In his office next morning, Inspector Burke was fuming over the failure
of his conspiracy. He had hoped through this plot to vindicate his
authority, so sadly flaunted by Garson and Mary Turner. Instead of
this much-to-be-desired result from his scheming, the outcome had been
nothing less than disastrous. The one certain fact was that his most
valuable ally in his warfare against the criminals of the city had been
done to death. Some one had murdered Griggs, the stool-pigeon. Where
Burke had meant to serve a man of high influence, Edward Gilder, by
railroading the bride of the magnate's son to prison, he had succeeded
only in making the trouble of that merchant prince vastly worse in
the ending of the affair by arresting the son for the capital crime of
murder. The situation was, in very truth, intolerable. More than ever,
Burke grew hot with intent to overcome the woman who had so persistently
outraged his authority by her ingenious devices against the law. Anyhow,
the murder of Griggs could not go unpunished. The slayer's identity
must be determined, and thereafter the due penalty of the law inflicted,
whoever the guilty person might prove to be. To the discovery of this
identity, the Inspector was at the present moment devoting himself by
adroit questioning of Dacey and Chicago Red, who had been arrested in
one of their accustomed haunts by his men a short time before.
The policeman on duty at the door was the only other person in the room,
and in consequence Burke permitted himself, quite unashamed, to employ
those methods of persuasion which have risen to a high degree of
admiration in police circles.
“Come across now!” he admonished. His voice rolled forth like that of a
bull of Bashan. He was on his feet, facing the two thieves. His head was
thrust forward menacingly, and his eyes were savage. The two men shrank
before him--both in natural fear, and, too, in a furtive policy of their
own. This was no occasion for them to assert a personal pride against
the man who had them in his toils.
“I don't know nothin'!” Chicago Red's voice was between a snarl and a
whine. “Ain't I been telling you that for over an hour?”
Burke vouchsafed no answer in speech, but with a nimbleness surprising
in one of his bulk, gave Dacey, who chanced to be the nearer of the two,
a shove that sent the fellow staggering half-way across the room under
its impetus.
With this by way of appreciable introduction to his seriousness of
purpose, Burke put a question:
“Dacey, how long have you been out?”
The answer came in a sibilant whisper of dread.
“A week.”
Burke pushed the implication brutally.
“Want to go back for another stretch?” The Inspector's voice was
freighted with suggestions of disasters to come, which were well
understood by the cringing wretch before him.
The thief shuddered, and his face, already pallid from the prison lack
of sunlight like some noxious growth of a cellar, became livid. His
words came in a muffled moan of fear.
“God, no!”
Burke left a little interval of silence then in which the thieves
might tremble over the prospect suggested by his words, but always he
maintained his steady, relentless glare on the cowed creatures. It was
a familiar warfare with him. Yet, in this instance, he was destined
to failure, for the men were of a type different from that of English
Eddie, who was lying dead as the meet reward for treachery to his
fellows.... When, at last, his question issued from the close-shut lips,
it came like the crack of a gun.
“Who shot Griggs?”
The reply was a chorus from the two:
“I don't know--honest, I don't!”
In his eagerness, Chicago Red moved toward his questioner--unwisely.
“Honest to Gawd, I don't know nothin' about it!”
The Inspector's fist shot out toward Chicago Red's jaw. The impact was
enough. The thief went to his knees under the blow.
“Now, get up--and talk!” Burke's voice came with unrepentant noisiness
against the stricken man.
Cringingly, Chicago Red, who so gloried in his strength, yet was now
altogether humble in this precarious case, obeyed as far as the getting
to his feet was concerned.... It never occurred to him even that he
should carry his obedience to the point of “squealing on a pal!” Had
the circumstances been different, he might have refused to accept the
Inspector's blow with such meekness, since above all things he loved
a bit of bodily strife with some one near his own strength, and the
Inspector was of a sort to offer him a battle worth while.
So, now, while he got slowly to his feet, he took care to keep at a
respectful distance from the official, though his big hands fairly ached
to double into fists for blows with this man who had so maltreated him.
His own self-respect, of its peculiar sort, was saved by the
interference of Cassidy, who entered the Inspector's office to announce
the arrival of the District Attorney.
“Send 'im in,” Burke directed at once. He made a gesture toward the
doorman, and added: “Take 'em back!”
A grin of evil humor writhed the lips of the police official, and he
added to the attentive doorman a word of direction that might well be
interpreted by the malevolent expression on his face.
“Don't be rough with 'em, Dan,” he said. For once, his dominating
voice was reduced to something approaching softness, in his sardonic
appreciation of his own humor in the conception of what these two men,
who had ventured to resist his importunities, might receive at the hands
of his faithful satellites.... The doorman grinned appreciatively, and
herded his victims from the place. And the two went shamblingly in sure
knowledge of the things that were in store. Yet, without thought of
treachery. They would not “squeal”! All they would tell of the death of
Eddie Griggs would be: “He got what was coming to him!”
The Inspector dropped into his swivel chair at the desk whilst he
awaited the arrival of Demarest, the District Attorney. The greetings
between the two were cordial when at last the public prosecutor made his
appearance.
“I came as soon as I got your message,” the District Attorney said, as
he seated himself in a chair by the desk. “And I've sent word to Mr.
Gilder.... Now, then, Burke, let's have this thing quickly.”
The Inspector's explanation was concise:
“Joe Garson, Chicago Red, and Dacey, along with Griggs, broke into
Edward Gilder's house, last night! I knew the trick was going to be
pulled off, and so I planted Cassidy and a couple of other men just
outside the room where the haul was to be made. Then, I went away,
and after something like half an hour I came back to make the arrests
myself.” A look of intense disgust spread itself over the Inspector's
massive face. “Well,” he concluded sheepishly, “when I broke into the
room I found young Gilder along with that Turner woman he married, and
they were just talking together.”
“No trace of the others?” Demarest questioned crisply.
At the inquiry, Burke's face crimsoned angrily, then again set in grim
lines.
“I found Griggs lying on the floor--dead!” Once again the disgust showed
in his expression. “The Turner woman says young Gilder shot Griggs
because he broke into the house. Ain't that the limit?”
“What does the boy say?” the District Attorney demanded.
Burke shook his head dispiritedly.
“Nothing,” he answered. “She told him not to talk, and so, of course, he
won't, he's such a fool over her.”
“And what does she say?” Demarest asked. He found himself rather amused
by the exceeding chagrin of the Inspector over this affair.
Burke's voice grew savage as he snapped a reply.
“Refuses to talk till she sees a lawyer.” But a touch of cheerfulness
appeared in his tones as he proceeded. “We've got Chicago Red and Dacey,
and we'll have Garson before the day's over. And, oh, yes, they've
picked up a young girl at the Turner woman's place. And we've got one
real clue--for once!” The speaker's expression was suddenly triumphant.
He opened a drawer of the desk, and took out Garson's pistol, to which
the silencer was still attached.
“You never saw a gun like that before, eh?” he exclaimed.
Demarest admitted the fact after a curious examination.
“I'll bet you never did!” Burke cried, with satisfaction. “That thing
on the end is a Maxim silencer. There are thousands of them in use on
rifles, but they've never been able to use them on revolvers before.
This is a specially made gun,” he went on admiringly, as he took it
back and slipped it into a pocket of his coat. “That thing is absolutely
noiseless. I've tried it. Well, you see, it'll be an easy thing--easiest
thing in the world!--to trace that silencer attachment. Cassidy's
working on that end of the thing now.”
For a few minutes longer, the two men discussed the details of the
crime, theorizing over the baffling event. Then, presently, Cassidy
entered the office, and made report of his investigations concerning the
pistol with the silencer attachment.
“I got the factory at Hartford on the wire,” he explained, “and they
gave me Mr. Maxim himself, the inventor of the silencer. He said this
was surely a special gun, which was made for the use of Henry Sylvester,
one of the professors at Yale. He wanted it for demonstration purposes.
Mr. Maxim said the things have never been put on the market, and that
they never will be.”
“For humane reasons,” Demarest commented, nodding approbation.
“Good thing, too!” Burke conceded. “They'd make murder too devilish
easy, and it's easy enough now.... Well, Cassidy?”
“I got hold of this man, Sylvester,” Cassidy went on. “I had him on the
'phone, too. He says that his house was robbed about eight weeks ago,
and among other things the silencer was stolen.” Cassidy paused, and
chuckled drily. “He adds the startling information that the New Haven
police have not been able to recover any of the stolen property. Them
rube cops are immense!”
Demarest smiled slyly, as the detective, at a nod from his superior,
went toward the door.
“No,” he said, maliciously; “only the New York police recover stolen
goods.”
“Good-night!” quoth Cassidy, turning at the door, in admission of his
discomfiture over the thrust, while Burke himself grinned wryly in
appreciation of the gibe.
Demarest grew grave again, as he put the question that was troubling him
most.
“Is there any chance that young Gilder did shoot Griggs?”
“You can search me!” the Inspector answered, disconsolately. “My men
were just outside the door of the room where Eddie Griggs was shot to
death, and none of 'em heard a sound. It's that infernal silencer thing.
Of course, I know that all the gang was in the house.”
“But tell me just how you know that fact,” Demarest objected very
crisply. “Did you see them go in?”
“No, I didn't,” the Inspector admitted, tartly. “But Griggs----”
Demarest permitted himself a sneer born of legal knowledge.
“Griggs is dead, Burke. You're up against it. You can't prove that
Garson, or Chicago Red, or Dacey, ever entered that house.”
The Inspector scowled over this positive statement.
“But Griggs said they were going to,” he argued.
“I know,” Demarest agreed, with an exasperating air of shrewdness; “but
Griggs is dead. You see, Burke, you couldn't in a trial even repeat what
he told you. It's not permissible evidence.”
“Oh, the law!” the Inspector snorted, with much choler. “Well, then,” he
went on belligerently, “I'll charge young Gilder with murder, and call
the Turner woman as a witness.”
The District Attorney laughed aloud over this project.
“You can't question her on the witness-stand,” he explained
patronizingly to the badgered police official. “The law doesn't allow
you to make a wife testify against her husband. And, what's more, you
can't arrest her, and then force her to go into the witness-stand,
either. No, Burke,” he concluded emphatically, “your only chance of
getting the murderer of Griggs is by a confession.”
“Then, I'll charge them both with the murder,” the Inspector growled
vindictively. “And, by God, they'll both go to trial unless somebody
comes through.” He brought his huge fist down on the desk with violence,
and his voice was forbidding. “If it's my last act on earth,” he
declared, “I'm going to get the man who shot Eddie Griggs.”
Demarest was seriously disturbed by the situation that had developed. He
was under great personal obligations to Edward Gilder, whose influence
in fact had been the prime cause of his success in attaining to the
important official position he now held, and he would have gone far
to serve the magnate in any difficulty that might arise. He had been
perfectly willing to employ all the resources of his office to relieve
the son from the entanglement with a woman of unsavory notoriety. Now,
thanks to the miscarried plotting of Burke to the like end, what before
had been merely a vicious state of affairs was become one of the utmost
dreadfulness. The worst of crimes had been committed in the house of
Edward Gilder himself, and his son acknowledged himself as the murderer.
The District Attorney felt a genuine sorrow in thinking of the anguish
this event must have brought on the father. He had, as well, sympathy
enough for the son. His acquaintance with the young man convinced him
that the boy had not done the deed of bloody violence. In that fact was
a mingling of comfort and of anxiety. It had been better, doubtless,
if indeed Dick had shot Griggs, had indicted a just penalty on a
housebreaker. But the District Attorney was not inclined to credit the
confession. Burke's account of the plot in which the stool-pigeon had
been the agent offered too many complications. Altogether, the aspect of
the case served to indicate that Dick could not have been the slayer....
Demarest shook his head dejectedly.
“Burke,” he said, “I want the boy to go free. I don't believe for a
minute that Dick Gilder ever killed this pet stool-pigeon of yours. And,
so, you must understand this: I want him to go free, of course.”
Burke frowned refusal at this suggestion. Here was a matter in which his
rights must not be invaded. He, too, would have gone far to serve a man
of Edward Gilder's standing, but in this instance his professional pride
was in revolt. He had been defied, trapped, made a victim of the gang
who had killed his most valued informer.
“The youngster'll go free when he tells what he knows,” he said angrily,
“and not a minute before.” His expression lightened a little. “Perhaps
the old gentleman can make him talk. I can't. He's under that woman's
thumb, of course, and she's told him he mustn't say a word. So, he
don't.” A grin of half-embarrassed appreciation moved the heavy jaws as
he glanced at the District Attorney. “You see,” he explained, “I can't
make him talk, but I might if circumstances were different. On account
of his being the old man's son, I'm a little cramped in my style.”
It was, in truth, one thing to browbeat and assault a convict like Dacey
or Chicago Red, but quite another to employ the like violence against
a youth of Dick Gilder's position in the world. Demarest understood
perfectly, but he was inclined to be sceptical over the Inspector's
theory that Dick possessed actual cognizance as to the killing of
Griggs.
“You think that young Gilder really knows?” he questioned, doubtfully.
“I don't think anything--yet!” Burke retorted. “All I know is this:
Eddie Griggs, the most valuable crook that ever worked for me, has been
murdered.” The official's voice was charged with threatening as he went
on. “And some one, man or woman, is going to pay for it!”
“Woman?” Demarest repeated, in some astonishment.
Burke's voice came merciless.
“I mean, Mary Turner,” he said slowly.
Demarest was shocked.
“But, Burke,” he expostulated, “she's not that sort.” The Inspector
sneered openly.
“How do you know she ain't?” he demanded. “Well, anyhow, she's made a
monkey out of the Police Department, and, first, last, and all the time,
I'm a copper... And that reminds me,” he went on with a resumption of
his usual curt bluntness, “I want you to wait for Mr. Gilder outside,
while I get busy with the girl they've brought down from Mary Turner's
flat.”