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The Strange Case [[cont'd next page]]

[[image: Drawing of Black woman in evening gown, smoking a cigarette]]

THE STORY SO FAR

FOR many months, through their various sources of information, Chicago police, detectives and government operatives had been apprised of the existence of a large, skillfully organized and dangerous band of smugglers who operated on the Gulf Coast from Florida to New Orleans, and who in spite of the vigilance of the authorities, persistently eluded them.

Chicago's police were interested because the gang's main distribution operation centered in that city. A score or more of picked detectives had failed to locate the band. Three city sleuths and two government men had been killed.

It was finally discovered that the smugglers were not white but colored and that the notorious leader was a distinguished looking native Haitian, the son of a mulatto mother and a white French father. His name was Anton LaRue.

In desperation, after the murder of Sergt. Whitcomb, the fifth white detective killed, Chief of Detectives Mulvihill assigns Lieut. Al Wilson, a famous detective of Chicago, to the case. Lieut. Wilson accepts and almost immediately the city is startled with the news of the brutal murder of George LaRue, Anton's nephew.

The scene shifts to Baxter Point, the rendezvous of the gang near Mobile, Ala., and Millie Marrero, a young Haitian girl whom Anton LaRue has wronged, interrupts a party given by Tom Baxter a LaRue henchman, and trails LaRue to his elegantly furnished private office in the basement of his mansion where she approaches him with a concealed dagger seeking revenge.

NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY

SECOND INSTALLMENT

TOM BAXTER, surprised and startled at the suddenness of the attack, moved forward as if to intercept the girl, but she shot him a quick, menacing look that froze him in his tracks. There was murder—stark murder—in her eyes!

Anton LaRue recoiled, his heart beating furiously in a wild tumult of emotions. His reason became twisted, warped, and left him incapable of directing a conscious act, or possessing the will to carry it through. Anton LaRue was facing death, and stood there, fascinated, transfixed—unable to move—helpless—!

Suddenly, like a rattler released from its coil, Millie Marrero—with arm upraised—sprang viciously at LaRue, but Baxter, anticipating the move, struck her wrist a savage blow with the side of his open palm. Her arm fell helplessly to her side, and the dagger—pearl handled, with a point sharp as a serpent's fang—described a spiral as it pirouetted through the air—and fell harmless to the floor.

By ALBERT G. BARNETT

Caught off guard, and taken completely by surprise, Millie was momentarily disconcerted, but suddenly, with implacable rage, she leaped at Baxter's face, and immediately four crimson lines, edged deep with ragged flesh—from eyebrow to chin—traced the bloody trail of her finger nails. Baxter was hors de combat—beaten. He nursed his bleeding face, now the color of liver, with a handkerchief.

THEN for some time all three remained silent, exchanging glances, but holding their counsel. Not a word was spoken, no questions asked, no explanations given. They were seated now, Anton LaRue at his desk, and Tom Baxter at a safe distance from Millie Marrero, who reclined in a deep upholstered arm chair by the door.

Finally Anton filled a glass with Haitian rum and was about to raise it to his lips, when Millie leaned forward. "Just a minute, selfish," she said, "fill two more. I think Mr. Baxter needs a drink, and I know I need one." The glasses were filled and drained. "Once more," continued Millie, as the gentle glow of the rum caused her cheeks to flush and her eyes sparkle. "I haven't had a drink in ages, and this leaves a delightful taste on the tongue. I really like it."

[[cont'd]]of Anton LaRue
A Prize Mystery Story

[[image: Drawing of Black man seated at desk, smoking a cigarette, with telephone on the desk.]]

She swayed a little as she walked, but she was calm, perfectly calm as she leaned over his desk, and looked him squarely in the eyes.

[[continued]]

She drank another, and still a fourth. Then she turned to Anton.

She swayed a little as she walked, but she was calm, perfectly calm, as she leaned over his desk, and looked him squarely in the eyes. Captivating, alluring, sensuous, what a picture the gorgeous Millie made—in her chocolate brown ensemble, with its blood-orange silk lining—with the chic shawl collar thrown back at a rakish angle, revealing graceful, well rounded shoulders and bosom—with jet black eyes that held both an invitation and a threat—and with beguiling, seductive, crimson-red lips—like crushed raspberries. Then, again, as you look more closely, you see her dimpled cheek—with its dainty, circular depression, deep and bottomless as Vesuvius—which intrigues and fascinates you, and fills you with a sudden, wild desire to strain her to you in rapturous embrace, and to smother that elusive dimple with passionate kisses, as you explore the unsolvable mystery of its depths.

Anton LaRue was the first to speak. "You're a fool, Millie, to come here, and try to pull off a stunt like that—on me. You know what I mean."

"YES, I happen to know, only too well—what you mean. But you can't frighten me, Anton, and we shall soon see if I'm the fool you take me for. I suppose one of your numerous agents has informed you that my father, Colonel David Marrero—is dead!"

Anton LaRue leaped to his feet. "Colonel Marrero—dead! You lie! I don't believe it! I don't believe a word of it! It's impossible! I saw him only last week in Port au Prince, and he's my friend, do you understand, my very best friend! That liquor has gone to your head. You're crazy as a loon. I wouldn't believe you under oath!"

Millie Marrero drew herself up to her full height. "I tell you my father is dead—and buried. It's ten days since you were in Port au Prince, and he died the same night you flew to Baxter Point. You left him beastly drunk, and later he had a fatal heart attack. You showed him the right road to an early death—and yet you call him your friend. You took advantage of his weakness and of my innocence. You knew my dear mother was dead, and that through riotous living my father was about to lose his big tobacco plantation. So you cast your filthy eyes on me. I was the prize. If I would listen to reason, you would pay my father's obligations, and give him a handsome bonus in addition. He believed you, as I did, when you said you wanted to marry me. But I refused, as you know, to accept your offer.

"Then, at your insistence, by night and by day, he pleaded, threatened, coaxed, and begged me to accept you. He knew I loved him and my poor sister Fi Fi to the very depths of my heart, and he harassed me to the point of distraction, saying that I would blacken the proud Marrero name, that we would be dispossessed, set upon the street, humiliated, and forced to beg, unless I accepted you—a man old enough to be my grandfather. I finally gave in, and—listened to reason."

Millie Marrero paused, and placed an empty glass