Presenting, for the first time in any magazine, the Great Merlini. Mystery readers may remember the magician-detective from Death From a Top Hat and The Footprints on the Ceiling, but they�ll never be able to forget his adventures with the headless lady and a three-ring murderer. A thrilling new novel by one of the greatest detective story writers of today.

During the night, Manhattan Island had apparently slipped its moorings, drifted southward with incredible speed, and come to rest somewhere off the coast of Equatorial Africa. The great city lay submerged like a lost Atlantis beneath the heavy waves of hot moist atmosphere that all day had moved slowly in from the steaming ocean. The blazing tropical sun was nearer. Even the tall solidity of the buildings seemed limp and jelly-like as their outlines wavered in the damp haze. The nervous and excited rumble of the traffic had slowed to a fitful murmur of protest. Policemen growled; truck drivers cursed languidly; pedestrians mopped hot faces. New York was enduring the first heat wave of summer.

I called up a final spark of energy and pushed at the door of The Magic Shop, that curious commercial establishment in which the Great Merlini carries on his business of supplying miracles for sale.

�If you really were a magician,� I announced, �you�d do something about the weather. You�d make a pass or contrive a spell and��

I stopped. My only audience was the shop�s mascot and living trademark, the white rabbit that stretched lazily on the counter, a look of vast boredom in his round pink eye. Even his ears drooped disconsolately; and he paid no attention at all to my complaint.

Neatly lettered on the wall above the cash register was Merlini�s business slogan: Nothing is Impossible. The annoying confidence of that statement had aroused my skepticism before. I decided now to give it the acid test. I dosed my eyes and intoned loudly.

�Hocus pocus. Abracadabra. Fe-fi-fo-fum. I want a long cool drink, an ice cold shower, an electric fan, a lot of air conditioning, a�� My eyes jerked open.

This really was fast work! I looked around apprehensively, still hearing the sound of ice clinking in a glass and the rushing siphon-swish of soda.

Then Merlini�s voice came from beyond the doorway that connected the outer salesroom with the workshop and office in the rear.

�Come and get it!�

For the first time that day I moved with some degree of haste. There was a Santa Claus after all; the age of sorcery was not yet dead. In the back room, Burt Fawkes, Merlini�s shop assistant, reclined at full length on a long, low box that had the sinister shape of a coffin. Beside him on the floor stood a container of ice cubes from the corner drugstore, a soda siphon, and a none-too-full bottle of Scotch. In one hand Burt held his own half-finished drink; in the other, a nice fresh one that he held extended listlessly in my direction. His remarkable lack of animation was so complete that I was about to diagnose a seriously advanced state of cataleptic trance when he spoke.

Merlini is the one who usually quotes from his favorite Gilbert and Sullivan, but on this occasion Burt beat him to it. Lazily he sang:

Then he added, �Hurry, Ross. It�s slipping.�

I rescued the glass from his limp grasp and turned to find two more bodies laid out on the surface of the long workbench. Merlini�s lank frame, in an undignified half-lying, half-sitting sprawl against the wall, had, like Burt�s, apparently settled there for the duration of the summer. He was in his shirt sleeves, tieless, his collar open. The keen, forcefully cut lines of his face were utterly relaxed; the interested curiosity that is ever present in the sharp glance of his black eyes was concealed behind closed lids. The buoyant vitality that bubbled in his personality seemed to be almost completely turned off � but not quite. It appeared in the voice he used � though the voice was not his. It was, instead, the youthful alto of a brash, irrepressible child; and it came not from Merlini, but from the grinning, red-haired ventriloquial dummy that lay beside him trying vainly to match the example of immobility that Merlini had set.

The dummy�s hinged lower jaw moved slowly. �Simple as that,� he said. �Just name it and there you are. We stock only the best grade of witchcraft, every item fully guaranteed or your money back.�

On a raised dais near by was a great thronelike chair whose curving design and brightly gilded, grimacing dragons bespoke an oriental and ancient origin. Carefully I tested the seat for trap doors, and, finding none, sat down.

I gave some attention to my drink and then inquired, �What about that shower, the fan, and the air conditioning?�

�Be reasonable and settle for the drink,� the dummy retorted lazily. �The Dijinn-of-all-work hereabouts has had a hard day. We were just about to let him knock off and go home.�

�That�s a new excuse,� I said. �What kept the Dijinn so busy, and why do your boss and Burt look as if the referee had just counted ten? I thought that all the Great Mysterioso had to do was wave his hand � simple as that � and the Dijinn did all the work? Big husky fellow like that didn�t need help, did he?�

�Those cases and cartons over there,� the dummy�s head inclined toward a stack of boxes in one corner, �had to be packed. It took a great many mystic passes.�

I eyed them, noticed a suitcase or two in the lot, and sat up suspiciously. I ignored the dummy and addressed Merlini. �You�re not leaving town again?�

Merlini tilted his glass and drank long and deep, a procedure that did not prevent the dummy from answering, �Give me just one good reason for not leaving a place that has weather like this.�

I banged my glass down on the chair arm. �I�ll do exactly that! Where do you think you�re going?�

�Albany. New York State Convention. Society of American Magicians. Driving up tonight through the cool countryside. Won�t you come along?�

�Merlini,� I said heatedly, �stop fiddling with that dummy and be reasonable.� I held up the roll of galley proofs I�d brought along. �This is the second set of galleys on your �Footprints� case.[2] You were so involved in constructing a new levitation you couldn�t check the final typescript. You chased out to Chicago to attend a National Convention of Witches, Warlocks, and Banshees or something when the first proofs came through. And now, if you think��

Merlini spoke for himself this time. �But it�s business, Ross. I�ve planned a mouth-watering display of the very latest conjuring��

�What do you think this is?� I waved the proofs feebly. �You signed a contract.�

The sound of a buzzer indicated that a customer had entered the shop outside.

Burt finished off his drink, pulled himself up onto his feet, and went out, moving at about half the speed of a sleepy snail who hasn�t made up his mind.

�And,� I continued dyspeptically, �when I try to tell them how busy you are, they always counter with, �Well, he�s a magician, isn�t he? Have him wave his wand or something.� I�m sick and tired of that crack. I don�t know an answer for it, if any. Why haven�t you done something about a science of practical and applied magic? I�d take a course myself if I could say �Hey Presto� and have something useful happen. Rabbits from top hats, ladies sawed in half, ducks that vanish! Why? Who cares? Phooie!�

�Not so fast,� Merlini rebutted. �You got the drink, didn�t you? Have another. Some liver pills, too. But, seriously, I will make a deal with you. Drive up with me tonight. Burt has to stay on the job here, and I�d love company. After the convention is out of the way, we�ll vanish into the Adirondacks beside a mountain stream for a day or two � I know just the spot. We�ll cool off, and I�ll give some attention to those proofs.�

�Well,� I said, �I would like to see a tree again for a change. But no soldiering, understand. If you cross me up��

Burt returned from the shop, walking a shade faster.

�Customer outside,� he announced. �Wants to see a headless lady. Looks like a sale. I think you�d better see her.�

�Headless lady?� I asked, suspecting a gag. �Now what? Has the firm added a body-snatching department?�

�Yes,� Merlini said. �We�re changing the name to Ghoul & Co. Who is it, Burt?�

The latter shook his head. �Don�t know. Girl who won�t take no for an answer. In a hurry, too.�

Conventions are uninhibited, haywire affairs. I imagine that even the annual conclaves of the Society of Ancient Historians, the United Association of Embalmers, and, possibly, the left wing section of the D. A. R. have their moments. But a convention of magicians, coin kings, card manipulators, illusionists, mind readers, hypnotists, and ventriloquists is an experience.

The nimble-fingered delegates practiced their receptive skill in the corridors, the elevators, and at the table. I think I saw every accepted scientific axiom of physics and logic shattered beyond all mending. The effect was rather like living in a room paneled with the curved distorting mirrors from an amusement park�s Fun House. After two days and nights of concentrated trickery I essayed a little vanishing act of my own. At 3 A.M. on Sunday morning I sneaked quietly off to the room Merlini and I shared, locked the door with the only key, and went to bed.

There were more tricks on Sunday, and a banquet. I met a blonde who is sawed in two twice a day for living, discovered that she didn�t require more than the usual amount of care in handling, and had a pretty good time. Monday morning we caught up on sleep, and in the afternoon Merlini packed what miracles remained unsold and we took them to the Express office.

Monday night we had a session with the proofs. Merlini�s job was to check them for facts, but I had the devil�s own time trying to keep him from adding a lot of fiction. On nearly every other galley he�d say, �Of course, I know it didn�t happen just that way, but don�t you think it would have more punch if�� I managed to stop some of his �improvements�; but at that there were enough so that I spent most of Tuesday madly rewriting. I finished just in time to make the post office before it closed, and sent the proofs off by registered mail. Then, finally, after giving the car a feed of gas and oil, we pulled out and headed west on Route 20 � smack into trouble.

Waterboro, according to the road map, is a wide spot in the road (Pop.: 5,000 to 10,000) some seventy-five miles out of Albany in the middle of nowhere, and noted as far as I knew for exactly nothing at all. I�d never heard of the place until Merlini had pulled it out of his hat on Thursday night, and I�d long since given up trying to figure out how the mysterious Miss H�, her unholy desire for a headless lady, and her use of the name of a two-headed freak had suggested it.

I said as much, and insisted, with some annoyance, on an answer.

�Circus,� Merlini replied. �The Mighty Hannum Combined Shows is playing Waterboro today. And I�ll drink all the pink lemonade on the lot if we don�t find that headless illusion of mine working in their side show.�

�A particle of dried mud that I didn�t notice on Miss Christine�s left shoe, I suppose,� I said. �An unusual type of red clay that you immediately recognized as coming from nowhere else but the northeast corner of the circus lot in Waterboro, New York.�

�You don�t know my methods, Watson,� he paraphrased. �No. Hardly that. The show plays one-day stands. Last Thursday when Miss H, as I prefer to call her, made her brief appearance, the show was playing Newark, New Jersey.�

�Take it from there,� I said. �I�m listening.�

�The Headless Lady is this season�s wow exhibit in the open-air amusement world. Miss H�s healthy tan, her too-contrasty make-up, and her athletic manner taken together, suggested outdoor show business. Circus, carnival, or exposition. There were half a dozen playing within a two-hundred-mile radius of New York City. Then, when Burt asked her name, she gave a phony. She�s too quick-witted to give out something like Mary Smith or Jane Johnson, but she found herself hesitating, and she popped out with the first other name that entered her head, Mildred Christine. Simple matter of association. We were discussing a headless lady, and she thinks of a two-headed girl.

�My deduction that she knew her circus history was elementary. I consulted Billboard for circus routes. There were three shows in the neighborhood. One, I knew, had the illusion; one was a dog-and-pony show that couldn�t afford it; and the other, the one nearest New York at that, was the Hannum show. It looked possible.�

�Then you added in the H monogram on her purse, I suppose?�

�Exactly. At the beginning of the season, Billboard prints list of the personnel of the various shows as they leave winter quarters. Major Rutherford Hannum, an old-time circus man who dates from the wagon-show days, owns the show, and one of its featured performers is his daughter, Pauline. I haven�t seen the Major for years, and I failed to recognize Pauline because the last time I saw her she was in pigtails and short dresses. She�s changed.�

�She performs, you say?� I asked.

�Wire-walker,� Merlini replied.

Merlini watched Gus mount the low platform before the mitt camp and stand waiting beside his wife as the lecturer rattled off his introductory talk.

�Ross,� he said after a moment, �the Mighty Hannum Shows have attractions that aren�t mentioned in the advertising.�

�Yes,� I agreed. �The ways things are shaping up, I wouldn�t be a bit surprised but what I�ll have to report to your wife that you�ve run off and joined a circus for the duration of the summer.�

�That�s quite possible,� he said seriously. �The side show could use a magician. And you can sign on as a punk around the elephants.[4] Come on. Let�s go ask questions.�

We turned toward the entrance and went out just as Gus tied a blindfold over his wife�s eyes and launched into the second-sight act that sold Madame Stella as a seer and preceded the later request for �the small sum of twenty-five cents more that entitles each and every one of you to a personal horoscope, a private reading, and a full and complete answer to any question concerning the Future, Love, Travel, Business��

As we came up to the entrance of the Big Top, we were accosted by a short and extremely wide man who had been constructed, through some error, according to architectural specifications intended for a hippopotamus. He held out a large hairy paw and said, �Tickets, please. You�ll have to hurry. The big show is now going on.�

�Is Mac Wiley around?� Merlini asked.

The man gave us a sour once-over.

�No,� Merlini said, apparently reading the man�s mind, �no attachments, no damage suits, no shakedowns. I just want��

One of the two men sitting inside the enclosure on folding camp chairs suddenly hopped to his feet and stepped briskly forward, hand out. �Well, you old son of a gun! Come in! Come in! Been wondering why you hadn�t showed up before now.� He took Merlini�s hand in both of his own and pumped at it enthusiastically.

He was a lean, wiry individual with graying, brittle hair and bushy black eyebrows that jutted out with a Mephistophelean twist above a knowing and extraordinarily penetrating pair of small bright eyes. The hard muscles of his face were covered with a tough and weatherbeaten hide that had seldom been indoors, the leathery tan of which was spotted with an overlapping accumulation of darker freckles. A limp felt hat was pushed far back on his head.

�You couldn�t keep me away, Mac,� said Merlini. �How are you? Meet a good friend of mine, Ross Harte. This is J. MacAllister Wiley, legal adjuster extraordinary, technically known as the fixer, or the patch.�

�Glad to know you. Any friend of Merlini�s...� Mac nodded at the other man, who had risen from his chair, a hatless young man with a rumpled thatch of sandy hair and an intelligent, worried face that I noticed drew suddenly intent at that first mention of Merlini�s name.

�Don�t think you know Atterbury, here, do you?� Mac said. �Keith Atterbury, press agent on the lot. Young squirt. Since your time. But he writes a nice notice. Sit down, Merlini, and tell me about yourself. It�s been years.�

Atterbury acknowledged the introductions somewhat perfunctorily and pulled up two more chairs. He lit a fresh cigarette from the end of the butt he held and watched Merlini with a nervous and calculating air.

�Last time I saw you�� Mac said rapidly. �Wait. I know. Night of the blowdown on the Hagen show.� His thin-lipped mouth spread in a wide grin, and he addressed me. �The Great Merlini was working the kid-show and the blow hit us before the boys could finish double-staking. The top came down while Merlini was floating a lady in mid-air. One of the customers that I had to argue out of a damage suit � he got conked by a falling quarter pole � said afterward, �Why in hell didn�t that damned magician use some levitation on the tent?� Ho! Ho!�

Merlini grinned. �I couldn�t let the lady down, Mac. That was a night, wasn�t it?�

�It was. The bulls stampeded into the next county, and when the attachments and damage suits began to come in, the show folded then and there. Don�t know what either of us was doing on it. It was a traveling crash-pile anyhow.�

For the next five minutes Merlini and Wiley, ignoring Atterbury and myself, exchanged a rapid barrage and counter-barrage of reminiscences. It was interesting, but largely historical; and there were several times when, in spite of the glossary of circus terms Merlini had already shoved at me, I got completely lost. Finally, their cavalcade of memory returned to the current date, and Merlini asked, �Good show this year, Mac?�

�I dunno. Ask Keith. He�s the P. A. I haven�t seen anything but small pieces of a circus performance in fifteen years.� He glanced at me, saw the incredulous look on my face, and added, grinning, �Nothing odd about that. I knew a clown once who never saw a complete show until after he retired at seventy-three.�

A neatly dressed stoutish man came in from the midway and approached us with a smile. �I just picked up a couple of dandies, Keith,� he said. �Seam-squirrels and circus-bees. Nice.�

Mac grinned. �I�d say they were lousy myself. When you hunt for them it�s called �reading your shirt.�� Mac turned to us. �This is Mr. Stuart Towne, a First-of-May visiting author. He�s spending a week or two with the show. Says he�s going to do a circus murder mystery, but he spends most of his time collecting words. The man with the high pockets, Towne, is the Great Merlini in person, and this is his friend, Ross Harte.�

Towne acknowledged the introductions and then turned back to Mac. �The words will come in handy,� he said, �but I�ve been picking up murder material too. That single-edged grub-hoe the working men use would be a nice original weapon. Never saw it used in fiction.�

�I�ve seen it used in real life though,� Mac said. He rattled off an account of a circus murder by a drunken prop-man while I noticed that Towne, like many another author, didn�t look the part. He was middle-aged, blue of chin, and altogether too ordinary-looking. You wouldn�t have given him a second glance in a crowd, though once you had talked to him you did just that. Behind the commonplace, rather trite face, you soon detected the busy clockwork of a clever and active brain. His character at first seemed as colorless as his face; but as I came to know him, I found that it had an annoying chameleon-like way of appearing to change, as soon as you were on the point of defining it, into something quite different. He chewed gum incessantly.

When Mac had finished, Merlini, whose interest in murder since he went in for a sideline of crime has been boundless, said, �The grub-hoe�s a weapon, Mr. Towne. And here�s a method. You can use it nicely on a clown. Clown white, a preparation of pre-Elizabethan origin, is a mixture of zinc oxide, lard, and tincture of benzoin, dusted over with talcum. The great Humpty-Dumpty pantomimist, George L. Fox, and others are said to have died because they mistakenly used bismuth in place of benzoin. Use any poison that can be absorbed through the skin, and there you are. No charge.�

�Thanks,� Towne said. �There�s another thing you could give me, if it�s etiquette to ask. I saw you vanish an elephant at the old Hippodrome ten years ago, and I�ve been annoyed ever since. I might be able to use the method to vanish a murderer sometime.�

�That trick was designed to vanish an elephant,� Merlini smiled evasively. �Vanishing a murderer by that particular method would be like killing a fly with a sledge hammer. And besides, you do pretty well on your own. You got off a very neat vanish of a corpse in The Empty Coffin.�

�He gave me an autographed copy of that,� Mac put in. �I�m looking forward to reading it this winter. There�s a circus saying, Mr. Towne, that circus people do their sleeping in the winter. That goes for reading, too. There never seems to be time for it on the road.�

�By the way, Mac,� Merlini put in, �that book title reminds me. What is this that I hear about the Major?�

Mac sobered a bit. �Auto smashup. Tough break for the show. Happened last night just outside of Kings Falls; his car hit a bridge abutment. Pretty bad smash. He was dead when they found him.�

The animal cages, parked end to end, lined half the interior of the menagerie, not the gay and gaudy gold-encrusted parade wagons of memory, but great, simply painted, red and white trucks and trailers. They held a pair of lions with cub, two leopards, a brown bear, a hyena, a colony of chattering monkeys, and a trained chimp. The lead and ring stock was lined up on the opposite side; two bored but supercilious camels, a bright-eyed zebra, a sleepy ibex, and the horses � broad-hipped resin-backs, high-school and liberty horses and cow ponies. Near the entrance that led into the big top itself, just beyond the stand that sold Coca-Cola, popcorn, and peanuts, were four elephants, their trunks moving in restless exploration. An attendant was sweeping the broad back of one of them with a broom.

Near the horses stood a lanky figure in an especially resplendent costume of tight white trousers, high-heeled boots, bright blue shirt, and ten-gallon hat, coiling a long lariat. His hard, angular face had a very familiar look.

�Tex Mayo,� Mac said. �The movie star. Featured in the after-show with Blaze, his educated pony. Fancy roping, riding, shooting, and bull-whip snapping. You must meet the horse.�

�What�s wrong with Tex?� Merlini asked.

�Prima donna,� Mac said. �He was a big shot in Hollywood until the singing cowboy came in; Tex is tone-deaf. Made a lot of dough in his time and spent it all on swimming pools. He gets a bigger salary than any other performer on the show, but to him it�s still peanuts. The Major was ready to put the skids under him, too � he�s been liquored up pretty much lately, and it interferes with his marksmanship. But he�ll be around awhile longer now, I guess. He�s been making a play for Pauline � and she likes it.�

Mac went on into the big top; and Merlini, Towne, and I stood just within watching the clowns, who were slapping each other down with oversize gloves in that perennial bit of circus tomfoolery, the clown prize fight.

Merlini watched it a moment and then asked, �Just what did happen to the Major, Towne? Mac rather shies from the subject.�

Towne turned to look at him and raised a questioning eyebrow. �You don�t think Calamity�s remarks have any foundation, do you?�

�I don�t know,� Merlini said. �That�s why I asked.�

Towne shrugged. �Don�t know a lot about it,� he said. �They found him around midnight last night, quarter of a mile or so from the lot at Kings Falls. He�d piled up against a concrete bridge abutment at the foot of a hill. Nearly threw him through the windshield. I missed all the excitement. I heard about it when I got on the lot this morning.�

�What do you do, tag along in your own car and stop at hotels?�

�Yes.�

�You don�t agree with Calamity, then?�

�I hadn�t considered his remarks very seriously. I�ve heard him do a lot of grousing since I joined up Saturday. I don�t know what he thinks it is, if it wasn�t an accident. Suicide�s not very probable by that method, and it�s a damned impractical murder method. You could drug a man or knock him out, then put him in the machine and pull the throttle out at the top of the hill; but you couldn�t be at all sure you�d kill him.�

While Towne was speaking, the clowns finished and ran off, and the announcer�s voice came from the amplifiers: �The Mighty Hannum Shows now take great pleasure in presenting an outstanding feature of the circus world, those two amazing dancing queens of the tight wire, Pauline and Paulette, in their death-defying, somersaulting feats of grace and impossible skill!�

�Oh,� Merlini said. �Miss Hannum is working tonight?�

�Yes,� Towne replied. �Looks that way. It takes a lot to stop her. Very determined young lady.�

Merlini glanced at me. I knew he was thinking that the phrase had a familiar sound.

Two girls in Spanish costume, flaring trousers, bolero vests, and wide-brimmed, scarlet hats took their bow in the center ring and ascended swiftly to the small platforms, ten feet high, between which stretched the thin steel wires. At this distance they were merely two dancing figures, either of whom might be the girl we were looking for.

Singly at first and then together they ran and postured on the slender, bouncing wire in a sort of two-dimensional dance, a routine that was such an expert and unusually graceful exhibition of balance that even my layman�s eye tagged it at once as big-time.

The announcer broke in again for a moment: �Pauline will now attempt a feat equaled by no other woman on the wire, a backward somersault from feet to feet! Watch her!�

One figure ran lightly to the center of the wire, balanced slowly, stood perfectly still with arms outstretched, held it, waited, and then repeated the maneuver, taking short, calculating steps as she watched the wire, building up to her climax. She did it finally � a sudden rising lift, a backward swirl of color, and a precarious, shaky landing, the wire vibrating from side to side beneath her feet. It seemed for a second impossible that she could maintain her balance; and then suddenly she stood straight and still, and walked without haste to her platform.

�The announcer exaggerates,� Merlini commented. �She�s not the only woman to do that, but she is good. Let�s get a look at her as she comes off. Under the side wall there and around�� He stopped suddenly, his gaze fastened on the center ring. �Towne,� he said, �does that happen at every performance?�

�What?�

�The other girl. She just completed as nonchalant a forward somersault on the wire as I�ve ever seen.�

�Yes. She�s done it each time I�ve seen the act.�

�And the only special announcement was the one Pauline got, like now?�

Towne nodded. �Uh-huh. Why?�

�There�s a story for you,� Merlini answered. �The forward on the wire, any place for that matter, is far more difficult than a backward. Try it sometime. Find out why the wrong girl gets the announcement and you should have a story. Come on, Ross. See you later, Towne.�

I followed Merlini as he ducked under the side wall on the left and out into the back yard. Star Avenue, or Kinker�s Row, as it is sometimes called, lay before us, an orderly line of autos, trailers, sleeping cars, and prop trucks drawn up paralleling the big top. Halfway along the side wall were two openings, the entrance and exit used by the performers in entering the arena, called the back door. Walking in the space between the cars and the tent, we started toward it.

We had gone only a short distance when Keith Atterbury came from the dark between two trailers and stopped us. There was a seriously worried expression on his face.

�Could I see you a minute? I�ve got something I�d like to show you.�

Merlini nodded. Atterbury moved to the nearest trailer and, standing in the light from its window, opened a large manila envelope. He took out three glossy 8x10 photos and gave them to Merlini. I looked over his shoulder. A strip of copy paper pasted along the lower edge of the first photo bore the typed caption: Circus owner killed in auto crash near Kings Falls, N. Y. The photographer had done a professionally competent job. The shot, although taken at night with flashlighting, was clear and sharply focused. But it was not the sort of picture you would enter in a salon exhibition or care to look at during a meal.

Counter-espionage is no work for a blind man but Troup�s disability was peculiar.

Tony�s sensitive lips formed a scowl. He sensed the note of alarm in his companion�s voice, and knew better than to make light of it. His months of association with Patricia Delevan had brought him very close to her; closer, perhaps, because of his affliction, than might have resulted under more ordinary circumstances. Though rather young for this sort of thing, and rather too attractive, Pat was remarkably level-headed.

�I think,� Tony said, �we�d better head for Newport. Kirby was killed near the naval station there. If you don�t mind another dose of driving, Pat��

He was tired when they reached the car. Sinking gratefully onto the seat, he pressed a hand against his eyes for an instant and shook his head as if to clear the vision which he did not possess. Pat glanced at him with concern, but said nothing.

Expertly handling the wheel, she guided the big sedan through Providence traffic, reaching out to tip the sunshade so that Tony�s face, white and strained, lay in shadow. She knew what his headaches could do to him.

He said presently, �What was the fellow like?�

�Short,� she answered thoughtfully. �About five-six, but heavy, chunky, with big shoulders. A swarthy face, dark eyes, bushy brows. Low forehead, but wide. I know I�ve seen him before.�

�Any peculiarity of walk?�

�No��

He was silent. Traffic thinned and the road became a wide highway. The Mount Hope Bridge, high and white against a lowering sun, was behind them when he spoke again. Then it was to himself, in an old habit he had of talking his thoughts aloud.

�Odd that we had only one report in nearly two weeks. Not like Kirby at all. Efficient, usually � and quick to get results.�

The silence came back and then he repeated aloud, from memory, Kirby�s lone report. �Task difficult because so many of Newport�s social lights maintain stables of titled foreigners in their homes. Place overrun with possibilities. Have worked an �in� through the Caldwells, local biggies, at whose affairs I�ve managed to meet a number of persons � including one Harstmann, a German with admitted Nazi leanings; one questionable Frenchman named d�Ethier; one apparently freelance soldier of fortune, Erfurt, who appears to know much. My rooms ransacked third night here. Erfurt makes frequent visits to Portsmouth but is clever � I have yet to learn his destination. All for now.�

Pat marveled at his uncanny memory. The report had been received two days ago; she had read it aloud to him twice, only twice, yet he knew it now by heart. Tony Troup had many strange accomplishments.

�In Newport, Tony, what do we do?�

He smiled. �If Father Divine can buy a heaven there, so can we.�

�I don�t understand.�

�I�m weary of big city life, Pat, and terribly anxious to settle down in genteel surroundings. There are some estates for sale on the Drive, one by the Caldwells. Saw it advertised, weeks ago. You�re my sister again, helping me. We have money, of course. We�re very nice people. The Trumbulls, from Maryland. Anthony and Patricia Trumbull.� The banter faded from his voice and he became serious. �That will motivate our presence and forestall any embarrassing questions. As for a plan of action, I�m not so sure. The opposition will be clever.�

The opposition, Pat reflected, was nearly always clever in this unending battle of wits. That was the one thing that kept Tony Troup happy, despite his physical handicap. Life had become a tense game of chess, in which new opponents stood waiting in line to take the place of those vanquished.

This Newport business, for instance. Here, at the U.S. Naval Training Station, were being tested, in deepest secrecy, the only existing models of two new submarines. Reports of foreign espionage had reached Tony Troup through the usual channels. Kirby, an F.B.I. man, had been assigned to make preliminary surveys of the situation, and was now dead.

�Well,� she said, �we�re here.�

Tony Troup�s room was an amazing thing. Drapes of violent purple adorned the four windows; the walls were a talkative yellow, the carpet and ceiling a venomous shade of red. Pat, leading him into it, stopped with open mouth and almost envied Tony his lack of sight.

Her own room was farther down the hall, separated from his by a bathroom. After she had made sure that Tony was able to attend to his wants without further help, she left him.

He sat on the bed. A servant entered with his bags.

�My thanks,� Tony said, �to Mr. Erfurt.�

The servant answered him politely, stared at him and went out. Tony closed the door. He sat down again and waited, and after a while the thing for which he was waiting occurred. Pat came running into the room, shut the door and said in a low voice, �Tony! Someone has been through my things!�

He smiled. �You might look at mine, too.�

On her knees, she carefully examined the contents of his suitcase, lifting out shirts, socks, underclothes, a shaving kit. Nervously she removed a false bottom from the shaving kit and revealed a row of neatly pocketed shells designed to fit the automatic pistol which Tony habitually carried in a harness beneath his left arm.

She said finally, �I can�t be sure.�

�He was perhaps more careful with my things,� Tony mused.

�Erfurt?�

�Of course. Such generosity on the part of a perfect stranger would hardly be without a hidden motive. He went to the hotel for our things because he wanted a chance to check on us. Well� I hardly think he found anything, Pat.�

Pat stood over him, breath-takingly lovely in soft, flowing pajamas of an off-white shade that defied description. Her hands on his shoulders, she looked into his sightless eyes for a long moment, then leaned toward him, kissed him gently on the mouth and softly said good-night.

When she had gone, Tony got into his pajamas, opened the door and went down the hall to the bathroom.

He remained in the bathroom some time. Returning, he groped his way back to the bedroom, shut his door again, drew back the bedclothes and got into bed. He had been in bed at least ten minutes before he rolled over and felt something pressing against his side.

He fumbled for it. His fingers closed over it. For a few seconds he lay utterly still, his thoughts racing. Then he opened his mouth and screamed. And screamed again.

It was Paul d�Ethier who first answered. Racing down the hall, d�Ethier flung the door open and fumbled for the light, all the time demanding in a high, clipped voice, �What is it, man? What�s wrong? What�s wrong?�

Behind him came John Caldwell, fumbling with the cord of a dressing-gown and trying at the same time to rub sleep from his eyes.

They found Tony Troup sitting bolt upright in bed, sightless eyes staring straight ahead of him into space, his feet on the floor and his whole body quivering. He opened his mouth to scream again, but d�Ethier caught him by the shoulders and said quickly, �Easy now, fellow, easy. What�s the trouble here?�

Tony shuddered. �Horrible... horrible thing in my bed,� he sobbed. �Pelt like � like a huge spider!�

The Frenchman guided him to a chair and gently lowered him into it. By that time Pat was in the room, white-faced and anxious. Tony Troup�s screams had waked nearly everyone in the house.

John Caldwell drew back the bedclothes and uttered a low, throaty exclamation. His hand went half out to touch the hideous brown thing that lay there, but he withdrew it. Suddenly he warped his face into a scowl and said hoarsely, �Why, the thing�s a fake! It�s phoney!�

He was right, but at a distance of even two feet the monster looked real enough to be terrifying. Made of wire and a brown fuzzy substance simulating hair, it had a body the size of a half-dollar. Its real life cousin would have been a venomous tarantula.

�Poor fellow!� D�Ethier glanced at Tony Troup and shook his head. �Beastly trick to play on him. Beastly. He must have felt the thing, put his hand out and touched it. Don�t blame him for being frightened.� He scowled at Caldwell. �Who in heaven�s name would play such a villainous trick?�

Caldwell, offering no reply, picked the spider up and handed it to Pat, who took it with a grimace. Pat said softly, �It isn�t real, Tony.�

Tony Troup reached out slowly and touched the thing. He tried to smile. �Someone,� he whispered, �has � rotten sense of humor. Sorry I made such a fuss.�

�Shall I stay with you a while, old man?� D�Ethier offered.

�No. No, thanks, I�m all right.�

They left. Pat, last to go, glanced at him queerly before switching out the light and closing the door.

For ten minutes Tony sat motionless in the dark. Then he did a peculiar thing. He stood up and walked straight to one of the room�s four windows, and looked out.

He went from that window to another, and discovered that two of them overlooked a narrow Spanish balcony which was accessible also from other windows in other rooms.

Satisfied, he shed his pajamas and drew on his clothes. Anyone watching him would have been astounded, for his movements were not those of a blind man.

The blindness of Tony Troup had its peculiarities!

Pat went for a ride that afternoon with d�Ethier, in the latter�s own car, a gleaming yellow roadster. Tony was invited but refused on the pretext of needing rest.

It was obvious that d�Ethier was more interested � at least on the surface � in tennis than in anything else. He talked of the casino matches, spoke glowingly of Bitsy Grant, Bobby Riggs, of the Australian Davis Cup team.

The car purred leisurely over the island and he pointed out, whenever it occurred to him, places of interest. He refused to talk of conditions in Europe, laughing off Pat�s every attempt to involve him in a discussion of war or politics. He was slightly inclined to be romantic, but was not encouraged.

Pat reported this to Tony on her return, and he listened attentively.

After dinner he pleaded weariness and went at once to his room, Pat, of course, leading him there. At his direction she drew the shades. When she had left, to join the group in the drawing-room downstairs, he sat in total darkness for a time, smoking, and then removed the colored lenses from his eyes.

He sat at a window and waited. It was a long wait. The house grew quiet. Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell, their daughter and their motley array of guests retired. Midnight passed. Then suddenly Tony�s watching eyes discerned a shape moving across the lawn, away from the rear of the house.

Ordinary eyes might have failed to establish the man�s identity in that darkness and at that distance. But Tony�s eyes narrowed, his lips formed the name Erfurt.

Frowning a little, he crossed the room with long strides and stepped into the hall. The house was asleep.

Outside, the night air was cold and biting after the stuffiness of his room. He shivered as very slowly he moved through the dark toward the rear of the estate.

His quarry had vanished.

Pat Delevan left for New York � �to make arrangements with Mr. Trumbull�s bankers for the purchase of the house� � at three that afternoon.

It was warm. She wore a light gray traveling suit and was stunning. Paul d�Ethier drove her to Newport, would have driven her farther � a lot farther, his admiring gaze said � had she permitted it. She took a bus to Providence, there to catch the New York train.

She knew exactly what she had to do, and beneath her calm, lovely exterior she was tense and excited about it. Tony had warned her that there might be danger. She herself fully realized it.

Tony had said, �They may think, Pat, that whatever they failed to find on Erfurt may be in your possession, and that this trip to New York is merely a means of disposing of it. Be careful. Be very careful.�

In her purse lay a midget automatic. Hours of practice, insisted on by Tony since the beginning of her partnership with him, had taught her how to use it. Nevertheless, when she stepped from the bus on Fountain Street and walked up the hill to Union Station, she was alert and uneasy.

The station was but mildly crowded. Without difficulty she approached the ticket window and asked, in a clear voice, for a ticket to her destination. �Round trip, please,� she added. The train was due on track three. Mentally she reviewed her instructions.

She was to buy her ticket, wait on the platform, and board the train at the front. Having done that, she must walk quickly through several cars, discarding her hat and gloves as she went, and reversing her suit-coat, which was of a different color � brown � when turned. In addition to this, she must don a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and acquire suddenly a tired, roundshouldered droop, all in the four or five minutes of time allotted to her before the train pulled out of the station.

She was to step off the train before it did pull out, and then leave the station by another exit. And she must at all times be ready to shout for a policeman if approached by anyone.

�In this game,� Tony had reminded her, �our adversaries dread the spotlight as they dread nothing else. Remember that. One loud yelp from your pretty lips may do you more good than a machine-gun.�

She thought of these things as she turned away from the ticket window. She knew from the very nature of her instructions that Tony expected her to be followed, that he expected certain persons to assure themselves, by trailing her, that her trip to New York was not a bluff. All at once she stopped thinking of these things.

A shabbily dressed woman of indeterminate age had shuffled up to her and was plucking at her arm. Was holding out a wrinkled time-table and saying plaintively, �Please, Miss, will you look at this thing and tell me if I�m readin� it right? It�s Boston I got to��

The voice changed. From a coarse whine it suddenly lowered to a gentle murmur. �There is a gun folded in my time-table, Miss Trumbull. I would use it if pressed. Please walk ahead of me to the ladies room.�

Pat turned pale. Her instructions meant nothing now. It was one thing to yell for a policeman when accosted by a man � you could accuse the man of trying to molest you � but this shabby old lady was a different problem.

�We waste time, Miss Trumbull,� the woman said gently. �Please do as I have requested!�

Pat looked at the bulging time-table, looked into the woman�s face. �The female of the species,� she thought, �is more deadly��

Turning, she walked leadenly toward the ladies room, desperately hoping that someone, from somewhere, would come between her and the gun and thus give her an opportunity to dart clear.

The ladies�, room was deserted. Quite calmly the woman slotted a nickel, pushed a door open and said, �In here, please.�

She closed the door behind her and let the time-table slide to the floor. The gun was in the open then, an ugly snub-nosed little thing hardly larger than her hand. The hand, Pat noticed, was less wrinkled, less old, than the face. Beneath its cleverly applied makeup the face was probably not old at all.

Expertly she was searched. A frown crossed the woman�s face. �Undress, please!� she ordered crisply.

�But��

�We are wasting time, Miss Trumbull.�

Pat obeyed. The woman missed nothing. Watching her, Pat thought of that famous German police matron, nicknamed �La Grenouille� � The Frog � by Louise de Bettignies and other French agents who, in the last World War, had been so fearful of her methods and cunning. This woman was no less thorough.

Keenly disappointed, the woman thrust Pat�s clothing aside and said grimly, �Where are the papers you are carrying?�

�I have no papers. I don�t know what on earth you mean.�

The woman�s gaze dropped to the gun in Pat�s purse, rose again and fastened coldly on Pat�s face. She said then, �Turn around, please. Face the wall.�

For one brief instant the blood in Pat�s unclad body ran cold. She hesitated. Tony�s lightly spoken words, �Murder is seldom resorted to in this game,� were of no comfort.

The gun touched her flesh and she turned, not daring to disobey. Behind her the door opened, clicked shut again. She was alone.

There were tears in her eyes, hot, rushing tears of enervating relief, when she stooped to pick up her clothes.

Twenty minutes later she boarded a bus for Newport.

A car stopped outside. Its lights went out; there was a quick patter of footsteps on the sidewalk, and the door creaked open.

Fonteneau, the real estate man, closed the door behind him, switched on a ceiling light and stood motionless for an instant looking things over. His small dark eyes darted in their sockets, his mouth was drawn thin. Breathing heavily, he made steps to the safe and dropped to his knees in front of it.

He opened it.

Tony Troup drew a gun from his pocket and said softly, �Thank you, Fonteneau.� And added quickly, �No dramatics, please. I have you covered.�

The real estate man turned slowly, seeming to grow out of the floor as he rose from his crouch. His eyes were large. They were a toad�s eyes, unblinking, difficult to analyze. Motionless, he faced the automatic pistol in Tony Troup�s hand, and there was on his face no trace of emotion whatever, certainly no sign of fear.

�You bewilder me,� he said.

Tony nodded. �Perhaps because you hardly expected me to come in person, eh? Ordinarily, the police take over at this stage of the game. But in your case I could afford to make exceptions. You already know most of my secrets.�

Fonteneau�s round eyes still refused to blink. �You flatter me,� he declared solemnly. �Also you confound me. Just why, may I ask, should we be enemies in this matter?�

His gaze left Tony�s face and dropped to the safe, to certain papers which had fallen from his hand when the sound of Tony�s voice had first shocked him. �These papers, supplied to me by Erfurt,� he shrugged, �are worthless. The man is a clever scoundrel. What assurance have you that he will not cheat your government also?�

It was Tony Troup�s turn to maintain a mask of inscrutability. His face betrayed none of his bewilderment. His thoughts rushed to certain startling conclusions and abruptly he feigned an attitude of outrage.

�You accuse Erfurt of deceiving me?�

�Why not? He deceived me.�

Tony�s wavering was deliberate.

�Let me explain,� Fonteneau said, his manner somewhat relaxed. �Erfurt approached me some time ago. He had in his possession, he claimed, plans of great importance. He stated a price and I paid him.

�The documents were delivered. I examined them thoroughly and found them to be not only incomplete but criminally incorrect. At the same time it became known to me that Erfurt had made contact with officials of a certain foreign embassy in Washington.

�Obviously the man was a scoundrel. Having cheated me, he was either dickering with another government for the sale of the genuine article, or was planning to repeat his swindle with a new victim.

�I suspected you when you arrived on the scene. I... er... tested your apparent blindness.�

�With a spider,� Tony nodded. �Rather crude of you, Fonteneau.�

�As a matter of fact,� the little man shrugged, �you passed the test with flying colors. I really believed in your blindness until you interrupted my search of Erfurt. Your actions then were not those of a blind man.�

�Yours,� Tony murmured, �were not those of a genteel dealer in real estate.�

�It was necessary.�

�You thought he had the documents?�

�I hoped.�

�And you hope now to convince me that if I have them, they are worthless. In other words, Erfurt has played me for a dupe, as he played you. Is that it, Fonteneau?�

�Precisely.� Not by the twitch of a muscle did Fonteneau betray a sudden surge of excitement that flooded him. Not for an instant did his level gaze waver to warn Tony to look behind him.

A policeman had stopped outside and was peering in through the window. Tony�s back was toward him.

The policeman hesitated. His glance slipped sideways to the door. He appeared to be weighing the possibility of reaching the door, opening it, and taking his man unawares. Had he done so, Tony Troup�s uncanny sense of hearing might have thwarted the attempt.

The policeman raised his gun, smashed the window with it and barked a command. Tony stiffened, stood rigid without turning.

A second command followed the first, and Tony dropped his automatic. To Fonteneau the law said darkly, �Get his gun, mister. Cover him!�

The little real estate man permitted himself a fleeting smile of triumph as he stooped to retrieve Tony�s gun. He retreated with it, holding it clumsily as though unaccustomed to the feel of it. When the law entered, Fonteneau broke into a torrent of shrill talk.

�He came here to rob me, officer! He threatened to kill me! The man is a vicious scoundrel!�

The law grunted a reply and strode past him, toward Tony. That was a mistake. It put Fonteneau behind him.

Quick as light the little man swung his gun at the policeman�s head.

The law staggered, slipped to his knees. A second blow laid him in a twitching heap at Fonteneau�s feet. The little man, aglow now with triumph, faced Tony Troup and said softly, �My friend, the tables are turned.� He stepped to the broken window and drew the shade.

Tony Troup sat in a comfortable chair beside his bed, reading with his fingertips a volume of Keats printed in Braille. He looked up when the door opened. �You, Pat?� he said quickly.

She answered him, closed the door and moved to his side.

�No hitch?� he asked.

�No hitch, Tony. They�re gone.�

�Good. What did the fellow look like?�

Pat described the dark man carefully. Tony shook his head.

�Don�t know him, I�m afraid. There are many we don�t know. The one in Providence, for instance � the one who shoved you off the sidewalk. Obviously an attempt to test my blindness, to see if I were faking and could be shocked into coming to your assistance. You thought you knew the fellow, thought you�d seen him somewhere before. Perhaps you have � somewhere. One of Erfurt�s men, perhaps, or even Fonteneau�s � maintained in Providence to report any investigation into the death of Kirby.�

He accepted a cigarette and smiled his thanks. �Yes � there are many we don�t know, and many who don�t know us. I suppose now you want some explanation of what happened in Fontenau�s office.�

�I�m getting more impatient by the minute,� Pat said severely.

He put aside the volume of Keats and drew her toward him. �It follows a clear pattern, all of it. Erfurt, a free agent, obtained the plans and made a deal with Fonteneau. He cheated Fontenau and the latter was smart enough to know it. Fonteneau watched him, learned that he had sent word to a rival embassy in Washington. When we arrived, Fonteneau convinced himself that we had come to buy the plans. He thought Erfurt meant to deliver them the night he slipped out of the house.

�Fonteneau waylaid him, searched him, failed to find the papers. He thought you had them when you left for New York. He sent word ahead and had you stopped. Then he stumbled into my trap.�

Pat released herself and stepped back, her face dark with a scowl. �What trap?�

�I went for a swim.�

Her foot tapped the carpet. �Please, Tony!�

�It�s a fact. They were having a party on the terrace. I wanted them all there, all who could even remotely be suspected, so I even telephoned Fonteneau, telling him Caldwell wished to see him on a business matter. He arrived. That put all my suspects together: Harstmann, d�Ethier, Fonteneau, Erfurt, even Caldwell. I played a game of blind-man�s-buff with them, knowing, you see, that one of them � the one who attacked Erfurt that night and fled when I intruded � knew I was not blind.�

�Well?�

�When I walked into the swimming pool, all but Fonteneau yelled at me. He didn�t. He knew it was an act and was caught off guard. He knew I was up to something. He knew, too, after talking to Caldwell, that his summons to the party was a fake, and it frightened him. Apprehensive, he rushed to his office to put things under control � and I was there ahead of him.�

Pat said slowly, �One of these days, Tony��

�Don�t say it. Come here.�

�No!�

�Very well then.� He stood up, took her in his arms. Holding her in silence for a moment, he said at last in a voice strangely gentle, �One of these days, Pat, we�ll be too old for this sort of game. It will be time then to settle down.� He kissed her. �Meanwhile, of course, we�re needed. Our job isn�t the most glamorous in the world � it wears no uniforms, wins no medals � but it�s important.�

The murder weapon was a tricky one � in more ways than one.

Frank Mergan laughed, too. He laughed till his frail body shook, but no sound came from him. His white head was bent over a little and his cunning eyes rolled up at me. He looked like one of those grotesque wood figures that Mexicans carve out and sell to tourists. He was colored like them; white hair, brown, wrinkled skin, wine-shade dressing gown, round eyes with lots of the white showing, a long, pointed nose.

�Anderson, Anderson,� he chuckled. �What are you talking about? I haven�t stolen anything from you. Don�t be a Bolsheviki. Analyze the facts.�

�Yes, analyze them,� echoed Schrieber.

�You do it,� I said.

�I shall,� Mergan replied and what he said was this:

�Two years ago you came to me and told me you�d invented a hair-cutting machine. You believed that my company would be interested in the device since we were already known as manufacturers of electric razors, toasters, flat-irons, washing-machines, automatic switches and so forth and so forth.�

He stopped and stared at me. �True, Anderson?�

�That much is.�

�Perfectly true,� murmured Schrieber.

Mergan went on: �You came to me because I was easily accessible, having this summer home in Rocky Point for oh, so many years... having become more or less of a byword among the natives hereabouts. True, Anderson?�

�You old goat,� I said angrily. �Why ask that silly question? It�s true so far. I�ll stop you when you begin to lie.�

Schrieber gasped.

Of course it was true, so far. I was born in Rocky Point. Ever since I was big enough to understand anything I�d been told that Frank Mergan was just everything a young American should strive to emulate. My father, poor man, told me that. He believed it. In his day, everybody believed it. My Sunday School teachers, my school teachers, the newspapers, the family magazines, the Boy Scout books � they all said that Frank Mergan and men like him were great and rich and generous and brave and honorable as well as smart, for every one of them had worked his way up from office boy to ownership of whatever business he was in and nobody could do that unless they were paragons of virtue and intelligence.

I glanced at Schrieber. He was being patiently pious and fawningly smug. The rat.

Frank Mergan ignored what I said. He went on, coldly.

�You came to me and told me about your machine. I didn�t send for you. You came. But I was interested. I saw possibilities in the device��

�You didn�t see them in the beginning,� I broke in. �I argued with you for three hours before you even began to see them. Afterward, your own advertising copywriters opened your eyes the rest of the way. It took some high-priced persuasion to force you into a shrewd decision.�

�Why. Why!� Mergan choked. �You... you whippersnapper!�

�Just to keep the record straight. Though you�ll get credit for it anyway in all the story books.�

�I have a good mind to have you kicked bodily out of my house! You are an ingrate, Anderson.�

�Nuts. You and your butler and your yes-man together, couldn�t move me an inch.�

�Are you threatening me?�

I glared at him. My hands commenced to open and close of their own accord. I felt like choking him.

Then he smiled. That was his way, Frank Mergan got what he wanted through guile, never by open fight.

�Ah well, let it pass,� he said. �After I was convinced, Anderson, what did I do? I offered you five thousand outright for your machine. You refused. Meanwhile I had had experts looking it over � Mr. Schrieber for one, he being an inventor, too.�

�Of sorts,� said Schrieber modestly.

�Anyway, these experts,� continued Mergan, �suggested certain modifications in your machine so that women as well as men could use it. Then I sent for you, Anderson. Is not that true?�

�Go on.�

�I offered you two thousand dollars if you would re-design the machine. You agreed to do so. I provided you with a laboratory by installing a complete machine-shop in the summerhouse, here on my estate. I also offered you the services of Mr. Schrieber.�

�And I perfected the machine,� I said, �after a year�s hard work. But during that year you had the improvements patented in the name of your company.�

�It was my right under the terms of our agreement.�

�Your right nothing! Your lawyers made it your right by saying to the patent office that since you were paying for the improvements, they belonged to you. Schrieber was your watchdog.�

�Mr. Schrieber is a loyal member of my organization,� answered Mergan tartly. �A loyal member, Anderson.�

�And why shouldn�t he be?� I blurted. �He�s smart. When you die he�s in line for a nice chunk of your dough, since you�ve got no heirs. Why wouldn�t he be?�

Radcliff, glancing from Schrieber to me and back again, said nothing further about it. Instead, he went to the chair where Mergan had been sitting, and tried to move it. It would not budge. He knelt, examined the legs of the chair, then arose.

�It�s fastened to the floor,� he said noncommittally. �There are little hunks of angle-iron on each front leg.�

Which was so.

Schrieber, officiously, took a look at the chair-legs.

�What do you know about that?� asked Radcliff.

�Nothing,� said Schrieber.

�And you?�

I said, �Mergan�s chairs never interested me. If he screwed them to the floor, maybe it was because he was afraid he would forget himself and steal them some night.�

Schrieber�s voice shook. �You can�t speak of the dead in such a manner, Anderson.�

I didn�t answer.

Radcliff called Simpson. The butler came in nervously, his hands fluttering like those of a frightened old woman. Radcliff showed him the angle-irons. �Did you know they were fastened down?� he asked.

Simpson quavered: �Fastened down? Goodness, no. I never knew such a thing. Why��

�Who cleans this room?�

�The housekeeper, sir.�

�Call her, please.�

Simpson went out.

Radcliff turned to me. �Anderson,� he said. �I want you to sit in that chair in the same position Mr. Mergan was in when the shots came.�

�You want me to sit in it? Why don�t you sit in it? I can show you just as well.�

Radcliff looked at me momentarily, shrugged, and sat down in the Morris chair. I said, �Lean back a little. You�re sitting too straight. Mergan was hunched over. There! More like that.� Radcliff followed directions closely. �That�s it,� I said at last. �That�s the position he was in.�

�Was it, Mr. Schrieber?� Radcliff queried.

�I believe so,� said Schrieber.

Radcliff looked out the window toward the lighted summerhouse. �What is that down there?� he asked.

Schrieber told him. �Formerly it was a summerhouse. Now it�s being used as a laboratory by Anderson. Anderson has been working there.�

�What kind of laboratory?�

�A machine lab,� I said.

�Do you work alone?�

�Schrieber was supposed to help me.�

�You say �supposed to�. Didn�t he?�

�Not much,� I said flatly. �He was a spy for Mergan.�

Schrieber began to sputter but said nothing, for just then the housekeeper came in. She was nervous, but not frightened, though she refused to look at the body. Radcliff questioned her and she said, �I moved this chair every day. It wasn�t ever fastened down. That I�ll swear.�

�Was the screen usually out of the window?�

�Never,� Mrs. Todd answered. �I don�t � why it�s out n�� She stopped, biting her lip. She had suddenly realized why it was out.

�That�s all. Thank you.� Radcliff spoke kindly. �You may go, Mrs. Todd.�

As she went out, a highway patrolman came in. He gave Schrieber and me a sharp glance and then looked at Radcliff.

�Go ahead,� said Radcliff.

Then we were outside, walking, all three of us, toward the house.

�Circumstantial evidence is acceptable as proof, Anderson,� said Radcliff, speaking from behind me. �Everything is against you. You hated Mergan, you threatened him, you��

Schrieber broke in excitedly. �Sergeant! Sergeant!�

�Yes?�

�I can help you there. About Anderson threatening him. You see, it was a habit of Mr. Mergan�s to record all important conferences between himself and any of the men in his organization. Well, tonight, he did that! I had forgotten it till just now.�

�Recorded it?� Radcliff sounded doubtful.

�Yes! This evening, when Mr. Mergan and Anderson talked, every word they spoke is on a record, a dictagraph record in the library. I switched on the machine just as Anderson entered. It was routine with Mr. Mergan. He always did that��

�Evidence!� cried Radcliff. �Evidence of the best kind! Play the record to the jury! Let them hear Anderson�s threats against��

�He made threats, too, plenty of them,� said Schrieber shrilly. �Why, I remember��

I was remembering, too. I�d said plenty. I�d told Mergan that lots of inventors wanted to get him, that some day one of them would, that some day one of them would take something from him more valuable than any machine � oh, what hadn�t I told him? And now every word was on a record...

As we entered the library, a short, white-haired man met us. He took something out of a black bag and handed it to Radcliff. I heard him say, �The bullets, Sergeant.�

Radcliff held the mushroomed, leaden smears under a light. He said, �Why, they�re twenty-two caliber � high-powered twenty-two�s!� Then he became thoughtful, walking to the window and back without looking at anyone. But a moment later he snapped his fingers. �By Joe! That must be an English �Chumley� rifle. They�re the only twenty-two on the market that will handle this type of slug!�

The white-haired man said, �I�ll be going along now, Sergeant. We�ve got everything, pictures and all. The body�ll be at Rocky Point.�

�Yes, Doctor. All right. Thank you.� Radcliff was frowning, still thinking. Then he called to the patrolman, Barnes, who was standing near the fireplace. �Did you see those slugs?�

�I sure did.�

�I�m right about them, am I not? They�re out of a �Chumley�?�

�They can�t be anything else,� said Barnes slowly. �Doc showed �em to me. Nothin� but a �Chumley� could fire �em.� �Good,� Radcliff said and brought out a small, black notebook. He opened it and produced a pencil. ��Chumley,� �Chumley�,� he said aloud and eyed Barnes. The patrolman, I noted, returned the look for quite a long time. �How do you spell �Chumley�?� Radcliff asked him.

Barnes shook his head slowly, watching his superior officer. �Darned if I know, Sergeant. But it�d be on the gun�� He grinned sheepishly. �If we could find the gun.�

�We have found it,� Radcliff informed him. Then, casually, he turned to me. �How do you spell �Chumley,� Anderson? I want the name correct in my report.�

I said, �I don�t know how to spell it. I��

But Radcliff had swung to Schrieber before I finished. �You spell it for me, Mr. Schrieber.�

Schrieber shook his head. �I don�t know how. Sorry.�

�Then I wonder if you�d mind running down to the laboratory and getting it for me. If I recall rightly, it�d be on the under side of the barrel, about halfway back.�

�Certainly.� Schrieber was anxious to help. �Now?�

�If you please.�

Schrieber went to the door, with a backward glance at me. It was a glance of triumph.

�When you come back I�ll ask you to let me hear that dictaphone record, too,� said Radcliff.

�Certainly.� This time Schrieber�s triumph was complete.

The door opened. I shut my mouth. Barnes and Schrieber entered. Radcliff put his notebook behind him as they came in. Now he brought it into sight again. He said, �Ah, Schrieber. Did you get the name of the gun? How was it spelled?�

Schrieber smiled knowingly, glancing from me to Radcliff and back to Barnes. �Certainly,� he said as if he was sharing a secret which excluded me. �It was on the gun, as you said. It is spelled C-h-o-l-o-m-o-n-d-l-y.�

�But�� Radcliff gave a good imitation of surprise. He turned to Barnes and spoke in a puzzled tone. �We both figured it was a �Chumley�...�

Schrieber laughed. �It is a �Chumley�, Sergeant. I mean that�s the way the name is pronounced. But it�s spelled the way I told you. Cholomondly is pronounced �Chumley�.� Then Schrieber ceased talking, for Barnes had stepped to his side. Barnes was holding a pair of handcuffs.

�We�ll take you,� Radcliff snapped and his manner changed abruptly so that he was no longer courteous. �We�ll take you, Schrieber, instead of Anderson.�

�Wh-a-t!� Schrieber�s glasses slipped down his long nose and his eyes blinked nakedly. �Why, you��

The �cuffs snapped over his wrists. He swung toward me, screaming. �There�s the man � Anderson! He��

�I don�t think so,� said Radcliff, decisively. �It could have been Anderson, just as it could have been you. Both of you had a motive. Both of you could have fixed the gun. But only one of you did. We had to find out which. You helped us by being such a good speller.�

�You�ll regret this!� screamed Schrieber hysterically.

�Maybe, but I think we�ve got a pretty good case. You see, Schrieber, there is no name on a �Chumley� gun. There never is. Just a number. So when a man buys a �Chumley� all he usually hears is the way it�s pronounced by the clerk who sells it. He doesn�t know how to spell it, unless he�s English, until he sees the bill for it. Now you�re not English, Schrieber, yet you knew how to spell �Chumley�. That means you saw the bill for this gun. Certainly you couldn�t have seen the name on the gun, for it wasn�t there. I think we can find the clerk, maybe the bill��

�You gambled on both of us!� I blurted out.

Radcliff smiled. �Yes, Anderson. It was worth a gamble, wasn�t it? C-h-o-l-o-m-o-n-d-l-y is a tricky word. Even good spellers, if they�re American��

Schrieber sputtered, �You�ll wish you�d never�� But Barnes put a big hand over his mouth and shoved him toward the door.

�Maybe,� said Radcliff, a little wearily, looking at me. �But still I think we�ve got a pretty good case. Though that�s part of my job, too, seeing it through. Too bad about your hair-cutting machine, Anderson.�

�I don�t think so, Sergeant,� and my voice shook under the reaction of relief. �If you�ve got a good thing, the truth will come out, sooner or later.�

�Or a bad thing either,� he said, glancing toward the door. �But you�re right, Anderson. You can�t stop truth. You can only slow it up for a while.�

�One thing, Sergeant � is it true that a �Chumley� is the only rifle that will handle slugs like � like these that killed��

He smiled. �No, Anderson. Three or four American rifles handle them, too. I guess there�s different kinds of truth, eh? I knew there�s no name on a �Chumley� rifle and that this one is a �Chumley�. So I took a chance. Only a very good speller would know that Cholomondly spells �Chumley�, unless he�d seen the word. After all, what is truth, Anderson?�