Chapter THIRTEEN: "a Silent Prisoner"

Loris Stockbridge finished speaking with a low sob which went straight to the detective's heart. He advanced across the room and ran his arm about her supple waist. "We'll help her to the divan," he told Nichols. "That's it! Right over here and in the corner. She's all right. I'll tend to that threat which came over the wires."

Drew backed away and turned toward the telephone. He eyed it with cold calculation. He took one step further, then wheeled and glanced at Nichols.

"I want to trace that call if it is humanly possible," he said with decision. "We can find out, at least, from where it came. Suppose you leave me here with Miss Stockbridge, and you go down stairs and around to the drug-store?"

Loris rested her weight on one elbow. She sat erect, with slowly widening eyes. Her hands strayed to her hair and pressed it back from her ears. She gained command of herself after a shudder had passed through her slender body. She half rose.

"I've heard that voice before!" she exclaimed, pointing toward the 'phone. "It was familiar, Mr. Drew. Now where have I heard it?"

"Some friend of your father's?"

"No, I don't think it was. But I've heard it in this house."

"A servant--the valet?"

"No! No, Mr. Drew, it wasn't the valet's voice. It was whispering and consumptive. It squeaked. It sounded like a little boy's voice."

"How about that trouble-man?" Drew advanced with keen steps. He felt that he was very close to the truth.

"It might have been. Only--only, Mr. Drew, it was younger--thinner--squeakier. It was a terrible voice. It rings and rings in my ears. It was so sure!"

"Ump!" declared Drew with clenched fists. "It won't be so sure," he said, squaring his jaw. "It won't be near so sure, next time. I think it was that trouble-man you heard. Don't you remember anything he said when he was in the house, for comparison?"

"I just heard him say--I heard him say that the connections, I think he called them, were all right. Then he went away, Mr. Drew."

"Did his voice squeak then?"

"It was rather low--like a boy's or a girl's. He seemed too polite. He had his cap in his hand." Loris stopped speaking and stood erect. She arranged her gown and glanced down at Nichols. "I feel stronger," she said bravely. "I wonder what became of that tea?"

Drew stepped into the writing-room and found the tea-pot upon its side. He poured from this a cup of tea which he carried to Nichols. "Just taste it," he ordered. "I want to be sure it isn't doped or anything like that. That's it. Just a small swallow. It's all right, isn't it? It isn't bitter?"

Nichols handed the cup to Loris. "Drink it," he said with confidence. "That's good tea--only a little cold."

Drew took the empty cup and set it down on a small table. "You'll go for me?" he asked Nichols. "I want it traced without using the wires of this house. They might be tapped."

"Be back in ten minutes!" said the captain at the tapestries, after Loris had nodded. "Whom shall I ask for at Gramercy Hill?"

"The superintendent--Jack Nefe! If he isn't there, get the chief operator. Delaney will attend to that. Find out from what number the call came. We might get that whispering devil right away."

"I believe it was the trouble-man," said Loris, as Drew returned after locking the door to the hallway. "Now that I think of it--I'm almost sure it was. He just tried to change and lower his voice--that was all."

"Lower it?"

"Yes, Mr. Drew. It was so faint that I hardly heard it at first. He seemed afraid of something. Perhaps somebody was in the room where he was telephoning."

"That might have been. Well--he can't hurt or harm you that way. The thing is for you to keep up your courage. Fear is a terrible thing if you would let yourself be mastered by it. It might be their game to break you down by a series of threats."

"I won't do that. I've Harry and you to stand by me!"

Drew pulled out his watch. "It's getting toward midnight," he said. "No word yet from Delaney or any of the others on watch. I think that the storm will clear soon. You can go to bed. Harry--Mr. Nichols and I'll get a deck of cards and keep watch out here. We'll do sentry duty. He's used to that!"

Loris glided about the room. She stopped at the cheval glass and arranged her hair with a series of twists that formed a turban secured by loops. She swished around and glanced archly toward Drew. Their eyes met bravely. Hers dropped under shading lashes.

"I'm all right," she whispered with a half laugh. "I did look awful. It was the shock of hearing that terrible man. How childish to call me up and say what he did. He didn't mean it!"

"Ah," said Drew, reaching in his pocket and bringing out a key. "Ah, he did mean it, I think. He has overreached himself by telephoning. Gramercy Hill Exchange is on the alert. There's Mr. Nichols with good news, at the door. Now for his report."

The captain came in, brushing snow from his olive-drab uniform. He glanced at Loris as he strode across the room and took her hand with a firm grip. "Delaney," he said confidentially, "was right at the booth. He was sitting on a chair, propped up and talking with the prescription clerk. He did the telephoning to Gramercy Hill. I don't know who he got there, but they already knew about the call."

Nichols turned toward Drew for confirmation.

"That's right!" the detective exclaimed. "They should know! The vice-president, Westlake, has left orders to record all calls to this house. Where was that whispering voice from, Mr. Nichols?"

"From Forty-second Street and Broadway."

"Close!" exclaimed Drew, rubbing his hands. "The fellow took chances."

"It came from a slot-booth in a cigar store in a big building. It only lasted two minutes. The operator at Gramercy Hill says the first voice she heard, asking for Gramercy Hill 9764, was harsh and loud. I don't understand that."

"Harsh and loud," repeated Drew, toying with his watch chain. "That's odd. Was it the same man that Miss Stockbridge heard?"

"The operator don't know. Delaney says maybe there were two of them. One, who called up, and one who talked to this room." Nichols turned and nodded toward the silver-plated telephone.

"Hardly possible," mused Drew. "I think he changed his voice after he got the connection. He didn't want Miss Stockbridge to recognize him."

Loris glanced at the two men. "What will they do?" she asked anxiously. "Will Mr. Delaney and the other detectives catch him by that call?"

"Hardly," said Drew. "He was in and out within three minutes. The bird has flown from there!"

"But where will he go?"

"I don't know, Miss Stockbridge. I wish that I did know. There are over a hundred thousand telephones in New York he could use. It's impossible to guess which one. The booths at the Grand Central are covered by one of my operatives. The telephone company is on the alert for all calls to this house. All they can do is to record them and tell us what happens after it happens. We are trying now to get this whispering dog when he is compelled to wait at a booth. If Morphy 'phones him from the prison to-night we have him. The telephone company is going to delay the call after getting the number. It would look natural. Then, we can strike at the booth or place where the call is directed in time to catch the man Morphy is telephoning to. Up to now, Morphy has not 'phoned or Delaney would have said something about it."

"But can't you stop these calls?" asked Loris.

"Very easy. We could order the wires disconnected. But then we wouldn't catch our man. He would be suspicious and wait for another time."

"The whole thing seems so strange, Mr. Drew. We're locked in here. The house is so well guarded. All they can do is 'phone and yet we--at least I am nervous. Why have I got that strange feeling?"

"From experience!" declared Drew. "If we knew how your poor father was killed there wouldn't be cause for worry. We don't know. It was so subtle that we are confronted with the unknown in terrible form. You feel a shadow and so do I. A reaching shadow about this splendid house of yours. It isn't anything we can grasp and say, 'Come here! You're under arrest.' It's the uncanny mystery of the entire case that holds us three on the ragged-edge. I confess I have not been myself since last night. The powers of darkness and Lucifer, himself, have nothing on the people we are fighting."

"How about running Morphy in the guard house, or whatever they have up there?" asked Nichols. "Why not lay the case before the warden and have him put out of harm's way? That's what they'd do in the Army!"

"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 compass at the back of the divan, with Harry Nichols leaning over her in a shielding 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 glass vigorously. His nose pressed to a white button 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 cluster 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."

"You haven't them?" asked Loris.

"No. Delaney has a set made by this trouble-hunter when he was at the junction-box. This must have been the time he either cut the connections so that I would send for him, or it was the time when he called up and threatened Mr. Stockbridge with death within twelve hours. You remember that the telephone company have no record of the call. Now the next call----"

"Was there another?" the girl asked.

"Yes--to your father at or about the moment he died. That was from the Grand Central Station at Forty-second Street. There's a good record of that. Your father knocked the telephone down when he dropped dead. The operator noticed that the connection was open and put on the howler. The record is clear on that."

"But what is all this twisting and turning for?"

"To throw us off, Miss Stockbridge. We're dealing with a crafty, cunning mind. This mind took the extreme precaution of connecting two booths at Grand Central so that a man in Sing Sing could talk to your father without leaving a record at the Westchester Exchange or at Gramercy Hill Exchange. How this was done I don't know. It could be done with auxiliary batteries and looping so that the Gramercy Hill operator thought the Westchester call was to a slot booth, while another call from the next booth to this house was really the same connection shunted or looped through. Westlake, vice-president of the telephone company, says that there would be several ways of doing this. He added it would take an expert in telephony."

"I'm all twisted up, Mr. Drew. I suppose you understand it. But what about that call to-night--the one that frightened me?"

"The man was sure of himself!" said Drew without thinking. "He has his plans made. He figures they will not fail!"

"Oh, you mean----"

"I mean, Miss Stockbridge, that he expects to slay you in the same manner your father was slain. We have this advantage. You are not alone in this room or these rooms. Your father was alone. The murderer will have Mr. Nichols and myself to deal with this time! Be calm."

"But--I don't see how he could--get in here?"

"Nor do I. The point is that he got into the library and out again without trace. He had an hour to do his work in. Here, he is running every risk."

"But he has already been here, Mr. Drew."

The detective glanced keenly at Nichols, who had shot the statement straight through clean white teeth.

"I know it," Drew said with a trace of anxiety in his voice. "That is disquieting. But we have searched these rooms and found absolutely no trace of tampering with locks or ventilators or window-catches."

"Could he climb up here? He might have climbing irons," added Nichols glancing toward the windows.

"A good porch-climber could do it," Drew mused, with his eyes sweeping the curtains. "A very good one could. There are only three or four good ones out of prisons. They never go in for murder."

"Wouldn't money buy them?" asked Loris. "Mr. Morphy may have retained one--with some of the gold he stole from poor father."

"Retained," repeated Drew, turning with sudden intentness. "Retained, is hardly the word, Miss Loris. Hired, is more to the point. Hired assassins are not uncommon. We have the Becker case and the Hope murder. We have----"

Drew allowed his voice to trail to a whisper. "We have," he declared, "our man! There's the front door bell! It's Delaney!"

"You have splendid ears, Mr. Drew."

"I have to have, Miss Stockbridge. Now," he added sharply, "you and Mr. Nichols go into the library--the writing room. I think the case is closing. There may be a little excitement if Delaney's got that fellow. I, for one, am not going to stand much from him. Please go into the other room. That's right. Stand there, Harry, in case we need a soldier!"

Drew advanced step by step toward the tapestries. He lifted his gun from his hip pocket, examined it with narrowed eyes, then replaced it loosely. He brushed the curtains aside and had the key out, as heavy steps shook the upper stairway and a knock sounded on the panels of the door.

"Who's there?" asked Drew.

"Delaney, Chief!"

"All right! Just a moment."

The detective glanced through the slit in the tapestries, saw that Nichols and Loris were across the room, then twisted the butterfly-latch, at the same time he thrust in the flat key and turned the lock.

The door swung open. Delaney's huge bulk blocked the way. He half turned, cursed savagely, and clutched a pipe-stem neck with rude fingers. "Come along, you!" he boomed. "Get in there!"

The form of a man hurtled by Drew, fell and rose, then fell again beyond the tapestries in the center of the sitting room. Drew, like some lithe cat, was over him with a drawn gun. Delaney puffed across the rugs and tried to speak as the detective leaned and studied the chalk-pale face below shielding cuffed hands which were raised impotently.

"The trouble-man!" exclaimed Loris fearsomely.

A Central Office detective slouched through the door, deposited a kit of lineman's tools on the floor near the tapestries, then retired discreetly.

"It's him!" said Drew. "Please get back, Miss Stockbridge. We're going to fix this fellow."

"Oh, please don't strike him."

"Please--Miss Stockbridge. I'll promise nothing in this connection. This is the man who foully murdered your father."

Loris shrank back and against Nichols' extended arm. Drew glanced at her with swift concern. He dropped his eyes to the man at his feet. "What happened?" he asked Delaney. "Has this fellow said anything? Done any talking?"

Delaney glared at the trouble-man. "Never a word has he said, Chief. He's a clam. But----"

"What's that? Go on, Delaney!"

"Why, Chief, I wouldn't have brought him here if he hadn't said to Morphy over the 'phone that _'it'_ was fixed in her room. Now what does he mean by that _'it'?"_

"We'll find out!" declared Drew, dropping to the prisoner's side.