Phillip H. Godsell,
author of this story.

TEPHEN LULL BURIED his head in his
vat collar to keep out the cold February
ind as he trudged through the snow-
ywdered countryside of South Hanson in
jymouth county, Massachusetts, towards
ne home of his friend, Dan Blake.

| Ahead, the farm mansion of the Sturte-
ants with its white-pillared portico rose
yom the dark filigree of leafless bushes
ato a grey and forbidding winter sky that
espoke more snow to come. Emitting a
vightened gasp Lull stood frozen in his
as Preoccupied with his thoughts he’d
lmost stumbled on the snow-speckled body

f a neatly dressed and attractive young
yoman lying outstretched on the ground.
here was a sinister something about the
rozen stillness of the body lying prone in
he snow that caused him to whirl on his
veel, dash fearfully down the lane and
yound on the door of John Holmes’ home
ill the heavy planks leant and reverberated
inder his throbbing fists.

“There’s a dead woman lying in the
-oad,” he gasped out the frightened words
as the door swung open and John Holmes
demanded with lowering brow what the
racket was all about. ““She’s on the road to
Sturtevant’s . . . all covered with snow,”
Lull licked his white lips. “I was afraid to
touch her. I think she must be a stranger.
Come on—quick!””

A couple of minutes later the two men
stood gazing down at the slim young body
huddled grotesquely in the lane. Dropping
to his knees, Holmes emitted a cry of horror.
“Good God! it’s Mary Buckley — Tom
Sturtevant’s housekeeper!” Wiide-eyed, he
surveyed the battered head, the blood-
smeared chestnut hair and the dark stains
on the earth where the corpse had protected
it from falling snow. “This is murder,” his
eyes swung to a stout, recently cut cudgel
lying nearby, smeared with dark stains and
tufted with matted hair, “Run and get
Sheriff Inglee,” he cried. “Tell him some-
thing terrible’s happened .. . ”

As Lull raced to warn the Sheriff, Holmes
made his way fearfully to the nearby Stur-
tevant farm, impelled by the bellowing of
hungry cattle, to investigate. In the vast
barn the animals were pawing before stalls
from which the last vestige of hay had long
since disappeared. Recently gnawed wood-
work showed that the animals had been
desperate. Nowhere was there a sign of a
soul about. Not a single footprint broke
the white mantle of freshly fallen snow.

FOURTEENTH EDITION

The Clue of The
Green Cockatoo

By
PHILIP H. GODSELL

F.R.G.S.

Author of “Arctic Trader’.
Fur Trader, Arctic Traveller and former
Inspecting Officer for the Hudson's Bay
Company.

*

“Help! Murder!’"—The Sepulchral Cry Echoing Through the House of the
Triple Murders Caused Detectives’ Flesh to Crawl....

Fearful that some monstrous tragedy had
befallen, he hurried back down the path in
time to meet the Sheriff.

Sheriff Inglee shook his head as Holmes
spilled out his story. Proceeding to the
door of the Sturtevant home they rang the
bell. Its peals, echoing hollowly through the
house, brought no response. Inglee’s face
grew grey with mingled fear and worry.
“This looks bad,” he sent the bell pealing
through the silent house again. “These
Sturtevant’s are the richest men in the
country, and they don’t believe in banks.
Keep all their money hidden here. God
knows, I’ve warned them time and again,”
he swung on his heel. “Let’s try the back
door.”

As they pushed into the semi-darkness
of the kitchen the three men started back
with affrighted cries. Outstretched before
a recently filled woodbox lay the massive
body of a well-dressed man in the prime of
life. No second glance was necessary to
show that he was dead. Battered in by a
terrific blow from behind, his skull gaped
open, dark stains discolouring the scrupu-
lously clean wood flooring. “It’s Thomas
Sturtevant,” the Sheriff's voice was hollow.

“God! this is awful . . . ” came the
frightened voice of Holmes.

“Help! Help! Murder!” An agonized cry
emanating from somewhere in the house
echoed back from the beams, causing the
three men to blanch. “Help! Help! he’s
murdering me...” The ghostly voice of

hopeless fear and desperation sent them

In a cubboard in this old colonial dwelling,

hurtling through the house, convinced
they'd arrived in time to catch the murderer
red-handed.

In vain they ransacked room after room.
The house was still as death. Not a living
soul moved within. Inglee’s face was white
and strained. There was something macabre
and unreal about the whole set-up. All
three had distinctly heard the frantic cry
for help that seemed suddenly to have been
stifled by an assassin’s hand, yet the place
was silent as a morgue! For a second they
gazed at each other with frightened, un-
comprehending eyes. In frozen immobility
théy waited for some sound, some clue to
the solution of the mysterious voice. Pulling
himself together Inglee pushed open a bed-
room door, prowled through the darkened
room, stumbled, struck a match and uttered
a croak of fear. For the flickering light dis-
closed still another bloodstained figure
sprawled on the floor where, in a last dying
convulsion, he'd dragged the bed linen with
him.

“My God!” Inglee let up the blind, “his
skull’s been battered in, too.” He placed a
trembling hand on the icy forehead. “He's
been dead a long time . . . it couldn’t have
been his cry we heard. I'm damned if I
can make this out.”

As they nervously scoured the house
again from floor to garret not a sign could
be seen of a living soul. Everywhere they
encountered evidences of the work of pred-
atory hands. Drawers had been yanked
out; papers, bank notes, silver and coins of

officers unearthed surprising. clues that sent a triple-killer

to the gallows.

Page Seventy-one