Part 33 (1/2)

”We can't prove a single thing on him!” declared Drew. ”He used the 'phone--once or twice. Perhaps he has permission from the superintendent of state prisons to do so. He has business interests which require his telephoning, we'll say.”

”Then we're just going to wait right here?” asked Loris, stamping her slipper. ”Wait right here and let them do their worst?”

”The city detectives would do the same thing I'm doing,” said Drew on the defensive. ”They'd trap their men. Do you want to see the man or men who slayed your father, escape? He will, or they will, unless we give them enough rope to hang themselves.”

”Or wire!” said Nichols cheerfully. ”No, Loris, Mr. Drew is right. He's done everything. All we have got to do, is wait. Let's sit down for a little while. Delaney said he might have word soon.”

Drew waited until Loris had pressed herself into a small compa.s.s at the back of the divan, with Harry Nichols leaning over her in a s.h.i.+elding position which was thoughtful and at the same time affectionate. He strode toward the writing room and parted the heavy, silk portieres. He studied every detail. He dropped the portieres and crossed the sitting room to the doorway leading into Loris' chamber. This, too, he searched with his eyes. Backing to the center of the room he dropped his chin in thought. A sound outside the mansion caused him to turn and hurry to a window. He brushed the curtain aside and tried to peer out. He rubbed the frosted gla.s.s vigorously. His nose pressed to a white b.u.t.ton as he searched the side street. A taxi had come to a grinding halt directly below the window. Its wheels spun upon the slippery surface. A man leaned out of an open doorway and urged the driver on with a brandished fist of ham-like proportions. The driver backed into the snow, dropped into first speed and stepped on his throttle. The taxi leaped forward, gripped the surface, and plowed toward Fifth Avenue in a welter of flying ice and flakes.

Drew sprang back and faced Loris and Nichols who had risen and were standing together in the glow from the cl.u.s.ter over their heads.

”What happened?” they asked in unison. ”What was outside?”

”Delaney!” snapped Drew, dragging out his watch and glancing at it.

”Delaney's got word where to find his man. He's on the trail at last!

It's twelve-two. We ought to have that fellow in a half hour.”

”The trouble-man?” asked Loris, with rising hopes. ”Do you think it is the trouble-man, Mr. Drew?”

”Nine chances in ten, it is! I'm venturing a guess it is. If we get him--if Delaney gets him--he'll know it. Delaney used to work under the old-time police chiefs. They showed scant consideration.”

”But, he won't hurt him!” said Loris, with a tremulous exclamation.

”That murderer! Why, Miss Stockbridge, isn't he plotting to slay you?

Didn't he kill your father? I wish I were in Delaney's place.”

”Me too!” declared Nichols, drawing closer to the detective. ”Say, Inspector, I want to congratulate you. I do.”

”Wait, Harry. Just wait! You two sit down and be quiet. This affair is a personal one with me. I don't doubt that Morphy or perhaps some one else in state prison 'phoned to the same party who phoned Miss Loris.

That was all we needed. Delaney jumped into a taxi and hurried downtown as fast as the storm permitted. Perhaps the call came from the same booth. I don't think so, though.”

”The one at Forty-second Street and Broadway?”

”I don't think so, Nichols. This fellow seems to pick a new one every time. He's very crafty. That alone shows a criminal mind.”

Drew paced the floor with soft gliding. He turned at the portieres and crossed to the tapestries. He returned and stood before Loris and Nichols.

”Captain,” he said, ”we can now begin to reconstruct this case. We can get some of the dead-wood from our minds. It is apparent to me that one of Mr. Stockbridge's sworn enemies--Morphy, for instance--confined in state's prison, set about to slay both members of the family. He secured a confederate whom he knew. This confederate has never been arrested in the state. We have that from the finger prints in the booth at Grand Central. We will presume that this confederate is the trouble-man. He is probably an expert electrician. He either tapped in on the wires the night Mr. Stockbridge was murdered or got behind the switchboard and called up the library 'phone.”

”The switchboard?” asked Loris. ”You mean the big place where the girls are?”

”Not exactly there. The wires run down and are tagged. It would be possible for him to cut in somewhere between the switchboard and the conduits. Now I don't know how it was done. There's several ways. But wherever he tapped in, he must have used a magneto to ring Mr.

Stockbridge up, and afterwards a battery-set to do the talking. All this Westlake says it would be necessary to do, so that the operator would not notice a permanent signal on the board.”

”What was his object?” asked Nichols.

”To cover himself. He first disconnected the wires and waited till I sent for a trouble-man. Frosby, or Frisby, was sent. The trouble-man took his place. He came here and looked the place over. He lied to Mr.

Stockbridge and I when he told us about that tall German in the alley.

If there was such a man there before the snow froze we would have his footprints.”