Chapter THREE: "the Man in Olive-Drab"

Triggy Drew stood on the marble steps of the Stockbridge mansion. The butler had just helped him on with his coat. The door had closed softly. The outer air gripped with cold that crackled. A soft snow was falling upon the city. It blurred the view of the Avenue, as seen to north and south. It wound the opposite buildings with a shroud of winter.

The detective squared his shoulders, thrust his hands in his pockets for warmth, and hurried out between the iron-grilled gates, which stood slightly ajar. He hesitated a moment on the sidewalk. Again he glanced up and down the Avenue. The soft purring of a motor sounded. A taxi churned through the snow. It came to a slow stop at the opposite curb. The glow from an overhead arc showed that this taxi was crammed black with men.

"That's Delaney and his squad," said the detective turning up his collar. "He's late."

Drew crossed the Avenue on a long diagonal. He eyed the alert chauffeur. He rounded the taxi and jerked open its door. The orders he whispered to the squad of operatives were terse and to the point.

"Keep Stockbridge's block covered," he said. "Watch all four corners. Two of you get into the alley, back of the house, and climb the fence. Keep your eyes on the junction-box and the telephone wires. Don't let anybody touch them. All out, now. It's a big job with double-pay, men!"

The cramped operatives climbed out and stood on the sidewalk. They glanced from Drew to the towering spires of the Stockbridge mansion. Their eyes grew hard with calculation.

"She's big," repeated Drew. "You know who lives there? He's been threatened twice. Somebody gave him twelve hours to live. Two of the twelve are gone. It's up to us to see that nothing happens in the next ten."

Delaney touched his hat. "All right, Chief," he said. "We'll see. I'll answer for the boys I brought. I'll get rid of this taxi." The operative turned toward the driver.

"Keep it around the corner on the side street," Drew ordered. "Have him turn and head this way. We can't tell what minute we will need him."

Delaney gave the order. He paired off the operatives and sent them hurrying through the snow. Drew noticed that he had brought six men for the assignment.

"Good," he said as the last operative disappeared. "Six is better than five. This thing is widening out. I wouldn't wonder if we needed more, before the night passes."

"What's coming off?" asked Delaney with an Irish grin. "Another stock scandal like the Flying Boat one?"

"An echo of it--perhaps," said Drew. "It's dog eat dog, I guess. Stockbridge is no saint. Some man with a whispering--consumptive voice has 'phoned him the news that he was going to die before daylight. I don't think he is. Not if I can help it."

"Who did he rob this time--the old devil!"

"He's retired. It's a case, perhaps, of thieves falling out in high places. Remember how Stockbridge beat Morphy to the District Attorney and told all he knew, and went before the Grand Jury? Morphy may be behind this threat-by-wire."

"Morphy's behind bars, Chief!"

"I know that. He's always dangerous, though."

"Another old devil," said Delaney thrashing his arms. "I can see him now, Chief, in his big automobile. A husky man with a leather coat and cap. And always a woman by his side, Chief. A different woman, every time!"

"He fell a long way, Delaney. Come on. We'll forget Morphy for a while. Stockbridge is alone. He is in danger."

Drew clutched the operative's arm and motioned across the street. They plunged through the snow with heads down. They entered the iron-grilled gate. Drew touched a button set in the stone of the doorway. He repeated the signal.

The door opened to a crack. A chain rattled. A face blotted out the inner light of the mansion.

"All right," said Drew. "All right, butler. This is one of my operatives. Let us in."

The butler led the way through the hall of old masters, after taking the detectives' coats and hats. He parted the curtains and announced the operatives. Drew pressed Delaney into the library.

Stockbridge sat in the same position between the tables. The rose-light from the ornate lamp brought out deep lines which transversed his yellow face. Fear gave way to a mumbling satisfaction as he stared at the two resolute detectives who had come to guard him. He rested his eyes upon Delaney. His brows raised in inquiry.

"This is Delaney," said Drew. "He's the man who brought back Morphy from Hartford. He's true blue. Delaney, this is your case as well as mine. Your old prisoner may be involved."

"Morphy ain't in it, Chief. He's locked up tighter than the Sub-Treasury's strong-box. It's some one else."

"What did you get on the telephone call? The call I had you trace through Spencer Ott, the Chief Electrician?"

"Nothing, as yet! I waited. That's what kept me so long." Delaney glanced at his watch.

"He'll 'phone later, I guess," said Drew. "Now," he added turning toward Stockbridge. "Now, let's cover everything in this house. What time was it, Delaney?"

"Nine forty-eight, when I looked, Chief."

"That's early. Suppose you allow a half hour for a search of the upper house. Take that time and go over everything. Pay particular attention to Mr. Stockbridge's rooms. Look at the windows. See that they are locked. See that there are no places where a man could be hidden. You'll permit Delaney to do this, Mr. Stockbridge?"

The Munition Magnate nodded. He kept his eyes on Drew, who still faced him. "Do you think it is necessary?" he asked. "I'll answer for my servants."

"We must suspect everybody," Drew said. "Go on, Delaney. Find the butler and let him show you around. I've searched in here."

Delaney started toward the portieres as Stockbridge reached down and pressed the floor-button with his finger.

"Just a moment," said Drew with afterthought. "You better knock on Miss Stockbridge's door and ask permission to go through her suite. There's just a chance that you might see something."

"Might see something!" shrilled the magpie.

Delaney turned with a startled half-oath. "Wot's that?" he asked, aggressively clenching his huge fists.

"Might be something!" chortled the magpie.

"Go on," Drew laughed. "That's only a magpie."

"Looks like a crow, Chief. It sure startled me. I thought we had the villain right here."

Drew waited. Delaney--with a last glance toward the bird-cage--followed the butler to the upper floors of the mansion. Drew opened the letter and studied it. He examined the postmark. He heard, as he was replacing the paper in the envelope, the click of the glass against the bottle at Stockbridge's side. There followed a dry chuckle of inner satisfaction. A match was struck. Cigar smoke wreathed under the rose-light and floated toward a high radiator which was over the book-cases. Drew went over to these and glanced upward. The gilt-grilled ventilator, through which the smoke passed, was narrow and set within the wallplaster. It showed no sign of marks at its edge. It was the only opening, save the door and the two great windows at the front, which led from or into the library.

He returned to the center of the library. A swishing sounded. Loris, with eyes aflame, glided into the room. The curtains dropped behind her with soft rustling. She glanced from Drew to her father. She stamped her slippered foot upon the thick pile of the rug before the doorway.

"By what right?" she said to Drew. "By whose orders have you sent that awful man to my rooms?"

Drew flushed beneath the olive of his skin.

"_I_ sent him," he admitted guiltily. "I never thought you would be offended, Miss Stockbridge."

"I am--greatly so! Do you mistrust me?"

"Miss Stockbridge," Drew hastened to say with soft apology. "Miss Loris--that thought never entered my mind. It never did! I'll have Mr. Delaney out, right away. He should not have gone in without your permission. I told him to knock and ask you."

"My maid let him in. I--I----"

Drew studied her gown. It had been changed. The Irish lace and the lavender one had been replaced by an Oxford-gray tailor-made suit which fitted her slender, elegant form like a close glove. Her slippers were topped with fawn-hued spats. One ring was on her finger. It was a solitaire of price. It gleamed and flashed in the rose-light as she raised her hand to her hair.

"I'll have Delaney right out," repeated Drew, bowing and starting for the doorway.

"No!"

Drew paused. He turned. The magnate towered over the table. His eyes were blood-shot and glazed with resolve.

"No!" he declared. "No, you'll not have him out! Let him do his duty! Loris, go upstairs!"

"But, father----"

"Go--up--stairs!"

The girl flushed. Scarlet ripples rose from her young breast. Her cheeks crimsoned into two burning spots. She wheeled, gathered up her skirt, and glided swiftly through the portieres which dropped behind her like a curtain of a stage.

"Go--up--stairs," quoted the magpie greatly excited.

Drew retained the vision of Loris long after her footsteps had ceased to sound in the hallway. He grew thoughtful as he waited. There were details to the case which already caused him concern. It was evident that the girl was tremendously high-spirited and willful. Her obedience to her father's demand had only been after a struggle with her turbulent nature. She had given in to him, but friction was there which might cause trouble at a future hour.

Delaney parted the portieres, finally. He strode into the library with a flushed face. He lifted one brow as he jerked his head upward in a mute signal to Drew.

"I guess it's all O. K.," he blurted swinging toward Stockbridge and eyeing the bottle beside the telephone. "O. K. upstairs. I searched most everything--posted a valet at the master's suite and took a look into Miss Stockbridge's rooms. They seem all right. I guess they're all right," he added with candor, which Drew understood referred to the girl and her outburst in her boudoir.

"Good," Drew said closing his lips. "That's good. Now, Mr. Stockbridge," he added, "there will be eight of us on the outside of this house. You have your trusted servants inside. There's three telephones in good order, thanks to the trouble-man. There's the entire New York Police and Detective Departments to back us up. There should be no trouble."

The Magnate blinked beneath the cone of rose-light. He wet his dry lips. He rubbed his scaly hands. "Any orders to me?" he asked determinedly. "What shall I do?"

"You lock this library door when Delaney and I go out. Lock it and bolt it securely. Don't take a particle of food. Don't drink any water. Try to get along to-night without sampling anything."

Stockbridge reached for the bottle of Bourbon. He held it up to the light. It was half full. "All right," said he. "I might finish part of this--that's all."

Drew glanced at Delaney. "That'll be all right," he said turning. "That bottle's been tested. You might let this officer try a little of it. Nothing like being sure, you know."

Delaney was willing. The drink he poured, after the butler brought a clean glass, would have cost him considerable money in war time. He upended it neat. He smiled as one hand rested upon his chest. "Fine!" he said with sincerity. "There's nothin' th' matter with that!"

Drew turned toward the portieres, where, between, the butler waited. "We'll go now," he said. "Remember--lock and bolt this door. Instruct your man to stay outside and not to leave it under any circumstances. When you go up to your bedroom, have him go with you. Then lock the upstairs door and let your valet sleep across the threshold. You can have a mattress moved for that purpose. I'll come in--first thing in the morning. Good night, sir!"

"Good night," repeated Stockbridge rising from his chair and leaning his hands upon the polished surface of the table. "Good night to both of you!"

Drew glanced back as the butler pressed in the curtains and started closing the hardwood door. The Magnate still stood erect under the rich glow from the overhead cone. His eyes were slit-lidded and defiant. He glared about the room like an aged lion in a jungle-glade. He started around the table.

The door closed. Drew waited in the hallway. He heard the lock snap. The bolt shot home. Stockbridge was alone in a sealed room.

"Watch this door!" ordered Drew clutching the butler's purple sleeve. "Watch it like a cat. Stay right near it under any and all circumstances. Don't go away from it. It may mean life or death to your master."

"I'll stoiy right 'ere, sir."

"See that you do," cautioned the Detective. "See that you do."

Delaney found the hats and coats in the foyer. These they donned, opened the outer door, and stepped into the night with jaws squared and hands thrust deep in their pockets.

They crossed the snow-mantled Avenue upon a long diagonal which brought them to the up-town corner and the waiting taxi, whose engine was softly purring beneath its hooded bonnet.

The driver was asleep. He woke as Drew laid a hand on his arm.

"Seen anything?" asked the Detective.

"Nothin', boss, but snow. Nothin' at all," he yawned.

Delaney glanced about. He opened the taxi door on the street side and lunged inward with a sigh of relief. Drew followed and pulled the door shut.

"Where's the bunch?" he asked. "Just how did you post them?"

"Flood's with the fixed-post cop on the Avenue. He's down a block. Flynn and Cassady are in the alley--in the yard, I mean. They're watching the junction-box and the wires. Joe and O'Toole went east. Harrigan is planted across the street. That's him between the two buildings. See him?"

Drew rubbed the rear glass of the taxi. He pressed his nose against this. A blurred form, almost obliterated by falling snow, showed where the operative was guarding the mansion.

Delaney, who was watching out through another window, suddenly clutched Drew by the arm. "Look!" he exclaimed. "Look, Chief! Over toward the big house!"

The Detective drew back from his study of Harrigan. He turned on the seat and followed Delaney's pointing finger. He clamped his jaw shut with a click of strong teeth.

"Somebody's coming out of Stockbridge's," said the operative.

"Quek!" signaled Drew. "Watch, closely," he added in a whisper.

A girl came through the doorway and opened the iron-grilled gates. She paused and glanced north and south through the curtain of down-falling snow. She turned with resolution and hurried along the east side of the Avenue. She was at the corner opposite the taxi, when Drew reached and opened the door with sly fingers.

"Tail her," he ordered. "Right after her, Delaney. I'd know that little lady in a million."

"Who is she, Chief?"

"Loris Stockbridge!"

"Sure?"

"Yes! Right after her! There--she turned east. See her white spats? See her furs? Some queen to be out a night like this. Don't let her get too far ahead of you. That's right, Delaney!"

The operative sprang to the curb. He rounded the hood of the taxi. He slouched along the pavement to the corner, waited for the fraction of a minute until a limousine passed, then hurried over the Avenue. He disappeared into the canyon whose walls were towering apartments and whose end was marked by a row of soft arcs across which, snow falling from housetops, sparkled in the night like diamonds beyond price.

The Avenue churned with returning theater-parties and night-hawk cabs. The roar of the city came to the waiting Detective's ears like a giant turning in his first sleep. The sifting snow sanded against the windows of the taxi. The purring motor missed sparking now and then. It shook the cab as it resumed its revolving with a sputter and a cough in the muffler. The driver huddled deeper in his sheep-skin coat collar. He snored in synchronism with the engine.

Drew rubbed the glass before him and studied the aspect with close-lidded intentness. He marked the shut gates of the Mansion down the Avenue. He saw that the lights from the inner globes had been extinguished. He counted the staring windows. His eyes lowered to the soft rose-glow which streamed out through the shut blinds of the library. Snow was on the slats and sills.

A swift crunch of heavy shoes at the side of the taxi--the turning of the door-lock--the burly form in black that climbed in, announced Delaney.

"All right, Chief!" he said somewhat out of breath. "All right--move over. Here she comes back!"

Drew rubbed a frosted pane with his elbow. A blurred form--close to the sheltering wall of the side street--revealed itself into Loris Stockbridge. She turned the corner. She glanced back over her sabled shoulder. She pressed her gloved hands deep within her muff and almost ran for the iron-grilled gates of the mansion.

"She connected with a blonde lad in olive-drab uniform!" said Delaney. "He gave her something that looked to me like a revolver. Wot d'ye make out-a that, Chief?"