A Novel for Amateur Detectives BY BEN HECHT BONI AND LIVERIGHT Publishers New York Copyright, 1923, by Boni and Liveright, Inc. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA TO JOSEPHINE DITRICHSTEIN, who graciously promised to read my next book, providing, of course, it was a mystery story...

Containing a nervous cavalier with frightened eyes—Introducing a mysterious and puritanical satyr—And discussing the tired ghosts that haunted the heart of Julien De Medici. In the firelight the face of Julien De Medici appeared like a gray and scarlet mask of ennui. Oblivious of the ornamental room with its pattern of books, statues and tapestries, he sat stiffly in the carved wooden chair and stared at the burning logs. He was waiting for his host, Victor Ballau. Except for the crackling of th

In which a lady of barbaric eyes smiles, sighs, and weeps—In which Eros obliges with a saxophone solo—A morning of golden shadows and an off-stage pizzicato. New York on a spring morning.... A leap of windows toward a gay sky, a carnival of windows, windows fluttering like silver pennants, unwinding in checkerboards and domino lines. A deluge of signs, a sweep of acrobatic advertisements, a circus of roof tops and a fanfare of stone, the city flings itself into a glittering panorama. It stands i

In which Julien De Medici collides with a tantalizing corpse—In which a dagger, a candlestick, a crucifix, and a false beard mumble incoherently. Promptly at ten o’clock that night De Medici walked distractedly into the stage entrance of the Galt Theater. He had spent the day in a fever of expectancy. A memory had followed him like an offensive companion. “She was crying when I went away. She stood looking after me and wept.” He had watched Florence unseen by her during the few minutes she hesit

In which a detective weaves a theory—In which Julien De Medici stares at a clew—In which Pandora raises a warning finger to her lips—A table set for two, an initialed purse, an ancient theater program—but the story waits. De Medici could hear the murmur and exclamations of the arriving guests. They were gathering in the large reception hall—painters, men and women of the stage, poets, dilettantes—the charming crew of professionals who had formed a background for Victor Ballau’s fastidious existe

In which the world wags its callous tongue—In which dénouements thumb their noses at each other—In which Julien De Medici succumbs to a delicious madness—A Jesuitical policeman and an ambitious coroner flirt coyly with an Enigma. There was an inquest. Newspaper headlines bombarded the mystery. The grateful press panted ecstatically on the trail of clews, conjectures, romances, and revelations. A crowd filled the street in front of the fashionable Park Avenue apartment building. They stood watchi

In which a detective attaches a pair of asses’ ears to his head—In which Julien De Medici removes for a moment a mask—In which a glimpse, incredible and disturbing, is caught of the soul of Florence Ballau—Who blew out the candle of the salamanders? A climax! Florence Ballau.... There had been innuendoes in the press. She arose—a figure out of the depths of melodrama. Her black attire, the tilted and somber hat that shadowed her face—the night-flower face that had captured Broadway.... “As beaut

In which an apoplectic scientist explodes—In which invisible footsteps sound in a dark corridor—In which Julien De Medici opens a letter—The woman of the hidden eyes—Floria, the lady of the dagger, appears—In which underworlds collide—The staircase to Hell and a strange passion—A voice that spoke over the telephone. Tall, wine-colored velvets fell in monotonous parallels from the ceiling to the floor. There were no windows to be seen. A somber and luxurious emptiness like the inside of a jewel b

In which Nemesis babbles cheerfully—In which the Dead Flower adopts new petals—Postmarks and timetables and a false beard that sneers mischievously—Also a scrawl of vengeance, enigmatic ashes and a half signature. The cab rolled through the dark streets. Dr. Lytton’s hand rested on the knee of his companion. “All right now?” he asked. De Medici nodded. “Dizziness,” he answered laconically. “A rather interesting case,” the doctor looked at him speculatively. “Fear, eh? Morbid and illogical fear.

In which a scientist half opens a reluctant door—The strange sleep of Florence Ballau—The broken murmur—“It was ... it was ...”—In which a detective scratches his ear and sighs—In which Julien De Medici puts on his armor. “May I examine this?” Dr. Lytton asked as the aide walked out of the lieutenant’s office. “Yes, of course.” Dr. Lytton and De Medici studied the bit of charred paper. “The lady of the dagger,” the doctor spoke softly. De Medici nodded, and the lieutenant concealed a growing cur

In which a pathologist reasons himself into a railroad trip—Francesca of the spiral eyes—The ancient science of demonology—The visiting shadow—The dagger that glistened against the moon. Night covered the streets. De Medici’s expressionless face nodded an attentive punctuation to the talk of the pathologist as they left the police station behind. “Two and two,” Dr. Lytton was saying exuberantly. “The thing evolves into an ABC of logic. Poor child, poor child. You guessed it, too, eh, Julien? Wel

In which Julien De Medici finds himself grewsomely decorated—In which he passes triumphantly on his own innocence—The exonerating wound—Candlestick and cross again and the laugh of a new Francesca—A new doubt—A telegram both absurd and bewildering—Cinematographic clews. Dawn entered the room. The spring sun lay brightly across the floor. From the street below drifted in the noise of early traffic. And De Medici opened his eyes. For a moment he stared weakly at the canopy of his bed. Then a smile

Treasures for sale—Bidders and buyers and candlesticks—In which an old woman makes an exciting purchase—In which Julien De Medici pursues an aged Alice in Wonderland—The beginning of a story. Donovan, the doorman, greeted him. “Good morning,” he said. “There’s quite a crowd, sir.” De Medici nodded. He recalled there was to be an auction of the Ballau treasures. Money was needed to pay the dead man’s debts and provide his daughter with expenses. “Started yet?” he asked. “Yes.” Donovan’s eyes took

In which Julien De Medici meets a train and grapples with a skyrocket—The triumphant phantoms again—In which Dr. Lytton relates an incredible story concerning dawn in Rollo, Maine—“Come at once—she is dying.” The train was pulling in. Its headlight swinging down the track filled De Medici with violent emotion. In a few minutes Dr. Lytton would alight, leading at his side the long sought and mysterious Floria. With a roar and hiss of steam, the train loomed at his side and came to a stop. The bus

The burning-eyed visitor—An old favorite—Amateur theatricals—“Light the candles!”—In which Julien De Medici reveals himself as an effective playwright. They had been sitting for fifteen minutes in silence. De Medici finally spoke. He had grown nervous and catlike, his eyes furtively caressing the curtains of the room, his ears strained for sounds. “She should be here now,” he said. “It’s only fifteen minutes’ walk.” Dr. Lytton grunted and said nothing. A savage light was in his eyes. “Are you su

In which Florence takes up the drama—A taxicab, as in the beginning—In which what is left of the reader’s suspense and curiosity is carefully removed. The cab bowled slowly along through the circuitous park roads. “I’ll tell him to take his time,” De Medici whispered. “The air will do you good.” He looked at the girl beside him. Tenderness lighted his face. “There’s really nothing to worry about any more, Florence. Your mother will have excellent care where she is. Dr. Lytton wrote me that he’s