Part 8 (1/2)

”A twenty-two?”

”About that. It's the caliber them actresses carry in their stockings.

It might kill, though, at short range.”

”Go on, Delaney. Tell me what happened then?”

”I gets my chewin'-gum, Chief. I backs to the curb. They finish their sundae. I'm across the street when the lad goose-steps out of the drug-store--alone. O'Toole was talking with the fixed-post cop and a Central Office man half-way down the block. They gets my office when I pulls out my handkerchief. The C. O. d.i.c.k covers the corner. O'Toole falls in behind the lad in the fur benny as he pa.s.ses him, with collar turned up and leggins working at a double-time through the snow.”

”That's good! O'Toole will put him to bed.”

”Sure, Chief. Leave it to O'Toole. He never lost a tail yet. He'll follow that lad to France--unless you call him off.”

Drew polished the gla.s.s and strained his eyes in the direction of Stockbridge's mansion. The Avenue had quieted over the hour after midnight. A few belated pedestrians, m.u.f.fled to the brows, glanced at the waiting taxi with curiosity. They did not stop, however.

Delaney drew out his watch and studied its dial by aid of the light which streamed from a corner arc. He replaced the watch.

”Twelve-forty-five,” he announced. ”Wish I'd brought a pint along. I would have, if the dame hadn't come out of the drug-store so quick.”

”Did she buy anything--or do anything, after the officer left her?”

”No! Just waited a second, then came sailin' out without a smile. Had her hands crammed in her m.u.f.f. That's where the revolver was. Bet it was loaded.”

”More deduction,” said Drew. ”Don't jump at conclusions, Delaney. Get facts and work from them. Get----”

The Detective's voice trailed into silence. He reached swiftly and wiped his hand over the frosted pane. He pressed his nose against the gla.s.s until it became white with cold. He jerked back his head.

”Quek!” he signaled from deep down in his throat. ”Quek, Delaney! Open the door. Somebody is coming out of the house!”

Delaney twisted the handle. A breath of stinging air swept into the taxi's heated s.p.a.ce. Snow followed and drifted across the detectives'

knees. Both men strained in one position. Their eyes burned as they waited with grim-set lips.

A light shone from the lower entrance of the mansion. Its oblong brought out in bold-relief the details of the iron-grilled gates.

Across this fine snow sifted. A man emerged. He closed the door. He opened the gates and staggered toward the Avenue's curb. He stood, bare-headed in the night. His chin swung north and south with helpless motion. He fixed his eyes upon the waiting taxi, with a start of recognition. He came over the surface of the Avenue with faltering, bewildered steps.

”The butler!” snapped Drew. ”That's Stockbridge's butler! What's happened?”

”G.o.d only knows!” exclaimed Delaney.

Drew climbed over the operative and sprang to the curb. He charged around the rear of the taxi and brought up with a jerk before the startled servant.

”What is it?” he asked sharply.

The butler stammered an incoherent answer. His eyes wavered from the taxi to the mansion--then back again. They gripped to a dead-lock with the detective's own.

”What happened?” exclaimed Drew.

”I don't know, sir. I don't know----”

”Keep cool! Answer me!” The Detective clutched the butler's shoulder with a vise-grip.