Alexander Key
Find the Button
A General Hyde Story Novelette
    It was always the same – that warning – a sharp vision of something he didn’t want to remember!
    And the answer was as always: “All missing articles recovered – the case settled—”

    The coupé roared up the black, rain-whipped highway with the speedometer needle hovering at seventy on the stretches.
    Hugh Starck sat hunched with his big hands on the wheel, the collar of his mackinaw pulled high around his blunt jaws. Through the slashing, late-fall rain he was barely able to make out the tail light of Dekker’s car, a hundred feet ahead.
    Starck cursed once at General Hyde’s ruling which forbade two operatives of the Bureau of Special Intelligence to ride together in the same machine. The system had its advantages, but to-night it was distinctly a drawback.
    The red tail light of Dekker’s car slowed, vanished. Starck whirled the coupé into a gravel road and the red light appeared again, vague in the distance. Enderley’s cabin couldn’t be far away now; they were already well into the Blue Ridge, with Washington three hours behind.
    The rain ceased momentarily; forked lightning cut the dark, outlining the jagged tops of hemlocks and Dekker’s car. Before the black night closed again, Starck caught a brief picture of his superior’s machine as it lurched around a curve.
    Starck slowed, rounded the curve, and suddenly twirled the wheel as he felt the car skidding ever a stretch of clay. The machine straightened, but the skid had carried it too far. Before the tires could grip the gravel farther on, the right wheels shot over the edge of the embankment.
    Starck braced himself for a shock, but none came. The car spun downward amid a crashing of small limbs and underbrush, slowed, stopped.
    “Of all the dub tricks!” he muttered, forcing the door open. He flipped a flashlight from his pocket and saw that a tangled laurel thicket had checked his progress down the mountainside.
    Cursing furiously, he crawled out into the tangle, halted suddenly as he saw headlights flicker briefly far ahead on the road.
    Dekker returning for him? No, the car was going on up the valley; some one must have been parked there, waiting for the storm to blow over. Starck frowned and retrieved a black bag from the seat. Pulling his hat down over his eyes and patting the pocket of his mackinaw for the bulge of his gun, he started climbing back up the embankment.
    With the third step he froze in his tracks. Far off on the road, sharp above the slash of rain and wind, came the staccato sound of shots. The unmistakable clatter of a machine gun.
    Hollows deepened in Starck’s bony face and his hard lips tightened. He clawed his way up to the roadside, and without pausing for breath, ran swiftly in the direction Dekker’s car had gone.
    Seen thus on his feet he appeared shorter than he was by reason of his long arms and great span of shoulders, His movements were unlabored and incredibly swift, but his left foot dragged with a peculiar limping motion, a souvenir of his days In the Argonne.
    It was nearly fifteen minutes before Starck found Dekker’s car. It had gone off the road, smashed through a pine, and lay now on its side against another tree. Dekker’s lean form was pinned under it. His face was a bloody mass, but he still breathed.
    Starck bent over him, touched the other’s head with hands that trembled. “’Chief! Who did it? Did you see anything? For the love of Heaven, talk to me!”
    Dekker’s lips moved faintly. “Saw one when – lightning flashed – looked like – Masso. Never mind me – get to Enderley – phone Hyde.” His lips moved once more, soundlessly; suddenly his mouth went slack.
    * * *
    Starck straightened finally, his big right fist clenching and unclenching. He had loved Dekker like a brother. Abruptly he climbed upon the car, played his light over the shattered windows. Most of the safety glass still held, showing an even, close-spaced row of holes leading toward the windshield.
    Masso? Had Dekker meant Tony Masso, gunman for the old Karazali mob? That straight line of bullet holes looked like Masso’s work. But the narcotic squad had wiped out Karazali and most of his men – and sent those who lived to Atlanta.
    Starck spat out a curse, seized his bag, and leaped back to the road. There he crouched, briefly sending his light over the still discernible tracks made by the strange car. It had swerved here to go around Dekker. New tires, but the rear treads did not match. He noted their patterns and shook his fist into the night.
    “O. K., you rats,” he snarled. “Just give me time!” He wheeled, and bending forward at the hips, ran with his swift loping gait.
    He knew Enderley’s cabin must be somewhere near. Hardly a mile away, according to the directions Dekker had given before leaving Washington. He was certain he could find the place, even though the driving rain made his flashlight almost useless. The cabin was perched on a bluff above the road; below it the road swung to the right, crossing a deep gorge with a brawling stream at the bottom.
    Thunder rolled overhead with a clashing, metallic sound; the rain increased to a steady, blinding downpour. Starck paid no attention to the storm, but some other quality in the night brought a prickling at his neck – and forced a sharp vision of a thing he did not like to remember.
    It was a hand grenade that had fallen into the opening of a box trench at St. Mihiel, blocking the entrance. He had reached it, thrown it out in time, but there had been seconds of agony—
    Starck increased his pace. He could feel the night as if it were an invisible, live thing, menacing and deadly. The grenade hung in his mind, a warning. He knew better than to ignore it. He had seen the vision on other occasions, and it always preceded danger.
    Why had Enderley, isolated here in the Blue Ridge, called Hyde for help? As he ran, Starck summed up all he knew of the man. Major Enderley was formerly an expert in the ordnance research department. An invalid now, he spent most of his time in the mountains, his daughter Jean acting as housekeeper. A little over three hours ago he had called Hyde, but had given no explanations over the phone. Hyde had instantly sent Dekker to investigate.
    What had happened? Had Jean been kidnaped? Hardly; men did not bother Hyde with kidnapings unless other things were at stake.
    One thing was clear: the telephone line leading from Enderley’s place must be tapped, for Dekker’s killers had known he was coming. They had been waiting for him on the road, shot him to stop the investigation. His own accident, Starck realized, was the only thing that had saved himself from death. Tony Masso, or whoever it was, had seen no second car following Dekker, and had gone on, concluding Dekker had come alone.
    At a roaring far below him, Starck halted. His light played upon the vague, rain-whipped timbers of a bridge; he turned quickly back. After searching for several minutes he located a rough flight of stone steps winding up the side of a bluff.
    He gained the top, crouched. A flicker of lightning showed him the house, a rambling log building half hidden by grim, black pines. He ran across the intervening space, hesitated at the veranda, and moved cautiously to a window. The shade was down, and only a thin edge of light showed at one side.
    Starck crept around to the rear. The kitchen was dark, the door unlocked. He eased it open, entered on his toes, and gently closed the door behind him. Carefully placing his dripping hat and bag upon the floor, he stood motionless, waiting for the water to run off his clothes. He listened, but heard no sound save the smash of rain on the roof. The place held the empty silence of death.
    * * *
    Suddenly the hackles rose on the back of his neck. Slowly, insistently, the outside door was being pushed open again.
    His tight hand grasped the muzzle of his gun; his left hand shot out, caught the edge of the door, and pulled it violently inward. Some one spat out a startled oath and fell forward into the kitchen.
    Starck’s weapon came down, but in the darkness he missed the fellow’s head and felt the gun butt scrape clothing. The man cursed, and Starck lashed out again, stumbled as a hard fist crashed into his jaw.
    He dropped to his toes, catapulted forward just as flame stabbed the spot where his head had been. His flying arms caught the other about the knees, slammed him to the floor. He heard the fellow’s gun spin off across the room. The man struggled upward, but Starck’s big hands hurled him’ down a second and a third time, pounding his head against the floor until he lay motionless.
    Expertly catching the fellow’s wrists, he clicked a pair of handcuffs in place and studied him under his flashlight. He was a big fellow, blond, with a face that had taken much battering in the ring.
    “All right, gorilla,” Starck commanded. “Snap out of it and tell me what the hell you’re doing here.”
    The man groaned, rolled over, sat up groggily. Suddenly he crumpled on his back.
    Starck shook him, then whistled softly as he realized the truth. The man had fainted; his rain-soaked coat was dark with blood. He had been stabbed in the shoulder!
    The thing was insane. Starck strode to the open door, listened a minute, and closed it. The man must have been alone or others would have come by now.
    He came back, stared at the fellow again, and shook himself as if to throw off the ominous feeling of disaster that seemed to be tightening around him like an iron band. He bent over the unconscious man, roughly bandaged the wound, and went through his pockets.
    There was nothing in them that would serve as identification; only the usual odds and ends, plus a hypodermic needle and package of dope he had somehow expected to find. Starck cursed. It might be an hour or more before he could make the fellow talk.
    At last he stood up, blunt jaws a little harder now, and slowly pressed open the swinging door to the living. room.
   
    II.
    The place was dimly lighted by a hanging gasoline lamp. A log fire slumbered in the fireplace. Sprawled inert before the hearth was the slight, bald, pajama-clad figure of Major Enderley, a bullet hole in his forehead.
    Starck’s muscles went taut and his eyes swept the room. The entire place, from the balcony on his right to the two smaller rooms flanking the fireplace, was in a chaos of disorder. Books, papers, clothing, littered the crumpled rugs. Mattresses had been pulled from cots, ripped open. Even some of the flooring had been pried up.
    It was the work of hours. Enderley, then, must have been killed shortly after his call of Hyde.
    Starck glanced through the open doors beside the fireplace, ran up to the balcony and peered into the other rooms, then hurried back to the figure on the hearth. His roving, deep-set eyes flicked over the floor again, came to a rest on the muddy footprints leading from the entrance.
    “Two men,” he muttered. “One, maybe, was Tony Masso. Now what were they after? And Enderley’s girl—”
    Starck whirled into one of the bedrooms. Feminine apparel was scattered over the place; beneath the bed, with its rippled mattress, were several pairs of girls’ shoes. Yes, Jean Enderley had been here – but was she here at the time of the murder? Starck turned and sought the kitchen again.
    Here, too, the search had left its havoc in disordered cupboards, though little else had been disturbed. In the sink he found a single, unwashed plate and the remains of a hasty meal. “No,” said Starck to himself, “she must have left along in the afternoon. Now I wonder—”
    He entered the living room again, sourly eyed the ancient wall telephone by the door, then spun about and strode to the fireplace.
    Something about Enderley worried him. He bent over the body, and suddenly realized what it was. Everything about Enderley, his manicured nails, his neat silk dressing robe and pajamas, showed a man of meticulous habits. But there was a discordant note. One of the flat, metal buttons from the front of his robe was missing.
    Enderley’s clothing showed signs of having been searched, but there was no evidence that he had been in a struggle.
    Broken threads showed the button had been torn off recently. He moved the body, examined the floor around it. There was no sign of the lost metal button.
    Starck frowned and glanced at the phone. It was time for the midnight report to General Hyde.
    “Too risky,” he growled, and hastened back to the kitchen for the black bag he had left there. Thrusting a small object into his pocket, he pulled on his hat. He opened the door, then turned for another look at the unconscious man. The fellow had not moved. Starck dragged him beneath a table in a corner, found a blanket, threw it over him, and ran out into the rain.
    Gaining the road several minutes later, he trotted along the edge of it for a hundred yards or more until a flicker of lightning outlined what he sought. It was a telephone pole.
    * * *
    His big hands clamped around it, and as easily as a sailor would have climbed a rope, he pulled himself up to the single cross bar at the top. Twisting his legs tight about the pole, he drew a tiny French-type phone from his mackinaw pocket. Shielding it under his arm, he clipped its dangling lines to the two outer wires.
    He waited impatiently, praying that the rain would stop and that the operator would respond. After a long while a sleepy voice murmured in his ear.
    “Long distance,” he snapped. “I want to talk to Washington.”
    A blur of static answered him. He repeated the order in a yell. Another wait and the distance operator spoke crisply. “Your name and number, please?”
    “Never mind that!” Starck roared into the mouthpiece. “This is a government call. Get me Washington. Capitol 6000!”
    The number had an electrical effect. The line hummed with life. There was the click of a lifted receiver. Starck rapidly tapped his finger upon, the mouthpiece. Six times. Suddenly a hard voice rasped into his ear. “Zero answers!”
    It was the voice of General Hyde, caustic guiding genius of the Bureau of Special Intelligence.
    “S reports for Number Six,” said Stark.
    “Hold it,” Zero interrupted. “Where are you?”
    “On a telephone pole not far from E’s cabin. I’m using the outer wire.
    “Goodl I’m certain E’s line has been tapped. Proceed with the report.”
    “Number Six is dead. Sedan with two men caught him a mile below the cabin. Got him with a Tommy gun. Think it was handled by Tony Masso of the old Karazali mob. They missed me because my car was smashed a few minutes before.
    “Bad storm here. E was shot shortly after he called you. The cabin’s been searched. E’s daughter has not been in the place all evening. While I was there, some pug arrived; he’d been stabbed in the shoulder.” Starck went on tersely.
    “Enough,” Zero interrupted presently. “Can you hang there three minutes longer?”
    “An hour if no one comes.”
    The line was silent. Starck clung easily to his perch, oblivious to the cold rain beating upon his back. Only once in his life had he seen General Hyde, and that was the day five years ago when Hyde had accepted him as a new operator to work under Dekker.
    Hyde and Dekker had picked him from a selected list of more than three hundred. During those years the man’s personality had grown upon him; he could see Hyde again now, sitting before the seven telephones on his desk, small, hard, dynamic, with the ferocious features of a bull terrier beneath his great dome of a head. Starck knew the man was analyzing every detail of the report, calling upon his phenomenal memory to fit it all into a logical whole.
    “Ready,” Zero rasped again. “Can you hear?”
    Starck drew his mackinaw up higher and hunched over the tiny receiver. “Well enough,” he said.
    “All right,” Zero snapped. “Find that lost button. E had a weakness for hiding information in such places during the war. Careful in returning to the cabin; Dekker was killed to give more time for the search. Those men have not yet found what they wanted – and have gone back to report. They’ll return.
    “Tony Masso escaped from Atlanta last week; he’s one of the two, and is working under some one else, undoubtedly an ordnance expert, very likely a cripple. That means a permanent residence near E’s place. They probably have the girl as a hostage, will kill her when they find what they want. If the button is not there, and you cannot make the wounded man talk, locate E’s car and drive south to a village. County jail there and the night man is named Jackson. He can be trusted. Is your course clear?”
    “Perfectly,” said Starck.
    “One more thing: Your record with the bureau is excellent. From now on you will be known as Number Six. See that you settle this case as well as the other Number Six would have done it. I will be at the desk until three o’clock. Report then.” Hyde’s receiver clicked.
    * * *
    Starck thrust the phone into his pocket and slid down the pole. He started back to the cabin.
    At the moment his promotion meant nothing; the thought of Dekker robbed it of its flavor. His mind raced with Hyde’s instructions, amplifying and filling in details.
    Search for a cripple? The idea seemed ridiculous – then abruptly he saw the logic of it. Major Enderley was a man of small means, and he possessed nothing to interest the average criminal like Tony Masso. But Enderley had formerly been an expert in the development of military equipment, had undoubtedly known secrets that would be of great value to foreign agents – could they but obtain them.
    Only a man of unusual intelligence and technical knowledge would attempt such a theft, and know how to profit from it afterward. Such a man would work best alone; it would be simpler, easier, far less troublesome.
    But the man had not worked alone. He had sent others, common gunmen like Tony Masso, to do the work for him. The answer was simple; the man must be a cripple.
    Starck reached the staircase and mounted the bluff. At the top he stopped, crouching against the stones, listening. Was that the rumble of a car crossing the bridge – or only a faint echo of thunder? He waited. The sound was not repeated, nor did he see any flicker of lights. Frowning, he hurried on to the rear of the cabin, stealthily entered the kitchen.
    He halted within the doorway, uneasy. A quick flash of his light showed the wounded man still under the table; apparently the fellow had not moved. Every sense alert, Starch tiptoed toward the living room. The patter of rain muffled the squeak of his water-soaked shoes. Gun ready, he gently pressed open the swinging door.
    He stiffened, eyes widening as his gaze focused upon the hearth.
    The body of Major Enderley was gone.

    III.
    Starck’s glance whipped to the front door, partly open now, then down to the fresh tracks on the floor. He cursed in a low fury.
    It was the same pair – he could tell that by the muddy footprints – but why had they come back for Enderley’s body? The thing seemed without reason. They had walked straight into the room, picked up their burden, and departed, nor had they even glanced into the kitchen.
    Starck looked at his watch and his eyes grew thoughtful. Granting that they had continued their search for a while after killing Dekker, it had taken them hardly more than thirty minutes to report to their headquarters and return to the cabin for Enderley.
    He bent over the floor, searching. A button; a small, hollow metal button. What had Enderley hidden in it? It could not be plans, surely. They would take up too much room. Nor would it be information telling where anything of value had been hidden. There would be no necessity for that. If Enderley had been working on any new project for the war department, he would have mailed it to Washington when finished.
    No, it was something else. A small piece of paper, probably no larger than the palm of his hand, rolled to fit in a hollow button. What had been written upon it?
    Suddenly Starck went rigid, staring vacantly in front of him as a new thought ate through his mind. “Good Lord!” he burst out. “No wonder they came back for him!” He realized a part of the truth now, began to get a glimmering of the cold fiendishness of the intelligence that had directed the night’s work.
    He spun to his feet, started into the kitchen. With the movement there came again the old warning, sharp, insistent. The grenade lying in the opening of the box trench long ago at St, Mihiel—
    A step within the dark kitchen he dropped to his heels. Something swung violently over his head. There was the crash of dishes, a cry.
    Starck balanced on his toes, leaped toward the sound. In that second he knew he had been a fool; he had been careless about the wounded man. His powerful hands shot around his assailant’s waist, clamped the other’s arms in a steely grip. His hurtling weight carried them both to the floor.
    But it was not the wounded man – it was some one else. The fellow had the quick, lithe strength of an eel. He jerked, twisted, kicked, sank his teeth deep in Starck’s shoulder. Starck caught him by the hair to force his head back – and knew suddenly that his opponent was a woman.
    “Wait – stop it!” he snapped. “Are you Jean Enderley?”
    “And what if I am?” she panted furiously.
    “Because I’ve come to help you. Your father called General Hyde this evening. I’m Hugh Starck, one of Hyde’s operatives. There were two of us, but the other was killed a little while ago.”
    She gasped. He helped her up and half carried her into the living room, then showed her the gold badge under his mackinaw. “Forgive me,” he said tersely. “Hope I didn’t hurt you.”
    “I – I’m all right. I thought you were one of those men that caught me on the road. I got away, you see, came back; I’d just reached the kitchen when – when—” Her voice broke into a sob as her eyes turned toward the hearth. She was about to crumple when Starck pulled her into a chair.
    “Take it easy a minute,” he said. “Get a grip on yourself and then tell me all that happened.” He strode back into the kitchen, quickly examined the blond man under the table, and returned with his bag. He took out a bottle of whisky, made her drink, and stood appraising her.
    * * *
    Under the dim lamplight he saw a slim, boyish figure clad leather coat, khaki breeches and laced boots. A shock of black hair framed a startlingly beautiful face; a lean, tanned face, drawn and frightened now and wet with rain, but with level blue eyes that were able to meet his without wavering.
    “Can you talk now?” he asked.
    She swallowed, then her mouth firmed. “Yes.”
    “You say they kidnaped you? When – where?”
    “Late this afternoon. I’d gone down to the road to wait for the mail truck. There was an important letter father wanted me to send. A black sedan came by. and stopped, and before I knew what was happening a man jumped out and drew tape over my mouth. There were two men; they jerked me inside and drove off.”
    “I see. Do you know what was in the letter?”
    “I – I don’t know for sure; father was very secretive about those things. It was plans for something he’s been working on a long time. Some one in the war department called him this morning; he said he was about through with the work and that he would send the things by the evening mail. He – he hadn’t been well for weeks, but he got out of bed and finished the drawings.”
    Starck was silent a moment. That explained part of it. Masso or one of the others had been listening over the tapped line, knew the time had come for action. When Jean did not return, Enderley had become alarmed and phoned Hyde. But, after obtaining the plans, why had those men come back, killed Enderley, searched for something Enderley had taken great pains to conceal in one of the hollow buttons of his dressing robe?
    The answer came suddenly; it was simple, and it proved the great value of the thing Enderley had been working on.
    “Where did they take you in the car?” he asked next.
    “Around to the south fork and up to a little cabin. It’s several miles by the road, though it’s really just behind the ridge here. It’s been deserted, but they had cots there, and some telephone equipment hidden in a box. They left me with a big blond man they called Hans and said they’d come back and get me later. I think the storm kept them away; anyhow, about an hour ago, I managed to get my knife out of my pocket and free my hands and feet. Hans saw me when I was getting up. We – we had a fight and I – I stabbed him and ran. I had a terrible time, crossing the ridge and trying to find the road in the dark. Then, just as I got here and – and found father on the floor, I heard some one coming.”
    Her voice trembled, grew firm again. “I hid in the pantry until they left. Right after that you came.” She stood up, her blue eyes bright, hard and determined. “I’m all right now, Mr. Starck. You’ll need help. Tell me – what can I do?”
    The girl had courage. In spite of what she had been through, Starck knew he could depend on her. “Good,” he said. “If you’ve got a gun, get it and let’s move.”
    She hurried into her bedroom and came back with a small automatic. He led her into the kitchen and flashed his light on the face of the man under the table. “Is this the gorilla they left guard over you?”
    She drew in a sharp breath. “Yes.”
    Starck bent down and removed the handcuffs.
    “You – you’re letting him go?” she asked incredulously.
    “He’s gone,” said Starck. “He was a gangster – dope addict, I mean. He was so hopped up he didn’t know you’d hurt him, and the rain kept the wound open. He managed to get here ahead of you; the scrap I had with him finished things off. Damn! I’d hoped to make him talk.”
    He stopped a moment, considering. Then: “Take me to your car and drive some place where we can talk. Hurry. The rest of the bunch will be back as soon as they learn you escaped.
    * * *
    She ran out into the rain, Starck following, to a garage some distance behind the cabin. She drove her coupé down a tortuous route that came out on the main road near the bridge. A mile or more farther on, she turned into an overgrown wagon trail under the pines and shut off the motor.
    “Now,” he said, “how far is it to the nearest town?”
    “Spruce Ridge is eleven miles ahead on the north fork.”
    “Who are the people living within a radius of five miles of here?”
    “There aren’t many. This is rather wild country. There’s old Jake Hendricks, a trapper; he has two cottages for summer people, but they’re empty now. Across in the other valley is the McKeen estate, with the Hammond property just beyond. But they’re both wealthy men and are hardly the type to be mixed up in this. I’ve known the Hammond girls for years, and Mr. McKeen was one of father’s best friends. I can’t think of any one else.”
    “Did any of these men call at the cabin recently?”
    “Jake Hendricks brought a load of wood last week, and Mr. Hammond has been coming every other afternoon to play chess with father. I haven’t seen Mr. McKeen lately; father didn’t feel like going out much the last few weeks, and Mr. McKeen never leaves his wheel chair.”
    “McKeen – a cripple?”
    “Yes. Both legs are paralyzed. Father missed seeing him, for they were always getting into technical arguments over guns.”
    Starck gave a tight-lipped smile. “Now, about these two rats that caught you on the road. Was one short and dark, with a bullet scar on either cheek?”
    “Yes; they called him Tony. The driver of the ear kept his hat down over his eyes, and his collar turned up, so I didn’t get a good look at him. Torry addressed him as Freeh.”
    “Who takes care of McKeen?”
    “He has a Japanese servant, and another man who acts as a sort of overseer on the estate. There’s a Negro family living on one corner of the property; they do the cooking and general housework.”
    Starck glanced out of the car. The rain had almost stopped. A half moon shone dimly through the storm clouds above the ridge; He turned to the girl.
    “Miss Enderley, you know these roads. I want you to drive me to the edge of the McKeen place – and do it quickly without using any lights.”
    “You – you’re not making a mistake?”
    “Hyde’s instructions,” he said tersely, “and he has never yet made a mistake. Hurry!”
    She had’ the motor going when he seized her hand. “Wait,” he whimpered. “There’s a car coming.”
    The lights of an approaching machine swung around the bend behind them, went swiftly by on the main road. He leaned out of the window, listening, suddenly saw the lights again as the machine turned back. It was moving slower now, a spotlight sweeping the roadside.
    “That’s our Tony again?” Starck muttered. “Found you were gone, drove to the cabin and followed our tire tracks. They’ll see where we turned off the road in a minute. Where does this trail lead?”
    “Over to the south fork. It’s terrible, but I think I can drive it.”
    “You’ll have to. Step on it.”
    The coupé roared forward. They crashed through brush and fallen limbs, jerked erratically from side to side. The lights behind them swung info the trail, stopped, suddenly came bouncing nearer.
    A staccato clatter came above the noise of the motor. A hole, surrounded by a ring of frosting, appeared on the windshield. Something scorched Starch’s side. He swore, leaned out of the window, and emptied his gun at the approaching lights. It seemed to have no effect; he swore again and slipped a fresh clip of cartridges in the magazine.
    “Are you hurt?” he asked the girl.
    “I’m all right,” she answered in a tight voice. “Another minute and I think I can lose them.”
    Abruptly she whirled the coupé toward the black wall of trees. There was a tearing, grinding sound as a fender struck something and came off; she Sipped on the lights once, picked an invisible route, and came out seconds later upon the road.
    She gave a deep sigh and drove more slowly. “The road behind us is blacked with a washout. I used the detour Jake Hendricks cut for his wagon.”
    Starck glanced back. The lights of the other car were far behind, motionless now. “Good girl,” be said. “If you can take me by McKeen’s without being seen—”

    IV.
    They came out soon upon the south-fork road; five minutes later Jean Enderley was driving the coupé slowly along a low stone wall. “Here it is,” she whispered. “Look over on the right, high up on the ridge. That’s the house.”
    Rising against the gray, scudding clouds was a grim, stone building, its Made silhouette like that of a monstrous, one-eyed beast clutching the ridge. The eye was a single, lighted window in the center of the tower.
    “Stop here,” said Starck. “Now, how long will it take you to drive on to Spruce Ridge by some other road?”
    “Twenty minutes,” she answered.
    He picked up his bag. “All right. Get to Jackson, the night marshal, and tell him to pick somebody he can trust and come out here. Have him blink his lights twice when he reaches the hollow behind us, and pull over among the trees. I’ll be there waiting. If you’ve got friends in Spruce Ridge, stay there with them. Now drive – and drive like hell before Tony comes back.”
    Starck watched the coupé disappear down the road. He listened until he could no longer hear the sound of the motor, then crawled quietly over the wall. It would be nearly an hour before Jackson came, and there was much to be learned.
    Moving along the shadow of the wall, he reached a growth of pines and stood some time studying the slope leading to the house. In the dim moonlight he was able to make out the pale curve of a private drive winding upward along the barren face of the rocky ridge. To his right, a black blanket of pines crept down to the road. Starck picked his route near the edge of the pines and began to climb.
    It was sixteen minutes later by his watch when he reached the crest and crawled on his belly around the edge of a terrace. Just ahead, the driveway crossed a corner of the terrace and led directly toward a double door in the left wing of the house, evidently the garage.
    Starck reached the driveway, set down his bag. He got to his knees, warily studying his surroundings. Save for the slow drip of moisture from the rocks, the place was quiet. Only the small light high up in the tower indicated the presence of life.
    Life – and death. Starck’s lips went tight against his teeth. There was death here, and there would be more death before morning. He could smell it above the tang of cold, moist earth and pines, feel it in the queer throb of his pulse.
    He bent over the driveway, warily examined the vague imprint of tires. A car had passed recently, and the two rear treads did not match.
    Starck crossed the drive, noted the ground plan of the building, and his eyes probed for an easy entrance. There was none; the place seemed as impregnable as a fortress. The front door was a heavy, iron-studded portal; the lower windows were few and out of reach.
    He glanced again at the luminous dial of his watch, and his glance jerked toward the tower. The tower light had gone out. He was pondering this when lights from a car swept the slope and began to mount swiftly upward.
    Starck dropped flat and slid backward behind a rock.
    The car roared up the drive, gained the terrace, slowed for an instant before the garage doors. The doors opened magically from within. Starck’s head raised above the terrace in time to see the car enter and the doors closing behind it.
    Just before they clicked shut again he saw something else, something that brought him to his feet, gun out, running.
    On the back seat two figures struggled. One, black hair flying, a strip of white adhesive tape over her mouth, was Jean Enderley.
    * * *
    A step from the garage Starck halted. He knew without trying that it would be a waste of time to attempt an entrance this way. The doors were mechanically controlled and nothing short of dynamite could have forced them from the outside.
    He dropped below the terrace and feverishly opened his bag. Jean hadn’t had time to reach town; Tony Masso must have gone around by the other road and cut her off. His lips formed a soundless stream of profanity as he pulled off his shoes, drew on gum-soled slippers, and transferred various objects from the bag to his clothing.
    A few seconds later he was at the corner of the house, big hands straining upward for finger holds in the rough stone. He climbed slowly, slippered feet clamped about the angle of the building, steel fingers digging into crevices, tightening, going ever higher. The taut, straining muscles brought sudden agony to his side where Masso’s bullet had slit the flesh; Starck ground his teeth and went on.
    The sloping wall, buttressed slightly at the bottom, helped. He reached the cornice of the second floor, swung precariously outward into space, and inched along until he knew he was below a window. Holding on by one elbow, he drew a flat piece of metal from his pocket, inserted the sharp edge between window and sill, and gently pried it up. It was not locked.
    He raised the window as high as his finger tips would reach, heaved his body to the ledge, and slid across the sill.
    The dim moonlight, sifting through the window, showed he was in a small bedroom. Starck waited until his breathing was normal again, then crept to the door.
    He opened it, listened. Far off, at the other end of a long hallway, he heard voices. Gun ready, soft soles making no sound, he tiptoed toward the distant room.
    Now he could hear a soft, assured voice talking. “Tony, if you had been using that minute organism of yours which passes for a brain, this would not be necessary. You saw Enderley swallow something. You should have known why he was doing it.”
    “I swear, boss,” came another voice, evidently Tony’s, “it happened so damn quick I—”
    “Ah, yes, Tony, the mistake was mine. I should have remembered that some forms of life are incapable of instantaneous ratiocination. But a bit of surgery remains to be done. I have never known you or Boyle to hesitate over the mere detail of knife work.”
    “Aw, gee, boss, live guys are different; I never cut into a dead guy before.”
    Starck moved closer, peered between the folds of heavy drapery masking the doorway. Beyond was a wide room, richly furnished.
    In a wheel chair beside the fireplace was a large man with a shock of white hair, and pale, hard, aristocratic features. At the sight of him Starck went rigid and his jaw hung slack in amazement. It had been a long time since he had seen the fellow – and in those days his name had not been McKeen.
    Standing uneasily in front of him were Tony Masso, and a thin, redheaded, shifty-eyed fellow. On a couch beyond, taped and bound, lay Jean Enderley,
    McKeen smiled, waved his hand toward the girl. “There is the reward. She is very beautiful. But if you are feeling squeamish, I am sure Yoto will be glad to oblige.”
    Masso looked at the girl and ran his tongue over his thick lips. “Come on, Freck,” he said abruptly. “Let’s get the button. We don’t want that damn Jap horning in on this.”
    “O. K. ” growled Boyle. “But I gotta have a drink first. Where’d Yoto run off to?”
    McKeen chuckled. “At the moment Yoto is probably engaged in a little jujutsu. One of the agents of our dear General Hyde was seen entering the house a while ago.”
    Starck pivoted on his toes and his gun came up. He was a split second too late. A dark form behind him moved with the speed of light; the edge of Yoto’s hand struck him back of the ear with stunning, deadening force.

    V.
    When Starck came to he was sprawled in a chair, wrists fastened with his own handcuffs. He discovered, moreover, that his clothing had been removed from the waist up. McKeen was sitting across from him, smiling thinly, a small revolver dangling from one white finger.
    Yoto, short, flat-faced, grim and silent, was removing from the rug the articles he had taken from Starck’s pockets.
    Starck’s eyes shifted around the room. Masso and Boyle were gone; Jean Enderley lay motionless, hands fastened behind her back. For a moment he thought she had fainted, then he saw she was watching him, frightened, bewildered, hopeless.
    McKeen chuckled softly. His voice seemed almost pleasant. “Mr. Starck, the boys will be back in a little while, and they will be primed for a second operation. It will be slightly different from the first, but much more interesting.
    “No, don’t try to move yet. Yoto is rather clever about striking certain nerves; you will not he able to stand for several minutes. In the meantime, kindly feast your eyes upon the fireplace. Tony’s idea. He’s a bit of a sadist and rather fond of primitive implements.”
    A poker, already red-hot, was glowing in the coals.
    Starck glanced at it briefly, then saw the clock upon the mantel. In ten minutes it would be three o’clock, time for his report to General Hyde. If he could keep that thought in mind, manage to gain a few minutes, give his numbed body a chance to come to life again.
    “I thought you were dead, Karazali,” he said evenly.
    The skin tightened across the cripple’s jaws. “So, you know me, eh? I should have been dead – I’ve often wished I was. I’ve been only half a man for years, ever since that night on the boat when some one put a bullet in my spine. It may have been your bullet – you were on the narcotic squad then, probably were in the raid. I fell overboard, but my body wasn’t washed to sea, and I didn’t drown. I lived to reach this little place I’d built – under the name of McKeen.”
    He chuckled suddenly. “This is a happy night, Hugh Starck. When Tony finishes with you I’ll feel better about the years I’ve spent in this chair – and you’ll wish some one would have the kindness to quickly blow your brains out. Ah, Tony, you have the button?”
    Tony Masso slid through a door. His swarthy face looked green; the bullet scars on his face were dry and white. He dropped a metal button in Karazali’s lap and took a long drink from a whisky bottle. Freck Boyle followed him in and stood looking at the girl.
    Karazali eagerly pried the top from the button and removed a thin piece of paper.
    “I suppose,” muttered Starck, “that the plans you stole had the numbers and explanations written in code. You must have Enderley’s cipher key there.”
    “Exactly, my dear fellow. And a clever cipher it was.” He took several papers from a large envelope and unfolded them. “I knew Enderley was developing a rapid-fire mechanism for heavy guns, but it rather complicated things for me when I found his specifications were in code. Well, Yoto, you can send word to your – ah – employers, that the plans are ready and that the price is satisfactory.”
    “All right, Tony. Mr. Starck has seen too much. Perhaps, if he is able to feel things by now, his eyes could stand a bit of treatment—”
    “I get you, boss,” Tony Masso moved forward, mouth twisted in an ugly grin. The grin died and a cold, deadly, inhuman expression came upon his swarthy face. His hand shot out and jerked Starck to the floor.
    * * *
    Starck fell in a limp heap, sought weakly to rise, fell forward in a praying position. His eyes were wide, horror-stricken; his hands shook with an uncontrollable fear. No one noticed that his elbow was slowly pressing his right trousers leg up from the ankle.
    Freck Boyle stood near Karazali, eyes half closed, one hand in his pocket. Karazali’s eyes were hard and bright as he twirled his revolver on one finger. The girl on the couch moaned, suddenly relaxed as if she had fainted.
    “Live guys,” Tony Masso was saying in a dry voice. “They’re more in my line.” He slapped Starck twice. The intelligence man fell on his side, arms twitching convulsively.
    Masso turned, reached toward the fire for the poker. The point of it was white-hot.
    There was a second in which his back was to Starck, and in that second Starck moved. His manacled hands flashed forward, and in his right palm was a tiny, snub-nosed automatic. It had been concealed in an ankle holster.
    Karazali’s pistol snapped up, but his warning curse was cut short by a sharp report. A small hole appeared between his eyes.
    Boyle tugged frantically at the weapon in his pocket. It came out just as Masso whirled. Starck rolled on his elbows and the swinging poker tip seared his shoulder. The room roared with the sound of Boyle’s heavy gun, then a startled look came over Boyle’s face and he clutched his heart.
    Starck pumped another shot at him, swung the muzzle to include the darting figure of Yoto, and at the same time lashed out with his feet at Masso’s knees. Masso went down, but the hurtling poker struck Starck’s hands, sent the automatic spinning across the floor.
    Starck heaved to his feet, leaped with outstretched hands at Masso who was struggling upright, one hand under his armpit. He managed to grasp the barrel of Masso’s gun as it came out of the holster, twist it aside as they thrashed down on the rug. As they fell, Starck had a glimpse of Yoto crawling forward, one leg dragging. Yoto had a knife.
    Starck’s strength was hampered by his handcuffs, and each violent movement brought agony from the flesh wound in his side. Masso fought like one crazed to retain possession of the gun. Starck had both hands on it, twisting; he slammed his knee into Masso’s middle. The gun came free. He rolled over, kicked Masso aside – and saw Yoto almost upon him.
    He pressed the trigger, cursed, thumbed back the safety. The gun roared. Yoto’s head jerked with the shock of the bullet, but his descending knife hand completed its swing. Starck lurched back, too late to miss the blade that slashed his wrist.
    The gun dropped.
    “All right, punk!” a voice snarled. “Don’t move!”
    It was Tony Masso. He was crouched by the wheel chair, the dead cripple’s pistol upraised. “You’re going to get it in the guts, punk, and die slow. And while you’re dying, you’re going to get the poker!” Rage, hate, animal fury contorted his face. His trigger finger slowly tightened.
    There was a sharp crack. The pistol spun out of his hand. There was another crack, and another, and Tony Masso pitched forward.
    Starck turned. Jean Enderley was on the floor, feet still bound, but her arms were free and she held Starck’s small automatic.
    Starck stared at her a long moment, then gently began removing the tape. “Thanks,” he said humbly. “How in Heaven’s name did you do it?”
    She shook her head, gained her breath. “I – I hadn’t fainted; I only pretended to. But all the time I was working my hands. I still had my knife, you see, and I got it out again. Father taught me how to shoot.”
    She held together long enough to unlock Starck’s handcuffs and bind his wrist. Then she did faint. Starck lifted her to the couch, looked at the clock, then limped to the telephone on the table.
    After a long while he got the number he wanted, and clicked the receiver six times.
    “Zero answers,” came the rasping voice of General Hyde.
    “Number Six reports,” Starck said wearily. “All missing articles have been recovered, the case settled in the usual manner.”

    1936
    (Clues Detective Stories, vol. 36, #6, November, pp.54-71)

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