THE VOICE OVER THE WIRE
"I don't know how it escaped me before, except that the hall was so
dark," muttered Peter, angrily, to himself, as he closed the door upon
the Italian's hurried departure.
Hastily he took a small but powerful electric hand-light from his
pocket and flashed it slowly all about. The door showed no further
traces, inside or out, but on the floor, which was stained dark brown
and heavily waxed, there were two or three dull, round spots. Peter
tested them with moistened forefinger, and held up his hand to Morris.
The end of the finger was stained red.
Swiftly he proceeded down the hall, flashing his torch back and forth
close to the floor. As he came opposite the door of the room which had
been used as a storeroom or closet, Morris who, white to the lips, had
followed closely, heard him give a little grunt of satisfaction and saw
him drop to his knees.
"Plenty of it here," said Clancy, pointing, and he flashed the light so
as to bring out a large, dull blot upon the softly shining wax of the
floor. "And here! and here!" he added, indicating smaller spots just
beyond on the floor and one, showing dark red, on the white baseboard.
A moment later he rose. Rapidly and thoroughly he inspected the entire
apartment, flashing his hand-torch into all the dark corners. Morris,
silent and apprehensive, followed him, closely watching every movement.
They found nothing more, and returning to the living room, Peter stood
for several moments before the window, lost in thought. At last he
turned to Donald Morris and said:
"I won't try to put anything over on you, Mr. Morris. The detective
who's able to dope out everything in a complicated case by looking at a
little bunch of ashes doesn't exist. You can take it from me," with a
wry smile, "there ain't no such animal.... Frankly, I'm at a loss. How
serious this thing is, it's impossible for me to say. But it looks like
a pretty ugly combination of circumstances, I'll go that far.... If you
want to go on with the proposition--and I take it for granted that you
do----"
"I do, I must!" There was no uncertainty in Donald's tone.
"Well, then, our best bet is to get busy tracing Miss Blake and her
sister. We're only wasting time. Apparently there's nobody here who
knows anything about where they might have gone, who their friends are,
or----"
Both men started violently. In the stillness of the room a telephone
bell rang out, loudly, insistently.
Peter faced swiftly about to the instrument which stood on a small
stand to the left of the door into the hall. With a leap he reached it,
caught the receiver off the hook, and held it to his ear.
"9282 Sturdevant?" a voice intoned over the wire.
Peter glanced at the little plate over the mouth-piece and replied at
once:
"9282 Sturdevant. Who's calling?"
"Just a moment," came the honeyed reply. "Here's your party."
"Somebody calling this apartment, all right." Holding his hand over the
transmitter, Peter spoke to Donald Morris, whose face was a study in
anxiety and excitement.
There was an instant's silence; then along the wires came another
voice, clear and resonant, deep and full, though whether that of a man
or woman Peter could not be sure.
"Anne," it said. "Anne! Are you there?"
Morris was surprised at Clancy's answering tone. It was low and gentle,
not at all like his usual voice.
"Who's calling?" Clancy repeated, softly.
"Why, Anne! You know. You----" Evidently Peter's attempt at
dissimulation was not entirely successful, for the voice went on,
sharply--"What number is this?" and waited, necessitating a reply.
"This is 9282 Sturdevant. Whom are you calling?"
"I'm calling Miss Anne Blake," was the quick response. "Is she there,
and who are you?"
"Miss Anne isn't here now," said Peter, smoothly. "Can I take a
message?"
He thought there was a note of alarm in the reply--"No. No. I want to
find Anne Blake. I want to speak to her at once."
"Would Miss Mary do?" asked Peter.
He was sure that there was a quickly restrained gasp at the other end
of the wire. Then the voice said, peremptorily:
"I want to know who this is speaking from Miss Blake's apartment."
"Who is it wishes to know?" Peter countered.
There was a pause. Peter waited.... The pause lengthened and Peter
again spoke into the transmitter--
"Hello, hello!"
No answer.
Peter waited a moment and then moved the receiver up and down on the
hook without effect. At last--
"Operator," came in a dulcet voice over the wire.
"Connect me with that party again," cried Peter, urgently. "You've cut
us off."
"What number was it, please?"
"I don't know," fiercely. "See if you can trace it. And hurry!" and
Peter waited, holding the receiver to his ear.
"Who was it?" cried Morris, unable to restrain his anxiety.
"I don't know, dammit!" said Peter, vehemently. "I'm afraid I've made
a fool of myself. Somebody calling Miss Anne Blake, and they shied
off when they found she wasn't here. I wish to God I knew who it was.
Anybody that knows her well enough to call her 'Anne'.... It must have
been a friend who might know something that would help! And they cut
off, I'm sure. Purposely. Oh----"
"Here's your party," said the operator in his ear.
"Maybe it's all right," said Clancy, hopefully, to Morris. "They've got
the connection again. Hello! Who is this?"
"Vanderbilt Hotel," came the prompt answer.
"Will you please find out for me who just called Sturdevant 9282, and
get them on the wire again?"
Peter repeated the name of the hotel to Donald Morris and both men
waited anxiously. It seemed an age before the information came back--
"Party spoke from a public booth. We don't know who it was. Sorry."
Peter hung up the receiver with an angry click and turned to Morris,
repeating the answer he had just received.
"It's a damn shame," he went on. "I'd give a good deal to know who
it is that's worried about Anne Blake just now. The man or woman,
whichever it was, that just called was pretty well fussed up and afraid
of making a break. And now it's all off!... Well--it leaves us about
where we were before we were so rudely interrupted. There's nothing to
do but to start tracing Miss Blake and her sister from here--and the
sooner we begin, the quicker we'll find them."
"But where can we start? We know nothing of their movements," said
Donald, in a tone of deep discouragement.
"Pardon me," said Clancy. "We do know something, though I admit it's
not much. We may infer, I think, that there was someone in this
apartment, probably as late as five o'clock yesterday.... That was
Sunday ... and if there was any luggage, which almost undoubtedly there
was, it means a cab, since it would have been impossible to get an
expressman.... Miss Blake didn't have a car of her own by any chance?"
he asked, on sudden thought.
"No," replied Morris, eagerly, his anxiety slightly mitigated by
the prospect of immediate action. "But I happen to know that she
habitually used a taxi from a garage over near Sixth Avenue. She spoke
once about how reliable they were. Let me see.... The name was ...
Horton--no--Holden?... No, I can't be sure. But I know the place. We
passed it coming from the theatre and she pointed it out to me." He
rose, excitedly. "Come on. I'll show you where it is," and he caught
Peter's arm in a nervous grip.
"That's good news," cried Peter, enthusiastically. "Now we'll begin.
But there's something I must do before we go. I may want to come in
here without disturbing our friend, Angelo. It won't take a minute."
He drew a small piece of wax from his pocket and began working it up in
his fingers, while Morris watched him, his impatience somewhat tempered
by curiosity.
"Carry a lot of odd things about with me," Clancy explained. "Need
almost as many as a first-class burglar. You see," he went on, as with
practised fingers he took an impression, in the wax, of the key Angelo
had left with him. "You never can tell when a thing'll come in handy. I
may need it and then, of course, I may not. But it's just as well to be
prepared." He put the model carefully away in a small case and returned
the case to his pocket. "Now I'm ready," he added, briskly, catching
up his hat from a table just inside the door of the living room. And
without further words the two men hastily closed the door, made sure
that it was fast, and descended the stairs at a run.
Peter called to Angelo from the top of the basement stairs, delivered
the key, and joining Morris, who waited impatiently at the door, they
passed out into the busy streets.
The noise of traffic increased as they neared Sixth Avenue, and Peter
Clancy, whose susceptibilities and intuitions were preternaturally
keen, contrasted the busy roar and rattle and movement of many people
with the silence and aloofness of the still place they had just left.
Somehow, he had the certain intuition that those quiet walls had
sheltered a tragic situation, unexplained and, perhaps, unexplainable.
The mere fact that he had so little to go upon piqued his vivid
curiosity and brought up every reserve of his fighting Irish instincts.
He swore to himself that he would solve this enigma, that he would find
out every detail of this strange situation, if it took "till Kingdom
Come."
His feeling was greatly enhanced by the personality of the man who
was hurrying by his side. No one who had ever been admitted, in any
degree, to Donald Morris's confidence had failed to feel his remarkable
charm. Peter had seen him in an hour of great stress, when every mere
conventionality had been swept away, and a very real personal desire to
be of service was the result of this glimpse of the actual man.
These thoughts passed rapidly through the mind of the young
detective as they hurried along the streets. They had not far to
go, as the garage in question was east of Sixth Avenue, in one of
the cross streets, just above Washington Square. Morris led the way
unhesitatingly.
"There it is," he said as they turned the corner. "Hammond's Garage. I
knew it began with an H. Miss Blake has used this garage exclusively
for some time. They'll be sure to know----"
"Let's go a bit easy," said Clancy, with his hand on Donald's arm. "We
don't want to get up more excitement than is absolutely necessary.
Suppose you leave it to me."
Morris nodded a ready acquiescence, and promptly abandoning his place
as leader, followed Peter into the little office, beside the big door
of the garage.
"Good morning," said Peter, pleasantly, to a heavily built man, who
turned his swivel chair away from his desk at their approach and
regarded them with the calm of a man whose business came to him without
strenuous effort. "Is this Mr. Hammond?" Peter continued.
"It is," said the man, shifting a large, unlighted cigar to the
opposite corner of his mouth.
"My name's Clancy," Peter went on. "I just dropped in on an errand for
Miss Blake--Ninety-nine Waverly Place, you know." He wished to make
sure that this was the right garage and waited for the affirmative nod
which immediately followed. "Miss Blake wants to know," he continued,
smoothly, "why you didn't send the taxi for her yesterday at five."
Mr. Hammond's composure was slightly shaken. He frowned and ponderously
swung about to the desk. He opened a large book which lay upon it and
ran his finger down the entries of a page dated May twenty-eighth.
Frowning still more, he shook his head and called loudly--
"Joe!"
Immediately an overalled mechanic, with a long smear of black grease on
his nose, appeared at the door.
"Yep."
"Did you get a call for Ninety-nine Waverly any time yesterday
afternoon?"
"I did not."
"You're sure?"
"I am that." There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in the tone.
Donald Morris looked quickly at Clancy, but Clancy was entirely
occupied with the two garage men.
"Well, that's funny," said Peter, with a puzzled frown. "Miss Blake was
very much annoyed when your taxi didn't come, and she had to get one
from--where was it now? She told me, but I can't remember. What's the
name of another public garage near here?"
"I don't think there is any decent one anywhere near here except
mine, but there's a cab stand at the Lafayette. Maybe she got it from
there. It would be the nearest place. Anyhow, Mr.--Mr. Clancy, you can
bet we didn't get the call, or we'd'a' been on the job. We've been
drivin' Miss Blake for a couple of years or more and we're always very
particular, anyway. Let's see----" Hammond again referred to his book.
"We took Ninety-nine Waverly to the theatre Saturday evening at seven
forty-five, but we didn't have a call to get her after the performance
that night.... No. The last is May twenty-seventh at seven forty-five.
Nothing after that." He glanced at the mechanic who was waiting at
the door. "All right, Joe," with a nod of dismissal, and the man
disappeared.
"I can't explain it," Hammond turned to Peter, "only we didn't get the
call, and I wisht you'd tell Miss Blake so. Joe's been here for a long
time and he's very careful. Never knew him to make a mistake. Them
darned telephone operators might have given her the wrong number and
somebody thought they'd play a joke by sayin' they'd come for her. I
can't think how else----"
"Well, it's a mistake, then," said Peter, pleasantly, "and I'll tell
Miss Blake--when I see her. Sorry to have troubled you," and with an
apologetic wave of the hand, he took Donald Morris by the arm and led
him, disappointed and perplexed, into the street.
"Cheer up," said Peter, as he turned him eastward. "Don't get
discouraged. We've only just begun. This may be a long chase and, as I
said, we'll have to trust a good deal to luck. I'm not disappointed a
whole lot, as I had a kind of a hunch that the cab might not have come
from a place where Miss Blake was well known. We'll try the Lafayette,
since it's so near, and if we don't find anything there, I'll get my
partner, O'Malley, on the 'phone and we'll comb the city for that cab."
"Like looking for a needle in a haystack," muttered Morris, wearily.
"Oh, not so bad as that," said Peter. "We've got that sort of thing
pretty well systematized. It may take a little time, but we're bound
to find a cab, unless they left on foot, with only hand luggage, and
that's hardly probable, is it?"
"No, it doesn't seem probable," Morris said, after a pause. "And they
couldn't get an expressman on Sunday, of course.... Miss Blake expected
to spend the summer in town ... and she was here Saturday night,
late.... She wouldn't have sent her trunks beforehand.... It was a
sudden resolution...."
They were making their way eastward at a rapid rate, and in a
few minutes they reached University Place and the pleasant old
Lafayette.... He and Mary had dined there several times, Morris
remembered with an inward groan, in some secluded corner where the
lights were dim. Always she had avoided attracting attention, never
seeking the public eye, except upon the stage. Unlike most actresses,
she had even been averse to being photographed. He could remember only
a few portraits which had been taken at the beginning of her career.
Her face would be familiar to those who had seen her on the stage, but
to few others. The thought troubled him now, since it would add to the
difficulty of tracing her.
Clancy had left him upon the sidewalk at the entrance of the hotel.
Running up the steps, the detective had exchanged a few words with
the doorman. After that he had spoken to several of the taxi drivers
lined up along the curb. Suddenly he turned, and beckoning excitedly to
Morris, took a few rapid steps in his direction.
"The luck of the Irish!" Peter exclaimed, joyfully, as the two young
men met. "You can't beat it! I've found the man."
"No!" cried Morris, eagerly.
"Yes!" said Peter with emphasis. "The next to the last man on the line,
the one I just spoke to, took a lady and a trunk from Ninety-nine
Waverly Place a little after five yesterday afternoon. Come on, and
we'll get the rest!"