Part 2 (2/2)

”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.

”h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo!” he repeated clicking the hook. ”h.e.l.lo, central! h.e.l.lo!”

He glanced at Stockbridge as he waited. He frowned as he stooped and spoke more directly into the transmitter. ”h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo!”

”Something the matter?” asked the Magnate with quick suspicion. ”Don't they answer?”

”h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo! I h.e.l.lo, there!” Drew glared at the transmitter, then tapped the receiver against the silver-plated cover. ”h.e.l.lo!” he shouted. ”d.a.m.n it, h.e.l.lo!”

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 b.u.t.ton under the larger table. He waited, then pressed again. His eyes wavered about the room. They fastened upon the portieres 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 portieres 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-gla.s.s 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.”

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