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  OLD BROADBRIM WEEKLY

  (MORE READING MATTER THAN ANY
  FIVE CENT DETECTIVE LIBRARY PUBLISHED)

  FIVE CENTS

  OLD BROADBRIM

  No =32=

  INTO THE HEART
  OF AUSTRALIA

[Illustration: The ringleader of the brigands issued the order to
riddle the prisoner, but at the same time the detective's rifle spoke,
and the form of the captain of the robbers reeled and tumbled in a heap
a few feet away from his intended victim.]




[Illustration: OLD BROADBRIM WEEKLY]

_Issued Weekly. By Subscription $2.50 per year. Application has been
made as Second Class Matter at the N. Y. Post Office, by_ STREET &
SMITH, _238 William St., N. Y. Entered according to Act of Congress in
the year 1903, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington,
D. C._

  No. 32.      NEW YORK, May 9, 1903.      =Price Five Cents.=




  Old Broadbrim Into the Heart of Australia;

  OR,

  A STRANGE BARGAIN AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

  By the author of "OLD BROADBRIM."




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER I. OLD BROADBRIM'S STRANGE BARGAIN.
  CHAPTER II. THE MIDNIGHT MURDER.
  CHAPTER III. THE CLEW AND THE TALISMAN.
  CHAPTER IV. THE LONDON TRAIL.
  CHAPTER V. IN THE WAKE OF A MYSTERY.
  CHAPTER VI. SPOTTED IN AUSTRALIA.
  CHAPTER VII. THE TERRIBLE DEATH-TRAP.
  CHAPTER VIII. DEMONA, THE RANCH QUEEN.
  CHAPTER IX. OLD BROADBRIM ONCE MORE.
  CHAPTER X. A TERRIBLE MOMENT.
  CHAPTER XI. THE FACE IN THE HAY.
  CHAPTER XII. OLD BROADBRIM AND THE FAIR AVENGER.
  CHAPTER XIII. BLACK GEORGE'S WARNING.
  CHAPTER XIV. THE TEST UNDER THE STARS.
  CHAPTER XV. OLD BROADBRIM MAKES A BARGAIN AGAIN.
  CHAPTER XVI. THE DOOM OF WATERS.
  CHAPTER XVII. OLD BROADBRIM'S CATCH IN PERTH.
  CHAPTER XVIII. BELLE DEMONA'S MATCH.
  CHAPTER XIX. OLD BROADBRIM TIGHTENS THE COIL.
  CHAPTER XX. BACK TO THE DEATH-TRAP.
  CHAPTER XXI. THE ESCAPE OF THE DOOMED.
  CHAPTER XXII. OLD BROADBRIM'S DESPERATE HAND.
  CHAPTER XXIII. THE WOMAN WITH THE REVOLVER.
  CHAPTER XXIV. THE QUAKER'S TRUMPS WIN.




CHAPTER I.

OLD BROADBRIM'S STRANGE BARGAIN.


The 12th of April, 189--, as Old Broadbrim, the famous Quaker
detective, will ever remember, fell on a Thursday.

Just after the noon hour on that day he received a letter asking him to
come to one of the most elegant private residences on Fifth Avenue.

He was sure no crime had been committed, and he was puzzled to guess
just what the invitation meant.

The owner of the mansion was Custer Kipp, one of the richest and
best-known dwellers on the avenue, a man who counted his wealth almost
by the tens of millions, so it was said at least, and the detective had
seen him often on the street and in his elegant turnout in the parks.

Old Broadbrim answered the letter in person, as was his wont.

He reached the door of the mansion, and his ring was answered
immediately, as if he was expected, and a servant conducted him into
the library.

In an armchair at the mahogany desk sat the millionaire.

Custer Kipp was a man of sixty-three, a tall, slim, but handsome,
person, and withal a person who was approachable to a fault.

He was a widower at the time, and his only child was a son named Foster.

This young man was not in at the time of the detective's call, and the
only other person in the house who belonged to the household was the
nabob's ward, Miss Nora Doon, a young lady just quitting her teens and
the pet of the mansion.

Custer Kipp smiled drearily when the figure of the Quaker crossed the
threshold, and invited him to a seat near the desk.

"I am glad you came," said he. "I sent word to my friend, the
inspector, to send me one of his best men, and I am rejoiced that he
saw fit to send you, of whom I have heard."

Old Broadbrim bowed and waited.

"My case is a peculiar one, and, perhaps, a little out of the line of
your business. Do you ever play the part of Cerberus, Mr. Broadbrim?"

"Not very often."

"I thought not," smiled the millionaire. "I have no crime for you to
unravel, but if things are permitted to drift as they are going just
now, you will have a first-class mystery on your hands ere long."

"You do not want me to wait, I see," said Old Broadbrim.

"That is it exactly. I don't care to wait to be foully murdered."

"I would think not. It isn't a very pleasant prospect, but perhaps it
is not as bad as you suppose."

"It is very bad. I am in the shadow of death, but I don't care to go
into details just now. I want you to guard my person for one year, and
if at the end of that time I am still in the land of the living, why,
your work ceases."

"It's a strange commission," replied the detective.

"I thought you would call it such. I am to be guarded against an enemy
insidious and merciless. I am on the 'black list.'"

"On the black list, eh?"

"Exactly," and the rich man turned a shade paler. "I will give you
twenty-five thousand dollars if you guard me for one year. You will not
be required to make your home under my roof--I could not ask that--but
you will be asked to take care of my foe if he should prove too
aggressive."

"But, sir, to be able to do that I shall have to know something about
this enemy."

"Just so. You don't know him now--have never seen him, perhaps,
although you may have passed him fifty times on the street within the
last six months since he landed in this city."

"Oh, he's a foreigner, is he?"

"I can't say that he is, though he has passed some years under a
foreign sky. This man is not alone in his dark work; he has a
confederate, a person whose beauty years ago nearly proved my ruin."

Old Broadbrim did not speak.

Already the traditional woman had entered the case.

"For one year, Mr. Broadbrim," continued Custer Kipp, coming back to
the original proposition. "Is it a bargain?"

The detective sat silent and rigid for a few seconds.

Never before had a proposition of that sort been made to him.

It would take him from cases that might spring up to demand his
attention.

After all, the man before him might have no enemy at all, and the
time spent in watching him might prove lost time, though twenty-five
thousand dollars would be his at the end of the year.

"If you accept, remember that for one year you belong to me, will be
subject to my commands, will have to go whither I send you, and you
will not be permitted to follow your calling beyond them."

"It binds one rather close," said Old Broadbrim.

"I want a man who will belong to me. He must devote his whole time to
keeping the hand of death away from me, and----"

Custer Kipp leaned forward and opened the desk.

Running his hand into it, he pulled out a package and untied it before
the detective's eyes.

"This is a picture of the man as he looked twenty years ago," he said,
throwing a photograph on the desk. "He has changed some, of course, but
he is the same cool-headed demon he was then."

"And the other--the woman?"

The nabob started.

"I have no picture of her save the one I carry in my memory. I haven't
seen her since a fatal night at Monaco."

He laid the picture down and looked squarely at the detective.

"No more now. Will you accept?"

It was a novel and romantic engagement and appealed strongly to the
detective's curiosity.

He thought rapidly for ten seconds, after which he looked into Custer
Kipp's eyes and said:

"I accept."

"A thousand thanks! I feel younger already--I feel that I will yet
escape this vendetta, that I have years of useful life ahead and that I
will die in my house when my time comes. But one word. Not a whisper of
this bargain beyond the walls of my house. Not a word to my children,
for I call Nora my child the same as Foster. It must be our secret, Mr.
Broadbrim."

"It shall be ours."

"That's right. Now, sir, if you will come back to-morrow I will give
you the commission in detail. I will study up all the points you should
know, and then you will see into your task and will know just what you
will be expected to do."

Old Broadbrim, a man of brevity, picked up his hat.

"I will be here," he said. "Thee can trust me," using, as he did at
times, the Quaker formula.

In another moment he had turned his back on the millionaire and was
walking toward the hall.

At the door he glanced over his shoulder and saw the figure of Custer
Kipp bent over the desk, and the face was buried in the arms.

Old Broadbrim closed the door and went away.

Down in his office, in the room in which he had thought out more than
one tangle of crime, he threw himself into his armchair and took up a
cigar.

"What have I done?" he asked himself. "Is the man mad? What is this
invisible fear which almost paralyzes him? Why does he send for me to
watch him for a year when he could fly to the ends of the world, for he
has money to take him anywhere, and thus escape the enemy? But I'll do
my part."

The day deepened, and the shadows of night fell over the city.

Old Broadbrim came forth, and walked a few squares after which he
turned suddenly and rapped at a door belonging to a small house in a
quiet district.

The portal was opened by a man not very young, but wiry and keen-eyed.

"Come in. I've been waiting for you," said this person. "I have a case
for you--one which the police have not yet discovered. It will produce
rich results."

The detective's countenance seemed to drop.

Here it was already.

He began to see how foolish he had been to make a bargain with Custer
Kipp.

"What is it, Clippers?" he asked.

"It's just the sort o' case you've been looking for," was the reply.
"On the next street is a dead man--a man whose life must have gone out
violently yesterday or last night. You don't know him, but I do. Jason
Marrow has been a study and a puzzle to me for three years. We have
met occasionally, but never got on familiar terms. Now he's dead and
is there yet, in his little room, with marks of violence on his throat
and the agony in his glassy eyes. Won't you come with me? I have been
holding the matter for you."

Old Broadbrim said he would at once take a look at the mystery, and
Clippers, his friend, offered to conduct him to the scene of the
tragedy.

The two entered a little house near the mouth of an alley, and Clippers
led the way to a room to the left of the hall.

"He's a mystery--got papers of importance hid in the house, but we'll
find them in course of time," he chattered. "It's going to be a deep
case, just to your liking, Mr. Broadbrim, but you'll untangle it, for
you never fail."

At this moment the pair entered the room and the hand of Clippers
pointed to a couch against the wall.

Old Broadbrim stepped nimbly forward and bent over the bed.

A rigid figure lay upon it, and the first glance told him that death
had been busy there.

"Who is he?" asked the detective.

"It's Jason Marrow. You didn't know him. Precious few people did. The
papers which he has hidden will tell us more and we'll find them. It's
your case, Mr. Broadbrim."

"I can't take it, Clippers."

The other fell back with a cry of amazement.

"You can't take it?" he gasped. "In the name of Heaven, are you mad,
Mr. Broadbrim?"

"I hope not."

"But it's just the sort o' case you like. There's mystery in it. Killed
by some one as yet unknown. Strangled by a hand unseen and dead in his
little den."

"Yes, I know, Clippers, but it's not for me."

"Why not?"

"I'm engaged."

"On something better? On a deeper mystery than the death of Jason
Marrow?"

"I don't know. I only know that I can't take this matter into my hands."

"Well, I'm stumped!" cried Clippers.

"And I'm sorry," answered the great detective. "I'll tell the police.
I'll see that Hargraves or Irwin get the job. That's all I can do. For
one year I belong to--to another master."

There was no reply to this; Clippers showed that he was "stumped."




CHAPTER II.

THE MIDNIGHT MURDER.


"Come!" said Clippers, when he got second wind, "maybe you can get the
other one to release you."

"He won't do that. The bargain's been sealed."

"You're not going to retire?"

"Well, hardly."

"That's good, anyhow. If the other fellows, Hargraves or Irwin, get at
fault you won't refuse to join in the hunt for the murderer of poor
Marrow?"

"I will be free at the end of a year under certain
contingencies--perhaps a good deal sooner."

"Well, I wish it was to-morrow," cried Clippers. "I want you to take
this case; but we'll have to see the others and let Tom or Pappy reap
new fame."

Half an hour later the two detectives named Hargraves and Irwin knew
all there was to know at the time of the death of Jason Marrow.

It was not much, for the slayer had done his work with great secrecy
and had left no clews behind.

The matter was destined to become a mystery to the department, a deep
puzzle to the best men on the force for months.

Old Broadbrim went back to his room after the find in the house near
the mouth of the alley.

"Confound it all! why did I bind myself for a year to play Cerberus for
Custer Kipp?" he mused. "Here's the very sort of case I've been looking
for, but my hands are tied, and I can't get out of the matter unless I
go to his house and absolutely back out of the bargain. In that case I
would lose the twenty-five thousand dollars and---- No, I'll stick!"

For long into the night there was a light in the detective's room, and
he might have been found at the table at work.

It was near midnight when a footstep came to the door and stopped there.

Old Broadbrim heard the noise and waited for the rap.

When it sounded he crossed the room and opened the door.

A young man with a very white face and a figure that trembled a little
stepped forward.

"You're the gentleman, I guess? You're Josiah Broadbrim?"

"I am."

"You are wanted at once at Custer Kipp's home on Fifth Avenue. Miss
Nora sent me and I didn't go in to look at him."

"To look at whom?" asked the detective.

"Why, at Mr. Kipp. He was found dead in the library an hour ago."

The detective started violently and looked at the man in his chair.

"Is it murder?" he asked.

"I can't say. Miss Nora didn't tell me, but from the aspects of the
case I think it's serious."

"I'll come."

The young man arose and hastened from the room.

"Not so soon, I hope?" said the detective to himself. "Can it be that
my espionage ends almost before the bargain is cold? Dead in the
library? It's marvelous."

Old Broadbrim soon appeared at the Kipp door and was admitted.

He found the parlor well filled with strange people, for the most part
neighbors in the upper circles of city life, but here and there was a
representative of the lower classes who had edged their way into the
mansion.

The moment the detective crossed the threshold he was approached by a
young girl, with clear blue eyes and a good carriage, who instantly
addressed him.

"You are Josiah Broadbrim?" she said questioningly. "Yes, you are the
detective whom I sent for?"

Old Broadbrim nodded.

"Then, come with me. He is in the library and I have locked the door."

The detective was conducted from the parlor and the nabob's ward opened
the door of the library.

In another instant she had closed it and they stood in the large
chamber, elegantly furnished, and containing rows of books
magnificently bound, for Custer Kipp had spared no pains with his
tastes.

"There he is," said the girl with lowered voice, as she pointed toward
a figure in the armchair. "No one has touched him, for I forbade it,
and you are the first person to see him dead beside myself and the
person who did the deed."

The detective stepped forward, and the hand of Nora Doon turned the gas
a little higher.

Custer Kipp was leaning back in the chair with his white face turned
toward the ceiling.

The arms hung downward as if they had slipped over the sides of the
seat, and the face showed traces of the death agony.

"I heard but little," said Nora, while the detective looked at the
dead. "I go upstairs early when I am not at the opera or elsewhere. I
remained at home to-night for I had letters to write, and he came home
from a ride about seven.

"I heard him in the library bustling about for an hour while I read
in my room, and then everywhere silence seemed to come down over the
house. When I arose to retire I thought I would look downstairs, as is
my wont, and see if all was snug. As I came down the stairs I peeped
over the transom of the library, as one can do from the head of the
flight, and to my horror I saw him in the position you see him now.

"There was something so unnatural in the pose, something suggestive of
sickness if not death--for I must own that the thought of sudden death
interposed itself--that I bounded to the foot of the stair and opened
the door, which was not locked.

"In another moment I knew all. I saw that he was dead, and, what is
more, I saw that he had been killed. You will notice the dark marks
which linger still at the throat, as if he had been strangled like the
thugs serve their victims. Isn't it terrible? To have him taken away in
this manner, and to-morrow was to be his birthday."

She ceased and glanced at the man in the chair, while a shadow of fear
and inward dread seemed to take possession of her soul.

"I don't know just where Foster is," she went on. "He went away nearly
a week ago, and I never heard papa say where he is. However, he will
see the news in the papers, and will be here in a short time. I told
Simpson, the servant, as soon as I recovered, for I lost all control of
myself under the terrible discovery, and there's no telling how long I
lay in a swoon on the carpet here. As soon as I could I sent him after
you."

"But," smiled Old Broadbrim, "how did you know where to find me?"

"I found your card in the desk. I remember seeing you in the house
to-day, though I knew nothing of the nature of your mission. He has
been in fear of something for some time. I have noticed this, and think
it has not escaped Foster's eye. But we'll know about this when he
returns."

"My card was all you found, miss?"

"Yes; but I'll admit that I did not look thoroughly. The front door was
unlocked when I went thither after the discovery in this room, but----
What is it, Simpson?"

The servant had entered the room and stood near the door with his eyes
riveted upon the young girl.

When she spoke his name he came forward and extended his hand.

"I picked this up in the hall just now. It's a curious bit of paper,
part of a letter."

Nora took the find and glanced at it, then handed it to the Quaker
man-hunter.

Old Broadbrim looked at it, going over to the desk where the droplight
swung.

"Tell the people in the parlor that they can go now, Simpson," said
Nora. "The police will be here in a little while. The detective is
already here."

Old Broadbrim looked up at Nora as Simpson left the room, and his look
drew her toward him.

"Is it anything?" she asked.

The detective still held the bit of paper in his hand.

"It may not be of any use," said he, slightly elevating the paper.
"Some one of the people out there may have dropped it."

The gaze of the young girl fell upon the paper, and Old Broadbrim
continued:

"Did Mr. Kipp ever have any correspondents in Australia?" he asked.

Nora shook her head, but the next instant she lost some color.

"Stay!" she cried. "I remember now that he received a letter some
months ago, which seemed to trouble him a great deal. That letter was
from Australia."

"Do you remember from what particular part, Miss Nora?"

"I do not."

"Could we find it among his effects, think you?"

"I am sure we cannot. Of that I say I am very positive. He destroyed
it."

"That is bad."

"Is that message from that part of the world?"

And the hand of Nora Doon pointed at the paper in the detective's hand.

"It is merely the fragment of a letter. It is little better than an
address. It is---- But you shall see it for yourself."

Old Broadbrim extended the paper, and the girl took it eagerly, but
with some show of fear.

He watched her as she leaned forward and looked at the writing in the
light of the dropjet.

Suddenly the young lady uttered a cry, and then turned upon the
man-hunter with a frightened face absolutely colorless.

"It's from the same part of the world; I remember now!" she exclaimed.
"The postmark on that letter was Perth. The whole thing comes back to
me. The postman brought the letter to the house, and I carried it to
his desk to await his coming home. It the same name--Perth. Where is
it?"

"You mean in what part of Australia, miss?"

"Yes, yes."

"It is in West Australia, and beyond it lie the barren and death lands
of the great island. But what is the name?"

"Merle Macray," spoke Nora, in a whisper. "What a strange name it
is, and don't you see that the handwriting is that of one of my sex?
And the line above the address--just look at it in the light of this
murderous deed. 'Don't let him see sixty-four!' That means that the
command to kill Custer Kipp comes from that far part of the globe. It
makes it all the more terrible."

Old Broadbrim took the paper and put it away.

"Not a word about this, please," he said to the girl.

"I am your secret keeper," she answered. "This matter is in your
hands. When Foster comes home you can tell him about the torn letter
if you wish, but I will not without your authority. The slayer of my
benefactor must be found."

"He shall be."

"Even if the trail leads across the sea?"

"Yes, even if it leads around the world and into the heart of the wild
Australian bush."

In after days Old Broadbrim, the tracker, was to recall his words with
many a thrill.




CHAPTER III.

THE CLEW AND THE TALISMAN.


The death of Custer Kipp, the nabob, startled the whole city.

For some time New York had been in the midst of a carnival of crime,
but this murder capped the climax.

No one thought of the other case, that got into the newspapers at the
same time.

The death of Jason Marrow in his little den near the mouth of the alley
did not take up half the space, and the reporters did not care to
discuss it.

But the life of the millionaire was published; his past was ventilated
so far as the reporters knew it, and they made out that he was one of
the pillars of the metropolis, and there were loud calls for swift and
certain vengeance.

Old Broadbrim was not to be found.

The inspector probably knew what had become of him, for he put
Hargraves and Irwin on the case, and intimated that for once the Quaker
detective would not stand between the pair, nor wrest from them the
laurels to be gained in the Fifth Avenue mystery.

Custer Kipp did not go to the morgue, but Jason Marrow did.

The surgeons went at him in the most approved style, and decided,
after more cutting than was necessary, that the man had died from
strangulation.

The forenoon of the day after the discovery of the murder on the
avenue, Old Broadbrim went back to Clippers' house.

The wiry little man received him with a good deal of excitement, and
immediately took a package of papers from his bosom.

"I found them--the papers which I knew Jason had hid somewhere in the
house," he exclaimed. "It took a long hunt, and I ransacked the whole
place, but here they are."

Old Broadbrim took a seat at the table and began to open the jumbled
papers.

"Where did Jason come from, Clippers?" he asked while he worked.

"I don't know. He would never tell me much about his past, but he had
traveled some. He had been around the world, and at one time lived in
Australia."

Just then something fell out of the package, and Old Broadbrim picked
it up.

It was the counterpart of the photograph Custer Kipp had shown him in
the library--the face of his deadly foe.

How had it come into Jason Marrow's possession?

Where did the occupant of the alley den get hold of it, and what did he
know of the man it represented?

Clippers stood over his friend, the detective, and folded his arms
while Old Broadbrim read the written papers found in the little house.

"It's strange, very strange," muttered the detective. "These may give
me a clew to the other mystery."

"Those documents, eh?"

"The documents and the photograph."

"It's an old affair, the picture, I mean."

"Yes, taken years ago, but the man may wear the same features to some
extent, and by this picture I may know him."

"Who do you think he is, Mr. Broadbrim?"

Old Broadbrim looked up into the face of Clippers.

"Perhaps the man who killed Jason Marrow," he said.

"Then, you are going to take the trail and beat Hargraves and Irwin to
the end of it?"

"I am on another trail," quietly spoke the detective. "I am not going
to bother the boys unless my trail crosses theirs--then I will play out
my hand boldly."

After reading over the papers left behind by Jason Marrow, Old
Broadbrim arose and thrust them into an inner pocket.

His face was as serene as ever, and nothing told that he had found what
might prove a clew.

From Clippers' house he went direct to the offices of the Cunard Line.

It was the day for the sailing of one of that line's boats for
Liverpool, and the detective was soon looking over the list of
passengers.

Suddenly his eye stopped at a name and rested there.

It was a name he had just seen in the papers he had read in Clippers'
house.

"Too late!" said the detective, as he turned away. "A few hours too
late. The murderer is gone. Ere this he is fairly at sea on the deck of
the _Campania_ and I--I am in New York!"

Old Broadbrim quitted the office and got once more into the sunlight.

Taking a cab, he hastened to the offices of the White Star Line, and
entered coolly but anxious.

He inquired at the proper desk when the next steamer of the line sailed
for Liverpool.

"The _Oceanic_ will leave her dock this afternoon."

The face of the detective seemed to flush with rising joy.

On the instant he engaged a cabin and walked out.

"We will see how the chase ends," said he, in undertones. "It may
prove a long one, but, thanks to Jason Marrow's story, I may not be
altogether on the wrong trail."

An hour later he stood once more beneath the roof of the murdered
millionaire.

This time he was met by Foster Kipp, the dead man's son, a young man of
twenty-five, with an open countenance, but eager and determined.

"I heard of this terrible affair in Albany, whither I went on some
business for father. It came sooner than he expected."

"He expected it, then?"

"Yes; once he confided to me that he had an enemy, and said he was
'blacklisted.' I never pressed him for particulars, for he was
reticent, but I firmly believe that the blow which fell last night was
the one he dreaded."

"It was," said the detective. "Your father was killed by a hand in
whose shadow he