Monty's puzzled smile was in no wise reciprocated by the Captain, whose
red face evidenced a growing resentment.
He began a tirade, but a wink from the club man warned him. Shirley
replaced the receiver, and the regular attendant resumed his place
at the switchboard. The lad was curious at the unusual ability of
the wealthy Mr. Shirley to handle the bewildering maze of telephone
attachments. Monty explained, as he turned to go upstairs.
“Son, that was one of my smart friends trying to play a practical joke
on my guest. I fooled him. Don't let it happen again, until you send in
the party's name first.”
“Yes, sir,” meekly promised the boy.
“Well, Captain Cronin, as the old paperback novels used to say at the
end of the first instalment, 'The Plot thickens!' At first I thought
this case of stupid badger game--”
“You aren't going to back out, Monty? Here's a whole gang of crooks
which would give you some sport rounding up, and as for money--”
“Money is easy, from both sides of a criminal matter. What interests me
is that ghostly telephone call from a house that burned down, and the
caller's knowledge of Number Three. I'm in this case, have no fear of
that.”
Shirley led his guest to the coat room.
“I'll get a taxicab, Monty. We'd better see that girl first and then
have a look at the body.”
The Captain turned to the door, as the attendant helped Monty with his
overcoat. The waiter from the grill-room approached. “Excuse me, sir,
but the gentleman dropped his handkerchief in his chair opposite you.”
“Thank you, Gordon,” he said, as he faced the servant for an instant.
When he turned again, toward the front hall, the Captain had passed out
of view through the front door.
Shirley received a surprise when he reached the pavement on Forty-fourth
Street, for Captain Cronin was not in sight. Two club men descended the
steps of the neighboring house. Others strolled along toward the Avenue,
but not a sign of a vehicle of any description could be seen, nor was
there anything suspicious in view. Cronin had disappeared as effectually
as though he had taken a passing Zeppelin!
“I'm glad this affair will not bore me,” murmured the criminologist, as
he evolved and promptly discarded a dozen vain theories to explain the
disappearance of his companion.
Twenty minutes were wasted along the block, as he waited for some sight
or sign. Then he decided to go on up to Van Cleft's residence. But,
realizing the probability of “shadow” work upon all who came from the
door of the club, after the curious message on the wire, Shirley did not
propose to expose his hand. Walking leisurely to the Avenue, he hailed
a passing hansom. He directed the driver to carry him to an address on
Central Park West. His shrewdness was not wasted, for as he stepped into
the vehicle, he espied a slinking figure crossing the street diagonally
before him, to disappear into the shadow of an adjacent doorway. This
was the house of Reginald Van Der Voor, as Shirley knew. It was closed
because its master, a social acquaintance of the club man's, was at this
time touring the Orient in his steam yacht. No man should have entered
that doorway. So, as the horse started under the flick of the long whip,
Shirley peered unobserved through the glass window at his side.
A big machine swung up behind the hansom, at some unseen hail, and
the figure came from the doorway, leaping into the car, as it followed
Shirley up the Avenue, a block or so behind.
“It is not always so easy to follow, when the leader knows his chase,”
thought Shirley. “I'm glad I'm only a simple club man.”
The automobile was unmistakably trailing him, as the hansom crossed the
Plaza, then sped through the Park drive, to the address he had given his
driver.
As Shirley had remembered, this was a large apartment house, in which
one of his bachelor friends lived. He knew the lay of the building well:
next door, with an entrance facing on the side street was another just
like it, and of equal height.
“Wait for me, here,” said Shirley. “I'll pay you now, but want to go to
an address down town in five minutes.”
He gave the driver a bill, then entered and told the elevator man to
take him to the ninth floor.
“There's nobody in, boss,” began the boy. But Shirley shook his head.
“My friend is expecting me for a little card game, that's why you think
he is out. Just take me up.”
He handed the negro a quarter, which was complete in its logic.
As he reached the floor, he waved to the elevator operator. “Go on
down, and don't let any one else come up, for Mr. Greenough doesn't want
company.”
As the car slid down, Shirley fumbled along the familiar hall to the
iron stairs which led to the roof of the building. Up these he hurried,
thence out upon the roof. It was a matter of only four minutes before
he had crossed to the next apartment building, opened the door of the
roof-entry, found the stairs to the ninth floor, and taken this elevator
to the street.
He walked out of the building, and turned toward Central Park West, to
slyly observe the entrance of the building where waited the faithful
hansom Jehu. A young man was in conversation with the driver, and the
big automobile could be seen on the other side of the street awaiting
further developments.
“He has a long vigil there,” laughed Shirley. “Now, for the real
address. I think I lost the hounds for this time.”
Another vehicle took him through the Park to the darkened mansion of
the Van Clefts'. Here, Shirley's card brought a quick response from the
surprised son of the dead millionaire.
“Why--why--I'm glad to see you, Mr. Shirley--Who sent you?” he began.
Shirley registered complete surprise. “Sent me, my dear Van Cleft? Who
should send me? For what? It just happened that I was walking up the
Avenue, and to-morrow night I plan to give a little farewell supper
to Hal Bingley, class of '03, at the club You knew him in College? I
thought you might like to come.”
“Step in the library,” requested Van Cleft, weakly. “Sit down, Mr.
Shirley--I'm upset to-night.”
He mopped his brow with a damp handkerchief, and Shirley's big heart
went out to the young chap, as he saw the haggard lines of horror and
grief on his usually pleasant face.
“What's the trouble, old man? Anything I can do?”
“My father just died this evening, and I'm in awful trouble--I thought
it was the Coroner, or the police--” he bit his tongue as the last
words escaped him. Shirley put his hand on Van Cleft's shoulder, with an
inspiring firmness.
“Tell me how I can help. You've had a big shock. Confide in me, and I
pledge you my word, I'll keep it safer than any one you could go to.”
Van Cleft groped as a drowning man, at this opportunity. He caught
Shirley's hand and wrung it tensely.
“Sit down. The doctor is still upstairs with mother and sister. When the
Coroner comes, I would like to have you be here as a witness. It's an
ordeal--I'll tell you everything.”
Shirley listened attentively, without betraying his own knowledge.
Soothing in manner, he questioned the son about any possible enemy of
the murdered man.
“There's not one I know. Dad is popular--he's been too gay, lately,
but just foolish like a lot of rich men. He wouldn't harm any one. He
inherited his money, you know. Didn't have to crush the working people.
Like me, he's been endeavoring to spend it ever since he was born, but
it comes in too fast from our estates.”
He looked up apprehensively, at the sympathetic face of his companion.
“It's very unwise to tell this. I suppose it's a State's prison offence
to deceive about murder. But you understand our position: we can't
afford to let it become gossip. I'll pay this girl anything to go to
Europe or the Antipodes!”
“I wouldn't do that,” suggested Shirley, thoughtfully. “Let her stay.
You would like to bring the culprit to justice, if it can be done
without dragging your name into it. If he has planned this, he has
executed other schemes. She certainly would not remain the machine if
she were the guilty one. Why not employ a good detective?”
“I did, but hesitated to tell you. I secured Captain Cronin, of the
Holland Agency. He's managed everything so far--I was too rattled
myself. But, I wonder why he isn't here now? He was to return as soon as
he visited the garage.”
As Van Cleft spoke, the butler approached with hesitation.
“Beg pardon, sir. But you are wanted on the telephone, sir.”
“All right, Hoskins. Connect it with the library instrument.”
Van Cleft lifted the receiver nervously, and answered in an unsteady
voice.
“Yes--This is Van Cleft's residence.”
Silence for a bit, then the wire was busy.
“What's that? Captain Cronin? What about him? Let me speak to him.”
Shirley was alert as a cat. Van Cleft was too dazed to understand his
sudden move, as the criminologist caught up the receiver, and placed his
palm for an instant over the mouthpiece.
“Ask him to say it again--that you didn't understand.” Shirley removed
his hand, and obeyed. Shirley held the receiver to his ear, as the young
man spoke. Then he heard these curious words: “You poor simp, you'd
better get that family doctor of yours to give you some ear medicine,
and stop wasting time with the death certificate. I told you that Cronin
was over in Bellevue Hospital with a fractured skull. Unless you drop
this investigating, you'll get one, too. Ta, ta! Old top!”
The receiver was hung up quickly at the other end of the line.
Shirley gave a quick call for “Information,” and after several minutes
learned that the call came from a drug store pay-station in Jersey City!
The melodious tones were unmistakably those of the speaker who had used
the wire from faraway Brooklyn where the house had been burned down!
It was a human impossibility for any one to have covered the distance
between the two points in this brief time, except in an aeroplane!
Van Cleft wondered dumbly at his companion's excitement. Shirley caught
up the telephone again.
“Some one says that Cronin is at Bellevue Hospital, injured. I'll find
out.”
It was true. Captain Cronin was lying at point of death, the ward nurse
said, in answer to his eager query. At first the ambulance surgeon had
supposed him to be drunk, for a patrolman had pulled him out of a dark
doorway, unconscious.
“Where was the doorway? This is his son speaking, so tell me all.”
“Just a minute. Oh! Here is the report slip. He was taken from the
corner of Avenue A and East Eleventh Street. You'd better come down
right away, for he is apt to die tonight. He's only been here ten
minutes.”
“Has any one else telephoned to find out about him?”
“No. We didn't even know his name until just as you called up, when we
found his papers and some warrants in a pocketbook. How did you know?”
But Shirley disconnected curtly, this time. He bowed his head in
thought, and then, with his usual nervous custom, fumbled for a
cigarette. Here was the Captain, whom he had left on Forty-fourth
Street, near Fifth Avenue, a short time before, discovered fully three
miles away.
And the news telephoned from Jersey City, by the fleeting magic voice
on the wire. Even his iron composure was stirred by this weird
complication.
“I wonder!” he murmured. He had ample reason to wonder.