to the elevator pilot and stepped from the cage with the general air of
a man who had spent a hard night without getting anywhere in
particular.
Stopping in the operatives' room for a few minutes, he picked up scraps
of news concerning the case at Stockbridge's. There was a report,
moreover, that an extra was expected by ten o'clock. The air of
desertion about the suite told Delaney plainer than words that most of
the operatives were upon the case. The entire corps, with few
exceptions, had been working hard while he slept. The telephone-girl
and the assistant-manager, Harrigan, wound up each of his questions by
a nod or a jerk of the thumb toward the inner office where Drew was
sitting like a spider in a web which was being spun about the case at
hand.
Delaney yawned, braced himself with a drink of ice water drawn from an
inverted-bottle, and stepped toward Drew's door. He knocked with tired
knuckles. He pressed forward as he heard a hearty: "Come in!"
The operative eyed his Chief with sovereign amazement. Drew looked as
fresh as a daisy. There was a pink tinge upon his olive cheeks. These
cheeks had been close shaven. Oil glistened from the detective's black
hair. His mustache was trimmed and level with his upper lip. His eyes,
as he swung and fastened a clear glance upon Delaney, were almost too
bright. They were like the hectic fires of an inner furnace.
Delaney searched about the room. He lifted one foot and then the other
with a tired motion. He leaned against a filing-case like a heavy dray
horse which had come to a final stop. He yawned behind his big, red
hand.
"How d'ye do it, Chief?" he asked with a second yawn. "I'm dead on my
feet. All the sleep I got was about thirty minutes. I haven't woke up
yet. I met myself going to work this morning."
Drew laughed quickly and motioned toward a leather chair. "Sit down!"
he suggested. "Sit right down, Delaney. Take it easy for a few minutes.
You seem tired."
"It beats me how you can do it!" declared the operative, sprawling
across the chair and crossing his weary legs.
"One or two hours' sleep is never any good. Better keep awake. You
remind me of the last rose of Sharon!"
"I feel like a house-man in an all-night poker game. What's the use!
I'm going over to some bank and get a job as a night watchman, if this
keeps up. I can sleep my head off, there."
Drew swung in his chair and eyed the papers on his desk. He swiveled as
Delaney inquired:
"What's the news in the Stockbridge case? I've been asking Marie and
Harrigan. They don't seem to know anything except that everybody is
out--already." Delaney extended his huge mouth to a cavernous yawn. He
fished up his great, silver watch. "What's the news, Chief? Any
assignments for me?"
"News? There's very little news, Delaney. No good news, yet! I've been
busy as a Chinaman on a contract, though. I can't let that matter get
cold. It's now or never in this case!"
"What does our friend Fosdick say?"
"He's all at sea! I've talked with him twice." Drew glanced at the
'phone. "He says the murder was a second Rue Morgue. He can't see any
light at all!"
"He's come around to our deduction?"
"There's no deduction in it!"
"He says it's murder?"
"Cold, curdling, cunning, crafty murder, Delaney. The coroner said it
would have been impossible for a man to shoot himself in the manner
Stockbridge was shot. They're right--both of them--and we're right.
I'll stake my badge on it! Particularly in view of the two threats.
Why, I was there when he was called up and given twelve hours on this
earth."
Delaney glanced out the window. "Snowing again," he said, "I wonder if
there are any footprints in that back yard or alley. Wouldn't that be a
clue, Chief?"
"To what?"
"Well, you told me that the trouble-man said a tall lad climbed the
fence near the junction-box and beat it for Fifth Avenue. Maybe that
lad left footprints behind."
"They're snowed over now!"
"But if he made them, couldn't we find them underneath?"
Drew's eyes narrowed. He leaned in his chair with a searching glance at
Delaney. "How long did you sleep?" he asked sharply.
"About thirty minutes, Chief. Mary and the kids woke me up and I
couldn't get settled again. I did some thinking."
"You must 'ave! That idea about the footprints is a mighty good one.
There was first a thaw, then a freeze, then a snow fall which preserved
everything. If we wait till spring there might be a set of prints
underneath the other sets. Two of our operatives were there. The
trouble-man was there. He scraped the connections. If we find a fourth
set of prints, that's our man!"
"The tall lad?"
"Yes, Delaney. We can build a box about the fence and start a thaw of
our own. I'll think it over!"
"I'll go up and do it, Chief. I can make plaster-casts of all the
prints. There's a French system I heard of once. I can find out from
Farot over at Headquarters."
"Keep it under cover for a while," decided Drew, sitting down and
drawing a sheath of papers to the edge of the desk. "Keep it quiet," he
added. "I'll think it over."
Delaney rubbed his chin. He watched Drew rapidly thumb over the data.
"Say, Chief," he yawned. "I see another light."
"What?" shot Drew over his shoulder. "S--o? Wait a moment before you
give it to me--you reminded me of something. Where was the spot of
powder on my face? The rubber in the Turkish bath said it was right
here." The detective turned and touched his forefinger below the lobe
of his left ear. "Right there," he added.
"That's where it was, Chief. Just where you got your finger. It was on
the cord. Seems to me that it was circular in shape. Like a half-moon."
Drew raised his black brows in reflective thought. He opened a small
drawer with a sudden dart of his arm. He poised a mirror so that the
light from the window brought out his left ear and neck. He dropped the
mirror to the desk. "Delaney," he said, "that's exactly the spot where
Stockbridge was shot!"
The operative felt a cold chill dart up and down his tired spine. He
came to life with an oath, and a slap of his huge palm upon his knee.
"Chief, you're right!" he exclaimed, leaning forward. "You're right!
That spot of black was just where the old man was hit. Now, what d'ye
make of that?"
Drew drummed his fingers on the edge of the polished desk. He tapped
his toes on the floor. He coughed and picked up the mirror for a second
and longer glance at his face and neck. He tossed the mirror to the
desk and swiveled slowly.
"What do I think of it?" he repeated, with flashing eyes. "I think
there are features to this case I don't like!"
"Could it have been an accident, Chief? You might of got a bit of soot
from the gun and then scratched your neck. Maybe that Harry Nichols put
one over on us. The gun might have been fired, reloaded, and we never
noticed it. Looks bad for Nichols and the girl."
Drew closed his eyelids tightly. His brow furrowed in deep thought.
"No," he said finally. "I don't think the soot or powder came from the
pearl-handled revolver. I don't think so! It would seem to me, Delaney,
that intuition is stronger than evidence. That girl and that boy rang
true. That valet is above suspicion. The servants are to be trusted.
Stockbridge trusted them and he was noted for his shrewdness in picking
men. The only mistake he ever made was Morphy. That individual was out
to do the old man. He was a biter, bitten! I think we'll eliminate, for
the time, Loris, Harry, the servants and German influences in the
matter at hand. What was your idea?" Drew rubbed his neck beneath his
ear, as he turned to his papers.
"I've forgotten it, Chief. That spot drove it all out. No, wait--say!
I've been thinking--this morning laying there and listening to the kids
getting ready for school--that the powder we smelled in the library
wasn't ordinary powder. I know a firecracker, or a regular Chinese
smell when I get near one. That wasn't the kind I got. It was like
something else. It was powder--all right--but----"
Drew lifted a sheet of paper. "I covered that," he said. "Analysis made
by Higgens, this morning, shows traces of smokeless-powder in
Stockbridge's hair and about the bullet hole. There's a difference.
Now, I'm going further than that. I'm going to have those scrapings I
got from my neck looked at. If they are the same as the powder that was
used to slay Stockbridge, we are getting on."
"There's lots of smokeless, Chief."
"That's the trouble--that's what we are right up against. Let's leave
the footprints and the powder for a few minutes. Both are important.
They'll wait. See here!"
Drew raised a sheath of papers from his desk, turned with the chair,
and started thumbing over the data he had accumulated.
"See here," he repeated absently. "First branch of the tree of Truth in
this case is a stubborn one. It requires considerable work on our part
to get to the end of it. I've sent out six operatives to scout the
telephone calls and get me some light on them. I've kept some notes on
what they have 'phoned in to me. The telephone company, the wire-chief
at Gramercy Hill, and an official I know, have been enlisted in getting
to the bottom of these calls. They have made progress. But, Delaney, of
all the devilish inventions of man, a telephone is the most subtle.
It's a wonder to me we have found anything. It's the crook's one best
tool. With it he can play safe, and we can't catch him!"
"What have you found, Chief?"
Drew held up a paper. "The first call, Delaney," he said, "was the one
to the cemetery company's superintendent, notifying him to excavate a
grave in the Stockbridges' family plot. Subtle suggestion, that, in the
light of what followed."
"It was," said Delaney.
"This call has received all of the attention it deserved. It's the
first of the series, and was perhaps made before the crook had time to
cover himself completely. It has been traced to a slot booth in the
Pennsylvania Railroad Station in the Woman's Waiting Room."
"Woman's?"
"Yes, Delaney. That is no criterion that a woman did the calling-up.
The girl there in charge of the pay-booths states that more men than
women use the 'phones in that part of the station."
"Just our luck!"
"The toll collected on this call must have been thirty-five cents,
including the war-tax. The superintendent says that the voice over the
wire was thin and tired. He says he thought it was Dr. Conroy. He never
gave the matter second consideration. Conroy, however, has a voice like
a bull. We checked that up."
"Does the superintendent know Conroy?"
"No! Except by name!"
"Then, Chief, I don't see any use trying that lead. It begins and ends
in air."
"It most certainly does! We'll cross it out. The next call for our
investigation----"
"Which was?" asked Delaney, waking up.
"Which was the one notifying Stockbridge that he had about reached his
span of life on this earth. I was there in that library when the call
came in. Again, from the millionaire's description, this time, we have
the thin, whispering voice on the wire. The man was probably the same.
He mentioned the cemetery letter which would establish that fact."
"I'm following you, Chief. Go on!"
Drew picked out a second sheet of paper from his pile. "We went after
this call at the time, or soon after the time it was sent in," he said,
tapping the sheet with his fingers. "I called the office here and had
Harrigan get in touch with George Westlake, third vice-president of the
telephone company. Westlake got busy."
Delaney eyed his unpolished shoes with a sage wink.
"Westlake turned things over," continued the detective. "He made a most
thorough investigation. We have his word that there is no record of
this call! The wire-chief at Gramercy Hill Exchange declares that it
never went through the switchboard. That the connection had been made
on the outside."
"From the air?"
"Looks that way. They tried everything and questioned everybody. No one
talked with Stockbridge through the switchboard at Gramercy Hill, at or
near that hour. Therefore, we must conclude, that, insomuch as I know
somebody _did_ talk with him at that hour, the connection was made,
either in the junction-box in the alley or behind the switchboard at
Gramercy Hill Exchange."
"How about underground, Chief?"
"Impossible! That is--almost impossible. The cables are in conduit and
sheathed with lead. It would be a poor place to tap in on a line. I'm
going to presume that the man who tapped in knew his business. The
junction-box in the alley is under suspicion. I think it was done
there, in this manner." Drew paused and picked up a third sheet of
hurriedly-written notes.
"A junction-box," he said, "is merely a small switchboard where the
conduit ends and the house connections begin. It would have been easy
for an expert to disconnect the two leads which led into Stockbridge's
library, ring up with a low tension magneto, and then cut in with a
testing set and a battery current and do the talking. That is what the
trouble-man told us might have been done. He found no signs of
tampering. He saw a tall man escaping down the alley. It would seem,
Delaney, that this tall man is the one we're after. Perhaps, as you
said, he left footprints. But footprints, like fingerprints, are not
much use until you get the man who made them."
"What d'ye deduct in this second call--Chief?"
"That we've run squarely up against a blind wall. We'll drop it for a
time and go to the third call."
"When was that?"
"Stockbridge was murdered at four minutes and eighteen seconds past
twelve, by his own watch, Delaney. It was a very good watch! Now
allowing for a movement of the hands on account of the fall, how are we
to account for a telephone call sent into Gramercy Hill 9763--the
library 'phone--at exactly five minutes past twelve from a
slot-telephone booth at the east end of the Grand Central Railroad
Station on Forty-second Street?"
"How did you get that, Chief?"
Drew chuckled and wheeled in his chair. "I got it," he said, "by simple
arithmetic plus the vice-president's pull. Here's how it was found,
Delaney. Easy as two and two. You remember the howler?"
"I'll never forget it, Chief! Not as long as I live!"
"The howler established considerable in this case. The chief operator
remembers putting it on. She remembers the time. She looked back, after
being jogged by George Westlake, and found that some one had called up
Stockbridge a few minutes after twelve. It was probably this call to
the old man that caused him to be near enough to the telephone to knock
it over when he was shot. The operator did not hear the shot, but she
remembers a thin, piping voice asking for Gramercy Hill 9763."
"The same guy, every time!" declared the operative, mopping his brow
with his sleeve. "I'd like to have that fellow for five minutes,
Chief!"
"We'll get him! We've got the time established twice. Stockbridge's
watch fixes the murder at twelve-four-eighteen. The telephone call at
five minutes past twelve, and the howler put on soon afterward, checks
up. The old man was alive during the telephone call from the Grand
Central, and dead when the howler was put on for the first time. Do you
see that?"
Delaney frowned. "I see it and I don't," he said. "I'm all balled up,
Chief. What with the magpie and the howler and a man shot in a locked
room and the spot of soot on your neck--I'm all twisted into a knot. I
think I'll go out and get a drink!"
"No, Delaney, don't," said Drew. "You'll need your head in this case.
We're squarely up against class of the highest order. Since Sheeney
Mike and the gas-tube over the transom in Chinatown, I don't know of a
more baffling set of clews. All these calls--which seem so important in
the case--lead to a whispering voice of low pitch and timber. Perhaps
the police records will show such a man who is at large--very much at
large."
Delaney furrowed his brows and screwed his face into a painful knot.
"I'm trying to go back, Chief, to the Morphy case and them crooked
witnesses he had. They all had loud voices--like wolves!"
"Yes--I remember them. But then, Delaney, a man can change his voice.
That whole pack will bear watching."
"You've eliminated some things that were worrying, Chief. But there's
some I don't see yet. It's impossible for a man to get shot like that
old millionaire was. We went over that room and that house. We frisked
good and plenty. There was nothing suspicious. The walls were thick.
The floor was hardwood. The ceiling was some kind of patent plaster,
that's like stone. I got two looks at the door, and you tried the
windows. Now what's the answer, chief? I'll say you are never going to
clear this case up. I don't think you can. It's going to be one of them
unsolved mysteries. If you do figure something out it ain't going to be
proved to my satisfaction. The thing couldn't be done the way it was
done!"
"That's definite," smiled Drew, tapping the desk with the tips of his
well-polished finger nails. "You're talking in a circle. I'll solve the
case, or I won't sleep!"
"It's impossible!"
Drew sorted his papers and bent over them. He turned the swivel chair
by a pressure of his knee. His eyes narrowed as he studied Delaney's
lugubrious face which was sadly in need of a shave.
"Impossible," he repeated softly. "There's no such word, Delaney. It's
a fool's excuse. Now I don't want you to be a fool. Don't make the
mistake of allowing a seeming impossibility to dull your efforts.
There's always a way around everything which looks high and impassable.
They used to go round the Horn. Now they cut through the Isthmus. They
used to think men were supernatural. Now they know that nothing works
without a law. I admit that I don't know how Stockbridge came to his
end. I don't want to dwell upon it, either. But this we do know, by
these papers, that he was well-hated, threatened and marked for death
by an individual or clique of individuals. That is all we know, and all
we ever need to know, in order to proceed on the basis that a material
agency struck out his life with a material substance--such as lead
propelled by smokeless powder."
"Whew!" exclaimed Delaney, rising.
"As for the library wherein he was slain," continued Drew. "As for it,
we must revert to simple geometry. Matter occupies space. A material
act was committed by a material body which got past all our precautions
and struck the magnate down. What is there in this world, which is at
one and the same time, material and yet capable of penetrating through
a door or wall without a trace? Give me that answer, and we'll get
results. What is it?"
"Damned if I know! I'm all balled up! You talk like a college
professor. You mean something that is and something that isn't. Good
morning!"
Delaney reached for the door knob with a gesture of disdain. Drew
wheeled and stared at him. "Wait a minute," he said softly.
The operative turned and dropped his hands to his side.
"You remember the magpie?" asked Drew.
Delaney nodded.
"Well, sit down and wait. It'll be here within five minutes. The valet
'phoned he was bringing it in a taxi. That was just before you came in."
"Taxi!" snorted the big operative, stretching himself on the leather
chair. "Them valets have got it soft. Last night was the first ride
I've had in one for months, and----"
Delaney's voice trailed to an end. He turned in the chair and saw
Harrigan's red face and auburn hair come slowly through the aperture
made by opening the door.
"Well?" snapped Drew.
"There's a funny lookin' guy out here, chief," said the
assistant-manager. "He wants to see you in person. He's got
knee-britches and a bunch of brass-buttons on his monkey-jacket. Says
he's a valet."
"Has he got anything with him?" asked Drew.
"He has, Chief! He's got a gilded cage with the damnedest looking bird
in it I ever saw. It ain't a parrot and it ain't a crow. It's a
blue-jay or something like that!"
"Show him in!" Drew said. "Show him in. You can wait, Delaney!"
CHAPTER NINE
"MEN AND MOTIVES"
The two detectives leaned back in their respective chairs and eyed each
other. Both swung and stared out of the window at the swirling snow
which salted across the window in an unending curtain of white. Both
returned to the locked stare so common to men who have worked together
in danger and know each other's merits.
Delaney's eyes dropped first. He studied the rug beneath Drew's
polished shoes. He coughed behind his hand, and turned with a shrug of
his shoulders. He fastened upon the closed door a glance of expectancy
which brought a smile to the chief's lips.
"Things are picking up," said Drew, with a short laugh. "Your
friend--the bird--has arrived."
"My friend?" blurted the big operative. "It's no friend of mine! I'd
wring its neck, gladly."
"It may be the key to the whole thing. Smarter men than the ones we are
fighting have fallen through less. You remember Eddy, The Brute, who
left his umbrella after him in the Homesdale Murder Mystery. Funny,
wasn't it? Took three months to plan the murder and left his rain-stick
behind. His initials were on it."
"They can't get away----" started Delaney.
"Here's your bird!" announced Drew, as a knock sounded on the door.
"Move over and let that valet stand there. I want the light in his eyes
when we're talking to him. Always get the light in the other fellow's
eye. Sisst!"
The door opened to a crack--then wide. The valet came in with an
important strut. He turned and deposited a cage at Delaney's big feet.
The operative moved back with a grunt of disgust. He eyed the cage and
contents with a homicidal expression. His eyes raised and fastened upon
the valet. He hooked his broad thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest and
took a deep breath.
"I hope you're satisfied," he said to Drew, who was smiling. "I hope
this black sparrow don't start anything. I'll finish it, sure."
"What's your name?" asked the chief, turning and consulting a paper.
"Otto Braun," said the valet. "Otto Braun, sir."
"Born in Cologne ... year, sixty-three ... worked as valet and major
domo for British families ... came to America with Mr. Stockbridge, and
have been with him since?"
"That's correct, sir," the valet said, with a start of amazement.
"Are you married?"
"Twice--sir."
"Wife living?"
"Both, sir. I'm paying a small alimony to both."
Delaney grunted. His foot went out toward the magpie which had finished
hopping about the perches of the cage, and was listening with head
cocked sideways.
"You--you have charge of this bird?" asked Drew, turning fully around
and facing the valet with heavy-lidded intentness.
"I'm its keeper, sir!"
Delaney coughed explosively. He leaned down to cover his confusion. He
jabbed a thumb at the bird.
"It's savage," he rumbled. "It pecked at me!"
"Easy," warned Drew, with a quick frown. "Easy, Delaney. I want to get
to the facts of this case. We're wasting time."
"Go ahead, Chief."
"I've had you come down here," said Drew, turning to the valet, "in
order to find out about that magpie. You had charge of it when Mr.
Stockbridge was alive?"
"Yes, sir. I fed it and kept it clean, for the--master." The valet
sniffled slightly. Drew watched him with keen eyes.
"Did it repeat much of Mr. Stockbridge's conversation?" he asked.
"Repeat, sir?"
"What I'm trying to get at is, whether or not the bird was in the habit
of repeating words that seemed to strike its fancy. Did it act like a
parrot?"
"It's very much like a parrot, sir. Sometimes it was sulky and wouldn't
say anything for days. Other times, sir, we had trouble keeping it
quiet."
Drew turned in his chair and fingered a paper. "I looked up everything
I can find in my library here, in regard to magpies," he said. "Is
there any difference between an ordinary magpie and a Spanish one?" he
added, turning.
"I don't think so, sir. They can all be taught to talk--the same as a
parrot, sir."
"Then if this bird should repeat a word, or two words, over and over
again it would be plausible to assume that some one had used the word
or two words. I want to make myself clear," Drew added with engaging
candor. "What I'm getting at is important in view of the fact that this
magpie used two words after we broke down the door to the library and
found Mr. Stockbridge murdered."
Delaney leaned forward.
"The words this bird used were 'Ah Sing,' as near as we can arrive at
them. Did you ever hear it repeat that couplet?"
"I can't say that I have, sir."
The detective lifted his brows and stared at the cage. "Repeat that,"
he said to Delaney. "Repeat what we heard in the library."
"Ah, Sing! Ah, Sing! Ah, Sing!" boomed the operative.