Part 10 (1/2)

Delaney scratched his head. ”I'd say, Chief, it was smokeless powder.

It don't smell like the ordinary kind.”

”I saw smoke when I came in!”

”That smokeless stuff smokes. It ain't altogether what they call it.

Remember the shootin'-gallery at Headquarters? There's smoke there when the police are practicing with them steel-jacketed bullets.”

”You're right,” said Drew. ”Keep on looking about. I'm getting on.

Stockbridge was shot at very close range behind and under the left ear.

The weapon used was a small-caliber revolver. The bullet is undoubtedly lodged in the lower brain. Powder stains are in his hair. The opening is clotted shut. He fell forward. In falling he knocked over the little table with its load of ash-trays, match-boxes, telephone, cigar b.u.t.ts and the whisky bottle and the gla.s.s. He's been dead some time.”

”I 'e'rd no shot!” cried the butler from the doorway.

Drew wheeled. ”You wouldn't,” he said sharply. ”Delaney,” he added, ”say, Delaney, get out your note book and pencil. I want to put down everything we can think of before I send for the coroner. We'll take a complete record. This thing is diabolical. You see nothing?”

”Nothing,” echoed Delaney as he slammed a book-case door shut, dusted his fingers and reached in his pocket. ”There's n.o.body planted in this room--that's a fact, Chief. That's what gets me. How was the murder done?”

”Speculation is useless--now! Get ready for notes.”

”I'm ready, Chief.”

The detective strode across the library rugs and snapped on the wall switch by jabbing at a mother-of-pearl b.u.t.ton. Each time he jabbed, more lights came on. The room flooded with soft glowing from concealed globes. This glow brought out the full details of the palatial interior. Drew chewed at his mustache thoughtfully. He measured the walls with his eyes. He glided swiftly toward the windows. He thrust aside the heavy curtains of one and glanced upward.

”Closed and locked,” he said to Delaney. ”Put that down. There's snow on the sill which has drifted through the outer slats. Put that down.

No sign of footprints. Put that down. Now, the upper part!”

He climbed up on the ornate radiator box. His fingers went over the catch. ”Locked here!” he said, glancing down. ”Locked and the same as it was. Make a note of that!”

He sprang down and examined the other window. He went over the sill and the catch with absorbed intentness. His teeth bit against his upper lip. He shook his head as he turned.

”No chance for a bullet to have been fired through these windows!” he declared positively. ”No chance at all. This end of the library is sealed as far as we are concerned. Now, we'll consider the only other opening--the door!”

”Double locks, Delaney,” he called over his shoulder as he crossed the room and pressed the butler back into the hall. ”Double locks of the superior order. Gold k.n.o.bs and key-holes. The holes are not in line.

The chamfering is clean, except where you struck it once or twice with the ax. No sign of outside tampering or jimmy work. I'd say we've covered this door. Any suggestions?”

Delaney tried both the inner lock and the bolt which was actuated with a gold b.u.t.terfly-wing of heavy construction. He studied the flat key.

It was gold-plated. He dropped to his knees and went over the entire lower chamfering with his broad finger.

He said, ”No suggestions, Chief. This was locked twice, until we broke a hole through with an ax. I don't see----”

”Make a note of everything!” ordered Drew with a sharp glance at the waiting servants. ”Make a full record of what we have found--including your exact interpretation of the magpie's words. What were they?”

”Ah, Sing!”

”I think the same. Let's look the bird over. Perhaps it will repeat.”

The two detectives strode to the bird-cage. ”I'm going to send for Fosd.i.c.k and the coroner,” said Drew hastily. ”We've got to hurry. What do you make of this bird? Could it have had anything to do with the murder?”