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

Then, before I could possibly interfere, Flash Santelle’s right hand shot forward, steel glimmered in the moonlight — and the red-draped form of the woman reeled for a moment, a moan came from her lips, and she crumpled to the ground.

I went into action with both guns. My first shot caught Santelle, and he whirled around, gun out and spitting lead. I felt a stab of pain in my right side, but went forward, weapons smoking.

Spence came into action, followed by the other two, and I dropped behind a shrub. Another second, and Spence went down. Back of me I heard the put-put of a motor boat, and I knew that Jim Steel and his men were coming.

Could I last until then?

Santelle, evidently not hurt badly by my first shot, was crouching behind a stump, searching for me with lead. The two chauffeurs were also under cover and blazing away.

Leaping up, I ran zigzagging for the trees, reached them in a storm of lead, and plunged toward the river. Steel and his men were perhaps half a quarter away. Back of me Santelle and his men were coming. I reached down and cast off the motor boat, then ran and kicked the skiff away from shore.

“At least they can’t get away!” I thought. “And Steel will get ’em, no matter what happens to me!”

Then Flash broke from cover, twenty feet away. His face was that of a madman. I was looking upon the real Flash Santelle.

“By God, Norton!” he shouted. “You’ve wrecked things, but you’ll never live to brag about it!”

I whipped up my guns, snapped them — and there was no report. I had emptied them, and had no time to reload.

Santelle laughed, his gun arm stiffened. Then, behind him, appeared a red figure, a pair of arms went round him, tugging at him, ruining his aim. The next instant my clubbed gun dropped him on the ground.

Up the tree line the chauffeurs appeared, running toward us. I snatched up Santelle’s gun — and then hell broke loose behind me. Jim Steel and his men were in action!

I stooped over the woman on the ground, hoping to aid her who had so vitally aided me.

The two chauffeurs went down before the blasting bullets of Steel and his men.

Raising the woman’s head, I sought to find some sign of life. Her eyes opened, and her lips moved.

“He — shall — not — have — her—”

Then Ayra Banning died.

I turned and snapped the cuffs on Flash Santelle, just as he was struggling up from the ground.

“It’s the gallows for you, Flash,” I remarked. “But I take no credit. Fate sent a woman — and the woman got you.”

The Burned Match by H. B. Harrop

A Stranger on a Bus and a Battle in a Basement — and the Homecoming Millionaire Was Caught in a Net of Mystery.

* * *

A middle-aged man walked cautiously along the top of the careening Fifth Avenue bus, past several empty benches, and sat down in the seat next to Orrin Quire.

“Hello, son,” the middle-aged man said.

Orrin looked up, a little startled at being addressed by a stranger. The man, preoccupied, was staring straight ahead.

“Hello,” Orrin replied. The man paid no attention.

“Queer,” Orrin thought to himself. “Son,” he had found out, was a casual term here in America which any middle-aged man might apply to any other man younger, but why the stranger should accost him at all — Orrin puzzled awhile and finally put it down to the friendliness of these Americans.

Orrin forgot the man in his interest in the rushing traffic below and the mountainous buildings all around him.

This was his native country, but he felt like a foreigner. He had been taken to England when a baby — went to school over there, traveled awhile on the Continent, and now had returned to America, curious to see this land he belonged to.

He was excited — and there was a good reason for it. He was free at last.

He had landed in America only a few hours ago — with Aunt Cassie — always he had been with Aunt Cassie, ever since she had taken him to England under her wing when he was three years old. Now it was good to get away.

Poor old Aunt Cassie got appendicitis coming over on the boat and they had to carry her off at the pier and rush her to a hospital. Orrin had walked down the gangplank beside her stretcher.

“Orrie,” she had said to him. “You’re of age now — got your grandfather’s fortune — no one to depend on anymore if anything happens to me — you’re just an innocent boy, Orrie, but now you’ve got to be a man. But... but, remember, you’ll always be Aunt Cassie’s boy.”

Orrin, on top of the bus, smiled to himself. Good old Aunt Cassie. Of course she’ll pull through. Aunt Cassie pulled through everything. He would have gone to the hospital with her, but it would have done no good, and Aunt Mary had gone anyhow.