Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

“It was that damned lover!” he grunted, recognizing me. “Laid for me, and clouted me on the jaw! I went down like a poled ox—”

“Too bad he didn’t use a blackjack, Jim,” I consoled him. “With two of us able to use our thinking apparatuses, we’d have this case sewed up in ragtime!”

“Rub it in!” Jim grumbled.

“I think things will quiet down now,” I said seriously. “It’s getting late. Get right on Flash’s tail and stick there. Watch out for a woman — a strange woman in red. I think she won’t show up again to-night, but you never can tell. So long.”

“What about this Tommy fellow?”

“Oh, he’s not going to cause much trouble,” I assured him. “Just a jealous kid. He and Flash will have to settle their business between themselves. And I’m betting Flash loses.”

“I don’t give a damn either way!” Steel declared heatedly. “Say, what do you make of this business anyhow?”

“Jim,” I replied, “there’s an old wise-crack which runs something like this: When Fate wants a man, it sends a woman after him — and the woman gets him. Ever hear it before?”

“Of course. Have you gone nutty? What’s that got to do with this thing?”

“Well,” I advised, “just keep it in mind. It applies to Flash Santelle, or I’m badly mistaken. So long.”

I took one of Santelle’s fast motor boats, and lit out for the city.

Chapter XVI A Firecracker

I confess that I did little but watch the clock on the following morning, waiting for ten to roll round, or for the woman to appear, as the case might be. That letter and that woman had become mighty important in my mind.

While waiting, I did a little summing up. Cletus Santelle was a crook — and a mighty smooth article. I was convinced of that. Cato Santelle, I felt forced to believe, was not the honest, innocent old man he pretended to be. Spence, the butler, was anything but a reformed doer of evil. All Santelle’s servants, males at least, were of a piece with Flash, Cato and Spence.

Having reasoned things out thus far, the rest of the going was easier. But the scheme was so astounding it almost forbade belief — granting I had the right of it.

And the most disturbing thing about it was this:

Even if Santelle and his uncle were working a gigantic fraud on the public, there was not a single thing I could do about it. As usual, Flash was in the dear with the law.

Unless the lilac woman, or the letter, put me on to something that could be hung on Flash, or unless Flash did something more than he had done so far, and got caught in the doing, then he was where the law couldn’t touch him.

I was scowling over that thought, at about nine o’clock, when my phone rang.

“Mr. Norton?”

It was the voice of the woman.

“Norton speaking,” I replied.

“This is Ayra Banning. Please keep the letter until ten o’clock to-morrow morning. If you do not hear from me by that time, then open it and take whatever course you wish. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly, Miss Banning,” I assured her. “I have some other articles in the office, your property I believe,” I added, and waited.

Silence. Then: “What are they?”

“A pocket torn from a red silk dress, and a lilac scented handkerchief,” I explained. “Will you let me know when and where I can return them?”

Silence, followed by a gasp. Then the phone clicked up.

That settled it. The woman of the letter and the woman of the handkerchief were one and the same.

Without the least twinge of conscience, I arose, opened the safe, withdrew the letter and proceeded to read it. A breach of trust? Think so, if you will.

Here’s what I read: