Evening star., 1938-07-24

H"HE big jobs the corpse. Snatch from
a graveyard's no good. The body
d would be embalmed What we need
is a fresh corpse, the fresher the better -. |
will! l swear | will! We got to get going We
got to -"
Jim! No, No. tell you! That d be murder
couldn't stand for murder couldn't =
Listen. You stand for what l tell you to
stand for! And no whining! Now ="
The Torbeys were an unread riddle to the
placid Mapleheld countryside. Natives and
summer residents alike knew no more of them
than could be told in three or four short
breaths. Where did they come from? What
did Torbey do? He didn't carry on any regular
business, judging from the fact that he never
went out to work and his mail was negligible.
He certainly didn't farm it, as the sixty acres
of the old Allen place which the Torbeys
had rented two years before was going wild
in brush. That is, except for the few puny
flowers around the house which Mrs. Torbey
spent most of her time fussing over, and the
stretch of lawn which Torbey moved reg
ularly, probably for exercise
The Torbeys were a mystery and the
countryside resented it. When George Grant
and his mother, who spent their summers on
the adjoining Old Grant Farm and their win
tiers in the city, called soon after the Torbeys
had taken up residence they were insulted on
the Torbey doorstep.
Jim Torbey stood in the doorway, blocking
it. What is it," he asked coldly.
Were neighbors,' young George Grant
said cheerfully. Thought we'd call and get
acquainted
Torbey said, Yeah? We're not much on
callers and closed the door.
The Grants were quite some people, both
in Maplefeld where the family originated and
in the city where Georges father before him
had made a name as a consulting engineer.
Jim Torbey could have found no more certain
way to make the community leave him and his
wife strictly to themselves than by insulting
the Grants Mrs. Grant was the literal and
spiritual embodiment of the good neighbor.
although some folks we're inclined to view her
as bit of busybody.
Jim Torbey looked to be between forty and
fifty. He was of medium height, high
shouldered and big -boned. He had a shock of
blond gray hair which, with his strong, beaked
nose and hollow cheeks above lean and sinewy
Jaws, would have given him rather the aspect
of prophet or a high priest if it hadn't been
for his eyes and mouth. The eyes were deep
Sits which came too close to the bridge OF his
nose. His mouth was a thin and coloress
crease with more than hint of cruelty at the
corners.
In other days it had suited his purpose to
assume an expression of benevolence, which,
combined with the smoothest line of CAB east
of Denver, had resulted in the conversion OF
innumerable worthless securities into cash for
the Torbey bankroll. He had worked the
switzerland sell racket up to the limit of safety
before dropping it cold and coming to Maple
field with his big idea.
Florence Torbey was half her husbands
age, although she looked more. Not hard to
look at, with soft, brown hair drawn back
from wide. low brow, eyes the color OF horse
chestnut and skin that needed no help from
compact She would have been even better
looking if she had not long since forgotten how
to laugh or smile or cry. You had an idea that
if you could crack through the frozen outer
skin of her personality you would find lot OF
alluring woman in Florence Torbey That is, if
it wasn't too late.
Torbey had met and married her when she