Chapter FOUR: "the Murder"

Triggy Drew had no good answer for Delaney's question concerning the revolver. The matter was important in view of the threat aimed toward Stockbridge. Why Loris should obtain a gun from a rendezvous in a drug-store was more than the Detective could fathom. He turned to Delaney.

"Explain yourself!" he snapped, gripping the operative by the sleeve. "Make yourself clear! We have no time to waste in this matter!"

Delaney gulped and whispered. "It's this way. I follows the girl until she turns around the corner where there is an all-night drug-store. She was in a telephone-booth when I came up and looked through the window. She was trying to get a number. While she's trying, a taxi rushes up and out jumps a lad in a long benny. He pays the driver with a bill and hurries past me and into the drug-store. I gets a good look at him. He's about twenty-three years old, blonde hair and tall----"

"Tall?"

"He was five feet eleven, Chief. I'd say that to be safe. The uniform he wore under the benny was olive-drab with bars on his shoulder. He took the overcoat off--afterwards."

"How many bars?"

"Two, Chief."

"That's good!" exclaimed Drew with sudden vigor. "Good!"

"The girl," went on Delaney, "was 'phoning for him. She dropped the receiver when she heard him come in. She had the party she wanted--right there. Good deduction--that is!"

The Detective snorted. "Go on," he said with a faint frown.

"Sure it was! Well, I moves over and starts puttin' a penny in the slot-machine outside the drug-store. The machine didn't work very well on account of the snow. I'm a long time gettin' my piece of chewin'-gum. I sees them talking in the drug-store. His coat is off 'cause it's warm inside. He had an officer's uniform on."

"One bar or two?"

"Two bars on his shoulder, Chief."

"Captain, then. Go on."

"He's a tall lad with thick lips and wide-blue eyes. He's straight as a pike-staff and good lookin'--for a blonde."

"Looks German?"

"Not so I could notice! Seemed to be a bit of a swell. Had gloves and a high-class wrist watch. I hate them things."

Drew smiled. "Hurry," he said. "Don't take too long. What happened? What about the smoke-wagon?"

"I'm comin' to it, Chief. They moves over to the drug-case. They chins some more. Then he blows her to a soda--a cherry sundae."

Drew rubbed the glass at his side and started out. He swept the mansion with swift-running eyes. He turned.

"They were sweet--them two," went on Delaney with thought. "I deducts they'd known each other a long while."

"Quit your deducting. Get to facts!"

"Well, Chief, he ups and gives the drug-store the once over with sharp looks. Then he handed her a little, flat box which she pops into her muff--quick as any shop-hister. It was as quick as that!"

"How do you know it was a revolver?"

"By what followed, Chief."

"What followed?"

"Her hand creeps into the muff. It works around while the clerk is mixin' the sundae. When the clerk's back is turned, out comes the hilt of a nice, little gat with ivory trimmin's. It's one of them lovely watch-charm affairs--all polished up without a knock-out punch."

"A twenty-two?"

"About that. It's the caliber them actresses carry in their stockings. It might kill, though, at short range."

"Go on, Delaney. Tell me what happened then?"

"I gets my chewin'-gum, Chief. I backs to the curb. They finish their sundae. I'm across the street when the lad goose-steps out of the drug-store--alone. O'Toole was talking with the fixed-post cop and a Central Office man half-way down the block. They gets my office when I pulls out my handkerchief. The C. O. dick covers the corner. O'Toole falls in behind the lad in the fur benny as he passes him, with collar turned up and leggins working at a double-time through the snow."

"That's good! O'Toole will put him to bed."

"Sure, Chief. Leave it to O'Toole. He never lost a tail yet. He'll follow that lad to France--unless you call him off."

Drew polished the glass and strained his eyes in the direction of Stockbridge's mansion. The Avenue had quieted over the hour after midnight. A few belated pedestrians, muffled to the brows, glanced at the waiting taxi with curiosity. They did not stop, however.

Delaney drew out his watch and studied its dial by aid of the light which streamed from a corner arc. He replaced the watch.

"Twelve-forty-five," he announced. "Wish I'd brought a pint along. I would have, if the dame hadn't come out of the drug-store so quick."

"Did she buy anything--or do anything, after the officer left her?"

"No! Just waited a second, then came sailin' out without a smile. Had her hands crammed in her muff. That's where the revolver was. Bet it was loaded."

"More deduction," said Drew. "Don't jump at conclusions, Delaney. Get facts and work from them. Get----"

The Detective's voice trailed into silence. He reached swiftly and wiped his hand over the frosted pane. He pressed his nose against the glass until it became white with cold. He jerked back his head.

"Quek!" he signaled from deep down in his throat. "Quek, Delaney! Open the door. Somebody is coming out of the house!"

Delaney twisted the handle. A breath of stinging air swept into the taxi's heated space. Snow followed and drifted across the detectives' knees. Both men strained in one position. Their eyes burned as they waited with grim-set lips.

A light shone from the lower entrance of the mansion. Its oblong brought out in bold-relief the details of the iron-grilled gates. Across this fine snow sifted. A man emerged. He closed the door. He opened the gates and staggered toward the Avenue's curb. He stood, bare-headed in the night. His chin swung north and south with helpless motion. He fixed his eyes upon the waiting taxi, with a start of recognition. He came over the surface of the Avenue with faltering, bewildered steps.

"The butler!" snapped Drew. "That's Stockbridge's butler! What's happened?"

"God only knows!" exclaimed Delaney.

Drew climbed over the operative and sprang to the curb. He charged around the rear of the taxi and brought up with a jerk before the startled servant.

"What is it?" he asked sharply.

The butler stammered an incoherent answer. His eyes wavered from the taxi to the mansion--then back again. They gripped to a dead-lock with the detective's own.

"What happened?" exclaimed Drew.

"I don't know, sir. I don't know----"

"Keep cool! Answer me!" The Detective clutched the butler's shoulder with a vise-grip.

"Answer me," he repeated. "What happened? What is the matter--over there?"

"I don't----"

"None of that! Answer! Answer!"

"The telephone company, sir. The telephone people rang me ... they rang me hup hon the downstairs 'phone, sir. They said ... she said ... the chief-loidy said for me to 'ang the receiver hup hon the Gramercy 'ill 'ook, sir. The 9763 one, sir."

"Which one is that--the library?"

"It his, sir!"

"Go on! Go on! Go on!"

"I goes back where I 'ad left the second-man, sir, by the door, sir, as you'd ordered, sir. I knocks 'ard on the door."

"Yes! Yes!" said Drew, feeling Delaney's hot breath over his shoulder. "Yes! Go on!"

"I knocks, sir. I pounds 'ard. I 'ammers and 'ammers hon the wood, sir. 'E don't answer--'e don't."

Drew's face grew stern. "Well?" he asked still holding the butler's eyes. "Well--what then?"

"I knocks some 'arder. Then the second-man, 'e knocks. 'E 'its the door with 'is 'eel, sir!"

"Come on!" said Drew, turning and clasping Delaney's sleeve. "Come on--something _is_ wrong!"

The detective swept the Avenue with a sharp glance as he hurried across the wheel-churned ice and snow. He signaled to Harrigan by drawing a handkerchief. That operative detached himself from the shadow between the two houses and moved toward the corner. He stood there on guard as Drew hurried through the iron-grilled gates and thrust his knee against the door. It opened. Delaney and the butler crowded in. They mounted the inner stairs on tiptoes. Drew's hand went behind him in warning. He turned at the top of the landing. The second-man was standing before the library door with folded arms and a watchdog expression on his cockney face. He remained in that position as Drew glided to his side.

"Hear anything?" asked the detective.

"Never a word, sir. Hit's blym quiet hin there. Hi think 'e's 'ad something 'appen, sir. 'E never acted like that--before, sir. Sometimes 'e sleeps, but 'e always wakes hup when the walley comes after 'im, sir."

"'E does," echoed the butler with chattering teeth.

"Are you sure you tried to unlock this door?" queried Drew, twisting the knob. "Have you tried the outer lock? You might have shot the bolt in your excitement."

"The key to the houter lock, sir, is hinside!"

"It is!" snapped Drew, pressing against the panel as he listened close up to the chamfering. "It is, eh? That's funny."

"'E put hit there, sir. The master did, sir!"

Drew did not dwell further on this. He stared at Delaney, with unseeing eyes. He bent and listened for a second time. He stiffened suddenly. He jerked back.

"Listen," he whispered tersely. "Everybody listen. What's that noise inside? Hear it? Hear it, Delaney?"

The operative dropped to his knees and pressed his ear to a faint line of light below the door. He rose, dusting his knees. He swore audibly.

"What is it?" asked Drew.

"Sounds like the crow, Chief."

"Stockbridge's magpie?"

"Something like that."

The Detective laid his ear flat against the key-hole. His face hardened as he waited. He lifted his head and pointed with a steady finger. "Listen!" he commanded. "There--listen. That's no magpie!"

_A low whine like the howl of a wild thing rose to a reed note of moribund terror. It died; then resumed its shrieking. It leaped the octaves from no note to a blare of a soul in agony. Suddenly it struck down the tone scale with descending steps of mocking laughter._

"Look out!" shouted Drew, bending his knees and gliding back to the wall of the hallway. "Look out!" he repeated.

"What are you goin' to do?" asked Delaney huskily.

"Do? I'm going to break the door down! Look out!"

The detective braced himself against the wall. He lunged forward and crashed against the dark panel near the lock and bolt, with the energy of a college fullback. He backed away and repeated the smashing blow.

"Hold on, Chief," Delaney said. "That's no use. The door is two inches thick. I had a good look at it. Wait!"

Drew rubbed his right shoulder as Delaney turned toward the white-faced butler.

"You get an ax!" he ordered. "Beat it, and get a big ax, quick!"

"The axes are in the furnace room, sir."

"Get one! Bring it right up, you. Hurry now!"

The operative turned toward Drew. "The only way, Chief," he explained. "I've been in too many of Big Bill Devery's raids not to know how to break down a strong door. I'm the man who took Honest John Kelsey's house apart for him. It was built like a British tank."

The puffing butler appeared with a fire ax. He handed it to Delaney, who eyed the edge with concern.

"Not sharp," he said, "but it'll do, at a pinch. Look out--everybody!"

Delaney waved the servants away. He moistened his broad palms. He swung the ax and crashed its weight into the panel nearest the lock. He followed this blow with another. He panted as he rained swinging slashes at the dark wood. It splintered. An opening was made. This opening was enlarged by short-arm jabs until Drew laid a hand on Delaney's shoulder and called a halt. "Let me see," he said bending down.

He straightened. He enlarged the chopped place with his fingers. He ripped off the splinters until there was room for a palm to be inserted. Delaney, dropping the ax upon the hall-rug, thrust through his arm to the elbow. He bent his knee as he strained. His face screwed into a knot.

"Is the key there?" asked Drew.

"Ye--s. I turned it. All the way, Chief. Here's the bolt. Both were locked tight. Both locked, on the inside of the library."

"Remember that!" snapped Drew, squaring his shoulders. "Everybody remember that. It may be important!"

Drew pressed Delaney aside. He seized the gold knob and turned it slowly. He waited for a moment. Nothing sounded save the loud breathing of the butler and the other servants who were crowded in the hall.

The detective jerked open the splintered door. He hesitated and listened. He pressed aside the portieres with his left hand as his right fingers coiled over the ugly hilt of a police regulation .44. He advanced into the library, foot by foot. His fingers still coiled the gun's butt. He stood rigid as he reached the fringe of the splendid rug which was under the great table. His sweeping, close-lidded eyes took in the details of the room. He saw the magpie in its cage. The bird's feathers were ruffled. Its head darted in and out the bars with great excitement.

Drew frowned as he noticed a wreath of pale-blue smoke curling under the dome of the rose-light. He sniffed the air with a shrewd intake. A powder explosion of some kind had left a trace. The air, so close and warm, was filled with acrid menace.

The detective removed his hand from the revolver's butt and waved it behind him as a signal to Delaney and the servants to stay where they were. He took one step forward. The white writing paper and envelope from the cemetery company were upon the table. The stump of a half-smoked cigar draped over this table's edge like a gun on a parapet. It was cold and without ash.

The smaller of the two tables was overturned. The whisky bottle and glass lay at the edge of the rug nearest the wall. The telephone transmitter and receiver were upon the hardwood floor, where they had fallen with the butts of two Havana cigars and the ash trays and match boxes.

Stockbridge was crumpled into a twisted knot against the rich wainscoting. His head was half under his left shoulder. His iron-gray hair was singed black over the left ear.

Drew leaned with one hand on the corner of the table and peered downward. He called the magnate's name. He repeated it. He turned toward the doorway. His hand raised. His finger pressed against his lips.

"Stockbridge is dead," he told Delaney, who glided to his side. "He is dead. He was shot to death in this sealed room. I wonder who did it?"

"Ah, Sing!" shrieked the magpie. "Ah, Sing! Ah, Sing!"