lunged inward with a sigh of relief. Drew followed and pulled the door
shut.
"Where's the bunch?" he asked. "Just how did you post them?"
"Flood's with the fixed-post cop on the Avenue. He's down a block.
Flynn and Cassady are in the alley--in the yard, I mean. They're
watching the junction-box and the wires. Joe and O'Toole went east.
Harrigan is planted across the street. That's him between the two
buildings. See him?"
Drew rubbed the rear glass of the taxi. He pressed his nose against
this. A blurred form, almost obliterated by falling snow, showed where
the operative was guarding the mansion.
Delaney, who was watching out through another window, suddenly clutched
Drew by the arm. "Look!" he exclaimed. "Look, Chief! Over toward the
big house!"
The Detective drew back from his study of Harrigan. He turned on the
seat and followed Delaney's pointing finger. He clamped his jaw shut
with a click of strong teeth.
"Somebody's coming out of Stockbridge's," said the operative.
"Quek!" signaled Drew. "Watch, closely," he added in a whisper.
A girl came through the doorway and opened the iron-grilled gates. She
paused and glanced north and south through the curtain of down-falling
snow. She turned with resolution and hurried along the east side of the
Avenue. She was at the corner opposite the taxi, when Drew reached and
opened the door with sly fingers.
"Tail her," he ordered. "Right after her, Delaney. I'd know that little
lady in a million."
"Who is she, Chief?"
"Loris Stockbridge!"
"Sure?"
"Yes! Right after her! There--she turned east. See her white spats? See
her furs? Some queen to be out a night like this. Don't let her get too
far ahead of you. That's right, Delaney!"
The operative sprang to the curb. He rounded the hood of the taxi. He
slouched along the pavement to the corner, waited for the fraction of a
minute until a limousine passed, then hurried over the Avenue. He
disappeared into the canyon whose walls were towering apartments and
whose end was marked by a row of soft arcs across which, snow falling
from housetops, sparkled in the night like diamonds beyond price.
The Avenue churned with returning theater-parties and night-hawk cabs.
The roar of the city came to the waiting Detective's ears like a giant
turning in his first sleep. The sifting snow sanded against the windows
of the taxi. The purring motor missed sparking now and then. It shook
the cab as it resumed its revolving with a sputter and a cough in the
muffler. The driver huddled deeper in his sheep-skin coat collar. He
snored in synchronism with the engine.
Drew rubbed the glass before him and studied the aspect with
close-lidded intentness. He marked the shut gates of the Mansion down
the Avenue. He saw that the lights from the inner globes had been
extinguished. He counted the staring windows. His eyes lowered to the
soft rose-glow which streamed out through the shut blinds of the
library. Snow was on the slats and sills.
A swift crunch of heavy shoes at the side of the taxi--the turning of
the door-lock--the burly form in black that climbed in, announced
Delaney.
"All right, Chief!" he said somewhat out of breath. "All right--move
over. Here she comes back!"
Drew rubbed a frosted pane with his elbow. A blurred form--close to the
sheltering wall of the side street--revealed itself into Loris
Stockbridge. She turned the corner. She glanced back over her sabled
shoulder. She pressed her gloved hands deep within her muff and almost
ran for the iron-grilled gates of the mansion.
"She connected with a blonde lad in olive-drab uniform!" said Delaney.
"He gave her something that looked to me like a revolver. Wot d'ye make
out-a that, Chief?"
CHAPTER FOUR
"THE MURDER"
Triggy Drew had no good answer for Delaney's question concerning the
revolver. The matter was important in view of the threat aimed toward
Stockbridge. Why Loris should obtain a gun from a rendezvous in a
drug-store was more than the Detective could fathom. He turned to
Delaney.
"Explain yourself!" he snapped, gripping the operative by the sleeve.
"Make yourself clear! We have no time to waste in this matter!"
Delaney gulped and whispered. "It's this way. I follows the girl until
she turns around the corner where there is an all-night drug-store. She
was in a telephone-booth when I came up and looked through the window.
She was trying to get a number. While she's trying, a taxi rushes up
and out jumps a lad in a long benny. He pays the driver with a bill and
hurries past me and into the drug-store. I gets a good look at him.
He's about twenty-three years old, blonde hair and tall----"
"Tall?"
"He was five feet eleven, Chief. I'd say that to be safe. The uniform
he wore under the benny was olive-drab with bars on his shoulder. He
took the overcoat off--afterwards."
"How many bars?"
"Two, Chief."
"That's good!" exclaimed Drew with sudden vigor. "Good!"
"The girl," went on Delaney, "was 'phoning for him. She dropped the
receiver when she heard him come in. She had the party she
wanted--right there. Good deduction--that is!"
The Detective snorted. "Go on," he said with a faint frown.
"Sure it was! Well, I moves over and starts puttin' a penny in the
slot-machine outside the drug-store. The machine didn't work very well
on account of the snow. I'm a long time gettin' my piece of
chewin'-gum. I sees them talking in the drug-store. His coat is off
'cause it's warm inside. He had an officer's uniform on."
"One bar or two?"
"Two bars on his shoulder, Chief."
"Captain, then. Go on."
"He's a tall lad with thick lips and wide-blue eyes. He's straight as a
pike-staff and good lookin'--for a blonde."
"Looks German?"
"Not so I could notice! Seemed to be a bit of a swell. Had gloves and a
high-class wrist watch. I hate them things."
Drew smiled. "Hurry," he said. "Don't take too long. What happened?
What about the smoke-wagon?"
"I'm comin' to it, Chief. They moves over to the drug-case. They chins
some more. Then he blows her to a soda--a cherry sundae."
Drew rubbed the glass at his side and started out. He swept the mansion
with swift-running eyes. He turned.
"They were sweet--them two," went on Delaney with thought. "I deducts
they'd known each other a long while."
"Quit your deducting. Get to facts!"
"Well, Chief, he ups and gives the drug-store the once over with sharp
looks. Then he handed her a little, flat box which she pops into her
muff--quick as any shop-hister. It was as quick as that!"
"How do you know it was a revolver?"
"By what followed, Chief."
"What followed?"
"Her hand creeps into the muff. It works around while the clerk is
mixin' the sundae. When the clerk's back is turned, out comes the hilt
of a nice, little gat with ivory trimmin's. It's one of them lovely
watch-charm affairs--all polished up without a knock-out punch."
"A twenty-two?"
"About that. It's the caliber them actresses carry in their stockings.
It might kill, though, at short range."
"Go on, Delaney. Tell me what happened then?"
"I gets my chewin'-gum, Chief. I backs to the curb. They finish their
sundae. I'm across the street when the lad goose-steps out of the
drug-store--alone. O'Toole was talking with the fixed-post cop and a
Central Office man half-way down the block. They gets my office when I
pulls out my handkerchief. The C. O. dick covers the corner. O'Toole
falls in behind the lad in the fur benny as he passes him, with collar
turned up and leggins working at a double-time through the snow."
"That's good! O'Toole will put him to bed."
"Sure, Chief. Leave it to O'Toole. He never lost a tail yet. He'll
follow that lad to France--unless you call him off."
Drew polished the glass and strained his eyes in the direction of
Stockbridge's mansion. The Avenue had quieted over the hour after
midnight. A few belated pedestrians, muffled to the brows, glanced at
the waiting taxi with curiosity. They did not stop, however.
Delaney drew out his watch and studied its dial by aid of the light
which streamed from a corner arc. He replaced the watch.
"Twelve-forty-five," he announced. "Wish I'd brought a pint along. I
would have, if the dame hadn't come out of the drug-store so quick."
"Did she buy anything--or do anything, after the officer left her?"
"No! Just waited a second, then came sailin' out without a smile. Had
her hands crammed in her muff. That's where the revolver was. Bet it
was loaded."
"More deduction," said Drew. "Don't jump at conclusions, Delaney. Get
facts and work from them. Get----"
The Detective's voice trailed into silence. He reached swiftly and
wiped his hand over the frosted pane. He pressed his nose against the
glass until it became white with cold. He jerked back his head.
"Quek!" he signaled from deep down in his throat. "Quek, Delaney! Open
the door. Somebody is coming out of the house!"
Delaney twisted the handle. A breath of stinging air swept into the
taxi's heated space. Snow followed and drifted across the detectives'
knees. Both men strained in one position. Their eyes burned as they
waited with grim-set lips.
A light shone from the lower entrance of the mansion. Its oblong
brought out in bold-relief the details of the iron-grilled gates.
Across this fine snow sifted. A man emerged. He closed the door. He
opened the gates and staggered toward the Avenue's curb. He stood,
bare-headed in the night. His chin swung north and south with helpless
motion. He fixed his eyes upon the waiting taxi, with a start of
recognition. He came over the surface of the Avenue with faltering,
bewildered steps.
"The butler!" snapped Drew. "That's Stockbridge's butler! What's
happened?"
"God only knows!" exclaimed Delaney.
Drew climbed over the operative and sprang to the curb. He charged
around the rear of the taxi and brought up with a jerk before the
startled servant.
"What is it?" he asked sharply.
The butler stammered an incoherent answer. His eyes wavered from the
taxi to the mansion--then back again. They gripped to a dead-lock with
the detective's own.
"What happened?" exclaimed Drew.
"I don't know, sir. I don't know----"
"Keep cool! Answer me!" The Detective clutched the butler's shoulder
with a vise-grip.
"Answer me," he repeated. "What happened? What is the matter--over
there?"
"I don't----"
"None of that! Answer! Answer!"
"The telephone company, sir. The telephone people rang me ... they rang
me hup hon the downstairs 'phone, sir. They said ... she said ... the
chief-loidy said for me to 'ang the receiver hup hon the Gramercy 'ill
'ook, sir. The 9763 one, sir."
"Which one is that--the library?"
"It his, sir!"
"Go on! Go on! Go on!"
"I goes back where I 'ad left the second-man, sir, by the door, sir, as
you'd ordered, sir. I knocks 'ard on the door."
"Yes! Yes!" said Drew, feeling Delaney's hot breath over his shoulder.
"Yes! Go on!"
"I knocks, sir. I pounds 'ard. I 'ammers and 'ammers hon the wood, sir.
'E don't answer--'e don't."
Drew's face grew stern. "Well?" he asked still holding the butler's
eyes. "Well--what then?"
"I knocks some 'arder. Then the second-man, 'e knocks. 'E 'its the door
with 'is 'eel, sir!"
"Come on!" said Drew, turning and clasping Delaney's sleeve. "Come
on--something _is_ wrong!"
The detective swept the Avenue with a sharp glance as he hurried across
the wheel-churned ice and snow. He signaled to Harrigan by drawing a
handkerchief. That operative detached himself from the shadow between
the two houses and moved toward the corner. He stood there on guard as
Drew hurried through the iron-grilled gates and thrust his knee against
the door. It opened. Delaney and the butler crowded in. They mounted
the inner stairs on tiptoes. Drew's hand went behind him in warning. He
turned at the top of the landing. The second-man was standing before
the library door with folded arms and a watchdog expression on his
cockney face. He remained in that position as Drew glided to his side.
"Hear anything?" asked the detective.
"Never a word, sir. Hit's blym quiet hin there. Hi think 'e's 'ad
something 'appen, sir. 'E never acted like that--before, sir. Sometimes
'e sleeps, but 'e always wakes hup when the walley comes after 'im,
sir."
"'E does," echoed the butler with chattering teeth.
"Are you sure you tried to unlock this door?" queried Drew, twisting
the knob. "Have you tried the outer lock? You might have shot the bolt
in your excitement."
"The key to the houter lock, sir, is hinside!"
"It is!" snapped Drew, pressing against the panel as he listened close
up to the chamfering. "It is, eh? That's funny."
"'E put hit there, sir. The master did, sir!"
Drew did not dwell further on this. He stared at Delaney, with unseeing
eyes. He bent and listened for a second time. He stiffened suddenly. He
jerked back.
"Listen," he whispered tersely. "Everybody listen. What's that noise
inside? Hear it? Hear it, Delaney?"
The operative dropped to his knees and pressed his ear to a faint line
of light below the door. He rose, dusting his knees. He swore audibly.
"What is it?" asked Drew.
"Sounds like the crow, Chief."
"Stockbridge's magpie?"
"Something like that."
The Detective laid his ear flat against the key-hole. His face hardened
as he waited. He lifted his head and pointed with a steady finger.
"Listen!" he commanded. "There--listen. That's no magpie!"
_A low whine like the howl of a wild thing rose to a reed note of
moribund terror. It died; then resumed its shrieking. It leaped the
octaves from no note to a blare of a soul in agony. Suddenly it struck
down the tone scale with descending steps of mocking laughter._
"Look out!" shouted Drew, bending his knees and gliding back to the
wall of the hallway. "Look out!" he repeated.
"What are you goin' to do?" asked Delaney huskily.
"Do? I'm going to break the door down! Look out!"
The detective braced himself against the wall. He lunged forward and
crashed against the dark panel near the lock and bolt, with the energy
of a college fullback. He backed away and repeated the smashing blow.
"Hold on, Chief," Delaney said. "That's no use. The door is two inches
thick. I had a good look at it. Wait!"
Drew rubbed his right shoulder as Delaney turned toward the white-faced
butler.
"You get an ax!" he ordered. "Beat it, and get a big ax, quick!"
"The axes are in the furnace room, sir."
"Get one! Bring it right up, you. Hurry now!"
The operative turned toward Drew. "The only way, Chief," he explained.
"I've been in too many of Big Bill Devery's raids not to know how to
break down a strong door. I'm the man who took Honest John Kelsey's
house apart for him. It was built like a British tank."
The puffing butler appeared with a fire ax. He handed it to Delaney,
who eyed the edge with concern.
"Not sharp," he said, "but it'll do, at a pinch. Look out--everybody!"
Delaney waved the servants away. He moistened his broad palms. He swung
the ax and crashed its weight into the panel nearest the lock. He
followed this blow with another. He panted as he rained swinging
slashes at the dark wood. It splintered. An opening was made. This
opening was enlarged by short-arm jabs until Drew laid a hand on
Delaney's shoulder and called a halt. "Let me see," he said bending
down.
He straightened. He enlarged the chopped place with his fingers. He
ripped off the splinters until there was room for a palm to be
inserted. Delaney, dropping the ax upon the hall-rug, thrust through
his arm to the elbow. He bent his knee as he strained. His face screwed
into a knot.
"Is the key there?" asked Drew.
"Ye--s. I turned it. All the way, Chief. Here's the bolt. Both were
locked tight. Both locked, on the inside of the library."
"Remember that!" snapped Drew, squaring his shoulders. "Everybody
remember that. It may be important!"
Drew pressed Delaney aside. He seized the gold knob and turned it
slowly. He waited for a moment. Nothing sounded save the loud breathing
of the butler and the other servants who were crowded in the hall.
The detective jerked open the splintered door. He hesitated and
listened. He pressed aside the portieres with his left hand as his
right fingers coiled over the ugly hilt of a police regulation .44. He
advanced into the library, foot by foot. His fingers still coiled the
gun's butt. He stood rigid as he reached the fringe of the splendid rug
which was under the great table. His sweeping, close-lidded eyes took
in the details of the room. He saw the magpie in its cage. The bird's
feathers were ruffled. Its head darted in and out the bars with great
excitement.
Drew frowned as he noticed a wreath of pale-blue smoke curling under
the dome of the rose-light. He sniffed the air with a shrewd intake. A
powder explosion of some kind had left a trace. The air, so close and
warm, was filled with acrid menace.
The detective removed his hand from the revolver's butt and waved it
behind him as a signal to Delaney and the servants to stay where they
were. He took one step forward. The white writing paper and envelope
from the cemetery company were upon the table. The stump of a
half-smoked cigar draped over this table's edge like a gun on a
parapet. It was cold and without ash.
The smaller of the two tables was overturned. The whisky bottle and
glass lay at the edge of the rug nearest the wall. The telephone
transmitter and receiver were upon the hardwood floor, where they had
fallen with the butts of two Havana cigars and the ash trays and match
boxes.
Stockbridge was crumpled into a twisted knot against the rich
wainscoting. His head was half under his left shoulder. His iron-gray
hair was singed black over the left ear.
Drew leaned with one hand on the corner of the table and peered
downward. He called the magnate's name. He repeated it. He turned
toward the doorway. His hand raised. His finger pressed against his
lips.
"Stockbridge is dead," he told Delaney, who glided to his side. "He is
dead. He was shot to death in this sealed room. I wonder who did it?"
"Ah, Sing!" shrieked the magpie. "Ah, Sing! Ah, Sing!"
CHAPTER FIVE
"THE FIRST CLEWS"
The magpie's words, repeated over and over as Drew and Delaney stood in
the room of death, struck both men as a possible clew. It was more than
likely that the murderer or the murdered man had shouted something, the
moment the shot was fired. This exclamation might have been, "Ah,
Sing!" The bird had repeated something it had memorized, or retained in
its shallow brain.
"Ah, Sing!" suggested Drew, keenly on the alert. "Ah, Sing, eh? Never
forget that! We may need it--later."
"Sounds like a Chinaman," said the operative. "Stockbridge was shot by
a Chink!"
"Get busy! Go over the room and look for a possible hiding place. You,
butler, stand across that doorway! Don't move from there!" Drew wheeled
and stared at the white faces of the servants which were framed in the
somber curtains of the opening to the hall.
The detective swung back. He rounded the large table with slow steps.
He bent down. One knee touched the rug. He reached and grasped the
magnate's stiff arm. He worked it like a hinge. He felt of the muscles.
They were rigid.
Rising, Drew again tested the air of the library. He glanced at
Delaney, who was opening the book-case doors.
"What do you smell?" he asked sharply.
The operative turned and sniffed with widening nostrils.
"It's powder!" he said. "Gunpowder, Chief."
"Sure?"
"It's kind-a peculiar--at that."
"Explain yourself--be clear!"
Delaney scratched his head. "I'd say, Chief, it was smokeless powder.
It don't smell like the ordinary kind."
"I saw smoke when I came in!"
"That smokeless stuff smokes. It ain't altogether what they call it.
Remember the shootin'-gallery at Headquarters? There's smoke there when
the police are practicing with them steel-jacketed bullets."
"You're right," said Drew. "Keep on looking about. I'm getting on.
Stockbridge was shot at very close range behind and under the left ear.
The weapon used was a small-caliber revolver. The bullet is undoubtedly
lodged in the lower brain. Powder stains are in his hair. The opening
is clotted shut. He fell forward. In falling he knocked over the little
table with its load of ash-trays, match-boxes, telephone, cigar butts
and the whisky bottle and the glass. He's been dead some time."
"I 'e'rd no shot!" cried the butler from the doorway.
Drew wheeled. "You wouldn't," he said sharply. "Delaney," he added,
"say, Delaney, get out your note book and pencil. I want to put down
everything we can think of before I send for the coroner. We'll take a
complete record. This thing is diabolical. You see nothing?"
"Nothing," echoed Delaney as he slammed a book-case door shut, dusted
his fingers and reached in his pocket. "There's nobody planted in this
room--that's a fact, Chief. That's what gets me. How was the murder
done?"
"Speculation is useless--now! Get ready for notes."
"I'm ready, Chief."
The detective strode across the library rugs and snapped on the wall
switch by jabbing at a mother-of-pearl button. Each time he jabbed,
more lights came on. The room flooded with soft glowing from concealed
globes. This glow brought out the full details of the palatial
interior. Drew chewed at his mustache thoughtfully. He measured the
walls with his eyes. He glided swiftly toward the windows. He thrust
aside the heavy curtains of one and glanced upward.
"Closed and locked," he said to Delaney. "Put that down. There's snow
on the sill which has drifted through the outer slats. Put that down.
No sign of footprints. Put that down. Now, the upper part!"
He climbed up on the ornate radiator box. His fingers went over the
catch. "Locked here!" he said, glancing down. "Locked and the same as
it was. Make a note of that!"
He sprang down and examined the other window. He went over the sill and
the catch with absorbed intentness. His teeth bit against his upper
lip. He shook his head as he turned.
"No chance for a bullet to have been fired through these windows!" he
declared positively. "No chance at all. This end of the library is
sealed as far as we are concerned. Now, we'll consider the only other
opening--the door!"
"Double locks, Delaney," he called over his shoulder as he crossed the
room and pressed the butler back into the hall. "Double locks of the
superior order. Gold knobs and key-holes. The holes are not in line.
The chamfering is clean, except where you struck it once or twice with
the ax. No sign of outside tampering or jimmy work. I'd say we've
covered this door. Any suggestions?"
Delaney tried both the inner lock and the bolt which was actuated with
a gold butterfly-wing of heavy construction. He studied the flat key.
It was gold-plated. He dropped to his knees and went over the entire
lower chamfering with his broad finger.
He said, "No suggestions, Chief. This was locked twice, until we broke
a hole through with an ax. I don't see----"
"Make a note of everything!" ordered Drew with a sharp glance at the
waiting servants. "Make a full record of what we have found--including
your exact interpretation of the magpie's words. What were they?"
"Ah, Sing!"
"I think the same. Let's look the bird over. Perhaps it will repeat."
The two detectives strode to the bird-cage. "I'm going to send for
Fosdick and the coroner," said Drew hastily. "We've got to hurry. What
do you make of this bird? Could it have had anything to do with the
murder?"
The magpie protested against this accusation. Its feathers ruffled. Its
claws clamped over the perch. Its tail extended upward and seemed to
dart with indignation.
"Ah, Sid!" exclaimed Drew close up to the gilded bars. "Ah, Sid. Ah,
Sid!" he repeated as the bird sprang to the bottom of the cage and set
this jumping up and down at the end of the spring.
"No go," said Delaney. "This black parrot don't like our looks."
Drew fingered the cage. He tested the spring. He stooped and glanced
underneath. He tapped the belfry. It was of inlaid wood. It rang solid.
"No use," he said. "This is all, all right. Let's get to the other
matters before the clews get cold. Look everywhere for a possible
trapdoor or a secret panel. Test the walls. Move the book-cases. Turn
the pictures. Lift up the rugs. Then put everything back like you found
it. Fosdick will be on the job with both feet and the Homicide Squad,
before we know it. We haven't much time." Drew glanced at his watch as
Delaney started by moving out one of the book-cases.