Part 22 (2/2)
”Chop it out!”
”The third and last call, Chief,” said Harrigan with haste, ”was to the same telephone-booth at the Grand Central Station. Ah, here's the number! That's why Westlake didn't give it to me on the first call to the booth. Number, Gramercy Hill 9845, Chief. That's over near the east end of the building--on the lower level.”
”A quiet place!” mused Drew.
”Yes! Well, Chief, here is the time. The call was for twenty-two minutes, extending from a quarter to twelve--midnight--to seven minutes after twelve. It was charged to the Auditing Department of the prison.”
Drew rose from his chair. ”That covers the hour in which Stockbridge was murdered!” he declared, reaching for the roll-top of his desk ”That's nice work on your part.”
Harrigan flushed slightly. He leaned over and laid the paper upon the desk. Drew took it, folded it with two fingers forming the creases, then crammed it into his breast pocket The roll-top came down with a bang. Harrigan lifted an overcoat from a tree, helped Drew on with it, and found the detective's hat.
”When will you be back, Chief?” he inquired.
”Hard to say! Get me some French-gray powder. A little will do. I'm going to see if I can get any fingerprints in that booth. They might help!”
”Will you be back by night!” Harrigan asked, leading the way through the door.
”Don't know! Get that powder! Tell Delaney, if he calls up, that I'm hot after my man. Tell him to stick up where he is, till he hears from me. Tell Flynn, when he comes in from Morristown, that he can relieve O'Toole who is trailing Harry Nichols. I don't think there is much in that. I'm covering every one--that's all.”
Harrigan opened the drawer of a cabinet and fingered about till he found a small, round box of gray powder used for preserving fingerprints. He turned with this and saw that Drew had crammed into his side coat-pocket, a flat camera which the telephone girl brought to him. ”Got flash lights?” asked Harrigan.
”Yes. There's some in the back of this camera.” Drew slapped his overcoat. ”I got everything, I guess. Remember about Delaney and Flynn.”
The detective moved toward the door which led to the hallway where the elevators were. He turned as Harrigan laid a hand on his shoulder.
”What's that sticking out of your other pocket, Chief?” asked the a.s.sistant-manager. ”A paper, ain't it?”
Drew flushed beneath his olive skin. He pressed the object down with soft fingers. He turned and said simply:
”That's a picture of the girl in the case. Forgot I had it. Good-by!”
The door slammed as he strode over the white tiling and jabbed at an elevator b.u.t.ton with his right thumb.
Swirled in wind-blown snow from the office buildings and wrapped to the chin with the collar of his overcoat, Drew plunged, with head downward, for the nearest subway station.
He caught an up-town express, and, after three grinding station-stops, he reached the Grand Central Station wherein was the telephone-booth to which the calls had been sent from the prison.
He made swift work of the matter at hand. Time was pressing. The booths, to the number of three in that portion of the station, were fortunately empty.
Going over the slot-box and the tiny shelf in the center booth, which bore the number ”Gramercy Hill 9845” on the transmitter, Drew pulled the door shut and dusted all the nickel work and the polished surface of the receiver, with French-gray powder of superior make.
He took three exposures by aid of small flashes. He opened the door and allowed the smoke to escape. Pocketing the camera, after winding on a fresh film, he entered the booth for a second time and inspected its lower paneling for possible clews.
An oath, close-bitten and expressive, escaped his lips as he discovered a small hole drilled through the woodwork. He stooped and peered through this opening. It led to the next booth. It had been made with a long auger of quarter-inch diameter. Shavings lay upon the floor of the booth.
He emerged and investigated the second booth. The hole came through, underneath the slot-box. It had been drilled in order to make a connection between the two telephones. He found splinters and sawdust at his feet. He backed out and stood perplexed. There was no way of finding out just what sort of connection had been made between the two booths. All evidence of wires had been taken down. Only an expert could give an answer to the new riddle. Drew recalled Westlake as he rushed to the subway-platform.
He found the vice-president busy, with a score of men waiting in the outer room of the telephone company's office. The secretary-in-charge hurried in with his card and his urgent request for three minutes'
important matter which could not well wait.
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