Chapter ELEVEN: "the Closing Net"

Night was falling upon the greatest city in the world. After night would come the myriads of electric lights in the huge Broadway signs--the surface cars creeping through the snow-fall like glow worms--the muffled pedestrians and the chain-tired taxis, with their well-groomed patrons, hastening to ballrooms, cabarets and theaters more luxurious than any dreamed of by Lucullus.

Into the tide of this forming stream of wealth, Drew's taxi turned and ground northward through the drifts. The detective had given no definite address. He wanted the air of the Avenue for at least two blocks, before he reached the Stockbridge mansion. He signaled as a familiar corner came in view. He turned his overcoat collar up to his chin and stepped out, as the driver brought the taxi to a slow stop at the curb.

"Stay around the corner!" he ordered. "Stay, till I send word. Here's a dollar for supper. Get that and wait!"

The driver touched his cap and reached for the bill. Drew swung northward, threw back his head, and plowed along the snow-laden sidewalk. Delaney's statement over the telephone had stirred every drop of red blood in his body. Loris was in danger! This nerved him on. He clenched his gloved fists as he reached the first side street. He crossed the wheel-churned snow, with his lips gripped in a hard white line. His eyes raised in heavy-lidded scrutiny of the towering turrets and spires of the mansion. Lights shone from its windows as if in defiance to the powers of darkness which encompassed the dwelling.

A snow-crusted form stepped out from a basement shelter. Drew raised his arm as a barrier when a figure of a man lurched in his direction.

"Hello, O'Toole!" he blurted, recognizing the operative. "What are _you_ doing here?"

O'Toole jerked a mittened finger in the direction of the mansion. "Our lad's in there," he said, thrashing his arms and flipping his finger for a second time. "Harry Nichols!" he explained.

"S--o! The whole case seems to be gathering again. Every clue leads this way now. What did you learn to-day?"

O'Toole yawned. "I got on the job early," he said with frosty breath. "I waited. The lad came down. He got in a taxi and I'm right after him. First he went to the Quartermaster's Offices at the Battery. Then he went to Governor's Island. From there I trailed him to the Red Cross Headquarters. He 'phoned Gramercy Hill 9764, at least three times."

"To the girl in the case?"

"Yep, Chief! He's gone on her. He tended to some funeral matters connected with Stockbridge, bought some flowers--three dozen lilies of the valley--then came on up here. I've been waiting a long time."

"Seen anybody about?"

"Delaney and some Central Office men--that's all! Shall I stay here?"

"Not here! Jump back in the alley and watch the junction-box. I think Delaney has been there. You'll find the snow melted in spots. Plant somewhere, and keep your eyes open. Grab anybody you see tampering with the wires to the house. I'm looking for trouble to-night. They threatened Loris with a letter this afternoon."

Drew did not stop to explain. He hurried on ahead of O'Toole, turned at the iron-grilled gate, passed through and pressed the button.

A Central Office man with a gold-badge showing, jerked the door open and glanced out. He blinked sagely as he recognized the detective.

"All right!" said Drew. "Let me in!"

The door swung wider. Drew lunged through and turned. "What's new?" he asked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. "Are those servants still under arrest?"

"Some of them, Inspector," grunted the Central Office man. "I can't talk much. Fosdick gave me hell for talking to a newspaper man. He left word, though, that you could come in."

"Thanks!" Drew said dryly. "Thanks! That's kind of him. You are holding down this door?"

"Sure, Inspector! The butler and the second-man are down at Headquarters. I don't like the job, but orders is orders."

Drew loosened his overcoat, removed his kid-gloves, stamped his snow-covered shoes on the rug, and hurried past the library, where stood a burly Central Office man on guard. He mounted the steps with the running motion of a boy of fifteen. He glanced upward to where velvet-soft light glowed at the entrance to Loris Stockbridge's suite of rooms. Delaney stood framed in the opening. His huge bulk blotted out the inner rooms. His face, seen in the high shadows, was long and grim.

"She's in there," said the operative, raising his chin over his lifted arm. "Miss Stockbridge is in there. She's with her maid--one Fosdick tried to pinch--and Harry Nichols. She's got a notice by special delivery, that the coffin she ordered from the Hardwood Casket Company, of Jersey City, will be delivered to-morrow. She never ordered any coffin, Chief. Ain't that dirt--to a girl like that? What d'ye think of it?"

Drew's answer to Delaney's question was a grinding of teeth and a sharp oath of defiance. He clutched the operative's arm in a nipping grip. He led him into the tiny reception-hall of the suite.

The detective paused on the threshold of a larger room. He dropped his hand from Delaney's arm. He stabbed sharp glances here and there about the interior. He widened his eyes as they came to rest upon a further doorway, which was hung with soft tapestries gathered to the side-walls by cords of silk. Beyond this doorway, like the vista of some rare painting, shone an inner light of a woman's shrine.

Silver and pearl and old rose blended into a bower such as is found in palaces. Tiny medallions and plaques and miniatures--narrow framed studies in oil--fans, vases, statuettes of ivory and rare china, a hundred choice and dainty objects of haute-art were in that splendid room.

Drew advanced over a rug so soft and deep he felt like a peri entering Paradise. He brushed aside the tapestries and strode swiftly forward. His hat came off as Loris advanced to meet him from a large chamber, wherein the color scheme had been worked out in black and white with a suggestion of green-in-gold.

He forgot the material things of that apartment as he bowed gallantly. He thrust his hand forward and clasped strong fingers over her own. The grief of her father's death had widened her eyes and set them in circles of dark brows and tear-stained features. Her voice clutched in her throat as she tried to speak. Her hand was drawn from his slowly. It raised to her broad forehead beneath her blue-black hair, with a passing motion that dispelled some of the doubt within her. She smiled wanly. Her round, young breast rose and fell with the rustle of perfumed laces. She swished her lavender gown behind her with a turn of a white, supple wrist upon which was a tiny, diamond-studded watch of superior make.

"Courage!" said Drew. "Have courage! They won't get you!"

"They--they," she breathed. "They have threatened me like they threatened poor father. They sent a letter. Oh, I wish I were a man!"

Drew flushed beneath his olive cheeks. He reached upward and turned down his overcoat collar. He laid his hat on a chair, braced his shoulders, and stared around the room. His eyes wandered from the walls to the inner opening. "Who's in there?" he asked.

"Harry--Harry Nichols. I telephoned for him. I was afraid. I admit I'm afraid, Mr. Drew. You know what they did to father?"

"Yes, I know. It was an error on my part. We did not take the proper precautions. But this time--we will!"

"I hope you do. I don't feel like myself, after last night. It came so suddenly. I heard you people talking in the lower hallway. I went to the bannisters and saw all the servants at the library door. And then--and then, I went down without a particle of warning. It was a shock, Mr. Drew."

"One I could have spared you," admitted the detective. "It was preventable," he added, turning toward Delaney.

The operative stepped forward. He struck a chair with his foot and tumbled it over. Picking it up and setting it down on its legs, he flushed guiltily.

"Be careful!" snapped Drew. "Get me that letter this young lady received from Jersey. Get it! We'll look it over right now!"

Delaney glanced at Loris. "She's got it," he said. "I gave it back to her."

Loris shuddered and pressed her hands to her breast. "I tore it up," she whispered. "I was so excited and angry I tore it up. It's in the waste-basket."

"Fetch the basket!" said Drew to Delaney. "Go get it. We'll make this room our headquarters," he added, swinging about on one heel. "We'll stay right here and watch things, Miss Loris."

The girl nodded prettily. Her courage came back with flushed cheeks. She glanced up at Drew's strong jaw and face. The detective squared his shoulder with a final shrug. "We'll stay here!" he said masterly. "Though all the demons in hell are closing in on you, we'll stick. We'll get them this time! I've almost got my man. If he moves his pawns to-night, we'll round up the whole bunch and send them to the chair!"

"Are there more than one?"

"Yes! One is directing--another or others are doing his will. Your father was slain in some mysterious manner which we have not, as yet, determined. The man, or men, who caused him to meet with death, left their marks behind them--fingerprints--footprints, voices over wires, and other evidences of material deviltry. They blundered a score of times! They should have killed that magpie. They did not wear gloves when they should have worn gloves. They forgot, or overlooked, that telephone calls can be traced. We've traced them. We've almost succeeded. The trouble is, that time is short. What was in that letter?"

Loris turned toward the inner room. Delaney, followed by Harry Nichols in full uniform, appeared. The operative held out a handful of scrapped paper.

"Ain't much to learn here, Chief. It's pretty well torn up. I remember what it said, though."

"Repeat it!"

"It was from the Hardwood Casket Company of Jersey City. It was dated this morning. It said that the coffin Miss Stockbridge ordered for the lady who was about to die in her family, would be delivered to-morrow afternoon by express at her town house, as ordered."

"The curs!" exclaimed Drew.

"Sure they are, Chief. The letter was signed by the manager. I think it was the manager. I couldn't read his writing!"

"Let me see the scraps."

Delaney sorted them into a small stack and passed them to Drew. The detective lifted each fragment, held it to the light, and placed it into his right overcoat-pocket. "I get it," he said. "It looks genuine. Did you telephone them?"

"Nope! I was a-waiting for you to come up here. There's a phone here. It's over there!"

Drew nodded. "I saw it," he said thoughtfully. "We better be careful how we use the phones of this house. They tapped the wires before, and they can do it again. We're fighting very high-class devils."

"It doesn't seem real!" blurted Harry Nichols. "I thought that death only stalked in No Man's Land. It's right here, gentlemen!"

Drew frowned and shook his head. He glanced at Miss Stockbridge. He rubbed his hands softly. "No more danger," he warned in a confident voice. "We've got twenty Central Office men in the house or about the place. No bank was ever better protected. There will be no real trouble to-night."

"That's what you said the other time, to father," Loris suggested without thought. "You did--you remember? You were in the library and he felt so confident nothing would happen. Something did happen!"

"I admit it!" Drew said with candor, "I admit everything, Miss Loris. I'm partly to blame. The trouble was, I underestimated my adversary. A man should never do that. This time, though," he added with glazed eyes that roamed the walls. "This time is going to be different. Now, how about all your rooms? We must be sure that there is no slip. We must be sure----"

"Sure, we must be sure!" interrupted Delaney. "I've looked everywhere, Chief. Leave that to me!"

Drew glanced at Loris, who had stepped toward Harry Nichols. He studied the picture the two made, with their heads close together. The captain held himself defiantly, but with that certain polish which goes with a fondness for the things of life worth having. He had chosen a rather pretty girl, and upon her he had lavished his attentions. He had defied Stockbridge! This was motive enough for a crime. He was not the criminal, decided Drew. There was that to the captain's resolute, though thick lips, and his wide eyes, which assured the detective he would not stoop to low things to gain his ends. He had enlisted voluntarily. He had worked hard at Plattsburg. He had served, and was upon the eve of going to Pershing. No man with such a record would slay a girl's father to gain the girl.

The detective erased Harry Nichols from his mind. "You two," he said commandingly, "had better go into the library! I mean Miss Stockbridge's writing-room. Stay there, please, till Mr. Delaney and I notify you. Who else, beside we four, are in this part of the house?"

"Only the maid," said Loris.

"Go in, please, and wait. I'm going to lock everything up. We're going to take every precaution this time. Frankly, I don't see how any agency can do more than we have already. Were we dealing with ordinary crooks or blackmailers, I would have you take a taxi and move to some Fifth Avenue hotel. But it seems an unnecessary risk. This is the safest place in the world, despite the letter from the casket company and the former warning. What man can enter this place to-night--without our permission?"

"I'd like to see one!" blurted Delaney.

Harry Nichols offered his arm to Loris. They passed from the view of the two detectives with the locked, gliding stride of two dancers who moved to slow time. Drew heard the portieres which led to the writing-room rustle downward and settle into place. He passed his hand over his forehead and breathed deeply.

"We'll get busy," he whispered tersely. "We'll search these rooms again. Let's start with a definite foundation!"

Delaney grunted at the uselessness of this as he reached and took the detective's overcoat which was peeled off and extended to him.

"Hang it on a chair," said Drew sharply. "Over there with my hat. Now," he snapped, "what about the windows of this room, the little reception hall and the bedroom over there? That's a bedroom, isn't it?"

"Sure, Chief! I frisked it good. The Central Office men were up here early in the morning. They went through everything. Fosdick, they say, was like a bull. He said the thing couldn't be done."

"It _was_ done!"

"Did you get any clue, Chief, as to how it was done?"

"It's as much a mystery as ever. But we're trimming the tree called Truth with a broad ax. I'm going around this case to get the man or men who did it. Then we'll find out how it was done!"

"Oh!" Delaney's expression was thought-laden. "Just thought of it, Chief. I got them plaster-of-paris casts. I got 'em down stairs. It was some job, believe me. I took everything about that junction-box, after I'd thawed the snow with hot blankets which a good-looking cook brought to me."

"Go down and get them!"

Delaney hurried out through the tapestries of the room. Drew started his search of the apartment by a study of the windows and the catches. He opened one and glanced outside. Snow had drifted to the depth of three inches on the sill. This snow was unmarked. He examined all of the sills extending from the three rooms. He closed and locked the windows. He backed off into the center of the reception room and studied the situation from every angle. The furniture was fragile and in sets of such splendid periods his eyes closed over them. The rugs and tapestries--curtains and portieres--sheathings of yellow hand-painted silk from Nippon--rare ceramics and cloisonnes--a huge peach-blow vase of the Ming dynasty and a hundred little jade and jasper knick-knacks were the outward evidence of wealth.

He opened the plate-glass cases and peered inside. He crawled under a couch and backed out dusting his hands. He tapped with slow knuckles a long cheval-glass by the side of which was a tiny gold-bracket and a silver-plated telephone. He went the rounds of the walls, lifting pictures, portraits and little military oils by French painters of the Franco-Prussian period. He found nothing to excite his suspicion!

Entering a simple bedroom, with its tiled flooring and its single white bed, he spared this as he passed to the bath beyond, which had no outlet save a ventilating shaft securely barred by a bronze grating of close, fantastic-scrolled mesh.

Delaney's heavy steps were heard in the reception hall as Drew finished. Striding out into the larger room he frowned as the operative deposited a blanket upon a Persian rug and began to untie its corners.

"I got 'em here, Chief," explained the assistant with upturned face. "There's five or six prints--all alike."

"What? Repeat that!" Drew dropped to one knee.

"Sure, Chief. There's only been one guy at that junction-box before the freezing started. He made plenty of tracks. He came and went from the fence to the box. It's a small foot. There was plenty of prints made after the snow piled on top of these little prints."

"The operatives?"

"Sure, and the Central Office bunch! But these prints I got here are the only ones under the snow. They stuck up when I melted away the surface."

Delaney offered a plaster-cast of the top of a footprint. It was roughly done. It had been made, like the others in the blanket, by pouring cold plaster within a retaining bulge of soap. The plaster had hardened and brought out each detail. Drew traced his finger over the toe. "Right foot," he said. "Now let's see the others!"

"Here's a left foot, Delaney," added the detective slowly. "Only one left and four right. That might happen. You didn't take them all. Well, bundle them up and plant them somewhere. Put them under that couch, out of sight. I've got an idea!"

"What is it, Chief?" asked the operative as he drew on the knots until he had gathered the corners together. "What's new? I can't see anything in sight, at-tall, at-tall. One man--that's all I see."

"And that's _all_ I see--the trouble-hunter--Delaney!"

"But what about the tall guy who looked like a German? The fellow the trouble-man saw getting over the fence and beating it for Fifth Avenue?"

"He didn't leave any tracks!"

"Ah, Chief, get out! That ain't human!"

Drew paced the floor with his hands clasped behind him. He wheeled with sudden energy. "Go, you!" he exclaimed with a pointing finger. "Hurry out of this house and telephone Gramercy Hill Exchange. Tell the superintendent to send over that trouble-man. I want to compare these prints with his shoes. He couldn't have been lying. There's no object in that! But, Delaney, how could a man tap in on that junction-box and never leave prints in the snow? That's my question!"

"How could one shoot a man in a sealed room, Chief? There ain't much difference!"

Drew snatched out his watch. "Hurry," he said. "Get over to Gramercy Hill Exchange--it's only three blocks from here. Ask Jack Nefe, or whoever is in charge, for the trouble-man who fixed the phone last night. He'll be able to tell us what part of the fence the tall fellow, who looked like a German, got over. Perhaps he wasn't at the junction-box at all!"

"Who, Chief?"

"The tall fellow! Perhaps he was skulking about the windows at the back."

"Perhaps he was a ghost," said Delaney to himself as he lunged through the tapestries toward the staircase which led down from the third floor of the mansion.

Drew crossed the room and rapped softly on a panel by the portieres which covered the opening to the reading-room and library. He heard a muffled word of warning. Loris Stockbridge glided across the rugs and peered out. Her face was set and tear-stained. She had been sobbing upon an olive-drab shoulder.

"Pardon," said Drew with a slight sigh. "I beg pardon, Miss Stockbridge. I want to look over the sitting-room and examine the windows. Where is the maid?"

Loris touched her eyes with a handkerchief drawn from her breast. She replaced this and nodded over her shoulder. She parted the portieres with her unjeweled right hand. "The maid," she said softly, "is in her room. That's back of this reading-room. Shall I call her?"

"You and Mr. Nichols come in here, please," said Drew. "I'll knock on the maid's door and look her over. We can't be too careful--remember that. It's getting late," he added with candor.

Drew allowed Harry Nichols and Loris to pass him as he held the portieres for them with a thoughtful bow. He crossed the reading-room, examined the books and cases, glanced under a low divan, and saw to it that each window was latched before he knocked lightly upon a further door which was hidden by curtains.

A maid appeared, in smart white apron and pursed lips of inquiry. Drew regarded her not unkindly. He ran his eyes up and down her trim figure from the black bow in her brown hair to the wide ribbons which laced her trim French shoes.

"How long have you been with Miss Stockbridge?" he asked.

_"Merci, Monsieur!"_ she courtesied. "It has been for zee longest time. _Cinq--sept, annees, monsieur,"_ she counted mentally.

"Good!" said Drew closing the door lightly. "Good little girl. We won't bother you the rest of the night," he added as he turned a good key in a perfectly good lock and dropped the curtains.

"Now!" he said with a final glance about the reading-room, with its morocco-bound tomes and glowing lights. "Now, let the worst come! Let that come what may!"

He strode through to the reception room, glanced slit-lidded at Loris and Nichols, who had seated themselves in the deeper recess of a splendid alcove, and hurried to the hall where Delaney was hastily removing his coat, and showing other evidences of some answer to his quest at the telephone exchange.

"Well?" asked Drew as the bulk of the big operative loomed through the tapestries. "Well, what did you find out over there?"

"Enough, Chief!" Delaney's voice was hard. He glanced at Loris and Nichols. His right eye closed in a warning wink of caution.

"Come into this other room," said Drew. "Come right in, Delaney. This way!" Drew lifted the portieres, then dropped them after the operative had stumbled forward.

"What did you find?" he asked into Delaney's ear. "Out with it!"

The operative glanced about the reading-room. He blinked at the glowing electrics. He recovered his voice as he drew in a deep breath which bulged his chest to barrel proportions.

"I went," he said huskily. "I went to Gramercy Hill Exchange. Found the superintendent.... Fellow, you told me to find, Chief ... I draws him to one side.... I asked about this trouble-hunter.... He ups like I'd hit him.... He says fellow quit to-day.... Says fellow.... Says he was no good.... Says he was tapping joints instead of soldering them. Says he only hired him on account of the shortage of electricians and helpers ... because of the last Army draft."

"Did you get his address?"

"I got it, Chief.... It is over on Fifty-third Street near the River.... I didn't go.... I wanted to see you first.... There's more."

"Out with it!"

"The superintendent says he never sent that trouble-hunter over here last night.... There's a record of sending another man named Frisby."

"Did you see--Frisby?"

"I did, Chief."

"What did he say?" Drew's fingers had clutched the operative's arm. "What did he say?" he repeated grimly.

"Said, that Albert--that's the trouble-hunter--had stopped him on the way over here and took his place.... Said, he was satisfied.... Albert could have _all_ the jobs on a night like last night. That's just what Frisby said, Chief!"

Drew loosened his fingers from Delaney's arm and turned slowly. The portieres swayed slightly. They shook anew. They parted at the center and revealed Loris Stockbridge. Her eyes burned the soft gloom with glazed interrogation. She raised her white hand and pressed back her hair from her forehead. She stepped forward with her knees striking against the stiff satin of her skirt. She swung from Delaney toward Drew.

"What were you saying?" she asked imperiously. "What did you say about a trouble-man? What was it, please?"

"I'm lookin' for one, Miss!" declared Delaney. "I was over at the telephone company's exchange lookin' for the lad that was here last night and fixed the junction-box in the yard back of the house. Mr. Drew wants him."

Loris turned toward the detective. "You want him?" she asked softly. "What do you want him for? Please tell me. I don't like him, at all."

It was Drew's turn to draw in his breath. He eyed the girl. He tried to fathom the reason for her simple question and her objection. "Miss Loris," he said, shrugging his square shoulders. "Why, it's a slight matter. The man has disappeared. We can't find him. He's flown--perhaps."

"Is he a little chap with a satchel and a testing set?" she asked. "A nice-mannered, soft-voiced little man who was so obliging, and yet so--oh! I don't know what I have against him. He's so sly--don't you think so, Mr. Dr--e--w?"

"When did you ever see him?" asked Drew, feeling the blood rising to his cheeks at a thought which surged through his brain.

"Meet him? Why! he was here early this afternoon. He was all over the house!"