a personal one with me. I don't doubt that Morphy or perhaps some one
else in state prison 'phoned to the same party who phoned Miss Loris.
That was all we needed. Delaney jumped into a taxi and hurried downtown
as fast as the storm permitted. Perhaps the call came from the same
booth. I don't think so, though."
"The one at Forty-second Street and Broadway?"
"I don't think so, Nichols. This fellow seems to pick a new one every
time. He's very crafty. That alone shows a criminal mind."
Drew paced the floor with soft gliding. He turned at the portieres and
crossed to the tapestries. He returned and stood before Loris and
Nichols.
"Captain," he said, "we can now begin to reconstruct this case. We can
get some of the dead-wood from our minds. It is apparent to me that one
of Mr. Stockbridge's sworn enemies--Morphy, for instance--confined in
state's prison, set about to slay both members of the family. He
secured a confederate whom he knew. This confederate has never been
arrested in the state. We have that from the finger prints in the booth
at Grand Central. We will presume that this confederate is the
trouble-man. He is probably an expert electrician. He either tapped in
on the wires the night Mr. Stockbridge was murdered or got behind the
switchboard and called up the library 'phone."
"The switchboard?" asked Loris. "You mean the big place where the girls
are?"
"Not exactly there. The wires run down and are tagged. It would be
possible for him to cut in somewhere between the switchboard and the
conduits. Now I don't know how it was done. There's several ways. But
wherever he tapped in, he must have used a magneto to ring Mr.
Stockbridge up, and afterwards a battery-set to do the talking. All
this Westlake says it would be necessary to do, so that the operator
would not notice a permanent signal on the board."
"What was his object?" asked Nichols.
"To cover himself. He first disconnected the wires and waited till I
sent for a trouble-man. Frosby, or Frisby, was sent. The trouble-man
took his place. He came here and looked the place over. He lied to Mr.
Stockbridge and I when he told us about that tall German in the alley.
If there was such a man there before the snow froze we would have his
footprints."
"You haven't them?" asked Loris.
"No. Delaney has a set made by this trouble-hunter when he was at the
junction-box. This must have been the time he either cut the
connections so that I would send for him, or it was the time when he
called up and threatened Mr. Stockbridge with death within twelve
hours. You remember that the telephone company have no record of the
call. Now the next call----"
"Was there another?" the girl asked.
"Yes--to your father at or about the moment he died. That was from the
Grand Central Station at Forty-second Street. There's a good record of
that. Your father knocked the telephone down when he dropped dead. The
operator noticed that the connection was open and put on the howler.
The record is clear on that."
"But what is all this twisting and turning for?"
"To throw us off, Miss Stockbridge. We're dealing with a crafty,
cunning mind. This mind took the extreme precaution of connecting two
booths at Grand Central so that a man in Sing Sing could talk to your
father without leaving a record at the Westchester Exchange or at
Gramercy Hill Exchange. How this was done I don't know. It could be
done with auxiliary batteries and looping so that the Gramercy Hill
operator thought the Westchester call was to a slot booth, while
another call from the next booth to this house was really the same
connection shunted or looped through. Westlake, vice-president of the
telephone company, says that there would be several ways of doing this.
He added it would take an expert in telephony."
"I'm all twisted up, Mr. Drew. I suppose you understand it. But what
about that call to-night--the one that frightened me?"
"The man was sure of himself!" said Drew without thinking. "He has his
plans made. He figures they will not fail!"
"Oh, you mean----"
"I mean, Miss Stockbridge, that he expects to slay you in the same
manner your father was slain. We have this advantage. You are not alone
in this room or these rooms. Your father was alone. The murderer will
have Mr. Nichols and myself to deal with this time! Be calm."
"But--I don't see how he could--get in here?"
"Nor do I. The point is that he got into the library and out again
without trace. He had an hour to do his work in. Here, he is running
every risk."
"But he has already been here, Mr. Drew."
The detective glanced keenly at Nichols, who had shot the statement
straight through clean white teeth.
"I know it," Drew said with a trace of anxiety in his voice. "That is
disquieting. But we have searched these rooms and found absolutely no
trace of tampering with locks or ventilators or window-catches."
"Could he climb up here? He might have climbing irons," added Nichols
glancing toward the windows.
"A good porch-climber could do it," Drew mused, with his eyes sweeping
the curtains. "A very good one could. There are only three or four good
ones out of prisons. They never go in for murder."
"Wouldn't money buy them?" asked Loris. "Mr. Morphy may have retained
one--with some of the gold he stole from poor father."
"Retained," repeated Drew, turning with sudden intentness. "Retained,
is hardly the word, Miss Loris. Hired, is more to the point. Hired
assassins are not uncommon. We have the Becker case and the Hope
murder. We have----"
Drew allowed his voice to trail to a whisper. "We have," he declared,
"our man! There's the front door bell! It's Delaney!"
"You have splendid ears, Mr. Drew."
"I have to have, Miss Stockbridge. Now," he added sharply, "you and Mr.
Nichols go into the library--the writing room. I think the case is
closing. There may be a little excitement if Delaney's got that fellow.
I, for one, am not going to stand much from him. Please go into the
other room. That's right. Stand there, Harry, in case we need a
soldier!"
Drew advanced step by step toward the tapestries. He lifted his gun
from his hip pocket, examined it with narrowed eyes, then replaced it
loosely. He brushed the curtains aside and had the key out, as heavy
steps shook the upper stairway and a knock sounded on the panels of the
door.
"Who's there?" asked Drew.
"Delaney, Chief!"
"All right! Just a moment."
The detective glanced through the slit in the tapestries, saw
that Nichols and Loris were across the room, then twisted the
butterfly-latch, at the same time he thrust in the flat key and turned
the lock.
The door swung open. Delaney's huge bulk blocked the way. He half
turned, cursed savagely, and clutched a pipe-stem neck with rude
fingers. "Come along, you!" he boomed. "Get in there!"
The form of a man hurtled by Drew, fell and rose, then fell again
beyond the tapestries in the center of the sitting room. Drew, like
some lithe cat, was over him with a drawn gun. Delaney puffed across
the rugs and tried to speak as the detective leaned and studied the
chalk-pale face below shielding cuffed hands which were raised
impotently.
"The trouble-man!" exclaimed Loris fearsomely.
A Central Office detective slouched through the door, deposited a kit
of lineman's tools on the floor near the tapestries, then retired
discreetly.
"It's him!" said Drew. "Please get back, Miss Stockbridge. We're going
to fix this fellow."
"Oh, please don't strike him."
"Please--Miss Stockbridge. I'll promise nothing in this connection.
This is the man who foully murdered your father."
Loris shrank back and against Nichols' extended arm. Drew glanced at
her with swift concern. He dropped his eyes to the man at his feet.
"What happened?" he asked Delaney. "Has this fellow said anything? Done
any talking?"
Delaney glared at the trouble-man. "Never a word has he said, Chief.
He's a clam. But----"
"What's that? Go on, Delaney!"
"Why, Chief, I wouldn't have brought him here if he hadn't said to
Morphy over the 'phone that _'it'_ was fixed in her room. Now what does
he mean by that _'it'?"_
"We'll find out!" declared Drew, dropping to the prisoner's side.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"THE PRISONER SPEAKS"
The detective wasted no time searching the trouble-hunter's pockets.
His skilled fingers drew forth two envelopes, a note book and a small
roll of money, the least of which was ten-dollar bills and the
greatest, on the inside, spread out to three staring noughts and a one
in front of these.
"One thousand and sixty dollars!" said Drew dryly, handing the roll to
Delaney. "This fellow's well heeled. Perhaps for a get-a-way. Take
that. Now here----"
Drew tapped the envelopes with his fingers, spread them open and
removed their sheets of closely-written paper.
"First letter," he announced with raising brows, "is from Standard
Electrical Co., of Chicago, recommending Albert Jones as a capable
electrician. I don't doubt it. He's capable of most anything."
Delaney took the letter and waited with his eyes fastened upon the
silent figure who had not revealed his identity from the time of the
arrest.
"Second letter," continued Drew, "is addressed to Albert Jones, General
Delivery, New York Post Office. It is from Ossining. It is signed
Mortimer Morphy. How careless," said the detective, rising in his
excitement. "How _very_ careless! It goes on to say that everything is
all right. That the appeal is pending with the governor. That uncle
Monty was expected to die and that aunt Lou was very low."
Drew paused and glanced toward Loris and Nichols. "You know what that
means?" he asked. "Uncle Monty was Mr. Montgomery Stockbridge and aunt
Lou would figure out for you, Miss Stockbridge. Keep this, Delaney.
We're going to convict this man right here--whether he talks or not.
This letter was written to him two months ago. It shows premeditation."
"He looks ill," said Loris. "His face is so white."
"Dope!" snapped Drew, pressing down the prisoner's right eyelid and
glancing at the pupil. "A narcotic of some kind shows in the small
iris. It's like a pin head. Yen she, eh, Delaney?"
"Guess it is, Chief. Frisk his cap and belt. They carry it there,
sometimes."
Drew started at the prisoner's hair and went over his entire body with
careful fingers. A bulge, at the waist, resolved itself into a chamois
money-belt which contained five cartridges, a small handful of electric
fuses and a spool of fine wire.
Drew eyed this last with furrowed brow. He pocketed it finally and
studied the cartridges.
"Twenty-two, cupronickel, center-fire," he announced with a hard smile.
"That forges another chain. We're getting there. He was loaded for
something, Delaney."
"Sure and he was. Look at those handcuffs, Chief. I made them tight as
I could."
Drew handed up the cartridges and fuses and rattled the cuffs. The
prisoner protested by turning partly over. His eyelids fluttered and
opened full upon Loris. She shrank back between the curtains. Her hands
went up to her face in voiceless fear. "Please keep away," said Drew.
"This man is always dangerous. I want to trim his claws before I take
any chances with him. Delaney," he added, "get my overcoat and bring me
those plaster-casts. This case grows interesting. I wonder who the
fellow is? 'Albert Jones' doesn't convey much. He is a friend and tool
of Morphy. Poor Morphy! I wonder what he'll say when the governor gets
this evidence? He's buried now for twenty long years of penal service.
He picked a good tool, though. A smart man!"
The prisoner did not brighten to any extent under the professional
flattery. His eyes closed. The cuffed wrists dropped down upon his
chest. He breathed slowly as Drew took the overcoat Delaney brought,
and found the photos of the finger prints which Fosdick and the expert
at headquarters had both declared were not on record.
"A little ink," Drew said to the operative. "We'll smear this fellow's
thumb and see if his print answers to the print I found in the booth at
Grand Central. I'll venture that it does."
Nichols extended a fountain pen which the detective opened, sponged on
the corner of a handkerchief, and returned with a chuckle of
satisfaction.
"Ah," he said, gripping the prisoner's hand and smearing a thumb with a
rolling motion across the back of the print. "Ah, Delaney, see here.
The same whorls and loops. The same tiny V-shaped scar. One, two,
three--center right. This is the man. We have him deeper in toward the
place with the little, green door. He knows what I mean!"
The prisoner's lips closed to a thin, hard line. A tiny spot of hectic
fire burned in the center of each cheek as Drew completed the searching
and rose.
"Footprints, now!" he said with a snappy order. "Compare those plaster
casts you took at the junction-box back of this house. Are they the
same? There's a series of four screw holes in his rubber-heels,
Delaney. Do they compare with the casts. Measure them!"
"Sure and they do," said the big operative, rising and pointing to the
small projections. "This lad, Chief, was the only one around that
junction-box till after the snow froze and drifted over. That's my
idea, Chief. It caught him, didn't it, Chief?"
"Every little helps to forge the chain," Drew said. "He's in bad now.
His only chance is to tell us what he knows about Morphy? What was said
over the telephone wire? What did Frick say?"
"It was this way, Chief," Delaney said. "I'm waiting talking with the
drug-clerk when there's a ring on the slot-booth 'phone. It's Jack Nefe
at Gramercy Hill. He says to me that Frick had just 'phoned and said
that Morphy had come out of the guard room, looked around, then, after
chinning with a keeper at the front gate, he had started going over a
telephone book for a number. Nefe said for me to hold the wire. Then I
gets a number, Chief. It's Gramercy Hill 11,678. Nefe said that was a
booth in the new Broadway Subway at Forty-first Street. I piles into a
cab and arrives there just as this fellow had finished boring a hole
between the two booths--11,678 and 11,679. I waits behind a
slot-machine. Some one rang up when he coupled the wires, listens, then
asks Gramercy Hill central for this 'phone here in Miss Stockbridge's
room. You see the game, Chief?"
"Go on!" said Drew. "Be very clear!"
"This fellow was connecting Morphy at state prison with this house
through the two slot booths. I sneaked up and waited for him to finish.
He's busy with a pair of pliers. I falls on him like a ton of bricks.
Then after I get the cuffs on, I listens in. It's Morphy roaring there,
with that big bull voice of his. He's mad 'cause he gets no answer. He
shouts over and over, Chief--'Bert! Bert! Bert! Is it planted in her
room? Her room. Is it there?'" Delaney paused and stared about the
sitting room.
"What does he mean, Chief?" he asked huskily. "What is that _'it'?"_
"Go on!" said Drew tersely.
"I got Morphy off the wire, Chief. I got Frick and then Frick got the
warden. He's a good fellow. He listened to me, then he calls some
guards and they drag Morphy through the prison and down to the coolers.
I guess they're down in the ground, somewhere. Anyway, Chief, he's gone
for good--unless they send him to the chair for his part in the murder
of Stockbridge."
"He'll go! What I want to know now, Delaney, is this fellow's right
name. Morphy said 'Bert,' eh?"
"Sure he did, Chief. 'Bert! Bert! Bert!' That's close to Albert. Albert
Jones, like's in the letter."
"No! That would be a throw-off. He's some other kind of a Bert. Let me
see his cap."
Delaney picked the prisoner's cap from the rug and passed it over to
Drew. The detective examined it, ripped the silk, and looked under the
lining. He straightened and handed it to Harry Nichols.
"Can you make that name out?" he asked. "Your eyes are younger than
mine. Perhaps Miss Stockbridge can read it. It's Spanish, I think.
'Gusta' or 'Gasta.' The rest is obliterated with grease."
"Antofagasta!" declared Loris suddenly. "It's Antofagasta, Chile."
"Fetch the lineman's kit, the Central Office man brought," said Drew to
the operative. "Put it right here by this fellow's side. I--we are
getting close to the truth in this case."
Delaney hurried back with the satchel. It was the same one that Drew
had seen in the library on the evening Stockbridge was murdered. It had
excited no suspicion then.
"A magneto," said the detective. "First comes a ringing magneto which
has seen much service. Put that over there, Delaney. Spread a paper or
something. Ah," Drew added, "here's a set of small dry batteries
arranged in series. Three or four of them. I don't know just what
they're for, but Bert does."
The prisoner's pale eyes blinked and were closed again as the lids
compressed in wrinkled determination. He moved slightly when Drew
pressed a knee against his chest. He coughed with dry catching deep
down in his throat. The detective felt of his pulse. It was faint but
steady--like a tired sleeper's.
"He's coming out of it," Drew said. "He'll talk after awhile. Let's
see, what is this?"
Delaney leaned over the satchel. "Another link," said Drew, drawing out
a telephone receiver without wires attached to it. "And here," he
added, "is the testing set with the sharp clamps. That's for listening
in or talking with other people's connections. I don't doubt that this
fellow knows his business. Here's a micro-volt meter that registers
fractions of volts. Here's an ammeter of the pocket size. I've seen
this kind on automobiles for testing dry-cells. Now, what is this?"
"Looks like a full set of jimmies!" blurted Delaney. "That's a
sectional jimmy!"
"He's got everything," said the detective, turning and glancing at
Loris. "Here, Miss Stockbridge," he said, holding up an empty cartridge
shell. "Here is the most important link in the chain against him. It's
a twenty-two shell which has been fired. See--wait--what's this,
Delaney? The cap on the end hasn't been struck. The cartridge was
discharged--the cap is intact. How could that be?"
Loris and Harry Nichols leaned over the detective. He turned the tiny
shell around in his fingers. He sniffed it. He held it out so they
could see the end. "Discharged," he exclaimed, "without touching the
detonating cap on the end! That's odd! Very suggestive!"
"Let me see it," said Nichols. "I'll tell. We have exams on these
things. This seems to have been fired," he continued with thought.
"It's been fired without concussion. I'd say it was heat that did it. A
match touched to the base here would fire the cap, which would, in
turn, set off the powder. There's a different color to the brass at the
cap end. It looks to me like a shell which has been clamped down by
three--no, four screws. There's marks on the rim. See them, Loris--Miss
Stockbridge? Right there. Right at my nail."
"That's about right, Harry!" declared Drew, reaching for the cartridge.
"It was clamped down with small screws. It was ignited or set off by
heat. It forms part of a home-made pistol which conforms, to a hair,
with Fosdick's statement that the bullet never went through a barrel
that was rifled."
"That's your own statement!" blurted Delaney. "Fosdick never had brains
enough to figure a thing out like that. All he knows is pinch everybody
two or three times. I've seen him do it."
Drew eyed the prisoner. "So you see," he said softly, cuttingly, "crime
does not pay. The net has closed over your head. You erred a score of
times. You couldn't afford to make one little mistake. I could--I did!
I've made a hundred in this case already! It's the hound and the hare.
The hound loses the scent and brays on blunderingly till he picks it up
again. You lost me time and again. You fooled me in that lineman's
guise when you came into the library. Your make-up was perfect. You
said just the right things."
The prisoner's lips curled in a thin cruel line. He rattled the cuffs
defiantly. His shoulders lifted then fell back upon the rug.
"Bert!" snapped Drew. "Bert!" he repeated with awakening thought.
"Delaney," he said, turning and glancing up at the operative's broad,
flushed face. "I got this fellow located. What was the name of the man
we tried to find in the Morphy failure? The one we had a bench-warrant
for? He was indicted. The indictment was sealed. You know! It's a name
you didn't like. The fellow who escaped to Rio or South America? Who
afterwards went to Antofagasta. Ah, Cuthbert!"
"That's it, Chief! Cutbert! Cutbert Morphy--the old devil's brother.
This is him!"
Drew rubbed his hands vigorously. "It is!" he exclaimed, with his eyes
swinging over the prisoner's drawn features. "Cuthbert Morphy--a
brother's tool and confederate. We're getting on!"
The detective rose and faced Loris and Nichols. "Captain," he said, "a
firing squad at sunrise would be the Army's answer to this man's
deviltry. Consider what he has done. He's worked back to New York after
a year as a fugitive. He connected in some manner with Morphy at Sing
Sing. Perhaps he went there as a visitor under the pretext of business
connected with Morphy's affairs. This scheme was hatched there in the
prison. It was financed by Morphy. It succeeded in so far as Mr.
Stockbridge was concerned. First the telephone call to the cemetery
superintendent. Then followed his visit to this house for the purpose
of fixing some fiendish device. Or----"
"He might have fixed the windows, Chief," suggested Delaney. "He might
have opened a catch and climbed in afterwards."
"He wasn't near the windows," said Drew. "He had something else in the
back of his crafty, twisted brain. He came and went out, with Mr.
Stockbridge and I watching him. He called up, then, and threatened the
death. He probably looped the library 'phone up with Sing Sing at or
about midnight. We have a record of both calls."
"Why," asked Loris, as Drew paused in thought. "Why did he have Morphy
connected with father? I can't see, Mr. Drew, that part of it. The
rest, you have told is, is very clear."
"Nor I yet," admitted the detective. "But that is a detail. It is
probably the criminal's ego, which is in every one of them, to notify
their prey that the hour has come. Morphy was an artist in crime. He
was a master mind in finance and chicanery. What better revenge could
he think of than to notify Mr. Stockbridge that death was about to
strike? It savors of Machiavelli and Borgia. Whom the gods destroy they
first make mad. He tried it on you."
"Gods!" blurted Delaney with ire. "Devils, you mean, Chief!"
"Yes, or worse!" said Drew, glancing sternly at the prisoner. "This
fellow," he added, "is the agent for the destroyer. Now how was it
done?"
Delaney glanced about the walls of the room in apprehension. "I'll take
another look around," he suggested heavily. "Maybe with them new ideas
we can locate something that might be planted for the killing."
Drew glanced sharply at the prisoner's face. A faint sneer was on the
thin lips. The wrists twisted and turned in the handcuffs. The steel
chain rattled metallically. Loris backed step after step toward the
shielding curtain and Harry Nichols. "Oh!" she said suddenly, as she
dropped her head against his breast. "Oh, Harry! there can't be
anything like _that."_
"Certainly not!" Drew hastened to ejaculate. "That's nonsense. If there
was anything planted in either of these three rooms, there's no one to
get in and operate it. I've searched! Mr. Delaney has searched. Do you
want us to search again?" Drew's lips were drawn with doubt as he
stared anxiously from Loris to Nichols. "I'll do it, captain, if you
say so. I think we've done enough work, however. The thing is to get
this fellow to talk. I don't want to give him over to Fosdick and the
third degree till we see if he is going to treat us right. He can turn
state's evidence on Morphy, who blundered. Then he'll get off lightly.
Morphy is the master mind."
"He only smiles," said Nichols, tapping his breast suggestively. "I've
a gun here and I've a mind to use it. Do you think I want Miss
Stockbridge murdered like her father was murdered? I'll shoot that cur!
He's a whispering snake! A Hun!"
"Don't!" sobbed Loris, as Nichols thrust his hand in his coat and drew
out a flat automatic of .44 caliber. "Don't, Harry! Perhaps this man is
innocent."