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Putting the anonymous letter out of sight, Lee called Judy into his office. Fanny and Judy knew of course that a new letter from X had come, and Lee didn’t want Judy to connect the question he was going to ask her directly with the letter. It was painful to have to suspect one who was near to him. He had always boasted that though their business was crime, they, themselves, so far had never been smeared by it.

“Close the door,” he said to Judy. “And sit down.”

The girl was pale and heavy-eyed; it was evident that the course of her affair with Fanton was not a happy one. Lee thought: So much the better, because it shows that he has not yet obtained a complete ascendancy over her. Judy was alarmed by the request to close the door. In that office they had few secrets from each other.

“You were at the Whitney Galleries yesterday afternoon,” said Lee.

“Yes,” said Judy, and her sullen glance added: What of it?

He hated to see the secrecy come into her face. “When I saw you, you were standing beside a tall, blond, young man. Is he a friend of yours?”

“No,” she said. “I met no young men there that I knew.”

“Except Boris,” put in Lee.

“He’s not blond.”

“Well, even if you don’t know this other one, did you take notice of him?”

“No.”

“He was an exceptionally good-looking young man.”

“I didn’t notice anybody in particular,” said Judy.

“Think back,” urged Lee. “You may be able to help me very much. This young man was so good-looking that I don’t see how a woman could have failed to notice him. Many people were staring at him.”

Judy suddenly began to cry.

“For God’s sake!” cried Lee in exasperation, “if the incident means nothing to you, what are you crying about?”

“Because you suspect me of something—I don’t know what!” she wailed.

“I don’t suspect you of anything. I’m merely asking for information.”

“You ... you think I’m lying to you. I can’t bear it!”

“Are you lying to me?”

“No!” she wept. “I don’t know what it’s all about.”

“What what is all about?”

“Whatever is in your mind?”

“God preserve me from weeping women!” cried Lee throwing up his hands. “Go back to your desk!”

When Judy returned to the front room, Fanny Parran’s indignant glance through the doorway at her employer did not help to soothe Lee’s feelings. “Sure, I’m a heartless brute!” he muttered to himself. “That’s understood.” He was exactly where he had stood before Judy came in. He knew enough about women to know that a man cannot hope to follow their erratic emotional courses. Her tears proved nothing one way or the other; perhaps she had guilty knowledge; perhaps when she came in she was on the verge of tears owing to something else, and they had merely overflowed.

He took the letter and jamming his hat on, went out without telling them where he was going. Obsessed with the notion that he was watched, he took a taxi to the main door of the Vanderbilt Hotel and made his way through to the bar entrance in Thirty-third Street. He was positive that nobody followed him through the building. In Thirty-third Street he picked up another taxi and had himself driven down to Police Headquarters. Not that I expect to get much help here, he thought bitterly as he went up the steps.

Lee and Inspector Loasby, chief of the detective division, were old friends and old associates in the investigation of crime. They made a good team because their methods were entirely opposed; Loasby supplied the professional technique, Lee, imagination. Loasby was a handsome man in his late forties who looked his best in the blue and gold of a high police officer and was well aware of it. It was a matter of regret with him that the occasions for appearing in uniform were becoming rarer.

Lee, without comment, laid before Loasby the letter he had received that morning.

“Another?” said Loasby. After casting his eyes over it, he added, “Not much in this one.”

Lee jumping from his chair like a grain of corn in a popper, started pacing the room. “It’s damnable, Loasby, damnable! It keeps me awake nights. I can’t think of anything else. He’s got me in a box. There’s nothing I can do! It’s horrible not to have anything for my wits to work on!”

“Easy! Easy!” urged Loasby. “You certainly can’t do yourself justice by getting so excited.”

“That’s all very well, but how can I stand by and wait for a murder to be committed without doing anything about it?”

“Our situations are reversed,” said Loasby dryly. “How many times in the past have you told me to keep my shirt on?”

“These letters come from somebody who knows me.”

“Sure, that’s pretty obvious. Keeping a close watch on everything you do. Somebody who knows you well enough to choose the best way, the only way, of getting your goat. And he has got it. That is what convinces me that there’s no more in it but that. It is just somebody who is trying to get at you, Lee, and you are certainly giving him a run for his money.”

“I feel that you are wrong there,” said Lee. “The psychology running through the whole series of letters convinces me that he means what he says.”

“I find it hard to believe that. Murder is a serious business, Lee, and so is the electric chair. I never heard of a man planning murder who advertised it in advance.”

“There have been such cases. It’s vanity. He said in one of the letters he can’t stand the thought that nobody should ever know how clever he was. I don’t need to tell you what a large part vanity plays in the makeup of a criminal.”

“Well, suppose you’re right. Suppose he is going to commit a murder. You and I are doing every damned thing that can be done to stop him. The dice are loaded against us because he has given us no workable clues. If the murder is committed, it won’t be your fault; you’ll have no call to blame yourself.”

“But if it is somebody I know; somebody I am fond of. I could never forgive myself.”

“You are tormenting yourself with imaginary horrors. In a couple of days he’ll write you that the murder is done. It will never come to light because there is no murder. Are you going to worry about it all the rest of your life? That would give him a laugh.”

“You are wrong,” muttered Lee. “Murder will be done.”

“Well,” said Loasby soothingly, “let’s see if there are not some additional measures we can take ... I suppose you’ve looked into the watermarked paper.”

“I did that in the beginning. It’s cheap paper manufactured in enormous quantities and sold principally through the dime stores. The envelopes also. I don’t see the slightest chance of tracing paper or envelopes. I have looked into the type, too. That sort of type is used by three of the largest makes of writing-machines in the country. No hope there either.”

“Would it help to have this latest letter printed in the newspaper?” suggested Loasby.

“I can’t see that it would. Newspaper publicity flatters the writer. As for myself, I can work more effectively without newspaper publicity.”

“I agree.” Loasby read the letter again. “Does what he says about being in the presence of the victim suggest anything to you?”

“No. There were hundreds in the art gallery ... I have sort of a hunch, but you can’t prove a hunch.” Lee described the handsome young man who had attracted his attention.

“What reason have you to suppose that he is the intended victim?”

“None whatever, except that when I saw him he was standing beside my girl Judy Bowles, and Judy is linked up with Boris Fanton. Fanton affects me like a sleek snake.”

“Any evidence against him?”

“Not a bit except that he has a bad eye. He takes too great an interest in my affairs. He is clever enough to have written the letters.”

“Well, we’ll keep him in mind as a possible suspect. Anybody else?”

“I can only tell you of the men who are near me whom I distrust. There is Tyrrell Blair.”

“Good God!” cried Loasby. “One of the most prominent men in town! What have you got against him?”

“Nothing. But occasionally I have felt that there was something sinister behind his big, bluff, hearty front. I don’t like him. His protestations of friendship toward me somehow ring false.”

“We would have to watch our step in that direction. Anybody else?”

“Rafe Deshon, Blair’s director of promotion and publicity. During the past few weeks he has constituted himself my manager. I have a little more to go on here, because I have heard Deshon threaten to kill his wife.”

“Luckily such threats are not always carried out,” said Loasby dryly, “or the police would be kept busy.”

“The Deshons, both husband and wife lead feverish lives,” Lee went on; “the man, in particular, never allows himself an honest thought or a natural feeling. Such men are apt to go berserk suddenly.”

“Sure,” said Loasby, “but you would hardly call this series of letters sudden.”

“Right. On the other hand Deshon has made himself very familiar with my affairs.”

“Well keep it in mind. Anybody else?”

“No. The greater probability is, that it is somebody who would never occur to either of us.... Look, Loasby, I don’t think you ought to take any action against the three men I have named. We have not a scintilla of evidence against any of them and it doesn’t seem right to spend the public money on such slender prospects.”

“You’re so high-minded!” said Loasby, smiling.

“Any clumsy move by the police would only put a clever man on his guard.”

Loasby’s heavy eyebrows ran up. “Where do you get that clumsy stuff?”

“I propose to hire Stan Oberry to trail them.”

“Oh, yeah? Is he any better than me?”

“For this particular purpose, yes. You know it. Your men are handicapped at the start because they look like sleuths, whereas Stan picks up his operatives everywhere according to the special purpose for which they may be wanted.”

“Have it your own way,” grumbled Loasby. “Saves me trouble.”

“What you can do for me,” continued Lee, “is to send out a general alarm for the letter-writer. Let every policeman on the force be advised to look out for a man posting a letter to me. The post-office also. Let every carrier and clerk who handles mail be informed.”

“I’ll do that.”

“I’d like to offer a reward,” said Lee, “if I could keep it out of the newspapers. To advertise it in the press would only put the letter-writer on his guard. If it scared him he would stop writing letters.”

“It worries you to get his letters,” said Loasby dryly, “but it would worry you worse not to get them.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, I’ll take care of it. How much do you want to offer?”

“A thousand.”

“That’s quite a piece of money. Who’s going to put it up?”

“I will. It would be worth it to me to regain my peace of mind.”

Before returning to his own office, Lee proceeded to Stan Oberry’s place on Forty-second Street. He had on previous occasions employed Stan in such delicate matters, sometimes with conspicuous success. Stan’s office was no more than a hole in the wall of one of the largest commercial buildings. No one was ever to be found in it except Stan or his secretary, who happened also to be his wife. The operatives had a room elsewhere, frequently changed and connected by private wire. Stan himself was a big clumsy fellow whose principal advantage was that he looked like a moron and wasn’t. After hearing Lee out, he said:

“How about the girl, Judy Bowles?”

“Let her alone. If she has any connection with this case it can only be through Fanton.”

“Okay. This is a tough assignment; three prominent and busy men, protected by all kinds of employees and servants, and all moving in the smartest society; but I’ll do my darnedest.”

“I know you will, Stan. In respect to Boris Fanton, remember I want you to take two lines. Dig me up whatever you can about his past life, and also let me know how he occupies himself at present.”

“Okay, Mr. Mappin.”

“Send the reports to my house in a plain envelope. The men you are watching must not be named in them. Refer to Blair as A, Deshon as B, and Fanton as C.”

“Right.”

Back in his own office, smoking and brooding on his problem, Lee thought of another measure that he might take. If he broadcasted again, the letter-writer would certainly be listening. It would be a way to reach the man, to influence his acts perhaps. He immediately asked one of the girls to get Rafe Deshon on the wire.

“Hello, Rafe. I’ve decided to accept the radio offer. I need the money.”

“Fine work, Lee!” (Rafe is getting a rakeoff of some sort, thought Lee.) “I’ll telephone them at once, and call you back.”

In twenty minutes he was again on the wire. “Already?” said Lee.

“Oh, it doesn’t take long to cinch it in the case of something they want as bad as they want you, Lee ... Look, they have fifteen minutes open to-morrow night, and they have asked me if I can persuade you to take it on such short notice.”

“All right. That suits me very well. I’ll write my stuff this afternoon and it can be edited to-morrow. But look, Rafe, I want you to make this clear. I can’t stop them from cutting my stuff according to their peculiar notions of censorship, but I’ll be damned if I let them put one word into my mouth. If I had stood firm on that before, look at the trouble it would have saved me.”

“Sure, sure,” said Rafe soothingly. “Now that you’ve made a hit on the radio, you can lay down what conditions you like, Lee.”

“One more thing,” said Lee, “I want you to see that it is well advertised in the papers both morning and evening to-morrow, that I am to speak on the radio to-morrow night.”

“I will see to it, Lee.”

On the following night Lee duly delivered his spiel to the air. This was not in the form of an interview but was a straight talk, consequently Rafe did not accompany him to the studio. As on the previous occasion, Boris Fanton acted as his announcer, and while he listened to the resonant tones of Boris’ introductory words, Lee thought: It would be a queer note if he was my man.

In the course of his talk to the mike, Lee said: “One of the queerest cases I have met with is that of the harmless nut who has been writing me a series of anonymous letters announcing that he was about to commit a murder. Some of you may have read his first letter which was printed in the New York newspapers. Since then the press has dropped him, since neither nuts nor anonymous letter-writers are news, but as a matter of fact he has continued to write to me nearly every day since.”

While he was getting this off, Lee, without appearing to, watched Boris’ face. The announcer’s expression of bored smugness never altered. He appeared to be exclusively interested in the condition of his fingernails; in flecks of dust that had settled on his vest and pants; he watched the progress of the minute hand around the clock. He’s overdoing it, thought Lee. It’s not possible that he doesn’t hear what I’m saying. Lee continued to the mike:

“Of course none of us believe that there is anything in this man’s maunderings. Certainly I haven’t got time to investigate every crackpot who writes me an anonymous letter. However, I have turned the letters over to the police. They didn’t think there was anything in it either, but they considered that it was their duty to investigate. For obvious reasons I can’t tell you the methods they used, but they have discovered who is writing the letters. Unknown to him, every move he makes is watched, and if he has any murderous intentions which I doubt, the moment he attempts to carry them into effect he will be nabbed.”

Lee’s talk then passed on to something else.

While Fanton was making his concluding remarks to the mike Lee was free to watch him. In the depths of those sleepy bored eyes lurked a cold and deadly spark. The startled Lee had seen that look in another pair of eyes; Beau Gramercy when he was brought to bay. Fanton had the eyes of a killer.

The next day was Sunday. Lee had no expectation of going to his office, and there were of course no mail deliveries. Yet at eight o’clock in the morning before he had the least notion of getting up, his man Jermyn came into his bedroom with one of the damnable typewritten envelopes on his little tray. This one bore a special delivery stamp. Jermyn said deprecatingly:

“I thought it might be important, sir.”

Lee silently cursed him.

Lee Mappin:

It wasn’t good enough, Pop. Your talk tonight was too smooth, too obviously calculated to make me mad with its references to nuts, crack-pots and so forth. I am wise to you now. You lied to your millions of listeners. If the police knew who I was, you wouldn’t have to go on the air to send me a message. You could send it direct. I know that as far as I am concerned you are completely up a tree. I follow all your movements. The police in spite of their general alarms and so on merely make me laugh. Your “warning” on the air will not influence my actions in the slightest. When I’m ready, I’ll strike. Since I wrote you last, the situation has developed. The pretty fly is caught in the web. It won’t be long now.

X.

Lee gritted his teeth. What made him sorest in this effusion was the word “Pop.” He liked to hear it from Fanny and Judy when no one else was around, and even from Tom Cottar, but nobody else in the world was privileged so to address him.

The words “pretty fly” suggested that the intended victim might be a woman.