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ARTHUR B. REEVE

CRAIG KENNEDY AND THE COMPASS
NORTH—SOUTH—EAST—WEST

EAST

RGL e-Book Cover^©

First published in Flynn's, 20 Dec 1924

Reprinted in Los Angeles Times Sunday Magazine, 23 Aug 1925

Collected in "The Fourteen Points,"
Grosset & Dunlap, New York, 1925

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2022
Version Date: 2022-02-11

Produced by Art Lortie, Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan

All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright.

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Flynn's, 20 Dec 1924, with "East"

"The Fourteen Points," Grosset & Dunlap, New York, 1925

Illustration from "Los Angeles Times Sunday Magazine."

"Renée," began Kennedy, frankly, "when did you see Jeanette last?"

"WHY don't you take a hand in the case of that Morehead maid, Jeanette Lafitte, Craig?" I urged, as tactfully as I knew. "It's a wonderful setting for a mystery—this pretty girl dead in some strange fashion, found in the sun-room of a millionaire mansion on top of a Fifth Avenue skyscraper. Why, one can build theories all around that!"

Kennedy merely smiled. "No one has called me in. I'm not exactly interested. You know, I never take a case just because it is a case, not even a murder case—unless there is some element of interest in it that gets me personally."

"Well," I persisted, trying to think of some other handle to take hold of, "what do you think of it, then?"

"I didn't mean what do you know. I asked what you thought. Nobody knows anything, yet. There doesn't seem to be a clue, inside or outside the place. Only, I thought you might have an opinion."

Kennedy was not to be betrayed into expressing anything half baked. He smiled again indulgently at my enthusiasm. But that was all. I felt it incumbent on me to keep the idea alive, in the hope that he would commit himself to something.

I had met the Moreheads and it was really at a hint from them that I was feeling out Kennedy. Mrs. Morehead I admired greatly. She was like many of the very wealthy women of to-day, not content just to enjoy an idle, luxurious existence. She had devoted her life to numerous charities and she had never surrendered her artistic interests, while at the same time no one could ever accuse her of neglecting in the slightest degree her family.

I had heard the particulars of the death of the maid only the night before and had called up the Moreheads immediately. Spencer Morehead had confirmed what little was known, just enough to put the idea in my head of getting Kennedy interested in the case. In fact, I could tell from Morehead's manner that nothing would please him more just now than to have Kennedy take hold of the mystery that surrounded the death of the pretty maid, Jeanette.

Scarcely a year before I had seen that the Morehead place had been given a whole page in the Sunday Star magazine. Old Morehead was a queer mingling of progress and reverence for the past. The push northward of business in the city had made great changes in his realty holdings. On the site of the Morehead mansion on Fifth Avenue, with its stables down the street, in the rear, had been built this wonderful apartment hotel. On the upper floor Morehead had established his own apartment. And on the roof he had actually laid out a garden, in the midst of which was a great glass sun-room, ceiling and side walls of glass, a veritable crystal palace in miniature. It was there that Jeanette Lafitte, the French maid of Mrs. Morehead, had been found.

I had seen the pictures of Jeanette. The face of the girl was the face of an idealist—big eyes, serious and questioning, which, in the photograph, even, seemed to have the quality of haunting one. The eyes, of themselves, had fascinated me. I felt that here was a girl who with proper lighting and direction might have made a motion-picture star. Her oval face, with tiny, shell-like ears peeping from under her boyish bobbed hair, must have been distracting, in life. Her mouth was saucily firm. No one would deny the spirit of this girl, even from merely a newspaper photograph.

I was encouraged by even this morsel of interest. "From what I could gather from Morehead's conversation over the telephone, they think she was poisoned."

I shook my head. "They don't know. Nor do they know just the time it actually happened. But the medical examiner suggests, I believe, that the death was by some exotic poison. He even hinted that it might be an exhalation, possibly, from some exotic plants in the sun-room itself."

I thought that that would fetch Craig. But it didn't. I turned to a pile of Sunday papers which I had not had time to look over and began running through them, not so much to see what they contained as to give my mind a chance to evolve from the subconscious another angle of attack by which to get him interested.

Turning hastily the pages of the rotogravure section of the Star, I was startled to catch a picture that might have some remote bearing on the case in that it would enable me to reopen the subject.

"H'ra! This is curious, Craig," I prefaced, bending closer. "Look what the Star published yesterday. Here's part of an air map of New York—the Central Park area, showing Fifth Avenue. There's the Morehead Apartments, just as distinct as if you were up over them."

Kennedy leaned over the picture with me, then took it up and held it to the light. It was his first real interest in anything I had been saying.

"That's really wonderful, Walter," he remarked, moving over where the light was still better and taking up a lens from the table as he studied the air map. "Aerial photography has certainly made advances since the war—and I thought then some of the photographs were pretty near the last word in the art, when they were enlarged. Who made this?"

"I think you'll find the name on it, in the small type underneath. The Aerial Photo Company."

Kennedy nodded. "I'd like to see the negative of this picture. It has unusual definition. But a good deal has been lost in the process printing. Do you know these Aerial Photo people?"

I felt that nothing was too remote if I might use it to fan Kennedy's interest. The fact was that I had a selfish purpose in it, also. I was thinking not only of the More-heads, but of Walter Jameson. It had been some time since I had put over a really big story for the Star. I was ready to make a flight myself with a camera if conceivably that might fix Craig's interest.

THUS it was that in the forenoon we dropped in at the office and studio of the Aerial Photo Company.

They seemed to be doing a pretty large business, for there was a growing demand for photography from the air, rather unique views of cities and towns, estates and buildings.

My connection with the Star enabled us to secure attention, and soon the negative of that particular section of the New York air map was produced, as well as prints and enlargements from it.

"You've reduced this thing to a science," complimented Kennedy, studying all three with his glass, as if checking up on them.

What could possibly interest him I did not know. Nor did I care greatly. All I wanted was for him to interest himself in the plight into which the unexplained death of the maid had thrown the Moreheads.

"When was this taken?" asked Craig of the manager, without even raising his eyes from his intent study of the negative.

His absorption in it was complete and my hopes for his taking up the case were rising every second as I watched him.

"About six months ago. You remember when we waked the city up with a story about possible danger from air raids, the air defenses, and all that? It was the beginning of our advertising campaign. I had a great deal of work to do then. They're getting back again to walking in their sleep—but we're getting business, too. So I guess everybody's happy—except the Air Service."

With his glass Kennedy was searching the negative that showed the sun-room on top of the Morehead Apartments.

"This, is a mighty strange sun-room, Walter," he commented, "filled with antiques. Most of the sun-parlors I have seen have been filled with easy chairs of wicker or with bright painted furniture. This might be a gallery in a museum!"

I nodded. "And do you see that conservatory that connects with it? They tell me the body was found at the entrance to that, or not far from it."

"Do you mean where that little rug has been placed?" Kennedy was looking sharply at the spot as if he might find some unexpected hiding place where the girl's assailant could have concealed himself.

Craig squinted and focused all his attention on the negative. I could see nothing more than the details of the furnishings, so sharp was the picture under a lens. But I knew from his manner that something unusual was there in this old picture, something that had given him a scent for the chase. I waited expectantly for him to tell me what he had found. But he ventured nothing. Still, I was not surprised at that. Kennedy never confided in anyone until his ideas were put into sure and logical shape. I knew I would hear all sometime. What heartened me most was the look on his face. I was familiar with that look. He was interested in the case and would never rest until he had found the truth. At least, I felt, the Moreheads would have his services.

I was confident enough to put the wish into words. "Will you go over to the Moreheads'?"

As for myself, I had to take that glass, give the negative a study myself, trying to find out what had influenced him so unexpectedly to take up the case. But I could see nothing unusual—only caught a smile on Craig's face as he watched me to see if I saw what he saw.

"These Moreheads, do they travel much?" asked Craig as we started across and uptown again.

"Not nearly as much as you would think. They aren't professional globe trotters. They go abroad, but not every year as so many people in their social position do. To tell the truth, they do the States more than they do Europe."

Kennedy was evidently thinking things over quietly as we rode across. Occasionally he would ask me something about the family, but my information was not very comprehensive. "How many children? Are they being educated here? Have they any foreign tutors? Has Mrs. Morehead any relatives? Do they live here or abroad?"

I knew so little that I was a bit exasperated. "Wait until you see the Moreheads. They can tell you better than I can. What is it you are trying to find out?"

"Just trying to find out about the family before I meet them," he replied, in an absent manner.

As we came into the neighborhood of the apartment house, I was hoping that Craig's insatiable curiosity would not antagonize Nancy Morehead. I knew her for a high-spirited and independent woman who would be questioned only to the extent that pleased herself, not others.

"Craig," I admonished, "it needs tact with Mrs. Morehead. She is temperamental, but one of the most charming women it has ever been my privilege to meet. She will talk if you let her think she is talking because she wants to talk—and not because you want her to talk."

"I'll be a good listener, never fear—and then she will feel disposed to tell what she knows."

WE pulled up before the Morehead Apartments and Kennedy leisurely locked his car and got out.

From the sidewalk the apartments towered above the other houses. In spite of its height there was a Colonial aspect to this building of brick and stone. Only a stone balustrade seemed to surround the roof. There was no other indication that there was virtually another house atop of this skyscraper.

The entrance was simple with the simplicity which denotes artistic judgment. We passed through and an attendant met us in the lobby. He, too, was uniformed in rich simplicity. There was not a superfluous wrinkle or mark on his clothes, not an unnecessary gesture or word in his manner, not even a smile. He might have been a Morehead automaton.

The man turned to the house telephone. A moment later he motioned to the elevator.

Even the elevator was finer than any I had ever seen before, with its mirrors, upholstered seats, imported floor covering, and with fresh flowers that suggested the kind of tenants in the building.

"No. They have a private lift, for the family and intimate friends. In the rear, too, is the service elevator for the help."

The top floor was set off from the rest by an artistic iron grillwork. In it was a massive iron door. As we approached, a servant opened it for us.

It was evident that we were welcome, for no sooner had we entered than Spencer Morehead himself greeted us. He nodded to me, did not even wait to be introduced to Kennedy.

"Very glad to see you, Mr. Kennedy," he began. "You know, a thing like this shakes the nerves of a family dreadfully. My wife seemed quite relieved when she heard just now you were willing to interest yourself in the case. Woman-like, she fears that perhaps there may have been some mistake on the part of the murderer. She fears for the life of some one in the family—that poor Jeanette, her maid, may have been mistaken for herself, for instance."

He laughed leniently at the supposed woman's weakness. I could not, myself, help repressing a smile at the idea of anyone mistaking Jeanette Lafitte for Nancy Morehead. To myself I thought of Morehead as obsessed by the "protector" complex. Those men get away with it, and their money and position enable them to buy courage and real strength from others to impress their women.

We had come to a marble staircase which led up into the Morehead apartment. The interior was much like that of many of those high-class apartments built for people who have tired of living in big houses and going the weary rounds of employment agencies to get servants to take care of them.

AT every turn was evidence of the wealth of this family. Beautiful old furniture, valuable paintings, rare ornaments and china, were on every hand, the evidence of culture. Everything was compact, yet nothing for comfort, convenience, or beauty had been omitted.

"I want to present you to Mrs. Morehead, Mr. Kennedy," bowed Morehead as his wife appeared and greeted me. "Mrs. Morehead can tell you more about Jeanette than I can. My wife is a sculptor and it was Jeanette who took care of the studio, among other things, for her. They were in close personal contact."

Kennedy listened, and I took it as a cue and did the same, as our host preceded us into a wonderful studio.

Nancy Morehead was herself a beautiful woman, though of a type quite different, of course, from Jeanette. She was small, with a slenderness almost as of youth, in spite of her two quite grown-up children. She had big brown eyes that snapped and sparkled, hands that gesticulated in rhythm with each varying emotion, white teeth that glistened, and a wealth of chestnut hair that curled.

Mrs. Morehead had seemed scarcely able to wait for the introduction. As she came forward she slipped her little hand under her husband's arm and with the other motioned us to seats.

"Mr. Kennedy," she hastened, "which do you want first—to go up to the sun-room or to hear about Jeanette from me?"

"Well," she said, leading the way, "Jeanette was my wonder maid. Was she not, Spencer? She had so much intelligence."

We were following Mrs. Morehead's quick, nervous steps up to the very top, the roof garden and its solarium in the center.

THE sun-room was different from any other sun-parlor or solarium I had ever seen. Its size made me think of the inclosed verandas in some hotels I had visited in winter resorts where hosts of guests were to be made comfortable.

Mrs. Morehead smiled at my surprise. "You needn't apologize. Everyone gasps when he sees this for the first time. It really is incongruous, I suppose. But when one studies the incongruity, it is at least distinctive and pleasant."

"You see, my husband and I differ in the sources from which we get inspiration. I get mine from the skies. I am as moody as the clouds. But somehow—it may be childish—the heavens make me think of the future. I think of the future. But Spencer comes from such an old family, is so proud of his ancestry, that beautiful relics of the past affect him most. That is why you see so much glass and so much of the sky—and so many antiques."

In fact, one entire side of the solarium, with the southern exposure, had wide glass shelves built across it running from floor to roof. On these shelves reposed a fortune in early American glass and rarer pieces brought from abroad by the various collecting Moreheads. Through these colored glasses the sun filtered, reflecting their beautiful colors in streaks on the marble-tiled floor.

After the first surprise at seeing such a peculiar sun-room, I studied the many different old-time pieces of furniture. Craig was observing them carefully, too, but I knew our reasons were divergent—mine because it was a sort of hobby, a joy to see some rare bit of old cabinet-maker's art, Craig's, no doubt, in the hope of finding some scrap of evidence.

It all seemed so hopeless to me, the solving of this mystery. There was nothing I saw that pointed to anyone or even suggested an idea. It was like a spherical safe—no corner on which to take hold. Some time had elapsed, too, since they had found the body. Many people, including the police, had come and gone, leaving new marks and perhaps mixing up the possible clues, if there had been any. I felt that if Kennedy had only been called in at first it would have been a different story.

Every moment my thoughts on the case were interrupted by catching sight of some valuable old table, or a chair that sent me into a rhapsody of appreciation. Spencer Morehead and I were getting along famously. He saw my delight unfeigned, and while Nancy More-head did most of the talking about the case in her breezy, inimitable way with Craig, the host and I discussed furniture. Still, I must confess that I was listening to Kennedy and our hostess, too, hoping to get something new on the case.

There were several butterfly tables made of pine and they had come down, stanch and firm, from early American days. Here was a small mahogany Pembroke table with its drop leaves and inlaid-work. I could hear Morehead saying, "This is a real Hepplewhite; he favored this design." There was a Jacobean love seat, a small upholstered settee about the size of a double chair. Evidently some Morehead in the past had romantic inclinations.

Mrs. Morehead saw me admiring it. "Little did its past owner dream of the tragedy it would witness some day! Oh, if these old tables and chairs could speak, what secrets we might hear!"

"Yes," I agreed, "and that highboy over there. I wonder how many girls in the past have fluttered with excitement as they took out their daintiest apparel to dress for their lovers."

"This is one of my favorite pieces," Mrs. Morehead went on, taking up her own views on the hobbies of her husband, "this poudreuse. It was made in 1679 and a great lady of France saw herself beautified before it each day. I just adore it. Do you know, Mr. Kennedy, Jeanette used to love these things, too? She was a mimic. I have seen her sit before it and pose and act like some grand dame of old. I have heard her say, 'How I would like to be surrounded by such old, beautiful things! Some day, perhaps. Who knows?'"

There were many kinds of chairs grouped about the place. Most of them came over from England years ago. Here was a perfect type of Yorkshire ladder-back, common in Georgian times. There was a ribbon-back, a shield-back, wheatsheaf-back, and the oval backs favored by the Brothers Adam.

Next that caught my fancy was a fauteuil, a French armchair. Its history dated back to 1650 and in those times it was a sumptuous piece of furniture, generally covered in the richest fabrics and found only in the homes of the great.

"But this is the irresistible piece of all. A little delicate new-moon-shaped table. Jeanette and I had an idea that this piece was uncanny. It moved so easily; sometimes when it seemed you had scarcely touched it it would slide an incredible distance."

"Nancy Morehead!" Her husband was interrupting. "The Moreheads never kept anything that seemed possessed of the devil! Just because Jeanette with her foolish, superstitious ideas made it seem alive did not make it so!"

Nancy Morehead kept her temper, with a shrug. "I can't help it. When I sat down before it I always felt uncomfortable, as if I were being crowded. Jeanette used to tell me she believed some dashing lover of the past still used it and when he saw me would try to embrace me!"

Spencer Morehead frowned with dignity. But his wife was unabashed. "Jeanette had imagination," she pursued, "a touch of sentiment, and those qualities, with her beauty and wonderful form, made her an ideal subject to pose for me, at times, even. I shall miss her." There was a real pathos in the voice of the mistress of the dead maid. One felt that Nancy Morehead missed her more than as maid alone or even as model.

Morehead was not inclined to yield the privilege of talking about the antiques. "Mr. Kennedy," he interposed, "I can remember most of these things, except what I have myself added to them, from the time when I was a little boy—and they were old, then. They were all in the old house some hundred and twenty years ago—and a hundred and twenty feet below—where the Morehead mansion and barn were on Fifth Avenue in what was then the country, not even a suburb. They had been in the family for generations when that was built."

Spencer Morehead was proud of it all and showed it in every gesture and word. Kennedy was rather silent, and observant. I fancied he was looking about all the time sharply as if for something.

He smiled. "Walter, when will you learn that I expect no particular thing? Only, there is the possibility of finding something. Nothing is too small or indefinite to overlook."

Some idea must have penetrated our host's mind that Kennedy would be more interested in hearing about the mysterious death in the Morehead ménage rather than about the Morehead possessions.

"Everything is just as it was when we found Jeanette," he remarked. "Of course, they have moved the body—from over there. But they took pictures of her on the floor, dead. Everything in detail can be obtained from the police. There was a man—I think his name was O'Connor—in charge. They were quite thorough."

Kennedy turned to Mrs. Morehead for confirmation. "You are sure nothing has been taken from the sun-room since Jeanette was found here?"

Kennedy was silent again for a few seconds, thinking. He rose from his chair and was looking out of the glass walls at the city of towers and spires and at the blue sky above us.

Spencer Morehead pointed them out to us. "Come over here. Do you see the Hudson? Well, that is west." It was a beautiful, inspiring view, and at night, with the lights of the city shining, it must have been like fairyland. "Now, over this way you can see the East River. In that direction is north; and of course that is south."

"I see." But there was absentness in Kennedy's answer. A moment later he added, "You were unable to give the conservatory a complete southern exposure. Do you find that it makes any difference?"

"Not in the least, up here. When the sun shines at all, we get it. Then the winds in the cold weather are stronger on a building facing west than they are on the southeast. We found that out in our country home and made use of it here."

Again Kennedy seemed reflective. I felt so, too. It was strange to me to be in a room and see the white clouds massing and tumbling, ever onward, over our heads. It was strange and beautiful. The atmosphere was so serene and calm that it seemed almost impossible to think of this wonder room with its delightful treasures as the scene of so recent a tragedy.

"There is one thing you haven't spoken about yet, Mr. Kennedy," remarked Morehead, slowly, "and that is a thing I am deeply interested in. This doctor who was here on the case, who is like the coroner used to be. I gather, has disgusted me." Morehead wound up by speaking rapidly to get Craig's attention.

Morehead cleared his throat. "Another hobby of mine is flowers. In that conservatory which I and my family visit every day I am raising some beautiful plants. The door to the conservatory was open when they found Jeanette dead. Now that doctor hinted that an exotic poison might have exhaled from these plants, that that was what might have done it."

"It is ridiculous!" Morehead exclaimed. "These flowers are just some lilies and orchids, some tropical plants that do fairly well up here. But they have never done anything to us—never affected Jeanette, until she died—if then. I don't believe the plants had anything to do with it."

By this time we were in the conservatory. "I can't see any of us gasping for air yet," smiled Nancy More-head. "Do yon feel any faintness, Mr. Jameson?" I confessed that I did not; rather an exhilaration at my surroundings of country aloft in the city.

"How long had you had Jeanette?" asked Craig suddenly, as if he had entirely forgotten the flowers and the opinion of the medical examiner.

"I suppose you would say upon recommendation. I have a cousin who married an English nobleman. He was in public life and a great favorite with the royal family and other influential people. Jeanette went with them when she was little more than a child as a playmate for their own child. They thought that with a French governess and a French playmate the child's accent would be perfect as she grew older.

"Jeanette, I believe, was treated like one of the family, almost. She traveled with them, was with them through all their holidays, and apparently idolized them. Lord Frothingham was sent to Bombay on some political and commercial mission for two years and her interest in the family was such that she stayed the full time with them there. I mention that merely to show her devotion.

"After leaving Bombay they returned to London. Then Lord Frothingham, in some capacity in the diplomatic service, was much in Paris. Jeanette seemed delighted to be in France again. But suddenly she changed, my cousin wrote me, and insisted on leaving. No inducement could make her reconsider. She asked my cousin for references and help, to get located somewhere here in America. They thought of me right away, and when the girl left them it was to come direct to me, assured of a position. I was more than pleased to get the girl, for her worthiness had become family gossip."

Nancy Morehead paused reminiscently. "She loved Lady Frothingham devotedly and rarely spoke of her without some show of emotion. It sometimes seemed to me that she bestowed on me the love and affection she had formerly given my cousin. One couldn't treat her like a mere servant; there was something that forebade it. Jeanette was keenly interested in my work. She had ambition. She was altogether admirable."

"Was she contented, toward the end?" asked Craig. "Had you noticed any change in her demeanor?"

"No, we had not. Jeanette always seemed the same, ready to love and serve us whenever we asked her."

Kennedy had moved out to the side of the room from which extended the conservatory, and was regarding the floor thoughtfully.

"It was right there, where you are standing, that Pierre found her," explained Morehead, "right in front of the door leading to the flowers."

"My man. I had been up here during the afternoon, left my glasses—forgot them. We went out to dinner that night. It was rather late when we returned. I sent Pierre for them. That is what he found!"

"Why Jeanette came up here at all after we left is a mystery to me, to all of us," put in Nancy Morehead. "Pierre locked the door below about seven, without coming up. So you see it must have been late in the afternoon that it happened—between six when Mr. More-head went down and seven when Pierre locked the lower door."

"Were Pierre and Jeanette interested in each other?" asked Kennedy with a glance that showed his interest in any bit of backstairs romance.

"Not in the least," answered Nancy Morehead, quickly. "Why, Jeanette was too superior a little person to be interested in plain old Pierre. She aspired higher."

She shook her head vigorously. "They were both excellent servants—but of different types. Jeanette's sparkling eyes and teasing smile must have been reserved far younger men than Pierre. But—of course—he may have aspired. Jeanette never looked down!"

"Benito. That was his last name. An Italian. Just plain William seems too ordinary, now, after the romantic name of Benito. This Benito was a handsome chap—but girl crazy. I had let him go when I found out his weakness. He was a married man, but that fact did not prevent him from paying ardent attention to Jeanette. She never took him seriously. But she did go out in the car three or four times with him after she had finished her duties for Mrs. Morehead. She always came back indignant, finally, then absolutely refused to go. Then when we heard about his wife, that was the end. We wanted no scandals among our help."

Morehead frowned. "I have thought of that, Mr. Jameson. But Jeanette was secretive—very. Unless things concerning herself were apparent to us, none of us knew anything about her personal life. She was not exactly talkative, made no confidante even of my wife, although Mrs. Morehead was closer to her than any of us. To Mrs. Morehead she did at times admit possessing ambitions and desires far above her social status. Jeanette was no ordinary person, else my wife would not have made use of her in her art work so much."

"Well," Morehead continued, with a smile, "we have a cook whose main idea in life seems to be to save her soul for heaven when she is not feeding the family so well that there is danger we may be hurried there first. I think Amanda is absolved of suspicion—just a good, old-fashioned Southern cook, black as the ace of spades, with no inhibitions or soul scars."

"And our new chauffeur. Grimes—this William," Mrs. Morehead interrupted. "With a wife so vigilant and a family so numerous that the poor fellow is kept continually busy seeking means to satisfy the wife and provide for the children. Surely, Grimes is a rare find for us. He is industrious and works hard because he needs the money. Then, he is too old to be interested in a girl like Jeanette. Grimes is another of my husband's antiques."

Morehead did not take the quip with ill grace. Rather he was a bit proud of it. "You see, ours is a family whore the help stays."

"Oh, Pierre has been with me fifteen years, at least. And Javary, the butler, came to work for us when my wife and I were married, two years or more before I engaged Pierre."

"We have tried to keep our servants satisfied, happy," explained Mrs. Morehead, "and that means we cannot stand for anything the least bit—irregular."

"Yes," Mrs. Morehead answered, quickly. "Amanda is not exactly an old servant, with us. She came to us about five months ago. We had a Hindu before that. I engaged him because he was such a splendid cook. Oh, what wonderful curries he could prepare! But he had never been so far from home before. He grew homesick, about five months ago, I think." She turned inquiringly to Morehead.

"Yes. Last spring. I bought him his ticket on the Cunarder, Iberia, and he sailed that week."

I fancied Morehead was trying to flash a look at his wife. Was it a look of caution? I could not get whether she caught it.

She shook her head. "Jeanette never mixed with any of the others, as I told you."

"I couldn't say that they did, particularly. But they got along. Jeanette was prettier, more graceful, and I had her with me more than Renée, naturally, in the studio. I think Renée felt a little slighted over that. She had been with me longer than poor Jeanette. Sometimes I did think she resented Jeanette being taken into my confidence as far as I took her."

Mrs. Morehead did not seem to be one of those women to whom the servants are a never-ending source of conversation. "Mr. Kennedy, I hate to go into these facts. It puts Renée in a very bad light, makes me feel positively disloyal to the girl. I hate to tell anything that might react on a person whom I think would be incapable of committing a crime."

"That's all right, my dear," interrupted Morehead. "It may be that Mr. Kennedy does not think Renée is capable of the crime—and still she may have been an innocent cause of it. I'll call her."

He pushed a near-by button, and in a few minutes Renée appeared. Renée was inclined to be defiant, silent, and looked askance even after Mrs. Morehead spoke to her.

"Renée, Mr. Kennedy is going to ask some questions of all the servants and he wants to speak to you now."

The girl raised her eyes guardedly, as if she feared Kennedy would see something she was trying to conceal under those lowered lids.

"It was a little after six. A short time before Mr. and Mrs. Morehead went out. I thought I heard a noise as if some one was in the sun-room. I started up to see, and Jeanette was going up there. She was angry when she saw me, said something about being watched and spied on. I was angry, too, then. I said something and went to my room. That is the last I heard or saw her alive."

"I can't say. Only, by her manner I should say she wasn't. At least she acted as if some one else was there or coming up there, and she was afraid I would see the person and tell.... You are the first one I have told this much too."

Kennedy lowered his voice confidentially. "Did you know any of Jeanette's sweethearts, Renée?"

The girl looked, gave a little, nervous, startled laugh at Craig's question. "I did not. She was mighty careful of her friends. I often wanted to go out with her. But she felt too—big, you call it, for me."

I caught a bitterness in the tone and thought that, even if Jeanette had been her enemy, she might have shown more compassion for the dead girl.

"Have you ever had words over anyone?" persisted Kennedy. Renée's face colored a trifle. "Over Benito?"

It was evident that they had. "I liked him—and she knew it. She didn't care for him. I used to think she went out with him just to make me jealous." Apparently she had succeeded.

"Did you think Jeanette had Benito in the sun-room that night when the family were going out to dinner?" asked Craig. "Was that why you were spying?"

"I tell you, sir, I was not spying. I heard a noise and was trying to see if everything was all right. It seems as if faithfulness to a family lets one in for a ragging, as they say in England. I saw no one—and what a person thinks is not evidence, sir. It would not be received in a court room, would it?"

"That's all now, Renée; you may go." Kennedy nodded a dismissal, then to us, as she went out, "She reads the papers!"

I think Nancy Morehead had the same desire that I had, toward the end of the visit—to find out whether Kennedy had any ideas himself on the case. But Craig chose to gratify neither of us.

However, I could no longer resist asking, as we were leaving the Morehead building:

"I don't know, Walter—yet. But I have some things I want to look into this afternoon. I'll meet you somewhere for dinner. Do you think you'll be at the Star at six?" I nodded, determined to make a point of being there. "Well, then, I'll telephone about that time and tell you where to meet me. I'm in a hurry now. You're going down there now, aren't you? Well, keep in touch with the case, if anything develops."

SO it was that I found myself in a state of actual suspense when I was called to the telephone at the newspaper office.

"Down in the Village, Walter. I've done a great deal, with the help of Deputy O'Connor, since I left you—and I imagine I must have spent an hour hunting for a place to eat, some interesting place, something different."

"Did you find it?" I was a bit annoyed. I thought he might have interested himself more in the case for that hour than in a new place to dine.

Kennedy was most enthusiastic over the Village when I met him and I wondered what aberration had drawn him to this mint of aberrations.

"It's the greatest little place you ever saw, Walter. I had lunch there. Such camaraderie! Everybody knows everybody else. Dry agents would have a fat chance."

"I suppose I'll enjoy the novelty of it," I agreed, "but, Craig, I must get a story. In an unguarded moment I mentioned to the chief, down on the paper, that you were interested in the case, under cover, of course. It was with difficulty that I restrained him from putting the staff at your disposal. Now I've got to make good. I'm glad it's tip to you—not to me!"

Kennedy smiled good-humoredly but still without giving me even a hint of what it was he wished to talk over with me at dinner. "I know how you feel about it, Walter. But if there were no intermissions, nothing but the daily routine of news for you, lectures for me at the university—no crimes to talk over—I'd be no good in a short time. Human nature demands variety."

BY this time we had penetrated the Village and come to a rather dull, forlorn old brick building. I saw that it was one of the many bohemian restaurants, the Civet Cat, rather a well-known place, in its way, down under the shadow of the Elevated railroad, surrounded by Italian wholesale dealers in olive oil, every Latin delicacy, and, I felt sure, in some that were unconstitutional.

Craig was carrying a cylindrical package wrapped up, a couple of feet long and several inches thick. As we entered I noticed that he did not even trust it to be checked, but kept it with him as he selected a table.

The captain of the waiters seemed evidently to know Craig, for, although every table was occupied except two or three with a little sign indicating they were reserved, it was to one of these that we were assigned.

Moreover, our waiter seemed to be guided by the attention given us by the captain. The deference of his service as he laid die menu cards before us was unimpeachable.

Kennedy scanned the card thoughtfully while I divided my attention between it and getting my first impression of our surroundings in the Civet Cat. Suddenly Craig looked up from the card.

"Mrs. Morehead's remark about curries has set my mouth watering, if you'll pardon my elegance, Walter. How about it?"

"Very good suggestion." I felt more like suggesting getting back to the Morehead case, rather than thinking of dining, but I restrained myself. With the order attended to, perhaps Kennedy would come to it, himself.

He did not, however. And soon we were enjoying the curry. Never had I tasted anything better. I made a mental note that in the future I would come here often to enjoy them.

Once, when the waiter passed, Kennedy smiled at him. "One of the finest I ever ate." He nodded toward the dish.

"Are they always as good as this?" I thought Craig had let the curry go to his head.

Kennedy looked up quickly. "I wouldn't mind telling him myself. Is there any objection?"

A moment later I found myself following Craig and the waiter down into the kitchen. I shook my head. I was beginning to think that perhaps, after all, Kennedy was not as interested in the case as I had imagined. Had my wish been father of the thought and was he only mildly interested?

Standing over the big gas stove in the kitchen, stirring vigorously the contents in a huge copper kettle, was the chef. He was so busy that he did not see us at first, not until we were close to a small table beside him where he could conveniently lay his spoons and dippers and huge forks.

Finally the obliging waiter called him. The chef straightened up and turned to us, slim and tall. His hair, what we could see about the edge of his headdress, was straight and dark. His skin was a deep olive, and his eyes large and lustrous. There was something fascinating about this face.

Kennedy smiled and moved a step forward. "The curry—it is the best I ever ate. I felt that I must tell you so."

The eyes of the man brightened at the praise, but his manner toward strangers seemed reserved and quiet. Even if he were a chef, he had a peculiar dignity.

"I must add my praise," I volunteered. "I shall come here often, just for that."

Kennedy had laid down his bundle for a moment on the table. "How do you make them? There are curries—and curries. But you have that subtle seasoning that can be found only in the land from which we get the best curries."

"It is not hard—if one knows. I grind my spices fresh every day. So much difference. I use ginger, lime juice, almonds, mustard, and poppy seeds, allspice, cardamons, chilis, cinnamon, cream and curds. I vary my curries, different days. There are so many good things to put in them."

I smiled at the agreeable answer which really revealed none of the secrets of the curry.

He turned away from us with a polite bow, to his pots and kettles. The interview was over as far as he was concerned. He had his work to do. The waiter looked at us to leave.

Kennedy was regarding with interest the man's costume. About his head he wore a lungi, bound round a red kullah. The lungi is made of cloth, generally blue, and has an ornamental border. The kullah is a tall red conical cap. The ends of the lungi hang down in the back and are called a shimla.

Just now the shimla had fallen forward over the chef's shoulder, hiding his face. He wore a white kurta, which is like the shirt of the European, only the sleeves are very long and fastened tightly by buttons at the wrist. The trousers were loose, of white cotton, and fastened also at the waist by a string.

Kennedy leaned over and touched the chef's elbow. "Arc you a Punjabi Mohammedan?"

"Did you ever know anyone by the name of Dass?" asked Kennedy, quickly. "I have news for him."

The waiter was about to speak, but a look from the chef checked him. The chef continued to face Kennedy, impassive. "Yes—I know Dass. He bought a ticket for England, then back on the P. and 0., five months ago. I know him. He has gone long time."

Kennedy smiled quietly. "A ticket was bought for Dass, my friend, that is true. But Dass never sailed. I have been down to the steamship company's office. There is no record of any such arrival at Southampton. Dass never got off the Iberia, because he was never on it. He sold his ticket to a scalper on Whitehall Street."

The waiter now was watching the chef silently, and Kennedy was studying sharply both inscrutable faces.

THAT was all Craig uttered. But it seemed to fire a thousand evil flames in the man's eyes. "I am not Dass!" He repeated it several times. Kennedy affected not to hear.

"You met her in Bombay, did you not, Dass?" He paused. "Jeanette Lafitte was beautiful, graceful, and you loved her. You wanted her for yourself. You knew her arms about you would comfort you, those slender, graceful limbs would dance for you, those dainty hands would serve you. You loved her madly, jealously—your little Jeanette."

Craig stopped again. The muscles of the man's face were twitching. Could it be that merely talking of Jeanette was more than he could bear?

"But she did not love you, Dass." Kennedy's tone was as relentless as fate. "Not because you were not rich enough. Dass, you are a rich man, once a horse-dealer, a very rich man in India. The British consul has found that out for me. But you were dark, and your society limited. Jeanette was ambitious. She wouldn't hove you, scorned you, made sport of your religion—yet her mere presence worked you up to a state of madness between desire and jealousy."

Craig kept on in his pitiless tone. "Those sweetly scented curls were too much for you. Those beautiful, haunting eyes lured you from your native land. You could not let her go. You knew that the Frothinghams were ignorant of your love for her, even though you followed her from Bombay to London and to Paris."

But the hands of the man were now pressed in agony over his eyes as if to shut out the torturing beautiful vision of the dead girl. His fingers were pressing so hard that his knuckles were white with the tautness of the skin.

"You threatened her life in Paris, too. You made her life cruelly unhappy there, with your unwelcome love. Dass, she fled from you—and came here to America. And now, Dass, I have found you—"

It was almost a wail. But there was a longing and love in the tone in which he cried even her name.

"You followed her." Kennedy was inexorable. "By subterfuge you managed to become engaged for a while as cook for the Moreheads. But there, too, she hated you, repulsed you, infuriated you. Your love for her, her scorn for you, your race, your religion worked on your Mohammedan soul. You were ready to run amuck—to kill!"

"I am not Dass!" he moaned. "Allah! Allah! Help thy servant! Why do you call me Dass? You have no proof!" Again his subtle native courage was in the ascendant. A spirit of bravado seemed to urge him to this last defiance.

Kennedy reached down, carefully unwrapped the paper from the cylindrical package he had carried. I gave a gasp as he uncovered it. It was a rug, a prayer-rug.

"You are a good Mohammedan, Dass. You prayed to Allah, dutifully, at dawn, at noon, before sunset, after sunset, and at the end of the day."

The eyes of the man were almost protruding with wonder and fright. He gazed at the rug, fascinated, hypnotized.

"It is beautiful, Dass. I admit it. The most beautiful little prayer-rug, I think, I have ever seen. I admired the design the first time I saw it. Now I admire the coloring, the texture."

"Where did you see it? Where did you get it?" Dass burst forth with excitable voice that forgot his impassive pose.

"I found out that you were here, this afternoon, after going the rounds of all the Hindu restaurants in the city. There are not so many. I worked quickly. I found you had rooms near by, on Tenth Street. It was the easiest thing in the world, with the help of the police, to search them.

"I found the rug. It was the same rug I had seen in an aerial photograph taken about six months ago from an airplane at noon over the Morehead Apartments. It showed the sun-room with its beautiful marble tiles, its wonderful furniture—and only one incongruity—this small rug not far from the conservatory door. That was queer, I thought. In some other place, downstairs, no doubt, its beauty would have adorned more appropriately. But here—it was not evidence. It was a hint It set my mind at work. Why was it there?... And when I saw the sun-room, it was not there. Nor had anything been taken out—except the girl. Some one must have used it, praying, at noon!"

Dass was now looking helplessly, hopelessly from one to the other, blocking flight. This trouble had come so suddenly to him in his fancied security. Why had Allah allowed this, from the unbelievers? Kennedy's voice continued, cold and clear. The silence was as the silence of a Judgment Day.

"I'm sorry, Dass! Sorry for you—more sorry for poor little Jeanette. East and West cannot meet. You should have known that. The fatalism of the East should have taught you to accept it....

"You could not leave Jeanette. You delayed sailing. Your heart was here, Dass. But there comes a last time with us all. You came one evening at sunset when you knew the Moreheads were out to dinner. You saw Jeanette. She tried to conceal your presence from the other servants, not that Jeanette was secretly in love with you, but she was afraid the family would find it out and dismiss her. They were particular about their servants, and Jeanette loved her mistress.

"Your religion, your color were not the religion, the color for Jeanette and her happiness. You pleaded, begged, threatened. But it was futile, In your mind you saw Jeanette loved by another, her arms about him. It crazed you. You tried to kiss her, to show her how you loved her, would cherish her. She repulsed you to the last—for the last time. In desperation you broke, in a handkerchief or something, the vial of poison for her to inhale as you held her, struggling. It was the subtle poison of the Hindu mancanilla tree, that exhales at night, which killed her. It was all over in a moment—just one of those moments between six and seven that night—and you fled down the stairway as you came, avoiding the service elevator. I suspected from the description of her waxy appearance. From the organs of the body still with the medical examiner I confirmed it by one chemical test."

"The hint came first to me from the strange presence of the Oriental prayer-rug in that picture of the sun-room—and its absence later in the room. Each fact confirmed me. When Mr. Morehead told of one Dass, a Hindu, I was almost ready to act. The fact that Jeanette had lived in Bombay advanced it a step. The steamship records were another step. Then the mancanilla test of the organs—and the rug—clinched it!"

Kennedy had laid the prayer-rug down on the floor as he spoke, and was turning it slowly, carefully.

"There—with the customary apex, that point in the figures of all prayer-rugs, turned as it must be, Dass, toward the Holy City of Mecca toward the East!"

DASS seemed suddenly to realize that his game was up. As Craig placed the rug and left it, he dropped to his knees on it, for absolution from a sin, to be forgiven one of the faithful against an unbeliever, no matter how meritorious. Kennedy leaned over.

"Your Allah may cleanse you of pollution, Dass—but that won't go with American courts! Come with me! You're wanted!"

THE END

ARTHUR B. REEVE

CRAIG KENNEDY AND THE COMPASS NORTH—SOUTH—EAST—WEST

EAST

THE END

CRAIG KENNEDY AND THE COMPASS
NORTH—SOUTH—EAST—WEST