Whispering Wires.

by Henry Leverage.

CHAPTER ONE

"THE WHISPERING VOICE"

In the greatest city of the modern world, in the Metropolis of Guilt and Guile--where Alias and Alibi ride in gum-shod limousines while Mary Smith of the pure heart walks the pavements with broken shoes--there is a mansion so rich and so rare that it stands alone.

Turret and tower, green-bronze roof, Cararra-marbled portico and iron-grilled gates brought from Hyderabad, have made this mansion the show place and the Peri's paradise for those who parade the Avenue called Fifth, in an unending sash of fashion.

Out from this palace at the close of a winter's day, there flashed the tiny pulsations of voice-induced currents of electricity which reached the telephone-central, were plugged upon the proper underground paper-insulated wires and entered, even as the voice was speaking, the cloud-hung office of Detective Drew.

Triggy Drew, as he was called, was dark, stout and forty-one years of age to a month. He crooked his elbow, removed his cigar and pressed the telephone-receiver to his ear.

The voice that came over the whispering wires was as clear as a bell within a bell. It said:

"Montgomery Stockbridge wants you."

Drew hung up the telephone-receiver. He replaced the cigar in his mouth. He wheeled in his chair and pressed a buzzer. To the operative who entered he said:

"Delaney, watch things while I'm gone. I'm called up-town!"

The operative reached and handed Drew his coat. He took the swivel-chair before the desk, as his chief clapped on a hat, turned his eyes toward the ground-gla.s.s door, and pa.s.sed out with a brisk stride.

"It's a big case," said Delaney leaning back. "Triggy is on somebody's trail. Maybe German--maybe not!"

Drew nodded to the waiting operatives in the outer room of the suite.

He swung into the hallway with his brown eyes glowing like a man who walked out of realism into romance.

The elevator plumbed eighteen stories. The corridor was clear. A taxi stood at the curb. Into this Drew stepped, gave the address and was gently seated as the driver released his brake, set the meter, and dropped through first, second and into third speed.

Past Wall Street the taxi flashed. It rounded toward the Bowery, which showed that the driver knew his map. It struck up through the car tracks, across to Washington Park and there took the long longitude of Fifth Avenue as the shortest and quickest way up-town.

Drew had no eye for the pa.s.sers-by. He was repeating two words over and over like a novice counting the same beads. Montgomery Stockbridge was a name to conjure with in the Bagdad of Seven Million. He had made many enemies and much money. His wealth ran well above seven figures.

The taxi came to a gliding halt. Drew stepped out in front of a church.

He tossed the driver two one-dollar bills and some silver. He waited as the taxi merged in the traffic. He turned and glanced keenly up and down the Avenue. Then he hurried north for one square, paused before the mansion of turrets and towers, and pressed a b.u.t.ton which was set in the doorway.

The door opened to a crack, then wide. A butler barred the way. To him Drew said, "Mr. Stockbridge sent for me."

The butler bowed with old world civility. He took the detective's hat and coat. He waited until Drew removed his gloves. He bowed for a second time and led the way over rugs whose pile was as thick as some Persian temple's. They came finally, after an aisle of old masters, to the inner circle of latter-day finance and money-wizardry--the celebrated library of Montgomery Stockbridge.

The Munition Magnate sat there. He turned as the butler announced the detective. He shot a gray-thatched pair of eyes up and over a mahogany table upon which a white envelope lay. He smiled coldly. His thumb jerked toward a leather chair into which Drew sank and leaned his elbows upon the table.

Stockbridge coughed dryly. He blinked and studied the detective's face for a long minute. He glanced from the envelope up at a cone of rose light which hung from a cl.u.s.ter of electric-globes. His expression, seen in this light, was like an aged lion brought to bay. His wrinkled skin was tawny. His hands coiled and uncoiled like claws. They moved prehensilely, as though cobwebs were in that perfumed air of wealth and security. They poised over the envelope as if to s.n.a.t.c.h the secret or delusion hidden there.

"See that letter!" declared the Munition Magnate, closing his fist and banging the table. "See it? D'ye see it?"

Drew widened his eyes at the outburst. He crossed his legs and nodded.

"It's blackmail!" Stockbridge snarled. "Rank-scented blackmail of the cheapest order."

"A threat of some kind?"

"Threat? Yes--a threat, in a way. It's clever, but it won't _work_ with me!"

Drew recrossed his legs. He touched his short-cropped mustache with the fingers of his right hand. He coughed as in suggestion. His brows lifted as he studied the envelope from a distance.

Stockbridge s.n.a.t.c.hed it up suddenly. He slapped it against the edge of the polished table. He turned and found a cigar to his liking out of many in a humidor beneath a smaller table at the right of his chair. He bit on this cigar, struck a match, and dragged in the smoke with deep inhalings before he turned and opened the envelope, exposing a letter which he rapped with the knuckles of his left hand.

"I'll beg to be excused," he said half-apologetically. "I'm not myself.

This letter, you know. I want you to ferret it out. I want you to find out who sent it, and make him or her pay. Make them pay in full!"

"May I see it?"

Stockbridge hesitated. His eyes ran across the paper. His lips curled in an ugly, thin-visaged smile which wrinkled his yellow face. "See it?

Yes!" he snapped, volplaning the sheet across the table with a vicious jerk of his wrist.

"Ridgewood Cemetery," said Drew lifting the letter. "Heading, Ridgewood Cemetery," he repeated softly. "Dated yesterday," he added with a sly glance at Stockbridge. "Signed by the superintendent, I suppose. Yes, by the superintendent. He scrawls worse than I do. Well, it looks official and smells--ah!"

Stockbridge worked his brows up and down like a gorilla. He chewed on his cigar with savage grinding of gold-filled teeth.

"Smells graveyardy," continued Drew. "I get flowers and urns and new-turned earth. This seems to be the bare announcement that the grave you ordered dug in the family plot--is ready and waiting." Drew glanced up.

"Quite so," sneered the Magnate.

Drew stroked his upper lip. He turned the letter over. He held it to the rose-light and studied the water-mark. He raised his black brows and said sepulchrally:

"Who is dead?"

Stockbridge stiffened. "Dead?" he exclaimed. "Why, n.o.body is dead! d.a.m.n it, Drew, there's n.o.body dead at all!"

The detective frowned. "Somebody in the immediate family?" he questioned. "Somebody you are expecting to pa.s.s away soon? Some one on their sick-bed, for instance?"

Stockbridge s.n.a.t.c.hed the cigar from his mouth and threw it to the rug.

"That letter's a stab, Drew!" he exclaimed. "It's a d.a.m.n insult to me and mine, if you want to know. I'll have the author of it, or know the reason why. I'll spend fifty thousand to catch the miscreants. They'll not monkey with me!"

"The writer of this seems to be the superintendent."

"Yes--that part's all right. He knows nothing save what you see there.

This threat concerns Loris and I. We are the only two who will ever be buried in our family plot."

"What does she know? Has she seen this letter?"

"Yes!"