82.$








I


DEATH AT WINDWARD HILL





DEATH AT
WINDWARD HILL
BY
Helen Joan Hultman
AUTHOR OF "FIND THE WOMAN," ETC., ETC.
THE FICTION LEAGUE
61 East 11th Street, New York
19 3 1


COPYRIGHT, 1931, BY THE FICTION LEAGUE
All rights reserved
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


_y ci a tt tt
Contents
CHAPTER
I
PAGE
Death Comes
9
n
The Nurse Goes
20
m
Mrs. Banney Screams
25
rv
According to Cubbage
31
*'
V
An Ally for Asher
40
r
VI
The Marrender Heirs
48
•
VII
Return of Gene Tracy
59
VIII
Francesca Penrose
71
c-.
IX
Death Comes Again
83
X
Pen in Hand
93
XI
Two Pieces of Chain
96
XII
Trailing Alibis
107
XIII
Dinner a Deux
118
XIV
Night Scene at Windward Hill
126
XV
Another Pair of Gloves
136
XVI
The Dead Hand of Cubbage
145
XVII
Confidential Talk with Mrs. Latimer
155
V


vi
Contents
CHAPTER
XVIII
Dr. Stuart Reports a Loss
165
XIX
And Sally Discovers One
174
XX
Nettie Quinn's Place
185
XXI
Stowe Views a Portrait
196
XXII
Message from PeeDee
209
XXIII
Memorable Experience of Esme Croft
218
XXIV
Revised Version
228
XXV
Whose .38?
238
XXVI
Joyful Reunion
245
XXVII
Chivalrous Attitude of Dr. Stuart
257
XXVIII
Stowe Admits Uncertainty
270
XXIX
An Indiscretion of the Mauve Decade
279
XXX
Stowe Arraigns the Marrenders
294
XXXI
Unanimous Decision
304


DEATH AT WINDWARD HILL





Chapter I
DEATH COMES
The night that Miss Eugenia Marrender died was
cold and stormy. Windward Hill, the house wherein
she lay, caught the full fury of the weather. The old
brick house stood starkly upon its hilltop, half hidden
by a row of ragged sycamores and a few pines which
emphasized its bleakness rather than suggested a shelter-
ing windbreak.
The soughing of the wind through the pines and the
monotonous creaking of a loose shutter had got upon
the nerves of Doris Randall, R.N., until she could no
longer sleep as soundly as she ought to. She was on a
hard case, a case which could only grow worse as time
went on. Doris wondered why she had let herself in
for anything as disagreeable and uninteresting as look-
ing after Miss Eugenia Marrender. That is, she pre-
tended to wonder about the matter at those times when ,
she forced herself not to think about Dr. Perry Stuart.
Most of the time she frankly admitted to herself that
she had come to Windward Hill just because Dr. Stuart
had asked her to ... to nurse a crabbed old woman,
who would undoubtedly die of an incurable disease
within the next six months.
Shortly after ten Doris had settled her patient for
the night, and had gone across the hall to the room
which Miss Marrender had directed her to occupy when


10 Death at Windward Hill
she first came on the case. Doris knew that this arrange-
ment could not last much longer. She dreaded the time
when she must sleep on a cot in her patient's room. She
must ask Dr. Stuart about a night nurse. The Mar-
renders were not the people to make an item of added
expense.
Doris shivered as she undressed and crawled into bed.
Windward Hill . . . cold, creepy place on a night like
this. She could hear Cubbage disturbing the furnace,
but Doris knew that meant a diminution of heat. Cub-
bage and his cautious spoonful of coal. . . . The next
time Miss Marrender's nephew came home she'd try
complaining to him. Much good it would probably do,
though. Gene Tracy was queer. . . .
Doris Randall so labelled all men who failed to make
the proper response to her dimples and long-lashed
brown eyes. All men except Perry Stuart. ... As long
as Dr. Stuart considered her his favorite nurse the daily
round brought her something worth working for.
She snuggled deeper in the blankets. That devilish
wind. . . . She drifted off to sleep.
Perhaps two hours later Doris roused a bit and lay
tense for a minute or two. It wasn't the wind, though
it still howled persistently. Yet she knew she had heard
something besides the single stroke of the clock in the
lower hall—something like the closing of a door some-
where down within the old house. Probably it was that
shuffling Cubbage. He was always prowling around,
day and night. Yet Dr. Stuart himself had said some-
thing to her about the servant's being the only one who
appeared genuinely concerned about Miss Marrender's
failing health. The nieces and nephews who occasionally
called or telephoned a punctilious inquiry would be very


Death Comes
11
fond indeed of dear Aunt Eugenia about the time her
estate was settled. Doris's thoughts drifted cynically.
Even Gene, who lived at Windward Hill, acted as if he
despised his aunt. Much Miss Marrender seemed to care,
though. She rarely mentioned her relatives and when
she did there would be a hard smile on her thin, blood-
less lips and an inscrutable expression in her cold eyes.
Doris pulled her attention back to the noise that had
wakened her. At any rate, she had not heard it again.
She stirred reluctantly, slipped into bathrobe and
slippers, and crossed the hall to her patient's open door.
She was supposed to do this several times during the
course of every night. She did it every time she woke
up. Most nights she was not particularly restless. It was
the wind in the pines tonight, Doris assured herself . . .
not the biting memory of the gorgeous woman she had
seen with Dr. Stuart that afternoon while she was doing
her errands in town.
All was quiet in the square, high-ceilinged room
where the mistress of Windward Hill was spending the
last days of her life. The little light on the bedside
table burned steadily. By its dim light Doris could see
plainly enough from the doorway that everything was
as it should be. Dr. Stuart had said not to rouse Miss
Marrender for medicine during the night hours if she
was resting quietly. In spite of the wind and the bang-
ing shutter she was certainly having a good sleep. . . .
That noise must have been Cubbage. If he had been
down at the furnace, she'd forgive him his everlasting
pussy-footing around. Ugh-h! How cold it was in this
drafty upper hall. The wind was stronger than ever.
Doris Randall crept shivering back to her blankets.
She buried her head deep in the pillows and allowed


12 Death at Windward Hill
herself to think long delicious thoughts about Perry
Stuart. Once more she fell into heavy sleep.
It was a little after four o'clock when the little nurse
next awoke. As far as she could tell, nothing in particu-
lar had aroused her. The howling wind had fallen. A
cold, dark silence gripped the house on Windward Hill.
Once more she dragged herself from the warmth of her
bed across the icy hall to Miss Marrender's room. Again
she stood at the door and looked at the still figure under
the mound of bed clothing.
After an irresolute moment Doris approached the
bed. She bent and looked sharply at the thin face sunk
in the pillow and touched the inert eyelids. With stiff
fingers she groped for the pulse in the shrivelled neck.
She had not been mistaken in her first impression. Miss
Eugenia Marrender was dead.
"She died in her sleep. Lucky, at that. . . Doris
pulled her professional self together. She might be Dr.
Stuart's favorite nurse, but experience had not yet cal-
loused her. So, stifling a desire to run from the room,
she made methodical note of the time according to her
watch and then felt for the electric switch by the door.
Hard light flooded the room from a pendant center
fixture, an incongruous note in the otherwise perfect
1880 furnishings of the chamber.
Not until the brilliant light illumined every corner of
the room did the nurse see anything significant about
the little table upon which the medicines were arrayed.
There were the carafe and glass, both quite as she re-
membered leaving them at ten o'clock. There was the
bottle containing the special prescription that was ad-
ministered before the sick woman's meals. That, too,


Death Comes
13
was just as she had left it at six the evening before. It
was the bottle of white pills that looked different.
Doris knew the technical name of the drug that the
tablets contained; she knew, too, why one or at most
two of them were all she dared give a patient, no matter
how bad the pain was. . . . Miss Marrender had been
having the pills regularly. Only yesterday afternoon
during her two hours off Doris had gone into town to
renew the prescription in accordance with Dr. Stuart's
instructions. It was while she was waiting that she had
seen the doctor with a woman, a blonde too beautiful
to add much confidence to long-lashed brown eyes.
With a jerk Doris brought her attention back to the
immediate problem. After she had returned from the
druggist's and replenished the bottle, it was more than
half full. But now. . . . With curious distaste she
picked it up. The bottom of the small phial was barely
covered by the powerful little globules. Three, four,
five, six . . . and last night there had been surely three
times that number.
Once again Doris Randall looked searchingly at the
peaceful dead face of Eugenia Marrender. "I don't
blame her . . . the game old sport!" she half whispered
to herself.
For a moment longer she stood staring at the rigid
mound, the bottle clutched in her hand. A momentous
decision faced her. What difference would it make?
Such a little thing for her to do for Perry Stuart. He'd
never know that she had done it, though. It would have
to be her own secret happiness. Something to remem-
ber. . . . An instant of clairvoyant insight told Doris
Randall that Perry Stuart's life had no place for her
adoring love.


14 Death at Windward Hill
Her decision was made. She'd say nothing about the
pills. No one needed to know how strangely their num-
ber had lessened. She must wake Cubbage, and then she
must report the death of the patient to the doctor. He
would not be surprised to hear what had happened. He
had told her about the patient's heart condition when
she came on the case. That was the reason that the white
pills need not be mentioned. There would be no ques-
tion of suicide ... no need for coroners. A doctor
whose reputation was on the up-grade as was Perry
Stuart's avoided that kind of publicity whenever he
could.
Gathering the folds of her blanket robe tightly about
her slender figure, Doris sped down the dark, cold hall.
Cubbage's room was downstairs at the end of the back
hall, across from the kitchen and pantries. Stabbing
lights on ahead of her, she made her way down the
steep front flight. As she turned toward the back hall
she saw almost immediately that Cubbage's door was
open. She hesitated a moment, and then stepped across
his threshold as far as was necessary to reach the swung-
back door panel. Her rat-tat-tat was brisk. There was
no answer. Once more she beat her tattoo. No sound
answered from within, but a stealthy shuffle behind her
brought her heart into her mouth.
With a strangled scream she whirled about. There
stood Cubbage, a shapeless blur against the light.
"What is it, Miss Randall?" His voice, as always,
sounded incongruous to Doris's ears. There was a faint
echo of culture about it that was not in keeping with
the menial position the man filled.
"It's Miss Marrender . . . she's dead. I have just dis-
covered it and I wanted you to know at once. When I


Death Comes
15
looked in at about one everything was all right. She
was sleeping quietly. Just now when I went in I found
—that she was gone."
"Are you sure that she was—all right at one o'clock,
nurse?"
There was something about the accent of the words
that sent a new chill down Doris's spine. Probably that
was the reason she lied, promptly and convincingly.
"Quite sure, Cubbage. I was right over her, you see.
Her respiration was better than it had been all week."
Doris wondered afterwards how she could have been so
glib.
"Ah-h. . . ." It was more like an expelled breath
than a spoken syllable. "Would you like some coffee,
Miss Randall?"
"Please! I must put in a call for Dr. Stuart. Maybe
you'd better notify the relatives."
"I doubt if you can reach the doctor at—at this
hour, though of course I can understand why you want
to try. . . ."
Doris Randall gripped herself hard to keep from hys-
terics. There was something vaguely menacing about
Cubbage. If only he would not talk in that curiously
precise way. ". . . Mr. Tracy is expected today, quite
fortunately. I should prefer to wait for his orders."
Doris fled to the front hall to the telephone. There
was no need for her to waste time searching the direc-
tory for a number. She knew the whole series that could
bring to her the sound of Perry Stuart's voice—his
offices, the hospital, his club, his apartment. At this
early hour it was only logical to begin with his apart-
ment. She could hear a bell give a distant, vigorous
peal. A sleepy voice answered. It belonged to Scotty, a


16 Death at Windward Hill
derelict veteran that the doctor had salvaged from a
rehabilitation hospital. Scotty's burr informed her that
Dr. Stuart had been out all night on an emergency call
and had just tumbled into bed within the hour. "I'll
no be calling him," he declared.
"You don't have to, silly. Just tell him at your very
first opportunity that Miss Marrender died during the
night, and that the nurse is waiting for further instruc-
tions."
Shaking with cold Doris turned toward the stairs.
She'd rather go back to that gaunt, old-fashioned room
with its silent occupant than stay down here within
sound of Cubbage's muted voice. As she reached the
head of the steep flight she plunged her stiff hands into
the pockets of her bathrobe. Her fingers closed upon the
smooth coldness of the bottle of powerful medicine
which she had dropped into one of the pockets when
she left in search of Cubbage. At this reminder of the
narcotic the pretty arch of her eyebrows met in a
troubled frown.
"I might as well," she concluded. "It's as good a way
as any. . . ." With that she slipped into a bathroom and
emptied the remaining tablets into the drain of the
toilet. With a decisive hand she flushed the deadly pel-
lets into nothingness. Then she reentered the dead wo-
man's room and replaced the empty bottle beside its
companion on the bedside table. "There's no reason to
hide it," she argued with the insistent question that
welled within her.
She must go to her room and dress. As she turned
away from the little table she saw what was lying just
under the edge of Miss Marrender's bed. Strange that she
had not noticed it before. . . . She stooped and picked


Death Comes 17
it up. What she held in her hand was a fountain pen, a
stalwart, masculine pen, a pen that she had seen racing
across prescription pads many times—Perry Stuart's
pen. The gold band about its dull green cap was ini-
tialled, but it did not take the inscribed P. S. to assure
Doris Randall of its owner. She would have known that
pen out of a thousand. Anything that was Dr. Stuart's
spoke with tongues to her.
He must have dropped it when he made his last call
on Miss Marrender. That had been yesterday morning.
Already death had placed a singular remoteness upon
preceding events. Yet how strange that she had not
seen it before. ... It must have been caught in a fold
of the bed clothing. Of course that was it, she thought,
and dropped the pen into the bathrobe pocket. Her
hand lingered to caress it. She refused to let herself recall
that she had arranged the bedding thoroughly when she
settled her patient for the night. Surely she should have
noticed the pen then. . . . Drains and plumbing were
not the oubliettes for heavy, masculine fountain pens.
After all, it was his pen—bis pen. Having it to keep
for her very own would add a little to that scant store
of secret happy memories that she feared would be all
she would ever have of Perry Stuart.
Rapidly the little nurse dressed for daytime appear-
ance. Winter daylight was still more than two hours'
away, but the circumstances made her dishabille inap-
propriate. In uniform she felt equal to Cubbage. As she
stepped about her room she was vaguely conscious of
sounds of dim confusion from the rooms below. Just
like the man to turn the house upside down in an orgy
of cleaning.
The fragrance of his coffee called her down. The


18 Death at Windward Hill
warmth of the kitchen was comforting. She was finish-
ing her second generous cup when the telephone bell
rang imperiously. Cubbage tiptoed away to answer it.
It was several minutes before he returned. "It's for you,
Miss Randall," he reported.
"That you, Doris?" It was the doctor's hearty voice.
"Scotty found that I had come to long enough to give
me your message. Heart, was it? I'm not surprised. . . .
She's escaped a lot of hideous suffering. I'll be out later
on. I'm operating this morning. . . . But what I really
called you about is this: could you hustle into town and
make the 8:47 train? It's a case down at Paloma. I'd
like mighty well to turn it over to you and now that
you're free. ... It won't be hard—the chap's con-
valescent. Who are you to turn snooty about Florida in
February. . . . Good for you, little girl. I may get
down myself for a couple of weeks next month. . . .
Thanks a lot, Doris. You're a little peach. Taxi in to
my office and Jeannette will give you all the dope. . . .
Bye!"
Doris replaced the receiver, scarcely knowing what
she had said. To go to Paloma on a case. . . . "What a
wonderful opportunity for her to forget the nightmare
of the last few hours. But she mustn't think he meant
anything by the way he talked. He always talked that
way ... to all the girls he liked . . . and he liked so
many. No doubt there was the same intimate caressing
quality in his voice when he talked to gorgeous ladies
like the one she had seen him with yesterday. . . .
An outer door banged, recalling Doris from her im-
possible dream world. Heavy steps creaked into the
kitchen. Mrs. Banney had arrived. This was one of her
regular days and she always came early. Before Cubbage
v


Death Comes
19
could have had a chance to tell her what had occurred at
Windward Hill during the night, Doris could hear the
woman's brisk comment.
"Well, it sure looks to me like you folks think it's
the good old summer-time with your side windows
standing wide open and the curtains blowing in and
out. I had to laugh as I come round the house just now.
Knowing you, Cubbage, I figured it couldn't be because
the house had got so warm you had to cool it off, and
knowing Windward Hill I couldn't hope for anything
as exciting as somebody trying to break in and steal—"
There was a muted murmur from Cubbage and a sud-
den silence from Mrs. Banney, a silence from which the
woman soon recovered. Doris scurried upwards to her
own room. There was packing to do. Just like Cubbage
to send Mrs. Banney into hysterics. . . . Listen to the
poor creature. . . . Doris slapped open a suitcase.
Thank goodness, she'd soon be on her way.


Chapter II
THE NURSE GOES
The nurse's thoughts raced on as she slid into street
clothes and tossed her belongings into her bag. She must
allow time to stop at the doctor's office before making
the 8:47 train. Jeannette would help her out. She'd have
to ask her to see about the uniforms that were at the
laundry and the check that would be coming from the
Marrenders.
Suitcase in hand she left her room. Unconsciously she
tiptoed by the closed door behind which lay the stark
body of Eugenia Marrender. She must call a taxi. . . .
But just before she reached the bottom of the long dark
stairs, she heard Cubbage at the telephone.
". . . the circumstances demand investigation, In-
spector."
Those were the only words that Doris Randall heard,
for the man who spoke them slipped the receiver into
place the instant he realized that she could hear what he
was saying.
She set her suitcase down, and the man gave the
pretty nurse a long questioning look. "You are leaving?
So soon?" The words were plainly intended to have the
insinuating sound that Doris flamed under.
"I am only following Dr. Stuart's orders, Cubbage.
He asked me to come into town at once. He has another
urgent case for me." Why must she explain? she asked
20


The Nurse Goes
21
herself hotly. He was only the serving man. However,
she added, "My charts and reports will of course be
turned in to him."
Abruptly she seized the telephone and called the
number of the taxicab company. That done, she again
turned toward the stairs but stopped once more in spite
of herself to address the stiff figure indistinct in the
gloom of the hall. "If there is anything you'd like to
have me do. . . . But I advise leaving Miss Marrender
just as I found her till the doctor comes."
"By all means—just as you found her." Cubbage's
reply echoed curiously. "I was just about to call the
residence of Mr. William Marrender. I waited this long
so as not to disturb him too early."
Doris sought the kitchen to wait until the taxi came.
It was warm there and Mrs. Banney was better com-
pany than Cubbage. She found the room unoccupied.
Mrs. Banney's spotted brown serge in which she made
her daily trips from Canal Corner to Windward Hill
was hanging on its usual hook, but her limp-brimmed
hat and old plush coat were not there. "She must have
gone back to the Corner to get extra help," she mur-
mured half aloud.
A raucous signal from the front announced the ar-
rival of her cab. As she sped for the last time through
the hall, it lay dim and silent. Cubbage was not in
sight, but she heard vague sounds of occupancy behind
a closed door to her left. Snatching a pair of gloves
from the table under a gilt-framed mirror she was for
an instant conscious of an odor reminiscent of cigarettes.
It couldn't be Cubbage; he never smoked cigarettes.
Besides, this was definitely a stale odor. . . . Then she


22 Death at Windward Hill
pulled open the heavy front door and gestured im-
patiently to the driver of the taxi.
It was a relief to be leaving Windward Hill. Miss
Marrender had been a difficult patient. For all her money
the house was a gloomy, drafty horror. Gene Tracy,
little as she had seen of him in the weeks that she had
been at Windward Hill, impressed her as a restless, un-
happy man, and Cubbage—Cubbage was a nightmare.
The mere thought of Florida was bracing. Very likely
Dr. Stuart would be running down too, for golf or
polo. . . . Rather awful to grow old and die, as Miss
Marrender had, and no one in the family really sorry.
They'd be thinking only of her money. That niece
would, at any rate, the one who had stormed so, only
yesterday morning. . . .
The taxi lurched into the highway that would soon
bring her to the suite of offices occupied by Dr. Stuart.
Mechanically Doris began to draw on her gloves and,
as she did so, she came to alert attention. The soft tan
suede glove into which she was thrusting her capable
fingers was not hers. Her own gloves were in her bag—
of course they were. She distinctly recalled looking at
them up in her room and thinking, that after one more
wearing, she must clean them.
These gloves that she had picked up from the old
walnut table in the hall at Windward Hill were not hers.
They were easily a size too small, for one thing. They
were quite new, too, and faintly redolent of an exotic
sachet. Doris opened her bag. There were her gloves,
just where she had thrust them. The two pairs were the
same sort of suede and nearly the same shade. A quick
examination of the strange pair showed no distinguish-


The Nurse Goes
23
ing marks upon them other than the maker's stamp and
size number.
A memory flashed distinctly to the surface. When she
returned from town the afternoon before, she knew
there had been nothing on the old table—she could still
see the late sun falling across the bare polished wood as
Cubbage opened the door to admit her. Whose gloves
were they? There had been no other women in the
house after that—except herself, and the gloves were too
small for her, and Mrs. Banney, who never wore gloves
of any sort, and old Miss Marrender, lying helpless in
her bed.
Thoughtfully Doris folded the bits of soft leather
and tucked them down into her bag. She drew out her
own familiar pair just as the cab stopped before the
building that housed Dr. Stuart's offices.
She found Jeannette just taking off her street clothes.
"In one minute, Miss Randall. Yes, the doctor called me
about you. That's why I'm down here so bright and
early. I've got the notes on the case all ready for you
and the doctor 'phoned that he'd meet you at the sta-
tion to see about tickets and so on. It's a rush case, I'd
say, but take it from me, old dear, it sounds gr-rand. A
young man, not married, lots of money—all that at the
swankest hotel in Paloma. ... I'll say you're Dr.
Stuart's pet nurse."
Fifteen minutes later Doris Randall found herself at
the station, and there, just stepping out of his smart
coupe, was Dr. Perry Stuart. He was tall and handsome;
women patients thought his slightly supercilious manner
attractive. As he swung toward Doris, he gave her the
quick, individual smile that always made her blood
race.


24 Death at Windward Hill
"That's the girl," he said, giving her arm a friendly
squeeze. "Heaven fend me from the kind of female
that has to have yards of explanations about everything
that isn't exactly routine. This is rushing you dread-
fully, I know, but I also know that I can always count
on you."
She smiled up at him happily, forgetful of everything
except that she was with him. "Never apologize for
sending anyone to Florida in February. I'm chortling
with joy."
"Not Florida, Doris—California. Did I say Florida?
It's California, little sport. A gorgeous place close to
San Diego. Your news about Miss Marrender must have
twisted my tongue. Right-o, that's your train being
called this minute. You'll get the Forty-niner out of
Chicago tonight. I'll keep in touch with you by wire.
It's not a hard case, but I had special orders to supply
a good-looking nurse—and you're it with me, but you
know that."
The lazy, beguiling voice dropped a note and for an
instant Doris Randall thought she was going to be
kissed. "Here, Red Cap—" The high moment was over.
Expertly he turned her over to the porter. "I must
dash out to Windward Hill now and then back to the
hospital. The old girl was damn lucky to have that
heart condition, considering what was ahead of her."
A surge of travelers pushed Doris through the gates
and separated her from Dr. Stuart. She stood in the
vestibule of the Pullman, trying to catch a last glimpse
of him, but he had disappeared.


Chapter III
MRS. BANNEY SCREAMS
No sooner had Doris Randall stepped into the taxi
that had borne her away from Windward Hill than
the door to the left at the foot of the stairs opened and
Cubbage emerged. One gloved hand was closed about
a small box. With the other, likewise gloved, he shot
home a heavy bolt on the door through which he had
just appeared. Tiptoeing softly down the hall he assured
himself that Mrs. Banney was not about. Indeed he had
himself suggested that under the circumstances it might
be well for her to go after her daughter-in-law as extra
help for the next few days. Returning from the kitchen
he ascended the stairs and entered the room that had
so lately been vacated by the pretty little nurse. He
closed the door behind him. It was twenty minutes later
when he reappeared.
Shortly after, when Mrs. Banney and Mabel, her
comatose daughter-in-law, had creaked into the kitchen,
their superior officer was in the silver closet, decorously
considering the necessity of rubbing up an extra set
of forks. The voice of authority issued orders about cur-
tains in the long drawing-room, slip-covers for the
damask chairs, extra boards in the dining table. . . .
"It is rather difficult to say just how many will be here
for luncheon, but we must be ready—the relatives, you
know."
25


26 Death at Windward Hell
Mrs. Banney and Mabel yearned to talk it all over
with someone, but there was nothing encouraging about
Cubbage. However, the older woman could not restrain
one question. "Did them burglars take anything?"
"As to that I am not in a position to say, Mrs. Ban-
ney. The police are sending out a man—I judged it my
duty to notify them. In the light of Miss Marrender's
death, let us hope that we are not plunged into any un-
necessary publicity."
The two women nodded in timid respect. In spite of
his diction he had made them feel that gossip about
Windward Hill affairs would be ill-advised.
At that moment a bell pealed shrilly. "The police, I
anticipate," murmured Cubbage and left the kitchen to
answer the summons.
It was Tim Asher from Headquarters who was wait-
ing for admittance. He had been sent, and he knew it,
because the call concerned a Marrender. Otherwise one
of the cubs could have handled a sneak thief case and
Tim could have been spared a bleak trip.
The door swung open and a butler, who looked like
a stage clergyman, permitted the deputy inspector to
enter. Asher identified himself briskly and asked,
"What's the trouble here?"
"The house appears to have been broken into, officer.
I can tell you scarcely more than that because"—Cub-
bage paused and cleared his throat deprecatingly—"be-
cause my attention has been otherwise claimed. I must
inform you before you proceed further that Miss Mar-
render, whose residence this is, died this morning about
four o'clock. She had been lying mortally ill for some
time."
"That so? Too bad. . . .'* Asher's voice fell in ap-


28 Death at Windward Hill
night. Her reason I do not know. The room is spoken
of as the little gallery, though it appears much like the
usual library. Since Miss Marrender's illness the room
has not been used, scarcely opened in fact, but I always
tested the bolt every night even if it had not been dis-
turbed during the day."
It was a good thing for Asher's reputation that none
of the cubs was there to witness his exhibition of ineffi-
ciency. He stood dumbly, listening to Cubbage.
"When the charwoman came in this morning, she
mentioned the fact that the windows of a side room
were standing wide open. I was naturally so perturbed
over what had just occurred—Miss Marrender's passing,
sir—that I paid little attention to Mrs. Banney's com-
ment. It might have been an hour later—it was then
quite light—that I had my first opportunity to investi-
gate what the woman had reported. Observing that this
door was still properly bolted, I did not disturb it.
Instead I stepped outside and around the house to the
windows in question."
"Holy gosh!" Asher murmured. "Of all the nuts—"
"I found the windows quite as Mrs. Banney had
described, both open to the limit of their lower sashes.
I did nothing but push the hangings back a bit—the
wind was twisting them—and look in. The room ap-
peared—not quite in its usual order, sir. Suspecting
burglars, I put in the call which you have answered in
person. Now, will you examine the open windows and
the room from the outside, or do you prefer to enter
here?"
"Go ahead and open the door. Is there just the bolt?
No lock, huh?"
Cubbage demonstrated his answer. Without a sound


Mrs. Banney Screams
29
he drew back the substantial bolt. He turned the knob
and the heavy door swung inward.
Thin winter sunshine fell across the little gallery. It
came from two windows opposite the door. Their dra-
peries flapped in the chill outer air. The room was "not
quite in its usual order." Cubbage had made the state-
ment with unnecessary restraint, for order had become
disorder. The drawers in two clumsy old cabinets had
either been jerked out altogether or crookedly closed.
The pigeon-holes of a tall desk had been untidily exam-
ined. The doors of a glassed-in bookcase stood ajar.
Some of the books looked as if they had been carelessly
replaced and a toppling stack remained on the floor.
One corner of the rug was rolled back; chairs were
huddled together.
In the midst of this confusion stood the two men.
The butler clucked in laint, well-bred distress. The
detective was obviously recording a mental image of
the disorder.
"Well, what's missing?" Asher demanded.
"I could scarcely say, sir. The marauders must have
been searching for something, sir."
"That's a hell of a bright idea, Cubbage. Go ahead
and have another one. You help a lot."
In a voice as wooden as his face Cubbage replied, "I
was not aware that Miss Marrender kept anything of
intrinsic value in this apartment, sir."
"Who beside yourself and the old lady were in the
house last night?"
"Miss Marrender's nurse, sir. A young person called
Randall, I believe. The doctor can give you further
details."
"How about talking to her myself?"


30 Death at Windward Hell
"She's no longer here, sir. She left before eight this
morning. Her story was that the doctor had called her
on another case." Cubbage's tone altered ever so slightly,
but Asher did not miss the trick.
The deputy-inspector's next question had not reached
his lips when a shrill scream—two shrill screams came
down the stairway just behind them.
"The voice sounds like Mrs. Banney's." Cubbage was
quietly judicial. "And, I dare say, the other is the daugh-
ter-in-law. They should be hanging curtains in the
drawing-room."
Asher was not interested in theoretical identification.
Grasping the butler by the arm he marched out of the
rifled apartment. Together they gazed up the steep
flight.
"Oh, Mr. Cubbage, do come," wailed Mrs. Banney.
"The corp's been murdered."


Chapter IV
ACCORDING TO CUBBAGE
TlM ASHER reached the top of the stairs first. The
two women, white-faced and pop-eyed, moaned inco-
herently. Thrusting them aside, Asher strode into the
room where Eugenia Marrender's body lay. Stark on
the wide bed he saw the thin figure, its eyes decently
closed. The sheet that had been drawn over the still
face had been twitched aside and the bed coverings
tossed back far enough to reveal the body to the waist.
Asher bent over, but minute examination was not
necessary. A stain spreading from the left breast told
its own story. Eugenia Marrender had been shot.
Swiftly Asher looked at the bed clothing. The path
of the bullet was plain. For an instant his eyes darted
alertly about the room. There was no sign of a weapon.
Doors, windows, furniture, nothing escaped Asher's
quick preliminary survey. Yet he saw nothing out of
keeping with the bed chamber of an elderly invalid.
Then he turned to the group wavering about the
doorway. "You said Miss Marrender died this morning.
Just how did you mean—died?" The question was
directed at Cubbage.
"Miss Marrender's malady was an incurable one, sir.
Lately I have heard the nurse and doctor speak of an
unfavorable heart condition. This morning very early,
about four, the nurse came down and told me that she
had just discovered that Miss Marrender was dead. She
gave me no particular details. She called the doctor and
some time later he called her—about this new case, she
31


32 Death at Windward Hill
said. Before she left she told me to leave everything in
here just as it was until Dr. Stuart came out. How she
herself left the body I do not know, as this is the first
I have entered the room since yesterday. Nor had Mrs.
Banney and her assistant any occasion to intrude, if I
may say as much." Cubbage's glance rebuked the
women coldly.
"How about it, you?" Asher thrust a blunt fore-
finger at Mrs. Banney, upon whose face fright, curiosity,
and apology were equally plain.
"Well, mister, it was this way. I never meant to do
nothing I shouldn't, but me and Mabel, we thought
we'd like a look at the poor old lady, cranky and hard
to suit as she was, and anyways I had to come up to the
back hall to get the stepladder to put up them drapes
like Cubbage said, and so the two of us—never under
heaven could you of got me nor Mabel neither to even
walk past the door alone—we just stepped inside and
tiptoed easy-like over to the bed, but we couldn't see
nothing because the sheet was drawed up over her face,
and I says all right Mabel you go ahead and do it, and
I guess come to think of it we both of us took a hold
of it and throwed it and the covers back, and I hope to
die if what I seen didn't fairly turn me, and me and
Mabel, we got out a whole lot faster'n we went in,
and—"
An impatient peal from below dammed Mrs. Ban-
ney's monologue.
"That will doubtless be Dr. Stuart, officer," mur-
mured Cubbage, as if asking permission to withdraw
from the group long enough to answer the call. The
two women and the detective watched the man's stately
descent, but none of them could see the significant look


According to Cubbage 33
with which he greeted the young physician nor hear the
toneless words, "We are in the hands of the law,
doctor."
Without revealing the discovery that had just been
made, Asher put the necessary preliminary inquiries,
and then demanded a statement about the nurse's report
of the patient's death.
Again the incurable ailment and the compensating,
more merciful heart weakness were explained. The doc-
tor's terms were deliberately technical, for there was
something about Asher's manner that appeared to ruffle
him.
"When did you last see your patient, doctor?" asked
Asher.
"Yesterday morning, about ten o'clock." Stuart an-
swered the detective directly, but his glance rested for
a split second upon Cubbage's blank face.
"What was her condition at that time?"
"She was apparently resting in comfort, though it
had already become necessary to prescribe narcotics.
However, I detected an unfavorable change in the heart
action and I advised against any visitors for a day
or so."
"And you heard nothing more until the nurse re-
ported that the patient had died in her sleep?"
"Nothing more."
"Then how do you account for this?" Dramatic ges-
tures were not common with Tim Asher, but there was
something theatric in the way his outflung arm com-
manded the doctor to take a look at the dead woman.
Perry Stuart strode forward across the room but came
to an automatic stop the instant his eyes rested upon
the bloodstained breast.


34 Death at Windward Hill
"God!" His voice was sharp with unexpected shock.
"And now if you'll tell me where you sent the nurse,
I'll round her in right away. She's the dame that will
have to do some explaining." Asher fished elaborately
for notebook and pencil as he spoke.
Dr. Stuart pulled a still-folded handkerchief from a
pocket, flipped it wide, and nervously mopped his tem-
ples. His lips twitched and his voice was husky. "She—
she's been murdered, hasn't she?"
"Look at that wound, doctor. Elementary physiology
will tell you that the bullet entered a living body."
Asher's dry comment gave no sign that he was alertly
interested in Stuart's bland dismissal of the question
about the nurse's present address. "And you might give
me your opinion about how long ago death occurred."
Expertly Dr. Stuart made the usual tests. "From six
to nine hours, I should say, but I should prefer to have
the coroner establish that."
Asher nodded in friendly agreement. "Yes, I must
be calling in about this—and some other items. Now,
how about that nurse?"
"Ah, yes," Stuart permitted himself to be reminded.
"Her name is Randall—Doris Randall. She's an excel-
lent nurse—I keep her busy. One of my patients con-
valescing in the South was demanding a more com-
patible nurse and so when Miss Randall reported Miss
Marrender's death, I sent her right on to him. She's on
her way by this time, but I'm not at all sure whether
she was going by way of Washington or Cincinnati.
My patient's name is Stevens and he's down at Paloma.
I can't be sure of the exact address, but call my office
and the girl there will tell you. But, I say, Inspector—"
Asher knew that the physician knew that he had no


3 6 Death at Windward Hill
that death took place as long as nine hours ago? No,
doctor, I'd say it looks bad for the nurse."
Stuart shrugged impatiently and looked at his watch.
"I'm operating at the hospital, Inspector. Call me there
or at my office if I can be of any further help."
Asher let the doctor go without demur. There was a
key on the inside of the bedroom door. He took it out
and stepping into the hall he locked the door behind
him. "Where's your telephone?" he demanded gruffly
of Cubbage. "Stick around, brother. I'm going to talk
to you some more after I've put in a couple of calls.
You can tell those women to go on about their busi-
ness."
When Asher had informed Headquarters that there
was not only a case of burglary at Windward Hill but
also an unexplained death to be investigated, he turned
to the hovering Cubbage.
"Snap into it. What have you got to tell me about
what was pulled off here last night?"
"Am I to understand that I am already being accused
of complicity in these acts of violence, officer?" There
was a note of rebuking hauteur in the butler's voice
. . . the voice with its incongruously cultured accent.
"Lord, man, don't waste your breath trying to high-
hat me. I'm only a hard-boiled cop. Just go ahead and
tell me the sad story of your life as it was lived last
night. A room downstairs ransacked and an old lady
getting her everlasting upstairs—surely you heard a
faint echo of something. Come on, spill papa the dope."
"It was a quiet evening, sir. All the evenings are that,
since Miss Marrender's illness. I took her dinner tray up
at half-past six. At seven the nurse came down for her
own meal. It was served in the small dining-room."


According to Cubbage
37
"Who was with the sick woman while the nurse was
downstairs?"
"No one, sir. Constant attendance had not yet been
necessary. By eight Miss Randall was back on duty, and
Mrs. Banney had left for the night. I gave the furnace
its usual inspection and then read quietly in my room
until ten o'clock, when I again made the rounds and
closed the house for the night. My room is off the lower
hall, you see, and I have no difficulty hearing telephone
or doorbells."
"Any such calls last night?"
"No, sir, none." Asher noticed that Cubbage paused
before replying.
"All right. You put yourself to bed? Then what? Did
the nurse stay up all night with her patient?"
"No, she did not even sleep on a couch in the same
room, though there had been some plan about that, I
believe. In fact, I had been told to get down a cot from
the attic storeroom. Miss Randall slept just across the
hall. No doubt you would like to inspect the room for
yourself under the circumstances."
Asher tucked this palpable hint away for later con-
sideration and again suggested that Cubbage stick to
the topic assigned him.
"I can't say that I heard any particular noise during
the night, sir. It was a very stormy night and we get
the full force of the west winds here at Windward Hill.
I confess that I was somewhat disturbed—an old house
like this creaks and rattles very annoyingly. I was awake
from time to time during the night, not at all unusual
with me, sir, but I heard nothing that the wind could
not have accounted for. At one such time I arose and
went down to the furnace. The fire never holds well


38 Death at Windward Hill
when the wind comes from the west. I had just returned
when I was informed by the nurse of Miss Marrender's
death. I then made coffee and—well, after that event
the night seemed over at Windward Hill."
"Surely you couldn't have thought a pistol shot
sounded like the wind howling. Let me have it straight.
When did you hear the gun?"
"Let me assure you, officer. I heard nothing that even
remotely suggested the discharge of a revolver. How-
ever, I rather doubt that even on a still and windless
night I could hear a sound of that sort while in the
furnace room."
"Hear any sound from the room that was entered?"
Cubbage shook his head in grave disclaimer. Nothing
more was said for a minute or two as Mrs. Banney and
Mabel trailed by, bearing mops and dusters, bound for
the long drawing-room. Then Cubbage gave a sharp
cough of determination.
"Perhaps I should have mentioned this before. . . .
It was quite against both the doctor's and nurse's
orders, but I was overridden. While Miss Randall was
dining last evening, one of the relatives called and in
spite of my instructions went up to see Miss Marrender."
Cubbage's precise voice dropped as if he had said all
there was to say. Asher snorted with impatience. "Just
as a matter of record, who was it?" he snapped.
"A lady whom I had never seen before. All she said
was, 'I must see my aunt at once.' She started immedi-
ately up the stairs and then she said, over her shoulder,
Til let myself out. Don't wait.' Later when I went out
for Miss Randall's dessert, I thought for a moment I
had heard the front door close and assumed that the


According to Cubbage 39
caller had gone, but I could not swear to that. I did
not see her go.
"Hm-m, just another reason why a little talk with
the nurse would come in right," Asher said dryly, and
was about to ask for a description of the caller when a
startled look in Cubbage's eyes made him swing on his
heel.
A man had entered the front door unheard. He had
advanced along the gloomy hall as far as the door of
the little gallery, still standing wide open. Asher recog-
nized the man at once. It was William Marrender.
Marrender was taller from the waist down than he
appeared when seated, or perhaps it was his thick grace-
less shoulders that accentuated his long legs so awk-
wardly. His lustreless brown eyes were inclined to
squint, and there were lines on his heavy face indicat-
ing that being a senior executive before he was forty
had produced attendant nerve strain. As he advanced
toward middle age those who knew frequently re-
marked on the increasing resemblance he bore in figure
to his grandfather, Robert Rufus Marrender, a pioneer
industrialist whose money had already been freely spent
by his descendants.
Marrender's resonant voice boomed into sudden com-
ment. "I see Gene lost no time. The damned bounder!"
He turned away from the wrecked room as if in disgust,
in which Asher could detect no trace of surprise or
curiosity, and then Cubbage stepped forward to tell the
eldest Marrender nephew how death had come to Wind-
ward Hill.


Chapter V
AN ALLY FOR ASHER
It was mid-afternoon before Tim Asher got back to
Headquarters. Lord, this was a tough break . . . the
Inspector called out of town to testify in the Haxon
trial and the Chief announcing that it was up to him—
Asher—to get the goods on somebody in this Windward
Hill mess.
Asher slumped wearily into the Inspector's own chair
before he was aware that there was a man behind the
spreadout newspaper in the window recess that looked
down upon Market Square. His grunt of welcome was
not as inhospitable as it sounded, for the young man
who emerged from the huskings of the afternoon edi-
tions was one for whom the more experienced men in
the department had a secret and growing respect.
"Hello, Stowe. Who let you in? Smelled trouble, I'll
bet."
"A call from your boss just before he left town this
noon, Timmy. He sort of hinted that you ought to let
yourself talk to me."
"About what, huh?"
"He didn't say, but I hope . . . whatever it was
broke out at Windward Hill."
"So Peyton told you to drop around." Asher relapsed
again into silence, but this time he was conscious of
a secret relief. If the responsibility of handling the
40


An Ally for Asher
41
Marrender case was to be turned over to him in Inspec-
tor Peyton's enforced absence, the Inspector had left
him an ally. By jiminy, he'd use the youngster. . . .
"Here's the dope, Stowe." Briefly Asher gave the
lazily attentive young man a report of the summons
to Windward Hill to investigate an apparent burglary,
and the discovery that Miss Eugenia Marrender had not
died naturally.
"Now here's my first idea—I don't mind trying it
out on you. The nurse has beat it already, and the but-
ler—oh boy, that butler! My bet is that bird and the
nurse cooked up this thing together. They had the place
to themselves last night and could have staged most
anything. And yet, Cubbage acts like he was going to
squeal on the nurse. He certainly is throwing dirt on
her every chance he gets. Then there's something phony
about the room that was entered and searched—that
looks like it was entered and searched. Cubbage gave
me a dirty look when I picked up two or three burnt
matches off the floor. There wasn't a trace of anything
interesting on the ground underneath the open win-
dows. The ground's bare and frozen and has been for
the last two weeks."
"How did Marrender explain his reference to Gene?"
"You mean when he lamped the wrecked room? He
didn't want to, Stowe, but at last I got him to say that
Eugene Tracy, a cousin who lives at Windward Hill
when he's in town, had been seen yesterday morning
coming away from the station, and that their aunt had
always said that Gene could have anything he wanted
from the little gallery. And then Cubbage produced a
message that he had received from Tracy. It stated that


42 Death at Windward Hill
he expected to return to Windward Hill Wednesday
night—that's tonight."
"Where did the message come from?"
"New York. Grand Central post mark. Just a com-
mon one-cent government post card, addressed to Cub-
bage and signed E. T. Both Cubbage and Marrender
identified the writing as Gene Tracy's. It was dated
Monday and came in the morning mail."
"Did Marrender see Tracy yesterday?"
"No, it was some girl in his office. We can check up
on her all right. But, say, if Tracy did tear up the room,
111 bet whatever made him do it will turn out to have
nothing to do with croaking the old lady. And if Tracy
didn't do it, then the butler and the nurse are in it up
to their necks."
"Why theorize so soon, Timmy?" There was nothing
condescending in Dick Stowe's quiet question, but
Asher bristled hotly.
"Theorizing, am I? Listen to this: I took a look
around the nurse's room—Cubbage was awfully afraid
I wasn't going to—and here's what I found."
He tossed across to Stowe a small box which held
loads for a .38 revolver. Stowe opened it carefully.
"That's all right," said Asher. "It's already been gone
over for prints. Just one of 'em missing, see? What'll
you bet the autopsy will show a .38 bullet?"
"Rather like a woman, I suppose, to put only a single
charge in her weapon ... or is it?" Stowe was so
apparently talking to himself that Astor made no
answering comment. He had one more broadside for
a climax.
"That's all I found in the nurse's room,- but when I
came out I noticed that the last door on the same side


An Ally for Asher
43
of the hall was standing partly open. Now, Stowe, I
can't be sure, but for the life of me I can't remember
seeing that door open when I first came up. Anyway,
I said to Cubbage, who'd stuck right at my heels all
along, 'What room's that?" and he says 'It's Tracy's.'
I stepped inside. It was dark and cold as a barn—plainly
hadn't been in use for some time. I pulled up the cur-
tains and then I could see that while everything else in
the room was as neat as wax one drawer in a chiffonier
was jerked partly open—a lower drawer. In one corner
there was folded a dressing gown of some soft flannel
stuff and on it I could see the impression of a heavy
object that had been lying there—an object the size and
shape, say, of a .38."
"Whew! That's hot stuff, Timmy. What are you
going to do about it?" Stowe stretched his long legs, and
thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets after decid-
ing that he did not want another of Asher's smokes.
"I got pictures of the impression, of course, and I'm
going to watch how long it takes it to fade out and
maybe I can get some idea how long the gun had been
lying there."
"Good man, Timmy. But the nurse—"'
"Sure, we're after her this minute. She's headed for
Paloma, and if we don't catch her at Atlanta we'll get
her down there. The reports from the post-mortem and
from Radge about finger prints will likely be ready
before I call it a day. . . ." Asher shifted his position
and the Inspector's chair squawked in protest.
"I suppose till we hear from Radge and the p.m. we
ought to go a little easy, huh?" There was an edge of
diffidence in Asher's words. "Marrender tried to lay
down the law about what could and could not be done


44 Death at Windward Hill
about interfering with the sacred grief of the bereft
family, but you know how much ice that cracks in our
racket. Though the Marrenders aren't Tom, Dick, and
Harry—"
"Which also cracks a little ice, as even yours truly has
observed from time to time," drawled Stowe.
"We'll be watching tonight to see whether Tracy
comes back, if we don't run him down anywhere in the
meantime. And Downer's out at the house now keeping
an eye on the butler. There's something damn fishy
about that guy, Dick. When I finally pinned him down
to a description of the woman who ran upstairs last
night, it was the world's worst—just a bunch of words.
I could arrest him right now as a material witness—"
"Just what did he witness, Timmy?"
Asher overlooked this, patiently. "I talked to the
woman who comes in every day to work, a plain old
hen named Banney. She says she saw the doctor's car
standing in the drive yesterday afternoon and heard a
woman talking in the sick room—a woman whose voice
reminded her of one of the nieces, a Mrs. Harris Lati-
mer. It was during the nurse's time off. That's got to
be checked up because Dr. Stuart said he hadn't been
in since yesterday morning. I couldn't get much out of
the Banney woman on the subject of Cubbage, but I'm
not done yet."
Stowe nodded approvingly. "The nurse, the butler,
and the wandering nephew are all good leads, Tim, but
I'd say that all the relatives ought to be looked up.
Eugenia Marrender was rich—scads of money, from the
space she's getting in the papers. She had been stricken
with a deadly disease, and yet someone could not wait
for her to die. Someone wanted something that only her


An Ally for Asher
45
death could procure. Her will must be looked up . . .
and then we may know which way to jump."
"I know what the boss meant—sending you around,
and I don't mind telling you that I'll be mighty glad to
turn that end of it over to you, especially the relatives."
Asher tried to be offhand.
"Consider it signed on the dotted line. I'm glad to be
kept out of mischief just now. My wife had to go out to
the Coast to see her mother through an operation, and
we had cleaned up every job we had before she left."
This was as direct a reference as Tim Asher had ever
heard from Stowe himself about the partnership that
existed between Richard and Laura Stowe. "Private In-
vestigations" their professional cards read and they must
have meant the word "private," for their names were
never featured in connection with the sensational cases
that from time to time titillated the Middle West. Yet
Asher knew that Inspector Peyton's brilliant work in
the affair of Burr Sanderson had been founded entirely
upon the activity of the young Stowes. There was more
than a rumor about the Templeby sapphires, too, and an
apocryphal legend concerning the solution of the McVey
murder. . . .
Thinking of all this, Asher played safe enough to
add, "At that, don't hesitate to horn in anywhere you
want. I mean, when you talk to the Marrenders, if you
get hold of anything else—"
"Sure thing, Timmy. It's a fifty-fifty job." Dick
Stowe rose and gave himself a mighty stretch. "I crave
to chat with Mr. William Marrender right now. Where
do you suppose I can wing him?"
"Try his house on the Levee Drive first. If he's not
there, he's probably gone back to Windward Hill."


46
Death at Windward Hill
At the door Stowe turned. "I say, Tim, there's one
part of your yarn you haven't finished. Just what was
stolen from that messed up room?"
Asher looked heavily mysterious as one who wished
to imply that the crux of a problem had at last been
pointed out. "Boy, nobody'll say. They either act like
they don't believe anything's gone, or else like they had
never paid enough attention to the junk that was in the
little gallery to be sure what was or wasn't missing, but
I'm telling you,"—Asher's light voice rose to a new high
of earnestness—"the family would just as soon soft-
pedal the wrecked room."
Dick Stowe opened the door, and then turned and
grinned at Asher before he stepped out. "Ah, Timmy,
don't get my hopes up like that. You make the case
sound like a magazine serial."
Instead of making his way directly to the correct
establishment on the Levee Drive where the William
Rufus Marrenders lived, Stowe presented himself at the
United Utilities Building and consulted "Information"
about his desire to see the third vice-president.
"Information," crisply efficient and hostess-like,
hoped that the caller had an appointment and sug-
gested that Miss Wilcox, Mr. Marrender's secretary,
might arrange one. Stowe was subsequently permitted
to enter the outer room of the third vice-president's
suite, where he was again stopped by an even more
smoothly efficient young woman.
"Mr. Marrender is not in. He will not be in for sev-
eral days. There has been a death in the family. . . ."
"I see. . . . Well, that's my bad luck, too, unless—"
To the secretary, the diffident young salesman who con-
fronted her was experiencing the dawn of an idea.
v


An Ally for Asher
47
"Is there any way in which I can help you?" she
asked mechanically. The younger they were the more
necessary they thought it that they should speak
directly to Big Business itself.
"It was really a kind of personal matter—not United
Utilities business, I mean. Not life insurance or a new
car, either. . . ." Dick stammered delightfully, and
Janet Wilcox hoped she looked fresher than she felt.
"I'll tell you what, if you could tell me the name of
Marrender's family lawyer, it would help a lot," he
blurted out in convincing youthful embarrassment.
"I can do that, surely." The girl's smile was genuine
now. "Bartholomew Dexter and Son is the firm in
charge of all of Mr. Marrender's private affairs. He
often mentions that it is a family habit, that the first
Dexter was his grandfather's lawyer."
Stowe thanked the secretary and began to back out.
"You've been so kind—maybe you could tell me some-
thing else. There's another member of the family that
I want to see, too, a man named Tracy." Dick consulted
a notebook with ostentation. "Eugene Tracy's the name.
Maybe you know where I could find him at this time of
day."
A cold, non-committal mask immediately slipped
down over the secretary's friendly eyes and her smile
turned professional again. "I do not know, sorry . . .
in fact, I do not recall the name."
"Now what the hell should she lie about that for?"
Dick asked himself as the descending elevator obeyed
his signal. "She may not have been the one who told
Marrender about seeing Tracy, but she knows the lad
and knows him well, or I'm not clicking today."


Chapter VI
THE MARRENDER HEIRS
StOWE'S next stop was at the old-fashioned offices
occupied by Bartholomew Dexter and Son in an out-
moded business block. Mr. Dexter was in, but just on
the point of leaving for the day. Could the gentleman
not call in the morning—at ten, inquired a pale, seri-
ous youth who doubtless attended law classes at the
Y. M. C. A at night. The gentleman could not, and
when he had further announced that his business con-
cerned the police the clerk produced his superior. His
excitement indicated that criminal law was not featured
in the offices of Bartholomew Dexter and Son.
The lawyer was a small, cushiony man, and Dick
promptly bet himself that he was the "Son" of the firm
name. He introduced himself as a special agent sent out
from Inspector Peyton's office. "Your probable surmise
is quite correct," he went on. "I am investigating the
matter of the death of Miss Eugenia Marrender, and I
have come to you because you may have been in charge
of her affairs."
The lawyer nodded his bald head in rapid assent.
"Yes, yes, but, my dear young sir, it must be immedi-
ately understood that publicity in the matter must be
held to the irreducible minimum. The Marrenders, you
know, the Marrenders—in short, the Marrenders are not
to be gossipped about publicly."
48


The Marrender Heirs
49
"But you, as a lawyer, know that the circumstances
of her death cannot be left uninvestigated."
"Yes, yes, quite so," twittered Dexter. "In fact, I said
as much to William this noon. Police inspection there
would have to be—no power under heaven could avert
it, but the publicity of the unprincipled press we could
and would divert. He quite caught my idea."
So William Marrender had entertained the notion
that a murder in the family need not go through the
hands of the police, thought Dick. Maybe the man had
his own reasons for being nervous. . . . Blandly he
assured the lawyer. "That is exactly how I hope to serve
your clients now. Not every activity of the local depart-
ment is carried on by the men in uniform, nor by the
police reporters either. Just now I'm after information
about Miss Marrender's will. To whom is her money to
go? Under the circumstances, I believe my question is
an ethical one."
Dexter blinked his eyes and twirled a heavy dark
cameo ring which he wore upon his left hand. He was
no fool; he knew well enough what the Marrenders
were about to be plunged into. Yet he might have
hedged had he not carelessly allowed his eye to wander
to the dispatch case, ready for his announced departure.
The annoyed jerk he gave his glance away from the case
completed his betrayal.
"If I may suggest," said Dick politely, "you have a
copy of the document at hand. Perhaps you were about
to check its terms before reading it to the family. All
I need is a bare statement of provisions and beneficia-
ries."
Bartholomew Dexter capitulated. After all, this
suave young man was much to be preferred to a cal-


50 Death at Windward Hill
lous reporter or a peremptory summons to Headquar-
ters. He rumbled into speech. "As a matter of fact, I
had just been looking over the instrument. I believe I
can satisfy you without reading it verbatim. The will
was executed some six months ago just after the physi-
cians had become certain about Miss Marrender's phys-
ical condition. It set aside a will made a number of years
ago, following the death of her father, Robert Rufus
Marrender, my father's friend and client."
Thus was Dick assured that he had won his wager.
Dexter went rapidly on, as if desiring to have done
with a distasteful necessity. "In brief, Miss Marrender
distributed the bulk of her estate among four of her
nieces and nephews, a sum approximating two hundred
thousand to each. The remainder, amounting to almost
another two hundred thousand, goes to various chari-
ties."
"The names of the legatees?" Dick's hint was gentle.
"William Marrender, his sister Sara, Mrs. Harris
Latimer, and Miss Francesca Penrose. The two last
named are sisters."
"Eugene Tracy is a nephew also, isn't he? Isn't he
named?"
"No." Dexter's answer wanted to be final, but duty
or something equally unpleasant committed him to fur-
ther explanation. "Miss Marrender informed me at the
time that she and her nephew had an agreement about
his omission from her will, and that in event of her
death a document would come to light that would make
the matter perfectly clear. However, she took me no
further into her confidence."
Dick purred at this bit of information, but he did
not allow his gravity to be outmatched by Dexter's.


The Marrender Heirs
51
"Were these bequests conditioned in any way?" he
asked.
The lawyer shook his head. "Not at all, and as far
as I am aware, her affairs are in excellent condition.
There will be no delay about probate. I might add, also,
that William Marrender is named as executor." He
cleared his throat abruptly. "And now, may I ask, what
use do you expect to make of this information?"
The change in Bartholomew Dexter was amazing.
His fussiness and air of decayed ineptitude were for the
moment sloughed off and Dick Stowe caught a glimpse
of the old war-eagle that his reputation echoed of.
"No use at all unless it helps to betray the murderer
of your client. Why should anyone have desired the
death of that helpless, dying old woman? I beg of you,
if you know anything that might point to a motive, be
frank with me, sir. Surely none of these four who
inherit so generously—"
Dexter waved Stowe to silence. "Unbelievable, young
man, unbelievable. They are persons of established posi-
tion, living in comfort. They could gain nothing by
forcing the time of their inheritance."
"True, of course." As one who was but mentally
reminding himself, Stowe murmured the names just
mentioned. "William Marrender has been remarkably
successful with United Utilities, hasn't he? Mrs. Latimer
is one of the younger social leaders, I believe, and her
sister—why, I have it now! I knew there was something
familiar about that name. Francesca Penrose is the
actress that the Theater League discovered so over-
whelmingly last season. Sara Marrender—Marrender's
sister, did you say? Possibly a girl so young as not yet
to have achieved a personality for herself."


52 Death at Windward Hill
"It's plain you don't know Sally," and Dexter
laughed so humanly that Stowe looked at him in some
curiosity. The old boy liked Sally, he concluded. There
was something positively grandfatherly about his "She's
a mere child, of course, but quite her own captain."
"I have just one more favor to ask, sir, at least for
this time." Again Dick's famous smile was soothing. "I
should like your word that you will say nothing to the
people whose names we have mentioned. I must work in
my own way, you understand, but I hope to convince
you that I can work with finesse and discretion."
The cameo ring was twirled violently, but the prom-
ise was given, and Dick Stowe bowed himself out in his
most finished style.
Down on the street at the first news stand he pur-
chased a theatrical weekly and verified an association he
had been conscious of ever since he had identified Fran-
cesca Penrose as the Francesca Penrose of the much dis-
cussed Theatre League play now on tour. Just as he
thought . . . that play had been in Cincinnati for a
week. Consequently Dick dispatched a detailed message
to a fellow operative in that city. Then he set out for
the Lindenwood address of the Harris Latimers, won-
dering if the unknown relative whom Cubbage had
not recognized might prove to be Francesca Penrose.
A car was waiting in the drive as he approached the
house. It was a smart, dark blue coupe, and when Dick
observed medical insignia on the wind shield he made
an automatic note of the license number of the car. A
maid, crisp in black and white, admitted him and bore
off his card, upon which he scribbled a few words. Nor
did he fail to note that the maid had read this notation
before she vanished from his sight.


The Marrender Heirs 53
The maid reappeared shortly and showed him into a
small, rather formal drawing-room. "Mrs. Latimer will
be in soon," she parroted. Removing the lid from an
extremely decorative inlaid box, she revealed an assort-
ment of cigarettes and then withdrew. Again Dick was
aware that the black and white maid was interested
either in him or in the purpose of his call.
There was nothing that he could do but wait. The
house, a charming place, was silent. The curtained door-
way that led to the hall was no barrier and from it Dick
deliberately reconnoitered. Still there was no sound of
interest. Then quite without warning a door swung
open a little further down the hall. He could see noth-
ing more than that, but he heard:
"— to worry about, darling. You're a precious little
fool."
This was followed by what sounded like a faint rush,
and then the unmistakable little rustles and murmurs
that accompany a certain stage of love making. About
that Dick Stowe considered himself quite competent to
judge. . . . The only other words he could distinguish
were spoken in a «ight, quick feminine voice. "But I
can't imagine where I left my gloves. It's worrying
me. ..."
When, shortly after, masculine steps issued from the
opened door, Dick was no longer at his post of vantage;
he was at a better one. From one of the long windows of
the little drawing-room he had an excellent view of the
waiting coupe and of the man who stepped briskly into
it. Dick stood looking after the departing car in fond
contemplation of a little new idea. Then a high, sweet
voice greeted him and he turned to meet Mrs. Harris
Latimer.


54 Death at Windward Hill
The woman to whom he addressed his skilful apolo-
gies was, if she had just participated in a passionate
farewell, at this moment completely mistress of herself.
As she listened assured in manner, she gave the impres-
sion of one whose regret at the death of a respected
elderly relative was as conventionally proper as the
occasion demanded. Katherine Latimer was a decorative,
silvery blonde; Stowe thought her beautiful. He ex-
plained himself briefly and she listened with grave
attention.
"My first question, Mrs. Latimer, is a very simple
one. When did you last see your aunt?"
She sighed softly before she spoke. "We were not par-
ticularly attentive to Aunt Eugenia. Indeed, she had
made it rather plain that we annoyed her, bored her,
what you will. She was an eccentric. You must not for-
get that, Mr. Stowe. But as for your question, I was
driving by Windward Hill yesterday and ran in to
inquire. She seemed just about as usual to me—had
little to say. But then, she was never given to small
talk."
"Were you driving alone? In your own car?" asked
Dick, mindful of what Mrs. Banney had said.
"Yes—that is, no. How stupid of me. I was driving
with Dr. Stuart. I am under his care—my wretched
nerves. He thinks fresh air will help to steady me."
Katherine Latimer's serene poise had vanished. Her
face sharpened tensely as she contradicted herself and
she bit her lips in exasperation.
The young man who observed her went on with his
business smoothly. "My second question is one that I
do hope you can answer. The household at Windward


The Marrender Heirs
Hill is so limited. . . . What can you tell me about
the man Cubbage?"
"Aunt Eugenia's butler? I'm afraid I can't qualify to
give him a reference, if that's what you mean."
"That's not what I mean—unless you mean that you
have some definite reason that would prevent your rec-
ommending him." Dick was as conscious as his hostess
was that they were playing for position.
"His manner of opening a door is abominable, and
I don't like the way he waxes floors, but aside from
that— At any rate, he must have pleased Aunt Eugenia
if for no other virtue than his economy with coal."
"How long has he been with your aunt? Where did
she get him? Were his references looked up?"
"With such a generous list of queries to choose from
I ought to be able to tell you something—but I'm afraid
I can't. A year ago, when I left for France, the man
was not in my aunt's employ; when I returned early
in October he was—that's all I know. I never discussed
him with Aunt Eugenia." She paused a moment and
chose a cigarette. Her poise had returned tenfold.
"Your questions call for facts which unfortunately I
do not possess, but may I share a suspicion with you?
I have seen this servant of my aunt's only three or four
times since my return last fall, and I must admit that
on those occasions I gave him the most casual sort of
regard. But I have seen him other places—I'm sure it
was he! Or else he has a most remarkable double."
Again she paused.
Stowe was patient.
"Early in December I was a guest at a rather inti-
mate little supper party that was given in honor of
Fells Lothrop—the English poet, you know. It was one


j 6 Death at Windward Hill
of those arty affairs where no one is introduced, but
one of the guests was my aunt's butler—or else his
son!"
Dick Stowe rather wished that Asher had not
assigned him so definitely to the Marrender relatives.
His immediate attention might better have gone to
Cubbage. What Mrs. Latimer was saying made that
only too clear. "Why do you qualify your identifica-
tion?" he asked.
"Because the man at the party was certainly much
younger than Cubbage. Otherwise the resemblance was
perfect."
"You saw him again?"
"Yes, not more than a month ago. A group of us
were slumming—this town has so little to offer in the
way of night life. We had gone to a dinky little cafe
out on the West End. The food was good, but aside
from that we were pretty much let down. At a table
next the wall I was certain that I saw Cubbage. The
lights were dim, so I can't be sure that he looked his
age, but it was his voice that attracted my attention
this time. I heard him speak in that perfectly intoned
accent of his. It's not one commonly heard from a
servant in the Middle West, you know."
"I'd like to make a note of those two dates, Mrs.
Latimer, if you can tell me exactly."
"Not offhand, I'm afraid, though I'm sure I can
figure it out from my engagement book. I shall be glad
to let you know later, if that will be of any help."
"Quite. And now for a third item. I understand that
your cousin, Eugene Tracy, makes his home at Wind-
ward Hill. Can you tell me where he could be found
now?"


The Marrender Heirs 57
Katherine Latimer's eyes, green with the lustre of old
turquoise, narrowed swiftly. "Oh, no one ever knows
where Gene is or what he's doing. He's the noncon-
formist of the clan. Whenever he's in funds, he's off;
when he hasn't a cent, back he comes to Windward
Hill. Frankly, I never understood his status with Aunt
Eugenia. I suppose she tolerated him because he was by
way of being her namesake, yet I've often felt that she
was afraid of Gene. There was a poisonous hatred
between them—don't ask me why. I don't know."
Stowe started to speak, but Katherine Latimer inter-
rupted with a quick appealing gesture. "Please—I
shouldn't have said that. You'll think I have no sense
of family loyalty. My beastly nerves. . . ."
Stowe's friendly smile was as disarming as he meant
it to be. "There's just one other matter I'd like to ask
you about. What was there at Windward Hill that
would attract thieves?"
"At last you have asked me a question that I can
answer definitely." The voice that answered him was
again- even and cool. "There is nothing of value at
Windward Hill. Aunt Eugenia lived very simply indeed
for a woman of her wealth. The house is shabbily fur-
nished. I'm sure it hasn't been redecorated for twenty-
five years. There are a few fine Early American pieces,
but the linen, silver, china, and so on are quite com-
monplace. She never cared for jewels; she sold the only
valuable piece she owned a few years ago—a gorgeous
emerald. I don't mind saying it should have been given
to one of her nieces. But she would have kept things
like that down at the bank along with her papers and
securities. My cousin William Marrender insisted on
that several years ago." She smiled brightly. "I have no


Chapter VII
RETURN OF GENE TRACY
Apparently Dick Stowe had paid little attention
to Katherine Latimer's announcement that she and her
cousin were going out to the bleak house on Windward
Hill, for from the Latimer establishment he went
directly to the Marrender address on the Levee Drive.
He asked, however, for Miss Sara Marrender. The serv-
ant who opened the door informed him, stiffly, that
Miss Marrender did not reside there.
"Where can I find her?" Stowe's watch was shot into
view, as if to indicate that time meant money.
"I can't say, sir, where she might be at the present,
but I presume that her business address remains the
same."
That did not enlighten Stowe. The servant rather
grudgingly emitted an address and then added as
though, after all, it was not his shame, "It's a store
called after her—Sally's Shop, or something like that."
Sally's Shop! Dick whooped silently. Sally's Shop, of
all the priceless luck. Off he went. He did not have to
be told how to find Sally's Shop. But wasn't he the
social innocent not to know that Sally of the Shop was
Sara Marrender in person?
On his way to the not quite aristocratic address of
what the Stowes called an old-fashioned general store
gone modernistic, Dick made hasty arrangements with


60 Death at Windward Hill
himself to be perfectly frank with this scion of the
Marrenders. He remembered how astutely she had sold
them a chest the Stowe menage had not exactly
needed. . . .
It was late when he reached the Shop. Sally's assist-
ants, both old enough to be her mother should she ever
need two, demurred singly and in duo when the impor-
tunate young man demanded to see Miss Marrender.
Unless, compromised the pudgy one, he was the man
about the hanging oil lamps that were to be shipped
up from Brown County. Obligingly, Dick was. . . .
When he opened the closed door at the back of the
two square old rooms that once had been front and
back parlors in the simple seventies, he found Sally
unpacking a barrel of old dishes. Before she could sink
from her knees to a more comfortable position on the
floor, the wily young investigator plunged into his
business.
"Maybe you recognize me, Miss Marrender. I hope
you do. My wife and I about furnished our whole
apartment from your last rummage sale. What you
don't know, I suspect, is that I am a detective—not a
divorce snooper. Lately I've been working almost alto-
gether with the local authorities, though officially I am
not of the police. At the present moment I am investi-
gating the murder of your aunt—"
"The murder of—my aunt! Aunt Genie! How grace-
fully you break news."
The words were flippant, but Dick Stowe could have
no doubt that Sara Marrender had not before known
that her aunt had not died a natural death. The bright
hazel eyes with their straight dark brows looked
v


Return of Gene Tracy 61
squarely into his. He watched the flicker of caution
in their depths.
"I had a message early this morning that she had
died, but I've had to be out of town nearly all day.
And then these shipments came in that I had to check
over at once. That old crook down in Georgetown
thinks I don't know my marbles. . . . I'm closing the
shop of course till after the funeral. But murder— Just
what do you mean?"
When Stowe had given the gravely attentive girl a
succinct account of what had transpired at Windward
Hill, her only comment was: "Why have you come here
to tell me this?"
"Because I must have the cooperation of every mem-
ber of Miss Marrender's family if I am to be so fortu-
nate as to solve the mystery of her death without
involving the Marrenders in a lot of screaming pub-
licity."
"That wouldn't be so bad for the shop, so you can't
chill my blood like that. . . . Oh, I mustn't talk in
that beastly way. Aunt Genie wasn't exactly popular
with us, but I needn't stick that juicy bit down the
public throat. You must believe me, Mr. Stowe, I want
to be of assistance to you. I'd say, from what you have
just told me, that it was the nurse and the doctor that
did the dirty work."
"The doctor? That's an interesting idea. How did you
get it?"
"Just plain cattishness, I'll have to confess. I don't like
Perry Stuart much, that's all."
There was something suspiciously discreet about the
frank expression. It led Dick promptly to his next ques-
tion. "Does Mrs. Latimer share that feeling with you?"


62 Death at Windward Hill
"Kaye? So you've heard that dirt tpo."
Dick plunged boldly ahead. "I've heard that there's
a divorce in the offing."
"No, you haven't heard that. Kaye couldn't bring
action against Harris Latimer in a thousand years, and
if she should let her foot slip so that he could sue her,
she'd not get alimony, and without money Stuart
would be a fool to try to handle Kaye."
"Thank you for so clearly pointing out the doctor's
motive."
Sally cast him a wry smile. "I advise you to think
that over again. In my own simple way I can see a
crack in your premise."
"When did you last see your aunt?" Thus Dick
waived her challenge.
"Strangely enough, yesterday morning. I hadn't been
out to Windward Hill since the Sunday before Christ-
mas. I was out trailing a corner cupboard on the Brook-
boro road and on my way back I ran in to see Aunt
Genie. She acted like an old she-devil, too, and I don't
mind saying it." Sally's eyes blazed with sudden anger.
"If she said or did anything that might throw any
light on what was to happen to her, I hope you won't
mind saying that also."
"Not at all." There was a curious dryness about the
girl's reply. "When I came in the nurse asked me to stay
with Aunt Genie for a few minutes, so there I was,
planted. She started to quiz me right away about my
business here—she's never approved of it, and the first
thing you know we were quarrelling. Bill's attitude to-
ward me may be positively medieval, but he's a grand


Return of Gene Tracy 63
brother, and I couldn't let her say what she did about
him."
"What did she say?"
"Why—er—that as a guardian for little sister he
wasn't so hot and a lot of tripe like that."
Sally's floundering reply was not convincing but of
that Dick Stowe gave no outward sign. Instead he asked,
"How did the nurse impress you?"
"Just as a good-looking girl who knew her business.
I saw her only for a few minutes when I first came in.
I got so mad at Aunt Genie that I walked out without
waiting for the nurse to come back."
"What can you tell me about the butler?"
"Nothing at all. I didn't get even a good look at
him—the hall at Windward Hill is a murky hole."
"What do you know about your cousin Eugene's
status with your aunt?"
"I like Gene! He's my favorite relative, usually. He
has never fit in with the Marrender traditions—not that
I hold that against him. Anything but! I wish Gene had
been at home when all this happened, for he's awfully
keen. Really, I can offer no better suggestion than that
you talk this whole mess over with Gene. He'll be back,
of course, the minute he hears. He's been in New York.
I had a note from him last week. He went to peddle his
new score. He expects to revolutionize musical comedy
some day."
"You haven't answered my question. How did he
rate with your aunt?"
"Relentless, aren't you? All I know is that they let
one another politely alone for the most part. She had
no patience with his musical ambitions. Why, she


Return of Gene Tracy 65
sidered opinion on the approximate time that death had
occurred was in keeping with Dr. Stuart's earlier esti-
mate—not earlier than midnight nor later than three
o'clock.
Second, Lieutenant Radge, in charge of Bertillon files
and finger print records, reported that the photographs
and other tests made of the window and door frames
in the little gallery, the box of ammunition found in
the nurse's room, and the edge of the open drawer in
Tracy's room showed no distinct finger prints, only
blurred smudges such as would have been left by gloved
hands. At this, Dick was reminded that a nurse would
undoubtedly have been supplied with rubber gloves,
that a butler with a fastidious accent might not always
have worked barehanded, and that anyone coming in
from outside on a winter night would naturally have
been gloved. On the medicine bottle, however, very
clear prints had been revealed. They corresponded with
quantities found in the nurse's room.
Third, so far Headquarters had not caught up with
the Randall girl, but the police at Paloma were waiting
for her the minute she stepped off a train. If she is
really guilty, thought Dick, she will have gone off in
another direction. The best proof in the world that she
isn't mixed up in what happened here is for her to
appear in Paloma. She'll have negligence to explain—
criminal negligence maybe—but not complicity in the
death of Eugenia Marrender.
Fourth, Asher had gone out to Windward Hill and
Stowe was to meet him there before the evening was
over.
An obliging underling just going off duty gave Stowe
a lift as far as the last quarter of a mile that led to


60 Death at Windward Hill
Windward Hill. The house stood on a gaunt bluff that
overlooked the lower reaches of the river that looped
its way through the city. The spectral grey-white syca-
mores that lined the climbing drive creaked in the win-
ter wind, and the three twisted pines that shielded the
house from the full force of the blasts threw black
shadows across its face. Stowe had almost reached the
narrow portico that marked the main entrance before
he could detect glimmers of light from any window.
The upper rooms were in darkness; the curtains below
carefully drawn.
A familiar signal stopped him. It was Tim Asher.
"That you, Dick? Good boy! The family's inside—
some of 'em, and the lawyer. I had to tell that old bird
where to get off. They had the idea that if they said so
we'd just drop the whole business. They still think
they're going to step on the newspapers. But, listen,
they've kindly consented to let us investigate discreetly.
That means you're elected—no kiddin'. There's nothing
discreet about me, and as I'm the temporary boss I'm
wishing it off on you. And Heaven help you, Dick, if
you let me down!"
"Tim, you call me a White Hope at your own risk.
What are you up to now?"
"I'm browsing around on the chance of catching
Tracy. If he should come in tonight from New York,
it will be the 8:52. One of the boys that knows him
by sight is down there to tail him, but it's my bet that
he's going to drop some other way."
"Who's inside?"
"Relatives. They're talking funeral arrangements
now—that's why I thought it was safe to blow for a


68 Death at Windward Hill
A shapeless, middle-aged woman sat at a high, zinc-
covered table, a generous pot of tea at her elbow. She
was talking; Dick could see the soundless motion of
her lips. At first he could not see who it was she was
addressing. Then a younger woman crossed the line of
his vision and began to hang towels in a row behind
the stove. This woman said nothing, but jerked her
head in what looked like angry dissent from time to
time. In a moment, just as Dick was about to knock
at the door to announce his presence, the woman at the
table leaned forward as if listening alertly and held
up her cup in imperative caution. A second afterwards,
a door swung open and a man appeared.
Cubbage, labelled Dick promptly. Tall and thin and
slightly stooped—that was as far as Dick got in inven-
tory before the man withdrew through the door by
which he had entered. He had deposited a tray of empty
coffee cups upon the table. Six of them, Dick counted.
Mrs. Banney—Dick concluded that the woman at the
table must be she—listened stiffly for a moment and
then plunged again into peremptory argument. This
time she illustrated her remarks by something which
she drew out of the pocket of her apron. Dick had some
trouble in seeing that this object was a bit of fine-linked
chain. It interested him so extremely that again he raised
his hand to knock on the door.
Once more his purpose was delayed. A sound
reached his ears. A sound from without, not within, a
sound that was coming to him from below. Swiftly he
leaped from the porch and ran across what by daylight
might be a drying green or a kitchen garden. The
ground sloped away beneath his feet. If his one remem-
bered view of Windward Hill by daylight was serving


Return of Gene Tracy 69
him well now, the bluff upon which the house was built
overhung the river steeply at this point. There must be
some sort of path leading from the tow path below to
the house above; undoubtedly someone was stumbling
upward through the darkness.
Stowe darted back to the shadow of the porch and
crouched behind a colony of refuse containers.
Eugene Tracy had walked the long river way out to
"Windward Hill. By the time he begnn to climb the
rutted path that led to the back of his aunt's house,
his head was mercifully much clearer. He had not
elected to walk for that purpose, much as his head
needed that sort of attention. He had walked because
there was, so strangely, no money in his pockets. And
the last thing that he could remember was that there
had been quite a surprising lot of money . . . money
and the flashing eye of a jewel. Maybe Esme could
explain about the emerald. The little devil. . . .
God . . . but he was tired and hungry. He mounted
the last rise before the path swung round the tool house
to the kitchen door. This dismal old house was the
worst place in the world for him to come back to after
what he'd just taken, but who was he to crab about
that? If only he could catch the little nurse, she'd
rustle a bit of supper for him. She'd be glad to, if he
knew his Eves. . . .
He stumbled against the steps that led to the porch
and steadied himself by clutching at the screen, which
protested rustily and must have announced his arrival to
those within. The door swung open. Mrs. Banney's
voice reached Stowe's eager ears.
"Here's Mr. Gene now. They been expectin' you, you
■


70 Death at Windward Hill
poor boy, you. It's like this—your poor old auntie, she
passed away unexpected like. . . ."
The door closed and Dick heard no more. Within
Mrs. Banney went on talking . . . talking, but to
Eugene Tracy her words did not make sense. He hadn't
thought Aunt Eugenia would die. . . .


Chapter VIII
FRANCESCA PENROSE
W HEN Dick Stowe opened his eyes next morning
at the insistent command of an alarm clock, he was
immediately conscious that extra sleep ought to be
coming his way after the night's work that Asher and
he had put across. True, they had not got much out of
Tracy, only his persistent refusal to explain his move-
ments for the past twenty-four hours. They had kept at
him until he collapsed, but they would begin again this
morning just where they had pinned him down last
night. . . . He'd have to talk, after that melodramatic
accusation of Cubbage. Cubbage had been good, really
superb. Dick complimented him in retrospect.
"Explain!" Tracy had screeched. "I can explain my-
self perfectly. Just as soon as I can remember, I tell you!
But till then, there's the man who must explain. He—he
knows something!"
And then Tracy had fainted like a neurotic woman.
Cubbage had picked him up and laid him on a couch.
Then he had turned to Asher and himself. "Gentlemen,"
he had intoned, "the poor lad's secret is safe with me
until he himself gives me permission to speak. Till then
I have nothing more to say."
And by the Lord Harry, he hadn't said another word.
Asher had third-degreed him till after two, but he had
stood up under it like a man of iron. They had been


72 Death at Windward Hill
obliged to call Dr. Stuart to quiet Tracy's jumping
nerves and the doctor had suggested a bromide for
Cubbage, but the man had refused it, chastely request-
ing only a glass of water after his ordeal.
Thus Dick stretched himself out of his pajamas and
under a shower. At the most impossible moment of this
rite a night letter arrived. The message was from Cin-
cinnati and informed him:
ON NIGHT MENTIONED SUBJECT LEFT CITY BY MOTOR
AFTER PLAY STOP DID NOT RETURN TO LIVING QUARTERS
TILL LATE NEXT MORNING STOP HAS BEEN OPENLY
TRYING TO RAISE FUNDS BUT UNABLE TO DISCOVER
PURPOSE STOP SHALL I CARRY ON? PEEDEE.
Dick whistled gayly. There were motives springing
up all over the lot, except for the two who most ob-
viously had had the best opportunity for staging the
crime, the nurse and the butler. Any moment now
ought to bring word from Paloma, and that would
mean a showdown of sorts for the nurse. As for the
relatives of the dead woman, it might be interesting to
know if they were informed about the terms of the
will. There was Katherine Latimer . . . two hundred
thousand dollars would make an alimonyless divorce no
barrier at all. Yet why hurry a matter that through Dr.
Stuart she could not fail to know would be consum-
mated naturally within a few months of waiting? Nor
must he forget that Asher had reported that Stuart had
given a satisfactory account of his movements on the
twenty-first. And the Sally kid had cheerfully admitted
to quarrelling with her aunt about something that con-
cerned her brother. That was an interesting thought. . .


Francesca Penrose
73
he'd hold it for a while. There was the fact that William
Marrender had tried to sh-ush the police in their investi-
gation of the murder. Decidedly he must cast an eye on
William Marrender. Then there was PeeDee's line on
Francesca Penrose, who'd been trying to raise a lot of
money in a hurry and hadn't been home on the night
in question. A chat with Francesca must go on the
program too. Hold on . . . she couldn't be the un-
identified caller. At that hour she had not yet left Cin-
cinnati.
Aside from what Cubbage had said, there was more
than one reason for considering Gene Tracy's position.
His own inexplicable behavior . . . Mrs. Latimer's re-
mark about the strained relations betwen him and his
aunt . . . Marrender's fury when he beheld the state
of the little gallery. Sally was the only one of the clan,
so far, to speak of him with sympathy. Yet the Mar-
render money could not be a motive in Tracy's case,
for he was the only one of the group who was not to
inherit. Wait a minute . . . what had Dexter said
about an agreement that would come to light after Miss
Marrender's death? Dick's whistle sank to a faint
pianissimo. That was it! That was the document that
had been searched for in the little gallery. With that
agreement out of the way, the disinherited one could
claim his legal rights. The Marrender million would have
to be split five ways instead of four. Tracy looked clever
enough to work out an elaborate plot. If he had pulled
off anything like that, no wonder he had gone on a
bender afterwards.
These setting-up exercises of Stowe's ended with a
call at Headquarters. There was nothing new, though
they were expecting any minute to hear that the nurse


Francesca Penrose
75
Her words came with husky rapidity. "I was rather
expecting you—someone. But I made you wait because
I was deciding what I should tell you."
She stopped speaking as suddenly as she had begun
and the narrowed dark eyes swept Stowe speculatively.
"It's not that I am afraid to talk, please understand.
I intend to tell you exactly what I did the night my
aunt was killed. You'll probably not want to believe
me. ...
Still Dick Stowe was silent. If she intended to stage a
scene, let her go to it, he was advising himself.
After a moment the husky voice went on. "On Tues-
day night at the close of the play Mr. Galeotti and I
left the city immediately. Galeotti was driving his own
car. ¥e took the Dayfield road, but my destination was
Windward Hill. It was nearly two o'clock when we
arrived, as Galeotti was not familiar with the route. At
the entrance to the drive I got out of the car and went
on up to the house alone. I ran around the side of the
house to the gallery window, pushed it up, and stepped
inside. I had brought a flash light, of course, and it did
not take me long to get what I had come for. It was
just where Aunt Eugenia had told me it would be. . . .
Then I left the way I had come and rejoined Galeotti.
We drove on to Columbus—Galeotti had an engage-
ment there. After a bite of breakfast together I came
back here by train."
She paused again, as if she expected to be interrupted,
but Dick said nothing. She went on more slowly. "I'll
confess that Will's—my cousin's telegram was a shock.
All he said was that Aunt Eugenia had died. It was not
till later that I was informed that she had been shot.
At first I thought I shouldn't mention my visit to


76 Death at Windward Hill
Windward Hill, but—I have been very frank,
haven't I?"
Francesca Penrose leaned back in her chair perfectly
at ease. Her eyes, limpid and untroubled, rested confi-
dently upon the young man whose amazement was only
too evident. Her attitude announced that she had done
her complete duty.
Stowe bit back the words that he was tempted to say
and thanked her punctiliously for her information.
"However, Miss Penrose, you must appreciate that I
cannot quite consider your statement complete. I shall
have to ask you—"
"Of course, Mr. Stowe. But your questions will prob-
ably touch upon details of the situation at Windward
Hill of which I am completely ignorant."
"I think not. . . . For instance, what was it you
entered your aunt's house to procure?"
"Oh! That was careless of me. Of course you would
want to know that. There were some papers which
Aunt Eugenia had given me permission to use. She had
already told me where I should find them. You see,
I had made these arrangements with her previously."
"What was the nature of these papers? In what way
could you make use of them?"
"Do you have to know that?"
Dick's steady eyes demanded an answer.
"They were—negotiable securities and I have already
used them as I needed to. I see no reason for telling you
why I had to make this arrangement with my aunt. It
was a bit unusual, but perfectly clear between us. I left
a receipt just as she asked me to do."
"Left a receipt? Where?"
"Where I found the securities. My aunt had requested


78 Death at Windward Hill
arranged to have a gallery window unlocked. Obviously
not Cubbage. There must have been another key beside
his. . . ."
"I don't know, but if Aunt Eugenia had had another
one that afternoon, I think she would have sent me
down to the little gallery to get the envelope."
"Whoever had one was someone she could count on
seeing within the next few days, and that eliminates—"
Dick did not finish that sentence but directed an apolo-
getic smile at Francesca Penrose. "I'm not trying to
insult you, Miss Penrose, but how can you verify what
you have been telling me?"
"I see what you mean. Unfortunately for me, Aunt
Eugenia is dead. There's the receipt I left."
"Ah, yes . . . the receipt," murmured Dick
thoughtfully. "Why don't you refer me to Galeotti? At
least you could provide him with an identity."
"Gallo Galeotti! It's quite evident you're not—"
"I'm only a detective, Miss Penrose." Dick grinned
cheerfully.
"Galeotti's etchings are rather well known. He's ex-
hibiting here just now. We are good friends." A new
note vibrated in her husky voice. "All that he could tell
you would be about the drive from here to Columbus
and the fifteen-minute stop at Windward Hill. I'm sure
I did my little errand within that time."
Abruptly Stowe dropped the subject of Gallo Gale-
otti. "In what condition did you find the little gallery
when you entered it?"
"Just as I last remembered it. Aunt Eugenia never
shifted furniture about. Of course I didn't stand about
taking inventory. I made a bee line for the book case."
"And in what condition did you leave the room?"


Francesca Penrose
79
"Just as I found it, of course. But what do you
mean?" The actress in Francesca Penrose was not re-
sponsible for the puzzled look that swept across her
face.
However, Dick countered with another question.
"You said Mr. Marrender informed you of your aunt's
death. May I see the wire?"
"If I still have it." Her hands, small and delicate,
darted capably through a heap of odds and ends on the
table at her elbow. She tossed him a yellow envelope.
In eight impersonal words William Marrender had an-
nounced his aunt's death.
"Later you heard—?" prompted Dick.
"My sister, Mrs. Latimer, called me by long distance
just as I reached the theatre for the matinee. She told
me that Aunt Eugenia had been shot and that it looked
like murder. And what should she do? My sister Kath-
erine is like that . . . excitable, you know. I did what
I could to quiet her, but I couldn't talk long—I had
barely time to make up and go on. Of course I searched
the evening papers. There was nothing but a death
notice, for which I was grateful. I mean, no sensational
headlines. Then I called our lawyer myself and Barty,
the old lamb, assured me that there was going to be the
least possible unpleasantness for the family, and so on.
Now what is there that I don't know?" she ended.
"Evidently you have not been informed that the little
gallery was broken into and turned upside down, as
if the intruder was searching for something. Both win-
dows were found standing wide open yesterday morn-
ing and everything in the room had been gone
through."
"Then—my receipt!" gasped Francesca.


80 Death at Windward Hill
"I don't know. It may still be there. But let me tell
you one thing—if your receipt has disappeared and if it
can be used against you in any way, my guess is that
you'll hear about it in pretty short order. If that should
happen, get in touch with me at once—at once. Will
you promise?"
"Yes, I promise," she agreed flatly.
"Another thing, while you were in the little gallery
did you try the door that leads into the hall to see
if it was locked?"
"No, oh, no. I had just one thing on my mind, Mr.
Stowe. Only one thing."
"Do rally round, Miss Penrose. During that short
time that you were at Windward Hill did you note any-
thing at all that might help us to understand what hap-
pened? Sounds—lights—wasn't the well-known fem-
inine intuition sparking any static or anything?" Dick
was boyishly insistent.
She shook her head almost sullenly. "You say that
both windows were found open? I've been so childishly
frank with you. . . . How can you believe me when
I say that it was the left-hand window that I found
unlocked, and that when I left the room I drew it down
again just as I found it? You'll build a marvellous cir-
cumstantial case against me—"
"Please, Miss Penrose, you've been splendid! Surely
you see that it's the nurse and the man servant who are
going to be in the tightest hole. By the way, you must
have seen those two last week when you called on your
aunt. How did they impress you?"
"I didn't see the man. A heaving creature in a dirty
apron answered the bell—"
"Sounds like Mrs. Banney," labelled Dick.


Francesca Penrose
81
"The nurse said I might stay about fifteen or twenty
minutes and disappeared. She was a usual type—more
than pretty, but out of sorts about something, I
thought. I can imagine that Aunt Eugenia was a trying
patient."
"When did you last see your cousin, Eugene Tracy?"
It was plain that the question had not been anticipated,
yet the actress's answer came suavely. "Two months ago
in New York. Just before this League play went on
tour."
"On what terms were he and his aunt living to-
gether?"
"Please, Mr. Stowe, I'd rather not discuss Gene. He—
he resents what little success I've had. It's not that I'm
trying to conceal anything from you, only—Gene
would loathe being discussed by me."
"I see. . . ." (He didn't at all—not then.) "There's
just one more thing on my mind. Since your aunt con-
fided in you about the securities, maybe she mentioned
other valuables that might have been hidden in the little
gallery. There must have been something at Windward
Hill worth breaking in for."
Francesca answered with quick laughter. "I'm so glad
you spoke of that. At last I can give you the melodra-
matic sort of information the occasion calls for. There
was Aunt Eugenia's emerald brooch. I never knew she
had such a lovely thing till that afternoon last week. She
told me where to find it in her bureau drawer, but I
decided it was too complicated a process—" She fell
silent in dismay.
Dick completed her sentence. "—raising money
quickly on a thing like that."
She nodded and a second later shrugged her shoulders.
r


82 Death at Windward Hill
"It's worth a tremendous lot. What a gorgeous pendant
it would make! I never saw a bigger emerald and there
was a double row of diamonds outlining it. But I put
it back, and then Aunt Eugenia thought of the bonds."
"Do you mind telling me where you replaced the
brooch?"
"Not at all—heaven grant you find it there! I
realize how I am hanging myself. I returned it to the
place where she had told me to look for it, in the middle
drawer of her bureau in the corner at the back on the
left-hand side. There's an old-fashioned velvet handker-
chief case there and down among the handkerchiefs
wrapped in a little twist of wrinkled white tissue paper
you should find the emerald brooch."
After Stowe had gone, Francesca Penrose continued
to sit motionless in the chair in which she had faced his
questions so gallantly. Her bright head drooped . . .
perhaps so that the trouble in her clear grey eyes need
not be betrayed.


Chapter IX
DEATH COMES AGAIN
FrOM Francesca Penrose's apartment Stowe went
directly to a dealer's and obtained Galeotti's address.
Fifteen minutes later he was being shown into the
artist's hotel sitting-room. The appearance of the Ital-
ian was not as exotic as his name had led Dick to expect.
He was inclined to be explosive as Dick explained his
business; then he calmed surprisingly and answered
questions with a docile promptness.
First Stowe assured himself that Francesca Penrose
had not forewarned her friend by telephone. Galeotti
glared at the instrument accusingly and insisted that
not once had it summoned him that morning. Then
Dick set to work to verify the actress's story. It was
quite as she had said—the times, the route, the brief
pause at the old house.
"Just two o'clock while I waited there for the signora.
She would not permeet that I go with her. But not long
was it that I wait. She must have run back, that one.
She pant and shiver and breathe queeck when she re-
turn. Almost I theenk she have been frightened, but no,
she say not so. We drive on and Francesca"—he used
the beautiful Italian pronunciation—"warm her cold
shaking hands in the pocket of my great-coat."
"Where were her gloves?" Stowe asked quickly.
"That careless one, she have drop them somewhere.
83


84 Death at Windward Hill
She had them when we leave the theatre." Galeotti went
on to speak of the subsequent miles to Columbus, and
Dick could see no reason to doubt the actress's story.
He was ready with another question to start the fluent
voice again.
"While you were waiting at the entrance of the drive
did you observe anything that I might find interesting?"
"How do I tell what you find interesting? It was a
very black night, you understand, and there was much
wind. I try to watch the signora as she hurry along the
drive, but in one little minute I can see nothing. I look
toward the house where the ancient aunt lie so ill. All
I can see that indicate there must be a house up there
in the blackness is one faint little light. That must be
in the apartment where is the seeck woman, I tell my-
self. The road is silent also. One car only go by."
Galeotti paused. He appeared to be considering some-
thing in a new light. "I am glad I recall this car. Per-
haps you find it of interest. It come from direction of
the town to which we have almost arrive. It slow as if
to enter the drive and then swerve out and pass on,
perhaps because my car was observe. I wait without
lights, you understand, as Francesca request."
"What sort of car? Who was in it?"
Galeotti shrugged wearily. "How you tell those
things? All I know is that I see the white blur of faces
in a small closed car."
Further questions on Stowe's part led to nothing, and
when a prospective purchaser of etchings was an-
nounced he was content to bring the interview to a
close. Thanks to his own long legs he just managed to
catch the next bus for Dayfield. During the journey he
sorted out impressions, warm with self-satisfaction over


Death Comes Again
85
his morning's work. He'd tackle Cubbage next. ... It
was only a hunch, of course, but what if Cubbage had
himself staged the confusion in the little gallery? He
might have witnessed Francesca Penrose's unconven-
tional entrance and for purposes of his own, so far un-
revealed, be keeping silent. Thus Dick Stowe theorized
happily, but the fond pride with which he regarded his
acumen was soon to be deflated.
He was still sitting on the world when he reported at
Headquarters. Just wait till he told Asher about the
receipt and the emerald. . . .
"Asher wants to see you, Stowe," yelled the desk-
sergeant the instant he entered the first office. "And
don't let that guy Carney wiggle in when you open
the door either."
A ubiquitous police reporter grinned and lighted an-
other cigarette. "Don't raise your blood pressure over
me, Freddie. I get my tips from the higher-ups, and
I'm sticking, see." He winked jovially at Stowe as the
latter opened the Inspector's door, but his quick eye,
Dick observed, leaped to the vista afforded by the
briefly swung door.
It was a wild-eyed and flushed Asher that jammed a
telephone receiver back upon its hook and turned to
greet him. "For the love of Lulu, Dick, where have you
stuck yourself? It's all over but the trimmin's—"
"Why the lack of poise, old horse? Have I missed
something?"
Asher's gesture was indescribable. "It's Cubbage. He's
bumped himself off."
"So that's the answer. . . . Well, talk it all out, and
you'll feel better, honest you will." Dick's facetious
manner served for the moment to cover the chagrin


Death Comes Again
"It's this, Mr. Stowe. Most amazing, really." He
waved a letter about but did not offer it to Dick. "It
occurred to me that you might find it of interest, as it
purports to be a message from the late Miss Marrender."
Stowe's gesture was peremptory, but still Dexter did
not relinquish the sheet clutched in his hand. "Shades
of the spirit world," thought Dick, "what's going to
break?"
Dexter, it appeared, wished to marshal his informa-
tion in an orderly recital before he permitted his caller
to read the letter. The envelope bore the local postmark
and the current date. The twenty-second was a legal
holiday, the little man carefully emphasized. The letter
itself was dated the twenty-first. It had been delivered
at his office this morning, the twenty-third, but Dexter
himself had seen it for the first time little more than
a half hour before. His liver had not been quite normal,
he explained, and his wife had thought it wise for him
not to come down to his office at his usual hour. Thus
it was that a letter written some time on the twenty-first
had not been read until the middle of the afternoon of
the twenty-third. Then and then only was Dick Stowe
allowed to take the epistle in his hands. He read:
Windward Hill
February 21, 1928
"My dear Mr. Dexter:
Miss Marrender requests that you call upon her at
your earliest convenience, as she has a matter of business
that demands attention.
Yours truly,
Doris Randall."


90 Death at Windward Hill
"Written by the missing nurse," was Stowe's first
comment and for some minutes his only one. His next
was the inevitable question: "Have you any idea what
she wanted to see you about?"
"Naturally not," Dexter sputtered, "except that I
recall that the last time I was in conference with the
late Miss Marrender—the occasion was the drawing up
of the will about which you have already inquired—she
remarked to me that, unless she should wish to alter the
instrument, that was very likely the last business I
should need to perform for her."
"Then there's the possibility that it was something of
that sort that she wanted to see you about, isn't there?"
"A possible reason, I grant you, but one not very
solidly founded."
Which Dick granted him, also. "I say, Mr. Dexter,
were any of the heirs acquainted with the terms of Miss
Marrender's will?"
Dexter bristled. "Not through this office, sir. Miss
Marrender herself told me that she had never given any
of the young people reason to expect a cent from her.
A woman of strong character, sir."
"If I could find out who knew she might be changing
her will," Stowe was beginning when Asher's unmis-
takable signal rose from the traffic below. He bade the
lawyer a polite good afternoon and departed, neatly
forgetting to return the letter. On the. way out to
Windward Hill he appeared to be more interested in
letter boxes than in Asher's elegant and improving con-
versation. When he had spotted the box nearest the
entrance to the Marrender house, he jumped out of the
car and made a note of its scheduled hours of collection.
The cheerless house on Windward Hill was in charge


Death Comes Again
91
of the police, although Mrs. Banney and Mabel still
held their ground in the kitchen. They were reinforced
by a cub from the department to keep back reportorial
initiative, against which the women's friendliness could
never have coped. So, without delay, Asher and Stowe
found themselves within the little gallery.
Many of the books ranged upon the shelves of the
corner case had been tumbled to the floor, but those on
the lower shelf were not noticeably disturbed. All but
the first volume of the row of Gibbon were still in
place. Dick marched directly to them and pulled out
the fourth and fifth volumes and lifted them apart. No
paper fluttered to the floor.
"She was stalling, Dick. You might have known—"
"Maybe, and yet—well, it occurs to me that the
receipt could be used rather skilfully by the villain in
the piece."
"Don't kid yourself. No such paper came to light
when the mess was searched—and the boys did a good
job."
"All right, let's not waste any more time down here
theorizing about it. The jewelry's next."
Again the door of the little gallery was closed and
locked. The two men climbed the flight to the upper
hall and unlocked the door of the room where Eugenia
Marrender had died. Within an orderly peace prevailed.
The curtains were drawn, the furniture ranged sedately
against the walls, the wide bed covered only by an old-
fashioned heavy white spread. The drawers in the mar-
ble-topped black walnut bureau were not locked. Slowly
Stowe drew out the middle one and saw at once the
velvet handkerchief case which Francesca Penrose had
described.


92 Death at Windward Hill
He folded back its quilted flaps and thrust his fingers
into its depths. They closed about a bit of tissue paper.
But his fingers told him before he looked that the twist
of paper was empty. The emerald and diamond brooch
had disappeared.


Chapter X
PEN IN HAND
Excerpt from a letter written Thursday evening,
February 23rd, by Richard Stowe to his wife Laura:
"... so it's going to do to say the butler murdered
her. But before I can quite believe it I'd like to know
more about Cubbage. I could kick myself from here to
you for not concentrating on him from the first, but
Asher wished the relatives on me. It looks as if the man
had destroyed everything that could give him back-
ground, and that fits in with the suicide theory, all
right, but the pocket full of morphine is the reason
that idea isn't on the up and up with me. Here's my
slant on it—I think Cubbage was thinking of suicide
but somebody beat him to it. It just about adds up to
this: if Cubbage killed himself, then he must have mur-
dered Miss Marrender; if somebody else killed Cubbage,
it must have been because he knew who the real mur-
derer was. Ergo, the same murderer did for both of
them.
"I'm hoping I can get something out of Gene Tracy
about Cubbage. I understand I am to see him the first
thing in the morning and, of course, he'll quail before
Dick the Deadly, eh, La La? Just the same I'd like to
know why the rest of the Marrenders have such a snooty
attitude toward cousin Gene. 'Tain't right. Maybe it
wasn't Will Marrender's secretary who saw Tracy Tues-
93


94 Death at Windward Hill
day morning, but I have a hunch that dame will spill
something yet.
"Who was searching for what in the little gallery?
The agreement that stated the case between Tracy and
his aunt? Francesca's receipt? Or something so far un-
known? Francesca had a flash light, but somebody else
left a trail of burnt matches. Said matches are unlike
any variety stocked at Windward Hill, so Asher's co-
horts report. I'm willing to go on record that F. told
me the truth—but not all of the truth. Could she have
had any other experience during her visit to the house
that would account for her shaken state when she
returned to Galeotti? Oh, I know . . . what she had
told me she had done would have made any girl slightly
breathless.
"Then there's a mess of little items that keep annoy-
ing me. Two pairs of missing gloves ought to be checked
in somewhere. Both Mrs. Latimer and the fair Francesca
seem to be minus a pair. For some reason, too, I'm curi-
ous about the length of chain that Mrs. Banney pulled
out of her apron pocket last night. I'll get after that
tomorrow when I go out to talk to Tracy. Another pet
idea I have is that the visitor whom Cubbage couldn't
or wouldn't identify might not have left the house until
much later in the evening. If I do say it, La La, that's
a swell hunch.
"Time out, just at this point, Laura. Headquarters
called with the latest dope. Asher's line now is that the
nurse might have gone to Chicago. There was a west-
bound train waiting to pull out at the same time the
Cincinnati train left. Dr. Stuart's office girl says that
Doris Randall stopped there on her way to the station
Wednesday morning, and Stuart says he met her at the
station and explained that her reservations would be
waiting for her in Cincinnati. He put her on the right


Pen in Hand
9S
train himself but left immediately afterward, as he was
pressed for time. So she could have switched trains. Fur-
thermore, the doctor's reservation was not called for.
Asher checked on that. If she took the Chicago train,
she got there about six last night and so has a twenty-
four hour start on us. The doctor's girl gave us a
crackin' good description of the nurse; Stuart's was as
dumb as a man's usually is.
"After all, the whole case hinges on this: what is the
nurse's story? My bet is, over and above everything else,
she walked off with the emerald. Asher is fine-combing
all the fences on his list, however. . . ."
Dick finished his letter and as a final inspiration af-
fixed an air-mail stamp to it, for his conscience told
him he should have written the night before. Three
days later, when Laura Stowe read the letter, she
straightway wired a discreet, impersonal inquiry which
was not addressed to her distant partner. But in the
meantime . . .


Chapter XI
TWO PIECES OF CHAIN
Before nine o'clock the next morning Dick Stowe
was again on his way to Windward Hill, specifically
detailed to interview Eugene Tracy. Mrs. Banney ad-
mitted him. One of Asher's men, Benny Parks, lounged
sleepily in the hall. "Go right on up," he whispered.
"That bird's no more pie-eyed than I am this morning."
Mrs. Banney lumbered ahead of Stowe. At the top
of the flight he put one question to her. "How many of
the family do you know by sight?"
"All of 'em. Why, me an' Mabel . . ."
"Fine. I want a talk with you a little later, Mrs. Ban-
ney. You're a woman of judgment. ... Is this Tracy's
door?"
Mrs. Banney creaked down the back stairs. Her self-
esteem deserved another cup of coffee. Anyways, there
was no sense wastin' all that double cream. . . .
A slender figure, not quite of average height, stood
looking out of a window down upon the wind-blown
dregs of a last summer's garden. He turned as the door
opened and closed, and gave Stowe an enigmatic glance.
Then he gestured abruptly toward the only comfortable
chair the room offered and laughed mirthlessly. "I
thought you'd be a hard-boiled old precinct captain,"
he said, not too distinctly.
Stowe's first impression of Eugene Tracy, the night
96


Two Pieces of Chain
97
he had stumbled into the kitchen, had not been favor-
able. This morning he felt as if he were facing a differ-
ent man altogether. He was still white and weak, but
his eyes were clear and his person fastidiously in order.
He thrust his long slender hands, artist's hands, down
into the pockets of his shabby dressing gown and
perched himself with an attempt at nonchalance upon
the foot-board of the bed.
"Well," he challenged, "why don't you produce the
thumb-screws?"
"Just as you say," Dick returned amiably, "but the
fact is that the man Cubbage's suicide makes most of
the questions that I was popping with the other night
look a bit silly now." As he spoke he watched Tracy
intently, but had to conclude that the mention of the
butler's end had caused no nicker of expression. "Of
course, there's one big question that he left unanswered
—the one you yourself raised. Just what was it that
Cubbage could have explained? You said he was the
one who knew something."
"Did I? How I must have raved. . . . Did I say, also,
that I knew what it was? If I did, then I surely was all
the way off my nut."
"Yeah? After you passed out the other night, Cub-
bage was very grand and noble about declaring that
your secret was safe with him. What secret, f'rinstance?"
"The one that's still safe with him, I should say."
"You force me to be crude. Where's the gun that
you kept in that drawer?" Dick pointed to the chest
where an imprint of a revolver had been found.
"You should have asked Cubbage that. But I'll volun-
teer this much—I never knew I kept a gun in that
drawer. I have never owned a gun."


98 Death at Windward Hill
"That," said Dick, "is a statement I am inclined to
accept without proof."
"Thank you very much," mocked Tracy. "Next?"
"Next I should like to understand your position in
this household. I prefer your explanation, to be exact."
"You must have found the cousins quite frank. . . .
I'm the black sheep, the prodigal, the waster, the family
failure—what you will—and always, the family poor
relation. When I left college—my mother's little legacy
had educated me—it was agreed that something must
be done about me, but I was tactless enough to turn
down the jobs that the Penroses and the Marrenders
could arrange to open for me in the various Big Busi-
nesses that they controlled. There was something else I
wanted to do. ... I tried to pull it off on my own,
but after a long bout with typhoid I was so shot I
crawled back here and accepted my aunt's terms. She
felt she owed me something because I had been named
for her, she said, but I happen to know that she always
considered that my mother had taken a liberty."
Eugene Tracy paused and fumbled for a cigarette.
Dick watched his thin face with interest. It must be
true, he was thinking, Tracy had hated his aunt.
"Briefly the agreement was this: she'd stake me for
the next three years, not beyond the dreams of avarice,
I might say, but adequately, if I would sign a paper
waiving all claims to her estate when she died. If I
hadn't got anywhere at the end of the three years I
could go jump in the lake. However, I could always
live at Windward Hill during her lifetime, though I
must promise never to touch a musical instrument
under her roof.
"I got around that by taking a ratty little room


Two Pieces of Chain
99
down-town. I had a second-hand piano there and I'd
hole it when I felt like working. Another thing that
helped was that usually I was careful enough with the
funds she allowed me so that I could go to New York
a couple of times a year. The only catch in it all was
that my aunt's time limit was nearly at an end and I—
well, I know now that I had the wrong idea about my-
self all the time."
There was that on Tracy's sensitive face that bespoke
genuine suffering. Dick thought of what Sally Mar-
render had said about her cousin's ambitions in musical
composition. If this long cherished hope had gone on
the rocks . . . but how could that sort of disappoint-
ment have any bearing upon the deaths at Windward
Hill?
"This statement that you signed," Dick went on, "do
you know where your aunt kept it?"
"I see . . . the rumpus in the little gallery. Maybe
she kept it there—I don't know. It was in that room
that I had my first, last, and only glimpse of said docu-
ment. It was spread out on her desk in there when I
signed it, nearly three years ago. No, Stowe,"—Tracy's
eyes sought Dick's frankly—"I was not the person who
ransacked that room with the idea of destroying the
paper in order to claim my cut of the money, no matter
how the damned will read."
"Perhaps you were attempting to choose something
—I understand your aunt had said you could have
whatever you wished from the little gallery."
Tracy flushed angrily. "If my aunt meant what she
said, which I doubt, I should never have chosen that
way to claim her promise."
At this point a certain theory of Stowe's went under


100 Death at Windward Hill
without a trace. With no attempt at finesse he shifted
the topic. "What's your line on the nurse?"
"She hadn't been on the case long before I left for
New York, but I'm telling you, she had everything. I
understand you sleuths are tracing her. What do you
bet she'll let Stuart know where she is? She's ga-ga about
him."
"Here's hoping she can spill something about Cub-
bage."
"Hasn't it occurred to you that as a name for a butler
Cubbage is too good to be true? Wodehouse ought to
hear about a butler named Cubbage. I can tell you just
two facts about Cubbage and they both may be inno-
cent duds—but you're advertised as a detective. The
first is that soon after he began to buttle for Aunt
Eugenia Ma Banney bolted into my room one day with
a pile of laundry. In just a few minutes she caromed in
again and said that one of the new man's hankies had
got mixed with mine—her mistake, et cetera. She pawed
around and mumbled something about its being marked
with an M. Naturally I concluded that our little Cub-
bage had been christened Moses or Montmorency, until
not long afterward I happened to notice a package that
had been delivered to him from a clothing store. It was
addressed to John Cubbage."
Dick Stowe had listened to Tracy's story without
betraying his inner satisfaction, not so much at the in-
formation there might be in it as at the change of atti-
tude taken by the speaker. Tracy's antagonism was
waning. Consequently Stowe's only comment was: "I'm
quite prepared to agree with you that Cubbage wasn't
really Cubbage. Your second fact, please."
"Whoever he was, he was a much younger man than


Two Pieces of Chain
101
one would think, seeing him slink around here. I saw
him one morning out in the garden in a full blaze of
sunshine. He thought he was quite alone and he was—
himself. His stoop was gone and there was no grey in his
hair . . . but that same day at luncheon both those
details were much in evidence."
"Tracy, are you sure you don't know what it was that
he could explain?"
The two young men looked at one another, eye to
eye, for a long minute. Then Tracy shook his head.
There was bewilderment in his eyes, but they did not
waver.
"Then if we've exhausted that topic," Dick resumed
briskly, "we come at last to what you declared you'd
tell just as soon as you remembered it—"
"An account of myself for Tuesday and Wednes-
day." Tracy took the words out of Dick's mouth. "I'm
afraid I was pretty well lit, but I'm ready to talk—on
one condition only."
"And that?"
"—is that you ask each one of my cousins to establish
an alibi for the whole of Tuesday night."
"I find your condition stimulating. Go ahead."
"I had been in New York. My business there had—
not gone well. I mention that fact only to account for
my state of mind. I left there on Monday afternoon, a
day earlier than I had planned, and reached Dayfield
the next morning on the Queen City. I didn't come out
here. I went to that room I spoke of and holed myself
in. Unfortunately there was something to drink there.
I'm one of the asses that can't carry much. I try to be
sensible, but—well, I was sunk. Early in the evening
I went around to a little joint to get something to eat.


102 Death at Windward Hell
Some chaps there were playing a pretty hot game and
I sat in. The last thing I remember was that I was
winning quite surprisingly.
"Now here's where I spoil everything. ... I sup-
pose I passed out. All I know is that in the morning—
that would be Wednesday morning—I was back in my
room. Somebody had just gone out. I mean, I think
I remember hearing the door close. Then I went under
again . . . and the next time I came to it was dark
again. The damn room was cold and I was hungry, and
I didn't seem to have a cent in my clothes; and so I
started to walk out to Windward Hill—and you know
what I walked into."
"Not so good, Tracy, not—so—good. Who was it
that left your room Wednesday morning?"
"I tell you—I haven't the slightest idea. I'm not even
sure that I heard the door close. Perhaps it was only my
landlady. She has the soul of an overseer. I'll give you
her name and address, and the names of the chaps I
played with."
"Right. But see here, Tracy, are you sure you've
'remembered' everything?"
"I'm not at all sure. I'll admit that was an awful
bender. But I've told you everything that's at all clear
in my mind at the present moment."
"If you can't remember anything more than that,
how are you going to prove that you weren't up here
at Windward Hill at some time between Tuesday night
and Wednesday morning? You made an awfully posi-
tive statement a moment ago about not being the one
who went through the little gallery. How do you know
you weren't?"
"Call it an inner conviction of innocence. . . . It's


Two Pieces of Chain 103
the sort of thing I don't do." Tracy's jaunty words did
not match the look of strain that appeared in his eyes,
and his glance, for the first time since the talk had be-
gun, wandered away from Stowe's steady regard.
"You were drunk that night, Tracy. How do you
know what you did?"
"Then it couldn't be a first-degree charge they'd
bring against me . . . but we're forgetting—it was
Cubbage who killed Aunt Eugenia. However, I rather
expect to be formally arrested myself, probably after
the funeral."
Again a new personality, bitter and mocking, flashed
from beneath his guard.
"I can't say what will happen after I have checked
up the alibi you have given me. That will depend—"
"Upon the other alibis which you have agreed to in-
vestigate also."
And with that Dick Stowe withdrew. The upper hall
was deserted. During the fifteen minutes which elapsed
before he too chose the back-stairs route to Mrs. Banney
he examined with growing interest a curtained alcove
in which the upper hall ended. The only article of furni-
ture behind the curtain was a patently decrepit divan
covered with an old-fashioned pieced silk quilt. One of
the squares had already fallen into rags. From between
the shreds of material and the stouter fabric that formed
the lining of the quilt, Dick pulled out a few inches of
gold chain.
Promptly thereafter he descended to the kitchen and
cajoled Mrs. Banney into sharing her coffee. She prof-
fered him the contents of ice-box and pantry as well,
but Dick was eager to get to his questions. He wanted to


104 Death at Windward Hill
know the last time she had seen Miss Marrender's nieces
and nephews at Windward Hill.
"Before she passed away, you mean?" Mrs. Banney
stirred another spoonful of sugar into her cup and con-
sidered. "Gene, he'd been gone close on to two weeks,
I guess, and the day he left for wherever it was he went
to was the last I see of him. Then, lemme think
now . . . that little one, Sara her name is, she come
runnin' in a Tuesday morning. And say, her and her
aunt had a lively set-to about something. That Sally's
a little spit-fire, if ever there was one. Mis' Latimer, she
was in that afternoon, but I didn't see her—"
"I remember. It was you who recognized her laugh."
"Yes, uh-huh, I heard her then, but that night I seen
her."
"Here?" demanded Dick.
"On her way up here, looked like. I was leavin' an'
I passed her down by the gate. It couldn'ta been no one
else but her."
"What time was that, Mrs. Banney?"
"Nearer eight than seven-thirty, which is the time I'd
ought to be through with the supper work."
"Was she alone?" persisted Dick.
"I didn't see nobody else." Mrs. Banney's answer was
suspiciously brief, but Dick allowed her to go on. What
could have been Cubbage's motive in denying he knew
her, he was asking himself.
"The other Penrose girl, the one that's a actress, she
was here last week one day. I remember that plain
enough because I don't know when she'd been here be-
fore. She don't live in town no more. That leaves Mr.
Will." She paused impressively and drew in her flabby
lips. "The last time I seen him here was two weeks ago


106 Death at Windward Hill
"May I see the bit of chain, please?" Dick's tone was
abstracted. He was thinking hard.
A scuffed and peeling hand-bag was opened, and a
piece of old gold chain dragged up from the little inner
pocket that once had held a mirror. Dick ran its length
through his fingers. He must ask one more question
before he dared leap at a certain fascinating conclusion.
"By the way, Mrs. Banney, in your work this week
have you done any sort of cleaning in that alcove in the
upper hall?"
"No, I ain't," she apologized almost contritely. "It's
so shut off an' all. I mopped in there last Tuesday an'
that's the last—"
But Dick was no longer interested. She had told him
what he wanted to know. He drew out of his watch
pocket the short bit of chain he had found up in the
alcove and compared it with the piece that Mrs. Banney
was sure had been dropped by Cubbage. The two
lengths matched exactly.


108 Death at Windward Hill
Dick set out for Lindenwood, determined to make the
most of the next few hours. The Marrender relatives
would be safely out of the way, for after the funeral
service, set for eleven, they were to be in conference
with Bartholomew Dexter.
The black and white maid answered his ring. With
the devout hope that it might be her mistress who was
responsible for the girl's sour look, Dick promptly tested
her with as large a bill as he could afford at the moment.
It worked. She answered all his questions, venomously.
Had Mrs. Latimer been at home last Tuesday eve-
ning?
"No, she got all dressed up and went out to dinner
somewheres."
Had she gone out with Mr. Latimer?
The girl shook her head and gave her generous caller
an oblique look. "Him? No, he was in Dee-troit on
business."
Where had she dined?
"She said"—there was a deliberate emphasis for which
Dick was watching—"she said she was going to the Art
League dinner."
As a rule, suggested Dick, there were cards of admis-
sion for public dinners.
"Yes," agreed the maid. "She still has them tickets,
too."
How did she know that interesting fact?
"I seen 'em—in Mrs. Latimer's beaded bag. She sent
me there herself this morning just before she left for
the funeral. She thought maybe a pair of gloves she
wanted might be in it. They weren't, but the tickets


Trailing Alibis
109
The tickets, Dick pointed out, were now worthless.
Would she get them for him?
The black and white maid thought of the windfall
that had just come her way and gave value received.
Dick professed mild wonder about there being two
tickets, but the girl said nothing beyond the statement
that Mr. Latimer had been called out of town rather
unexpectedly.
At what time had Mrs. Latimer left and had she gone
in her own car?
"It was maybe ten minutes past seven when she went
away. Somebody stopped for her—I don't rightly know
who, but I don't mind guessing it would be the same
car that stops here nearly every day. She says she's
sick. Sick . . . her! Love sick, that's all."
When had Mrs. Latimer returned?
"At ten minutes after three exactly. I know that be-
cause I was up just then—something I ate. She come
back in the doctor's car, all right."
Dick considered that he had got his money's worth.
From Lindenwood he went to the house on the Levee
Drive. The fact that it was not the same servant who
had admitted him Wednesday afternoon determined his
approach. He declared himself a business caller and was
breezily disappointed when he was informed that Mr.
Marrcnder was not in.
"Say, he's never home, is he? I called the house last
Tuesday evening and you or someone says he was out.
Was that on the level, or were you kiddin' me along
because I'm new at the business?"
From vastly superior heights the servant conde-
scended to explain that Mr. Marrender had been work-
ing late at this office on that Tuesday evening.


110 Death at Windward Hill
"Well, to tell you the truth, I hung around on the
corner thinking I'd catch him the minute he got back
even if it was late, but I must have missed him. He
sure must have been working late."
"I have no idea at what hour Mr. Marrender returned.
He would not need to ring to be admitted." The door
closed resolutely, but Dick felt that he had picked up
a crumb of information that might be useful sooner or
later. He went jauntily on to his next port of call,
Marrender's office in the United Utilities Building.
It was Marrender's secretary whom he wanted to talk
to, but she had just left for lunch. A youngster whom
he had not seen on his previous visit was the only person
about the suite when he entered. It was evident that she
had assumed full responsibility for the vice-presidential
duties. Within four minutes Dick learned that the
young lady's name was Bettina, that they were kind of
taking things easy today because the boss was at his
aunt's funeral—that rich old lady that got shot—and
that she for one was glad when the boss wasn't around
though that was maybe because she was new here. Yet
he must have got Miss Wilcox's goat too, for she had
thought some of quitting, but the boss had raised her
salary. Janet Wilcox had all the breaks—why, she'd
even seen the man who murdered the old lady that got
shot.
"Miss Wilcox is Mr. Marrender's secretary, is she?"
How could she possibly have known who that man
was?"
"Why, his picture was in all the papers yesterday,
and Janet said this morning that it was the same man
she had seen up here to see the boss."
"When was that, Bettina?"


Trailing Alibis 111
Bettina did not know. They had transferred her
from the auditor's office just the day before yesterday.
It seemed that the auditor's staff considered her hope-
less with a comptometer. Much Bettina cared. . . .
Just as simply Dick acquired a little information
about the secretary's evening routine and withdrew
before there was a chance that he might meet the
young woman coming from lunch. Before he left the
United Utilities Building, however, he had a chat with
the elevator starter, and learned how a record was kept
of employees or executives who were in the building
after closing hours. Thus he saw for himself that Mar-
render's butler had told him the truth: Marrender had
been in the United Utilities Building on Tuesday eve-
ning from eight until ten-twenty.
After a hasty bite of lunch for himself, Stowe set to
work on Tracy's story. The address of the rented
room he found without any difficulty. It was a frowsy
house on Burden Street with a "Rooms for Rent" card
displayed between the glass and grimy fragment of lace
curtain of the front door. As he opened the door a
sharp-eyed, curveless landlady emerged from a room
at the end of the smelly hall.
"I'm to wait for Tracy. He said you'd let me in,"
said Dick, hoping he looked musical.
"You can go right in. He never locks his door."
Her words came readily, but she watched him with an
air of habitual suspicion.
The door she indicated was indeed unlocked. Dick
stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The
room was so dusky that he had to switch on a center
swinging lamp before he could conduct any sort of
accurate examination. That a composer of music could


Trailing Alibis
113
Lastly he examined the baggage that Tracy must
have brought back with him from New York. A Glad-
stone bag was easily opened but yielded nothing of
importance. The other piece was a brief case, strapped
but not locked. It contained a complete manuscript
score. On the top page was written "The Blue Prin-
cess, a Musical Play in the Modern Manner, by Gene
Tracy." But the score told its own story. In great
handsful it had been seized and torn almost across, and
then smoothed out sufficiently to stuff into the case.
"No takers . . ." murmured Dick.
Out in the hall the thin little landlady was alertly
waiting. Stowe asked her to come into Tracy's room
and then they both rose above what he had told her
about waiting for his friend.
"Tell me what you saw of Tracy Tuesday and Wed-
nesday," he began.
"He came in before ten on Tuesday morning and I
never saw no more of him all day. About eight that
evening, maybe, he went out again and when I seen
him go I knew all right why I hadn't heard him at
his pianna all day. It musta been stuff he brung along
back with him. Mr. Tracy's as nice a gentleman as I've
ever had in this room, but once in a long while—you
know . . ." There was an air of infinite understand-
ing about the woman that implied that in her world
men were all alike.
"I heard him come back not long after midnight—
he made enough noise for three people. That's all I could
tell you about Tuesday. Long about the middle of the
next morning—that would be Wednesday—I looked in
here and he was still dead to the world. He stayed that
way, too, till after dark. Then I heard him moving


114 Death at Windward Hill
about some and later on he went out and I ain't seen
nothing of him since."
"Who else was with him at any time during those
two days?" Stowe was conscious of the possibilities in
the landlady's account.
She looked at him patiently. "Say, you must think I
ain't got nothing else to do. Not a soul was in to see
him that I took notice of. But then, I wasn't settin'
watching over him all day long."
That was quite true, Dick silently agreed. Aloud he
asked, "Is there anyone else about the place that might
have noticed whether he had any callers?"
If Tracy's landlady attempted an answer, Dick Stowe
never heard it. He had opened Tracy's door and was
about to step into the hall. At the same moment the
street door swung open and a girl appeared. For the
merest fraction of time she poised in the doorway, her
eyes fixed in alarm on the unfamiliar figure emerging
from Tracy's room. Moreover, her heavily reddened lips
parted and one hand jerked automatically upward
toward her throat. Then she stepped outward and back-
ward and her hand dropped just in time for Stowe to
catch sight of a glowing green jewel.
So sure was he that this unknown girl was wearing
Miss Marrender's emerald brooch that he bolted from
the landlady's restraining clutch and made for the
street door. Unfortunately the door opened more stub-
bornly from within than from without. It delayed him
no more than a minute, yet when he reached the street
there was no sign of the girl.
There were a dozen places in which she could have
sought cover, he concluded and withdrew to a chain
grocery on the corner just below. There he established


Trailing Alibis
115
himself in the angle of the display window, where he
could watch the dingy length of Burden Street in
both directions. For a half hour he consorted with
heads of lettuce and bunches of bananas, but he saw
nothing of the girl who had so whipped his imagination.
Admitting finally that he was camping on a cold
trail, Dick moved on to Mike's Chile Parlor, where
Tracy had said he had spent a large part of Tuesday
evening. Mike proved to be non-existent, but a bald-
headed man named Charlie McGruder, who claimed
proprietary responsibility for the bowls of chile and
the little back room where the right fellas were always
welcome, discoursed cheerfully on the subject of Gene
Tracy. When he had finished, Stowe was convinced
that Tracy's movements up to midnight could be satis-
factorily accounted for.
Sally's Shop was next on Stowe's list, but he took
enough time out for a telephone chat with Asher. He
wanted somebody to verify the stories of Tracy's fellow
players, and he reminded Tim that on Wednesday
morning Tracy had found himself with empty pockets,
though at the close of the play on Tuesday night, ac-
cording to Charlie McGruder, he had all the money
there was. Also, he submitted a description of the girl
he had so momentarily caught sight of at the lodging
house and asked that the boys keep their eyes open for
her. Lastly, he suggested that Tim drop around to the
Stowe apartment about ten that evening for a pow-
wow.
Sally's Shop would be closed for the day, Dick knew,
but the girl had told him of her bachelor quarters in
the rooms above the Uttered little place. He found her
in and alone. Her snapping wood fire and her cinnamon


116 Death at Windward Hill
toast and coffee were inviting, but Dick was conscious
of the reserve in her manner.
"I'm going to tell you frankly why I am here, Miss
Marrender. You see, I've followed your advice about
talking to your cousin Gene Tracy, and in the course
of our conversation I made a little agreement with
him. He told me what he had done on Tuesday night
on the understanding that I should acquire similar in-
formation from his other cousins."
There was a little pause. Sally Marrender's square boy-
ish face grew very white. Even the flickering rosy light
of the fire could not conceal her pallor. After a minute
she spoke, but her voice was unsteady. "So . . . my
advice was good, was it?"
"That's a little hard for me to be sure of so soon,
m—
"You're here because it's my turn. That's fair
enough."
Dick hoped she would go on speaking without wait-
ing for his questions, but she refused to take the
initiative. Even after his first direct query she spent
some minutes poking the fire before she replied.
"Tuesday night I stepped out with one of the boy-
friends. We had dinner at the Decatur and then went
dancing at the Golden Roof. We didn't stay there long
y-the music was particularly rotten. Jim—it was Jimmy
Towne I was with. Of course you will want to know
that. We came around here and I sent him home right
away, because my brother rang me up to say he was
coming in. It was after eleven then, but when Bill wants
to talk business nothing stands in his way." Her pixie-
like face crinkled into a sudden smile.


Trailing Alibis
117
"Whose business were you discussing, his or yours?"
asked Dick.
"Oh, mine," she answered without reluctance. "Talk
about the strangle hold of family ties. I'm always being
told how to run the shop."
"How long was your brother here?"
"We talked till after three or some such ungodly
hour, and then I put him up for the rest of the night.
I scrambled eggs for his breakfast, which he insisted he
must have at eight-forty-five, as usual."
Dick frowned at the fire. His ideas needed rearrang-
ing. He was beginning to see the possibility of some
astonishing new patterns. "I see, Miss Marrender. .
You establish your brother's alibi and he yours."
"Bill will tell you the same," she insisted ingenuously.
"I have no doubt of that." The level quiet of this
acquiesence again drained the color from Sally Mar-
render's face.
Dick Stowe glanced at his watch elaborately and got
to his feet. "I must be on my way. I've a dinner engage-
ment."
This was quite true, although the lady he had in mind
was not yet aware of the occasion in store for her. He
hurried away from the shop to the lower lobby of the
United Utilities Building and watched the descending
elevators discharge their loads of clerks and stenog-
raphers. At last he saw the girl he wanted.


120 Death at Windward Hill
debated desserts. Dick was not satisfied with his prog-
ress. He determined upon a skilful threat. If he judged
the girl's intelligence rightly, she would not fail to get
his point.
"The Marrenders and the Latimers and the rest of
the relatives ought to be very grateful to the crazy old
chap for admitting his guilt by suicide. Otherwise—"
He interrupted himself to offer Janet Wilcox his
case before lighting a cigarette for himself.
"Thank you, no. I don't smoke," she said impa-
tiently. "Otherwise what?"
"Otherwise it would be the easiest thing in the world
for the police to build up a nasty case against Gene
Tracy. He himself confesses that he doesn't know what
he was doing on Tuesday night."
Warily Dick was watching Janet Wilcox. Her
eyes dropped, but the hand that lifted her demi-tasse
did not tremble. His score was blank for that play.
"When did you learn of Miss Marrender's death?"
For an instant hot suspicion flamed in the girl's eyes,
but her answer came with level promptness. "There was
a telephone call from Mr. Marrender Wednesday morn-
ing, just after I reached the office."
"Did he call from his home?" asked Stowe, thinking
of Sally's story.
"He must have been at his home, for I recognized the
voice of the servant who put through the call. Mr.
Marrender never calls a number if there is someone
about to do it for him."
"What time did you get this call, Miss Wilcox?"
"It was before nine. I think I came in about a quarter
of that morning."
"Did he tell you that his aunt had been murdered?"


Dinner a Deux
121
"Oh, no. Don't you remember that the newspapers
said they didn't know for a while that she had been
shot? He just said that he'd had a message that his aunt
had died and that he wouldn't be in."
"I certainly appreciate your frankness, Miss Wilcox,"
said Dick expansively, "and I shall appreciate even
more the lack of any spoken curiosity as to the meaning
of some of these idiotic questions. You must remember
that I am decidedly an amateur sleuth and I canvass a
situation rather bluntly, I'm afraid." He paused while
the waiter presented the check. "Mr. Marrender knew,
of course, that he was to be the executor of his aunt's
estate?"
"Mr. Marrender seldom referred to personal or family
affairs, but I recall hearing him say one day that he
hoped he hadn't let himself in for trouble when he
agreed to settle his aunt's estate for her."
"Trouble?" asked Dick alertly.
"The man he was talking to was telling about a
family lawsuit . . . that's all." She picked up her
gloves and indicated that she was ready to go.
There was no excuse for lingering longer. But not
yet had Janet Wilcox given him the lead he had
gambled for. He helped her into her coat and suggested
a vaudeville programme or the new movie house. He
was determined to stick around until the subject of
Gene Tracy could be brought out into the open.
But Miss Wilcox insisted that she must return to her
rented room, and the only thing that Dick could do
was to call a taxi and escort her to a distant suburban
address. Even then he loitered hopefully, but Miss Wil-
cox said good night with such dispatch that he had to
admit that he had lost his bet. She had made no further


122 Death at Windward Hill
reference, nor allowed him to, to the man in whose
room he had found her photograph.
Stowe and his taxi did a double quick back to the
apartment, where he came upon Asher pushing the bell
just as he stepped into the lower hall of the building.
When they had made themselves comfortable in the
Stowe living room, not quite at its best without Laura,
Dick stretched his long legs and grunted wearily.
"Gosh, Tim, but I'm tired. I've been on the dog-trot
all day and I don't think I've turned up anything so
hot for all my footwork. Let's just take a little time
out and use the good old beano—unless you have some-
thing good to spring."
"My report's soon made, Dick. We've traced the nurse
to Chicago all right—and lost her. She might as well
have jumped into the lake for all we know. I've got
a man watching Tracy's room on Burden Street, but
so far nobody's come near it, nobody like that thin red-
head you described, I mean. The fellows that played
with Tracy Tuesday night all tell the same story. It's
straight, I guess. . . . The only thing to the good is
that we did what you asked us to—about Cubbage, and
I'll say your hunch was damn good. When his hair was
washed and the whiskers shaved off, it all showed up
pretty plain. Then the doc looked him over again and
he says there can't be a doubt. . . . That Cubbage bird
was about thirty-five. Can you beat it! He looked
fifty— But, I ask you, where does that get us?"
"Where indeed?" Dick murmured obligingly.
"I'm telling you, Dick, it's damn lucky for the de-
partment that we can let the case ride. There's a mystery
there, but the two people most concerned are dead—"
"The murderer of Cubbage isn't dead."


Dinner a Deux
123
"Wh-what did you say?" Asher leaned forward, awk-
ward in his surprise.
"Tim, I can't prove a thing, but I can't help feeling
that somebody killed Cubbage to keep him from spring-
ing something that would have jammed the works for
someone else. Maybe after he'd told what he knew he
would have killed -himself—there's all that dope he was
carrying around. But that wasn't the stuff that poisoned
him. He could have taken it himself, of course. It acts
slowly, remember. Or somebody else could have given
it to him." Dick's head was tilted back and his gaze
rested on the ceiling.
"You didn't kill him and I didn't nor Downer," he
went on dreamily, "so it must have been Stuart. He
was at Windward Hill that night."
"Good night, Dick! You're crazy," Asher exploded.
"So was Tracy there, and Marrender, too, almost as
long as we were, and Ma Banney—"
"Ruthless, Timmy, ab-so-lutely ruthless—that's you.
Stepping all over my nice little theory. But let me tell
you one thing, I've gone far enough checking alibis for
the whole damn family to see that it would be possible
to get every one of them in a hole. As for motive, same
thing, though I have to confess I'm a bit hazy about
why Sally Marrender is smoke screening big brother
BUI—"
Here Asher interrupted with a long whistle that
signalled a jogged memory. "A hot tip inkled in today,
Dick—you should have had it before this. Marrender
negotiated a personal loan last Wednesday morning for
eighty thousand."
"But Wednesday was a bank holiday—"


Dinner a Deux
125
"What address in Edgefield?" Stowe asked mechani-
cally. He expected the answer he received. It was the
address to which he had lately escorted Janet Wilcox.
"Come on," snapped Asher. "Get your hat and let's
see what he's up to."
Dick got his hat.


Chapter XIV
NIGHT SCENE AT WINDWARD HILL
the way out to Windward Hill Dick Stowe passed
on to Asher his knowledge that a girl had been with
Tracy at some time during the two days that he had
spent in his room on Burden Street. He still thought,
he explained, that the girl might be Janet Wilcox,
although his test with the cigarette had failed. It was
more likely that she was the other and so far unknown
girl, the one he had seen so momentarily at the entrance
of the rooming house. There had been that tantalizing
flash of green at her throat.
Asher grunted with disgust. "Don't spring another
missing girl on me, Dick, or—say, maybe this second
girl's the nurse. That would be a swell ending, I'll say.
She got to Chi, see, and then beat it back here. Let's
get a picture of the Randall girl and see if she doesn't
look like the one you caught sight of this afternoon."
"Not such a bad idea," agreed Dick absently and let
Asher work out its possibilities without further argu-
ment.
At the entrance to the drive they left the police car
and slipped quietly up the slope toward the dark mass
of Windward Hill.
"Tracy and the girl must have used a taxi," Asher
whispered, "and Ben trailed in another. He ought to be
around somewhere to give me the high sign."

136


Night Scene at Windward Hill
127
He was. As the two men paused uncertainly at the
front of the house, a shadow detached itself from the
unbroken darkness and approached them. It was Ben
Parks, and he reported that Tracy and the girl had
gone in by the front door and were now in the little
gallery. He had been keeping an eye on them from
without the windows. Asher returned him to that posi-
tion and said that he and Stowe were going in.
"Just a minute," begged Dick. "I want a look
through the gallery windows myself." He rounded the
corner of the house at Ben's heels and applied a cautious
eye at the place where a pencil of light marked a care-
lessly drawn curtain. The room was still in the disorder
in which it had first been found. In the midst of the
confusion stood Eugene Tracy and Janet Wilcox. They
were facing one another, a table between them, and
they were talking earnestly. It was the girl who was
doing most of the talking and it was apparent that
Tracy was protesting. He kept shaking his head stub-
bornly and once he made a peculiarly imploring ges-
ture. But Dick spied no longer than to assure himself
that he could hear nothing of what was passing between
them.
He rejoined Asher and together they tiptoed down
the hall to the door of the little gallery. "You'll get
the drift of the show all right," he whispered. "Just
follow my lead."
He opened the door. The two within had had no
warning. Yet there was no trace of guilty surprise as
they whirled to face the two men who filled the door-
way. However, Dick was interested in the air of sup-
pressed desperation that he noted in the demeanor of


128 Death at Windward Hill
Janet Wilcox. On the other hand, Tracy was remark-
ably suave and assured.
"In what way," he asked graciously, "may I be of
assistance to the police?"
Janet shot a glance of enlightenment at Stowe as
Tracy said "police," and Dick knew that his carefully
assumed role of the earlier evening had gone by the
board.
He replied with equal aplomb. "I confess I'm a bit
curious about the reason for this rendezvous."
It was the girl who answered his question. She spoke
with deliberate firmness so patently directed to Tracy
that Dick promptly interpreted it as a warning to her
companion.
"There's no reason why you shouldn't be told. I
thought that if we went over everything right here on
the spot, he might remember better. I tell him and tell
him, but he can't remember—and he's worried. It's not
true—what he's afraid of." Her head lifted proudly.
Before the detectives could question her astounding
statement Tracy spoke. "What's the use, Janet? I'll tell
them why we came out here tonight."
"Gene, dearest, you don't know—honestly, you
don't!" Impetuously she turned to Stowe. "From what
you said this evening I know you have discovered that
Gene was—that Gene doesn't know what happened on
Tuesday night. But I know and I'm going to tell you,
and oh, you must believe me—you must!"
Before the emotion that throbbed in her voice Tracy
dropped his head between his hands and groaned. There
was a look in the girl's eyes that Stowe felt he had no
right to watch. Then she faced him bravely.
"When Gene came back to his room on Tuesday


Night Scene at Windward Hill 129
night, I was there waiting for him because I—I thought
he might be needing someone who understood. A serious
disappointment had just come to him. Those things do
knock one out, you know. I persuaded him to go home
—out here to this house, I mean. We left his room
together and at the corner picked up a taxi. On the
way out to Windward Hill I saw my opportunity to
be of genuine help to Gene. You see, I knew about that
agreement with his aunt and, frankly, I felt that it was
grossly unfair. We got inside the house without any
trouble. Gene had a key and I used it, and thanks to
the thick old-fashioned carpets everywhere we got
down the hall without making a sound. The door of
this room was bolted on the outside. I got him inside
and then—he collapsed. He was in that chair—" she
pointed, and Dick saw that her finger did not tremble.
"Just a minute," he interrupted. "Was the room in
order at that time?"
"Yes, in perfect order. All I wanted was a key and I
thought I knew where to find it—in the drawer of this
table. I was searching just as hard and fast as I could,
while Gene wasn't noticing, but I couldn't find it. So
I started to look through other drawers, but just then I
heard something that—that frightened me, and I de-
cided we'd better get out right away."
Again Stowe opened his mouth to ask a question, but
Janet Wilcox spoke on so rapidly, and what she said was
so amazing that he postponed his intention.
"I rushed over to the door and turned the handle,
but it would not open. Someway—somebody had bolted
it again on the outside. I thought for a minute we were
locked in and then I hurried to the window—that one
to the right. It went up at my first push; it wasn't


Night Scene at Windward Hill
131
Gene, something that he never would have dreamed of
doing for himself. Honestly"—here her astounding
poise broke for an instant—"honestly, I don't know
whether I could have carried it through or not, but
just then I thought I could. I—I had to do it for Gene."
She spoke as if Gene were not listening to her.
"You mean you were attempting to steal the key to
Miss Marrender's safety-deposit box in which she kept
her will and other papers of importance." Dick Stowe
spoke slowly, as though he were thinking his way
along.
"Yes. But I didn't find it, remember."
"Miss Wilcox, how did you know that there was
such a key in this room and that its possession would
win you—what you wanted for Gene Tracy?"
For a split second the girl's defence was down. She
drew a sharp breath, but her answer came patly. Yet
something told Stowe that she had cast about desper-
ately for a necessary He. "It was something that Gene
said to me once. I can't remember the circumstances."
"And I suppose you had considered the problem of
getting access to Miss Marrender's box? Banks are rather
particular, you know. Your experience as a business
man's private secretary would have taught you that."
Her head nodded in unconscious acquiescence before
the full import of Stowe's comment flared in her eyes.
Yet her spoken answer was delightfully candid. "I must
admit that I hadn't thought that far. It was a quixotic
scheme, really."
Dick went smoothly on to another question. "You
said you were interrupted by a sound which frightened
you. What was it and where did it come from?"
Janet Wilcox lifted her head high and looked


132 Death at Windward Hill
squarely into Stowe's face as if quite aware of what her
words would precipitate. "I heard what sounded like a
shot in the room directly above."
"Boy!" muttered Asher, but let Stowe keep his lead.
"And the door had been rebolted from the outside.
. . . What else did you hear? Surely there must have
been some other suspicious sound," Stowe demanded in
growing excitement.
"Not a sound. I swear it. Anywhere. Neither before
nor after the shot. Except the wind. It was a rough
night." Janet's tense accents whipped the skepticism of
the men facing her.
Asher yielded first. "Thick carpets everywhere,
Dick," he offered.
"See here," barked Dick, "what time was it when
you heard the shot?"
"I—I don't know. I didn't look at my watch."
"But you must have reached Windward Hill by
twelve-thirty. How long had you been in this room
before you heard the shot?"
She shook her head in confessed helplessness. "I don't
know. It couldn't have been long, though. I had just
looked in the one drawer."
"More or less than an hour?" Dick suggested in brisk
helpfulness.
"Oh, less—certainly."
"I see." Dick looked as if something had clicked
neatly. "And the window was unlocked through which
you left this room. Did you close it after you?"
The girl shook her head as if pleased that again a
detail presented itself about which she could be exact.
"No, I remembered when we got down to the road that


Night Scene at Windward Hill 133
I had left the window open. I was sorry—I thought of
the curtain flapping out, but it was too late to go back."
"Isn't it strange that it took you at least three hours
to walk back to Burden Street?"
She glanced significantly at Tracy, but made no
specific answer.
"You have told me that you had persuaded Tracy
to return to Windward Hill, his home. You escorted
him yourself, with some difficulty, I can imagine. I can
understand, too, why you entered the house so sur-
reptitiously. You wanted the chance to search this room.
Well, then, granted that you were frightened away, as
you have just told me, why didn't you march around
to the front door after you had crawled through the
window, ring the bell, and deliver Tracy to Cubbage?
Eventually he would have answered the bell."
Janet nodded in alert agreement. "I wish I had, Mr.
Stowe."
"Instead you were taking a three-hour stroll toward
Burden Street. What did you do after that?"
She gave an embarrassed little laugh. "I went to the
railway station and pretended I was waiting for the
J: 10 train. Fortunately it was an hour late. I managed
a nice nap."
That part of the girl's story was true Stowe had no
more doubt than that some of it was the purest fabrica-
tion. But he could not be sure which was which. . . .
For instance, if Janet Wilcox were telling the truth
about the time, then Franceses Penrose and Galeotti
were lying. He'd been rather banking on the actress's
story, too. According to it, at two o'clock the windows
were unlocked but closed, and Francesca had closed
them after her when she left. According to Janet, no


134 Death at Windward Hill
later than one-thirty the right-hand window had been
left wide open. Certainly something didn't hitch, but
the discrepancy was one that could be nailed down
eventually. What was much more interesting to Dick
Stowe was the hypnotic way in which Eugene Tracy
had listened to the girl's narrative. Tracy had been
drunk on Tuesday night. That was a fact no one had
denied at any point. And yet—if he had walked through
the coldest hours of a February night, his mind could
scarcely have been a blank at the end of the three miles,
no matter how addled he might have been at the begin-
ning. Stowe was just on the verge of calling attention
to that fact when he had what he was later to describe
to his wife as the inspiration of a lifetime.
Shifting his position so that he could watch the faces
of both Janet and Tracy, he put his question. "Since
you were the woman who was with Tracy through
certain hours of Tuesday night, why haven't you men-
tioned the emerald?"
Stowe's deliberate reference to a woman's being with
Tracy got under the guard of Janet Wilcox, just as he
had anticipated, but it was the queer look of enlighten-
ment that flashed momentarily into Tracy's eyes that
the detective found most satisfying. It was his mention
of the emerald that had called out that look. Equally
plain was the girl's blank ignorance. The Marrender
emerald meant nothing to Janet Wilcox.
A sound at the doorway wherein Asher had been
lounging broke the tension. The three within the room
whirled simultaneously just in time to see Asher leap
backward into the gloom of the hall. They could hear
his feet thudding down the passage. A door banged
with a crash. Their own scene forgotten, the three


Night Scene at Windward Hill 135
huddled in the doorway for an instant and then Tracy
and Stowe hurried after Asher. They were just in time
to see him burst through the door of the room at the
far end of the dark cowidor—Cubbage's room. Sounds
of struggle followed; then Tim Asher's high voice rose
triumphantly.
"Leggo yourself. I got you now, you young devil!"


Chapter. XV
ANOTHER PAIR OF GLOVES
It was Tracy who found the switches and flooded the
hall and the butler's room with light. At that moment
Ben Parks came panting upon the scene. The sudden
exodus from the little gallery had been too much for the
curiosity of the sentinel posted without.
Asher was sitting on the edge of the bed and almost
upon the writhing figure of a slight youth. The lithe
form squirmed mightily and achieved a sitting position,
though Asher's hands were still firmly gripped upon his
wrists. He shook his dark hair out of his eyes and gazed
defiantly at the group that had followed Asher into the
room. They in turn stared in amazement and well they
might, for it was the face of Sally Marrender that they
looked upon.
The hypnotic lethargy that had gripped Tracy
throughout the scene in the little gallery had disap-
peared. He was now the first one to speak. "Sally, Sally,
you weren't expected, you know."
Asher chanced his recognition of the name and re-
leased his hold. The girl slipped to her feet and shook
herself. They could all see now that it was the riding
clothes that had given the impression that Asher had
captured a boy. Never had Sally Marrender's square
brown face looked more stubborn. Her eyes glowered
at them from beneath the straight black brows.
136


Another Pair of Gloves 137
To Asher the prolonged silence demanded explana-
tion. "I heard a noise in the kitchen and then I saw
something slide across the hall down there and into this
room. Ghost or no ghost, thought I, here I go. Whoever
it was banged the door smack in my face and tried to
hold it shut, but I've still got my strength. I burst in
and the two of us had a little set-to before the round
ended in my favor."
Tracy continued to eye his cousin speculatively, or
so it seemed to Stowe. Ignoring Asher's explanation,
Tracy again addressed the girl. "What did you come
for, Sally?" he asked softly.
"To do a kind deed. Can't you see I'm a boy scout in
disguise?" The words came flippantly, yet Dick won-
dered just what she was trying to tell her cousin.
"Did it have to be done in this room?" he asked.
"No," she said, and her voice had lost its first note
of defiant fright. "I merely intended to lie by until I
had the house to myself. I didn't expect you either, you
see."
"Does our presence still embarrass you?" Tracy per-
sisted.
"I'm afraid it does. In all likelihood the kind deed
will be postponed indefinitely."
Stowe stepped forward with authority. "Miss Mar-
render, will you tell me what brought you here to-
night?"
"I will not." The answer was insolent.
"Tracy, what do you know about your aunt's
emerald?" The cool way in which Stowe swung his in-
vestigation from the angry girl to her cousin amazed
them all. Tracy's answer was equally astonishing.
"Not a damn thing—that I'll tell you."


138 Death at Windward Hill
"Miss Wilcox,"—the girl's gasp of dismay was pitiful
—"did you strike any matches while you were in the
little gallery?"
She shook her head dumbly; then her stiff lips man-
aged to say, "No, I lighted the lamp on the table."
Dick was like a teacher giving out words to a row of
spellers. "Miss Marrender, were you by any chance com-
ing to look for this?" He tossed a small object to her
which she caught adroitly. Her mouth tightened as she
bent over it. The others could not see what it was she
held cupped in her hands, though Asher and Ben Parks
were in grave danger of a general dislocation.
"Thanks a lot," murmured Sally. "How clever of you
to guess what I wanted." The hand that held the spoil
plunged deep into the pocket of her tweed coat.
"Tracy, to what extent can you verify the story Miss
Wilcox has been telling us?"
"To what extent can you accept the word of a man
who was as far under as I was on that occasion?" The
counter question did not trouble Stowe. He turned
gravely to Janet Wilcox.
"Why did you wait until tonight to search for that
key? The contents of Mis Marrender's safety-deposit
box were examined this afternoon when the family
lawyer read the will."
"Oh!" she gulped and her lips trembled in agony.
Her lie had gone for nothing.
Again Stowe faced Sally Marrender, who was now
regarding him with growing respect. "How do you ex-
plain the fact that the guest who breakfasted with you
on Wednesday morning held a telephone conversation
—two telephone conversations, I suspect—from his


Another Pair of Gloves 139
own home at approximately the same hour that the
eggs were being scrambled?"
Again Sally's square, wholesome face lost all of its
natural color. Yet her answer came bravely. "Then I
must have reported the time very inaccurately to you."
Eugene Tracy was awaiting his next question with ill-
concealed nervousness. Perhaps for that reason Stowe
spaced his words deliberately. "Suppose it should become
gravely necessary for Miss Wilcox to establish an alibi
for herself. How could you help her?"
"I'd move heaven and earth to give you the surprise
of your life." The reply came like a challenge.
"Miss Wilcox, are you sure you don't smoke?" He
smiled at Janet as he spoke.
The question sounded so easy. . . . "To tell you the
truth, I've never even experimented."
"Where's your gun, Miss Marrender—that .38 that's
on the permit records?"
"On the shelf just below my cash register in the
shop," she answered and there was a disconcerting lilt
in her voice.
Dick aimed his fourth question at Tracy with an
oblique eye upon Janet Wilcox. "If Miss Wilcox's story
was the truth, then you can scarcely deny that when
you returned to your room on Burden Street early
Wednesday morning after a longish walk through the
cold, you must have been sufficiently your own man
to know what was going on?"
Janet awaited Tracy's answer with clenched fists.
When it came it did not completely satisfy her. "No
doubt, no doubt," he returned airily, "but I promptly
lost all that I had gained. I think you understand me."
"What is your theory, Miss Wilcox, to account for


140 Death at Windward Hill
the disappearance of the money that Mr. Tracy had won
at Mike's that Tuesday evening?"
For the life of him Dick Stowe could not be sure
whether this was the first time the girl had heard of
Tracy's empty pockets. Her reply he judged another
valiant attempt to fend danger from the man she loved.
"Maybe he dropped it on our way back, or perhaps
someone robbed him during the next day. What has the
money to do with this, anyway?"
"Exactly my own attitude," murmured Dick. Im-
perturbably he swung once more toward Sally Mar-
render. Without warning, the girl who was Marrender's
secretary and who loved Gene Tracy, began to sob—
long, shuddering, tearless sobs that bespoke intolerable
strain.
At that Sally Marrender stormed into action. "Mr.
Stowe, you probably know what you're doing, but we
don't. We've been idiots to answer your questions—
anything we say may be used against us. Isn't that the
litany? Now let me make you a proposal. Maybe the
others will want to make it hold for themselves too.
Before I answer another one of your questions, will
you answer one that I shall put to you?"
"Why, certainly, Miss Marrender." Dick regarded
the girl narrowly.
Tracy frowned but said nothing. Janet's choking sobs
continued.
"Here's my question, Mr. Stowe: How did this article
come into your possession?" Sally's hand still hidden
in her coat pocket indicated what she meant.
"I found it in the upper hall of this house," he an-
swered promptly.


Another Pair of Gloves 141
"Thank you. Now, Gene, use your head." Her terse
words might have conveyed a warning.
Tracy flashed his cousin a wry smile and launched his
query. It landed with a jolt. "Stowe, have you seen my
aunt's emerald?"
"I'm afraid I can't give you a positive answer, Tracy,
but I can tell you that I suspect I have seen it."
Stowe's reply brought out a look of decision upon
Tracy's thin face. He bent tenderly towards Janet.
"Haven't you a question you'd like to ask the detective,
dear?"
During the question and answer that had passed be-
tween the two men the shaken girl had forced herself
to a measure of control. Again Stowe was convinced
that the references to the emerald were wholly mystify-
ing to Janet Wilcox. Now in answer to Tracy she
faltered out her question.
"Are—are you going to arrest Gene?"
Sally watched the girl in quick sympathy, as did the
police officials, yet they were all conscious that Tracy's
shamed eyes had dropped.
"Not until I have direct proof that he was concerned
with the shooting of Eugenia Marrender or with the
theft of some of her property." He paused a long
minute after his grave answer while his eyes rested
first on one and then on another of the three strained
faces that watched his so closely. "And now I shall tell
you frankly what I intend to do. I have learned certain
things tonight which I shall follow up in my own way
—follow to their inevitable end, whatever that may be.
In the meantime, if any of you conclude that it would
be the better course for you. to assist me with more
frankness than you have given me tonight, I shall ex-


142 Death at Windward Hill
pect you to come to me. If not, then sooner or later
you may each expect me to come to you—and I can't
promise you that it will be a particularly happy mo-
ment. That's all for tonight, as far as I am concerned.
I'm going to ask one of the boys here to see you each
home. I don't advise further conferences with one an-
other. They might be overheard, you know."
"I came out in my own car," snapped Sally, who
plainly did not like the idea of an official escort.
"Excellent," beamed Dick. "The four of you can go
back in it and Asher and I will follow in the police
car a little later. If you will tell Ben where to find it,
he'll bring it around. . . ."
"Scarcely." Sally's laugh was short. "It's down on
the river road and it would take a good half hour to
come around to the drive. If you'd handcuff us to-
gether we might get down the path without attempting
to escape."
"Don't be silly," drawled Tracy. "Stowe's no bone-
head. You girls get along down with your chaperon.
Stowe will take me down himself, if he wants to, but
first I have something I want to whisper in his shell-
like ear. . . . Don't worry, Janet, I'm not going to
confess to anything yet."
Sally Marrender turned briskly toward the kitchen
exit, but as she passed Stowe she managed to inform
him through her teeth, "I'm keeping it. See me to-
morrow."
Janet stumbled after her, casting Stowe an imploring
look as she did so. At the outer door she paused and
called back in a tight, determined voice, "Gene, re-
member—" The door banged shut.
Tracy's slender hand was eloquent as he indicated the


Another Pair of Gloves 143
unseen speaker. "Don't hound that girl, Stowe. God
knows I don't deserve what she's trying to do for me,
but I can't let her in for anything like this. All I can
say now is that I swear to you I don't know how she
could possibly have hit on the line that she tried to
hand you tonight. . . . Wait a minute, out there, I'm
coming."
Tracy disappeared in the darkness and Asher slipped
after him and trailed the party down the dim path
that led to the River Road. When he had seen them
on their way back to town in Sally Marrender's car
escorted by Parks, he came back to Windward Hill.
He knew that Dick would be waiting for him. He
found him in the front hall gloomily surveying the
little gallery.
"Well, Timmie me lad, what did you think of my
third degree? It was quite my own invention."
"Yeah? Maybe you think it got you somewhere."
There was nothing rapier-like about Asher's repartee.
"But I've got myself somewhere. Look here. . . ."
Tim Asher looked. He saw Stowe pull from his pocket
a limp pair of gloves.
"They're a woman's gloves, Tim, and they're marked
K.M.L. And I found 'em just now—this will be the cue
for your department to hang its head—I found 'em in
the pocket of Cubbage's overcoat between his own not
quite shabby pig-skin mittens."
"What of it, huh? What do you say the Marrender
kid planted 'em tonight? You told me yourself she was
kind of catty about the doctor and Mrs. Latimer. But
if Parks or Downer slipped up on a thing like that,
they ought to be broke for it."


144 Death at Windward Hell
"Sorry, Tim, I don't think they were planted. Listen
here. . . ."
Tim Asher listened.
"... so that's why I gave the impression that there
would be nobody here the rest of the night. You and
I will now make ourselves as comfortable as possible on
the chance that the kid will come back."
But the black hours ticked by till morning and the
old house on the hill let slip no more secrets.


Chapter XVI
THE DEAD HAND OF CUBBAGE
ThE two men stepped into position the next morn-
ing as snappily as though the trap they had watched
throughout the night had yielded them the spoil they
had hoped for. Stowe's first move was determined for
him by a telephone call which came just as he was
entering Headquarters.
A voice which he at once recognized as Janet Wil-
cox's informed him politely that Mr. William Mar-
render wished to see him at his office at once, if con-
venient. Dick replied that he would be there within
fifteen minutes and admitted to himself that the girl
had her points. In transmitting her employer's message
she had given no sign that they had shared an amazing
evening.
When he entered the Marrender suite and the secre-
tary stepped forward as if to inquire his business—the
not-to-be-counted-upon Bettina was fortunately still
gossiping at the water cooler—she made it yet plainer
that what had happened the night before was not to
be referred to in any way. Which did not displease
Dick Stowe. . . .
Two minutes later Stowe had entered Marrender's
private office. He faced the man with interest, aware
that this was the only one of Miss Marrender's rela-
tives with whom he had not talked, and he noted the
M5


146 Death at Windward Hill
man's powerful shoulders and the brutal line of his
jaw. Then his attention was commanded by what Mar-
render was saying.
"I understand that you are the brains behind the
local authorities in their so-called investigation of the
death of my aunt. Dexter tells me you know your
business, but—why haven't you talked matters over
with me?"
Stowe's answer was suave, and he gave no sign that
he observed the pen point that was being jabbed vi-
ciously into the expanse of blotter beneath Marrender's
hand. "Frankly, because certain lines that demanded
immediate investigation did not lead to you. Then
came the butler's suicide—self-explanatory, in a sense.
Nor did I consider yesterday the occasion to intrude. I
assure you, I should have presented myself today."
Marrender nodded jerkily. "So you people are satis-
fied with the butler theory, are you?"
"It satisfies the public. Also the relatives of the dead
woman."
"What do you mean by that?" Marrender's words
leaped savagely.
"If Cubbage did not commit suicide, he was mur-
dered. If he was murdered, he did not kill your aunt.
If he did not kill your aunt, he knew who did. If he
knew that, he knew too much for someone's peace of
mind." Stowe spoke with deliberation, his eyes fixed
intently on the man opposite him.
"You don't know?"
"Not yet."
"In that case—"
"Don't misunderstand me," interrupted Stowe. "I
know that Miss Marrender's death prevented her from


148 Death at Windward Hill
Then aloud once more, "I should like to know about
the loan."
Before Stowe could go on Marrender began to speak.
"You're barking up the wrong tree, if you're thinking
of that as a possible motive. The facts are these: ar-
rangements that had been in the making for a week
or more happened to culminate on the afternoon fol-
lowing my aunt's death. There was no possible con-
nection."
"But your present position as one of the heirs to a
large fortune must have facilitated those arrangements."
"If so, it was an attitude over which I had no con-
trol," Marrender countered blandly. Then he hunched
himself forward across the desk. "See here, Stowe, I'd
like to convince you that I'm playing straight with
you. I shall go as far as to tell you that I had tried
to borrow the money I needed from my aunt. She
refused pointblank. Now make what you can of that."
"Therefore I'm barking up the wrong tree. Q. E. D.,"
murmured Dick. "Your sister was in your confidence in
this matter, was she not?"
"To some extent," Marrender admitted grudgingly.
"On Tuesday night you were working here in this
office. It was after ten when you left, and from here
you went around to your sister's apartment. Where
did you go from there?"
"We talked so late—my sister is quite a competent
business woman, you understand—that she put me up
there for the rest of the night."
"Were you still there or at your own home when
you received word that Miss Marrender had died dur-
ing the night?"
"At my own house," Marrender answered as


The Dead Hand of Cubbage
149
promptly as Dick expected him to do. "I went around
bright and early Wednesday morning. Sally never eats
breakfast, but I like my meals."
"I'm right with you there." Dick's laugh was genial,
though the reason for that Marrender would not have
found particularly comforting if he had been aware
of it.
Apparently the very fact that the young detective
was not subjecting him to a rigid catechism was be-
ginning to have its inevitable effect. For a space the
blotter under his hand was again viciously attacked
by his pen. Then he spoke. "About Cubbage, Stowe—
you must be wrong there. The man was a mental case,
absolutely. Delusions of grandeur and all that rot. Let
me tell you something. . . ."
Distinctly to Dick's surprise, Marrender plunged
straightway into an account of the visit that Cubbage
had paid him earlier in the week, the one Janet Wilcox
had already reported to him. "He came in here last
Monday afternoon—said he must see me. I recognized
him but thought he had come up to relay some sort of
message from my aunt. But when I got him in here, all
he did was sit and stare at me. Of course, I couldn't
let him take my time like that and so after a decent
interval I suggested that if he couldn't remember what
he had come for, he might just as well run along. That
seemed to be all right with him—he walked out as
quiet as a lamb, but, my word, he just about gave me
the heebie-jeebies—the wild look in his eyes."
Stowe listened in silence. Marrender's story lapped
perfectly with what Janet had told him, except for one
detail. She had said that the two men were together
for the best part of an hour. He decided to chance


150 Death at Windward Hill
the question. "How long was he with you before you
told him to go?"
"We-ell, maybe I can't hit that exactly. There was
some work lying on my desk and until his half-cracked
manner got on my nerves, I kept at that, and perhaps
the time went faster than I thought."
"Mr. Marrender, do you call behavior like that delu-
sions of grandeur?"
"Used the wrong word, eh? All I meant was that the
chap acted damn queer. I don't know another thing
about him, but I've always had a feeling that he hadn't
started out as a handy man. He could sling the language
like a blurb writer and all that. It seems to me he'd be
just the type to go off his nut and kill someone."
"I agree, Mr. Marrender, that almost everything in
connection with these deaths at Windward Hill could
be satisfactorily explained on the basis of Cubbage's
guilt, and yet—well, we must hear the nurse's story
before we close the case. For instance, I'd like to know
what she knows about the missing emerald brooch."
Marrender's eyebrows shot upward in interrogation.
"Do you mind telling me, Stowe, just how you knew
that my aunt possessed such a jewel and how you
learned that it was missing? I understood that she had
sold it some years ago."
"A member of your family told me she saw the stone
not many days before your aunt's death. Asher and I
failed to find it in the place where it had been secreted."
"Who told you this?"
"Miss Penrose. Miss Marrender had shown her the
brooch the last time she called on her aunt."
Marrender started to say something which he choked
back. His second effort brought, "Yes, no doubt the


The Dead Hand of Cubbage 151
nurse must have known where it was. But it strikes me
as rather strange that my aunt made no mention of the
emerald in her will."
"It's possible that Miss Marrender intended at the
time she drew her will to sell the stone, as she had told
some of you, but for some reason changed her mind—
but not her will," suggested Stowe.
"Perhaps that is the explanation," agreed Marrender.
For a minute or two he played nervously with the pen
in his hand. Then he leaned across the desk and ad-
dressed his caller with a new earnestness. "I've already
begun to regret what I said to you a few minutes ago.
About following your clues, no matter where they
led. . . . I'm regretting it for the sake of one of my
cousins. ... I suppose I must be candid. Well, then—"
But there was an awkward pause. Dick waited in
polite silence.
"It is quite likely," resumed Marrender at length, "that
you have already discovered that my cousin Mrs. Lati-
mer is a highly neurotic woman. I shall go further than
that and say—an extremely erotic woman. She and her
husband have never been particularly happy together,
but Harris Latimer has an unusual antipathy, for a non-
religious man, for divorce. That coupled with his ex-
traordinary patience has saved us from scandal more
than once. Don't think that I enjoy exhibiting a family
skeleton, Stowe, I must tell you this to keep you from
stirring up a particularly hideous mess. Mrs. Latimer's
name is already linked with Dr. Stuart's among the
gossips. If your investigation should give the slightest
opening in his direction, her name would inevitably be
dragged in. I beg you, let your discreetest judgment
guide you."


152 Death at Windward Hill
There was a stiff, artificial cast to Marrender's final
words, of which Stowe was quite conscious. "What
you have just told me," he replied, "verified a rumor
I had already picked up concerning Mrs. Latimer and
Dr. Stuart. Also, I happen to know . . . the doctor and
Mrs. Latimer were together until quite late on Tuesday
night."
Marrender frowned and looked worried. He leaned
still closer to the detective. "My cousin told me about
that. I see I have no choice now but to repeat her story
to you. She had been somewhere or other with Stuart
that evening. They were on their way home in his
motor. It was rather late, I dare say. They had some
unforeseen trouble with the car at a particularly incon-
venient spot and were delayed for several hours. She
told me all about it on our way out to Windward Hill
the other day. But she seemed to have no idea of the—
unpleasant position she might find herself in if she were
asked to account for herself during those hours."
Stowe said nothing in so pointed a manner that Mar-
render's eyes shifted restlessly and in a moment he
added, "I mention that circumstance to show you how
embarrassing matters might be for my cousin if—any-
thing should lead you to—er—to a too hasty conclu-
sion."
"Ah," murmured Dick in tones of agreement and
rose to go. He had accumulated a dozen fascinating
possibilities that he wanted to rush right after. But
Marrender put out a restraining hand. At the same in-
stant the door opened and Janet Wilcox appeared.
"Has another mail come in?" he asked his secretary.
"I have it here, Mr. Marrender." Janet Wilcox laid
a neat stack of opened letters upon the desk and with-


The Dead Hand of Cubbage 153
drew. Dick could see that on the top of the unfolded
sheets were several envelopes whose flaps had merely
been slit.
"Just one minute, Stowe—" As he spoke Marrender
picked up the envelopes and immediately stiffened with
curiosity. "By the Lord Harry, that's Cubbage's hand-
writing!"
No need now to beg Dick Stowe to linger. Mar-
render jerked the letter out of its envelope and flipped
it open. Together the men read it.
"This is to inform you all that dead men tell no
tales. May the living as well as the dead rest in peace.
"J. C."
"Crazy—crazy as a bedbug!" Marrender's voice was
tinged with disgust.
"You're sure this is Cubbage's writing?" barked
Dick, scrutinizing envelope and letter sheet.
"It's like bits of his writing I've seen from time to
time—but then, I'm no expert."
"But, see here!" Dick's excitement was growing.
"Cubbage would have had to write and mail this some
time on Wednesday. He was dead at getting up time
on Thursday. This thing's postmarked Thursday night,
see. You should have received it yesterday morning."
"Maybe I did, at that. I wasn't in yesterday. The
funeral, you know." He buzzed for his secretary.
"When did this letter come in, Miss Wilcox?"
Judicially the girl looked at the envelope. There could
be no doubt that she remembered something about it,
for it was on flimsy paper, hand written in very black
ink, and marked "personal."


Chapter XVII
CONFIDENTIAL TALK WITH MRS. LATIMER
As it happened, wisely he went first to the office of
the postmaster. There was something significant, he
was beginning to think, in the appearance of two let-
ters from dead hands. The coincidence was remarkable,
or else—and this was what he really hoped—somebody
was overplaying his hand.
Dexter's letter had been written by the nurse at the
direction of her patient. There was no reason to doubt
this. If it had been posted in the box nearest to Wind-
ward Hill later than four-twenty in the afternoon, it
would not have been collected until the next morning.
However, Wednesday had been a legal holiday, always
punctiliously observed by the postal authorities. Dick
had already informed himself that the box near Wind-
ward Hill was scheduled for no collections on holidays.
That would account, therefore, for the letter not reach-
ing Dexter until Thursday.
The first letter was in all probability bona fide. Before
he could be as certain about the one this minute in his
pocket he had a few questions to ask someone.
Within the next ten minutes, accordingly, he was
told that every day brought in its quota of letters
addressed to the postmaster which were only covers for
other letters which their unknown writers wished to go
forward with greater anonymity. It was a nuisance,
155


156 Death at Windward Hill
surely, but when these enclosed letters were properly
addressed and stamped, what could be done? Further-
more, the envelope with its heavy black superscription
in which Marrender's letter had arrived was recognized
by one of the mail clerks consulted. It had gone through
his hands the day before.
Yet when Stowe endeavored to trace the letter fur-
ther he came against a dead end. The letter might have
first arrived in its covering envelope Friday or Thurs-
day. Mail addressed like that never commanded imme-
diate attention. However, the civil servant promised
faithfully to see if the janitorial force could trace the
basket that had held the discarded envelopes.
If the envelope should be found, if it bore the same
heavy black writing, then Dick might learn where and
when it had originally been mailed, a point upon which
he had to be certain. If the letter had been mailed after
Cubbage died, then somebody else might demonstrably
have written it, and that somebody else would be a most
necessary person to uncover. If it was genuinely Cub-
bage's epistle, then Dick agreed heartily with William
Marrender—Cubbage was as crazy as a bedbug.
Dick dropped in at Headquarters again long enough
to supplement his string of directions to Asher, and to
ask if anything had come in about the missing nurse.
Nothing had. Then he hurried around to the office of
Bartholomew Dexter.
His business there did not take long, for he found the
fussy little man more amenable than before. He gave
Stowe a clear account of the reading of the will the
afternoon before, and was willing to be as endlessly de-
tailed as the detective desired. Certain points Dick
found particularly interesting. Francesca Penrose had


Confidential Talk, with Mrs. Latimer. 157
not been present, her professional duties interfering.
Eugene Tracy had not appeared until after the will had
been read but before the contents of Miss Marrender's
safety-deposit box were checked over. Among the vari-
ous articles contained in said box was the agreement
drawn up between Tracy and his aunt.
That last item Dick found especially stimulating,
though he made no comment to the lawyer. That agree-
ment was certainly not the reason for the turmoil in
the little gallery. Still, if Tracy and Janet hadn't known
that it was not there, that might have been the reason
for—no, it couldn't have been. . . . Tracy knew that
the document had come to light that afternoon! What
in thunder was the reason for their late visit to the little
gallery the night before?
Dick dragged his attention back to Dexter, who
droned on about presenting the will for probate and
added that since the one cousin was not included in the
division of the estate, he personally greatly admired the
spirit shown by William Marrender, who suggested to
the other heirs that the modest pension heretofore paid
Tracy by their aunt should be continued jointly by the
others. The proposal had been opposed first by Tracy
himself, quite naturally, and also by Mrs. Latimer, who
showed the strain of the recent events quite sadly, in
Dexter's opinion. Miss Sara Marrender said nothing at
all, he concluded, and as Miss Penrose was not present,
nothing definite was done.
"What's to become of Windward Hill?" asked Stowe,
edging toward the door.
"It is to be sold and the proceeds will establish a
series of scholarships in a denominational college in
which Miss Marrender was always much interested," ex-


158 Death at Windward Hill
plained Dexter. "And that reminds me—you should be
informed of this contretemps. The will specifically re-
minds Eugene Tracy that he is entitled to whatever he
wishes that is in the little gallery. In due order he stated
to me in the presence of the others that there was noth-
ing at all in the room that he wished. Unfortunately,
Mrs. Latimer again lost control of herself and accused
him of having already overhauled the apartment. In
considerable indignation Tracy left the conference."
"Yet he dined at the Latimer house last night. I won-
der . . ." He took an abrupt departure, leaving Dexter
murmuring vaguely. Lindenwood must be the next
stopping place.
Dick Stowe was rather glad that another maid ad-
mitted him when he reached the Latimer house, a maid
who mumbled something about Mrs. Latimer's being
unable to see anyone just then. Dick flashed a badge and
the girl scuttled off. He slipped along at her heels. She
had no more than gulped out, "But it's a policeman,
honest to Gawd, Mis' Latimer," than he stepped into
the lady's boudoir.
"Awfully sorry and all that to intrude like this, but
it's tremendously important, as you shall see," he ex-
plained with portentous gravity when she had waved
the maid out of the room.
Upon Stowe's unexpected appearance Katherine Lati-
mer had half risen from a great fire-side chair, the soft
fur rug thrown across her knees clutched in one hand.
He was aware that she had assumed a forced noncha-
lance but that she was also taking his measure with
practiced feminine eyes.
"Really, Mr. Stowe, I was just about to give you a
ring—to report about those two times I had seen Cub-


160 Death at Windward Hill
to the strange resemblance, but by that time Gene had
gone."
"That reminds me, Mrs. Latimer, of something Bar-
tholomew Dexter intimated to me this morning. I hope
you will answer me frankly. Why did you object to
the proposal that Mr. Marrender made yesterday con-
cerning the continued payment of Tracy's so-called
pension?"
Katherine Latimer leaned toward him with an air of
worried confidence. "Indeed, I do intend to be frank
with you. It may be a beastly thing for me to say, but
I know myself well enough to realize that my nerves
are going to torture me until I share my hideous suspi-
cion with somebody. It must have been Gene who went
through the little gallery that night." Her voice sank
appropriately and her eyes misted with tears.
"What makes you think that, dear lady?" Stowe
knew exactly what he was doing when he so addressed
Katherine Latimer. It had just the effect he had antici-
pated.
"If I tell you that, I shall have to trust you very, very
much indeed," she murmured and stretched out a be-
seeching hand. "But I do trust you—oh, infinitely. But
first, you people of the police are satisfied that it was
Cubbage who shot poor Aunt Eugenia? I mean I'd
never breathe a word of this if I thought you'd try to
implicate Gene in the murder, too. I myself am quite
convinced that he could have had nothing at all to do
with that. He could have had no motive, for one thing.
His agreement with Aunt Eugenia came to light, as you
know. With that in existence he had nothing to gain
one way or another."
If Dick Stowe found Katherine Latimer's exegesis of


Confidential Talk with Mrs. Latimer 161
Tracy's motive for murder sounding rather patly mem-
orized, he gave no sign. Instead he agreed with no
audible reservations that Cubbage most certainly must
have been guilty of the killing of Miss Marrender. And
he was just ever so happy to think that she trusted him
so implicitly. . . .
"I want to tell you, really I do. My conscience will
be clear, though a wee bit embarrassed, I must confess.
But it's much better to be straightforward about things,
isn't it, than to have them pop out later and perhaps
compromise one." She fluttered appealingly. "And so I
have decided that I'd rather be embarrassed now than
compromised later."
She paused to offer Dick another cigarette. Encour-
aged by his quick sympathetic smile, she went on. "You
see, on Tuesday evening, rather late, I'm afraid, I went
for a little airing with a friend. I've been sleeping so
wretchedly this winter and my doctor prescribed mo-
toring. In fact, I happened to be with my doctor on
that evening."
There was just a hint of a side-long glance as this coy
admission came out, but Dick was blind.
"It was a glorious night, really, wild and stormy. I
mean the way the wind blew. Perhaps you remember?
It stimulated me . . . intoxicated me. And then, just
as we were on the home stretch, what do you think? We
had a break-down—some sort of obscure engine trouble.
Dr. Stuart is awfully clever with machinery and all
that, but nothing did any good. At last he decided that
he'd have to go for help.
"It was while he was gone that the thing happened
that I feel I just must tell you about. I forgot to say
that we were on the River Road just below Windward


162 Death at Windward Hill
Hill, as it happened. Maybe you've found out—detec-
tives see everything, don't they?—that there is a rocky
little path that leads from the back of Aunt Eugenia's
place down to the River Road. I huddled in the car
alone, and scared to death, though I knew there was a—
though I wouldn't have admitted that to the doctor for
worlds."
She smiled frankly into Stowe's eyes and continued.
"All at once I distinctly heard footsteps crashing down
the path, stumbling and running, you know. It was ever
so dark, but in a minute a shadow lurched out into the
road and began to run toward town. As the figure
passed the car, I recognized Gene—I mean, I'm almost
certain it was Gene. There's something about the way
he swings his shoulders, you know. . . ." Her voice
trailed off. "If you only knew how I loathe myself for
telling you," she sighed.
But in a moment she went heroically on. "Not know-
ing what was happening at Windward Hill, I really
thought very little of it—until the next day, and since
then it's worried me—oh, dreadfully. At first I decided
to say nothing about it—you recall I told you I had no
theory about the looting of the little gallery."
Stowe, the perfect confidant, nodded gravely. Sympa-
thy vibrated in his voice as he asked, "Did you tell Dr.
Stuart about your experience when he returned?"
"Yes, and he said he had passed a man about a half
mile below, but he hadn't recognized him. So I said
nothing at all about my idea that it was Gene. You
can't blame me for that, can you?"
Of course Dick couldn't. . . . But had the doctor
found a garage mechanic?
"No, he had no luck at all, poor man. But what do


Confidential Talk with Mrs. Latimer 163
you think? When he got back to the car, the very first
touch he gave the starter, everything began to work
perfectly. Aren't motors inexplicable! But at that it
was ever so late when I got home. I was quite ashamed
of myself."
"Now if you'll tell me as accurately as you can about
the times . . .?" encouraged Dick.
"It was nearly eleven when we started to drive and
I'm afraid it was after one when we found ourselves
stuck on the River Road. And we were at least an hour
tinkering with the car before we got under way again."
"So it was probably two or after when you saw
Tracy. . . . Um-mm. ... By the way, during your
wait there did you by any chance hear the shot?"
"You mean—oh!" Katherine Latimer's exclamation
was shrill. "That was probably happening to poor Aunt
Eugenia at that very time," and in spite of her fur rug
she shivered. "No, I heard nothing—nothing. The
wind. . . ."
"Since you were so close to Windward Hill, why
didn't you go up there and call for help? The all-night
service stations in town would have had a man out in
a jiffy."
"I know, but it was hardly the thing to disturb a
sick woman's household at that ungodly hour, was it?"
"So you advise me to ask Tracy to account for his
actions on Tuesday night, or rather, Wednesday morn-
ing. May I use your name?"
"If you find it necessary." Dick thought her particu-
larly good at the martyr's stake.
"I sincerely hope for your sake that it will not be."
Dick patted her hand reassuringly, and her smile quiv-
ered bravely back at him. "Now there's just one more


164 Death at Windward Hell
little matter that I'd like to clear up and, please, don't
let it excite you. Personally I think it's all part of Cub-
bage's machinations, but you must be told of it."
The blue eyes widened and the color deepened almost
to purple. She shrank back into the depths of her great
chair. "Tell me," she murmured.
"By the way, these belong to you, do they not?"
Carelessly Dick slipped his hand into his pocket and
drew forth the suede gloves. "I took a chance on the
initials," and he tossed the soft wad into her lap.
"They look familiar—I'm always mislaying gloves."
She dismissed them impatiently. "But you were going
to say—"
"The gloves were found among Cubbage's possessions
after his death. I have reason to believe that you may
have lost them last Tuesday. What can you tell me
about the circumstances?"
"Cubbage—had them!" she gasped. "That sounds too
silly," but the grip of her fingers on the edge of the
fur rug did not relax.
"But you were at Windward Hill Tuesday after-
noon," Dick reminded her innocently.
"So I was. I must have left them then—"
"Or early in the evening when you returned. It was
Mrs. Banney who saw you then. I want you to tell me
about that second visit, Mrs. Latimer." Dick leaned
forward compellingly.
"No, no. I can't. . . . It's a lie—I wasn't there . . .
no, no. . . ." Her slender body tensed with hysteria
and her choking sobs brought the strange maid, run-
ning.


Chapter XVIII
DR. STUART REPORTS A LOSS
-A.S Dick made his way out of the Lindenwood house,
he kept his eyes open for his friend the black and white
maid. Katherine Latimer's attack upon her cousin Gene
Tracy, deserved or undeserved, had been so plainly cal-
culated that Stowe was curious to discover what might
have taken place between them the day before, after
the scene in the lawyer's office. Asher had reported that
he had dined at the Latimers' and from there had gone
to Janet Wilcox. Another thing that might be profit-
able to learn would be just how frequently Mrs. Latimer
and Marrender had been in conference.
But he saw no sign of the black and white maid.
His next interview must be with Dr. Perry Stuart.
A query telephoned in to the doctor's office assistant
informed him that at this hour the best chance of
catching the doctor was at the hospital. On his way
there Dick's thoughts raced restlessly around the ap-
palling mixture of stuff that he had so hypocritically
allowed Katherine Latimer to tell him.
The night was wild and windy; everyone spoke of
that. Yet she said she heard stealthy footsteps descend-
ing the path. . . . There were those unused tickets for
the Art Dinner. Soon now Asher would have checked
up on that and they'd know definitely whether or not
165


166 Death at Windward Hill
she'd been there. And his statement that Mrs. Banney
had seen her at Windward Hill early Tuesday evening
had precipitated the hysterics. . . . Consequently it
had been no trick at all for him to retrieve the gloves
he had handed over to her. The gloves probably meant
nothing; she could so easily have left them in the after-
noon. Hold on there. . . . He mustn't forget that she
had told Stuart she was "worrying" about the gloves.
. . . The joker was that Tracy had been at Windward
Hill on the night in question. But if Janet's story were
true, he had not left the place alone nor by the path
down to the River Road. Was it just blind chance that
Mrs. Latimer had dragged him in or had she actually
seen him about somewhere? After all, he had only her
word that she had remained in the car while the doctor
went for help. . . . That was damned odd, anyway,
come to think of it. Under no circumstances could he
imagine a woman like Katherine Latimer being left
alone on a deserted road in a stalled car between one
and two in the morning. She would be just the type to
tag the doctor. . . . Wait a minute, she'd made a little
slip about something. . . . Yes, that was it. "Though I
knew there was a—" she had said. "Though I knew there
was a gun in the car." Was that what she was going to
say? It was up to him to find out, all right. If his luck
would only hold so that he could find Stuart's car in
the hospital parking space, he might make some kind of
start. . . .
However, his luck was not particularly good. He
managed to spot the doctor's car without much diffi-
culty and one hand thrust through a narrowly opened
window had explored one side pocket, but he felt noth-


Dr. Stuart Reports a Loss
167
ing that could be a weapon. Then his wary eye saw the
doctor hurrying out of the surgery wing.
He darted back among the other cars to hail the
physician cheerily a minute later. "Just a minute, Dr.
Stuart. If you'd be willing to give me a little lift back
toward town, it would save your time and mine. I'm
after a little expert information—I'm trying to
straighten out the Marrender mess, you know."
"Hop right in. Glad to help in any way I can. I'm
on my way to an out-of-town call—something that
doesn't happen very often. It's out on the Holland-
ville road, so I'll be cutting clear across town and you
can go as far as you like—both geographically and
officially."
As he settled himself, Dick was speculating on his
chances of examining the pocket on his side of the car
and wondering what would happen to the doctor's
frank cordial manner if he were to say, "You know,
old top, it might have been you who did for Cub-
bage. . . ."
Instead of that he said, "You know, of course, that
in a sense the case is closed. The butler's suicide satis-
fies the family and the public, though we all admit that
we can't quite put a period to it till we round up your
missing nurse. Then there are a few other little details
that keep me a bit restless."
"Doris Randall—I confess, Stowe, that I don't know
what to make of that girl. She's a crackin' good nurse,
speaking professionally, and a damned attractive little
piece, speaking every other way. But just between you
and me she wouldn't have had sense enough to disap-
pear as she has done—if she's involved in what hap-
pened, I mean. Here's my theory—take it for whatever


168 Death at Windward Hill
it's worth. I asked her to go on that Florida case and
she seemed tickled to death. I wired down to Cincin-
nati for her reservations and saw her on her way myself.
She didn't get that far. You police think you traced
her to Chicago. I think someone kidnapped her."
"Not Cubbage?"
"Certainly not. He was under someone's eye all of
that day. Likewise, it could scarcely have been any
member of the family, except—those who were not in
town on Wednesday."
Dick whistled in pleased surprise.
"You see what I mean?" The doctor's attention was
on the traffic lights, and Dick's right knee was engaged
in cautious exploration. "As I see it, the burglary of
the house and the murder of Miss Marrender have no
connection. Doris—the nurse knew nothing about the
shooting. If she had, she never would have been able to
conceal it from me. I know that girl's type, I tell you,
Stowe. But either she did know something about the
room that was entered, or somebody thinks she does,
which amounts to the same thing."
"Does your theory include the idea of possible foul
play—that the girl's to be suppressed permanently?"
"You're kidding me, I dare say, for butting in on
your own affairs," laughed Stuart genially, "and yet
when the girl is found, or if she is found, her story will
be damning to somebody. That's the way I look at it."
Dick nodded in agreement. "Perhaps that somebody
will be herself." It was a grave pronouncement, and for
a time both men were silent. Then Dick spoke again.
"However, I wanted particularly to ask you about
something else. You've been in and out at Windward


Dr. Stuart Reports a Loss
169
Hill with considerable regularity. What did you make
of the butler?"
"Cubbage? He was a bad actor, if that's what you
want to know." The words were exhaled with relief,
or so Dick interpreted the emotion from which the
physician relaxed. "Frankly, I never paid any attention
to him until I caught on to the fact that he was worry-
ing my patient."
"That's interesting. Go on."
"It's nothing specific—sorry to disappoint you. But
I'm sure his influence over her was growing. It was
apparent to me that he controlled matters at Wind-
ward Hill. There was no need yet for another nurse,
partly because Cubbage was so skilful in relieving Miss
Randall. I think he may have wanted to postpone the
appearance of another constant presence in the house—"
"I say, Stuart—Cubbage himself mentioned some-
thing about plans being under way for the nurse to
sleep in Miss Marrender's room. It looks as if that fact
and the necessity for another nurse before long hurried
up things, what? Had you said anything definite about
that to him?"
"Come to think of it, I had. I'd talked matters over
with Miss Randall on Monday morning, if I recall the
time correctly."
"I see. Well, it gives me something to think about, all
right. Now another matter, doctor. Did you discuss the
situation at Windward Hill with any of Miss Marren-
der's relatives?"
"No. There is only one member of the family whom
I know beyond the bowing stage—Mrs. Harris Latimer.
She happens to be a patient of mine too just now, and
professionally I knew she oughtn't to be worried with


170 Death at Windward Hill
anything that was as nebulous as my suspicion about
the butler."
Dick marvelled somewhat at the technique that had
so skilfully introduced the topic that could prove em-
barrassing for the doctor, but all he said then was:
"Your suspicion about the butler—I do wish you could
be more definite, doctor. I don't mind telling you that
the chap has sunk himself without a trace."
"But it's hard to translate hunches into words—a
detective ought to appreciate that. You see, he nearly
always made a point of stopping me as I would be leav-
ing after a visit to ask me rather specific questions con-
cerning the patient's condition. He led me to believe
that he answered a good many telephone queries from
members of the family and friends in town, and, I say—
I've just remembered what he asked no later than last
Monday morning!" Stuart looked triumphantly around
into Stowe's face as if to add, "I'll hold you now!"
"Shoot!" grinned Dick.
"He inquired about Miss Marrender's mental condi-
tion—whether as the disease advanced her mental proc-
esses would tend to become clouded and so on."
"Did he, by any chance, use the phrase 'of sound
mind'?" Dick inquired.
"The very words. Now what do you suppose the old
ghoul was up to?"
"He may have had the humanitarian idea that a suf-
ferer from an incurable malady should not be allowed
to die by inches," suggested Dick disarmingly.
"It was a faux pas for him to drop out without leav-
ing a confession. I don't see how you are ever to be
certain of anything."
"How aptly you put it, doctor. And that reminds


Dr. Stuart Reports a Loss
171
me—how about that shot of Benssen's #3 that Cubbage
took? Wasn't that an unusual poison for a servant to
possess?"
"Absolutely. Only—well, you yourself have been in-
timating that not much is known about Cubbage."
"And Benssen's J 3 is so uncommon that the source
of this dose is not going to be difficult to trace," Dick
ventured.
"That's true . . . it's not as if it were a staple in
materia medica. In fact, all I know about the stuff is
that it has some obscure commercial use. I heard one of
the chemists from United Utilities mention it in a
speech once."
"You did, did you?" noted Dick to himself. Aloud,
he blandly changed the subject. "I'm glad you men-
tioned Mrs. Latimer a moment ago. You see, I've just
been talking to her and she tells me that she was with
you on Tuesday night."
"I hope she included the tale of our embarrassing
moment." Again the physician's manner was easy and
urbane. "Damned awkward for us both, at that, in the
light of what has since transpired."
"She seems in a highly nervous condition."
"Indeed she is. In fact, if you can assure her that she
needs to fear no consequences, it would do her a lot of
good. Her neurotic imagination is torturing her, to tell
you the truth."
"Consequences? I'm afraid I don't follow you."
"It's utterly baseless, but I can't seem to convince her
of that. She is worrying for fear her name and mine will
be dragged into your damned investigation. We were
stalled on the road just below Windward Hill at a bad
time, you know."


Dr. Stuart Reports a Loss
173
"Where?"
"In my rooms down-town. I went up for something
—it was not an office-hour night—and found her there.
She had been on her way to dinner somewhere and felt
one of her nervous attacks coming on and stopped on
the chance of finding me. She needed attention, all
right. It was a couple of hours before she was calm
enough to leave in my car."
"What time was it when you found her in your
office?"
"About eight, I believe. 1 can't be positive. . . . Now
if you want to go all the way out the pike with me,
say so. I can step on the gas from here on, you know."
"No, this is the end of the car-line, and I'd better
hop on the one that's coming and get back on the beat.
You have told me a lot, Stuart, and I thank you. And
for heaven's sake, if you hear from your wandering
nurse, bust a button getting in touch with me, or we
shall begin to think you're mixed up in the mess too.
So long!"
"Wait a minute, Stowe. I forgot something." Stuart
had already started his car, but he stopped again and
thrust a grey-capped head through the lowered win-
dow. "Would you mind reporting to the proper per-
son at Headquarters that the .38 I'm legally permitted
to carry with me in the car has been stolen? It must
have been swiped this morning while I parked for
twenty minutes down on Garfield Street. It was there
when I left the garage. . . ."
The roar of his departing car drowned anything else
he might have been saying.


Chapter XIX
AND SALLY DISCOVERS ONE
the way back to town and Sally's Shop, Dick's
next port of call, he entertained himself by checking
over the devious ways by which every member of the
Marrender circle had blurred the issues with suspicions
against one or more of the others. The doctor had been
particularly good. Well, maybe his hunch about the
nurse's being kidnapped wasn't so bad . . . and his
line about Cubbage had been hot, all right. And was
his report about his stolen .38 straight, or was that
merely an artful announcement that he had been aware
of his passenger's surreptitious search of the side pock-
ets of the coupe? Speaking of hunches, his own was that
there was something not quite convincing about the
double story of Tracy's being seen on the River Road
. . . unless the Wilcox girl were lying her head off.
Janet Wilcox made him think of United Utilities and
United Utilities made him think of what Stuart had
said about Benssen's #3, and Benssen's #3 made him
think of the death of Cubbage, and the death of Cub-
bage made him think of William Marrender. ... By
the time Dick had thought about this new arrangement
of United Utilities, Benssen's #3, and William Marren-
der, he entered Sally's Shop wondering how to test the
answer that had presented itself.
Sally's eyes directed him to the room at the back of


And Sally Discovers One 175
the shop. Within a few minutes she followed him, first
skilfully completing the sale of a cherry and ash spool
bed to an over-upholstered customer who had shown
signs of wanting to dicker.
Deliberately Dick waited for Sally Marrender to
speak, but at last he had to prod her with, "This is
tomorrow and here I am."
"Oh, yes . . . about the piece of chain." She thrust
her hand into the pocket of her smock and produced
a fragment of old-fashioned gold watch chain between
three and four inches long. "This is what you handed
me last night, isn't it?"
Dick nodded.
The girl's left hand went down into the other pocket
and emerged with fourteen similar inches of chain at
one end of which swung a distinctive charm. "Would
you say the two pieces are alike?" she asked.
Carefully Dick matched them. Even to the casual
glance there could be no doubt that the pattern of the
links was exactly alike, but Dick was concerned with
something else. With scrupulous care he was examining
the broken or cut ends of each piece that had been
produced when one old-fashioned watch chain had by
design or accident been pulled apart.
"My short piece shows a recently severed end. Your
long bit ends with a link that shows no fresh scar of
any sort, though originally it must have been pried
open. What have you to tell me about it?"
"The long piece with the charm belonged to my
grandfather, Robert Rufus Marrender. I was only a kid
when he died. Because he was the eldest grandson, he
left my brother Will some of his own personal things.
In the lot was his first watch. With it was this piece of


176 Death at Windward Hill
chain, broken just as you see it now. Will treated the
ancient relic with respect and all that, but he really
didn't give two hoots for it, and when I began to show
symptoms of this"—her hand indicated the indescrib-
able jumble that made up the shop—"he let me take it.
It's been in my cabinet of Mid-Victorian jewelry ever
since—not for sale, of course. When you flashed your
piece last night, it struck me that it was a missing part
of Grandfather Marrender's chain."
"A missing part?"
"Yes, another length is needed to restore the chain
as it originally was."
"Well, what of it?" asked Dick, as if the missing bit
was not already in his possession, kindness of Mrs.
Banney.
"As you say, what of k? When I first started the
shop, I nagged Aunt Genie for the rest of the chain
and she informed me in her own final manner that I
needn't bother, that she had positive knowledge that
the other part of the chain was no longer in existence."
"Hm-mm, yet I found my bit in the upper hall of
your aunt's house yesterday morning. Was any other
member of the family interested in the chain?"
"If they were, they concealed it beautifully. But if
the two severed ends don't match exactly, maybe that
means—"
"It could mean a lot of things." Dick broke in almost
rudely. "See here, Miss Marrender, did you go to Wind-
ward Hill last night to search for this piece of chain?"
Sally's hazel eyes flashed stormily. "You would come
back to that. But listen, I—will—not—tell you about
last night."
"I'm supposed to be good at finding out things for


And Sally Discovers One 177
myself, remember. I've found out that you and your
brother did not breakfast together Wednesday morn-
ing, for instance."
She laughed spontaneously. "Everybody knows my
clocks are never right."
"Your clocks have nothing to do with the fact that
you told me your brother breakfasted here with you
and he says he ate at his home. Was that lie necessary,
Miss Marrender?"
"Yes. I may be minus zero as a cook, but I still have
me pride." Her answer was flippant, but her eyes were
somber.
"I'm afraid you were lying about something else, too.
It was your brother's business, not yours, that you dis-
cussed so late on Tuesday night . . . and you quar-
relled with your aunt about his affairs on Tuesday
morning. You have pointed out to me a grave possi-
bility, Miss Marrender."
That told, but in a way that increased Dick's cau-
tion rather than his satisfaction. Her mobile face indi-
cated, on the whole, that an unexpected turning had
presented itself.
"Someway I can't forget that peculiar scene between
Kaye and Gene up in Mr. Dexter's office yesterday," she
murmured dreamily. "I must tell you about it—"
"I'm already informed." Dick was brusque. The
girl's device was disgustingly transparent.
"Then you don't think my cousin—But then, every-
thing points to Cubbage, thank goodness."
"If Cubbage murdered your aunt, I can't understand
why everyone of you goes to such elaborate trouble to
get me all hot and bothered about some other member
of the family. According to one or another of you, each


178 Death at Windward Hill
of the others is under the gravest suspicion. That means
just one thing to me: every last one of you is hugging
a bit of guilty knowledge and trying to finesse the other
fellow into the open. And I propose to take the tricks
myself."
"Go right ahead and have your own fun. After all,
there's only one thing I know: neither my brother nor
I had anything to do with what happened at Windward
Hill that night." Her declaration was low-voiced but
defiant.
"So? Then—how about your .38? It was a bullet of
that calibre that was found in Miss Marrender's body.
We've identified a recent sale of such a gun to you."
"My revolver is in the next room in its usual place.
Would you like to examine it now?" She rose coolly as
if eager to demonstrate. "It's merely a gesture on my
part. It's never even been fired."
"Just one minute, Miss Marrender. Are you prepared
to prove to me that the gun has been in its usual place
continuously from Tuesday on till today?"
"Which means that you can't take my word for it.
The rules of your game, no doubt. . . . You could ask
my two assistants; they might know something. And
another thing, Mr. Stowe. You assume there was only
one such .38 in existence. Didn't I hear the men from
Headquarters talking about a trace they had found of
such a gun in Gene's room? You can't prove that the
shot that killed Aunt Genie came from my .38. That's
silly!"
"Can't we? We have the bullet, you know." But
Dick realized that the significance of this meant noth-
ing to Sally Marrender.


And Sally Discovers One 179
"I see no need to prolong the discussion." A strange
dignity possessed her. "Let me show you my revolver."
Dick followed her back into the main room and
across the floor to the corner where so modern a con-
trivance as a cash register looked slightly conscious
among the lyre-backed rosewood chairs and hand-blown
glass flasks. Imperiously she called to the tall, puffy
woman whom Dick had noticed upon his first official
visit.
"Mrs. Morrison, will you please show this gentleman
where we always keep the arsenal?"
"Right under here," began Mrs. Morrison chattily.
"There's a shelf, you see, and in case someone should try
to make us open the register, Miss Marrender has always
told us to think quick and—"
As she talked she had thrust her hand along the shelf
groping for the protecting weapon that should lie ready.
But the startled way in which she had stopped speaking
and the blank look that slid over the soft expanse of her
face told their own story.
"It's not there, Sally!" she gasped.
If Dick had not been watching Sally Marrender's
square dark face, he probably would never have be-
lieved it; but as it was, he knew he could have no doubt.
Sally Marrender had honestly expected her revolver to
be in its proper place . . . and it was not there.
"But it was here—this morning—the first thing. I
looked!" Then she pulled herself together. "You're sure
you haven't touched it?" she demanded of the quivering
Mrs. Morrison.
"No, no, my dear child. You know how I've always
felt about knowing it was under there, liable to go off
at any minute."


180 Death at Windward Hill
The other assistant, the thin, wiry one, tap-tapped
back to collect candle sticks for a customer who had
just drifted in. She beamed maternally at her employer.
"I mustn't forget to tell you, Sally dearest, that a gen-
tleman was in a few minutes ago who wanted to see you
rather particularly. But you had said you weren't to be
disturbed in case this—er—this person came in."
At that slip the hazel eyes glared balefully, but Miss
Trent chirped on. "He waited a few minutes and then
went out. It was somebody you know—he's been here
before, a tall, good-looking man. He wore a grey tweed
cap."
"Just where did he do this few minutes' waiting, Miss
Trent?" It was the very question that Dick would have
asked if Sally had not worded it first.
"He was back here looking at the brass fire-sets when
I first spoke to him, and well—I really didn't notice him
anywhere else. He liked the andirons. He knelt right
down on the floor to look at them."
Dick and Sally looked at one another. Both had
leaped to the same conclusion, but before Dick could
pin Miss Trent down to a more detailed description of
the recent caller who might have stolen the gun, Sally
asserted herself.
"Just a minute, please, Mr. Stowe." Imperatively she
waved the assistants back to their customers and
addressed Dick.
"A tall, good-looking man," she repeated signifi-
cantly. "I'm afraid I know who that was—Perry Stuart.
I had been told that he wanted to see me—"
"But, Miss Marrender," interrupted Dick, "I happen
to know that Dr. Stuart—" He stopped himself ab-
ruptly. "If your weapon has lain here undisturbed all


And Sally Discovers One 181
week, why should you be so eager to fasten its present
disappearance upon the doctor?"
"Let me tell you all I know about being sure that it
was here all the time," she proposed after a curious little
pause. Stowe's last direct question was ignored. "I know
the revolver was here on Tuesday morning. I was hunt-
ing all over the place for something a customer wanted
and the shelf here was one of the places I searched. The
gun was there. You were here for the first time late
Wednesday afternoon, weren't you? I didn't even know
then that Aunt Genie had been shot—remember? Well,
after you left, I suppose because of the association of
ideas or something, I came in here, and my revolver was
in its usual place. This morning I looked again and
everything was all right. I suppose it was on my mind
just because of what you said last night."
She had been speaking in a rapid, low voice and now
as she concluded with this oblique reference to their
strange meeting at Windward Hill the night before,
Dick recalled the assurance with which she had an-
swered his question then. As if to himself he murmured,
"But I still wish I knew why you went to Windward
Hill last night."
An angry flush told him something.
"You're welcome to third-degree Mrs. Morrison and
Miss Trent about my gun, or anything else," she said
after a minute, during which she might have been
counting ten. "Mamma Morrison's the kind that you
can make say anything that's helpful, but Trent's no-
body's fool. In the meantime shall I call—the regular
police about the theft of my .38?"
Dick wanted to laugh at the angry girl, but he
answered gravely, "I'll be glad to report the matter for


182 Death at Windward Hill
you, Miss Marrender, but first if you will allow me to
follow your own suggestion about your assistants. . .
So while Sally Marrender carried on quite pointedly
with the customers from whom the two women were
temporarily recalled, Dick Stowe learned for himself
that their employer had rated them quite accurately.
Mrs. Morrison was so skittish about anything that might
go off with a bang that she would have allowed battle,
murder, and sudden death to be done rather than touch
the hidden weapon. Consequently she was very vague
about when she had last seen the gun. She had, how-
ever, observed Miss Marrender searching about on the
shelf a number of times recently.
Miss Trent had noticed the same thing. Miss Marren-
der had made no explanation of her search. This was
somewhat odd, thought Dick. . . . Moreover, Miss
Trent always kept her purse in the far corner of the
shelf in question and she was prepared to swear that
the revolver was in its proper place this morning. She
admitted that she hadn't thought about it the other
days—Wednesday and Thursday, that is. The shop had
been closed the day of the funeral.
Then Dick referred to the tall, good-looking man.
Miss Trent's additional details certainly did not rule out
the possibility of Dr. Stuart's having been the caller, in
spite of Dick's certain information that he had been on
his way to pay a professional visit out on the Holland-
ville road. She confessed, however, that she did not
know Dr. Stuart even by sight. Dick thereupon risked
a test ... a test which left him more uncertain than
ever.
Did she know her employer's brother, Mr. William
Marrender? . . . Since she did, had she noticed when


And Sally Discovers One 183
he had last been in the shop? . . . This very morning—
was she positive?
Indeed Miss Trent was quite positive. He had come
in quite early, about ten, and after a few words with
his sister had left immediately. Another member of
the family had been in that morning, too, volunteered
Miss Trent. The week had surely been a difficult one
for the Marrenders, but it moved Miss Trent deeply to
observe such fine, old-fashioned family solidarity. . . .
Brusquely Dick reversed Miss Trent's digression and
listened to an accurate, unmistakable description of
Eugene Tracy. He had not been in the shop long either,
she reported, but he had gone directly to the back room
as if searching for his cousin, who chanced to be out
at the minute. He had left no message.
Dick meditated. The "tall, good-looking man" who
wore a grey cap might have been Dr. Stuart and he
might have stolen Sally's .38, in some strange impa-
tience to replace his own . . . but in that case his trip
out the Hollandville road had not been taken. Instead
he must have turned back to town immediately upon
discharging his passenger. Why . . . why? But the
revolver could have been stolen at any time during the
morning after the opening of the shop . . . and Mar-
render had been in . . . and Gene Tracy. . . . Some
mess, thought Dick.
He chanced a final question that brought an amused
glitter into Miss Trent's black eyes. Could one get to
the shop from the apartment above without going out-
side and using the main entrance?
A thin shoulder blade lifted itself expressively. There
was a door in the back room. Sally was a darling, but
she often forgot that overtime for the rest of them


184 Death at Windward Hill
meant late trips home. All she had to do was slip up
those back stairs. . . .
Dick left Sally's Shop and made for the nearest pub-
lic telephone. There was much to report to Asher.
Extra eyes must be trained on the doctor, and he
wanted information about United Utilities and Bens-
sen's #3; and the police must know that two .38's had
mysteriously disappeared during the last few hours and
Mrs. Latimer's two leads about Cubbage ought to be
followed up. That man was more mysterious dead than
alive. . . . But perhaps first he ought to have another
chat with Tracy. Tracy had "remembered" something
last night the instant he had mentioned the emerald,
and Dick ought to get after that before Tracy "forgot"
it. After all, Dr. Rhand and his party and Mrs. Quinn's
quick-lunch counter could wait. . . .
All these thoughts filled the interval of waiting for
his call to get through to Asher. What Tim had to say
took the decision about the use of his next hours beyond
his choice.
"And say, Dick, guess what now?" came Tim Asher's
high voice over the wire. "Tracy's beat it. Better drop
around a minute, huh?"


Chapter XX
NETTIE QUINN'S PLACE
SlNCE Cubbage's death the spotlight at Headquar-
ters was no longer playing solely upon the Marrender
affair, yet the deputy temporarily in charge of detec-
tives had been more than willing to allow Stowe to go
ahead with the matter in his own way. So when Dick
stuck his head around Asher's door, the latter promptly
transferred his attention from the latest news about a
cross-country chase after two youngsters who had held
up a suburban bank that noon to discuss the newest
development in the Marrender muddle.
"Smart trick, I must say, letting Tracy give you the
slip like that," scoffed Dick.
"Who said so?" Asher ruffled up instantly. "We know
where he went all right."
"My mistake, Timmy, my mistake. But did you send
somebody after him?"
"Let me tell you. He spent the night at his dump on
Burden Street. Parks had his eye on him, hoping to see
that girl, like you said, but nothing doing. This morn-
ing he had breakfast at Mike's and then strolled back
through town to his cousin's shop. He came out right
away with Miss Marrender and the two of 'em went
around to the morgue—to take a look at Cubbage, I
guess. On their way back to the shop some guy picked
Tracy up in a car. For a while they just cruised around
185


186 Death at Windward Hill
town. Then all of a sudden the roadster headed out of
town on the Dixie. Parks was all out of luck; he fol-
lowed but ran out of gas. So he 'phoned down the line
to check up on the car as it went through the various
towns. It was set for Cincy, all right."
"And so that makes you think you can put your
fingers on the boy just any time you want to—oh,
Timmy, Timmy!"
"Keep your shirt on. We got the number of the car
and who he's with and all. We can pick him up any
time. And he may show us the way to something we
don't know yet."
"Yeah? Here's where I have a little chat with PeeDee
just the same."
When that had been accomplished, Stowe felt better.
Asher then listened with becoming admiration and
respect to his exposition concerning the missing weapon
in the Marrender case. When he had theorized at some
length, Asher interrupted heavily.
"But listen, Dick, you really haven't got a thing on
the Marrender kid, even if it was her gun—you're only
guessing that that was what she was hunting last night
at Windward Hill. If she really thought it was where it
belonged this morning, then that means that she must
have found it somewhere out there last night, and for
the love of Lulu, Dick, I don't see how she could have
put anything like that over on us. Then if Marrender,
Tracy, and possibly Stuart each might have walked off
with the thing this morning, well, it's about got me
tied. And you say that the doc had a .38 of his
own. . . ."
"The only way to prove which, if either, of the two


188 Death at Windward Hell
about it. I want it done in such a way that nobody at
United Utilities will associate it with this business, you
understand." Dick scribbled a few notes on a card and
handed it across the desk to Asher.
Much as the deputy inspector might have desired to
ask questions, he was given no further opportunity, for
Stowe lounged away, his mind mulling over the enig-
matic Cubbage. He was telling himself that it was about
time that he sat down by himself and spread out all the
bits of the puzzle so far collected, and try various ways
of assembling them. But first he'd see what he could
round up about Cubbage from Mrs. Latimer's informa-
tion and maybe he ought to have another round with
Tracy, provided the faithful PeeDee returned him
safely, and then he promised himself that he'd take a
day off from this fruitless running around in circles
and think the Marrender case through. A program
which, to some extent, he was to carry out. . . .
Within the next hour he ascertained that Dr. Vincent
Rhand was a dilettante in medicine and a devotee of
all the arts. As a critic he quite fancied himself, accord-
ing to the professional who reported local aesthetic prog-
ress for the Herald-Press.
Therefore, as one eager to learn at first hand an
authoritative estimate of the real contribution of Fells
Lothrop to modern vers libre, Stowe sought audience
with the oracle. He had no difficulty, office hours being
of small importance in the doctor's schedule. Thereafter
he promptly lost his enthusiasm for ultra modern verse
that had so impressed his host during the preliminaries.
Skilfully he fanned the doctor's curiosity.
Mrs. Latimer had told him a surprising thing about
that so charming occasion when he had entertained the


Nettie Quinn's Place 189
distinguished British guest. She had been quite con-
vinced that one of his guests had been her aunt's butler
—the one who had insanely attacked and killed Miss
Marrender. Could the doctor recall accurately just who
his guests had been?
The doctor could and would. ... It had been a
very select group, just sixteen, including his sister and
himself.
Rapidly he named the people who had been his
guests, names that Dick knew could be easily identi-
fied, but he counted only twelve names and Mrs. Lati-
mer's had not been mentioned. When that was called
to Rhand's attention he explained that in a sense it was
fortunate that his friend Perry Stuart had been de-
tained. With a trace of embarrassment Rhand became
involved in detail. There had been a disastrous accident
to one of the plates of salad which Miss Rhand had
ready to serve, and she would have been distressed be-
yond all words if she had been obliged to substitute a
plate of a different pattern. She was that sort of hostess.
. . . So with the addition of Mrs. Latimer, his sister,
and himself, the party had been only fifteen. He knew
absolutely, because after the accident in the pantry
there had been only that number of Wedgwood plates.
But the guest who looked like Cubbage had left
early, Dick explained, not long after the arrival of
Eugene Tracy. Dr. Rhand remembered distinctly how
late Tracy had been, and yet he was sure there had been
but fifteen who had eaten supper.
That must indicate, Dick pointed out, that there had
been an extra guest who had slipped out early, but
Rhand's mind was a blank on the subject. His atten-
tion had been completely centered on his guest of


190 Death at Windward Hill
honor, as was quite natural. Such a rare privilege. . . .
Yes, perhaps Miss Rhand might remember something
more. She'd be glad to help in any possible way, when
she returned. She had gone to Indianapolis for the week-
end.
Labelling his call on Rhand a dud, Stowe travelled
to an entirely different milieu. Nettie Quinn's place in
the far West End had stirred him not at all when he first
heard it mentioned. Even now it was his sense of duty,
not the urge of enthusiasm that carried him along the
dingy street that led to the eating-house.
He experimented with a bowl of Nettie Quinn's
famous noodle soup and found himself soothed. A
stumbling old man served him and explained huskily
that Mis' Quinn she'd gone to git her plate fixed. By
the time Dick woke to the fact that a trip to the den-
tist was meant, he had become so attached to the shuf-
fling little fellow that he prolonged the conversation.
The waiter's name was Jake, and he was on duty
most all the time on account of he didn't have nothing
much else to do and anyways the folks that come in
and out always give him plenty to think about.
So when the noodle soup had given way to pumpkin
pie and a second cup of superb coffee, Dick had con-
cluded that Jake would serve his purpose better than a
more cautious Nettie Quinn. He produced the news-
paper print of the man known as Cubbage.
"Ever see this chap in here, Jake? You say you always
notice your customers."
"That's right. I always remember faces that have et
here at Mis' Quinn's, but that feller now, I don't never
remember seein' him in here. I was real interested too
in what was in the papers about that there, and I'll tell


Nettie Quinn's Place 191
you why. Y'see, oncet I worked for old man Marrender,
and you know how them things kinda give you a
interest."
They gave Dick Stowe an interest also.
Gently encouraged, Jake indulged in reminiscence.
He'd been hired—and fired by Robert Rufus Marrender
himself, years ago now. Jake recollected that he must
have been just about twelve years old. Something about
the way he emptied waste-paper baskets and handled
the heavy old letter-press in the Marrender office had
not found favor, or maybe it was because the boss
caught him chewin* tobacco. Anyways, he was fired so
quick he didn't know which end he was on. At that,
Jake had always liked the old man. He was the whole
works in them days, long before he went in with them
other big concerns and made so much money for his
children to spend. And now none of 'em was left. Two
sons and three daughters he had. This one that had just
been killed was the last one. . . .
"Two sons?" Dick questioned.
"Yep, the first one of the family that died was a son.
A fine young feller, not married nor nothin'. And then
the two girls that married so grand had died, and the
old-maid one, this Eugenia, she and her dad lived on in
the old place on the hill and bossed the rest. The other
son, he died just a few years after his daddy. Folks said
sometimes that the grandson, the only one that could
carry on the name, Will Marrender, looked so much
like his granddad, but Jake couldn't see that a-tall.
Funny thing, though. . . ."
It was an off-hour at Nettie Quinn's, and Jake's
husky voice had chatted on without interruption, but
now another customer demanded soup. Dick wondered


Nettie Quinn's Place
193
however, the night that bunch of swells had busted in,
but she was rather belligerent about denying that there
were any bums playing poker in her place at the time.
Not if she knew it, they wasn't. . . . Dick dropped his
inquiry and returned to his own establishment, still
arguing with himself about the tomfool idea that Jake
had guilelessly given him.
It had been a long, full day, and Dick Stowe was
tired. He resolved to stay put for the rest of the evening
and the next day, unless he should hear something from
PeeDee about Tracy. It was high time he was seeing
what the various digits in the Marrender problem added
up to . . . and he wanted to write to Laura. He hadn't
had a minute in the last two days. The youngster would
be suing him for gross neglect.
There was a telegram awaiting him when he let him-
self into the quiet apartment that was only a place to
send laundry from when Laura was away from it. He'd
better do as much of that thinking as he could tonight,
for tomorrow was already being commandeered. He
read the message again:
WELL BE WITH YOU SUNDAY MORNING FOR INTER-
VIEW STOP EXPECTED DEVELOPMENTS. FRANCESCA PEN-
ROSE.
It was the phrase "expected developments" that Dick
found most entertaining about the wire.
If Richard Stowe had been a certain recognizable
type of detective, he would have spent his evening
painstakingly writing out endless notes about each
member of the Marrender circle, setting down the pros
and cons that involved every one of them. There would


194 Death at Windward Hill
have been, in addition to the five sheets for the five
nieces and nephews of Eugenia Marrender, a dossier for
Dr. Stuart, one for Janet Wilcox, one for Cubbage, one
for the vanished nurse, and one for the girl with
the emerald.
Perhaps Dick's method ought not to be held against
him. He talked the case over aloud, quite like the veriest
moron. He asked himself questions . . . and answered
them—some of them. One of his favorite answers, he
began to notice, was: "That's something the nurse ought
to know about." If he had been making notes, the
nurse's page would have been overrun.
He demonstrated that he could formulate a case of
a sort against any one of his eligibles, singly or in com-
bination, and yet in each instance at least one question
would intrude that undermined the whole careful fab-
ric. At last he disposed of this collection of questions
by launching them upon Laura's distant head. Conse-
quently there was a businesslike paragraph incorporated
in the midst of an otherwise uxorious epistle.
Dick yawned hugely and slipped out to the letter slot
in bathrobe and slippers to start Laura's letter on its
long journey. La La was bored, out there doing her
daughterly duty, and this would give her something to
think about. There was really no way for Dick to know
that by the time Laura's eyes rested on his questions,
the Marrender case would have been solved beyond all
doubt.
His telephone called him back. "PeeDee, the old
wheel-horse," he thought as he padded across the hall
and back into his own quarters.
But it was not PeeDee. It was Tracy who was calling
him.


Nettie Quinn's Place 195
"That you, Stowe? I'm just back from Cincinnati.
. . . You probably knew I had gone, unexpected as it
was. ... I'd like to see you tomorrow. Something to
your advantage and all that, you know. . . . Well, as
soon as you can get away then. . . . I'll be out at
Windward Hill, if the watch-dogs will let me in. You'll
come? Right. . . ."


Chapter XXI
STOWE VIEWS A PORTRAIT
Having thought to some purpose, or so he flat-
tered himself, before he went to bed, Dick wasted none
of his sleeping time in idle tossing about. He slept with
such abandon that the next morning he had barely time
to shave and dress before a ring at his door announced
Francesca Penrose.
"I thought I'd come directly here," she explained,
"for in a hotel or club someone would be sure to rec-
ognize me. Out here it won't matter. I don't want the
relatives to know that I've been up, you understand."
She gazed frankly about the Stowe living-room, ad-
miring Laura's hangings, and suggested coffee herself.
"This is ever so early for me, you know. Couldn't you
do with another cup of coffee yourself?"
That having been satisfactorily arranged for, she lost
no time in coming to the occasion for her conference
with her impromptu host. "I've heard from my receipt,"
she announced, "and now I know how it feels to be
blackmailed."
"So that's the line. ... I thought it would be. It
may sound heartless, but I'm tickled pink to hear it,"
replied Dick.
"Because you think it will lead you to the murderer?
Veil, maybe—but let me tell you what happened and
then judge for yourself." Just in time she rescued the


198 Death at Windward Hill
knew exactly where you stood in the affair. How could
that receipt be used to embarrass you?"
"It could be used to show that I was at Windward
Hill the night my aunt met her death, but—"
"But you've not denied that to me."
"Exactly. And it could force me to publish certain
business matters that have to do with the Theatre
League and a little deal I'm interested in would flop.
I'd lose money rather inconveniently, but if my un-
known friend meant to insinuate that the receipt could
prove that I have guilty knowledge of my aunt's death,
I just can't imagine how he plans to do it."
"By which you mean that if necessary you can throw
the light of publicity upon your last business arrange-
ment with Miss Marrender?"
"Yes . . . but I also mean that I'm not going to be
scared into doing it, for the matter has absolutely no
connection with what happened to her."
There was something convincing about Francesca
Penrose's statements, Dick admitted to himself and, in a
minute, to the lady herself. "My suggestion now is," he
added, "that since your conscience is so clear you play
your unknown friend along. We'll see then whether
there's a slip somewhere that you haven't thought of
or whether he's up to something himself—more likely
that. Sooner or later he'll give us a lead to himself.
Maybe he thinks you know something—or he's afraid
you know something." Dick stopped short. He had
reminded himself of a certain little detail. Now was his
chance.
"Miss Penrose, which window did you use to enter
the little gallery?"
"The first one I reached—the one nearest the front


Stowe Views a Portrait 199
of the house—the left-hand window from without, to
be painfully exact."
"And it was unlocked?"
"Yes, I pushed it up and stepped inside. I told you all
this once."
"I know." Dick's smile was apologetic. "And when
you left?"
"I pulled it down just as I had found it; I couldn't
lock it from the outside."
"Thank you, Miss Penrose. Next I should like to
know whom you met or saw during your trip from the
car up to the house and back."
She looked at him stonily, as if trying to fathom how
much he knew. "I saw no one." She answered slowly
and the stubborn look in the depths of the grey eyes
might have meant that she had assumed a position from
which she did not intend to budge.
At any rate, Dick made no attempt to follow the
matter beyond the bland remark, "That's right; it was
dark as a pocket that night."
For an instant only, Francesca Penrose registered ex-
treme annoyance.
"I'm about to change the subject, Miss Penrose," he
went on. "I hope you won't say the topic is none of my
business. I'd like to be set right on a point or two con-
cerning the Marrender family history. Your grandfather
had two sons, I've been informed. The elder one died
as quite a young man?"
His interrogative tone brought a careless nod from
the actress.
"Are you sure he left no children?" That question
provoked a distinct interest.
"I'm not the family oracle, Mr. Stowe, but we chil-


200 Death at Windward Hill
dren were all brought up on the tale of the tragic death
of the young uncle whom none of us had ever seen.
He was drowned while he was still in college—eighteen
or nineteen years old. If the young Galahad that he was,
traditionally, left an heir, he would have no legal stand-
ing. But there's small chance of anything so romantic.
The lady in the case would have stepped forward long
ago."
"So as far as you know, you and your sister, Will and
Sally Marrender, and Eugene Tracy are the only de-
scendants of old Robert Rufus Marrender?"
"Of course we are. The Marrender men have never
been that sort. At least, they've never been caught—
unless you've unearthed something scandalous."
"Not yet. . . ."
Franceses Penrose demolished the little mound of
toast crumbs that she had carefully accumulated as they
talked and rose to go. "It's a pity, I've often thought,
that Aunt Eugenia couldn't have lived now. I mean,
she was never the type of the sweet young thing of her
own girlhood. She'd have made a gorgeous Wild Young
Person. Yet, I don't know ... if she had wanted a
fling, she would have—"
"—flung," Dick completed with great gravity.
"You'll not forget, Mr. Stowe, that no one is to know
that I came up to have this chat with you this morning.
I'm rather in disgrace with Will because I didn't attend
the funeral. Poor old Will . . . the publicity of all this
is torture to him."
As she stood in the door talking idly while pulling on
her gloves, Dick made his last attack.
"What became of the gloves you lost last Tuesday
night?"


Stowe Views a Portrait 201
"I'm sure I can't imagine." She answered promptly
with unconscious candor, and then her eyes flared with
surprise as candid. "Why, how did you know I lost my
gloves?"
"I didn't know it, and I haven't found—your gloves
left anywhere as a suspicious clue against you. Let's call
it just a simple exercise in deduction on my part. We
detectives must do our scales regularly, you know."
When Francesca Penrose had gone, Dick took a
moment to wish that his reasoning about her lost pair
of gloves, which had nothing to do with the case, could
be applied to the other pair, the ones that certainly were
Katherine Latimer's, the ones that so oddly had appeared
in the pocket of Cubbage's overcoat. If he could only
risk as lightly and successfully certain deductions con-
cerning the man who had called Francesca Penrose . . .
or reveal some hitherto unknown chapters in the family
archives of the Marrenders ... or surprise her into
telling who it was she knew or suspected was at Wind-
ward Hill at the time of her own unconventional
call. . . .
As it was, Dick felt quite positive of one thing and
afraid of another. It was clearly not Francesca Penrose
who was lying about the hour of her visit to the little
gallery and the condition of the windows. Therefore it
must be Janet Wilcox. That was the item he was quite
sure of. The one he was afraid of was that the caller
whose voice sounded slightly famliar and who had made
a futile attempt to frighten Francesca into some desired
course would very likely prove to be Eugene Tracy.
Poor Janet, she was playing a losing hand.
But he must be on his way to Windward Hill. Tracy
had asked for it, and Dick had a big notion to let him


202 Death at Windward Hell
have it straight. Suppose he gave that engaging rascal to
understand that he had been seen that night. . . . Well,
his course would depend somewhat on the opening that
Tracy might give him.
The house at Windward Hill was cold and deserted
looking, save for one thin curl of smoke. That came
from the kitchen chimney, Dick soon discovered, and
it was in that room that Tracy was waiting for him.
He was, indeed, chatting cozily with the man from
Headquarters who had dogged him, not too willingly,
out from town.
"Run away, Parks, I'll carry on now." Dick slipped
into the flat-bottomed chair behind the range and
grinned cheerfully at Tracy. "If we're not careful,
we'll have you thinking we don't quite trust you,
what?"
"If I weren't such an indifferent beggar I could be
raising the devil about my constitutional rights or what-
ever you call 'em. I'm not under arrest nor detained as
a material witness, and yet I'm not exactly being
ignored by the police." Tracy's soft voice droned on in
similar style for a minute or two longer, and then there
was no sound for a longer interval save the purring of
the coal fire.
"I'm waiting," hinted Dick at last, "to hear what
else you have remembered. Especially about the emer-
ald."
"And I'm ready to tell you a thing or two that ought
to get you somewhere, but on just one condition."
Dick gave Tracy a cynical look. "What, again?" he
murmured.
"Oh, I know what you're thinking. Who am I to set


Stowe Views a Portrait 203
conditions? But this one ought not to cramp your style
a lot."
"All right, what is it? I don't mind telling you that
I've got to get somewhere soon."
"I'll talk ... if you'll tell me what you've got on
Miss Wilcox."
"Beyond the fact that she keeps telling me stuff that
isn't true, I haven't a thing on her—not a thing. And
that line of hers doesn't worry me because I understand
her motive." He looked Tracy straight in the eyes, a
look which made Tracy's lips twitch nervously.
"I know," he muttered. "I'm not worth it."
"I might ask on my part, what has she on you?"
Dick pressed.
"I wish to God I knew—for sure."
Dick nodded his head in slow agreement. "Suppose
you tell me what you do know—for sure."
Tracy pulled himself together, but in spite of obvious
control his voice shook as he said, "I know—for sure—
where my aunt's emerald is."
There was delighted surprise in Dick's steady grey
eyes. "Yes?"
"At Jupe's in Cincinnati," Tracy answered slowly,
and Stowe took that moment to speculate about the
hitherto faithful PeeDee. Why in thunder had he heard
nothing from him since his commission yesterday?
Tracy thought Stowe's silence skeptical and went
heavily on. "If I could have raised the money I'd have
brought it back myself, but you people ought to know
what to do."
"Also, we know what the usual explanation is when
anything like that appears at Jupe's. . . . What's your
story?"


204 Death at Windward Hill
"It isn't my story; it's the truth." Tracy's reply
showed a faint resentment. "Now, Stowe, get this
straight. I was drunk last Tuesday night and most of
Wednesday—completely squiffed, but I'm clear about a
couple of things. I remember that once during that time
the emerald brooch was in my possession, but by
Wednesday night when I got back here I didn't have it,
nor the money I'd won at Mike's. I remember a long
walk in the cold and darkness that Janet—that Miss
Wilcox told you about . . . the last part of it anyway.
I think she was with me then, but if it would do any
good I'd swear that it wasn't she who was up here at
the house—"
"Who was the other girl, Tracy? I'd figured that far
myself."
"You're welcome to find out, Stowe, if you can," he
replied wearily.
Whether Tracy were quibbling, Dick was at a loss
to know. "Well, go on about the emerald. What made
you look for it in Cincinnati?"
"I went down with one of the boys, just for the air
as much as anything—and to annoy you and your
friends. The chap I was with had a business errand to
do, and while I waited I was loafing down there in that
section below Second Street. I saw the bloomin' thing
in Jupe's window. That's all."
"Not on your life it isn't, Tracy. I'm no child, even
though I have an honest face. If it's true that Jupe has
the emerald, you just didn't happen to see it; you knew
exactly what you were looking for and where. . . .
Why, my lad, do you think for one minute that bird
would keep a stone like that in his window? Permit me
one refined ha ha!"


Stowe Views a Portrait 20S
"You'll find it there, nevertheless, unless he gets the
wind up. And another thing—you'll not find that it
was I who left it there in the first place." Apparently he
had abandoned his first story. "As for the other details,
work out your own explanation."
"Which is exactly what I shall do, I promise you,"
retorted Dick grimly. "As for Miss Wilcox, she can't
lie for you forever."
"Stowe, you're not a complete simpleton. Surely your
mighty mind has considered the fact that if I broke into
this house on the night my aunt was killed, the whole
place would have been aroused. I couldn't have pussy-
footed—the state I was in."
"Granted without further demonstration. But where
are the three people whose alibi for you I'd be willing
to listen to respectfully? Your aunt is dead. If you came
when Miss Wilcox says you did, it is very likely that
Miss Marrender was still alive. At the moment I can
not be certain that she was still living when you
left. . . . Cubbage is also dead. I'm willing to bet that
Cubbage saw and heard you and maybe helped put you
out. But, as I said, Cubbage is dead, unfortunately. . . .
The third person who was legitimately present that
night was Miss Randall, your aunt's nurse. I ask you,
where is she? Believe me, when we round up that girl,
she's going to precipitate some embarrassing moments,
or she can just turn around and go back where she came
from. And not for herself nor you only. There are
others who—"
"Do you know, I am beginning to suspect that my-
self. My cousins are—jumpy." Tracy stopped abruptly.
"Go ahead. 'Remember' some more."
But Eugene Tracy lapsed into sullen, dour silence.


206 Death at Windward Hill
Stowe tried another approach. He tossed a length of
chain across, the piece that he himself had found.
"Take a look at that, will you? You've lived here at
Windward Hill for some time. Ever seen anything like
it around the place?"
Tracy spent a deliberate period looking at the bit
of watch chain. "No, I can't say that I ever saw this
particular piece, but I've seen one of similar pattern,
and so have you—if you're any sort of detective."
The way he spoke made Dick's blood hot. "Yes, I
know," he said hastily. "It matches the chain left on
your grandfather's watch."
"That may be, but that's not what I meant." Tracy
looked across at Dick's disconcerted face with some
pleasure. "My late lamented aunt always wore a chain
like this. Didn't you examine the body? But this isn't
her chain. Hers was still intact and in its place the day
she was buried."
"I see . . ." said Dick thoughtfully, but made no
exposition of what he saw.
For a minute or two he busied himself twisting the
fragment of chain about one of his lean brown fingers.
Then with bright conversational zeal he asked, "Had
your aunt always lived here? I've been told she was
something of a recluse even before her illness. Had she
ever been away from home for any extended time?
Travelled, you know . . .?"
Tracy permitted himself a quizzical smile as if to
go on record that though he was quite aware that this
move of StQwe's must mean something, he was person-
ally not much concerned. "Not since the World's Fair,
if the family legends can be depended upon. Or there-
abouts. Maybe it was a year or so later that she spent


Stowe Views a Portrait 207
sixteen months going around the world. I've always
been thankful that she didn't collect curios. When I
think of the junk that she might have brought back
with her. . . . But don't take my word as authorita-
tive. All that giddy jaunting must have been before the
little stranger came from the everywhere into the here.
I've only seen thirty summers."
Dick looked at his watch and rose as if to go. "Say
the word, and I'll run you back to town."
"No, thanks, old chap. You might absentmindedly
run me back into a cell or something. Call back your
guard, if you want—I shan't mind. I really have no
devious purpose for being out here, except that I prefer
this to the Lindenwood establishment or to the one on
the Levee Drive. At that, Will and his wife are out
of town. I'm waiting till evening to call on Miss Wilcox.
Police tip gratis—hope you appreciate it."
Dick grinned in spite of himself. "By the way, you
saw Cubbage before he was buried. Any—er—reac-
tions?"
"I could never have recognized him—as Cubbage."
"Could you have recognized him as anybody else?"
"Come with me," ordered Tracy. "I'll show you."
He led the way from the kitchen down the length of
the chilly hall to the drawing-room. Curtains were
pushed aside until enough light fell obliquely upon a
dark, heavily framed portrait.
"My grandfather, Robert Rufus Marrender," an-
nounced Tracy tonelessly. "Judge for yourself. My
grandfather was not yet forty when this was painted.
I thought the resemblance startling, myself. So did
Sally. Though I can't understand why she should hold


208 Death at Windward Hill
that against me. ... I had planned to kill time with
her today—"
"Are you telling me anything, Tracy?" demanded
Dick.
"What quick wits you have, grandfather. . ,


Chapter XXII
MESSAGE FROM PEEDEE
Compelling as were Dick Stowe's impressions and
ideas after his talk with Tracy, he had to push aside
their interpretation for matters more objective. Tracy's
story about the emerald must be checked immediately.
Asher could send a reliable man down and he could act
with PeeDee. Queer, why PeeDee hadn't reported. . . .
And he himself would have a session with Janet Wilcox.
Poor girl, no matter what the eventual answer might
be, Janet's chance for happiness with Eugene Tracy did
not promise much.
At Headquarters a bored desk-sergeant informed him
that he wouldn't find Deputy-Inspector Asher at his
home for the excellent reason that he was right here on
the spot.
"Why not say so in the first place—in sign language,
if necessary," sputtered Dick, and walked in on Asher's
quiet conference with himself and a stack of depart-
mental reports.
Asher listened to everything that Dick had to say,
which was not quite all that he had learned that morn-
ing, and relieved his mind about his agent.
"You've been called a couple of times this morning
by that buddy of yours in Cincinnati, but he won't
spill a thing to anybody but you. I told him I'd have
ycu call back— Say, why shouldn't you and I both go
200


210 Death at Windward Hill
down to see what's in this Jupe business? You know I
had a report on that fence yesterday morning, and
nothing doing."
"I think Tracy planted it there himself and he didn't
get down till the middle of the afternoon. But say,
Timmy, what for you gyp me about this chain?"
With puzzled attention Tim Asher examined the
length of chain that Dick handed to him. "Gyp you?
Me? Wait a minute—I'm on now. There was a piece of
chain like this around the old lady's neck—"
"You'd not let me hear about it, would you?" ex-
ploded Dick. "Not that it matters now. Except that I
wish I could have seen for myself that her chain was
like this."
"Take it from me, kid, it was. Got a hot idea?"
"A crazy one—and it will keep. Anyway, until I've
called PeeDee."
From the resulting telephonic complications it soon
became evident that the dutiful PeeDee was trying
just as frantically from his end to call Stowe, and as
the little man in Cincinnati was more persistent and
less imaginative it was Stowe who stood by patiently
and allowed the call to come in to him.
When die connection was at length established, Pee-
Dee's news reversed their proposed program, though it
was Dick who snatched first innings. When PeeDee had
been told about Jupe and the emerald, the wire clicked
with PeeDee's determined interruption.
"Say, listen, Stowe, I'm telling you. I've found a girl
down here. I'm on my way up with her right
now. . . ." The line went dead.
"The nurse!" Dick chortled and invented an intricate
dance step on the spot with the useless telephone as a


Message from PeeDee 211
partner. "It won't be long now. I know what PeeDee
can do with a car."
"Maybe there'll be time enough for you to take a
squint at these reports," said Asher, showing no signs
of excitement. "It's stuff you've been howling for."
Dick dropped into the chair opposite Asher's and ad-
dressed himself to the sheaf of papers that the deputy-
inspector pushed across the table to him. For a time
there was no sound in the stuffy room except the rustle
of pages and the regular scratching of matches as one
cigarette after another was smoked. When Asher had
finished his task, he surveyed the young man whom his
superior thought so highly of.
Dick glanced up to meet the steady gaze and quirked
an eyebrow. "Not so bad, this dope, eh, Timmy?"
"I'd like to hear what you make of it, old son, par-
ticularly that jargon about Benssen's #13."
"Oh, that!" Dick laughed. "I'm out of my depth
there, too, but I've managed to gather one comforting
fact from it."
"What, for instance?"
Dick shuffled papers busily for a minute and when he
spoke he ignored Asher's question. "Whose picture is
this?" he demanded, separating an unmounted print
from the litter of material spread before him.
"There should be a memo attached. You're sure it's
not your Burden Street dame?"
"Not a chance. She was like a slat."
Asher sighed dolefully. "One grand hunch gone to
pot. That's a picture of Doris Randall."
"Cheer up, Tim. What do you bet we'll be seeing her
in about an hour? Three cheers—when did this report
come in from the post office?"


212 Death at Windward Hill
"Just this morning. Service, huh?"
"I'll say . . . and I'll also say, Timmy, that their
report puts a period after one item all right, all right."
"Don't overdo yourself spilling anything. . . ."
"Aw, Tim . . . you read the report, didn't you?
And you can see this envelope addressed to the post-
master, can't you? Well, then, since it bears the post-
mark of the twenty-fourth, Marrender's letter from
Cubbage was mailed at least twenty-four hours after his
death, which means that my guess was right—Cubbage
was murdered. Whoever wrote the letter must have
killed the man."
"And your guess about that?"
"Don't embarrass me, Timmy. Um-mm, this ever-
lasting list is the names of those who turned in tickets
at the Art Dinner, is it? Just as I thought—Latimer and
Stuart were not among those present. In fact, they've
never insisted that they were. Only . . . someone in a
car stopped for Mrs. Latimer about seven that Tuesday
evening, and a little before eight Mrs. Banney saw her
at Windward Hill, and at eight or thereabouts she was
receiving Stuart's professional attention in his offices
down-town; and after eleven they were driving to-
gether; and between one and say, two-thirty, they were
stalled on the River Road just below Windward Hill,
and— What I'd really like to know is: What happened
at Windward Hill during the eight o'clock visit? Two
people who knew are dead, and the third person—well,
we'll see what PeeDee drags in. I say, Mr. Inspector,
what about the doctor's .38?"
"He's got an ad in today's Losts and Founds."
"The devil he has! Tim, your department ought to
help him find it."


214 Death at Windward Hill
gold chain, Dick?" asked Asher after five minutes of
uneasy silence.
"I said it was a crazy idea, Tim, and I'll have to
investigate family history a bit further before I can be
sure I'm on to anything. I may never be able to prove
a thing, but I'm betting with myself that maybe the
old chain will help clear up the mystery of Cubbage's
identity. If it should, it's going to score pretty heavily
against the Marrenders."
"Meaning Sally and Will?"
Dick shot a keen, quick glance at Asher, but made
no answer.
"Sure, Dick, listen. . . . They were each doing this
and that during the earlier part of the evening. Then
they got together and what happened after that we're
supposed to take on faith. They could have beat it out
there and pulled off most anything. They could have
been in the car that Galeotti saw change its mind about
turning in to the Windward Hill drive while he was
waiting for his girl friend. And I'll tell the woald this
much—Marrender was a damned cool customer
Wednesday morning when the sad news was broke to
him. I saw his face, remember. And the girl was up to
some kind of funny business Friday night. If you're
right about her gun, then her own brother could have
made off with it yesterday morning. What do you bet
that guy is on to what the marks on a bullet can tell?"
"Motive?" queried Dick, regarding Asher with
interest.
"Money." The answer was dogmatic. "You've not
forgotten about the loan that Marrender pulled off the
very day after his aunt was killed, have you? And
Tuesday morning the girl quarrelled with her aunt.


Message from PeeDee 21S
Looks to me as though she had asked for something
which she didn't get, and so she and her brother made
their own arrangements for the evening. Maybe the old
lady announced to her that morning that she was going
to change her will. Remember the letter that Dexter
got"
"Very neat, Timmy, ve-ry neat. Moreover, accord-
ing to this,"—Dick indicated the formidable report
from the poison expert—"the stuff that killed Cubbage
could have been administered at the hour Wednesday
night that Marrender was there—and Stuart and you
and I and Downer, as I have remarked before." He ran
his eye along the typewritten lines again. "This does
little more than verify Shade's first report. There's
nothing here about United Utilities yet."
"No, you'll have to wait till tomorrow for that."
"Frankly, the only relative that I feel comparatively
confident about is Francesca Penrose. She's told me a
straight story except for one detail. She heard some-
thing or saw someone while she was doing her stuff in
the little gallery. I believe I could make a guess. . . .
You see, Miss Penrose is not the sort to rhapsodize over
her relatives, but I can't imagine she'd willingly give
her own sister away. Therefore, I'm forced to conclude
that she ran into something that she associates with Mrs.
Latimer. Galeotti said she was all to pieces when she
get back to the car."
"Even you could have your leg pulled."
"I'm not that susceptible to blondes, Tim. But if
Miss Penrose suspected one of her cousins of being at
large about Windward Hill, she wouldn't be quite as
edgy as she is. If it was Mrs. Latimer whom she met,
well—I can't make it seem necessary. It was only a ques-


216 Death at Windward Hill
tion of time before Miss Marrender would have died
in the natural course of events. Stuart knew that. Why
wasn't she—or he—or both of them—content to wait?
After Mrs. Latimer had safely inherited two hundred
thousand dollars, not getting alimony from Latimer
wouldn't have held her back for a minute, and Stuart
could then have taken on a wife who could pay her
own expensive way—"
"Maybe she figured that if she waited the doctor
would have changed his mind."
"Timmy, you darned old torch-bearer, that's it ex-
actly. You've got the doctor's number all right. Why
didn't I think of that myself? Why, I remember some-
body saying something about the doctor and the
nurse. . . ." He narrowed his eyes and consulted the
Western Union clock that tick-tocked between the
windows whose grimy panes did so little to illumine
the office of the Inspector of Detectives.
"After all's said and done, maybe Cubbage did kill
the old lady." Asher stirred restlessly in the Inspector's
swivel chair.
"When we hear from Jupe perhaps we can arrest
Tracy, and that may start something with the others.
Don't worry, Asher; the responsibility for giving this
juicy bunch of suspects so much rope is all mine. Hello,
that sounds like action out there. I wonder if PeeDee—"
Both men turned alertly toward the door. It opened
and the slim, compact figure of one P. D. Simpson
stepped inside.
"I got here, Stowe, and I brought the girl-friend, too.
The matron will trot her in in a minute. Business of
powdering the nose, see. And somebody up here will
have to explain to a constable down the road between


Message from PeeDee 217
Hebron and Middleville. . . . Sorry, I don't think this
dame connects up with the emerald, but she does with
Tracy all right. I followed him yesterday—sure I did,
but all he did was hunt this skirt up and have a long
chin about something. Then he came back down-town
and got himself a bite to eat and loafed around until
his friend picked him up again. I saw 'em out of town,
and then I came back to see what I could start with the
girl he'd been talking to. I trailed her around the rest
of the evening but at last I pinned her down and—
well, this morning she decided she'd tell somebody some-
thing, and I figured it might just as well be you, Stowe."
PeeDee stepped backward to the door and swung it
open. "Here, you, step inside," he commanded.
A slight, nonchalant figure crossed the threshold.
The resulting introduction was a masterpiece of gal-
lantry.
"This here's Esme Croft. She says she's an actress."
The instant Dick Stowe's eyes rested upon the girl's
set face he knew that at last something was going to
unwind. For Esme Croft was the girl whom he had
seen in the hall of the shabby rooming-house on Burden
Street ... the girl who had been wearing the Mar-
render emerald.


Chapter XXIII
MEMORABLE EXPERIENCE OF ESME CROFT
EsME CROFT took Stowe's measure with cool eyes
and waited for him to speak. Dick waited also, but his
sinister deliberation had no effect upon her. PeeDee
reluctantly withdrew to explain his hurried arrival to a
still skeptical traffic man, but Asher remained in his
seat of authority.
Just as Dick was concluding that though Miss Croft
might be a trained actress she was undoubtedly a
natural-born adventuress, she smiled in slow disparage-
ment. "Surely it hasn't taken you all this time to re-
member that you've seen me before," she drawled.
"Certainly not. I've just been wondering whether you
could tell the truth."
"I might begin with a genuine sample and—after
that, you'd have to decide for yourself."
"You were in this city last Tuesday night?"
"Yes. All day, in fact. I came in from New York on
a morning train. I spent the evening with Miss Eugenia
Marrender."
"What!" It was almost a shout; certainly Stowe had
never expected to hear that.
"I promised you a sample of truth-telling. This is it:
she didn't know I was there. I was waiting for Gene
Tracy."
"Then you're just the person we've been looking for.
218


Memorable Experience of Esme Croft 219
What do you say happened at Windward Hill that
night?"
"Unfortunately I was not occupying a box seat."
She was astonishingly suave.
"Tell your story and tell it straight," he commanded.
The smooth finish that so far had distinguished her
manner slipped abruptly off. "I couldn't let him play
me for a sucker, could I? When Gene showed up at that
dump of his, see, he hadn't kept his promise, so I
marched him up to that god-forsaken house on the hill."
"You mean you were waiting for him at the Burden
Street room when he turned in there before midnight.
I see. . . . Now his promise about what?"
"Aw, do your own guessing. You're not that dumb,
are you?"
"How did you make the trip from Burden Street to
Windward Hill?" Dick was imperturbable.
"Taxied."
"What time did you get out there?"
"A little after one, I think. Gene had a key and we
slipped into the house. He parked me down in the hall
while he went upstairs to get—what he'd promised me.
It took him longer than I thought it ought to, but just
as I was all set to go up after him I heard someone
coming from the back part of the house. Honest, I was
so scared for a minute that I did a darned fool trick.
According to what I've read in the papers since, it must
have been that crazy butler. Anyway, I dodged out of
the hall through a partly opened door. It was that first
room on the left, a kind of living-room, as near as I
could tell in the darkness—and, believe me, it was pitch
black in there. I waited there for quite a while without
hearing a sound. At last I thought I could take a chance


220 Death at Windward Hill
on stepping out into the hall again, but, say—I couldn't
get out!
"Somebody had locked me in. It's a wonder I didn't
scream bloody murder, I'm telling you. But, believe it
or not, I was scared stiff. I didn't even try to get out
some other way or hunt for light buttons or anything
sensible like that. I just sat there on the floor and shook
—my god, it seemed like hours . . . and then after a
million years I heard the door being unlocked and the
handle turn. The door swung in toward me and I could
hear someone breathing. Don't ask me how I lived
through it. . . . Then a graveyard voice said, real low,
'It's all right now, Miss. You'd better be off before it
gets light.'
"I didn't say anything—I couldn't. I got to my feet,
though, and stood in the door trying to see who it was.
Much good it did me! Then I felt a wave of cold out-
side air and that awful voice said, 'I've opened the door,
Miss. If I were you, I should leave immediately.'
"Well, that's what I did. I was fed up with that
nightmare, and I don't mean maybe. Once I got started
I went out of that house in a hurry, but not quite fast
enough not to have something wished on me, at that.
This old devil that kept whispering to me through the
darkness pushed something into my hand just as I went
through the door and said, 'From Mr. Eugene, Miss,'
and then he laughed like a fool.
"I hung on to whatever it was and beat it down the
drive and then along the road. When I'd got out of
sight of that awful house, I came to enough to figure
that I was running away from town rather than to-
wards it, but I kept on anyway. I walked for about an
hour before I came to the first village and then I found


Memorable Experience of Esme Croft 221
out that it was almost five o'clock. By that time I knew
I wanted to get as far away as I could, so I took the
first way I saw—an interurban trolley loaded with
milkcans. I stayed with it till it got to Cincy, too. After
I got on the car I had my first chance to see what my
parting gift was. Do you need three guesses?"
"The emerald pin," said Asher and Dick as one.
"Yes, that damned emerald." Esme Croft sighed and
said nothing more, as though she had finished her story.
"If you've told me all you will of your own accord,
I can think of two, no, three questions I must ask you."
Stowe leaned forward confidentially.
"Is that all? Don't stint yourself." The girl's first
hardness echoed in the words.
Before Dick could launch his attack, a long-distance
message called Asher out of the office. He was loath to
go, for he knew that Dick would go ahead with his ex-
amination of this astonishing story. As he departed he
heard the first of the three questions.
"While you were locked in the drawing-room, what
at any time did you hear?"
"I heard a shot . . . and not long after that I heard
steps coming downstairs, only not the front stairs—I
don't know that there's a back stairs to that house, you
understand—and something like a door shutting."
Esme's pale green eyes regarded him without a flicker.
"I almost called out then, but I knew they weren't
Gene's steps, and so I kept still."
"You heard rather a lot, didn't you? And you knew
they weren't Gene's steps?"
"Is that the second of your three questions? I always
recognize people's footsteps—one of my many native


222 Death at Windward Hdll
gifts. I had never heard these steps before, so they
weren't the person's who had locked me in."
"This isn't number two either: can you venture a
guess about the time?"
She shook her head. "No, only that it seemed midway
during that everlasting time I was shut up. I must have
been in that locked room nearly three hours, don't you
think?"
"Yes, I dare say you were. Here's my second question:
had Tracy promised to give you the emerald?"
"If I say yes, you'll want to know why, and that's
this li'l gold-digger's private business. But I will tell you
this much, which you won't want to believe—I thought
till yesterday that the emerald actually belonged to
Gene."
Dick nodded in agreement, well satisfied. "In that
case, what brought you to his Burden Street place the
other day?"
"After what he let me in for at Windward Hill, some
sort of show-down was coming to him."
"You wore the emerald very openly. Your naturally
reckless temperament, I presume. . . ."
"Go ahead and kid me—I don't mind. I'll admit
that was careless. I thought my scarf covered it. At any
rate, you scared me off."
"So you saw nor heard nothing from Tracy until
yesterday? Go on with your story from there, please."
"How about that third question? I've lost count."
"Later . . . later, Miss Croft."
"You dicks haven't been supervising his mail evi-
dently. I dropped him a card with a Cincinnati address
after I failed to make connections with him the other
day. He appeared yesterday, as you seem to know, but


Memorable Experience of Esme Croft 225
moment. The continued insistence upon Tracy's befud-
dled condition had for some time, Dick had been think-
ing, sounded forced. It was an excellent shield to keep
from telling what ought to be forgotten . . . and yet,
Esme herself apparently accepted Tracy's story about
not knowing what he had done after he left her in the
lower hall. What if Cubbage had—drugged him? Nice
little solution.
Asher at that instant yanked the door open and strode
inside. "For the love of Lulu, Dick, the emerald's gone!
Report just now came through from the boys in Cin—"
"Try and hang that on me—just try it!" squawked
Esme.
"No, so help me, it's another woman. Wouldn't that
tie you!" Asher groaned helplessly. "Has your PeeDee
started back yet?"
"No," replied Stowe. "Take it easy, Tim. How do
you mean—gone?"
"Jupe's story clicks with this dame's about bringing
the pin in early Saturday evening, though he claims it
wasn't worth near what she thought it was."
Esme sniffed, but Asher was talking directly to Dick.
"Then early this afternoon a stylish blonde lady, ac-
cording to the way he described her to the boys down
there, dropped in and asked to see old-fashioned jewel-
lery. She didn't pay any attention to the emerald pin,
but he missed it, all right, after she left. That's his story
and he's sticking to it."
"Hm-mm, a stylish blonde lady . . . it's a pity that
Jupe's not better at description," mused Dick. She was
obviously not Sally Marrender. That was as far as he felt
safe. She might have been Katherine Latimer ... or
Franceses Penrose. She might even have been Mrs. Wil-


226 Death at Windward Hill
liam Marrender, he thought generously, recalling the
tidy little mouse-blonde creature who had once been
pointed out to him as the wife of the most rapidly ad-
vanced executive in United Utilities. But why was he
assuming that she had to be one of the ladies of the
family?
"Let's round up PeeDee," he concluded, and Miss
Esme Croft found herself once more parked with the
police matron.
In short order a fully commisioned PeeDee was mak-
ing a return trip to Cincinnati, late as it was, and Dick
was hailing a taxi and giving the driver Janet Wilcox's
Edgefield address. After hearing Esme's story it was
more important than ever to have a talk with Janet
before Tracy kept his proposed engagement with her.
The recent events at Headquarters had stretched over
more time than he realized. Miss Wilcox had gone out
for the evening, he was told. . . .
To steady the jumble that his thoughts were in, Dick
walked back to his own diggings. He found himself
again mulling over the masterly brain wave that he
hadn't had a chance to spring on anyone. No doubt he
was a fool to try to prove that Cubbage was a Marren-
der, but somehow the idea was annoyingly persistent. A
handkerchief marked with an M . . . the fact that the
man had disguised his appearance slightly and his age
more than that . . . Jake's maunderings about having
once seen a man who reminded him of old Robert Rufus
—the portrait hanging in the drawing-room at Wind-
ward Hill . . . the impression created by Cubbage's
dead face upon both Tracy and his cousin Sally ... a
broken length of old chain—what did they prove? Then
there was the sinister way in which the man had acted


Memorable Experience of Esme Croft 227
as stage manager on the night of the crime, provided
Esme's wild story could be relied upon. Some way he
felt that it could, in spite of the endless varieties of lies
that the others had offered him. Cubbage had so obvi-
ously pointed out evidence involving both Tracy and
the nurse; he had as plainly screened Mrs. Latimer's call
early in the evening . . . yet why had he mentioned
a caller at all, and why had her gloves appeared in his
coat pocket? After all, wasn't it infinitely easier to
assume that Cubbage was guilty of everything?
Dick sighed; he was tired. Then suddenly a new
thought chilled him. Janet Wilcox was not at home.
Would the unsavory Jupe, whose forte was clearly not
description, report a girl like Janet Wilcox as a stylish
blonde?
Help was coming, but Dick Stowe did not know that,
nor expect it. Neither did Asher, Deputy-Inspector of
Detectives. In fact, it was an underling at Headquarters
who received and answered in a routine manner the
noncommittal inquiry from a jumping-off place called
San Barto for full details concerning a certain witness
of importance.


Chapter XXIV
REVISED VERSION
jA.S a consequence of his fruitless expedition of Sun-
day evening, the next morning Stowe lost no time in
seeking out Janet Wilcox at her post of duty with
United Utilities, only to be informed that she had not
reported. Someone had telephoned that she was ill. . . .
Sorry, but Mr. Marrender had not yet arrived.
At that point Bettina asserted herself. Bettina had
plenty of time to be chatty. Too bad about Janet . . .
she wasn't hardly ever sick. No, the boss wasn't sick.
He'd had to take his wife down to Cincinnati on Satur-
day—Bettina had heard him talking about it over the
'phone. There was some doctor down there that Mrs.
Marrender wanted to go to, but the boss said he'd be
back by Monday noon sure.
Dick thanked Bettina gravely and once more set out
for Janet Wilcox's Edgefield address. Rather interesting
information, that, about the Marrender's week-end in
Cincinnati, he thought and whistled softly throughout
the trip.
Suppose Janet too had disappeared, he thought as the
doorbell shrilled under his thumb, but the landlady's
sedate little ten-year-old daughter took him for the
doctor and ushered him without question up to the
lodger's room. Dick was no diagnostician, but when he
stepped inside he knew that the girl within was sick
228


Revised Version
229
with worry and fear. Perhaps his visit would do her
more good than a legitimate practitioner's. For her part,
when she saw who it was, she made a brave attempt to
appear displeased at her landlady's carelessness, but her
underlying panic could not be concealed.
Dick began as though no explanations were neces-
sary. "Since I saw you last, Miss Wilcox, I've had a very
interesting talk with the young lady who accompanied
Eugene Tracy to Windward Hill last Tuesday night. I
thought you might like to hear about it. I'll be glad to
tell you what I can, if you'll straighten out that story
of yours. . . . You were there yourself, I believe, but
not as an actor. Right?"
Eyes wide with frightened attention, Janet nodded.
She tried to speak but could not risk her control.
Dick's hearty voice went on. "This other girl—she's
resigning. In other words, she didn't hanker after the
boy-friend for himself alone, so that's one thing you
don't have to worry about any more."
He paused diplomatically. Time out was needed for
the faint pink to flood and recede from Janet's thin
cheeks. "I hope you don't mind admitting to me that
it was nothing but jealousy that made you trail after
them the other night."
This time she managed a very small "I suppose I
ought to die rather than agree with you."
"But afterwards, you were glad that you had because
of what happened. Gene never needed you more in his
life. ..."
"You have found out—?" Again the words were
blurred and choked with fear.
"Not everything yet," he answered, seemingly un-
aware of the devastating emotion that shook the girl.


230 Death at Windward Hill
"That's why I think you and I should have an under-
standing—in Gene's interest. Suppose you begin with
his return Tuesday morning."
"He had been in New York seeing about his big
score. A plan that was almost agreed upon unexpectedly
didn't go through. It was a shocking disappointment.
Nobody knows about that—nor cares, except me. That's
why he came back here sooner than he had planned. He
didn't even let me know, but I happened to see him as
he came from the train that morning. A girl was with
him whom I had never seen before. All day I expected
to hear from him, but I didn't . . . and I was a little
worried.
"I don't suppose I have to tell you that Gene and I
are engaged. We could get married just as well as not—
the way I look at it. I'd keep on with my job, but Gene
won't hear of it till he's proved he can make money
from his music.
"By evening I was so worried and uneasy that I did
something I'd vowed never to do—I called the Wind-
ward Hill place. I suppose it was the butler who
answered me. All I said was, Had Mr. Tracy got back
from the East yet? The man said no—"
So that was the explanation of Asher's hunch that
Cubbage was lying when he declared there had been no
telephone calls on Tuesday evening, thought Dick. But
why? What game had the man been playing? Ah, he
must listen to Janet. . . .
"So then I went around to the Burden Street room.
He wasn't there . . . and so I went to a movie by my-
self. When I came out of the picture show I couldn't
bear to come out here without knowing ... so I went
around to Burden Street again. This time I slipped into


Revised Version
233
that I couldn't see her long. Anyway, a few minutes
after I lost sight of her, I heard a motor start up. That's
all of that part."
"Good Lord, is there more?" exclaimed Dick. What a
priceless alibi for Francesca Penrose, who didn't need it!
It was doing Janet good to talk. Her voice was now
firm and her eyes clear and steady. The wave of terror
that had gripped her so pitiably before she had lost
herself in this astonishing narrative had ebbed com-
pletely. There was even a glint of humor now as she
said, "Now I must incriminate myself. The bright idea
that I told you of the other night really did occur to me
—I saw a fine chance to do something for Gene that he
never would have done for himself. If I could put my
hands on the extra key to Miss Marrender's safety-
deposit box I knew I could—"
Again she stopped just as abruptly as she had the
night Dick had confronted the two of them in the little
gallery, and again Dick's mind fumbled blindly with
the hidden reason for her pause.
"You see, I knew I could get into that room too,
the same way that somebody else had just got out of it.
So after waiting awhile longer and arguing with myself
about it, in I went. It was just as easy. . . . The only
catch in it was that I had no flash-light. I was awfully
afraid I'd stumble over something in the dark. It was
quite a while before I had courage enough to snap on
a light. I pulled the curtains close over the windows and
hung my hat over the doorknob so the light wouldn't
show through the keyhole. By the way, that's when I
found out that the door was locked on the outside—not
later, as I told you last Friday night."
"I hate like everything to interrupt,"—and Dick


Revised Version
23$
"Yes."
"And was the room in good order?"
"Yes, quite. Everything was stiff and prim and not-
lived-in looking, except that whoever had been in just
before I came had evidently forgotten her gloves. There
was a pair lying on the table nearest the book shelves."
Dick wanted to burst into applause. "Did you leave
them there?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yes. I thought afterwards I might have
found out who the woman was from them, but I sup-
pose the police did that."
Officially Dick Stowe was non-committal about that
point; privately he was wondering what the devil had
become of Francesca Penrose's gloves. Could there be
an error about the pair found in Cubbage's overcoat
being Mrs. Latimer's? Aloud he began to thank Janet
for her remarkably clear account of her unconventional
evening.
"But I haven't told you everything yet," she mur-
mured.
"That's all right with me. I was hoping you hadn't."
"I tumbled out of the window and raced down the
drive just as fast as the first woman had, but when I
got to the road I stopped to get my breath. The road
was awfully dark, and suddenly I felt afraid to go back
to town alone. I'd lost all my nerve by that time—I
felt I'd just as lief freeze to death by the side of the
road as walk on through that blackness alone. Then I
heard steps coming down the drive, slow and stumbling.
There was something dreadful about them, but I wasn't
afraid. I knew they were Gene's.
"He was a lot worse than he'd been earlier in the
evening, but I couldn't smell liquor on his breath. He


236 Death at Windward Hill
didn't know me—not at first, anyway. He was awfully
groggy and mumbled and moaned to himself as he
lurched toward me. I thought the best thing to do
was to keep him going and we started of! down that
black road towards town. I forgot all about being
afraid.
"After awhile I could tell that I had done the right
thing, for the cold air brought him around, but even
though he got so he could answer my questions, things
were all the worse for me. Gene didn't know what had
happened back there at Windward Hill . . . and I
began to think—pretty terrible things. You see, there
was no sign of the girl. And there was the shot I had
heard. . . . Once he called me Esme—that must be
her name. All he knew was that he had stopped for a
drink and must have fallen asleep—"
"I am beginning to think that was just exactly what
happened. Have you had any experience with people
who have been doped? No? Well, never mind ... go
on."
"The rest is just as I told you the other night. We
walked all the way back to Burden Street and we didn't
see anybody except one milkman. I left Gene and went
to the railway station—I told you all that. I was fright-
fully worried about Gene—he was awfully queer. And
then later on that day when I heard what actually had
happened to Miss Marrender—oh, I can't talk about
it. . . .
"The more I thought about it, the worse it looked
for Gene. And afterwards, I couldn't get in touch with
him for a secret talk until Friday night. There was
somebody from the police around all the time. When
we met at last—he still didn't seem to know what he


Chapter XXV
WHOSE .38?
A.T Headquarters Stowe stopped only long enough to
annex a cub assistant, who drove a police car where he
was told with no outward curiosity. The youth per-
mitted himself one question as he parked his car at the
railway station.
"You going away?"
"No, there's a parcel at the check-room that I want."
Dick's reply was discreet. He knew very well what it
was he wanted, but he was taking a long chance on
knowing where to look for it.
After a brief interview with the station master a
cryptic order was handed to the man in charge of the
check-room which resulted in Stowe's admission behind
the counter. Up and down the narrow aisles he marched,
inspecting the baggage-laden racks. Several times he
paused to examine more closely a parcel or a box. The
acolyte trailing at his heels gave promise of a future by
observing that pieces of regular luggage were never
noticed.
At last a grease-stained shoe box, still redolent of
luncheon, was taken down and carefully untied. All
that the cub could see when the lid was lifted was a
bundle wrapped in lengths of paper toweling. Cau-
tiously Stowe's lean fingers poked and prodded. A grin
of Cheshire proportions dawned on his face.
238


Whose .38?
239
"Come along, you. I'm willing to take a chance on
this." His voice was jubilant. "Back to Headquarters
and step on it."
Like a whirlwind Dick made for the Inspector's office.
"Open this, Tim, open it—and break it gently to me if
I've pulled a boner."
Asher was provokingly deliberate. He was particular
about knots and he fingered the checking tag still looped
about the cord. "Dated 2-22," he observed. "The day
after the party, huh?"
Dick jerked off the lid and lifted out the paper-
swathed object. With fingers that shook a bit he un-
rolled the wrappings until what was hidden lay re-
vealed.
A .38 calibre revolver.
"For the love of Lulu, Dick! Where did you pick it
up?"
Quickly Stowe ran over the high points of Janet's
latest story. "Everything she told me this time checked
with what I'd been suspecting might be the explana-
tion of the curious discrepancies of her former story.
She reported much that sounded like straight dope, but
there were gaps that did not click at all with facts I had
reason to be pretty certain about. Change her from
actor to spectator and you cen see why she drew blank
about some things."
"Call her a spectator, do you, when she crawls
through a window and overhauls a room?" growled
Asher.
Dick went on blandly. "Her insistence that she had
left the window open, and Miss Penrose's statement
that she had closed it after her when she left was a
mighty plain lead."


240 Death at Windward Hell
"Anything that actress says you take for gospel, I've
been noticing." Asher was critical.
"Miss Wilcox's new version only strengthens Miss
Penrose's position, if I may point that out to you,
Timmy, as well as my feeling that Francesca Penrose
is still holding out something," he added as if to him-
self. "It was easy enough to see that Janet Wilcox
was acting only to shield Tracy, and I could tell from
her whole attitude that there was something . . . some-
where that made her fear that sooner or later he would
be accused of murder. I looked at the situation from her
point of view. What would she consider the most in-
criminating fact that could be brought against him?
If she knew, for instance, that he had a gun on him
when he left Windward Hill. . . . Apparently Tracy
himself remembered nothing about a gun. What had
become of it? The girl could have hidden it . . . but
where? From Burden Street she had gone to the railway
station. What commoner place to park what you don't
want to carry around? There was no use, I thought, to
look for a piece of ordinary baggage. She had to use a
make-shift, cast-off container. So when I told the
station master what I had to do, I decided I'd bother
only with the bundles and such-like. That wreck of a
lunch box looked like a pretty good bet and sure
enough—but that was just a lucky break for me."
"I call it damned good logic." Asher was painfully
solemn as he delivered his tribute to the young detec-
tive's ability.
"At that dreary hour of the early morning the
chances are that no one noticed what she was doing.
Even the matron was probably dozing. Since the gun
was wrapped in paper towels, I gather that she might


Whose .38?
241
have transferred it from her hand-bag to the box in the
wash room. She used the towels to keep the thing from
bouncing about in its hiding place. And now—"
"Yeah, I know what's next all right. The gun and the
bullet will be tested immediately. If it turns out that it
was fired from the Marrender girl's gun, then what?"
"If it's Sally's, then the problem is, how did Tracy
get the Marrender gun?"
"But, listen, Dick, we got to give that Marrender
chap the works sooner or later. That is, if you're still
interested in Benssen's #3. Take a look at this." He
shoved another report across to Stowe.
Dick's eyes raced through a half page of pale blue
single typing, and then he turned the pages of an
advertising booklet that proclaimed the merits of
United Utilities products. "This part of the exhibit?"
he demanded.
"I'll say it is. . . ."
"Um-mm, this must be it," Dick mumbled and had
nothing more to say for a few minutes. He did not
look up again until he checked with his pencil certain
items in the booklet which he must have considered
especially illuminating, for he said, "So it was William
Marrender who influenced United Utilities to under-
take the practical demonstration of the industrial possi-
bilities of Benssen's #3. I find this booklet downright
intriguing. Did you read it all, Asher?"
"Not all the way through."
"I thought not. I say, there's one thing I keep won-
dering about ... if the Wilcox girl wanted to find
and use the key to Miss Marrender's safety-deposit box,
the idea must have come to her because she had had


242 Death at Windward Hell
access to it before as the properly accredited agent
for—only one person and that is—"
"Marrender. Sure thing, Dick. He had the other key,
acting as his aunt's business representative. Remember
I told you how he acted from the very first."
"Since you're so keen on the idea, Tim, here's one
thing you can do about it. Find out what sort of
matches the chap uses. I'm getting curious about those
matches. Miss Penrose had a flash-light. Janet Wilcox
struck no matches. And you and I know the matches
stocked at Windward Hill are not at all like those
burnt ends you picked up in the little gallery."
Asher nodded. "Say, listen, Dick. You seem to think
that girl this morning told you the truth, but I don't
know. . . . Who tore up the room if she didn't?"
"The person who left the matches, maybe." But
Dick's smile was skeptical. "By the way, have you heard
from PeeDee?"
"Yes, and how! Jupe's story changes every time he
tells it but he's still playing up the stylish blonde lady.
He's a little too insistent that the stone wasn't worth
much. I think the old boy was counting on a nice turn-
over. Anyway it's gone, all right. Of course if it was
lifted by a common jewel thief, it will turn up some-
where. Everybody's looking for it."
"And if it was not a common thief . . ." Dick was
thinking of the various women who undoubtedly had
a more personal interest in the Marrender emerald than
a professional thief would have. "I must be getting on
my way. Shoot me the big news on the gun as soon as
Radge finds anything."
"Sure. You're going to pin the girl and Tracy down
to it, aren't you?"


Whose .38?
243
"Thanks, Timmy, for reminding me that they may
deny everything." Yet Stowe did not say that he was
on his way to confront Janet Wilcox with what he
had found in the check-room. Instead, he tucked away
in his pocket the typewritten report about the poison
that had killed Cubbage and the United Utilities book-
let that discussed in such a one-syllable fashion its in-
dustrial uses. At the door he turned as he flipped up the
collar of his overcoat. "Has Dr. Stuart found his stolen
property?"
"Hr-umph," Asher mumbled.
"Too bad. Really, your department should strive for
increased efficiency." Quickly he slid through the door
but tactfully refrained from banging it behind him.
The first thing that Dick Stowe did after leaving
Headquarters was to learn by discreet inquiry that Sally
Marrender had indeed viewed the body of Cubbage be-
fore burial. She and Tracy had come to the mortuary
together. Mrs. Latimer had not seen the dead man, nor
had her sister. There remained only Marrender to be
checked up on this point. For the time being, Dick did
not wish to see William Marrender.
The next thing that he did was to attempt an inter-
view with Miss Rhand. She had not yet returned from
Indianapolis, he was informed. Evidently Miss Rhand's
week-ends were elastic.
Nor did the third matter concern the two items he
had checked in the impressive United Utilities booklet.
He may have been thinking about them, but what he
did was to resort to the work-out room of his favorite
public gymnasium. There he put himself through an
elaborate program of exercises and a series of baths. By
that time it was late enough to consider dinner. He went


244 Death at Windward Htt.t,
to George and Al's where his steak set a new record.
After he had walked back to his apartment, he told
himself that he was now ready to bring the Marrender
case to the mat.
But before he had settled the master mind to its eve-
ning of cogitation, he received a message that indicated
that such heavy mental effort might be unnecessary.
His telephone announced a Western Union call. Me-
chanically he jotted down the words as they came pre-
cisely spaced over the line:
DO NOTHING RE MARRENDER BRINGING BACON QUICK-
EST ROUTE WATCH EVERYBODY LAURA


Chapter XXVI
JOYFUL REUNION
The telegram from Laura Stowe had been filed in Lo«
Angeles that noon. If it meant what it said, and Dick
knew that a dictum of Laura's must be treated with
respect, she could scarcely be expected earlier than
Thursday night or Friday. "Unless the kid's insane
enough to stow away on a mail plane," he groaned to
himself.
Again and again he read the telegram, each time with
shifting emotion. Its first command was as clear as it
was imperative. The one point about it that irked him
was the intimation that anything he might be moved
to do about the case would be wrong. All she knew
about the affair was what he himself had written her.
The phrase that followed hinted at something that filled
Dick with giddy hope. Resolutely he forbade himself
to feed upon it unduly. The last two words, he con-
cluded, might not be quite as blanket-like as they
sounded. He must watch everybody in order that a par-
ticular someone should not be overlooked. ... In any
case, he was glad that Laura was coming home.
As exactly as he could, he obeyed his commanding
officer's orders. Fortunately, Asher was not too curious.
He was so engrossed with his own contribution to the
Marrender case that he had little time to discuss theories.
Astutely he had set about collecting sample matches
245


248 Death at Windward Hill
certain that here was a mystery that could be solved,
even though the dead could not be recalled to life.
He fumbled at the contents of his mailbox and
climbed the stairs to the Stowe suite. He unlocked the
door and stepped inside, but before he could switch on
the lights there was a rush of quick feet from the
bedroom. Laura, no other. . . .
"We flew most of the way, old darling. I was so
afraid you might do the wrong thing before we got
here because—" She extricated herself from Dick's
clutching arms and darted into the bedroom. "I want
you to meet my travelling companion," she called back.
Two seconds later she reappeared hand in hand with
a plump and pretty girl who in spite of her hostess's
gayety was plainly harassed and miserable.
"Miss Randall, may I present my husband? He's
awfully clever; everything will work out all right
now." Again Laura swooped in flying embrace upon a
flabbergasted husband. "Oh, Dick, aren't I just the
smartest wife you ever had?" she crooned.
The immediate desires of these three people were quite
contradictory. Dick wanted to hear just how Laura, in
dutiful attendance upon a slowly convalescent mother,
could have linked with the problem confronting him.
Laura wanted the present state of affairs outlined to
her. And the long-missing nurse, Doris Randall, wanted
to be assurred and reassured that when her story was
known no one could possibly arrest her for anything.
At last the chaotic excitement subsided, and Laura's
discovery of the nurse was first presented.
"No miracle about it at all, Dick; just a little manip-
ulation of the well-known thinker. I got your letter
Sunday—you sent it air mail luckily. My first bright


Joyful Reunion 249
idea was that California was just as good a bet as any
other resort—better, because of the long train trip
intervening. So I wired Inspector Peyton for a detailed
description of the vanished nurse—"
"What? Do you mean to tell me Headquarters
knew—"
"Oh, it was just a run-of-the-mine inquiry and I used
a new name for myself, but I got an answer all right,"
Laura explained airily. "When it came I rushed an ad
to all of the L. A. papers for a nurse—one recently out
from Ohio to minister to a mythical homesick patient.
I spent Monday in town inspecting the people who an-
swered and picked out this girl as the missing Doris
Randall—just like that! She was all confused and wor-
ried—nothing had worked out right. She couldn't find
the patient she'd been sent to and she didn't have much
money. So she took my job like a little lamb, and then
when I got her off by herself I confronted her with the
little information I had. And, Dick, it was all a grand
surprise to her. She didn't eevn know Miss Marrender
had been shot. But the big news is this, Dick: it was
Dr. Stuart who sent Miss Randall to California."
The Stowes looked long at one another. Doris Randall
began to whimper.
"I told her she had to come back with me." Laura's
dark eyes flashed and Dick knew what the set of her
chin meant. "And I made her see what a nasty mess
she was probably going to be in, but—she's quite sure
that the doctor's reasons for sending her away had
nothing to do with the death of Miss Marrender. Her
professional loyalty won't permit her to be quite frank
with me."
There was a significance to Laura's words that Dick


250 Death at Windward Hell
did not miss. He turned politely to the weeping nurse.
"Miss Randall, the only safe course for you is complete
frankness. No person involved in this dreadful matter
is going to sacrifice himself for you. Why should you?
Suppose you tell me all about your experience at Wind-
ward Hill. . . ."
And so Doris Randall began to talk. Listeners far
less acute than the two who were giving her such grave
attention could not have failed to see that the pretty
little nurse was in love with Perry Stuart. She told how
she had gone out to Windward Hill in January, how
dull and uninteresting the case was—nobody treated
her like a human being. There were very few visitors.
Doris couldn't even talk to her patient, for Miss Mar-
render never talked to anyone much except the butler,
a creature who fairly gave the girl the creeps.
"Just how do you mean that Miss Marrender talked
to Cubbage?" demanded Dick.
Miss Randall hardly knew how to explain, but nearly
every day there would be a long conference of some
sort—she was always sent out of the room. Cubbage
was in charge of the house, but no doubt Miss Mar-
render liked to feel that she was still running the place.
Dick was careful to ask about the callers of the last
week and found that his previous information was sub-
stantiated. The nurse recalled the visits of Francesca
Penrose, of William Marrender, and of Sally. The only
new fact that he gleaned during this portion of the
girl's recital concerned the quarrel between Sally and
her aunt on Tuesday morning. As usual, the nurse had
left the room, but she had heard loud and angry voices.
She returned after the Marrender girl had stormed out,
and Miss Marrender mumbled something about "He's


Joyful Reunion 253
night hours. Dick, of course, was the only one of the
three who knew how many conflicting purposes had
centered about the windswept house during the hours
of that night. "Tell me everything you can remember,"
he begged, "every sound you heard or thought you
heard, everything you did. . . ."
That ghastly night . . . could she ever forget it?
Her emotion was genuine as she told how restless she
had been when she first went to bed. The wind nearly
drove her wild; shutters creaked and banged every-
where. At last she fell asleep. She slept heavily; she
always did. The wind was still at it the first time she
roused. Just what time that was she could not say,
though she heard a clock strike one. Everything seemed
perfectly all right in Miss Marrender's room, though
she supposed she might as well admit now that she
hadn't gone across to the bed—she had just stood at
the door.
"Was it one o'clock or—it might have been half-past
anything for all you know."
Doris Randall said nothing contritely.
"So you couldn't prove that she was dead or alive
then, could you?" accused Dick. "The shot that killed
her might have been what roused you."
"I—I don't know," she faltered miserably. "Maybe
it wasn't the wind that waked me—I thought it was.
I—I guess I didn't want to frighten myself about it."
"Miss Randall, are you the sort of person who is sen-
sitive to the unseen presence of another?"
"You mean—can I feel it if somebody is watching
me? Cubbage made me crawl half the time by doing
that."


254 Death at Windward Hill
"Well, then . . . did you have any such feelings at
that particular moment?"
Laura Stowe knew that her partner in investigation
could not be particularly proud of such leading ques-
tions, but she was also aware of what Dick was groping
toward. The murderer of Eugenia Marrender could not
have been far away at the moment when the nurse
crossed the hall and stood looking into her patient's
room.
"If I had felt there was anybody there, I know I
should have screamed—I couldn't have helped it," in-
sisted Doris. "I went back to my own room and got to
sleep again without any trouble." Then she went on to
relate that she had made the next inspection of her
patient not long after four, and had at that time made
the discovery that Miss Marrender was dead.
"Do you mean to say that your examination was so
casual that you failed to see that she had been shot?"
Dick's voice was drained of sympathy.
Doris blushed painfully. "People think that just be-
cause you're a nurse and all you're used to those things.
Honestly, the cases I've been on—I mean, I haven't seen
so many people die, and she looked so peaceful and the
doctor had warned me about her heart and, of course,
murder was the last thing in the world I had any reason
to think of. . . ." Her tearful voice trailed off. Her
negligence could not face the standards of her profes-
sion.
To propitiate she plunged on into a confession that
could not directly involve anyone else but herself.
"You see, I had the idea that she had killed herself."
When she had told about the little bottle of tablets
and how their contents had become alarmingly less


256 Death at Windward Hill
Stuart had wired her about the stupid mistake he had
made, and how he had urged her to stay out on the
Coast for a little vacation. . . .
"There's no use being plain simple, Doris," Laura
scolded. "You're only making it worse for yourself.
She doesn't want to tell you that Dr. Stuart threatened
her with the police if she didn't stay out there and keep
out of any investigation here. He told her he might be
charged with malpractice. She swallowed it too, hook,
line, and sinker," Laura explained bluntly quite as
though Doris were not there.
Dick next questioned the girl about such items as
revolvers and small boxes of ammunition, until he had
convinced himself that she could not be held responsible
for what had been found in her room and in the drawer
of Tracy's chiffonier after her departure.
"All right, Miss Randall. . . . Now, are you sure
you have told me everything?"
And Doris Randall, loyally conscious of the doctor's
fountain pen still hidden in the depths of her hand-
bag, answered with fluttering breath, "Every single
thing, Mr. Stowe."


2 58 Death at Windward Hill
him into the windowed alcove where his breakfast was
served.
"We've come to tell you that we've just had quite
an illuminating chat with Miss Doris Randall," Dick
began in a bright conversational tone.
"Poor kid, she's in rather a nasty hole, isn't she?"
Dr. Stuart's manner matched Dick's expertly.
"As far as you are concerned, yes," agreed Dick.
"Why did you scheme so elaborately to get her out of
the picture? We know you wired her—more than once.
So don't deny anything too flatly."
The right-about-face that Perry Stuart executed at
this moment was almost visible. "Awfully ill-advised
and all that—I see that now, but I was acting for her
own good. You see, I was afraid that Cubbage would
incriminate her—"
"Hold on, doctor. You must have had advance in-
formation. You created this imaginary case for Miss
Randall very early on Wednesday morning."
Stuart hedged skilfully—so skilfully that Dick al-
most accepted his answer at face value, almost but not
quite. "When I called my nurse for further particulars
—she'd given her message to my man, you know—it
was Cubbage who answered the telephone. He told me
something that worried me and I followed the first
course that occurred to me in order to make things
easier for Dor—for the nurse."
"Ah," sighed Laura, "chivalry is not yet dead."
"What did Cubbage tell you?" snapped Asher, never
quite at ease when the indirect methods of the Stowes
were functioning.
"He said he was at a loss to understand why the
young lady had waited so long to report his mistress's


Chivalrous Attitude of Dr. Stuart 261
please.' So I can't believe that on that occasion Cubbage
discussed Miss Randall's shortcomings with you. You
had your plan to whisk the nurse out of range of any
embarrassing inquiries—embarrassing for you, not for
her necessarily—before you heard that Miss Marrender
was dead. More than that, you were expecting to hear
something from "Windward Hill, and my guess is that
your belated motor trip with Mrs. Latimer had a bear-
ing on that expectation."
"Yes, your guess . . . but how about your proof?"
The doctor's manner was still frigidly polite.
"Here's something we want to hear you laugh off."
Apparently Asher wished to demonstrate his right to
be on the plain-clothes squad. "What made you so busy
getting rid of a gun of the same calibre that killed the
old lady?"
Afterward the Stowes paid due tribute to the mas-
terly ambiguity of that question.
"You can't expect me to answer a silly question like
that, can you?" Stuart could retort debonairly, but
Asher's query had found some obscure chink in his
armor. Yet if it had indeed been he who had walked
out of Sally's Shop with her .38, it had not since been in
his possession, as Headquarters could have admitted with
appropriate chagrin.
For another half hour the fruitless sparring con-
tinued. No matter what went on in the doctor's agile
mind, his three opponents slowly became certain of
three separate convictions. Dick's was that there was
no real reason that he shouldn't assume that both Kath-
erine Latimer and Dr. Stuart had paid a late visit to
Windward Hill during the time that their car was sup-
posedly stalled down on the River Road. Asher's was


262 Death at Windward Hill
that no matter who bumped off the old lady, Stowe's
hunch about its being the same one who did for Cub-
bage was surely the right answer. Cubbage knew too
damn much. Laura's was that Dr. Stuart was lying
about two women to save one at the expense of the
other. Doris was a fool. . . .
It was Laura's conviction that broke the deadlock,
though she herself could claim no credit for it. Scotty
was heard in rolling argument, which was cut short by
the determined entrance of no other than Doris Ran-
dall. Resolutely she wrenched her eyes from the doctor's.
Fumbling in her bag she produced a slender green
object which she thrust into Laura's hands.
"I don't know—I can't understand," and her ready
tears began to splash. "I thought I loved him enough
to keep still, but you frighten me so—I've got to tell
everything. I found that pen on the floor by Miss Mar-
render's bed that morning after . . . and I'd have to
swear that it wasn't there when I settled her for the
night. But I can swear too that the doctor wasn't at
Windward Hill after his usual morning call."
Laura Stowe looked deep into the tortured eyes of
Doris Randall, and knew that at last the girl had told
her everything. Not at any time since she had found
her four days before had she had that confidence. Asher
and her husband, for their part, were watching the
hypnotic fixity of Stuart's gaze upon the pen in Laura's
hand. Asher was thinking that they had that bird now,
but Dick was concentrating on the completely baffled
expression that was congealing the doctor's features.
"You can't explain the pen, is that it?" he asked
quietly.
Stuart passed his hand across his forehead and


Chivalrous Attitude of Dr. Stuart 263
through his hair as if to convince himself that he was
not seeing double. The other hand fumbled in the
pocket where a fountain pen could have been anchored,
but was not. "You're right, Stowe; I can't," he mut-
tered, still dazed.
Then he pulled himself together sharply. "But I can
damn well see how you're going to frame me. All
right, I'll talk—I'll tell you everything I know. I've
already told you whom I was with during the course
of the evening—I'll call her my patient. On this evening
she was in an extremely nervous state. Professionally I
should have no hesitancy in saying that for several hours
she had no control of herself and could bear no re-
sponsibility for her actions. While she was in this con-
dition she attempted to carry out a dreadful impulse
from which she and her victim were saved by what I
then considered the providential interference of the
man Cubbage. It was he who informed me of what
had occurred—I was waiting in my car at the lower
end of the drive—and he agreed with me that nothing
need be said about my patient's—er—break-down."
Asher shifted his position restlessly. Stowe might
think this yarn sounded like something, but it didn't
make sense to him. "Aw, say it with flowers, why don't
you? Sounds like a lot of blah."
"Am I to understand that you called for your
patient to escort her to a dinner engagement but in-
stead drove out to Windward Hill? I see. . . . And you
did not enter the house, you say, but your patient ran
up to see her aunt, presumably. Please be frank about
what she did at that time?" Dick was checking off
more than one unexplained item.
"Cubbage said—I have only his word for it," and
4


Chivalrous Attitude of Dr. Stuart 265
but I mistakenly turned to the left instead of the right
—his room is on the right, I believe.
"At once I saw something I could not account for.
Someone was in one of the rooms on the left side of
the house, or I should say, I saw a light there. The light
at that moment went out and a woman stepped through
the window. Because of the scene earlier in the evening
I myself for a moment was insane enough to fear that
this woman coming out of the window was my patient.
But it wasn't, because I hurried at once down the path
and there she was in the car just where I had left her."
There were varying degrees of skepticism on every
face. Stowe and Asher knew the identity of the woman
whom Stuart had seen; now they could understand
Francesca Penrose's one reservation.
"You addressed this woman by your patient's name,
did you not?" demanded Stowe.
"I may have—I was—er—startled."
If Francesca Penrose had been mistaken for her sis-
ter, thought Dick, then no wonder she had feared that
an unknown person had expected her sister to be at
Windward Hill that night. That much could be rubbed
off the slate, at any rate. But how about the story that
Mrs. Latimer had already told him about the man who
came crashing down the path? Should he not now be
identified as the doctor himself rather than Tracy? If
so, then Katherine Latimer was indeed informed con-
cerning the doctor's late visit at Windward Hill, no
matter how smoothly he had just stated the opposite.
Just as smoothly the doctor was concluding his re-
cital. "I tinkered at the car again and the damned thing
started—that's all."


Chivalrous Attitude of Dr. Stuart 269
"Yes, he said something," replied Dr. Stuart, and his
voice was lifeless. "To atone in some way to Miss Ran-
dall, I suppose I should not hesitate to betray another
woman. Cubbage's vile whisper was: 'For God's sake,
give that back. It's Sally Marrender's!' . . ."


Stowe Admits Uncertainty 273
"'Smatter, Dick? Are you having a little theory?"
Laura's impish smile braced him.
"No, I'm just reminding myself that there are several
items between us and that little theory we were about
to hand ourselves. It would be slick all right to say that
Stuart came back to Windward Hill to finish what
Mrs. Latimer tried to start earlier in the evening, and
that Cubbage knew it and that therefore Stuart later
had to silence Cubbage, but—but the fact that the
weapon that killed Miss Marrender was disposed of by
Janet Wilcox would wreck any case brought against
anybody except Eugene Tracy."
"Oh, Dick, let's backslide or something. It must
have been Cubbage who killed her. Why not let it go
at that?"
"You're tired, La La."
"Look here, folks, I've just tumbled to something
darned peculiar. The doc came across with his story
about picking up a gun that Cubbage said was the
Marrender girl's—when? I ask you, when?"
Stowe grinned happily, but let Asher have the floor.
"Not till Dick here said, 'What about the weapon
in the case?' And then the doc starts right in like a
lamb with that rigmarole about Sally's gun. And why?
Because he had a .38 in his car at the same time, and he
knew we knew it. Call the gun Sally's right away, be-
fore anybody could suggest any different, huh?" In
triumph Asher planted his elbows on the table, and
looked at Stowe as one expert to another.
"A plus on that, old-timer. I was beginning to think
I'd have to diagram it."
"Aw . . . but you got to admit I knew what I was


Stowe Admits Uncertainty 275
Sally Marrender made no pretence of not under-
standing the full purport of his words. She shook the
thick black hair back from her forehead and clasped
her hands about her knees. She had chosen to sit on a
low stool, and to meet Stowe's eyes as they talked she
had to look squarely up. She did this with complete and
sober frankness.
"How did it get there?" she demanded. "I told you
it was where it belonged on Tuesday morning. It was
there late the next afternoon. How could it have been
at Windward Hill? You police have been saying, and
we're believing, that Cubbage killed Aunt Genie, but
you suspect every member of our family, don't you?
Your professional conscience won't let you believe that
my brother and I spent the night here, all because I
was silly enough to say that I got breakfast for him
and he told you that he ate at home. I'm sunk to think
that I let Will down that way, but it was the stupidity
of innocence, I assure you—"
"Slow up a minute, Miss Marrender. I ask you to
account for the presence of your gun at Windward
Hill and you thrust the same question back at me.
Shall I tell you who I think could have gone up to
Windward Hill armed with your gun?"
She met his insinuation calmly. "I'm sorry, but Will
and I must sink or swim together. Besides, if we had
known we should need the perfect alibi, we would have
arranged for one—and I never, never would have
slipped up on the breakfast detail."
"Your brother was pressed for money . . . and you
had a lively quarrel with your aunt on Tuesday morn-
ing . . . and we have not yet learned any fact to spoil
our idea that it was your gun that was used to kill Miss


Chapter XXIX
AN INDISCRETION OF THE MAUVE DECADE
When Dick Stowe at length left Sally's rooms, it
was with the conviction that one more pull of the
thread would straighten out the tangled knot of the
Marrender case. There was one point upon which Sally
remained implacably stubborn. If, as Dick suspected,
that matter had a bearing upon the identity of Cub-
bage, then he might have to accept defeat on that
score. Always to guess, never to know, the truth about
that inscrutable personality ... to leave the matter
thus did not please Dick Stowe. What if he had dis-
covered who had brought death to Windward Hill?
To leave an ultimate question about the man Cubbage
meant something less than complete success.
He swung into the street and headed toward Bar-
tholomew Dexter's office, only to find Asher falling
into step beside him.
"Thought I might catch you on the fly," he ex-
plained. "There's a woman waiting to see you and no-
body but you, up at Headquarters. Quite a dame, be-
lieve me. Her name's Rhand."
Dick hesitated. Her story could wait, but he might
need the rest of the afternoon to convince Dexter.
"All right," he concluded. "It's not much out of my
way, but she's got to cut it short, and, Tim—keep
279


An Indiscretion of the Mauve Decade 283
we thought she was travelling, that is. She was gone
almost a year and a half. I learned about the baby quite
by accident. It was at an orphanage in Pennsylvania.
My father was called there for a consultation—he was
a physician also. He took me with him. I remember that
he thought a little change would do me good. He was
detained there several days and I amused myself with
the children, especially the babies. The nurse in charge
of them took quite a fancy to me and told me all sorts
of interesting things about them. There was one baby
boy whose story sounded ever so romantic, and before
I left the nurse showed me the clothes and other articles
that had been with the baby when it was brought to
them. There was one object that made me turn cold
and sick because I knew I had seen it before, many
times. It was a piece of chain with an old watch charm
on it—"
"Like this?" asked Dick softly, and drew out one of
his lengths of chain.
"Yes, quite like that." And in a very lady-like man-
ner Miss Bessie Rhand began to weep.
"Who left the child? You asked, of course?"
"Yes, oh, yes. It was a man. The name she mentioned
was strange but her description of him told me that it
must have been—Eugenia's father." Miss Rhand pro-
duced a fragrant handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
"That was the story that came back to me that after-
noon at Windward Hill. I'd often wondered about who
the—the child's father was, but of course it was silly
of me to imagine that it might be Cubbage, for the—
er—father of Eugenia's child could not have resembled
her own father."


An Indiscretion of the Mauve Decade 285
you had been diligent enough to follow its pages to the
end, you would have observed that the staff of physi-
cians retained by the factory to minister to the bodily
needs of its employees was headed by no other than
Perry Stuart, M. D."
Abruptly Dick ceased to mock. "You yourself, Tim,
will probably take the stand to testify that Stuart pre-
pared a bromide for Cubbage that Wednesday night.
Cubbage refused it, saying that the only restorative he
desired was a glass of water. You remember that the
doctor took the glass of water from Mrs. Banney as she
brought it in from the kitchen. That's when he dropped
in his few crystals of $3. . . ." He thrust his hands
deep into his coat pockets while his gaze rested on his
nonplussed colleague. Then his own expression became
slightly like Asher's. "I say, Tim—"
He drew his hand from his pocket and thrust a
crumpled bit of paper at the deputy-inspector. From
an inner pocket he produced the letter that Will Mar-
render had found in his mail the preceding Saturday
morning. "I say, Tim, have Radge or some other of
your hand-picked experts get the low-down on this. I
have an idea that the paper and ink are alike and I'm
darned sure that one of the pens used on this paper
wrote the letter, but then, I'm no expert."
"Whatever you think you're doing, there's one thing
you can't pin on Marrender. He and his wife were in
Cincinnati over Sunday all right, but the whole outfit
at the Gibson can alibi him if necessary. He certainly
didn't pinch the emerald."
"Ah, Timmy, you make a new man of me. What I'll
he like by the time you get Stuart arrested—"


An Indiscretion of the Mauve Decade 287
the feeling that I was up against three separate mys-
teries—"
"Who shot Miss Marrender?"
"Yes, and the identity of Cubbage—"
"And whether the disappearance of the emerald and
the ransacked room downstairs had any connection
with the murder," Laura finished.
"Exactly. Now I know that the man who masquer-
aded as Cubbage was the motive for the murder."
"But the emerald, Dick? And the condition of the
little gallery?"
"It was Cubbage who handed out the emerald to
Esme, remember." Dick attacked his second helping of
chicken pie and frowned ominously, though not because
his food displeased him. "Listen, La La, how's this?
Cubbage's long-laid plans were dished when Miss Mar-
render was killed before she could change her will.
Therefore, in a spirit of malignant revenge he set about
to torture every one of her legitimate heirs by setting
the stage so that each one could be made to feel that
he was the villain whom circumstances were spotting.
He had something on 'em all. I'll bet he rough-housed
that room himself, but opening the second window was
where he overplayed his hand. I sensed something phony
about it from the very first."
"Dick! Were you here when Doris told me that she
heard Cubbage moving furniture very early that morn-
ing? She thought he was cleaning, the little simp."
"Ah, ha, so papa guessed right, didn't he? Inciden-
tally, La La, I love your enthusiasm for the captivating
Doris. Now if I could only think what he did with the
gun. . . ."
"In Gene's pocket, dear."


An Indiscretion of the Mauve Decade 291
my leaving, but he kept asking me questions about
whether I had overheard what his caller had said and
so on. I—I told him I hadn't. It seemed to me that I
had actually heard so little that I might as well say
nothing. Then he begged me to stay on and almost
doubled my salary. I was awfully surprised, but my
common sense rallied around and I told him I'd stay.
I was thinking that now I could furnish the apartment.
. . . Mr. Marrender hung around a while as if he was
really glad that I'd changed my mind, and pretty soon
he suggested that I not mention his visitor's behavior as
he was mentally unbalanced. After having a raise like
that handed out to me what could I do?"
"You've done the right thing now, Miss Wilcox, let
me assure you. And that's all for tonight. I haven't time
to take you behind the scenes just now, but there's a
chance that Tracy himself will tell you the whole story
by—say, tomorrow night. Stay here and chat with my
wife, do! But I must ask you to excuse me. There's a
little matter of business to take up with Mr. Dexter."
Bartholomew Dexter dined at a later hour than the
Stowes. When his caller was ushered in, he had just
lighted his first after-dinner cigar and set out a test
deal for contract bridge. Mr. Dexter was a text-book
player who solemnly illustrated every lesson for him-
self.
Having been forewarned of Stowe's coming, he
accepted the interruption with patience. Point by point
he admitted the logic of the series of deductions which
the ruthless young detective drew for him. A laissez-
faire course would have been so much more dignified,
but that was an opinion he could only regretfully keep


292 Death at Windward Hill
to himself. However, he warned Stowe that a half-way
clever defence could convince any jury that if Cubbage
were that crazy he would have been crazy enough
to shoot Eugenia Marrender, whether the will were
changed in his favor or no. Likewise he pointed out
that Tracy's testimony could never survive cross ex-
amination. On the other hand, the old lawyer did not
appear shocked when Dick related the story told by
Miss Bessie Rhand. He recalled, he admitted, a certain
amount of rumor at the time of Miss Marrender's
extended period of travel.
"What do you propose to do?" Dexter asked at
length.
Dick Stowe told him. "If I'm wrong, all right; but
I've got to give it a work-out and they must all be
there. So if you'll agree to attend to that matter—"
Very deliberately Bartholomew Dexter produced a
memorandum pad and a gold pencil. "The place?" His
voice was as stern as that of the stern daughter of
heavenly parentage whom he had never yet failed to
answer.
"The little gallery," responded Dick.
"The time?"
"Eleven tomorrow morning."
"And the—er—occasion of my summons?"
"That a new will has come to light. That'll bring
'em all."
Dexter finished his precise jottings. "No doubt you
feel justified in this deliberate misleading. In my opin-
ion your position rests on one fatal weakness—you can
produce but one weapon."
"If this were only Christmas Eve, Santa Claus might
put it in my stocking. I have been a good boy. . .


An Indiscretion of the Mauve Decade 293
And now, before I go, let me suggest that you drop
around at Windward Hill a little ahead of the others
tomorrow. I'll have your last instructions ready for you
by that time. You're still uncertain about your role in
the finale, aren't you, old cautious!"


Chapter XXX
STOWE ARRAIGNS THE MARRENDERS
A.ND so, on the tenth morning after the death of
Eugenia Marrender, driven by conflicting emotions, the
three nieces and the two nephews of the dead woman
came to Windward Hill. Laura Stowe admitted them
and announced that Mr. Dexter would meet them
shortly in the little gallery. Laura secrqfly hoped that
they accepted her as a temporary maid, nothing more.
Inspector Peyton and Asher were lurking in the draw-
ing-room opposite, while Dick and a visibly perturbed
Dexter were in conference in Cubbage's room.
Sally Marrender and Tracy were the first to come.
Laura noted the stubborn set of the girl's chin. "She'll
never tell," thought Laura, "and Dick's no brow-
beater." Tracy's manner revealed a nervous uncertainty.
"And so should I," Laura meditated. "I could never
pose as a serene spirit if I knew there was a gap in my
conscious experience that corresponded alarmingly with
the time at which murder had been done."
Will Marrender and Mrs. Latimer arrived next,
though not together, Laura observed. There was a
strained vivacity about Katherine Latimer that kept
her high sweet voice echoing ceaselessly from the open
door of the little gallery. Marrender fidgeted and
looked at his watch repeatedly. His patience would not
serve a prolonged waiting upon the tardy lawyer.
I
294 (


Stowe Arraigns the Marrenders 295
Francesca Penrose came careening up the drive
toward Windward Hill in a cut-rate taxi. She jumped
out and tossed a reckless bill at the driver. At the door
she paused only long enough to commission the alert-
eyed maid who admitted her. "If a Mr. Stowe is any-
where about the place—and I very much suspect he
is—tell him at once that Miss Penrose has news about
the emerald. He'll understand."
From Cubbage's room down the hall an inquiring
head was thrust forth. Laura promptly gave the all-set
signal. Within a minute or two Bartholomew Dexter
emerged, and like a martyr advanced toward the half-
open door of the little gallery. He cleared his throat
and stepped over the threshold.
Laura and Dick in the hall, the detective officers in
the room across—all could hear that the lawyer was car-
rying out his instructions. The heirs of Eugenia Mar-
render were first to be informed that they had possessed
an illegitimate cousin, the son of their murdered aunt.
"... I must admit to you that this surprising fact
is capable'of proof. Dates are known; the orphanage is
known. It might even be that some one of you before
me is not hearing this for the first time, but that point I
shall not press for the moment. It can be demonstrated
that this fact might account for almost every detail of
the astounding situation in which you, as the relatives
of the murdered woman, have become involved. How-
ever, before we enter upon a discussion of procedure,
will you be so good as to give your attention to Mr.
Stowe?"
At the words Dick Stowe entered the little gallery.
Laura stationed herself demurely just inside the room,
and Peyton and Asher lounged in the doorway. As he


296 Death at Windward Hill
crossed the room Francesco Penrose was the only per-
son who allowed her eyes to meet his. She did more. She
laid an imperative hand upon his arm and whispered
something to him rapidly, inaudibly. Dick listened,
gravely attentive, and moved on to the farther end of
the room. He turned and faced the group from between
the two windows, the flying curtains of which had first
announced trouble to Mrs. Banney. At his right hand
were Francesca, Dexter, and Will Marrender. Directly
behind the latter Laura hovered. Upon his left Mrs.
Latimer, Sally, and Eugene Tracy were seated. Dick
slid his eyes from one guarded face to another. Fran-
cesca Penrose was not the only skilled actress in the
family connection, he was thinking.
Stowe began to speak. "You have been called here to
face a grave family crisis. Before you are asked to make
a decision, you must all know all that is known. A part
of what I shall tell you is already known to you all;
parts are known to some of you individually; but none
of you knows all the circumstances. What I must say
will not be pleasant, at times, for any of you. That is
the reason that Mr. Dexter is present. He will serve as
a witness—a disinterested, unprejudiced witness, let us
hope. There is some one of you who can corroborate
every statement that I shall make."
Dick Stowe paused briefly, but no one in the room
stirred except Marrender, whose fingers drummed un-
evenly upon the arm of his chair.
"Every crime," Dick's steady voice continued, "cal-
culated or unpremeditated, has its roots in past events.
You have just now heard for yourselves the remote
cause of the violent death of Eugenia Marrender. It
makes little difference now whether the man called


300 Death at Windward Hill
climbed the path to the house to rouse Cubbage and
telephone a service station. Perhaps the lady was left
alone in the car because the doctor's revolver was there,
a .38. Stuart saw a woman emerging from the window
of this room, and a few moments afterward narrowly
escaped being struck by a revolver thrown from one of
the rear windows of the house. Promptly, thereafter,
the kitchen door opened and Cubbage snatched the
weapon from his hands, his only explanation of the
peculiar incident being that it belonged to Sally Mar-
render. Stuart returned immediately to his car and was
greatly relieved to find Mrs. Latimer sitting within it,
for he had, he said, a giddy moment of thinking he
recognized the woman coming out of this window as
Mrs. Latimer. "Whether he ascertained at that time that
his .38 was in its usual place in the pocket of his car, he
has not yet confessed. No doubt you are all aware that
by the end of the week he was publicly advertising the
disappearance of the gun. So necessary did a weapon
appear to him that he himself stole one the following
Saturday from a place known to you all as Sally's Shop.
That was not his only rash and ill-considered act. The
turn of events pleased him so little that early the next
morning he dispatched the nurse, Miss Randall, to an
imaginary case on the California Coast, informing the
police she had gone to Florida. The role taken by Cub-
bage during the course of that next day and evening
he considered so menacing that for him he adopted less
devious tactics."
At that a shudder ran round the entire group. Tracy,
Francesca, and Marrender each attempted to speak, but
something in Stowe's bearing silenced them. Both Sally


Stowe Arraigns the Marrenders 301
and Katherine Latimer swayed toward him as if their
wills were in his control.
"Wait, you must hear everything. Certain statements
remain that involve Mr. Marrender and his sister."
Sally's dark head went back, but a groan burst from
the brother. The sound caused his cousin Katherine to
relax from the dreadful tenseness that gripped her, and
at that Francesca sighed lightly.
"I have learned," Dick resumed, "that Cubbage had
approached Mr. Marrender with his claim upon the
woman whose servant he was. Mr. Marrender demanded
proofs and it was arranged that he should go to Wind-
ward Hill late on Tuesday night to see them. The pos-
sibility that his inheritance from his aunt might be
lessened, even entirely diverted from him, by this claim-
ant whose power over his aunt, already sinister, in-
creased the difficulty which Marrender was facing. He
was obliged to borrow a large sum of money secretly
and quickly, and he had been counting on his expecta-
tions from his aunt to swing the deal. His sister was in
his confidence in this latter worry and she had tried to
help by asking her aunt for a direct loan, which was
brusquely, and I dare say vindictively, refused. On
Tuesday night the brother and sister had a serious talk,
and it was agreed that the first thing to determine was
the exact strength of Cubbage's preposterous claims. In
other words, Marrender must keep his appointment
with Cubbage.
"I think Marrender went out to Windward Hill
alone; I know he went armed with the .38 Miss Mar-
render kept in her shop. What Marrender's purpose
was in entering this room I do not know, but I know
he was here. I suspect Cubbage knew he was here. You


Stowe Arraigns the Marrenders 303
come to light and every deduction that might be drawn
therefrom. The inevitable answer I have come to see
clearly . . . but you must see it clearly, too, all of you
—not only the one who this very instant knows with
a dreadful certainty that he or she is the murderer.
"Mr. Dexter will provide each of you with a ballot.
Write upon it the name of the person who is guilty.
If your decision is not unanimous—but it can be noth-
ing but unanimous. In the meantime, to permit you the
freest private discussion, we who represent the police
will withdraw."


Unanimous Decision
305
brought me here." She turned abruptly to the man at
her right. "My receipt did not do you much good, did
it? I guessed it was you who had it, although all I told
Mr. Stowe was that the voice over the telephone sounded
familiar—he discovered later that you were indeed in
Cincinnati at that time. Will, believe me, I did not want
to implicate you in murder. You and Kaye. . . . When
Dr. Stuart spoke to me as I stepped through the win-
dow, I was afraid—on her account. He thought I was
Kaye. . . ."
Francesca's moving voice died away-into a cold and
heavy silence. Then Sally Marrender rose to her feet and
made an unsteady rush across the room to her brother,
who still sat with his head sunk on his chest.
"Will, Will," she sobbed, "say you didn't do it—oh,
say it! What if you did take my revolver? When I
found it, it hadn't even been fired."
Her pleadings brought no response from his abject
figure.
"Do I understand you to say that you found a
weapon, Miss Marrender?" Dexter inquired, his nervous
fingers seeking his cameo ring.
"Yes, yes—last Friday night. Cubbage must have hid-
den it, for I found it in that secret drawer in the but-
ler's pantry. Aunt Genie always kept old napkin rings
and discarded spoons there—she showed me once, long
ago when I was a little girl. I thought Cubbage might
have discovered the drawer for himself and put his
proofs there—about being Aunt Genie's son, I mean.
They weren't . . . but my gun was and not one shot
had been fired from it."
"But, Sally, are you sure it was your revolver you


106 Death at Windward Hill
found?" For a moment Dexter's manner was fatherly.
"I dare say you ignored the matter of finger prints."
"No, I didn't. Before I put it back on the shelf under
the cash register I wiped it off with energine. Any finger
prints found on it after that would all be mine."
"At any rate, Sally, we can agree that you are safely
out of the picture, even if your .38 isn't." Tracy cast
another sardonic glance about the group. "That reduces
the candidates to three."
Suddenly Will Marrender stood erect before them all,
but he spoke only to his sister as if the others were not
present. "Listen, Sally, I told you that I was going to
Windward Hill, didn't I?"
Her quick, triumphant, decisive nod did not inter-
rupt him.
"I told you why I had to go?"
"You had to see for yourself—for the sake of all of
us—what right he had to say that he was Aunt Genie's
son."
"I took your gun with me—"
"You took it because I insisted that you must. The
idea was all mine. . . ."
Gravely Marrender bowed his head in assent. "And
what time was it when I returned?"
"A quarter of three. I was waiting."
"What did I tell you?"
"The truth, Will. ... I know it was the truth.
That the interview with Cubbage had not gone your
way—"
"By which I meant that his claim upon Aune Eugenia
could be very clearly established. What else did I say?"
"You said—oh, Will, what a terrible meaning I
thought it had! Not then . . . but when I heard what


308 Death at Windward Hell
aunt . . . nor do I know who did. All I know is that
after I had experimented with the window which the
Sunday before Aunt Eugenia had asked me to unlock,
I came out again and entered the house by the usual
way. Cubbage took me back to his room, and in short
order put his cards upon the table. I saw he had a case
and so I attempted to play an ace*"of my own. I knew
you others would back me up if I could get him to
sign a sort of quit-claim paper—in consideration for
value received, of course—but he was vilely offensive.
I saw red—that must have been when he managed the
business about the fountain pen. He had taken it from
me as if he meant to sign. It was Stuart's pen and
I meant to return it to him the next time I saw
him—I'd absentmindedly walked off with it from the
Anthony. How it got—where Stowe says it was found
later I can't explain, but no doubt Cubbage could if he
were still living.
"As I was saying, the scoundrel infuriated me. I
admit I tried to get at my gun, but he knocked it out
of my hand. We clinched and struggled for a moment.
Then he broke away from me and dashed out of the
room, switching off the lights as he went. I fumbled
around in the darkness, for I had a feeling that Cub-
bage was in ambush. Then I heard the shot. Someone
was moving on the back stairs. I lost my head like a
damned fool. Without stopping to investigate I got out
of the house and back to you."
There was another pall of silence. Bartholomew
Dexter turned his ring slowly and regretted his promise
to that whipper-snapper, Stowe. Eugene Tracy laughed
in a strained, unnatural fashion. He started to say some-


Unanimous Decision 309
thing about ". . . and then there were two . . ." but
only part of the phrase was audible. He tried again.
"Why be so damned polite? After all, I'm the most
logical villain, and there are enough extenuating cir-
cumstances to keep me from a straight first-degree
charge. In the first place, I was there. I wasn't quite
myself. Isn't that the euphemistic term? And it appears
that I was there with the avowed purpose of stealing
the family heirloom. I dare say I shot its rightful owner
when she opened her beady eyes and saw me as I tiptoed
across her room to its hiding place. I can't prove that
I didn't do just that even though Cubbage isn't alive
to accuse me of it. That might do for a motive. God
knows I've no particular reason for living—I've for-
feited the respect of the only person who ever gave
two hoots in hell for me. So, ladies and gentlemen, 1
solicit your votes at the polls."
Dexter's protesting hand went unheeded. Again Fran-
cesca murmured, "I insist that it must have been Cub-
bage." An interrupting voice silenced her, a high, shrill
voice that had lost all of its loveliness. Grey defeat crept
over Francesca's face as she listened.
"What—what was that you said about knowing who
murdered Cubbage? It must be the same one who—who
killed Aunt Eugenia. . . . Why don't we tell that to
the men who were here? I—I don't think I can stand
much more discussion."
"My dear Mrs. Latimer, I have been instructed to
answer that question." The lawyer's voice trembled.
"Dr. Perry Stuart was placed under arrest last night,
charged with the murder of Cubbage. This morning
he admitted his guilt and explained how he possessed
himself of a revolver which he hoped might prove to be


310 Death at Windward Hill
his—one he found in Sally's Shop. He further stated
that he disposed of the weapon, when he had satisfied
himself that it was not his, by throwing it into the
reservoir north of the city. The police inform me that
it has already been retrieved. Their examination shows
that it is indeed a revolver that had never been fired."
"Then the one found in my pocket—" Something
like relief surged through Tracy's hoarse question.
"— was Dr. Stuart's in spite of his first denial. How-
ever, he has not yet confessed that he killed Miss
Marrender."
"But he didn't—he didn't, I tell you! Don't let him
say he did it!** Katherine Latimer sprang to her feet
and clutched wildly at Dexter's steadying arm. "They
stopped me the first time, but not the second. It was
the only thing I could do—Perry was slipping from
me. ... I was here that night. I followed Perry up
the path. I had taken his revolver out of the side pocket
of the car, but I was afraid . . . afraid. And when
Cubbage opened the back door and came out toward
Perry, I slipped inside and up the back stairs. I heard
somebody breathing but I didn't see anyone—not then.
No one could have stopped me—no one! She was a
devil, I tell you. She said—only that very afternoon
she had threatened me—I must choose between her
money and her doctor. I made the gun go off—it was
easy. And then I heard the breathing again—out there
in the hall. It came from behind the curtain in the
alcove. I made myself look . . . that was a harder
thing for me to do than—the other." Her laughter
climbed hysterically. "But it was only Gene lying there.
I thought he was drunk—"


Unanimous Decision 311
"Of course!" Only Tracy could have interposed a
comment in this torrent of confession.
But the frenzied woman was oblivious to the inter-
ruption. She swayed perilously yet her fingers did not
relax their grip upon Dexter's coat sleeve. "So I thrust
the revolver into Gene's pocket and turned the corner
down the back stairs just as Cubbage or somebody ran
up the front way. I ran down the path to the road and
there was Perry looking for me. I wouldn't tell him
where I had been, but he guessed—he guessed . . . and
he must have been afraid Cubbage would tell, so that's
why—Oh, don't you see—he loved me more than I
knew or he never would have done it. I don't care—
I'm not sorry I shot her. It made Perry prove how much
he loved me. I don't care now— Where—where's
Francesca—?"
In the hall without, the group of four waited. Asher
smoked in short nervous puffs. Peyton looked at his
watch every other minute. Dick Stowe did not find the
set of the Inspector's jaw particularly complimentary.
"All right," Stowe was thinking savagely, "if you're
so sure I'm giving them too much rope, go ahead with
your own rules. You know we've got the dope. . . ."
Laura spoke. "Don't you agree with my husband,
Inspector, that they must convince themselves—as they
are doing now? Then you can step in and—"
"Of course, the woman will plead insanity, though
the doctor won't—he can't. There's been a swell lot of
dirt dished up." Further than that Inspector Peyton
refused to comment upon the wisdom of Stowe's course.
His consent to it committed him irrevocably, he con-
sidered.


312 Death at Windward Hill
"Dick, whatever did Miss Penrose mean about the
emerald?" demanded Laura.
"She was the one who snitched it away from Jupe. I
knew she was a possibility at the time, but I did not
consider it a vital point. I mean the further adventures
of the emerald were leading away from rather than
toward the murderer of its owner. Miss Penrose's pres-
ent idea is to plant it somewhere in the little gallery
and insist that Gene find it and keep it for his—that
fantastic promise of the aunt's, you see, that Gene could
have whatever he wished from the room."
"Umph," snorted Asher, "that's not such a hot idea."
"Tracy, luckily for him, has a girl who will always
do his heavy thinking for him, if he has sense enough to
give her a chance to forgive him. Janet Wilcox will
insist that he choose to hold the receipt that Miss Pen-
rose gave to cover her borrowing of the securities. I
rather think the old lady kept them down in the little
gallery purposely for the wayward namesake to stumble
upon."
Peyton's lazy eyes glinted with approval, but Asher
was still captious. He jerked a thumb toward the closed
door of the little gallery.
"You think you can trust Dexter to tell you—?"
"You forget I've got the drop on everything they're
confessing to one another this minute—everything ex-
cept one point." Dick's voice fell regretfully. "I don't
know for sure why Sally Marrender came up here Fri-
day night. Stubborn little devil!"
"And if she swallows a dose of poison just when she
comes across with her confession, then where are you?"
The door of the little gallery swung open. Bartholo-
mew Dexter appeared on the threshold, his plump jowls

















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