Whispering Wires Part 9

"What is it?" asked Drew.

"Sounds like the crow, Chief."

"Stockbridge's magpie?"

"Something like that."

The Detective laid his ear flat against the key-hole. His face hardened as he waited. He lifted his head and pointed with a steady finger.

"Listen!" he commanded. "There--listen. That's no magpie!"

_A low whine like the howl of a wild thing rose to a reed note of moribund terror. It died; then resumed its shrieking. It leaped the octaves from no note to a blare of a soul in agony. Suddenly it struck down the tone scale with descending steps of mocking laughter._

"Look out!" shouted Drew, bending his knees and gliding back to the wall of the hallway. "Look out!" he repeated.

"What are you goin' to do?" asked Delaney huskily.

"Do? I'm going to break the door down! Look out!"

The detective braced himself against the wall. He lunged forward and crashed against the dark panel near the lock and bolt, with the energy of a college fullback. He backed away and repeated the smashing blow.

"Hold on, Chief," Delaney said. "That's no use. The door is two inches thick. I had a good look at it. Wait!"

Drew rubbed his right shoulder as Delaney turned toward the white-faced butler.

"You get an ax!" he ordered. "Beat it, and get a big ax, quick!"

"The axes are in the furnace room, sir."

"Get one! Bring it right up, you. Hurry now!"

The operative turned toward Drew. "The only way, Chief," he explained.

"I've been in too many of Big Bill Devery's raids not to know how to break down a strong door. I'm the man who took Honest John Kelsey's house apart for him. It was built like a British tank."

The puffing butler appeared with a fire ax. He handed it to Delaney, who eyed the edge with concern.

"Not sharp," he said, "but it'll do, at a pinch. Look out--everybody!"

Delaney waved the servants away. He moistened his broad palms. He swung the ax and crashed its weight into the panel nearest the lock. He followed this blow with another. He panted as he rained swinging slashes at the dark wood. It splintered. An opening was made. This opening was enlarged by short-arm jabs until Drew laid a hand on Delaney's shoulder and called a halt. "Let me see," he said bending down.

He straightened. He enlarged the chopped place with his fingers. He ripped off the splinters until there was room for a palm to be inserted. Delaney, dropping the ax upon the hall-rug, thrust through his arm to the elbow. He bent his knee as he strained. His face screwed into a knot.

"Is the key there?" asked Drew.

"Ye--s. I turned it. All the way, Chief. Here's the bolt. Both were locked tight. Both locked, on the inside of the library."

"Remember that!" snapped Drew, squaring his shoulders. "Everybody remember that. It may be important!"

Drew pressed Delaney aside. He seized the gold k.n.o.b and turned it slowly. He waited for a moment. Nothing sounded save the loud breathing of the butler and the other servants who were crowded in the hall.

The detective jerked open the splintered door. He hesitated and listened. He pressed aside the portieres with his left hand as his right fingers coiled over the ugly hilt of a police regulation .44. He advanced into the library, foot by foot. His fingers still coiled the gun's b.u.t.t. He stood rigid as he reached the fringe of the splendid rug which was under the great table. His sweeping, close-lidded eyes took in the details of the room. He saw the magpie in its cage. The bird's feathers were ruffled. Its head darted in and out the bars with great excitement.

Drew frowned as he noticed a wreath of pale-blue smoke curling under the dome of the rose-light. He sniffed the air with a shrewd intake. A powder explosion of some kind had left a trace. The air, so close and warm, was filled with acrid menace.

The detective removed his hand from the revolver's b.u.t.t and waved it behind him as a signal to Delaney and the servants to stay where they were. He took one step forward. The white writing paper and envelope from the cemetery company were upon the table. The stump of a half-smoked cigar draped over this table's edge like a gun on a parapet. It was cold and without ash.

The smaller of the two tables was overturned. The whisky bottle and gla.s.s lay at the edge of the rug nearest the wall. The telephone transmitter and receiver were upon the hardwood floor, where they had fallen with the b.u.t.ts of two Havana cigars and the ash trays and match boxes.

Stockbridge was crumpled into a twisted knot against the rich wainscoting. His head was half under his left shoulder. His iron-gray hair was singed black over the left ear.

Drew leaned with one hand on the corner of the table and peered downward. He called the magnate's name. He repeated it. He turned toward the doorway. His hand raised. His finger pressed against his lips.

"Stockbridge is dead," he told Delaney, who glided to his side. "He is dead. He was shot to death in this sealed room. I wonder who did it?"

"Ah, Sing!" shrieked the magpie. "Ah, Sing! Ah, Sing!"

CHAPTER FIVE

"THE FIRST CLEWS"

The magpie's words, repeated over and over as Drew and Delaney stood in the room of death, struck both men as a possible clew. It was more than likely that the murderer or the murdered man had shouted something, the moment the shot was fired. This exclamation might have been, "Ah, Sing!" The bird had repeated something it had memorized, or retained in its shallow brain.

"Ah, Sing!" suggested Drew, keenly on the alert. "Ah, Sing, eh? Never forget that! We may need it--later."

"Sounds like a Chinaman," said the operative. "Stockbridge was shot by a c.h.i.n.k!"

"Get busy! Go over the room and look for a possible hiding place. You, butler, stand across that doorway! Don't move from there!" Drew wheeled and stared at the white faces of the servants which were framed in the somber curtains of the opening to the hall.

The detective swung back. He rounded the large table with slow steps.

He bent down. One knee touched the rug. He reached and grasped the magnate's stiff arm. He worked it like a hinge. He felt of the muscles.

They were rigid.

Rising, Drew again tested the air of the library. He glanced at Delaney, who was opening the book-case doors.

"What do you smell?" he asked sharply.

The operative turned and sniffed with widening nostrils.

"It's powder!" he said. "Gunpowder, Chief."

"Sure?"

"It's kind-a peculiar--at that."

"Explain yourself--be clear!"