CHAPTER THREE“THE MAN IN OLIVE-DRAB”
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 thetaxi 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 thesnow. 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 aswell 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 lethim 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. Thegilt-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.
“Isent 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 beenreplaced 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 causedhim 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 hisscaly 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 mattressmoved 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-towncorner 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 followedDelaney’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 apartmentsand 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 ofbreath. “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”
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—allpolished 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 itsdial 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 themansion. 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—somethingiswrong!”
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 detachedhimself 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 transmitterand 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”
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. Heglided 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 cageand 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 oneof 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, savethrough 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 secondstory. “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. Hepressed 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 dosome 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! Thisyou, 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 uponthe 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.