ASHTON-KIRK VISITS HEADQUARTERS
For a moment Bat Scanlon stood looking at the disguised investigator, an
expression of almost incredulity upon his face.
"I see it's you!" spoke he. "But, just the same, I feel like denying
it."
Ashton-Kirk smiled. However, he made no reply, but stepped up on the
chair which Scanlon had just vacated and looked through the transom.
When he got down there was an amused look upon his face.
"Your friend, the burglar, seems quite a capable person," said he. "That
hole he's making in the wall is a very neat job. But," and he shrugged
his shoulders, "he will have his labor for his pains."
"How do you know?" asked Bat.
"Because I went through the room they are breaking into an hour ago--and
the thing they are looking for is not there."
Bat mopped his forehead.
"Well," said he, "I'll admit this is all a kind of a whirligig to me.
I'm in it, and I'm losing none of the motion, but what's turning the
thing is more than I can make out." He looked at Ashton-Kirk. "What
place is this?" he asked.
"It's a lodging-house, kept by a Mrs. Dolan. And it happened that
several lines of action converged here. But," and he took the automatic
from the bed where he had thrown it and thrust it into his pocket,
"there is nothing more to be done here, so we may just as well go while
the gentlemen across the hall are still absorbed."
He put on a shabby coat, and with a worn hat pulled well down upon his
head, he opened the door and took a look out into the hall.
"Quick, now!" said he to Scanlon. "It's important that you should not be
seen, for your acquaintance with these people may be valuable still."
Bat slipped through the doorway and down the hall, and when Ashton-Kirk
followed a few moments later, he found the big man awaiting him in the
shadows of the alley.
"Where to?" asked Bat.
"There is a taxi station near here," said the investigator; "we'll need
a cab."
They walked through the silent street and finally saw the illuminated
sign of a garage; they got into a cab, Ashton-Kirk saying:
"Police headquarters."
The taxi rolled rapidly on its way; block after block was passed. Bat
endeavored to reopen the matter of his finding the investigator in the
house they had just left, but Ashton-Kirk did not seem disposed to talk;
he sat in one corner of the cab, apparently deep in thought. At length
they brought up before the enormous pile in which the police, together
with other municipal departments, had their headquarters. Their feet
echoed hollowly as they walked through the marble corridor; a drowsy
elevator man ran them up to the desired floor, and in a moment more they
were in the department devoted to the detective branch of the police.
A man with a deeply-marked face and iron-gray hair sat at a desk.
"Hello, Scanlon!" greeted he, affably.
"How are you, Sarge?" replied Bat. "Doing your little night trick, eh?"
"Yes." The old plain-clothes man yawned a little. "Nothing exciting in
it, either; hasn't been a thing stirred since I came on." Then with an
indication of interest: "But maybe you've got something that'll help
keep us awake."
"Osborne," said Ashton-Kirk. "Is he here?"
The old headquarters man bent his brows at the shabby figure; the
slouch, the leering look, the head aggressively thrust forward, marked
it plainly as of the class against which he had been pitted for years.
"Yes," he replied, briefly.
"We'd like to see him."
"Right through the door," said the veteran detective.
The two passed through the door indicated, and saw the burly figure of
Osborne, comfortably installed in an easy chair, reading a newspaper.
"Hello," said he, sitting erect. "That you, Scanlon?"
"Me, with a friend." Bat grinned, highly entertained. "He wants to have
a little talk with you, I think."
Osborne examined the figure before him attentively. Ashton-Kirk leaned
against the office rail, his hands in his pockets, the rat-like thief to
the life. The detective examined him carefully, but no ray of
recognition came into his face. Then, like throwing off a garment,
Ashton-Kirk allowed the mannerisms he had assumed to drop from him.
Osborne at once sat erect with a laugh of pleasure at his own lack of
penetration.
"Good!" said he. "You almost fooled me." He arose and shook the
criminologist's hand. "But what's the idea?"
"I've just been paying a little visit," replied Ashton-Kirk. He seated
himself upon the edge of a desk. "Anything new?" he asked.
"Not much. We've still got young Burton, of course, but he's about as
close-mouthed a proposition as I ever had anything to do with. He says
he isn't guilty, but that's all he _will_ say. We've given our evidence
to the district attorney's office, and they'll pass it on to the Grand
Jury in a few days."
"You've still got it in your mind that he's the person you want, have
you?"
Osborne crossed one leg over the other and put his thumbs in the
armholes of his vest.
"I have," acknowledged he. "I've had a good bit of experience in these
things, and it looks pretty straight to me. We've got the motive, all
right, and it's a strong one. I think a good case can be built up around
that, the candlestick and the testimony of the maid and nurse. As a
matter of fact," with professional complacence, "I've seen more than one
man go to the chair with less evidence against him."
"But suppose there were some other little points to be taken into
consideration?" asked Ashton-Kirk. "As I see it, you are restricting
yourself to a very narrow field. The sort of life the Bounder led is
well known to every one. Do you suppose he was without enemies? Is it
not possible that others may have had motives for dealing the blow that
ended his life?"
Osborne nodded his head, but his comfortable attitude did not change.
"Sure," said he. "That's so. I've no doubt that Tom Burton, in his
time, double-crossed a dozen 'guns' that would have been only too glad
of a chance to 'get' him. But they didn't do it; no one but the man
we've got had the chance that night. They weren't near enough."
The investigator bent toward the speaker, his eyes steadily upon his
face.
"How sure are you of that?" said he.
Osborne took his thumbs from the armholes of his vest
"I'm certain," he replied. "There wasn't any one around but them we know
of. And that being the case there couldn't be----"
But Ashton-Kirk stopped him.
"Just one moment! Don't you think you are rather offhand in saying 'and
that being the case'? Are you quite sure that it is the case?"
Osborne pulled himself up straight in his chair and stared at the
investigator. Bat Scanlon, watching and listening, felt a little stir of
excitement as he realized what his friend was about.
"He's getting him worked up into a state of doubt," was Bat's opinion.
"In a minute he'll have him so he won't know what he believes."
However, there was more than this in the big athlete's thoughts. The way
Ashton-Kirk took to bring doubt to the mind of the headquarters man
awoke a vague distrust in that of Scanlon. The question of motive filled
him with uneasiness--that as to the likelihood of a person other than
young Burton being near enough to strike the death blow, turned him cold
and helpless.
"You've got something on your mind," said Osborne to the investigator.
He arose to his feet and stood with shoulders squared and legs very wide
apart. "What's it all about?"
From his coat pocket Ashton-Kirk drew a glittering little revolver.
"I picked this up on the lawn at No. 620 Duncan Street the morning I
went over the place," said he, quietly.
The big headquarters man almost snatched the weapon from his hand, so
disturbed was he at this announcement. With greedy eyes he inspected it.
"Smith & Wesson," said he. "Twenty-two calibre, five chambers, all
loaded." He stood weighing the revolver in his hand and looking at the
investigator. "Anything more?" he asked.
"I saw undoubted indications of a woman's presence--a woman who had been
lurking outside the house and peering in at the window of the room in
which the Bounder was killed."
"A woman!" Quick excitement was in Osborne's face. "Why, one of the
first things I said when the news came in was----" He stopped, a frown
wrinkled his brow and he shook his head. "Indications are one thing, but
proof is another," he said. "Suppose it was shown that a woman _was_
hanging around outside the house that night?--suppose she carried this
gun? What would that get us? She wasn't inside--therefore she couldn't
have killed the Bounder. And then, again, the man was killed by a blow
on the head. He wasn't shot."
Ashton-Kirk shrugged his shoulders with the air of one who had relieved
himself of a responsibility.
"I'm merely pointing out these facts to you," he said. "Of course you
can do with them what you like."
With a nod to Scanlon, he was ready to go. Osborne stopped them at the
door and asked a half dozen questions, all bearing pointedly upon what
the investigator had just told him.
"All right," said he. "Thanks. This looks as though it'd be of little
use; but then it doesn't do any harm to know all you can about a case."
Bat Scanlon heard the investigator chuckle as they got into the waiting
taxi.
"It would be a safe gamble that he will be out at Stanwick in the
morning looking over those places he has neglected heretofore," laughed
Ashton-Kirk, as the driver slammed the door shut after them and started
toward the destination given him.
Bat, anxious of eye, and with lips grimly pressed together, was silent
for a space, and then he said:
"What was the idea of telling the 'bulls' those things? You don't give
your clues away as a rule."
Again Ashton-Kirk laughed.
"I don't think headquarters will go very far on what indications they
get from the lawn at this stage," said he, drily. "So I don't anticipate
much interference from them. And," with a nod of the head which told
Scanlon everything and nothing, "I have a little theory which I desire
to try out. And I expect an answer within twenty-four hours."