Whispering Wires

  E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed ProofreadingTeam (https://www.fadedpage.net)

  WHISPERING WIRES

  Adapted from the _Saturday Evening Post_ Story of the Same Title

  by

  HENRY LEVERAGE

  New YorkGrosset & DunlapPublishers

  Copyright, 1918,byMoffat, Yard & Company

  First printing . . . . September, 1918Second printing . . . . September, 1918Third printing . . . . October, 1918

  DEDICATED

  TO

  ONE WHO HELPED

  CONTENTS

  I "The Whispering Voice" 1 II "The Magpie" 15 III "The Man in Olive-Drab" 31 IV "The Murder" 46 V "The First Clews" 59 VI "Harry Nichols" 74 VII "The Spot of Black" 89 VIII "Tangled Wires" 107 IX "Men and Motives" 124 X "A Woman Calls" 144 XI "The Closing Net" 181 XII "Suspicion Fastens" 202 XIII "A Silent Prisoner" 222 XIV "The Prisoner Speaks" 239 XV "The Voice on the Wire" 260 XVI "The End" 277

  WHISPERING WIRES

  CHAPTER ONE

  "THE WHISPERING VOICE"

  In the greatest city of the modern world, in the Metropolis of Guiltand Guile--where Alias and Alibi ride in gum-shod limousines while MarySmith of the pure heart walks the pavements with broken shoes--there isa mansion so rich and so rare that it stands alone.

  Turret and tower, green-bronze roof, Cararra-marbled portico andiron-grilled gates brought from Hyderabad, have made this mansion theshow place and the Peri's paradise for those who parade the Avenuecalled Fifth, in an unending sash of fashion.

  Out from this palace at the close of a winter's day, there flashed thetiny pulsations of voice-induced currents of electricity which reachedthe telephone-central, were plugged upon the proper undergroundpaper-insulated wires and entered, even as the voice was speaking, thecloud-hung office of Detective Drew.

  Triggy Drew, as he was called, was dark, stout and forty-one years ofage to a month. He crooked his elbow, removed his cigar and pressed thetelephone-receiver to his ear.

  The voice that came over the whispering wires was as clear as a bellwithin a bell. It said:

  "Montgomery Stockbridge wants you."

  Drew hung up the telephone-receiver. He replaced the cigar in hismouth. He wheeled in his chair and pressed a buzzer. To the operativewho entered he said:

  "Delaney, watch things while I'm gone. I'm called up-town!"

  The operative reached and handed Drew his coat. He took theswivel-chair before the desk, as his chief clapped on a hat, turned hiseyes toward the ground-glass door, and passed out with a brisk stride.

  "It's a big case," said Delaney leaning back. "Triggy is on somebody'strail. Maybe German--maybe not!"

  Drew nodded to the waiting operatives in the outer room of the suite.He swung into the hallway with his brown eyes glowing like a man whowalked out of realism into romance.

  The elevator plumbed eighteen stories. The corridor was clear. A taxistood at the curb. Into this Drew stepped, gave the address and wasgently seated as the driver released his brake, set the meter, anddropped through first, second and into third speed.

  Past Wall Street the taxi flashed. It rounded toward the Bowery, whichshowed that the driver knew his map. It struck up through the cartracks, across to Washington Park and there took the long longitude ofFifth Avenue as the shortest and quickest way up-town.

  Drew had no eye for the passers-by. He was repeating two words over andover like a novice counting the same beads. Montgomery Stockbridge wasa name to conjure with in the Bagdad of Seven Million. He had made manyenemies and much money. His wealth ran well above seven figures.

  The taxi came to a gliding halt. Drew stepped out in front of a church.He tossed the driver two one-dollar bills and some silver. He waited asthe taxi merged in the traffic. He turned and glanced keenly up anddown the Avenue. Then he hurried north for one square, paused beforethe mansion of turrets and towers, and pressed a button which was setin the doorway.

  The door opened to a crack, then wide. A butler barred the way. To himDrew said, "Mr. Stockbridge sent for me."

  The butler bowed with old world civility. He took the detective's hatand coat. He waited until Drew removed his gloves. He bowed for asecond time and led the way over rugs whose pile was as thick as somePersian temple's. They came finally, after an aisle of old masters, tothe inner circle of latter-day finance and money-wizardry--thecelebrated library of Montgomery Stockbridge.

  The Munition Magnate sat there. He turned as the butler announced thedetective. He shot a gray-thatched pair of eyes up and over a mahoganytable upon which a white envelope lay. He smiled coldly. His thumbjerked toward a leather chair into which Drew sank and leaned hiselbows upon the table.

  Stockbridge coughed dryly. He blinked and studied the detective's facefor a long minute. He glanced from the envelope up at a cone of roselight which hung from a cluster of electric-globes. His expression,seen in this light, was like an aged lion brought to bay. His wrinkledskin was tawny. His hands coiled and uncoiled like claws. They movedprehensilely, as though cobwebs were in that perfumed air of wealth andsecurity. They poised over the envelope as if to snatch the secret ordelusion hidden there.

  "See that letter!" declared the Munition Magnate, closing his fist andbanging the table. "See it? D'ye see it?"

  Drew widened his eyes at the outburst. He crossed his legs and nodded.

  "It's blackmail!" Stockbridge snarled. "Rank-scented blackmail of thecheapest order."

  "A threat of some kind?"

  "Threat? Yes--a threat, in a way. It's clever, but it won't _work_ withme!"

  Drew recrossed his legs. He touched his short-cropped mustache with thefingers of his right hand. He coughed as in suggestion. His browslifted as he studied the envelope from a distance.

  Stockbridge snatched it up suddenly. He slapped it against the edge ofthe polished table. He turned and found a cigar to his liking out ofmany in a humidor beneath a smaller table at the right of his chair. Hebit on this cigar, struck a match, and dragged in the smoke with deepinhalings before he turned and opened the envelope, exposing a letterwhich he rapped with the knuckles of his left hand.

  "I'll beg to be excused," he said half-apologetically. "I'm not myself.This letter, you know. I want you to ferret it out. I want you to findout who sent it, and make him or her pay. Make them pay in full!"

  "May I see it?"

  Stockbridge hesitated. His eyes ran across the paper. His lips curledin an ugly, thin-visaged smile which wrinkled his yellow face. "See it?Yes!" he snapped, volplaning the sheet across the table with a viciousjerk of his wrist.

  "Ridgewood Cemetery," said Drew lifting the letter. "Heading, RidgewoodCemetery," he repeated softly. "Dated yesterday," he added with a slyglance at Stockbridge. "Signed by the superintendent, I suppose. Yes,by the superintendent. He scrawls worse than I do. Well, it looksofficial and smells--ah!"

  Stockbridge worked his brows up and down like a gorilla. He chewed onhis cigar with savage grinding of gold-filled teeth.

  "Smells graveyardy," continued Drew. "I get flowers and urns andnew-turned earth. This seems to be the bare announcement that the graveyou ordered dug in the family plot--is ready and waiting." Drew glancedup.

  "Quite so," sneered the Magnate.

  Drew stroked his upper lip. He turned the letter over. He held it tothe rose-light and studied the water-mark. He raised his black browsand said sepulchrally:

  "Who is dead?"

  Stockbridge stiffened. "Dead?" he exclaimed. "Why, nobody is dead! Damnit, Drew, there's nobod
y dead at all!"

  The detective frowned. "Somebody in the immediate family?" hequestioned. "Somebody you are expecting to pass away soon? Some one ontheir sick-bed, for instance?"

  Stockbridge snatched the cigar from his mouth and threw it to the rug."That letter's a stab, Drew!" he exclaimed. "It's a damn insult to meand mine, if you want to know. I'll have the author of it, or know thereason why. I'll spend fifty thousand to catch the miscreants. They'llnot monkey with me!"

  "The writer of this seems to be the superintendent."

  "Yes--that part's all right. He knows nothing save what you see there.This threat concerns Loris and I. We are the only two who will ever beburied in our family plot."

  "What does she know? Has she seen this letter?"

  "Yes!"

  "Knows nothing about it?"

  "Nothing."

  "Has no enemies?"

  "Certainly not! She's just a girl!" The Magnate's eyes softenedslightly. He glanced around for a cigar.

  Drew laid the letter on the table. "It seems to me," he said, "that youhave not explained everything. When did you get this letter, Mr.Stockbridge? What time did it arrive?"

  "It came in the late mail last night. I showed it to Loris at supper.Then I called up the cemetery people this morning. Got thesuperintendent. He said that 'Dr. Conroy'--our family physician--'hadphoned him and ordered the grave dug.' Said, 'A death was about tooccur in the Stockbridge family.' Conroy never sent any such message!"

  "Umph!" broke in Drew.

  "Yes! He assured me of it. Was terribly put out!"

  "It seems to me," said Drew, "that the entire matter is a practicaljoke of the low order. I see nothing else to it--so far. It isn't evenclever."

  "I'm not so sure," Stockbridge said huskily. "It may be _very_ clever.It may mean that death is coming--to me or to Loris. There's men inthis city who are capable of anything!"

  The break in the Magnate's voice brought Drew to the edge of his chair.

  "Whom do you suspect?" he asked professionally. "Motive goes beforecrime--you know. Sometimes a warning is sent--more often there is none.Clever men do not telegraph a blow."

  "I suspect the whole city!" declared Stockbridge.

  Drew smiled sincerely. It was plainly evident that the Magnate wassuffering from the thrust about Loris and the graveyard. The detectivehad never seen him so unsettled.

  "How about Germans?" he asked. "You've made a lot ofammunition--haven't you?"

  "Ye--s. I've still holdings in Standard Shell, Preferred, andAmalgamated Powder. Also, there is my interest in Flying Boat."

  "Could the Germans be after you for any reason at all?"

  The Magnate weighed the question from a score of angles. He reached andsecured a second cigar. "I don't think so," he said with a dark frown."I don't think they would bother with me. I'm more or less retired.I've drawn out of a lot of things. Younger men are turning out theammunition now."

  "Then which of your friends might be responsible for this letter?"

  "Well put!" exclaimed Stockbridge. _"Friends_ may be right. Friendsnow, or former friends who have rounded on me."

  "Name some!"

  "There's Morphy!"

  "We settled him. We should never hear from him again."

  "I'm not so sure! You don't know him like I know him. He's a vindictivedevil! He got ten to twenty years in state prison. You remember thecase. He lost his appeal to the Governor, only last week. I blocked itthrough Tammany affiliations. You know what that fiend in stripes iscapable of doing. He would sell his soul to get me!"

  Drew grew serious. "Yes, I know," he said.

  "Then there is--well, there are others. Ten, at least! What man canrise in this slippery city without pushing a few down the ladder? WallStreet and Broad Street and New Street are full of curb-stoneblackmailers who knew me when I was struggling with my companies. Theysaw me take chances they themselves feared to take. They hounded me,then. Thank God, I got above them!"

  Drew leaned over the table. "A few names," he said. "Somethingspecific. Who of all of them would be capable of phoning the cemetery,representing himself to be your family physician and ordering the gravedug? Who might think of a thing like that?"

  "Well, there's Harry Nichols, for instance. He's an ass with achampagne thirst and a shoestring salary. I threw him out of the housethe other day. He was calling on Loris. Think of that! He's probablysworn to get me."

  "How old is he?"

  "About twenty-three--or four! Smokes, drinks and plays golf!"

  "Name some others," suggested Drew artfully.

  "Morphy!"

  "I got him."

  "Morphy's brother who escaped when we had Morphy indicted. I don't knowwhere he is. Then there's Vogel and Vogel's friends. Oh, there's apirate crew of them. Some were mixed up in the first Flying Boatfailure. They would all like to see me in Ridgewood Cemetery. I'll foolthem!"

  "You've given me Harry Nichols, Morphy, Morphy's brother, Vogel andVogel's friends. That's four and a few outsiders. Can you think of anymore?"

  "Not at present! One of them is responsible for this letter. I want youto get busy. If you won't take the case, I'll get an agency that will.There's plenty!"

  "I'll handle it," said Drew, "when it gets to be a case. As it is now,Mr. Stockbridge----"

  "Buuurrruuurrr! Buuurrruuurrr! Buuurrruuurrr!"

  The Magnate started. He lowered his cigar, balanced it on the edge ofthe table, and turned slowly in his chair. He leaned over a smallertable which was littered with bronze ash-trays and inlaid match-boxes.He lifted the receiver of the insistent telephone. He pressed this tohis ear.

  Drew watched him narrowly. The terseness of a static charge of highvoltage was in the great library. The face of the Munition Magnate grewcold with hauteur. It changed over the seconds to venom and red anger.His neck purpled. The diaphragm of the telephone instrument hissed itsmessage. His hand clutched the hard-rubber receiver with whitestrength. A click followed as the connection was broken. Stockbridgedropped the receiver upon the hook. He turned slowly and stared at Drewwith eyes that had aged over the moments. Wrinkles shot from theircorners. Sullen light gleamed in their yellow depths.

  "What happened?" questioned Drew half rising from his chair and leaningover. "Who phoned?"

  The Magnate's chin described an upward arc. His lips grew firm. Bulgesshowed at the sides of his jaw.

  "What--who was it?" asked the detective.

  Stockbridge stared at the letter upon the table. His neck changed frompurple to a pasty ochre. A green sheen, like of death, overspread hiscrafty features. He was stricken with the clutch of fear.

  Drew waited and thought rapidly. "What happened?" he asked withpersuasion. "Nothing serious--I hope?"

  "Serious," said Stockbridge absently. "Serious!" he snarled. "Yes, itwas serious! It was a death threat! It was what I had expected. Itfollows the letter. They--he will get me! He--he----"

  "Who?" asked the detective.

  Drew heard the table creaking as Stockbridge's muscles stiffened--asthe Magnate's hands clutched the edge of the polished surface.

  "Who?" he repeated on the alert for possible clews.

  "Who! I don't know! But they will--he will!"

  "Easy," said Drew. "Take it easy, sir. This is a modern age. We are inthe heart of civilization. Nobody is going to _get_ you! I'll see tothat!"

  "You can't see! This man knows everything. He said that I would be deadwithin twelve hours. That I would be in my grave in seventy-two hours.He mentioned the grave at Green--Ridgewood Cemetery. He gave secretdetails of my life which few alone know. Early follies of mine. Anactress. A deal in War Babies and an electrical stock which was hushedup. I was the silent partner in that. How should this man know all ofthese things about me?"

  "Just what did he say?"

  "I've told you! He said enough! He threatened to kill me despite allthe precautions I would take. He said I was marked for a death whichall the police in the world couldn't solve. That I would be killed inspite of ever
y effort to save me. What is it--poison? Have I alreadybeen given poison?"

  Drew reached across the table and clutched the magnate's left wrist. Hepulled out a flat watch and timed the pulse. "Normal, almost," he saidsoftly. "You're normal, despite the shock. Your temperature is fair. Idon't think it was a toxin he meant. That deadens a man and brings slowcoma."

  "Well, what did he mean?" The magnate had found his voice and hisold-time nerve. "What would you do in my case?" he said cunningly.

  Drew glanced at the telephone. He raised his brows and swung,full-staring, upon Stockbridge. His finger pointed between themoney-king's eyes. It was as steady as an automatic revolver.

  "Did you recognize that voice?" he asked sharply. "Tell me the facts. Ican't go ahead unless you do. I must work from facts!"

  "No!" declared Stockbridge. "No, I did not! I never heard it before.I----"

  "What was it like?"

  "Hollow-whispering--almost feminine in tone. I thought it was a womanat first. It wasn't, though! It was a man or boy."

  "Have you told me everything?"

  "Yes--except this man or boy--this whispering voice, wound up bythreatening to get my daughter, Loris, as soon as he finished with me.Said he'd clean up with her!"

  "I'll take the case!" snapped Drew.