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8    Abbott's Monthly    for May, 1931

before Anton Larue. "Pour me a drink," she said, curtly.

"I WOULDN'T give you another drop," replied LaRue, "you've had too much already." Baxter, expecting another scene, was about to make a graceful exit, but Millie barred the door and pushed him gently back to his chair. "You're not leaving yet, Tom," she said, smiling, "you must hear the rest of this—you must.


Her glass was still empty. She looked at Anton. "Pour me a drink," she repeated, and in a moment the glass was filled, but a deep scowl darkened Anton's face, with an ominous portent.

"I should throw this in your face," she said with a quick, vicious glance, "but you're not worth it. I'll drink it instead."

Anton LaRue made no answer. He was making his plans. Millie Marrero must be curbed, tonight—now. To let her get the upper hand would mean disaster. She knew something—just how much he would soon find out. Suddenly an idea struck him, and he jumped to his feet. He banged the mahogany desk with his clenched fist, and bellowed at Baxter. "Tom," he shouted, "open that door! I've had enough rag chewing! This—woman is going out—if she has to go out on her neck! Open that door!"

But Millie stood with her back to the door, and Tom Baxter, remembering his previous encounter, was cautions. Anton approached menacingly. "You come and open it," Millie invited, with a sneer.

Anton LaRue brushed Baxter aside, and furious with rage, rushed for the door, but Millie stood her ground. She stepped to one side, and faced Anton. "Go ahead, open it! You're a big strong man! Open it and throw me out on my neck, Samson, and in ten minutes, Mobile, Chicago, and the whole world will know—who killed your nephew—George LaRue!"

ANTON was thunderstruck! He remained standing, but silent, and motionless, as though paralyzed, while he tried to penetrate the fog that enveloped his brain. This girl—born and raised in Haiti—could know nothing of Chicago—and George LaRue! But she DID know something, and that vague, dreadful doubt filled him with a strange fear—more powerful than his will—that destroyed his power to reason—and left him helpless—absolutely helpless—before this beautiful siren—who knew everything, but told nothing. Presently he regained his poise, and he turned again to Millie.

"Tell me," he said,"what are you driving at? Just what do you know about—George LaRue?"

Millie motioned to Tom Baxter. "Shall 
I tell you with him here?"

"Yes. He's just as—interested—as I am."

"Very well! Then follow me closely! George LaRue—your nephew—was shot to death with a sub-machine gun—in his room, in Chicago, last Thursday afternoon. The murderer was after a certain paper—which he didn't get—simply because he didn't know where to look for it. He rifled George's pockets, but the paper was pinned to his under-shirt, next to his skin. It was vicious, cowardly, unnecessary—to kill George LaRue.

Anton LaRue, his hands behind him, paced back and forth in front of Millie Marrero. A thousand vague, confused ideas passed through his mind, and he tried to unscramble them, but in vain. He realized, however, the necessity for tact, for caution, for diplomacy, and above all, for patience. Millie Marrero was an enigma—she was indeed—nobody's fool! Suddenly he asked her: "Do you know what that paper contained?"

OF course I do, stupid! I know that as well as I do the name of the man who was after it. It shows the exact location, on this property, of a steel box, containing a quarter of a million dollars, in cash and jewelry. The money is all in yellow backs, of the large, old-fashioned size. It is part of the loot of a ship that was sunk—in the Windward Channel—during an awful storm off the Haitian coast. It was taken first to Gonaives, then to Port au Prince, and finally to Jac Mel, where it was turned over to—you! Then it disappeared! You haven't seen it since, but you have always suspected George LaRue, because at that time he was one of the shrewdest members of your—organization. Am I right, or am I wrong?

Anton was amazed at the cunning, the ingenuity of this girl before him. Suddenly he became vaguely conscious of an idea—a very definite idea—that seemed to take seed and find root, in the hidden recesses of his brain. It sought expression—this idea. From every angle, he turned it over and over in his mind—much as you would a delicious apple which you suspect of being over ripe—but he could find no flaw. Yes! There was no doubt about it! He needed Millie Marrero's sharp wit and her brains! She must come into his—organization. He had himself well in hand now, and he was adroit, suave, almost patronizing as he spoke.

"Millie, who do you—think—shot George LaRue in Chicago?"

"I don't THINK anything," she replied quickly, "and if you think you're going to put me on the witness stand, you've another thought coming. But listen to this, Old Fox! Get this straight!" Millie walked up to Anton until she was just inches from his face. "The same man killed George LaRue—that killed those eight coppers who were hot on your trail—five from Chicago, two from New Orleans, one from Mobile—eight of them, all lured here—and killed like dogs—right in this house. I'm a fool, eh! How about Robert Tyree and Bill Terry! How about George Shoxton, Ned Monroe, Arthur Tuttle, John McKibbon! How about that big fellow—that big


THOUGHTS
By CLARENCE H. ABBOTT
Some days my thoughts are just cocoons—
All cold, and dull, and blind,
They hang from dripping branches in
The grey woods of my mind.

And other days they drift and shine—
Such free and flying things!
I find the gold-dust in my hair,
Left by their brushing wings.

SWEET LIKE A ROSE
By WILLIAM ALLEN WARD
Sweet like a rose
Are the lips of a maiden,
Where warm blood flows
Sweet like a rose;
Where pollen grows
And the bees are all laden;
Sweet like a rose
Are the lips of a maiden.

9
Irish copper, as you called him - that fought like a maddened bull - before he was silenced - forever! I'm crazy as Hell, you say! maybe I am, but I've got two good eyes. And I know that Srgt. Whitcomb, the last copper killed, was the only one of the eight whose body was found. But Whitcomb escaped - bleeding and dying - from Baxter Point in his motor boat, and was later found dead over the wheel, when the boat was beached in Mobile Bay. I know I SAW them take him from the boat. So that's that!"

Scorn, deep scorn, was written on her face as Millie turned to Anton's desk. She lit a cigarette, and walked slowly, to and from, stopping occasionally to flick the ashes into a receiver. Anton sat at his desk, with lips tightly compressed, bewildered, puzzled at Millie's disclosures, was trying to fathom the source of her information. He was curious - strangely curious - but he was also apprehensive. He feared - he knew not what!

At length he turned to LaRue. "I'll tell you what it is, Chief," he said, "there's a leak somewhere that needs plugging. She's been informed. There's a traitor in our ranks. Somebody has squawked!" Emboldened, he suddenly demanded of Millie: "Who's been telling you this pack of lies?"

Millie's lip curled ever so slightly, "You'd be surprised, Tom Baxter. But don't worry, I've no money to spend for flowers. Just be patient. You'll find out plenty - soon enough. In the meantime, practice keeping your damn hands to yourself. You may get along better."

She gazed at Baxter for some time, then with a shrug, elevated her eyes and looked at LaRue.

"As for you, Anton," she continued, "I had no spies to aid me in getting information about you and - your traffic. I needed none. I simply watched - and listened. After I became accessible - and had submitted - to you, I could see my father sink lower and lower - day by day - until he was a depraved, drunken sot - until he could no longer appear in public!

And through it all you supplied him with unlimited funds - and rum -; you paid his debts,, all of them, and in return he became an accomplice - in your murderous, smuggling racket that has claimed -  God only knows - how many lives.

"I WAS desperate! I vowed to save my father, so I determined to find the source of your wealth, and the extent of your traffic. I put you under surveillance. I studied you - and your methods - from morning till night. I made trips to the States - to Detroit - to Chicago! Anton, and believe me I found out plenty!"

Millie stopped abruptly and looked at Anton in utter surprise. His expression - his entire manner had changed. A smile replaced the scowl. Rancor, hatred, malice quickly became memories. He seemed almost pleased! With great courtesy he addressed Millie.

"We can be friends, Millie, can't we?"
"Why not? I'll meet you half way."
"Tom too?"
"Absolutely. We understand each other - now!"
"Will you - go along with us?"
"Absolutely."
"Will you become ONE of us - join the INNER circle?"
"Nothing in the world could give me greater pleasure. But only - on certain conditions, Anton LaRue."
"What are they?"
Millie's eyes flashed as she cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. "This is neither the time nor place to discuss that," she replied.
Anton LaRue was puzzled. "What do you mean?" he asked.

For answer, Millie tore open her hand bag, and grasped a small automatic revolver. She sprung to the door, swung it wide open - and a figure toppled over in the room.

Millie leveled her automatic "Get up, dog!" she cried, "get up! Throw up your hands! High as you can get them! Up, I say!"

The figure elevated itself quickly and stood, with hands raised and head lowered. It was Anton LaRue's look-out man - Larry Cole. He trembled like a leaf and his sleek black hair, disheveled lay on his forehead. Excitedly he exclaimed: "I was sent-down here-Mr.LaRue-honest to God I was! Mr. McArthur sent me-to get Mr. Baxter! Honest! Ask him! I ain't lying!"

Infuriated beyond measure, Anton uttered an oath-that with each syllable became louder-more terrible. He reached quickly in the drawer of his desk, and made for Cole, but Millie intercepted him. She raised her hand. "Let me handle this, Anton. I think I know what it's all about." She turned to Cole. "So Mr.McArthur sent you for Mr. Baxter. What did he say he wanted? Be careful, now! And put down your hands."

"He didn't say what he wanted. He just told me to get Mr. Baxter for him."

"And is that the way you let people know they're wanted-down on your knees, snooping around a key hole? Anton, I think we'll let him get away with it this time. But Larry Cole, try that again, and you'll go back to Cuba in a wooden box. Now, beat it!"

Without hesitation he leaped for the door, but before he reached it Millie threw out her leg-and with all the strength in her trim, athletic body-kicked him viciously 

Literary Merit
Is Not
Necessary to 
Solve
THE STRANGE CASE
of 
ANTON LA RUE!
Study each Installment

Who Killed him, and How Did 
He Meet his Death?