The Gray Menace

Its contest time at Atlantic City!and Connie is there to

cover the cooking contest for a Reid and Renshaw appliance
account.
Everything seems to be running fairly smoothly when
Connie checks into the resort hotel, and she looks forward to
an interesting stay. But later, when Connie finds a small
purse and attempts to return it to its owner, she finds herself
walking into a roomful of trouble. Attacked from behind,
Connie has no idea who her mysterious assailant could be
but she has a hotel full of people to pick from. Everyone is
under suspicion, from aged, aristocratic Miss Whitney; to
Paul, the bellhop and part-time dog walker; to the
chambermaid . . . and, for good measure, any one of a
hundred other employees or guests whom she doesnt know!
And, later, when a golden falcon brooch is missing, Connie
herself is accused of stealing the piece. Determined to clear
herself and, at the same time, find her mysterious attacker,
Connie digs deeper into the case and comes up with
something quite unexpected . . . a cache of stolen jewelry.

The CONNIE BLAIR Mystery Stories

The Clue in Blue
The Riddle in Red
Puzzle in Purple
The Secret of Black Cat Gulch
The Green Island Mystery
The Ghost Wore White
The Yellow Warning
The Gray Menace
The Brown Satchel Mystery
Peril in Pink
The Silver Secret
The Mystery of the Ruby Queens

A CONNIE BLAIR MYSTERY

The Gray
Menace
By
BETSY ALLEN

Grosset & Dunlap

PUBLISHERS

NEW YORK

 1953 BY GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.

Introducing David
Poodle Trouble
Gun-metal Gray
Whodunit?
Accused!
The Green-eyed Falcon
Connie Shadows a Suspect
A Ride with the Admiral
Change of Heart
The Mysterious Hand
Slightly Warmer
In the Sheridan Wing
Frosti to the Rescue!
Strategy
The Guilty One

1
14
31
41
53
64
76
92
103
116
129
141
154
165
178

CHAPTER

Introducing David

Carry your bags, miss?

Yes, please.
Connie Blair relinquished her luggage gratefully
to the red-capped porter and followed him from the
Philadelphia-Atlantic City express through the
unfamiliar station.
Taxi?
Yes, please! Connie smiled, and the porter
beamed at the irresistibly pretty blond girl in return.
Connie accepted the tribute in his eyes un-selfconsciously, without quite realizing how attractive
she looked, this bright winter morning, in her red
coat and black velvet beret. Her brown eyes were
dancing with excitement, her step had bounce, and
her fair hair, pulled back but swinging almost to her
shoulders, was high-lighted with gold.
Thank you ever so much. Even her voice, as
1

she tipped the redcap, had a happy ring. The man

accepted the change almost reluctantly, as though it
had been a privilege to be of service.
Even the taxi driver brightened when he turned to
ask his fare, Where to?
The Barkley-Sheridan, please, said Connie.
You know where that is?
The man chuckled. You bet. It aint no
matchbox, you know.
Connie supposed he intended the remark to be
jocular. Ive never been to Atlantic City before,
she explained.
Yeah? The driver swung out into a busy street.
Well, we get em all, sooner or later.
Unable to fathom this remark, Connie leaned
back against the worn leather upholstery and looked
out the window. Certainly the commercial district
through which they were traveling seemed
uninviting, looking down-at-the-heel and crowded,
like anything but a great seaside resort. Yet she had
been warned that this would be the case. Atlantic
City had its seamy side, she knew. Only the
boardwalk was faced by great hotels and luxurious
shops.
Suddenly the taxi turned a corner, and there,
ahead of them on the right, rose a fantastic pile of
turreted and towered gray stone, in almost shocking
contrast to the squalor of the close-packed frame
2

houses they had been passing. It was like a relic of

the mauve decade, a grotesque but impressive
monument to the long-dead carriage trade.
Thats it, up ahead, the driver said.
Goodness! Connie breathed, both shocked and
overwhelmed in spite of herself.
Big, aint it?
Enormous. I wonder if they ever manage to rent
all those rooms.
Connie looked up at the banks of windows staring
sightlessly down at her. It was impossible to imagine
people behind them.
The cabby, however, burst out laughing. You
ought to see this place long about July when the
joints really jumpin, he bragged. They pack em
in like sardines.
Connie shuddered but had the perception not to
admit that the prospect held no appeal. She was
thankful to be seeing Atlantic City out of season,
when only a relatively small group of visitors were
in town for business conventions or just for a rest.
The taxi swooped into a semicircular drive and
drew up before the door, and, as though operated
with mechanical precision, the wheels of hotel
management began to grind. A uniformed bellhop,
young and brisk, with eyes that matched the blue
February sky, hurried out to take Connies bags into
the lobby. She paid off the cab driver and followed
3

the boy, giving her name to the suave clerk who

greeted her at the desk.
Oh, yes, Miss Blair, we have your reservation. If
youll just sign here
Connie wrote her name in a bold, round script
that still retained a schoolgirl quality in spite of the
fact that she was now a full-fledged junior executive
in an advertising agency. Im here on a due bill
from Reid and Renshaw, she explained.
I see. The clerk nodded. Youre attending the
Standard Fixture Convention, arent you?
Thats right.
To an elderly, aristocratic-looking white-haired
lady who was waiting to speak to the clerk their
interchange probably meant little, but to Connie it
was perfectly understandable business talk. The due
bill meant that in return for services rendered the
hotel by Reid and Renshaw part of her room rent
would be deducted, and Standard Fixture was an
important client whose advertising account her firm
handled.
Paul!
The clerks voice cracked like a whip and the
bellhop leaped to the desk for the room key. Connie
followed the boy to the elevators, wishing that social
convention did not place her in the role of guest and
him in the position of servitor. He looked like a nice
boy, slight and towheaded, and even younger than
4

herself. Shed welcome an opportunity to talk to

him.
But until he had shown her the room, checked the
heat, and adjusted the blinds, there seemed to be no
way to open a conversation. Then, crossing to the
windows and looking out, Connie cried
spontaneously, Oh, you can see the ocean! Isnt
that wonderful!
The bellhop grinned. It is a good room, he said,
but not the best. The really posh suites are on the
front, looking directly out to sea.
The unfamiliar slang made Connie turn. Youre
not American, are you?
No. Austrian, the boy admitted quickly. How
did you know?
That adjectiveposh. It gives you away. A
Britisher must have taught you English.
Right again, Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.
I deserved that, Connie admitted with a smile
as she handed him the customary tip.
The bellhops blue eyes twinkled back at her, but
all he said was Thank you, miss.
When the boy had left she opened her bags and
unpacked quickly. Although she wasnt expected at
the convention pier until after lunch, she was in a
hurry. It was far too glorious a day to waste a minute
longer than necessary indoors!
Along with the wedge-shaped slice of ocean
5

visible from her window she could also catch a

glimpse of the boardwalk, where winter visitors,
muffled to the chin, were strolling either singly or in
small groups. Yet it wasnt a walk which lured her.
It was the sun deck, stretching splendidly across the
entire front of the hotel, and raised above the avenue
of shops to command a marvelous view of sea and
sand, to which she asked to be directed when she
arrived once more on the lobby floor.
Five minutes later, wrapped in a steamer rug and
lying full length in a deck chair, Connie sighed in
deep satisfaction. She was enjoying the illusion of
being on a holiday, if only for an hour, and the
Standard Fixture Convention seemed blessedly far
away at the moment.
She closed her eyes, relishing the shiny feeling of
the sun on the lids, hot as summertime on this clear
winter day. When she opened them again her view
of the ocean was partly blocked by a mans figure
a tall, young man with his back to her, leaning
against the railing as one would against the rail of a
ship, looking out to sea.
Connie blinked to adjust her vision, and her eyes
followed the gray flannel slacks, the tweed jacket,
up to the back of an unfamiliar but definitely
youthful neck, against which dark hair fitted snugly,
curling close to the mans head like a cap.
Attractive, Connie thought. I wonder what he
6

looks like from the front. Just then he turned

around.
He was more than attractive. He was almost
handsomedark, slender, exciting-looking in an
indefinable way. But he seemed out of place,
somehow, a young man alone at midmorning in a
winter vacation spot devoted almost wholly to the
idle and elderly.
Meeting Connies brown eyes just then, the
stranger said, Hello.
Hello, Connie replied tentatively, because there
was surprise in his voice. Do I know you?
The young man grinned apologetically. No, Im
sorry to say. I spoke quite spontaneously, because
you came rather as a shock. I havent seen anybody
under forty around this joint in three days.
Im new here, Connie admitted. Then her eyes
swept the row of deck chairs. But I can imagine
what you mean.
May I introduce myselfDavid Maxwelland
you?
My name is Connie Blair, Connie found herself
saying. There was something rather compelling
about the young mans manner, due perhaps to a
slightly foreign intonation in his voice which belied
the simple American name. And there was
something about his appearance which reminded her
momentarily of another Davidthe young man who
7

had figured so prominently in the solving of The

Green Island Mystery.
Connie Blair, he repeated thoughtfully. It suits
you. Then he deliberately probed further. You are
here, perhaps, for a rest?
Connie laughed. Far from it! Im a working gal.
Working? At the hotel, you mean?
Connie shook her head, but before she had time
to explain, she heard her name called from the
solarium door. Miss Blair. Paging Miss Blair!
Abruptly, Connie swung around in her deck chair.
Here!
Then she waved a greeting as she recognized a
face emerging from the dim interior. Oh, Hank! A
moment later a square-set, sturdy man in his middle
twenties strode across the terrace.
Been combing the place for you. What are you
doing out here? Taking the cure?
Im not due at work until one-thirty and you
know it perfectly well, Hank Bronson. The
advertising manager of Standard Fixture was an old
acquaintance; he didnt intimidate Connie one bit.
But belatedly she realized that David Maxwell was
still standing by. Mr. Maxwell, Mr. Bronson, she
said with a gesture of her hand.
Glad to know you.
How do you do.
As the men shook hands Connie realized that they
8

were sizing one another up, and when a minute or so

later David Maxwell excused himself and strolled
back toward the lobby, Hank looked after him.
Friend of yours?
No. Just a hotel acquaintance.
Hank looked at his watch, then whistled. Fast
work, Id say. Or did you come by an early train?
Connie was accustomed to his teasing, yet she
could feel herself blush. We were merely chatting,
she replied with dignify.
Hank roared and slapped his knee. Now dont
give me the Dowager Duchess treatment. I came to
take you to lunch.
Connie began to unwind her cocoon of rugs. All
right, she agreed pleasantly. Im starved. Lets
go.
Hank pulled her to her feet. Wherell we eat?
Here?
If you like.
I dont like, to be brutally frank. The place gives
me the creeps. Antiquity and Oriental rugs. Lets go
slumming and walk up the boards to Childs.
Connie chuckled. Fine. Will you take me as I am
or shall I get a hat?
Heavens, no. I like you without disguise, Hank
told her. He took her arm and steered her
competently through the solarium and down a ramp
toward the boardwalk door. Shops lined a tiled
9

concourse, and a couple of hopeful rolling chair

pushers stood talking by their wicker carriages. To
Connie it all looked very elegant and like something
out of the distant past.
She said as much to Hank, and he agreed,
especially when they came upon a large French
poodle, almost silver gray in color, elaborately
clipped and wearing a small red bow rakishly tied to
a tuft of hair above his left eye. He was being
walked by the same blond bellhop who had shown
Connie to her room, and she nodded to the boy
cordially, to Hanks outspoken amusement.
For Petes sake, is there anybody in this hotel
you dont know?
Ive run my particular gamut already.
I dont believe it.
Its true.
But wait till youve been here three days, Hank
parried. Then youll even be calling the manager by
his first name, Ill bet.
Connie grinned but she didnt reply, nor did she
dream that he was not far from wrong. Not that she
and the manager ever got on a first-name basis,
really, although they came to know each other rather
well.
Meanwhile, the bellhop and the poodle had
outdistanced them, and the boy crossed the
boardwalk to lead the dog down a flight of wooden
10

steps to the beach. There he took the animal off his

leash, and watched while the poodle bounded
ecstatically down toward the water and back across
the sand.
A stately, erect old lady, with a remarkably
square jaw for her years, stood near a small pavilion
watching the dogs antics, a smile playing at the
corners of her mouth. Connie recognized her as the
same elderly guest who had been in the lobby on her
arrival, and she pointed her out to Hank.
Look, isnt she a character? she whispered.
She could have stepped right out of a
daguerreotype.
Earlier in the morning she had been wearing a
lace shawl over an ankle-length dress, but now she
was swathed in a moleskin wrap which might have
been designed at the turn of the century, with a
chiffon scarf wound loosely around her high-piled
white hair.
Just as Connie and Hank passed she stepped
closer to the rail and clapped her hands
peremptorily. Paul! she called in an unexpectedly
strong voice, both husky and commanding.
The bellhop turned.
Better watch him pretty closely. Freedoms apt
to go to his head.
I will, Miss Abigail, Connie heard the bellhop
call back, while at her elbow Hank Bronson
11

whispered, Did you ever hear such a remarkable

voice?
I rather imagine shes a remarkable old lady,
Connie whispered back. At least shes a study in
contrasts. Whod ever dream shed be the owner of a
dog that could have stepped right out of a
photograph of a young society matron? Would
you?
Hank shook his head. Poodles are very
fashionable right now, he murmured as though he
were trying to explain the thing to himself.
Thats just it. Shes not fashionable. Shes
individual, though, Ill bet. Id like to know her. I
really would.
Whoops! Here we go! Hank clapped his hand
descriptively to his hat. Look, Miss Blair, he said
more mildly and with assumed dignity, youre here
to help set up a convention display and cover a
cooking contest, remember? Excelsior Standard
Fixture. Let the Barkley-Sheridan bury its dead.
What are you talking about? Connie asked with
a shake of her head. Or is that a purely poetic turn
of phrase?
Purely, Hank admitted. Although you must
have noticed that all the guests at the hotel of your
choice looked stuffed.
All except David Maxwell, Connie said
thoughtfully.
12

Aha! Hank held up a forefinger. That leads me

to a rather pertinent question. How does he happen
to be included in the waxworks? He couldnt, by any
chance, be one of our prospective contest cooks?
Connie couldnt help chucklingthe picture of
the handsome young Mr. Maxwell tied into a
beribboned apron was so absurd. But as she and
Hank considered the luncheon menu the question
returned to haunt her. At the most, David Maxwell
must be twenty-two or twenty-three, just old enough
to be out of college, and he certainly looked healthy.
Maybe, of course, he was in Atlantic City for some
other convention, but nothing of the sort had been
mentioned. If he were staying at a luxury hotel like
the Barkley-Sheridan merely as an idle guest shed
likeshed very much liketo know the reason
why.

13

CHAPTER

Poodle Trouble

From that moment, however, David Maxwell did not

cross Connies thoughts again. The minute they had
ordered lunch Hank Bronson pulled out a notebook
and started to talk business. The cooking contest was
his idea, his responsibilitymy baby as he put it
colloquiallyand he was determined upon its
success.
You ought to see the pier right this minute, he
told Connie. There are a hundred and one
electricians tinkering with the electric ranges, the
mixers, the refrigerators, all the stuff we had shipped
down here. They still havent cleared away the
crates and it looks as though theyll be working until
midnight. Golly, what a mess!
Connie mentally echoed that remark when she
and Hank arrived, three-quarters of an hour later, at
the huge pier where the cooking contest was to be
14

held. The sun was so strong that the great glass

doors had been thrown open to the mild sea air, and
the interior of the hall looked like a crazy quilt made
up of patches of gleaming enamel.
Stoves and refrigerators stood back to back along
broad aisles, and between each stove stood a chair
and a worktable. Electric mixers, most of which
were still in their boxes, were being distributed, and
everywhere workmen seemed to be pulling and
hauling at crates.
Great Scott! Connie breathed in some alarm.
Im glad you prepared me. Do you think that they
can possibly get this place cleaned up in time?
Hank grinned at her expression of concern. We
dont open the show until nine-thirty tomorrow
morning, he reminded her. Miracles can, and will,
be accomplished, even if we have to keep the
electricians on the better part of the night.
Connie consulted a schedule she had tucked in
her handbag. Tomorrow is the preliminary contest,
isnt it? Then the next days the cook-offor
whatever you call it.
Thats right. And your job, Miss Blair, is not to
worry about the setup here, but to come up with
some really good human-interest stories for our
future publicity and advertising, if Im correct.
Youre correct, Mr. Bronson, Connie replied
with mock formality.
15

Its no mean assignment, Hank muttered to

himself.
But its the kind I like. It gives me a chance to
meet so many different kinds of people.
Hank held his head. Such enthusiasm! Such
youth! No wonder youre good at the advertisingbusiness, Connie Blair.
He had, as a matter of fact, put his finger on the
real secret of Connies success. Born and raised in
the small town of Meadowbrook, Pennsylvania,
Connie had come to Philadelphia soon after her
graduation from high school to model college
fashions in a department store. From there she had
gone to Reid and Renshaws advertising agency
with only her lively personality to recommend her.
But now, groomed by both the art and copy
departments, she was a trusted employee to whom
specialized assignments like this one were often
given.
Connies interest in people dated back to the days
when she and her twin sister, Kit, were leaders in
their local school group. With every widening
experience, this interest increased and sometimes led
her into strange situations at home and abroad.
Many were the mysteries she had helped to solve, in
Bermuda, in New England, and even in the
Philadelphia Zoo. But now she was concentrating
wholly on business. As Hank had pointed out, she
16

had a big job ahead!

While Hank guided her from one end of the pier
to the other, Connie started to make notes:
Try to get local color stories.
Find oldest and youngest contestant. Angle here?
Recipes handed down in familieshow and why?
By the time they neared the large open door
leading to the boardwalk there were a dozen such
entries. Connies agile brain was already busily at
work.
Then one of Hanks assistants came up. Mr.
Bronson, may I see you a minute? Nobody seems to
have thought of wastebaskets. Im afraid
Hank excused himself, and Connie wandered
over to watch a plump, middle-aged woman who
was unwrapping a package on a table at the head of.
the first aisle. She was a motherly-looking person,
with all the earmarks of a contestant rather than an
agency employee, and since she was almost a day
early Connie approached her curiously.
Good afternoon, she began, with her prettiest
smile.
Good afternoon, the woman replied
perfunctorily.
Arent you a bit ahead of time?
Yesm, I am, replied the lady, biting off her
words as though each were a snip of thread. Im
wishing to make lasagne imbottite tomorrow and I
17

want to test this range first.

The foreign words were strange to Connie. I beg
your pardon? she said with a question in her voice.
The woman turned from unwrapping a length of
fat sausage and explained. I suppose youd call it
stuffed noodles in English. Its a dish we always had
back home in the old country for Christmas dinner.
Before the fowl, of course.
Connie made a guess. Do you mean Italy?
The woman nodded.
Were you born there, by any chance?
She nodded again. In Fiesole.
Thats very interesting, Connie said amiably.
Would you very much mind spelling the Italian
name of those noodles for me?
By now, as was usual when Connie approached a
person with her winning smile and her forthright
manner, the contestant had thawed considerably.
Not at all, she said, and while Connie balanced her
pad against the side of the near-by refrigerator she
repeated slowly, l-a-s-a-g-n-e i-m-b-o-t-t-i-t-e.
There, Connie said. Is that right? And I
wonder if I may have your name?
Mrs. Jesse Ferilli. As the woman turned to
reply, Connie saw, out of the corner of her eye, an
astonishing thing happen. Through the open door
bounded the big gray poodle she had watched on the
beach that morning, and in a fraction of a second
18

less time than it took to scream Stop!the length

of sausage was whisked off the table and out of the
door.
Quick as thought, Connie brushed past the
woman she was interviewing and chased after him,
but she was an instant too late. Dodging past the
same young bellhop who had walked him that
morning, the dog made for the nearest flight of steps
to the beach.
Catch him! Connie shouted as she raced after
him, taking the steps two by two. But even as she
ran she was laughing at the ridiculous picture the
poodle made, the sausage dangling from either side
of his mouth like a drooping mustache, as he
gamboled sportively down toward the surf.
The bellhop was a moment collecting himself, his
surprise was so great. Then he dashed along at
Connies heels, yelling, Frosti, hey Frosti, come
here! at the top of his lungs.
But Frosti by now was standing knee-deep in the
water, looking back over his shoulder as though he
dared either of them to follow him in. Ill swim to
China if you do, his impish expression said, and
Connie wouldnt have doubted it in the least.
Meanwhile, the indignant cook was making a
poor third, stumbling across the sand and calling that
the sausage must be recaptured, that there was no
more to be obtained in Atlantic City. She knew
19

because she had been all over town.

Connie tried wheedling. Here, Frosti, good dog.
But the poodle merely eyed her with lips parted in
something very close to a grin, and backed,
teasingly, a few steps farther into the surf.
That, luckily, proved his undoing. An
unexpectedly high wave broke directly on the
poodles back, drenching him with icy water, and a
look of surprise replaced the previous look of canine
amusement on his face. Shaking himself vigorously,
but still carrying the sausage, he bounded toward the
trio on the beach, splashing them all with salt spray.
But it was to the bellhop, of course, that he delivered
his prize, allowing the boy to take it from his mouth
rather than inconsiderately dropping it on the sand.
Connie breathed a sigh of relief. The sausage was
intact, aside from a few teeth marks. Why, she
cried, its as good as new!
But Mrs. Ferilli was incensed. Quite a throng had
gathered at the boardwalk steps to watch the
comedy, among them a young man with a camera,
and she marched past them with her jaw set and her
eyes straight ahead. Obviously she had no wish to be
the laughingstock of the cooking contest. Connie
followed with the bellhop and the poodle,
wondering what amends she could make.
The lady is very angry, murmured the boy, who
now had Frosti quite under control.
20

Yes, she is, Connie admitted. Its partly my

fault. I was occupying her attention when
whisk!I never saw anything so fast.
The bellhop grinned sheepishly, two dimples on
either cheek making him seem even younger than
before. It is partly my fault too, he confessed. I
should never have let Frosti off the lead. If Miss
Whitney should hear of itwhisk!my job would
be gone.
Connie looked at him with what sternness she
could muster. I hope it teaches you a lesson.
It will, he promised. Now do you think I
should offer to pay for the meat?
Connie shook her head. Its irreplaceable. Didnt
you hear? she asked him, and this time there was a
twinkle in her eyes, because the lads personality
was definitely engaging. Id just forget it and keep
Frosti on leash if I were you.
O.K., miss.
It was the first Americanism Connie had heard
the boy use. As he leaned down to pat the poodle,
Connie asked, How long have you been in this
country, Paul? Your name is Paul, isnt it?
The bellhop nodded. Paul Schorr. Ive been here
only about a year and a half.
There was a certain indefinable dignity in the way
he spokea manner he had of looking directly at
herthat gave Connie the fleeting thought that he
21

was a cut above his station.

You like it here? she asked.
Oh, yes! That is I like it when I can get out of
doors like this once in a while. Thats why I
wouldnt want to lose my dog-walking job.
Well, I wont tell on you, Connie promised.
But Miss Whitney looks like a strong-minded lady.
From here on Id watch my step.
Paul nodded, as they reached the entrance to the
pier, and a frown crossed his usually serene brow.
You know, she lives down here all alone, he said.
In my country that would be considered definitely
eccentric. We are strong family people. But she told
me one day she cant bear the sight of her folks.
Connie smiled, tempering a desire to laugh
because Paul seemed so nonplused. She realized that
she had just been given a capsule description which
added quite a bit to the impression she had received
of Miss Abigail Whitney. The white-haired lady
looked rather like a termagant, and now she sounded
like one. She decided to try to get better acquainted,
given the chance.
But now Hank Bronson was at her elbow once
more, looking a trifle harried. I come looking for
you and Im told youre playing with a dog on the
beach!
Nothing of the sort! I was just getting a humaninterest story for you, Connie replied, realizing that
22

Frostis escapade would make rather a good one.

Nevertheless, Hank took her elbow and piloted
her quickly back into the big showroom. Theres a
reporter here who wants the lowdown on the contest
and I told him you were his girl.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a whirl of
activity, and it was almost dark when Connie
walked, alone, back to the Barkley-Sheridan to
change for the evening. Following instructions from
her home office she had asked Hank Bronson and
his assistant, a competent but rather neurotic woman
named Mrs. Winters, to dinner. Pleading a headache,
Mrs. Winters had declined, but Hank allowed that if
Connie could stand it, hed like to dine apart from
the growing contingent of cooks descending on his
own hotel.
Theyre coming from all over the East, he told
her. Theres a woman from Punxsutawney,
Pennsylvania, and another from Girdletree,
Maryland, just to name a couple of towns you can
roll on your tongue.
Connie was smiling to herself at this remark as
she went into the lobby, past the deserted billiard
and card rooms to the bank of elevators at the rear.
The hotel seemed almost oppressively empty at this
hour, as though the unwinking electric lights glowed
upon a ghost company of departed guests. Connie
wondered what this great hotel must have been like
23

in its heyday at the turn of the century, when

Atlantic City was, instead of a convention town, one
of the famous resorts of the world.
Shaking off a feeling that she had stepped,
somehow, back into the past, Connie chatted with
the elevator operator as they rode up to the sixth
floor. She bathed and changed from a suit to a soft
green wool dress and was just touching perfume to
her ears when Hank phoned to announce that he was
downstairs.
They dined in the Blue Room, at a table under the
long, velvet-hung windows, in an atmosphere of
quiet luxury.
Almost too quiet, Hank said. This place makes
you want to talk in whispers. Where is everybody?
Dead?
Connie chuckled at his nonsense. Theres David
Maxwell, the young man I introduced you to this
morning, she said. His back was to them, and he
was dining alone, toying with his food as if he had
little appetite for it. The elevator man was telling
me theres more of a crowd over week ends, she
rambled on conversationally. But even so, he says
theres a whole wing closed off. The one you reach
by the corridor thats like a bridge over the carriage
drive. Originally there were two hotels. Were in the
Barkley and the other was the Sheridan.
Miscellaneous tidbit of information Number
24

325, Hank teased. Hey, lookit! Were not alone

after all. Here comes the poodle lady, to swell the
throng.
Connie glanced toward the doors to see Miss
Abigail Whitney, regal in trailing black lace, her
white hair combed high in a French twist, sweep
into the dining room in advance of a square-set,
stocky woman ten years her junior. Almost absurdly
under-dressed in contrast, Miss Whitneys dinner
companion was wearing stout oxfords and a gray
tweed suit, and in one hand she carried a Malacca
walking stick which seemed to be more of an
ornament than a necessity.
Straight out of Punch or The Tattler, murmured
Hank, and Connie nodded agreement. With her
sparse gray hair pulled back and her lips unsullied
by rouge, she was the very image of a precise British
maiden lady. David Maxwell had shifted his chair so
that he could watch the pair too, and Connie thought
that his eyes held a gleam of more than passing
interest.
The headwaiter was especially obsequious when
he seated Miss Abigail, snapping his fingers for fast
service from his staff. He got it, too. Soup was
served to Miss Whitney and her friend before
Connie and Hank received theirs, although they had
ordered a full ten minutes before.
Them as has, gits, Hank noted inelegantly.
25

Ill bet that the old gal in black lace supports the
place. Take a quick glance at those rings!
Sh! Connie cautioned as their own waiter
approached, but she couldnt resist following Hanks
command. Miss Whitneys fingers were indeed
laden with diamonds, which flashed in the discreet
light of the elegant dining room like winking stars.
But even more interesting was a brooch which
she wore at the throat of her dinner dress. It was an
unusual piece, and Connie wished she could see it
more closely. A green-eyed bird, fashioned in gold,
seemed to be perched on a large baroque pearl.
She didnt mention it to Hank, however, for just
then it occurred to her to tell him the complete story
of Frosti and the sausage. Speaking of humaninterest stories she concluded with a smile.
Pity we cant use it, Hank said sadly. But if
the judges knew that one of the major ingredients of
Mrs. Ferillis lasagne came straight from Frostis
mouth theyd probably refuse to taste it and poof
would go her chances for a prize.
Connie sighed. I suppose so. She had been
visualizing the possibility of posing Frosti once
again with some less important sausage dangling
from his mouth but she abandoned the scheme.
By the way, Hank said, returning the
conversation to more plausible Standard Fixture
business, the boss wants a line on what cooks crave
26

in the stoves they buyglass doors, deep wells, top

ovens? When youre wandering around tomorrow
will you try to get a line on their preferences?
You bet. Connie made a mental note of the
request as the waiter was placing the usual army of
little vegetable dishes around her dinner plate.
Service here was stately and prolonged, in typical
grand hotel style. It was just another respect in
which the Barkley-Sheridan had not caught up with
the times.
Occasionally from the table near by, where Miss
Whitney and her friend sat, scraps of conversation
drifted over to the pair. Miss Abigail called her
companion Emily in her throaty, booming voice,
but Emilys replies were inaudible. In spite of her
rugged costume she seemed extremely meek.
As Connie and Hank were finishing their main
course David Maxwell left the dining room, and a
distinguished-looking gentleman with a Vandyke
beard, who had been seated in a far corner, crossed
to Miss Whitneys table and bent, in a courtly
manner, over her hand.
Ah, Admiral Crosby! Miss Abigail said in her
dramatic and clearly audible voice. Of course you
know my friend, Miss Sloane.
The Admirals nod in Emilys direction was
decidedly perfunctory, to Connies secret
amusement. She listened to Hank Bronsons
27

description of a Florida fishing trip absently while

she watched the little byplay.
Youre not paying any attention, Hank
complained after a few minutes.
Im sorry, Connie apologized, but you know it
must be rather sweet to have a beau as gallant as that
when youre all of seventy-five.
How do you know hes her beau?
They made a date to go walking after dinner.
Eavesdropper! Hank accused.
Connie tossed her head. You cant help
hearing!
And Hank shot back, You can help hearing me.
Touch, Connie admitted. Now I shall give
you my undivided attention over dessert. She
hitched her chair a little closer to the table and made
good her word, although she was aware that the two
ladies left the table shortly before Hank and she had
started their coffee.
How about taking a hike back to the pier, just to
check on progress? Hank proposed when they too
arose, after having a leisurely second cup.
Id enjoy that, Connie replied. Ill get my coat.
Then, just as they were passing the table at which
Miss Whitney had dined, Connie happened to glance
down. On the carpet, beside the chair she had
vacated, lay a small petit-point purse, and Connie
stooped to pick it up without a thought of waiting
28

for Hank to rescue it for her.

Looking around for the waiter, Connie said,
Miss Whitney must have dropped it. Then,
impulsively, she said, Maybe I can catch her before
she goes out. Wait at the elevators, Hank. Ill be
right back.
A moment later from the interior of the car, she
called, If I should miss her, and she should be
coming down as I go up, explain, will you?
Hank nodded, more or less accustomed by now to
Connies occasional whirlwind course of action. The
door closed and Connie said to the operator, What
is Miss Abigail Whitneys room number, please?
Six-O-four, miss, the man said promptly. Its
the corner suite, and Connie thought, Thats
lucky. Shes on my floor. She half expected to see
Miss Abigail and Frosti as she stepped out of the
elevator, but the carpeted hall was empty, so she
hurried along toward the front of the hotel.
Lights showed under only one or two of the
lintels, and 604, unfortunately, was dark, but Connie
knocked anyway, because the door was standing
ajar. She waited a minute, half expecting a reply, or
even a bark, from within, then realized that either by
accident or from custom Miss Whitney must have
left without locking up. Since she was in a hurry to
rejoin Hank, and assumed that she had probably
missed Miss Abigail anyway, she decided to drop
29

the purse on the bureau and, for safetys sake, close

the door.
But she reckoned without the complete and utter
darkness inside the room. The shades must have
been completely drawn, for not a glimmer from the
neon-lighted boardwalk knifed along the edges of
the window sills. Realizing that in such inky
blackness it would be impossible to tell where the
bureau lay, Connie fumbled along the edge of the
door jamb for the switch. Her toe touched the leg of
a chair and she said, aloud, Oh, darn!
Then,
quite
suddenly
and
completely
overwhelmingly, she was possessed by the feeling
that she was not alone. There was someone else,
someone quite near, breathing in the darkness. She
could sense rather than hear it, and pure terror struck
at her like a pointed spear.
Before she could scream or back out of the room
or even turn around, a silken vise snaked around her
throat and she felt herself slipping, even as she
struggledslipping as it tightened and was twisted.
Down . . . and down . . .

30

CHAPTER

Gun-metal Gray

Clawing at the noose with frantic hands, Connie

struggled for breath. With the stark terror of a
drowning person, she fought even as she slipped into
unconsciousness. Then, for an incalculable space of
time, she dropped into utter, empty darkness. Until
finally the darkness began to swirl . . .
The carpet was scratchy. It was the first returning
thought that Connie had. The carpet under her cheek
was rough and prickly as one of the spiky-leafed
weeds which used to creep through the back fence at
home. But why should she be lying here in the
darkness on a rough carpet? Why wasnt she in bed?
Tentatively Connie moved her head and then she
knew that her throat ached and that the blackness
had enclosed something evil and menacing, hands
that were bent on causing harm.
Her heart pounding, she pulled her knees under
31

her and weakly propped herself on one elbow, then

managed to lift herself to a sitting position, but the
swirling became too intense and she lay down for
fear of fainting again.
On the next try she did better, but now the
swirling was pinpricked with unnatural flickers of
light coming from within her confused brain.
Somehow, nevertheless, her will brought her to her
feet, and she staggered blindly forward, groping for
support.
Just as her hands touched something solid, a
killing white glare made her shut her eyes in pain. A
strange voicea womans high-pitched, rather nasal
voicecried, Well, for Petes sake! What do you
think youre doing?
Connie blinked, and in the mirror above the
bureau saw her own wavering image, her face
chalky white, her eyelids fluttering, her hair no
longer smooth. She swayed and tried to speak, but
the effort was too great, and she felt herself
beginning to slip again . . .
Then a strong arm caught her around the waist,
and the strange voice was saying, Youd better sit
down, girl, before you fall down. Here!
A chair scraped forward and she was being eased
into it. Thank you, she managed to murmur.
Thank you very much.
Then a hand was holding a glass of water, helping
32

her to drink. Come on. This will make you feel

better. Its good and cold.
There was consternation in the voice, replacing
the patent surprise with which Connie had first been
greeted. And the square, blunt-nailed hand which
held the glass was trembling ever so little.
There! The word was almost a sigh of relief,
and Connie looked up into a broad, homely face
framed with dyed black hair which had been treated
to a bad permanent made even worse by the damp
salt air. Thats a girl. Youll be O.K. now!
Connie nodded. Yes, I think so. Her hands rose
to touch her throat, because it was beginning to
throb, and she asked, Who are you?
Me? Im Mrs. Phoebe Miller. The woman
sounded rather astonished to have to explain. Im
the public stenographerdownstairs. Whats more
to the point, who are you? And what were you doing
plowing around Miss Whitneys room in the dark?
Connie looked as puzzled as Phoebe Miller
sounded. II came to return a purse, she offered
feebly. And someone tried to strangle me, I think.
Strangle you? Incredulity colored the womans
high-pitched voice.
But Connie nodded, and just then noticed a dark
twist of silk on the carpet. Despite her dizziness, she
got up and bent to retrieve a gray silk stocking.
With this.
33

The stenographer looked nonplused, and her

rouge stood out in twin spots on heavily powdered
cheeks. Youre kiddin, she said, but there was an
undercurrent of alarm in her voice.
Really, Connie insisted, as her mind registered
the fact that the stocking was service weight and of a
gun-metal color bought only by older women. As a
matter of fact, its mate still lay on a chair where it
had apparently been casually tossed when Miss
Whitney was changing for dinner. Ill bet there are
marks on my neck. It still hurts.
She raised her chin so Phoebe Miller could
examine it.
It does look kind of red.
It should, Connie retorted ruefully.
But what would anybody want to strangle you
for? the woman asked.
Thats the sixty-four dollar question, admitted
Connie. Maybe they thought I was somebody else.
Look, youre sure youre not dreaming all this
up? Your neck isnt so very red, Phoebe Miller said
with a frown. She looked as though shed prefer not
to be mixed up with any such goings-on, and if she
could just talk Connie out of the notion, everything
might still be all right.
A flicker of a smile crossed Connies eyes. I
havent that good an imagination, she said just as
Paul Schorr appeared in the half-open door.
34

His hand was raised to knock when he saw

Connie unaccountably sitting in a straight chair in
the middle of the room. Then his glance shifted to
the buxom figure of the public stenographer. Hi,
Mrs. Miller, he said without expression, but his
voice raised an octave when he spoke to Connie.
What is happening here?
Thats what Im trying to find out, Phoebe
Miller said, spreading her hands in a helpless
gesture. What goes on? This girl, believe it or not,
Paul, was stumbling around Miss Whitneys room in
the dark when I came up to deliver some of those
letters shes always writing to newspaper editors.
She gave me the line that somebody was trying to
choke her.
Pauls light eyebrows drew together and he
looked like a worried cherub. Choke you? Whod
want to choke you? he asked, and his inflection
made the words an indirect compliment.
I dont know, Connie told him. I wish I did.
She repeated the story of how she had been trying
to return Miss Whitneys petit-point purse, but when
she described the manner in which she had
impulsively entered the darkened room she began to
realize that she had been rash. True though it might
be, the action was questionable, and in spite of his
admiration for her, the bellhop was obviously
disturbed by that part of her tale.
35

Before he had time to make any comment,

however, there was a joyous bark from the hall and
Frosti came bounding into the room, leash dangling,
to leap at Paul Schorr. Behind him, erect as a
flagpole, her white hair blown by the ocean breeze,
appeared his mistress.
Miss Whitneys sharp old eyes swept the room.
Well, she asked, what have we here? A
welcoming committee? There was no humor in her
voice.
Connie, still shaky, got to her feet. Im afraid
Im responsible, she began with a thin smile.
Responsible? I dont understand.
It was a distinct effort to repeat her story for the
third time, and to Connies own ears it sounded even
more improbable than previously. Yet, she tried to
explain, she had only been trying to do Miss
Whitney a small favor. If her head werent aching
she felt that she could have been more convincing,
but the room seemed to rock every now and then
and her voice sounded feeble and remote.
Miss Abigail stood like a statue until she had
finished. Isnt it a touchbrash, shall we say?to
walk into a strangers room on no matter what
errand?
I suppose it was, but you see I had the bag right
in my hand, and I was in a hurry.
Miss Whitneys thin eyebrows rose. Well, it was
36

kind of you, I am sure, she said perfunctorily, but

as it happens, I distinctly remember closing my
door, though I am not completely certain that I
locked it. I have been a guest at this hotel for nearly
two years and until now I have not found such
caution especially necessary.
The criticism implicit in her words made Connie
flush. The next time I try to do anyone a service,
she told herself, Ill think twice!
Aloud, however, she said, If you are trying to
tell me that you consider me bad-mannered, Miss
Whitney, I apologize!
Miss Abigail inclined her head.
And you, Paul. I suppose you came up to walk
Frosti. Admiral Crosby was good enough to give
him an airing this evening. I shant need you until
tomorrow morning at eight.
Summarily dismissed, the bellhop nodded and
went out of the room. Then Miss Whitney turned to
Phoebe Miller. Suppose I hear your version of the
story now.
Mrs. Miller, in her inimitable grammar, explained
once more. Its like this. I was coming up to bring
you those letters to the editorthe ones about we
want a gentleman for president and about how if
more women stayed home and tended to their kids . .
.
Yes, yes, nodded Miss Whitney impatiently, as
37

the stenographer indicated a sheaf of typed letters on

the flat-topped desk. Go on.
I saw the door open, likewhats your name,
miss?
Connie Blair, said Connie.
Like Miss Blair did. So I switched on the light,
and who should I find clingin to the edge of your
bureau, half out on her feet, but this young lady. She
tells me somebody tried to choke her with that silk
stocking of yours over there. I gave her a glass of
water. She gets a little color back in her face, and we
talk it over. Thats all.
Now, really! Miss Whitney sat in another
straight chair and crossed her legs delicately at the
ankles.
Connie was still incensed. Really, she said
firmly. Really and truly. Im not making this up,
Miss Whitney. What would be the point?
I havent the slightest idea. But then I havent
the slightest idea, either, why you didnt simply give
my purse to one of the waiters or to the desk clerk.
Its certainly a little unusual for a young girl to take
such an interest in a total stranger. Havent you
anything better to do?
I have a great deal to do, Miss Whitney!
Connie drew herself to her full height and her eyes
blazed. She didnt trouble to tell this peculiar and
highhanded elderly woman that she had met Frosti
38

and that she felt a certain natural interest in his

mistress. She didnt bother to explain that she was
merely making a generous and completely natural
gesture. She said, And now, if you will excuse me,
I will say good night, and walked from the room as
steadily as she could, indignant and aggrieved.
Phoebe Miller followed almost directly on her
heels. She hurried along the carpeted hall to
Connies door, where the younger girl was bending
to fit her key into the lock.
Dont mind her, she whispered hoarsely. She
just dont believe you, thats all. Its her way.
What right has she not to believe me? Connie
flared. I was telling the truth.
Well, it does sound kind of queer, youve got to
admit. Buxom Mrs. Miller flicked a hair from her
forehead and then stood with her arms akimbo,
thinking and shaking her head.
I cant help how queer it sounds. It happened.
And furthermore, my neck still hurts, and Ive been
keeping Hank Bronson waiting half an hour, so if
youll excuse me . . .
Your boy friend? Oh, sure. Why didnt you
say?
Connie didnt take time to explain that Hank was
a business acquaintance, not a suitor. As Mrs. Miller
waddled back down the hall toward the bank of
elevators, she went into her room, gave her hair a
39

quick brush, applied fresh lipstick, then grabbed her

coat and glanced hastily at her watch.
Exactly half an hour had ticked away since she
had started upstairs, and she was amazed, because
the elapsed time seemed much longer.
So much had happened in thirty minutes. She
shuddered in spite of herself at the thought of that
unknown person so close to her, so quiet, so
ruthless. And she could see in her minds eye the
silk stockingthat gray menace, snaking through
the darkness with evil intent. It was all
incomprehensible, mysterious. . . .

40

CHAPTER

Whodunit?

Hank was pacing up and down in front of the

magazine stand like a caged lion when Connie
stepped out of an elevator at long last.
Where in heck have you been? he asked as he
made a leap in her direction. Dont tell me
powdering your nose. Then, with a start, he noticed
her unaccustomed pallor. Why, Connie! Whats
wrong? Youre white as a sheet.
Tucking a considerate hand under her arm, he
drew her toward the deserted cardroom where a few
logs were smoldering in a large corner fireplace,
which was flanked by two facing sofas. Here! Sit
down.
Gratefully Connie sank down and stretched out
her cold hands to the warmth. Hank, Ive had a
rather terrible experience. Youll never believe
But Hank Bronson, unlike Miss Abigail Whitney,
41

did believe, word for word, everything Connie

subsequently told him. He was shocked and baffled,
but he didnt doubt for an instant that a pair of hands
had appeared out of the darkness to whip a gunmetal silk stocking around Connies throat.
Its outrageous! he said emphatically. I
thought this was supposed to be one of the most
reputable hotels in Atlantic City, but if a thing like
that can happen! I think you ought to get out.
Oh, now, Hank, theres no need to create a fuss,
Connie said placatingly. Im still alive and kicking,
after all.
Just by luck! It was a mighty close call, young
lady. Im going to the house detective; thats what
Im going to do!
He got up from the couch abruptly and almost
collided with Miss Emily Sloane, who was just as
surprised as he. Ohoh, I beg your pardon! she
apologized.
My fault entirely, Hank replied.
Miss Sloanes rather watery eyes shifted to
Connie. II was just about to ask, arent you Miss
Connie Blair?
Connie arose too. Yes, I am.
Miss Sloane put a timid hand on her arm. I just
wanted to tell you how shocked and sorry Her
voice, so soft in contrast to Miss Abigails booming
delivery, fluttered to a stop. My friend Abigail has
42

been telling me about youryour accident. Tch, tch,

tch! She shook her head. Im afraid she must have
been rather upset.
She was upset! Hank broke in. What about
Miss Blair here?
Oh, I know, I know. I think it was just dreadful.
Miss Sloane started to wring her hands. But dont
you think there must be some perfectly normal
explanation for what happened. Surely nobody
would want
Maybe it was a case of mistaken identity, Hank
suggested.
Miss Sloanes eyes widened. Oh, my dear, she
cried, do you really think so? You mean someone
could have been lying in wait for Abigail? Goodness
me! She seemed quite overcome at the idea and
suddenly sat down on the edge of the facing sofa, so
Connie and Hank also sat down again.
I still think its a case for the house detective,
Hank grumbled, half to himself.
House detective? Oh, my. My friend Abigail
certainly wouldnt want that! Miss Sloane seemed
more agitated than ever by such a suggestion.
You mean Miss Whitney would prefer that this
attempted strangling go unreported? Hank asked
coolly.
Oh, no. Quite the contrary. Well Miss Sloane
looked extremely disturbed, as though Hank had
43

jockeyed her into a hopeless position. I mean, she

said, trying again, she does dislike gossip and
confusion, you see. A woman living alone in a hotel
cant be too careful, you know, especially an older
woman. She turned to Connie. I do hope she
didnt say anything unkind, but finding you there
all of youmust have come as rather a shock.
Hank also turned to Connie. All of you?
Mrs. Miller, the public stenographer who found
me, and Paul, the bellhop who walks Miss
Whitneys poodle. He had just come in, Connie
explained.
Miss Emily gave a little gasp and touched her
heart with her hand in a thoroughly Victorian
gesture. Butbut are you sure? she asked, edging
forward. Are you sure he had just come in? Her
voice fell to a whisper and she glanced around to
make sure that they were quite alone and that she
couldnt be overheard. That boy hasnt been in this
country long, I happen to know. As I was just
saying, you cant be too careful. Im sure a good
many undesirable aliens manage to slip through.
Connie slid a glance at Hank, who was looking,
from minute to minute, increasingly baffled, but she
herself could scarcely manage to stifle a grin. Such
timidity and suspicion were utterly foreign to her
nature. Goodness, Miss Sloane, she said, Paul
seems like a thoroughly likable young man. Ive
44

talked to him a bit.

Miss Sloane looked mildly disapproving. Its my
opinion that chatting with the help is unwise, she
said with a shake of her head. I may seem oldfashioned and stuffy, but you just never know.
Are you suggesting (Connie almost said
insinuating) that Paul was lying in wait in that
dark room to strangle me, or Miss Whitney, or
someone else who might have come in?
Oh goodness no! Im not suggesting anything,
Miss Sloane replied, except that Paul was the most
logical person to have been there. Who knows what
a foreigner may have in mind? She pronounced the
word foreigner with an inflection which told Connie
that she distrusted all foreigners on sight. It seemed
a pitiful thing to the younger girl, yet she understood
the reaction, because she had been raised in a small
town where such maiden ladies as Miss Emily
abounded, women who were hidebound and
constricted in their every view of life.
There was no use arguing the question. Besides,
Miss Sloane gave her no chance. Im not saying
Paul did it, mind you, she said in her hesitating,
almost breathless voice. As a matter of fact, Im
inclined to agree with Abigail that you stumbled
against some piece of furniture and fell.
Connie shook her head. In that case why would
my neck be so sore?
45

You might have hit your neck on the bedpost.

Nonsense, Hank interjected almost rudely.
Just look at Connies neck. The marks are there!
But Miss Sloane seemed disinclined to enter into
any close examination. She arose and backed away
delicately, saying, Well, you know your
imagination can play tricks in the dark, sometimes.
Then, with a fussy little nod of good-bye, she
turned and walked quickly, on her sensible heels,
out of the room.
It was Hanks turn to shake his head. Curiouser
and curiouser, he muttered. What was she trying
to prove, anyway?
Nothing, perhaps. Just trying to teach me good
manners.
Manners that went out with the gaslight era,
Hank said.
We-ell, Connie said hesitatingly, to give the
old ladies their due, I suppose I shouldnt have
walked into Miss Abigails room, but if they think
that nice young bellhop was lying in wait for me, I
wont buy it, to put it slangily.
Ill have to meet this chap. Hes just a kid, you
say?
Connie nodded. Hes an Austrian with a British
accent, and you want to pat him on the head, he has
such cute dimples.
Youre not falling for this guy? Hank looked
46

alarmed.
Me? Gosh, no! I told you he was very young.
Oh, I beg your pardon! Hank leaned forward,
inspecting Connie inquisitively.
What are you doing? she asked.
Looking for the gray hairs.
She was laughing at his nonsense when Phoebe
Miller went past the door, caught a glimpse of
Connie, and turned to call, Youre feeling okeydoke now, I see. Good girl! She clasped her hands
in a signal of victory, grinned at them both, then
waddled on.
Whos that blowzy dame? Hank whispered.
Dont tell me. Let me guess. The public
stenographer.
Right, Connie agreed.
Do you think she might be the killer type, in
disguise?
If she is, its a mighty good disguise! Connie
chuckled. She was feeling better by the moment, and
was becoming increasingly aware that the evening
was slipping by, and that Hank was really anxious to
check up on developments at the pier, even though
her misfortune was uppermost in his mind. Come
on, she suggested. Lets see how the boys
wrestling with the crates are doing. Im feeling fit as
a fiddle again.
In this last remark Connie was stretching the
47

truth, but as soon as they reached the boardwalk she

did begin to feel better. The sea air was very
bracing, and although her knees felt a trifle wobbly,
she convinced herself that a walk would do her
good.
Hank was still reluctant to leave the hotel without
contacting the house detective, yet at the same time
the details of his job in launching the cooking
contest were uppermost in his mind. Once they had
reached Howlands Pier and discovered that the last
of the workmen were finishing up, however, he put
business behind him and returned to the subject of
Connies misadventure, which actually was haunting
them both.
What gets me, he said as they left the lights of
the pier behind them, is who has it in for whom,
and why? I cant honestly believe that anyone
wanted to choke you, Connie. But then that must
mean that somebody did want to strangle Miss
Abigail Whitney, wouldnt you say?
Or that someone had some nefarious business in
her room, and I surprised themor him, or her.
Strangling sounds more like a him, Hank
conjectured.
Im not so sure. Theres the silk-stocking angle.
Oh, but that was Miss Abigails. It was just
handy.
They walked along arm in arm for a few minutes,
48

looking at the high-riding winter moon above the

monstrous silhouettes of the hotels, each following a
separate train of thought.
After a while Hank said, I wonder where
Admiral Crosby comes into the picture, if at all.
Admiral Crosby? He was out walking with Miss
Whitney when it all happened.
I know that, replied Hank. Oh, forget it. Lets
stop in and have a cup of hot chocolate somewhere,
then hit the sack. Tomorrows going to be a busy
day.
In the next block of shops they found a small
boardwalk restaurant of the type which stays open
until midnight each night, winter and summer. There
was a soda counter, miniscule tables, and a glaring
overhead light.
A languid waitress took their order, which
included two hamburgers with. Hank looked
pleased. I like a girl with a bedtime appetite, he
said.
Connie was just biting into her roll when she saw
Paul Schorr come through the door, blinking against
the sudden light, to slip into a seat at the counter and
order a cup of coffee. He was wearing slacks and a
sweater, topped by a threadbare sports jacket, and he
looked completely different without his bellhops
natty uniform, even younger, somehow, poor and
rather vulnerable.
49

A few minutes later the boardwalk door opened

again and in walked Admiral Crosby. He, too,
headed for the counter, edging onto a stool beside
Paul, who greeted him with a combination of
familiarity and deference. Connie was about to point
them out to Hank, then thought better of it. The
bellhops appearance tonight might prejudice the
advertising mans opinion. For some reason or other
Paul made Connie feel protective. She wanted Hank
to see him when he looked his best.
Paul and the Admiral were deep in conversation
when Connie and her escort left. Neither had given a
glance at the other people in the restaurant, and
Connie was secretly surprised at their absorption.
What could they have to talk about of such intense
mutual interest? And why would they seek each
other out away from the hotel?
Hank, meanwhile, was trying to persuade Connie
to change her mind and move out of the BarkleySheridan. I just dont like the whole setup, he told
her. Somethings cooking that doesnt smell good,
even to my insensitive nostrils. The sort of thing that
happened tonight is more than frightening. Its
doggoned dangerous, and Id feel better if you were
out of there!
Now, now, Uncle Henry, Connie teased him.
Calm down. Im not going to walk into any more
strange rooms, and Ill lock my door. What could
50

possibly happen, after all?

Look what has happened! Hank retorted. Be
co-operative, please. It wouldnt take half an hour
for you to pack, and well call a cab and move you
out of there, fast.
But Connie stubbornly shook her head.
Remember my due bill, she reminded him. No,
Hank, I really cant.
You can too.
Well, I wont then.
And with that firm refusal Hank had to be
satisfied, although he insisted on riding up to the
sixth floor and making sure that Connie was safely
locked in her room.
After he had left, Connie undressed and prepared
for bed without a qualm of apprehension. Nor did
she doubt that she had done the right thing in
refusing to allow Hank to persuade her to move.
Connie wasnt a quitter. She had never yet run away.
And besides, there was one thing which she hadnt
confessed to Hank. Whatever mystery surrounded
Miss Abigail Whitney was definitely intriguing. She
was prepared to take her own chances in order to
learn more about it.
Propped up on her pillows, looking out at the
moon which rode, obligingly, in the small section of
sky which her view toward the ocean commanded,
Connie tried her best to guess whose hands had
51

twisted the silken noose around her neck. Was it

someone unknown or was it one of the persons
surrounding Miss Abigail Whitney whom she had
already met?

52

CHAPTER

Accused!

Connie dressed carefully the next morning, because

she wanted to look her best on the first day of the
cooking contest and expected to be interviewing
contestants for the better part of the morning. In the
afternoon she was afraid the cooks would be too
busy to want to talk, so she planned to get to
Howlands Pier as soon as the doors were open.
Wearing a soft beige wool dress that almost
matched her hair and which gave her skin a warm,
creamy glow, she carried her coat along with her to
breakfast, which she ate in a nearly empty dining
room. Among the few early risers she noticed David
Maxwell, but, like the other two men in the room
just then, he was buried behind a newspaper and
appeared not to be aware of her presence until she
got up to leave. Then he nodded and smiled and
called a good morning across the room, adding,
53

Not quite such a nice day today.

Isnt it? I havent been out, Connie said, but the
minute she reached the boardwalk she knew he was
right. The sun was hidden behind a bank of fog, and
the ocean was gray and menacing. Gulls screamed
angrily overhead, swooping down now and then in
search of fish, and the piers that extended out to sea
were half hidden in the mist that gave them a
ghostly appearance.
Jabbing her hands into her pockets, Connie
briskly walked the half mile from her hotel to
Howlands Pier, planning her approach to the job at
hand. With characteristic decisiveness, she had put
the events of the previous night out of her mind.
Now it was time to get to work.
The scene at the pier was encouraging. Half a
hundred aproned women and a couple of aproned
men were already cooking away at the gleaming
white Standard Fixture electric ranges. Sniffing
pleasurably, Connie made her way to the company
office where she discarded her coat for a lapel tag
which identified her as an S. F. official. A half
dozen women dressed much like nurses, in white
uniforms, were already hurrying about, advising
contestants on the use of the stoves and refrigerators,
and Hank Bronson and his staff, also wearing lapel
tags, were greeting contestants, answering questions,
and helping out generally.
54

Hank had explained to Connie the routine

planned for the day. The fifty-odd contestants were
all winners of an eastern seaboard qualifying recipe
competition held by mail in the fall, and each was
working on her (or his) entry for the final.
A committee of five judges was on hand to
evaluate entries, which all had to be in by five
oclock. Then the twenty-five contestants singled
out for the finals would compete the next day for the
big money prizes ranging from five thousand to five
hundred dollars.
Talk to any of the contestants you want, Connie
was told by Hank, who was looking very full of
responsibility in a dark-blue double-breasted suit.
As long as you dont disturb them while theyre
busy. You know what fancy cooking is!
Connie did, thanks to all that she had learned
while living with her Aunt Bet in Philadelphia, but
did Hank, she wondered. She watched him bustle
across the room, ignoring his own advice by
stopping to talk to a woman who was just measuring
ingredients in careful spoonfuls. The cook frowned,
sighed, and started over when he left her. Connie
grinned to herself.
Still, she remembered the admonishment, and
introduced herself to No. 37, a dark-haired lady she
found gazing into space, who told her that she was
Mrs. Miriam Larkin, of Wilmington, Delaware, and
55

showed her a recipe for a hickory-nut pie her

Pennsylvania Dutch grandmother had taught her to
make. Ive modified it, she explained, and
changed it a little. Its popular with folks who like
rich desserts.
There seemed little of particular interest here, so
Connie excused herself as soon as possible and
spent the next half hour interviewing the youngest
contestant, a seventeen-year-old girl who reminded
her a little of Kit. She felt a twinge of homesickness
as she looked into the dark-brown eyes, fringed, like
her own, with heavy lashes. Sometime soon, she
promised herself, she and Kit would take another
vacation together. The fortnight they had spent one
year in Newport, where they had solved a mystery
known as The Ghost Wore White, had been such
grand fun!
The girls name was Holly Morgan and she was
about to make, she explained, a French mint cake.
She was a trifle breathless, because she said she had
been all over Atlantic City looking for peppermint
extract, and there didnt seem to be any in town.
Finally, in desperation, she had settled for a small
bottle of pure mint, which was bound to be stronger,
and which she was regarding dubiously.
I dont know how much to use, she said, biting
her lip. It may throw the entire recipe off.
Connie was trying to think of something
56

consoling to say when she felt a hand on her arm.

She turned to look into a mans cold, pale-blue eyes.
Are you Miss Blair? the stranger asked.
Connie nodded. Yes.
May I speak to you a minute?
Of course. Connie excused herself from Holly
Morgan, and turned aside, considering the
newcomers abruptness rather rude. There was no
lapel tag on the mans dark suit, nor did his overly
quiet manner and graying hair suggest that he was a
company official. Somehow, in this bustling
atmosphere, he seemed out of place.
The reason was apparent an instant later, when he
said, in a voice pitched carefully low, Im Howard
Jones, the house detective at the Barkley-Sheridan. I
will have to ask you to get your wraps and come
back to the hotel with me.
At once?
If its convenient.
It isnt, really, Connie explained with complete
honesty. My job
It wont take long. Half an hour or so.
Connie realized that he was changing a request
into an order. Very well. Ill get my coat.
Mentally promising herself to return to Holly
Morgan at a later time, she went back to the office.
If you see Mr. Bronson, please tell him Ill be back
shortly, she said to the girl at the desk, and rejoined
57

the detective who was waiting at the door.

They fell into step, side by side, walking rapidly,
heads down against the wind. Connie was curious,
rather than alarmed, concerning her summons. May
I ask what this is all about? she said after a while.
Mr. Jones dodged the question. The manager
wants to talk to you, he said briefly, and with a
certain finality in his tone.
With an effort Connie controlled her desire to
probe further. A suspicion that the incident in Miss
Whitneys room was behind the command request
for her presence kept nudging her, but she refused to
give Mr. Jones a chance to snub her once again.
They covered the distance to the hotel entrance in
record time, and the detective led her along a
corridor off the main lobby past the game-room
door.
Within, shooting billiards idly by himself, Connie
glimpsed David Maxwell. He looked up just at the
moment she passed, and the startled expression on
his face told her that he recognized her escort as the
house detective. For a moment she was overcome by
embarrassment at being seen in such company, then
she raised her chin a little higher and thought, Why
should I mind? She had done nothing wrong,
nothing of which to be ashamed!
The door to the managers office was closed, and
Mr. Jones stopped to rap on the glass with a discreet
58

knock.
Come in, come in! called an impatient voice,
and a chair squeaked back as the detective opened
the door and held it for Connie to pass.
The man who arose from behind the desk was
squat and stout but impeccably groomed, in the
tradition of hotel managers the world over. His
sharp, beady eyes appraised Connie quickly and his
manner, as he held out his hand, was very suave.
Miss Blair, I believe?
Connie nodded without speaking.
Wont you have a chair?
The seat which he indicated faced the long gray
panel of the window. Connie shrugged out of her
coat and sat down, looking especially glowing after
her brisk walk. But the manager, whose desk plate
announced him to be J. Clifford Beebe, was
apparently able to ignore her charm along with the
high color in her cheeks.
He tapped his blotter briskly with a pencil. Miss
Blair, youre acquainted with Miss Abigail
Whitney? he asked.
So I was right, Connie thought, but she nodded
demurely and said, Just barely. We met last night.
Would you mind describing exactly what
occurred last evening in Miss Whitneys room?
Not at all. As concisely as possible, Connie
repeated the story of her unexpected attack.
59

Hmph, said the manager when she had finished.

Shall I call in the others? Mr. Jones suggested.
No, Jones. Sit down, Mr. Beebe snapped,
although Mr. Jones was already seated. Then he
turned again to Connie. Why didnt you report
thiserassault last night?
I didnt want to create any more disturbance,
Connie tried to explain, although in that very
moment came the realization that she should have
taken Hanks advice. To both men it apparently
seemed decidedly odd that she had raised no alarm.
Female guests who allowed themselves to be
strangled and then kept quiet about it were as rare as
phillyloo birds.
Hmph, grunted Mr. Beebe again. His inflection
sounded dubious.
Connie, meanwhile, was wondering how the hotel
manager happened to learn about the incident in
Miss Whitneys room, anyway. Of course a good
many people knew about itPhoebe Miller, Paul
Schorr, Miss Emily Sloane, to name the obvious. It
was entirely conceivable that they had spread the
word still further, but why? And what had Mr.
Beebe specifically in mind in calling her here?
Connie felt that they had not yet reached the kernel
of the interview, and she was right.
Miss Blair, said Mr. Beebe unexpectedly, I
suppose you are aware that Miss Whitney is a very
60

wealthy woman.
I know nothing whatever about her
circumstances, Connie replied.
Mr. Beebes scant eyebrows raised. It is rather
common knowledge, he said.
Ive been a guest here for less than a day,
Connie reminded him a trifle tartly. And for a great
deal of that time Ive been working. As I should be
doing right now.
Miss Blairthe manager leaned forward
after your entry into Miss Whitneys room last
night it was found that a rather valuable brooch had
disappeared. Perhaps you will recall having seen it if
I describe it to you.
I? Connie was nonplused.
But Mr. Beebe ignored the monosyllabic
question. It was a handmade French piece, quite
unusual. A golden falcon with emerald eyes is
clutching a smoky pearl in his talons. The wings are
set with diamonds. Quite unusual, I should say. Not
a piece one would be likely to forget.
No, indeed, Connie said slowly. I remember
the brooch. Miss Whitney was wearing it at dinner
last night. But she went walking afterward on the
boardwalk. Might it have become unfastened?
The managers smile was humorless. Im afraid
not. Miss Whitney reports that she had taken it off
and laid it on the bureau. He leaned forward even
61

more intently. The bureau, Miss Blair. The bureau

at which Mrs. Miller found you standing when she
came into the room.
For several seconds there was complete silence.
Then Connie stuttered, Areare you by any
chance accusing She stopped, incredulous.
Mr. Beebe leaned back and glanced at Mr. Jones,
who said calmly, It has been established that you
were the last person known to have been in Room
604 alone.
But Connie spread her hands, feeling
helpless in the face of such absurd reasoning.
Youre forgetting the person who attacked me,
arent you? The man, or woman, whoever it was.
Wouldnt it furnish a motive for the strangling?
Probably I all but apprehended the thief.
Again the slight, humorless smile played around
Mr. Beebes full lips. You speak well, Miss Blair,
he said. You are very intelligent for a girl your age.
Intelligent enough, I hope, to give us credit for some
brains as well. We have already questioned Mrs.
Miller and the bellhop who generally walks Miss
Whitneys dog, and both have reported that they
arrived on the scene within a few minutes of your
alleged attack. It would seem logical that one or the
other of them might have caught a glimpse of this
er, criminalescaping. Yet neither was so fortunate.
The only person found in the vicinity of Miss
62

Whitneys room last night was you.

I didnt, however, steal the brooch, said Connie
flatly. She was incensed by the managers attitude,
but she did her best to remain outwardly calm.
In that case you will have no objection if we
search your room?
Connie inclined her head. You will find
nothing.
I dare say.
It would be very convenient, put in Mr. Jones,
if the brooch should turn up. It is a very unusual
piece, and although it is insured, of course, it is
actually irreplaceable. Should it be delivered, say, to
Mr. Beebes office here, within the next twelve
hours, I rather imagine the management might
arrange to forget the entire incident. He turned to
Mr. Beebe. Am I right?
Such a contemptible suggestion Connie could not
countenance. She sprang to her feet, her brown eyes
flashing.
I shant forget about the incident, she cried.
Whether or not you believe it, somebody tried to
strangle me, and Im going to find out who! When I
can answer that question I can probably also tell you
how to get Miss Whitneys brooch back. And now,
unless you intend to place me under formal arrest, I
trust I may be excused?
63

CHAPTER

The Green-eyed Falcon

We shall have to ask that you dont leave town,

was Mr. Joness parting thrust.
Connie eyed him with controlled fury. You can
find me, should you want me, just where you found
me this morning. She turned on her heel and
marched out, seething. Never in her life had she felt
so outraged, so unjustly accused.
If she passed anyone she knew on the way back
to the pier, she didnt see them. She walked along
very rapidly, completely self-absorbed, trying to
make some sense out of the sorry intrigue which
seemed to surround her.
Then, characteristically, she made up her mind to
forget it until evening. She had work to do, and she
had never been a slacker on the job.
Luckily, the Standard Fixture executives had been
kept so busy by demanding cooks that she hadnt
been missed. Within fifteen minutes of her arrival
64

she had slipped back into the convention groove,

and no onlooker who saw Connies smooth blond
head bent over a pad of paper as she jotted down
notes between interviews would have dreamed that
she had any reason to be deeply disturbed.
She worked fast, to make up for lost time. After
collecting several human-interest stories concerning
the backgrounds of several of the cooks or their
recipes she started the survey Reid and Renshaw had
requested concerning the workability of the stoves
themselves.
A dozen times she asked the same questions.
What do you especially like or dislike in our
stoves? Glass doors? Deep wells? Do top ovens
appeal to youmake things easier? On a
convenient form she jotted down replies, checking
on preferences.
One woman had never before cooked on anything
but a wood stove, and the battery of switches
confused and terrified her. Another was so stout that
bending to peer into an oven door was one of the
trials of her life. Mrs. Ferilli, who had finished her
lasagne to her satisfaction and had already sent the
dish along to the judges, delivered quite a lecture on
the evils of deep-well cookers. Youre too apt to
turn the wrong switch and burn the bottom out, she
insisted. I like top burners you can see.
All these comments were grist for Connies mill.
65

She had brought her typewriter along and she

planned to get some publicity stories off to the
papers that night, even though it meant working late.
So she hurried, at five-thirty, directly from
Howlands Pier to her room, where she tapped out
several brief but bright newspaper pieces concerning
the first day of the contest. It was just past eight
oclock when she tucked them into envelopes and
put them in the mail chute in the sixth-floor hall.
Connies steps, on the flowered carpet which
covered the floor, were noiseless, and the hall was
completely empty, the room doors closed. Yet,
oddly enough, she was assailed by the feeling that
someone was watching her, and she glanced
suspiciously toward the large double fire doors
which closed off a corridor leading to the unused
Sheridan section of the hotel. It was an eerie
sensation, and it could be, she told herself, an
overactive imagination. Or had the management set
someone to spy on her movements, perhaps?
She went back to her room, deliberately leaving
her door ajar while she got her coat and gloves and
bag. Perhaps it was a foolishly daring gesture, an
invitation to danger, but she felt that she couldnt go
around cringing in terror of something fanciful or
unknown. A kernel of healthy fear vied with pangs
of equally healthy hunger in her stomach. Not until
she was riding downstairs in the bright confinement
66

of the elevator did the hunger gain ascendancy.

I suppose the dining room is closed?
Yes, miss, the operator said. Eight oclock,
weekdays, is the deadline. Sorry, miss.
It doesnt matter, Connie replied easily. I need
a little fresh air, anyway. And I suppose Childs stays
open until midnight, or even round the clock.
I wouldnt be knowin that, miss, said the man
as he stopped the elevator to take on a passenger at
the fourth floor. The door opened to admit David
Maxwell, who was wearing a topcoat and carrying
his hat in his hand.
Hello! He smiled at Connie, looking genuinely
glad to see her.
Good evening. She spoke and smiled back, just
as the elevator man said, Beggin your pardon, sir,
but would you know if Childs restaurant is open this
late?
I think so. Im going there for a cup of coffee.
David turned back to Connie. I hope hes asking
for you.
The operator grinned and nodded, looking
pleased at having brought an attractive young couple
together, because Connie said, Yes, I want to get
some dinner. Ive been working late.
He watched them cross the lobby, heading toward
the boardwalk entrance, and said to Admiral Crosby
as he stepped into the car, There goes as pretty a
67

young lady as Ive seen in many a day.

The pretty young lady, meanwhile, was happy to
have an escort, and David Maxwell was particularly
acceptable because he appeared not to be mixed up,
in any way, with the mysterious events surrounding
Miss Abigail Whitney and her missing brooch. It
was pleasant not to need to be on guard.
You never did tell me about your job clown
here, David reminded Connie as they walked along
in the mist which still shrouded the shop fronts in a
frosty glow.
Im with an advertising agency, Connie
explained, and told him about the Standard Fixture
Cooking Contest, and her part in it. One thing led to
another, and she found herself also telling him some
of the amusing happenings of the past two days,
including the story of Frosti and the sausage.
Poodles are born clowns. David laughed. Id
love to have been there!
By the time Connie had ordered her dinner, and
Davids coffee had arrived, their acquaintance had
ripened to a first-name basis. They drifted into it
easily, as young people will, without any
prearrangement, and each was conscious that the
others company was enjoyable and that their
meeting had been fortuitous.
David even put it into words. Gosh, Im glad I
ran into you. I was feeling lonely and sorry for
68

myself.
Poor guy! Connie teased him. Nothing to do
all day but shoot billiard balls.
Remembrance mingled with amusement in
Davids eyes. Say, what were you doing back at the
hotel in the middle of the morning, anyway? I
thought you were supposed to be hard at work
quizzing your half-a-hundred cooks?
A frown crinkled Connies eyebrows. Its a long
story. Maybe Ill tell you sometime. She was
deliberately evasive.
But she reckoned without Davids tenacity. He
settled back in his chair comfortably. The time is
now.
Well, Connie thought, why not? Davids reaction
would be a fresh point of view, and reviewing the
subject might throw some new light on the situation.
Still, she knew the hazard of confiding in a stranger,
even such an attractive young man as David
Maxwell, and she glanced at her watch, hesitating
between caution and impulse.
David himself called the play. Wasnt that
Jones,, the house detective, trotting along at your
side?
If he knew this much, Connie decided, he might
as well know the rest, and she would rather hed
hear it from her than from Phoebe Miller or from
one of the bellhops. By now she had no doubt that
69

the whole improbable story was common gossip in

the hotel.
All right, she agreed, you asked for it. Yes, it
was Mr. Jones. But Id rather begin at the beginning,
if you dont mind.
Im fascinated, David said, still half-teasing.
Do go on. Then he sobered when he realized that
Connie had turned completely serious. Her brown
eyes were reflective, and her voice lost its lilt as she
told him how she had happened to return Miss
Whitneys bag.
You know who Miss Abigail Whitney is? The
elderly, white-haired lady with the husky voice.
David nodded, and a momentary shadow crossed
his lace. Yes, Ive seen her around.
It sounded like an understatement, but Connie
didnt question it. She launched into her story with
her usual intensity, trying to marshal all the facts in
chronological order, so that David would get as clear
a picture as possible of the happenings of last night.
When she described her attack in the dark he
looked shocked rather than incredulousshocked
but entirely believing. There was no doubt in
Connies mind that he knew she was telling the
truth. She omitted, as irrelevant, her meeting with
Hank afterward, and the brief encounters with Miss
Sloane and Phoebe Miller. Instead, she skipped to
the moment at which the house detective had
70

approached her at the cooking contest, and described

her unpleasant reception in the managers office,
and the consequent accusation that the strangling
had been a hoax perpetrated to cover the theft of a
valuable brooch.
Brooch? Whats a brooch? David asked.
It was a word, Connie realized, that was probably
unfamiliar to many young men of the present
generation. A sort of pin, she explained readily.
An ornament worn on a suit lapel or at the throat of
a ladys dress. Its rather an old-fashioned term, I
guess. I remember my grandmother wearing a pearl
sunburst brooch to pin her collar. But this was
nothing like that. It was very unusuala gold falcon
with diamonds set into the wingsand hes holding
a smoky pearl in his talons.
David whistled. Sounds like a grim subject.
Connie was puzzled for a minute. Then she said,
I hadnt thought of it like that. I only saw the pin
once. Miss Whitney was wearing it last night at
dinner, and I thought it was very beautiful.
I suppose it was also very valuable?
Connie nodded. I suppose so, from the hue and
cry set up. But I wish you wouldnt use the past
tense. I keep feeling it will turn up.
David looked a trifle dubious. I understand Miss
Whitney is a rather eccentric old lady. Perhaps she
just mislaid it.
71

Or lost it on the boardwalk. I thought of that.

But then wed be right back where we started, with
no motive at all for the attempted strangling.
David signaled to the waitress for more coffee,
and when his cup was filled, said, Your theory is,
then, that you came close to apprehending the thief.
He chuckled. Except that he apprehended you
first.
It wasnt fun, Connie told him.
I know it wasnt! Forgive me for making a joke
about it. Im fully aware it was darned serious.
Connie scarcely heard the apology. She was
thinking back. You said he, she reminded him.
Couldnt it have been a woman who tried to
strangle me?
I suppose it could, David replied thoughtfully,
but it somehow seems unlikely. Strangling isnt a
womans trick.
Not usually, Connie admitted. Still
Say! David snapped his fingers as though he
had just remembered something. You know what? I
saw something rather suspicious, now that I think of
it. That military-looking old gentleman, the one that
hangs around Miss Whitney He hesitated,
thinking.
Yes? Connie prodded.
I was buying a magazine at the newsstand,
David went on, and he and Miss Whitney were just
72

going out, apparently for a walk, because they had

the dog with them. She stopped to pick up some
stamps and the man
Admiral Crosby, Connie put in.
Admiral Crosby excused himself in rather a
hurry, said hed forgotten his gloves, and went back
UP in the elevator while she stood and waited. He
could be a suspect, at least.
Connie was a trifle dubious. However, they
discussed the subject pro and con for several
minutes. Finally Connie admitted, Well, whoever it
was, man or woman, theres no doubt about one
thing. He or she certainly knew the lay of the land.
That room was as black as the ace of spades. I
couldnt even find the light switch, let alone the
bureau.
Of course there is such a thing as a pin-point
flashlight, David reminded her. Mighty handy
little gadgets, too.
Yes, Connie admitted thoughtfully. And my
knock gave fair warning. Besides, it would have
been easy for someone inside to see me in the
doorway. The light from the hall, dim as it is, was at
my back.
Oh, sure, you were an easy mark, David
agreed, silhouetted like that. The silk-stocking job
was a cinch, actually. But it was also pretty brutal.
Who could have been sufficiently terrified of
73

discovery to attempt such a thing?

I havent the foggiest idea, Connie replied.
But if I want to find out, I think Id better try to get
to know Miss Abigail. Although, she added wryly,
I must say it may be something of a task. She
doesnt seem to feel exactly cozy toward me.
You put your charm to work. Shell grow to love
you. Although Davids tone was light there was
sincerity in his eyes.
Connie pushed back her chair in sudden
embarrassment. Its getting late, she reminded
herself. I really should go.
The boardwalk was slippery and wet underfoot as
they retraced their steps to the hotel. Most of the
souvenir shops were closed and even the occasional
drugstore or eating place was putting out lights.
Connie felt a need for a change of conversational
diet. Lets discuss you, now, she suggested,
instead of me.
Theres really nothing to discuss, David replied
rather uncomfortably.
Oh, come now! Connie chided him. Ive been
answering all your questions. Now I think its my
turn to ask some questions. For instance, where were
you born?
David hesitated a moment. In Leyte, he said in
a flat voice.
Thats an island in the Philippines, isnt it?
74

Connie asked. Goodness, I should think it would be

fascinating to live abroad. Was your father in the
service?
No. In the shipping business.
Oh. Connie knew by his expression that David
didnt want to discuss his past, and she wondered
why. From being quite open and friendly he had
suddenly become taciturn. Much as she wanted to
ask him what he was doing in Atlantic City, her
social conscience told her that this was no time to
probe.
Someday Id like to go abroad, she said instead.
Really abroad, I mean. France and Italy and
Switzerland and
Hey! Wait a minute. Davids good humor had
returned as quickly as it had fled. Youll have to
marry a millionaire.
Oh, I intend to, Connie told him. Or a sea
captain. I cant decide which would be most fun.
They chattered along companionably and
frivolously until they reached the hotel. Then David
insisted on accompanying Connie to the door of her
room. Just to make sure youre all right.
You mean the goblinsll git me if I dont watch
out? Connie laughed.
I mean that falcon with the green eyes will
swoop down and pick you up, retorted David
jokingly. Youve got to be careful of that bird.
75

CHAPTER

Connie Shadows a Suspect

The remark, intended merely as banter, fell a bit

short of being especially amusing, and perhaps this
made Connie sense that there was something wrong
with it. But it wasnt until she was in her room, with
the door safely locked behind her, that she knew
why she felt so unexpectedly disturbed. She stood in
the middle of the floor, her bag still in her hand, her
coat still on, and the expression on her face was one
of pure amazement.
But I never told him! she whispered aloud. I
never told him. How could he possibly have known
that the falcon had emerald eyes?
Slowly, moving like a somnambulist, Connie put
her purse on the bed and drew off her gloves. Then
she hung up her coat and sat down, straight and stiff
as though she were at church, on the edge of a pew.
Rapidly her mind was reviewing the conversation.
76

She had an excellent memory, and she was certain

that she had never mentioned the falcons green
eyes. Nor had David indicated that he had ever seen
Miss Whitney wear the jeweled brooch. Yet he
knew.
By one small slip, made in jest, he had told her
that their whole conversation was delusive. Rather
than confiding in him, she should have mistrusted
him. How foolishhow blind and foolish!she had
been.
She had so firmly believed that he was
completely ignorant of the tangle in which she was
enmeshed. Now, thinking back, Connie remembered
the slight shadow that had crossed Davids face at
first mention of Miss Whitney. If he had been honest
he would have told her at once that he knew the
brooch, instead of baiting her, instead of leading her
on!
The fact that she had been beguiled by his
attractiveness, his dark and exciting good looks,
infuriated Connie. She jumped up and went to the
bureau, facing herself in the mirror with blazing
eyes. Then she stripped off her dress and flung it on
a chair, unfastened her wrist watch and wound it
recklessly. Whenwhenwhen would she ever
learn?
Later, however, staring up at the darkened
ceiling, she calmed down. After all, what had she
77

told David Maxwell that was not common

knowledge? And in return she had come into
possession of an important new piece of
information. She now was morally certain that he
was somehow linked with Miss Abigail and the
recent strange train of events. She told herself that
two could play at his game. Not by a word or a
gesture would she let him know that she distrusted
him. Shed be especially friendly, lead him on as he
had led her. Then they would see!
After a while she got out of bed to get a drink of
water, and on her way back from the bathroom,
chancing to glance out the window which faced on
the carriage drive, she thought she saw a flickering
light touch a pane of glass in the wing of the hotel
which had been closed for the winter. It was on a
level with her own window, and she crossed the
room to get a better view, but as quickly as it came,
the light was gone. Connie shrugged. It could have
been a trick of her imagination, she told herself, or
the reflection of a cars headlights. She mustnt start
seeing hobgoblins around every corner.
Finally, sometime after midnight, Connie fell
asleep. She lay like a child, her head cradled on one
arm, and from the complete relaxation of her slender
young body nobody would have dreamed that her
slumber was disturbed by a nightmare in which she
was endlessly chasing a handsome, dark young
78

stranger with whom she never quite caught up.

In the morning she awoke with a start. In spite of
the gray light streaming in her window she had a
feeling that she had overslept. Getting out of bed,
she went over to the dresser to check the time, and
found that her watch had stopped at 10:45. She must
have wound it, in her passion of self-reproof, just a
little too tight.
It was easy, of course, to call the hotel operator,
who made a routine announcement. It is 7:38,
madam, and the temperature is 32 degrees.
Thank you, Connie said, relieved, and went in
to take a shower with the comforting thought that
she would have time to take the watch to a jeweler
before reporting for work.
She breakfasted lightly on orange juice, toast, and
coffee, seeing, among the hotel guests she
recognized, only Admiral Crosby, who smiled and
nodded in an almost fatherly way. Instead of passing
her table he stopped and said, I was sorry to hear
about your unfortunate experience the other evening.
A young girl cant be too careful. Dreadful, the
things that happen these days!
Apparently he had not heard of, or chose to
ignore, the theft of the brooch, and was referring
only to Connies unhappy attack.
Rather expecting to hear further from Mr. Beebe,
Connie stopped at the desk after breakfast and asked
79

for mail, but the only envelope in her box contained

a letter from her mother, which was a pleasant
surprise. After making sure that everything was all
right at home, that the family was well and busy,
Connie asked the desk clerk to recommend a watch
repair shop to her.
I go to a man back in town, he told her. Hes
an old German, and knows everything there is to
know about watches. But its quite a distance from
here.
Thats all right, Connie said. I feel like a
walk.
The clerk wrote down the name and address of
the shop, and drew her a rather intricate diagram of
the direction she should take. You go back to
Pennsylvania Avenue, he explained, then turn left
here and right there, and youll come to a maze of
little cross streets.
Together they bent their heads over the chart,
until Connie was certain that she could find the
place. Then she thanked him and started out.
The morning was cold and raw, with a biting
wind blowing from the northeast, and she walked
along rapidly, her head down, for the first few
blocks, until she found herself back in the old part of
the city, where the streets became narrow and the
houses and shops close-packed. She remembered
this rather unsavory section from her original taxi
80

ride. Lunchrooms jostled small stores and

boardinghouses. Consulting her diagram for the next
turn, Connie hesitated for a moment, almost directly
before a pawnshop, which was already open for
business at 8:45 this dreary morning, and when she
glanced up, she saw a man standing just inside the
glass-paneled door.
Recognition swept over her like a wave and she
shrank back, out of sight of the proprietor and his
customer, who wasof all peopleDavid
Maxwell!
There was an alley running along the side of the
shop, fenced and gated, with the gate, by chance,
latched back. Connie glanced up and down the
empty street to be sure she would be unnoticed, then
ducked inside, swinging the gate shut so that she
was conveniently hidden from the sidewalk. It was
an impulsive action, because her heart was pounding
and her knees were weak from surprise and
suspicion. Could David himself be the thief? Could
that be the reason why he knew that the falcon had
green eyes?
Connie waited perhaps five minutes. Then she
heard the shop door shut with a click, and through
the boards of the high fence, saw David walk rapidly
down the street in the direction of the hotel.
Allowing plenty of time for him to turn the corner,
she then came out of hiding and went on her way,
81

making sure that she would remember the location

and name of the pawnshop, because she intended to
stop in on her return trip.
The watch repair shop was only a few blocks
away and she found it without difficulty, entrusting
her timepiece to a pleasant, balding gentleman by
the name of Mr. Zimmerman, who assured her that
she could call for it the next day.
The pawnshop, when she reached it, was
fortunately deserted, but she walked into the
establishment with some hesitation because it was
the first time in her life that she had ever ventured
into such a place.
The proprietor approached her from a desk at the
back, shuffling along in carpet slippers, his wizened
face inscrutable. Morning, he muttered
expressionlessly and waited for her to make the first
move.
Connie smiled. I have nothing to pawn, she
confessed, but I wondered if I might look at your
old jewelry. I collect some stickpins and other things
once in a while. It was a gambit by which she
hoped to draw him into conversation.
Dont have much, the man said laconically. He
bent and pulled a worn, plush-lined tray from one of
the dusty glass cases. This is about all.
Connie pretended interest in a pair of old cuff
links, while her eyes traveled hastily over the rest of
82

the jewelry. She knew immediately that there was

nothing here of interest. Perhaps the better things
were kept in a safe.
You have nothing a little finer? she said after a
while.
The proprietor shrugged. In this part of town we
dont get the carriage trade.
Assuming that this was meant to be a joke,
Connie chuckled politely. I saw a young man in
here when I went past a while ago who looked rather
well dressed.
The proprietors eyes were fishy. He took the tray
of dubious jewelry and slid it back into the case.
Connie took a chance. He might have had
something interesting to pawn, perhaps?
But she knew at once that it was useless to pry.
The man had clammed up. He shook his head and
said, Nope, very flatly, and Connie began to feel
foolish.
Well, she said, Ill drop in again someday.
After she left the store she began to wish she had
asked the pawnshop owner an outright question
rather than beating around the bush. She had often
heard that these dealers feared, above all, locking
horns with the police, and if she had said that she
was on the trail of a stolen brooch, and described the
falcon, it might be that she could have thrown a
healthy scare into the man. Now she had only one
83

recourse, and she hesitated to take it. She could go

to Mr. Jones or to the obnoxious Mr. Beebe and tell
them that she had a clue, but she simply wasnt
inclined to be that co-operative. They had doubted
her before; they might very well doubt her again.
In any event, she had the morning to think the
situation over. She cut over toward the boardwalk a
few blocks up from the hotel, so that she could get
to Howlands Pier by the shortest possible route.
Hank met her at the door. Talk to the contestant
at Stove Eleven, he suggested at once. Shes got a
Moonlight Double-dipped Chocolate Cake that
looks good to me.
It sounds horrible, Connie commented. She
wasnt too fond of sweets. But Ill do my duty.
The twenty-five finalists looked, for the most
part, a trifle tense. Connie chatted with several of
them, among them a birdlike little lady who was
making a braided border for a sweet-potato pie.
Ill be glad when this is over, she confessed. I
kept baking pies in my sleep all last night and then
waking up when they got burned.
Connie was sympathetic. She knew how real a
nightmare could be, for hadnt she been chasing an
elusive dark stranger? But even the nightmare hadnt
seemed as unpleasant as the actual fact she had
stumbled on this morning. And what else than what
she suspected could David Maxwell have been
84

doing in the pawnshop?

At noon she declined an invitation to lunch with
some of the Standard Fixture executives and started
back to the Barkley-Sheridan, still trying to decide
what her next move should be. If the fishy-eyed
pawnshop man were the fence who was receiving
stolen goods, she knew that even now she had
probably delayed too long, yet having been falsely
accused, just yesterday, herself, she hated to inform
against David Maxwell without absolute proof of his
guilt.
Approaching the hotel, she went clown a wooden
ramp intending to cut across the lawn on a diagonal
path which led to the motor entrance. Since it was
still cloudy and cold there were few people abroad,
so she was attracted by the sound of voices coming
from directly beneath the boardwalk itself.
Admiral Crosby and Paul Schorr, who had Frosti
on leash, were in deep and animated conversation,
and without intending to eavesdrop, Connie stopped
for a moment in surprise.
Still standing, as she was, on the incline, she was
invisible to them, but the wind carried their voices
clearly toward her. Very well, the Admiral was
saying. Lets see if we cant wash it all up in the
next couple of days.
Paul said, Yes, sir, very smartly, as though he
were taking orders from a superior, and then Connie
85

saw Admiral Crosby hand him a rather bulky

envelope, which he tucked into a pocket inside his
uniform jacket.
Youll get it to her promptly, then?
Yes, sir, Paul said again. Thank you, sir.
The Admiral turned and walked away,
disappearing in the darkness under the boardwalk,
and Paul, without glancing toward the ramp, started
down the street toward the town.
Connie hesitated only a minute. Then, as
inconspicuously as possible, she followed him. He
never walked Frosti other than on the boardwalk or
on the beach, and she wanted to know what errand
took him away from his usual routine.
She was aware that any moment he might turn
and recognize her, so she let him get a full halfblock ahead, then took the further precaution of
pulling her scarf up over her bright hair like a nubia.
Keeping close to the buildings on the inside of the
cement pavement, she walked along trying to appear
as inconspicuous as possible and self-absorbed.
At Pennsylvania and Atlantic Avenues, where
midday traffic, despite the weather, was generally
brisk, Paul paused on the curb. Then, to Connies
dismay, she saw him hail a cab, and shoving Frosti
ahead unceremoniously, climb in.
The brief delay caused by getting the poodle, who
seemed reluctant to go for a ride, into the taxi, was
86

the opportunity Connie needed. Another cab, an

empty one, was just stopping at the intersection; so,
taking a chance that she might be seen, Connie
sprinted ahead.
Raising one hand to hail the driver, because she
didnt want to risk shouting, Connie reached the
corner just as the car started to move. For a few
seconds she was afraid the driver wouldnt see her;
then, fortunately, he wheeled the taxi in toward the
curb and stopped with squealing brakes.
Connie was inside in a flash. Please, can you
follow that cab aheadthe one with the poodle
looking out the window. Frosti, accommodatingly,
had thrust his head from the lowered rear window
and cut quite a figure, with his clipped ears flapping
comically in the breeze.
An instant later Paul pulled him back inside, but
by then the driver had fastened the cabs license
number in his mind. Whats the matter, miss? the
fellow asked. That your dog? He aint makin off
with him, is he?
No, but hes paid to walk him, Connie said
truthfully enough, and I have a feeling that the dog
isnt getting the proper exercise. I just want to check
up on what goes on, thats all.
Im your man, the driver said. Nothin I like
better than to tail a car. Dont get much of that kind
of stuff to do nowadays.
87

The driver of Pauls taxi, Connie decided, after

the first five minutes, must have been educated in
New York. He ducked in and out of traffic like a
Manhattan veteran, beat lights by split seconds, and
whipped around corners with squealing tires.
Her own man, however, was as good as his word.
He had some close calls, but he never lost sight of
the lead taxi, and he enjoyed the chase volubly.
About a mile from their starting point the
bellhops cab drew up at the door of a restaurant
announcing itself as Charlies Grill. Through the
plate-glass window Connie could see that it was
well filled with noon-hour lunchers, so she assumed
that the food must be fair. She told her driver to go
past slowly, turn around and come back, then park,
if possible, on the opposite side of the street.
Meanwhile Paul, leaving the poodle in the cab, got
out. He held a brief conversation with his driver,
apparently about the dog, which he indicated with a
nod of his head, then crossed the pavement and
entered the restaurant.
Throwing caution to the winds, Connie got out
too and crossed the street in as casual a manner as
possible, then stopped outside the plate-glass
window as though she were reading the menu taped
to the pane.
The interior, fluorescent-lighted, was clearly
visible, but for a few seconds Connie didnt see
88

Paul. She scanned the diners hastily, then her eyes

happened to alight on the cashiers cage near the
door. She ducked her head, her heart pounding,
because the bellhop was directly facing her. Then
she realized that he was so absorbed in conversation
with the cashier, a middle-aged woman with graying
hair whose back was toward Connie, that he had
eyes for no one else. He was talking rapidly, as
though he were in a hurry, and then he reached into
his pocket and handed the woman the brown
envelope which Admiral Crosby had given him
during their under-the-boardwalk tryst.
At once, then, Paul turned and came out of the
door. He very nearly caught Connie spying on him,
because his leave-taking was so abrupt that she
scarcely had time to turn her back and walk along a
few paces to the haberdashery store next to the
restaurant, where she feigned interest in some mens
neckties. Behind her, she heard Frostis short yelp of
welcome and heard the cab door slam and the motor
start.
By the time Pauls driver had pulled away from
the curb her own was making a U turn a short
distance up the street. Cmon, miss, he called as
he came abreast of her. Hop in.
Connie fully expected that the taxi ahead would
start back toward the hotel, but to her surprise, the
driver began to wind right and left and then right
89

again, deeper and deeper into the maze of small

streets which crisscrossed a poor and run-down
section of town. He pulled up, shortly, before a
dingy house, with a cardboard placard labeled
Rooms hung in a front window. As Connies
driver cruised slowly past, she shrank back out of
sight in a corner, watching Paul pay off his driver.
Then, leading Frosti, he hurried up the steps and into
the house.
Where to now, miss?
Connie started to glance at her watch, then
remembered she had left it for repair. Do you have
the time?
Ten after one, the driver told her.
Goodness, I didnt realize it was so late! Take
me to the Barkley-Sheridan, please. No, on second
thought, take me to the boardwalk entrance nearest
Howlands Pier.
Shed have to skip lunch. There was no time for
it. But luckily there were a couple of dozen cooks, at
least a few of whom could be counted upon to offer
her a snack. And, anyway, her sleuthing activities, to
Connie, were more interesting than food, today or
any day.
If I was you, the taxi driver was saying as they
jounced along, Id find me another bellhop to walk
my dog. That boy dont look so good.
Connie, who was deep in thought, recalled herself
90

to the present with a jerk. What? Oh, yes. Yes.

She decided with a sigh, because she had really
warmed to Paul Schorr, that one should never be
deceived by appearances. He might look innocent,
but the chances seemed great that he might be a tool
in the Admirals malevolent hands. Twice today,
Connie thought sadly, she had discovered three
people she had liked in compromising situations.
First David, then Admiral Crosby and Paul.
Was there no one, absolutely no one she could
trust?

91

CHAPTER

A Ride with the Admiral

The sun came out briefly about three oclock, and

Hank came up to Connie and said, Why dont you
knock off for an hour or so? You worked late last
night and theres nothing to do here right now.
All right, Connie agreed, because it had been
apparent for some time that the contestants were, for
the most part, too busy to talk. She got her coat and
tried to decide whether to pick up a belated lunch or
whether to sit on one of the green wooden benches
which lined the ocean side of the boardwalk and try
to straighten out her tangled thoughts.
Maybe, if she made a list of possibilities, she
might get a trifle closer to the two questions
paramount in her mind. Who had tried to strangle
her in Miss Whitneys room and who had stolen the
valuable brooch?
Like a newspaper reporter, she always carried a
92

pad and a pencil, and the urge to use them was great.
She sat down on a bench close to the pier door and
scribbled rapidly a query to herself:
Who could have been in Miss As room when I
went to return the bag?
Then, for a few minutes, she sat in thought,
reviewing the people at the hotel whom she knew.
Then she began to number, and to write names after
the numbers.
1. Paul. (He wasnt walking dog.)
2. David Maxwell. (I saw him go past diningroom door while Hank and I were still eating.)
3. Miss Sloane. (She didnt go walking with Miss
A and Admiral.)
4. Phoebe Miller. (She could have faked her
surprise at finding me.)
5. Admiral Crosby. If David Maxwell didnt lie
about seeing him go back upstairs.
6. The chambermaid. (She would have a key.)
7. Any one of a hundred other employees or
guests whom I dont know.
The last entry was discouraging, because to hunt
for a criminal among a bunch of strangers was like
hunting for a needle in a haystack. Connies
tenacious mind refused to consider, however, that
No. 7 might defeat her. It was much more interesting
to assume that she would discover her attacker
among the people she already knew.
93

She stuffed the list in her pocket and got up

impatiently, very nearly colliding with a rolling
chair with a canopied top.
Oh, I beg your pardon! Connie side-stepped
hastily and almost lost her balance.
Granted. Admiral Crosbys military voice
replied in amusement, as he signaled the man who
was pushing the chair to stop. Ive just been
wishing for company, he told Connie, knocking the
ashes from his pipe. I wonder if you wouldnt like
to ride up to Hackneys with me? Every now and
then I get a longing for some clams on the half shell,
and today is one of those days.
Well Connie hesitated. Could we be back in
an hour?
Just about.
Then I think it would be nice.
She couldnt resist such an unexpected
opportunity to get to know the Admiral a little
better, and the gallantry with which he tucked her
into the steamer rug at his side made her wonder
whether there was anything really sinister about him
after all. He treated her just as a nice old gentleman
would treat his favorite niece, as though he thought
she was attractive and as though he were genuinely
pleased with her company.
Then she remembered his strange meeting with
the bellhop and the subsequent suspicious actions of
94

Paul, and reminded herself of David Maxwells

story of his return upstairs about the time of the
strangling. She told herself not to be foolish. She
certainly did not intend to be duped by still a third
party in this baffling case. Every minute she must be
on guard.
They chatted in a desultory manner, as
acquaintances will, while shops slid by on one side
and the ocean continued its monotonous,
monumental roll on the other. A few gulls wheeled
in the slate-gray sky above the sea, and to the west
the sun once more slipped under a cloud. Connie
shivered. The whole visible world looked gray and
menacing again. Even this old gentleman beside her
was under suspicion. Hank seemed to be the only
person she dared trust.
By the way, the Admiral said rather abruptly,
as though it were not by the way at all, Ive been
thinking a bit about this strangling business. It might
have been very serious, you know.
Yes, I do know, Connie replied with feeling.
Well, really, the fellow should be apprehended.
Thats what Im trying to say. But for the grace of
God it might have been Miss Whitney who was hurt,
and at her age she might not have recovered as
quickly as you managed to, my dear.
Connie nodded in agreement, but at the same time
she was thinking. You said fellow. Why are you
95

so sure it was a man?

Arent you? The Admirals shrewd old eyes
were suspiciously bright. Curiosity shone in them,
undisguised.
Not entirely. Im trying to keep an open mind.
Very creditable. Very creditable, said Admiral
Crosby. I suppose youve tried the old trick of
thinking back over the happenings of those few
minutes, more or less reviewing the situation, as it
were?
Oh, yes, Connie said promptly, but I dont
seem to get very far. It all happened so quickly.
You didnt, for instance, reach up instinctively
when you felt thatthat thong around your neck?
I dont knowbut I dont think so.
If you had, the Admiral continued, you might
have had a memory, subconscious perhaps but still a
memory, of thethe persons hands. You might
recall them as smooth or hairy or large or small. If
you had touched them
A chill wriggled up Connies spine. Why was he
pumping her this way? Almost, as the Admiral
spoke, she could believe that she had touched those
evil hands. Almost, but not quite, she could
imagine And then her sturdy common sense came
to the fore. What was this strange old gentleman
trying to doput ideas into her mind, words into her
mouth? Was he, on his part, trying to play detective,
96

or could it be that he had another purpose in view?

Could it have been he who tried to strangle her?
And was this conversation designed to discover
whether or not she suspected as much?
It was a terrifying thought. Suppose David had
been telling the truth, and, instead of leaving the
hotel promptly to go walking with Miss Abigail, he
really had excused himself and slipped back
upstairs? Would there have been time? Connie
wondered.
But meanwhile she was expected to reply to the
old gentlemans last question. No, she said slowly
and thoughtfully. No, I dont remember.
Ah, too bad, too bad.
The Admiral turned from Connie to nod and
speak to Miss Emily Sloane, who was walking
toward them along the boardwalk with her peculiar
flat-footed gait, dressed as usual in a tweed suit with
an unfurred topcoat swinging back in the wind.
Out for your usual constitutional? the Admiral
called.
Yes, indeed, Miss Sloane twittered. Hackneys
and back every day; thats my schedule. Keeps the
liver active and the flesh firm!
Connie smiled and nodded in her turn. That
sounds like quite a hike.
Three miles, Miss Emily said proudly, going
and coming, but I enjoy it. She said good-bye and
97

started on, jauntily swinging her cane.

Goes to Hackneys for the free clam juice, the
Admiral muttered when she was safely out of
earshot. Been doing it for weeks.
Connie scarcely knew how to respond. You
dont seem to care for Miss Sloane, she put in
mildly.
The Admiral shrugged. Oh, I guess shes all
right in her way. Devoted to Abigail of course. Saw
her through a siege of pneumonia at Southern Pines
about three years ago. That was when they became
really good friends. Shes harmless enough, heaven
knows. But I do get tired of that simpering voice,
and I suppose Im bored with seeing her around. I
like women with some fire and personality.
Of which, Connie thought, Miss Abigail Whitney
has more than her share. But she kept her own
counsel and waited for Admiral Crosby to take a
new conversational tack.
He seemed inclined, however, to return to the
subject they had been discussing. Coming back to
thiser, attempted strangling he murmured as
they rolled along past the last of the stores to a
length of open boardwalk which stretched ahead in a
shallow curve, I still think you should probe every
possibility. For instance, can you remember any
specialodor, shall we say?on entering the
room?
98

I dont think I know quite what you mean, said

Connie, trying in her turn to draw him out.
Well, the odor of pipe tobacco, perhaps, or
cigarette smoke, orat the other end of the stick
perfume.
Connie was thinking fast. The Admiral himself
smoked cigars, she had noticed. Yet she could recall
no nicotine odor whatever when she had opened
Miss Abigails door. If it was Admiral Crosby who
had been thieving in the dark he was safe from
detection on at least this score. Not tobacco, she
replied, glancing up at him sideways to see if she
could gauge his reaction.
But if he were relieved he didnt show it. Not a
muscle on his heavily lined face twitched. Well,
well, he said, too bad again. Or perhaps, he
added with a disappointed smile, youre a rather
unobserving young lady.
If he had intended to bait Connie, he certainly
succeeded. Not at all, she retorted quickly,
returning to her original impression that the Admiral
was a rather bumptious and cocksure type. Then she
wondered what she could say to bolster this
statement, and she tried, once more, to concentrate
on those few seconds before the menacing gray
noose had slipped around her neck. There was
nothingnothingor had there been, then or later,
a faint odor of a perfume she disliked?
99

Black Narcissus, she murmured to herself.

I say? The Admiral turned toward her.
Maybe Im wrong, Connie admitted, but it
seems to me there was a trace of perfume in the air,
whether before I passed out or afterward Im not
quite prepared to say right now. She felt that this
might prove to be quite a coup.
But the Admiral merely snorted. Black
Narcissus, you say? Theres only one woman in the
entire Barkley-Sheridan who douses herself with
that horrible stuff. Thats Phoebe Miller, the
stenographer.
And she was the person who discovered me,
Connie admitted sadly, but at heart she was far from
discouraged by having reached what appeared to be
a dead end. She was remembering Mrs. Millers
capable hands, strong, blunt-fingered, and she was
also remembering the note she had written to herself
not half an hour ago:
Phoebe Miller. (She could have faked her
surprise at finding me.)
The chair pusher was turning toward the
boardwalk entrance at Hackneys, and the Admiral
was saying, Ah, now for those clams! so Connie
had no immediate opportunity to pursue this line of
thought. She decided to employ her time to better
advantage by trying to quiz the Admiral. There were
several things he could tell her that it might be worth
100

while to know.
You and Miss Whitney have been acquainted for
some time, I take it, she said when the Admiral had
given the order.
Heavens, yes! Since we were youngsters,
practically. He chuckled to himself. She was a
headstrong girl and shes a headstrong old woman,
he muttered. Hard to get along with. Always has
been. But interesting.
I think so too, Connie replied, although she
definitely doesnt like me.
The Admiral looked surprised. What makes you
say that?
Connie sighed. You should have heard her the
night before last! She called me brash because I
walked into her room when I saw the door ajar.
After all, I had knocked, and I was only trying to
return her bag.
Oh, fiddlesticks, Admiral Crosby said. She
was just upset to come home to all that commotion.
Next time she sees you shes apt to be as nice as
pie.
I certainly hope so, Connie replied, but I doubt
it.
The next time she saw Miss Whitney, as a matter
of fact, was on the trip back to the pier. She and
David Maxwell, chatting companionably, were
being pushed along in another rolling chair, and the
101

two ill-matched couples passed and greeted one

another briefly. Connie, at the sight of Miss
Whitneys companion, couldnt have been more
surprised.
I didnt know they knew one another, she said
impulsively.
I dont think they did until today, Admiral
Crosby said with a chuckle, but youll find Miss
Whitney meets everybody sooner or later, hale and
halt, old and young.
Connie sat with her gloved hands clasped beneath
the steamer rug, worrying. Suppose, of all the
possible culprits, David were guilty? It was her duty,
she felt, to warn Miss Abigail, even though she ran
the risk of being scolded again.
As she thanked the Admiral for a pleasant ride,
and he gallantly thanked her for her pleasant
company, Connie covered her concern with a smile.
But when she walked through the glass doors of the
pier into the continuing hurly-burly of the cooking
contest she made herself a promise.
At the earliest possible moment she would try to
see Miss Whitney, because, as the person most
concerned, she should know that David Maxwell
was suspect.

102

CHAPTER

Change of Heart

Mrs. Ferilli, Connie discovered in just about two

minutes, was in tears. Her lasagne had won her a
place as one of the finalists in the cooking contest,
and until now she had been very, very happy, but
misfortune had descended upon her this afternoon
with a decided thud, and Frosti was once more the
cause.
The man with the camera who had been among
the throng at the boardwalk steps during the sausage
chase must have been, quite unbeknownst to Connie,
a newspaper reporter. He had managed to get a
revealing picture of the irate contestant, sausage in
hand stalking across the sand, with the poodle,
wearing his ineffable grin, pacing daintily along
with Paul just a few paces behind. It wasnt as good
a shot as Frosti bearing the sausage would have
been, but it was good enough, and the reporter had
made the most of it. Why he had waited, however,
103

until today to break the story, Connie couldnt

guess. But there it was along with the picture,
irreverent and laughable, in the afternoon paper,
which had been hawked by a newsboy among the
contestants just a few minutes before.
There, there, Hank was saying to Mrs. Ferilli as
he patted her shoulder awkwardly, nobodys going
to think anything of it.
They will too, Mrs. Ferilli sobbed. Its the first
time in my life Ive ever had my picture in the
paper, and I have nine children and thirteen
grandchildren and theyll all think something of it.
Theyll be ashamed of me.
Connie, who had been standing by, disregarded
the last remark. Thirteen grandchildren! she cried.
At your age? Why, isnt that wonderful!
Psychologically she couldnt have hit on a better
ruse. Flattered in spite of herself, Mrs. Ferilli
brightened visibly.
I was married when I was eighteen, she
admitted, and we had our family young.
Even so, you dont look a day over forty,
Connie told her. You havent a line in your face.
In spite of Mrs. Ferillis plump, motherly
appearance it was perfectly true.
Hank sighed in relief, and behind Mrs. Ferillis
back he winked at Connie. It was perfectly obvious
that the crisis had been passed, that the worst was
104

over. Unobtrusively he slipped away.

By five oclock the pier began to empty. The last
cook had sent to the judges heror his!supreme
effort and there was nothing to do but wait until one
oclock the next day, when, at a lavish luncheon at
the convention hotel, announcement of the winners
would be made. Connie, a trifle weary but satisfied
that she had gathered a great many valuable
opinions on the good and bad points of Standard
Fixture ranges, headed for home.
In her box at the hotel desk was a long letter from
her Aunt Bet, and a brief note from David Maxwell,
scrawled on the back of a visiting card.
How about having dinner with me at seven? it
read.
Connies eyes raised to the lobby clock. It wasnt
yet quite six. There would be time for her interview
with Miss Whitney in the meantime. Fine. Ill meet
you in the lobby, she wrote on her own card,
tucked it into a hotel envelope, and asked the clerk
to see that it was delivered to Mr. Maxwell. She
went up to her room humming a little tune. Shed be
delighted to have dinner with David. It might give
her an opportunity to probe him concerning his visit
to the pawnshop. Goodness, had she discovered him
there only this morning? A lot seemed to have
happened today.
A lot more was about to happen.
105

When Connie opened her door, the telephone was

ringing. Miss Blair? asked a mans voice in
response to her Hello.
Yes, it is.
This is Mr. Beebe, said the hotel manager, and
Connie detected an obsequious note in his voice
which had been conspicuously lacking yesterday.
Yes? she said unenthusiastically, making her
voice conceal the fact that actually she was anxious
to know why the Beebe-Jones combine had
apparently dropped her as Suspect No. 1 in the
stolen brooch mystery.
Ive been trying to reach you since noon, Mr.
Beebe continued a trifle petulantly, to tell you that
Miss Whitney has no intention of pressing the
matter of the lost brooch.
Connie, at the other end of the line, raised her
eyebrows.
Yes? she said again.
The repeated monosyllable was apparently
making Mr. Beebe more and more uncomfortable. I
just wanted to reassure you, he said, and to extend
the hope that the rest of your stay will be more
pleasant. The last two words seemed rather
inadequate.
Thank you. Connie hoped she sounded distant
and calm. It was more than she felt, for although Mr.
Beebe might be willing to let bygones be bygones
106

she was more interested than ever in the

whereabouts of the missing ornament. Also, she felt
that slowly, step by step, she might be getting a trifle
closer to the truth.
Rather than bathe and change first, taking the
chance that Miss Whitney might not go down to
dinner before six-thirty, Connie decided to see at
once if she were in. As soon as she had hung up the
telephone receiver she went out into the hall and
started toward Miss Whitneys suite. Luckily the
lady herself was just opening the door, with Frosti
on the leash. She looked a little distrait.
Where is that boy Paul? she asked Connie and
the world at large without any attempt at greeting.
Its starting to drizzle and this dog just has to be
walked before dinner.
Ill walk him for you, Miss Whitney, Connie
offered eagerly, but first may I speak to you for a
moment? She asked the question with some
diffidence, uncertain, in spite of the managers
reassurance, of just what her reception would be.
But Miss Whitney, in contrast to her previous
attitude, was actually cordial. Of course, my dear.
Come in, she suggested, turning back into the
room. Ive been intending to look you upto
apologize, really. Im afraid I was under something
of a misapprehension the other night.
Misapprehension?
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Certainly, Miss Whitney said in her throaty

voice. You see I had no idea who you were.
Connies mouth began to twitch uncontrollably at
the corners. It was so typical of Miss Whitneys
generation to doubt every stranger, to feel that a
formal introduction was essential to the amenities.
But then that must mean that David had wangled a
proper meeting, somehow. She wondered whether
he were her unknown sponsor, as well.
Miss Whitney, however, failed to notice Connies
amusement. You see, she explained, I ran into
the son of an old friend of mine, and Henry told me
all about you, and what a fine and clever girl you
are.
Henry? Connie was nonplused. Then light
suddenly dawned. Oh, you mean Hank Bronson?
So it wasnt David after all.
Of course, of course, my dear. Miss Abigail
swept ahead of Connie through the bedroom into the
living room, looking out over the boardwalk.
Rebecca Bronsonshe was Rebecca White then
and I went to Vassar together many, many years
ago. Though I must say young Henry doesnt take
after her. She was always extremely thin.
Connie realized, rather quickly, that if this
conversation was to take anything but a purely
personal turn she would have to direct it. She
chatted very casually with Miss Whitney for perhaps
108

five minutes, then tacked along a different course.

I thought perhaps it was David Maxwell who
had been telling you about me, she said.
Oh, no, but do you know him? Miss Abigail
asked. A most ingratiating young man.
Ingratiating is precisely the word, Connie
decided.
Handsome, too, Miss Whitney added as an
afterthought.
Yes, Connie agreed. I met himrather
informallywhen I first arrived at the hotel. He
seemed very attractive.
Apparently her use of the past tense failed to
arouse Miss Whitney. Oh, quite, quite, she said.
Charming manners. So very rare today.
You have mutual friends? Connie probed.
Miss Whitney chuckled. No, I met him quite
informallyalso. But not under such unfortunate
circumstances as those under which I met you, my
dear. Incidentally, I do hope you werent
embarrassed by that vulgar Mr. Beebes concern
over my brooch. I probably mislaid it, you know. I
do, frequently. Other things, I mean. I lost one of my
rings last week, quite a good one, and every now
and then bits of jewelry seem to disappear. Im
afraid Im frightfully careless.
Connie was shocked. You mean youve been
losing valuable things?
109

Miss Whitney sighed. Yes, I suppose theyre

valuable. Family pieces, most of them. But at my
age, as I often say, what do possessions mean?
Connie was far too young to understand such a
philosophy, and she had a healthy small-town
materialistic attitude about such matters. Glancing at
the rings on Miss Whitneys blue-veined fingers, she
said slowly, Someone else might enjoy them very
much.
Then she remembered having heard that Miss
Whitney was ill-disposed toward her relatives, but it
was too late. When I die, said Miss Whitney with
a sweeping gesture, there isnt a soul in my family
to whom I care to leave a thing. Then her eyes
began to twinkle. And at the rate my jewels seem to
be disappearing, she confessed, there wont be
anything to leave.
But you should be more careful! Connie cried,
really upset. Youre sure youve been mislaying
things, that they havent been systematically
stolen?
Oh, for a while I thought I was sure Id put that
falcon brooch on the bureau, Miss Whitney
confessed, but I could have been wrong. Im
getting old, my dear. Though Ive always prided
myself, rather, on my memory.
Connie frowned. Miss Whitney, I think your
memorys still good, she said with great sincerity. I
110

thinkhonestly I do!that your room has been

rifled more than once. The thief must be clever,
because he never makes a big hauljust takes one
thing at a time. But please, please make sure you can
trust the people around you, like Mrs. Miller for
instance, and Paul, the bellhop. And be careful,
especially, about David Maxwell.
Miss Whitney looked surprised and rather
amused. Oh, piffle, my dear, she said lightly.
Neither Phoebe nor Paul would hurt a fly, and as
for young Maxwell, he seems like a delightful boy,
really. Quite frank and open. Not at all a scamp.
Did he happen to tell you why he is in Atlantic
City? Connie asked. Her eyes were sober and her
voice flat, because she fully expected a negative
answer which would arouse Miss Whitney to the
incongruity of a young man loafing at a winter resort
all alone.
Yes, as a matter of fact, he did. Contracted some
sort of tropical disease in Haiti. Thats his home.
The doctor ordered sea air and a complete rest, I
believe. Why?
Connie fastened on just one word. Haiti? He told
you he lived in Haiti? she asked.
Thats right, Miss Abigail replied. Brought up
there, in Port-au-Prince. Had quite a number of
interesting stories to tell about the islands.
I can imagine, Connie said without meaning a
111

word of it. She was recalling, ruefully, that David

had told her only one interesting story, but about
another island entirely, the island where he had been
born and where he had first gone to school.
And that island was Leyte!
It was very curious that he should tell Miss
Whitney one story, and her another. It added just
one more black mark to a growing column of
evidence against his honesty, and as Connie finally
left to take Frosti for his walk she began to total up
the score.
What was David Maxwell doing here, anyway,
loafing in midwinter? Tropical disease indeed!
How had he known that the falcon had emerald
eyes? Unless, of course, he had seen it more closely
than he cared to admit.
Why had he been lounging in the pawnshop,
talking to the proprietor like an old friend? At least
that was certainly the impression!
Why did the pawnshop owner cover up for him
unless he was involved? Unless he was, as Connie
suspected, a fence?
What possessed him to tell Miss Whitney one
story about his background when he had told her
another? Leyte and Haiti sounded alike, but she
couldnt have been mistaken. Miss Whitney had
settled that conclusively by mentioning Port-auPrince. Why, why should David lie?
112

She was so bemused that she scarcely realized

that Miss Whitney had followed her from her suite
into the hall. Having said her good-byes she was
surprised to find the older woman watching her as
she stood waiting for the elevator, watching her with
a certain curiosity, as though perhaps she were
anxious to make sure she got away.
Connie turned and smiled and nodded brightly.
Ill be back very soon, she promised, and only
then did Miss Abigail shut the door. Connie
frowned, puzzled. Is she really so rich? she
wondered. Could she possibly be involved in some
kind of skulduggery and could all those letters to the
newspapers be a fraud? She might be far from what
she seems.
A dozen new questions presented themselves. It
was even conceivable that Miss Whitney might be
involved in a case of blackmail, so that she was
being forced to pawn her own jewels. Connie shook
her head and sighed. Curiouser and curiouser, she
murmured aloud.
The elevator arrived just then, and she stepped
aboard. As she turned to face the door she happened
to glance toward the fire doors leading to the
abandoned wing and in the dim light of the hall one
seemed to move slightly, swinging with a gentle,
almost eerie motion, back and forth. Connie
shuddered, remembering the light she believed she
113

had seen there at night. The entire hotel seemed to

be filled with threatening vapors, as intangible as the
ribbons of gray fog which crept in past the
uniformed doorman to the lobby itself.
The boardwalk, as Miss Whitney had predicted,
was shrouded in a fog so heavy that it dampened
Connies hair and face like a mist or a light drizzle.
Frosti walked along docilely for a few minutes, then
started to sniff at the boards and strain at his lead,
pulling Connie toward the steps to the beach.
In the darkness the roar of the ocean seemed
menacing, the sands cold and lonely, but Connie
remembered that Paul always walked the dog along
the beach. The tide was very high, reaching almost
to the boardwalk, and even though she was in
danger of getting her feet wet, she allowed Frosti to
drag her down the steps.
Still deep in thought, she had walked a couple of
blocks and was about to turn back toward another
flight of steps when the Hare of a match caught her
eye and she saw the figures of two men who stood
talking in the shelter of a boardwalk piling. Frosti
pricked his ears, sniffed, and strained toward them,
almost jerking the leash out of Connies hand, and in
the misty light Connie realized that he had good
reason. His keen sense of smell had recognized the
shorter of the two as Paul, his usual escort. The
taller figure was hatless, and the face was partly in
114

shadow. As Connie strove to see whether it was the

Admiral, the light went out and only the glow of a
cigarette remained. Then her quick brain told her
that Admiral Crosby always wore a hat, and that he
smoked only a pipe. There was another man,
however, that it could be, a young man close to the
Admirals height but with dark hair which he
frequently left uncovered.
Could it possibly be David Maxwell with whom
Paul was now talking? If only something would give
him away!
But this time Connies luck deserted her. Before
she could make a move, the men turned and walked
rapidly away, their figures melting into the darkness
almost indiscernibly. There was no time to follow.
She had a date with David at seven. She hurried
back to the hotel, delivered Frosti to his mistress,
and returned to her own room to dress.
Very carefully, as though she were going out with
a boy she really liked, she put a dab of perfume
behind each ear. As a matter of fact she had liked
David, and that was why his imperfections seemed
especially heinous. She was determined, however, to
conceal her real feelings this evening. Not by a
flicker of an eyelash would she let him know that
she doubted him. Then perhapsjust perhaps!she
might be able to throw him, for once, off guard.
115

CHAPTER

10

The Mysterious Hand

At the very last minute before she was ready to go

downstairs
Connie
remembered
something
important. She had failed to tell Miss Whitney that
she planned to have dinner with David Maxwell in
order to try to draw him out, and it would certainly
look odd if she appeared in the hotel dining room on
apparently quite good terms with the young man.
What could she do?
Connie tapped her room key impatiently against
her wrist, annoyed at her oversight. Then she
shrugged and turned back to the desk, where she
wrote a hasty note of explanation to Miss Whitney.
She would have to have her paged; that was all there
was to it. However, Connie was forced to admit that
the written words didnt look as convincing as a
spoken explanation would have seemed.
It was a few minutes after seven when she
reached the lobby, and David, dressed in a gray
116

glen-plaid suit, was pacing up and down idly before

the elevators. Hello! Connie favored him with a
smile which was falsely warm. It was so nice of
you to ask me to dinner, she said as she gave him
her hand. Ill be with you in just a minute, as soon
as Ive spoken to the clerk.
She took her note to the desk and made
arrangements for its delivery in a tone of voice
pitched carefully low. Then she returned to her
escort, who proposed having dinner in the Blue
Room, and looked innocently delighted at the
prospect of having Connie across the table from
him.
Tonight, although the vast room was far from
crowded, there was a generous sprinkling of guests
dining in small groups or alone. Admiral Crosby
was at his table in the corner; Miss Whitney and
Miss Sloane were, as usual, together; and Mr. Beebe
and his wife were entertaining another couple at a
table near the rear of the room.
Connie saw Miss Whitneys eyebrows rise in
perfectly natural surprise as she spotted her with
David Maxwell, and she was relieved when a few
minutes later a bellhop delivered her note. Then she
addressed her full attention to the business at hand,
and did her best to be as charming and as outwardly
friendly as she knew how.
She chatted quite freely, because she considered
117

the subject harmless, about her life in Philadelphia,

and told David a little about her career in the
advertising business and about the cozy apartment
she shared with her Aunt Bet. Then, when he asked
her about her home in Meadowbrook, she talked
about her familyabout her twin sister and her
younger brother, Toby, and her mother and dad.
It all sounds like such fun, David said a trifle
wistfully. I wish my childhood had been like that.
It was the opening Connie craved. Oh, but yours
must have been so much more exciting on that
islandwhere was it?that you were born.
Leyte, David said. I dont know. There
werent many other American kids to play with. I
got pretty lonely at times.
Connie didnt meet his eyes. She couldnt.
Somehow, subconsciously, she had hoped he
wouldnt repeat the error. It was hard to sit opposite
David Maxwell and mistrust him. Her food seemed
tasteless and she felt sick at heart.
But she had been disappointed in people before,
and she knew she would be again. This was no time
to be soft. There were other things she was
determined to ask, even though she felt there was
little chance of discovering the truth.
Youve never told me, she said after a while,
why youre in Atlantic City. On business, is it? Im
curious, she admitted with a disarming grin.
118

David shook his head. No, Im in the States for a

rest, he said. It sounds foolish, doesnt it? But a few
months ago I picked up a rather nasty case of
dengue, and it seemed wise to come here to
recuperate.
Den-gay? Connie repeated the word as David
had pronounced it. Whats that?
A tropical fever, he explained. Maybe youve
heard it called breakbone fever. Its characterized
by severe pains in the joints and muscles, and I can
tell you from experience that its no fun.
Goodness! Connie said. It sounds horrible.
But I havent noticed you limping around.
David laughed. Oh, Im better now. Practically
cured, in fact. Im heading for home next week. That
is, he added, if things go as I expect them to.
What things? Connie wondered, and her mind
skipped back to the scene in the pawnshop and the
more recent scene on the beach. Had he told her,
indirectly, that some job he had come to do was
almost complete? Her heart beat a trifle faster as she
considered this possibility.
Then she made a daring resolve. Shed quiz him
indirectly, and unexpectedly, about the pawnshop
episode and see what reaction she got. At the
moment the waiter was clearing the main course
from the table, but as soon as he had disappeared
toward the kitchen, she said, I3y the way, I saw you
119

in rather a strange place this morning. I think youd

better explain yourself. She made her voice teasing,
and she hoped she had a twinkle in her eye.
David, she could feel, was immediately alert,
although he hedged for time. I? Where?
In a pawnshop, of all places. What were you
doing there?
The chuckle with which David replied was
mirthless. Oh, I sometimes stop in to look over the
stock, he said without meeting Connies eyes. Im
rather interested in antique firearms, as a matter of
fact.
Youre sure you werent pawning the family
jewels to pay your hotel bill? Connie tried to keep
her bantering tone, in order to cover the fact that she
didnt believe a word of his reply.
He glanced at her quickly, then started to play
with his salad fork, doodling on the white damask
cloth. Say, thats an idea, he remarked with a
feeble smile. Ive been wondering how Id buy my
way out of here.
Somehow, Connie realized, the remark fell short
of its intended jocularity. There was no doubt that
one of her shots had hit the bulls-eye. David was
deeply disturbed.
Abruptly, and with an obvious effort, he managed
to change the subject, and not once again during
dinner could she lead him back onto dangerous
120

ground. She dared not quiz him about the beach

incident, yet she had the growing feeling that it had
been David whom she had discovered talking to
Paul. After leaving the dining room he proposed a
game of shuffleboard, and they played for perhaps
an hour, conversing only about the game. Then
Connie excused herself and went up to her room.
In the elevator she met Miss Sloane, who also got
off at the sixth floor. Abigails been telling me that
youre quite reconciled, she twittered in her
incongruously treble voice. Im so glad, really I
am.
So am I, Connie told her. I like Miss Abigail
very much.
Miss Emily put a hand on her arm. My dear
girl, she said in a stage whisper as they stood
together in the hallway, Im going to say something
which perhaps I shouldnt. I saw you dining tonight
with that young man, the one who took Abigail
riding in a rolling chair this afternoon. And I think
Id be careful what I said to him. I really do.
But why? Connie asked, opening her eyes as
though she never in the world had harbored any
suspicion of David.
Miss Emily looked fussed. I cant tell you why. I
really cant, she stammered softly. But I just want
to warn you. I feel its my duty. Then she repeated
a remark that Connie would forever after associate
121

with her. A young girl cant be too careful, she

insisted in a loud whisper. Good night, my dear.
Pleasant dreams.
Pleasant dreams, Connie repeated automatically
as she turned to open her own door. She turned on
the light and went over to the desk to write a letter to
Kit, wishing that her twin where here this very
minute. It would be such a relief to pour out to her
all this baffling, confusing story, but it was far too
long to put down on paper tonight. She
compromised by saying:
Im involved in the strangest, most confusing
sequence of events, a real mystery, surrounding a
stolen brooch. And the worst part of it is that all the
people who might be guilty are really quite likable,
even though their stories dont seem to add up.
But Ill tell you all about it when I see you,
which I hope will be some week end soon. Im so
homesick for all of youbut at the same time Im
having a lot of my special kind of fun!
She touched a three-cent stamp to her tongue and
stuck it on the envelope, then took the letter out to
drop it into the mail chute in the hall, leaving her
door ajar. She had kicked off her slippers and her
stockinged feet were noiseless on the strip of floor
adjacent to the carpet. The white oblong drifted
down the glass cylinder, and as Connie turned away,
her glance happened to fall on the heavy fire doors
122

separating the closed wing of the hotel from the

corridor in which she stood.
Then, frozen to the spot, she stood still.
Was she dreaming, or were the doors swinging
slowly open? An instant later she knew that this was
no hallucination, because a hand appeared on the
side which was being pushed cautiously toward her.
There was no noise, and the movement was scarcely
noticeable, but a watching eye must have picked her
out, standing as she was almost directly under the
hall light, because the fingers moved out of sight
and the door swung quietly back into place once
more.
Galvanized no longer, Connie ran soundlessly to
her room. Although she left the door wide open she
couldnt quite command a view of the fire door but
she had to take the chance that the marauder would
not escape while she called the house detective on
the phone.
It seemed forever before he answered.
Mr. Jones? Connie asked.
Yes.
This is Connie Blair. Come to the sixth floor
quickly, please. Its very urgent. Ill be there.
At least there was no argument, no useless
questioning. Connie tiptoed back to her open door
where she could command a view of the hall. All
was quiet, even serene. Only the signal hand above
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the elevator doors moved now; no human one was in

sight.
Connie watched the numbers clocking the
elevators ascent. Onethreefoursix. The door
slid open and the house detective, looking mildly
puzzled, emerged.
Although Connie felt a certain natural dislike for
the man, because of their original meeting, she
strove to ignore it. Mr. Jones, she said at once,
theres somebody in the closed wing of the hotel. I
just came out in the hall to mail a letter and the
double doors started to open, ever so slowly. I think
it should be investigated.
Mr. Jones glanced toward the fire door. Those
doors are padlocked, he said, then crossed the hall
in surprise and saw that the ring from which the lock
should have hung was empty. The door gave
immediately under pressure of his hand. At least
they should be, he added uncertainly.
Someones in there, Connie repeated. I saw a
hand on the door. Can the marauder get from one
floor to another?
Not a chance. The doors between the doors have
Yale locks and theyre checked daily.
But if this is open?
The chambermaids carry keys to the fire doors,
just for emergencies, Mr. Jones explained. Come
on. I think youre right. We should investigate.
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It didnt occur to Connie until afterward that it

was rather unusual for the detective to take her along
on his search. Then she chuckled to herself, for she
was quite sure it could have been for only one of
two reasons. Either he hesitated to go alone or he
wanted to test her veracity.
In any event she was a willing companion. Mr.
Jones walked ahead with a flashlight, throwing its
beam down the long corridor which bridged the
street, and Connie, still in her stocking feet, padded
along behind.
Nothing stirred. The dark corridor was as
deserted as the beach during a northeaster. Finally,
at the other end, Mr. Jones threw a switch and the
hall lights in the Sheridan wing flashed on. Here,
along another carpeted hall, bedroom doors stood
open. Systematically the detective entered each one
in turn, clicking on the ceiling lights and checking
the empty closets.
Connie followed him to each doorway but didnt
enter. She wanted to keep a sharp eye on the hall so
that nobody could slip by, cat-quiet on the rugs, and
elude them even now.
She regretted these hall carpets! Not a telltale
footprint showed on their flowered surface, so there
was no visual evidence that an intruder had been
here. They extended, too, right from the hall into
each of the abandoned bedrooms, which looked
125

musty and dreary with their mattresses exposed,

dun-colored slip covers on the chairs, and dust lying
gray on each bureau and desk and chair.
As Connie waited in the hall, halfway along the
main corridor, her toe touched a tiny spool of thread
and sent it rolling. She picked it up, noted idly that it
was gray silk floss, and was turning it in her hand
when Mr. Jones barked, Whats that?
Just a spool of thread. She held it out to him.
The house detective pocketed it without interest.
Housekeepers getting careless, he muttered to
himself.
There were twenty guest rooms in all on the sixth
floor of the Sheridan wing, along with a
housekeepers room containing huge linen closets.
Mr. Jones meticulously checked each one, without
discovering anything else but a frightened mouse,
who scuttled from behind a bureau to duck into the
adjacent bath.
By the time he reached the last room he was
becoming rather tight-lipped. Connie could almost
feel his indignation at being led on such a wildgoose chase.
Then, at her suggestion, he tried the door which
led to the stairs between the floors. As he had
promised, the Yale lock was tight.
Finally he turned to Connie with a smile tinged
with sarcasm. Im afraid you are the victim of a
126

rather overactive imagination, Miss Blair.

Connie could tell that he was referring not only to
the present episode but to the incident of the
attempted strangling. Im certain, she said firmly,
that I saw a mans hand on that door.
Well, as you can see, there is no one here.
Ill grant that. But theres got to be some
explanation. Connies eyes were troubled and she
bit her lip anxiously.
Mr. Jones sighed. Perhaps. But tonight Id
advise you to go back to your room and get some
sleep. Ill check that for you too, if you like, just to
be sure there are no pixies hiding in the closet.
That wont be necessary, thank you, Connie
replied coolly. If the house detective fancied such a
remark as cute, she didnt intend to feign
amusement. It was difficult, however, to be
completely on her dignity without benefit of heels.
In spite of herself she felt rather like a refractory
child as she padded back along the corridor in her
stocking feet.
Good night, and thank you, at least, for
looking, she said when they reached her own door.
Youre very welcome, said the house detective,
in a tone which told her distinctly that she wasnt
welcome at all, that she had become a great
nuisance, in fact, and was causing the hotel
management a great deal of trouble.
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The parting over, Connie stood with her back

against the inside of her bedroom door and tried to
imagine how the intruder could possibly have eluded
them. Even if he had slipped through to the hall
while she was phoning the house detective, how
could he get away? It seemed as though he must,
literally, have vanished into thin air.
Connie was convinced now that the flickering
light she had seen the night before in the closed
wing was not a trick of her imagination. But who
would believe her? The hotel detective certainly
wouldnt. Connie decided not to mention it to
anyone and to keep mum about tonights incident.
She prepared for bed reluctantly, not in the least
sleepy, and lay with arms curled around her pillow
for the better part of an hour, attempting to unravel
at least one of the tangled threads which led
nowhere.
Paul SchorrCould he have borrowed the
chambermaids keys?
The AdmiralWhat was his business with Paul,
anyway?
David
Finally her eyes began to closeopenand close
again. Her last waking thought was that it was really
a shame about David.

128

CHAPTER

11

Slightly Warmer

Connie awakened, roused by the hotel operator by

request at seven-thirty, feeling vigorous and
refreshed. It is wonderful, she thought as she
replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle, what a
good nights sleep will do. Instead of feeling
discouraged and stymied, as she had on going to
bed, she felt more determined than ever to clear up
this mystery before she had to leave Atlantic City
and go back to Philadelphia.
And she had only one more day!
Her schedule called for her return tomorrow
before noon, on the heels of the last of the contest
cooks. Today the award luncheon would be held at
one oclock and this evening Hank Bronson and his
staff were planning an advertising conference to
compare findings. Then tomorrow morning she must
pack and be off on the ten-oclock train.
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Id better get myself organized, Connie said

aloud.
Suiting action to thought, she reached for a pad
and a pencil and sat propped up in bed planning her
day.
This morning she was free until ten, when she
would receive secret information from Hank, in
advance of the formal announcement, concerning
contest winners. Then she had some newspaper
releases to prepare and wire to several dailies. The
luncheon itself was called for one, and she could
expect to be busy interviewing the winners
afterward for at least an hour, which should get her
back to the hotel by three-thirty or four, when she
would be free again until six. That gave her four
good hours!
Four hours in which to follow up leads neglected
until now.
Ten minutes later she jumped out of bed,
showered and dressed briskly, then went downstairs
to breakfast. Just as her coffee arrived, Miss Sloane
came into the dining room, spotted her, and strode
over to Connies table on her competent heels.
How nice, she simpered. May I sit here? I do so
hate to breakfast alone.
Connie made little attempt to hide the fact that
she was in a hurry. Of course, she said, but Im
afraid Ill have to leave you. I have a million things
130

to do.
Miss Emily shook her head. Youth, youth!
Always busy. She sighed elaborately. Abigail and
I were saying just last night how much we envied
you your great vitality.
Connie felt vaguely embarrassed. You have
plenty of vitality, she replied. Walking to
Hackneys and back every day is no short hike.
Miss Sloane giggled and ducked her head shyly.
I enjoy it, she said.
An idea occurred to Connie and she changed the
subject abruptly. Miss Sloane, Im going to ask you
a question which I hope youll keep confidential.
Have you, by chance, any notion what Admiral
Crosby might have to do with Paul Schorr?
Miss Sloane looked genuinely puzzled. Paul
Schorr? You mean the bellhop who walks Abigails
dog?
Thats right. Connie nodded. Ive seen them
together a couple of times, and it seems rather an
odd combination. Im frankly curious.
Miss Emilys eyes shifted from Connies to the
sugar cube she was unwrapping for her coffee. She
shook her head as though she were trying to think.
It does seem odd, she admitted, but I wouldnt
have the slightest idea. Then she looked up with a
startled expression in her pale eyes. You dont
think that it might have something to do with the
131

theft of Abigails brooch, do you?

I dont know, Connie admitted. Thats what
Im trying to find out. She hesitated a moment, then
went on, You know, of course, that the brooch isnt
the only one of Miss Whitneys jewels that has
disappeared.
We-ll, said Miss Sloane, cocking her head
dubiously. Id take what Abigail tells you on that
score with a grain of salt, child. Shes frightful
careless, especially with ornaments, as I ought to
know.
You mean she could mislay or lose a really
valuable ring and not notice?
Shes very rich, you see, Miss Emily said as
though that were explanation enough.
Rich or not, she needs somebody to take care of
her, Connie said firmly. Oh, dear, I really must be
running. Will you excuse me, please?
At the motor entrance she asked the doorman to
hail a taxi, and gave the driver the address of the
watch repair shop. Having picked up her wrist
watch, which was now running properly, she walked
the short distance to the pawnbrokers where she
had seen David Maxwell, and went in as though she
had suffered no rebuff at the proprietors hands.
Good morning, she said brightly when the
proprietor appeared from the back room. I was in
here yesterday morning looking at some jewelry. By
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any chance, did I happen to leave a pair of pigskin

gloves on the counter?
No, you didnt, said the man.
This was no surprise to Connie. The question was
merely an opening gambit. Oh, dear. I must have
left them somewhere else, she said.
The man stood waiting.
You havent any new pieces of jewelry?
New?
Well, new-old.
Nope.
There were some cuff links in the tray you
showed me. I wonder if I may see them again? The
mans defenses were certainly hard to break down.
The pawnbroker got out the tray wordlessly, and
Connie once more inspected the various items,
wondering what her next move should be.
Finally she decided to plunge. You know, she
said chattily, theres an elderly lady at my hotel
who has been losing some pieces of antique jewelry
during the past few weeks. I think she should notify
some of you people in case they should turn up.
Then you could let her know.
The expression in the pawnbrokers eyes became
wary. What hotel? he asked.
The Barkley-Sheridan.
Pulling the tray toward him abruptly, the man
said, Say, what goes on here?
133

Connie tried to look innocent. Why, what do you

mean?
But the man didnt intend to answer that one.
Instead he said, Get this. I dont take in no stolen
goods. Im too smart for that.
Connie left the shop thinking that he was too
smart, also, to give himself away entirely, but she
also knew that this wasnt the first time hed heard
of the robbery at the Barkley-Sheridan.
I wonder, Connie thought as she left the shop,
I really wonder how honest the fellow is? She was
sure that he knew something he didnt intend to
divulge, but what his secret was she couldnt guess.
At the corner she hailed another taxi and gave the
address of Charlies Grill. At a table from which she
could watch the woman at the cashiers booth she
ordered a cup of coffee and sat sipping it leisurely.
Several people, on leaving the restaurant, stopped
to chat with the cashier, who spoke with a decided
accent which Connie placed as possibly German,
though she wasnt quite sure.
The woman seemed popular with the trade. She
had a ready smile, though her eyes looked tired and
she was almost painfully thin. Connie found herself
feeling a little sorry for her, although she didnt
know quite why. Actually she should be feeling
suspicious. This was no way to play detective!
Upon paying her dime check, Connie spoke to the
134

cashier. I saw you talking to Paul Schorr the other

day, she said as though she had been lunching here
at the time. Hes a nice boy, isnt he?
I think hes pretty splendide. The womans
face lit up in what Connie could only construe as
delight.
She ignored the line queuing up behind her and
inquired, Do you know him well?
The cashiers laughter peeled out happily. Very
well, miss. He is my son.
Connie couldnt have been more flabbergasted.
She found herself out on the pavement before she
fully recovered. This woman was Pauls mother! It
was a possibility which had never occurred to her,
but it was undoubtedly true. At the same time she
realized that a mother would do almost anything for
a beloved son. Anything!
Connie couldnt help wondering whether Mrs.
Schorr herself knew the contents of the envelope she
had received, third hand, from Admiral Crosby by
way of Paul?
Standing on the curb, Connie glanced at her wrist
watch. It was almost ten oclock and the chance of
finding a cruising taxi in this part of town was slim.
There were buses, however, and she took one going
in the proper direction, then walked the two
remaining blocks to the hotel.
The telephone was ringing when she reached her
135

room. Hank, sounding slightly hurried, gave her the

names of the winners.
Mrs. Ferilli! Connie cried at one point. Oh,
how nice! That should salve her wounded feelings.
You sure you can get these stories out before
noon? Hank asked when he had finished. How
about coming to the pier office and using our
typist?
Theres a public stenographer right here if I
should need her, Connie assured him, and as she
put the telephone receiver back in its cradle she saw,
in her minds eye, Phoebe Millers blunt-fingered,
capable handslike a mans.
A mans hands!
How do I know, Connie asked herself, that it
was a mans hand on the door jamb last night. There
was no nail polish. I can remember that. But Phoebe
Miller never wears nail polish. I remember that,
too.
Slowly she lifted the receiver again. May I have
Mrs. Millers office, please, she said to the
operator.
Phoebe Miller was free and would be happy to
take some dictation, and have the material ready by
noon. Would you like to come up? Connie
suggested, then changed her mind abruptly. No,
never mind. Ill come down. She must be sensible,
Connie told herself. The hand on the doorjamb last
136

night could be one of the hands that tried to strangle

her. No use running any unnecessary risk.
Sitting opposite the stenographer at an ordinary
office desk, it was hard to credit the thought which
prompted her to be cautious. Mrs. Millers hands,
stubby-fingered and square though they might be,
certainly didnt look menacing.
Phoebe caught Connie with her gaze fixed on
them, and she glanced at her fingernails ruefully.
Awful short, arent they? I cant help it. I break
them all the time on the typewriter keys. Theyre
that brittle.
Connie flushed. I think you have very
competent-looking hands, she said, not wanting to
have seemed rude.
Lots of women have, commented Mrs. Miller,
if you take time to notice. It isnt many ladies who
have nice long fingers like Miss Whitneys. Take
that friend of hers, Miss Sloane. She has hands even
bigger than mine. Told me she wears a size eight
glove.
Goodness, Connie commented without much
interest. She supposed the next step was to
investigate mild-mannered Miss Emily, but the idea
amused rather than intrigued her. Miss Sloane
certainly is devoted to Miss Whitney, isnt she?
Thats for sure, said Phoebe with a nod.
Have they been friends long?
137

Phoebe shrugged. I havent any idea.

It seemed to Connie a profitless conversation. She
decided to pretend to take Phoebe into her
confidence. You know, she said, the theft of Miss
Whitneys brooch still bothers me. I think that the
person who stole it is the same person who tried to
throttle me.
Even though she watched Phoebes eyes closely
she could detect no telltale change in expression.
The stenographer looked mildly concerned but
certainly not frightened. Dearie, she said, after a
moments thought, if I was you, Id just forget it.
You got a job to do, and you dont have time to be
mixin in other peoples troubles. Its not as if you
was Miss Whitney, with all that time on her hands
she spends in writin letters to the newspapers.
The remark was cogent as well as timely. Connie
took a look at her watch and whistled softly. Mrs.
Miller, she said as she consulted her notes and
prepared to continue her dictation, I think perhaps
youve got something there.
By eleven oclock the newspaper stories were all
in shorthand form in Phoebe Millers book. She
promised to get the typed manuscripts to Connie by
12:45, and went right to work. Connie, meanwhile,
went up to her room and made notes concerning the
questions she wanted to ask the winning contestants.
Each should be good for a feature story in heror
138

hislocal paper, besides the dailies in cities near

by.
Hank called her again about noon, to tell her not
to hurrythe award luncheon would probably get a
late start. A famous magazines food editor was
awarding the prizes, and her plane was arriving late
due to bad weather conditions in New York.
Connie, therefore, took her time and dressed
especially carefully, thinking as she applied her
make-up that Mrs. Miller was probably right. Every
trail she had attempted to follow in this mystery led
to a seemingly blind alley. Really, she should be
sensible and just plain give up.
But then, she would leave tomorrow with a
feeling that her name wasnt quite clear. In spite of
the fact that Miss Whitney had called them off,
Connie knew that Mr. Beebe and Mr. Jones were
still unconvinced that she was completely innocent.
They glanced at her doubtfully when she passed
either of them in the lobby or in another of the
public rooms, and she believed that Mr. Jones was
quite capable of considering her report of the
marauder in the Sheridan wing a frame-up.
Besides, it would give her enormous satisfaction
to be able to discover the whereabouts of Miss
Abigails brooch. It was such an unusual and
beautiful piece that it seemed a pity to lose it.
The brooch and all the other missing pieces of
139

jewelry were quite a cache, really. Where could they

be? In some distant city perhaps? In the hands of a
fence like the taciturn pawnbroker? In a brown
envelope hidden in the Schorrs dreary little
rooming house? All were possibilities. There was
also the possibility that they were still right here in
this hotel. That was a consideration she hadnt
explored, even mentally.
Phoebe Miller phoned just then, and Connie had
to go down to check her copy before it was mailed
out. She put on her hat and picked up her coat and
bag and gloves. Goodness, if there were only more
time!
In the hall she pushed the button for the elevator,
then stood waiting impatiently for its ascent.
Inevitably she glanced toward the fire doors. The
padlock, she noted, had not yet been replaced. Either
Mr. Jones was unusually negligent or his orders had
not yet been carried out. Connie suspected, from her
previous experience with the house detective, that
the latter supposition was the case.

140

CHAPTER

12

In the Sheridan Wing

It was the absence of the padlock which gave

Connie the idea.
If the fire door had been secured once more, the
idea might not have occurred to her, but suddenly
the whole case of the missing brooch fell together in
a kind of design. She knew what she intended to do,
if she dared.
Even when she arrived in the private dining room
of the hotel where the award luncheon was to be
held she kept thinking about it. Roast guinea hen
under glass notwithstanding, she kept thinking about
it. Of course she could get into even worse trouble
by attempting such a thing. But on the other hand . .
.
Miss Blair, youre in the advertising business,
arent you?
Yes, I am. With Reid and Renshaw, in
141

Philadelphia.
Arent these petit pois perfectly delicious, Miss
Blair? A touch of mint, dont you think?
Yes, indeed.
Everybodys so excited, Miss Blair, wondering
about the winners. Ill bet you know, dont you, but
youre not saying. Ill just bet.
Oh, now, youre taking a lot for granted.
Connie smiled.
Conversation eddied and flowed around her,
carrying her with its stream sometimes, but more
often leaving her in a little pool of her own creation,
a pool in which a good many fishing lines were
tangled, but perhaps not hopelessly.
Perhaps. It was a word in which Connie had set
great store in the past and would again. It was a
good word, with hope in it; not a discouraging word
like quit.
She ate the elaborate luncheon automatically,
anxious for the moment when she would be released
from the duties attendant to her job and be able to
hurry back to the Barkley-Sheridan.
That moment was long in coming. Coffee was
served after dessert, and then the toastmaster arose
and introduced, in turn, three speakers. The food
editor talked for twenty minutes, and the president
of Standard Fixture made a brief address before the
actual business of awarding the prizes began.
142

Holly Morgan, the youngest contestant of all,

received the big cash award of five thousand dollars,
having obviously conquered the problem of the mint
extract. She wept openly when she walked forward
to accept the envelope, and Connie realized that she
was completely overwhelmed with surprise.
Mrs. Ferilli received the second prize, also
substantial, which Connie considered most
fortunate. Twenty-five hundred dollars would
certainly salve her wounded feelings very copiously.
The third prize winner was a man, a gentleman of
French extraction by the name of Raymon Cibot,
with whom Connie had exchanged only a few
passing words.
For each there was a prolonged round of
applause, in which Connie joined enthusiastically,
even though she wished the ceremonies would come
quickly to an end. Then a note was passed to her
from Hank Bronson.
Conniehe had scrawledI think theres an
opportunity for three bang-up human-interest yarns
about the winners. Why dont you collar them right
after the party breaks up?
Connie sighed impatiently, hating to be delayed
still further, but at the same time recognizing that
this was a legitimate part of her job, while playing
amateur detective was definitely extracurricular.
Will do! she scribbled in reply, and began
143

making notes of questions she should ask.

Finally, at long last, she was free to leave. She
had copious notes on each of the three winners, and
planned to start the stories as soon as she had made
her own personal investigation of the empty rooms
on the sixth floor in the Sheridan wing.
Providing, of course, the lock on the fire door had
not yet been replaced.
This possibility kept nagging at her as she hurried
along the boardwalk against the biting wind.
Perhaps, even now, she would be too late. She
started to walk even faster, almost breaking into a
run as she came within sight of the hotel. The
boardwalk, this afternoon, was nearly deserted, few
visitors being willing to brave the cold. Overhead,
the sky was an ominous, threatening gray, promising
snow, and the hotels rose against it in silhouette,
looking monstrous and unbelievable, like turreted
castles in a childs dream.
Connie glanced up at the Sheridan wing as she
came abreast it. The windows were like a thousand
eyes, staring back sightlessly. She shuddered in spite
of herself. Did she dare?
Then she told herself that this was no time to
hesitate. After all, what could happen to her in broad
daylight? Then she glanced up at the lowering sky
well, in partial daylight, anyway? And it wouldnt
take more than an hour for the thing that she planned
144

to do.
The elevator which Connie boarded seemed to
crawl upward, but finally she emerged in the
familiar sixth-floor hall. Immediately she glanced
toward the fire doors and breathed more easily. Luck
was with her at least thus far. The padlock had not
yet been replaced.
The unhappy thought occurred to her that it might
yet be done this afternoon and she would find
herself locked in the empty wing, but this was a
chance she would just have to take. She started
toward the door of her own room, planning to drop
her hat and coat, when Miss Whitneys door
suddenly opened and Miss Whitney herself, dressed
in a flowing satin negligee, stepped into the hall.
Oh, dear, the older woman said at once. I
heard the elevator and I hoped you were Paul. She
raised a fragile, ringed hand to her forehead. I have
an abominable headache, she admitted, and Id
been planning to take a couple of aspirin and try to
go to sleep, but Frosti hasnt been walked and Paul
is an hour overdue again.
Ill walk Frosti, Connie offered once more,
although she didnt relish the prospect of again
battling the elements. Another thought had prompted
the suggestion, besides the normal desire to be of
help. Frosti might serve as protection on her
projected search.
145

Youre sure it wont be too much trouble? Miss

Whitneys voice vibrated with relief. Youve
already been so kind.
Ill enjoy it, Connie promised, and Miss
Abigail turned back to get the poodles leash. The
moment Frosti saw it he started to wag his tail, and
allowed Connie to fasten it to his collar very
happily.
You wont mind if Im gone quite a while?
Connie took the precaution of asking. I have an
errand to do.
I wont worry about you. Miss Abigail smiled,
and as she shut the door, Connie wondered whether
this were a good omen or bad.
Instead of walking over to the bank of elevators
Connie took advantage of the fact that the coast was
clear and slipped at once through the fire door into
the deserted wing. Frosti padded along beside her on
his springy, straight legs, and if he were surprised at
this unexpected turn of events, he gave no sign.
Good dog, Connie told him in a whisper. Nice
Frosti. You come along quietly now. Then later
well go for another romp on the sand together.
Frosti looked up at his new escort and wagged his
tail, intelligence and canine understanding in his soft
bright eyes. Connie smiled. Good dog, she said
again. You give me courage.
Yet, now that she was actually here, she felt
146

rather at a loss. The empty rooms stretched endlessly

before her on either side of the long corridor, and if,
as she believed, one of them held the cache of lost
jewels she was seeking, the job of finding them
might prove a herculean task.
She decided to start at the far end and work
backward, reasoning that if she were the thief who
had been hiding the loot in this abandoned part of
the hotel, she would want to go as far away from the
tenanted section as possible. But when she had
poked through only two rooms, opening each bureau
and desk drawer and examining each medicine chest
and each closet, she realized that this job would take
nearer a day than an hour, and that Frosti was
already becoming impatient of this peculiar tour.
So she stood at a window looking out toward the
turbulent sea and tried an old trick.
If I had a number of rings and pins and the like,
and wanted to hide them somewhere in one of these
rooms, where would be the most likely place?
Connie tried to divorce her mind from seeing the
actual jewels, and thought of them only as physical
shapessmall, hard objects, for which some safe
place of concealment must be found. Certainly she
wouldnt trust to luck that a caretaker or watchman
wouldnt open a bureau drawer or flash his light
along a closet shelf. Nor would she take the chance
of tucking them into a bag and tying it onto a bed147

spring.
No, indeed! Detection in either case would be too
problematic. Shed want a less obvious hideaway
than those which immediately presented themselves
in these forlorn, empty rooms.
Frosti nuzzled her hand, urging her to hurry, but
Connie merely patted the dogs head absently. Just
a minute, fellow, she murmured. Let me think.
Small, hard objects. In these deserted rooms, a
place of concealment upon which a hotel employee
would not stumble. Her eyes swept the walls.
Behind a picture? She lifted the corner of a print
hanging over the night table, but decided there
wouldnt be enough space between the frame and
the wall for even a small bag of jewels.
Of course the thief might have divided his loot,
but this seemed unlikely. Collecting it for a getaway,
if that ever became necessary, would be too difficult
a task.
Connie refused to consider the probability that
her guess was completely wrongthat the gems
might not be here at all. Not until she had considered
every angle did she intend to give up, for had she
not seen physical evidence of a marauder? And what
possible business could a person have over here that
was not nefarious?
Meanwhile, the afternoon light was waning by
the moment. The sky was heavy and gray, hanging
148

over the sea and the boardwalk like a pall. Connie

became afflicted by a feeling of suspense, of
breathless anxiety. The stripped rooms were
forbidding, and the possibility of discovery
increased her apprehensiveness.
Frosti, too, seemed to grow increasingly anxious.
He started to pad nervously, as though he were more
and more impatient to be off. At the back of the
hotel, coal started to run down a chute with a sudden
gush, and Connie jumped, her heart beating with an
almost audible thud.
Firmly she forced her mind to reject this
unreasoning terror and return to the question at
hand. Small, hard objectswhere would she hide
them?
The hotel mattresses offered a possibility. One
could be ripped . . .
Connie walked across to the bed in the room in
which she was standing, holding too lightly to
Frostis leash. The poodle jerked away playfully and
gamboled over to the window, to stand with his
paws on the sill. Fie looked back at Connie
pleadingly over his shoulder. Oh, come on now!
Take me out, his expression said.
I will, in just a little while, Connie answered
him aloud as she went over to recapture the leash.
As Frosti dropped his feet to the rug, in response
to Connies tug, one of his toenails caught in the
149

faded damask drapery, which, like so many of the

Barkley-Sheridan appurtenances, was a relic of past
grandeur. Bending to untangle him, Connie realized
that the curtain was weighted at the corners with
small metal disks, just as her mothers chintz
draperies were weighted in the living room at home.
Small, hard objects! Her eyes widened in sudden
confidence.
What better hiding place could there be? Connie
thought, remembering the spool of gray thread she
had found in the hallway last night.
Hastily she ran her hand along the bottom edge of
each curtain. There was nothing here, but there were
twenty rooms in all, and it would be the work of
only about twenty minutes to make a thorough
check.
Come on, Frosti! Lets get going, she said
persuasively. Well start at the front and work
back.
The first great flakes of snow were already
falling, and in a few minutes the world without the
rectangles of the windows was a whirling feather
bed of white. Connie ticked off the rooms as she
quickly checked each set of draperies. The corner
rooms took twice as long as the more modest ones
on the side.
Seven, eight, nine. Just eleven to go, Frosti. That
wont take too long. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen.
150

Thirteen should be our lucky number, Frosti. Come

on!
A moment later Connie was on her knees before a
bay window. Her hands, soiled by the accumulated
dust of months, had touched a knobby protuberance.
She whistled softly. For once, she murmured to
herself, I think Ive hit it right.
The drapery lining, she could see in the semidarkness, was hand-sewn clumsily at the bottom,
when usually it hung free. Pulling off her beret, she
unfastened the tortoise-shell barrette which held
back her hair, and used it to rip the stitches, which
had been made with a double strand of gray sewing
thread.
She had looped the end of Frostis leash over her
wrist, and the poodle stood watching curiously.
Impatient as Connie was with excitement, she made
slow work of a job which would ordinarily have
taken only a minute, but finally she could pull the
lining free.
Cascading out on the carpet came the stolen
jewels, rings, pins, a diamond bracelet. Even in the
wan light the stones sparkled, and Connie gasped at
their brilliance. For the first time she realized the
extent of Miss Whitneys probable collection. Why,
this was a veritable treasure trove!
Frosti sniffed at the ornaments eagerly, his nose
wrinkling as though he recognized the scent, and
151

Connie remembered that some dogs have a highly

developed sense of smell, so that in obedience
classes they can sort out objects their trainers have
handled from among a vast collection of articles.
Goodness, I wish you could talk! she whispered
to him. Ill bet you could name the thief!
But Frosti merely looked at her with limpid eyes.
The intelligence shining in them would never be
expressed in words.
Now Connie was glad that she hadnt gone first to
her room, because she was still carrying her
handbag, which would make an excellent container
for the jewels. She gathered the rings and pins up
several at a time, thinking as she did so that there
must be a couple of dozen items in all.
But among them, she realized belatedly, there
was no golden falcon! The French brooch was
missing, and she had a feeling that this was the prize
piece of the lot.
Just as she snapped her handbag shut, while still
crouching with her back to the door, she was
conscious that someone had entered the room and
was standing behind her. There was no noise. A
footfall on the carpet made no sound. But Frosti
lifted his head suddenly and turned, and his tail
began to wag in greeting.
Then, very suddenly, before Connie could whirl
around, something firm and hard whacked her over
152

the head.
She never saw the intruder. She crumpled in a
heap, clutching her handbag to her stomach, and the
last thing she remembered was Frostis startled
snarl.

153

CHAPTER

13

Frosti to the Rescue!

A dog was barking, wildly, frantically.

Struggling back to consciousness in the darkness,
Connie wasnt sure whether the animal was yelping
in a nightmare or in reality.
Her head throbbed and pounded, and she kept
slipping back over a precipice of pain, try as she
would to regain control of her senses and of her
limbs.
R-roof, r-r-roof! Full-mouthed and insistent,
clamoring for attention came the call. It sounded
from a distance at first; then a wet tongue was
licking anxiously at her face.
Frosti, Connie managed to whisper. Good dog.
Go fetch. No, that wasnt the command her
crippled brain was trying to find. Goget
somebody. Go home.
She couldnt sit up. She tried and blanked out
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once more, lying for another inestimable length of

time with her cheek against the rough, dust-laden
carpet, her knees pulled up, her arms limp. Again
she awakened to the same impetuous barking, now
retreating, now returning to her side.
Connie raised her head, ever so little, and
pillowed it on one arm. Then she reached up and
touched her skull and a long shudder ran over her
body. Her hand came away wet with blood.
Woof-woof, woof-woof! The explosive barking
hit her throbbing brain like the detonation of a
cannon. But although the pain was killing, Connie
couldnt command the poodle to stop. Dimly,
agonized though she was by the noise, she realized
that Frosti was her only chance.
And she knew that she was hurt, this time,
perhaps badly. Dazed though she might be, Connie
was aware that this attack was nothing from which
she could get up and walk away. Her assailant had
been strong, and there might even be a concussion.
She had heard that a concussion made a person
sleepy. Gritting her teeth, she willed herself awake.
For minutesperhaps for an hourthe big gray
poodle raced back and forth from the girl crumpled
up on the bedroom floor to the closed fire door.
Once he even put his paws against it; then he
dropped back. No, he couldnt leave her alone.
And Connie couldnt make him understand that to
155

do just that might prove her only chance of being

rescued. Weak as she was, tormented by the terrible
throbbing in her head, she was incapable of any
consistent effort.
Home, Frosti. Go home. Go get Miss Whitney.
The poodle wagged his tail and ran off down the
hall, his barks receding into the distance as he
crossed the bridge over the carriage drive, but in a
few minutes he was back, standing over his charge
once more, trying to explain with his rough,
affectionate tongue that he sympathized.
Connie tried to believe that someone would
finally come. But she had told Miss Whitney that
she might be gone quite a while, and anyway, in all
probability, Frostis mistress was still napping,
sleeping off a headache which must be merely a
stepchild to the one Connie had acquired.
Night had fallen completely by now. Even the
rectangles of the windows were invisible, and
Connie couldnt see her own hand, only feel the
stickiness of the blood. But she reached out to try to
caress Frosti. He was trying his hardest, doing his
level canine best.
His tongue swiped at her fingers, and it was then,
tasting the blood, that he started to bay.
It was like the cry of a werewolf, earsplitting, a
long-drawn-out scream that started low but ended on
a high crescendo of sound. Connies throbbing head
156

couldnt stand it. She fainted again.

For several minutes the big dog stood over her
like a gray ghost, nuzzling her with his nose, licking
at her ear, her neck. Then he turned and ran out of
the room, leash dangling, and this time he didnt
come back.
His paws hit the fire door like small battering
rams, and as it swung open, he bounded through.
Just at that moment the elevator stopped at the sixth
Moor.
I cant imagine what can have happened to Miss
Blair, Miss Whitney was saying as she stepped off.
Then Frosti catapulted up to her and grabbed her
skirt in his teeth.
Whywhy youre back! his mistress said in
surprise. Then alarm filled her voice. But I just
knocked on the childs door.
Frosti was tugging her down the hall, away from
Connies room. Miss Whitney looked over her
shoulder at the elevator operator and said in concern.
Somethings wrong!
For a few seconds the man stood stupidly in the
car door, watching the strange pantomime. Pie
wants you should come with him, madam, he said.
Thats fairly obvious, Miss Whitney snapped in
disgust. Well, dont stand there. Do something!
Butbut what? the fellow stuttered.
Go get the manageror the house detectiveor
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anybody. Hurry up!

Yes, maam. The elevator door closed and the
car descended while Miss Whitney tried to calm her
excited dog. There, Frosti. There, there. Quiet,
now, boy. Stop shivering. Everythings going to be
all right.
But Frosti continued to whine and pull at his
mistresss skirt. He ignored Mr. Jones and Mr.
Beebe when they finally arrived, and ran back and
forth to the fire door, pushing against it and
indicating clearly that he wanted Miss Whitney to
follow him.
Quickly Miss Abigail explained the situation to
the two men. Miss Blair took my poodle for a walk
and he seems to have returned without her. At least
she doesnt answer my knock.
The house detective walked immediately to
Connies door and rapped perfunctorily, then
inserted a master key in the lock. He walked in, and
a few moments later came out again.
Empty, he said.
Miss Whitney jerked her head toward the fire
door. Whats beyond that?
The Sheridan wing, Mr. Beebe said. Its
closed for the winter.
The detective shot a glance at Frosti, then at his
boss. Better see what cooks.
Miss Whitney had no intention of being left
158

behind. It was her dog who was creating the

disturbance and she made it plain that she intended
to accompany him on whatever errand he had in
mind. The poodle was obviously anxious. Fie
tugged at his leash and hurried his mistress along the
vacant corridor as fast as she could walk.
Better let me go ahead, maam, Mr. Jones said
cautiously. Theres no telling what we may find.
We may find Connie Blair. Dont think Im not
aware of that! Miss Whitney shot back. But what
shes been up to in here is a mystery to me. Place
looks as if it had been given over to the rats.
Mr. Beebe bridled. Itll be cleaned properly in
the spring, madam, I can assure you.
The route Frosti took was very direct. Fie barked
once, happily, when he reached the door of the room
where Connie lay, telling them all that he had done
his duty and that their quest was ended. But the girl
on the floor didnt hear him. She heard and felt
nothing at all until, an hour and a half later, she
awoke in bed.
A strange man in a dark suit was feeling her
pulse.
Hello, she said feebly.
Hello. The man smiled, making his shaggy
eyebrows rise at the outer corners. Im Dr. Moore.
Oh, Connie replied unquestioningly.
Head ache?
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Yes.
The doctor left the bedside and came back with a
parti-colored green and black capsule and a glass of
water. Take this, he said. It will help.
Connie put the pellet in her mouth and swallowed
obligingly, but it was absurd what the effort cost her.
She felt very weak. Closing her eyes she lay still for
several minutes, then opened them again to find the
doctor still beside her. Will there have to be
stitches? she asked.
There are stitches, Dr. Moore said gently. Six
of them. You never felt them, did you?
Connie didnt try to shake her head. She was
afraid it would come off. No, she murmured. Im
glad.
Im glad, too. You had a pretty nasty knock.
What hit you?
I dont know, but it felt like a chair leg, Connie
said, then closed her eyes again. She was very tired.
When she awakened the second time she felt
better. Her head no longer throbbed, and the ache
could now be borne. The doctor was still in the
room, but he had his topcoat on now, and his hat
was in his hand. Connie smiled at him and he smiled
back with kindly eyes.
Feeling better?
Much, Connie told him.
Just stay quiet. Youll be all right. Ill leave my
160

telephone number in case you want me to drop by to

check up on you in the morning.
Morning? Connie aroused enough to ask,
What time is it?
About seven-thirty, the doctor said. Theres a
nurse coming to stay with you in a little while.
Nurse? I dont need a nurse!
The hotel management is providing the service.
Mr. Beebe insists that you have every possible
care. Dr. Moore patted her hand consolingly. You
just relax now and let us take care of you.
Just one more question, Connie said. I dont
suppose they caught the person who struck me?
The doctor shook his head, looking grave. No,
child. Im sorry to say that whoever it was got
away.
Oh, dear, Connie murmured. She was
beginning to tire again.
Quietly Dr. Moore slipped out of the room and a
uniformed nurse, with a pleasant face and short
carrot-colored hair, came in and took Connies
temperature.
Im Miss Green, she explained. Dont try to
talk to me for a while yet. See if you can go to sleep
again.
Obediently Connie closed her eyes, but this time
she didnt sleep. Thoughts played tag in her brain,
thoughts she sooner or later would just have to put
161

into words.
One was uppermost, but it could wait until a less
interesting but more important problem was solved.
Miss Green, Connie said after a few minutes,
will you get Mr. Henry Bronson on the phone for
me, please. Its about my job. Somebody will have
to take over.
Miss Green demurred at first, but decided that
refusal would excite her patient more than
compliance and called the number Connie gave her.
Hank was shocked by Connies report. Dont
you worry about a thing, he told her. But I want to
see you. Ill be right over.
He arrived within fifteen minutes, coming straight
from the business dinner at which Connie also
should have been present. We all missed you, of
course, he explained as she gave him a rather limp
hand, but we just thought you were delayed.
The human-interest stories Connie began
conscientiously.
Forget them, Hank advised her. The boss is
delighted with the publicity created by the contest. A
few more newspaper blurbs will be merely gilding
the lily. You just lie here and rest.
Thats just what shes going to do, said Miss
Green firmly. No visitors, now, until tomorrow.
Then she quirked her neat eyebrows and smiled.
And, Mr. Bronson, your three minutes are up!
162

Connie had one more request to make, but she

bided her time. She allowed Miss Green to ring for
some beef broth and toast, and pretended to enjoy it.
Actually the food, light as it was, did make her
feel stronger, and some of her normal bounce began
to return. She wondered whether it wouldnt be
possible, after all, to dictate those stories to Phoebe
Miller, but when she brought up the subject, Miss
Green shook her head.
Absolutely no.
Connie grinned. Well, it was just a suggestion.
And Ill bet you have a dozen of them up your
sleeve!
Only one more, Connie promised. Do you
know whether my handbag was recoveredwhen
they found me, I mean?
The nurse shook her head. I dont even know
how your accident happened, she admitted. I was
just called in on this case like any other, without
much preliminary explanation. But I can ask.
Oh, would you? Connie cried. Its really
important. Then she said, Why dont you look in
the bureau drawers first, though. Or the closet. They
must have hung up my coat.
Miss Green agreed willingly, going first to the
closet, which held only Connies clothes. In the top
bureau drawer, however, she came across a tan
saddle leather pocketbook and held it up by the
163

strap.
This it?
Yes. Connies heart began to pump faster. Did
she dare to hope? Aloud she said, with outward
calmness, May I have it, please?

164

CHAPTER

14

Strategy

The jewels were there!

The minute Connie felt the weight of the bag she
knew. Frosti must have routed the thief before he or
she had time to recover them. As the rings and
bracelets and pins tumbled out on the counterpane in
a glittering cascade, the nurse gasped in surprise.
What under the shining sun?
Connie grinned in relief. Theyre almost worth a
few stitches in my head, arent they?
They look like a kings ransom, Miss Green
admitted. Are they yours?
Laughing, Connie said, Heavens, no. Im just a
poor working girl. They belong to a very wealthy
lady who lives here at the hotel. On this floor, as a
matter of fact.
But why? Then Miss Green cut off her own
impulsive question. No, dont tell me. Its bound to
165

be a long story, and it will keep until tomorrow.

Tonight you are supposed to rest.
Just one more thing Connie begged.
One!
Id like to get this jewelry into the hotel safe for
overnight, and Id like Mr. Beebe to notify Miss
Whitney that it has been recovered.
Ill take it down, Miss Green offered.
Connie was ready to say that would be fine. Then,
with mounting caution, she changed her mind. No.
Something might go wrong. I think Mr. Beebe or the
house detective should come and get it.
Miss Green was ready to humor her patient,
although she thought such prudence was
unnecessary. Very well, she said, and went to the
telephone.
The manager appeared, quite hurried, and ready
to go into a long-winded apology for the injury Miss
Blair had suffered in his normally well-run hotel, but
Connie, with a wave of her hand, cut him off.
I want you to make sure that these things are
locked carefully in the safe overnight, and I want to
be sure that Miss Whitney is notified at once, she
told him. Then will you ask her to come see me,
first thing in the morning, if shell be so kind.
Anything, anything at all, Mr. Beebe assured
Connie obsequiously, after he had recovered from
his initial astonishment. And of course Mr. Jones
166

will be very much interested. I may let him know

too, of course?
Yes, Connie agreed, but no one else.
I understand.
He doesnt obviously, Connie thought, but hell
do as I ask. The gold falcon brooch, she added as
an afterthought, is still missing.
Oh? The manager looked troubled. He had
thought the whole lot was in his hands.
But I think that may turn up, too, tomorrow,
Connie said, taking a long chance.
Oh! Mr. Beebes voice brightened.
If, Connie reminded him, you make sure to do
exactly as I say.
Rest assured! he promised. Rest assured.
Bowing, he backed out of the room.
Rest, repeated Miss Green, rather caustically.
Up until now its only been a word around here.
Now were going to get the lights out and do
something about it!
However, Connie didnt sleep at once. She lay in
the dark planning her strategy tor the next day, and
she knew infallibly that a very great deal depended
on it.
The sun was glistening on the snow-capped
rooftops of the boardwalk shops when she awakened
the following morning. No longer gray and stormy,
167

the sky had turned a bright February blue, inviting

and cloudless. Miss Green was still on duty, and she
seemed not a bit worse for the wear.
Good morning! she said brightly. You had a
wonderful nights sleep.
I certainly did, agreed Connie, stretching. I
feel like a million dollars.
Easy now, the nurse advised her when she
swung her legs over the edge of the bed. With any
head injury its wise to stay quiet for a day or so,
even though you may feel all right.
Connie had to admit, to her discomfiture, that she
was still a bit shaky on her feet. She was quite
agreeable when the nurse prescribed breakfast in
bed, and told her that the doctor had ordered his
patient to stay off her feet for the entire day, and she
said goodbye to Miss Green when she went off duty
at seven-thirty with genuine regret.
However, there was much to be done, and luckily,
the phone was within easy reach. First of all, she
called Mr. Jones and asked him whether he would
be available if she should require his services later in
the day.
But of course, Miss Blair! the detective replied,
fully as obsequious as Mr. Beebe had been.
Anything at all I can do
My stocks gone up, Connie decided as she
hung up. Then, not quite trusting the managers
168

good intentions when he had promised to ask Miss

Whitney to come see her, she called Miss Abigail
herself.
Miss Whitney, this is Connie Blair speaking.
My dear, my dear! breathed Miss Abigail in her
throaty voice. How are you feeling? Ive been so
very disturbed.
Im much better, Connie responded briskly.
But I want to impose on your good nature. In spite
of what happened yesterday, Id like to borrow
Frosti againfor all day.
Frosti?
Miss Whitney was hesitant, as her question
showed, and Connie hurried on. I think I can
explain, if youll stop by to see me. But I dont want
to talk over the phone.
Half an hour later, satisfied with the forthcoming
explanation, Miss Abigail consented and left the
poodle in Connies care. But do be careful! she
urged as she left the room. Bother the falcon
brooch if its going to cause any more trouble!
Left alone, Connie smiled to herself. Bother
several thousand dollars! Miss Whitney really did
need a guardian.
Frosti seemed not in the least disturbed to be left
with his new friend. He came and put his paws on
the edge of the bed and wagged his tail contentedly
when Connie spoke to him.
169

At nine oclock a chaise longue arrived, sent to

Miss Blairs room with the compliments of the
management, and there was much furniture moving
to accommodate it under the bay window which
commanded the wedge-shaped view of the sea.
Connie slipped into a robe and took advantage of
its luxurious comfort, but not until she had
telephoned Phoebe Miller and asked her to come up
and take some dictation. She felt fully able to dictate
her human-interest stories on the winners of the
contest, and besides, she had another aim in mind.
When Mrs. Miller bounced in, Connie felt a sharp
surge of excitement, and she watched Frosti closely,
but he merely got up, stretched, yawned delicately,
and gave a brief wag of recognition before he curled
up with his head on his paws.
The stenographer glanced at the poodle in mild
surprise to find him in Connies room, but her real
attention was concentrated on Connie herself.
Goodness, whats all this I hear? she asked. The
hotel is simply buzzing with talk about you, and I
cant make head nor tail of the half of it.
Connie smiled, as much at the roundness of Mrs.
Millers eyes as at her impetuous entrance. Want
me to begin at the beginning? she asked.
I certainly do!
Willingly, and as quickly as possible, she told the
story. So now we have the jewelry back, all except
170

the falcon brooch, but I still dont know who the

thief is, she admitted at the end.
Have you any idea? breathed the stenographer,
entranced.
Connie shook her head. Not really. Then sire
corrected herself. Well, just an inkling. Before
Phoebe could probe further, she grinned and said,
For a while I thought maybe it was you.
Me? Mrs. Millers voice rose a full octave. Full
of shocked surprise, she asked, Why me?
Well, said Connie, I remembered, when I
came to after the attempted strangling, the odor of
perfumeBlack Narcissusand youre the only
person around here who uses it, so far as I know.
Phoebe chuckled, not in the least disturbed. Id
been in Miss Whitneys room not an hour before,
and that stuff lingers, doesnt it though!
Connie considered. Thats logical enough.
Then she decided they had discussed the mystery
long enough. Come on. Lets get to work, she
proposed belatedly.
Mrs. Miller pulled up a chair and balanced her
shorthand book on her knee. Im ready.
Connie consulted her notes and decided to do the
story of Mrs. Ferilli first. Use as your date line
Atlantic City, New Jersey, February 16, she
began. Then another knock on the door interrupted
her. She glanced at Mrs. Miller with a sigh and
171

called, Come in!

First, around the door jamb, appeared a hand
bearing a large bunch of roses. Then Admiral
Crosby, looking elegant and old-worldly in
meticulous morning attire, appeared behind the
blooms.
He bowed from the waist. American Beauties
for an American beauty, he said as he presented the
roses to Connie. Frosti, quite asleep by now, didnt
even glance up.
Oh, you shouldnt have! But thank you so
much. Connie buried her head in their fragrance for
a moment, then glanced toward the bureau at the
inadequate water pitcher, the only possible container
the room boasted, and said to Mrs. Miller, Would
you mind phoning the bell captain and asking him to
send up a vase?
Not at all. As Phoebe laid aside her shorthand
book to go to the telephone, the Admiral cleared his
throat and launched on a little speech.
I should like to be among the first to
congratulate you for perseverance and bravery
which I consider most unusual in a young woman of
the present generation. Miss Whitney, although she
considers her possessions a toucherlightly, is, I
am sure, deeply appreciative of everything you have
done.
Theyll send it up pronto, Phoebe Miller
172

interrupted breezily, while the Admiral glared at her

in reproof.
Connie was half touched and half amused.
Youre very kind, she told Admiral Crosby,
hoping that he would not feel it necessary to
continue his rather flowery monologue. She still
wondered, although she was certain by now that he
had not been her assailant, whether he knew more
about the whole affair than he cared to admit.
On entering, the Admiral had courteously left the
door ajar, and now still another of Connies suspects
thrust his head around the side.
David Maxwell, looking concerned and
unexpectedly diffident, said, May I come in?
At the strange voice Frostis ears pricked and his
head jerked up. Getting quickly to his feet he trotted
across the room and sniffed at Davids trousers
suspiciously.
Connies attention was focused more on the dog
than on David. She greeted him automatically,
murmuring, Of course. Good morning, in a
bemused sort of way.
But when David started across the room Frosti sat
down on his haunches, watching the young man take
the hand of the girl on the chaise.
Connie, you little idiot, do you realize you could
have been killed! David scolded, while all the time
his eyes were speaking his admiration and anxiety.
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Connie laughed, relief replacing the nervous

excitement she had felt a moment before. Im a
hardy perennial, she told him. Ive survived a
great deal of mistreatment in my time.
What is this, a convention? Miss Abigails
husky voice asked from the doorway. Its as
crowded as Grand Central Station at five-fifteen.
Everybody laughed, and the Admiral said,
Weve all come to pay homage to Miss Blair.
Hes spoiling me, Miss Abigail. Look at those
beautiful roses, said Connie, indicating the flowers
which Phoebe had placed temporarily in the water
pitcher. The Admirals spoiling me and Davids
scolding me. I dont know which I like best.
Both men looked flattered and pleased, but Miss
Abigail snorted. Its their nature, my dear, she said.
They cant help it, either of them.
There was another, discreet rap on the door and
Phoebe said, Well, its about time! as Paul Schorr
entered the room, bearing a tall glass vase.
You called for this? he asked. His eyes were
wide and spellbound, and he walked like a
somnambulist. Even the voice in which he spoke
was a little breathless, as though he were aghast that
he could speak at all.
Yeah, about half an hour ago, said Phoebe
Miller bluntly, taking the vase out of Pauls hands
while he stared at Connie. Thanks, chum.
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Connie, once more, was watching Frosti, who had

trotted over to Paul at once and was leaping up on
the boy, frantically trying to lick his face.
Down, Frosti! Paul commanded, and the poodle
dropped back to his feet. II just want to tell you,
Miss Blair Paul stammered, then stopped, utterly
confused.
Miss Abigail broke out impatiently, You just
want to tell her what everybody else has been telling
her all morning, she boomed. Well, go on. Say it,
boy. Or has the cat got your tongue?
Paul flushed, but he didnt take his eyes off
Connie. II think youre wonderful! he breathed.
I I wonder if I could have your autograph?
It was all Connie could do to keep from smiling,
but she wouldnt have hurt the young Austrians
feelings for the world. She looked at him with great
tenderness, shocked that she ever could have
doubted him, and murmured, Of course you may.
Miss Whitney had no such scruples. Obviously
amused, she shook her head at Connie from behind
Pauls back and said, This is something Emily must
see! She stepped into the hall and boomed, Emily!
I say there! Come here.
Paul, meanwhile, had pulled a small leather book
from his jacket pocket, and still abashed but
determined, had stepped over to Connies side.
Theres a pen on the desk, Connie said.
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The Admiral moved to get it, and David stepped

aside, pretending to look out the window in order to
hide a smile. Mrs. Miller was running water in the
bathroom to fill the vase, and Frosti had retreated to
a corner of the room and was lying clown once
more.
Get on in there, Emily, and swell the throng.
Everybodys congratulating Connie on recovering
my jewelry, they could all hear Miss Whitney say.
She appeared in the door once more, pushing Miss
Sloane peremptorily ahead of her. You can put off
your walk for ten minutes. Do you good.
Connie accepted the pen from the Admiral but
glanced toward Miss Sloane as she did so. Clad as
usual in her sensible gray tweeds, her face this
morning looked rather ashen, and she was not, for
once, carrying the ubiquitous walking stick.
It was just as she crossed the threshold that Frosti
snarled.
Connie, once more, was watching the dog, and
she saw his head lift warily and his eyes harden.
Then he rose from a crouching position as though he
had been shot and sprang through the air straight at
Miss Emilys throat.
Quite inadvertently, at that very moment, Phoebe
Miller crossed the line of attack, bearing the vase of
roses to the table by Connies side. The dog hit her
with the force of a battering ram, and Phoebe landed
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on the floor as the vase sailed out of her hands and

crashed against the bureau, spraying everyone in the
room with water and fragments of glass.
Miss Abigail, meanwhile, collared her poodle,
who stood still on her command, although he was
still shaking with nervous rage. Why, Frosti, Miss
Whitney cried, whatever is the matter with you?
Im ashamed!
David was helping Mrs. Miller to her feet,
Admiral Crosby was gathering up the scattered
roses, and Paul was assembling the shattered glass.
Only Connie ignored the uproar and sat quietly on
the chaise longue writing a message for Paul in his
autograph book.
Let the glass go, she said, and called him to her.
Here you are. Do you like this?
The boy trotted to her side like an adoring puppy
about to receive a favor. She smiled up at him, and
he took the book and read:

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CHAPTER

15

The Guilty One

Mr. Jones, accompanied by Mr. Beebe, arrived on

the double-quick with Paul, who was loath to miss
the excitement, hurrying along behind them on the
pretext of bringing another flower vase.
Miss Abigail was still holding Frosti by the collar
and trying to quiet him, unable to understand why he
should suddenly be acting so antagonistic toward her
friend. He was unwillingly obedient, but he persisted
in growling deep in his throat and fixing his eyes on
Miss Sloane, who tried to make light of the matter,
saying it was just some doggy quirk hed probably
have forgotten the next time they met.
He wont forget, Connie said quietly as soon as
Mr. Beebes bulky figure barricaded the door. He
wont forget because he knows it was you who
struck me yesterday afternoon.
I? Miss Sloanes simpering voice rose to a
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falsetto shriek. Why, my dear child, whatever do

you mean?
Every eye was on Connie. I mean, she said,
that Frosti has helped me discover the thief who
has been stealing Miss Whitneys jewels. I knew he
could do itand that he would! Thats why I asked
to have him left with me today.
Miss Sloane was turning more ashen by the
moment, yet she bridled. I never heard anything so
ridiculous in my life. I think poor Miss Blair must
be temporarily deranged. A concussion, perhaps.
Why, no woman, let alone poor little me, could have
struck that blow.
Where is your Malacca walking stick? Connie
asked.
Mr. Beebe and Mr. Jones exchanged a glance of
comprehension, and from Miss Sloanes expression
Connie knew she had cinched the case.
Whywhy the woman stammered, I think I
left it up at Hackneys yesterday. I was just going to
walk up and look.
You walked up to Hackneys in the morning and
you had your stick at lunch, Emily, said Miss
Whitney firmly, exploding that story.
I venture to say, if you looked, you would find it
in Miss Sloanes room, Connie suggested to Mr.
Jones.
The detective ducked past Mr. Beebe in the
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doorway and a shocked silence descended on the

company. Miss Sloane stood her ground but said
nothing, allowing a look of injured innocence to
speak for her.
It wasnt three minutes before the detective
returned, and Miss Abigail gasped as she saw what
he carried in his handtwo separate pieces of the
stick, which had been splintered, obviously, over
Connies head.
Found them tucked in the back of the closet,
said Mr. Jones as he held them forth.
Why, goodness me! cried Miss Sloane in a
feeble imitation of a startled maiden lady. How do
you ever suppose? By now her skin was an angry
yellow gray, like the sea when a storm is about to
break.
Connie looked at the pieces of the Malacca stick,
not at Miss Sloane, although the rest of the people in
the room were staring at her in horrified fascination.
A sudden possibility had occurred to her. Could I
see that gold handle, Mr. Jones? There had been a
stick once, in her childhood, a stick her grandfather
had owned . . .
I dont see why! Miss Emily snatched at the
top of the stick as Mr. Jones was about to hand it to
Connie. He dodged her grasp neatly, and a second
later Connie was examining the top. Granddaddys
used to screw on, she murmured to herself. Yes,
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this one does too. See? She twirled the gold handle
on the hidden thread and held itseparate from the
stick nowin one hand, while into her lap tumbled
a tissue-wrapped package a trifle larger than her
thumb. This should be the falcon, she said.
Why, Emily Sloane! cried Miss Whitney in
dismayed accusation. When I thought you were my
friend!
Miss Sloanes voice changed from a whine to a
snarl. Friend! she said as though she hated the
word. Do you think rich women like you can make
friends overnight? Do you think the people who
hang around you do it because they love you? Why,
you utter fool!
Suddenly, to Connies shocked amazement, she
was like a woman possessed. All right, so the jigs
up now, she shouted, straining forward as Mr.
Jones grabbed her arm, but let me tell you, if it
hadnt been for this girl here, youd never have
caught me. For years Ive been working this hotel
racket, taking in enough in the winters to be able to
travel like a lady in the summers, and there hasnt
been a house dick or anybody else whos even
suspected me!
Connie didnt wonder. Until she had started to
shriek in this unexpected frenzy, Miss Emily had
looked like anything but the criminal type. In her
mincing manner and plaintive voice she had a
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perfect disguise.
But why, Miss Whitney was asking, why
would you want to steal?
Ill tell you. I like to steal, Miss Sloane
admitted almost proudly. A woman who looks like
me doesnt get much of a chance at excitement,
unless she makes some of it for herself.
For the first time Connie realized that they were
dealing with a woman who was a borderline case, if
not actually mentally deranged. She had been
pilfering not only for profit, but also because it gave
her a thrill.
David looked as shocked as she felt. This should
teach you not to take up with strangers, Aunt
Abigail! he broke in. Youre not as independent as
you fancy you are. No wealthy woman is these days.
You need a little more protection than you think!
Fiddlesticks! retorted Miss Whitney, but her
vibrant voice was a trifle shaky. She looked at David
with affection overriding pretended annoyance.
Youll have me wrapped in cotton batting if you
get half a chance.
It was Connies turn to be surprised. She sat with
the golden falcon lying forgotten in the palm of her
hand while she stared, openmouthed, from Miss
Whitney to David. Aunt Abigail? she asked aloud.
David turned toward her and laughed. Ive been
practicing a little plain and fancy deception, he
182

admitted freely.
Meanwhile, Mr. Jones led Miss Emily Sloane out
of the room. There are some other questions the
Atlantic City police and Mr. Beebe and I will want
to ask you privately, he said in a curt and icy voice.
Connie wondered whether there had been other
guests in this same hotel on whom Miss Sloane had
practiced her iniquitous technique. Well, she would
ingratiate herself with wealthy vacationists no
longer. To be suspected of thievery was one thing,
but to be caught red-handed with the goods was
another. She would have ample time to repent of her
sins in some womans prison where the
accommodations were less elegant than the BarkleySheridans.
Taking a leaf from Mr. Joness book, there are
some questions Id very much like to ask, admitted
Connie, glancing from one to another of the persons
remaining in the room.
Fire away, said David Maxwell equably. The
Admiral bowed, Miss Whitney nodded, and Phoebe
Miller replied, I think its your turn!
Paul, standing in the background, was about to
slip away, but Connie asked him to wait. Some of
them involve you, she told the bellhop with a smile.
But of course it was Davids relationship to Miss
Abigail that she first wanted to probe. Connie
looked at the young man sternly and said, Now
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whats all this about Miss Whitney being your

aunt?
Davids eyes twinkled as he tried to frame a
reply, but before he could speak, Connie added,
Why didnt you tell me? She sounded aggrieved.
He didnt tell me until last night, said Miss
Whitney with a chuckle. Wanted to butter me up a
bit first.
Nothing of the sort, David retorted. I just
didnt want you to be antagonistic before we got
acquainted.
Connie held her head. Explain! she cried.
It was Miss Abigail who actually told the story.
Im known to my family as a crotchety old lady,
she admitted with a smile. I like to live alone, and I
dont want people to try to run me. Im supposed to
be queer.
Youre not queer, Aunt Abigail. Youre just
temperamental, David put in. And definitely selfwilled.
But Miss Whitney waved him off. Possessions
have never meant much to me, perhaps because Ive
always had plenty of everything, she went on.
And when I inherited the Dana jewelry that came
down through my mothers family perhaps I wasnt
too careful. All my life Ive been in the habit of
leaving things lying around. But then, Ive always
had servants I could trust.
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Hotels are different, murmured Phoebe Miller

pertinently.
Ive found that out, Miss Whitney retorted.
But some of my family tried to tell me, and Ive
never like to be toldor told off. I told them if I
wanted to throw my rings over the boardwalk railing
it was my affair. That was alter they began treating
me as though I were senile. Youd have thought I
was ninety instead o seventy-eight. Why, theyd
have had me in a nursing home if I hadnt run off
and come down here!
Oh, now, Aunt Abigail! protested David.
Im telling the truth, Miss Whitney retorted.
You dont know your Aunt Ruth. Just because
shes ten years younger than I am she thinks she can
order me around. Well, Ive proved she cant.
You certainly have. Davids voice was
mollifying, but he winked mischievously at Connie
behind his aunts back.
I dont know how they got wind of the fact that
some of the Dana jewelry was disappearing, unless
it was that old rascal Crosby who told them, but
apparently they found out.
Admiral Crosby ducked his head and cleared his
throat, admitting his guilt without mentioning it.
Decided to send somebody to spy on me, thats
what they did, continued Miss Abigail, and then,
luckily for them, David turned up, coming back to
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the States to recuperate from dengue.

Well, that part of Davids story is apparently true,
Connie decided, but she still wondered how he
would explain the fib about his birthplace.
I hadnt seen Aunt Abigail since I was four or
five. My father died several years ago and my
mother has just remarried, so I simply used her new
name as mine, David explained, taking up the
thread. I agreed to try to find out what was
happening to the Dana jewelry with one condition
that I could reveal my identity to Aunt Abigail and
tell her what I was doing before I left for home.
Connie nodded approvingly.
The rest of the storyor most of ityou know.
I haunted the pawnshops and tried a little amateur
sleuthing along with you, Connie, but without your
success. David sighed. I dont know what Id have
done if you hadnt stepped into the picture. I was
about licked.
Just one thing, Connie said. Why did you tell
me you were born in Leyte?
I was.
But you told Miss Abigail you were born in
Haiti.
No, I told her I grew up there, which I did. Dad
was in the shipping business, you see. We moved
when I was four.
Oh! Connie drew a breath of pure relief. She
186

hadnt wanted to believe David capable of even a

minor untruth.
Hes a dear boy! Miss Whitney said happily.
Only person in my whole family Id trust. Hes
going to take all my jewelryeverything Im not
actually wearingand put it in a safe-deposit box
for me. Isnt that a good idea? Then I wont have to
be bothered any more.
I think its a fine idea. Very sensible, agreed
Connie, while the Admiral hid a smile behind his
hand. Always was headstrong, even as a girl, he
muttered impishly.
Connie turned to him. Admiral Crosby, she
said, Id like to ask you a couple of questions too.
Ill admit I was very suspicious of you for a while.
Not a one of us she missed, mentioned Phoebe
Miller slyly to Paul
The bellhop looked horrified. You even
suspected me?
Connie nodded. I couldnt understand what
business you and Admiral Crosby had together. The
day after the brooch was stolen I saw you meet
under the boardwalk and watched the Admiral hand
you an envelope. Frankly, Paul, I followed you
first to the restaurant where your mother works, and
then on
Home, Paul put in, supplying the information
Connie lacked. But you didnt think that envelope
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contained thethe jewels?

I didnt know, said Connie frankly, while the
Admiral slapped his knee in justifiable amusement.
Well, Ill be hornswoggled! he said. And all the
time you were treating me as though you thought I
was a harmless old codger with an eye for the
ladies!
Its just idle curiosityand you dont have to
answer, murmured Connie timidly, but just what
was all that envelope business about?
The Admiral looked at Paul with a twinkle in his
eye. Shall we tell her? he asked.
Paul nodded shyly. He could deny the object of
his adoration nothing. The Admiral has been
helping Mother and me about our citizenship
papers, he explained. He has been very, very
kind.
Not kind at all, the Admiral grumbled,
embarrassed by such outspoken praise. Just human,
thats all.
Connie looked from one to another of her friends.
I apologize, she said, for ever suspecting any one
of you. It was a funny thing. At first I liked you all,
and thenwell, there just werent many people to
suspect! She chuckled at her own gullibility.
David got up and went over to the chaise longue
and took Connies hand. Dont worry, he said.
There was a time, following the theft of the falcon
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brooch, when I thought perhaps you were the culprit.

I even went so far as quizzing Paul on what he knew
about you, because you seemed so unusually
interested in both Miss Whitney and her dog.
That reminds me! Connie answered. Did you
meet Paul down on the beach night before last, just
before you took me to dinner?
David looked a trifle rueful. Yes, as a matter of
fact, I did. Offered the boy a ten spot for any
information he might have concerning the theft of
Aunt Abigails jewels. Im happy to say he didnt
take it, he added with a smile at Paul.
The young Austrian sighed. It certainly has
beenwhat do you call it?a merry-go-round.
I think its been highly entertaining, broke in
Miss Abigail. Except for the fact that Connie really
got hurt.
Connie felt the top of her head ruefully.
Probably knocked some sense into it, she said.
Say, mentioned Phoebe Miller, who had been
growing restless, I dont like to mention it, but are
we going to get at those newspaper stories, or is that
water down the drain?
Connie bit her lip. Right away! she promised.
She turned to Miss Abigail and David, then smiled
at the Admiral and Paul Schorr. If youll all excuse
me.
Paul replied first. You bet, he said, turning the
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Americanism jauntily on the tip of his tongue. Id

better get back to my job too, if I dont want to lose
it.
Right now, Miss Abigail said, your job is to
walk Frosti here.
Connie reached down and patted the poodles
head in affectionate farewell. Have a good run,
Frosti, she said. Youre the real hero of this
piece!
Then she and Phoebe Miller settled down to
work, and after an hours concentrated effort the
stenographer went off to her downstairs office and
Connie was again alone. She sighed happily and
settled down among her pillows, wondering what
she would order for lunch. Then there were two
brisk raps on her bedroom door, and in response to
her quick Come in! Hank Bronson and David
Maxwell appeared, side by side.
Weve been tossing a coin to see who would
invite you to lunch, Hank said, and we both won.
David has a quarter with heads on both sides.
I always did suspect you! Connie laughed. Sit
down. Today its my turn. I invite both of you
here.

190