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The Sheridan Road Mystery

by Paul Thorne · English · Gutenberg #3784 · 319,019 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Sheridan Road Mystery

Author: Paul Thorne
        Mabel Thorne


        
Release date: February 1, 2003 [eBook #3784]
                Most recently updated: January 9, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3784

Credits: Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE 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

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