Chapter TWO: "the Magpie"

The Munition Magnate thrust a shaking hand toward the detective. "I'm glad!" he declared raising his voice. "You did well in the Morphy case. That's the reason I called upon you. Now find the miscreant or miscreants, who telephoned the cemetery superintendent, and you'll not be forgotten."

Drew glanced shrewdly at the 'phone. "May I use it?" he asked briskly. "I'll try to trace that call."

Stockbridge moved his chair away from the little table. Drew glided across the room, pressed the ash-trays and match-boxes to one side, and picked up the receiver. He worked the hook up and down with his broad thumb.

"Hello! Hello!" he repeated clicking the hook. "Hello, central! Hello!"

He glanced at Stockbridge as he waited. He frowned as he stooped and spoke more directly into the transmitter. "Hello! Hello!"

"Something the matter?" asked the Magnate with quick suspicion. "Don't they answer?"

"Hello! Hello! I Hello, there!" Drew glared at the transmitter, then tapped the receiver against the silver-plated cover. "Hello!" he shouted. "Damn it, Hello!"

He turned. "No go," he said thoughtfully. "Connection seems to be broken. I'm talking right out into thin air. Wonder who cut your wires?"

Stockbridge bristled. He slid forward in his great chair and stared at the detective. "They're cut, eh?" he asked.

Drew set the 'phone on the table and turned. "Looks mighty like it," he said. His eyes swung over the walls of the splendid room. They rested upon a high, ebony stand with a belfry from which dangled a gilt spring suspending an ornate bird cage. Out of this cage, a magpie peered with beaded eyes. Its tail extended up through the bars like a feather from a hat.

"My bird," said Stockbridge. "A tame magpie I brought from Spain. It talks."

Drew raised his brows. He continued his search of the library. Its wealth of books and paintings and antiques almost stunned him. "I'm looking for another 'phone," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Have you another 'phone in this house?"

"Yes. Two more. This is Gramercy Hill 9763. The one in Loris' room is Gramercy Hill 9764. Another in the butler's pantry, downstairs, is 9765. Perhaps the others are disconnected."

"We'll see. I want that call traced before it gets cold. I know a wire chief at Gramercy Hill Exchange. He'll help if I can get him. Have your butler show me his 'phone. Also, we better get a trouble-hunter, or report the cut wires. Somebody will pay for this! It's an outrage and a felony!"

Stockbridge moved his slippered foot and pressed a button under the larger table. He waited, then pressed again. His eyes wavered about the room. They fastened upon the portieres which draped from the pole across the doorway leading into the hall. His tongue moistened dry lips as he watched for the butler.

"I'll 'phone my office," said Drew hurriedly as steps were heard in the hall. "I'll get up five operatives--no, six--right away. This all may be a hoax, but I've lived forty-one years too long to overlook a threat of this kind. Particularly when it concerns a man who has made as many enemies as you have."

The butler parted the portieres as Drew ceased speaking. Stockbridge nodded and indicated that the detective wanted to go downstairs. The butler led the way to the lower telephone. Into this, Drew spoke hurriedly and very much to the point. He secured three numbers in rapid succession. He snapped his orders in a manner to set the cut-glass tinkling on the pantry shelves. He hung up the receiver, glanced shrewdly at the servants about, then climbed the stairs like a boy of twelve.

"All is set!" he announced to Stockbridge as he entered the library and crossed to the table. "All moving, now! My wire-chief had gone home. I got the chief operator. She's going to send the first trouble-man handy. Delaney will be up from the office with his flying squad. I left it to him to arrange about tracing the call through a telephone official. No use telling the chief operator too much. The official will go right over her head and into the heart of the thing. Now,"--Drew pulled down the lapels of his black coat and leaned over the Magnate. "Now," he said with vigor, "now, what about your servants? I had a good look at some of them. How about that English butler? How long have you had him?"

"Ten years! Brought him over, myself. Wife picked the other servants. They're all old, tried and trusted. I'll answer for them. She died telling me to take care of them. I don't think her equal lived in choosing help. It was uncanny!"

Drew stroked his cropped mustache. "Good!" he said. "That's fine! We'll start with the supposition that they're _not_ guilty. Are any of them of German birth?"

"My valet is part German, but he ran away to avoid their army. He hates the Junker party. Says 'It is responsible for the War.'"

"How long have you had him?"

"Nine years."

"That should let him out. Well," Drew added with a sweeping glance about the library, "well, these big windows--how about them?"

The detective advanced to the front of the room as he asked the question. "Two," he mused. "Two bay-windows of the superior order. Curtains very heavy and rich. There's a good catch on this one," he added springing upon the radiator-box. "And a good catch on this one. Both catches are closed. Seem to have been closed for some time. Here's dust. High-class housekeeper, but I've got her here."

Drew smiled as he ran his fingers over the upper sash. He peered out into the Avenue with its flowing tide of vehicles. He turned and said to Stockbridge:

"Suppose you order your butler or doorman to shut the outside blinds. It's getting dark and cold. I want to be sure that no one can get through this way."

"Good," said Stockbridge reaching for the button with his toe. "Good! We'll take every precaution. Twelve hours will show the thing one way or the other. Twelve hours should do it."

The butler entered bearing a silver tray. He set this on a mahogany tea-wagon and rolled it to the Magnate's chair. Drew frowned at the sight of a black bottle and one glass. A signal of understanding had been sent to the perfect servant.

Stockbridge moistened his thin lips thirstily. He whispered the instructions concerning the blinds. The butler withdrew like a shadow merging into a shadow. Drew shrugged his shoulders and went the round of the library with the keen, trained scrutiny of a man-hunter and a modern operative. He paused before a case of morocco-bound books. "These cases?" he asked. "How about them? What's behind?"

"Books! Books!" shrilled the magpie.

Drew raised his brows and swung upon the bird.

"Books! Books!" repeated the pet. "Books, books, books!"

"Fine bird," said Drew with thought. "But what is behind the cases, Mr. Stockbridge? I don't want to move them if the walls are all right."

A glass clicked against the silver tray as the Magnate answered hastily:

"All right! They're all right. I was here when they were filled. I just ordered so many feet of books. Six hundred feet, I think it was. I never look at them. All that I ever read is the magazines and the financial items in the newspapers."

"The pictures--paintings," Drew said.

"Pictures! Pictures!" repeated the magpie.

"Shut up!" snarled Stockbridge. "Keep quiet, Don!"

The bird ruffled its feathers and leaped to a top perch. It peered from there at Drew, with its head cocked sideways.

"How about them?" repeated the detective.

"I had them hung by my orders," Stockbridge said. "They're all right. Nothing but a strong wall behind. No need to bother about them."

"Everything is important," Drew suggested with a slight reproof in his voice. "Trifles may make for the answer to the riddle."

"That Corot over there is no trifle. It cost me thirty-five thousand dollars in France!"

Drew lifted the lower edge of the painting from the wall. Dust fell. He pressed his face against the paper and looked behind the canvas. Letting the frame back he tried the same operation with the other paintings of size.

"No secret panel, or anything queer," he said finally as he dusted his hands. "All's well with the walls. Now the floor. How about trapdoors?"

"Impossible!" Stockbridge exclaimed. "I'm sure these rugs have been taken out and cleaned every time I go to my country-place. A trapdoor would be noticed!"

"I'm trying to find out," suggested Drew glancing from the bottle to the purple face of the Magnate. "Please answer me if you want to get results. I've got to see that no one comes into this library for the next twelve hours. After that period of time--we can breathe easier."

"Go on," said Stockbridge feeling the thrust.

"This door," Drew said. "The door to the hall. Can it be locked securely?"

"Yes! It can be locked and bolted from the inside. I often lock myself in--in----"

Stockbridge stiffened in his chair. He glanced toward the portieres. He leaned forward and attempted to shield the view of the quarter-emptied Bourbon-bottle and the used glass, as a girl in lavender and Irish-lace swept into the room.

Drew recognized Loris Stockbridge from newspaper photos. He held his breath as she glided by him, unseeingly. He touched his mustache and waited. Her face, framed in close-drawn hair the color of midnight sky, softened perceptibly as she swished round the great table in the center of the library and laid an unjeweled hand upon her father's shoulder.

She turned with a start as she realized that Stockbridge was not alone. Drew bowed with swift courtesy.

"Mr. Drew," said the Magnate. "Mr. Drew, my daughter, Loris."

Again the detective bowed. He met her level glance with a smile in his brown eyes. She answered it and leaned over her father's shoulder. Drew wheeled and fell to studying the titles on the books. He moved to the magpie's cage. He extended one finger. The bird fluttered and sprang from perch to perch.

Drew thrust his hands into his pockets. He heard Loris speaking in terse, throaty tones to her father. He could not well avoid catching the tenor of their conversation. It concerned the letter from the cemetery and the threat of death within twelve hours, which the Magnate repeated to her with a softness in his aged voice.

A gushing torrent of unbridled emotion poured down upon his gray head. The girl paced the floor between the chair and the table. She fell to her knees with swift grace.

"Be careful, father," she sobbed. "You must be so careful. Remember you're all that I have, now. That letter and that telephone call means that somebody is planning to destroy you. Oh, father, be careful. What would happen if you were taken away from me?"

"You'd marry that cad--Nichols!" blurted Stockbridge. "I'm the one thing that stands in his way. You'd marry him--wouldn't you?"

The girl rose proudly. Drew, from the shadow outside the rose-light, studied the slender figure crowned with a close-drawn turban of blue-black hair. His eyes ranged down to her slipper heels. They lifted again. He stroked his chin as he waited for her answer. It came truthfully enough and with high spirit.

"Yes, I'll marry him some day. I want your permission, but with it or without it, father, I am going to marry him. He's a captain in the Army. Doesn't that prove he is not all the things you said he was?"

"Good girl," said Drew in whispered admiration.

"It proves nothing!" exclaimed Stockbridge stiffening in his chair and half rising. "He's a cad and an ass under all his uniform. He's too poor to be considered for one moment. I want my daughter to marry----"

"Whom she pleases," said Loris. "Harry may be poor, but he's not too proud to fight!"

"Bah! They get those uniforms so the girls will notice them. What does he know about war?"

"He's been at Plattsburg for three months. He's in town on furlough. He's helping us with Red Cross work. Isn't that noble!"

"That part's all right," said the Magnate. "I want you to keep him from me, that's all. I believe he's half German!"

"He's not! Harry is all-American. His mother was born of German parents in this country. His father was Canadian. You've heard of the Nichols who built part of the Grand Trunk Railroad. Was he German?"

Stockbridge paled under the torrent which gushed from the girl's lips.

"Well, all right," he said resignedly. "Don't bring him here or allow him to call. I've too much to think about to worry over Harry Nichols. You better go to your room and think things over."

Loris glanced at her wrist-watch. She leaned with quick motion and kissed her father on the forehead. She turned at the portieres and threw back her head.

"Good-by, Mr. Drew," she said prettily. "I hope that you have not been annoyed."

The detective, naturally quick at answering, found his tongue tied in his mouth. He stammered a reply, which was too late. Loris swished through the curtains, leaving the room empty for her passing.

"A mighty fine girl," was Drew's whispered comment. "They don't often come like that. She's very high class. She's got spirit. I'd hate to snatch a delusion from that young lady--Harry Nichols, for instance."

"Come here!" broke in Stockbridge.

Drew crossed the rugs. He stood by the magnate's side. He watched him pour out a half-glass of Bourbon and take the whisky neat. He frowned. "Well?" he asked.

"Not a word from your men or the telephone company?" asked Stockbridge, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's queer, isn't it?"

Drew took out his watch. He replaced it after a glance at the dial. His eyes wandered to a little Sevres clock on a book-case. "It's time for both," he said. "It's----"

"There's somebody now--go see," Stockbridge whispered tersely. "Somebody is in the hallway."

The portieres parted and revealed the beef-red face of the English butler. He advanced a step.

"The trouble-man from the telephone company is 'ere, sir," he said. "'E's 'ere! 'E's been hover the junctions in the halley, sir. 'E's looked at the junction-box. 'E says, sir, there's no trouble there. 'E says 'it must be in 'ere, sir.'"

"In 'ere, sir," repeated the magpie with a loud squawking and rustle of wings. "Junction-box! Junction-box!" it cried with its head through the gilded bars.

"Shut up, Don!" ordered Stockbridge. "Be a good bird," he added sharply. "Now, Straker, you may show the trouble-hunter up."

"Trouble-hunter! Trouble-hunter!" echoed the magpie.

Drew, somewhat amused, thrust his hands in the pockets of his coat and eyed the opening between the curtains. A click of tools sounded metallically. A shambling step was in the hallway.

"This woiy," said the butler in a superior tone. "Right this woiy, you!"

The portieres parted. A slouching figure, with a greasy cap drawn far down over the eyes, entered the library with a lineman's satchel on his hip. He swung the strap from his shoulder, glanced at Stockbridge and then at the detective. He dropped the satchel to the floor and scratched his head.

"Take a look at this 'phone," said Drew. "Go over the wires. Look for any cuts. The trouble ought not to be in here."

Stockbridge rose and made room for the lineman, who lifted the satchel and strode to the 'phone. He dropped to one knee by the little table. He fished forth a testing-set from his shirt. It was bound with two leads of cotton-insulated wire.

"I'll test here," he suggested, clamping a set of claws into the wires which came through the molding and entered the ringing-box.

"Hello!" he said. "Hello, this you, Saidee? Say, Saidee, give me Franklin Official, seventeen. Yes ... all right! Hello! This you, Tupper? Say, Tupper, I went over the junction-box in the alley back of the house. Everything O. K. there. I'll go over the leads in the house. Loose connection somewhere, I guess."

A clicking of tools followed as the lineman selected a pair of pliers. They rattled over the binding-posts at the receiver. They tightened the connections. He went over the transmitter, and then every inch of the exposed wiring. He removed the cover of the ringing-box and examined the connections. Replacing this cover, he rose with a puzzled expression.

"All right," he said to Stockbridge, who was standing with his back turned. "It's all right here, sir. I don't find a thing. See--it's all right."

The trouble-hunter lifted the receiver from the hook. "Hello," he said in a low voice. "Hello, Saidee. Say, Saidee, what number is this on your board?"

The lineman glanced around the room. His eyes widened. He whistled with naive admiration. "Hello," he said softly. "Yes ... Gramercy Hill 9763. That's right. O.K. Tell Franklin Official--tell Tupper that I took forty minutes on the job. Forty minutes at time and a half. Don't forget that. Yes ... bridle--everything, all right, Saidee. See you later."

The trouble-hunter reached for his satchel. He hitched it over his shoulder.

"Hold on!" said Drew. "What _was_ the trouble? Why couldn't we get Central?"

"You can search me--sir. It wasn't in this room, mister. That's a Western-Union cinch!"

"Where was it?"

"I don't know."

"How about the junction-box in the alley? Could it have been there?"

"Well it could--come to think of it. I scraped an' cleaned th' connections to make sure. They're all right now."

"Did you see anybody about?"

The lineman hitched up the satchel and scratched his ear. "Seems to me, I did. A fellow climbed over the fence from the back yard of this house just as I swings in from the side street. It was snowin' a bit an' I couldn't see very well."

"What kind of looking fellow?" snapped Drew with awakened interest. "German?"

"You took th' very words right out of my mouth," said the trouble-hunter. "He looked like a German."

"Describe him! Tall, fat or small?"

"I wasn't near enough to notice for sure. Tall, I think. He went out the alley and turned toward Fifth Avenue."

"Could he have called us up from that junction-box?"

"Sure--if he had a set of testers like this." The lineman tapped his shirt with his left hand. "He could have talked with you, but he couldn't ring your bell without a magneto or an alternating current of some kind."

"Could he have cut the wires and connected them again without Central noticing anything out of the ordinary?"

"He might. But who would do that, sir?"

"That's all!" said Drew in dismissal. "Here's a dollar. Keep still about your visit here. We may want you later."

"Want you later," repeated the magpie.

Drew turned toward Stockbridge as the lineman shuffled through the portieres. "Queer," he said. "Tall fellow, eh! That's the man who cut in and threatened you. We'll get him! I'll go out and see if Delaney has arrived. Two hours of the twelve have passed. Ten more should see you safely out of it."