Whispering Wires Part 31

"I'll grab him, Chief!" rumbled Delaney, reaching for his storm coat which was supposed to be fur-lined. "Leave that to me!" he added. "Jus'

leave it tu me!"

Drew eyed the operative's huge hands. "I'll do that," he said with a short laugh. "Now hurry! No, wait."

"What is it, Chief?" asked Delaney in the doorway.

"If the address is downtown, or in Brooklyn, what would you do then?"

"I'd get the office, Chief, and have Harrigan rush over a man. This super at Gramercy Hill ought to be able to stall that call long enough for us to connect--with both hands and both feet."

"Go to it!" said Drew, pressing Delaney out through the door. "Good luck," he added as he twisted the key and shot the bolt. "Now we are getting there," he said softly. "Unfortunately for that devil up-the-river, he has to phone from _one_ place. That's the thing which will beat him. I hate to think what would happen if he was outside giving orders. He could get away with it, nicely."

Drew never felt surer of himself in a case. He tested the lock and bolt for a second time. He draped the tapestries and strode into the sitting room with his shoulders held back--a sanguine light in his olive eyes.

"Well, Miss Stockbridge," he said, pausing in the center of the room and smiling. "I think we are on the verge of big things. The attempt cannot be made to-night without we have plenty of warning."

"Good!" exclaimed Loris, standing upright and arranging her lavender gown about her slipper-tops. "That's the best news I've heard in a long time, Mr. Drew," she added, glancing archly at the detective, beneath her dark lashes. "Has that Mr. Delaney found any one?"

Drew raised his brows. Loris' question was not exactly a compliment to the big operative, who meant so well.

"He hasn't found anything," said Drew, with soft, pleasing voice. "He hasn't done that, but I'm venturing my future reputation that he will find our man--the trouble-man perhaps."

Harry Nichols stepped to Loris' side. "We were children there," he admitted frankly. "At least I was. I never suspected him at all. His manners were so pleasant. He seemed so weak and intent about his business."

"Ah!" said Drew, raising his finger. "That's it! He was intent about _his_ business. Only, this particular business concerned the taking of a human life in cold blood. Mr. Stockbridge was murdered by this fiend, in the guise of a harmless trouble-hunter. How the murder was accomplished and by what lethal method we do not know. I'm acting on the theory that if we catch the man we will find out how it was done.

If I can't make him--Fosd.i.c.k, Commissioner of Detectives, will. May G.o.d help him if he doesn't talk to Fosd.i.c.k!"

"But can't we find out how father was killed?" asked Loris, with tears glazing over her eyes. "It don't seem--it don't----"

The captain caught Loris about the waist and led her to the divan in the alcove. She sank down with her face covered with her hands. Soft sobs, brought to her throat by the memory of the murder, caused Drew to pace the rugs with alert, nervous strides like a man who would guard her from some menacing shadow. He went to the ventilators and closed them slightly. He crossed the room to the radiator-boxes and set them in an open position. He adjusted a thermostat on the wall, to seventy degrees. He stood back then and listened with both ears strained for outside sounds.

Snow sifted across the curtain-drawn panes with a cutting of fine diamonds against diamonds. A wind whistled and moaned and swirled over the turrets and towers of the mansion. An echo lifted from the driving traffic of the Avenue. Below this echo, so faint it seemed like a murmur of a distant sea, the city throbbed with the s.h.i.+fting of the whimpering wind. Once it roared. Then afterward there was silence, save for the sifting snow, and Loris' low, throat choke from welling sorrow.

She sat up finally and dried her eyes. "I should be ashamed of myself,"

she said, brokenly. "I must be brave. I fear something, though. It seems to be in the room or the air. What is it I fear, Mr. Drew?" Her question was vague. Her eyes shone hectically bright and strangely alluring to the detective.

"There's nothing to fear!" he declared with a direct glance. "I'm armed! Then," he added as an additional encouragement. "Then, Mr.

Nichols is a soldier! You are in safe hands, believe me!"

Harry Nichols bowed politely. "I've got a gun, myself," he admitted candidly. "It's not that little one, either. It's army regulation. It, or the ones like it, have been stopping the Huns. I guess we'll take care of anything that comes up to-night, Mr. Drew. It's getting late, isn't it?"

The detective glanced at his watch. "I ought to hear from Delaney," he said, replacing the watch and reaching for a chair. "Delaney is like old Dobbin--faithful and slow."

Drew sat down, pulled at the knees of his black trousers and rested his heels on the thick soft pile of a Persian rug. Behind him was the cheval gla.s.s and the telephone stand. Before him, and in the shade of the silk draperies, Loris' eyes glowed alongside the captain's resolute face.

The minutes pa.s.sed with the trio in the same position. The snow sifted across the cold panes. The wind whined. Suddenly between gusts, Loris asked point-blankly:

"Do you suspect that man, Morphy?"

"Yes; I do!" said Drew with a snap. "I believe that every single lead we have points to him. I believe he planned to destroy your father ever since the day of conviction. I believe----"

"But he is in prison."

"Ah!" said the detective, with bright eyes. "So is his master, Lucifer, in the lower regions. He's there, but he has a long arm. Morphy's tool in this affair is probably the telephone repair-man. You saw him. Mr.

Nichols saw him. I saw him. We all agree that he does not look the part of a scoundrel and a scoundrel's tool. But," Drew paused and spread out his hands; "but," he continued, "that's the reason he was chosen for Morphy's murderous work. You can't send a thug into a drawing room--or a library. You can't cut a sharp slice with a dull tool. This trouble-hunter is all that the name implies--a hunter of trouble. I don't doubt that we have the case rounded up, save for bringing him in.

Morphy, we can get at any time. He's in prison and he's getting very close to the little green door that leads to the electric-chair. One slip to-night, and we have him!"

"Miss Stockbridge must go south after the funeral," said Nichols. "She can't be jeopardized! She is nervous and has suffered acutely. I for one am sorry we let her stay here. It is the place she should not be.

They know where to look for her!"

"They're beat to-night," a.s.sured Drew, rising and stretching his arms.

"My! my!" he added, "this is slow, sleepy work. I'd ask for tea, but I think it's best we stay locked in here. Don't you, Miss Stockbridge?"

"Marie can get some. There's a service-waiter running up to her room.

Suppose I order tea, or coffee, and cakes. It might cheer us up?"

Drew held out a warding arm as Loris rose and started toward the writing room. "I'll tend to it," he said. "You stay right here close up to Mr. Nichols. We're taking no chances at all."

The detective parted the portieres and knocked upon the maid's door as he turned the key with his left hand. He waited as she gave the order through a silver-plated speaking tube. He heard the service-waiter rising. He leaned forward and took the tray with a sharp glance about the maid's room. It was as clean and as neat as a work basket. A French novel, with a vivid portrait of a poilu carrying a very sharp bayonet on its cover, lay in the center of a white counterpane on the bed.

"Good-night!" he said as he closed and carefully locked the door. He reached downward and caught up the tray. He started across the writing-room. He paused in its center as he heard:

"Burrrr! Burrrr! Burrrrr!"

Shrillingly the perfumed air of the suite vibrated with the silver notes of the telephone. Drew hesitated, with the tray balanced in his hand. He took one step forward as Loris swished across the sitting-room, lifted the hard-rubber receiver and voiced a soft, "h.e.l.lo!"

Drew let go of the tray and sprang forward. He parted the portieres and watched Loris' face. It changed between seconds to a flushed mask of crimson-fear. She staggered back, dropped the receiver, and cried "Harry!" as she sank to the floor.

Drew darted across the rugs and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the instrument. He heard a low, chuckling laugh that died to a whisper and then to nothingness. He flipped the receiver back on the hook. He turned with a savage twist.

He stared across the room toward Loris, who had risen to her knees and whose head was against Nichols' olive-drab breast.

"What was said?" he questioned sharply.

A ma.s.s of turbaned, midnight-hued hair uncoiled and fell about the girl's white face. Glorious eyes dulled, then glowed, with the fire which was pulsing within her. Her lips trembled and went blanched as she throated brokenly:

"The man--the man at the other end said.... He said that his master had ordered my coffin.... He said that I had only a few hours to live....

He said that he would call me up again.... For me to be ready then, to meet my Master and my--doom."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"A SILENT PRISONER"

Loris Stockbridge finished speaking with a low sob which went straight to the detective's heart. He advanced across the room and ran his arm about her supple waist. "We'll help her to the divan," he told Nichols.

"That's it! Right over here and in the corner. She's all right. I'll tend to that threat which came over the wires."