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THE GIFT OF
Crime Club



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THE MOVING FINGER


Other books by
CORTLAND FITZSIMMONS
THE WHISPERING WINDOW
No WITNESS
70,000 WITNESSES
RED RHAPSODY
DEATH ON THE DIAMOND
CRIMSON ICE
PSODY


The
MOVING FINGER
By
CORTLAND FITZSIMMONS
An Ethel Thomas
Detective Story

STOKES COMPANY
MCMXXXVII


Copyright, 1937, by Cortland Fitzsimmons
All rights reserved. No part of this
wor\ may be reproduced without the
written permission of the publishers.
Printed in the United States of America





ok.
Crime club
1-10.89
The moving finger writes: and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line
Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.





THE MOVING FINGER


The characters and situations in this book
are wholly fictional and imaginative; do not
portray, and are not intended to portray, any
actual persons or situations.


THE MOVING FINGER
I
It is difficult to say just when a particular adventure
begins but my activities started the moment I received
Beth Doane's cable asking me to sponsor Althea
Madison when she arrived in America. Knowing some-
thing of her story I was interested in her long-delayed
arrival in the United States. I expected my contact with
her to be mildly amusing, but contrary to precon-
ceived ideas I found myself involved in a series of
baffling murders with this unknown girl.
It was early July and unbearably hot. I was in no
mood for a party, but having a sense of obligation to
Beth and feeling sorry for this girl who was re-
turning to her native land a stranger, I did the best I
could with the material at hand. Immediately, I began
calling the few people who either by accident or choice
happened to be in New York. Had it been in the sea-
son, I'd have planned a reception for her instead of a
cocktail party. As it was, I didn't want the poor child
roaming about New York alone, depending on an old
woman for her sole entertainment.
I reckoned without the girl however because I've
never known any one more capable of taking care of
i


2 THE MOVING FINGER
herself. I went down to meet her when she docked.
She looked and acted like a lady, but that didn't sur-
prise me, because she came of good stock and if family
and breeding mean anything the girl had had a good
start. She had poise and dignity that was neither cold
nor repelling. She was cordially grateful for my atten-
tiveness and said so, but she refused to make my house
her headquarters, preferring to go to the Macon-
Astoria.
She was a dark and lovely child. I couldn't restrain
the impulse to kiss her as we parted. If she was sur-
prised, she didn't show it. As a matter of fact, I think
she clung hungrily to my hand for a moment but that
may have been pure imagination.
I'm so old myself that I think all people under fifty
mere children. Althea was twenty-seven or eight. I'm
not quite sure because she was born abroad. She had
had a very unusual life. Her father and mother were
married in Paris after Herbert Madison had followed
Elsie Stewart halfway round the globe. They stayed
on in Europe after the wedding until Althea was born.
When business finally brought them home, they i
came without the baby. If I thought about it at all, I
suppose I thought of Elsie as the first of the modern
mothers. The child was never brought to America.
Elsie Madison made repeated trips to see her baby but
there was always some reason, so she said, why it did
not seem wise to bring her home.
Althea was in a French convent when the War


THE MOVING FINGER 3
broke out. I can remember Elsie Madison's tearful
frenzy at the time. Somehow she managed to have
Althea moved to England (Herbert had very powerful
connections) where the child would be comparatively
safe.
After the Germans began raiding England from the
air, Elsie insisted that Althea be brought home. As
soon as it could be arranged Herbert and Elsie set sail
for England. They were lost on the ill-fated husitania
when it went down. Neither Herbert nor Elsie had
any family; they were both the last of their lines. Con-
sequently Althea became the charge of the trustees of
the estate. They seemed to think it expedient to leave
her in England. Later when she was old enough to
have ideas and opinions of her own, she elected to stay
abroad.
As I busied myself and my household with prepara-
tions for the party during the next few days, I had no
idea that I was to see the beginning of a stormy ro-
mance and would become entangled in a series of weird
and horrible murders.
Althea had come to America to take over her fortune,
which was a large one in spite of the inroads made on
the original holdings by the depression. She was busy
with trustees, lawyers and banks immediately. I called
her each morning just to have a chat because I didn't
want her to feel too alone. I sensed a change in her
soon after her arrival. She showed none of the eager
interest and excitement I had expected. Instead she


4 THE MOVING FINGER
was seriously preoccupied and coolly aloof. I tried to
be casual in the face of her coolness and suggested din-
ners and luncheons which she declined politely, giving
the heat as an excuse. I had no intention of forcing
myself on her and decided that after the party I would
let her go her own way.
The evening before the party, everything was ready.
My mind should have been at ease, but it wasn't. As I
think back on it now I was filled with the expectancy
of things to come. That may seem sheer nonsense but
I believe coming events do cast their shadows before
them. At any rate, with all the preparations for the
party completed, I was at a loose end. I had nothing on
my mind and the unrelenting heat made me very un-
comfortable. I listened to the radio, played solitaire,
wrote a few notes, and finally, sometime after midnight,
being weary, restless and bored with myself, I went to
bed. I couldn't sleep.
Sometime after one I was propped up in bed read-
ing a mystery story and in the midst of the most thril-
ling, gruesome episode, with little pin-prickles of chills
and delightful shivers of terror playing havoc with my
spine, the sudden settling creak of an old beam put
my nerves completely on edge. Terrified for the mo-
ment, I paused in my reading to listen, but the echo of
the creak had gone. The house was as silent as a tomb.
Beyond the comforting familiarity of my room the
deep, almost noiseless rumbling roar of the city accent-
uated the complete quiet of my house. From far off


THE MOVING FINGER
ma
on one of the rivers, the deep throaty whistle of a tug-
boat sounded like the mournful croaking of a giant
frog.
I turned back to my story. The heroine was in
dreadful jeopardy. A great, horrible thing, as slimy as
an octopus was creeping toward her. She was cor-
nered. Her lover, who had been beaten over the head
a few pages back, couldn't possibly hear her hysterical,
agonized screams. I lived and suffered with that poor
girl. My heart raced and pounded as I read each word.
Would she, could she escape? I didn't know the an-
swer to that question for days, because suddenly the
telephone bell pealed, shattering the silence, to say
nothing of what it did to my tensed nerves. The book
flew out of my hands as my body chilled, even in that
terrific heat.
When the first shock of fear was over I reached for
the receiver to still that clarion call. I often make up
my mind to ignore the telephone if it rings, but after
several seconds of that constant jangling I lift the re-
ceiver off the hook to know the worst.
I'm still conscious of the feeling of misgiving which
I had as I took the instrument in my hand. I've out-
lived the terror of telegrams and have grown to con-
sider the telephone as something of a necessary nuisance
(advertising to the contrary) as well as a ruthless in-
vader of my privacy. I'm not belittling the telephone,
don't think that. In this day and age, we couldn't get


6 THE MOVING FINGER
along without it but it does put us at the mercy of our
friends and enemies if we happen to have either.
Filled with apprehension and a premonition of im-
pending danger, I glanced at the clock. It was exactly
five minutes of two. I shivered. A woman will under-
stand the feeling I had, for, common as the telephone
is today, one doesn't receive many calls at two
o'clock in the morning unless something starding has
happened.
It was Terry Lassimon. I recognized his voice im-
mediately and was inclined to be annoyed. Neither
of us knew then that his call was a prelude to adven-
ture. For a moment, as I listened, I accused him of
being in his cups and feeling larkish. There was some-
thing about his voice, however, which held back my
first impulsive desire to resent verbally his startling call.
I curbed the impulse to snap at him and listened atten-
tively until he made his unusual request, unusual even
for Terry who is well known for his pranks and esca-
pades and absolute lack of regard for the limitations of
convention. He was so earnest as he begged, I fancied
I could see his fine, dark eyes.
"At this hour?" I asked with another glance at my
clock. Before I agreed I warned him, "You'll be sorry,
young man, if you're pulling my leg." His reply made
me laugh. I won't include it here lest some of you
who do not know either of us might think it slightly
ribald.


THE MOVING FINGER 7
He seemed relieved when I told him to come right
over.
I rang for my maid, Agnes, who did a rather bad job
of concealing her sleepy surprise when I told her I
would be expecting a caller within fifteen minutes. I
sometimes wish I could live in a nice little cottage, do
my own work and have an individual and private life
instead of leading a routine existence governed by my
servants. That may sound ungrateful because all of
them seem to adore me and I try to repay them by
making them comfortable and happy in return. They
are a responsibility, however, and they keep me up to
their standards most of the time.
Actually Agnes has been with me too long to be
startled by anything I do. She was just a litde grumpy
because I had probably wakened her from a fitful sleep.
She moved about the room giving an excellent imita-
tion of slow motion, an old dressing-gown of mine
draped about her. She put my cream negligee over
the foot of the bed and brought out my transformation,
without which I'm never seen because what little hair
I have left is far too scraggly for public view and I'm
still vain about and proud of my appearance. I don't
dress as old ladies did a few years ago. I hate poke
bonnets and mousy clothes, but then I was never cut
out to be a sweet old lady. I'd rather be interesting—if
not to others, at least to myself.
Agnes was so slow that I became nervous. "Never
mind my things," I said. "Get something on yourself


THE MOVING FINGER
and be downstairs to let him in. Have the door open,"
I warned. “I don't want the whole house roused. You
won't have to wait up to let him out. He knows the
way. Just leave the hall lights burning when you go
back to bed.”
I was consumed with curiosity as I adjusted the trans-
formation-it's a blonde one. What on earth did he
have to tell me at this hour of the night that couldn't
wait until morning? Why was he so worried and
upset?
I'd better tell you something about myself and Terry
Lassimon, so you'll be able to understand the things
which follow. I'm an old woman. I won't say lady
because the word has been so grossly abused. I'm
seventy-five, proud of my age and why shouldn't I be?
I've never been ill in my life. I've lived fully and well
and, like the soldier in Kipling's poem, I've taken my
fun where I found it, so to speak.
My name is Ethel Thomas. Just plain Ethel Thomas,
old maid. Yes, I'm one of the New York Thomases.
You may have heard of me or you may have read a
book which I had published last year under the title of,
"The Whispering Window.”
I was born to wealth and a position in society. My
original fortune was large enough for any one, but it has
grown to rather overwhelming proportions because
I've outlived all of my family and they, poor dears,
died with the quaint old-fashioned notion that money,
like scandal, should be kept in the family. Where it
seve


THE MOVING FINGER
will all go, the money I mean, when I finally make my
exit I haven't definitely decided except for the legacies
left to fifteen or twenty babies born during the depres-
sion and hopefully, I believe, named Ethel in my honor
and in anticipation of any bequest I might make.
Most of my life has been spent right in New York
City. I've known New Yorkers good, bad and indif-
ferent for sixty years. If I hadn't, I'd have missed a
thrilling adventure which came to me through Terry.
We understand each other, Terry and I. We've been
friends for a great many years ... all of his life, as a
matter of fact. He has always been one of my pets.
His mother was the daughter of one of my childhood
friends. Yes, I'm old enough to be his grandmother.
I first saw Terry about an hour after he was born.
Up to that time young babies, like Chinese and Indians,
all looked alike to me, but Terry, fresh from the stork,
so to speak, was different. He was not a red or jaun-
diced little ape when he greeted the world. He was a
miniature man full of his, perhaps I shouldn't mention
it, sex, even then and not just a wrinkled, crinkled ball.
He was unmistakably a man child as straight as a reed
with a sturdy pair of shapely legs, a fine body and a
lusty pair of lungs.
I'm not a fatalist and I've never worried much about
predestination. In fact I've been rather inclined to let
such things slide, taking my cue, I think, from an old
Irish cook we once had whose entire philosophy, out-
side of her religion, was completely contained in one


io THE MOVING FINGER
single sentence: "What is to be will be, even if it never
happens."
Willy-nilly, for the past two years I've been involved
in one murder after another and if that is my destiny I
know of no more diverting way of spending one's time.
Of course, I feel sorry for the victims and their families;
but a.murder, to me, is like a good fire—if they must
happen I want to be where I can see them and be a part
of the activity. Can you- imagine the thrill of seeing
Rome burn or the excitement you would feel if it were
possible for you to solve the murder of Elwell?
My thoughts were broken by the hall clock which
chimed the quarter-hour.
I hurried with my dressing, such as it was, because
Terry is one of those people who tap on your door and
then barge in with the restrained delicacy of a battering-
ram. I drew the cover up over the bed and puttered
about for a minute or two—you know how many little
things there are for a woman to do when a visitor is
about to invade the privacy of her boudoir. I fluffed up
the pillows on the chaise-longue and then looked out of
the window. I saw Terry swing round the corner from
Lexington Avenue and stride across the street. I re-
turned to my dressing-table to add a last dab of powder.
I live in the Thirties between Fourth and Lexington
in my old house which has been a haven for the past
forty years, and I believe, if I live long enough, fashion-
able society will move back to me again. I'm not a
person who enjoys moving. I like the stability of a


THE MOVING FINGER n
home and a fixed place for my things. I've known
women who not only have their houses redecorated
each time the wind changes but who are constantly
moving furniture all over the house. I couldn't live that
way. Good heavens! One might just as well be in a
series of hotel rooms. There's something about an old
house and its time-worn, well-loved furniture that is
warm and friendly, exuding as it does a quality that
most of the modern decorators in striving for effects
seem to miss. For myself I'd just as soon live in one of
Sloane's Fifth Avenue windows. My house is old and
the neighborhood has run down but I like it and in the
forty years I have been there I've seen the fashionable
populace shift from Fifth Avenue to the Drive, to Sut-
ton Place and to Park Avenue. Why any one who can
afford to live anywhere else prefers that street with the
ever-constant rumbling of the railroad underneath
sounding like minor earthquakes night and day, I can't
imagine.
That quick glimpse of Terry pleased me. He had
evidently dismissed his cab at the corner. That was
thoughtful of him. Not that I care how many men
drive up to my door at any hour of the night or day h*it
it was nice of him to think of that—or did he? Was it
a habit he had acquired because of his shady expe-
riences? Well, it didn't matter. I turned away from
the window and found myself wondering how he had
managed to escape matrimony as long as he had.
Whenever I hear a bachelor bragging about his freedom


12 THE MOVING FINGER
and all that sort of thing, I know perfectly well why
he's never married. No woman wants him; but that
wasn't true in Terry's case. Even now in his financial
difficulties he was considered a good catch and I knew
several women who wanted him.
I was expecting him to bounce into the room at any
moment. I paused to listen, but there was no sound
from the floor below. He seemed to be an unduly long
time. I went to the window again. He was just step-
ping onto the curb and advancing toward the front
door. The street was deserted. I was turning back
into the room when I was startled by a slight, puffing
flash which I must have seen a split second before I
heard the report of the gun. My heart seemed to stop
dead for an instant, a lump filled my throat as I realized
that some one from the shadows had tried to kill Terry.
Before I had time to think or even cry out there was a
sharp sudden thud against the front door and then an
hysterical ear-splitting scream from that ninny, Agnes.
I rushed to the door expecting the very worst as
Agnes' cry echoed and reechoed through the house.
Even in that tragic moment I found myself thinking
about the neighbors and their curiosity. . That cry of
hers was enough to wake the dead. I switched off the
lights both in my room and the hall. I didn't know
what had happened but I didn't intend to invite in-
vestigation if it were not necessary. It was an instinc-
tive automatic gesture done without actual thought. I
suppose my subconscious mind must have suggested


darkness as a protection from the unseen and unknown
assailant who had deliberately fired the shot at Terry.
I hurried into the hall and started fearfully down the
stairs. Agnes' scream had died away like the echo of
a bad dream. The whole episode seemed unreal. As I
turned the curve in the stairs, I could see Terry's body
sprawled on the floor, prone and inert, in the checkered
light that filtered in from the street through the tran-
som and side panels of the door.
My breath seemed to stop for a moment. Tears
burned at my eyeballs demanding release, but I couldn't
cry. I was too frightened. I clutched at the railing to
steady myself and gazed down. He looked so horribly
flattened out. Was he dead? I've met death face to
face, I've seen a man murdered before my eyes, yet I've
never been so genuinely moved as I was at that moment
when I thought Terry dead.
The next instant gladness surged through me. My
eyes dimmed with tears of joy because Terry moved,
lifted himself to his hands and knees and then stood
upright. As he brushed the legs of his trousers, I found
my relief almost as great a shock as my fear had been
the moment before.
Agnes, mouth open, eyes agape, was staring at him
as if he were a creature from another world. In the
semi-gloom, I saw her make the sign of the cross and
knew that her lips were moving in a silent prayer. It
touched me, such things always do. My eyes were
rimmed with unshed tears anyhow and at that simple


THE MOVING FINGER
expression of faith and thankfulness on the part of
Agnes, they welled up and blinded me for a moment.
A good cry would have been a relief but I was suddenly
angered at Terry. Don't ask me why. I don't know
why any more thari the frantic mother who, believing
her child lost or killed, is frenzied with worry and grief
until she finds her cherub safe and innocently happy,
and then gives her emotions release by spanking her
bewildered offspring. I was bent on giving Terry a
mental spanking.
As I reached the landing and turned for the last few
treads to the main floor, I became very dramatic and
said, "What does . . ."
I intended saying more than that, much more, be-
cause I was so wrought up and relieved at the same
time. I wanted to scold him to release my pent-up emo-
tions, but my speech was cut in mid-air because my
mule caught in the hem of my dressing-gown and I
pitched forward, head first, in an adagio dive but with
none of the grace of a dancer.
Terry was as quick as a flash. If he hadn't been, my
career as a detective would have ended right then and
there. At my age bones are brittle and break easily.
From the first blank moment of falling to the security
of Terry's outstretched clasping arms seemed an eternity
in which I envisioned broken hips, a fractured pelvis,
and a concussion or two. The moment I realized I was
safe, I began to laugh. I've been accused of having a
low sense of humor because I laugh at any one who


THE MOVING FINGER 15
falls, even myself. I can't help it. I was probably a bit
hysterical at that moment too.
"Easy does it!" Terry said soothingly as he up-ended
me and I felt the floor firmly under foot.
"I fell," I said simply and then broke into renewed
laughter.
"Think nothing of it," he said smugly. "Women are
always falling for me." He actually poked me in the
ribs, then grinned impishly.
That stopped me. To look at him standing there,
you'd never have believed that just a moment before his
life had hung in the balance.
He was being too jaunty. "Is that why men take pot-
shots at you in the middle of the night?" I snapped
at him. A man has no right to be as debonair as he was
just a moment after escaping death.
"Oh, that," he replied, "is something else. Did you
see him?"
"No. I'm not an owl! I saw the flash of the gun
from the shadows."
"Whoever it was is badly in need of practice, don't
you think?" he asked.
Agnes tittered nervously. She's crazy about good-
looking men and adores Terry. Her eyes were admir-
ing him at that very moment. I gave her a reprimand-
ing look which brought her back to her senses.
"Shall I call the police?" she asked.
"I'd rather have some brandy, if you don't mind,"
Terry suggested.


THE MOVING FINGER
I nodded the order to Agnes and could hear her
chuckling as she left us.
II
Back in my room, I drew the blinds, turned on a
lamp and settled down on the chaise-longue. Terry
watched me. He seemed as cool as the proverbial
cucumber.
"How do you do it?" he asked.
"Do what?"
"Manage to look so charming at this hour of the
night or, rather, morning?"
I was secredy pleased. I'm not too old to enjoy a bit
of blarney. That's one of the reasons I've always liked
Southern men. They lie so gallandy that you're half
inclined to believe them. Terry was not a Southerner
but he knew all the tricks that please women—a branch
of the modern man's education which seems to have
been sadly neglected.
"Never mind the compliments," I said, because it's
never wise to let a man know you believe his fine
speeches. "You'd better begin at the beginning," I sug-
gested tersely. "I'm eaten alive with curiosity."
"After the brandy," he replied cautiously.
His ears were sharper than mine, for the next mo-
ment Agnes appeared at the door with decanter and
glasses.
She placed the tray on a stool in front of Terry and


THE MOVING FINGER
said, "Beg pardon, Miss. There's a cop and some people
on the street outside."
"Pay no attention to them," Terry instructed.
"But suppose they should ring the bell?" she asked
hopefully.
"Take a long time to answer, if they do, act sleepy
and then tell them nothing," I advised. Disappointed,
she started away, when I stopped her. "Prepare the
guest-room for Mr. Lassimon."
"But . . ." he began a protest.
"You're staying here. Do you think I want my house
to get a bad name? It's compromising enough to have
men shot at coming in without having them murdered
on the doorstep going out at the crack of dawn. That'll
be all, Agnes." I dismissed her. She likes to hear all that
is going on and uses every pretext she knows to linger
in a room. I'm quite sure she relates everything that
happens to the rest of the servants and by so doing feels
she is a bit more important than they.
"Yes, ma'am." She fiddled with some cushions on
the easy-chair and took one long regretful look at the
closely shaded window as she moved toward the door.
She loves a good gossip and I know she'd have liked
nothing better than to go down into the street to talk
things over with the policeman.
"And don't say anything to the other servants," I
cautioned; "and close the door as you leave."
"Yes, ma'am," she answered—ruefully.


THE MOVING FINGER
"You know where the pajamas are," I called after
her.
"Don't bother about them, I sleep raw," Terry cut in
quite unnecessarily, I thought, although Agnes seemed
to enjoy the remark, for she stifled a giggle as she
closed the door. Terry, in the meantime, had been busy
with the brandy and soda and handed me one as I
heard the latch click.
"I believe your hand is shaking," he remarked so-
licitously as the glass rattled against my teeth.
"And why wouldn't it? Roused out of a sound sleep
in the middle of the night by an irresponsible young
scamp who is nearly killed on my doorstep is enough
to make anybody shake," I retorted.
"You weren't asleep, because I can see your book
where you dropped it, and what is more, your pillows
are squashed by the impress of your back rather than
dented by the imprint of your fair head."
"Never mind your clever deductions," I snapped and
then had to smile because his observations had been so
exactly right. I went on, "What have you been doing?
Where have you been—on a bender? You look like
the devil and your eyes are barely more than tired pin-
points. Who fired that shot?"
"If you don't mind, I'll answer your questions one at
a time. I've been at the office going over accounts. I'm
in a bad way, very bad, as a matter of fact. I've made
some bad guesses on the market, my publishing busi-
ness is losing money rapidly and unless I do some-


THE MOVING FINGER 19
thing and do it quickly, I'm quite apt to find myself a
ruined man."
"If you're working up to a loan, I won't listen to a
word until you tell me who fired that shot," I cautioned
him.
He shrugged and said, "You're supposed to be a de-
tective, tell me."
"Now don't act that way," I complained. "I'm not
clairvoyant and besides detectives have to ask questions
to get at pertinent information. Was it some one's
husband?"
"I'm quite sure it wasn't," he replied promptly.
"Well, men don't run about in the middle of the
night taking pot-shots at other men without a very
good reason. What have you been doing?"
"Not a thing, Ethel, really! I can't understand it! I
haven't been in a scrape for a long time, you know that.
It's been pretty hot, you know," he ended with a broad
grin.
"If you don't want to tell me, it's perfectly all right,"
I assured him because I didn't believe him at the mo-
ment. I felt it was probably something so flagrant that
he didn't want to let me know about it.
"Honestly, Ethel," he insisted. "I can't imagine why
any one should be gunning for me."
"Well, they weren't shooting at me," I said, "and
there was no one else on the street. I looked out of the
window just as you stepped up on the curb. There
wasn't a soul in sight but you."


THE MOVING FINGER 21
"Well, then, some one thinks you've been up to mis-
chief or will be. Whoever it is, is serious."
"But, Ethel, how would any one know I was coming
here at two o'clock in the morning?"
"You were probably followed," I replied.
"But that would mean that I had been watched all
night," he objected.
"Why not?" I demanded.
"But I've been at the office trying to catch up with
my work. It would have been so much simpler and
easier for any one who wanted to kill me to have done
it at the office. A smart killer wouldn't have trailed
me to the door of the famous Ethel Thomas who has
proven her ability to track down murderers."
There was considerable logic in what he said. I don't
mean about my doorstep either. If the person who had
shot at him had wanted to kill him it would have been
easy to have crept into his office and have done it.
That opened a new avenue of thought for me.
"Who knew you were working late?" I asked.
"The people at the office: the girl who does the bill-
ing, the bookkeeper, the stock boy, all the last ones to
leave. And, oh, yes, one other! Your friend, Miss
Madison."
"Althea?" I gasped. "Has she written a book or
something?"
"She didn't say."
"Why did she call on you?"
"She didn't say."


22
THE MOVING FINGER
"Are you trying to be funny?" I asked crossly.
"No. Just trying to answer your questions. The girl
was after information; she told me nothing really. She
seems to be a master at that." He leaned forward.
"Say, she knew I needed money. Did you tell her
that?"
"Certainly not. Why should I?"
"She said she understood my publishing business was
for sale and she admitted she might be interested, but I
didn't believe her. She was stalling. What do you
suppose she wanted?"
"If she were a poor girl I'd say she was setting her
cap for you."
"She's not that kind of girl. She wasn't interested in
me. She wanted something, I'd like to know just
what," he said speculatively.
"Ask her when you see her at the party," I suggested.
"I'd rather find out in my own way." His eyes
danced as he said it.
"It can have nothing to do with this," I stated
positively. I wanted to get back to our mystery. "Are
things all right at the office?"
"Fine. We can leave the office out of it," he assured
me, "I'm their bread-and-butter while I last. They
nearly lost me tonight, though. That was a close shave,
wasn't it? I thought I had been hit as I sprawled
forward."
"What made you fall?" I asked.
"The door was open. When I heard that bullet zing


THE MOVING FINGER
past my head, I did the natural thing. I tried to get out
of the way of any little brother bullets that might be
following the first one. I pushed against the door and
since I pushed so hard it flew away from me and I
sprawled on my face. I was a bit dazed for a moment.
It was a beautiful fall. You'd have loved to have seen
it" He knew about my weakness for falling people.
"By the way," he looked about the room, "what hap-
pened, to my briefcase?"
"What briefcase?" I asked. "I haven't seen one."
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "don't tell me I've lost
it. I'd better take a look downstairs."
He dashed out of the room and in a moment was
back, a briefcase hanging from his hand. "This," he
said, patting it on the side, "is one of my reasons for
coming to see you so late tonight."
"And what is the other one?" I demanded. I
couldn't imagine anything he happened to have in the
briefcase being interesting.
"In a way, they are linked together. I need money,
Ethel, badly."
"How much?"
"A couple of hundred thousand."
I gasped, provoked by his casualness. I've a lot of
respect for money. It certainly has been kind to me
and made it possible for me to do, know and see the
things which have made my life interesting. I didn't
want him to come groveling to me begging for a loan,
don't think that, but for a man to say two hundred


24 THE MOVING FINGER
thousand as if it were so much chickcn-fecd, is a bit
startling.
"And what do you want to do with two hundred
thousand?" I demanded.
"It'll tide me over this bad spot," he answered simply.
"And what about security?" I asked.
"Anything you want. How would an interest in the
publishing business suit you? Then you could publish
your own books no matter how bad they were?" He
said it seriously but there was a twinkle in his eyes.
"We won't go into the quality of my books," I said
icily. "I'm not interested in your publishing business.
You've just told me that it's been losing money—be-
sides, you have a partner."
"Oh, Sidney wouldn't mind having you in the firm,"
he answered quickly. "He'd like it. He thinks you're
great."
"That's nice of him and I appreciate it, but at the
moment we're talking about security for a loan that I
might make you."
"I'll give you the Long Island house," he suggested.
"I've got a house," I retorted.
"You're being a bit difficult to your favorite young
man," he chaffed.
"One of the reasons I have money is that I've been a
careful investor," I reminded him. "Evidently, you've
made a mess of your affairs. If you want a yacht, a big
country house for your orgies, and other luxuries, you
should be more careful of your investments. As much


THE MOVING FINGER 25
as I like you, I won't consider such a loan unless you
can prove to me definitely that I won't lose my money."
Even as I talked, I knew perfectly well that if it came
to a final showdown I wouldn't see him smashed. He
knew it too, knew also that I was determined to force
him to pull himself out of the hole he had dug.
"All right, Madame Shylock," he said with a laugh,
"I'll give you plenty of security. I just wanted to see
how hard your heart was, that's all. I'm going to make
a lot of money, enough to put the publishing business
on its feet. I've got a book that will do it, but I want
your advice." He began fiddling with the straps that
held the briefcase together.
"Don't tell me you've found another 'Gone With the
Wind,'" I scoffed.
He looked across the briefcase and said, "You must
have been very beautiful when you were younger."
"Don't bother about the blarney; tell me what you
want. It's getting late."
"It's not blarney. I mean it. I was thinking about
John Edwards," he said. "Why aren't you Mrs. John
Edwards?"
"What?" I gasped, and nearly spilled my drink. I
hadn't thought of John Edwards for years. "How did
you know about him?"
"I was watching your face just now," he replied. "I
saw you grow young again before my eyes. You must
have loved him very much."
"I did," I admitted.


26 THE MOVING FINGER
"He was a fool not to have married you," Terry said
resentfully.
"But a grand fool, Terry, the kind a woman loves
dearly. But you haven't answered my question. How
did you know?"
He pulled several books from the briefcase. "It's in
here. It's the book I told you about."
"What on earth?" I asked.
"Mortimer Van Wyck's diaries," he replied, holding
them out to me. "He has known everything and every-
body in New York for the past sixty years. Don't you
think they'll sell? Of course," he added quickly,
"they'll need to be carefully edited and deleted."
Mortimer Van Wyck's diaries! I was astounded.
Why under the sun had Terry allowed himself to be-
come involved with a person like Mortimer?
I remembered the day years ago when Mortimer
approached me about his diaries. He threatened to
expose me unless I paid him hush money. The old
anger surged over me again.
Of all the parasites who prey upon society the black-
mailer is the very lowest, in my estimation. Most of
us have done something in our past that we want to
stay buried with the past, but unfortunately we are apt
to be putty in the hands of the social leach who, know-
ing of our indiscretion, threatens us with exposure.
We become panicked with fear and instead of telling
■ the blackmailer to go to hell and publish his facts, we
pay him money to keep him quiet and live in fear and


THE MOVING FINGER 27
dread for the rest of our lives. I have very definite
ideas about that sort of thing and believe all blackmail
cases should be turned over to the police because the
blackmailer's chief weapon is his victim's fear.
"You don't seem very interested," Terry challenged.
"How on earth did you become involved with a per-
son like Mortimer?" I asked. "I'd rather lend you a
million than have you mixed up in a thing like this."
I made a contemptuous gesture toward the books which
still lay in his lap.
"You're responsible," he said.
"Me?"
"Yes. Remember about a month ago I told you that
the publishing business wasn't making money?"
I nodded.
"You weren't very patient with me or the business
at the time. In fact, you were rather cruel that night
the way you talked about the phenomenal sale of 'Gone
With the Wind.' You seemed to think that books like
that grow on bushes. You advised me to go out and
find another one like it. That, I knew, was impossible,
but I did some serious thinking." He lit a ciga-
rette and took several slow puffs before he went on.
"After that talk with you I took a good look at my-
self, and the business. You were absolutely right about
both of us, you know." He smiled for a moment.
"While I was still racking my brains for an inspiration,
I met Mortimer in the cocktail bar at Forty-seven. The


38
THE MOVING FINGER
idea came after two or three of Louis's specials. Well,
I asked Mortimer if he had ever kept a diary.
"He was pretty cagey about answering my questions
until he had drawn me out. When I explained to him
that I thought an intimate personal panorama of New
York and its society would make interesting reading,
he unbent a litde. He finally asked me how many
copies I thought the book would sell. That, I ex-
plained, would depend upon its contents and general
interest. Before he left me that afternoon, he was more
enthusiastic than I was over the idea. He was very
anxious, even insistent, that I read his diaries."
"I can imagine that," I said bitterly.
"They've been kicking around the office for a week
or two waiting for me to look them over, but I didn't
get at them until this evening."
"You weren't that careless," I protested.
"No. Wrapped, sealed and stowed in the safe, they
have been innocently waiting for my attention."
"Then you've read them?"
"No. Mortimer called me late this afternoon. He
seemed rather impatient. He said I'd have to make up
my mind or return the books to him at once. He even
suggested that I run an announcement in the papers
telling of the intended publication of the diaries. He
thought it would arouse interest. I told him I'd let
him know in a couple of days. I thought that you—if
you'd read them for me—you'd know if they were au-
thentic or not."


THE MOVING FINGER
V
"I'll read them," I answered quiedy. "Tell me, is
Mortimer in need of money?"
"I don't know. We didn't mention finances. Why
do you ask?"
"Because I don't trust him."
"But it was my suggestion, not his. About publica-
tion, I mean. I was the one who made the overtures."
"And I still don't trust him. Mortimer has thought
of most everything in the course of his life. Don't you
believe for a moment that your suggestion was the first
time publication of the diaries occurred to him."
"But I don't see why you're going on like this!"
Terry interrupted.
"Because I have known Mortimer for sixty years or
more. That's why. He's an old fox and always has
been. He's using you, Terry."
"Using me?" he repeated incredulously.
"Yes. Tell me exactly what he said to you about
the diaries."
"Well, he said they'd cause something of a sensation.
He rather boasted about being the Pepys of New York
society."
"Peeps is right," I replied unable to resist the chance
to pun, but Terry ignored it. "A prying, peeping, gos-
sip-monger."
"He warned me that they were dynamite. He made
me promise not to let them leave my hands until they
were read and returned to him. When I told him I
wouldn't be able to get to them for several days, he


30 THE MOVING FINGER
insisted on my wrapping, sealing and stowing them in
the office safe. I even marked them personal so there
would be no chance of their being opened by mistake."
"Have you read them at all?"
"No. Not really. I sort of ran through one volume
picking out a line here and there until I chanced upon
your name. I read about you and Edwards. That's
all. Say, do you think . . ."
"I'm not thinking," I interrupted him with a yawn.
"It's getting very late. I think I'll be able to sleep.
I'll see you at breakfast."
He gathered the books together before he stood up.
"Leave them here," I suggested. "I'll look them
over."
He was weary as he stood before me; his eyes looked
like slits. "I am tired," he admitted. He kissed me on
the forehead and went on to his room.
When I was sure that he would not return, I picked
up the first of the diaries feeling positive that in them
I would find the answer to the mysterious telephone
calls he had mentioned, the anonymous letter, and the
bullet that was still lodged in my front door.
Ill
I didn't read the books that night. They lay un-
opened in my lap for a long time after he left me. I
was weary and thoughtful. I reached for a cigarette
and heard the clop, clop, clop, of the milkman's lone-


THE MOVING FINGER
some horse moving and resting through the quiet
street. I fell asleep.
Later I was startled by a tap, tap, tap on my door.
For a moment I thought it was the milkman's horse
in the street below, but it was Agnes, amazed at find-
ing me sitting up, the lights still burning. I had dozed
in my chair through the remainder of the night.
"You hadn't ought to sit up all night reading," she
scolded as she switched off the lights and lifted the
blinds, "especially when you're giving a party this after-
noon."
"Fix my bath," I answered wearily, "then call Mr.
Lassimon and tell him we'll have breakfast here in my
room in a half-hour."
"It's cooler downstairs," she suggested.
"Serve it here, nevertheless, and hurry." I gave a
sharp command because I knew she was on the verge
of asking questions which I didn't want to answer.
And, furthermore, I didn't want any one to overhear
the things Terry and I would find it necessary to talk
about over our morning coffee.
"You look rested," I said twenty minutes later when
he came in, rather disheveled in yesterday's clothes,
wilted collar and all.
"I am. All ready for the fray and hungry, too." He
lifted one of the silver bells and sniffed appreciatively
at the bacon.
I watched him eat. It's a grand thing to be young
and healthy, eager and alive. As he was sitting there,


32 THE MOVING FINGER
busy with his food, I didn't envy him his youth, I just
appreciated it. I've heard people say, "If I had my life
to live over again," their voices filled with longing and
regret. How foolish! Even if I could come into the
world with the knowledge and experience I now have,
I don't believe I'd want to live over again. My life has
been eventful and I've enjoyed all of it. I've lived
through a great era in world history. I've lived through
change and at this moment I'm living through great
economic change, but like all the rest of you I'm too
close to it to see it properly, or to fully understand the
things taking place about me. In fifty or a hundred
years, this time of ours will be as clear-cut to historians
as the Fall of Rome, the Renaissance, or the Dark Ages.
I don't want to be young again, my heartaches and
sufferings are mellowed memories.
"What's our first move?" he asked as he toyed with
his .second cup of coffee.
"I'd like you to take these diaries back to your office,
wrap them up, seal them and turn them over to Morti-
mer at the first opportunity," I suggested.
"But I thought you were going to read them!" he
protested.
"I intended doing so," I replied, "but as I thought
about it I decided it was too dangerous."
"Why?"
"Didn't some one try to murder you last night in an
effort to shield himself? We don't know who the
person was but I think you'll be safer if that person


THE MOVING FINGER 33
is assured that you have no knowledge of the contents
of the books. Whoever it is must be desperate. There
are probably a number of people mentioned in the
diaries who have some horrible secrets in their pasts.
Mortimer has held the key to those secrets but neither
you nor I want to know what they are."
"You're dead right, of course, as usual," he grinned
at me, "only"
"Only what?" I demanded.
"Well, if Mortimer has put me on the spot, I've got
to do something about these people." He indicated the
books where they lay on the chaise-longue.
"You can do that without reading them. You'd
never be comfortable if you read and knew the secrets
those books contain; neither would I. There's a better
way."
"What?"
"Establish your good faith with the people men-
tioned in the diaries," I suggested.
"But we don't know who they are," he objected.
"But they do, and if you put an ad in tonight's paper
and one in the morning papers for a week, they'll un-
derstand what you mean when you state that you have
no intention of publishing any private diaries."
"They'll never believe me."
"Why not?"
"Because they don't know me. They know a Terry
Lassimon who has been wild, who has been talked


THE MOVING FINGER
of the thing. You and I hold the lives and happiness
of God knows how many people in the palms of our
hands. We've got to protect them, Ethel. Poor devils!
They probably need it, whoever they are."
I was seeing a new Terry, one that, in a way amazed
me. I'd never seen him in any but a gay irresponsible
mood before. I knew he had other qualities but he had
hidden them behind a debonair exterior. Isn't it
strange that you can know people, live with them for
years, and not know them at all because they have
little secret hiding-places of their own which are never
opened for public view? We do rather live on the
surface, according to people's opinions of us, don't we?
"We may be wasting sympathy, Terry," I said, "but
there is no other road open for you. Run along now!"
I dismissed him.
He was very thoughtful as he stuffed the diaries back
into the briefcase. He stopped once and looked at me
and said, "What a woman you are, Ethel! Edwards
was a fool not to have married you. Did it hurt?"
"At the time, yes," I admitted.
"If you were younger, or I were older, I'd marry you
in a minute if you'd have me. Why don't they make
women like you any more?"
Sweet child! How that speech warmed my heart.
It was nice of him to say it, but Terry, like all men, is
thoughtless. One of the things he likes and admires
in me is my knowledge, tact and understanding of
human nature. He thinks this mellowed tolerance of


36 THE MOVING FINGER
mine is something I've always had. It doesn't occur to
him that in the process of living and growing old, life
has given things to me which a young girl couldn't
possibly have and would be unattractive if she did.
"They do," I assured him. "The trouble with you is
you haven't been looking in the right places, but you'll
find her, that is, if you want to."
"Would you think I'd gone out of my mind if I told
you I'd like to be married?" he asked.
"I'd say you were growing up or settling down, one
or the other."
As he snapped the catch shut and pulled the straps
through the buckles he said, "Can you keep a secret?
Of course you can. I've seen the girl and as soon as
this mess is cleared up . . He paused and the queer-
est look flashed over his face. "What do you know
about Althea Madison," he demanded suddenly.
"Althea Madison, why?"
"She's mixed up in these," he patted the briefcase.
"That's why she came to see me."
"But she's lived abroad all her life," I remonstrated.
"Don't be ridiculous!"
"Why should she want to buy my business? Tell me
that. She knows about these and in her own way she
was trying to get them."
"But, Terry! What interest could she have ..." I
stopped because my memory went back to an old, old
story.
"Perhaps it's a family secret that she doesn't want


THE MOVING FINGER 37
uncovered," he said and then asked, "Why did you stop
just now?"
"Because I was remembering something."
"About her family?"
"Yes, her father. There was talk about a scandal in
Washington, war contracts or something. That was
before he went down on the Lusitania. Nothing ever
came of it, so it probably wasn't true. Did she mention
the diaries?" I asked.
"No, but she must have wanted them," he said
thoughtfully. "There could be no other reason for
her eagerness to buy the business." He looked at the
briefcase for a moment. "Was it much of a scandal
about her father?"
"Just one of those things you hear about, nothing
important. It must be something deeper than that,
more significant. The child has something on her
mind. She is worried, not herself, at least not the per-
son who came down the gangplank the morning I met
her. I thought she was being aloof. Do you sup-
pose . . ."
He anticipated my question. "It must be something
to do with her inheritance. That girl is fighting to save
her fortune. There must be something in these books
which would make a pauper of her instead of a mil-
lionaire. I'm going to find out." He started to take
the books out of the bag.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," I cautioned. "If


38 THE MOVING FINGER
your guess is right, and I'm inclined to think it is, she
wouldn't want you to know her secret."
"But she must know that I know," he insisted.
"Do you mean that you admitted having the
diaries?"
"I told her that I was going to publish a rather
startling book that would put the business on its feet."
"And gave her a fine opinion of yourself, I'm afraid,"
I sneered.
"But I didn't know," he protested. "Say, you don't
think she tried to shoot me, do you?"
"If her fortune is at stake—" I spoke slowly because
I was thinking.
"No," he interrupted before I could finish. "She
wouldn't do a thing like that."
"I think myself, she'd be a bit more subtle. Why not
try to square yourself with her," I suggested, "at the
party this afternoon?"
"You bet I will."
"I take it you were impressed by the girl," I said
bluntly. .
"BoVled over," he admitted at once. "She's the love-
liest thing I've ever seen, and smart too," he added.
*'You noticed that?" I asked.
"I noticed everything about her including her rather
thinly concealed contempt for me," he admitted
frankly.
"She strikes me as being a fairly direct person," I
answered with a smile.


THE MOVING FINGER
"Don't rub it in. Why couldn't I have met her under
decent circumstances? The things she's going to hear
about me won't add to the opinion she's evidently
formed,” he said with genuine regret. After a pause
he went on brightly, “But I'll fix everything. I'll make
her understand.”
“Aren't you afraid of being misunderstood?” I asked
casually.
“No. Why?"
“Since she's going to take over an estate valued at
something over thirty million dollars and you're on the
verge of bankruptcy ..."
“No, Mrs. Grundy!" Laughing, he came round and
put a hand over my mouth. "Just remember this.
Little Terry has been in tight spots before and has come
out on top. Don't you worry about me, and what do
I care about the gossips?” With a jaunty toss of his
hand which blew me a kiss, he started for the door.
"Don't forget about the ads," I called after him.
"I won't,” he assured me, then added, “If you have
the opportunity will you get down to cases with her?
Find out, if you can, why she wants the diaries. If I'm
going to marry her I'd just as soon she have the thirty
million although I would take her without a cent."
IV
Poor Terry! Long after he left I was thinking about
his problem. He had sobered considerably during the


4o THE MOVING FINGER
night. I rather hoped that the diary business would
clear itself up. I didn't believe it was at all serious and
yet how else explain the shot of the night before? I
tried to dismiss the whole thing from my mind but it
wouldn't be put aside. Why should Althea Madison
be interested in those diaries unless her inheritance was
involved? How was her fortune threatened?
I had my own problems to consider during the day.
The servants were grumpy about the party and I didn't
blame them, because the heat went on relentlessly.
Sometime after three o'clock Agnes brought me an
afternoon paper. She actually yawned as she told me
she was very tired. The impudence of the baggage! I
told her to go take a nap and to let me hear no more
such talk.
I hunted through the paper looking for Terry's ad
and, finding it, read with interest. It certainly should
have convinced any worried person of its sincerity. I
was startled by the sirens of a fire truck dashing along
Fourth Avenue. I rushed to the window but missed
them. They go so fast you have to be right at a win-
dow nowadays to even catch a fleeting glimpse of them.
Watching a fire engine has always been a passion of
mine, a hangover from the old days when they really
were romantic. I regret the passing of the old type
engine with smoke belching from its stack and sparks
scattering in the wind, as bells clanging and horses
straining they raced madly through the streets.
Disgusted at having been too late, I started to draw


THE MOVING FINGER 41
the blinds, for the air from the street was like the hot
blast of a furnace. I stopped with one blind halfway
down. Althea Madison was coming down the street.
She was very early for her party. It wasn't quite four.
When she was announced I asked her up to my room.
She said she came early so that we could have a little
chat before the others arrived. She was perfectly turned
out and looked cool and undisturbed by the heat. I
envy women who can look their best no matter how
hot it happens to be.
I saw her glance quickly at the folded newspaper and
then turn her head away. It was done quickly, al-
most casually. You've seen a person look at something
they wanted to see and then pretend a complete lack
of interest. She may have been telling the truth when
she said she came for a little chat, but I doubted her.
She wanted to talk about herself but she wanted me to
make the overtures. I decided I'd do nothing of the
sort. I was in one of my contrary moods. Further-
more, I was afraid of a direct attack. I didn't want to
spoil a chance to learn something about her plans.
We talked about this and that, France, England, and
her reactions to the American scene, but it was all sur-
face chatter. As I talked to her and had a chance to
study her, I liked the girl more and more and could
understand why she had captured Terry's fancy. Talk-
ing to her even about superficial things was like ex-
ploring new fields. You know how some people reveal
themselves so completely in ten minutes that they can


42 THE MOVING FINGER
never be interesting to you again. Well, Althea was
not like that. Each moment as it passed was rather
breathless because you knew the next word would give
you a new idea of or a new fact to her personality that
would keep you absorbed. She was a deep well full of
hidden springs that would never be exhausted.
Of course Terry's description of her and her conver-
sation with him had rather prepared me for our little
bout of words. Between us there was an undercurrent
of expectancy as each measured the other. Just why
had she come so early and what did she want to know?
I'm an old hand and have considered myself rather
skilful at beating about the bush to get at the thing I
want, but this girl made me feel like the veriest tyro.
Finally, I gave her leads which she ignored as she
turned the trend of our talk back to me, society and
the people I knew and the things I knew about them.
Our mental fencing was delightful because you seldom
meet a worthy opponent any more. The conversation
we find, if any, is usually so dull or culled from the
New Yorker and the Reader's Digest, that I don't won-
der we play bridge and other games to fill our time.
I was determined to make her mention Terry if she
wanted to talk about him. I was fully confident that I
would be able to force her to do it, but she was a much
better general than I believed her to be. How she knew
my weak spot, unless all of us who write have the same
Achilles heel, I do not know. Anyhow, whether I
underestimated the girl's cleverness or was too confi-


THE MOVING FINGER 43
dent of my own ability, I don't know, because she
caught me off guard with an innocent statement.
"I liked your book so much," she said sincerely.
Whenever I find any one who has read the darned
thing and has a good word to say about it, I open up
as wide as a drawbridge. I know I beamed as I said,
"I enjoyed doing it."
"It must have been fun, but wasn't the adventure it-
self rather horrible?" she asked, leading me on.
"Yes, but you don't think about that once you be-
come involved. Somehow you become detached and
are excited rather than horrified. It's like a bad dream
—an unreality that you experience," I explained.
"Did you have any trouble getting the book pub-
lished?" she asked innocendy.
I jumped into the opening with both feet, knowing
I was wrong as I ran on telling her that the first pub-
lisher who saw it took it at once and then went on to
say, like the gabby old woman I am, rather drunk with
self-interest, "Of course, Terry Lassimon has always
been annoyed with me for not giving it to him."
I saw her eyes flicker for a moment as I knew she
tasted success.
"But doesn't he go in for rather arty things?" she
asked.
"That's why I never even considered him as a possible
publisher of my book," I explained. Now that we
were on the subject of Terry, I was interested to get
on with it and see what she would have to say.


44 THE MOVING FINGER
"Did you see his ad in the paper? I thought it rather
curious, didn't you?" she asked.
"You wouldn't if you knew the reason ... or per-
haps you do?" I made a direct thrust.
"It suggested fear to me," she countered.
"Of what?" I demanded.
"I don't know, do you?" she asked bluntly.
"Yes," I replied and turned the conversation back to
her. She wanted to talk about Terry and I was just
mean enough to make her do it because she had made
me mention him first. There we were, two women
dying to take our hair down, so to speak, and have a
good talk and yet we sat fencing with words.
"You know him very well, don't you?" she asked.
"As well as one person can know another," I replied.
"And you know why he's afraid?" she insisted.
"Fear is hardly the word to use. Terry wouldn't be
afraid of a den of wildcats," I defended. "He has been
put into a rather false position and although people
should know very well that he's dependable and can
be relied upon to do the right thing yet he is apt to
be victimized by the fear of fear."
"I don't understand."
"Oh, yes you do," I insisted. "Let's stop hedging. I
know about those diaries."
"You do?" She seemed really surprised.
"And I recommend leaving the matter entirely in
Terry's hands. He'll do the right thing," I said with
assurance.


THE MOVING FINGER 45
"You've more confidence in him than I have," she
said coolly.
"That's because you don't know him. He's interested
in getting rid of the diaries once and for all time."
"Then why doesn't he destroy them?" she asked im-
patiently.
"If, and when, they are destroyed all the people con-
cerned should know about it," I reminded her. "Then
there won't be any further attempts on his life."
"His life?" she asked.
"Yes. Some one tried to kill him last night—some
one who is interested in those diaries," I ended point-
edly.
She laughed. "Do you think I shot at him?"
"How did you know it was a shot?" I demanded
quickly.
"There's a bullet-hole in your front door. Didn't you
know it?" she asked innocently. "I noticed it while I
waited to be admitted."
The girl used her eyes as well as her head. She'd be
a grand person to have at your side in a moment of
difficulty. There was no point to further fencing. I
explained the situation to her; as much as I knew, at
any rate.
She seemed relieved when I had finished.
"Why are you so interested in the diaries?" I asked.
"I believe in letting the dead past stay dead," she re-
plied. As she went on talking, she took a small beau-
tifully chased silver compact from her bag and dabbed


THE MOVING FINGER
mm
at her nose and cheeks. “Those diaries,” she paused
for a moment and looked at me, "should be destroyed
and Mortimer Van Wyck along with them.” She
snapped the compact shut, giving emphasis to her state-
ment.
"If you tied them around his neck and threw him
into the river you might accomplish both deeds at
once," I suggested.
"That's an idea,” she said.
“You didn't tell me why you were interested in the
diaries," I reminded her.
“You didn't expect me to, did you?”
“Yes and no," I replied.
"If Mr. Lassimon didn't tell you, it is safer for you
not to know, since the knowledge seems dangerous.”
She made me feel several years younger than herself. I
didn't mind, however, because she fascinated me. She
was in trouble and she was worried. She didn't want
any help from me or she would have asked for it. I
knew that when I gave up all idea of fencing with her
and threw away the gauntlet.
“My dear,” I said, “he hasn't read them."
Her eyes told me she doubted my word. I explained
to her why I knew about the diaries and once more em-
phasized Terry's ignorance of their contents except for
Mortimer's account of my indiscretion. “You see,” I
ended, "we have something in common, you and I, for
I, too, am in the diaries.”


THE MOVING FINGER 47
"Then you must know how I feel," she said quickly.
"You don't want them published, do you?"
"No," I replied promptly, "but I'm not afraid of
them."
"You're an old woman, you've lived, had your life
and everything you've ever wanted," she said not with-
out justice. "Why should you be afraid?"
"Age has nothing to do with it. Nothing is worth
the price you seem determined to pay to prevent their
publication. What you do is no concern of mine, of
course, but please be careful. Don't do something
which you may regret for the rest of your life."
"I'll regret it all my life unless I do do something,"
she answered, completely twisting the meaning of my
words.
"Will you answer a question or two?" I asked.
"If possible."
"How did you know that Terry Lassimon had the
diaries?" I asked.
"Mortimer Van Wyck sent for me immediately upon
my arrival. He told me."
"And he theatened you?"
"Yes."
"Isn't it something you can fight openly?" I asked.
"No."
"You must be convinced that it is the truth."
"I don't know. I'll never know and I don't care one
way or the other, but this I do know: I'll not permit


48 THE MOVING FINGER
that slimy old man to print those diaries if I have to
kill him to prevent it."
I was thoroughly convinced that she meant exactly
what she said.
"I don't believe he wants to publish them," I sug-
gested as a consolation.
"He gave me an alternative, blackmail," she said con-
temptuously.
"And what did you tell him?"
"I refused to pay, naturally. I won't pay blackmail,
because you pay and pay all your life. There's never
an end of such things. I offered to buy the diaries and
he said they were out of his hands. He meant Terry
Lassimon. What manner of man is Lassimon?" she
demanded.
"He grows on acquaintance," I assured her. "He
doesn't intend to publish the diaries and won't."
"Then why doesn't he turn them over to me?" she
demanded.
"He could hardly do that," I replied, amazed at the
singleness of purpose that her question displayed.
"But how can a man who is a man be part of any-
thing so filthy?" she demanded.
"He knows nothing about them, you must believe
me. If we knew why you were afraid we could help
you."
"It is a fight I must wage alone," she answered, shut-
ting me out.
"Is your fortune threatened?" I asked bluntly.


THE MOVING FINGER 49
She considered a moment and then replied frankly,
"Yes, it is. I may lose it all unless I can do something
to save it."
"And that something is to secure and destroy the
diaries?" I asked.
She nodded an answer.
"Be careful, my dear," I cautioned.
"Care will get me nowhere. I must strike first. If
your friend Terry were not such a fool I could best Van
Wyck right now."
"Terry's on your side. I'd trust him if I were you,"
I suggested.
"I wouldn't trust any one who was playing with dy-
namite," she replied. "He doesn't realize his danger."
Those words were to bother and worry me later.
V
Knowing the mood Althea was in, I was rather con-
cerned about my party, but I worried unnecessarily.
When we went downstairs to greet the first of the
guests, she became an entirely different person. She
played the part of a socially-minded woman with grace
and skill which was a bit of relief to me. I've seen
women do it before and shouldn't have been surprised
by her seeming complete absorption in my guests.
Women must of necessity be good actresses. How else
could so many of them go on living, year after year,
with the same man?


50 THE MOVING FINGER
When Terry Lassimon arrived, the party was in full
swing. He gave my hand an extra squeeze and said,
"It's too hot to kiss you, darling."
"Then it's not the heat," I retorted, "but because I
don't happen to have anything you want at the mo-
ment."
"But you have," he answered glibly, "about two hun-
dred thousand dollars if you're in a lending mood."
"Well, I'm not. It's too hot to talk about money," I
snapped back at him.
Those near us laughed and unless I'm greatly mis-
taken there were one or two arched eyebrows and some
understanding nodding of heads. Terry was being bold
and I suppose it was a wise policy under the circum-
stances because talk does get around. On the other
hand, I don't want every Tom, Dick and Harry to get
the idea that I dole out money just for the fun of it.
Terry went on with his banter. "Don't get yourself
overheated," he cautioned. "Perhaps when you cool off
a bit we can talk business. I'll give you adequate se-
curity."
"What?" I demanded feeling that I must go on with
the game. "I understand you are down to your last
yacht."
"You win! People have been talking." He took hold
of my arm and eased me away from the group where
we had been standing.
"Any news?" I asked in an undertone.
"All quiet." He glanced over the room which I had


THE MOVING FINGER
mmmmmmm
tried to keep as cool as possible by using all the electric
fans in the house. Over the hum of conversation the
whirring of the fans was barely noticeable. “Where is
she?” he asked.
Althea was penned into a corner surrounded by half
a dozen infatuated young men.
“She must definitely have something," Terry mur-
mured as we approached the group, "or my partner,
Sidney Kenfield wouldn't be so engrossed."
Terry was right. I had never seen Kenfield so inter-
ested in any girl before. He was doing his utmost to
be charming and agreeable. I fancied I saw some of
Terry's technique in Kenfield's mannerisms. I've al-
ways had an idea that Kenfield more or less patterned
himself after Terry. It's just the sort of thing a younger
man, anxious to get on in the world, might do.
We sailed up to the little gathering. I pried my way
through the attentive young men and sent them off to
pay some attention to the other women. I didn't want
Althea to get off to a bad start. You know and I know
that women resent a woman who can either consciously
or unconsciously attract all the men in a room to her
and keep them buzzing like flies over a honey-pot. If
Althea was going to be a social success, she would need
the help and friendship of women. The men weren't
moving away very fast.
“Make way," Terry said briskly, "and give the lady
some air.” He grinned as he said it.


52 THE MOVING FINGER
"And would you get me a drink?" Althea asked,
looking up.
"I brought it with me," he answered, proffering her
his glass which he had just taken from a passing tray.
She laughed up at him.
She was dark and lovely and possessed of a gracious
dignity and poise which was a comfort to see. I sup-
pose her Continental education had something to do
with that. "Do you always know what a woman
wants?" she asked pointedly.
Terry was stumped for a moment. I felt his fingers
twitch nervously on my arm as Althea went on, "You
see, I've heard about you, Mr. Lassimon."
That remark may have had overtones. I don't know.
At any rate, Terry took it as a challenge.
"Then for the first time in my life, I regret my past,"
he said.
"Has it been that bad?" she laughed. "And what of
your future?"
His hand dropped from my arm.
"That will depend on a number of things. No,
one . . ." he answered pointedly with a direct glance
at her eyes and a flash of his habitual assurance.
"If you're going to talk about Terry's past, or his
future either, for that matter," I said, "you'll be busy
for some time." With a comprehensive glance at both
of them, I moved away.
I knew I had seen a man falling in love. You'd have
to know Terry better to understand why I felt as I did.


THE MOVING FINGER 53
Nothing happened. He met a girl for the second time
in his life. Obviously he was not himself, was at a
loss for things to say. Like males of all species he was
trying to preen and in his effort he was making a
rather poor showing.
A man has no license to be as handsome as he is,
tall, beautifully proportioned, with a finely shaped
head, perfect features, and his eyes . . . Well, I don't
wonder that he has been in one scrape after another.
His eyes do it. They have a melting quality when he
turns them on you suggesting romance, moonlight and
honeysuckle. His charms, however, seemed to fail
him, at least they were having no visible effect on Al-
thea. She didn't help him even a little bit. He floun-
dered for words and self-control.
The girl was an enigma to me. She seemed to be
giving him her undivided attention but I knew her
mind was far off. Poor Terry! She would use him
to gain her own ends, of that I was certain.
Well, it was time he fell decently in love and in all
probability the girl was too good for him. Time would
tell. Some women are born matchmakers at heart.
You know the type I mean, always busy and occupied
interfering in other people's lives, introducing bachelors
to young girls and vice versa. I've never been inter-
ested in doing that sort of thing. The role of an aged
cupid wouldn't exactly suit me. I believe that love,
like nature, should run its own course.
As I moved about among my guests, I kept watching


THE MOVING FINGER 55
it's time some one took the young man down a peg or
two. I had never met a woman who could do it so
well.
In my living-room now, full of gin-laden, over-
rouged (that goes for nails, fingers and toes) modern
American women, she stood out like a beacon on a hill-
top. Don't think I'm opposed to American women. I
like them and think they're smart and fine under the
surface. It is the superficial pose they affect which an-
noys me. I'll never be able to understand why, in the
length and breadth of the land, they dress and act like
tarts of the Nineties. Perhaps it's just a phase through
which they are passing. You know and' I know that
they still have the sterling qualities dormant in them
that helped to make this country what it is today.
Where would the pioneers have been if it had not been
for the women who fought with them shoulder to
shoulder?
The party was being something of a success in spite
of the heat. Conversation had become more or less
general and things were going nicely. I decided to
give Terry a chance and walked up to the group and
took Sidney Kenfield by the arm. As I led him away,
I heard Terry say, "I really have a fine collection. I'd
like to show them to you."
Althea's answer was a laugh followed by, "Is this
invitation instead of the etching one? When may I
come?"


56 THE MOVING FINGER
"Now, tonight, anytime," Terry answered all too
eagerly.
"Charming woman," Kenfield said as we moved out
of earshot.
We neared the hall door when Agnes came to my
side and whispered, "There's a person outside who says
he must see Mr. Lassimon."
I went to the door and peered into the hall. The
man, obviously the servant type, was nervously twirling
his hat in his hand. He seemed vaguely familiar.
"Perhaps I can take care of him," Kenfield suggested
and went into the hall.
After a few brief sentences, Kenfield came back and
said, "He wants to see Terry about some books. He'd
better talk to him. I couldn't make head or tail of it.
Said it was something Terry was supposed to publish.
There are more things going on," he complained as I
went in to summon Terry. Kenfield remained at the
door, no doubt expecting some explanation from Terry.
While Terry talked to the man, Althea said, "I hope
you'll forgive me. I forgot to mention it to you before.
I invited a young man to your party."
"Did I miss one?" I asked with a laugh.
"He came into town unexpectedly. You probably
know him, Dick Bolertho."
Before I could answer, Sidney, who had left his post
at the door, said, "Everybody knows about Dick
Bolertho."


58 THE MOVING FINGER
I have never liked Philip Lassimon, Terry's cousin.
In this long life of mine I have found that my first
judgments and opinions of people are usually the right
ones. Once or twice I have allowed myself to be con-
vinced that I had made a mistake, but nine times out
of ten I have found that I was right the first time. To
me, Philip was a sanctimonious hypocrite who covered
himself with a mantle of righteousness which annoyed
me excessively.
Philip is the run of the mill Lassimon. They have
all been alike as long as I can remember, except Terry.
They have always been a stodgy, uninspired, dull lot
devoting their time and attention to the acquisition of
money and alleged culture. A night in a Lassimon
living-room is about as dull and cheerless as a seaside
resort on a cold, wet winter day.
Philip followed in his father's footsteps and after
college went into the Lassimon Chemical Works to be
ready to take care of the business if and when old Philip
should be called to his makers. As far as I know,
Philip has been a good business man. Lassimon prod-
ucts are nationally advertised, they sponsor an air pro-
gram filled with sweetness and light—Philip's idea,
which is quite in keeping with the family traditions
and the position of Sunday School Superintendent
which he holds in one of our more prominent houses
of worship.
He is married—all Lassimons, the real ones, marry
young—and bring a raft of thin, puny little Lassimons


THE MOVING FINGER 59
into the world to make sensible people wonder if there
isn't something to eugenics, after all.
Terry and Philip were barely out of sight going up
the stairs when the bell rang again. It was Dick Boler-
tho still looking as tragically handsome as he did the
day his wife, Jessica, died.
I was glad to see him and told him so. Althea must
have been watchfully waiting for him because she came
to the door barely a moment after he entered. Dick
was really a sweet boy. He chatted with me dutifully
for several moments until I gave him a slight shove
toward the living-room and told him a charming girl
was waiting for him.
"And I'm talking to a most charming woman," he
said boyishly, but with a sly wink he left me.
You remember Dick Bolertho, surely you must? The
papers were full of his story just a few years ago. I
don't believe he's a day over thirty now. He was a
customer's man in the brokerage office of Dunn, Dunn
and Dunn. That was probably a horrible name to
many investors in the late fall of Nineteen-twenty-nine.
Jessica Dunn, the daughter of one of the partners,
met the boy at the office and fell madly in love with
him. Theirs was one of those sudden romances which
flamed and captured the attention of the world. News-
papers, of course, had a great deal to do with it. They
say all the world loves a lover and I agree with the say-
ing if the boy and girl are both handsome and look
romantic. Dick Bolertho was as near to the popular


60
THE MOVING FINGER
idea of a Greek god as any man can reasonably be.
And he was neither dumb nor vain, as good-looking
men so often are. As a matter of fact, right after the
tragedy he was offered a contract in Hollywood which
he flatly refused. Had he gone out there, I'm sure he'd
have given the Gables and Taylors a run for their
money.
Of course the Dunn family (they were new-rich Irish,
Jessica was only two generations removed from shanty-
town on Coogan's Bluff) objected to the match, but
that didn't stop Jessica. She was worth three million
in her own right which old Biddy Dunn had left her
probably for just such an emergency. Biddy was a
grand old girl, an adorable woman whose head was
never turned by the fabulous fortune she and her hus-
band had made. Of course Biddy never got into the
Social Register, but that didn't worry her. She knew
her grandchildren would make the grade and they did.
Jessica had some of the old lady in her, I guess, because
she turned over half of her fortune to Dick Bolertho
before they were married just so he wouldn't feel like
a poor man.
Dick took the money without making any fuss and
I thought he acted very sensibly. He must have been
a rather serious-minded chap even then because the
papers were full of the wills he insisted on being drawn
up and witnessed right after the ceremony. They were
the kind of wills that husbands and wives should make


THE MOVING FINGER 61
entire fortune to the other. I'm sure it was a nice mo-
tive which prompted him to do that. He evidently
wanted to be sure that the Dunn money would return
to the Dunn family.
Three days later the world was shocked by the news
that Jessica had died. She fell from her horse and
broke her neck while they were riding. It was a sad
and horrible tragedy. The boy was beside himself with
grief. He never married again and as far as I know
took no interest in women. He has lived decently and
respectably and has done, I've been told, a tremendous
amount of good with his money.
One or two household matters demanded my atten-
tion just then. My guests were ravenously hungry, it
seemed, because the hors d'ceuvres vanished almost as
soon as they were taken into the room. It was getting
late and cook wanted to know if she should make more.
The ice too was running low and they wanted my ad-
vice about that. Much to my surprise, I was enjoying
the party and hoped they'd stay as long as they liked.
I'd just finished detailed instructions to Agnes when
Terry and Philip came downstairs looking as solemn as
two boiled owls.
"Come in, Philip, and have a drink," I invited.
I know he was about to say "I don't drink," as I hur-
ried on, "You look like a man who needs a stiff one."
"I believe I do," he agreed. I took him inside, fixed
the drink for him myself, introduced him to one or two


62 THE MOVING FINGER
people he didn't know and then returned to Terry, who
had remained in the hall.
"Things are beginning to pop," Terry said quietly.
"Philip is in the diaries."
I gasped. I couldn't believe my ears, yet I know you
can't always trust the quiet God-fearing type of man.
"Been weeping on my shoulders about the family
name and all that sort of bunk. Demanded that I de-
stroy the books at once."
"What on earth has he done?" I asked.
"He didn't say, but it must be pretty bad. He's scared
to death. He even threatened me."
"He did?"
"Yes. He said I wouldn't live long enough to regret
my stubbornness unless I destroyed the books."
"I'd like to know where Philip was last night when
that shot was fired at you."
"Probably safe in his bed."
"What could Philip have done bad enough to make
him threaten you?" I speculated.
"Search me. Maybe we should read them, after all,"
he suggested.
"Where ignorance is bliss ..." I started to quote but
was stopped by the departure of a guest.
Ten or fifteen minutes later the party began to break
up. Looking for all the world like a disappointed
faun, Sidney Kenfield came away from the group and
joined me at the door.
"Leaving so soon, Sidney?" I asked.


THE MOVING FINGER 63
"Might as well. There's a conspiracy going on over
there in the corner." With a jerk of his head he indi-
cated the group clustered about Althea and Terry.
"Conspiracy?" I asked.
"Yes. Say, do you know anything about the ad Terry
ran in this evening's paper? Several people have asked
me and I know nothing about it. I've asked Terry, but
he told me to wait. Am I his partner or his office boy?"
he complained.
I felt sorry for Sidney. "It's probably something
quite private and personal," I suggested. "Terry usually
knows what he's doing."
"He doesn't have to be secretive about it," Sidney
objected.
We chatted for a few minutes. Just as he turned
from me, Terry came hurrying up, calling him.
"Say, old man," he used his best wheedling tone, "if
any one asks you about diaries tell them you know
nothing about them, will you?"
"I don't, do I?" Sidney asked with a growl.
"No and just stick to that story, will you? If you are
forced to say anything, just say they aren't in the office."
"Okay," Sidney agreed grudgingly.
"I'll tell you all about it tomorrow."
"Why not tonight? How about dinner?" Sidney
insisted.
"Tomorrow," Terry promised. "I'm dining with
Ethel tonight. She's going to lend us some money."
That made Sidney beam as he departed.


64
THE MOVING FINGER
Philip Lassimon, Dick Bolertho and Althea left to-
gether. They were the last to go. Relieved, I sank
down into a chair. Terry stood near the door watch-
ing the group outside the house. He said with a sigh,
"They look like a band of conspirators. I don't like
the company she keeps."
"Meaning which man?" I asked unable to resist the
chance to tease him.
"Looks like Bolertho's after another fortune," he
said bitterly.
"You were fairly attentive yourself," I reminded
him, "and any young man who's so badly off that he
needs a loan of two hundred thousand is apt to get
himself talked about if he is overly attentive to an at-
tractive young woman who is about to take over a
fortune which is in the millions."
"Right," he said tersely. "It was a rotten thing for
me to say about Dick. I'm sorry. I don't know what's
the matter with me. I'm worried, I guess."
One of the things I've always liked about Terry has
been his willingness to admit himself in the wrong.
I've never known him to shirk it, either.
"Forget it," I suggested.
"I will, but do you know I've a sneaking suspicion
she arranged it all," he said regretfully.
"Arranged what?"
"Those people, your uninvited guests, Philip, Boler-
tho."


THE MOVING FINGER 65
VI
Our dinner together was not a success. I wasn't
hungry and Terry picked at his food, eating only a
little of the chicken mousse of which he is supposed
to be inordinately fond. Conversation was as slim as
our appetites. I was tired, and his mind was miles
away from my dinner table.
Over our brandy, I suggested, "You'd better take
Sidney into your confidence, partially at least; he is
feeling slighted and abused."
"He'll be all right," Terry assured me. "There's no
point in having him mixed up in the mess, too."
"But he is your partner and is entitled to some ex-
planation. The young man is annoyed."
"He's often like that. Imagines he's being slighted
when no slight has been intended." He sighed, which
made me wonder if Sidney was something of a prob-
lem, but I said nothing.
Terry helped himself to another brandy, lit a
cigarette, toyed with it for a moment and then snuffed
it out. "I say," he finally managed to get it out, "do
you mind if I run along? I'm no good to you or
myself. I think I'll go up to the apartment and try to
get some sleep."
"Is it cool up there?" I asked.
"Er—oh, yes, cool enough, I guess. I hadn't noticed."
He came round the table to plant a rather dutiful kiss
on my brow.


66 THE MOVING FINGER
"Run along," I said. "I'll sit here, have a cigarette
and finish my brandy."
"I say, I'm sorry. I thought you had finished. For-
give me, please."
"Run along." I patted his back. "Call me if you
have any news. You should be in the clear by to-
morrow. Don't forget," I called after him as he went
into the hall.
I inhaled my brandy and smoked for at least a half-
hour after he left. Agnes hovered about making pre-
tenses of helping the waitress clear the table. "It was
a nice party for such a hot day," she qualified.
I agreed.
"Do nice people go to parties uninvited?" she asked.
"Sometimes, even the nice ones do it."
Agnes laughed. "You don't think Mr. Philip Lassi-
mon is nice, do you?" she went on, getting bolder.
"That's enough, Agnes."
"Yes, ma'am." She held my chair as I left the table.
"What are you angling for?" I asked.
She laughed self-consciously as she always did when
I outguessed her. "Cook and I would like to see Robert
Taylor tonight. It'll be cool there, too, if you don't
mind."
"Go, by all means. You both deserve a treat," I
agreed. She beamed, waiting for my next move which
had been the same for years. I opened my purse and
looked for two one-dollar bills. I was out of change.


68 THE MOVING FINGER
the day when I would rather have one of those low
slinky models but then one never knows what will
happen.
When Malcolm saw cook and Agnes, I saw his nose
tilt upward at least a quarter-inch. He is an excellent
chauffeur but a terrible snob. He doesn't approve of
my occasional habit of giving some of the servants a
lift if we happen to be going in the same direction. His
nose has an habitual tilt due to long years of sniffing
disdainfully at what he considers my plebeian laxness.
He takes awfully good care of me but I'm quite sure
he thinks I'm not quite right in the head and need
looking after. He's very conventionally-minded, hav-
ing been in service on the other side for Lady Some-
thing-or-other who was, I'm sure from all he says, a
perfect lady and probably as dull as dishwater.
"Where are you going?" I asked the girls.
"The Strand," Agnes replied.
"Cook, you ride with Malcolm," I suggested.
"They can both ride with me," Malcolm offered.
"It's too hot. Stop at Forty-seventh and Broadway
and then take me to Mr. Lassimon's apartment. You
know where it is."
On that ride uptown through the early evening traf-
fic, I tortured myself with questions that I couldn't
possibly answer. What on earth had happened at
Terry's apartment?
In just about a half-hour after he telephoned me, I
left the automatic lift on the sixth floor of the old


THE MOVING FINGER 69
apartment building on Central Park West which the
Lassimon family has owned for years. I rang the bell
of Terry's apartment. There was a considerable wait
which worried me. I was on the verge of pounding on
the door, the bell seeming to have been without effect,
when I heard Terry's hushed voice asking, "Who's
there?"
At the sound of my voice, he opened the door nar-
rowly and closed it quickly after me.
"Why the caution and secrecy?" I demanded. "What
on earth has happened?"
He led me across the small foyer to the door of the
living-room. He didn't have to say a word. The place
was topsy-turvy. Every possible hiding-place for any-
thing as large as a pin had been investigated. His desk
was littered with papers and books, drawers yawning
open had been rifled, cabinets, their doors swinging
wide, attested the thoroughness of the search which
had been made.
"What has been taken?" I asked.
"Nothing," he replied. "What they wanted wasn't
here."
"Why should they search this place for the diaries?"
I demanded.
"Because I gave Mortimer's man the impression that
I was reading them here."
"Then you think this was Mortimer's work?" I
asked.
"I don't know. It hardly seems possible that Mor-


70 IiiLil2^iiiSJ^iii££5
timer would have done this if his man were searching
for the diaries." He led me further into the room and
stopped a few feet from a large divan. "What do you
make of this?" he asked, pointing down to the floor in
front of the couch.
On the floor about a foot in front of us on a small
white rug lay a revolver, its nozzle jutting into what
was evidently a splotch of blood. I moved closer and
gasped. Under the edge of the divan there was a man's
felt hat, but that was not the thing which made me
cry out. Just beyond the edge of the divan on the floor
lay Althea's silver compact. There could be no mis-
taking that compact. It was silver, chased and flat. I
know perfectly well that there are hundreds of com-
pacts all made alike, but this was not one of the com-
mon type. It had been made by a silversmith and was
probably the only one of its kind in existence.
"Pretty tough, isn't it?" he asked, not understanding
my reason for gasping the way I did. I wanted to get
hold of the compact without his seeing it. Since he
fancied himself in love with the girl there was no rea-
son for letting him know about that compact until
we had all our cards ready to put on the table. I was
wondering if she had been in the apartment and asked,
"Has any one been here?"
"Obviously," he replied, which annoyed me, but I
knew I had to be patient because he couldn't possibly
understand what I meant.
"You haven't called the police?"


THE MOVING FINGER 71
"No, and I don't want them," he replied vehemently.
"Why not?" I asked. "Your apartment has been
robbed, there has been a tussle of some sort here, mur-
der for all we know."
"It couldn't have been murder," he denied.
"Why not?" I demanded.
"Because there's no body. I'm surprised at you,
Ethel."
"You're right about the body," I agreed. "Now tell
me who the two people were who were here?" I felt
certain that I knew the identity of one of them. Had
Althea been wounded? Or was she the person who
had fired the shot?
"I suppose there must have been two people," he
said.
"Unless the person who was making the search shot
..." I very nearly said herself but caught the word
before it was uttered and ended, "himself."
I knew there had been two people in that room.
Althea wouldn't wear the hat we had found.
"What do you think we should do about this?" he
asked.
"We'd better call my friend, Detective Peter Conk-
lin," I suggested. "He'll help us."
"No, thanks," he said decisively.
"But, Terry," I remonstrated, "I'm a firm believer
in conforming to the rules of law and order." I meant
it then as I said it, with no idea in my mind how far


afield from law, order, and normality I would go be-
fore the night was actually over.
"We're a little outside law and order at the moment,"
he reminded me. "We're toying with dynamite.
What could I tell the police?" he asked with absolute
reason.
"Have you looked through the apartment?" I asked
as I moved closer to the end of the divan and the com-
pact. I don't see how he missed seeing it himself.
He glared at me. "Looked! I've searched every
closet and corner of the apartment, even looking on
the shelves, and found nothing. Do you think this is
just a plant to frighten me?" he ended.
"I hope so," I answered and bent down and pulled
the hat from under the edge of the divan. Then I sat
on the edge of the couch to conceal the compact from
him. I examined the hat. It was just an ordinary gray
felt with an initial J pasted on the sweat-band. I tossed
the hat toward him. While he examined it, I reached
down for the compact and dropped it into the pocket
of my skirt. I wear rather full flounced skirts and
always have a pocket made along one of the seams.
Such a pocket is convenient and a much better place
for your handkerchief than down your neck, up your
sleeve, or constantly picking it up from the floor.
He twirled the hat in his hand thoughtfully after
he looked at that enigmatic letter. "J what? Is it a
first name or a last name?" he asked.
"Let me see it again," I asked getting up.


THE MOVING FINGER 73
I took the hat to a lamp, pulled out the sweat-band
and studied it carefully. "It's a first name," I an-
nounced. "See where a second letter has been pasted
and rubbed loose? It was one of the following, B-D-
E-F-H-I-K-L-M-N-P-R." I rattled the list off quickly.
"My, you do know your alphabet, don't you?" he
grinned, becoming more normal.
"I was taught that way when I went to school." I re-
torted. "I've no patience with people who make such
a fuss about not knowing the alphabet."
"What a memory!" he teased. "But tell me, why
one of those letters?"
"Because the leather hasn't been discolored in one
place indicating clearly that the second letter pasted in
here had a vertical line at its beginning."
"Excellent reasoning, my dear Watson, excellent.
Just rest while I go through the alphabet, with your
help. J. B.," he muttered and paused, "J. D "He
went through the list carefully and thoughtfully until
I was a bit bored by it and him. Finally he looked at
me and said, "I don't know any J anything that will
fit the hat, do you?"
I didn't. And furthermore, I couldn't make rhyme
nor reason out of the problem which confronted us.
I knew that some one searching for the diaries had
turned his apartment inside out. I knew that Althea
had been there. Was she the person who had made
such a thorough search? I rather doubted that be-
cause I didn't believe a fastidious woman (and she was


74 THE MOVING FINGER
one) would have made such a mess of things. If she
hadn't made the search, was she the person who had
shot the searcher?
"Where are the diaries?" I asked.
"Just where you told me to put them, in the office
safe, wrapped, sealed and marked personal," he replied.
"How many people believed they might be there?"
I asked.
"Mortimer, his man and . . . That's all."
But was it? I remembered that moment in the after-
noon when Althea crossed the living-room door. Had
she been listening to us? If she had stood there in the
door she could have heard Terry's report to me. Had
Althea arrived at the apartment to find Mortimer
searching the place for his diaries? Had she in a
moment of rage shot at him feeling that with him
out of the way she would have a clear field to get the
diaries and destroy them? I recalled her rather cold-
blooded remark of the afternoon when she said throw-
ing Mortimer overboard would be a good idea. But
the hat, and that initial J? Mortimer wouldn't be
wearing another man's hat.
"Why not let me in on your thoughts?" Terry sug-
gested. "I'm as bewildered as you are."
"I'm just trying to make sense out of a situation
which in unexplainable," I replied. "Two people were
here. One of them was wounded. There's something
unreasonable about that. The two people who were


THE MOVING FINGER 75
here in search of the diaries had something in common.
There is no sign of a struggle. Why the shot?"
"Nothing in common if one of them was Mortimer,"
he reminded me.
"That's true, but at the moment a dead Mortimer
would mean additional danger for you as the sole
holder of the secrets."
"Why a dead Mortimer? I don't follow you."
"I'm fishing for something. I feel certain the meet-
ing here was not premeditated. It must have had a
surprise element to it."
"Are you trying to say that if some one was killed
here I'd have a difficult time explaining the evidence
without a body?"
"Something like that. It seems a ridiculous thing
for a murderer to do but it would put you in a most
embarrassing position, wouldn't it?" I asked.
"Embarrassing!" he repeated. "You understate.
What are you driving at, anyhow?" he asked irritably.
"Suppose a person wanted you out of the way for
some very good reason which we don't understand at
the moment," I asked.
"Well?"
"One attempt which failed has been made on your
life. That failure makes it dangerous for the person
to carry on any further direct attempts but he still
wants you out of the way."
"I don't follow your reasoning," he interrupted.
"Your enemy knows I'm in your confidence. Don't


76 THE MOVING FINGER
you see if you were killed, I'd be able to give the police
a clue which might eventually lead them to the crim-
inal? Your enemy is smart, Terry. He has thought of
things from every angle. I'm assuming at the
moment that a man was killed here. You'd have less
difficulty explaining these bits of evidence with a body
to corroborate your story than you have at this
moment."
"He wants me out of the way, in jail, waiting a con-
viction for a crime which I didn't commit. Is that
what you mean?"
"Something like that," I agreed.
"But what good would that do him?"
"He could get at the diaries without you in his way."
"But why get me out of the way?"
"I wish I knew," I answered, completely baffled.
The next moment I had a sudden inspiration. "Terry,"
I cried, "we must do something and do it quickly! The
police are apt to be here any moment and we sit wast-
ing precious moments talking. If our reasoning, any
of it, has been right your enemy will send the police
here under some pretext or other. Get me a small
hand-bag, quickly, one about the size of a dressing-
case," I ordered.
He hesitated a second. "Hurry," I cried, excited,
"they may be here any moment! I'll take care of the
evidence." I bent down and started to fold the rug.
"But I can't let you do that!" he protested.
"You can't do anything else. Will you hurry? I'll


take the stuff home with me, drop it in the river, burn
it, or do something. Don't you worry about me," I
called after him.
He was back in a jiffy with a medium-sized black
pin-seal suitcase.
We worked quickly. Fortunately, the rug was on
a thin rubber pad so we didn't have to worry about
any stain on the floor itself. The rubber mat and the
rug had absorbed all the blood. I folded the rug and
the mat into a flat bundle and squeezed them both into
the bag, then put the hat and revolver on top of them
and snapped the lid shut. Then we placed another
small rug in front of the divan so that the floor
wouldn't seem so bare. That done, we were consider-
ably relieved.
We then began putting the room in order. "That
gun," I asked, "ever see it before?"
"It's mine. It's been in the top drawer of the desk
for years."
"Was it fired?"
He shrugged.
I opened the bag, took out the gun and fiddled with
it. I've heard of breaking a gun and all that sort of
thing, but it wouldn't break. I should have known
better than fool with the darned thing, for the first
thing I knew it went off with a terrific bang. Terry
jumped forward and took it from me. It had been
fired once before. While Terry put the gun with the
other things, I went back to the divan and tried to


THE MOVING FINGER
discover angles from which the gun had been fired.
I found the telltale mark. There was a hole in the
divan near the top. I pointed to the hole. We were
about to move the divan when the doorbell rang.
Automatically our eyes went toward the small hand-
bag.
“Put it in the hall near the door," I whispered. I
took a chiffon scarf from my shoulders and dropped
it over the hole on the back of the couch.
"It's too dangerous,” he whispered, hesitating, the
bag in his hand.
“Do as you're told. I'll pretend I'm ready to leave.
I'll go out and take the bag with me. Get along now
and open the door.” I moved behind him, all ready
to make my exit speech in case it was the police.
Reluctantly he opened the door and there, smiling on
the threshold, stood Althea.
VII
"Are your etchings at home?” she asked facetiously
in greeting. Then spying me, said, “How nice so see
you so soon again! You two are quite inseparable,
aren't you?"
That girl had the self-possession of the devil. She
had missed her compact and had returned to get it.
Well, I'd fool her this time. I'd let her look. She
followed Terry into the room. He began to apologize
for the appearance of the room.


THE MOVING FINGER 79
"Have you lost something?" she asked looking about
very carefully but pretending to be innocent enough.
"No, have you?" I demanded.
"How could I?" She tried to worm out of an
answer by laughing.
"Don't hedge. What are you doing in a man's
apartment at this hour of the night?"
"I might ask you the same question, but I won't,"
she retorted.
"Because you know the answer," I replied. "What
do you want?"
"Ethel, please," Terry begged, not understanding.
I was annoyed with myself. I intended to let her
show her own hand instead. I began forcing the issue
at once.
"We've been a little upset," Terry started to explain.
"Save your breath," I cut in. "She knows all about it.
She's seen all this and a lot more." I was definitely
opposed to the girl at the moment. If it were to be a
choice between Terry and Althea, I was more than will-
ing to throw her to the dogs.
Her best defense was to say nothing and she knew
it. She did a very good job of being amazed and puz-
zled by my speech. Terry was dumfounded. He
looked at me as if I had suddenly gone mad. I reached
into my pocket, drew out the compact and handed it
to her, saying, "Here it is, the thing you returned to
get. It was on the floor at the end of the couch. I


80 THE MOVING FINGER
didn't want him to know about it at first, but I've
changed my mind."
"Thank you so much," she said as she took it from
my hand. "That was careless of me."
I would have enjoyed slapping her; her poise an-
noyed me and yet I admired her for it.
"But I don't understand," Terry said, eying us both.
"Would you mind letting me in on this?"
"Sit down," I suggested to Althea. I selected a
straight-backed chair for myself. I always feel at a
disadvantage both mentally and physically when I'm
slumped down in a soft squashy overstuffed chair.
"I prefer to stand," she replied and stood facing me.
"Have it your own way." I looked at her sharply.
"Now, young lady, perhaps you'll tell us what you were
doing here earlier this evening."
Terry moved between us and spoke to her. "You
don't have to answer questions. You needn't tell us
why you were here, if you were, what you did, or any-
thing about it. I don't want to know. We know
you've been worried and upset. We don't know why
and we don't want to learn your secret. I'm sure that
whatever you may have done was done for a legitimate
reason. It's all right, really it is."
I snorted but he paid no attention to me. What a
fool a man can be when he's in love!
"Pay no attention to her. I don't care what you've
done in the past or what you may do in the future.
If you'd only trust me, I'd be able to take care of and


82 THE MOVING FINGER
"About eight."
"Had you ever seen the man before?" I asked, hop-
ing to catch her in a trap.
"I didn't see his face," she answered.
I was dumfounded by her answer.
"Whose face?" Terry shouted.
"The man's." She looked toward the couch and
shuddered slightly. "He was there on the floor face
down, a revolver beside him, his hat half off his head.
I see you have removed the evidence," she ended ac-
cusingly.
"What did you think?" I asked.
"Since he seemed to be quite dead I supposed there
had been a murder," she replied. "I see you have
covered the bullet-hole with your scarf."
My, but she was a sharp one! "And yet," I said,
"realizing that there had been a murder, you did
nothing about it?"
"Why should I? I could have no interest in the
murdered person when I realized it was not Mr. Lassi-
mon."
"You thought it was me?" Terry asked.
"Only for a moment. When I moved forward and
looked more closely I realized it was not you."
"Why didn't you do something about it?" I insisted.
"Why should I call the police and expose some secret
of Mr. Lassimon's? I'm not interested in the secrets
of others."


THE MOVING FINGER 83
Te-
munun
“Neither are we," I replied. The implication was
too pointed to let it pass without notice.
“You have such an odd way of proving it,” she re-
torted.
"Did you see any one in the halls or the elevator as
you came up?” Terry asked.
“No one.”
“How did you get in here?” I demanded.
"First, I rang the bell and waited for a long time,
then I rang again. There was no answer. I thought I
heard a movement inside, so I rang the third time.
After a long interval, I turned away. My elbow grazed
against the door and it opened just a little. I pushed
the door open further and called but no one replied.
Then I came in here. I was amazed at what I saw.
I knew I was too late. I left at once because I didn't
want to be connected in any way with what, on the
surface, seemed to be a murder.”
"You didn't leave until you came all the way into
the room. Your compact was under the far end of
the couch. Why did you bend down?”.
"To see if the man was Mr. Lassimon. It was then
:'7' at I noticed the bullet-hole in the couch.”
“You're very observant," I admitted grudgingly, “but
tell me, if you didn't want to be connected with this
murder, why did you come back this time?"
“Blackmail,” she replied shamefacedly.
We both gasped.
m


84
"You see," she explained, "I thought that Mr. Lassi-
mon had killed some one."
"You don't believe that?" Terry cried.
"Why not? "You both think I did it!"
"But we don't! We know you had nothing to do
with it, don't we, Ethel?" he pleaded.
I nodded in agreement. "Go on about the black-
mail," I urged.
"Perhaps it's in the air," she said wearily. "Anyhow,
as I thought it over, I knew that Mr. Lassimon would
be in a difficult position. I called your house and
learned that he had left. I came here to demand the
diaries for my sileice," she stated boldly.
"But I have nothing to hide!" Terry cried.
"Then where is the body, the rug, the gun, and the
hat?" she demanded. "Why haven't you called the
police?"
I countered with a question, "Are you quite sure
that you didn't come back here for your compact?"
"Naturally, I wanted to get that too. I knew I could
find it while I was putting my proposition to Mr.
Lassimon."
"But unfortunately for you I found the compact, so
your little scheme has fallen through."
"Not exactly. You've given me the compact. You
can't prove now that it or I was ever here before."
"And since you don't know where the body, the rug,
the gun or the hat are, you have no story either," I


THE MOVING FINGER 85
reminded her. "We've sort of squared accounts,
haven't we?"
"You don't believe me, do you, Miss Thomas?" she
asked point-blank.
"Not completely." I was just as direct. "If you only
came in for a moment, how on earth did you lose the
compact?"
"I suppose it fell out of my bag when I tucked it
under my arm. The end is quite open. See, it's a
silly bag, really." She held it up to give me a demon-
stration which made her answer reasonable enough.
The end was quite open. She was either as deep as
darkness or naively innocent. I didn't know which,
but I knew she was no fool.
"I'm glad you came back," Terry said honestly. "It's
cleared up a number of things for all of us."
"I didn't search your apartment and I didn't kill
any one," she said bluntly. "I came back because I
wanted to get the diaries or to know exactly what
has happened to them. Were they stolen?"
"No. I still have them," he replied.
"Then give them to me," she demanded, "or I'll tell
the police what I know about this apartment."
"You wouldn't," he said, trying to make himself be-
lieve his own words.
"Wouldn't I? Aren't you afraid?"-
"Very much," he admitted, "of a number of
things. ..."
He didn't finish because the bell rang and was im-


86 THE MOVING FINGER
mediately followed by a peremptory rapping on the
hall door which cut him short.
"That," I suggested, "is probably the police."
"Police?" she asked unbelievingly.
The rapping grew more insistent. Terry moved
toward the door.
"Yes," I explained quickly. "We think the murderer
is trying to put Terry on the spot. Now's your chance.
Tell them your little story. The rug, gun, and hat are
in the black bag there in the hall. We know nothing
about the body. He may as well hang for a sheep as
a lamb. Go ahead." I turned away from her and stood
near the desk as the clattering at the door died away.
Two policemen marched into the room like Tweedle-
dum and Tweedle-dee and in chorus asked about the
robbery.
Our guess had been right. Terry's enemy had sent
them. But why had he waited so long? Had he been
busy with the body?
One of them, the shorter of the two, was very busi-
nesslike as he took out a little book and began asking
questions. The other moved about the room investi-
gating. When Terry admitted that nothing had been
stolen they lost interest at once and seemed rather
disgusted.
"I guess you came in and scared them off," the little
one suggested. "Is there a back way out of here?" he
asked.


"Yes, a service stair and elevator," Terry replied.
"Would you like to see it?"
The man nodded and off they went. The other man
continued to move about the room. He looked over at
me and said, "They sure made a mess of things. Didn't
they take nothin'?"
"Mr. Lassimon says not," I answered with a look at
Althea, who seemed fascinated by the policeman.
"Well, I'll see if they've found anything out back,"
he said and wandered off.
"Why didn't you tell them?" I asked bitterly.
I believe her eyes were rimmed with tears as she
said, "You know I wouldn't do a thing like that. I
don't want to get any one into trouble. It's too
horrible."
Terry and the officers came back. "Sorry to have
troubled you, boys," Terry was beaming, "but I always
think it's best to call the police in a case of this kind."
"Right you are, sir. Glad they didn't get anything."
"How about a drink?" Terry suggested with a wink.
"It'll cool you off."
"Or make us hotter," the little one replied, "but hot
or cold, what's the difference, as my wife always says."
They rattled around in the pantry for a few minutes
and then with a cheery goodnight left.
We all sighed with relief when the door closed be-
hind them.
"Would you like a drink?" Terry asked.


88 THE MOVING FINGER
"I don't want anything but the destruction of those
diaries," Althea answered. "Will you do it?"
"Not until all the people vitally concerned meet in
one place with Mortimer and see them destroyed," he
answered firmly.
"Mortimer won't consider their destruction. I've
offered to buy them," she cried in desperation.
"If all concerned make their offer large enough, I'll
see that they are destroyed," he promised.
"And in the meantime, you jeopardize my future
and risk your own life for people who don't care
whether you live or die," she said scornfully.
"I do care, and I've very good reasons for knowing
that some one member of those interested cannot be
trusted with any secret. While the books are in my
possession, you are all safe from Mortimer and the un-
known."
"How can you be so contrary? You'd put an end
to it all if you'd destroy them," she cried in exasper-
ation.
"I'm sorry, but it will have to be done my way now.
As soon as you or Mortimer or any other person con-
cerned can contact all the others and bring them to-
gether in one place, I'll produce the diaries. You'll
come, of course."
"If it isn't too late," she replied, thoroughly beaten
for the moment. "Goodnight, Miss Thomas." She
turned, marched to the door and left, making no effort
to conceal her contempt for Terry.


THE MOVING FINGER
annum
I had a drink with him. We both needed one and
together we mulled over the situation which confronted
us. Our hands were tied. There was nothing we could
do about the affair without incriminating ourselves.
Any question, action or movement on our part would
be equivalent to an admision of guilt. Painful as it
would be, we had to wt and wait for the next move
from the man who seemd more determined than ever
to remove Terry from hinth. Why? Terry didn't
know and neither we would have to muddle
along torn by fear and worry wondering who the vic-
tim was, where his body had been taken and how we
would be connected with his death.
I felt certain that ferry had suspicions of one sort
or another and I tried to draw him out, but he was as
silent as a desert sunset. I had nothing upon which I
could work. I had seen only a vague shadow from
across the street the night of the shot. I found myself
wishing I had read the diaries. At least then we would
have had something to go on. All we knew at the
moment for certain was that Philip Lassimon was in-
terested in the diaries along with Althea.
Of course we should have called the police right at
the start but we didn't and our muddling along alone
made no difference anyhow. The crimes would have
been committed in just the way they were because the
murderer was overconfident of his ability to fool us all
and he had very good reason for his assumption. I still


9o THE MOVING FINGER
get angry when I think of our blindness as we groped
our way through the fog of the following events.
After a fruitless talk during which Terry" refused to
return to my house to stay until the whole thing had
blown over, I started home alone. He wanted to go
down to the street with me, but knowing that Malcolm
would be there, I refused. Things would have been
different if he had insisted, but he didn't. I'm not
blaming him because I'm very definite about things
like that and hate people to make issues of them. With
the little bag clutched tightly in my hand, I started
down in the automatic lift.
When I reached the ground floor, I had some diffi-
culty operating the inner and outer door with one hand,
but I was determined to keep hold of that black bag.
The air was breathlessly hot as I reached the door. I
could see my old Lincoln pulled up against the curb
a few feet down the street. I rather expected Malcolm
to come running forward, but I reached the car without
a sign of him. I then realized that he was slumped
down under the wheel asleep.
It isn't often that I can catch him napping. I decided
to give him a shock. I opened the rear door quietly,
put the bag on the floor and started to climb over it.
I must have been a queer sight from the rear for I
know one of my legs hung in midair for a minute or
more. I couldn't move in or out, neither could I be-
lieve my eyes, for the body of a dead man was slumped
across the rear seat.


THE MOVING FINGER
VIII
When I finally managed to get back on to the curb
and had slammed the car door shut to keep prying
eyes from that inert body, I hurried round to the front
of the car expecting I knew not what. Poor Malcolm,
would I find him as still and dead as that thing on the
back seat? Now, don't say, "Why didn't the old fool
call an officer?" I thought of that but I couldn't call
the police without a long explanation which would in-
volve Terry. I needed no chart to tell me that the
man on the back seat of my car was the man who had
been murdered in Terry's apartment. I didn't stop to
look at the body to identify it. I was too taken-back
by the unexpectedness of it. Where had the murderer
been with the body from the time he left the apart-
ment until my car arrived? The whole thing was fan-
tastic and why in heaven's name pick on me? Of
course I knew even as I walked to his side that if
Malcolm were dead I'd have to do something and do it
quickly. If I had been less conscious of all the things
which had happened I probably would have called the
police right then and there although if I had known
the identity of the man nothing in the world would
have prompted me even to consider such a step.
Fearfully, I felt for Malcolm's heart, he was breath-
ing heavily. What a relief! I suppose he was really
snoring. I gave a great sigh. Poor soul! My eyes
filled with tears. We're very fond of each other, Mai-


92 THE MOVING FINGER
colm and I. He's been with me for so many years. I
opened his shirt collar and loosened his tie. He'd have
been scandalized if he had been conscious. I shook
him and called into his ear. He just went on snoring
heavily, paying no attention to me. Have you ever
tried to do anything with a man who is unconscious,
slumped under the steering-wheel of a car? I tried to
slap his chest but without much success. It was then
that I noticed the piece of wadding. It had fallen to
the seat between his sprawled legs. From the position
they were in, I imagine he must have struggled for a
moment.
I lifted the wadding and sniffed. Chloroform!
There were people passing up and down the street
and I was afraid I'd attract attention. You know what
people are in New York. An Indian could walk down
Broadway in full war-paint and no one would pay any
attention to him, but let a woman or a man, normally
dressed, do anything even slightly out of the ordinary
and a crowd gathers. I had to have help, so I went
back to the apartment for Terry.
For a moment, after I gasped out my story, he acted
as if he thought I had lost my senses or had had a touch
of heat.
"How do you revive a man who has been chloro-
formed?" I cried. "Do you know? If you do, come
along."
He went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle
of ammonia and some ice cubes wrapped in a napkin.


THE MOVING FINGER 93
He slipped into his coat and together we went back to
the car. I held the ice and bottle while Terry managed
to slide Malcolm out from under the wheel. As I
crawled into the car to hold him upright, I took one
hurried glance at the thing in the back but couldn't
recognize the man. Terry went round to the other
side and climbed in under the wheel and held the bottle
to Malcolm's nose. In the meantime, I rubbed his
wrists with ice cubes which felt like pieces of glass in
the heat.
After a few minutes, Malcolm began to stir. I sighed
with relief as his eyes flickered open.
"We'd better ride about a bit, to give him plenty of
air," Terry suggested.
We drove round and round the park with the front
windshield partially open until Malcolm regained con-
sciousness. When he opened his eyes and realized I
was holding him in my arms he blinked in amazement
and went off again. The next time he came out of it,
he slithered himself a bit and I let him sit alone, steady-
ing him with one hand on his arm. He was upset
when he realized that his shirt was open and his tie
undone.
"Take it easy, man," Terry advised. "You've had a
rough time."
We kept circling the park until I felt the place was
a huge merry-go-round. After an hour or more Mal-
colm said, "I think I could drive, now, sir."


94 THE MOVING FINGER
"What's the matter," Terry chided, "don't you like
my driving?"
"It's all right, sir, but you're a bit rough on the curves
for Miss Ethel. She's fussy about her curves, sir."
Terry let go with a guffaw that very nearly ran us
into a tree.
"Never mind about the curves and, Terry, take it
slower," I ordered. "Now, Malcolm, tell me what hap-
pened."
"I don't know, Miss. I was sitting there and all of
a sudden somebody plumped something over my nose
and there I was. I struggled for a bit but it didn't do
me any good. What did happen?"
"You were chloroformed, Malcolm," Terry ex-
plained.
"But why?" he asked naturally enough.
"Can you keep a secret?" Terry asked.
"I think so, sir."
"We have a dead man in the back of the car," Terry
said quietly.
"A what, sir?"
"A corpse."
"Good heavens! Miss Ethel!" he exclaimed turning
to me. "You've haven't gone and killed some one, have
you? What are we going to do with it?"
Bless his old heart! He thought me mad enough to
commit murder but he was ready and willing to help
me in spite of his fears.
"It's not my corpse," I started to explain.


THE MOVING FINGER
95
"That's good," he sighed with relief.
"You were chloroformed so that the body could be
placed there. We've got to get rid of it somehow,"
Terry explained.
"Could we give it to the police or take it to the
morgue?" he asked innocendy.
"Neither of those things. You know what the police
are. We can't answer questions. They're too involv-
ing," Terry explained. "I'm in a bit of a jam, Malcolm.
Miss Ethel is helping me. I didn't kill the man but he
is my responsibility. We've got to get rid of it."
"Yes, sir."
"Any suggestions?" Terry went on.
Malcolm was immediately helpful. "There's the
river, sir," he said, "or a bench here in the park. There
are dark alleys and vacant lots and just the other day
I read in a book where they took the body and left it
in an empty store. We might put him in an empty cab,
sir, if we can find one which the driver has left while
he's having a bite to eat." He went on, "I read in an-
other book where the body was put in a police car in
front of the police station. That would be a good trick,
don't you think?" he ended hopefully.
"What do you say?" Terry grinned across Malcolm
to me.
"I couldn't dump him into the river, Terry."
"No, ma'am, I suppose not." It was Malcolm who
agreed with me.


96 THE MOVING FINGER
We were probably making our tenth round of the
park when a siren sounded behind us and a motorcycle
policeman pulled alongside. I must admit that my
heart jumped into my mouth. I felt Malcolm shiver.
Terry pulled over to one side. The officer rested his
foot on our running-board and suggested, "Why don't
you take a trip up Pelham Parkway or over the new
bridge to Long Island. It ought to be cooler than the
park."
"That's an idea," Terry grinned. "I never thought
of it."
"The truth of it is," the cop smiled, "I'm sick of see-
ing this old bus running around. Aren't many of them
left."
I leaned over and looked at the officer. His voice
sounded familiar. Sure enough, he was the man de-
tailed to give me escort to Harlem when I was on the
Doane case. "You should know this car," I chirped.
"You led it all the way to Harlem a little over a year
ago."
"Miss Thomas, ma'am!" he grinned. "How are you?
Working on another case? Who was killed this time?"
I felt Malcolm squirm. I know I gulped before I
replied, "No case. Just trying to keep cool. Too bad
you can't come with us."
"Well, to tell you the truth, for two cents I'd like
to put my bike on the back there and go along with
you, only I have to watch the park. We're busy to-
night with the heat and all. Well, so long." With a


THE MOVING FINGER 97
roar he sped away. The three of us sighed with relief
and Terry headed out of the park at 110th Street.
"You're not really going to the new bridge, are you?"
I asked.
"No, but he may change his mind and want to go
for that ride."
"That gave me a bad turn," Malcolm breathed. "I
thought he had us sure."
I liked the way Malcolm included himself in the con-
spiracy. Terry turned onto Fifth Avenue. We headed
downtown. "There may be an empty bench some-
where near the Museum," he suggested.
Malcolm and I peered at the benches which seemed
so well shaded by the trees. There was only one va-
cant and that was in a pool of light from a street lamp.
"What do you think?" Terry asked as we slowed
down for the bench.
"No, Terry," I cried. "We can't risk it. Some one
would be sure to notice this car and remember it. No
matter where we leave the body, if we are seen at all,
this car will give us away. You might just as well put
the Eiffel Tower on Times Square and expect it to go
unnoticed."
Just then some people sauntered out from the shade
and moved toward the bench.
"Standing room only," Terry muttered. "I never saw
so many people at this hour of the night."
"It beats all, doesn't it?" Malcolm said. "Wouldn't
you think some of these people would go home?"


98 THE MOVING FINGER
Terry chuckled and we went grimly on.
"Couldn't we leave him at your office, sir?" Mal-
colm suggested.
"No. That wouldn't do. You see, in a way he's my
corpse."
"A bit of a nuisance, sir, and that's a fact. Now let
me see . . ." Malcolm was trying to be helpful. After
a moment, he said, "How about Battery Park?"
Down we went through dark canyon-like streets,
past sleeping buildings, but each time we thought we
had found a likely spot, a policeman or a stroller spoiled
our plan. Battery Park itself looked like a Sunday
School picnic-ground. Every New Yorker seemed to
be looking for a cool spot.
"I've an idea," Terry said hopefully. "I've a key to
Gramercy Park. Surely in that staid neighborhood
we'll find some peace and quiet."
We were wrong again. The park was full of people
trying to find relief from the heat.
"You wouldn't mind leaving him on a pier, would
you?" Terry asked quite as if that were the last straw.
I didn't blame him a bit. You've no idea what a dif-
ficult job it is to dispose of a body during a hot sum-
mer night in New York.
We went over to the East River to a pier somewhere
in the twenties right near Bellevue Hospital but the
place was jammed with people and a policeman on
guard wouldn't permit us to drive the car onto the
pier anyhow.


THE MOVING FINGER 99
"I've an idea, sir. Let's take him over to the Penn-
sylvania Station. We could go in from the Eighth Ave-
nue Subway entrance. It's quite deserted there at this
time of night between trains. There are a number of
telephone booths along the passage. We could put him
in one of them and leave him there." Malcolm was
just full of ideas.
"You've got something, Malcolm," Terry replied.
"The trouble with us is we've been afraid. We must be
bold. We'll drive to Thirty-third Street right beside
Gimbel's and you on one side and I on the other, will
trundle him down the steps and into that long alley.
There won't be many people there. We'll deposit him
in a phone booth."
"It's risky, Terry," I objected.
"But we can't drive about all night," he retorted.
"Before you know it, it'll be daylight and then what
will we do?"
"On to Gimbel's," I cried with more bravado than
I felt.
We pulled up alongside the curb on Thirty-third
Street and Terry slid out from under the wheel. Mal-
colm adjusted his coat and stepped to the curb. I held
the fort. I heard Terry open the rear door and grunt
once. Then I heard a low whistle.
In a moment Terry was at my side. "Jumping cat-
fish, Ethel," he whispered. "Do you know who we've
been trundling around the town? Mortimer's man,


THE MOVING FINGER 101
a vestibule. The cab sputtered away, the street was
clear. Terry and Malcolm got busy at once. They
lifted the man, Fergus, out and between them they car-
ried him to the basement door and left him on the step.
They were back in a minute. Malcolm went round
and slid under the wheel.
"We'll drop Mr. Lassimon off at his apartment," I
said.
"Yes, ma'am." Under normal conditions he would
have been shocked to have me sitting on the front seat
with him. As a matter of fact, I rather expected him to
suggest that Terry and I get into the tonneau, as long
as the body was gone, but he didn't.
We turned into Central Park West when I happened
to think of the bag. "You didn't lose the suitcase, did
you?" I asked.
"I didn't even notice it," Terry grunted.
We rode on in silence, each busy with our thoughts,
Malcolm watching the traffic. As we rolled up to his
apartment and Terry prepared to leave he said, "You're
a brick, Ethel." Then he turned to Malcolm, "If Miss
Ethel ever fires you, you know where there's a job wait-
ing for you."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Malcolm replied.
"Just check on that bag, Terry," I suggested. "It's
been on my mind ever since we left Mortimer's."
He opened the door and said, "There's no bag here."
I was aghast and cried, "There must be." I bounded
out of the car and looked myself. I even foolishly
s


THE MOVING FINGER
anything to happen to you again, and for pity's sake
lock the car," I warned.
In the apartment Malcolm became the perfect servant
once more. When he realized that Terry was without
a houseman he offered to serve the drinks.
"Miss Thomas will have brandy and soda, sir," he
said. "What would you like?"
"The same," Terry replied, "and have one yourself."
"Not while I'm driving, thank you, sir."
It was not until the drink began to have some effect
that we spoke at all. We had been through so much.
I know my mind teemed with ideas and possibilities
but I had nothing definite to say.
"What's the next move?" he asked finally.
"I'd say watchful waiting," I answered. "There's
very little we can do at the moment. We certainly can't
ever admit knowing anything about Fergus, can we?"
"No, that's true," he admitted. "But I'll go crazy
waiting. I can imagine now how a condemned man
feels waiting for his death sentence."
"Don't be morbid," I scoffed.
I was thinking, however, about what he had said
when the telephone bell jangled sharply. I jumped and
spilled some of my brandy down the front of my gown.
I was suddenly cold. I laughed hysterically.
"Quiet!" Terry barked as he lifted the receiver.
"Lassimon speaking," he said and then listened at-
tentively for a moment. He put his hand over the
mouthpiece and whispered. "It's our friend. He says


i(>4
THE MOVING FINGER
unless I give him the diaries he'll turn the bag and evi-
dence over to the police."
I shook my head. Terry nodded approvingly, then
said with force and emphasis, "I'll see you in hell first!"
and slammed down the receiver.
"The time has come ..." I started to quote.
"For another drink," Terry finished.
IX
I puzzled over our problem all the way home and
long after that. We were certainly hung on the horns
of a dilemma.
Once when I was undressing, I was tempted to tele-
phone Terry and suggest that we call up the police
and take our chances once and for all on the right side
of the fence, but the next moment I realized how silly
that would be. We made our initial mistake at the
moment some one shot at Terry and we did nothing
about it. We had nothing to conceal then, but since
we had involved ourselves in a story far too fantastic
for ordinary belief.
Terry had been drawn into the situation because he
had those diaries in his possession and now heaven and
earth wouldn't move him from his plan, which was to
protect Althea's secret.
I felt helpless. I regretted over and over again that
I had not read the accursed things when I had them
in the house. I was sure that in the diaries we would


THE MOVING FINGER 105
somehow find the answer to our problem. As it was,
we had two suspects—Althea and Philip Lassimon and
possibly Dick Bolertho. I'd have read the books then
and there had they been in my possession. We had
no definite clues whatever and couldn't possibly be in
a more ticklish spot.
The person who had shot at Terry, searched the
apartment and killed Fergus was much smarter than
we were at the moment and knew much more than we
did. And furthermore, he was a determined indi-
vidual who wanted Terry out oMhe way. But why
Terry? I couldn't rationalize that^act in the light of
what had happened. Why was Terry in danger and
why was Mortimer apparently safe? Why should
Mortimer be safe when for years he had had the infor-
mation which had just come into Terry's l^ands? It
didn't make sense at all. And why kill Fergus?
The murderer had displayed fiendish subtlety in
promoting fear. One of the Borgia women couldn't
have done better. With the death of Fergus, the mur-
derer had fashioned a powerful weapon with which he
hoped to control Terry's future actions. What would
his next step be now that Terry had defied him? I was
sure it would be clever and unexpected, but what?
Why put the body in my car? Also, since it was
there and I would be faced with the problem of getting
rid of it, or calling the police, why take the bag? How
did the murderer know that he would need the bag?
How did he know what was in that bag?


THE MOVING FINGER 107
papers. The milkman, at least, should have found him
squatting there at the basement entrance. The very
lack of news filled me with misgivings.
Terry rang up before I had my coffee. He, too, was
puzzled by the lack of news.
"I'm going to see Mortimer right away, bright and
early," he said.
"I don't believe I'd do that," I warned.
"I might as well," was his reply. "We should know
all the things that are going on. I want to get what
information I can while I can."
"What do you mean?" I asked quickly.
"If I go to jail, I'll be rather limited in the things I
can do. I'm going to get my work in first. Do you
want to do me a favor?"
"If I can. What?"
"I'd feel safer if those diaries were out of the office.
Would you mind getting them and depositing them in
your own safe-deposit box until further notice from
me?"
"Why do you want me to do that?" I demanded.
"I think it will be safer in case I am arrested. . . ."
"Althea's secret, whatever it is, won't be exposed," I
finished for him.
"Bright girl," he chuckled over the wire.
"I hope she's worth it."
"Go early, will you, Ethel? There'll be some one
there at nine. The quicker the better. You can't miss
the parcel. It's done up in brown paper and has red


THE MOVING FINGER
sealing-wax all over it. You'll recognize it at once.
I'll call you as soon as I've had my talk with Mortimer.
And, Ethel, don't say anything to Sidney if you see
him. I don't want him mixed up in this. It's our
show."
After he rang off, I called Agnes and told her I was
going out.
"In this heat?" she objected.
"Hush up! Fix my things and stop mumbling un-
der your breath."
"Do you want the car?" she asked.
"No. I'll take a cab. Have one here at eight-thirty."
My bath finished, I began to hurry. Agnes hovering
about me suggested that I leave off the transformation.
She'll never suggest that again. Why, I'd as soon go in
the street in my chemise! I wanted to be at Terry's
office before nine or the very minute it opened. I don't
know why I was suddenly seized with the urge for
haste. All I knew was that haste was imperative.
There's nothing more distressing than dressing in a
hurry, particularly when it's hot and you're hotter. I
did the best I could with the tiny rivulets that streamed
down my body. Agnes kept annoying me by insisting
that I have some breakfast. She knows that, nine
mornings out of ten, I'm bad-tempered until after my
coffee. Impatiently, I took a cup and sipped a little
just to please her because she was standing over me in
much the same manner that mothers assume when
they try to make their children eat spinach. It seemed


THE MOVING FINGER 109
hotter than usual and scalded my lips. I put it aside
and descended to the hall to find Malcolm waiting for
me.
"I have the car ready," he said.
"I intended taking a cab, didn't Agnes tell you?"
"Yes, ma'am, but . . ."
"All right, come along." Together we stepped into
an inferno called a street.
We drove up Lexington to Forty-ninth Street and
then west to the building which Terry had converted
into an office for his publishing business. It was about
ten minutes of nine when we arrived. Listless men
and women were dragging themselves along the street.
Poor souls! They should have had a holiday. Near
Radio City some women were walking their panting
dogs. It was going to be another unbearable day. As
I stepped from the car, a figure down the street ar-
rested my attention. It was a woman who was walk-
ing briskly. I felt quite certain it was Althea. Was I
too late? Telling Malcolm to wait, I ran up the steps
to the front door.
Terry's office building is an old converted residence.
The main offices are on what had once been the parlor
floor, but then I don't need to tell you about such
buildings, you probably have been in dozens of them
during prohibition times.
The entrance doors, the type which open in the
center, yielded to my hand. I went in. The building
was strangely quiet. I looked into the empty reception-


110
THE MOVING FINGER
room first, then went on down the hall hoping to find
some one in the back office. The room was as empty
as a tomb. I called once, but there was no answer.
There was nothing to do but wait, for I knew I couldn't
get into the safe alone, safe-cracking being an accom-
plishment I neglected to learn in my youth.
It was fairly cool in the dark hall. I sat on the bot-
tom step of the stairs facing the front door. It was a
long twenty minutes sitting there waiting in the gloom.
I had reached the point where inactivity was beginning
to bore me. I lit a cigarette and toyed with the dead
match.
I've never learned to throw matches or cigarette
butts down in public places as so many people do. It
makes me wince when I see supposedly nice people
drop burning cigarettes on the carpets of theater lob-
bies and hotel corridors. Most of them do stop to press
the cigarette with the toe of their shoe, I'll give them
credit for that much care, but it's something I can't do.
I often wonder if those people are as careless in their
own homes.
A sudden noise in the basement startled me. I walked
back to the stairs and called down. In a moment, a
freckled-faced, engaging youngster of about seventeen
poked his head round the partition and grinned up at
me, saying,
"We ain't open yet, lady. Did you want a book?"
I felt like telling him I had a book, but didn't be-
cause he may not have heard the one about the chorus


THE MOVING FINGER in
girl. Instead I said, "I've just had a message from Mr.
Lassimon. I'm a friend of his. He wants me to get
something from his safe."
The boy came up the steps then, giving me a rather
thorough and inclusive eye-raking as he advanced.
When he reached the top he was seized by a thought.
"Say, how did you get in?" he asked.
"Through the door, of course. Do I look like a
ghost?"
"I dunno," he replied not too flatteringly after a
speculative glance. "Anyhow, it's funny." He swung
past me without another word and went to the front
doors. He stopped to inspect the lock. After a mo-
ment he whistled and said, "Holy gee!"
I moved forward. He was bent down rubbing his
finger over the wood. "What are you doing?" I asked.
"Nothin'. This door's been jimmied. No wonder
you got in." He looked at me again and then as if
satisfied that I had no jimmy concealed about my per-
son said, "I'd better call the cops."
"You'd better not," I said quickly, "not until you're
sure you're right."
"I'm right, all right, look!" He pointed at the lock
dramatically. "See the marks."
He was right. There were marks there, plenty of
them, showing how the lock had been forced open.
My heart pounded with excitement and annoyance. I
was evidently too late. Had Althea Madison taken the


ii2 THE MOVING FINGER
diaries? I was certain she had been in the office be-
fore me.
"I'll call the cops," he said eagerly.
The police were the last people I wanted to see at the
moment, because I couldn't offer an explanation.
"You'll do nothing of the sort," I snapped with a last
look at the jimmied lock. My lack of experience with
burglaries made me miss an important point right then
and there.
"But . . ." the boy began a protest.
"Let's look around a bit first," I suggested. "You
don't want the police unless something has been stolen.
Where's the safe?" I asked.
He hesitated a moment before he decided to bow to
my assumed authority. With a come-on, semi-
friendly nod he moved down the hall and opened the
door to what, in the old days, was called the middle
room of the parlor-floor suite. It was a dark room
sandwiched in, as it was, between the two parlors. He
turned on the light. The walls were lined with filing
cabinets topped by shelves holding supplies. In one
corner behind the door, there was a small commercial
safe. From its size I judged that publishers either didn't
make or had no necessity for keeping large sums of
cash on hand. The safe was closed.
Another shrill whistle turned my attention to the
opposite wall, where a large, tall, steel safe stood with
its double doors gaping wide open. The boy ran to my
side and inspected the smaller safe.


THE MOVING FINGER 113
"They didn't get in this," he said gleefully. "This is
where they keep the money. Must have been scared
off," he mused.
I wasn't interested in the little safe. I knew what
the robber had wanted. I crossed to the large safe,
wading through manuscripts scattered over the floor.
I poked about them with the toe of my boot hoping to
find one wrapped sealed package, but I knew before I
looked that it wouldn't be there. I made a diligent
search, however, inspecting everything.
We were still rummaging fruitlessly when Sidney
Kenfield came in. He was amazed at what he saw.
"Looking for something?" he asked facetiously.
I explained my errand quickly without telling him
anything about the package itself.
"What was in it?" he asked.
I lied convincingly. "I've no idea. He just asked me
to get it for him. It isn't here, we've searched every-
where."
"Has it anything to do with the mystery?" he asked.
"What mystery?" I demanded innocently.
"Whatever it is that's going on. The thing Terry's
being so secretive about."
"I don't know any more about it than you do," I
evaded. "I've been looking for the package he wanted,
that's all."
He glanced at the helter-skelter disorderly pile of
papers and manuscripts littered about the floor and said


ii4 THE MOVING FINGER
with a wry smile, "When you look, you do a good job
of it, don't you?"
"Don't be an ass!" I snapped. "This safe has been
ransacked by an expert."
He must have thought I was trying to be funny be-
cause he replied, "I can see that."
"Heaven above, man!" I cried in exasperation. "This
office has been robbed!"
"Robbed?" His echo annoyed me and yet it is
something we all do. Why do we get annoyed at
others for faults so common to ourselves?
"The front door's been jimmied, Mr. Kenfield," the
freckled-faced boy interrupted. "It's robbers, but they
didn't take any money because the cash safe ain't been
opened."
"Your package may have been put in there," Kenfield
suggested and crossed to the small safe. He bent down
and began twirling the dials.
I waited anxiously while he fiddled with the combi-
nation. He had always been exceptionally agreeable
to me, a little too friendly I felt, sort of suggesting a
camaraderie similar to Terry's and one I was not will-
ing to give him. He was feeling hurt by Terry's se-
crecy and I felt rather sorry for him, knowing just
exactly how he would feel. He was very thorough as
he hastily sorted the contents of the small safe.
He stood up, showing no sign of stiffness from hav-
ing been bent over and said, "No package here. What


THE MOVING FINGER 115
was in it?" He repeated the question as if he hoped to
trap me.
"I don't know," I lied glibly for the second time.
"What happened to Terry?" was his next question.
"He didn't say."
"I haven't seen much of Terry for the past week. Is
anything wrong, Miss Thomas?" he asked anxiously.
"I rather imagine he's in one of his usual jams."
I'd forgotten all about the boy who stood there
taking it all in. When I turned and glanced at him,
he colored a bit and said, "Should I call the cops, Mr.
Kenfield?"
"I wouldn't if I were you," I said to Kenfield.
"Run along to your work, Jack," Kenfield ordered.
"I'll attend to this."
With the boy out of the way, he asked, "Is it serious
trouble?"
"I don't know." His endless questions exasperated
me.
"What's on his mind, anyhow?" he continued. "He
wouldn't even explain those ads he ran in the paper.
He's made me feel rather useless."
"Don't worry about that. He'll probably tell you all
about it when the right time comes. You know him
well enough to know that he wouldn't think of in-
volving you in anything that might be at all serious."
"He's not in danger, is he?" He was genuinely
troubled.
"I don't believe so."


n6 THE MOVING FINGER
"It isn't anything shady, is it?"
"Haven't I told you I don't know?" I barked, mak-
ing no effort to conceal my annoyance.
"You know more than you're telling me. I respect
you for being loyal to him. I wish he were as loyal
to me. If anything crooked is, or has been, going on,
I ought to know about it."
"Don't be childish."
"But you didn't want me to call the police. After
all, this place has been burglarized," he protested.
To avoid further conversation, I went back to the
manuscript safe and stood in front of it, puzzled by
something, I didn't quite know what. I was looking
for clues and didn't find any. During my experience
in the Doane store when those awful murders were
taking place right under my very eyes, my wits were
sharpened and my eyes trained to look for the little tell-
tale bits of evidence which can be seen everywhere
after a crime if you know where and how to look.
As it was, I was thinking about Terry and wonder-
ing how I could help him. He was in danger. We
had to get those diaries back in our possession. I sup-
pose I was thinking about Mortimer, too, and the man
Fergus.
"Is there anything at all I can do?" Kenfield asked.
"Yes. Stop asking me questions. This is Terry's
affair. He asked me to do him a favor. I have failed.
When he wants either of us to know what it's all about,
he'll tell us."


THE MOVING FINGER
II
“Very well,” he said and turned away.
I was sorry for my snappishness. I caught hold of his
arm. “Forgive me, Kenfield, for being so rude. I
didn't sleep well, it's this heat. My nerves are on edge.
You know Terry as well as I do, perhaps better. I
know you want to help him as much as I do. If he
hasn't told you about this latest escapade of his, he
must have a good reason. In fact, I know he doesn't
want you involved. He told me so himself.”
“Let's forget it,” he suggested. “I suppose I did
seem to be prying into things that didn't concern me.
But I've been puzzled by his actions—those ads and the
mysterious way he has been acting.”
I felt relieved that he showed no resentment toward
me. I had been testily impatient with him. From his
smile I think he realized that I had been under con-
siderable stress. I have been a firm believer in the old
saying, “It's better to have a friend than an enemy.”
As my hand fell away from his arm, I automatically
brushed some dust from his sleeve. I gave it several
light pats with my hand. “You need a housekeeper
here,” I sniffed disdainfully. “Dust over everything!”
“I'll take a brush to it,” he suggested as I tried yainly
to remove the discoloration.
A girl came to the door. “Is this Miss Thomas?”
she asked. “Mr. Lassimon wants to talk to you.”
I took the call at the switchboard. He said, "I've
only a minute. Something unexpected has developed


xx8 THE MOVING FINGER
here at Mortimer's. The police are holding me. You'd
better go home and wait." He rang off.
Go home! Indeed!
X
Terry's news came as a terrific shock. Why was he
being held by the police? It didn't make rhyme nor
reason in the light of the things that had happened.
Kenfield stood at my side. I didn't want him to see
my face at the moment. I did my best to seem casual.
I leaned over the switchboard and asked the girl to call
the Macon-Astoria.
When the hotel operator answered, I asked for Al-
thea. I waited several minutes before I was told Miss
Madison did not answer. Althea was out. That fact
convinced me that she was the person I had seen going
down the street as I arrived at the office a short time
before. Had she taken the diaries?
As I turned from the switchboard, Kenfield said,
"You didn't tell him about the theft."
"I forgot," I replied.
"Where is he?" he asked.
"At Mortimer Van Wyck's," I answered absently and
moved toward the front door.
Malcolm was surprised when I told him to drive to
Mortimer's, but he said nothing like the good servant
he is.
People who have sense enough to mind their own


THE MOVING FINGER 119
business never get involved in other people's troubles.
I'm quite sure Terry didn't want me at Mortimer's, but
I had no intention of letting him fight the thing out
alone. What had happened? What of Fergus' body?
I was dying to know. Why had there been no notice
of his death in the morning papers? Had his body
been discovered? And what of that bag of evidence?
Had that been unearthed to confound us?
We had turned into Mortimer's street when Malcolm
interrupted my thoughts.
"I can't get in front of the house, Miss. There seems
to be trouble of some sort. I'm afraid," he said with a
tremor that caught in his throat, "it's the police. It is!
They are keeping people back."
I didn't answer for a moment.
"Shall I drive on?" he asked rather hopefully.
"Certainly not! Stop here!" I commanded.
From the back seat of that old Lincoln, I had the
equivalent of a grandstand seat. Ahead of us, I could
see a curious crowd clustered near the front of Morti-
mer's house. They were standing wide-eyed, their
weary New York faces slightly upturned, their mouths
open, gazing blankly at the front of the house.
What were they doing to Terry? I had to get into
that house, but how to do it? I decided on boldness
first and if that failed, I'd think of something else, but
get in I would. ,
"Now, Miss Ethel," Malcolm begged as he recognized
the glint of determination in my eye.


120 THE MOVING FINGER
"Be still! Wait for me! I'm going in there."
He slammed the door behind me. I went briskly
down the pavement knowing that if I stopped or
seemed undecided my chances were nil. I elbowed my
way through the damp, sticky people, sailed up to and
swept past the policeman on guard, before he realized
I was there. My foot was on the bottom step leading
up to the front door when his hand reached out and
caught my arm rather roughly.
"Not sp fast! Where do you think you're going?" he
demanded gruffly.
I had a plan. If I asked to go in, I would be refused.
"Take your hands off me!" I flared indignantly and
gave that man a look that ran hot and cold, if you
know what I mean.
"You can't go in there," he said a trifle less sure of
himself.
"Well, I've been doing it off and on for fifty years
and I'd like to see you stop me," I flung at him and
took a second step upward.
"Oh, you have, have you?" His eyes lit up as he gave
birth to an idea. I kept my own smile of gratification
hidden. My plan was working.
"I certainly have," I replied. "Mortimer Van Wyck
is one of my oldest friends," I lied glibly.
"Was, you mean," he said.
"Is," I insisted.
"Do you know anything, lady?" he asked.
"That depends," I answered.


THE MOVING FINGER 121
"About the murder, I mean," he said.
"Murder? What murder?" I repeated with a gasp of
surprise.
"Van Wyck. He was murdered this morning."
I hadn't counted on that but I took immediate ad-
vantage of it. "Murdered! Not Mortimer! ..." I
cried. I tried to make it sound as starded and shocked
as possible. Then I tottered forward.
"Here, here!" he cried. "None of that!"
In spite of his warning, to all intents and purposes
I fainted. At least, he thought I did. He caught me
as I sagged toward him and called to the other officer:
"This old bird has fainted. I'll take her into the house,
the Doc's in there."
My eyes were closed but I could hear the crowd surge
forward. I smiled inwardly. I was going to get in-
side and that accomplished I would have to depend on
my wits to keep me there. I felt no resentment toward
the man for having called me an old bird. I hate to
think of what he would have called me if he had
known of my deception. Bless his heart! He helped
me get inside. Normally, I have little patience with
women who use fainting spells (vapors they were called
when I was a girl) or tears, to have their way with
men, but I guess I've been wrong. I suppose the end
always justifies the means.
Schultz, the policeman, gave me a bad bump as we
went through the door and I very nearly said, "Ouch,"
but caught myself just in time. He dumped me rather


122 THE MOVING FINGER
unceremoniously on a sofa in the front parlor, and mut-
tered, "Fainted," to some other person in the room and
left, calling for Doctor Burton. I opened my eyes
rather cautiously to see the other occupant of the room.
It was Althea who was crossing toward me! The room
was in semi-darkness. She didn't recognize me until
she was at the couch side.
"Miss Thomas!" she exclaimed with genuine surprise.
"Shh ..." I cautioned.
"Van Wyck has been murdered," she whispered.
"I know," I whispered back. "Where's Terry?"
"With the police."
"What are they doing?" I started to get up.
"Easy," she warned"." "I'm glad you came. Take
this, will you, and hide it? They may search me."
She slipped me a crumpled wad of onion-skin paper
which I stuffed down the neck of my dress.
"Will it be safe?" she asked anxiously.
"Safe as the Bank of England," I replied. "Remem-
ber I'm an old-fashioned girl who still wears the un-
mentionables that went out of existence with the World
War. I have a waist-line too and nothing has ever got-
ten past it yet. Don't worry! It'll be safe until I reach
for it or undress. What is it?"
"I don't know. Terry gave it to me before the police
arrived. He said they might search him." She ex-
plained as much as she knew.
"Have they been asking you questions?" I asked.
"The detective just came a few minutes ago."


124 THE MOVING FINGER
"You know how interested I am in murders," I
answered, sitting up. "I came to call on Mortimer and
the man on guard wouldn't let me in. He said there
had been a murder. That made me curious. If I had
known that you were on the case, I wouldn't have had
to resort to trickery to get in here." I slid off the sofa
and gave my dress an adjusting twitch, smoothing the
skirt over my hips, what's left of them. As my arm
moved, I heard the slight crinkle of the wad of paper.
Schultz, the policeman who carried me in, gasped in
amazement. His consternation was so ludicrous that
even Peter chuckled and said, "She put one over on you,
Schultz, but that's all right. She's done it to me too."
"But when I said the guy had been murdered, she
did a flop," Schultz tried to explain in an attempt to
justify himself.
"It's all right. Get outside and forget it," Peter said
kindly. As Schultz left with an uncomprehending
glance back over his shoulder, Peter, the kindness gone
from his voice, said, "So you're the one Lassimon called.
Had I been here, you're the last person I'd have per-
mitted him to call."
"Now, Peter! You know that isn't true. Why say
such things? Aren't we friends? Didn't we work well
together once before? If you've a riddle on your hands,
you're going to need some help. I won't get in your
way."
"What do you know about this?" he demanded.


"Nothing yet, but between us, we will," I suggested
brightly.
"Is Lassimon another of your pet young men?" he
asked.
Peter knew of my liking for and interest in young
men. I nodded in reply before I asked, "Is it a good
murder, Peter?"
"With you mixed up in it, it should be a honey,"
he replied. "Come on, what do you know or out you
go!"
"Nothing," I answered innocently.
"Why did Lassimon call you?" he insisted.
"Perhaps he has more faith in my abilities as a de-
tective than you have," I evaded.
"Don't try to fool me. You didn't just happen to
come here."
"Certainly not. Terry Lassimon told me he was be-
ing held by the police. I needed no further invitation."
"No, I suppose not. Did Lassimon ask you to
come?"
"Oh, no! He simply said he was being detained. I
could tell from the sound of his voice that he was in
trouble," I explained.
"I'll say he is, and you won't be able to protect him
either."
"He doesn't need protection," I retorted.
"That's what you think. It's not going to be so easy
for this guy to get out of the scrape he's in. We've got
him cold. He hasn't a Chinaman's chance. If I could


126
THE MOVING FINGER
discover what it was he came back for, I'd have the case
cinched." Peter was very sure of himself and was spik-
ing my guns in advance.
"Came back?" I asked. "What are you talking
about?"
"That's my secret. I've work to do." He turned
away.
"Let me work with you?" I begged. "I haven't had
any excitement for ever so long and beside, Terry Lassi-
mon is a very good friend of mine. Please, Peter," I
cried.
"No." Peter's denial sounded absolutely final.
"Very well. Come along, Althea." I started to fol-
low Peter's retreating back.
"Not so fast. She stays here and I think I'll keep you
for a little while. I don't exactly believe you." There
was an understanding smile lurking at the corners of
his mouth.
"You sound a bit uncertain. What's the trouble,
Peter? A bad puzzle?"
"Not so bad. I have the murderer."
"A cut and dried case, eh?" I asked innocently.
"Perfect."
"Motive and everything?" I asked.
"I'll get that," he answered cockily.
"I wonder," I put a great deal of doubt into my
voice.
"I suppose you know all about it?" he flashed.
"I might have an idea," I said. "Let me stay. I won't


THE MOVING FINGER 127
interfere with your work. If you'll do that, I'll tell you
something you really want to know."
I saw fear creep into Althea's eyes. I flashed her a
reassuring smile. "Is it a bargain?" I asked.
"I suppose so," Peter agreed reluctandy.
XI
Peter led the way to the back parlor where Terry was
confined under the watchful eyes of a policeman. Terry
was standing in the bow window gazing thoughtfully
down into the yard. His face was drawn and haggard.
Poor lad, he showed he had had very little sleep. No
wonder, with the things he had on his mind.
"Hello, Ethel!" he cried, genuinely surprised to see
me. "How did you get in?"
He made me think of some splendid wild animal
that had been captured and caged. I wanted to let him
know about the diaries and did a little explaining by
double-talk. "If you don't get what you go after, you
go after it."
Terry didn't blink an eye and my remark evidendy
went over Peter's head because he said to Terry, "She
doesn't have to be brought. She has a nose for mur-
der." Then to all of us, "Sit down."
Althea and I took chairs. Terry stood near Althea in
a protecting pose. I've seen Terry in and out of affairs
but never before had I seen the look which now glowed


128 THE MOVING FINGER
in his eyes as he gazed down at that lovely girl. I
know nothing about so-called love at first sight. I can
understand spontaneous passion which at best is little
more than a flash in the pan or the sudden union of
chemical elements. Quick love has always seemed
particularly uncertain to me because it fails to take into
account all the little things that go toward making love
durable. I've been in and out of love dozens of times
hoping each episode would be the last but there was al-
ways another because I was never really properly in-
noculated.
When we were all settled, Peter went on, "Now,
Miss Thomas, suppose you tell me what you know."
Terry scowled at me. Althea was agitated. I ignored
both of them and looking at Peter said, "Who killed
Mortimer Van Wyck?"
Althea, poor child, opened her bag to get a hand-
kerchief. She was so nervous she had to be doing
something with her hands. She was fumbling. Her
bag slid from knees and spilled to the floor. Peter was
very quick springing forward to pick it up. He beat
Terry to it by a fraction of an inch. As Peter lifted the
bag, a wad of fresh clean new bills slid out and fell to
the floor. You know how stiff new money can be. I
was fascinated as I saw that roll settle to the floor and
then unfold. There was a thousand-dollar bill staring
us all in the face.
Peter picked up the bills and flipped through them
quickly before handing them back to Althea. "That's


THE MOVING FINGER 129
a lot of money," he said; "too much to be carried loose
like that."
Althea took the bills and put them back in her bag.
"Taxi fare," she said glibly.
Peter chuckled, then turned to me. He wanted an
answer to his question. You can very often keep a dog
quiet by giving him a bone instead of the whole roast.
I decided to feel my way carefully.
"Now," I suggested, "why not get on with the in-
vestigation? I have nothing to tell you."
Peter had Delia, Mortimer's maid, brought in. She
was an Irish girl who faced Peter boldly.
"I want you to tell me exactly all the things that
happened here this morning," Peter advised her.
"Mr. Lassimon phoned about seven," she began at
once. "When I took Mr. Van Wyck his coffee soon
after, he told me to send Mr. Lassimon up the moment
he called."
"Did Van Wyck seem worried?" Peter asked.
"No, sir. As a matter of fact, he was quite cheerful,
rather elated, I should say. He was like that when
things were going well. He told me he expected sev-
eral visitors within the next few days."
"Did he give you any names?"
"No, sir, but I rather imagined they were the people
he had written to."
"What people?"
"I don't know, sir. He mailed the letters himself.


130 THE MOVING FINGER
There were carbons on his desk this morning, I think,
sir."
"Are you sure?" Peter asked eagerly.
"I couldn't say positively, sir, but there was some-
thing under the paper-weight. I never touched his desk.
He was very secretive about his things. Fergus at-
tended to all that."
"Who is Fergus?" Peter asked quickly.
"Mr. Mortimer's man, sir," she replied.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know, sir. He went out yesterday and
didn't come back. Mr. Mortimer was worried last
night."
I didn't dare look at either Terry or Althea.
"Why?"
"I don't know. He kept ringing for Fergus every
few minutes and each time I told him Fergus had not
returned, he became more impatient than ever."
"And yet you say Van Wyck was in a good humor
this morning?" It was a good point Peter made.
"He seemed very pleased, yes, sir."
"Did he mention Fergus?"
"No, sir."
"Have you heard from Fergus?"
"No, sir."
"Did Mr. Van Wyck hear from him?"
"I don't know. The telephone switch is turned off
downstairs in the evening. We never hear it ring after
dinner-time."


THE MOVING FINGER 131
"Do you know where Fergus went yesterday after-
noon?"
"No, sir. Fergus was very secretive. Never talked.
He was proud of his confidential position with the
master and treated the rest of us very proud-like."
"Umm . . ." Peter considered a moment before he
asked his next question. "How was Fergus yesterday
before he went out?"
"Testier than usual," she answered promptly.
"We'll forget about Fergus for the moment." Peter
paused. "This morning when Mr. Lassimon arrived,
did you show him upstairs?"
"No, sir. I sent him up alone. Mr. Van Wyck was
expecting him. I rang the bell to warn him that some
one was on the way up."
"I see," Peter said. I'm glad he did for I was com-
pletely in the dark. After a moment, Peter asked, "How
long did Mr. Lassimon stay?"
"I'm not sure, sir. It was several minutes."
"Did you see Mr. Lassimon leave?"
"I did and I didn't, sir."
"Explain, please."
"Well, Mr. Lassimon was coming down the stairs
when I heard the whistle on the speaking-tube begin
to blow. It sounded impatient-like, the way he was
blowing. I hurried to the rear of the hall to answer it.
I didn't want to spoil Mr. Van Wyck's good humor.
I knew Mr. Lassimon could find his way out all right."


132 THE MOVING FINGER
"Haven't you any idea how long Mr. Lassimon was
upstairs?"
"Do you mean the first or the second time?" she
asked.
"Both," Peter said.
She considered a moment. "I couldn't say, sir. You
see, when I answered the speaking-tube I supposed Mr.
Lassimon had gone out."
"And hadn't he?" Peter asked.
"No," she stated boldly.
"Are you sure?"
"Well, I took the message at the tube and busied my-
self at the back of the house for a minute or two. Some
time later I returned to the front hall and was surprised
to see Mr. Lassimon coming downstairs for the second
time."
"Did Mr. Lassimon offer any explanation?" Peter
asked.
"No, sir. I said, 'I thought you'd gone,' but he didn't
answer me. He went out, banging the door."
"Go on," Peter urged.
"I had thought to go up to remove the coffee things
and would have done so only Mr. Van Wyck told me
he didn't want to be disturbed for a few minutes. I
started for the kitchen and was halfway down the back
stairs when the front doorbell rang again. When I
opened the door there was Mr. Lassimon with the
young lady. She came in saying she had an appoint-
ment with Mr. Van Wyck. Mr. Lassimon said, 'I've


THE MOVING FINGER 133
changed my mind. I'd like to speak to him again.' I
told him he'd have to wait. He went into the front
room and sat down. I told the young lady to go to the
third floor rear. I went to the end of the hall and
pressed the button to warn Mr. Van Wyck of the ar-
rival of a guest."
"You didn't go upstairs at all?" Peter kept insisting
on that point.
"No, sir."
"It's your turn now," Peter indicated Terry.
"What do you want?" Terry asked.
"From the beginning."
"I arrived some time after seven, as Delia has told
you, and went directly to Van Wyck's room on the
third floor. He was up and dressed, drinking coffee.
We talked for ten minutes or so."
"During which time you were enraged," Peter sug-
gested.
Terry looked from Delia to Peter and replied, "Well,
I did lose my temper once, I'll admit that."
"And you threatened Van Wyck?"
"Probably," Terry admitted.
"Go on." Peter was too positively sure of his case
against Terry to suit me.
"Van Wyck and I had reached an impasse. Talking
or arguing could accomplish nothing. I walked out.
I came down to the lower hall and then regretting my
haste and temper, I decided to try again. I went back,
but when I reached the third floor I heard voices in


i34 THE MOVING FINGER
Van Wyck's room. I hesitated a moment, then turned
and came back down the stairs. Delia did seem sur-
prised when she saw me. I left immediately." Terry
stopped for breath.
"Then what happened?" Peter asked.
"I paused at the top of the steps and looked hope-
fully for a cab but there was none in sight. I was
thinking about my unsuccessful interview and had
started down the street, when I realized a cab had
turned in from Madison Avenue. It was coming slowly.
You know how they drive when they're looking for a
house number. I paused and waited. The cab stopped
in front of this house and Miss Madison got out."
"You recognized her?" Peter asked.
"Yes," he answered honestly. "When I saw her as-
cend the front steps, I decided to come back."
"Why?"
"Because I hated to think of Miss Madison as one of
Van Wyck's possible victims."
Terry had made a mistake and realized it immedi-
ately. He would have hurried on but Peter stopped
him by saying, "Explain just what you mean by vic-
tims."
"Van Wyck was a blackmailer," Terry answered
boldly.
"Oh, he was?"
"Yes."
"How long have you been paying him hush
money?"


THE MOVING FINGER 135
"I've neve paid him any money."
"Was he "xying to force you to pay him?" Peter in-
sisted.
"No."
"Then why were you here?"
"I had some private matters to discuss with him."
"But he was not trying to blackmail you?"
"No."
"Then how did you know he was a blackmailer?"
Peter demanded.
"Miss Thomas told me. As a matter of fact, she sent
me here."
For a moment I was annoyed with him, but the next
instant I knew why he did it. He was throwing the
responsibility of telling what we knew to me. It was
rather clever of him to get out from under that way
by dropping it in my lap.
"So you were just being a Galahad, is that it?"
"That's a good way to describe it," Terry answered
with a grin. Then he went on, "Delia has told you
what happened when she let us in. There was noth-
ing for me to do but wait. While Miss Madison was
upstairs I sat in the parlor. Delia, I believe, was in the
hall. In a short time, I heard a scream. I met Delia
at the foot of the stairs. We both dashed up to meet a
terrified Miss Madison on the verge of hysterics stum-
bling along the hall on the second floor."
"I suggested calling the police at once," Delia burst


136
THE MOVING FINGER
mm
in on the recital, “but Mr. Lassimon tolc' me to wait
a moment.”
“Why?” Peter asked.
“Because I had no idea what had happened. I
wanted to investigate first.”
Delia took up the narrative. “We put Miss Madison
in the sitting-room on the second floor and went up to
gether. Mr. Van Wyck was very dead, sir.”
“Right,” Terry agreed. “While Delia called the
police, I went back to Miss Madison, who was feeling
pretty jittery.”
“They were whispering together when I returned to
tell them that the police were on their way,” Delia con-
tinued pointedly.
“You don't shout just after you've seen a murdered
man,” Terry fired contemptuously at Delia.
“He asked me to get some strong coffee for Miss
Madison,” Delia ignored Terry's remark and went on.
"I went below. Cook had just made some. When I
returned, Mr. Lassimon was coming down from the
third floor.”
Peter gave Terry a quizzical glance.
“That's right. I thought that I might be able to do
something for Van Wyck, but as Delia has so aptly
put it, he was terribly dead.”
"This was your morning for philanthropical duties,
I take it,” Peter said sarcastically.
"Take it any way you like,” Terry Aung back.
100


THE MOVING FINGER 137
"What did you do in that room after the murder?"
Peter demanded.
"Nothing."
"Were you wearing your gloves when you were in
there?" That sounded like a catch question to me.
"No."
"Did you touch anything?"
"Only Van Wyck. I listened for a heart beat."
"What was under the paper-weight?"
"What paper-weight?" Terry asked quickly.
"The one on his desk, the one that is full of your
fingerprints."
I gasped at that. Terry had slipped up there. I was
on the point of making a clean breast of the whole
thing when Terry said, "I must have toyed with it
while I talked to Van Wyck."
"The voice talking to Van Wyck when you went
back the second time," I cut in, "was it a man's or a
woman's?"
"A man's," he replied.
"There was no one in the house, sir," Delia objected
quite unnecessarily I thought.
"Of course not," Peter said. "That's just a flimsy alibi
you cooked up to cover yourself, isn't it?" Peter asked
Terry. "Delia admitted two people to this house this
morning, you and Miss Madison, no one else."
"It's the truth," Terry cried in exasperation and I
believed him.
Peter's next move was a surprise to me. "Let's as-


138 THE MOVING FINGER
sume for a moment that you're telling the truth," he
began innocently enough. "If you are, that gives us
another angle to the case, an old one used rather suc-
cessfully in murder stories and once or twice, I believe,
in real life."
I didn't know what to expect but was amazed when
he went on, "Miss Madison went upstairs, stabbed Van
Wyck, ran out into the hall and halfway down the
steps before she screamed. You say you found her on
the second floor. She must have moved fast."
"No, no!" Terry cried. "She didn't do it! She didn't
have time."
Althea had turned a dead white as Peter flung his
rather logical accusation at her. Except for that sudden
pallor, I had no means of knowing if Peter had made
a direct hit. I could only remember what she had said.
"How do you know so much about the time it takes
to kill a man?" Peter demanded.
"Oh, forget you're a cop for a minute and think!"
Terry said scornfully.
"Just a minute!" I cried and jumped to my feet be-
cause I didn't want a fracas between them. "Were
you in the room with Miss Madison when Delia
brought the coffee?"
"Yes, ma'am, he was," Delia replied for him.
"Were any of you watching the hall?" was my next
question.
"No," was the reply.


140
THE MOVING FINGER
known that a good servant wouldn't disobey instruc-
tions."
"Rats," Peter growled. "You've been a great help,"
he threw over his shoulder at me. He began to squeeze
his lower lip between his thumb and his first finger—a
trick he has when puzzled.
"Now," I suggested, "why don't you and I go to
work since we know who didn't kill Van Wyck?"
"How long were you out of the house?" Peter asked
Terry.
"Not more than two or three minutes," Terry re-
plied.
"And how did Delia seem when she opened the door
to you, Miss Madison?"
Delia leaned forward anxiously.
"I don't remember."
"Birch!" Peter raised his voice in a loud call.
The door opened and a policeman entered.
"Go to the foot of the hall stairs. Have one of the
men time you. Go up to the room on the top floor, stay
in it about fifteen seconds and then return to the lower
hall. Let me know how long it takes. Come in when
you've finished."
I didn't know which of them Peter was checking,
Delia or Althea. I moved over to the bow window
and looked down at the yard. I'd have to have some
story for Peter, but what? I didn't want to tell him
about the diaries. It didn't seem fair that all the people
mentioned in them should suffer because of one man


THE MOVING FINGER 141
who was a murderer. I firmly believe in letting dead
dogs lie. No matter what those people had done, it
had been forgotten except for the diaries and a rehash
would only make many innocent people suffer.
Terry came and stood beside me. "You've put Althea
on the spot," he whispered. "Isn't she wonderful the
way she's taking it? What are we going to do?"
I wasn't thinking about Althea. At the moment, I
had diverted Peter's suspicions away from Terry, which
was all I wanted to accomplish at the time.
Althea, her hands folded in her lap, waited. She
seemed terribly alone. I was sorry for her. Peter's
timing would probably involve either her or Delia. The
idea evidently hit Terry at the same moment, for he
turned.
"No whispering," Peter snapped at us.
The next instant we were in a panic. It started with
an impact against the window-pane followed by a
sharp zing. I don't know how else to describe it.
Althea gasped. Terry gave me a sudden yank which
nearly dislocated my shoulder. Delia screamed in sud-
den pain, and Peter barked, "Get away from that win-
dow!"
It all happened instantaneously. From the seclusion
of the side wall, I could see a round hole in the glass
through which the bullet had entered. Peter, from the
other side of the window, was looking out at the build-
ings in the rear.


142
THE MOVING FINGER
seca
“That's the second one,” I said to Terry without
thinking.
Delia was on the floor gasping with pain and shock.
Birch opened the door and started to speak.
“Never mind, get Doc Burton in here quickly," Peter
ordered and crossed to Delia.
We all converged toward the poor girl still clutching
her leg.
“Second what?" Peter asked me as he bent over
Delia.
I ignored the question as I knelt beside him.
The girl had suffered a bad flesh wound in the calf
of her leg and was terrified. Peter pulled the girl's
skirt up from her knee and pressed his thumb on a
vein to stop the flow of blood. The doctor came bus-
tling in. Delia was placed on a couch and the doctor
went to work.
I went to the bow window and looked up. The
house next door had an addition on the back which
made it extend thirty or forty feet into the yard beyond
Mortimer's house line.
“You haven't answered my question,” Peter re-
minded me as he led us back into the hall.
“I suppose I meant a second murder," I answered
vaguely. “I don't remember saying anything."
"In time of stress, people give themselves away,” he
reminded me.


THE MOVING FINGER 143
XII
It was at least ten minutes before the excitement
subsided. I should have liked a moment or two alone
with Terry and Althea but Peter seemed to take par-
ticular pains to watch us every moment. Unfortu-
nately, he gave all his orders while he was with us.
I know Peter likes and believes in me, but he doesn't
quite trust me when my friends are in any way in-
volved in a murder. He thinks my effort to clear them
of the crime is an attempt to frustrate justice. I sup-
pose it is, in one sense, but you know, and I know, that
justice being blind, clutches at the first thing at hand
and hangs onto it so tenaciously that often the truth
is never seen.
Without meaning to, our enemy had done us a favor.
That bullet, coming as it did, took Peter's attention
away from Terry and Althea for a short time at least
and eventually gave us a clue which ended the whole
outrageous affair. In this day and age in one of the
largest cities in the world we were and had been in
unpredictable danger that only civilization can fashion.
Terry's escape was miracle number two. For the
second time in a few days a bullet, intended for him,
had barely missed its mark. While I'm not at all su-
perstitious, I found myself wondering about the third
attempt on his life. When and how would it come?
Would he escape the third time?
Birch had been hovering near us anxious to make


144 THE MOVING FINGER
his report. His complete trip, up and back with a few
seconds spent in the murder room, had taken a fraction
over two minutes.
Peter considered the information thoughtfully and
said, "Delia might have killed him."
"She didn't," Althea denied immediately.
"Why not?" Peter demanded, giving Althea a curi-
ous speculative look.
I rather fancied I knew what he was thinking at the
moment. He suspected either Althea or Terry of hav-
ing killed Mortimer and yet Althea had quickly sprung
to the defense of the serving girl who had done all she
could to incriminate both of them.
"He was alive as I climbed the stairs," Althea an-
swered.
"You can't be sure of that," Peter denied.
"I heard voices," she insisted.
"You did?" Peter was aghast. "Why didn't you
say so before?"
"You didn't ask me," she answered, "and I thought
the information would be rather useless since you so
obviously didn't want to believe Mr. Lassimon's story."
"Tell me about it now," Peter invited.
"There were two people talking. One man's voice
was rather high-pitched and seemed excited. He was
protesting vehemently about something."
"That was Mortimer," I said positively.
"And the other man's voice?" Peter was extraordi-
narily eager.


Iii£J12Xi£iSJ^i2L££S 145
"If Mr. Lassimon had not been in the room down-
stairs, I'd have thought it was he speaking," she replied.
Terry and I thought of the same person at the iden-
tical moment. Philip Lassimon! We exchanged a
quick understanding glance which Peter intercepted.
He turned toward me blazing mad.
"Are you going to tell me what you know about this
case, or are you going to continue to hide things?" he
demanded.
We were saved the immediate necessity of making a
reply by a disturbance on the stairs. Mortimer was
being carried down on a stretcher. As the grim pro-
cession went through the front door, Peter turned to
me once more. "Well?" he demanded.
"We can tell you what little we know any time," I
said icily. "Of course, it's none of my business, but if
I were you, I'd be a little more concerned about that
bullet, who fired it and where it came from."
"I'm having that checked," he growled.
"Did you send a man to the roof of the building
next door?" I asked. "If you did, I didn't hear you
do it."
"What has the roof of the building next door to do
with it? The shot could have come from any one of
a dozen rear windows on the next street," he answered.
"It could have, but did it?" I insisted. "Why not ask
the doctor about the direction of the bullet? That
may save you some time."
Peter knew my suggestion was a good one and fol-


146 THE MOVING FINGER
lowed it immediately. He went back to the room
where the doctor was working over Delia. We had
only a minute to ourselves, but one weighted with new
anxiety.
"I'm sunk," Terry said.
"Sunk?" both Althea and I gasped.
"Yes. I rented a furnished apartment in that build-
ing this morning," Terry announced.
"Don't mention it," I cautioned. "We must have
time to think. I've been too clever," I said regretfully.
"You didn't know," he whispered.
Peter came back. "The bullet came from a direct
overhead angle," he announced. "Thanks for the sug-
gestion," he flung at me and started for the stairs.
I fell in behind him and beckoned the others.
"I can't," Althea said.
"Come along, Terry," I whispered. "I may need
you."
I saw him give Althea's hand a reassuring squeeze
before he left her.
When we arrived at the scene of the murder, Peter
asked several questions of the men who had been at
work in the room.
"They heard no shot," he said when we were alone.
"That doesn't prove anything," I retorted. "You've
heard of silencers, haven't you?"
"I have," he answered.
"Give me a few minutes to think, Peter?" I begged.
"But first may I ask a few questions?"


THE MOVING FINGER
"Go ahead," he said with an amused tolerant smile.
"I'm not working against you, Peter," I said. "I
want to catch this murderer more than you do. Be
patient with me, please. I don't know who did it but
I do know who didn't."
I went on with my questions. Peter was patient.
Between them, Peter and Terry gave me all the details
concerning the position of the body when it was dis-
covered. Mortimer had been stabbed in the back. He
was slumped forward on the desk top when Terry
dashed into the room.
I considered all the facts for several moments.
"What do you make of it?" Peter asked a little
impatiently.
"The murdered man was behind the desk. He
never moved from that position. The quick thrust of
the knife came as a complete surprise to Mortimer.
He was off guard and had no reason to suspect the
murderer."
"Very pretty, but why?" Peter demanded.
"Sit at the desk, Terry," I ordered. "You take the
role of observer," I instructed Peter. "I'm going to
play the part of the murderer for the moment."
"What am I supposed to do?" Terry asked.
"Remember this. You are Mortimer. You and I
have been having a heated argument. I want to kill
you but you don't know it. Act naturally when I come
toward you."
I took up a position in front of Terry. Then I moved


148 THE MOVING FINGER
over to the end of the desk. As I did, Terry, who had
been facing me, turned sideways. I moved toward the
rear of the room. Terry swung in his chair still fac-
ing me.
"I get you," Peter said.
"Good," I said gratefully. "Turn around, Terry, and
face forward." I stood at his side. "Now, if I had
been standing here and we had had our last word,
Mortimer would have swung away from me in dis-
gust. Then I would have had the perfect chance to
stick the knife into him," I ended.
"It's reasonable," Peter admitted.
"Where's the exit to the roof?" I asked Peter.
"I don't know. Probably in the hall, they usually
are," he replied.
"That won't do," I answered.
"Why not?" Peter demanded.
"Because both Althea and Terry say they heard
voices in this room. Althea heard them as she came
up the stairs. Mortimer was killed before Althea
reached the top step. The murderer never crossed this
room."
"He could have concealed himself in a closet when
Miss Madison came in," Peter objected.
"I don't believe it, Peter. The murderer was gone
before she entered the room." I began to search the
area behind Mortimer's desk. In a dressing-room I
found the very thing I was sure had to be there. Con-


THE MOVING FINGER 149
cealed in a closet was a narrow staircase which led di-
rectly to the roof.
"You're right again," Peter cried and started up the
stairs.
Terry followed Peter. I waited below. I had had
enough of stair climbing for one day. I could hear
Peter tugging at the door and looked up the narrow
passage. He was forcing it with his shoulder. The
door finally flew open and for a moment there was a
draft of air that came as a momentary relief from the
heat which, in the excitement, I had forgotten.
As their voices faded away, I decided to go down to
Althea. Terry had followed Peter. I went back into
the room. My heart stood still. How on earth had I
missed seeing it before? Standing innocently against
the side wall, a few feet from the desk, was the suit-
case I had taken from Terry's apartment. I couldn't
mistake that bag. What to do with it? How to get it
out of the house? How had the police missed it thus
far? Would it show in the photographs that had been
taken?
I lifted the bag and left the room. I made the first
landing without either trouble or qualms. As I started
down the final flight of steps, I began to worry. If I
could make the first-floor landing unobserved, I'd be
safe. Birch came through the hall from the rear. He
looked up at me and smiled faintly. I thanked fortune
for my roomy voluminous skirt. By letting my hand
lag backwards the bag was not seen by Birch as he


150 THE MOVING FINGER
went outside. With a sigh of relief, I dropped it on the
floor near the old-fashioned clothes-rack and turned
toward the living-room and Althea.
I had no time to spare. I heard voices and footsteps
from overhead. Althea was not at all communicative.
She told me flatly that I must not mention the diaries.
Our discourse was interrupted by the arrival of the
men.
"Why did you run away?" Peter asked as he entered
the parlor.
"It was so hot up there," I answered. "Find any-
thing?"
"Not a thing," he replied, "but we will have a look
at the place next door. I think you're on the trail of
something. The murderer could have come over the
roof."
"Good heavens! You're a sight, both of you!" I ex-
claimed. I brushed Peter first and then Terry with my
handkerchief. "You won't want us any more, will
you, Peter?" I asked when the dusting was done.
"Why do you want to get away from me?" he de-
manded suspiciously.
"I don't. There's nothing we can do about the house
next door. Surely you're convinced now that neither
of these people had anything to do with the murder?"
I suggested hopefully.
"I wouldn't say that," he answered promptly. "Let's
say that my suspicions are allayed for the moment.
Lassimon didn't fire that shot at himself."


THE MOVING FINGER 151
"Then may we go?"
"All right, go ahead. But no funny work, under-
stand," he cautioned as we went into the hall.
"Why not come down for cocktails this afternoon,
Peter? We can talk it over dispassionately then," I
suggested.
"I'll see," he half promised.
"Don't forget your bag, Terry," I warned casually as
we moved toward the door.
Terry stopped, looked sideways, bent down and lifted
the suitcase. "Thanks," he said; "I'd have forgotten
all about it."
It was as fine a piece of acting as I ever hope to see.
Terry was surprised but he didn't show how much.
Neither did he register by sign or sound the startling
recognition of that bag. As we started down the steps,
I called back to Peter, "Come about five."
Malcolm was standing at attention when we reached
the car. We settled down with a sigh of relief, that
awful bag at our feet.
It was Althea who broke the silence. "If he comes
at five, what are you going to tell him?"
"I don't know," I replied.
"Are you going to tell him about the diaries?" she
asked.
"Do you know anything about them?" I returned
pointedly.
"No," she replied hopelessly.
"You know they have been stolen?" I went on.


152 THE MOVING FINGER
She nodded.
"What are you talking about?" Terry demanded.
"I went to your office this morning," Althea replied,
"to steal the diaries, but some one had been there be-
fore me."
"Why don't you trust me?" he asked.
"Because there is too much at stake," she said.
"And now more than ever," I added.
Althea looked at me inquisitively.
"Let's know all the bad news," Terry suggested.
"The man who is working against you, Terry, is a
fiend. He has the imagination of the devil himself.
Who but a fiend would have, could have, thought of
leaving that bag in Mortimer's room? Don't you see
how diabolical it is? I can't understand its not having
been opened unless the police were so busy with surface
things, pictures, fingerprints and things like that that
they passed the bag for the time being. Thank fortune,
we found it."
"You found it, you mean," he said.
"Well, we have it once more and let's try to keep it
as long as we can this time."
"I don't understand," Althea said.
I explained about the bag to her. "If they had
opened it," I went on, "they would have soon realized
that the hat belonged to Fergus. Then they would
have traced the gun to Terry. From that to the finding
of the body of Fergus would be but a step and then


154 THE MOVING FINGER
"You must remember that Peter will realize that Terry
is the man who rented the apartment next door."
"But Terry was with us when the shot was fired this
morning!"
"That will make no difference to the police. It has
nothing to do with Mortimer's death. Peter will think
that Terry might have dashed into the house next door,
raced up the stairs or taken a lift and succeeded in kill-
ing Mortimer before you reached the landing. Peter
Conklin won't forget what you said about a voice that
sounded like Terry's," I reminded her.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to incriminate
you." She flashed a quick smile at Terry.
"Of course you didn't," he answered promptly.
"It's going to be incriminating testimony neverthe-
less. They will play you one against the other," I said
thoughtfully as I tried to see some way out for them.
"But it's ridiculous," Althea objected. "All of it."
"Of course it is, but there are any number of things
to be explained." I turned to Terry. "You were on
the roof with Peter. Could a man get from the house
next door easily?"
"Yes. They are level."
"But what has that to do with it?" Althea was full
of objections. "Terry didn't shoot himself this morn-
ing and it is too unreasonable to suppose that he could
have raced up there and killed Mortimer while I was
climbing the stairs."
"I know all that," I answered patiently. "Peter


THE MOVING FINGER 155
Conklin is no fool. He'll know very soon, just as we
know, that the person who killed Mortimer is the one
who fired the shot at Terry this morning."
"Well, then," she interrupted.
"Don't forget Peter will want to know why Terry
rented the apartment." She irritated me. "He still
thinks that Terry was being blackmailed by Mortimer.
As long as there is the slightest chance of Terry's hav-
ing killed Mortimer, Peter will ask questions. He'll
investigate this morning's shot later. We must decide
now how much we'll tell Peter when he calls this after-
noon. We can't keep quiet. You will be forced to talk,
both of you. If we tell Peter about the diaries he'll
want to know why you're so interested in them. You
may be arrested on suspicion. Peter will do most any-
thing to get to the bottom of this. I don't see how
you can keep quiet any longer."
"There's one thing we can do," Terry said quickly.
"Get married."
Althea gave him a quick, faintly amused look. His
eyes twinkled as I seized upon the idea and added my
arguments to his. He was right. If they were married
neither one could be forced to testify against the other.
"It is something you should do," I agreed.
"Are you willing to marry me?" Terry asked Althea.
She was engrossed by the sudden turn of the tide.
"It isn't the kind of a proposal I had hoped to make,"
he said, "but it will help both of us, me more than


156 THE MOVING FINGER
you. They can't force cither of us to talk about the
diaries if we do it."
"It will protect you from the menace of the man
who holds the diaries," I added my argument to
Terry's.
"It probably won't be for long," Terry went on. "This
murderer is determined to get me out of the way. I'll
probably be the next one on the list of his victims. For
some reason, I know too much."
"He probably thinks you've read the diaries," I said,
"and wants to be rid of you for that reason."
"But why should you be murdered ?" Althea asked.
Terry shrugged.
"He won't be," I pronounced with more conviction
than I felt at the moment.
"How do we get married?" she asked.
I loved her for that simple question. I stopped the
car. I have a great deal of respect for Peter Conklin.
If he had connected Terry with that apartment next
door he had doubtless by now sent out an alarm for my
old Lincoln. We could take no chances until after they
were married. I sent Malcolm home. He was dis-
pleased because he felt himself part of the conspiracy,
but I explained quickly that I rather expected the car
to be picked up by the police. I told him to act indig-
nant but to say nothing if questioned. If they wanted
to know where we had gone, he was to say he left us
at the corner of Park Avenue near Pierre's.
With Malcolm on his way, we took a cab and started


^^^J^H£J££V^ 157
for City Hall. The ceremony took very little time.
Isn't it odd that a thing as important as marriage can
be accomplished so easily? I've attended all sorts of
weddings from shotgun to pure romance in my day,
but I'd never seen such a solemn or curious one before.
They were like two people in a dream repeating the
oath after the clerk in unfeeling singsong voices. The
clerk tried to put a little spirit into the affair by de-
manding his right to kiss the bride. Althea submitted
gracefully. Then he nudged Terry in the ribs with a
sly poke and told him to go ahead. As Terry kissed
her chastely and with reverence the clerk winked at
me and said, "He'll get over it."
I was just as sober as they while Terry signaled for
a cab in the hot sun on Park Row. The bag was a good
prop to have had with us for the wedding, but we had
to dispose of it before we returned to my house. We
drove over to Pennsylvania Station, where Terry
checked it in the Long Island baggage-room. Then he
put the check in an envelope and sent it to me in care of
my niece at her summer camp at Lake Piseco. We
would be rid of the bag and the check for a week at
least, which was a pleasant thought.
The bride and groom were a silent preoccupied pair.
Terry became diffident and shy. Now and then, I
could see his adoring eyes seek the girl hungrily but I
never once saw her look in his direction.
"We better talk over plans," I suggested as we started
across town in a taxi. "We may not have much time.


158 THE MOVING FINGER
You two must give the impression that you're in love
and living together. The marriage must appear to
have been consummated."
"I didn't think that would be necessary," Althea said.
"For a few days at any rate," I went on. "Would
you like to live with me?"
"We'd better go out to Roslyn," Terry suggested.
"The house is large and we can have all the privacy we
want and at the same time give the effect of being
happily married."
"A good idea," I agreed.
"Very well," Althea acceded.
Terry was thoughtful for a moment. The cab was
dragging along the street behind a big truck. Without
looking at Althea, he asked, "You have those papers
I gave you?"
"I was afraid of being searched. I gave them to Miss
Thomas," she replied.
"Good girl!" he said admiringly.
In the excitement I had forgotten all about the papers
which Althea had given me. I drew them out of the
front of my dress and smoothed them on my knee.
Althea and Terry leaned toward me and we read to-
gether a letter which had been sent to six people. It
read:
"My diaries are in the hands of Terry Lassimon,
who is editing them with the intention of publi-
cation. As you know, they contain facts and in-
formation of the greatest importance to you. For a


THE MOVING FINGER 159
consideration I might be persuaded to stop publica-
tion. Since there are a number of people vitally
concerned, I suggest that you see me personally not
later than the 7th of July."
The letter had been sent to the following people:
Richard Bolertho
Philip Lassimon
Archie Van Nuys
Daisy Williams
Florence Gunner
Tom Andrews
"At last," Terry said, "we have something definite
to work on."
"Do you know these people?" Althea asked.
"All of them," I replied.
"What on earth could that charming Bolertho man
have done?" Althea asked.
"What did you do?" Terry asked quickly, too
quickly I thought, for I seemed to sense jealousy in
the question.
Althea made no reply. She turned and looked out
of the cab window at the stores lining the street. I
looked down at the letter still spread in my lap. It
was dated July first. "There has been plenty of time,"
I said.
"For what?" Terry asked at once.
"For any of these people to have done the things
that have been done so far," I replied.


i6o
THE MOVING FINGER
"Four men and two women on that list," Terry said
thoughtfully. "I think a man has been behind all this,
don't you?"
"A woman might have conceived the plan," I sug-
gested, "for some man to execute."
"If we only knew what had happened to the diaries,"
Althea said wistfully. "What is the financial status of
these people?"
Terry took another quick look at the list and replied,
"They have plenty of money, all of them, with the pos-
sible exception of Tom Andrews, my cousin Philip and
Archie Van Nuys. I'm not so sure of them."
"Then wouldn't that make him a likely suspect?"
she asked.
"You mean that the diaries might still be used for
blackmail?" he asked.
"Can any of us who are mentioned in them be safe
until they are destroyed?" she asked. There was no
accusation in the words but Terry rose to his own de-
fense immediately.
"I couldn't destroy them, under the circumstances,"
he said.
I didn't want them to get into an argument. After
all, it was their wedding day. "We've work to do,"
I said quickly.
"What now?" Terry asked.
"We must contact each of the people mentioned in
that list. If I only knew what they had done." I said


l62
THE MOVING FINGER
then telephone me. I'll know by then what will be
best for you to do." I slipped out of the cab and left
them rather amazed at the suddenness of my decision.
XIII
Peter was sitting in the hall when I opened the door.
"Well, Peter," I cried, pretending surprise, "you've
come early. Have you had a drink?"
"I don't want a drink. What have you done with
Lassimon and that girl?" he demanded.
"They've gone up to the Macon-Astoria," I an-
swered.
"Where's the telephone?" he asked.
"Wait a minute, Peter." I put a restraining hand
on his arm and smiled up at him.
"Don't try any of your wiles on me," he growled.
"You've already made a fool out of me."
"Now, Peter, don't be absurd. What on earth do
you mean?"
"Why did you switch from your own car to a cab,
tell me that?" he asked.
"Because I knew you'd discover that a man answer-
ing Terry's description had rented an apartment in the
building next to Van Wyck's," I answered honestly.
"Why didn't you tell me that up there?" he de-
manded.
"Why add fuel to a fire that's blazing well enough?"
I countered. "You want to believe that either Terry or


THE MOVING FINGER 163
Althea killed Van Wyck. I happen to know that they
had nothing to do with it. You're jumping at con-
clusions."
"That girl said the man's voice in the room sounded
like Lassimon's," he barked, "and it could have been
Lassimon."
"Don't sit there, Peter Conklin, and tell me that you
think he could have raced from one building to the
other while she was climbing the stairs. What do you
think she is, a snail?"
Peter laughed at my explosive indignation.
"Strange as it may seem," he said, "it could have been
done."
"Bosh!" I cried.
He went on. "We timed it, working on the theory
that Miss Madison moved slowly because of the heat.
There's an elevator in the house next door and if it
had been on the ground floor waiting he could have
made it in time."
"You don't believe that," I scoffed. "If you do, it's
because the heat has done something to your head.
Suppose he had galloped up there as you suggest in a
frenzy of haste. He would have made a great deal of
commotion. Do you think Van Wyck would have sat
quietly at his desk waiting to be stabbed in the back?
You know all that is absurd. You're just trying to
take the easy road, Peter, and I'm ashamed of you. I
don't blame you, however, in this terrific heat. I
wouldn't work at all if I were you."


164 THE MOVING FINGER
"You seem to be interesting yourself a great deal and
getting around quite a bit in the heat," he grumbled.
"I've got to get to the bottom of this."
"Of course you must. I know Terry Lassimon didn't
kill Van Wyck. And neither did Althea Madison.
Let's look at this sensibly. Better have a drink and cool
off. Come along in here." I rang for Agnes as we
went into the living-room.
"Since you're so sure they didn't kill Van Wyck,
who did?" he asked.
"That's exactly what I would like to know and hope
to find out if I can be left alone," I answered.
"So you think you're smarter than the police?" he
asked accusingly.
"You don't mean that, Peter."
"Well, what do you know about the case? Why
was Miss Madison being blackmailed? What has
Lassimon to do with it? Why did he rent that apart-
ment next door?"
"Just a minute," I stopped him. "I've no idea why
she was being blackmailed. You know as much about
it as I do."
"I know nothing about it," he growled.
"Which is what I know. When she mentioned Van
Wyck to me I suspected blackmail at once and warned
her against him. She did tell me that Van Wyck could
put obstacles in the way of her inheritance. That's all
I know."


"Which is reason enough for murder. She's due to
get thirty million or so," he said.
"If she contemplated murder, she wouldn't have had
the money with her this morning, would she?" I in-
sisted.
"No, I suppose not," he admitted grudgingly.
"Where does Lassimon fit into the picture?"
"A blind man could see that he's in love with the
girl," I answered. "Naturally he has been attempting
to protect her."
"It's a good thing they're not married," he stated.
"What difference could that make?" I asked fear-
fully.
"It would be such a swell set-up for a double mo-
tive."
"But you couldn't make them testify against each
other," I said.
"I wouldn't even try. I'd arrest them on a double
charge. She provided his alibi while he killed Van
Wyck."
"Ridiculous!"
"It isn't and you know it. It would be a nice tight
case with thirty million involved."
"It's no case at all. It's a possible motive—nothing
else," I scoffed. "Van Wyck was a cagey cuss. . . ."
"Say—" He leaned forward. "How do you know
so much about Van Wyck?"
"If you promise not to use the facts against me, I'll
tell you," I replied.


168 THE MOVING FINGER
"That's the one thing you must not do," I said
quickly.
"How are you going to get to the bottom of this in
any other way?" he asked. At the moment there
seemed no ready answer to refute the logic of his ques-
tion. We did need the diaries, but I knew we would
never get them if the police were involved in any effort
to find them.
"Will you do me a favor, Peter?" I asked.
"I don't think so," he answered warily, "but tell me
what you want?"
"Please don't interfere in this case for a week or ten
days. Give us a chance to work it out in our own way."
"I thought you liked the Lassimon chap? You real-
ize he is in danger."
"I do. He won't be killed if we arc let alone. I
feel positive of that."
"Well, I don't," he retorted.
"Listen, Peter," I begged. "We've no idea of the
secrets contained in those diaries. If we make a fuss
about them, there's no telling what will happen, don't
you see that? At the moment, there is probably only
one person interested. If the fact of the diaries is made
known, there will be any number of people who will
be concerned."
"You can't trifle with criminals," he objected.
"I realize that. I have the greatest respect for the
police, law and order." He grunted at the statement
but I paid no attention to him. "Some things are best


THE MOVING FINGER 169
done without police and if it's a question of human
life . . ." He wanted to interrupt me, but I hurried
on. "I'm thinking of kidnaped children who have
died because their captors have been so terrified by the
hue and cry of police, detectives and newspaper pub-
licity. I know the police and government men have
captured most of the guilty parties, but what of the
children? We're in a somewhat similar situation. I
don't want kidnapers to go free—I don't want this
murderer to escape. I'm arguing about method and
technique. I want to give our man plenty of rope."
"What makes you so sure the murderer will expose
himself?" he demanded.
"I don't know, but I feel certain that the diaries were
taken for the purpose of blackmail. Why else should
both Mortimer and Fergus have been killed?"
"What has it to do with Lassimon?" he asked.
"Isn't that rather obvious? One way to get the
diaries was to get rid of Terry. That won't be neces-
sary now."
"But suppose the murderer is one of the people men-
tioned in the diaries? Lassimon isn't safe as long as
that person thinks Lassimon knows his or her secret."
"That's why I want you to give us some time. Don't
you realize that the murderer will be watching us
every minute? If he or she thinks we are in collusion
with the police they will stop at nothing to protect
themselves. You must give us a chance, Peter."


170
THE MOVING FINGER
"I wish I knew what was in your mind," he said,
looking at me searchingly.
"Nothing at the moment. I'm just hoping some plan
will come."
"Of course I don't believe you," he replied.
"Well, I have an idea," I admitted.
"Why not tell me?" he asked eagerly.
"I can't yet because I'm not sure. If you'll promise
to leave us alone, I'll call you as soon as I'm at all rea-
sonably sure. Will you do it?"
"I don't see how I can."
"I don't see how you can refuse. You won't get
anywhere if you arrest either Terry or Althea on the
slim evidence you have. You'll only make things dif-
ficult for them and warn the murderer to protect him-
self. Just give us a week," I begged.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said after a moment.
"I'll forget all the things you have told me about Las-
simon and the diaries. We'll go along trying to un-
earth a clue on our own. In the meantime, you must
promise to keep me posted on anything new you may
learn."
I agreed to that heartily. Good old Peter! It was an
unusual thing he was doing and I was grateful to him.


172 THE MOVING FINGER
had had no intention of telling either Peter or Terry.
Peter would not have consented to my working alone,
neither would Terry, for that matter. I was rather
grateful to know that Terry would be out of my way
for a day or so.
I admit I was worried about their marriage. If Peter
chanced on the notice of their sudden wedding, he
would be doubly suspicious and might spoil all my
plans. I was afraid that we had outsmarted ourselves.
I tried vainly to fit the pieces of the puzzle together.
Why had Mortimer been killed after the diaries had
been stolen? Why had the murderer risked possible
exposure by taking the second shot at Terry while we
were at Mortimer's? If all the events had taken place
in one day, I would have believed that the murderer
didn't want Terry and Mortimer to compare notes.
Why had it suddenly become necessary for the mur-
derer to kill both Fergus and Mortimer? The answer,
of course, was obvious. First Fergus and then Morti-
mer had the answer to the problem which was vexing
us. There was so much to be done and so little time
left to us! I had made a promise to Peter which must
be kept, after a fashion. I was taking a woman's li-
cense there in the hope that the end would justify the
means. I did fear for Terry's life. I knew we must
have the diaries to protect Althea's fortune.
What I planned to do, I couldn't very well do alone.
I needed help. I called Sidney Kenfield and asked
him to come over at once. I told him as much as it


THE MOVING FINGER
was necessary for him to know and then announced
that I was going to get the diaries back in our posses-
sion.
'Then you've an idea where they are?" he asked.
"No," I replied, "I think I know why they were
taken. I'll advertise and offer a reward."
"Are they that important?"
"They're worth a lot of money to some people."
"But will the thief risk exposure now?" he asked.
"Thieves do it every day. How do you suppose
stolen jewels are recovered? I'll advertise and be my
own contact man."
"Be careful," he warned. "You shouldn't be doing
this, it's dangerous."
"I've done dangerous things before," I replied.
"I won't permit it," he stated boldly.
"You won't what?" I tried withering him with a
glance but he wouldn't wither.
"It's all connected with our publishing business, isn't
it?" he demanded.
I nodded.
"Then certainly I should have something to say about
it. There's no reason for you to"
"Don't be an ass," I cried. "You've no money and
something must be done. I'm going to advertise in
all the papers tonight and tomorrow morning. You
can take care of that for me while I arrange with the
bank for the cash. Will you help me?"
"All right," he agreed finally.


174 THE MOVING FINGER
mm
"You can also keep in touch with each of the papers
and arrange to have the answers, if any, sent directly
to me by messenger service. We'll work all night if
necessary.”
“Good! Now I feel I'm a part of whatever it is.”
“Run this ad.” I handed him a slip of paper on
which I had written: "A good price will be paid for
the right diaries."
He smiled as he read. “Are these the same diaries
mentioned in Terry's ad?” he asked.
“Yes, worse luck," I replied.
“You can depend on me,” he promised.
“One other thing. Don't mention this advertising
scheme of mine to Terry if you see him. He wouldn't
like it, would probably fuss about danger and all that
sort of thing."
“Don't you think he should know?” he asked.
"He has enough on his mind. We'll do this together,
just you and I.”
“Partners,” he agreed. “I'll keep you posted.”
At the bank I arranged to have two hundred thou-
sand dollars in cash ready for the next day. There
were to be four packages of fifty thousand dollars each.
I was willing to pay it all to get those diaries and save
Terry from the danger which was closing in on him.
Also, and I admit it without blushing, I had two hun-
dred thousand dollars' worth of curiosity gnawing at
my vitals. Those books would never get out of my
hands again before I read them.


THE MOVING FINGER 175
During the balance of the day, Sidney Kenfield and
I called each other every hour on the hour with the
precision and regularity of trains leaving New York
for Philadelphia.
At six o'clock a messenger came with some of the
first answers to the ad. None of them were right, how-
ever. At seven, another batch arrived. They also were
blanks written by people who were hopeful that they
had the diaries I was interested in. I rather expected
some more at eight but none arrived.
Nine o'clock! At last! I had an answer. There
could be no question about the authenticity of the mes-
sage. The person knew what I wanted. The message
was composed of words formed by letters cut from
glazed paper. It read:
SUCH SECRETS COME HIGH. IF YOU HAVE $100,000.00
BE IN THE DRUGSTORE AT THE CORNER OF YOUR STREET
AND FOURTH AVENUE AT 10.30 TONIGHT. WORK ALONE
OR BEWARE.
I don't believe I was afraid of the threat but for a
moment it gave me a chilly feeling. Perhaps I had
been a fool to keep my plan from Terry. Well, it was
too late now to bother about that. He phoned to say
he was leaving town but refused to tell me where he
was going. Later I talked to Althea. She, too, was
worried about him and his secretiveness. I called Sid-
ney to tell him that I had received an answer to the
ad. He wanted to know all about it but I refused to


176 THE MOVING FINGER
give him any information, explaining to him that I had
been threatened and must work alone.
I went down to the drugstore about ten fifteen and
bought a few articles. I had a limeade at the soda
fountain, looked over magazines and chatted with the
manager about the heat.
What would happen? Would a man walk in and
speak to me? Would a messenger boy come with a
note? As I was asking myself those questions, one of
the telephones rang in a booth. The manager answered
it. "Yes, she's here," I heard him say before he
beckoned to me.
So that was it. I'll admit I was nervous as I entered
the booth and pulled the door shut behind me. "Ethel
Thomas speaking," I announced.
"Why do you want the Van Wyck diaries?" the
voice asked.
"They must be destroyed to protect innocent people,"
I replied.
"What people?"
"I can't say," I answered, "but those vitally concerned
will know."
He considered a moment. "My price is $200,000.
Will you pay it?"
"Yes," I answered. "How do you want it done?"
"Do you have the money now?"
"No. I can get it tomorrow."
"I'll give you instructions tomorrow," the voice said
and the line went dead. I didn't hear him hang up.


It left me with a sense of emptiness which lasted all
through the night.
My own excursion the next day was to the bank for
the money. Later I tried to get in touch with Terry.
No one knew his whereabouts, not even Althea. Where
on earth had he gone and what was he doing?
The papers were full of the double murder of Morti-
mer and his man, Fergus, but none of our names were
connected with the crime.
I spent the rest of the day watching the telephone,
wondering when it would ring. Each time the bell
rang I reached for it hopefully. It was nine o'clock
when my instructions arrived. A messenger brought
the note. It was done in the same manner as the
previous one and read:
TAKE THE FLUSHING SUBWAY FROM GRAND CENTRAL
STATION. GET OUT AT WOODSIDE. -GO TO TWENTY-ONE
FORTY-NINE KENT AVENUE. ENTER GARAGE AT END OF
DRIVEWAY. BE THERE AT TEN-THIRTY TONIGHT.
I hated the idea of the hot sticky subway but I had to
obey instructions. I was generous with my time. I
arrived at the Woodside station a little after ten. I
made inquiries about Kent Avenue from a man in a
cigar-store where I bought some cigarettes. I had
twenty minutes to kill. I looked in shop windows for
a little while. Bought a limeade and then started for
Kent Avenue. I walked up the driveway beside an
empty house at exactly twenty-nine minutes past ten.


178
THE MOVING FINGER
The garage was at the end of the lot. There was a
car in it. Inside, it looked as black as a pit. I moved
in beside the car and waited.
There was no one there. In the distance, I could
hear the rattle of subway cars and the more solid rum-
ble of the Long Island Railroad trains. There was a
slight purring sound within the garage. The motor
was running. It startled me. Was the man going to
make off with me? Well, not without a struggle, I
was determined. I heard a spring creak and turned
quickly. The garage door was closing behind me. I
turned, and ran back and pounded on the door with
my hands.
“Quiet!" a voice commanded. Then, “You have the
money?"
“Yes.”
“The diaries are on the floor of the car,” the voice
said.
I sidled along the car, opened the door and found
the package. I tore it open and felt the books. He
had brought the diaries. I went back to the door.
"Here's the money," I said.
The door opened slightly at the bottom. I bent
down and pushed the money through the opening. It
vanished into a gloved hand.
The voice said, “I'm putting a thin piece of wood
through the hasp of the lock. It will take you a min-
ute to break it. By that time I'll be gone."
The door banged down again. I could hear some-


THE MOVING FINGER 179
thing scraping at the lock, then footsteps melted into
the night. I pushed at the door frantically. It wouldn't
budge. I tried again. What a fool I had been! I
was trapped, caught like a rat in a trap. My head began
to spin. I slid along the car again and felt for the
ignition key. I couldn't find it and dared not waste
time hunting in a strange car for something that might
not be there.
There were no windows in the garage to break. I'd
heard it said that a person dies in about four minutes
from carbon monoxide poisoning. How long had I
been there? There was one asset I had that the mur-
derer didn't know about. I knew how to drive a car.
Malcolm and I were in the Adirondacks years ago.
We were caught in the mud. He got out to look over
the ground and fell and sprained his leg, which left
me absolutely helpless. I made up my mind at that
time to learn to drive so that I wouldn't be useless
again in a case of emergency.
I suppose you are wondering how much driving I
expected to do in a narrow one-car garage. I climbed
into the driver's seat and turned on the headlights.
There were about three feet between the rear of the
car and the door of the garage. I put the car into re-
verse and jammed my foot on the gas pedal. I
released the clutch, the car shot backwards toward that
door. We hit it with a crash that must have wakened
the neighborhood. I pulled forward a little and ran
back again. The door was splintered at the bottom.


i8o THE MOVING FINGER
I tugged at it with my hands. It moved upward re-
luctantly, creaking and groaning. It cleared the car
and opened all the way. I ran back to the car, picked
up the diaries, and started out of the driveway more
thankful for my release than I can ever express in
words.
XV
It took two full days to read the diaries. I was par-
ticularly interested in the lives of the people to whom
Mortimer had written. The secrets were dangerous.
It's a great wonder to me that he lived as long as he
did. As I read I could understand why attempts had
been made on Terry's life. Any or all of the people
concerned in the diaries had reason enough to com-
mit murder to protect themselves.
Was Daisy Williams really a murderess? Mortimer
stated that she had killed her husband. Did Mortimer
know the truth? Whether his statement was true or
not the fact remains that Daisy could have killed her
husband and done it very easily. The stage was all set
for her and as Mortimer pointed out her chances of
being caught or even suspected were practically nil.
He didn't say how he gathered his data. It would be
interesting to know exactly how he arrived at his facts.
If he had lived, could he have proved his statements?
I'd love to tell you exactly how Daisy was supposed
to have accomplished Roger's death but I don't think


THE MOVING FINGER
it a fair thing to do. Who knows when you might
be tempted just as Daisy was tempted?
Innocent or guilty, Daisy couldn't afford to have the
story published; but then that was true of all the cases.
In each story there was enough of truth to make things
extremely uncomfortable for Mortimer's victims. Daisy
probably overplayed her hand at the time of her hus-
band's death. If Roger Williams' death and burial had
been normal, Daisy would have nothing to fear, but it
wasn't that simple. Daisy had given poor old Roger
a grand funeral. Then the body had been cremated
and Daisy, sadly, in her widow's weeds, surrounded
by satellites, took the ashes to Mount Beacon and scat-
tered them to the four winds. Those funeral rites
would give Daisy a bad day or two in court. It would
be extremely difficult for her to explain to a jury of her
peers why she ignored the Williams' tradition of the
family vault in Woodlawn. If she is innocent, it is
rather ironic that her chance of proving it has literally
gone with the wind. If she is guilty she knows the
case against her is a black one. I could readily under-
stand her willingness to go on paying Mortimer to keep
him quiet. Also I could see the worm turning. Daisy
is the type who can be driven just so far before revolt-
ing.
It is quite possible that Roger Williams might have
died of kidney trouble. The Williams family have
been famous for years because of their weak kidneys,
but poor Daisy couldn't prove that she hadn't mur-


182 THE MOVING FINGER
dered her husband in cxacdy the manner described by
Mortimer in the diaries. Fear of exposure would drive
her to any means to protect herself. That was the whip
which Mortimer held over her head.
Archie Van Nuys, poor asthmatic Archie, no wonder
he was afraid. About ten years ago there was talk of
running him for governor. There was a great deal in
the press for a short time presenting Archie as a great
educator, a man who molded the lives and destinies of
American youth. Just as I grew tired of that publicity,
the campaign died quite suddenly. I never knew why
nor did I care. I think since we are such a great na-
tion we should be careful about the people we put into
office. I prefer gentlemen to politicians at any time
and I'm a little fussy about my gentlemen. I can't
imagine a wheezing asthmatic public official lending
grace to any occasion. If Mortimer was the man who
kept Archie from running for governor, I think the
citizens of New York State owe him a vote of thanks.
Archie had a great deal to lose. He owns and runs
a large well-known school for boys. If the things
stated in the diaries ever became known, every boy in
his school would be taken out immediately.
What a contrast Archie's implied decadence was to
the accusation filed against the vitally young Dick
Bolertho. I didn't want to believe Mortimer's story
about Dick. In fact, I refused to believe that he de-
liberately frightened the horse his wife Jessica had
been riding and so brought about her death. What


THE MOVING FINGER 183
had he to gain by such a move? Jessica had given
him a million and a half just before their wedding.
He had all the money he needed and he was in love
with her. Mortimer's accusation didn't make sense.
Jessica had been so madly in love with Dick that she'd
have given him her last cent if he had wanted it. He
knew that. Could it be possible there was some other
reason why he wanted her out of the way?
Mortimer didn't give the reason for the crime he
claimed had been committed. It couldn't have been
another woman because the world would have known
about it long before now. What a clever way to kill
a person, though, if Mortimer were right. Jessica was
an excellent horsewoman, which was one of the things
that made her death so tragic. When a novice falls
from a horse and is permanently injured or even killed,
one is apt to have the feeling that it serves him right,
but when an expert is killed it is difficult to be ra-
tional. I can see her now taking the hurdles at the
horse show, riding with ease and grace as her horse
soared through the air.
Innocent or guilty, Mortimer's accusation must have
been an awful shock to the poor boy. Dick would
have been justified in trying to keep the diaries from
being published.
The Dunns, Jessica's family, in spite of their money
and two generations of the Social Register, are still
fighting Irish. The veneer which covers the Dunns is
thin and takes but a scratch to bring out the belligerent


THE MOVING FINGER
qualities of their ancestors. The Dunns would prob-
ably have believed Mortimer's statement and the rest
of the world would have followed suit. The story of
Dick's and Jessica's romance would be retold, only
this time Dick would be made to appear as a sinister
figure seducing and luring the girl to a horrible death.
He would be taken to court, tried and even though a
jury might fail to convict him, his entire life would be
ruined.
I could conceive of Archie, under pressure of expo
sure, doing most of the things which had been hap-
pening to us, but somehow I couldn't imagine Dick
Bolertho stooping so low. I dismissed him from my
mind as the murderer. Of Daisy I couldn't be so sure.
I didn't believe for a moment she had done the things
herself, but she is the sort of cackling hen that would
jump from one side of the road to the other. It would
be just like her to put herself in the hands of some
unscrupulous man who would take her last cent away
from her after she had tried to protect both her for-
tune and her secret.
I was somewhat inclined to feel that way about
Althea. After all, a tremendous fortune was at stake
as well as the family reputation. Mortimer claimed
quite baldly that Althea was not a Madison. Mortimer
said Althea was actually the child of a Frenchman
with whom her mother had had an affair while she
was in Paris. According to Mortimer, the Frenchman
wouldn't marry Elsie, so in desperation she married


THE MOVING FINGER 185
Herbert Madison. If Mortimer's statement were true,
it would explain Althea's unusual childhood. It would
make Elsie's unmotherly actions understandable. The
world would nod its head and say, "Of course; no
wonder she never brought the child to America."
Can't you see how, under the circumstances, every
person who thought they had even the slightest claim
to the Madison fortune would try to have Althea's in-
heritance set aside? Poor child. It must have been a
terrible blow to her pride. I know if I were in her
position I would fight to the bitter end to protect not
only my mother's name but the fortune as well.
I was quite willing to believe everything Mortimer
said about Philip Lassimon, Terry's cousin. I never
liked him. He isn't my type at all.
Philip, as I've said, is a run of the mill Lassimon.
They've always been dark, almost swarthy and rather
dried up, full of inhibitions, we say now that we are
aware of modern psychology. I like people who seem
clean, fresh and bright both inside and out. Haven't
you noticed that some people seem to be unhealthy and
nasty just beneath the surface of their skins?
There had never been a breath of scandal connected
with his name. He had a large family and if he chose
to use his wife as a breeding machine and she liked it,
surely it was none of my business. Philip had always
been such a devoted family man that it made Morti-
mer's charge a little difficult to believe. But, as I say,
I'm inclined to believe it because I don't like Philip in


THE MOVING FINGER
the original source of supply. It was a clever if un-
savory business.
How Philip would hate to be uncovered! Can't you
see headlines reading something like this: "Prominent
Society Man Heads Dope Ring." What a ruin it would
make of his life! If Mortimer's story were true, then
a little thing like a murder or two wouldn't stop Philip
if he could keep his secret covered.
I think we can sometimes forgive a man for murder
when we learn just what factors led to the crime, but
for dope running there can be no excuse. I wanted
Philip Lassimon caught and exposed for the things he
had done. I wanted him behind prison bars where he
would be unable to victimize poor and weak people.
Right then and there I knew that we should turn the
case over to the police. It was not our problem. On the
other hand, it was not our business either. Both Terry
and I had been dragged into the sordid mess quite by
accident. Who am I to stand in judgment on
others, even Philip? The moral aspect of the thing
bothered me for sometime.
I do believe in permitting the dead past to bury its
dead. If the things I had learned by accident had re-
mained undiscovered up to now, why should I want
to expose them? There are hundreds of crimes and
scandals that are never made public. Why should I
torture myself about the ethics of this particular prob-
lem? I was determined to stop Philip's drug traffic,
however, no matter what else happened. After that


188
my chief interest was Terry's safety. Nothing else
really mattered. I had pledged myself to help him
and I would. I tried to console myself with the thought
that murder will out.
Will it? Perhaps that was why Florence Gunner
was so afraid of the diaries.
Florence was a gorgeous blonde, not the cold anti-
septic type but a fully developed glowing woman. The
type that turns men's heads and she has turned them
by the dozens. Florence was the most-often-engaged
girl I've ever known. Certainly she was the most
talked about. I understand that at one time you could
get bets on the street for and against the proba-
bility of her marriage. When she had exhausted the
supply of eligible and gullible young men in America
she went abroad and became engaged to a few counts,
earls, dukes and even a prince or two. The last story
I had heard about her was an account of a growing
romance between her and an Englishman. Those who
seem to know assured me that Florence was in love
at long last and would go through with the venture.
The man was reputed to be one of England's wealthiest
peers. If it was a romance, the world couldn't say
that it was a case of poverty-stricken nobility looking
for good sound American dollars. Dollars are sound,
aren't they, in spite of all the talk we've heard to the
contrary about inflation?
Do you remember the Alderman Case? Of course
you do. The papers all over the country were full of


THE MOVING FINGER 189
it at the time. Alderman was shot to death in his
living-room. When the body was found, it was with-
out wig or false teeth. It became definitely known
that there was a woman in the case but her identity
was never disclosed. I've heard people say that the
police knew who she was but because she was rich
the whole thing was hushed up. It is one of the fa-
mous unsolved murders in New York records. Yes.
You've guessed it. Mortimer definitely accused Flor-
ence Gunner of being the woman in the Alderman
case and seemed to be possessed of very definite infor-
mation.
If she loved her Englishman, such a scandal had to
be suppressed. A thing like that, if known, would
most certainly squash any chance of marriage. We've
just had a recent example of British squeamishness.
Almost every crime known to man was represented
by the diaries. Tom Andrews' game was traffic in
souls. Sounds melodramatic, doesn't it? Horribly so.
I was inclined to believe the accusation. Tom was a
man about town. He was a theatrical promoter. I
know he did send chorus girls to South America and
other places. According to Mortimer, the theatrical
business was merely a cover for an extensive White
Slave Traffic. A man who makes money in that way
is a loathsome beast to me.
After learning all the secrets I was sorely troubled
by a new problem. Why had the diaries been sold to
me? I tried to rationalize that question. Had fear and


igo THE MOVING FINGER
greed been mixed in the motives for turning the books
over to me?
When I assured that unknown voice that the diaries
would be destroyed, did he really believe me? Why
else give them to me? The answer was obvious as I
thought about it. The man expected me to die in that
garage. He had probably lurked outside waiting for
those deadly fumes to make an end of me. I'm sure
that he planned to creep back to the garage after my
death and take the diaries. In that way he would have
the money and the diaries and with me out of the way
could go on with his plans.
It was a bold plan and a risky one. Why was he so
sure that I was working alone? Would a man like
Philip risk his secret once he had the diaries in his
hands? Perhaps if he were clever enough he would
do it. Possession of the diaries would carry a double
murder charge in addition to the secrets contained in
them. Would I, if I were Philip, Andrews, Van Nuys
or Daisy, release the diaries once I had them in my
possession? I could conceive of Althea, Florence Gun-
ner or Bolertho doing such a thing, but I wasn't at all
sure about any of the others.
As I thought about the problem, I regretted that I
had had no means of checking each of those people on
the night I had recovered the diaries. How simple it
would have been to pin the crime on the one person
who had no alibi for the hour or so I spent over in
Long Island in that beastly garage.


I was restless. I wanted action. I tried to contact
Terry but he had vanished completely. I was an-
noyed with him. What on earth was he doing?
Where had he gone? Why didn't he let me hear from
him?
XVI
I heard from Terry the next morning. I've had all
sorts of letters in my day, but Terry's note, which cata-
pulted me further into the adventure, was the most
unusual and starding I had ever received. I didn't be-
lieve a word of it. You wouldn't have either if you
were as furious with him as I was at the moment. He
had been gone for days. No one knew where he was
or what he was doing. He knew nothing of my ad-
venture or the recovery of the diaries. Peter Conklin
was in a peeve about him. Althea was all at sea, and
goodness knows I was reaching the breaking-point.
The letter was on my breakfast tray the Thursday
morning which happened to be the day the all-time
heat record for New York City was broken. I'm not
claiming a sense of prophecy when I say I knew record
heat was coming. Dawn, after another murky night,
was heavy and depressing. If you've ever spent a sum-
mer in New York you know what I mean. It was and
had been hotter than Tophet with an overdose of hu-
midity thrown in to keep a sodden humanity gasping
and mopping. It had been like that for several days,
baking, blistering hot under the rays of a brooding


headline to inform me that the Midwest heat wave was
moving East.
I believed it. The idea of another ten degrees of in-
fernal heat added to the high nineties which we had
been having was just too much to bear. I tried to con-
vince myself that there was no reason for. me to stay
in New York and swelter, but steam tractors couldn't
have dragged me away, though I did play with the idea
of going places. For years I've belonged to that school
which believes New York is as comfortable or vice
versa as any other place in summer. Certainly there
is much to be said for the satisfying comfort of your
own good beds, personal things and the privacy which
is so necessary if you're at all uncomfortable.
I knew I wouldn't be able to go anywhere and es-
cape the heat unless I decided to rent an air-cooled
theater and move into it for the balance of the summer.
As I listlessly sorted my mail, my mind played with
the idea of Bar Harbor or Newport. Then Terry's
dashing scrawl promised me respite from the anxious
boredom of the last few days.
At least it was news. Eagerly I opened the strange
and challenging note which told me nothing and made
me furious at the same time. No man, not even Terry,
has any license to write such a note.
I was most annoyed. I knew that young man and
his bag of tricks, or rather, I thought I did, but this
was something quite different.
Once before I had accepted one of his intriguing
■


THE MOVING FINGER 195
was, in one sense, and wild in a way but not nearly
as bad as I thought it was going to be (secredy I was
a bit disappointed). It was never dull and always
diverting because the people were what you call ordi-
nary until you knew them. They were a revelation to
me. Fundamentally, we're all alike under the skin.
It is just our stage settings and degrees of social educa-
tion which make us seem different.
They were Terry's idea of a diversion. He had al-
ways been anti-Social Register. His tastes had led him
into the highways and also the byways of life. I didn't
blame him too much, however, because so-called good
society can be an awful bore without even half trying.
It was one of his by parties and I must admit I had a
good time. I had never known the warm, inclusive
big-hearted friendliness of a burlesque queen up to
that time, nor the fascinating camaraderie of a race-
track tout, to say nothing about the facts of life which
I gleaned from some chorus girls over a nightcap.
This incredible note, however, was a different mat-
ter. What on earth did he mean? Why write me a
note like that? I was determined to show him that
I wasn't born yesterday, but then he knew that. As
much as I wanted to see and talk to Terry I tossed the
note to one side and went on with my other mail or
rather tried to wade through uninteresting notes, invi-
tations, bills and a tiresome letter from one of my
grand-nieces in which she told me about Junior's hives
and baby Ethel's adenoids. Why do young mothers


196
THE MOVING FINGER
think other people are interested in the diseases of then-
children? For that matter, why do people insist in
telling you all about their operations? I've never had
one so perhaps I'm just a little jealous, but I know
there are lots more interesting topics of conversation.
But to get back to baby Ethel and her adenoids.
I sometimes wish I had had a child, with or without
the benefit of clergy. Motherhood, if it doesn't make
a fool out of a woman gives her a maturity and fulness
that I don't possess, although on the other hand one of
the sweetest and most motherly women I have ever
known was an old maid about whose private life I
never had the slightest suspicion.
I skipped through to the end of that letter, not at
all interested in the invitation which it contained.
Imagine having children under your feet during a hot
spell if you aren't forced to do it and anyhow, how
could I be intrigued by anything while Terry's note
continued to challenge me, face up where I had tossed
it? It was as if Terry himself were in the room lavish-
ing his personality upon my resisting consciousness.
Why on earth had he written it? What had happened
to him? Where had he been?
Terry's dark eyes seemed to dance before me on the
page. I fancied I could see his tantalizing smile, the
arched bow of his lips and his gleaming white teeth.
As a matter of fact, he seemed to be teasing me. Now
that, I know, is absurd, sheer nonsense and yet I defi-


THE MOVING FINGER 197
nitely felt Terry pleading with me to follow the in-
structions in the note.
I reached for the letter and re-read it. Of course, I
didn't believe a word of it. How could I? It was too
preposterous, too much like the engaging rogue who
had written it.
Would you have believed a note which read?
Dear Ethel:
Come out to Roslyn Thursday afternoon for my mur-
der. It will give you material for a new boo\.
Yours,
Terry
What did he mean? Why Roslyn of all places?
How could I solve the murder there? Did he mean
a third attempt on his life? Did he write it to give
me a jolt? He knows I hate heat and won't, if I can
help it, stir out of my own house for anything short
of a murder. I was furious with him but there was
only one way to get the answers to my own questions
and that was to go out to Roslyn.
For the second time in my life I was embroiled in
murder, intrigue and horror because a young man
who inherited a vast fortune and a thriving business
preferred the white lights of Broadway to the abysmal
canyons of downtown New York where the offices of
the Lassimon Chemical Works were located. If history
repeats itself more or less, it is because people are so
much alike. Not that Terry was anything like Charlie


198 THE MOVING FINGER
Doane. Two men couldn't be more exactly opposite
than they. Their only similarity was the fact that,
born to wealth, they were neither of them interested
in the family business and the making of money in
that way. Although Terry at the moment was in a
financial jam, he was not generally a fool about his
money. How or when he finds time to take care of
his affairs has always been a mystery to me.
He was like that from a child. He had his finger
in several pies at the same time. You see I watched
him grow up if you can call his activities growing up.
Evelyn Lassimon, his mother, was a nice enough girl
in her way, a bit on the colorless side, and his father
wasn't what you'd call exciting unless you're one of
those people who like to spend hours at the Aquarium.
Knowing his background makes Terry so hard to
understand. I don't know what happened when he
was born unless nature took a little thoughtful time
at the moment of his conception and decided that
there were enough dull Lassimons in the world and
planned then and there a revolutionary move. I'm sure
nature was to blame. Anyhow Terry was either a
throwback or a pitch forward but he wasn't true to
the run of the mill.
I rang for Agnes and told her to lay out my things,
to pack our bags and have Malcolm and the car ready
at twelve.
"How about luncheon?" she asked.
I told her it was much too hot for me to eat, that


what they are, any woman of any age can help her
appearance.
The note lay on the dressing-table and mocked me,
every word of it. Agnes came and stood beside me.
She's an inquisitive wench, never misses a chance to
peer over my shoulder in a seemingly innocent way. I
put the note into its envelope and thought I slipped
it under my bag. Once or twice as I fought per-
spiration—ladies do perspire in spite of Emily Post and
others—I half decided not to go, but that was only a
game I was playing with myself. Wild horses, heat,
wind, snow or rain couldn't have kept me away from
Roslyn. I scented more excitement, possibly danger.
You see I didn't believe the note, but then you wouldn't
have believed anything as preposterous as that either.
Whatever it was that Terry had planned, he was going
to be surprised to learn that I had recovered the diaries.
I was full of anticipation, just a curious old woman
rather badly ridden by the heat, a little off normal and
as curious as a half-dozen cats.
. XVII
We left the house promptly at twelve.
By the time we reached the Queensborough Bridge,
I was reaching for my third handkerchief. It was then
that I realized that Terry's note, neatly folded, was in
my purse. I didn't even remember putting it there. I
must have done it automatically after I realized that


202 THE MOVING FINGER
Agnes was trying to read it. Now don't ask me why
I kept the fool thing. I should have had more sense,
but then hindsight is always so much better than fore-
sight anytime, anywhere. I should have taken it out
when we were in the middle of the bridge, torn it into
litde bits and scattered it to the winds, but I didn't. I
couldn't possibly know the complications that would
follow. I suppose the reason I kept it in the first place
and didn't destroy it in the second was the fact that
I wanted to wave it at Terry and ask dramatically,
"What does this mean?"
There are two kinds of fools in this world. Those
who write foolish incriminating letters and those who
keep them after they have been written. No matter
what my motive was I should have destroyed the thing,
but I didn't. I wasn't normal. If I were I would have
gone to a nice cool movie and forgotten all about the
whole business. Ifs, ands and buts have no bearing
now on what happened. I did keep it and I did go
out to Terry's house.
When we were out on Long Island, Agnes and I had
hot-dogs at a cute little roadside stand on Northern
Boulevard near Great Neck. We ate them with relish.
Say what you will, they simply do not taste the same
when prepared at home and, Malcolm or no Malcolm,
when I want them I eat them. Malcolm got out of the
car and stood in the shade of the building while we
munched our lunch. When Agnes asked him if he
wanted one he gave her a withering look. When we


THE MOVING FINGER 203
were ready for the second one, I called him just to see
his nose tilt a little higher.
When he carried them out to us he handled them as
if they were poison. I'll bet my cook has a time with
him about his food. He's such an old fuss-budget. He
poked one into the front seat at Agnes and was thrust-
ing mine through the window at me when I stopped
him and told him to open the door.
As he opened the door, I made him wait while I
rummaged in my hand-bag for a loose dollar bill. My
purse is no exception to the general feminine receptacle.
It is a glory hole into which I tuck things because I
think I want to keep them or feel I'll need them.
Several scraps of paper, a powder-puff and other doubt-
ful treasures fell to the floor. Malcolm, the frankfurter
weaving in the air, tried to pick them up for me with
his free hand without much success. As he leaned for-
ward a thin trickle of mustard oozed out of the roll,
ran across the edge of the paper napkin and started for
the floor. I just moved my foot in time to miss the
mustard. I took the frankfurter from Malcolm, gave
him the old paper napkin and told him to open the
other door so that there would be some circulation of
air while we were standing still. I don't know any-
thing that can get as hot as an automobile that is stand-
ing in the sun. The heat soon became unbearable. I
suggested we move on.
With the sun broiling down on us and the inside of
the car at oven temperature, there was no reason why


2o4 THE MOVING FINGER
I should have shivered as Malcolm swung the car be-
tween the gates of Tomnahurick. That's the name of
Terry's estate at Roslyn. It's an unusual name. It
means, the Hill of the Fairies. You probably remem-
ber something about it. At the time of Bainbridge's
murder the papers were full of the name. They even
printed a picture of the original hill just outside of
Inverness.
Terry bought the estate after the Bainbridge case
was cleared up. Mary Bainbridge had married Arthur
Martinson by then and had no further use for it. She
was probably glad to get away from the house, any-
how, because the poor dear had never been happy there.
How could any woman be happy with a man like
Bainbridge? He deserved his end if ever a man did,
but for a time it looked as if Mary would be convicted
of his murder. I think she would have had a much
more difficult time if it hadn't been for one of her
maids, who committed suicide in the lily pond. Well,
that's another story, an old one, with which you are
probably familiar anyhow. At any rate, I did shiver as
we entered the drive. It may have been a premonition,
excessive heat or woman's intuition, I don't know. Cer-
tainly the ghost of that poor girl who died in the lily
pool had nothing to do with it and I had no idea of
the things which were to come.
As a matter of fact, I was in a mood to do battle
with Terry and leave at once if his explanation of the
note failed to satisfy me.


THE MOVING FINGER 205
As we circled into the estate and began the long
climb up the grade, I caught a glimpse of the house at
the top of the hill. Heat waves shimmered from the
roof and the long glass-enclosed porch seemed rather
broodingly uninviting. At other times I'd always
thought the house was rather lovely, commanding as it
did a view of Roslyn Harbor, which view, however, is
no particular prize now that the sand companies have
moved in and gouged out the hillsides destroying what
was once sheer loveliness. Those great gaping holes
with their puffs of smoke as steam cranes bit into the
bowels of the earth angered me. Why must man in
his greed destroy the few lovely things that nature has
given us?
As we neared the top of the hill the view of Long
Island Sound beyond Seacliff was a delight. There
were a few sailboats out there luffing along in the fit-
ful breeze. I made up my mind then that if I stayed
I would insist upon a sail on the Sound. Terry had a
luxurious yacht which lay just off his pier most of the
time, with steam up, ready to sail at a moment's notice.
I looked down at the water and there, sure enough,
was the yacht, a thin trickle of smoke coming from its
forward stack.
The driveway sweeps in a broad circle as it ap-
proaches the house. I looked over toward the lily pond
and thought again about that poor girl, Annie Sims,
who had died there. Life gave her more than her
share of heartache and abuse plus an incurable disease,


THE MOVING FINGER
but she died gloriously that Mary Bainbridge might
live and be free. Martinson told me himself that
Annie's death kept Mary's name clean. If the girl had
told what she knew, the police would have been able
to unearth the whole sordid story. As it was, even a
smart District Attorney couldn't make a piece of paper
talk. Annie knew what she was doing. She left the
note and then quitted a world which had been anything
but kind to her. Hers was a glorious soul. Greater
love hath no man. It took courage to do what she did
and yet she was a social outcast.
When Malcolm stopped the car with something of
a flourish and opened the door for me, I lost no time
getting into the cool shade of the hall out of the glar-
ing sun. I wasn't expected so early, but that didn't
rumple Hubert's habitual calm. He was a perfect
butler. I don't think murder would cause him to blink
an eyelid; as a matter of fact, it didn't, but I'm getting
ahead of the story.
"Don't disturb my bags," I warned Hubert. "I'm
not at all sure I'm staying."
"Mrs. Lassimon is expecting you; in fact, Miss
Thomas, I have a feeling she's rather depending on
you," Hubert said graciously.
"Oh, you do, do you? Why?" I asked.
"I couldn't say," he replied stolidly.
"Where is Mr. Lassimon?" I demanded.
"He didn't say. He telephoned from town," he
answered. "He instructed me to send the yacht in for


THE MOVING FINGER 207
him and the other guests late this afternoon. Perhaps
you'd like to go in for the sail," he suggested.
"I just came from town," I barked, annoyed anew
at Terry. "It's only two degrees cooler than Hell this
minute. I wouldn't go back there for all the Terrys
in the world." Agnes snickered, but Hubert didn't
flex a muscle. Malcolm was waiting just inside the
door. "Put the car up," I ordered and then said to
Hubert. "Have my things taken up. I'm staying."
I was hurt by Terry's thoughtlessness. Why hadn't
he told me about the yacht, since it was going in for
guests? It would have been the easiest way and the
most comfortable for me. The answer was simple
enough. He didn't want me on board on the way out.
Why? Well, I'd fool him. But why didn't he want
me on the boat between New York and Roslyn? I
couldn't imagine the answer but I knew he generally
had a reason for whatever he did. I came very near
making a bad mistake in the heat of my resentment.
The moment I admitted to myself that his actions were
prompted by reason I began to think more clearly and
felt rather proud of myself for being right.
In my suite Hubert said, "I'll draw the curtains if
you care to take a nap."
He meant well but that suggestion irritated me. Just
because I'm old, people seem to think I have to spend
most of my time taking catnaps just to keep up with
the rest of the world.


2o8 THE MOVING FINGER
"Never mind the blinds," I said. "Send me a lime-
ade."
I selected a cane-bottom chair and sat down. I can't
abide overstuffed furniture in hot weather. As Hubert
turned toward the door, I asked, "Who's coming?"
"I couldn't say. Mrs. Lassimon didn't seem quite
sure. Anything else, miss?"
"Please tell Mrs. Lassimon I've arrived."
"Thank you, Miss Thomas."
He was a perfect servant for Terry, or for any one,
as a matter of fact.
While unpacking, Agnes became quite talkative.
"Do you know they say this house is haunted?" she
informed me.
"Who says so?" I demanded.
"The servants. They say that the girl is seen walking
in the garden near the lily pond on stormy nights,
while Bainbridge walks about in the house." She
paused, a handful of lingerie suspended in midair,
shoulder-straps dangling. "Have you ever seen a ghost,
Miss Thomas?"
"No, and don't be filling your head with a lot of
nonsense," I advised as I sent her down to the servants'
hall because I wanted to be alone. I took the diaries
from the bag and crammed them into the flue of the
fireplace. As I worked I thought of the things Agnes
had said about the ghost. If Bainbridge's wraith
wanted to use that flue he would have some difficulty.
I don't believe in ghosts, as I've never seen one, and


210
THE MOVING FINGER
"I don't know. I haven't heard from him since you
left me nearly a week ago," I replied.
"Neither have I," she said. "It's been terrible wait-
ing like this."
I leaned forward and whispered, "I have the diaries."
"You have!" Her face brightened at once. "Where
are they?"
"In a safe place, don't worry."
"Did you read them?"
"Yes."
"Do you believe it? You knew my mother—do you
think the story is true?"
"I don't know, but I'd say it was unimportant. Her-
bert Madison loved you both. That's all you need
worry about."
"I suppose so," she agreed after a long pause.
It must be a shock to realize after long years that the
man you thought was your father had nothing to do
with your birth and that your real father is just an
unknown man out in the world somewhere. Animals
have the right idea. Maternity and paternity never
bother them after a very short time while their young
are growing. Once their offspring grow up they go
out into the world to shift for themselves and that's
all there is to it. Family ties are one of the responsi-
bilities we assumed with civilization.
"Don't brood about it, dear," I advised. I felt sorry
for her.
"You can't help thinking," she replied.


2i2 THE MOVING FINGER
down to the library on the main floor. I knew per-
fectly well that if there had been trouble at home some
of the servants would have telephoned.
I had a glimpse of black boots, doe-colored breeches,
a trim waist, and a light tan shirt, moist over the broad
shoulders. As I entered the room the man was facing
the window. In that one quick glance I knew that he
was built as a man should be. He was a perfect
physical specimen. He turned to face me. I liked the
look of his steady gray eyes and the general softening
of his face as he smiled most engagingly. I don't
know what he expected but I'm sure he didn't expect
anything like me.
"I'm Miss Thomas," I said. "What has happened?"
"Nothing yet, I hope," he replied. With that he put
his hand into his trouser pocket and drew out a folded
envelope and handed it to me saying, "I'm Saxon of
the Nassau County police."
I took the envelope. I didn't have to open it to know
what it was. It was Terry's note, but how under the
sun had it come into Saxon's possession? As I opened
it reluctantly, trying hard to appear calm and matter-
of-fact I felt him studying me quizzically.
"I found it at a hot-dog stand," he explained. "I
hope I'm not too late for the party." His grin was
more grim than humorous.
I knew I'd have to do some fast thinking and tall
fabricating to fool such an alert young man, but that
didn't worry me, as I've had lots of practice. What


I needed was time. The note mocked me anew as it
rested in my fingers. If I knew what Terry meant!
I had to say something to satisfy the young man and
protect Terry at the same time.
XVIII
The man facing me represented the Law and had to
be answered in such a way as to be satisfied and yet be
told nothing. What could I tell him, anyhow? How
could I explain the contents of the note when I had no
idea, myself, what it meant? He was patient about
waiting. There was an amused glint in his eyes. He
was a fine-looking lad, sure of himself and full of un-
pretentious confidence . . . not the type that is en-
gendered by a uniform. It was an inherent quality that
goes with a good head and the ability to think clearly
and see things in a flash. He'd be a good man to have
at your elbow in any emergency, a fine friend and a
relendess enemy.
I've always been a creature of impulse and at that
moment a plan was born which proved to be a good
one. He looked perfectly grand in his uniform and I
was wondering how he would look in dinner clothes,
when he stirred uncomfortably. I do believe I flushed
a bit self-consciously as he turned his eyes away from
mine. I blushed because of his discomfort. I've seen
«
young men squirm when lascivious old women eye
them too pointedly and too long. Heaven knows what


THE MOVING FINGER
he thought of me, as I stood there wondering how, in
the light of the note I held in my hand, I might use
him.
He broke the silence by asking without looking at
me, "Have you thought of a good answer?"
I pretended to be starded and said, "Er . . . no. To
be truthful I was wondering why Terry invited you to
the party."
"What party?" he asked, taking the bait very nicely,
but I wasn't too sure that I had fooled him.
"Here, this party," I replied, tapping the note with a
finger. "Did you get an invitation too?"
"You wouldn't try to kid me, would you, Miss
Thomas?" he asked. "Because if you did I might not
think it funny. I'm just an ordinary policeman."
"Extraordinary," I replied with a smile.
"Now, I know you're kidding, but thanks for the
compliment, just the same. I haven't been invited here
to a party or anything else and you know it as well as
I do. You're stalling," he accused bluntly. "I'm here
in the line of duty. I want an explanation of that note.
I went to a great deal of trouble to locate you. I
called your house in New York. They told me you
were here. Now suppose you tell me all about it."
He became very businesslike and impersonal. The
smile faded from his lips and eyes, giving way to a
determined set of chin and jaw.
"But you knew there was going to be a party here.
You said so when I entered the room," I insisted.


THE MOVING FINGER 215
"There was no harm in my asking you, was there?
And there is nothing illogical about your being a guest.
Mr. Lassimon has many friends."
"We'll forget that. I'm not a friend of Mr. Lassi-
mon's. When I mentioned party to you I was speaking
figuratively. We're quite apt to call murders, parties,"
he explained.
"A rather gruesome thought," I said. "You don't
talk like a policeman at all, or perhaps my sources of
information have been wrong."
"Most of us are educated, if that's what you mean,
and since the depression you'll find plenty of college
men on the force. It's a good job, you know, decent
work, fair hours and a chance to maintain your self-
respect and eat regularly. But who or what I am can
have nothing to do with the note."
"Of course not," I agreed, "but it was sweet of you
, to humor a fanciful old lady by explaining. This is an
invitation to a party." I waved the note at him. "You
came in and asked me if you were late for the party.
Being an old woman I supposed you were being literal."
"It's a peculiar invitation, unique in party invitations,
I should say. You don't mind my being skeptical, I
hope."
"Not at all, but if you knew Mr. Lassimon, you'd
understand. You've heard of Mr. Lassimon, haven't
you?"
"Nassau County's bad boy, they call him," he


216 THE MOVING FINGER
answered. "Yes, I've heard of him and given him
tickets for speeding."
"Then you know what a joker he is."
"Joker?"
"Yes. I wrote a book about the Doane store mur-
ders . . ."
"But I don't see what that . . ."
"Don't interrupt," I broke into his speech. "Let
me explain. After my book was published all my
friends began teasing me by calling me Mrs. Hawk-
shaw. They say that since that time nothing short of
murder interests me any more. Mr. Lassimon was
having his little joke by wording my invitation as you
see it.
"All right, I'll take that," he said after a moment's
consideration, "but I hope for your sake and mine that
you're telling the truth." He made no effort to con-
ceal the threat which his words implied.
"What do you mean?" I tried my best to seem
innocent.
"In the light of that note, it would be your hard
luck if there happened to be a murder here tonight.
You and Mr. Lassimon would have to do a lot of diffi-
cult explaining and even then I don't believe you'd be
able to keep yourselves out of jail. Do you get what
I mean?"
I certainly did and said so. "As a matter of fact,"
I continued, "I'm rather a bit ahead of you. I know
exactly how you must feel and I must admit I'm glad


THE MOVING FINGER
to disappoint you. On your way here you probably
decided that you were going to be the first one to
unearth a nasty plot in high society. Well, you're
wrong. You don't suppose a woman of my experience
would lose a note like that if it meant anything, do
you?"
He gave me a careful scrutiny and said, "No, I don't
believe you would. You're no fool and yet," he ended
thoughtfully, "you might be careless."
The shot went home, but I think I concealed my
slight reaction. "Thank you, Saxon," I said.
"That's all right, Miss Thomas, sorry to have both-
ered you." He moved toward the door, turned and
asked, "What's the name of your book?"
I told him.
"I'll get a copy at the library and read it. It'll be
fun now that I've met the author."
"Don't do that," I said.
"Why not?"
"If you'll give me your address, I'll send you an
autographed copy."
"Would you?" He came back genuinely pleased.
"It will be a pleasure." I moved to the desk and
wrote down the address he gave me.
"Was it a hard job?" he asked.
"What?"
"Writing the book. I've always thought I'd like
to try my hand at it but I never get to it."
"That's a human failing. There's at least one good


TJi£J£OV£NGJ^ 221
no matter where you find it. You'll probably think
us an artificial lot and you'll soon get accustomed to
the trappings with which we surround ourselves. It'll
only be for a short time. Will you do it?" I urged.
I knew the idea appealed to him. He seemed to be
mulling it over in his mind. "I don't know," he said,
which I took to be an admission of weakening.
"Just consider it a lark," I suggested. I wanted him.
I knew I'd feel much more comfortable if he was in
the house.
"But it might give me a taste for the social life," he
said with a grin, "and then after two weeks, I'd be a
discontented cop."
"You don't look like a discontented person and I'm
sure our kind of life won't appeal to you. We're
rather dull," I admitted.
He laughed. "You're honest, at any rate. I'll have
to get my dinner coat out of the moth-balls."
It was my turn to laugh.
"And what am I supposed to do?" he asked.
"I'll give you instructions when you come."
"It's a bargain," he agreed. He'd been a long time
making up his mind and I wasn't altogether sure
I had fooled him. He had been weighing things
back and forth as we talked, I could see that.
"What time will you arrive?" I asked.
"I'm not off duty until six. I could get here about
nine or nine-thirty. Will that be all right?"
"That will be fine. If I'm not here when you ar-


THE MOVING FINGER
rive I'll leave instructions for you. You will be intro-
duced as the son of an old friend of mine. You ar-
rived from the West unexpectedly and I brought you
out here. Have you ever been West?"
^ "I went to Ann Arbor and I've been in Chicago.
What are we going to do about his nibs, solemn face?"
he asked.
"You mean Hubert? I'll take care of him. You
know Ann Arbor very well, don't you?" I asked.
He nodded. "If we need to do any explaining, we'll
say that you were a town boy who attended the home
university. Remember all that and under no circum-
stances must you tell a soul that you're connected with
the police."
"Okay. Don't let this make you forget the book
you promised me," he flung back over his shoulder
as he went out the door.
As I went into the hall Hubert informed me that
the yacht would leave at four o'clock for its run to
the city. I told him about Saxon and cautioned him
to keep my secret.
"Will Mr. Lassimon know?" he queried.
"I'd rather he didn't."
"And Mrs. Lassimon?" he asked.
"I'll tell her."
"Very good, miss."
"You won't fail me, will you, Hubert?"
"No, ma'am. I feel relieved," he answered. "It


in my life. If I was right, it would give me a chance
to talk to Terry alone before the other guests arrived.
At four o'clock I stood at my window and rather
regretfully watched the boat steam slowly through the
channel beyond Bar Beach and out into the deeper
waters of Hempstead Harbor. It looked cool out
there. I put on a negligee and rang Hubert, instruct-
ing him to let me know the moment Terry arrived.
"He ought to be here most any moment now," I said
with assurance.
Hubert seemed a bit surprised and reminded me that
the yacht had just left.
I rang off and picked up a copy of "Cold Comfort
Farm," a book which always amuses me. I didn't
read very long, however, because I began to feel
drowsy and quite suddenly I found myself craving
sleep. It was like the overwhelming urge to sleep that
sometimes comes to me when I'm in the theater, a
deep heavy cloak of oblivion that envelopes me and
will not be denied. I know of no sleep so gratifying.
XIX
At least once a week I definitely say to myself that
I'll never again make a definite statement about any-
thing, not even a statement. Only an hour before I
had scolded Hubert for even suggesting that I take a
nap and at that time I went on to say that I didn't
sleep in the daytime. I've always said it and yet an


THE MOVING FINGER 225
hour later and five minutes after I started to read,
there I was sound asleep.
Why is it that some unknown force so often makes
us do the things we say we never do or never will do?
Is there some perverse spirit lurking just beyond our
consciousness who likes to make fools of us? I some-
times think that we are receptive to and become pos-
sessed of a spirit when our vitality is low. How else
can we explain some of the odd experiences that come
to us?
Perverse spirit or just ordinary exhaustion, I don't
know which it was, but I slept soundly until nearly
seven, when I was awakened by Agnes asking me if
I'd like some dinner. Of course I wanted dinner and
said so as I tried to scatter the fog of heavy sleep which
still hovered over me.
I asked for Terry at once and was taken aback to
learn that he had not arrived as I expected he would.
My calculations had been all wrong. I would have
staked my reputation as a good guesser on the chance
of Terry coming home by car instead of by yacht. My
vanity took its whipping as philosophically as was pos-
sible at the moment. If we have sense enough to
appreciate it and the ability to see ourselves as we really
are, it does us good once in a while to be wrong.
Well, I always say we can't be right all the time. It's
like taking a finesse in bridge—if it works every other
try, we're doing pretty well.
I had been so positive that he would come home


226
THE MOVING FINGER
alone to have a talk with me that I had to rearrange
all my ideas. Why didn't he want me on the yacht?
There was so much for me to tell him and with a house
full of people there'd be very little opportunity. With
a superhuman effort at self-control I pushed the in-
tricacies of our problem out of my head and decided to
enjoy my dinner.
Hubert served me on a side porch which commands
a view of the harbor. As the long twilight began to
fade great sheets of heat lightning flashed across the
sky. I knew that somewhere a storm was in progress
and hoped that if we didn't get the storm itself we
might derive some benefit from it. I don't under-
stand this talk of high and low pressure areas and all
that, but whatever it was that was keeping New York
gripped in unendurable heat, I certainly hoped would
change.
As the lights spotted the town below me and dotted
the darkening gray of the harbor water I knew a
few minutes of peace and contentment. But it didn't
last. Rolling toward us from the north came a great
dark ominous cloud which piled itself high into the
heavens. The flashes of lightning changed to forked
streaks of fire darting angrily across the sky. The
heavy breathless stillness of the early evening was
shattered by a great rush of wind that came upon us
suddenly as a dry storm. The rain didn't come until
later. The trees which a moment before had been
graven images etched against the sky were transformed


THE MOVING FINGER 227
quickly into thrashing demons, their arms twirling
and smashing in the wind trying to reach the house
and clutch me. Leaves raced across the lawn crack-
ling in the wind with ghostlike echoes. The rose
trees bent their heads toward the ground. The lily
pads in the pool were whipped up and tossed about to
settle back hopefully in the short lulls of wind fury.
Hubert, like a mothering hen, ushered me inside the
house and would have drawn the blinds if I had not
stopped him. I love to watch a storm. They say
lightning never strikes twice in the same place but we
know that isn't true. I know of one church spire over
in Huntington which has been hit innumerable times.
I wonder why the God of wrath strikes at churches
so often.
Far off down the harbor, I could see the lights of a
sizable boat. I asked for a pair of glasses and watched
Terry's yacht race up toward the sand-bar which pro-
tects the inner harbor. The outer bay was a sea of
white-caps. The wind swept down from the north
across the Sound and into the open mouth of Hemp-
stead Harbor carrying long rolling waves with it. The
Thetis rolled and pitched like a drunken sailor. At
that moment I was rather glad to be just where I was.
As she approached the narrow channel, I knew that
her speed had been diminished. She came over the
bar without any difficulty and seemed to settle down
in the quieter waters of the inner harbor as she
steamed toward the landing. They would be at the


230 THE MOVING FINGER
"Mr. Kenfield and Dick Bolcrtho separated them
before Terry choked him to death."
"Charming party, wasn't it?"
"That wasn't all. Andrews fell overboard just as
we were going under Hellgate Bridge and insists that
some one pushed him."
"Why did you fish him out?" I asked.
"Terry did it. It was a quick rescue. He's really
very versatile, isn't he?" she answered.
I looked at her quickly. "You've no idea," I said.
Our conversation was interrupted by a blinding
flash of lightning and a terrific clap of thunder which
seemed to jar the entire house. A gust of wind
slammed the doors and billowed the awning on the
terrace as the second station-wagon pulled up to the
steps and the balance of the party scampered in just
ahead of a great sheet of rain which swept across the
front of the house shutting out the entire world.
Althea went to her room. I waited as Dick Boler-
tho and Florence Gunner ran in, followed quickly by
Tom Andrews. Terry and his cousin Philip Lassimon
were the last of the party.
"Hello, Ethel 1" Terry called gladly. "What brought
you down here?"
"The heat," I replied.
"I'm glad to see you," he said. He came forward and
pecked at my cheek.
"I didn't think you'd mind a self-invited guest. I
wanted to get away from the heat. I didn't know you


THE MOVING FINGER 231
were planning a party." I carried on the little decep-
tion which he had started.
"You know all these people," he stated rather than
asked.
I nodded in reply. I must say that with the excep-
tion of Bolertho none of them seemed particularly
glad to see me. They were not exactly a cheerful
group. As the last of them were ushered to their
rooms I said to Terry, "I want to talk to you."
"Give me a few minutes for a shower," he grinned
and bounced up the stairs.
I went into the library and sat at the window watch-
ing the storm. The wind sloshed the rain against the
house with increasing fury as the lightning tore
through the sky and the thunder rolled overhead. I
watched the rose garden and the lily pond. If the
ghost of Annie Sims walked on stormy nights I wanted
to see it I strained my eyes against the pane but
could see nothing because of the heavy sweep of the
rain.
Except for Saxon, my guest, the party was complete.
I found myself thinking about the strangely assorted
group. No wonder they were ill at ease and edgy
coming out on the boat. The fury of the storm dwin-
dled to sporadic flashes of light and low distant rum-
blings of thunder. Surely Terry had had time enough
for his shower.
The house seemed very stuffy as I went upstairs.
Naturally it would be, with all windows closed be-


THE MOVING FINGER
cause of the rain. I went down the corridor and tapped
on the door of Terry's suite. When he called, "Come
in," I took him at his word and in I went. He was in
a pair of shorts.
"It's you," he said as he reached for a bathrobe with
an utter lack of concern which pleased me. I hate
people who are foolishly prudish about their bodies.
Mind you, I'm not holding a brief for nudism, I'm
still old-fashioned enough to feel that too much ex-
posure, like anything else done to excess, is too much.
"Be comfortable," I said. "Remember I saw you an
hour after you were born."
He took me at my word and let the robe fall back
on the chair saying, "I keep forgetting that I have no
secrets from you."
"At the moment," I reminded him, "you have too
many."
"We'll get to that, but how about a drink first?" he
suggested.
"Scotch and soda," I answered and watched him as
he opened a small bar equipped with a freezing unit
and all the things necessary for mixing drinks. He
had a beautiful body, carefully proportioned and
properly shaped, with a marvelous bronzed skin, the
result of constant sun bathing. I've seen men on the
beaches, gorillas and hairy apes, round-bellied, skinny-
legged caricatures, short stubby men, long lanky,
bowlegged creatures and just the ordinary run of the
mill and would say, offhand, that Terry is probably one


THE MOVING FINGER 233
of the few men who look halfway decent in their
shorts. Living intimately with a man must be quite
an ordeal for a sensitive woman, what with their hairy
chests, scrawny legs, knobby knees and all.
Terry moved slowly. His face was haggard and
worn. He was tired, but that was not to be wondered
at after a day in the city and such a day as it was.
"I knew you wouldn't fail me," he said with genuine
feeling as he handed me a cool tinkling highball.
"I very nearly did," I replied. I put my glass down
and took out the note and waved it at him. I missed,
however, some of the dramatic effect I had planned.
"What does this nonsense mean?" I demanded.
"It's not nonsense, but let's drink first because it's
a long story. Here's to you." He took a generous
draught and said, "It's been rather warm today, don't
you think?"
"Yes, and if you so much as mention humidity, I'll
leave you flat," I warned.
"Don't excite yourself," he cautioned. "You know
we always have the humidity with us." There was a
twinkle in his eyes and for a moment he seemed like
his old self. I ignored his remark.
"You're standing the heat awfully well, looking as
bouncy as ever, only," he cocked his head to one side
and pretended to study me for a moment, "I don't like
the glint in your eye. Where do you get your pep?"
"Never mind my pep nor the glint in my eye. Just
why did you write me this ridiculous note? Why


THE MOVING FINGER 235
I wanted him to be startled, but I didn't think he'd
consider me such a fool. While I explained to him
rather rapidly what I meant I realized anew how very
tired he was. If I hadn't been so anxious to get at the
bottom of the whole business, I'd have suggested he
take a nap.
"Are you sure the policeman believed you?" he
asked anxiously.
"I think so, yes."
"You had me worried for a moment." He sighed
with relief. "It was a tight spot for you, but then
you've been in tighter spots than that."
"True enough," I replied, "but I've always known
what I was doing. Come now, tell me about that note.
Did it mean anything or didn't it?"
"Yes and no."
"Don't hedge so. Either tell me or not. I can't
stand this shillyshallying."
"I think I'm next on the list."
"What list?"
"I follow Mortimer."
"Rubbish."
"I hope so. I don't want to die now."
"You're tired and you're morbid," I considered the
number of drinks he had taken and added, "and a
little tight."
"Wrong again," he grinned as he poured another
Scotch. "Drink hasn't touched me."
I've heard people say that before, particularly men


236 THE MOVING FINGER
who insist on driving after a cocktail party. If they
want to risk their necks, that's their business but I
certainly don't think they have any right to risk the
lives of other people, going through stop-lights, taking
more than their share of the road and traveling at high
speeds. I do believe if I were a judge, I'd give men,
and women too, life, if I convicted them on the charge
of drunken driving. I never ride with a drunk. I
prefer the reckless sober sanity of a taxi driver with
their faculties working on all four cylinders. That
at least is thrilling.
"It's a deep-seated conviction," he assured me,
"that has been growing on me for days. Sleep, drink
nor anything else can get it out of my mind. I'm
numbered." His hand wavered as he put the glass
down on the table before us.
"Numbed, you mean and dumb," I retorted.
"Don't sit there like that, resigned, self-hypnotized by
an idea!" I scolded.
"I'm not giving up. If I have to take it, it will be
on the chin with head up."
"If you drink any more you won't be able to move
your head or keep your chin up," I reminded him.
"I'm not a quitter, Ethel and I'm not drunk. I may
be a little numbed for the moment, but God! you've
never seen such a ghastly party as that mob coming
out on the boat. I hope I never have to sit through
such a dinner. Here! I'll stop drinking. You're
right. I've a lot to do and I want to do it tonight."


THE MOVING FINGER
237
“Who pushed Andrews overboard?” I demanded.
"Who told you?”
“Althea, of course.”
“She did? That's funny. She was the only person
on deck when he went over. At least, she was the one
who shouted, 'Man overboard.' He thinks she did it.”
“Didn't you check on Andrews' story?" I asked.
“Yes. We all claimed we were below deck. All but
Althea. She said she came round the after deckhouse
just as Andrews went through the rail. He was tight
and probably fell through."
“Why should she push him over and then save
him?" I asked.
“Because from the rear he might have been mistaken
for me.” He paused. “I don't want to think she had
anything to do with it,” he ended quickly.
So that was why he had been drinking. I've been
in and out of love with all sorts of men but I never
remotely thought I loved one I believed was guilty of
attempted murder.
“Do you still suspect her?” I asked.
“I don't want to, but why must she appear each time
something terrible happens?"
“Coincidence," I replied. “Put your mind at rest.
She's as innocent as you are.”
“Did she say anything about me?” he asked hope-
fully.
"Nothing you'd be particularly interested in hear-
ing," I replied.


THE MOVING FINGER
He sighed. "It'll soon be over now. She can have
her freedom."
"Don't you believe, 'A bird in hand . . .'" I began.
"Not Althca. Our getting married was an unneces-
sary mistake. I should have known better. It has
served no purpose except to make me realize how dull
life will be without her."
"What have you been doing to keep her? Nothing.
You ran off, told her nothing. You must remember
she's vitally interested in this affair."
"I've been trying to help her. You don't suppose
I'd bring this ill-assorted group of people to my house
for any other reason, do you?"
"Now that they are here, what are you going to do
with them?"
"We were to have a meeting here tonight to decide
on a method of recovering the diaries. You've done
that for us. Althea told me the good news. We'll
write Finis to the episode a little later by having a
nice bonfire. Tell me how you got them and how
much it cost."
I told him about the recovery of the diaries and my
adventure in the garage.
After he had properly scolded me for my foolhardi-
ness he asked eagerly, "Where are they?"
"Hidden in a safe place. What are your plans
now?"
"The first thing to do is to see that you get your
money back. I'll arrange that when we're all to-


THE MOVING FINGER 239
gether. I want to see Althea and warn her not to
mention the diaries until we have our meeting."
"I'll tell her," I offered.
"I want to talk to her." He bounced off his chair.
I'd never watched a man dress before. My, it's so
much simpler than all the things a woman has to do!
They have an easy time of it in more ways than one,
but I'm glad I'm a woman, just the same.
Before he was completely dressed, Hubert tapped on
the door to tell me that Saxon had arrived. I didn't
take time then to tell Terry about Saxon. He was
anxious to talk to Althea, anyhow, and probably
wouldn't have heard or understood me.
Saxon was waiting for me in the library. He greeted
me with a self-conscious smile. He was just as fine-
looking in ordinary clothes as he had been in his uni-
form, a little less strikingly elemental, if you know
what I mean. I was pleased with him. Hubert served
us a drink.
Saxon had a small boy's eagerness as he faced me,
a highball in his hand. I felt comforted to have him
there, but it was a doubtful comfort, as I didn't know
what to do with him just then. To carry on the ruse
I had started I had to tell him something. I described
Andrews carefully and asked Saxon to watch him every
minute. Why I picked on Andrews I don't know.
"Where are they all?" he asked.
"In their rooms. I rather expect them to be coming
down soon. They're to have, I believe, a private meet-


240 THE MOVING FINGER
ing. You and I may not be included, sort of a board
of directors conference," I suggested.
"I'll be on the job, all right," he assured me.
At that moment I thought I heard a measured heavy
tread somewhere over our heads. Bainbridge! For a
moment I froze solid and then laughed a little hys-
terically.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "For a moment you
looked terrified."
"I thought I heard a ghost," I answered.
"You're a great kidder, aren't you?"
There had to be conversation between us. I told him
the story of the supposed ghosts in the house. It was
a perfect night for them to appear. There was a storm
outside and something devilish brewing within. As I
talked I moved to the window and peered out. There
was a flash of light. I know perfectly well that I didn't
see a ghost, but there was something there on the lawn
not far from the lily pond, something white and
wavering that danced for a second and sent a rod of
ice down my spine. I gasped. In the next flash of
light the thing whatever it was had vanished. It cer-
tainly gave me a bad turn.
I swallowed the balance of my drink and excusing
myself told Saxon to make himself comfortable while
I was gone. He sensed that something had upset me
and suggested that he help. If I had taken him with
me things would have been easier for us, but I couldn't
know that. I promised him I'd be back immediately.


242 THE MOVING FINGER
He was unconscious. There wasn't even the slight-
est sign of a wound. He gave a gasping breath. I shook
him. His eyes opened in a puzzled curious stare. "Are
you hurt?" I asked.
"No, sleepy. I must have dozed off." He swung his
legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed his head with
both hands. He certainly must have a clear conscience
or something. The person in his room, my fall, the
lights going on and off would be enough to wake the
dead, yet he had slept through it all.
"What happened?" It was Althea's voice that
thoroughly roused him and brought him wide awake.
"What's up?" he finally asked.
I told him about my entrance into the room and the
events that had followed immediately. I can't imagine
what my arrival interrupted, but I certainly believed
that I had saved his life and I think he believed it too.
"How awful!" Althea said.
I turned to her. "Have you two had an understand-
ing?" I demanded.
"Not exactly," she replied.
"Then it's time you did. You're both working
toward the same end and I can see no reason why you
don't work together." I turned to Terry accusingly.
"I thought you were going to talk to her."
"I don't talk to people when I'm taking a shower,"
she said.
"Neither do I," I sputtered; "running water makes
such a racket. You're not taking a shower now. Un-


I
even deny any knowledge of the diaries. I didn't want
to mention them unless it would be absolutely necessary
and yet I knew that the moment the body was dis-
covered something would have to be done at once.
There was only one ray of hope in the whole situa-
tion. The murderer did not know that I had seen the
body. He would be fearfully uneasy and worried.
Why hadn't he killed me as I entered Terry's room?
I knew the answer as I thought about it. In the first
place he was surprised by my sudden entrance. His
first impulse was to hide, which he did flat against the
wall. As I opened the door he was between the wall
and the door itself. If the knife which had killed
Andrews was in his hand at the moment he wouldn't
have been able to stab me without doing it very awk-
wardly. He couldn't have done the trick quickly
enough to keep me from screaming. He had decided
to take no chances. The room was in darkness. As I
passed him he tripped me from behind and made his
escape from the room. Andrews evidently had seen
him, that would explain Andrews' death.
If the murderer was planning to bring about the dis-
covery of Andrews' death he was not considering me
in his plans. He couldn't know I had seen the body.
Perhaps I would be able to trap him. Whoever it
might be, he or she would be very uneasy until this
new murder was disclosed. I could imagine myself in
the role of the murderer waiting, wondering when the


THE MOVING FINGER 247
body would be discovered. I would watch them all.
My observations might catch the criminal.
My first problem, however, was to get out of the
room unobserved. I tiptoed to the door. I was neither
horrified nor made uneasy by the grim figure stretched
out on the bed. His just deserts had caught up with
him at last, although I was positive he died for a very
innocent reason. He must have seen the person who
had escaped from Terry's room immediately after my
entrance and fall. It's a trifling reason for sudden
death, isn't it, but the murderer had to protect him-
self. He knew that once I discovered who it was that
had been in Terry's room I would have the answer to
the whole problem.
I peered into the hall. Then cautiously I slipped out
and pulled the door tight shut behind me. I should
have had more sense, but at the moment was so intent
on getting away that I never once thought of myself nor
the incriminating evidence that might possibly be used
against me. Had I been more thoughtful at that
moment, more aware of my own danger, things might
have been different, but that is getting ahead of my
story.
I wanted to acquaint Terry with this new develop-
ment. He was not in his room. I rang Hubert on the
house phone and asked him to locate Terry at once.
I smoked one cigarette after another until he arrived.
He bounced into the room. His mood had changed.
He was gay and chirpy, which made me feel certain


THE MOVING FINGER
that his interview with Althea had been satisfactory.
When a man's heart sings through his eyes, a woman
is usually the reason.
"What's up?" he asked. "The fun is about to begin."
"It's all over," I replied gloomily. Then I told him
about Tom Andrews.
"We'll have to call the police immediately, I sup-
pose," he said hopelessly.
"Not for a little while," I prompted. "We must wait
until the body is discovered. Unless I'm mistaken, the
murderer will see to it that they find the body. I want
you to be surprised at the news and I want you to call
the police yourself. Remember that," I cautioned.
"Watch every guest. The person who brings about the
disclosure of Andrews' death should be the murderer.
Keep your eyes and ears open. It is a forlorn hope,
but it's all we have at the moment."
"And while we wait, we'll have the jitters, you and
I," he added.
"Not necessarily. Before we go down, I want to tell
you a few things about your guests." I gave him a
hasty summary of the reasons for their interest in the
diaries.
"Nice people," he said when I had finished my
recital.
"Lovely group for a house party," I agreed. "Tell
me, why is Kenfield here?"
"He's a good man to have around in a pinch. He's
a fast thinker."


THE MOVING FINGER 249
"Have you told him anything at all?" I asked, won-
dering how much information Kenfield had acquired.
"Not a thing. I just brought him along, in case."
"I have an 'in case,' too," I said and told him about
Saxon.
"Your Saxon man's going to love this murder, Ethel.
He'll never believe that you didn't deliberately make
a fool out of him. I'm glad I'm not in your boots."
He actually chuckled as he thought of my pending dis-
comfort.
"Don't forget," I reminded him, "that you're the
one who wrote the note about a murder which was
Saxon's original reason for coming here at all."
"Gosh!" he cried.
"Not so funny now, is it?" I asked.
"Can't you send him away, Ethel?"
"And make things look twice as black for us when
the murder is discovered? Oh, no! He stays and I
hope he's going to be on our side. We're going to
need lots of help, you and I."
Terry was deep in thought. His absorption made
me feel shut out and alone as I waited for him to say or
do something. Finally he looked up and said, "I think
your plan is wrong."
"Which plan?" I asked.
"About waiting for a move from the murderer. He's
clever, or she is," he added.
"Then what do you suggest?"
"Put yourself in the place of the murderer. He has


250
THE MOVING FINGER
tried to think of every emergency. He has out-thought
and out-smarted us at every turn. He's determined to
get me one way or another, isn't he?” he asked.
When I agreed to that, he went on. “Let's go down
now and have it over and done. I promised them that
the diaries would be destroyed once they came into my
possession. It isn't fair to have them all suffer because
of one person. The diaries must be destroyed before
the police arrive. Where are they?”
He was surprised when I told him of my hiding.
place. I knew he was right. The books had to be
destroyed to protect the innocent. We were interested
in only one person, the triple murderer, the man who
seemed determined to get Terry out of the way along
with his other victims.
The package was a bit sooty when I pulled it down
from its hiding-place and dusted it off. Terry stood by
highly amused at me as I tucked it under my arm and
followed him down the long hall.
There were three people in the house who couldn't
be included in our little conference. Andrews, for the
best reason in the world; Saxon and Kenfield were the
others. I found Saxon with Florence Gunner, who had
appropriated him and, true to type, Saxon seemed to
enjoy her absorption in him. Men are gullible crea-
tures, aren't they? Have you ever had an opportunity
to watch a Southern girl artfully working on a man?
As I asked Saxon to keep his eyes and ears open for
anything that might happen immediately after our


THE MOVING FINGER 251
meeting, I glanced across the room where Terry was
talking to Sidney Kenfield.
The group moved solemnly into the library. Daisy
Williams did her best to appear gay and unconcerned.
Florence Gunner entered with an air of resignation.
The men eyed me rather skeptically. Philip Lassimon
in his gloomy way demanded, "What are you doing
here?"
"Ethel Thomas has done more for all of you than
you'll ever know," Terry stated defensively.
"Don't bother, Terry," I cut in, stopping him.
"What I've done doesn't matter. Just tell them that I,
too, am in the diaries."
Several eyebrows lifted as a result of my statement.
"Let's get on with the business," Archie wheezed out
his suggestion.
"Yes," Philip agreed. "How are we going to get
the diaries?"
"We have them," Terry said quietly.
There was a general sigh of amazed relief. Then
several voices expressed the same thought. "But you
said . . ."
"I didn't know that they had been recovered until I
returned here tonight," Terry explained. "Ethel, at the
risk of her life, and for the sum of two hundred thou-
sand dollars, recovered the books while I was contact-
ing you." Terry went on to explain my part of the
transaction. He ended by saying, "Each of you owe
Ethel approximately thirty-four thousand dollars."


252 THE MOVING FINGER
"Thirty-four?" Archie asked. "I estimated it to be
a litde over twenty-eight thousand. There's seven of
us^ Where's Andrews?"
"I'm coming to that—" Terry made a dramatic pause,
"after Ethel is paid for recovering the diaries."
"But Andrews should pay his share!" Daisy objected.
"And since Ethel is mentioned in the diaries, that
would make eight of us and our portion would be
twenty-five thousand each."
There were several assenting voices to her suggestion.
There they were, facing possible annihilation, yet they
took time to haggle over a few thousand dollars. Terry
started to object, but I stopped him by saying, "I'll pay
my share, Terry. Let's not argue about it."
"And what about Andrews?" Dick Bolertho asked.
"He should pay his share," Florence Gunner sug-
gested.
"He can't. He's dead," Terry stated flatly.
I must admit that every one of them seemed
genuinely shocked and surprised at the news. I tried
to catch all their expressions with a quick photographic
glance.
"Dead?" Bolertho repeated. "What happened?"
"Some one in this room knows the answer to that
question," Terry answered. "One of you here is a
murderer for the third time," he accused. "One of you
must confess before the diaries are destroyed."
You've heard the expression about all hell being
let loose. Well, that's just a mild way of describing


254 THE MOVING FINGER
■
own, happened to have our secrets in his possession
his life is, and has been, in danger."
"He didn't have to read them!" Daisy said accus-
ingly.
"He didn't read them, I did. He doesn't know
what's in them," I cried.
"I do know!" Terry shouted. He turned and
stormed at me, "I won't have you shielding me, Ethel.
Do you think I'm a baby?"
"Why should she run things, anyhow?" Philip de-
manded.
"By what right do you tell us that the diaries won't
be destroyed unless one of us confesses to a murder?"
Florence Gunner demanded.
"Because one of us is a murderer," I answered.
"I suppose your skirts are quite clean," Archie
taunted, aiming his remark at me.
"The thing she did can stand the light of investi-
gation better than your secret, or yours, or yours,"
Terry flung the words at them vehemently.
"They're all lies," Daisy cried, "terrible, terrible
lies."
"Stop it!" I cried. "Stop this wrangling!"
They quieted down long enough for Bolertho to
ask, "Have you any suggestions to make, Miss
Thomas?"
"Yes." I eyed them all for a moment before I went
on. The idea came quickly, out of the blue. "I own
the diaries now and unless the murderer confesses, I'll


258 THE MOVING FINGER
know about the things happening upstairs, but I
didn't move.
I never believe in hunting trouble. It has a way of
finding you unaided. I moved over to the edge of the
table and watched the fire, satisfied that the books had
been charred beyond all possible chance of being read.
That job, at least, had been done efficiently. I was on
my second brandy when Saxon came into the room.
He was full of purpose. He passed me as if I had
been an image. He went directly to the telephone. I
jumped to put a restraining hand on his arm. "Please,
not yet," I begged. "Give me a minute!"
He squared around to face me. His hand slid away
from the receiver. "I don't get you, I don't get you at
all," he said.
There was a hurt note in his voice. I had expected
accusations, a tirade, almost anything but that.
"You wanted a chance to be in on the ground floor
of something big, didn't you?" I demanded. I had
sudden inspiration and carried the fight right into his
own territory.
"But you . . ."
"Didn't I tell you to watch that man, didn't I?" I de-
manded. "And what did you do? You permitted
some one to kill him right under your nose."
That speech was a mistake. I knew it the moment I
had uttered the words, so I hurried to make amends.
"It's Andrews, isn't it?" I asked.


2<5o THE MOVING FINGER
"How?" he demanded.
"Because of information I happened to possess."
"You should have called the police," he accused and
moved toward the telephone.
"Wait a minute, please," I begged. "We'll have that
confession. You'll get credit for solving three murders,
baffling murders. Isn't that what you wanted?"
"That's no excuse for not calling the authorities im-
mediately," he countered.
"But if you take time for preliminary investigation,
fingerprints and that sort of thing before you call
them? That will do no harm, will it?"
"You don't want me to tell about that note," he ac-
cused.
"I don't care a fig about the note. I want to catch
the murderer. Just give me a few minutes." I begged,
waiting anxiously.
"I'll give you ten minutes while I do some prelimi-
nary investigating," he agreed reluctantly.
XXI
The discovery of the body, the necessity of burning
the diaries and my talk with Saxon had made me for-
get for the moment the confession I had tried to force
from one member of the party. When I returned to
the living-room they were all there with the exception
of Kenfield, who seemed to have hit it off with Saxon
and was upstairs with him looking for clues.


THE MOVING FINGER 261
Daisy sidled up to me to say beseechingly, "You don't
believe it, Ethel? You've known me all my life, sure
you don't think that I . . ."
"I'm not thinking, Daisy," I replied loudly enough
for them all to hear. "This has passed beyond one
person's thought. I know Terry's life has been in dan-
ger, still is. Some one tried to kill him tonight after
he arrived home. None of us are safe until the mur-
derer confesses. There is no other way out!" I knew I
was being very emphatic, I meant to be.
Dick Bolertho joined us. "I couldn't help overhear-
ing you," he said. "I'm sure we all heard you. Don't
you think you're being a little hard on those of us who
may be innocent?"
There was real pain in his eyes as he looked at me.
I wanted to tell him that he had nothing to worry
about, but I couldn't do it and be fair to the others.
For all I knew, he might be the murderer. Just because
I didn't want to believe him guilty didn't make him
innocent.
Terry was the only one who knew that the diaries
had been destroyed. If the others knew, we'd never
get the confession. Why didn't the murderer confess?
Did he feel confident that he could out-bluff me? Did
he know me well enough to feel sure that I couldn't
make six people suffer because of one man's crime?
Florence Gunner had been pacing up and down in
front of the long couch near the fireplace. She paused
before me and asked, "How do you like playing God?"


262 THE MOVING FINGER
I was startled. I hadn't thought of myself in that
light. I must have seemed like a terrible despot to
them. "I don't like it, but there's nothing else I can
do," I replied.
She studied me for a moment as if weighing me,
shook her head and said as she turned away, "And I
always thought you were such a good egg."
I didn't blame the girl for what she said, but the re-
mark hurt, just the same.
Philip Lassimon, his face gaunt and haggard, de-
manded, "Are you going to go through with this plan
of yours?"
I nodded.
"You'll really turn the diaries over to the police?" he
insisted.
"Yes."
"Do you realize what you are doing?" he cried.
"Yes, Philip. Did you realize what you were doing
when you sold ..." I didn't finish the question.
"Don't say it!" he screamed and leaped forward, his
hand again stretched toward my throat.
"Stop these theatrical, hysterical displays!" Althea
cried.
"Then stop her!" Archie wheezed at Terry as he
pointed at me. "You can! You should! The diaries
were your responsibility. You're the one who brought
us down here. You . . ." He was choked by a short-
ness of breath and began coughing.
"I can't stop Ethel and I can't stop the police who


THE MOVING FINGER 263
will be here any minute and I wouldn't if I could,"
Terry flung at all of them. "Three times one of you
has tried to kill me. I'm not made of the stuff that
turns the other cheek."
"By what right do either of you stand in judgment?"
Daisy demanded. "You're lives haven't been too pure,
have they?"
"My life has been my own business," Terry replied
promptly. "What I've done has never brought harm
to any one but myself."
"Then why in the name of God start now?" Philip
cried. "Have you no pity in your souls, either of you?"
Imagine Philip crying for pity and mercy. Had he
no conscience? How could he forget the procession of
wretched humans his greed had sent to a living death?
"The case is out of our hands," Terry answered and
turned away.
The group prowled about the great living-room like
Kilkenny cats watching each other accusingly. Ken-
field came down the stairs and was all agog with
excitement. He asked me all sorts of questions in an ef-
fort to get some information out of me. I tried to
ignore the questions, but he pursued me about the
room. I was as nervous as a filly about to run her first
race, but I must admit I had an advantage over a filly.
I could and did take several nips of brandy to steady
my nerves.
"Who could have killed him?" Kenfield asked.


264 THE MOVING FINGER
"I don't know," I snapped. "That's what we're try-
ing to discover."
"How about Terry? Does this put him into more
of a jam? Can't we do something for him? You're
supposed to be good at this sort of thing. Haven't you
any ideas?"
"Yes, plenty of ideas but they're not working. My
mind is as blank as a dead telephone line."
"There must be something I can do," he urged.
"There is," I answered caustically. "Keep out of it
as long as you can."
"But it's so exciting! Murder right over our heads!
Did you ever hear such a blood-curdling scream as that
maid gave?" he asked, relishing the memory. "It gave
me the shivers."
"And you're giving me the jitters. For heaven's
sake, shut up and give me a chance to think!"
He looked terribly hurt as he turned away. His
annoying questions did, however, start me on a new
train of thought. I crossed the room and rang for
Hubert. When he arrived I asked him to bring in the
servants but particularly the one who had screamed.
He was back in a few minutes with all the staff
grouped behind him. I noticed Agnes' eager face peer-
ing over the shoulder of a good-looking houseman.
Trust her to pick the best-looking one of the lot.
Hubert was leading one girl by the arm. Her eyes
were red with weeping. He gave her a slight shove
forward.


THE MOVING FINGER 265
"Are you the girl who found the body?" I asked.
"Yes, ma'am," she half sobbed.
"Now, don't cry. It's all over. Tell me about it,"
I suggested gently.
The girl, still upset and confused, faltered through
her story.
"I was turning down the beds for the night," she ex-
plained. "I knocked on his door but there was no
answer. I went into the room. I didn't turn on the
switch as I entered because there was a light burning
in the dressing-room. I crossed to the bed and snapped
on the bedside lamp which we always do. Then I
turned to take off the cover and there he was. I thought
he was asleep. I was going to come back later, when
I saw the blood all over his shirt. It made me sick with
horror and then I screamed."
Her last words were barely more than a whisper.
I was disappointed in her story. I had hoped to learn
that some one of the guests had sent her on her errand
of discovery.
I told the girl to sit down and asked some general
questions of the group.
From Hubert I learned something that I had not
known before. Jackson, one of the housemen, had been
delegated to act as valet to Andrews. It was Jackson's
testimony that really started things going.
"Did you notice anything unusual about Mr. An-
drews' actions on his arrival?" I asked.
s


266 THE MOVING FINGER
"Yes, ma'am," Jackson replied. "He was very nerv-
ous and upset, ma'am, if you know what I mean."
I had a good idea because Jackson himself was about
as nervous a man as I had ever seen. I smiled at him
reassuringly as I asked, "What was the matter with
him?"
"He was all wet," he answered.
I heard a titter and scowled at Agnes. She's just the
type who would think that remark funny.
Jackson hastened on to explain. "He'd fallen off the
yacht. He gave me some clothes to dry."
"I know about that," I said. "Was there anything
else?"
"Well, he was annoyed when Mrs. Lassimon came
to his room," he answered hesitandy.
I glanced at Althea, but she didn't blink an eye. I
dismissed Jackson for the moment and turned to Al-
thea. "What time did you visit Andrews?" I asked.
"I've no idea," she answered. "It was shortly after
we arrived home."
I had hoped to establish an alibi for Terry, but
Althea was not being very helpful.
"What happened in his room?" I asked.
"Nothing." She seemed surprised at the question.
"I wanted to be sure he was comfortable after his mis-
hap."
"How long were you there?" I continued.
"I say, Ethel . . ." Terry began a protest.
"Quiet!" I barked at him.


THE MOVING FINGER 267
Althea smiled as she answered my question. "I don't
know. A minute or two, no longer."
I glanced at Jackson expecting corroboration, but he
said, "I don't know, ma'am. I didn't stay. Mr. An-
drews said he'd ring if he wanted anything."
I was so determined to establish an alibi for Terry
that I didn't notice Saxon when he entered the room.
I turned to Jackson and asked, "What time was it
when you left Mrs. Lassimon in the room with Mr.
Andrews?"
"It was some time after eight," he replied, "but I
don't know exactly."
Saxon's voice surprised me as he asked, "Then as far
as we know, Mrs. Lassimon, you were the last person
to see Andrews alive?"
"Probably," she admitted.
"She was not," Terry spoke up. "I talked with An-
drews after that. I saw him about eight-thirty or a
little later. Miss Thomas can vouch for that."
Valiant Terry! He was shouldering the blame to
take the onus of suspicion from Althea.
"Can you vouch for that?" Saxon turned to me.
"Yes. I had been talking to Mr. Lassimon in his
room," I answered. "It was a few minutes before nine
when he left me saying he would look in on Andrews."
That was a lie. Terry left me to have a talk with Al-
thea, but if he wanted to play the role of Galahad it
was none of my business.


THE MOVING FINGER 269
Saxon turned to me. "Will you get me a piece of
smooth flat silver," he asked.
I nodded to Hubert, who withdrew.
Saxon went on to explain. "I have some fingerprints
that I took upstairs." He turned to me. "You've had
more than your ten minutes."
Before I could reply Hubert returned with a flat
serving-tray. Saxon took it gingerly and asked for a
napkin. "I'm going to try an experiment," he ex-
plained. "Will you come up when I ask you and place
your fingers on this tray?"
It seemed a silly business as we trooped by leaving
our fingerprints on that smooth surface. Four or five
of us had submitted to the test. Each time, after a mo-
ment's close scrutiny, Saxon had erased the marks and
nodded for the next person.
As Philip turned away from the silver tray, Saxon
stopped him. "You were in Andrews' room," he ac-
cused. "What were you doing there?"
Philip gulped in amazement before he spoke. "I
went up with him upon our arrival. He was pretty
shaky due to his accident."
That wasn't exactly the truth and I was on the point
of saying so when Jackson spoke up and said, "Beg
pardon, sir. I took Mr. Andrews to his room and this
gendeman was not with us."
"It was before you came," Philip said impatiendy.
"But I carried his bags upstairs, sir," Jackson insisted,


THE MOVING FINGER
to solve the murder. Why didn't they tell you? Why
don't you make them tell you what they know?"
"Would you like that, Philip?" Terry asked threat-
eningly.
Philip's anger died quickly.
"I'll ask the questions, Mr. Lassimon," Saxon advised
Philip.
"Then why don't you?" Daisy cried. "Why keep
us here like this? You've no right to put us on the
rack. It isn't fair! She knows more about this death
than she is telling."
Saxon took his cue from Daisy and turned to me.
"Is that why your fingerprints are the last on the inside
knob of the door leading to Andrews' room?"
I had been a careless fool. Why had I touched the
knob of that door and in so doing spoiled what might
have been a good clue? Had I been less intent on get-
ting out of the room unobserved, I might have been
more careful, but heavens, a person can't think of
everything. I wasn't thinking about myself. I was
too engrossed thinking about trapping the murderer
and in my absorption had probably destroyed valuable
evidence.
"I can explain that," I said to Saxon as he waited for
me to make a reply.
"Suppose you do," he suggested.
"I'd rather do it in private," I suggested. I knew we
had reached a point where a showdown was absolutely
necessary.


274 THE MOVING FINGER
do it? I didn't want to tell Saxon all the things I
knew. I could see no reason for that and yet . . .
"What did you mean about five more minutes?"
Saxon asked.
"In a minute," I evaded and sank into a chair. "Give
me a cigarette."
He handed me the package and took one himself.
He held the match for me, lit his own and stood
watching the flame reflectively for a moment. At least,
I thought that was what he was doing, but I was wrong,
because he asked, "What did you burn in the fire-
place?"
The grate was a charred mass of glowing embers.
The diaries were completely destroyed. "Some one
must have thrown a cigarette in there," I suggested.
"Would that explain the soot mark on your arm?"
he asked, proving he was a keen and careful observer
of little things.
"No. I burned some papers that were mine," I ad-
mitted.
"Which won't help your case any," he said.
"I'm not worried about my case," I retorted.
"Did you know you left your handkerchief behind in
Andrews' room?"
Instinctively my hand went to the pocket of my skirt.
Our instincts nearly always betray us. I was so sure
that I could confound him with a handkerchief that I
was overly surprised to find the pocket empty. One of


THE MOVING FINGER 275
the many reasons for that pocket is to have a decent
receptacle for my handkerchief.
"You still baffle me," he said forlornly.
"Do sit down, please," I begged. "I'm so upset and
nervous I can't be normal."
I glanced at my watch. One long minute had
dragged by.
He didn't sit down but facing me demanded, "Did
you kill Andrews?"
"Certainly not," I cried.
"But you knew he was dead. You were in there after
he died and yet just a few minutes ago you lied to me."
"Yes," I agreed.
"Why didn't you tell me the truth?"
Another half-minute crept toward oblivion before
I answered, "Because I'm a silly old woman. Crime
detection has gone to my head. I think I'm smarter
than the police, that's why. One of the guests in this
house killed Andrews and because I was instrumental
in solving the Doane murders I thought I could force
a confession this time, but I failed."
"How could you hope to do that?"
I looked at my watch again. Two and a half minutes
were gone. I had been speaking slowly, dragging out
my words and had barely used up a minute. It's sur-
prising how much one can say in a minute. If most of
us were aware of what we can say in so short a time,
many of us would think twice before we speak at all.
I wanted that five minutes to end. Wanted it desper-


276 THE MOVING FINGER
atcly. I knew, however, that I couldn't trifle with j
Saxon much longer. He wouldn't let me waste his!
time. He was being respectfully patient with me. We
were no longer friends. That sense of fellowship and
accord which had been ours earlier in the day had been
lost in the yawning chasm of doubt and mistrust which
had opened between us. It was my fault. He undoubt-
edly felt I had betrayed him—made him appear ridicu-
lous. I felt obligated to restore his self-respect—to save
his face, as the Chinese so aptly express it. I wanted
Saxon's confidence and friendship. I had to tell him
something that would interest him and keep him satis-
fied. I must fill those remaining minutes to his satis-
faction. I tossed my cigarette into the fireplace.
"Do you remember how abrupdy I left you just after
your arrival here tonight?" I asked.
As his cigarette followed mine to scatter crumbling
paper dust, he nodded in agreement.
"You'll probably laugh at me when I tell you that I
knew Terry Lassimon was in danger at that moment,"
I began.
"Why should I laugh? I've no idea what you knew,"
he said.
Three and a quarter minutes had gone. I rose and
crossed the room. I opened the door into the hall. "Do
you mind?" I asked. "It's so hot and stuffy in here."
"Tell me about Lassimon's danger," Saxon pulled my
attention back to him.
I recounted my hurried trip up the stairs, my entrance


THE MOVING FINGER 277
and sudden fall in Terry's room and then my search of
the adjacent bedrooms.
"Why did you suspect any one in those nearby
rooms?" Saxon asked.
"Because I looked into the corridor as soon as I had
regained my feet and scattered senses."
"And saw no one?"
"Not a soul."
"It's too bad you didn't look into the rooms imme-
diately," he said. "I can understand why you didn't,
however. Did you have any particular suspect in
mind?"
"No," I answered and looked at my watch. The five
minutes were nearly gone. I took a deep breath. I'd
have to start explaining or face a murder charge.
Somewhere in the house a clock started to strike.
I listened attentively counting the strokes. As the last
echoing cadence of the chimes died away there came
the muffled report of a gun! It sounded like the dis-
tant cracking of a whip. A snapping sound symbolical
of the life that had been snuffed out.
"Was that a shot?" Saxon asked.
"I think so," I replied softly, completely unnerved.
Now that it was over, reaction set in immediately. I
wanted to know who it was and yet didn't possess the
energy to move.
"Was that what you were waiting for?" Saxon asked.
I nodded and asked, "Aren't you going to investigate
it?"


278 THE MOVING FINGER
"Who is it?" he demanded.
"I don't know exactly," I replied.
"You're a deep one," he threw at me as he left the
room. I followed. He paused to help me up the stairs.
We found Philip Lassimon in the middle of his
room, a revolver on the floor beside him. Saxon bent
over the body.
So it was Philip. I wasn't surprised. Philip had
been in New York all the time. He knew Terry's
habits. He knew the old Lassimon apartment house.
He had lived there when he was a bachelor. He was
terrified; couldn't face exposure and disgrace. He had
tried to protect himself and had failed. But why had
he been so persistent about getting Terry out of the
way? While Saxon knelt by the body, I began a search
for the confession which I was certain he had left be-
hind him. I must be honest. I had no regrets about
Philip. He wouldn't have killed himself unless Morti-
mer's statement about him was true.
I went to the desk thinking that would be the obvi-
ous place to find what I sought. The desk was bare.
I ran to the bedside table expecting to find it propped
against the lamp-base. It was not there. I crossed to
the dresser thinking to find something tucked into the
edge of the mirror. Nothing! I couldn't believe my
eyes. Behind me a voice asked, "What's happened?"
I didn't turn but called over my shoulder, "Terry,
there's no confession! I've looked everywhere!"
'Terry's downstairs," another voice announced.


"What are you doing?" Terry asked, coming up
behind me.
"I'm not sure exactly, but I think I now have all the
pieces to our puzzle," I replied. "I'm waiting for a
call from Peter Conklin."
"You're great," he said.
"Don't be too sure about that. Pour me a drink and
leave me. I want to think."
Why is it that when you are close to a situation you
sometimes fail to think clearly or logically? Is finding
the solution of a crime like happiness? Is it on our
doorstep all the time?
A straw had shown me how the wind blew. It came
suddenly in a quick flash of understanding. How
blind I had been all through the whole horrible ad-
venture! How stupid! I had been so puzzled and be-
wildered and yet now it was like a jig-saw puzzle. The
pieces were fitting into their proper places. The answer
was before me at last. There was just one thing I must
know and Peter could tell me that.
Peter called me in a few minutes.
"Peter," I cried, "I think I have the murderer of Van
Wyck and Fergus. You must do something for me
quickly. Will you?"
He agreed at once. Terry returned and heard my
request.
"And what will that give you?" he asked as I rang
off.
"The murderer," I replied.


282 THE MOVING FINGER
"But Philip . . ." he objected, "surely you are con-
vinced that he . . ."
"Committed suicide because he couldn't face the pos-
sibility of exposure," I replied.
"You're tired, Ethel, worn out by the things that have
happened in the past few days. Don't be unreasonable.
Philip was our man."
"Philip Lassimon was a coward. He couldn't face
the music. He hasn't killed any one," I snapped and
went into the hall.
In the far corner of the living-room Daisy sat sobbing
as though her heart would break. Whether they were
tears of gladness or grief I didn't know and didn't care.
I had to find some way to keep clear of Saxon until I
heard from Peter and the tests he was making.
Dick Bolertho coming in from the terrace was an an-
swer to my prayer. He came toward me asking, "Did
anything happen?"
Between us there was a small rug. I knew the floors
were very slippery. As Dick stepped on the rug I gave
it a vicious tug with the heel of my shoe and Dick went
hurding to the floor, a most surprised and starded
young man. I fell with him, taking great pains to fall
on him so that I wouldn't be hurt. As he tried to slide
out from under me, I rolled over on the floor. Terry
was at my side in an instant and lifted me to my feet.
"Air," I breathed, "I must have air."
"Easy, darling," he whispered. "Don't cave in just
when the end is in sight. Come to my room."


THE MOVING FINGER
I let my legs sag under me and would have fallen
again but for his steadying arm. As he lifted me, I let
my head fall over his shoulder and whispered into his
ear. "I can't talk to Saxon or any one until I hear
from Peter."
He started up the stairs. With my head hanging
over Terry's shoulder I could see nothing, but I heard
Saxon say, "I want to talk to Miss Thomas."
"She's had a bad fall," Terry explained and hurried
up the steps.
Althea joined us, asking solicitously, "Is she badly
hurt?"
Terry grunted a reply as he jounced me along the
hall to his room. He dropped me on the bed.
"Have you called a doctor?" Althea asked anxiously.
"She's just bluffing, stalling for time," he answered.
Then I knew it was safe to open my eyes.
"I want to appear to be disabled for a half-hour. Will
you help me?" I asked Althea.
"Of course."
Terry had been mixing a drink which I had to re-
fuse. He leaned against the little bar, took a sip from
his glass, sighed, and said, "Well, it's all over now, ac-
cording to Ethel."
I looked at him quickly. He gave me the impression
that he regretted the end of the mystery.
"Then it was Philip?" Althea asked.
Terry nodded in my direction, but I didn't reply. I
was too busy thinking about the story I'd have to tell


284 THE MOVING FINGER
Saxon in a few minutes. Through my thoughts I
heard Terry's voice saying, "Your worries are over, the
diaries are burned. You're free now."
I heard Althea sigh. "It's nice to know the danger
is past."
"Will you go to Reno or would you rather I gave you
grounds for a divorce here in New York?" he asked.
"Our local divorce laws are a bit messy, but I won't
mind. I have a reputation anyhow, you know."
"You're very anxious to be rid of me, it seems," she
said.
"I—er—" he fumbled for words.
"There are complications," she went on. "I'm
Church of England, High Church. We don't approve
of divorce. I must think about it."
I glanced across the room at her. Her eyes were
smiling at the boy-man who looked puzzled and baf-
fled at the glass in his hand.
"But that's old-fashioned," he finally protested. "We
couldn't go on being married just because your church
doesn't approve of divorce." He took a step toward
her. "I won't go on being married to you and live in
mockery. I've loved you, Althea, from the first mo-
ment I saw you."
"Even when you doubted me?" I heard her ask as I
rolled over on my side.
"More than ever," he replied.
As I pulled a cover over my head I heard him ask,
"Do you think that you . . .?"


THE MOVING FINGER 285
XXIII
I didn't see Saxon again until the Nassau County
police arrived, swarms of them, taking complete pos-
session of the house. He came to my room with a man
by the name of Croft who was in charge. He was a
tall, lank chap with a gaunt face made forbidding by
the heavy gray shadows under his eyes. He looked
like a dyspeptic. A man with a sour stomach can be
very unpleasant if he is too far from an available supply
of bicarbonate of soda.
When he spoke I was surprised at the quality of his
voice. It was soft and rather gende, not at all the com-
plaining whine I had expected.
"Saxon tells me," he began, "that you know more
about the things which have been happening here than
any of the others. Is that true?"
"Yes," I agreed.
"Then suppose you tell us what you know. It will
complete the rapid survey of the case which Saxon has
given me."
"I think all the people concerned should hear what
I have to say," I answered. "If you don't mind, I'd like
to talk to you and the others downstairs."
He readily agreed to that and withdrew politely,
showing a nice consideration for a woman's privacy.
After they had gone, I didn't dally unnecessarily long.
I knew that I would hear from Peter within the next
ten or fifteen minutes.


286 THE MOVING FINGER
The living-room, when I went down, seemed an en-
tirely different place. Just a few minutes before it had
been a room freighted with fear and anxiety. The
warm air, smoke-laden and stale, had been ominous,
but now the last rumbling echoes of the storm were
rolling away somewhere to the south of us. Hubert
had opened the windows. A cool, sweet, earth-tinged
breeze ruffled the curtains. Daisy had stopped her
sniffling. Archie was contentedly sipping brandy from
an inhaler. Bolertho was talking to Florence Gunner,
who listened attentively, almost possessively, to the
things he whispered.
"Miss Thomas has something to tell us. She thinks
you'll all be interested," Croft announced.
They moved forward to make an interested semi-
circle in front of me.
"I must go back a week or more so that you'll under-
stand the things that have happened tonight," I
explained to Croft.
He nodded approval.
I told them about the first attempt on Terry's life
when he called on me that early morning. Croft didn't
seem to consider that part of the story very important.
"You must bear with me," I said. "The first attempt
showed us, although we were too blind to see it at the
time, that the murderer had very definite knowledge
of Terry Lassimon's activities."
I then went on to tell them about the cocktail party
for Althea and the arrivals of Fergus and Philip Lassi-


288 THE MOVING FINGER
about the theft of the diaries from the office safe just
before Mortimer's murder.
Hubert interrupted us to say that I was wanted on
the telephone.
"It is important," I explained to Croft. "Do you
mind?"
As I left the room, I took Saxon by the arm and
walked with him toward the library. Of course it was
Peter. He had done all the things I had requested. He
had been very thorough in his searching and checking.
A time clement had been involved. He had checked
by police-car, taxi and elevated railroad train.
As I thanked him, he laughed and said that once
again he was in my debt. He added, "I have a dragnet
out for him now. He can't get away."
He grumbled when I told him that credit for the
capture of the murderer and the solution of the crime
would go to James Saxon of the Nassau County police
force. He had the good grace to say, "Well, under the
circumstances there is nothing that either of us can do
about it"
As I turned from the telephone Saxon demanded,
"Who was that and why did you tell him that I'd
make the capture and arrest?"
"Because you will," I replied and whispered the
name of the murderer into his ear. "Wait until I
have built up the case against him," I warned. "He's
smart."
"But I've had nothing to do with it!" he denied.


290
THE MOVING FINGER
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
other clue which I should have noticed. Just before
that, Althea unconsciously gave me a hint which I
missed.
“After Van Wyck's murder, Terry left town. While
he was away I advertised for the stolen diaries. Again
in the excitement of the hunt I missed a clue which
you will undoubtedly say was an obvious one.”
“But where is all this leading us?” Croft demanded.
"To the man who committed three murders,” I
replied.
“But I... we thought Philip Lassimon ...” Archie
blustered.
“Philip Lassimon was not the murderer. Unfortu-
nately for him it was not until after he had killed
himself that I suddenly realized the truth.”
“What do you mean?” Terry asked.
“Sidney Kenfield is your murderer," I accused, turn-
ing to Croft.
Sidney jumped to his feet. “She's stark raving
mad!” he cried. “Terry, surely you're not going to let
her ..."
Saxon's hand went down on Sidney's shoulder with
the precision and finally of a guillotine blade.
"This is a serious accusation, Miss Thomas," Croft
reminded me. “Are you sure?”.
“The one person in New York who could have
known about those diaries and had access to them was
Kenfield," I answered. “He knew their value. The
firm was badly in need of money. Terry was worried


^^^JTHEJvIO^ 293
tising for those diaries. I paid him two hundred thou-
sand dollars and he tried to kill me.
"Tonight on the way out here, Andrews was pushed
overboard. Why? He was dressed in clothes almost
identical with those that Terry was wearing. For some
strange distorted reason Kenfield wanted Terry out of
the way. Why, I can't imagine."
Terry turned to Sidney. "You can clear this up, old
man, surely you can."
"How can I extricate myself from a frame-up of lies
and double-crossing!" Sidney snarled. "You're in
league with her to cover yourself and save your own
hide. You're just making me the goat! You're the
one who needed the money! You're the one who was
trying to borrow from old money-bags,"
"But, Sidney . . ." Terry began a protest.
"Don't talk to me!" Sidney cried and turned his eyes
away from Terry.
Terry was hurt, I could see that. He's not a person
who gives his friendship lightly.
Croft ended the discussion between the two men.
"Assuming for the moment that Miss Thomas is right
in her deductions, is there any reason for Kenfield to
desire your death?"
It was a direct question and Terry gave a direct
answer.
"Perhaps it was because we had agreed that in the
event of the death of either of us the publishing busi-
ness would revert to the living partner," Terry said.


THE MOVING FINGER
"That's your motive there, all right," Saxon said,
"but why kill those other men?"
"He is the only one who can answer that question,"
I replied. "He may have been in cahoots with them,
but that is something we'll probably never know."
"I'll sue you for this I" Kenfield threatened.
"What made you sure Kenfield was your man?"
Croft asked.
"Tonight while Saxon and I were in Philip Lassi-
mon's room and I was so frantically looking for a con-
fession I believed I'd find, I thought I heard Terry's
voice at the door. If you remember," I turned to Saxon,
"I called to Terry by name and Kenfield answered
telling me that Terry was downstairs. It came to me
suddenly then. The one additional proof I needed was
to be sure that Kenfield could have made the trips be-
tween the office and Van Wyck's. Peter Conklin has
verified that possibility."
"But why did he kill Andrews?" Saxon demanded.
"Kenfield was in Terry's room tonight when I sur-
prised him. He tripped me and made his escape.
Andrews must have seen him leaving the room so pre-
cipitously. There can be no other explanation for the
necessity of getting Andrews out of the way. If you
had been smarter," I turned to Kenfield, "you'd have
saved yourself an extra murder."
Kenfield turned to Croft. "Are you going to take a
rattle-brained old woman's theories as gospel truth?
She'll make a fool out of you. She's an egomaniac.


THE MOVING FINGER
im 295
She has led you and this man around by the nose since
you came here tonight. Ask him!” He wheeled, point-
ing toward Saxon.
Croft considered those accusations for a moment. He
smiled as he said, “You do have a way of managing
things, Miss Thomas.”
“I had a very definite plan tonight to trap the mur-
derer of Andrews, but unfortunately the untimely dis-
covery of the body spoiled my plot.”
“Which was?” Croft invited me to give further
details.
“I knew the murderer would want Andrews' body
discovered. Terry would be implicated at once and
would have a difficult time proving his innocence.”
"And your little plan was ruined ?”
“Wait a minute," Saxon broke into the talk. "I'm
not so sure her plan miscarried.”
“What do you mean, Saxon?” Croft asked.
“When they were having their meeting, Kenfield
and I were out here. He rang for drinks. When the
butler served us, Kenfield yawned and said he would
turn in. The butler asked him to wait a few minutes
until the rooms were prepared for the night. As Hu-
bert left, he promised to send a maid upstairs im-
mediately."
"I guess that does it, Kenfield,” Croft said.
“You haven't one single item of proof!" Kenfield
sneered.


296 JJIEJMCT^
Purposely I had saved the most damaging piece of
information for the very end.
"But we have proof," I said emphatically.
"What proof have you? You're just guessing!"
"The New York police don't guess. They searched
your apartment. They found several packages of bills.
Peter Conklin is getting in touch with the bank now
for the serial numbers. He'll check on them and call
me back," I explained to Croft.
"It's a frame-up! She's tight! She doesn't know
what she's saying!" Sidney cried.
"I may be a rattle-brained old woman, Sidney, but I
hope I'm not as dumb as you seem to think I am, and
what's more, I'm not tight. You're cornered and you
know it. We'll have word in a few minutes that will
finish the case."
He sagged into his chair. I would have had more
sympathy for him if he hadn't accused me of being
tight. As I think back on that night now, I should
have been tipsy. I suppose the strain and excitement
counterbalanced the effects of the drinks I did take.
"We'll have to hold you, Kenfield, until we have
checked with the New York police," Croft said.
"You won't have to check," I said. "Peter Conklin
promised to call back. Why don't you search his things
here? By the time you're through, we should hear
from Peter."
All the fight seemed to have left Sidney. He was a
dejected figure sitting under the careful gaze of Saxon.


THE MOVING FINGER 297
"Keep your eye on him," Croft instructed two of his
men and turned to the stairs. "Come along, Saxon."
"And now how about a drink?" Terry suggested.
Daisy came trotting over to me. "Ethel, you're posi-
tively wonderful! I'd no idea! Goodness, I'm glad
you burned those diaries! You didn't believe them, did
you?" she asked anxiously.
I patted her hand. "I didn't even read them, my
dear."
"But you said . . ." she began.
"Yes, I know. When I told you we had read them,
we were trying to force one of you to confess to a crime
you had not committed."
"Then how did you know who we were?" Bolertho
asked.
"That was simple. Terry found carbons of the let-
ters Mortimer had written to you. He took them from
Mortimer's desk so that none-of you would be impli-
cated in the murder at the moment."
"That was thoughtful of Terry," Daisy gushed.
"No," Terry denied. "It was a matter of self-defense.
Remember, I thought one of you was gunning for me."
"Telephone, Miss Thomas," Hubert announced.
"Mr. Conklin."
"Call Croft," I cried as I went toward the library.
They all followed behind me and listened eagerly to
my one-sided conversation with Peter. When Croft
arrived, he held a package of bills in his hand. How
stupid of Kenfield to have brought any of that money


THE MOVING FINGER
with him! I turned the telephone over to Croft. He
sat at the table and called serial numbers to Peter, who
was checking against a list he had received from the
bank.
There were one or two things I wanted to know and
decided to take that particular time to get the infor-
mation from Kenfield if he would talk to me. Un-
noticed, I slipped from the library and went to the
living-room where Sidney brooded under the watchful
eyes of two policemen.
"May I speak to your prisoner?" I asked.
"I don't know, ma'am. You'd better ask Croft."
"I did," I answered glibly. There was no point in
getting involved in a lot of red tape and nonsense; be-
sides Croft was busy at the moment.
"He might try to get away," the policeman sug-
gested.
"Where could he go? Don't be silly. Guard the
doors it you'll feel more comfortable."
They threw a glance toward the windows, saw they
were well screened, then moved across to the doors
leading to the hall and the library. The room was
enormous. I was glad they had gone, as I didn't want
them listening to our conversation anyhow.
I nodded to the officers who had taken up their posts
and pulled a chair close to Sidney, who turned a bitter
pair of eyes toward me. "What do you want?" he
growled.
"Some information. I'm curious about one or two


3o2 THE MOVING FINGER
to Terry. I didn't want that to happen. I had to work
quickly. That afternoon at your cocktail party I ex-
panded my plan. I decided to get rid of Mortimer and
Fergus, who was in the secret. It seemed so easy.
"I told Fergus to go to Terry's apartment and look
for the diaries. I promised to join him there. He was
searching when I arrived. I had a gun of my own but
I used Terry's to shoot him. At first I intended to leave
the body there but changed my mind. I wanted Terry
out of the way but I was afraid to kill him because of
you. I wanted him to become so involved with the
police that I would have a free hand to carry out my
plans for getting the diaries and blackmail money. If
Terry could be accused of a crime and be electrocuted
it was safer for me than killing him.
"I took the body down the service elevator. When
I saw your car had arrived I believed I could involve
you as well as Terry. I chloroformed your chauffeur
and then put the body in the car. I was certain that
the evidence left in Terry's apartment plus the body in
your car would make the police think that Terry was
trying to cover his crime."
"Where did you keep the body until I arrived?"
"In the basement. In a locker used by the janitor.
That's where I found the choloroform."
I had wondered about that but had not asked.
"How on earth did you get rid of Fergus' body after
we left it at Mortimer's basement door?" I asked.
"That was easy. I drive an open roadster. I lifted


THE MOVING FINGER 303
him in and drove up to City Island where a friend of
mine keeps a small boat. I carried him out on the Sound
and dumped him overboard."
"Then, of course, you had to rid yourself of Morti-
mer," I prompted.
"Yes. I felt certain that Terry would appear at Mor-
timer's the next day. I knew about that rear stair
because Mortimer opened the door to get more circu-
lation of air one day when I was there. The morning
of the murder I was concealed in the closet while
Terry was in the room. I didn't know that Miss Madi-
son was expected there. She very nearly caught me."
He stopped talking and sat staring straight ahead
for several seconds. "I'll get my revenge!" he stated,
looking up at me.
"Revenge?" I repeated.
"Yes. I'll tell the world the contents of those dia-
ries."
"You wouldn't do that!" I gasped.
"Why not? They're are bad as I am, all of them.
Why should I die for the same sort of crimes they have
committed? Why should they go free?"
"But, Sidney," I protested, "some of them must be
innocent."
"Let them prove it!" he sneered.
"You can't do it!"
"You are the only person who can stop me," he said,
giving me a calculating glance.
"How can I stop you?" I asked, puzzled.


304 THE MOVING FINGER
"I don't want to face a trial. I want to get away."
"But where would you go?" I asked.
"Over the border," he replied.
"They'd catch you in Canada. It would be just that
much worse when you were caught," I argued.
"For a smart woman you can be dense at times," he
sneered. "I mean over the Styx, extinction."
I was in a quandary. How could I give him the
means of exit? It would be very simple if I had a vial
of poison or one of those rings one reads about in fic-
tion. But I had no such weapons at hand.
"If you don't, I'll give my story to one of the yellow
journals," he warned.
"I'm trying to think," I said.
"I've thought of a way," he whispered, "but I need
help. You must divert the attention of those two
policemen for a minute or so, so that I can get to the
front door. The rest will be easy. Will you do it?"
As I pushed my chair back, I nodded. I believed
him when he said he would publish the stories. It was
so pointless to have all that publicity after our efforts
to keep the stories from publication. Philip Lassi-
mon and Andrews were dead, they were the worst of
the lot. The others might be innocent of the crimes
of which they were accused. I had promised them
protection. I had burned the diaries, but I could not
foresee this situation.
I left Sidney and spoke to the two officers, "Wouldn't
you two boys like a drink?" I asked.


THE MOVING FINGER
"Not while we're on duty," one of them replied.
"I can get you grape-juice or ginger-ale," I suggested.
"Well . . ." the second one answered.
"Just pull that bell cord," I said, pointing toward the
fireplace wall.
One of the officers moved forward. The other chap
and I watched him. As he pulled the cord and then
turned to face us he cried, "He's gone!" He raced
across the room.
I followed the two men to the front door. Outside
I heard the roar of a motorcycle engine. You know
how that din tears silence into shreds. With a sputter
and burst of sound it raced away. Kenfield was on
a motorcycle. He took the curve beyond the rose gar-
den at a perilous angle and headed on down the hill.
"He'll break his neck!" one of the police cried as he
ran toward a police car to take up pursuit.
I was fascinated watching Kenfield. Had he lied to
me? Did he intend to run for it? No. He had
spoken the truth. Where the drive makes the second
turn to wind down the hill, Kenfield continued straight
ahead. The machine dug at the slight bank at the
road's edge, hurtled into the air for a moment, seemed
to pause in space and then plunged downward out of
sight.
"I don't blame him," a voice said behind me.
It was the second policeman, who had been as fasci-
nated by the escape as I had been.
"It's a horrible way to die," I said and turned away.


306
THE MOVING FINGER
“So's the chair,” he flung after me as I turned back
into the house.
They were just coming from the library as I entered
the living-room. The officer made his report to Croft.
The group was stunned by the news but I think we all
felt relieved as we realized that the necessity for a trial
had been taken from us.
Croft sent some men to find Kenfield and care for
him. Then he turned to me. “We have you to thank
for the solution of the crime,” he said.
“Don't forget Saxon,” I reminded him. “If he had
been less willing to cooperate, we wouldn't have been
so successful.”
As Croft turned away Saxon came up behind me and
whispered in my ear. “I'm sorry for the things I said
to you. I thought ..."
“You didn't say half that I might have said had the
situation been reversed,” I laughed.
"I didn't know ..." He was bent on making an
explanation.
“Neither did I,” I cut him short. “I wanted a man
like you near me because I thought there might be
trouble.”
Of course he beamed at that. What man wouldn't?
Bless their hearts, they like the nice things we say to
them no matter how old we may be.
Croft came back, the packet of bills in his hand. “I'll
have to take these with me, Miss Thomas."


THE MOVING FINGER
"Just don't forget that it belongs to me," I reminded
him.
With the house cleared of the police, Terry proposed
a toast to me. I countered with one to the bride and
groom. The guests, relieved, wandered off to their
rooms.
We were the last to go up, we three. We paused for
a minute, at the door of Terry's suite. He was holding
Althea's hand.
"Goodnight, my dears," I said.
They kissed me simultaneously, one on either cheek.
Althea's eyes were moist. Terry opened his door.
"Goodnight, darling," he said.
Althea stepped into the room. The door closed be-
hind them. I stumbled along the hall unable to see for
the tears which dimmed my eyes. I felt foolish about
it, but like most women of my acquaintance I always
shed a few tears at a wedding, and after all this really
was their wedding night.
THE END








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