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And as she turned the coat over in her hands, something fell out of one of the pockets and struck her foot.

It was an automatic, very black and shiny.

Val recoiled in instant reflex. But after the first horrible moment she pounced on it and thrust it hastily back into Walter’s coat, unreasonably glad her father was not there to see it. Then she took it out of the pocket and, handling it as if it were a scorpion, carried it into her bedroom and buried it in the deepest bureau drawer, her heart pounding.

A gun, Walter... She was so frightened she sat down on her bed to keep from recognizing the weakness in her knees. Walter had never had a gun. Walter hated guns, as he hated war, and poverty, and injustice...

She rose a little later and began to unpack her trunks, trying not to think.

Rhys returned in ten minutes, smoking a cigar and looking calmer. He called out to Vaclass="underline" “Where’s everybody?”

“Walter’s had a call from his father,” said Val in a muffled voice from the bedroom.

“Oh... Where do I put my hat?”

“In the foyer closet, silly. And be sure from now on you hang things up. This is going to be a co-operative joint.”

Jardin chuckled, put away his hat, and went into his bedroom to unpack.

By 5.30 their clothes were hung and there was nothing left to be done.

“I wonder where Walter is,” said Val worriedly.

“He’s only been gone a half-hour.”

Val bit her lip. “He said — Let’s wait in the lobby.”

“It’s raining again,” said Rhys, at the closet. “Val, this isn’t my camel’s-hair.”

“Walter took it by mistake.”

Jardin put on a tweed topcoat and they went downstairs. Val stared at the clock over the desk. It was 5.35.

She said nervously: “I’m going to call him.”

“What’s the matter with you, puss?” Jardin sat down near the potted palm and picked up a newspaper; but when he saw his photograph on the front page he put the newspaper down.

“Get me Solomon Spaeth’s residence,” said Val in a low voice. “I think it’s Hillcrest 2411.”

Mibs plugged in. “Hillcrest 2411... Nice guy, Walter Spaeth. Lovely eyes, Miss Jardin, don’t you think so?... Hello. Is that you, Mr. Spaeth?... This is Mr. Walter Spaeth, isn’t it? I thought I recognized your voice, Mr. Spaeth. Miss Jardin’s calling... Take it right here, Miss Jardin.”

Val snatched the telephone. “Walter! Is there any trouble? You said—”

Walter’s voice sounded queerly thick in her ear. “Val. I’ve got no time now. Something awful — something awful—”

Val whispered: “Yes, Walter.”

“Wait for me at the La Salle,” said Walter’s funny voice. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” His voice sank. “Val. Please. Don’t mention this call to any one. No one!”

Val whispered again: “Yes, Walter.”

She heard the click; it sounded very loud. She hung up and said slowly: “Let’s sit down.”

At 6.30 Val said in a hoarse voice. “I can’t stand it any longer. He told me not to tell — He’s in trouble.”

“Now, puss—” said Rhys uncomfortably.

She whispered: “Something awful. That’s what Walter said. Something awful.”

Her father looked at her with concern. “All right, Val. We’ll go over there.”

He drove up into the hills at fifty miles an hour. Val hung out of the car. Neither said a word.

The moment they swung into the road outside the gate of Sans Souci they knew something was wrong. The crowds which had swarmed there for weeks were gone. In their place were the running lights of many large, official-looking cars. It was growing dark.

“I told you,” said Val. “Didn’t I tell you? Something... something—”

The gate was opened by a policeman. There was no sign of Walewski, the night gateman, near his pillbox. But there were other policemen.

“What’s happened, officer?” demanded Jardin. “I’m Rhys Jardin.”

“Oh, are you? Hold it a minute.” The policeman said something to another policeman, and the second man went into the pillbox; and they heard the twinkle of Walewski’s telephone. Then he came out and jerked his finger.

Jardin shifted into first and drove through the gate. The second policeman hopped onto the running-board and stayed there.

Val, on the edge of her seat, was conscious of a long howling in her ears, as of winds.

At the Spaeth door they were met by three men, all in plain clothes. The three looked them over coldly. Then one, taller than the rest, with a nose like an arrowhead, said: “Come in, please.”

They were surrounded by the three and marched through the house. On the way they passed Winni Moon, who sat on the lowest step of the stairs which led to the upper floor staring with horror at her long feet while Jo-Jo chattered on her shoulder.

Solomon Spaeth’s study was packed with men — men with cameras, men with flash-bulbs, men with tape measures, men with bottles and brushes, men with pencils. The air was thick and blue with smoke.

And there was Walter, too. Walter was sitting behind his father’s desk, pushed away, with a large man over him. His face was drawn and pale. And there was a crude bandage wound around his head which would have given him a rakish look if not for the ragged blob of blood which had soaked through from his left temple.

“Walter!”

Valerie tried to run to him, but the tall arrow-nosed man put his hand on her arm. Val stopped. She felt really very calm. Everything was so water-clear — the smoke was so blue and the bandage was so red, and Walter’s head moved from side to side so very definitely as he looked at her.

From side to side. Like a signal. Or a warning.

The room misted over suddenly and Val leaned back against the nearest wall.

“You’re Miss Jardin?” said the tall man abruptly.

“Yes,” said Val. “Of course I am.” Wasn’t that an absurd thing to say?

“My name is Glücke — Inspector, Detective Division.”

“How do you do.” That was even more absurd, but it was the strangest thing. Her brain had no control over her mouth.

“Were you looking for Mr. Walter Spaeth?”

“Inspector,” began Rhys. But the tall man frowned.

“Yes,” said Valerie. “Yes, of course. Why not? We had an appointment for dinner. We looked for Mr. Spaeth in his apartment but he wasn’t there so we thought perhaps he had gone to his father’s house and so we came over—”

“I see,” said Glücke, looking elsewhere with his brilliant eyes. It seemed to Val that Walter nodded the least bit in approval. It was all so queer — everything. She mustn’t lose her head. It would come out soon. Glücke — that was a funny name. Until she found out what...

Jardin said: “That’s right, Inspector. My daughter has told you... May I ask what’s happened?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Well,” said the tall man dryly, “they don’t send for the Homicide Detail in petit larceny cases.”

He stood still. Then he made a sign, a small sign with no question in it, as a man would make it who is accustomed to be instantly obeyed. A group of men crowded together before the ell beside the fireplace separated.

A dead man was sitting on the floor in the angle of the ell, one foot doubled under him. A reddish, brownish, ragged stab-wound marred the otherwise immaculate appearance of his dove-gray gabardine jacket. As he sat there in the corner he looked like a small fat boy who has been slapped without warning; there was an expression of pure surprise on his unmoving face.

Val yelped and spun about to hide her eyes against her father’s coat.