Whispering Wires Part 14

"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 navete. "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. Fosd.i.c.k, 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!"