Part 21 (1/2)
”Pretty Poll!” he said.
The magpie darted about the cage like a shaft of blue light. It came to rest with its tail feathers thrust through the bars. It peered with beaded eyes at Drew who had s.n.a.t.c.hed up a bundle of papers and was sorting them.
”Get busy, Delaney, on this a.s.signment!” he said sharply. ”Waste no time. Run up to Stockbridge's and get me plaster-paris casts of all the footprints you can find around that junction box. It's stopped snowing,” he added, glancing out the window.
”All right, Chief.”
”Wait a minute. Stop somewhere on your way up-town and find out the exact temperature changes last night. What I want you to get is a record of every quarter-hour, so as to show when the early, packed snow in Stockbridge's yard froze solid. The under crust!”
”I got that in my head, Chief! That's my idea, exactly. If a tall lad tapped in on the junction box early in the night his footprints will be frozen close to the ground. The whole surface is level now, but there ought to be ice-posts sticking up when I get done thawing.”
”That's right! You'll probably find the trouble-hunter's and one other set of prints. The other set is our man's!”
”What size feet did the trouble-hunter have?”
”Small--about six!”
”All right, Chief, I'm off.”
”Walt a minute.” Drew studied a sheet of paper. ”After you get the temperature data, Delaney,” he said. ”After you get that and the plaster casts of the footprints, go into the house and stay there.
Watch Miss Loris. Don't talk to Fosd.i.c.k's men. Tell her to be careful.
Tell her that she is in grave danger. Remember that the same man who threatened Stockbridge over the wire, also said he was going to get her. Remember that, Delaney!”
”Good-by!”
”Get a shave!” shot Drew out through the closing doorway.
”I'll do that little thing,” came echoing back with a hearty chuckle.
”Now, Harrigan,” Drew said, shuffling the slips of paper like a deck of cards. ”Now, we're closing in on our man or men. See if you can find Frick at the prison. 'Phone from the booth!”
Harrigan was back within three minutes. He leaned over Drew.
”Frick was with the warden,” he whispered tersely. ”He was easy to get.
He says that Morphy has been trying to telephone----”
”What?”
”Tryin' to telephone, Chief----”
”What has he got to do with the telephone? What right has an inmate of a prison got to phone? Unless--unless the warden thought the case was justified--like in sickness or important business.”
”Maybe the warden allowed him, Chief. I didn't ask Frick!”
”Get out there and ask him! Quick!”
Drew waited with every muscle taut. He drummed the table with impatient fingers. He thumbed the sheath of papers he had collected on the Stockbridge case. He wheeled in his chair and stared out through the frosted window with unseeing eyes. The vision came to him of a pompous old man in prison gray, strutting about the front office with silk socks and a Havana cigar. Drew had no sympathy with a certain kind of convict. The misguided safeblower or house prowler might be excused for a great many things. The pickpocket was a professional, who took his chances as they ran. The gentleman bank-wrecker, with his overextended tale of woe and his bid for the world's sympathies, was the one the detective detested with all his soul. Such men, he believed, were beyond the pale. They knew better. Morphy, for instance, had not only gotten away with much of widow's and orphan's money, but he had wrecked a score of homes and dragged down many with him at the final a.s.sizes.
”So he uses the phone!” Drew repeated like an indictment. ”Well! Well!