Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 28, No. 3, November 12, 1927

In which the popular Malcome Steele bumps his nose against the rare predicament not of too few but of too many clews

Chapter I

As he stared through the window at the soft swirl of snow, Roscoe Stewart’s face was not a pleasant sight. Its usual ruddy color had receded, leaving it sagging and pastelike.

It seemed almost a dead countenance, that of a man mortally stricken by terror. Yet even when gripped and blanched by fear, Stewart’s features betrayed the slyness, the avarice, the total disregard for others, which had dominated his life.

For a half minute he crouched in his chair, his gaze rigid. Then, slowly, stealthily, he began groping behind him toward the wall, toward the electric light switch. His cold fingers found it. He plunged the study into darkness.

Distinct now was the gentle flutter of snowflakes against the glass. Through the window Stewart could discern a section of his lawn, already white. He leaped up from his desk. In the security of the dark, he ran hastily from window to window, on each side of the room, drawing the shades to the bottom.

He groped his way back to his desk, and sat there for an instant, limp and shaken, his face covered with clammy perspiration, the study pitch-black.

He listened. The snow swished against the east windows.

Stewart was a plump man of fifty — a sly and calculating attorney, whose wits had brought him wealth. His wealth, in turn, had brought him many of the advantages which he regarded as indispensable to happiness: political influence, social prominence, women. The more terrible, therefore, was the glimpse which he had just obtained through the window.

He rose and crossed the floor again, cautiously pulling aside the nearer shade which fronted the eastern end of his grounds. He could see nothing but the soft, cold snow, hard-driven by the wind.

Stewart returned to his desk, with the room still dark, and snatched up the telephone.

“Police headquarters!” he demanded, in a voice which crackled harshly. “Police headquarters, emergency!”

“Police headquarters — thank you—”

“Police headquarters. Lieutenant Nelson speaking—”

“I want to talk to the commissioner — quickly, please—”

“The commissioner is not here at present, sir.”

“Come, come — this is Roscoe Stewart of 88 Arborway. I want to speak with the commissioner—”

“I’m very sorry, sir, but he has left the building.”

“Give me the superintendent, then, please!”

“The superintendent has gone, too, Mr. Stewart. Captain Needham is here. One moment, sir—”

“Hello. Captain Needham speaking.”

Stewart’s hand shook as he held the receiver to his ear.

“Captain — this is Roscoe Stewart of 88 Arborway—”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Stewart!”

“Can you send several of your best men right out here?”

“Why, certainly, Mr. Stewart. But what’s the trouble?”

“My life is in danger!”

“Good heavens, sir! What do you mean? From what source?”

“I… can’t explain that over the phone — please send your men right out. Rush them!”

The captain promised. He declared that he would call the local station instantly, and also dispatch an inspector from headquarters. All of the police knew Stewart, and nearly all of them endeavored to please him whenever it was possible. They knew that he had political influence, also that he was a friend of the commissioner.

Hanging up the receiver, the attorney again sat motionless in the dark, listening, fearful of what he might hear in the large, lonely house, and equally fearful lest he might not hear it quickly enough.

The only sounds were the swish of snowflakes, the whine of the east wind, the rattle of a shutter upstairs.

It was true that this danger which had so suddenly confronted him, had been in the background for years. Ever since he had come East it had been there, remote, yet definite, despite his efforts to deny its existence.

The worst of it had been the realization that the law, the profession which he practiced to such advantage, could be of little help to him. Stewart knew every legal trick and twist. He knew how to do what other attorneys could not do, or would not do.

He himself had never overstepped the law. Always he had been just within its bounds. He had capitalized the failure of others to comprehend how wide its bounds were.

He had made his money through all these years by his superior knowledge, enabling him to take stands which, although often morally contemptible, were legally sound.

But in his heart Stewart knew now that the law might not be sufficient to protect him from the peril which had peered in through the window.

God grant that the police would hurry!

Rising nervously once more, he crossed the heavy rug to the nearer window at the east. He pulled back an inch of the shade and pressed his face to the glass.

Away down at the end of his grounds, where his fence flanked the Arborway, a single, small red light twinkled through the storm. A tail lamp — an automobile, undoubtedly. Why was it standing there near his residence, in the darkness of the Arborway?

Could it be the police already? Impossible. Besides, the officers would have brought their machine up the drive.

Stewart cursed and went back to the telephone.

He knew that he was in need of more help than the police could give him. More confidential help. There were certain aspects of the case which he really could not tell the officials.

What was the name of that first-class private detective concern which had worked for Hickey once? The National Detective Agency — that was it. Stewart would not put on the light to look for the number. He demanded it of the information operator.

He tried the wrong exchange. Guessing again, he obtained the number.

A man named Clapp promised to have two competent operatives at the house within an hour.

An hour! When an hour might mean so much!

“Get them out here in a hurry!” he flung over the wire.

Then, telephone in hand, he hesitated. A new thought had come to him.

Should he call Fraim?

No! Damn Fraim! To the devil with Fraim! He was a blackguard!

A certain fascination mixed with fear drew Stewart again to the east window. He caught his breath in relief. The car which had been standing outside his fence was gone.

At least — the tail-lamp of the automobile no longer showed.

Again he listened, and heard only the moaning of the wind and the rattling of a shutter in the storm.

Yet his fear was growing, was gripping him closer with each minute. It was an unexplained fear now. He realized that he was afraid even to leave the darkened security of his study. Every window and door in the house was locked — he was certain of that. They always were when he was at home alone. But windows could be forced—

He cursed the combination of circumstances which had left him alone here at this time. His servant, Johnson — the sudden illness in his family, the telegram. The appointment to meet a prospective client at sevent thirty — a man whom he had never seen. The fact that it was Thursday evening and the other servants’ night out. The fact that Grimes, his chauffeur, always went home to supper between seven and eight unless instructed otherwise.

Stewart shivered.

And what should he do when the police arrived? They would ring the doorbell. The bell must be answered if they were to be admitted. If they received no answer they might go back to the station! What should he do when the bell rang?

Whose ring would it be? It might be the police from station eighteen. It might be the inspector from headquarters. Or the operatives from the private agency. Or the prospective client, Fothergill, whose appointment was for seven thirty. Or… or it might be—

The lawyer shivered again. He felt his way across the room and locked both doors.

He was safe here, at least. But what should he do when the doorbell rang, he questioned himself.

His hand, weak and moist, felt for the telephone again. Damn it, why didn’t the police hurry?

“Police headquarters — emergency! Operator! Operator!” He clattered the hook. As he did so an overwhelming terror crept into his heart.

There was no response to his efforts. The wire was dead.

Chapter II The Shadow on the Glass

The truth, the full peril of his position, struck to Stewart’s brain like a knife. His assailant — this fiend, murder-bent, who had crept upon him out of the night — had silenced the telephone, cutting him off from all aid. If only the other didn’t guess that help had been summoned already!

Breathless, rigid with fright, Stewart listened. Listened for the slightest sound of an attempt to force entrance to the house. But as before, there was only the sob of the wind and the rattling of the shutter.

The attorney felt a certain desperate courage. From his desk he took a service revolver of forty-five caliber which he kept always loaded in a drawer. He laid it carefully within reach of his hand. The touch of the metal reassured him. He could defend himself successfully here in the study!

And perhaps — just perhaps — Grimes, the chauffeur, had returned early from supper. Stewart pressed a button — three long, urgent rings, then three more. He waited, listening to the snowflakes. But five long minutes passed, and there was no response.

Then, suddenly, its sound so loud in the house that it startled him, the front doorbell pealed.

Stewart held his breath, hesitating, wondering. Was it the police? It couldn’t possibly be the inspector from headquarters — not yet! It might be the officers from station eighteen.

His windows did not afford him a view of the west side of the house, where the driveway was situated. He had not heard the police machine arrive; but the east wind, rattling the blind above, might have prevented his hearing. In order to see the driveway he must leave the study. He must unlock one of the doors—

The bell rang again — a longer ring.

His hands shaking again, Stewart groped for the revolver, picked it up, and moved cautiously forward. It was possible that his assailant had forced entrance to the house so quietly that he hadn’t heard him — but it really wasn’t likely.

Besides — if he had — if he were lurking somewhere within, the doorbell would frighten him away. At all events, Stewart knew that he must ascertain whether the police automobile had come. He mustn’t let the officers return to the station!

Quietly, with the utmost care, he turned the key in the door leading to the dining room. From the dining room, with its half circle of tall windows, he could command a view of the whole driveway, clear down to the entrance on Burton Street.

After all — the dining room, too, was dark.

Opening the door, Stewart slipped noiselessly through.

His first glance was toward the window facing the drive. His heart sank. There was no car there. However, from where he stood he could not see all the way down to the street. Perhaps the police had purposely left their machine outside the grounds. He must make sure.

He tiptoed across the dark room, his left hand extended to avoid striking the table, his right gripping the weapon. His foot struck something hard and heavy, and he exclaimed involuntarily. He had forgotten the pile of new bricks, left there by workmen who were building a fireplace which he had promised his daughter upon her return from Philadelphia.

The entire snow-swept driveway came into view — then the lamps of Burton Street below. There was no machine in sight.

Something on the wall of the dining room, at his left, caught Stewart’s glance. He turned to look at it. And at that instant his whole body stiffened, his throat contracted as if in he grip of icy hands.

On the wall were three rectangular patches of light — dim light, which came through the northwest windows from a powerful arc-lamp at the intersection of Burton Street and the Arborway. Distinct in one of these patches was the dark, moving figure of a man.

Stewart dared not even turn his head to look at the other. Unwittingly he had walked into a position which might prove his death-trap. The shadow on the wall told him plainly what the man was doing. He was trying to force the window. Stewart heard plainly the creak of the wood as it strained against the heavy fastening.

In desperation the lawyer did the only thing that he could do. He flung himself to a crouching position in the shadow of the dining room table.

The doorbell pealed once more.

Stewart knew now that it was not the police who sought admittance. Surely this man would have heard their arrival, and would have fled. Surely the person at the front door could be only his accomplice, seeking to lure their intended victim out to his death!

Then all at once Stewart remembered the revolver in his hand.

A shot, aimed while the other was still working at the window, would be likely to bring help. And, if it was aimed well enough, it might rid him of this menace forever.

Carefully he looked at the man outside. His features were indistinct. But his form was familiar — terribly familiar. Only a few feet separated Stewart from his enemy — a few feet, and a pane of heavy glass.

He raised his weapon, then hesitated again. He was a miserable marksman. He well knew that he was. Even at this distance, he might miss—

And suppose that the other, guided by the flash of the gun, should return the fire? Stewart shivered as he recalled the man’s swift, deadly skill.

Was he to be trapped, slain, here in his own house in the city, with hundreds of police who would willingly rush to his aid?

He crouched back farther behind the table. Keeping his head and shoulders well out of range from the window, he extended the revolver at arm’s length, and aimed it, sidewise, at the figure outside the glass.

His hand wavered, and he strove to steady it. He pressed the trigger.

There was only a click from the weapon.

A wave of total horror and helplessness rushed over Stewart. He would have cried out in amazement and fear if his throat hadn’t been powerless. A spasm of trembling shook his body. Had that blundering Johnson unloaded the revolver, after all, when he had told him a hundred times never to touch it?

The window-sash creaked sharply and ominously as the man outside worked on.

Desperately Stewart pulled the trigger again, then again.

Chapter III What the Police Found

Sergeant White and two officers from station eighteen were on their way to Stewart’s home in a police car.

The sergeant was a man who weighed two hundred, and who had florid features and a heavy, drawling voice. He was a rather astute policeman, as honest as the average, and remarkably fearless and cool in times of danger. His companions, Blake and Forrest, were young policemen.

As the intersection of Burton Street and the Arborway loomed through the blinding storm, Sergeant White barked an order, and Blake shut off his motor, parking the little car near the corner, in the darkness of the latter thoroughfare. The three men stumbled out.

“Listen!” commanded White, sharply. “Who the hell’s that?”

From the interior of Roscoe Stewart’s grounds, somewhere on a level higher than the street, came the shrill notes of a whistle.

“It ain’t the route man, sarge,” Forrest offered. “We passed him two blocks back.”

The blasts were interrupted; and suddenly a man’s voice was heard shouting:

“Police! Police! Help, here! Police!” Then more whistles.

The big sergeant led the way in a race to the driveway. “Come on—”

“S-sst! Take it easy, sarge! Look!”

Through the darkness and the snowflakes, Blake had caught a glimpse of a running form, just inside Stewart’s fence, a few yards from the drive. He snatched out his flash light as the three paused.

A yellow-white beam pierced the night, and came to rest on a man who was crouching in the snow-swept shrubbery, apparently waiting a chance to scale the fence and drop to the Arborway.

The sergeant also produced a light. “Come on out of that!” he challenged.

Above, near the darkened house, the whistle was still being blown. At the command, the man in the shrubbery darted out and attempted to escape, but slipped in the snow, and was quickly seized by Blake and Forrest.

Sergeant White examined him with his light. He was a lean, pale individual of middle age, unkempt, and disreputably dressed, with no overcoat.

“Come clean, now! What was you doin’ in here?”

The prisoner gasped, and swallowed hard. He was badly frightened. “N-noth-in’, mister officer—”

“Nothin’, eh? Come clean, I said—”

“Police! Police!” called the voice near the house.

The sergeant turned. “Put him in, Blake. And you, Forrest, come on!”

“Aw, no, no, mister police!” begged the man, his voice coming with difficulty. “S-help me, sir, I was only up there askin’ a bite of food! I ain’t eat fer two days, honest! Please don’t arrest me!”

But the sergeant and Forrest had disappeared up the driveway, and the prisoner, in the grasp of Blake, was hurried to the nearest box, there to be pushed in the wagon and held as an “s. p.,” a suspicious person.

White and the other officer raced on up the drive.

They were not long in discovering the source of the whistles. A wild-eyed young man, fashionably attired, ran to meet them as they advanced toward the front door, playing their flash lights.

“Quickly, officers!” he called. “Something terrible has happened here, I’m afraid!”

His voice was cultured. White and Forrest stopped, surveyeing him.

“What’s wrong, sir? Where’s Mr. Stewart? Have you seen him?”

“He’s… he’s in the house! But—”

The sergeant hurried to the door.

“You can’t get in there. It’s locked, and no one answers the bell—”

“Who are you, sir?”

“My name’s Duncan. I came a few minutes ago to see Mr. Stewart. No one answered the bell, and I was just about to go away—”

“But what’s wrong here? Mr. Stewart telephoned — he must be here. What’s happened?”

The young man seemed unnerved. “He’s — in the house.”

“Then, if he is, why doesn’t he answer the bell?”

“W-well,” replied Duncan, his voice shaken, “if you’ll step around to the dining room windows you’ll see why.”

Something in his tone impressed the two men, and they complied hastily.

“Have you seen any one else about the premises?” White asked.

“Yes, I have! I started to tell you, sergeant. I was just about to go away, believing the house was empty, when I thought I heard a door slam inside.

“I walked around here, intending to try the bell at the side door, and I saw a man running away from that first dining room window.”

“Yeah? Which way did he go?”

“Toward the garage — but here — just look in this window.”

White and Forrest pressed their faces to the glass.

“Good… God!” protested the former.

“What is it, sarge?”

“Don’t… don’t you see it? Move your head over this side!”

The light from the arc-lamp down at the corner of Burton Street cast a single oblong patch across the floor. The patch fell near the dining room table. Sergeant White tugged vainly at the window. Raising his flash light, he added its bright rays to the rectangle of light on the floor.

Sprawled at full length near the table was Roscoe Stewart, the attorney, his extended arms limp, his face bathed in blood.

Chapter IV How Was It Done?

“We must get into the house at once!” said Sergeant White.

The dining room windows were still secure. Marks where a jimmy had been used were plainly visible beneath the beams of the flash lights, but the intruder certainly had not completed his work — at least, not at this window.

Together with Duncan the policeman hurried to the side door. This also was locked. Returning to the front of the house, they forced entrance through a window which opened into the hall. Forrest found a switch and put on the light.

“Police officers!” proclaimed Sergeant White, but only silence answered.

“You stay here, Forrest,” he ordered. “Don’t let any one out, no matter who he says he is. The fellow that did this may be in the house right now.”

He drew his gun, and, using his lights, picked his way through the library to the dining room. There he first located the switch on the opposite wall; then, taking care to avoid the ugly spreading pool by the table, crossed the room.

Just before he reached the switch he struck his foot against some object, sending it clattering forward in the dark. He put on the light.

A single glance at Stewart’s form showed him that what he had feared was true: the benefactor of the big police “system” was beyond all aid. It was apparent that a bullet of large caliber had passed directly through the right eye to the brain.

White shook his head and drew a deep breath. It was a miserable sight.

A door behind him stood ajar. Turning swiftly, the sergeant swung his light into the adjoining room. He saw a telephone instrument on a desk, and strode across to it. The line, however, was dead.

“Wires cut outside,” he muttered.

He hurried back to the front hall, where Forrest and the young man still waited. Their glances questioned him.

“Mr. Stewart’s dead — murdered,” he stated, shaking his head. “Forrest, go right down to that box and get a squad up here. Get every spare man in the house. We’ll wait right here in the hall till you get back.”

The officer obeyed.

“Now, sir,” White questioned, “tell me just how long you was outside here ringing the bell.”

“I rang three times,” the young man stated. “I should say that I was there several minutes.”

“Humph. You heard no shot, outside or in?”

“No, I didn’t. Unless” — he caught his breath — “unless it was the noise that I thought was a door slamming inside.”

“You thought you heard a door slam, eh?” asked the sergeant heavily.

“Yes; that’s what convinced me there must be some one inside.”

“What did you say your name was, sir?”

“Grafton L. Duncan, of Kneeland Street, West End.”

“Was Mr. Stewart expecting you, do you know?”

“No, I’m quite sure he wasn’t,” the other replied with considerable emphasis.

The tone puzzled Sergeant White. He looked the young man over more narrowly.

“Friend of the family?” he ventured.

“W-well, I was; yes.”

“Were, eh?”

“Yes. I came on a little matter of business to-night.”

“I see. Mind telling me what kind of business, Mr. Duncan?”

“Private business,” answered the young man simply.

After ten minutes a wagon load of police arrived, together with the detective sent from headquarters, who had joined them at the foot of the driveway. The detective was a young man who had made himself quite a name locally — Frank Reilly, who had begun as traffic officer and was now one of the most capable sleuths in the department.

A systematic search was begun immediately. The squad began in the cellar and went through the whole big house to the attic — without finding any trace of an intruder. But they made another discovery — a negative one which seemed amazing under the circumstances.

“Sergeant,” Forrest declared, as he returned downstairs, his face puzzled, “do you know what? There isn’t a window or a door been broke open in this place! No, sir. We tested the lock on every door and window. Even in the cellar. Every single one is closed and fastened except the one we broke in through, and they’re all extra heavy fastenings. And all the doors is bolted besides being locked.”

“Humph. Looks like Mr. Stewart was afraid of some one, eh?”

“Sure — but don’t you see what I’m coming to, sarge? How did the murderer get at him to plug him? You seen yourself that he didn’t finish forcing the window, and there was no bullet hole in the glass.”

“Eh? Why, that’s right! How did he? Here — let’s make sure of that.”

Several of the party followed him to the dining room, while he carefully examined each of the windows. A whistle of amazement escaped him.

“Upon my soul, Forrest’s right!” he mused aloud. “How the devil did the fellow get at him?”

“Well, sir, now let’s see,” said Inspector Frank Reilly, peering around with his merry, bright blue eyes. “There’s no doubt that the poor man was slain in his room, I guess?”

“Yeah — but how was he?” White demanded.

“Well, that’s what I’ll be tryin’ to find out for you, sergeant. First of all, now, are we sure it was him that called headquarters, or was it maybe some one imitatin’ him?”

“That don’t answer the question how he was shot in a locked and bolted house.”

“No,” the detective admitted. He took off his hat and laid it on the table.

“You’ve sent for the medical examiner?” Sergeant White asked.

“McQueen is away,” Forrest answered. “They’re sending Porter over.”

“There’s a hole in the wall,” Frank Reilly observed.

“Eh? Where?”

He pointed to the floor at one end of the room, where work had been begun opening a chimney for the purpose of building a fireplace.

The sergeant dropped to his hands and knees and muttered contemptuously.

“A hole, yeah — but a man could hardly put his arm through it, let alone coming in and out. Maybe he let himself down the chimney and fired through that hole, eh, Frank?”

The Irishman’s face turned crimson at the gibe. “W-well… I was only thinkin’.”

The doorbell interrupted them. Operatives Thompson and Somers, from the National Detective Agency, had arrived. Sergeant White did not like Somers.

“To see Mr. Stewart, eh? Sure — come on in and see him.”

He himself went outdoors. It had occurred to him that he might find footprints in the snow, made by the man who had evidently tried to force the window.

But Sergeant White was too late for this. Although the snow had stopped, it had fallen heavily for thirty minutes since the crime had been discovered; and the only clew which White found was the jimmy, lying half covered not far from the window.

“Humph,” said Sergeant White heavily, as he took possession of it.

Chapter V With Motive Unknown

Inspector Harry Gray was called into the case early Friday morning. Gray was a short, wiry, energetic man of forty-five, the most experienced and most sagacious detective on the force — one who disdained “bullying” methods — a policeman of the old school, of a type fast disappearing.

At six o’clock, while a cold dawn was breaking, he was on his way to Stewart’s residence in his coupe. No more snow had fallen since the flurry of the early evening; and the temperature had dropped twenty degrees during the night. These facts held a special significance for Gray, from which he hoped to obtain results at daybreak.

“Footprints and wheel tracks—” was the idea he had expressed upon setting out from headquarters.

He had driven about half of the distance to the Arborway when he observed a man standing at the curb, evidently waiting for the first street car. The man’s form seemed familiar, although his face was nearly hidden by the turned-up collar of his ulster.

He was over six feet in height, with broad, heavy shoulders and a slouch hat pulled down to protect his face from the intense cold. The inspector stopped, made sure of his identity, and laughed a greeting.

“Where in the world are you going so early, Steele?”

The other came forward to the window. “Good morning, Harry! Are you going out toward the Arborway?”

“The Arborway?” exclaimed Gray, looking at him in surprise and flinging open the door. “Sure — that’s exactly where I’m going? What — are you on this Stewart case?”

“I believe we are, for a short time,” the director of the private agency said. “You see, Stewart called our office last evening and had two of my men sent out. By the time that they arrived—”

“Oh, yes,” declared the inspector, slipping his machine back into high gear, “I heard that two private dicks came last night, but I didn’t know they were yours. Mind telling me what Stewart wanted of them?”

“He said that he was in danger.”

“M-mm. The same thing he told us. Your men didn’t stay last night, did they?”

Steele shook his head. “They decided there was nothing they could do. But I think we owe Stewart eight hours’ work, in any case.”

“I get you. Where’s your car this morning?”

“The radiator is frozen.”

“Oh! Too bad! Might mean a new jacket, hmm? Bad business, letting radiators freeze. Still, no one could guess the thermometer was going to drop so far.”

“By the way,” his friend inquired, “have you made any overtures to the superintendent about—”

“Not yet, Steele. I want to catch him in just the right humor. But I… I’ll tell you frankly — I’m tempted to do it, whether he wants to make me chief of detectives or not. I’m mightily tempted to do it.”

Steele had been urging Gray to accept a position as manager of his office in Chicago, to fill a vacancy left by the resignation of Arthur Williams.

“Have you any one else in view?”

“One,” the private investigator admitted. “An exceptionally bright young man named Dexter, from New Hampshire. But he has an agency of his own there.”

“Well,” Gray observed, as they turned a sharp corner and skidded in the light snow, “this Stewart affair is certainly a queer one. We can’t find out how the murderer got into the house. Everything was shut tight and fastened. We want to know how on earth the fellow got in. Or was he inside already — and, if so, how did he get out and leave everything locked behind him?”

“Thompson says there are no clews at all.”

“Well, he’s certainly wrong about that, Steele. Sergeant White wouldn’t tell him, I guess. There are altogether too many clews. And they implicate — well, it’s such a big order that the commissioner refuses to allow any action at present.”

“Would you give me an outline of what you know?”

“I surely will. In the first place, Stewart called headquarters, evidently in great fright, just as he called your office. Captain Needham called eighteen, and they rushed Sergeant White out to his house with two men.

“As they approached the place, they heard a whistle being blown, and calls for police. And right at the end of the lawn, where the wall comes to a point at Arborway and Burton Street, a man was hiding in the shrubbery.

“They took him in the house and held him. At first, things looked bad for him. But, as far as Reilly can see, he’s simply a tramp; and, confound it, he had no motive to kill Stewart.”

“M-mm,” said Steele. “Unless my memory is at fault, Gray, the last time we worked on a case with young Mr. Reilly, he proceeded to outguess us quite shamefully, didn’t he?”

The inspector smiled. “Well, we’re giving you a chance to even the score now. As I said, I don’t see what possible reason this hobo could have had for killing Stewart, or how he could have got into the house and done it if he had wanted to. Since his arrest, they’ve found a lot more — a whole lot more.”

“Implicating whom?”

“W-well—” Gray hesitated. “Ever heard of Winslow Fraim?”

Steele displayed keener interest. “The Fraim who was rumored to be involved with Stewart in the Benson perjury matter?”

“That’s the fellow. One of these very oily, smooth-working chaps. He was connected with Stewart in a good many more things that I dare say you never heard of — especially while they were out West together some years ago.

“In fact, Fraim’s brother was mayor of a town out there, and had to leave one night under cover of darkness. Fraim and Stewart quarreled violently several months ago over money matters. I hear Fraim said Stewart had defrauded him and promised to square things.

“But Fraim is a tough bird to handle — rich and influential, with all kinds of friends ‘up aloft.’ He could break me easily if he felt like it. Here’s the house right ahead.”

Chapter VI A Typical Vagrant

Harry Gray had hoped that much valuable evidence would be found preserved in the snow by the cold snap. He was doomed to disappointment, however, for it had been a hard and dry Snow, and had blown and drifted until the east wind had abated about midnight. The only footprints and wheel tracks discernible on Stewart’s premises were those made by the police in the early morning.

The inspector showed Malcome Steele the approximate spot where Frank Reilly of headquarters had found an automatic pistol, equipped with a Maxim silencer, in a drift behind the garage.

“A thirty-eight,” he added. “Fully loaded — no shots fired.”

“What was the caliber of the bullet which killed Stewart?”

“That we don’t know, and won’t know until to-night,” replied Gray, in disgust. “Dr. McQueen, the medical examiner in the south district, is out of town; and his assistant has been taken ill. Porter, from the north district, won’t make the examination. McQueen will be back to-night.

“The main trouble with our system of justice at present, Steele, is that every one connected with it is too darned afraid he might do a little of some one else’s work!”

“I guess that’s about the truth of it,” his friend agreed. “Then the body is still in the house?”

“Oh, no; Porter did look after that much. It’s at the south mortuary, waiting for McQueen.”

Steele was taken to the dining room, where young Detective Reilly shook hands warmly with him.

“Sure, it’s a pleasure to have you work-in’ with us again!” he declared, with the faintest suggestion of amusement in his merry blue eyes. “A strange case, indeed, Mr. Steele. One fellow we have, but he has no motive.

“Another man has the motive — an’ sure, we’ve found his car ditched near-by besides — but Sergeant White says he has an alibi for the time o’ the killin’, all the same.”

Steele sat down thoughtfully and glanced around the room.

“M-mm… yes… it seems so,” he seconded. “An automatic pistol outside; a murdered man inside; and no glass broken. By the way, you spoke of a whistle being blown as the first officers arrived, Gray. Who was blowing it?”

“A young man named Duncan. We can’t make out yet whether he’s a friend of the family, of the daughter, or what he is. Says he always carries a whistle on his key-ring.”

“Stewart had a daughter?”

“Yes. She’s in Philadelphia, the servant Johnson says. And there’s another peculiar circumstance. Johnson was called to his home in Salem late yesterday afternoon by a fake telegram. We have the telegram.”

Steele stretched his long legs before him and crossed his feet. “It begins to look as though some one did a very careful piece of work.”

“That’s it.” Gray nodded in a meaning way. “A smooth piece of work.”

“Maybe, Mr. Steele,” offered Reilly, taking up his hat, “you’d like to come along with us? We’re going to interview both of these fellows we have in mind.”

“Both—”

“The tramp, Egan, first — him that they grabbed down here by the gate, you know. At the station he told a pretty straight story, they say. He swears he only come in from the street to ask for some food, an’ by the looks of him he needed some.”

“Yes, thank you; I’ll be glad to go with you,” the private investigator said.

John Egan appeared to be a typical vagrant. He was of medium stature, rather pale and emaciated, although wiry of build, with unkempt hair and filthy clothing.

Harry Gray asked a few questions which the prisoner answered in a straightforward manner.

“I’ve not always been down in the world, mister inspector,” he told him, earnestly. “But for a year or so me luck has been out for fair. I’ve tried to get work, and I ain’t never touched the booze—”

“That part’s all right,” returned Gray. “We want to know how you happened to be in Mr. Roscoe Stewart’s grounds when he was murdered.”

“S’ help me, sir, I had nothing to do with that! I swear it, sir! I just been telling the captain, here, I was on’y there in the hopes of getting a bite to eat. Never a morsel had passed me lips in two days, inspector—”

“Whom did you ask for food at Mr. Stewart’s house?” Steele inquired.

“I didn’t see no one to ask, sir. The whole house was dark. And just while I stood there, wonderin’like, I hears a whistle and a man shouting for the police. So I starts to run, not bein’ anxious to get in trouble—”

“So you’re changing your story!” bullied the captain of division eighteen. “What did you tell Lieutenant Burke this morning earlier?”

The man glanced up in fear.

“S’ help me, I never told him nothin’ different, chief! ’Cause they ain’t nothin’ different to tell! I told him I was just goin’ to ask the folks for a bite to eat. Then he asked me how long had I been ridin’ the rods, and I told him two years, and—”

“Two years, have you? How long you been in this town?”

“I just come a few days ago, chief!”

“That so? Where were you before that?”

“I been in Pittsburgh for three months, sir.”

“Oh, in Pittsburgh, were you? How’d you get over here — breeze it?”

“No, sir. I’ll tell the truth about it, sir. I stole a ride on a freight train. I ain’t got no money—”

“All right… all right!” And the captain gave the prisoner a push back into the corner of his cell.

Chapter VII The Stolen Car

Winslow Fraim, clad in his bathrobe, received the three men at his luxurious apartment on Southboro Street. He was a large man of forty, with dull beads of perspiration on his face.

“I’ve just talked with the commissioner,” he told them, gently and frankly. “I realize, of course, that I am probably in a serious predicament. I think my only safe course is to lay everything openly before you.”

“A sensible decision, sir,” replied Gray.

“This morning I was told that my Chrysler car had been found wrecked on the Arborway not far from Mr. Stewart’s home last evening. I… I was quite sure then that I could convince you I had nothing to do with its being there—”

“Let us have the circumstances, Mr. Fraim,” urged Gray, in a respectful and reassuring manner. “When did you see the car last? You say that it was stolen?”

“Yes! Last evening, at some time between six and eight, it was taken from in front of my door.”

“You reported the theft at station three. I suppose?”

“I certainly did, as soon as I discovered—”

“At what time did you report the theft?”

“Shortly after eight o’clock, inspector.”

Gray made a note of it.

Fraim seemed very uneasy. He cleared his throat.

“I left the car standing right outside here,” he declared. “It simply must have been stolen, gentlemen, and by some chance wrecked and abandoned by the thieves on the Arborway. I… I can think of nothing else to account for it.

“For my own part, I was with a Mr. Valentine Morse of New York from six thirty until eight. He was trying to interest me — that is, to obtain financial backing for… for a certain business undertaking that he plans.

“We were simply riding about town in his machine, talking over the proposition, as we didn’t wish to be where our discussion could be overheard.”

“Do you mind telling us what kind of a proposition it was?”

“I… don’t feel quite at liberty to tell you at present.”

“But you went to ride in his car, leaving yours in front of this building, and when you returned it was gone?”

“Precisely, inspector.”

“Then, of course, Mr. Morse of New York will be in a position to corroborate this.”

Fraim fumbled with the cord of his bathrobe. He glanced vapidly from Gray to Reilly, then back again, ignoring Steele.

“Y-yes — but I regret exceedingly that I… haven’t been able to locate Mr. Morse this morning. He checked out unexpectedly from his hotel, and — and seems to have left town. I had never met him until yesterday. I… I know this must sound preposterous, inspector. I can’t understand it, myself—”

Harry Gray thrust his hands deep in his pockets. “Then can you tell us anything about your recent disagreement with Mr. Roscoe Stewart, sir?”

Fraim shook his head.

“Since Mr. Stewart is dead,” he answered deliberately, “I can only say that I regret our quarrel very deeply.”

“Did you ever hear a more incredible story?” Gray demanded of Steele, when the three had left the apartment. “Surely no auto thief could have taken his car, and then abandoned it — purely by chance — within a half mile of Stewart’s home at the very time when he was shot!”

“It scarcely seems reasonable,” Steele agreed. “Could we examine the car?”

“Certainly. It’s still in the brook by the Arborway.”

He drove Steele to the place, while Frank Reilly returned to Stewart’s house to continue his own investigations.

Fraim’s automobile, a sedan, had left the Arborway, crashed through a small rail fence, and plunged down a thirty-foot embankment, wrecking itself against a tree beside a brook. The front axle and springs were broken, and the radiator was smashed.

Steele looked carefully at the interior. The car, like all Chryslers of its type, had a single switch on the dashboard which controlled both the ignition and the lights.

He called Gray’s attention to the fact that the small parking-lights were still on, and that the gear lever was in neutral.

The inspector nodded. “No indication that the driver was injured, is there?”

“No,” Steele said. “I doubt if he was injured.”

“You don’t think for a minute that the driver could have been any one except Fraim? Man, it’s dead open and shut, as I see it. He has the motive.

“He sends a fake telegram calling the servant away, drives out here, parks near the gate — Mrs. Wentworth, a neighbor, saw a car there about seven fifteen — and walks up to the house. How he got in, I admit we still have to find out. But he killed Stewart, and then ran back to his car.

“He drove away fast, skidded in the snow here, and went over the embankment. So, with the machine wrecked here, he had to invent the theft story.”

Steele nodded. “The motor theft story to evade consequences of some trouble is an old dodge,” he agreed. “But in this case, would Fraim, deliberately planning such a crime, have been asinine enough to use his own car, when some one could have obtained another for him? And why, if this car was wrecked here accidentally, did Fraim pause to take it out of gear and switch on the parking-lights after the smash?”

“The impact may have jolted the gear-lever out, Steele.”

“But it couldn’t have switched on the parking-lights.”

“Perhaps he was driving with those on instead of his headlights. Perhaps he did that to avoid being seen so far, and possibly that’s why he ran off the road.”

“Now, Harry, surely you are familiar with the switch in this type of Chrysler car. The ignition and lights are combined. It is impossible to run the motor of this car with these parking-lights on. That is peculiar to Chryslers. Now, why, if Fraim wrecked the car here accidentally, did he pause to turn on the parking-lights? The motor certainly must have stalled.”

“He might have stopped to do it,” his friend maintained.

“Oh, yes; that’s true. He might have,” Steele agreed.

They spent about twenty-five minutes in their examination, while a bus and several other machines passed along the Arborway above them. Then Gray drove back to Stewart’s residence. As they approached, he pointed in surprise to a large sedan which stood across the road from the slain man’s gate, facing the city.

“The commissioner!” he exclaimed. “I wonder how long he’s been here.”

“Between fifteen and twenty minutes,” his companion offered.

“How on earth do you know?”

Steele smiled faintly and indicated the wheel-tracks in the softening snow which had drifted at the side of the Arborway.

“The truck which passed a short time ago, and the roadster which passed fifteen minutes ago, were forced to turn out for his car,” he stated. “The bus which passed twenty minutes ago, wasn’t.”

Chapter VIII Oily Fingers

Detective Frank Reilly was busy investigating along a line of his own.

Experience had taught him that in cases of unexplained tragedy, the key to the puzzle may often be found among the letters and papers of the victim; and he intended to make a thorough search of Roscoe Stewart’s study, library, and bedroom.

Upon arriving at the house, after leaving Inspector Gray and Malcome Steele, he discovered to his astonishment that no less an official than the commissioner of police was already following the same method of inquiry.

The commissioner, aided by a special officer, was busy examining the contents of Stewart’s desk in the study. Reilly did not presume to enter the room until his superior had finished.

When he did enter, he delayed his search of the desk until the last, believing that he could discover little after the commissioner had been over the ground.

In the top drawer, however, his sharp eyes eventually found something which had escaped the older man’s notice.

This was a box of cartridges of forty-five caliber made for use in a well known type of service revolver. The box was more than half filled.

It occurred to Reilly that it was a trifle strange for Stewart to have kept revolver cartridges close at hand in his desk, but no revolver. A careful search of the study failed to reveal a weapon.

He sent for the servant, Johnson.

Johnson was a small, pale, meek man, who acted as though he had received a great deal of harsh treatment in his life. He inclined his head respectfully when Reilly showed his badge.

“How long have you been in Mr. Stewart’s service?” the detective inquired.

“Six years, sir.”

“Ever known him to act afraid of anything?”

Johnson hesitated. “I… can’t say that I have, sir—”

“Well, now, I mean, did he ever act like he was afraid?”

“N-no, sir; not unless it was by his insistence upon having the house securely locked at night. He was always quite particular about that.”

“Sure. That was the way we found it last night. Do you know if he kept a gun in the house?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Where?”

“Right there in the desk which you have been examining, sir.”

“Is it there now?”

“I certainly presume so. It was there—”

He stopped as Reilly exhibited the top drawer.

“W-why — that’s strange, sir.”

“You’ve no idea what become of it?”

“I certainly haven’t! It was there the other day—”

“All right,” said Reilly, looking at him keenly. “Now, about that fake telegram you got yesterday.”

“I… I’ve no idea who could have sent it, sir—”

“Exactly what time did it come?”

“Shortly after five o’clock.”

“Humph. Was Mr. Stewart here then?”

“No, sir. He was down town. I left a note for him, explaining that I was called away—”

“Oh, then you knew he was goin’ to be back soon?”

The man nodded. “I knew he would be back before seven thirty, for he had an appointment here with a Mr. Fothergill.”

“Oh, with a Mr. Fothergill, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, me man. That’s all now. You can go out”

“Yes, sir.”

Left alone, Reilly again looked thoughtfully at the cartridges. In his mind, the missing revolver bulked large. Who had taken it? Who, besides Stewart and Johnson, knew that it was kept in the study?

A discoloration at the bottom of the cardboard box caught his attention. He scrutinized it carefully; then tipped out the cartridges in his hand and examined it from the inside.

He poured the cartridges back, and found his fingers moist and sticky. Taking out several, he smelled them.

“Oil,” declared Reilly.

He frowned in perplexity.

Then he caught his breath and peered at the cover of the box. Distinct upon its surface, just below the manfacturers’ name, were the oily prints of two small, slender fingers.

Reilly carried the box to the window. He found it impossible to decide how recent the prints were. But there were made with the same oil which had soaked into the bottom of the box. Machine oil.

And this was a small hand. A woman’s band.

His next move was to interview the other servants. The cook was immediately disqualified. She was extremely fat; she weighed over two hundred, he felt certain. Hilda Larsen’s hands were much too large.

Mary O’Brien was a small, pretty girl; but Reilly liked Mary, and he was heartily glad when he saw that her fingers were short and oval instead of long and slender.

He sent again for Johnson.

“Tell me, Johnson,” urged Reilly confidentially, “is there a Mrs. Stewart?”

“Yes, sir. Mrs. Stewart is in Europe.”

“Oh, in Europe, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“An’ about how long has she been there, now?”

“Mrs. Stewart has been away since early November, sir.”

“Humph,” mused Reilly. “There’s no other ladies livin’ here, I suppose?”

“Miss Virginia lives here, sir.”

“Miss Virginia?”

“Mr. Stewart’s daughter. She is in Philadelphia — I… no… begging your pardon, inspector — I am informed that she is back in town this forenoon, and has been told of Mr. Stewart’s death.”

“An’ how long has Miss Stewart been in Philadelphia?”

“A little more than a week.”

“She’s not been to the house since she came back, I suppose?”

“No, sir; I think not.”

Again Reilly stood deep in thought for a moment.

“All right, Johnson,” he decided. “That’s all.”

Chapter IX The Second Generation

Virginia Stewart came to the house shortly before noon. She was a slender girl of twenty-two, with clear complexion and large, full blue eyes.

Although she was pale, Frank Reilly could not escape the vague impression that she suffered more from the shock of the tragedy than from a very keen grief. A friend, Dorothy Welford, accompanied her.

At his first opportunity, the young detective apologized in his best manner for intruding, and explained that he had been assigned to clear up the circumstances of her father’s death.

He presented a document which he had found in a closet upstairs, and asked the girl whether it had any significance to her.

There were several papers bound by a dip, the top sheet thickly covered with dust. She took them in an unsteady hand, but returned them almost immediately. The papers comprised a memorandum of a merger of the business interests of Clarence Faulkner and Thomas Strong.

“I… don’t think I’ve ever seen this—” she said in a weak voice.

Reilly thanked her, placed the dusty papers carefully in a big envelope, and left the room. Although apparently disappointed, he had obtained exactly what he desired. He had obtained an excellent set of finger-prints made by Virginia Stewart.

He went at once to Captain Peters, the finger-print expert of the department, taking the papers and also the cover of the cartridge box.

The captain was an expert in every sense of the word, and he worked swiftly and surely. In the early afternoon Reilly returned to Stewart’s home with the information he desired.

This time he found the girl with Grafton Duncan, the young man whom he had seen at the house on the previous evening. From the nature of their interview Reilly immediately decided that he was intruding.

He withdrew to the butler’s pantry and chatted with Mary O’Brien for a half hour. When a glance into the library showed him that Miss Stewart was at liberty, he paused long enough to assure Mary that he hoped he might talk with her again.

He entered the library, hat in hand.

“Beggin’ your pardon once more, Miss Stewart,” he ventured, respectfully, “but may I speak with you for a few minutes?”

She turned. It was apparent that she was maintaining composure with an effort. Yet, as before, Reilly was almost certain that he discerned more of shock and bewilderment than of sorrow.

“Yes. What is it?”

“This is Detective Reilly of headquarters, ma’am,” he said. “I was speakin’ with you a few minutes this mornin’. Beggin’ your pardon for askin’ the question, ma’am, but I’m told you have not seen your father since you left for Philadelphia about eight or nine days ago?”

She responded very quietly. “No.”

“It was this mornin’ you returned, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

He studied her for an instant with his bright blue eyes.

“You wasn’t here last evenin’ by any chance, Miss Stewart?”

The girl started, raising her glance to meet his for a second.

“W-why — as a matter of fact,” she replied. “I’m amazed that you have guessed it — but I did almost come to the house last evening.”

“Sure, an’ would you tell me, miss,” he asked courteously, “what you mean when you said you ‘almost come to the house’?”

“I came in my friend’s car,” she explained. “We had just motored from Philadelphia, and at first I thought I would come home, although my friend, Miss Welford, wished me to spend the evening at her home. We… we drove here, almost to the door—”

“Yes, miss? Did you see Mr. Stewart at that time?”

“Oh, no,” she hastened, “we didn’t come in. We stopped on the Arborway, near the fence. We were there several minutes — Miss Welford was trying to persuade me. I saw that the house was all dark, and thought every one was away — so I went with her to her home.”

“An’, if, you please, ma’am, about what time was this?”

“I think it was shortly after seven.”

The detective considered, frowning again. This seemed to tally with the automobile which a neighbor had observed. He studied Virginia Stewart more closely. It seemed impossible, heartless, to attempt to connect this girl with—

But he had his duty to perform. He cleared his throat.

“It’s very sorry indeed I am to be askin’ this question, ma’am,” he said quietly, “but I must know when it was, and why, that you took your father’s revolver.”

She gasped and pressed her hand to her lips — a gesture of fright and bewilderment.

“I… I… why, I don’t know what you mean!”

“Isn’t it the truth that you took Mr. Stewart’s revolver from his desk?”

“Certainly I have never taken his revolver!”

“Did you know that he kept one there, ma’am?”

Her eyes were wide, her lips parted. “Y-yes—”

“But you have not taken it?”

“Positively not! I… I don’t understand—”

“Did you take any of his cartridges, miss?”

She caught her breath. Her voice seemed frozen.

“Tell me, please, Miss Stewart,” Reilly insisted. “Did you take any of Mr. Stewart’s cartridges?”

“No, I did not.” Her tone was calmer.

“Can you explain to me, then, ma’am, how it is that your finger-prints are so plain on the box of cartridges?”

The girl drew back, very pale, and sank into a chair.

“Indeed I’m sorry to be causin’ you so much alarm, ma’am!” declared Reilly earnestly. “But don’t you see that you must tell me what you have done with Mr. Stewart’s revolver?”

“But… but I… I haven’t taken the revolver!”

The girl collapsed utterly. In a few broken sentences she told him all that she knew.

Chapter X A Call to Headquarters

The late afternoon brought two developments in the case.

The first was the release of John Egan, the vagrant who had been arrested on Stewart’s grounds. The police could not hold him more than twenty-four hours as an “s. p.,” without bringing a definite charge against him.

As they had found no evidence to connect him with the lawyer’s death, he was dismissed with a warning not to trespass on private grounds for the purpose of begging.

The second event was the recall of Detective Frank Reilly to headquarters. In response to the summons, Reilly came at once to the commissioner’s office.

The police commissioner was a heavy, fleshy man, with a sagging lower lip and a general air of abstraction and disinterest in everything that he undertook.

He was really a very shrewd man, but few would have suspected it. When the young detective entered, nearly a minute passed before his superior glanced at him.

“Well, what is it?”

“You wanted to see me, sir? Frank Reilly?”

“Oh, yes. I damned well want to see you.” The older man’s glance hardened. “Reilly, when I detail a man to work on a case, I want him to go at that case with his mind open and his eyes open, instead of taking a preconceived notion that some fool has put in his head and sticking to it. What kind of police work do you call that?

“There’s absolutely no reason at all to suspect Mr. Winslow Fraim in connection with this crime; but instead of getting to work and digging out the facts, you’ve been spending your time trying to pin something on him.”

Reilly’s face flushed. For a second he strove for words, while he wrung his felt hat in his hands.

“Well,” his superior flung at him, “isn’t that the truth of it? Isn’t that exactly what you’ve been trying to get away with?”

“No, it is not, sir!” the youth returned with spirit. “Me nor any one else on the case, sir! We’ve not been tryin’ to hang anythin’ on any one! We don’t believe in railroadin’ folks, Mr. Commissioner!”

“No? Then what are you trying to tie up Mr. Fraim in this thing for? He’s given you a satisfactory explanation of how his automobile happened to be there, hasn’t he? But you’ve got your mind made up—”

“No, sir, I have not!” Reilly cut in. “As a matter of truth, I’ve not been considerin’ Mr. Fraim at all. I don’t think he done it. I think the case is too plain. To my way of thinkin’, some one is tryin’ to send him up for it. But it ain’t me, Mr. Commissioner — an’ I think before long I can prove who it is.”

His superior studied him. “Then how is it he’s been questioned twice at his apartment?”

“I… I think Inspector Gray done that, sir—”

“Oh, I see! Well, I was told it was you. Now, if you’re going at this with an open mind, let’s hear what progress you’ve made. What have you got to show for it? What line are you taking?”

Reilly hesitated. “Well — it’s like this, sir. Have you ever heard tell anythin’ about Mr. Stewart’s wife?”

The commissioner shook his head.

“I’m told she’s an awful speedy-actin’ woman,” confided the young detective. “She’s his second wife, by the way. Sure, she can do what she likes with his money now, I guess. He got rid of his first wife three years ago, after he set himself up in this fast bunch that calls themselves smart society.”

The older man caught his breath. “Never mind society, Reilly! Let’s have—”

“Sure, an’ that’s what I’m comin’ to, sir!” the other returned indomitably. “They can call themselves what they please; but I pray God no kin of mine will ever get into society like that. Young women taken home drunk from their parties, and all such things.

“To be sure, they had a complaint here at headquarters about one of Stewart’s festivals; and it’s proud I’d be if I could say the department went through with it instead of hushin’ it up. Mr. Stewart wanted none of his first wife in such society as that. So what does he do but he frames her up, three years ago, an’ gets a divorce an’ marries again.

“He fixed things so he got custody of the daughter, too; an’ since then I hear he ain’t never brought her up as a young girl should be. The mother was bitter about it. So was her brother, a man named Frank Armitage, of Atlanta — he’s here in town this week. So was a young chap named Duncan who’s in love with the daughter.

“An’ not two weeks ago there was an altercation between Stewart an’ young Duncan; and Stewart told Duncan if ever he come to the house again and talked to him like that—”

“Like what?”

“About the way he’d been bringin’ up his daughter, sir. He said if Duncan ever talked to him like that again, he’d shoot him. It was heard by two of the household, sir. So now do you see what I’m workin’ on, Mr. Commissioner?”

The older man was silent. He was amazed.

“An’ sure, there’s a box of cartridges with the daughter’s finger-prints in machine oil, in Mr. Stewart’s desk — as no doubt you yourself must have seen when you was goin’ through his papers.”

The commissioner returned a blank stare.

“You are observant, Reilly,” he admitted at length.

“I try to be that, sir.”

“Where did you get all this dope about the wife and the daughter?”

Reilly hesitated.

“Come, come, man! Out with it! Where did you get it?”

“From… from Mary O’Brien, a girl that works at the house—”

“Humph. All right. Go back and finish what you’ve started.”

“Thank you — I will, sir!”

When Reilly had gone, the commissioner seized the telephone and called his chief of detectives.

“Morgan, I’ve changed my mind. Put Reilly back on that case! And send Garrity to work with him, instead of Gray.”

Chapter XI Some Startling Disclosures

Reilly and Steele had been working along entirely different lines all day. Fate decreed that the results of their efforts should appear simultaneously.

Shortly before nine in the evening, the police commissioner was called at his residence and was informed that important action had been taken in the Stewart case.

His secretary made the call, and was unable to state just what action had occurred. A man had come to the office informing him that an arrest had been made, and desiring to speak with the commissioner in person.

The commissioner sent for his car and rode at once to headquarters. Climbing the stairs laboriously, with his cigar dropping ashes on his dinner jacket, he stopped short when he found himself facing Malcome Steele. He nodded a cool salutation.

The commissioner did not like Steele. He hadn’t anything personal against him; but, being of a peculiar temperament, he was inclined to regard any independent investigator as a potential enemy.

He passed on into his office, where his secretary waited.

“What the devil — is it Steele who’s got action on the Stewart case?”

“Mr. Malcome Steel, of the National Detective Agency; yes, sir. I understood him to say that an arrest has been made.”

The commissioner sat down heavily and uncomfortably.

“Damn!” he muttered. “Who — where was the arrest?”

“He didn’t say, sir. Reilly is here, too, Mr. Commissioner; and he says he has something very important.”

“Send them both in. And you stay. I won’t talk to Steele alone.”

The secretary complied. The two investigators entered — Reilly flushed with suppressed excitement; Steele surveying the others thoughtfully with his deep gray eyes, his face expressionless.

“Well, Mr. Steele,” the commissioner challenged abruptly, “what’s on your mind?”

The director of the private agency returned a faint smile.

“I thought, Mr. Commissioner, that it might interest you to read a statement made this evening at police headquarters in Springfield.”

The official scowled. “In Springfield? What statement? Who made it?”

Without further comment, Steele laid a paper on his desk: “Statement made to Captain Burgess, Office of the Chief of Police, Springfield, in the presence of James Keliher, Stenographer.

“Yes; I planned to get Roscoe Stewart the blackguard! He defrauded me of shares worth two hundred and fifty thousand in Denver. It was a ‘legal robbery.’ You know what that is, probably. The law can’t touch him for it.

“But it was a swindle, and I made up my mind that both he and his partner, Fraim, would pay.

“Yes; I’m telling you: I planned deliberately to murder Stewart and to make Fraim pay for it. For a year I’ve had detectives watching them, trying to get one or both of them legally. But they were too influential and too clever.

“I learned of their quarrel, and I came East, ready to act. It was my chance to make one pay for the other’s death. No one in this part of the country knew that I had reason to injure Stewart or Fraim.

“In New York I hired an assistant, for really a very small sum — a crook who is well known there. He impersonated a fictitious Valentine Morse and made certain that Fraim could have no alibi for the hour of Stewart’s death, although he would think he had a good one.

“My purpose was to make Fraim tell a story which would be absolutely unbelievable. So I took his car from in front of his door, drove it to a place on tire Arborway not far from Stewart’s, and waited there in it until I felt sure Stewart’s chauffeur had gone to supper.

“I had already eliminated Johnson by a telegram. In the car I attired myself in a way that I thought would keep Stewart from recognizing me until the last instant, if he should catch sight of me. I knew he was there in the house, alone, waiting to confer with a supposed client whose name he thought was Fothergill.

“At the right time I got out and pushed Fraim’s car over the edge of the embankment, to make it look like an accident. It was snowing hard, and I knew there’d be no footprints.

“I went at once to his grounds, carrying an automatic pistol with a silencer, a set of skeleton latchkeys, and a jimmy. The keys, however, proved useless, as Stewart had bolted the doors.

“The house was all dark except the study downstairs. I approached, and saw Stewart sitting at his desk. For a moment I was on the point of plugging him through the window, then and there.

“But an automobile had stopped on the Arborway near the grounds, and I didn’t want to risk the crashing glass. It would give the lie to the Fraim theory later.

“Stewart looked up suddenly; and I was mortally afraid that he had seen and recognized me. There was terror in his face. I went at once in search of the telephone wires, and cut them. It seems now that I wasn’t quick enough in finding them.

“With my keys useless, I picked one of the dining room windows and tried to force it. But the lock was unusually strong. Anyway, I’m not used to forcing windows.

“The first thing I knew, there was a flash of fire inside and the roar of a gun. I looked in — and right where the light from a street lamp fell on the floor I saw Stewart, lying mortally wounded.

“Before God I swear that I don’t know who shot him. It was no accomplice of mine. I threw away my pistol and jimmy and started to run, for I was afraid the shot would attract attention.

“As I ran, some one began blowing a whistle and shouting for the police, and near the gate I was seen by three officers and captured.

“I thought it was all up then. But soon I reflected that my disguise was good, that no one knew I had any motive, and that I might get away with it yet and implicate Fraim. I gave my name as John Egan and sat tight.

“I did get away with it, too, until you arrested me to-night. Had Fraim been brought into my presence, it would have been all off. But he wasn’t, and the police there let me go.

“I am making this statement now because Captain Burgess tells me it will save me from the charge of murder. I swear solemnly that I didn’t murder Stewart, although I fully intended to.

“Signed — FREDERICK WESTHAVER.”

The commissioner glanced up from the paper, his lip sagging.

“Have you read this, Reilly?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Steele showed it to me.”

“Humph,” said his superior, in a dull way. “How did you happen to have this man rearrested, if I may ask, Mr. Steele?”

The private investigator smiled faintly again. “He changed his clothes.”

“I don’t understand—”

“I suspected him because of one remark that he made while impersonating a tramp at station eighteen. He wasn’t familiar with a well-known expression among hobos. Every genuine tramp in the country must know that ‘breezing it’ means stealing a train-ride, but John Egan didn’t.

“When he was released I sent an operative, Brown, to shadow him. He was careful enough until he left this city. He went on a freight train. So did Brown.

“But in Springfield Mr. Egan went into a lodging house as a tramp and emerged as a gentleman. My operative found a police officer and had him arrested before he could continue his travels. He had bought a ticket West.”

“Humph!” declared the commissioner. “But still we don’t know—”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” interrupted Reilly, “but we do know. Sure, I’ve been only waitin’ for the medical examiner’s report before I told you how Stewart was killed.

“Two weeks ago, sir, he threatened to shoot Mr. Grafton Duncan if ever he come to the house an’ talked to him like that again. An’ his daughter, Miss Virginia, her that’s in love with Duncan, hears him. Sure, what does she do?

“She knows he always keeps a loaded gun in that desk. But when she was young she used to go hunting with her father. She was told once that if cartridges gets oil on them they’re useless.

“What does she do, I’m askin’ you, sir? She admits it now. One night she takes all the cartridges — them in the revolver, too — and soaks them in machine oil. Thinkin’ to spoil them all for shootin’ if ever her father should lose his head in anger, see? But oil don’t always spoil the cartridge, Mr. Commissioner.

“Sometimes it spoils the load, but not the primer. In the first cartridge Stewart fired last night, only the load was spoiled. The primer goes off, with just strength enough to push the bullet up into the barrel of the gun.

“Then the next cartridge, mind you — it wasn’t reached by the oil at all. It goes off full charge; and with another bullet already in the barrel, the only thing it can do it bursts the gun. It bursts a jagged sliver right out of it, through Stewart’s eye into his head. But he must uv been holdin’ the thing in a damn queer position to uv got it, even at that.”

The commissioner stared at him.

“But, man, if that theory’s true,” he bellowed, “what became of the bursted revolver? Did it evaporate?”

Reilly flushed crimson.

“No, Mr. Commissioner,” he replied mildly. “Bein’ made of good metal, it couldn’t evaporate. But I’m figurin’ that when the first party of police officers come into the room in the dark, one of them must uv struck his foot ag’in’ it accidentallike and kicked it right through that hole in the wall which goes into the chimney.

“I got to thinkin’ it over about supper time, sir — so I goes down cellar an’ digs open the base of the chimney. An’ sure, here’s the forty-five revolver, sir, with the jagged hole burst in it!”

The telephone jangled harshly. The commissioner took it up.

“Police commissioner’s office?”

“Commissioner talking!” he barked.

“This is McQueen, the medical examiner. That Stewart report you wanted — the bullet caliber, you know? Say — that wasn’t a bullet at all; it was a jagged piece of gun-barrel about one-fourth of an inch in width. Defective material, I should say—”

The commissioner sat glancing vacantly from Reilly to the signed statement on his desk. Gradually his frown disappeared.

“W-well—” he opined, “I don’t see but this lets Fraim out altogether, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, sure, sir,” replied Reilly instantly. “ ’Tis plain now that Mr. Fraim had nothin’ to do with it.”

“Reilly, on account of this piece of work you are in line for promotion!” said the police commissioner warmly.