Indianapolis Times, Volume 41, Number 251, Indianapolis, Marion County, 28 February 1930 — Page 12

PAGE 12

MURDER BY ANNE AUSTIN COPYRIGHT BY NEA SERVICE

BEGIN HERE TODAY When DICK BERKELEY, his former classmate at Yale. Invites DETTECTITVE BONNIE DUNDEE to spend the weekend et the home of his millionaire parents, the detective accepts, because SEYMOUR CROSBY is also a house auest. And he tucks his detective badge into his suitcase Dinner that Friday night is not a pleasant affair GEORGE BERKELEY is brooding angrily over his daughters engagement to Crosby! CLORINDA herself is obviously not in love with her fiancee; Mrs. Berkeley flares out at her social secretary. MRS LETTTIA LAMBERT, former society leader of New York and a friend of Crosby's; the 15-year-old daughter, frankly criticizes her family. Dick and his mother drink, too much champagne. It is not a pleasant household, though Dundee feels much drawn to frank, vivacious Gigi. In an Interval between dancing after dinner Seymour Crosby presents Mrs. Berkeley with a large crystal flask of expensive perfume, which Mrs. Berkeley accepts with cries of delight. Gigi. after a strange exclamation of horror, snatches the perfume from her mother and dashes madly from guest to guest, sprinkling them all. At thts waste. Mrs. Berkeley is so incensed that he slaps Gigi s face. George Berkeley reproves his wife sternly Gigi stumbles from the room, and Dick lurches drunkenly after her. Dundee, sickened, remembers that he wants to telephone police headquarters about Seymour Crosby. NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY CHAPTER FOUR THE wide front, hall of the Berkeley mansion extended beyond the immense circular staircase of white marble, which wound upward to the third floor, with a broad landing on the second. A few feet, behind the staircase the hall ended in a wall, with an ordinary-sized door opening into what Dundee knew must be the mysterious regions of "backstairs,” devoted to the butler's pantry, back hall, servants’ sitting and dining rooms and kitchen. Now that door stood slightly ajar. And from it came sounds which caused Dundee to abandon, temporarily, his search for the library and its telephone. “Please, Mr. Dick! Let me go! If your mother saw us— No, no! I shan't dance with you!” It was a girl’s voice, high, sweet, flurried unmistakably British. And the only answer to that frantic plea was a tipsy, exultant laugh. “Oh, Lord! Dick up to his old tricks!” Dundee shrugged disgustedly, and, on impulse, jerked open the door and plunged into the narrower backstairs hall. The detective’s first impression of the girl was that she was fairysmall and slight and blond. Palegold hair curled about her delicately flushed little face, and was knotted in a shining bun on the nape of her slender neck. Her dark-blue eyes were wide with genuine fear as her black-clad body strained to release itself from the embrace of the drunken son of her mistress. But Dick, his reddishbrown hair falling in dank wisps across his sweat-beaded forehead, snatched the girl closer and forced her to follow his shambling dance steps. The languorous notes of “The Pa--- Love Song” from the radio penetrated sufficiently to animate his groggy legs. "Say you’ll meet me when that beastly crew in there’s gone to bed, and I’ll let you go—” "Hello, Dick!” Dundee sang out from the threshold, as he pulled the door to. “Sorry to intrude, but will you tell me where I can find a telephone” “Sure! Butler's pantry. First door to your left,” Dick Berkeley answered, his feet halting, but his arms holding the straining girl more closely against his breast. “Jus’ a minute, old man! Wan’ you to meet pretties’ girl in Hamilton— Miss Doris Matthews, ladies’ maid to Abbie and Clorinda. 'At’s funny, ain’t, It,? Ladies’ maid— ’’ # # # YOU'RE drunk, Dick, and you’d better go to bed,” Dundee interrupted quietly. "If you’ll let Miss Matthews show me where the telephone is—” “Not on your life! I’m on to your game! Wanta date up my sweetie yourself, don't you? . . . Listen, Doris! Don't you fall for my old pal. Dundee. He’s a heartbreaker —’t’s what he is—” “Please let me go. Mr. Dick!” Doris pleaded, her little hands pressing frantically against his breast. “If you’ll promise to meet me and where I said.” Dick bargained with tipsy solemnity. “Very well!” the girl capitulated suddenly, but the blue eyes shot a glance at Dundee, which told him that she had no intention of keeping the promise. “Oh!” she wailed softly as young Berkeley released her.” Look! You’ve quite spoiled my apron!”

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And she tried ineffectually to smooth the wrinkles from the crushed lace and lawn. "The telephone’s right in here— Oh! Mr. Wickett!” she gasped, the lovely little face going almost as white as the crumpled apron, before she turned and fled up the backstairs. “Listening in, Wickett? Good show, wasn't it? But listen, Stoneface, you’d better mind your own business—see?” And Dick Berkeley lurched toward the butler who stood in the door of his pantry. “Yes. sir,” Wickett answered, but his eyes spoke so black a hate that a shudder rippled along Dundee’s already overwrought nerves. “You wish to use the telephone. Mr. Dundee? I'll show you to the library, sir.” “Thank you, Wickett,” and the detective rather sheepishly followe the butler from the backstairs hall to the library, a fair-sized room overlooking the west lawn, and directly opposite the wide arched doorway leading into the drawing room. Rather to his surprise. Dundee found the library remarkably well stocked with books of all kinds, most of which looked as if they had been read. Which of the Berkeleys was a bookworm, he wondered. Gigi? Probably. But the shabbiest books were not the sort to appeal to a 15-year-old girl. George Berkeley? Most likely. Rather curiously, Dundee selected a novel by Henry James, and found pasted on its flyleaf an impression from a wood-block bookplate—"Ex libris George Berkeley”—and below it, in faded ink. a date of ten years before. And the book had been read not once but many times. “I knew I liked George Berkeley,” he grinned to himself, as he lifted the receiver from the hook of the telephone on the broad desk in the middle of the room. # # # A MINUTE later: “Captain Strawn. please. Dundee speaking. . . . Hello, chief. Dundee reporting.” “Hello, boy!” came back Captain Strawn’s heavy voice. “Having a good time with the swells?” "A good time? That rates a laugh!” Dundee retorted, and obliged with a curt bark that did not sound at all amused. “Listen, chief! Can you send one of the boys over to the Morning News and get me a complete resume of the Crosby case? Although It- happened in London, I rather imagine every city in the United States carried a leased wire report of the affair and the inquest, the Crosbys being who they were . . . . about eighteen months ago, I believe. . . . Thanks, chief. And have it mailed to me in a plain envelope.” “What's up, boy?” Strawn asked curiously, after the request had been granted. “Probably nothing. but—I’ve got

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a funny prickling of the scalp. If I were a woman, I’d say I had a premonition. ’Night, sir.” When he returned to the drawing room, where the air was heavy with the perfume Gigi had so foolishly wasted, he found that Dick had not rejoined the party. A new tune, something about “tiptoeing through the tulips,” was throbbing from the radio cabinet, and Clorinda and her fiance, Seymour Crosby, were dancing alone, with grave perfection. With almost sick distaste, but obedient to his promise to the absent and disgraced Gigi, Dundee crossed the big room to where Mrs. Berkeley sat on a couch beside Mrs. Lambert. “All right! I promise! Though I must say— Oh, here you are. dear Mr. Dundee!” Mrs. Berkeley broke off a sulkily indignant remark to Mrs. Lambert to carol gushingly at Dundee. With her henna-dyed head cocked coyly, she listened to the young man’s request for a dance. “Thank you so much, you dear man! But I’m saving all my energies for the big party tomorrow night. And the music is just stopping, too. “Tomorrow night, remember! . . . George, darling, turn off the radio. My sweet girl mustn’t get herself all tired out, must she, Mr. Crosby?” “Rather not!” Seymour Crosby agreed stiffly. The fine fabric of his tact was wearing a bit thin, obviously. "What is the matter, darling?” Mrs. Berkeley demanded of her daughter with intense solicitude.

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“I pray you are not going to be ill—” "Why, I adore it!” Mrs. Berkeley hastened to declare, fearful that Crosby’s feelings might be ruffled. “Of course, some people are very sensitive to heavy scents. “My maid, Doris, for instance, positively gets a sick headache if she so much as catches a whiff of perfume, which makes it ridiculously awkward—” # # # “DORIS?” Crosby interrupted eagerly. "Surely you don’t mean little Doris Matthews?’’ and he turned toward Mrs. Lambert, a queer expression quivering across his thin, aristocratic face. "Didn’t I write you that I had had Doris come on to be with Mrs. Berkeley and Clorinda?" Mrs. Lambert replied. “But I'm quite sure I did, Seymour. I hope you don’t mind, but she was looking for a place — came to see me when I stopped off in New York on my return from France—” “She hesitated, and Dundee was sure that there was real anxiety in her lovely, soft voice. “Mind?” Crosby echoed. “I shall be delighted to see Doris again. How is she?” “Still adorably pretty,” Mrs. Lambert smiled, “and quite happy. She has just become engaged to the chauffeur, Eugene Arnold A splendid young man, I believe.” “I’m going to bed,” Clorinda announced abruptly. “Good night, everyone.” “Why. It’s not 11 yet, darling,” Mrs. Berkeley protested, but as her

daughter left the room without replying she added: “I’m really glad the dear child is being sensible. Tomorrow will be such a heavy day.” “We'd better be going too, Ben.” Mrs. Smith twittered. “I wonder if we may borrow your car and chauffeur, Abbie. Our car’s out of order, and we came out by taxi.” “Certainly,” Mrs. Berkeley replied, but she frowned slightly. “Oh, George! Have Wickett telephone to the garage for Arnold to bring the car around immediately.” But it was fully ten minutes before Wickett announced the car to the waiting Benjamin Smiths, who had already said their good-nights twice around. “I’d like to talk with you in the library before you go upstairs, Abbie,” George Berkeley halted his wife, as she, Mrs. Lambert and Seymour Crosby were moving toward the marble staircase. Dundee, who had already reached the second-floor landing of the stairs, heard the stern but lowspokeri words very clearly, and again his scalp had that odd, premonitory prickling. (To Be Continued) Tough Youngster By United Press CORBALLS, Mont., Feb. 28.—Edward Worden, 10, possesses one of the principal qualifications for pugilistic prominence—an abdomen that can withstand terrific punishment. A heavy truck ran over Edward’s stomach. Aside from bruises, the boy incurred no injuries.

DISCOVERS LAND WITHOUT GERMS Frigid Island Suggested as Tuberculosis Cure. By Times Special NEW YORK. Feb. 28—At least one spot in this germ-ridden earth has been found to be completely free of bacteria of any description. It is the Russian island of Novaya Zemlya, lying in the Arctic ocean, northeast of the northernmost point of the Scandinavian peninsula. Farther north than the most northerly point of Alaska, it still is habitable; in fact it is five degrees south of the Norwegian island of Spitzbergen which boasts an outpost of civilization. “Air, water, dust and earth are entirely free from germs,” says T. Swann Harding, widely known writer on medical science, who describes the phenomenon in the current issue of the American Druggist magazine. “Fresh meat may be left out of doors for eight months, completely exposed to the elements. At the end of that time it will be as fresh as when originally placed there.” Bitter cold and peculiar atmospheric conditions are responsible for the germless island, and Harding suggests that the island, and others like it, if they can be found, may serve as the agency to finally

rid the world of tuberculosis. Polar sanitariums established there would need only to keep their patients

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FEB. 28, 1930

comfortable against the bitter cold, he points out, while the climate effected Its own cure.