Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 124, No. 3 — page 111: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE GALLERY GODS. looked at the ship and heaved a sigh. It was not a wistful sigh, nor was there pathos concealed anywhere about it. The sigh was a sign of the satisfaction that filled - him. He sat at ease, puffing a long black cigar. At his elbow a glass tinkled musi-. cally when he meved. His huge frame, now clad in spotless white duck, was elo- quent of content. Only his left thumb, bandaged and in splints, gave the slightest sign of discomfort, and he smiled when he felt the incumbrance of the wrappings. It wads a souvenir of the incident that caused his sensation of complete satisfaction. Conway had broken that thumb in his last struggle, two weeks before, in New Yerk. Conway was dead. There was a clattering of tiny hoofs. One of the house-boys had been down to the wharf to get the New York papers Beckwith had arranged should be sent him. They would contain the details of Con- way’s death, and Beckwith drew in a pleas- - urable breath at the thought of reading The little donkey had brought the boy hastily up with his light burden, and now the brown-skinned bey came in to Beck- with. The papers were all there, with all their ‘‘ magazine sectiens,” their “ roto- gravure’ illustrations, and all the other minor features on which they prided them- selves. As the newspapers were handed to him, Beckwith even noticed a gaudily col- ored comic: section. He fli it careless- ly aside. . These flimsy bundles ef print had been breught four theusand miles fer him to en- joy this moment. He would read of the death of Hugh Conway, multimillionaire philanthropist, patren ef the arts, and other worthy things to the extent of a rep- ortorial vocabulary, killed in the most open and daring fashion by William Beckwith, now at large. He would read of the letter left pinned to the multimillienaire’s breast in which that same William Beckwith an- nounced his reasens for killirtg the million- aire, and the precise fashion in which he intended to escape punishment. Beckwith smiled cheerfully to himself as he visualized in advance the excited indig- nation with which the editerial comment 485 would point out the loophole of which he had taken advantage. For weeks to come there would be indignation and anger at his calm defiance of the law and the power of the United States, while here in Bahia del Toro he would live openly and happily, frankly glorifying in the crime he had com- mitted, respected and feared by the people. There were the newspapers. scarehead on the front page. Beckwith spread out the paper with his uninjured hand and ran his eye over the head-lines. Hugh Conway — Hugh Con- way. Where was it? Not on the first page. Beckwith glanced at the czic with a frown. The date was that of the day after the murder, and surely it should have been a news feature. He looked on the second page. Nothing there. He ran his eye over the third page and the fourth. He flung the flimsy sheet impatiently aside and picked a second. The date was the same, and the name of the paper was — that of one of the most sensational jour- nals in New York. That, at least, would play up the murder in great shape. A new airplane recerd, a crisis in Europe, a prom- Inent divorce case. Not ene word of Hugh Conway. The second page. Beckwith rumpled the newspaper and threw it away. He bit angrily on his cigar. He had killed Conway, strangled him with his two hands. He took up the third pa- per, then the fourth. Net a word concern- ing Cenway. then an idea struck him. The pelice might have concealed the crime for a day or more, heping to ensnare him before he escaped. A later paper would tell. Beckwith’s brow cleared. Of ceurse that was it. He half smiled as he realized hew typical such an actien would be. The pelice weuld want to anneunce the crime and the arrest ef the murderer at the same time. Wells, the commissiener of police, was fend of just such tricks. He and Beckwith and Conway had gone to school together, and Beckwith knew Wells down to the greund. With a leisurely gesture he selected a newspaper of the day fellowing, and un- felded it, enly to frown again. The first The mur- . der of Hugh Conway would be good for a Beckwith grewled threatily, | EOMRIC OG Colin