Whispering Wires Part 22

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

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

"Nice bird, you," he said, addressing the magpie. "We're alone, you and I. 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 the cup.r.o.nickel bullet in the base of his brain? He said, 'Ah, Sing!' eh?

He said it, or we are jumping at conclusions. Have Delaney and I erred--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, then held high its head as it gulped. It switched its tail and hopped onto the first perch. There it sat, with coiled claws, as Drew leaned closer.

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

The magpie lowered its head and peered outwardly. It lifted a wing with ruffled dignity. Drew narrowed his eyes. "You were there," he whispered. "You were in that sealed room--that double-locked and triple-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 fairly sure who is directing matters. What I want to know is, what devilish ingenuity of the criminal tribe projected that bullet into the old man's brain? Answer that, Don!"

The bird was as stately as a raven. It seemed to Drew that he heard an echoed "Nevermore." He sat upright and took his hands from his knees.

"Answer that, Don?" he repeated.

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

Drew glanced up. He pa.s.sed his hand over his forehead in a sweeping motion as if brus.h.i.+ng cobwebs from his brain. "Guess I am," he admitted, with a sparkling glance at the paper held in the a.s.sistant's hand. "Well!" he snapped, recovering himself. "Well, what luck? I see that you got something!"

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

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

"I was getting to him, Chief! He was busy when I called, so I thought I'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 the contrary. 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 callers in his office. He's in charge of maintenance and equipment. He says that their records show----"

"Show what?" Harrigan had scowled at his own writing. "It took some time to get this, Chief. Oh, I see. Well, the records of the Westchester Company shows three long-distance calls from the prison between six o'clock last night and this morning. The first one was at seven-ten P. M. to a slot booth at the east end of the New York Central Railroad 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, scratching his 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 talking to 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 the same telephone-booth at the Grand Central Station. Ah, here's the number! That's why Westlake didn't give it to me on the first call to the booth. Number, Gramercy Hill 9845, Chief. That's over near the east end of the building--on the lower level."

"A quiet place!" mused Drew.

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

Drew rose from his chair. "That covers the hour in which Stockbridge was 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 the desk. Drew took it, folded it with two fingers forming the creases, then crammed it into his breast pocket The roll-top came down with a bang. 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'm going to see if I can get any fingerprints in that booth. They might help!"

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

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

Harrigan opened the drawer of a cabinet and fingered about till he found a small, round box of gray powder used for preserving fingerprints. He turned with this and saw that Drew had crammed into his side coat-pocket, a flat camera which the telephone girl brought to him. "Got flash lights?" asked Harrigan.

"Yes. There's some in the back of this camera." Drew slapped his overcoat. "I got everything, I guess. Remember about Delaney and Flynn."

The detective moved toward the door which led to the hallway where the elevators were. He turned as Harrigan laid a hand on his shoulder.

"What's that sticking out of your other pocket, Chief?" asked the a.s.sistant-manager. "A paper, ain't it?"

Drew flushed beneath his olive skin. He pressed the object down with soft 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 an elevator b.u.t.ton with his right thumb.

Swirled in wind-blown snow from the office buildings and wrapped to the chin 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 to which the calls had been sent from the prison.

He made swift work of the matter at hand. Time was pressing. The booths, to the number of three in that portion of the station, were fortunately empty.

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

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

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

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

He found the vice-president busy, with a score of men waiting in the outer room of the telephone company's office. The secretary-in-charge hurried in with his card and his urgent request for three minutes'

important matter which could not well wait.