Still befuddled by the unusual events of the day, Howard Van Cleft was
unable to delight in a theoretical discovery. Personal fear began to
manifest itself.
“Mr. Shirley, you're going at this too strong. We know the guilty
party--this miserable girl in the machine. We want to hush it up and let
things go at that.”
“We're hushing it, aren't we?” demanded Shirley, as he placed the record
in the grip. “Don't you see the wisdom of knowing who may systematically
blackmail you after secrecy is obtained. This is a matter of the future,
as well as the present.”
“But I don't want to lose my own life--I am young, with life before me,
and I want to let well enough alone, after these threats.”
“I am afraid that you have a yellow streak.” His lip curled as he
studied the pallid features of the heir to the Van Cleft millions.
Fearless himself, he could still understand the tremors of this
care-free butterfly: yet he knew he must crush the dangerous thoughts
which were developing. “If you mistrust me, hustle for yourself. You
have the death-certificate, the services will be over in a few days, and
then you will have enough money to live on your father's yacht or terra
firma for the rest of your life, in the China Sea, or India, as far away
from Broadway chorus girls as you want. That might be safe.”
He gazed out of the window, toward the twinkling lights far away across
the East River. His sarcasm made Van Cleft wince as though from a whip
lash. The latter mopped his forehead and tried to steady his voice, as
he replied with all humility.
“You're a brick, and I don't mean to offend you. Today has been
terrible, you know: this tornado has swept me from my moorings. I don't
know where to turn.”
“I am thoughtless,” and Shirley's warm hand grasped the flaccid fingers
of the young man. “Forgive me for letting my interest run away with my
sympathies. I'm thinking of the future, more than mere protection from
newspaper scandal. This crime is so ingenious that I believe it has a
more powerful motive than mere robbery. You are now at the head of a
great house of finance and society. You must guard your mother and your
sister, and those yet to come. A deadly snake is writhing its slimy
trail somewhere: here--there--'round about us! Who knows where it will
strike next? Who knows how far that blow may reach--even unto China, or
wherever you run?”
He hesitated, studying the effect upon Van Cleft, who dropped limply
into a chair, his eyes dark with terror. The psychological ruse had won.
Selfish cowardice, which temporarily threatened to ruin his campaign,
now gave way to the instinct of a fighting defense.
“There, Van Cleft, it is ghastly. You have the significance now: we must
scotch the snake. That girl is over at the Holland Agency, and we should
see her at once, to learn what she knows. Cronin has arranged for my
coming with you, so introduce me under my real name.
“Wait here fifteen minutes after I leave, so that I may get the
phonograph in readiness, for you will undoubtedly be shadowed, and that
may mean another telephone call. You were not a coward in college--I do
not believe you are one now!”
Van Cleft straightened up proudly.
“No, I will fight them with all I have. But why these phonograph
records: isn't one enough?”
“No, I want autographs of all the voices. I will go now. Don't hurry in
following me. Do not fear to let any shadowers see you--it will help us
along.”
Before many minutes he had been admitted to the corridor of the Holland
Agency by a sharp-nosed individual who regarded him with suspicion. The
operatives were undoubtedly expecting trouble from all quarters, for
three other large men of the “bull” type, heavy-jowled, ponderous men,
surrounded him as he presented his card.
“I am the friend of Howard Van Cleft, about whom Captain Cronin
telephoned you from Bellevue. I am to help him interview the girl: may I
wait until he arrives?”
“Oh, you're wise to the case? Sure then, come into the reception room on
the right. What's that in your grip?” asked the apparent leader of the
men.
“Just an idea of Van Cleft's,” said Shirley, as he followed into the
adjoining compartment. “It's a phonograph. Have you received any phoney
'phone calls to-night? Queer ones that you didn't expect and couldn't
explain? Van Cleft has, and he decided to take records of them on this
machine.”
The superintendent nodded. Shirley opened the grip and drew out the
instrument, and made ready on the small table, near which was the desk
telephone.
“Let's get this in readiness then, and if you get any calls have them
switched up to this instrument, so that when you talk, you can hold the
receiver handy to the horn.”
“Young feller, I think you must know more about this business than
you've a right to. Just keep your hands above the table--I think I'll
frisk you!”
“No need,” snapped Shirley with a smile in his eyes, and the automatic
revolver was drawn and covering the detective before he could reach
forward. “But I have no designs on you. You will have to work quicker
than that with some people in this case.”
He slid the weapon across the table to the other who snatched it
anxiously.
“If a call comes and you don't recognize the voice at once, please ask
the party to come closer to the 'phone, to speak louder--listen, there
is the bell now! Get it connected here at once!”
The surprised superintendent, fearing that after all he might miss
some good lead, yielded to his professional curiosity against his
professional prejudices. He bawled down the hall.
“Switch on up here, Mike. I'll talk.” He caught up the instrument, as
Shirley dropped to his knees beside him, to swing the horn into place.
“What's that?” he shouted over the wire. “Yes, shure it is--What's that
you say?--I don't get you, cull--You want to speak to the girl?--What
girl?--Talk louder. Hire a hall!--Say, I ain't no mind reader! Speak
up.”
Over the instrument came the phrase once more: “Can you hear me now?”
It was the man's voice! Shirley was exultant.
“Yes, I hear you. What do you want?”
“I want to call for my sister, if you're going to let her go. I want--”
An inspiration prompted Shirley to press down the prongs of the
receiver. The connection was stopped, and the superintendent turned upon
him angrily.
“You spoiled that, you nut! We was just about to find out who her
brother was--say, who are you, anyway?”
“There, don't you worry. That makes another call certain. Don't you see?
That's what I'm playing for. But here comes Van Cleft, who will tell you
I am all right.”
The millionaire entered the hallway before any serious altercation could
arise. He greeted Shirley warmly and introduced him to Pat Cleary. The
man was mollified.
“Well, I'm Captain Cronin's right bower, and I thinks as how this guy
is the joker of the deck trying to make a dirty deuce out of me. But,
if you want to see the girl, she's right upstairs. His work was a little
speedy on first acquaintance. Nick, keep your eyes on this machine, for
we may get another call on this floor--This way gentlemen. Watch your
step, for the hallway's dark.”
The girl was imprisoned in a windowless room on the second floor. As the
door opened, Shirley beheld a pitiful sight. Attired in the finery of
the Rialto, she lay prone upon a couch in the center of the dingy room,
sobbing hysterically. Her blonde hair was disheveled, her features wan
and distorted from her paroxysms of fear and grief. Like a frightened
animal, she sprang to her feet as they entered the room, retreating
to the wall, her trembling hands spread as though to brace her from
falling.
“I didn't do it! I swear! The old fool was soused and I don't know what
was the matter with me. But I didn't kill any one in the world!”
“There, sit down, little girl, and don't get frightened. This gentleman
and I have come to learn the truth--not to punish you for something you
didn't do. Start with the beginning and tell all you remember.”
Shirley's gentle manner was so unexpected, his voice so inspiring that
she relaxed, sinking to the floor, as Shirley caught her limp girlish
form in his arms. He placed her on the couch again, and she regained
her composure under his calm urging. Little by little she visualized
the details of the gruesome evening and narrated them under the magnetic
cross-questions of the criminologist.
She had met the elder Van Cleft in the tea-room of a Broadway hostelry,
by appointment made the evening before at Pinkie Taylor's birthday
party. After several drinks together they took a taxicab to ride uptown
to a little chop house. Did she see any one she knew in the tea-room? Of
course, several of the fellows and girls whom she couldn't remember just
now, buzzed about, for Van Cleft was a liberal entertainer around the
youngsters. She had five varieties of cocktails in succession, and
she became dizzy. In the taxicab she became dizzier and when next she
remembered anything definite she was sitting on the stool in the garage
where she had been arrested. That was all. As she reached this point
there came a knock on the door with a call for Van Cleft.
“You Van's son!” she screamed. Then she fainted, while Shirley caught
her, calling an assistant to care for her, as he followed Van Cleft
downstairs to answer the telephone. “You know your cues?”
The millionaire nodded, as with trembling fingers he caught up
the instrument and knelt on the bare floor to hold it close to the
phonograph, which Shirley was engineering, with a fresh record in place.
“Hello! Hello, there, I say. Hello!”
Shirley strained his ears, to hear this time a rough, wheezy voice which
caused the two men to exchange startled glances, as it proceeded: “Is
this you, Howard, my boy?”
“What do you want? I can't hear you. The telephone is buzzing. Louder
please!”
Shirley nodded approbation, as the machine ran along merrily.
“Now, can you hear me. Ahem! Can you hear me now? Is this Howard Van
Cleft?”
“Yes, go ahead, but louder still.”
“Now, can you hear me? This is your father's dearest friend,
Howard,--this is William Grimsby speaking. I am fearfully distressed and
shocked to learn of his death, my poor boy. And Howard, I am grieved
to learn that there is some little scandal about it. As your father's
confidential adviser, I urge you to hush it up at all cost. I was told
at your home just now by one of the servants that you had gone to this
vulgar detective agency.”
Here Shirley shut off the phonograph, addressing Van Cleft with his hand
over the mouthpiece of the telephone for the minute.
“Keep on talking until I return. Get his advice about flowers and
everything else you can think of.”
Then he ran from the room, into the hallway, out of the door, and down
the stoop to Fortieth Street. He looked about uncertainly, then espied
across the way a tailor shop, where the light of the late workman still
burned. Monty hurried thither and asked the use of the telephone upon
the wall.
“Shuair, mister, but it will cost you a dime, for I have to pay the gas
and the rent.”
From the telephone directory he obtained the address and number of
William Grimsby, the banker. He received an answer promptly. The
servant, after learning his name promised to call the master. A gruff
voice answered soon. Mr. Grimsby declared that he had been reading in
his library for the last two hours, undisturbed by any telephone calls.
Shirley expressed a doubt.
“How dare you doubt my word, sir. The telephone is in my reception room
where I heard it ring just now, for the first time. What do you want?”
“An interview with you to-morrow morning at nine on a life and death
matter. I can merely remind you, sir, that two of your friends,
Wellington Serral and Herbert de Cleyster have met mysterious deaths
during the past week. Mr. Van Cleft died of heart failure to-night.
I will be there at nine. As you value your own life do not leave your
residence or even answer any telephone messages again until I see you.”
“Well, I'll be--” Shirley disconnected, before the verb was reached. He
tossed the coin to the tailor, and speedily returned to the waiting room
where he signaled Van Cleft to end the conversation.
“Quick now, find out what wire called you up.” The answer was “William
Grimsby, 97 Fifth Avenue.”
“You had the wrong tip that time, Mr. Shirley,” said Van Cleft. “But how
could he have found out where I was, for none of the servants know about
Captain Cronin, or even my family that I was coming down here. He gave
me some good advice however. I want to pay the hush money and end it all
forever.”
Shirley had preserved the record and put it away with the others in the
grip. Now he lit a cigarette and puffed several rings of smoke before
answering.
“Van, it must be wonderful to be twins.”
“This is no night for joking,” petulantly, observed the nervous young
man. “I want the girl silenced--”
“She won't open her mouth after I tell her some things. It may entertain
you to know, Van, that while you were getting such good advice from Mr.
Grimsby on this wire, I was talking to the real Mr. Grimsby on his own
wire: he said I was his first caller in more than an hour. So, I gave
him some good advice, which wouldn't interest you. After this don't
believe what the telephone tells.”
“Who was I speaking with?”
“The most brilliant criminal it has ever been my pleasure to run
across,” and his eyes snapped with joy, the huntsman instinct rising to
the surface at last, “I will call him the voice until I know his better
name. He is the most scientific crook of the age.”
“What do you know about criminals?” was the incredulous question.
“I'll know a hundred times as much as I do now, when I know all about
this one, Van. You'd better have Cleary send an armed guard along with
you, and get home for a good rest. Get a man who can drive a car, and
bring back the empty auto three houses away from your residence: it will
bear looking into! I'm going up to have a revival meeting with that girl
now, for I am convinced that she is not a whit more implicated in the
conception or execution of this crime than you are. Good-night.”
Van Cleft left the house, with a pitying shake of the head. He was
not quite certain that he had done wisely, after all, in bringing his
eccentric friend into the affair. He little reckoned how much more
peculiarly Montague Shirley was to act for the remainder of the night.