Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 123, No. 4 — page 45: what you’re looking at

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

HOW MANY CARDS? a shade more red. ‘‘ What do you mean about my needing sleep? I don’t believe you have come from Mrs. Creveling at all; you are an impostor!”’ ‘“ They don’t call me that down at police headquarters, Mr. Waverley,” McCarty in- terrupted still quietly. ‘‘ You only reached the hotel ten minutes ago; the ink is hardly dry on your name in the register, and, finding you ready for bed like this, I thought you must need some sleep.” ‘Police headquarters!” The ruddy face paled. ‘‘ That fool clerk down-stairs said that no one had called for me—” ‘And no more they had, sir. I’ve been waiting down in the lobby some little time for you to come in; I knew you were never here when you telephoned.” McCarty paused, and then asked sharply: “ Mr. Waverley, when did you last see Mr. Eu- gene Creveling?” “Why, the night before last—Tues- day,” the other stammered. “ What’s all the row about? Has he disappeared? My wife said something about an accident, but if it is just that he hasn’t turned up—”’ ‘“‘ He’s turned up, all right, sir—turned up his toes on the floor of his study, shot through the heart!” McCarty watched the effect of his announcement carefully. “Gene Creveling! Good God, it’s im- possible!” Waverley’s flabby jowls took on a purplish tinge and his pale-blue eyes seemed to .protrude from the sockets. “You don’t mean murder!” “Looks like it, sir. The last time you saw him alive was on Tuesday night? Where was this?” “At Nick Cutter’s.” Waverley raised a thick, pudgy hand to the folds of flesh which hung pendulous over his throat as though the collar of his bath-rabe had suddenly grown too tight. “‘ God! Crevel- ing dead! I suppose you’re a detective, but why have you come ta me?” “To get the particulars of how you learned of the supposed ‘ accident,’ sir.” McCarty’s smile was disarmingly candid. “You say your wife telephoned to you; where did she get you on the wire?” “‘ She didn’t; I telephoned to her,” Wa- verley disclaimed, ignoring the question. “I wanted her to bring Mrs. Creveling and a5] motor in to town for lunch, meant to dig up Creveling, and drag him back to the country this afternoon. Mrs. Waverley told me that a message had come between half past four and five o’clock this morning from Mrs. Creveling’s cook, summoning her immediately to town; that Mr. Crevel- ing had met with some accident. They're intimate friends of ours, and naturally J called up Mrs. Creveling at once to learn what had happened and to offer my ser- vices. I never thought of anything like this! I can’t believe it even yet. My God, it’s horrible! Who—who could have done it?” CHAPTER X. THE CIGARETTE CASE. E sank into a chair and reached shakily for the fresh pitcher of ice- water upon the table at his elbow. McCarty waited until he had drunk deep, and then, as the pitcher clattered upon the table once more, he observed: “So the Crevelings are intimate friends of yours, sir? How long have you known them?” ‘““Look here, what are you driving at? Creveling and I palled around together for years before he was married, and he was a frequent visitor at our house. Naturally, when he became engaged my wife met Miss Alexander, and since their marriage they _have been clasely identified with our im- mediate circle. My wife and Mrs. Crevel- Ing are almost inseparable.” ‘“ And you and Mr. Creveling, sir? Have you been getting on together lately as well as you used to?” McCarty’s tone was in- gratiating. ‘“ You'll excuse me, Mr. Wa- verley, but didn’t you and he have a quarrel not so long ago?” ‘“* Quarrel ’?”” the other repeated, and straightened himself suddenly in his chair as though to meet an unexpected thrust. ‘Great Heavens, no! Who told you such a lie?” “You didn’t have a dispute with Mr. Creveling in his own house one night not a fortnight ago?” McCarty persisted. “I don’t like to make mention of a lady—”’ CO