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80        ABBOTT'S MONTHLY 

The Strange Case of Anton LaRue — (Continued from page 12)

Anton LaRue, that gives you pleasure in seeing others suffer? Why do you hate Richard? Let me tell you this! Your hatred of him has had a reaction. He hates you with a cool methodical hatred that would stop at nothing. While you are watching the others don't forget Richard. And if he finds out the truth — about his brother George — he'd tear you limb from limb. But enough of that. You've promised to molest him no more. I hope it's not too late. But I have your promise. Is it not so?"

"YES. But I was merely amusing myself — at his expense."

"So much for that," continued Millie, after lighting another cigarette. "Then we understand about the allotment of territory. We'll have one distributing agent in New York, Chicago, St. Louis, Detroit, Cleveland, Philadelphia, Denver and Los Angeles for the far west, instead of having three, four and five in each city. Let Chicago continue as your main distribution point, but with one agent. That will simplify distribution, and you'll have only one man to hold responsible in each city. I'd attend to that right away. Oh, yes, Anton! About the shipments. How often do they come in?"

"Twice each week."

"How do you arrange it?"

"One boat leaves before the other arrives."

"We only use that in emergency. And for especially valuable cargoes, such as diamonds, precious jewels, etc."

"If you brought in more, could you dispose of it?"

"My God! Yes! I have orders for five, ten times more stuff than I can bring in. Why do you ask?"

"I'll arrange that for you."

"How? What do you mean?"

"I'LL explain — when I return from Port au Prince. And I know you will both be surprised. But remember this, Anton LaRue and Tom Baxter, you have both been getting away with murder. You've been successful — only because you're colored men. Now don't kid yourselves that you're so smart. You're just plain lucky. All your agents, all your confederates, are colored. But your customers — the ones that pay your price — are white. And the police officials, down here and up north, have been dumb enough to send white coppers after colored crooks. Just pray that they don't wake up and send a high-powered colored cop down here to break up your play house. Because — it might happen!"

Anton nodded his head. "That could happen, Millie," he said, "although I don't know where they could find a colored copper that could harpoon me. But as you say, it might happen. At least it's worth thinking about."

At that precise moment if Anton LaRue had eyes with the penetrative power of the X-Ray, and the vision range of the telescope, he would've seen his nemesis, Lieut. Al Wilson, Chicago's shrewd colored detective, emerge, in the person of his alias, John Rodgers, from the rear entrance of Mobile's detective headquarters, and saunter slowly down the street. He was picking up the trail — of Anton LaRue! 

MILLIE smiled. "There's just one more thing I want to ask about, and I'm through, Anton. Of course there's no use mentioning that quarter of a million dollars we know is secreted somewhere about Baxter Point. We may get to that later, but we have no clew at present, other than it's there. But those seven coppers — that disappeared — at Baxter's Point. They didn't evaporate! You can't make a 200-pound copper evaporate! But they have never been seen or heard of since they went into Baxter's Point. You have told me — both of you — that you know nothing about — their strange disappearance. Frankly I don't believe either one of you. All I can say is, don't let me find out. If I do — you'll hear from me!

Millie Marrero rose from the table, and a moment later returned with an amber colored glass tray, some glasses and an unopened bottle of rum. "Come, gentlemen," she invited, "you've been worrying me for three hours for a drink, but I put you off until we had concluded our business. Anton, make yourself useful, and open this bottle for me."

A moment later the glasses clicked. Then Tom Baxter paid his respects, pleaded pressing business, and begged to be excused. A moment later he was gone.

THEY were alone now, and Millie, womanlike, was setting the room in order, while Anton, amorously inclined, watched her every movement out of the corner of his eye. "I just love to come to this hotel," she remarked. "They think we're foreigners, because occasionally they hear us converse in French. It's funny! N'est ce pas, cherie?"

She suddenly ceased and confronted him, smiling. "Anton," she said, "I think you've been wonderful today."

He took her suddenly in his arms. "I think you're wonderful, Millie, every day." Their lips met, and for a moment the world closed about them. At length she disengaged herself, and was arranging her hair, when a thought struck Anton. "You know, Millie," he confided, "you've forgotten to tell me about Mother Delanoye."

Millie threw her head back, and burst into laughter. "Anton," she said, "have you ever heard that in the heat of battle a soldier on horseback sometimes loses his spurs?"

"Indeed I have, sweetheart. In fact it has happened to me."

"Well, Mother Delanoye is the only woman that I know in Port au Prince who can advise a girl when her foot slips, when she becomes — careless. Do you understand me?"

"I think I do — perfectly."

"Well, that is why I am sailing tomorrow — to see Mother Delanoye."

"But tonight! Sweetheart, tell me, what about tonight!"

Millie would not deprive him of his thrill. "Tonight," she answered softly, "I shall be the guest of Anton LaRue — at Baxter Point."

IT is almost inconceivable the lengths an old man will go to win and hold the love of a woman,

for May, 1931     81

especially a young woman. He will place himself in the most ridiculous positions, endure untold mental and physical agony, allow himself to be tricked, laughed at, and scorned, and suffer the tortures of the damned, if only at rare intervals he be permitted to bask in the sensuous sunshine of his lady love, to kiss the hem of her skirt, to court her favor, to pay her bills, and to pose as honored guest at the banquet of love, while he really gets barely the crumbs.

The days passed in two weeks — the weeks into months — and Millie Marrero held Anton LaRue where she wanted him — in the palm of her hand.

It was mid-summer, and the night of nights. Anton LaRue, prosperous beyond his wildest dreams, was giving a lawn fete for Millie Marrero!

But while the merriment was at its height, a mile off shore, and far back in the enveloping shadows, a small motor boat, with motor throttled and purring noiselessly — stealthily hugged the shore, and amid an ominous silence — pushed its way through the placid waters — toward the beach at Baxter Point. In a corner of the boat lay the tense, huddled figure of a man, his hand grasping two long extension wires which connected with two deadly looking packages at either end of the boat. Slowly he approached the festive scene, and as the sound of voices and music came to his ears, he peered cautiously over the side of the boat.

BAXTER POINT was in gala attire. Guests from Mobile and surrounding towns came in automobile loads. Vari-colored lights flicked on and off, automatically, and reflected their subdued brilliance on the softly vibrating torsos of Anton's fashionably dressed lady guests. Four Spanish troubadours, with stringed instruments, crooned love songs and lullabys. Food, prepared in a variety of styles, was being served, buffet style, in the spacious dining room. Two orchestras, one from New Orleans, the other from Mobile, kept even the leaves swaying.

It was Anton LaRue's night! Millie Marrero, in beautiful Spanish costume, was a picturesque, gracious hostess, and the delight of many a masculine eye. Tom Baxter, his face intact, and freshly shaved, was in his seventh heaven. The moon, high in the heavens like a huge silvery ball, seemed to hesitate, and hang suspended in space, as though loathe to leave such a ravishing scene!

SUDDENLY, without warning, from the darkness of the beach at Baxter Point — came a yell — a cry for help — followed by an explosion, which lighted up the beach — and cause the startled guests to stare in horror. In a mighty surge they rushed to the water front, and almost immediately a second explosion — more violent — more terrifying than the first — rent the air, throwing a shower of debris and muddy water
over the awe-stricken guests — while through it all could be heard the pitiful, gurgling yell of the drowning man. Several women fainted. Another, hysterical, tried to throw herself into the water. Still another screamed: "For God's sake, why doesn't someone help him!"

EVEN as she spoke, two men — Tom Baxter and Les Golden — dove into the water from the end of the dock, and with strong, even strokes, soon reached the exhausted man and brought him to shore. First aid was quickly administered — Anton LaRue moistened his lips, and finally a faint flicker of life — gave way to regular breathing. Anton kneeled in the sand by his side. Presently his eyes opened, and he looked strangely at LaRue. He stirred — tried to move!

"Take it easy, brother," said Anton, touched by the man's bravery. "Are you in pain?"

The man moistened his lips. "No," he replied faintly, "just — tired."

"What's your name?"

A ghost of a smile, almost imperceptible, seemed to dart across the corner of his mouth. "My name," he said, is Rodgers — John Rodgers."

It was indeed — John Rodgers — but if Anton could have guessed his real identity — he would have left him lying on the beach — lifeless. For the stranger was Lieut. Al Wilson, the colored detective — who had vowed to bring Anton LaRue back to Chicago — dead or alive!

Missionaries in the Lion Country — (Continued from page 48)

ing us the lion made his escape into the bush. Lions are not afraid of light nor fire.

One of the most breath-taking experiences I ever had with a lion was on one of my missionary visits to a school in one of our districts.

I was riding on my bicycle one day from the Malamulo Mission to Kantingida, two districts twenty-five miles apart. The country is one of plains and tall grass. I had covered approximately nineteen miles of my journey while thinking of what I should say upon my arrival at the school. Some very tall grass was on either side of the road on which I was riding. Something within me said, "Look!!!"

I HAD just enough time to jump from my "bike" to keep from riding over a large lion that was sleeping in the path. He awoke and stood up only a few feet from me, his mane touching the ground. Only a leap and I was dead! Although trembling in every limb and my knees wabbling beneath me, I clinched the handle of my wheel and looked him squarely in his eyes which lay far back in his head. For one solid hour we stood looking at each other as though our bodies were marble. I cannot describe my feelings for I had none. The only thing I could and did do was to look that lion in its eyes.

Finally it scratched the earth with its paws, causing the sand to fly all over my clothes and shoes. This shows how close we were to each other. He looked away from me in a "don't care" attitude, then taking his own time, he made off into the tall grass and disappeared. I mounted my wheel and just as fast as my trembling legs could push, made my way to my destination.