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THE CRAIG KENNEDY SERIES
GUY GARRICK
ARTHUR B. REEVE
WITH FRONTISPIECE
CONTENTS
I. The Stolen Motor
II. The Murder Car
III. The Mystery of the Thicket
IV. The Liquid Bullet
V. The Blackmailer
VI. The Gambling Den
VII. The Motor Bandit
VIII. The Explanation
IX. The Raid
X. The Gambling Debt
XI. The Gangster's Garage
XII. The Detectaphone
XIII. The Incendiary
XIV. The Escape
XV. The Plot
XVI. The Poisoned Needle
XVII. The Newspaper Fake
XVIII. The Vocaphone
XIX. The Eavesdropper Again
XX. The Speaking Arc
XXI. The Siege of the Bandits
XXII. The Man Hunt
XXIII. The Police Dog
XXIV. The Frame-Up
XXV. The Scientific Gunman
An Adventure in the New Crime Science
CHAPTER I
THE STOLEN MOTOR
"You are aware, I suppose, Marshall, that there have been considerably
over a million dollars' worth of automobiles stolen in this city during
the past few months?" asked Guy Garrick one night when I had dropped
into his office.
"I wasn't aware of the exact extent of the thefts, though of course I
knew of their existence," I replied. "What's the matter?"
"If you can wait a few moments," he went on, "I think I can promise you
a most interesting case--the first big case I've had to test my new
knowledge of crime science since I returned from abroad. Have you time
for it?"
"Time for it?" I echoed. "Garrick, I'd make time for it, if necessary."
We sat for several moments, in silence, waiting.
I picked up an evening paper. I had already read it, but I looked
through it again, to kill time, even reading the society notes.
"By Jove, Garrick," I exclaimed as my eye travelled over the page,
"newspaper pictures don't usually flatter people, but just look at
those eyes! You can fairly see them dance even in the halftone."
The picture which had attracted my attention was of Miss Violet
Winslow, an heiress to a moderate fortune, a debutante well known in
New York and at Tuxedo that season.
As Garrick looked over my shoulder his mere tone set me wondering.
"She IS stunning," he agreed simply. "Half the younger set are crazy
over her."
The buzzer on his door recalled us to the case in hand.
One of our visitors was a sandy-haired, red-mustached, stocky man, with
everything but the name detective written on him from his face to his
mannerisms.
He was accompanied by an athletically inclined, fresh-faced young
fellow, whose clothes proclaimed him to be practically the last word in
imported goods from London.
I was not surprised at reading the name of James McBirney on the
detective's card, underneath which was the title of the Automobile
Underwriters' Association. But I was more than surprised when the
younger of the visitors handed us a card with the simple name, Mortimer
Warrington.
For, Mortimer Warrington, I may say, was at that time one of the
celebrities of the city, at least as far as the newspapers were
concerned. He was one of the richest young men in the country, and good
for a "story" almost every day.
Warrington was not exactly a wild youth, in spite of the fact that his
name appeared so frequently in the headlines. As a matter of fact, the
worst that could be said of him with any degree of truth was that he
was gifted with a large inheritance of good, red, restless blood, as
well as considerable holdings of real estate in various active sections
of the metropolis.
More than that, it was scarcely his fault if the society columns had
been busy in a concerted effort to marry him off--no doubt with a
cynical eye on possible black-type headlines of future domestic
discord. Among those mentioned by the enterprising society reporters of
the papers had been the same Miss Violet Winslow whose picture I had
admired. Evidently Garrick had recognized the coincidence.
Miss Winslow, by the way, was rather closely guarded by a duenna-like
aunt, Mrs. Beekman de Lancey, who at that time had achieved a certain
amount of notoriety by a crusade which she had organized against
gambling in society. She had reached that age when some women naturally
turn toward righting the wrongs of humanity, and, in this instance, as
in many others, humanity did not exactly appreciate it.
"How are you, McBirney?" greeted Garrick, as he met his old friend,
then, turning to young Warrington, added: "Have you had a car stolen?"
"Have I?" chimed in the youth eagerly, and with just a trace of
nervousness. "Worse than that. I can stand losing a big
nine-thousand-dollar Mercedes, but--but--you tell it, McBirney. You
have the facts at your tongue's end."
Garrick looked questioningly at the detective.
"I'm very much afraid," responded McBirney slowly, "that this theft
about caps the climax of motor-car stealing in this city. Of course,
you realize that the automobile as a means of committing crime and of
escape has rendered detection much more difficult to-day than it ever
was before." He paused. "There's been a murder done in or with or by
that car of Mr. Warrington's, or I'm ready to resign from the
profession!"
McBirney had risen in the excitement of his revelation, and had handed
Garrick what looked like a discharged shell of a cartridge.
Garrick took it without a word, and turned it over and over critically,
examining every side of it, and waiting for McBirney to resume.
McBirney, however, said nothing.
"Where did you find the car?" asked Garrick at length, still examining
the cartridge. "We haven't found it," replied the detective with a
discouraged sigh.
"Haven't found it?" repeated Garrick. "Then how did you get this
cartridge--or, at least why do you connect it with the disappearance of
the car?"
"Well," explained McBirney, getting down to the story, "you understand
Mr. Warrington's car was insured against theft in a company which is a
member of our association. When it was stolen we immediately put in
motion the usual machinery for tracing stolen cars."
"How about the police?" I queried.
McBirney looked at me a moment--I thought pityingly. "With all
deference to the police," he answered indulgently, "it is the insurance
companies and not the police who get cars back--usually. I suppose it's
natural. The man who loses a car notifies us first, and, as we are
likely to lose money by it, we don't waste any time getting after the
thief."
"You have some clew, then?" persisted Garrick.
McBirney nodded.
"Late this afternoon word came to me that a man, all alone in a car,
which, in some respects tallied with the description of Warrington's,
although, of course, the license number and color had been altered, had
stopped early this morning at a little garage over in the northern part
of New Jersey."
Warrington, excited, leaned forward and interrupted.
"And, Garrick," he exclaimed, horrified, "the car was all stained with
blood!"