Chapter TWELVE: "suspicion Fastens"

Triggy Drew had been trained in the hardest school in the world. Loris Stockbridge's statement, delivered with such sincerity and so naively, completely upset him. It was like a gentle reminder that, as a hunter of men, he had failed. He took the blow with flaming cheeks and an almost stopped heart.

Delaney realized that something of moment in the case had happened. He stared at his chief, then turned his eyes upon Harry Nichols, who stepped through the portieres and stood by Loris' side.

"What is it, Chief?" asked the operative. "Was there anything in what she said?"

"Anything!" exclaimed Drew, recovering himself with a tossing shrug of his shoulders. "Anything? Everything! The man we want is----"

"Found?" breathed Loris clutching Nichols' arm.

"Not yet--but _very_ soon!" said the detective with sanguine eyes. "We want that trouble-hunter, Delaney," he added gathering in the details for action as he spoke. "You'll have to hurry right over to the address and see if you can round him up. If he isn't there--get him! I want him brought here at once. He's got much to explain!"

"I'll go right now," said Delaney, starting toward the reception room.

"Wait," said Drew.

Delaney turned at the portieres.

"Don't phone me here," the detective warned. "Don't do anything by telephone. We're on the trail of a man or men who can tap wires. He or they may have a confederate in this house. Be careful--get your suspect and bring him here. We'll try him with the footprints. We'll check up with the fingerprints. Then, if he don't cave in, we'll turn him over to Fosdick and the Third Degree. I firmly believe that Albert, whom I saw in the library and who was in this house in the early afternoon of this day, is implicated in the murder. Strange that I never suspected him."

"I'm going!" growled Delaney, tearing his eyes away from Loris and glancing through the curtains. "I'm right after him, Chief. I won't stop till I get him, either."

"If you don't make it in thirty minutes," said Drew glancing sharply at his watch, "if you don't make it by then--come back here. Perhaps something will have turned up in the meantime. Get that?"

"Sure, Chief! Good-by!"

Delaney had passed through the portieres, crossed the reception room and pressed aside the tapestries leading to the hallways, before Drew stepped to the broad doorway and motioned for Loris and Nichols to take their former positions. He waited until they were seated with their faces in the shadow cast by the overhead silken hangings. He spoke then, and to the point.

"This case," he said, thrusting his hands in his coat pockets and striding back and forth. "This case is clearing clue by clue. The trouble-man, whom some one let into the house this afternoon, is the missing link in the chain of circumstance and applied deduction. Who let him in?"

"I did!"

Drew stopped in his stride. "You, Nichols?" he questioned sharply. "Why did you let him in?"

"Because I asked Harry to," defended Loris with heat. "I heard the bell ring. I sent the maid downstairs. She came back and told me that a man from the telephone company was waiting to look over the connections. She said that he said that there was trouble with the wires."

"I don't believe it!" exclaimed Drew; "that is," he added hastily, "I don't believe there was anything the matter at all. In the light of what Delaney has told me, that fellow came here last night, when some one else named Frosby or Frisby was sent. Now why would he want to take another's place? For one reason only--the same reason that he came here this afternoon. This reason concerns your future health and security. We had one death in this house which followed his first visit. We don't want anything to happen after his second visit."

"You are right, Mr. Drew," said Nichols. "I was careless. I went down stairs and talked with the fellow. It was just a few minutes after I arrived from downtown. He seemed so plausible that I asked the Central Office Detective at the door, who gave the permission. It was all my fault, I guess."

"Where did this fellow go? What did he do in the house?"

"He went into the library and tested the phone there. The connection seemed to be all right. Then he went down stairs and tested the butler's 'phone. The butler had been taken as a material witness by Fosdick. I followed the man. He didn't do anything but test and then talk with Franklin Official--I think it was."

"Are you sure he talked over the phone? It's ridiculously easy for a person to hold down the hook and make believe they are talking to most anybody."

"I don't know about that, Mr. Drew," said the captain, turning toward Loris. "Did he talk to anybody when he used this 'phone, Miss Stockbridge?"

"I believe so, Harry. I really thought he did."

Drew furrowed his brows in perplexity. There was no evidence shown that the trouble-man had ever talked with anybody, via wire, from the mansion. He recalled the first appearance of the lineman in the library. That time both calls, to Central, might have been feigned by holding down the hook and speaking into a disconnected transmitter. The man was clever. He knew all there was to be known concerning telephony.

"I'm a child," the detective concluded, swinging about the room in perplexity. "One thing," he added aloud to Loris and Nichols. "One thing! We are absolutely alone in this part of the house. I have locked the maid in her room. No one can get through the door to the hall. There's a spring lock on it. Delaney closed it when he went out."

"And there's a score of detectives scattered about," said the captain reassuringly, as he leaned toward Loris. "Why should we fear anything at all?"

"I wouldn't, Harry," said Loris, "if it wasn't for what happened to poor father. Mr. Drew took the same precautions and had everything locked and watched. It doesn't seem as if we were in New York at all. It seems like some mediaeval time and place."

Drew reached for a fragile-looking chair, turned it, sat down and thrust his custom-made shoes out across the rug in the direction of Loris and Nichols, whose faces shone white and drawn in the soft light of the alcove where they were seated.

Swirling thought surged through the detective's brain. He went over the case with dulled understanding. Briefly, he had eliminated the former suspects and compressed the matter into a small compass. His conclusion brought him to his feet with slow swaying from side to side. Some one in state prison was probably directing matters. Some one in New York was carrying out the arch-fiend's orders. This free agent had the nerve of the damned and the cunning of Cagliostro. He had succeeded in planting a confederate in the mansion, or entering himself, and slaying Stockbridge. The entire case, concluded Drew, rested in capturing the free agent before he could do further murder. Loris was marked and had been from the first.

"What servants remain?" he asked, dropping his hand on his right hip pocket and feeling the bulge of an automatic there. "Which of the servants, Miss Stockbridge, have Fosdick and his men left for you?"

"The French maid," said Loris softly.

"I saw her! She looks all right. She says she has been with you five or six years."

"Six--almost. It's been over six years, Mr. Drew!"

"That ought to let her out of the case. Now, the next one?"

"The housekeeper, Mrs. Seeley. She has been with us ten or twelve years--ever since I can remember. Mother thought the world of Mrs. Seeley."

"Who else?"

"Father's valet. They didn't arrest him."

"He was down to my office. He looks all right. I'll cross him off the list of suspects. Now, are there any more servants in the house?"

"There's a French chef and a pantry man, I think. Also there's a poor old darkey who tends to the furnace. I don't believe he leaves the basement. I never see him, only on holidays."

"The butler, then, and the doorman and the second man and the rest of the servants have been taken down to Center Street for interrogation and as suspects. That leaves us with very few to handle, Miss Stockbridge. I'm going to start by securing the door which leads into the hallway. Then we'll wait here."

Drew hurried through the tapestries, stopped, and examined the lock of the door before he shot home a second bolt which was functioned by a butterfly of heavy gold alloy. He stood erect with both hands pressing at his temples. It came to him with double force that the same precautions had been taken when Stockbridge was alone in the library downstairs. There was the lock of superior make and the winged-latch. There was the two-inch, or more, door of dark wood. There were the servants and detectives both within and outside the mansion. Yet the millionaire had been reached in a secret manner through all the precautions.

"Things repeat, sometimes," mused Drew, fingering the catch and the flat key. "The same conditions bring the same results. I----"

The detective's voice trailed into a whisper as he heard footsteps outside the door. He reached back to his pocket and waited. His heart thumped like a prisoned bird within his breast. It was a case of strained nerves. He felt the responsibility of guarding Loris.

"Bah!" he exclaimed, recovering himself and squaring his jaw. "Bah," he repeated. "It's somebody for me."

He opened the door after twisting the butterfly and turning the flat key in the lock. A blurred figure pressed forward. A gruff voice boomed from a muffling collar.

"Hello, Chief! I'm back in a half-hour! No luck, either!"

Drew waited until Delaney had removed his overcoat and overshoes, which he placed in one corner by a hall-tree. "What did you find?" he asked glancing toward the tapestries.

"The fellow's beat it for good. Landlady says he owes her one week's rent. He cleaned out with a suit-case and left this." The operative reached in his pocket and brought forth a single drill of quarter-inch diameter. He held it out. "All I could find, Chief, after a quick frisk. This was in the mattress."

"Regulation lineman's wood-bit," said Drew as he examined the size number on the shank. "This might have been the one used in boring the hole between the slot-booths at Grand Central Station."

"Then Albert is the lad, Chief?"

"We don't know, yet. There's lots of bits like this one. Did you try it for fingerprints?"

"They're all rubbed off! I had to pull it from the mattress. It was stuck in a hole near the foot of the bed."

"Hold it!" said Drew. "Hold it for evidence. Put it with your plaster casts. Now----"

"Well, Chief?"

Drew glanced at his watch. "I'm going out to that drug-store," he said. "I want to phone. I can't use the phones of this house. The wires may be tapped. You stay right by this door and wait till I get back. It won't be more than ten minutes. Go get my hat when you're putting the bit away. It's in the corner by Loris and Nichols. Tell them I'm stepping out and that you will stand guard. They might hold me. She is very nervous."

Delaney was back at the detective's side, after a clumsy stride through the tapestries. "Cute couple," he said, jerking his thumb over-shoulder toward the inner room. "They're sittin' there so close you couldn't get a sheet of paper between them. I like that colleen, Chief! She's the kind you see on them magazine covers--only prettier."

"A cat can look at a queen," quoted Drew, pulling down his hat and opening the door wide. "Be sure and lock this after me," he warned. "Lock and bolt it. Stand guard and don't let anybody in at all. I'm only going round the block."

Delaney shut the door and turned the key. He followed this action by twisting the butterfly. Then he drew his gun and waited, grimly alert.

Drew reached the drug-store after a brisk, lung-cleansing walk through the down-driving snow. He dropped a coin in the slot and first called up his office. Harrigan, who had remained at his post, answered for most of the operatives who were out on the case and who had 'phoned in at every opportunity.

"Get Frick at the prison," Drew shot back, after making a few notes. "Get him and tell him to call up this 'phone," Drew glanced at the number over the transmitter. "Tell him to call up Gramercy Hill 9749 and let whoever I station here, know to whom and to what number Morphy is talking in New York. Get that?"

"Sure," came back over the wires. "Sure, Chief. You want to pinch the fellow he's connecting with?"

"I certainly do," said Drew. "We can work it this way. As soon as I find out from Frick where Morphy or anybody else is 'phoning from the prison, I can get a man over there in time to make the arrest. The superintendent at Gramercy Hill will help us out if the call comes through his exchange. He can get the girl to stall for a minute or two. I'll send Delaney here to hold this end of the wire. You keep him posted as to developments. O'Toole, yes! He's planted in the alley back of the house. He can't report. All the others are all right?"

Drew hung up with a flip of the receiver. He backed out of the booth and hurried around the corner. He reached the iron-grilled gate of the mansion with his head down and the snow seeping between his collar and his neck.

"Rotten night!" said the Central Office man at the door. "I don't think we'll hear anything from anybody. Them gunmen like the backrooms of saloons too well to pull off a gun-play in this storm, Inspector."

"You never can tell," said Drew, shaking his coat and hurrying toward the stairway which led to Loris Stockbridge's apartment.

Delaney opened the door after a repeated knock in Morse code. He eyed his chief. He motioned toward the inner rooms. "All quiet," he said with a broad smile. "Them turtle doves sure like to be left alone."

"And you would too! Especially if you lost your only relative the night before--lost him in the way she lost hers."

The big operative gulped down the thrust. "What did you find out?" he asked in a husky whisper.

"Get your coat on. Get over to that drug-store and plant near that booth--Gramercy Hill 9749. Frick, at the prison, is going to call that booth up as soon as Morphy or anybody else there tries to get New York. If Frick gives you a number, call up the superintendent at Gramercy Hill and tell him who you are. He's on duty all night. He'll give you the address of the number, and stall the call. That'll give you time to rush to the address and grab your man."

"I'll grab him, Chief!" rumbled Delaney, reaching for his storm coat which was supposed to be fur-lined. "Leave that to me!" he added. "Jus' leave it tu me!"

Drew eyed the operative's huge hands. "I'll do that," he said with a short laugh. "Now hurry! No, wait."

"What is it, Chief?" asked Delaney in the doorway.

"If the address is downtown, or in Brooklyn, what would you do then?"

"I'd get the office, Chief, and have Harrigan rush over a man. This super at Gramercy Hill ought to be able to stall that call long enough for us to connect--with both hands and both feet."

"Go to it!" said Drew, pressing Delaney out through the door. "Good luck," he added as he twisted the key and shot the bolt. "Now we are getting there," he said softly. "Unfortunately for that devil up-the-river, he has to phone from _one_ place. That's the thing which will beat him. I hate to think what would happen if he was outside giving orders. He could get away with it, nicely."

Drew never felt surer of himself in a case. He tested the lock and bolt for a second time. He draped the tapestries and strode into the sitting room with his shoulders held back--a sanguine light in his olive eyes.

"Well, Miss Stockbridge," he said, pausing in the center of the room and smiling. "I think we are on the verge of big things. The attempt cannot be made to-night without we have plenty of warning."

"Good!" exclaimed Loris, standing upright and arranging her lavender gown about her slipper-tops. "That's the best news I've heard in a long time, Mr. Drew," she added, glancing archly at the detective, beneath her dark lashes. "Has that Mr. Delaney found any one?"

Drew raised his brows. Loris' question was not exactly a compliment to the big operative, who meant so well.

"He hasn't found anything," said Drew, with soft, pleasing voice. "He hasn't done that, but I'm venturing my future reputation that he will find our man--the trouble-man perhaps."

Harry Nichols stepped to Loris' side. "We were children there," he admitted frankly. "At least I was. I never suspected him at all. His manners were so pleasant. He seemed so weak and intent about his business."

"Ah!" said Drew, raising his finger. "That's it! He was intent about _his_ business. Only, this particular business concerned the taking of a human life in cold blood. Mr. Stockbridge was murdered by this fiend, in the guise of a harmless trouble-hunter. How the murder was accomplished and by what lethal method we do not know. I'm acting on the theory that if we catch the man we will find out how it was done. If I can't make him--Fosdick, Commissioner of Detectives, will. May God help him if he doesn't talk to Fosdick!"

"But can't we find out how father was killed?" asked Loris, with tears glazing over her eyes. "It don't seem--it don't----"

The captain caught Loris about the waist and led her to the divan in the alcove. She sank down with her face covered with her hands. Soft sobs, brought to her throat by the memory of the murder, caused Drew to pace the rugs with alert, nervous strides like a man who would guard her from some menacing shadow. He went to the ventilators and closed them slightly. He crossed the room to the radiator-boxes and set them in an open position. He adjusted a thermostat on the wall, to seventy degrees. He stood back then and listened with both ears strained for outside sounds.

Snow sifted across the curtain-drawn panes with a cutting of fine diamonds against diamonds. A wind whistled and moaned and swirled over the turrets and towers of the mansion. An echo lifted from the driving traffic of the Avenue. Below this echo, so faint it seemed like a murmur of a distant sea, the city throbbed with the shifting of the whimpering wind. Once it roared. Then afterward there was silence, save for the sifting snow, and Loris' low, throat choke from welling sorrow.

She sat up finally and dried her eyes. "I should be ashamed of myself," she said, brokenly. "I must be brave. I fear something, though. It seems to be in the room or the air. What is it I fear, Mr. Drew?" Her question was vague. Her eyes shone hectically bright and strangely alluring to the detective.

"There's nothing to fear!" he declared with a direct glance. "I'm armed! Then," he added as an additional encouragement. "Then, Mr. Nichols is a soldier! You are in safe hands, believe me!"

Harry Nichols bowed politely. "I've got a gun, myself," he admitted candidly. "It's not that little one, either. It's army regulation. It, or the ones like it, have been stopping the Huns. I guess we'll take care of anything that comes up to-night, Mr. Drew. It's getting late, isn't it?"

The detective glanced at his watch. "I ought to hear from Delaney," he said, replacing the watch and reaching for a chair. "Delaney is like old Dobbin--faithful and slow."

Drew sat down, pulled at the knees of his black trousers and rested his heels on the thick soft pile of a Persian rug. Behind him was the cheval glass and the telephone stand. Before him, and in the shade of the silk draperies, Loris' eyes glowed alongside the captain's resolute face.

The minutes passed with the trio in the same position. The snow sifted across the cold panes. The wind whined. Suddenly between gusts, Loris asked point-blankly:

"Do you suspect that man, Morphy?"

"Yes; I do!" said Drew with a snap. "I believe that every single lead we have points to him. I believe he planned to destroy your father ever since the day of conviction. I believe----"

"But he is in prison."

"Ah!" said the detective, with bright eyes. "So is his master, Lucifer, in the lower regions. He's there, but he has a long arm. Morphy's tool in this affair is probably the telephone repair-man. You saw him. Mr. Nichols saw him. I saw him. We all agree that he does not look the part of a scoundrel and a scoundrel's tool. But," Drew paused and spread out his hands; "but," he continued, "that's the reason he was chosen for Morphy's murderous work. You can't send a thug into a drawing room--or a library. You can't cut a sharp slice with a dull tool. This trouble-hunter is all that the name implies--a hunter of trouble. I don't doubt that we have the case rounded up, save for bringing him in. Morphy, we can get at any time. He's in prison and he's getting very close to the little green door that leads to the electric-chair. One slip to-night, and we have him!"

"Miss Stockbridge must go south after the funeral," said Nichols. "She can't be jeopardized! She is nervous and has suffered acutely. I for one am sorry we let her stay here. It is the place she should not be. They know where to look for her!"

"They're beat to-night," assured Drew, rising and stretching his arms. "My! my!" he added, "this is slow, sleepy work. I'd ask for tea, but I think it's best we stay locked in here. Don't you, Miss Stockbridge?"

"Marie can get some. There's a service-waiter running up to her room. Suppose I order tea, or coffee, and cakes. It might cheer us up?"

Drew held out a warding arm as Loris rose and started toward the writing room. "I'll tend to it," he said. "You stay right here close up to Mr. Nichols. We're taking no chances at all."

The detective parted the portieres and knocked upon the maid's door as he turned the key with his left hand. He waited as she gave the order through a silver-plated speaking tube. He heard the service-waiter rising. He leaned forward and took the tray with a sharp glance about the maid's room. It was as clean and as neat as a work basket. A French novel, with a vivid portrait of a poilu carrying a very sharp bayonet on its cover, lay in the center of a white counterpane on the bed.

"Good-night!" he said as he closed and carefully locked the door. He reached downward and caught up the tray. He started across the writing-room. He paused in its center as he heard:

"Burrrr! Burrrr! Burrrrr!"

Shrillingly the perfumed air of the suite vibrated with the silver notes of the telephone. Drew hesitated, with the tray balanced in his hand. He took one step forward as Loris swished across the sitting-room, lifted the hard-rubber receiver and voiced a soft, "Hello!"

Drew let go of the tray and sprang forward. He parted the portieres and watched Loris' face. It changed between seconds to a flushed mask of crimson-fear. She staggered back, dropped the receiver, and cried "Harry!" as she sank to the floor.

Drew darted across the rugs and snatched up the instrument. He heard a low, chuckling laugh that died to a whisper and then to nothingness. He flipped the receiver back on the hook. He turned with a savage twist. He stared across the room toward Loris, who had risen to her knees and whose head was against Nichols' olive-drab breast.

"What was said?" he questioned sharply.

A mass of turbaned, midnight-hued hair uncoiled and fell about the girl's white face. Glorious eyes dulled, then glowed, with the fire which was pulsing within her. Her lips trembled and went blanched as she throated brokenly:

"The man--the man at the other end said.... He said that his master had ordered my coffin.... He said that I had only a few hours to live.... He said that he would call me up again.... For me to be ready then, to meet my Master and my--doom."