The Voice on the Wire

CHAPTER XVII. IN WHICH SHIRLEY SURPRISES HIMSELF

They reached the hotel without untoward adventure.

“Perhaps we might find a little corner in that dining-room I saw this afternoon, with an obliging waiter to bring us something to eat. Shall we try? I need a lot of coffee, for I am going down to the dock of the Yacht Club to await developments.”

“You big silly boy,” she cautioned, with a maternal note in her voice which was very sweet to bachelor ears from such a maiden mouth, “you must not let Nature snap. You have a wonderful physique but you must go home to bed.”

“It can't be done—I want to hear about your little visit to the apartment, and the story of the diary. I'll ask the clerk.”

A bill glided across the register of the hotel desk, and the greeter promised to attend to the club sandwiches himself. He led them to a cosey table, in the deserted room, and started out to send the bell-boy to a nearby lunchroom.

“Just a minute please,—if any one calls up Miss Marigold, don't let them know she has returned. I have something important to say, without interruption: you understand?”

“Yes, I get you, sir,” and the droll part was that with a familiarity generated of the hotel arts he did understand even better than Shirley or Helene. He had seen many other young millionaires and golden-haired actresses. Shirley looked across the table into the astral blue of those gorgeous eyes. Certain unbidden, foolish words strove to liberate themselves from his stubborn lips.

“I am a consummate idiot!” was all that escaped, and Helene looked her surprise.

“Why, have you made a mistake?”

“I hope not. But tell me of Warren's mistake.”

She had been waiting what seemed an eternity before Van Cleft's house, when a big machine drew up alongside. Warren greeted her with a smiling invitation to leave Shirley guessing. Her willingness to go, she felt, would disarm his suspicions. The little dinner in the apartment with Shine, Warren and three girls had been in good taste enough: pretending, however, to be overcome with weariness she persuaded them to let her cuddle up on the couch, where she feigned sleep. Warren had tossed an overcoat over her and left the apartment with the others, promising to return in a few minutes. He had said to Shine, “She'll be quiet until we return—it may be a good alibi to have her here.” Then he had disappeared, wearing only a soft hat, with no other overcoat. Listening at the closed hall door, she heard him direct the elevator man, “Second off, Joe.” The door was locked from the outside. The servant's entrance was locked, all the bedrooms locked, every one with a Yale lock above the ordinary keyhole. The Chinese cook had been sent out sometime before to buy groceries and wine for the later party.

“But where did you find the note-book? It may send him to the electric chair.” Monty Shirley was lighting one of the cigarettes handed him by his host. He sniffed at it and crushed out the embers at the end. “This cigarette would have sent me to dreamland for a day at least—Warren understands as much chemistry as I do.”

“At first I studied the books in the library out of curiosity and then noticed that three books were shoved in, out of alignment with the others on the shelf. With a manservant in the house, instead of a woman, of course things needed dusting. But where these three books were it had been rubbed off! I took out the books, reached behind and found the little leather volume. It was simple. I went to his typewriter when I saw that the pages were all typed, and took out some note-paper, from the bronze rack.”

“And then, Miss Sleuth?”

“Don't laugh at me. I had heard of the legal phrase 'corroborative evidence,' so knowing that it would be necessary to connect that typewriter with the book, I rattled off a few lines on the machine. Here it is: it will show the individuality of the machine to an expert.”

“You wonderful girl!” he murmured simply. She protested, “Don't tease me. I have watched you and am learning some of your simple but complete methods of working. I understand you better than you think.”

“Go on with your story,” and Shirley was uncomfortable, although he knew not why.

“That is the end of my tale of woe. The kitchen being open, I took advantage of the dumb-waiter, as you already know. It's fortunate that waiter is dumb, for it must have many lurid confessions to make. I never saw such an interminable shaft; it seemed higher than the Eiffel Tower. See how I blistered my hands on the rope, letting myself down.”

She opened her palms, showing the red souvenirs of the coarse strands. Almost unconsciously she placed her soft fingers within Shirley's for a brief instant. She quickly drew them away, sensing a blush beneath the cosmetics, glad that he could not detect it. That gentle contact thrilled Shirley again, even as the dear memory of the tired cheek against his shoulder, during the automobile trip of the previous night.

“After finding you so accidentally and returning with your aid, on the little elevator, I threw myself back into the original pose on the big couch. It was just in time, for Warren returned. His cook came in shortly afterward. I imagine that he allows no one in that apartment, ordinarily, when he is not there himself. But what, sir, do you think I discovered upon the shoulder of his coat?”

Shirley shook his head. “A beautiful crimson hair,” he asked gravely, “from the sun-kissed forehead of the delectable Pinkie? Or was it white, from the tail of the snowy charger which tradition informs us always lurks in the vicinity of auburn-haired enchantresses?”

“Nothing so romantic. Just cobwebs! He saw me looking at them, and brushed them off very quickly.”

“The man thinks he is a wine bottle of rare vintage!” observed Shirley. But the jest was only in his words. He looked at her seriously and then rapt in thought, closed his eyes the better to aid his mental calculation. “He got off at the second floor—He wore no overcoat—A black silk handkerchief—cobwebs—and that garage on the other street, through the block! Miss Helene, you are a splendid ally!”

“Won't you tell me what you mean about the garage? Who were those men who attacked you? What happened since I deserted you?”

But Shirley provokingly shook his head, as he drew out his watch.

“It is half-past two. I must hurry down to East Twenty-fifth Street and the East River, at the yacht club mooring, before three. Tomorrow I will give you my version in some quiet restaurant, far from the gadding crowd of the White Light district.”

He rose, drawing back his chair; they walked to the elevator together. The clerk beckoned politely.

“A gent named Mr. Warren telephoned to ask if you were home yet, Miss Marigold. I told him not yet. Was that wrong?”

“It was very kind of you. Thank you so much,” and Helene's smile was the cause of an uneasy flutter in the breast of the blase clerk. “Good-night.”

“That's a lucky guy, at that, Jimmie,” confided the clerk to the bell-boy. “She is some beauty show, ain't she? And she's on the right track, too.”

“Yep, but she's too polite to be a great actress or a star. Her temper'ment ain't mean enough!” responded this Solomon in brass buttons. “I hopes we gits invited to the wedding!”

Outside, Shirley enjoyed the stimulus of the bracing early morning air. A new inspiration seemed to fire him, altogether dissimilar to the glow which he was wont to feel when plunging into a dangerous phase of a professional case. He slowly drew from his pocket the typed note-paper which had nestled in such enviable intimacy with that courageous heart. The faint fragrance of her exquisite flesh clung to it still. He held it to his lips and kissed it. Then he stopped, to turn about and look upward at the tall hostelry behind him. High up below the renaissance cornice he beheld the lights glow forth in the rooms which he knew were Helene's.

As he hurried to the club, he muttered angrily to himself: “I have made one discovery, at least, in this unusual exploit. I find that I have lost what common sense I possessed when I became a Freshman at college!”

CHAPTER XVIII. ON THE RISING TIDE

A hurried message to the Holland Agency brought four plain clothes men from the private reserve, under the leadership of superintendent Cleary. Monty met them at the doorway of the club house, wearing a rough and tumble suit.

They sped downtown, toward the East River, the criminologist on the seat where he could direct the driver. At Twenty-sixth Street, near the docks, they dismounted and Shirley gave his directions to the detectives.

“I want you to slide along these doorways, working yourselves separately down the water front until you are opposite the yacht club landing. I will work on an independent line. You must get busy when I shoot, yell or whistle,—I can't tell which. As the popular song goes, 'You're here and I'm here, so what do we care?' This is a chance for the Holland Agency to get a great story in the papers for saving young Van Cleft from the kidnappers.”

He left them at the corner, and crossing to the other pavement, began to stagger aimlessly down the street, looking for all the world like a longshoreman returning home from a bacchanalian celebration from some nearby Snug Harbor. It was a familiar type of pedestrian in this neighborhood at this time of the morning.

“That guy's a cool one, Mike,” said Cleary to one of his men. “These college ginks ain't so bad at that when you get to know 'em with their dress-suits off.”

“He's a reg'lar feller, that's all,” was Mike's philosophical response. “Edjication couldn't kill it in 'im.”

A hundred yards offshore was the beautiful steam yacht of the Van Clefts', the “White Swan.” Lights on the deck and a few glowing portholes showed unusual activity aboard. Shirley's hint to Warren about the contemplated trip to southern climes was the exact truth. Naked truth, he had found, was ofttimes a more valuable artifice than Munchausen artistry of the most consummate craft! The longshoreman, apparently befuddled in his bearings, wandered toward the dock, which protruded into the river, a part of the club property. He staggered, tumbled and lay prostrate on the snowy planks.

Then he crawled awkwardly toward one of the big spiles at the side of the structure, where he passed into a profound slumber. This, too, was a conventional procedure for the neighborhood! A man walked across the street, from the darkness of a deserted hallway: he gave the somnolent one a kick. The longshoreman grunted, rolled over, and continued to snore obliviously.

An automobile honk-honked up Twenty-third Street, and then swung around in a swift curve toward the dock. The investigating kicker slunk away, down the street. The limousine drew up at the entrance to the tender gangway. Accompanied by a portly servant, a young man in a fur coat, stepped from the machine.

“Give them another call with your horn, Sam,” he directed. “The boat will be in for me, then.”

This was done. A scraping noise came from the hanging stairway of the dock, and a voice called up from the darkness: “Here we are, sir!” Howard Van Cleft leaned over the edge and looked down, somewhat nervously. A reassuring word came up from the boat, rocking against the spiles.

“You was a bit late, sir. You said three, Mr. Van Cleft, and now it's ten after. So the captain sent us in to wait for you. Everything's shipshape, sir, steam up, and all the supplies aboard. Climb right down the ladder, sir. Steady now, lads!”

This seemed to presage good. Van Cleft turned to his butler.

“Take down the luggage, Edward. Goodbye, Sam. Keep an eye on the machines. The folks will attend to everything for you while I am away. Good-bye.”

The butler had delivered the baggage and now returned up the ladder, puffing with his exertions.

“Good-bye, sir,” and his voice was more emotional than usual. “Watch yourself, sir, if you please, sir. You're the last Van Cleft, and we need you, sir.” The old man touched his hat, and climbed into the automobile, as Van Cleft climbed down the ladder. The machine sped away under the skilful guidance of Sam.

“Steady, sir, steady—There, we have you now, sir,—Quick, men! Up the river with the tide. Row like hell!—Keep your oars muffled—here comes the other boat.”

All this seemed naturally the accompaniment of the embarkment of Van Cleft's yachting cruise, but the sleeping longshoreman suddenly arose to his feet and blew a shrill police whistle. Next instant the flash of his pocket-lamp illumined the dark boat below him. A volley of curses greeted this untoward action! A revolver barked from the hand of a big man in the stern. Young Van Cleft lay face downward in the boat, neatly gagged and bound. As the light still flickered over the surprised oarsmen, an answering shot evidenced better aim. The man in the back of the bobbing vessel groaned as he fell forward upon the prostrate body of the pinioned millionaire. One oarsman disappeared over the side of the boat, to glide into the unfathomable darkness, with skilful strokes.

“Hold still! I'll kill the first man who makes a move!”

As Shirley's voice rang out, Cleary with his assistants was dashing across the open space to the end of the dock.

“Shove out that boat-hook and hold onto the dock!” was the additional order, accompanied by a punctuation mark in the form of another bullet which splintered the gunwale of the boat. Looking as they were, into the dazzling eye of the bulb light, the men were uncertain of the number of their assailants: surrender was natural. Cleary's men made quick work of them. The boat from the yacht now hove to by this time, filled with excited and profane sailormen. The skipper of the “White Swan,” revolver drawn, stood in its bow as it bumped against the stairway. Howard Van Cleft was unbound: dazed but happy he tried to talk.

“What—why—who?” he mumbled.

“Pat Cleary, from the Holland Detective Agency,” was Shirley's response. “There, handcuff these men quick. Two cops are coming. We want the credit of this job before the rookies beat us to it.”

Van Cleft recognized the speaker, and caught his hand fervently. Shirley, though, was too busy for gratitude. He gave another quick direction.

“Hurry on board your yacht tender and get underway. Your life isn't worth a penny if you stay in town another hour. These men will be attended to. Good luck and goodbye.”

The young man rapidly transferred his luggage to his own boat. They were soon out of view on their way to the larger vessel. Shirley turned toward Cleary.

“I'll file the charge against these two men. They tried to rob me and make their getaway in this boat. You were down here as a bodyguard for Van Cleft, who, of course, knew nothing about the matter as he left for his cruise. So his name can be kept out of it entirely. And the fact that you helped to save him from paying fifty thousand dollars in blackmail, will not injure the size of Captain Cronin's bill. Get me?”

“It's got!” laughed Cleary.

Two patrolmen were dumfounded when they reached the spot to find four men in handcuffs in charge of six armed guardians. The superintendent explained the situation as laid out by Shirley. The cavalcade took its way to the East Twenty-first Street Police Station, where the complaint was filed. Sullen and perplexed about their failure, the men were all locked in their cells, after their leader had his shoulder dressed by an interne summoned from the nearby Bellevue Hospital.

Shirley and Cleary returned with the others to the waiting automobile, after these formalities. The prisoners had been given the customary opportunity to telephone to friends, but strangely enough did not avail themselves of it.

“We're cutting down the ranks of the enemy, Cleary,” observed the detective as he lit a cigarette. “But I wonder who it was that escaped in the water?”

“He'll be next in the net. But say, Mr. Shirley, what percentage do you get for all this work, I'm awondering?” was the answering query. The criminologist laughed.

“Thanks, my dear man, simply thanks. That's a rare thing for a well-to-do man to get since the I.W.W. proved to the world that it's a crime for a man to own more than ten dollars, or even to earn it! But I wish you would drop me off about half a block from the Somerset Apartments, on Fifty-sixth Street. I want to watch for a late arrival.”

He waited in the shadows of the houses on the opposite side of the street. After half an hour he was rewarded by the sight of Mr. Shine Taylor dismounting from a taxicab. The young gentleman wore a heavy overcoat over a bedraggled suit. One of his snowy spats was missing; his hat was dripping, still, from its early immersion. He entered the building, after a cautious survey of the deserted street, with a stiff and exhausted gait.

Shirley was satisfied with this new knot in the string. He returned to his rooms at the club, to gain fresh strength for the trailing on the morrow. And this time, he felt that he deserved his rest!

Next morning, after his usual plunge and rub-down, he ordered breakfast in his rooms. He instructed the clerk to send up a Remwood typewriter, and began his experiments with the code of the diary.

From an old note-book, in which were tabulated the order of letter recurrences according to their frequency in ordinary English words, he freshened his memory. This was the natural sequence, in direct ratio to the use of the letters: “E: T: A: O: N: I: S: B: M, etc.” The use of “E” was double that of any other. Yet on the pages of the book he found that the most frequently recurring symbol was “R” which was, ordinarily, one of the least used in the alphabet. “T,” which would have been second in popularity, naturally, was seen only a few times in proportion. “Y,” also seldom used, appeared very often. The symbol “A” was used with surprising frequency.

“Let me see,” he mused. “This code is strictly typewritten. It must be arranged on some mechanical twist of the typing method. A is used so many times that it might be safe to assume that it is used for a space, as all the words in this code run together. If A is used that way, what takes its place? S would by rights be seventh on the list, but the average I have made shows that it is about third or fourth.”

Carefully he jotted down in separate columns on a piece of paper the individual repetitions of letters on the page of “January 7, 1915.” He arrived at the conclusion, then, that “R” was used for “E,” that “S” took the place of “A” and that “Y” alternated in this cipher for “T” which was second on his little list.

Fur the benefit of the reader who may be interested enough to work out this little problem, along the lines of Shirley's deductions the arrangement of the so-called “Standard” keyboard is here shown, as it was on the “Number Four” machine of Warren's Remwood, and the duplicate machine which Shirley was using.

This diagram represents the “lower case” or small letters, capitals being made by holding down one of the shift keys on either side, and striking the other letter at the same time, there being two symbols on each metal type key. As only small letters were used through the code Shirley did not bother about the capitals. He realized at last, that if his theory of substitution were correct the writer had struck the key to the right of the three frequent letters. He had the inception of the scheme.

Starting with the first line of the sentences so jumbled on the page for January 7, 1915, he began to reverse the operation, copying it off, hitting on the typewriter the keyboard letter to the left of the one indicated in the order of the cipher.

The result was gratifying. He continued for several lines, having trouble only with the letter “P.” At last he realized that the only substitution for that could be “Q.” In other words, “A” had been used for the space letter throughout, and for all the other symbols the one on the right had been struck, except “P” which being at the end of the line had been merely swung to the first letter on the other end of it!

No wonder Warren had been so confident of its baffling simplicity! Many of the well-known rules for reading codes would not work with this one, and had it not been for Shirley's suspicion, aroused in the library of the arch-schemer the night before, he would hardly have given the typewriter, as a mechanical aide, a second thought. Warren's desire to drop the subject of machines had planted a dangerous seed.

Laboriously Shirley typed off the material of the entire page for the fatal Thursday, and his elation knew no bounds as he realized that here was a key to many of the activities of his enemy. He donned his hat and coat and hurried over to the Hotel California to show his discovery to Helene. She invited him up to her suite at once, where he wasted no words but exhibited the triumphant result of his efforts. He handed her his own transcription, and this is what she read:

“January 7, 1915, Thursday.

“learned from bank de cleyster drew six thousand in morning monk assigned to taxi work for tea shine assigned to fix generator margie fairfax date with de cleyster at five, shine and joe hawley covering game jake and ben assigned black car for me paid phil one hundred covering special work job finished riverside drive at eighty third sharp deposited night and day four thousand safe deposit fifteen hundred lent dolly marion two hundred for dress for party with van cleft next afternoon advanced shine one thousand to cover option of yacht sunbeam paid to broker that night ordered provisions telephone for yacht two month cruise monk assigned for job next day advanced shine five hundred on account work on wellington serral matter repairs black machine fifty party apartment same night champagne one hundred fifty caterer one hundred tips fifty five to janitor taxis twelve must stir phil up on work for grimsby matter memorandum arrange for yacht mooring on east river instead of north after wednesday eighth job finis memorandum settle telephone exchange proceeds not later than monday paid electrician special wiring two hundred in full settlement.”

“There, Miss Helene, how do you like my little game of letter building?”

There was a boyish gleam of triumph in his smile as he turned toward her.

“You are a wizard, but how did you work it all out?” There was no smile in her face, only a mingled horror at the revelations of this calculating monster in his businesslike murder work, and an unfeigned admiration for Shirley's keenness.

“A very old method, but one which would have availed for naught without your help. The letter paper which you used and the unmistakable identity of Warren's machine are two more bars of iron with which to imprison him. The paper of that note is the same on which they wrote to Van Ceft for money, and their threats to me. This shows from a microscopic examination of its texture. I will give the whole book to a trustworthy stenographer: more than six months of these little confessions are tabulated here. Warren was evidently so used to this code that he could write in it as easily as I do with the straight alphabet. His training in German universities developed a thoroughness, a methodical recording of every thing, which is apt to cost him dearly. And his undoubted vanity prompted him to have a little volume of his own in that library to which he could turn occasionally for the retrospection of his own cleverness. Now, I must investigate this clever telephone system. I think I have the clue necessary.”

He intrusted the book to Helene for the morning, promising to return in an hour or two with new information, drolly refusing to tell her his destination.

“You're a bad, bold boy, and should be spanked, for not letting some one know where to look for you in case you get into difficulties,” she pouted. “Perhaps I will do some equally foolish thing myself.”

“If you knew how you frightened me yesterday!” he began.

“Did you really worry and really care?” But Shirley had slipped out of the door, leaving her to wonder, and then begin that long delayed letter to Jack.

CHAPTER XIX. AN EXPEDITION UNDERGROUND

The criminologist picked his way through the swarming vehicles which swung up and down Broadway, across to Seventh Avenue, where he turned into a plumber's shop. This fellow had handled small jobs on Shirley's extensive real estate holdings, and he was naturally delighted to do a favor in the hope of obtaining new work.

“Mike, I want to borrow an old pair of overalls, a jumper and one of those blue caps hanging up on your wall. And I need some plumbers' tools, as well, for a little joke I am to play on one of my friends.”

The workman was astounded at such a request from his rich client, but nodded willingly. The dirtiest of the clothes answered Shirley's requirements and with soot rubbed over his face and hands, his hair disarranged, he satisfied his artistic craving for detail. He was transformed into a typical leadpipe brigand. Hanging his own garments in the closet, after transferring his automatic revolver into the pocket of the jeans, he started out, carrying the furnace pot, and looking like a union-label article.

He reached the Somerset by a roundabout walk, passing more than one of his acquaintances with inward amusement at their failure to recognize him. He had arranged for Helene to invite Shine Taylor and Reginald Warren down to call on her at the apartment in the California at this particular time. So thus he felt that the coast was clear. At the tradesmen's entrance, where he had gone before to hoist on the dumbwaiter, he entered the building. An investigation of the basement showed him that in the rear of the building were one large and two small courts or air shafts. Then he ascended the iron stairway to the street level of the vestibule.

“Say, bo, I come to fix de pipes on de second floor,” was his self-introduction to the haughty negro attendant. “Dey're leakin' an' me boss tells me to git on de job in a hustle.”

“Which one? I ain't heard o' no leaks. It must be in de empty apartment in de rear, kase dat old maid in de front would been kickin' my fool head off ef she's had any trouble. She's always grouchy.”

“Sure, dingy, it's de empty one in de rear. Lemme in an' I'll fix it.”

“You-all better see de superintendent. People is apt to be lookin' at dat apartment to-day to rent it, an' he mightn't want no plumber mussin' round. I'll go hunt 'im fer you-all.”

“Say, you jest lemme in now. I'm paid by de hour. You knows what plumber bills is, an' your superintendent'll fire you if he has to pay ten dollars' overtime 'cause you hold me up.”

This was superior logic. The negro took him up and opened the door. Shirley entered, and peered out of the court window in the rear. Helene's suggestion about the dust was applicable here, for he found all the windows coated except the one opening upon the areaway. Below he observed a stone paving with a cracked surface. It was semidark, but his electric pocket-light enabled him to observe one piece of the rock which seemed entirely detached. Shirley investigated the closets of the empty apartment. In one of them he discovered the object of his search. It was a knotted rope. He first observed the exact way in which it had been folded in order to replace it without suspicion being aroused. Then he took it to the small window of the air shafts hanging it on a hook which was half concealed behind the ledge. Down this he lowered himself, hand over hand. The stone was quickly lifted—it was hinged on the under surface. In the dark hole which was before him there was an iron ladder. Down he went, into the utter blackness. His outstretched hands apprised him that he was at the beginning of a walled tunnel, through which he groped in a half-upright position. He reached an iron door, and remembering his direction calculated that this must be at the rear entrance of the old garage on West Fifty-fifth Street. It opened, as he swung a heavy iron bar, fitted with a curious mechanism resembling the front of a safe. Softly he entered, carrying his heavy boots in his hand. All was still within, and he shot the glow ray of his little lamp about him. As the reader may guess, it was the rear room of Warren's private spider-web! The table, facing the screen was surmounted by an ingenious telephone switchboard.

Shirley examined this closely. The various plugs were labelled: “Rector,” “Flatbush,” “Jersey City,” “Main,” “Morningside,” and other names which Shirley recognized as “central” stations of the telephone company. Here was the partial solution of the mysterious calls. He determined to test the service!

He took up the telephone receiver and sent the plug into the orifice under the label, “Co.” wondering what that might be. Soon there was an answer.

“Yes, Chief. What is it?”

“How's everything?” was Shirley's hoarse remark. “I find connections bad in the Bronx? What's the matter?”

“I'll send one of the outside men up there to see, Chief. There's a new exchange manager there, and he may be having the wires inspected. But my tap is on the cable behind the building. I don't see how he could get wise.”

Shirley smiled at this inadvertent betrayal of the system: wire tapping with science. He was able to trap the confederate with his own mesh of copper now.

“I want to see you right away. Some cash for you. I'm sick with a cold in the throat so don't keep me waiting. Go up town and stand in the doorway at 192 West Forty-first Street. Don't let anybody see you while you wait there, so keep back out of sight. How soon can you be there?”

“Oh, in half an hour if I hurry. Any trouble? You certainly have a bum voice, Chief. But how will I know it's you?”

“I'll just say, 'Telephone,' and then you come right along with me, to a place I have in mind. Don't be late, now! Good-bye.”

Shirley drew out the connection and tried the exchange labelled “Rector.” Instantly a pleasant girl's voice inquired the number desired.

“Bryant 4802-R.”

This was the Hotel California.

The operator on the switchboard of the hostelry replied.

“Give me Miss Marigold's apartment, please.”

Helene's voice was soon on the wire. Shirley asked for Warren in a gruff tone.

“What do you want?” was that gentleman's musical inquiry, in the tones which were already so familiar to the criminologist.

“Chief, dis is de Rat. I wants to meet you down at de Blue Goose on Water Street in half an hour. Kin you'se come? It's important.”

The other was evidently mystified.

“The Rat? What do you mean? I don't know you. Ring off!”

Shirley heard the other receiver click. He held the wire, reasoning out the method of the intriguer. Soon there was a buzz in his ear, and Warren's voice came to him. It was droll, this reversal of the original method, which had been so puzzling.

“What number is this?”

“Rector 4471, sir,” answered the criminologist in the best falsetto tone he could muster. Then he disconnected with a smile. This was turning the tables with a vengeance. But he knew that he must be getting away from the den before the possible investigation by Warren or his lieutenant. There were many things he would have liked to study about the place. But his curiosity about the telephone had made it impossible for him to remain. It was a costly mistake, as events were destined to prove!

He hurried out of the compartment, into the tunnel, up the rope and through the window. He replaced the knotted rope, exactly as it had been before. He put a few drippings of molten lead from the bubbling pot, under the wash-stand of the bathroom, to carry out the illusion of his work as plumber. Then he departed from the building, as he had entered.

In ten minutes he was changing his garments in Mike's plumbing shop, with a fabulous story of the excruciating joke he had played upon a sick friend. Then he walked rapidly to the doorway at 192 West Forty-first Street.

Back against the wall of this empty store entry, lounged a pleasant-looking young man who puffed at a perfecto. Shirley stepped in, and in a low tone, said: “Telephone.” The other started visibly, and scrutinized the well-groomed club man from head to foot.

“Well, Chief, you're a surprise. I never thought you looked like that. Where will we go?”

“Over to the gambling house a friend of mine runs, just around the corner. There we can talk in quiet.”

Shirley led the way, restraining the smile which itched to betray his enjoyment of the situation. The other studied him with sidelong glances of unabated astonishment. They were soon going up the steps of the Holland Agency, which looked for all the world, with its closed shutters, and quiet front, like a retreat for the worshipers of Dame Fortune. Cronin fortunately did not believe in signs. So the young man was not suspicious, even when Shirley gave three knocks upon the door, to be admitted by the sharp-nosed guardian of the portal.

“Tell Cleary to come downstairs, Nick,” said the criminologist. “I want him to meet a friend of mine.”

The superintendent was soon speeding two steps at a time.

“The Captain is back, Mr. Shirley,” he exclaimed. “He's in the private office on a couch.”

“Good, then we'll take my friend right to him.”

The stranger was beginning to evidence uneasiness, and he turned questioningly to his conductor, with a growing frown.

“Say, what are you leading me into, Chief?”

Shirley said nothing but strode to the rear of the floor, through the door of Captain Cronin's sanctum. The old detective was covered with a steamer shawl, as he stretched out on a davenport. The young man observed the photographs around the room,—an enormous collection of double-portraits of profile and front face views—the advertized crooks for whom Cronin had his nets spread in a dozen cases. The handcuffs on the desk, the measuring stand, the Bertillon instruments on the table, all these aroused his suspicions instantly.

He whirled about, angrily.

Shirley smiled in his face. Then he addressed the surprised Captain Cronin.

“Here is our little telephone expert who arranged the wires for Warren and his gang, Captain. You are welcome to add him to your growing collection of prisoners.”

For answer the young man whipped out a revolver and fired point-blank at the criminologist. His was a ready trigger finger. But he was no swifter than the convalescent detective on the couch, who had swung a six shooter from a mysterious fold of the steamer blanket, and planted a bullet into the man's shoulder from the rear.

As the smoke cleared away, Shirley straightened up from the crouching position on the floor which had saved him from the assassin, and dragged the wounded criminal to his feet. The handcuffs clicked about his wrists before the young man had grasped the entire situation. Cleary and three others of the private force were in the room.

“I've got to hurry along now, Captain. Just let him know that his Chief is captured and the sooner he turns State's evidence the better it will be for him. The District Attorney might make it lighter, if he helps. I'll be back this evening if I can.” And Shirley hurried away, leaving much surprise and bewilderment in every mind.

Cronin was equal to the task of picking up the threads, and under his sarcasm, and Cleary's rough arguments, the prisoner admitted some interesting matters about the mysterious employer whose face he had never seen. But Shirley's task was far from completed.

CHAPTER XX. A DOUBLE ON THE TRAIL

Shirley walked up to the Hotel California, at the door of which he met Warren and Taylor just leaving. They looked somewhat embarrassed but his manner was cordiality itself.

“Sorry you are going. I was just stepping up to see Miss Marigold. Won't you come back?”

His invitation was refused. Then Shirley urged Warren to be his guest at the club for dinner that evening. This was accepted with a surprising alacrity. So, he left them, and was soon talking with Helene.

“You missed a curious little sociable party,” she assured him. “They tried to quiz me, and I confess that I worked for the same purpose—no results on either side. But, Warren had an unusual telephone call, which disturbed him so much that he hurried away, sooner than he had planned.”

Shirley recounted his explorations of the afternoon, with the explanation of Reginald's disturbance. It was certain now that the leader of the assassins had something to cause uneasiness,—enough to take his mind off the campaign of murder and blackmail.

“But he will try to get you out of the way,” was her anxious answer. “You are multiplying needless dangers. Why don't you have him arrested now—the phonograph records will identify his voice, will they not? The diary will show his career, and everything seems complete in the case.”

Shirley sat down in the window-seat, before replying.

“It is just my own vanity, then, perhaps. I am foolish enough to believe that I can trap him on some crime which will give him the complete punishment he deserves without dragging in the names of these unfortunate old society men. All our trouble would be for nothing, just now, if the story came out. The phonograph records helped me—but I prefer to keep that method to myself, as a matter of interest and selfishness. Somewhere, in that beautiful apartment of his there must be clues which will send him to the electric chair on former crimes: Warren is an artist who has handled other brushes than the ones he used on this masterpiece. He is not a beginner. So, I must ransack his apartment.”

“That is impossible, with all the care he takes with bolts and locks.”

“We shall see. Meanwhile, I'll spin the yarn of the last thirty-six hours. I'm sure your curiosity is whetted: my own is by no means satisfied.”

So he gave her a survey of the progress he had made. Helene brought forth a number of typewritten pages which she had transcribed from the diary, proudly exhibiting a machine which she had ordered sent up from the hotel office.

“There, sir, we are unwinding the ravelings of his past life to an extent. I have found a mysterious reference to a Montfluery case in Paris, during August of last year. What can you do to investigate that lead?”

Shirley jotted down the name, and answered: “A cable to the prefecture of Police of the city of Paris from Captain Cronin will bring details. That should be an added link in the chain, within the next twenty-four hours. I am going to leave you for the while, as I wish to investigate a certain yacht which is moored in the East River. That yacht is there for a purpose—you remember his reference to the payment of supplies for a two-month cruise. My amateurish vanity leads me to a hope that I can capture him just at the crucial moment when he thinks he is successful in his escape from pursuit.”

“That is the childishness of the masculine mind,” retorted Helene. “You say we women are illogical, but we are essentially practical in the small things. I would advise closing the doors before the horse escapes, rather than a chase from behind!”

“Perhaps,” answered Monty, “but the uncertainty does allure me. I always enjoyed skating on thin ice, from the days of college when I loved to get through a course of lectures on as little work as possible. The satisfaction of 'getting away with it' against odds was so exhilarating. I will return after my little dinner with Warren at the Club. Where will you dine?”

“Your friend Dick Holloway is taking me to some restaurant where singing and music may alter my refusal to him.”

“Your refusal?” and Shirley shot a quick glance at the girl. Her dimples appeared as she added: “Yes—he wants me to star in a little play for the coming spring, but I have had such fun playing in real-life drama that I said him nay.”

“Oh,” was all the criminologist said, but as he left, Helene's laugh interpretated a little feminine satisfaction. Monty's mind was just disturbed enough about the attitude of Dick Holloway to keep him from worrying over the Warren case until he had reached the East River, near the yacht club mooring.

There was the white yacht which had been mentioned in the purloined book. It was a trim, speedy craft. The criminologist walked down a few blocks to the office of a boat contractor with whom he had dealt on bygone occasions.

“I want to engage a fast motor-boat, Mr. Manby,” was his request. “The speediest thing you've got. Keep it down at your dock, at Twenty-first Street, with plenty of gasoline and a man on duty all the time, starting with six o'clock to-night. I may need it at a minute's notice.”

“I've got a hydroplane which I'll sell this spring to some yachtsman,” said Manby. “It's a bargain—you can do forty miles an hour in it, without getting a drop of spray. Shall I show it to you?”

“Yes, and the two men who you will have alternating on duty, so they will know me when I come for it. I'll pay for every minute it is reserved.”

They soon came to terms; the men were introduced and Shirley was well satisfied with the racing craft, which was moored according to his directions, handy for a quick embarkation.

Then he went up to the Holland Agency. Cronin was disappointed in his results with the telephone confederate. All of Warren's men were close-mouthed, as though through some biting fear of swift and unerring vengeance for “squealing.” Even the prisoners in the station-house had not volunteered to communicate with friends, as they were allowed to do by law. They were “standing pat,” as the old detective declared in disgust.

“That proves one thing,” remarked the criminologist. “They are not local products, or they would have friends other than their chief on whom to call for bail or aid. Their whole work centers on him. I think I will send a code message to this man Phil this afternoon or evening. He may be able to read it, and if he does, it may assist us. I wish you would have a man call on Miss Marigold at the California Hotel, so that she may know his face. Then keep him covering her for they are apt to get suspicious of her and try to quiet her. She is a game and fearless girl, but she is no match for this gang.”

Cronin assigned one of the men immediately, and the sleuth took up a note of introduction to Helene, in which Monty explained the need for his watch.

Shirley then repaired to the club house to await his dinner guest. He was thoughtful about the alacrity of Warren to dine with him. There was more to this assumed friendliness than the mere desire to talk to him.

“I wonder if he wants to keep me occupied for some certain reason?” pondered the club man. “Helene is protected now by a silent watcher. The members of the Lobster Club are all out of the city. Van Cleft is safe on the ocean. They must be laying a trap. I wonder where that trap would be?”

As he looked about his rooms he realized that many important pieces of evidence were locked up in his chests and the small safe. His bedroom, in the uppermost floor of the club building, was in a quiet and less frequented part of the house. Shirley summoned one of the shrewd Japanese valets who worked on the dormitory floors of the building.

“Chen,” he began. “Are you a good fighter?”

The Mongolian grinned characteristically. Shirley took out a bill, and handed it to the little fellow.

“I have reason to think some one may come into my rooms to-night, while I am busy downstairs. How would you like to lock yourself on the inside of my clothes closet, and wait? The air is not very good, but with this ten dollars you could take a nice ride in the country to-morrow, and get lots of good oxygen in your lungs to make up for it.”

Chen was a willing little self-jailer. Shirley handed him his own revolver, and the slant eyes sparkled with glee at the opportunity for some excitement. Americans may carp at the curious manners and alleged shortcomings of the Oriental, but personal fear does not seem to be in the category of their faults. So, with this little valet, who improved his time, as Shirley had discovered, by taking special courses in Columbia University's scientific department. The criminologist had used him on more than one occasion when Eastern subtlety and apparent lack of guile had accomplished the impossible!

The closet door was closed, and Shirley went downstairs. At the desk of the, club clerk he sent a cablegram to the police authorities of Paris. The message was simple

“Cable collect to Holland Detective Agency name and record of man in Montfleury case, August, 1914. Do you want him?................. Cronin, Captain.”

Shirley smiled as he handed the envelope to the little messenger who had been summoned, and made his exit through the front doorway just as the affable Reginald Warren entered it: another instance of “ships that pass in the night,” was the thought of the host who advanced courteously.

“You are on time to the minute: German training, I see. Let the boy have your hat and coat, Mr. Warren.”

These little amenities completed, they sauntered about the beautiful building, Shirley pointing out the many interesting photographs of athletic teams, trophies, club posters, portraits of famous graduates, and the like, which seem part and parcel of collegiate atmosphere. Warren was profoundly interested, yet there was an abstraction in his conversation which was not unobserved by his entertainer. As they passed a tall, colonial clock in the broad hallway, Shirley caught him glancing uneasily at it. This was the second time he had looked at its silvered face since they came into the range of it. Purposely the club man took him down the length of the big dining-hall, to exhibit the trophies of the hunt, from jungles and polar regions, contributed by the sportsmen members of past classes. Here Shirley chatted about this and that boar's head, yonder elephant hide, the other tiger skin, until he had consumed additional time. As they passed into the lounging room Shirley led his guest past another small mahogany clock. Again the sharp, anxious glance at the progress of the minutes. He was convinced by now that some deviltry was being perfected on schedule time. He began to worry over his little assistant on the floor high above: perhaps he would not be able to cope with the plotters, after all. Yet, Chen was wiry, cunning, and needed no diagrams as to the purpose for which he was to guard the rooms.

At last Shirley led Warren to the grill-room where they ordered their dinner: the supreme test of a gentleman is his taste in the menu for a discriminating guest. Warren sensed this, as the delicious viands and rare old wines were brought out in a combination which would have warmed the heart cockles of the fussiest old gourmon from Goutville!

“Ah, a feast fit for the gods,” were his admiring words, as the two men smiled across this strange board of hospitality. In the midst of the meal, their chat of student days was interrupted by a page who approached Shirley.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I have a note which was left here by messenger for a gentleman named Mr. R. Warren; your guest, I believe, sir?”

Warren's face flushed, and his surprise was indubitable. He snatched the envelope from the boy, who had reached it toward Shirley. The criminologist was no less in the dark. Warren, with a scant apology, tore open the missive. It was typewritten! He read it, and his brows came together with an angry scowl.

He arose from his seat swiftly, turning toward Shirley with a nervous twitching of the erstwhile firm lips.

“Would you pardon me if I ran? A Wall Street client of mine has suddenly been stricken with apoplexy. We have deals together, dependent upon gentlemen's agreements, without a word of writing. It may mean a fortune to get to him before he loses all power of speech. It is a shame to spoil, at this time, such a wonderful dinner as I had promised myself with you. Can you forgive me?”

The man was visibly panic-stricken, although his superb nerve was fighting hard to cover his terror. Shirley wondered what news could have fallen into his hand this way. He watched the envelope, hoping that he would inadvertently drop it. But no such luck! Warren carefully folded it and put it with the letter into the breast pocket of his coat.

“My dear fellow, business before indigestion, always! I am sorry to have you go, but we will try again. I will go upstairs with you. Shall I call a taxicab for you?”

Warren expostulated, but the host followed him to the check room. Unseen by Warren, Shirley inserted a handkerchief from his own pocket into the overcoat pocket of the other with a sleight-of-hand substitution, in the withdrawal of the guest's small linen square!

Warren rushed to the door. He sprang into the first taxicab that came along, and disappeared. Shirley watched the car as it raced away and noticed its number. He turned to the door man.

“Whose machine was that? On the regular club stand here?”

“Yes, sir. A man named Perkins drives it, sir.”

“Will it return here as soon as the fare is taken to the end of the trip?”

“Yes, sir, they have orders for that. They belong to a gent who supplies cars for our club exclusively, sir. They are not allowed to take outside passengers.”

“Very good! You send for me, in my rooms, as soon as the driver of the car shows up. I want to find out where he went.”

Shirley hurried up in the lift to his own floor. He went to the door of his room, and tried to open it with his key. It was bolted from inside! There came a muffled report from within. Then he heard a cry, which he recognized as the voice of Chen, the Jap. He dropped to the floor, listening at the crack—a scuffle was in progress within!