Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

I drove home through the storm at a furious pace, the black capsule in my vest pocket. Why hadn’t I tossed the damned thing on the outcast’s bed and departed in peace? Why should I risk my life in some outlandish plot hatched by a gang of river front crooks? Here was I, a dignified and able young specialist, prowling around at night with a pair of thugs and allowing myself to be elected chief buccaneer to recover the hidden treasure, despite the machinations of the black-mustached villain.

The whole absurd story reminded me of one of the melodramas that so fascinated me in my younger days. All I needed to complete the picture was a fair-haired heroine, her aged and honorable father and a mortgage on the family homestead. I laughed at the thought and cursed myself for a blooming idiot.

I turned my car into the driveway, left it there and dashed into the house, where I shed my dripping coat and hat. Now to return to my books. I stepped into the study and stood, for a moment, dum-founded.

The place had been ransacked. By the light of the dying coals in the grate I saw that my desk had been pried open, my papers and books were scattered about on the floor, and the doors of the cabinets on the wall were ajar. My eyes went quickly about the room. From beneath the Japanese screen at the left of the fireplace I saw a foot, a very small foot, and a slim, silk clad ankle.

With the blood pounding in my wrists and temples, I closed the door, locked it and dropped the key in my pocket. Then, feeling very much like a motion picture hero, I walked across the room and quietly folded the screen to one side.

A girl stood there, a dark-haired, blue-eyed girl, in a bright green evening dress, all covered with some sort of luminous spangles. She seemed paralyzed with fear, unable to command her quivering mouth or her nervous hands that twisted an absurdly small handkerchief.

“Well,” I said pleasantly, “I perceive that the characters in my melodrama are beginning to make their appearance. You, I presume, are the heroine.”

She stared at me from wide eyes, and her distress was evident. Natural, thought I, to be distressed when caught rummaging through a man’s house at midnight.

“On the other hand,” I continued airily, “you may be the villain. We shall see. Now, perhaps, you will be good enough to explain what you are doing here? Don’t be frightened. I would not have the heart to turn such a pretty burglar over to the police.”

The girl’s red lips formed three words:

“Let me go.”

“Why should I? You have broken into my house, searched my desk, surely you don’t expect to depart without even telling me what you are after. Come now, what is it?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You can.”

There was an edge to my voice now. She retreated into the corner and stood there, and at the look in her eyes I resumed my bantering tone.

“What kind of an act is this? How can I save you from the scheming double-dyed monster who undoubtedly pursues you, unless I know the plot? Can’t you see that I am the hero? Give me a chance to do a little heroing.”

The girl smiled. She was relieved. She was glad to see that I did not take the situation too seriously.

“Once again.” I persisted, “would it be impertinent for me to ask what you are doing here?”

She laughed, a charmingly defiant laugh.

“You have something in your possession that does not belong to you. I came to get it. I am afraid that my visit was a — a little premature.”

“So?” said I. “That’s it. Well, well. The plot takes form. You are the agent of the pirates who seek the contents of the black capsule. Hum. I really believe this is going to be worth while.”

I sat down, picked up my pipe, filled it and struck a match.

“Pardon me for not asking you to have a seat.”

“I really prefer to stand.”

I studied my guest carefully through the smoke. What was this girl? I had not decided. She was either a crook with the finesse of a fine actress or a very fine young lady in a devilish situation of some kind.

Suddenly I dropped my bantering.

“Why didn’t they send a man?” I growled. “I would have been delighted to give him a good beating.”

“You look ferocious.”

“Indeed I am.”

She regarded me with a hint of a smile as I puffed on my pipe and racked my brain for a reasonable answer to the riddle. I had concluded that the girl was after the black capsule which reposed in my vest pocket, but it was difficult to connect her with such a story as Copeland had related. Frowzy bums. River front crooks. Dark deeds. Hidden treasure. She looked more like gay parties, dancing, sunlight, music — anything but a silly quest for a document with an unsavory past.

And why, I asked myself, had she been sent to my home? If Copeland’s enemies had trailed me, certainly they would have waited until I had a chance to hide the capsule.

“How did you know I had this thing you seek?” I demanded.