Worcester Democrat and the ledger-enterprise. (Pocomoke City, Md.) 1921-1953, 1936-08-14
NoNE MD MCN'"4y G cHANsESs

poured himself a drink-and died.
The lieutnant sat down in a chair
and tried to collect his wits. He call
ed to mind everything Les Kennedy
had said that evening. And his
thoughts turned naturally to Judith
Whalen. He remembered that last
dance Bennington had had with Jud-
it'll. He recalled how he had bent his
head and whispered to her from time
to time, how mechanically and grace
fully they had danced, how strained
and white the girl had looked.
Bennington involved in this MUIR
der? 1t was likely. Judith? That
was incredible. What possible con-
nection could there be between Jud-
it'll Whalen and this ex-officer who
had been virtually kicked out of the
Navy and who now lay dead in a
cheap lodging house in Colon?
And then it dawned upon Hawley
that this was not the place to puzzle
over the situation. It was too late to
do anything for Les and he had no
inclination to involve himself in the af
termath of murder in Colon.
He rose and gave the room a quick
glance. 1t was a shabby place for a
white man, man of good family, a
graduate of Annapolis, to come to his
end. In addition to the bed and the
small table beside it, the only fur
nishings were chair, battered chif-
foner, a washstand, with an enameled
bowl and pitcher. A drab room, mus
ty smelling, far from clean.
Hawley took last glance at the
motionless figure on the bed. "Poor
devil" he thught. "W hat rotten
break you got!"
He turned toward the door. Cross
ing before the chiffonier, he noted a
photograph lying on it. He picked
it up. 1t was picture Of girl. She
was perhaps 16 years old. She was
very beautiful.
Then he gasped in amazement,
half aloud: "Georgettew
It was a photograph of the girl
who danced and sang at the Palais
Royale! Though the picture had prob
ably been taken three or four years
before, the likeness was so definite
that Hawley knew he could not be
mistaken.
Across the bottom of the picture
was written in firm small hand:
ITO Dad with love, from Babe"
"To Dad!
Hawley glanced again at the man
on the soiled bed, and shook his head.
No, that couldn't be. Les Kennedy
was too young to have daughter as
old as Georgette. But how had he
come by her picture, inscribed to
"Dad?" Why was it lying on his
chiffioner?
Georgette! Hawley had met her
some four weeks before when, with
a couple Of the officers from the
wardroom, he had dropped into the
Palais Royale one evening.
He was Impressed by her immed-
lately, as his friends took occasion to
remark. Not by her singing and dane
ing, though they were more than pas
sable, but by the fact that she was so
obviously and completely out of her
element. Georgette was as out-of-
place in that second-rate cabaret as an
orchid in a barnyard.
But what did he know of the girl?
Not much, now that he reflected.
She had told him her home was in
New York. She had wanted stage
career. Jobs being few and far be-
tween, she had signed a six months
contract to sing at the Palais Roy
ale, as much for the experience it
would give her as anything else.
That was about all he knew of
Georgette. She hdn't even told him
her last name
Hawley put the photograph back
on the chiffonier.
At that instant a board creaked
somewhere down the hall. Hawley
remembered the rim of light he had
seen around the door before he en-
tered Room Fl; this was no time for
some fellow lodger to come blunder-
ing in to see Kennedy.