Sergeant explained his errand to George Michael, the foreman. A Case DEVELOPS The camp boss frowned. “Sure an’ it’s myself that’s been worrit abaht that man,” he admitted. “A foine lad he was. Drew his time check in March, an’ nary a word have we heard o’ him since.” “That is,” he corrected, “till King dropped in an’ men- tioned, casual-like, he'd gone to British Columbia.” : “What's this chap King look like?” “He’s a short, chunky man. Strong as an ox, an’ kind o bow-legged. Chummed around with Hotz in Germany, I believe.” Obtaining a copy of King’s signature from the payroll, Nicholson drove to the penitentiary, impelled by an overwhelming hunch. King’s description bore a striking resemblance to that of Koenig. Was it possible that Koenig and King were one and the same man? That Koenig might know something of the disappearance of Fritz Hotz? Greeting his captor with a string of ribald pleasantries Koenig admitted, without hesitation, that he was King—and a friend of the missing Hotz. “And you wrote Mrs. Hotz in Berlin, telling her that her husband had gone to British Columbia?” The detective eyed him sharply. The man’s eyelids flickered. “No,” he corrected. “I wrote some friends there. Guess they must’ve passed it on. A sense of uneasiness haunted the Ser- geant as he drove through the gathering darkness towards the city. There'd been something strangely irritating in the prisoner's demeanor; in the laboured, almost contemptuous politeness with which he’d answered his questions, while all the time there lurked in his bold blue eyes a chal- lenging effrontery. The more he thought THE YORKSHIRE & PACIFIC SECURITIES LIMITED Head Office, Huddersfield, England H. W. Dyson, President A F. H. Wright, G. Peter Kaye, Vice-Presidents Yorkshire Building 525 Seymour St. Vancouver, Canada things over the more certain he became that Fritz Holtz had met foul play and that, behind that sardonic front, King held the key to the mystery. When, a couple of days later, word reached him that King wanted to see him he hurried back to Fort Saskatchewan and found himself face to face once more with William Oscar King, alias Koenig. But not the laughing, defiant swashbuckler of the former meeting. His beetling brows knotted in a lowering frown, his blue eyes dancing with lambent flames of hatred, the chunky, William Oscar Koenig, alias King, was the cen- tral figure in a drama that broke a popular Mounted Policeman and sent him on a relentless quest for a suspected murderer. bow-legged prisoner strode like a caged animal the length of his narrow cell. Trucu- lent and angry, a stream of guttural German leaping vituperatively from twitching lips, he continued to pace the cell with restless strides. Evit FoR EvIL “T told you I'd get even with that double- crossing rat, Gus Borden for ditching me,” he snarled. “Now—TI'll tell you something. He shot a man near Clover Bar, took his money, and buried him under a manure heap.” “You saw the body?” “No!” King eyed him. “But I heard Borden telling Tierman where he planted it. Guess I could take you to the place.” With King manacled and seated between Constables Woods and Wiley, Nicholson drove into Clover Bar next morning. - “Well,” he turned to the prisoner, “how about it?” King motioned to a _ tarpaper-covered shack at the edge of the construction camp ahead. “There’s my joint over there. Dig in them manure piles near the stable.” For an hour they turned over the clods of conyealed manure. Convinced that King had led them on a wild-goose chase with the. intention of escaping, Nicholson was about to order a return when his spade struck something hard—a charred and rusted pocket-knife. Feverishly they sent the clods flying over their shoulders, unearthing first some charred bones, then a piece of burned sweater, a shinbone, a skeleton hand—and finally a grinning human skull. “Fritz Hotz!” exclaimed Constable Wiley. “Hotz hell!” King’s face was livid with fury. “Gus Borden bumped that guy off to get his money,” he snarled. “I’m showing you this,” he flared, “because I want to square things with that dirty skunk who beat me out of two hundred dollars, and ditched me when the police came to the ranch.” Back in his cell King seemed to brood over what had happened. Although there was no evidence to connect him with the body Constable Wiley’s remark had struck deep. For two days he restlessly paced his cell, convinced that in attempting to even scores with Borden he’d only cast suspicion on himself. Finally he sent for Nicholson again. “There was another body,” he explained. He'd told only part of the truth. August Tierman had also bumped off a man and robbed him. 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