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A MAN'S ENEMIES
BY LEE THAYER
Author of “The Silent Bullet,” “Dark of the Moon," etc.
If Top Hat Rafferty had remained on the straight and nar-
row path; if Peter Clancy, by what we call chance, had not
happened to stop in on the night when the extortion note was
first disclosed, the case of the Graytowers murder might never
even have come to light.
For who but Peter would have asked those searching ques-
tions about the hangman's knot and the tiny wound? Why the
victim's pistol was not fired? And how it came to be so far
under the bed? Why Whittlesey had seemed so ready to accede
to the blackmailer's demand.
So much care had been taken to leave no clues, surely the
local police were justified in pouncing on those that did appear
and in taking them at their face value. Only Peter's long ex-
perience made it possible to realize that the absence of a thing
that should inevitably appear is sometimes more significant than
the most obviously damaging piece of evidence.
And on this assumption, the astute private investigator, fol-
lowed and supported by his faithful Wiggar, moves swiftly
through these pages to the amazing denouement.


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A PETER CLANCY DETECTIVE STORY
A MAN'S
ENEMIES
by
LEE THAYER
Author of
DARK OF THE MOON
DEAD END STREET
Etc.

RED BADGE
DETECTIVE
DODD
MIAD
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
NEW YORK
1937


COPYRIGHT, 1937,
BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, INC.
All rights reserved—no part of this book may be
reproduced in any form without permission in
writing from the publisher.
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY
Quinn & Boden Company, Inc.
BOOK MANUFACTURERS
RAHWAY, NEW JERSEY


TO
BERTHA AND POMEROY LEE
THIS BOOK
IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED





TOP HAT RAFFERTY, well and favorably known in the
upper circles of the underworld, found himself temporar-
ily in an embarrassing situation.
The horse in which he had placed entire faith, the horse
that should have carried Rafferty's shockingly dwindled
fortunes to triumphant recuperation, had betrayed his
trust and left his backer in a position close approaching
desperation.
No matter how resourceful one may be in a general
way, there is something distinctly unnerving in the feel
of pockets gone entirely limp. No response to groping
fingers save the faint chink of a solitary dime against the
key to Mollie's flat-and Mollie something like eight hun-
dred miles away.
Also there is little encouragement in a long, level, four-
lane cement road running swift and silent to dark and in-
hospitable horizons. Westward the faintness of the metal-
lic glow in the sky showed how far distant were the
accustomed lights of Broadway. Eastward, apparently
into infinity, the main artery of Long Island's circulatory
traffic system stretched indifferently away.
Having hitch-hiked thus far from the Jericho race-
track northward across the Island, Rafferty knew he had
come to a parting of the ways. A debate had been going on


A MAN’S ENEMIES
in his mind from the minute of realization that "Hold
Everything” was limping home thirteenth of a possible
fifteen in the race. The unnecessary effrontery of that un-
lucky thirteen inhibited constructive thinking for only a
brief period. Then the extreme exigency of the occasion
acted as a spur to his resourceful, resilient, if somewhat
irresponsible, nature and the few possible alternatives be-
gan to present themselves for his consideration.
It did not take very long to narrow them down to two,
and at that point the argument really began. Obviously
he could hitch-hike by stages back to New York and trust
to luck to find some pal big-hearted enough to stake him
until his plans matured. ... Or-or—Top Hat, in his
tenser moments, was wont to revert to the dramatic ideas
of his early school days. A memory came upon him now
as he stood, undecided, among the self-conscious azalea
and rhododendron plants beside the curb, and he quoted
aloud:
“ 'He either fears his fate too much, or his desert is
small, who fears to put it to the test.' . . . After all,”
memory failing, he added lamely in a lower tone, "can a
guy go back empty handed? Mollie's a gal among a thou-
sand. So what? Haven't I laid the pipe well enough—as
far as it goes? Perhaps it would be better ... But,
shucks! Look where I am. Right here on the road to
Oyster Bay, Huntington and points east. 'Is that for noth-
ing,' I ask you? 'Mollie wouldn't like it,' says you. ‘All
right, all right. But what does a dame know? And how
far's a guy expected to go with nothing but a hot dog
under his belt?'”
Thoughtfully he patted the trim concavity of a slightly


A MAN'S ENEMIES
flashy waistcoat. His eyes automatically swung with his
head to follow the lights of cars and trucks that passed,
swift and unheeding. The soft zip and whir of rubber on
concrete seemed to add to the confusion of his senses, but
at length quite suddenly he came to at least a provisional
decision. Watching his chance he crossed to the narrow
strip of ornamental shrubbery in the middle of the park-
way.
"It's a fair bet,” he argued, addressing the empty land-
scape. “If I get a hitch into town before that Huntington
bus comes through, OK by me. If not”
He shot his hand farther out of his cuff and glanced at
his wrist before he recalled that his watch had gone to
join his other portable property at the sign of the three
balls. With a disgruntled sigh he began to figure out the
probable time, half-heartedly raising an appealing thumb
to the lights of west-bound traffic.
"She said the buses ran on the hour,” he muttered,
"but a lot of good that does me. Anyhow it's too early.
Can't be much after eight. I'd have to wait somewhere.
Better there than here though. ... The bus driver'd
hardly remember-or connect me. . . . It wouldn't likely
be the same-and, even so, he only saw me once. ...
I'll go well past the turn and walk back. Safer and plenty
of time.”
A man of action was T. H. Rafferty, and impatient of
delay. After all, he knew well enough how the land lay, so
why not take advantage-
Two blue lights high up against the dark western hori-
zon grew larger as they neared, coming at high speed. It
looked like a juggernaut, but the big yellow bus slowed


A MAN'S ENEMIES
timepiece, the exact hour was impossible to determine,
the prospective entrant had a pretty good idea that it
was considerably short of midnight. “But shucks," he
said to himself impatiently, “what's the use of waiting?
The first hour's sleep is always the hardest. And never
let it be said that T. H. Rafferty was ever guilty of dis-
turbing a customer's repose.”
So communing within himself, he approached by care-
ful stages the northeast corner of the house where, as
he had before noted with a practiced eye, the thick growth
of English ivy flung out an almost impertinent challenge.
"You're simply asking for it,” he whispered defensively
as he glanced up at the balcony above his head. “Might
just as well put ‘Welcome on the mat. ... But it's my
last job, Mollie, my darlin'. This here old guy's mean, and
he can spare the money. What's the odds? One more
crack and I'll be in the clear. Settle down like I promised,
my sweet. . . . So here goes.”
With the confident agility of a movie lover, the lithe
figure climbed up to the balcony. Scarcely breathing, Raf-
ferty paused here for a long tense minute. Things might
be going just a little bit too easy. The French window
was not only unlocked but open and held in position by
a long silvered hook. For ventilation. Obviously. There
was a sleeper in that still, darkened room beyond.
All right. What of it? It was not the first time. ...
Rafferty's disappearance from the balcony was sound-
less as a vanishing shadow. A whippoorwill down in the
autumn woods called eerily. The drying leaves whispered
among themselves. The white chrysanthemums in the
garden nodded ghostly heads together as they watched


A MAN’S ENEMIES
the balcony window where once a tiny pencil light flashed
to be instantly obscured.
Minutes passed. The white heads in the garden trem-
bled ominously as that small clear beam appeared once
more. This time it remained visible while one could
count slowly-one-two-three. Then the leaf of the win-
dow was thrust open with a violent though noiseless force.
A supple shape flung itself over the balustrade and slid
recklessly down through the tangled vines. Even as his
toes touched the turf, Rafferty was off, running at first
blindly and then with fierce imperative purpose, disap-
pearing almost immediately into the shadows of the night.


“So now, Pete, my lad, with the whole of this illicit
sweepstake racket in the bag, I suppose you'll be taking
the vacation Wiggar's been howling about for so long."
Captain of Detectives Kerrigan leaned back in his swivel
chair and put his feet on his desk, regarding his clever
red-headed friend with something deeper than mere ad-
miration.
"Imagine Wiggar' howling about anything," laughed
Peter Clancy, lighting a last cigarette before leaving. “You
may break, you may shatter the vase as you will, but the
silent old Wiggar remains silent still—except on rare
occasions.”
"And then he speaks to some purpose,” Kerrigan
chuckled. “Will you ever forget” He broke off as a
sharp knock sounded on his office door. “What is it?”
he called impatiently.
"Excuse me, Captain Kerrigan, but I thought I'd bet-
ter put it up to you, although if you're busy–” A young
policeman bulked large and blue in the half-open door.
"He's not. I'm just going, Everett,” said Peter, rising.
"It must be getting late. What time is it anyway?"
"It's only a little after ten,” said Kerrigan. “Don't go
yet, Pete. What's it all about, Everett? Anything im-
portant?"


A MAN'S ENEMIES
"I don't know, sir.” The patrolman stepped nearer.
“But he looks the berries. Some class. And worried. You
can take it from me."
“Well, well, who is he?” Kerrigan inquired testily.
“And what's biting him? Did you find out?”
"I didn't just get the rights of it,” Everett dropped his
voice, “but it's something about a threatening letter. The
name's Babbit or— Here's his card.”
"Babcock. Joseph Babcock,” Kerrigan read. “Know
anything, Pete?”
"Humph. Lives at the Boots and Saddles Club. As
Everett says, that means 'class' in any man's language.”
Clancy glanced up from the elegantly engraved bit of
pasteboard. “What's he doing here? Why don't you see
him, Jake? It might be interesting.”
“Oh, you!” growled Kerrigan. "Never satisfied. If I
had your curiosity— All right, Everett, show him in."
The policeman responded with due alacrity and after
a slight delay returned accompanied by a well-dressed
man, tall, heavy, but of rather distinguished bearing. He
appeared to be in the indeterminate forties. His dark hair
was already well threaded with gray but his expression
was alert and purposeful, though at the minute clouded
by some indecision.
"I'm very sorry indeed to trouble you at this time of
the evening-er-Captain Kerrigan—but I'm really-
You see, I don't know just where to turn. It may all be
a mare's nest, but I'm not satisfied in my own mind.”
Joseph Babcock advanced toward the desk where Kerri-
gan was standing. "I thought I'd like advice from some-
one in authority, though of course it's not exactly my


IO
A MAN'S ENEMIES
posing I could persuade my partner to listen to reason."
The worried voice stopped. In contrast to its nervous
uncertainty, Kerrigan sounded soothing and assured.
“You mentioned something in the outside office about
a threatening letter. Addressed, Mr. Babcock, to your
business partner? Yes. Well, just what was in the letter,
may I ask? A demand for money?”
“That,” Babcock admitted, “and a threat." His face
was full of concern.
“They usually go together," Kerrigan remarked easily.
“What was the amount er—suggested?"
"Five thousand dollars—"
"Hum-m-m. And the threat?”
"Death.”
The word fell abruptly into a pool of silence. After a
minute Kerrigan said: “That sounds serious, I'm free to
admit, Mr. Babcock, but your partner—I think you didn't
mention his name.” He paused tentatively.
"He'd hate this, you know," Babcock responded un-
easily, "but since I've gone so far—"
"Perhaps I'd better toddle along now, Jake,” said
Peter, coming forward and speaking in a courteous aside.
Though his manner was quite perfect, Kerrigan did not
fail to catch the inquisitive light in the steel-blue eye
that met his own.
“I wish you'd wait a few minutes, Clancy, if you can
spare the time," objected the police detective. “There
was a little matter I wanted to ask you about. And by
the way, Mr. Babcock, I'd like you to meet my friend,
Peter Clancy. He left the force some time ago, worse
luck, but we still keep in touch and he throws me a


A MAN’S ENEMIES
II
bone now and then—usually after he's gorged himself on
most of the meat.”
“It's quite the other way round I do assure you, sir,”
said Peter, returning Babcock's grave bow. "I'm a mere
private investigator and dependent on the police for tips
and ha'pence."
“Says you,” grunted Kerrigan. “But never mind. Will
you wait a bit, Pete?”
“If Mr. Babcock doesn't object.”
“Why, no. No. If Captain Kerrigan,”
“Clancy won't spill any beans. You can depend on
that, sir. It's better you spread your troubles out before
the both of us. Maybe he could help where I, being more
or less tied to the spot, could not. And anyhow he's a
prize package when it comes to ways and means. So if
you don't mind, let's get on with your little matter. Or
rather that of your partner. You were about to say~"
"His name is Nolan Whittlesey.” Babcock, who had
hesitated for only a little longer, now spoke decisively.
"He lives at a little place called Graylock.”
"Out Huntington way. I know that part of Long
Island well,” said Peter. "Please go on, sir.”
“Then perhaps you know how lonely that high ridge
is along there." Babcock glanced at Peter and turned
back to Kerrigan. “There are big estates all along that
part of the Island. Houses sometimes half a mile or more
apart. Of course the roads are patrolled—”
“And, with telephone and radio, anybody can get police
protection in a few minutes,” Kerrigan put in soothingly.
"If he'd only do it.” Babcock frowned. “I argued and
argued, but he-he won't listen to me any more. You


12
A MAN’S ENEMIES
see he's been ill a long time. Now, physically, he cer-
tainly is better. The doctor thinks he may be up and
around in a week or so. He seemed to be getting along
finely—and now this thing had to turn up."
“The threatening letter?” Kerrigan asked with obvious
patience.
“Yes. I didn't know a thing about it until today. He
called me up on the phone"
“At your office?"
“This morning. Yes. He asked me if I could bring
him out five thousand dollars in hundreds this afternoon.
Wouldn't give me any reason. Just said it was very
important."
“You recognized his voice?" asked Peter.
“Naturally. Oh, there wasn't any mistake. And he
meant what he said. He always does. When I demurred
a little—the thing was so damned unusual, you under-
stand, Captain Kerrigan-he just asked could I do it or
should he send Terrell in for the cash.”
“Terrell?”
"Faulkner Terrell, a sort of private secretary Nolan's
had out at Graytowers for some little time."
“I see.” Kerrigan nodded.
“You didn't think it wise to trust Terrell with so
much cash?" Peter suggested quickly.
Babcock glanced up and then down again. “I wouldn't
say that. No, Mr. Clancy. So far as I know, Terrell is
all right. If you thought my manner implied anything,
you must forget it. There wouldn't have been the slight-
est reason I mean, no one but a fool would have failed
to deliver the money that his employer knew he was sup-


A MAN'S ENEMIES
13
posed to bring. Oh, no," he repeated emphatically, “it
wasn't that. I confess my curiosity was already aroused.
I only hesitated because I simply couldn't imagine why
Nolan wanted just that much money in that particular
form. Also why he needed it so pressingly. Why he didn't
draw a check for it. The whole thing was entirely un-
precedented, you understand.”
The two detectives nodded sympathetically. Peter said:
“So you took the money out there yourself this after-
noon. I infer he must have explained further when you
saw him.”
"I couldn't get away from the office until quite late,"
Babcock corrected hastily. “As a matter of fact I left
him only a couple of hours ago. Caught the eight-fifty in.
Takes nearly an hour and a half you know. Came directly
here from the Pennsylvania Station. After thinking it all
over on the train I decided that I must ask some ques-
tions on my own. What he told me had me that much
upset, Captain Kerrigan. I knew I wouldn't be able to
sleep. I can't take things lightly as some people can. I'm
not that temperament. At least not until I'm sure I've
done everything in my power to avert a catastrophe.
That's why I've come bothering the police. And yet I
must ask you to be very careful. Nolan-Mr. Whittle-
sey—will never forgive me if I go counter to his wishes
-and he finds it out."
"Just exactly what was it he told you?” prompted Peter
quietly. “Captain Kerrigan can hardly give you intelligent
advice on the present data.”
“I see that. Of course. Well, then, Mr. Whittlesey said
he'd had a request for the sum I'd brought him and that


14
A MAN'S ENEMIES
on the whole he thought it reasonable enough. Then he
showed me the note.”
"He showed it to you? You actually saw it? Can you
remember exactly what it said?” Kerrigan sat forward
in his chair.
“Yes. I think I can. He handed it to me and I read it
over a couple of times. There wasn't any preamble. It
just said—” Babcock's frown deepened and he half closed
his eyes. “It started simply with the amount of the de-
mand. Five thousand dollars in hundreds. Then it went
on: 'Have it ready night of October twenty-eighth.""
“That's tonight,” Kerrigan interrupted hastily. “Ex-
cuse me. Go on. What else? Where was it to be deliv-
of times. There was to me and I read it
just saide
ered?"
Babcock shook his head. “I don't know. There was no
provision for that. Right after the date came the threat:
‘Failure means death.'”.
“Any sort of signature?” Peter's tone chimed with the
solemnity of the other's utterance.
"Not exactly. It ended: “You know me,' and there was
a queer sort of circle with some lines across.”
“Could you show us?” Peter, still standing, pushed
paper and pencil across the desk.
"I think,” Babcock hesitated as he picked up the pen-
cil, "it was something like this.” He drew an irregular
circle. "And then four lines, two up and two across."
“Crooked like that?”.
“Maybe not quite, but sort of like a plaid, you know."
“Suggest anything to you, Pete?” Kerrigan looked up
at the serious face of his friend.
“Might be the old game of tit-tat-toe, three in a row,"


A MAN'S ENEMIES
15
Clancy replied but his expression did not lighten. "It's
the signature of no known society, black-hand or other-
wise, I think. You agree, Jake?”
"Never saw one like it,” Kerrigan answered promptly.
There followed a pause of several minutes. The police
detective, studying his friend's thoughtful face, waited
for him to speak. At length Peter roused himself. “The
set-up hardly looks like a gang or racket to me, Mr.
Babcock," he said in a tone of conviction. “In the first
place the amount, though a tidy sum to a poor man, is
unusually small. With the G-men doing their stuff to
such effect, a kidnapper would want a half million at
least. That is if your partner appears to be good for it.”
Babcock answered the rising inflection of the last sen-
tence with a nod. “I daresay he could raise even that
amount if sufficiently urged.”
“So you see that point,” said Peter with a shrug. "And
then there's another angle, of course. In the circumstances
you'll pardon the implication, I'm sure. It seems hardly
possible to ignore it. If your partner was willing to acceed
so promptly to the demand, isn't it a fair conclusion that
he probably knows pretty well who's making it—and
why? A man submitting tamely to—to blackmail-or
maybe I should say extortion—usually has some good
reason. And one might question, perhaps, the advisability
of interference, even by a friend and no matter how well
meant. The police would hardly be in a position to pro-
ceed except on formal complaint. If a man wants to pay
through the nose, after all, the nose is his own, and if
he doesn't object—".
“That's the crazy part of the whole thing," Babcock


16
A MAN'S ENEMIES
broke in hotly. "It's not in Nolan's character. That's what
I can't understand. He's irritable. Hot tempered as the
deuce. That's what frightens me, gentlemen. He isn't one
to sit down under a threat. He'd show fight—somehow.
His illness has changed him—but not to that extent.
Look-look how he stood up to me this evening. Wouldn't
tell me a thing more. Tucked the damned note under his
pillow. Told me to put the money in that foolish little
safe in his bedroom and to mind my own business. I'm
sure he had some plan—something up his sleeve. If only
I could guess what!”
Babcock paused and wiped his forehead. His dread
was obvious. This was no hysterical weakling and, though
his fears might be groundless, his bearing claimed con-
sideration.
"I don't think you really need worry so much over this
affair.” Kerrigan spoke with comforting confidence. “As
Clancy says, these private-er-arrangements are plenty
common and the police get no thanks for butting in. On
your own showing it looks like Mr. Whittlesey was con-
fident he had everything under control. He had the money
all ready to pay over in case of necessity."
“That's right,” Babcock agreed and after a little
thought added more hopefully: "He always keeps a
loaded pistol in the drawer of his bed-head table, too.
Maybe—maybe he is prepared for every emergency. He
certainly thought so, and I hope he hasn't overestimated
-or underestimated—if you see what I mean.” He rose
and took up his hat from the desk. “I want to thank you
for your courtesy and consideration, Captain Kerrigan.
And you, too, Mr. Clancy. You've been most kind and


A MAN'S ENEMIES
17
reassuring. I'm very glad I came in. My inexperience in
such matters must excuse my anxiety. And I'm afraid
I've trespassed unpardonably on your time. My word,
it's nearly eleven! I'd no idea I'd been here so long. I'll
take myself off at once—if you have no further sugges-
tions to make?”
He looked from one to the other. They were all stand-
ing now. Kerrigan had been observing his keen-eyed, red-
headed friend. With his hand on Clancy's shoulder he
said: “If you or your partner find things getting out of
hand, Mr. Babcock, I freely give you a tip that this is
the man I'd bet on to straighten them out without noise
or unnecessary outlay. If you could get him interested
in the case ”
"I am now," said Peter cordially, "and, while Captain
Kerrigan is too complimentary by half, I do believe I
might be of service. It's a lovely run out on the north
shore this time of year. Suppose I drift out and browse
about Graylock a bit in the morning. Would you like me
to?"
"Well, frankly, Mr. Clancy, I'm afraid Whittlesey
wouldn't hear of such a thing, and he'd be simply furious
with me.”
"Oh, he'd never know," Kerrigan put in eagerly. “You
could trust Clancy for that. He'd make up a water-tight
excuse of some kind and probably bring home the bacon
on a silver platter.”
“And in the matter of fees,” said Peter quietly, with a
slight smile, “I never ask for an advance royalty on the
bacon, or put up the price of pork if I'm lucky enough
to bring it in. I mention it beforehand just in case there


18
A MAN'S ENEMIES
are unfavorable developments of any kind. I don't believe
there's any particular danger-unless success goes to the
head of the person who—possibly—is planning to get
that five thousand dollars tonight. A blackmailer rarely
stops at one coup, unfortunately. By the way, Jake, it's
just occurred to me that Mr. Babcock might feel easier
if you phoned the police at Graylock to keep an eye on
any suspicious person seen out around the Whittlesey
place tonight. You wouldn't have to give any special
reason. Would you think that a good idea, sir?”.
"Oh, why I never thought of that,” said Babcock.
“Why—why, yes. That would be splendid—especially if
it won't be necessary for Mr. Whittlesey to know I spon-
sored the thing. Suppose, Captain Kerrigan, you say to
watch for suspicious persons along Graytowers Road.
That would do the trick. It only runs from the Hunting-
ton Boulevard in a short loop to the Amityville road, not
more than a mile in all, and it's the only approach to
Whittlesey's place except by woods and fields, of course.
But even a watch on the road would be a protection,
supposing—"
“Supposing what, Mr. Babcock?” prompted Kerrigan
as the other came to a thoughtful pause.
The visitor shook his iron gray head. “I was only
wondering. . . . But, yes. I believe it would be a satis-
faction to know that the police were on the watch for
any unexplained strangers who might be loitering—or
getting away too quickly perhaps—Captain Kerrigan, on
the Graytowers Road.”
"All right; I'll attend to it, Mr. Babcock. I happen to
know a man stationed out in that section now. It'll do


A MAN'S ENEMIES
19
no harm to call him, at any rate, and I'm glad to do
whatever I can.”
Kerrigan was as good as his word. It was only ten
minutes after eleven when he was able to contact the
State Troopers' Headquarters near Huntington. His friend
was in, as luck would have it, and it was not more than
twenty minutes past eleven when Lieutenant Ogilvy's
motor cycle was moving swiftly, uphill and down, through
the mile of hard-surfaced road that ran past Graytowers.
It was exactly eleven-twenty-five when he came out on
the Amityville turnpike. He had seen nothing in any way
to arouse his suspicions—for the simple reason that Top
Hat Rafferty had already turned that corner and taken
his swift way southward nearly half an hour earlier.


III
“Your bath is ready, sir.”
“Wha—u—r?” said Peter Clancy, stifling a compre-
hensive yawn. “Can't be time to get up, Wiggar. I was
just having the jolliest dream. I thought Hitler and Mus-
solini were fighting a duel because Marie of Roumania
said that, Hey! What's your hurry? I haven't anything
special on for this morning.”
"Excuse me, Mr. Peter. I rather think you have, sir.
Ahem. Pardon. It came in on the radio just now. Short
wave. Police news.”
"Oh?” said Peter, sitting up suddenly. “What, Wig-
gar? What is it, man? Robbery? Kidnap"
"Murder, Mr. Peter." The valet spoke solemnly, hold-
ing out his master's dressing robe. “The gentleman we
took last night to the Boots and Saddles Club—"
“Babcock? You don't mean that he's been bumped
off!” Peter threw back the covers and leaped from the
bed.
"Oh, no. No, sir. But you explained on the way home
The other gentleman-his partner, you know—that's the
one. Mr. Nolan Whittlesey, at his place on Long Island.
Near Huntington. It had just been discovered."
"How did they know it was murder?” Peter asked
sharply.


A MAN'S ENEMIES
21
Wiggar shook his head. "Robbed and murdered, the
broadcast said. That was all.”
"Good God!” Peter muttered. “I wonder if we could
have done anything-anything to prevent it. Babcock was
right to be anxious, it seems. But what can the police do
in such a case? Kerrigan had no reason to think, really,
that it would be— What time is it, Wiggar? Eight o'clock.
Try Captain Kerrigan at his apartment. Locate him for
me while I get my tub. In five minutes. And then hustle
up breakfast. I have a feeling we'll be called upon to
go places."
In scarcely more than the time mentioned, Peter thrust
out a tousled head. "Well?” he asked.
“Captain Kerrigan's wire has been busy," Wiggar re-
ported, proceeding swiftly with his accustomed duties.
"If you'll allow me, sir. Thank you. I'll try again in a
moment. Unless—"
“That may be him now.” Peter's sharp exclamation
coincided with the ring of the telephone bell. "Don't
bother. Let me. ... Yes, Jake.” He spoke eagerly into
the transmitter. “What? ... Wiggar just got it over
the radio. . . . Well, I don't see that you have any cause
to blame yourself. No. We did what we could. Anyone
would have thought— Yes. It just looked like an ordinary
case of putting on the screws, and with the money there
in hand ... What's that? You felt you had to break it
to Babcock? Well, I suppose the local police would hardly
have had time yet to "
A short pause.
"Well, of course he feels badly, but he can't blame
you! Oh, he's decent about it. Well, why wouldn't he be?


22
A MAN’S ENEMIES
10
Any reasonable man- What did you say, Jake? I didn't
get that last. Thought I'd like to go out? Of course I
would, but I don't really see how I could go butting
in. ... Oh. Babcock wants me. Well, certainly. That
puts another face on it. No, I'm not anxious about a fee.
I can always manage to wangle enough out of the year's
crime crop to support Wiggar more or less in the style
to which he's accustomed.”
Peter glanced up at the valet's wooden face and almost
caught the tail end of what might have been a slight dis-
arrangement of its architectural features. The receiver
being held a little way from the listener's ear, Kerrigan's
voice came over plainly.
"Stop kiddin', Pete, for the love of Mike, and promise
me you'll get out to Huntington as fast as you can. I
can't do anything personally, of course, and I suppose
I haven't any real call to feel involved, but Babcock's
coming to us last night and me giving him what turned
out to be a bum steer—".
"I was in wrong just as much as you," Peter inter-
rupted. “I know exactly how you feel, and I'll do what
I can, it goes without saying.”
"Oh," said Kerrigan crisply. “Then that's that. You
get in touch with Lieutenant Ogilvy of the State Police
as soon as you can. I will have told him all about you
before you get there. Naturally, I have no authority, but
I know Ogilvy well and he's a good scout. They're going
to need all the help they can get if the local outfit is
what usually stays in the sticks. By the way, Pete”.
“Yes?"
“You're driving out I suppose?”


A MAN’S ENEMIES
23
“Yes. Why?"
"I told Babcock you'd pick him up and take him along
in your car. He hasn't one and couldn't make as good
time by train. It'll give you a chance to find out a lot
of maybe helpful details before you get there. See what
I mean, Sweetheart?”.
“Sweetheart yourself,” laughed Peter. “You think of
everything, don't you? Specially how to spoil a beautiful
early morning drive. Well, have it your own way. I dare-
say it will save time. Did you happen to tell your friend
Babcock what time I'd call?”
“Yes,” Kerrigan answered brazenly. “I said you'd be
there in half or three quarters of an hour."
“All right, you slave driver. I'll try to choke down your
beautiful tribute to my celerity along with a cup of
Wiggar's coffee and be at the Boots and Saddles Club
before nine o'clock. Will he be ready?”.
"Said he'd be waiting at the door by a quarter to nine,
so there'll be no delay.”
“Swell,” said Peter. "If this isn't an ordinary cut and
dried affair, it's the early bird that'll catch the worm
when it turns.”
“You've said it, Pete, my lad. Let me know how you
come on. So long—and good luck."
Peter responded heartily, dropped the telephone on its
cradle and dashed into his clothes. By the time he had
swallowed the small but perfectly prepared breakfast that
Wiggar brought him on a tray, the butler-valet had al-
ready metamorphosed himself into a complete chauffeur
and was waiting in the car. The run through the Park
occupied but a few minutes and it was not yet nine when


24
A MAN'S ENEMIES
they rolled up before the reserved and exclusive looking
entrance to the Boots and Saddles. Even as they drew
up to the curb a page flung open the door and Babcock
came quickly out. He looked pale and deeply concerned
and took his place beside Peter with only a murmured
word of greeting.
“Terrible! This is a terrible thing, Mr. Clancy,” he
said as the car rolled swiftly eastward. “I confess I'm
at my wit's end. I hardly know what I ought to do. I
called up Graytowers but could get few details, and I
didn't like to press matters over the wire. After what
I told Captain Kerrigan last night you must realize that
I'm in a very delicate position. The captain was very
decent this morning in breaking the dreadful—the shock-
ing news—very considerate indeed. But he couldn't see
his way clear to advising me further-except to consult
you."
Peter bent his head. “I'll try to deserve Captain Ker-
rigan's good opinion,” he said gravely, “though I don't
think there's much to be decided upon until we see ex-
actly how the land lies when we get to the scene of the
crime. Robbery and murder was all that we heard on
the radio. Have you any more details?”
“Only very few. The secretary, Terrell, you know, was
talking to the police and I could get only the butler' on
the wire. He said they discovered the—the tragedy-
early—a little after seven o'clock. The nurse went in to
take his—Nolan's—morning medicine and found him
dead. Strangled.” Babcock's tone was eloquent of a
sternly restrained horror.
“Strangled!” exclaimed Peter. “Hum-m-m. Well, that


A MAN’S ENEMIES
25
fact necessitates certain elements in the set-up and ex-
cludes certain others.”
“I don't follow you.” Babcock's eye flashed a question.
“The type of person who could kill—that way—is dis-
tinctly different from one who shoots—or stabs,” Peter
replied with thoughtful slowness. “But we'd better not go
into that further at the minute. What about the robbery?"
"The little safe in his bedroom was open. So was a
window that leads onto a balcony. Samuel—that's the
butler-Samuel Kilroy—he said it looked as if the thief
got in that way.”
"Was there any mention of the threatening note that
Mr. Whittlesey showed you?”
"Samuel didn't speak of it and I didn't like to ask
that sort of question. I'm quite certain from Nolan's man-
ner that he had kept the thing, as far as possible, a com-
plete secret. Apparently the only reason I knew anything
at all about it was that he wasn't in a position to go out
and get the cash himself. That's what makes my position
so delicate, Clancy. If, as you and Captain Kerrigan
seem to think, my partner had some-old secret-or
something—that he wanted to keep dark, it hardly seems
loyal to go against his wishes now if it could possibly
be avoided. Mr. Whittlesey was a great stickler for family
tradition-honor—and all that sort of thing, and, while
unfortunately he and his daughter disagreed about a good
many things, he would have wished to spare her the
knowledge of anything that could reflect on their name.
Of that I'm certain.”
“Ah, a daughter?” Peter put in on a note of interro-
gation. “Any other relatives?"


26
A MAN'S ENEMIES
"A sister. Miss Amanda Whittlesey. So far as I know
he had no other close connections."
"You—I suppose you know the family and the house-
hold well, Mr. Babcock? You visited out there? And can,
perhaps, tell me something about the servants?”.
An affirmative nod had answered the first two ques-
tions. To the last the response was as immediate. "Samuel
has been there many years and seems entirely trust-
worthy. Maria, the cook, has been with them even longer
—a relic of the past, really, before Nolan's father made
a fortune in leather during the great war. She's old, but
still an excellent cook,” Babcock remarked appreciatively.
“The housemaid I don't know so much about. She's
pretty, and her name, I believe, is Lottie something or
other. Local talent, but she's well trained and I never
heard any complaints of her.”
“And that's the lot?" asked Peter.
“I believe there's a gardener, a local man who doesn't
live on the place. I think his name is Davis but I'm not
sure.”
"It's likely to be, in that section of Long Island,” said
Peter. “Davis and Robinson are kind of generic names
out there even yet. Well, that lineup doesn't seem to yield
anything very suspicious.”
“Of course not. Why should it? Samuel thought it
obvious that the criminal came in through the balcony
window."
“Yes ..." said Peter slowly. “The five thousand dol-
lars you put in the safe is missing of course. ...".
"I suppose so. But Samuel wouldn't know anything
about that.”


A MAN’S ENEMIES
27
“Then why was he so sure there had been a robbery?”
“Oh,” said Babcock blankly. "I hadn't thought of
that.”
On the far side of the Fifty-ninth Street bridge the
ugly rows and rows of little houses flashed past the win-
dows, but none of the occupants of the car noticed them.
Wiggar, with one ear carefully trained on the rear seat,
urged the motor to still higher speed, for he was sensible
of the great advantage an early arrival would give his
master. Peter was automatically conscious of the satis-
factory swiftness of their passage, but his mind was en-
grossed with even more serious matters. Presently he
said: “We mustn't jump at conclusions. Of course there
may have been other things missing from the safe. It's
being open, naturally, would attract a good servant's at-
tention immediately.”
“That's right.” Babcock's frown relaxed. "For my part,
Clancy, I haven't suspected anyone except the unknown
person who sent that outrageous letter to Whittlesey. It
seems obvious to me that he came to collect the money,
met with resistance—and—” A shrug that was half shud-
der finished the sentence.
"Your point is well taken,” said Peter. "But we can't
lose sight of the fact that a man's enemies may be those
of his own house. Oh, I'm not going to make any foolish
guesses. We'll know more, perhaps, when we get there.
... But I suggest now that we face the possibility that
this was—actually—an inside job—and see where that
leads us. As a matter of fact, in a case of blackmail, long
service might be considered to tell nearly as much against
a servant as for him—or her."


28
A MAN'S ENEMIES
2 shrewd olan sey's immediat on't be based
Babcock's head came up sharply. "In what way do you
mean, Clancy?”
"Well, if the secret is an old one, wouldn't it naturally
be an old acquaintance who would know it?".
"Not necessarily,” Babcock countered after a minute's
consideration. "Someone might have just recently dis-
covered something that happened a long time ago."
“You think the demand for money couldn't be based
on an occurrence in Whittlesey's immediate past?" Peter
inquired with a shrewd glance. “Come, Mr. Babcock, you
must be open with me if I'm to be of the least service.
Tell me, how long have you and your late partner been
connected?”
"In business you mean?”
"In any way.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I've known him nearly all
my life. We were both born and brought up in a little
town in northern Pennsylvania. His people practically
owned the town. I worked for his father when I was a
mere lad. Nolan went to college and I lost sight of him
during that period. Also at the time of the war. He was
on his yacht in South American waters and I was over
seas. When I came back I went into the New York
branch of the business, which had developed largely dur-
ing that period. Nolan inherited it soon after and we've
been partners nearly ever since. So you see, Clancy, there
can be only the period while he was in college and the
succeeding years of the war when I would not have been
familiar with his movements.”
"In a general way,” Peter said slowly, “that, of course,
is true. But how much do we really know of what goes


A MAN'S ENEMIES
29
on around us? Even with our nearest and dearest. And
a business partner, even though he be a close friend, could
hardly be sure that he knew the other's intimate life.
Things happen under our very noses that we don't see.
. . . And what occurs during the night may leave no
record in the morning.”
Peter lifted his head with a queer sense of having said
something important. But there was nothing of any spe-
cial interest in the flat landscape. The road from the
Jericho racetrack came into the boulevard at that point.
The fact that T. H. Rafferty had stood there making an
important decision the night before unfortunately could
leave no recognizable trace upon the morning air.


For several minutes thereafter silence reigned in the
swiftly moving car. Presently, Peter, intent on making
the most of the opportunity that Kerrigan had so thought-
fully provided for securing inside information, returned
to his line of inquiry. Shaking off a curious sense that
he was missing some vital matter, he said: “For the pres-
ent it looks as if we'd better shelve the question of who
might or might not have sent that demand for five thou-
sand dollars, and see if we can determine who could-
or could not—have committed the murder—just suppos-
ing—as we must, Mr. Babcock—that it turns out not to
have been outside talent. At this point we have no real
evidence either way. The open window might be merely
a blind. So, if we can clear up any ground, we'll be that
much ahead when we get to Graytowers. It's fortunate all
around that you were so closely in touch with the situa-
tion, and I'm hoping you can tell me who of the house-
hold were actually in the house last night. Also if there
were any guests."
Babcock shook his head. "No guests," he said. "That
much I'm sure of. Miss Amanda was home, for I said
good night to her when I left some little time after eight
o'clock.”
“She and her brother were on good terms, do you
30


A MAN'S ENEMIES
31
know?” Peter asked quietly.
"Oh-oh, yes,” Babcock replied somewhat hesitantly.
"I mean to say, Clancy, it's no use to disguise the fact
that Nolan was sometimes pretty difficult. I learned how
to humor him. Experience teaches us a lot. I think he
was really fond of Amanda and she of him. Their quar-
rels didn't go very deep, I'm sure, but they're chips off
the same old block and wouldn't have made any display
of affection in any case.”
"Hum-m-m," said Peter. “Then you think we may dis-
count any words they might have had recently?”.
"Oh, yes, I should think so," Babcock answered read-
ily enough, but Peter thought he detected the faintest
possible undercurrent of uncertainty that sought to dis-
guise itself by a slight overemphasis.
Peter said: “And who else did you see? Anyone?”
“Terrell was there. He met me at the station and took
me back to the train.” Babcock's voice had undergone
an indefinable change. His lips closed now in a straight
hard line.
“You didn't happen to mention the five thousand dol-
lars to him?” Peter sat up alertly.
"Certainly not. And he said nothing about it to me.
It's quite on the cards that he knew nothing at all about
the matter. Nolan was always pretty secretive. Perhaps
that's too strong a word. Reticent is better. I was bring-
ing out some accounts and things, as well as the money,
and it's likely that Nolan gave that as my reason for
coming.”
“Was it Mr. Whittlesey who sent Terrell to meet you?”
“Yes."


32
A MAN'S ENEMIES
“Have you any idea where the secretary went after
he took you back to the train?"
"Not the slightest.”
“You took it for granted that he was going back to
Graytowers?”
"I didn't give it a thought either way.”
Peter turned a little sidewise in the seat. “You're being
admirably fair, Mr. Babcock," he said, "but I can't help
feeling that for some reason you're not an ardent ad-
mirer of Mr. Terrell.”
Babcock remained thoughtfully silent for a minute.
Then the severity of his expression lightened a little.
“Do you remember the old story, Mr. Clancy, of the
man, I don't know who it was, who said of a rival: 'I
must be fair to him, for I hate him like hell'?”.
“I remember it,” Peter replied with a grave nod.
“Well, that's my case,” said Babcock frankly. "He
and I are in love with the same girl. I may as well tell
you, for it's a fairly open secret. I'm afraid sometimes,
on account of his youth and his movie-hero appearance,
that he has the inside edge, and I can't forgive him be-
cause I don't feel he's worthy of her. Perhaps I wouldn't
think anyone else was. I dread, too, the opportunities he
has, being her father's secretary—”.
"Oh,” said Peter softly. "It's Miss Whittlesey then?"
Babcock bowed his head. His face was grave again-
almost gloomy. There was a minute's pause.
"How did her father stand on the question?” Peter
asked.
“He did me the honor of preferring me,” Babcock re-
plied with dignity. "Perhaps he made it too obvious.


A MAN'S ENEMIES
33
Judith is a high-spirited girl and, like all the young people
nowadays, intolerant of any sort of dictation.”
"Was she at home last night?” Peter inquired, dis-
missing the previous matter with a slight though serious
gesture.
"Fortunately not," Babcock responded earnestly.
“She's spending a few days with friends in town. They
saw the new Guild play last night. It was the opening
night.”
"Has she been told yet of her father's death, do you
know?"
“I asked. Samuel said Terrell had already been in
touch with her on the wire.”
"He seems rather prompt,” remarked Peter. "I hope
you won't mind if I ask you to tell me anything and
everything you know about him. I'll try to hold the bal-
ance between your conscience and your frankly acknowl-
edged prejudice. Tell me first how long he's been Mr.
Whittlesey's secretary.”
“Let me see. A year and a half-nearly two years it
must be. Nolan's illness began a little before that. At
first we didn't think much of it. He never was keen on
office work and when he stayed home more and more
frequently no one noticed. It was he himself who called
in the doctor, and after he took to his bed he decided he
wanted a secretary. It seems he'd heard about Terrell.
Knew his father, an experimental chemist. By some freak,
young Terrell, who followed in the old man's footsteps,
had hit upon an idea for waterproofing leather in a new
way. That 'intrigued Nolan, who, besides being in the
leather business, was something of a dabbler in chemistry.


36
A MAN'S ENEMIES
must be nearly there. By the way," he turned as a sud-
den thought struck him, “aren't we missing out on pos-
sibilities?” He touched one finger after another as he
enumerated: "There was the secretary, the nurse and
butler, the cook-but wasn't there a housemaid, too?
Local talent. You said the gardener went home at night.
But how about the housemaid?”
“That girl? Why, Clancy, she's nothing but a pretty
little fool.”
“But sleeps in the house?” Peter insisted.
"I imagine so, but I don't know. Anyway how can you
suspect a young girl”.
"Strangling isn't necessarily a man's crime,” Peter in-
terrupted sharply. “Don't think it. Given the right con-
ditions, and sufficient incentive, a whole lot of things
must be accepted as in the realm of possibility. We can't
afford to miss a trick."
"I'm glad it's you and not I who must play that sort
of game,” said Babcock admiringly. “I'm a good deal
better at bridge. Do you play?”.
"Sometimes,” said Peter absently.
"You should. It's wonderful for the nerves.” Babcock
let his heavy frame relax. “I played too late at the club,
though, last night. Old John Macpherson was winning
and we couldn't get him to quit until nearly two o'clock.
Senseless. It's given me kind of a headache. That-or
Captain Kerrigan's waking me this morning with such
awful—dreadful news. Poor Nolan! I can't help feeling
now if only~"
The regretful voice faded to silence. Clancy leaned
suddenly forward, looking sharply about. "Shouldn't we


A MAN'S ENEMIES
37
turn off pretty soon now?” he asked. “That next road
ahead goes toward Huntington. I understood—”
“Sorry,” Babcock apologized. “I wasn't noticing. Gray-
towers Road comes in on the right just beyond that big
oak.”
"I see,” said Peter. They turned off the concrete and
onto a fairly well kept hard-surfaced road. Ahead, against
the sky, loomed two heavy towers. Even as he looked,
one great black crow with cruel dangling claws rose from
the crenelated top and, as if on definite business, flew
straight off toward the south.
"One crow for sorrow.” Peter quoted the old doggerel
half aloud. “One crow. ... Hum-m-m. If I were super-
stitious. ..."


BUT Peter Clancy was not especially superstitious.
Neither, unfortunately, was he possessed of occult powers.
If he had been clairvoyant he might have beheld at that
exact minute an apparently inconsiderable incident, oc-
curring not ten miles away, which was definitely to influ-
ence the sequence of events. Though at that stage of the
inquiry he certainly would not have recognized the fact,
one of the chief actors in the small drama was a person
that he was subsequently to seek with every art of his
long experience. This man—whose crime had tied him
inextricably in the fatal tangle that Peter Clancy was
about to attempt to unravel—was none other than T. H.
Rafferty.
For the purpose of this truthful narrative, however, it
seems expedient at this time to set back the clock to the
early hours of that eventful day and to watch an erst-
while jaunty but now weary figure as it trudged along
the Amityville road, neatly slipping into cover whenever
a motor passed that might be suspected of belonging to
the highway patrol. A little before dawn Rafferty had
nipped off an hour's sleep in a sheltered nook in the
scrub oak that governs miles of the middle island plains.
He had waked shivering in the early autumn mists and
continued southward, urged by terror and calculation to
38


A MAN'S ENEMIES
41
able things, under a tree. The obsequies were brief but
sincere, and Rafferty rose from his knees a different and
perhaps a wiser man.
But still hungry—even more hungry. Wayworn and
tired he ventured out on the road again at about the
time when Wiggar was driving Peter Clancy's car and
its occupants across the Fifty-ninth Street bridge. Still
haunted by the terrible though unverified fear that Justice
was already on his trail, Rafferty went warily and wearily
on, scouting ahead at each waver of the southerly course
of the road.
The need for food was becoming acute. He had had
nothing but a “hot dog” for nearly eighteen hours and
many of those spent in unaccustomed exercise. Something
had to be done about it. There was nothing on his person
that he could exchange for a meal. He must beg or steal
some kind of food at the nearest place, preferably a
village or town, though if one should not appear soon
upon the horizon, a farmhouse —
Alas, the roof he saw through the trees was only that
of a small isolated schoolhouse. Children were playing
in the road some distance beyond. Must be getting on
for nine o'clock, he thought, but he was wrong. The
school was already in session. The boys in the shadow
of the trees had played hooky and were—
All at once T. H. Rafferty saw what they were doing,
heard a wild agonized bark—and at that sight and sound
all thought of another detour vanished from his mind.
He forgot that he was tired and the weakness of hunger
left him. With a sharp yelping roar he charged that
bunch of cruel boys-dispersed them with the fury of


A MAN’S ENEMIES
his onslaught as chaff before the wind, and caught up
in his arms a fat little Pekinese, its fluffy coat bedrag-
gled and stained with blood.
"Poor little baby. Poor little no-count hound," he
whispered, parting the clotted coat with tender fingers.
“What you doing out here all alone by yourself? How'd
those bad boys get you down? The cowards! Still run-
ning like the devil was chasing 'em. Picking on a little
thing like you! Ought to be ashamed. ..."
The large round eyes of the little dog gazed up at
him trustingly. She whimpered just a little and licked
his hand with her tiny tongue.
“Wong Fu,'” he read from the silver plate on the
collar that was half hidden in the miniature lion's mane.
“ 'Miss Hannah Graham. Grass Lane. Swaniskit.' Now
where the devil is that?”
Wong Fu replied with a clipt bark and snuggled closer
into Top Hat Rafferty's protecting arms.
“Yes, I know," he replied as if she had spoken. "So
do I, Wong Fu, but you see the way I'm fixed. I just got
to watch my step. You're a fancy bred dog, or I miss
my guess, and having you'd be bad medicine for me
right now. But I'd take a chance on seeing you at least
in sight of home if you'd show me the way.”
He looked quickly before and behind along the road.
The dog spelled “class” to him, and he knew he had not
passed any considerable place. Ahead the road was
broader and beyond some tall trees a faint but unmistak-
able blur of smoke rose against the tender blue of the
sky.
“We got to take a chance, Wong. Come on.” Rafferty


A MAN'S ENEMIES
43
spoke aloud, suiting the action to the word. The little
dog made a noise like a boiling kettle. Evidently he had
arrived in time to save her from any serious injury.
His concern for her relieved the tension of his thoughts
and his mind began to work more clearly.
“Some grub I've got to have, Wong Fu,” he said, strok-
ing her silky ears, "and if you can wangle me a cup of
coffee and—”
"Yip! Gerr, yip!” She started up and struggled in his
arms.
Rafferty stopped abruptly at the entrance to a narrow
grassy ride that he would scarcely have noticed except
for the dog's evident agitation. It curved up a little rise
and away out of sight.
"That can't go any place, Wong,” he argued. “Narrow
and no tire tracks. ... What's the matter? You want to
get down?”
Stooping he put her on the ground. Without an in-
stant's hesitation she started off, her plumelike tail wav-
ing above the short grass. After a minute, however, she
whimpered, stopped and looked back.
"By Jinks,” said Rafferty, "maybe you're right after
all, Sweetheart. Grass Lane is on your collar, and if this
isn't it, I'm a son of a gun, and that's what I hope!
Here, wait! I'll carry you."
With every sign of content the little dog settled down
again in the thief's protecting arms. The lane became
narrower, scarcely. more than a path, with tiny birch
saplings growing in the middle. Rafferty was beginning
to lose heart when after a short rise it dipped again and
broadened into a charming shady approach to a wide


44
A MAN'S ENEMIES
lawn beyond which a gray shingled cottage with blue-
green doors sat aloof and quite at its ease in the sun.
“Yip, yip yip. Grrrr. Yip yip.”
As if the little dog's joyous bark had been a summons,
an elderly lady came almost at a run around the corner
of the house.
“Wong,” she called in a strong able voice. “Oh, Wong,
where have you been? We've looked for you everywhere.
You bad runaway— Oh, she's hurt!”
"Not bad, I think, Miss Graham, but she's a little
bloody. Look out for your dress.”
The lady glanced up sharply at the young man who
fumblingly removed his battered cap.
“Where did you find her? Out on the road again?”
Rafferty explained rather breathlessly. He was accus-
tomed to doing himself very well in the way of food, and
his inner man was protesting violently.
“Those terrible Wick boys!” exclaimed Miss Hannah.
“They're responsible for all the mischief for miles around.
Thank heaven it's no worse. And thank you, too,” she
added with another shrewd glance. “You look a little
pale for these parts. Have you come far?"
"I hitch-hiked most of the way out from Brooklyn
last night.” Rafferty tried to speak easily. “Heard of a
job in Amityville but I was—too late. You know how
it is these days, Miss Graham.”
Steadfast hazel eyes with long black lashes regarded
him through tortoise rimmed spectacles. Her hair was
snow white, there were lines in her face, but Hannah
Graham carried herself with the alert confidence of youth.
“You're hungry," was her outspoken conclusion. “Come


A MAN'S ENEMIES
45
around to the back of the house. You can help me with
Wong while Annie gets you some breakfast. Annie!”
Events moved rapidly when Miss Hannah spoke. Fif-
teen minutes later, Wong's wound attended to, T. H.
Rafferty found himself seated in a sheltered nook of a
paved terrace at a table on which was a tray full of the
delectable stuff of dreams. Miss Hannah was perched
on a high chair at another table, busily arranging flowers
in several vases that Annie had brought out for the pur-
pose. She was just enough behind Rafferty so that he
could not see her without turning his head.
Up to that time Wong's necessities, virtues and foibles
had, apparently, taken the lady's entire attention. Now
she said: "Suppose you tell me a little about yourself
for a change, Mr.—”.
“T-Tom. Just call me Tom if you will, Miss Graham.
I don't set up to be a gentleman. You can see that easy
enough.”
"You might be one, without any setting-up exercises,”
she said, laughing. “At least you hate cruelty as much
as I do, it seems. So tell me, where are you going? Any
idea of where to look for another job?”.
Top Hat Rafferty instinctively glanced at a trellis that
led invitingly from the terrace up to an open second-
story window, but shook his head with a look of renun-
ciation.
"Not me," he answered emphatically. “I mean, no,
Miss Graham. I thought I'd try in Huntington maybe.
D’you know where I might have a chance?”
“Can you drive a car?" she asked thoughtfully.
“No, ma'am,” Rafferty lied promptly. Drivers' licenses


46
A MAN'S ENEMIES
and things like that couldn't enter into his present cal-
culations.
"I'd like to give you some work if you really want
it,” said Miss Hannah still more slowly. "You've done
me a very good turn. And I'd like to do something more
than just give you a little money. You're kind to animals,
which makes a hit with me. I know an honest man when
I see one.” Rafferty winced imperceptibly. “What about
gardening? Do you know anything about flowers?”
The man's dark eyes lighted up suddenly. “My father
was a gardener,” he said eagerly. In the face of her
kindness it was a comfort to be able for once to speak
the truth. "He taught me a lot. In fact, Miss Hannah,
I was practically weaned on delphinium and madonna
lilies.”
“The loveliest combination in the garden,” she ex-
claimed with youthful enthusiasm. “Too late for lilies
now, of course, but I still have a few Duckham del-
phiniums in bloom.”
"You can keep 'em going until heavy frost by cutting
out the top blossoms as they come along,” Rafferty sup-
plemented intelligently. "Those English delphiniums are
the berries. Got any of those that look like a funny little
monkey face in the middle, Miss Hannah?”
While the thief and the lady were still talking flowers,
Peter Clancy's car was driving up to the entrance of
Graytowers some seven miles away—as the crow flies.


“Just one hour and twenty-four minutes.” Peter stepped
quickly out on the graveled drive and paused an instant
beside the car window. “Is that what you make the run-
ning time, Wiggar?”
“An hour and nine minutes from the New York end
of the Fifty-ninth Street bridge, sir. I took the time and
the mileage from there, in case you might need it. It's just
thirty-seven and a half miles the way we came.”
“And that's the shortest route. Thank you, Wiggar.”
Peter turned to find Babcock's eyes fixed upon him.
“What's that for, Clancy?” he asked.
"Routine merely.” Peter glanced up at the rather for-
bidding self-contained block of building, then around
at the green lawn and the formal shrubbery surrounding
and ornamenting house and drive. Already several cars
were parked there. A policeman in uniform was authori-
tatively denying admittance to a local representative of
the press when the newcomers drew near.
"Pardon. Lieutenant Ogilvy here?” Peter hastily inter-
rupted the reporter's efforts at cajolery. “This gentleman
is Mr. Whittlesey's partner and my name is Clancy. Cap-
tain of Detectives Kerrigan said he would phone"
"Say no more, sir.” The burly figure moved aside and
motioned them to enter. “Lieutenant Ogilvy told me to
A7


48
A MAN’S ENEMIES
hustle you right through. Yes, sir. He's awaitin' you
within."
The door opened and closed with an ominous clang.
Peter found himself in a wide entrance hall with large
formal rooms opening on either side. At the back a stair-
way climbed heavily to a broad landing where it seemed
to rest a minute in the half light of a colored glass window
before it turned and went on up to the next floor.
“Wait a second, Clancy, and I'll find somebody."
Babcock, with an accustomed air, laid his hat, gloves
and stick on the console beside the door. He had turned
toward the rear of the hall when, without a sound, a
service door under the landing opened and a man stood
on the threshold.
"Oh, Samuel.” Babcock spoke in a low voice and
moved a step nearer. “Where are they? I brought a gen-
tleman out from town—".
"Quite so, sir. We were told.” The man glided forward
with an odd effect of being on casters, so little movement
was there in the upper body. “The police gentlemen are
upstairs. Would you care to go there at once?” He ad-
dressed a spot half way between the two visitors.
"I'll come up in a minute, if you want me, Clancy."
Babcock turned quickly back to the servant. "Where's
Mr. Terrell, Samuel?”
"Gone to the station to meet Miss Judith. They ought
to be here shortly.”
“Then I'll wait. You can show Mr. Clancy upstairs.”
As they went, Peter paused on the landing. “Will you
be good enough, Samuel, to see that my chauffeur is ad-
mitted? Tell the officer at the door that I may need his
u ca


A MAN'S ENEMIES
49
assistance. The name is Wiggar.”
“Thank you, sir."
Peter caught a glimpse of a stiff white skirt in the hall
below as he started up the remainder of the flight, but
could see no more of the figure and could not at the time
guess whether it was the nurse or one of the women
servants. A second later Samuel paused before a door and
all Peter's thoughts swung in that direction.
At the butler's knock a tall young man in the smart
gray uniform of the New York State Constabulary
stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him.
“Mr. Clancy?” he asked eagerly. “Gee, I'm glad you
got here so soon. Captain Kerrigan asked me to hold
everything as far as I could until you came. Of course,
sir, you being unofficial, I couldn't do so much, but
Thompson, our local Justice of the Peace, is a reasonable,
easy-going sort. After telling Vance, from the Sheriff's
office, not to muss things up before the D. A.'s man got
here, he's just gone back to his own breakfast. There's no
one in there now but Vance and the doctor and I don't
think anything's been disturbed much. Dr. Saunders
came only a little while ago."
“In this county the Justice of the Peace takes over the
duties of coroner and calls in a regular physician in sus-
picious cases, I understand.” Peter spoke rapidly.
“And in this case," the trooper agreed darkly, "there's
more than a suspicion of foul play, I'll tell the world.
I heard Thompson say to the doctor that there'd have
to be an inquest and he'd try to hold it as soon as he
could. The D. A. has been notified and he's sending over
his assistant, a fellow named Young, that thinks himself


50
A MAN’S ENEMIES
pretty hot as a detective. Maybe he is. I don't know. You
can judge for yourself, sir. He'll be here shortly.”
Peter nodded. “They're getting experts out right away
to make records of fingerprints and so forth, I hope."
“Yes, sir. Ought to be here on this next train, unless
they drive out. I've posted men about the grounds so
nothing'll be disturbed until they're ready. We're keeping
outsiders definitely out, and no one's been allowed off the
place except Mr. Faulkner Terrell. He's gone to the sta-
tion to meet Miss Judith.”
"You let him go?"
“Oh, yes, sir," the trooper replied confidently. "Ter-
rell's a fine chap. He couldn't have anything to do with
this trouble. And it would be a heap easier for Miss
Judith if she was to be met. Poor girl.”
“Quite right,” said Peter hastily. The short interchange
had taken only a minute but his curiosity was already on
the other side of that closed door.
"You have to go a bit easy with the fellow from the
Sheriff's office," whispered Ogilvy, his hand on the door
knob. “The doctor's OK. Knows his onions, too. Ready?"
Peter nodded eagerly. The door swung open on well
oiled hinges. The trooper stepped aside. Peter took in the
room before him with a swift comprehensive glance. It
was a large bed-sitting room, heavily and handsomely
furnished. Between two windows in the wall opposite the
door stood a chiffonier, pulled out at an acute angle.
Behind it, just below the top level of the mirror frame,
could be seen the edge of a small steel door. Significant
enough, but it held his gaze for only the briefest instant.
Like a flash it rushed back to a nearer point and a tableau


A MAN’S ENEMIES
51
of more vital and tragic import.
A few feet distant, upon Peter's left, stood a bed. Con-
trary to custom, the foot was against the wall, and the
head toward the center of the room. A tall darkly painted
Japanese screen on the farther side and around the head
protected it from drafts. A commodious bed-head table,
with lamp, books, telephone and a carafe, stood com-
fortably beside it.
At the sound of Ogilvy's voice, two men who had been
leaning above the bed moved sharply—and Peter saw
what lay there.
A long thin body, still and rigid. The bedclothes were
tossed about where they lay under two pale hands bound
at the wrists. The face on the pillow was distorted and
scarcely less white than the handkerchief that was tied
across the mouth. Around the neck, indented in the flesh,
was a deep thin purple mark.
Vance, from the Sheriff's office, acknowledged Ogilvy's
introduction of the New York detective with a brief nod.
The physician glanced up curiously and remarked: “I
guess you're just in the nick of time to get a picture of
the whole works, Mr. Clancy. Great advantage to see
everything as is. I got here not five minutes ago and this
is the entire set-up—the way it was found, they tell me.
Looks pretty bad, doesn't it?”
His words were light enough but his voice was low and
serious. He took in Peter from head to foot with a sharp
appraising eye and seemed satisfied with what he saw. He
turned back to the bed. Peter came close.
"Death from strangulation, Doctor?” he asked quietly.
“No question about that. Every symptom,” the physi-


52
A MAN'S ENEMIES
cian answered in the same low tone. "Mark of the cord,
see. And the knot right over the jugular vein. Could
hardly have done it better myself.”
“Neat job,” agreed Peter. “Mind if I get a closer look ?”
“Help yourself.” Dr. Saunders moved aside and
watched the metropolitan detective as he bent to his task.
“Guess you've had a lot more experience than any of us
in this sort of thing, Mr. Clancy,” he added. “Automobile
smash-ups and an occasional suicide's about all we get
in this quiet part of the world. Thank heaven. This—this
sort of thing is—hideous—to me."
“And to me-still,” muttered Peter. "Look here, Doc-
tor Saunders. Did you notice this?”.
“What? I don't see anything but the mark of the knot."
"Take this glass and look in front of the knot and
above it—perhaps three-quarters of an inch."
“I see. I see what you mean, Clancy.”
"Here, let me look, too." The acting Sheriff thrust out
a plump hand and captured the magnifying glass. “What
are you talking about, Doctor? I don't see nothing."
“There's a tiny wound if you look close,” Saunders ex-
plained patiently. "Looks like a jab with some small sharp
instrument. Can't be deep. I confess I wouldn't have seen
it if you hadn't pointed it out. What do you make of it,
Clancy?”
"Nothing—yet,” said Peter. "What do you make of
the knot, Doctor?"
"Must have been fairly intricate. Some kind of slip-
knot I suppose. Might be a running bowline, but there's
hardly enough pattern to be sure. What do you think?"
"It looks—I don't want to be theatrical,” Peter


A MAN'S ENEMIES
53
shrugged, "but it looks to me as if it might have been-
a hangman's knot.”
Dr. Saunders' teeth came together with a sharp click.
His bronzed face was grim. “I know more about seaman's
knots, thank heaven," he said. “You may be right, Clancy.
If it is, I hope the person who tied it gets his. In the neck.”
"Same here.” Peter's eyebrows met above his keen
steel-hard eyes. “Suppose you take a look, Lieutenant
Ogilvy.” Rescuing his lens from Vance's pudgy hand, he
passed it over to the trooper.
"I see what you mean," said Ogilvy almost at once.
“A little jagged wound—not deep enough to bleed. How
can it be important?” He looked up sharply.
Peter made no answer. He was still bending above the
dead man, his right hand resting lightly on the top fold
of the coverlid. Now, by imperceptible degrees he slid it
along under the pillow as he bent still lower. Apparently
to get a new angle on the sharp white profile, Peter
dropped on one knee ... and as he did so his groping
fingers touched something under the pillow. Paper. Stiffly
folded. Or an envelope.
Too many eyes upon him. He felt them like sharp
points boring into his back. No time this for producing
what he was sure lay under that narrow grim head with
its rough silver hair. Seeming satisfied with his observa-
tions in this direction, Peter transferred his attention to
the other aspects of the tragic figure, studying every detail
with swift but concentrated care. At length he rose and
upon the thin, white, bound hands he laid his own, with
an accustomed touch that yet had in it nothing of callous-
ness.


54
A MAN’S ENEMIES
"How long ago did he die, Doctor Saunders?” Peter's
glance was focused steadily on the physician's handsome
face.
"It's impossible to determine very accurately without
an autopsy, of course," Saunders replied. “However, I
think it's safe enough to say that it must have been some
time between ten o'clock and eleven, or perhaps between
ten-thirty and eleven-thirty."
"That's what I would have guessed.” Peter nodded,
holding the doctor's gaze. “You'll perform an autopsy?”
"If circumstances seem to warrant it, no doubt Justice
Thompson will so order. I see you think it advisable, Mr.
Clancy. May I ask why?”.
"I believe the condition of the stomach content often
enables one to narrow down the margin of time. That's so,
Doctor, isn't it? Yes. Well, it sometimes turns out that an
hour-one way or the other—might just make all the
difference ... in an alibi. . . . You understand?".
“This case isn't going to have any fine points like that,
Doctor,” said Vance, thrusting forward his round red face.
"You ain't had the chance to look around any, but even
Ogilvy here could see that the robber clumb in the win-
dow, and got out with his loot the same way.”
"The vines are torn.” The trooper spoke directly to
Clancy. "And there's no doubt the safe has been looted.
Can't tell whether there was any money, but there are
several empty leather cases must have had jewelry in
them. Miss Judith will probably be able to give a descrip-
tion of the pieces, and we can start tracing them. So far
as I can see that would be our best bet.”
"Finding them would be a great help,” Peter agreed


A MAN'S ENEMIES
55
thoughtfully. "I understand from Mr. Babcock that there
should have been quite a sum of money in the safe. That's
gone of course."
"Money?” exclaimed Vance. “Well, we didn't look, not
to say thorough.” He started across the room as fast as
his short legs would carry him.
“Better not touch anything, Vance,” warned the
trooper, striding after.
The doctor, having his own share of unslaked curiosity,
followed suit. An instant, and Peter was practically alone
with the dead man. The tall, dark screen cut off the view
of the safe on the far wall and of the three men who were
standing close in front of it when Peter joined them an
imperceptible second later.
"Nothing in there that looks like money," said Vance
excitedly. “Guess the scoundrel got the whole works.
Look, Doc. This musta been a swell big piece of jewelry.
Gosh, don't they put 'em up in nifty cases ?”
"Keep your hands off, Vance, for heaven's sake," ad-
monished the trooper. “There may be fingerprints—”
“Not on plush,” objected the Sheriff's assistant with
scorn. “Think I don't know nothing? You're no more
particular than what I am. And I'm smart enough to
make what you call de-ductions, too. See? It wasn't no
cripple that pulled this off. Take it from me. Nor no fat
man neither. Step out on the balcony there and you'll see
what I mean. Come along, Clancy, if you feel like it,” he
finished condescendingly.
"Awfully good of you.” The voice sounded humbly
grateful.


56
A MAN'S ENEMIES
The window designated was a single one in the north
wall. Being nearest to it, Peter was the first to gain the
balcony. In passing through the French window he noticed
that the heavy silk curtain was pulled completely across
one leaf, which was secured top and bottom. The other
side, however, swung free. The long silvered hook that
could be used to keep it partly open was dangling.
"If you'll look over the rail, Doc, you can see plain
where he clumb up." Vance spoke excitedly from just
behind Peter's shoulder. "I tell Ogilvy what we gotta do
is to look for a smart second-story guy, a good climber
and light on his feet.”
"Light on his feet. Right you are, Mr. Vance,” agreed
Peter with a great show of respect. “You saw where he
did 'light on his feet, of course.”
"I— What d'you mean, Clancy?”
“Careful! Take care of the railing," Peter cautioned
hurriedly as Vance crowded forward. “This highly var-
nished wood may have registered just the evidence we
need most. He must have caught hold of the top some-
where along here. See where the ivy's ripped off just below
... and the thick branches? Now follow down with your
eye a little to the left. This is the north side of the house
and the grass down there is always in the shade-and
tender. Probably feels like thick turf under foot. But see.
The soil shows through. A patch nearly the size of a man's
foot. And just a step farther along—another. He went in
that direction ... but where? Twelve hours' start ...
and the world before him. Woods all around. Roads.
Automobiles, buses, trains. Who knows where he may be


A MAN'S ENEMIES
57
now? But we'd better follow as far as we can, while the
trail is fresh. What d'you say, Ogilvy?”
"I'm with you, Clancy,” cried the trooper eagerly. "But
I'll let you lead the way!"


VIL
“THE side door. That's the nearest way to the garden.”
“You know the layout of this place already?” Peter
kept pace with the trooper's rapid strides.
"Not intimate. Been here before several times,” Ogilvy
answered hastily.
At the sound of their footsteps on the parquetry of the
side hall Peter thought someone came out of one of the
front rooms, but he was too much occupied to give the
matter more than a passing thought. As they dashed out
into the open, the sound of a motor coming up the drive
could plainly be heard though the drive itself was hidden
by the shrubbery and the bulk of one of the big square
towers.
Glancing upward toward the back of the house, Peter
saw the round red face of the Sheriff's man, like a ripe
fruit hanging above the edge of the balcony, watching his
every movement as with light tread he approached the
two scuffed-off places in the fine short grass.
“Footprints all right,” Peter called up to the watcher.
Then to Ogilvy in a lower tone: "He dropped right here.
See? Then he started running. This print isn't a full foot-
mark, just the toe of a shoe that dug in.”
He lifted himself and glanced about. A broad space of
turf separated the house from a formal garden in which


A MAN'S ENEMIES
59
bloomed a few late roses and many white chrysanthe-
mums. Their pallid beauty struck his senses coldly. They
might have been planted purposely for the funeral they
were destined to adorn.
The thought flashed through Peter's mind even as he
touched the trooper's arm. “Look,” he exclaimed breath-
lessly. “There's the way he went. Blundered into the
corner of that bed of soft earth. See the place I mean?”
Together they dashed down the narrow gravel path,
pausing only an instant to examine the unmistakable mark
of the toe of a man's shoe. There was one more print
beyond.
"A long stride he had,” observed the trooper, pointing
from one to the other. “Must be a tall man, wouldn't you
think?"
"That was a jump,” said Peter, frowning, “not an ordi-
nary stride. He may not be a very big man. From the
depth of the prints I should say he couldn't be heavy.
And he must be agile to have climbed up the vines. ...
What gets me, Ogilvy, is why he came this way. A smart
second-story man usually looks the ground over well
beforehand and has his getaway perfectly routed. ...
But he headed away from the nearest exit. Directly away.
Why? That's something to think of.... This situation
doesn't click somehow. ... Let's look a little farther in
this direction. Come on.”
But though they rapidly searched the flower beds they
found nothing more except a few broken branches in a
hedge of dahlias the blossoms of which hung sear and
blighted after the one early frost of the season.
"He may or may not have broken through here," Peter


60
A MAN'S ENEMIES
concluded when they had examined the hedge from the
farther side. “If he did, he'd leave no track across this
thick turf ... and he'd still be heading away from the
entrance. ... Though he may have circled back from
here. Or gone on over into the woods. ... What's in
that direction, Ogilvy?”.
"If he knew the way, he could get into Graytowers
Road down there, but he'd have a stiff fence to climb.
Once on the road he could go either way-back toward
Huntington or on to the Amityville road.”
“The Amityville road runs clear across the Island from
the north to the south,” Peter observed, "and Huntington
Boulevard, with its branches, goes the whole length from
west to east. With eleven or twelve hours' start what
chance is there of trailing him now?”.
“Not much on our feet like this," replied Ogilvy un-
easily. "Hadn't we better get back to the house, Mr.
Clancy? The county detective talent will show up soon
if they haven't come already, and I'm afraid they might
mess things up for you. None of us out here have had
such a helluf a lot of experience."
“No?" said Peter. “That's what I was afraid of. Wait
a second, Ogilvy. Step behind these cedars. That's right.
We can't be seen here."
The trooper hastily complied though his face showed
his surprise.
"I've a confession to make," Peter said quickly. "Tem-
porarily I've taken possession of a bit of evidence. I
practically knew where to look for it and I believe it's a
vital link in a chain that we may be able to forge if we
get started right. The information was given in strict


A MAN’S ENEMIES
бI
confidence, but, in view of the shocking crime that's been
committed, sooner oz later the police will have to know
as much as we do. But I put it to you, Ogilvy”—he spoke
with great earnestness—"there can be no possible harm
in holding this up for maybe an hour-or even less."
The trooper's candid young face clouded. “I don't
know what you're talking about, Mr. Clancy, but—".
"I wouldn't ask you to be a party to anything that
wasn't on the up and up,” Peter interrupted swiftly. His
hand was thrust into an inner breast pocket. Now he drew
it out. “This envelope," he went on with hurried serious-
ness, "I found just now under the pillow of the murdered
man. Though I haven't had a second to look at it, I
believe it contains a threat to kill him. You can see at
once how terribly important it may be. Since it's evident
that it came through the post, the envelope has necessarily
been handled by a number of people, but the contents—"
“Gee whiz, Clancy! This is something!” exclaimed
Ogilvy, craning eagerly forward as Peter bowed open the
slit edge of the envelope.
“The contents,” Peter repeated softly, "may have been
touched only by—” He produced a tiny pair of pincers
and, deftly clamping one edge of the single enclosed sheet,
drew it out and laid it on the clean handkerchief that had
appeared in the palm of his left hand.
“The fellow that sent it!” breathed Ogilvy. "You think
his fingerprints may show up?"
“This is a very fine paper.” Peter was studying his
find intently. “Ought to show handling to the queen's
taste.”
“What's it say?" urged the trooper. "I can't read it


62
A MAN'S ENEMIES
good upside down and all those different sizes of type. Cut
out of a newspaper, wouldn't you think?”.
"Out of a paper, maybe, but it isn't news stock.” Peter
turned to give Ogilvy a better view. Half aloud they both
read the irregularly pasted words.
“5000 dollars in hundreds. Have it ready night of
October 28. Failure means Sudden Death. You know
me."
The signature was like this.
"Five thousand dollars," muttered Ogilvy, glancing up
into the intent face of the detective. “That's the money
you spoke of that ought to have been in the safe?”
Peter nodded absently.
“Well, then, by Jinks,” cried the trooper, "we've got
the whole set-up. Motive and everything."
"Everything except the identity of the murderer.” Peter
sounded slightly ironical. “And we may even get that,
too,” he added more cheerfully. "If he has a record and
this paper can be made to show up his fingerprints, we'll
be playing in the best of luck. That's why I'm taking
such pains not to have it bungled, you see, Ogilvy. If an
inexpert person got hold of this before we were able to
get a record—”
"It would be just too bad,” the trooper put in promptly.


A MAN'S ENEMIES
63
“What do you want to do, sir?”
“With your permission," said Peter, "I'd like to keep
this until the fingerprint expert gets here, and I'd like to
be present when he examines it. In the meantime I pro-
pose we keep the knowledge of its existence to ourselves
and that we work together. What do you say?".
Ogilvy watched while the red-headed detective care-
fully returned the paper to its envelope without once
touching it with his fingers. "I'd a deuce of a lot rather
have you take care of it,” he said, releasing a held breath.
“And I'll be proud to work with you, sir. I know you
won't let me in for anything that would go against my
rightful duty. Captain Kerrigan would never have said
what he did if you weren't straight goods."
A wide grin spread over Peter's plain face making it
for the minute gay and youthful. He had replaced the
sinister document in his breast pocket and now held out
his hand. “It's a bargain,” he said, looking straight into
the honest eyes of the trooper. "So let's get back on the
job. We can't afford to miss any tricks."
"Do you think this is going to be a pretty straight-
away case, Mr. Clancy?" asked the trooper as they went,
double quick, toward the house.
“Oh, cut out the ‘Mister,"" laughed Peter. "Takes too
much time. About the case, it's impossible to say so early.
In some ways it looks pretty professional, and criminals
with earmarked methods are well known to the police.
Usually they can lay hands on an experienced old offender
on short notice, but sometimes—”.
“Look, sir, look! There's a new man on the balcony,"
Ogilvy interrupted anxiously. “Right over there— Hey!"


64
A MAN'S ENEMIES
he called out. “Watch that railing. Don't touch it!"
“Says who?" A short man with a very bald head peered
down into the garden. Catching sight of Peter he let out
a groan.
“Hello, Weintraub. Glad to see you aboard,” Peter
called out as they came closer. “It'll be a treat to Lieu-
tenant Ogilvy to see an expert like you at work. We'll be
coming right up. I say, old man," he was almost under
the balcony now, “as a favor to an old friend, try the
varnish on the railing along there where you're standing
first thing, will you? Somebody got out that way in a
hurry in the dark last night.”
“Even the local sleuth knew that,” the fingerprint man
retorted scornfully. "What d'you think I was here for?
A breath of sweet country air or the pretty view? I'm no
elegant artistic detective like you, Clancy. Thank God.”
"You are an artist, Weintraub. None better,” countered
Peter. “We'll be with you in two shakes."
"Don't hurry on my account,” growled the specialist,
but added, in something above a hissing whisper: “There's
a powwow of county officials in the big hall downstairs.
You'll save time if you sneak up by a back way.”
"Didn't I say he was a prince, Ogilvy?" Peter cast an
amused glance upward while he caught the trooper by
the arm. “Do you know the back stairs?” he asked
hurriedly. "Well, no matter. The kitchen must be in the
wing back there and there's sure to be a service stairway.
Come on.”
Turning the corner of the house, they passed under the
two east windows of Whittlesey's bedroom. They were
closed and the curtains drawn, but automatically Peter


A MAN'S ENEMIES
65
eyed the ground beneath, though he did not pause. Ever-
green shrubs were planted near the wall. Their roots had
been banked already with fallen leaves.
Silently the two men went on around the two-story
service wing. It stood in the center of the rear elevation.
The entrance to it was on the south side where was a nice
screened porch opening on an expanse of graveled drive-
way that gave ample turning space for the garage beyond.
Through the open kitchen door voices could be heard
and, touching the trooper's arm, Peter paused to listen.
Two women's voices, slightly raised, but the words in-
distinguishable. Striving to catch the import of what
seemed to be a quarrel, Peter's roving eye scouted along
the farther section of the main house, subconsciously
registering the three windows above and the three on the
ground floor. They traveled on up to the cornice and then
dropped to the ground.
Suddenly he stiffened like a pointer on a bird. Startled,
Ogilvy followed the direction of that sharp penetrating
glance. Peter took a quick breath and moved swiftly for-
ward, stepping quietly on the close-clipped turf that
bordered a flower bed. It extended the whole length of
that part of the building and, lying warm and sheltered
in the sun, still showed a lot of cheerful bloom.
But it was not the bright flowers that attracted Peter.
Rather it was the well-raked earth between the plants,
where, in front of one of the windows, could be seen a
distinct line of footprints. A man's evidently. Fairly large,
with comparatively narrow toes and a sole smartly cut in
under the instep. Three prints pointed away from the
house wall. They could be plainly distinguished among


66
A MAN'S ENEMIES
several others that overlapped.
Peter was about to kneel down for a closer inspection
when a sound on the gravel behind him caused him to
turn sharply.
"I say! You there! What are you doing?”.
A tall man had that instant stepped out of the garage
and was coming hastily toward them with long athletic
strides.
“Look here, you know— Oh, it's you, Ogilvy,” he
broke off. “What are you"
He had come near enough to see the footprints in the
rich dark earth and the words died on his lips.
After a second he lifted his eyes and met those of the
tall red-headed man fixed upon him.
It was the first time that Peter Clancy and Faulkner
Terrell saw each other face to face.


68
A MAN'S ENEMIES
"Is there!” Peter turned on Terrell the full force of
a well-nigh irresistible smile. "There's really hardly any-
thing I don't want to know. Just at present, however, the
thing Lieutenant Ogilvy craves is a free passage up the
back stairs for himself and friend."
“Oh, certainly.”
Peter thought there was relief in the young man's voice.
Terrell leading the way, they passed through a large
bright kitchen where a stout woman in a print dress and
enveloping white apron was busy at the stove. A very
pretty girl in a housemaid's lilac uniform was drying
some glasses at the sink under the window. Both glanced
up curiously as the men went through, but neither spoke.
The girl showed that the tragedy had affected her nerves,
but save for that one glance the cook presented an imper-
turbable back.
A low murmur of voices came to them from the door of
the servants' sitting room just beyond. Peter, recognizing
one of them, stepped aside far enough to glance in. There
was Wiggar already comfortably ensconced, gravely con-
versing with Samuel across a neatly covered table. Meet-
ing his master's commendatory eye, Wiggar half lowered
his lids. Otherwise his face was a model of wooden vacu-
ity. Satisfied and somehow subtly cheered, Peter went
quickly on.
“These are the servants' rooms,” Terrell remarked as
they came to the top of the narrow stairs, “in case you
have suspicions of old Maria or Lottie Hubbard.”
A slight deprecatory grin was Peter's only answer. Pass-
ing through a heavily padded service door he found
himself in a short ell of the upstairs hall. From the main


A MAN'S ENEMIES
69
hall below voices ascended with peculiar clearness. Bab-
cock was speaking.
Terrell stopped suddenly and, leaning forward, made
no secret of the fact that he was listening with every sense
alert. Peter and Ogilvy, close upon his heels, perforce
paused also.
Owing to some unusual acoustic properties of the halls
and ceilings, the words came quite clearly. Peter guessed
that Babcock was talking to the county authorities in
charge of the case and was greatly relieved thus to dis-
cover that the partner of the murdered man had sensibly
decided to put the police in possession of the main facts
in regard to the threat against Whittlesey's life and the
demand for money. It made Peter's position much easier
in a way, but also made imperative the early production
of the extortion note that lay now in his own pocket. Since
Babcock had seen Whittlesey put it under the pillow, the
police would at once look for it there. To avoid unneces-
sary explanations, Peter wished to get it into Weintraub's
hands immediately. He therefore laid his hand on Ter-
rell's shoulder in order to get past him in the mouth of
the narrow ball.
To Peter's surprise the man stood as if rooted to the
spot, apparently unconscious of an alien presence. His
mouth was slightly open and he stared out and down
toward the source of the gravely spoken information, as
if it was to him unexpected if not unnerving news.
There was no time to analyze this reaction. Peter put
it away among the crowd of accumulating facts and im-
pressions and, pushing quietly past Terrell, he stepped
into the main upper hall. Here, turning the corner to his


A MAN'S ENEMIES
71
the best kind of paper, this would be about it.” He leaned
closer. “ 'Sudden Death,' huh? And five thousand bucks.
Guess he made good on both counts. Turn it over, Clancy.
The mucilage's likely to have smeared things. Let's try
the back first."
With hardly contained excitement, Ogilvy watched
while Weintraub blew a mist of black powder over the
India tint paper and then proceeded to remove the loose
particles with exquisite care. There seemed to be several
inconclusive smears. Working delicately with a fine brush,
all at once Weintraub gave a little whimper of delight.
“What'd I tell you, Clancy?” he murmured. “Ain't that
sweet? See there? That's in the clear. Part of a thumb,
every line plain as print. And here's a whole one-only "
He paused uncertainly.
"Another thumb print,” said Peter under his breath.
“And a different pattern. Well, of course. That's to be
expected. ... But I say, Weintraub, the point is, do
either of them match the one on the balcony?”
"You can go look, if you like, Clancy.” The energetic
little man was already focusing his camera. “But don't
you move this here paper until - Oh, lord, here they
come. Hold it!”
Peter pinned down the corners of the note and inter-
posed his body to keep off the draft from the open window
as the hall door was thrown back. For a minute the screen
hid them. A strange voice said: “Under which pillow,
Mr. Babcock?” The camera clicked as the light flashed
and Peter stepped forward to confront a stocky square-
jawed man in plain clothes but with police detective writ-
ten large to the practiced eye. Babcock, the doctor and


72
A MAN'S ENEMIES
a regular police photographer followed close behind.
. “Oh, there you are, Clancy.” Babcock cast a shudder-
ing glance at the bed and shook his head with poignant
regret. "If I'd only guessed—if I'd only realized how
imminent it all was,” he groaned. “And now it's too late.
I've just told Mr. Young of Captain Kerrigan's kindness
last night and of his being rather insistent on my bringing
you out here this morning, Mr. Clancy, to-er-supple-
ment the efforts of the local police.”
Peter bowed gravely. The detective from the District
Attorney's office nodded a curt tentative acquiescence and
went quickly to the bed. “I suppose there's no objection
to our moving the body now, Doctor Saunders?” he asked
in a perfunctory tone.
Interpreting a quick gesture of the red-headed detec-
tive, Ogilvy put in: "Better get photographs first, hadn't
we, Mr. Young?”
“Well, yes. But I'd like to get hold of that extortion
note Mr. Babcock says was here last night.”
“The fingerprint expert is already at work on it, sir,"
said Peter in a convincing tone of respect. "Lieutenant
Ogilvy was able to locate it without making any change
in the arrangement of the bedclothes or anything.”
“Oh," said Young shortly. “Good enough. Where is it?”
“Over there on the desk, sir.” Peter's voice sounded
merely helpful.
"All right. Get busy, Brown, and take your pictures.
Now let's have a look at this here letter."
Satisfied that the necessary fingerprint record was al-
ready safe in Weintraub's camera, Peter lingered beside
the enigmatic still figure upon the bed. If those lips, hid-


A MAN'S ENEMIES
73
den behind the tightly tied handkerchief, could only speak,
what strange disclosure would they make? What secret
unfold? Why had the man been so ready to produce the
money required-and, in spite of all, been so foully
murdered?
The gag used was the victim's own handkerchief. Peter
had seen enough of the initials, N. W., when he made that
earlier examination, to be sure of that much. The dark
crimson silk cord that bound the hands almost certainly
had been taken from the brocade dressing gown that lay
across a nearby chair. Nothing of the criminal's identity
was to be learned from them.
Had he touched anything on the bed-head table? Wein-
traub would soon ascertain that. The black surface of
the telephone, the smooth glass of the carafe would retain
clear impressions if any existed, for the thief and mur-
derer appeared not to have taken the precaution of wear-
ing gloves.
Searching, considering, Peter's penetrating glance, flash-
ing swiftly about, caught the light on the bows of a pair
of reading glasses that had fallen to the floor and were
almost hidden by the hanging bedclothes. Not having
seen them there before, he dropped on his knees to look
closer. Some rays from the balcony window filtered
through under the carved base of the screen and faintly
lighted the floor beneath the bed.
Instantly Peter was on his feet. The group bending
over the desk looked up, startled by the impetuosity of
his movements. Babcock, who had been staring with
troubled eyes into the looted safe, turned on his approach
and gazed blankly while Clancy dashed around the screen


74
A MAN'S ENEMIES
to the other side of the bed and, dropping again on his
knees, beckoned the police officers to him.
“What's the big idea?" asked Young gruffly.
“A pistol! We didn't see that before,” exclaimed Ogilvy.
“What's it doing here?” asked Peter tensely. "Nearly
two feet under the bed.”
"Search me.” Young shrugged his heavy shoulders.
"Let's have a look."
With carefully covered fingers and very gingerly, Peter
recovered the weapon and stood up. “An automatic. And
it hasn't been fired,” he pronounced briefly, "Now what
do you make of that?”
“Two feet under the bed,” said Babcock wonderingly
in a low voice. “Will you let me take a look, Clancy? It
seems— I think— Yes, I'm practically sure—it's his-
Nolan's—pistol. The one he usually kept in that little
table over there. But why,” he muttered half aloud, "why
should it have been that far under the bed?”


76
A MAN'S ENEMIES
on the quiet pleasant interloper.
“When you get chucked head first into a man's affairs
like this,” Peter responded confidentially, “don't you care
to figure what he was like?”
"Well, this one was no great shakes apparently,” said
Young, scratching the wire-like hair over his ear, "to fall
for a blackmailing note and then let himself get tied up
and bumped off without putting up a fight.”
"How do you know he didn't?” Peter seemed to be
asking for information.
“Room wasn't mussed up. His pistol hadn't been fired."
“And yet he didn't look or seem like a man who
took things lying down,” said Peter half to himself. “Ap-
parently he hadn't many personal friends. . . . He was
of an impatient, nervous temperament. . . . Had diffi-
culty in sleeping. . . . Had been ill, but was up and
around a good part of the day. ..."
“Who told you all that?" Young asked doubtingly.
"It says itself.” Peter glanced about. "A chair fixed up
like that one in the far corner, with pillow, stool and
coverlid, means a convalescent, doesn't it? All the books
on the shelf of the bed-head table would suggest that he
was wakeful at night, and the big bottle of Barbital
Sodium in the bathroom medicine closet would confirm
the idea. As to the rest, you may have seen there are only
three envelopes in the waste basket-all marked 'Per-
sonal—but only one written by hand, and that from his
daughter-a note he just tore in two and threw away.
A sick man hears from his friends—if he has many good
ones. . . . Then look at the envelopes, all ripped to
pieces. An orderly serene person usually tears off one end,


78
A MAN'S ENEMIES
“Thank you, sir." With a sangfroid which Wiggar
would have commended, the butler advanced to the table.
Peter retreated quietly, though his mind chafed against
any minutes of enforced waiting. There were so many
questions he wanted to ask, so many points that stirred
his imagination. But to act effectively he felt he must have
an assured position in the house, and he wished if possible
to get the backing of its young mistress. It had been
necessary for Ogilvy to go off to attend to some regular
duties before an introduction could be effected, therefore
Peter proposed to find Babcock at once and have his own
status confirmed. He had already become far too much
interested in what the police evidently thought a simple
case to run any risk of having to abandon it before a
satisfactory solution was reached.
In contrast to the heavy voices in the dining room, the
hall seemed ominously quiet. The drawing room doors
were open. Peter, glancing within, thought it was the
starkest, loneliest room he had ever seen. The blinds had
been drawn down nearly to the sill at all the windows.
The dull gray light that filtered through was sufficient,
however, to show the stiff bulky furniture, the deep
shadow-box frames of eclipsed pictures and the solemn
folds of heavy drapery.
There was no sound or movement. Peter thought the
room was empty and was about to turn away when a long
mirror at the other end caught his eye and he stopped
involuntarily.
Reflected in the polished surface, like something
drowned and deserted, was a face so white it seemed to
be in a special light of its own. From deep hollows color-


A MAN'S ENEMIES
79
less eyes were fixed upon the intruder. The woman's black
figure was almost lost in the shadows of the high winged
chair the back of which was toward the door.
For a full minute the two regarded each other in utter
silence. There was something daunting in the awful fixity
of those scarcely seen pale eyes. With an effort Peter
shook off the impression and was about to speak when
from behind a closed door on the other side of the hall
he heard the sound of raised voices.
Instantly the figure in the chair stiffened and lifted
one thin hand as if to hold his attention.
"What is it?” said Peter, just above his breath.
“Who—"
The white head shook violently, the thumb was jerked
backward in a sharp gesture of command. Pale lips
formed words that he seemed to sense rather than hear:
“Go! In there! Find out—"
Peter turned uncertainly. The room over there was a
library. One of the voices he heard was that of the secre-
tary. Then a woman's impassioned tone. The third voice
was Babcock's. Peter hesitated no longer. The imperative
counsel from the strange person in the drawing room
fitted well with his own plans. Crossing to the opposite
door he knocked with firm though quiet insistence.
Instantly the voices ceased. Then the secretary called
out, “Who's there?”.
Peter made it an entrance cue and opened the door.
"Pardon,” he said. "It's rather important, I'm afraid.
May I come in?”
The three occupants of the room were standing beside
a flat-topped desk on which lay an open newspaper. Ter-


80
A MAN'S ENEMIES
rell's face was flushed and angry. Babcock's was sincere
and determined. The girl who stood between them glanced
up as Peter entered, turning upon him the full force of
her brilliant, restless eyes.
The air seemed pulsating with startled silence which
lasted only an instant.
“Yes. Do come in, Clancy," said Babcock hurriedly,
effecting the necessary presentation. "Perhaps you can
help us out of a difficulty here,” he went on at once. “At
least by a negative statement that might have some weight.
I'm sure you will remember the frankness of my response
to your inquiries about my connection with the family
here.” It was half question. Peter bowed. Babcock con-
tinued earnestly: "If I had considered that there was a
marriage engagement between myself and Miss Whit-
tlesey, do you think I would have been likely to mention
it at that point-or not? Please feel free, Clancy, to say
exactly what you think."
"I can see no possible reason to doubt," Peter replied
gravely, “that you would have informed us of the engage-
ment if that had been your understanding of the matter.”
“Then what would your guess be as to who did put this
notice in the paper?” Terrell caught up the sheets in a
crushing grip and flung them across the desk.
"I tell you again—I swear to you, Judith,” Babcock
responded with great sincerity, "that I knew nothing
about it.”
“May I see?” Peter murmured. The others were too
intent to pay much heed as he picked up the two flimsy
sheets of the Graylock Weekly Gazette and read:


A MAN’S ENEMIES
CES
Mr. Nolan Whittlesey of Graytowers announces
the engagement of his daughter Miss Judith Margaret
Whittlesey to Joseph Babcock of New York City.
The date of publication was the previous day, October
twenty-eighth. Peter bit his lip and, looking up, caught
the young passionate dark eyes of Judith Whittlesey fixed
upon him.
“This is entirely false?” he asked in a voice so full of
reserved authority that she answered almost instinctively:
“Yes. It's as far as possible from the truth.”
“But not from my desire,” said Babcock with a dignity
that became him well. “Can you suppose, Judith, that I
would have been such an idiot as to jeopardize the slim
chances I have by making a break like that?”
"The papers are pretty careful about this sort of thing,"
said Peter in a low voice. “The editor must have believed
he had authority for the announcement. . . . Who, be-
sides you three, could have any special interest in the
matter—for or against?”
"My—my father," Judith answered hesitatingly,
“would have been glad enough if—"
"—the statement had been true," Peter finished the
half-spoken sentence. “Then-has it occurred to you that
perhaps the first part may be? 'Mr. Nolan Whittlesey of
Graytowers announces— That much may be accurate. It
will be a simple matter to find out. For his own sake the
editor of the Graylock Gazette will be very glad to shift
responsibility on to other shoulders.”
“But Father! What object could he possibly have?”
Judith spoke with a gesture of repudiation. Terrell's


82
A MAN'S ENEMIES
face was hard and grim.
Babcock was frankly puzzled. “I'll call the editor up
at once," he said. “You can talk to him, Judith, if you
wish. I'll use the telephone closet in the hall. Will you
come?"
Peter was aware that a swift glance passed between
the girl and her late father's secretary. The man's nod
was almost imperceptible. She responded to it at once by
following Babcock to the door. He held it open for her
and closed it behind them.
"I'm sorry that I seem to have antagonized you in some
way, Terrell,” said Peter after a minute's constrained
silence. “Would you mind telling me how?”
The younger man stooped to tighten his shoe lace.
"I'm hardly likely to put an OK stamp on any of Bab-
cock's plans,” he growled, giving the inoffensive bit of
brown silk tape a vindictive jerk.
"Perhaps Captain Kerrigan's overenthusiasm is to
blame for selling Mr. Babcock the idea that I might be
of service here," said Peter quietly. "I presume, Terrell,
that you, too, are interested in having the murderer of
your former employer brought to justice?”
“Of course," said the secretary, and repeated with
angry emphasis: "Of course. But if this is a case of black-
mail-extortion or what have you-aren't the regular
police capable of handling it? The State troopers, detec-
tives, G-men! They'll all swing into line when the time
comes, won't they?”
“A most efficient service," said Peter thoughtfully.
“Especially if it turns out to be a real professional job.
If it turns out to be.”


A MAN'S ENEMIES
“You think it isn't, Clancy?” Terrell, who had been
perched on the corner of the desk, brought both feet to
the floor with a thump. “Why—why don't you believe
it?” He sounded excited, almost breathless.
Peter had dropped into a chair and was idly turning
about the contents of a waste basket that stood in the
shadow of the desk.
“There are several points that don't seem to fall into
that pattern exactly. ... It's early days to form a defi-
nite opinion. We may know a good deal more in an hour
or so. In the meantime if I could get Miss Whittlesey's
authority to ask a few questions—here—and there—I'd
be very glad. ... There are certain things you can tell
me, Terrell, if you will. ..."
“Such as?” the secretary asked after a slight pause.
“What sort of man was Mr. Whittlesey?" Peter asked
the question with a frank confidence difficult to withstand
or combat. “Was he the kind, do you think, to make
enemies?”
"I'd rather you'd get that information from someone
else.” Terrell turned away but not before Peter saw the
dark scowl that disfigured the well-modeled features.
“Very well,” Peter agreed lightly. "Skip it. I'm sure
you wouldn't object, however, to mention what your exact
duties are—or perhaps I should say, have been here. You
wrote Mr. Whittlesey's letters? Yes. And opened his
mail? All but his personal mail. I see. ... Then, since
this extortion letter had the word 'Personal typed in one
corner, you would have taken it up to him unopened?
You, yourself would have taken it up?" The keen glance
was like the sudden flash of steel.


A MAN’S ENEMIES
85
sonal even if it were typed and looked like an ad?"
"I would not,” said Terrell emphatically. "He'd have
given me I mean he wouldn't have liked it.”
“You were not, then, on strictly confidential terms?”
"Far from it. My secretarial work was a sinecure. An
excuse, really.”
"For what?" Peter asked quickly.
"Oh ... I had some ideas. I'd worked out some-
thing. . . . Because I use his laboratory he thought ..."
The secretary caught himself up, frowning darkly. "But
this has nothing to do with the case. I'm sorry. Let's get
back to that note. You were going to tell me—".
He did not finish, for the door was flung open and
Judith burst like a whirlwind into the room. Her face had
no color in it but it looked white hot. Apparently not con-
scious of Peter's presence, she went close up to Faulkner
Terrell.
"It was Father,” she panted. "Father! I'm convinced
now that he cared nothing—nothing. Any means to gain
an end. The editor says he can show us the note. Samuel
took it over to the village.”
"So...." Terrell drew the monosyllable out into a
snarl. “Then, you see, I was justi–” He caught the girl's
glance and bit the word in two.
Peter had not attracted attention to himself by so much
as a breath. The instant silence was harshly broken by
the sudden sound of voices in the hall. Young appeared
at the open door with Babcock at his elbow.
“Judith!” the latter cried, coming quickly forward.
“Listen to this. They think they've found— You tell her,
Young."


86
A MAN'S ENEMIES
“We know who it was that killed your father, Miss,”
said the county official with a characteristic swagger.
“ 'Tisn't exactly the goods to say we've found him. But
we will. Make no mistake. The fingerprints are eye-
dentical. They've just phoned out from headquarters. And
you can't get back of those returns. This bird's got plenty
of record. Quite a figger in the underworld. His picture'll
be in all the papers tonight and we'll have him behind
bars before you know where you are, Miss. Some system!
I'll tell the world.”
Peter drifted forward so quietly that the voice from
just behind Terrell caused that young man to start
violently.
"Did you get the crook's name, Young?” Peter asked
with becoming deference.
“Yep,” the other answered promptly. “The name of
the guy is Rafferty. T. H. Rafferty.”


"Not Top Hat Rafferty!” Peter Clancy's mobile face was
a study in mixed emotions.
“The same," said Young triumphantly. “It was his
fingerprints we found, plain as A B C, on the balcony
rails. And what do you know about that?"
"A-plenty.” Peter spoke with stern emphasis. “You
can't pin murder on Top Hat Rafferty. It's out of the
question.”
"Says who?" Young looked from one to the other with
a disgusted snarl. “This ain't a fairy story, Clancy. This
is just hard cold facts. Every burglar is a potential mur-
derer. This bird, Rafferty, has served two terms and
slipped through by the skin of his teeth on a coupla other
counts, the chief at the bureau said.”
“But never violence."
“Before,” corrected Young, eying Peter curiously.
“Anybody'd think you and him was buddies, Clancy, the
way you talk.”
"Skip it,” said Peter shortly. He turned to the other
concerned listeners. “Miss Whittlesey," he said, "don't
let yourself hope that this completes the case. It only
makes it stranger—more involved. I'm not contending
this man-Rafferty—isn't mixed up in it. If they've found
his fingerprints, it goes without saying they had no legiti-


88
A MAN'S ENEMIES
mate business on the balcony railing. But it just happens
that I've seen the fellow under a good many conditions,
and whatever else he is he is not a killer.”
"How can you possibly say that, Clancy?" Babcock
asked seriously. "In defence of his life a man might—"
Peter shook his head. "We must face the entire set-up,
sir, and it isn't as simple as all that. Take an ordinary
second-story man or any other kind of a robber, and he
is, as Young justly says, a potential murderer-if he is
armed with any sort of lethal weapon."
"Oh, heck!" sneered Young. "What ain't a lethal
weapon if you use it right? You can strangle a man with
your bare hands if you're strong enough, and even a
woman could do it with a cord like this was."
“Go easy, Young," warned Peter, glancing aside at
Judith Whittlesey. “We're used to this sort of thing. But
others"
"Don't try to spare my feelings, Mr. Clancy.” The
girl's face was hard and set. "I'm decidedly interested in
what you both have to say. After all, this is a matter of
justice, and I am, in a way, most nearly concerned. Please
go on.”
"We can't go much further, Miss, till we lay our hands
on Rafferty, whatever. Clancy says.” Young's tone was
assured, not to say truculent. “We'll do that soon enough,
and then we'll be going places, you can take it from me.
In the meantime I've got to see the D. A.” He turned and
moved importantly away.
"How can you be so sure about this man Rafferty?"
Terrell faced Peter with a curious concerned gaze.
“That's what I don't understand," said Babcock, com-


A MAN'S ENEMIES
89
ing closer. “On the face of it it would appear"
"Surely you're not taking this layout on its face value,”
urged Peter. "If it was a simple case of burglary I'd have
to throw Top Hat to the lions, I suppose. But look. Miss
Whittlesey, I'd particularly like you to look at what we're
up against. Someone tries to blackmail your father. There
are points about that letter that I'm sure took careful
planning. Rafferty is a mere creature of impulse. You
would hardly be able to take my word for that, so I won't
insist on it just now, but you must see that blackmail
would necessarily take a certain type of mind, and burg-
lary would demand something less subtle and more ad-
venturous. This fellow Rafferty is really a rather engaging
sort of a chap, with considerable pride of craft and a
very definite code. In other circumstances he might have
brought himself up to get a living walking the steel girders
of skyscrapers, or doing human fly stunts. I don't defend
the use he's made of his ability to get into inaccessible
windows, but I do say that I'm confident he'd consider
it beneath his dignity to pick a pocket and that he'd be
no more likely to commit a murder than I would. Also
you can be certain he never planned or framed that extor-
tion note.”
"You seem to know this fellow very intimately,” said
Terrell with an odd look.
"I know his kind,” Peter returned somewhat shortly.
“The so-called criminal mind is almost certain to have a
definite twist and to have distinct limitations. Perhaps
you aren't willing to accept this as conclusive in this
case.” He was looking straight at Terrell and his glance
was stern and provocative.


A MAN'S ENEMIES
91
"I'll leave you to judge,” Peter answered quietly. "We
were told that your father was much better but had not
yet left his room. Is that correct?”
She nodded without speaking.
"Then who was it that slit the envelope containing
the note?” asked Peter. “There was no paper knife in
the bedroom and all the envelopes in his waste basket
were ripped open. That was characteristic, was it not?
You, Mr. Babcock, should be able to tell us." He glanced
aside at the older man's serious intent face.
“Nolan was very impatient. Yes. And he hated to see
envelopes in the waste basket that looked like unopened
letters. If this one was cut ... I didn't notice it when
he gave it to me to read last night, Clancy, but if the
envelope was slit open—"
"It was," said Peter. “Very neatly, too. I can't show
you, because the police have it, but I can tell you defi-
nitely that the flap was sealed close to the top edge.
There was room to insert only a narrow blade. A very
small penknife could have been used. Perhaps the thin
blade of a little pair of scissors. Or a paper cutter-like
this one.”
He extended his hand. On it rested a long narrow
piece of metal, sharp at the point and molded to a dull
cutting edge on both sides. The top was pierced and
fitted with an elaborately chased ring of silver.
"Or perhaps it could have been done with a stiff hair-
pin.” The girl's voice cut across a sharp silence. “Not
being a woman, Mr. Clancy, you could be excused for
omitting that faithful feminine tool.”
“And am indebted to you for mentioning it,” said


92
A MAN'S ENEMIES
Peter with a grave inclination of the head as he scruti-
nized the face lifted to him. “You may be quite right-
though it was a very clean cut. Wouldn't a hairpin leave
a rather rough edge?”
"I don't know. You can cut pages all right. Or open
letters. I suppose a good deal would depend on the kind
of paper.”
“That I can understand," said Peter. “The point at
the minute now, however, is not so much what-as who.
... The envelope in question may have come through
the mail some days ago—and been opened—quite inno-
cently. ... Perhaps at Mr. Whittlesey's request. You
must see that it's important to establish, if we can, the
exact day, and also what his reaction was. Now it seems
that Mr. Terrell never opens any of your father's per-
sonal mail. You, Miss Whittlesey, being so nearly re-
lated—” He paused pointedly.
She answered the implied though unspoken question
with a sharp jerk of her small spirited head.
"My father was never so ill that he couldn't attend to
his personal affairs," she said. “Besides I've been in town
all this week."
"All the week. Hum-m-m," said Peter thoughtfully.
“Then who is there that might conceivably have per-
formed this small office for him? There must have been
someone. Think. An officious person trying to make a
hit. Or someone who had nerve enough to pry—well?”
He broke off sharply, glancing from one to the other. “I
can see that last idea rang a bell. You're all three think-
ing of someone. ... The nurse, perhaps?”
“Oh. Miss Delancey.” The girl glanced up into Ter-


A MAN'S ENEMIES
93
rell's frowning face and her eyes dropped swiftly to the
floor. “I suppose it is just possible that she "
"Then it isn't the nurse you were thinking of, Miss
Whittlesey," Peter interrupted with a quick motion of
the hand.
"Just the same it might have been Miss Delancey,”
she retorted. “Of course it might. And nothing against
her either. How can we tell anything about it, really?
Some little thing might have happened. Maybe the paper
was too tough to tear readily and she gave him her scis-
sors. . . . Or something."
"Fair enough,” said Peter, watching her. "She'd prob-
ably remember. Could we have her in? We could settle
it, one way or the other, in a few minutes.”
"She's been very faithful,” said Judith uncomfortably.
"I won't have her annoyed-or-or threatened-or any-
thing unpleasant. She's stood up to her work better than
any of the others, and it would be a poor return—".
"Leave it to me. Please," Peter interrupted again with
a most convincing smile of reassurance. "The police have
probably questioned her already, since it was she who
made the tragic discovery, I understand. We just want
to clear up a few points. This matter of the envelope.
It will take only a minute or two and I'll be very careful.
If you don't mind. ..."
"I'll get her.” The strong young chin was lifted curtly.
"You'd better wait here.”
When the mistress of Graytowers had disappeared
Terrell walked moodily over to the window and remained
there looking out. Peter spoke quietly to Babcock but
not so low as to be inaudible from across the room.


94
A MAN’S ENEMIES
"Have you any idea why Whittlesey put that an-
nouncement in the village paper yesterday?” he asked,
harking back to a subject that was insistently lingering
in his mind.
“Not the slightest,” Babcock returned. "Never had a
greater surprise in my life. But Nolan had a reason.
Some scheme. He may have thought—" Glancing at the
secretary's back he broke off abruptly. "It's a matter of
small moment in comparison to this awful tragedy-
except that it may have been the coup de grâce to any
lingering hope I could have entertained.”
"Too bad—the whole thing," said Peter sympatheti-
cally, “though certainly no one should be so unreasonable
as to blame you for a newspaper paragraph about which
you knew nothing. And the-er-family-ought to ap-
preciate your continued efforts in their behalf.”
"Oh!” Babcock spread his hands in a deprecatory ges-
ture. "I've done nothing! Nothing! I feel that I've bun-
gled terribly. That I should have made Nolan tell me
more last night. Even that I should have refused to get
the money for him. Perhaps if I'd reasoned with him
beforehand ... But how was I to guess?”
Peter laid his hand comfortingly on Babcock's arm.
“How could you?” he agreed hastily. "He didn't tell you
what he was up against until you handed him the money,
did he? No. That's what I thought. But you suspected-
something queer—was going on when he phoned?"
"I certainly did.” Babcock frowned heavily.
“Then,” said Peter keenly, “why didn't you take the
numbers of the bills? Or—or did you? By Jove! You
did? Good work. I'll tell the world it's a pleasure to


A MAN'S ENEMIES
95
deal with some people. Where's the list?”
"I turned it over to the police, naturally. You can get
it from Young if you want it, Clancy, but surely they're
capable of attending to that end of the search.”
“Yes. Yes. Of course," said Peter. He stopped sud-
denly and held up his hand. His eyes flashed toward the
door that the daughter of the house had closed after her.
His voice dropped to a whisper. “Go on talking,” he
commanded and, stepping a pace back, he went with
long catlike strides to the door and flung it open.


XI
“Oh! Sorry!" There was nothing but conventional cour-
tesy in the voice and manner of Peter Clancy, but his
shrewd eye took in every detail of the dark figure that,
like a released spring, jerked erect as he opened the door.
“Won't you come in Miss—ah-Miss Whittlesey, isn't it?
Mr. Nolan Whittlesey's sister? I thought so. Very
pleased ”
Babcock had stepped quickly forward. “Amanda," he
said, "this is Mr. Clancy. A private detective that"
“Who hired him?” The harsh mannish voice was in
keeping with the hard flat lines of the woman's lean fig-
ure. She glanced at Peter from her deep-set almost color-
less eyes and then looked back at Babcock. “Was it you
that hired him, Joseph? Are you the one that's going to
pay him?"
"Let's not discuss that now, Aunt Amanda.” Judith
came quickly in from the ball, followed by a youngish
woman who wore the dress of a graduate nurse.
“But, Judith, I want to know—"..
“Later, Auntie. We'll attend to that later. There are
more important things to discuss now.” The girl's tone
was peremptory but not really unkind.
· Miss Amanda said, “Humph!” and, seating herself in
a huge straight-backed chair beside the fireplace, planted
96


A MAN'S ENEMIES
97
inquiry immedwhole attention ady occupied
both thin feet squarely on a low stool. The fact that she
had been discovered listening at the keyhole seemed not
to have upset her mental equilibrium in the slightest. She
bent again on Peter the same steady gaze that he had
encountered in the drawing room mirror a little while
before. Her pale eyes were as enigmatic as ever.
Peter gave no indication that the older lady occupied
any part of his mind. His whole attention seemed to be
given to the inquiry immediately before him.
"It's awfully nice of you, Miss Delancey," he said, “to
respond so quickly. I won't keep you but a minute."
“That's all right," said the nurse in an alert profes-
sional tone. “Miss Judith told me about the envelope.
I didn't see it. No, sir. And I've never opened any of
Mr. Whittlesey's private mail for him.”
"You're certain?” Peter asked. “It might have been
as much as a week ago. You're sure you'd remember?"
"Oh, sure I would.” Automatically the nurse smoothed
up a short light curl under the edge of her crisp cap.
“He always opened his mail himself?”.
"What Mr. Terrell brought up he did. Yes. Always."
“Was he accustomed to using a penknife? Or did he
usually tear it open?”.
She thought a second. “There was no knife among the
things I put in his pockets for him mornings. He may
have had one, but he never asked for it and I never saw
one among his things."
“What's all this about an envelope?" Miss Amanda
broke in testily. "Nobody ever tells me anything. Have
to find out for myself. Of course Nolan never had a
knife in his pocket or a piece of string or anything any-


100
A MAN'S ENEMIES
see if he wanted anything just before I left the house."
“Was he in bed then?"
: "No. He insisted on sitting up until after he'd had his
supper.”
"That's right," Babcock put in. “The housemaid was
just clearing it away and tidying up the room when I
came.”
“What time was that? Do you remember?"
"Must have been around a quarter to eight. Maybe a
little earlier. What would you say, Terrell?"
"Since you came out on the seven-thirty it would have
been about seven-forty when we got here. Takes only
ten minutes to drive over from the station. If five min-
utes makes any difference.” The secretary's tone was
more than a little sarcastic.
“And we left again in time for me to catch the eight-
fifty back to town.” Babcock spoke quietly, ignoring the
other's manner. "I assure you,” he went on earnestly,
"that Nolan seemed quite himself. He talked over some
business matters. I put the money and some papers I'd
brought out for him in the safe.”
“Did you lock the safe?” Peter asked abruptly.
“Yes. Nolan was in bed. He asked me to lock it and
put the chiffonier back. Which I did.”
“That's odd.” Peter's chin came up with a jerk.
"I don't see ” began Babcock.
"If Mr. Whittlesey expected to have to pay out that
money last night, why would he make it necessary to
move that heavy chiffonier out again? He was reduced
by illness and it would have required considerable effort.”
"I never thought of that,” said Babcock, somewhat


A MAN'S ENEMIES
ΙΟΙ
blankly. “What—how would you account for that,
Clancy?"
"Did he wish to have the room look natural and in
order? To avoid comment in case a friend-or even one
of the household—were to drop in during the evening?”
“No," Babcock answered in a considering tone. "He
sent down word by me to his sister that he didn't wish
to be disturbed. You remember that, Amanda?"
“Yes, and when I went up to speak to him later he
had his door locked.”
“He did?” said Babcock in a startled voice. "What
time was that?"
"Not knowing beforehand that there was to be a hor-
rible crime in the house I didn't notice the clock par-
ticularly," Miss Whittlesey replied tartly. "It was when
I went up to bed, so it must have been around eleven or
perhaps a little later."
“Was the key in the lock?” Peter cut in.
"How should I know that?" the elderly lady asked
with a defensive toss of the head that made her hard
little dangling jet earrings flash darkly.
“There—there might have been a light shining through
the keyhole if the key had been removed." Peter was
careful to keep any hint of sarcasm out of his voice.
"Well, there was no light. And no noise," declared Miss
Amanda firmly.
Miss Delancey coughed slightly and made a little ges-
ture that caught Peter's eye. Her strong-featured, health-
ily colored face was somewhat flushed. Her mouth was
determined.
"I beg your pardon,” she said nervously, “but are you
key had becasm out of heclared Miss


I02
A MAN'S ENEMIES
sure, Miss Whittlesey, that the door was locked?"
"Of course I am sure. None of these old doors stick.
I turned the handle and pushed. Certainly it was locked.
Why do you question it, Miss Delancey?”
“Because it was not locked when I came on duty this
morning,” the nurse replied emphatically. "I was in a
hurry for fear I'd be late. Samuel was on that early train
out and brought me over. I dashed up and put on my
uniform and went right in. Oh, God,” she muttered, shud-
dering, “if the door had been locked I'd have had some
—some warning. ..."
"Must have been a hideous shock," said Peter, sym-
pathetically. “I won't bother you any more now, Miss
Delancey. Thank you for helping us.”
"I'm afraid I haven't been of much use," she mur-
mured. “I should be able to stand up to things better.
I've seen plenty of deaths. ... But this was—different.”
She clenched her hands together and turned away.
Peter saw her glance at the elder Miss Whittlesey as she
passed—and he felt quite sure there was question if not
suspicion in the nurse's quickly averted eyes.
"And what do you deduce from that odd bit of con-
flicting testimony, Mr. Clancy?” Terrell had maintained
an aloof manner throughout, but his concern and absorb-
ing interest were patent to at least one observer.
“Seems simple enough to me," Babcock interposed
alertly. “The thief_blackmailer—came in through the
window, locked the door while—while he was at work-
and unlocked it again the instant before he left."
"Does that make sense?" Terrell argued with a sud-
den show of heat. "Why unlock the door? Why trouble


A MAN'S ENEMIES
103
to do that—and handicap a getaway so unnecessarily?
Maybe Mr. Clancy can give us a reason. He understands
the workings of the criminal mind.”
"The criminal mind,” Peter repeated with a half smile,
“is full of vagaries—especially if it should happen to be
in the amateur or experimental stage. This matter of the
door presents a very interesting question. But I'll have
to ask your indulgence. It's far too intricate for me to
risk passing on a snap judgment. Just at the minute I
have certain things to attend to. If you'll excuse me-
Miss Whittlesey."
He bowed to the older lady and, repeating the name,
bowed to the girl whose attention through the previous
inquiry had never for an instant wavered. He nodded
with less punctilio to Terrell and, taking Babcock's arm,
moved with him to the door. When they were outside in
the hall, he paused.
“One question more before I dash off," Peter said,
keeping his voice low. "Did Mr. Whittlesey mention to
you in your conversation last night that he had sent that
false engagement announcement to the paper?”
"Not a word,” Babcock responded gruffly. “The old-
schemer. Of course he wouldn't tell me, of all people.
The first I heard of the damn thing was when Judith
threw it in my face there in the library just before you
came in."
“When did Terrell hear about it?”
“I don't know. I believe that little one-horse paper
comes out Thursdays and it is delivered—I can't be sure,
but I think it comes over from the village after the
delivery boy is out of school in the afternoon. Why?”.
0


A MAN’S ENEMIES
105
his breath. Someone had been walking across the soft
raked earth under the plants. Several times, apparently.
There was now quite a jumbled line of footprints be-
tween the margin and the half open low window of what
seemed to be a bedroom on the ground floor.
Mr. Peter must have developed a taste for horticulture
for, noting a broken branch of zinnia that had already
begun to wither, he frowned darkly and bit his lip.


XII
“Get over to Huntington as fast as you can, Wiggar, and
stop at the first drug store that has a telephone booth.”
“Thank you, Mr. Peter.” The valet cast a fleeting
glance at his master as the car rolled swiftly through the
Graytowers gates. “I beg pardon, sir.” His voice was deep
and concerned.
Peter roused himself. “Yes. What?”
"Your tie, sir. Quite crooked. If you don't mind—”.
Peter put his hand up with a quick chuckle. “The only
person that would really suit you, Wiggar, I believe, is his
royal highness Edward, Duke of Windsor. They say he
still fusses with his tie.”
“Tut, tut!” Wiggar clicked his tongue in remonstrance
at such levity. “The knot a little more to the left, sir.
That will do nicely. Thank you."
The slight incident served to break Peter's somber pre-
occupation. His agile mind shifted swiftly to the oppor-
tunity now presented and he remarked: “You made the
most of your time this morning I trust, Wiggar."
“Thank you. I think so, sir. At least I can give you a
line on the servants, if there is any question about their
movements.”
"Atta boy,” Peter approved. “Let's take them in the
order of importance. The butler first. What kind of a
106


A MAN’S ENEMIES
107
antly
person is he and what's his feeling toward his late
master?”
“He has been very well trained, sir. Extremely well-
for the States.” Wiggar spoke judicially. "Has been in
his present position nearly ten years. He is close-mouthed.
One might even say secretive, perhaps, without going too
far. If he knows what you call—ahem—the family dirt,
it would take a great deal of finesse and more time than
I had at my disposal this morning to get it out of him. All
that I can be sure of at the moment is that he expects
a legacy." There was a slight pause and he finished in an
even tone: “Having been in the family so long he believes
it will be sufficient for him to retire on."
"Oh?” said Peter, drawing out the monosyllable signifi-
cantly.
“Quite so, sir." Wiggar nodded as he swung the car into
the Boulevard. “But I believe you'll find, Mr. Peter,
that he can prove conclusively that he couldn't have been
at the scene of the murder last night. His night off coin-
cided with that of Miss Delancey, the nurse, as you may
already know. He drove her over to the five-ten train, left
the car in the station garage, and they went into town
on the same train. He then went to a dinner party with
friends—a Mr. and Mrs. Riddle with several children.
They live in the Audubon Apartments in West One Hun-
dred and Tenth Street. He spent the night there and
caught a very early train this morning. He says that Mr.
Whittlesey always thought they returned on the midnight
express, so that it was necessary to be back before the
house was astir. The same being true of the nurse. So they
met again on the train and he drove her back, arriving


108
A MAN’S ENEMIES
at Graytowers at a little after seven this morning."
“That clicks with the nurse's report,” said Peter
thoughtfully. “On the face of it his alibi looks perfectly
sound. , . . But there are a lot of things about this case
that I want to see verified-and a devil of a lot more that
I want to find out. Now what about the cook?"
"She's been with them ever since Mr. Whittlesey was
first married. Twenty-three years. She's an excellent cook
but has a very short temper. . . . She was certainly in
the house last night but says she did not hear or see any-
thing out of the ordinary.”
“Does she, too, expect a legacy?”
“She doesn't talk about it, but, if there are bequests to
the servants, wouldn't hers probably be the largest, sir?”
Peter nodded. They were coming into a street of at-
tractive detached houses and farther along were the
square roofs of shops. “You haven't seen the Graytowers
gardener around, have you, Wiggar?” The question was
almost automatic.
"But, yes, sir. He was there for a little while and went
away again. A good-looking, high-tempered young fellow
named Davis. In love with the housemaid.”
“You miss very little, Wiggar. Thank heaven!” Peter
grinned to himself. “How did you pick up the last roman-
tic item?”
"He was jealous because the young person had been
out with another man, and gave her what for, if you'll
excuse the expression."
“Out?” asked Peter sharply. "Last night?"
“Oh, no, sir. This was a hold-over, I believe. Some
previous misconduct that still rankled in the lover's


IIO
A MAN'S ENEMIES
There was the sharp jingle and “ting” of registered
coins. Peter waited an impatient minute and then called
his New York office.
“O'Malley!” Rapidly and briefly Peter poured the
necessary high points of the tragedy into his partner's ear.
The old ex-police captain absorbed each item with ex-
perienced speed.
"I want a check-up on every member of the cast that
was supposed to be in town last night,” said Peter ur-
gently. "Alibis can be faked pretty easily when the dis-
tance is so short. I can't go into it with you now, but I
can't get out of my head the possibility that this liquor
is altogether home-brew. You can get started on these
addresses and I may phone you some more later. If you
need police authority to get results, see Kerrigan about
it, but tell him to keep it under his hat.”
Peter pronounced carefully several addresses that he
had taken pains to secure during that hectic morning and
ended with the one Wiggar had just given him.
“Now, another thing, O'Malley. And this is the most
important right now. I want to get hold of Top Hat
Rafferty before the police do. See? They'll be into his old
haunts and rounding up his old friends—but they don't
know either as well as we do, and we've got to beat them
to it. If he's as scared as I think he is, he'll have holed
up for further orders. What?”
Peter shook his head uncomfortably. “All right, all
right. I know you said he couldn't go straight, but—well,
let's not go into that now. ... Yes, of course he was
there. And of course he'll have to take what's coming to
him, but dammit all, I can't think— And besides— Look


A MAN’S ENEMIES
· III
here, old man, I don't want to spill any more over the
'phone, but I want first innings with T. H. So will you
help me? ... Well, of course. Then, listen. The police
will get his picture on the front page tonight and he may
be picked up any minute. So we've got to work fast. I
want you to get a personal into all the New York papers.
Have it read: ‘T. H. R. send Mollie or me your present
address at once. Very important.' And sign it with my
initials. It's a long chance, but it's the best I can think
of right now. He'll get the papers first thing to see where
he stands. . . . And you'll send Rouncewell around to
all the places— What? You'll go yourself? Swell—you old
scoundrel.”
Peter drew a long breath of satisfaction as he hung up
the receiver. There was no man in New York who knew
the underworld as did O'Malley, or who hid more wisdom
behind a plain and sometimes quite stupid looking old
face.
These matters being in good hands, Peter dismissed
them temporarily from his mind.
“We're taking Lieutenant Ogilvy to lunch,” he remarked
as he took his place beside Wiggar once more. "He'll be
at headquarters just outside of town. Make it snappy."
Wiggar executed a dignified version of the phrase of
which he obviously disapproved, and a few minutes later
drew up in front of a neat yellow house that bore the sign
of the State Police. Ogilvy, on the watch, came quickly
out.
"Hop in,” said Peter. "I know where we'll go. The Bay
Tree. You remember when we were out on the North
Shore last, Wiggar?"


II2
A MAN’S ENEMIES
“Quite so, sir.”
Scarcely was the car in motion when Peter turned to
the trooper who had jumped into the back seat. “Did they
let you have it, Lieutenant?”.
“Yes.” Ogilvy laughed shortly. “After you told 'em I
found it, I insisted we had the best right. It's been photo-
graphed inside and out.”
“Got it with you?” Peter's eagerness sounded almost
childlike, but his face was full of mature purpose.
“Want to see it now, sir? Be careful. Maybe you'd
better run up the window on your side. OK. Here it is.”
Across the seat back Ogilvy passed the sinister docu-
ment that Peter had found that morning beneath the
pillow of a man to whom death in one of its most hideous
forms had come. He took it now in both hands and, turn-
ing back to an easier position, proceeded to examine it
with painstaking thoroughness. The details that he had
described in the library shortly before were exactly as
he had stated them. The gum of the flap was fast on
both sides up to a quarter of an inch from the top. The
slit was clean, with no ragged edges. This significant
fact was about all he had been able to consider in the
brief time that the note had been in his possession. Now
he saw something else—something that made him start
forward, holding the envelope so that the light fell full
upon it.
"I say, Ogilvy," he exclaimed, "did you see this little
coat of arms thing on the flap?”
"I sure did, sir, but not at first." The trooper slid for-
ward so that both long arms rested on the back of the
front seat. "It looks like the way you can tell what kind


A MAN'S ENEMIES
113
of paper it is when you hold it up to the light.”
“A watermark,” said Peter half to himself. “But ac-
curately placed in the center of the flap. That's high-class
stationery and very expensive. . . . Did you make out
the crest? Looks to me like a bird's claw holding a crown."
The car swerved suddenly and jolted a bit on the rough
shoulder of the road. Peter glanced out.
"Hello! What's the trouble, Wiggar? Anything wrong?”
"Pardon, sir. Nothing. Merely an imperceptible dip
that I was not expecting. Sorry."
There was something more than contrition in the valet's
restrained voice. Peter looked at him sharply and said:
“Pull over to the side and stop, Wiggar.”
“Thank you, sir.” Wiggar's wooden face expressed
neither surprise nor curiosity. He followed instructions
with smooth promptitude.
"What's the matter?” Ogilvy asked anxiously. "Any-
thing wrong with the motor?"
For answer Peter glanced back at him and winked.
“Now, Wiggar," he said, “take a good look, and if you
have any remarks to make you needn't restrain yourself
before Lieutenant Ogilvy because he and I are in cahoots,
or, as you might say, working hand in hand.”
Without the slightest change of expression Wiggar re-
ceived the fatal missive in both hands, looked closely at
the watermark coat of arms and then turned the envelope
over to examine the face. The old-fashioned cancellation
stamp of the Graylock post office was a good deal blurred.
The sending station was also, but in the outer circle of
letters could be distinguished ND CENT ANNEX. N, making
it clear to the initiate that it had been taken in at the


114
A MAN'S ENEMIES
Grand Central Annex in New York.
Wiggar shook his head and handed the letter back.
“I'm very sorry, sir,” he apologized feelingly. “My mis-
take entirely. I hope you'll excuse it, Mr. Peter. The
coat of arms, you see, is well known in London. Oh, very.
If there had been a British stamp and postmark—why,
then I'd have felt justified in saying definitely. . . . But
as it is, sir, I'm afraid I've delayed you quite unneces-
sarily."
“Wait. Hold on," said Peter as the acting-chauffeur's
hand dropped to the gearshift. "The paper—the envelope
may be of British manufacture at that. How about this
coat of arms? What does it stand for?”.
"It's—it's hardly proper, I think, Mr. Peter, to call it
a coat of arms. I mean by that, it doesn't now belong to
any of the great families, though perhaps it did originally.
I can't say. At present it's used exclusively, in England at
least, by a very exclusive firm of dealers in sporting goods.
It's a sort of—what I think you would call a trade-mark.”
"A trade-mark,” exclaimed Peter. “By George, could it
possibly be- What's the name of this swank concern?”
“Johnson, Johnson and Johnson,” Wiggar replied
promptly. “They have a small but very recherché estab-
lishment. Exceedingly so. Patronized only by the wealthi-
est members of the upper classes. I had the pleasure and
satisfaction of buying many articles there when I was still
in the service of Lord Deeping.”
"A trade-mark,” Peter repeated softly. “And one of
such refinement and elegance. I wonder. ..." He looked
the envelope over once more, front and back, with ab-
sorbed attention. Then he took out the single sheet of


A MAN'S ENEMIES
115
paper, examined it on both sides and held it so that the
light shone through it. At last he folded it and, without
explanation or apology, thrust it, inside its envelope, deep
into an inner breast pocket.
“Get on, Wiggar," he barked. “What are you waiting
for?” His expression was that of a man who had come out
of a deep trance.
“To the Bay Tree, Mr. Peter?”
“Yes. They ought to have one. Get there as quick as
you can.”
“One what?” ventured Ogilvy with hardly restrained
impatience.
"A New York classified telephone book," Peter an-
swered and lapsed into a brooding silence.


XIII
“Go ahead and order," said Peter, selecting a remote
table in the picturesque dining room of the Bay Tree.
“Anything you like, Ogilvy, and a club sandwich and
coffee for me. I'll be back shortly. I have to put through
a call.”
The trooper had only a few minutes in which to admire
the lovely view of the hills and harbor spread out below
the many-windowed restaurant before Clancy returned.
“Weintraub's out to lunch," he said as if the remark
were self-explanatory, and seating himself in the opposite
chair drew it up with a jerk. He drained the water in the
tall goblet that stood beside his place and leaned forward.
“What have you dug out of this extortion note so far,
Ogilvy?"
“Well—I'm afraid not so much.” The trooper was
spared further reply at the minute, for Wiggar appeared
at his master's elbow and laid an open classified directory
on the table between them.
“This one I would suggest, sir, subject to your ap-
proval,” he said in a low tone. “Abercrombie ... Spauld-
ing, too, perhaps. Then there's this new concern. Brooks,
Bennington and Bartlett. I don't know them, but it's a
Park Avenue address.”
“And sounds British,” Peter murmured half to himself.
116


A MAN'S ENEMIES
117
“Better try them all, Wiggar, one after the other. You
understand what to do?”
“Oh, quite. Thank you, sir."
He moved softly away as the lunch was brought. Ogilvy
was starved and, encouraged by his new friend, did him-
self very well in the matter of food. Peter had finished
before the long trooper was half way through his large
piece of green apple pie. The waiter having been paid
and dismissed, Peter took out a small notebook and
opened it on the table before him.
"I just want to check over with you, Lieutenant, what
we know now about this demand note, and see if it gets
us anywhere. I may be wrong, but I believe the note is
the correct starting point. The rest—the murder-the
burglary—what part Top Hat Rafferty played—that must
come later. But just let's get this sorted out. ...
"You noticed-or didn't you?—that the note itself is
on a half sheet of paper. Yes. It's neatly cut but it almost
certainly was part of a folded sheet. We haven't analyzed
the mucilage yet. We probably will have to-later. It
looks to me like a very common kind of thin gum, the
sort that comes in a small bottle with a pointed rubber
cap that opens a little mouth and lets you smear it on
without getting your fingers stuck up. You know. Every-
body uses them. There's one on the desk—in the library
—at Graytowers.”
"Is there?” Ogilvy shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Oh, yes, but that means nothing. You can get them at
any ten cent store.” Peter's face was somber. He turned
and glanced unseeingly from the window. “This envelope,
however," he touched his breast pocket, "shows just the
your fin houth and with an


118
A MAN’S ENEMIES
same neatness and care in the way it was opened as those
I found in the waste basket beside the library desk. All
expertly slit along the top edge. I can imagine a person
going that way through a stack of mail.”
“Yes,” Ogilvy interrupted hastily. "And how easy it
would be in a pile of letters to open one by mistake-not
noticing that it was marked 'Personal.'”
"I wonder,” said Peter slowly, holding the trooper's
eye. “I wonder-if-it-was."
“Was what?”
“Marked 'Personal.'”
“But for the love of heaven! It is.” Ogilvy stared, his
mouth half open.
“Yes,” Peter agreed thoughtfully, making a short note
in his memorandum book. "I know. It's very interest-
ing. . . . And then there's the message itself. Have you
had time to study that carefully? Then you saw that most
if not all of the printed words were cut from a New
Yorker."
"Excuse me, Clancy. I don't know how you can be sure
of that.”
"There's a bit of a Thurber drawing on the back of
one of the larger pieces. You can see quite plainly if you
hold it up to the light, since the mucilage has made the
paper more transparent. Nobody could mistake a James
Thurber profile and I believe there's enough of the picture
to identify, without any trouble, the issue it came out of.”
“As simple as that,” said Ogilvy on a note of admira-
tion, but added in a disgruntled tone: “What's the circu-
lation of the New Yorker, do you know?”.
“No. And it doesn't matter for the minute, though it


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A MAN'S ENEMIES
type myself, but this is a case where we have to forget
appearances and face facts—bare hard facts, Ogilvy.”
The muscles rippled along the trooper's lean jaw as he
clamped his teeth together.
“All right,” he said. “Let's have 'em."
“Wiggar has just turned up a few for us," Peter said in
a somber and yet appreciative tone. "He's been phoning
various sporting-goods houses—and finds that this con-
cern on Park Avenue, Brooks, Bennington and Bartlett,
are agents for Johnson, Johnson and Johnson of London.
The New York branch has, of course, the right to use
the same type of stationery—including the trade-mark of
the eagle claw and the crown. They have recently sent out
an announcement, and Mr. Nolan Whittlesey of Gray-
towers is on their mailing list.”
“So what?" muttered Ogilvy.
“Just weigh that—and add it to the rest,” Peter re-
sponded darkly. “And then ask yourself if an ad like that
would be marked ‘Personal.'"
"It might.”
“But it wasn't. Perhaps there's something in the British
mind that balks at such tricks. Anyhow, I had Wiggar ask
particularly. The circulars were sent out first class, sealed,
but they were not marked 'Personal.'” Once more Peter
slipped the incriminative letter out of his pocket and slid
it over to a point on the table directly under the trooper's
eye. "I had a hunch about it just now," he continued in
the same low tone. “That word down in the corner-
doesn't it look to you as if it was written on a fresher,
blacker ribbon than the address? And another thing. At
a glance the type looks the same, but examine the two e's


122
A MAN'S ENEMIES
was sure to be alone. ..."
“But, wait—" cried Ogilvy.
Peter held up his hand and continued somberly: “The
inference would be that it had just come through the
mail.”
"I know," the trooper insisted urgently, "but wouldn't
the old man have raised hell about Faulkner or anybody
else opening his private mail?”
"How do we know that he didn't?” Peter asked curtly.
“And we have only Terrell's word for it that he, himself,
did not attend to some of the ordinary matters. If the
envelope showed nothing but typing, couldn't he be ex-
cused for thinking it an ad or something?"
Ogilvy bit his lip, frowned more darkly than before and
burst out: “I don't believe Faulkner Terrell ever had any
hand in this devilish mess. I don't believe he ever saw
this damned extortion note"
"You'll have to believe that," Peter interrupted with
sober emphasis. “That was Weintraub that just called me.
He's finished checking over the fingerprints on the note.
I can easily explain their finding Babcock's. He told Ker-
rigan and me last night that Whittlesey gave it to him to
read. . . . But can you explain, Ogilvy, why the only
others they can find belong positively to Faulkner Ter-
rell?”
“You mean on the envelope?".
"No," said Peter gravely. “I mean on the inside
sheet. . . . And that isn't all,” he added after a harsh
pause. "Terrell was supposed to be in the house—and in
his room—all last night. Young's notes, that he graciously
allowed me to read, state that the secretary retired early


A MAN'S ENEMIES
123
-hour not specified, but the pretty housemaid, it appears,
backed his statement that it was 'early.' Samuel found
him in bed when he rushed down to give the alarm after
the nurse discovered the tragedy, and the inference was
that Terrell had been in his room all the time. . . . But
I'm morally certain he was not."
"Not?” the trooper echoed breathlessly.
"His room is on the ground floor. You remember there
were footprints he admitted were his in the flower bed
under the window. He said he often came and went that
way, and it seems probable because, when I looked
again, the original line was all trampled under later foot-
prints.”
"His?" Ogilvy's voice was scarcely above a whisper.
"It looked so, but I wouldn't care to say definitely."
Peter paused. “But I do know that there's a broken plant
that couldn't have been that withered unless it was
trampled on sometime during the night. In that first line
of prints, the ones coming from the house were partly
under the ones going back to the window, and the former
were more deliberate than the latter. In fact when he
came back he was practically on the run. These things, I
must tell you, Ogilvy, I'm prepared to swear to."
“But why should he" The trooper balked at finishing
the question.
“Don't you think, yourself, it would appear safer to go
outside and climb the balcony than to go up through the
sleeping house?” Peter's voice was keen as a knife. He
rose and thrust back his chair. “Come,” he said firmly.
“We've got to face it. And there's lots of work to be
done."


XIV
It was scarcely fifteen minutes later when Peter found
himself once more in the great entrance hall of Gray-
towers. Lieutenant Ogilvy had been obliged to stop at the
constabulary headquarters but was to follow as soon as
he had disposed of some necessary matters. In the mean-
time there were several points that Peter wished if pos-
sible to determine, and that, so far as it could be managed,
without witnesses. He was glad, therefore, to find the
place practically deserted. The newshounds, following the
trail that the District Attorney's assistant, Young, con-
fidently pointed out, had rushed off to town to spread
across front pages another gangster story embellished
with the reckless but somehow not altogether displeasing
features of Top Hat Rafferty. The general police opinion
being that the case was more or less in the bag, official
vigilance had pulled in its chair, tucked napkin in collar,
and was treating itself to material sustenance at various
not too distant points. The man who had been casually
left on guard at the front door, recognizing Peter, ad-
mitted him without words.
The hall was empty and silent. There was no one in the
drawing room or in the library. The clink of silver and
china indicated that luncheon was going forward in the
dining room and the faintness of the sound bore witness
124


A MAN'S ENEMIES
125
that the door of that apartment was closed.
Treading noiselessly on the thick rugs, Peter went
swiftly into the library. With great care he shut the door
behind him and without an instant's hesitation crossed to
the far corner where, behind a handsome screen, he found
some filing cabinets and a businesslike typewriter desk.
The machine was dropped down inside the lid. He raised
it quickly and, opening a drawer, discovered a stack of
ordinary commercial writing paper. At the top was printed:
NOLAN WHITTLESEY & COMPANY
MANUFACTURERS OF LEATHER GOODS.
SPECIALISTS IN HUNTING JACKETS,
HUNTING BOOTS, SNOW SHOES
AND SPORT ACCESSORIES.
Peter read the heading, then with hurried fingers fed
the sheet into the machine and began tapping out letters
—first an address, then one word several times repeated.
The sharp stuttering tap of the typewriter keys sounded
impertinent in the solemn silence. Suddenly Peter stopped.
There had been no recognizable noise from the other side
of the screen but some sense beyond ordinary made him
aware that he was no longer alone.
With a swift movement he pulled the paper out of the
carrier, thrust it into his pocket and sat absolutely still
awaiting developments. For a full minute nothing hap-
pened. If Peter had trusted to hearing only, he would
have been forced to the conclusion that he must be the
only occupant of the room. But being convinced that the
contrary was the case, he rose quietly, took a long silent
stride, and placed one eye close to the crack between the


126
A MAN’S ENEMIES
leaves of the big screen.
Samuel. Standing by the big library table with an ash
tray in his hand. Half turned as if about to empty it. But
obviously listening.
“He knows someone is here,” thought Peter. "He must
have heard the machine."
The butler bent and, picking up the waste basket,
dumped the contents of the ash tray into it. A perfectly
normal thing for him to do. Even the fact that he had
made so little noise might be due to exceptionally good
training.
There was a low fire burning in the big fireplace. Sam-
uel, basket in hand, had nearly reached it when Peter
spoke.
“Wait just a second!”
The butler stopped and, turning, drew himself up with
great dignity. “I beg pardon.”
"Don't burn up that trash quite yet, Samuel,” said
Peter, coming quickly from the corner of the room. "I'd
like to take a look at it if you don't mind."
“Certainly, sir.” The butler held the basket out in the
manner of a vestryman with an alms basin.
Peter took it and sat down.
“You would perhaps like a newspaper on which to
spread the contents? Thank you, sir.” Samuel picked up
the Graylock Gazette and was about to open it out when
Peter reached for it.
"You took a note to the editor of this paper, Samuel,
a couple of days ago?" he said with a slight upward in-
flection.
"I—why, yes, sir.”


A MAN'S ENEMIES
127
"Did you know what was in it?”
“Certainly not." The omission of a respectful “sir” was
accented by a sharp lift of the chin.
“You do now, though?”.
“Naturally—since we have our own papers in the serv-
ants' hall.”
“Were you surprised at the announcement of Miss
Judith's engagement?”
The glance of the man's cold eye would have frozen
anything less friendly than Peter's pleasant smile.
"Obviously I would not have been in Mr. Whittlesey's
confidence," Samuel remarked pointedly, “but the reac-
tions of a person in my position could hardly be of inter-
est to anyone.”
"Oh, there you're wrong," said Peter. “At least your
observations may be of great value, and I'd be mighty
glad of your help. You must see, Samuel,” he went on
earnestly, “that, until the person who actually murdered
your late master is discovered, everybody in sight is more
or less under suspicion.”
"But I thought the police had decided "
"No one has any business to decide anything at this
point.” Peter's glance was stern. “I daresay you can prove
where you were all last night"
“Oh, quite so, sir!” the butler interrupted with con-
siderable haste and emphasis.
Peter nodded as if accepting a matter of fact. ·
“But others may not be so lucky, and, whatever the
police may say, Samuel, I give you my word there's been
some funny business going on in this house that I mean
to find out about.”


128
A MAN'S ENEMIES
“Really, sir?” Professional suavity had returned to the
man's manner, one hundred percent.
“And,” said Peter with a wise look, “the smart thing
for a wholly innocent person to do is to answer all ques-
tions promptly—and honestly.”
“I can see that, sir,” Samuel hastened to agree.
Peter kept his glance fixed for a silent instant. Then
he said: "I want you to think back, Samuel, and be care-
ful of your answers. Forget your position here for a min-
ute and answer me, man to man.”
“Thank you, sir.” The butler's tone was somewhat
guarded.
“Who gave you that note to take to the editor of the
local paper?”
“Mr. Whittlesey,” Samuel replied at once.
“Gave it to you with his own hand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You went to his room?" Samuel nodded. Peter con-
tinued: “Was anyone else there?”
“Only the nurse.”
“Did she know what was in the letter?”
"I should think it very unlikely, but of course I can't
be sure.”
"But the Gazette was delivered before you both left
last night?”
"Just before. Cook showed me the announcement.”
“Then didn't you and Miss Delancey talk it over on
your way into town?”.
“No, sir.”
“What?" exclaimed Peter. “A thing like that happen
in the house and you didn't discuss it?”


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A MAN'S ENEMIES
manding a view through the aperture in the paneled wall.
The short narrow hall beyond he recognized as the one
through which he and Ogilvy had passed into the garden
earlier in the morning. Apparently there was nothing mys-
terious about this entrance to the library. It was merely
a sliding door carefully arranged not to interrupt the con-
tinuity of the panels. The housemaid hesitated upon the
threshold.
“Come in, Lottie," Peter repeated pleasantly. “You'd
better put off your dusting a little longer I'm afraid, and
I'd like to talk to you a minute if you can spare the time.”
"If it's OK with Mr. Kilroy.” The girl glanced quickly
at the butler and sidled into the room.
“Answer the gentleman's questions promptly, Lottie,”
said Samuel imperiously, "and then get back to the
kitchen.”
“Yes, sir.” Her eyes were round with excited interest as
she looked at Peter. He was a fine figger of a man and
Lottie liked red hair.
"You served Mr. Whittlesey's dinner in his room last
night, Lottie.” Peter's tone was as kind and gentle as if
he were speaking to a child. “What time was that?”
"He always had supper, not dinner at night," Samuel
murmured as if it were a grievance.
“It was prompt at six-thirty, sir,” the housemaid replied
to Peter's question. “Me and Maria woulda got what for
if it hadn't been on the stroke. Excuse me, sir." Her blush
made her look prettier than ever.
Peter smiled sympathetically. “How did he seem then,
Lottie? Upset or worried?”.
"Oh, no, sir.” She shook her head so that the little


A MAN'S ENEMIES
131
short curls danced. "He was a whole lot pleasanter than
what he usually was.”
“Tell me just how he looked and what he said.” Peter
leaned forward and regarded her with flattering interest.
“You may be able to help us more than you know, Lottie,
if you're very accurate.”
"I'll do me best, sir.” She looked up at him sidewise
trying to copy the arch glance of her favorite, Claudette
Colbert. "Let's see. He was just drinking his orange juice
when I took the tray in and he was reading the news-
paper."
“The Graylock Gazette?” Peter asked swiftly.
“Yes, sir, he was. And laughing. I guess I never seen
him laugh like that ever before. Not loud, you know, but
kinda in his throat like.”
"Did he say anything?”.
“Only just, ‘Put it down there,' and 'What's this? Noth-
ing but baby food. Won't have to stand that much longer,
thank God.' Things like that. Just the way he always
does.”
"Did you wait there until he finished his supper?”
“No, sir. He sent me down to Mr. Faulkner with the
paper."
“What?” Peter exclaimed sharply. "You mean the vil-
lage paper?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Faulkner seemed surprised, too. He was
sitting down to his dinner then and he couldn't of eaten
much because I'd only just got back to Mr. Whittlesey's
room to clear away when he came to the door-I mean
Mr. Faulkner did. And he was that mad I was most
scared. But Mr. Whittlesey just—you know-grinned and


132
A MAN'S ENEMIES
he says: 'I'll talk it all over with you in the morning, my
boy,' he says. “But not tonight.'
"And Mr. Faulkner says, 'Oh, yes, you will tonight,
too.' And Mr. Whittlesey says, 'No, I won't neither.' And
Mr. Faulkner says, 'Is it true?' And Mr. Whittlesey says,
'How should I know? I'll talk to Joe when he gets here.'
(He calls Mr. Babcock Joe, you understand.) And then
he tells Mr. Faulkner he's to meet the seven-thirty train
and to stick around and take Mr. Babcock back when
he's ready to go. Mr. Faulkner goes wild then and talks so
fast I don't even know what he said but Mr. Whittlesey
just laughs at him, not pleasant, you know-kind of with
his nose up-and when the telephone rang downstairs
Mr. Faulkner dashed out of the room like he was sent
for, and—”
"Was he sent for, Lottie?" Peter interrupted. "Do you
know who called him?"
"No, sir. How could I? Mr. Whittlesey went over and
listened through his own extension by the bed, but I guess
Mr. Faulkner's onto all the tricks, because you can cut off
all the extensions from the little switchboard in the down-
stairs hall closet, and that's what he done all right, be-
cause Mr. Whittlesey banged down the telephone after
just a second and went into the bathroom and slammed
the door. So I fixed up the room nice as I could because
Mr. Kilroy wasn't here to do it, and I was only just
through when Mr. Babcock come. Mr. Whittlesey was
ready to go to bed by that time and I says good night
and—”
“Wait a second, Lottie.” Peter interrupted the swift
spate of recollection. “What about Mr. Terrell? You saw


A MAN'S ENEMIES
133
him again after that, didn't you?”
"Sure. He come through the kitchen and stopped for a
drink after he drove Mr. Babcock to the train. But Mr.
Faulkner couldn't have nothing to do—"
“What time was that?” Peter broke in again.
“Cook had gone upstairs. ... Musta been about nine
or maybe a little after."
"Did he go upstairs again?"
“No, sir. He said good night and went right to his
room.”
“At nine o'clock? Does he often go to bed as early as
that?"
"How would I be supposed to know when a gentleman
goes to bed?” Lottie's lips were pursed but there was a
sly provocative gleam in the eye she turned on Peter.
“Sometimes he goes to his room early, doesn't he, Mr.
Kilroy?"
"I fancy he does,” Samuel replied stonily. "But I'm
afraid I've not given much thought to the matter."
"Well, I daresay it's unimportant,” said Peter, "but
there's something I do want to ask. You know about the
safe in Mr. Whittlesey's bedroom, Lottie?”
She started as he turned again abruptly toward her.
“I—well, yes, sir. You couldn't hardly clean up real
good without seeing it, could you, Mr. Kilroy?”.
“The safe being there was no secret in the household,”
the butler corroborated somewhat dourly.
“Was it known outside? In the village perhaps? Do you
recall ever talking about it to anyone, Samuel?”
“Certainly not, sir.”
“Or you, Lottie?"


134 A MAN'S ENEMIES
“No, no. Oh, no, sir.”
"Then that's that,” said Peter, apparently satisfied.
“Thank you very much, Lottie. That will be all for the
present. Oh, by the way, Samuel, does anyone here take
Esquire—or the New Yorker?”
The butler's start could readily be explained by the
suddenness and earnestness of the question. His hesitation
lasted scarcely an instant. “Why—yes, sir. At least the
New Yorker. Mr. Terrell subscribes to that magazine.”
"I'd like very much to get hold of the current issue,"
said Peter. “There seem to be none here. Mr. Terrell takes
them to his room perhaps?”
"It's usually lying about here in the library.” Samuel
stepped quickly over to the long table and moved a few
periodicals. “I'm quite sure I saw it earlier in the month.
I say, Lottie.”
“What is it, Mr. Kilroy?” She paused with the sliding
door already partially closed.
"Have you seen where the October New Yorker has
got to?"
“No, Mr. Kilroy. No, sir. I ain't seen it.”
As she shut the door she smiled perkily at the two men,
but Peter got the impression that for some reason she was
in a hurry to be gone. With a thoughtful frown he added
this to a rapidly mounting conviction that in at least two
instances the girl had departed flagrantly from the crystal
truth. An excessive denial where a simple negative was
indicated was enough to focus his attention and arouse his
ever-alert suspicion.
"I'm getting the ingredients for a swell stew," he mut-
tered to himself as, promptly upon the dismissal of the


A MAN’S ENEMIES
135
two servants, he went over to one of the windows. Seating
himself beside a small table he spread upon it the sheet
of paper on which he had recently typed Nolan Whit-
tlesey's address at Graytowers and the word “Personal”
several times. These he compared minutely with an en-
velope taken from his inner pocket. Under the glass it was
easy to see that the type in the two addresses showed
marked differences. It was quite as obvious that the "Per-
sonal” equation was in all instances absolutely identical.
He sighed profoundly as he returned the papers to the
safe keeping of his breast pocket. “A swell stew," he mut-
tered again. “A hellish brew. . . . And the proof of the
pudding. ... The proof of the pudding. ...".
His eyes kept shifting from the obvious door leading to
the great ball back to the paneled entrance to the side
passage as he proceeded to make a swift but exhaustive
search of the library.


None of the family was in evidence when Peter emerged
a little later. He encountered Babcock in the hall and
they exchanged a few words, but Peter was in a hurry
and could only concur half-heartedly with the other's
hope that Top Hat Rafferty, in the rôle of chief villain
of the piece, would be promptly discovered by the police.
Having their assurance that he could be of no further
assistance at this time, Babcock was about to take the
next train to town to attend to the many grave and im-
portant matters that Whittlesey's death had imposed
upon him. The time being short, Peter called Wiggar to
take him to the station, and the impatient detective was
again free to go on with his task.
He mounted swiftly to the second floor. The policeman
who had been left to guard the room of death had gone
down to the kitchen and there was no one to question
Peter's entry. From one point of view the relaxed espi-
onage was perhaps excusable, but he wondered by what
theory the police would account for Faulkner Terrell's
fingerprints being found on an extortion note which they
attributed, along with other crimes, to Top Hat Rafferty.
The technical discoveries should be in Young's possession
by this time. Would he make Terrell an accomplice? Or
would he interpret the facts from the angle of Peter's
136


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A MAN'S ENEMIES
about, noting every detail. There were few modernistic
gadgets, but great comfort was evidenced by the appoint-
ments which included a tiny sort of diet kitchen with
electric refrigerator and small cooking unit. A most satis-
factory adjunct to a sick room. Although the master was
nearly well, it must have been still in use, for there were
bottles on the ice, fruit and so forth. The commodious
medicine closet included also a few dishes, cups and
glasses.
Peter was quietly examining these when he heard the
unmistakable sound of a door being softly opened. Some-
body came into the bedroom and closed the door again
with the minimum of noise.
The bathroom being well lighted, it was impossible to
see any distance into the other room without exposing
his position; but Peter found, to his satisfaction, that by
swinging the mirror-covered door of the medicine closet
he could get a reflection of various parts of the bedroom
in swift succession.
Ah ... there was the bed-head table. . . . And
stooping beside it-Miss Amanda Whittlesey. She
straightened sharply as Peter, with a swift warning
cough, appeared in the door.
"Pardon,” he said courteously as he crossed to her.
“May I see what you— Oh! Mr. Whittlesey's spectacles.
I saw them there earlier. The police want nothing dis-
turbed. I'm sorry—".
"You're not sorry, young man. Why should you be?”
the elderly lady retorted shortly. “You needn't be so
plagued polite either. A detective can be outspoken
enough I've heard. But maybe paid ones are different.


A MAN'S ENEMIES
139
How d’you expect to earn your money if you don't ask
questions, and who's going to pay you? That's what I'd
like to know. Joe Babcock? Or who? If it has to come
out of the estate"
"Just at the minute, Miss Amanda,” said Peter with
a stern quietness that gave the words their full effect, “I
don't care a continental whether I get paid or not if I
can see justice done for a foul crime—one as subtle and
horrible as any I've had to deal with. Tell me,” he bent
to search her white face, "did you see your own brother
—when he was lying strangled there on the bed? Right
there where you're standing?"
Her pale eyes flickered as she glanced up and away.
"No," she answered, heavily. “It was bad enough to
hear. I—there's no point in going in for horrors when
you can do nothing—nothing.” She clenched the bony
hands in which were the gold-rimmed spectacles.
"I see you weren't afraid though of coming in for a
pair of glasses you thought you could use."
"Of course I can use 'em,” she returned with a sharp
intake of the breath. “They're mine. Not Nolan's. Any-
one could tell you that.”
"Oh," said Peter. “Yours? And easily identified as
such."
“Yes.” Her long narrow jaw was thrust forward. “What
of it?"
"Nothing. Except that the police may want to know
how they got here—and when."
“But you aren't the police."
“No. However, you just said I ought to earn my money
--if any." Peter's sudden grin was a trifle too grim to be


A MAN'S ENEMIES
141
about the door being locked. That's different. I remember
that well enough. And it was, too. Even if Miss Delancey
did find it unfastened this morning. I can swear it was
tightly locked when I tried it somewhere about eleven
o'clock.”
"Miss Amanda, what was it you wanted to talk to
your brother about? A sick man. And at that time of
night?"
“Nolan was pretty nearly well,” she corrected with
some show of heat. "He meant to go back to work by the
first of the month. He was quite well enough to-to-
well, to put that announcement in the paper about Ju-
dith's engagement. I knew it would make trouble. I
wanted to tell him so. To warn him— But I guess I've
talked enough. You wouldn't be interested."
“Oh, but I am,” said Peter. “Why did Mr. Whittlesey
do it? Do you know?”.
"I could guess—but I'm not going to. It hasn't any-
thing to do—with anything. You're a detective-you go
on and detect. But don't you bother my niece. Hear?
I won't have that. She's all right and you can just leave
her alone.”
Peter eyed her curiously. There was force and a great
deal of nervous energy left in that thin body. Her exces-
sive whiteness, he decided, was not due to anemia but
to lack of color pigment of the skin. The defiance in her
eye and the determination of her straight-lipped mouth
warned him that further inquiry would probably be un-
fruitful, but he was about to risk one more question
when with shocking suddenness the telephone bell shrilled
through the silent room.


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Her arm shot out and, being nearest, she caught up
the instrument from the bed-head table before Peter
could reach it.
“What? Oh, it's for you.” Miss Amanda's tone ex-
pressed some disappointment. She handed over the re-
ceiver, folded her arms and pointedly waited.
"Ogilvy!” Peter at once recognized the trooper's voice.
“Where are you? Downstairs? Well, what, Oh. My of-
fice on the wire? Thanks. I'll — No. Wait. Stay on the
line.”
With a slight smile Peter laid the receiver down on
the table, put one hand gently but firmly beneath Miss
Amanda's elbow and propelled her, willy-nilly, to the door.
This he opened and gravely bowed her out. His grin
broadened as he closed it and turned the key so that it
completely covered the hole. Then he went hastily back
to the telephone.
"Ogilvy? OK. You're at the switchboard? Right. Cut
off all the extensions but this one and stay on the wire.
You may as well hear, first hand, what my office has to
report. Put 'em on. ... Hello. Oh, it's you, O'Malley.
Good work. What?"
A short pause. Peter's eyebrows drew together. "No
trace of Rafferty. Too bad. Better put Rouncewell on it
and keep looking. I have a hunch he didn't get very far.
Even if he lifted that five grand, he's got sense enough
not to try to spend it while it's hot. . . . You've already
got the serial numbers of the currency from Ogilvy? Good
enough. Yes. I understand that. . . . But what? What!
Good lord, man! Are you sure? (Ogilvy, did you get
that?) Go on, O'Malley. We're both listening. ...


A MAN'S ENEMIES
143
What? Wait a second. What's that you say, Ogilvy? The
doctor's report fixes death by strangulation and the time
definitely between ten and eleven-nearer ten probably.
You got that, O'Malley? Well, then, it would seem there
was plenty of time. ... Only what the devil ...".
Peter paused and listened breathlessly. The three-
cornered conversation was developing facts faster than
even he could assimilate them. He took in every word of
O'Malley's revelation without interrupting again. At the
end he gave a few brief directions, dropped the telephone
on its hooks and made for the door.
If Miss Amanda had been listening, she was not again
to be caught in flagrante delicto, for she was moving
stiffly away along the hall in the direction of her own
apartments. She paused, however, to look curiously after
Clancy as he dashed down the stairs.
The telephone cabinet occupied part of the space under
the landing. Ogilvy had just come out. His face under its
tan had gone quite pale.
“Where is she?” whispered Peter, catching his arm.
"Have you seen her?”.
“They're both–I mean Faulkner Terrell is with her.
There. In the library.”
“Come on," whispered Peter. “A surprise attack. She
could hardly be prepared-so soon.” His impetuosity
swept the trooper along. A second later, without knocking,
he opened the library door.
They were standing by the window. An effective close-
up for a camera, Peter thought. With a start Judith
stepped back. Terrell's arms dropped. He swung angrily
to face the intruders.


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A MAN'S ENEMIES
“What does this mean, Lieutenant Ogilvy?" he asked.
"I thought you at least,"
"Don't get off on the wrong foot, Terrell,” warned the
trooper. “Mr. Clancy has uncovered something pretty
serious. I've always been your friend—and Miss Judith's.
I'm afraid we've got to ask you a few questions. Better
us than Young and his crowd. You must see that."
The girl's face was white but her chin was up. She
moved closer again and slid her strong young hand in-
side the arm of the ex-secretary.
“What do you want to know, Ben?" she asked, meet-
ing the trooper's eye.
"It's Clancy,” said Ogilvy, boldly side-stepping the
issue. “He'll tell you."
"You?” Terrell's eyes narrowed. “Well, out with it,
Clancy. What have you up your sleeve?”
"A very unfortunate ability to add two and two," Peter
returned somberly. "And to subtract one hour from an-
other."
“You talk in riddles," sneered Terrell.
“Then I'll speak plainly.” Peter thrust out his firm
jaw. “Ogilvy's your friend. I wish I could be—but the
cards don't seem to fall that way, and I can't afford to
be squeamish. I must have the truth, the whole truth
and nothing but the truth. For your own sake you'd bet-
ter answer me straight. . . . Where were you, Terrell-
and you, Miss Judith—at ten o'clock last night?"


146.
A MAN’S ENEMIES
Peter's hand went up to his mouth. He pinched his
lip as he studied the young man's expression. After a
minute he said: “All right. Let's leave you for a minute."
Swift as an unsheathed sword his glance fell upon the
girl. “You were not with your friends the Vansycles, at
the theater last night, Miss Judith.” The statement fell
with clashing force. “You told them you had to get home
to Graytowers—but no one saw you here—until you
came with Terrell— ostensibly from the station—this
morning.”
She gasped as if a fierce blow had forced the air from
her lungs.
“How can you—what makes you imagine".
Peter's quick gesture stopped her. “I'm getting a com-
plete check-up on the movements of all the characters
that have any sort of known connection with this tragic
affair," he said. “You, being cast for the lead, in a sense,
took precedence of some of the others. The inquiry was
discreetly conducted, I assure you, by one of my part-
ners. The ascertained facts are as I have just said, and
there is no doubt in my mind that they are reliable. Shall
I go on?” .
She only looked at him, but Peter nodded as if it had
been an answer. “Very well. I'll tell you exactly what
we know-and then it would better be your turn.” The
gravity of his tone made the last words little short of a
threat. He paused an instant and then went on: "We find
from the telephone records that a call was put in from
the Vansycles' number to this one here at approximately
six-thirty last night. The conversation was a long one.
Mr. Terrell was called to the phone about that time. The


A MAN’S ENEMIES
147
inference is obvious.”
He waited for a confirmation or denial. Both young
people remained stonily silent and Peter continued:
“After the phone call Miss Judith complained of a head-
ache and decided to let the Vansycle party go to the
theater without her. When they were gone she seemed
nervous. She went to her room and presently appeared
dressed for the street and carrying a dressing bag. She
told the butler, in the hearing of Mrs. Vansycle's per-
sonal maid, that her father was not so well and she had
decided to go home for the night. She had left a note
for her hostess. The butler called a taxi for her and she
left the house. It was then about eight-thirty. The maid
was quite certain of the time.”
“You!” burst out Terrell. “You dared spy? Question
servants? Oh, it's toot00 "
“Calm yourself I beg, Terrell,” said Peter quietly. “It
would be very nice if the world could be run entirely by
gentlemen for gentlemen, but the cold hard fact is that
a hideous murder has been committed under this roof
and it's not a kid-glove job to lay hands on the murderer.
I warn you I'll stick at nothing, and I'm not going to
waste time apologizing. You don't have to tell me any-
thing, of course. I can't make you. But if you're wise to
the danger you're both in, you'll come clean. Now, Miss
Judith, what about it?”
She seemed to have caught her courage in both hands.
Her voice was quite steady.
"Do you really mean to suggest, Mr. Clancy, that I
might be guilty of the murder-of my own father?"
Peter's glance did not waver. “My opinion doesn't


148
A MAN'S ENEMIES
matter for the minute,” he said. "Perhaps it doesn't mat-
ter at all. But the evidence is important. It will be easy
enough to prove that you and your father were on bad
terms. . . . He was murdered between ten and eleven
last night. . . . You could have reached here easily by
ten. You said you were coming home. Why didn't you?
Or did you? And where were you hiding when Terrell
phoned you this morning? Or was it all arranged before-
hand? Did he only pretend to get you on the wire?”.
“Oh, stop. For heaven's sake stop," exclaimed Terrell.
“He shan't bait you like this, Judith.” He put his arm
around her and turned fiercely to Peter. "It's all my
fault. She only did what—what she had every right to
do. Yes, and every reason, too. What do you know of
what's gone on here? What does anyone know outside
this cursed house? Ask Samuel. He can tell you, if he
will. And Miss Amanda, and the nurse. Even Babcock.
They've all seen how her father rode roughshod over
everybody and everything! Why should Judith consider
him or his wishes? And what did I owe him? I gave
him the benefit of everything I worked out in his damned
laboratory. But the discovery my father made—the for-
mula he had nearly completed when he died—Whittlesey
had no claim to that! I finished working it out in my
own time, and it's mine. Mine! He tried every way in
his power to force it from me. Stuck at nothing. The sly
old devil. I'm glad he's dead—and I'm not sorry for
anything"
"Faulkner! Don't—don't say things like that,” cried
Judith. “You don't mean—someone might think"
Her voice and touch seemed to have a marvelous calm-


A MAN'S ENEMIES
149
ing effect. The fury in Terrell's eyes was veiled as he
looked down at her. There was silence for a second, then
Peter, quite unmoved by the drama of the scene, spoke
quietly.
“And now, having gotten that off your chest, Terrell,
perhaps you see the advisability of telling us,” he said
slowly and with heavy emphasis, "where-you-were-
last night at ten o'clock.”
Judith, her eyes fixed on Peter's face, answered before
Terrell could speak: "He was with me.” Her glance was
defiant.
“Yes?” said Peter softly. "And for how long?”
“All night,” she replied with a reckless gesture.
“Judith!" Terrell drew her close. "We were married
last night,” he burst out. "I persuaded her. I'd had a
license ready for weeks. That infernal notice in the Ga-
zette brought it to a head. Can't you understand? Old
Whittlesey meant to drive a bargain. Meant to scare me
into giving up the formula. He knew I loved Judith. Do
you wonder I despised him?" Once started, the words
came in a seemingly uncontrollable rush. “You're right,
Clancy. We did talk on the phone and arranged to meet.
Last night. At the station in Jamaica. As near ten as we
could make it."
"As near ten," Peter repeated, watching the ex-secre-
tary with narrowed eyes. He took out a notebook. “In
this case, if it comes to a showdown, the police will feel
that the matter of time is very important.” He made a
brief memorandum. “You took Babcock to the eight-
fifty train last night, Terrell, and went back to the house
and to your room. What time was it when you left again?”


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A MAN'S ENEMIES
The young man hesitated slightly. "Must have been
a little after nine.”
"You drove your own car?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone hear you drive out?”
“Not that I know of.”
Peter frowned slightly and turned to the girl.
“Let's have your time table now, Miss Judith, if you
please. I assure you it will be well for you to have it in
readiness. Maybe you realize that now, and we needn't
argue about it.”
She drew herself up. “Don't you already know all
that's necessary, Mr. Clancy?" she asked coldly.
“Well," Peter replied thoughtfully, “I imagine I could
give a pretty good guess as to what you would say. Let's
see. You left the Vansycles' Park Avenue apartment at
eight-thirty. In a taxi you should have reached the Penn-
sylvania Station by nine at the very latest. There's a
train leaving at nine. It would have landed you at Jamaica
a good deal before ten, but you took it, didn't you?”
“One meets so many acquaintances and friends in the
Pennsylvania Station,” she said nervously. “I thought it
would be better to wait at Jamaica.”
“Hum-m-m. I foresaw that explanation," Peter re-
marked confidently. “You didn't see anyone you knew
in Jamaica? Anyone who could testify that you got off
there?"
"No."
“And how long did you wait for Mr. Terrell?”
Judith Whittlesey's face went suddenly whiter. "I-I
don't know," she answered briefly.


A MAN'S ENEMIES
151
Peter took a step nearer. “Don't tell me that,” he said
with determination. “You looked at the time every few
minutes. If you really were waiting in that lonely station,
your eyes hardly left the clock. You do remember. You
must remember.” He thrust his face quite close. “And if
it hadn't been very much later than ten o'clock when
Terrell finally got there, you would have told the hour
without equivocation! If you were going to lie about
it you ought to have done it promptly and with style.
Side-stepping only gets you in deeper. Can't you see
that?" His voice was almost pleading.
“What are you getting at?” asked Terrell hoarsely.
“Why, simply this,” said Peter. “Your story is no good.
You can't make it hold water. Ogilvy, here, thinks you
ought to have a break, so we might as well get it plain
how much your alibi is worth. Yours, Terrell. Yes, and
Miss Judith's as well. If she'd come straight out here
she'd have been in time to commit the murder-or help
you do it. That's a cinch. On the other hand, supposing
she's innocent, then I'm dead certain you didn't show
up at Jamaica until nearly eleven. A few minutes either
way wouldn't matter. What excuse can you give? What
did he tell you, Miss Judith?”
"I told her the truth.” Terrell's young voice vibrated
with an emotion he could scarcely control. “I've been
having a little engine trouble and as luck would have it
the ignition went bad somewhere this side of Mineola.”
“You fixed it yourself though without going to a ga-
rage.” Peter sounded somewhat sardonic.
"Well, that's the truth, too,” Terrell retorted fiercely.
“All right. Let it go at that,” said Peter. “So what?


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A MAN'S ENEMIES
Where did you go from Jamaica?”.
“Wewe drove around awhile.” Terrell forced himself
to speak quietly. "It's been Judith's idea all along that
it was Babcock that put that announcement in the paper.
She didn't want to believe her father capable of any
more tricky meanness. I failed to convince her over the
phone and after we met it took quite a while to persuade
her”—his voice softened for an instant—"that, in any
case, if we were to be married, it might just as well be
-then."
“So you really were married last night,” said Peter
slowly. "Doubtless you can prove where—and when."
"Of course," Terrell answered. “We routed out an old
chap I knew in Forest Hills. It was only a little after
midnight.”
“You went to a hotel from there?"
“Yes. One in Garden City.”
“Anybody recognize you?” Ogilvy spoke for the first
time.
“Not that I know of.”
Peter said: “Miss Judith had luggage, so they made
no trouble about taking you in I suppose. How did you
register?"
“Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner Terrell.” There was a flash
of pride—or of achievement—in the young man's eye.
“The clerk, at that hour, would be sure to remember
them, Clancy,” the trooper put in eagerly.
“But what good is it?" Peter spoke with sudden irri-
tation. "By their own showing we have only their un-
substantiated words as to what happened before mid-
night last night. And what kind of an alibi is that? The


A MAN'S ENEMIES
153
time they need to account for is from ten to eleven. Even
supposing we could dig up someone at the station in
Jamaica who would remember seeing Miss Judith there
at that time, what about Terrell? Ogilvy, she doesn't
really know where he was. You must face that. For the
minute the police are all hell-bent after the red herring
that Top Hat Rafferty was unlucky enough to drag across
the trail, but when they begin to take stock of the evi-
dence they already have, they're going to ask pointed
questions of your friend Terrell, and he's not going to
be able to answer them unless"
A knock on the door had the effect of a thunder clap
in the tense atmosphere of the room.
“What is it?” Peter barked.
The hall door opened just sufficiently to admit the
thin wedge of Samuel Kilroy's austere countenance.
“A telegram for Mr. Clancy,” he said precisely.
“Transmitted by phone. Would you wish to take it here,
sir?»
"No. I'll get it in the hall.” Peter glanced sternly from
Ogilvy to the lately made bride and groom. The girl was
clinging tightly to her lover and the look on her face was
not good to see.
Peter went quickly out and secured himself in the tele-
phone cabinet. He spoke into the transmitter and waited,
the frown deepening on his troubled face. The message
was from the personnel manager of Marshall, Field's in
Chicago. Miss Mollie Ashe was no longer in their em-
ploy and had left no address.
Wasting no time in futile regrets, Peter called his office
at once. O'Malley was out, but their young partner,


154
A MAN'S ENEMIES
Brooke Cranston, was very much on the job. He accepted
instructions eagerly and read back the notice that he was
to put in the agony column of all New York and Chicago
papers:
“Mollie,” it read. "If you know where P.C. can find
lost hat, notify immediately. Very important.”
And while that call for help was speeding over the
wires, Top Hat Rafferty, all his troubles for the moment
pushed into the background, was happily and innocently
engaged in teaching Miss Hannah Graham of Grass Lane
Farm the proper way to separate iris roots and plant them
so that the rhizomes were in just the right relation to the
top line of soil.


XVII
As Peter stepped out of the telephone cabinet, he heard
voices in the front part of the hall. Pausing to listen, he
recognized that of Young and even made out a few
truculent sentences.
Swiftly then he slipped along under the shadow of
the stair landing into the short cross hall. On this side
the door into the library was entirely normal in appear-
ance. He had opened and was through it in a flash.
"Here, Ogilvy," he whispered hurriedly, thrusting a
square India tint envelope into the trooper's hand. “You'll
be asked to produce this in a minute or less. Young's
on the war path. Watch your step.”
He was back through the paneled door in an instant,
and less than a minute later strolled quietly past the
foot of the stairway and encountered Doctor Saunders.
The physician had stopped in, thinking, he said, that
Justice Thompson might be there. Young, who happened
to know him personally, found in him an absorbed and
most satisfactory audience. The District Attorney's man
was holding forth excitedly but broke off as Peter ap-
peared.
“Oh, Clancy,” he exclaimed, with slightly less conde-
scension than was shown in his earlier manner. “Say, look
here! What do you know about maybe Rafferty wasn't
155


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A MAN'S ENEMIES
alone in this here murder? Did you get that this morning
already?"
"Well, it did cross my mind,” Peter admitted carelessly.
"I think I even mentioned the fact that Rafferty was
hardly smart enough to pull off a clever stunt like this
all by himself.”
“That's right,” said Young. "Rafferty's in it, of course
--but there's somebody else, too. Can you give a guess,”
his voice dropped to a whisper, "whose fingerprints Wein-
traub found on that extortion note?”
"I called Weintraub up and he told me," Peter replied
bluntly.
"Oh.” Young looked slightly deflated. “Then you know
they identified Terrell's?”.
"Right,” said Peter and added coolly: “And, more or
less in the same connection, maybe I can save you a bit
of trouble, Young. No doubt you noticed that the ad-
dress and the word 'Personal' on the envelope were writ-
ten by different machines.”
“What?” cried Young. “You don't mean to say-
Where's Ogilvy? He has the original. I gotta see for my-
self.”
“You'll find him in the library,” said Peter, "and-
wait a second. You'll also find a typewriter there, over
in the corner, behind the screen.”
“Yeah?” The broad mouth fell open.
"Try writing the word 'Personal on it," suggested
Peter, "and see what you think.”
“What I– Glory be!" Young pushed unceremoniously
past the two men and burst through the library door,
leaving it partly open.


A MAN'S ENEMIES
157
A glance within showed Peter that there was no one
there now but Ogilvy, a fact which caused him little sur-
prise and, at the minute, no anxiety.
“What does that mean, Clancy?" Doctor Saunders'
voice was low but did not hide his intense curiosity.
“What could it?" asked Peter in an even quieter tone.
"Don't let's talk here, Doctor. This place is like a whisp-
ering gallery. Do you mind if we go upstairs? There are
a couple of questions I'd like your expert opinion on.”
“Glad to help if I can, Clancy, although I can't stay
but a few minutes.” Saunders' face was grave and trou-
bled. He said nothing more until the door of Nolan
Whittlesey's late bedroom was closed behind them. The
room was filled with a cold gray light from an overcast
sky. All the normal furnishings seemed to take on a
queer look of relevancy, as if, having witnessed the hide-
ous tragedy, they were willfully withholding important
testimony. The doctor's glance came back to Peter's face.
“I suppose I'm allowed to draw my own conclusions
from what you just said about the typewriter downstairs,”
he remarked.
Peter nodded.
“There's no doubt that the word 'Personal was added
here?”
“Absolutely none.”
“Clancy," said the doctor with a quick motion of his
hands, “there have been a lot of queer things happening
in this house. Young was so busy telling me of his own
preconceived theories I didn't have a chance to tell him
something I found that I believe will interest you as much
as it did me.”


A MAN'S ENEMIES
159
“Hum-m-m," said Peter. “And how long would the
effect last?"
"Oh, a long time," the doctor replied promptly. “All
night in ordinary circumstances.”
"Interesting. Very interesting,” muttered Peter. And
after a second: "Could you tell, Doctor, about what time
he took it?"
"I wouldn't care to make a definite statement,” Saun-
ders answered cautiously, “but my opinion would be that,
since he died between ten and eleven, he must have taken
the dose a good deal earlier. Perhaps as much as three
or even four hours.”
"Then,” said Peter swiftly, "he was murdered in his
sleep."
"It certainly looks like that." The physician's brows
contracted still more.
"In his sleep,” Peter repeated half aloud. "Do you see
where that gets us, Doctor? Anyone could have done it,
so far as physical strength is concerned. Man, woman,
or even child. ... He was completely at the mercy of—"
“Who, Clancy? Have you any idea?” urged Saunders,
as Peter paused.
"I have so many they're all bumping into each other.”
Peter pushed his fingers through his thick red mane.
"Most of them seem improbable. Crazy. And yet ..."
Clancy's momentary silence proved too much for the
doctor's impatience. “Tell me this," he exclaimed.
"You've figured out a lot. I can see that. Well, then—I
asked you before—why, in heaven's name, did he take
something to make him sleep? Wouldn't he have wanted
to keep wide awake, with all his wits about him?"


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A MAN'S ENEMIES
Wg roar.
“There's only one answer to that." Peter spoke with
great deliberation. "Only one possible answer. ... He
didn't expect the writer of that extortion note last night.”
"But it named the date. October twenty-eighth. Young
let me see it, you know,” countered Saunders. “How can
you possibly explain— Hello! What's all that noise?”
“Can't imagine!” Peter leaped and flung open the door.
He heard Young's loud voice. Then Ogilvy's. Heavy
feet pounded through the hall below. The front door was
dashed open and fell to with a bang. Outside the shout
of the District Attorney's man came back in a threaten-
ing roar.
Speeding along the upper hall toward the front of the
house, Peter almost collided with the nurse who, alarmed
by the noise, had just opened her bedroom door. He re-
membered afterward seeing Miss Amanda's white face
on the other side of the stairwell. At the minute he was
conscious of nothing but a desire to get to a front win-
dow. In a second he had reached and entered the corner
room, dashed across it and was gazing down into the
drive below as Young and Ogilvy jumped into a police
car and drove swiftly away in pursuit of an automobile
that had just flashed out of sight beyond the gates.
“Good heavens above!” exclaimed Peter. “Wasn't that
Terrell's car?"
"Oh, he couldn't be such an infernal fool as to try to
make a getaway,” cried the doctor.
"They'll get him," said Peter grimly. "Make no mis-
take. He hasn't much of a start. It doesn't seem pos-
sible. ..." As he turned away from the window his
attention was caught by a quick movement in the upper
was
noven


A MAN'S ENEMIES
16г
hall. Rapidly crossing the room, he was in time to see
Lottie, the housemaid, run from the stairhead down the
short service hall and disappear in the direction of her
bedroom.
“What was she in such a rush about?” he asked of
Miss Delancey who had advanced a few steps along the
front hall.
"Lottie, do you mean? I didn't notice,” she answered.
“I was listening to all that noise and excitement. I hope
there's been no more trouble.”
"Only a mistake that will soon be put right.” Peter
spoke with more assurance than he felt. "In the mean-
time, Miss Delancey, I wonder if you could give Doctor
Saunders a little information about Mr. Whittlesey's re-
cent illness.”
“Yes,” said Saunders, deftly catching his cue. "His reg-
ular physician was Doctor Trobridge of Huntington, I
understand.”
"That's right, sir," the nurse replied promptly. “But
Mr. Whittlesey was so much better that the doctor hasn't
been coming regularly for some time. In fact,” She
paused, glancing up uncertainly at Saunders' face.
"In fact—what?" prompted Peter swiftly.
“Mr. Whittlesey practically dismissed Doctor Tro-
bridge some weeks ago, sir," she answered in a low voice.
“I'd rather not talk about it. You must realize, Doctor
Saunders, that a nurse isn't supposed to discuss a patient's
affairs."
Peter saw the swift lift of her eyelid, and, following
the direction of her glance, observed that Miss Amanda's
door was patently ajar. His lips twisted into a sardonic


162
A MAN'S ENEMIES
smile of comprehension.
"Perhaps we could step into your room a minute, Miss
Delancey," he said, catching her eye. “It's a little less-
ahem-public."
He held the door for her to pass and followed Saunders
into a well furnished, fairly large room. It was somewhat
disordered since, death having put a period to her term
of service, Miss Delancey had started to pack. She mur-
mured a word of apology as she cleared chairs for them.
Peter was too nervous to sit down. He listened to a
somewhat technical discussion of Nolan Whittlesey's pro-
tracted illness and well-nigh completed recovery. The
nurse's professional reticence faded to some extent under
the doctor's authoritative manner and she admitted that
Mr. Whittlesey had quarreled with Doctor Trobridge and
practically dismissed him.
“We had the necessary prescriptions and the patient
was improving steadily.”
"He was still troubled with insomnia, though. Wasn't
he, Miss Delancey?” Peter put in quietly.
"Well, yes—and no.” She hesitated. “You'll understand
why I say that, Doctor Saunders. You see he was really
sleeping all right, but quite a while ago before my time
-he'd been very wakeful and suffering considerable pain.
It was then that Doctor Trobridge prescribed Barbital
Sodium. Lately the patient could easily have gone with-
out a sedative, and often did, specially when I was right
here, on hand. But then, other times, if he was nervous
or upset about anything, he'd get scared-afraid he
wouldn't sleep-get panicky—and insist on taking a
good stiff dose.”


A MAN'S ENEMIES
163
"He could get it and take it himself?" Peter asked.
“Oh, yes. He was quite well enough to help himself.”.
The doctor nodded gravely. "That would seem to be
what he did last night.”
In spite of years of training, the nurse could not re-
press a shudder. “You mean”—she said slowly—“that
you found traces?”
Again the doctor nodded with somber meaning.
“But it's a harmless drug. It couldn't have had any-
thing to do,”
“No, no. Don't distress yourself,” said the kindly phy-
sician sympathetically. “He wasn't poisoned.”
They talked on for a minute longer but developed
nothing of significance. Peter's restlessness increased. He
walked to the door and, opening it a crack, stood still,
looking and listening.
Across the stairwell he saw Miss Amanda's door
slowly open. A second of reconnaissance followed. Then
she went very quickly along her side of the balcony-like
hall and disappeared in the front room on that corner.
Already having worked out in his mind a complete plan
of the house, Peter knew that those apartments belonged
to the daughter of the house.
Whether any importance should be attached to the
older lady's movements, Peter had no time to consider,
for at that minute he was aware of the distant ringing of
a telephone bell and almost immediately Samuel appeared
in the hall below.
“For me?” Peter questioned, leaning over the balus-
trade.
The butler started and looked up. His narrow face,


164
A MAN’S ENEMIES
foreshortened, had an oddly unnatural look. He said:
“Quite. Thank you, sir,” in a tone that Wiggar would
have approved. “Will you take it here, sir?” he added,
indicating with a suave gesture the booth under the
landing.
Peter nodded and ran lightly down the stairs. The
message was from O'Malley.
“Reporting progress, Pete.” The steady quiet voice had
a tonic quality to jangled nerves. “Thought you might
like to hear we've checked definitely on the butler, Samuel
Kilroy. There seems to be no doubt that he went directly
from the train to his friends in the Audubon Apartments,
West One Hundred and Tenth Street. They have several
children old enough to know what's what but too young
to be readily coached for an alibi. He was playing games
with them until after ten o'clock, so apparently you can
cross him off the list.”
“Good,” said Peter, but his tone was not particularly
enthusiastic. “How about the others?”.
“Seem OK, but we're still working. I'll call you again
as soon as we make sure."
"Well, as the little boy said, “Thanks for this far,'”
said Peter. "Something turned up a little while ago,
O'Malley, that we'd better get a line on right away.
You'll be interested to know ” Briefly he recounted
Judith's story of the night's happenings and also that of
Terrell. The two experts then agreed on the points that
should be determined and Peter rang off.
After switching on the extensions again, he left the
telephone booth and went into the library. This, being
situated in the northwest corner of the ground floor,


A MAN'S ENEMIES
165
commanded a fine view of the grounds and drive. The
doctor, who had previously mentioned imperative affairs
elsewhere, was just entering his car. The policeman at
the house entrance, rendered more vigilant by Young's
recent irruption, was in evidence at intervals as he paced
back and forth. A figure that Peter guessed rightly to
be that of young Davis, the gardener, could be seen
gathering up some cut branches from beneath a group of
tall rose bushes. Otherwise the place seemed oddly quiet
and deserted.
"They're taking a long time to get Terrell and bring
him back," Peter murmured to himself as he turned un-
easily and walked over toward the fireplace. "I wonder
if-"
He stopped short, staring. In plain sight on the library
table in the center of the room was a current copy of
the New Yorker.


XVIII
“But it wasn't here before, I tell you."
“Strange.” Wiggar, hastily summoned, had just joined
his master in the library. "Is it something important, Mr.
Peter?"
"I–I believe it is," muttered Peter. "For—or against.
. . . Look here. See this little yellow tag pasted in the
corner? Shows Terrell is a regular subscriber—and this
is his copy. Very well. Now see this.” He turned the
leaves, speaking slowly as if verifying to himself his
own conclusions. "Here's an advertisement for special
brakes on a Merced car. ... They've used part of that
celebrated article entitled 'Sudden Death.' The title here
is all in caps—same as in that extortion note. . . . And
on the other side one of Thurber's drawings. Just like
I thought. You couldn't mistake his fadeaway-chin pro-
files. See? Those words certainly—and probably all the
others in the note—were cut from this number of the
New Yorker."
“Yes, Mr. Peter,” Wiggar observed briskly as his
master paused. “But this copy being intact is certainly
very much in young Mr. Terrell's favor, is it not?”
“You'd be glad of that, Wiggar?” Peter glanced up
into the valet's immovable face.
"He has a very pretty taste in hose, has Mr. Terrell,"
. 166


A MAN'S ENEMIES
167
commended Wiggar. "And the way he cares for his hair
would be a great satisfaction to his man—if he had one.”
The latter remark was so severely pointed that Peter
bent an apologetic head, concealing an irresistible smile
as, apparently engrossed in the study of the New Yorker,
he felt Wiggar's ubiquitous comb pass through his own
recalcitrant locks.
Neither commented on a customary and oft-repeated
incident. As if there had been no interruption, Peter said:
“As far as appearance goes, anyone might be excused for
falling for Faulkner Terrell. But we mustn't let our artis-
tic taste lead us astray, Wiggar. Copies of the humorous
magazines can be found on every newsstand, and it might
justly be contended that the sudden materialization of
this number, with the incontrovertible evidence that Ter-
rell subscribed for it, was merely a subtle and clever
trick.”
"I see that, sir," said Wiggar uncomfortably.
"It would be pretty elaborate," Peter went on in a
musing tone. “But this crime is elaborate, Wiggar,
planned by a brain that may be a little warped but that
has thought out detail after careful detail. . . . If there
is a slip-it will be through some unforeseen and uncon-
trollable accident. ... (What we call accident.) Some
small cake of soap carelessly thrown down a blowhole-
that would make the whole geyser erupt. . . . Or—a
little thing—like a copy of a funny paper. ... Who
knows?”
The last being obviously a rhetorical question, Wig-
gar, from long experience, remained quiet, waiting devel-
opments. After a few minutes, Peter roused himself and


168
A MAN’S ENEMIES
spoke in a different tone.
"You haven't any idea how this New Yorker got in
here just now, Wiggar? You haven't noticed anything
queer—perhaps among the servants?”.
“They're all nervous and upset," the valet replied
thoughtfully. “The butler, however, keeps his head com-
mendably. The cook, also, goes on with her work pretty
well-considering. The housemaid is very much flurried,
but she is young and foolish—and is, I fancy, not having
smooth sailing in her love life, if I may be pardoned the
expression, sir.”
"How do you mean?” Peter' did not smile at Wiggar's
precise utterance.
"Soon after luncheon she telephoned quite frantically
to her lover. Ahem! At least, though I couldn't hear what
she said, I concluded so from the fact that she ran out
the back way a little later, and I'm quite sure she met
the young gardener, Davis, whom I saw a short time
afterward tidying up the grounds.”
"Did you see Lottie come in?”
"No, sir. I was too busy observing Miss Judith and
the secretary.”
"Hey!” cried Peter. “What's that? Did you hear—"
“Very little, sir, I'm sorry to say. Miss Judith fol-
lowed Mr. Terrell from the library to his room. They
saw me lingering in the hall, unfortunately, and closed
the door. That was just before they left the house."
"They? Is she with Terrell now?” Peter asked sharply.
“You didn't know, Mr. Peter, that they both jumped
into Mr. Terrell's car that was standing near the garage
and drove off?"


A MAN'S ENEMIES
169
"No," said Peter. "Perhaps that partly explains—"
He started up. “There's a car coming up the drive now.
Probably they're in it. . . . Yes. No! What the devil?
Lieutenant Ogilvy—and Judith. No one else. By George,
that means” He was in the hall in a split second and
pulled open the door.
"It's an outrage,” cried Judith, storming up the steps.
"A damned outrage. Whatever you say, Ben, I can
never- Oh,” she broke off as her blazing eyes lighted
on Peter, “there you are, Mr. Clancy! Well, can't you
do something? You stand there like”
“What's it all about, Ogilvy?" Peter addressed the
trooper with a calm he was far from feeling.
“They've arrested Faulkner! The imbeciles!” The girl's
rage and agony were painful to witness. “Why didn't they
shut me up, too? Running away! What idiotic nonsense.
It was I who suggested that we drive out a little way—
where it was quiet—and we could think—think. Faulkner
didn't want to go. But I thought I'd go mad if I stayed
here where — Oh, can't you understand?”
“But you went down the drive so fast, Miss Judith,”
said the trooper. "We only saw Terrell and it looked—”
“We always drive fast," the girl interrupted fiercely.
"It wasn't anything unusual. And when you caught up
you wouldn't have stopped us, Ben. It was only that hor-
rible little man, Young. Oh, how can they have a stupid
person like that in authority—even in the country? He
a detective! What right has he to lock-to put Faulkner
-Faulkner—in jail?”
"He's doing it regular enough, Clancy," said the
trooper in an unhappy undertone. "Got in touch with the


A MAN'S ENEMIES
171
The girl explained rapidly in a very low tone as they
went into the library. Peter could hear little but gathered
there was nothing divulged that he did not already know.
The two ladies seated themselves together on a deep
leather couch. Ogilvy remained standing nearer the win-
dow. He said very little but every line of his soldierly
figure expressed anxiety not unmixed with dread. Peter
drew a chair forward in such a position that his back
was toward the light of the coppery sunset sky. In a
formal voice he recapitulated briefly his accidental pres-
ence in the office of Captain of Detectives Kerrigan of
the New York City Police when Mr. Babcock called there
for advice and reassurance on the previous night. He
explained that he and Captain Kerrigan both felt a cer-
tain responsibility in the subsequent tragedy, since they
had rather belittled to Mr. Babcock the probability that
the circumstance of the extortion note would have even
serious—let alone fatal-consequences.
"Kerrigan felt very badly about it, Miss Whittlesey,
and so did I," Peter went on earnestly. "His position
practically ties his hands—while mine are free. I want,
and I mean—to use them—whatever happens in the
cause of justice. A good many things have come to my
attention—" He paused. His keen eyes left the face of
the older woman and fixed themselves on the girl. “There's
no use blinking the fact, Mrs. Terrell,” he said slowly,
“that the case against your husband—” Miss Amanda's
mouth opened but closed with a snap as Peter repeated,
with stern firmness, "the case against your husband, your
late father's secretary, is damaging, and, in the hands of
the police, dangerous. It's no exaggeration to say it. . i.


172
A MAN’S ENEMIES
You must face the point that, while a wife can't be forced
to testify against her husband, no jury could be con-
vinced that a wife's testimony in her husband's favor
could be entirely impartial. According to the story you
both told earlier, you, Mrs. Terrell, can't possibly know,
of your own knowledge, that he is not guilty.”
"Stop! You can't say that," cried Judith vehemently.
“What does it matter where he was at ten o'clock last
night? I know him. He has a hot temper. Yes. I grant
you that. He might knock a man down in a fair fight
and for a good cause. He might even hit too hard— But
he wouldn't mean to kill. ... And no matter if Father
had a disgraceful secret-and Faulkner found it out-
he'd no more resort to a disgusting subterfuge like that
blackmail note—than I would—or Aunt Amanda!”
The older lady drew back and her chin came up.
"Don't talk nonsenseMrs. Terrell!” she said with
sharp emphasis.
"I would have told you, Auntie," murmured the girl,
“but there's been no time."
"Humph!” Miss Amanda's lips were a thin straight
line. “Well. Go on, young man. What have you got to
say to that?”
“You mean what have I to say about the extortion
note?” said Peter. His voice was as clear and sharp as a
surgeon's knife. With merciful speed he enumerated the
damaging facts: the practical certainty that the paper
and envelope used had been received in Graytowers in
the form of an advertisement—the proof that the type-
writer employed to make it look like a private communi-
cation was unquestionably the one in the corner over


A MAN'S ENEMIES
173
there behind the screen-and the irrefutable testimony
of Terrell's own fingerprints. Presented as Peter knew
how, the facts were appalling in their significance. “That's
the way the prosecution would handle it,” he concluded.
“Add to it that apparently he tried to make a getaway
just now—with your connivance—and you see what we're
up against.”
"We? Did you say 'we,' young man?” Miss Amanda
cut in sharply. “Do you mean to include yourself?”
"I do if Mrs. Terrell will allow me to carry on-on
my own terms,” said Peter slowly. "If her husband is
guilty, I wouldn't lift one finger to save him. Even if
he's only partially involved in one of the most dastardly,
cold-blooded crimes of this or any other day, I'd have
no compunction in seeing that he got his just deserts.
But,”
Judith was gazing straight at the plain, strong, deter-
mined face. Against the glowing west the man's red hair
shone in a golden fillet of light. She pressed her hand hard
against her pounding heart. Subtly, indescribably under
her gaze that stern face changed. She caught her breath.
“But if he isn't guilty,” she whispered. "If Faulkner-
my husband—”
"If he is innocent," said Peter with all the controlled
strength of his ardent spirit, “I'll never rest! I'll move
heaven and earth to prove it.”


A MAN'S ENEMIES
175
thing for Top Hat. He was never a thoroughly bad yegg.
He took the rap for Johnnie and saved him once, but the
boy went completely to the bad and, while Rafferty was
still in jail serving a sentence for him, Johnnie was shot
and killed by one of his own gang—and I had to tell
Mollie the whole truth. Of course it made Mollie stronger
than ever for Top Hat. I persuaded her to get away from
New York, but she won't give up Rafferty. I've been so
busy I haven't kept in close touch, but I believe he can't
have been out more than a few days. He promised to go
straight—but I suspect he played the races to get some
coin to join Mollie. Racing is one of his weaknesses. ...
Then, when he was stony broke, he probably couldn't
think of anything better than to make use of his very
special talents. That's as I figure it. ... I know the man,
Ogilvy. He's not a pattern of probity. But, I said it before,
and I'll stake my last dollar on it-Top Hat Rafferty is
not a killer.”
“Gee, I guess you ought to know, Clancy," said the
trooper. “But after all,” he went on thoughtfully, "Raf-
ferty was on the balcony upstairs-before-after-or
during the killing. That's a cinch.”
“Yes,” said Peter, leaning closer. “And he was fright-
ened by something. Scared to death I believe, or a neat
operator such as he is would never have blundered
through the garden-and in the wrong direction, too. ...
I've been trying to figure it out ... knowing something
of Rafferty's psychology. ... And it seems to me, if he'd
actually seen the murderer-caught him in the act—he'd
have gotten in touch with me right away and trusted to
my being able to get him out of any trouble.”


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A MAN'S ENEMIES
"But if he wasn't a witness to the murder," Ogilvy pro-
posed tentatively, “what can he do about putting the fin-
ger on the murderer?”
"I-don't-know," said Peter. “But I have a crazy
hunch that he may have seen—something—something of
infinite importance! That's why we must get hold of Raf-
ferty before Young or any of the Sheriff's crowd pick him
up. They might intimidate him-give him the third degree.
By the time they got through with that, Top Hat would
hardly remember what he saw. I want to question him
while his mind is clear, Ogilvy! While he can tell us every
detail. He wouldn't be afraid of me. If only—”.
"Say, Clancy!” The trooper started forward. “Couldn't
you get in touch through his girl? Don't you know where
she is?”
"No. Only where she was,” Peter replied on a note of
discouragement. “And if Rafferty is hiding out—as I
believe he must be—Mollie may not know a thing. But :
it's our best bet and I'm playing it every way I know how.
I still have hopes— What is it, Wiggar?”
The valet had appeared so silently that Ogilvy started.
The room had grown dark without his noticing it. He
could just see the pale face of the soft-footed intruder.
"Pardon, Mr. Peter. Something I think may interest
you, sir.”
“Right,” said Peter, starting from his chair. “What-"
“The housemaid, sir.” Wiggar answered the half spoken
question. “Trying to have hysterics. In the kitchen.”
"But why? What's happened, Wiggar?”
“Maybe you could get the right of it first hand, sir. No
one else seems to be able to do anything. The New York


A MAN'S ENEMIES
177
paper had just been brought into the servants' hall
when"
“Oh?” cried Peter. “We'd better have a look. Ogilvy,
come along."
The kitchen presented a scene of great confusion.
Lottie, her pretty head and arms mixed up with the green
salad she had been getting ready for dinner, sat sprawled
out on the table in the center of the room. Miss Delancey
was bending over her with a bottle of aromatic ammonia.
Samuel, who had summoned the nurse, now stood aside
in impenetrable dignity. The cook was giving voluble
advice and keeping one eye on steaming pots. In the door-
way, his dark face flushed and glowering, stood Davis, the
young gardener. He held that evening's copy of the New
York Meteor clenched and crumpled in his strong brown
hands.
Peter slid swiftly around the center of noise and con-
fusion.
“May I see that?” he asked in a quiet tone of authority.
Davis started, looked up with snapping eyes, and with-
out a word handed over the paper. Peter half turned away
as he opened it. A new high in European war rumors took
the top headlines, but lower on the page was an account
of the murder at Graytowers, and with it a portrait, both
front and side view, of convict H Z 40893, T. H. some-
times known as Top Hat Rafferty.
“Wanted. He's wanted by the police—that guy.” The
gardener's breath stirred the hair behind Peter's ear. “So
what?”
"Well, so what?” Peter murmured in a low confiden-
tial voice as he glanced up to meet Ogilvy's eye fixed upon


180
A MAN'S ENEMIES
as he picked out the bits of flotsam useful to his purpose.
“Your murderous jealousy won't get you anywhere,
Davis,” he added sternly, "except maybe into trouble.
Now you calm down and let me do the talking. Your girl's
in a tight place, if the police take action, and all you can
do is to get your dander up and drive what little sense
she has out of her pretty head. She has as much right to
be interested in horses as you have to like petunias.”
(This chance shot went home, for Davis, in spite of his
wild temper, was an ardent petuniaist.)
Lottie sniffed. "Yeah, Dolph. And that's how I come to
get to talking with—with—he said his name was Smith.
Henry Smith.”
She snuffled again and Peter substituted the name at
which she balked: “Rafferty. It was Rafferty? You recog-
nize him??'
"Oh, yes, sir. I'd know him anywheres. He looks nicer
in a hat, and he did know how to tip it awful swell. All
the way off like Mr. Faulkner does. That's how we got to
talking, and I didn't think it was any harm, because he
said almost right off he was a gardener and wanted a nice
place to work. Said he'd tried other things but they was
no good. I told him about the big gardens around Hicks-
ville and Floral Park and he was awful interested."
“When was this, Lottie?” Peter was careful not to show
a disturbing eagerness.
"Last Saturday. I took that day off instead of Sunday
on account of because"
"I see,” said Peter quickly. "And did Rafferty come all
the way out here with you?”
“Yes-yes, sir.” She glanced warily at Davis.


A MAN'S ENEMIES
181
Peter spoke again before the gardener could do more
than growl in his throat. "Perhaps you brought Rafferty
in and gave him something to eat,” he suggested.
"No, I didn't. There was lights in the kitchen and he
said he'd ruther not come in.”
"But it being a lovely mild moonlight night Saturday,
maybe you showed him the garden—and all around the
outside of the house.”
The girl nodded fearfully, with an eye not on Peter but
on her lover.
“You would!” growled Davis through clenched teeth.
“Rafferty asked you quite a lot of questions, didn't he,
Lottie?"
“Yes, sir. I guess he did. I can't remember.”
"Had he ever been here before?” Peter fixed her with a
searching glance.
“Oh, I'm sure he hadn't. I never seen him before or
since, and God knows, Dolph, I don't never want to set
eyes on him again. Honest I don't. Please, sir,” she raised
her absurdly liquid eyes to Peter, “don't let the cops ask
me any more questions. I get so scared I don't even know
if I'm telling the truth or not."
"But you haven't lied to me, have you, Lottie?" There
was something in the detective's voice that riveted her
inconsequent attention. “You told me the truth this after-
noon in the library when you said you'd never mentioned
Mr. Whittlesey's safe—the one in his bedroom—to any
outsider? Think now before you answer. This time you
must be careful.”
"Oh, oh, I forget! I ain't sure.”
“You did tell Rafferty about the safe,” said Peter with


A MAN’S ENEMIES
183
that tiny wound in Whittlesey's neck ... that small
jagged cut, that looks only a little more than skin
deep. . . . We have to take that into account in any
theory we build up. . . . And when we find out what
made it-maybe we'll know all the answers. Think it
over!”


“TELEGRAM from Chicago for you, Clancy. Just came into
the office.”
Peter recognized the voice on the wire. It was that of
his junior partner, Brooke Cranston.
“OK. Shoot,” he ordered hastily.
"It's from Mollie.”
“Good!”
"Not very. Reads: 'Expected hat Monday. No news,
Please please call me Winslow 98436.'”
"Humph,” Peter groaned. “It's what we had to expect.
But evidently she's seen the personal you wired to the
Chicago papers and, if she caught it as quick as this, the
chances are T. H. may see it too. He'll have an eagle eye
on all the papers, if he can get to them. Mollie's name
would catch his eye as quickly as his own, and he'd under-
stand the rest.”
“You'll call Mollie? Or shall we?"
"Oh, I will." Peter spoke decidedly. "Poor kid. She
must have seen accounts of the murder and her heart will
be doing a rhumba. Give me her number again.”
Cranston did so, reported that O'Malley himself was
still out working on the alibi angle, and rang off.
Peter immediately called long distance and in an amaz-
ingly short time had the frightened girl on the wire. His
184


A MAN'S ENEMIES
185
confident belief that Top Hat couldn't have been guilty
of the murder was such unspeakable relief to her that the
possibility of his fall from grace in other directions sank
into insignificance.
"Thank God, oh, thank God you're on the case," she
cried brokenly. “Next to Him I trust you, Peter Clancy!
I want to come back to New York, but I sent T. H. the
key to my flat and he may turn up. ... Yes, yes. I'll
wire you the minute . . . and if I hear anything ...
Yes. . . . What? Oh, don't bother about me. I'm all
right. . . . Yes, I had to get another job, but it's good
enough. If only—I could make T. H. go straight, if I could
get hold of him. You know that, don't you? You'll help
me get him back! You're my only hope, Peter Clancy."
“You know I'll do my best, Mollie. Keep your chin up
—the way your mother did. That's the girl! I'll send you
news whenever anything breaks—and don't pay any at-
tention to the papers. The line they have on T. H. is so
wet it drips—if I can get to him first, Mollie. Make him
see that, at any cost. You're a swell kid all right. Good-
bye and the best of luck.”
Peter's throat felt cramped as he left the little telephone
room under the landing. His perennially youthful joy in
his own powers wilted somewhat under the sense of re-
sponsibility. Simple, honest, enthusiastic people like
Mollie-expected so much of him. ... Too much. ...
After all he was only a tool-kept sharp and workable,
though, by George! That's the point. His head came up
and his step was firm as he walked along the great
spacious hall.
Samuel was just putting the lights on. He glanced with


A MAN'S ENEMIES
187
“Naturally,” said Peter with innocent eyes, congratu-
lating himself that he had gone over the room thoroughly,
with Wiggar's connivance, not half an hour before.
As the policeman let himself out, Samuel appeared and
announced dinner. Peter demurred somewhat but Bab-
cock overrode his objections.
“They don't stand on ceremony in the country," he
said. “It'll take you an hour to get to town and it's seven
now. Of course they expect you to stay."
Judith sent down her thanks to Babcock for his offer of
service and also her excuses. Lottie delivered them with
becoming modesty. Her volatile nature evidently stood
her in good stead in a crisis, for her cheeks were flushed
and her eyes sparkled as she glanced demurely aside at
the good looking detective who must be a real swell if he
could treat himself to a valet-and such a valet! Grander
even than Mr. Kilroy. . . . And hadn't Mr. Clancy said
she was pretty—and held her hand, too, when she was
just ready to go off again in another fit of hysterics? He
wouldn't let them do anything to her about Rafferty—
alias Mr. Henry Smith. Mr. Clancy was a lot smarter
than that dumb-bell Young, or the men from the Sheriff's
office. So she should worry!
Waiting at dinner she lost no opportunity of making
dove's eyes at Peter whenever the butler's back was
turned. It was a very quiet meal, for the detective was
deep in serious consideration and the conversation was
carried on principally by the other two occupants of the
table.
Miss Amanda's mind was, naturally, entirely engrossed
with the late tragedy and the steps that had been taken


A MAN'S ENEMIES
189
versation. Dinner was scarcely over when he was called
once more to the telephone. It was O'Malley this time.
He was very guarded in his statements. Said he thought
they had found a bit of a crack in one of the alibis and
that it would be worth while for Pete to come in and
handle the next move himself. Knowing his partner well,
Peter did not hesitate.
“Ought to be able to get in by half past nine,” he said
crisply. “Where shall I meet you?”
"Stop at Kerrigan's office. He wants to see you. And
you might get him to lend you a police badge. I don't
expect trouble, but it'll be handy to have. You needn't
break your neck. The situation's not likely to change for
some time, and it's well in hand. Pick me up here after
you've seen Kerrigan. I'll be waiting. I think maybe we've
got something, boy. So long."
In spite of O'Malley's hopefulness Peter could not
shake off the sense of oppression of something sinister-
dangerous—in the atmosphere that had haunted him all
the evening. He thought of Mollie Ashe waiting alone for
the engaging young scoundrel on whom her heart was
fixed. And his mind turned naturally to the girl upstairs-
waiting too_alone. . . . The newly made wife. (For
that part of Terrell's story must be true, Peter concluded.
It would be so easy to prove-or disprove.) What was
she suffering—what anguish of fear—of hope scarcely less
agonizing if deferred?
Suddenly he realized he must see her before he left.
For the minute there was no one but the semi-eclipsed
policeman in the hall. Wiggar had already gone out for
the car. Peter went up the broad carpeted stairs two steps


A MAN'S ENEMIES
191
wonderful what warmth it gave to his plain clever face.
Judith's tense expression relaxed a little. “I believe
you're being very good to me, Mr. Clancy,” she said.
“The guest room in the opposite corner of the house is
always ready. I'll speak to Samuel."
"No, no. Don't do that,” Peter objected hastily. "I
mean I may not be able to get back, and there's no need
to mention it. The policeman guarding the front door will
be on all night. He'll let me in. My own valet will be with
me. I noticed that there's a couch in the dressing room
over there. It won't be necessary to disturb anyone. Nice
of you to ask us. I hope we can get back.”
As Peter ran down the stairs he saw Young, who had
just arrived, talking to Babcock in the hall below.
"Oh, you're quitting, are you?” remarked Young.
“Well, I will say you got it soft, being your own boss.”
He stepped a little nearer and asked in an undertone:
"Anything new turned up?”.
“I'll say so. You missed it not being here, Young.”
“What?” The round face was thrust out eagerly.
“A new way to cook artichokes! Yum, yum! And a
swell dinner.” Peter grinned and slapped Young genially
on the shoulder. “Well, how about it, Mr. Babcock? Com-
ing along?”
“Young thinks I might be of possible service if I stay
on a bit. Thank you just the same, Clancy. I can easily
get a train in later."
“All right, sir. Good night. Good night, Young, and
good hunting.”
With the blithe air of a man who had finished with all
care forever, Peter took his departure. He dropped his


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A MAN'S ENEMIES
gay mask, however, as the door clanged behind him. He
turned before getting into the waiting car to look up at
Judith's windows. Those in the tower, being the sitting
room part of the suite, shone dimly. The two in the bed-
room were alight.
Peter sighed as he took his place beside his faithful
servant.
“Well, we've done what we could here, Wiggar, for
the time being, and we'll have to trust to luck for the rest.
I'm just as glad we got that paper out of Terrell's room
before Young starts messing around, though he might
never have spotted it. A fairly good hiding place, but not
good enough for old hands like us. Eh, what?”
"Quite so, sir. Thank you.”
"I wonder—" Peter had long since fallen into the habit
of thinking aloud to his silent but appreciative servant. It
often helped him to weigh and clear matters in his own
mind. “I wonder,” he repeated, “if this might be the crux
of the whole ... matter. ... I'll feel a bit happier, in
any case, when it's in our office safe. If I'm not mistaken
it's the complete formula. Terrell gave me the impression
that it had been worked out to a finish. ... But look
here, Wiggar, we have only his word for that. ... Could
anything be made out of the theory that he really had
nothing worth selling? Or—perhaps had sold it—and re-
pented? Is that a thought-or is it? What will Young's
crowd make of it all—the marriage and everything, when
or if they find out?”
“The papers haven't mentioned it, sir,” Wiggar re-
marked after a considerable pause.
"No. Nor a lot of other things. I wonder if the police


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A MAN’S ENEMIES
stairs in the garage. Hope you'll be comfortable. We'll
finish the iris bed tomorrow."
"You betcha," said Top Hat with his most engaging
smile. “Good night—and thank you.” He stooped to pat
Wong Fu who looked up with adoring goggle eyes and
whimpered a little as her new deity disappeared into the
darkness.
Rafferty paused an instant to look at the guileless lock
that secured the lower part of the garage. He had already
seen the svelte streamlines of the car that now sat back,
gleaming provocatively in the darkness. For a long minute
he was tempted. Here was a way of escape. A long leg on
the journey to Mollie before the gas was exhausted. But
then—what? He had no money. Not any after the bus
ride of last night, Only last night! It didn't seem possi-
ble. The long day in the hot sun had done much to allevi-
ate his prison pallor. The sweat of congenial toil had
seemed to cleanse his body of some half-understood taint.
More than all, Miss Hannah had treated him like a human
being. Asked no questions. They had laughed together. A
lady—and a grand old sport!
With a sigh of renunciation he turned away from temp-
tation and climbed the outside stair to the comfortable
room above. There was even a bath—and she'd thought
to give him soap and towels.
After a while Miss Hannah, from her own window, saw
his light go out. She looked at herself curiously in the
glass as she brushed out her thick white hair.
"Sometimes I think you're a good deal of a fool,
Hannah,” she said aloud as she finished, “but I rather
like you. Good night.”


A MAN’S ENEMIES
195
And one is left to wonder if the brisk little lady would
have slept so sweetly if she had listened to the police news
on the radio that night, or if she had chanced to take an
evening rather than a morning metropolitan newspaper.


"You stopped to see Kerrigan?” O'Malley had changed
very little in the years that he and Peter had been part-
ners. A little grayer, a few pounds heavier, he still gazed
with deceptive mildness out upon the world from under
shaggy jutting eyebrows and over horizontal glasses that
he never seemed to look through. “Well,” he commented
with a sly grin, “it didn't seem to take you very long
to tell him all you knew.”
“Right you are," said Peter, perching on the corner of
the desk. “Don't look so wise. You irritate me."
"I only wish everything else was as easy,” sighed
O'Malley. "Shall we go?”.
"Not until you give me a tip what it's all about,” Peter
retorted. “Do you realize you didn't tell me a thing over
the wire? And here I came dashing to your siren call.”
"I'll explain as we go,” said O'Malley, shoving Peter
off the desk with an unpredictably muscular shoulder.
"You're sitting on my matches and you look hot enough
for spontaneous combustion with your gay red locks.”
"I wasn't sitting on them,” Peter remarked. “All right.
Come along. You may be able to interest Wiggar. He's
pretty keen on this case.”
"I'll do my humble best,” growled O'Malley, “but I
fauncey he's getting a bit choosy, Pete. You feed him such
196


198
A MAN'S ENEMIES
“That's for you to figure, Pete. All I can tell you is
what I find at this end.”
“Of course. Go ahead," urged Peter.
“Well, we started off fair enough with the points you'd
grabbed off from Young's notes. They were the truth,
apparently, as far as they went. She does share a three-
room apartment with another nurse named Isabel Loomis.
They seem to make a fairish amount of money to keep a
place as good as that for when they're off duty and
between cases. Anyhow, we contacted the Loomis woman
and, fortunately for us, she's the kind that would make a
professional monologist seem reticent, if you know what I
mean.”
"I do," said Peter feelingly. “Go on."
“My feet were tired and she had an awfully comfort-
able chair, so I let her run on to her heart's content.
Boiled down, the facts seem to be these. Miss Delancey
must have gone straight from the train to the apartment.
They had a date for dinner and to dance afterward with
-I didn't know anyone calls 'em that now, but she did -
with their “gentlemen friends.' Hers is called Herbert
Swift and he's in shoes, if it's anything to you."
"Just as well if they were going to dance,” Peter mur-
mured. “I'm more interested, though, in Miss Delancey's
beau. It's him we're calling on?”
“You always try to spoil my stories by telling the end,”
grumbled O'Malley. “Yes. And I'll tell you why. It took
a long time to get it all, but I'm quite sure that this chap,
(Doctor Mahlon Moore is his name) is considerably more
than a friend to your Miss Delancey."
“Oh? A little dirt came up on the spade?"


A MAN’S ENEMIES
201
"It's not me that's on the force,” the old man explained
truthfully. "Now, may we go up?”
Mrs. Brown sniffed at what she felt was an equivo-
cation. With a whispered word to her husband she led
the way upstairs and knocked at a door on the second
floor.
“Who is it?” The voice was cultivated but thickened
by dissipation.
Peter motioned peremptorily for the landlady to an-
swer.
She lifted her gray head with spirit and said: “Some
gentlemen to see you, Doctor Moore."
“Gentlemen? Huh! Can't be."
Peter, prepared for a rebuff, already had his hand on
the knob. Now he opened the door.
“There's been considerable argument about the defini-
tion of the term, Doctor Moore,” he said pleasantly. "It's
pretty late to go into it now and there are other things
of so much more interest. May we come in?"
"Since you are in, I should say the question was
tautological, Mr.— I don't believe I know your name,
though you seem quite familiar with mine.” The man
had on a silk dressing gown that was fairly new and
would have been good looking except for a long stain
down the front. His elaborate features were marred by
an over-modeling of soft flesh. After a "night of it” he
had not yet shaved.
"My name is Clancy, and this is Mr. O'Malley."
The doctor made an exaggerated bow. “And to what
do I owe the honor? Neither of you look exactly like
process servers, but one never can tell. They do things


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so well now.”
Peter toyed unostentatiously with the badge from his
pocket. If Moore was startled or alarmed he took pains
not to show it.
"I see,” he murmured with a sardonic smile. "So
what?"
“There was a shooting affray at the Bull and Whistle
last night,” Peter lied easily. “Someone who knew you
said you were there."
"Why—why, yes. I was.” Moore's eyes narrowed. “But
we left early.”
“How early?" Peter asked with pointed deliberateness.
"I–don't remember exactly. But I'm sure there wasn't
any trouble before I left, except the hell I believe I raised
myself.”
“And you can't remember the time?” Peter repeated.
"No. I can't. And that's flat. The liquor must have been
bad last night. I don't often pass out so early.”
"If your memory is so poor, how can you be sure it
was early.”
“Oh, they said it was. The other couple, you know.
Made an awful fuss. Wouldn't come along with us.
Why—"
“Us?” Peter cut in quickly. “Then you had someone
with you?"
“Yes. Why?"
“Your companion might not have been so seriously
affected.” Peter smiled indulgently. "Could she tell us the
time, perhaps? And where you went?”
Moore flushed darkly under the blue of his unshaven
cheeks.


A MAN'S ENEMIES
203
“I don't see what the hell difference it makes—”
“You took the lady home perhaps,” Peter cut in again,
imperturbable. "Did you go in a taxi?”
"No. I have my own car, such as it is,” Moore admit-
ted grudgingly. “Say, what is this anyway? I don't under-
stand how anyone got the silly idea that I could have
had anything to do with a mixup at the Bull and Whistle
when I was drunk as a lord and don't know anything that
happened afterward except that I took-er—my com-
panion to her apartment and then came here."
“Arriving,” said Peter silkily, “just before daylight.”
"If you want to make anything of that!” Moore
threatened.
"I don't,” Peter returned serenely. "I don't mean to go
unnecessarily into a purely personal matter. But just tell
me this, Doctor Moore. If the fellow at the Bull and
Whistle dies, can you get someone to swear where you
were between early last evening and early this morning?”
The man's bloodshot eyes crawled slowly down from
Peter's head to his feet and back again. They looked tired
and disillusioned to the point of desperation.
"You're serious. And you don't look like a fool,” he
said at length. "So I'll answer that question. Yes. If it
should ever be necessary I could appeal to a witness-
who could vouch for it that I didn't go back to the Bull
and Whistle after they practically put me out in the early
part of the evening."
"Very good.” Peter slipped Kerrigan's badge back in
his pocket. "I guess that'll be about all for tonight. Thank
you, Doctor."
"Some points of interest there,” whispered O'Malley


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as the door closed behind them.
“You've said it,” Peter responded in the same low tone.
“There's just one thing more I'd like to be sure of. We
don't look like process servers, you and I, O'Malley. Did
you get that?"
“Aye. He may one time have been in debt, poor dear.
But you notice, Pete, he's hung onto his car."
"A man shall leave father and mother and cling unto
his car," Peter misquoted. “Wait a sec. I want to ask a
question here of good Mrs. Brown. Coming?"
O'Malley followed along the tessellated black and white
oilcloth and waited while Peter knocked on the door at
the end of the hall.
Mrs. Brown opened it. Peter thought she looked flus-
tered. A tempest seemed not quite to have calmed in the
marital teapot, for, as they entered, the skinny little old
husband glanced truculently up from his place in the
easiest chair.
“What do they want, Amy?” he asked sharply.
Peter smiled down at the fluttering little old lady.
"Confidentially, Mrs. Brown,” he said, “I just wanted
to ask you what prospect there was of our collecting a
small debt from Doctor Moore.”
“There, Silas. What'd I tell you?” She glanced snap-
pily across her shoulder.
"You shut up, Amy," ordered the old man in a tone
that evidently anticipated defeat.
"I think we have first claim, sir," said little Mrs.
Brown, lifting a determined chin. “The doctor, poor soul,
has been owing us rent for well over two months. I didn't
like to press him because he's been so good for Silas'


A MAN'S ENEMIES
205
stomach trouble and never charged a penny. He owes us
about seventy dollars, as a matter of fact. That would
leave thirty over from the money Pa got out of him to-
night. We haven't changed it yet.”
"You mean—" Peter kept himself well in hand though
his throat felt suddenly a little dry. "You mean to say
that the doctor's in funds again? That he paid you with a
hundred dollar bill?”.
O'Malley's face was perfectly blank.
“That looks good to me,” he said. “Can't you change
the bill for Mrs. Brown, Pete? You usually have plenty
of funds. He plays poker, ma'am. And is he lucky!”
“Why, I believe I can," said Peter brightly, “if you
have the money by you.” He took out a plethoric bill
folder and began counting.
Brown got up and came over to the table, examining
with mean little acquisitive eyes every bill as it fell. Mrs.
Brown also drew near, seemingly hypnotized by the ap-
pearance of so much wealth. Her voice was hardly above
a whisper when she said: “If you have all that, sir, you
can't be needing your money like the garage man does.
He's so poor and his wife getting another baby next week
or sooner-by the looks. Maybe—maybe you'd con-
sider-” She clasped her worn hands together and the
appeal in her face braced itself for action. “I been talking
to Silas,” she went on determinedly, "and I decided I'd
just make it my business to insist that Doctor Moore pay
Jack the garage man before anyone else. ..."
"Seventy.” Peter looked up, smiling. “Eighty, eighty-
five, ninety, ninety-five, one hundred. That's right, isn't
it, Mrs. Brown? You'd better count it over.”


A MAN'S ENEMIES
209
ing my best, old man, not to let myself be influenced by a
theory—a crazy kind of a theory—that's been developing
in the back of my bean. So I wish you'd go over the facts
as they strike you. Without prejudice. Know what I
mean?”
“Well,” said O'Malley, "as I see it, neither the doctor
nor the nurse has an alibi that's worth a tinker's damn."
“They can only vouch for each other, and if they're
both in it together, it's worth exactly nothing. Right,”
Peter agreed.
"If they're in it together?” O'Malley queried with a
sharp look as the swift lights of the street flashed across
his companion's intent face. “Is there any doubt about it?
The nurse has had every chance to work out the lay of the
land and all that. Plenty of opportunity to rake up some-
thing out of old Whittlesey's past ... to grab off the
five thousand and come in town and start her party."
"Hold on. Wait a minute,” interrupted Peter. "Babcock
didn't get out to Graytowers with the money until after the
nurse had gone. He saw her in the Pennsylvania Station-
and Samuel, the butler, as well.”
"Is that so? Well, then, the nurse might easily have
found out the combination of that little old safe and
tipped off the doctor. He has a car. Apparently he could
have dashed out to the Whittlesey place, climbed up to
the balcony, strangled the old man, robbed the safe and
been back in New York long before he turned up at his
lodgings.”
“That's the way my friend Young would figure it out,”
Peter commented uneasily. “But how about you, O’Mal-
ley? Seriously, does it seem as simple as all that?”


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“I'm not saying. You tell me why it isn't, Pete."
“Well, for one thing, why would the doctor cough up
this bill so easily and quickly if he knew it was hot?”
“That little old ferret, Brown, has been pestering
Moore in season and out of season. Obviously he'd been
putting on the screws this evening. There's no doubt in
my mind-or in yours either, Pete—that the doctor has
been drunk as a lord. Of course he could have started his
bat after the crime was well over.”
“That would be possible enough. He might have been
only pretending, at the Bull and Whistle. But tell me,
old man, if he was sober then, why would he have called
plenty of people's attention to the fact that he and Ellen
Delancey were breaking away at that point? I mean
wouldn't it have been better for their alibi if he'd slipped
quietly away—and the nurse, at least, remained with the
party? He wouldn't have needed her to help him strangle
a sleeping man, nor to lift the five thousand. And another
thing: consider this. If they hadn't gone off together,
would even you have thought of searching out her com-
panion?"
“Hum-m-m. Probably not,” O'Malley conceded. "But
you know, Pete, how often criminals, especially inex-
perienced ones, slip up on some small detail.”
"Or overplay their hands,” said Peter. “Of course
Moore might have thought it a swell idea to make the
Loomis girl and her friend think he was terribly drunk,
so if it came to a showdown they could testify that he
would have been incapable of any considered act, let
alone climbing the house wall by a precarious ivy vine.”
“That's right.” O'Malley nodded. “But it sticks in


A MAN’S ENEMIES
2II
my mind, Pete, somebody took an awful chance bumping
Whittlesey off for a miserly little five thousand dollars.”
"He was a mean man. Everybody hated him, appar-
ently. Perhaps he was so stingy that they knew he
couldn't be touched for more."
"Maybe," growled O'Malley. "But here we are with
one hundred dollars of the blackmail money that we've
definitely traced to Doctor Mahlon Moore, and inferen-
tially to Ellen Delancey. The two must be in cahoots on
it somehow. Well, then, are you proposing to take the
responsibility of letting them romp around loose?”
Peter answered thoughtfully: “They're guarding the
house and grounds at Graytowers pretty thoroughly and
I don't believe the nurse could get away, even if she were
fool enough to try it. Unless or until–Moore discovers
that the Browns have parted company with this hun-
dred dollar bill, he's not likely to get the wind up. There
wasn't any telephone in his room. If he goes anywhere
to call up or telegraph the nurse, Rouncewell will put us
on and we can act accordingly. You'll send the best man
we have free to visit Rouncewell in the morning and give
him a chance to get some sleep.”
"OK,” said O'Malley. "It's your party. But if you slip
up, Pete, heaven help us! And what will Kerrigan say?”
"A-plenty,” was the grim answer. “But I'll risk it,
for tonight at least. I know I'm taking what looks like a
terrible chance, but I can't help it. After all, O'Malley,
this crime is only a little over twenty-four hours old.
I've got to have time to think. To study it all out quietly.
To put two and two together and figure out why they
don't make four. They don't—yet. Not in every case.


A MAN'S ENEMIES
213
Peter waited outside while Wiggar put the car away
and they went in together.
"OK, Mr. Clancy.” The man in the hall blinked sleep-
ily as he let them in. “Lieutenant Ogilvy said as how you
might be back. Good night, sir.”
Peter nodded pleasantly and, followed by the silent-
footed Wiggar, went softly up the stairs. A night light
burned in the upper hall. It was very still. In the front
corner on the north side, the door of the luxurious guest
room suite was open. Peter looked at Ellen Delancey's
door as he passed. Ah, if he could only see—could know
whether she slept the sleep of innocence, or cowered,
fearfully awake, in the dark mists of a guilt-laden soul.
Had her part in the tragedy been no more culpable than
that of the silly little man-crazy housemaid? Or was she
steeped in the plot up to the hilt?
"She shan't escape us. We'll find out tomorrow,” Peter
thought. Tomorrow. . . . And in the meantime-
He had nearly reached the guest room door when that
one belonging to Judith's suite opened softly and the
girl appeared on the threshold. A lounging robe of a
curious Chinese lacquer red was wrapped close about her
slender body and fell in gracious lines along the floor.
She beckoned him without a word.
Peter whispered something to Wiggar and then went
to her. He swept her inside with a gesture and closed the
door.
“I wanted to talk to you, Mrs. Terrell,” he murmured
rapidly. “Glad you've given me the chance to do it on
the quiet. Shall we come a little further from the door?
That's better. Now. Has anything happened here?”


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"That man Young wanted to question me, but he
wasn't very insistent. I sent word back by Samuel, and
it wasn't necessary to get hysterical.” She was horribly
nervous. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, but she kept
herself in hand.
“You didn't let Samuel in?”
"No. I've done exactly as you told me. Kept out every-
body-Auntie, the nurse. I haven't spoken to a soul ex-
cept to tell them I wanted nothing except to be alone.
But I want to know now, Mr. Clancy, why you told me
to do this. It's been terrible. When I saw the lights of
your car come up the drive-I–I couldn't stand it any
longer. Haven't you anything to say? Anything to tell
me?"
“Yes,” said Peter gently. "I think-now-I have. Cer-
tain things I must keep to myself for the present, but it
makes me very happy to say, Mrs. Terrell, that I feel
sure in my own mind that your husband had nothing to
do with this hideous crime—and, with your help—I be-
lieve sooner or later I'll be able to prove it.”
He reached out and steadied her as she sank into a
chair.
“I'm sorry I was so abrupt. Forgive me,” he pleaded.
"I'll forgive you anything in the world if you'll get
Faulkner out of this,” she cried softly. “Tell me what
it is that I can do. Everything."
"It may be a little hard, but the only way you can
serve for the present as I see it is to stand and wait-
and say nothing. Understand? Terrell hasn't told the
police about your marriage? You're sure he hasn't? Good!
And you mustn't either. Whatever they say against him


A MAN'S ENEMIES
215
in the papers, don't defend him. Let it look as black as
possible and keep your mouth shut. Can you do this?”.
Her glance searched his face as if it were glass through
which she might hope to read his mind.
“If you can make me see that it's necessary. Yes. I
can do anything for—my husband." Her voice lingered
on the words. Peter was sure it was the first time she
had spoken them to an outsider, and he felt a pang of
pity that they needs must be used in such a connection.
"You understand, don't you?” he said earnestly, “that
there's just one way absolutely to clear your husband's
name—and that is to find the person who murdered your
father, and to prove the fact without the shadow of a
doubt.”
"But that may take a long while,” she moaned. “And
what will they do to Faulkner in the meantime?"
“They can't do much for the present, and I promise
you on my honor, if Young shows a tendency to pull any-
thing rough, I'll upset some of his theories with such a
thump that he'll be bound to hold his hand. I have more
against Terrell really than he has, and yet I'm certain
that your husband is innocent in toto."
"Thank God," she breathed. “But can't you tell me
the reason you, who know Faulkner so little, are so sure?”
“I can and will tell you some of the things I've fig-
ured,” Peter answered slowly, "if you'll promise not to
ask any more and to do as I say.”
“All right,” she said firmly. “I promise.”
“Good,” said Peter and drew his chair closer. “You
know, Mrs.— No, I'd better call you Miss Judith. Do you
mind?” She shook her head and Peter went on quickly:


A MAN'S ENEMIES
217
“Why—why, yes! That's what he'd surely have done.
But—" She stopped and finished the unspoken question
with ardent, excited eyes.
“What happened after that,” Peter went on in a low
considering tone, “I can't proveyet. Somebody retrieved
the whole thing . . . tore off the front sheet on which
the ad appeared ... pasted the message, cut out of the
October New Yorker, on the plain back sheet . . . wrote
on the envelope with the library machine, for some pur-
pose of his or her-own, the word 'Personal, .. and
then delivered it. . . ." He stopped and his face took on
a look that Wiggar would have recognized. “That's what
I've got to prove! When, how—and by whom—was the
villainous note-taken to your father's room?”
Wiggar finished laying out his master's things. He al-
ways kept an overnight bag in the car in readiness for
and, if truth must be told, in the secret hope of an emer-
gency. Having quickly completed arrangements to his
satisfaction, he turned out the light and softly opened the
door. The released latch gave only the slightest click, but
there followed a startled movement outside and, looking
along the hall, the valet saw Miss Amanda Whittlesey,
in a dark flannel dressing gown, scuttling along the oppo-
site side toward her own room.
That the inquisitive lady had been listening at some
keyhole seemed obvious. She put up a bold front, how-
ever, when she reached her own apartments. Turning on
the threshold she favored the open door of the principal
guest room with a long, determined stare. Wiggar had
stepped back into the darkness. Whether she could see


218
A MAN'S ENEMIES
him or not it was impossible to determine. He remained
frozen in his place like a rabbit. Presently Miss Amanda
closed her door.
It was only a few minutes later that Peter Clancy
appeared. Wiggar told him of the circumstance. His mas-
ter laughed somewhat grimly but made no comment.
“I'm not going to bed quite yet, Wiggar," he said.
“But you turn in and get some sleep."
“Thank you, sir.”
The tone was noncommittal but Peter did not notice it.
A few minutes later, in dressing gown and slippers and
with a preoccupied face, he passed softly through the
quietly opened door and along the hall. All the house
now was still, except for the faint eerie moaning of the
wind in the trees outside and the low whispering creak
of a loose blind. As Peter slipped inside the door of
Nolan Whittlesey's bedroom, closing it without a sound,
his mind reverted to the girl whose eyes he had recently
filled with hope. “I wonder if that was the right move,”
he said under his breath. "It's taking a chance. But she'll
get some sleep now, and I believe it's worth it.” He had
switched on the lights. Someone, probably Young, had
gone over the place thoroughly that evening and many
objects had been moved, but so complete was the picture
in Peter's mind that he could reconstruct it, as he had
first seen it, in every detail. He moved about for a min-
ute, verifying previous impressions, and computing dis-
tances.
Then, with a queer look in his eyes, he sat down on
a chair in the middle of the room and, relaxing every
muscle, took each circumstance lightly but firmly in


A MAN'S ENEMIES
219
hand, striving to form a pattern that should have no
gaps—a chain without one smallest missing link—one
that could take in every least detail and in which the
facts could be riveted from one end to the other.
The night wore on. Wiggar drew a chair into position
so that he could watch the hall, and kept unwinking vigil.
The snores of the watchman in the hall below came up
in strange syncopated rhythm. At last Peter Clancy
emerged from the room of tragedy and came swiftly
along the hall. Wiggar, quick as a cat, closed and locked
the door of the guest room behind him before switching
on the light. The look on his master's face caused the
breath to catch in the man's throat.
"Mr. Peter,” he cried softly. "You've found the answer!
You know!"
“Right!” said Peter, weary but exultant. “There's only
one possible explanation. It may be damned hard to prove,
but we can do it, Wiggar. Sooner or later. And now, God
bless us, we can sleep. Sleep!”


A MAN'S ENEMIES
221
last night, I'm signing on as second mate and you can
chart the course.”
"Handsomely said, old man.” Peter clapped his hand
on one of the trooper's broad shoulders as he rose. "Now
tell me. Your Justice of the Peace, Thompson, is planning
to hold an inquest, Doctor Saunders said. Do you know
yet when it will be?”
“Yes. Monday.”
“Phew!” Peter whistled. “Day after tomorrow. Lord,
that doesn't give us any time! See here, Ben. I can de-
pend on you to make it your business to know when-
or if—the dragnet they've put out for Rafferty catches
anything? And report it instantly to me? Swell! Thanks.
Now I've got to take time out to call Mollie Ashe and
give her what little good news we got last night. It may
be a kind of negative cold hope, but at least it's some-
thing.”
Peter, naturally modest about everything not directly
concerned with his profession, did not realize the effect
his confident strong personality and cheerful voice would
have on Mollie Ashe. So stimulating was her reaction that
he came out of the telephone cabinet braced more firmly
than ever for the task that lay before him.
Ogilvy had lingered in the hall waiting for him. He
glanced around, saw that the place was deserted and said
quickly in a low voice: "I've got to ask you something
before I go, Clancy. It's just this. If Miss Delancey's
lover is spending the proceeds of the blackmailing note,
don't you think—"
“Shush-sh,” said Peter, catching him by the arm. “Come
outside. There's an echo in this hall— Or wait a second.”


222
A MAN'S ENEMIES
He turned swiftly and went up the stairs until he could
get a complete view of the hall above. There was no one
in sight. He breathed a sigh of relief and joined Ogilvy
again. Once outside, in the crisp open air of the spreading
lawn, he went more into detail about his desire for pro-
found secrecy and his reasons for thinking that all neces-
sary precautions had been taken to prevent the escape
of Doctor Mahlon Moore as well as that of the nurse.
Ogilvy, apparently quite satisfied, was about to mount
his motorcycle when Wiggar appeared at the front door
and quickly joined them.
“The telephone again, Mr. Peter."
“O'Malley reporting so soon?” Peter asked himself
aloud as he nodded farewell to the trooper and went
hastily into the house.
Wiggar, thinking himself addressed, answered the ques-
tion. “Samuel took the message, sir. I don't know who is
calling. Beg pardon, Mr. Peter.” He spoke hesitantly as
they passed into the empty hall. “Might I ask you a
question?”
"Not here. I don't like this place.” Peter frowned as
he glanced about. "Is it anything important?"
"Well, I suppose it might not be considered so, but if
you don't mind, Mr. Peter, should I have said whom?"
“Whom?" Peter looked blank. “Oh, I see. The perfect
valet speaking perfect English. Excelsior! Well, I'm no
grammarian, Wiggar, but I'd chance it that you hit the
nail first crack. 'Who is calling' sounds right to me.”
He was still chuckling as he picked up the receiver.
“Hello!” His face changed swiftly, however, as a per-
fectly strange voice came to him over the wire.


A MAN'S ENEMIES
223
“Am I speaking to Mr. Peter Clancy?” A woman's
voice unmistakably.
“Yes. Do you mind holding the wire an instant?” In-
nate precaution caused Peter to close the door of the
cabinet and make sure that all the extensions were cut
off. "Thanks. Now will you go ahead?”
"Have you seen this morning's New York Meteor, Mr.
Clancy?”
Oh, lord, Peter thought swiftly, if Bill Gorham has let
them publish my connection with this case, I'll — Aloud
he said: “Not yet. Whom have I the pleasure of address-
ing?”
"You wouldn't know. Would you mind answering a
very few questions?”
Some woman reporter after a story, Peter naturally
concluded.
"I have nothing to say,” he replied shortly.
He had started to return the instrument to the hooks
when thinly over the wire came the determined state-
ment: “If you hang up I'll merely have to call you again,
and keep calling until you come to your senses, young
man.”
Peter raised his eyebrows. This seemed a new and
rather intriguing technique. There was a little flicker of
laughter on his lips as he said: “All right, then. Let's get
it over. I have a good deal to do today.”
"One sees that without difficulty,” the voice responded.
“Are you talking from a place where you can't be over-
heard?”
Peter's brows went up still higher. "You may be as-
sured of that.” He spoke guardedly.


224
A MAN'S ENEMIES
“Then,” the cultivated voice dropped still lower, “do
you happen to number among your acquaintances a girl
named Mollie?"
Peter started at the entire unexpectedness of the ques-
tion.
“And if I do?” he countered.
“You'll know her mother's name, perhaps. What is it?"
“Tell me why you want to know."
“I should think that would be clear to the meanest in-
telligence. I want to be sure that you really are the per-
son you seem to be. I'm assured on good authority that
Mr. Peter Clancy would know the name of Mollie's
mother. I feel this to be an important matter and I don't
mean to make any mistakes that can be avoided.”
A light began to glimmer in Peter's mind. He said
excitedly: "Mollie's last name is Ashe. Her mother was
called Mary Veronica. Have you, by any chance, found
a hat without an owner?”
The voice on the wire was hardly more than a whisper.
“Mr. Clancy, I believe people who know you place
great confidence in you. Will you, also, do me the honor
to believe that I am a trustworthy person and that if
you will come to my house I hope I may be able to assist
you in furthering the ends of justice. My name is Han-
nah Graham.”
“Wiggar! Get the car out!”
The valet, turning quickly from his place beside the
front entrance, thought he had never seen his master
more excited. He would have given worlds to ask a ques-
tion—but noblesse oblige—he only said, “Quite so, sir,"


A MAN'S ENEMIES
225
and vanished.
In an incredibly short space of time Peter was in his
car and whirling toward the gates. As they rounded the
last curve of the drive a police car swept through the
entrance. Peter recognized Young and one of his helpers.
"Turn left, Wiggar," he said hastily. "Let 'em think
we've gone back to town.” He looked back to see that
Young was staring after them. In a minute he added:
“Now take the next turn toward Huntington. We'll circle
round and come back into the Amityville road.”
Peter was so excited he could hardly sit still. Urging
Wiggar to greater speed, he leaned forward from the
edge of the seat, watching the turns. It was not until they
were on the straight road heading south that he relaxed
a little.
“After we get through the scrub oak and pine barrens,
keep your eye peeled for a small schoolhouse on the
right, Wiggar," he said. “The next dirt road coming in
from the left will take us to Grass Lane Farm. The
house sits far back, so keep your eye on your number.”
“Thank you, Mr. Peter.” A slight pause, and then,
diffidently, “Could I-might I ask you a question, sir?"
"If it's anything more about when to say 'who' or
‘whom,' I pass.” In spite of Peter's preoccupation his
eye gleamed as he looked at his valet's wooden profile.
“Otherwise”
"I merely wished to know, sir," Wiggar spoke with
imperturbable dignity, "if—if we know anyone at Grass
Lane Farm?”
“Not yet. That is not exactly. But I have a line on
the owner, Miss Hannah Graham. She's elderly. And


226
A MAN’S ENEMIES
wise. And brave. I've never seen her. Just talked with
her on the phone. But I'd gamble on that much. ...
And, Wiggar," Peter's voice fell instinctively, "she's seen
Top Hat Rafferty.”
“What, sir! Did she tell you so?”.
“She was too smart to say it in so many words over
the wire, but how else would a lady—she is a lady, Wig-
gar-how would she know about Mollie and Mollie's
mother-and me—if she hadn't seen and also talked to
Rafferty? He must even have admitted— Look, Wiggar!
There's the schoolhouse. Now watch. ... There! That
would be it! What a peach of a place! Ideal. As remote
as-"
He broke off again. They had turned off the highway
on to a fairly well kept dirt road. In the distance a house
could be seen at the end of a curving driveway. Sur-
rounded by great trees and nestling in meadow-like lawns,
it could not be discerned in detail until ...
“Wiggar!” Peter started forward, grasping the door
handle as if he would throw it open. “Look there! That
gardener chap standing in the road. Do you see? It's Raf-
ferty! Top Hat Rafferty! Or I'm a crazy-eyed hippo-
potamus!”
"Mr. Clancy! Oh, thank God it's you!” Rafferty un-
knowingly echoed Mollie's words. "I told Miss Hannah
you'd come. Gee, she's a queen, you can take it from
me. Now you'll talk to her and everything'll be just
dandy. I'll hang on the runningboard. My feet's pretty
muddy. Drive right on to the house. She's waiting." He
ducked his head to peer inside as the car started. “That
you, Mr. Wiggar? Glad to see you're still taking care of


A MAN'S ENEMIES
227
the Boss. How are you?”
“Nicely, thank you,” Wiggar replied with unruffled
calm, though excited interest was sending the blood faster
through his veins.
“That's her," whispered Rafferty as they turned the
corner of the house. “You can park right here. Nobody
comes this side. . . . Miss Hannah—"
A lady, in a brightly flowered smock, somewhat dimmed
by small patches of loam, came toward them across the
sheltered terrace. Her hands were covered by thick gar-
dening gloves. She pulled one off to push back a lock of
thick white hair and in the shadow of her hand looked
searchingly at Peter through bright steadfast eyes.
Rafferty took off his cap. All the native impudence had
left his face. A curious kind of amazed reverence had
taken its place.
“She saw my picture in this morning's paper, Mr.
Clancy," he said, "and she didn't send for the police.
Can you imagine that?”
“I had seen no reason, Mr. Clancy, to reverse my early
estimate.” Miss Hannah spoke up promptly without pre-
amble.
"She said,” Rafferty hesitated, "she said yesterday, al-
most first thing, she could tell an honest man when she
saw one. That kind of puts it up to you, if you know
what I mean.”
"Of course I knew at first that he was lying." Her eyes
flashed bright little twinkling sparks as she turned to
Peter. “He said he had been looking for a job that was
supposed to be in Amityville, and was already taken, and
he had come from the north instead of the south, since


228
A MAN'S ENEMIES
he'd rescued my little Peke near the schoolhouse. ...
He had on a smart checked suit under his overalls,
and spoke with a New York City accent you could cut
with a knife. ... I know an honest man when I see
one—and Thomas isn't pedantically so. But who of us
is—at a pinch? He's a better gardener even than I am.
He's kind to animals—and I don't believe he'd commit
a horrid murder—any more than you or I.”
"I agree with you at all points, Miss Hannah,” Peter
said with a delighted smile. "That's why I put the notice
in the agony column. But you couldn't have understood
that."
“Miss Hannah kept out the front page when I asked
Annie to see could she get me the paper,” Rafferty ex-
plained hastily. “So was I searching through the rest of
it! I thought maybe there might be some news of the
murder lapped over onto the back pages. But not a lap!
So when I come to the personals and saw Mollie's name
and the rest, I knew you was on the job, Mr. Clancy.
And was I thankful! About then Miss Hannah came out.
She showed me my own picture, fair and plain, and man
to man she says, “Was you there night before last,
Thomas?' I was pretty sure then they had my finger-
prints—and anyway, somehow, seems if I had to tell the
truth for once in a way, so I says, 'Yes, Miss Hannah,'
just like that. Then she waits a minute and she says,
'Did you kill old Nolan Whittlesey?' and I says, 'No. So
help me God.' And she believed me.” He swallowed some-
thing that seemed to stick in his throat. “Didn't you,
Miss Hannah?”.
“What is there about the man?” She looked up at


A MAN'S ENEMIES
229
Peter with a liquid twinkle in her still lovely eyes. “You,
too, Mr. Clancy, think him innocent.”
"Of the murder," Peter corrected. “And I know, too,
Top Hat, that you didn't get the five thousand dollars
spoken of in the newspaper accounts. But you did grab
off some jewelry.” His tone had become very serious.
Rafferty sighed and hung his head like a child caught
with jam on his fingers.
"I can tell you exactly where I buried it, Mr. Clancy,"
he said. “God knows I don't want it now. Wasn't much
of a swag anyway and I'll give it up with a ‘Thank you,
kindly.'"
“Very good," said Peter sternly. “We'll go into that
later. There's a lot more involved here than burglary,
Rafferty. You're in a spot and Mollie's worried sick.
Has every reason to be. It's up to you to come clean,
and I'll do my best for the pair of you.” He turned to the
lady, who had not missed a syllable. "You've handled
this whole situation with an insight and humanity beyond
anything in my experience, Miss Hannah,” he said. "That
phone conversation with me just now couldn't have been
bettered by any detective on the force. So may I invite
you to sit in on our-er-conference, and give us the
benefit of your advice?"
"It's easy to see, Mr. Clancy, that some ancestor of
yours made violent love to the Blarney Stone, but I'll
find no fault with that if my curiosity is to be appeased."
Miss Hannah looked up at the cloudless sky. “Shall we
stay out here?”
“By all means.”
Peter glanced up at Wiggar who had been standing


XXIV
“So," Peter finished his brief explanation, "I concluded
that you'd lost at the races Saturday, Rafferty, and had
picked up the pretty little housemaid and taken her home
to Graytowers for the sake of observing the lay of the
land.”
"Now there you got me wrong, Mr. Clancy,” Top Hat
put in with an injured air. "Saturday I won, see? Had
such good luck that when that girl, Lottie, began to talk
I did think, really, how swell it would be if I could get
me a little flower farm on Long Island like my dad had
once, and Mollie could keep the books and I'd never
crack another crib like she didn't want me to. Of course
what I had on me wasn't really quite enough to take me
out to Chi, but the ponies were running sweet for me and,
with the luck I had that day, honest it looked so rosy
and the little girl was so cute I just kept on till I'd taken
her clear home. Hadn't none of those—what Walter
Winchell calls ulterior motives. Just buzzed up to the
girl a little to get my hand in again—and if I asked ques-
tions about her boss and the house, it was only habit,
you might say, and to pass the time.”
"I see," said Peter soberly. “But you couldn't keep
away from the track, Rafferty, when you know it's always
been bad medicine for you; and when you'd lost your
231


A MAN’S ENEMIES
235
“Not one cold simoleon, and that's God's truth, Mr.
Clancy. And as to the other stuff, after what I'd seen, I
kept nothing on me. You can bet your sweet life on that.
You'll find every bit of jewelry I touched in under a big
pine tree that stands just inside the grounds where the
high fence along the Amityville road breaks to let through
a deep little stream. It's a swell landmark and you won't
have much digging to do because I was in a hurry and
then some. I scooped away the needles as deep as I could
in the dark and with my bare hands, and put a big heavy
stone over the place. For the love of Mike, get 'em quick
and return 'em to whoever owns 'em now. I'll plead guilty
to the burglary if you say so, but you'll get me off as light
as you can, Mr. Clancy. You know I had nothing to do
with the murder. You do, don't you?”
“Yes,” said Peter soberly. "But I may have to call you
as a witness, Top Hat. I won't if it can be avoided. You
can take my word for it, however, that you will not be
convicted on a murder charge.”
"You're sure about that, sir?” Hope flashed up in
Rafferty's face. “Why, the papers have me already walk-
ing the last mile.”
"You have a long road before you still, Top Hat,”
Peter responded gravely. “Some of it may be hard. But
there's to be no side-stepping, no slipping. On that under-
standing, I promise to make it all as easy for you as I can.
Will you trust me?”
"Oh, sure,” Rafferty cried fervently. “To the limit. I
don't deserve your help—but for Mollie's sake. By all
that's holy, I've had my lesson. Never again," he held up
his hand in a solemn gesture. "No races. And no second


XXV
It was nearing six when Peter's car once more rolled
swiftly up the drive to Graytowers. Everything in town
had gone to his grim satisfaction, but he was still op-
pressed by an uneasy and unreasonable sense of possible
miscalculation-an accident that might send things awry,
and make of his guarded but definite statement to Mollie
Ashe, that he believed he would be able to return the “lost
hat” intact, merely a blundering boast.
Miss Amanda was in the drawing room. When Peter
presented himself, her only response to his greeting was
that she hoped he'd had a good rest. The click of steel
knitting needles formed an appropriate accompaniment
to her sarcastic tone. Joseph Babcock was there also and
was remaining to dinner. Peter was glad. Everything
seemed more reliable when he was there.
They talked a few minutes. Babcock had little to re-
port. Young had been there questioning the servants to
see if he could get further evidence against Terrell. Judith
had a headache and had kept to her room, much to
Young's annoyance. He said he was coming back right
after dinner and would bring Doctor Saunders along to
see if the physician couldn't do something for that head-
ache.
Just then the loud throbbing beat of a motorcycle was
240


A MAN'S ENEMIES
241
heard coming up the drive. Peter met Lieutenant Ogilvy
at the door, and the two went immediately upstairs. They
did not stop at Peter's room, however, but, silently draw-
ing the trooper along the hall, the red-headed detective
softly tapped once more in an arresting rhythm on Judith
Whittlesey's door. Recognizing the knock she opened it
at once and the two men stepped quickly inside.
Ten minutes later they emerged again and this time
stopped at the room Peter was occupying. Wiggar was
already laying out his things. Ogilvy closed the door and
advanced to the center of the room. His lately made friend
submitted to his valet's ministrations without apparently
being aware of them.
"Miss Judith didn't seem to care so awfully much about
the jewelry you returned to her, Clancy,” the trooper said
in a low voice.
“No,” Peter agreed easily. "Belonged to her stepmother
and it's ugly as sin. She has plenty of money, so why
should she turn handsprings about it?"
"I was tempted to,” Ogilvy returned somewhat sar-
donically, “or to get down on my knees or something.
Think of your tracking down that stolen jewelry, all on
your own! With no one to tip you off where to look. I
wish you'd train my new setter pups to hunt!”
Peter looked out from the bathroom door to meet the
quizzical young eyes fixed upon him.
"I gather that you speak in metaphor and allegory,
Lieutenant Ogilvy.” He grinned. "Is it possible you don't
believe in my powers of divination?”.
"I think you're smart, Clancy,” laughed the trooper.
“But maybe this story is just a little thick.”


242
A MAN’S ENEMIES
"My good-a-ness,” exclaimed Peter in the manner of
Shirley Temple. "What then do you believe, my friend?”
"I think you've caught up somewhere with your earlier
friend, Top Hat Rafferty," Ogilvy replied, his face be-
coming grave.
"You contend that it would be easier to discover a man
that the police can't find hide or hair of than it would
be to locate a little cache of loot?”
The trooper refrained from answering until Peter was
again in the room.
“Whether it's easier or not, I believe you got in touch
with Rafferty and he told you where he'd hidden the stuff.
I believe you could be a darn good little persuader,
Clancy, if you thought it worth while."
“Thanks for the compliment.” Peter looked up smil-
ingly from the shining pumps with which he had just been
invested. “Anything more?"
"Only this, Clancy.” The trooper spoke with some hesi-
tancy and yet with an air of determination. “It's plain to
be seen Miss Judith isn't going to make you much trouble
about the burglary if you're planning to get your crooked
young pal off easy—but—the murder is another matter.
I know how you feel, and you're probably right, but no
man's infallible, and until he's proved innocent surely
precautions ought to be taken-about this fellow Rafferty
I mean.”
"You're right of course," Peter returned without heat.
"I appreciate your scruples, but, Ben, I think I've done
what's necessary. I have seen and talked to Rafferty—"
“That's why you went into New York.” Ogilvy jumped
at the conclusion.


244
A MAN'S ENEMIES
small jagged wound about an inch above it?"
Ogilvy was staring fixedly, his inexperienced young face
fierce with mental effort. He looked again at the concise
notes above Rafferty's signature. "You mean,” he stam-
mered, “that the murderer came back or or waited
maybe—to cut the cord away. Is that it, Clancy? There
actually was someone in Whittlesey's dressing room at
the time Rafferty was there? But what was the object?
It was dangerous. . . . And why ... Oh—” The trooper
thrust out his hands in a helpless gesture. “I don't get it.
It doesn't make sense.”
"No," said Peter grimly, looking absently in the long
mirror as Wiggar put the finishing touches to his thick
red hair. "It doesn't seem to, does it? But I give you my
word that right now, Lieutenant, I could put my finger
on the principal in this foul crime. And so could you. You
have all the necessary facts before you. Think, Ben.
Think it over. ... Ah?”.
He stopped short, holding up his finger. There had been
a light knock at the door. But it was only the sleek and
silent Samuel announcing dinner.
The meal was a very quiet one. The little housemaid
waited on table, since it appeared that Samuel had sud-
denly found himself somewhat indisposed. Judith did not
come down and Miss Amanda acted as hostess. Babcock
made some attempt at ordinary conversation. The scare-
heads that were keeping the European situation at fever
heat were discussed to some extent by Peter and himself,
but Miss Amanda was, for her, strangely silent.
As soon as dinner was over Peter went immediately


A MAN'S ENEMIES
245
back to his room where Lieutenant Ogilvy, having already
dined, was waiting for him. They went again into the dead
man's room, all the furnishings of which seemed to leap
at them as Peter switched on the lights. The servants had
not yet been allowed to tidy up and there was that strange
sense of suddenly arrested motion that one always feels
in a place from which the owner has precipitately de-
parted. There was still a shallow indentation in the pillow.
The covers of the bed were thrown back as if someone
had just risen and was, perhaps, even now in the dressing
room. The trooper started as a tiny click and a faint blur
of sound came to him through the dark doorway.
"Only a little electric refrigerator he had there for fruit
and drinks and things. The current must still be on.”
Peter half smiled, for he, too, had been startled, more
than he liked to admit, by the unexpected break in the
sinister silence of the place. “I want to show you, Ben, as
well as demonstrate it to myself,” he continued, “just how
it was that Rafferty could have gone to the safe, as he
said he did, without seeing anything strange about the
bed.” They had moved across the room. “You see the
screen entirely hides—”.
Suddenly, from the outer darkness a terrible scream
killed the words on Peter's lips. Almost before it died to
silence he and Ogilvy were on the balcony, straining their
eyes to pierce the blackness of shrubs and hedges-Peter
already had one leg over the rail when a hubbub broke
out below. Lights flashed. Someone shouted. The brakes
of a car on the drive in front of the house skre-e-ed hor-
ribly. Running feet thudded from several directions. With
crushing strength Ogilvy grabbed Peter by the arm.


A MAN'S ENEMIES
247
Swiftly Peter knelt and placed his ear above the
woman's heart. “Wiggar!” he called without looking
around.
“Yes, Mr. Peter,” a calm voice answered from the dark-
ness.
“Phone Doctor Saunders. Hurry! Hurry! She's not
dead. There's a chance. . . . Here, Ogilvy, give me a
hand. Lift her up. Gently. Gently."
"Saunders is on his way over. I wanted him just in case
Miss Judith—” Young broke off irritably. "He ought to
be here now. I knew it was no good to phone.” He fell in
behind the short procession.
Peter paused instantly. “Then you take my place here,
Wiggar. You're better at this sort of thing anyway.
Samuel.” He addressed the butler with sharp insistence.
“Wait a second. You thought someone ran off in that
direction?”
Young hesitated and stopped to listen.
“Down behind the hedge there, sir.” Samuel pointed.
Peter flashed his small hand torch all about. "Rather
lucky for him it was turf, wasn't it, Samuel?” he said in
a queer tone.
"No possibility of footprints,” Young observed aloud.
“And he could have slipped off in any direction from
this point,” Peter remarked slowly. “A dozen men might
have some hope of cornering him—perhaps. As it is, we're
only wasting time. Come along, Samuel.”
“You want me, sir?”
“Yes. Hurry!”
Young apparently disliked following Peter's lead if it
could be avoided. He forged ahead and, with Samuel and


A MAN'S ENEMIES
249
She did not speak until she was near enough to say in a
shaken whisper: "Tell me. Is she is she dead?”
Peter shook his head and answered softly: "No. Not
yet.”
“How was she hurt?” Her voice was scarcely audible.
“Strangled.” Peter caught the girl as she swayed for-
ward. “Steady,” he whispered. “You can't do any good
here. Go in the drawing room. I'll come in a minute."
The doctor must have heard, for he lifted his head
quickly. “Yes," he said with abrupt insistence. “Get along,
all of you. Except—" He glanced up at the ring of white
horrified faces. "Where's Ogilvy?”.
“Here, Doctor. Do you want me to phone for the
ambulance?"
“She'd better not be moved.” Saunders spoke hastily.
He had already unstrapped his bag and was working over
the injured woman. “But get Doctor Brainard at the hos-
pital. Tell him. He'll know what's necessary."
Ogilvy departed at once. Peter, after studying intently
the face of the unconscious nurse, stooped and whispered
in the doctor's ear. Without for an instant ceasing his
efforts, Saunders nodded briefly several times and with
such an air of confidence that Young, who had lingered
uncertainly, was considerably annoyed.
“So what about it, Clancy?” he demanded truculently.
Ogilvy, coming along from the hall, was in time to hear
Peter say: "Don't you know, Young? Don't you under-
stand even yet?”
“Know what?" snarled Young in derisive disbelief.
“Can't you see yet,” Peter asked sternly, “who is at the
bottom of all these several crimes?”


XXVI
“SAMUEL!” “What?" "Impossible!”
A chorus of voices rose in startled surprise and unbelief
as Peter's dread words died away on the heavy air.
“God in heaven!” cried the butler, staring wild-eyed.
“You can't do this to me! You have no reason—"
“Silence! All of you!” Peter's voice was like the low
roll of thunder. “Remember the injured woman in the
hall. If she can be brought back to life, she can be made
to prove everything. And as for you—" He stepped close
in front of the trembling servant and took him by both
shoulders. “As for you, Samuel Kilroy, I warn you that
anything you say now may be used against you!”.
“What the devil?” cried Young. "Here! Wait a minute,
Clancy. Don't go so fast. What about this? I don't under-
stand—”
“Well, you ought to,” Peter interrupted swiftly. “You
practically saw the last act yourself, Young. Somebody
tries to strangle the nurse. We all rush down. What do we
see? Samuel. Samuel. And nobody else. He says he heard
someone running away from the garden just now. Can he
prove it? You were on the spot. Did you see anyone
except Samuel? No. Neither did I. Neither did Lieutenant
Ogilvy. And what's the answer to that?”
“There wasn't anyone else," Young agreed hesitantly.
251


A MAN'S ENEMIES
253
go on barking up the wrong tree.”
"Says you!” Young tried to be sarcastic. “I suppose
you can prove that Terrell never handled that extortion
note.”
“Of course he handled it,” Peter retorted. “But the fact
that his fingerprints are on it may be explained as readily
and perhaps as innocently as that Mr. Babcock's are.
Can't you see that?”
“But Whittlesey, himself, handed the note over to Mr.
Babcock to read,” insisted Young.
"Well,” Peter countered swiftly, "can't you imagine an
equally satisfactory explanation of Terrell's prints?”
“No, I can't.” Young retorted bluntly.
“Then I'll tell you.” The silence in the room was com-
plete as Peter recapitulated hurriedly: “The note, orig-
inally, was an advertisement. Terrell slit the envelope,
took out the double sheet, saw what it was, and threw
it in the waste basket. That's all he knew about it."
“That's what you think,” growled Young.
“That's what I believe," Peter returned quickly. "And
there's another point that I can prove if necessary, Young.
It seems to me significant that, although the printed words
of the note were cut out of the current New Yorker, Ter-
rell's subscription copy was intact. You may contend that
was merely a blind, but, if that were so, wouldn't he have
made sure—absolutely sure—that he could produce it if
necessary, at an instant's notice? Whereas the facts are
that Lottie swiped it and loaned it to Davis—and Terrell
never inquired about it or noticed that it was gone.”.
Judith was leaning forward in her chair, her hands
clasped tightly together. The look that she gave Peter


254
A MAN'S ENEMIES
was like a sudden streak of pale sunshine breaking through
dark clouds.
Young said grudgingly: “There may be something in
what you say, Clancy. Mind, I don't agreebut for the
sake of argument—who was it then that typed the word
'Personal on the library machine, if it wasn't Terrell?”
“Why, anyone.” Peter looked hard at the stony face
of the butler. “Anyone who had access to the library. Why
need it be Terrell? Snatching the ad out of the waste
basket-yes, and typing one word on the envelope
would be a matter of seconds only. Pasting on the cut-
out words could be done at leisure—and with gloves if
necessary. Surely that says itself.”
"Just the same, seems to me you're a long way from
proving Terrell's innocence,” the police detective objected
with a disgruntled frown. “You can't sweep me off my
feet no matter how fast and good you talk. I got logic,
see? And your case looks as full of holes as a sieve.”
Babcock, who had been listening with keen attention,
now leaned forward and put in a word.
“Beg pardon, Clancy,” he said. “May I ask a ques-
tion?"
“Certainly, sir."
"I'm afraid I'm a bit confused.” Babcock smoothed
back the thick iron-gray hair above his forehead. “I can
see your various points about Terrell, and they may be
well taken, but surely I misunderstood you a minute ago.
I thought you said you'd traced some of this—bribe-
blackmail—or whatever you call it-money to the poor
woman out there in the hall. It seems incredible."
“Why?”


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A MAN'S ENEMIES
ciatively, “that, because we traced one of these bills back
to the nurse, the principal in this case, for fear of what
she would disclose if arrested, attempted to kill her as
soon as he found it out."
Young, who had tried to appear unconvinced by any
of Peter's statements, had yet remained close to Samuel
Kilroy. Now he definitely took up a position in the door-
way and the automatic that had been more or less per-
ceptible through his pocket was brought into the open.
"Hadn't you better put the bracelets on him?” sug-
gested Peter.
"Haven't a warrant,” grumbled Young, "and," he
stooped and ran his hands swiftly over the pockets of the
frozen servant, “he isn't armed. He's safe. Don't worry.
And don't think you've got me behind the eight ball yet
about Terrell, Mr. Peter Clancy. There's a lot of things
I want explained.”
“I can believe you,” said Peter coolly. "Don't flourish
your gun around that way, Young. You're frightening the
ladies.” He glanced encouragingly at Judith and then his
eyes traveled thoughtfully to the deadly white face of her
aunt.
"I can handle a gun as good as anybody," Young
snapped, “and you don't sidetrack me like that. See?
Since you got this case all cooked up and ready to serve,
suppose you tell us what the Delancey woman did to
earn the money you say she got. The way it looks to me,
by your own showing, Clancy, she coulda had something
to do with the extortion note, but how could she have had
a hand in the murder? That's a crazy idea.”
“Right you are, Young,” Peter agreed quickly. “As far


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rear and came woodenly to attention.
The small, apparently commonplace incident seemed to
relieve a little the dreadful tension. Young, keeping a
watchful eye on Kilroy, moved nearer and spoke to Peter.
"Look here, Clancy,” he said. “I been thinking over
your line of conversation—and it's cockeyed. That's what
it is. Maybe you believe the whole of the regular police
force is asleep at the switch—but they ain't, you can take
it from me. We checked up on this here butler's alibi
today, and it's perfect. Absolutely gilt edged and water
tight."
“He can bring forward a man, his wife and three chil-
dren who'll swear that their friend Samuel Kilroy was
with them the entire evening and night of October twenty-
eighth,” Peter appended quietly. “And they'd be telling
the truth, Young. That's why the case against this man
is so strong."
“Aw, somebody ought to give you a straightjacket,
Clancy! You're nuts,” sneered the police detective. “Kil-
roy wasn't here—so he committed the murder! Neither
was I here neither—so did I do it? And lookie. How about
finding that second-story crook Rafferty's prints on the
balcony railing upstairs? He was here. So I suppose that
proves that he ain't the killer!”
“Clever of you to see that, Young. Rafferty certainly
was here—so he's definitely out." The force of conviction
behind the contradictory statement was staggering in its
sincerity. Peter went on swiftly: “Ellen Delancey's alibi
has a crack in it, so she can't be guilty of the actual mur-
der, though she was in it deep enough, heaven knows."
“And me listening to you for a minute!” exclaimed


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A MAN'S ENEMIES
that?”
“The nurse," Peter replied curtly. “That was her part
of the work—and this is how we know. Rafferty did climb
in by the balcony window, Young, and out again faster
still when he glimpsed—what we found, hours afterward.
But Rafferty says there was a cord around the dead man's
neck—”
"Rafferty says,” cried Young, astounded. "You've seen
him?"
“Yes. He's in a safe place and I can produce him when
necessary. You may be sure of that,” Peter stated con-
fidently. “And you can be certain as well that he's telling
the exact truth. The cord was still there around the dead
man's neck some time before midnight. In the morning
it was gone. Who could have taken it away? Who had
the opportunity? The nurse, of course. And what but a
pair of scissors, the natural tool of a woman, would have
made that little jagged cut we found an inch above the
print of the noose? A knife would have made a straight
incision, not a sort of snip. ... And the reason the small
wound, though deep, didn't bleed—was because the vic-
tim had been dead for many hours."
"That last is right, all right," Young admitted. “The
doctor is willing to swear that he was murdered more
than an hour before midnight.”
"He died between ten and eleven.” Peter attested the
fact with the stern solemnity of utter conviction. “And at
that time, with diabolical cunning, his murderer was
establishing an alibi that could not be overthrown by any
sort of cross examination; for, make no mistake, the
person who killed Nolan Whittlesey was not here when


A MAN’S ENEMIES
265
his victim died.”
Young drew back with a gasp. A tone and manner like
Peter's would have shaken the belief that white was white
and black black.
"How-how do you figure that?” was all that the
astounded man could manage to say.
“Why, the answer's inevitable,” said Peter. "Ask your-
selves—” He looked once more slowly about the ring of
pale tense faces. “Ask yourselves,” he repeated, “why the
nurse should have been given five thousand dollars for
her part in the crime? (For you'll find she received every
dollar of that hot money.) What a price that was to de-
mand for administering a dose of a harmless drug—and
cutting off and destroying the noose-after it had done
its terrible work! The reason for inducing a heavy sleep
is clear enough. Yes! But isn't it equally plain”—his low
voice weighted each word with dreadful meaning-
"equally certain—that the thing that necessitated a con-
federate—that made it of paramount importance to get
rid of the fatal cord, was on account of the very nature
and properties of the thing itself? Think! It's simple
enough.” He paused for just an instant. The air of the
room seemed dark with silence.
"If you don't see, then I'll tell you,” Peter proceeded
somberly. "Long before the hour of death, as soon in fact
as the victim had fallen into a deep drugged sleep, a thin
noose of wet rawhide was placed about the throat. Drawn
snug—not tight-with a knot that could be depended
upon. ... Then—the rawhide started to shrink. It was
soft and pliable and for some time the stricture was not
felt. . . . Perhaps under the influence of the heavy seda-


A MAN'S ENEMIES
267
the tone. He kept one hand on Kilroy's shoulder. A pair
of handcuffs dangled from the other.
“Well,” he said, curt but curious, "what is it now,
Clancy?”
Though Peter did not rise from his place his next words
rang like a steel gauntlet thrown into the arena.
“Before anyone leaves this room, Young,” he exclaimed,
"I want you—or someone else—to explain why—on that
extortion note—we found no fingerprints except those of
Mr. Babcock, here—and Faulkner Terrell!”


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A MAN'S ENEMIES
reting in unsavory financial transactions, up blind alleys,
checking every move of every actor in this tragedy until
we found the only perfect answer to this one question:
Why—when we are assured that Mr. Whittlesey must
have read and re-read that threat against his life-did
he leave not one single print or part of a print of his
fingers on that delicate paper?”.
So fierce was the impact of the question that Young
could only gasp: “Why?”.
“There can be but one perfect explanation.” Peter's
slow enunciation was like the voice of fate. “One answer
that clears up every step in this devilish crime. Nolan
Whittlesey never saw that note. The entire blackmail
story was made out of whole cloth!”
“Clancy! Are you mad?” Babcock started to his feet.
“Why, you're crazy! I told you myself—".
“Yes.” Peter leaped up. His towering rage was a thing
of lightning and low thunder. “Yes, Babcock, you told
me—but you told too much! You should have trusted
to luck about the serial numbers of the money you drew
from your partner's account to pay your accomplice. You
had used your power of attorney before, and you had
to use it for this as well, because you were ruined—and
had nothing left of your own." His words ran like molten
metal. “The paying teller noticed the unusual amount,
and you were afraid he might have kept a memo of the
bills, and you thought you were playing safe. But that
was a fatal mistake. With or without the confession of
your latest victim, I can pin every detail on you! It was
you who sneaked the necessary paper and envelope from
the waste basket in the library where you probably saw


A MAN'S ENEMIES
275
“Quite so," agreed the butler. "When he took me by
the shoulders he did me the honor to wink at me, and of
course then I understood that he was merely spoofing and
acted accordingly. It was very handsome of Mr. Clancy
to say that I'd given entire satisfaction, after the way
I muffed it in the garden. Keeping an eye on the nurse
when she was in the house was easy enough, but it was
difficult to get close without being observed when she
went outside and vanished in the shrubbery."
Wiggar sighed, though there was no sign of depression
in his face as he watched the golden liquid flowing in a
full-bodied arc from the decanter to his waiting glass.
“You carried on far better than I, Mr. Kilroy,” he re-
marked generously. “As a matter of fact, and for a
novice, I must repeat you gave an exceptional perform-
ance. My only excuse for my own dereliction is that
when the fellow Babcock stepped out of the French win-
dow of the drawing room right after dinner and began
pacing back and forth on the terrace as he smoked his
cigar, Miss Amanda chose that unfortunate minute to
ask me to get her some coffee. Naturally I could not re-
fuse, and when I returned the villain had disappeared.
I hastened after but missed him in the dark. And he,
being perfectly familiar with every feature of his sur-
roundings, was able to get back to the terrace before
Miss Amanda was aware that anything was amiss.”
"Just so." Samuel nodded gravely. “I heard her tell
your gentleman that she, being quite on the other side
of the house, failed to hear the Delancey person's scream,
and naturally supposed, when Babcock spoke to her
through the drawing room window, that he had been


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A MAN'S ENEMIES
there all the while on the terrace. She realizes now that
there was ample time for him to have gone down into
the garden and returned before he called to her that he
was afraid someone was hurt and brought her out with
him to meet us coming in with the unconscious female
he had nearly murdered.”
"Yes, yes,” said Wiggar. “That was rather clever of
him, I thought. But Mr. Peter has him hooked and netted,
whether the nurse ever recovers or not. They think now
she may live to make a confession—which would be
rather a pity, in a way, don't you think?”
The butler looked a little blank. "I'm afraid I don't
quite follow you, Mr. Wiggar.”
“Well,” said the perfect valet, sipping his highball with
a rather blasé air, "a confession, Mr. Kilroy, is hardly
considered sporting in the best detective circles, I believe.
And I confess I would rather enjoy seeing Miss Amanda
Whittlesey on the witness stand. There's something about
her, you know ... an air of—if you'll pardon the ex-
pression—an air of 'Devil-take-you, yes. I was to blame!'
That was her attitude when she confessed to Mr. Peter
that she overheard Lieutenant Ogilvy, in the hall below
her, mention the hot money (excuse the technical ex-
pression) they had traced to Miss Delancey. She admitted
she wanted to impress Babcock with how much she knew,
and that was how he learned, without our knowing it,
of the danger he was in from his confederate. Miss
Amanda didn't spare herself, believe me, she took a reg-
ular man-sized oath that she'll never eavesdrop again.”
"Then she'll keep it,” said the butler with sage delib-
eration as he filled the tall glasses once more. "She's
polka
:*


278
A MAN'S ENEMIES
Babcock and the nurse turned aside to speak to each
other in the station that he gave her the money he bribed
her with.” Wiggar spoke approvingly.
"Mr. Clancy says that was certainly what happened,
and that that scoundrel, Babcock, never brought the
money out here at all.”
"My word, what an unscrupulous devil he was!” Wig-
gar marveled. “Of course he was hard pressed, having
looted the firm's securities. With Mr. Whittlesey so much
better and threatening to come back, Babcock must have
known his time was short."
"And if he'd pulled this off,” Samuel concurred eag-
erly, “everything would have been just dandy, as they
say. He'd still have control of the business, and if Mr.
Faulkner had been implicated, as Babcock undoubtedly
hoped, he might yet have secured Miss Judith and her
fortune."
“Well, he was clever in a way, one has to admit,” said
Wiggar judicially. “Naturally, in his business, he knew
the properties of wet rawhide. Some experiment he may
have observed probably started the idea. But he took too
many precautions-overplayed his hand—and Mr. Peter
was there with a trump for every trick!”
"I'll say he was!” agreed Samuel, tipping the decanter
at an ever steeper angle. “Mr. Wiggar, with your permis-
sion, I wish to propose a toast.”
“Stout fellow!” responded Wiggar, rising on perfectly
steady legs.
“To the bride, Miss Judith that was!" proposed the
butler.
"And to the groom that Mr. Peter expects to get out


A MAN'S ENEMIES
279
of jail tonight!" Wiggar sipped politely and held up his
glass. “And now, one more, Samuel. A toast to the one
man in all the world who could bring them safe out of
their troubles. To Mr. Peter. God bless him!”
“To Mr. Peter. Bottoms up!” the butler cried feelingly.
Two empty glasses clinked as they set them down.
“And now I'd better go up and get ready to put him
to bed. They'll soon be here," said the perfect valet.
“You're right, Mr. Wiggar," returned the butler with
a bow. "I'll accompany you. After you, sir.”
"No, no," said Wiggar with a gracious gesture. “At a
time like this—”
The service stairs were narrow but the two slim elegant
gentlemen's gentlemen were able to negotiate them with
great dignity, arm in arm.

RED BADGE
DETECTIVE
DODO
MEAD