don't think _that_, after all the things Mr. Drew has discovered. I'll
wager my commission he's guilty as Hell, and I mean it, Loris."
"He's that!" Delaney declared. "He and his brother the devil are one in
sin. They're lost spirits."
"Now everybody," said Drew, gathering in the group with his eyes, which
were strangely bright. "Everybody keep very quiet for a minute. Let me
think."
"Sure and I will, Chief. I'm thinking I want to think, myself."
Drew frowned at Delaney. He dropped his eyes and studied the prisoner's
hands. They were strangely white and remarkably small for a man who had
labored at telephone-repairing. The detective's glance rested on the
ink-stained thumb. His mind swung with this thought to the footprints.
Following the train he arrived at the first conclusion that an expert
in telephony could devise most any kind of a practical method for
opening a window or a ventilator. He dismissed this theory with a
glance about the room. The ventilator was well-hidden and inaccessible
to any one without a step-ladder. Considerable time devoted in climbing
upon a chair and a case of jade ornaments might reach it, but the
trouble-man had not been alone in the room when he inspected the
telephone.
Drew went over the salient details of the Stockbridge tragedy. One fact
stood out. The windows had been well locked. The sashes were covered
with snow. A climber, even on the face of the house, would have
difficulty in springing a catch by a secret method, raising the window
and entering without leaving a track of some kind. He dismissed this
supposition as untenable. He turned to Delaney, fully puzzled.
"Was there a climber's set in that bag?" he asked sharply.
"I didn't see any, Chief. I don't think this fellow's a climber. He
ain't built like one. His shoes are smooth on the bottom and his hands
are all polished up around the nails. Looks to me, Chief, as if he
might be able to pick most any kind of a lock."
"The locks are out of the question!" snapped Drew. "I examined them.
They're not in line. Has anybody here any suggestions?"
Drew stared at the prisoner's drawn, white face as he asked this
question. "He wasn't long in this part of the house," said the captain.
"The maid watched him. She thought perhaps he might take something."
"Fosdick is to blame!" said Drew almost losing his temper. "He should
have given strict orders at the door not to let anybody in till the
case was settled. It's all mixed up now. This man had ample opportunity
to cover himself. A clever sneak could do most anything under your eyes
without you seeing him operate. I suppose the only thing to do is to
turn him over to Headquarters. He'll get his!"
Loris frowned slightly at Drew's manner. The detective did not act like
his former self. She watched him pace the floor between the prisoner
and the tapestries. He came back with a square set to his jaw and a
hard glint in his olive eyes which gleamed like steel behind velvet.
"Stand him up!"
Delaney stared at his chief. He opened his mouth, then closed it
firmly. "All right," he said, reaching down. "I'll stand him up if you
let me give him an upper-cut. I don't like these silent crooks. They're
snaky, Chief."
"No unnecessary violence, gentlemen," suggested Nichols as Loris laid
her hand on his arm. "I'd like to have him alone for a few minutes--but
outside. Go easy. Perhaps he'll talk."
"It may be your life or this man's!" gritted Drew, stepping up to the
prisoner after a sharp glance at Loris. "I pity him when Fosdick gets
hold of him. He'll talk then!"
The prisoner swayed with Delaney's fingers gripping his collar in a
vice-strong clutch. His white-pale face, his narrow-set eyes, his
furtive glance to left and right like a cornered rat, brought Drew to
mind of a man who was slowly breaking down. He lowered his brows and
clutched the prisoner's elbow with strong fingers that pressed deep
through the coat sleeve.
"Out with it!" he demanded harshly. "It's your last chance to save your
miserable skin. You're not going to get any mercy from the
Commissioner. You know what he'll do to you!"
The prisoner twisted loose from Drew's clutch. His eyes wavered as he
stared at Loris for a long second, then dropped to the floor. They
closed in painful thought. Suddenly he blanched with passion.
"I've no use for you coppers!" he screamed shrillingly. "I hate the
sight of you and your kind. Let me go! Let me go!"
"Fine chance," whispered Delaney, tightening his grip on the prisoner's
collar. "You got a fine chance, you murderin', thievin', second-story
man! I'd paste you if the lady wasn't here! Sure I would, right between
the eyes!"
"Easy," said Drew. "Leave him to me. He's thinking the thing over. I
don't mind telling him that the magpie beat him. That and the
carelessness of Morphy in calling up when he must have known that Frick
was in the front office of the prison. It's always the way, Bert. He
travels the fastest, up or down, who travels alone. It's the lone star
that gives us the trouble. There's nobody to peach on him!"
The prisoner bit his upper lip. A slight sign of blood showed. He
tasted this with the tip of his tongue. His eyes narrowed in
calculation. He turned and faced Drew with slit-lidded intentness.
"I haven't done a thing," he whispered. "You ain't got a thing on me."
"Oh, no!" blurted Drew with heat. "I ain't got a thing. I've been
asleep since the time you murdered this girl's father. I've had ten men
on your trail since the beginning. I don't hold the first murder so
much against you as I do the projected one--which missed fire by a
scant margin. You slayed a man with your devilish ingenuity, but you're
not going to put it over on his daughter. I've seen to that! I notice
nobody has called up and said this was the Master talking. There's a
good reason."
The prisoner fluttered his pale lashes and glanced at the telephone. He
closed his eyes with a smile shadowing his lips.
"There's a good reason," repeated Drew. "You are not in some booth at
Forty-first Street to make the connection. Morphy is in the strongest
cooler. He's booked for twenty years. After that he'll get more. He
can't help you!"
"Oh, you coppers," said the trouble-man. "Just give me five minutes and
I'd show you. I don't hold anything against the girl. I never saw her
before."
"You lie!"
"Why don't you take these cuffs off-a-me? I can't hit back."
"I'd sooner take the chance outside," said Drew, glancing at Loris.
"I'd do it there!"
Delaney tightened his grip and half held the trouble-hunter in the air.
He raised on his toes with the strain.
"Oh, don't!" exclaimed Loris. "I'll have to ask you to stop this. I
can't let it occur in my house!"
"Miss Stockbridge," said Drew with soft rebuke. "Miss Stockbridge, I've
been in the detective business for twenty years. I never saw in that
time a more dangerous man. He is the super-type who usually falls
through the errors of other men. This fellow has brains. He's an expert
in telephony and in wireless. There are a number of patents in the
patent office under his name."
"Then he may be innocent, Mr. Drew."
"He's as guilty as the Kaiser!" exclaimed Delaney, twisting the
prisoner around. "Look at him. He's been trying to murder the finest
little lady in the country. She never harmed anybody. She's devoting
most of her time to Red Cross work and the--Army," added the big
operative with a touch of brogue as he glanced at Nichols.
"But he has not said that he murdered father," said Loris.
"Sure an' he won't say it. I know the breed of this snake. He wants
nothing used against him in the trial. He'll have the evidence of us
four to show that he didn't say anything. I never saw an innocent man
who wouldn't talk!"
"We're getting nowhere," objected Drew, taking command of the
situation. "Take him out, Delaney, and turn him over to the Central
Office bunch. They'll take him down to Fosdick!"
The prisoner lifted his manacled hands. He dropped them after a slow
glance at Drew's square jaw.
"Come on!" said Delaney with a jerk backward.
"Wait!"
Drew and Nichols leaned forward. "Well?" asked the detective, as the
prisoner bowed his head. "Well? Well?"
"Is that true about my brother--Morphy?"
"It is!" Drew said with ringing conviction. "It's true! He's out of
this world. He's buried alive and the key has been thrown away."
"The jig is up, then," said the trouble-man, turning toward the
telephone. "Let me telephone," he said in a whisper. "I want to use
it," he repeated faintly. "I'll show you how that--that Stockbridge
died."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"THE VOICE ON THE WIRE"
The prisoner lifted his manacled hands and held them toward Drew. "Let
me loose," he said, "and I'll explain everything that I've done! I want
it off my mind. I won't sleep until you people are satisfied. I know
you--you copper! I know Fosdick--the third degree artist."
Drew frowned as he glanced at the cuffs. He scratched his dark hair and
combed his fingers back toward his ears. He turned and glanced at Loris
and Nichols in the opening between the two splendid rooms.
"I don't like to take a chance with this fellow," he admitted. "Do you
want me to, Miss Stockbridge? It's your life he was after, and he may
be shamming now. You never can trust an opium addict. They have no
soul."
"I've as much as a copper's!"
"Shut up, you!" boomed Delaney, threateningly. "Shut up! There's a lady
in this room!"
The prisoner clicked his cuffs together. He stared at the cheval glass
and the telephone. "A lady?" he repeated through the corner of his
lips. "A limb of the Stockbridge tree," he said bitterly. "I hold
nothing against her. I told you that before. But we promised the old
man we'll take care of her after we killed him, and she came near
going--let me tell you that. I could have killed her with twenty
words."
"He's rambling," said Delaney, reaching for the prisoner. "The dope has
gone to his head. I don't believe there's any----"
"Easy, Delaney," warned Drew thoroughly on the alert. "Don't make the
mistake of underestimating this fellow. He acts like a man who has
repented--who wants to right some of the wrong he has done. I don't
think we are taking chances in letting this fellow loose. He is
unarmed. I tended to that. If he wants to 'phone--let's let him."
"Your case, Chief!"
Drew reached in his pocket and brought around a police regulation
revolver. "I'll have this right here!" he snapped as he slowly raised
it. "You, Delaney, unlock one cuff and pass it to me. I'll wrap the
chain around my left wrist. If this fellow tries anything I'll tend to
his case--forever. These .44's are made for stopping purposes, eh, Mr.
Nichols?"
"They certainly are, Mr. Drew. I think we can handle that little man
without trouble. What does he want to telephone for?"
"What for, Bert?" asked Drew, swinging and confronting the prisoner.
"Do you want to say good-by to somebody?"
"Good-by is right," whispered the trouble-man, extending his hands
toward Delaney, who fished out a small key. "Yes, it's good-by to
somebody. Unlock them!"
"Hold on!" exclaimed Drew. "I don't like that tone. You'll have to act
better than that, Bert. What do you want to get loose for? What number
do you want? I'll call up."
"No, I got to do it. I want one hand free--that's all."
Loris stepped to Drew's side. "Can there be anything about the room,"
she asked, "that he wants to use? Perhaps he'll pick something up and
use it too quickly for you to stop him."
"I don't think so," said Drew grimly. "This gun, Miss Stockbridge,
happens to have a hair trigger. We'll chance it--with your permission."
"I'm not afraid for myself--but don't you think the poor fellow should
be prevented from harming himself. He acts just like a man who wanted
to do something terrible. He seems to have given up hope."
"A woman's intuition," mused Drew. "Perhaps a close one," he said
aloud. "You get back into the other room, Miss Stockbridge. Let Mr.
Nichols stand in front of you for protection. I'm going to grant this
fellow's request. Delaney, unlock the left cuff!"
The key rattled in the tiny key-hole as Drew poised his revolver and
drew a sight between the prisoner's fluttering eyelids. "Stand right
there," whispered the detective tersely. "Right there," he added,
reaching with his left hand and taking the cuff and chain from the
operative. "Now, Bert, you're half free. What do you want with the
telephone?"
The prisoner pinched his wrist and worked his hand like a hinge. A
white mark, which slowly changed to red, showed where Delaney had
clamped the handcuff down to its last notch. The trouble-man eyed this
mark. His lips hardened. He strained on the chain as he lifted his
fingers to his brow with a tired gesture.
"Hurry!" said Drew. "Hurry, Bert, or we'll cuff you up again. Do you
want to telephone?"
"Y--e--s!" The voice was tremulous and dry. "Yes! I'll use it. I'll
show you how that pirate--Stockbridge--was killed. The yellow
squealer!"
Loris raised her chin proudly. She leaned against Nichols in the
doorway. "I won't stand for that!" declared the soldier. "You are being
insulted in your own house!"
"Wait, Harry! Something is going to happen! I know it is!"
"You're right, lady," whispered the prisoner. "It's going to happen
to--well, I don't care. I'm done. The jig is up!"
Cuthbert Morphy shrugged his shoulders and turned toward Drew. He
stared at the menacing revolver with a cryptic smile. "Get your man
downstairs," he said, in hollow tones. "Get him to go in the library
and call up this number. Tell Central to connect the two 'phones in
this house. Shout into the library transmitter when the connection is
made."
Drew frowned. "What's all that for?" he asked.
"Do as I say."
"I don't know about that. I give orders here. What do you want that
done for? I thought you wanted a number on the 'phone. I thought you
would get somebody on the wire who would explain everything."
"Everything will be explained, Inspector. Everything! I told you the
jig was up with me. I mean it, too. There's nothing left but the
truth."
Drew wound the handcuff chain tighter about his left wrist. He braced
his feet and turned to Delaney. "Go downstairs," he said, "and call up
this number. Do what this fellow says. The number is Gramercy Hill
9764."
Loris and Nichols lifted their brows as they turned toward each other.
"I'm afraid," said the girl. "Something is not right, Harry."
"It's the only way we'll ever find out what this man means. If they
take him away without letting him talk over the 'phone we'll never
know. Leave things to Mr. Drew. He's armed! I'm armed! There's no
danger!"
"Get downstairs to the library!" Drew ordered. "Do what this man wants.
Shout into the transmitter. Go now!"
Delaney lunged through the tapestries and unlocked the door to the
hall. He paused there in thought. He turned and glanced back.
"Hurry!" exclaimed Drew. "Hurry now!"
The big operative cursed audibly as he descended the two flights of
carpeted steps. He nodded to the Central Office man at the library
door. He passed inside, rounded the table and stood by the 'phone. He
picked up the receiver. His eyes wandered along the floor as he waited.
A dark spot showed on the hardwood. It was where the millionaire's
blood had gushed forth from the bullet hole in the base of his brain.
"Gramercy Hill 9-7-6-4!" said Delaney with a bull's voice.
"B-r-r-r-r-! B-r-r-r-r-! B-r-r-r-r-r!" sounded from the ringing-box of
the silver plated telephone in the sitting-room of Loris Stockbridge's
suite.
The prisoner pulled at the chain as he leaned toward the telephone.
"It's ringing," he said in a thin whisper. "Let me--let me listen in."
Drew studied the entire situation before he granted permission. Loris
and Nichols were framed between the silken portieres. The captain held
his army regulation revolver at his hip. Loris leaned forward with her
dark eyes smoldering and intent. The blood had left her cheeks. They
were white and tersely set. She seemed older to Drew. He smiled
reassuringly, dropped his gun to his hip, pressed it against the
prisoner and shoved him toward the 'phone as a "B-r-r-r-r-" sounded
above the lifting roar of Delaney's voice in the depths of the great
mansion.
The room became charged and surcharged with electricity. A crackling
sounded as Drew's feet glided inch by inch over the silk rug. The storm
outside whined and synchronized with the rise and fall of the great
voice shouting "Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello, you!"
The trouble-man turned. His hand reached upward and lifted the
hard-rubber receiver from the hook. His lids fluttered toward Loris.
His eyes softened with memories. "I'm glad I didn't do it!" he hissed
across the room. "Good-by, lady--good-by!"
"Be careful!" snapped Drew, pressing the revolver firmly against the
prisoner's right side. "Be careful! This is a hair trigger!"
The trouble-man smiled a twisted, wan smile as he turned his head
toward the transmitter and said huskily:
"Hello! Hello! You big copper! Shout on! See how loud you can curse me!
That's it. That--is--it!"
Drew heard Delaney's voice rise in indignation. The taunt had spurned
him to greater effort. The metallic diaphragm of the receiver roared
and clicked. It echoed the voice. It stopped. It vibrated again. It
reached a reed-like tune of high-pitched anger. The prisoner closed his
eyes and stiffened. He pressed the receiver directly over his ear. He
drew back on the chain and to one side. Drew's face darkened with
suspicion. It was too late. The detective had time to spring away as a
cone of lurid light and flame shot out from the telephone diaphragm and
splashed across the prisoner's set face. A sharp detonation racked the
perfumed air of the room. Smoke wreathed about the astonished
Inspector's head, and floated upward toward the ventilator.
Cuthbert Morphy's muscles relaxed. He spun, sank to his knees, then
pitched forward across the rug with a bullet in his brain. Drew
untwisted the chain with a wrist flip, sprang forward toward the
cheval-glass, and stamped his foot down upon the smoking telephone
receiver as if it were the head of a rattlesnake.
He turned with clear light striking out from his eyes. He nodded toward
the leaning form of the girl and the erect one of the captain. He
divined in seconds how the murder of Montgomery Stockbridge had been
accomplished. The full series of events and clues flashed through his
brain. It was like an orderly array seen at a picture show.
Cuthbert Morphy, guised as a trouble-hunter in the employ of the
telephone company, had devised a single-shot pistol out of a telephone
receiver and had caused it to be actuated by the human voice so that it
would always strike in the most vulnerable part of man's anatomy--the
ear.
With this lethal instrument he had slain the millionaire, and, when
trapped and in danger of execution, he had employed the same method to
bring about his own death. It was a fitting end to a life of crime and
drug-brought imageries.
Delaney, with drawn gun and wild of eyes, burst through the tapestries
and brought up with a dizzy lurch before the body of Cuthbert Morphy.
He stammered and glared downward. He swung his heavy chin and stared at
Loris and Nichols in the gloom of the further curtains. He clapped Drew
on the shoulder with a heavy hand.
"Had to shoot him, eh, Chief? What'd he try? What--you got your foot on?"
"An electric pistol," said Drew, with a grim smile distending his
olive-hued lips. "An infernal machine, Delaney. I hope it isn't a
repeater. Cut that wire! Both wires! Get your knife out and cut through
them, quick! I won't take any chances."
The big operative pocketed his revolver with a back swing of his right
hand, brought it forward empty and ran it down his trouser pocket. He
brought out a buck-horn jack-knife, pried it open, stooped and slashed
through the two silk cords holding the receiver to the bottom of the
transmitter which had fallen from the bracket.
Loris swayed with supple limbs. She raised her hands and pressed her
unjeweled fingers against her face. She sobbed once, then turned and
threw herself upon Nichols' drab shoulder. "Harry," she cried. "Oh,
Harry--what happened? I didn't see what happened!"
The captain glided an arm about her waist and half-carried, half-led
her to a couch in the reading-room. "Rest here a minute," he said,
leaning down. "Be cool and as brave as you can. The trouble-man won't
trouble you any longer. He took his own medicine!"
Nichols returned to the sitting room in time to hear Drew exclaim,
after Delaney had reached down and lifted the receiver, "The case is
closed! This closes it with a bang! Give me that electric pistol,
Delaney!"
The operative handed it over. "Get a big rug," ordered Drew with sudden
thought. "Cover that fellow over till we call the Central Office men
and the coroner. I want to examine this receiver."
"Right here on this little table would be a good place," suggested
Nichols, lifting off a handful of ivory ornaments and depositing them
on top of a glass case. "I'll spread a paper here. I'd like to see
what's inside that thing myself."
"Do you know anything about electricity or telephony?" asked Drew, as
he turned the hard-rubber receiver in his hand and stared at the
listening end.
"Very little, Inspector. But fire-arms are in my line and that seems to
be one."
The detective nodded. "It's one, all right," he said, holding it out
with a steady hand. "Looks harmless, don't it? Two binding-posts on one
end. A rubber cap on the other. Notice that diaphragm."
Nichols took the receiver and squinted at the rubber cap. "By George!"
he said. "This is odd. There's a tiny hole drilled or punched in the
center. It's about the same size as the bore of a twenty-two caliber
revolver."
"Look at your hands!" said Drew. "What the devil," he added with
dawning conviction. "Say, Delaney, do you remember that spot of black
under my left ear. The one you noticed after we left yesterday morning?
The----"
"Sure, Chief. That's where you got the smut--from that receiver!"
"I got it when I picked up the telephone in the library downstairs and
tried to get Central. Do you remember how long she took? This is the
same receiver in all probability. The trouble-hunter removed it from
the library connections, loaded it, and brought it up here. It looks
like any ordinary receiver. The telephone company have some with
binding posts and some without. This is an earlier model."
"The spot of black was from the first discharge when Stockbridge was
killed!" exclaimed Delaney.
Drew ran his fingers around the inner rim of the rubber cap. He held
them up. "See!" he exclaimed. "No wonder my neck was marked. That
settles that mystery, Delaney. If we had any brains at all we would
have connected the soot and the telephone. If we had done that we'd
have solved the case early this morning, or yesterday morning. It's
after one, now!"
"This hole," said Nichols, "was the only thing in the whole dastardly
scheme that could have been seen. It's the size of the end of a lead
pencil. Funny you didn't notice it?"
"I looked everywhere but there," admitted Drew. "The receiver hangs
with the diaphragm end down. That's the reason I didn't see it.
Well--there's always a reason," he added. "Now, Delaney, fetch me that
trouble-hunter's satchel. We'll see what this pistol is made of and how
it is made. I venture to say that it is simple."
Delaney awoke from his stupor and lifted a rug which he tossed over the
body of Cuthbert Morphy. He wiped his hands with a finite motion. He
wheeled and slouched lankily across the polished floor. He returned
with the lineman's kit.
"Pliers," said Drew, as the big operative removed the straps and
reached his hand inside. "I saw a pair there when we had it open
before," the detective added, unscrewing the rubber cap of the receiver
and lifting the thin metal diaphragm from the face of two tiny magnets
which were wound with fine silk wire.
"Regulation magnets," whispered Nichols, leaning over the detective's
shoulder. "They're regulation except there's a hole drilled down
between them. There must be a barrel all the way through the receiver."
"We'll see. Got those pliers, Delaney?"
The operative passed up a pair. "Ah," chuckled the detective,
unscrewing the binding-posts and lifting off a hard rubber cap. "Ah,
see here!"