Great Thrillers: 101 Suspenseful Tales

By Stefan Dziemianowicz

Thrills and chills galore await you in Great Thrillers, a connoisseur’s collection of suspenseful stories steeped in mystery and the macabre. Filled with fateful encounters, inescapable intrigues, and hair’s-breadth escapes, these tales defy you not to keep turning their pages to see their final surprises sprung. Selections include:
 
The American’s Tale—Arthur Conan Doyle. Frontiersman Alabama Joe planned his devious revenge against Tom Scott, not realizing how easily biters are themselves bit.
 
Andrew Goes Driving—Will H. Greenfield. Skeptical journalist Andrew discovers just how foolish he was to claim he wasn’t afraid to enter a haunted house at night in order to get a story.
 
“Blow Up with the Brig!”—Wilkie Collins. It might seem peculiar to be haunted by the ghost of a bedroom candlestick, but not after the ordeal the narrator endures at the hands of a band of merciless brigands.
 
The Cone—H. G. Wells. It was not a good idea for Raut to cast adulterous eyes on Horrocks’ wife. It was an even worse idea for him to accompany Horrocks on a precarious walk above the flaming ironworks.
 
A Dream of Red Hands—Bram Stoker. A crime of passion stains Jacob Settle with the stigma of a murderer and the stigmata of blood that he dreams his hands are drenched with.
 
The Hostelry—Guy de Maupassant. Whatever it was that prowled the grounds around the snowbound cabin, it drove the cabin’s occupant to a frenzy of terror with its determined attempts to break in.
 
The Interlopers—Saki. The feud fought for generations between the families of Georg Znaeym and Ulrich von Gradwitz was bound to consume them, but perhaps not as surprisingly as the fate they suffered in the Karpathian forest.
 
The Tell-Tale Heart—Edgar Allan Poe. It was madness that drove the narrator to murder the helpless old man in his sleep. It was something worse than madness that left him haunted by the persistent sound of his victim’s beating heart.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fall River Press
• Release date: Jul 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781435166233

Book preview

Introduction

A thriller, gasps the young reporter who has just stumbled onto a murder scene in Gordon Johnstone's tale The Cub. A twentieth-century thriller! He should know. His is one of 101 stories in this book that fit the description of thriller, a category of fiction that encompasses a wide variety of story types, from murder mysteries to tales of narrow escapes, races against the clock, ineluctable endangerments, and even the supernatural and the macabre.

What sets the thriller apart from tales of mystery, horror, or suspense? That's hard to define precisely, but readers know it when they see it. It's evident in the gradual way that a harmless parlor game reveals insidious truths about the people who play it in William Fryer Harvey's Unwinding. It's clear in the manner in which characters on safe and solid ground in William Hope Hodgson's Out of the Storm read a succession of dispatches from an imperiled ship at sea, knowing that they are powerless to prevent its doom. It can be seen in the poetically just desserts visited upon the murderer just at the moment that he thinks he's escaped his pursuers in W. C. Morrow's The Faithful Amulet. It's part of the setup of the macabre fate (and even more macabre explanation for it) that befalls the over-confident journalist in Will H. Greenfield's Andrew Goes Driving. It's obvious in the slow and inescapable death portended for a man who steps in quicksand in Stephen Chalmers' At Briny Ranch. And it's epitomized in L. Prince's The Fourth Finger, in which a blind man sits waiting … waiting … waiting in suspense for the fatal strike that his persecutor has promised him.

The allure of this type of tale can be gauged by the number of well-known fiction writers who have penned thrillers. In The American's Tale, about the bizarre fate that befalls a Wild West rowdy intent on ambushing his unsuspecting victim, Arthur Conan Doyle—best known as the creator of Sherlock Holmes, a character who featured in his own share of thrillers—added a new chapter to the tale of the biter bit (literally). Wilkie Collins, an occasional collaborator with his friend Charles Dickens, wrote Blow Up with the Brig!, a suspense classic whose thrilling climax has been copied by many other writers since. Science fiction master H. G. Wells published The Cone, a story that nudged the thriller into the terrain of the conte cruel. Bram Stoker, the author of Dracula, tempered his tale of a murderer's remorse with a dash of the supernatural. French writer Guy de Maupassant, in The Hostelry, generated a surfeit of thrills by setting its game of cat and mouse in a snowbound cabin in the Alps. Jack London turned a tale of a zoo animal turning on its keeper into a spectacle of simmering revenge in The Leopard Man's Story. Stephen Crane, author of The Red Badge of Courage, parlayed a theatrical staging gone disastrously wrong into a tour-de-force of terror in Manacled.

The stories in Great Thrillers show the ingenuity that their writers bring to thriller fiction. Some have cleverly orchestrated twist endings. Others set up seemingly insoluble mysteries that are miraculously solved. Still others wring suspense from perils that their entrapped protagonists struggle to escape. Regardless of their many different approaches, these stories all have one thing in common: they deliver thrills that enliven their adventures and that linger with the reader long after they've been read to their conclusion.

—Stefan Dziemianowicz

New York, 2017

The Alligator Test

Howard Dwight Smiley

A fussy old gentleman, with gray side-whiskers and a silk hat, hopped from the first of two taxies that had drawn up before 769 Chestnut Street. He was followed by four young men, while from the other taxi emerged four more, two of them elderly men.

The old gentleman paid and dismissed the drivers of the taxies, and then, brandishing his gold-headed cane excitedly, led the way up the steps of the house, closely followed by the others, who were, judging from their expressions, much puzzled by these proceedings.

The leader pressed the electric door button, a bell tinkled faintly from within, and almost instantly the door swung open, disclosing a long narrow hall, quite bare of furniture or human beings.

Step right in, gentlemen, said a sepulchral voice, apparently coming out of the air in front of them. Take the second door to the right.

The eight followers of the old man gasped at this ghostly greeting and drew back. Had they been in the room of the second door to the right, at the instant their leader had pressed the button, they would have observed a man there, suddenly lean forward from the armchair in which he sat, reach into the empty fireplace and withdraw a telephone transmitter concealed therein and attached to a long cord. With the same movement, he touched a button, whereupon the outer door swung open and through the transmitter, he invited his visitors to enter, instantly returning it to its place of concealment so that when the old gentleman and his followers entered the room, the man was leaning back quietly in the chair with an open magazine on his knees.

Ha, good morning, Mr. Wheeler! he exclaimed cordially. You are right on time, I see!

I am, sir. I am always punctual in my engagements, sir, returned the old gentleman pompously. As soon as I reached the office this morning, I bustled the boys into taxies and hurried right up. They don't know why they are here yet.

He turned to his companions, waved his cane in the air, and announced: Boys, this gentleman is the celebrated medium, the Great Mystero. He is going to give us a demonstration of his marvelous powers this morning, and I am sure you will find it interesting to witness.

This information seemed to have a startling effect on the others.

Er—isn't this rather unusual, Mr. Wheeler? coughed one of the elderly men deprecatingly. Er—business hours, you know, and the office is deserted.

Don't worry about that, Erb, returned Mr. Wheeler crisply. I am running the office, and if I choose to entertain you fellows during business hours, why, that is my affair. You may learn something interesting before we are through.

I'd be interested to know right now who it was that opened that door, remarked one of the younger men. There wasn't any one in the hall.

It was my spirit butler, James, Mystero informed him gravely. He is always on duty at the door, but is quite invisible to mortal eyes.

Several of his listeners snorted derisively at this information, whereupon. Mr. Wheeler glared indignantly and turned apologetically to the medium.

Don't mind what they say, he said. They're ignorant, that's all. Now, let's get this thing over with, without further delay.

Very well, Mr. Wheeler, acceded Mystero cheerfully. Gentlemen, please be seated, he motioned toward a row of chairs arranged against the wall at one end of the room and evidently placed there for this occasion.

The seeker after occult entertainment, and his eight followers, seated themselves obediently, with expressions that ran the gamut from extreme disgust to the liveliest interest. Mr. Wheeler was a strict business man and a stickler for rules and office discipline, and this conduct on his part passed the comprehension of his employees and aroused grave doubts in the minds of several as to his sanity.

They faced the length of the room, at the other end of which stood a small cabinet of black cloth, about four feet square by six high. Beside this was placed a small stand, on which rested, what appeared to be, a large jardiniere. Mystero placed himself before them and scanned the face of each sitter critically for some seconds before he began.

Gentlemen, he said finally, your employer, Mr. Wheeler, called here last night to consult me on a matter of great importance. As you probably know, Mr. Wheeler has lost some valuable papers, namely, the plans and specifications of the late Professor Eldred's ‘All-Element Vehicle,’ a conveyance designated to navigate the air, the land, the sea and under the sea with equal facility.

This information seemed to create a sensation among the sitters, several of whom glanced quickly at Mr. Wheeler with ejaculations of surprise.

As you all know, continued Mystero, without heeding the interruption, "Professor Eldred died shortly after completing this invention and before application for patent could be made; so the plans stolen were the only ones in existence. Mr. Wheeler, who holds a manufacturer's interest in the invention, intended putting the vehicle on the market as quickly as possible, but owing to the demise of Professor Eldred there has been some delay in making application for patent.

"Mr. Wheeler placed the papers in the vault at his office for safe keeping three days ago. Yesterday, when he went for them, they were missing. Mr. Wheeler is greatly disturbed over this, as these papers are the sole records of an invention which, if lost, will entail the loss of many thousands of dollars to his firm and Professor Eldred's heirs, besides being a loss of an invaluable invention to the world in general.

Mr. Wheeler has appealed to me to restore those papers. Through my suggestion he has brought you here this morning to hold a sitting. He is loath to suspect any of his employees, but I have pointed out to him that you all have access to the vault, and that it is probable that all of you knew something about the invention. I believe— Mr. Wheeler's assurances to the contrary—that those papers were stolen, and I believe the thief is in this room and I purpose to find him before you leave!

Several of the sitters rose to their feet with indignant exclamations, while the others gazed blankly at each other and at their employer.

This is a positive insult! exclaimed one of the men angrily. Mr. Wheeler, I have been in your employ for—

Just a moment, interposed Mystero quietly. I have neglected to say that Mr. Wheeler is under suspicion as well as the rest of you, and any appeal to him will be useless. We are here to find the thief, no matter who he is.

That's right, Bailey, interjected Mr. Wheeler. Now sit down and behave.

I refuse to be a party in any such foolishness! exploded Bailey angrily. The idea of bringing me here under the suspicion of being a thief is preposterous. It's all tommy-rot, anyhow!

Several of the others voiced the same opinion, and were about to leave the room, when the medium again interposed.

There is no need for you to lose your tempers this way, he said quietly. It is my intention to subject each of you to a very simple test, and if, after I have explained it, you still refuse to submit to this test, it will be pretty conclusive evidence that you have a guilty conscience, will it not?

No such thing! It's all tommy-rot, I tell you! blustered Bailey.

Then you refuse to submit to the test? taunted Mystero.

I didn't say that! What is your test, anyhow?

Now we are getting somewheres, smiled the medium. Of course, if everybody refused to try the test, my efforts would be in vain; but I am under the impression that those of you who are innocent will have no apprehensions, while the guilty one will.

Oh, I see! sneered Bailey. The man who refuses to take the test is the one who stole the papers! A very simple proceeding, to be sure!

But rather clever and effective, don't you think? smiled Mystero. Now, if you will please resume your seats, gentlemen, we will proceed.

Bailey subsided into his chair with a snort of disgust, and the others followed his example.

Does anyone else object to this test? inquired Mystero.

One of the older men shifted uneasily in his seat. Don't you think we had better be getting back to the office? he asked, turning to Mr. Wheeler. Of course you must know that this is all foolish nonsense; this fellow is making a fool of us.

That may be so, Wandell, but I am paying the fee for being made a fool of— if such is the case—and I purpose to see it through, returned his employer testily. Go ahead, Mystero, and get it over with.

At the medium's request, the others arose and followed him to the cabinet.

This, he began, indicating the brass jardiniere, which was filled with a milky, sweet-scented fluid, is my magic thief detecting water. You may examine it freely and see that there is nothing deceptive therein.

The others stared at the water curiously. It looked about as formidable as a bowl of milk, and yet it somehow inspired each man with the feeling that it might possibly hold potential qualities not to be trifled with.

And this, gentlemen, continued Mystero, drawing back the curtain of the cabinet, is my magic thief nabber, which works in conjunction with the magic water. You will please examine this and see that it is not connected with any electric wires or other deceptive apparatus.

He disclosed to view, the head of an enormous alligator, beautifully mounted, with bright glass eyes and distended jaws, displaying two double rows of very formidable teeth. The head rested on a small stand at the back of the cabinet.

Will it bite? asked Bailey facetiously.

It will if the occasion arises, Mystero assured him very solemnly.

Humph! It is dead, isn't it?

It appears to be. You are at liberty to examine it as much as you please.

In spite of their skepticism and the ridiculous statements of the medium, the sitters were becoming interested, and several stepped inside the cabinet and examined the head closely. They all refrained, however, from putting their hands between the distended jaws with their gleaming needle-sharp teeth.

Why, these jaws are held open by strips of iron bent to the shape of the mouth! exclaimed one of the investigating party. It would be impossible for the alligator to close them, even were it alive!

Who said they would close, Belote? demanded Bailey.

No one; but I would infer as much from what the medium has said, answered Belote.

Your inference is correct, said Mystero. Those jaws are going to close on one of this party very shortly. Now, gentlemen, if you will be seated, we will proceed.

The sitters returned to their chairs and the medium again took up a position in front of them. Mr. Wheeler, he began, with your permission I will make you the first subject of this test.

Certainly, responded the manufacturer, rising. What am I to do?

Mystero drew from his pocket a black sleevelet, which he adjusted on Mr. Wheeler's right arm. The sleevelet fitted tightly around the wrist and extended upward as far as the elbow.

Now then, said the medium, you are to walk to that jar of magic thief detecting water, immerse your right hand into it to the wrist, three times, repeating aloud each time the magic word ‘dickerydock.’ You will then walk into the cabinet, draw the curtains so that you cannot be seen by those outside, insert your right arm into the mouth of the alligator and tap the small hand-bell which I have placed in the throat, three times. If you are innocent of the crime of stealing those papers, nothing at all will happen; if, however, you are the guilty man, the jaws will close instantly on your arm and hold you fast.

Exclamations of derision and incredulity greeted this ridiculous statement, and several of the sitters laughed outright. Mr. Wheeler and the medium, alone remained serious.

This foolishness has gone far enough! exclaimed Bailey, jumping up. You are making dupes of all of us and I, for one, am not going to aid you further in this nonsense!

Bailey, shut up and sit down! snapped Mr. Wheeler testily. As I have already said, I am paying for this exhibition and I purpose to see it through. You are here merely in the capacity of my clerk, following my orders as usual, and, as usual, I am running my business, not you!

If you are innocent, there is absolutely nothing to fear, Mystero reminded him.

Oh, rats! retorted Bailey disgustedly, as he again resumed his seat. I am not afraid of your old alligator, but I do hate to be made a fool of.

Now you are talking sense, said Mr. Wheeler as he advanced to the jardiniere. He dipped his hand into the water three times, repeating the magic word each time, and was about to enter the cabinet when Mystero stopped him.

You must remember to be sure and ring the bell with your right hand—the one that is wet with the magic thief detecting water, he cautioned. It is very essential that you do this if the test is to be a success, as the magic thief detector works in conjunction with the magic thief nabber.

Bailey and several of the sitters snorted derisively at this information, but Mr. Wheeler nodded solemnly and entered the cabinet. A few seconds later, those outside heard the bell ring three times.

Mr. Wheeler emerged, looking a trifle pale. I guess I am innocent, he chuckled; but I certainly hated to put my arm in the reptile's mouth.

I guess we're all innocent as far as this test is concerned, grunted Mr. Erb.

Mystero handed Mr. Wheeler a clean towel and instructed him to wipe his hand carefully and thoroughly. He then drew off the sleevelet and turned to the others.

Who is the next man to try the test? he asked.

Bailey jumped up promptly. I stole a watermelon once, but I'll take a chance on your old crocodile, he laughed.

Mystero adjusted the sleevelet silently and Bailey advanced confidently to the jardiniere. He dipped his hand into the water three times, each dip accompanied by a sonorous dickerydock, and then entered the cabinet without hesitation. Almost immediately, those outside heard the bell ring three times, and a moment later, Bailey emerged laughing, but with an expression of relief on his face.

Nothing doing, he cried jocularly. It didn't even nab me on that melon deal!

We're after the man who stole those papers, returned Mystero dryly, as he handed Bailey a fresh towel. Who is the next man?

One after another, the sitters came forward, had the sleevelet adjusted and went through the formula of ringing the bell in the alligator's throat. When the last man emerged from the cabinet without having had his arm crushed in the jaws of the monster, the sitters were laughing sarcastically. They were by now quite convinced that Mystero had been merely trying to bluff them. Mr. Wheeler's expression showed both chagrin and disappointment.

You're a peach of a medium, you are, jeered Bailey.

Thank you, returned Mystero, bowing low. I am considered the best in my class, and have never been known to fail in any undertaking I went into seriously.

You fell down hard this trip, scoffed the other.

Who? I? What makes you think that? I assure you that I am more than satisfied with the results.

Humph! Your old alligator didn't nab the thief!

It most certainly did! Nabbed him good and hard! retorted the medium.

Nabbed who? gasped Bailey.

"You!" Mystero shot the answer at him with such force that Bailey dodged. For a moment, the man was too startled to speak, and then his face flushed angrily and he sprang up threateningly.

See here, fellow, have a care who you are accusing of stealing those papers, he growled. You haven't the slightest foundation for the assertion you just made, but you picked me out for the goat and tried to startle me into an admission of guilt. You can either take back what you said here and now, or I'll give you the chance to explain yourself in the police court!

Perhaps I did speak too hastily, said Mystero apologetically, and, of course, there is always a chance for a mistake. If I have done so, I most humbly beg your pardon, and in order to set matters right with the others, I'll make a full confession of the ruse I have attempted to carry out. Will that be satisfactory, Mr. Bailey?

It will if it explains, growled the other surlily, as he resumed his seat. In spite of his bluster, the man seemed to have become suddenly uneasy; he clasped his hands, rubbing them together nervously, and shifted about in his chair.

Mystero stepped before his audience and drew from his coat pocket a small tin box. Gingerly removing the cover, he held the box before the sitters for inspection. It contained a number of small pods coated with a yellow wooly substance.

"These, gentlemen, are seed pods of the mucuna pruriens, a creeping vine indigenous to tropical South America, and commonly known as the ‘buffalo bean.’ You will note that the pods have a fuzzy appearance, which is due to a coating of thousands of almost invisible hairs. These hairs have a medicinal value and can be purchased at any drug store under the name of ‘cowhage.’ They become detached from the pods at the slightest disturbance, and are so fine and light that they float about in the air, and when they come in contact with the bare skin they excite the most intense itching and irritations."

Mystero carefully replaced the cover on the box and returned it to his pocket.

"Gentlemen, when I placed that sleevelet on your arm and requested you to dip your hand into the magic water, which is, by the way, nothing but a soapy mixture which makes the hand temporarily impervious to the action of the cowhage, it was for the sole purpose of protecting your hand from direct contact with the pods, a number of which I had placed in the throat of the alligator.

"I led you all to think that there was some connection between this water and the closing of the alligator's jaws; I led you to believe that a combination of the two was necessary in order that the test might be successful. What was more natural than for the guilty man to conceive the brilliant notion of inserting his left hand into the mouth of the alligator in order to ring the bell, instead of using his right hand, thereby frustrating my scheme.

This is exactly what happened. For the past few minutes, our friend, Mr. Bailey, has been suffering the most exquisite torture in his left hand, which he is even now frantically rubbing. You will notice that it is red and inflamed.

You lie! screamed Bailey, springing up and starting for the door.

Mystero had him by the collar before he had taken three steps. He was smaller than Bailey, but he spun his man around and slammed him back into his seat with surprising ease.

Now you sit still and behave! he admonished the other sternly. You've been trying to run this show long enough and it's time the rest of us had a say. What have you done with those papers? he demanded bluntly.

I never took them! I defy you to prove it! cried Bailey.

We'll find them first and prove it afterward, retorted Mystero grimly, as he turned to the manufacturer. Mr. Wheeler, you know this man better than I, and where, in your mind, would he be likely to conceal those papers?

Mr. Wheeler thought for a moment. He is single, has no home here and boards at a regular boarding house in Livermore Street.

Good! exclaimed the medium. The most probable place then is his room! Now, Mr. Wheeler, I suggest that you go to the police station, get an officer and a search warrant and go through his room.

Bailey objected vociferously to this plan, but Mr. Wheeler seemed impressed.

That is a splendid idea! he exclaimed. I will act on it at once!

Two hours later, Mr. Wheeler and an officer were back in the seance chamber with the papers, which they had found in Bailey's trunk.

The American's Tale

Arthur Conan Doyle

It air strange, it air, he was saying as I opened the door of the room where our social little semi-literary society met; but I could tell you queerer things than that 'ere—almighty queer things. You can't learn everything out of books, sirs, nohow. You see, it ain't the men as can string English together and as has had good eddications, as finds themselves in the queer places I've been in. They're mostly rough men, sirs, as can scarce speak aright, far less tell with pen and ink the things they've seen; but if they could they'd make some of your European's har riz with astonishment. They would, sirs, you bet!

His name was Jefferson Adams, I believe; I know his initials were J. A., for you may see them yet deeply whittled on the right-hand upper panel of our smoking-room door. He left us this legacy, and also some artistic patterns done in tobacco juice upon our Turkey carpet; but beyond these reminiscences our American story-teller has vanished from our ken. He gleamed across our ordinary quiet conviviality like some brilliant meteor, and then was lost in the outer darkness. That night, however, our Nevada friend was in full swing; and I quietly lit my pipe and dropped into the nearest chair, anxious not to interrupt his story.

Mind you, he continued, I hain't got no grudge against your men of science. I likes and respects a chap as can match every beast and plant, from a huckleberry to a grizzly with a jaw-breakin' name; but if you wants real interestin' facts, something a bit juicy, you go to your whalers and your frontiersmen, and your scouts and Hudson Bay men, chaps who mostly can scarce sign their names.

There was a pause here, as Mr. Jefferson Adams produced a long cheroot and lit it. We preserved a strict silence in the room, for we had already learned that on the slightest interruption our Yankee drew himself into his shell again. He glanced round with a self-satisfied smile as he remarked our expectant looks, and continued through a halo of smoke:

"Now, which of you gentlemen has ever been in Arizona? None, I'll warrant. And of all English or Americans as can put pen to paper, how many has been in Arizona? Precious few, I calc'late. I've been there, sirs, lived there for years; and when I think of what I've seen there, why, I can scarce get myself to believe it now.

"Ah, there's a country! I was one of Walker's filibusters, as they chose to call us; and after we'd busted up, and the chief was shot, some on us made tracks and located down there. A reg'lar English and American colony, we was, with our wives and children, and all complete. I reckon there's some of the old folk there yet, and that they hain't forgotten what I'm agoing to tell you. No, I warrant they hain't, never on this side of the grave, sirs.

I was talking about the country, though; and I guess I could astonish you considerable if I spoke of nothing else. To think of such a land being built for a few ‘Greasers’ and half-breeds! It's a misusing of the gifts of Providence, that's what I calls it. Grass as hung over a chap's head as he rode through it, and trees so thick that you couldn't catch a glimpse of blue sky for leagues and leagues, and orchids like umbrellas! Maybe some on you has seen a plant as they calls the ‘fly-catcher,’ in some parts of the States?

Dianoea muscipula, murmured Dawson, our scientific man par excellence.

"Ah, ‘Die near a municipal,’ that's him! You'll see a fly stand on that 'ere plant, and then you'll see the two sides of a leaf snap up together and catch it between them, and grind it up and mash it to bits, for all the world like some great sea squid with its beak; and hours after, if you open the leaf, you'll see the body lying half-digested, and in bits. Well, I've seen those fly-traps in Arizona with leaves eight and ten feet long, and thorns or teeth a foot or more; why, they could— But darn it, I'm going too fast!

"It's about the death of Joe Hawkins I was going to tell you; 'bout as queer a thing, I reckon, as ever you heard tell on. There wasn't nobody in Montana as didn't know of Joe Hawkins—‘Alabama’ Joe, as he was called there. A reg'lar out and outer, he was, 'bout the darndest skunk as ever man clapt eyes on. He was a good chap enough, mind ye, as long as you stroked him the right way; but rile him anyhow, and he were worse nor a wild-cat. I've seen him empty his six-shooter into a crowd as chanced to jostle him a-going into Simpson's bar when there was a dance on; and he bowied Tom Hooper 'cause he spilt his liquor over his weskit by mistake. No, he didn't stick at murder, Joe didn't; and he weren't a man to be trusted further nor you could see him.

"Now, at the time I tell on, when Joe Hawkins was swaggerin' about the town and layin' down the law with his shootin'-irons, there was an Englishman there of the name of Scott—Tom Scott, if I rec'lects aright. This chap Scott was a thorough Britisher (beggin' the present company's pardon), and yet he didn't freeze much to the British set there, or they didn't freeze much to him. He was a quiet, simple man, Scott was—rather too quiet for a rough set like that; sneakin' they called him, but he weren't that. He kept hisself mostly apart, and didn't interfere with nobody so long as he were left alone. Some said as how he'd been kinder ill-treated at home—been a Chartist, or something of that sort, and had to up stick and run; but he never spoke of it hisself, an' never complained. Bad luck or good, that chap kept a stiff lip on him.

"This chap Scott was a sort o' butt among the men about Montana, for he was so quiet an' simple-like. There was no party either to take up his grievances; for, as I've been saying, the Britishers hardly counted him one of them, and many a rough joke they played on him. He never cut up rough, but was polite to all hisself. I think the boys got to think he hadn't much grit in him till he showed 'em their mistake.

"It was in Simpson's bar as the row got up, an' that led to the queer thing I was going to tell you of. Alabama Joe and one or two other rowdies were dead on the Britishers in those days, and they spoke their opinions pretty free, though I warned them as there'd be an almighty muss. That partic'lar night Joe was nigh half drunk, an' he swaggered about the town with his six-shooter, lookin' out for a quarrel. Then he turned into the bar, where he know'd he'd find some o' the English as ready for one as he was hisself. Sure enough, there was half a dozen lounging about, an' Tom Scott standin' alone before the stove. Joe sat down by the table, and put his revolver and bowie down in front of him. ‘Them's my arguments, Jeff,’ he says to me, ‘if any white-livered Britisher dares give me the lie.’ I tried to stop him, sirs; but he weren't a man as you could easily turn, an' he began to speak in a way as no chap could stand. Why, even a ‘Greaser’ would flare up if you said as much of Greaserland! There was a commotion at the bar, an' every man laid his hands on his wepin's; but afore they could draw we heard a quiet voice from the stove: ‘Say your prayers, Joe Hawkins; for, by Heaven, you're a dead man!’ Joe turned round, and looked like grabbin' at his iron; but it weren't no manner of use. Tom Scott was standing up, covering him with his derringer; a smile on his white face, but the very devil shining in his eye. ‘It ain't that the old country has used me overwell,’ he says, ‘but no man shall speak agin' it afore me, and live.’ For a second or two I could see his finger tighten round the trigger, an' then he gave a laugh, an' threw the pistol on the floor. ‘No,’ he says, ‘I can't shoot a half-drunk man. Take your dirty life, Joe, an' use it better nor you have done. You've been nearer the grave this night than you will be agin until your time comes. You'd best make tracks now, I guess. Nay, never look black at me, man; I'm not afeard at your shootin’-iron. A bully's nigh always a coward.' And he swung contemptuously round, and relit his half-smoked pipe from the stove; while Alabama slunk out o' the bar, with the laughs of the Britishers ringing in his ears. I saw his face as he passed me, and on it I saw murder, sirs—murder, as plain as ever I seed anything in my life.

"I stayed in the bar after the row, and watched Tom Scott as he shook hands with the men about. It seemed kinder queer to me to see him smilin' and cheerful-like; for I knew Joe's bloodthirsty mind, and that the Englishman had small chance of ever seeing the morning. He lived in an out-of-the-way sort of place, you see, clean off the trail, and had to pass through the Flytrap Gulch to get to it. This here gulch was a marshy gloomy place, lonely enough during the day even; for it were always a creepy sort o' thing to see the great eight- and ten-foot leaves snapping up if aught touched them; but at night there were never a soul near. Some parts of the marsh, too, were soft and deep, and a body thrown in would be gone by the morning. I could see Alabama Joe crouchin' under the leaves of the great Flytrap in the darkest part of the gulch, with a scowl on his face and a revolver in his hand; I could see it, sirs, as plain as with my two eyes.

"'Bout midnight Simpson shuts up his bar, so out we had to go. Tom Scott started off for his three-mile walk at a slashing pace. I just dropped him a hint as he passed me, for I kinder liked the chap. ‘Keep your derringer loose in your belt, sir,’ I says, ‘for you might chance to need it.’ He looked round at me with his quiet smile, and then I lost sight of him in the gloom. I never thought to see him again. He'd hardly gone afore Simpson comes up to me and says, ‘There'll be a nice job in the Flytrap Gulch to-night, Jeff; the boys say that Hawkins started half an hour ago to wait for Scott and shoot him on sight. I calc'late the coroner'll be wanted to-morrow.’

"What passed in the gulch that night? It were a question as were asked pretty free next morning. A half-breed was in Ferguson's store after daybreak, and he said as he'd chanced to be near the gulch 'bout one in the morning. It warn't easy to get at his story, he seemed so uncommon scared; but he told us, at last, as he'd heard the fearfullest screams in the stillness of the night. There weren't no shots, he said, but scream after scream, kinder muffled, like a man with a serapé over his head, an' in mortal pain. Abner Brandon and me, and a few more, was in the store at the time; so we mounted and rode out to Scott's house, passing through the gulch on the way. There weren't nothing partic'lar to be seen there—no blood nor marks of a fight, nor nothing; and when we gets up to Scott's house, out he comes to meet us as fresh as a lark. ‘Hullo, Jeff!’ says he, ‘no need for the pistols after all. Come in an’ have a cocktail, boys.' ‘Did ye see or hear nothing as ye came home last night?’ says I. ‘No,’ says he; ‘all was quiet enough. An owl kinder moaning in the Flytrap Gulch—that was all. Come, jump off and have a glass.’ ‘Thank ye,’ says Abner. So off we gets, and Tom Scott rode into the settlement with us when we went back.

"An all-fired commotion was on in Main Street as we rode into it. The 'Merican party seemed to have gone clean crazed. Alabama Joe was gone, not a darned particle of him left. Since he went out to the gulch nary eye had seen him. As we got off our horses there was a considerable crowd in front of Simpson's, and some ugly looks at Tom Scott, I can tell you. There was a clickin' of pistols, and I saw as Scott had his hand in his bosom too. There weren't a single English face about. ‘Stand aside, Jeff Adams,’ says Zebb Humphrey, as great a scoundrel as ever lived, ‘you hain't got no hand in this game. Say, boys, are we, free Americans, to be murdered by any darned Britisher?’ It was the quickest thing as ever I seed. There was a rush an' a crack; Zebb was down, with Scott's ball in his thigh, and Scott hisself was on the ground with a dozen men holding him. It weren't no use struggling, so he lay quiet. They seemed a bit uncertain what to do with him at first, but then one of Alabama's special chums put them up to it. ‘Joe's gone,’ he said; ‘nothing ain't surer nor that, an' there lies the man as killed him. Some on you knows as Joe went on business to the gulch last night; he never came back. That 'ere Britisher passed through after he'd gone; they'd had a row, screams is heard 'mong the great flytraps. I say agin he has played poor Joe some o’ his sneakin' tricks, an' thrown him into the swamp. It ain't no wonder as the body is gone. But air we to stan' by and see English murderin' our own chums? I guess not. Let Judge Lynch try him, that's what I say.' ‘Lynch him!’ shouted a hundred angry voices—for all the rag-tag an' bobtail o' the settlement was round us by this time. ‘Here, boys, fetch a rope, and swing him up. Up with him over Simpson's door?’ ‘See here, though,’ says another, coming forrard; ‘let's hang him by the great flytrap in the gulch. Let Joe see as he's revenged, if so be as he's buried 'bout theer.’ There was a shout for this, an' away they went, with Scott tied on his mustang in the middle, and a mounted guard, with cocked revolvers, round him; for we knew as there was a score or so Britishers about, as didn't seem to recognize Judge Lynch, and was dead on a free fight.

"I went out with them, my heart bleedin' for Scott, though he didn't seem a cent put out, he didn't. He were game to the backbone. Seems kinder queer, sirs, hangin' a man to a flytrap; but our'n were a reg'lar tree, and the leaves like a brace of boats with a hinge between 'em and thorns at the bottom.

We passed down the gulch to the place where the great one grows, and there we seed it with the leaves, some open, some shut. But we seed something worse nor that. Standin' round the tree was some thirty men, Britishers all, an' armed to the teeth. They was waitin' for us evidently, an' had a business-like look about 'em, as if they'd come for something and meant to have it. There was the raw material there for about as warm a scrimmidge as ever I seed. As we rode up, a great red-bearded Scotchman—Cameron were his name—stood out afore the rest, his revolver cocked in his hand. ‘See here, boys,’ he says, ‘you've got no call to hurt a hair of that man's head. You hain't proved as Joe is dead yet; and if you had, you hain't proved as Scott killed him. Anyhow, it were in self-defence; for you all know as he was lying in wait for Scott, to shoot him on sight; so I say agin, you hain't got no call to hurt that man; and what's more, I've got thirty six-barrelled arguments against your doin’ it.' ‘It's an interestin’ pint, and worth arguin' out,' said the man as was Alabama Joe's special chum. There was a clickin' of pistols, and a loosenin' of knives, and the two parties began to draw up to one another, an' it looked like a rise in the mortality of Montana. Scott was standing behind with a pistol at his ear if he stirred, lookin' quiet and composed as having no money on the table, when sudden he gives a start an' a shout as rang in our ears like a trumpet. ‘Joe!’ he cried, ‘Joe! Look at him! In the flytrap!’ We all turned an' looked where he was pointin'. Jerusalem! I think we won't get that picter out of our minds agin. One of the great leaves of the flytrap, that had been shut and touchin' the ground as it lay, was slowly rolling back upon its hinges. There, lying like a child in its cradle, was Alabama Joe in the hollow of the leaf. The great thorns had been slowly driven through his heart as it shut upon him. We could see as he'd tried to cut his way out, for there was a slit in the thick fleshy leaf, an' his bowie was in his hand; but it had smothered him first. He'd lain down on it likely to keep the damp off while he were awaitin' for Scott, and it had closed on him as you've seen your little hothouse ones do on a fly; an' there he were as we found him, torn and crushed into pulp by the great jagged teeth of the man-eatin' plant. There, sirs, I think you'll own as that's a curious story.

And what became of Scott? asked Jack Sinclair.

Why, we carried him back on our shoulders, we did, to Simpson's bar, and he stood us liquors round. Made a speech too—a darned fine speech—from the counter. Somethin' about the British lion an' the 'Merican eagle walkin' arm in arm forever an' a day. And now, sirs, that yarn was long, and my cheroot's out, so I reckon I'll make tracks afore it's later; and with a Good-night! he left the room.

A most extraordinary narrative! said Dawson. Who would have thought a Dianoea had such power!

Deuced rum yarn! said young Sinclair.

Evidently a matter-of-fact, truthful man, said the doctor.

Or the most original liar that ever lived, said I.

I wonder which he was.

Andrew Goes Driving

Will H. Greenfield

Fulton slumped disconsolately into a seat on the park bench and stared moodily at his shoe tips, the cheap turkish cigarette between his fingers burning its noisome way unheeded to the imitation cork end. In his outworn mind one fact stood out like a blotch of soot on a snowbound waste: as a reporter he was a failure, insurgent but none the less flat. All the world seemed gray and uninhabitable, the future a palindrome that spelled despair.

Cheer up, kid! said a voice at his side. Did the city ed. throw bad words at you and tell you he didn't want a Homeric college essay on the burning of Rome because he sent you for a story of the mysterious fire at some Cohen's second-hand store? Cheer up! Cherries were never riper!

An angry wave of resentment swept over Fulton, then died out completely as he surveyed the speaker, who was mutely pointing to a roll of mussed copy paper that peeped from his coat pocket. An elderly man he was, with a mouth that knew how to smile and eyes that were saliently human; with gray hair and mustache, and a bulbous nose that sadly detracted from a certain air of refinement otherwise apparent in his appearance.

I was a leg artist before the booze got me, vouchsafed the stranger, and something like a sob twitched his throat and got away from him, hard as he tried to stop it.

It's glorious work, testified Fulton affably, but I'm afraid I'm not going to make good. Our city editor is an old fossil.

So am I. My name's Andrew. What's your paper?

" Morning Trumpet. My name's Fulton—Donald Fulton. Glad to know you, Mr. Andrew."

Just plain Andrew, if you please. It's not my right handle, you know. His gimlet eyes screwed into Fulton's while he was talking. But it is a good name, borne by the hero of New Orleans. And there was another Andrew, the fisherman, brother of the excellent Peter. His record was also good, in distinct and monumental variance to my own. As he finished speaking his eyes took on the tense vacancy of memory straining against the leash of years.

What's the matter with you and your work? he asked after a time.

Fell down on a fire, got the devil and was told to go out and not return without a human interest story.

Andrew sat motionless for a space, apparently watching the dissolving splendors of the western sky.

How's this? he said, and rattled on: As a socializer, an equalizer, a leveler of rank, the one touch of human nature that makes the whole world kin, there's nothing like our national game. Show that base-ball chatter is the open sesame to the conversational wells of the proud and haughty. Take a Wall Street magnate. Would he stand for any talk about the war in Europe, or the high cost of living or the state of the weather? Never! But simply say, ‘It is time the home team took a brace,’ and he'll beam on you like an old maid getting her first proposal and talk like a graphophone.

Fulton hitched himself forward to the edge of the bench and clapped the old man on the knee.

That's fine! he cried. I'm going to the office and turn that in. Here! He pressed an infinitely more applausive half dollar into Andrew's sweaty palm, and jumping to his feet swung into the quickening dusk.

Next morning Andrew wandered slowly along Broadway. A desert thirst was in his throat, his mouth was blistered by the debauch of the previous night and his whiskey-shattered muscles shook like stricken leaves. In a sort of dream he stopped to shake hands with a bustling young man who hailed him with manifest pleasure.

Andrew, said Fulton's cheery voice, run along with me, will you? Old Grinder was immensely pleased with that little special I wrote last evening and I—

Where you going now? rasped Andrew in a flat, uninterested voice.

Fulton hurriedly explained that he had been assigned to get a boarding-house murder on Forty-ninth Street, on the shoddy side of Broadway.

Give me the price of a drink, said Andrew. I'll see you tonight in the park.

That night, on the same bench where they had opened their acquaintance, Fulton and Andrew met again.

Tomorrow night, said Andrew, I'll have a fine story for you, but you'll have to come after it. Down at Cooney's saloon, where I hang out, there's a contractor who believes in ghosts. He often buys me drinks, but I couldn't help laughing at him when he said he knew of a house in a nearby street that was haunted. I'll give you the material for something like ‘A Night in a Haunted House.'

I don't know whether I can make anything out of it, said Fulton dubiously. It's rather stale, don't you think?

This one will have plenty of frills, said Andrew. The contractor is to give me twenty-five dollars if I enter the dining room of this haunted house at nine tomorrow night. Confidentially, I may take it in my head to fool around a bit and work up something good for you.

All right, then, said Fulton. Look for me at Cooney's tomorrow night.

Fulton was at Cooney's saloon early enough, but Andrew was already drunk. The bartender knew of the wager and introduced Fulton to the contractor when the latter came in.

Daniels here, said the bartender, got to telling a blood-curdling story the other night about a haunted house on a little street just above here, and your friend Andrew called him a child for believing in such things as ghosts. Daniels then put the buck up to Andrew by offering him twenty-five dollars to enter the dining room of the house. They say a couple of fierce murders were committed in this room. Andrew said he would be on the job tonight, but he's been soused since forenoon.

Andrew, who had been asleep at one of the tables, roused himself at this juncture, and joined Daniels at the bar. Fulton made ready to leave but Andrew wouldn't hear of it.

I'm going through with this thing, he announced thickly, and when it's over I'll have some money and you'll have your story. I want the money worse now than ever before. I was just dreaming—dreaming it was a summer afternoon and I was a boy fishing with a pin hook fastened to a string with an apple tree sprout for a rod.

What'll you have? invited Daniels.

Andrew took whiskey.

Mr. Fulton, said Daniels, I am afraid that our friend Andrew is getting too much Dutch courage.

Andrew laughed immoderately at this and looked at the clock on the wall. Perhaps he thought there was little enough time to drink in before the appointed hour, although Daniels bought drinks with a freedom and frequency that soon made him the centre of an admiring group of regular patrons, many of whom had dropped in Cooney's this night for the express purpose of learning the result of Andrew's ghost-hunting.

On the minute of nine there was a curious buzzing murmur running along the bar, and Peter delved into a drawer and produced two large wire nails and a hammer.

Here be the implements of war, he grinned as he shoved them at Andrew across the bar. Go to it, old boy, I wish you luck!

What's the idea of the hammer and nails? Fulton wanted to know.

Why, he's got to drive them nails in the middle of the dining room of the haunted house, explained Daniels. That'll be proof that he was in the room. I'll look for 'em in the morning.

Andrew stuffed the hammer and nails in an overcoat pocket and stepped unsteadily to the door.

I don't want no company, he informed the curious crowd that began to edge after him. I'm in on this alone. I know the house on Tucker Street Daniels says is haunted. Pete, I'll return in about five minutes. In the meantime, if anybody inquires for Andrew you can say that he has gone driving.

Laughing at his own joke, Andrew made a staggering exit, fumbling with his overcoat collar, for the night was bitter cold.

Set 'em up again, Pete, said Daniels, and you boys listen to what I'm going to tell you. This is a great joke on Andrew. That stuff I was telling in here the other night about the haunted house on Tucker Street was all tommyrot. There's no haunted house at all. I built them houses and I know. As far as I know nobody ever died in one of 'em from natural causes let alone being murdered. My idea is that Andrew is a coward and that he is going straight home from here and sleep off his load!

When ten o'clock came and Andrew did not appear the crowd showed that it shared Mr. Daniel's idea and began to disperse. Those that continued to hang on and drink at the expense of the contractor were very emphatic in affirming that Andrew was a coward who had been very neatly trapped by that prince of good fellows, Mr. Daniels, and Many happy days, sir!

At quarter past eleven Fulton bestirred himself.

I'm not going to wait here any longer, he told Daniels, but I'm first going to ascertain whether our friend Andrew went driving or went home. Maybe he's asleep in the room of the house you told him was haunted.

I'm going with you, said Daniels.

So Fulton and Daniels, the contractor, and some half-dozen night owls, repaired to the pseudo haunted house on Tucker Street. The street door of the house was wide open, the key Daniels had furnished Andrew being still in the keyhole.

Fulton was the first to enter the dining room, playing his pocket electric flash before him.

Andrew was there sure enough, huddled in the middle of the room, his face frozen in a look of unutterable terror. The doctor they summoned said he died of fright, and Pete, the bartender, can tell you how Andrew in his befuddled condition drove two nails through the tail of his overcoat, fastening himself to the floor, and so perished from the fear that gripped him when he tried to rise and couldn't.

Thus did Andrew furnish Fulton with another story.

The Arras of God

Vincent Starrett

On Frantzius, peering through the faint space that intervened between the green shade and the window frame, was caution personified. The tips of his immaculate gloves rested ever so lightly on the outer sill and he craned upward, a-tiptoe. It was a bit of a stretch even for a tall man. He could glimpse faintly the thin streak of light under the door of a farther room, beyond which were Everingham and the captains, DuBois and Yardley. It required little imagination to picture them leaning over the inventor's table, their heads together and under their noses the American plans.

His heels settled back softly on the turf, and with his mocking smile he turned to survey the horizon. Far to the east a great searchlight swept the night in circles of vast circumference. In its intervals the surrounding blackness was intensified. A low-lying fog was creeping up from the river, whose silver ribbon was dimly visible below. Von Frantzius cursed it, softly and fluently. A woman—a fog—a bullet—so little is required to upset the master schemes of men!

What would he not give for a cigarette! His patience never had served him better. It seemed an age before the key snapped back the doorbolt and the naval experts stepped forth. They wished the inventor a cheery good-night and without a backward glance strode away. Everingham looked after them for a moment and then turned within, but it was Von Frantzius who closed the door. The inventor had crumpled into his arms when the German's fist struck.

Everingham had been knocked out as cleanly as if he had been poleaxed, but the spy was taking no chances; something more than an assault and battery charge awaited him in the event of discovery and capture. He breathed hard in the dim hallway. Then as silently as he had sprung from the darkness he bound and gagged the unconscious man.

That Everingham lived alone was known to the spy. All that remained was to procure the precious blue papers with their curious tracings in white.

It had been a happy thought to allow the American to choose an obscure dwelling in this isolated suburb. A lesser investigator might well have failed to find him. But none suspected the presence of Von Frantzius in London.

The light in the adjoining room still burned; the door was no longer closed. Through the aperture he could see the dispatch box on the table, and in a moment he had it open.

The plans were not there; they were not in sight.

What a fool he had been. They had them, then—the officers! He might have known.

Convinced that he had guessed correctly, even though tardily, still he continued to search. He went about it relentlessly. A wall cabinet contained only bottles; a trunk, but a tangle of clothes. He flung the contents in heaps on the floor. There were letters in abundance, but for the most part they began with My dear Jim, and ended Lovingly, Millie. Von Frantzius did not read what occurred between.

The other rooms were similarly unproductive. Everingham could not have found his shaving mug when the spy had finished. It had been a thorough job of its kind, conducted at an amazing speed, but as barren as a wasted life.

Fool! snarled the German and reached into his pocket.

He lighted the longed-for cigarette and his hands were steady for all of his quick, glittering eyes.

With the tobacco came reflection. The man's mind became as active as his restless eyes. He reviewed the whole matter calmly from the day Metz had told him, in the Strand, of the work before him to the moment of his immediate disappointment. In the peculiar circumstances, he concluded, it was impossible that the papers could have been allowed to leave the house. Where, then—?

Um-m! grunted Von Frantzius, with quiet satisfaction. There was finality in his tone; it could not be otherwise.

He was right. Everingham was still unconscious, and when the spy had turned out the inventor's inner pocket he held the plans in his hand. As a problem it was childish; he was ashamed of his stupidity. The dispatch box was their vault. Everingham simply had not replaced them before seeing his visitors on their way.

The German gloated over the graceful tracings. Then he carefully extinguished the lights. Just before he passed out he lighted a second cigarette from the stub of the first. The momentary gleam lighted a young woman's portrait on the wall. Von Frantzius stopped and placed a hand over the inventor's heart. He bowed courteously in the darkness toward the spot on the wall.

I am happy to say that he still lives, Miss Millie, said the spy, and opened the door.

The cool damp air struck soothingly on his temples as he swung down the walk. Elation perched high in his heart. The dead stub of his first cigarette he dropped into the hedge.

Suddenly he was walking more rapidly. He dropped the second cigarette as if it had burned him. A step sounded from the roadway.

As he hurried through the gate two figures approached in the darkness. They were the naval officers returning. He wondered what had induced them to come back.

Hullo! said one, sharply. Who's there? Hullo—Everingham!

Von Frantzius, taking the opposite direction, fled swiftly into the blackness ahead.

Stop! roared the voice behind him; but Von Frantzius only ran faster.

See about Everingham, rasped the speaker to his companion. I'm after this bird.

The captain was off as he spoke. He tore the heavy overcoat from his back. His revolver appeared in his hand. Von Frantzius, with a start of several hundred feet, was running at top speed expecting the bullet he knew would follow.

The sailor's weapon spat behind him, and the lead hummed past, too near for comfort. A second shot was wider, but was still uncomfortably close. Von Frantzius was the better runner of the two, and the distance between hare