Evening star., 1936-09-29
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way, when he had reached 1t, was
a soundless void.
Blackwood searched his soul for
oaths that might be suitable to the
situation.
Then a fragment Of sound disturbed
the impersonal stiffness. Somewhere
in some distant apartment perhaps
a radio was open and an orchestra,
now reaching a passage in fortissimo,
was playing Has Anybody Seen My
Gal?" 1t seemed to Blackwood sin
gularly appropriate inquiry.
Discouraged, he returned to the door
he had left open and gently closed it
behind him. The impalpable odor of
perfume still fingered in the living
room. In the bed room 1t was
stronger The woman had been there
for some time. He shifted the elusive
scent with appreciation-with interro-
cation. Certainly somewhere he had
smelled the stuff before.
That the intruder had been the
mysterious redhead he had no doubt
whatever. Quite probably, in the light
Of Zelda's narrative, he had been face
to face-in darkness-with the mur-
derer of Janice Hume.
Was she. too. searching for the evi-
dence that had worried Janice to her
death?
Anne Gray. thank heaven, was at
the theater and probably was now ab-
solved of an unworthy suspicion. But
what hao she been doing nth Rollie
Goliath? In the excitement of Janice's
murder he had almost forgotten Anne
and Goliath.
Upstairs. he supposed. Zelda was
still telling her story under the June
bug eyes Of Dallas. And she, too. was
virtually absolved-though she would
probably be arrested before the night
was over.
He lighted a cigarette and turned
his attention to the bed room in
which. two nights before. the cause Of
all this difficulty had been shot to
death. Under a blaze of light, again
he noted the funereal counterpane,
the yellow window hangings and the
clutter of bottles upon the dresser.
| The cards, however. had vanished
from the table and with them the ash
| tray that had called forth his first
pontiflcal utterances. With the re-
volver, the Handkerchief and the
matches, these were now in the hands
of the police.
But the array Of photographs upon
/ the wall remained. He reread the eX-
( travagant inscriptions with cynical
! humor and turned away. There was
not one of the simpering celebrities
whose face was known to him and
none whose recorded name evoked the
! faintest shock of interest. Then
swiftly-he turned back.
Something was missing from his
memory picture of that wall of pho
| tographs. He knew exactly what it
was. Rita Wingf1eld herself was miss
/ ing!
Blackwood recalled the photogra aph
quite clearly. 1t had been the only
/ portrait of Rita in the gallery. and so
( he had studied it. A slightly faded
| photograph of Rita Wingfeld as she
/ had been in earlier years-standing
beneath a parasol, her head turned
coyly to one side after the fashion Of
maidens in studio, and wearing a
costume that suggested a Methodist
choir performance of THE Mikado." !"
This was the picture that was miss
ing, and he now saw clearly the space
from which it had been removed.
There was even a small chip out of the
calcimine to show that the removal
had been recent.
In his mind ran a swift impression
of a red-haired woman flinging her
self wildly down staircase. clasping