Part 38 (1/2)
”h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo! You big copper! Shout on! See how loud you can curse me!
That's it. That--is--it!”
Drew heard Delaney's voice rise in indignation. The taunt had spurned him to greater effort. The metallic diaphragm of the receiver roared and clicked. It echoed the voice. It stopped. It vibrated again. It reached a reed-like tune of high-pitched anger. The prisoner closed his eyes and stiffened. He pressed the receiver directly over his ear. He drew back on the chain and to one side. Drew's face darkened with suspicion. It was too late. The detective had time to spring away as a cone of lurid light and flame shot out from the telephone diaphragm and splashed across the prisoner's set face. A sharp detonation racked the perfumed air of the room. Smoke wreathed about the astonished Inspector's head, and floated upward toward the ventilator.
Cuthbert Morphy's muscles relaxed. He spun, sank to his knees, then pitched forward across the rug with a bullet in his brain. Drew untwisted the chain with a wrist flip, sprang forward toward the cheval-gla.s.s, and stamped his foot down upon the smoking telephone receiver as if it were the head of a rattlesnake.
He turned with clear light striking out from his eyes. He nodded toward the leaning form of the girl and the erect one of the captain. He divined in seconds how the murder of Montgomery Stockbridge had been accomplished. The full series of events and clues flashed through his brain. It was like an orderly array seen at a picture show.
Cuthbert Morphy, guised as a trouble-hunter in the employ of the telephone company, had devised a single-shot pistol out of a telephone receiver and had caused it to be actuated by the human voice so that it would always strike in the most vulnerable part of man's anatomy--the ear.
With this lethal instrument he had slain the millionaire, and, when trapped and in danger of execution, he had employed the same method to bring about his own death. It was a fitting end to a life of crime and drug-brought imageries.
Delaney, with drawn gun and wild of eyes, burst through the tapestries and brought up with a dizzy lurch before the body of Cuthbert Morphy.
He stammered and glared downward. He swung his heavy chin and stared at Loris and Nichols in the gloom of the further curtains. He clapped Drew on the shoulder with a heavy hand.
”Had to shoot him, eh, Chief? What'd he try? What--you got your foot on?”
”An electric pistol,” said Drew, with a grim smile distending his olive-hued lips. ”An infernal machine, Delaney. I hope it isn't a repeater. Cut that wire! Both wires! Get your knife out and cut through them, quick! I won't take any chances.”
The big operative pocketed his revolver with a back swing of his right hand, brought it forward empty and ran it down his trouser pocket. He brought out a buck-horn jack-knife, pried it open, stooped and slashed through the two silk cords holding the receiver to the bottom of the transmitter which had fallen from the bracket.
Loris swayed with supple limbs. She raised her hands and pressed her unjeweled fingers against her face. She sobbed once, then turned and threw herself upon Nichols' drab shoulder. ”Harry,” she cried. ”Oh, Harry--what happened? I didn't see what happened!”
The captain glided an arm about her waist and half-carried, half-led her to a couch in the reading-room. ”Rest here a minute,” he said, leaning down. ”Be cool and as brave as you can. The trouble-man won't trouble you any longer. He took his own medicine!”
Nichols returned to the sitting room in time to hear Drew exclaim, after Delaney had reached down and lifted the receiver, ”The case is closed! This closes it with a bang! Give me that electric pistol, Delaney!”
The operative handed it over. ”Get a big rug,” ordered Drew with sudden thought. ”Cover that fellow over till we call the Central Office men and the coroner. I want to examine this receiver.”
”Right here on this little table would be a good place,” suggested Nichols, lifting off a handful of ivory ornaments and depositing them on top of a gla.s.s case. ”I'll spread a paper here. I'd like to see what's inside that thing myself.”
”Do you know anything about electricity or telephony?” asked Drew, as he turned the hard-rubber receiver in his hand and stared at the listening end.
”Very little, Inspector. But fire-arms are in my line and that seems to be one.”
The detective nodded. ”It's one, all right,” he said, holding it out with a steady hand. ”Looks harmless, don't it? Two binding-posts on one end. A rubber cap on the other. Notice that diaphragm.”
Nichols took the receiver and squinted at the rubber cap. ”By George!”
he said. ”This is odd. There's a tiny hole drilled or punched in the center. It's about the same size as the bore of a twenty-two caliber revolver.”
”Look at your hands!” said Drew. ”What the devil,” he added with dawning conviction. ”Say, Delaney, do you remember that spot of black under my left ear. The one you noticed after we left yesterday morning?
The----”
”Sure, Chief. That's where you got the s.m.u.t--from that receiver!”
”I got it when I picked up the telephone in the library downstairs and tried to get Central. Do you remember how long she took? This is the same receiver in all probability. The trouble-hunter removed it from the library connections, loaded it, and brought it up here. It looks like any ordinary receiver. The telephone company have some with binding posts and some without. This is an earlier model.”
”The spot of black was from the first discharge when Stockbridge was killed!” exclaimed Delaney.
Drew ran his fingers around the inner rim of the rubber cap. He held them up. ”See!” he exclaimed. ”No wonder my neck was marked. That settles that mystery, Delaney. If we had any brains at all we would have connected the soot and the telephone. If we had done that we'd have solved the case early this morning, or yesterday morning. It's after one, now!”
”This hole,” said Nichols, ”was the only thing in the whole dastardly scheme that could have been seen. It's the size of the end of a lead pencil. Funny you didn't notice it?”