Part 18 (1/2)

”No, Delaney, don't,” said Drew. ”You'll need your head in this case.

We're squarely up against cla.s.s of the highest order. Since Sheeney Mike and the gas-tube over the transom in Chinatown, I don't know of a more baffling set of clews. All these calls--which seem so important in the case--lead to a whispering voice of low pitch and timber. Perhaps the police records will show such a man who is at large--very much at large.”

Delaney furrowed his brows and screwed his face into a painful knot.

”I'm trying to go back, Chief, to the Morphy case and them crooked witnesses he had. They all had loud voices--like wolves!”

”Yes--I remember them. But then, Delaney, a man can change his voice.

That whole pack will bear watching.”

”You've eliminated some things that were worrying, Chief. But there's some I don't see yet. It's impossible for a man to get shot like that old millionaire was. We went over that room and that house. We frisked good and plenty. There was nothing suspicious. The walls were thick.

The floor was hardwood. The ceiling was some kind of patent plaster, that's like stone. I got two looks at the door, and you tried the windows. Now what's the answer, chief? I'll say you are never going to clear this case up. I don't think you can. It's going to be one of them unsolved mysteries. If you do figure something out it ain't going to be proved to my satisfaction. The thing couldn't be done the way it was done!”

”That's definite,” smiled Drew, tapping the desk with the tips of his well-polished finger nails. ”You're talking in a circle. I'll solve the case, or I won't sleep!”

”It's impossible!”

Drew sorted his papers and bent over them. He turned the swivel chair by a pressure of his knee. His eyes narrowed as he studied Delaney's lugubrious face which was sadly in need of a shave.

”Impossible,” he repeated softly. ”There's no such word, Delaney. It's a fool's excuse. Now I don't want you to be a fool. Don't make the mistake of allowing a seeming impossibility to dull your efforts.

There's always a way around everything which looks high and impa.s.sable.

They used to go round the Horn. Now they cut through the Isthmus. They used to think men were supernatural. Now they know that nothing works without a law. I admit that I don't know how Stockbridge came to his end. I don't want to dwell upon it, either. But this we do know, by these papers, that he was well-hated, threatened and marked for death by an individual or clique of individuals. That is all we know, and all we ever need to know, in order to proceed on the basis that a material agency struck out his life with a material substance--such as lead propelled by smokeless powder.”

”Whew!” exclaimed Delaney, rising.

”As for the library wherein he was slain,” continued Drew. ”As for it, we must revert to simple geometry. Matter occupies s.p.a.ce. A material act was committed by a material body which got past all our precautions and struck the magnate down. What is there in this world, which is at one and the same time, material and yet capable of penetrating through a door or wall without a trace? Give me that answer, and we'll get results. What is it?”

”d.a.m.ned if I know! I'm all balled up! You talk like a college professor. You mean something that is and something that isn't. Good morning!”

Delaney reached for the door k.n.o.b with a gesture of disdain. Drew wheeled and stared at him. ”Wait a minute,” he said softly.

The operative turned and dropped his hands to his side.

”You remember the magpie?” asked Drew.

Delaney nodded.

”Well, sit down and wait. It'll be here within five minutes. The valet 'phoned he was bringing it in a taxi. That was just before you came in.”

”Taxi!” snorted the big operative, stretching himself on the leather chair. ”Them valets have got it soft. Last night was the first ride I've had in one for months, and----”

Delaney's voice trailed to an end. He turned in the chair and saw Harrigan's red face and auburn hair come slowly through the aperture made by opening the door.

”Well?” snapped Drew.

”There's a funny lookin' guy out here, chief,” said the a.s.sistant-manager. ”He wants to see you in person. He's got knee-britches and a bunch of bra.s.s-b.u.t.tons on his monkey-jacket. Says he's a valet.”

”Has he got anything with him?” asked Drew.