The Sunday Star/'Illimore'

LIAS MANNERING rose from his place at the head of the long table. If pride shone from his still clear and penetrating eyes, it was pardonable. For he was one of the few multimillionaires in the country into whose life no scandal had crept, upon whose named no agitator heaped scorn.

On each anniversary of the wedding of Elias and Rachel, his wife, the children and their children gathered in the great Westchester castle. On these occasions the women wore their more wonderful jewels, their newest gowns. Upon the table stood the famous gold service, presented to old Elias twenty years ago by an Indian potentate whose finances he had reduced to order.

The sons and grandsons and their wives vied with each other in friendly rivalry to see which one might present to Elias and Rachel the rarest present. And on this fiftieth anniversary of the marriage of the old couple their descendants had outdone themselves. Moreover, the whole world knew of these family gatherings. Just now, before Elias rose to speak, his oldest son, Elias 2d, had read the names of the senders of more than 200 telegrams. A king and two presidents were among them. The sideboards were piled high with gifts from throe continents. There must have been in this room the equivalent of not less than a million dollars in gold and precious stones.

Elias raised his glass. “I am going to give you a toast,” he said. “You all know to whose health I shall ask you to drink.” His smile seemed to caress the sweet, mild features of his wife. “But before I give that toast, I want you to join me in thanks. As I look over my life and see the prosperity and happiness that has come to me and mine, I fell that God has been very good to me.”

“Too good,” said a voice from the door.

OT merely the words, nor their cynical connotation, caused the gasp of amazement from the men and the cries of fear from the women. it was the pistol in the hands of the speaker. He stood framed in the doorway, long and lean, thin-lipped and cruel-eyed. Even as Elias 3d, an ex-aviator and football player, kicked his chair from under him, the intruder crossed the threshold. Behind him came half a dozen men, each armed and menacing.

The butler, French and excitable, dropped a bottle of wine to the floor. Its loud explosion galvanized into activity the butler's four assistants.

Weller, stocky and active, leaped at the leader: a bullet caught him full in the chest, and he went somersaulting to the floor. Johnson, older than Weller, threw a silver tray on which were coffee cups. The liquid damaged only priceless tapestry. A shot from another of the bandits sent Johnson to join Weller. Elias 3d, a yard from one of the bandits, went down. His father's cry of agony was cut short by a fourth bullet.

Before this merciless attack the others hesitated.

Old Elias, his face ashen with grief, not fear, faced the intruders. “What do you want?” he cried.

“What do you think we want?” jeered the lean leader. “Everything you have, old fossil.”

The French butler sprang forward, but the leader easily evaded him. The butler went sprawling upon the floor. One of the bandits bent over and his pistol muzzle crashed upon the butler's forehead. He crumpled into unconsciousness.

The leader walked to the side of old Elias. Threatening the old man with his weapon, he ordered the women present to strip off their rings and necklaces.

“I forbid you to,” cried old Elias. Outraged pride made him give the order.

Callously the leader struck the host. The old man fell across the table. The two remaining servants were shot down without compunction. And when Elias' grandsons would have continued the unequal struggle, their wives and mothers and their white-faced grandmother restrained them.

Within forty minutes after their arrival the bandits had departed, taking with them, in sacks the gold plate, the jewels of the women, and certain ornaments from the drawing rooms and chambers upstairs. Behind them lay two dead men, six badly wounded men, and a dozen hysterical women. All the unwounded were tightly bound and gagged.

A similar situation obtained in the servants' hall Outside in the garage and stable were men who struggled vainly at their bonds or moaned from the pain of injuries. And in the lodge at the gates of the estate lay another dead man, above whose body, in a great cage, chattered indignantly a green and yellow parrot.

T was half an hour before little Elias 4th wriggled free of the ropes that secured him; ten minutes more before he had released his mother; another quarter of an hour before she had cut the bonds of the rest; another five minutes before the chief of police of the nearest village had been aroused from his early slumbers by frantic ringing of the telephone; another hour before he had arrived at the sane conclusion that he must ask help of the New York Detective Bureau; and nine hour after that Jerry Tyron [sic] called upon Jimmy Pelham and dragged him sleepily from bed.

“Wake up,” cried Tryon.

“Go 'way,” grumbled Pelham. “I wouldn't get up for anyone in the world. Played bridge till three this morning.”

“Not even for the Gray Ghost?” asked Tryon quietly.

Pelham's sleep-fogged eyes cleared. He leaped from the blankets, with a vigor that denied the evidence of thinning hair.

“Tell Dickenson to get breakfast,” he said as he made for the bathroom. A minute later Tryon, speaking to the former Maine guide, who was now Pelham's cook, valet and general factotum, heard Pelham splashing in the tub. The ex-lieutenant of police now owner of the Tryon Detective Agency, smiled grimly.

“Of course, agreed Pelham, when Tryon gave him the story as it appeared in the morning papers, supplemented by private advices from the detective bureau. “We knew that he'd be heard from soon. The same Gray Ghost! The same far-reaching plans, the same daring, and the same bloody disregard of human life.” He puffed at an after-breakfast cigarette. “Who's engaging us?”

“Mannering,” replied Tryon. “Of course, as you and I are the only people that ever got anything on the Gray Ghost, the New York police will help us in every way, but it's a private job. Fifty thousand retainer, fifty thousand if we get the men who committed the robbery, one hundred thousand for the return of the stolen property, and a half million for the Gray Ghost himself.”

Pelham whistled. “Mannering must believe in the Gray Ghost.”

Tryon colored. “Every one does now. I don't know why I was fathead enough ever to believe that he was dead. But old Mannering had me on the phone at my house before breakfast. His doctors called me up and told me that he was in no shape to talk, but insisted on doing so. The old boy's voice was certainly feeble, but his spirit isn't. He's mad clean through, end his hank roll is behind us. That interest you?”

“Lots,” replied Pelham. “But it doesn't interest me as much as the mere fact that we have another chance at the Gray Ghost. Let's go.”

They made their way downstairs to Tryon's waiting limousine. They were an oddly assorted pair. Jerry Tryon was the typical policeman, stockily built, heavy-footed, possessed of great physical strength and with an amazing tenacity of purpose. Pelham, thin, tall, and restless-seeming, looked the imaginative person that he was. At a casual glance one would have taken Pelham to be the planner and Tryon the doer, hut Pelham's imagination was combined with executive ability.

That executive ability had gone to waste during most of his life, but the recent renascence of the Gray Ghost had caused Pelham, at the moment facing impoverishment, to accept the offer of Tryon to join his organization. Tryon had made such offers repeatedly, but the younger man had refused, feeling that they were made out of gratitude for old favors. But almost by accident Pelham had discovered that he possessed the detective instinct.

HEY talked of other things during their hour-long ride to the Mannering estate. Both of them wished to arrive at the scene of last night's tragic affair without too many preconceived ideas. Neither Tryon nor Pelham had ever been there before. They had come to look at a palatial home, and they found themselves in a hospital.

For doctors and trained nurses dominated the place, and the odor of anesthetics filled the air.

In his study, a round room on the second floor, they found old Elias, restive under the ministrations of medical attendants. A bandage was wound around his forehead, and his fine old face was pale. Indeed, a lesser man would have been in his bed, but Elias Mannering sat sturdily in a swivel chair.

His keen old eyes rested a moment on Tryon, then shifted abruptly to the face of Pelham. “You're Pelham, aren't you?” he demanded. “The man that almost landed the Gray Ghost last month?”

Pelham smiled deprecatingly. “My friend, Mr. Tryon, did as much as I.”

Tryon caressed his blue chin. “I'm a cop, Mr. Mannering, and my friend is a genius. If the Gray Ghost is ever found, Pelham will find him.”

A wry smile flitted over the face of their host. “I like modesty, Mr. Tryon. I believe what you say about your friend. Also I believe that when Mr. Pelham finds the Gray Ghost, you'll grab him and never let go.”

“Much obliged, sir,” grinned Tryon.

The doctor approached his patient.

“Anything that these gentlemen wish to know can be told them by others, Mr. Mannering,” he said. “You must avoid excitement.”

Old Elias stared at the physician. “If I can't survive a little excitement after what I went through last night I'm so close to the grave that nothing can save me from tumbling in. The murderous hound behind last night's attack killed three of my servants and wounded my son and grandson.” He turned to Pelham. “Ask me anything you want.”

Pelham smiled. “I think we'll look around a bit first,” he said.

“All right,” said old Elias. “But don't leave me out of this,” he ordered.

Pelham promised to keep the old man in touch with each development as it occurred, and then he and Tryon left the room. Downstairs they met the village chief of police, a surprisingly alert individual.

“I've got all the servants lined up in the hall, gentlemen,” he said. “I suppose you want to get their stories.”

“Good work,” said Pelham. He turned to Tryon. “Suppose, Jerry, that you have a talk with them, while I look around outside. I want to go down to the lodge.”

“An right,” agreed Tryon. He followed the chief to the servants' hall in the rear of the house, while Pelham walked out the front door.

For a moment Pelham drank in the beauty of the scene, the well-kept lawns and trees, the beautiful pool half hidden by shrubbery, the river and the hills. Then he walked down the drive up which they had come a few moments before.

HE road ran in and out between lawns and flower beds and avenues of trees, until, a half mile from the castle, one arrived at the lodge and the great gates that barred the public from the grounds. These gates had been opened by a village constable upon the arrival of Pelham and Tryon. and the man had closed them after their car passed through. Pelham noted the great high walls which inclosed the grounds; he nodded, pursed his lips and approached the lodge. The constable, already informed of his identity, admitted him without question.

It was a quaint, ivy-covered building, with but two rooms on the ground-floor and three on the second. A small hall admitted one to the living and dining room. Pelham paused on the threshold, his attention attracted at once to a green and yellow parrot, chattering upon his perch in a great cage that hung from the center of the celling. The bird's words were Indistinguishable.

“Illimore,” it seemed to say. And it shrieked the word over and over again, pushing its great beak between the bars of the cage, eyeing Pelham malignantly, and shaking the cage in the manifestation of what was either wrath or terror.

Pelham looked at the bird. If it could only talk!. As though in answer to his unuttered wish, it shrieked again: “Illimore, Illimore.”

“Like Poe's raven,” muttered Pelham. “Uncanny creature. I suppose it's chattered about nothing for years, and now that it ought to have something to say it can only utter gargon [sic].”

He left the lodge and proceeded to the garage and stables. A little later he entered the house, examined the dining room and went to the servants' hall.

Tho chief of police and the county coroner were seated beside Tryon, at a long table. In other chairs, or standing, were at least thirty servants. Tryon was talking to one of them, the butler, as Pelham entered.

The ex-lieutenant looked at his ally. “I've got the dope up until the moment that the gang entered the dining room. Mr. Pelham,” he said. “Want to question the others?”

Pelham looked at the butler. His head was bandaged, and his face was white. His snapping black eyes seemed to glow. “Suppose you tell us what happened?” suggested Pelham.

The butler shifted from one foot to another. “All I know, m'sleu, is that a man suddenly appeared in the door. Other men followed; there was shooting. I jumped for them, fell, and was struck. Nex' thing the doctaire was attending me.” “You are French?” asked Pelham.

“Oui, m'sieu.”

“Been employed here long?” asked Pelham.

Tryon interposed; “I have the pedigrees of every one, Mr. Pelham. Unless, of course, there was something particular”

Pelham shook his head.

“I just wanted to get all the facts in the shortest possible time,” explained Tryon. “I think we can talk to some of the family now.”

E arose, leaving the coroner to continue the examination, and, followed by Pelham, walked from the room. Outside, Pelham stopped at his friend. “Why the sudden change of front?” he asked.

“A hunch,” said Tryon.

Pelham smiled. “You just discovered that some of the servants were part of the bandit crew, eh?”

Tryon stared at his slender ally. “How did you know that?”

Pelham laughed. “The minute I asked how long the butler had been here, you interrupted. My question put into form a suspicion that had been shapeless in your brain. And you didn't want the butler's suspicions aroused, or the suspicions of any of the other servants.”

“Go on,” said Tryon. “What else do you know?”

“Well, I know that the lodge keeper was murdered by some one whom he took to be a friend. The newspapers told us that the car containing the bandits was admitted by the lodge keeper.”

“The papers said nothing of the sort,” exclaimed Tryon.

Pelham grinned. “The papers said that the bandits arrived in an automobile and departed in one. Now, It's obvious that the lodge keeper would not have admitted a party of strangers. There is a telephone in the lodge. Before unlocking the gates to strangers, especially late at night, the keeper would have phoned the house. And quite obviously he didn't telephone, because no one, servants or family, knew that a car was coming up the drive. At least no one has mentioned knowing it.”

He shot a glance of interrogation at Tryon.

“Their arrival was a surprise to every one, according to what they say,” said Tryon.

“Well, then, the lodge keeper opened the gates to a friend,” observed Pelham.

Tryon shook his head. “No good. The keeper was a crabbed old Scotchman; he hadn't been out of the grounds in two years. Hadn't a relative or friend on earth. His only acquaintances were the servants here.”

“And we both agree that this was partly an inside job,” said Pelham. “The keeper unlocked the gates because some one whom he knew asked him to, or else”

“That some one took the key from him,” said Tryon.

Pelham smiled again. “Something like that, eh? For certainly no one could have forcibly entered hie house without leaving some mark of entry. But the doors and windows are uninjured. And if a stranger had climbed the wall and rung his bell, he would have telephoned the house before opening the door. So we must assume that some one whose voice he recognized summoned him to his door.”

Tryon whistled “Which one?” he asked.

A sudden thought came to Pelham. “Any of the servants named Illimore?”

Tryon pursed hie lips. “How do you spell it?”

Pelham blushed. “I don't know. But the lodgekeeper's parrot keeps shrieking the word over and over again, and I thought it might be a name.”

Tryon chuckled. “No, there ain't an one with a name anything like that. Shall we go and examine the family”

“Which one of the servants knows all about the others?” asked Pelham.

“I suppose that the housekeeper, Mrs. Barney, would know more than any one else,” answered Tryon.

“Well, you send her to me and I'll talk with her. You question the family.”

Two hours later Pelham met Tryon in the library.

“What have you learned?” asked the ex-lieutenant.

Pelham made a wry face. “Nothing except that every servant in the house or grounds has been here at least five years, and that all of them are exceptionally trustworthy. What have you found out?”

“Nothing beyond what we already know,” replied the ex-lieutenant. “Old Elias Mannering is fit to be tied. He seems to expect that detectives ought to catch a guy like the Gray Ghost in ten minutes. He forgets that the Ghost has been at large for the last ten years. A fine old scout, though.”

The chief of police joined them. “Any objection to the inquest taking place this afternoon, gentlemen?” he asked.

Tryon shook his head. “None at all. We'll be there.”

HEY were there when the coroner examined the servants and members of the family. Tryon conveyed a hint to the coroner which caused that worthy to refrain from asking personal questions of the servants. So that the only new bit of information the two detectives acquired was to the effect that the huge touring car which supposedly had been used by the bandits had been overturned in a ditch a couple of miles from the lodge gates, and abandoned.

“And that,” said Tryon to Pelham, “doesn't get us anywhere ... I wonder how they carried their booty away. That gold plate was pretty heavy.”

The neighborhood where the bandits' car had been found was thoroughly searched but no trace of the loot was discovered.

“It looks to me,” said Tryon, late that afternoon, “as though it's going to be a long job of watching the servants.”

“I wish that parrot could talk sense.,” was Pelham's response.

Restless, he left Tryon and wander ed out into the grounds across the lawn to the swimming pool. Here he eat, smoking for an hour when Tryon came to him.

“I've talked to every one,” said Tryon. “Every one of the servants can prove, by several other servants, that he was nowhere near the lodge gates last night. That upsets our theory that one of the servants got the key from Hardy.”

“I suppose it does,” said Pelham, reluctantly. “But I know that the theory is right. Just the same”

Tryon laughed. “Go to it, Mr. Pelham. But all work and no food is bad business. Let's eat.”

They dined in the same great hall in which the tragedy had occurred the night before with members of the family, subdued and horror-stricken. And after the meal was over Pelham walked to a French window. He saw a light shining through the trees, and beckoned to Pierre, the butler. That bandaged gentleman Informed him that it shone from the lodge which, in a direct line across the lawn and through the trees, was less than 300 yards away.

Pelham nodded. “By the way, Pierre, you had a bottle of wine in your hands when the bandits entered. Had it just come from the cellar?”

The black eyes of the butler sparkled. “But yes, m'sieu. Why?” There was an alertness in his manner and speech that betokened a quick intelligence.

“Because there is still glass upon the floor here, and the glass is dusty,” replied Pelham, “as though the bottle had just come from the cellar.”

“M'sieu sees everything,” said the butler.

Pelham laughingly disclaimed the compliment. “Not everything, Pierre.”

He stepped through the French window upon a small terrace. There he stood for a while, smoking, then walked to the swimming pool, and stood staring into its moonlit shallows.

Somehow the sense of peace and security that had been in the atmosphere while the sun shone had departed. Pelham shuddered, he felt an indefinable menace. Angered at himself, he moved restlessly to one side.

HAT movement saved his life. For from the shrubs behind him some one rose and hurled at him a heavy stone. Had it landed upon Pelham's head a dead man would have been found some hours later in the pool. But he had moved far enough to one side for the missile merely to graze him. The shock precipitated him into the water, and the second shock of the cold plunge brought hie wits, that had been woolgathering, to a sharp focus.

Behind those shrubs lurked a murderer, waiting for his victim to reappear.

But at the far end of the pool were steps that led into the water. Until his lungs seemed bursting Pelham swam beneath the surface. His outstretched hands touched something, some bulky object incased in cloth. His hands slipped over it, and reached the far wall of the pool. Cautiously he let hie face appear above the surface.

His assailant either dared not risk the sound of a shot, or believed that his first attack had so stunned Pelham that his death by drowning was inevitable.

Before climbing out of the pool, Pelham dived once below the surface. Despite the fact that his head ached from the grazing impact of the stone, and that he was soaking wet, he was smiling as he walked across the lawn to the castle.

Pierre met him in the front hall. His black eyes gleamed in the electric light. “Sacre, m'sieu! What has happened?”

“Some one tried to drown me in the pool,” Pelham replied.

“But who, m'sieu?” cried Pierre.

Pelham shrugged his shoulders. ”I didn't see him,” he replied. “Can you get me some dry clothes?”

Pierre could and would. He brought them to a bedroom to which he had shown Pelham. After he had left the room, Tryon demanded a full explanation. Given it, he asked Pierre's question; “Who?”

“You don't speak French, do you, Jerry”

The ex-lieutenant shook his head impatiently. “Not a word,” he answered.

“I'll give you a lesson by and by,” chuckled Pelham. “What time is it?”

Tryon consulted his watch. “Nine-thirty.”

“Most of the servants have gone to bed, then,” said Pelham. “While I'm finishing dressing, suppose you get Mrs. Barney and make a round of the servant's quarters. Get a shoe from each one of the men.”

“What's the idea?” asked Tryon.

“Footprints,” grinned Pelham.

“That's the biggest bunk in the world,” scoffed Tryon.

“Of course it is, but the servants won't know that no one was ever convicted on a footprint.”

Tryon raised his eyebrows. “You want me to tell them the reason we want the shoes?”

“Exactly,” said Pelham.

“Why?” asked Tryon.

“Because the man who tried to drown me tonight will try a bullet or a knife next time. And I want to find out before that next time comes.”

Half an hour later Tryon returned bearing a clothes basket filled with shoes. “It's too dark to try and fit these shoes to any footprints, even if you were crazy enough to try,” he grumbled.

“But it's not too dark for some one to try to obliterate footprints that he might think one of these shoes would fit,” said Pelham.

The ex-lieutenant of police stared at his ally. “And to think,” he said, “that I've been trying for years to get you to join me, and you only consented a month ago.”

N the shadows of the great stone castle, crouched on the terrace outside the French windows of the dining room, they watched. And then, just before the false dawn was due, the French windows opened softly and through the aperture stepped the figure of a man. Even in the darkness they could see the white bandage about his head.

Across the terrace the man walked and across the drive. Then, upon the lawn, he knelt down. They saw his hands working upon the grass.

“Wiping out footprints that would never hang any one,” said Tryon with saturnine humor.

Pelham stood upright. “Pierre,” he called sharply.

The kneeling figure on the lawn leaped to its feet. A flash of flame stabbed the darkness. Bent low, the two detectives raced at the butler. He fired twice again, missed, and turned his weapon against himself. The Gray Ghost's followers preferred a bullet to the electric chair.

Elias Mannering, awakened from slumber by the sound of the shots, insisted on a full explanation. Pelham gave it.

Pierre had gone down to the cellar for wine. That would take several minutes, time enough for him to run three hundred yards to the lodge, gain admittance, kill Hardy, and unlock the gates. He could then have ridden almost to the house, dropped off the bandits' car, re-entered the house and proceeded to serve the wine. The whole job need not have taken more than five or six minutes, in which time he would not be missed.

“He would be alarmed at news that we were going to examine footprints on the grounds. He would know that his were the only footprints leading to the lodge. He would not know that such faint traces as a running man might leave would be valueless as clues. Alarmed, he would try to obliterate them. You see, he was so alarmed already that he had tried to kill me. For, of course, he was the man who tried to drown me. I was sure of that.”

“Why?” asked old Elias eagerly.

“He is the only Frenchman in your employ, and Hardy's parrot kept crying: 'Illimore!'”

“I don't get it,” said Tryon.

“The parrot has been in a perfect frenzy since his master was murdered. Hie tiny brain retained only one thing, and that was the exclamation that the murderer, who had gained admittance on some specious plea, had uttered.

“It was the parrot's rendition of words that he had never heard before: 'I1 est mort!' Only a Frenchman would cry 'He Is dead!' in French.

“Pierre had the opportunity to murder Hardy; Pierre was the one servant who could have said over the body of his victim words that sounded like the shriek of the parrot. But this was not evidence; if I could trick him into betraying himself that would be evidence.”

“I said that I'd pay fifty thousand dollars for the capture of the men who committed the robbery,” Elias Mannering said. “You got one of them, the traitor in my house, and I feel that you have earned that fifty thousand.”

Pelham shook his head. “I don't think so, but If you feel like writing a check, write one for a hundred thousand.”

The old man's jaw dropped. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“The bandits' car overturned in their haste to get away. They could hardly have carried their loot in their hands without attracting attention. Yet, although the woods have been scoured, there's been no trace of the stolen plate or other bulky objects. Moreover, the Gray Ghost knew that it would take his men at least an hour to return to New York. In that time the alarm might be given, the car stopped and the stolen property recovered. He takes no chances. He would leave the stuff here, to be taken away months later, perhaps, when the hue and cry had died away.”

“Where?” gasped old Elias.

Pelham smiled. “While I am not a gambling man, I will wager my share of the retainer you have already paid us that the cloth-covered object that my hand touched as I was swimming under water was a sack containing your gold plate. And if the plate is there I will wager that the jewels are there too.”

“I won't take the bet,” said old Elias. “I'm afraid I'd lose.”

E would have lost, too, in the morning—in the sacks deposited in the deepest corner of the pool—the stolen property was found.

“The crafty devil,” commented Tryon, as they rode into town. He knew that at this time of year no one would go in swimming. But if Pierre had succeeded in drowning you the stuff might have been recovered as we sought for you.”

Pelham laughed.

“That cunning scoundrel would have found my body himself and brought me ashore before the pool could have been dragged.”

“I wish that we'd caught him alive,” grumbled Tryon. “He might have been persuaded to talk.”

“Think so? A man who will serve as a butler five years in order to lay plans for a robbery, who will willingly suffer a wound in order that his part may not be suspected, who will kill himself rather than be captured. is hardly the sort to turn state's evidence. What a man, what a man!”

“Pierre?” asked Tryon.

“The Gray Ghost,” said Pelham. “To be able to inspire such devoted service—I'll feel safer when he is behind the bars.”

“We'll put him there yet,” snarled Tryon.

“Maybe,” said Pelham thoughtfully. “If he doesn't kill us first.”