The Mystery Megapack

he meet up with the desperado in some lonesome spot; but so far he had committed all his outrages in the blackness of night.
    On his tramps, Weston always carried his automatic; and when down on the beach, he had practiced with it, shooting at bits of driftwood. Teller also had a gun which he carried loose in the side pocket of his coat. There was no part of the twenty-four hours when Annie was not, as she and Weston both felt, adequately protected.
    On this bright morning, Frank purposed to pay a visit to the looted cottage. This was several miles down the shore; and owing to the fact that the shore line was not straight, but wound in and out and was broken by many little estuaries, it took him some three hours to arrive.
    There wasn’t much to see; a caretaker had been installed, the place had been cleaned up, and a list of the things stolen proved to be not very serious. Nothing of much value save the radio outfit and some good rugs and pictures had been left in the cottage over the winter. The caretaker welcomed him, the time dragging somewhat in this remote place; and he went over the house, but found little to interest him. So, after giving the man a handful of cigars, and thanking him, he started back for home, this time taking to the highway in order to save time and arrive for dinner.
    He had proceeded less than half a mile when a swiftly driven touring car passed him. Directly after, it slowed down, and the man who was not driving turned and waved a hand at him.
    Sheriff Thomas sat in the tonneau; Frank noticed that his face was grim and unshaven. He opened the door, beckoned. “Can I give you a lift? You’re a long way from home!”
    “Took a notion to run down and look over the Barnard cottage,” Weston explained. “I like to get all the exercise I can these fine days.”
    Thomas nodded gloomily. “I have some serious news which you probably haven’t heard,” he said as the driver started on again.
    “Another assault?”
    “Murder, this time. Just found the body early this morning. It was taken over to Allsworth about an hour ago.”
    Weston paled. “Who was it? The victim, I mean?”
    Thomas nervously rolled the unlighted cigar between his lips. “Man named Teller. Sanford Teller, a Wallis operative.”
    Weston’s mouth opened soundlessly. It was a full moment before he could collect himself enough to speak. When he did so, his voice sounded harsh and dry like a gear that needed oiling. “H-how did you know who it was? Did you find identifying papers on him?”
    Thomas turned in his seat, and looked at his passenger in surprise. “Why, no. As a matter of fact, his pockets had been turned inside out. There was nothing identifying on him; I knew who it was because Teller was sent up here to help run down the wild man! Matter of fact, outside of the district attorney and his assistant and myself, nobody knew he was up here at all. I hadn’t even told my deputy. He was working along his own lines.”
    “And you say this—Teller was killed this morning?”
    “I did not say so. I said his body was found this morning. The medical examiner stated that he had been dead not less than twenty-four hours.”
    A darkness seemed to have closed in about Weston. In it his mind groped uncertainly. Not yet could he reason clearly; the nameless terror that stole upon him was still undefined, without logic. When he spoke again, his voice was hardly more than a whisper so that the sheriff had to lean toward him to catch what he said.
    “Sanford Teller—the Wallis operative—he has been staying in my house four days; and—”
    The unlighted cigar dropped from Thomas’ lips. “What’s that?” he cried sharply. “What are you saying?”
    Weston roused himself with an effort, as a drugged man forces himself back to the realities of life. “He said that nobody was to know he had been called in, only the district attorney who sent for him. I was above all not to mention his presence to you. And he had papers, a card and a shield—but this other, the man you knew as Teller, have you really any clue as to who killed—”
    Sheriff Thomas took from a pocket a small card bearing the photograph of a man in three sections, a full front, and two profiles. Below were a few lines of coarse print which danced before Weston’s groggy eyes. But the face that he gazed upon was that of the man who had been his guest for the past few days, the man who was even now in the same house with Annie, miles away—
    He