The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sheridan Road Mystery, by
Paul Thorne and Mabel Thorne
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Title: The Sheridan Road Mystery
Author: Paul Thorne
Mabel Thorne
Posting Date: May 19, 2009 [EBook #3784]
Release Date: February, 2003
First Posted: September 4, 2001
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHERIDAN ROAD MYSTERY ***
Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines.
THE SHERIDAN ROAD MYSTERY
by
PAUL AND MABEL THORNE
CONTENTS
I THE SHOT
II DETECTIVE SERGEANT MORGAN
III INVESTIGATION
IV THE APARTMENT ACROSS THE HALL
V PECULIAR FACTS
VI THE CABLE FROM LONDON
VII MR. MARSH
VIII A DEFINITE CLUE
IX THE LAST LETTER
X THE STOLEN SUITCASE
XI THE TRAIL GROWS CLEARER
XII MISSING
XIII STARTLING DISCLOSURES
XIV THE NIGHT CALL
XV "DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES"
XVI THE CLOSED COUNTRY HOUSE
XVII WHAT THE CARETAKER SAW
XVIII THE ENEMY SHOWS HIS HAND
XIX KIDNAPPED
XX THE FALLEN PINE
XXI THE CHIMNEY THAT WOULDN'T DRAW
XXII CORNERED
XXIII SUNSET
THE SHERIDAN ROAD MYSTERY
CHAPTER I
THE SHOT
It was a still, balmy night in late October. The scent of burned
autumn leaves hung in the air, and a hazy moon, showing just over
the housetops, deepened the shadows on the streets.
Policeman Murphy stopped far a moment, as was his custom, at the
corner of Lawrence Avenue and Sheridan Road. He knew that it was
about two o'clock in the morning as that was the hour at which he
usually reached this point. He glanced sharply up and down Sheridan
Road, which at that moment seemed to be completely deserted save for
the distant red tail-light of a belated taxi, the whir of whose
engine came to him quite distinctly on the quiet night air.
JUST THEN POLICEMAN MURPHY HEARD A SHOT!
Instantly his body quickened with an awakened alertness, and he
glanced east and west along the lonely stretch of Lawrence Avenue.
He saw nothing, and concluded that the sound he had heard must have
come from one of the many apartment buildings which surrounded him.
Murphy pondered for a moment. Was it a burglary, a domestic row, or
perhaps a murder? The position of the shot was hard to locate, for
it had been but the sound of a moment on the still night. Murphy,
however, decided to take a chance, and started stealthily north on
Sheridan Road, keeping within the shadow that clung to the
buildings.
He had moved only a short distance in this way when a man in a bath
robe dashed out of the doorway of an apartment house just ahead of
him and ran north. Murphy instantly broke into pursuit. At the sound
of his heavily shod feet on the pavement, the man in the bath robe
stopped and turned. Murphy slowed up and the man advanced to meet
him.
"I'm glad you're handy, Officer," panted the man. "I think somebody
has been murdered in our building. Come and investigate."
"Sure," assented Murphy. "That's what I'm here for," and as they
mounted the steps of the apartment house, he inquired, "What flat
was it?"
"The top floor on the north side," replied the man, who then
informed Murphy that his name was Marsh, and that he lived on the
second floor, just below this apartment. "You see," Marsh continued,
"a little while ago my wife and I were awakened by a noise in the
apartment over us. It sounded like a struggle of some kind. As we
listened we felt sure that several people were taking part in it.
Suddenly there was a shot, and a sound followed as if a body had
fallen to the floor. After that there was absolute silence. I
hastily put on my bath robe, and was hurrying out to find a
policeman when I met you."
By this time, Marsh, with Murphy at his heels, had reached the door
of the third floor apartment. Murphy placed a thick forefinger on
the button of the electric hell and rang it sharply several times.
The men could distinctly hear the clear notes of the bell, but no
other sound reached them. Again Murphy pressed the button without
response.
"Murder, all right, I guess," muttered Murphy, "and the guy's
probably slipped down the back stairs. Who lives here, anyway?" he
inquired, turning to Marsh.
"That's the peculiar part about it," was the reply. "The people who
rent this apartment went to Europe this summer, and as I understand
it, they won't be back for another month. The apartment has been
closed all summer. That is what amazed Mrs. Marsh and myself when we
heard this sound above us."
"It looks like we'll have to break in," said Murphy. "Let me use
your telephone."
"Certainly," agreed Marsh, and led the way to his apartment.
Murphy sat down at the telephone. His hand was on the receiver when
he suddenly paused and turned to Marsh. "You know," he commented,
half meditatively, "it's funny we haven't seen anybody else show up
in the halls. I heard that shot way down at Lawrence Avenue. At
least the people across the hall ought to have been waked up by it.
Are you sure it was in this house?"
"Why certainly," retorted Marsh. "Didn't I tell you that we heard
the struggle and the shot right over our heads?"
"Well, it sure takes a lot to disturb some people," said Murphy, as
he placed the telephone receiver to his ear and called for his
connection. After some words he got his precinct station.
"Hello!" he called. "Is that you, Sergeant? This is Murphy. I'm in
the Hillcrest apartments on Sheridan Road... Yes, that's right....
Just north of Lawrence Avenue. I think somebody's been murdered
and we'll have to break in. Send the wagon, will you? ... Don't
know a damn thing yet," he added, evidently in reply to a question.
"Hurry up the wagon." He replaced the receiver on its hook; then
turned to Marsh as he stood up.
"I think I'll hang around the door up there until the boys come.
Much obliged for your help. You'd better get back to bed now."
"Oh, no," objected Marsh. "I couldn't sleep with all this excitement
going on. And then--Mr. Ames is a friend of mine. He would want me
to look after things for him."
Murphy looked Marsh over in evident speculation. The man was tall
and broad shouldered. His face was clean shaven. The features were
strong, with a regularity that many people would consider handsome.
He was what one would call a big man, but this appearance of bigness
arose more from a heavy frame, and exceptional muscular development,
than fleshiness. Murphy took in these details quickly, and the pause
was slight before he spoke.
"Who's Ames?" he said.
"The man who rents the apartment upstairs." Then apparently taking
the matter as settled, Marsh added, "I'll go along with you."
Murphy grunted, whether in assent or disapproval was hard to tell,
but as he climbed the stairs again, Marsh was close beside him.
Murphy placed his hand on the doorknob and shook the door as he
violently turned the knob. The door was securely locked. Then he
threw his two hundred and some odd pounds against the door itself.
The stout oak resisted his individual efforts.
"No use," he grumbled. "I'll have to wait 'till the boys come."
The two men then sat down on the top step to wait for the coming of
the police. They chatted, speculating upon the possible causes of
the disturbance. Marsh, however, seemed more interested in getting
Murphy's ideas than in expressing opinions of his own. At length
they heard the clang of the gong on the police patrol as it crossed
Lawrence Avenue. They stood up expectantly. An instant later there
was a clatter in the lower hall as the police entered. They mounted
the stairs rapidly-two officers in uniform and another in civilian
clothes.
"Where's the trouble?" cried the latter, as the party climbed the
last flight.
"In here, as far as I know," returned Murphy, as he jerked a thumb
over his shoulder toward the door of the apartment. "I can't get
arise out of anybody. We'll have to break in."
Marsh stood aside while the four men took turns, two-and-two, in
throwing themselves against the door. It creaked and groaned, and
from time to time there was a sharp crack as the strong oak began to
give.
In the meantime, the murmur of voices came up from the lower floors.
Presently faces appeared on the landing just below where the police
were working. Marsh leaned over the rail and in a few words outlined
to the excited tenants what was going on.
Intent on their work of breaking in the door, the policemen paid
little attention to their audience, and apparently did not notice
that the door across the hall was still closed and silent. Murphy,
however, recalled this fact later on.
At last, with a crash and a splintering of wood, the lock gave way
and the door flew open. All was darkness and silence before them.
The five men stood grouped in the doorway, listening intently. The
black silence remained unbroken save for the labored breathing of
the men who had just broken in the door. The plain-clothes man then
brought forth an electric pocket lamp and flashed its rays into the
entrance hall, while the others drew their revolvers and held them
in readiness. Then all stepped into the hallway. This was a large,
square entrance way with four doorways opening from it. Two closed
doors faced them. As they discovered later, these led to a bedroom,
and the bathroom. The others, one opening toward the front of the
apartment, and one toward the rear, were wide archways covered with
heavy velvet portieres.
The plain-clothes man found the wall switch and turned on the
electric light. Instructing one of his companions to watch the hall
door, he led the others in a search of the apartment. Seeking for
the electric light buttons as they moved about the apartment, the
men soon flooded the rooms with light. Each man with revolver ready,
and intent on searching every corner, none of them gave much
attention to the fact that Marsh was dogging every move, apparently
as keenly on the lookout as any one of the party.
Their inspection revealed nothing more than that the apartment was
apparently in the same condition as its tenant had left it. The door
to the outside stairway at the back was locked and the key was
missing. In addition to the regular lock a stout bolt was in place.
The catches on all the windows were properly locked, and all the
shades remained drawn down close to the sills. It was an empty,
locked apartment, with no outstanding evidence of having been used
for a long time.
The police, now joined by the man lately on watch at the door, stood
nonplussed in the kitchen. The plain-clothes man uttered an oath.
Then he addressed his companions.
"I've seen some mighty fishy situations, but this trims anything I
ever ran up against. Ain't been just hearing things, have you,
Murphy? A swig of this home-made hootch does upset a man dreadful,
sometimes."
Murphy glared.
"I ain't never touched the stuff," he bellowed. Then added,
aggressively, "You know damned well I wasn't the only one to hear
that shot. The tenant downstairs heard it, too. It was him that
brought me in."
"Well, you only got his word for it that this is where the shot, was
fired. Maybe HE'S trying to cover something up."
Murphy started, then glanced around.
"Hell!" he exclaimed. "Where's that guy gone to, anyway?"
Marsh, who had recently been close at their heels, was not now in
the group. Murphy moved on tiptoe to the kitchen door and listened.
On the other side of the dining room was the doorway to the entrance
hall, and through the now drawn curtains this space was visible.
Murphy could see that both these rooms were deserted, but an
occasional swishing sound came to his ears. Turning to the waiting
group, he silently and significantly jerked his head toward the
front of the apartment. Following his example, they moved cautiously
across the dining room and the hall and stopped at the door of the
living room.
Marsh, with his back toward them, was just in the act of pulling a
heavy, upholstered chair back into position. His moving of similar
articles of furniture had made the sounds heard by Murphy.
Stepping suddenly into the room, Murphy inquired, with a note of
sarcasm in his voice, "Kind of busy, ain't you?"
Marsh turned abruptly. If they expected to see any signs of
confusion on his face they were disappointed, for he simply smiled
cheerfully.
"Just following out a line of thought," he answered.
"What's the big idea!" asked the plain-clothes man, suspiciously, as
he also stepped into the room and carefully looked over the man
before him.
"Well, detectives in novels always search minutely for things which
may not be apparent to the eye. When confronted with so deep a
mystery as this one, I thought the application of a little of the
story book stuff might do no harm."
"Huh!" snorted the plain-clothes man, as Marsh finished giving this
information. "You're more than commonly interested in this affair,
ain't you?"
"Naturally," agreed Marsh. "Remember, I live just below, and
wouldn't like to be murdered in my bed some night. To hear a murder
over your head is a bit disconcerting."
"How the devil do we know there's been a murder?" shot back the
plain-clothes man. "We've only got your word for it."
"But this officer also heard the shot," and Marsh turned toward
Murphy. "He was looking for the trouble when I met him."
"Yes," Murphy admitted. "I heard the shot, but I only got your word
for it that it was here. If there was a murder, what became of the
body?"
"That is for you gentlemen to find out," Marsh snapped back, now
evidently alive to the fact that these men were regarding him with
something approaching suspicion. "I have already done more than my
share of the work. I have discovered visible proof THAT THERE WAS A
MURDER!"
This information startled the group of policemen. Hasty glances
swept the room for a moment. Then the plain-clothes man remarked,
with a meaning smile, "Well, I'M from Missouri."
Marsh walked over to where the policemen stood.
"Take a look around," he began. "There are certain accepted ways of
placing the furniture in a room. When there is a radical departure
from such placing, an inquiring mind is led to wonder. Notice the
chair I was just moving. It is located almost in the center of the
room--obviously not its regular position. So why was it there?"
"Say, you'd make some detective!" came in an admiring tone from
Murphy. The others nodded approval of the remark.
"I began to examine that chair and its surroundings carefully,"
continued Marsh, ignoring the interruption. He then moved over to
the chair, and added, as he pulled it to one side, "I moved it away
like this. Now, look at the floor!"
The policemen crowded forward. What Marsh had found was apparent at
once. On the light background of the rug was a large, dark spot
which the chair had covered. The plain-clothes man stooped and
placed his hand on the spot. It felt damp to the touch, and as he
stood erect again, holding his hand under the light, they all saw
that the fingers were covered with a thin film of red.
"Blood!" cried Murphy.
"Yep," affirmed the plain-clothes man. "Fresh blood!"
Excited exclamations from the others showed their appreciation of
the discovery.
Marsh smiled.
"I guess that looks like a possible murder," he said.
"The chair was placed there to cover the spot, all right," now
admitted the plain-clothes man.
"But what became of the body?" again questioned Murphy.
"As I said before," Marsh answered him, "that is for you to find
out. It is not my business."
"SOME mystery!" exclaimed the plain-clothes man. "This is a job for
Dave Morgan."
CHAPTER II
DETECTIVE SERGEANT MORGAN
On Sheffield Avenue, just across from the ball park, where the
"Cubs," Chicago's famous baseball team, has its headquarters, is a
row of apartment houses. One realizes, of course, that these are not
homes of wealth, but they have a comfortable, substantial look,
which somehow conveys the idea that those who live there are good
citizens, typical of the hard-working, progressive class that has
made Chicago one of the greatest commercial cities of the world.
In one of these apartments lived Detective Sergeant Dave Morgan and
his mother. He had located here in the days when, as a patrolman, he
had walked beat out of the Town Hall Police Station, a short
distance away. After his promotion to the detective force, he
remained here because of the convenient location. The elevated
railroad had its right of way directly back of his home, and the
Addison Street station was only around the corner. He could quickly
get to the Detective Bureau or almost any part of the widespreading
city.
Morgan's home was unpretentious but comfortable. The hand of a
careful and thoughtful housekeeper was in evidence everywhere. In
the big living room, at the front, were several lounging chairs, and
along one wall, between the front windows and the entrance door,
stood two roomy bookcases. A glance at the titles showed the owner's
inquiring and investigative turn of mind. His interest in his
profession was also indicated by several volumes on criminology, and
even popular detective stories of the day. In the center of the room
was a commodious table with a large reading lamp. Beside the table
was the big easy chair in which Morgan always sat, and where many of
the solutions of difficult criminal problems had been worked out by
him. Just across from this easy chair, and within reach of an
outstretched hand, stood a tabouret, holding the telephone.
On the morning following the peculiar occurrence on Sheridan Road,
Morgan was sitting in his favorite chair. His slippered feet were
stretched before him and clouds of smoke hung about as he puffed at
his favorite pipe, selected from a row of about ten that were
hanging on a nearby home-made pipe holder. This might be said to be
an eventful day for Dave Morgan. Only the day before, he and his
partner, Detective Sergeant Tierney, had completed the solving of a
baffling case and placed the criminal behind the bars. Now he had a
well-earned and long-awaited "day off," and he was going to devote
it to the restful pursuit of his favorite amusement--reading.
His mother, a white-haired, pleasant faced little woman, entered the
room.
"Dave," she reminded him, "here's the morning paper. You forgot to
look it over at breakfast."
"I know, Mother," he returned, "but I wanted to forget all about the
world this morning. That Brock case has tired me out."
"But," she protested, "I notice from the headlines that there was a
big murder on Sheridan Road last night. I didn't think you'd want to
miss the details of that."
Professional instinct was too strong. Morgan reached for the paper
and glanced quickly over the glaring headlines and the few words
below, while the mother proudly watched him.
Morgan made a good figure for a detective. Not so tall as to be
conspicuous, his breadth of shoulder and depth of chest clearly
showed that he possessed the strength to meet most of the
emergencies into which his work might lead him. His face had none of
the hardened sharpness that usually marks the detective. In fact,
although he was nearly thirty, his face still had a boyish look that
made him appear younger, and taken with his sleek dark hair and mild
brown eyes one would have presumed him to be just an average young
business man rather than a hunter of criminals.
"No details here," he said, a moment later, laying the paper on the
table. "They evidently received the notice just before going to
press. Anyway, there is seldom much mystery about a murder. The men
in that precinct probably have a line on who did it by this time."
"Yes, I know they use my boy only for the big cases," asserted the
mother, and giving him an affectionate pat on the head, she went to
her housework, while Morgan took a book from one of the cases,
refilled his pipe, and settled down to spend a quiet morning in the
big chair.
At eleven o'clock the telephone bell rang. Only a few words passed
between Morgan and his caller, but the detective's face lighted up
with interest. The instant he replaced the receiver he sprang to his
feet, went to his bedroom, and hurriedly changed his clothes.
"Mother," he called. "The Chief has just 'phoned me that they have
the biggest case for me that I ever handled. I must go down at
once."
His mother came to the door of the room. "Can't you even wait for a
bite of lunch?" she questioned.
"No," he explained, "it is a hurry call. The Chief says we cannot
lose a minute in getting started. I'll have to stop in somewhere
after I see the Chief."
Kissing his mother good-bye, Morgan hurried around to the elevated
station. Fifteen minutes later he opened the Chief's office door.
"Sit down, Morgan," said the Chief, waving his hand toward a chair.
"I've got a case here that'll make even you go some."
As Morgan sat down the Chief gathered up some typewritten sheets
from his desk, and continued; "I didn't like to break up the first
day you've had off in a long time, Morgan, but there was a murder on
Sheridan Road last night--or early, this morning, to be exact--that
has put a real mystery up to the Department. It'll need a man like
you to solve it--if it can be solved. The newspapers had big
headlines this morning, and the public will be watching us on
account of the peculiar nature of the crime."
"I saw something about it in my paper this morning," said Morgan.
"There were no details, however. The notice probably caught the last
edition with little more than the fact that a murder had been
committed."
"Well," exclaimed the Chief, "it's one of the biggest mysteries
we've ever had handed to us. The shot was heard by both the man on
the beat and a tenant in the building, but outside of the stories of
these two men, and the discovery of a blood stain on a rug in a
supposedly empty flat, not another thing has been found. The body is
missing, and there is no trace of how it got out of the flat or
where it is now. Here is a report of all that we know so far. By the
way, your partner Tierney made this report. He happened to be on the
job last night, so I told him to stick to it."
The Chief handed the typewritten sheets to Morgan.
"You will note," he went on, "that the man on beat heard a shot at
about 2 A.M.; that he met a tenant from the house who said that he
had heard sounds of a struggle, a shot, and something like the
falling of a body. The police found the flat locked, and after they
broke in could find no one on the premises. Nothing was upset, and
there were no signs of the struggle, said to have taken place.
Another peculiar thing is that the police even overlooked the
bloodstain until the tenant who had heard the shot called their
attention to it. Tierney tried to get some more details this
morning, but you will find from his report that none of the other
tenants admit hearing the shot; that the tenant in the flat across
the hall was apparently not at home, and that the janitor says the
people who rent the flat in which the trouble occurred, have been
away all summer. The only really definite information of any kind
comes from this one tenant, Marsh."
"You'll probably find Tierney at the flat, as I sent him back after
he had turned in this report. He may have found out something more
by now than he could put in that quick report."
"Chief," said Morgan, as he thumbed over the typewritten sheets in
his hands, "you say there has been a murder committed here. With
this tenant, Marsh, and a patrolman, getting into action so soon
after the shot, a body couldn't possibly be moved out of the
house--certainly, not without leaving some trace."
"Well?"
"How do we know there was a murder?"
"We don't know--positively," returned the Chief. "But we're not
going to take any chances. Even if there wasn't an actual murder,
SOMETHING OF A CRIMINAL NATURE WAS PULLED OFF IN THAT FLAT LAST
NIGHT. What it was, we're putting up to you to find out. Go to it,
Morgan! So long!"
CHAPTER III
INVESTIGATION
Leaving the Detective Bureau, Morgan stopped in a restaurant on
Randolph Street for a quick lunch. From there he walked over to
State Street and took the motor bus for the scene of the singular
event which it was now his duty to investigate. A half-hour later he
dropped off the bus at Lawrence Avenue and Sheridan Road. A few
steps brought him to the Hillcrest apartments, where he found
Tierney waiting on the front steps for him.
"The Chief telephoned me that you would probably be here about this
time," said Tierney, after acknowledging Morgan's greeting. "I was
on the job last night, and did a little investigating this morning,
so the Chief thought you might want to talk things over with me."
Morgan nodded. "All right, let's go up. Can we get into the flat?"
"Sure," answered Tierney. "We put a temporary padlock on this
morning, and I have the key."
Without further words the two men climbed the stairs to the
apartment on the third floor. Tierney unlocked the padlock and they
went in. Inside the entrance hall of the apartment, Tierney turned
to Morgan.
"I suppose the Chief has put the case entirely in your hands, so
it's up to you what you want to do first."
"We had better go into the front room here," answered Morgan, "and
let me get a line on things. About all I know so far is that
somebody THINKS a murder has been committed."
"You can't make much out of things as they are, that's a fact,"
assented Tierney, as they moved into the front room. He dropped into
an easy chair close at hand, and pushed his cap back on his head,
while Morgan went to one of the front windows and ran the shade to
the top. Seating himself where he could get the full benefit of the
light from the window, he drew out the typewritten report and read
it over carefully.
"This is your report, isn't it, Tierney?" he inquired, folding up
the sheets again and replacing them in his pocket.
"You bet; and I put into it every damned thing I know," asserted
Tierney. "And that's mighty little," he added. "This is the most
mysterious case I ever saw."
There was a pause while Morgan drew a pipe from his pocket and
filled and lighted it. Then settling back in his chair, he looked at
Tierney. "Got any theories?" he asked.
"No," replied Tierney. "I haven't any theories--but I've got a
couple of suspicions."
"Well?"
"One," continued Tierney, "is this flat across the hall. Murphy--that's
the man on the beat who heard the shot and investigated--Murphy
noticed that in spite of all the racket we made breaking down
the door last night, no one in that flat showed any interest. I
tried to get in touch with them this morning. Nothing doing. Either
they weren't home, or wouldn't answer the bell."
"That looks bad," commented Morgan. "You mentioned in your report
that you talked with the janitor. Did he drop anything about them
that you didn't think worth while putting in the report?"
"The janitor simply told me that a man and his daughter lived in the
flat, and that he thought the man was away a good deal; so he
supposed he must be a traveling man. They have always seemed to be
quiet people. He has never even seen them have any company."
"That's suspicious, too," declared Morgan. "Normal people usually
have SOME company. Is that all?"
Tierney nodded.
"Now," prompted Morgan, "you said you had another suspicion."
"You bet!" exclaimed Tierney, straightening up in his chair. "That
guy, Marsh--underneath here."
"'Great minds'," laughed Morgan. "I sort of focused on that man
myself after reading your report just now."
"Well, here's the way I look at it," explained Tierney. "When
ordinary folks hear fighting and shooting in the middle of the
night, they generally stick their heads under the covers and lie
close. They don't put on bath robes and run out on the street to be
the first to give a report. Then the janitor tells me that he's seen
this man around a lot in the daytime--'no visible means of support,'
you might say. Both Murphy and I remember that Marsh referred to his
wife. The janitor says he's pretty sure that he never saw any woman
around the flat. And when I asked Marsh this morning to let me talk
to his wife, he said she was not in."
"You probably noticed in my report that it was this Marsh who showed
us the bloodstain under the chair. You know, we came out of the
kitchen and caught that guy in the act of pulling a chair over the
spot. He said he was replacing the chair where he found it. I've
been wondering whether he wasn't actually covering up the spot
himself. When we caught him in the act, maybe he just decided to
bluff it out."
"The Department didn't make any mistake when they shifted you into
the Detective Bureau, Tierney," said Morgan, laughing. "Has the
Chief assigned you to any other case for my day off?"
"No," replied Tierney. "When the Chief told me to come back and meet
you here I figured he wanted me to stick to this case with you."
"So I thought," agreed Morgan. "But I want to be left alone here for
awhile. You scout around and see if you can find out something more
about this tenant across the hall. Do you know his name?"
"Clark Atwood, it says on the mail box downstairs."
"All right, Tierney. See what you can look up in this neighborhood.
I'll get in touch with you later. By the way, you had better leave
that key with me."
Tierney handed over the key to the padlock, and with a cheery "So
long," started off.
Morgan, left to himself, began a careful inspection of the
apartment. Although assured that the apartment had been unoccupied,
his first act was to discover, if possible, any signs of recent
habitation. Convinced by the blood spot that the principal part of
whatever had happened had taken place in the front room, he decided
to leave that room until the last. Running all the shades to the top
of the windows as he passed from the front to the rear of the
apartment, Morgan made the place as light as possible. He began his
examination with the kitchen. The fastenings on the windows were
closed, and the undisturbed condition of the dust indicated that
they had not been touched for a long period. A careful inspection of
the glass and woodwork showed no finger marks or any attempt to open
the catches. The bolt on the back door was unfastened, but as the
report stated that the police had found this bolt in place, it was
obvious that it had simply been left open by the police. Morgan
carefully scrutinized the condition of the bolt. After pushing it
back into place the difference in brightness of the protected and
unprotected parts convinced him that the bolt had been closed for
some time.
He also noted that the key was missing from the lock. However, this
fact had been referred to in the report, and it could make little
difference if the bolt itself had been fastened. As a matter of
fact, during his search of the pantry, he discovered the key on top
of the ice box. A layer of dust indicated that the key had not been
touched for a long time. His thorough investigation of the pantry
revealed no evidence of recent use. The ice box was dry as a bone,
with the musty smell of long disuse. A touch of the finger on
various dishes and pieces of glassware showed that these also were
covered with a film of dust.
Before leaving the kitchen, Morgan glanced into the sink, to
ascertain if, as often happens, the murderer had washed his hands
there. There was a reddish stain about the outlet, but as Morgan
found this covered with dust he surmised that a long time had
elapsed since any water had been run in the sink. This stain was
presumably the rust which usually gathers in a long unused sink or
basin.
The small maid's room off the kitchen had certainly not been in use.
Only the bare mattress was on the bed, and Morgan noticed that as
his own feet left imprints in the dust on the floor, it was not
likely that anyone else could have been in the room without leaving
similar traces.
Next he thoroughly searched the dining room. As this room usually
seems to be the favorite gathering point, both for the occupants of
a house and unbidden prowlers, Morgan's keen eyes examined every
detail of the floor and furnishings, including the drawers of the
sideboard. He immediately noticed that two of the chairs were
standing close to the table, while two others were moved slightly
back from the table as if people had been sitting in them. On the
floor under one of these chairs he found a few spots of cigarette
ashes. To Morgan's quick mind this carried a mental picture. Of
course, the police who had been in the apartment the night before
might have accidentally or intentionally moved the chairs, but he
was quite sure that under the circumstances not one of them would
have sat down to smoke a cigarette. At some time quite recently,
therefore, somebody, probably two persons, had sat at this dining
room table while conversing, or waiting for something.
This was further confirmed when Morgan, bending his knees and
lowering his body so as to bring his eyes on a level with the table,
studied the top in the reflected light. He saw that the dust on the
table top had been disturbed in front of the two chairs.
Furthermore, he discovered that the person who had not been smoking
had evidently rested a pair of clasped and sweaty hands on the table
top, as two parallel, greasy marks, made by the sides of the hands,
showed quite plainly. To Morgan, clasped and sweaty hands indicated
a possible state of nervousness. Either this had been the victim or
the chief plotter.
The dining room revealed nothing further to Morgan, but he felt that
he had made some progress in establishing the fact that at least two
people had quite recently been in this supposedly unoccupied
apartment.
Passing through the entrance hall, Morgan then examined the main
bedroom, which opened off of it. The bed had been dismantled, as in
the maid's room. An examination of the clothes closet, and the
drawers of the dresser and a chiffonier, showed that the room was
commonly occupied by a man and a woman. Everything quite obviously
belonged to the regular tenant. Morgan could find nothing of a
suspicious nature, although he had particularly looked for
correspondence which might in some indefinite way connect this
tenant with the happenings of the night before.
The bathroom was visited next. Outside of the usual toilet articles
and harmless medical "first aids" in the cabinet, the room was bare.
The final step was a close examination of the front room. Here the
blood spot stood out dark and forbidding in the light of the
afternoon sun. Beyond the fact that the shot had taken effect, it
told nothing. Morgan stood in thought with his eyes resting upon the
brick fireplace. Suddenly the descending sun threw its rays farther
into the room and rested on a bright spot at the side of the
fireplace. It looked odd to Morgan and he approached it. What he
found was a flattened bullet, which had been held in place by
slightly embedding itself in the rough surface of the brick. As
evidence it had small value outside of confirming the fact that a
shot had been actually fired in this apartment.
Finding nothing else with a bearing on the case, Morgan started to
leave. At the doorway to the entrance hall, he stopped and turned to
take one last look around the room in the hope that something might
suggest itself. As he stood making this last survey, his eye caught
a faint point of light under a cabinet in a corner. Instantly he
returned to the room, and stooping down, ran his hand under the
cabinet. His fingers seized on a small object, which proved to be a
gold cuff button. As he turned it over in his hand he found the
initial "M" deeply engraved in the heavy gold.
Remembering that he had learned from the report in his pocket that
the name of the tenant of this apartment was Ames, this discovery
immediately assumed great importance, so Morgan carefully placed the
cuff button in a vest pocket.
Encouraged by his find, Morgan made another careful examination of
the room. The flattened bullet and the cuff button, revealed by
friendly rays of sunlight, seemed to be all that he could find.
CHAPTER IV
THE APARTMENT ACROSS THE HALL
After replacing the padlock and snapping it closed, Morgan pressed
the electric button of the apartment across the hall. Footsteps
sounded in immediate response, and the next moment the door was
furtively opened. Morgan, who by that time was leaning carelessly
against the jamb, quietly moved one foot forward into the opening.
Although the light in the hallway was dim he could see that the
woman who stood there was young and remarkably pretty. Removing his
hat, he asked politely, "Are you the tenant here?"
"Yes," came in a soft but nervous voice.
"May I come in and talk with you a few minutes?" inquired Morgan.
"What is it you want?" the girl inquired.
Morgan threw back his coat and disclosed his badge. "I am a city
detective, and I would like a few words with you about this affair
across the hall."
"What affair is that?" asked the girl.
Morgan smiled. "Didn't you know there was some trouble across the
hall last night?"
"No," she returned. "I retired early and have heard nothing about
it."
Morgan was at a loss for a moment. The girl was not of the type that
one would associate with persons of a criminal sort. Her replies had
been given in a tone of voice so candid and wondering that it hardly
seemed possible she could be acting. Whatever the situation,
however, Morgan wanted to get inside this apartment and study the
girl more closely.
"Well, I'll tell you all about it," he said, gently, "if you'll let
me come in for a moment or two."
"I know nothing about it," she maintained, with a touch of
irritation in her voice, and Morgan's foot signaled to him that she
was attempting to close the door.
Morgan never liked to be rough in his methods. He hesitated over
forcing himself into the presence of this young woman, and yet he
now had an impression that an interview with her was imperative.
There was a slight pause, as he ran over in his mind some way to
gain his entrance without force.
"Do you know Mr. Marsh downstairs?" he inquired, suddenly, his eyes
keeping a keen watch on her face.
"I do not know any of the tenants in the building."
"That's strange," said Morgan, thoughtfully. "I was just talking
with Mr. Marsh, and he told me that you knew all about the trouble
last night. He suggested that if I would come and see you I could
get just the information I wanted."
"I don't know this Mr. Marsh, and I can't understand why he should
make such a statement." Surprise was apparent in her voice.
Morgan was quite sure that her surprise was genuine. At the same
time his remarks had just the effect he had hoped they would. It
brought a new element into the matter and added to the girl's
natural curiosity. She opened the door wider, and nodding toward the
front room, said, "Step in and tell me what you wish to know."
The room into which Morgan entered was a counterpart of the one
across the hall, though as he rapidly observed the furnishings, he
was impressed with the greater taste displayed and the homelike
atmosphere. A piece of embroidery, on which she had evidently been
working, lay on the arm of a chair near the window.
Conjecturing that she would resume her seat in this chair, Morgan
seated himself where he could keep his back to the window, while the
girl whom he was about to question would directly face the full
light. Morgan's guess was correct. The girl went directly to the
chair she had left to answer his ring, and taking up her embroidery,
picked nervously at its edges, meanwhile watching Morgan
expectantly.
Surmising that a direct attempt to question her at once might defeat
his purpose, Morgan immediately broke into an account of the
previous night's occurrence. As he brought out the various details
of what was reported to have taken place, he slyly watched her face.
At the end of his recital, he felt convinced that what he told the
girl had previously been unknown to her. Moreover, Morgan became
sensible of a growing feeling of interest and confidence in the
girl. Her sweetness seemed so genuine, her dark blue eyes so frank
and honest in the straightforward way they met his.
"It seems very strange that I heard none of the excitement,"
remarked the girl, when Morgan had finished his story. "I had a
rather busy day yesterday with my studies and retired early."
Morgan had decided upon his line of questioning while relating the
incidents of the night before.
"May I ask your name?"
"Certainly," she replied. "My name is Atwood."
Morgan, having noticed the absence of a wedding ring, assumed that
she was unmarried. Therefore, he said, "Is your mother at home, Miss
Atwood?"
A shade of sadness passed over her face. "My mother died some months
ago," she replied.
"I am sorry. I know what it is to have a good mother," sympathized
Morgan. Then he inquired, "Perhaps your father heard the
disturbance?"
"Oh no," she replied. "My father is away."
"He travels?"
"Yes; my father is a salesman."
"For some Chicago house, I suppose."
"No; for a business house in St. Louis. We formerly lived there."
"St. Louis is a pleasant city," commented Morgan. "Still, many
people prefer Chicago."
"Oh, I think I should prefer to live in St. Louis, because I have a
few friends there," she said. "But I am studying music, and when my
mother died, father suggested that I live in Chicago where I could
attend a better musical college. Then, too, father could get home
more often as he travels in this vicinity."
"I suppose your father travels for some well known St. Louis house?"
suggested Morgan.
"Well, really, I don't know the name of his firm," returned the
girl. "Business has never held any interest for me."
It struck Morgan as strange that even a girl who did not take an
interest in business should be ignorant of the name of the firm by
whom her father was employed, yet he seemed to find many things that
were contradictory in this girl. The chatty line of conversation he
had taken was bringing out information in a manner highly
satisfactory to Morgan. He was about to make another comment, that
might elicit further facts, when he was interrupted by a question
which he had been expecting.
"Tell me," inquired Miss Atwood, a slight color coming to her
cheeks, "what this man Marsh said about me."
Morgan was pleased. This gave him an opening for some questioning
which he had hesitated to take up before. He wanted to know just how
much this girl knew about Marsh. "Don't you really know Mr. Marsh?"
he began.
"No," she replied. "I didn't even know there was such a person in
the house."
"Well, that is certainly strange. I'm sure that he told me to talk
to the young lady on the top floor. Perhaps he meant some young lady
who lived across the hall. Still, there doesn't seem to have been
anyone there since the trouble."
Miss Atwood smiled. "He could not have meant anyone in that
apartment, for I understand it is occupied only by an elderly
couple, a Mr. Ames and his wife. I understood father to say that he
had heard they were traveling in Europe. I am sure no one has lived
there since we have been in this apartment."
"How long have you been here?" asked Morgan.
"Let me see," said Miss Atwood, thoughtfully. "This is almost the
end of October, and we have been here since the middle of July. That
is a little over three months, isn't it?"
"July," repeated Morgan. "That isn't a renting season. You must rent
this apartment furnished."
"We do," she replied, promptly. "Father was too busy to spend any
time on moving, so we stored our things in St. Louis and took this
apartment."
"Real estate agents have been making lots of money these days. I
hear a great many people have to pay them a bonus for finding
apartments. I suppose they stuck you that way, too."
"No," returned the girl. "I understand that father rented direct
from the tenant. I believe the tenant was a friend of his, or
someone he knew in a business way."
The embroidery which had been lying in Miss Atwood's lap had
gradually slipped forward and at this moment dropped to the floor.
As she reached down to pick it up, Morgan's alert eyes noted a
purplish mark on her forearm.
"You seem to have bruised your arm, Miss Atwood," he said, in a tone
that was intended to express sympathy.
"Oh, did you notice that mark?" she exclaimed. "That has been
puzzling me all day. I awoke suddenly last night with a feeling as
if something had bitten me, but almost immediately went to sleep
again. During the morning I noticed this mark and the swelling. I
can't imagine what could have done it."
"May I look at it?" asked Morgan, as he rose and approached her.
"Perhaps I can suggest something."
She extended her arm, and Morgan, taking her hand, drew the arm
close to him. He carefully studied the spot. The only time he had
ever seen such marks before was on the arms of drug addicts who had
not been particularly careful in the application of the hypodermic
needle.
"So you think it is a bite of some kind?" asked Morgan, looking
keenly at her.
"I can't imagine what else it could be," she replied.
Morgan dropped her hand and looked out of the window for a moment.
There was no doubt in his mind that the mark had been made by a
hypodermic needle, yet it was the only mark of the kind that he
could see on her arm, and therefore would hardly seem to indicate
that the girl was a drug fiend. Moreover, there had bean no
indication of embarrassment or nervousness in her reference to the
mark, as would undoubtedly have been the case had she been addicted
to the use of a drug. Morgan realized, too, that the fresh pink and
white skin of this girl, and the bright eyes, could not be
maintained if drugs were taken. The case was growing more puzzling
every minute. Had the use of a hypodermic needle on this girl
anything to do with the supposed tragedy across the hall?
After this discovery, Morgan hesitated to ask further questions at
this time, so he turned to the girl again and remarked, simply, "It
is possible that some kind of spider bit you in the night. If you
have any peroxide in the house, I would suggest that you bathe the
spot with it. And now I must be going. If I have your permission,
Miss Atwood, I would like to drop in again sometime to let you know
about any further discoveries I may make on this case."
"Thank you," she returned. "I shall be interested."
As he turned to say good-bye at the door, she added, apologetically,
"I am sorry I had no information to give you."
"Oh, that's all right," Morgan assured her, "I appreciate your
courtesy in letting me have this little chat with you." But as he
drew the door to after him, Morgan smiled and said to himself, "Poor
little girl; you don't realize what a lot of information you have
given me."
CHAPTER V
PECULIAR FACTS
When Morgan reached the second floor on his way down, he paused a
moment before Marsh's door. So far as he had gone in this case,
Morgan was confronted with two factors; the connection of this man
with the case, and the bearing which Miss Atwood and her father
might have upon it. Without doubt, some singular conditions
surrounded the Atwoods, but his knowledge of these was still too
vague to give him even a basis for reasoning. On the other hand, the
questionable circumstances surrounding the connection of this man
Marsh with the case, were very definite, indeed, and though Morgan
tried to avoid hasty conclusions, he could not keep back his growing
suspicions of Marsh. As he hesitated before Marsh's door, Morgan
thought that it moved slightly. Stepping closer and pushing the door
gently with an outstretched hand, he found it tightly closed. Yet,
he had a feeling that the door had been softly closed after he had
stopped on the landing. That decided Morgan. The time was not
opportune for an interview with this man. He wanted to obtain some
additional facts before taking the step he was now convinced would
have to be taken, and so went on down the stairs to carry his
investigations further.
Leaving the house, Morgan turned the corner of Lawrence Avenue and
entered the alleyway in the rear of the Hillcrest apartments.
Practically all Chicago apartment houses have an outside rear
stairway for the use of tradespeople. Usually, this stairway is open
so that anything which takes place can be observed from all nearby
houses. In this instance the stairway was enclosed, with a door
leading to the back porch of each apartment. A person could pass
from the alley up to the third floor without being noticed, even by
tenants in the building itself.
Morgan instantly noted that an automobile could stand in the
alleyway close to the entrance; that a person could come down these
stairs unobserved, step into the car and be quietly carried away,
disappearing into the general traffic of the streets in probably not
more than two minutes after leaving the apartment.
Here, thought Morgan, was a possible solution of the sudden
disappearance of the person who had been either murdered or wounded.
It was a problem, of course, as to which door they had been brought
through, and the solution of that problem would very likely bring
him pretty close to the person or persons who had participated in
the events of the night before.
Unquestionably, the rear door of the apartment where the trouble had
taken place had not been used for this purpose, although it would
seem the logical and quickest way to make an exit. On the other
hand, for that very reason, the persons back of the supposed crime
had been clever enough to avoid it, thus adding a mystifying element
to what had taken place.
In the light of present developments, two possible exits suggested
themselves to Morgan. These were the Atwood and Marsh apartments.
The girl, however, claimed that she had slept through the night, and
it hardly seemed possible that anyone could pass through her flat
without arousing her. This, of course, meant taking for granted her
story that she was alone in the apartment and had been in bed and
sleeping. While Morgan felt attracted toward the girl, and placed
considerable confidence in her honesty, he did not allow these
emotions to entirely dull his sense of suspicion. If things did not
clear themselves shortly he would carry his investigations further
along this line.
In the meantime, his distrust centered on the Marsh apartment. This
man admitted being awake during the reported struggle, and there was
no question about his being partly dressed and in action while some
of the events were taking place. Marsh could easily have passed a
person or a body to a confederate through his back door, locked the
door and then hurried into Sheridan Road to direct the attention of
the police, or any other persons who had been aroused, to the front
of the house, thus enabling his confederate to get quietly, safely
and quickly away. This was only bare theory on Morgan's part. He
needed definite facts to either confirm this theory, or to prove
that his judgment was at fault. The cuff button, with its initial
"M," looked curiously like one of these facts, and, taken in
connection with the other circumstances, pointed strongly toward
Marsh.
He wanted to know more about Marsh, and the girl had given him some
basic facts which would enable him to enlarge his fund of
information. The owner, or the real estate agent who managed the
building, seemed to be the logical starting point for securing this
information. To find out the names of these people must be his next
step.
Luckily, at this moment the janitor of the apartment building
appeared, rolling a barrel of ashes up from the basement. While it
was quite obvious that such was the case, Morgan opened the
conversation by inquiring, "Are you the janitor of this flat house?"
"Yes, sir," replied the man.
"Does the owner run this building, or has he placed an agent in
charge?"
"A real estate agent manages it," the janitor informed him. "Parker
Cole--over on Broadway."
"Thanks," said Morgan, and returned down the alley to Lawrence
Avenue where he turned west and walked over to Broadway. A few
minutes later he stood at the counter in the real estate office, and
a man approached him.
"Is either Mr. Parker or Mr. Cole in?"
"I am Mr. Cole," announced the man. "What can I do for you?"
Morgan opened his coat a minute to give Cole a glimpse of his badge;
then said, "I would like to talk confidentially with you for a few
minutes."
"Step into my private office," directed Cole, opening a gate as he
spoke, and indicating a space partitioned off at the rear.
"What is the trouble?" he inquired, when they were seated.
"I came to see you in connection with the trouble in the Hillcrest
last night."
"A most unfortunate affair!" exclaimed Cole. "It is the first time
anything of the kind ever occurred in any of the buildings under our
management. It is most unfortunate," he repeated.
"I have been assigned to the case," Morgan informed him, "and I am
gathering all the information possible. Then I can formulate some
theory upon which to work. Just at this time I want a little
information regarding your tenants in the building."
"Very fine people--very fine people, indeed," protested Cole. "There
couldn't be a breath of suspicion against any of them."
"I'll be the judge of that," said Morgan, sharply.
"But really," cried Cole, "you must not annoy our tenants. Surely it
was only a quarrel among burglars. One man probably wounded his pal
and then, alarmed at the disturbance he had created, hurried him
away."
Morgan smiled. This was a very ingenious and plausible solution of
the mystery--at least in the real estate agent's eyes. However,
Morgan now sought facts, not amateur theories, and disregarding the
real estate man's talk, he pushed his quest for information.
"I have a report in my pocket which covers all that I want to know
about most of your tenants; at least for the present. There are two
families, however, about whom I want further information. The first
is the Atwood family, in the third floor south."
"Atwood--Atwood," repeated Cole, as if he did not place the name.
Then he called, "Joe, bring me the rent book."
Morgan became alert. It was possible that a man like Cole, with a
large list of properties under his management, might be somewhat
vague in his recollection of the names of a few of his tenants. This
case was different. The Atwoods, according to the girl's story, had
sub-leased their apartment quite recently, presumably with the
agent's sanction. The present excitement should naturally have
recalled this matter to Cole's mind--should even have concentrated
his thoughts upon the names and characteristics of every tenant in
this particular building. Cole's unfamiliarity with the name of
Atwood, therefore, seemed peculiar.
At this moment a boy entered with a large volume. Laying it on
Cole's desk, the boy passed quietly out of the office. Cole glanced
at the index and then turned over certain pages in the book.
"We have no Atwood in that house," he declared, finally, looking up
at Morgan. "You must have made a mistake."
Before replying, Morgan pulled out a small notebook and spread it
open on his knee, ready for use. He also extracted a pencil from his
vest pocket. Glancing at the point to see that it was in working
condition, he turned to Cole with the question, "Who does occupy the
third floor south in that house?"
"A family named Crocker."
"Full name, please."
"Joseph Crocker. He rented that apartment one year ago the first of
this month," stated Cole, after further reference to the book.
Morgan jotted this down in his notebook.
"You haven't heard that Mr. Crocker sub-leased his flat?" inquired
Morgan.
"No," replied Cole, positively. "I would be sure to know about it,
too. A transaction of that kind must be put through and reported in
this office."
"Can you give me any further particulars about Mr. Crocker?"
"Well, of course, I could look up his references and the other
papers, if you wish me to. But as I recall it, he came from St.
Louis and had excellent references from that city."
"I won't bother you to look anything more up on that just now," said
Morgan. "I may be interested in the information later. I'll see what
I can find out first."
"How did you come to associate the name of Atwood with that
apartment?" inquired Cole.
"I thought that was the name mentioned in the report I have. It was
probably a mistake of the man who first went through the building.
They often make mistakes in names," Morgan added, reassuringly, as
it was not his desire to start Cole on any investigation of his own
at this time. "Now, what can you tell me about the Marsh family,
second floor north?"
"Well, there's a party I can tell you more about. It made an
impression upon me at the time we rented the apartment, because we
had to make special arrangements."
"Yes," said Morgan, encouragingly.
"You see," continued Cole, "owing to a death in the family, the
people who occupied that apartment moved out in July, and I sublet
the apartment for them from the first of August, to a Mr. Gordon
Marsh. Mr. Marsh, I understand, was driven off his ranch in Mexico
by the revolutionists. As he knew practically no one in the United
States to whom he could refer, we finally compromised by his
agreeing to pay his rent quarterly in advance."
"How much of a family has he?" asked Morgan.
"Only his wife," returned Cole. "That was one reason we were willing
to come to terms with him. We like small families; like Mr. Ames,
who rents the apartment where this trouble occurred."
Morgan welcomed this mention of Ames. It gave him an opening for
further questions regarding this tenant. He was not overlooking the
fact that the Ames family might in some way be connected with the
affair.
"I suppose Mr. Ames and his wife are still away?" he inquired.
"Yes," returned Cole. "We received his October rent through his
London bankers, White, Wyth, Harding; and only a few days ago, a
letter referring to some decorating to be done when he returns next
month. By the way, why are you particularly interested in these
families?"
"Just happen to be people we didn't get reports on at the building,
that is all. Our reports on a case of this kind have to be
complete."
"Quite right--quite right," approved Cole, his curiosity evidently
satisfied.
"Mr. Marsh and Mr. Ames are friends, are they not?" queried Morgan,
casually, as he noted down in his book what Cole had recently told
him.
"Not so far as I know. In fact, it hardly could be possible,
inasmuch as Mr. Ames and his wife went abroad before Mr. Marsh
arrived in Chicago."
CHAPTER VI
THE CABLE FROM LONDON
After leaving the real estate office, Morgan walked south on
Broadway to Wilson Avenue and entered the Western Union office. Here
he sent a short cable to London. Leaving his address so that the
reply could be forwarded to him, he went across the street and took
an elevated train for home.
After dinner Morgan settled down in his favorite chair to await
Tierney, who had telephoned that he would be there in a little
while. As he was filling his pipe for the second time, the bell
rang. Morgan opened the door and Tierney bustled in. The cheerful
smile, the snappy step, and the careless motion with which Tierney
shot his hat into a nearby chair, told Morgan as plainly as words,
that his partner brought worth while information. Tierney pulled an
easy chair up to the table, and Morgan pushed the tobacco jar and an
extra pipe over to him. Tierney filled the pipe, lighted up, and
settling back, grinned at Morgan.
"I may have exceeded orders, but I've sure got some dope on that
guy, Marsh. You told me to find out what I could about Atwood. I
visited various stores in the neighborhood which a family was likely
to patronize. No one knew the name. After I had stopped in a cigar
store, and found that his name was not in the telephone directory, I
figured that there was nothing more I could do along that line until
I'd talked things over with you. So I decided to hang around in
sight of the house and watch developments."
"At a quarter to three a young woman came out, walked down to
Lawrence Avenue and stood on the corner, apparently waiting for a
motor bus. As she did not look like anyone I had seen in the house,
I gave her the once-over."
"Was she about medium height, slender, with blonde hair and dark
blue eyes?" questioned Morgan.
"Well, I didn't get close enough to gaze fondly into her eyes," said
Tierney, "but the rest of your description fits all right. Do you
know who she is?"
"Probably Miss Atwood," Morgan explained, "daughter of the tenant in
the flat across the hall. In the future it will do no harm to keep
one eye on her, Tierney."
"I kept both eyes on her today, Morgan, and that's the way I got the
dope I did."
Morgan smiled appreciatively, and Tierney went on.
"As I was saying, I watched this girl as she waited for the bus.
Suddenly I glanced toward the house, and there was this guy, Marsh,
standing just inside the doorway. To me it looked as if he was
trying to keep an eye on this girl, without her seeing him if she
looked back. So I kept out of sight as far as I could and watched
the two of them. Sure enough, in about one minute along comes the
bus and the girl gets in. Would you believe it, Morgan, that very
minute Marsh dashes across the street, nails an empty taxi and
starts after the bus."
"Now, I ain't as quick as you, Morgan, but I sure figured that my
cue was to join the procession. Luck was with me, for the minute I
got this idea I spotted a Checker taxi and rushed at it so hard the
driver nearly fainted. 'Follow that Yellow ahead!' I yelled to the
driver, and before he came to a full stop I had jumped in and we
were off."
"We trailed down Sheridan Road, through Lincoln Park, and on to
Michigan Avenue--the girl in the bus, Marsh in the Yellow, and me in
the Checker. Just after we passed Adams Street the Yellow stopped at
the curb and Marsh got out. I stopped my cab quick, and as I saw
that Marsh was paying off his driver, I settled with mine and got
ready for the next move."
"Marsh started down Michigan Avenue, and I could keep pretty close
on account of the crowd. Pretty soon I sighted this girl trotting
along a little way ahead of us. Now, there's a situation for you,
Morgan--Marsh trailing the girl and me trailing Marsh."
At this point Morgan's interest was shown by the fact that he sat
forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees, and for the
moment forgot to pull at his pipe.
Tierney continued. "The girl turns into a building at six hundred
and something Michigan Avenue--I've got the exact number in my book.
Marsh strolls over to the curb, while I, taking advantage of his
back being turned for the moment, shot into the building after her.
She entered an elevator, and I strolled in, too. Luckily, she stood
near the door, so I could get into the back of the car and not be
specially noticed. She got off at a musical school. As we had been
the only two people in the elevator, I took a chance, and said to
the man running it, 'Some looker!'"
"'Yes,' he says, 'a fine looking girl. She comes here twice a
week.'"
"'Well,' says I, 'that's a good thing for women--to learn music. How
long do they teach them?'"
"'You mean, how long does a lesson last?' he asked me."
"'Yes,' I told him."
"'Oh, about a half-hour,' he says. 'Say! What floor do you want?' he
shot at me as he reached the top."
"'Good Lord!' I says, winking at him. 'That dame sure upset me. I
want to go back two floors.'"
"When he let me out I hustled over to the stairway, went down to the
ground floor, and when Marsh had his eyes turned away for a minute,
I beat it out and up Michigan."
"Now, Morgan, here's where I was clever. That girl was good for a
half-hour and so was Marsh, if he was following her; as I was pretty
sure he was. Now you or I haven't seen all of the inside of Marsh's
apartment, have we? And yet we suspect this guy, and want to get
something on him if we can."
Morgan nodded, and began to smile as he gathered what Tierney was
about to tell him.
"Well, Morgan, I figured that a half-hour would give me all the time
I needed, so I ran over to the elevated and went back to Lawrence
Avenue. I slipped up the alleyway, back of the house, and climbed
the rear stairs to Marsh's flat. After thumping on the door several
times I made sure no one was home, especially as the shades in the
kitchen and the pantry were pulled down. So I pulled out my bunch of
keys and had the luck to find one that opened the lock. I closed the
door softly, and tiptoed through the kitchen and the dining room.
Would you believe it, Morgan--THERE WASN'T A STICK OF FURNITURE IN
THOSE ROOMS!"
"You mean the place was empty?" asked Morgan.
"Up to the entrance to the hallway it was absolutely bare, Morgan.
The living room is furnished, and so is the bedroom; and there were
a few toilet articles in the bathroom. He has a pair of heavy drapes
across the doorway to the dining room, so that anyone coming in
would never guess the back part wasn't furnished. I looked things
over pretty carefully in the few minutes I had, and I didn't find a
single article that belonged to a woman. I tell you, Morgan, that
fellow's living there alone and only got half the flat furnished!
Take it from me, he's got something on. That flat's just a blind. If
it was me, I'd lock him up tonight."
"Well, it's coming pretty soon, Tierney," acceded Morgan. "What
you've found out today will help a lot."
There was a few minutes pause as the two men smoked their pipes, and
Morgan analyzed the facts which Tierney had given him. Suddenly he
leaned over and picked up the telephone from the tabouret.
"What's doing?" exclaimed Tierney.
"We shouldn't leave that man Marsh unwatched from now on," explained
Morgan.
"I know it, Morgan, and I've taken care of all that."
"You mean the house is watched?"
"Sure," said Tierney. "The minute I got out of the flat this
afternoon I telephoned the captain of the precinct and told him just
enough to get his co-operation. There's a man on the job now and he
won't leave there, unless he follows Marsh, until I relieve him in
the morning."
"There's one drawback to that," observed Morgan, as he set the
telephone back in place. "No one knows Marsh except you."
"There's a man knows him better than I do--Murphy, the man on the
beat. He spent quite a spell with Marsh last night."
"That's right," agreed Morgan. "How did you fix it?"
"The Captain put another man on Murphy's beat, and put Murphy into
plain-clothes for tonight. It worked all right, because Murphy was a
night man anyway."
"You're all right, Tierney," Morgan complimented him.
Tierney grinned his appreciation.
"Now then, Tierney," went on Morgan, "you relieve Murphy in the
morning, and watch things until I can get on the job. After I
relieve you, you get in touch with Headquarters and have some
fingerprint photos taken."
"Did you find finger prints?" exclaimed Tierney, sitting up with a
start.
"No," explained Morgan, "but I found the marks of the sides of
somebody's hands on the dining room table in that flat. I want them
prepared and photographed just as if they were fingerprints."
"But you can't identify anybody by marks of that kind," remarked
Tierney, with an inquiring note in his voice.
"Probably not," Morgan returned. "I haven't the slightest idea how I
could make use of such a photo now. But I want to provide against
anything that may turn up. The marks are there, and we might as well
have a record of them."
Tierney opened his mouth to reply, but at that instant Morgan held
up a warning hand.
In many of the older and smaller apartments, such as the one
occupied by Morgan, the door from the main hall opens directly into
the living room. Such was the arrangement here, and Morgan slowly
turned his head toward this door and listened intently. Then he
carefully arose from his chair, moved softly around the corner of
the table, and slowly tiptoed toward the door. Tierney had not heard
a sound, yet he instantly became as alert as Morgan. He stood ready
for a quick move, if necessary, while his right hand rested on the
butt of the revolver in his hip pocket.
At that moment there was a quite audible sound outside the door.
Morgan leaped forward and threw the door open. With the sound of the
opening door both men heard somebody break into a hasty descent of
the stairs. Morgan dashed through the door and down the stairs.
Tierney followed close behind him. Before they reached the front
door they heard the roar of an opened muffler and an accelerated
engine, and by the time they reached the front steps there was
nothing to be seen except the black shadow of an automobile without
lights rapidly disappearing down Sheffield Avenue.
"Well, I'm damned!" growled Tierney, as the car disappeared.
Morgan said nothing, but stood thoughtfully gazing down the street.
"What do you make of it?" inquired Tierney.
"Let's go up again," suggested Morgan, without replying to the
question.
Back in the living room, the men resumed their seats, and spoke in
lowered voices.
"It's hard to tell what it means," Morgan at last replied. "That's
the first time anything of the kind ever happened to me."
"How did you get wise?" asked Tierney.
"I heard the door move several times," Morgan explained. "At first I
thought it was the wind, but the last time I heard it I was sure it
had a different sound. It seemed to me that somebody had leaned
against the door while trying to listen."
"By God!" exclaimed Tierney. "This is SOME case, Morgan. Are we
spying on somebody, or is somebody spying on us? Marsh trails a
girl; I chase up Marsh; and now I'm damned if I don't think
somebody's chasing me, too."
"It begins to look like a bigger case than I thought, Tierney. An
ordinary murderer usually gets out of town or lays low. Quite likely
somebody is afraid we will unearth more than a murder. You run along
now. I want to be alone to think things over. On your way home stop
off and look up Murphy. Find out whether or not Marsh has left the
house tonight. Telephone me what you find out."
"Sure thing," answered Tierney, and picking up his hat, hurried
away.
Morgan sat down in his chair and began to refill his pipe. After
lighting it, he settled back into his chair and meditated on the
case. Reviewing in his mind the various bits of fact, information
and incident which he now had at hand, he endeavored to separate or
combine them according to their direct bearing upon the case.
In his earlier days Morgan had learned that a criminal case was
something like a dusty roadway. Many tracks crossed and re-crossed
one another, becoming just a bewildering mass to the untrained eye.
In the present instance, the situation in the Atwood apartment had
queer aspects which seemed to connect it with the incident of the
night before. The suspicious points were not so glaringly apparent,
perhaps, as the circumstances which connected the man Marsh, but
they were there just the same. While the Atwood situation attracted
Morgan, he was inclined to believe that he had actually uncovered
some other situation; of a criminal nature, perhaps, but not
associated with his present investigations. To one unfamiliar with
crime, the incident of Marsh following the girl might have seemed to
form a connection, but Morgan realized that if there was anything
between the Atwoods and Marsh, the latter would hardly have been
secretly following Miss Atwood.
On the other hand, it was quite possible that a clever criminal, of
the type he now suspected Marsh to be, having successfully
accomplished one job, might have another in mind, which he thought
he could execute before forced to make his final getaway. Instead of
attributing this incident to a connection between the Atwoods and
Marsh, Morgan figured that it weighed somewhat in the Atwoods'
favor, while still further incriminating the man Marsh.
At this point in his reflections the telephone bell rang, and
answering it, Morgan heard Tierney's voice.
"I've just seen Murphy," reported Tierney. "He says that Marsh came
home about seven-thirty and has not been out since; unless he
slipped out the back door. This doesn't seem likely as there is
another man watching the rear. He don't know Marsh, but he would
find out before he let anyone go. Murphy says he has seen a shadow
pass the windows several times during the evening, and we are pretty
sure that Marsh is the only person in that flat."
"All right," replied Morgan. They exchanged good-byes, and Morgan
replaced the telephone on the tabouret.
Settling back into his chair once more, Morgan came to the
conclusion that one or more of Marsh's confederates of the night
before had simply been endeavoring to get information so as to warn
Marsh whether or not he was suspected. Morgan knew that, as usual,
he and Tierney had talked in guarded voices, so he felt confident
that little, if any, of their conversation had been overheard. It
was the anxiety of the person on the other side of the door to try
and catch their words which had led him to lean heavily against the
door and so warn Morgan of his presence. Morgan felt fairly certain
that he would find Marsh at home the next day, and after that, if
any reports could be conveyed to him, they would be of little use.
Piecing together, one by one, the various bits of evidence he had
accumulated against Marsh, convinced Morgan that this was the man he
wanted. The flattened bullet, the cigarette ashes, and the hand
marks could not identify anyone. The cuff button, however, with its
initial "M" was more direct in its accusation. It might be the
principal hold on the suspect. Morgan admitted that the evidence was
purely circumstantial, and that there was really nothing in it to
convict a man in a court of law, but there was enough evidence to
take Marsh up on suspicion, and past experience made him confident
that once he had this man at Headquarters, the usual grilling would
extract enough information from him to lead them to sufficient
evidence of a positive nature.
There was, of course, still a doubt as to whether or not an actual
crime had been committed. But something surely had happened, and
Morgan began to feel that the next day would throw considerable
light on what it was.
Having reached these conclusions, and a determination to visit Marsh
the next day and take him into custody, Morgan went to bed.
At the first note from his alarm clock the next morning, Morgan
jumped promptly out of bed. After awakening his mother so that she
could get his breakfast, he hastily dressed.
Just as he was swallowing the last of his coffee there came a
prolonged ring at the bell. His mother went to the door, and
returned with a Western Union envelope. "My final bit of evidence!"
exclaimed Morgan, as he hurriedly tore off the end of the envelope
and read the cablegram within. It was brief and to the point, and
read just as Morgan had anticipated it would.
Marsh unknown to me. Ames.
CHAPTER VII
MR. MARSH
Morgan had hardly expected such an early reply when he sent his
inquiry to Mr. Ames regarding his acquaintance with Marsh. It was
possible, however, that Mr. Ames had made an early morning call on
his London bankers, and had immediately dispatched his reply. Morgan
was glad that it had arrived at this opportune moment. With Murphy
to testify that Marsh had claimed Ames as a friend, and with this
cablegram to prove the falsity of the claim, he had at least one
unanswerable piece of evidence of a suspicious nature to warrant his
proposed action against the man.
Bidding his mother good-bye, Morgan hurried around to the elevated
station. He purchased a package of cigarettes at the news stand, and
climbed the steps two at a time to catch a train he heard
approaching. A few minutes later he got off at the Wilson Avenue
station, crossed Wilson Avenue to Sheridan Road, and turning north
soon spotted Tierney at the corner of Lawrence Avenue.
"Hello," Morgan greeted him. "Any news?"
"No," replied Tierney. "I relieved Murphy at six o'clock this
morning, and another man has taken up the watch in the alleyway.
Murphy saw nothing of Marsh, and he said the light went out in his
flat about 10:30. The man who watched the alleyway didn't see a soul
except the milkman. Marsh came out a little while ago and I followed
him. He had a quick breakfast in the waffle shop just below here,
and I trailed him back again."
"I guess I'll find my man in, all right," said Morgan. "I'll go up
now. You tell the man in the alleyway to keep his eyes open while
I'm inside. In about ten minutes, if he doesn't hear anything from
me, he can come up and wait outside Marsh's door. We'll leave him
there that long in case Marsh should try to slip out the back way
when he hears me at the door. If he doesn't hear from me in ten
minutes he can be sure that I got in. He will then probably be more
useful close at hand in the event that anything should slip up.
After you tell him what to do, you can go ahead with the
photographs."
Tierney nodded in acknowledgment of these instructions and started
back to the alleyway. Morgan entered the apartment house, climbed
the stairs to Marsh's door, and rang the bell. Marsh immediately
opened the door. It seemed to Morgan as if Marsh must have been
standing there awaiting his ring, yet how could the man have
suspected Morgan's intention to call on him at this time? It looked
strangely like the man had been on watch at the door.
"Good morning," said Marsh.
"Good morning," returned Morgan. "I want to have a little talk with
you."
Marsh invited him in with a pleasant ring in his voice, and
indicated the living room with a motion of his hand. Morgan entered
and sat down on a chair close to the entrance, laying his hat on the
floor by the chair. Marsh watched Morgan sit down in this
strategical location, and then, with a slight smile, strolled across
and seated himself in a big chair near the fireplace. Resting his
elbows on the arms of the chair, and interlacing his fingers in
front of him, he looked at Morgan.
"Well?" he said.
Morgan unbuttoned his coat and exhibited his badge. "I am Detective
Sergeant Morgan of the Chicago Police Department."
"Oh, yes--Dave Morgan."
Morgan looked at Marsh sharply. "You've heard of me before, have
you?" he said.
"Not until early Tuesday morning," smiled Marsh. "Then I heard one
of the policemen refer to the fact that this would be a job for Dave
Morgan. Evidently you have quite a reputation here in Chicago, Mr.
Morgan."
"Among crooks--yes," snapped Morgan. The easy attitude of the other
man was just a little puzzling. Morgan, however, was inclined to
attribute it to his confidence that they were not in a position to
actually fasten any guilt upon him. He suspected that the man was
playing a game, and this not only nettled him, but served to
strengthen his suspicions. Morgan went on.
"I have been assigned to this murder case upstairs, Mr. Marsh. After
considerable investigation I find it will be necessary to ask you a
few questions."
Marsh nodded but said nothing.
Morgan sat silent for a moment, as if considering how to begin.
Then, without apparently looking at Marsh, he suddenly said, "It's a
long jump from Mexico to Chicago."
Marsh unclasped his fingers for a moment and looked hard at Morgan.
Morgan caught what he believed to be a start, but gave no indication
that it had made an impression upon him.
"I was wondering," he continued, slowly, "what had brought you such
a long way."
"Obviously, Mr. Morgan, if you know that much about me, you must
also know that I came here on business."
"When do you attend to your business, Mr. Marsh?" asked Morgan, now
looking him in the eye.
"At various times of the day," replied Marsh. "Whenever I can get
appointments with the people I am negotiating with. I don't quite
understand the trend of these questions, but I might say that I was
downtown on business the greater part of yesterday afternoon."
"Does standing on a Michigan Avenue curb constitute the principal
part of your business, Mr. Marsh?"
"Well, I sometimes fill in my time like that until I am sure the
people who are interested in my movements have gone on about their
own business."
It was Morgan's turn to look disconcerted. Evidently he had a clever
man to deal with, and he began to wonder if his present step had not
been too precipitate. He felt sure that it was going to be difficult
to fasten anything on this man. He decided, however, that he had
gone too far to draw back now, and he went on with his questions.
"In the preliminary report which was given me," he said, "I noticed
that you made a statement to the patrolman you called in that the
noise in the flat above aroused both you and your wife."
"Yes," admitted Marsh. "I believe I did say something like that."
"But," added Morgan, "we have not been able to get an interview with
your wife."
"Such an interview would be quite useless. As a matter of fact, she
knows no more, and probably not so much as I do about what took
place."
"You're probably right about that," smiled Morgan, and there was a
sarcastic ring in his voice. "Just the same, I'd like to have a few
words with her."
"You know as well as I do, Mr. Morgan, that that would be
impossible."
Morgan raised his eyebrows. "I don't get you," he said.
"Well, to be more explicit, then, you know that my wife does not
live here."
"Here's a new game," thought Morgan. There was no doubt that Marsh
was openly fencing with him. In fact, the man seemed to know every
move which had been made. At last the super-criminal of literature
seemed to have stepped into actual life. Morgan was certain that
some crime had been committed, and the circumstantial evidence
against this man had been accumulating rapidly. Yet, as he faced him
and thought it over, he realized how intangible was their hold upon
Marsh. Of course, when they got this man down to Headquarters they
might force him to give more explicit details regarding his past and
present actions, but a man so clever as this had probably left
little behind him that would convict him of anything; certainly not
of his connection with whatever had taken place in the apartment
above. The cuff button, even, seemed to be growing doubtful in
value.
These reflections on Morgan's part flashed through his mind so
quickly that there was only the slightest pause between Marsh's last
statement and the next question.
"What would give you that impression?" asked Morgan.
"Your man went through my apartment yesterday, and I'm sure he found
no evidence of a lady occupying it with me."
Morgan found it difficult to conceal his astonishment, not only at
the statement, but the man's intimate knowledge of things of which
he was supposed to be in ignorance. Then he remembered the
clandestine listener at his door, and his doubts of a moment before
took flight.
"It is quite evident," declared Morgan, "that you, or someone
connected with you, have taken an unusual interest in the movements
of the Chicago Police Department. Why?"
"I have taken no special interest in what you have been doing," said
Marsh. "It was not difficult to note that almost from the time I
called the attention of your man on the beat to the occurrence, your
men have been regarding me with suspicion. I cannot possibly
understand why this should be so, but you will admit that it is a
fact, won't you?"
Morgan remained silent.
"I could not help noticing," continued Marsh, "that the man who had
been conducting an investigation in this house was keeping watch
across the street. Happening to glance back after entering a taxicab
yesterday, I observed this man entering another taxi, which followed
mine downtown. It was obvious to the most ordinary intelligence that
he was following me. After I reached the 'loop' district I was
absolutely sure of it. Then, when I returned and found footmarks in
my apartment, it was quite evident that someone had been
investigating."
Morgan was stunned. "Footmarks!" he thought. "Had Tierney been so
clumsy and careless as to enter the flat with muddy shoes?"
Something had to be done to cover an awkward pause, and give him a
chance to gather his wits, so Morgan took out the package of
cigarettes. After helping himself to one, he tossed the package to
Marsh. Morgan noted with satisfaction that the man took one before
handing the package back. Marsh smoked cigarettes!
"Why did you follow Miss Atwood?" Morgan suddenly shot at him.
Marsh's face expressed surprise. "Follow Miss Atwood!" he exclaimed.
"That's what it looked like," asserted Morgan.
"Well, that WAS a strange coincidence," commented Marsh.
Morgan found it hard to determine whether this was a reply or an
evasion. He decided, however, that matters had gone far enough, and
that Marsh must either prove himself innocent, or stay in jail until
they could definitely fasten his guilt upon him. To bring matters to
a head, he reached into his pocket for the cablegram.
"You said that Mr. Ames, the man who rents the flat upstairs, was a
friend of yours."
"I believe I did," admitted Marsh.
"Well, I have a cablegram here from Mr. Ames," stated Morgan, as he
brought out the paper. "Read it."
Marsh leaned forward, took the cablegram, read it gravely, and
returned it to Morgan.
"You have certainly got me tied up," he said.
"Tight as a drum!" agreed Morgan. "The game's up, Marsh. You're
coming with me to Headquarters."
"I'm afraid you have sort of spilled the beans, Morgan," laughed
Marsh, rising.
Morgan, however, was used to the last minute plays of cornered
criminals. Leaning back in his chair, and smiling encouragingly, his
hands, without seeming purpose, were slipped into the side pockets
of his coat. The right hand quickly gripped a revolver in readiness.
"Yes," continued Marsh, "I had hoped to work quietly, but this
incident has upset my plans. Yet, after all, perhaps we can work
together with greater success."
"Now we come to the 'divvy' proposition," thought Morgan. He
remained expectantly silent, however, and his face still wore its
encouraging smile.
Marsh came closer and the end of the concealed revolver barrel moved
upward just a trifle. The next moment the smile on Morgan's face
faded out and his eyes filled with an astonished stare.
Marsh had thrown back his coat, revealing the badge of the United
States Secret Service!
CHAPTER VIII
A DEFINITE CLUE
"You can take your hand off that gun now," suggested Marsh, as he
smiled at Morgan and went back to his chair. "I'll tell you my part
of the story, and perhaps we'll find in the end that two heads are
better than one."
"You have made a big but perhaps a natural mistake. If you doubt my
word in anything I am about to tell you, it will only be necessary
for you to consult the Secret Service branch in the Federal
Building, to confirm my status in this case."
"Without any intention of trying to kid you, Morgan, I want to say
this--you've done some quick and clever work in approximately
twenty-four hours. I realized from the first that things had framed
themselves in a peculiar way against me. Yet, I will say frankly,
that I did not expect a local policeman to put the facts together so
quickly."
"I am only human, Marsh," broke in Morgan, "and your appreciation
sounds good to me. But let's get down to the story."
"Quite right," agreed Marsh. "It begins two years ago. At that time
the Government discovered that counterfeit five-dollar bills were
appearing in the East. They put me on the case and I traced them
from city to city. Suddenly the output seemed to stop. For a time I
was at loose ends, and then I had word that they were appearing
again in St. Louis. I made a quick jump to that city. Counterfeit
five-dollar bills are comparatively easy to pass. A larger bill may
attract attention, but five dollars is a commonly used unit. For
that reason few people could remember and describe the person who
had tendered the bill. But to make a long story short, I finally
brought their source close to a man named Atwood, by finding out
that his daughter Jane occasionally paid for things with this
particular series of counterfeit five-dollar notes."
"I located this man's home, where he lived with his wife and
daughter. Neighbors believed him to be a traveling man as he was
away a great deal. I never got a look at the man, because in some
way he evidently got wind that we were watching him and stayed away
from the house. From neighbors, however, I learned that he was tall,
well built, dark haired and wore a small mustache. Not exactly a
definite description, but one which might help in connection with
other things. Finally, I got a new clue from Detroit, which seemed
to indicate that I would find the man there. It came to nothing,
however, and when I returned to St. Louis I found that Atwood's wife
had died in the meantime--that he had stored his furniture, and his
daughter was living in an hotel. I figured that there was nothing to
do but keep a close watch on her from that time on, and eventually
get in touch with Atwood; then, through him, locate the other
members of the gang. While there was no direct evidence that such
was the case, we know from experience that in a counterfeiting case
there are almost always two or more persons engaged in the work."
"One night this girl gave me the slip, and it took me nearly two
weeks to trace her to Chicago. Keeping watch on places where these
bills occasionally appeared, I recognized her one day, and then
located her in this apartment building. Now experience had shown
that this case was really a game of patience. So far, little had
been accomplished by hanging around the streets and watching the
girl. A vacant apartment in this very building gave me an unusual
opportunity."
"You know, Morgan, there are few crimes that the Government looks on
with such severity as counterfeiting. To apprehend a counterfeiter
they will go to any lengths and spend any amount of money. So I
received permission to rent this apartment. It gave me the advantage
of not only being right in the building constantly, without
attracting special attention, but as I was on the floor below the
suspects, I had an excellent opportunity to keep an eye on all who
passed up and down the stairs. Another fortunate circumstance was
the fact that the apartment over me was unoccupied. There could be
no question as to where people passing up and down the stairs were
going."
"Government men, as you know, Morgan, usually work with the utmost
secrecy. Our own local men were not even supposed to know I was here
unless the time came when I should need help. It was not logical,
therefore, for me to disclose my identity or give any hint of it to
the real estate firm that rented me the apartment. That was why I
posed as a ranch owner from Mexico, here in Chicago for the purpose
of interesting certain financial interests in my property. That left
out the entangling subject of references. Naturally, I did not want
to waste money on the complete furnishing of an apartment which
might be vacated at any moment, so I simply furnished up that part
of it which might come under the eye of a stranger. And certainly
these two rooms afforded me all the comfort that I required."
"But Marsh," interrupted Morgan. "Why did you make those breaks
about your wife, and knowing Ames upstairs?"
"A man in your line of work, Morgan, ought to understand the wife
idea, now that you know some of the facts. A supposedly married man
passes quite unnoticed, but just give the ladies a hint that a
bachelor is in the house and immediately everyone focuses attention
upon him. He is a poor, lonesome man, to be pitied, and every woman
in the house would have lain awake nights figuring how she could
introduce me to a marriageable young woman. So I invented Mrs. Marsh
as a protection."
"I'll admit that my claim of friendship with Ames didn't work out
well in this instance. However, it was an idea conceived in a hurry,
and in the ordinary course of events would have really attracted
little, if any, attention. You realize that I was in this house to
watch certain people without disclosing my identity in any way. I
knew positively that the flat over me was closed and empty. Then I
was awakened suddenly in the night by a most suspicious disturbance.
Naturally, I connected it immediately with the people I was
watching. If I took an active interest in this trouble it might
force my hand, because a moment's consideration will show you that
the connection was only a guess on my part, and MIGHT not be a fact.
My first thought, therefore, was to get the local police on the job
as quickly as possible and still keep in touch with the incident
myself."
"You may ask why I didn't telephone the Police Department, instead
of running into the street. When I looked at my watch I saw that it
was two o'clock, and I knew from observation that a patrolman was
likely to be within a block or two of the house at that hour. On the
other hand, if I telephoned, it might be twenty minutes before your
men arrived, and you know, Morgan, that a lot can happen in twenty
minutes."
"After your man had telephoned for help he was disinclined to have
me butt into the matter any further. Yet, you can see how imperative
it was for me to be on the job as well as your men. The first
thought, and the most logical excuse, which came to my mind, was to
tell the patrolman that the tenant of the flat was a personal friend
of mine. This made it seem perfectly natural for me to follow up his
interests in the matter. As to keeping track of your movements, it
was only natural that I would want to keep in touch with your
progress in the case as much as possible."
"One question, Marsh," said Morgan. "How in thunder could you see my
partner's footsteps, as you said you did, in your apartment?"
Marsh laughed.
"Through a very simple precaution that I have taken ever since I
moved in here--a little talcum powder sprinkled over the dining room
floor. Now, Morgan, I have laid my cards on the table. You can see
the close connection that probably exists between the Atwood
counterfeiting case and whatever took place in the flat over us. If
you have found out anything, outside of what you supposed to be my
connection with the case, I would like to have the information.
"So that you can see how close the connection between the two cases
really is, I will tell you that after your men left Tuesday morning,
I did a little further investigating on my own account, and found
what I believed to be a definite clue to the Atwoods' connection
with the trouble."
"What was that?" asked Morgan.
"A SMALL SMEAR OF BLOOD ON THE DOORKNOB OF THE ATWOOD APARTMENT!"
The fact that Marsh, who had been surrounded by such suspicious
circumstances that Morgan had been enabled to build up one of his
quickest cases, had now turned out to be an operative of the Federal
Government, was one of the most astounding things with which Morgan
had ever met. It was obvious that for once in his life he had
followed persistently on a blind trail, and now found himself only a
little better off than when he started. Naturally, his professional
pride was hurt, but the candid way in which Marsh had, to use his
own words, laid his cards on the table, appealed to Morgan. He felt
that this Government man was both broad-minded and efficient. He
realized that there was surely more to gain by accepting Marsh's
proposition, and working with him, than there would be if each
worked alone, and very probably at cross purposes. The story which
Marsh had told him, the surprising clue he had just offered, and the
facts in his own possession, showed conclusively the close
connection between the affair of the empty apartment and the Atwood
counterfeiting case. Locating the murderer would undoubtedly bring
the counterfeiters to light, and in the same way, locating the
counterfeiters would probably disclose the perpetrator of this now
unquestioned crime.
Morgan covered up these deliberations by getting out his pipe and
tobacco pouch and lighting up. "Now I can talk," he said, as he
leaned back in his chair.
"I may have a few facts that you don't know, Marsh, and now that I
know the whole situation I can see that they will probably be of
some value to you. Or in any event, of value to both of us in the
general working out of the case. For I want to say that I am
satisfied with your suggestion about our working together."
"I called on this Miss Atwood yesterday. While some of the
information which she gave me simply ties up with and confirms your
own story, there was one thing I discovered that may help us. Of
course, in lining up my evidence, I separated the strong points
against you from certain suspicious circumstances connected with the
Atwoods. That girl impressed me so favorably that I could not
definitely connect her with the trouble upstairs. Instead, I was
inclined to believe that I had uncovered something else."
"During my talk with the girl I noticed a peculiar mark on her arm.
I brought the conversation around to that mark, and she told me that
some time during the night of the crime she had been awakened by a
sharp sting in the arm, but had almost immediately gone to sleep
again. Noticing the mark in the morning, she was under the
impression, so she said, that it was a bite, from some kind of
insect--I suggested a spider. But the truth was, Marsh, that mark
was made by a hypodermic needle!"
"In my experience I have come into contact with lots of dope users.
I know just how they act, talk and look--and THAT GIRL IS NOT A DOPE
FIEND. In my opinion there are only two solutions to that mark on
the girl's arm. Either she has not slept well of late, and decided
to use something to help her, or else somebody jabbed her without
her knowledge. The first explanation is hardly likely, because
sleeplessness is treated in other ways. Now that you tell me this
man Atwood is a criminal, and that you found a bloodstain on the
doorknob, I am convinced that someone gave her an injection of
morphine so that this job could be pulled without her knowledge. You
probably know as well as I do, that the small purple mark,
accompanied by the swelling, which I noticed on her arm, would
result only from the hasty and careless use of the hypodermic
needle."
"What you tell me, Morgan," said Marsh, "confirms what I have
thought for some time. That is, that Jane Atwood is only the
innocent tool of her father, and the gang behind him. Perhaps not
even that. She exhibits none of the instincts or earmarks of the
criminal woman, and no woman with easy money at her command would
spend the hours and hard work which she does in the study of music.
Confidentially, Morgan, I like the girl, and what I have just told
you is one of the reasons why I have never attempted to arrest her
and force a confession. I felt that all I could really do was to
keep her under surveillance until such time as I could catch one of
the real criminals getting in touch with her. The father and his
gang have either simply been using her to a limited extent to pass
their counterfeit notes, or else he has included a few with money
which he gave her. Possibly he has maintained her in a home to have
a background of respectability to which he could retire in
emergencies. Letting her use counterfeit notes may have been just
one of the slips of which every criminal is guilty. A really clever
man is also clever enough to know that it doesn't pay to be a
criminal. No matter how long the rope, there is always an end to
it."
"Well," said Morgan, "there's no question that as matters now stand,
that girl is our only working point. I have already called on her,
and disclosed my identity as a detective, so as far as I am
concerned there is little that can be done in that direction. You,
as a tenant in this house, however, could cultivate her acquaintance
without arousing any real suspicions on her part."
"I have been watching for an opportunity to strike up an
acquaintance for a long time," replied Marsh, "but no such
opportunity has as yet presented itself. You can rest assured,
however, that I am ready when it does."
Just then Marsh sat up and listened, as footsteps sounded over their
heads.
"That's all right, Marsh," smiled Morgan. "Those are my men taking
fingerprint photographs. That was the next point I was going to tell
you about--my discoveries in that apartment."
"You found fingerprints?" cried Marsh.
"No, just the marks of the sides of two hands. Apparently not of
much use--but then you never can tell."
Morgan suddenly jumped to his feet. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "that
reminds me. I forgot that I had a man sitting outside on the stairs.
He'll be wondering what has happened." With that Morgan went to the
door and told the plain-clothes man, who had been waiting outside,
that everything was going smoothly and he could go back to the
station. Returning to his chair, Morgan took up the subject of the
clues he had discovered in the apartment. After recounting his
discovery of the cuff button, he added, "and that was one of the
most damning pieces of evidence which I had against you, Marsh--the
letter--"M" on that cuff button."
"That would not have gone very far," laughed Marsh, "because I've
never worn an initialed cuff button in my life. In fact, Morgan, it
could have been only a clue--not evidence--for it would have been
simple, when the loss was discovered, to also lose the duplicate.
That cuff button may or may not be a clue. Of course, the tenant's
initials do not coincide with the initial on that button, but it
might have been dropped by a servant or a friend. As a matter of
fact, that button might have been lying under the cabinet for some
time before Ames went to Europe. However, it's something worth
having and remembering, for one never can tell when even a little
thing like that may give some lead that would prove worth while."
"How would you analyze that flattened bullet?" asked Morgan.
"The shot was fired at close range," Marsh replied. "It may have
passed clear through the person fired at. That bullet is worth
remembering, however, just like the cuff button. Some day it may fit
in with and explain other evidence."
"There is one more point," added Morgan, "that may or may not have a
bearing on this case. Last night, while my partner Tierney and
myself were conferring on this case at my house, somebody tried to
listen outside my door. I was pretty sure this was so from the
sounds I heard; and when I went to the door, somebody dashed down
the stairs and escaped in a motor car. I'm ashamed to say it, now,
but at the time I suspected it was one of your confederates."
"You've been mixed up in a good many cases, Morgan, and probably
have some half-finished affairs in the back of your head right now.
I would say that such an occurrence could be connected with any one
of these. On the other hand, this case is very fresh, and you have
been active in working it up. Some person may be trying to find out
just how close you are getting to the trail, so as to take
precautions, if necessary."
At that moment there was a scream in the hall outside Marsh's door.
Both men sprang to their feet and Marsh leaped to the door.
CHAPTER IX
THE LAST LETTER
At the same moment that Marsh opened the door, Tierney and the man
from Headquarters, who had been taking the photographs, came
bounding down the stairs from the third floor.
They all saw the body of a woman lying motionless on the landing.
"Who is it?" cried Morgan, over Marsh's shoulder.
"Jane Atwood!" was the sharp reply.
With that Marsh stooped and took the unconscious girl up in his
arms, the unusual tenderness and care of his movements being plainly
apparent. Carrying her into his apartment, while the others
followed, Marsh laid her gently on a davenport in the living room.
"She must have had a shock of some kind and fainted," exclaimed
Morgan.
"No," returned Marsh, as he softly smoothed back the hair from her
forehead, disclosing a bruise that was now rapidly discoloring and
swelling. "Somebody knocked her insensible." Then added, "You sent
your man away too soon, Morgan."
"My God!" burst out Morgan. "What nerve! To think of pulling
anything like this in a house full of detectives."
"We have a tough customer this time," declared Marsh. "Ordinary
methods won't go. Watch her while I get some water."
Marsh went to the bathroom for a towel and some cold water. In the
meantime Morgan turned sharply to Tierney.
"From now on, while we work on this case, your job is to stand
outside of every door I enter."
Tierney grinned. To some men it might have seemed that they were
being thrust into the background. To Tierney, however, the work
immediately presented possibilities that stirred his fighting Irish
blood. Without a word he went out into the public hall and closed
the door behind him.
Marsh returned, and began to bathe the girl's forehead and the
bruise with the cold water. While he worked over her, the
photographer approached Morgan and held out an envelope.
"After your friend here picked the girl up," he explained, "I
noticed this lying near her."
Morgan took the envelope. After a hasty glance he extended it to
Marsh. "A letter to this girl with a St. Louis postmark!" he gasped.
"Good!" exclaimed Marsh, without stopping his work to revive the
girl. "Just what I have been watching for. Open it."
Morgan understood. Turning to the photographer, he handed back the
envelope. "Slip into the kitchen, steam this open and make a quick
copy." Then, noticing the case on the floor beside the man, he
added, "Finished your work upstairs?"
The man nodded.
"Then make a photograph of this letter at the same time. The
handwriting may prove useful."
Taking the letter and picking up his case, the man went back to the
kitchen. Morgan turned to Marsh.
"How is she coming on?" he inquired.
There was a slight flutter of the eyelids as he spoke and Marsh
called his attention to it. "She will be all right in a moment," he
said.
Presently Jane Atwood's eyes opened slowly, and she gazed in a
bewildered and uncomprehending way at the two men bending anxiously
over her. Marsh continued to bathe her forehead and gradually she
seemed to realize her position. She struggled slowly into a sitting
position on the davenport while the two men stood back, awaiting her
first words. Contrary to the usual idea of feminine return to
consciousness, she did not inquire where she was. Instead she
startled the two men by asking, "Did you get him?"
"Get who?" counter questioned Marsh, taking the lead.
"The man who was outside the door," was the reply.
Marsh and Morgan exchanged quick glances. To them it was a
confirmation that the listener of the night before was still seeking
information about the case in hand. Moreover, here might be a clue
to his identity, or at least a description that would prove helpful,
so Marsh seated himself on the davenport at her side, while Morgan
went to a chair across the room.
Both men knew instinctively that this would put the girl more at her
ease than if they continued to stand over her like inquisitors.
Marsh continued the conversation. "We know nothing about what
happened," he said. "We heard a scream. When we opened the door you
were lying there. No one was around except two policemen who came
down from the third floor at that moment, having also heard your
cry."
After this simple statement of the situation, Marsh paused, waiting
for the girl to go on. He felt that in her dazed and weakened
condition questions would still further bewilder her, might even
cause a revulsion that would delay or prevent their getting
information that would prove of inestimable value.
The girl paused, as if to collect her thoughts, and passed her hand
before her eyes with a motion similar to sweeping aside a curtain.
Then she spoke.
"I went to the hairdresser's in the block below. Returning, I
stopped to take a letter out of the mail box and then started up the
stairs to my apartment." At this point she passed her hand over her
hair and smiled as she realized its disheveled appearance now. "As I
turned up the flight to this floor, I saw a man crouched down before
the door of this apartment. He did not hear me until I reached the
top of the stairs. Then he jumped up, and seeing me, tried to push
by. Remembering the burglary, or whatever it was, upstairs, I knew I
should try to stop him. So I seized his coat and we started to
struggle. Instantly I saw him draw back his arm, then I felt the
blow. I remember nothing of what happened from that moment until I
awoke just now on this davenport."
Marsh sat up and clenched his hands. "If I knew what the fellow
looked like I would thrash him the next time I saw him," he
threatened, hoping thus to draw out the description he wanted.
"Oh, I can describe him--at least in a general way. He was short,
not much over five feet, and quite thin. His face had a peaked look.
While we struggled his hat fell off and I saw that he was almost
bald. His nose was large, and taken with his thin face and rather
large bright eyes, it seems to me now that he looked just like an
eagle."
"Had you ever seen him before?" Morgan asked.
"Never," she answered, and the positive note in her voice could not
be mistaken.
"I will send your description to all the stations," said Morgan. "We
will try to get that fellow."
Morgan went to the telephone and called the Detective Bureau. He
gave the necessary directions, and as he returned to his chair,
remarked, "In an hour or two this won't be a safe town for that
fellow."
"You are the detective who came to see me!" exclaimed the girl.
"Perhaps this is the man you are looking for."
"Perhaps," agreed Morgan. "I can tell better after I get my hands on
him."
"Oh, my!" cried the girl, and began to search about the davenport.
The two men suspected she was looking for the letter, and they were
relieved to see the photographer appear in the doorway at that
moment.
"Have you lost something?" inquired Marsh.
"Yes, the letter I took out of the mail box."
"Here it is, Miss," said the photographer, stepping forward and
presenting the letter to her. "I picked it up in the hall where you
dropped it."
She took it and thanked him. "I'm so glad you found it," she added.
"It is from my father, and I have not heard from him in a long time.
I feel better now and will go home."
She rose slowly with the words. Noting her weakness, Marsh stepped
to her side and slipped his arm under hers.
"Let me help you up the stairs," he said, gently.
"Thank you," she returned, simply, realizing her need of help.
"I'll wait until you come back, Marsh," said Morgan.
The girl started. "Are you Mr. Marsh?" she exclaimed. Then, as Marsh
nodded, she added, "Why, you are the man who sent this detective up
to see me."
Marsh glanced quickly at Morgan, who, behind the girl's back,
dropped one eyelid slowly and significantly.
"Well, you seemed the most likely person to have information, being
right on the same floor," Marsh said, smiling.
There could be no question that this was a natural explanation, and
the girl seemed satisfied. With a nod and a smile to Morgan and the
photographer, she allowed Marsh to assist her out of the door and up
the stairs to her apartment. Tierney rose from the step where he had
been sitting, to let her pass, and she favored him with one of her
pretty smiles as he did so. Tierney then climbed after them to the
next landing and stood watching. Marsh waited until the door closed
after her. Then, with a catch in his breath that sounded
suspiciously like a sigh, he went back to his apartment. Tierney
gave him a peculiar look as he passed.
The photographer had gone, but Morgan held out the copy which he had
made of the letter as soon as Marsh entered, with the remark, "Now,
what's the game?"
Marsh took it and read:
My dear Daughter:
I have returned from the last trip I shall ever make. I
have never told you, not wishing to cause you worry, but
my health has been gradually failing for many years.
I can no longer attend to my duties on the road and have
had to give up my position. The doctor gives me but a few
months to live, so rather than be a burden to you I have
decided to end the thing at once. When this letter reaches
you, the Mississippi will be carrying my body to the sea,
where I hope that it will be lost to the world forever.
Knowing that my time was approaching, I long ago arranged
for your future. If you will identify yourself to the
National Trust Company, Chicago, you will find that you
have been amply provided for. As we do not lease the
apartment direct from the owner, you had better move out
at once and go to an hotel. No one can hold you responsible.
Good luck and success in your music. God bless you, and
good-bye.
Your devoted father.
"What's the game?" repeated Morgan, when he saw that Marsh had
finished reading the letter.
"A convenient disappearance, that is all," returned Marsh. "Things
were beginning to get too hot for him. No doubt he thought you were
getting closer than you really were. Poor girl," he added. "She will
take it as gospel truth, and we dare not tell her otherwise--not
now, anyway."
"One thing is certain in my mind now," asserted Morgan. "There was a
murder upstairs. They planned to put some person who was becoming a
menace, quietly out of the way. But you spoiled it!"
"No, I did not spoil it," said Marsh. "The shot did that. I have
felt for some time that that shot was a mistake--a slipup
somewhere."
"I've got to go; it is two o'clock," exclaimed Morgan as he looked
at his watch. "Where shall we hold future conferences! I do not want
to be seen coming here too often. It might lead to suspicions of
you, and I think we can accomplish more if your connection with the
case is not made clear."
"How about your house?" inquired Marsh. "Knowing that you are now
suspicious, and with Tierney on the doorstep, they will probably
keep away from there in the future."
"Well, let it stand at that for the present," agreed Morgan.
"Telephone me when you want to come. My number is in the telephone
book."
With that the two men's hands met in a strong grip as if to seal
their future partnership. Morgan opened the door and then started
back with a cry.
Tierney lay stretched out across the landing, apparently asleep.
But Morgan knew the man better.
CHAPTER X
THE STOLEN SUITCASE
The placing of Tierney on guard in the hall had been an impulsive
act on Morgan's part. It was more to put an idea into immediate
execution than to actually have a protecting outpost at this time,
for the very nature of his experience would have told Morgan that
after the mysterious attack upon Jane Atwood there would be little
possibility of a similar occurrence the same day. The instant he saw
Tierney lying in the hall, however, he realized that the man had
been the victim of a somewhat similar attack, and the mere thought
that such a thing was possible stunned him into inaction for a
moment. The next minute both he and Marsh were kneeling at Tierney's
side and endeavoring to arouse him.
Morgan removed Tierney's cap and passed his hand around over the
man's head until he found a slight lump, a little back of the right
ear.
"Knocked out with a black-jack!" he cried. "How could a man get that
close to Tierney without being heard!"
"The carpet in these halls and on the stairs is well padded,"
explained Marsh. "I have noticed on a number of occasions that
people passing up and down these stairs make very little noise
unless a foot happens to strike the woodwork. And you can be sure of
one thing, Morgan, this man must have been pretty close at hand. He
got into action without having to do much climbing."
"Or descending," added Morgan, suddenly, looking at Marsh.
"If he came DOWN the stairs, Morgan, then the girl has certainly
been pulling the wool over our eyes."
Morgan shook his head doubtfully. "Well, I'll acknowledge that it
takes a pretty wise detective to understand a woman."
At this moment, Tierney showed signs of coming back to life. His
eyes opened and looked at them with a dazed stare. Almost instantly
this changed to a savage glare. His two arms shot up, seized the men
leaning over him and pulled them down. Like most people who have
been knocked unconscious, Tierney had no idea of the intervening
lapse of time. Before becoming unconscious he had probably realized
that he was attacked, and he was now taking up the fight where he
had left off.
"Hold on, Tierney--this is Morgan--Morgan--do you understand? And
this is Marsh with me!"
The two men held Tierney down until he had a chance to collect his
thoughts. Then he smiled sheepishly as he looked from one to the
other. "What the--!" he began; then paused.
They jerked him to his feet and set him down on the stair. There he
sat for a moment, rubbing the sore spot on his head, of which he now
began to be conscious.
"Guess I'd better resign," he said, dolefully, coming to a full
realization of the situation. "A detective ain't much use after he
begins to need a bodyguard."
"Cut the nonsense, Tierney," admonished Morgan. "Tell us what
happened."
"That's what I'd like to know," growled Tierney.
"Well then," suggested Morgan, "tell us what happened up to the
point where you don't know anything."
"Let's see," reflected Tierney. "When you sent me out into the hall,
the first thing I did was to go part way up this flight of stairs
and make sure that all was clear above. Then I sat down exactly
where I am sitting now, but close to the stair rail. I figured that
if anybody came up the stairs I could see him before he spotted me.
I heard a couple of people go out downstairs, but everything was
quiet up here. I kept my eye on your friend here while he took the
girl upstairs. After he went in I settled back in the same place
again. Finally I felt like a smoke. There didn't seem much chance of
anybody coming back again, so I figured I might as well have a smoke
and I got out my pipe. While I was lighting up, something hit me.
You know the rest better than I do."
"But," expostulated Morgan, "you're no green hand, Tierney. How
could anybody sneak up behind you without your hearing them?"
Tierney looked foolish for a moment, then brightened up. "Morgan,"
he said, "I've got the dope. That old pipe of mine was wheezing like
a sick horse when I began to pull on it. That's what gave the fellow
his chance. I'll admit it, Morgan--I should have known better than
to light it in the first place."
"All right, Tierney, you've learned your lesson. But I'm afraid you
let something good slip by you."
"It is my opinion," Marsh broke in, "that he has let the most
important actor in the drama get away. The man must have been pretty
desperate to take such a chance, and I doubt if anyone but the
leading character would have been so anxious to get away quickly and
unseen. Now then, let us go up to the Atwood apartment. I will
assume the role of protector to Miss Atwood while you two, whom she
knows to be detectives, can search the flat."
At this, Tierney stood up on the stairs and looked suspiciously at
Marsh. Then, as Morgan agreed to the idea, Tierney turned toward him
and exclaimed, "Say, you gone crazy?"
Morgan gazed at him in astonishment.
Marsh laughed. "Tierney is still suspicious," he said.
Morgan's face lit up with understanding. Going over to Tierney, he
whispered in his ear.
"Well, I'm damned!" Tierney mumbled.
The three men then climbed the stairs to the Atwood apartment, and
Morgan's hand was already on the push button of the electric bell
when there was an exclamation from Marsh.
"Stop!" he cried. "Look here."
They instantly saw what he meant. The wood door was standing open
about two inches, and there was sufficient light in the entrance
hall of the apartment to show that at least no one was looking out.
"Remember, I'm in the background on this," Marsh whispered to
Morgan. "You two take, the lead--but be cautious."
Morgan pulled out his revolver and Tierney followed his example.
Then Morgan gave the door a quick push and stood back. It swung back
against the wall with a resounding thud, but outside of that sound
everything remained silent. The three men then moved warily into the
doorway, with Tierney and Morgan in the lead. While Marsh remained
in the entrance hall, Tierney stepped into the living room and
Morgan crept cautiously through the portieres into the dining room.
So silently did these two men move that Marsh heard, nothing until,
a moment later, he saw Morgan step back through the portieres. The
doors of both the bedroom and the bathroom stood open and Morgan,
without saying anything to Marsh, investigated these two rooms. Then
he returned to the entrance hall and spoke to Marsh, who had already
been joined by Tierney.
"Not a soul in the flat but the girl," whispered Morgan. "She's in a
chair in the dining room, and apparently unconscious again. There's
an odor of chloroform in the dining room!"
Marsh sprang through the dining room portieres, followed by the
others. He found Jane Atwood in a rocking chair near one of the
windows. She was apparently unconscious, but there were convulsive
movements of her body. Marsh sniffed the aromatic odor and nodded.
"I don't think they gave her much," he said. "She's just barely
unconscious. I'll try to revive her while you two look things over
more carefully."
Morgan turned to Tierney. "You take another look at the front," he
directed. "Look through all the drawers and closets, but be careful
not to leave anything upset."
Tierney promptly started on his work of investigation. Morgan turned
back into the kitchen. He had previously noticed that the maid's
room was upset and he wanted to examine this room again. The bed was
made up, but as the linen was fresh and unwrinkled it seemed certain
that no one had occupied it recently. The chief cause of the
disorder seemed to have been a hasty examination of the closet. A
roll of blankets and some other articles that had evidently been on
the shelf of the closet had been pulled down and scattered over the
bedroom floor. A couple of suits, and other articles of men's
attire, were hung on the hooks, apparently undisturbed. Morgan saw
that a speedy search had been made for something. Whether or not the
object had been found it was impossible to say.
Going back into the kitchen, and trying the rear door, he discovered
that, though closed, it was unlocked. He locked it, and returning to
the dining room, found that Marsh had succeeded in reviving the
girl. Tierney was also there, and the two men were chatting with
her.
"You seem to be having a good deal of trouble today," said Morgan,
as he neared her.
She smiled wanly at him.
"I can't understand it at all. Burglars must be extremely bold in
Chicago."
"Do you think it was a burglar?" asked Morgan.
"What else could it be?" she returned. "I am sure that I have no
enemies anywhere, and I haven't even any friends in Chicago."
"Are you keeping anything of special value in the house?" inquired
Morgan.
"Only what you can see about you," she replied "And these rings,
which have not been touched."
"You are sure you didn't have anything of value concealed in the
maid's room?"
"No, that's the room my father uses when he comes home from his
trips."
"Well, perhaps he had something of value there."
"I'm quite sure he did not," she said, positively.
"How do you feel now, Miss Atwood?" asked Marsh, catching the drift
of the questioning.
"Just a little bewildered," she replied, "and slightly nauseated,
but I think I shall be all right presently."
"Do you feel equal to looking over that room now?" Marsh inquired.
"I think so," she said, and with Marsh's assistance, she arose from
her chair.
Morgan led the way and the girl, leaning on Marsh's arm, followed.
"You see," said Morgan, when they had reached the maid's room,
"somebody has pulled everything off the shelf. Is there anything
missing as far as you know?"
Miss Atwood looked over the articles on the floor, glanced at the
empty shelf, and at the bottom of the closet. Then she turned to
Morgan. "My father had a suitcase on that shelf," she said. "I do
not see it there now."
"Oh," murmured Morgan. "Was it an empty suitcase?"
"I really couldn't tell you. I never examined it, as it was always
pretty well hidden under a lot of other things."
"I see," said Morgan. "The burglar evidently stole only the
suitcase, thinking perhaps there was something of value in it. We'd
better go now," he added, turning to the others. "Miss Atwood will
want to lie down and rest after her exciting day."
When they reached the front door, Morgan turned to her. "Do you
expect your father home soon, Miss Atwood?" he inquired.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "I haven't read my letter yet. You see, I had
just reached the dining room when that burglar attacked me."
"You need not worry about any further disturbances or attacks, Miss
Atwood," Morgan assured her. "There will be a policeman at the front
and back of this house inside of an hour, and they will stay here
until we clear up this case."
"And remember that I live close at hand, on the floor below, Miss
Atwood," reminded Marsh. "If there is anything I can do to help you
at any time, don't fail to call upon me."
"Thank you," she replied, and closed the door as the men went down
the stairs.
CHAPTER XI
THE TRAIL GROWS CLEARER
"I want to use your telephone for a minute," Morgan said to Marsh,
as they went down the stairs. "I want to have men put on duty here
as soon as possible, and I think it would be well to send out that
description you have of Atwood. We might catch him at one of the
railway stations, trying to leave the city."
Marsh unlocked the door of his apartment and Morgan immediately went
to the telephone. He gave the Detective Bureau a description of
Atwood, added that the man would probably be carrying a suitcase,
and suggested that all outgoing trains be watched. Then he got the
captain of the precinct on the telephone, and after explaining the
attacks that had taken place, was assured that two men would be
placed on duty to watch the house within a few minutes.
"Good Lord, I'm starving to death!" cried Tierney, as Morgan left
the telephone. "What time is it, anyway?"
Morgan glanced at his watch.
"Three-thirty," he replied. "Now you speak of it, Tierney, I feel
kind of hungry, myself. How about you, Marsh?"
"It was on my mind to suggest a little luncheon," returned Marsh.
"Suppose we run down to Sally's Waffle Shop. It's only a block
south, and it would be a quiet place to talk things over while we
are eating. It is a good place to eat, too. I've had nearly all of
my meals there since I took this apartment."
The others agreeing, the three men then walked down to the little
restaurant. As it was an off hour they were able to get a table in a
secluded corner where their conversation could not be overheard.
"I think this lunch should be on me," said Morgan, as he looked at
Marsh with a twinkle in his eye.
"No," objected Marsh, "I should hardly call you a loser. Your work
has really disclosed a lot."
"Anyway, Headquarters will think you're doing something, Morgan,"
broke in Tierney. "All those descriptions you shot over the 'phone
today looked as if you were getting the dope on somebody."
"I suggest," said Marsh, "that as you fellows have been my guests
most of the day, you now be my guests for luncheon. Order what you
like. You can get anything here from waffles to a full meal."
"A big, fat, juicy steak for mine!" cried. Tierney.
"Yes, you're an invalid, aren't you!" scoffed Morgan.
Tierney rubbed the bump on his head and grinned.
They gave their orders to the waitress, and while waiting, Morgan
explained Marsh's participation in the work in reply to an anxious
reminder from Tierney. The startling shattering of the net, which
they believed they had drawn around Marsh, for once stunned Tierney
into silence. When their hunger had been partly satisfied, Morgan
reminded Marsh that they had not yet analysed the peculiar situation
discovered in the Atwood apartment.
"I hurried you fellows out so we could talk over that suitcase,"
Morgan explained. "Of course, I've got some ideas of my own, but I'd
like to know what you think, Marsh."
"Well," replied Marsh, "if you and Tierney will tell me exactly what
you discovered, I'll tell you what I think."
"My part's easy to tell," said Tierney. "I didn't find anything
suspicious. I spent most of the time turning over a lot of pink silk
and lace things that almost made me blush. There were no letters or
photographs, and as far as I could see, none of the things had been
disturbed until I turned them over myself."
"And I," said Morgan, "found the mess that you saw in the maid's
room. I also discovered that the back door was unlocked."
"I had a theory," explained, Marsh, "and what you say about the back
door clinches it. Now, suppose you were a crook, and had committed a
crime that, through careless management, had brought the police
right next door to your headquarters; the place you had hoped to
reserve for emergencies, as a matter of fact. Suppose you had reason
to believe that they would begin to suspect you. You have long had a
plan ready to throw the police off the scent, if anything should
ever happen, by pretending to make away with yourself. You put the
first step of this plan into execution by sending a letter stating
that you are now as good as dead. Then you suddenly remember that at
your refuge you have left some important evidence; something that,
if discovered, might offset your well-laid plans. What would you do?
You'd try to get that evidence, wouldn't you?"
"That is precisely what happened. Atwood, accompanied by one of his
men, who was to stand guard, returned to his apartment to secure
that almost forgotten evidence. Now, the man he left on guard heard
some familiar voices, or perhaps a name he recognized. He overlooked
his duty for the moment and tried to listen. He was discovered.
Naturally, his first thought was of himself, and he made his escape.
Up in his apartment, Atwood, who had secured what he sought, is
ready to go, but is delayed by this disturbance in the hall. He
doesn't know exactly, what it is, so he sticks close. Then he thinks
of making his escape down the back stairs, but unfortunately some of
his feminine neighbors are gossiping on the stairs below. He could
not go down that way without attracting attention that might prove
awkward later. Suddenly he hears the door of his apartment open, and
some person enter. He watches, and discovers that his daughter has
come home, alone. Now, if she should see him, his well-laid plan is
ruined. Its greatest success lies in her honest conviction that he
is really dead. He is trapped; front, rear and on the premises. He
is desperate. Something must be done quickly. In a favorable moment
he springs upon the girl from behind and renders her unconscious
with chloroform. He finds the back stairs still closed to him, and
in his haste forgets to lock the door as he closes it. He finds a
man keeping guard on the front stairs. He decides quickly that he
can deal better with this man than the women of the back. He watches
and waits, leaving the door open for a quick retreat. His
opportunity comes when this man's attention is directed to the
lighting of a pipe. In a flash he is down the stairs, knocks the man
unconscious, and goes out the front door. The next minute he is lost
in the crowds on the street and is free."
"That, gentlemen, is my explanation of what happened in the house
today. Of course, it is largely theory, but I believe it fits the
case uncommonly well."
"I'll say you're there!" cried Tierney.
"Yes," Morgan agreed. "You talk as if you had been a spectator of
the whole occurrence. I doubt if a clearer explanation could be
made, and I think you came pretty near the truth when you said a
little while ago that we actually had uncovered something today.
There is still a mystery of some kind, but thanks to you, we are now
in a position to take some definite steps toward solving it."
"Still, there is one illogical point in your surmise. The letter
from St. Louis arrived sometime this morning. If Atwood was in
Chicago Tuesday morning, how did he get that letter off, so
quickly?"
"The trouble with an analysis based chiefly on speculation, Morgan,
is that many points may seem illogical and unexplained. We can only
rely definitely upon the outstanding features. However, I never
adopt any explanation unless it has a basis in possibility. You
remember that a while ago I told you I thought that shot was a
mistake--that it was never intended a shot should be fired. Whoever
was engaged in that occurrence knew that the shot would lead to a
police investigation, and once the police start, there is no telling
where the matter may end. To head them off quickly, is it not
possible that someone left immediately for St. Louis to post that
letter?"
Morgan nodded. "It's straining a point, but it's quite possible,
Marsh. At least, we have no better explanation."
They had finished their meal, and after Marsh settled the bill,
parted on the sidewalk; Marsh to return to his apartment and await
developments there, while Morgan and Tierney undertook some
investigations which Morgan had in mind.
On his return to the house, Marsh noted with satisfaction that a
policeman in uniform was already on duty. However, he wanted to make
sure that the girl was all right, so instead of going directly to
his apartment, he continued on up the stairs to the Atwood apartment
and rang the bell. After a slight pause, Miss Atwood opened the
door. Her eyes were red with weeping, and she held her handkerchief
so as to partly conceal her face.
"I called to see if everything was all right," explained Marsh.
"Why, what has happened?"
He knew perfectly well the cause of the girl's trouble, and he had
to struggle hard to assume an air of ignorance. It tore his heart to
see this girl, for whom he felt a growing affection, in such
distress, knowing that all the time he possessed the knowledge to
sweep away her grief. And yet would it? Was it not probable that a
girl like her would feel even greater grief at the knowledge that
her father was a hunted criminal instead of merely dead? She
presented a most pitiable figure standing there, absolutely alone in
the world. She had gone through experiences that day which would
have made the average woman collapse, and to cap it all she had
received the final blow in the news of her father's death.
Marsh's heart went out to her: He longed to take her into his arms
and ask her to allow him to henceforward be her protector. It was
hard to hold himself in check, yet he knew that it was no time for
this disclosure of his own feelings. Instead, he stepped quietly
through the door and sat down in the living room, where the girl
joined him. She wept silently for a few moments, while Marsh sat and
waited. At last she spoke.
"My father is dead, Mr. Marsh."
"What a shock!" he exclaimed. "I am so sorry. How did it happen?"
"You know I received a letter from him this morning. It said that
his health had failed, that he could no longer work, and that by the
time the letter reached me he world have committed suicide."
Marsh's life had been devoted to running down criminals. He had had
very little to do with women except those of the criminal type. He
was at a loss, therefore, for words to comfort this delicate girl.
He was further embarrassed by the knowledge of facts which he dared
not divulge. Everything he said sounded crude and rough in his ears,
but somehow his words seemed to have a soothing effect on the girl
and eventually her weeping ceased.
"She's a wonder!" thought Marsh. "The bravest little woman I ever
knew." Then addressing her, he said, "Miss Atwood, after all that
has happened, it is not possible for you to stay here alone tonight.
You should go to an hotel, where you will feel protected and secure,
and at least know that, even though they are not your friends, you
have people all about you." He hesitated a moment, then added, "I
hope you will receive my offer in the spirit in which it is
intended. If you are in any way financially embarrassed at the
moment, I would be glad to take care of your hotel expenses until
you can straighten out your affairs."
"Thank you, Mr. Marsh," she returned. "I appreciate both your offer
and the spirit in which you make it, but I am well provided with
funds. Father was always generous with me, and even in his last
letter he said that he had left me well provided for."
"Then pack up a bag at once, Miss Atwood, and let me escort you to
some hotel. I suggest the Monmouth. It is only a couple of blocks
away and I know it to be a nice, quiet family hotel where the people
would be congenial. In this time of trouble you would find it a
comfort to have a few women friends. I think you have made a mistake
in devoting so much time to your musical studies, while neglecting
social opportunities."
The girl considered a moment, then, springing up, said, "I will
follow your suggestion. It would be dreadful to stay here alone
tonight. In fact, now that I have no one to make a home for, it
would probably be better for me to stay permanently at an hotel."
She went to her room and prepared to leave the house. She soon
reappeared with a bag, which Marsh took from her. A few minutes
later they parted at the desk of the Monmouth Hotel, and Marsh
returned to his apartment.
It was strange how lonely the place seemed, 'now that he knew the
girl was no longer under the same roof with him.
CHAPTER XII
MISSING
Two days had passed without any word from Morgan, and Marsh himself
had made little progress on the case, for a large part of those two
days had been taken up in assisting Jane Atwood to pack her personal
things and remove them to her new home in the hotel.
They had been pleasant days for Marsh, because he had derived
considerable happiness from the little services he had been able to
render the girl, and also because it was the first time in all the
months he had been watching over her that he was actually in her
company.
During this time Marsh had made one discovery of a peculiar nature,
but its working out appeared to have no particular effect on the
developments of the case. The morning after he escorted Jane Atwood
to the hotel, she had returned to the apartment to begin her
packing. While assisting in this, Marsh had suggested that she
notify the man from whom her father had rented the apartment, so
that he could take steps to secure another tenant. He was amazed to
learn that she knew nothing whatever about the matter, not even the
name of the man from whom they rented. So during the morning, Marsh
called at the office of the agent of the building and explained the
situation. The agent was surprised, saying that he had always
supposed a Mr. Crocker, whose name appeared on the lease, occupied
the apartment himself. The man's name not appearing in the telephone
directory, the agent had suggested that he would write to the man's
former St. Louis address. Marsh thought this a good idea, and owing
to the odd situation which had developed, left his telephone number,
suggesting that the agent let him know what he heard in the matter.
The next afternoon, the real estate agent telephoned him that a
telegram had just arrived from the man in St. Louis, stating that he
had never rented any such apartment in Chicago, had never signed any
lease, and did not know anything about the matter. To Marsh, the
situation was obvious. In renting the apartment Atwood had used the
name of a well known St. Louis man so as to have good references and
close the deal quietly without in any way bringing his own name and
personality into the matter. There was nothing in this information
to help the case in any way, yet it created a strange situation.
Here was an apartment full of furniture that rightfully belonged to
the girl, and yet he could in no way convince her of that fact
without also disclosing the other circumstances connected with the
case. All that they could do was to walk out and close the door
behind them, leaving the problem to the real estate agent to solve.
This they did on Friday afternoon, and so far as Marsh was
concerned, the Atwood apartment was of no further interest, for it
was obvious, now that Atwood was supposed to be dead, no one
connected with him would be likely to ever again visit the
apartment. He decided, however, to remain in his own apartment for
the present. The lease he had signed had still nearly a year to run.
He was comfortable, and free to come and go as he pleased, without
anyone noticing his movements. Then there was no telling how long he
would have to remain in Chicago, for he felt that the solution of
this case still rested somewhere within the city limits. At the
present moment he was facing a blank wall, but any day or hour might
furnish a new clue that would set things moving again. In fact, he
was inclined to feel that when he again heard from Morgan, the
detective would probably have valuable information for him.
It was Saturday morning, and Marsh, on his way back from breakfast
at the little waffle shop, purchased a copy of the Tribune and went
back to his apartment to look over the day's news. No sooner had he
opened the paper than this headline met his eyes:
PROMINENT BROKER MISSING
Marsh dropped the paper on his knees and thought for a moment. Ever
since Tuesday morning, when the trouble had occurred, he had
carefully scanned the papers for reports of any missing people who
might in any way be connected with this occurrence. Here at last was
an announcement that looked promising. He began to read the article.
Richard Townsend Merton, the well known La Salle Street
broker, has been missing far ten days, it was learned
yesterday. Gilbert Hunt, the general manager of the Merton
business, notified the police that Mr. Merton had not
appeared at his office, his clubs, or his hotel for some
days. A telegraphed inquiry to his wife, who resides with
an invalid son in Arizona, brought the reply that Mr. Merton
had not been there. The manager is inclined to believe that
Mr. Merton has either wandered away during a lapse of memory,
or may have met with an accident.
The article then continued with the usual outline of what the police
were doing, and a description of the broker's life and habits. Marsh
learned from this that Merton had closed his country home in Hubbard
Woods when his wife moved to Arizona with their son. He had lived
for the past two years at a downtown hotel, and spent most of his
evenings at his clubs.
After reading the entire article carefully, Marsh cut out the
accompanying photographs of Merton and the absent wife and son. Here
was something worth investigating, he thought, for he remembered the
cuff button with the initial "M," which Morgan had discovered.
For upwards of an hour Marsh sat in deep deliberation, figuring how
he could get in close touch with the situation without in any way
disclosing his official connection or real interest in the matter.
At last he decided to follow a plan which he had used successfully
in connection with two previous cases. He looked up the address of
the Merton offices, and putting on his coat and hat, took the
Sheridan Road motor bus downtown.
Marsh located the Merton offices on the fifteenth floor of the La
Salle Trust Building, and paused a moment inside the door to look
the place over. He found himself in a large room which contained
several stenographers and clerks. To his left was a grill work with
a window marked, "Cashier," and beyond this, several men who were
evidently bookkeepers. In front of him was a railing, behind which
sat a girl at a telephone switchboard. At the other side of the
room, floors opened into what were evidently three private offices.
On the first door he saw the name, Mr. Merton; on the second, Mr.
Hunt. The third door was blank.
Approaching the girl, Marsh inquired if Mr. Hunt was in.
"Yes," she replied, looking him over. "Have you a card?"
Marsh handed her a card and she went into Mr. Hunt's office. In a
moment she returned and said, "Please step in."
Marsh entered Hunt's office and closed the door behind him. It was
the usual private office, with a large flat top desk in the center.
This was so arranged that Hunt's back was to the light, which fell
full upon any visitor's face. Some files, a bookcase, and a small
table littered with papers, stood against the wall. Hunt motioned to
a chair and said, "Sit down, please." Marsh's card lay before him on
the desk. He picked it up and read:
GORDON MARSH
Private Investigator
Then looking at Marsh as he laid the card down, he said, "what can I
do for you?"
"As you see by my card," replied Marsh, "my business consists of
conducting special private investigations. I read in the morning
paper that Mr. Merton is missing, and I came in to see if you would
care to use my services."
"I have placed the entire matter in the hands of the police,"
returned Hunt.
"You probably know, as well as I do, Mr. Hunt, that that is the next
thing to burying the matter. They will be very busy for a couple of
days and then forget it."
"That is about what I thought, Mr. Marsh," admitted Hunt.
"But isn't it important, for business reasons, that you ascertain
definitely, and as quickly as possible, just what has happened to
Mr. Merton?" Marsh asked.
"To a certain extent, yes. But Mr. Merton has left the business
entirely in my hands for some time, and things will continue
satisfactorily in his absence."
"Then I presume you wouldn't care to have me conduct a private
investigation on your behalf, Mr. Hunt?"
"Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Marsh," said Hunt. "Until you presented
your card to me this morning, the thought of doing anything beside
notifying the police had not occurred to me. Let me think for a
minute."
With that, Hunt swung his chair around so that his back was toward
Marsh, and gazed thoughtfully out of the window for a few minutes.
"In your work," he said at length, swinging around toward Marsh once
more, "you probably come into more or less close contact with the
police. I mean by that, that you would work with them more or less
on a case of this kind."
"Certainly," replied Marsh. "I follow up every likely clue,
including everything which may be unearthed by the police."
"After thinking it over, it may be that we can come to some
arrangement, Mr. Marsh," said Hunt. "What are your terms?"
"My charges are $25.00 a day, and expenses," said Marsh.
"Whew!" whistled Hunt, "that's pretty steep. I could hire all the
private detectives I wanted for ten dollars a day."
"But I'm not a regular detective," protested Marsh. "I'm an
investigator."
"You make a distinction, do you?" smiled Hunt.
"Absolutely," asserted Marsh. "I merely dig up the facts and turn
them over to you for any action you see fit. My investigative work
could hardly be classed with the ordinary work of the detective."
Hunt clasped his hands before him on the desk. After a moment's
thought, he said, "All right, Marsh, I'm going to engage you. See
what you can discover, and report to me whenever you think you are
making progress. Incidentally, keep your eye on the police and see
what they are doing. As long as you are working on this job for me,
it will be curious to see just how effective our police really are.
Now, I suppose you want to ask some questions."
"Yes," said Marsh, "one or two; although as a rule I prefer to start
with my mind as free as possible. Mr. Merton has been living at the
LaSalle Hotel, I understand?"
"Yes."
"How long has he been living there?"
"Two years."
"I suppose I can find out something of his habits there."
"I think I get your drift, Marsh," said Hunt, with a smile. "I can
assure you from my personal knowledge, that Mr. Merton has led a
very quiet and most exemplary life. Practically all his evenings
have been passed at the University and Chicago Athletic Clubs, and I
believe that occasionally he dropped into the Hamilton Club, of
which he is a member."
"Why did his wife go to Arizona?" inquired Marsh.
"The boy has weak lungs and the doctors said his life could be saved
only by several years' residence in the Arizona climate. Mrs. Merton
worships the boy and insisted upon going with him. They have been
there two years."
"When do you expect them back?" asked Marsh.
"I understand the boy is not much better. It might be years before
they return, unless the boy should die."
Marsh thought a moment, then said, "You mentioned before that the
business could go on without Mr. Merton. I presume he has given you
power of attorney?"
"Yes," said Hunt.
"In case of his death, Mr. Hunt, who would be his executors?"
"I cannot see that that has any bearing on the case."
"Perhaps not," said Marsh, "but I am following a line of thought."
"Well," returned Hunt, "if it's of any use to you, I may say that I
will be the sole executor."
"It was a very wise move on your part to employ me in this matter,
Mr. Hunt, in view of that fact."
"How so?" inquired Hunt.
"Because to the outsider it might appear that you had some personal
interest in Mr. Merton's disappearance. You know, sometimes the
police are stupidly suspicious."
Hunt sat up with a start. "You have given me food for thought,
Marsh," he said. "I hadn't looked at the matter in that light
before."
"Well," returned Marsh, "you can now see that my investigations and
reports will be of the utmost value to you. Furthermore, as you have
already suggested, I can keep my ear to the ground where the police
are concerned, and keep you advised of what is going on."
"Mr. Marsh," said Hunt, rising. "I am very glad you came in to see
me. You can count upon my keeping you on this job until everything
is settled."
"One more question," said Marsh, also rising. "I noticed a mention
of Mr. Merton's country house. Has anyone looked to see if Mr.
Merton could by any chance have gone there because of illness, or
for some other reason?"
"I know positively he is not there," Hunt replied. "I keep a
caretaker on the premises, and occasionally look over the place
myself to make sure that everything is all right. The caretaker
assures me that Mr. Merton has not been near the place since he
closed the house two years ago."
"One thing more, Mr. Hunt, before I go. People sometimes question my
right to investigate. Will you give me a line stating that I am
authorized to represent you in this matter?"
"Certainly." Hunt sat down at his desk and hastily penned a few
lines on a sheet of letter paper, which he then handed to Marsh.
Marsh carefully folded the paper, placed it in his pocket-book, and
bidding Hunt good day, went out.
CHAPTER XIII
STARTLING DISCLOSURES
"Why is it that business men, who pride themselves on their
astuteness, almost invariably slip up somewhere?" thought Marsh, as
he left the La Salle Trust Building and walked north on La Salle
Street. This thought was occasioned by the fact that Hunt had
neglected to ask Marsh for his address and telephone number. It
might be, of course, that the man had taken it for granted that his
name and address would be readily found in the telephone directory.
Though this explanation passed through his mind, he was more
inclined to believe that Hunt's intense interest in the matter, or
possibly a newly aroused fear, created by Marsh's reference to the
peculiar attitude in which he was placed, had driven the subject of
details, out of Hunt's mind.
Marsh had come downtown with the intention of giving his present
address, but as the interview progressed, a feeling grew upon him
that it might be just as well, at this time, to give some downtown
business address. The fact that no inquiry had been made on this
point relieved him of the necessity of giving a fictitious address
on the spur of the moment. His next step, however, must be the
securing of such an address, for it was beyond question that during
his next interview with Hunt this information would have to be
given.
Marsh glanced over his shoulder at the great clock in the Board of
Trade Building, which keeps guard over La Salle Street. It was just
twelve o'clock, and he reasoned that the people he contemplated
questioning would probably be going to lunch. He decided to spend
the next hour, therefore, in securing some sort of office address.
By this time he had reached Madison Street, and turning east, looked
over the buildings as he passed along, with the idea of selecting
one in which a temporary office might be secured. At the corner of
Madison Street and Wabash Avenue, he stopped and looked around him.
On one corner was the building of a great department store. On the
other three corners, big office buildings towered above him. At this
corner also here was one of the Madison Street stations of the
elevated railroad system. Certainly, it was a most logical location
for a man in his supposed line of work, so he entered one of the
buildings, approached the starter in front of the elevators, and
inquired if he knew anyone who would rent desk room. The starter
furnished him with the names and room numbers of two places where he
might inquire. The first of these which he visited proved
satisfactory. He arranged with the young woman in charge to receive
all mail and telephone calls for him and forward these to his
regular address. Making a note of the telephone number, he paid two
month's rent in advance so as to get the matter off his mind, and
returned to the street. The details of this arrangement had taken
but a short time, so Marsh went up to the men's grill maintained by
a nearby department store, intending to eat a leisurely luncheon in
one of the secluded booths.
As he sat studying the menu, a small finger suddenly began to direct
his attention to certain items, while a soft voice whispered in his
ear, "How do you do, Mr. Marsh?"
In work such as his, startling things were apt to occur at any
moment, so Marsh gave no outward indication of his surprise.
"How do you do," he returned, without looking up, but his mind was
working rapidly to place the voice.
"What are you doing here?" the voice asked.
"You know better than to ask that question, Miss Allen." Marsh now
glanced up with a smile.
The waitress stood up, and to anyone across the room it would have
appeared as if they were merely discussing his order, which she was
writing on a pad.
"If you are still engaged in counterfeiting work," she said, "I may
be able to give you a valuable tip."
"All right," said Marsh, "bring me one of those oyster pies and a
cup of coffee. We'll have a chat when you come back."
In a few minutes she was back with his order and talked rapidly in a
guarded voice as she placed the silver on the table and arranged his
dishes.
"About this time yesterday I had four men at this table and caught
snatches of their conversation. I put the facts together about like
this: There is a house in the suburbs, near Chicago, where a
counterfeiting plant has been in operation. In some way the
attention of the police has been attracted, and the whole outfit is
to be cleaned out as soon as they think they can get away safely. I
have no idea regarding the location, but if you are looking anything
up this may be a hint for you."
"Thanks, Miss Allen. It is a hint."
Without further words, she hurried away to attend to another table.
Marsh knew that the girl who had just given him this information was
a Government operative, like himself. He would have liked to learn
more, if possible, especially descriptions of the men, but he did
not know the nature of the work she was engaged in, and feared that
any further contact between them might be unwise. For a moment he
thought of slipping her his telephone number, but the cautiousness
bred by years of experience warned him that telephones, like walls,
sometimes have ears. However, he realized that she had told him
something worth while. It was unlikely that there was more than one
counterfeiting band in Chicago at this time. She had given him a
clue, which, like the cuff button, might tie up at any moment with
some other developments. Moreover, he now knew that his men were
planning to get away and that something must be done in a hurry.
After finishing his luncheon he wrote his newly acquired downtown
address on a slip of paper, wrapped it in a bill, and then signaled
to the girl that he desired his check. He handed her the bill
carelessly, and said in a low voice, without looking up, "Something
inside for you." She returned in a moment with his change, and as
she laid it on the table, said simply, "I understand." Marsh then
started out on his search for information regarding Merton.
While Marsh was confident that he would get, the most important part
of his information at the hotel where Merton had lived, he decided
to work up to that point rather than start there. One reason for
this decision lay in the fact that night employees of the hotel
could probably give him more valuable information regarding Merton's
movements than those on duty during the day. He was only a block
from Michigan Avenue, where the clubs at which Merton spent most of
his time were located. At these places he secured little information
that would further his quest. Merton had impressed the employees of
the clubs simply as a quiet man who had dropped in to read his
newspaper or book, or have quiet chats with other members with whom
he was acquainted. Occasionally he was known to engage in a game of
billiards or cards. It was hardly the life of a man who could have
such close associations with a gang of counterfeiters as to draw
upon himself an act of revenge or the necessity of removing him as a
matter of protection. So far as Marsh could discover, Merton had
never presented a questionable bill to the clubs. In fact, so far as
anyone connected with them could recollect, all payments of any
character had been made by check. Marsh had pursued inquiries along
this line, because, while almost anyone is liable at one time or
another, to be in possession of counterfeit money, such a happening
in Merton's case might have possessed unusual significance. It was
Marsh's desire to ascertain, so far as possible, if there had been
any connection of even a remote character, between Merton and the
counterfeiters. Unless some such connection were established, it
would be hard to believe that Merton had been the Sheridan Road
victim. Yet the coincidences of this disappearance, the evidences of
a crime, and the cuff button initialed "M," possessed too strong a
significance to be entirely disregarded.
At the third club Marsh secured practically no information. Merton
had been an infrequent visitor and had made little or no impression
upon the employees.
Walking north on Dearborn Street and across Madison Street, on his
way from this club to Merton's hotel, Marsh thought quickly. If he
could not at this time establish a connection, then at least he
would try to ascertain the nature of the bait which had been held
out to take this man of quiet habits to the North Side at two
o'clock in the morning.
On reaching the hotel he found that it was still too early to
interview the people he wished to see, so he sat down in one of the
big chair in the lobby to pass the time studying the aspects of the
case.
Even when his mind was busy, Marsh's eyes were on the alert, and
faces met under the most trivial circumstances, photographed
themselves upon his memory. His eyes rested casually upon a man who
sat opposite him, looking over an evening paper. Gradually Marsh
began to feel that the face was familiar. With this realization came
the recollection that the man had seated himself very quickly after
Marsh had selected his chair. Perhaps his recognition of the face
was something that came out of the past, but Marsh always endeavored
to connect every noticeable incident with the problem of the moment.
It was not long, therefore, before he had placed the man. On coming
out of the office building where he had made his temporary address
arrangements, he had passed this man standing near the door and also
remembered seeing the same man in the grill room where he had
lunched. The fact that the man was now seated near him in the hotel
lobby was more than a coincidence. Marsh's eyes roved about the
lobby with apparently careless interest, and not even the man across
from him could have guessed that he had noted anything or become
more watchful than before. However, he was planning action. If this
man was watching him there could be but one reason--his connection
with the present case. If he was connected with this case then he
was evidently one of the men they wanted. Marsh intended to be sure.
To change the situation from watched to watcher would involve some
quick and clever work. Marsh pondered.
As the bell boy passed Marsh called to him, Slipping a coin into the
boy's hand, he said, "I had an appointment here with a Mr. Morgan.
See if you can locate him." As the boy started off, calling the
name, Marsh watched the man opposite out of the corner of his eye.
The man threw down his newspaper, stretched and yawned, while his
eyes wandered about the lobby. His movements were of a very casual
sort, but to Marsh's watchful eye it was noticeable that his glances
were actually following the bell boy seeking Morgan. Marsh was now
convinced that his actions were under surveillance, and he next
planned how to throw the man off. As he sat intent on this problem,
he was startled to heap the bell boy say, "Here's the gentleman,
sir," and looking up, Marsh saw Morgan standing in front of him.
The training of both men forbade any indication of the astonishment
both felt, but looking into the other's eyes, each read the question
there. Marsh jumped up, and holding out his hand, exclaimed
boisterously, "Where have you been hiding yourself? I'd about given
you up."
"I'm sorry I am late," apologized Morgan, in an equally loud voice,
taking the cue. He pulled an adjoining chair close to Marsh and sat
down.
"Now," said Marsh, in a low voice, "it is probably needless to tell
you not to make your observation too obvious, but I want to call
your attention to the man sitting opposite."
Morgan nodded.
"He has been following me all the afternoon," continued Marsh, in
the same guarded voice. "As long as I sit here I surmise that he
will stay where he is. That will give you time to slip out, pick up
one of your men, and get him on the job. I suspect it will be worth
while getting a line on him."
"That's easy," returned Morgan. "I'll have him locked up inside of
the next ten minutes."
"No," said Marsh, "that would be taking too big a chance."
"On. the contrary," said Morgan, "it would be taking no chance at
all. That man has been wanted for a year for putting over a
confidence game. I won't mention any names because lips sometimes
tell stories to watchful eyes. You just sit here and you'll see
something in a few minutes." With that, Morgan went out.
A few minutes later a man strolled through the lobby and approached
the stranger. He leaned over and whispered to him and the two went
out together. Marsh was congratulating himself that when this man
got to Headquarters he might be made to talk to some effect, when
Morgan and another man, whom Marsh easily recognized as a detective,
approached.
"Where in blazes did your man go?" exclaimed Morgan.
Marsh stared for a moment. "Why I thought your man got him," he
said. "Somebody came in and quietly took him out."
"Good-night!" exclaimed Morgan. "Somebody must have tipped him off."
He turned to the man with him. "No use hanging around now. Our
bird's flown."
As the man left them Morgan sat down again beside Marsh. "How the
deuce did you know I was here?" he asked.
"I didn't," returned Marsh. "I had that bell boy page you to test
the man across from me. I never had such a surprise in my life as
when you turned up. What were you doing here?" he added.
"The Chief asked me to look into this Merton case. What were YOU
doing here?"
"The same thing," replied Marsh.
"Looking up Merton?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's funny. What for?"
"Because I strongly suspect he is the murdered man in our case."
Morgan gasped.
CHAPTER XIV
THE NIGHT CALL
As Morgan recovered from his astonishment, Marsh anticipated some
leading questions. He headed these off at this time, by saying, "In
this case, conditions seem to be somewhat reversed; for up to this
time we have found practically no one who could be put under
surveillance, yet we have every evidence that we are being carefully
watched by others. Several incidents have occurred, including the
present little drama which convinces us of that fact. There is no
question that we should again compare notes as soon as possible, but
this is a dangerous place to discuss the case. I came here to
question certain people. As they will not be on duty until later
there is nothing I can do along that line for a little while. In the
meantime, we ought to look over Merton's rooms upstairs. I could not
make an attempt to do this, because I do not possess the proper
authority without explaining my real connections. You, however, as a
city detective engaged on the case, will have no difficulty in
making arrangements to inspect his room."
"That is just what I dropped in to do," replied Morgan.
"Then go ahead and make your arrangements," said Marsh, "and when
you are ready, let me go up with you. If we meet anyone, remember
that I am working under the special authorization of Mr. Hunt, and
you and I have just become acquainted."
Morgan went to the hotel office. In a few minutes he returned with a
bell boy and nodded to Marsh. Guided by the bell boy, they took an
elevator and ascended to Merton's rooms, which they found consisted
of a sitting room, bedroom and bath. Obeying instructions, the bell
boy at once retired and closed the door after him.
They first inspected the bedroom, giving special attention to the
dresser. This contained nothing save the usual supply of clothing,
which served no other purpose than to indicate the wealth and
conservative taste of the owner. Marsh particularly sought some
jewelry that might help to identify the cuff button as the property
of the lost man. He found nothing, however, and considered it
probable that whatever jewelry Merton owned was on his person.
From the bedroom the two men went to the sitting room, which they
hoped would hold greater possibilities, for a desk stood in one
corner near a window. A framed photograph of Merton's wife and son,
standing on top of the desk, of course had no significance. They
then began a search of the drawers and the interior of the desk.
"Probably you have noticed," said Marsh, after a moment, "the
disordered condition of this desk."
"Now that you speak of it," agreed Morgan, "I think it is pretty
well mussed up."
"I should say," commented Marsh, "that either Merton is very
careless, or else we are not the first people to examine this desk."
"Probably the desk has been gone over, Marsh," acceded Morgan. "But
you must remember that Merton has been known to be missing for
several days and hotel employees, even under ordinary circumstances,
are apt to be curious. The point is worth remembering, but I doubt
if it is of any importance."
One by one, they examined various letters and papers. A few touched
on business subjects, but the majority were of a personal nature.
Most of these were from Merton's wife; the others from business men
whose well known names placed them beyond suspicion. In one corner
of the desk Morgan picked up a sheet containing some notations
regarding bond purchases. Beneath this he found a black, leather-covered
notebook of a size that would conveniently fit into a vest
pocket. One glance into this and Morgan gave an exclamation. "See
here!" he cried, calling Marsh's attention to the book. "This
notebook has been kept in cipher. These combinations of letters and
figures mean absolutely nothing as they stand."
The two men slowly turned the pages, but as Morgan had stated, the
matter which the book contained conveyed nothing to them.
"That looks as if Merton had something to conceal, Marsh."
"On the face of it--yes," returned Marsh. "But just glance at this
sheet which covered the notebook. From its subject matter I should
be inclined to believe that it represented Merton's handwriting."
Morgan nodded and Marsh went on.
"Now, when you come to look at this notebook, even a hasty glance
shows a difference in the handwriting. In. fact, now that my
attention has been drawn to it, there is really a marked
difference."
"Well?" queried Morgan.
"Offhand," returned Marsh, "I would say, that somebody has been
keeping a secret record. That person sat at this desk making
additional notes. In a moment of forgetfulness, or perhaps the
necessity of hasty concealment, the notebook was placed under this
sheet and later overlooked. There is a possibility that this
notebook was left by the person who preceded us at this desk."
Morgan took the notebook and examined it carefully for a few
minutes. "In my work," he said, "I have several times run up against
ciphers of various kinds. This is unlike anything I ever saw before,
and looks as if it would be mighty hard to unravel."
Marsh again took the book and after carefully examining it, said, "I
don't pretend to be a cipher expert. In fact, I never waste time on
it. We have men both here and at Washington who can read this sort
of stuff backward. I'll send this book to them and we'll soon get a
key to the cipher."
At this moment, both men became silent and alert. Someone was
slipping a key into the lock of the door. Marsh quickly dropped the
notebook into the side pocket of his coat. A moment later the door
swung open and Gilbert Hunt entered.
He stopped with a start of surprise, but quickly recovered himself.
"You gentlemen gave me a shock!" he exclaimed. "I didn't expect to
find anyone here. Already on the job, Mr. Marsh?" he added.
"Yes," returned Marsh, easily. "I never lose any time, and this room
naturally should be looked over."
"And this gentleman with you?" questioned Hunt.
"Detective Sergeant Morgan--Mr. Hunt," introduced Marsh. "Morgan is
conducting the police investigation." Then he added, with a wink at
Hunt. "We met downstairs and I thought we might as well look things
over at the same time."
"I see," said Hunt, smiling. "Have you discovered anything?"
"Nothing to which I can attach any great importance at this time,"
replied Marsh.
"I thought I would come up and look things over," explained Hunt, as
he strolled over to the desk and ran his fingers through the papers.
The two men watched him with keen attention.
"Seems to be nothing here outside of personal correspondence," said
Hunt, turning around.
"Yes," Morgan answered, "those letters appear to be of a very
ordinary character. As far as I can see, there is nothing there that
would help us."
"I presume you are working along other lines also?" inquired Hunt.
"Surely," said Morgan. "We have several men on the case now."
"And what have you found, Mr. Marsh?" inquired Hunt.
"Nothing that gives me a lead so far. I will report to you as soon
as anything comes to light."
"Better come to my home some evening," Hunt suggested. "We can talk
in greater privacy than at the office. You will find my address in
the telephone directory. By the way, I believe you neglected to give
me your address this morning, and I do not find your name in the
telephone book."
"That's right," exclaimed Marsh. "I believe I did neglect to do
that." Marsh went over to the desk, tore off the corner of a sheet
of paper, and wrote down his new address and telephone number. "Here
it is," he said, handing the paper to Hunt. "My name would not be in
the telephone book as my work necessitates frequent changes of
address. One month I am liable to be in California and the next in
Europe. For the present, however, you will be able to get word to me
at the address I have given you. Naturally, I will seldom be there,
but you can always leave word for me to get in touch with you." Then
Marsh turned to Morgan. "We'd better be moving along," he said.
"Yes," agreed Morgan, "there's nothing more to be gained here."
After exchanging a few commonplace words with Hunt, the two
detectives went out, leaving Hunt in the room. Downstairs, in the
lobby, Marsh said, "I strongly suspect that Hunt wanted to be left
alone in that room. That's why I hurried you away. The sooner he
gets through up there, the quicker he will leave the hotel. I don't
want him around while I am looking up the rest of my information.
Now, you watch the Madison Street entrance, while I stand across the
street on La Salle. When he leaves, the one that sees him will let
the other know."
The two men then separated and took up their watch.
Hunt must have made a careful examination of Merton's rooms, because
it was not until a half hour later that Morgan rejoined Marsh and
informed him that he had seen Hunt enter his automobile on Madison
Street and drive away.
"Morgan," said Marsh. "I want to have a talk with you after I get
through here. Suppose I come to your apartment tonight?"
"Fine!" agreed Morgan. "I have some information to give you. I'll
run up to Headquarters now, make a report, and go right home. You
will find me there whenever you are ready."
"And here is a suggestion, Morgan. When either of us calls on the
other, the signal will be three knocks on the door instead of
pushing the electric bell. I have a suspicion that answering a bell
these days will have to be conducted with caution."
"Perhaps you are right," said Morgan. "I'll remember."
Morgan then walked on up La Salle Street, while Marsh crossed over
and entered the hotel once more. There was now only one person who
might give him a really definite lead--the night telephone operator--and
he went straight to her switchboard. Marsh knew that this young
woman was probably overfed with smooth talk, so he counted upon
getting better results by going straight to the point.
"Good evening," he said. "You are the night operator here, are you
not?"
The young woman, who was arranging things before her in a way that
indicated she had but recently come on duty, replied in the
affirmative.
"Do you remember Mr. Merton, who has been reported missing?" asked
Marsh.
"I should say I do," exclaimed the girl. "An awfully nice man. He
appreciated good service. Every Saturday night he gave me a box of
candy."
"Read this," said Marsh, handing her his authorization from Hunt.
"Oh, I hope you do find out something," said the girl, as she
returned the paper to Marsh. "I'd just hate to think anything
serious had happened to Mr. Merton."
"All right," answered Marsh, "then you'll be willing to help me?"
"What can I do?" she inquired.
"Mr. Merton's kindness to you made an impression upon you, did it
not?" Marsh asked.
The girl nodded.
"Then you would naturally recollect anything of an unusual nature
which might have taken place during the last few days, would you
not?"
"Yes... I think so," returned the girl, somewhat guardedly.
"A telephone call late at night?" suggested Marsh.
The girl was busy with her switchboard for a time. Then she leaned
back and looked at Marsh. "See here," she said, "I'd do most
anything to help find that man, but I can't take a chance on losing
my job."
Marsh now knew that he was going to get important information if he
handled the matter diplomatically.
"Remember," he explained, confidentially, "I am not a regular
detective. I have nothing to do with the city police department.
There will be no publicity attached to anything I learn. I am merely
looking up confidential information for Mr. Hunt, who, as you know,
has charge of Mr. Merton's business."
The girl was again busy at the switchboard, and when at last there
came a pause, she looked carefully around to see that no one else
was within ear shot. Then she leaned toward Marsh.
"He got a telephone message at twelve o'clock on Monday night," she
whispered.
"You mean last Monday?" questioned Marsh. He recollected that Merton
had been reported missing for ten days.
The girl nodded.
"Of course, at that hour," suggested Marsh, "you were not very busy
and would therefore be likely to listen in on the wire."
"The very idea!" she exclaimed, indignantly.
"Look here," said Marsh. "If I can rescue Merton from the
predicament he is probably in, someone will be handsomely rewarded.
Is it not a safe bet that the person who gives me the correct
information to put me on the right track, will be pretty well taken
care of?"
The girl sat in thoughtful silence.
"And if Mr. Merton should happen to be dead, Mrs. Merton would be
very grateful, indeed, to anyone who had helped her learn the
truth," Marsh added.
Again the girl looked cautiously about. The hint of an ample reward
was having its effect.
"If I lose my job..." she warned, and then again leaned toward
Marsh. "I listened in, all right. It was a man who said his name was
Nolan. From what I heard I think he used to be a chauffeur for Mr.
Merton. He said he was in an awful hole, that he was unjustly
accused of theft, and that they were about to lock him up. He asked
Mr. Merton if he could do anything to keep him out of this disgrace.
Mr. Merton said he would try and asked where he was. Nolan said he
was being detained in the apartment of a man named Ames, at some
place on Sheridan Road--I forget the exact number."
"Did Mr. Merton go there then, do you know?"
"I couldn't tell you that. He simply said, 'All right,' and hung up
the receiver."
"You have given me just the information I needed," said Marsh. "Your
job is in no danger if you let this matter rest just between us two.
If anyone else should question you, you don't know anything. And
above all, forget about me. You get the idea?"
"You bet!" replied the girl, as she turned again to her switchboard.
Marsh left the hotel, well satisfied with his progress. It was now
fairly well established that Richard Townsend Merton was the victim
of Clark Atwood.
CHAPTER XV
"DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES"
Up to this time the case had seemed one of the most mysterious with
which Marsh had ever had to deal. Now, however, while elements of
mystery still remained, he had certain definite clues upon which to
work. The little notebook in his pocket might prove to be a key that
would unlock the final barrier. The most important thing before him
now, therefore, was to secure a solution to the cipher. It was of
too important a nature to trust to the mails so Marsh decided to put
it directly into official hands. He glanced at his watch. It was
after six, and being Saturday, it was likely that these men had left
their offices in the Federal Building. At the same time, this was a
very busy branch of the Government and it was just possible that
someone might be lingering late. Marsh decided to take a chance.
It had been clearly impressed upon him by this time that he was no
longer free to come and go unnoticed. At this very moment there
might be a pair of eyes somewhere in that hurrying throng on La
Salle Street ready to follow his every move. However much they might
suspect him, his exact status in the case was probably still a
puzzle to them. He did not believe it safe as yet to betray his
connection with the Government. The problem then was to reach the
Federal Building without being followed.
Marsh called a taxi, and loudly giving an address on the South Side,
was whirled away. Taking out a bill, he laid it on the seat. In a
couple of blocks the taxi was held up for a moment by traffic and
Marsh stepped hastily out and softly closed the door. He dashed up
the street, turned down an alleyway, and half way down the block
turned again through another alley that brought him to a different
street. In these dark, deserted byways he could have instantly
detected any attempt to follow him. A few minutes later he entered
the Federal Building, quite sure that any possible pursuers had been
thrown off the trail.
He found a hard working official still in his office, and showing
his credentials and explaining the object of his visit, Marsh turned
over the notebook. Then he slipped out of the Federal Building, and
went to a nearby restaurant to get his dinner. After dinner he
proceeded by devious routes to keep his appointment with Morgan.
Climbing to Morgan's apartment, Marsh gave three raps, the signal
agreed upon.
Tierney opened the door, but after an exchange of greetings, put on
his cap and passed out into the hall to stand guard.
"Both of us must have important information," said Morgan. "Which of
us, shall tell it first?"
"Let me hear your story first," returned Marsh.
"All right," agreed Morgan. "Here goes. My chief information lies in
the fact that we now have two men who are undoubtedly connected with
Atwood. Both of these men are known to the police, and once we get
our eyes on them they will probably lead us to the men we want. It
is only a question of hours, perhaps, because every man on the force
now has their descriptions and will keep his eyes open. The first of
these is Wagner, the man you saw in the hotel lobby. The other is
the man who attacked Miss Atwood. With her description in mind,
Tierney and I looked over the photographs at Headquarters. We picked
out a man known as 'Baldy' Newman as best answering the description.
I took a copy of the photograph to Miss Atwood at her hotel, and
while she was not sure, she said it was enough like the man she saw
to be the same person. Now, this 'Baldy' Newman is a well known West
Side gunman, and we know his usual hangouts. He's a little bit of a
shrimp, but an expert with his gun, and therefore a dangerous
customer to handle, so Tierney and I were mighty vigilant. We found,
however, that for nearly two years he has shown up only twice at his
old hangouts. That time ties up in a significant way with your
story, Marsh. The last time was early on Monday night, when he
showed a roll of money and boasted that he was going to pull off a
real job that night. We got this from the bartender, who was mighty
sore at 'Baldy.' It seems that our friend had slipped a five dollar
bill off his roll to pay for drinks for the crowd, and the bartender
still has this bill as a souvenir. IT WAS A COUNTERFEIT. Of course,
there's enough in all that to positively tie 'Baldy' up with our
case, even if Miss Atwood had not been fairly confident of her
identification."
"Now," continued Morgan. "Here's some stuff I brought for you.
Sooner or later I believe you can make use of it." Morgan handed
some photographs to Marsh, which he explained as Marsh looked them
over.
"The first," he said, "is a photograph of 'Baldy' Newman. He's a
good man for you to keep your eye out for, because if he ever shot
first it would be all day with you. The second photograph is of
Wagner. You have already seen him, but this picture will fix him
more firmly in your mind. The next photograph is the one our man
made of Atwood's letter. Of course, the letter doesn't tell us much,
but the handwriting may. That last photograph is of the hand marks
on the dining room table in the Ames apartment. Ordinarily, marks of
that kind would tell very little. Our finger print expert, however,
called my attention to the fact that there is a scar on the right
hand. Of course, a scar in that position might be found on many
hands, but if you look carefully at that photograph you will see
that the scar forms a sort of acute angle. It is, therefore, not an
ordinary scar. The man whose hand we find it on is pretty sure to be
one of the men who was in the Ames apartment that night."
"High class crooks like Atwood, while they work alone, are often
hard to get, but sooner or later they grow ambitious. They want to
be the brains of an organization. Then they call in second-rate
crooks like 'Baldy' and Wagner, to do the dirty work. These men are
never so clever, and some day, through them, the police get their
hands on the man higher up. I think, Marsh, that in this case that
is what we are going to do."
"You have done well, Morgan," praised Marsh. "I believe on the whole
that, while I have secured some valuable information, your work has
really brought us the nearest to the man we want."
"That was pretty sharp of you to tie up Merton with the case,"
commented Morgan. "Of course, when you mentioned it to me I saw its
possibilities. Before that I was thrown off the track by the fact
that Merton was reported to have been missing for ten days, whereas
this supposed crime occurred at two o'clock last Tuesday morning.
Why do you suppose that fellow Hunt threw us off like that?"
"Probably he did not do it intentionally," answered Marsh. "Hunt is
running the business for Merton, and very likely saw little of him
outside of the once. It may have been ten days since Merton had
appeared at his office, although only a few days since he was
missing from the hotel."
"What made you suspect it in the first place?" inquired Morgan.
"I'll tell you the whole story," said Marsh. "Naturally, I was
watching the papers for missing people. When I saw that announcement
this morning, and remembered the 'M' on the cuff button, it began to
look like a possibility. At any rate, it was worth looking up. To
get at the real facts, I knew that I would have to be on the inside,
so I presented myself to Hunt this morning as a private investigator
who was anxious to get the job of looking up Merton in the interest
of his office. I think I got closer to Hunt than any policeman ever
would. In fact, I was furnished with inside information that may or
may not be significant. This man Hunt holds a power of attorney from
Merton, and Merton's will names him as sole executor, Of course, to
a criminal investigator that sounds bad on its face. On the other
hand, if Hunt possessed such power with Merton there could be no
object in his wanting to get him out of the way. Certainly, a man in
Hunt's position would not have had dealings with a crook like
Atwood. Furthermore, if Hunt did want to make away with Merton, he
would more likely do it himself than take the risk of employing
others, and so place himself in a position to be blackmailed later.
Carrying the thought still further, would a clever man like Atwood
take a chance of upsetting his own plans by hiring himself out to
Hunt as a common thug?"
"I am positive that Atwood either killed or kidnapped Merton, for I
have discovered, through the telephone girl at the hotel, that
Merton received a telephone call at twelve o'clock Monday night,
summoning him out. That telephone call was supposed to come from the
Ames apartment. At two o'clock Tuesday morning the shot was fired in
that apartment and Merton has not been seen since. We know
definitely that Atwood occupies the apartment across the hall, but
at this time I cannot see any possible connection between the two
men. Hunt is evidently nervous, because it is my opinion that he
used undue influence over Merton, and this disappearance has placed
him in a peculiar position. I particularly called this phase of the
case to his attention this morning, and subtly suggested that my
work would be of value to him in preventing suspicion on the part of
the police. That feature was plainly what made him decide to employ
me, and I am relying upon it to eventually get further valuable
information."
"The little book, with notes in cipher, which we discovered in
Merton's room, is somewhat of a puzzle to me just now. It may
contain information that will be helpful, or it may prove just a
memoranda of business deals. We must not overlook the fact that a
man in Merton's line of work, and the men with whom he did business,
have many big plans which must be kept secret until they are
launched. That book may have contained data along such lines, and
Merton may have simply been referring to it when suddenly called
out. You will recall that we found a memorandum regarding business
transactions covering the book."
"But," protested Morgan, "there must have been some connection
between Merton and Atwood or else Atwood would not have taken such a
dangerous step against him. Even you will admit that Atwood was not
an ordinary crook. Doubtless, then, every step he took was the
result of a definite plan."
"Quite true," agreed Marsh, "but there was never a plan yet that
didn't have possibilities of failure. You remember what I have said
before; that I believed that shot to have been a mistake. If the
shot was a mistake, could not other mistakes have also crept in? Get
Atwood and I believe that many things will be cleared up."
"Now there is one thing more," went on Marsh. "I cannot tell you
where I got the tip, and the information is only general. Still it
helps. There are at least four men in the gang we seek, and their
headquarters is in some suburban house near Chicago. The most
important point, however, is this: they know positively that we are
after them, and have made arrangements to get out at the first
opportunity. That means WE must work fast."
Morgan was sitting in his favorite chair by the table. Marsh was
seated at the front of the room with his back to the window. At this
moment the window glass above his head cracked, a dull thud sounded
on the wall across the room, and bits of paper and plaster dropped
to the floor.
Instantly Marsh slipped down in his chair, so that his head came
below its back, while Morgan's hand shot out and snapped off the
electric lamp on the table, throwing the room into darkness. Aside
from the slight cracking of the window glass, and the dull crash as
the missile struck the plastered wall, there had been no other
sound.
Morgan left his chair and felt his way through the darkened room.
Opening the hall door he cautiously peered out. Tierney, with his
hands in his trouser pockets, was leaning with his back against the
wall. He glanced up quickly as the door opened.
"Everything all right, Tierney?" inquired Morgan.
"Sure thing."
"Haven't seen or heard anybody?"
"Nope."
Morgan closed the door and moved back into the room.
"'Dead men tell no tales'," said Marsh, lightly.
"Was it that, or just a warning?" questioned Morgan.
"People do not go to all that trouble just to deliver a warning,
Morgan. They wanted to get me."
"Why you?" protested Morgan. "I was here, too."
"They couldn't possibly have seen you where you sat, Morgan. On the
other hand, my head, sticking above the back of this chair, and
showing against the lamp-light, made an excellent target."
Marsh now rose and examined the window. "A nice, clean hole," he
commented, "and not more than two inches above my head. A mighty
good marksman, with a high-powered rifle, evidently."
"Rifle!" exclaimed Morgan. "We didn't hear a sound!"
"Come here," Marsh called. Morgan joined him at the window. "From
here you can see the grand stand in the ball park. The upper tiers
are on a line with this window."
"But," objected Morgan, "that is too far away for any man to get a
good sight; and remember, we heard no shot."
"Don't forget," Marsh reminded him, "that we live in scientific
times. With a telescopic sight, and a Maxim Silencer on his rifle, a
good marksman could steady it on the back of one of those seats and
pick us off at twice the distance without a sound."
"It is very discouraging," groaned Morgan. "To think that we may be
picked off before we've even began to get near our man."
"On the contrary," returned Marsh, "it is very encouraging. When a
criminal gets as desperate as that you are not very far away from
him."
Marsh then pulled down the shades and instructed Morgan to light the
lamp once more.
"Seems kind of dangerous, under the circumstances," remonstrated
Morgan.
"On the contrary, the man who fired that shot is probably miles away
by this time. He is doubtless laughing to think of fat policemen
crawling around over the benches up there right now."
"They would have been," admitted Morgan, "if I had been alone. As it
was, I left it to you to do what you thought best."
"I have a special reason, however, for lighting the lamp and pulling
down the shades," explained Marsh. "It is just possible that another
member of the gang is watching out there for me to leave. Pulling
down the shades and lighting up will lead him to think I am still
here. In the meantime, I am about to slip down your back stairs."
"Where are you going to stay tonight?" inquired Morgan.
"Home, of course."
"I admire your nerve!" exclaimed Morgan. "Sleeping up in that place
all alone, with these fellows hot on your trail."
Marsh laughed. "Seems to me they're pretty close to your house, too,
Morgan. Aren't you going to sleep at home?"
"Yes," said Morgan, grinning, "but somehow or other that big,
half-furnished place of yours seems more dismal and open to the enemy
than my little home here with a police station only a couple of
blocks away."
"You forget that I have two policemen on guard up there. They've not
been ordered off yet. If I were to let my imagination scare me to
death, Morgan, I would have been out of the Government service long
ago. This experience is no worse than some of the things I went
through during the war."
"Now, before I go, there are two matters I should like you and
Tierney to look up for me. First, locate a man named Nolan, who was
formerly Mr. Merton's chauffeur. Find out what he has been doing for
the last week or two; particularly where he was last Monday night.
Nolan is the man who is supposed to have telephoned Merton."
"Then try to get a line on Gilbert Hunt; how long he has been with
Merton, and things of that sort. I will look for you at my apartment
Monday evening. If anything important should happen in the meantime,
try to get me on the telephone. Now, I'm going."
As they passed through the apartment, Morgan said, "I'm sorry you
didn't meet my mother. She never interrupts conferences, and has
gone to bed by this time."
"There will be many other opportunities, I hope," returned Marsh.
By this time they had reached the back door, and after a silent
handshake, Marsh slipped quietly down the rear stairs, then through
the alley to Addison Street, where he boarded an elevated train and
went home.
He was re-assured by the careful way in which the officer on duty in
front of his house scrutinized him as he passed, and went upstairs
and straight to bed. It had been a busy day and Marsh had many
half-formed plans for the morrow.
CHAPTER XVI
THE CLOSED COUNTRY HOUSE
Sunday morning was gray and dark, with low-hanging clouds and a
frosty snap in the air that gave the city its first touch of real
autumn weather. Returning from breakfast, Marsh lit the gas logs in
his fireplace and sat down before their cheery blaze to smoke and
think.
Step by step he analyzed and strove to connect the developments of
the last few days. The case was strange in many ways. With numerous
clues, suspicions circumstances and half-identified people on every
hand, there was no one feature upon which definite action could be
taken. Atwood was the most elusive criminal he had ever pursued.
Never at any time had the man become an actual personality. Like a
will-o'-the-wisp, he was ever in sight, yet just beyond reach. While
the detectives struggled along tangled paths that led nowhere,
Atwood's long arm continually reached out to strike back.
As he thought along these lines, an explanation slowly took form in
Marsh's mind. In some of its features it seemed weird and unreal.
This, perhaps, was due to the fact that the few definite pieces of
information in his possession had to be largely supported and
connected by theories and deductions. Strange as the explanation
might seem, it nevertheless gave birth to a well-defined plan of
action.
In this way the morning slipped by and Marsh was surprised, on
looking at his watch, to find that it was nearly noon. He went to
his telephone, called the Monmouth Hotel, and asked to speak to Miss
Atwood. When the girl answered the telephone, Marsh inquired if she
would care to have dinner with him. The invitation was accepted with
quite evident pleasure on the girl's part, and Marsh soon left to
keep his appointment with her. On his way to the hotel, Marsh
stepped into a cigar store, looked up Gilbert Hunt's telephone
number, and made an appointment for the evening. Marsh took this
precaution of telephoning Hunt from a pay station because a
telephone call is easily traced, and he had not yet decided to
advise Hunt of his real address.
Jane Atwood joined Marsh in the lobby of the hotel, and the
friendliness of her greeting made him glad of his decision to take
her on the trip he had planned for the afternoon.
They had dinner at the Edgewater Beach Hotel. It was the girl's
first visit to this show-place of the North Side, and Marsh was
delighted with her animated interest in everything about her. In
fact, he found it hard to believe that this girl, whose bright
chatter, sunny smile and sparkling eyes now held him fascinated, had
so recently been through such trying experiences. Marsh felt that it
was a natural reaction brought about by this diversion, and he long
afterward remembered it as one of the happiest hours in a life that
had been replete with professional adventure, but barren in the
companionship of women of her sort.
As they sat sipping their coffee, Marsh said, "I imagine you have
seen very little of Chicago, Miss Atwood?"
"Yes," she admitted. "One takes less interest in things when
sight-seeing trips must be made alone. You know, I have not seemed to make
any friends in Chicago."
"When I can spare the time, I want to take you around a little. I am
sure that you would enjoy the art museum, for art is akin to music
and from what you have told me I know that you are deeply interested
in that."
"Yes," she replied, "music has always been my chief companion. The
dreams that other girls confide in chums, I have told to my piano."
Marsh lit a cigarette and smoked for a moment in silence.
"How would you like to take a little trip with me out to one of the
North Shore suburbs this afternoon?" he inquired.
"I should enjoy it very much," she said.
"Well," Marsh went on, "there is a house out at Hubbard Woods that I
want to look over this afternoon for a friend. This is just the day
for a stroll along the autumn-leafed roads. I thought perhaps you
would like to go with me."
Marsh aided her with her wraps and they walked across to the
elevated railroad. At Evanston, a few miles north of the city, they
changed to the suburban electric line. The girl took a lively
interest in the pretty suburban towns through which they passed, and
it seemed to Marsh as if they had but just boarded the train when
the conductor called out their station and they alighted.
The place was well named. A lonely little station set down in the
midst of thick woods, and a road that wound slightly downhill and
away among the trees were all that met the eye. They strolled down
this road, passing occasional homes. These were usually well back
from the road and almost concealed among the trees. In fact, in some
places the house itself was not visible, the only indication of a
residence being an ornamental gateway, or sometimes just a simple
driveway disappearing into the woods. Fallen leaves rustled about
their feet, but much of the foliage remained on the trees. Some of
this was still green, setting off the masses of autumn colors that
ranged from a sombre brown to vivid reds and many shades of yellow.
"And a great city only a few miles away," mused Marsh, giving voice
to both their thoughts.
"It is beautiful," admitted the girl, "but so lonely and quiet.
Somehow, one, feels so far, far away from everything. Perhaps the
gloomy day affects me, but it seems as if the air were full of some
solemn mystery."
At this point Marsh saw a young couple, strolling on the other side
of the road. He surmised that they were local residents, and
excusing himself to Miss Atwood, crossed over and inquired of the
man if he knew where the Merton estate was located.
"Yes," was the reply. "Just keep on south along Sheridan Road. It
won't take you five minutes to get there. The place is on the left
hand side of the road. You can't miss it; a gateway with gray stone
posts, and there are two big pines inside the entrance to the
driveway."
Thanking him, Marsh rejoined Miss Atwood.
"I wanted to find out how to locate the place I was looking for," he
explained. "You will pardon my leaving you alone, but it seemed
unnecessary to make you cross the street."
"Oh, I didn't mind," she replied.
Marsh's real reason, however, in thus leaving Miss Atwood, was to
prevent her hearing mention of the name of Merton. Unquestionably,
the girl had read of the case in the papers, and after her own
recent experiences might feel a certain timidity in approaching the
missing broker's home; especially after her recent mention of how
the surroundings affected her.
A slight turn in the road brought them to the driveway which the
young man had described. There was no mistaking the two great pines
that stood like sentinels at either side, just back of the imposing
stone gateway. One of these trees was evidently dead, for it was
gaunt and bare, in marked contrast to its companion; and as they
paused a moment before the entrance, the wind broke off a rotting
branch, which fell at her feet. The gates of iron grill work were
standing open, and they turned in and started up the driveway, which
was covered with crushed gray stone. The house was farther from the
road than Marsh had expected, for it was several minutes before they
reached it. As he stood before the great pile of stone and wood,
with its drawn shades and general appearance of desertion, Marsh
thought of the long, winding road through the woods behind them and
half regretted that he had brought Miss Atwood with him. His desire
had been to attract as little attention as possible in his
inspection of the house. One man scouting around this lonely place
would have been a suspicious object. On the other hand, it had
seemed to him that a man and woman, out for an afternoon stroll,
might exhibit an interest in a large country-house without
attracting suspicious attention. But now, as he stood there in the
gray autumn light, with the wind sighing through the trees about
them and a fine snow beginning to drift down, the place seemed to
take on an uncanny atmosphere that, even though nothing worse could
happen, would have a depressing effect on the girl. It was too late
to back out, however. It would be hard to explain a sudden retreat
to the girl, and there was no time to be lost in trying to get the
information which he sought. Marsh glanced at his companion. She was
looking around with evident interest, and he was glad to note that
as yet she exhibited no signs of nervousness.
"I understand there is a caretaker here. Will you come up with me
while I ring the bell?"
The girl assented, and they climbed the wide steps over which the
autumn leaves were thickly scattered. Whether or not the bell rang,
Marsh could not tell, but certainly no sound came to them. He
decided to knock and struck the door with the knuckles of his
clenched hand. At the first blow, the door moved and swung inward.
A large hall stretched dimly before them. At one side, Marsh saw a
stairway and at the other a high curtained doorway, which probably
led to the drawing room. At the back of the hall seemed to be
another smaller doorway, but Marsh could not be sure in the dim
light. He was in a quandary. So far as he could see, the house was
deserted. Possibly the caretaker was spending his Sunday afternoon
with friends, and the door had been closed carelessly so that the
latch had not caught. Had Marsh been alone he would have welcomed
this opportunity to carefully inspect the house. The girl now
blocked such an attempt, for it was obviously unwise, for many
reasons, to ask her to accompany him into the house; and he could
not consider the idea of leaving her alone, even for a few minutes.
There was no alternative but to postpone his visit until the next
day.
Marsh stepped through the doorway, pulled the door closed, and tried
the knob to see that the door had latched securely. As he turned
away, he glanced toward the shrubbery that bordered the adjoining
woods. Although he turned instantly to the girl, and started to
assist her down the steps, Marsh's quick eyes had noted a man
crouching half-concealed in the shrubbery.
As they retraced their steps down the driveway, Marsh kept a firm
grasp on the automatic in his pocket while his eyes, without
apparent interest, continually watched the trees and shrubbery on
either side. They reached the main road without incident and turned
north toward the station. Not a word had been spoken as they passed
along the driveway, for Marsh had been too intent upon keeping a
keen watch to think of words, and the depressing atmosphere of the
place had evidently begun to affect Miss Atwood. In fact, Marsh
thought that she seemed to brighten as soon as they passed through
the gateway.
"Are you in the real estate business, Mr. Marsh?" she asked.
"No," he replied. "What made you think that?"
"You never told me what your business was," she answered, "and your
coming out here to look at that house today gave me the idea that
you might be interested in real estate."
"No," he said, "I am not interested in real estate," then added,
evasively, but not quite untruthfully, "I am planning, however, to
go into some sort of business in Chicago."
The fact was that since meeting this girl, Marsh had began to take
an entirely different view of life. He looked back upon his
wanderings and realized the emptiness of the passing years. It
seemed to him now that a man could ask for nothing more than to
settle down to some regular employment in such a wonderful city, and
go home every night to find this girl waiting for him.
Marsh stepped off the motor bus at Oak Street to keep his
appointment with Hunt. He reflected that he had never seen a street
so representative of Chicago and its rapid growth. At his back was
the great new Drake Hotel and the whole neighborhood was one of
wealth and fashion. Yet, as he passed along the street, he noticed
tiny frame or brick dwellings nestling shoulder to shoulder with
obviously wealthy homes, and here and there the dark, towering
structures of old and new apartment buildings. He found Hunt's
apartment in one of the new buildings and paused for a moment on the
curb to look it over. Though handsome architecturally and modern in
every respect, there was a peculiar sombreness about the building,
and the bright lamps that gleamed at the entrance but served to
exaggerate the dim interior of the hallway.
Not realizing exactly why he did so, but probably responding to an
instinct for caution, Marsh strolled back and forth before entering
the building. He noted the two dark and narrow alleyways on either
side. One of these, reached through a dim, deep recess in the front
wall, was evidently the tradesmen's entrance. Marsh then entered the
vestibule and pushed the bell under Hunt's name. This was
immediately answered by the clicking of the electric door opener.
Hunt's man-servant stood at the apartment door, and after closing it
behind him, ushered Marsh down a short hall and into the living
room. Marsh's quick eye took in the luxuriousness of the
furnishings--and something more. He surmised that Hunt was a
bachelor. Hunt advanced to meet him with extended hand.
"Good evening, Mr. Marsh," Hunt greeted him, affably. "I hope you
bring me some important information."
"I think it will at least be interesting," returned Marsh, as he
handed his hat and coat to Hunt's man.
A log fire blazed in a large open fireplace. Before this was a
deeply upholstered davenport plentifully supplied with extra
cushions, and at either side of the fireplace were large lounging
chairs. Hunt called Marsh's attention to these and told him to make
himself comfortable. As Hunt seated himself on the davenport, Marsh
decided to take one of the chairs near the fire. This gave him the
advantage of having the firelight on Hunt's face while his own was
more or less in the shadow, for the heavily shaded lamps about the
room furnished only a soft glow that made details indistinct.
Hunt clasped his hands and leaning forward rested his elbows on his
knees. "Tell me what you found in Merton's rooms yesterday," he
said.
"I found absolutely nothing of importance," replied Marsh. It might
be splitting hairs, he thought, but it was Morgan who had actually
discovered the notebook. "I looked carefully through his dresser,"
he want on, "and also examined all the papers in the desk."
"And you found nothing of importance, Mr. Marsh?"
"Nothing," replied March, putting as strong a note of positiveness
into his voice as possible, for he now began to suspect to whom the
notebook had belonged. "The desk contained only personal and a
little business correspondence. Morgan and I examined all the
signatures. If you looked that correspondence over, as I presume you
did, you will acknowledge that no suspicion could be directed at the
men whose names appeared there."
Hunt nodded in an absent-minded way and again asked, "Perhaps this
man Morgan found something?"
"I would have known if he had," said Marsh, again evasively. "I
entered the room with him, and as you know, we left together."
Hunt now seemed satisfied that Marsh had no special information to
give him about the contents of Merton's rooms: "Well, tell me just
what you have discovered," he said, settling back into a corner of
the davenport.
"For one thing," Marsh began, "I know that Mr. Merton is dead."
He leisurely took out his cigarette case, carefully selected a
cigarette, and touch a match to it. It was evident, that this act on
Marsh's part was intended to give Hunt time in which to think and
pass some comment if he cared to. The man remained silent.
"All right, my friend," thought Marsh. "We'll tell you a little
more; just enough to make you think--and perhaps act." Then he
continued aloud, "I work along somewhat different lines than those
followed by the police. For example, I frequently get better results
by sitting down quietly in my room, laying certain obvious
circumstances before me, and, through what you might call a method
of addition, derive an answer to my problem."
"Quite interesting," murmured Hunt.
"And that is the way I have worked out this problem."
"Tell me the details," said Hunt.
"While you reported to the police that Mr. Merton had been missing
for ten days, I discovered by inquiries at his hotel that he was in
his room as late as last Monday night. In fact, he was seen to leave
the hotel at midnight."
"So I have heard," Hunt broke in hastily. "At the time I notified
the police I had not seen Mr. Merton at the office for about ten
days."
Marsh nodded, and inquired, "I suppose you follow the papers
carefully every day?"
"Naturally," was the reply.
"Then," said Marsh, "you probably read about the murder on Sheridan
Road last Tuesday morning--the Sheridan Road Mystery, the papers
called it."
"Yes, I read about that affair."
"Didn't it make you think?" asked Marsh.
"I don't understand."
"I'll explain," said Marsh. "Mr. Merton left his hotel at midnight
Monday. Two hours later a man was murdered in the Sheridan Road
apartment. Mr. Merton has not been seen since."
"Well?" queried Hunt.
"I've just been wondering--that's all," answered Marsh, throwing the
remains of his cigarette into the fire place. There was a slight
pause as he selected another from his case and lit it.
"Mr. Marsh," said Hunt, "you're driving at something. What is it?"
"Just this,". answered Marsh, leaning forward and looking Hunt in
the eye. "You hold a power of attorney from Mr. Merton. You are to
be sole executor of his estate. Mrs. Merton may not return for
years. That's an easy way to get a business, Mr. Hunt."
Hunt adjusted a couple of pillows and settled back again. "Do I
gather from your remarks, Mr. Marsh, that you mean to imply
something?"
"No," returned Marsh, "I am just stating an obvious situation."
Hunt now leaned toward Marsh. "Have the police arrived at the same
conclusions?"
"Have you ever noticed," countered Marsh, "that what the police know
usually appears in the papers?"
"You mean by that that the police have not formed the same
connection which you have?"
"I inferred as much," returned Marsh.
"Are you thinking of bringing your theories to their attention?"
asked Hunt, as he again settled himself back against the cushions.
"That depends."
"On what?" inquired Hunt.
"Yourself."
Hunt remained silent for a moment, then said, "Do I understand that
you are making me a proposition?"
"I'm not laying myself open to a charge of blackmail, Mr. Hunt."
"No," jeered Hunt, "I see you're a clever rogue. I might have
guessed as much when you offered to investigate this matter for me."
"A man must make a living," returned Marsh.
"This is a cheap way to do it."
"I haven't had your opportunities," snapped Marsh.
"Damn you!" cried Hunt, leaping to his feet and shaking his fist in
Marsh's face. "I'll hand you over to the police."
"And lose a good lieutenant, Mr. Hunt?"
"You're a dirty blackguard, Marsh," stormed Hunt. "You've worked
your way into my confidence and now attempt to use your knowledge to
hold me up. I admit that you've got me by the throat. A man placed
in the position which you have made only too clear to me has only
one way out. Of course, I could clear myself, but the stigma and
suspicion would remain. All right, what's your price?"
Marsh stared in puzzled silence for a moment, as Hunt glared down at
him. In some ways the outcome of the conversation was not exactly
what he had expected.
"Mr. Hunt," he said, rising, "I'm in this thing for bigger game than
a few hundred dollars."
"I told you to name your price," replied Hunt.
"As I told you before," returned Marsh, "I'm not laying myself open
to a charge of blackmail. You think the matter over for a day or
two; and in the meantime I'll take my coat and hat."
Hunt hesitated for a moment, then struck a bell which stood on a
small table by the davenport. A moment later his man appeared with
Marsh's coat and hat and assisted him to put on his coat.
"Good night, Mr. Hunt," said Marsh, smiling, and holding out his
hand.
"Good night," said Hunt, shortly, turning away and ignoring the
proffered hand.
The servant opened the door and Marsh; passed out. He hurried over
to Rush Street and into the telephone booth in a nearby drug store.
He talked for a few minutes over the telephone and then took a
street car for home.
A half hour later an observant person might have noticed a man
lingering in the shadows of Oak Street.
CHAPTER XVII
WHAT THE CARETAKER SAW.
Early Monday morning Marsh started for Hubbard Woods, to carry out
his investigations regarding the Merton house These investigations
must be conducted along different lines from those he had
contemplated on Sunday, for his last interview with Hunt had
considerably changed his position in the matter. Hunt now regarded
him with suspicion, and it might be considered probable that he had
even gone so far as to warn the caretaker he had said was in charge,
against admitting Marsh.
Marsh intended to have another look at the place, but only a
surreptitious one from the cover of the woods. His chief object now
was to discover if neighbors knew anything about the place. As he
came down the road he recognized the turn, which the day before had
brought him directly in front of the gate, so he stepped to the side
of the road, and approached the turn with caution, for he did not
want anyone who might be coming from the house to find him near it
at this time.
As Marsh walked slowly around the bend in the road he saw the rear
of a closed car just disappearing between the gateposts. Only the
guarded way in which he had approached had prevented the occupants
of the car from seeing him. Marsh hurried to the shelter of one of
the big stone gateposts and peered around it in time to note that
the car was a large, black one of the limousine type. The next
minute it was lost to view around a curve in the driveway, and Marsh
paused for a moment to reflect. This might be Hunt's car bringing
him up for one of the visits which he had said he was accustomed to
make. On the other hand, it seemed too early an hour for a man of
Hunt's habits. Moreover, Marsh had reason to believe that Hunt's car
would be followed; and certainly there was no one else in sight now.
Marsh decided that the matter was worth investigating, and turned
into the concealing shadow of the woods. He made his way with
difficulty through the tangled underbrush, in what he believed to be
the general direction of the house. His guess was correct, for the
house was before him when he emerged, a few minutes later, from the
woods. He was protected from the sight of anyone in the house by a
screen of heavy shrubbery, which divided the lawn from the woods.
He found that in his unguided advance through the woods, he had
approached the house to the south, so that he saw not only the house
itself, but also had a good view of the garage at the back. The car
had evidently just been run into the garage, for a man was closing
the doors, while another stood nearby. A moment later, the two men
approached the house and passed out of sight. Marsh presumed that
they had used the back door, which was out of his line of vision.
While the distance was too great for him to see the men's features
distinctly, he knew that neither of them was Hunt, for he was now
sufficiently familiar with Hunt's figure to have easily recognized
it.
To have seen one man or woman around the premises would not have
surprised Marsh, as he was prepared to find a caretaker in charge.
That two men should drive up in an expensive automobile, however,
store it in the garage, and enter the house, as if perfectly at
home, was a peculiar incident. Caretakers do not usually have
automobiles; certainly not expensive limousines. If the family had
been away for a few days, it would be natural for the chauffeur, or
some of the servants, to use the car. But this house had been closed
for two years, and Marsh was under the impression that Merton had
not been using a private car. If he had been using a car it was
hardly likely that he would have let his old chauffeur go. The
telephone conversation, which the girl at the hotel had overheard,
between Merton and the supposed Nolan, indicated that Merton had
more than a casual regard for his ex-chauffeur, or the man would not
have appealed to him.
Marsh's suspicions being now definitely aroused, he decided not to
take a chance by showing himself in the open. This might very
probably be "the house in the suburbs," and he was not prepared to
battle alone with four or more desperate men. Though he lingered for
some time in his place of concealment, there were no further signs
of life, so Marsh, deciding that he was wasting valuable time, crept
cautiously into the woods and worked his way back through the
undergrowth to the main road.
The next step was to find a close neighbor. Having twice approached
the house from the north, Marsh knew that there was no residence
near it on that side. He turned south, therefore, and after going
only a few hundred feet, approached a gateway that was similar in
many respects to that at the entrance to the driveway of the Merton
home. It lacked the tall, distinctive pines, however, and a short
distance inside the gate he could see a cozy little gardener's
cottage, or lodge. Marsh was well pleased at this discovery, for he
had hoped to locate something of the kind. Servants are more easily,
questioned, more talkative, and usually in the possession of a
larger amount of neighborhood gossip, than their employers. He
approached the door and knocked.
"Come in," called a feminine voice, unquestionably Swedish in its
accent.
Marsh opened the door and found himself in a room that appeared to
be kitchen, sitting and dining room. A small, round table was set
for two, and a woman stood near the stove, preparing lunch or a
midday dinner. Marsh had not realized how quickly the morning was
passing. The woman's occupation reminded him that he was hungry, and
also gave him a sudden inspiration. He would offer to buy his lunch
here, for people always grow more friendly and communicative over a
meal.
"You want my husband? He bane come in a minute," the woman said,
when she saw Marsh.
"No," Marsh replied, "I wasn't looking for your husband. I've been
walking around the neighborhood, and thought perhaps I could get
lunch here. I'll pay you well for your trouble."
The woman smiled broadly. "Dere bane enough one more. Yust set
down--one, two minute."
Marsh laid his hat and coat on an old-fashioned couch that stood
against the wall, and was about to sit down beside them, when the
door opened again and a stocky man entered. His tanned face was
expressionless, and the eyes looked dully at Marsh. A lock of light
brown hair drooped over his forehead from under a cap, which he wore
well back on his head. The cap seemed to be a fixture, for it was
not removed while Marsh remained, and the detective had the humorous
thought that it might also serve as a nightcap.
"Aye give dis yentleman lunch," explained the woman.
The man grunted, took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and sat
down at the table.
"Not very talkative," thought Marsh. Then the woman told him to sit
down at the place she had prepared for him. She heaped the three
plates with a stew-like mixture. Marsh did not recognize it, but he
liked the flavor. With this, and the fresh home-made bread, a cup of
strong coffee, and urged on by a healthy appetite, which his morning
in the frosty country air had made keener, he enjoyed his lunch.
To these people eating was just a part of their day's work, and
beyond the satisfying of a natural appetite, evidently produced no
special feeling of enjoyment. Contrary to his expectations,
therefore, Marsh did not find an opportunity to open a conversation.
One or two remarks were greeted merely with grunts, so he decided to
wait until the business of eating had been completed. The man's food
disappeared rapidly, including a second helping, and Marsh was
pleased to see him at last take out an old cob pipe and fill it with
an evil-looking, strong-smelling tobacco from a dirty paper package.
Marsh lit a cigarette, chiefly as a matter of protection.
"Have you lived here long?" inquired Marsh, addressing the man.
"Tree year," answered the woman. The man rolled his eyes in her
direction.
"I'm thinking of buying a place around here," continued Marsh. "This
house next door seems to be a nice place."
He nodded his head in the direction of the Merton home.
The man and his wife exchanged glances. She laughed, but the man's
face looked as solemn as its expressionless lines would permit.
"Et bane bad place," he muttered.
"Nels--he bane crazy!" snapped the woman. "Crazy widt de moonshane!"
"Moonshine!" repeated Marsh.
"Hootch," she explained. "Ole's hootch."
Marsh laughed, and Nels grinned, his features for the first time
showing an awakened interest.
Marsh thought quickly. The woman was evidently the "boss," but she
would not talk about something in which she had no faith. On the
other hand, the man undoubtedly had some knowledge of things which
Marsh desired to know. He decided to side with the man.
"You don't approve of hootch?" Marsh asked her.
"No--no!" she exclaimed vehemently.
"But it makes a strong man work harder--keeps up his health." Marsh
glanced at Nels, who showed appreciation of this defense of home-made
strong drink by grinning at Marsh. The Secret Service man
decided they would soon be friends, and quietly slipping his hand
into his pocket, began to detach a bill.
The woman snorted in protest. "Et make Nels see t'ings. No goodt for
him," she said, sharply. Then she rose and began clearing the table.
While her back was turned, Marsh quickly slipped a bill over to
Nels, winked hard at him, and nodded toward the door. Dull as the
man seemed, he apparently understood Marsh's suggestion. He winked
back and grinned, but as the woman returned to the table his face
instantly resumed its blank expression.
"Well," said Marsh, rising. "I must be going." He drew out some
bills and presented one to the woman. "I thank you for the lunch. It
was fine. You are a good cook."
When taking his leave, Marsh put special emphasis on his parting
with Nels. After closing the door behind him, however, he strolled
in a very leisurely way toward the gate, and instead of keeping on
along the road he leaned against the outside of one of the posts
where he was not visible from the cottage. He had not waited long
when footsteps sounded on the crushed stone of the driveway and Nels
appeared. Marsh beckoned to him and they walked down the roadway
until out of sight of the gate.
"Nels," said Marsh, stopping and facing the Swede, "you don't think
I ought to buy that house next door, eh?"
Nels shrugged his shoulders. "Dat bane your bes'ness," he said.
"But I don't want to buy a place that has a bad name. Will you tell
me what you think is the matter with it?"
Nels glanced about him, and standing a little closer to Marsh, said
in a lowered, voice, "Aye tenk bad men live dere."
"But," protested Marsh, "I thought the house was closed, and had
only a caretaker, or someone like that?"
"No caretaker," answered Nels. "Tree--four--five men. House look
close, but men inside." Then he added, shaking his head,
"Fonny-fonny."
"How do you know all this, Nels?"
"Aye watch. Aye see you yesterday, with yong lady."
Marsh smiled. This was evidently the man he had seen crouching in
the bushes, and who had caused him to hurry Miss Atwood away from
the house.
"Yes," said Marsh, "I was going to look over the house, but there
seemed to be nobody home."
"Men inside," answered Nels, giving Marsh a shock.
"Tell me all about it, Nels," said Marsh, patting the man on the
shoulder, "and I'll give you some more money."
"House close two year. Since den Aye see fonny men--most in night
time. Big, black car--no light. House stay close--all dark--fonny--so
Aye watch."
"Is that all?" inquired Marsh.
"Aye tell my wife--she say Aye drink too much hootch," grinned Nels.
"So Aye don't tell her about deh oder night."
"What night was that?"
"Aye tenk las' Monday night. Aye go see Ole. He have some new
stuff--goodt--goodt. Aye stay late--don't see well com'n' home. Aye tenk
Aye turn in my own gate and walk--walk--walk--but no home. Aye hear
auto com'n'--get out of de road. Et pass me--stop." Nels lowered his
voice to a whisper. "Aye bane nowhere near home--in front bad place.
Men turn on lights--CARRY DEAD MAN IN HOUSE!"
"How did you know he was dead?" exclaimed Marsh.
"He all loose--so," and Nels endeavored to illustrate by allowing
his body to droop limply.
"Then what?"
"Car put in gar-rage--all quiet. Aye get scared. Aye see clear
now--Aye run like hell!"
"That's all you know, is it, Nels?" asked Marsh.
"All now--but Aye watch."
"You're a good man, Nels--real smart," said Marsh. "Here's some more
money for you. Maybe I'll come to see you again."
"You bane fine man," grinned Nels, as he pocketed the additional
bill.
"Good-bye, Nels," said Marsh, "Better not tell anybody about our
talk. Your wife might hear about it."
Nels winked knowingly and they parted, Marsh going directly to the
station of the electric line and returning to Chicago.
As he approached his apartment, Marsh saw a heavily built man
lounging on the steps and chatting with the policeman on duty. Marsh
paid no attention to this man, merely nodding to the policeman as he
passed, and climbed the stairs to his apartment. But after he had
unlocked the door he stood in the hall instead of entering.
Presently the man came up the stairs and they entered the apartment
together. As soon as the door closed the man said, "I've got that
dope for you." He pulled out a long envelope and handed it to Marsh.
"Thanks," said Marsh as he took the envelope. "Things are shaping
themselves fine."
"Anything I can do?" asked the man.
"Nothing now," answered Marsh, "but you had better have several men
where we can reach them in a hurry. How is Oak Street?"
"No change," was the reply. "Hasn't left the house all day." With
that the man opened the door and left.
Marsh opened the envelope. It contained the black leather notebook,
a letter, and some typewritten sheets. He sat down and read the
letter.
The solution of the cipher code used in the notebook submitted,
was comparatively simple and we were able to work it
out here. This code was evidently not intended for the
transmission of secret messages; it was very probably used
exclusively to make notations in this book with the sole idea
of maintaining privacy for these memoranda.
Due to the simplicity of the code, it could be easily memorized
and therefore used for making hurried notes for quick
reference.
To the inexpert person the combination of letters and figures
gave a bewildering appearance to the notes, but it did not
actually make the cipher any more intricate.
You can readily make up your own key to this cipher by
writing out the letters of the alphabet from A to Z. Under
these letters you again write the letters of the alphabet,
placing the letter A under the letter Z and working backward.
By this arrangement, A would stand for Z and Z for A. Below
This you again write out the letters of the alphabet, and under
these, beginning at Z and working backward, write the numbers 1
to 10, which brings you to the letter Q. From P to J you write
the figures 20 to 26 and from I to A you write the figures 30
to 38. The person using this cipher probably memorized these
two arrangements. In writing a word of say six letters, he
would use four letters and two figures. To anyone glancing at
his notes in a casual way, the system looked intricate, but to
him these notes could be read almost as easily as if written in
plain English.
Attached to the letter were several pages containing the decoded
notations from the book. After carefully reading these, Marsh folded
the sheets and started to place them in his pocket. Then he paused,
glancing about the room thoughtfully. A moment later he smoothed the
sheets out flat and lifting up the corner of the rug, slipped them
under it well toward the center. Walking back and forth over the
spot several times, he seemed satisfied. Then he turned up one of
the chairs, placed the notebook inside of the bottom lining, and
putting on his hat and coat, went out.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE ENEMY SHOWS HIS HAND
After returning from supper, Marsh sat down to look over the evening
paper. The Merton case, which had replaced the Sheridan Road mystery
in editorial esteem, was now retired to an inner page. He read the
usual short notice that the police expected to have the guilty
parties in custody within the next twenty-four hours, accompanied by
an announcement of some of their plans so that the people sought
could have timely warning of what to expect. Then he turned to other
news of the day and the time slipped by.
About nine o'clock Marsh raised his head and listened. He had
distinctly heard two sharp reports, like pistol shots. Motors
continued to hum past on Sheridan Road, and he could detect none of
the unusual sounds which accompany a disturbance of any kind. As a
result of having hundreds of cars pass his windows daily he was used
to the crack of bursting motor tires, or the back-fire in mufflers.
Marsh's trained ear had seemed to catch something different in the
two reports, but perhaps it was only imagination. He resumed his
reading.
Three soft knocks sounded on the hall door.
It was the usual signal, and Morgan was expected. Marsh laid down
the paper, and going to the door, threw it open. Instantly a small
figure leaped into the entrance hall and stood facing him with its
back to the living room door. A big army automatic held in a long,
thin hand, covered Marsh menacingly.
"Shut the door--QUICK!" snarled the visitor.
Marsh towered above the diminutive figure, and he thought with
satisfaction that with his bare hands he could crush it like an
eggshell. But it has been said that the invention of the pistol made
all men equal. Certainly at this moment the automatic in the small
man's steady hand more than offset Marsh's physical superiority. So,
though he smiled in contempt, he also diplomatically gave the door a
sharp push and it slammed closed.
"Now, we'll go in and have a little talk," his visitor informed
Marsh, and slowly backed into the living room.
Marsh followed.
A hasty glance showed the man the location of the big davenport.
Backing to this, he sat down, looking smaller than ever, and
motioned Marsh to a chair across the room. While Marsh seated
himself the little man turned down his coat collar and pulled his
cap up from his face. Marsh immediately recognized "Baldy" Newman.
"Now," said Newman, "you and me is goin' to have an important
conference on serious matters."
Marsh did not reply. He seemed quite at his ease, and not at all
interested. Nevertheless, both his eyes and his brain were actively
taking stock of the situation; watching for some slip that might
enable him to change their relative positions. Newman was leaning
comfortably back on the davenport, his legs crossed and his feet a
long way from the floor. Marsh surmised that there would be some
delay in getting the latter into action again. The automatic,
however, was still ready. Held firmly in one hand, the weight of the
barrel was supported in the palm of the other, the back of which
rested on Newman's knee. Marsh realized that when he looked at this
gun he was staring directly into its muzzle. Obviously, this was a
time for watchful waiting only.
"We can't figure where you fit into this here game," Newman began.
"You ain't a bull; you don't work; and you don't steal."
Marsh laughed at this quaint appraisal of him.
"Well, what ARE you tryin' to pull off?" questioned Newman, his
bright, piercing eyes studying Marsh's face.
"You have me at a disadvantage," returned Marsh. "I do not know what
game you refer to in the first place. In the second, I cannot see
why the pursuit of my private business should interest you."
"Come on--come on!" remonstrated Newman. "I ain't got any time to
waste kiddin' around with you."
"Get down to the point then," advised Marsh.
"All right, I will," said Newman. "We don't mind these bulls.
They're bone-heads. I can run circles around any one of them. But
you're gettin' too damned close, and we want to know what you're
after."
"Thanks for the tip," replied Marsh. "If I were really interested in
you, the information you have just given me would be of great
value."
Newman eyed Marsh suspiciously for a moment.
"Don't worry," he said. "You're not goin' to bother us much. We've
arranged to take care of you, if you won't listen to reason. If
you're crooked, just lay off for awhile, that's all, and we'll see
you get what's right later. If you really are a bull, or are helpin'
these other bulls, then I'm warnin' you to back out gracefully
before it's too late. I came here with a flag of truce to give you a
chance, and you can save yourself a lot of trouble by bein' on the
square with me."
Bargaining with a known crook was not to Marsh's taste. If they were
in the dark as to his intentions and his status, let them remain so.
He guessed now that the gun in Newman's hands would not be used
except as a last resort to avoid personal capture. The man's idea
was to have his say, and then go as quietly as he had come, if
possible. Marsh's tense watching relaxed somewhat. There was no
immediate danger, and the future could adjust itself. He would like
to get this fellow now, but if not, then he would get him later.
"It is none of your business what work I am engaged in," said Marsh.
"Moreover, you can tell your gang for me to go straight to hell.
Now, take my advice and get out quick before you lose the
opportunity." Newman's lips parted in a vicious grin.
"You've got nerve, I'll say that for you," he commented. "But you
don't know what a hole you're in. We've got more than one string to
our bow. If you won't listen to one kind of reason, perhaps you'll
listen to another. Now, you're stuck on Jane Atwood."
Marsh sprang to his feet with an oath.
"Leave that girl out of this," he cried, "or I'll beat you to a
pulp!"
"Steady, Mister, steady!" exclaimed Newman. "You ain't bullet proof.
Handlin' a gun is part of my business, and you won't get two feet
from that chair if you make a false move. Sit down and listen to
me."
Reason quickly replaced the unthinking rage of the moment, and Marsh
sat down as the other directed. But his mind was made up to one
thing--Newman would not leave that room now except as a prisoner or
a dead man.
"That's the idea," said Newman. "You're helpless as a babe, and you
might as well acknowledge it. Now, listen to this. You're crazy
about Jane Atwood, or all signs fail. In fact, you probably hope to
marry her. She's a classy, refined girl, with a big purpose in life.
What's more, she's got peculiar notions of what's right and what's
wrong. If she knew her father was a crook, and that he died to
escape you, where do you think you'd get off? She'd never have
anything, more to do with you, that girl wouldn't. She'd devote her
life to somethin' or other to make up for her father's slip--that's
what she'd do."
Newman paused, and Marsh ground his teeth and waited.
"Now, my man," continued Newman, "another false move on your part
and the facts will be given to that girl, with absolute convincin'
proof. There'll be no way of talkin' her out of it. You'll be
through--that's all!"
While Newman talked, he had gradually leaned forward, deeply
absorbed in the driving home of this final threat. The muzzle of the
automatic had also slowly turned until a bullet would now strike
several feet to the right. Marsh had carefully watched for this
approaching opportunity and now he acted.
Like a flash, he jumped to his feet, swinging his right arm upward
and forward as if hurling something at Newman. Instinct was stronger
than training. The man's arms were quickly raised to ward off the
expected missile. Then, realizing that Marsh was upon him, he
endeavored to escape, but the powerful hands had already closed on
him. He was swung upward into the air, while bullets from the
automatic crashed into the walls, the ceiling and the floor, as he
tried to direct its fire at his opponent.
For the matter of a second, Newman was poised in midair. Then Marsh,
swept by a fierce and uncontrollable rage, dashed the helpless
bundle across the room and it struck with a smashing thud.
CHAPTER XIX
KIDNAPPED
Marsh slowly regained control of himself as he stood staring at the
crumpled figure. Striding across the room, he bent over Newman. The
man was breathing heavily, and his eyes had a dazed glare. Although
he was not unconscious in the full sense of the word, it seemed
probable that it would be some time before Newman could start any
more trouble. Marsh decided, however, that it would be safer to
provide against future possibilities, so he drew Newman's hands
together and snapped on a pair of handcuffs.
Suddenly Marsh realized that his doorbell was ringing furiously.
This time he took no chances, and his automatic was in his hand
ready for instant use when he opened the door. He found Morgan and
Tierney in the hall.
"For God's sake, what's the matter?" cried Morgan.
By this time Marsh had recovered his calm and easy manner. "I had a
visitor," he said, smiling, and slipping his automatic back into his
pocket. "Come in."
The two men passed through to the living room and Marsh closed the
door and followed.
"Where did he go?" asked Morgan, as Marsh entered the room.
"There it is," said Marsh, contemptuously, nodding toward Newman.
Morgan and Tierney hurried to the man and straightened him out on
his back. Newman was still too dazed to do more than roll his eyes
at them.
"'Baldy' Newman!" exclaimed Morgan, looking up at Marsh. "How did
you get him?"
Marsh briefly explained the incident. "And what beats me," he
concluded, "is how he got by the policeman at the door."
"By a well-laid plan, Marsh. We were talking about it to the
patrolman when the shooting began. That was the first we realized
what the scheme had been."
"What was it?" inquired Marsh. "I thought I heard a couple of shots
sometime ago, but as nothing seemed to happen afterward, I concluded
it was just somebody's tire."
"You heard shots, all right," returned Morgan. "It seems that an
auto stopped on Lawrence Avenue in front of the alleyway. Someone in
the car fired two shots at the policeman on guard there. He
immediately started for the car, and the man in front, who had also
heard the shots, joined him. Naturally the car was out of sight
before they had run half a block, and so they returned to their
posts. They didn't even get the number of the license, although I
suppose it would have been of little use if they had. When you look
those things up you generally find that the car has been stolen from
some respectable citizen."
"Tierney and I arrived just after the patrolmen got back to the
building, and the man in front told us about it. I was puzzled over
just what the game was until we heard the shooting up here. Then I
guessed that they had only drawn off the policemen so as to let
someone get in, so Tierney and I beat it up the stairs as fast as we
could. When you took so long to answer the door, we thought you were
gone, sure."
"Well, the little rat did have me wondering for a few minutes,"
admitted Marsh. "If he had really come to kill me I think he could
have got me, all right. But the fact was, he just came to warn me,
and intended to use his gun only as a last resort. Under such
circumstances, if you can only keep them talking long enough, they
get careless. You can see what happened to 'Baldy' because he stayed
too long."
"He'll have a long stay somewhere else now," commented Tierney,
cheerfully.
"And we'll make him talk same more before we get through with him,"
declared Morgan.
"There is one thing I want to ask of you, Morgan," said Marsh. "Get
him out of here as quietly as you can, and don't let the news get
into the papers. We don't want the people who sent him to know
exactly what has happened. Just let them wonder for a day or two."
"I get your point," answered Morgan. He then went to the telephone
and called the patrol wagon, impressing upon the man at the other
end of the wire, the need for secrecy, and instructing him to have
the patrol drive up the alley back of the house.
"Now," said Morgan, as he turned from the telephone, "I suppose you
want to hear about the information I was to get for you."
"Yes," replied Marsh. "Were you able to get it?"
"All that's worth knowing," returned Morgan. "I turned Tierney loose
on this man Nolan, and looked up Hunt myself. You can dismiss Nolan
from the case at once. He has a job as chauffeur with a big business
man in Milwaukee, and hasn't been in Chicago for a month. At one
o'clock last Tuesday morning he was bringing this man and his wife
home from an affair at the man's club. Someone simply impersonated
Nolan."
"Now, about Hunt. I found that he started to work for Merton as his
confidential secretary about five years ago. Merton apparently
thought a good deal of him, and gradually put more and more of his
business into his hands. About a year ago, he made Hunt his general
manager, and Hunt has practically been running the entire business
ever since. People in the financial district seem to consider Hunt a
fine fellow. What he was doing before he went with Merton I have
been unable to find out in such a short time."
"I cannot say that this information helps us out very much," said
Marsh. "Your news about Nolan simply confirms the idea I already
had--that the Nolan message was a trick. I dug up some information
today which looks like the best clue we have had so far. I think
that by tomorrow afternoon we'll close in on the men we want.
Telephone me at twelve o'clock tomorrow, Morgan, and I will tell you
just what to do."
At this moment they heard pounding on Marsh's back door.
"I guess that's the wagon, Tierney," said Morgan. "Let them in."
Tierney went back through the flat and returned immediately with two
policemen, who gathered up "Baldy" Newman and his gun and carried
them quietly out and down the rear stairs.
"I'd like to tell the world," said Morgan, "that the West Side's
most famous gunman has been captured with a man's bare hands. But
we'll keep it quiet if you insist on it, Marsh."
"After tomorrow, Morgan, you will have more than 'Baldy' Newman to
your credit. Until then, our success depends on secrecy. Now,
remember, telephone me at twelve sharp tomorrow."
With that, the men parted for the night and Marsh, after making sure
that all his doors and windows were securely fastened, went to bed.
But twelve o'clock on Tuesday passed without Marsh receiving his
expected message, for the very good reason that Morgan and Tierney
could not get to a telephone.
These two men spent the greater part of the morning in the financial
district in a futile attempt to get further information regarding
Hunt. About eleven o'clock Morgan suggested that they go to the
North Side and get their lunch so that after telephoning Marsh they
would be close at hand in case he wanted them quickly. They took the
elevated to Wilson Avenue, and after leaving the train, turned east
toward Broadway. At the corner stood a big, black limousine. The
door was open and the chauffeur turned to them and said, "Say
friends, will you help me get this guy out of the car? He's too
drunk to move."
Morgan saw that a man was lying back in a corner with his eyes shut,
and nodding to Tierney, went over to the car.
"I've been driving him for two hours," said the chauffeur, "and I
don't think there's any chance of getting my money. I want to throw
him out. He's too heavy for me to lift. You two guys look husky, and
like good fellows, so I thought maybe you'd lift him out for me."
As this sort of thing frequently came to the attention of the
detectives, they did not suspect anything out of the ordinary when
they climbed into the car and started to pull the man out of the
seat. Suddenly the chauffeur slammed the door and sprang to the
wheel. The man in the seat, who but a moment before had apparently
been in a drunken stupor, now sat up, and drawing his right arm from
behind his back, covered the two detectives with an automatic.
"Sit down," he commanded, "and be quiet."
In the meantime, the car was moving swiftly across Wilson Avenue.
Turning north on Sheridan Road, its speed increased to a terrific
pace. Morgan noticed this and hoped that it would attract the
attention of the motorcycle police, but they met none of these men
and the car soon left the city limits and passed through Evanston.
From here on, the road was quiet and they passed only an occasional
car. The man with the automatic now instructed them to hand over
their revolvers. After he had these in his possession, he felt
Morgan and Tierney over carefully to see that they had no other
concealed weapon. Then, keeping them covered with the automatic, he
reached out and drew down all the shades in the car so that they sat
in a semi-darkness and were unable to see where they were going.
Morgan judged that they had been riding about an hour when the car
suddenly stopped. The door was opened and a man stuck his head in.
The man was Wagner.
"Turned the tables on you, didn't we?" he jeered. Then he stepped
back and they saw that he also held an automatic in his hand. "Come
on," he said, "step lively. You're welcome to our happy home."
Tierney began to swear, but Morgan jabbed him with his elbow. It
would be like committing suicide to show any fight now.
"These bulls ought to travel in regiments for self-protection,"
taunted the man who had been with them in the car. But Morgan
noticed, as he stepped out of the car, that the chauffeur had left
his seat and was also standing ready with an automatic. These men
might have their little joke, but they were taking no chances. The
three men escorted Morgan and Tierney up the steps and into the
house. Wagner then directed them to precede him up the stairs. They
passed down a long hall and into a big room.
"Make yourselves comfortable," sneered Wagner. "And I might as well
tell you that you can make all the noise you want, because the
nearest house is so far away they couldn't hear a fog horn. Just try
to be nice, good little boys, and maybe we'll let you go sometime."
He backed out of the door and they heard him turn the key.
CHAPTER XX
THE FALLEN PINE
That Marsh escaped a similar fate later in the afternoon was due
solely to his individual way of arming himself. For some years Marsh
had carried a small automatic pistol, which unobtrusively rested in
the side pocket of his coat. When he was outside in weather that
required an overcoat, the automatic was temporarily transferred to
the overcoat pocket. Marsh did this because a gun was seldom needed
except in emergencies. At such times a movement toward the hip
pocket, where men usually carry their revolvers, frequently gave the
other man an opportunity to act first. Marsh had even carried his
precautions in this line a little further, for the automatic was
always placed in the left-hand pocket. A movement of the left hand
does not receive the same suspicious attention from a criminal. In
fact, as he had several times discovered, it was possible to
distract the attention by a movement of the right hand while quickly
drawing the gun with the left, and at close quarters a gun in the
left hand was just as effective as in the right.
When no word had come from Morgan by one o'clock, Marsh decided to
look the detective up. He called Morgan's home on the telephone,
then the detective bureau, and two nearby precinct stations that
Morgan might have been likely to drop into while waiting to
telephone him. Morgan's mother said he had left early, and the
detective bureau informed Marsh that they had not heard from Morgan
again after receiving a report from him early in the day. The
stations did not remember having seen the detective for a long time.
At each place Marsh left his name, and a message for Morgan to ring
up at once if he came in.
Marsh was now in a quandary. He remembered that he had not asked
Morgan to look anything up that morning and therefore knew of no
place where he might endeavor to obtain a trace of him. The case had
now reached a point where immediate action was necessary, yet he
could not act alone. Of course, he could have called upon the Secret
Service Division at the Federal Building, but he had special reasons
for wanting Morgan's and Tierney's assistance at this time rather
than that of Secret Service men. After long consideration,
therefore, he came to the conclusion that there was nothing he could
do except stay by his telephone and wait. It never occurred to Marsh
that anything of a serious nature could have happened to the
detectives on the crowded city streets. The only plausible
explanation of the delay might be that Morgan and Tierney had
discovered some new clue which they thought of sufficient importance
to follow up before keeping their appointment with him. Marsh
accepted this explanation readily, because he realized that there
were still many loose ends to the case that would permit of new
developments at any moment.
When four o'clock came, however, and there was still no word from
Morgan, Marsh decided that something must have happened to the two
men. He had had ample evidence of the desperate and daring character
of their opponents. To raise a hue and cry in the Police Department
would utterly defeat his plans. Whatever he did must be carried out
quietly. So far as he knew, at this time, there were only two
possible sources of information--one, the house on Oak Street; the
other, the closed house at Hubbard Woods. First he would get a
report from the man on watch at Oak Street. If nothing had occurred
there, he would then carry out his proposed raid on the Hubbard
Woods house with some of his own men.
Having reached this decision Marsh put on his coat and hat and went
down to the corner of Lawrence Avenue to wait for a bus. A stream of
motor cars swept steadily by and when one of these turned into the
curb and stopped, Marsh paid little attention to it. He was
astounded, therefore, when a man opened the door, and addressing
him, said, "Step in and be quick about it!" Marsh gave the man a
sharp glance, then noticing that one of the man's arms was extended
toward him, he dropped his eyes and saw that the coat sleeve was
pulled down over the hand, while the barrel of an automatic
projected about an inch from the sleeve. Marsh looked about him
quickly. The policeman in front of his house was too far away to be
of any assistance, if, in fact, his attention could be attracted at
all. In the other direction, the nearest people were two women, one
of whom was pushing a baby carriage. He then saw that another man
had descended from the driver's seat and was approaching him. Marsh
stepped back and his right hand shot toward his right hip pocket.
Not that he had any intention of drawing a gun while so carefully
covered by the other man, but he had a thought.
"Easy, easy!" cried the man. "You haven't a chance in the world! Do
you want to get bumped off right now?"
Marsh murmured something inaudible and withdrew his hand. The man
with the gun signaled to his companion. This man came up and felt
around Marsh's hip pockets.
"Aw, he's kiddin'," the fellow exclaimed. "He ain't got any gun at
all."
Marsh's thought had been correct.
"All right," said the man with the gun, smiling. "Let's go."
It had flashed through Marsh's mind that what was now happening to
him might have also happened to Morgan and Tierney. If such was the
case it was more than likely that these men would take him to the
same place, and that was just the information he wanted. As for
getting him into that place, that was a different matter. To carry
out his quickly formed plan, it was necessary for Marsh to sit with
his left side away from this man, who would probably join him in the
car, so without further hesitation he climbed into the car and
settled back in the far corner of the seat. The man followed and sat
down at Marsh's right, pulling the door to after him. The other man
climbed back to his seat at the wheel and started the car. They went
down Sheridan Road, and turning through the next street, made the
circuit of the block, returning again to Sheridan Road and moving
swiftly north.
After a time the man turned to Marsh, and said, "If you take things
easy you'll get out of this with a whole skin, but if you start
anything--GOOD night!"
Marsh smiled but said nothing.
"Oh, I know you're a cool customer," the man appraised, "but if you
think you're going to put anything over on us this time, you've made
a bum guess."
"It's hardly likely," replied Marsh, "that an unarmed man would try
any tricks while you sit there with that automatic. The fact is,
however, that you fellows are giving yourselves a lot of trouble for
nothing."
"What do you mean?" snapped the man.
"I mean that I have already offered you my services. All you had to
do was to tip me the word."
The man looked at Marsh suspiciously for a moment. "Do you mean
that?" he said.
"I see no reason why you should doubt my word."
"All right," returned the man. "Hand over those papers you've got
and I'll drop you out at the next street."
"What papers do you mean?" queried Marsh.
"There you go--stalling again. No use; the boss said to bring you
up, and I guess he knows best."
"I don't know where you get that idea about any papers," said Marsh.
"I can show you quickly enough that the only papers I have on me are
of a personal nature and of no use to anyone else."
"Maybe so--maybe so. But after we get you under lock and key, we
know damn well where we can find them."
Thus the argument continued at intervals until they were far up into
the North Shore suburbs. Darkness had fallen and the interior of the
car was absolutely black except when they passed an occasional
street light or an automobile. As Marsh had told Morgan, if you can
only make them talk long enough, they grow careless. Passing under
the last street light, Marsh had observed that the automatic was no
longer leveled in his direction.
The car was of the limousine type, with a glass partition shutting
off the driver so that unless he happened to look around he would
not know what was going on within the car. Marsh figured that now
darkness had fallen, the driver's attention would be directed
entirely to the road ahead, for street lights along the suburban
section of Sheridan Road were few and far between.
"It's getting warm in here," said Marsh. He raised his right hand
and pushed his hat back on his head. At the same time his left hand
withdrew the automatic from his coat pocket and the next instant it
was pressed into the ribs of the man beside him.
"One move and you're through!" breathed Marsh in his ear. "Give me
that gun!" His right arm came down with the hand closing over the
man's automatic. The man started to swear, but stopped suddenly as
Marsh warned, "Shut up. This matter is in my hands now, and I mean
business!" Marsh slipped the man's automatic into his own pocket,
and then brought out a pair of light, steel handcuffs which he
immediately snapped on his prisoner's wrists.
"When I get ready," Marsh informed him, "I'm going to step out of
this car, and I want you to sit perfectly still until I am gone. If
you want to know how good a shot I am, just make a move." Marsh
settled back into his corner and the car rolled on.
At last, just as they made a sharp turn, Marsh caught a different
sound from the wheels, and he knew they had passed into a driveway.
With a last warning to the man, Marsh quietly opened the door on his
side and stepped out of the car. In the distance he could hear his
late captor's manacled hands beating on the glass of the front
windows to attract the driver's attention. There was no time to
lose, for they would be after him in a minute.
Marsh sped down the driveway, but before he reached the entrance
gate he could hear the hum of the pursuing car, and as he sprang
through the gate the car was only a few yards away. Then a most
surprising thing happened. Weakened by its rotting fibres and the
never-ending battle with the winds, the dead pine, which stood
beside the gate, swayed and cracked. The next minute it fell
crashing across the driveway in a cloud of dying splinters and dust,
effectually blocking pursuit by motor.
Marsh dashed across the roadway and concealed himself in the
underbrush. The falling pine had identified the place to Marsh as
quickly as if the men had told him its name. He was facing the
entrance to the house in Hubbard Woods.
The driver of the pursuing car had switched on the powerful
headlights to aid him in locating the fugitive. These lights warned
him of the fallen pine blocking the road. Marsh could hear the
grinding of the emergency brake; and the hum of the motor died away
as the man "killed" his engine in his effort to make a quick stop.
So swiftly had the car been moving, however, that it struck the log
with a tremendous impact which echoed through the still woods. The
front wheels scattered far and wide, and the body of the car climbed
up and rested on the pine log.
The two men, although probably well shaken up by the accident,
jumped hastily from the car and rushed into the roadway. The
headlights were shining directly on Marsh and for a moment he
thought the men might discover him among the bushes. Standing in the
glare, however, they were partially blinded and the manacled man,
realizing this, turned to the other.
"Shut off those damn lights. He'll take a pot-shot at us before we
can see him."
The driver leaped back to the car, shut off the lights, and then
returned to his companion.
"Not much danger," he said. "The guy's probably making a quick
getaway."
"Hell!" the manacled man exclaimed, "the boss'll skin us alive."
"The boss be damned!" exclaimed the other. "This guy'll have the
bulls on us if we don't get him, and the boss won't be ready for the
getaway until Thursday."
"We've got to get him!" declared the manacled man. "He can't run all
the way to Chicago. I figure he made for either the electric line or
the railroad station. You beat it up there quick and see if you can
get him."
"All right," agreed the driver. "And you run down the road."
"Where do you get that stuff?" exclaimed the other, holding up his
manacled hands. "I'm no good with these bracelets on. It's all up to
you now. You're wasting time. Beat it!"
The driver started up the road at a run and Marsh listened to the
rapid beat of his footfalls until they disappeared in the distance.
Then he cautiously crept out of the bushes and approached the other
man. It was so dark that Marsh could barely make out the man's form
as it was outlined against the gray of one of the gateposts.
Consequently, the man did not discover him until Marsh's hand was on
his arm.
"That you, Wagner?" he gasped.
Marsh laughed. "Don't make me talk," he said. "I'm all out of breath
making that getaway your friend spoke of."
"Hell!" the other man groaned, expressively.
"It sure is--for you," replied Marsh. "Now, just lie down in the
road while I tie your feet."
The man turned to run, probably hoping to escape in the darkness.
Marsh's hand still gripped his arm and with a quick movement of his
foot, Marsh threw the man down; then unbuckled the belt around the
fellow's waist and proceeded to secure his feet with it. As Marsh
rose to a standing position a voice close at hand, said, "That'll be
all for you. Throw up your hands!"
Marsh did not move.
"I said, put up your hands," repeated the voice.
"They are up," replied Marsh, counting on the darkness.
"Don't kid me!" The speaker suddenly, flashed an electric pocket
lamp on Marsh. By its gleam Marsh saw the sparkle of a revolver and
wisely put his hands over his head.
The man was standing in front of thick shrubbery. At this moment,
Marsh saw, by the dim glow of the pocket lamp, two hands slip from
the shrubbery and close about the man's throat. The lamp and the
revolver fell to the ground as the man instinctively raised his own
hands to break the hold. But in the darkness Marsh heard his body
drop with a wheezing sigh.
CHAPTER XXI
THE CHIMNEY THAT WOULDN'T DRAW
Marsh stood for a moment in puzzled thought. Then he heard a
cheerful voice say, "Aye bane got him all right," and he recognized
his rescuer.
"Hold him for a minute," ordered Marsh, and he leaped over the pine
to the car, returning immediately with one of the robes. With Nels'
assistance Marsh wound the robe about the upper part of the man's
body, fastening his arms to his side as effectively as if he had
been placed in a straightjacket. Then he took the man's belt and
secured his feet in the same way he had tied up those of the other
man. Marsh next took the men's handkerchiefs and two of his own.
Stuffing one into each man's mouth, and tying another around his
head, Marsh effectually gagged them into silence.
"Now," he said to Nels, "we'll lay these two fellows out of sight in
the underbrush."
When this was accomplished he instructed Nels to follow him, and
they cautiously approached the house. As they crossed the lawn,
Marsh heard rapid footsteps ahead, followed by the opening of the
house door. He immediately dashed in pursuit. In the hall he paused
to listen for sounds that would indicate the direction the man had
taken. He heard the clicking of a telephone receiver hook and a
voice calling, "Hello! Hello!" Leaping through an arched and
curtained doorway at his left, Marsh discovered a dim light in a
connecting room, and darted to the doorway, drawing his automatic
and transferring it to his right hand as he ran. He found himself in
the library of the house, and in one corner he saw the driver of the
car with a telephone in his hands.
"Drop that phone!" called Marsh, leveling his automatic.
Ignoring Marsh's command, the man hastily gave a number to the
operator. It was quite clear what was happening. This man, returning
from his fruitless quest at the station, had witnessed the capture
of his companions. He was now endeavoring to warn some person;
probably the principal, who was the man Marsh particularly wanted.
There was no time for argument, so Marsh fired.
The man dropped the telephone and stumbled forward in a heap on the
floor. Marsh dashed across the room and replaced the receiver on its
hook, hoping that the connection had not been made in time for the
man at the other end of the wire to hear the shot. Though the man
had fallen, Marsh knew that he had nothing worse than a flesh wound
in the arm, because he was sure of his aim. He tied the man's hand
with a handkerchief, and his feet with his belt, and left him on the
floor. Turning quickly to Nels, who had followed him into the room,
and now stood watching, he handed the Swede the captured automatic,
saying, "Do you know how to use it?"
"Ya, Aye know;" was the smiling reply.
"All right," said Marsh. "I'm going to search the house. Follow me
and keep your eyes open." Marsh hurried back through the front room
to the hall, with the Swede at his heels, and he heard the man
murmuring, as he went, "You bane fine man."
As they climbed the stairs, feeling their way in the dark, they
heard a distant hammering. It came from the back of the house, and
Marsh and Nels speeded down the hall. The hammering ceased as they
approached the door at the end of the hall. A thin strip of light
showed beneath it and Marsh heard familiar voices.
"I tell you somebody's come after us," said one.
"Oh, hell! The man said nobody could hear a foghorn here," replied
the other. "What's the use?"
Marsh found the key in the lock, and turning it, threw the door
open. There stood Morgan and Tierney in the wreckage of what had
once manifestly been a beautifully furnished bedroom. A black
opening, through which a strong draft came when the door was opened,
showed where once had been a shuttered window. The remains of chairs
littered the floor, parts of the bed were scattered around the room,
and in the center of the floor was a pile of felt that had once been
the stuffing for the mattress.
"My God!" cried Marsh, "what has happened?"
The two men's faces lighted up at sight of him, and Tierney shouted,
"What did I tell you, Morgan? I knew that guy would find us."
"He bane fine man," added a voice from the doorway.
"Hello Svenska!" bellowed Tierney. "Who are you?"
Nels grinned as Marsh explained who he was.
"How did you get in? Where's the gang?" rapidly questioned Morgan.
"One wounded and tied downstairs, and two safely tied up by the
gate," explained Marsh. "One of the two out there is your man
Wagner. Now tell me how you got here."
Morgan gave him a brief outline of their adventures.
"But how did the room get in this state?" questioned Marsh.
"Well, you know Tierney," replied Morgan, with a laugh. "He's a
mighty restless individual when you try to shut him up. He
demolished all the chairs on the door. We found the window frame and
the shutters had been screwed tight to keep us in, so Tierney took
the bed apart and used the sides to clean out the whole business.
When we discovered it was too far to drop from the window, we tried
to make a rope with the ticking of the mattress, but when we tested
it, the stuff proved to be too rotten to hold us."
"And the worst of it is," added Morgan, "it was cold enough in here
before Tierney broke out the window. Since then we've been freezing.
If there's a fire in the house, lead us to it."
"I don't think there is," replied Marsh. "Now that you speak of it,
I noticed a damp chill in the place the minute I came in. Nels," he
added, turning to the Swede; "you're a good fellow. I saw a big,
open fireplace in the library. Build a wood fire there and we'll
warm my friends up."
Nels nodded and started off.
"We haven't any time to lose," announced Marsh, turning back to
Morgan. "I expect to find my final evidence in this house, and we've
got to get back to town pretty soon. You fellows can warm up a bit
and then we'll start a systematic search from the garret to the
cellar."
All three then went down to the library where Nels was building the
fire. Tierney loudly voiced his approval as the red and yellow
flames began to creep over the wood. A minute later, however, he was
choking and swearing as the acrid wood smoke rolled out into the
room instead of up the chimney.
"Aye fix him," explained Nels. "Chimney cover to keep out draft,
mebbe." He hurried out of the room.
A few minutes later he returned with a white face and staring eyes.
"You come," he half-whispered, from the doorway. "Aye see
somet'ing."
"What is it?" questioned Marsh.
"Aye don't know--Aye only tenk--come quick!"
"Go ahead," said Marsh, "we'll follow," and with Nels leading the
way they all climbed the stairs. Nels had turned on the electric
lights in the halls. They could now see their way clearly as he
guided them to the attic and across it to an open window which
opened on a wide gutter. They crawled out after him and worked their
way along a short distance to the big, old fashioned, outside stone
chimney from the library fireplace.
"Yust put your hand in--so," directed Nels, making a motion with his
arm.
Marsh reached up and followed the suggestion. Just below the top of
the chimney his fingers came into contact with a human head.
"My God!" he cried. "Here's our man."
"Holy Saints!" gasped Tierney.
Then Morgan asked, "What do you mean?"
"I think we've found Merton's body," replied Marsh. "You'll have to
help me get him out."
With considerable effort, and hindered by the blackness of the
night, Marsh and Morgan climbed the slanting, slate-covered roof and
perched themselves on the broad capstone of the chimney. Slowly they
loosened the wedged in body, gradually drew it out through the top
of the chimney, and passed it down to Tierney and Nels, who crept
with it along the gutter and passed it through the attic window.
Marsh and Morgan followed them, and under the glow of the one dim
electric light, the two men made a hasty examination of the body. It
was in a fair state of preservation, due probably to the cold air,
which had been made especially effective by the draft through the
chimney. The identification was made certain when Marsh extracted a
card case from the man's coat, in which they found the business and
personal cards of Richard Townsend Merton, and Morgan located the
duplicate of the cuff button he had discovered in the empty
apartment.
The examination completed, Marsh turned to Morgan.
"Do you notice that this man was stabbed, not shot?" he asked.
"Yes," returned Morgan. "That was one of the things I looked to make
certain of."
"Now," said Marsh, addressing the two detectives, "I guess this job
has warmed you fellows up. We can't lose another minute. You,
Tierney, make a careful examination of this attic. It should not
take you long, and you can then join Morgan, who will start now to
make an examination of the second and third floors. Nels and I will
look over the first floor and the basement. You join us as soon as
you get through. If you find anything worth while, bring it down."
Leaving Tierney in the attic, and dropping Morgan off at the third
floor, Marsh and Nels passed on down to the first floor of the
house. A careful inspection of this floor brought nothing of
especial interest to light except that there were no signs of its
having been used. The kitchen and the pantry were bare of food, and
Marsh could see that neither of the sinks in the pantry and the
kitchen, nor the kitchen stove, had been used for a long time.
"I thought you said those men were living in the house," he queried,
turning to Nels.
"So Aye tenk," Nels assured him.
"Queer," murmured Marsh. "No fire, no food, and no signs of
cooking."
"Mebbe in basement," suggested Nels.
"Well, we're going there now," said Marsh. "Do you know the way,
Nels?"
"Aye guess," replied the Swede, leading the way into a long hall
that led from the pantry along one side of the house. A short
distance up this hall Nels opened a door, and they discovered a
stairway leading into the basement. Marsh lit a match and located an
electric switch. When he turned this a light flashed on below and
they descended the stairs. Here they found a hall leading across the
house, with a doorway at the far end, and one on either side.
"Aye tenk," said Nels, pointing down the hall, "dat door go
outside--dis one to laundry--dat one Aye don't know."
Marsh opened the last door indicated by Nels, and lighting another
match, found it a rough basement containing the heating plant, coal
bins, and general storage space. He found the electric light and
turned it on. But little coal was left in the bins, and the thick
mantle of dust over the other things in this part of the basement
showed that it had been a long time since anything had been touched.
The last thing, Marsh looked into the firebox under the heating
plant. This was well filled with an ash that had resulted from the
burning of papers, but after poking around with a long stick, he
found that nothing remained which could in any way be used as
evidence.
Turning out the light, they crossed the hall and opened the other
door. With a match, Marsh found a wall switch close to the door, and
snapping this, the room was flooded with brilliant light from
several electric lamps pendant from the ceiling, each covered with a
green metal shade.
Here was the solution of the deserted condition of the upper part of
the house. That part of the house had been left intentionally
deserted, for all the men's activities had been centered in this
room. It was a large, square room that had been the laundry of the
house. Four cots, standing along one wall, indicated where the men
had slept, and several pots on the gas stove showed where they had
obtained their heat and done their cooking. Through the glass door
of a cupboard, in one corner, he saw cans and packages of food. The
table, in the center of the room, was littered with soiled dishes
and the remains of a meal.
Large patches of black cloth on two sides of the room marked the
probable location of windows which had been carefully covered to
keep any light from showing on the outside. But what interested
Marsh most was the complete counterfeiting equipment in one corner
of the room. A small trunk also stood in this corner, and raising
the lid Marsh discovered a large quantity of the five dollar bills
he had been tracing over the country for the last two years. What he
really sought, however, were the plates, and these were apparently
missing.
At this moment Nels spoke. "You like to see dis?" he asked.
Turning, Marsh found that Nels had the cupboard door open, and was
pointing to a suitcase, which lay on the floor. It had been
previously concealed by the lower part of the door.
"You bet I would!" exclaimed Marsh and hurried across to the
cupboard. He pulled out the suitcase, which was fairly heavy, and
tried to open it. It was locked. Nels pulled out a big knife, with a
long blade, and began to cut through the leather at the edges. He
presently laid back one side of the suitcase, exposing some clothing
to view. It was only a thin layer, however, which Marsh threw
quickly aside. Under the clothing he found a carefully wrapped
package. Tearing off the covering, he saw what he sought--the plates
for the five dollar bills. Beneath the package, laid out in a
carefully arranged row, were bundles of stocks and bonds.
Here, at last, was the evidence Marsh had sought, and the
confirmation of the theory he had carefully worked out.
CHAPTER XXII
CORNERED
Marsh replaced everything in the suitcase, put it back in the
cupboard, and closed the door.
"We're through here for the present, Nels," he said.
Shutting off the lights, the two men returned to the main floor. As
they entered the library, Morgan and Tierney appeared, having
completed their search of the upper part of the house.
"Any luck?" asked Marsh.
"Nothing at all with any bearing on the case," answered Morgan. "How
about you?"
"I found all the evidence we need; most of it in a suitcase, which
is probably the one Atwood removed from his apartment."
"There goes one of your theories, Marsh," laughed Morgan.
"Which one?" inquired Marsh.
"That Clark Atwood and this man Hunt were not in cahoots."
Marsh smiled. "What is the proverb?" he said. "'Tis wisdom sometimes
to seem a fool.'"
"Now then, Morgan," he continued, briskly, "there's the telephone.
You make arrangements to have your men come out and take care of the
evidence in the basement, and the prisoners. While you're doing
that, the rest of us will bring in those fellows we left out by the
road."
Morgan went to the telephone as directed, and Marsh led the others
down the drive to the gate. Everything was just as they had left it,
and they found the two men where they had placed them, behind the
bushes.
"If I'm any example," said Tierney, "these two guys must be near
frozen to death."
"That'll cool off their ambition for a fight," replied Marsh.
Marsh placed Wagner, who was the smaller of the two men, over his
shoulder, and Tierney and Nels, carrying the other man between them,
followed Marsh back to the house. They put the two men in chairs in
the library, and lifting the other man from the floor placed him in
a chair near them. Marsh then turned to Morgan.
"Have you fixed everything up?"
"Yes, they ought to be here inside of an hour and a half."
"Fine!" commented Marsh. Then turning to Nels, he pulled out a bill
and presented it.
"Nels," he said, "we've all got to go into the city. Somebody must
watch this place while we're gone. You have a good gun there, so you
can stick around until the police come."
"Sure--Aye watch."
"Come on," Marsh called, and the three men started out. The last
thing Marsh heard as he went down the steps, was a voice murmuring,
"He bane fine man."
Oak Street lay shadowy and deserted, as Marsh, accompanied by
Morgan and Tierney, turned into it from Rush Street.
"Wait here for a minute," requested Marsh, as they stopped in front
of the entrance to Hunt's building, and he moved toward the dark
tradesmen's entrance. As he neared it, a man appeared from the
shadows. They held a low-voiced conversation, and Marsh then
returned to the others. When the door was opened, in answer to their
ring, the three detectives climbed the stairs.
Hunt's man-servant stood at the door.
"Mr. Hunt in?" asked Marsh.
"Yes, sir," replied the man. "I think you were here before, sir."
"Yes, Sunday night."
"Walk right in, sir. Mr. Hunt's in the living room."
Hunt had evidently been reading, but had risen at the sound of
voices, for on entering the living room they found him standing by
the davenport, with his finger between the pages of a book.
"Good evening," said Marsh.
There was a look of surprise on Hunt's face, but he quickly mastered
it.
"I hardly expected to see you here," he observed, significantly.
"And who are your friends?"
"Detective Sergeant Morgan, whom you have met before; and his
partner, Detective Sergeant Tierney."
Again that astonished expression passed over Hunt's face. He spoke
quite calmly, however.
"May I ask the reason for this late call?"
"It's really a continuation of the visit I made here Sunday night,"
answered Marsh. "My story has had another and more interesting
chapter added to it, and I thought you might like to hear it."
"Naturally, I am interested," returned Hunt, smiling. "Will you
gentlemen take chairs?"
Hunt's man, who had followed them into the room, now offered to
assist them in taking off their coats.
"Never mind," said Marsh, "we shall be here only a few minutes," and
the man left the room.
Marsh now seated himself in the chair he had occupied on the
occasion of his previous visit, and Morgan and Tierney took chairs
on the opposite side of the fireplace. Hunt laid aside his book and
offered them cigars from a humidor. Marsh refused, calling attention
to the fact that he was lighting a cigarette, but Morgan and Tierney
accepted, and Hunt, selecting a cigar for himself, then settled down
among the cushions in a corner of the davenport.
"My story really begins two years ago, Mr. Hunt," said Marsh, "but I
will pass briefly over the early part of it by merely saying that at
that time I took up the trail of a counterfeiter, known as Clark
Atwood."
"Why should you take up the trail of a counterfeiter?" inquired
Hunt.
"Because," declared Marsh, throwing back his coat and exposing his
badge, "I belong to the Secret Service Division of the United States
Treasury Department."
Hunt remained silent and Marsh continued. "Upon the death of his
wife in St. Louis, a few months ago, this man Atwood brought his
daughter to Chicago and placed her in an apartment on Sheridan Road.
Posing as a traveling man, Atwood was busy in other places, and made
only occasional visits to his daughter. To maintain a place of
safety and refuge in time of trouble, this man Atwood kept his
daughter in ignorance of his real occupation. I may say, at this
point, that Atwood had made his living by criminal means for many
years, and the venture in counterfeiting was simply the latest of
his many ways of gaining a livelihood."
"In the course of time it became necessary for Atwood to get a
certain man out of the way. The plans were carefully laid and the
stage set. His daughter believed him to be traveling on the road,
but after he was sure that she had retired for the night, he quietly
entered his apartment, went to her bedroom, and by means of a
hypodermic needle, charged with morphine, rendered her unconscious
while she slept, so that there would be no chance of her awakening
and spoiling his plans. Then Atwood, and a well known police
character known as 'Baldy' Newman, entered an empty apartment across
the hall by means of a duplicate key. At twelve o'clock, this man
'Baldy' telephoned the victim at his hotel. Newman represented
himself as the man's former chauffeur, and appealed for immediate
assistance to get out of some trouble he was in. Atwood, and his
confederate, then waited in the dining room of this apartment until
the victim rang the bell. Newman admitted him and led him into the
dining room. There the two men confronted him with revolvers and on
the threat of taking his life, forced him to sign a paper."
"After that, the victim made an attempt to escape. He fled to the
front of the apartment, closely pursued by the two men. They
attempted to make away with him silently, as originally planned, by
knifing him to death. The victim brought a hitch into their plans by
drawing a revolver and firing one shot before he died. Had this not
occurred, it is probable that the murderers' plans would not have
been discovered until long after they had made a safe getaway. As it
was, the shot merely hastened their actions at the time. The lights
in the apartment were turned out, the dead man was carried across
the hall, through Atwood's apartment, and down the rear stairs,
where he was thrown into a waiting automobile. When the police
arrived, a few minutes later, the men believed that they had gotten
safely away, without leaving a trace. They did leave traces,
however, and from that minute the police never left the trail until
they closed in on the men today."
Marsh took a photograph from his pocket. "Among the traces left in
that apartment," he went on, "were the imprints of a man's hands on
the dining room table. I have here a photograph of those imprints,
and among the many identifying marks there is a scar of a peculiar
shape."
Marsh returned the photograph to his pocket.
"I am very glad to learn that you have cleared up the murder of my
employer, Mr. Marsh," said Hunt. "What seems curious to me, however,
is why you should think this man Atwood would want to kill Mr.
Merton. Surely Mr. Merton could never have had any dealings with a
criminal such as you describe Atwood to be."
"On the contrary, Mr. Hunt," returned Marsh, "Merton had extensive
business dealings with Atwood. In fact, he went so far as to place
Atwood in a position where he could rob Merton of several hundred
thousand dollars worth of stocks and bonds. The transfer of these
securities had been taking place for a year or more, and it had
reached the point where the greater part of Merton's fortune was in
Atwood's hands. It is evident that Atwood's original intention was
to step quietly out of sight with this fortune, but subsequent
events led him to believe that he could go on in quiet security if
Merton were out of the way. That was the reason why Merton was
murdered."
Hunt threw the remains of his cigar into the fireplace, and slipped
the hand that had held it down into the pillows of the davenport.
"And you think you have at last located this man Atwood do you, Mr.
Marsh?"
"Yes," returned Marsh, calmly, "because I have absolute proof that
CLARK ATWOOD AND GILBERT HUNT ARE ONE AND THE SAME MAN!"
Instantly Hunt's hand whipped out from behind the sofa cushions, and
the three detectives found themselves covered by an automatic as
Hunt stood up.
"Clever work, gentlemen," he said, smiling. "But after leading men
of your type around by the nose for many years, you can hardly
expect me to stay here and calmly accept defeat now."
"Oh, no," answered Marsh. "We fully expected you to put up a good
fight." He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, and crossing
his legs, leaned back, smiling up at Hunt. "Go ahead; what's your
next move?"
"My next move," cried Hunt, sharply, "is to leave you damn fools
sitting right there. When I didn't hear from my men this afternoon I
knew that something was wrong, and my way of escape is ready."
He backed slowly toward the door, keeping the detectives covered
with his automatic. When he reached the door of the room, he called,
"Everything ready, George?"
"Yes, sir," a voice replied from the distance.
Hunt again addressed the detectives. "I advise you gentlemen to stay
quietly where you are for a few minutes. I am going out of the back
door of this apartment, and you, will find it difficult to find YOUR
way through in the dark--especially as you may meet a shot at any
moment. I bid you good evening, gentlemen."
With that, Hunt backed out of sight through the doorway and all was
silent. Immediately, Morgan and Tierney leaped to their feet and
dashed toward the door.
"Hold on!" exclaimed Marsh, still sitting quietly in his chair,
"Where are you going?"
The two detectives stopped in astonishment.
"We're going to get him!" shouted Tierney.
"No need of taking all that trouble," returned Marsh. "My men are
ready for him. Long ago a Secret Service man even replaced his
driver at the wheel of his car."
As if in answer to this statement from Marsh, there was a distant
fusillade of shots.
"They've got him," said Marsh, rising. "Now we can go."
"If there's no hurry now," said Morgan, "I wish you would tell us
the rest of the story."
"What do you mean?" inquired Marsh.
"How did you come to connect these two men, and how did you get that
inside dope on the stealing?"
"You know all the incidents," returned Marsh, "and you ought to be
able to connect them as I did. The only information I had about
which you did not know was that notebook. The book contained
memoranda in Hunt's handwriting, which, by the way, closely
resembled the writing in Atwood's last letter. Among these were the
names, addresses and telephone numbers of the men who worked with
him, and showing their different locations during the past year or
two. He also made notations of the different stocks and bonds which
he took out of Merton's vaults at various times."
"Atwood, you know, took a suitcase at the last moment from his
apartment. This afternoon I located a suitcase in the Merton house,
containing the counterfeit plates, and the stocks and bonds which I
had found noted in Hunt's memorandum book. Naturally, a large part
of the story I told tonight was merely surmise on my part, but you
can see how near I came to the truth from the way Hunt acted."
"Another interesting point, due to your foresight, Morgan, was that
matter of the scar. I studied very carefully the photograph you had
taken. Sunday night, when I was calling here on Hunt, I goaded him
into a rage, so that he shook his right fist in my face. I had a
good view of the scar then, and my last doubt vanished."
"Another point that isn't clear," queried Morgan, "is that paper
Merton signed. What was it?"
"I don't know," said Marsh. "That was a wild guess on my part; that
he had signed any paper at all. It seemed odd, however, that an
experienced financier like Merton would make an employee sole
executor. So I decided that before his death, Merton was forced to
sign either a new will, or a codicil to his old will, which was
dated back some months so as to offset any suspicions."
"And what do you suppose Hunt expected to gain by kidnapping all of
us?" again questioned Morgan.
"Don't you see," explained Marsh, "that we were getting too close,
and might be expected to spring the trap at any minute. Our
disappearance would divert the police into a search for us instead
of for them. In the meantime, they could get quietly away and
vanish. And besides, I was supposed to have that notebook--the most
incriminating evidence we possessed at that time."
"But see here," now broke in Tierney. "Why did you let that guy
think he had a chance to get away, when you had the goods on him?
The three of us could have nabbed him the minute we came in."
"Tierney," replied Marsh, "there's a little girl up north that I
hope to marry some day. You know her--she's Atwood's daughter. If
that girl knew that her father was a crook it would break her heart.
I didn't intend that she should ever know. I told Hunt that story
tonight so as to show him the hopelessness of his position, and thus
drive him out to a finish battle with my men. Sooner or later he had
to pay the penalty of being a murderer, and I did not think he would
allow himself to be taken alive, so I gave him his chance. His death
prevents a personal trial and the presenting of all the evidence.
The name of Atwood need not now appear in the reports of the case,
and the girl will never connect the references that may be made to
Gilbert Hunt, with her father."
"One week!" exclaimed Morgan. "Marsh, you complimented me once on
twenty-four hours bum work; It's my turn now, to hand it to you for
one week's REAL work."
"I appreciate your good intentions, Morgan," laughed Marsh, "but you
forget that I have actually been two years on this job. The last
week was simply the windup. It was not my superior work--merely a
slip in the man's plans that gave me a clue."
"Hell!" cried Tierney. "Cut that modest stuff. A man who could turn
the biggest mystery the Department ever had into a CLUE, is some
guy!"
CHAPTER XXIII
SUNSET
One of the sudden changes characteristic of the Chicago climate had
taken place. The wintry chill had left the air before the advance of
a soft, warm breeze that blew out of the west. It might have been
early spring instead of late fall.
Marsh waited outside the music school on Michigan Avenue for Jane
Atwood. Presently she appeared, and Marsh was conscious of a
quickened beating of the heart as he watched the slender, graceful
figure approach. He noted the becoming flush, which spread over her
features as she recognized him, and he was certain that no woman
ever before had such sparkling eyes and so sweet a smile.
"This is a pleasant surprise," she greeted him.
"I knew you had a lesson today," explained Marsh, "and the weather
was so fine that I thought you might enjoy a walk before you went
home."
"I should love it!" she exclaimed. "I was just dreading the thought
of going straight home to that plain little room in the hotel. Hotel
rooms never do seem homelike, do they?"
"Most of my life has been spent in hotels," returned Marsh, as they
strolled toward the curb. "My parents died before I was twenty, and
since then I have led a roving life." He signaled a passing taxi,
and directed the chauffeur to take them to Lincoln Park.
Marsh glanced down Oak Street as the car flashed by. The mysterious
shadows that hung over the street at night, and the recent tragic
incident which had taken place there, seemed almost like a dream to
Marsh, as he saw the street stretch peacefully toward the west in
the light of the late afternoon sun. Marsh's attention was quickly
diverted, however, for at this point the tall buildings, the smoky
streets, and the crowds were left behind. At one side began the long
line of palatial residences that has brought to this section of
Chicago the sobriquet of "The Gold Coast." On the other side lay a
strip of park, and beyond that stretched the rolling waters of Lake
Michigan, as far as the eye could see.
"This is what I like about Chicago," exclaimed Marsh. "After a day
in the hurry and bustle and grind of the business district, you are
swept in a few minutes into a region of trees, grass and spreading
waters. At one stroke you seem to leave the seething city behind and
enter into the wide spaces of the earth."
"You speak like a poet," declared the girl, "rather than a plain
business man."
"Perhaps," returned Marsh, in a low voice, "it is because of
something new that has come into my life."
The girl's eyes looked into his for a moment, and seemed to read
something there, for she turned with heightened color to look out
over the lake.
They sat in silence for the next few minutes; then Marsh leaned
forward and opened the door of the taxi. "We'll stop here," he
called to the driver.
"Have you been in Lincoln Park before?" he inquired, as they
strolled north.
"Only to pass through in the bus," returned Jane.
"I think," commented Marsh, "that this is one of the prettiest
parks. I presume that those rolling hills are artificial, but they
are certainly a relief, after the monotonous flatness of the rest of
the city. There is one, just ahead of us, that is the highest in the
park. I want to take you there, for it is a place where I have often
sat during the last few months, when I wanted to be alone and
think."
"I believe," said Jane, "that this is the first time you have really
told me anything abort yourself."
"Frankly," replied Marsh, "that is one of the reasons why I
suggested this walk today. This favorite spot of mine appealed to me
as just the place to tell you something of my story. There it is,"
he added, pointing across the driveway to a little tree-clad hill.
He guided her across the drive, up the winding path through the
trees, to an open space on the hilltop, where they found a bench and
sat down.
"It is beautiful," agreed the girl.
Several miles of the shore line lay stretched before them, and
beyond it miles and miles of blue-green water rolled in, to break
into miniature waves against the embankment. The sun had nearly
touched the treetops behind them, and the gray of evening already
lay out over the lake. The distant horizon changed from a deep
purplish tint, where it met the water, through many, shades, until
it turned to rich gold, where the light of the setting sun fell full
upon fleecy clouds that drifted slowly, far up in the air.
"You asked me a few days ago," began Marsh, "about the nature of my
business. I did not feel free to tell you at that time, because I
was engaged in working out one of my most important cases. That case
is completed; and so is my work along that line. I am a detective,
Miss Atwood--for the last ten years in the Secret Service Division
of the United States Government."
"How interesting," she exclaimed.
"No, you are wrong," returned Marsh. "I thought it was interesting,
but I have found out my mistake. It was a wandering, unnatural life,
full of nervous days and sleepless nights. No home life, no family,
no friends--lacking all the things that really make life worth
living. Miss Atwood, the men who work down there in those great
buildings during the day, and go to a little home at night, to be
greeted by a cheery wife and romping children, are the most
fortunate men in the world. Some of them grow restless at times, and
may long for what they think is the glamour and excitement of a life
like mine. Work such as mine is necessary to the peace, happiness
and progress of the world--but I have come to the conclusion that I
would rather let the other fellow do it."
"What do you plan to do, then?" the girl asked softly.
"Unfortunately, my training has been along one line only, and I must
stick to that. But I intend to follow it in a way that will permit
me to have a home, and some of the things in life which other men
enjoy. I have already sent in my resignation to the Secret Service.
As soon as it is accepted I plan to open an office in Chicago, to do
private investigative work. There is an immense opportunity for this
among the thousands of great business houses here. Then I am going
to have a home--and," he added, leaning toward her and gazing
straight into her eyes, "I want you to help me start that home."
Jane flushed. "What do you mean?" she murmured.
"That I love you," replied Marsh, as he took her small, soft hand in
his.
"But you have known me such a short time," protested Jane.
"Jane," he said, "I have watched over you for nearly two years. When
you walked along St. Louis streets and entered shops; when you
passed back and forth to your music school in Chicago; I was many
times close at hand."
She gazed at him in startled surprise. "I don't understand," she
said.
"My work took me to St. Louis," Marsh explained. "There I saw you
and fell in love. The same work brought me to Chicago, soon after
you arrived here, and though you did not know me--probably not even
by sight--I was there, watching over you, and worshipping day by
day. Perhaps a week is too short a time for you to begin to care,
but I had hoped that you would."
"I do care," she half whispered, "but I did not know that you
thought so much of me. I have often longed for a real home myself.
You know, my own home was never really a happy one. For years my
mother was sickly and nervous, and it was I who incurred all the
household responsibilities. It has been years since I had the care
and companionship that most girls receive from a mother. My father
always provided liberally for us, but, he was seldom at home."
"Then we will start a real home together?" he pleaded.
"Yes," she whispered.
The sun sank out of sight and the twilight folded them in friendly
seclusion as Marsh took her in his arms.
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