E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team (http://www.fadedpage.net)
WHISPERING WIRES
Adapted from the _Saturday Evening Post_ Story of the Same Title
by
HENRY LEVERAGE
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Copyright, 1918,
by
Moffat, Yard & Company
First printing . . . . September, 1918
Second printing . . . . September, 1918
Third printing . . . . October, 1918
DEDICATED
TO
ONE WHO HELPED
CONTENTS
I "The Whispering Voice" 1
II "The Magpie" 15
III "The Man in Olive-Drab" 31
IV "The Murder" 46
V "The First Clews" 59
VI "Harry Nichols" 74
VII "The Spot of Black" 89
VIII "Tangled Wires" 107
IX "Men and Motives" 124
X "A Woman Calls" 144
XI "The Closing Net" 181
XII "Suspicion Fastens" 202
XIII "A Silent Prisoner" 222
XIV "The Prisoner Speaks" 239
XV "The Voice on the Wire" 260
XVI "The End" 277
WHISPERING WIRES
CHAPTER ONE
"THE WHISPERING VOICE"
In the greatest city of the modern world, in the Metropolis of Guilt
and Guile--where Alias and Alibi ride in gum-shod limousines while Mary
Smith of the pure heart walks the pavements with broken shoes--there is
a mansion so rich and so rare that it stands alone.
Turret and tower, green-bronze roof, Cararra-marbled portico and
iron-grilled gates brought from Hyderabad, have made this mansion the
show place and the Peri's paradise for those who parade the Avenue
called Fifth, in an unending sash of fashion.
Out from this palace at the close of a winter's day, there flashed the
tiny pulsations of voice-induced currents of electricity which reached
the telephone-central, were plugged upon the proper underground
paper-insulated wires and entered, even as the voice was speaking, the
cloud-hung office of Detective Drew.
Triggy Drew, as he was called, was dark, stout and forty-one years of
age to a month. He crooked his elbow, removed his cigar and pressed the
telephone-receiver to his ear.
The voice that came over the whispering wires was as clear as a bell
within a bell. It said:
"Montgomery Stockbridge wants you."
Drew hung up the telephone-receiver. He replaced the cigar in his
mouth. He wheeled in his chair and pressed a buzzer. To the operative
who entered he said:
"Delaney, watch things while I'm gone. I'm called up-town!"
The operative reached and handed Drew his coat. He took the
swivel-chair before the desk, as his chief clapped on a hat, turned his
eyes toward the ground-glass door, and passed out with a brisk stride.
"It's a big case," said Delaney leaning back. "Triggy is on somebody's
trail. Maybe German--maybe not!"
Drew nodded to the waiting operatives in the outer room of the suite.
He swung into the hallway with his brown eyes glowing like a man who
walked out of realism into romance.
The elevator plumbed eighteen stories. The corridor was clear. A taxi
stood at the curb. Into this Drew stepped, gave the address and was
gently seated as the driver released his brake, set the meter, and
dropped through first, second and into third speed.
Past Wall Street the taxi flashed. It rounded toward the Bowery, which
showed that the driver knew his map. It struck up through the car
tracks, across to Washington Park and there took the long longitude of
Fifth Avenue as the shortest and quickest way up-town.
Drew had no eye for the passers-by. He was repeating two words over and
over like a novice counting the same beads. Montgomery Stockbridge was
a name to conjure with in the Bagdad of Seven Million. He had made many
enemies and much money. His wealth ran well above seven figures.
The taxi came to a gliding halt. Drew stepped out in front of a church.
He tossed the driver two one-dollar bills and some silver. He waited as
the taxi merged in the traffic. He turned and glanced keenly up and
down the Avenue. Then he hurried north for one square, paused before
the mansion of turrets and towers, and pressed a button which was set
in the doorway.
The door opened to a crack, then wide. A butler barred the way. To him
Drew said, "Mr. Stockbridge sent for me."
The butler bowed with old world civility. He took the detective's hat
and coat. He waited until Drew removed his gloves. He bowed for a
second time and led the way over rugs whose pile was as thick as some
Persian temple's. They came finally, after an aisle of old masters, to
the inner circle of latter-day finance and money-wizardry--the
celebrated library of Montgomery Stockbridge.
The Munition Magnate sat there. He turned as the butler announced the
detective. He shot a gray-thatched pair of eyes up and over a mahogany
table upon which a white envelope lay. He smiled coldly. His thumb
jerked toward a leather chair into which Drew sank and leaned his
elbows upon the table.
Stockbridge coughed dryly. He blinked and studied the detective's face
for a long minute. He glanced from the envelope up at a cone of rose
light which hung from a cluster of electric-globes. His expression,
seen in this light, was like an aged lion brought to bay. His wrinkled
skin was tawny. His hands coiled and uncoiled like claws. They moved
prehensilely, as though cobwebs were in that perfumed air of wealth and
security. They poised over the envelope as if to snatch the secret or
delusion hidden there.
"See that letter!" declared the Munition Magnate, closing his fist and
banging the table. "See it? D'ye see it?"
Drew widened his eyes at the outburst. He crossed his legs and nodded.
"It's blackmail!" Stockbridge snarled. "Rank-scented blackmail of the
cheapest order."
"A threat of some kind?"
"Threat? Yes--a threat, in a way. It's clever, but it won't _work_ with
me!"
Drew recrossed his legs. He touched his short-cropped mustache with the
fingers of his right hand. He coughed as in suggestion. His brows
lifted as he studied the envelope from a distance.
Stockbridge snatched it up suddenly. He slapped it against the edge of
the polished table. He turned and found a cigar to his liking out of
many in a humidor beneath a smaller table at the right of his chair. He
bit on this cigar, struck a match, and dragged in the smoke with deep
inhalings before he turned and opened the envelope, exposing a letter
which he rapped with the knuckles of his left hand.
"I'll beg to be excused," he said half-apologetically. "I'm not myself.
This letter, you know. I want you to ferret it out. I want you to find
out who sent it, and make him or her pay. Make them pay in full!"
"May I see it?"
Stockbridge hesitated. His eyes ran across the paper. His lips curled
in an ugly, thin-visaged smile which wrinkled his yellow face. "See it?
Yes!" he snapped, volplaning the sheet across the table with a vicious
jerk of his wrist.
"Ridgewood Cemetery," said Drew lifting the letter. "Heading, Ridgewood
Cemetery," he repeated softly. "Dated yesterday," he added with a sly
glance at Stockbridge. "Signed by the superintendent, I suppose. Yes,
by the superintendent. He scrawls worse than I do. Well, it looks
official and smells--ah!"
Stockbridge worked his brows up and down like a gorilla. He chewed on
his cigar with savage grinding of gold-filled teeth.
"Smells graveyardy," continued Drew. "I get flowers and urns and
new-turned earth. This seems to be the bare announcement that the grave
you ordered dug in the family plot--is ready and waiting." Drew glanced
up.
"Quite so," sneered the Magnate.
Drew stroked his upper lip. He turned the letter over. He held it to
the rose-light and studied the water-mark. He raised his black brows
and said sepulchrally:
"Who is dead?"
Stockbridge stiffened. "Dead?" he exclaimed. "Why, nobody is dead! Damn
it, Drew, there's nobody dead at all!"
The detective frowned. "Somebody in the immediate family?" he
questioned. "Somebody you are expecting to pass away soon? Some one on
their sick-bed, for instance?"
Stockbridge snatched the cigar from his mouth and threw it to the rug.
"That letter's a stab, Drew!" he exclaimed. "It's a damn insult to me
and mine, if you want to know. I'll have the author of it, or know the
reason why. I'll spend fifty thousand to catch the miscreants. They'll
not monkey with me!"
"The writer of this seems to be the superintendent."
"Yes--that part's all right. He knows nothing save what you see there.
This threat concerns Loris and I. We are the only two who will ever be
buried in our family plot."
"What does she know? Has she seen this letter?"
"Yes!"
"Knows nothing about it?"
"Nothing."
"Has no enemies?"
"Certainly not! She's just a girl!" The Magnate's eyes softened
slightly. He glanced around for a cigar.
Drew laid the letter on the table. "It seems to me," he said, "that you
have not explained everything. When did you get this letter, Mr.
Stockbridge? What time did it arrive?"
"It came in the late mail last night. I showed it to Loris at supper.
Then I called up the cemetery people this morning. Got the
superintendent. He said that 'Dr. Conroy'--our family physician--'had
phoned him and ordered the grave dug.' Said, 'A death was about to
occur in the Stockbridge family.' Conroy never sent any such message!"
"Umph!" broke in Drew.
"Yes! He assured me of it. Was terribly put out!"
"It seems to me," said Drew, "that the entire matter is a practical
joke of the low order. I see nothing else to it--so far. It isn't even
clever."
"I'm not so sure," Stockbridge said huskily. "It may be _very_ clever.
It may mean that death is coming--to me or to Loris. There's men in
this city who are capable of anything!"
The break in the Magnate's voice brought Drew to the edge of his chair.
"Whom do you suspect?" he asked professionally. "Motive goes before
crime--you know. Sometimes a warning is sent--more often there is none.
Clever men do not telegraph a blow."
"I suspect the whole city!" declared Stockbridge.
Drew smiled sincerely. It was plainly evident that the Magnate was
suffering from the thrust about Loris and the graveyard. The detective
had never seen him so unsettled.
"How about Germans?" he asked. "You've made a lot of
ammunition--haven't you?"
"Ye--s. I've still holdings in Standard Shell, Preferred, and
Amalgamated Powder. Also, there is my interest in Flying Boat."
"Could the Germans be after you for any reason at all?"
The Magnate weighed the question from a score of angles. He reached and
secured a second cigar. "I don't think so," he said with a dark frown.
"I don't think they would bother with me. I'm more or less retired.
I've drawn out of a lot of things. Younger men are turning out the
ammunition now."
"Then which of your friends might be responsible for this letter?"
"Well put!" exclaimed Stockbridge. _"Friends_ may be right. Friends
now, or former friends who have rounded on me."
"Name some!"
"There's Morphy!"
"We settled him. We should never hear from him again."
"I'm not so sure! You don't know him like I know him. He's a vindictive
devil! He got ten to twenty years in state prison. You remember the
case. He lost his appeal to the Governor, only last week. I blocked it
through Tammany affiliations. You know what that fiend in stripes is
capable of doing. He would sell his soul to get me!"
Drew grew serious. "Yes, I know," he said.
"Then there is--well, there are others. Ten, at least! What man can
rise in this slippery city without pushing a few down the ladder? Wall
Street and Broad Street and New Street are full of curb-stone
blackmailers who knew me when I was struggling with my companies. They
saw me take chances they themselves feared to take. They hounded me,
then. Thank God, I got above them!"
Drew leaned over the table. "A few names," he said. "Something
specific. Who of all of them would be capable of phoning the cemetery,
representing himself to be your family physician and ordering the grave
dug? Who might think of a thing like that?"
"Well, there's Harry Nichols, for instance. He's an ass with a
champagne thirst and a shoestring salary. I threw him out of the house
the other day. He was calling on Loris. Think of that! He's probably
sworn to get me."
"How old is he?"
"About twenty-three--or four! Smokes, drinks and plays golf!"
"Name some others," suggested Drew artfully.
"Morphy!"
"I got him."
"Morphy's brother who escaped when we had Morphy indicted. I don't know
where he is. Then there's Vogel and Vogel's friends. Oh, there's a
pirate crew of them. Some were mixed up in the first Flying Boat
failure. They would all like to see me in Ridgewood Cemetery. I'll fool
them!"
"You've given me Harry Nichols, Morphy, Morphy's brother, Vogel and
Vogel's friends. That's four and a few outsiders. Can you think of any
more?"
"Not at present! One of them is responsible for this letter. I want you
to get busy. If you won't take the case, I'll get an agency that will.
There's plenty!"
"I'll handle it," said Drew, "when it gets to be a case. As it is now,
Mr. Stockbridge----"
"Buuurrruuurrr! Buuurrruuurrr! Buuurrruuurrr!"
The Magnate started. He lowered his cigar, balanced it on the edge of
the table, and turned slowly in his chair. He leaned over a smaller
table which was littered with bronze ash-trays and inlaid match-boxes.
He lifted the receiver of the insistent telephone. He pressed this to
his ear.
Drew watched him narrowly. The terseness of a static charge of high
voltage was in the great library. The face of the Munition Magnate grew
cold with hauteur. It changed over the seconds to venom and red anger.
His neck purpled. The diaphragm of the telephone instrument hissed its
message. His hand clutched the hard-rubber receiver with white
strength. A click followed as the connection was broken. Stockbridge
dropped the receiver upon the hook. He turned slowly and stared at Drew
with eyes that had aged over the moments. Wrinkles shot from their
corners. Sullen light gleamed in their yellow depths.
"What happened?" questioned Drew half rising from his chair and leaning
over. "Who phoned?"
The Magnate's chin described an upward arc. His lips grew firm. Bulges
showed at the sides of his jaw.
"What--who was it?" asked the detective.
Stockbridge stared at the letter upon the table. His neck changed from
purple to a pasty ochre. A green sheen, like of death, overspread his
crafty features. He was stricken with the clutch of fear.
Drew waited and thought rapidly. "What happened?" he asked with
persuasion. "Nothing serious--I hope?"
"Serious," said Stockbridge absently. "Serious!" he snarled. "Yes, it
was serious! It was a death threat! It was what I had expected. It
follows the letter. They--he will get me! He--he----"
"Who?" asked the detective.
Drew heard the table creaking as Stockbridge's muscles stiffened--as
the Magnate's hands clutched the edge of the polished surface.
"Who?" he repeated on the alert for possible clews.
"Who! I don't know! But they will--he will!"
"Easy," said Drew. "Take it easy, sir. This is a modern age. We are in
the heart of civilization. Nobody is going to _get_ you! I'll see to
that!"
"You can't see! This man knows everything. He said that I would be dead
within twelve hours. That I would be in my grave in seventy-two hours.
He mentioned the grave at Green--Ridgewood Cemetery. He gave secret
details of my life which few alone know. Early follies of mine. An
actress. A deal in War Babies and an electrical stock which was hushed
up. I was the silent partner in that. How should this man know all of
these things about me?"
"Just what did he say?"
"I've told you! He said enough! He threatened to kill me despite all
the precautions I would take. He said I was marked for a death which
all the police in the world couldn't solve. That I would be killed in
spite of every effort to save me. What is it--poison? Have I already
been given poison?"
Drew reached across the table and clutched the magnate's left wrist. He
pulled out a flat watch and timed the pulse. "Normal, almost," he said
softly. "You're normal, despite the shock. Your temperature is fair. I
don't think it was a toxin he meant. That deadens a man and brings slow
coma."
"Well, what did he mean?" The magnate had found his voice and his
old-time nerve. "What would you do in my case?" he said cunningly.
Drew glanced at the telephone. He raised his brows and swung,
full-staring, upon Stockbridge. His finger pointed between the
money-king's eyes. It was as steady as an automatic revolver.
"Did you recognize that voice?" he asked sharply. "Tell me the facts. I
can't go ahead unless you do. I must work from facts!"
"No!" declared Stockbridge. "No, I did not! I never heard it before.
I----"
"What was it like?"
"Hollow-whispering--almost feminine in tone. I thought it was a woman
at first. It wasn't, though! It was a man or boy."
"Have you told me everything?"
"Yes--except this man or boy--this whispering voice, wound up by
threatening to get my daughter, Loris, as soon as he finished with me.
Said he'd clean up with her!"
"I'll take the case!" snapped Drew.
CHAPTER TWO
"THE MAGPIE"
The Munition Magnate thrust a shaking hand toward the detective. "I'm
glad!" he declared raising his voice. "You did well in the Morphy case.
That's the reason I called upon you. Now find the miscreant or
miscreants, who telephoned the cemetery superintendent, and you'll not
be forgotten."
Drew glanced shrewdly at the 'phone. "May I use it?" he asked briskly.
"I'll try to trace that call."
Stockbridge moved his chair away from the little table. Drew glided
across the room, pressed the ash-trays and match-boxes to one side, and
picked up the receiver. He worked the hook up and down with his broad
thumb.
"Hello! Hello!" he repeated clicking the hook. "Hello, central! Hello!"
He glanced at Stockbridge as he waited. He frowned as he stooped and
spoke more directly into the transmitter. "Hello! Hello!"
"Something the matter?" asked the Magnate with quick suspicion. "Don't
they answer?"
"Hello! Hello! I Hello, there!" Drew glared at the transmitter, then
tapped the receiver against the silver-plated cover. "Hello!" he
shouted. "Damn it, Hello!"
He turned. "No go," he said thoughtfully. "Connection seems to be
broken. I'm talking right out into thin air. Wonder who cut your
wires?"
Stockbridge bristled. He slid forward in his great chair and stared at
the detective. "They're cut, eh?" he asked.
Drew set the 'phone on the table and turned. "Looks mighty like it," he
said. His eyes swung over the walls of the splendid room. They rested
upon a high, ebony stand with a belfry from which dangled a gilt spring
suspending an ornate bird cage. Out of this cage, a magpie peered with
beaded eyes. Its tail extended up through the bars like a feather from
a hat.
"My bird," said Stockbridge. "A tame magpie I brought from Spain. It
talks."
Drew raised his brows. He continued his search of the library. Its
wealth of books and paintings and antiques almost stunned him. "I'm
looking for another 'phone," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper.
"Have you another 'phone in this house?"
"Yes. Two more. This is Gramercy Hill 9763. The one in Loris' room is
Gramercy Hill 9764. Another in the butler's pantry, downstairs, is
9765. Perhaps the others are disconnected."
"We'll see. I want that call traced before it gets cold. I know a wire
chief at Gramercy Hill Exchange. He'll help if I can get him. Have your
butler show me his 'phone. Also, we better get a trouble-hunter, or
report the cut wires. Somebody will pay for this! It's an outrage and a
felony!"
Stockbridge moved his slippered foot and pressed a button under the
larger table. He waited, then pressed again. His eyes wavered about the
room. They fastened upon the portieres which draped from the pole
across the doorway leading into the hall. His tongue moistened dry lips
as he watched for the butler.
"I'll 'phone my office," said Drew hurriedly as steps were heard in the
hall. "I'll get up five operatives--no, six--right away. This all may
be a hoax, but I've lived forty-one years too long to overlook a threat
of this kind. Particularly when it concerns a man who has made as many
enemies as you have."
The butler parted the portieres as Drew ceased speaking. Stockbridge
nodded and indicated that the detective wanted to go downstairs. The
butler led the way to the lower telephone. Into this, Drew spoke
hurriedly and very much to the point. He secured three numbers in rapid
succession. He snapped his orders in a manner to set the cut-glass
tinkling on the pantry shelves. He hung up the receiver, glanced
shrewdly at the servants about, then climbed the stairs like a boy of
twelve.
"All is set!" he announced to Stockbridge as he entered the library and
crossed to the table. "All moving, now! My wire-chief had gone home. I
got the chief operator. She's going to send the first trouble-man
handy. Delaney will be up from the office with his flying squad. I left
it to him to arrange about tracing the call through a telephone
official. No use telling the chief operator too much. The official will
go right over her head and into the heart of the thing. Now,"--Drew
pulled down the lapels of his black coat and leaned over the Magnate.
"Now," he said with vigor, "now, what about your servants? I had a good
look at some of them. How about that English butler? How long have you
had him?"
"Ten years! Brought him over, myself. Wife picked the other servants.
They're all old, tried and trusted. I'll answer for them. She died
telling me to take care of them. I don't think her equal lived in
choosing help. It was uncanny!"
Drew stroked his cropped mustache. "Good!" he said. "That's fine! We'll
start with the supposition that they're _not_ guilty. Are any of them
of German birth?"
"My valet is part German, but he ran away to avoid their army. He hates
the Junker party. Says 'It is responsible for the War.'"
"How long have you had him?"
"Nine years."
"That should let him out. Well," Drew added with a sweeping glance
about the library, "well, these big windows--how about them?"
The detective advanced to the front of the room as he asked the
question. "Two," he mused. "Two bay-windows of the superior order.
Curtains very heavy and rich. There's a good catch on this one," he
added springing upon the radiator-box. "And a good catch on this one.
Both catches are closed. Seem to have been closed for some time. Here's
dust. High-class housekeeper, but I've got her here."
Drew smiled as he ran his fingers over the upper sash. He peered out
into the Avenue with its flowing tide of vehicles. He turned and said
to Stockbridge:
"Suppose you order your butler or doorman to shut the outside blinds.
It's getting dark and cold. I want to be sure that no one can get
through this way."
"Good," said Stockbridge reaching for the button with his toe. "Good!
We'll take every precaution. Twelve hours will show the thing one way
or the other. Twelve hours should do it."
The butler entered bearing a silver tray. He set this on a mahogany
tea-wagon and rolled it to the Magnate's chair. Drew frowned at the
sight of a black bottle and one glass. A signal of understanding had
been sent to the perfect servant.
Stockbridge moistened his thin lips thirstily. He whispered the
instructions concerning the blinds. The butler withdrew like a shadow
merging into a shadow. Drew shrugged his shoulders and went the round
of the library with the keen, trained scrutiny of a man-hunter and a
modern operative. He paused before a case of morocco-bound books.
"These cases?" he asked. "How about them? What's behind?"
"Books! Books!" shrilled the magpie.
Drew raised his brows and swung upon the bird.
"Books! Books!" repeated the pet. "Books, books, books!"
"Fine bird," said Drew with thought. "But what is behind the cases, Mr.
Stockbridge? I don't want to move them if the walls are all right."
A glass clicked against the silver tray as the Magnate answered
hastily:
"All right! They're all right. I was here when they were filled. I just
ordered so many feet of books. Six hundred feet, I think it was. I
never look at them. All that I ever read is the magazines and the
financial items in the newspapers."
"The pictures--paintings," Drew said.
"Pictures! Pictures!" repeated the magpie.
"Shut up!" snarled Stockbridge. "Keep quiet, Don!"
The bird ruffled its feathers and leaped to a top perch. It peered from
there at Drew, with its head cocked sideways.
"How about them?" repeated the detective.
"I had them hung by my orders," Stockbridge said. "They're all right.
Nothing but a strong wall behind. No need to bother about them."
"Everything is important," Drew suggested with a slight reproof in his
voice. "Trifles may make for the answer to the riddle."
"That Corot over there is no trifle. It cost me thirty-five thousand
dollars in France!"
Drew lifted the lower edge of the painting from the wall. Dust fell. He
pressed his face against the paper and looked behind the canvas.
Letting the frame back he tried the same operation with the other
paintings of size.
"No secret panel, or anything queer," he said finally as he dusted his
hands. "All's well with the walls. Now the floor. How about trapdoors?"
"Impossible!" Stockbridge exclaimed. "I'm sure these rugs have been
taken out and cleaned every time I go to my country-place. A trapdoor
would be noticed!"
"I'm trying to find out," suggested Drew glancing from the bottle to
the purple face of the Magnate. "Please answer me if you want to get
results. I've got to see that no one comes into this library for the
next twelve hours. After that period of time--we can breathe easier."
"Go on," said Stockbridge feeling the thrust.
"This door," Drew said. "The door to the hall. Can it be locked
securely?"
"Yes! It can be locked and bolted from the inside. I often lock myself
in--in----"
Stockbridge stiffened in his chair. He glanced toward the portieres. He
leaned forward and attempted to shield the view of the quarter-emptied
Bourbon-bottle and the used glass, as a girl in lavender and Irish-lace
swept into the room.
Drew recognized Loris Stockbridge from newspaper photos. He held his
breath as she glided by him, unseeingly. He touched his mustache and
waited. Her face, framed in close-drawn hair the color of midnight sky,
softened perceptibly as she swished round the great table in the center
of the library and laid an unjeweled hand upon her father's shoulder.
She turned with a start as she realized that Stockbridge was not alone.
Drew bowed with swift courtesy.
"Mr. Drew," said the Magnate. "Mr. Drew, my daughter, Loris."
Again the detective bowed. He met her level glance with a smile in his
brown eyes. She answered it and leaned over her father's shoulder. Drew
wheeled and fell to studying the titles on the books. He moved to the
magpie's cage. He extended one finger. The bird fluttered and sprang
from perch to perch.
Drew thrust his hands into his pockets. He heard Loris speaking in
terse, throaty tones to her father. He could not well avoid catching
the tenor of their conversation. It concerned the letter from the
cemetery and the threat of death within twelve hours, which the Magnate
repeated to her with a softness in his aged voice.
A gushing torrent of unbridled emotion poured down upon his gray head.
The girl paced the floor between the chair and the table. She fell to
her knees with swift grace.
"Be careful, father," she sobbed. "You must be so careful. Remember
you're all that I have, now. That letter and that telephone call means
that somebody is planning to destroy you. Oh, father, be careful. What
would happen if you were taken away from me?"
"You'd marry that cad--Nichols!" blurted Stockbridge. "I'm the one
thing that stands in his way. You'd marry him--wouldn't you?"
The girl rose proudly. Drew, from the shadow outside the rose-light,
studied the slender figure crowned with a close-drawn turban of
blue-black hair. His eyes ranged down to her slipper heels. They lifted
again. He stroked his chin as he waited for her answer. It came
truthfully enough and with high spirit.
"Yes, I'll marry him some day. I want your permission, but with it or
without it, father, I am going to marry him. He's a captain in the
Army. Doesn't that prove he is not all the things you said he was?"
"Good girl," said Drew in whispered admiration.
"It proves nothing!" exclaimed Stockbridge stiffening in his chair and
half rising. "He's a cad and an ass under all his uniform. He's too
poor to be considered for one moment. I want my daughter to marry----"
"Whom she pleases," said Loris. "Harry may be poor, but he's not too
proud to fight!"
"Bah! They get those uniforms so the girls will notice them. What does
he know about war?"
"He's been at Plattsburg for three months. He's in town on furlough.
He's helping us with Red Cross work. Isn't that noble!"
"That part's all right," said the Magnate. "I want you to keep him from
me, that's all. I believe he's half German!"
"He's not! Harry is all-American. His mother was born of German parents
in this country. His father was Canadian. You've heard of the Nichols
who built part of the Grand Trunk Railroad. Was he German?"
Stockbridge paled under the torrent which gushed from the girl's lips.
"Well, all right," he said resignedly. "Don't bring him here or allow
him to call. I've too much to think about to worry over Harry Nichols.
You better go to your room and think things over."
Loris glanced at her wrist-watch. She leaned with quick motion and
kissed her father on the forehead. She turned at the portieres and
threw back her head.
"Good-by, Mr. Drew," she said prettily. "I hope that you have not been
annoyed."
The detective, naturally quick at answering, found his tongue tied in
his mouth. He stammered a reply, which was too late. Loris swished
through the curtains, leaving the room empty for her passing.
"A mighty fine girl," was Drew's whispered comment. "They don't often
come like that. She's very high class. She's got spirit. I'd hate to
snatch a delusion from that young lady--Harry Nichols, for instance."
"Come here!" broke in Stockbridge.
Drew crossed the rugs. He stood by the magnate's side. He watched him
pour out a half-glass of Bourbon and take the whisky neat. He frowned.
"Well?" he asked.
"Not a word from your men or the telephone company?" asked Stockbridge,
wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's queer, isn't it?"
Drew took out his watch. He replaced it after a glance at the dial. His
eyes wandered to a little Sevres clock on a book-case. "It's time for
both," he said. "It's----"
"There's somebody now--go see," Stockbridge whispered tersely.
"Somebody is in the hallway."
The portieres parted and revealed the beef-red face of the English
butler. He advanced a step.
"The trouble-man from the telephone company is 'ere, sir," he said.
"'E's 'ere! 'E's been hover the junctions in the halley, sir. 'E's
looked at the junction-box. 'E says, sir, there's no trouble there. 'E
says 'it must be in 'ere, sir.'"
"In 'ere, sir," repeated the magpie with a loud squawking and rustle of
wings. "Junction-box! Junction-box!" it cried with its head through the
gilded bars.
"Shut up, Don!" ordered Stockbridge. "Be a good bird," he added
sharply. "Now, Straker, you may show the trouble-hunter up."
"Trouble-hunter! Trouble-hunter!" echoed the magpie.
Drew, somewhat amused, thrust his hands in the pockets of his coat and
eyed the opening between the curtains. A click of tools sounded
metallically. A shambling step was in the hallway.
"This woiy," said the butler in a superior tone. "Right this woiy,
you!"
The portieres parted. A slouching figure, with a greasy cap drawn far
down over the eyes, entered the library with a lineman's satchel on his
hip. He swung the strap from his shoulder, glanced at Stockbridge and
then at the detective. He dropped the satchel to the floor and
scratched his head.
"Take a look at this 'phone," said Drew. "Go over the wires. Look for
any cuts. The trouble ought not to be in here."
Stockbridge rose and made room for the lineman, who lifted the satchel
and strode to the 'phone. He dropped to one knee by the little table.
He fished forth a testing-set from his shirt. It was bound with two
leads of cotton-insulated wire.
"I'll test here," he suggested, clamping a set of claws into the wires
which came through the molding and entered the ringing-box.
"Hello!" he said. "Hello, this you, Saidee? Say, Saidee, give me
Franklin Official, seventeen. Yes ... all right! Hello! This you,
Tupper? Say, Tupper, I went over the junction-box in the alley back of
the house. Everything O. K. there. I'll go over the leads in the house.
Loose connection somewhere, I guess."
A clicking of tools followed as the lineman selected a pair of pliers.
They rattled over the binding-posts at the receiver. They tightened the
connections. He went over the transmitter, and then every inch of the
exposed wiring. He removed the cover of the ringing-box and examined
the connections. Replacing this cover, he rose with a puzzled
expression.
"All right," he said to Stockbridge, who was standing with his back
turned. "It's all right here, sir. I don't find a thing. See--it's all
right."
The trouble-hunter lifted the receiver from the hook. "Hello," he said
in a low voice. "Hello, Saidee. Say, Saidee, what number is this on
your board?"
The lineman glanced around the room. His eyes widened. He whistled with
naive admiration. "Hello," he said softly. "Yes ... Gramercy Hill 9763.
That's right. O.K. Tell Franklin Official--tell Tupper that I took
forty minutes on the job. Forty minutes at time and a half. Don't
forget that. Yes ... bridle--everything, all right, Saidee. See you
later."
The trouble-hunter reached for his satchel. He hitched it over his
shoulder.
"Hold on!" said Drew. "What _was_ the trouble? Why couldn't we get
Central?"
"You can search me--sir. It wasn't in this room, mister. That's a
Western-Union cinch!"
"Where was it?"
"I don't know."
"How about the junction-box in the alley? Could it have been there?"
"Well it could--come to think of it. I scraped an' cleaned th'
connections to make sure. They're all right now."
"Did you see anybody about?"
The lineman hitched up the satchel and scratched his ear. "Seems to me,
I did. A fellow climbed over the fence from the back yard of this house
just as I swings in from the side street. It was snowin' a bit an' I
couldn't see very well."
"What kind of looking fellow?" snapped Drew with awakened interest.
"German?"
"You took th' very words right out of my mouth," said the
trouble-hunter. "He looked like a German."
"Describe him! Tall, fat or small?"
"I wasn't near enough to notice for sure. Tall, I think. He went out
the alley and turned toward Fifth Avenue."
"Could he have called us up from that junction-box?"
"Sure--if he had a set of testers like this." The lineman tapped his
shirt with his left hand. "He could have talked with you, but he
couldn't ring your bell without a magneto or an alternating current of
some kind."
"Could he have cut the wires and connected them again without Central
noticing anything out of the ordinary?"
"He might. But who would do that, sir?"
"That's all!" said Drew in dismissal. "Here's a dollar. Keep still
about your visit here. We may want you later."
"Want you later," repeated the magpie.
Drew turned toward Stockbridge as the lineman shuffled through the
portieres. "Queer," he said. "Tall fellow, eh! That's the man who cut
in and threatened you. We'll get him! I'll go out and see if Delaney
has arrived. Two hours of the twelve have passed. Ten more should see
you safely out of it."
CHAPTER THREE
"THE MAN IN OLIVE-DRAB"
Triggy Drew stood on the marble steps of the Stockbridge mansion. The
butler had just helped him on with his coat. The door had closed
softly. The outer air gripped with cold that crackled. A soft snow was
falling upon the city. It blurred the view of the Avenue, as seen to
north and south. It wound the opposite buildings with a shroud of
winter.
The detective squared his shoulders, thrust his hands in his pockets
for warmth, and hurried out between the iron-grilled gates, which stood
slightly ajar. He hesitated a moment on the sidewalk. Again he glanced
up and down the Avenue. The soft purring of a motor sounded. A taxi
churned through the snow. It came to a slow stop at the opposite curb.
The glow from an overhead arc showed that this taxi was crammed black
with men.
"That's Delaney and his squad," said the detective turning up his
collar. "He's late."
Drew crossed the Avenue on a long diagonal. He eyed the alert
chauffeur. He rounded the taxi and jerked open its door. The orders he
whispered to the squad of operatives were terse and to the point.
"Keep Stockbridge's block covered," he said. "Watch all four corners.
Two of you get into the alley, back of the house, and climb the fence.
Keep your eyes on the junction-box and the telephone wires. Don't let
anybody touch them. All out, now. It's a big job with double-pay, men!"
The cramped operatives climbed out and stood on the sidewalk. They
glanced from Drew to the towering spires of the Stockbridge mansion.
Their eyes grew hard with calculation.
"She's big," repeated Drew. "You know who lives there? He's been
threatened twice. Somebody gave him twelve hours to live. Two of the
twelve are gone. It's up to us to see that nothing happens in the next
ten."
Delaney touched his hat. "All right, Chief," he said. "We'll see. I'll
answer for the boys I brought. I'll get rid of this taxi." The
operative turned toward the driver.
"Keep it around the corner on the side street," Drew ordered. "Have him
turn and head this way. We can't tell what minute we will need him."
Delaney gave the order. He paired off the operatives and sent them
hurrying through the snow. Drew noticed that he had brought six men for
the assignment.
"Good," he said as the last operative disappeared. "Six is better than
five. This thing is widening out. I wouldn't wonder if we needed more,
before the night passes."
"What's coming off?" asked Delaney with an Irish grin. "Another stock
scandal like the Flying Boat one?"
"An echo of it--perhaps," said Drew. "It's dog eat dog, I guess.
Stockbridge is no saint. Some man with a whispering--consumptive voice
has 'phoned him the news that he was going to die before daylight. I
don't think he is. Not if I can help it."
"Who did he rob this time--the old devil!"
"He's retired. It's a case, perhaps, of thieves falling out in high
places. Remember how Stockbridge beat Morphy to the District Attorney
and told all he knew, and went before the Grand Jury? Morphy may be
behind this threat-by-wire."
"Morphy's behind bars, Chief!"
"I know that. He's always dangerous, though."
"Another old devil," said Delaney thrashing his arms. "I can see him
now, Chief, in his big automobile. A husky man with a leather coat and
cap. And always a woman by his side, Chief. A different woman, every
time!"
"He fell a long way, Delaney. Come on. We'll forget Morphy for a while.
Stockbridge is alone. He is in danger."
Drew clutched the operative's arm and motioned across the street. They
plunged through the snow with heads down. They entered the iron-grilled
gate. Drew touched a button set in the stone of the doorway. He
repeated the signal.
The door opened to a crack. A chain rattled. A face blotted out the
inner light of the mansion.
"All right," said Drew. "All right, butler. This is one of my
operatives. Let us in."
The butler led the way through the hall of old masters, after taking
the detectives' coats and hats. He parted the curtains and announced
the operatives. Drew pressed Delaney into the library.
Stockbridge sat in the same position between the tables. The rose-light
from the ornate lamp brought out deep lines which transversed his
yellow face. Fear gave way to a mumbling satisfaction as he stared at
the two resolute detectives who had come to guard him. He rested his
eyes upon Delaney. His brows raised in inquiry.
"This is Delaney," said Drew. "He's the man who brought back Morphy
from Hartford. He's true blue. Delaney, this is your case as well as
mine. Your old prisoner may be involved."
"Morphy ain't in it, Chief. He's locked up tighter than the
Sub-Treasury's strong-box. It's some one else."
"What did you get on the telephone call? The call I had you trace
through Spencer Ott, the Chief Electrician?"
"Nothing, as yet! I waited. That's what kept me so long." Delaney
glanced at his watch.
"He'll 'phone later, I guess," said Drew. "Now," he added turning
toward Stockbridge. "Now, let's cover everything in this house. What
time was it, Delaney?"
"Nine forty-eight, when I looked, Chief."
"That's early. Suppose you allow a half hour for a search of the upper
house. Take that time and go over everything. Pay particular attention
to Mr. Stockbridge's rooms. Look at the windows. See that they are
locked. See that there are no places where a man could be hidden.
You'll permit Delaney to do this, Mr. Stockbridge?"
The Munition Magnate nodded. He kept his eyes on Drew, who still faced
him. "Do you think it is necessary?" he asked. "I'll answer for my
servants."
"We must suspect everybody," Drew said. "Go on, Delaney. Find the
butler and let him show you around. I've searched in here."
Delaney started toward the portieres as Stockbridge reached down and
pressed the floor-button with his finger.
"Just a moment," said Drew with afterthought. "You better knock on Miss
Stockbridge's door and ask permission to go through her suite. There's
just a chance that you might see something."
"Might see something!" shrilled the magpie.
Delaney turned with a startled half-oath. "Wot's that?" he asked,
aggressively clenching his huge fists.
"Might be something!" chortled the magpie.
"Go on," Drew laughed. "That's only a magpie."
"Looks like a crow, Chief. It sure startled me. I thought we had the
villain right here."
Drew waited. Delaney--with a last glance toward the bird-cage--followed
the butler to the upper floors of the mansion. Drew opened the letter
and studied it. He examined the postmark. He heard, as he was replacing
the paper in the envelope, the click of the glass against the bottle at
Stockbridge's side. There followed a dry chuckle of inner satisfaction.
A match was struck. Cigar smoke wreathed under the rose-light and
floated toward a high radiator which was over the book-cases. Drew went
over to these and glanced upward. The gilt-grilled ventilator, through
which the smoke passed, was narrow and set within the wallplaster. It
showed no sign of marks at its edge. It was the only opening, save the
door and the two great windows at the front, which led from or into the
library.
He returned to the center of the library. A swishing sounded. Loris,
with eyes aflame, glided into the room. The curtains dropped behind her
with soft rustling. She glanced from Drew to her father. She stamped
her slippered foot upon the thick pile of the rug before the doorway.
"By what right?" she said to Drew. "By whose orders have you sent that
awful man to my rooms?"
Drew flushed beneath the olive of his skin.
"_I_ sent him," he admitted guiltily. "I never thought you would be
offended, Miss Stockbridge."
"I am--greatly so! Do you mistrust me?"
"Miss Stockbridge," Drew hastened to say with soft apology. "Miss
Loris--that thought never entered my mind. It never did! I'll have Mr.
Delaney out, right away. He should not have gone in without your
permission. I told him to knock and ask you."
"My maid let him in. I--I----"
Drew studied her gown. It had been changed. The Irish lace and the
lavender one had been replaced by an Oxford-gray tailor-made suit which
fitted her slender, elegant form like a close glove. Her slippers were
topped with fawn-hued spats. One ring was on her finger. It was a
solitaire of price. It gleamed and flashed in the rose-light as she
raised her hand to her hair.
"I'll have Delaney right out," repeated Drew, bowing and starting for
the doorway.
"No!"
Drew paused. He turned. The magnate towered over the table. His eyes
were blood-shot and glazed with resolve.
"No!" he declared. "No, you'll not have him out! Let him do his duty!
Loris, go upstairs!"
"But, father----"
"Go--up--stairs!"
The girl flushed. Scarlet ripples rose from her young breast. Her
cheeks crimsoned into two burning spots. She wheeled, gathered up her
skirt, and glided swiftly through the portieres which dropped behind
her like a curtain of a stage.
"Go--up--stairs," quoted the magpie greatly excited.
Drew retained the vision of Loris long after her footsteps had ceased
to sound in the hallway. He grew thoughtful as he waited. There were
details to the case which already caused him concern. It was evident
that the girl was tremendously high-spirited and willful. Her obedience
to her father's demand had only been after a struggle with her
turbulent nature. She had given in to him, but friction was there which
might cause trouble at a future hour.
Delaney parted the portieres, finally. He strode into the library with
a flushed face. He lifted one brow as he jerked his head upward in a
mute signal to Drew.
"I guess it's all O. K.," he blurted swinging toward Stockbridge and
eyeing the bottle beside the telephone. "O. K. upstairs. I searched
most everything--posted a valet at the master's suite and took a look
into Miss Stockbridge's rooms. They seem all right. I guess they're all
right," he added with candor, which Drew understood referred to the
girl and her outburst in her boudoir.
"Good," Drew said closing his lips. "That's good. Now, Mr.
Stockbridge," he added, "there will be eight of us on the outside of
this house. You have your trusted servants inside. There's three
telephones in good order, thanks to the trouble-man. There's the entire
New York Police and Detective Departments to back us up. There should
be no trouble."
The Magnate blinked beneath the cone of rose-light. He wet his dry
lips. He rubbed his scaly hands. "Any orders to me?" he asked
determinedly. "What shall I do?"
"You lock this library door when Delaney and I go out. Lock it and bolt
it securely. Don't take a particle of food. Don't drink any water. Try
to get along to-night without sampling anything."
Stockbridge reached for the bottle of Bourbon. He held it up to the
light. It was half full. "All right," said he. "I might finish part of
this--that's all."
Drew glanced at Delaney. "That'll be all right," he said turning. "That
bottle's been tested. You might let this officer try a little of it.
Nothing like being sure, you know."
Delaney was willing. The drink he poured, after the butler brought a
clean glass, would have cost him considerable money in war time. He
upended it neat. He smiled as one hand rested upon his chest. "Fine!"
he said with sincerity. "There's nothin' th' matter with that!"
Drew turned toward the portieres, where, between, the butler waited.
"We'll go now," he said. "Remember--lock and bolt this door. Instruct
your man to stay outside and not to leave it under any circumstances.
When you go up to your bedroom, have him go with you. Then lock the
upstairs door and let your valet sleep across the threshold. You can
have a mattress moved for that purpose. I'll come in--first thing in
the morning. Good night, sir!"
"Good night," repeated Stockbridge rising from his chair and leaning
his hands upon the polished surface of the table. "Good night to both
of you!"
Drew glanced back as the butler pressed in the curtains and started
closing the hardwood door. The Magnate still stood erect under the rich
glow from the overhead cone. His eyes were slit-lidded and defiant. He
glared about the room like an aged lion in a jungle-glade. He started
around the table.
The door closed. Drew waited in the hallway. He heard the lock snap.
The bolt shot home. Stockbridge was alone in a sealed room.
"Watch this door!" ordered Drew clutching the butler's purple sleeve.
"Watch it like a cat. Stay right near it under any and all
circumstances. Don't go away from it. It may mean life or death to your
master."
"I'll stoiy right 'ere, sir."
"See that you do," cautioned the Detective. "See that you do."
Delaney found the hats and coats in the foyer. These they donned,
opened the outer door, and stepped into the night with jaws squared and
hands thrust deep in their pockets.
They crossed the snow-mantled Avenue upon a long diagonal which brought
them to the up-town corner and the waiting taxi, whose engine was
softly purring beneath its hooded bonnet.
The driver was asleep. He woke as Drew laid a hand on his arm.
"Seen anything?" asked the Detective.
"Nothin', boss, but snow. Nothin' at all," he yawned.