Louis Golding was born in Manchester, England � the �Doomington� of his best-known novels, MAGNOLIA STREET and MR. EMMANUEL, although Mr. Golding himself considers THE MIRACLE BOY and FIVE SILVER DAUGHTERS his best and most enduring work. Actually, Mr. Golding covers a wide range of literary accomplishment: his writings include not only novels and many short stories, but also poetry, belles lettres, travel books, criticism, and drama; he has written directly for the reading public, and for the stage, radio, and movies. He is perhaps the greatest modern exponent of wanderlust among contemporary authors, having traveled and voyaged to all parts of the world, with special emphasis on the Mediterranean area. As he put it himself, he �has lectured in America and played ping-pong in four continents.� An aficionado of many fields, Mr. Golding has a particular passion for what he calls �the linked arts of ballet and boxing.�

Further comment when you have finished reading �Pale Blue Nightgown�...

Mr. Dofferty was tall and thin and had big hands and feet. The small boys called him �Lampy,� which was an abbreviation of �Lamp-post.� He hated the small boys calling him �Lampy,� not only because he was sensitive about his appearance, but because he hated small boys. He would rather have taken the top form in a refined girls� school and would have got on very well there. He could have talked about Swinburne with the girls, and about his foreign travels. �Was there ever really a Dolores, Mr. Dofferty?� �Do the young warriors in Kashmir still go out to battle with roses behind their ears?� He would have been very happy in such a place.

But it had not worked out that way. He was getting on in years by the time he got his teacher�s certificate, and he could not pick and choose. He became a pupil-teacher at a boys� school in Doomington. They were common boys. In the course of time he became headmaster.

He knew that he deserved better things. He let it be known that he had traveled about the East quite a lot in his young days; and it was true, for he had been the son of a noncommissioned officer out in India. Later, he was employed on a tea plantation in Ceylon. When that failed, he came to England to take up teaching.

He was very proud of having traveled in the East. His �sanctum,� as he called it, was cluttered with eastern curios. There were prayer-wheels and fly-whisks, curtains and cushions, elephants carved in ebony, ashtrays and pen-trays of Benares ware, a Malay kris he used as a paper-knife, a soapstone Buddha he used as a paperweight. It was not very suitable furniture for a headmaster�s room in a poor boys� school in Doomington, but it put people in their place. It put him in his place, too. He was a traveler, an empire-builder.

He did not feel so sure of himself when he went out into the playground. He would have preferred to stay in his sanctum, but he had a feeling that the small boys took to talking and laughing about him when they got together. He would stand for a long time, quite still, behind the windows of one of the classrooms, and then, all of a sudden, he was a few inches behind you. For a person with such large feet, he moved very quickly and quietly over the gravel.

The schoolday came to an end at half-past four. It was bad enough when the boys collected in the play-intervals between lessons, but when the last lesson was over, there was absolutely no excuse for them to be hanging about, whispering, and pointing with their thumbs over their shoulders. On the day in Mr. Dofferty�s history with which this tale is concerned, there was an unusually large troop of boys assembled near the wood-work room, at the bottom end of the playground. Mr. Dofferty happened to be at the top end of the playground. He observed that only one of the boys was talking, a small, pale boy named Albert Hewitt. The rest were listening. At least, they were listening in the intervals of laughing. The narrative with which Albert Hewitt was regaling them seemed to entertain them mightily, though Albert himself seemed not at all amused. On the contrary, his spotty little face seemed paler than usual; his eyes seemed to stand quite a long way out of his head.

Mr. Dofferty did not like Albert Hewitt; he thought him a soapy, sneaky sort of boy. He had had occasion more than once to take him into his sanctum and use the cane on him. What was the boy doing, holding forth at this time of day, when well-behaved boys should be making tracks for home, with their heads filled with the night�s homework? What and who was there to talk about that was so frightfully funny?

Of course; Mr. Dofferty could swear to it... �Lampy,� and once again, �Lampy.� It was a long way from the bottom end to the top end of the playground, but Mr. Dofferty had extraordinarily acute hearing. �Lampy� again, and a roar of laughter. The boy was talking about his headmaster; he was making jokes about his headmaster. Mr. Dofferty�s lips set thin and hard.

Mr. Dofferty made a sort of sideways movement on a segment of a wide circle towards the group of boys. He looked a bit like a huntsman keeping to windward of his quarry. The maneuver was successful. He had come up to within a few yards of them, always in the rear of Albert Hewitt, before the boys became aware of him. Then, suddenly, the boys caught sight of him: all but Albert Hewitt. One moment later they had scuttled away, like a warren-full of rabbits shocked into a hedge by a footstep. A hand came down heavily on Albert Hewitt�s shoulder.

�You were talking about me, I think,� said Mr. Dofferty. His voice was gentle.

Albert Hewitt�s body quivered under the great hand. He did not dare to turn round.

�No, sir, Mr. Dofferty, I wasn�t,� said the small boy.

�You were referring to me by another name,� pointed out Mr. Dofferty.

�No, sir, Mr. Dofferty, I wasn�t,� the small boy said again. His voice was hardly more than a whisper.

Mr. Dofferty removed his hand from Albert Hewitt�s shoulder.

�Perhaps you�ll turn round, Albert,� he suggested.

Albert turned round. He did not dare to look up into Mr. Dofferty�s face, cold and remote. The thin thighs of the headmaster seemed to soar into space, like trees. The playground was appallingly empty, but for himself and the soft voice that came down from so high.

�I would like you to look into my face,� requested Mr. Dofferty. �Will you?�

The small boy did as he was told.

Mr. Dofferty continued. �Excellent, Albert. Now, I feel quite certain you won�t lie to me. You were referring to me by a name which I have forbidden the school to use. Is that not so, Albert?�

�Yes, sir,� whispered the small boy. His lips started quivering. He found it as difficult not to lower his eyes from Mr. Dofferty�s eyes as it had been difficult a moment ago to raise them.

�Now, now.� Mr. Dofferty wagged his finger almost playfully. �Don�t make an exhibition of yourself. No harm will come to you, so long as you�re a good boy and speak up. What was it you were saying to those boys, Albert? Come, come, Albert, what was it?�

The boy said not a word. He stared up into Mr. Dofferty�s eyes, as if he had neither ears nor tongue.

�What are you staring at me like that for?� barked Mr. Dofferty. �Is there anything wrong with me?�

The boy�s head sagged suddenly towards his chest.

�Well, Albert!� The headmaster�s voice had become gentle as a dove�s again. �Are you going to tell me what it was you were saying about me?�

�I wasn�t saying nothing,� Albert said. His lower lip projected a little.

�Obstinate, eh?� said Mr. Dofferty, quite gaily now. �You know, Albert,� he almost wheedled, �it will be a lot better for you if you tell me what you were saying.�

�I wasn�t saying nothing,� Albert repeated.

�I see,� Mr. Dofferty said shortly. He raised his eyes to roof-level and joined his hands behind his back. He seemed to be communing with himself. Then he spoke again. His tone was very matter-of-fact. �If you go on disobeying me, I�ll take you into the sanctum and thrash you. Do you hear?�

�Yes, sir,� the boy mumbled.

�Very well, then. Are you going to tell me what you were saying?�

�No, sir.�

�I�ll take you into the sanctum and thrash you within an inch of your life. Are you going to tell me?� Again silence. �Are you going to tell me?� Mr. Dofferty reached down and got his fingers round the boy�s arm.

With a quick involuntary gesture the boy wrenched his arm free.

�It was only a dream!� he cried. �Let me go home!�

�Oh, it was only a dream?� said Mr. Dofferty, easily. �Why didn�t you say so before, you silly boy?� His heart felt curiously lighter. He took his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. �You�re right!� he exclaimed. �It�s time we were both going home!�

�Oh, thank you, thank you very much, sir!� cried Albert. �Good afternoon, Mr. Dofferty.� The boy was already scampering off.

�Oh, by the way!� the headmaster called after him.

The boy turned. �Yes, sir?� he asked fearfully.

Mr. Dofferty did not say anything for a moment or two. He realized, in fact, he had nothing to say. He was merely aware that he did not like the boy going off like that, as if he had not used the forbidden nickname, as if he were innocent as the shorn lamb. Then he found his lips uttering a question concerning which his mind had no curiosity at all. For, after all, what interest was it to Mr. Dofferty, headmaster, Mr. Dofferty, world-traveler, what dream a snivelling, little elementary schoolboy might dream?

�What did you dream about, Albert?�

The boy�s jaw fell. The faint flush of color that had come up into his face went out completely.

�Nothing,� he muttered.

�Nonsense!� said Mr. Dofferty. �You were dreaming about me, weren�t you?�

Then, suddenly, Mr. Dofferty remembered how amused all the small boys had been while Albert Hewitt had been holding forth. He had been telling them his dream, of course, a dream about their headmaster. Mr. Dofferty blushed. It was in the last degree undignified for a person in his position to insist on ferreting out a small boy�s dream, whatever the dream was about. But he could not bear the way the boy was lying to him. If the boy would only own up simply and honestly, they could go home, both of them.

�Well, are you going to say something?� asked Mr. Dofferty.

The boy was as silent as a lump of wood.

Mr. Dofferty, suddenly, lost patience. �Very well, then. You will please come along with me.�

He strode forward towards the big door in the middle of the building. The boy hesitated for one moment. He looked round wildly. It was impossible to get away from those long legs.

The sanctum was a room on the right-hand side of the main corridor. Mr. Dofferty took out his bunch of keys and unlocked the door.

�This way,� he said frigidly.

The boy followed. He knew the way well enough. There was a faint smell in the air which turned his stomach, as it had been turned once or twice before. Mr. Dofferty burned joss-sticks, now and again, when his nostalgia for the East got him badly.

The headmaster went over to the table in the middle of the room and carefully removed two or three of his oriental knick-knacks � the soapstone Buddha he used as a paperweight, the ivory-handled Malay kris he used as a paper-knife, the heavy, brass, Chinese seal. He sat down in the space thus cleared and reached casually along the table for his cane.

�Stand here,� he ordered the boy. The boy came and stood beside him. �What was your dream about?�

The boy stood obdurate.

�You�re not going to tell me?� Mr. Dofferty roared. �So, you�re not going to tell me?� He lifted the cane high in air, ready to strike.

�I�ll tell you!� the boy shouted suddenly. �Please, sir, I�ll tell you!�

Mr. Dofferty�s face was as white as a tablecloth, his lips were almost as white. �Very well, then! Go on!�

�I... I... dreamed�� the boy whimpered � �I... I dreamed � that I�� Then he looked up beseechingly. �I can�t tell you, sir!� he wailed.

�I think you can,� said the other.

The boy swallowed hard. �I dreamed in my dream, sir, you was wearing � you was wearing��

�Go on!�

�You was wearing a long nightgown, sir. It was a silk one, sir, pale blue silk. And... and�� Again the words stuck in the boy�s throat.

Mr. Dofferty was not aware of the boy�s discomfort. He was aware only of his own. He knew he had never felt so ridiculous in all his life before.

�Go on!� he said thickly. �Anything more?�

�Yes, sir!� blubbered the boy. �You was wearing a wreath of daisies round your head!�

�I see,� whispered Mr. Dofferty.

But he did not mean that he himself saw. He meant that the small boys saw, the small boys who had laughed uproariously when Albert had told them his dream. He saw with their eyes his own unspeakable grotesqueness � pale blue nightgown and wreath of daisies.

Why didn�t the small boy get to hell out of it? What was the blob of dirt hanging about for? He must take himself in hand. He must not let the boy realize how naked he had left him, shivering in the whistling blackness, with only a pale blue nightgown round his skinny body, a wreath of daisies for headgear.

�Is that all?� he asked, with a deadly attempt at casualness.

Then the boy gave tongue, with a voice so shrill and terrible that it seemed to pierce the ear-drums.

�That�s all!� he screamed. �I tell you that�s all. I didn�t dream nothing more! Nothing at all!�

The eyes glared. The jaw was so rigid that the words came through with the effect of ventriloquy.

For the first time in the encounter Mr. Dofferty�s intellectual interest was aroused. He forgot his anger with the boy and his shame of himself. He was conscious only of an exceeding curiosity. What more was it the boy had dreamed, the terror of which made him a gibbering idiot? What on earth could it be?

�Listen, Albert,� he said coaxingly. �Don�t be frightened. I know you dreamed something more. I�d like to know what it was. Won�t you tell me?�

�Nothing more! I didn�t dream nothing more!� The boy stamped his feet.

�I assure you, you�re going to tell me!� Mr. Dofferty said. �You might as well tell me now, as later.�

He was not going to have the struggle start all over again. He was feeling completely worn out. He got down from the table. The cane had fallen to the floor. He reached down and lifted it. He swished it through the air. �Won�t you tell me, Albert?� he asked once again.

The boy said nothing.

Then the man�s patience snapped. The cane went hissing into the air and came screaming down again. He did not know where it landed, on the boy�s hands, body, or face.

The boy did not know, either. He knew nothing more excepting that the whole world was a blackness with a great wind roaring in it. Then, at last, the wind ceased roaring and there was light in the world again. He became aware that he was in the sanctum of Mr. Dofferty, his headmaster. He became aware of Mr. Dofferty�s body extended interminably between his own legs and the legs of the table. The Malay kris that Mr. Dofferty used as a paper-knife stuck out from between his ribs.

The boy leaned forward, pointing towards the ivory handle, where the blood gushed above the blade.

�That�s what I dreamed!� his lips went. �That�s what I dreamed!�

Now that you have finished Louis Golding�s �Pale Blue Nightgown,� we hope you agree with us that it is one of the most remarkable short stories you have ever read...

The story first appeared in book form in a limited edition of only 64 copies � 60 for public sale and 4 probably retained by the publisher, Lord Carlow, whose Corvinus Press of London issued the slim volume in October 1936. In this edition (one, of the truly rare first editions among modem English books) the story is followed by a Postscript, specially written by the author. Mr. Golding�s postscript is so fascinating, and throws such a brilliant light on the conception of �Pale Blue Nightgown,� that we cannot refrain from quoting it in full.

�Several of my friends,� wrote Mr. Golding, �including Lord Carlow, who printed this tale, have suggested that it might add to its interest if I concluded with, as a postscript, a brief note regarding its origin.

�I dreamed this tale, as I have dreamed tales before. I mean that I have dreamed events, in which I personally may, or may not, have been involved, and at a certain stage in the dreaming I have said to myself,��I will make a tale out of this dream. It ought to make a good tale.�

�Sometimes I have made the resolution after the dream was over, at the moment of awakening. But that is perhaps not unusual. The interest lies in the concurrence of the tale-making impulse with the dreaming of the events dreamed, while the dream mind was still unconscious of their denouement.

�I say that I have dreamed tales before and decided to write them. But I have never actually done so till now. For the fact was that they proved to be nonsense, as most dreams are, with no coherence in episode and character and with no finale, in any acceptable literary value.

��Pale Blue Nightgown was unlike them. The characters are as real to me now as they were when I dreamed them. The central situation still terrifies me as it terrified me the night it evolved between a bed-sheet and a pillow-case drenched with sweat. The denouement has as much �surprise� in the formal O. Henry sense, as any tale I have composed in my walking moments.

�I remember two things in that night-dreaming, the appalling vividness of the events themselves, and my insistence throughout: �What a good story this will make.� I think I was trying to comfort myself for my profound wretchedness. I was equally sorry for the poor small boy and the poor headmaster. My heart was wracked with pity for them.

�At the same time I was consumed with curiosity. �How,� I ashed myself, �is it going to end?� The ending was as startling and terrifying to myself as it has been to my friends since, if I am to believe them.

�To sum up. On one level I was dreaming a dream, on another level my conscious literary mind was preoccupying itself with the dream as literary material. On still another level, one of the characters I was dreaming himself had dreamed a dream which gave the whole dream episode its motive power and its denouement.

�It is that superimposition of levels of consciousness which has seemed odd enough to absolve these words of postscript from the charge of impertinence. So I hope, at least?�

We were talking, half a dozen of us, about undetected crime; and as law-abiding citizens love to do, we had expended a wealth of ingenuity in arguing how we could improve on the crude methods of those criminals who were sooner or later called to account. Lonsdale, the captain of the Istria, propounded three devices by which a man could disappear without leaving a trace; and the ship�s doctor sketched a gruesome series of murders which would defy post mortem examination. Our fecundity of invention was only equaled by our callousness of execution; and when the one parson on board rather incongruously joined our group, I felt he must be silently thanking heaven that we were men of substance and position without any pressing temptation to earn a livelihood by our unscrupulous wits or to escape the consequences by our desperate resource.

�Though the fact remains,� said the captain, going back to our starting-point, �that in England at least there are very few undiscovered crimes of the first order � very few indeed.�

�Because,� I insisted, �there are very few criminals of the first order. Take blackmail. I can�t remember a single prosecution where the wretched victim hasn�t been so tortured that exposure becomes preferable to slow bleeding to death. Now, I maintain that the blackmailer who drives his victim to desperation is unworthy to practise. So is the murderer who can�t bide his time. And so is any forger, coiner, or other criminal who can�t work without an accomplice.�

�And yet,� objected the captain, �you can�t hope to learn your job unless you have been properly apprenticed.�

�I�m disposed to think, on the contrary,� I answered, �that most great artists are self-taught. However that may be, whether it�s navigating a ship or removing an appendix or preaching a sermon or � in my own field � writing a novel, I abhor the gifted, but untrained, amateur. The only time I was blackmailed, a shifty-eyed creature hinted that he knew something against me and that, if I didn�t pay him ten pounds, he would � in his own words � �blow the gaff.� Well, I locked the door and telephoned for the police. While we waited for them to come, I told this fellow that he was a disgrace to his profession � using language that would probably get him seven years� penal servitude, and risking his liberty for less than he would have got if he�d called himself a piano-tuner and gone off with the drawing-room silver. If we�d had another five minutes, I�d have given him a lesson or two in his own job.�

The black-bearded padre who had been the last to join us leaned forward to ask with a smile whether they might not all be given the benefit of my instruction.

�Well,� I said, �the first commandment for every criminal must be: Thou shalt not be found out. The artist in blackmail must never be handed over to the police. If he is, he must bring and win an action for malicious prosecution. The word blackmail must never be used. If it is, he must bring and win an action for slander. A very dignified and sensitive ornament of society, my blackmailer is; and he works patiently...�

�If he can afford to wait,� the padre interposed, �will he take to crime?�

�If he can�t afford to wait,� I rejoined, �he�d certainly better not try. Now, what is to be the skeleton in my cupboard? That I did time in my youth for illicit diamond-buying? Very well! I�ve turned respectable, changed my name, married a wife, and made myself a first-rate position which would crumble and disappear if anyone knew I�d spent some years working on a breakwater at the Cape. The blackmailer finds out all this and makes an excuse to meet me. In the course of conversation he lets fall that he used to know South Africa very well in old days and watches to see how I take it. If I�m unmoved, he may ask if I was ever out there, he may even say he knew a man rather like me. Then he switches off to channel-swimming, motorboat racing, anything you like; and in due course he mentions his invalid wife, who�s been ordered a five-hundred-guinea operation which he can�t afford.�

�And if you still don�t rise?� asked the doctor.

�Then he goes back to the old South African days, perhaps telling me a story of a man who was caught as an I.D.B. And he tells it as though he�s saying: �Now we understand each other?� Well, there�s nothing in all this to justify me in locking the door and telephoning for the police. Why, bless my soul, if I did, I should find myself presented with a writ as soon as he could get in touch with a solicitor to serve it!�

Captain Lonsdale pondered my advice and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

�Of course, you�ve compressed into one interview an attack which your artist would spread over many meetings,� he murmured. �And your defense?�

�My only defense, if I can keep my nerve, is to indicate that the subject of South Africa doesn�t interest me and to tell my servants that, if this fellow calls again, he�s not to be admitted. Assuming I can do that, I�ve won. The second commandment for every blackmailer is: Thou shalt know when thou art beaten. But can I keep my nerve? The idea of exposure is very unpleasant for a highly respected citizen with a wife and family. It�s not an admission of guilt if I give the fellow a hundred pounds towards his wife�s operation. I�ve prospered; and he hasn�t. Though he advances no claim and utters no threat, in a vague way I don�t want to make an enemy of the man who knew South Africa in the days of my little misfortune. If you go to work on those lines, you never come close to the law.�

�You must have a certain amount of luck as well,� suggested Captain Lonsdale. �If I turned blackmailer, I shouldn�t know where to begin.�

�That�s a question of preliminary spade-work,� I answered. �If the skeleton you find is in the cupboard of a cabinet minister or a millionaire, so much the easier for you; but, if you explore every cupboard you meet, you�ll find a surprising number of skeletons inside them. We all of us have something in our lives that we�d give a good deal to suppress.� I looked up to discover the black-bearded padre�s eye fixed rather coldly on me. �At least, I speak for myself,� I hastened to add. �I once got into a position where I�d have given the clothes off my back and my skin under the clothes to hush things up. Needless to say, I was entirely innocent.�

�Would it be indiscreet to ask for the story?� inquired the ship�s doctor.

�It happened so long ago,� I said, �that I�ve forgotten half the names of the people concerned. Before the war, it was; and I should imagine the time of year was September or October, as I was going to America for a lecturing tour and had to get it finished in time to spend Christmas in the South Seas. The ship we will call the Joan of Arc; and of several hundred passengers the only two that matter were a middle-aged American business-man, who�d been taking a cure at Nauheim, and a young American woman, who was returning home after a tour in Europe. I will call them Mr. Nelson and Mrs. Villeneuve. Each was traveling alone; and I can�t tell you whether they�d ever met before they found themselves sitting together at the chief engineer�s table. I was very busy, putting the finishing touches to my lectures, and I shouldn�t even have noticed them if they hadn�t got in my way.

�This they did quite literally. Mrs. Villeneuve�s cabin was next to mine; and I used to bump into her half a dozen times a day when she was playing the fool with any man who�d skylark with her. Since Noah�s ark first floated on the face of the waters I presume there has always been a woman who constituted herself the �life and soul of the ship�; and I�d cast Mrs. Villeneuve for this part before we were out of Southampton Water. By the end of the first day she was on Christian-name terms with the wireless operators, she�d danced with every man under fifty and sat out on the boat-deck with everyone over, and she�d drunk cocktails with anybody who asked her, regardless of age. She was an attractive creature, in a flashy, impudent way, but I was not sorry when she accorded the fat Middle-Westerner the privilege of holding her hand and paying for her drinks.

�Mr. Nelson, as I�ve called him, got in my way almost everywhere on the ship. When I walked round the deck before breakfast, he was stretched on a long chair in the narrowest part. When I went down to breakfast, his enormous bulk was filling the companion-way. And when I went aft for my gin-and-bitters before luncheon, the smoking-room was entirely filled by Mr. Nelson. He must have been a big man at any time, but this heart-trouble had made a monster of him. Long before we got into hot weather over Banks I was beginning to feel anxious; and he was utterly reckless about his health. I shall get into trouble with the doctor here if I poach on his preserves, but I can�t believe � as a layman � that any man, recently discharged from Nauheim, was wise in eating three huge meals a day, drinking all the time between, and smoking one immense, black cigar after another.

�I should think it was the promise of free champagne nightly that attracted Mrs. Villeneuve. Nelson hadn�t much else to commend him; but by the second or third day out they�d definitely paired off. Their own corner in the smoking-room and a brace of cocktails waiting for them before luncheon and dinner. Their chairs side by side on deck. Instructions to the barman to keep them regularly fed with whiskies-and-sodas as soon as the bar opened in the evening. I suppose we�ve all of us seen that kind of thing a hundred times. It�s an inevitable part of life at sea. One thinks nothing of it, unless people make nuisances of themselves, though it left an unpleasant taste in the mouth when you heard that this woman had a husband and two children in New York and that Nelson was a grandfather.

�Their morals, however, were no concern of mine; and I didn�t worry until Mrs. Villeneuve adjourned the festivities from the smoking-room to her cabin. Then I complained to the purser. I was working pretty hard and I wanted to sleep. The purser couldn�t give me much satisfaction, as the people on the other side were taking it all without protest. I then tackled the smoking-room steward and asked if he couldn�t carry the drinks to Nelson�s quarters, but I was told that Nelson was sharing his cabin with another man. After that, I was reduced to empty threats. If Nelson disturbed me again, I said, I�d go into Mrs. Villeneuve�s cabin and pitch him out. They were a bit quieter after this, but you know how thin the partitions are between a ship�s cabins. There was whispering, giggling, clinking of glasses, striking of matches... The next night I walked about on deck until Nelson came up for a breath of air.

�And the night after, though he didn�t come up then till half-past twelve. It was our last evening; otherwise I should have gone to the captain or given Nelson a piece of my mind. As it was, I said nothing, though we were alone on the boat-deck for ten minutes and went down to our staterooms within two yards of each other. Rather like two dogs, you know: Each waiting for the other to growl first. I was braced up to hear him say: �So you�re telling people you�re going to wring my neck if I want to say goodnight to a friend?�; and he was expecting me to come out with: �In the name of decency, why can�t you stick to your own cabin?� We stalked in silent hatred past each other half a dozen times, then went below. Tonight everything was quiet in the next cabin; but, alas, by this time the desire for sleep had left me! I tried to read, but my eyes were tired; and after a very few minutes I put on a coat over my pajamas and went on deck again.

�How long I was there I can�t tell you to a minute; but it was well after two before I went down again. I was wearing rubber-soled shoes and I walked as quietly as I could for fear of waking the other passengers. When I was about ten yards from my cabin, Mrs. Villeneuve�s door opened and she came out in a dressing-gown and slippers. I felt sure she�d seen me, but she was evidently too much concerned with matters of greater moment; and her job at this season was to get Nelson to bed without rousing the whole ship. It seemed that, after establishing an alibi on the boat-deck, he�d stolen back to his little friend; and to judge by appearances, he�d gone just a bit too far this time. He was absolutely incapable, sprawling across the floor of the passage in striped pajamas and leaving the question how he should get back to his cabin for someone else to answer.

�My first impulse, naturally, was to lend a hand. Mrs. Villeneuve was a tiny slip of a woman; and Nelson was seventeen stone if he was a pound. Then it occurred to me that I shouldn�t be thanked for butting in. After all, if she wanted help, she could ask for it; but when a woman has been entertaining a man in her cabin at two o�clock in the morning, she doesn�t generally want the world to know about it. I thought that if I gave her time to throw a bucket of water over Nelson�s head, he might be able to shift for himself. If not, I must let her decide whether she would take the night-watchman or me or Nelson�s stable-companion into her confidence. I went on deck again, leaving her to struggle with her friend.

�When I came back, they were both gone. And as I turned in, I heard something very like crying. I�m afraid I couldn�t feel the slightest sympathy with her. She was worse than I�d imagined, drunken, immoral, and a public nuisance into the bargain. My sole consolation in a disturbed night was that in four-and-twenty hours I need never give her another thought. Or so I imagined until my steward called me with the news that Nelson had been found dead in his bunk.

�The entire ship�s company had to spare her a good many thoughts after that! My steward�s story was that he�d found Nelson lying half out of bed, black in the face and rigid. The doctor said he must have been dead several hours. And that�s all we knew by breakfast-time. Afterwards there was a formal inquiry, but it brought nothing new to light. The stable-companion swore that he�d seen and heard nothing out of the ordinary and that Nelson had been sleeping quite peacefully when he himself turned in between twelve and one. There was no call for help, no sound of a seizure. Mrs. Villeneuve testified that Nelson had been all right when he left her at midnight after coming to her cabin for a final drink; and the passengers generally, when they�d recovered from the first shock, brought in an unofficial verdict of death from natural causes.

�I felt that this might be true enough so far as it went, but it wasn�t the whole truth. I couldn�t say, I can�t say now, whether Nelson died in Mrs. Villeneuve�s cabin or in his own or on the way there: But she was lying when she pretended that he hadn�t come back to her after the All-Clear signal. And the stable-companion was lying when he said he�d seen and heard nothing. Assume, if you like, that when he turned in Nelson had been �sleeping quite peacefully� or shamming sleep; he probably heard him getting up and he must certainly have heard him being brought back. In all likelihood he�d helped Mrs. Villeneuve. Only the strength of desperation enabled her to drag that weight along the passage. She couldn�t conceivably have lifted it up to the bunk. No, these two had worked together and they�d agreed on their story without dreaming that anyone would upset it.

�For most of that day I argued with myself whether I ought to upset it. If there�d been the faintest suspicion of foul play, I must have put in my evidence; but in a few hours� time this miserable woman�s husband, Nelson�s children and grandchildren would be coming to meet the ship. How could it benefit anyone to know that he had died in her cabin, probably in her arms? I decided to hold my tongue.

�My first lecture was arranged for the night after I landed; and for more than two months I was traveling and speaking from one end of the States to the other. I saw hardly any papers, except local sheets travestying my lectures; and even the New York reporters couldn�t make much copy out of the fact that one of my fellow-passengers had died on the voyage. It was a disagreeable episode, but quite a common one; and gradually I ceased to think about it.

�From time to time, indeed, I speculated about the principal actors in this sordid little tragedy. Were the Nelsons mourning an exemplary husband and father? Putting up a monument to him in his hometown? And Mrs. Villeneuve? Was she turning over a new leaf? And the stable-companion? Though I never knew his name, he was the one who interested me most. This woman was in the hollow of his hand. If he chose to blackmail her, there was no limit to the pressure he could apply. At first he could threaten to tell the whole story to her husband. When he�d exhausted the possibilities of this, he could get to work in earnest. Everyone assumed that Nelson had died of heart-failure, but what if she had contributed to it? One word against another; and the only man who could judge between them was dead. If the stable-companion pretended that he�d heard a scuffle, that this woman had hit Nelson...

�He would, of course, have to withdraw his first story that Nelson had been asleep when he went to bed, but he could say that he had tried to shield the woman and that now his conscience was troubling him. Mark you, I don�t suppose for a moment that he did any of these things; but, as a novelist, my imagination was stirred by the thought of the hold that he � and I, for that matter � had over this woman. At one time I seriously considered making some inquiries and telling her � by means of an anonymous letter, if need be � that if she found herself molested, there was one man who could give the true story of that night.

�In fact, I did nothing. I assumed, rather lazily, that the whole thing had blown over by now; and, as I couldn�t help Mrs. Villeneuve without revealing that Nelson had spent his last moments of life in her cabin at two in the morning, I knew she wouldn�t call on me unless she were threatened with the �chair.� Besides, the more I thought over this business, the more I wanted to keep entirely clear of it. For my own comfort and convenience I had slipped away on a lecture-tour without disclosing certain important facts about an unexplained death. I had held my tongue while Mrs. Villeneuve and the stable-companion signed declarations which I knew to be untrue. If I were called as a witness, I should be in a false position from the first.

�People who aren�t lawyers are unreasonably terrified by the thought of cross-examination. On my way to the South Seas I was appalled to realize the case that even a very moderate counsel could make against me. Why did I wish to shelter this worthless woman? Had I not called her attractive? Did she mean anything to me? If not, why was I impeding justice on her behalf? If so...? Was not my cabin next to hers? Had I not expressed my disapproval of her friendship with Nelson, my personal hostility to the man?... In a short time I might expect to find this death from natural causes converted into manslaughter, perhaps murder, and to learn that Nelson and I had been fighting for Mrs. Villeneuve.

�You mustn�t take this too seriously, of course. I didn�t take it very seriously myself, but it warned me against rash impulses. I did not write, even anonymously, to Mrs. Villeneuve. In holding my tongue I believe I did the right thing, the thing you would all have done, the thing I should do again if I found myself in a similar position. I now see a risk, however, which I hadn�t envisaged at the time. Going back to my theory of blackmail as a fine art, I should feel my skin pricking rather uncomfortably if a man told me that we�d met on the Joan of Arc and that his wife had been ordered an operation which he couldn�t afford. Your position becomes so infernally uncertain when it�s only your word against the other fellow�s. That�s the only skeleton in my blameless cupboard, but I maintain that we all of us have something that we�d pay to keep concealed.�

When I came to the end of my story, Captain Lonsdale inquired whether in fact the man whom I called the stable-companion had profited by his knowledge to levy blackmail on the unfortunate Mrs. Villeneuve. I told him that I had heard nothing of them or of the other passengers from that day to this.

After a few moments� silence the black-bearded padre asked whether I thought my running away had conceivably imperiled the life or liberty of anyone else.

�The stable-companion, for instance,� he explained. �If this Nelson was dragged some distance along a passage-floor, his body may well have been scratched and bruised. Fat men mark easily. Even if the ship�s doctor suspected no foul play, don�t you think that the relations or the port health-officer may have wondered a little?�

�The stable-companion,� I answered, �would be saved by absence of motive. Why should he want to kill the fellow?�

�Oh, I don�t suggest a charge of murder; but, if it was established that this Nelson was a heavy drinker and an obnoxious person generally, it�s not difficult to imagine an altercation, an exchange of blows. You might get a verdict of manslaughter. Mrs. Villeneuve swears that Nelson was all right when he left her after that last drink. When the steward comes round in the morning, he finds a dead body bearing, possibly, marks of violence. If we�re to believe the sworn statements, Nelson, once inside his cabin, never left it again. The violence done him between night and morning, therefore, must have been done by someone in the cabin. Now, a word from you that you�d seen Nelson an hour or whatever it was after he left the boat-deck, seen him outside his cabin, with this woman who swore she�d last seen him an hour earlier, seen him in pajamas, dead or dying: A word to that effect would have cleared the stable-companion.�

�To some extent,� I agreed. �It would get him into trouble of another kind, though. What happens to his sworn statement? And the woman�s?�

�They�d have to admit it was false,� said the padre. �A desperate effort to save the woman�s reputation. The penalty, however, for perjury is a small thing compared with the penalty for manslaughter. When it�s a man�s liberty against a woman�s name, perhaps an estimable man against an admittedly worthless woman...�

I began to feel that the excellent padre was rather unfairly using my tale as a text for a sermon. I looked at my watch and stood up.

�I had little time to think,� I answered. �I hope nobody did in fact suffer from my silence... Is anyone proposing to turn in?�

We drifted out on deck and walked with the doctor to the head of the after companion-way, where he descended to his surgery. Then we accompanied the captain to the door of his cabin by the bridge. One by one, our party scattered; and, when I came to my own deck, only the padre was left.

�That story of yours interested me more than I can say,� he murmured, as I stopped at the alley-way to my stateroom. �For Joan of Arc I suppose we may read Maid of Flanders. I knew her well in old days.�

It would be ridiculous to pretend that I was not startled, but I believe I concealed my surprise.

�The North Atlantic Transport Line?�

�The same! I remember a man rather like you. Nineteen-thirteen. I forget if Burgess had swum the channel then and I�ve never taken any interest in motorboat racing.�

I am perhaps unreasonably prejudiced against clerical humor, but I thought my companion was being rather heavy-handed in turning against me the jocular precepts which I had recommended for blackmail.

�You were on board that trip?� I asked with affected interest. �Then perhaps you recall the name of the man I�ve called Nelson.�

�It was Lee. Maxton B. Lee. And �Mrs. Villeneuve� was a Mrs. Kinloch Lasbury. You were only at the beginning of your career then, sir; you�ve prospered prodigiously since. I wish I could say the same for myself.� He paused and looked at me with a slight frown, as though he were repeating a lesson and had forgotten the next line. �The stable-companion,� he then continued, �was a mining-engineer called Grainger. Sinclair was skipper. The doctor was an Irishman, O�Casey. The barman was known as William � William Hussey his full name was � and Lee�s room-steward was a Welshman called Morgan.�

�You have a remarkable memory,� I said.

�Well, they all gave evidence,� explained the padre.

�Then there was an inquiry?�

The black beard dipped in a deliberate nod. The dark eyes glittered suddenly as though to prepare me for the cream of the jest:

�A trial. Now you understand my asking whether your policy of silence might not have been a little hard on the prisoner. And you�ve heard nothing from that day to this? Well, I suppose you were in the depths of Dakota or Texas when it came on, lecturing on the present position of the English novel. It was an interesting case.�

�You were there?�

The glitter turned to a blaze.

�I was the prisoner. Before that, I had been the stable-companion. After that... After that... For five of the best years of a man�s life... Years that have no cash-equivalent... Heart-breaking years of degradation and injustice and ruin... For five years I was an inmate of a United States prison. I suppose you�re not in any great hurry for bed? I can assure you that you�re not likely to sleep for a long time yet.�

When I left the smoking-room, I was feeling tired and a little stupefied after several hours in a hot and noisy room. Once on deck, my head began to clear. And by the time that my companion suggested a short walk before turning in, I was at least mentally fit to attack the question whether he was an inspired practical joker, a dangerous lunatic, or a man hideously wronged and fiercely determined on revenge.

�This is about my usual time for going to bed,� I told him.

�But this is an unusual occasion! Doesn�t a yarn about old days appeal to you? I fear I�m not the �dignified and sensitive ornament to society� that you would like, but five years of prison and ten of living by one�s wits take off the early polish. Needless to say, I�m not a parson, but a clerical outfit is a useful disguise. There are one or two mining engineers on board this ship, but they�ve none of them penetrated the Reverend George Winter to the John Grainger underneath. Well, now, a sick wife is one of the few troubles I haven�t had...�

�But you think I might help you on other grounds?� I interrupted. �Our acquaintance is slight. Your name... or names...�

�The New York police can identify me by my thumb prints.�

�And why do you single me out?�

My companion wagged his head and laughed disagreeably:

�I�m appealing to your generosity. You observe that I make no claim and use no threats.�

�I observe also that you�ve taken a long time to make your appeal. You�ve been at large for ten years, you would have me believe?�

�But till tonight I didn�t see how I could make my appeal... convincing, shall I say? If you�d locked the door and telephoned for the police... My record was against me. I prefer in every way your peaceful persuasion.�

�And as you paid me the compliment of attending so carefully, you doubtless remember my warning that the artistic blackmailer must admit when he�s beaten. Nine times out of ten, the victim will pay. The tenth time he�ll look for the whisper of a shadow of a ghost of a threat and then he�ll hit back. Our conversation tonight will be repeated to the captain tomorrow, as accurately as I can recollect it. I shall ask him to call on you to corroborate it. If you stick to your guns, there�ll be a Scotland Yard man waiting on the quay...�

My companion opened his eyes in well-simulated surprise.

�If I thought that was a threat...� he murmured. �You don�t suggest I�m trying to... blackmail you? If you mean that, if you�ll say it in the captain�s presence, you�ll be served with a writ as soon as I can find a solicitor to serve it.�

�Scotland Yard,� I said with an attempt at lightness, �will be interested to know why a mining engineer called Grainger is traveling as a parson named Winter. If you tell the captain it was all a joke and you were trying to frighten me, you may persuade him to accept it in that spirit, but I shall take what measures I think fit to protect myself against similar �jokes� in future. I think we understand each other now...�

My companion shook his head with an expression almost of pity.

�You don�t begin to understand,� he told me. �Rule out the practical-joke idea. Five years in an American prison take the edge off a man�s sense of humor. Rule out the idea that I�m a chance blackmailer who sees the possibilities of the story you told us tonight. I�ve shown you that I know the names you hid up under your �Nelson� and �Villeneuve� and �Joan of Arc.� I can remind you, if you�ve forgotten, that you worked on the port side of the promenade-deck in a green-and-white striped chair with your name painted on the top; and you wrote left-handed, because you had neuritis in your other arm. I could tell you things you�ve never known. Lee � or �Nelson� � was dead when you saw him. He dropped down in Mrs. Lasbury�s cabin. She only wanted to drag him far enough away to keep people from thinking he�d been with her, but she made so much noise that I came out into the alley-way. She told me what had happened; and I helped her to carry the body in. We agreed, like fools, to pretend he�d died in his sleep.

�If I�d kept my head,� he went on, �I should have dressed again and gone on deck and come down later and given the alarm. He had some big bruises; and his pajamas were torn. I paid for that little mistake with five of the best years of my life. A word from you would have saved me, but you were too busy thinking of your own safety. Not that I blame you. I know what it means to have a dead body lying at your feet and one man�s word against another. That Lasbury woman would have put the blame on you, me, the ship�s cat, if she�d had a chance. She was terrified, dangerous. And I�d have shifted the blame to you or anyone else if I�d seen how to do it.�

He broke off with a mutter of �Five years! Five mortal years!� Then he turned with a bow of fiercely ironical deference:

�You were wise to keep out of the mess. After all, you were the last man known to have seen this Lee alive. You�d told O�Casey, the doctor, that, if Lee kept you awake another night, you�d go into Mrs. Lasbury�s cabin and chuck him out. My stars, I got five years on less suspicion than that! I don�t wonder at your saying you�d give the clothes off your back and the skin under the clothes to keep this little skeleton in its cupboard. It�s not only that you�re a well-known literary man. If there was another inquiry, you might find yourself standing where I stood. The Lees are still lamenting a valued member of their family. Mrs. Lasbury will sign and swear anything to keep out of the dock. And I...�

As he paused again, I invited him to go on.

�Well, I feel that somebody must compensate me for all I�ve gone through, all I�ve lost,� he answered. �Until tonight I meant to divide the bill between England and America. There�s been a miscarriage of justice. If the government of New York State won�t make amends, the people of the two countries will. I�m writing the story of the trial and of my life in prison. The publishers have given me quite a good contract. My only trouble is that I�m not a trained writer. There have been times when I�ve thought of giving the whole thing up, but I need the money. I�d give it up tonight if anyone would make it worth my while.�

�Have you tried the Lees or Mrs. Lasbury?� I inquired contemptuously.

The black beard dipped once more; and once more the glittering eyes fixed me with a piercing intensity which I took to mean that this was the last round.

�They couldn�t pay ten thousand pounds,� he answered. �And that�s what I expect to make by the book and the serial rights. Nothing less than ten thousand pounds is worth my while... Now I mustn�t keep you up any longer. We understand each other.�

When the manuscript of T. S. Stribling�s newest Poggioli story reached our des\s, and we had read it, we experienced an immediate double-barreled reaction: first, that this latest Poggioli tale is one of the professor�s most interesting criminal investigations, and second, that it cried out to be published as half of a �tec tandem � with Melville Davisson Post�s Uncle Abner story, �A Twilight Adventure�... There are certain things in the world which come naturally and inevitably in pairs: love birds, shoes, candlesticks, bacon and eggs. In the same way there are certain stories in the literary world which have a natural and inevitable affinity. It might be a basically similar plot point, or a parallel mood, or an analogous background; the twin stories have something in common, yet are completely individual.

We have brought you such double-entries in the past � only last month we paired a Damon Runyon story with, of all possibilities, a Michael Arlen story. You will remember also the curious resemblance between Ernest Hemingway�s �The Killers� and W. R. Burnett�s �Dressing Up.� And surely Frank R. Stockton�s �The Lady, or the Tiger?� is perfectly complemented by Barry Perowne�s �The Blind Spot,� and for entirely different reasons one could bracket Edgar Allan Poe�s �The Gold-Bug� and A. Conan Doyle�s �The Adventure of the Dancing Men.�

Yes, many stories are brothers and sisters under the skin, and some bear a strong family likeness; as in the case of human beings, however, every truly fine story has its own distinctive personality not quite like any other...

It was a strange scene that we approached. Before a crossroad leading into a grove of beech trees, a man sat on his horse with a rifle across his saddle. He did not speak until we were before him in the road, and then his words were sinister.

�Ride on!� he said.

But my Uncle Abner did not ride on. He pulled up his big chestnut and looked calmly at the man facing him.

�You speak like one having authority,� he said.

�Ride on, or you�ll get into trouble!�

�I am accustomed to trouble,� replied my uncle with great composure; �you must give me a better reason.�

�I�ll give you hell!� growled the man. �Ride on!�

Abner�s eyes traveled over the speaker with a deliberate scrutiny.

�It is not yours to give,� he said, �although possibly to receive. Are the roads of Virginia held by arms?�

�This one is,� replied the man.

�I think not,� replied my Uncle Abner, and touching his horse with his heel, he turned into the crossroad.

The man seized his weapon, and I heard the hammer click under his thumb. Abner must have heard it, too, but he did not turn his broad back. He only called to me in his usual matter-of-fact voice:

�Go on, Martin; I will overtake you.�

The man brought his gun up to his middle, but he did not shoot. He was like all those who undertake to command obedience without having first determined precisely what they will do if their orders are disregarded. He was prepared to threaten with desperate words, but not to support that threat with a desperate act, and he hung there uncertain, cursing under his breath.

I would have gone on as my uncle had told me to do, but now the man came to a decision.

�No, by God!� he said; �if he goes in, you go in, too!�

And he seized my bridle and turned my horse into the crossroad; then he followed.

There is a long twilight in these hills. The sun departs, but the day remains. A sort of weird, dim, elfin day, that dawns at sunset, and envelops and possesses the world. The land is full of light, but it is the light of no heavenly sun. It is a light equal everywhere, as though the earth strove to illumine itself, and succeeded with that labor.

The stars are not yet out. Now and then a pale moon rides in the sky, but it has no power, and the light is not from it. The wind is usually gone; the air is soft, and the fragrance of the fields fills it like a perfume. The noises of the day and of the creatures that go about by day cease, and the noises of the night and of the creatures that haunt the night begin. The bat swoops and circles in the maddest action, but without a sound. The eye sees him, but the ear hears nothing. The whippoorwill begins his plaintive cry, and one hears, but does not see.

It is a world that we do not understand, for we are creatures of the sun, and we are fearful lest we come upon things at work here of which we have no experience, and that may be able to justify themselves against our reason. And so a man falls into silence when he travels in this twilight, and he looks and listens with his senses out on guard.

It was an old wagon-road that we entered, with the grass growing between the ruts. The horses traveled without a sound until we began to enter a grove of ancient beech trees; then the dead leaves cracked and rustled. Abner did not look behind him, and so he did not know that I came. He knew that someone followed, but he doubtless took it for the sentinel in the road.

The man with the cocked gun rode grimly behind me. I did not know whither we went or to what end. We might be shot down from behind a tree or murdered in our saddles. It was not a land where men took desperate measures upon a triviality. And I knew that Abner rode into something that little men, lacking courage and heart, would gladly have stayed out of.

Presently my ear caught a sound, or, rather, a confused mingling of sounds, as of men digging in the earth. It was faint, and some distance beyond us in the heart of the beech woods, but as we traveled the sound increased and I could distinguish the strokes of the mattock, and the thrust of the shovel and the clatter of the earth on the dry leaves.

These sounds seemed at first to be before us, and then, a little later, off on our right hand. And finally, through the gray boles of the beech trees in the lowland, I saw two men at work digging a pit. They had just begun their work, for there was little earth thrown out. But there was a great heap of leaves that they had cleared away, and heavy cakes of the baked crust that the mattocks had pried up. The length of the pit lay at right angles to the road, and the men were working with their backs toward us. They were in their shirts and trousers, and the heavy mottled shadows thrown by the beech limbs hovered on their backs and shoulders, like a flock of night birds. The earth was baked and hard; the mattock rang on it, and among the noises of their work they did not hear us.

I saw Abner look off at this strange labor, his head half turned, but he did not stop and we went on. The old wagon-road made a turn into the low ground. I heard the sound of horses, and a moment later we came upon a dozen men.

I shall not easily forget that scene. The beech trees had been deadened by some settler who had chopped a ring around them, and they stood gaunt with a few tattered leaves, letting the weird twilight in. Some of the men stood about, others sat on the fallen trees, and others in their saddles. But upon every man of that grim company there was the air and aspect of one who waits for something to be finished.

An old man with a heavy iron-gray beard smoked a pipe, puffing out great mouthfuls of smoke with a sort of deliberate energy; another whittled a stick, cutting a bull with horns, and shaping his work with the nicest care; and still another traced letters on the pommel of his saddle with his thumbnail.

A little to one side a great pronged beech thrust out a gray arm, and under it two men sat on their horses, their elbows strapped to their bodies and their mouths gagged with a saddle-cloth. And behind them a man in his saddle was working with a colt halter, unraveling the twine that bound the headpiece and seeking thereby to get a greater length of rope.

This was the scene when I caught it first. But a moment later, when my uncle rode into it, the thing burst into furious life. Men sprang up, caught his horse by the bit and covered him with weapons. Someone called for the sentinel who rode behind me, and he galloped up. For a moment there was confusion. Then the big man who had smoked with such deliberation called out my uncle�s name, others repeated it, and the panic was gone. But a ring of stern, determined faces were around him and before his horse, and with the passing of the flash of action there passed no whit of the grim purpose upon which these men were set.

My uncle looked about him.

�Lemuel Arnold,� he said; �Nicholas Vance, Hiram Ward, you here!�

As my uncle named these men I knew them. They were cattle grazers. Ward was the big man with the pipe. The men with them were their renters and drovers.

Their lands lay nearest to the mountains. The geographical position made for feudal customs and a certain independence of action. They were on the border, they were accustomed to say, and had to take care of themselves. And it ought to be written that they did take care of themselves with courage and decision, and on occasion they also took care of Virginia.

Their fathers had pushed the frontier of the dominion northward and westward and had held the land. They had fought the savage single-handed and desperately, by his own methods and with his own weapons. Ruthless and merciless, eye for eye and tooth for tooth, they returned what they were given.

They did not send to Virginia for militia when the savage came; they fought him at their doors, and followed him through the forest, and took their toll of death. They were hardier than he was, and their hands were heavier and bloodier, until the old men in the tribes of the Ohio Valley forbade these raids because they cost too much, and turned the war parties south into Kentucky.

Certain historians have written severely of these men and their ruthless methods, and prattled of humane warfare; but they wrote nursing their soft spines in the security of a civilization which these men�s hands had builded, and their words are hollow.

�Abner,� said Ward, �let me speak plainly. We have got an account to settle with a couple of cattle thieves and we are not going to be interfered with. Cattle stealing and murder have got to stop in these hills. We�ve had enough of it.�

�Well,� replied my uncle, �I am the last man in Virginia to interfere with that. We have all had enough of it, and we are all determined that it must cease. But how do you propose to end it?�

�With a rope,� said Ward.

�It is a good way,� replied Abner, �when it is done the right way.�

�What do you mean by the right way?� said Ward.

�I mean,� answered my uncle, �that we have all agreed to a way and we ought to stick to our agreement. Now, I want to help you to put down cattle stealing and murder, but I want also to keep my word.�

�And how have you given your word?�

�In the same way that you have given yours,� said Abner, �and as every man here has given his. Our fathers found out that they could not manage the assassin and the thief when every man undertook to act for himself, so they got together and agreed upon a certain way to do these things. Now, we have indorsed what they agreed to, and promised to obey it, and I for one would like to keep my promise.�

The big man�s face was puzzled. Now it cleared.

�Hell!� he said. �You mean the law?�

�Call it what you like,� replied Abner; �it is merely the agreement of everybody to do certain things in a certain way.�

The man made a decisive gesture with a jerk of his head.

�Well,� he said, �we�re going to do this thing our own way.�

My uncle�s face became thoughtful.

�Then,� he said, �you will injure some innocent people.�

�You mean these two blacklegs, Shifflet and Twiggs?�

And Ward indicated the prisoners.

My uncle lifted his face and looked at the two men some distance away beneath the great beech, as though he had but now observed them.

�I was not thinking of them,� he answered. �I was thinking that if men like you and Lemuel Arnold and Nicholas Vance violate the law, lesser men will follow your example, and as you justify your act for security, they will justify theirs for revenge and plunder. And so the law will go to pieces and a lot of weak and innocent people who depend upon it for security will be left unprotected.�

These were words that I have remembered, because they put the danger of lynch law in a light I had not thought of. But I saw that they would not move these determined men. Their blood was up and they received them coldly.

�Abner,� said Ward, �we are not going to argue this thing with you. There are times when men have to take the law into their own hands. We live here at the foot of the mountains. Our cattle are stolen and run across the border into Maryland. We are tired of it and we intend to stop it. Our lives and our property are menaced by a set of reckless desperate devils that we have determined to hunt down and hang to the first tree in sight. We did not send for you. You pushed your way in here; and now, if you are afraid of breaking the law, you can ride on, because we are going to break it � if to hang a pair of murderous devils is to break it.�

I was astonished at my uncle�s decision.

�Well,� he said, �if the law must be broken, I will stay and help you break it!�

�Very well,� replied Ward; �but don�t get a wrong notion in your head, Abner. If you choose to stay, you put yourself on a footing with everybody else.�

�And that is precisely what I want to do,� replied Abner, �but as matters stand now, every man here has an advantage over me.�

�What advantage, Abner?� said Ward.

�The advantage,� answered my uncle, �that he has heard all the evidence against your prisoners and is convinced that they are guilty.�

�If that is all the advantage, Abner,� replied Ward, �you shall not be denied it. There has been so much cattle stealing here of late that our people living on the border finally got together and determined to stop every drove going up into the mountains that wasn�t accompanied by somebody that we knew was all right. This afternoon one of my men reported a little bunch of about a hundred steers on the road, and I stopped it. These two men were driving the cattle. I inquired if the cattle belonged to them and they replied that they were not the owners, but that they had been hired to take the drove over into Maryland. I did not know the men, and as they met my inquiries with oaths and imprecations, I was suspicious of them. I demanded the name of the owner who had hired them to drive the cattle. They said it was none of my damned business and went on. I raised the county. We overtook them, turned their cattle into a field, and brought them back until we could find out who the drove belonged to. On the road we met Bowers.�

He turned and indicated the man who was working with the rope halter.

I knew the man. He was a cattle shipper, somewhat involved in debt, but who managed to buy and sell and somehow keep his head above water.

�He told us the truth. Yesterday evening he had gone over on the Stone-Coal to look at Daniel Coop-man�s cattle. He had heard that some grazer from your county, Abner, was on the way up to buy the cattle for Stockers. He wanted to get in ahead of your man, so he left home that evening and got to Coopman�s place about sundown. He took a short cut on foot over the hill, and when he came out he saw a man on the opposite ridge, where the road runs, ride away. The man seemed to have been sitting on his horse looking down into the little valley where Coopman�s house stands. Bowers went down to the house, but Coopman was not there. The door was open, and Bowers says the house looked as though Coop-man had just gone out of it and might come back any moment. There was no one about, because Coopman�s wife had gone on a visit to her daughter, over the mountains, and the old man was alone.

�Bowers thought Coopman was out showing the cattle to the man whom he had just seen ride off, so he went out to the pasture field to look for him. He could not find him and he could not find the cattle. He came back to the house to wait until Coop-man should come in. He sat down on the porch. As he sat there he noticed that the porch had been scrubbed and was still wet. He looked at it and saw that it had been scrubbed only at one place before the door. This seemed to him a little peculiar, and he wondered why Coopman had scrubbed his porch only in one place. He got up and as he went toward the door he saw that the jamb of the door was splintered at a point about halfway up. He examined this splintered place and presently discovered that it was a bullet hole.

�This alarmed him, and he went out into the yard. There he saw a wagon track leading away from the house toward the road. In the weeds he found Coopman�s watch. He picked it up and put it into his pocket. It was a big silver watch, with Coopman�s name on it, and attached to it was a buckskin string. He followed the track to the gate, where it entered the road. He discovered then that the cattle had also passed through this gate. It was now night. Bowers went back, got Coopman�s saddle horse out of the stable, rode him home, and followed the track of the cattle this morning, but he saw no trace of the drove until we met him.�

�What did Shifflet and Twiggs say to this story?� inquired Abner.

�They did not hear it,� answered Ward; �Bowers did not talk before them.�

�Did Shifflet and Twiggs know Bowers?� said Abner.

�I don�t know,� replied Ward; �their talk was so foul when we stopped the drove that we had to tie their mouths up.�

�Is that all?� said Abner.

Ward swore a great oath.

�No!� he said. �Do you think we would hang men on that? From what Bowers told us, we thought Shifflet and Twiggs had killed Daniel Coop-man and driven off his cattle; but we wanted to be certain of it, so we set out to discover what they had done with Coopman�s body after they had killed him and what they had done with the wagon. We followed the trail of the drove down to the Valley River. No wagon had crossed, but on the other side we found that a wagon and a drove of cattle had turned out of the road and gone along the basin of the river for about a mile through the woods. And there in a bend of the river we found where these devils had camped.

�There had been a great fire of logs very near to the river, but none of the ashes of this fire remained. From a circular space some twelve feet in diameter the ashes had all been shoveled off, the marks of the shovel being distinct. In the center of the place where this fire had burned, the ground had been scraped clean, but near the edges there were some traces of cinders and the ground was blackened. In the river at this point, just opposite the remains of the fire, was a natural washout or hole. We made a raft of logs, cut a pole with a fork on the end, and dragged the river. We found most of the wagon iron, all showing the effect of fire. Then we fastened a tin bucket to a pole and fished the washout. We brought up cinders, buttons, buckles, and pieces of bone.�

Ward paused.

�That settled it, and we came back here to swing the devils up.�

My uncle had listened very carefully, and now he spoke.

�What did the man pay Twiggs and Shifflet?� said my uncle. �Did they tell you that when you stopped the drove?�

�Now that,� answered Ward, �was another piece of damning evidence. When we searched the men we found a pocketbook on Shifflet with a hundred and fifteen dollars and some odd cents. It was Daniel Coopman�s pocketbook, because there was an old tax receipt in it that had slipped down between the leather and the lining. We asked Shifflet where he got it, and he said that the fifteen dollars and the change was his own money and that the hundred had been paid to him by the man who had hired them to drive the cattle. He explained his possession of the pocketbook by saying that this man had the money in it, and when he went to pay them he said that they might just as well take it with them, too.�

�Who was this man?� said Abner.

�They will not tell who he was.�

�Why not?�

�Now, Abner,� cried Ward, �why not, indeed! Because there never was any such man. The story is a lie out of the whole cloth. Those two devils are guilty as hell. The proof is all dead against them.�

�Well,� replied my uncle, �what circumstantial evidence proves depends a good deal on how you get started. It is a somewhat dangerous road to the truth, because all the signboards have a curious trick of pointing in the direction that you are going. Now, a man will never realize this unless he turns around and starts back, then he will see, to his amazement that the signboards have also turned. But as long as his face is set one certain way, it is of no use to talk to him, he won�t listen to you; and if he sees you going the other way, he will call you a fool.�

�There is only one way in this case,� said Ward.

�There are always two ways in every case,� replied Abner, �that the suspected person is either guilty or innocent. You have started upon the theory that Shifflet and Twiggs are guilty. Now, suppose you had started the other way, what then?�

�Well,� said Ward, �what then?�

�This, then,� continued Abner. �You stop Shifflet and Twiggs on the road with Daniel Coopman�s cattle, and they tell you that a man has hired them to drive this drove into Maryland. You believe that and start out to find the man. You find Bowers!�

Bowers went deadly white.

�For God�s sake, Abner!� he said.

But my uncle was merciless and he drove in the conclusion.

�What then?�

There was no answer, but the faces of the men about my uncle turned toward the man whose trembling hands fingered the rope that he was preparing for others.

�But the things we found, Abner?� said Ward.

�What do they prove,� continued my uncle, �now that the sign boards are turned? That somebody killed Daniel Coopman and drove off his cattle, and afterward destroyed the body and the wagon in which it was hauled away... But who did that?... The men who were driving Daniel Coopman�s cattle, or the man who was riding Daniel Coopman�s horse, and carrying Daniel Coopman�s watch in his pocket?�

Ward�s face was a study in expression.

�Ah!� cried Abner. �Remember that the signboards have turned about. And what do they point to if we read them on the way we are going now? The man who killed Coopman was afraid to be found with the cattle, so he hired Twiggs and Shifflet to drive them into Maryland for him and follows on another road.�

�But his story, Abner?� said Ward.

�And what of it?� replied my uncle. �He is taken and he must explain how he comes by the horse that he rides, and the watch that he carries, and he must find the criminal. Well, he tells you a tale to fit the facts that you will find when you go back to look, and he gives you Shifflet and Twiggs to hang.�

I never saw a man in more mortal terror than Jacob Bowers.

�My God!� he said, and again he repeated it, and again.

And he had cause for that terror on him. My uncle was stern and ruthless. The pendulum had swung the other way, and the lawless monster that Bowers had allied was now turning on himself. He saw it and his joints were unhinged with fear.

A voice crashed out of the ring of desperate men, uttering the changed opinion.

�By God!� it cried, �we�ve got the right man now.�

And one caught the rope out of Bowers�s hand.

But my Uncle Abner rode in on them.

�Are you sure about that?� he said.

�Sure!� they echoed. �You have shown it yourself, Abner.�

�No,� replied my uncle, �I have not shown it. I have shown merely whither circumstantial evidence leads us when we go hotfoot after a theory. Bowers says that there was a man on the hill above Daniel Coopman�s house, and this man will know that he did not kill Daniel Coopman and that his story is the truth.�

They laughed in my uncle�s face.

�Do you believe that there was any such person?�

My uncle seemed to increase in stature, and his voice became big and dominant.

�I do,� he said, �because I am the man!�

They had got their lesson, and we rode out with Shifflet and Twiggs to a legal trial.

At the time of this writing � in the year of our Lord 1949 � there are still some well-known and well-beloved American detectives who have yet to be born in the short-story form. At least two world-famous sleuths of fiction are beyond the possibility of short-story birth: Charlie Chan will never quote Confucius because his creator, Earl Derr Biggers, has long since joined his illustrious ancestors; and Philo Vance will never quote the Encyclopedia Britannica because his creator, S. S. Van Dine, has shuffled off this manhunting coil. At least three other eminent investigators can still come into being in short tales � their sires are still happily with us: Nick Charles can yet chase facts and females � if Dashiell Hammett emerges from retirement; Perry Mason can yet practise courtroom criminology � if Erie Stanley Gardner so decrees; and Nero Wolfe can guzzle beer, raise orchids, and snort �Pfui� � if Rex Stout so dictates. It is curious that the last two do exist in novelettes � but even short novelettes cannot legitimately be called short stories. It is curious too that all five famous ferrets exist in radio adventures � but stories in play form cannot be legitimately called short stories.

And there are other popular private eyes who, for reasons known only to their inventors, shun the short-story form despite its noble birth � for no one can deny that the short story is detection�s first form, original form, oldest form, and purest form. We have yet to meet Philip Marlowe in a Raymond Chandler short story, and so far as we know Frank Gruber�s best-known detective, Johnny Fletcher, wriggles in and out of financial difficulties only in stories of novel length.

Which brings us to this strange, perhaps unique, situation: if there is no Nick Charles short story, there is obviously no short tale of Nick�s everloving wife, Nora; if there is no Nero Wolfe short story, there is obviously no short adventure of Nero Wolfe�s brash assistant, Archie Goodwin; if there is no Perry Mason short story, there is obviously no short case about Perry Mason�s girl Friday, Della Street. You would say, therefore, if Johnny Fletcher cannot be read in short-story form, his side-kick Sam Cragg is equally non-existent in a short escapade. But it is the old axiom of no rule being so general which admits not some exception: here is Sam Cragg neck-deep in murder and mayhem, all on his own, positively solo, and not even the shadow of Johnny Fletcher offstage.

Yes, every detective must have his day...

To look at me reading the death notices while I�m having my breakfast in Thompson�s, you�d think I was an undertaker. I�m not, but my job is just as cheerful. Take this business today. I�ve got a bunch of cards with names, and I�m comparing them with the names in the death notices. I do this every morning and about twice a year I find a name I�m looking for. I strike pay-dirt this morning with the name Druhar.

I finish my breakfast and go out and hunt for my jaloppy, which I�ve got parked a couple of blocks down the street. I climb in and head for the North Side; 598 Blackhawk Street.

These foreigners certainly bury them early in the morning. Although it�s only nine thirty, they�ve already taken the crepe down from the door. There are a couple of kids hanging around and I ask them: �At what church are they having the mass for Mrs. Druhar?�

�St. John�s on Cleveland Avenue,� one of the kids replies.

I miss them at the church, so the only thing I can do is go out to the cemetery, which, according to the paper, is St. Sebastian�s, seven miles outside the city limits. It takes me about an hour to get out there, so when I get to the cemetery, they�re breaking up; going back to the cars that have brought them out. I grab an old envelope out of my pocket and wave it around as if it�s a telegram, or something.

�Mr. Tony Druhar!� I yell.

A big fellow, who is just about to climb into a green sedan, says: �Here I am.�

I run over and see that the license number on the sedan checks with the number on one of my cards. So I pull out the old repossess warrant and stick it into Mr. Druhar�s hand. �Sorry, Mr. Druhar,� I say. �I�m taking your car, on account of you haven�t done right by the Mid-West Finance Company.�

This Druhar looks stupidly at the piece of paper in his hand for a minute. Then he lets out a roar you could have heard over on Grant Avenue.

�Why, you grave-robbing�! Is this a time to pull something like this, when I have just buried my poor grandmother?�

�That�s how I found you,� I tell him. �It says in the paper: �Mourned by her sons, so-and-so, and grandsons, Tony Druhar, and so-and-so.� It was easy.�

Some people certainly get mad. This Druhar fellow jumps up and down and takes off his coat and throws it on the ground and jumps on it. Then three fellows just as big as Druhar climb out of his sedan and surround me.

�So you�re a skip-tracer!� one of them says, and lets a handful of knuckles fly in my direction.

I�m lucky enough to duck them, but I can see that this isn�t the safest place in the world right now for Sam Cragg. I get a lucky break, though. A motorcycle cop who�s escorted the funeral out here is just a little way off, and when Druhar starts all his yelling, he comes over.

�What�s the trouble?� he asks.

Druhar starts swearing again, but I grab hold of the cop�s arm. �I�ve got a repossess warrant for this car. This Druhar has missed six payments, and the Mid-West Finance Company wants $188 or the car.�

The cop gives me a funny look and takes the warrant from Tony Druhar. He looks at it and then he looks at me. �I�ll bet you hate yourself, mister, when you look at your face in the mirror every morning.�

�Maybe I do,� I tell the cop, �but if I didn�t have this job somebody else would, and brother, I have to eat.�

�Why?� asks the cop.

I can see he�s all on the other side, so I give him some law. �Officer, this is a regular warrant, good anywhere in this country. As an officer of the law, I�m calling on you to see that it�s properly served. I want this car or $188.�

There�s some hullabaloo, but after a while Druhar and his pals get together and make me a proposition, which I am sap enough to accept. I�m a softie, and you oughtn�t to be a skip-tracer if you are a softie. They�ve pooled up $32 and they say that Druhar will have the rest of the money for me tomorrow. I�m just cagy enough, though, to make them all give me their names and addresses and prove them by letters and stuff they�ve got with them.

That�s where I made my big mistake, and how I got mixed up with the phoney prince.

Francisco A. Branco�s �The Dwarfs� Club� is one of the eleven �first stories� which were awarded special prizes in EQMM�s 1948 Contest. It is interesting to note that Francisco Branco is the only foreign writer to have won a special award among the �tec tyros of that year. The story itself, like all the other �firsts,� shows great promise; it is authentically Continental in flavor, and its plot conception, colorfully reminiscent of the Red-Headed League, yet individualistically original, stems from the grand tradition, invented by Poe, fostered by Doyle, and carried on now only by our contemporaries of purest integrity, of seizing the reader�s interest by an irresistibly provocative situation or background.

Francisco Branco is Portuguese. His full name is Francisco Afonso da Conceicao Branco. He was less than twenty years old when he wrote and submitted �The Dwarfs� Club.� In his letter to your Editors, Francisco wrote: �Let us skip my age, it�s irrelevant.� But we do not agree: it is enormously encouraging, and important, to weigh the quality of work being done by teen-age detective-story writers all over the world.

Unlike most authors, young or old, Francisco has few interests outside of incessant reading. He devours �everything that falls under his eye.� For a time he was extraordinarily partial to detective fiction, but that enthusiasm has waned � he discovered that it was much more fun to write detective stories than to read them. His hobby is learning foreign languages. In addition to his native tongue, Francisco can read and write fluently in French, English, German, Spanish, Italian, and Latin, and not quite so accurately in Russian, Swedish, Danish, and Dutch. He is now planning to study Hindustani, Arabic, Hungarian, and Bantu.

Imagine what Francisco Branco is going to do some day with the character of a polyglot private eye? Talk about your detective double-talk!

When Dona Mafalda tells this story at tea parties, the ladies of her set never believe a word of it. While they listen, apparently entranced, they break in with little cries of happy enthusiasm and even interpolate such admiring comments as, �How clever you are, Dona Mafalda!� or �How ever did you manage to solve all that!�

But as soon as Dona Mafalda leaves the room for a moment, the tone of the commentary is altered.

�How can she make up such stories!� one of her most fervent admirers will say, delightedly swallowing the last bite of cake and the last gulp of tea. �She�s so naive to think we�ll believe such fibs. She really ought to write detective stories.�

And they all agree unanimously, though admitting that at least it is a good story. Thus it has been till now, and thus it will ever be.

It was merely a draft of cold air that introduced Dona Mafalda to the case of the Dwarfs� Club. A providential draft, as she was later to admit; but at the time she saw in it only the wretched cause of the inevitable cold, which forced her to take to her bed and send for her old friend Dr. Faust.

Dr. Faust ranked among the most widely known physicians in Lisbon. This celebrity was possibly due less to his medical skill than to his ridiculously dwarfed body. He boasted a resplendent bald pate and a wrinkled face, with small, piercing black eyes and the tremendous jutting beak of a parrot. The most valuable function of this last feature, in its owner�s opinion, was its power so to terrify children that they would endure a medical examination in perfect obedient quiet. Beneath the nose a great grizzled mustache wabbled when he talked and bristled ferociously during the doctor�s frequent attacks of rage. He made a fantastic figure, predestined to the persecutions of small boys in the streets.

Dr. Faust was never precisely calm; but that day he seemed even more excited than usual. Distractedly he examined Dona Mafalda, listened to her chest, and reassured her that she had only a trifling cold. So distraught were his movements that his stethoscope got away from him as he was putting it back in its case, and he recaptured it only after a complex series of nervous maneuvers. He had decided on an injection; and while the syringe and needles were boiling in the kitchen, the old lady ventured to ask him pointblank, �Has something happened to you, doctor?�

�Has something happened to me?� the dwarf roared, spreading his arms in a sarcastic gesture. �Something�s happened that never happened before in all my life. I suddenly find myself involved in a murder!�

�A murder?� Dona Mafalda�s eyes glittered with interest. �But why should you be so worried? The doctor is never the murderer.�

�Of course I�m not. I�ve nothing to be afraid of there. But think of wasting hours upon hours answering the idiotic questions of an inspector who doesn�t believe a word I say!�

�That must be a bore,� Dona Mafalda sympathized. �But then if you�re a suspect...�

�But I�m not!� Dr. Faust bellowed, his mustache trembling frenziedly. �These are the facts: I... am not... a suspect. I have a perfect alibi!�

�I understand,� the old lady said soothingly. �All policemen are stupid � even my dear godson Rog�rio. But where did this happen? I haven�t seen anything in the papers.�

Dr. Faust sank into an armchair and breathed deeply to restore his calm. �It will be in the evening papers. It�s a story that will seem fantastic to you... incredible. It happened in the Dwarfs� Club.� He saw Dona Mafalda�s smile, and his voice took on a menacing tone. �Is there anything peculiar about that?�

�Oh, nothing,� Dona Mafalda hastened to say. She knew how sensitive the doctor was concerning the question of his height. �But I�d never heard of such a club and the name is rather amusing. Where is it?�

The doctor regarded Dona Mafalda suspiciously as he replied, �It is a legally established club with membership limited to men whose height does not exceed forty inches � a club to which I have the honor to belong. It was not well known, but this wretched case will bring it more than enough publicity. In that club today a man was murdered under most mysterious circumstances � a Spanish dwarf named Miguel Hern�ndez, who entered the club only two days ago. There was a great argument among the members as to the legality of admitting foreigners into the club; but since we were in great need of an accountant, and that was his profession, Dr. Sebasti�o Lima � our president and his sponsor � persuaded us to accept him. Little did we know that in so short a time the Spaniard would cause us such terrible difficulties! To go and get himself murdered like this!� Dr. Faust shook his head, indignant at Hern�ndez� lack of foresight. �Morais said then, �This man will bring disgrace on the Club! We don�t want foreigners!� And how right he was. Now Hern�ndez is murdered and all the members of the Club are suspects... May I smoke, Dona Mafalda?�

Dona Mafalda gave her permission, her interest in the story conquering her horrified memory of the poisonous qualities of Dr. Faust�s cigars. �All the members? This must be a difficult case for the police,� she murmured, stoically watching the dwarf light a cigar.

�But �all the members� does not mean many suspects. Since Hern�ndez died, the Club consists of only five members. And the case is not a markedly difficult one. If Inspector Favelas had paid any attention to me, he could have the murderer behind bars by now.� Dr. Faust sucked furiously at his cheroot and the overpowering smoke all but asphyxiated Dona Mafalda. �But the man�s an absolute fool!�

�And why did the Club need an accountant?� Dona Mafalda asked.

�Ah, it�s a long time since a cigar�s tasted so good to me,� Dr. Faust observed, jovially scattering the ash on the carpet. �Can you believe it? Some of my patients won�t let me smoke. Say it bothers them.� He smiled affectionately at Dona Mafalda. �You ask why we needed an accountant. I see you�re interested in the case. It�ll be best if I tell you the whole story while we�re waiting for the syringe. I�ll wager that when I�m through you�ll agree with me that the Inspector is an imbecile and that only a blind man could fail to spot the murderer.�

This story must be told in terms of two dimensions � hearing and touch. For sight has no part in it. It is the story of �Ma� Adams and her son Ben, and how he went straight. And Ma Adams was blind...

There were three of them in the front room of the big country house, one night about dusk. Ma Adams and Mary, who was her companion, and a man�s voice coming in over the radio from a big city several hundred miles away.

Ma Adams sat in her rocking chair, stroking a tortoise-shell cat on her lap. You could not tell she was blind by looking at her. The pupils of her eyes were not destroyed. Only a certain fixedness about them gave her away.

In every other possible way life seemed to have done its best to atone to her for its cruelty. She did not look the fifty-six years that were her age. Her face, under its halo of silvery hair, was that of a woman of thirty. Her back was as straight as a youngster�s. As long as she remained indoors, she found her way about unaided with astonishing dexterity. Pieces of furniture, of course, must not be moved out of their accustomed places. Mary saw to that.

Mary was seventeen. She was one of those rare human beings without a selfish impulse in her make-up. Companioning Ma Adams wasn�t duty to her; it was love. This was a kind of Eden, this out-of-the-way old country house.

And as though to show how different that other world outside was from the happiness and peace of this one, there was the voice of this man coming in, tuned very low, giving a dramatized news-flash of the day�s events.

�It�s noon, and the streets outside the Farmers� Bank are filled with the lunch-hour crowd. There are two armed guards on duty in the lobby. A young man steps jauntily in from the street. He�s humming as he crosses the marble floor, apparently without a care in the world. He goes to one of the writing slabs along the wall and fills out a deposit slip � well, maybe we�d better call it a withdrawal slip � and he keeps on humming.

�Teller J. P. Smith has just come back from his own lunch, and as he reenters his cage he hears that muffled tune stop in front of his wicket. He reaches for the slip that is handed in to him and scans it. There are just three words on it, short and to the point: All you�ve got. And there�s a gun peering at him through the bars. And the man behind it is still humming!

�Then something happens. The guards� suspicions are aroused. As they move forward to investigate, they�re shot down from behind. Two accomplices have been standing in the doorway, unnoticed. Then the teller is shot down, too, in cold blood, without any excuse. And the last thing the cowed employees of the bank hear, as the murderer backs warily out with his loot to a car at the curb, is that same monotonous tune coming from his lips!

�The Humming Bird, ladies and gentlemen! The cold-blooded, wanton killer who sings at his work. The dying teller told them later, when he regained consciousness for a short while, what the tune was. He recognized it � St. Louis Blues. The next time you hear it, remember��

�Mary!� Ma Adams said, with what for her was unusual sharpness. �That�s the third time I asked you to shut that off. That�s not fit stuff for a child your age to hear!�

A click, and there was silence in the room. Slowly the effect of the words wore off, like an evil exhalation finding its way out of the house.

After a while the girl said: �Capitol City. That�s where Ben was the last time you heard from him, wasn�t it?�

Ma Adams could tell she�d glanced up at the picture on the wall. She�d never seen it herself, but she knew it was there. She dusted it off every day with a special little silk handkerchief, not used for anything else.

�That was nearly two years ago,� she said quietly. �I suppose he�s moved on somewhere else by now.� She sighed a little. Five years was a long time to be alone in the dark. Mary�s hand came to rest on her shoulder, pressed down hard.

�That�s all right, child,� Ma Adams said gratefully. �He wanted to get somewhere, be somebody. I know he has, too. He�ll be coming back��

Outside on the highway, in the night silence, the hum of a machine in high gear was coming nearer. Few cars came by this way. They sat listening, waiting for it to reach a crescendo and race on by. It reached a crescendo, then stopped dead with a sudden jamming of brakes.

There was a quick step on the porch, then a pounding fist at the front door. Again and again it struck. The whole house seemed to shake with the force of the knocking.

Mary�s chair creaked as she jumped up. Ma Adams stayed there, listening, �watching� with her ears. Walls didn�t impede her �sight� � she could be in one room and �see� what went on in another, if it was close enough.

Mary�s footsteps went hurrying down the hall. A click sounded as she pushed the wall switch that controlled the porch light. The door opened and a voice growled: �Put that out! What�s the matter with you?�

The click sounded a second time. Then footsteps heavier than Mary�s came toward the room�

But Ma Adams was on her feet already, arms stretched quiveringly out before her into the dark. The dispossessed cat hit the floor with a soft thud.

�Ben!� It was just a whispered breath that she uttered.

�Who�s here with you?� the man asked. His voice swung around her, so she knew his head had swung with it, as he took in the room.

�Just the two of us, Ben. Mary came a week after you left��

But he�d gone back to the door again. �Get him in here. Hurry up!� His voice was directed out into the open. Other footsteps staggered up onto the porch, as though bearing a burden.

�Upstairs!� Ben said curtly, and then, to the girl: �That woodshed still standing around in back?�

�Yes,� she answered in a frightened voice.

�Hop in with me and show me the way,� he commanded. �Gotta get the car in off the road!�

The heavily weighted footsteps, meanwhile, went toiling up to the floor above. A feeble groan sounded. A voice answered it fiercely: �Shut up, you jinx, or I�ll conk you!�

The throbbing of the motor started up again, at the same place where it had stopped. It traveled around the side of the house, faded away across the fields toward the back.

Ma Adams crossed the room to the wall. Her ten fingertips found the cool, smooth glass of the picture. She held them like that, up against it, in a sort of prayer of thanksgiving.

She had turned, and was waiting for his delayed greeting, when he and Mary came in through the back. He gave it to her, a rough, careless stroke of his hand across her silvery hair. �H�ya, old lady?� Strange, curt greeting from that strange outer world that had swallowed him five years before! Such a casual greeting, and after so long a time! Before he had left�

A chair creaked under him. A match hissed. The unaccustomed fragrance of tobacco smoke drifted toward her. But there was some kind of tension coming from Mary. She could feel it.

�What�s the matter, child?� she asked.

�I... I�ve got blood on the hem of my dress!� the girl gasped.

�That�s from the seat of the car,� Ben said easily. �We had a little accident, busted the windows. One of the guys with me got hurt a little.�

�Maybe we�d better send for Doctor Chase�� Ma Adams began anxiously.

His voice changed abruptly, cutting her like a whip across the face. �No Doctor Chase and nobody else, get me? We�ll take care of him ourselves. We�re funny that way.�

She edged timidly nearer. �Let me see if you�ve... you�ve changed any, Ben,� she pleaded.

Her fingertips were her eyes. She reached out, exploring his face with ten feather-light fingers, trembling with emotion. Familiarity came first, familiarity of the contour, the bone structure. Then, dismayingly, strangeness crept in along with it. A smooth, strange coolness, like paraffin, like a wax false face superimposed on his own.

�It�s not you at all!� The wounded cry of distress was wrung from her by that strangeness. �Something�s happened to you, Ben!�

He struck her hands down impatiently. �I got scarred in a fight, hadda have it fixed up a little��

A voice called down from above, �Get some hot water up here, quick!�

�I�ll take it up,� Mary said.

�I�ll take it up myself,� he growled. �You stay here where you are.�

After he�d gone, swearing softly to himself, Mary remarked: �That must have been a bad accident they had. The car�s got little holes all over it, and all the glass is broken.�

Ma Adams did not answer. She just sat staring into the dark, holding her hands to her face. It wasn�t him at all. It wasn�t the Ben she had sent out into the world so bravely that day years ago! Something had happened to that Ben! Something horrible.

Someone started screaming upstairs, and a door was slammed shut. She could still hear the screams, but after a while they stopped. Then she heard Ben and someone else coming down again. Their voices on the stairs were two husky murmurs that only ears like hers could have detected.

�Looks infected to me.�

�If he�s gonna croak, why don�t he get it over with, instead of holding us up like this!�

They came into the room. Ben said, �This is Bill Johnson, a business partner of mine.� A strangled sound, like a suppressed chuckle, came from the other man.

They sat down at the table. Mary�s footsteps hurried in and out, bringing the food. But that same impression of tension kept coming from her to Ma�s sharp senses. A dish crashed suddenly as it fell out of her hands.

�Quit looking at her!� Ben growled. �What�s the matter with you?�

Ma Adams bent her head a little, guiding her food to her mouth. It should have been wonderful, this reunion, after five years, and instead it was all so strange, so... so furtive.

Afterward the groaning started in again from that room above, and one of them went up, though she wasn�t sure which of the two it was. There was so much unaccustomed movement around her tonight that, for the first time, her faculties failed her a little, and she couldn�t quite keep track of who was about her. She groped for her rocker, sat down in it. The radio was on again, purring softly:

�That�s right, dear,� Ma Adams said, when Mary had come in from the kitchen and the sound had ebbed away. �Turn it off. We don�t want to hear any more��

�I didn�t,� the girl said. �It wasn�t on at all. That was Ben humming. He just went out of the room.�

Ma Adams�s head slowly dropped down over her chest, as though she were very sleepy. She was wide-awake, though. But the lids were down over her eyes.

The groans upstairs suddenly sharpened to a scream, then stopped. Footsteps ran back and forth � she could hear them through the ceiling. Both men were up there.

The girl was suddenly crouched down beside her, shivering. �I�m so frightened,� she whimpered.

Ma Adams stroked her hair. It was rumpled and awry. She ran a soothing hand down Mary�s face. The silky texture of her skin was gritty. The girl sensed the unasked question.

�I sooted up my face with coal dust,� she said. �I mussed up my hair. He... he keeps looking at me so, that friend of Ben�s!�

It did not seem at all strange to the two of them that the young girl should come to the blind old lady for protection.

The groaning had stopped upstairs. Ben�s steps came running down abruptly, went past them into the kitchen. He moved around in there a little, came out again.

�Looking for something, Ben?� Ma Adams asked.

�Yeah,� he said, �I�m looking for a shovel.�

There was sudden, nameless horror in the room. That silence upstairs � Ma Adams�s arm flashed out around the girl�s shoulder.

A harsh, scratchy sound that was her voice forced its way up through her throat after a moment.

�There�s one outside, by the back door,� she heard herself say.

He closed the room door leading to the stairs. �You two stay in here,� he ordered. Then he went out the other way, to the back. They heard him pick up the shovel from against the side of the house, carry it off into the dark with him. His voice trailed off in the deathly stillness.

There was an abrupt movement of the girl�s head, as she turned her face, to hide it against Ma Adams�s shoulder.

Little sounds were all that remained. The creak of Ma Adams�s rocker. The tick of the clock on the shelf. The distant bite of a shovel into the earth, out in the open field behind the house somewhere...

To refresh your memory: We ashed a special panel of experts, consisting of James Hilton, Howard Haycraft, John Dickson Carr, Anthony Boucher, Vincent Starrett, James Sandoe, August Derleth, Viola Brothers Shore, Lee Wright, Lew D. Feldman, Charles Honce, and your Editors (acting as twelfth talesmen), to select the finest detective short stories ever written � the cr�me de la crime, the best of all time. Among 83 stories chosen, a dozen stood out as supreme favorites. Here is THE GOLDEN DOZEN:

Two months ago we brought you Thomas Burke�s �The Hands of Mr. Ottermole,� sponsored by Anthony Boucher; last month Howard Haycraft sponsored Edgar Allan Poe�s �The Purloined Letter�; and now Vincent Starrett stands for A. Conan Doyle�s �The Red-Headed League.�

As in the cases of Anthony Boucher and Howard Haycraft, Vincent Starrett surely needs no introduction to readers of EQMM. Mr. Starrett is recognized all over the world as the unofficial biographer of Sherlock Holmes. His work in the field of Sherlockian criticism has been stupendous. A charter member of the Baker Street Irregulars, founder and grand, exalted Needle of the Hounds of the Baskerville [sic], Chicago scion society of BSI, author of THE PRIVATE LIFE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES, associate editor of �The Baker Street Journal,� Vincent Starrett has done more to keep the flame of Holmes eternal, to keep the nostalgia forever green, than any other single person who ever lived � excepting only Dr. Watson himself.

Mr. Starrett�s accomplishments are legion: a life-long student and historian of manhunting fiction � he wrote the current articles on �Mystery Stories� and �Detective Stories� for the Encyclopedia Britannica; author of six detective novels and more than one hundred mystery short stories, including the saga of Jimmie Lavender; author of about forty books in all departments of literature, with particular emphasis on literary criticism and the history of books � he is a bookman who writes more charmingly and more catholically about books than anyone we know; a bibliophile with a special predilection for detective-story first editions; columnist for �The Chicago Sunday Tribune� � his �Books Alive� is the livest column of its hind; editor of some of the writings of Charles Dickens, Robert Louis Stevenson, Stephen Crane, George Gissing, and Mark Twain; compiler of the standard bibliographies of Stephen Crane and Ambrose Bierce; a superb anthologist, a true connoisseur�

Vincent Starrett ended his Who�s Who with �I am afraid that is about all.� By the shade of Sherrington Hope, isn�t that enough! Whom do you know who can match, let alone top, that distinguished record of achievement?

Now, here is Vincent Starrett�s personal list of favorite stories:

So, under the perfect sponsorship of Vincent Starrett, we now offer you the greatest of all the Sherlock Holmes short stories � in the consensus of opinion of our Blue Ribbon Jury of experts. Here is �one of the most singular� cases ever adventured and memoired � �the facts are... unique� � indeed, it is �a three-pipe problem� without a semblance of dottle. In it you will meet �Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent.� And at the end you will not only find the solution to the mystery but also the answer to to that 109-year-old question: Why do people read detective stories? Sherlock Holmes replies: �To escape from the commonplaces of existence� � and can you deny its simple, unarguable truth?

I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year, and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced elderly gentleman, with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion I was about to withdraw, when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.

�You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,� he said, cordially.

�I was afraid that you were engaged.�

�So I am. Very much so.�

�Then I can wait in the next room.�

�Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also.�

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small, fat-encircled eyes.

�Try the settee,� said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair, and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. �I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures.�

�Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,� I observed.

�You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination.�

�A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.�

�You did, doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you, until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you, not merely because my friend, Dr. Watson, has not heard the opening part, but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of events I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique.�

The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride, and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column, with his head thrust forward, and the paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man, and endeavored, after the fashion of my companion, to read the indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance.

I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy, gray, shepherd�s-check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing red head and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.

Sherlock Holmes�s quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. �Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labor, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.�

Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

�How, in the name of good fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?� he asked. �How did you know, for example, that I did manual labor? It�s as true as gospel, for I began as a ship�s carpenter.�

�Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than your left. You have worked with it and the muscles are more developed.�

�Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?�

�I won�t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that, especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use an arc-and-compass breastpin.�

�Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?�

�What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it upon the desk.�

�Well, but China?�

�The fish which you have tattooed immediately above your wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks, and have even contributed to the literature of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes� scales a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple.�

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. �Well, I never!� said he. �I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it after all.�

�I begin to think, Watson,� said Holmes, �that I make a mistake in explaining. �Omne ignotum pro magnifico,� you know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?�

�Yes, I have got it now,� he answered, with his thick, red finger planted halfway down the column. �Here it is. This is what began it all.�

I took the paper from him and read as follows:

�What on earth does this mean?� I ejaculated, after I had twice read over the extraordinary announcement.

Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in high spirits. �It is a little off the beaten track, isn�t it?� said he. �And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch, and tell us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, doctor, of the paper and the date.�

�It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.�

�Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson.�

�Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,� said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead, �I have a small pawnbroker�s business at Coburg Square, near the City. It�s not a very large affair, and of late years it has not done more than just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but that he is willing to come for half-wages to learn the business.�

�What is the name of this obliging youth?� asked Sherlock Holmes.

�His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he�s not such a youth either. It�s hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better himself, and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?�

�Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employee who comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience among employers in this age. I don�t know that your assistant is not as remarkable as your advertisement.�

�Oh, he has his faults, too,� said Mr. Wilson. �Never was such a fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault; but, on the whole, he�s a good worker. There�s no vice in him.�

�He is still with you, I presume?�

�Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking, and keeps the place clean � that�s all I have in the house, for I am a widower, and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads, and we pay our debts, if we do nothing more.

�The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says:

��I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.�

��Why that?� I asks.

��Why,� says he, �here�s another vacancy in the League of the Red-Headed Men. It�s worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits� end what to do with the money. If my hair would only change color here�s a nice little crib all ready for me.�

��Why, what is it, then?� I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man, and, as my business came to me instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn�t know much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.

��Have you never heard of the League of the Red-Headed Men?� he asked, with his eyes open.

��Never.�

��Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the vacancies.�

��And what are they worth?�

��Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it need not interfere very much with one�s other occupations.�

�Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the business has not been over good for some years, and an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy.

��Tell me all about it,� said I.

��Well,� said he, showing me the advertisement, �you can see for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself redheaded, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he died, it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of that color. From all I hear it is splendid pay, and very little to do.�

��But,� said I, �there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply.�

��Not so many as you might think,� he answered. �You see it is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from London where he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real, bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.�

�Now it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that, if there was to be any competition in the matter, I stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the day, and to come right away with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business up, and started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement.

�I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped into the City to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope�s Court looked like a coster�s orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in the whole country as were brought together by that single advertisement. Every shade of color they were � straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real vivid flame-colored tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could, and soon found ourselves in the office.�

�Your experience has been a most entertaining one,� remarked Holmes, as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. �Pray continue your very interesting statement.�

�There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a small man, with a head that was even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter after all. However, when our turn came, the little man was much more favorable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us.

��This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,� said my assistant, �and he is willing to fill a vacancy in the League.�

��And he is admirably suited for it,� the other answered. �He has every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.� He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly.

��It would be injustice to hesitate,� said he. �You will, however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.� With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain. �There is water in your eyes,� said he, as he released me. �I perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler�s wax which would disgust you with human nature.� He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below, and the folk all trooped away in different directions, until there was not a red head to be seen except my own and that of the manager.

��My name,� said he, �is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?�

�I answered that I had not.

�His face fell immediately.

��Dear me!� he said, gravely, �that is very serious indeed. I am sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation and spread of the redheads as well as for their maintenance. It isexceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.�

�My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not to have the vacancy after all; but, after thinking it over for a few minutes, he said that it would be all right.

��In the case of another,� said he, �the objection might be fatal, but we must stretch a point in favor of a man with such a head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?�

��Well, it is a little awkward, for I do have a business already,� said I.

��Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!� said Vincent Spaulding. �I shall be able to look after that.�

��What would be the hours?� I asked.

��Ten to two.�

�Now a pawnbroker�s business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evenings, which is just before payday; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he would see to anything that turned up.

��That would suit me very well,� said I. �And the pay?�

��Is four pounds a week.�

��And the work?�

��Is purely nominal.�

��What do you call purely nominal?�

��Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don�t comply with the conditions if you budge from the office during that time.�

��It�s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,� said I.

��No excuse will avail,� said Mr. Duncan Ross. �Neither sickness, nor business, nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your billet.�

��And the work?�

��Is to copy out the Encyclopedia Britannica. There is the first volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready tomorrow?�

��Certainly,� I answered.

��Then, goodbye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough to gain.� He bowed me out of the room, and I went home with my assistant hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good fortune.

�Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the Encyclopedia Britannica. Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quill pen and seven sheets of foolscap paper I started off for Pope�s Court.

�Well, to my surprise and delight everything was as right as possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time to see that all was right with me. At two o�clock he bade me good-da complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and then locked the door of the office after me.

�This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week�s work. It was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I was there, at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not risk the loss of it.

�Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots, and Archery, and Armor, and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with diligence that I might get on to the B�s before very long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end.�

�To an end?�

�Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual at ten o�clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square of cardboard hammered onto the middle of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read what it says for yourself.�

He held up a piece of white cardboard, about the size of a sheet of note-paper. It read in this fashion:

Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely over-topped every consideration that we both burst out into a roar of laughter.

�I cannot see that there is anything very funny,� cried our client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming hair. �If you can do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.�

�No, no,� cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he had half risen. �I really wouldn�t miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the door?�

�I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of the Red-Headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He said that the name was new to him.

��Well,� said I, �the gentleman at No. 4.�

��What, the red-headed man?�

��Yes.�

��Oh,� said he, �his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor, and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.�

��Where could I find him?�

��Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul�s.�

�I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.�

�And what did you do then?� asked Holmes.

�I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I asked the advice of my assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to you.�

�And you did very wisely,� said Holmes. �Your case is an exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from it than might at first sight appear.�

�Grave enough!� said Mr. Jabez Wilson. �Why, I have lost four pound a week.�

�As far as you are personally concerned,� remarked Holmes, �I do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some thirty pounds, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them.�

�No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what their object was in playing this prank � if it was a prank � upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two-and-thirty pounds.�

�We shall endeavor to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called your attention to the advertisement � how long had he been with you?�

�About a month then.�

�How did he come?�

�In answer to an advertisement.�

�Was he the only applicant?�

�No, I had a dozen.�

�Why did you pick him?�

�Because he was handy and would come cheap.�

�At half-wages, in fact.�

�Yes.�

�What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?�

�Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face, though he�s not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his forehead.�

Holmes sat up in his chair, in considerable excitement. �I thought as much,� said he. �Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?�

�Yes, sir. He told me that a gypsy had done it for him when he was a lad.�

�Hum!� said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. �He is still with you?�

�Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.�

�And has your business been attended to in your absence?�

�Nothing to complain of, sir. There�s never very much to do of a morning.�

�That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. Today is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.�

A the Boulevard, Herrington hailed a southbound taxi. �Lake Street,� he told the driver. �No hurry.�

He relaxed against the worn upholstery, a sense of well-being stealing through him.

The taxi stopped at the designated spot. Herrington paid the toll on its clock. He walked a little way north on the Avenue, and entered the jewelry store of Blackmere, Bailey and La Motte. There were three customers at the counters.

�Can I be of assistance?�

The man who spoke to Herrington was middle-aged. His frock coat, gray-striped trousers, and plain cravat gave him a dignity in keeping with the establishment.

�I would like,� Herrington replied, �to see a pearl necklace.�

The other�s glance surveyed Herrington politely.

�If you could give me an idea of the price you wish to pay��

Herrington, after some thought, named a figure and presently found himself appraising three lustrous pearl necklaces.

�I rather imagine,� he said reflectively, �one of these will do. I should like to bring the young lady for whom the necklace is intended here so she can make a choice.�

�I�ll be very happy to show them to her,� the clerk said.

Herrington raised his glance.

�Will you let me have your card?� he asked. �You might, also, give me the numbers on the tags of these three strings.�

�Gladly.�

The clerk took an engraved card from his pocket. On its reverse side he copied off the identifying ciphers. Herrington took the card, and arose casually.

�Thank you very much, Mr. Latham. I�ll stop in again shortly. Here�s my card.�

He gave Latham one of the engraved cards he had had made a few days previous. It was inscribed with the name of Reginald Satterlee. Latham took it and walked to the front door with him.

�Good morning, Mr. Satterlee. Thank you for calling.�

Out on the Boulevard, Herrington walked south. At Madison Street he turned west and continued on until he reached a drug store. There were a number of telephone booths in the rear. Herrington found Blackmere, Bailey and La Motte�s number, stepped into one of the booths, and dropped a nickel into the instrument.

A few seconds elapsed before a woman�s voice answered.

�May I speak with Mr. Black-mere?� Herrington requested.

�Who is this calling?�

�Oliver Barclay.�

A minute ticked away before a man spoke: �Good morning, Mr. Barclay. This is Blackmere speaking. What can I do for you today?�

�Plenty. I�m in a rather awkward position. A few minutes ago I happened to remember today is Mrs. Barclay�s birthday. I�m tied up with a directors� meeting and a luncheon. I wonder if you could help me out.�

�In any way you suggest,� Blackmere assured him.

Herrington slipped Latham�s card from his pocket, and glanced at it.

�Here�s the idea. A few weeks ago I was in your place. At the time I looked at some pearls � for my daughter. One string caught my fancy. I jotted down the tag number of it and have it here before me. If you could send it over to my house early this afternoon I would appreciate it.�

Herrington supplied one of the numbers Latham had written on his card and waited.

�The matter will be taken care of, Mr. Barclay. This afternoon. Shall I include a gift card?�

Herrington thanked him and hung up. Toward three o�clock he made another telephone call. This time he dialed the number of Oliver Barclay�s house on North Shore Drive. A servant in the financier�s home answered.

�This is Blackmere, Bailey and La Motte�s,� Herrington stated. �Can you tell me if a package for Mrs. Barclay was left there this afternoon?�

�If you will hold the wire,� the servant answered, �I will find out.�

Herrington kept the receiver glued to his ear. At least five minutes elapsed before the man returned.

�Hello. What did you find out?�

�Yes, sir. It came a half hour ago.�

Herrington drew a breath.

�I�m sorry to inconvenience you but it was left by mistake. I am sending one of our clerks over to get it. He is a Mr. Latham and I will appreciate your returning the package to him.�

�Yes, sir.�

When Herrington hung up he noted the time. It was ten minutes past three o�clock. With the final goal in sight he didn�t wish to hurry matters. Accordingly, he shaped a course leisurely on foot.

Herrington told himself that success in such a venture came only after study and careful planning. He had made Oliver Barclay the subject of intensive research work. He had come to know that the financier�s account with the jewelry shop was of long standing; he knew about Barclay�s ranch in Southern California, the man�s yacht, clubs, and private affairs. It had taken considerable time to gather the information but it was well worth the effort.

At Wacker Drive he signaled a taxi and gave the driver Barclay�s address. �Wait,� he directed, when the car came to a stop before the sedate four-story house. �I won�t be long.�

Herrington pressed the bell. A servant opened the inner vestibule door for him. Herrington handed the man the card Latham had given him, the penciled numbers on its reverse side erased.

�I�m from Blackmere, Bailey and La Motte�s,� he explained.

The servant glanced at the card.

�Mr. Latham, yes, sir. I have the package here for you.�

He crossed the foyer to a small table. Taking an oblong, paper-wrapped box he crossed back.

�We�re sorry to have caused you any trouble,� Herrington murmured, his hand not entirely steady as he took the package.

�It�s quite all right, Mr. Latham.�

The servant held the door open for him. Herrington, with an effort, suppressed the desire to hurry down the steps and into the waiting taxi. Only his eyes betrayed his inner excitement. He could feel the heavy pound of his heart when he moved toward the vehicle at the curb.

�Superior Street,� he directed the driver. �Step on it!�

Herrington pulled the door shut and sat down on the rear seat. As he did so the motionless figure of a man bulking in the corner stirred. Herrington had the impression of cold gray eyes boring into him, the glimmer of steel equally cold in the man�s hand.

�I�ve been waiting for you,� he said. �I�m Mason, from headquarters.�

Herrington sat still and silent. After a time: �Where did I slip?�

The man beside him laughed.

�Next time you try a fast one like this,� he said, �get your facts down right before you start.�

�You mean��

�I mean,� the man beside him grunted, �only chorus dames have two birthdays the same month!�

Sir Septimus Shale was accustomed to assert his authority once in the year and once only. He allowed his young and fashionable wife to fill his house with diagrammatic furniture made of steel; to collect advanced artists and anti-grammatical poets; to believe in cocktails and relativity and to dress as extravagantly as she pleased; but he did insist on an old-fashioned Christmas. He was a simple-hearted man, who really liked plum pudding and cracker mottoes, and he could not get it out of his head that other people, �at bottom,� enjoyed these things also. At Christmas, therefore, he firmly retired to his country house in Essex, called in the servants to hang holly and mistletoe upon the cubist electric fittings; loaded the steel sideboard with delicacies from Fortnum & Mason; hung up stockings at the heads of the polished walnut bedsteads; and even, on this occasion only, had the electric radiators removed from the modernist grates and installed wood fires and a Yule log. He then gathered his family and friends about him, filled them with as much Dickensian good fare as he could persuade them to swallow, and, after their Christmas dinner, set them down to play �Charades� and �Clumps� and �Animal, Vegetable, and Mineral� in the drawing-room, concluding these diversions by �Hide and Seek� in the dark all over the house. Because Sir Septimus was a very rich man, his guests fell in with this invariable program, and if they were bored, they did not tell him so.

Another charming and traditional custom which he followed was that of presenting to his daughter Margharita a pearl on each successive birthday � this anniversary happening to coincide with Christmas Eve. The pearls now numbered twenty, and the collection was beginning to enjoy a certain celebrity, and had been photographed in the Society papers. Though not sensationally large � each one being about the size of a marrowfat pea � the pearls were of very great value. They were of exquisite color and perfect shape and matched to a hair�s-weight. On this particular Christmas Eve the presentation of the twenty-first pearl had been the occasion of a very special ceremony. There was a dance and there were speeches. On the Christmas night following, the more restricted family party took place, with the turkey and the Victorian games. There were eleven guests, in addition to Sir Septimus and Lady Shale and their daughter, nearly all related or connected to them in some way: John Shale, a brother, with his wife and their son and daughter, Henry and Betty; Betty�s fianc�, Oswald Truegood, a young man with parliamentary ambitions; George Comphrey, a cousin of Lady Shale�s, aged about thirty and known as a man-about-town; Lavinia Prescott, asked on George�s account; Joyce Trivett, asked on Henry Shale�s account; Richard and Beryl Dennison, distant relations of Lady Shale, who lived a gay and expensive life in town on nobody precisely knew what resources; and Lord Peter Wimsey, asked, in a touching spirit of unreasonable hope, on Margharita�s account. There were also, of course, William Norgate, secretary to Sir Septimus, and Miss Tomkins, secretary to Lady Shale.

Dinner was over � a seemingly endless succession of soup, fish, turkey, roast beef, plum pudding, mince pies, crystallized fruit, nuts, and five kinds of wine, presided over by Sir Septimus, all smiles, by Lady Shale, all mocking deprecation, and by Margharita, pretty and bored, with the necklace of twenty-one pearls gleaming softly on her slender throat. Gorged and dyspeptic and longing only for the horizontal position, the company had been shepherded into the drawing-room and set to play �Musical Chairs� (Miss Tomkins at the piano), �Hunt the Slipper� (slipper provided by Miss Tomkins), and �Dumb Crambo� (costumes by Miss Tomkins and Mr. William Norgate). The back drawing-room (for Sir Septimus clung to these old-fashioned names) provided an admirable dressing-room, being screened by folding doors from the large drawing-room in which the audience sat on aluminum chairs, scrabbling uneasy toes on a floor of black glass under the tremendous illumination of electricity reflected from a brass ceiling.

It was William Norgate who, after taking the temperature of the meeting, suggested to Lady Shale that they should play something less athletic. Lady Shale agreed and, as usual, suggested bridge. Sir Septimus, as usual, blew the suggestion aside.

�Bridge? Nonsense! Nonsense! Play bridge every day of your lives. This is Christmas time. Something we can all play together. How about �Animal, Vegetable, and Mineral�?�

This intellectual pastime was a favorite with Sir Septimus; he was rather good at putting pregnant questions. After a brief discussion it became evident that this game was an inevitable part of the program. The party settled down to it, Sir Septimus undertaking to �go out� first and set the thing going.

Presently they had guessed among other things Miss Tomkins�s mother�s photograph, a gramaphone record of �I Want To Be Happy� (much scientific research into the exact composition of records, settled by William Norgate out of the Encyclopedia Britannica), the smallest stickleback in the stream at the bottom of the garden, the new planet Pluto, the scarf worn by Mrs. Dennison (very confusing, because it was not silk, which would be animal, or artificial silk, which would be vegetable, but made of spun glass � mineral, a very clever choice of subject), and had failed to guess the Prime Minister�s wireless speech � which was voted not fair, since nobody could decide whether it was animal by nature or a kind of gas. It was decided that they should do one more word and then go on to �Hide and Seek.� Oswald Truegood had retired into the back room and shut the door behind him while the party discussed the next subject of examination, when suddenly Sir Septimus broke in on the argument by calling to his daughter:

�Hullo, Margy! What have you done with your necklace?�

�I took it off, Dad, because I thought it might get broken in �Dumb Crambo.� It�s over here on this table. No, it isn�t. Did you take it, Mother?�

�No, I didn�t. If I�d seen it, I should have. You are a careless child.�

�I believe you�ve got it yourself, Dad. You�re teasing.�

Sir Septimus denied the accusation with some energy. Everybody got up and began to hunt about. There were not many places in that bare and polished room where a necklace could be hidden. After ten minutes� fruitless investigation Richard Dennison, who had been seated next to the table where the pearls had been placed, began to look rather uncomfortable.

At this moment Oswald Truegood put his head through the folding-doors and asked whether they hadn�t settled on something by now.

This directed the attention of the searchers to the inner room. Margharita must have been mistaken. She had taken it in there, and it had got mixed up with the dressing-up clothes somehow. The room was ransacked. Everything was lifted up and shaken. The thing began to look serious. After half an hour of desperate energy it became apparent that the pearls were nowhere to be found.

�They must be somewhere in these two rooms, you know,� said Wimsey. �The back drawing-room has no door and nobody could have gone out of the front drawing-room without being seen. Unless the windows��

No. The windows were all guarded on the outside by heavy shutters which it needed two footmen to take down and replace. The pearls had not gone out that way. In fact, the mere suggestion that they had left the drawing-room at all was disagreeable. Because... because�

It was William Norgate, efficient as ever, who boldly faced the issue.

�I think, Sir Septimus, it would be a relief to the minds of everybody present if we could all be searched.�

Sir Septimus was horrified, but the guests, having found a leader, backed up Norgate. The door was locked, and the search was conducted � the ladies in the inner room and the men in the outer.

Nothing resulted from it except some very interesting information about the belongings habitually carried about by the average man and woman. It was natural that Lord Peter Wimsey should possess a pair of forceps, a pocket lens, and a small folding foot-rule � was he not a Sherlock Holmes in high life? But that Oswald Truegood should have two liver-pills in a screw of paper and Henry Shale a pocket edition of The Odes of Horace was unexpected. Why did John Shale distend the pockets of his dress-suit with a stump of red sealing-wax, an ugly little mascot, and a five-shilling piece? George Comphrey had a pair of folding scissors, and three wrapped lumps of sugar, of the sort served in restaurants and dining-cars � evidence of a not uncommon form of kleptomania; but that the tidy and exact Norgate should burden himself with a reel of white cotton, three separate lengths of string, and twelve safety-pins on a card seemed really remarkable till one remembered that he had superintended all the Christmas decorations. Richard Dennison, amid some confusion and laughter, was found to cherish a lady�s garter, a powder-compact and half a potato; the last-named, he said, was a prophylactic against rheumatism (to which he was subject), while the other objects belonged to his wife. On the ladies� side, the more striking exhibits were a little book on palmistry, three invisible hair-pins, and a baby�s photograph (Miss Tomkins); a Chinese trick cigarette-case with a secret compartment (Beryl Dennison); a very private letter and an outfit for mending stocking-runs (Lavinia Prescott); and a pair of eyebrow tweezers and a small packet of white powder, said to be for headaches (Betty Shale). An agitating moment followed the production from Joyce Trivett�s handbag of a small string of pearls � but it was promptly remembered that these had come out of one of the crackers at dinner-time, and they were, in fact, synthetic. In short, the search was unproductive of anything beyond a general shamefacedness and the discomfort always produced by undressing and re-dressing in a hurry at the wrong time of the day.

It was then that somebody, very grudgingly and haltingly, mentioned the horrid word Police. Sir Septimus, naturally, was appalled by the idea. It was disgusting. He would not allow it. The pearls must be somewhere. They must search the rooms again. Could not Lord Peter Wimsey, with his experience of... er � mysterious happenings, do something to assist them?

�Eh?� said his lordship. �Oh, by Jove, yes � by all means, certainly. That is to say, provided nobody supposes... eh, what? I mean to say, you don�t know that I�m not a suspicious character, do you, what?�

Lady Shale interposed with authority.

�We don�t think anybody ought to be suspected,� she said, �but, if we did, we�d know it couldn�t be you. You know far too much about crimes to want to commit one.�

�All right,� said Wimsey. �But after the way the place has been gone over�� He shrugged his shoulders.

�Yes, I�m afraid you won�t be able to find any footprints,� said Margharita. �But we may have overlooked something.�

Wimsey nodded.

�I�ll try. Do you all mind sitting down on your chairs in the outer room and staying there. All except one of you � I�d better have a witness to anything I do or find. Sir Septimus � you�d be the best person, I think.�

He shepherded them to their places and began a slow circuit of the two rooms, exploring every surface, gazing up to the polished brazen ceiling and crawling on hands and knees in the approved fashion across the black and shining desert of the floors. Sir Septimus followed, staring when Wimsey stared, bending with his hands upon his knees when Wimsey crawled, and puffing at intervals with astonishment and chagrin.

They reached the inner drawing-room, and here the dressing-up clothes were again minutely examined, but without result. Finally, Wimsey lay down flat on his stomach to squint under a steel cabinet which was one of the very few pieces of furniture which possessed short legs. Something about it seemed to catch his attention. He rolled up his sleeve and plunged his arm into the cavity, kicked convulsively in the effort to reach farther than was humanly possible, pulled out from his pocket and extended his folding foot-rule, fished with it under the cabinet, and eventually succeeded in extracting what he sought.

It was a very minute object � in fact, a pin. Not an ordinary pin, but one resembling those used by entomologists to impale extremely small moths on the setting-board. It was about three-quarters of an inch in length, as fine as a very fine needle, with a sharp point and a small head.

�Bless my soul!� said Sir Septimus. �What�s that?�

�Does anybody here happen to collect moths or beetles or anything?� asked Wimsey.

�I�m pretty sure they don�t,� replied Sir Septimus. �I�ll ask them.�

�Don�t do that.� Wimsey bent his head and stared at the floor, from which his own face stared back at him.

�I see,� said Wimsey presently. �That�s how it was done. All right, Sir Septimus. I know where the pearls are, but I don�t know who took them. Perhaps it would be as well � for everybody�s satisfaction � just to find out. In the meantime they are perfectly safe. Don�t tell anyone that we�ve found this pin or that we�ve discovered anything. Send all these people to bed. Lock the drawing-room door and keep the key, and we�ll get our man � or woman � by breakfast-time.�

If you notice as time goes on that EQMM publishes more and more of the work of contemporary French detective-story writers, give all credit to Maurice Renault, the perceptive and imaginative editor of the French edition of �Ellery Queen�s Mystery Magazine.� Monsieur Renault has already brought to you the interesting stories of Pierre Boileau; now, through M. Renault�s good offices, we are able to present a �psycho-thriller� by Thomas Narcejac; and there will be other tales of Gallic gumshoes and French felons in the near future...

Thomas Narcejac was born at Rochefort-sur-Mer in 1908, and has lived in Nantes since 1945. He is a teacher of �lettres et philosophie.� Before the war he was a journalist, and contributor to many magazines. He wrote his first detective story, L�ASSASSIN DE MINUIT (THE MIDNIGHT MURDERER) in 1945. In the following year he published ESTH�TIQUE DU ROMAN POLICIER � one of the very few full-length critical studies of the technique of the detective story.

In 1946 and 1947 M. Narcejac brought out two collections of detective pastiches. The first, titled CONFIDENCES DANS MA NUIT (SECRETS IN MY NIGHT), contains seven short stories, �in the manner� respectively of Simenon, Maurice Leblanc, Pierre Very, Leslie Charteris, Conan Doyle, G. K. Chesterton, and Agatha Christie. The second volume, titled NOUVELLES CONFIDENCES DANS MA NUIT (NEW SECRETS IN MY NIGHT), also contains seven shorts, this time �in the taste� respectively of Earl der Biggers [sic], Peter Cheyney, S. S. Van Dine, Dorothy Sayers, Ellery Queen, Hadley Chase, and Edgar Wallace.

Thomas Narcejac is, by habit and talent, a consistent Prize Winner. In 1947 he won the �Editions du Portulan� contest with LA POLICE EST DANS L�ESCALIER (THE POLICE ARE ON THE STAIRS), and in 1948 he was awarded the Grand Prize of the Adventure Novel with LA MORT EST DU VOYAGE (DEATH TAKES A TRIP). Also in 1948, M. Narcejac�s �The Vampire� won a special award in EQMM�s Fourth Annual Contest.

�Coffee, Gaby.� He was the last customer. Madame Mouffiat was at the cash register, reading a paper; Gaby was noisily clearing the tables, wiping them off, piling the chairs on them. She poured the coffee, then paused beside the cashier.

�He never takes it,� she said. �I don�t know what�s got into him tonight.�

Desire Lambourdin went on contemplating the front page of Paris-Informations. The headlines were large and black: VAMPIRE STRANGLES CHAMBERMAID. POLICE STILL HELPLESS.

Four victims already, and all had been raped. Lambourdin sighed and tossed away his toothpick. Gaby shoved aside the plate on which remnants of fried apple twisted around the bone of a chop, and set the cup in its place.

�You don�t often take coffee,� she said.

He stared at her fixedly. Finally the tip of his tongue moistened his lips. �That�s so,� he murmured. �But today I�m feeling awfully fit... Gaby, you ought to come to the pictures with me.�

Gaby straightened up to laugh more comfortably. Her breasts distended her blouse and Lambourdin lowered his eyes. He drank his coffee in little hurried gulps, spent some time blotting his moist mustache, then folded his napkin and inserted it into his boxwood napkin ring.

�Good night, Monsieur Lambourdin,� the cashier said without raising her head.

He was standing now, mechanically feeling the knot of his tie, the brim of his bowler. Gaby was scattering sawdust on the floor. She seemed naked under her dress.

�Not tonight,� she said.

He went out, buttoned up his coat, scratched at a pimple that had begun to blossom on his neck, right above his collar. A nasty soft little rain made the street glisten; the red and blue lights of the movie house shone back from the pavement in zigzag flashes. Lambourdin consulted the program:

Gaumont Newsreel

The Snail in Burgundy,

documentary in color

The Killer Lives in Number 21

Nothing really interesting. Lambourdin did not care for crime pictures, and he�d been taken off snails because of his liver. Besides, the show had started and Lambourdin knew he�d get a bad seat, too near the screen and off to the side. He might as well go home.

Hugging the wall to keep dry, he started down the dark street, jumping when a raindrop splashed from the roof onto his bowler. Once again the weather forecast had lied. You really couldn�t trust anybody. Everybody lied. Gaby lied. She kept promising; that�s easy enough.

Lambourdin was passing a drug store with an imitation marble front. He stopped and regarded his reflection in the smooth stone. Not so bad, after all. A little on the short side, of course. A soft face. But a rather expressive mouth. The mustache made him look older. Mustache plus bowler hat equals white-collar worker. But what�s wrong with that? It�s respectable, being a white-collar worker. Madame D�sir� Lambourdin... Some fine day she�d be glad enough, maybe, to be Madame Lambourdin.

He went on walking and turned the corner of the Rue Mocquechien. There were puddles in the broken pavement. Lambourdin took out his flashlight. From time to time he flashed it on the pavement and stepped across the puddles, groaning at the thought of his muddied shoes. Everything betrayed him. Treason was�

The man had appeared out of an alley. He bumped into Lambourdin, shoved him against the wall.

�You might say pardon me,� Lambourdin grunted and switched on his light.

There was a sharp blow on his arm. The flashlight fell and went out. The man dashed off, slowed down at the corner, and took off again. Abruptly the sound of his running ceased. Lambourdin was panting, shaken by the encounter. The image of the unknown man was engraved on his retina like the bright shape of an object you�ve stared at too long: the stiff hair cut, Prussian-fashion; the wild blue eyes; the mustache tiny as a pencil stroke; and the cleft chin � an odd chin, shaped like an apricot. Lambourdin picked up his flashlight. It still worked. A good flash, given him by a customer who was liquidating American surplus. It cast a full, steady beam. He tried it in the night of the alley and jumped. There was somebody on the ground. People don�t sleep in that position.

He took two steps forward and instinctively covered his light with his left hand, which began to glow softly like some strange blossom of blood. He was panting again, but differently this time. Fascinated, he let his hand slip from the light. Immediately he could see again the woman with the twisted face, with the widely gaping mouth � a deep hole surrounded by teeth. Then there was the skirt half torn off. Then there were the white yawning thighs.

He stuffed the flash into his pocket, still lit, and groped his way out. His breath whistled in his throat; he was thirsty and his legs were like sacks of meal. There was nobody in the street � only the rain and the street lights. Lambourdin took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead, his ears, his neck... Owl that pimple � I eat too much meat... Yes. That was him all right. That was the vampire.

And it was then Lambourdin noticed that he had really not been afraid. A little of course at first, when the man had hit him. Lambourdin would have been really unhappy if, for instance, he�d been forced to surrender his pocketbook. But then when he understood, when he learned why the man�s eyes were so pale, so distraught � no, he wasn�t afraid then. Fear was something totally different, far more unpleasant.

Short, stiff hair � those eyes � the tiny mustache. Lambourdin walked with this shadow at his side, studied its details, criticized it. A ladies� man? Attractive to women? Not a doubt of it.

Carefully Lambourdin lifted the latch, climbed the stairs, and crossed the entrance hall. He spread his coat over a chair in the kitchen, took off his shoes, and lit the electric radiator to warm his legs a little. Nasty weather. Funny thing, bumping right into this character that all the papers were talking about, that the police were hunting for everywhere without even having his description. Lambourdin felt a shock. His description.

He put water to boil on the gasring, took a bottle of rum from the sideboard, dropped three lumps of sugar in a cup. If only I don�t catch a cold... He hummed to himself as he fixed his grog. It�s absurd, he thought. If they had any idea at the bank� Bah! He�s not so terrible as all that, this vampire. If she hadn�t resisted him � but always they resist.

He turned on the radio.

�News of France: The Council of Ministers has resolved that a monument shall be erected, in the Department of Creuse, to the memory of Ferdinand Chapuis, hero of the Resistance... The Boxing Federation has suspended Al Tenedo, Marseilles champion, for one month for his involvement in black market sugar deals... Investigation continues in the derailing of the Paris-Lille express. The switchman has been arrested... The police are apparently on the trail of The Vampire. Searches were under way this morning in several parts of the city...�

Lambourdin switched off the radio. He was not happy. Maybe he�d met a counterfeit Vampire, an imitator; the real one might even now be in jail. But the radio tells lies, too... My, that feels good, that hot grog... The police can�t admit that they�re groping in the dark. No. This was the genuine Vampire, all right. The idea was strong as straight alcohol: Lambourdin felt a little elevated, a little tight, as on the day he learned he�d been made chief assistant cashier. He undressed, rinsed his mouth, and used the three-faced mirror to locate that blasted pimple. He rubbed it with disinfectant salve. He hated pain; but he felt humiliated by this leering pustule, disgracing the white skin of his neck.

Before he turned out the light, he meditated a little more. Nothing was keeping him from telephoning the police; but instinctively he feared their brutality. Last year at the bank he�d seen a poor devil grilled by two sergeants over a wretched business of embezzlement. Brutes, rummaging in your conscience with their filthy, groping paws. It�s my secret, Lambourdin thought, and I�m master of my own secret. Exactly � I�m my own master.

He chewed a mint before he went to sleep.

My own master...