Whispering Wires Part 16

"I'll have that a.n.a.lyzed," he said, as they turned toward Fifth Avenue.

"Another trifle in a chain of circ.u.mstance. 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, s.h.i.+ne 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.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"TANGLED WIRES"

It was five minutes before nine when Delaney reached the ornate entrance to the skysc.r.a.per wherein were the offices of Drew's Agency.

He wandered into the express elevator, yawned a "eighteen, out" signal to the elevator pilot and stepped from the cage with the general air of a man who had spent a hard night without getting anywhere in particular.

Stopping in the operatives' room for a few minutes, he picked up sc.r.a.ps of news concerning the case at Stockbridge's. There was a report, moreover, that an extra was expected by ten o'clock. The air of desertion about the suite told Delaney plainer than words that most of the operatives were upon the case. The entire corps, with few exceptions, had been working hard while he slept. The telephone-girl and the a.s.sistant-manager, Harrigan, wound up each of his questions by a nod or a jerk of the thumb toward the inner office where Drew was sitting like a spider in a web which was being spun about the case at hand.

Delaney yawned, braced himself with a drink of ice water drawn from an inverted-bottle, and stepped toward Drew's door. He knocked with tired knuckles. He pressed forward as he heard a hearty: "Come in!"

The operative eyed his Chief with sovereign amazement. Drew looked as fresh as a daisy. There was a pink tinge upon his olive cheeks. These cheeks had been close shaven. Oil glistened from the detective's black hair. His mustache was trimmed and level with his upper lip. His eyes, as he swung and fastened a clear glance upon Delaney, were almost too bright. They were like the hectic fires of an inner furnace.

Delaney searched about the room. He lifted one foot and then the other with a tired motion. He leaned against a filing-case like a heavy dray horse which had come to a final stop. He yawned behind his big, red hand.

"How d'ye do it, Chief?" he asked with a second yawn. "I'm dead on my feet. All the sleep I got was about thirty minutes. I haven't woke up yet. I met myself going to work this morning."

Drew laughed quickly and motioned toward a leather chair. "Sit down!"

he suggested. "Sit right down, Delaney. Take it easy for a few minutes.

You seem tired."

"It beats me how you can do it!" declared the operative, sprawling across the chair and crossing his weary legs.

"One or two hours' sleep is never any good. Better keep awake. You remind me of the last rose of Sharon!"

"I feel like a house-man in an all-night poker game. What's the use!

I'm going over to some bank and get a job as a night watchman, if this keeps up. I can sleep my head off, there."

Drew swung in his chair and eyed the papers on his desk. He swiveled as Delaney inquired:

"What's the news in the Stockbridge case? I've been asking Marie and Harrigan. They don't seem to know anything except that everybody is out--already." Delaney extended his huge mouth to a cavernous yawn. He fished up his great, silver watch. "What's the news, Chief? Any a.s.signments for me?"

"News? There's very little news, Delaney. No good news, yet! I've been busy as a Chinaman on a contract, though. I can't let that matter get cold. It's now or never in this case!"

"What does our friend Fosd.i.c.k say?"

"He's all at sea! I've talked with him twice." Drew glanced at the 'phone. "He says the murder was a second Rue Morgue. He can't see any light at all!"

"He's come around to our deduction?"

"There's no deduction in it!"

"He says it's murder?"

"Cold, curdling, cunning, crafty murder, Delaney. The coroner said it would have been impossible for a man to shoot himself in the manner Stockbridge was shot. They're right--both of them--and we're right.

I'll stake my badge on it! Particularly in view of the two threats.

Why, I was there when he was called up and given twelve hours on this earth."

Delaney glanced out the window. "Snowing again," he said, "I wonder if there are any footprints in that back yard or alley. Wouldn't that be a clue, Chief?"

"To what?"

"Well, you told me that the trouble-man said a tall lad climbed the fence near the junction-box and beat it for Fifth Avenue. Maybe that lad left footprints behind."

"They're snowed over now!"

"But if he made them, couldn't we find them underneath?"

Drew's eyes narrowed. He leaned in his chair with a searching glance at Delaney. "How long did you sleep?" he asked sharply.

"About thirty minutes, Chief. Mary and the kids woke me up and I couldn't get settled again. I did some thinking."

"You must 'ave! That idea about the footprints is a mighty good one.

There was first a thaw, then a freeze, then a snow fall which preserved everything. If we wait till spring there might be a set of prints underneath the other sets. Two of our operatives were there. The trouble-man was there. He sc.r.a.ped the connections. If we find a fourth set of prints, that's our man!"

"The tall lad?"

"Yes, Delaney. We can build a box about the fence and start a thaw of our own. I'll think it over!"

"I'll go up and do it, Chief. I can make plaster-casts of all the prints. There's a French system I heard of once. I can find out from Farot over at Headquarters."

"Keep it under cover for a while," decided Drew, sitting down and drawing a sheath of papers to the edge of the desk. "Keep it quiet," he added. "I'll think it over."

Delaney rubbed his chin. He watched Drew rapidly thumb over the data.

"Say, Chief," he yawned. "I see another light."

"What?" shot Drew over his shoulder. "S--o? Wait a moment before you give it to me--you reminded me of something. Where was the spot of powder on my face? The rubber in the Turkish bath said it was right here." The detective turned and touched his forefinger below the lobe of his left ear. "Right there," he added.

"That's where it was, Chief. Just where you got your finger. It was on the cord. Seems to me that it was circular in shape. Like a half-moon."

Drew raised his black brows in reflective thought. He opened a small drawer with a sudden dart of his arm. He poised a mirror so that the light from the window brought out his left ear and neck. He dropped the mirror to the desk. "Delaney," he said, "that's exactly the spot where Stockbridge was shot!"

The operative felt a cold chill dart up and down his tired spine. He came to life with an oath, and a slap of his huge palm upon his knee.