Whispering Wires

  CHAPTER TEN

  "A WOMAN CALLS"

  The business of a modern detective agency is managed in much the samemanner as a corporation or a large firm of corporation lawyers. Itstentacles, or operatives, are spread over the globe. Its news andassignments come in via wire. Its telephone and telegraph bills amountto thousands of dollars every year. In no other way can satisfactoryresults be secured.

  Drew had started his agency on a shoestring and ran it into a"tannery," in the parlance of the street. He had made many mistakes. Hehad once, to his knowledge, sent the wrong man to prison. This mistakehad been so costly, he never spoke of it. It was soon after theconviction of the innocent man, that Drew gave up circumstantialevidence and got down to hard work, wherein the evidence accumulatedwas tempered with some degree of fact and common sense.

  The first Stockbridge case had been in connection with an absconder.This man, Drew brought back in person from Adelaide. The work sopleased the millionaire that when Morphy broke under the financialstrain and robbed everybody, right and left, Drew was called in tobring the promoter to the bar of justice. It was a long fight, fraughtwith danger and disappointment. The courts dragged. War broke over thecivilized world. Morphy fought fiercely--like a cornered hyena. He wassent away, after dragging down his confederates. He had sworn at thetime of conviction that he would get Stockbridge if it took to thelongest day of his life. Drew remembered this oath and promise as hewaited for Harrigan to appear from the booth.

  He turned to the magpie and the cage. He studied both with keen eyeswhich had been trained in the school of hard facts piled upon eachother until they pointed a way. Stockbridge had owned the pet for manyyears. It was the one domestic trait in his make-up, save Loris. Itwould be a strange thing, Drew concluded, swinging toward the window,if Morphy and Morphy's confederates were to fall through a rememberedcouplet dropped by the magpie. It was in the order of events, however.It was the bright, particular finger which pointed toward the prisonerat Sing Sing. Nothing would be more logical than for the bird toremember the millionaire's last words--or dying words. They would beshrieked aloud and unforgetable.

  "More snow," said Drew to himself. "This is a white day if ever therewas one. I wonder if Delaney got to the house in time?"

  He turned as a "Buurrrr! Burrrr!" sounded at the ringing-box below thedesk.

  "Hello!" he said sharply into the transmitter. "Hello! Who's this?"

  He waited as some out-of-town connection was made. A thin voice brokein from the silence. The voice rose in timber. "Oh, Hello!" exclaimedthe detective, recognizing Flynn, one of his operatives. "Hello,Flynn," he said. "What's the weather like out at Morristown? Yes! ...Yes! ... Oh, is that so.... What? ... Too bad! ... Well, you bettercome in.... Take the first train and jump on the job.... He's inFlorida, eh? ... Well, that lets him out.... Good-by, Flynn!"

  Drew reached for a pencil and scratched a name off his list before hehung up the receiver. "That leaves six," he said, running his eyes downthe names of the suspects. "Six to go. We'll round them up--or out. Itlooks bad for one or two of them!"

  He dropped the pencil to the desk with a flip of his fingers. Hereplaced the telephone receiver on the hook. He twirled the chair andleaned forward with his hands on his knees.

  "Nice bird, you," he said, addressing the magpie. "We're alone, you andI. Why don't you tell me what you know--what you heard in that library,when the millionaire talked over the phone and then received thecupronickel bullet in the base of his brain? He said, 'Ah, Sing!' eh?He said it, or we are jumping at conclusions. Have Delaney and Ierred--as once or twice before?"

  The bird strutted about the cage. It pecked at a hard, white fish-bone,thrust between two bars. It dipped its bill into the water-holder, thenheld high its head as it gulped. It switched its tail and hopped ontothe first perch. There it sat, with coiled claws, as Drew leanedcloser.

  "Ah, Sing!" he repeated confidentially. "Ah, Singing! Ossining! SingSing! Let me hear you do your prettiest, birdie. Don!"

  The magpie lowered its head and peered outwardly. It lifted a wing withruffled dignity. Drew narrowed his eyes. "You were there," hewhispered. "You were in that sealed room--that double-locked andtriple-watched library. How did the murderer shoot down the old man?How could he do it, Don? I think I know _why_ it was done. I'm fairlysure who is directing matters. What I want to know is, what devilishingenuity of the criminal tribe projected that bullet into the oldman's brain? Answer that, Don!"

  The bird was as stately as a raven. It seemed to Drew that he heard anechoed "Nevermore." He sat upright and took his hands from his knees."Answer that, Don?" he repeated.

  "Gone batty, Chief?" asked Harrigan, thrusting his shoulders throughthe open door.

  Drew glanced up. He passed his hand over his forehead in a sweepingmotion as if brushing cobwebs from his brain. "Guess I am," headmitted, with a sparkling glance at the paper held in the assistant'shand. "Well!" he snapped, recovering himself. "Well, what luck? I seethat you got something!"

  "Yep! I got him, all right. He's hanging around the front office of theprison seeing what he can find out. He says," Harrigan consulted thepaper. "He says, Morphy has been worried all morning. That he acts likea man in a daze. Always----"

  "I don't want that, now! Didn't I send you out to call up thevice-president of the telephone company? The same man who helped usearly this morning. Westlake!"

  "I was getting to him, Chief! He was busy when I called, so I thoughtI'd get Frick again. That's all Frick had to say, except a----"

  "Well?"

  "Except he'll stay there until he receives instructions from you to thecontrary. Says he'll report if anything turns up."

  "Go on with Westlake!" The detective's voice hardened.

  "Well, I got him, finally. Had to wait till he cleaned out the callersin his office. He's in charge of maintenance and equipment. He saysthat their records show----"

  "Show what?" Harrigan had scowled at his own writing. "It took sometime to get this, Chief. Oh, I see. Well, the records of theWestchester Company shows three long-distance calls from the prisonbetween six o'clock last night and this morning. The first one was atseven-ten P. M. to a slot booth at the east end of the New York CentralRailroad Station."

  "Good!" snapped Drew. "Good! Go on! We're getting there!"

  "This call was for seventeen minutes. It was charged to the prison."

  "What was the booth number?"

  Harrigan consulted his sheet. "I didn't get that," he said, scratchinghis head. "Westlake didn't give it to me."

  "Go on--we'll get it! Go on! What was the next call?"

  "The second call, Chief, was to the State Capitol Building at Albany.It was for three minutes. No more! I guess that was the warden talkingto the Pardon Clerk, or something like that. We'll forget it, eh?"

  "Chop it out!"

  "The third and last call, Chief," said Harrigan with haste, "was to thesame telephone-booth at the Grand Central Station. Ah, here's thenumber! That's why Westlake didn't give it to me on the first call tothe booth. Number, Gramercy Hill 9845, Chief. That's over near the eastend of the building--on the lower level."

  "A quiet place!" mused Drew.

  "Yes! Well, Chief, here is the time. The call was for twenty-twominutes, extending from a quarter to twelve--midnight--to seven minutesafter twelve. It was charged to the Auditing Department of the prison."

  Drew rose from his chair. "That covers the hour in which Stockbridgewas murdered!" he declared, reaching for the roll-top of his desk"That's nice work on your part."

  Harrigan flushed slightly. He leaned over and laid the paper upon thedesk. Drew took it, folded it with two fingers forming the creases,then crammed it into his breast pocket The roll-top came down with abang. Harrigan lifted an overcoat from a tree, helped Drew on with it,and found the detective's hat.

  "When will you be back, Chief?" he inquired.

  "Hard to say! Get me some French-gray powder. A little will do. I'mgoing to see if I can get any fingerprints in th
at booth. They mighthelp!"

  "Will you be back by night!" Harrigan asked, leading the way throughthe door.

  "Don't know! Get that powder! Tell Delaney, if he calls up, that I'mhot after my man. Tell him to stick up where he is, till he hears fromme. Tell Flynn, when he comes in from Morristown, that he can relieveO'Toole who is trailing Harry Nichols. I don't think there is much inthat. I'm covering every one--that's all."

  Harrigan opened the drawer of a cabinet and fingered about till hefound a small, round box of gray powder used for preservingfingerprints. He turned with this and saw that Drew had crammed intohis side coat-pocket, a flat camera which the telephone girl brought tohim. "Got flash lights?" asked Harrigan.

  "Yes. There's some in the back of this camera." Drew slapped hisovercoat. "I got everything, I guess. Remember about Delaney andFlynn."

  The detective moved toward the door which led to the hallway where theelevators were. He turned as Harrigan laid a hand on his shoulder."What's that sticking out of your other pocket, Chief?" asked theassistant-manager. "A paper, ain't it?"

  Drew flushed beneath his olive skin. He pressed the object down withsoft fingers. He turned and said simply:

  "That's a picture of the girl in the case. Forgot I had it. Good-by!"

  The door slammed as he strode over the white tiling and jabbed at anelevator button with his right thumb.

  Swirled in wind-blown snow from the office buildings and wrapped to thechin with the collar of his overcoat, Drew plunged, with head downward,for the nearest subway station.

  He caught an up-town express, and, after three grinding station-stops,he reached the Grand Central Station wherein was the telephone-booth towhich the calls had been sent from the prison.

  He made swift work of the matter at hand. Time was pressing. Thebooths, to the number of three in that portion of the station, werefortunately empty.

  Going over the slot-box and the tiny shelf in the center booth, whichbore the number "Gramercy Hill 9845" on the transmitter, Drew pulledthe door shut and dusted all the nickel work and the polished surfaceof the receiver, with French-gray powder of superior make.

  He took three exposures by aid of small flashes. He opened the door andallowed the smoke to escape. Pocketing the camera, after winding on afresh film, he entered the booth for a second time and inspected itslower paneling for possible clews.

  An oath, close-bitten and expressive, escaped his lips as he discovereda small hole drilled through the woodwork. He stooped and peeredthrough this opening. It led to the next booth. It had been made with along auger of quarter-inch diameter. Shavings lay upon the floor of thebooth.

  He emerged and investigated the second booth. The hole came through,underneath the slot-box. It had been drilled in order to make aconnection between the two telephones. He found splinters and sawdustat his feet. He backed out and stood perplexed. There was no way offinding out just what sort of connection had been made between the twobooths. All evidence of wires had been taken down. Only an expert couldgive an answer to the new riddle. Drew recalled Westlake as he rushedto the subway-platform.

  He found the vice-president busy, with a score of men waiting in theouter room of the telephone company's office. The secretary-in-chargehurried in with his card and his urgent request for three minutes'important matter which could not well wait.

  Drew, however, was forced to wait seven minutes by his watch. He chafedat the delay. He crossed his legs at least once each leaden minute. Hefeared that the trail was getting cold. Twice he rose, as if to go.Each time the secretary had indicated patience by an arching of herbrows and a jerk of her thumb toward the ground-glass door.

  "Send in Drew!" boomed as the door opened and let out the caller. Drewstrode in with his notes in his hand.

  "Just a minute, Westlake," he said, dropping into a chair and leaningover the desk behind which sat a good-natured official of the superiororder. "A minute! I'm in a jam! What d'ye make of this?"

  Drew related his discovery in the booths of the Grand Central. He wentright to the point. He explained the auger-hole, the shavings, and thefact that it was the same set of booths to which the call had been sentfrom the prison, over the time Stockbridge had been slain.

  Westlake listened with dawning light. He leaned back as Drew finishedtalking. He smiled. He thrust his thumbs under his vest. "You're ahardworking man, Drew," he said, "but you didn't get it all. Do youremember the third call that I gave you this morning?--the one when thechief-operator at Gramercy Hill put the howler on? It was from the samebooths you just mentioned!"

  "What?"

  "It certainly was. There's no use looking at the record. The number was9844 Gramercy Hill. In other words we have the evidence to show that athin, whispering voice called up Stockbridge from one booth in theGrand Central at the same time the prison was connected to the adjacentbooth."

  "For the love of Mike!" said Drew.

  "Yes--your case grows interesting, Chief. You've got a lot of tangledleads and all that, but a little more work should untangle them. Atelephone engineer ought to make a crackerjack detective. He's trainedto unsnarl the worst snarls in the world. You ought to see some of ourwiring diagrams. It takes study to trace them out. You're learning!"

  "I don't know if I am, Westlake. I think that Morphy, up at the prison,has been 'phoning New York. I believe he has a confederate in thistown. This confederate, we will say, received his instructions aboutmidnight last night. He bored a hole through the booths and called upStockbridge. But what was it all for?"

  "That I can't answer!"

  Drew rose from the chair and crammed his notes in his inner, overcoatpocket. "What the devil did they do that for?" he asked with flashingeyes. "Morphy calls up Gramercy Hill 9843 at, or about, midnight.Gramercy Hill 9844 calls up Stockbridge. Stockbridge was killed by abullet in the neck as he's talking over the 'phone. Was the call towarn him? Was it to threaten him? Was it to occupy his attention sothat the murderer could get in the room and fire the shot?"

  "Did you find out how he got into the room?" asked Westlake, leaningforward.

  "I have not! The whole thing gets weird. I can't sleep! I'm not goingto sleep till I get some light on this!"

  "You look healthy," said Westlake, as he pressed the buzzer for thenext caller.

  Drew emerged from the elevator and hurried to the street with short,quick strides. He crossed the snow and pressed open the door to a cigarstore. He fished out a nickel and called up his office.

  To Harrigan who answered, he said tersely, "Get Flynn up to the GrandCentral! Get him to the east-end telephone-booth, on the lower level.Tell him I'll be there. He's back from Morristown, isn't he? He phoned,eh? Get him to me! I need him!"

  Drew hung up with a swift flip of the receiver. He hurried to thesubway station and caught a local up-town. He had time to flash afourth and fifth set of photos before Flynn came puffing across thelower level.

  "See here!" snapped Drew, drawing the operative into the middle booth."Bend down there where that hole is, and tell me what you see on thevarnish."

  "It's fingerprints, Chief. Two, three of them. Looks like somebodypressed hard when they drilled that hole. The outer print is a good oneof a thumb. Left thumb, I should say."

  "That's right! I'm going to find out who made that impression, withinone hour. You stay here and grab anybody who tries to talk with theprison. Frick is up there!"

  "How about O'Toole, who's watching Nichols?" asked Flynn.

  "Leave him stay on that assignment. I need you here. Stick now! Watcheverybody who talks over these three phones. Arrest anybody whoreceives or sends a call to the prison. There's plenty of CentralOffice men handy for a pinch. Fosdick will back them up!"

  Drew rushed for the subway. He realized that he had wasted valuabletime by not taking the complete set of fingerprint photos on his firstinspection of the booths. It was a detail he had overlooked. But then,he could afford to make mistakes. The men or man he was after, darednot make any. This was a thing he had often recalled
in dealing withsuper-criminals.

  Fosdick's rooms at Detective Headquarters, on Center Street, wereluckily deserted as he rushed down through the hallway. TheCommissioner widened his eyes as Drew handed over the camera, with arequest that the films be developed and prints made within twentyminutes.

  "Can't be done that soon," said the detective. "Give us fifty minutes."

  "I'll make it twenty-five!" shot Drew. "I got lots to tell you, butit'll keep. Get those prints and we'll land our man. The last two filmshave perfect samples of finger-work. Our man slipped there! He signedhis own death warrant!"

  The Commissioner pressed a button. To the young man who came, heexplained the necessity of rushing the developing and printing of thefilms. He turned as the messenger hurried out with the camera.

  "What about that bullet?" he asked.

  "Just as I said, Commissioner. It was fired from a smooth-bore pistolor gun. What do you think?"

  "Oh, maybe not! Sometimes there isn't much rifling on an old revolver.Those little twenty-two affairs are made out of cast-iron."

  "But the cupronickel bullet shows smokeless powder and high-classcriminal activity. I doubt if one of those little rods would take amodern steel-jacketed bullet. They're used in automatics."

  "But automatics have good rifling. That bullet was as smooth as beforeit was shot. Here it is!"

  Fosdick opened a drawer and pulled out a later-day projectile of thelesser-caliber.

  "This is smooth!" he repeated with heat. "It was cut from the oldmillionaire's brain. It ain't scratched. It never took the rifling itwas intended for. My theory is, that it was fired from a gun of largercaliber. That is to say, it didn't fit the bore. A thirty-thirty riflemight be used to hold a twenty-two caliber bullet. It would not takethe rifling of this."

  Drew shook his head. "That's hardly possible," he declared. "It's toovague and doesn't suit me. We're going to find that the deeper we getin this thing, the simpler will be the explanation. I remember anynumber of cases which have been solved in this city where the mysterywas so wrapped up in speculation and the improbable that our mindsfailed to grasp the simple thing which was the solution."

  "Then you think the lack of rifling on the bullet might be the openingwedge to catching the man who shot Stockbridge?"

  "It could well be, Fosdick. The lack of a thing sometimes is just asimportant as the visible clue. Do you remember the Rajah case atGramercy Park?"

  Fosdick leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. "Seemsto me that I do," he said, thrusting out his lower lip. "There was abig jewel missing. Sort of an Idol's Eye case--wasn't it?"

  "Exactly! A white diamond was missing at a dinner. Lights went out asthey were passing the stone around the table. Lights came on again andthe diamond was gone. Everybody accused. A strange print was found onthe sideboard. Servants knew nothing about it. The print didn'tcorrespond to any which we took there. Seemed impossible and all that.Well, the very fact that the print didn't correspond was the means offinding the stone and the culprit. You remember it?"

  "Vaguely."

  "Simple! A Lascar who waited on the table slipped off his shoes, creptinto the room, secured the diamond and climbed to the sideboard wherehe hid it on top of a picture. The thumbprint which we puzzled ourheads over was a toe-print! We got the fellow!"

  "I recall it now," said Fosdick. "I think one of our men thought outthe matter."

  "He didn't!" declared the detective. "We worked it out! The citydepartment had given up the case. This may be the same. I'll venture tosay that as soon as you get a good operative some private agencysecures his services. Now, Commissioner, confess up. What manner of guncould fire a bullet, such as a cupronickel one, without leavingmarkings?"

  "Smooth bore. An old flint-lock--for instance."

  "We'll grant that! They're clumsy, however. The shot which killed themillionaire was fired at very close range through a smooth tube of agreater caliber than the diameter of the bullet found in his head. Ifit were fired through a gun which was rifled, then there was a collaror collars on the bullet, which we didn't find. The same thing wasdiscovered by examination of the shells which the Germans fired atParis. There was no rifling on those long-range projectiles. The bandsdropped off after the shell left the gun."

  "Then this bullet was fired at long range?" Fosdick was openlyincredulous.

  "No! Again we have the impossibility or seeming impossibility. Iexamined that library, both before and after the murder. No shot couldhave been fired from the outside so that a bullet would reach the oldman. If that were the case there would have been an opening in thewalls or at the windows or the ventilators. Besides, we have the powderburns on the millionaire's head. We are squarely confronted with aparadox. Riddle me that paradox and we will go a long ways towardfinding the man who murdered Stockbridge."

  Fosdick frowned. "I can't see it at all," he confessed. "I still holdto the theory that we should third degree all of the servants. I've gotsome of them. If they don't squeal, I'll get the others!"

  Drew glanced at his watch. "Personally," he said, "I'm of the opinionthat you will not get anything out of them. I think it was a mistake toarrest them. It would have been far better to trail the butler and thedoorman and see if they connected with anybody."

  "I'm doing this!" exclaimed Fosdick with asperity. "I've got charge ofthis case, Drew. I got charge and I don't want any meddling. I've myown methods."

  "All right," said the detective. "All right! I want a check-up on thefinger prints and then I'll be going. I had to come to you for this.You have such an interesting collection."

  "Here's your answer!" said the commissioner, rising and striding aroundthe desk. "Take this bullet and look it over. Put it in your pocket.And----"

  Drew turned swiftly. The messenger stood in the doorway. He cameforward as Fosdick nodded. He passed over the hastily developed printswhich Drew had taken. The commissioner glanced at them, frowned, heldthem to the light, then said:

  "We'll try these on the Man Who Can't Be Beat! He's the best in theworld. He'll know in three minutes who made these prints if the fellowis on our records."

  The fingerprint expert nodded to Drew as they entered a huge room whichwas lined with mahogany cabinets in the manner of a filing system in amail-order house. Fosdick passed the five photos into this man's hand.He smiled as the expert adjusted his glasses, pulled out a pocketmagnifying-glass, and leaned close up to the prints.

  "We're infallible!" exclaimed the Commissioner with superiority. "WatchPope get your man. He'll hound him out in no time. Eh, Pope?"

  The expert was not of a sanguine disposition in the minute which ensuedas he ran over the prints, studied them, held them to the light thenlaid them down on a table and shook his head.

  "We have no record of this fellow," he said coldly. "It looks like aman's print. Here's the thumb and here is the middle finger of theright hand, I think. Hard to tell, sometimes. I'd say, as a pretty surething, that we have no duplicates in our collection. Shall I look?"

  "Yes! Look!" said Fosdick.

  Drew felt that the case was slipping from him as Pope fluttered fromcabinet to cabinet, pulled out drawers, replaced them and tried stillothers.

  "No go?" he asked as the expert shot back the last cross-index cabinetand turned with shaking head. "No go? Try again."

  "Absolutely no record of the maker of these prints," said Pope, holdingout the photos. "He hasn't registered with us yet. Whoever made theseprints has never been arrested in the United States for a felony."

  "How about a misdemeanor?" asked Drew.

  "No! They're all in this cabinet. Even if he was picked up on suspicionor for auto speeding or beating his wife,--if he has one,--he would behere. I'm sorry, inspector."

  Drew pulled down the lapels of his black coat and turned towardFosdick.

  "Have you got a print of Finklestein?" he asked. "You remember thefellow who was arrested in the Morphy case. He was afterwards releasedfor lack of evidence or else he claimed exemption. I've f
orgotten howhe got off. He's supposed to be in Florida or somewhere in the South. Ihad a man out to Morristown who reports along those lines. I wish you'dcompare these prints with Finklestein's."

  "Go ahead," said the commissioner. "Go as far as you like. I don'tthink that there is anything in these prints. You got the wrongones--that's all."

  "What's Finkle--Finklestein's initials?" asked the expert.

  "J. B.," said Drew quickly. "Julius B.!"

  A quick search through an alphabet-index, a consultation of twodrawers, out of which the expert pulled some tiny squares of cardboard,and then a slow shaking of his head, brought Drew back to where he hadstarted from before taking the prints in the booth.

  "No record could be more different," Pope said. "Finklestein has a bighand and very broad fingers. The fellow who made these prints has alittle hand with thin fingers. The whorls and loops are entirelydissimilar. He comes under classification 2-4-X. Finklestein is incabinet 2-9-0. They couldn't be further away."

  Drew started out through the doorway with Fosdick following him. Theystood on the landing leading to the downstairs steps, where thedetective was about to leave the commissioner with a curt good-by. Hishand was out when he drew it back, dropped it to his side and wheeledwith sudden intuition.

  "Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "Are you and I detectives or children? Comeback to the fingerprint room. Hurry now. I want to see Pope. I forgotsomething!"

  The expert rose as they entered. "Well?" he asked with arching browsand a slight frown on his face. "Well, what is it?"

  Drew pointed a finger as steady as a rifle. He bared his eyes intoPope's own. "Were you up to Stockbridge's house?" he asked swiftly.

  "Yes! Why?"

  "Did you take prints and photos of everything in the library? Iunderstand that this was done after I turned the case over toCommissioner Fosdick."

  "It was done!" rasped Fosdick. "Of course it was done. It's always donewhen a case looks like a homicide!"

  "This case looked worse than that!" said Drew. "It was slaughter!"

  The commissioner turned to the fingerprint man. "Where are the printsand photos you took up at the house?" he asked.

  "Still in the developing room."

  "Do you think they are developed?"

  "I'll soon know, sir," he answered, pressing a button.

  The messenger entered who had attended to Drew's prints which thedetective took in the telephone-booth.

  "Get down to the developing room," ordered Pope. "Get me all the printsand positives of Exhibit 12 of the Stockbridge case. Bring what isalready developed. Tell them to rush the others."

  The three men waited in silence for the return of the messenger. Drewpaced the floor thoughtfully. He clasped and unclasped his hands behindhis back. He had almost slipped in an important matter. It was a chancehe was taking, but a vital one in the case. The fingerprints taken bythe expert in the library might and might not jibe with those taken inthe slot-booth. If they were the same, or any one was the same, thecase would offer a new line for investigation.

  A sliding footstep at the door announced the messenger. He held asheath of curling papers in his hand. Pope reached and snatched thephotos. He ran over them with widening eyes. He sorted them into twopiles upon the table.

  "Five prints!" he announced, glancing at Drew with a sly smile. "Fiveof these prints are the same as your set. In other words, the man whomade the impressions in the telephone-booth was also in the library ator about the time of the murder!"

  "Impossible!" snorted Fosdick.

  "Ah!" said Drew. "Photos don't lie. Now we're getting there! That's thefirst light I've seen in some time. It clears the case of thesupernatural. It puts it where it belongs--in the material world offlesh and blood and hate and revenge."

  "It does that!" corroborated the expert, siding with Drew. "Now," headded good-naturedly, "I'll help out some more. I've got a book ofnotations made in the library. I spent two hours there this morning. Iflashed every print I could see. There's some of the butler on thebottle and the tray. There's a number on the polished table. There areat least six on the door knob, to say nothing of the smashed panel. Isuppose yours is among them, inspector?"

  Drew held out his right hand. "Look and see," he suggested with a shortlaugh. "I've never been printed in my life."

  "That won't be necessary. These three prints which correspond with theones you took in the booth, settle the matter. There's no record ofthis fellow in our cabinet. But--he was in that library!"

  "Where did he leave his prints?" asked Drew.

  Pope consulted a page of his note book. He thumbed over another page,thrust his finger between the sheet and turned to the photos. "What'sthe number on the back of that one?" he asked, nodding toward thetopmost photograph.

  "Ten," said Drew, turning it over and studying a penciled number.

  "Ten," repeated the expert. "That is a print which was flashed on thecorner of the little table which was overturned when Stockbridge fellto the floor after being shot."

  "And the same man made it who made my prints in the booth?"

  "The same!" declared the expert dryly.

  "I don't see where you two are getting," said Fosdick. "How could a manget into that library, shoot the old millionaire, get out again and goover to a slot-booth?"

  "He might have been in the slot-booth first," suggested Drew with slowsmiling. "From the booth he went to the house and killed Stockbridge."

  "The fact is established," exclaimed Pope, "that the man you are afterwas in the library and in the booth. That's all you can say. There's noway to determine the exact hour these two sets of prints were made."

  Drew lifted a second print. "No. sixteen," he said, turning to theexpert. "Where was that made?"

  Pope consulted his book. He glanced up at Fosdick, who was ill at easeover the development in the case. "That," he said, swinging his eyestill they met Drew's, "that was made on the hardwood floor directlyunder Stockbridge's body. We found the print, with others of the littlefinger and middle finger when the coroner moved the corpse!"

  The detective stared at Pope. "You mean," he said shrewdly, "that theman who made the prints in the booth and on the little table, also wasdown on his knees arranging Stockbridge's body, or doing something likethat?"

  "He made a distinct impression on the floor despite the fact that thebody was moved over it. The polish and the varnish helped to hold thisimpression. I venture to say that it is there yet."

  "Good!" said Drew. "I may have a look at it. I never went after printsin my investigation. I left that to men who knew their business--likeyourself."

  Pope smiled. He glanced at his book for a third time. "What's thenumber of that last print?" he asked.

  "Forty-four!"

  "Taken from the edge of the heavy door which was broken down byDelaney, I guess. Looks like his work."

  "I had a hand in that," admitted Drew.

  "This print was close to the knob. There's none like it on the knobitself."

  "Umph!" declared Fosdick.

  Drew glanced at the commissioner. He smiled as he laid his hand onFosdick's shoulder. "I've got you to thank," he said, "for letting meuse the brains and facilities of the police department. I think itclears the case in a remarkable manner."

  "How?" asked the commissioner.

  "Well for one thing," Drew said, lifting the third photo. "For onething, we know that our man passed through the doorway before or afterthe murder. He was in the library. He was in that booth which is a halfmile or more away from the mansion."

  "I'll grant you that, but what does it prove?"

  Drew laid the photo on the table and turned toward the doorway. "Itproves," he said, "that Stockbridge was murdered by a man who was neverarrested in New York."

  "That's a large order!" chuckled the commissioner. "There are a fewgood citizens and a number of bad ones we haven't got--yet!"

  "I'm satisfied," said the detective, pulling his hat down over hishead. "I'm going to look for a man who is too clev
er for his own good.He's stayed out of your clutches. He's forgotten more about telephonesthan most men know. He's as slippery as an eel and as clever as thevery devil. In one thing only did he err, so far in this chase."

  "What's that?" asked the commissioner.

  "He didn't wear gloves on the job. That's where we may trip him up."

  "They all forget something," said Fosdick, as Drew hurried out throughthe door with a bow toward the staring fingerprint man.

  The detective hurried down the steps,--passed the sergeant at theentrance, and turned up his coat collar as he plunged from the buildingand lowered his head beneath the down driving snow. The entire matterwas as he had told Delaney. He would have to find who made the prints!

  Deep, drifted snow barred his progress as he struck down through atowering canyon and walked eastward. He had no coherent idea save theone that he wanted the grip of the open places in his lungs and thefeel of freedom from stifling rooms and skeptical men.

  The case had resolved itself into a battle of wits wherein the culpritwho had murdered Stockbridge, by unknown means, had all the advantages.He was unknown. He had the largest city in the world to hide himselfin. He could strike at any time and in any quarter. Also, the detectiverealized, with a chilly oath, the murderer might already be fleeing thecity for the south or west. It would be a natural thing for him to do.

  Drew had one undisputed qualification for a detective. He was a worker.He lacked the Latin sense of deduction, or the cleverness of a greatoperative who secured his men through quick brain work and shrewdness.

  Hard work, and more work and still more work had won for him the littleposition he held in the city. He did not overrate his own powers. Hehad failed too often to hold himself too highly. Chance was a bigfactor in the criminal game. The members of the criminal tribe workedthrough luck and sheer audacity. Many escaped from the net and moved inthe underworld until they made their final mistake which was probablyso glaring it couldn't be overlooked.

  Despite the fact that the finger prints were not of record, Drew heldto the swirling conviction that the man he was after was of thecriminal horde. There was much to lead him to this belief. Thecleverness in connecting up the two telephone booths--the warningthrough the mail to Stockbridge--the manner in which the murder hadbeen covered up in a score of details, all pointed to a criminal mindof the cunningest order. It savored of practice in crime and study ofnatural conditions. Its bizarre features placed it out from othercrimes and raised it to a class of its own.

  The snow which impeded the detective's steps, in some manner clearedhis brain. He began to review the series of events. He boxed the casewith returning shrewdness. He went over the points like a sailorrepeating the compass-chart. He even saw a light.

  This light was a star that guided him around a corner and then alongthe long reach of a white-mantled street where children shrilled andplayed. Snow-balls flew past his head. Sleighs and muffled taxischurned by. Women in furs and heavy cloaks glanced up at his olive facefrom which peered sanguine eyes bent upon a known destination.

  He paused at the foot of a flight of steps leading to a library. Inthis building he knew there would be on file certain data concerningthree links of the chain which he was trying to forge about thecriminal or criminals who had slain Stockbridge.

  He entered the storm-door, shook the snow from his coat, and removedhis hat with a swinging bow as he drew erect in front of a prim lady ata desk.

  "I want all the books you have on modern telephony," he said with awinning smile. "I'm sure that you have one or two."

  The prim lady who knew a gentleman when she saw one, raised her browsand rapidly thumbed over a filing-card system.

  "One or two," she repeated. "Why, we have over twenty. Now just whatbranch of Telephony do you want? There are a number of divisions in thesubject. We have Smith on Central Office practice. We have Steinward onInduced Currents in Relation to Magnetism. We have Oswerlander onSwitchboards and Carbon Transmitters. We have Burke on Circuits andBatteries. We have----"

  "Hold on, please," said Drew, catching his breath. "I better trysomething easy. One of those Juvenile books with simple diagrams andswitchboards or junction-boxes."

  Drew carried the book to an alcove which was deserted. He took off hiscoat, hung it on the back of a chair, upended his hat and sat down witha tired smile. Soon he was busy in the mystery of electricity inrelation to the telephone. He conned over the pages. He browsed alonglike a novice trying to understand trigonometry. He frowned over suchterms as micro-ampere and micro-volt. He grew dizzy following wiringdiagrams which were far worse than any clue he had ever attempted.

  "A telephone engineer," he said half aloud. "A man who could trace outthis stuff ought to make a mighty fine detective. I never saw such asnarl. Now what does hysteresis and laminations mean? What's the ideaof having an alternating current of low voltage on the same line with atalking current of three volts? I don't see how they can get twocurrents on one set of wires. Maybe they don't."

  He tossed the book to the table in front of him and rose with a frown.This frown changed to a wrinkled furrow of half amusement as he hurriedback to the little prim lady.

  "Too deep for me," he said, referring to the book she had given him."That may be a beginner's treatise, but I'm in the kindergarten classin electricity. What's a micro-volt?"

  "I'll look it up, sir," she said.

  "Never mind. I wouldn't know, after you did. Suppose you get me a bookon magpies."

  The librarian fingered her files. "Try Birds of England," shesuggested, coming from behind her desk and gliding like a pale shadowover to a book-case. "Try this. It's complete. You'll find magpies andstarlings and piemags and any number of plates of six colors in thissplendid volume."

  "The one that interested me was black as a crow," he said, as he turnedtoward his alcove. "Perhaps there are white magpies as well as whitecrows. I never saw one, though. My bird's a deep one."

  The little librarian stared after Drew's vanishing form with a slightpucker between her eyes. For a man of his solid respectability, theseries of actions were strange indeed. She sat down and wondered if hewas a moving picture editor trying to connect black magpies andtelephones.

  Drew appeared in two minutes. He leaned over the desk and startled thelady with a request for anything pertaining to guns and projectiles.These she had in plenty. A great many war books had been purchasedduring the period which followed America's declaration.

  The detective erected a breastwork with the books she brought. Heconned them with understanding until he came to ballistics andtrajectory. He stopped there. He rose. His brain was crammed with factupon fact. He had the formulae of smokeless powder and the analysis ofcupronickel bullets. He had absorbed muzzle velocity and angle of fire.He fairly bubbled over with good humor as he thrust his hands into hisovercoat, caught up his hat and started out the door after glancingback and bowing to the librarian who smiled a good-by.

  The street was dark save for the glow of the overhead arcs. He thrustout his arm and tested the snow fall. It was not as heavy as when hehad entered the library. He went down the steps, turned toward thenorth and plowed along the sidewalk.

  Suddenly the thought came to him to glance at his watch. He hadforgotten time and place over the hours in the pursuit of knowledgewhich might and might not be applied to the case at hand. It was almostsix o'clock.

  "Lord," he said in surprise. "I'm going crazy. Two hours in a trance.Now for work. I wonder what the operatives will have to report? Theyought to have something. I wonder," he added, peering under the finedrizzle of snow, "I wonder where the nearest telephone is located?Another block, I guess."

  His brain gathered up the skeins of the case as he hurried along.Fingerprints, plaster-casts, smooth bullets, locked rooms and araven-black magpie, trooped into their proper formation. He dweltlongest on the telephone information he had gathered in the library.The case seemed bound up in whispering wires and broken connectionswhich might be spliced together with pati
ence and hard work.

  The whole matter, from the call of the millionaire, down to the clewdiscovered in comparing the finger prints at Detective Headquarters,was a city-spread network of telephone connections which had to betraced back to an elusive individual who flitted like a shadow or awhirling dervish across the detective's vision.

  He reached the drug-store, paused outside, glanced up and down thewhite-robed street, then pressed the door open and stamped inside. Hefound a nickel. Dropping this in the slot and closing the booth, heasked Central for his office phone.

  The connection was made with Harrigan on the other end. "What's new inthe Stockbridge case?" asked Drew in a whisper.

  He listened. He grew rigid as the faithful operative summed up theentire series of reports. There were six of them. The last was fromDelaney.

  "Hang up!" the detective almost shouted in his eagerness. "Hang up,Harrigan, and let me get him."

  Finding a quarter instead of a nickel, Drew dropped it in the largeslot and jiggled the receiver's hook until Central answered.

  "Get me Gramercy Hill 9764!" he exclaimed. "Quick! 9764 Gramercy Hill!"

  "That's her number," he said aloud. "Loris Stockbridge's number. Itmust be her number. I haven't forgotten that, have I?"

  The time consumed in getting the connection seemed endless. Drew liftedone damp sole from the floor of the booth and then the other. Thereceiver's diaphragm clicked finally. "Hello!" he snapped. "Hello,who's this?"

  He waited a full second. "This Delaney?" he asked. "Who?" he added."Oh! you're the maid! Well get me Miss Stockbridge or Mr. Delaney. Yes,Delaney. D-e-l-a-n-e-y!"

  "This Delaney? ... No! ... Who?... Nichols? ... Harry Nichols? Hello,Nichols! ... Is Delaney there?"

  The big operative's voice sounded with a rasp on the wire. "What's thenews?" asked Drew. "What's that you've been telling Harrigan? Somethingabout a coffin? A coffin? What--a casket? A hardwood casket. I'll beright up! I'm coming!"

  The detective's olive face was the color of burnt pottery as he flippedthe receiver on the hook, thrust his knee against the door and chargedout of the booth and into the drug-store. He wheeled, turned his coatcollar up, drew down his hat and dashed outside as an astonished clerkleaned over the prescription counter and stared after him.

  The message that Delaney had sent over the snow-crusted wires, andalong the underground conduits, was laden with menace. It drove Drewwestward through the drifts like a man who had a whip held over him. Hecrossed two avenues before he sighted a taxi. He charged after this,sprang to the running board, and shouted into the driver's muffled ear.

  "Drive like sin--full speed and more--up Fifth Avenue! I'll tell youwhen to stop! The devils are not going to kill that little lady if Ican help it," he added, as he opened the door and climbed inside thetaxi.