Whispering Wires Part 13

"Anything strike you as peculiar?"

"N--o."

"There were tears in his eyes--the only ones shed in that house for Stockbridge--outside of the daughter."

Delaney gulped. "I didn't see them," he said frankly.

"No! Well, I did--and when he wasn't expecting me to see them. A woman is never wholly lost who can blush, or a man who can shed tears."

"Sounds like good deduction," admitted the operative. "But then, Chief, there are a lot of fine actors in this world. I think there has been some in this case."

"This case, Delaney," Drew said, "is like many others which appear at first impossible of solving. All things can be solved by first principles. Give me all the facts and I'll give you the answer to any riddle. The answer will come! Don't try to write your plot until you have words to form your story. Don't make the mistake of forcing an answer to father a wish. In other words, Delaney, best of friends, we haven't all the facts we are going to get in this case and therefore it is idle to attempt to deduce who shot Stockbridge!"

"Or how he was shot, Chief?"

"It's almost the same thing. Both answers will come with hard work and plenty of it. We must keep along the main stem. Truth is a tree with many branches. It rises from the roots named cause, and reaches the top called effect. It springs from motive up to crime in one straight stem.

We must trim away the branches and the false-work, and then we can see the trunk."

"There's one I'd like to trim right now," said Delaney, pausing in his snow-caked stride.

"Which one?" asked Drew.

"That noise in the library like a cat getting its tail twisted."

"I can explain that!"

"It's been driving me to drink, Chief."

"The telephone company, Delaney, have a device they call a howler. They cut this device in on the wire when a receiver is left off the hook. It is simply a high-frequency current generated for the purpose of vibrating the receiver's diaphragm until somebody hears the noise and puts the receiver back on the hook."

"It's a howler, all right, Chief!"

"Oftentimes a book or magazine gets under a receiver and lifts it up an inch or more. This attracts the attention of the central operator who thinks somebody is trying to get a number. When the situation is clear to her that the receiver is off the hook, or that the circuit is closed without anybody being at the receiver end, she notifies the wire-captain or chief-operator. It was either one or the other who put the howler on after Stockbridge was shot and the 'phone had fallen to the floor. Is that satisfactory? Does that explain the noise we heard in the library before we broke down the door?"

"I see now, Chief. I thought all along it was spirits like the rest of the job. Outside of spirits, what is the answer to the things that happened in that house? I know it. I deduct it, Chief. The old man was expecting somebody all of the time. He let this somebody into the library when the butler wasn't looking. Maybe it was a woman, for all we know. Maybe a German spy. Maybe anybody. This somebody got in an argument with him over spoils on some deal, and shot him dead. That's my idea, Chief!"

"You've missed your profession, Delaney. You've disgraced the firm! How did the library door get locked on the inside? How did that happen? Did Stockbridge, shot through the brain, rise and do it? It was mighty well locked--you remember!"

"I never thought of that," admitted the operative. "Then it looks, Chief, as if it was a case of suicide."

"Fosd.i.c.k said the same thing without having many facts. How could a right-handed man shoot himself behind the left ear? How could he do a thing like that and then get rid of the weapon without leaving a trace of it? How--oh, well, get facts and you won't ask such questions!"

"Then it was done by an outsider?" blurted Delaney, staring through the wind-blown snow which came off the housetops. "It was done by the fellow who 'phoned and wrote that letter, or had the letter written? I don't see how he could do it!"

Drew smiled at Delaney's candor. "Neither do I," he said simply. "But we've crossed Forty-second Street and we're on the trail by everyday, up-to-date methods which never fail if they are continued long enough and men work hard enough. We'll start with Harry Nichols--the man in olive-drab! I've his address!"

CHAPTER SEVEN

"THE SPOT OF BLACK"

Delaney stepped behind his chief and followed in single file as the detective swung from the Avenue at Thirty-ninth Street and turned toward the east on the up-town side of the thoroughfare.

The snow had ceased falling from out the leaden sky. A roar came to them of the awakening city which was stirring in its last sleep. A tug whistled hoa.r.s.ely somewhere on the East River. Its blare and signal echoed down the towering canyon. An answering rattle sounded from the Elevated. A milk wagon churned by. A deep-seagoing hansom-cab, of the vintage of ten years before, struggled along Madison Avenue as the two detectives paused on the corner and sought a pathway through the snow to the opposite side.

"Some night," said the operative, pulling down his derby hat and facing Drew. "A h.e.l.l of a night to be out. Good thing we walked, though. My head is clearing."

"It needed clearing," said the detective. "Some of your deductions were impossible. Whom do you suppose we're going to meet here?"

"How should I know, Chief?"

"Guess!"

"Harry Nichols."

"Who else?"

"Search me, Chief."

"Who's that over across the street in the shelter of the stoop? See! He sees us! You ought to know who that is!"

"He looks familiar," admitted Delaney.

"It's O'Toole!"

"That's right, Chief. It is! He tailed the lad in the fur benny from the drug-store and came here. The lad in the drug-store was Harry Nichols. The thing works out all right."

"Get over to the other side of the street and tell O'Toole that he can go home and get some sleep. Tell him to be at the office not later than eight o'clock--this morning. Get what information you can from him.

This brownstone house with the sign out is our address. I'll wait on the stoop."

Delaney was over in three minutes. "All right," he said cheerfully.

"O'Toole says that Nichols left the drug-store and walked south. Trail led to Fred's Old English Chop House where Nichols drank a split of mineral water and had a chop with a potato. He 'phoned twice before leaving. O'Toole don't know where to. The booth was soundproof and all the lad did was to drop coins. He left a piece of paper in the booth.

O'Toole got it. Here it is, Chief."

Drew slanted a torn portion of envelope and studied its surface. He deciphered a scrawling handwriting into the words, "Loris, Loris, Gramercy Hill, Attorney Denman of Cedar Street, will consult with him in morning.... Drew's Detective Agency ... look out."

"Umph!" said Drew, pocketing the sc.r.a.p of paper with a thoughtful frown. "That last may be a warning. Again it could be a mere notation.

What else did O'Toole find, Delaney?"

"That's all, except that he put the boy to bed here at about one o'clock. There's a 'phone in Nichols' apartment. O'Toole sneaked up the stairs and heard it ringing. He had to come down for fear of queering things. He said that's all, chief."

The detective turned and entered the storm-door. He struck a match and, shielding it with his hands, searched the names over the mailboxes. A neat card, set in well-polished bronze, indicated, "Harry E. Nichols, Apartment Three."

"He keeps this place all of the time," said Drew, jabbing at the b.u.t.ton. "He's down on furlough or Government business. Nice place, this," he added as the inner door-lock clicked and he thrust his foot forward. "Looks like about two hundred a month. This is exclusively bachelor!"

"Them bachelor apartments," said Delaney with candor as he glided into the hallway. "Them places like this ain't what they seem. There's some big parties pulled off in them. I remembers----"