Whispering Wires Part 15

The soldier's face cleared like a lake from a storm. He beamed upon Drew. He smiled for a second time. He pointed toward the chair which the detective had quitted. "Sit down," he said, "and make yourself at home. This is a temperance dugout, but I've got some real good soft stuff--grape juice or club soda. Which will you have?"

"I'll take a cigar," said Delaney.

Drew allowed a smile to creep over his lips. He waited as Harry Nichols dipped into a kitchenette, then came back with three gla.s.ses of soda and a huge black Havana.

"Smoke up," he said good-naturedly to Delaney. "Light up and take a chair. It's daybreak, isn't it?"

"Yes, time we're going," said Drew, setting his empty gla.s.s upon the offered tray. "We'll go in a minute. Now, as I told you and as you can see, this revolver is fully loaded. It looks clean. I suppose you lent it to Miss Stockbridge without any empty cartridges. These are the ordinary lead kind which can be secured at any hardware store. You've got some here, perhaps."

"None here. They're all up at Plattsburg. We do some target shooting at times. These little revolvers don't make much noise. You can use them most anywhere."

"That's satisfactory," said Drew, watching the glow of Delaney's cigar.

"That's all right. Now, when she 'phoned for the gun or you suggested that she better have one with her, what did she say about the cemetery letter or the threat over the wire? Did she fear anything else? Was that her sole reason for having a revolver with her?"

"You cannot expect me to answer for Miss Stockbridge, Mr. Drew. She is available. You can talk to her. You represent her. I shall not say anything concerning her. She is sacred. The revolver was not discharged. It is the same as when I gave it to her in the drug-store.

Therefore, I'll trouble you for it. It's mine. I admit that."

Drew rose from the chair. His left hand went out. His fingers clasped Harry Nichols' shoulder with a fatherly pressure.

"I'm going now," he said. "I'll leave the gun with you. If the police want it, give it to them. Perhaps they will never hear of it. I doubt if more than one or two servants saw it in Miss Loris' hand when she came into the library. They may not tell Fosd.i.c.k. He'll try to rough-shod over them. He may arrest the entire household--including Loris. That's his way. It's effective, but it's not my way. Now is there anything that you want to say to me which will clear your mind of this affair?"

Nichols glanced from Drew's clean-cut face. His eyes rested upon the telephone. "I'm going to call her up presently," he said. "I'll talk with her. I'll tell her that you were here--that you left the little revolver--that you stand ready to swear it was clean and fully loaded.

Then, when I hear what she has to say about everything, I shall call you up. Is that satisfactory, Mr. Drew?"

The detective turned the revolver in his palm and pressed it forward.

"Take it," said he, "and keep it under cover. I'm off with Mr. Delaney.

Thanks for the club soda."

"And the cigar," added the big operative as he opened the door.

Drew hesitated on the landing. He turned and went back. Nichols stood by the banisters. The soft light from inside clear-cut the officer's figure like a statue.

"You can do me a favor," said the detective in a whisper. "A d.a.m.n nice little favor."

"What is it?"

"Have you an extra photo of the girl-in-the-case. One that's laying around somewhere. I don't mean the one on the mantel."

"What do you want it for?"

"For myself. I admire that young lady."

Harry Nichols disappeared through the doorway. He returned within a minute with a cabinet-size photo upon the front of which was written, "From Loris, January '18," in the vertical chirography much practiced by social buds.

"Thanks," said Drew unb.u.t.toning his overcoat and thrusting the photo within his breast. "I shall keep and cherish this, as one of my most sacred possessions. Congratulations, young man!"

The detective's words rang sincere. Nichols flushed. He stammered an answer as Drew hurried down the carpeted steps and joined Delaney at the storm-door.

"Chief," said the operative as they reached the sidewalk and turned toward Madison Avenue. "Chief, why didn't you pump that lad about Stockbridge. You didn't ask him a thing about the old man."

"Unethical to a client," reproved Drew linking arm with the operative.

"Come on! We must hurry! I've an idea--which is a very strange thing for a New York detective to have--that Harry Nichols, if he stays in town on furlough, will represent Loris in all matters. I don't know where she could find a better counselor. He's a clam! He told us nothing!"

"Wise boy, Chief! Only fools and women talk to detectives."

"Umph!" said Drew at this sally. "Umph! Well, come on. It's quit snowing. It's daybreak over there in the east and I think the clouds will clear before it gets much later. You----"

"Say, Chief!" exclaimed Delaney clutching the detective's shoulder and wheeling him around. "Say, stand right there a minute. Right in that light. What's that on your chin? Right under the tip of your left ear.

Turn around a little more!"

Drew raised his left hand and rubbed it across his face. He pinched the lobe of his ear between his thumb and index finger. He whistled with frosty amazement as he eyed his nail and thumb.

"What to blazes!" he said. "What's that?"

"Turn around! Right under this arc light. Say, Chief, how did you get that spot of black on your neck? You've smeared it all over your collar."

"I don't know. What's it look like?"

"Soot!"

"Soot?"

"Sure, Chief. Lampblack or soot!"

Drew arched his dark brows as he rubbed his finger-tips together. He held them up to the stronger light. He turned and glanced back through the silent walls of the street down which they had walked. He took one step toward the east.

"Hold on!" said Delaney. "Where are you going?"

"Going back!"

"Why, Chief!"

"Smell that stuff! Smell it!" Drew thrust his fingers under Delaney's wrinkled nose. "Smell it, good and strong!" he snapped bitterly. "What is it?"

"By G.o.d, Chief, it's powder, I smell! Gunpowder, it is!"

"Umph! I must have gotten it from that gat!"

"You couldn't, Chief. That gun was polished up like a whistle. Besides, how would the spot come to be under your left ear?"

Drew furrowed his brow. He swung in the snow with new decision. "Come on!" he said. "We'll think this over! I didn't see any soot on that gat. I don't know where I got it either. Could it have been there for some time?"

"Sure, Chief. I just happened to notice it. Light's bright." Delaney nodded toward the arc.

"Did you get a good look at my face in Stockbridge's?"

"Can't say that I did, Chief. I was too busy with that howler thing and that magpie and that murder, to see anything. You might of got it there without me noticing it. It wasn't there in the taxicab. I'll swear to that."

Drew pa.s.sed his fingers across his nostrils like a man sampling perfume. He repeated the motion. He sc.r.a.ped some of the powder from his nails with a pocket knife and dropped the sample into the crease of an envelope which he carefully folded and crammed into his pocket.