CHAPTER THIRTEEN“A SILENT PRISONER”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“A SILENT PRISONER”
Loris Stockbridge finished speaking with a low sob which went straight to the detective’s heart. He advanced across the room and ran his arm about her supple waist. “We’ll help her to the divan,” he told Nichols. “That’s it! Right over here and in the corner. She’s all right. I’ll tend to that threat which came over the wires.”
Drew backed away and turned toward the telephone. He eyed it with cold calculation. He took one step further, then wheeled and glanced at Nichols.
“I want to trace that call if it is humanly possible,” he said with decision. “We can find out, at least, from where it came. Suppose you leave me here with Miss Stockbridge, and you go down stairs and around to the drug-store?”
Loris rested her weight on one elbow. She sat erect, with slowly widening eyes. Her hands strayed to her hair and pressed it back from her ears. She gained command of herself after a shudder had passed through her slender body. She half rose.
“I’ve heard that voice before!” she exclaimed, pointing toward the ’phone. “It was familiar, Mr. Drew. Now where have I heard it?”
“Some friend of your father’s?”
“No, I don’t think it was. But I’ve heard it in this house.”
“A servant—the valet?”
“No! No, Mr. Drew, it wasn’t the valet’s voice. It was whispering and consumptive. It squeaked. It sounded like a little boy’s voice.”
“How about that trouble-man?” Drew advanced with keen steps. He felt that he was very close to the truth.
“It might have been. Only—only, Mr. Drew, it was younger—thinner—squeakier. It was a terrible voice. It rings and rings in my ears. It was so sure!”
“Ump!” declared Drew with clenched fists. “It won’t be so sure,” he said, squaring his jaw. “It won’t be near so sure, next time. I think it was that trouble-man you heard. Don’t you remember anything he said when he was in the house, for comparison?”
“I just heard him say—I heard him say that the connections, I think he called them, were all right. Then he went away, Mr. Drew.”
“Did his voice squeak then?”
“It was rather low—like a boy’s or a girl’s. He seemed too polite. He had his cap in hishand.” Loris stopped speaking and stood erect. She arranged her gown and glanced down at Nichols. “I feel stronger,” she said bravely. “I wonder what became of that tea?”
Drew stepped into the writing-room and found the tea-pot upon its side. He poured from this a cup of tea which he carried to Nichols. “Just taste it,” he ordered. “I want to be sure it isn’t doped or anything like that. That’s it. Just a small swallow. It’s all right, isn’t it? It isn’t bitter?”
Nichols handed the cup to Loris. “Drink it,” he said with confidence. “That’s good tea—only a little cold.”
Drew took the empty cup and set it down on a small table. “You’ll go for me?” he asked Nichols. “I want it traced without using the wires of this house. They might be tapped.”
“Be back in ten minutes!” said the captain at the tapestries, after Loris had nodded. “Whom shall I ask for at Gramercy Hill?”
“The superintendent—Jack Nefe! If he isn’t there, get the chief operator. Delaney will attend to that. Find out from what number the call came. We might get that whispering devil right away.”
“I believe it was the trouble-man,” said Loris, as Drew returned after locking the door to the hallway. “Now that I think of it—I’m almostsure it was. He just tried to change and lower his voice—that was all.”
“Lower it?”
“Yes, Mr. Drew. It was so faint that I hardly heard it at first. He seemed afraid of something. Perhaps somebody was in the room where he was telephoning.”
“That might have been. Well—he can’t hurt or harm you that way. The thing is for you to keep up your courage. Fear is a terrible thing if you would let yourself be mastered by it. It might be their game to break you down by a series of threats.”
“I won’t do that. I’ve Harry and you to stand by me!”
Drew pulled out his watch. “It’s getting toward midnight,” he said. “No word yet from Delaney or any of the others on watch. I think that the storm will clear soon. You can go to bed. Harry—Mr. Nichols and I’ll get a deck of cards and keep watch out here. We’ll do sentry duty. He’s used to that!”
Loris glided about the room. She stopped at the cheval glass and arranged her hair with a series of twists that formed a turban secured by loops. She swished around and glanced archly toward Drew. Their eyes met bravely. Hers dropped under shading lashes.
“I’m all right,” she whispered with a half laugh. “I did look awful. It was the shock ofhearing that terrible man. How childish to call me up and say what he did. He didn’t mean it!”
“Ah,” said Drew, reaching in his pocket and bringing out a key. “Ah, he did mean it, I think. He has overreached himself by telephoning. Gramercy Hill Exchange is on the alert. There’s Mr. Nichols with good news, at the door. Now for his report.”
The captain came in, brushing snow from his olive-drab uniform. He glanced at Loris as he strode across the room and took her hand with a firm grip. “Delaney,” he said confidentially, “was right at the booth. He was sitting on a chair, propped up and talking with the prescription clerk. He did the telephoning to Gramercy Hill. I don’t know who he got there, but they already knew about the call.”
Nichols turned toward Drew for confirmation.
“That’s right!” the detective exclaimed. “They should know! The vice-president, Westlake, has left orders to record all calls to this house. Where was that whispering voice from, Mr. Nichols?”
“From Forty-second Street and Broadway.”
“Close!” exclaimed Drew, rubbing his hands. “The fellow took chances.”
“It came from a slot-booth in a cigar store in a big building. It only lasted two minutes. Theoperator at Gramercy Hill says the first voice she heard, asking for Gramercy Hill 9764, was harsh and loud. I don’t understand that.”
“Harsh and loud,” repeated Drew, toying with his watch chain. “That’s odd. Was it the same man that Miss Stockbridge heard?”
“The operator don’t know. Delaney says maybe there were two of them. One, who called up, and one who talked to this room.” Nichols turned and nodded toward the silver-plated telephone.
“Hardly possible,” mused Drew. “I think he changed his voice after he got the connection. He didn’t want Miss Stockbridge to recognize him.”
Loris glanced at the two men. “What will they do?” she asked anxiously. “Will Mr. Delaney and the other detectives catch him by that call?”
“Hardly,” said Drew. “He was in and out within three minutes. The bird has flown from there!”
“But where will he go?”
“I don’t know, Miss Stockbridge. I wish that I did know. There are over a hundred thousand telephones in New York he could use. It’s impossible to guess which one. The booths at the Grand Central are covered by one of my operatives. The telephone company is on the alert for all calls to this house. All they cando is to record them and tell us what happens after it happens. We are trying now to get this whispering dog when he is compelled to wait at a booth. If Morphy ’phones him from the prison to-night we have him. The telephone company is going to delay the call after getting the number. It would look natural. Then, we can strike at the booth or place where the call is directed in time to catch the man Morphy is telephoning to. Up to now, Morphy has not ’phoned or Delaney would have said something about it.”
“But can’t you stop these calls?” asked Loris.
“Very easy. We could order the wires disconnected. But then we wouldn’t catch our man. He would be suspicious and wait for another time.”
“The whole thing seems so strange, Mr. Drew. We’re locked in here. The house is so well guarded. All they can do is ’phone and yet we—at least I am nervous. Why have I got that strange feeling?”
“From experience!” declared Drew. “If we knew how your poor father was killed there wouldn’t be cause for worry. We don’t know. It was so subtle that we are confronted with the unknown in terrible form. You feel a shadow and so do I. A reaching shadow about this splendid house of yours. It isn’t anything wecan grasp and say, ‘Come here! You’re under arrest.’ It’s the uncanny mystery of the entire case that holds us three on the ragged-edge. I confess I have not been myself since last night. The powers of darkness and Lucifer, himself, have nothing on the people we are fighting.”
“How about running Morphy in the guard house, or whatever they have up there?” asked Nichols. “Why not lay the case before the warden and have him put out of harm’s way? That’s what they’d do in the Army!”
“We can’t prove a single thing on him!” declared Drew. “He used the ’phone—once or twice. Perhaps he has permission from the superintendent of state prisons to do so. He has business interests which require his telephoning, we’ll say.”
“Then we’re just going to wait right here?” asked Loris, stamping her slipper. “Wait right here and let them do their worst?”
“The city detectives would do the same thing I’m doing,” said Drew on the defensive. “They’d trap their men. Do you want to see the man or men who slayed your father, escape? He will, or they will, unless we give them enough rope to hang themselves.”
“Or wire!” said Nichols cheerfully. “No, Loris, Mr. Drew is right. He’s done everything. All we have got to do, is wait. Let’s sit downfor a little while. Delaney said he might have word soon.”
Drew waited until Loris had pressed herself into a small compass at the back of the divan, with Harry Nichols leaning over her in a shielding position which was thoughtful and at the same time affectionate. He strode toward the writing room and parted the heavy, silk portières. He studied every detail. He dropped the portières and crossed the sitting room to the doorway leading into Loris’ chamber. This, too, he searched with his eyes. Backing to the center of the room he dropped his chin in thought. A sound outside the mansion caused him to turn and hurry to a window. He brushed the curtain aside and tried to peer out. He rubbed the frosted glass vigorously. His nose pressed to a white button as he searched the side street. A taxi had come to a grinding halt directly below the window. Its wheels spun upon the slippery surface. A man leaned out of an open doorway and urged the driver on with a brandished fist of ham-like proportions. The driver backed into the snow, dropped into first speed and stepped on his throttle. The taxi leaped forward, gripped the surface, and plowed toward Fifth Avenue in a welter of flying ice and flakes.
Drew sprang back and faced Loris and Nichols who had risen and were standing togetherin the glow from the cluster over their heads.
“What happened?” they asked in unison. “What was outside?”
“Delaney!” snapped Drew, dragging out his watch and glancing at it. “Delaney’s got word where to find his man. He’s on the trail at last! It’s twelve-two. We ought to have that fellow in a half hour.”
“The trouble-man?” asked Loris, with rising hopes. “Do you think it is the trouble-man, Mr. Drew?”
“Nine chances in ten, it is! I’m venturing a guess it is. If we get him—if Delaney gets him—he’ll know it. Delaney used to work under the old-time police chiefs. They showed scant consideration.”
“But, he won’t hurt him!” said Loris, with a tremulous exclamation.
“That murderer! Why, Miss Stockbridge, isn’t he plotting to slay you? Didn’t he kill your father? I wish I were in Delaney’s place.”
“Me too!” declared Nichols, drawing closer to the detective. “Say, Inspector, I want to congratulate you. I do.”
“Wait, Harry. Just wait! You two sit down and be quiet. This affair is a personal one with me. I don’t doubt that Morphy or perhaps some one else in state prison ’phoned to the same party who phoned Miss Loris. That was all we needed. Delaney jumped into a taxiand hurried downtown as fast as the storm permitted. Perhaps the call came from the same booth. I don’t think so, though.”
“The one at Forty-second Street and Broadway?”
“I don’t think so, Nichols. This fellow seems to pick a new one every time. He’s very crafty. That alone shows a criminal mind.”
Drew paced the floor with soft gliding. He turned at the portières and crossed to the tapestries. He returned and stood before Loris and Nichols.
“Captain,” he said, “we can now begin to reconstruct this case. We can get some of the dead-wood from our minds. It is apparent to me that one of Mr. Stockbridge’s sworn enemies—Morphy, for instance—confined in state’s prison, set about to slay both members of the family. He secured a confederate whom he knew. This confederate has never been arrested in the state. We have that from the finger prints in the booth at Grand Central. We will presume that this confederate is the trouble-man. He is probably an expert electrician. He either tapped in on the wires the night Mr. Stockbridge was murdered or got behind the switchboard and called up the library ’phone.”
“The switchboard?” asked Loris. “You mean the big place where the girls are?”
“Not exactly there. The wires run down andare tagged. It would be possible for him to cut in somewhere between the switchboard and the conduits. Now I don’t know how it was done. There’s several ways. But wherever he tapped in, he must have used a magneto to ring Mr. Stockbridge up, and afterwards a battery-set to do the talking. All this Westlake says it would be necessary to do, so that the operator would not notice a permanent signal on the board.”
“What was his object?” asked Nichols.
“To cover himself. He first disconnected the wires and waited till I sent for a trouble-man. Frosby, or Frisby, was sent. The trouble-man took his place. He came here and looked the place over. He lied to Mr. Stockbridge and I when he told us about that tall German in the alley. If there was such a man there before the snow froze we would have his footprints.”
“You haven’t them?” asked Loris.
“No. Delaney has a set made by this trouble-hunter when he was at the junction-box. This must have been the time he either cut the connections so that I would send for him, or it was the time when he called up and threatened Mr. Stockbridge with death within twelve hours. You remember that the telephone company have no record of the call. Now the next call––”
“Was there another?” the girl asked.
“Yes—to your father at or about the moment he died. That was from the Grand Central Stationat Forty-second Street. There’s a good record of that. Your father knocked the telephone down when he dropped dead. The operator noticed that the connection was open and put on the howler. The record is clear on that.”
“But what is all this twisting and turning for?”
“To throw us off, Miss Stockbridge. We’re dealing with a crafty, cunning mind. This mind took the extreme precaution of connecting two booths at Grand Central so that a man in Sing Sing could talk to your father without leaving a record at the Westchester Exchange or at Gramercy Hill Exchange. How this was done I don’t know. It could be done with auxiliary batteries and looping so that the Gramercy Hill operator thought the Westchester call was to a slot booth, while another call from the next booth to this house was really the same connection shunted or looped through. Westlake, vice-president of the telephone company, says that there would be several ways of doing this. He added it would take an expert in telephony.”
“I’m all twisted up, Mr. Drew. I suppose you understand it. But what about that call to-night—the one that frightened me?”
“The man was sure of himself!” said Drew without thinking. “He has his plans made. He figures they will not fail!”
“Oh, you mean––”
“I mean, Miss Stockbridge, that he expects to slay you in the same manner your father was slain. We have this advantage. You are not alone in this room or these rooms. Your father was alone. The murderer will have Mr. Nichols and myself to deal with this time! Be calm.”
“But—I don’t see how he could—get in here?”
“Nor do I. The point is that he got into the library and out again without trace. He had an hour to do his work in. Here, he is running every risk.”
“But he has already been here, Mr. Drew.”
The detective glanced keenly at Nichols, who had shot the statement straight through clean white teeth.
“I know it,” Drew said with a trace of anxiety in his voice. “That is disquieting. But we have searched these rooms and found absolutely no trace of tampering with locks or ventilators or window-catches.”
“Could he climb up here? He might have climbing irons,” added Nichols glancing toward the windows.
“A good porch-climber could do it,” Drew mused, with his eyes sweeping the curtains. “A very good one could. There are only three or four good ones out of prisons. They never go in for murder.”
“Wouldn’t money buy them?” asked Loris.“Mr. Morphy may have retained one—with some of the gold he stole from poor father.”
“Retained,” repeated Drew, turning with sudden intentness. “Retained, is hardly the word, Miss Loris. Hired, is more to the point. Hired assassins are not uncommon. We have the Becker case and the Hope murder. We have––”
Drew allowed his voice to trail to a whisper. “We have,” he declared, “our man! There’s the front door bell! It’s Delaney!”
“You have splendid ears, Mr. Drew.”
“I have to have, Miss Stockbridge. Now,” he added sharply, “you and Mr. Nichols go into the library—the writing room. I think the case is closing. There may be a little excitement if Delaney’s got that fellow. I, for one, am not going to stand much from him. Please go into the other room. That’s right. Stand there, Harry, in case we need a soldier!”
Drew advanced step by step toward the tapestries. He lifted his gun from his hip pocket, examined it with narrowed eyes, then replaced it loosely. He brushed the curtains aside and had the key out, as heavy steps shook the upper stairway and a knock sounded on the panels of the door.
“Who’s there?” asked Drew.
“Delaney, Chief!”
“All right! Just a moment.”
The detective glanced through the slit in the tapestries, saw that Nichols and Loris were across the room, then twisted the butterfly-latch, at the same time he thrust in the flat key and turned the lock.
The door swung open. Delaney’s huge bulk blocked the way. He half turned, cursed savagely, and clutched a pipe-stem neck with rude fingers. “Come along, you!” he boomed. “Get in there!”
The form of a man hurtled by Drew, fell and rose, then fell again beyond the tapestries in the center of the sitting room. Drew, like some lithe cat, was over him with a drawn gun. Delaney puffed across the rugs and tried to speak as the detective leaned and studied the chalk-pale face below shielding cuffed hands which were raised impotently.
“The trouble-man!” exclaimed Loris fearsomely.
A Central Office detective slouched through the door, deposited a kit of lineman’s tools on the floor near the tapestries, then retired discreetly.
“It’s him!” said Drew. “Please get back, Miss Stockbridge. We’re going to fix this fellow.”
“Oh, please don’t strike him.”
“Please—Miss Stockbridge. I’ll promisenothing in this connection. This is the man who foully murdered your father.”
Loris shrank back and against Nichols’ extended arm. Drew glanced at her with swift concern. He dropped his eyes to the man at his feet. “What happened?” he asked Delaney. “Has this fellow said anything? Done any talking?”
Delaney glared at the trouble-man. “Never a word has he said, Chief. He’s a clam. But––”
“What’s that? Go on, Delaney!”
“Why, Chief, I wouldn’t have brought him here if he hadn’t said to Morphy over the ’phone that’it’was fixed in her room. Now what does he mean by that’it’?”
“We’ll find out!” declared Drew, dropping to the prisoner’s side.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN“THE PRISONER SPEAKS”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“THE PRISONER SPEAKS”
The detective wasted no time searching the trouble-hunter’s pockets. His skilled fingers drew forth two envelopes, a note book and a small roll of money, the least of which was ten-dollar bills and the greatest, on the inside, spread out to three staring noughts and a one in front of these.
“One thousand and sixty dollars!” said Drew dryly, handing the roll to Delaney. “This fellow’s well heeled. Perhaps for a get-a-way. Take that. Now here––”
Drew tapped the envelopes with his fingers, spread them open and removed their sheets of closely-written paper.
“First letter,” he announced with raising brows, “is from Standard Electrical Co., of Chicago, recommending Albert Jones as a capable electrician. I don’t doubt it. He’s capable of most anything.”
Delaney took the letter and waited with his eyes fastened upon the silent figure who had not revealed his identity from the time of the arrest.
“Second letter,” continued Drew, “is addressed to Albert Jones, General Delivery, New York Post Office. It is from Ossining. It is signed Mortimer Morphy. How careless,” said the detective, rising in his excitement. “Howverycareless! It goes on to say that everything is all right. That the appeal is pending with the governor. That uncle Monty was expected to die and that aunt Lou was very low.”
Drew paused and glanced toward Loris and Nichols. “You know what that means?” he asked. “Uncle Monty was Mr. Montgomery Stockbridge and aunt Lou would figure out for you, Miss Stockbridge. Keep this, Delaney. We’re going to convict this man right here—whether he talks or not. This letter was written to him two months ago. It shows premeditation.”
“He looks ill,” said Loris. “His face is so white.”
“Dope!” snapped Drew, pressing down the prisoner’s right eyelid and glancing at the pupil. “A narcotic of some kind shows in the small iris. It’s like a pin head. Yen she, eh, Delaney?”
“Guess it is, Chief. Frisk his cap and belt. They carry it there, sometimes.”
Drew started at the prisoner’s hair and went over his entire body with careful fingers. A bulge, at the waist, resolved itself into a chamoismoney-belt which contained five cartridges, a small handful of electric fuses and a spool of fine wire.
Drew eyed this last with furrowed brow. He pocketed it finally and studied the cartridges.
“Twenty-two, cupronickle, center-fire,” he announced with a hard smile. “That forges another chain. We’re getting there. He was loaded for something, Delaney.”
“Sure and he was. Look at those handcuffs, Chief. I made them tight as I could.”
Drew handed up the cartridges and fuses and rattled the cuffs. The prisoner protested by turning partly over. His eyelids fluttered and opened full upon Loris. She shrank back between the curtains. Her hands went up to her face in voiceless fear. “Please keep away,” said Drew. “This man is always dangerous. I want to trim his claws before I take any chances with him. Delaney,” he added, “get my overcoat and bring me those plaster-casts. This case grows interesting. I wonder who the fellow is? ‘Albert Jones’ doesn’t convey much. He is a friend and tool of Morphy. Poor Morphy! I wonder what he’ll say when the governor gets this evidence? He’s buried now for twenty long years of penal service. He picked a good tool, though. A smart man!”
The prisoner did not brighten to any extent under the professional flattery. His eyes closed.The cuffed wrists dropped down upon his chest. He breathed slowly as Drew took the overcoat Delaney brought, and found the photos of the finger prints which Fosdick and the expert at headquarters had both declared were not on record.
“A little ink,” Drew said to the operative. “We’ll smear this fellow’s thumb and see if his print answers to the print I found in the booth at Grand Central. I’ll venture that it does.”
Nichols extended a fountain pen which the detective opened, sponged on the corner of a handkerchief, and returned with a chuckle of satisfaction.
“Ah,” he said, gripping the prisoner’s hand and smearing a thumb with a rolling motion across the back of the print. “Ah, Delaney, see here. The same whorls and loops. The same tiny V-shaped scar. One, two, three—center right. This is the man. We have him deeper in toward the place with the little, green door. He knows what I mean!”
The prisoner’s lips closed to a thin, hard line. A tiny spot of hectic fire burned in the center of each cheek as Drew completed the searching and rose.
“Footprints, now!” he said with a snappy order. “Compare those plaster casts you took at the junction-box back of this house. Are they the same? There’s a series of four screwholes in his rubber-heels, Delaney. Do they compare with the casts. Measure them!”
“Sure and they do,” said the big operative, rising and pointing to the small projections. “This lad, Chief, was the only one around that junction-box till after the snow froze and drifted over. That’s my idea, Chief. It caught him, didn’t it, Chief?”
“Every little helps to forge the chain,” Drew said. “He’s in bad now. His only chance is to tell us what he knows about Morphy? What was said over the telephone wire? What did Frick say?”
“It was this way, Chief,” Delaney said. “I’m waiting talking with the drug-clerk when there’s a ring on the slot-booth ’phone. It’s Jack Nefe at Gramercy Hill. He says to me that Frick had just ’phoned and said that Morphy had come out of the guard room, looked around, then, after chinning with a keeper at the front gate, he had started going over a telephone book for a number. Nefe said for me to hold the wire. Then I gets a number, Chief. It’s Gramercy Hill 11,678. Nefe said that was a booth in the new Broadway Subway at Forty-first Street. I piles into a cab and arrives there just as this fellow had finished boring a hole between the two booths—11,678 and 11,679. I waits behind a slot-machine. Some one rang up when he coupled the wires, listens, then asksGramercy Hill central for this ’phone here in Miss Stockbridge’s room. You see the game, Chief?”
“Go on!” said Drew. “Be very clear!”
“This fellow was connecting Morphy at state prison with this house through the two slot booths. I sneaked up and waited for him to finish. He’s busy with a pair of pliers. I falls on him like a ton of bricks. Then after I get the cuffs on, I listens in. It’s Morphy roaring there, with that big bull voice of his. He’s mad ’cause he gets no answer. He shouts over and over, Chief—’Bert! Bert! Bert! Is it planted in her room? Her room. Is it there?’” Delaney paused and stared about the sitting room.
“What does he mean, Chief?” he asked huskily. “What is that’it’?”
“Go on!” said Drew tersely.
“I got Morphy off the wire, Chief. I got Frick and then Frick got the warden. He’s a good fellow. He listened to me, then he calls some guards and they drag Morphy through the prison and down to the coolers. I guess they’re down in the ground, somewhere. Anyway, Chief, he’s gone for good—unless they send him to the chair for his part in the murder of Stockbridge.”
“He’ll go! What I want to know now, Delaney, is this fellow’s right name. Morphy said ’Bert,’ eh?”
“Sure he did, Chief. ‘Bert! Bert! Bert!’ That’s close to Albert. Albert Jones, like’s in the letter.”
“No! That would be a throw-off. He’s some other kind of a Bert. Let me see his cap.”
Delaney picked the prisoner’s cap from the rug and passed it over to Drew. The detective examined it, ripped the silk, and looked under the lining. He straightened and handed it to Harry Nichols.
“Can you make that name out?” he asked. “Your eyes are younger than mine. Perhaps Miss Stockbridge can read it. It’s Spanish, I think. ‘Gusta’ or ‘Gasta.’ The rest is obliterated with grease.”
“Antofagasta!” declared Loris suddenly. “It’s Antofagasta, Chile.”
“Fetch the lineman’s kit, the Central Office man brought,” said Drew to the operative. “Put it right here by this fellow’s side. I—we are getting close to the truth in this case.”
Delaney hurried back with the satchel. It was the same one that Drew had seen in the library on the evening Stockbridge was murdered. It had excited no suspicion then.
“A magneto,” said the detective. “First comes a ringing magneto which has seen much service. Put that over there, Delaney. Spread a paper or something. Ah,” Drew added, “here’s a set of small dry batteries arrangedin series. Three or four of them. I don’t know just what they’re for, but Bert does.”
The prisoner’s pale eyes blinked and were closed again as the lids compressed in wrinkled determination. He moved slightly when Drew pressed a knee against his chest. He coughed with dry catching deep down in his throat. The detective felt of his pulse. It was faint but steady—like a tired sleeper’s.
“He’s coming out of it,” Drew said. “He’ll talk after awhile. Let’s see, what is this?”
Delaney leaned over the satchel. “Another link,” said Drew, drawing out a telephone receiver without wires attached to it. “And here,” he added, “is the testing set with the sharp clamps. That’s for listening in or talking with other people’s connections. I don’t doubt that this fellow knows his business. Here’s a micro-volt meter that registers fractions of volts. Here’s an ammeter of the pocket size. I’ve seen this kind on automobiles for testing dry-cells. Now, what is this?”
“Looks like a full set of jimmies!” blurted Delaney. “That’s a sectional jimmy!”
“He’s got everything,” said the detective, turning and glancing at Loris. “Here, Miss Stockbridge,” he said, holding up an empty cartridge shell. “Here is the most important link in the chain against him. It’s a twenty-two shell which has been fired. See—wait—what’sthis, Delaney? The cap on the end hasn’t been struck. The cartridge was discharged—the cap is intact. How could that be?”
Loris and Harry Nichols leaned over the detective. He turned the tiny shell around in his fingers. He sniffed it. He held it out so they could see the end. “Discharged,” he exclaimed, “without touching the detonating cap on the end! That’s odd! Very suggestive!”
“Let me see it,” said Nichols. “I’ll tell. We have exams on these things. This seems to have been fired,” he continued with thought. “It’s been fired without concussion. I’d say it was heat that did it. A match touched to the base here would fire the cap, which would, in turn, set off the powder. There’s a different color to the brass at the cap end. It looks to me like a shell which has been clamped down by three—no, four screws. There’s marks on the rim. See them, Loris—Miss Stockbridge? Right there. Right at my nail.”
“That’s about right, Harry!” declared Drew, reaching for the cartridge. “It was clamped down with small screws. It was ignited or set off by heat. It forms part of a home-made pistol which conforms, to a hair, with Fosdick’s statement that the bullet never went through a barrel that was rifled.”
“That’s your own statement!” blurted Delaney. “Fosdick never had brains enough tofigure a thing out like that. All he knows is pinch everybody two or three times. I’ve seen him do it.”
Drew eyed the prisoner. “So you see,” he said softly, cuttingly, “crime does not pay. The net has closed over your head. You erred a score of times. You couldn’t afford to make one little mistake. I could—I did! I’ve made a hundred in this case already! It’s the hound and the hare. The hound loses the scent and brays on blunderingly till he picks it up again. You lost me time and again. You fooled me in that lineman’s guise when you came into the library. Your make-up was perfect. You said just the right things.”
The prisoner’s lips curled in a thin cruel line. He rattled the cuffs defiantly. His shoulders lifted then fell back upon the rug.
“Bert!” snapped Drew. “Bert!” he repeated with awakening thought. “Delaney,” he said, turning and glancing up at the operative’s broad, flushed face. “I got this fellow located. What was the name of the man we tried to find in the Morphy failure? The one we had a bench-warrant for? He was indicted. The indictment was sealed. You know! It’s a name you didn’t like. The fellow who escaped to Rio or South America? Who afterwards went to Antofagasta. Ah, Cuthbert!”
“That’s it, Chief! Cutbert! Cutbert Morphy—theold devil’s brother. This is him!”
Drew rubbed his hands vigorously. “It is!” he exclaimed, with his eyes swinging over the prisoner’s drawn features. “Cuthbert Morphy—a brother’s tool and confederate. We’re getting on!”
The detective rose and faced Loris and Nichols. “Captain,” he said, “a firing squad at sunrise would be the Army’s answer to this man’s deviltry. Consider what he has done. He’s worked back to New York after a year as a fugitive. He connected in some manner with Morphy at Sing Sing. Perhaps he went there as a visitor under the pretext of business connected with Morphy’s affairs. This scheme was hatched there in the prison. It was financed by Morphy. It succeeded in so far as Mr. Stockbridge was concerned. First the telephone call to the cemetery superintendent. Then followed his visit to this house for the purpose of fixing some fiendish device. Or––”
“He might have fixed the windows, Chief,” suggested Delaney. “He might have opened a catch and climbed in afterwards.”
“He wasn’t near the windows,” said Drew. “He had something else in the back of his crafty, twisted brain. He came and went out, with Mr. Stockbridge and I watching him. He called up, then, and threatened the death. He probably looped the library ’phone up with SingSing at or about midnight. We have a record of both calls.”
“Why,” asked Loris, as Drew paused in thought. “Why did he have Morphy connected with father? I can’t see, Mr. Drew, that part of it. The rest, you have told is, is very clear.”
“Nor I yet,” admitted the detective. “But that is a detail. It is probably the criminal’s ego, which is in every one of them, to notify their prey that the hour has come. Morphy was an artist in crime. He was a master mind in finance and chicanery. What better revenge could he think of than to notify Mr. Stockbridge that death was about to strike? It savors of Machiavelli and Borgia. Whom the gods destroy they first make mad. He tried it on you.”
“Gods!” blurted Delaney with ire. “Devils, you mean, Chief!”
“Yes, or worse!” said Drew, glancing sternly at the prisoner. “This fellow,” he added, “is the agent for the destroyer. Now how was it done?”
Delaney glanced about the walls of the room in apprehension. “I’ll take another look around,” he suggested heavily. “Maybe with them new ideas we can locate something that might be planted for the killing.”
Drew glanced sharply at the prisoner’s face. A faint sneer was on the thin lips. The wriststwisted and turned in the handcuffs. The steel chain rattled metallically. Loris backed step after step toward the shielding curtain and Harry Nichols. “Oh!” she said suddenly, as she dropped her head against his breast. “Oh, Harry! there can’t be anything likethat.”
“Certainly not!” Drew hastened to ejaculate. “That’s nonsense. If there was anything planted in either of these three rooms, there’s no one to get in and operate it. I’ve searched! Mr. Delaney has searched. Do you want us to search again?” Drew’s lips were drawn with doubt as he stared anxiously from Loris to Nichols. “I’ll do it, captain, if you say so. I think we’ve done enough work, however. The thing is to get this fellow to talk. I don’t want to give him over to Fosdick and the third degree till we see if he is going to treat us right. He can turn state’s evidence on Morphy, who blundered. Then he’ll get off lightly. Morphy is the master mind.”
“He only smiles,” said Nichols, tapping his breast suggestively. “I’ve a gun here and I’ve a mind to use it. Do you think I want Miss Stockbridge murdered like her father was murdered? I’ll shoot that cur! He’s a whispering snake! A Hun!”
“Don’t!” sobbed Loris, as Nichols thrust his hand in his coat and drew out a flat automaticof .44 caliber. “Don’t, Harry! Perhaps this man is innocent.”
“Innocent!” declared Nichols. “Why, Loris—why, Miss Stockbridge, you don’t thinkthat, after all the things Mr. Drew has discovered. I’ll wager my commission he’s guilty as Hell, and I mean it, Loris.”
“He’s that!” Delaney declared. “He and his brother the devil are one in sin. They’re lost spirits.”
“Now everybody,” said Drew, gathering in the group with his eyes, which were strangely bright. “Everybody keep very quiet for a minute. Let me think.”
“Sure and I will, Chief. I’m thinking I want to think, myself.”
Drew frowned at Delaney. He dropped his eyes and studied the prisoner’s hands. They were strangely white and remarkably small for a man who had labored at telephone-repairing. The detective’s glance rested on the ink-stained thumb. His mind swung with this thought to the footprints. Following the train he arrived at the first conclusion that an expert in telephony could devise most any kind of a practical method for opening a window or a ventilator. He dismissed this theory with a glance about the room. The ventilator was well-hidden and inaccessible to any one without a step-ladder. Considerable time devoted in climbing upon achair and a case of jade ornaments might reach it, but the trouble-man had not been alone in the room when he inspected the telephone.
Drew went over the salient details of the Stockbridge tragedy. One fact stood out. The windows had been well locked. The sashes were covered with snow. A climber, even on the face of the house, would have difficulty in springing a catch by a secret method, raising the window and entering without leaving a track of some kind. He dismissed this supposition as untenable. He turned to Delaney, fully puzzled.
“Was there a climber’s set in that bag?” he asked sharply.
“I didn’t see any, Chief. I don’t think this fellow’s a climber. He ain’t built like one. His shoes are smooth on the bottom and his hands are all polished up around the nails. Looks to me, Chief, as if he might be able to pick most any kind of a lock.”
“The locks are out of the question!” snapped Drew. “I examined them. They’re not in line. Has anybody here any suggestions?”
Drew stared at the prisoner’s drawn, white face as he asked this question. “He wasn’t long in this part of the house,” said the captain. “The maid watched him. She thought perhaps he might take something.”
“Fosdick is to blame!” said Drew almost losing his temper. “He should have given strictorders at the door not to let anybody in till the case was settled. It’s all mixed up now. This man had ample opportunity to cover himself. A clever sneak could do most anything under your eyes without you seeing him operate. I suppose the only thing to do is to turn him over to Headquarters. He’ll get his!”
Loris frowned slightly at Drew’s manner. The detective did not act like his former self. She watched him pace the floor between the prisoner and the tapestries. He came back with a square set to his jaw and a hard glint in his olive eyes which gleamed like steel behind velvet.
“Stand him up!”
Delaney stared at his chief. He opened his mouth, then closed it firmly. “All right,” he said, reaching down. “I’ll stand him up if you let me give him an upper-cut. I don’t like these silent crooks. They’re snaky, Chief.”
“No unnecessary violence, gentlemen,” suggested Nichols as Loris laid her hand on his arm. “I’d like to have him alone for a few minutes—but outside. Go easy. Perhaps he’ll talk.”
“It may be your life or this man’s!” gritted Drew, stepping up to the prisoner after a sharp glance at Loris. “I pity him when Fosdick gets hold of him. He’ll talk then!”
The prisoner swayed with Delaney’s fingersgripping his collar in a vice-strong clutch. His white-pale face, his narrow-set eyes, his furtive glance to left and right like a cornered rat, brought Drew to mind of a man who was slowly breaking down. He lowered his brows and clutched the prisoner’s elbow with strong fingers that pressed deep through the coat sleeve.
“Out with it!” he demanded harshly. “It’s your last chance to save your miserable skin. You’re not going to get any mercy from the Commissioner. You know what he’ll do to you!”
The prisoner twisted loose from Drew’s clutch. His eyes wavered as he stared at Loris for a long second, then dropped to the floor. They closed in painful thought. Suddenly he blanched with passion.
“I’ve no use for you coppers!” he screamed shrillingly. “I hate the sight of you and your kind. Let me go! Let me go!”
“Fine chance,” whispered Delaney, tightening his grip on the prisoner’s collar. “You got a fine chance, you murderin’, thievin’, second-story man! I’d paste you if the lady wasn’t here! Sure I would, right between the eyes!”
“Easy,” said Drew. “Leave him to me. He’s thinking the thing over. I don’t mind telling him that the magpie beat him. That and the carelessness of Morphy in calling up when he must have known that Frick was in thefront office of the prison. It’s always the way, Bert. He travels the fastest, up or down, who travels alone. It’s the lone star that gives us the trouble. There’s nobody to peach on him!”
The prisoner bit his upper lip. A slight sign of blood showed. He tasted this with the tip of his tongue. His eyes narrowed in calculation. He turned and faced Drew with slit-lidded intentness.
“I haven’t done a thing,” he whispered. “You ain’t got a thing on me.”
“Oh, no!” blurted Drew with heat. “I ain’t got a thing. I’ve been asleep since the time you murdered this girl’s father. I’ve had ten men on your trail since the beginning. I don’t hold the first murder so much against you as I do the projected one—which missed fire by a scant margin. You slayed a man with your devilish ingenuity, but you’re not going to put it over on his daughter. I’ve seen to that! I notice nobody has called up and said this was the Master talking. There’s a good reason.”
The prisoner fluttered his pale lashes and glanced at the telephone. He closed his eyes with a smile shadowing his lips.
“There’s a good reason,” repeated Drew. “You are not in some booth at Forty-first Street to make the connection. Morphy is in the strongest cooler. He’s booked for twentyyears. After that he’ll get more. He can’t help you!”
“Oh, you coppers,” said the trouble-man. “Just give me five minutes and I’d show you. I don’t hold anything against the girl. I never saw her before.”
“You lie!”
“Why don’t you take these cuffs off-a-me? I can’t hit back.”
“I’d sooner take the chance outside,” said Drew, glancing at Loris. “I’d do it there!”
Delaney tightened his grip and half held the trouble-hunter in the air. He raised on his toes with the strain.
“Oh, don’t!” exclaimed Loris. “I’ll have to ask you to stop this. I can’t let it occur in my house!”
“Miss Stockbridge,” said Drew with soft rebuke. “Miss Stockbridge, I’ve been in the detective business for twenty years. I never saw in that time a more dangerous man. He is the super-type who usually falls through the errors of other men. This fellow has brains. He’s an expert in telephony and in wireless. There are a number of patents in the patent office under his name.”
“Then he may be innocent, Mr. Drew.”
“He’s as guilty as the Kaiser!” exclaimed Delaney, twisting the prisoner around. “Look at him. He’s been trying to murder the finestlittle lady in the country. She never harmed anybody. She’s devoting most of her time to Red Cross work and the—Army,” added the big operative with a touch of brogue as he glanced at Nichols.
“But he has not said that he murdered father,” said Loris.
“Sure an’ he won’t say it. I know the breed of this snake. He wants nothing used against him in the trial. He’ll have the evidence of us four to show that he didn’t say anything. I never saw an innocent man who wouldn’t talk!”
“We’re getting nowhere,” objected Drew, taking command of the situation. “Take him out, Delaney, and turn him over to the Central Office bunch. They’ll take him down to Fosdick!”
The prisoner lifted his manacled hands. He dropped them after a slow glance at Drew’s square jaw.
“Come on!” said Delaney with a jerk backward.
“Wait!”
Drew and Nichols leaned forward. “Well?” asked the detective, as the prisoner bowed his head. “Well? Well?”
“Is that true about my brother—Morphy?”
“It is!” Drew said with ringing conviction. “It’s true! He’s out of this world. He’sburied alive and the key has been thrown away.”
“The jig is up, then,” said the trouble-man, turning toward the telephone. “Let me telephone,” he said in a whisper. “I want to use it,” he repeated faintly. “I’ll show you how that—that Stockbridge died.”