And it also brought his thoughts back to other considerations that he had purposely so far held in abeyance. Studying over them now, he made his way along Seaman Avenue and turned up the hill. Happening to be on the north side of the street his brain registered the very spot where he had knocked out Sally Howard's assailant only two short evenings before; the butler, who was even now learning to be sober and repentant some- where where Kerrigan could lay hands on him—if desired. . . . Here was the little gate the two courageous women had come out of. Peter had tried it before to-night and knew it was locked, but the odd circumstance of the other wicket made him give it a push in pass- ing. It was fast, as it had been. The garage was a little way above on the other side of the steep street. He crossed over and was just about to let himself in, in fact had his lately acquired key out, when some in- fluence of nagging memory made him glance toward the top of the hill. A quick drawn breath, and Peter, almost on all- fours, and silent as a cat, began to ascend as swiftly in the shadows. Something had passed across the gap in the trees where the stone stairway led down the 138 DEAD END STREET He could not believe those trusty optics of his, trained though they were. Dimly he could make out the high points of the iron fence that extended to the very edge of the cliff. Though it was now hidden from sight, he knew that a great fan-shaped arrange- ment of cruel steel spikes projected out beyond the steep, inaccessible rocks. Only a winged creature could pass that way. Had his eyes really played a trick on him? That tall, swift figure, seen for an instant against the sky, could it have swerved and gone down the stairs to Broadway? Incredible. And yet— Peter was up and across the way in a flashing sec- ond. The high narrow spiked gate was locked as he had left it. The fence was of the most approved pattern, practically impossible to climb. No foothold between the closely spaced upright bars with their shockingly inhospitable points. The trunk of the great oak tree was inside the grounds, the thick branches beyond human reach. Anyone who went through that gate had a key. So far satisfied, Peter drew back still farther in the shadows and sat down on a low rocky ledge to think it out. There was no sound from the great house, half hidden by the nearby trees and bushes. For a time he saw, or fancied he saw a gleam of light reflected from windows on the side that overhung the cliff. But presently these went out. The darkness and si- lence seemed to deepen, but there was only disquiet in Peter's active brain. In vain he assured himself that THE FRONT SEAT OF THE LIMOUSINE 143 plied with a quick glance at the chauffeur's plain face. It occurred to him that the man did not look so stupid when one saw him at close range. "And there's a question or two I'd like to ask you," he added as the car was neatly extracted from the curb and turned down town. "We'll have to go around this next block anyway, sir," remarked Peter, watching the traffic officer whose life seemed to be preserved by a series of recurrent miracles. "Then perhaps Park Avenue and for a bit up along the East River. It gives a fella an eye-full of this kind and that if you'll excuse me mentioning it, Mr. Arthur. You can see a piece of the upper crust and a slice of hamburger and onions, and then some more crust to say nothing of caviar and cham- pagne." If Peter's deliberate intention was to attract the young man's attention to himself, he succeeded ad- mirably. American servants surely were different from those in the East. This one appeared to be worth some study. "You know a good deal about New York, Peters," Arthur observed, with a slightly amused glance. Peter's instinct was to answer, "Bawn and bred in the briarpatch, Brer Fox," but feeling that this was a little too thick he changed it to a respectful, "Yes, sir. You have to in my job." Which indeed was no more than the truth. "Perhaps you know that is the ramp of the Grand Central Station, sir," Peter volunteered a minute later as they turned north. 144 DEAD END STREET "Yes. I know," Arthur replied absently. "I say, Peters." "Yes, sir." "Have you heard anything from John? Do you know where he could be reached?" "There," Peter responded with cheerful openness. "I said you'd be wanting to know, Mr. Arthur. He was awful cut up about going. Thought he hadn't had a square deal. But don't go thinking I'm blam- ing anybody," he added, hastily. "Course it's none of my business and I don't know nothing only what John let drop." If ever chauffeur indicated a green light on a wide open road for confidences, this was the man. "He didn't tell you on what evidence my uncle in- sisted on discharging him?" "Only mentioned something about checks." Peter spoke with ingenuous mendacity. "Kinda struck me funny because, far's I know, John ain't much of a penman." "He isn't?" Park Avenue was occupying very little of the boy's attention. "Well, of course I can't say for sure. Didn't know John very long, but he didn't look like what the books calls college material to me." "You think it would require special training?" "Forgery? Well, course I ain't ever tried it myself," Peter laughed, "but wouldn't it stand to reason you'd have to sling a mean quill to be a real good one?" The phraseology was new to the foreign-bred young man but he was quick enough to grasp the THE FRONT SEAT OF THE LIMOUSINE 145 meaning, and glancing again into the chauffeur's pleasant face he wondered how he could ever have thought him rather below the average in intelligence. "Do you know for a fact, Peters," he asked seriously, "that John is illiterate?" "I only judged by what he said," Peter replied truthfully. "But don't you know for yourself, Mr. Arthur? Hasn't he been with you some time?" The boy moved restlessly and frowned. "To tell you the truth, Peters, I really picked John up. With- out references. My uncle was very much disturbed by that fact and he has been suspicious of John from the first. He's very particular, you know. Thought John wasn't the sort of person to have about—even in looks." "Well, he could hardly pose for Miss America, now could he, Mr. Arthur? I mean to look at he wasn't no bathing beauty, sir." "But actions speak louder than words," Arthur re- torted, "and he certainly looked beautiful to me when he swam out and saved my life at the risk of his own." "Oh-h-h? Did he now? How was that, sir?" Arthur corroborated John's story of himself as far as that incident was concerned. Peter showed great and satisfactory interest and the boy, starved for sym- pathy and companionship, went on: "Do you won- der I stood up for John from the first? And especially yesterday morning when my uncle called me in to his room?" "You mean when he got the goods on John? Just 146 DEAD END STREET what was there against him? Would you mind telling me, sir? You see I have a hunch John may try to get in touch with you. Through William or me would be his best bet, and if he still thinks he has a chance with you he might try it on. I'd hate to see you steered up against a crook, sir, but on the other hand things might look queer for a guy and at the same time he might be on the up and up. See?" "I think I catch your meaning." The sudden smile on the handsome young face was very engaging. Peter felt himself responding to it with some of Sally Howard's enthusiasm. There was nothing mor- bid now in Arthur Madison's expression. It hardly seemed the same being that had gazed upon itself so strangely only the night before. To keep the present look on his face would be a worth-while achievement. Peter hazarded a truthful statement. "I got good friends among the cops, sir, and they've put me wise to a lot. If you was to tell me just what you've got on John, I might be able to help you figger out the right dope. Anyhow it would kinda ease your mind to tell it out to yourself, wouldn't it? If you've no objection, I guess I'll cut over here and take you up along the East River. It's kinda interesting." "Yes. Very," Arthur answered absently. "I think you're right, Peters. And in justice to John, in case he applies to you ... I don't quite see how he can be innocent and yet—" "You want to give him the benefit of any doubt there is. I see what you mean, sir. The thing broke yesterday morning, didn't it? You said Mr. Ross called THE FRONT SEAT OF THE LIMOUSINE 147 you into his room—" "Yes." Arthur spoke slowly, evidently passing the whole incident in review before his own mind. "But it wasn't about John. It was just about Eppling's bill. He's my uncle's tailor and it was mailed to him though it was mostly for my things. Heavier clothes he thought I ought to have ready in case it turned cold. Seems Eppling is hard up like most people just now and Uncle Nelson wanted to send him a check at once." "Meaning he wanted you to send him a check?" "Well, of course, for my share." "So then?" "Naturally I said I'd draw one for him right away. He went on telling me a long story about Eppling. Quite interesting it was, too. So Florence—Miss Fresno—the nurse, you know,—as she went out smiled at me behind uncle's back because he is pretty long winded at times, and when she came in a few minutes later she brought me my check book so I could do that bit of business without interrupting Mr. Ross* reminiscences." The boy scarcely glanced at the great mass of the Cornell Medical Center that towered above them. His whole interest was centered in clearing up this matter of John's character. He gave a little short laugh and continued: "You may think I am taking my time, too, telling you all this, but there is a point in it. If I'd gone for the book myself I'd have known that I left it in the right hand drawer of my writing table and if it was in the other one that someone else 148 DEAD END STREET had been handling it." "Oh," said Peter rather quickly. "It was in the left hand drawer? How did you find that out then?" "Why, just by accident. I'll tell you. When I'd finished writing the check, my uncle asked me if I knew the best way to keep a check book. And I said I thought I did. He said, 'Let me see,' and it hap- pened the book dropped when I handed it to him and he opened it upside down." "You mean he opened it at the back?" "Yes. That's right. At the back. And he said, very quick, 'Oh, you shouldn't take checks out of the back if you make mistakes, Arthur.' I said I didn't know what he meant. I hadn't taken out any except where I wrote them. 'Well, then,' he said, 'What's this?' And he showed me that three of the blank checks were gone." "Hum-m-m?" said Peter glancing sidewise at the intent young face. "How do you account for that, Mr. Arthur?" "I couldn't understand it at all," he replied, return- ing Peter's look. "I knew very well I hadn't taken them out. I could see at once, in fact Uncle Leon made no secret of it, that he suspected John. It was then that Florence happened to mention where she had found the book; and my uncle thought that since it was out of place maybe the checks had been taken recently and that very likely they would be found in John's quarters over the garage, and he was trying to think who'd be the right person to go and look. I begged him not to make trouble about it. We could THE FRONT SEAT OF THE LIMOUSINE 149 call up the bank and stop payment or something if he thought it necessary. I was so hurt and disap- pointed and all fussed up I couldn't think very well. I heard Uncle say, 'What's that, Florence?' And she was looking unhappy, too, but she said, 'Didn't John leave his service coat here when he went out to the chemist's' (which was where he'd gone). She said it might be a good idea to look, because she was sure he didn't like it that she'd asked him to go out at once." "Looks kinda bad, doesn't it?" said Peter. "But let's hear, sir. What happened then?" The frown deepened on the boy's eager face. He went on quickly: "My uncle said, where was this coat? John kept it in the little hall closet just outside my sitting-room door and there was no point in pretending I didn't know that. Besides by that time I thought it did look queer." "And no wonder," Peter agreed. "Was the coat where it belonged, Mr. Arthur?" "Yes. Florence went with me to look. It was on a peg in a dark corner of the closet. We took it back to my uncle's room and searched through all the pockets. There was a handkerchief of mine—but who counts handkerchiefs? Uncle Leon said, 'What did I tell you? The man's patently dishonest.' But there was nothing more in the pockets and I was glad. And just then Uncle said, 'What's this?' And I could hear that there was paper at the bottom edge of the coat. Florence found a kind of ripped place under the flap THE FRONT SEAT OF THE LIMOUSINE 151 other license plate." "You mean John Postlethwait might be an as- sumed name?" Arthur looked around startled. "Don't seem like anybody could willingly pick out that there last name." Peter grinned. "But he mighta done that apurpose. See? Just because it's unreason- able and at the same time sorta catchy and notice- able." "Is he shrewd enough for that?" "Yes, sir." Peter allowed himself to speak with some degree of authority. "I'm afraid he's plenty wise enough for that. Your uncle is probably a pretty good judge of men and it's natural he'd want to get rid of a bad influence in the house." Caught unex- pectedly by a traffic light, he jammed on the brakes and glancing aside at his companion was startled by the strange intent regard that was fixed upon him. "Have you felt it, too?" The voice was low but gave the queer impression of a shudder. "Felt what, sir?" "A—a bad influence in the house. That was what you said." "Oh, but I was speaking of John. Since he's gone—" "It's just as bad or worse. It was worse last night than ever before. God help me. What am I saying?" The impatient honking of horns warned Peter that the light had changed and that he was impeding traffic. He had perforce to get the car in motion but he did it with little mental guidance of his trained muscles. What did the boy mean? Was it really a fev- erish fancy? Or was it . . . Peter's thoughts harked 154 DEAD END STREET he thought, to see one's own image perpetually fore- shortened, and catching the reflection of Mr. Ross' eye between an inkstand and a stamp box he found that a bit disconcerting also. His face, however, did not betray him. It remained vacantly obliging while he asked: "Anything more I can do for you, sir?" "You may get me a glass of water from the bath- room. No, no. Don't be stupid. That's a closet. The bathroom's over there." "Beg pardon, sir," said Peter, humbly. As soon as he had brought the water he was somewhat irritably dismissed. "Find Miss Fresno and tell her I want her. I'm afraid I've done too much this morning. I suppose I ought to go to bed. Tell her to hurry." "Thank you, sir." Wiggar himself could not have made a more finished exit. Peter hardly knew where to look for the nurse. She was not in her room, a small apartment that had probably once been a dressing-room, situated between those of the master and mistress. Having knocked twice and received no answer he was about to go to ask Sally's help when he glimpsed Miss Fresno coming softly down the great staircase. Perhaps it was because he had never seen anyone on those stairs before that the sight gave Peter a men- tal jolt. Even though the rooms above were not in use the reason for her being there was explained by the pile of clean folded household linen that she car- ried across her arms. He stepped forward and de- livered the message which she received with a gra- AGAIN THE SUMMER HOUSE 155 cious smile. Very, very beautiful, Peter thought as he turned away, but the kind that lights up for any male person, policeman or iceman, without even much prejudice as to age. Then he chid himself for being an old cynical sleuth and made his way rapidly down to the kitchen. Sally received him almost with open arms and with a brisk breeze of questions. Was Arthur any better this morning? Where did they go? What did they talk about? Had he gone to his room? No, Peter thought he was in the summer house. Should he send Wiggar out to tell him luncheon was about to be served? This with a quizzical smile. Sally gave him a look of dignified reproof and then laughed outright, a little low laugh, the kind one hears when a trout-brook chuckles over a lost cast, and an unhooked trout. "You may think I'm brazen if you like, Mr. Peter—Peters," she said. "But I'm going to make up to that young man until I find out what's nearly driving him nuts, as Mother would say." "Now, Sally I" Mrs. Howard turned her fine face, pink now from the heat of the gas range, toward Peter. "Are you anxious about him, Mr. Clancy?" she asked in a very low voice. "Do you think Sally should risk—" "I think it's the boy's best chance—youthful, sane companionship," Peter replied seriously. "You see him every time you get an opportunity, Sally, but don't get—er—the ladies of the house down on you. You understand. Talk to Arthur. Draw him out. Get 156 DEAD END STREET his confidence. Make him tell you what he thinks he sees. His illusions. If he can bring them outside— see what I mean? Face them. That's what a psy- chiatrist would make him do. He's a fine kid. Lots of sense. But he's weak from fever and any illusion that gets hold of—" He stopped abruptly and a look that Wiggar, watching, knew well came over his face. It was a full minute before he spoke again. Sally, not understand- ing, but somehow held in check, did not venture the question that trembled on her lips. As if he guessed what it was, Peter at length replied: "Yes, Sally. He has illusions of some sort. Of that much I'm sure. He's afraid—and it makes him secretive. It may take me weeks to break down his reserve and every hour is precious to him. See what you can do, Sally." It was a grave admonition. The girl nodded and slipped quietly away. Peter looked at the salad plates that were placed ready for serving and counted them with his eye. "No guest?" he asked sharply glancing from Wiggar to Mrs. Howard. The butler-valet only shook his head. The soi- disant cook said: "I haven't been told about any guest. Is one expected?" "Perhaps not," said Peter slowly. He did not want to disturb this pleasant friend of Captain Kerrigan. "Just an idea I had." He drew Wiggar aside a few minutes later. "Find out anything?" he asked. The appetizing noises on the range made his words in- audible in that quarter. "Could you get upstairs?" 158 DEAD END STREET yes, ducky. Guess there's something the matter with this here wire. What you want, honey?" Again that slight pause. Then the dulcet voice: "I got something awful swell to tell you. When you coming over?" "Well, I ain't sure, ducky." Peter smiled. He could picture Kerrigan holding the receiver to his own ear while he told the girl, probably one of their women operators, what to say. "This is a swell joint," Peter continued in a low but enthusiastic tone, "and I want to make good. If I could keep a job like this a coupla years we'd be in clover, baby. But the hours is pretty long. Just the same I'll try to meet you at our little old park bench same time as before. Will you be there, honey? All right. Oky-doke." Absently he hung up the receiver. Something im- portant or Kerrigan wouldn't have jeopardized the verisimilitude of his position by calling him at the house of his employer, natural though the act and the conversation would appear. The care and finish with which it was camouflaged showed that the po- lice detective was convinced that Peter's incognito should be preserved. Also the latter shrewdly guessed that Kerrigan would not do anything to make it pos- sible to question the authenticity of the position of Mrs. Howard and Sally. Sally. The girl was looking at him with eager ex- cited eyes. "Any news from the western front?" she whispered. Peter shook his head. "Shan't I carry out that tray for you?" he asked, smiling. "Isn't it too heavy?" 160 DEAD END STREET the gaiety went out of the eyes that regarded her. "Do you think that?" It was a sternly serious ques- tion. Instinctively Sally glanced back at the old house that loomed above them. The blinds of the reception room windows were down, as were all those on the second floor. The other windows on the ground floor were those of Arthur's sitting-room. The lattice of the summer house was well covered with old vines. She moved a little back into its shelter and sat down beside the table that she had prepared for him. "Won't you eat your lunch while it is hot?" she urged in a voice that she succeeded in making quite easy, common-place and friendly. "Of course I was only fooling. Whatever put such an idea into your head?" "Do you believe in heredity?" he asked guardedly. Sally realized that she must face the matter in all seriousness. If she could make him talk as Mr. Clancy had urged her to do. . . . "Of course anybody must to some extent," she said. "But my father always thought that environment was more important. He was a very clever doctor—" "There! I knew it. You do come of gentle people. Then why—I mean I have no right to force your con- fidence, Miss— What is your name?" "Howard. Sally Howard. Though you'd better go on calling me Sarah in public, you know. Goes better with an apron and cuffs." She smiled on him with delightful comradery. "I don't mind your knowing a bit. My father died two years ago. His investments AGAIN THE SUMMER HOUSE 161 went bluey. Mother and I were down to our last coppers—so we took the only thing that offered." "Thank you," he said gently, with an odd little courtly bow. "I am honored." "Oh, don't let it overwhelm you," Sally said airily. "It's really not so out of the ordinary these days." "Does my aunt know?" "Well, in a general way. They wouldn't be inter- ested in details." "So—your father was a doctor?" "Yes." "Did he—was he by any chance—a psychiatrist?" "He was a surgeon—but he knew everything." A large order, but Sally's confidence carried some con- viction. "He thought environment more important than heredity," Arthur said slowly. "But suppose both— both—" "One could at least change the environment." Sally leaned forward in her eagerness. "There's something strange about this old house. I'm as healthy as a food advertisement and I feel It." "You do? Tell me—" His eyes were strained as Peter had seen them, and he asked the same ques- tion if not in the same words. "Do you believe in old influences—of spirits? Earth-bound? I've read . . . Even scientists like Sir Oliver Lodge take them quite seriously." The certainty that a heavy responsibility was be- ing put upon her filled Sally Howard's fine young mind. Her healthy nerves revolted at the almost DEAD END STREET overpowering sensation of something evil and in- human that seemed to taint the very air that the walls and trees shut in around them. She braced herself and said: "I know my father kept an open mind about such things, but he believed that most of what's called the supernatural could be explained in other ways." "What ways for instance?" The sun was under a cloud now but that was not the only shadow that rested on the boy's face. "Oh, tricks. Trickery of some sort." She tried not to notice. To speak easily. "And hallucinations," he said, steadily. "Incipient madness. That's what makes one see . . ." "What?" Sally dared only to breath the question. Arthur's eyes were fixed; terrible in an agony of horror and uncertainty. "Nothing. That's the awful part. Even worse than all the rest! To vanish. Slowly. To see the room. The lights full on . . . every de- tail . . . The bed . . . and where I should be—no one! Nothing at all." CHAPTER XV BEHIND THE ENTRY DOOR "He's out there still. He won't come in." Sally's breath came shortly. "He—he has a horror of the house." She looked around the pleasant homelike kitchen and spread out her hands. "It seems absurd, down here with Mother—and the range—and the way it looks and smells. But it is different upstairs, isn't it, Peter—Peters?" "Right. Be a little careful about that, Sally. Even when we're alone, Peters to you until this cruel war is over." "Then you do think—" "That Arthur's in danger? Yes. If only from him- self. If he feels that way about the place, he ought to get away at once." "That's what I said," Sally cried softly, clasping her hands together. "But he won't go. For two rea- sons. I had a hard struggle but I got it out of him at last. Oh, the poor dear! He's afraid. Afraid to start anything. Any inquiry. He said he was mad, last night, at the table. He told me about it all. But he couldn't help trying to find out—about that young uncle—his father's twin. I think he had some special reason more than he would say. And I didn't dare to press him." "There, there, my pet." Her mother's arms were 163 BEHIND THE ENTRY DOOR 165 to Peter's heart. For the minute his stern old game of "Button, button," seemed insignificant by con- trast. Even poor Michael Duffy. Nothing could bring him again into this life. But these two children were living—hoping—present realities. And the problem of the boy's sanity, for the time being, appeared more important than any other consideration. But what was to be done about it? Peter pondered long and seriously. Who was he to suggest to Mrs. Ross that her nephew would be better off in other surroundings? A chauffeur couldn't do that. Neither could a housemaid, cook or butler. Though he felt that in the boy's present condition every day of delay was serious he knew there was nothing possible but to wait on circumstance and to do everything in their power to cheer him up. This he made clear to Sally, but he did not tell her of other matters that continued to pique his curiosity to an arresting extent. Foremost was the mysterious disappearance of the stranger at the wicket gate. The disappearing stranger. . . . The one who had, and the one who did not have a key. Could it have been the same? There are honest and less above-board ways of getting keys, as who should know better than Peter who usually carried a small piece of wax in case of emergent necessity? But if one had a key would one be likely to use a makeshift wad of leaves? The tech- nique was very different in the two rather startling occurrences. ... It seemed almost to prove that in this case the last was not first nor the first last. . . . Well, then, leaving the possible first for the min- BEHIND THE ENTRY DOOR 167 pantry and into the passage near the end of the south wing. Mrs. Ross' door was on his right. It was closed and behind it a gentle purring snore gave evidence of the lady's serene repose. Miss Fresno's room was next—and open—and empty. Not so good, he thought, as he came to Mr. Ross' door. That was locked. He tried it very softly, and then set the box on end against it. . . . Well, only Miss Fresno unaccounted for. . . . The back stair, of which Wiggar had spoken, ascended from a little dark entry near the service door. Tempt- ingly near. Peter hesitated. If he should meet her what excuse . . . Ah! She was wanted on the tele- phone, and the master and mistress being asleep he did not know where to switch the call. The "party" would, unfortunately, have rung off on account of the delay. It would be easy to work from the little wallboard in the kitchen. Good enough. Or if not very good at least worth the risk. So thinking, Peter slipped handily through the entry and up the back stairs which, fortunately, were silenced with heavy pads. At the top he reconnoitered cautiously. He was in a long, straight narrow hall that ran from the south to the north side of the building. Several doors opened out of it—or would have—if they had not all been locked. Baffling and not at all satisfactory. Peter went the full length of the passage first. It seemed astonishingly long to his nervous haste. Then, returning half way he swiftly investigated the four large apartments that gave upon the square hall at the top of the great staircase. These BEHIND THE ENTRY DOOR 169 door but he knew he was right for someone came very quietly out of Mr. Ross' room and along the passage toward him. The small crack between the entry door and the jamb made this devastatingly clear. It was Miss Fresno. He held his breath. He could see her quite plainly. She was walking on tiptoe. But she came no nearer than her own room which she entered, closing the door softly behind her. Peter let his breath go in a discomfortable sigh. So then, what? A locked door. . . . Hum-m-m. A nurse in a patient's room—perfectly normal and correct. But with a locked door? Peter was not overly squeam- ish, but to him it had a particularly ugly look. He had mistrusted the girl from his first sight of her. But the man was half crippled—and the wife was her kinswoman. Perhaps—possibly there was some differ- ent explanation of the locked door—and the girl's furtive movements. . . . Curious as it may seem for one in his profession, he hated to think evil of any- one, but in the way of business he was careful to give every incident its weight and value. Returning to the kitchen, he viewed little Sally Howard with an access of responsible interest. If their employer was actually a libertine what had the child not let herself in for? So far he had not seen Ross do more than glance at the pretty housemaid, but there was a queer subtlety in the man's long clever face that would put an experienced person on his guard. He was not as old as his malady made him appear. How far his condition would affect his CHAPTER XVI ISHAM PARK "Well, sweetheart. On time, by all that's holy!" "Yes, ducky, eleven-fifteen to the minute, and I hope you can justify taking a chance on tipping over an honest chauffeur's beanpot." Both men spoke with lowered voices, though in the seclusion of that dark and well selected bit of park scenery there was little or no chance of their being overheard. Glancing out across the marsh where the few starry riding-lights still twinkled, Peter seated himself on the bench beside Kerrigan who had preceded him by some minutes, a fact sig- nificant in itself. "How's Tom Tracy?" Peter asked abruptly. "Still at the hospital?" "Yes, and likely to remain. Seems contented enough and it's the safest place for him. The doctors take an interest. Peculiar case they think." "Meaning anything in particular?" Peter could scarcely distinguish the expression on his friend's face. "They talked a lot of scientific stuff. Over my head. But it's a cinch they'll keep a close eye on him." "Good as far as it goes," Peter rejoined. "What else?" "Haven't you anything to tell me?" Kerrigan's tone 172 174 DEAD END STREET left him one jool at least as a memento—so he'd have had a longer term to serve." "It would have been a better plan. Maybe the prin- cipal had more of a conscience four years ago—or not so good a technique." "Or maybe there wasn't any principal at all," Ker- rigan countered. "This fellow Cripes is pretty slick- Cracks a safe as easy as a peanut, and if he's caught he's a model prisoner and is parolled for good con- duct, so he can try, try again. The last job was out on the Coast. He got out about three months ago and hasn't been heard of since—until you spotted him." "That fits," said Peter, "perfectly. A safe breaker. That would be just about John's speed. He's even a pretty fair valet, and being a model prisoner would be right in his line. But he's never been pinched for anything else, Jake? Confidence games? Or bad checks?" "What a question, Pete. A typical safe blower is worse than a shoemaker for sticking to his last, as well you know." "He might branch out." "Not a chance. He might get desperate and go in for gunplay or something, but not a different lay, you can take it from papa." Peter let that pass. "Haven't his jobs been rather trifling, small-town stuff, all but that Newport one?" he asked thoughtfully. "Not much imagination, and no violence? That's the way I'd size John up." "Apparently you're right for once, but where does that get you?" ISHAM PARK 175 "His record makes me believe that he told the truth about the Newport job and that someone else— someone far more clever than John Marmaduke Cripes will ever be, got away with those jewels—and the Maharajah's diamond button—and others too numerous to mention. A clever, clever brain planned those burglaries. An adaptable brain, able to take advantage of various and varying circumstances. Ruthless. And diseased. No doubt about the abnor- mality. The same invincible subtlety of method, the same agility and cunning, but an ever increasing vicious cruelty that suggests definite derangement. A moral fiber rotted, disintegrated. A capacity now for any clever evil. I tell you, Jake, sometimes I feel— Oh, I can't express it! I've thought about this for so long that I get the horrors figuring what manner of man this is that I'm fighting in the dark. Once a killer—and what has he after that to lose? So long as he isn't caught—recognized . . . And this man is clever. Capable of new kinds of crime. Able to get, somehow, the assistance he needs. Do you remember, Jake, the story Cripes told about how he was per- suaded to act and then tricked?" "I didn't look up details." Kerrigan stirred un- easily. He had rarely seen his colleague so worked up. "They didn't pay much attention to what he said at the trial, but this was it. He'd just got out on parole from a job that showed great mechanical ability but was poorly planned." "By Marmaduke Cripes?" "Yes. A one man job. Well, a few days after he was 176 DEAD END STREET sprung, he received a letter containing a perfectly good one hundred dollar bill." "You mean that's his story?" "And I believe it's practically true. He isn't smart enough to invent it." "All right. Go on, Pete. I'll listen." "The letter gave him details of what he was to do to get two grand in addition. Supposedly half the swag. And I ask you, Jake, if that doesn't give you a line on the kind of man I'm trying to describe. The sort of a person who would be clever enough to realize that a crook of John's—I mean Cripes'—type, would be sure that a guy who'd risk a hundred cold smackers with no check or come-back, would be just the kind of a bloke to come through fifty-fifty., on a show- down." "Did you see the letter?" drawled Kerrigan. "No. One clause of the instructions said to tear it up fine at once and flush it down the toilet. Simple, handy, effective—and unfortunately complied with." "Well," said Kerrigan. "Be that as it may, the sim- ple thing now is to get hold of your John Whistlefritz, or whatever he calls himself, and see what he knows. Does he sleep at your garage? Could we get hold of him to-night?" "Unfortunately—no." • "What?" Kerrigan's hand slammed down on his knees. "You don't mean to say, Pete—" "He's gone. Been fired." "Well, I'll be—" "Yes, you probably will, but not yet, let's hope." ISHAM PARK 177 "You take it very calm, Pete. Have you any idea what this seasoned crook was doing up at your joint on the hill?" "I think he was quite simply acting as valet to Arthur Madison." "Oh, yeah? Without ulterior motive I suppose." "I didn't say that." "But he's gone?" "Yes." "And you've lost him." "No," said Peter calmly. "I think he'll be back." "You think he'll—" Kerrigan peered at the other's face which, because of the darkness or for some other reason, he could not read. "In fact," Peter added in the same quiet voice, "I think he has been back—once—already." "Oh?" said Kerrigan. "When?" "Last night. But then I may be mistaken. I so often am." "Handsome of you to admit it." Kerrigan sounded doubtful. "I want above all things to please you, Jake," said Peter humbly, "because I'm afraid I'll have to ask another favor." Kerrigan half turned and looked up sharply. "An- other what?" "Will you have an analysis made of a stain?" Peter took a sealed envelope from his pocket. The police detective weighed it in his hand. "What's in here?" he questioned still gazing at the shadowy face before him. 178 DEAD END STREET "A handkerchief." "Whose?" "Mine. At least it's one that Wiggar lets me use. He buys 'era." "And what's the stain?" Kerrigan did not smile. "I think," said Peter slowly "—of course I may be wrong—but I think it's human blood." With this the police detective was forced to be content. Peter said he had nothing more of any definite value to impart at the moment; that he had been up most of the night preceding, and that for him it was a case of "and so to bed." They made ar- rangements for keeping in touch, and parted at the corner of Seaman Avenue. Peter went north as far as the street on which he now hoped to reside for some little time. He had been deeply intrigued by Kerrigan's news in re the little safe blower. His presence in that vicinity might easily be one of those fortuitous concatenations of circum- stance, stretching the long arm of coincidence almost beyond the limit of credulity, and yet common enough in every person's experience. . . . Or it might have some special significance, deliberate and premeditated. ... Or it might be a part of the working of some law—the same that brings the seed to the fertile ground—and causes the rain to fall on the just and unjust in due proportion. . . . Little time now for philosophic consideration. A point that he wished if possible to determine—and then a well earned and necessary rest if he meant to keep on his metaphorical toes. ISHAM PARK 179 Arrived at his own corner he paused and glanced about him. The place was, of course, perfectly fa- miliar but he looked upon it now from a different mental angle. On the far side of Seaman Avenue was a row of modern one-story shops, all occupied by small tradesmen. One of the successful tax-paying real estate propositions common in years of depres- sion. Out of sight behind the shops and on a lower level owing to the slant of the hill and the raising of the street grade, the ruins of the old warehouses ex- tended down to the margin of the marsh through which ran the backwaters of Spuyten Duyvil. The line of little stores ended at the apartment house on the south corner, the walls coinciding, with no pas- sage between. On the near side of Seaman Avenue a large portion of the block must have been sold at an earlier period for it was built up in tall apartments. There was, however, one gap—as has already been mentioned— a small very old house, sunken well below the new street grade. Peter tried to picture in his mind the time when a branch of the Albany Pike had wandered through the woods, along a sylvan creek, and this old house had stood opposite a group of stone ware- houses down at its very margin. Change there had been, change upon change that the dark ancient dwelling had witnessed though its eyes now seemed dead and lifeless, closed with heavy boards in an everlasting sleep. The streets in this part were quiet at this hour and practically empty. Peter slipped around the end ISHAM PARK down toward Seaman Avenue, and came at length to the rear of the old house that appeared to interest him strangely. A weary old gibbous moon added its indifferent gleams to the reflection of the city lights and made it possible to determine that all the windows at the back were also solidly boarded up. The reason of its unusual appearance of height was also made clear, for on this side it was nearly one full story less owing to the difference in grade. A low wall protected a small paved court. Peter dropped over it without an instant's hesitation, but with the circumspection of long practice, though there seemed no possible reason for caution. The house was dark and quiet as the dead. The old rear door might have been built to withstand a siege and was closely secured. The tall walls of the apartments appeared to have closed in with an attempt to crush it to the earth, an effort that it continued to resist with dark dogged inhuman strength. Well, said Peter to himself as, after a few minutes rapt contemplation, he turned and went softly on up the hill, I seem to be spinning around on a dead center. What I need now is something or somebody to give me a push. The next morning in the paper he read that an ex- pert safe breaker, known to the police as Spud Mc- Guirk, had been found caught under some piles, where the Harlem River joins Spuyten Duyvil Creek. Although the body had been badly treated by the UP THE BACK STAIRS 185 with nagging persistence, and once more he passed softly through the little dark back entry and up the service stairs. Arrived at the top he waited for several minutes before he moved rapidly down the long pas- sage, knocking so lightly upon each door that it was like a mere whisper of a summons. There was no response and every door was still tightly locked. He went, however, the complete length of the passage to the window at the end. Turning there he came directly back, in long, even strides, and as if satisfied went immediately down to his post of observation behind the pantry door. Here he remained to the end of the meal, which progressed smoothly, with no untoward interrup- tions. When it was over the entire party adjourned to the pink and crystal drawing-room where Wiggar served coffee and with Sally's help set out tables for cards. Doctor Browning and Mrs. Ross settled down to their customary game while Miss Fresno with Arthur and the two other men made up a hand of bridge. Peter was impatiently waiting for Wiggar when the latter returned to the butler's pantry. "Have you any idea where I can find a tape measure?" was the unexpected question, which the valet answered as if it were merely a matter of routine. "A workbox in Mrs. Ross' sitting-room should be so furnished. I'll ascertain—" He was back in a few seconds, the required article in his hand. His master received it with a strange air of preoccupation—one might almost say of apprehension. He made no com- UP THE BACK STAIRS 187 had a short whispered conversation with him and then went below again. At the end of the next rubber Doctor Browning insisted that his young patient should go to bed. Arthur demurred but was at length persuaded, much against his will. He had found Mr. Svendsen a most agreeable partner. On the way to his room, the dark mood that had been in abeyance seemed to descend upon Arthur's spirits like a cloud. He spoke to Wiggar only to give him a few brief directions and stopped in the sitting- room earnestly studying the old sporting groups of boys that still remained upon the walls. The furnish- ings of the north wing had not been changed since the two Madison boys had occupied it over a quarter century before. He seemed to be searching for some- thing in the ranks of small faded young faces that still looked gaily out above turtle-neck sweaters adorned with monograms of a well-known old preparatory school. Without being told Wiggar put on all the bedroom lights and the place was bright from end to end when Arthur, with an odd curious reluctance, at length entered his sleeping quarters. Once inside he went abruptly across to the great mirror, and stood looking at himself with the same awful intentness that he had shown the night before. At length he sighed deeply and went over to a table that stood out in front of the fireplace. He opened a drawer, glanced inside, and then turned on Wiggar with a sharp, angry look. "Where's the photograph 188 DEAD END STREET that was in this drawer?" he asked scowling. "I really couldn't say, sir." "But it was here this morning." The valet merely bowed. "You saw it here when you put away these extra packages of cigarettes." The boy's voice was almost threatening. "Oh, quite, sir. That is to say, Mr. Arthur, I did happen to observe an old portrait—" "But you had nothing to do with its removal?" The suspicious look brought no change to the servant's calm blank countenance. "Pardon, sir. It would never occur to a person in my position to take such a liberty. May I help you with your coat, sir?" Arthur did not appear to hear him. He let Wiggar take his dinner coat, then turning restlessly away began to walk about the room. From bureau to chif- fonier, to the mantel and back to the table he paced, pausing to pick up an object here and there, each time with a odd trick of manner. He would look at a box, brush or what not, lift it, then turn and glance at himself in the mirror. After which, with a frown, he would put it down and go on again. At length he began absently to undress. Without comment, Wig- gar assisted with his usual finish and celerity. Once Arthur looked the valet suddenly close in the face and said: "You really saw a photograph in that drawer this morning." "Oh, quite, sir." A voice as quiet as a windless lake. "Describe it to me." UP THE BACK STAIRS 189 "Pardon, sir?" "Tell me what you observed. Anything that struck you." "Thank you, sir." Wiggar showed no sign that there was the slightest peculiarity in the question. "One could scarcely help noticing—and approving, if you'll allow me to say so, Mr. Arthur—the dis- tinguished appearance presented by the cape opera cloak, and to regret that they are not now so much in vogue—in America at least. The broad hat, I fancy, was a personal touch, although the period was a little before my time and I am not too conversant with what was worn in the States thirty or forty years ago." "Hum—I suppose the clothes would be the thing that would be likely to strike you," Arthur com- mented. He was staring at himself in the mirror over the bureau. "Did you notice the face—at all?" "Well—not particularly. A family resemblance, perhaps." "Don't you know he looked exactly like me—or I like him?" The young voice was fiercely insistent. "Pardon, sir. A strong family resemblance is to be observed throughout, if you'll allow me to mention it. Your aunt—even so distant a connection as Miss Fresno—the portraits in the drawing-room—all show interesting similarities. Quite remarkable." The eyes in the glass remained sternly fixed for a minute, then the lines of the handsome face relaxed, and Arthur turned. "No, no," he said in quite an ordinary tone. "I'd rather have my other dressing UP THE BACK STAIRS 191 turn out the lights. Leave them on. All of them. And you can go now. I'll need nothing more." Instead of bowing and promptly retiring, the valet moved a step nearer and stopped. "What is it?" Arthur's voice sounded a trifle sharp. "Beg pardon, sir. I once attended a gentleman who'd difficulty in sleeping. He was good enough to say that he found my voice soothing. 'Eminently soporific' was the phrase he used, sir, and I thought it very handsome of him." "You're offering to read me to sleep?" A slight spasm passed over the inexperienced face. "If you'd allow me, Mr. Arthur." For a minute the servant thought he had gained his point, but the boy's features hardened suddenly. His face was white against the piled-up pillows. "Why do you think I need to be treated like a child, afraid of the—the dark?" he asked angrily. "I'm not ill. I'm perfectly well. Strong. And sane, I tell you. Perfectly—perfectly—" With a groan he buried his face in his hands. Wig- gar remained quite motionless. An observer would have said that the valet was no more observing than the bedpost by which he stood, and which, in ele- gance of finish as well as general structure, he might be said to resemble. But nothing of any moment es- caped the blank, colorless eyes of the immobile Eng- lishman. He was quite aware of it when the boy's long thin fingers parted, little by little, and when the bowed head was raised toward the magnet of the mirror that faced him beyond the foot of the bed. 192 DEAD END STREET A few seconds of this strange, half-hidden con- templation of his own image, and Arthur Madison squared his shoulders and spoke resolutely. "I won't be scared, and I won't be babied, Wil- liam," he said. "Perhaps— Yes. I think you meant kindly. Everybody means to help me. But they go about it the wrong way. No one understands. No one but—" He stopped short and bit his lip. "Not even . . . No. I'll fight it out alone. No one can help me. Really. I'll stay here. Right here. If I were to run away— Try to run away . . ." He glanced aside at his reflection, fearfully and yet with a tautening of all his muscles. "Thank you, William," he went on in a different tone. "Perhaps this will be an off night—and I'll manage to sleep— right through. Good night." "Thank you, sir. I hope so. Good night." The valet bowed, making only the faintest crease in his im- maculate waistcoat, and without another word, re- tired. » CHAPTER XVIII IN THE MORNING Carefully hiding from Mrs. Howard his uncer- tainty and impatience, Peter, smart in his chauffeur's uniform, stood looking out of the basement window. Now and then he could see Sally's face, as, according to instructions she walked back and forth on the path that ran close under the house wall. There was no one else, in all probability, to note that the young heir to the old Madison fortune walked beside her, for Mrs. Ross had commandeered the services of her kinswoman, Florence Fresno, in an effort to modern- ize the structure of her elaborate coiffure, and Mr. Ross was resting in his own room until later in the day. That Arthur's family remained in complete ig- norance of his growing interest in the little house- maid was not so singular as would at first appear. A gentleman at heart as well as by training, he had done nothing to call attention to her while in company, and when alone with her had been as circumspect and socially correct as his peculiar mental state would allow. In ordinary circumstances he might have been more—or less—reticent. Under these conditions he was by turns pliable and as rigid as steel, but even from a distance Peter could be certain that the girl's frank and sane personality was making a strong and »93 194 DEAD END STREET ever stronger appeal. The night had brought counsel and Peter was ready now to run certain risks. The report that Kerrigan had sent to him by the traffic officer on the previous afternoon had been characteristically la- conic. Enclosed with Peter's own handkerchief were the words—"Human blood OK." On several news- paper clippings describing the finding of McGuirk's body in the upper river certain words and phrases were underscored. Harlem and Spuyten Duyvil. Ex- pert safeblower. Not drowned, but stabbed to death. And written below in Kerrigan's cramped hand, "So what?" There was also a slip of paper on which was typed the information that the search for the pres- ent whereabouts of Marmaduke Smithers, alias Al- fonse Cripes, alias John Postlethwait, was still going on but was for the time being fruitless. The other two sealed but unaddressed envelopes were from his own office. O'Mallery made no remarks about the incongruity of the varied sorts of informa- tion required, but supplied all that was readily avail- able and promised the rest at an early moment. Late the previous night Peter had mailed another series of inquiries, prompted by the various matters that had come to light and now awaited the reply with an al- most feverish impatience. They would manage to get it to him somehow the instant it could be done, con- sistent with the preservation of his incognito in his present strategic position. Kerrigan was obviously becoming more deeply impressed by some of his col- league's conclusions and would cooperate in every IN THE MORNING 195 possible way. Perforce Peter must hold these matters in abey- ance and concentrate upon the other problem that had become so strangely interwoven with his previous absorbing quest. No orders came to the concerned and restless chauf- feur all that long morning. He had been told to hold himself in readiness That was all. Mrs. Howard did her best to relieve the tedium and under other condi- tions would have been most successful for she was a woman possessed of rare qualities, a delightful hu- mor, and a brave adventurous spirit. She'll never whine, no matter what, thought Peter and glanced again anxiously from the window. It was not until lunch time that Wiggar brought down the chauffeur's orders. Mr. Ross was not well enough to go out that afternoon it appeared, but Mrs. Ross would like to drive up to Briarcliff and Mr. Arthur was to accompany her. Peter's head jerked up alertly at the summons, and he glanced at Sally who was demurely going about her duties. She gave him a quick look that her mother did not see and nodded slightly, her pretty brows puckered in anxious, puzzled thought. He smiled at her, comfortingly reassuring, and just touched her shoulder as he passed. The limousine in all its shining splendor was al- ready drawn up in the porte-cochere when Mrs. Ross came out, leaning affectionately upon her nephew's arm. Remembering her preferences the thoughtful chauffeur had arranged the windows as she had pre- 196 DEAD END STREET viously directed, all of them being closed except the one at his left and ventilation secured by dropping the glass between the two seats. "As soon as I'm a little more familiar with the streets, I think I'll get a runabout and drive myself, Aunt Henrietta," Arthur remarked as soon as they were started. "It would do me at lot of good." "You'll have to talk with your uncle, my dear. I'm afraid he won't countenance any heavy expenditure just now, and I'm quite sure he will insist on your conserving your bank account. You know the times are very, very bad for all of us. And besides—" Arthur waited a minute, then he said in an odd voice, "Besides what, Aunt Henrietta?" "Well, you know, my dear, your uncle's illness has changed things a great deal—and your own condi- tion—" "You mean I'm not to be trusted out alone?" he interrupted hotly. "Now, my dear, you simply must not get excited. The doctor warned you." "All right. I'll be quiet." There was silence in the rear seat for several min- utes, bitterly maintained by one at least. Mrs. Ross tried in vain to start an ordinary conversation. Ar- thur seemed immersed in his own unhappy thoughts and answered only in monosyllables. His aunt's small ineffectual face became more and more distressed and at last she said, "I'm so sorry I can't amuse or entertain you, my dear boy. I'm old and foolish I know, but I'd do anything for you that I could, not IN THE MORNING 197 only for your sake but also for your dear father's. He was very good to me. Do you mind if I talk about him a little?" "I'd be glad to have you," Arthur answered in a muffled voice. "Perhaps he never told you what happened when your grandfather died—or—or—of my father's preju- dice against me." "Against you, Aunt Henrietta? It seems impossi- ble. How was that?" "I—I can't go into it, dear." Her lips trembled but she went on: "In a way I couldn't blame father, but Grantland thought him very unjust. The—thing- happened so long ago—when we were all young. My father never forgot it. ... I went abroad for a good many years—married your Uncle Leon and came home. I didn't see Grantland again until after your grandfather's death. He only stayed here a few weeks, you remember perhaps, but he arranged everything comfortably for us. He was so generous in the steps he took to rectify what he considered the injustice of father's will that I can never be grateful enough for his love and kindness and the trust he placed in us. So if there is ever anything I can do for you, my dar- ling boy, you have only to tell me what it is." Arthur looked down at her. Her weak little face seemed filled with genuine emotion. For a minute he hesitated. Then he said: "You can do something for me—right now, Aunt Henrietta—if you will. But —I hardly know how to ask. . . . I'm afraid you'll think it very queer—very queer indeed." 198 DEAD END STREET She drew a little away from him and her eyes glanced up uncertainly. "What—what is it?" she asked in a low tone. "Have—have there ever been any stories—any queer stories about our house—this one that my grandfather built?" "What in the world can you mean, Arthur?" "The north wing was closed up for a time, wasn't it?" "Why do you think that?" she countered in a startled voice. "The furnishings could hardly be so well preserved if they had been in constant use. Why was it closed, Aunt Henrietta?" "It was your grandfather's wish—but your father didn't approve. He had the rooms opened again and stayed in them all the while he was here." She spoke softly, looking with unseeing eyes out at the beauti- fully parked roadside that streamed silently away be- hind them. "And my father didn't mention anything—queer- about them? He—or the servants—didn't—see—any- thing that couldn't be explained?" She was looking at him wildly now. A strange whiteness made the modest amount of rouge on her cheeks stand out quite horribly. "Oh, heaven save me," she moaned. "It couldn't be. No. No. I don't know what you mean, Arthur. What—what—could there be? Explained? I don't know what you mean." "To put it plainly," Arthur burst out in a low hard voice, "was there ever any story that the old house— IN THE MORNING 199 is haunted? It sounds fanciful. Crude. But I must know. Don't you see Aunt Henrietta? I must know whether others have seen—and heard—or whether it's just—just—that I'm going mad!" "Mad!" "Crazy—yes! Like my Uncle Walter!" "Your—Uncle—Walter," she gasped. "What are you saying? How can you—" "Oh, I know it's cruel, Aunt Henrietta, and I promised that I wouldn't mention him to you again! But something's happened and I beg—I beg of you to tell me all you know about his death." "You mustn't ask. God help me! Anything but that!" she cried hoarsely. "But it was so long ago, Aunt Henrietta. Surely you can bear to hear it mentioned—after all these years. Even at the worst—" "You don't understand. No one knows but— Oh, spare me, Arthur. Don't make me live through it again." "Aunt Henrietta!" He caught her gloved wrist in a grip that hurt her cruelly, though she made no sign. "Can't you realize," he swept on, "that I must find some explanation—or I'll know that I'm fated to go— the way he did!" "Impossible! No! Such a horror couldn't come a second time! I could never do—make such a terrible mistake again. I was to blame—but not—not . . . Oh, must I tell you?" The look on the boy's face seemed to force her into a sudden strange frozen quiet. She sat quite still for 200 DEAD END STREET several minutes. Then she straightened her little plump shoulders. Her inconspicuous face took on a certain dignity. "Peters!" She spoke quite steadily. "There's too much air blowing in. Will you please put up the glass?" "This one?" asked Peter looking his very dullest. "No. The one between the seats." "Quite so, Madam." Peter pulled off to the side of the Parkway, and instantly rolled up the glass that separated him from the other occupants of the car. He paused a second more to adjust the little mirror over the windshield and then drove deliberately on. In the privacy thus obtained the pale lips that Peter could see reflected in his tiny mirror moved fever- ishly, pouring out sad and bitter words. Secure in the knowledge that no one but Arthur could hear her, the poor woman unburdened her soul. And the stolid red-headed chauffeur drove quietly along the beautiful half deserted Parkway, never turning his head and scarcely taking his eyes from the little slip of reflecting glass. Not for the first time in his somewhat hectic and diverse career was he glad of the three long months that Peter Clancy had spent on a peculiar case concerned with a subtle criminal who had taken refuge in an asylum for the deaf and dumb. To be in character he had taken seriously the opportunities for study thus afforded, especially per- fecting himself in the fascinating and sometimes use- ful accomplishment of reading long conversations from entirely soundless lips. CHAPTER XIX BELLEVUE Peter was excused from duty early that night. For the first time in his short experience good Doctor Browning failed to put in an appearance at dinner or later in the evening. Mrs. Ross was indisposed and stayed in her room, excusing herself even to her hus- band who sent in by Sally to inquire, later, how she felt. "She thinks she can go to sleep now, sir," the quiet little housemaid reported. "Is there anything more I can do?" He glanced up at her as she stood by his wheel- chair, an enveloping, appraising look that made Sally feel suddenly rather sick. He pushed back the one white lock from his long, dark, distinguished face and with an air of pleased discovery said softly: "You're very pretty. Did you know it, my child?" "Thank you, sir," She made a hurried little cour- tesy and stepped back. "No, no. Don't be—" A soft footstep sounded on the tiles in the great hall. In a slightly raised voice the master said: "Tell William to come and put on another log," and as Florence Fresno appeared in the doorway he added, "That's all." "Excuse me, sir." Sally held her respectfully re- mote ground for an instant. "I think William is with SOI 202 DEAD END STREET Mr. Arthur. Would Peters do?" "Yes. Yes. Of course." Peter carried in the wood, made his deferential obeisance and was dismissed. This time Wiggar had prevailed upon Mr. Arthur to allow him to try read- ing him to sleep and would not be leaving for some time. After seeing the Howard ladies to their own doorstep, Peter returned and went carefully over all that was left of the old Madison estate's broad acres, found the rocks, trees and shrubbery silent and empty, closed the three gates one after the other, tried each to see that it was thoroughly secure, and then went rapidly on his way. First to the inconspicuous garage on Tenth Ave- nue where O'Malley had sent his, Peter's, own car. Taking his place at the wheel he made the best pos- sible time across to and down the east side of the city. Tom Tracy was in Bellevue Hospital. Kerrigan had arranged to meet Peter there. "You won't get a thing out of him," the police de- tective remarked with a discouraged shake of the head. "Every turn we're up against a blank wall. What d'you make of this murder of McGuirk, Pete?" "What I've already said, Jake. I believe a number of these assorted crimes can be hung on one string— rope." Peter's face was deadly serious. "At first they were clever—diabolically so—and successful. Success- ful, you may say, even now, for what witnesses have we? What clue to the perpetrator of all this? Except that—" He paused so long that Kerrigan was about to speak when Peter resumed suddenly—"I'll tell you, 204 DEAD END STREET limp. A man that was ill, maybe, and couldn't help himself." Tracy's eyes seemed to flicker under Peter's al- most hypnotic gaze. "The horse—with a star on his forehead," he whispered fearfully. "I don't know why. . . ." He touched his wounded wrist. "I ran— and ran—to the boat . . . where the stars are in the water. . . ." His glance fell away and he hid his face in the bedclothes. "It was all a dream," he wailed. "Nothing but a dream." "He'll tell you that if you ask him a thousand times," muttered Kerrigan, turning away. "You won't find out anything from an idiot like that." "No?" said Peter with an odd backward look. "Per- haps nothing more." "You don't mean to say—" "No, Jake. I don't mean to say anything more to- night. You'd only think I was crazy, too. I must get along now. I want to try an experiment." "In which you can dispense with the aid of the police?" Kerrigan sniffed. "Well, I've a few matters to attend to myself, though you may not think it, so I'll be seein' you, Mr. Peter Clancy!" Kerrigan departed in a somewhat exasperated huff, and Peter in his own car, which he left at the Tenth Avenue garage. He then took the short cut up the steep stone stairway but went very quietly as he neared the top of the cliff. The roofs of the old Madison house showed dark against the sky. Nothing stirred in the shadow of the great oak beside the tall narrow iron gate that was BELLEVUE 207 which, owing to the poverty of the furnishings, was mercifully brief. Tom was outside when he was hurt and he didn't come back in here, Peter concluded, after an in- stant's reflection. Stopping every now and then to look and listen, he searched with his flashlight all about the roofless chambers and came at length to the stone they had discovered which still showed a dark stain dusty and brown with the action of the wind. McGuirk—killed. Duffy—killed. And Tom Tracy wounded, Peter thought, pausing to flash the round disc of light from point to point of the rugged weedy enclosure. All in this section of the city, but only one definite place on which to pin the action. ... If my crazy idea is right . . . it's easy to see why poor Duffy got his . . . and McGuirk. . . . But if McGuirk blew the safe in that Tarrytown affair—eight days ago how did it happen that he wasn't bumped off sooner? Unless . . . Now wait. . . . Two nights ago, Peter reasoned hurriedly, Mc- Guirk's body went into the river. . . . And Tom Tracy was slashed at—but not fatally wounded. . . . So the murderer—if it was the same man—must have been prevented—or handicapped in some way. If he was on the point of disposing of the body . . . There's a lane of water comes in through the marsh just over that low wall out there. Deep at high tide. On the turn, a body that wasn't weighted might float out a long distance with any kind of luck. Far enough anyway. . . . DEAD END STREET Tracy could have been taken care of—later. And in any case who would take seriously the testimony of a poor fool, frightened out of the few wits that re- mained to him. The body would have been the more important consideration—at the minute. That seems fair enough. But the actual murder? Spud McGuirk had the reputation of being a wise old bird. If blackmail was his idea—or a division of spoils—I can't see him fall- ing for an appointment in a place like this. Some- thing less open-work . . . less dramatic—and more normal would be his choice. . . . And besides— Peter took the little kitten from his pocket and paused with it in his hand. He had shut off his flash- light and the old ruined chamber in which he stood was illuminated only by the faintly reflected radiance from the street lights and the cloud-swept waning moon. The small trees on the mound of debris in the corner shivered among their rustling leaves. Toward this point he softly advanced, stroking the little ani- mal against his breast. "Pussy," he whispered. "Pussy, if you could only tell me what you know! How—and where you stained your little white foot . . . And how it was that you reached the top of the hill—so soon. So soon, little kitty. How was it? You didn't go by the street. All the way around Seaman Avenue, and up that new cut through the rocks. Not if you'd run your little legs off. You couldn't have done it in the time. Is there a short cut—for little pussies? Tell me! For the love of heaven, if you followed someone that night—show CHAPTER XX STONE WALLS "I work miracles—and they come out," Peter quoted on a panting breath as, guided by a faint mewing sound, he pressed through behind a screening mass of weed-woven debris. "Or do I?" He paused, glanced down at the kitten and then all about the angle of boards and masonry in which he stood. Apparently it was only a protected niche, without other exit. A boldly jutting rock almost closed it in from the top. Wedged into a rough section of ma- sonry were some old broad planks nailed in an up- right position and bearing witness in their deep dis- coloration to years of wear and weather. Stones and bits of mortar and earth had fallen across the bottom of them to an irregular depth of, perhaps, a foot. Peter's light played swiftly across them—and then stopped short. He drew back with a low muttered word that might almost have been a prayer. In the deposit of dank dark earth on the ancient stones of the floor were several footprints. Stooping swiftly he examined them with painstaking care. A man's shoe. He tabulated his observations with expert celerity. Narrow and rather pointed sole. Well-marked heel, not run down at any point. A tall thin man in all probability, either not much of a no STONE WALLS 211 pedestrian or so athletic that he stepped squarely on both feet—or quite possibly the shoes were new. This all with rapid assurance. The rest was not quite so easy. In that confined space there seemed an unnecessary number of im- pressions. Peter studied them at length, absently pick- ing up the kitten and putting it in his pocket where it purred contentedly as he remained in a squatting position on his heels. Pointing toward him he counted five more or less confused prints, overlapping each other and twisted this way and that. Across these, pointing toward the wall were two clear impressions, perhaps a yard apart. Though heavier on the sole and much lighter on the heel, they were obviously made by the same shoe as the ones beneath. Beneath. Yes. There was no blinking that absurd fact. The rapid step that made those two marks was the last to occur—and it pointed directly toward the solid planks that were imbedded in the old wall. Apparently impregnable. Peter made a quick leap and threw his weight against them. They did not give by the fraction of an inch. Protected from above, the wind and weather had not sapped their seasoned strength. And yet . . . Hush. . . . Hiding his light under his coat Peter turned and listened. By standing on his toes he could peer out through the tangle of branches into the darkness of the old roofless chamber. Its emptiness was eerie and almost threatening. Far, far away a fire siren wailed up against die sky and moaned on into silence. If 212 DEAD END STREET there had been a footstep in the roadway out there it was no longer to be heard. Instead of touching wood for luck, Peter slid a caressing hand along the snubby automatic in his other pocket and after several min- utes resumed his interrupted studies. A banal, obvious and unsanitary explanation of those footprints had of course occurred to him, but he put it aside at once. The place was perfectly clean and too well hidden to have been casually used. In fact there was nothing in the outer ruins to suggest its existence and he as well as Kerrigan and Finkle- burg had passed it over on the previous examination without the slightest question. If it had not been for the kitten—and an almost uncanny faculty for enter- taining bizarre and improbable suggestions, Peter would not have inferred the possibility of the exist- ence of this tiny angled recess. He would not for any- thing imaginable have imparted any of his boyishly romantic ideas to Kerrigan, but it was amazing that this untrammeled quality of mind had been a large element of his success. "The wise man says, 'It may be so,'" and Peter Clancy was wise for his day and generation. He often admitted it quite frankly to Ker- rigan much to that astute detective's amused and openly displayed disgust. But seriously . . . Careful to give no undue weight to his pre-conceived ideas, Peter put himself (mentally) in the attitude of the person who had left that confused record in this protected spot. Was it asking too much to suppose that those first overlap- ping prints had been made by a man who had paused DEAD END STREET sage implied impressed him with a weird feeling of awed excitement. His heart beating like a muffled drum, he crept silently forward sending the restricted and inadequate finger of his flashlight to feel through the darkness that crowded against him on every hand. Not enough light even for moss to grow in. Here and there stones had loosened and fallen to the floor but the passage was practicable throughout its stag- gering length. In several places the earth on the floor was deep enough to retain impressions. The same footprints. Going and coming. Only one pair, but many times repeated. Though a number of them ap- peared to have been made at other times and with slightly different shoes, Peter felt confident that they had been made by the same virile, long-striding feet. Careful not to confuse them with his own rapid footsteps, he went on as quickly as caution would per- mit. He had not the slightest doubt that the last man who had passed that way was a murderer, dead in every moral fiber; desperate if discovered; his one life only in jeopardy, no matter how many lives he sacrificed. Important, deadly important then to push this discovery speedily and to the limit. The danger that might be lurking for him, ahead there in the darkness, was a spur rather than a deterrent. Breathing fast and soundlessly he went swiftly on. The way was no longer level. Suddenly it took a slight twist and a steep slant upward. Then the light flickered on a flight of old stone steps. The passage had come to an end. Scarcely pausing, Peter climbed cautiously up- STONE WALLS 217 ward. The stairs turned on a landing at the top of a fairly long flight and went steeply up to a door that closed the narrow space where they ended. Arrived here, Peter paused for breath, and to reconnoiter. The utter silence made him feel as if he had been suddenly struck with deafness. The door before him had every appearance of being as old as the crudely fashioned one that defended the outer entrance and was probably as thick and strong—but this one was fitted with a heavy handle and, surprisingly, a lock of modern workmanship. "A lock does not a prison make," Peter quoted to himself with some satisfaction as he dipped again into the carefully constructed inner pocket that contained certain things that a man with a police record would have been cordially invited to explain. The mecha- nism on which he worked was so good, however, that it was many minutes, and he had been forced to ex- ercise his every ounce of skill, before the bolt was released. Softly pressing down the latch he pushed the door slowly inward. The heavy ancient hinges must have been oiled for they turned without a sound and Peter found himself in a wide deep cellar, cluttered with old moldy furniture, great bins, and huge decaying hogsheads. The door through which he had entered was behind a pile of these and from the more open portion there was nothing to suggest that there was any other exit save the heavy worn oak steps that led upward from beside an old rusty furnace, long disused and crumbling. 218 DEAD END STREET Dust and ashes, neglect and decay. Nothing to in- dicate that the cellar had been invaded for many decades. ... A thousand places to hide. . . . On tiptoe Peter stole forward, glancing warily from side to side, but in spite of recognized danger, with some degree of assurance. He was certain now where he was. He knew he had come straight east and judged by the distance that the old passage ran under the superficial small shops on Seaman Avenue, under the street itself—and came up beneath the old, old house that might easily have been there when the under- ground approach to the water had been constructed. . . . A connection with the ancient warehouses, whether for defending—or defrauding the then gov- ernment—who could say? . . . Idle now at this tense minute to inquire. Unmolested, Peter went lightly up the hollow treads of the stairway—only again to encounter a locked door. It proved, however, to be an old- fashioned type, and the key being in place, though on the other side, he found little difficulty in turning it with another of his generally unauthorized tools. Nothing disturbed him as he worked silently. Get- ting a little monotonous, he thought, and then his senses were again on the qui vive as the door yielded under his hand with a nerve-racking click. He was in an old brick-paved entry or short hall. The door immediately in front of him led, obviously, to the outer world. On his left an open door gave access to the kitchen and through that to the rest of the house. He paused again, holding his breath, but STONE WALLS 219 aware only of darkness and silence he went grimly on with his self-elected mission. Nothing but dust and rust in the empty kitchen. The dark old boards in the hall beyond showed signs of passing feet, indistinct in the general dinginess. Nothing to be read from them. In the small spotlight thrown by his torch, Peter made out the foot of a closed-in staircase that occupied part of the width of the hall and ended a few yards short of the old, heav- ily panelled front door. The street entrance, below the level of the street, that he had investigated before, from the outside. Peter recognized it; noted that the door opened in- ward—and then a dark splash, low upon it, caught his eye. In half a dozen swift steps he had cleared the distance. Upon the lower part of the dingy panels and soaked into the dust of the floor was a horrible thick dark stain. With a feeling of nausea that all his years of expe- rience had failed to conquer, Peter drew nearer, and was about to bend down to examine it when, without a breath of warning, sharp and clear behind—above him—came the snarling command: "Hands up!" CHAPTER XXI THE OLD, OLD, HOUSE "I'd oughter drill you where you stand, you slick, double-crossing swine!" "John!" Peter gasped, holding his hands well above the level of his shoulders. In the light of the little torch that remained in Peter's hand the round face of the erstwhile valet peered down threateningly from the closed-in stairs. "I'd oughter let you have the works, you play-acting, murdering, thieving hound. And make no mistake I'm going to, only I'll find out a few things first. Drop your gat and come away from that door!" "Anything to oblige." Peter complied with studied coolness while his thoughts raced. "Where do we go from here?" "Get into that room back there and don't make no noise." The man of preposterous aliases, deftly run- ning a light and practiced hand over Peter's person, located with a gleam of fierce derision the carefully disposed kit of exquisitely wrought tools. "So! You're smart in all branches of the profession, are you, Peters? I had my suspicions you was up to snuff whiles we was both in service together, up at the big house above there on the hill, you crooked wicious devil! But if I'd had any idea of what you was capable of, believe me I'd a killed you in your sleep and knowed 110 THE OLD, OLD, HOUSE t81 I was doing Gawd's service." Peter for the minute quite helpless was watching his opponent with steady, narrowed eyes. "You'd better be careful, John," he warned. "The police have been notified to keep an eye on this house!" "Says you!" "And you're in a hell of a position to go before the police—" Peter paid no heed to the sarcastic in- terruption—"John Postlethwait, Marmaduke Smith- ers, Alphonse Cripes!" "Cripes! Sure! Cripes!" The little man shook with fury. "And well you know the name! You with your damn mail-order job! And the hundred bucks I thought was so fair and trusting! Curse you for a sneaking, low-down, filthy—" "Hush! Speak lower," whispered Peter in fierce command. "You poor fool. Do you suppose it was I who left you to hold the bag that time in Newport four years ago?" "Listen to you!" growled the ex-valet. "With your swell line of talk! Getting natural, ain't you? Hell! Think I don't know you, even if I didn't see your face that time? You're the same height and the same build, and if you was dolled up in a nifty yachting rig you'd be a dead ringer for the guy that put it all over me! Me and me best old pal, Spud McGuirk." "McGuirk!" "Yes, Spud McGuirk! Damn you! As square a guy as ever cracked a safe!" The man's voice vibrated with wrath. "And him coming up here so innocent to touch you for a measly thousand or so—and what 222 DEAD END STREET become of him? What become of him, I say?" He thrust the muzzle of his pistol in Peter's face. "I seen evidence enough out there on the floor of the hall to send you to the chair. You stabbed him when you opened the door. I read in the papers he was stabbed and chucked in the river and made a guess where it happened." "Did you and McGuirk figure that you'd been working for the same man?" Peter seemed hardly conscious of the weapon that threatened him, so in- tent was he on this wild chance of verifying his de- ductions. "Sure. That was easy. It was the same kind of a lay —only Spud was smarter than me. He took no chances, and in the getaway he got a line on who you was just as your boat shoved off." "He didn't tell you my name, though," Peter as- serted swiftly. "He'd have been afraid you'd try a bit of blackmail on your own." "If I wasn't going to kill you anyway, I'd give you a sock in the jaw for that," was the furious retort. "How'd you find out this was the house?" Peter's every sense was on the alert. "What's it to you? I located it all right, didn't I? Spud looked it up in a handy guide and I seen where he put the dot." "It's funny Spud didn't know how familiar you were with this neighborhood," Peter commented with every appearance of coolness. "I'm going to make it funny enough for you!" Cripes ground the words between his discolored THE OLD, OLD, HOUSE 223 teeth. "Gawd! But you don't know how unlucky you're going to be! What accounts I got to settle with you! Four years interest you got to pay on the first one. And then for planting them blank checks in my coat and queering me with that swell kid! By the eternal, I'd knock your block off just for that alone. When I think how I coulda plugged you that night when you stuck them leaves in the gate to hold it open, and maybe you was coming down here to get Spud right then! My Gawd, it makes me sick to the bottoms of my feet! And me, the poor sap, thought you and William was the berries! Even I was think- ing of coming back to ask your advice that night. I see now you and him are pals, right enough. And how about them two dames? They ain't regular serv- ants, no more than what I am. What's the game up there? Are you all trying to drive that swell kid, young Madison, nuts between you? Or is the girl try- ing to cop him off, or what? Answer me, you! I got to know before I fill you full of lead." Peter moved almost imperceptibly nearer, "You think there is a game going on up there?" He mo- tioned with one of his upraised hands. "What kind of a lay is it, John? Have you figured anything out?" "Are you asking me?" snarled Postlethwait. "Come across now, Peters. The jig's up. What're you trying to do to Mr. Arthur, and why? Even if you make it a long story, I promise not to shoot till you're finished." Peter leaned forward confidentially. "I'll let you in on the whole works, John, if you'll come along and 224 DEAD END STREET help. How about—" "Why, you dirty swine!" The low burst of fierce anger and contempt was more convincing than pro- longed protestation. "If there was a million in it I wouldn't hurt a hair of his head. And what's more— Ouch 1 Gawd da—" Peter's hands had remained safely above his head but a lightning-swift scientific kick had sent the auto- matic flying. He leaped upon his adversary, flung him aside, snatched up the pistol and covered him with it all in a breathless instant. "This is no place for us to be staying, John," he whispered, hurriedly, snatching up the flashlight that had rolled to the floor. "If you'll come quietly I'll get you out of this." "You'll get me out!" "You are a poor sap," said Peter quite gently press- ing the nose of the pistol into the other's side. "But somehow, darn it all, I like you. Safe cracking is a mild form of entertainment—comparatively speaking —and you're a perfect washout at anything else. Be- sides I owe you one. If it hadn't been for those blank checks found in your service coat I might not have—" "For the love of Gawd shoot if you mean to do it," groaned Postlethwait. Peter chuckled grimly. "It would be one way to prove that I didn't kill your friend McGuirk, but a little expensive for you." "What d'you mean by that?" On Cripes' not too able mind the fake-chauffeur's manner was beginning to make an unexpected strange impression. THE OLD, OLD, HOUSE 2*5 "Why you know as well as I do, John, that a crook sticks to tried and true methods. A knife is quick and quiet. The man that uses one—successfully—on several occasions—wouldn't be risking the noise of a gun," Peter explained swiftly. "And you haven't got a knife on you," muttered Cripes with a wondering glance. "I'll take my oath on that." "Not my tool," said Peter coolly, "but I warn you I can shoot equally well with either hand—and—you're coming with me. Right now!" "Where?" It was little more than a gasp, but obedi- ent to his captor's gesture, John moved reluctantly forward. "That depends. I don't want to turn you over to the police—" "You! A fat chance! You'd never have the nerve." "Why not? Captain Kerrigan is one of my best friends and a fellow worker." "Graft? You're lying. You couldn't fix Kerrigan. It's been tried." "He'll be proud of your good opinion when—or if—I tell him. Go through this door," Peter added sternly. "Say! Look here, Peters. You can't bluff me that you're a dick. I ain't that dumb." "But I have been on the police force, and in the secret service." Peter grinned. "Just now I'm on my own. A private investigator, engaged in clearing up a series of jewel robberies, in the first of which I be- lieve you, Mr. Cripes, had the honor to participate." 226 DEAD END STREET "Yah! I'll believe that when—" "Shut up and keep stepping," Peter ordered. "I'll convince you soon enough. Go down those stairs and keep reaching for the moon." He paused for an in- stant to lock the door at the top of the cellar stairs, he slipped the key in his pocket and followed with noise- less precipitancy. Arrived at the bottom Cripes glanced desolately about him. "If you're the bloke I took you for, even your gun won't be heard down here, so get it over. I've been swimming all day and I'm sleepy." "Swimming? Where?" "Oh, three or four times around the island. What's it to you?" "You've been hiding in Inwood Park and you went swimming in Spuyten Duyvil Creek," Peter hazarded hastily. "And if so?" "Did you get in around the boats there in the cove? Is there a small launch anchored out a bit called the 'Arethusia'?" "So then what?" "There is." Peter's voice expressed tremendous satisfaction. "Then by heaven I'm on the right track. He covers the name when he makes his getaway so the river police haven't spotted him, but it all fits! Come along, John. We're going places." "You're fixed to outvote me," Cripes growled, but his glance had become less fearful. He balked at little, however, when Peter's flashlight disclosed the old stone stairway that led down into the earthy darkness. 228 DEAD END STREET "even if you was hooked up with the police, you couldn't pin nothing on me. I admit I'd been watching Mr. Arthur, on the beach out to Honolulu, for several days thinking he looked like some kind of a handy prospect. Opportunity that shouldn't be missed. Don't knock twice as the saying is. But saving his life—well now that kinda does something to you. I've served him faithful ever since. Fair and square, I tell you! And as for them confounded checks! I could no more forge a check than I could blow down the back of my neck. How they got into my pocket I haven't no more idea— unless—" "S-s-hush," warned Peter, suddenly shutting off his flashlight. "We're there. Watch your step, John. Don't make a false move as you value your life. If you run, you'll get shot and questions will be asked afterward. I mean it. Now do exactly as I tell you. Ready?" The grip on his shoulder made the smaller man wince but its quiet strength carried a certain convic- tion. He could not see the aperture through which he was drawn, but he was conscious that they were again in the open air. "Keep close to the wall. This way." Peter whispered in his ear. "Now. Hold in a bit and you can easily slide through. Your friend McGuirk was a little man and must have been lifted up to clear these bushes. Coat twisted tight around him so he wouldn't bleed." "Oh, Gawd," moaned Cripes. "If you know that much—" In his agony of dread the little safe breaker had CHAPTER XXII AND BACK "History repeats itself so soon!" said Peter airily. "For the love of all the angels! Pete! Where in hell did you come from?" "I'll show you in a minute, Jake, but first—" He drew his reluctant companion into the spotlight. "Captain Kerrigan, allow me to present Mr. Marma- duke Smithers Cripes—but for brevity you may call him John—like they call the Prince of Wales David, you know." "For crying out loud!" It was the police detective's last word in exasperation. "Here I get tipped off by Finkleburg that you've disappeared off the face of the earth, Pete, and you come up smiling with a guy in your pocket that we've been hunting for all over the sapworks. I give up. What's the answer?" "Shut off that light and I'll tell you." Peter spoke in a low voice. "I think our man's busy elsewhere and that we're safe enough but I've had to leave a little too much evidence behind to suit me. A key gone, a door unlocked, and a big wooden bar sawed through." "What in thunder are you talking about? Do you know?" "I'd almost think it was a pipe dream myself, Jake, if it hadn't come true." Peter's excitement was evi- dent—and contagious. "Did Finkleburg get word to 230 AND BACK 831 you to have a couple of men cover that old house on Seaman Avenue, back and front?" "Yes, and of all the nutty—" "But did you do it?" "You needn't shake the life out of that arm. I may need it if I stick around you," Kerrigan grumbled. "Yes. The men are posted, inconspicuous, the way you said. Crazy idea. I had a look myself. The place's boarded up, tight as a drum." "That's why you didn't see my light." "Your light? D'you mean to tell me you've been in- side?" "Me and my fellow servant here." Peter flung his arm caressingly around the shoulders of the little man who had slipped modestly aside. "Don't go, John. Cap- tain Kerrigan is a bit rough, like a butternut, but the kernel is sound and vurry, vurry sweet." "Nuts to you, Pete. Can't you be serious?" "I can and will, Jake," Clancy retorted with a com- plete change of tone. "Follow me and I'll show you something amazing. You, too, John. You're invited. And don't be afraid. We've got nothing on you, but we don't mean to lose you either. Get the idea? If you want to find out more about the man who murdered Spud McGuirk, you stick to me. I'm after his scalp if it takes me the rest of my life." "The man that killed McGuirk?" Kerrigan's head shot out like a turtle's from its shell. "And Con Grogan—" Peter paused an instant "as well as poor Michael Duffy." "Not Mike! Not the same man, Pete. It couldn't be. 232 DEAD END STREET Mike Duffy was never mixed up in any crime in his life—I mean on the wrong side," Kerrigan protested hotly. "No. But he knew the devil we're after. Knew all about him—to date—and had no suspicions. Mike might be alive and well now if he'd believed in mira- cles." "I hate your infernal riddles, Pete. Can't you speak out?" "And let you have the laugh on me if I happen to be wrong? No, Jake. I'll only say that I believe that if poor Duffy could have been persuaded that miracles— intermittent miracles—were possible, that devil would not have punished him for his lack of faith. Until I've had time to put you wise to this present night's dis- coveries, I've nothing more to impart. We're wasting time, and we've only just started. Allez oop!" "Well I'll be eternally hornswoggled!" grunted Ker- rigan as he crowded through after Peter behind the screen of debris. "How in thunder—" "It was the kitten," Peter explained briefly. "The blood on her foot that I washed off on that handker- chief, and that you identified as human. Plus the fact that she must have come by a short cut, somehow. Easy to see that she slipped in after— Wait! Don't step. See here!" Kerrigan's staring eyes followed the pointing ray of light. Peter went on hurriedly: "A tall thin man, he must have been, Jake. See?" "Just about your height and weight, Mister Peters," John put in with helpful conviction. Kerrigan gave S34 DEAD END STREET spiderwebs in the worn empty rooms had not been dis- turbed for many years. "Now what?" said Kerrigan when they were once more in the old kitchen. "I agree it looks like a murder was committed out there in the hall. The body might have been pulled along here. Look at those long rubbed places in the dust. Not conclusive of course, but might fit. And what's this?" He had stepped out onto the worn old red brick of the entry. "Did you see this, Pete?" "No. Was in a hurry. But—" Clancy wet his finger and rubbed it gingerly along the stain on the floor at one side of the cellar door. "Looks like it, right enough." He showed the repellent brownish crimson color upon the tip, removed it hastily and continued in a low forbidding voice: "Stopped to pick up the body to carry it down the stairs. Must have fixed it so it didn't bleed again. ... At least we didn't find any—farther along. . . . He came back this way—that I'm sure of. He was in a hurry and didn't notice the kitten. ... It must have slipped in behind him—and out again. ... So little and black he probably didn't see her at all . . . but she stepped in this. . . ." He paused an instant and glanced up into Kerrigan's in- tent eyes. "Was it chance, Jake? Just accident? What do you think?" "Maybe its only because you've all the luck," Ker- rigan replied soberly. "But I will say for you, Pete, that you know dam' well how to use it. Have you any more little tricks up your sleeve?" "I don't know," said Peter with a quick change of AND BACK 237 we throw a heavy guard around the whole works and bust her wide open in the morning." "Get thee behind me, Satan. You know very well we can't do that except as the very last resort." Peter's somewhat weary voice still held its customary lilt of excitement. "If you're not sold on the idea that the cache is here, I am. And that being admitted, if the infernal scoundrel who planted it has no idea it's been lifted, he's bound to come for it. See?" "Of course I do, but how—" "We've got to maintain a guard here day and night, —back, front and in the old warehouse down by the water. Selected men that know how to keep under cover. He mustn't suspect. And when the time comes —" Peter made an expressive gesture. "Swell." Kerrigan nodded, but there was sarcasm in his voice. "I can just hear the handcuffs snap. I sup- pose we keep this guard on indefinitely." "It may not be long." There was a light in Peter's eyes. "It may be sooner than you think." Kerrigan stirred and glanced uneasily about in the veiled shadows. Each man had a flashlight. There was no other illumination possible. No electricity laid on. No gas. John was peering half-heartedly around, one eye lifting now and then to his self-elected companions. Rats scurried and squeaked, fleeing from this slight amount of light. Peter touched Kerrigan on the arm and drew him away until they were quite near the foot of the stairs that led up to the kitchen. "Do you notice anything peculiar right around here?" He spoke scarcely above a whisper. Kerrigan, 238 DEAD END STREET puzzled, shook his head and Peter continued in the same low tone: "You can put dust back, and you can put ashes back, but cobwebs, Jake, take a considerable time to get as thick as they are all around this cellar— except—" He lifted one finger without moving his dropped hand and pointed to the door of the old burned out furnace. "Couldn't be as easy as that," growled Kerrigan just above his breath. "May not be so easy when we get inside. But this door has been disturbed within the last week or I miss my guess." Kerrigan nodded again, with a quick sidelong look. "Think I'd better snap the bracelets on our friend Cripes and take him upstairs just to make sure, on the off chance we—" "It would leave him frightfully vulnerable," Peter objected hurriedly. "I don't think it's necessary. We can take steps— And believe me there are worse fellows in the world than John Marmaduke." The little safe breaker had keen ears. "Did you call me, sir?" "Yes." Peter beckoned to him. "You go up to the top of the stairs here. The door's locked so you needn't be afraid. Keep your ear to the crack and let us know if there's the least noise. Understand?" "Y-yes, sir. OK." "And make it snappy," said Kerrigan. "Now, Pete—" John's head was over his shoulder as slowly he climbed the old flight of stairs. He dumped himself AND BACK 239 wearily on the top step and leaned his ear against the door jamb. It was a fine post of observation—up to a point. He could see Peters up as far as his belt and a little above, but his head and part of his arms had disappeared through the huge old-fashioned door of the furnace. Presently the red head was drawn back, its vivid color dimmed with ashes. Peter, panting for breath, shook it impatiently. "Can hardly breath in there. The flue is closed and rusted home. I can't move it. The hot air pipes have nothing in 'em but dust as far as I can see—or reach. John says he's about my height, so—" "Well, I didn't think—" Kerrigan began but Peter, coughing, finished—"So I'll go at it again—as soon as I get my breath. Lord, what wouldn't I give for a drink of water." "Would a shot o' gin help, sir?" John bent down eagerly reaching out a cheap thin flashy flask. "You bet! Anything! . . . Thanks a lot, old man." Peter noticed that John remained several steps down from the top but he hadn't the heart to order him back. Not so Kerrigan. "Lay your ear to the ground again, Cripes," he ordered crisply. "And don't try any she- nanagin." He turned back to his colleague. "Want me to try, Pete?" "Afraid you'll stick in the door, and I've a much longer reach. If we could get a light in from the other side—" Kerrigan quickly disappeared around behind the 24o DEAD END STREET furnace. There was a sharp rending sound followed by his eager voice: "I've pulled off one of the old hot air pipes, Pete. I can stick my flashlight through; and—" a gasp—"Holy suffering Moses! Stick your head in there. No! Not your head. Your arm. Reach up now. Crook your elbow. Reach back— There's a recess over the top of the door. Something there—I can only get one eye on it, but it looks— Got it?" In his excitement as he dashed back to the front of the furnace Ker- rigan collided with Cripes, but he hardly noticed it. "What is it, Pete? Let's see! My—lord!" "Careful, Jake! Don't break the seals, you chump!" cried Peter, his hands fairly trembling with eagerness. "Some package. Wrapped so carefully. And the paper almost clean, Jake. Notice that? In this condition it can't have been here for more than a week maybe. Here. Wait. Let me!" With swiftness born of long experience he whipped out a penknife, warmed the blade in the flame of his cigarette lighter, rubbed it clean on his old trousers and deftly worked it under the seals of a rectangular package about the dimensions of a large flat cigar box. The paper came away neatly. Peter laid it aside with great care. The other two men watched him in breath- less silence. The lock of the Japanned metal box was a mere bagatelle to Peter. He held out his hand and without a word John returned the svelt kit of tools that he had secretly hoped to continue to retain. An instant later, without damage to the mechanism, Peter had the box open. AND BACK 241 "If it was me it would be a bomb," sniffed Kerrigan, "but with your luck, Pete— Oh, by all that's—" John Postlethwait said "Jeese!" in a slow, reverent whisper. Between layers of jewelers' cotton was a blaze of un- set gems. To one who knew their value the sight was enough to bring the hot blood surging up to pound in the ears. The sheer beauty took one by the throat. But queen and ruler of all was the diamond button of the Maharajah of Lahore. "The Light of Asia." Worth a king's ransom. Imperial. Unmistakable. For a minute Peter's heart stood still. Instinctively both he and Kerrigan reached for their guns, and looked hastily—dreadfully—behind them. Poor Cripes had dropped to his knees. Things like these were far beyond his wildest effort of imagination and he was afraid to the very marrow of his soul. "Hide 'em," he whispered. "There's blood on 'em already. Look." With trembling dirty finger he pointed to a little pool of red reflection under a huge glow- ing ruby. "Put 'em away, for Gawd's sake. It's enough to drive a man crazy." "Crazy," Peter repeated slowly. "Enough. No doubt. . . . But how useless. How utterly useless these pieces of shining stone. Just stones. Brightly colored. Fiery— but you can't warm yourself and can't even get money for them—now."' "No?" The eyebrows ran slanting up Cripes' red, beaded forehead. "Gosh, they sure look the dough to me." Kerrigan, scarcely above a whisper, said: "What 242 DEAD END STREET now, Pete?" "He mustn't know they're gone! We must fix it— Give me your handkerchief, Jake. So. Tight. . . . And mine. . . . That takes care of them all—and who'd suspect? So much—in so little space. Seems impossible! . . . Put them in your trousers' pockets. One on each side. That's right. Hardly bulge at all." "I'm not crazy about jewelry," said Kerrigan bit- terly. "Does it seem hardly fair, Pete? After all, it was you that found it." "But I can't possibly keep it. You must see that, Jake. I'll go with you until we get in touch with a couple of your men. Just wait a minute. John, you give me a hand. We must fix things here. Put back that pipe Captain Kerrigan knocked down. Make every- thing look the way we found it." "What're you doing, Pete?" "We have to leave the box—untouched, Jake. Surely that's plain necessity. With a few bits of plaster and stuff . . . that's about the right weight. . . . Hum— Yes. Now a little heat on the back of the seals." Peter worked swiftly. "It goes against the grain not to take the whole works along and test for finger-prints," muttered Ker- rigan with regret. Peter shook his head. "Not much chance of finding anything worthwhile. Our clever criminal always works with gloves on. There weren't any fingerprints but McGuirk's on that last Tarrytown job—and only those of Cripes on the old one in Newport. . . . There. How does that look? OK? Then back in its FOUR A. M. 245 thwait?" Wiggar asked behind a discreet hand as he reached up and put out the light. "No one must know he's here," Peter replied in a low voice. "We'll have no trouble with him. He's agreed to lie low. He daren't do anything else. By the way, what time did you get in?" "Oh, fairly early, sir. Mr. Arthur went to sleep whilst I was reading. I left only a night light burning and came away. I believe—and hope—he may get a good night's rest." "The same to you, and many of 'em," said Peter sleepily. "And to you. Good night, sir." But with the closing of the door Peter's mind jerked back to the consciousness of strange depression. After all, the finding of the jewels, important though it was, had left him—at length—unappeased. Before him still was the more vital business of capturing the thief— the murderer. And Arthur Madison's condition . . . Sally's des- perate problems. Why must life be so complex—so crowded? Well, so far as was humanly possible—for the present —he had taken care of all contingencies—made all the necessary plans. . . . With practiced exercise of his determined will he put all fearsome thoughts and problems out of his mind and fell at last into a deep and healthful sleep. Thanks to Wiggar's care as well as his own tre- mendous vitality, Peter looked fresh as paint when he rolled back the doors of the garage a few minutes be- 246 DEAD END STREET fore nine-thirty that following morning and discovered a ragged urchin busily engaged in drawing crude pic- tures with odd captions on the flags of the old stable yard. "You get out of this, you young limb of satan," cried Peter advancing upon him. "But wipe out all that stuff before you go. See? You can't mark up private prop- erty like this!" As he spoke, swift and sure his eyes took in the queer cryptic unmeaning words printed in the jagged chalk lines and mixed with characteristically childish rep- resentations of animals and men. He read: No tender A at H H after ten—nine. A little lower down— Owner as specified. Slanting across a wide flag— Est. descends as ordered. Curled around an archaic drawing of a fish— Imported goods ac- counted for as per list. Squeezed down in one corner— #3 no others. It took Peter only a few seconds to decipher these words and to fix them firmly in his retentive memory. Under his breath he said, "That all, Jo?" and added in a raised voice, "Didn't you hear me? I said, get out!" The boy scrawled "Yes," briefly and was already smear- ing out his work under Peter's watchful eye and loudly spurring tongue. "I can't wait any longer, but see you clean things up, you young devil, and skip!" he ad- monished. Leaning down to give the boy a slight smack with his hand he whispered: "Great work, Jo. I under- stand perfectly, tell Captain O'Malley—and thanks." It all fits. By heaven it all fits, Peter thought ex- citedly as he drove under the porte-cochere promptly FOUR A. M. 847 at nine-thirty. Only to find that Mr. Ross would not be ready for perhaps half an hour but the car was to wait. Sally brought the message. Peter's heart smote him when he saw how pale she was and what deep shadows had come into her gay young eyes. "I must speak to you," she whispered. "Couldn't you come in the base- ment way for just a few minutes." "OK." Peter nodded. "Later. You just run along." He waited for a minute then stepped out of the car, glanced up at the house, took out a cigarette tenta- tively, balanced it in his hand, and then as if deciding that he would have time for a smoke, made his way quickly around to the basement door. Sally was waiting for him just outside. Close in the lee of the house she caught him by the arm. "What's happened," said Peter. "Quick." "It's Arthur," she panted. "Wiggar said he was all right last night. He's going out with Mr. Ross, so he was to have an early breakfast in his room. They let me take it in." "Steady, child. You look as if you'd seen a ghost." "A ghost?" She started. "You don't believe— No. Of course not. But he does. Yes, Peter. He does—or else—" "Courage, comrade." Peter held her wrist strongly. "You know the old saying, 'The devil is dead.' It's true in a sense. Cheer up—and let me hear. We haven't much time. What happened?" She put her hand over his and gripped it hard. "I went in with the tray," she said, hurriedly, "put it s48 DEAD END STREET down on the table in his study and spoke to him. I could see him through the door. He was in his dressing gown, standing over by that little cabinet that's built into the wall." "Yes. I remember." Peter was frowning intently. "He called to me. 'Sally, come here,' he said, and he was holding a bottle with a stained label. 'Did you ever see this before?' he asked me, and I looked close at it. There was a red skull and cross-bones and just above, the word POISON it said, 'Photo-bleach.' I'd never looked into that little medicine closet and I told him so. He put the bottle back and shut the door in a kind of panic. I said, 'Don't look like that!' And he came over and caught me by the wrist and pulled me over to that big mirror. And he said, almost in a whisper, 'Look, Sally. Is there anything queer? Do you see anything queer?' "Of course his face was—oh, awfully strange—but I thought he didn't mean that—exactly. And there wasn't anything else. Just the room. With the morning sun coming in those high windows. "Then, as if he couldn't bear it, he said, 'Sally, you do see me. I'm real. I'm there, in the glass, just like you?' "And I said, 'Of course. Why not?' "'Because,' he said, 'sometimes—I look in the glass —and there's nothing there. I mean—the room—and everything—but where I am—there's only a blur—that fades out completely. ... I hear noises that there's no accounting for. . . . And then—I've seen queer shapes—in this very room,' he said. 'Things that ought FOUR A. M. g4g not to be there. That ought not to be anywhere. . . . I look behind me—and there's nothing. But in the glass—I see them moving—dim—and drowned. . . .' And then he said, 'O, God!' and shut his eyes. "I asked him, 'Do you see anything now?' And he said no—if I was with him—if anybody was with him, he felt safe. But he's afraid, Peter. Afraid of his own reflection. He dreads to be left alone—in that room. And yet he seems to dread still more to give in—" "The boy has courage," Peter muttered under his breath. "If he can hold out until— Look here, Sally," he broke off, "you've got to reassure that poor kid. Keep him from going to pieces until I can work things out. There is an answer to all this mess and I'll find it for you. It matters almost as much as—" He leaned down and spoke as if walls could hear. "I made a dis- covery last night. My personal war is nearly over—I hope. At present Arthur—and you—are my most im- mediate concern. I want to help you. I have a plan. But I can't tell you now. Only—here's what you can do." From an unseen source he produced a small bit of engraved pasteboard. "Write this." He handed her a stub of pencil and dictated briefly. Then with a re- assuring grasp of her fingers, he nodded quickly and left her staring. Hastening back to the car, he seated himself at the wheel and in a few minutes to all appearance was sound asleep. He grinned sheepishly when wakened some little time later by Miss Fresno's voice, and re- sponded with the facile alacrity of a well-trained but naturally indolent servant. FOUR A. M. 251 ledgerdemain, Peter slipped the card into an inner pocket. He could almost see the face of the girl as he had spoken to her that morning. Arthur, too, had the same lovely vision before his mind's eye. Her courage. Her exquisite sympathy, kindness—and un- derstanding—of all that he dared to let her guess. "Sally's told me of some of the strange things that are happening in your house," Peter whispered ur- gently. "I want to talk to you about them. Now. There's no time to lose. Will you listen?" "Yes." It was a tribute to the unconscious force of Peter's character as well as to the impression that Sally Howard had made in those few short weeks, and the feeling she had inspired in Arthur's lonely heart. "Thank you, sir," the chauffeur said in his most respectful tone. He closed the car door promptly, with a loud crisp bang, and went around to the driver's seat. The boy was directly behind him. The glass panel between them was deftly and unostentatiously pushed aside. A slight twist of the little mirror above the front glass brought the man and boy eye to eye. "I can't waste any more words," said Peter Clancy distinctly but with a minimum movement of the lips. "Can you hear me?" Arthur Madison's eyes in the glass answered in the affirmative. "These may seem like silly precautions to you," Peter said hastily, "but I have a feeling we may be watched—from some unlikely place." Arthur picked up the morning paper from the seat beside him and appeared to be reading. "Go on," he 25* DEAD END STREET said just above his breath. "No need to speak aloud. I can read your lips," Peter explained swiftly. "I read your poor Aunt's story yesterday from her's." At the look of incredulity on Arthur's face, he went on. "You may believe me. It's the actual truth. And I'm very sorry for Mrs. Ross. If it was she who, unknown to him, had put the pho- tographic bleach in her untidy young brother's medi- cine closet, and so was responsible, in a way, for his mistaking it in the dark for cough syrup, no wonder she cannot bear, even now, to hear him mentioned. It ought to make you feel quite differently about—" "If she was telling the truth!" Though he only formed them with his lips the words seemed heavy with foreboding. "You think she might have been guilty of wishing for her brother's death? That she might purposely—" "Oh, no. No. I didn't mean that at all." "But your grandfather cut her out of his will. When you come of age she will be dependent on your bounty as she was on your father's. Would your grandfather have done that without strong provocation?" "It's too—too horrible." The struggle not to show his emotion made Arthur's face white and curiously austere. "Everywhere I turn! Whom can I trust? Doc- tor Browning believes my uncle was—insane—and died by his own hand. He practically admitted it." "He thinks a very great deal of your aunt. He would do a great deal in what he believed to be her interest. And he may know nothing of the truth. She would necessarily keep it a secret from any but her nearest CHAPTER XXIV IN A CLASS, DARKLY A dark windy night. From one of the apartment houses at the foot of the street, although it was close on mid- night, a radio of ear-shattering power was tuned in on a jazz program that was being played by an orchestra half the world away. Somehow the strident strains seemed only to accentuate the silence that brooded over the big old house at the top of the hill. Nothing here but the wind. No sound as three figures emerged from the side door of the old stone stable, and as silent-footed as panthers gained the other side of the street. "On the rocks," said the red-headed chauffeur, meditatively, looking up at the dark pile that crowned the cliff. "Did you ever think, my good William, that there is a vast and vital difference between 'building on a rock,' and 'being on the rocks'—though the two phrases are so nearly identical?" "A vast and vital difference," echoed the butler- valet, appreciatively. "Quite so, sir." "You understand what you're to do, Wiggar?" "Oh, perfectly, sir." "I can't trust anyone else not to make mistakes." "Thank you, sir." It was more than a conventional phrase. The pump that kept the valet's well-cared for machinery going was doing double duty but would 254 258 DEAD END STREET stairway, along the short passage, tapped ever so faintly on Arthur's door, and slowly pushed it open. The boy lay in his bed in the middle of the long room. A small night light burned on the table beside him. His face was turned toward the dark space where the door was softly moving. They could see that his eyes were open but, following the strange instructions that Clancy had hurriedly but clearly given him, he did not stir or make a sign. Even when Peter, finger on lip, drew the girl into view, the boy's body remained immovable, but his face lighted up with eager joy that was suddenly eclipsed with apprehension. Vibrant with emotion, she held out her hands to him in a gesture of indescribable kindness and reas- surance, and yielding to Peter's touch on her arm, slipped with him and John Postlethwait along the wall to the closet—the same closet from which Peter had so narrowly escaped the evening before when Arthur had insisted on looking for his old dressing gown that had disappeared. Wiggar had saved him then as on many previous occasions. What was happening to the faithful fellow now? No time to consider. Every faculty focussed on the matter directly, fatefully, before him Peter had pulled the closet door to. Instantly Sally felt a triangle of soft silk that was being deftly knotted across her face. It left only the eyes exposed. Trembling at the necessity of this pre- caution, she twisted her head and could just make out that John was performing a like service for Peter Clancy, after which the ex-valet drew out and held the sleeve of a dark coat in such a position that noth- IN A GLASS, DARKLY 261 man, whose need had awakened her to fierce, pas- sionate, defensive womanhood? How would he en- dure these dragging minutes in the silent room where the hideous menace of madness had been ground into his very soul? . . . All the confidence that they had tried to instill— would it be strong enough to withstand this ordeal of waiting—watching—for what? It was well-nigh unbear- able even to her. What must it be then to him? What images might even now be passing before those half- closed eyes? How could she tell what he was seeing— and yet keeping himself so horribly, deathly still? Her teeth closed tight on her lower lip, holding it steady. She was thankful for the hard, strong grip of Peter's hands on her shoulders. Except for this she might have been alone in that awesome shadowy place for all the sense there was of human normality. The minutes passed. . . . Silence. . . . Then, with awful clarity, somewhere out in the great hall, a clock struck twelve. Slowly. Fatefully. Like a knell for the day that was dead. Upon the last stroke, suddenly Sally's heart swelled to bursting. Her clenched hands turned cold as ice. If it had not been for the man, standing like a rock behind her, she might have dropped to the floor. . . . Close by, faint at first, then seemingly in the very room, there sounded a quiet steady rapping. . . . Strange that so commonplace a thing could seem to fill the air with dread. It ceased, but in the long breath-taking pause, though nothing moved, the suspense and horror car- 26a DEAD END STREET ried on, like an over-tone in music. She thought the silence was worse than the rapping until, eerily, it began again—a pattern of insistent, intermittent sounds, as of a ghostly message that pled to be decoded. The strain of listening seemed almost more than she could bear. Her mind was on stretch to grasp the mean- ing of those strangely articulate muffled beats, when, suddenly she was aware that Arthur Madison was sit- ting bolt upright in his bed. Had it not been for Peter's hand across her lips, she knew she would have CTied aloud when she saw the look on that pale, drawn young face. Why was he staring—staring—past the foot of the bed into the depths of the great mirror that had held for him such images of dread? The mirror itself she could not see, only its reflection in the glass of the bureau. She felt the compelling hand upon her mouth forcing—forcing her gaze away from Arthur, and toward his image in the opposing mirrors. There she saw it distinct and awful. Arthur's face, scarcely less white than the pillow behind it. The night light showed it to her, clear and plain, in double reflection. Then— Was she, too, going mad? Surely the light in the room was growing dim. And yet in the great mirror, strangely, unaccountably, it seemed to brighten. Every detail showed sharply in that curious dark glow. The fireplace. The long dark windows. The bed, tossed open—and empty. Empty. A scream that she had only just strength enough to IN A GLASS, DARKLY 263 stifle came tearing up into Sally's throat. Peter's strong arm held her fast. She thought her heart had stopped beating forever— And instantly the room was as it had been. Arthur still sat motionless among the pillows, his eyes straining toward his own image, now clear again in the glass. He was real—real as any of them. She could see it. Know it. There was no way—no possible way. No one could fade out of his own surroundings like that—and leave an utter blank. . . . But she had seen that, too. Vanished into thin air! No! The mind could not face that. ... If it came again! Oh, God— The light was fading. She must bear it. Must. Peter was back of her, holding her steady with a harsh strong grip. Whatever happened— The night light now was only a glowing filament. The room they looked into seemed to exist only in the mirror where every detail showed darkly brilliant. Nothing stirred in the darkened room. The listening watchers, staring through burning eyes, could swear it. Yet in the mirror, unthinkable, unaccountable, a strange shape moved. A tall slender figure wrapped in a man's black opera cape of a bygone day. Walter Madison, dead for long years, but as real to the sight as invincible reality! Not pausing to remove the pic- turesque broad black hat, but with accustomed, dread- ful sureness, he crossed straight to the medicine closet and jerking open the door, took out the bottle that Arthur had shown Sally that very morning. The girl's soul seemed to die within her. With hor- rible deliberation the dark figure, still half turned 264 DEAD END STREET away, poured the contents of the bottle into a glass, lifted it as if to propose a toast, and drained it to the dregs. Then suddenly the room was filled with an awful deafening crash—the sound of splintering glass—and utter darkness. CHAPTER XXV THE END OF THE PASSAGE "Lights! Wiggar! Lights!" The wild shout rose high above the tumult. An instant more the black-out held, then fiercely all the lights flashed up—and disclosed Peter Clancy, like a maniac, raining blow after shat- tering blow upon the haunted mirror. One swift leap from his bed, and Arthur was beside him. "What are you doing? Oh, thank God!" He turned and caught Sally as she staggered forward. "Dear— brave girl," he panted, "you shouldn't—" "Don't get too close!" Peter's voice rang out in an agony of triumph above the noise of splintering glass. A final crashing, slicing blow—and he was gone— through the wreck of the mirror—into a room beyond. The boy and girl clinging together, gazed, speechless upon the staggering revelation. Another room. . . . Furnished precisely like the one in which they stood. Every detail—window for window, chair for chair— even the counterpart of the dressing gown that his loving uncle had given him. But this one had fallen to the floor—beside a tall, slender figure muffled in an opera cloak that had once belonged to Walter Madison. "Florence! Florence Fresno!" Heedless of danger from the splinters of glass that 265 266 DEAD END STREET still clung to the opening, Arthur had followed Peter into the duplicate room. Swiftly Peter lifted the unconscious woman and laid her on the bed beside which the counterpart of Arthur's night light still burned. Without the broad hat, the resemblance was not so perfect, but with it this off-shoot of the family tree was astonishingly like the old photograph of Arthur's young uncle who had died in that room. Peter wasted but an instant in examination. "She's only fainted," he said grimly. "Take care of her, John." "Oh! Will I!" The astonished joy in the round red face was sufficient guarantee. As Peter turned rapidly away Arthur clutched him by the arm. He was staring all about with dazed eyes. "My room," he breathed. "The same. The very same. But in reverse 1" "Your Uncle Walter's," Peter corrected, his words tumbling over themselves. "A freak of your grand- father's to have two rooms designed and decorated ex- actly alike for his twin sons. I figured it might be so. Measured. And found the upstairs hall was fifteen feet too long." Peter glanced about exultantly. "This room was closed—on account of a dreadful tragedy— and secretly reopened for a purpose so damnable—" "Horrors! I begin to—" Arthur staggered, but Peter held him in a vital grip, while with his free hand he jerked a big splinter from the mirror frame that masked a communicating door. "Yes!" His voice was keen with almost uncontrol- lable excitement. "It's as I thought. A kind of Argus THE END OF THE PASSAGE 267 glass. Special importation. Used in jewelry shops, speakeasys, gambling places, and some kinds of private hotels. Made of two thicknesses of glass. See? A mir- ror—or transparent—depending on which side the light is. Do you understand?" "Partly. Enough to know—" Arthur reached out sud- denly and caught Sally in his arms "—to know that what I saw was real. That I'm not going mad, dear girl! That thanks to you—" Peter heard no more. Through the door that had been previously designated as belonging to a closet, he clashed into Leon Ross' room. The bed had not been slept in and though the wheel-chair stood pathetically beside it, the poor helpless invalid had disappeared. In a flash Peter was in the hall. "Wiggar!" he called. "Right, sir." A voice close at hand. "I was just lock- ing Mrs. Ross' door, sir. She'll be safer inside." "Wiggar! You old—" Peter clutched his arm. "Was he there?" "At the switch in the pantry, sir. Putting the lights on and off. He and Miss Fresno must have re- hearsed—" "Yes, but—" "It all went quite as you planned, sir. When the noise broke out I allowed myself to be discovered and speedily overcome. After which, like a shot, he was off through the south basement entrance. Undoubtedly toward the upper wicket gate. As you foresaw—" "Wiggar! You're bleeding." "Only a scratch, Mr. Peter, I do assure you. I knew he'd try a knife and was prepared. Don't let it delay 268 DEAD END STREET you, sir." "They're all set to get along without me," Peter retorted fiercely. "Pull off your coat." "It's just a slight cut in the forearm. I can tie it up myself—" But Peter was already winding an improvised band- age about the obviously superficial wound. It took scarcely a minute. Then, like an eager boy he slammed the valet on the shoulder. "Come on, my bucko," he cried. "You deserve to be in at the death and by heavens, with any luck we'll make it!" "Not that way. Down hill, you chump," Peter ex- claimed as they dashed out into the open air. "They're to let him go all the way through and come out with the 'goods' he's sold his soul for. He'll make good time, but we'll easily be there before him because we don't have to stop." He pulled back one side of the main gate that one of Kerrigan's assistants had pur- posely left ajar, and they raced on, lightly and evenly down the steep street. The excitement had broken down a bit of Wiggar's stoical reserve. As they ran he had the temerity to put a direct question. "How, if you don't mind, sir"—he was panting a little—"did you know that Mr. Ross was not as afflicted as he seemed?" "Miss Fresno wasn't the kind to fall so hard for a cripple." Peter's breath came quick but easily. "I don't know about the jewels and the murders but she was in this last damned plot up to the hilt. I could forgive the other things easier—except for poor Mike Duffy. His only fault was recognizing Ross—somewhere—ac- THE END OF THE PASSAGE 269 tive—on his feet—when all the neighborhood had been carefully given to understand that he could scarcely move alone. I suspect it happened when Ross landed from the 'Arethusia's' tender. The boat's been gone from the old Madison dock in Huntington Harbor, O'Malley found out for me, since October ninth— the night of the Tarrytown robbery. You know all about that." He touched Wiggar's arm and they both slowed down before crossing the lighted avenue. A dark in- conspicuous car with only parking lights on had halted near the sunken area of the old house, the earliest home of the Madisons, as Peter had been assured that morning by O'Malley's cryptic answer—"Owner as designated." This as well as the reply to Peter's third question—stating that there were "no other" heirs; that the "est." was to descend intact to Arthur upon his coming of age, and the knowledge that Leon Ross had been appointed guardian by his unsuspicious brother-in-law, made the plot against the boy hide- ously clear. After a protracted program of continu- ous horrors Arthur's mind might indeed have given way. Doctor Browning, with a fine record but old and slipping, would have been easy to handle. If the boy were judged insane, Ross would have remained his guardian as long as his own plans required and the menace of an accounting of stewardship indefi- nitely postponed. In the event of Mrs. Ross' death, (which Peter believed would soon have followed) Ross would still have been in the saddle—could have married the Fresno girl if he would—and perhaps 270 DEAD END STREET would never have been obliged to part with the gems which were to him an insane passion. Some of these thoughts flashed through Peter's ex- cited brain as almost without pause they crossed Sea- man Avenue and entered the short dimly lighted block that led to the street without a name. The wind in the dark marsh sounded like whisper- ing voices. The mist of unseen waterways came driv- ing coldly in. Black shadows of ruined walls crowded desolately, narrowing the old broken paving. With Wiggar close upon his heels, Peter crept along the wall until they were near the opening into the large roofless room with the mound of debris in the cor- ner. Nothing stirred. Somewhere in the darkness a cat mewed softly and then was still. Peter raised his little hand-torch and flashed a level ray—once—twice—across the wide ruined door. Instantly two round blots of light appeared in close succession upon the floating mist. "Kerrigan's there." Peter turned his head to whis- per. "And we're in time. Follow me." Lighted only by the distant reflected glow upon the low-ceiled sky, creeping silent as ghosts, they passed across the weed-grown floor. With eyes ac- customed to the darkness they could make out dimly the figures of three men waiting motionless and in utter silence against the wall just to the left of the bushy mound. "We won't crowd them," Peter whispered. "Stop here." With his light he signalled his position to *7« DEAD END STREET have just one thought—to get to his boat— His mind's not capable of anything else—now—I'm sure. He might try to get back—but when he finds the tunnel door locked—" Peter's nervousness was infectious. Wiggar could hardly bear the silence. Still unappeased, his curios- ity was getting the upper hand again. Mr. Peter could satisfy him—with a word. After a minute he ventured, soft but eager: "What made you suspect—in the first place, sir?" "Planting those checks on John. Who but Ross or the Fresno girl could have done it? John was known to be devoted and had to be gotten rid of. He might cause trouble—or delay. We all had too good refer- ences to be objects of suspicion," Peter answered rapidly. It was a relief to hear the low sound of Wiggar's quiet voice—and his own. "You get the way they worked out the illusions of course. Since the firm imports it, Ross knew all about Argus glass. He realized that so long as Walter's old room was dark, they could look through the open communicating door and through the mirror practically as if it were window glass. Most of the furnishings are built in and if a chair or anything was moved they could put its duplicate in the same position. When they were ready they dimmed the lights in Arthur's room, and gradually put them on in Walter's—where, of course, the bed—was empty. Hideous. Damnable! Enough to drive any young—impressionable—" He broke off, clamping down on Wiggar's arm and drew him closer back into the shadow. Every fiber EDITOR'S NOTE It has vanished. The extension of one of the rest- less city's great Parkways has passed directly through its broken heart and the old Madison mansion has been swept away on the tide of development and change. The timely sale did much to recoup the family's fallen fortunes but the ties that bound them to that rock were broken. A sweet but rather foolish old lady lives content- edly in a cottage on her nephew's estate in Green Spring Valley. The stately old home of the Howards is filled now with laughter and happy faces. To it, whenever possible, comes Captain Kerrigan of the New York police, and Rumor says— But Rumor is a busybody and has no place in a sober, truthful his- tory. .. *74 Recent and Forthcoming RED BADGE Books THE A. B. C. MURDERS By Agatha Christie THE LOSS OF THE JANE VOSPER By Freeman Wills Crofts TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL By Arthur M. Chase DEAD END STREET By Lee Thayer HENDON'S FIRST CASE By John Rhode THE PENROSE MYSTERY By R. Austin Freeman