Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 104, No. 4, August 22, 1936

“Probably not,” the Lady from Hell mused, “and I suspect that he knows it.”

There was a curious quality in her voice that Wylie did not miss... a quality that had not been there before. Though she spoke musingly, her voice seemed to be pulled from the depths of something that was apt to be dynamite when it rose to the surface.

“Undoubtedly,” agreed Wylie drily. His eyes were very bright. He had worked hand in hand with the Lady from Hell far too long not to realize when she was hatching a particularly audacious scheme. “Being somewhat familiar with Spanish detectives, I have no doubt that they’ve explained to him in detail just what his fate will be.”

“And,” Vivian went on in that musing tone of voice, as her facile imagination poured like water into crevices to cement detail to detail in a slowly unfolding scheme, “if he found himself in a position to thumb his nose at the law again, I suspect that he might be inclined to be exceedingly grateful to the person... or persons... who made that possible.”

Wylie sat up suddenly. Through all her criminal career the Lady from Hell had been guided by what Wylie, in later years, described as a rare sense of intuition that had enabled her to carry through her numerous schemes. And he knew, without doubt, that she had recognized in the situation before her an opportunity to turn it to their advantage.

“What harebrained plot are you concocting now?” he demanded.

“Not a harebrained plot at all,” the Lady from Hell said coolly. “I simply intend to release Cruz Delgado from his detectives and make it possible for him to escape... for a price, of course.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Wylie said. “We’re in the middle of the Atlantic, we’re practically penniless, and when this ship arrives in Cadiz, Delgado will be met by a squad of the marine police who will take him in charge. What chance have you of getting him free?”

“I have an idea,” Vivian said slowly.

“Well?” Wylie demanded.

She shook her head. “It’s too vague to put into words. I’ve got to puzzle it out. But I think, Adrian, that well land in Cadiz with enough money to give us a start, anyhow.”

Wylie looked genuinely worried.

“I wish, Vivian, that you would wait until I am well enough to be of some help to you. Seeing you run headlong into danger when I am still so banged up isn’t improving my peace of mind.”

Vivian rose and patted him on the shoulder.

“Don’t you worry about me, Adrian. I can take care of myself.”

“All the same,” he insisted, “I wish you’d wait before you start anything.”

Vivian flared up in one of the rare bursts of anger ever displayed by her toward her companion in crime.

“Wait... wait... wait. That’s all I’ve been hearing from you lately. How soon do you suppose another opportunity like this will drop into our laps? How long shall I wait? Until we both starve?”

Wylie laid back with a little sigh and closed his eyes. He knew that the issue was closed.

II

Vivian’s first concern, in her campaign, was her clothes. The several kindly women on the ship had managed to get together a small but becoming wardrobe for the unfortunate survivor of the burned ship.

Then, perfectly garbed and groomed, she proceeded to ingratiate herself with one of the two Spanish detectives who were escorting Delgado back from the Argentine. This was an easy matter. The Latin is notoriously responsive to the flicker of a pretty woman’s eyes, whether he be a detective on duty, or a caballero at a sidewalk café table.

An inquiry of one of the detectives about a passing ship was the entering wedge to an acquaintanceship which within a few days had ripened into friendship. That in turn was followed by an introduction to the second detective and one night after dinner, under the very noses of his guards, Vivian’s opportunity came.

She slipped a note into the hands of Cruz Delgado. He read it when Vivian had attracted the attention of his two guards, and five minutes later he began to complain of a headache, requesting that he be permitted to go to his cabin.

Nothing loath to be free of him in order to continue their joint pursuit of this red haired woman with the eyes that promised sublime enchantment, the two detectives handcuffed Delgado to his berth, locked the door and rejoined Vivian. In turn the Lady from Hell requested them to wait for her on the upper deck for a few minutes while she saw to the comfort of her friend with the broken ribs.

The deck was deserted as she made her way down to the porthole that belonged to the fugitive’s cabin. It was in darkness, but a ray of light from the deck lamp fell across the face of the man in the berth.

Vivian leaned carelessly against the deck wall, the light from the overhead light catching her red hair and turning it into a flaming aureole above her exquisitely exotic face. To an observer she would have seemed a woman leaning casually against the wall with no thought of the open porthole beside her. Her call, low, guarded, had nevertheless sufficient carrying power to reach the man.