"I want to phone. I can't use the phones of this house. The wires may
be tapped. You stay right by this door and wait till I get back. It
won't be more than ten minutes. Go get my hat when you're putting the
bit away. It's in the corner by Loris and Nichols. Tell them I'm
stepping out and that you will stand guard. They might hold me. She is
very nervous."
Delaney was back at the detective's side, after a clumsy stride through
the tapestries. "Cute couple," he said, jerking his thumb over-shoulder
toward the inner room. "They're sittin' there so close you couldn't get
a sheet of paper between them. I like that colleen, Chief! She's the
kind you see on them magazine covers--only prettier."
"A cat can look at a queen," quoted Drew, pulling down his hat and
opening the door wide. "Be sure and lock this after me," he warned.
"Lock and bolt it. Stand guard and don't let anybody in at all. I'm
only going round the block."
Delaney shut the door and turned the key. He followed this action by
twisting the butterfly. Then he drew his gun and waited, grimly alert.
Drew reached the drug-store after a brisk, lung-cleansing walk through
the down-driving snow. He dropped a coin in the slot and first called
up his office. Harrigan, who had remained at his post, answered for
most of the operatives who were out on the case and who had 'phoned in
at every opportunity.
"Get Frick at the prison," Drew shot back, after making a few notes.
"Get him and tell him to call up this 'phone," Drew glanced at the
number over the transmitter. "Tell him to call up Gramercy Hill 9749
and let whoever I station here, know to whom and to what number Morphy
is talking in New York. Get that?"
"Sure," came back over the wires. "Sure, Chief. You want to pinch the
fellow he's connecting with?"
"I certainly do," said Drew. "We can work it this way. As soon as I
find out from Frick where Morphy or anybody else is 'phoning from the
prison, I can get a man over there in time to make the arrest. The
superintendent at Gramercy Hill will help us out if the call comes
through his exchange. He can get the girl to stall for a minute or two.
I'll send Delaney here to hold this end of the wire. You keep him
posted as to developments. O'Toole, yes! He's planted in the alley back
of the house. He can't report. All the others are all right?"
Drew hung up with a flip of the receiver. He backed out of the booth
and hurried around the corner. He reached the iron-grilled gate of the
mansion with his head down and the snow seeping between his collar and
his neck.
"Rotten night!" said the Central Office man at the door. "I don't think
we'll hear anything from anybody. Them gunmen like the backrooms of
saloons too well to pull off a gun-play in this storm, Inspector."
"You never can tell," said Drew, shaking his coat and hurrying toward
the stairway which led to Loris Stockbridge's apartment.
Delaney opened the door after a repeated knock in Morse code. He eyed
his chief. He motioned toward the inner rooms. "All quiet," he said
with a broad smile. "Them turtle doves sure like to be left alone."
"And you would too! Especially if you lost your only relative the night
before--lost him in the way she lost hers."
The big operative gulped down the thrust. "What did you find out?" he
asked in a husky whisper.
"Get your coat on. Get over to that drug-store and plant near that
booth--Gramercy Hill 9749. Frick, at the prison, is going to call that
booth up as soon as Morphy or anybody else there tries to get New York.
If Frick gives you a number, call up the superintendent at Gramercy
Hill and tell him who you are. He's on duty all night. He'll give you
the address of the number, and stall the call. That'll give you time to
rush to the address and grab your man."
"I'll grab him, Chief!" rumbled Delaney, reaching for his storm coat
which was supposed to be fur-lined. "Leave that to me!" he added. "Jus'
leave it tu me!"
Drew eyed the operative's huge hands. "I'll do that," he said with a
short laugh. "Now hurry! No, wait."
"What is it, Chief?" asked Delaney in the doorway.
"If the address is downtown, or in Brooklyn, what would you do then?"
"I'd get the office, Chief, and have Harrigan rush over a man. This
super at Gramercy Hill ought to be able to stall that call long enough
for us to connect--with both hands and both feet."
"Go to it!" said Drew, pressing Delaney out through the door. "Good
luck," he added as he twisted the key and shot the bolt. "Now we are
getting there," he said softly. "Unfortunately for that devil
up-the-river, he has to phone from _one_ place. That's the thing which
will beat him. I hate to think what would happen if he was outside
giving orders. He could get away with it, nicely."
Drew never felt surer of himself in a case. He tested the lock and bolt
for a second time. He draped the tapestries and strode into the sitting
room with his shoulders held back--a sanguine light in his olive eyes.
"Well, Miss Stockbridge," he said, pausing in the center of the room
and smiling. "I think we are on the verge of big things. The attempt
cannot be made to-night without we have plenty of warning."
"Good!" exclaimed Loris, standing upright and arranging her lavender
gown about her slipper-tops. "That's the best news I've heard in a long
time, Mr. Drew," she added, glancing archly at the detective, beneath
her dark lashes. "Has that Mr. Delaney found any one?"
Drew raised his brows. Loris' question was not exactly a compliment to
the big operative, who meant so well.
"He hasn't found anything," said Drew, with soft, pleasing voice. "He
hasn't done that, but I'm venturing my future reputation that he will
find our man--the trouble-man perhaps."
Harry Nichols stepped to Loris' side. "We were children there," he
admitted frankly. "At least I was. I never suspected him at all. His
manners were so pleasant. He seemed so weak and intent about his
business."
"Ah!" said Drew, raising his finger. "That's it! He was intent about
_his_ business. Only, this particular business concerned the taking of
a human life in cold blood. Mr. Stockbridge was murdered by this fiend,
in the guise of a harmless trouble-hunter. How the murder was
accomplished and by what lethal method we do not know. I'm acting on
the theory that if we catch the man we will find out how it was done.
If I can't make him--Fosdick, Commissioner of Detectives, will. May God
help him if he doesn't talk to Fosdick!"
"But can't we find out how father was killed?" asked Loris, with tears
glazing over her eyes. "It don't seem--it don't----"
The captain caught Loris about the waist and led her to the divan in
the alcove. She sank down with her face covered with her hands. Soft
sobs, brought to her throat by the memory of the murder, caused Drew to
pace the rugs with alert, nervous strides like a man who would guard
her from some menacing shadow. He went to the ventilators and closed
them slightly. He crossed the room to the radiator-boxes and set them
in an open position. He adjusted a thermostat on the wall, to seventy
degrees. He stood back then and listened with both ears strained for
outside sounds.
Snow sifted across the curtain-drawn panes with a cutting of fine
diamonds against diamonds. A wind whistled and moaned and swirled over
the turrets and towers of the mansion. An echo lifted from the driving
traffic of the Avenue. Below this echo, so faint it seemed like a
murmur of a distant sea, the city throbbed with the shifting of the
whimpering wind. Once it roared. Then afterward there was silence, save
for the sifting snow, and Loris' low, throat choke from welling sorrow.
She sat up finally and dried her eyes. "I should be ashamed of myself,"
she said, brokenly. "I must be brave. I fear something, though. It
seems to be in the room or the air. What is it I fear, Mr. Drew?" Her
question was vague. Her eyes shone hectically bright and strangely
alluring to the detective.
"There's nothing to fear!" he declared with a direct glance. "I'm
armed! Then," he added as an additional encouragement. "Then, Mr.
Nichols is a soldier! You are in safe hands, believe me!"
Harry Nichols bowed politely. "I've got a gun, myself," he admitted
candidly. "It's not that little one, either. It's army regulation. It,
or the ones like it, have been stopping the Huns. I guess we'll take
care of anything that comes up to-night, Mr. Drew. It's getting late,
isn't it?"
The detective glanced at his watch. "I ought to hear from Delaney," he
said, replacing the watch and reaching for a chair. "Delaney is like
old Dobbin--faithful and slow."
Drew sat down, pulled at the knees of his black trousers and rested his
heels on the thick soft pile of a Persian rug. Behind him was the
cheval glass and the telephone stand. Before him, and in the shade of
the silk draperies, Loris' eyes glowed alongside the captain's resolute
face.
The minutes passed with the trio in the same position. The snow sifted
across the cold panes. The wind whined. Suddenly between gusts, Loris
asked point-blankly:
"Do you suspect that man, Morphy?"
"Yes; I do!" said Drew with a snap. "I believe that every single lead
we have points to him. I believe he planned to destroy your father ever
since the day of conviction. I believe----"
"But he is in prison."
"Ah!" said the detective, with bright eyes. "So is his master, Lucifer,
in the lower regions. He's there, but he has a long arm. Morphy's tool
in this affair is probably the telephone repair-man. You saw him. Mr.
Nichols saw him. I saw him. We all agree that he does not look the part
of a scoundrel and a scoundrel's tool. But," Drew paused and spread out
his hands; "but," he continued, "that's the reason he was chosen for
Morphy's murderous work. You can't send a thug into a drawing room--or
a library. You can't cut a sharp slice with a dull tool. This
trouble-hunter is all that the name implies--a hunter of trouble. I
don't doubt that we have the case rounded up, save for bringing him in.
Morphy, we can get at any time. He's in prison and he's getting very
close to the little green door that leads to the electric-chair. One
slip to-night, and we have him!"
"Miss Stockbridge must go south after the funeral," said Nichols. "She
can't be jeopardized! She is nervous and has suffered acutely. I for
one am sorry we let her stay here. It is the place she should not be.
They know where to look for her!"
"They're beat to-night," assured Drew, rising and stretching his arms.
"My! my!" he added, "this is slow, sleepy work. I'd ask for tea, but I
think it's best we stay locked in here. Don't you, Miss Stockbridge?"
"Marie can get some. There's a service-waiter running up to her room.
Suppose I order tea, or coffee, and cakes. It might cheer us up?"
Drew held out a warding arm as Loris rose and started toward the
writing room. "I'll tend to it," he said. "You stay right here close up
to Mr. Nichols. We're taking no chances at all."
The detective parted the portieres and knocked upon the maid's door as
he turned the key with his left hand. He waited as she gave the order
through a silver-plated speaking tube. He heard the service-waiter
rising. He leaned forward and took the tray with a sharp glance about
the maid's room. It was as clean and as neat as a work basket. A French
novel, with a vivid portrait of a poilu carrying a very sharp bayonet
on its cover, lay in the center of a white counterpane on the bed.
"Good-night!" he said as he closed and carefully locked the door. He
reached downward and caught up the tray. He started across the
writing-room. He paused in its center as he heard:
"Burrrr! Burrrr! Burrrrr!"
Shrillingly the perfumed air of the suite vibrated with the silver
notes of the telephone. Drew hesitated, with the tray balanced in his
hand. He took one step forward as Loris swished across the
sitting-room, lifted the hard-rubber receiver and voiced a soft,
"Hello!"
Drew let go of the tray and sprang forward. He parted the portieres and
watched Loris' face. It changed between seconds to a flushed mask of
crimson-fear. She staggered back, dropped the receiver, and cried
"Harry!" as she sank to the floor.
Drew darted across the rugs and snatched up the instrument. He heard a
low, chuckling laugh that died to a whisper and then to nothingness. He
flipped the receiver back on the hook. He turned with a savage twist.
He stared across the room toward Loris, who had risen to her knees and
whose head was against Nichols' olive-drab breast.
"What was said?" he questioned sharply.
A mass of turbaned, midnight-hued hair uncoiled and fell about the
girl's white face. Glorious eyes dulled, then glowed, with the fire
which was pulsing within her. Her lips trembled and went blanched as
she throated brokenly:
"The man--the man at the other end said.... He said that his master had
ordered my coffin.... He said that I had only a few hours to live....
He said that he would call me up again.... For me to be ready then, to
meet my Master and my--doom."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"A SILENT PRISONER"
Loris Stockbridge finished speaking with a low sob which went straight
to the detective's heart. He advanced across the room and ran his arm
about her supple waist. "We'll help her to the divan," he told Nichols.
"That's it! Right over here and in the corner. She's all right. I'll
tend to that threat which came over the wires."
Drew backed away and turned toward the telephone. He eyed it with cold
calculation. He took one step further, then wheeled and glanced at
Nichols.
"I want to trace that call if it is humanly possible," he said with
decision. "We can find out, at least, from where it came. Suppose you
leave me here with Miss Stockbridge, and you go down stairs and around
to the drug-store?"
Loris rested her weight on one elbow. She sat erect, with slowly
widening eyes. Her hands strayed to her hair and pressed it back from
her ears. She gained command of herself after a shudder had passed
through her slender body. She half rose.
"I've heard that voice before!" she exclaimed, pointing toward the
'phone. "It was familiar, Mr. Drew. Now where have I heard it?"
"Some friend of your father's?"
"No, I don't think it was. But I've heard it in this house."
"A servant--the valet?"
"No! No, Mr. Drew, it wasn't the valet's voice. It was whispering and
consumptive. It squeaked. It sounded like a little boy's voice."
"How about that trouble-man?" Drew advanced with keen steps. He felt
that he was very close to the truth.
"It might have been. Only--only, Mr. Drew, it was
younger--thinner--squeakier. It was a terrible voice. It rings and
rings in my ears. It was so sure!"
"Ump!" declared Drew with clenched fists. "It won't be so sure," he
said, squaring his jaw. "It won't be near so sure, next time. I think
it was that trouble-man you heard. Don't you remember anything he said
when he was in the house, for comparison?"
"I just heard him say--I heard him say that the connections, I think he
called them, were all right. Then he went away, Mr. Drew."
"Did his voice squeak then?"
"It was rather low--like a boy's or a girl's. He seemed too polite. He
had his cap in his hand." Loris stopped speaking and stood erect. She
arranged her gown and glanced down at Nichols. "I feel stronger," she
said bravely. "I wonder what became of that tea?"
Drew stepped into the writing-room and found the tea-pot upon its side.
He poured from this a cup of tea which he carried to Nichols. "Just
taste it," he ordered. "I want to be sure it isn't doped or anything
like that. That's it. Just a small swallow. It's all right, isn't it?
It isn't bitter?"
Nichols handed the cup to Loris. "Drink it," he said with confidence.
"That's good tea--only a little cold."
Drew took the empty cup and set it down on a small table. "You'll go
for me?" he asked Nichols. "I want it traced without using the wires of
this house. They might be tapped."
"Be back in ten minutes!" said the captain at the tapestries, after
Loris had nodded. "Whom shall I ask for at Gramercy Hill?"
"The superintendent--Jack Nefe! If he isn't there, get the chief
operator. Delaney will attend to that. Find out from what number the
call came. We might get that whispering devil right away."
"I believe it was the trouble-man," said Loris, as Drew returned after
locking the door to the hallway. "Now that I think of it--I'm almost
sure it was. He just tried to change and lower his voice--that was
all."
"Lower it?"
"Yes, Mr. Drew. It was so faint that I hardly heard it at first. He
seemed afraid of something. Perhaps somebody was in the room where he
was telephoning."
"That might have been. Well--he can't hurt or harm you that way. The
thing is for you to keep up your courage. Fear is a terrible thing if
you would let yourself be mastered by it. It might be their game to
break you down by a series of threats."
"I won't do that. I've Harry and you to stand by me!"
Drew pulled out his watch. "It's getting toward midnight," he said. "No
word yet from Delaney or any of the others on watch. I think that the
storm will clear soon. You can go to bed. Harry--Mr. Nichols and I'll
get a deck of cards and keep watch out here. We'll do sentry duty. He's
used to that!"
Loris glided about the room. She stopped at the cheval glass and
arranged her hair with a series of twists that formed a turban secured
by loops. She swished around and glanced archly toward Drew. Their eyes
met bravely. Hers dropped under shading lashes.
"I'm all right," she whispered with a half laugh. "I did look awful. It
was the shock of hearing that terrible man. How childish to call me up
and say what he did. He didn't mean it!"
"Ah," said Drew, reaching in his pocket and bringing out a key. "Ah, he
did mean it, I think. He has overreached himself by telephoning.
Gramercy Hill Exchange is on the alert. There's Mr. Nichols with good
news, at the door. Now for his report."
The captain came in, brushing snow from his olive-drab uniform. He
glanced at Loris as he strode across the room and took her hand with a
firm grip. "Delaney," he said confidentially, "was right at the booth.
He was sitting on a chair, propped up and talking with the prescription
clerk. He did the telephoning to Gramercy Hill. I don't know who he got
there, but they already knew about the call."
Nichols turned toward Drew for confirmation.
"That's right!" the detective exclaimed. "They should know! The
vice-president, Westlake, has left orders to record all calls to this
house. Where was that whispering voice from, Mr. Nichols?"
"From Forty-second Street and Broadway."
"Close!" exclaimed Drew, rubbing his hands. "The fellow took chances."
"It came from a slot-booth in a cigar store in a big building. It only
lasted two minutes. The operator at Gramercy Hill says the first voice
she heard, asking for Gramercy Hill 9764, was harsh and loud. I don't
understand that."
"Harsh and loud," repeated Drew, toying with his watch chain. "That's
odd. Was it the same man that Miss Stockbridge heard?"
"The operator don't know. Delaney says maybe there were two of them.
One, who called up, and one who talked to this room." Nichols turned
and nodded toward the silver-plated telephone.
"Hardly possible," mused Drew. "I think he changed his voice after he
got the connection. He didn't want Miss Stockbridge to recognize him."
Loris glanced at the two men. "What will they do?" she asked anxiously.
"Will Mr. Delaney and the other detectives catch him by that call?"
"Hardly," said Drew. "He was in and out within three minutes. The bird
has flown from there!"
"But where will he go?"
"I don't know, Miss Stockbridge. I wish that I did know. There are over
a hundred thousand telephones in New York he could use. It's impossible
to guess which one. The booths at the Grand Central are covered by one
of my operatives. The telephone company is on the alert for all calls
to this house. All they can do is to record them and tell us what
happens after it happens. We are trying now to get this whispering dog
when he is compelled to wait at a booth. If Morphy 'phones him from the
prison to-night we have him. The telephone company is going to delay
the call after getting the number. It would look natural. Then, we can
strike at the booth or place where the call is directed in time to
catch the man Morphy is telephoning to. Up to now, Morphy has not
'phoned or Delaney would have said something about it."
"But can't you stop these calls?" asked Loris.
"Very easy. We could order the wires disconnected. But then we wouldn't
catch our man. He would be suspicious and wait for another time."
"The whole thing seems so strange, Mr. Drew. We're locked in here. The
house is so well guarded. All they can do is 'phone and yet we--at
least I am nervous. Why have I got that strange feeling?"
"From experience!" declared Drew. "If we knew how your poor father was
killed there wouldn't be cause for worry. We don't know. It was so
subtle that we are confronted with the unknown in terrible form. You
feel a shadow and so do I. A reaching shadow about this splendid house
of yours. It isn't anything we can grasp and say, 'Come here! You're
under arrest.' It's the uncanny mystery of the entire case that holds
us three on the ragged-edge. I confess I have not been myself since
last night. The powers of darkness and Lucifer, himself, have nothing
on the people we are fighting."
"How about running Morphy in the guard house, or whatever they have up
there?" asked Nichols. "Why not lay the case before the warden and have
him put out of harm's way? That's what they'd do in the Army!"
"We can't prove a single thing on him!" declared Drew. "He used the
'phone--once or twice. Perhaps he has permission from the
superintendent of state prisons to do so. He has business interests
which require his telephoning, we'll say."
"Then we're just going to wait right here?" asked Loris, stamping her
slipper. "Wait right here and let them do their worst?"
"The city detectives would do the same thing I'm doing," said Drew on
the defensive. "They'd trap their men. Do you want to see the man or
men who slayed your father, escape? He will, or they will, unless we
give them enough rope to hang themselves."
"Or wire!" said Nichols cheerfully. "No, Loris, Mr. Drew is right. He's
done everything. All we have got to do, is wait. Let's sit down for a
little while. Delaney said he might have word soon."
Drew waited until Loris had pressed herself into a small compass at the
back of the divan, with Harry Nichols leaning over her in a shielding
position which was thoughtful and at the same time affectionate. He
strode toward the writing room and parted the heavy, silk portieres. He
studied every detail. He dropped the portieres and crossed the sitting
room to the doorway leading into Loris' chamber. This, too, he searched
with his eyes. Backing to the center of the room he dropped his chin in
thought. A sound outside the mansion caused him to turn and hurry to a
window. He brushed the curtain aside and tried to peer out. He rubbed
the frosted glass vigorously. His nose pressed to a white button as he
searched the side street. A taxi had come to a grinding halt directly
below the window. Its wheels spun upon the slippery surface. A man
leaned out of an open doorway and urged the driver on with a brandished
fist of ham-like proportions. The driver backed into the snow, dropped
into first speed and stepped on his throttle. The taxi leaped forward,
gripped the surface, and plowed toward Fifth Avenue in a welter of
flying ice and flakes.
Drew sprang back and faced Loris and Nichols who had risen and were
standing together in the glow from the cluster over their heads.
"What happened?" they asked in unison. "What was outside?"
"Delaney!" snapped Drew, dragging out his watch and glancing at it.
"Delaney's got word where to find his man. He's on the trail at last!
It's twelve-two. We ought to have that fellow in a half hour."
"The trouble-man?" asked Loris, with rising hopes. "Do you think it is
the trouble-man, Mr. Drew?"
"Nine chances in ten, it is! I'm venturing a guess it is. If we get
him--if Delaney gets him--he'll know it. Delaney used to work under the
old-time police chiefs. They showed scant consideration."
"But, he won't hurt him!" said Loris, with a tremulous exclamation.
"That murderer! Why, Miss Stockbridge, isn't he plotting to slay you?
Didn't he kill your father? I wish I were in Delaney's place."
"Me too!" declared Nichols, drawing closer to the detective. "Say,
Inspector, I want to congratulate you. I do."