“This cousin of mine is a queer chap,” the lady cop went on. “He’s always trying to break up superstitions. Belongs to a Thirteen Club formed in his academy days. Thirteen fellows lived in a building numbered 1313. Table always set for thirteen, whether they were all there or not. Such things as that.
“Now every year on the thirteenth day of a month, Friday if possible, they have a banquet. Six of the thirteen are dead. Four met violent deaths. Yet they keep it up. Thirteen places set. Seven seats filled. Six vacant.
“Makes you shudder to think of it. But he loves it.
“He bought this trunk because a crook had owned it. That’s supposed to bring bad luck.
“He hadn’t got half way home with it before someone dragged it off the truck. He crowned the fellow with half a brick and retrieved the trunk.
“He took it home. That night he woke up to see it disappearing out of the window. When he fired a shot through the window the trunk paused in its journey and he took it back.
“Then, because I am a policewoman, he presented it to me. And here—here it is not. They got it at last!”
Once more the two girls exchanged glances. They said never a word.
“Queerest part of it all is,” the lady cop concluded, “the thing was chuck empty!
“But come on!” she exclaimed, springing up. “Let’s get this place straightened out. Then we’ll fry some bacon.”