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Show $Jvlr w c eraldIPK brown 43 W N U. FEATURES now and then raises the hair on my head " "Who called you in?" "Family." To himseli he continued, contin-ued, "Darn. This fellow is too inquisitive." in-quisitive." Suddenly McCale caught a glimpse of something something ugly behind that hail-fellow attitude, that mantel of jauntiness something some-thing he did not like. -"Not Sybil?" Christopher prodded. prod-ded. "Not darling Sybil, surely." McCale was saved from making a reply by a peal of light laughter outside the room. A door banged somewhere. There was another ripple rip-ple of merriment mingled with a deeper one. running feet on the stairs, and Veronica ran into the room, followed by a man. j They might have been preceded by a fanfare of trumpets. Everyone Every-one stopped talking;' everyone turned toward the door as to a stage. It was as if -a spotlight had been turned on, startling the audience audi-ence to quickening anticipation of the star's entrance. It was sudden and complete. Even McCale was checked in the act of raising his glass to his lips. Something both electric and animal ani-mal came into the room with Curt Vallaincourt. Even if there had not been the little piping ecstatic thrill it over with. He started to talk, almost blurted out, "You're in some trouble. Miss Bigelow. You need help. You do. You came to me this morning with it written all over your face. You're afraid of something some-thing something that has nothing to do with wedding gifts." He made a gesture as if he were waving them away. "You are afraid. I know." "I suppose you do." But though her hand trembled, her eyes were vacant. "Tell me what it is. Give me your confidence. If you want my help, I must have it. What do you fear? Who is making you afraid?" "Now I've done it," he cursed to himself, for she threw him a sharp, half-angry glance, and got up. He stumbled to his feet, blind with anger an-ger at himself, but she was smiling at two people who were enterirTg the room. The girl was all gold. Her skin tones were coffee and cream, in the liquid sense of a Laurencin portrait. She was not beautiful, but her face had a depth and a glow that was curiously warming. That was it. She was warm and golden, and you knew at once that she was intelligent intelli-gent and nice, as well as decorative. decora-tive. Her hair was long, naturally curly, and of a burnished bronze Duke McCale, private detective, Is engaged en-gaged by wealthy old Miss lligelow to guard the presents lor her niece's wedding. McCale accepts, only because he senses that Miss Bigelow is afraid of something more serious than a possible theft. .McCale sets his assistant, Rocky BJorkland, and hJs secretary, Ann Mar-riot, Mar-riot, to hunting up back ground data on the members of the families involved In the wedding. Later McCale Inspects the rich presents. One Is a deed to a modernistic mansion. A tall, beautiful blonde woman playing the piano In-trli:ues In-trli:ues his Interest. Two other women and a man appear In the room. They are obviouily members of the family, appearing aristocratic and self-satlsfled. CHAPTER III Lost in his reverie of this neo-Grcc neo-Grcc vision, McCale hardly heard Adelaide Bigelow speak. "May I present Mr. McCale. Sybil? This is Mrs. Joel Bigelow. The bride's mother." She put her hand on his sleeve. "Mr. McCale's Agency is overseeing the wedding gifts." With an effort he brought himself him-self back to the woman who faced him. He was conscious of an impressive im-pressive bust followed by about a hundred and fifty dollars worth of shaped and girdled figure, expensively expen-sively trained not to split the seams of a black afternoon dress. She wore far too much gold costume jewelry just below the chin of an Elizabeth Arden face topped by a soignee up hair-do. Her manner was arrogant as she repeated his name in the cool, detached tone she might use to a chauffeur. She acknowledged ac-knowledged the Introduction, that was all, then moved majestically away, following her bust to a low table in pursuit of a glass of sherry. A corner of McCale's mind was still at the piano where the white goddess now played something by Gershwin In a real broken beat. He caught an amused glance from Miss Bigelow before she presented him to the couple sitting on the sofa. "Victoria Bigelow," murmured Miss Adelaide, "and Stephen the bride's sister and brother." The girl looked a little old around the eyes, a little hard around the mouth. She was, somehow, like a drawing in the slightly degenerate, macabre style of Beardsley all black and white, with finely drawn eyebrows and smudged lashes. There was something viperish in the way she held her pointed chin. Her body, sheathed in a dress styled for someone far beyond her age, seemed too assured, too relaxed, too willing. It was easy to see that Stephen Bigelow was Victoria's brother. He had the same hard finish, the white skin, the narrow face. In twenty years, he would be lantern-jawed and hollow-eyed. Already there was a crease of cruelty around his uneasy un-easy mouth. From the way he attacked at-tacked his highball, McCale suspected sus-pected his petulance was partly the effect of a speedily evanescing liver. liv-er. He wolfed his drink while nodding nod-ding to McCale, but his eyes were fixed on the woman at the piano. Lovely Veronica Seems Nervous "Mrs. Stephen Bigelow," said Miss Adelaide, and left McCale looking down at a polite Garbo-ish mask, a slow smile, and slender, cigarette-stained fingers picking out a lush tone. Yet that sensual undercurrent un-dercurrent that might have been purely chemical, or even glandular, was there. He felt it as he knew Stephen, the woman's husband, felt it. He sensed what slavery there must be in loving a woman like this, could see that part of Stephen's restlessness was a sickness, and that he was living on the cocaine of her magic. She didn't resent his standing there as she played. She didn't speak or smile or make any effort to put him at his ease. She knew he was dazzled, not quite sure of himself, but it didn't even seem to amuse her. Breaking off in the middle of a run and without speaking, speak-ing, she reached for a coffee cup at the far end of the keyboard. Karen had seated herself beside her husband, and, joined by Sybil, the small group was carrying on a desultory conversation about the wedding rehearsal, the bridesmaids, brides-maids, and the ushers. It was the usual half-catty post-mortem. "She's very beautiful, isn't she?" said Miss Bigelow, catching McCale again with his eyes on Karen. "Mm," McCale grunted, smiling. "Is she always like this?" "A Nordic princess?" Miss Adelaide Ade-laide smiled, slight distaste curling the corners of her mouth. "I . . I'm afraid not." "Ah. The descriptive Swedish blank." "Just so." "She's very talented." "Yes, indeed." Miss Bigelow was mr.king him feel like Paul Pry. Why had she been giving him the impression, in the last few minutes, that Karen was worth watching then? He changed the subject. "Will you want me to have my man on duty tonight?" He watched her closely. All the tightness came back into her eyes. "I 1 don't know." Suddenly he was like a man waiting wait-ing in a dentist's office, wanting to start something, go in there and get of Sybil's "Curt, dear!"; the quick fire that lighted Victoria's glistening eyes; the husky overtones of Karen saying, "Behold the bridegroom cometh," McCale would have known the identity of this physical rhapsody. Here was a consciously beautiful young man in a great big way: tall and wide, dark and strong, virile and violent. He had a large, curly black head, dark eyes that held a passionate promise. He was a dynamic dy-namic person the kind to whom things were bound to happen. He acknowledged the introduction introduc-tion to the detective in a deep strong voice, with a handshake that made McCale almost buckle at the knees. It was three or four minutes before be-fore the blitzkrieg of his arrival settled set-tled into a steady, slow appreciation apprecia-tion of him. McCale himself was rarely impressed by mere sensual attraction and was loath to admit the catalystic effects of it. Here, if ever, was its complete manifestation, manifes-tation, however. He backed away toward the piano, the better to take the scene apart. As unobtrusively as possible, he let his dark hard stare sweep around the circle. Afterward, he was to come back to that short scene many times, trying to put together the pieces of the riddle as they presented themselves them-selves in the next few moments. It was all there, had he known it, the wheels within wheels, the red thread of danger, the shadow of death. Each intimate gesture, the shading of a phrase, each bit of conversation con-versation overheard, held portents deep and inevitable. More Puzzles Developing As it was, the things that remained re-mained in his mind to puzzle him were these: Conversation became general though the atmosphere still contained a peculiar effluvium of underlying edginess. He noticed that Adelaide Bigelow seemed as overcome by the positively theatrical theatri-cal charm of Curt as the rest, and that even Stephen had pulled out, of his alocholic depression, and was watching Curt with an almost physical phys-ical worship. Karen glowed, silver and white. Victoria's eyes were slits. Sybil was watchful. Storm was quiet, but appreciative. And Veronica was chatting nervously, the same note of strain in her golden gold-en diction. She was like a gilded fragment tossed in a glittering vortex. vor-tex. It was when Curt said, in that compelling voice of his, "Very magnanimous mag-nanimous of you, Chris, to give us The Nest," that a warning signal flashed in McCale's brain. It was spoken with such charming naivete, as if, thought McCale, the one thing he really lacked was manners. He was making a studied conscious effort. ef-fort. Storm only smiled, steadily. He shrugged, retorting, "Veronica always al-ways gets everything she wants." "Oh, Chris," Veronica put out her hand to him, started to say something, some-thing, stopped. Chris turned to her for a brief moment, a blank look coming over his face. There was a lost world in his eyes. Victoria laughed shrilly. She made a quick nervous gesture, bit her lower lip, and looked a sudden significant, pleading question to Curt. Curt seemed to square off to her. He shook his head as if he were saying, "No." Everyone was concentrating upon Storm and Veronica at that moment and McCale thought no one else saw that exchange of glances between those other two. Afterward he was to wonder. Vallaincourt went over to his future fu-ture stepmother-in-law, almost as if in apology for neglecting her. She was a little high on too much sherry and was quite crushing to him. In a bad-tempered manner she shook off his attempted coddling. Without her fixed cosmetic smile, her face was an unbecoming mask, her make-up unable to disguise her middle-age. There was a puzzle there in the coolness between Curt and SybiL (TO BE CONTINUED) She didn't resent his standing there as she played. color. Her head was set on a perfectly per-fectly proportioned body. Dressed as she was in shades of beige and brown, simply and in beautiful taste, she was at once quietly charming, assured, thoroughbred. "Veronica dear." Miss Bigelow touched her, kissed her. There was in her voice a note of passionate concern, of pride of relief. Adelaide Bigelow introduced the golden girl in the doorway to McCale Mc-Cale and he was surprised at the creature's throaty, mellow voice. It lacked the superficiality of the debutante debu-tante drawL But wasn't there something some-thing a trifle nervy, a bit disquieting, disquiet-ing, about the edges of that voice? There was. She pecked at her aunt, smiled at McCale, made a few quick, nervous nerv-ous laughing jibes at her family, and said in that modulated, too-well controlled con-trolled tone, "Anything new come? Present, I mean. Anything exciting?" excit-ing?" Miss Adelaide turned abruptly as she was about to introduce McCale to the young man who had come in with her. She made a futile gesture ges-ture as if to ward the girl off, but Veronica was out of the room before be-fore the movement was even completed. com-pleted. McCale found himself hanging in the air, so to speak, pumping the hand of a man whose name he hadn't heard. The Conquering Hero Comes "Storm, Christopher Storm," the young man said. "You're Duke McCale and I've heard of you." McCale stifled the impulse to say, "Shush." He said, "Well," and let go the hand of this big fellow who had designed and built a house called "The Nest." Christopher Storm was tall and lean and athletic. His face missed being handsome by way of a rather square jaw and a generous mouth. He had candid blue eyes and curly hair of a nondescript shade. Christopher maneuvered McCale toward the bottled liquids, mixed them both a drink. He motioned to a seat beside himself, saying without preliminary, "Heard about you in that dyehouse racket. Pretty keen deduction. What brings you here?" "Wedding presents." "Not really? Didn't know you went in for small stuff." "I have to make a living. Cases like the dyehouse murders are few and far between." Storm's blue eyes narrowed. "Well, it just didn't seem to me that the array of bric-a-brac downstairs warranted your special talents." McCale didn't answer. "Too true, my bright young fellow," he thought, "but if I told you that all day I've been coddling a tingle tha' |