Chapter FIVE: "the First Clews"

The magpie's words, repeated over and over as Drew and Delaney stood in the room of death, struck both men as a possible clew. It was more than likely that the murderer or the murdered man had shouted something, the moment the shot was fired. This exclamation might have been, "Ah, Sing!" The bird had repeated something it had memorized, or retained in its shallow brain.

"Ah, Sing!" suggested Drew, keenly on the alert. "Ah, Sing, eh? Never forget that! We may need it--later."

"Sounds like a Chinaman," said the operative. "Stockbridge was shot by a Chink!"

"Get busy! Go over the room and look for a possible hiding place. You, butler, stand across that doorway! Don't move from there!" Drew wheeled and stared at the white faces of the servants which were framed in the somber curtains of the opening to the hall.

The detective swung back. He rounded the large table with slow steps. He bent down. One knee touched the rug. He reached and grasped the magnate's stiff arm. He worked it like a hinge. He felt of the muscles. They were rigid.

Rising, Drew again tested the air of the library. He glanced at Delaney, who was opening the book-case doors.

"What do you smell?" he asked sharply.

The operative turned and sniffed with widening nostrils.

"It's powder!" he said. "Gunpowder, Chief."

"Sure?"

"It's kind-a peculiar--at that."

"Explain yourself--be clear!"

Delaney scratched his head. "I'd say, Chief, it was smokeless powder. It don't smell like the ordinary kind."

"I saw smoke when I came in!"

"That smokeless stuff smokes. It ain't altogether what they call it. Remember the shootin'-gallery at Headquarters? There's smoke there when the police are practicing with them steel-jacketed bullets."

"You're right," said Drew. "Keep on looking about. I'm getting on. Stockbridge was shot at very close range behind and under the left ear. The weapon used was a small-caliber revolver. The bullet is undoubtedly lodged in the lower brain. Powder stains are in his hair. The opening is clotted shut. He fell forward. In falling he knocked over the little table with its load of ash-trays, match-boxes, telephone, cigar butts and the whisky bottle and the glass. He's been dead some time."

"I 'e'rd no shot!" cried the butler from the doorway.

Drew wheeled. "You wouldn't," he said sharply. "Delaney," he added, "say, Delaney, get out your note book and pencil. I want to put down everything we can think of before I send for the coroner. We'll take a complete record. This thing is diabolical. You see nothing?"

"Nothing," echoed Delaney as he slammed a book-case door shut, dusted his fingers and reached in his pocket. "There's nobody planted in this room--that's a fact, Chief. That's what gets me. How was the murder done?"

"Speculation is useless--now! Get ready for notes."

"I'm ready, Chief."

The detective strode across the library rugs and snapped on the wall switch by jabbing at a mother-of-pearl button. Each time he jabbed, more lights came on. The room flooded with soft glowing from concealed globes. This glow brought out the full details of the palatial interior. Drew chewed at his mustache thoughtfully. He measured the walls with his eyes. He glided swiftly toward the windows. He thrust aside the heavy curtains of one and glanced upward.

"Closed and locked," he said to Delaney. "Put that down. There's snow on the sill which has drifted through the outer slats. Put that down. No sign of footprints. Put that down. Now, the upper part!"

He climbed up on the ornate radiator box. His fingers went over the catch. "Locked here!" he said, glancing down. "Locked and the same as it was. Make a note of that!"

He sprang down and examined the other window. He went over the sill and the catch with absorbed intentness. His teeth bit against his upper lip. He shook his head as he turned.

"No chance for a bullet to have been fired through these windows!" he declared positively. "No chance at all. This end of the library is sealed as far as we are concerned. Now, we'll consider the only other opening--the door!"

"Double locks, Delaney," he called over his shoulder as he crossed the room and pressed the butler back into the hall. "Double locks of the superior order. Gold knobs and key-holes. The holes are not in line. The chamfering is clean, except where you struck it once or twice with the ax. No sign of outside tampering or jimmy work. I'd say we've covered this door. Any suggestions?"

Delaney tried both the inner lock and the bolt which was actuated with a gold butterfly-wing of heavy construction. He studied the flat key. It was gold-plated. He dropped to his knees and went over the entire lower chamfering with his broad finger.

He said, "No suggestions, Chief. This was locked twice, until we broke a hole through with an ax. I don't see----"

"Make a note of everything!" ordered Drew with a sharp glance at the waiting servants. "Make a full record of what we have found--including your exact interpretation of the magpie's words. What were they?"

"Ah, Sing!"

"I think the same. Let's look the bird over. Perhaps it will repeat."

The two detectives strode to the bird-cage. "I'm going to send for Fosdick and the coroner," said Drew hastily. "We've got to hurry. What do you make of this bird? Could it have had anything to do with the murder?"

The magpie protested against this accusation. Its feathers ruffled. Its claws clamped over the perch. Its tail extended upward and seemed to dart with indignation.

"Ah, Sid!" exclaimed Drew close up to the gilded bars. "Ah, Sid. Ah, Sid!" he repeated as the bird sprang to the bottom of the cage and set this jumping up and down at the end of the spring.

"No go," said Delaney. "This black parrot don't like our looks."

Drew fingered the cage. He tested the spring. He stooped and glanced underneath. He tapped the belfry. It was of inlaid wood. It rang solid. "No use," he said. "This is all, all right. Let's get to the other matters before the clews get cold. Look everywhere for a possible trapdoor or a secret panel. Test the walls. Move the book-cases. Turn the pictures. Lift up the rugs. Then put everything back like you found it. Fosdick will be on the job with both feet and the Homicide Squad, before we know it. We haven't much time." Drew glanced at his watch as Delaney started by moving out one of the book-cases.

The detective ignored the body which lay upon the floor near the little table. He was holding his investigation down to outside facts, and bringing them to bear upon the crux of the matter. In this way, he believed, he would secure better results. He did not want to be blinded by an impossibility at the beginning. His first glance at Stockbridge sufficed to assure him that the lethal instrument which had felled the magnate was not in evidence. The bright light from a score of globes would reveal any such object as a revolver or rifle. No one of the servants had seen anything. They still were peering into the room like men and women who had lost all they owned. Stockbridge, despite his temper and sins, had been a good master to those who served him without questioning.

Drew glared at his watch for a second time, in preoccupation. He strode to the library door and beckoned a hooked finger toward the butler who towered over the other servants.

"You!" he exclaimed. "You didn't obey orders. You didn't stay where you were told to stay! Why did you leave this door at all?"

"S' 'elp me, sir, I didn't, Mr. Drew. If I did it wasn't farther than the foyer or the downstairs steps. I took very careful pains to call the second-man, sir, when I went after you."

Drew's eyes smoldered with inner fire. "I told you," he repeated, "I told you to stay by this door and not leave it--even for a minute. You went after the second-man, by your own admission. You went to the foyer hall. You went to the staircase leading down to the lower part of the house. In other words, you didn't watch the door, and you lost your master through your own foolishness!"

"But, sir, nobody could 'ave gotten through the door. Hit was locked and bolted on the hinside, sir! I 'e'rd Mr. Stockbridge do that when you left 'im! I did, sir!"

"We may have been mistaken when we thought we heard that! Perhaps he just fumbled with the locks, and left it unlocked." Drew eyed the servant's red face with a keen-lidded glance. He waited.

"That cawn't be right, sir," said the butler, after thought and a wild glance about. "'Ow can that be right? I tried the door when the telephone loidy called me hup! I tried hit twice. James tried hit! 'E fixes hall the locks in the 'ouse, sir. 'E says it was most excellently secured, sir."

"How about that?" asked Drew, turning to the second-man. "What of that, James?"

"'E's right. I'm a little of everythin' about the 'ouse. I tends the door and I watches the lights and locks, sir. I was born in Brixton, sir, where the old man kept a lock-shop, sir. That's twenty years, and more ago, sir. Beggin' your pardon, sir."

Drew swung upon the butler. The second-man was the living picture of truth. His dereliction, if any, might consist in sly tapping of the wine-cellar. His nose attested to this habit, in a brilliant rosette.

"You're partly to blame!" Drew told the butler. "There's nobody in this room who could have committed the murder. There was nobody here when we left Mr. Stockbridge. There is no way for anybody to get in, save through this door. The same applies in getting out--escaping. If you were awake and always here, and if you were honest," he added, "I could presume that the master was slain by--well, let us say, unnatural causes. Such things do not exist. This is a material age. Nothing as much as a pin-head or point was ever moved save through a natural cause. No bullet could be fired into a man's brain without a hand which planned or pulled the trigger."

The butler stared at Drew with blank expression. He gulped. His eyes dropped. "I'm thinking," he said, "that the whole blym occurrence his unnatural. I never left that door until they told me the telephone company's loidy wanted me on the wire. It was then I left it."

"Ah!" said Drew. "We're getting there. Then, if you are speaking truth, and I won't help you if you are not, we have reached a point in the case which will bear considerable thought. It is evident that Stockbridge was murdered by a pistol shot, at or about the time the table and contents were spilled over. In other words, the shot which bowled him over brought down with it the telephone transmitter and receiver. That is the thing which fixes, within minutes--perhaps seconds--the time of the murder. The telephone girl will have a record which will help us considerable. Many criminals have been caught--and convicted by the time element. There is no alibi against truth! A man can't be in two places at the same time!"

Drew turned toward the door. He hesitated and wheeled.

"You heard nothing fall in this room?" he asked sharply.

"I did not, sir."

"No shot?"

"I cawn't say that I did, sir."

"No telephone bell ringing? Ringing at any time after I left the house?"

"Not downstairs, sir."

"You did!"

"'Ow, sir?"

"Didn't you tell me the telephone company rang up and wanted you to put the receiver on the hook in the library?"

"I didn't 'ear it ring. James brought the word, sir."

"Then, what happened upstairs?"

"'Ow do you know, sir? 'Ow'd you know it rang up there!"

"By elimination! It rang then, in Loris' room? You said 'nothing downstairs' in such a way I presume it rang upstairs."

The butler stroked his chin. It was blue and close-shaved. The purple of his cheeks and neck had deepened. He glanced about the hallway. His eyes wandered toward the grand stairway which, coiled upward to the second story. "I'm 'iding nothing, sir," he said. "Miss Loris often is called up at night. She's very popular, sir. I 'e'rd 'er telephone ringing once or twice while I was standing by this door, waiting for the master to come out--which 'e never did."

Drew hesitated. He plucked out his watch and glanced at the dial. He turned swiftly. "Stay right there," he said as he parted the portieres and faced Delaney who wore the puzzled expression of a man baffled and entirely at sea.

"What did you find?" he snapped to the operative.

"Not a thing, Chief." Delaney mopped his brow with his sleeve. "Nothing at all!" he added. "Everything regular. Modern--very modern house! Thick, new, fireproof, soundproof, million-dollar building. No trapdoors or panels. No loose boards. No hole in the ceiling. No nothing to hang a ghost on. The gunman who shot Stockbridge went right up in blue smoke, Chief. I quit!"

Drew glided around the table and kneeled by the magnate's body. His swift, light-fingered touch went through the trousers and vest. The pockets he turned inside out. The watch attracted his attention. Its dial had been cracked by the fall. A splinter of glass pressed against the minute hand. He rose with a low cry. He pressed the repeater and listened to the time chimes. He counted the strokes. He had a test in a million. Had the watch been tampered with by the murderer, the chimes would have proved a lie. It was possible to set the hands to any position. It would be difficult to change both the hands and the repeater.

"Delaney!" he said with his dark eyes glowing, "we've got the exact time of the murder. As I told the butler--it is very important. Both, chimes and hands, show that Stockbridge was shot at four minutes and eighteen seconds past midnight--this morning! This is a fine watch. It cost several thousand dollars. Robbery was not the motive. An ordinary crook, and they're all ordinary--with few exceptions--would have taken this timepiece."

"That's all right," said Delaney with a quick frown. "That's fine, Chief, but--but how did that exceptional--crook get into this room? How did he get out? That's what I want to know!"

Drew combed his fingers through his black hair. He described a complete circle about the library, with his eyes taking in everything, before he faced Delaney.

"I don't know!" he said frankly. "I don't want to think of it, either. We'll turn the case over to other men for the time. Let them do some thinking. I believe we have secured everything we want."

The detective dropped his glance to the telephone receiver upon the floor at Stockbridge's elbow. He stooped, grasped the silk-insulated cord, and fished it up.

"I'll try to get Central," he said. "This has been off a long while. She may have sent the trouble-man again."

Drew worked the hook of the 'phone up and down. He was answered after a short wait. The girl's surprised voice at hearing life at the end of a dead set of wires was drowned in the detective's request to get him, "Spring 3100--quickly!"

"Hello! Hello!" said Drew as he got the connection. "Hello! Is this Spring 3100? It is? Who's talking? ... Jones? This you, Jones? ... Say, Jones, plug me in on the Fifth Deputy Commissioner's private house wire!... Sir? ... I don't care! ... This is Drew talking.... Drew! ... D--r--e--w! ... That's right ... Drew, of Drew's Agency!"

The Detective turned. He eyed Delaney who was searching the floor about the millionaire's upturned shoes. He tapped the receiver against the transmitter's silver-plated edge. His eyes lifted. His lips hardened as the diaphragm of the receiver vibrated harshly.

"Hello!" he answered tersely. "Hello! This you, Commissioner? Is this Fosdick? ... This is Drew talking. Yes! ... Drew.... Yes! I say, Fosdick, there's been a murder committed at Stockbridge's.... You know--the munitions magnate! ... The millionaire! ... Morphy's old partner."

Drew waited a moment. He dropped his eyes upon the body below him.

"Yes!" he continued into the transmitter. "Yes, Fosdick. I hear better, now. Yes--Stockbridge is dead! ... He's stone dead! He was shot down in cold blood! ... Yes! ... Shot in the brain.... Yes! Send your best operatives.... Yes! ... Send a fingerprint man and photographer. You'll need 'em! ... Yes! ... Yes! ... Shot with a small-bore revolver, I guess! ... Wound behind ear looks like it! What? ... No! ... Room was bolted.... He was inside.... Butler on guard.... Windows closed and locked! ... No! ... No! ... No! ... It wasn't suicide. He was threatened twice, this time!... By letter and telephone call.... What? ... What? ... No! ... He didn't shoot himself! ... There's no gun. It's on the left side--close up! ... Hair is singed ... flesh is powder spotted.... Burned? ... Yes.... You'll be right up?... Yes! ... I'll be waiting! ... Come! ... come----"

Drew lowered the receiver and clicked it upon the hook of the telephone which stood on the hardwood floor. He slowly turned toward the open doorway of the library. The servants had drawn back and out of sight. Delaney leaned forward with both hands on his bent knees. A girl's voice had sounded in the mansion. It came closer. The portieres parted with a silken sweep. Drew braced himself against the larger table. His hand went back to his hip. It dropped to his side. He stared across the flood of light with line-drawn eyelids.

Loris Stockbridge, gowned in lace chiffon and cloaked with ermine and sable, glided across the rugs and stood framed beneath the soft, rose-light of the central dome. Her dusk-black eyes burned and blazed like flame through tinder smoke as she confronted the detective.

Clasped in the fingers of her jewelless right hand was a tiny, ivory-handled revolver.

"What are all these people doing here?" she asked hysterically.