Front matter

E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.fadedpage.net)

Whispering Wires

ADAPTED FROM THE SATURDAY EVENING POST STORY

OF THE SAME TITLE

BY

HENRY LEVERAGE

NEW YORK

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1918,

BY

MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY

First printing . . . . September, 1918

Second printing . . . . September, 1918

Third printing . . . . October, 1918

DEDICATED

TO

ONE WHO HELPED

CONTENTS

I“The Whispering Voice”1

II“The Magpie”15

III“The Man in Olive-Drab”31

IV“The Murder”46

V“The First Clews”59

VI“Harry Nichols”74

VII“The Spot of Black”89

VIII“Tangled Wires”107

IX“Men and Motives”124

X“A Woman Calls”144

XI“The Closing Net”181

XII“Suspicion Fastens”202

XIII“A Silent Prisoner”222

XIV“The Prisoner Speaks”239

XV“The Voice on the Wire”260

XVI“The End”277

WHISPERING WIRES

CHAPTER ONE

“THE WHISPERING VOICE”

In the greatest city of the modern world, in the Metropolis of Guilt and Guile—where Alias and Alibi ride in gum-shod limousines while Mary Smith of the pure heart walks the pavements with broken shoes—there is a mansion so rich and so rare that it stands alone.

Turret and tower, green-bronze roof, Cararra-marbled portico and iron-grilled gates brought from Hyderabad, have made this mansion the show place and the Peri’s paradise for those who parade the Avenue called Fifth, in an unending sash of fashion.

Out from this palace at the close of a winter’s day, there flashed the tiny pulsations of voice-induced currents of electricity which reached the telephone-central, were plugged upon the proper underground paper-insulated wires and entered, even as the voice was speaking, the cloud-hung office of Detective Drew.

Triggy Drew, as he was called, was dark, stout and forty-one years of age to a month. He crooked his elbow, removed his cigar and pressed the telephone-receiver to his ear.

The voice that came over the whispering wires was as clear as a bell within a bell. It said:

“Montgomery Stockbridge wants you.”

Drew hung up the telephone-receiver. He replaced the cigar in his mouth. He wheeled in his chair and pressed a buzzer. To the operative who entered he said:

“Delaney, watch things while I’m gone. I’m called up-town!”

The operative reached and handed Drew his coat. He took the swivel-chair before the desk, as his chief clapped on a hat, turned his eyes toward the ground-glass door, and passed out with a brisk stride.

“It’s a big case,” said Delaney leaning back. “Triggy is on somebody’s trail. Maybe German—maybe not!”

Drew nodded to the waiting operatives in the outer room of the suite. He swung into the hallway with his brown eyes glowing like a man who walked out of realism into romance.

The elevator plumbed eighteen stories. The corridor was clear. A taxi stood at the curb. Into this Drew stepped, gave the address and was gently seated as the driver released his brake, set the meter, and dropped through first, second and into third speed.

Past Wall Street the taxi flashed. It rounded toward the Bowery, which showed that the driver knew his map. It struck up through the car tracks, across to Washington Park and there took the long longitude of Fifth Avenue as the shortest and quickest way up-town.

Drew had no eye for the passers-by. He was repeating two words over and over like a novice counting the same beads. Montgomery Stockbridge was a name to conjure with in the Bagdad of Seven Million. He had made many enemies and much money. His wealth ran well above seven figures.

The taxi came to a gliding halt. Drew stepped out in front of a church. He tossed the driver two one-dollar bills and some silver. He waited as the taxi merged in the traffic. He turned and glanced keenly up and down the Avenue. Then he hurried north for one square, paused before the mansion of turrets and towers, and pressed a button which was set in the doorway.

The door opened to a crack, then wide. A butler barred the way. To him Drew said, “Mr. Stockbridge sent for me.”

The butler bowed with old world civility. He took the detective’s hat and coat. He waited until Drew removed his gloves. He bowed for a second time and led the way over rugs whose pile was as thick as some Persian temple’s. They came finally, after an aisle of old masters, to the inner circle of latter-day finance and money-wizardry—the celebrated library of Montgomery Stockbridge.

The Munition Magnate sat there. He turned as the butler announced the detective. He shot a gray-thatched pair of eyes up and over a mahogany table upon which a white envelope lay. He smiled coldly. His thumb jerked toward a leather chair into which Drew sank and leaned his elbows upon the table.

Stockbridge coughed dryly. He blinked and studied the detective’s face for a long minute. He glanced from the envelope up at a cone of rose light which hung from a cluster of electric-globes. His expression, seen in this light, was like an aged lion brought to bay. His wrinkled skin was tawny. His hands coiled and uncoiled like claws. They moved prehensilely, as though cobwebs were in that perfumed air of wealth and security. They poised over the envelope as if to snatch the secret or delusion hidden there.

“See that letter!” declared the Munition Magnate, closing his fist and banging the table. “See it? D’ye see it?”

Drew widened his eyes at the outburst. He crossed his legs and nodded.

“It’s blackmail!” Stockbridge snarled. “Rank-scented blackmail of the cheapest order.”

“A threat of some kind?”

“Threat? Yes—a threat, in a way. It’s clever, but it won’t work with me!”

Drew recrossed his legs. He touched his short-cropped mustache with the fingers of his right hand. He coughed as in suggestion. His brows lifted as he studied the envelope from a distance.

Stockbridge snatched it up suddenly. He slapped it against the edge of the polished table. He turned and found a cigar to his liking out of many in a humidor beneath a smaller table at the right of his chair. He bit on this cigar, struck a match, and dragged in the smoke with deep inhalings before he turned and opened the envelope, exposing a letter which he rapped with the knuckles of his left hand.

“I’ll beg to be excused,” he said half-apologetically. “I’m not myself. This letter, you know. I want you to ferret it out. I want you to find out who sent it, and make him or her pay. Make them pay in full!”

“May I see it?”

Stockbridge hesitated. His eyes ran across the paper. His lips curled in an ugly, thin-visaged smile which wrinkled his yellow face. “See it? Yes!” he snapped, volplaning the sheet across the table with a vicious jerk of his wrist.

“Ridgewood Cemetery,” said Drew lifting the letter. “Heading, Ridgewood Cemetery,” he repeated softly. “Dated yesterday,” he added with a sly glance at Stockbridge. “Signed by the superintendent, I suppose. Yes, by the superintendent. He scrawls worse than I do. Well, it looks official and smells—ah!”

Stockbridge worked his brows up and down like a gorilla. He chewed on his cigar with savage grinding of gold-filled teeth.

“Smells graveyardy,” continued Drew. “I get flowers and urns and new-turned earth. This seems to be the bare announcement that the grave you ordered dug in the family plot—is ready and waiting.” Drew glanced up.

“Quite so,” sneered the Magnate.

Drew stroked his upper lip. He turned the letter over. He held it to the rose-light and studied the water-mark. He raised his black brows and said sepulchrally:

“Who is dead?”

Stockbridge stiffened. “Dead?” he exclaimed. “Why, nobody is dead! Damn it, Drew, there’s nobody dead at all!”

The detective frowned. “Somebody in the immediate family?” he questioned. “Somebody you are expecting to pass away soon? Some one on their sick-bed, for instance?”

Stockbridge snatched the cigar from his mouth and threw it to the rug. “That letter’s a stab, Drew!” he exclaimed. “It’s a damn insult to me and mine, if you want to know. I’ll have the author of it, or know the reason why. I’ll spend fifty thousand to catch the miscreants. They’ll not monkey with me!”

“The writer of this seems to be the superintendent.”

“Yes—that part’s all right. He knows nothing save what you see there. This threat concerns Loris and I. We are the only two who will ever be buried in our family plot.”

“What does she know? Has she seen this letter?”

“Yes!”

“Knows nothing about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Has no enemies?”

“Certainly not! She’s just a girl!” The Magnate’s eyes softened slightly. He glanced around for a cigar.

Drew laid the letter on the table. “It seems to me,” he said, “that you have not explained everything. When did you get this letter, Mr. Stockbridge? What time did it arrive?”

“It came in the late mail last night. I showed it to Loris at supper. Then I called up the cemetery people this morning. Got the superintendent. He said that ‘Dr. Conroy’—our family physician—‘had phoned him and ordered the grave dug.’ Said, ‘A death was about to occur in the Stockbridge family.’ Conroy never sent any such message!”

“Umph!” broke in Drew.

“Yes! He assured me of it. Was terribly put out!”

“It seems to me,” said Drew, “that the entire matter is a practical joke of the low order. I see nothing else to it—so far. It isn’t even clever.”

“I’m not so sure,” Stockbridge said huskily. “It may be very clever. It may mean that death is coming—to me or to Loris. There’s men in this city who are capable of anything!”

The break in the Magnate’s voice brought Drew to the edge of his chair.

“Whom do you suspect?” he asked professionally. “Motive goes before crime—you know. Sometimes a warning is sent—more often there is none. Clever men do not telegraph a blow.”

“I suspect the whole city!” declared Stockbridge.

Drew smiled sincerely. It was plainly evident that the Magnate was suffering from the thrust about Loris and the graveyard. The detective had never seen him so unsettled.

“How about Germans?” he asked. “You’ve made a lot of ammunition—haven’t you?”

“Ye—s. I’ve still holdings in Standard Shell, Preferred, and Amalgamated Powder. Also, there is my interest in Flying Boat.”

“Could the Germans be after you for any reason at all?”

The Magnate weighed the question from a score of angles. He reached and secured a second cigar. “I don’t think so,” he said with a dark frown. “I don’t think they would bother with me. I’m more or less retired. I’ve drawn out of a lot of things. Younger men are turning out the ammunition now.”

“Then which of your friends might be responsible for this letter?”

“Well put!” exclaimed Stockbridge. “Friends may be right. Friends now, or former friends who have rounded on me.”

“Name some!”

“There’s Morphy!”

“We settled him. We should never hear from him again.”

“I’m not so sure! You don’t know him like I know him. He’s a vindictive devil! He got ten to twenty years in state prison. You remember the case. He lost his appeal to the Governor, only last week. I blocked it through Tammany affiliations. You know what that fiend in stripes is capable of doing. He would sell his soul to get me!”

Drew grew serious. “Yes, I know,” he said.

“Then there is—well, there are others. Ten, at least! What man can rise in this slippery city without pushing a few down the ladder? Wall Street and Broad Street and New Street are full of curb-stone blackmailers who knew me when I was struggling with my companies. They saw me take chances they themselves feared to take. They hounded me, then. Thank God, I got above them!”

Drew leaned over the table. “A few names,” he said. “Something specific. Who of all of them would be capable of phoning the cemetery, representing himself to be your family physician and ordering the grave dug? Who might think of a thing like that?”

“Well, there’s Harry Nichols, for instance. He’s an ass with a champagne thirst and a shoestring salary. I threw him out of the house the other day. He was calling on Loris. Think of that! He’s probably sworn to get me.”

“How old is he?”

“About twenty-three—or four! Smokes, drinks and plays golf!”

“Name some others,” suggested Drew artfully.

“Morphy!”

“I got him.”

“Morphy’s brother who escaped when we had Morphy indicted. I don’t know where he is. Then there’s Vogel and Vogel’s friends. Oh, there’s a pirate crew of them. Some were mixed up in the first Flying Boat failure. They would all like to see me in Ridgewood Cemetery. I’ll fool them!”

“You’ve given me Harry Nichols, Morphy, Morphy’s brother, Vogel and Vogel’s friends. That’s four and a few outsiders. Can you think of any more?”

“Not at present! One of them is responsible for this letter. I want you to get busy. If you won’t take the case, I’ll get an agency that will. There’s plenty!”

“I’ll handle it,” said Drew, “when it gets to be a case. As it is now, Mr. Stockbridge––”

“Buuurrruuurrr! Buuurrruuurrr! Buuurrruuurrr!”

The Magnate started. He lowered his cigar, balanced it on the edge of the table, and turned slowly in his chair. He leaned over a smaller table which was littered with bronze ash-trays and inlaid match-boxes. He lifted the receiver of the insistent telephone. He pressed this to his ear.

Drew watched him narrowly. The terseness of a static charge of high voltage was in the great library. The face of the Munition Magnate grew cold with hauteur. It changed over the seconds to venom and red anger. His neck purpled. The diaphragm of the telephone instrument hissed its message. His hand clutched the hard-rubber receiver with white strength. A click followed as the connection was broken. Stockbridge dropped the receiver upon the hook. He turned slowly and stared at Drew with eyes that had aged over the moments. Wrinkles shot from their corners. Sullen light gleamed in their yellow depths.

“What happened?” questioned Drew half rising from his chair and leaning over. “Who phoned?”

The Magnate’s chin described an upward arc. His lips grew firm. Bulges showed at the sides of his jaw.

“What—who was it?” asked the detective.

Stockbridge stared at the letter upon the table. His neck changed from purple to a pasty ochre. A green sheen, like of death, overspread his crafty features. He was stricken with the clutch of fear.

Drew waited and thought rapidly. “What happened?” he asked with persuasion. “Nothing serious—I hope?”

“Serious,” said Stockbridge absently. “Serious!” he snarled. “Yes, it was serious! It was a death threat! It was what I had expected. It follows the letter. They—he will get me! He—he––”

“Who?” asked the detective.

Drew heard the table creaking as Stockbridge’s muscles stiffened—as the Magnate’s hands clutched the edge of the polished surface.

“Who?” he repeated on the alert for possible clews.

“Who! I don’t know! But they will—he will!”

“Easy,” said Drew. “Take it easy, sir. This is a modern age. We are in the heart of civilization. Nobody is going to get you! I’ll see to that!”

“You can’t see! This man knows everything. He said that I would be dead within twelve hours. That I would be in my grave in seventy-two hours. He mentioned the grave at Green—Ridgewood Cemetery. He gave secret details of my life which few alone know. Early follies of mine. An actress. A deal in War Babies and an electrical stock which was hushed up. I was the silent partner in that. How should this man know all of these things about me?”

“Just what did he say?”

“I’ve told you! He said enough! He threatened to kill me despite all the precautions I would take. He said I was marked for a death which all the police in the world couldn’t solve. That I would be killed in spite of every effort to save me. What is it—poison? Have I already been given poison?”

Drew reached across the table and clutched the magnate’s left wrist. He pulled out a flat watch and timed the pulse. “Normal, almost,” he said softly. “You’re normal, despite the shock. Your temperature is fair. I don’t think it was a toxin he meant. That deadens a man and brings slow coma.”

“Well, what did he mean?” The magnate had found his voice and his old-time nerve. “What would you do in my case?” he said cunningly.

Drew glanced at the telephone. He raised his brows and swung, full-staring, upon Stockbridge. His finger pointed between the money-king’s eyes. It was as steady as an automatic revolver.

“Did you recognize that voice?” he asked sharply. “Tell me the facts. I can’t go ahead unless you do. I must work from facts!”

“No!” declared Stockbridge. “No, I did not! I never heard it before. I––”

“What was it like?”

“Hollow-whispering—almost feminine in tone. I thought it was a woman at first. It wasn’t, though! It was a man or boy.”

“Have you told me everything?”

“Yes—except this man or boy—this whispering voice, wound up by threatening to get my daughter, Loris, as soon as he finished with me. Said he’d clean up with her!”

“I’ll take the case!” snapped Drew.

CHAPTER TWO

“THE MAGPIE”

The Munition Magnate thrust a shaking hand toward the detective. “I’m glad!” he declared raising his voice. “You did well in the Morphy case. That’s the reason I called upon you. Now find the miscreant or miscreants, who telephoned the cemetery superintendent, and you’ll not be forgotten.”

Drew glanced shrewdly at the ’phone. “May I use it?” he asked briskly. “I’ll try to trace that call.”

Stockbridge moved his chair away from the little table. Drew glided across the room, pressed the ash-trays and match-boxes to one side, and picked up the receiver. He worked the hook up and down with his broad thumb.

“Hello! Hello!” he repeated clicking the hook. “Hello, central! Hello!”

He glanced at Stockbridge as he waited. He frowned as he stooped and spoke more directly into the transmitter. “Hello! Hello!”

“Something the matter?” asked the Magnate with quick suspicion. “Don’t they answer?”

“Hello! Hello! I Hello, there!” Drew glared at the transmitter, then tapped the receiver against the silver-plated cover. “Hello!” he shouted. “Damn it, Hello!”

He turned. “No go,” he said thoughtfully. “Connection seems to be broken. I’m talking right out into thin air. Wonder who cut your wires?”

Stockbridge bristled. He slid forward in his great chair and stared at the detective. “They’re cut, eh?” he asked.

Drew set the ’phone on the table and turned. “Looks mighty like it,” he said. His eyes swung over the walls of the splendid room. They rested upon a high, ebony stand with a belfry from which dangled a gilt spring suspending an ornate bird cage. Out of this cage, a magpie peered with beaded eyes. Its tail extended up through the bars like a feather from a hat.

“My bird,” said Stockbridge. “A tame magpie I brought from Spain. It talks.”

Drew raised his brows. He continued his search of the library. Its wealth of books and paintings and antiques almost stunned him. “I’m looking for another ’phone,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Have you another ’phone in this house?”

“Yes. Two more. This is Gramercy Hill 9763. The one in Loris’ room is Gramercy Hill 9764. Another in the butler’s pantry, downstairs, is 9765. Perhaps the others are disconnected.”

“We’ll see. I want that call traced before it gets cold. I know a wire chief at Gramercy Hill Exchange. He’ll help if I can get him. Have your butler show me his ’phone. Also, we better get a trouble-hunter, or report the cut wires. Somebody will pay for this! It’s an outrage and a felony!”

Stockbridge moved his slippered foot and pressed a button under the larger table. He waited, then pressed again. His eyes wavered about the room. They fastened upon the portières which draped from the pole across the doorway leading into the hall. His tongue moistened dry lips as he watched for the butler.

“I’ll ’phone my office,” said Drew hurriedly as steps were heard in the hall. “I’ll get up five operatives—no, six—right away. This all may be a hoax, but I’ve lived forty-one years too long to overlook a threat of this kind. Particularly when it concerns a man who has made as many enemies as you have.”

The butler parted the portières as Drew ceased speaking. Stockbridge nodded and indicated that the detective wanted to go downstairs. The butler led the way to the lower telephone. Into this, Drew spoke hurriedly and very much to the point. He secured three numbers in rapid succession. He snapped his orders in a manner to set the cut-glass tinkling on the pantry shelves. He hung up the receiver, glanced shrewdly at the servants about, then climbed the stairs like a boy of twelve.

“All is set!” he announced to Stockbridge as he entered the library and crossed to the table. “All moving, now! My wire-chief had gone home. I got the chief operator. She’s going to send the first trouble-man handy. Delaney will be up from the office with his flying squad. I left it to him to arrange about tracing the call through a telephone official. No use telling the chief operator too much. The official will go right over her head and into the heart of the thing. Now,”—Drew pulled down the lapels of his black coat and leaned over the Magnate. “Now,” he said with vigor, “now, what about your servants? I had a good look at some of them. How about that English butler? How long have you had him?”

“Ten years! Brought him over, myself. Wife picked the other servants. They’re all old, tried and trusted. I’ll answer for them. She died telling me to take care of them. I don’t think her equal lived in choosing help. It was uncanny!”

Drew stroked his cropped mustache. “Good!” he said. “That’s fine! We’ll start with the supposition that they’re not guilty. Are any of them of German birth?”

“My valet is part German, but he ran away to avoid their army. He hates the Junker party. Says ‘It is responsible for the War.’”

“How long have you had him?”

“Nine years.”

“That should let him out. Well,” Drew added with a sweeping glance about the library, “well, these big windows—how about them?”

The detective advanced to the front of the room as he asked the question. “Two,” he mused. “Two bay-windows of the superior order. Curtains very heavy and rich. There’s a good catch on this one,” he added springing upon the radiator-box. “And a good catch on this one. Both catches are closed. Seem to have been closed for some time. Here’s dust. High-class housekeeper, but I’ve got her here.”

Drew smiled as he ran his fingers over the upper sash. He peered out into the Avenue with its flowing tide of vehicles. He turned and said to Stockbridge:

“Suppose you order your butler or doorman to shut the outside blinds. It’s getting dark and cold. I want to be sure that no one can get through this way.”

“Good,” said Stockbridge reaching for the button with his toe. “Good! We’ll take every precaution. Twelve hours will show the thing one way or the other. Twelve hours should do it.”

The butler entered bearing a silver tray. He set this on a mahogany tea-wagon and rolled it to the Magnate’s chair. Drew frowned at the sight of a black bottle and one glass. A signal of understanding had been sent to the perfect servant.

Stockbridge moistened his thin lips thirstily. He whispered the instructions concerning the blinds. The butler withdrew like a shadow merging into a shadow. Drew shrugged his shoulders and went the round of the library with the keen, trained scrutiny of a man-hunter and a modern operative. He paused before a case of morocco-bound books. “These cases?” he asked. “How about them? What’s behind?”

“Books! Books!” shrilled the magpie.

Drew raised his brows and swung upon the bird.

“Books! Books!” repeated the pet. “Books, books, books!”

“Fine bird,” said Drew with thought. “But what is behind the cases, Mr. Stockbridge? I don’t want to move them if the walls are all right.”

A glass clicked against the silver tray as the Magnate answered hastily:

“All right! They’re all right. I was here when they were filled. I just ordered so many feet of books. Six hundred feet, I think it was. I never look at them. All that I ever read is the magazines and the financial items in the newspapers.”

“The pictures—paintings,” Drew said.

“Pictures! Pictures!” repeated the magpie.

“Shut up!” snarled Stockbridge. “Keep quiet, Don!”

The bird ruffled its feathers and leaped to a top perch. It peered from there at Drew, with its head cocked sideways.

“How about them?” repeated the detective.

“I had them hung by my orders,” Stockbridge said. “They’re all right. Nothing but a strong wall behind. No need to bother about them.”

“Everything is important,” Drew suggested with a slight reproof in his voice. “Trifles may make for the answer to the riddle.”

“That Corot over there is no trifle. It cost me thirty-five thousand dollars in France!”

Drew lifted the lower edge of the painting from the wall. Dust fell. He pressed his face against the paper and looked behind the canvas. Letting the frame back he tried the same operation with the other paintings of size.

“No secret panel, or anything queer,” he said finally as he dusted his hands. “All’s well with the walls. Now the floor. How about trapdoors?”

“Impossible!” Stockbridge exclaimed. “I’m sure these rugs have been taken out and cleaned every time I go to my country-place. A trapdoor would be noticed!”

“I’m trying to find out,” suggested Drew glancing from the bottle to the purple face of the Magnate. “Please answer me if you want to get results. I’ve got to see that no one comes into this library for the next twelve hours. After that period of time—we can breathe easier.”

“Go on,” said Stockbridge feeling the thrust.

“This door,” Drew said. “The door to the hall. Can it be locked securely?”

“Yes! It can be locked and bolted from the inside. I often lock myself in—in––”

Stockbridge stiffened in his chair. He glanced toward the portières. He leaned forward and attempted to shield the view of the quarter-emptied Bourbon-bottle and the used glass, as a girl in lavender and Irish-lace swept into the room.

Drew recognized Loris Stockbridge from newspaper photos. He held his breath as she glided by him, unseeingly. He touched his mustache and waited. Her face, framed in close-drawn hair the color of midnight sky, softened perceptibly as she swished round the great table in the center of the library and laid an unjeweled hand upon her father’s shoulder.

She turned with a start as she realized that Stockbridge was not alone. Drew bowed with swift courtesy.

“Mr. Drew,” said the Magnate. “Mr. Drew, my daughter, Loris.”

Again the detective bowed. He met her level glance with a smile in his brown eyes. She answered it and leaned over her father’s shoulder. Drew wheeled and fell to studying the titles on the books. He moved to the magpie’s cage. He extended one finger. The bird fluttered and sprang from perch to perch.

Drew thrust his hands into his pockets. He heard Loris speaking in terse, throaty tones to her father. He could not well avoid catching the tenor of their conversation. It concerned the letter from the cemetery and the threat of death within twelve hours, which the Magnate repeated to her with a softness in his aged voice.

A gushing torrent of unbridled emotion poured down upon his gray head. The girl paced the floor between the chair and the table. She fell to her knees with swift grace.

“Be careful, father,” she sobbed. “You must be so careful. Remember you’re all that I have, now. That letter and that telephone call means that somebody is planning to destroy you. Oh, father, be careful. What would happen if you were taken away from me?”

“You’d marry that cad—Nichols!” blurted Stockbridge. “I’m the one thing that stands in his way. You’d marry him—wouldn’t you?”

The girl rose proudly. Drew, from the shadow outside the rose-light, studied the slender figure crowned with a close-drawn turban of blue-black hair. His eyes ranged down to her slipper heels. They lifted again. He stroked his chin as he waited for her answer. It came truthfully enough and with high spirit.

“Yes, I’ll marry him some day. I want your permission, but with it or without it, father, I am going to marry him. He’s a captain in the Army. Doesn’t that prove he is not all the things you said he was?”

“Good girl,” said Drew in whispered admiration.

“It proves nothing!” exclaimed Stockbridge stiffening in his chair and half rising. “He’s a cad and an ass under all his uniform. He’s too poor to be considered for one moment. I want my daughter to marry––”

“Whom she pleases,” said Loris. “Harry may be poor, but he’s not too proud to fight!”

“Bah! They get those uniforms so the girls will notice them. What does he know about war?”

“He’s been at Plattsburg for three months. He’s in town on furlough. He’s helping us with Red Cross work. Isn’t that noble!”

“That part’s all right,” said the Magnate. “I want you to keep him from me, that’s all. I believe he’s half German!”

“He’s not! Harry is all-American. His mother was born of German parents in this country. His father was Canadian. You’ve heard of the Nichols who built part of the Grand Trunk Railroad. Was he German?”

Stockbridge paled under the torrent which gushed from the girl’s lips.

“Well, all right,” he said resignedly. “Don’t bring him here or allow him to call. I’ve too much to think about to worry over Harry Nichols. You better go to your room and think things over.”

Loris glanced at her wrist-watch. She leaned with quick motion and kissed her father on the forehead. She turned at the portières and threw back her head.

“Good-by, Mr. Drew,” she said prettily. “I hope that you have not been annoyed.”

The detective, naturally quick at answering, found his tongue tied in his mouth. He stammered a reply, which was too late. Loris swished through the curtains, leaving the room empty for her passing.

“A mighty fine girl,” was Drew’s whispered comment. “They don’t often come like that. She’s very high class. She’s got spirit. I’d hate to snatch a delusion from that young lady—Harry Nichols, for instance.”

“Come here!” broke in Stockbridge.

Drew crossed the rugs. He stood by the magnate’s side. He watched him pour out a half-glass of Bourbon and take the whisky neat. He frowned. “Well?” he asked.

“Not a word from your men or the telephone company?” asked Stockbridge, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s queer, isn’t it?”

Drew took out his watch. He replaced it after a glance at the dial. His eyes wandered to a little Sèvres clock on a book-case. “It’s time for both,” he said. “It’s––”

“There’s somebody now—go see,” Stockbridge whispered tersely. “Somebody is in the hallway.”

The portières parted and revealed the beef-red face of the English butler. He advanced a step.

“The trouble-man from the telephone company is ’ere, sir,” he said. “’E’s ’ere! ’E’s been hover the junctions in the halley, sir. ’E’s looked at the junction-box. ’E says, sir, there’s no trouble there. ’E says ‘it must be in ’ere, sir.’”

“In ’ere, sir,” repeated the magpie with a loud squawking and rustle of wings. “Junction-box! Junction-box!” it cried with its head through the gilded bars.

“Shut up, Don!” ordered Stockbridge. “Be a good bird,” he added sharply. “Now, Straker, you may show the trouble-hunter up.”

“Trouble-hunter! Trouble-hunter!” echoed the magpie.

Drew, somewhat amused, thrust his hands in the pockets of his coat and eyed the opening between the curtains. A click of tools sounded metallically. A shambling step was in the hallway.

“This woiy,” said the butler in a superior tone. “Right this woiy, you!”

The portières parted. A slouching figure, with a greasy cap drawn far down over the eyes, entered the library with a lineman’s satchel on his hip. He swung the strap from his shoulder, glanced at Stockbridge and then at the detective. He dropped the satchel to the floor and scratched his head.

“Take a look at this ’phone,” said Drew. “Go over the wires. Look for any cuts. The trouble ought not to be in here.”

Stockbridge rose and made room for the lineman, who lifted the satchel and strode to the ’phone. He dropped to one knee by the little table. He fished forth a testing-set from his shirt. It was bound with two leads of cotton-insulated wire.

“I’ll test here,” he suggested, clamping a set of claws into the wires which came through the molding and entered the ringing-box.

“Hello!” he said. “Hello, this you, Saidee? Say, Saidee, give me Franklin Official, seventeen. Yes ... all right! Hello! This you, Tupper? Say, Tupper, I went over the junction-box in the alley back of the house. Everything O. K. there. I’ll go over the leads in the house. Loose connection somewhere, I guess.”

A clicking of tools followed as the lineman selected a pair of pliers. They rattled over the binding-posts at the receiver. They tightened the connections. He went over the transmitter, and then every inch of the exposed wiring. He removed the cover of the ringing-box and examined the connections. Replacing this cover, he rose with a puzzled expression.

“All right,” he said to Stockbridge, who was standing with his back turned. “It’s all right here, sir. I don’t find a thing. See—it’s all right.”

The trouble-hunter lifted the receiver from the hook. “Hello,” he said in a low voice. “Hello, Saidee. Say, Saidee, what number is this on your board?”

The lineman glanced around the room. His eyes widened. He whistled with naïve admiration. “Hello,” he said softly. “Yes ... Gramercy Hill 9763. That’s right. O.K. Tell Franklin Official—tell Tupper that I took forty minutes on the job. Forty minutes at time and a half. Don’t forget that. Yes ... bridle—everything, all right, Saidee. See you later.”

The trouble-hunter reached for his satchel. He hitched it over his shoulder.

“Hold on!” said Drew. “What was the trouble? Why couldn’t we get Central?”

“You can search me—sir. It wasn’t in this room, mister. That’s a Western-Union cinch!”

“Where was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“How about the junction-box in the alley? Could it have been there?”

“Well it could—come to think of it. I scraped an’ cleaned th’ connections to make sure. They’re all right now.”

“Did you see anybody about?”

The lineman hitched up the satchel and scratched his ear. “Seems to me, I did. A fellow climbed over the fence from the back yard of this house just as I swings in from the side street. It was snowin’ a bit an’ I couldn’t see very well.”

“What kind of looking fellow?” snapped Drew with awakened interest. “German?”

“You took th’ very words right out of my mouth,” said the trouble-hunter. “He looked like a German.”

“Describe him! Tall, fat or small?”

“I wasn’t near enough to notice for sure. Tall, I think. He went out the alley and turned toward Fifth Avenue.”

“Could he have called us up from that junction-box?”

“Sure—if he had a set of testers like this.” The lineman tapped his shirt with his left hand. “He could have talked with you, but he couldn’t ring your bell without a magneto or an alternating current of some kind.”

“Could he have cut the wires and connected them again without Central noticing anything out of the ordinary?”

“He might. But who would do that, sir?”

“That’s all!” said Drew in dismissal. “Here’s a dollar. Keep still about your visit here. We may want you later.”

“Want you later,” repeated the magpie.

Drew turned toward Stockbridge as the lineman shuffled through the portières. “Queer,” he said. “Tall fellow, eh! That’s the man who cut in and threatened you. We’ll get him! I’ll go out and see if Delaney has arrived. Two hours of the twelve have passed. Ten more should see you safely out of it.”

CHAPTER THREE

“THE MAN IN OLIVE-DRAB”

Triggy Drew stood on the marble steps of the Stockbridge mansion. The butler had just helped him on with his coat. The door had closed softly. The outer air gripped with cold that crackled. A soft snow was falling upon the city. It blurred the view of the Avenue, as seen to north and south. It wound the opposite buildings with a shroud of winter.

The detective squared his shoulders, thrust his hands in his pockets for warmth, and hurried out between the iron-grilled gates, which stood slightly ajar. He hesitated a moment on the sidewalk. Again he glanced up and down the Avenue. The soft purring of a motor sounded. A taxi churned through the snow. It came to a slow stop at the opposite curb. The glow from an overhead arc showed that this taxi was crammed black with men.

“That’s Delaney and his squad,” said the detective turning up his collar. “He’s late.”

Drew crossed the Avenue on a long diagonal. He eyed the alert chauffeur. He rounded the taxi and jerked open its door. The orders he whispered to the squad of operatives were terse and to the point.

“Keep Stockbridge’s block covered,” he said. “Watch all four corners. Two of you get into the alley, back of the house, and climb the fence. Keep your eyes on the junction-box and the telephone wires. Don’t let anybody touch them. All out, now. It’s a big job with double-pay, men!”

The cramped operatives climbed out and stood on the sidewalk. They glanced from Drew to the towering spires of the Stockbridge mansion. Their eyes grew hard with calculation.

“She’s big,” repeated Drew. “You know who lives there? He’s been threatened twice. Somebody gave him twelve hours to live. Two of the twelve are gone. It’s up to us to see that nothing happens in the next ten.”

Delaney touched his hat. “All right, Chief,” he said. “We’ll see. I’ll answer for the boys I brought. I’ll get rid of this taxi.” The operative turned toward the driver.

“Keep it around the corner on the side street,” Drew ordered. “Have him turn and head this way. We can’t tell what minute we will need him.”

Delaney gave the order. He paired off the operatives and sent them hurrying through the snow. Drew noticed that he had brought six men for the assignment.

“Good,” he said as the last operative disappeared. “Six is better than five. This thing is widening out. I wouldn’t wonder if we needed more, before the night passes.”

“What’s coming off?” asked Delaney with an Irish grin. “Another stock scandal like the Flying Boat one?”

“An echo of it—perhaps,” said Drew. “It’s dog eat dog, I guess. Stockbridge is no saint. Some man with a whispering—consumptive voice has ’phoned him the news that he was going to die before daylight. I don’t think he is. Not if I can help it.”

“Who did he rob this time—the old devil!”

“He’s retired. It’s a case, perhaps, of thieves falling out in high places. Remember how Stockbridge beat Morphy to the District Attorney and told all he knew, and went before the Grand Jury? Morphy may be behind this threat-by-wire.”

“Morphy’s behind bars, Chief!”

“I know that. He’s always dangerous, though.”

“Another old devil,” said Delaney thrashing his arms. “I can see him now, Chief, in his big automobile. A husky man with a leather coat and cap. And always a woman by his side, Chief. A different woman, every time!”

“He fell a long way, Delaney. Come on. We’ll forget Morphy for a while. Stockbridge is alone. He is in danger.”

Drew clutched the operative’s arm and motioned across the street. They plunged through the snow with heads down. They entered the iron-grilled gate. Drew touched a button set in the stone of the doorway. He repeated the signal.

The door opened to a crack. A chain rattled. A face blotted out the inner light of the mansion.

“All right,” said Drew. “All right, butler. This is one of my operatives. Let us in.”

The butler led the way through the hall of old masters, after taking the detectives’ coats and hats. He parted the curtains and announced the operatives. Drew pressed Delaney into the library.

Stockbridge sat in the same position between the tables. The rose-light from the ornate lamp brought out deep lines which transversed his yellow face. Fear gave way to a mumbling satisfaction as he stared at the two resolute detectives who had come to guard him. He rested his eyes upon Delaney. His brows raised in inquiry.

“This is Delaney,” said Drew. “He’s the man who brought back Morphy from Hartford. He’s true blue. Delaney, this is your case as well as mine. Your old prisoner may be involved.”

“Morphy ain’t in it, Chief. He’s locked up tighter than the Sub-Treasury’s strong-box. It’s some one else.”

“What did you get on the telephone call? The call I had you trace through Spencer Ott, the Chief Electrician?”

“Nothing, as yet! I waited. That’s what kept me so long.” Delaney glanced at his watch.

“He’ll ’phone later, I guess,” said Drew. “Now,” he added turning toward Stockbridge. “Now, let’s cover everything in this house. What time was it, Delaney?”

“Nine forty-eight, when I looked, Chief.”

“That’s early. Suppose you allow a half hour for a search of the upper house. Take that time and go over everything. Pay particular attention to Mr. Stockbridge’s rooms. Look at the windows. See that they are locked. See that there are no places where a man could be hidden. You’ll permit Delaney to do this, Mr. Stockbridge?”

The Munition Magnate nodded. He kept his eyes on Drew, who still faced him. “Do you think it is necessary?” he asked. “I’ll answer for my servants.”

“We must suspect everybody,” Drew said. “Go on, Delaney. Find the butler and let him show you around. I’ve searched in here.”

Delaney started toward the portières as Stockbridge reached down and pressed the floor-button with his finger.

“Just a moment,” said Drew with afterthought. “You better knock on Miss Stockbridge’s door and ask permission to go through her suite. There’s just a chance that you might see something.”

“Might see something!” shrilled the magpie.

Delaney turned with a startled half-oath. “Wot’s that?” he asked, aggressively clenching his huge fists.

“Might be something!” chortled the magpie.

“Go on,” Drew laughed. “That’s only a magpie.”

“Looks like a crow, Chief. It sure startled me. I thought we had the villain right here.”

Drew waited. Delaney—with a last glance toward the bird-cage—followed the butler to the upper floors of the mansion. Drew opened the letter and studied it. He examined the postmark. He heard, as he was replacing the paper in the envelope, the click of the glass against the bottle at Stockbridge’s side. There followed a dry chuckle of inner satisfaction. A match was struck. Cigar smoke wreathed under the rose-light and floated toward a high radiator which was over the book-cases. Drew went over to these and glanced upward. The gilt-grilled ventilator, through which the smoke passed, was narrow and set within the wallplaster. It showed no sign of marks at its edge. It was the only opening, save the door and the two great windows at the front, which led from or into the library.

He returned to the center of the library. A swishing sounded. Loris, with eyes aflame, glided into the room. The curtains dropped behind her with soft rustling. She glanced from Drew to her father. She stamped her slippered foot upon the thick pile of the rug before the doorway.

“By what right?” she said to Drew. “By whose orders have you sent that awful man to my rooms?”

Drew flushed beneath the olive of his skin.

“I sent him,” he admitted guiltily. “I never thought you would be offended, Miss Stockbridge.”

“I am—greatly so! Do you mistrust me?”

“Miss Stockbridge,” Drew hastened to say with soft apology. “Miss Loris—that thought never entered my mind. It never did! I’ll have Mr. Delaney out, right away. He should not have gone in without your permission. I told him to knock and ask you.”

“My maid let him in. I—I––”

Drew studied her gown. It had been changed. The Irish lace and the lavender one had been replaced by an Oxford-gray tailor-made suit which fitted her slender, elegant form like a close glove. Her slippers were topped with fawn-hued spats. One ring was on her finger. It was a solitaire of price. It gleamed and flashed in the rose-light as she raised her hand to her hair.

“I’ll have Delaney right out,” repeated Drew, bowing and starting for the doorway.

“No!”

Drew paused. He turned. The magnate towered over the table. His eyes were blood-shot and glazed with resolve.

“No!” he declared. “No, you’ll not have him out! Let him do his duty! Loris, go upstairs!”

“But, father––”

“Go—up—stairs!”

The girl flushed. Scarlet ripples rose from her young breast. Her cheeks crimsoned into two burning spots. She wheeled, gathered up her skirt, and glided swiftly through the portières which dropped behind her like a curtain of a stage.

“Go—up—stairs,” quoted the magpie greatly excited.

Drew retained the vision of Loris long after her footsteps had ceased to sound in the hallway. He grew thoughtful as he waited. There were details to the case which already caused him concern. It was evident that the girl was tremendously high-spirited and willful. Her obedience to her father’s demand had only been after a struggle with her turbulent nature. She had given in to him, but friction was there which might cause trouble at a future hour.

Delaney parted the portières, finally. He strode into the library with a flushed face. He lifted one brow as he jerked his head upward in a mute signal to Drew.

“I guess it’s all O. K.,” he blurted swinging toward Stockbridge and eyeing the bottle beside the telephone. “O. K. upstairs. I searched most everything—posted a valet at the master’s suite and took a look into Miss Stockbridge’s rooms. They seem all right. I guess they’re all right,” he added with candor, which Drew understood referred to the girl and her outburst in her boudoir.

“Good,” Drew said closing his lips. “That’s good. Now, Mr. Stockbridge,” he added, “there will be eight of us on the outside of this house. You have your trusted servants inside. There’s three telephones in good order, thanks to the trouble-man. There’s the entire New York Police and Detective Departments to back us up. There should be no trouble.”

The Magnate blinked beneath the cone of rose-light. He wet his dry lips. He rubbed his scaly hands. “Any orders to me?” he asked determinedly. “What shall I do?”

“You lock this library door when Delaney and I go out. Lock it and bolt it securely. Don’t take a particle of food. Don’t drink any water. Try to get along to-night without sampling anything.”

Stockbridge reached for the bottle of Bourbon. He held it up to the light. It was half full. “All right,” said he. “I might finish part of this—that’s all.”

Drew glanced at Delaney. “That’ll be all right,” he said turning. “That bottle’s been tested. You might let this officer try a little of it. Nothing like being sure, you know.”

Delaney was willing. The drink he poured, after the butler brought a clean glass, would have cost him considerable money in war time. He upended it neat. He smiled as one hand rested upon his chest. “Fine!” he said with sincerity. “There’s nothin’ th’ matter with that!”

Drew turned toward the portières, where, between, the butler waited. “We’ll go now,” he said. “Remember—lock and bolt this door. Instruct your man to stay outside and not to leave it under any circumstances. When you go up to your bedroom, have him go with you. Then lock the upstairs door and let your valet sleep across the threshold. You can have a mattress moved for that purpose. I’ll come in—first thing in the morning. Good night, sir!”

“Good night,” repeated Stockbridge rising from his chair and leaning his hands upon the polished surface of the table. “Good night to both of you!”

Drew glanced back as the butler pressed in the curtains and started closing the hardwood door. The Magnate still stood erect under the rich glow from the overhead cone. His eyes were slit-lidded and defiant. He glared about the room like an aged lion in a jungle-glade. He started around the table.

The door closed. Drew waited in the hallway. He heard the lock snap. The bolt shot home. Stockbridge was alone in a sealed room.

“Watch this door!” ordered Drew clutching the butler’s purple sleeve. “Watch it like a cat. Stay right near it under any and all circumstances. Don’t go away from it. It may mean life or death to your master.”

“I’ll stoiy right ’ere, sir.”

“See that you do,” cautioned the Detective. “See that you do.”

Delaney found the hats and coats in the foyer. These they donned, opened the outer door, and stepped into the night with jaws squared and hands thrust deep in their pockets.

They crossed the snow-mantled Avenue upon a long diagonal which brought them to the up-town corner and the waiting taxi, whose engine was softly purring beneath its hooded bonnet.

The driver was asleep. He woke as Drew laid a hand on his arm.

“Seen anything?” asked the Detective.

“Nothin’, boss, but snow. Nothin’ at all,” he yawned.

Delaney glanced about. He opened the taxi door on the street side and lunged inward with a sigh of relief. Drew followed and pulled the door shut.

“Where’s the bunch?” he asked. “Just how did you post them?”

“Flood’s with the fixed-post cop on the Avenue. He’s down a block. Flynn and Cassady are in the alley—in the yard, I mean. They’re watching the junction-box and the wires. Joe and O’Toole went east. Harrigan is planted across the street. That’s him between the two buildings. See him?”

Drew rubbed the rear glass of the taxi. He pressed his nose against this. A blurred form, almost obliterated by falling snow, showed where the operative was guarding the mansion.

Delaney, who was watching out through another window, suddenly clutched Drew by the arm. “Look!” he exclaimed. “Look, Chief! Over toward the big house!”

The Detective drew back from his study of Harrigan. He turned on the seat and followed Delaney’s pointing finger. He clamped his jaw shut with a click of strong teeth.

“Somebody’s coming out of Stockbridge’s,” said the operative.

“Quek!” signaled Drew. “Watch, closely,” he added in a whisper.

A girl came through the doorway and opened the iron-grilled gates. She paused and glanced north and south through the curtain of down-falling snow. She turned with resolution and hurried along the east side of the Avenue. She was at the corner opposite the taxi, when Drew reached and opened the door with sly fingers.

“Tail her,” he ordered. “Right after her, Delaney. I’d know that little lady in a million.”

“Who is she, Chief?”

“Loris Stockbridge!”

“Sure?”

“Yes! Right after her! There—she turned east. See her white spats? See her furs? Some queen to be out a night like this. Don’t let her get too far ahead of you. That’s right, Delaney!”

The operative sprang to the curb. He rounded the hood of the taxi. He slouched along the pavement to the corner, waited for the fraction of a minute until a limousine passed, then hurried over the Avenue. He disappeared into the canyon whose walls were towering apartments and whose end was marked by a row of soft arcs across which, snow falling from housetops, sparkled in the night like diamonds beyond price.

The Avenue churned with returning theater-parties and night-hawk cabs. The roar of the city came to the waiting Detective’s ears like a giant turning in his first sleep. The sifting snow sanded against the windows of the taxi. The purring motor missed sparking now and then. It shook the cab as it resumed its revolving with a sputter and a cough in the muffler. The driver huddled deeper in his sheep-skin coat collar. He snored in synchronism with the engine.

Drew rubbed the glass before him and studied the aspect with close-lidded intentness. He marked the shut gates of the Mansion down the Avenue. He saw that the lights from the inner globes had been extinguished. He counted the staring windows. His eyes lowered to the soft rose-glow which streamed out through the shut blinds of the library. Snow was on the slats and sills.

A swift crunch of heavy shoes at the side of the taxi—the turning of the door-lock—the burly form in black that climbed in, announced Delaney.

“All right, Chief!” he said somewhat out of breath. “All right—move over. Here she comes back!”

Drew rubbed a frosted pane with his elbow. A blurred form—close to the sheltering wall of the side street—revealed itself into Loris Stockbridge. She turned the corner. She glanced back over her sabled shoulder. She pressed her gloved hands deep within her muff and almost ran for the iron-grilled gates of the mansion.

“She connected with a blonde lad in olive-drab uniform!” said Delaney. “He gave her something that looked to me like a revolver. Wot d’ye make out-a that, Chief?”

CHAPTER FOUR

“THE MURDER”

Triggy Drew had no good answer for Delaney’s question concerning the revolver. The matter was important in view of the threat aimed toward Stockbridge. Why Loris should obtain a gun from a rendezvous in a drug-store was more than the Detective could fathom. He turned to Delaney.

“Explain yourself!” he snapped, gripping the operative by the sleeve. “Make yourself clear! We have no time to waste in this matter!”

Delaney gulped and whispered. “It’s this way. I follows the girl until she turns around the corner where there is an all-night drug-store. She was in a telephone-booth when I came up and looked through the window. She was trying to get a number. While she’s trying, a taxi rushes up and out jumps a lad in a long benny. He pays the driver with a bill and hurries past me and into the drug-store. I gets a good look at him. He’s about twenty-three years old, blonde hair and tall––”

“Tall?”

“He was five feet eleven, Chief. I’d say that to be safe. The uniform he wore under the benny was olive-drab with bars on his shoulder. He took the overcoat off—afterwards.”

“How many bars?”

“Two, Chief.”

“That’s good!” exclaimed Drew with sudden vigor. “Good!”

“The girl,” went on Delaney, “was ’phoning for him. She dropped the receiver when she heard him come in. She had the party she wanted—right there. Good deduction—that is!”

The Detective snorted. “Go on,” he said with a faint frown.

“Sure it was! Well, I moves over and starts puttin’ a penny in the slot-machine outside the drug-store. The machine didn’t work very well on account of the snow. I’m a long time gettin’ my piece of chewin’-gum. I sees them talking in the drug-store. His coat is off ’cause it’s warm inside. He had an officer’s uniform on.”

“One bar or two?”

“Two bars on his shoulder, Chief.”

“Captain, then. Go on.”

“He’s a tall lad with thick lips and wide-blue eyes. He’s straight as a pike-staff and good lookin’—for a blonde.”

“Looks German?”

“Not so I could notice! Seemed to be a bit of a swell. Had gloves and a high-class wrist watch. I hate them things.”

Drew smiled. “Hurry,” he said. “Don’t take too long. What happened? What about the smoke-wagon?”

“I’m comin’ to it, Chief. They moves over to the drug-case. They chins some more. Then he blows her to a soda—a cherry sundae.”

Drew rubbed the glass at his side and started out. He swept the mansion with swift-running eyes. He turned.

“They were sweet—them two,” went on Delaney with thought. “I deducts they’d known each other a long while.”

“Quit your deducting. Get to facts!”

“Well, Chief, he ups and gives the drug-store the once over with sharp looks. Then he handed her a little, flat box which she pops into her muff—quick as any shop-hister. It was as quick as that!”

“How do you know it was a revolver?”

“By what followed, Chief.”

“What followed?”

“Her hand creeps into the muff. It works around while the clerk is mixin’ the sundae. When the clerk’s back is turned, out comes the hilt of a nice, little gat with ivory trimmin’s. It’s one of them lovely watch-charm affairs—all polished up without a knock-out punch.”

“A twenty-two?”

“About that. It’s the caliber them actresses carry in their stockings. It might kill, though, at short range.”

“Go on, Delaney. Tell me what happened then?”

“I gets my chewin’-gum, Chief. I backs to the curb. They finish their sundae. I’m across the street when the lad goose-steps out of the drug-store—alone. O’Toole was talking with the fixed-post cop and a Central Office man half-way down the block. They gets my office when I pulls out my handkerchief. The C. O. dick covers the corner. O’Toole falls in behind the lad in the fur benny as he passes him, with collar turned up and leggins working at a double-time through the snow.”

“That’s good! O’Toole will put him to bed.”

“Sure, Chief. Leave it to O’Toole. He never lost a tail yet. He’ll follow that lad to France—unless you call him off.”

Drew polished the glass and strained his eyes in the direction of Stockbridge’s mansion. The Avenue had quieted over the hour after midnight. A few belated pedestrians, muffled to the brows, glanced at the waiting taxi with curiosity. They did not stop, however.

Delaney drew out his watch and studied its dial by aid of the light which streamed from a corner arc. He replaced the watch.

“Twelve-forty-five,” he announced. “Wish I’d brought a pint along. I would have, if the dame hadn’t come out of the drug-store so quick.”

“Did she buy anything—or do anything, after the officer left her?”

“No! Just waited a second, then came sailin’ out without a smile. Had her hands crammed in her muff. That’s where the revolver was. Bet it was loaded.”

“More deduction,” said Drew. “Don’t jump at conclusions, Delaney. Get facts and work from them. Get––”

The Detective’s voice trailed into silence. He reached swiftly and wiped his hand over the frosted pane. He pressed his nose against the glass until it became white with cold. He jerked back his head.

“Quek!” he signaled from deep down in his throat. “Quek, Delaney! Open the door. Somebody is coming out of the house!”

Delaney twisted the handle. A breath of stinging air swept into the taxi’s heated space. Snow followed and drifted across the detectives’ knees. Both men strained in one position. Their eyes burned as they waited with grim-set lips.

A light shone from the lower entrance of the mansion. Its oblong brought out in bold-relief the details of the iron-grilled gates. Across this fine snow sifted. A man emerged. He closed the door. He opened the gates and staggered toward the Avenue’s curb. He stood, bare-headed in the night. His chin swung north and south with helpless motion. He fixed his eyes upon the waiting taxi, with a start of recognition. He came over the surface of the Avenue with faltering, bewildered steps.

“The butler!” snapped Drew. “That’s Stockbridge’s butler! What’s happened?”

“God only knows!” exclaimed Delaney.

Drew climbed over the operative and sprang to the curb. He charged around the rear of the taxi and brought up with a jerk before the startled servant.

“What is it?” he asked sharply.

The butler stammered an incoherent answer. His eyes wavered from the taxi to the mansion—then back again. They gripped to a dead-lock with the detective’s own.

“What happened?” exclaimed Drew.

“I don’t know, sir. I don’t know––”

“Keep cool! Answer me!” The Detective clutched the butler’s shoulder with a vise-grip.

“Answer me,” he repeated. “What happened? What is the matter—over there?”

“I don’t––”

“None of that! Answer! Answer!”

“The telephone company, sir. The telephone people rang me ... they rang me hup hon the downstairs ’phone, sir. They said ... she said ... the chief-loidy said for me to ’ang the receiver hup hon the Gramercy ’ill ’ook, sir. The 9763 one, sir.”

“Which one is that—the library?”

“It his, sir!”

“Go on! Go on! Go on!”

“I goes back where I ’ad left the second-man, sir, by the door, sir, as you’d ordered, sir. I knocks ’ard on the door.”

“Yes! Yes!” said Drew, feeling Delaney’s hot breath over his shoulder. “Yes! Go on!”

“I knocks, sir. I pounds ’ard. I ’ammers and ’ammers hon the wood, sir. ’E don’t answer—’e don’t.”

Drew’s face grew stern. “Well?” he asked still holding the butler’s eyes. “Well—what then?”

“I knocks some ’arder. Then the second-man, ’e knocks. ’E ’its the door with ’is ’eel, sir!”

“Come on!” said Drew, turning and clasping Delaney’s sleeve. “Come on—something is wrong!”

The detective swept the Avenue with a sharp glance as he hurried across the wheel-churned ice and snow. He signaled to Harrigan by drawing a handkerchief. That operative detached himself from the shadow between the two houses and moved toward the corner. He stood there on guard as Drew hurried through the iron-grilled gates and thrust his knee against the door. It opened. Delaney and the butler crowded in. They mounted the inner stairs on tiptoes. Drew’s hand went behind him in warning. He turned at the top of the landing. The second-man was standing before the library door with folded arms and a watchdog expression on his cockney face. He remained in that position as Drew glided to his side.

“Hear anything?” asked the detective.

“Never a word, sir. Hit’s blym quiet hin there. Hi think ’e’s ’ad something ’appen, sir. ’E never acted like that—before, sir. Sometimes ’e sleeps, but ’e always wakes hup when the walley comes after ’im, sir.”

“’E does,” echoed the butler with chattering teeth.

“Are you sure you tried to unlock this door?” queried Drew, twisting the knob. “Have you tried the outer lock? You might have shot the bolt in your excitement.”

“The key to the houter lock, sir, is hinside!”

“It is!” snapped Drew, pressing against the panel as he listened close up to the chamfering. “It is, eh? That’s funny.”

“’E put hit there, sir. The master did, sir!”

Drew did not dwell further on this. He stared at Delaney, with unseeing eyes. He bent and listened for a second time. He stiffened suddenly. He jerked back.

“Listen,” he whispered tersely. “Everybody listen. What’s that noise inside? Hear it? Hear it, Delaney?”

The operative dropped to his knees and pressed his ear to a faint line of light below the door. He rose, dusting his knees. He swore audibly.

“What is it?” asked Drew.

“Sounds like the crow, Chief.”

“Stockbridge’s magpie?”

“Something like that.”

The Detective laid his ear flat against the key-hole. His face hardened as he waited. He lifted his head and pointed with a steady finger. “Listen!” he commanded. “There—listen. That’s no magpie!”

A low whine like the howl of a wild thing rose to a reed note of moribund terror. It died; then resumed its shrieking. It leaped the octaves from no note to a blare of a soul in agony. Suddenly it struck down the tone scale with descending steps of mocking laughter.

“Look out!” shouted Drew, bending his knees and gliding back to the wall of the hallway. “Look out!” he repeated.

“What are you goin’ to do?” asked Delaney huskily.

“Do? I’m going to break the door down! Look out!”

The detective braced himself against the wall. He lunged forward and crashed against the dark panel near the lock and bolt, with the energy of a college fullback. He backed away and repeated the smashing blow.

“Hold on, Chief,” Delaney said. “That’s no use. The door is two inches thick. I had a good look at it. Wait!”

Drew rubbed his right shoulder as Delaney turned toward the white-faced butler.

“You get an ax!” he ordered. “Beat it, and get a big ax, quick!”

“The axes are in the furnace room, sir.”

“Get one! Bring it right up, you. Hurry now!”

The operative turned toward Drew. “The only way, Chief,” he explained. “I’ve been in too many of Big Bill Devery’s raids not to know how to break down a strong door. I’m the man who took Honest John Kelsey’s house apart for him. It was built like a British tank.”

The puffing butler appeared with a fire ax. He handed it to Delaney, who eyed the edge with concern.

“Not sharp,” he said, “but it’ll do, at a pinch. Look out—everybody!”

Delaney waved the servants away. He moistened his broad palms. He swung the ax and crashed its weight into the panel nearest the lock. He followed this blow with another. He panted as he rained swinging slashes at the dark wood. It splintered. An opening was made. This opening was enlarged by short-arm jabs until Drew laid a hand on Delaney’s shoulder and called a halt. “Let me see,” he said bending down.

He straightened. He enlarged the chopped place with his fingers. He ripped off the splinters until there was room for a palm to be inserted. Delaney, dropping the ax upon the hall-rug, thrust through his arm to the elbow. He bent his knee as he strained. His face screwed into a knot.

“Is the key there?” asked Drew.

“Ye—s. I turned it. All the way, Chief. Here’s the bolt. Both were locked tight. Both locked, on the inside of the library.”

“Remember that!” snapped Drew, squaring his shoulders. “Everybody remember that. It may be important!”

Drew pressed Delaney aside. He seized the gold knob and turned it slowly. He waited for a moment. Nothing sounded save the loud breathing of the butler and the other servants who were crowded in the hall.

The detective jerked open the splintered door. He hesitated and listened. He pressed aside the portières with his left hand as his right fingers coiled over the ugly hilt of a police regulation .44. He advanced into the library, foot by foot. His fingers still coiled the gun’s butt. He stood rigid as he reached the fringe of the splendid rug which was under the great table. His sweeping, close-lidded eyes took in the details of the room. He saw the magpie in its cage. The bird’s feathers were ruffled. Its head darted in and out the bars with great excitement.

Drew frowned as he noticed a wreath of pale-blue smoke curling under the dome of the rose-light. He sniffed the air with a shrewd intake. A powder explosion of some kind had left a trace. The air, so close and warm, was filled with acrid menace.

The detective removed his hand from the revolver’s butt and waved it behind him as a signal to Delaney and the servants to stay where they were. He took one step forward. The white writing paper and envelope from the cemetery company were upon the table. The stump of a half-smoked cigar draped over this table’s edge like a gun on a parapet. It was cold and without ash.

The smaller of the two tables was overturned. The whisky bottle and glass lay at the edge of the rug nearest the wall. The telephone transmitter and receiver were upon the hardwood floor, where they had fallen with the butts of two Havana cigars and the ash trays and match boxes.

Stockbridge was crumpled into a twisted knot against the rich wainscoting. His head was half under his left shoulder. His iron-gray hair was singed black over the left ear.

Drew leaned with one hand on the corner of the table and peered downward. He called the magnate’s name. He repeated it. He turned toward the doorway. His hand raised. His finger pressed against his lips.

“Stockbridge is dead,” he told Delaney, who glided to his side. “He is dead. He was shot to death in this sealed room. I wonder who did it?”

“Ah, Sing!” shrieked the magpie. “Ah, Sing! Ah, Sing!”

CHAPTER FIVE

“THE FIRST CLEWS”

The magpie’s words, repeated over and over as Drew and Delaney stood in the room of death, struck both men as a possible clew. It was more than likely that the murderer or the murdered man had shouted something, the moment the shot was fired. This exclamation might have been, “Ah, Sing!” The bird had repeated something it had memorized, or retained in its shallow brain.

“Ah, Sing!” suggested Drew, keenly on the alert. “Ah, Sing, eh? Never forget that! We may need it—later.”

“Sounds like a Chinaman,” said the operative. “Stockbridge was shot by a Chink!”

“Get busy! Go over the room and look for a possible hiding place. You, butler, stand across that doorway! Don’t move from there!” Drew wheeled and stared at the white faces of the servants which were framed in the somber curtains of the opening to the hall.

The detective swung back. He rounded the large table with slow steps. He bent down. One knee touched the rug. He reached and grasped the magnate’s stiff arm. He worked it like a hinge. He felt of the muscles. They were rigid.

Rising, Drew again tested the air of the library. He glanced at Delaney, who was opening the book-case doors.

“What do you smell?” he asked sharply.

The operative turned and sniffed with widening nostrils.

“It’s powder!” he said. “Gunpowder, Chief.”

“Sure?”

“It’s kind-a peculiar—at that.”

“Explain yourself—be clear!”

Delaney scratched his head. “I’d say, Chief, it was smokeless powder. It don’t smell like the ordinary kind.”

“I saw smoke when I came in!”

“That smokeless stuff smokes. It ain’t altogether what they call it. Remember the shootin’-gallery at Headquarters? There’s smoke there when the police are practicing with them steel-jacketed bullets.”

“You’re right,” said Drew. “Keep on looking about. I’m getting on. Stockbridge was shot at very close range behind and under the left ear. The weapon used was a small-caliber revolver. The bullet is undoubtedly lodged in the lower brain. Powder stains are in his hair. The opening is clotted shut. He fell forward. In falling he knocked over the little table with its load of ash-trays, match-boxes, telephone, cigar butts and the whisky bottle and the glass. He’s been dead some time.”

“I ’e’rd no shot!” cried the butler from the doorway.

Drew wheeled. “You wouldn’t,” he said sharply. “Delaney,” he added, “say, Delaney, get out your note book and pencil. I want to put down everything we can think of before I send for the coroner. We’ll take a complete record. This thing is diabolical. You see nothing?”

“Nothing,” echoed Delaney as he slammed a book-case door shut, dusted his fingers and reached in his pocket. “There’s nobody planted in this room—that’s a fact, Chief. That’s what gets me. How was the murder done?”

“Speculation is useless—now! Get ready for notes.”

“I’m ready, Chief.”

The detective strode across the library rugs and snapped on the wall switch by jabbing at a mother-of-pearl button. Each time he jabbed, more lights came on. The room flooded with soft glowing from concealed globes. This glow brought out the full details of the palatial interior. Drew chewed at his mustache thoughtfully. He measured the walls with his eyes. He glided swiftly toward the windows. He thrust aside the heavy curtains of one and glanced upward.

“Closed and locked,” he said to Delaney. “Put that down. There’s snow on the sill which has drifted through the outer slats. Put that down. No sign of footprints. Put that down. Now, the upper part!”

He climbed up on the ornate radiator box. His fingers went over the catch. “Locked here!” he said, glancing down. “Locked and the same as it was. Make a note of that!”

He sprang down and examined the other window. He went over the sill and the catch with absorbed intentness. His teeth bit against his upper lip. He shook his head as he turned.

“No chance for a bullet to have been fired through these windows!” he declared positively. “No chance at all. This end of the library is sealed as far as we are concerned. Now, we’ll consider the only other opening—the door!”

“Double locks, Delaney,” he called over his shoulder as he crossed the room and pressed the butler back into the hall. “Double locks of the superior order. Gold knobs and key-holes. The holes are not in line. The chamfering is clean, except where you struck it once or twice with the ax. No sign of outside tampering or jimmy work. I’d say we’ve covered this door. Any suggestions?”

Delaney tried both the inner lock and the bolt which was actuated with a gold butterfly-wing of heavy construction. He studied the flat key. It was gold-plated. He dropped to his knees and went over the entire lower chamfering with his broad finger.

He said, “No suggestions, Chief. This was locked twice, until we broke a hole through with an ax. I don’t see––”

“Make a note of everything!” ordered Drew with a sharp glance at the waiting servants. “Make a full record of what we have found—including your exact interpretation of the magpie’s words. What were they?”

“Ah, Sing!”

“I think the same. Let’s look the bird over. Perhaps it will repeat.”

The two detectives strode to the bird-cage. “I’m going to send for Fosdick and the coroner,” said Drew hastily. “We’ve got to hurry. What do you make of this bird? Could it have had anything to do with the murder?”

The magpie protested against this accusation. Its feathers ruffled. Its claws clamped over the perch. Its tail extended upward and seemed to dart with indignation.

“Ah, Sid!” exclaimed Drew close up to the gilded bars. “Ah, Sid. Ah, Sid!” he repeated as the bird sprang to the bottom of the cage and set this jumping up and down at the end of the spring.

“No go,” said Delaney. “This black parrot don’t like our looks.”

Drew fingered the cage. He tested the spring. He stooped and glanced underneath. He tapped the belfry. It was of inlaid wood. It rang solid. “No use,” he said. “This is all, all right. Let’s get to the other matters before the clews get cold. Look everywhere for a possible trapdoor or a secret panel. Test the walls. Move the book-cases. Turn the pictures. Lift up the rugs. Then put everything back like you found it. Fosdick will be on the job with both feet and the Homicide Squad, before we know it. We haven’t much time.” Drew glanced at his watch as Delaney started by moving out one of the book-cases.

The detective ignored the body which lay upon the floor near the little table. He was holding his investigation down to outside facts, and bringing them to bear upon the crux of the matter. In this way, he believed, he would secure better results. He did not want to be blinded by an impossibility at the beginning. His first glance at Stockbridge sufficed to assure him that the lethal instrument which had felled the magnate was not in evidence. The bright light from a score of globes would reveal any such object as a revolver or rifle. No one of the servants had seen anything. They still were peering into the room like men and women who had lost all they owned. Stockbridge, despite his temper and sins, had been a good master to those who served him without questioning.

Drew glared at his watch for a second time, in preoccupation. He strode to the library door and beckoned a hooked finger toward the butler who towered over the other servants.

“You!” he exclaimed. “You didn’t obey orders. You didn’t stay where you were told to stay! Why did you leave this door at all?”

“S’ ’elp me, sir, I didn’t, Mr. Drew. If I did it wasn’t farther than the foyer or the downstairs steps. I took very careful pains to call the second-man, sir, when I went after you.”

Drew’s eyes smoldered with inner fire. “I told you,” he repeated, “I told you to stay by this door and not leave it—even for a minute. You went after the second-man, by your own admission. You went to the foyer hall. You went to the staircase leading down to the lower part of the house. In other words, you didn’t watch the door, and you lost your master through your own foolishness!”

“But, sir, nobody could ’ave gotten through the door. Hit was locked and bolted on the hinside, sir! I ’e’rd Mr. Stockbridge do that when you left ’im! I did, sir!”

“We may have been mistaken when we thought we heard that! Perhaps he just fumbled with the locks, and left it unlocked.” Drew eyed the servant’s red face with a keen-lidded glance. He waited.

“That cawn’t be right, sir,” said the butler, after thought and a wild glance about. “’Ow can that be right? I tried the door when the telephone loidy called me hup! I tried hit twice. James tried hit! ’E fixes hall the locks in the ’ouse, sir. ’E says it was most excellently secured, sir.”

“How about that?” asked Drew, turning to the second-man. “What of that, James?”

“’E’s right. I’m a little of everythin’ about the ’ouse. I tends the door and I watches the lights and locks, sir. I was born in Brixton, sir, where the old man kept a lock-shop, sir. That’s twenty years, and more ago, sir. Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”

Drew swung upon the butler. The second-man was the living picture of truth. His dereliction, if any, might consist in sly tapping of the wine-cellar. His nose attested to this habit, in a brilliant rosette.

“You’re partly to blame!” Drew told the butler. “There’s nobody in this room who could have committed the murder. There was nobody here when we left Mr. Stockbridge. There is no way for anybody to get in, save through this door. The same applies in getting out—escaping. If you were awake and always here, and if you were honest,” he added, “I could presume that the master was slain by—well, let us say, unnatural causes. Such things do not exist. This is a material age. Nothing as much as a pin-head or point was ever moved save through a natural cause. No bullet could be fired into a man’s brain without a hand which planned or pulled the trigger.”

The butler stared at Drew with blank expression. He gulped. His eyes dropped. “I’m thinking,” he said, “that the whole blym occurrence his unnatural. I never left that door until they told me the telephone company’s loidy wanted me on the wire. It was then I left it.”

“Ah!” said Drew. “We’re getting there. Then, if you are speaking truth, and I won’t help you if you are not, we have reached a point in the case which will bear considerable thought. It is evident that Stockbridge was murdered by a pistol shot, at or about the time the table and contents were spilled over. In other words, the shot which bowled him over brought down with it the telephone transmitter and receiver. That is the thing which fixes, within minutes—perhaps seconds—the time of the murder. The telephone girl will have a record which will help us considerable. Many criminals have been caught—and convicted by the time element. There is no alibi against truth! A man can’t be in two places at the same time!”

Drew turned toward the door. He hesitated and wheeled.

“You heard nothing fall in this room?” he asked sharply.

“I did not, sir.”

“No shot?”

“I cawn’t say that I did, sir.”

“No telephone bell ringing? Ringing at any time after I left the house?”

“Not downstairs, sir.”

“You did!”

“’Ow, sir?”

“Didn’t you tell me the telephone company rang up and wanted you to put the receiver on the hook in the library?”

“I didn’t ’ear it ring. James brought the word, sir.”

“Then, what happened upstairs?”

“’Ow do you know, sir? ’Ow’d you know it rang up there!”

“By elimination! It rang then, in Loris’ room? You said ‘nothing downstairs’ in such a way I presume it rang upstairs.”

The butler stroked his chin. It was blue and close-shaved. The purple of his cheeks and neck had deepened. He glanced about the hallway. His eyes wandered toward the grand stairway which, coiled upward to the second story. “I’m ’iding nothing, sir,” he said. “Miss Loris often is called up at night. She’s very popular, sir. I ’e’rd ’er telephone ringing once or twice while I was standing by this door, waiting for the master to come out—which ’e never did.”

Drew hesitated. He plucked out his watch and glanced at the dial. He turned swiftly. “Stay right there,” he said as he parted the portières and faced Delaney who wore the puzzled expression of a man baffled and entirely at sea.

“What did you find?” he snapped to the operative.

“Not a thing, Chief.” Delaney mopped his brow with his sleeve. “Nothing at all!” he added. “Everything regular. Modern—very modern house! Thick, new, fireproof, soundproof, million-dollar building. No trapdoors or panels. No loose boards. No hole in the ceiling. No nothing to hang a ghost on. The gunman who shot Stockbridge went right up in blue smoke, Chief. I quit!”

Drew glided around the table and kneeled by the magnate’s body. His swift, light-fingered touch went through the trousers and vest. The pockets he turned inside out. The watch attracted his attention. Its dial had been cracked by the fall. A splinter of glass pressed against the minute hand. He rose with a low cry. He pressed the repeater and listened to the time chimes. He counted the strokes. He had a test in a million. Had the watch been tampered with by the murderer, the chimes would have proved a lie. It was possible to set the hands to any position. It would be difficult to change both the hands and the repeater.

“Delaney!” he said with his dark eyes glowing, “we’ve got the exact time of the murder. As I told the butler—it is very important. Both, chimes and hands, show that Stockbridge was shot at four minutes and eighteen seconds past midnight—this morning! This is a fine watch. It cost several thousand dollars. Robbery was not the motive. An ordinary crook, and they’re all ordinary—with few exceptions—would have taken this timepiece.”

“That’s all right,” said Delaney with a quick frown. “That’s fine, Chief, but—but how did that exceptional—crook get into this room? How did he get out? That’s what I want to know!”

Drew combed his fingers through his black hair. He described a complete circle about the library, with his eyes taking in everything, before he faced Delaney.

“I don’t know!” he said frankly. “I don’t want to think of it, either. We’ll turn the case over to other men for the time. Let them do some thinking. I believe we have secured everything we want.”

The detective dropped his glance to the telephone receiver upon the floor at Stockbridge’s elbow. He stooped, grasped the silk-insulated cord, and fished it up.

“I’ll try to get Central,” he said. “This has been off a long while. She may have sent the trouble-man again.”

Drew worked the hook of the ’phone up and down. He was answered after a short wait. The girl’s surprised voice at hearing life at the end of a dead set of wires was drowned in the detective’s request to get him, “Spring 3100—quickly!”

“Hello! Hello!” said Drew as he got the connection. “Hello! Is this Spring 3100? It is? Who’s talking? ... Jones? This you, Jones? ... Say, Jones, plug me in on the Fifth Deputy Commissioner’s private house wire!... Sir? ... I don’t care! ... This is Drew talking.... Drew! ... D—r—e—w! ... That’s right ... Drew, of Drew’s Agency!”

The Detective turned. He eyed Delaney who was searching the floor about the millionaire’s upturned shoes. He tapped the receiver against the transmitter’s silver-plated edge. His eyes lifted. His lips hardened as the diaphragm of the receiver vibrated harshly.

“Hello!” he answered tersely. “Hello! This you, Commissioner? Is this Fosdick? ... This is Drew talking. Yes! ... Drew.... Yes! I say, Fosdick, there’s been a murder committed at Stockbridge’s.... You know—the munitions magnate! ... The millionaire! ... Morphy’s old partner.”

Drew waited a moment. He dropped his eyes upon the body below him.

“Yes!” he continued into the transmitter. “Yes, Fosdick. I hear better, now. Yes—Stockbridge is dead! ... He’s stone dead! He was shot down in cold blood! ... Yes! ... Shot in the brain.... Yes! Send your best operatives.... Yes! ... Send a fingerprint man and photographer. You’ll need ’em! ... Yes! ... Yes! ... Shot with a small-bore revolver, I guess! ... Wound behind ear looks like it! What? ... No! ... Room was bolted.... He was inside.... Butler on guard.... Windows closed and locked! ... No! ... No! ... No! ... It wasn’t suicide. He was threatened twice, this time!... By letter and telephone call.... What? ... What? ... No! ... He didn’t shoot himself! ... There’s no gun. It’s on the left side—close up! ... Hair is singed ... flesh is powder spotted.... Burned? ... Yes.... You’ll be right up?... Yes! ... I’ll be waiting! ... Come! ... come––”

Drew lowered the receiver and clicked it upon the hook of the telephone which stood on the hardwood floor. He slowly turned toward the open doorway of the library. The servants had drawn back and out of sight. Delaney leaned forward with both hands on his bent knees. A girl’s voice had sounded in the mansion. It came closer. The portières parted with a silken sweep. Drew braced himself against the larger table. His hand went back to his hip. It dropped to his side. He stared across the flood of light with line-drawn eyelids.

Loris Stockbridge, gowned in lace chiffon and cloaked with ermine and sable, glided across the rugs and stood framed beneath the soft, rose-light of the central dome. Her dusk-black eyes burned and blazed like flame through tinder smoke as she confronted the detective.

Clasped in the fingers of her jewelless right hand was a tiny, ivory-handled revolver.

“What are all these people doing here?” she asked hysterically.

CHAPTER SIX

“HARRY NICHOLS”

Detective Triggy Drew flushed slightly beneath his olive skin. He bowed, with his keen eyes fixed upon the little, ivory-handled revolver clutched so tightly in Loris Stockbridge’s right hand. He bowed for a second time. His eyes lifted and his brows arched as he said distinctly:

“Miss Stockbridge, something very serious has happened to your father. It happened in this library. It happened this morning. Won’t you please go back upstairs to your rooms until I call for you. At present I am in charge of matters.”

“Matters? What do you mean?”

The girl swayed slightly. She glanced down at the revolver as if she were unaware that it was in her hand. Drew advanced a step in her direction. He feared a woman and a gun more than anything else in the world. Both were liable to form a dangerous combination.

“Something happened,” he repeated. “I’m very sorry for you, Miss Stockbridge.”

“Happened!” she exclaimed. “Happened to him? You don’t mean that letter—that telephone call—do you?”

Loris’ splendid, dusky eyes, within the depths of which high lights shone, wandered over the polished table. They fastened upon the envelope from the cemetery company. They fixed where the letter lay with one corner beneath the center piece. They lifted in thought. They swung toward the waiting detective who had placed himself between her and the body of her father. She divined this movement with quick intuition. She stepped to one side and bent downward with a graceful movement of her hips. She gasped and pointed a left hand finger, which wavered and went up to her hair as her palm pressed against the side of her head. She started sobbing—short, throaty sobs of poignant distress.

“Please don’t,” whispered Drew holding out a guarding arm. “Please don’t, Miss Stockbridge. Your father is beyond this earth. You should not have come down here.”

“Dead?”

The word came from the depths of a soul. “Dead?” she repeated with her taper fingers spreading across her face.

“Yes, Miss,” said Drew with a catch in his voice. “Yes, he is quite dead. He was slain in this room by a revolver shot which struck behind and under his left ear. No one was in the library when he locked himself in, save himself. No one was here when we broke the door down. And, save his servants and you, no one was in this house. He was––”

“Murdered!” Loris’ voice had lifted to one wild shriek of final conviction and grief. She swayed. Her knees bent beneath her skirt and bulged outwardly. She sank into a slow faint at the detective’s feet. She pillowed her head upon the rug. A silence followed.

Drew stooped, after a glance at the servants in the doorway, thrust his body as a barrier, and reached along Loris’ white arm until his hand closed over the barrel of the little revolver. He untwisted her cold fingers, and palmed the weapon under a shielding cuff. He rose, saying to Delaney, who had hurried forward:

“I’ll take charge of this.”

“Sure, Chief. Plant it. She didn’t have it.”

“She had it all right, but—we’ll suspend judgment. You and the butler carry her upstairs. Go easy. Her bedroom is on the third floor, I think. That’s the reason she didn’t come down sooner. Perhaps, well, I say, she didn’t hear us breaking down the door. We are her agents in this matter, now. Remember that, and say nothing to anybody. I’ll do the talking.”

Drew dropped his hand into his side pocket. It came out without the revolver but with a handkerchief between his fingers. He mopped his brow gracefully, then replaced the handkerchief. The motion was a natural one.

He followed Delaney and the butler with their soft burden as far as the first steps of the stairway. He turned and strode back to the doorway leading into the library. He faced about in this. He eyed the servants, who lowered their heads beneath his accusing scrutiny. Focusing his gaze to a searching squint he tried to single out a culprit from their midst. There seemed to be none. Each face was terror-lined and drawn. Each seemed to want to avoid his direct glance. None of all of them faced him with boldness or assurance. It was as he expected things to be. There was no evidence shown in the case that the servants of the Stockbridge régime had ever threatened the master. They were old, tried and trusted. They had the faults of their kind. These faults only served to strengthen Drew’s opinion that the murderer of the magnate had struck from the outside, without benefit of inside information. The letter and the telephone call were foreign. A note, pinned upon the millionaire’s pillow, would have been more effective. Nothing had been tried like that. This proved to Drew that he could eliminate the servants, for the time being.

“Which one of you is the valet?” he asked with final resolve.

“I am, sir!”

Drew ran his eyes over an aged man in white vest and tight-fitting clothes which were studded here and there with gold-plated buttons. The fit of the stockings—the neatness of the low patent-leather shoes—the smartness and aloofness of the individual, caused the detective to smile slightly. The man was better dressed than his master.

“Your native country is Germany?” said Drew.

“It was, sir.”

“No, it is yet. You can’t change that part of it. When did you come to the United States?”

“Fourteen—fifteen years ago, sir. The master brought me from England where I was employed by the Right Honorable Arthur Sandhurst, sir.”

“You are now a naturalized American?”

“Going on thirteen years, sir.”

“Come down to my office about noon to-morrow. I want to speak to you then. I haven’t time now. Be sure you bring that magpie with you.” Drew turned and jerked his thumb toward the front of the library. “Do you understand?”

“I do, sir!”

“That’s all!” exclaimed the detective. “One of you may stand by the door until Mr. Delaney returns. The rest may go downstairs. Remember, no talking to anybody but accredited police officers, who will soon be here.”

“I’ll stand guard!” announced the second-man with a pompous voice. “Nobody’ll get by me, sir. I’ll ’ave them know I’m right ’ere, sir.”

Drew backed through the curtains as the second-man was speaking. He dropped them behind him and started another search, which was done in solitude and in silence. He went over everything in the library with the trained eyes of an operative who had learned his profession in many schools. He left deduction and surmise for a later hour. He was after cold facts which might lead to an answer to the riddle. He held, with some slight scorn, the theory of the armchair detective and the puzzle worked out by retrospection. His experience had been, that only through hard work could he expect to find his answer. He had been credited with visiting six hundred laundries in search of a certain mark. He had a note book filled with his failures to find the man he was after. The men he had found caused him no concern whatsoever. They had gone to prison and closed their accounts with him.

He applied hard work over the minutes to the case at hand. He went over the body of the aged millionaire. He took scrapings of the blood stains on the floor. He scratched up some few atoms of dried whisky. He examined the bottle. He searched each square inch under and about the body. He went through Stockbridge’s pockets and beneath his vest. He tried everything in the way of getting facts which might bear on the case. A tape measure furnished certain distances which were recorded upon the back of an envelope. His data was complete, insofar as he had time to go. He desired to spend at least twelve hours in the library. This could not be. The case would be taken from his hands within minutes. Already there was a stir in the front part of the house. The bell had been ringing for some time. Delaney and the butler had hastened forward to answer it.

“The Central Office bunch!” announced the operative, parting the curtains and staring in at Drew. “Here they are, Chief!”

The detective stepped briskly out of the room and glided through the foyer hall to the front door. Here Delaney joined him, as steps were heard coming up from the servants’ quarters as well as outside. It was as if a raid were in progress.