watched Drew's nimble fingers trace out the mechanism of the electric
pistol.
"It's simple!" declared the detective. "It's very simple and ingenious
in construction. It's a crowning wonder to me that some one hasn't used
this sort of device to carry out a wholesale slaughtering. Suppose they
never thought of it."
Drew glanced at the silent mound under the Persian rug. "The wrong
road," he whispered tersely. "He took the wrong road. He was a
mechanical and electrical genius. He was a patent expert."
Delaney worked his brows up and down. "Shall I call Miss Stockbridge?"
he asked.
"I'll do it," Nichols said, turning and hurrying through the portieres.
He returned with Loris leaning upon his arm. Her eyes were glazed and
tear-laden. She held a tiny, limp lace handkerchief between her
trembling fingers.
"There's no danger," said Drew. "Come here, Miss Stockbridge," he
added. "I want to show you what was all ready for you."
The detective raised the hard-rubber receiver. "Here we have the
diaphragm," he said, pointing. "It's a round plate of soft iron. It's
secured to the rubber by an insulated ring. It is the part you press up
to your ear when you listen at a telephone. There's a small hole
punched in this one. The same sized hole extends down through the
center core, or magnet. This hole isn't rifled. It couldn't well be
rifled save with special machinery. That's why the bullet found in Mr.
Stockbridge's brain was without longitudinal scorings. It was fired
from a smooth-bored pistol."
"That's what you thought!" blurted Delaney with loyalty.
"I was at sea," said Drew. "Now," he continued, "we have a live
cartridge at the opposite end of this core from the diaphragm. See it?"
Loris leaned over the little table.
"Right here!" The detective pointed. "That is a twenty-two cartridge
with a cupronickel bullet. See the cap? See how it is held from coming
back by those tiny screws about the rim?"
Loris nodded and gathered up her straying hair.
"Now," continued Drew. "Now, this cartridge was exploded by the action
of the human voice. Here's a tiny spiral of very slender platinum wire.
It must be number forty, at least. That's very fine! This spiral is in
series with the winding about the magnets. The same current pulsated by
the human voice which actuates the receiver diaphragm, also passed
through this spiral. Now," Drew paused. "Now," he added with rising
voice, "here is a tiny charred piece of match-head, I guess. It was set
in the coil. It flared when the wire became hot. The heat was
sufficient to ignite the cap. See it!"
"I see it!" exclaimed Nichols.
"The action is simple," continued Drew. "A pulsation of the current
which was formed by the action of the vibrating, transmitter diaphragm,
also pulsated the fine wire before it went to the receiver magnets. The
louder the voice into the transmitter the more current--measured in
fractions of amperes--passed through the spiral. It became sufficiently
hot to flare the piece of match-head or whatever Cuthbert placed there.
This flare was communicated to the percussion cap, or fulminate of
mercury, at the base of the cartridge. This exploded the powder charge,
which in turn projected the cupronickel bullet forward through the tube
or the bore of the receiver and out through the thin, metal diaphragm,
and----"
"What's that?" asked the operative.
"Out through the hole in the diaphragm," continued Drew, "and right
into your ear or my ear, Delaney!"
"Not into mine!" exclaimed the operative. "I'll never telephone as long
as I live, Chief!"
"We'll all be careful," said Nichols, turning toward Loris.
Drew gathered together the different parts of the telephone receiver.
"Evidence against Morphy," he said dryly, as he dropped them into the
side pocket of his coat. "They are our Exhibit A if he ever finishes
that twenty years in the cooler."
Loris reached out her hand. "You saved my life," she said. "You saved
it, Mr. Drew."
"I blundered and blundered and blundered on this case," admitted the
detective frankly. "Now I'm going to request you to wait a few minutes
before I call the coroner. Delaney has some questions. I feel sure he
wants to ask me one or two."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"THE END"
Triggy Drew's eyes shone with triumphant fire as he turned and faced
the group gathered in the sitting room.
He adjusted his coat lapels, clicked his heels and smiled politely. His
hand strayed up to his short-cropped mustache which was still neat and
well-trimmed despite the labors of the day.
"Although the case is practically closed," he said with concern, "there
are features which are not entirely cleared up--even in my mind.
Perhaps we have a little time," he added, glancing at his watch. "Let's
go into the other room--away from these memories--and have a cup of
tea, if Miss Stockbridge will be so kind as to order some."
Loris glanced at Nichols. She nodded as she turned toward Drew. He
moved over to the rug which covered Cuthbert Morphy's body. He stooped
and adjusted this. He rose and dimmed the lights by snapping off two of
the switches and turning a bulb in its socket. He hesitated as he
glanced at the telephone wires which Delaney had cut.
"Central will wonder what has happened," he said half aloud. "The
connections leading to this house have given them a lot of trouble in
the last few hours. I suppose they haven't another trouble-man like
this one, though?" Drew pointed toward the shadowed rug which gleamed
with silk and rare woven designs.
Loris raised her hand and grasped the portieres. She shuddered
slightly. She allowed her eyes to wander over the room as if for a last
fleeting glance. They locked with the detective's own. She smiled with
a plaintive droop to her mouth.
"I'll order the tea," she said invitingly. "Will you come in?"
Drew bowed and followed her through the portieres. Delaney already
stood by the door which led to the maid's room. Harry Nichols had
picked up a small book and was impatiently examining its pages. The
soldier turned and eyed the detective.
"We'll sit down?" he asked, laying the book on a cushion. "I'm a bit
curious to know how you worked out a number of things. I think that
Miss Stockbridge is, too."
"I'd like to be a detective!" exclaimed Loris, gliding across the room
and tapping with her knuckles on the door. "Wouldn't you, Mr. Delaney?"
she added naively.
Delaney chuckled. "I would, Miss," he said with candor. "I'm not a
regular. I'm only a volunteer. Mr. Drew has me along to do the heavy
work. He says what I can't lift I can drag."
Loris smiled as the maid answered by opening the door to a crack. "Tea
for four," she said. "Pekoe and tea biscuits--unless----"
She turned and widened her eyes prettily. "Would you have anything
else?" she asked Drew.
"Strong tea!" exclaimed the detective. "I'll take 'hops,' as we call
it. Make it very strong and then we'll settle some of these questions.
My head is none too clear. I've been under a strain. I'm frank to admit
that!"
The tea arrived within ten minutes. Drew had prevented Delaney from
'phoning for the coroner or to Fosdick. "Some matters to clear up," he
whispered suggestively. "We'll leave this place with the case entirely
completed."
Nichols arranged two chairs about a tiny teak-wood table. He had set
this table within the bay of an alcove. The space was small, with
Delaney's big feet very much in the way.
Drew poised his cup and glanced from Loris to Nichols. Their heads were
very close together. The blue-black luster of the girl's hair was a
perfect contrast to the officer's blond pompadour which was slightly
disarranged. The light from above haloed with the soft fire of frosted
glass and cut prisms.
The detective upended the cup, drank deeply, then passed it over to
Delaney. "Another, please," he said, watching the operative struggling
with a saucer which was far too fragile for his thick fingers. "One
more cup," he added. "No sugar."
Loris leaned from the cushion at the small of her back and glanced
toward the portieres with thought-laden eyes. "Poor misguided fellow,"
she said softly. "I feel uneasy, Mr. Drew. Somehow or other I feel that
we were partly responsible for his death. I wish it hadn't happened."
"I'll agree with you. We must forget more than we remember in this
world. Our time is short. The coroner and the Central Office squad will
have to be notified. I don't doubt that Fosdick will be surprised at
the turn in the case. He has some of your servants locked up, you
know!"
Loris pressed closer to Nichols. "I wish that body wasn't in there,"
she whispered. "Suppose he had other confederates who would break in?"
"He worked alone," assured Drew, finishing the second cup and setting
it down. "I found no evidence of another crook. He worked single-handed
and single-minded. He made one mistake. Morphy was a bungler. A bungler
is a man who lets his artistic temperament get the better of him. Had
he allowed Cuthbert to slay both the--Mr. Stockbridge and yourself over
the 'phone, he would never have solved the case. It was the telephoning
from Sing Sing that opened up the entire matter."
"The inevitable slip!" exclaimed Nichols.
"Yes," said Drew. "They all make it. I could tell you of a thousand
instances. But back of the inevitable slip, as you call it, is
something deeper. It has not often been mentioned in dealing with
criminals."
"What is it?" asked Loris.
"Ego! Criminal ego! Most transgressors would go to the electric chair
if the newspapers would write enough about them."
Loris raised her brows. "Is that the reason," she asked, "why Morphy
telephoned before he killed poor father?"
"Exactly!" declared the detective. "Ego explains much that we call
revenge. Now," he added, glancing about and at a tiny clock on a
cabinet. "Now the questions from everybody! Make them short. Mr.
Delaney and I will leave in ten minutes."
Nichols glanced at Loris. "You first," he said.
"I've just one or two, Mr. Drew," she said.
"What are they?"
"Why did that poor dead man spare my life when he called me up the
first time? He could have killed me then."
"I explained that. It wasn't _his_ vendetta."
"Vendetta?"
"That is what this case is. An almost successful attempt to wipe out,
or I should say obliterate, the Stockbridge Family--root and branch.
Morphy had nursed the thing for over a year. He had soured up there in
prison. His mind became abnormal. He conceived an abnormal revenge.
Also a personal one. He had every reason to believe that he would never
be discovered."
"Then, Mr. Drew, he would have called me up on the phone later and done
what he did--to father? He would have told me who he was over the
telephone, and--and----"
"Yes, Miss Stockbridge. Yes, be calm, though. He is beyond the pale
now. You will never hear from him again. Be assured of that!"
Drew leaned in his chair and glanced at Delaney. The big operative
fidgeted in his seat, squirmed, reached for the tea-pot, then drew back
his hand and started drumming the table with his fingers.
Nichols disengaged his arm from behind Loris and squared his shoulders.
He moved forward. "I'm going to ask a question for Miss Stockbridge,"
he said. "Did you ever suspect her?"
"Never!" declared Drew.
"Or me?"
The detective hesitated before he answered. His smile cleared the air
as he said. "Once--for about an hour. That was when I found out that
you were partly German. I got over it, though."
"So did I," declared Nichols. "I got over the German part in no time. I
enlisted!"
"That's a good answer! The best one I know!"
Delaney turned to his chief. He drew in his legs. "There's a question
I'd like to ask," he said.
"What is it?"
"That magpie?"
Drew eyed Loris. "It's her bird now," he said. "She may not want it
dragged back here again. I shouldn't think she would."
"I don't!" exclaimed Loris. "I wish that you would explain how you
followed the clew, though. It talks so seldom, and then when it does
talk it says such nonsense it's a perfect enigma."
"That bird," said Drew, "was the fine turning point of the case. Before
it was brought into the office, downtown, I had no clew to start from.
There was no indication to show from whence the blow had fallen. Your
father was slain for a motive. He was talking to Morphy when he died.
Cuthbert had connected the two men."
"Through the two booths?" asked Loris.
"Yes. Through the booths at Grand Central. Their conversation was
probably a brief one. Morphy undoubtedly gloated a minute or two, then
told Mr. Stockbridge that his time had come on this earth. Naturally
Mr. Stockbridge asked who was talking. Morphy answered by stating who
he was, and also that he was at Sing Sing. Mr. Stockbridge repeated
this statement aloud. He probably said, 'What, Sing Sing?' or 'Ah,
Ossining!' or words to that effect. The bird heard it and remembered it."
"How strange!" exclaimed Nichols.
"Not at all," said Drew, leaning forward. "It was just like a magpie to
pick out the one salient part of a conversation and repeat it. The
couplet 'Sing Sing' was one it had never heard. It is so striking to
even a bird. It probably came with such emphasis, there was no
forgetting it!"
The group facing the detective was silent for a long minute. Delaney
moved uneasily as Nichols toyed with his cup. Loris breathed in
suppressed wonder at the tiny clew which had overthrown the best laid
plans on the part of Morphy and his confederate. It was like an echo of
a dead voice coming back to confront a murderer. She shivered as she
widened her eyes and stared at Drew.
"There's another question," she said. "How did the trouble-man get into
this house in the first place, Mr. Drew?"
"I was responsible. He forced my hand!"
"How?"
"By a clever subterfuge. He disconnected the library telephone wires at
the junction-box in the alley. He knew that sooner or later Mr.
Stockbridge would try to use the 'phone. He couldn't get a connection,
or I couldn't. It was the time I tried to 'phone and then notified
Gramercy Hill Exchange through another 'phone. He was listening in and
consequently caught the gist of my orders to Harrigan. He hurried to
Gramercy Hill Exchange and there met Frisby, another trouble-man,
starting out to investigate my complaint. He took Frisby's place,
hurried over and closed the library connection and then came into the
house, stating that we had sent for him."
"Clever," said Nichols. "That was clever, wasn't it?"
"Remarkably so!" exclaimed Drew. "It was a case of making the detective
on the premises act as a tool. It was like a safeblower asking a night
watchman to move a safe out on a truck. I never suspected that fellow
at all. I hardly looked at him when he was testing the connections in
the library. I even heard him rattling a pair of pliers over the
binding posts on the receiver. That was the time he took the old one
off and put on the loaded pistol. It was done very quickly."
The detective paused and glanced at his watch. "We must go," he said,
staring at Loris with soft interest. "I'm afraid we're keeping you from
your sleep."
"No. I want to ask you another question," she said eagerly. "I'm still
in doubt about the slot booths at Grand Central. Why were they used?"
"As a throw off! That is what the English would call shunting.
Electricians use the same word. It means diverting a current or a
connection. Cuthbert did this so that his trail would be harder to
check up. He thought of almost everything."
"He missed his vocation!" interjected Nichols.
"And misused his talents," added Loris. "Think of being clever enough
to do all of those things, and stoop to murder. He paid ten times over.
He must have been under that man Morphy's power. So many men were. I
heard father say that when Morphy was arrested. He said Morphy was the
most dangerous man in the world. That he would cause trouble sooner or
later."
Drew rose and nodded. "He did that!" he exclaimed with conviction. "He
came very close to getting away with it. But for the magpie and the
fact that he 'phoned from the prison at the same time your father was
murdered, there would have been no clew. Cuthbert would have entered
this house after you were slain, and removed the receiver. That would
have thrown the case into one of the unsolved mysteries. Electricity is
a dangerous tool in the hands of clever crooks."
"It leaves no trace!" said Delaney, rising and standing by his chief.
"It isn't made out of anything except little shakes in the wire or
something like that."
Drew smiled good-naturedly. "It's a mystery to most people," he said,
turning toward the windows and listening. "It's a bigger mystery to a
woman than to a man," he added. "It's a good agent if properly used and
kept within bounds. It brings back life as well as takes it. It creates
and also destroys. No one knows what it is. All that we do know about
it is its action on material substances--the power to transform
mechanical energy into vibrations and then back again into mechanical
energy."
"Like a voice on a wire?" asked Loris.
"Yes, Miss Stockbridge. The mechanical vibration of a diaphragm in a
telephone transmitter is changed to electrical vibrations, passes along
a wire and changes back to the same thing we had at the beginning.
Cuthbert took advantage of this fact. All that was sent into the
library was Morphy's voice on the wire. The wire left no trace. The
voice actuated the diaphragm and at the same time the fine heating coil
at the cap on the cartridge. The energy of the voice was sufficient to
raise the temperature of the coil. This raise in temperature flashed
some compound set in the wire. The flash started the fulminate of
mercury in the cap. The cap exploded the smokeless powder. It was a
series of steps each a little higher than the one below it."
"Was there any other way of doing the same thing?" Nichols inquired, as
he rose lankily and stood over Loris.
"Yes!" declared Drew. "I can look back over what I found in the
technical books about electricity and telephony and see several other
ways for Cuthbert to accomplish the same result. The electrical pistol
did not necessarily have to be actuated by the human voice."
"How terrible!" Loris whispered, with her brow puckering. "Perhaps
others will use the same idea to slay their enemies."
"We'll keep it a close secret," the detective said. "It rests with us
four, now. Outside of us, there is only Morphy who knows."
"How else could the pistol be discharged?"
"Two other ways that I see, Miss Stockbridge. It would be rather easy
to arrange a little magnetic trigger in the receiver. This trigger
could be actuated by an excess of current--say the connecting of a
hundred and ten volt lighting circuit on the line. It might burn out
the magnet wiring, but it would also release the trigger and fire the
cartridge."
"That's like a door-catch?"
"Yes," said Drew. "Like a door-catch operated by a magnet or like the
firing pin of a large cannon. They're not all operated by lanyards.
Some work with push-buttons."
Nichols passed his hand over his brow. "I know another way," he said,
glancing down at Loris. "There is a way which is far cleverer than
Cuthbert thought of. It could be done by a tuning-fork or reed."
"Certainly!" exclaimed Drew. "I never thought of that. A reed attuned
to a certain voice could be adapted to trip a trigger. Then the loaded
receiver could be set so that one of your friends who had a peculiar
voice, either high or low, would slay you. Rather terrifying revenge,
that!"
"Beyond the pale!" said Nichols. "It's too bad this man Cuthbert didn't
exercise one-tenth of his genius in perfecting war inventions. He'd
have helped us a lot."
Drew nodded and strode to the curtains at a side window. He peered out,
rubbed the frosted panes, and pressed his nose against the glass.
"Stopped snowing!" he exclaimed, coming back and clasping Delaney's
arm. "You hurry downstairs and telephone Fosdick that we are waiting
for him. Tell him to notify the coroner that there's a subject here
which will interest him. We'll not explain everything to either the
coroner or Fosdick. No one save us shall know the secret of the
receiver."
"Delaney," said Nichols, as the big operative started through the
portieres. "Mr. Delaney."
"Yes!" boomed back through the room.
"Ask the Commissioner if he will release Miss Stockbridge's servants.
It was an outrage."
"That's right!" exclaimed Drew, striding to the portieres. "Tell him I
said so, Delaney. Tell him just what you think. Give it to him strong!
He bungled and he don't deserve a bit of sympathy."
"Mr. Drew?"
The detective wheeled on one heel and glanced back at Loris, who had
risen and was standing with her arm linked within Nichols'. "Mr. Drew,"
she repeated with slow insistence, "won't you have another cup of tea
before you go?"
"That I will, Miss Stockbridge. We three shall drink to the end of the
case. Have you asked all the questions you want to? I want to forget
this night as soon as possible. You were too close to death to suit me."
"I don't think of any more questions," said Loris, disengaging her arm
and gliding across the room. "We'll get the tea. There is one matter. I
want to pay you for your splendid services."
"Ah!" exclaimed Drew. "Ah, Miss Stockbridge, they were far from being
splendid. I lost my reputation in the first instance. I should never
have allowed your father to remain alone in the library. That was very
short-sighted on my part."
"You couldn't think of everything."
"I underestimated the gravity of the situation."
"Perhaps father didn't explain how dangerous his enemies really were."
"No, I don't think it was that, exactly. I had been reading so many
accounts of German spies that I connected this case with one of them. I
took precautions against anything that a German might think of. I
didn't figure on super-brains of the criminal order. Cuthbert Morphy
had them!"
The maid appeared with the tray and hot water. Drew took the cup from
Loris with a bow. He allowed the tea to cool as he glanced at the two
lovers. They had grown closer together over the time of the
investigation. Nichols had that poise which is given to well-trained
army men. He never said too much. This was a trait which pleased the
detective immensely. It spoke volumes for Loris and her judgment in
placing her trust in him.
"I actually hate to leave you people," Drew said, finishing the cup.
"But I must be on my way."
Loris arched her dark brows. Her mouth parted into a soft smile. Her
eyes glistened with moisture. "Harry is going, too," she said, glancing
from Drew to Nichols. "He has to go! I'll sleep upstairs in mother's
old room to-night. The maid can watch. Perhaps the butler will be
back."
"He'll be back!" ejaculated the detective, adjusting his coat collar
and stroking his mustache. "I'll see to that if I have to go over
Fosdick's thick head. You can expect all of your servants within an
hour."
Heavy footfalls on the rugs outside the suite announced Delaney. He
came through the portieres rubbing his hands in the manner of a man who
was well-satisfied with his errand.
"I got them!" he boomed, glancing from Drew to Nichols and then letting
his eyes shine on Loris. "I got Fosdick, first. I told him what I
thought of him, too. I don't like him. Never did! He said he'd be right
up and see about things. He can see!" The big operative swung toward
his chief.
"How about the coroner?" asked Drew.
"He's coming as fast as his hurry-up wagon will let him. I told him
there was another--well, you know what I told him, Chief?"
The detective lifted his lowered brows. "Yes! Yes!" he said hastily,
after a keen glance at Loris. "Yes. You did right. Now, get into the
other room and gather up all of the tools and plaster-casts and every
scrap of our own evidence. Put them in the trouble-man's satchel. Set
the satchel outside the door to the hall. Then wait for me. I'll be but
a minute."
Delaney paused. "There's one thing," he said in a half stammer----"One
thing, Chief, that's been troubling me while I was 'phoning to the
coroner and to Fosdick."
"What is it?"
"If I can have that magpie? I'm going to give it to my wife--Mary--if I
can. There's no bird in the house."
Drew turned toward Loris who had drawn Nichols to a window.
"Can he have it, Miss Stockbridge?" he asked.
"Certainly!"