Part 16 (2/2)
”He's come around to our deduction?”
”There's no deduction in it!”
”He says it's murder?”
”Cold, curdling, cunning, crafty murder, Delaney. The coroner said it would have been impossible for a man to shoot himself in the manner Stockbridge was shot. They're right--both of them--and we're right.
I'll stake my badge on it! Particularly in view of the two threats.
Why, I was there when he was called up and given twelve hours on this earth.”
Delaney glanced out the window. ”Snowing again,” he said, ”I wonder if there are any footprints in that back yard or alley. Wouldn't that be a clue, Chief?”
”To what?”
”Well, you told me that the trouble-man said a tall lad climbed the fence near the junction-box and beat it for Fifth Avenue. Maybe that lad left footprints behind.”
”They're snowed over now!”
”But if he made them, couldn't we find them underneath?”
Drew's eyes narrowed. He leaned in his chair with a searching glance at Delaney. ”How long did you sleep?” he asked sharply.
”About thirty minutes, Chief. Mary and the kids woke me up and I couldn't get settled again. I did some thinking.”
”You must 'ave! That idea about the footprints is a mighty good one.
There was first a thaw, then a freeze, then a snow fall which preserved everything. If we wait till spring there might be a set of prints underneath the other sets. Two of our operatives were there. The trouble-man was there. He sc.r.a.ped the connections. If we find a fourth set of prints, that's our man!”
”The tall lad?”
”Yes, Delaney. We can build a box about the fence and start a thaw of our own. I'll think it over!”
”I'll go up and do it, Chief. I can make plaster-casts of all the prints. There's a French system I heard of once. I can find out from Farot over at Headquarters.”
”Keep it under cover for a while,” decided Drew, sitting down and drawing a sheath of papers to the edge of the desk. ”Keep it quiet,” he added. ”I'll think it over.”
Delaney rubbed his chin. He watched Drew rapidly thumb over the data.
”Say, Chief,” he yawned. ”I see another light.”
”What?” shot Drew over his shoulder. ”S--o? Wait a moment before you give it to me--you reminded me of something. Where was the spot of powder on my face? The rubber in the Turkish bath said it was right here.” The detective turned and touched his forefinger below the lobe of his left ear. ”Right there,” he added.
”That's where it was, Chief. Just where you got your finger. It was on the cord. Seems to me that it was circular in shape. Like a half-moon.”
Drew raised his black brows in reflective thought. He opened a small drawer with a sudden dart of his arm. He poised a mirror so that the light from the window brought out his left ear and neck. He dropped the mirror to the desk. ”Delaney,” he said, ”that's exactly the spot where Stockbridge was shot!”
The operative felt a cold chill dart up and down his tired spine. He came to life with an oath, and a slap of his huge palm upon his knee.
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