Chapter NINE: "men and Motives"

The two detectives leaned back in their respective chairs and eyed each other. Both swung and stared out of the window at the swirling snow which salted across the window in an unending curtain of white. Both returned to the locked stare so common to men who have worked together in danger and know each other's merits.

Delaney's eyes dropped first. He studied the rug beneath Drew's polished shoes. He coughed behind his hand, and turned with a shrug of his shoulders. He fastened upon the closed door a glance of expectancy which brought a smile to the chief's lips.

"Things are picking up," said Drew, with a short laugh. "Your friend--the bird--has arrived."

"My friend?" blurted the big operative. "It's no friend of mine! I'd wring its neck, gladly."

"It may be the key to the whole thing. Smarter men than the ones we are fighting have fallen through less. You remember Eddy, The Brute, who left his umbrella after him in the Homesdale Murder Mystery. Funny, wasn't it? Took three months to plan the murder and left his rain-stick behind. His initials were on it."

"They can't get away----" started Delaney.

"Here's your bird!" announced Drew, as a knock sounded on the door. "Move over and let that valet stand there. I want the light in his eyes when we're talking to him. Always get the light in the other fellow's eye. Sisst!"

The door opened to a crack--then wide. The valet came in with an important strut. He turned and deposited a cage at Delaney's big feet. The operative moved back with a grunt of disgust. He eyed the cage and contents with a homicidal expression. His eyes raised and fastened upon the valet. He hooked his broad thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest and took a deep breath.

"I hope you're satisfied," he said to Drew, who was smiling. "I hope this black sparrow don't start anything. I'll finish it, sure."

"What's your name?" asked the chief, turning and consulting a paper.

"Otto Braun," said the valet. "Otto Braun, sir."

"Born in Cologne ... year, sixty-three ... worked as valet and major domo for British families ... came to America with Mr. Stockbridge, and have been with him since?"

"That's correct, sir," the valet said, with a start of amazement.

"Are you married?"

"Twice--sir."

"Wife living?"

"Both, sir. I'm paying a small alimony to both."

Delaney grunted. His foot went out toward the magpie which had finished hopping about the perches of the cage, and was listening with head cocked sideways.

"You--you have charge of this bird?" asked Drew, turning fully around and facing the valet with heavy-lidded intentness.

"I'm its keeper, sir!"

Delaney coughed explosively. He leaned down to cover his confusion. He jabbed a thumb at the bird.

"It's savage," he rumbled. "It pecked at me!"

"Easy," warned Drew, with a quick frown. "Easy, Delaney. I want to get to the facts of this case. We're wasting time."

"Go ahead, Chief."

"I've had you come down here," said Drew, turning to the valet, "in order to find out about that magpie. You had charge of it when Mr. Stockbridge was alive?"

"Yes, sir. I fed it and kept it clean, for the--master." The valet sniffled slightly. Drew watched him with keen eyes.

"Did it repeat much of Mr. Stockbridge's conversation?" he asked.

"Repeat, sir?"

"What I'm trying to get at is, whether or not the bird was in the habit of repeating words that seemed to strike its fancy. Did it act like a parrot?"

"It's very much like a parrot, sir. Sometimes it was sulky and wouldn't say anything for days. Other times, sir, we had trouble keeping it quiet."

Drew turned in his chair and fingered a paper. "I looked up everything I can find in my library here, in regard to magpies," he said. "Is there any difference between an ordinary magpie and a Spanish one?" he added, turning.

"I don't think so, sir. They can all be taught to talk--the same as a parrot, sir."

"Then if this bird should repeat a word, or two words, over and over again it would be plausible to assume that some one had used the word or two words. I want to make myself clear," Drew added with engaging candor. "What I'm getting at is important in view of the fact that this magpie used two words after we broke down the door to the library and found Mr. Stockbridge murdered."

Delaney leaned forward.

"The words this bird used were 'Ah Sing,' as near as we can arrive at them. Did you ever hear it repeat that couplet?"

"I can't say that I have, sir."

The detective lifted his brows and stared at the cage. "Repeat that," he said to Delaney. "Repeat what we heard in the library."

"Ah, Sing! Ah, Sing! Ah, Sing!" boomed the operative.

The magpie ruffled its feathers and darted about the cage like a sparrow in a barrel. "Keep it up," said Drew.

"Ah, Sin! Ah, Sing! Ah, Singing!" roared Delaney.

"That'll do! You've frightened it. Let it alone for a while. We'll keep it here, Otto. I'll send it back in a few days. How's Miss Stockbridge bearing the strain, up at the house?"

"She hasn't left her room, sir. Mr. Nichols called. The Red Cross people called. There's been lots of callers, sir, but she hasn't appeared, sir. It's early, though."

Drew glanced at his watch. "That's all," he said. "You may go."

The door closed softly as the valet bowed, replaced his hat and passed out without glancing back.

"A good servant," said Drew, rising and kneeling down beside the cage. "Now, Delaney," he added tersely. "Now, old sleepy head, we have the key to the case locked here. I don't doubt but that you unconsciously struck the right clew when you bawled your little hymn. You said, 'Ah, Singing.' Now couldn't that be Ossining?"

"By God, Chief, it could!"

"Or, more likely, Ah! Sing Sing!"

"Who said that?"

"The bird!"

"But who taught the bird?"

"Nobody taught it! It might have been the last thing said by Stockbridge--just before he was shot."

"And the bird repeated it--to us?"

"Certainly! A parrot or a magpie is a living phonograph. They reproduce a sound, at times, without any idea of knowing what they are saying. This bird may have been so frightened by the shot which was fired in the library, that it recalled the words used by Stockbridge before the shot was fired. These words, in my opinion, tell us that the millionaire was 'phoning to some individual, probably the whispering-voiced man. This individual and Ah, Sing! or Ah, Sing Sing! or Ah, Singing! or Ossining! are closely allied. Now who of Stockbridge's enemies does that fit?"

Drew rose to his feet and dusted his knees. "Is that clear?" he asked.

"Clear as mud, Chief! I don't get it yet!"

"You will," said the detective, dropping down in his chair and reaching for his papers. "See these," he added, swiveling and darting a quick glance at the bird-cage. "These, Delaney, are a list of the old man's known enemies. I have compiled this list from the secretary's statements, my own newspaper reading, the facts we gained at Morphy's trial, and from what Stockbridge told me in the library before he was slain." Drew counted the list with a steady finger. "There's seven," he said.

"Is that all! I thought there was more 'an that!"

"No! Seven is the number! He was well hated as you will see. First and foremost we have Mortimer Morphy, who is serving from ten to twenty years in state prison, with other indictments hanging over his iron-gray head. He's the captain of them all. He lacks soul, conscience and heart. 'The Wolf of the Ticker' they used to call him. I had the warden on the wire this morning. He's ready to aid justice to the limit. He says that Morphy, or rather Convict 87313, I think they call them inmates up there, is well and working. He's in charge of the books in the front office."

"He'd never keep any books for me!" declared Delaney.

Drew nodded. "Me, either," he said. "I have heard too much about his past to trust his future. Stockbridge always feared him."

"Does he fit what the black crow said?"

"He does, most certainly! Sing Sing and Morphy are linked together in every way. Morphy must have been mentioned on the wire and Stockbridge shouted, 'What, in Sing Sing?' or words to the same meaning."

"Go on," said Delaney, glancing at the magpie with round eyes.

"Then comes Vogel, who was at state's prison, but whom they transferred to the hospital at Glendale, where he is said to be dying of tuberculosis."

"I remember him. A little runt with a big nose. That might be the whispering voice, Chief, if he's got T. B."

"Hardly! I also had Glendale on the 'phone, or Harrigan did. They say Vogel is right there and is going to stay there, if fifty guards will keep him."

"Next, Chief?"

"The next is Vogel's partner, Ross. You remember him? A good-natured, fat fellow with a bald head. He was always smiling. He's making little rocks out of big ones in a convict camp near Lake George. He was at Sing Sing, or Ossining, for a time. Most of the New York prisoners are taken there first. It's a sort of clearing house for the other prisons of the state."

"Would he fit in with what this bird said, Chief?"

"He might!"

"Go on, I'm getting interested."

"Then," said Drew, "we have the two brokers who handled Morphy's Blue Sky, preferred; Flying Boat, and other swindles. They are at Sing Sing."

"What's their names, Chief? I've forgotten."

"Greene and Goldberg! One confessed and one turned state's evidence. They got off with from two to four years. A nice bunch of squealers!"

"They'll be out pretty soon, Chief!"

"Yes--but they're harmless. I don't think they had anything to do with the murder of Stockbridge. The other fellow might."

"Who's that, Chief?"

"Finklestein--the banker. The one who went before the Grand Jury and claimed exemption. He's somewhere on the outside. I think Flynn is covering him. I sent him over to Jersey, where Finklestein has a place near Morristown. We'll hear of him later."

Delaney shifted his big feet and started counting on his fingers. He widened his eyes. "There's one more," he said, as Drew leaned back.

"Yes, there's one more. I kept him for the last. He's out of sight, reach and hearing. You know who I mean?"

"That guy who invented wireless boat, or flying boat, or them movie-picture things in seventeen colors. I know who you mean. He beat it, slick as any porch-climber. What's his name, Chief?"

"Morphy's brother, Cuthbert Morphy! He's an electrical-engineer and the inventor of all their shady promotions. He's the real brains of the mob. You never saw him?"

"No--did you?"

"Can't say that I have!" declared Drew with a snap. "I call him one of my failures. I've made enough. Remember how Flood and Cassady searched for him after the others were arrested? He's cost us thousands of dollars--without result. I charged it to Stockbridge."

"Which way did he go, Chief?"

"He beat it for Argentine. From there he went across South America to Antofagasta. From there he disappeared like a rocket in No Man's Land. No trace was found. For all we know, he might be right here in little old New York--the best hiding place in the known world. I hate to think of the places a man could plant in this town!"

"Sure! But they always come around the old corner. Remember Dutch Gus, the boxman. Five years, Chief, in every town on the map, and then he was picked up at Forty-second Street and Broadway. Maybe your friend, Cutbert, will show up some day?"

"Cuthbert!" corrected Drew. "He's no friend of mine, Delaney. The trouble is, we haven't got a single photograph of him. That shows he was figuring on crime all his life. A man who don't get his picture taken, is generally a man to watch."

"He's slick, Chief. What does he look like?"

Drew pressed a buzzer-button. "Look like?" he said, turning toward the door. "Oh, he is a little fellow, quick-tempered and probably handy with a gat. He's dangerous. I think Cuthbert Morphy is a good lead if we can find him."

"I never did like that first name!" Delaney blurted as Harrigan opened the door to a crack.

"What have you found out about Harry Nichols?" asked Drew, as the assistant-manager stepped in softly.

"Got Plattsburg, Chief," said Harrigan briefly. "Harry is O. K. up there. Captain's commission. Three months intensive training. Going to France soon. On fourteen-days' furlough in New York. Was floor manager for Harris, Post and Browning. Quit good job to go in the Army. Harris, of the brokerage firm, says Harry can come back and hang up his hat any time. That's about all!"

"Umph!" said Drew. "That's fine, in a way. He couldn't have a better record. Now we'll lay him aside. What did Frick learn at Ossining?"

"Frick 'phoned once. I was going to connect you with him but that fellow with the bird-cage came in. Frick says the warden is O. K. and will lend every aid. He saw Morphy in the Auditor's Department. Looks worried, he says. Getting old! The visitor's list shows that he's had an average of three visits a month. No sign of his brother. There's a fellow calls, though, who might be Cuthbert Morphy. Answers general description. They'll pinch him next time he comes. We never thought of looking for him there!"

"No! We were going to _send_ him there! It's like a crook, though, to play with fire. What else did Frick say?"

"Nothing more, Chief. He's looking around. He says he'll report as soon as there is anything. He says----"

"Buurr! Burrr! Burrrr!"

Drew turned and snatched up the telephone receiver. He pressed the diaphragm to his ear. "All right," he said tersely. "Connect me. Yes!"

Delaney breathed deeply and watched his chief's face.

"Hello! Hello!" whispered Drew. "Yes," he added guardedly. "Yes, Commissioner.... What? You say that ... that the autopsy on Stockbridge's body--head--shows what? Repeat it! I can't quite hear what you are saying. Louder, Commissioner! That's better. Yes--all right now, Fosdick. It shows.... It shows that the typo cupronickel bullet found in--in, ... repeat that.... In Stockbridge's brain was not scored or ... or what? ... Marked? ... Wait! I don't get your meaning.... It was lodged in the soft tissues of the.... Yes! ... I see! Go on.... There were no rifling marks on it.... What?"

Drew turned and motioned toward the open door. Harrigan closed it softly as the detective resumed his position at the 'phone. "Yes," he said tersely. "Yes, Fosdick. That's important. I should say it was important! ... New wrinkle, what? ... Why, I'd think at a quick jump that the bullet which killed the old man wasn't fired from a regulation revolver.... Yes, it couldn't of! ... It must have been fired from a smooth-bore rifle or pistol!... What? ... Yes.... It seems that way to me.... Are you dead sure?"

Drew waited. He tapped the desk with a pencil. He reached with his right hand and pulled a sheet of paper to him. "Go on," he said slowly. "Yes, go on, Commissioner. Oh, I've been busy! Yes. You have! Well.... I wouldn't of. No, I don't think that's the right lead at all. They're all right. All right.... Go to it! ... Good-by, Fosdick."

The detective flipped the receiver on the hook and slowly swung the chair. His eyes darted first at Harrigan and then rested upon Delaney's broad face.

"That damn fool!" he exclaimed. "He's pinched the whole bunch of servants. He's looking for the valet. The butler is under lock and key. All that's left up there is the housekeeper and some housemaids and Miss Loris. He better not touch her! Brass Band Fosdick! He's a mile off the case!"

"What about that bullet, Chief?" asked Delaney.

"Oh! That's new! It's different and important. The coroner's inquest shows--the autopsy, I mean--that the bullet found in the millionaire's brain was a cupronickel affair of twenty-two caliber projected by smokeless powder from a smooth-bore weapon held not more than three inches from the old man's head."

"Whew!" whistled Delaney. "That's going some, Chief," he added, rising. "But what does it mean? I ain't got that at-tall!"

"Nor I!" snapped Drew. "We're only getting deeper and deeper into facts. After a while we'll have enough of them to solve the case. The smooth bullet is important. It suggests many things--a home-made gun, for instance."

"Might have been an old Civil War gun, Chief."

"I don't believe there was anything like that in Stockbridge's house. You might inquire when you go up. He was very modern with his Flying Boat stock and his improved munitions for the Allies. He has no old collection of arms."

Delaney stared at Harrigan. Drew swung to his desk and tapped the blotter for a moment. "We'll get busy," he said briskly, as he swung back again and faced the two operatives. "I've almost got my man. That bird there," Drew pointed toward the magpie, "is our one best bet and lead. I may be wrong, but I'll wager a good cigar there's a convict or ex-convict at the back of this case. How else can we explain 'Ossining' or 'Ah, Sing' repeated through the magpie to us. It's not an impossible clue. It might happen. Let's move with both feet!"

Delaney rose lankily and stood by the door. He braced his shoulders, then shelved them forward as he reached a finger toward the bird-cage. "Pretty Poll!" he said.

The magpie darted about the cage like a shaft of blue light. It came to rest with its tail feathers thrust through the bars. It peered with beaded eyes at Drew who had snatched up a bundle of papers and was sorting them.

"Get busy, Delaney, on this assignment!" he said sharply. "Waste no time. Run up to Stockbridge's and get me plaster-paris casts of all the footprints you can find around that junction box. It's stopped snowing," he added, glancing out the window.

"All right, Chief."

"Wait a minute. Stop somewhere on your way up-town and find out the exact temperature changes last night. What I want you to get is a record of every quarter-hour, so as to show when the early, packed snow in Stockbridge's yard froze solid. The under crust!"

"I got that in my head, Chief! That's my idea, exactly. If a tall lad tapped in on the junction box early in the night his footprints will be frozen close to the ground. The whole surface is level now, but there ought to be ice-posts sticking up when I get done thawing."

"That's right! You'll probably find the trouble-hunter's and one other set of prints. The other set is our man's!"

"What size feet did the trouble-hunter have?"

"Small--about six!"

"All right, Chief, I'm off."

"Walt a minute." Drew studied a sheet of paper. "After you get the temperature data, Delaney," he said. "After you get that and the plaster casts of the footprints, go into the house and stay there. Watch Miss Loris. Don't talk to Fosdick's men. Tell her to be careful. Tell her that she is in grave danger. Remember that the same man who threatened Stockbridge over the wire, also said he was going to get her. Remember that, Delaney!"

"Good-by!"

"Get a shave!" shot Drew out through the closing doorway.

"I'll do that little thing," came echoing back with a hearty chuckle.

"Now, Harrigan," Drew said, shuffling the slips of paper like a deck of cards. "Now, we're closing in on our man or men. See if you can find Frick at the prison. 'Phone from the booth!"

Harrigan was back within three minutes. He leaned over Drew.

"Frick was with the warden," he whispered tersely. "He was easy to get. He says that Morphy has been trying to telephone----"

"What?"

"Tryin' to telephone, Chief----"

"What has he got to do with the telephone? What right has an inmate of a prison got to phone? Unless--unless the warden thought the case was justified--like in sickness or important business."

"Maybe the warden allowed him, Chief. I didn't ask Frick!"

"Get out there and ask him! Quick!"

Drew waited with every muscle taut. He drummed the table with impatient fingers. He thumbed the sheath of papers he had collected on the Stockbridge case. He wheeled in his chair and stared out through the frosted window with unseeing eyes. The vision came to him of a pompous old man in prison gray, strutting about the front office with silk socks and a Havana cigar. Drew had no sympathy with a certain kind of convict. The misguided safeblower or house prowler might be excused for a great many things. The pickpocket was a professional, who took his chances as they ran. The gentleman bank-wrecker, with his overextended tale of woe and his bid for the world's sympathies, was the one the detective detested with all his soul. Such men, he believed, were beyond the pale. They knew better. Morphy, for instance, had not only gotten away with much of widow's and orphan's money, but he had wrecked a score of homes and dragged down many with him at the final assizes.

"So he uses the phone!" Drew repeated like an indictment. "Well! Well! Well!"

Harrigan stepped in through the door. Drew turned away from the window and stared at the assistant-manager. "What did you find?" he snapped.

"I found enough, Chief! Frick says that Morphy is the whole thing up there. They call him the 'Assistant-Warden,' in jest. The Welfare League won't have anything to do with him. They got him down for a squealing 'rat.'"

"You can't fool the Gray Brotherhood," said Drew. "Their rooms are too close together. What about this telephoning? Who was it to?"

"A telephone booth in the Subway Station at Times Square!"

"Good God!"

"Frick says it was! He tried to listen but Morphy came out and looked around twice."

The detective rose from his chair and grasped Harrigan's narrow shoulders with fingers of steel.

"Get out there!" he ordered through line-drawn lips. "Get out there and phone from the soundproof booth. Ask my friend--the vice-president of the telephone company--to find out for us whether Morphy or anybody else in the prison telephoned at four minutes past twelve this morning. Get that?"

"That was when Stockbridge was shot, wasn't it, Chief?"

"It was!" exclaimed Triggy Drew.