The Mystery Megapack

feeling of depression that always overwhelmed him when he entered the house. He became vaguely uneasy and doubted the wisdom of this visit.
    The crimson velvet drapes parted and Ishan Das Babaji entered the room. Roy arose and exchanged conventional greetings with the Bengali.
    “Sit down, Mr. Martin, Miss Miller will be here shortly. And in the meantime, I’m going to avail myself of your company. I’m a victim of ennui this afternoon.”
    They discussed commonplace things for a time and Roy felt himself reacting to the undeniable charm of his discoursive host. Before Roy quite realized it, the Bengali had adroitly turned the conversation on the subject of burglaries. He recounted at length the looting of the home of a mythical friend. He burst into a tirade against the inefficiency of the police and wound up saying: “For myself, I don’t depend on the police. I have many valuable art treasures, and I take my own means of protection. My servants are different from yours in that they would deem it an honor to die in my service.”
    At the words Roy wondered if, after all, he might not be doing the Bengali a great injustice. The steel walls and heavy doors might well be the precautions of an eccentric art collector.
    “Yes, Mr. Martin,” the Bengali continued softly, “it would probably cost the life of any burglar who attempted to break in here.” The words were softly spoken, but held a note of menace. The eyes of the Bengali blazed with fire; his lips twitched, and his long, slender fingers clasped and unclasped. “And it would be a terrible death!” he finished.
    So, Roy concluded, he had been recognized after all, and this was a not too subtle warning of what he might expect if he made another attempt to break into the Bengali’s house.
    Margaret entered the room and the Bengali’s manner changed to calm graciousness. The three sat and talked for some time, when the Bengali begged to be excused and left them. Roy did not think the house any place to discuss with safety the things he wished. He suggested a drive and Margaret consented.
    Roy decided to tell Margaret nothing of his attempt to enter the house the previous night. Little was said until they reached the suburbs, when Roy asked Margaret what kind of night she had passed, and if anything had disturbed her.
    Margaret said she had slept well, except for waking once some time after midnight. She did not know what had awakened her.
    “Marge, how many servants are there in that house?” Roy asked abruptly.
    “Eight.”
    “And are they all Hindus’?”
    “Yes. When I went there, I wanted to bring a maid, but the suggestion excited Auntie so much that I never repeated it. I make up my own room, except once or twice a week when it gets a thorough cleaning. I don’t like the idea of those Hindus prowling about my room.”
    “Do you think it would be possible for us to get into any of those locked rooms?” Roy asked.
    “No, it wouldn’t,” Margaret replied. “There is never a time when Ishan Das Babaji or some of the servants are not at home. I wish we could, because I think that in those rooms.…”
    She stopped abruptly.
    “Go ahead,” Roy urged. “You’re getting interesting.”
    Margaret smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that if anything is happening in that house, it must be going on in those rooms.”
    Roy turned the car toward town. Neither spoke much. Margaret had become depressed and after several attempts to lead her into a livelier mood, Roy lapsed into silence.
    * * * *
    The large lady who presided over the destinies of the Reliable Employment Agency hung up the telephone receiver and addressed a group of applicants.
    “An upstairs maid for a place in the country—close in. Gotta be a young girl—good appearance. Gotta be a girl that don’t live in town here. They don’t want a girl always runnin’ into the city, Good place—seventy, all found.”
    Before the manager of the agency finished speaking, several girls arose an advanced toward the desk. One of the girls, a trifle more aggressive than her fellow applicants, pushed to the front and shouted, “I’ll take it!”
    She was young and pretty, and showily dressed in cheap finery.
    “What experience?” the manager demanded.
    “None,” the girl answered frankly. “I’ve always worked in stores. But I can do housework. Lord knows, I’ve done plenty of it back home.”
    “Where is your home?”
    “Columbus,” the girl answered.
    “Well, I’ll