Saul and the Spinster E-Book

Aidan de Brune

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

A murder is committed in a seedy nightclub... weird vandalism in a leading fashion salon... are they connected? An exiting page tuner full of intrigue and mystery, „Saul and the Spinster” is a must-read for all fans of thrilling crime fiction. A mysteriously complicated plot make this Aidan de Brune book great fun with the twists coming thick and fast. He provides a thrill of another sort! If you haven’t discovered the joys of de Brune’s mysteries there is a good place to start. Highly recommended.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER I

DIZZY LAINE, baptised Paul Disraeli Laine, crime expert of the Post-Advertiser refers to Detective-Inspector Saul Murmer’s most celebrated case under the title of “Saul and the Spinster.”

Inspector Murmer blushes, insofar as any Inspector of police, be he English or Australian, can be said to blush.

Mrs. Dizzy Laine, nee Eva Poulton, and once subject of Inspector Murmer’s official suspicions, laughs gently and slightly; Miss Paddy Burke, a young lady who figures rather intimately in the case, matches the Inspector, blush for blush, glancing furtively at a certain young gentleman who appears incapable of proceeding more than six linear yards from her side.

There appears to be some doubt as to the exact point when Inspector Murmer first came in contact with Miss Mathilde Westways, the well known Sydney modiste, owner of Florabella and–the Spinster in the case.

Official records Indicate that the investigation was not allotted to Inspector Murmer by his superior officer, Superintendent George Dixon. Dizzy Laine voices the popular theory when he states that the case did not become official until just before Inspector Murmer discovered the solution of his problem; that the famous detective became involved in the matter through a very reprehensible habit he had acquired of frequenting notorious night-clubs when free from official duties.

Inspector Murmer retorts that journalists of the “Dizzy” persuasion should be confined in “unnamed” places when police matters are under discussion. Dizzy is rather too fond of referring to the affair; his wife prettily matronly and with her husband in complete subjection, sometimes bars discussions. Dizzy obeys, with a grin; to intimate friends he confides that his spouse shows no such reticence in the privacy of the connubial chamber, there frequently speculating when “it” will take place, and whether Florabella will be converted into a limited liability company with Inspector Murmer’s term of exchange expires, and he returns to the ugly red-brick building on the Thames Embankment, named New Scotland Yard.

So much will serve to Introduce the leading honest characters in what can be claimed to be-the most extraordinary case Inspector Murmer handled during his sojourn in Australia. Lacking the Inspector’s official reports for this narrative, Dizzy Laine’s rather highly-coloured journalese and personal reminiscences have been taken as a basis, amplified by Miss Paddy Burke’s retrospective suggestions. Both authorities declare the curtain to rise at the Green Lagoon night-club–and Miss Mathilde Westways raises no objections to this.

SAUL MURMER left Police Headquarters shortly after five o’clock on the 6th day of September, 1931. Passing through the big gates to Central-lane, he nodded recognition of the salute from the constable on duty, and walked up to Castlereagh Street. There he mounted a city-bound tram, and alighted at King Street. A short interval spent In shopping, and he boarded a car for King’s Cross. A few yards along Darlinghurst-road from the tram stop he entered a block of flats and ascended in the elevator to his own quarters. A shower and a change, and he went down to the restaurant in the building and dined.

This dally routine well performed, he returned to his sitting-room and gave his exclusive attention to that day’s newspapers. This last duty, in the mind of Inspector Murmer, was as essential as his dinner. He considered newspapers mines of information, especially regarding the activities of his frailer fellow-men. Many times the Inspector had speculated, sitting In the comfortable armchair fitting his rotund figure so perfectly, that if criminals realised the dangers of the publicity they sought in vanity, the tasks of magistrates, judges and juries would be considerably lighter, while the police force, and especially the detective branch, would be vastly overworked.

A little after eight o’clock Saul Murmur stacked his newspapers neatly on a side table and went to the house telephone. For some moments he lingered, the receiver to his ear, listening to the bell ringing in Inspector John Pater’s flat, in the same building. He realised that John Pater was not at home, and a few seconds later thanked the switch-girl for conveying that information to him verbally. He went to his bedroom and arrayed himself in the conventional evening attire of the Englishman the world over.

Descending to the main hall of the building, he paused at the office window, and again inquired regarding Inspector Pater. He was told that the officer had not yet returned home, and sighed. He had a feeling that he deserved companionship–and had elected John Pater victim. Now he would have to find entertainment for himself. He strolled out to the pavement and acknowledged the inquiring eye of an alert taxi-driver with a brief nod.

“Where to, sir?” asked the man when Saul Murmer was comfortably ensconced in the car. The Inspector pondered. Now he wondered why he had arrayed himself for the evening. Had he done so because he anticipated John Pater as companion to one of the gilded halls of Sydney entertainment? That might be correct. But John Pater was not with him. If he had anticipated being left to his own resources, would he have troubled to dress, or would he have arrayed his ample figure in a simple lounge suit and indulged himself in a stroll through one of Sydney’s quieter suburbs, speculating on the houses and the people he passed In the past, similar strolls had proved profitable to his reputation.

“Try the Green Lagoon,” decided, after a considerable pause.

“The Green Lagoon. Yes, sir.” The man closed the car door and trotted round the vehicle to his seat. A moment, and the car joined the stream of traffic heading city-wards.

Outside the noted night-club a commissionaire who gave the impression that he had recently resigned the field-marshalship of a South American army, deigned to open the car-door, saluting smartly. Saul Murmer alighted and descended the long flight of softly-carpeted stairs beyond the gaily illuminated doorway, to the lounge of the nightclub. There he was received by a severely garbed head-waiter, who bowed and preceded his important guest to a table set in a coveted corner of the large supper-room; an advantageous corner from which a full view of the dancing floor and the adjacent tables could be obtained.

Saul Murmer was well known at the Green Lagoon, and his partiality for this particular table understood and acquiesced in. Hardly had the inspector arranged his ample form to the chair, held by the head waiter, than the table waiter appeared at his elbow, carrying in a cradle basket a dirt-encrusted bottle, partly shrouded by a very white napkin.

“Expecting m’sieu, I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine,” announced the waiter in a soft whisper.

“And pubs shut at six–or should!” commented Saul Murmer. “The lowly navvy goes home thirsty, while we, in these glided haunts of vice–”

“Sir.” The head waiter, who had been standing close by, looked shocked–insofar as a valued client could shock a well-trained head waiter.

“Never mind,” decided the detective. “I will have a glass. I have an idea I telephoned the order for wine this morning.”

“M’sieu remembers!” agreed the night-club official, with a beaming smile.

“But didn’t I order two bottles? I shouldn’t be surprised if I had not,” continued the stout Inspector. “If John Pater turns up, I shall certainly want them. His thirst–”

“Supper, m’sieu?” A menu slid discreetly on the cloth before the detective.

“Ten-thirty.” Saul Murmer accepted the silver pencil tendered, and ticked off a series of dishes, “Um-m! I think that will do.”

“M’sieu performs admirably,” applauded the man. Suddenly the inspector found himself alone at the table, a glass of wine beaming benevolently up at him–and the intriguing bottle reposing in its cradle to one side.

Again settling himself comfortably in his chair, and savouring his first sip of the wine, Saul Murmer glanced about the room, discreetly lit to a dusky evening glow that partially hid, partially revealed, the few tables yet occupied. So far as his inquisition showed he had no acquaintances in the place. He did not want them or the moment; certainly not the usual acquaintances one makes at a night-club.

John Pater might follow him, although he had not left word of his destination at the flat-offices. Dizzy Laine might arrive; he and Mrs. Laine often danced. There were a few more whose company he might welcome, and the rest–His wandering eye came to a table on the opposite side of the dancing floor.

At It was seated a lady of middle age, very well dressed and preserving many of the charms of her youth, with an old-world air of dignity and reserve.

“Fine woman,” thought Saul Murmer, who was himself comfortably fleshed. “Apparently plenty of money; plenty of brains, too, Good business head. Someone’s wife having a lonesome night out? No.”

He had caught sight of a ringless left hand. “Spinster! Now what–”

The lady looked in his direction, and Saul Murmer quickly resumed his scrutiny of the room. He feared the lady might be embarrassed if she fond him staring at her.

“Though,” thought the inspector, “she is not the sort to show embarrassment at anything not entirely out of the ordinary; more likely to call the head waiter and send him with a message for me to abate the nuisance!”

He chuckled. “And I a detective-inspector of police!”

Automatically his eyes returned to the lady’s table. To his astonishment he found that she was looking at him, and that without a shade of embarrassment. Their eyes met for an instant and, to the detective’s amazement, the lady made a beckoning gesture with her fan–a fan that glittered in the pale greenish twilight that flooded the hall.

Saul Murmer hesitated, doubtful if the lady’s signal was intended for him. The gesture, slight and imperative, was repeated. The Inspector covered a sudden grin.

“A pick-up! I am surprised” he muttered. “Naughty! Does she realise that I’m a police officer? What a shock I’d be! But, who knows. Now–”

Inspector Murmer’s greatest grievance against Fate swept on him again with renewed force. He was totally unlike what a detective should be, in real life or in fiction. He was short; when he had joined the metropolitan police force he had barely topped the height standard, while succeeding years had, apparently, taken from those scanty inches. Girth had come to him, in spite of exercise and a pathetic devotion to patent reducing drugs. Big baby-blue, innocent-staring eyes looked out from a round face of girlish-textured skin, requiring but slight attention from the morning razor. His nose was small and, on the authority of an old schoolmate, now Chief-Inspector Murchison, of the “pug” variety. A well-formed chin was topped by a set of lips that might have been taken as a model of the perfect Cupid’s bow; and they were red, as if lip-sticked.

He was not a detective; not in appearance, Saul Murmer’s ideal detective stood five feet ten inches; had a slim body, of the strength and flexibility of whalebone; a sun-weathered countenance; and thin, hard lips that held dexterity in rolling black, rank cigars from side to side of his mouth.

The Inspector came out of his reverie to find Luke Lenoire, mâitre d’ hôtel of the Green Lagoon, silently awaiting his pleasure; before him on a small silver tray, lay a plainly engraved visiting card.

“Madame’s compliments, and she will be grateful if m’sieu will give her a few minutes of his most valuable time,” said the man gravely.

“A pick-up!” The Inspector puckered his full, red lips impishly. “Do you allow that sort of thing in your gilded halls of vice, Luke?”

“M’sieu jests.” The man smiled. “Madame is well-known at the Green Lagoon, and is of the most discreet.”

The Inspector glanced at the card before him. “Miss Mathilde Westways,” he read.

“Luke–” he paused. “Yes, Luke, will, you inform Madame I shall have the pleasure of attending her–in a few moments, when I recover from the shock, In a few moments.” The mâitre d’hôtel bowed, and faded into the gloom of the synthetic evening.

A minute, and he reappeared on the opposite side of the dance-floor. Miss Westways glanced up quickly, smiled and nodded. At the sign of approval the Inspector struggled to his feet and ambled across to the opposite table. Before the lady he halted and bowed, regretting that he had not Luke Lenoire’s supple figure and easy, practised obeisance.

“Detective-Inspector Saul Murmer.” Miss Westways’ voice was low, sweet and assured. “We have never been introduced, I believe, but–“ she hesitated. “Really, this is most embarrassing.”

A sudden suspicion came to the detective’s mind. “Shall we name this interview ‘official,’ Miss N Westways?” he asked; in very official tones. “You will understand, police inspectors on duty don’t wait for introductions.”

“How nice of you,” beamed the lady, obviously relieved. “May I assume that Mr. Paul Disraeli Laine has informed you–”

“Paul Disraeli–” Saul Murmer stuttered in amazement. “Oh, you mean Dizzy–”

“That is even better.” Miss Westways was now, entirely at ease. “May I understand that Dizzy has informed you of my trouble and–”

“Your trouble, Miss Westways–” The detective showed his perplexity. “What trouble?”

“My dilemma, yes, Inspector.” Miss Westways interrupted, speaking in matter-of-fact tones. “Someone is threatening my life.”

CHAPTER II

“PLEASE sit down, Inspector.” Miss Westways indicated the chair on the opposite side of the-table.

“Thank you.” Saul Murmer felt he was In need of a seat. It was not a strange experience for the Inspector to be informed by individuals that their lives were threatened. Investigation usually showed that the facts did not agree with conclusions, in spite of the wealth of details accompanying the complaints.

Saul Murmer smiled, recalling the case of Sir Abbeyford Aldersham, who almost caused the resignation of a Chief Constable, gave sleepless nights to a number of hard-working policemen, and agitated the press of England. A solution of the threatening letters was only obtained when, enraged by the authorities’ refusal to arrest his nephew and heir, Sir Abbeyford turned his hitherto unsuspected abilities as a letter-writer to an anonymous attack on the Chief Constable of his county.

A movement at his elbow caused him to look up. Henri was standing close beside him, his brows well-defined interrogation marks. The detective nodded and the man disappeared, to return almost immediately with the cradled bottle and glasses.

“If I may be permitted, Miss Westways.” The Inspector lifted his glass, watching the bubbles rise through the amber liquid. He felt he needed that drink; had already earned it. He drank delicately.

“You were saying, Miss Westways–?”

“I believe that my life is being threatened.” The lady repeated her statement gravely; then laughed. “No doubt you think I am mad, Inspector?”

“Not at all;” Saul Murmer was polite and abstractly truthful. If the lady had said “unbalanced” he would have been forced to silence, or untruthfulness. “Er–quite a number of people’s lives have been threatened at times.”

“And yet live out their numbered days. Is that what you Intended to say, Inspector?” Miss Westways laughed gently. “You were inferring that I have no reason to worry–yet you have no knowledge of the circumstances.”

“Is there a case–” The Inspector appeared to be addressing the tablecloth. He glanced furtively at the woman on the other side of the table. Somewhere in the forties, he decided; then flushed. He suddenly remembered that he was forty-six. And–she was wonderfully attractive! Brown hair, with a few peeping grey hairs that lent an illusion of moon-halo; a fair skin bearing just the right amount of make-up to perfect its attractiveness; a well-developed body, its charms accentuated by a dark grey dress that softly whispered “Paris”–and worn with that exclusive accent so rarely seen outside the city of feminine authority. And the card the mâitre d’hôtel had brought him had borne in one corner a single, quoted word.

No address was needed. Even essentially masculine Police Headquarters knew of “Florabella,” the Mecca of every Australian woman–the leading modiste establishment of Sydney.

“So many people desire death!” Saul Murmer looked up, his full girlish lips parted in a smile, the baby-stare eyes twinkling.

“Not for themselves, but for those they consider–er–redundant. Their reasons? Mainly an overworked inferiority complex! Er–you were saying, Miss Westways–”

The lady smiled; the exclusive feminine how far from gods they may be.

“You think I am–er–unbalanced, Inspector?”

“Not at all, Miss Westways.” The detective hastened to refute the idea. “I have admired the cool, collected manner in which you–er–discuss their–er–threat.” He paused helplessly.

Miss Westways went to his rescue.

“Why should be flurried and distressed?” A note of asperity came in her voice. “In a business matter–”

“Blackmail?” Saul Murmer nodded, speaking in a whisper. “In a sense, yes.” Mathilde Westways also nodded.

“I have received messages.”

“Ah!” Inspector Murmer sighed. He liked documentary evidence, especially in a blackmailing ease. “And the letters–”

Not wishing to embarrass the lady in the disclosures he now believed to be inevitable, Saul Murmer had half-turned from the table and was staring down the room in the direction of the entrance. Suddenly he stiffened slightly, then laughed. All he had seen was Mrs. Laine entering the room preceding a brilliantly dark young girl and her husband.

Eva Laine saw Miss Westways and directly she entered the room. She waved gaily, crossing the room directly to their table. Saul Murmer watched the group form, somewhat relieved that his tête-à-tête with Miss Westways had been interrupted. He had started the evening with thoughts anticipating enjoyment. Apparently he had been slated for disillusionment. John Pater had let him down, and Miss Westways had shown decided signs of repeating the performance.

Eva Laine’s appearance suggested relief; beside the most perfect dancing floor in Sydney she would permit nothing that savoured of serious life. In regard to the blackmailing letters, Saul Murmer decided that he could obtain them from Miss Westways at some other interview. He felt suddenly elated at the thought of another interview with this fascinating lady.

“Room for three more?” Eva called gaily as she came to the table.

“Only myself, a husband, a little girl. Auntie Westways, may I introduce your niece in a perfectly perfect new Florabella gown.”

The young girl curtsied deeply, spreading out the’ voluminous skirts of the lovely red frock. “Isn’t it adorable, Mattie. I couldn’t resist it this afternoon.” She swung with a flurry of flounces and frills on the waiting detective, holding out her hand frankly. “You’re Dizzy’s friend, Inspector Murmer, aren’t, you? I’m not going to say ‘Pleased to meet you’, for that would make Eva jealous; she looks on you as her own, private, particular lion, guaranteed to roar for her alone. She’s awfully mean, even with her husband! Why, this afternoon she wouldn’t even let me kiss him–and haven’t kissed–”

“Paddy!” Miss Westways’ tones were very firm.

“Yes, Mattie.” Paddy’s voice was suddenly meek. “Oh, the frock! I did tell Miss Lancing to put it down to my account, truly! And I haven’t had a frock for ages and ages. And I haven’t a rag–”

“There’s hardly a rag this side, Paddy,” said Dizzy judicially. He was standing behind the girl.

“Pig.” Paddy turned on the journalist. “For that–”

“Paddy, are you aware your allowance is sadly overdrawn.” Mathilde Westways spoke softly, a twinkle of affection in her eyes.

“So is the national exchequer, it the Post-Advertiser financial expert is telling the truth,” observed Dizzy lazily.

“Then Paddy’s allowance account looks like a diminutive national exchequer,” laughed Eva. “She came to me the–”

“Telling tales, out of school!” The girl shook her black curls. “For that–Dizzy, you shall dance with me, and if you kiss me in that dark corner by the band I won’t even bleat!”

“Oh, you children!” Miss Westways reproved. “There’s plenty of time to dance. Sit down, all of you!”

Dizzy Laine pulled out a chair for his wife, glancing from the Inspector to the table, which Henri was busily setting for supper. “Who wouldn’t be a detective-inspector of police,” he said lugubriously. “Eva, you made a mistake when you picked a journalist for a soul-mate. You should have sought a police officer; they can afford the material joys of life–wine, women and–”

“Eva! If Dizzy sings I shall go straight home,” said Paddy explosively.

“For your sins, Murmer–” The newspaper man grinned, “Paddy, for your and his sins, you shall sit next your latest ‘nice’ man. Good! Now, perhaps I shall have one evening’s, quietness amid a torrid desert of dancing nights. Miss Westways, please extend your well-known abilities as a chaperone to protect me from the evil designs I see glittering–”

“You–and a chaperon!” Paddy’s pretty lips curled scornfully. She moved into the chair next the Inspector. “Please don’t take any notice of Dizzy, Inspector.”

“I don’t.” Emphasis empressed the detective’s voice. “He is a newspaper man–one of those annoyances, like mosquitoes, ants, and other things, sent to try us good people.”

The girl clapped her hands. “So you know him as well as that!”

Without waiting for a reply, she spoke across the table to Miss Westways. “Mattie, what do you think of my dress? It’s one of yours, you know.”

She turned quickly to Saul Murmer. “I mean, it came out of her shop–not her wardrobe.”

“Paddy!” expostulated Miss Westways.

“We all have them,” retorted the young girl defensively. “Wardrobes, I mean; though sometimes they’re more a deficit than an asset.”

The elder lady sighed, though the shadow of a smile hovered at the corners of her lips.

“That is why we named her Paddy,” explained Dizzy carefully. “Because of her peculiar ability to say the wrong thing at the right moment.”

“Is Miss Burke Irish?” asked Saul Murmer, with very apparent innocence.

“Only by etymological adoption.” explained Eva. “By birth she is a Jewess. I have a suspicion that her Irish veneer was induced by a frantic, but hopeless, passion for Dizzy.”

“Gott in–” Dizzy leaned back in his chair limply.

“Eva!” Paddy’s high, clear voice rose above the murmur of laughter. “Why will you not respect my girlish confidences Now he will pester me to run away with him, but I won’t go unless you come, too.”

With the quick turn of thought characteristic of her, she turned to the Inspector.

“Do you know, I’m quite thrilled to sit next to you, Mr. Murmer. Please tell me what you and Mattie were discussing before we came. My sins?”

“Nothing so important, Paddy,” replied Miss Westways quickly. “I was telling Inspector Murmer of those strange missives I have received lately.”

“Aren’t they thrilling!” exclaimed the girl.

“I don’t know,” replied Saul Murmer guardedly.

“He uses lovely notepaper–the kind you get at Selfvalley’s for sixpence a dozen sheets, and violet Ink,” the girl continued. “But he can’t match colours, or draw, not a weeny bit.”

“Sounds interesting,” observed Dizzy. “Why haven’t I heard of these love-letters before?”

“Because you’re dangerous,” retorted the girl. “Eva says you wrote up your own wedding for the newspapers, and then sent them bills for the ‘news’ at space rates.”

“Well, it cost a lot to marry Eva,” said the’ journalist defensively. “I had to get it back somehow. Wait until you are married–”

“I’ll do my own publicity, thank you.” Paddy turned her well-defined nose up. “Besides–I shall never marry–”

“Is that a vow of celibacy–or a hint at something improper? As a good Jewess you’re an anti-assimilationist, and I haven’t forgotten that Theo is a heathen Gen–ough!”

Dizzy broke off suddenly, bending and rubbing his shin.

“But what of those letters?” asked Saul Murmer.

“They’re not proper letters,” interposed Paddy before Miss Westways could speak. She added, hastily: “I don’t, mean they’re improper, as Dizzy understands it, only they’re drawings, not words.”

Eva Laine lifted her glass and sipped meditatively. “Paddy, I do happen to know this is your first glass of wine–”

“I had a cocktail with Theo when we had dinner at Prince’s!” exclaimed the girl.

“Do modern University students run to cocktails and dinners at Prince’s?” asked Dizzy.

“Why wasn’t I–”

“I wouldn’t have married you if you had been,” Eva laughed. “Theo is a–”

“University student,” completed her husband.

“He’s a B.A.,” announced Paddy complacently. “And his father has oceans of money.”

“You can’t, really, Paddy,” protested Dizzy, in mock alarm.

“Eva did,” replied the girl darkly.

“Eva’s’ a Gentile,” defended the Journalist.

“She assimilated you–and looks as If she’s had mental indigestion ever since!” Paddy put In her thrust triumphantly. She turned to her aunt. “What Is it, dear.”

“You are talking too much.” Miss Westways hesitated. “Our new generation is so-so–

“We don’t want brains,” drawled Dizzy “We’ve got wireless.”

“But what of those letters?” asked Saul Murmer inquisitively, when the laughter had died down. Miss Westways opened her bag and took out a thick mauve envelope. She handed it to the detective.

The police officer took it delicately and extracted a folded sheet of mauve paper. He spread It open on the tablecloth. The paper was of fair quality, matching the envelope. On it had been drawn, in violet ink, a crude Illustration of a box. There was no other mark on the paper.

For some moments’ Saul Murmer examined the drawing In silence. A strange, creepy feeling grew on him. He could not suppress the idea that the sketch was untended to represent a coffin. He fumbled In his waistcoat pocket and produced a very thick monocle. Screwing this into his left eye, he bent again to the paper.

“Isn’t that dinky?” Paddy clasped her hands admiringly. “Mr. Murmer, when we’re married I shall Insist on your always wearing a monocle.”

“While you wear his bracelets,” suggested Dizzy, laughingly.

“Ugh! Not his kind,” retorted the girl with a little shiver. “It you please, I’ll choose my own, I hate bracelets to match, except on the same wrist.”

She paused, a sudden thought striking her, and touched the engrossed Inspector on the arm. “Mr. Murmer, please lend me your handcuffs.”

“My–what?” Saul Murmer looked up astonished.

“Your handcuffs, please. Don’t tell me you haven’t brought them!” Paddy was growing excited. “Mattie! I’ve got a simply gorgeous idea! A new fashion! Oh–it’s a wow! A real humdinger! Listen, all of you!” Her excited hands swept over the table, nearly sending several glasses to destruction. “Sorry, dears; but this is important! I’ve found a new fashion. Listen! Listen!”

“Quiet, darling!” Dizzy spoke soothingly. “You’ll tell the world, and then Miss Westways won’t be able to make a million or two out of it.”

“It’s great! It’s a booster-boost; the king of wiggle-boys!” In her excitement Paddy rose to her feet. “Listen! I’m going to get a pair of silver handcuffs made, and wear them.”

“Thank heaven!” Dizzy lifted pious hands. “My cigarettes and your aunt’s purse will at last be safe.”

“Not on different wrists, silly-darling,” Paddy patronised. “Both on the same arm. Isn’t it great, Eva? We’ll set a new fashion, and Mattie shall pay us well tor the idea, and advertising it–and then I won’t have any deficit for you to worry about. And I can have all the frocks I want. Eva, I saw a perfect dream of a dance-fr–”

“Sans back, tight-fitting breastplate in front, a bewildering mass of frills and furbelows at foot, to twine and twist round a poor man’s ankles–” complemented Dizzy.

“Poor men don’t come to expensive night-clubs,” chided the girl.

“Journalists are taken to nightclubs by wives–and they’re poor men,” defended the newspaper-man. “But go to it, Paddy. It you can show Eva how to relieve the deficit In the domestic budget, I’m all for–”

“Oh, there’s Theo!”

In a moment the girl was running, down the room to greet a tall, blonde young man, standing, just inside the doorway, a somewhat vacant look on his round, pleasant face.

“Wireless triumphant over brains,” observed Dizzy, somewhat disparagingly. “You’re jealous. He’s only typical,” retorted Eva. “He’s working for his. M.A.”

“Or his father is.” Dizzy was in one of his obstinate moods, determined to have the last word.

From the half-lights appeared Henri and a subordinate waiter, carrying laden trays. Inspector Murmer folded the mauve notepaper, replaced it in its envelope, and slipped it into his pocket. He sat back, to watch Paddy Burke approach the table, her hand In the crook of the tall youth’s arm.

“Here’s Theo–Theo Manning, people,” announced the girl. “Henri, we shall want another chair, please. Sit up tight, for Theo’s going to sit with us. Now, Mattie, no scowls. If you frighten him away to another table, I shall go, too–and that will shock all your Early Victorian minds.”

“The feminine Victorian mind, or the University Victorian mind?” asked the newspaper-man, with apparent Innocence.

“Bother those streamers,” The Green Lagoon was festooned with a number of gay paper streamers, dependant from the floor of the gallery over the tables, and arching over the dancing floor. One of these had broken loose from its fastenings on the wall, and had fallen between Dizzy and the waiter, busy arranging the dishes on the table.

The journalist caught at it and tugged. To his surprise it would not break. It fell against the edge of the table again. Theo Manning leaned across Dizzy, drawing the streamer towards him. It caught on the edge of the table and, at the same moment, was hauled boldly up by someone in the gallery above. The table tilted sharply, and before anyone could interfere dishes, glass, cutlery and wine were cascaded into Inspector Murmer’s lap.

Miss Westways blanched to the lips; a frightened look came in her eyes.

“I expected that,” she said softly. “What on earth does it mean?”

CHAPTER III

MANY times during his service with the police, in England and Australia, seriously-speaking men and women had informed Detective-Inspector Saul Murmer that their lives were threatened. Many persons, were willing, even eager, to furnish elaborate details; but in no Instance had a previous statement, been followed by the decanting of an elaborately laid supper into his lap. The Incident of the overthrown Murmer reason to take Miss Westways’ statements seriously, apart from the lady’s undoubted personal charms.

The table had not been overthrown accidentally. The streamer had not fallen accidentally; nor had the swift hauling of the cord, concealed in the streamer into the gallery above, been a coincidence. Saul Murmer had been in the gallery above the table at which his party had been seated within sixty seconds of the first, hors-d’oeuvres reaching his immaculate trousers.

The place was deserted, the idle chairs and bare tables looking ghostly disconsolate in the dim lights reflected from the hall below. The mâitre d’hôtel, Luke Lenoire, volubly assuring him that the gallery was closed that evening to Green Lagoon clients; that it was never used except on carnival nights, and then only when the main floor accommodation was insufficient. Scanning the ruins of the once immaculate garment he believed fitted perfectly, Saul Murmer gave a liberal discount to Luke Lenoire’s assurances of “impossibilities.”

The search he insisted on resulted in the discovery of a silken cord, slight but of undoubted strength, under one of the tables, the gaudy papers of the streamer now only half-concealing it. It was only then that he allowed himself to be escorted to the dressing room, and temporary repairs executed.

When the detective rejoined the party, the younger members were inclined to make a joke of the affair and chaff the Inspector on his monopoly of the good things.

Miss Westways, however, noticed Saul Murmer’s uneasiness, his surreptitious rubs and concealments of his damaged raiment, and decided she was tired. She asked the Inspector to escort her home, and in her flat at Elizabeth Bay ensconced her new friend in a well-fitting chair, a generous glass filled with an enticingly aromatic liquid on a low table beside him.

His suspicions of the contents of the glass fully confirmed, Saul Murmer sighed comfortably and looked at Miss Westways, seated in a similar chair to the one he occupied, and, on a low table beside her, a miniature delicate glass to the one that had provoked his admiration.

“Mathilde,” he thought, “a really fascinating name for a very charming lady.”

“I suppose you think me very foolish, Inspector.” Miss Westways broke the long, satisfying silence. “But–”

“Not at all,” said Saul Murmer; and for once felt he meant it.

“The letters alone are not worrying me,” continued the lady. “There have been other things.”

“Other things?” queried the Inspector comfortably.

“Surely you understand, Mr. Murmer?” A slight accent of asperity in the lady’s tones awoke the police officer to the knowledge that not even a high official of the New South Wales Police Department could be in a spinster’s flat at midnight without impropriety, unless chaperoned by “business.”

“Oh, yes, certainly. Yes, surely!” A short effort, and he was sitting upright. “You are thinking of the–er–supper Incident?”

“Yes.” Miss Westways settled comfortably on her cushions again. Saul Murmer pondered the suggestion. He could not see a light.

“Young men and girls sometimes lose their little wits at night clubs,” he suggested indifferently. Then more boldly: “It may have been a practical Joke.”

“Bosh!” said Miss Westways.

Silence came on the two persons in the comfortably furnished sitting room. Saul Murmer began to find the chair, on which he sat not quite so comfortable: the liquor In the tall sparkling glass seemed to have a–something! The cigarette between his lips “bit” his tongue. It was his own tobacco, so he could not complain of that. He shifted uneasily in the deep chair–and suddenly remembered a cosy flat at King’s Cross. That was it. He looked at his watch.

“There are five of those mauve envelopes, each containing a drawing of a box.” A slight gesture of Miss Westways’ right hand indicated a small pile of letters on the table beside the Inspector. “Directly after each letter arrived there was a–“ the lady hesitated–“a practical Joke.”

“Five letters–and five–er–practical Jokes–“ The round baby blue eyes opened wide wits astonishment.

“That is so.” Miss Westways spoke emphatically. “The first letter was followed by Paddy finding a live mouse in the letter-box.” She paused and resumed speaking meditatively: “I have since wondered who was the most startled–l put salt, instead of sugar, in my tea. Paddy can scream!” Again Miss Westways paused. “I understood nothing frightened the modern girl!”

“So long as it wears–er–pants,” explained the Inspector gravely. “Nothing! And–the other occasions, Miss Westways?”

“Things just as silly! Someone took the main electric light fuse the night before the second letter came, then–”

“Hello, everybody!” The sitting room door swung quickly open, and Paddy Burke came into the room with a flurry of draperies and a breath of the cool, clean, night air.

Inspector Murmer looked at the girl with interest. She was beautiful, with her dark, glowing, almost Eastern colouring, the vivid sparkle of intense young life in her western eyes. Not yet for her the meditation and remorse of this world of doubts. Her life was still in the present; her thoughts hesitating on the threshold of womanhood, her feet still treading the paths of adolescence.

Theo Manning had entered the room, immediately following the girl. The youth had been a problem to the Inspector all the evening. He had rarely spoken, never unless directly addressed. Yet he was not sulky; keen, rather old-worldly eyes had followed every incident since he had joined the party. He was tall and very blonde; light blue eyes not relieving an almost colourless, expressionless face.

The youth had puzzled the police officer. He had wondered what attraction the youth held for the girl. That there was an attraction he had no doubt, the proof was in her tones and gestures, careless though they seemed. Saul Murmer sighed. He admired the girl immensely; he felt he would like to make her a friend, in one of those semi-avuncular relationships that only can take the place of equality between the very young and those who have lost the fires of life’s morning.

“Found the box, Mr. Murmer? Let me have a look, please–or is this only an informal evening call?”

“This latter would be ruled out of order at this time of night!” remarked the detective with a smile. He glanced at his wrist-watch, shrugged, and commenced to rise to his feet. Two firm little hands pressed against his shoulders, forcing him back on the seat.

“That’s not fair,” Paddy protested. “It’s only half-past one, and you look so comfy.” She perched herself on the arm of the detective’s chair. “You know, I’m only allowed out until one, sharp, and Mattie waits up for me, even when I’m with Theo; and he wants a chaperon more than I!”

“Don’t worry Mr. Murmer, Paddy.” Miss Westways spoke with a suspicion of petulance. “Police Inspectors are not always detecting.”

“I observe that.” The girl spoke with a little restraint. She hesitated a moment. “Eva took Dizzy home.”

“I expected they would bring you home,” observed Miss Westways carelessly.

Miss Burke shook her dark curls. “Theo had his car,” she explained. “At least, it’s his father’s car–but that’s the same thing.”

Inspector Murmer changed the subject. The ladies were tired and cross; yet there were questions he wished answered before he left. The sketches, the small practical jokes, must have some hidden meaning.

“Miss Burke,” he said. “Have you seen anything about your home resembling the box of the sketches?”

The girl shook her head. “Nor at Florabella?” he continued.

“No!”

Saul Murmer thought the girl answered almost too quickly. She changed the subject, glancing down at the Inspector’s attire. “So Mattie cleaned you up. Awfully mean to collar all our supper like that! Still, Mr. Lenoire did well for us–and Henri told us you said to save the bill for him–and Theo almost fought him for it; didn’t you, Theo?”

The tall, thin young man nodded. He was lounging against the wall, staring solemn-eyed at the girl. Paddy nodded gaily to him. “I just adore Theo,” went on the girl. “I love talking, and he never interrupts. Other boys–” she made a little moue–“think they have to entertain a girl–and think that they should talk for heaps more than half the time.” She paused! “Theo did say something last week, and I was so surprised that I could not remember what I had been talking about for a full minute.”

“Paddy!” Miss Westways expostulated gently. The girl turned slightly sideways on the chair-arm, swinging a shapely leg and kissing her fingers to the elder lady. She glanced down at the watching police officer.

“Isn’t auntie pretty, Mr. Murmer,” she whispered semi-confidentially. “You know, If I were a man I should I fall desperately in love with her.” Then noticing Saul Murmer’s look of surprise, she added. “Didn’t you know that Mattie was my aunt, Inspector? I don’t think much of you as a detective If you didn’t detect that!”

“I didn’t,” said Saul Murmer gravely. “You see, missy, in the days of my youth, little girls didn’t call their aunts by their given names.”

Paddy laughed. “I am supposed to be rebuked,” she replied; then sprang to her feet, facing the detective. “But detective, dear, If you only knew how safe it makes one to feel, especially for a girl as young as I am. And–and I do call her ‘auntie’ sometimes–when I know the people about me, or when we’re quite by ourselves, and I know it’s absolutely safe.”

Saul Murmer stared his astonishment. Miss Westways made an apologetic gesture.

“Don’t you understand, really?” Miss Burke looked down, almost pityingly on the Inspector. “Surely you know that the girls of today emancipated from crinolines, bustles, leg-o’-mutton sleeves, and chaperones–poor auntie tries to be a very competent latter–have to be so very, very careful; especially when they possess young and pretty aunties–“ The girl watched the Inspector’s face, amusement, dancing in her fine eyes. “You are stupid,” she considered. “You don’t understand one bit–and you call yourself a detective! Have you remembered that when auntie marries–”

“Paddy!” said Miss Westways sharply.

“Of course you are going to get married, auntie.” Paddy turned swiftly, then again faced the seated Inspector. “You see, Mr. Murmer, when that happens, and I’ve a hunch It won’t be so many months ahead of us, I shall have to call her husband ‘uncle,’ if I call her ‘auntie’ now! And, just imagine! Supposing I don’t like him. To call him ‘uncle’ and just hate the sight of him will be too awfully shrieking! Why–“ She glanced over her shoulder at Miss Westways, and then at the defective, and there was subtle meaning In her glances. She broke into a series of little giggling laughs. “–so, you see, I call her ‘Mattie’ just for the time, and until I know whom she intends to marry. When she does make up her mind, and takes a pick from the nice men trailing on her skirts, I promise, faithfully, to call him ‘uncle’–and her, of course, ‘auntie’–haven’t I, Mattie? But if she takes one of the nasty ones, however much she loves him, I’ll–”

“Paddy, dear–” Then Miss Westways laughed. “Inspector, you will come to believe I live in a constant state of ‘Paddy, dear,’” she continued; “Though she is a bit of a handful–”

“A dear,” corrected the girl. With a swing of her voluminous skirts she again seated herself on the arm of the Inspector’s chair, swinging her legs and showing rather more of silk-clad limbs than before. She rested her arm on the back of the chair, bending down to peer into the police officer’s face. “I know auntie thinks I’m everything that’s awful–and everything nice; and I think she’s the dearest, darlingest, bestest auntie that ever a girl could have! And I think you’re nice, too, Mr. Murmer. Your name is Saul, Isn’t It–and Dizzy’s Paul. Isn’t that funny–”

She paused and again scanned the smooth skinned, round face just below the level of her shoulder. “I do think you’re nice, Mr. Murmer. No, I’ll call you ‘Uncle Saul.’ Now, isn’t that just too sweet? And, let me whisper. Uncle Saul–I think Mattie thinks the same as I do.”

“Paddy!” exclaimed the horrified lady.

“Oh, but she does, In spite of that ‘Paddy’–and I daresay she’ll give me a big, big kiss and-a bear-hug, when you’ve gone–so that I’ll know that it I have said something–something I shouldn’t have said–though I won’t understand why–“ She laughed, looking teasingly at Miss Westways. She hesitated. “Yes; I think I could very easily call you ‘Uncle Saul’–and mean it–and now and then give you big, big, uncley kiss–when you do something I like very especially.”

Miss Burke swayed dangerously on the arm of the big chair towards the stout inspector, her eyes glowing with mischief. For a moment Saul Murmer thought she was going to experiment in a–a perfectly “uncley” manner, and his ingrain English Puritanism caught fire. He struggled to rise to his feet, glancing suggestively at his wrist-watch. From his wrist-watch Inspector Murmer glanced at the girl above him. With an effort, he covered his embarrassment with a veneer of officialdom.

“I–er–suppose, Miss Burke, you have seen nothing of a box In any resembling the–er–drawings sent to Miss Westways,” he asked, apparently forgetting that but a short quarter-of-an-hour before he had asked a very similar question.

“The box–Oh! But, Mr. Murmer, you are not going to leave us?”

Paddy had a single-track mind. “Oh, please don’t go; I was just beginning to–No, I said that at the night-club. But, you know, Uncle Saul, it you go, Theo will have to go, too–you really can’t leave a sheik like him with two unprotected females at this time of night. Don’t go, please!”

Saul Murmer shook his head. He felt there was safety in flight. Also he noted Miss Westways’ face, and gathered from her expression that an adjournment of the evening would meet with her entire approval. Again he shook his head. Suddenly Paddy smiled, waltzing across the room with a little shriek of delight.

“I know! Uncle Saul, you live at King’s Cross, don’t you? Then Theo shall drive you home. It’s on his way, and he has his car–l mean his father’s car.” She beckoned Imperiously to her cavalier. “Theo, you are to drive Inspector Murmer home–and, Theo, none of your speeding tricks while he’s in your charge–” She broke off with a squeal of delight, clasping her hands to her breast and gazing rapturously at the police officer, “Oh, isn’t it gorgeous, Mattie! Just think of It! Theo, with his craze for speed, doing it through Sydney suburbs with an inspector of Police in his car!”

She swung to the youth again. “Theo, you can speed as much as you like, and the faster you go the more I’ll love you–“ She paused, glancing from one to the other; then, impatiently: “Oh, don’t you see? He can’t arrest you for speeding while you’re the means of him getting safely home at this hour of the night! Yes, yes! Inspector Murmer, we’ve got the goods on you, and over the night-club affair, too! You paid for our supper–and it included spirituous liquors bought after licensing hours!” She turned to her aunt, rapturously: “Oh, gorgeous! gorgeous! He’s delivered right into our hands for ever and ever! We’ve got the–the goods on him–as he tells all the nice crooks when he puts them in those nasty, dark, damp cells! Oh, good-o!”

Saul Murmer grinned, and something like a smile dawned on Miss Westways’ slips. Miss Paddy Burke was, in her own phraseology, something of a handful. The Inspector clasped the slender hand frankly extended to him,’ with a visible thrill of pleasure. He knew the girl liked him–and he was absolutely certain he liked her. He went to take leave of the elder lady, in somewhat incoherent words, for all his life he had been a very lonely man, and the homely chaff of the girl had brought back memories of what might have been had he devoted less time to business. As he turned to the door, the girl sped before him.

“Sit down, Mattie, I’m seeing, ‘Uncle Saul’ out. You know, I can’t trust you early Victorians–or early Edwardians–which is it, Theo, with your tender love-passages in our little hall at two in the morning. Come on, Theo, it doesn’t take you all night to say ‘good-bye’ to Mattie. Yes, I’m turning you both out. Theo, you’re to drive Uncle. Saul home and then–then I’m not going to be responsible for you–until we meet again.”

In the car, on the silent suburban streets, and throughout the drive to King’s Cross, Theo Manning preserved his pose of silent watcher.

Only when Inspector Murmer had alighted from the car and was turning to thank him for the lift home, he abandoned his sphinx pose, making his first spontaneous remark for the evening.

“Paddy’s a goer, isn’t she?” he observed suddenly. “Awfully pretty and a good kid, though. Think so?”

Saul Murmer nodded. He was not prepared to discuss the ladies with this very wordless young man.

“Say, Inspector–“ Theo broke in on the detective’s thanks. “Paddy’s got a wheeze.”

“Is that original?” asked the Inspector coldly.

“She’s got a wheeze,” repeated the young man imperturbably. “It’s a wheeze that we–she and I–should hunt up this artist feller who’s drawing those boxes and sending them to Miss Westways. Awful bore, y’ know; but what’s a feller to do when the girl says so!” He paused, then added, in less lazy tones. “I thought perhaps you might–“ His voice faded beneath the Inspector’s stony stare.

“You thought I might, what?” asked Paul Murmer.