The Poor Man's Wealth

On a sunny spring day long, long ago a sad raccoon found himself tired and alone in the middle of a forest. For many days the raccoon had been traveling in search of something that would bring him happiness, but his journey had found him only more sadness. His feet were sore, his fur was matted, and—as he had eaten his last cob of corn the night before—he was without food. Just when the raccoon was about to surrender all hope of ever finding happiness a man with a wide smile on his face and a sack of potatoes over his shoulder came into sight.

"Hello," the raccoon said.

"Hello," the man returned.

“Please sir, I'm so hungry. Could I have some potatoes? Just one?”

The man thought for a moment, but his smiling expression never changed.

"Alright," he answered, "I will share my potatoes with you."

The man handed the raccoon a potato and together they sat amidst the trees and enjoyed a delightful meal and a pleasant conversation. But as he turned to leave the sack tore open and potatoes spilled out across the forest floor. The smiling man didn't seem to notice and continued on his way, leaving the potatoes and the raccoon behind.

"With all these potatoes I won't go hungry for weeks!" exclaimed the raccoon, and he greedily stuffed the spuds into his own purse.

The next day he continued his search. He discovered a cottage in a clearing deep within the woods. Curious as to who would live in such a place, the raccoon knocked on the door. When it opened he found himself looking at none-other than the man from the day before. The man's smile was still so wide that the raccoon wondered if the potatoes had been missed at all.

"My friend Mr. Raccoon," the man said merrily. "What a surprise to see you here. Come, you must meet my family."

Before the raccoon could utter a single word of greeting, he was yanked into the cottage and the door was shut behind him. He found himself in a small room filled with blankets and beds. Playing with some wooden toys scattered about the floor were two children, a girl and a boy. Sitting on a rocking chair beside a tender fire was a woman feeding an infant child from a bottle of warm milk. All the occupants of the home wore smiles so wide they seemed too large for their faces. After introductions had been made, the raccoon asked the man to join him outside where they could speak privately.

"What do you wish to ask me, Mr. Raccoon?"

"Yourself and your family all seem so happy," said the raccoon. "Where does your happiness come from?"

"Our happiness? Our happiness comes from our wealth of course," the man laughed.

"What wealth? From all outward appearance, you're as poor as they come!"

"Stay with us," said the man, "and I shall share my wealth with you.”

And so the raccoon stayed with the family for many months. Each day he would try to uncover the secrets of their happiness. On one day when they were having scrambled eggs for breakfast he asked if the family's wealth was eggs but the man said no, that wasn't it. On another day the raccoon asked if the wealth came from the livestock kept in the barn outside, but no, the man said that was not the wealth either. It seemed to the raccoon that the man must have been hiding his wealth, so the raccoon cooked up a nasty scheme. Each day he would hide something that belonged to the man and see what he wept for most. Whichever thing brought the most tears would have to be whatever he considered his wealth.

That night the raccoon snuck out to the barn. He unlocked all the gates and opened all the doors, releasing the animals into the forest. When the next day came, the raccoon found the man did not weep but was merely puzzled by the animals' sudden disappearance. Deciding the livestock was not the man's wealth, the raccoon looked for something else. That night, while all were asleep, the raccoon stole the cooking supplies and buried them in the forest. Neither the man nor his wife seemed troubled by the vanishing pots and pans, and continued their day smiling as they always did.

For several days and nights this continued, until at last there was little left in the home. The raccoon had hidden the man's gold watch, the children's toys, the wife's rocking chair and even the infant's bottle, but nothing seemed to make the family stop smiling. At last the raccoon decided the wealth must be the house itself. So one day, while the family was outside hanging laundry and watching the clouds in the sky, the raccoon lit fire to their home and burned it to the ground.

"What a terrible loss," the raccoon said to the man as they watched the cottage burn.

"Indeed it is, but we have family who will take us in," the man said, still smiling.

The man's smile finally caused the raccoon to snap. "Listen you. You've lost everything. Your pots and your pans, your roosters and hens, even the gold watch from your old man. Before you is your home, rising to the heavens in pillars of black smoke. Yet you smile. You still smile. Tell me good sir; please tell me as you promised I would learn. What is the wealth that keeps you happy?"

The man looked at the raccoon. "Oh, poor Mr. Raccoon. None of those things were my wealth. Despite staying with us for so long, you still have not learned what it is that keeps us happy? I suppose I will need to tell you then."

The man walked over to his children and his wife and his infant son. "This is my family, and they are all the wealth I need."

"Homicide Handicap" by Anonymous/Unknown

Homicide Handicap

Anonymous/Unknown

Beads of perspiration stood out on Mike Radcliff's brow as he rose from the poker game. Danny Hackett, the big shot of the gambling racket, stood with fishy eyes glaring down on the stack of chips.

"Go to your old man, then," said Hackett. "Go anywhere, but have the dough here by tomorrow morning or the bank examiners will be looking over your accounts. We have ways of putting the right parties wise."

"I'll have it," said Radcliff.

He went to his car and turned about in the bluestone drive. Only the red neon sign of Hackett's Tavern lit the night's darkness. The rest of the town was still and quiet.

Outside the city limits he opened up and made sixty-five before he came to the curve in the road. As he slowed down to take the curve, he spotted a dim light in a little junction store. He went ahead a hundred yards until the road turned again, then pulled his car over to the gutter, stopped his motor and turned off the lights.

He walked back to the store. Outside the door the storekeeper was just turning the key in the lock. As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, Radcliff approached him.

"I'm having trouble with my car," he said. "Run out of gas. Can you give me a lift into town?"

The old man never had a chance to answer before Radcliff brought the rock down on the top of his head. The man sank to the ground and Radcliff lifted him bodily and set him in the seat of the sedan parked in front of the store.

With trembling fingers Radcliff ran through the old man's pockets until he touched the wallet inside his coat. He drew it out. His fingers felt inside the leather. There were bills there. He couldn't take time to count, but the wad was thick. Reaching into the man's pocket he found a bunch of keys. He tried one that seemed right for the car's ignition. The key turned on the switch. Radcliff started the motor.

Then in the light of the dash, he fingered through the wallet. He drew out seventy-five dollars. It left quite a bit more, but he resisted the temptation, folded the wallet, placed it back in the man's pocket.

He threw the car into low gear and started off down the road. A quarter of a mile beyond the store the road rose along a hill. Radcliff took the climb in second. Just past the crown of the rise, he turned the wheels for the white rail fence, jumped out onto the pavement. He stood transfixed as the car swerved. A clash of steel and glass, of splintering wood! The car dove out of sight.

Radcliff retraced his steps. No car or person came by as he appraoched his own car on the road side. He got into his own car and drove on down the road.

At the crest of the hill he stopped his car and got out, inspected the damage to the fence, retraced his steps to his car and roared on to the next town of Davis.

He drove up to the policeman on the street and said, "There's been an accident on the Mountain Road. I can direct you to the place."

Julian Cross, the detective from the Davis police department, looked inside the car.

"Old Pop Quigley," he mused. "Who could ever have wanted to kill the old man?"

Radcliff blanched in the darkness. "Why, how do you figure that?" he asked. "It looks to me like an accident."

"Maybe so," the officer replied. "But I'd say offhand it's murder."

"But I saw it, Officer. The old man left the store, was just driving off when I came up to the curve."

"Go on," said Cross.

"Well, that's about all. He drove on up the hill and crashed through the fence."

Cross walked over to Radcliff. "You wouldn't have happened to have murdered him, would you?"

Radcliff gasped. Then, guiltily, without reason, he reached toward the ground.

Cross sprang forward, as Radcliff rose with a stone in his hand. The cop swept a haymaker full against Radcliff's jaw. The murderer went down.

"Come up with your hands raised," he said. "You picked the wrong guy that time. Pop Quigley's as blind as a bat. He was expecting his daughter to come along by bus and drive him home."

"Lessons in Larceny" by Anonymous/Unknown

Lessons in Larceny

Anonymous/Unknown

Jerry Burns rose from the caddy bench at the Greenway Golf Club and walked slowly toward the roadster. His nose was deep in Hershey's Elementary Chemistry.

"Come on, kid, hurry up!" Al Salvo shouted from the car.

"Sorry, Mr. Salvo. I've got a high school chemistry exam coming up."

Salvo was a slight man. He left the car and approached Jerry.

"Don't you want to caddy for me?" Salvo asked impatiently. "I'm here to play golf, not to worry about you."

"Yes, sir," said Jerry. He shoved Hershey's Chemistry into his shirt and took the two golf bags from Salvo's hands.

Three others of the party approached. Jerry knew Dina Cross, Salvo's secretary, but the other two were strangers. Salvo's expression changed as they drew near. He smiled, looking as if trying hard to be a charming host.

"Let Betty and Ben tee off first," said Salvo.

Dina Cross flashed a smile at Betty. "Go ahead, dear," she said laughing.

Betty swung the driver gracefully, but she blushed as she watched the ball bounce off the fairway and into the rough.

Al Salvo laughed. "Let's all help find the ball."

Jerry was poking about the dry leaves and could not help overhearing Betty.

"Isn't Mr. Salvo nice, Ben?" she asked. "I'm sure glad I work for him and Miss Cross, for now he'll promote your invention. Did you bring the formula?"

"Right here," Ben replied.

There was a gentle breeze blowing from off where Salvo and Dina Cross were searching. As Jerry worked his way through the leaves in their direction, their conversation came to him.

"It will take all night to get around the course the way they play," he heard Dina say. "You've got to think of a way to get the formula sooner. He might change his mind."

"Yeah, and gasoline made from sawdust will make millions for us, baby. I'll suggest dinner at the clubhouse."

Jerry stood uncertainly, wondering what to do. He had never before faced this sort of problem. Then Salvo called Ben and Betty Lake.

As he came out of the thicket, Jerry saw an envelope on the ground. He opened it. On the paper inside were typed chemical symbols. Jerry followed to the clubhouse.

Salvo and his guests were in the dining room when Jerry came out of the clubhouse office. He went toward the table.

"I found this," said Jerry. "Out on the course. I thought maybe it was yours."

As Salvo snatched the envelope, Ben Lake's jaw dropped.

"The formula!" he gasped. Betty turned pale.

"Oh, Ben, you lost it!" Turning to Jerry, she smiled. "I hope sometime we can do you a favor."

Jerry grinned, waited awkwardly for a moment.

"Could Mr. Lake help me with my chemistry?" he asked.

"Come home with us," Ben Lake said. "Sure I'll help you, Jerry."

In Ben Lake's cellar laboratory Jerry Burns was not listening to Ben Lake. He heard only the steps outside the door and held his breath.

Salvo was with Dina Cross. Ben Lake smiled a friendly greeting, but it froze on his lips as he saw the small pistol in Salvo's hand.

"Never mind the formula, Lake," Salvo sneered. "Just fork over a sample of the synthetic gasoline."

Ben Lake's surprise was genuine. "What do you mean?"

Jerry grasped a bottle from the bench and heaved it. Dina Cross screamed and Salvo's gun went off, but the shot went wild as the glass crashed in his face. Betty ran down the cellar stairs and Salvo swung on her. Jerry made a flying tackle.

"Call the cops!" he shouted. Jerry picked up Salvo's gun.

When it was over, Ben Lake and his sister listened in wide-eyed wonder as Jerry told Ben of Salvo's plot to rob the formula.

"But he had the formula!" Ben exclaimed. "I don't see why he came here!"

Jerry chuckled, drew a paper from his pocket. "No. I've got it," he said. "All I gave Salvo was a mess of symbols out of my chemistry book. I copied them off on the clubhouse typewriter."

"Monument to Death" Anonymous/Unknown

Monument to Death

Anonymous/Unknown

Olin Carpenter shook his head sadly as he looked down at the dead body of his engineer, Sheen Muldoon, lying on the floor of the contracting office. Sheen had been a nice boy, honest and clean-cut. Carpenter felt really sorry he had had to murder him.

But then Muldoon had brought it on himself. If he had kept his nose out of business that didn't concern him! If he had not learned that Carpenter once had served a stretch for robbery, had sprung himself from stir by killing a prison guard!

Carpenter since then had become respectable, was even growing rich on this state bridge contract. Carpenter even smiled a little sadly to think how Muldoon had laid his cards on the table and had said he was going to turn Carpenter over to the police.

Carpenter took twenty thousand dollars in cash from the safe and placed it in Muldoon's pocket. There was no question that the money would be missing along with Muldoon. And the bonding company would have to make it good anyway.

It was dark outside and the darkness hid Carpenter as he carried Muldoon's limp body up the loose gravel to the level of the road. Just beyond, the floodlights shone on the huge concrete forms as the night shift poured soft cement from the big mixers into the gaping walls of wood.

Carpenter carried his burden along the top of the bank until he came to the very edge of the great cavern where the bridge structure began. The floodlights showed the long trough of oozing concrete as it flowed from the opposite bank to the very center of the network of wood. And the glare of the lights hid Carpenter with his eerie cargo from the eyes of his own men. It was so simple: he walked along the planking and with a shift of his shoulder he dropped Muldoon's body into the gaping jaws, even as the splashing river of concrete rose higher between the supporting walls.

Carpenter took one chance to satisfy his curiosity. Kneeling down he held his flashlight inside and lit it. Muldoon hung over an iron tie rod and soon the wash of rising concrete would engulf him and the truth would be sealed forever from prying eyes.

One thing this experience had taught Carpenter, however; he would burn the clippings he had been careless enough to leave lying on his desk. The clippings that described the jail break and had reproduced Carpenter's picture over his true name, Rufus Olean.

Next, Carpenter approached his men from another direction, as if he had just arrived by way of the highway. He began to drive the labor as if he were a person possessed of the devil. What had been a slow seeping stream of concrete now became a rushing, splashing torrent as the whole gang scooped shovels along the trough to hasten the flow. After all, a crime had to be covered up but fast. And at last the section containing Muldoon's body had been filled!

He was careful not to return to his office, so that he did not report to the police until the following morning that his engineer had disappeared with twenty thousand dollars of the firm's cash. Carpenter also remembered to notify the bonding company.

The bonding company investigator was a man named John Cramer and he had gone to college with Muldoon. He seemed shocked and unable to believe that Muldoon was a crook.

The day the forms were being removed the state commissioner and Cramer were both at the job.

"Muldoon was a first rate engineer," said the commissioner. "And we want to be sure the job will go ahead according to specifications without him. Inspections will be mighty rigid."

Carpenter smiled. "This job will pass the most severe inspections," he replied, "if for no other reason than to prove to Muldoon, wherever he is, that we're well rid of him."

A solid wall of firm smooth concrete appeared before them as the forms came down. Like the removing of a mask and a masquerade.

"Ever see a prettier sight?" asked Carpenter. Then his face froze. Every precaution he had taken, every care in planning and all the assurance of safety he had enjoyed left him like a fog in a high wind. His world came tumbling down about him. He followed his true bent and reached for his pocket, but he had no gun. He turned and began to run, but John Cramer let him have one straight to the jaw and he had not the will to fight back.

The commissioner and Cramer smiled grimly as the cops shoved Carpenter into the wagon. And Carpenter recalled forlornly and too late how he had forced the men that night of the murder. The pressure of the increased flow of concrete had moved the body and—

Half way up the wall of concrete, still doubled over as if hanging to the tie rods, could be seen the hardened outline of the body of Sheen Muldoon—a monument to the handiwork of Olin Carpenter.

"Shot in the Dark" by Anonymous/Unknown

Shot in the Dark

Anonymous/Unknown

Standing outside the small window at the jog in the building, Corky Spangler watched Jack West, working late at Tiff Brothers, Jewelers, replace the one hundred pearls in the bottle in which Mrs. Van Doughby had brought them for matching and restringing. He watched West lock the pearls in the safe and leave after turning out the light. Then Corky drew a heavy bunch of master keys from his coat pocket and tried them one at a time until he unlocked the rear door.

With collodion on his finger tips to eliminate prints, he worked at the safe with the skill of a master. He needed no flashlight, for his sensitive fingers told him the movement of each lock tumbler. He smiled quietly in the darkness as he slipped the bottle of pearls into his pocket and closed the safe once more and locked it shut. Then he left as he had come and faded into the shadows.

Through the front window of Uncle Henry's Bar and Grill he saw Joe Redpan washing glasses, so he went around to the private entrance on Audion Street and rang the bell—two short and a long. Uncle Henry let him in.

Corky spilled the pearls out on the table.

"One hundred pearls, Uncle Henry, and each one perfect."

"Ten thousand," said Uncle Henry. "I could maybe get eleven for them. Besides I had to plant an alibi for you."

Corky picked up the little white spheres and dropped them back into the bottle. He put the bottle back into his pocket and shook his head.

"Fifteen, Uncle Henry."

Uncle Henry counted out ten one-thousand dollar bills. Corky looked greedily at the money. He slid the bottle to Uncle Henry and picked up the greenbacks.

"After all," he laughed. "A good night's work."

"You better get upstairs," Uncle Henry cautioned, "and throw out that bum who's been sleeping in the corner with your clothes on."

Detective Mike Torrent walked into Uncle Henry's and ordered a short one. Uncle Henry was there himself and he tapped the glass and scooped off the foam.

Mike asked, "Who's the stiff?"

Uncle Henry shook his head.

"Corky Spangler. Been sleeping it off all night in the corner."

"I'm thirsty," Mike said.

He drank fast and tipped his head way back to drain the glass. He let his eyes stare down the glass to the mirror over the counter of the back bar. He held that pose while the foam trickled slowly into his mouth. Then Mike set the glass down and went out.

The next morning when Mike Torrent reported at headquarters he found Chief Waters grilling Jack West.

"You admit," said Waters, "that you were the last one out of the store. And you admit having looked at the pearls while you had no business to. Why don't you own up?"

Jack West's nostrils dilated. His eyes shot helplessly about the room.

"Because I didn't steal them," he said in clearly clipped diction. "I just looked at them and put them back."

Mike Torrent wrote on a slip of paper: "Pick up Corky Spangler," and handed the note to Officer Jules Blane.

Being grilled was nothing new to Corky Spangler.

"I was drunk all night in Uncle Henry's," he said jauntily. "Uncle Henry will tell you I was. Besides, you can't find any prints, you say. Looks like you're guessing."

Mike eased his leg over the edge of the chief's desk.

"You see, Corky," he chuckled affably, "we're not exactly accusing you of anything. Better say we're trying to protect you."

Corky laughed. "Are you kidding?"

Mike shrugged his shoulders. "You see, Corky, Uncle Henry is out gunning for a guy, so we brought you in, just in case."

Corky's eyes snapped open for just a split second. Then he became a poker face.

Mike went on: "For taking a lot of dough for a lousy bottle of collodion."

Instinctively Corky's hand went to his pocket. Chief Waters went forward with a pair of handcuffs. Corky's hand whipped fast with an automatic in it. A gun belched, but it wasn't Corky's. Corky stepped back and grabbed his shoulder, as Mike Torrent dropped his smoking gun back into its holster.

"In the mirror at Uncle Henry's I saw Corky shoving the souse out of the way, but I didn't know why then. When there were no prints I guessed that Corky used collodion. He's used it before. I threw in the gag about the mixed bottles and it caught him up fast."

Mike started for the door. "Now I'll pick up Uncle Henry. Looks like Corky's slow wits turned out to be a bottle neck for Uncle!"

"Registered for Ransom" by Anonymous/Unknown

Registered for Ransom

Anonymous/Unknown

Detective Ed Grant looked at the victim of the brutal murder. The dead man was big, well dressed, but his clothes were torn. His head had been bashed by a rock from the stone wall. The death weapon lay in mute bloody evidence on the ground.

Papers on the dead man's body bore the name, Jan Cordell, the address Hotel Fremont.

"We'll go to the hotel," Grant said to Sergeant Lacy.

The hotel clerk could tell nothing, but said that there was a note waiting for him from Mr. Cordell. Grant frowned, took the envelope and tore it open. There was nothing inside the envelope but a zipper sewed to a piece of cloth. The envelope contained no return address.

It was not a new zipper and when Ed Grant held it to his nose he detected the faint odor of tobacco on it.

"Lot to go on," he said to Lacy. "Don't even know if it has anything to do with Cordell's death." He put the item in his pocket and said to the clerk, "Let's have the key to Cordell's room."

The hotel bed had not been slept in. But Cordell's leather traveling bag was on the floor. Grant found it unlocked. The bag contained a few items of clothing, a comb and brush, a nail file and at the bottom of the case the tobacco pouch whence had come the zipper. Grant fitted the cloth and found that it matched.

He sat down in the chair, lit a cigarette and stared blankly at Lacy.

Lacy asked, "What do you make of it?"

Grant shook his head. "Same as you do," he replied. "Nothing."

Then suddenly Ed Grant jammed his half-smoked cigarette hard against the bottom of the glass ash tray. "Come on!" he shouted. "Good Lord!"

Lacy followed dumbly, like a faithful dog. But he had to run to keep up to his superior. Grant hardly waited until Lacy was in the squad car before he let the clutch out hard and raced up to forty in second.

"I don't get it, Ed," Lacy said puffing.

"You will," Grant replied. "Keep your eyes peeled for a..."

Grant cut the sentence short and took the corner on two wheels at the next block, opened the motor and raced down the short street and turned right again.

"Hey, what the—" began Lacy and before he could say, "You're heading right around the block to the rest of the hotel!" the car stopped short and threw Lacy forward.

"Grab your gun, grab your gun!" Grant yelled. His own service weapon was already in his hands.

Grant shouted at the two men who were running for the black sedan across the parking lot. They kept running. Grant fired.

There was a grinding of the sedan's starter. As the black sedan opened up in low, Grant who had climbed back into the police car, steered straight for it. He met a volley from the escaping car and he let his own vehicle run head on into the side of the other car.

A volley blasted from the sedan and Lacy went down, rolled under a parked auto. The crowd that had started to collect ran for cover. Grant, lying on the floor of the police car, kicked the door open. Through the space that opened with the working of the offset hinge he saw the hat crown above the glass. He took aim and fired. The hat crown disappeared.

He got out cautiously and decided to make a run. Both cars were close together, so by ducking he kept out of vision. He yanked at the handle to the sedan door and pulled it open. The dead guy with the slouch hat fell out and Grant pulled him up as a shield.

He didn't stop firing as he hauled the dead man before him and a blast from inside the car sent a bullet into the corpse. It was a large bullet and it shook the body.

Grant sprang forward, dove inside and grabbed a wrist. The one inside the car grunted and tried to bite. Then he stopped and came out, his hands raised.

"If you killed Lacy," Grant said, "I'm going to give it to you right now, Scarface Joe Wiggam!"

"He didn't," Lacy called, limping up. "Just wounded me in the leg. But what's it all about, Ed?"

"When these birds kidnapped Jan Cordell, he put up a fight and they killed him. Then, knowing he had just registered here and wasn't known, they notified his family to call for evidence of Cordell's being in their hands. Then of all things Wiggam registered here as Cordell and watched who came for the note. They didn't recognize us until we went to the room. Then they scrammed as soon as they found out whether or not we'd found the pouch in the bag. Naturally I left that there in the bag and they ran right into our trap, trying to escape."

"Chew-Chew, Baby" by Anonymous/Unknown

Chew-Chew, Baby

Anonymous/Unknown

If Fats Press looked like a squash, and he did, then Art Stretch was a stringbean from the same garden. To see them sitting at the little round table in the Violet Hour Club, you might have guessed that they were a comedy team instead of the Daily Boom's ace photographer and reporter. Fats spread out over two-thirds of the table area instead of his fair share, while Art took up little or no room except in a straight line between the floor and the ceiling. But appearance was not the only difference between them.

"Chewing-gum!" Art said in tones of disgust, watching Fats shift a wad from one cheek to the other. "And look at that suit — anybody could read your dinner menu for the last week from the spots. It's a wonder they ever let you in a fancy dive like this."

"Musta been because I was with you," Fats grinned. "'Cause boy, you're sharp as a tack."

"Okay," Art spluttered. "Okay, make fun of me — you wolf in cheap clothing!"

Fats continued to smile and to chew his ubiquitous gum. The thing that really burned Art was, a guy just couldn't get a rise out of Fats. Insult him up and down and the guy went right on smiling. And worry? It would take an instrument sensitive as a geiger-counter to register a rise in Fats' blood pressure, no matter what was at stake; whereas Art gnawed his fingernails to the elbow over every little thing.

Now Art was drumming his fingers on the table and sitting on the edge of his chair as he stared at the merrymakers. "Suppose she doesn't show?" he worried. "No story ... no picture ... and you can bet Barnes' won't stand for this on the expense account if we've nothing to show for it."

"Relax, boy," Fats soothed him. "She'll come. Matter of fact here she is now, dripping her jewels behind her."

A buzz of voices announced that something special was happening, and Art's head was not the only one to swing around. Joane LeMoane, latest and most mysterious of foreign film stars to make a transfer to Hollywood, was entering the Violet Hour in a blaze of golden hair, white satin, and rubies. The LeMoane legend, a fire fanned by the strenuous exertions of her press agent, had flamed over the country: "Miss LeMoane never appears in public ... Miss LeMoane permits photographs of herself to appear in print ... Miss LeMoane's beauty so dazzled the Tscha of Irabo that he presented her with the most valuable rubies in the world, just for the privilege of looking at her."

It was a good build-up. It had captured the imagination of the public but now the time was ripe for splashing Joane LeMoane's features and rubies across the country's frontpages. That's why Fats and Art had received a tip to visit the Violet Hour tonight. And somehow Fats felt certain that after he'd made a sufficient number of shots of Joane's pretty face, she wasn't going to insist that the films be destroyed.

Fats reached under the table for his camera — then looked up in surprise as he felt the iron grip of Art's fingers on his arm. A woman screamed hysterically, the band broke off its music with a harsh squawk from a trumpet, and the normal sounds of mid-evening in a night spot faded into silence. Five men with guns had appeared from nowhere to cover the crowd, just like a movie — only there was something cold about the eyes of these men that made a person realize this wasn't make-believe.

"Okay," one of them said, moving forward. "Just act like you had a little sense and nobody'll get hurt. Start moving around, and somebody's trigger finger might slip." Walking silently, he threaded his way between the tables. He ignored the women shrinking away on each side and made straight for the spot where Joane LeMoane's rubies gleamed. Evidently these gangsters didn't intend to bother with minor stuff. Well, why should they? The LeMoane rubies were worth enough to keep five men like kings for years to come.

"What a story!" Art side-lipped to Fats, his eyes on the bandit. "This is my lucky night. Too bad you can't carry pictures in your head." Then, at the sound of a click, he jerked his head around. There was Fats, his candid camera lifted, calmly snapping shots of the lifting of the LeMoane rubies.

"Fats!" he gasped. "Are you crazy? Get that thing outa sight! Do you wanta get shot?"

"Huh-uh," replied Fats. He set his camera down long enough to cram two more sticks of gum into his mouth; then picked it up and clamly aimed it at the four bandits who were standing guard.

Art shuddered. "You'll get us both shot — but it'd be the sensation of the year if you could get the negatives out of here."

"I've got fifty bucks says I will," Fats answered.

"Sold!" Art whispered. "It'll be the easiest fifty I ever made." Then he shook his head. "You're making me as crazy as you are, you dope! This is no time to be making bets!"

It wasn't. Joan LeMoane, was living up to her name, leaning white-faced on a table with tears rolling down her cheeks and nothing but space where the rubies had gleamed. The bandit, jewels stowed in his pocket, was covering space toward the table where Fats and Art sat.

"All right, wise guy," he said, pointing the gun at Fats. "Let's have those films."

Fats looked blank for a minute. Then his hands came out from under the table holding his camera. "Anything you say, Mister."

Under the gunman's direction Fats opened the camera, took out the film, and ruined the roll. But that didn't satisfy the robber. He called one of his pals over, and Fats and Art were thoroughly searched. So was the floor around them, until the men had assured themselves that Fats hadn't pulled a sleight-of-hand with another roll.

Art shook his head. He was really sorry. It would have been worth fifty dollars to see Fats get away with it, but the guy'd never had a chance. Art looked at him and blinked. Fats' jaws weren't moving. For goshsakes, the poor guy must have been so disappointed he'd swallowed his chewing gum!

The bandits had planned this affair carefully. They had herded all the employees into the main room and locked all the exits. It wasn't until some late customers arrived that the alarm could be given and the police called. The robbers had plenty of time to get out of town.

"No wonder those thugs didn't bother to wear masks," the police captain in charge said angrily as he took down descriptions from the patrons. "Medium height, medium weight, medium coloring ... they could be anybody!"

"Would some pictures help?"

The captain spun around to stare at Fats, still sitting at his table. Art stared too. But Fats just grinned calmly and reached under the table. "Sorta messy," he apologized. He pulled out a carefully wrapped roll of film, covered with a mass of chewing gum. "Gum's pretty useful stuff," he explained. "That was a blank roll they made me take out of the camera. I stuck the exposed one underneath the table with chewing gum."

The captain grabbed the film and began shouting directions. Art's jaw dropped until it nearly dislocated itself.

"Sharp as a tack, aren't you, boy?" Fats said with a wink. "... and thanks for the fifty bucks — that'll buy a lot of chewing gum!"

"The Horror of the Haunted Castle" by Ellen Lynn

The Horror of the Haunted Castle

Ellen Lynn

Witches, ghosts, haunted castles! Do they belong only to ages long past. Are they only tales told by tellers of fairy tales. To Alice Martin such things were nonsense. She said she couldn't believe them.

Alice was a typical, fun-loving, American college girl—and besides, she was studying sciences. A scientist knows that every phenomenon, no matter how strange, has its own physical cause and effect. Eerie creatures, apparitions arise from the frightened minds of superstitious people. Science clears away the mists and fog surrounding weird beliefs. So Alice, with her pretty face and charming figure, was quite sure of herself and could venture where most people might tread cautiously. That is until Grinling Castle came into her life.

A group of exceptional students of science were going abroad to spend a year studying at an ancient University near Paris. Alice was elated when she was chosen to join the group and she won the permission of her indulgent parents to accompany the selected party under the supervision of two of the instructors. They were a gay and happy group as they set sail for Europe.

In ancient Europe, Alice found studying most stimulating. In addition, she was very popular with all the male students, French, Italian, German, English. Hans Karel, a young assistant instructor was particularly smitten with her and she had had a few dates with him. He was not unattractive with his blond hair and teutonic stiffness. But there was something—she couldn't quite put her finger on it—that made her feel not quite comfortable with him. Perhaps it was his eyes: they were steel blue, cold and penetrating. She felt that his eyes saw through her and knew—knew—that it was Professor Loring, head professor in mythology, that she couldn't dismiss from her real thoughts, and her heart.

Prof. Loring had requested her to assist him with the manuscript of his book on the Origins and Causes of Legends and Superstitions. She had felt not only proud and honored by his selection of her—but her heart fluttered strangely when his deep, brown eyes looked into hers, and taking his pipe from his mouth, he asked, "Miss Martin, would you care to spend some of your evening hours assisting me with my manuscript?" Hans Karel, the science instructor, was standing nearby at the time, and she noticed how strained he was as he listened to them.

"It would be an honor," she had answered. "I'm on the edge of a great discovery in the supernatural but I need a live assistant to scare the ghosts." They both laughed. He was quite young for a professor and very handsome. And then she had noticed again how hostile Hans had looked, his lips drawn into a thin line and his eyes shooting cold sparks. Suddenly she wished she could break her date with him for that evening. He was such an intense young man. Well, she'd keep it this time—but no more dates after that with Hans Karel.

It was wonderful working with Matthew Loring; but he had been right—it was hard work searching old tomes for proofs of ancient ghosts and like phenomena. "Alice," he once said, "I'll have to give you credit when my book goes into publication. Rather, I should say, it will be a pleasure to give you credit." They were standing close together and she looked into his eyes, flushing at his words. Suddenly, he took hold of her hands, then drew her to him and kissed her lips. A cough broke the silence. They had not heard Hans come into the room. The professor calmly released Alice, said, "I'll be back in a little while, dear. I'm going to my office now." And he left the room. Alice turned to Hans. He was glaring at her and his face was scarlet.

"So," he spluttered, "It's 'dear', is it? And sneaking kisses instead of working. So that's why he picked you to assist him? He makes believe his only interest is ghosts and then he steals my full of life girl."

"Your girl!" Alice exclaimed in astonishment. "Why, Hans, what right have you to make such a claim? And as for the kisses—I'll have you know this is the first time he ever kissed me, and he did so because I wanted him to. I'm in love with him."

"Bah! He loves only ghosts. That's where he should be—with them. The fool, believing in such silly things."

For the first time in her memory, Alice felt a sense of fear as she watched Hans's reaction to her words. From bright red, his face turned pale as ivory. His breath came in short spasms and his fingers were clenching and unclenching rapidly.

When the book was nearing completion, Alice became thoroughly fascinated with the mounting proofs of those who had returned from the graves to haunt the land of the living. But now she and Professor Loring realized they needed personal proof to complete their manuscript and crown it with real success. They believed that the old forbidding and forbidden ghostly Grinling Castle would give the proof they needed.

Then one day the Professor barged in with an open letter in his hand. In a voice filled with elation he said, "Alice, at last I've got permission to visit the Grinling Castle. At last I've gotten through the taboos and red tape. I truly believe that even the government officials believe that the castle is haunted, and know that ghosts must inhabit those musty, decayed walls. They warned me not to go—but finally granted permission. Then will my manuscript be complete."

Alice rejoiced with the professor. Then he turned and grasped both her arms. "My only regret is it is so dangerous that I have to leave you behind, Alice—just when I've found you—fallen in love with you." Happily, Alice returned his kiss as the thought of the strange Hans flitted through her mind when she heard, "and Karel has offered to come along to confirm my findings."

Matthew Loring and Hans Karel departed the next morning for the distant Grinling Castle. Hans sat grimly at the wheel as Matthew chatted gaily about his anticipation of their findings.

"I know, Hans, we can arouse at least one of the famous ghosts of the castle. A personal encounter would show our disbelieving world that the dead do come back at the right time and place."

Hans stared straight ahead as he spoke, "You're in an unusual mood, professor. One would almost think you're in love."

"You've guessed it, Hans," was the quick reply. "I'm sure you know I'm in love with Alice Martin, my pretty little American assistant. When my manuscript is complete, after Grinling, we will marry."

The car shot ahead at a sudden increase of speed. Prof. Loring turned to stare at the man at the wheel. Hans' face was ashen grey and he leaned forward as he stepped on the accelerator. The needle pointed to 80!

The two men remained silent the rest of the trip. When they reached the castle grounds a heavy mist had settled over the thick trees and wild hedges. The grounds had not been tended for many years and a thick maze of branches and vines made it difficult to penetrate to the building. But they finally got through and Prof. Loring started to jot down notes as he mounted the cracked and crumbling steps of the house.

Inside, from the high-vaulted ceiling hung draperies and cobwebs, and huge flying creatures darted about in the dim light. Suddenly a long, thin, scream assailed their ears.

Prof. Loring turned to Hans and whispered, "Hans, I know it. That was the voice of a ghost! The Grinling ghost. Europe's most famous ghost."

"Not quite, Loring," Hans answered. "My reason still tells me it was the sound of the wind through the cracks. And that's how ghost stories arise—from just such sounds in a ruined building."

As the Professor answered, a wild thought darted through Hans's burning mind. Here was his chance for revenge—and for Alice Martin. Yes, he would do it—and have a wonderful alibi to cover himself! That balcony running around two walls, high up toward the ceiling, and the rickety railing...! Hans quickly mounted the steps and called to Loring down below. "Come up, Professor, look recent shadowy foot prints—without weight—inhuman." Eagerly, Loring took the steps two at a time. "Yes, where are they?" he asked Hans. "There, look down there," said Hans. Surprised, Loring leaned over and Hans carried out his plan; with two hands he pushed hard—and Loring crashed through the rotting rail, his body somersaulting in air as he gave one awful scream. It landed with a loud thud on the stone floor below and a cloud of dust mounted high, high up to the gloating face of Hans.

"Now, Professor, you can be a ghost along with the rest of the company here. Perhaps you can let us know from the next world all about ghosts and such. Maybe there you can finish your foolish manuscript." Then Hans left the castle feeling like a conqueror.

Everyone was shocked at the terrible accident that had befallen the popular Prof. Loring. Alice couldn't believe that he was dead. "But Hans," she asked over and over again, "Surely he knew the railing was rotted. Why did he lean against it at such a height? What was he looking for?"

For months Hans tried to win Alice's interest, but she could not get over the tragic event, and she avoided him. Every night she dreamed of Professor Loring—Matthew—and his unfinished manuscript and imagined him falling, falling, over the creaking railing of the balcony at Grinling Castle. Then, one night, in a dream, the dead Loring came back, he spoke to her: "Alice—beloved—make Hans go back to the Castle, and have him bring my unfinished manuscript. Hurry, hurry! Now it can be finished—now I know!" She woke with a start from this vivid dream. Three nights in a row the same thing occurred. The fourth day, Hans phoned her and she told him to come to see her. She decided to obey the instructions of her dream—Matthew's voice was so clear to her.

"Hans," she said, "I want to visit Grinling Castle. Will you meet me there? After I see the place of his death I will be able to forget him. Please take his unfinished manuscript with you. Let us leave it there. Please, for my sake."

"I am not permitted to take you there, Alice, but if you wish it I shall go to the castle and leave the manuscript there. Would that please you?" Hans offered quickly.

Alice felt that would fulfill the orders of her dream. The next day Hans left with the manuscript in his brief case. He said he would return the following day.

A week later, Hans had not returned. Alarmed, Alice notified the police. She accompanied them to the famous old haunted Castle. They found the remains of a new body—Hans, apparently dead six days. On the ground were the scattered pages of the unfinished manuscript. The police permitted Alice to pick them up. To her amazement, there were additional pages—a new chapter written in Matthew's handwriting. But she knew no one would believe her. The manuscript had been finished! And the last paragraph read:

"Yes people have avenging ghosts after all Hans hurled me to my death, but I couldn't die till I was avenged. It was my own ghost that really brought him back to the castle and made him jump from the balcony from which he hurled me. Now the world can know the truth."

"Horror of the Drowned" by Ellen Lynn

Horror of the Drowned

Ellen Lynn

The news of Tom's death came to Arlene as a terrible shock.

I loved my niece Arlene as a daughter and tried to take her mother's place when my sister Grace died; I was with Arlene when the tragic news about Tom reached her.

When Arlene fell in love with Tom Bradley she was only sixteen, but she gave her whole romantic heart to the quiet, handsome young man the moment she met him—and he knew he had become equally smitten with her. Their love was a beautiful thing to see—a charming idyll. And I felt sure my dead sister would have been pleased with Arlene's choice of a husband. But, perhaps because she was so very young and romantic, Arlene's love was so intense it worried me. She seemed only to live for the moment when she could be with Tom, and everything else became subordinate to their meetings. Just because she sensed my worry, she grew pale and thin, and I was deciding in my own mind that an early marriage might restore the normal balance of her life. Then Tom came with the news that he was to leave almost at once for—KOREA—with his regiment.

For Tom's sake Arlene knew she had to take this blow calmly; she did not even suggest that they be married before Tom left for Korea. When they said goodbye she was pale and her eyes were red-rimmed, but no tears were shed. Only a soft promise from Tom that he would come back soon and claim his bride.

She waited for Tom's letters as she had previously waited for him. She retreated into herself living only for Tom's return and finally I took her away to my little place in the country where I thought she might better adjust herself to Tom's absence. The long quiet lake on which my house was situated proved a strong attraction for her and every possible day she was out in her canoe or small outboard motorboat, mostly thinking of Tom.

Then the day arrived when the fatal telegram about Tom reached her. His boat had been hit and he had been drowned while they were trying to make a landing near Seoul. I'll never forget how Arlene looked reading that wire. She was very still—then she looked up at me, wild-eyed, frightened, the sheet fluttering from her fingers. A piercing, shrill scream came from her lips, and she rushed from the house. I started after her but could not catch up with that fleet-footed creature as she sped to the lake front and got into the small motorboat floating at the little pier. Quickly she got the motor started and the chug-chug-chug faded into the distance as she rounded a bend.

I was terrified of what she might do and phoned a few neighbors around the lake to keep an eye out for Arlene. I told them the tragic news about Tom's drowning and they understood my anxiety for Arlene.

But toward dusk I could hear the chug-chug-chug once more and rushed out to the terrace to see my niece pulling the boat beside our dock. She walked up to the house slowly but soon I could see she had quieted down. I took her in my arms and kissed her with relief.

The next few days, Arlene behaved very well. In fact after her daily boat ride she'd return in rather cheerful spirits—for her. I knew that somehow she felt closer to Tom, alone on that silent lake.

Then one day she came running up from the lake, breathless, eyes shining. "Oh, Aunt Betty—Aunt Betty! I've seen him! I've seen Tom!"

My heart stopped beating. Had her mind snapped? My poor, poor, little girl! "But darling," I soothed, "how could you? Poor Tom's body is still in Korea..."

"No—no! He's on the bottom of the lake—over in the cove. I saw him, I saw him. He was smiling at me with that crooked little smile I love so much..."

I was heavy-hearted but I tried to divert Arlene as well as I could and one day I suggested we drive over to the state's fine, if small, art gallery where a loan collection was being shown, donated by local townsfolk. Arlene agreed and I was delighted that she would be willing to do anything that would take her "out of herself."

At the gallery I found the borrowed collection fascinating but Arlene wandered about by herself. Finally, just as I wished, I found her staring intently at the oil which I had donated to the exhibit. The artist, Sloan Farraday, was not first rate—but in this particular work he had risen to unsuspected heights of talent and it had actually won the coveted Beardsley Award. The subject was somewhat poetic and nebulous—an exquisite girl with alabaster face and enormous black eyes, flowing black hair, was floating gracefully in the arms of a creature half-man, half sea nymph; he seemed to be drawing her down, down through the jade green waters. Both of them wore ambiguous smiles of great tenderness. There was a disturbing, haunting quality in the picture which had brought Farraday unexpected acclaim.

"Aunt—Aunt Betty. Tell me about this painting, please," Arlene asked, not taking her eyes away from it.

Then suddenly it dawned on me that Arlene may have heard some time the story of the picture and was transferring it to her own experience. Perhaps if I told her the legend behind it she'd realize what a fantasy she was building up in her mind, about Tom.

"Had you never heard the story of your great-great-great Aunt Annalee?" I asked her. "The artist of this picture, Sloan Farraday, had been in love with her and after her—her tragedy, he was inspired to paint this picture."

"I don't remember," Arlene answered, her eyes still glued to the canvas. "Tell me about it, Aunt Betty!" And this time her words were almost a command. A feeling of helplessness came over me and I proceeded to tell her the story.

"When our ancestor, Annalee, was a young girl she was betrothed to Sloan Farraday. Our house was the very house in which she lived and he lived with his family a short distance away. He had always been in love with her but she kept putting off a date of marriage. One day she came crying to her mother—that she would never marry Sloan, that she loved another man. She looked dreamily into her mother's eyes saying, 'Mother, you'll think me mad—but there's a beautiful man—at the bottom—of our lake. He's the most handsome creature I've ever seen and I love him with all my heart. He speaks to me and I know he loves me, too.' Her mother did indeed think her mad and tried to keep her protected from the world, hoping no one would find out. But some of the villagers in town had found out about Annalee's visions at the bottom of the lake. A strange fever spread in the community. People began to accuse Annalee of being a witch. A number of sudden tragedies, inexplicable, hit hard in the Maine village. With no previous illness, a baby suddenly screamed in the night and the next morning died. Cows and sheep were barren—without apparent cause! Fires started up out of nowhere. The superstitious townsfolk became panicky and looked for a scapegoat on which to pin all these terrible incidents. It was the age of witches. Rumor having gotten around about Annalee and her man at the bottom of the lake, the cry of Witch! Witch! began to be heard. Annalee's poor mother trembled for the safety of her daughter and one day a furious crowd, inflamed by a new onset of tragic occurrences, came to this house and tore Annalee from her mother's arms. They tried her. She protested her own innocence, the poor girl begged them to go see for themselves that the man she loved who was at the bottom of the lake, but paying no attention to the ravings of a sick girl they tied her to a stake in the village and threw faggots around the base. Matches were struck and a crackling fire started to roar upward when suddenly a silence fell on the angry crowd and Annalee's lips parted in a joyful smile. A handsome young man, his green silk clothes dripping water, came through as the people, horrified, stepped aside. He loosened the cords binding Annalee, put out the fire with the constantly streaming water and carried the lovely, smiling girl away. Some who had followed them said he walked straight into the lake with Annalee in his arms—until they both disappeared under the water.

"So, dear Arlene," I ended the tale, "that's the fairy-tale legend of our ancestor, which they say, inspired her lovesick sweetheart, Sloan Farraday, to paint this charming poem in oils."

Arlene had listened to the whole story intently. Obviously just as I intended, she was thinking about the strange similarity between her vision—seeing Tom at the bottom of the lake—and that of our ancestor Annalee. I was sure that her mother, or someone, had told her the same legend, perhaps in her childhood, and by some quirk of the mind she imagined seeing Tom in the same way. I had hoped the story would cure her. I found it difficult to tear her away from her preoccupation with the picture. Something else must be done, I decided. We'll go back to the city and see if a psychiatrist can unravel the strange knots in my niece's mind. When I told her we were leaving, I saw her tremble violently.

When the packing was finished I looked about for Arlene, ready to start back to the city. My hand leaped to my mouth in an impulse of fear as I saw her in her hat and coat running wildly down to the boat, saying, "I am coming, Tom." I let out a scream, calling her to come back—but she got in the boat. Just as it was rounding the bend, I saw—I saw—my niece stand up—wave back at me and jump. Her body was not recovered.

The next morning, grieving and wretched, I walked down to the dock to gaze into the watery grave Arlene had chosen when I saw something, bright-colored, drifting in toward me. It was a scarf. Fascinated, I picked up a long twig and pulled it in. I gasped when I recognized the scarf. It was the one Arlene had given Tom before he sailed for Korea!

"Terror in the Stars" by Ellen Lynn

Terror in the Stars

Ellen Lynn

The men in our observatory called us the "three musketeers." Karl Manley, Russ Fenway and I had been buddies since boyhood—but the bond between Karl and me was especially close. We had always been interested in the same things, and as we grew older our interest in astronomy became an enthusiasm. I was even in love with the same girl, Lucy Tremont, but I knew she loved Karl—and I kept my frustrated emotions to myself.

Our new research laboratory was in the middle west, Lucy lived in the East. Often I would hear the low-voiced love-making of Karl as he spoke to her over the telephone. Although he was a scientist—perhaps because of it—Karl had the soul of a poet and the sentiments of love he expressed to Lucy (which I couldn't help overhearing since I was usually seated right next to him) were worthy of a Browning.

The hardest thing for Karl and Lucy was their separation—he in the west, she in the east. "I can't stand her being so far away from me," Karl once blurted out after one of his long-distance phone calls. "It's getting so I can hardly concentrate on my work. And Lucy is unhappy, too. We've decided to get married after this next field trip; she'll have to give up her job and come to live here."

By a lucky chance, Karl, Russ and I had been assigned together to a field trip to our new laboratory on the top of Mt. Crenshaw. The largest, newest, most powerful telescope in the world based on nuclear theories had been recently completed there and we were to spend a month observing the heavens and writing papers on our findings. Russ rushed over to the both of us and boyishly placed an arm around each of our shoulders, bent over our desks. "We're going together, boys," he exclaimed happily. "That's really a break for us! We'll explore the heavens—far beyond what men have seen before. It's our big chance."

I grinned up at Russ, just as pleased as he was that the three of us were to be together on the job. But Karl seemed not to have heard. The pencil in his fingers was not writing, his eyes had a far-away look. Russ, in his jovial way, slapped Karl on the back. "Brace up, fella, Lucy'll be waiting for you—and you'll be back in four weeks." Without answering, Karl had gone to the telephone to speak to Lucy in the East.

The day before our departure, Karl had a wonderful surprise: Lucy had come out, just to say goodbye. The pang I felt at seeing the two dreamy-eyed lovers fall into each other's arms was equaled by the relief that at last Karl could ease up in his tension. The visit from Lucy was just what he needed, so that he could once again put his brilliant mind to work.

I drove Karl and Lucy to the airport to catch her plane back East. As though I weren't even there, they spoke endearing words of farewell before she got into the plane. "Really, kids," I tried to jest, "this isn't the last goodbye—only four weeks and you two will never be parted again. Remember?"

Lucy stared intently into Karl's eyes, and remained silent a moment. Then she said, rather solemnly, "You are right, Steve, Karl and I will never be parted. I swear it. No matter what happens, he and I will always be together."

"Spoken like a true lover," I declared, trying to break the spell of seriousness that had been cast.

Karl insisted on our waiting at the airfield till the plane disappeared like a bird into the heavens.

Back at the lab we put the finishing touches to our packing, and Russ's gay spirits somewhat lifted the cloud of gloom that had previously settled over Karl. He actually smiled a few times and by the time we started on our trip he was as good as his old self. He was even able to speak of Lucy without going into a spell. "Come to think of it," he said with a grin, "we'll be so busy the next few weeks, time ought to fly—and then Lucy and I will be married. I've been in a terrible mood lately, boys. It's been rough on you, I know, trying to get me to do my share of the work. But it'll all be different once Lucy and I are together for good."

Russ and I sighed with relief. It was good to have Karl act like a normal human being again. And when we reached the isolated hilltop, where the marvelous telescope was situated he set to his observations and notes with renewed enthusiasm and zest—perhaps even greater than the zeal Russ and I felt. The three of us looked through the powerful lens and felt an awesome thrill at the panorama of heavenly bodies sparkling brilliantly in the infinite space beyond. Karl worked tirelessly, long through the night—even after Russ and I had retired. For we were able to see far beyond the distances men's sight had traveled before.

One night I stirred uneasily in my sleep and woke up. I looked at the clock: it was three in the morning. Then I was startled by the sight of Karl standing in my room in the dim shadows. What on earth is he doing in here? I thought. Could he be walking in his sleep? His eyes were opened and he was staring at me with a strange expression. Then he whispered: "Steve—Steve—are you awake? I—I must talk to you."

I sat bolt upright. "What is it, Karl?" I asked, considerably disturbed by this apparition in the wee hours of the morning. "Is anything wrong?"

He came close to my bedside and I put on the lamp. His face looked ghastly and I was filled with a foreboding. Had he been working too hard? Was he suffering more from his separation from Lucy than we had realized?

Finally he spoke, in a queer voice. "Karl—I've seen Lucy! Now—don't say I'm mad! I've checked and double-checked."

"What do you mean?" I interrupted. "Is she here? Checked what?"

"I have been experimenting with the new mirror we developed and it's unbelievable. Then a few nights ago, Saturday, at 11:30 I saw her for the first time. It was so vague, I wasn't sure. I thought I was just imagining it. Last night I looked again—and there she was, plainly. My new nuclear sights were trained on Saturn. There she was—beckoning me. She wants me to come to her. She was beyond, even the stars."

I was flabbergasted. I didn't know how to handle this situation. My dear friend, my close buddy, had become deranged. Of that I was convinced. I did the best I could to reassure him, to humor him. "Tomorrow we'll telephone Lucy. That should ease your mind, Karl."

"No, no! I mustn't keep her waiting. She insists I join her at once," he declared.

"Well, get some sleep, Karl," I advised him. "And if you must, you can return after breakfast."

He left my room and I tried, not too successfully, to go back to sleep. A half hour later I was beginning to doze off when a sound outside made me leap from my bed and rush to the window. There was Karl, a knapsack on his shoulders, setting out to climb to the utmost peak of Mt. Crenshaw. I yelled after him. Russ came dashing in and together we called to Karl, but he continued his rapid ascent without looking back. We stood there helplessly watching. Knowing Karl, we both realized it would be useless to try to stop him, even if we could possibly reach him at the pace he was going.

"But what is he after?" Russ asked in bewilderment.

I told him the incident in my room and of Karl's hallucination that he saw Lucy beckoning him to come to her into space. In spite of our anxiety, I understood Russ's outburst of laughter. It was a nervous reaction, true, but it was also ludicrous to think of Karl marching off into space to find his lady-love.

There was no more sleep for either of us. We dressed and kept our eyes on the figure of Karl gradually growing smaller as he mounted higher and higher toward the peak hidden in clouds. Then, when our naked eyes could no longer see more than a dot we each picked up small telescopes and continued to follow our friend's fantastic climb.

Just before Karl disappeared into the mists, he turned around and we saw his face clearly in the lens. He was smiling joyously, and raised an arm to wave a friendly farewell. Somehow, this gesture depressed us and we gave up our vigil. That was the last we ever saw of Karl. He had gone, he said, to join his Lucy in space. How were we going to break the awful news to the real Lucy who would be waiting, waiting for Karl's return—expecting to be married the next day!

When we knew for certain that we saw the end of Karl, we returned to our headquarters. A telegram was waiting for him. We decided to open it. The message stunned us both. It was from Lucy's father. It read:

Mr. Karl Manley

Baldwin Observatory

Mt. Crenshaw

Shocking news. Just learned Lucy killed in accident Saturday 11:30 P.M.

Benjamin Troll.

"Saturday—11:30!" I exclaimed involuntarily. That was the exact date and time Karl first saw the vision of Lucy through the new nuclear telescope! They had sworn never to be apart. He had gone to join her! Can we believe that? We are scientists.

But what do you believe?