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Title: Married For Murder
Author: Emile C. Tepperman
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
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Edition: 1
Language: English
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Date first posted: July 2006
Date most recently updated: July 2006

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Married for Murder
Emile C. Tepperman



MARTY QUADE leaned forward in the cab and tapped on the pane. "This is
it, Moe. Number forty-two. Pull up right here."

The driver nodded, braked before the aristocratic old brownstone
house. He said over his shoulder, as Marty got out, "Looks like they
got dough, Mr. Quade. How do you always manage to get clients ents
that are filthy with dough?"

It was the kind of house that inspired one with the feeling that its
owners had lived in it for generations, and could live in a palace if
they were not tied to this place by reasons of sentiment and pleasant
association. Set far back from the building line, it had a well-kept
lawn, which, In this section of high real estate values alone
represented the price of a dozen buildings In a poorer neighborhood.
The house reminded Marty of an old bottle of Napoleon brandy that
might look musty and cobwebby, but was priceless.

As Marty got out of the cab, he stopped for a moment at the curb,
glanced down the street. Moe followed his gaze, peering in the rear
vision mirror on the fender.

"There they come, Mr. Quade," he said, as a maroon sedan swung around
the corner, and slowed up, crawling down the block toward them. "They
stuck like leeches."

Marty nodded. He waved the driver away. "Drive around the corner and
park the cab with the flag down--I'll pay the tariff. Then come back,
and if the birds from that sedan have come in the house after me, you
just ring the bell hard, and beat it back around the corner. Wait for
me there' and don't pay any attention if you bear shooting in there."

The driver said, "Okay, Mr. Quade. It sounds screwy to me, but I guess
you know what you're doing."

Marty didn't bother to answer. As the cab pulled away, he walked up
the short path flanked by tall umbrella trees, then up the short
ftight of stone steps, and rang the bell. He stood sideways to the
door, with his hand hallway across the white bosom of his dinner
jacket, close to the butt of the automatic in his armpit holster.

He kept his eye on the maroon sedan, which had slowed down to a snail-
like pace, was still half a block away.

He waited what seemed a long time, but did not press the bell button
again. At last he heard light, faltering steps in-side. The curtain
behind the glass panel of the old-fashioned door was pulled aside and
some one peered out at him from the murky darkness of the interior.

Then the door opened, and Marty stepped into the dark hallway. He
still held his hand close to the automatic, his whole body tense,
ready for action. The door closed, shutting out what little light the
street lamp had thrown into the house. Some one moved quietly beside
him.

Marty caught the faint rustling of a dress, the sweet scent of a
woman's hair. A soft body brushed him' a light hand fell on his
sleeve.

"Come this way, Mr. Quade," a girl's voice said to him. "Hold on to
me. I--I'm afraid to make a light."

Her voice spoke of refinement. Also, it hinted of nameless fear.

Marty put out a hand, touched a soft, cool, bare arm. "All right, Mrs.
Boynton," he said. "Take me where we can talk."

He followed her through the dark hail and up a flight of stairs. She
walked with the sure step of one who knew the house well, It was
Marty's left hand that held on to her; his right was still free.

Down at the middle of the upper hall she turned and led him through a
doorway into a room that was just as dark as the rest of the house.
She closed the door, and Marty heard a switch click. The room was
bathed in soft light from a small lamp on a writing desk in the
corner.

Marty's eyes swept the room. He saw that it was large, thickly
carpeted, expensively furnished. Heavy drapes coyered the two windows,
permitting not a single streak of light to shine through.

The girl who had brought him here was tall, slim, with a slender
throat and patrician features. She was somewhere between twenty-four
and twenty-eight. Despite her slimness she had attractive curves; and
Marty knew she was soft and pleasant to the touch.

"Well, Mrs. Boynton," he asked, "what makes you think you need a
private de-tective?" Somehow, in that large room, his voice sounded
hollow, almost unreal.

THE girl was close to him. Her eyes sought his appealingly. She was
breathing rapidly, shortly, almost in sobs. She spoke fast,
tremulously, one hand clutching his sleeve.

"Were you followed here, Mr. Quade?" She didn't give him time to
answer. "I'm sure they knew you were coming. I'm sure they've tapped
my wire. They must have listened in when I called you."

Marty nodded slowly. "I was followed, all right; a maroon sedan. It's
outside now." He took her arm, led her to a settee at the other end of
the room, and sat down beside her. "Now, suppose you take a deep
breath and tell me what's your trouble--and who they are."

She clasped her hands in her lap, looked around fearfully. "If they're
outside, they'll come in, I'm sure, i'm sure!" Her voice rose, became
slightly shrill. "I shouldn't have called you. I should have paid
them. Now they'll come in and kill us-kill us both!"

Marty rose disgustedly. "Listen, lady, you and I will never get along
like this. Now-do you talk sense, or do I go home?"

She bit her lower lip, controlled herself. She nodded. "I'm all right
now,"' she said, low-voiced.

"Fine,'" said Marty. He sat down again. "Now spill it.'"

"It-it's my husband," she began. "Alan--he's a-a-bigamist!"

"Then he's crazy," Marty told her.

She smiled haif-heartedly. Even in her state of fear, she was,
womanlike, susceptible to a compliment from a man like Marty.

He grinned. "Now we're getting the situation under control. So tell me
when you found out about this, and what the birds in the maroon sedan
have to do with it. Also why you're all alone here in the house,
shivering in your shoes."

She was a little calmer now. Marty did that to people. His broad
shoulders and square face that reflected power and reliability, his
imperturbable, easy manner, seemed to inspire men and women with
confidence, with a sense of safety.

She unclasped her hands, started to twirl the diamond wedding band
around her finger. "Alan told me himself. He--he hasn't been home for
three days. He called me on the phone day before yesterday. They made
him marry this woman before a justice of peace up in Connecticut. But
he can't prove that he was forced. They just stood there as witnesses,
but they had their hands in their pockets, with guns; and they would
have--killed him if he hadn't gone through with it!"

Marty's eyes had a far-away look. "Sounds like a new kind of racket to
me," he said reflectively. He swung on her bruskly. "Go on. What
happened?"

She had forgotten some of her fear now, in the telling of the story.
She went on eagerly, "They've got Alan somewhere. He went with them
willingly, so it can't be called kidnaping; Alan told me that on the
phone. Then yesterday, they came to see me, showed me a photostat copy
of the marriage certificate. They want a hundred thousand dollars, or
they'll have the woman they married him to prosecute him for bigamy!"

Marty whistled. "It took brains to figure that one out. Who's this
they?"

"Two men," she told him, "named Cuvillier and Serrano."

Marty started, tensed. "Cuvillier! I might have known he's the only
one in town with the brains for such a stunt." He turned to her
grimly. "What did you do?"

"I--I was willing to pay it, if they'd give me the original marriage
certificate and a release from the woman. But no--they wouldn't do
that. Cuvillier told me, with that maddening smile of his, that the
hundred thousand was only the first installment-they'd be back for
more in a year or so. They're going to hold that over Alan's head for
the rest of his life!"

"So you refused to pay up?"

"I did." Her mouth set in a stubborn little line. "I won't have Alan
bled-and bled-forever!"

Marty looked at her admiringly. "So what did my pal, Culliver, do?"

"He-he only laughed. He said he was letting me off easy. If I don't
pay by tonight, they'll kill me-and Alan. And the woman will inherit
all of Alan's estate. They'll get all his money at once?"

Marty's eyes were bleak. "He'd do just that, too. Cuvillier's got away
with murder more than once in this town."

The girl stirred. Impulsively, she put a hand on his knee. "That's why
I called you, Mr. Quade. I can't go to the police. Alan is vice-
chairman of the League of Decency. He could never prove he was forced
to marry the woman. Can you imagine the scandal?"

"Yeah," said Marty. "I can imagine." He rose, carefully brushed off
the lapel of his coat, upon which he had detected a slight speck.
"Where were you supposed to get the hundred thousand? Could you put
your hands on it?"

She nodded. "I could sell some securities. The property and securities
are all registered in our joint names." She got up, clutched his coat
at the shoulder. "Please, please, Mr. Quade, do something. They told
me if I called in any one they wouldn't wait. They'd start killing."

MARTY growled, "What the hell can I do? Cuvillier has you tied up in a
knot."

Her eyes were large, trusting. "You can do something. Everybody talks
about you. They say you never fail in any case you take."

"Yeah," said Marty. "But I haven't taken this yet. I've had it in for
Cuvillier for a long time, but this doesn't look like a spot. He's
been too clever. Of course, if he should go in for murder-" his eyes
regarded her somberly--"but that wouldn't do you any good. You'd be
past enjoying it."

"Help me," she pleaded. "Help me. I---I'm so-alone. I'll pay you-
whatever your bill is."

Marty shook his head. "I can't see it, Mrs. Boynton. You better do
business with Cuvillier--and hope he slips some other time. It's-"

He stopped at the sound of stealthy movement from the hail door. He
whirled, his hand streaking for the automatic; but he didn't touch it.
For the door had been silently swung open, and out of the darkness of
the hall a shadowy shape loomed, a hand with a revolver was thrust
into the room. And the revolver was pointing at him.

"Don't do it, Quade," said a voice. The voice sounded a little
worried. "Maybe we can talk this over."

Marty grinned, but kept his hand close to the butt of the automatic.
"Okay, Cuvillier. I won't hurt you. Come on in."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mrs. Boynton, eyes distended and
mouth open in terror; she was clutching his sleeve again, and would
have made it a little difficult for him to draw and fire if he'd had
to.

She said hoarsely, "He'll kill us both now!"

"Don't worry, lady," Marty reassured her. "Mr. Cuvillier won't do any
shooting right this minute. If I thought he would, I'd have pulled my
gun anyway."

The shadow from the hallway drew into the room, materialized as a
large, paunchy man with a wide head and ears that stuck out at right
angles. He wore a soft felt hat with a wide brim, which was intended
to camouflage the large ears somewhat. There was a sharp cut to the
hard chin, and a ruthless look in his eyes, which proclaimed Cuvillier
to be a dangerous man. He was holding a revolver.

Behind Cuvillier there entered a small man with a shriveled face and
black eyes set deep back under a high forehead. He was skinny and
wizened, but the bony hand that held the automatic trained on Marty
did not waver by so much as the sixteenth of an inch.

Marty laughed harshly. "Heilo, Serrano. I see you got a new job now.
You're a sap. Don't you know it's poison to be Cuvillier's bodyguard?
He'll leave you holding the bag, the way he did the others."

Serrano scowled. His nose wrinkled into ugly shape from the grimace as
he said to Cuvillier's back, "Lemme give it to him, boss! What's he
buttin' in for anyway? It's his own funeral!"

Cuvillier jerked his shoulder impatiently, barked, "Lay off, Serrano.
I'll do all the talking." He kept his eyes on Marty. "Look, Quade--I
don't want any fuss with you. I know you can pull that gun of yours
awful fast. You'd maybe get me, too, even with us having the drop on
you. But you'd be dead as a herring, and you couldn't make any more
dough."

Marty reached over with his left hand and gently disengaged the girl's
clutch from his sleeve. He felt better now. His fingers, splayed like
talons, hovered over the butt of the automatic, which was already
partly showing under his coat.

"So don't take this here dame's case," said Cuvillier. "You can get
out from under. She's got to pay. There's no out for her or for
Boynton. I got them sewed up tight. And believe me, when I say tight,
I mean tight!"

The girl said to Marty almost under her breath, "No, no. I won't pay-
unless they give me the marriage certificate and a release."

Marty sighed. "To be frank with you, Cuvillier," he told the big man,
"I wasn't going to take the case. But now-"

He stopped as the doorbell downstairs rang loud and long. Serrano
jerked around at the clatter of the bell. Cuvillier ordered, "Go see
who that is. Chase 'em away. We're busy."

Serrano backed out of the door. "It might be Boynton an' Luella, from
the car," he said. "Maybe Luella thinks we're givin' her the cross."

"If it's them, bring them up. We'll have Boynton tell Quade with his
own tongue that he don't want any dicks mixing in here!"

When Serrano was gone, Marty grinned and said, "That's not your pals
from the car, Cuvillier. It's just a little alarm bell of my own that
I arranged for, in case you followed me in the house--only it came a
little late." He lowered his hand slowly from the region of the
shoulder clip. "You won't do any shooting now, Cuvillier. You were
seen to come in by the man who rang that bell. And he'd make a swell
witness to pin a murder rap on you."

CUVILLIER breathed a sigh of relief, lowered his revolver. "I'd rather
not trade shots with you, anyway. Wait'll Boynton comes up an' tells
this dame here to pay over."

Marty cast a glance at tize stubborn set of the girl's mouth. She was
standing tensely, her eyes lancing hate at Cuvillier.

Marty said to her, "What about it, Mrs. Boynton. You willing to pay,
or should I take the case? I think that you can beat this frame of
Cuvillier's. It's blackmail, and he can go up the river for ten
years."

"If you prove it," Cuvillier pointed out. "I ain't said a word about
blackmail. Why, it was her own husband that told her on the phone to
turn over that hundred thousand."

"I can't understand it!" the girl ex-claimed. "That Alan should have
let them force him to marry the woman-"

Marty patted her shoulder. "Don't worry, Mrs. Boynton. It was a good
stunt, but they won't get away with it. No one would believe that a
man like your husband would actually go through with a marriage
ceremony-commit bigamy with his eyes open!"

They heard Serrano opening the downstairs door, heard loud voices-a
woman's shrill one, and a man's troubled, subdued tones. Mrs. Boynton
said:

"That's Alan!"

There were footsteps on the stairs. In a moment Serrano appeared in
the doorway, and behind him a woman, no longer youthful, with bleached
blonde hair and rings under her eyes. She was poorly dressed, and
Marty noticed a run in her stocking.

After her came a man in his late thirties, dignified, but with a
harried expression on his face. As he entered, Mrs. Boynton cried,
"Alan!" in a choked sort of voice, and started to run to him; but
stopped, with her hand to her mouth as she saw something in her
husband's eyes.

Serrano grinned, waved his gun to ward the frowzy woman, said, "Meet
Luella Haines, ladies an' gents."

The woman brushed past him, put a hand on her hip, and stood as if
flaunting herself before Boynton's wife. "The name," she said, "is
Mrs. Luella H. Boynton-like it, or not."

Marty had been studying the husband, disregarding Cuvillier and
Serrano. Now he turned to the woman, frowning at her. "You don't have
to rub it in, Luella," he said. "In a racket like yours, you're
supposed to treat the customers nice and gentle. All you want is the
dough, Isn't it?"

She sneered at him. "Wise dick, ain't you? That's how much you know
about It. We're getting the dough, and I'm rubbing it in. What do you
think of that?"

Marty looked at her reflectively for a moment, and then he started to
grin slowly. He saw that Boynton was squirming uncomfortably, and that
Cuvillier and Serrano were red in the face. Serrano was fingering his
gun suggestively as if he wanted to rake it across the woman's face.

Marty goaded him. "What's the matter, Serrano? Is your lady-friend
talking too much for everybody's good?" He glanced at Cuvillier. "Your
hired help seems to be getting out of control. There's more to this
than just a blackmail racket, Cuvillier. Why don't you open up to me.
I might be able to straighten out the whole jam."

Cuvillier threw a nasty glance at Luella, then hastened to assure
Marty, "There's nothing to it, Quade. This is just the way it lines
up. Luella here's been married to Boynton, and there ought to be some
kind of settlement. Luella'll take a hundred grand and forget she's
his lawful wedded wife-for a while. Of course, there'll be more
payments due in the future; a guy as rich as Boynton can't marry two
women cheap nowadays."

Marty was laughing silently, in Cuvillier's face. He turned to the
bleached-blonde woman. "Come on, Luella, open up. If you have any
rights, they'll be taken care of-without Cuvillier's assistance." He
pointed a finger at Boynton, who had become very pale. "What about it,
Mr. Boynton-won't you take care of Luella?" He demanded it sharply,
imperiously, as if the answer had to be yes.

Boynton fidgeted, looked at the woman, then at his wife, then at
Cuvillier. "Why--why--I guess so--of course." He squared his
shoulders. "See here, Mr. Quade. Why should you mix up in this? My
wife acted hastily when she called you in. I'm perfectly willing to
deal with these men; it's the only way out."

Cuvillier nodded, grinning broadly. "That's the stuff, Mr. Boynton I
Nothing like settling these things friendly like. You're a reasonable
man!" He held out his hand, palm outward, to Marty, in a gesture of
satisfaction. "You see, Quade? Just as I told you-you're not wanted
here. How about fading out and leaving us to settle this between
ourselves?"

Marty shook his head slowly, still grinning. "Can't be done,
Cuvillier." He took Mrs. Boynton's arm. "The lady, here, won't agree.
She's not going to pay out this hundred thousand till she knows the
inside of the deal." He pressed the girl's arm. "Am I right, Mrs.
Boynton?"

The girl's eyes were wide, fixed on her husband, with mingled concern
and fear. She hesitated. "Well, if Alan-"

Marty increased the pressure on her arm, squeezed hard. "Am I right,
Mrs. Boynton?"

The pressure of Marty's hard fingers seemed to reassure her, to give
her courage. Her little chin went up, she swept the others with a
disdainful gaze.

"I won't pay!" she said. "Unless they give up their hold on Alan. I
won't! I won't!"

MARTY shrugged. "You see, Cuvillier? Your racket is swell, but it's no
good with this lady. Too bad-"

Cuvillier's face had assumed an ugly expression. Serrano swung his gun
to cover Marty, muttering, "Troublemaker!"

It was Boynton who interrupted Marty. He said hastily, "Never mind.
I'll pay the money myself. As long as my wife knows-"

Marty stopped him. "You can't, Mr. Boynton. You need your wife's
signature. It's no good." He spoke to the husband, but he had his eyes
on the bleached blonde. "How come you let them marry you to this
woman? You don't look like the kind of guy that could be intimi-dated.
And a dame like her-"

Mrs. Boynton broke in. She was looking appealingly at her husband.
"Oh, Alan! Why did you let them do it? Why? Why? You've put yourself
in their hands!"

Boynton veiled his eyes. "I'm sorry, dear. This woman---"

The bleached blonde had been listening to the conversation avidly,
seeming to gloat over Mrs. Boynton's misery. Marty was watching her
carefully, noting her reactions.

Now he said to her, "See? You're nothing but a tool of Cuvillier's.
Boynton hates you."

The woman's attitude seemed to change at Marty's words. Her mouth
twisted into a vicious line. Her eyes snapped venom. "He hates me,
does he! He calls me this woman! I'll show him about this woman!"

She whirled on Boynton. "You--you---" She seemed to choke up with rage
and hate. But her hands moved swiftly. She snatched a small-calibered
gun out of her handbag, backed away, and pumped four shots into
Boynton.

Marty got to her before either Cuvillier or Serrano, slapped her gun-
band down. Another bullet plowed into the floor. Serrano raised his
gun, fired a single shot into the woman's body.

"Damn you!" he screeched. "A hundred grand gone!" He swung his gun
toward Marty. "You too, you-"

Marty's right hand, which was free of the woman, streaked to his
armpit. At the same time he dropped Luella, and sidestepped. His hand
flashed out with the automatic, and flame lanced from it just as
Serrano fired. Serrano's aim was thrown off by having to follow
Marty's moving body, and he missed. But Marty's slug caught him
between the eyes. He was slammed backward into the hallway, his
convulsive finger holding down the trigger. His automatic continued to
spurt lead, described a wild arc. And in the radius of that arc stood
Cuvillier.

Cuvillier dropped like a log, shot through the throat by his own
bodyguard.

Marty, breathing hard, looked over the room. It was a shambles. Mrs.
Boyn-ton was standing stiff and frozen, shocked by the terrific
explosions and the swift death that had come into the room.

Marty gripped her arm, led her to the settee. "Sit down and take it
easy. It's all over."

Her eyes seemed to come to life, roved the room, and rested on her
husband.

"ALAN!" she moaned. "He's dead."

Marty patted her shoulder, went over and knelt by the bleached-blonde
woman. Serrano's bullet had caught her over the heart. There was no
life in her.

From outside came voices; a police siren.

Marty went swiftly through Cuvillier's pockets. He found what he
sought-a long envelope, with two documents in it.

One was old and musty, the other brand new. Marty glanced only a
moment at the old one, put it hastily in his pocket. The other he
brought over to the settee, handed it to the girl.

She looked up at him with dull eyes. "It's the marriage certificate,"
he told her.

She shivered. "Alan's dead. What good is it now?"

"Don't you want to protect his name, and yours? You want this to get
out?"

Heavy feet sounded on the stairs, commands in an authoritative voice.

She continued to look at him uncomprehendingly. "But-but how-"

"How to cover it up? You just follov my lead. Let me do the talking."

He turned to the door as a couple of uniformed figures burst in. They
were the crew of a radio car. Behind them came Moe, Marty's taxi
driver.

The uniformed men had their guns out, took one look at the place, and
swung on Marty.

Moe shouted, "Hey, wait. That's Mr. Quade. He ain't one of the
crooks!"

Marty said, "Thanks, Moe." To the cops he explained, "We had a little
shooting scrape. Some people got killed."

"Yeah. So we see. How come?"

Just then another uniformed man, and one in plainclothes came in.
Marty greeted the one in plainclothes, who was Detective Sergeant
Sayre of homicide. "Hello, Dave. Late, as usual!"

Sayre scowled at the room in general, turned an inquiring glance on
Marty. He grinned sourly. "I see you done your good deed for the day,
Quade. Cuvillier, huh? I thought that bird was too slick to lay
himself open to getting shot by you."

"He was," Marty grinned. "I didn't shoot him. Serrano did. Serrano
also shot the woman, and the woman shot Mr. Boynton. I had to kill
Serrano to keep him from doing further damage."

"Sounds screwy to me," Sayre growled. "That's what I said," Moe
interrupted eagerly, "when Mr. Quade--"

Marty froze him with a glance. "It's not screwy when you know the
facts, Dave. Those three were a gang. They threatened to kill Mr. and
Mrs. Boynton. So I was hired to protect them. Only I came just a
minute or two late. The shooting had started, and they they found out
they were double-crossing each other, so they kept on shooting-at each
other."

SAYRE glanced at him suspiciously, turned to Mrs. Boynton. "What about
it, Mrs. Boynton? Let's hear your story."

Marty raised a hand, looked outraged. "Why, Sergeant Sayre! You
wouldn't subject Mrs. Boynton to questioning after she's just gone
through such an ordeal!"

Sayre glowered at Marty, but the girl rose from the settee. She said
brokenly, "It's all right, Mr. Quade. I-I'll answer the officer's
questions." She turned her large eyes on Sayre. "You want to know what
happened?"

"That's right, madam."

"Well, you see, these people were a gang. They threatened to kill Mr.
Boyn-ton and myself if we did not give them money. So we hired Mr.
Quade, but he came too late. They had already started to-"

Sayre turned away from her disgustedly. "Yes, I know-they had already
started shooting. The woman shot your husband-" He swung around and
glared at Marty. "How did you manage to coach her so quick?"

Marty said sharply, "You're nuts, Dave! This is murder. Are you
hinting that I'm not telling you just what happened?"

Sayre said wearily, "Oh, all right. I'll take your stories as they
stand, But I hope the bullets in the right bodies belong in the right
guns."

"You can depend on it, Dave, they will."

"I guess you're right," Sayre agreed reluctantly. "I've never known
you to condone murder."

"You're damn right!" Marty growled. He took Mrs. Boynton's arm, led
her out. "We'll be in the next room when the inspector comes," he
called back. "There's no need to keep this lady here any longer."

The girl seemed to be holding her own. She said, "In here, Mr. Quade,
please," indicating a door off the hall. This was a sitting room.

She seated herself before a writing desk, drew a folding check book
out of a pigeon hole. Marty could see that she was exerting supreme
control over herself. Perhaps in an hour or two abe would yield to
shock, perhaps not.

She picked up her pen, said, "About your fee, Mr. Quade?"

Marty shrugged. "I didn't do so much for you, Mrs. Boynton. I couldn't
stop."

She raised her hand. "I think you're doing more for me than you want
to tell me. What was that worn-looking paper you took out of
Cuvillier's wallet, and put in your pocket?"

Marty started.

She smiled wanly. "I saw you take it." She held out her hand. "You
might as well show it to me. I can stand anything now."

Marty was reluctant. "What's the use--If you don't show it to me, I'll
guess--and it couldn't be worse--than my guess."

Marty looked at her for a long minute; then he nodded. "Okay."

He reached into his pocket, took out the old, crinkled paper, spread
It open on the desk. It was coming apart at the folds. He smoothed it
out, and they both read it. Then they looked at each other silently.

It was a marriage certificate, dated the fourteenth day of February,
1920. It certified that on that day, one Alan Boynton had taken to
wife one Luella Haines.

The girl read it through twice more before she raised her eyes, full
of questioning pain. She said very low, "Alan was already married to
her. He really became a bigamist when he married me!"

"That's right," Marty agreed. "Luella must have caught up with him,
and then told her story to Cuvillier. Cuvillier probably made his play
to your husband, hit him up for heavy dough. But your husband couldn't
draw that much money without explaining to you, so he figured out the
stunt of staging a second marriage to Luella Haines, and then telling
you he'd been forced to marry her. See it?"

There was a tear in the corner of each of her eyes. "I see." She
swallowed hard. "Poor woman. How she must have hated him for deserting
her!"

She threw her head back, dabbed at the tears with a tiny handkerchief,
and picked up the pen.

"This check, Mr. Quade," she said, "is going to be good."

As she wrote the check, Marty slowly tore the marriage certificate
into small bits.



THE END

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