  Title: Whispering Wires Author: Henry Leverage Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 E-text prepared by Roger Frank Whispering Wires ADAPTED FROM THE SATURDAY EVENING POST STORY OF THE SAME TITLE BY HENRY LEVERAGE NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1918, BY MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY First printing . . . . September, 1918 Second printing . . . . September, 1918 Third printing . . . . October, 1918 DEDICATED TO ONE WHO HELPED CONTENTS
In the greatest city of the modern world, in the Metropolis of Guilt and Guile—where Alias and Alibi ride in gum-shod limousines while Mary Smith of the pure heart walks the pavements with broken shoes—there is a mansion so rich and so rare that it stands alone. Turret and tower, green-bronze roof, Cararra-marbled portico and iron-grilled gates brought from Hyderabad, have made this mansion the show place and the Peri’s paradise for those who parade the Avenue called Fifth, in an unending sash of fashion. Out from this palace at the close of a winter’s day, there flashed the tiny pulsations of voice-induced currents of electricity which reached the telephone-central, were plugged upon the proper underground paper-insulated wires and entered, even as the voice was speaking, the cloud-hung office of Detective Drew. Triggy Drew, as he was called, was dark, stout and forty-one years of age to a month. He crooked his elbow, removed his cigar and pressed the telephone-receiver to his ear. The voice that came over the whispering wires was as clear as a bell within a bell. It said: “Montgomery Stockbridge wants you.” Drew hung up the telephone-receiver. He replaced the cigar in his mouth. He wheeled in his chair and pressed a buzzer. To the operative who entered he said: “Delaney, watch things while I’m gone. I’m called up-town!” The operative reached and handed Drew his coat. He took the swivel-chair before the desk, as his chief clapped on a hat, turned his eyes toward the ground-glass door, and passed out with a brisk stride. “It’s a big case,” said Delaney leaning back. “Triggy is on somebody’s trail. Maybe German—maybe not!” Drew nodded to the waiting operatives in the outer room of the suite. He swung into the hallway with his brown eyes glowing like a man who walked out of realism into romance. The elevator plumbed eighteen stories. The corridor was clear. A taxi stood at the curb. Into this Drew stepped, gave the address and was gently seated as the driver released his brake, set the meter, and dropped through first, second and into third speed. Past Wall Street the taxi flashed. It rounded toward the Bowery, which showed that the driver knew his map. It struck up through the car tracks, across to Washington Park and there took the long longitude of Fifth Avenue as the shortest and quickest way up-town. Drew had no eye for the passers-by. He was repeating two words over and over like a novice counting the same beads. Montgomery Stockbridge was a name to conjure with in the Bagdad of Seven Million. He had made many enemies and much money. His wealth ran well above seven figures. The taxi came to a gliding halt. Drew stepped out in front of a church. He tossed the driver two one-dollar bills and some silver. He waited as the taxi merged in the traffic. He turned and glanced keenly up and down the Avenue. Then he hurried north for one square, paused before the mansion of turrets and towers, and pressed a button which was set in the doorway. The door opened to a crack, then wide. A butler barred the way. To him Drew said, “Mr. Stockbridge sent for me.” The butler bowed with old world civility. He took the detective’s hat and coat. He waited until Drew removed his gloves. He bowed for a second time and led the way over rugs whose pile was as thick as some Persian temple’s. They came finally, after an aisle of old masters, to the inner circle of latter-day finance and money-wizardry—the celebrated library of Montgomery Stockbridge. The Munition Magnate sat there. He turned as the butler announced the detective. He shot a gray-thatched pair of eyes up and over a mahogany table upon which a white envelope lay. He smiled coldly. His thumb jerked toward a leather chair into which Drew sank and leaned his elbows upon the table. Stockbridge coughed dryly. He blinked and studied the detective’s face for a long minute. He glanced from the envelope up at a cone of rose light which hung from a cluster of electric-globes. His expression, seen in this light, was like an aged lion brought to bay. His wrinkled skin was tawny. His hands coiled and uncoiled like claws. They moved prehensilely, as though cobwebs were in that perfumed air of wealth and security. They poised over the envelope as if to snatch the secret or delusion hidden there. “See that letter!” declared the Munition Magnate, closing his fist and banging the table. “See it? D’ye see it?” Drew widened his eyes at the outburst. He crossed his legs and nodded. “It’s blackmail!” Stockbridge snarled. “Rank-scented blackmail of the cheapest order.” “A threat of some kind?” “Threat? Yes—a threat, in a way. It’s clever, but it won’t work with me!” Drew recrossed his legs. He touched his short-cropped mustache with the fingers of his right hand. He coughed as in suggestion. His brows lifted as he studied the envelope from a distance. Stockbridge snatched it up suddenly. He slapped it against the edge of the polished table. He turned and found a cigar to his liking out of many in a humidor beneath a smaller table at the right of his chair. He bit on this cigar, struck a match, and dragged in the smoke with deep inhalings before he turned and opened the envelope, exposing a letter which he rapped with the knuckles of his left hand. “I’ll beg to be excused,” he said half-apologetically. “I’m not myself. This letter, you know. I want you to ferret it out. I want you to find out who sent it, and make him or her pay. Make them pay in full!” “May I see it?” Stockbridge hesitated. His eyes ran across the paper. His lips curled in an ugly, thin-visaged smile which wrinkled his yellow face. “See it? Yes!” he snapped, volplaning the sheet across the table with a vicious jerk of his wrist. “Ridgewood Cemetery,” said Drew lifting the letter. “Heading, Ridgewood Cemetery,” he repeated softly. “Dated yesterday,” he added with a sly glance at Stockbridge. “Signed by the superintendent, I suppose. Yes, by the superintendent. He scrawls worse than I do. Well, it looks official and smells—ah!” Stockbridge worked his brows up and down like a gorilla. He chewed on his cigar with savage grinding of gold-filled teeth. “Smells graveyardy,” continued Drew. “I get flowers and urns and new-turned earth. This seems to be the bare announcement that the grave you ordered dug in the family plot—is ready and waiting.” Drew glanced up. “Quite so,” sneered the Magnate. Drew stroked his upper lip. He turned the letter over. He held it to the rose-light and studied the water-mark. He raised his black brows and said sepulchrally: “Who is dead?” Stockbridge stiffened. “Dead?” he exclaimed. “Why, nobody is dead! Damn it, Drew, there’s nobody dead at all!” The detective frowned. “Somebody in the immediate family?” he questioned. “Somebody you are expecting to pass away soon? Some one on their sick-bed, for instance?” Stockbridge snatched the cigar from his mouth and threw it to the rug. “That letter’s a stab, Drew!” he exclaimed. “It’s a damn insult to me and mine, if you want to know. I’ll have the author of it, or know the reason why. I’ll spend fifty thousand to catch the miscreants. They’ll not monkey with me!” “The writer of this seems to be the superintendent.” “Yes—that part’s all right. He knows nothing save what you see there. This threat concerns Loris and I. We are the only two who will ever be buried in our family plot.” “What does she know? Has she seen this letter?” “Yes!” “Knows nothing about it?” “Nothing.” “Has no enemies?” “Certainly not! She’s just a girl!” The Magnate’s eyes softened slightly. He glanced around for a cigar. Drew laid the letter on the table. “It seems to me,” he said, “that you have not explained everything. When did you get this letter, Mr. Stockbridge? What time did it arrive?” “It came in the late mail last night. I showed it to Loris at supper. Then I called up the cemetery people this morning. Got the superintendent. He said that ‘Dr. Conroy’—our family physician—‘had phoned him and ordered the grave dug.’ Said, ‘A death was about to occur in the Stockbridge family.’ Conroy never sent any such message!” “Umph!” broke in Drew. “Yes! He assured me of it. Was terribly put out!” “It seems to me,” said Drew, “that the entire matter is a practical joke of the low order. I see nothing else to it—so far. It isn’t even clever.” “I’m not so sure,” Stockbridge said huskily. “It may be very clever. It may mean that death is coming—to me or to Loris. There’s men in this city who are capable of anything!” The break in the Magnate’s voice brought Drew to the edge of his chair. “Whom do you suspect?” he asked professionally. “Motive goes before crime—you know. Sometimes a warning is sent—more often there is none. Clever men do not telegraph a blow.” “I suspect the whole city!” declared Stockbridge. Drew smiled sincerely. It was plainly evident that the Magnate was suffering from the thrust about Loris and the graveyard. The detective had never seen him so unsettled. “How about Germans?” he asked. “You’ve made a lot of ammunition—haven’t you?” “Ye—s. I’ve still holdings in Standard Shell, Preferred, and Amalgamated Powder. Also, there is my interest in Flying Boat.” “Could the Germans be after you for any reason at all?” The Magnate weighed the question from a score of angles. He reached and secured a second cigar. “I don’t think so,” he said with a dark frown. “I don’t think they would bother with me. I’m more or less retired. I’ve drawn out of a lot of things. Younger men are turning out the ammunition now.” “Then which of your friends might be responsible for this letter?” “Well put!” exclaimed Stockbridge. “Friends may be right. Friends now, or former friends who have rounded on me.” “Name some!” “There’s Morphy!” “We settled him. We should never hear from him again.” “I’m not so sure! You don’t know him like I know him. He’s a vindictive devil! He got ten to twenty years in state prison. You remember the case. He lost his appeal to the Governor, only last week. I blocked it through Tammany affiliations. You know what that fiend in stripes is capable of doing. He would sell his soul to get me!” Drew grew serious. “Yes, I know,” he said. “Then there is—well, there are others. Ten, at least! What man can rise in this slippery city without pushing a few down the ladder? Wall Street and Broad Street and New Street are full of curb-stone blackmailers who knew me when I was struggling with my companies. They saw me take chances they themselves feared to take. They hounded me, then. Thank God, I got above them!” Drew leaned over the table. “A few names,” he said. “Something specific. Who of all of them would be capable of phoning the cemetery, representing himself to be your family physician and ordering the grave dug? Who might think of a thing like that?” “Well, there’s Harry Nichols, for instance. He’s an ass with a champagne thirst and a shoestring salary. I threw him out of the house the other day. He was calling on Loris. Think of that! He’s probably sworn to get me.” “How old is he?” “About twenty-three—or four! Smokes, drinks and plays golf!” “Name some others,” suggested Drew artfully. “Morphy!” “I got him.” “Morphy’s brother who escaped when we had Morphy indicted. I don’t know where he is. Then there’s Vogel and Vogel’s friends. Oh, there’s a pirate crew of them. Some were mixed up in the first Flying Boat failure. They would all like to see me in Ridgewood Cemetery. I’ll fool them!” “You’ve given me Harry Nichols, Morphy, Morphy’s brother, Vogel and Vogel’s friends. That’s four and a few outsiders. Can you think of any more?” “Not at present! One of them is responsible for this letter. I want you to get busy. If you won’t take the case, I’ll get an agency that will. There’s plenty!” “I’ll handle it,” said Drew, “when it gets to be a case. As it is now, Mr. Stockbridge––” “Buuurrruuurrr! Buuurrruuurrr! Buuurrruuurrr!” The Magnate started. He lowered his cigar, balanced it on the edge of the table, and turned slowly in his chair. He leaned over a smaller table which was littered with bronze ash-trays and inlaid match-boxes. He lifted the receiver of the insistent telephone. He pressed this to his ear. Drew watched him narrowly. The terseness of a static charge of high voltage was in the great library. The face of the Munition Magnate grew cold with hauteur. It changed over the seconds to venom and red anger. His neck purpled. The diaphragm of the telephone instrument hissed its message. His hand clutched the hard-rubber receiver with white strength. A click followed as the connection was broken. Stockbridge dropped the receiver upon the hook. He turned slowly and stared at Drew with eyes that had aged over the moments. Wrinkles shot from their corners. Sullen light gleamed in their yellow depths. “What happened?” questioned Drew half rising from his chair and leaning over. “Who phoned?” The Magnate’s chin described an upward arc. His lips grew firm. Bulges showed at the sides of his jaw. “What—who was it?” asked the detective. Stockbridge stared at the letter upon the table. His neck changed from purple to a pasty ochre. A green sheen, like of death, overspread his crafty features. He was stricken with the clutch of fear. Drew waited and thought rapidly. “What happened?” he asked with persuasion. “Nothing serious—I hope?” “Serious,” said Stockbridge absently. “Serious!” he snarled. “Yes, it was serious! It was a death threat! It was what I had expected. It follows the letter. They—he will get me! He—he––” “Who?” asked the detective. Drew heard the table creaking as Stockbridge’s muscles stiffened—as the Magnate’s hands clutched the edge of the polished surface. “Who?” he repeated on the alert for possible clews. “Who! I don’t know! But they will—he will!” “Easy,” said Drew. “Take it easy, sir. This is a modern age. We are in the heart of civilization. Nobody is going to get you! I’ll see to that!” “You can’t see! This man knows everything. He said that I would be dead within twelve hours. That I would be in my grave in seventy-two hours. He mentioned the grave at Green—Ridgewood Cemetery. He gave secret details of my life which few alone know. Early follies of mine. An actress. A deal in War Babies and an electrical stock which was hushed up. I was the silent partner in that. How should this man know all of these things about me?” “Just what did he say?” “I’ve told you! He said enough! He threatened to kill me despite all the precautions I would take. He said I was marked for a death which all the police in the world couldn’t solve. That I would be killed in spite of every effort to save me. What is it—poison? Have I already been given poison?” Drew reached across the table and clutched the magnate’s left wrist. He pulled out a flat watch and timed the pulse. “Normal, almost,” he said softly. “You’re normal, despite the shock. Your temperature is fair. I don’t think it was a toxin he meant. That deadens a man and brings slow coma.” “Well, what did he mean?” The magnate had found his voice and his old-time nerve. “What would you do in my case?” he said cunningly. Drew glanced at the telephone. He raised his brows and swung, full-staring, upon Stockbridge. His finger pointed between the money-king’s eyes. It was as steady as an automatic revolver. “Did you recognize that voice?” he asked sharply. “Tell me the facts. I can’t go ahead unless you do. I must work from facts!” “No!” declared Stockbridge. “No, I did not! I never heard it before. I––” “What was it like?” “Hollow-whispering—almost feminine in tone. I thought it was a woman at first. It wasn’t, though! It was a man or boy.” “Have you told me everything?” “Yes—except this man or boy—this whispering voice, wound up by threatening to get my daughter, Loris, as soon as he finished with me. Said he’d clean up with her!” “I’ll take the case!” snapped Drew. The Munition Magnate thrust a shaking hand toward the detective. “I’m glad!” he declared raising his voice. “You did well in the Morphy case. That’s the reason I called upon you. Now find the miscreant or miscreants, who telephoned the cemetery superintendent, and you’ll not be forgotten.” Drew glanced shrewdly at the ’phone. “May I use it?” he asked briskly. “I’ll try to trace that call.” Stockbridge moved his chair away from the little table. Drew glided across the room, pressed the ash-trays and match-boxes to one side, and picked up the receiver. He worked the hook up and down with his broad thumb. “Hello! Hello!” he repeated clicking the hook. “Hello, central! Hello!” He glanced at Stockbridge as he waited. He frowned as he stooped and spoke more directly into the transmitter. “Hello! Hello!” “Something the matter?” asked the Magnate with quick suspicion. “Don’t they answer?” “Hello! Hello! I Hello, there!” Drew glared at the transmitter, then tapped the receiver against the silver-plated cover. “Hello!” he shouted. “Damn it, Hello!” He turned. “No go,” he said thoughtfully. “Connection seems to be broken. I’m talking right out into thin air. Wonder who cut your wires?” Stockbridge bristled. He slid forward in his great chair and stared at the detective. “They’re cut, eh?” he asked. Drew set the ’phone on the table and turned. “Looks mighty like it,” he said. His eyes swung over the walls of the splendid room. They rested upon a high, ebony stand with a belfry from which dangled a gilt spring suspending an ornate bird cage. Out of this cage, a magpie peered with beaded eyes. Its tail extended up through the bars like a feather from a hat. “My bird,” said Stockbridge. “A tame magpie I brought from Spain. It talks.” Drew raised his brows. He continued his search of the library. Its wealth of books and paintings and antiques almost stunned him. “I’m looking for another ’phone,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Have you another ’phone in this house?” “Yes. Two more. This is Gramercy Hill 9763. The one in Loris’ room is Gramercy Hill 9764. Another in the butler’s pantry, downstairs, is 9765. Perhaps the others are disconnected.” “We’ll see. I want that call traced before it gets cold. I know a wire chief at Gramercy Hill Exchange. He’ll help if I can get him. Have your butler show me his ’phone. Also, we better get a trouble-hunter, or report the cut wires. Somebody will pay for this! It’s an outrage and a felony!” Stockbridge moved his slippered foot and pressed a button under the larger table. He waited, then pressed again. His eyes wavered about the room. They fastened upon the portiÈres which draped from the pole across the doorway leading into the hall. His tongue moistened dry lips as he watched for the butler. “I’ll ’phone my office,” said Drew hurriedly as steps were heard in the hall. “I’ll get up five operatives—no, six—right away. This all may be a hoax, but I’ve lived forty-one years too long to overlook a threat of this kind. Particularly when it concerns a man who has made as many enemies as you have.” The butler parted the portiÈres as Drew ceased speaking. Stockbridge nodded and indicated that the detective wanted to go downstairs. The butler led the way to the lower telephone. Into this, Drew spoke hurriedly and very much to the point. He secured three numbers in rapid succession. He snapped his orders in a manner to set the cut-glass tinkling on the pantry shelves. He hung up the receiver, glanced shrewdly at the servants about, then climbed the stairs like a boy of twelve. “All is set!” he announced to Stockbridge as he entered the library and crossed to the table. “All moving, now! My wire-chief had gone home. I got the chief operator. She’s going to send the first trouble-man handy. Delaney will be up from the office with his flying squad. I left it to him to arrange about tracing the call through a telephone official. No use telling the chief operator too much. The official will go right over her head and into the heart of the thing. Now,”—Drew pulled down the lapels of his black coat and leaned over the Magnate. “Now,” he said with vigor, “now, what about your servants? I had a good look at some of them. How about that English butler? How long have you had him?” “Ten years! Brought him over, myself. Wife picked the other servants. They’re all old, tried and trusted. I’ll answer for them. She died telling me to take care of them. I don’t think her equal lived in choosing help. It was uncanny!” Drew stroked his cropped mustache. “Good!” he said. “That’s fine! We’ll start with the supposition that they’re not guilty. Are any of them of German birth?” “My valet is part German, but he ran away to avoid their army. He hates the Junker party. Says ‘It is responsible for the War.’” “How long have you had him?” “Nine years.” “That should let him out. Well,” Drew added with a sweeping glance about the library, “well, these big windows—how about them?” The detective advanced to the front of the room as he asked the question. “Two,” he mused. “Two bay-windows of the superior order. Curtains very heavy and rich. There’s a good catch on this one,” he added springing upon the radiator-box. “And a good catch on this one. Both catches are closed. Seem to have been closed for some time. Here’s dust. High-class housekeeper, but I’ve got her here.” Drew smiled as he ran his fingers over the upper sash. He peered out into the Avenue with its flowing tide of vehicles. He turned and said to Stockbridge: “Suppose you order your butler or doorman to shut the outside blinds. It’s getting dark and cold. I want to be sure that no one can get through this way.” “Good,” said Stockbridge reaching for the button with his toe. “Good! We’ll take every precaution. Twelve hours will show the thing one way or the other. Twelve hours should do it.” The butler entered bearing a silver tray. He set this on a mahogany tea-wagon and rolled it to the Magnate’s chair. Drew frowned at the sight of a black bottle and one glass. A signal of understanding had been sent to the perfect servant. Stockbridge moistened his thin lips thirstily. He whispered the instructions concerning the blinds. The butler withdrew like a shadow merging into a shadow. Drew shrugged his shoulders and went the round of the library with the keen, trained scrutiny of a man-hunter and a modern operative. He paused before a case of morocco-bound books. “These cases?” he asked. “How about them? What’s behind?” “Books! Books!” shrilled the magpie. Drew raised his brows and swung upon the bird. “Books! Books!” repeated the pet. “Books, books, books!” “Fine bird,” said Drew with thought. “But what is behind the cases, Mr. Stockbridge? I don’t want to move them if the walls are all right.” A glass clicked against the silver tray as the Magnate answered hastily: “All right! They’re all right. I was here when they were filled. I just ordered so many feet of books. Six hundred feet, I think it was. I never look at them. All that I ever read is the magazines and the financial items in the newspapers.” “The pictures—paintings,” Drew said. “Pictures! Pictures!” repeated the magpie. “Shut up!” snarled Stockbridge. “Keep quiet, Don!” The bird ruffled its feathers and leaped to a top perch. It peered from there at Drew, with its head cocked sideways. “How about them?” repeated the detective. “I had them hung by my orders,” Stockbridge said. “They’re all right. Nothing but a strong wall behind. No need to bother about them.” “Everything is important,” Drew suggested with a slight reproof in his voice. “Trifles may make for the answer to the riddle.” “That Corot over there is no trifle. It cost me thirty-five thousand dollars in France!” Drew lifted the lower edge of the painting from the wall. Dust fell. He pressed his face against the paper and looked behind the canvas. Letting the frame back he tried the same operation with the other paintings of size. “No secret panel, or anything queer,” he said finally as he dusted his hands. “All’s well with the walls. Now the floor. How about trapdoors?” “Impossible!” Stockbridge exclaimed. “I’m sure these rugs have been taken out and cleaned every time I go to my country-place. A trapdoor would be noticed!” “I’m trying to find out,” suggested Drew glancing from the bottle to the purple face of the Magnate. “Please answer me if you want to get results. I’ve got to see that no one comes into this library for the next twelve hours. After that period of time—we can breathe easier.” “Go on,” said Stockbridge feeling the thrust. “This door,” Drew said. “The door to the hall. Can it be locked securely?” “Yes! It can be locked and bolted from the inside. I often lock myself in—in––” Stockbridge stiffened in his chair. He glanced toward the portiÈres. He leaned forward and attempted to shield the view of the quarter-emptied Bourbon-bottle and the used glass, as a girl in lavender and Irish-lace swept into the room. Drew recognized Loris Stockbridge from newspaper photos. He held his breath as she glided by him, unseeingly. He touched his mustache and waited. Her face, framed in close-drawn hair the color of midnight sky, softened perceptibly as she swished round the great table in the center of the library and laid an unjeweled hand upon her father’s shoulder. She turned with a start as she realized that Stockbridge was not alone. Drew bowed with swift courtesy. “Mr. Drew,” said the Magnate. “Mr. Drew, my daughter, Loris.” Again the detective bowed. He met her level glance with a smile in his brown eyes. She answered it and leaned over her father’s shoulder. Drew wheeled and fell to studying the titles on the books. He moved to the magpie’s cage. He extended one finger. The bird fluttered and sprang from perch to perch. Drew thrust his hands into his pockets. He heard Loris speaking in terse, throaty tones to her father. He could not well avoid catching the tenor of their conversation. It concerned the letter from the cemetery and the threat of death within twelve hours, which the Magnate repeated to her with a softness in his aged voice. A gushing torrent of unbridled emotion poured down upon his gray head. The girl paced the floor between the chair and the table. She fell to her knees with swift grace. “Be careful, father,” she sobbed. “You must be so careful. Remember you’re all that I have, now. That letter and that telephone call means that somebody is planning to destroy you. Oh, father, be careful. What would happen if you were taken away from me?” “You’d marry that cad—Nichols!” blurted Stockbridge. “I’m the one thing that stands in his way. You’d marry him—wouldn’t you?” The girl rose proudly. Drew, from the shadow outside the rose-light, studied the slender figure crowned with a close-drawn turban of blue-black hair. His eyes ranged down to her slipper heels. They lifted again. He stroked his chin as he waited for her answer. It came truthfully enough and with high spirit. “Yes, I’ll marry him some day. I want your permission, but with it or without it, father, I am going to marry him. He’s a captain in the Army. Doesn’t that prove he is not all the things you said he was?” “Good girl,” said Drew in whispered admiration. “It proves nothing!” exclaimed Stockbridge stiffening in his chair and half rising. “He’s a cad and an ass under all his uniform. He’s too poor to be considered for one moment. I want my daughter to marry––” “Whom she pleases,” said Loris. “Harry may be poor, but he’s not too proud to fight!” “Bah! They get those uniforms so the girls will notice them. What does he know about war?” “He’s been at Plattsburg for three months. He’s in town on furlough. He’s helping us with Red Cross work. Isn’t that noble!” “That part’s all right,” said the Magnate. “I want you to keep him from me, that’s all. I believe he’s half German!” “He’s not! Harry is all-American. His mother was born of German parents in this country. His father was Canadian. You’ve heard of the Nichols who built part of the Grand Trunk Railroad. Was he German?” Stockbridge paled under the torrent which gushed from the girl’s lips. “Well, all right,” he said resignedly. “Don’t bring him here or allow him to call. I’ve too much to think about to worry over Harry Nichols. You better go to your room and think things over.” Loris glanced at her wrist-watch. She leaned with quick motion and kissed her father on the forehead. She turned at the portiÈres and threw back her head. “Good-by, Mr. Drew,” she said prettily. “I hope that you have not been annoyed.” The detective, naturally quick at answering, found his tongue tied in his mouth. He stammered a reply, which was too late. Loris swished through the curtains, leaving the room empty for her passing. “A mighty fine girl,” was Drew’s whispered comment. “They don’t often come like that. She’s very high class. She’s got spirit. I’d hate to snatch a delusion from that young lady—Harry Nichols, for instance.” “Come here!” broke in Stockbridge. Drew crossed the rugs. He stood by the magnate’s side. He watched him pour out a half-glass of Bourbon and take the whisky neat. He frowned. “Well?” he asked. “Not a word from your men or the telephone company?” asked Stockbridge, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s queer, isn’t it?” Drew took out his watch. He replaced it after a glance at the dial. His eyes wandered to a little SÈvres clock on a book-case. “It’s time for both,” he said. “It’s––” “There’s somebody now—go see,” Stockbridge whispered tersely. “Somebody is in the hallway.” The portiÈres parted and revealed the beef-red face of the English butler. He advanced a step. “The trouble-man from the telephone company is ’ere, sir,” he said. “’E’s ’ere! ’E’s been hover the junctions in the halley, sir. ’E’s looked at the junction-box. ’E says, sir, there’s no trouble there. ’E says ‘it must be in ’ere, sir.’” “In ’ere, sir,” repeated the magpie with a loud squawking and rustle of wings. “Junction-box! Junction-box!” it cried with its head through the gilded bars. “Shut up, Don!” ordered Stockbridge. “Be a good bird,” he added sharply. “Now, Straker, you may show the trouble-hunter up.” “Trouble-hunter! Trouble-hunter!” echoed the magpie. Drew, somewhat amused, thrust his hands in the pockets of his coat and eyed the opening between the curtains. A click of tools sounded metallically. A shambling step was in the hallway. “This woiy,” said the butler in a superior tone. “Right this woiy, you!” The portiÈres parted. A slouching figure, with a greasy cap drawn far down over the eyes, entered the library with a lineman’s satchel on his hip. He swung the strap from his shoulder, glanced at Stockbridge and then at the detective. He dropped the satchel to the floor and scratched his head. “Take a look at this ’phone,” said Drew. “Go over the wires. Look for any cuts. The trouble ought not to be in here.” Stockbridge rose and made room for the lineman, who lifted the satchel and strode to the ’phone. He dropped to one knee by the little table. He fished forth a testing-set from his shirt. It was bound with two leads of cotton-insulated wire. “I’ll test here,” he suggested, clamping a set of claws into the wires which came through the molding and entered the ringing-box. “Hello!” he said. “Hello, this you, Saidee? Say, Saidee, give me Franklin Official, seventeen. Yes ... all right! Hello! This you, Tupper? Say, Tupper, I went over the junction-box in the alley back of the house. Everything O. K. there. I’ll go over the leads in the house. Loose connection somewhere, I guess.” A clicking of tools followed as the lineman selected a pair of pliers. They rattled over the binding-posts at the receiver. They tightened the connections. He went over the transmitter, and then every inch of the exposed wiring. He removed the cover of the ringing-box and examined the connections. Replacing this cover, he rose with a puzzled expression. “All right,” he said to Stockbridge, who was standing with his back turned. “It’s all right here, sir. I don’t find a thing. See—it’s all right.” The trouble-hunter lifted the receiver from the hook. “Hello,” he said in a low voice. “Hello, Saidee. Say, Saidee, what number is this on your board?” The lineman glanced around the room. His eyes widened. He whistled with naÏve admiration. “Hello,” he said softly. “Yes ... Gramercy Hill 9763. That’s right. O.K. Tell Franklin Official—tell Tupper that I took forty minutes on the job. Forty minutes at time and a half. Don’t forget that. Yes ... bridle—everything, all right, Saidee. See you later.” The trouble-hunter reached for his satchel. He hitched it over his shoulder. “Hold on!” said Drew. “What was the trouble? Why couldn’t we get Central?” “You can search me—sir. It wasn’t in this room, mister. That’s a Western-Union cinch!” “Where was it?” “I don’t know.” “How about the junction-box in the alley? Could it have been there?” “Well it could—come to think of it. I scraped an’ cleaned th’ connections to make sure. They’re all right now.” “Did you see anybody about?” The lineman hitched up the satchel and scratched his ear. “Seems to me, I did. A fellow climbed over the fence from the back yard of this house just as I swings in from the side street. It was snowin’ a bit an’ I couldn’t see very well.” “What kind of looking fellow?” snapped Drew with awakened interest. “German?” “You took th’ very words right out of my mouth,” said the trouble-hunter. “He looked like a German.” “Describe him! Tall, fat or small?” “I wasn’t near enough to notice for sure. Tall, I think. He went out the alley and turned toward Fifth Avenue.” “Could he have called us up from that junction-box?” “Sure—if he had a set of testers like this.” The lineman tapped his shirt with his left hand. “He could have talked with you, but he couldn’t ring your bell without a magneto or an alternating current of some kind.” “Could he have cut the wires and connected them again without Central noticing anything out of the ordinary?” “He might. But who would do that, sir?” “That’s all!” said Drew in dismissal. “Here’s a dollar. Keep still about your visit here. We may want you later.” “Want you later,” repeated the magpie. Drew turned toward Stockbridge as the lineman shuffled through the portiÈres. “Queer,” he said. “Tall fellow, eh! That’s the man who cut in and threatened you. We’ll get him! I’ll go out and see if Delaney has arrived. Two hours of the twelve have passed. Ten more should see you safely out of it.” |
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