Chapter SEVEN: "the Spot of Black"

Delaney stepped behind his chief and followed in single file as the detective swung from the Avenue at Thirty-ninth Street and turned toward the east on the up-town side of the thoroughfare.

The snow had ceased falling from out the leaden sky. A roar came to them of the awakening city which was stirring in its last sleep. A tug whistled hoarsely somewhere on the East River. Its blare and signal echoed down the towering canyon. An answering rattle sounded from the Elevated. A milk wagon churned by. A deep-seagoing hansom-cab, of the vintage of ten years before, struggled along Madison Avenue as the two detectives paused on the corner and sought a pathway through the snow to the opposite side.

"Some night," said the operative, pulling down his derby hat and facing Drew. "A hell of a night to be out. Good thing we walked, though. My head is clearing."

"It needed clearing," said the detective. "Some of your deductions were impossible. Whom do you suppose we're going to meet here?"

"How should I know, Chief?"

"Guess!"

"Harry Nichols."

"Who else?"

"Search me, Chief."

"Who's that over across the street in the shelter of the stoop? See! He sees us! You ought to know who that is!"

"He looks familiar," admitted Delaney.

"It's O'Toole!"

"That's right, Chief. It is! He tailed the lad in the fur benny from the drug-store and came here. The lad in the drug-store was Harry Nichols. The thing works out all right."

"Get over to the other side of the street and tell O'Toole that he can go home and get some sleep. Tell him to be at the office not later than eight o'clock--this morning. Get what information you can from him. This brownstone house with the sign out is our address. I'll wait on the stoop."

Delaney was over in three minutes. "All right," he said cheerfully. "O'Toole says that Nichols left the drug-store and walked south. Trail led to Fred's Old English Chop House where Nichols drank a split of mineral water and had a chop with a potato. He 'phoned twice before leaving. O'Toole don't know where to. The booth was soundproof and all the lad did was to drop coins. He left a piece of paper in the booth. O'Toole got it. Here it is, Chief."

Drew slanted a torn portion of envelope and studied its surface. He deciphered a scrawling handwriting into the words, "Loris, Loris, Gramercy Hill, Attorney Denman of Cedar Street, will consult with him in morning.... Drew's Detective Agency ... look out."

"Umph!" said Drew, pocketing the scrap of paper with a thoughtful frown. "That last may be a warning. Again it could be a mere notation. What else did O'Toole find, Delaney?"

"That's all, except that he put the boy to bed here at about one o'clock. There's a 'phone in Nichols' apartment. O'Toole sneaked up the stairs and heard it ringing. He had to come down for fear of queering things. He said that's all, chief."

The detective turned and entered the storm-door. He struck a match and, shielding it with his hands, searched the names over the mailboxes. A neat card, set in well-polished bronze, indicated, "Harry E. Nichols, Apartment Three."

"He keeps this place all of the time," said Drew, jabbing at the button. "He's down on furlough or Government business. Nice place, this," he added as the inner door-lock clicked and he thrust his foot forward. "Looks like about two hundred a month. This is exclusively bachelor!"

"Them bachelor apartments," said Delaney with candor as he glided into the hallway. "Them places like this ain't what they seem. There's some big parties pulled off in them. I remembers----"

"Sisst!" warned Drew, clutching the operative's arm. "Easy," he whispered. "Come on. Somebody is waiting upstairs for us. See his head in the light by the banister. Same chap, ain't it?"

"Can't see, Chief. Might be!"

"Nice house," commented Drew as his feet sank in a deep-blue hall carpet. "Good ornaments and fixtures throughout the place. Nice house! Just about what I'd expected. Here we are. I'll do the talking."

A blond pompadour, under which was a pair of wide gray eyes that blinked at them, greeted the two detectives as they turned the last landing. A thick-lipped mouth, in which was considerable strength and determination, opened and revealed a double row of strong, young teeth that would have delighted an Army recruiting sergeant.

"Well, what do you gentlemen want at this hour of the morning?"

Drew squared his shoulders and pressed Delaney back a foot or more.

"Harry Nichols?" he asked brusquely.

"Yes, I'm Harry Nichols."

"Miss Stockbridge's friend?"

The gray eyes widened perceptibly. The lids dropped in heavy calculation. "Who are you?" the young man asked point-blankly. "I don't believe I ever had the pleasure of meeting either of you gentlemen." Nichols glanced into Delaney's leaning face which was just over his chief's shoulder.

"No, you haven't," said Drew softening his tone. "We've never met, but we may see considerable of each other. Here's my card!"

Nichols took the card, tilted it to the light from the open door, then dropped it into the right-hand side pocket of his lounging robe beneath which blue pajamas showed.

"Come in!" he said without committing himself. "Come in, and take off your hats. I've only two rooms and a bath, here."

Drew stepped upon heavy rugs and crossed the chamber to a chair. He turned this, removed his hat, and sat down with his legs thrust outward. His eyes roamed the place in slow calculation. Dark, old masters, which were probably good in their day, stared down at him. A little globe, petticoated in soft silk, gave a yellow light to the walls and floor. It brought out Nichols' features in sharp, actinic shadows. Drew continued his searching glance. A bed, with tossed coverlet and sheets, loomed from an inner room. A table, upon which was an officer's cap and gloves, stood between two doors that were closed. One of these doors, Drew concluded, was the bathroom entrance, the other might have been a closet. His eyes fastened finally upon a telephone upon a dark-wood stand. He lifted his chin.

"Montgomery Stockbridge is dead!" he snapped, darting at Harry Nichols the keen scrutiny of a man salvoing a surprise.

Nichols glanced at the 'phone. "I know that!" he said with rising color. "I'm aware of that fact, Mr. Drew."

"When did you first learn of it?"

"See here! I have your card. I know who you are. I was almost expecting you, or another detective. But,"--Nichols' voice raised to a determined key--"but, sir, I am not talking to anybody about what you just told me. How do I know who you represent--the police or the law or the----"

"You have talked with Miss Stockbridge. She told you in the drug-store that I was in the house. She has told you that I was called in by her father. She undoubtedly 'phoned you, after she recovered from her faint. You have the details of the dastardly murder--if ever there was one! I represent her. I represent her friends. I have no other interest in this case!"

Harry Nichols drew out the card and studied it. He glanced at Delaney. "Who is this man?" he asked.

"My right bower. He's with me--and you and Miss Loris. We're together in this. The police now have the case. What I want is to protect you and her from the police. What will they do when they learn from the servants--which they will--that Miss Stockbridge had _this_ gun in her hand when she entered the library?"

Drew extended his palm. In the hollow of it lay the little ivory-handled revolver which he had taken from Loris.

"What are they going to do when they learn about this?" he asked with shrewd reasoning. "Particularly, Mr. Nichols, when the caliber of this revolver is probably the same caliber of the bullet which entered, and is still in, Mr. Stockbridge's brain."

The gray eyes narrowed. The lips compressed until they were white. They seemed drawn with pain. A faint hiss of surprise sounded in the room. Harry Nichols turned and strode to an ornate mantel-piece upon which was a single cabinet photo. He lifted it impulsively. He stared at the picture of Loris Stockbridge as if in it lay inspiration, and resolve. He set the photo down and wheeled upon Drew. His eyes blazed.

"If you have no connection in this case, save as an adviser," he said clearly and from his heart, "why are you trying to trap me or her? Are all detectives alike? Would they rather see a man in jail than free?"

Drew closed his fingers over the little revolver. He glanced upward at Delaney's towering bulk which was near the doorway leading to the outer hall. This door was the only way out of the apartment. The detective gave no signal to the operative. His fingers uncoiled and revealed a thumb pressing upon the silver-plated barrel from which the leaden noses of six bullets showed as he turned it.

"You are wrong," he said with simple naivete. "You wrong me in this matter. The affair at Stockbridge's will sooner or later bring you in contact with the Police Department's Detective Bureau. Fosdick, the district attorney, the coroner, may want to interview you. The servants, the newspapers, idle tongues will connect your name with that of Loris Stockbridge. This connection, taking in the fact that she had a revolver of the same caliber as was used to slay her father, may cause trouble. I want----"

"How do you know it's the same revolver--the same caliber?"

There was a stubborn defense in the young man's tones which somewhat pleased the detective. It promised loyalty.

"It may not be the same revolver," Drew said softly. "It may be that the murder was not committed with a revolver. A rifle, held close to a man's brain, would make the same kind of mark and burns. I do know this, however, that the opening in Mr. Stockbridge's head is the same size as my lead pencil--which I have measured and found to be under a quarter-inch. It would seem then that twenty-two caliber might fit the wound. I know of no other caliber very close to it."

"An army rifle," suggested Delaney from the doorway.

"It is larger," said Nichols with a quick frown. "The modified Lee-Enfields, which we are now using, have a greater bore than the British or German rifles. They are about .30 caliber."

"Whatever the case," Drew said, "we must get to our first question. I'm trying to find the truth and protect Miss Stockbridge from the police in case she is suspected. Whose revolver is this? Who does it belong to? How came she to have it so soon after meeting you in the corner drug-store? Did she request it? Perhaps you will clear these points and allow me to go ahead."

"Before I answer your questions, Mr. Drew, before I say anything at all, I would rather have a talk with Miss Loris. You see, we are too good friends to act apart. I'll answer for her. She is innocent! She is too good, too pure to have anything to do with it. She never shot the old--Mr. Stockbridge."

"He threw you out of the house on one occasion."

Harry Nichols clenched his fists. "I'll do the same to you!" he exclaimed. "This is my apartment. What right have you got coming here and accusing Loris? I don't care who you are!"

"Good!" said the detective, rising and stepping forward. "You said just what I wanted you to say. And you said it like a man who can wear an American uniform. Shake hands!"

Harry Nichols did not exactly brighten under the professional flattery. He held out his fingers, however. Drew clasped his hand after transferring the revolver to his left palm. He twirled it as he stepped backward. "Clean," he said. "It don't seem to have been used for some time. But then, who knows? A gun can be wiped and polished,--even in the barrel,--in a very few minutes."

Drew glanced at Nichols with a silent question in his eyes. Delaney had already sized Nichols up as a very clever young man. He was not far wrong, as he learned when the detective's spoken question was shot through determined lips.

"Nichols," said Drew, "did you lend Miss Stockbridge this revolver? Is it yours? I shall have to turn it over to the police sooner or later. They will trace it by the number."

"Is it fully loaded?"

Drew turned the barrel with his broad thumb. He clicked the mechanism. He broke it and held it out.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, it's fully loaded. This is still a merry whirl for six!"

"Are you sure?"

"Positive, Nichols!"

The soldier's face cleared like a lake from a storm. He beamed upon Drew. He smiled for a second time. He pointed toward the chair which the detective had quitted. "Sit down," he said, "and make yourself at home. This is a temperance dugout, but I've got some real good soft stuff--grape juice or club soda. Which will you have?"

"I'll take a cigar," said Delaney.

Drew allowed a smile to creep over his lips. He waited as Harry Nichols dipped into a kitchenette, then came back with three glasses of soda and a huge black Havana.

"Smoke up," he said good-naturedly to Delaney. "Light up and take a chair. It's daybreak, isn't it?"

"Yes, time we're going," said Drew, setting his empty glass upon the offered tray. "We'll go in a minute. Now, as I told you and as you can see, this revolver is fully loaded. It looks clean. I suppose you lent it to Miss Stockbridge without any empty cartridges. These are the ordinary lead kind which can be secured at any hardware store. You've got some here, perhaps."

"None here. They're all up at Plattsburg. We do some target shooting at times. These little revolvers don't make much noise. You can use them most anywhere."

"That's satisfactory," said Drew, watching the glow of Delaney's cigar. "That's all right. Now, when she 'phoned for the gun or you suggested that she better have one with her, what did she say about the cemetery letter or the threat over the wire? Did she fear anything else? Was that her sole reason for having a revolver with her?"

"You cannot expect me to answer for Miss Stockbridge, Mr. Drew. She is available. You can talk to her. You represent her. I shall not say anything concerning her. She is sacred. The revolver was not discharged. It is the same as when I gave it to her in the drug-store. Therefore, I'll trouble you for it. It's mine. I admit that."

Drew rose from the chair. His left hand went out. His fingers clasped Harry Nichols' shoulder with a fatherly pressure.

"I'm going now," he said. "I'll leave the gun with you. If the police want it, give it to them. Perhaps they will never hear of it. I doubt if more than one or two servants saw it in Miss Loris' hand when she came into the library. They may not tell Fosdick. He'll try to rough-shod over them. He may arrest the entire household--including Loris. That's his way. It's effective, but it's not my way. Now is there anything that you want to say to me which will clear your mind of this affair?"

Nichols glanced from Drew's clean-cut face. His eyes rested upon the telephone. "I'm going to call her up presently," he said. "I'll talk with her. I'll tell her that you were here--that you left the little revolver--that you stand ready to swear it was clean and fully loaded. Then, when I hear what she has to say about everything, I shall call you up. Is that satisfactory, Mr. Drew?"

The detective turned the revolver in his palm and pressed it forward. "Take it," said he, "and keep it under cover. I'm off with Mr. Delaney. Thanks for the club soda."

"And the cigar," added the big operative as he opened the door.

Drew hesitated on the landing. He turned and went back. Nichols stood by the banisters. The soft light from inside clear-cut the officer's figure like a statue.

"You can do me a favor," said the detective in a whisper. "A damn nice little favor."

"What is it?"

"Have you an extra photo of the girl-in-the-case. One that's laying around somewhere. I don't mean the one on the mantel."

"What do you want it for?"

"For myself. I admire that young lady."

Harry Nichols disappeared through the doorway. He returned within a minute with a cabinet-size photo upon the front of which was written, "From Loris, January '18," in the vertical chirography much practiced by social buds.

"Thanks," said Drew unbuttoning his overcoat and thrusting the photo within his breast. "I shall keep and cherish this, as one of my most sacred possessions. Congratulations, young man!"

The detective's words rang sincere. Nichols flushed. He stammered an answer as Drew hurried down the carpeted steps and joined Delaney at the storm-door.

"Chief," said the operative as they reached the sidewalk and turned toward Madison Avenue. "Chief, why didn't you pump that lad about Stockbridge. You didn't ask him a thing about the old man."

"Unethical to a client," reproved Drew linking arm with the operative. "Come on! We must hurry! I've an idea--which is a very strange thing for a New York detective to have--that Harry Nichols, if he stays in town on furlough, will represent Loris in all matters. I don't know where she could find a better counselor. He's a clam! He told us nothing!"

"Wise boy, Chief! Only fools and women talk to detectives."

"Umph!" said Drew at this sally. "Umph! Well, come on. It's quit snowing. It's daybreak over there in the east and I think the clouds will clear before it gets much later. You----"

"Say, Chief!" exclaimed Delaney clutching the detective's shoulder and wheeling him around. "Say, stand right there a minute. Right in that light. What's that on your chin? Right under the tip of your left ear. Turn around a little more!"

Drew raised his left hand and rubbed it across his face. He pinched the lobe of his ear between his thumb and index finger. He whistled with frosty amazement as he eyed his nail and thumb.

"What to blazes!" he said. "What's that?"

"Turn around! Right under this arc light. Say, Chief, how did you get that spot of black on your neck? You've smeared it all over your collar."

"I don't know. What's it look like?"

"Soot!"

"Soot?"

"Sure, Chief. Lampblack or soot!"

Drew arched his dark brows as he rubbed his finger-tips together. He held them up to the stronger light. He turned and glanced back through the silent walls of the street down which they had walked. He took one step toward the east.

"Hold on!" said Delaney. "Where are you going?"

"Going back!"

"Why, Chief!"

"Smell that stuff! Smell it!" Drew thrust his fingers under Delaney's wrinkled nose. "Smell it, good and strong!" he snapped bitterly. "What is it?"

"By God, Chief, it's powder, I smell! Gunpowder, it is!"

"Umph! I must have gotten it from that gat!"

"You couldn't, Chief. That gun was polished up like a whistle. Besides, how would the spot come to be under your left ear?"

Drew furrowed his brow. He swung in the snow with new decision. "Come on!" he said. "We'll think this over! I didn't see any soot on that gat. I don't know where I got it either. Could it have been there for some time?"

"Sure, Chief. I just happened to notice it. Light's bright." Delaney nodded toward the arc.

"Did you get a good look at my face in Stockbridge's?"

"Can't say that I did, Chief. I was too busy with that howler thing and that magpie and that murder, to see anything. You might of got it there without me noticing it. It wasn't there in the taxicab. I'll swear to that."

Drew passed his fingers across his nostrils like a man sampling perfume. He repeated the motion. He scraped some of the powder from his nails with a pocket knife and dropped the sample into the crease of an envelope which he carefully folded and crammed into his pocket.

"I'll have that analyzed," he said, as they turned toward Fifth Avenue. "Another trifle in a chain of circumstance. Think it over, Delaney. It resembles and smells like powder which has been burnt. You hurry along home. Be at the office no later than nine. I'll keep on down Fifth Avenue to the Flatiron Building. I want to walk and clear my head. I'll get some coffee, pie and rolls, at an all-night restaurant. I'll take time for a shave, shine and shampoo. Perhaps I'll jump into a Turkish bath to finish up and get ready for work."

"You're not going to bed at all?"

"Not until I find out who murdered Stockbridge!"

"Or how he was murdered?" said Delaney, with a puzzled frown as he turned to go.

"If I get the murderer, I'll find out how he did it!" snapped Drew, with a parting glance.