Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 60, No. 1, July 4, 1931
The Girl in the Desk
by Louis Lacy Stevenson
The gray ghost mocked in the darkness of the Tremont Building — and a madman laughed.
Chapter I
The Laugh
Farnsworth raised his eyes from his littered desk, looked at the wall clock, and then glanced at a heavily-jowled, compact companion nodding at a desk in the corner.
“It’s after midnight, Darwin,” he said finally. “You’d better go on home.”
Darwin’s round, brown eyes snapped wide open.
“Are you through, inspector?” he asked sleepily.
“Not quite; I have some reports to complete. But you needn’t wait for me. You’ve had a long, hard pull.”
“Inspector, let them reports go till to-morra. You’ve got ’nough time now, the Pope case’s closed.”
“All closed,” remarked Farnsworth, with a smile.
“The newspapers is sorry. They’ll have to dig up somethin’ different for the first page. You got a lotta publicity outta the Pope case.”
“Publicity doesn’t help,” asserted Farnsworth.
“Let me fall down just once and see what’ll happen to whatever reputation I may have made.”
“I ain’t worryin’ ’bout you failin’ down, inspector. Anybody that broke the Pope case like you done, ain’t gonna fall down. You don’t only recover Mrs. Garfield Pope’s pearls but you put Red Lyons and his mob away. And that big gorilla, Lyons, ain’t no more dangerous’n a rattlesnake neither. When he stood up in court and said he’d kick his way outta stir and—”
“This discussion isn’t clearing up my desk,” interrupted Farnsworth.
Turning, he started to sort his papers only to be stopped by the ringing of the telephone.
“I’ll take it,” he said, lifting the receiver.
For an instant, with an unreadable look on his young, strong face, he listened.
“What was that?” inquired Darwin sharply.
“Didn’t you hear it?” asked Farnsworth.
“Thought I did — sounded like some one was givin’ you the laugh.”
“That’s all it was — just a laugh.”
“Mebbe it’s a nut or a junker. There’s a lotta dope in this town, inspector, been comin’ in heavy for some time. But dope’s outta our line. Let’s call it a day and go home. Even if you don’t never get tired, you’d oughta take some rest.”
“I have more work to do, Darwin. I—”
“You’ve always got work to do. But if you’re goin’ to stick, I’ll roost right here with you.”
Darwin clasped his big hands over his stomach and leaned back in his chair.
And Farnsworth, instead of giving his attention to his papers, sat as if waiting for another telephone call.
The clock ticked loudly. Darwin lighted, a cigar.
Ten minutes passed. Darwin shuffled his feet uneasily. But Farnsworth, his chin cupped in a slender hand, sat immobile.
“You look like a bank cashier,” commented Darwin. “Wish my clothes wouldn’t wrinkle but’d stay pressed like yours do.”
“If you’re tired, you can go,” returned Farnsworth in a preoccupied voice.
“We both need some rest. We’d—”
The telephone bell rang stridently.
“Take the extension,” said Farnsworth, picking up the receiver.
“That same laugh!” exclaimed Darwin, his hand over the transmitter.
“Keep still,” snapped Farnsworth, working the hook.
Miller, late watch headquarters operator, came on the wire.
“Trace that call,” ordered Farnsworth.
“O.K., inspector,” replied Miller alertly.
“Somebody’s kiddin’,” asserted Darwin.
A few seconds of silence followed.
“Central can’t give me anything,” reported Miller. “Says something’s wrong with her board.”
“She’s kiddin’ too,” drawled Darwin.
“Watch all my calls, Miller,” said Farnsworth.
“I’m on the job, inspector,” responded the operator.
Farnsworth put on his hat, and sat on the edge’ of his chair, the telephone within easy reaching distance.
Darwin’s cigar ash grew longer and longer. Finally it broke and dropped on his vest. Five minutes passed. Inspector Farnsworth moved slightly and Darwin’s drooping head came up suddenly.
“Prohibition booze does funny things,” he observed, tossing his cigar into the cuspidor and lighting another. “Some stew’s got you on his mind ’cause you been in the papers so much lately.”
Farnsworth gave no indication that he heard the remark.
Darwin’s head again began to sink. The ticking of the clock was the only break in the silence.
Of a sudden, a woman screamed shrilly just under the window.
Darwin, his hand on his service revolver, bounded to his feet.
“That’s your prohibition booze,” asserted Farnsworth. “They’re bringing in a drunk downstairs — I heard the wagon come up.”
Darwin’s hand dropped.
“I must be gettin’ jumpy,” he said sheepishly.
Stepping to the window, he looked down on the sidewalk.
“Somebody’ll be broke for this!” screamed a feminine voice. “I know Inspector Farnsworth.”
“And so does everybody else in town,” responded a deep voice. “Come on, Molly, your old cell’s waitin’ for you.”
“I’m a respectable working woman and you haven’t any right — don’t twist my arm!”
“Mebbe it was Molly doin’ that laughin’,” Darwin observed.
“Molly?”
“Sure, the broad they just brought in downstairs — Molly Davis, shoplifter, street walker and dope. She knows you. She oughta. You run her in a coupla times when you was new. Mebbe she called you up and give you the laugh for old times—”
Seemingly, even before the bell of the telephone started to ring, Farnsworth had the instrument in his hands and even as he was lifting the receiver, Darwin was at the extension.
“Worse this time,” whispered Darwin. “ ’Nough to give you the shivers. Don’t sound human.”
Farnsworth motioned impatiently for silence.
Only for a moment did his tension continue. Then Miller came on the wire.
“Horace G. Thompson’s office, Tremont Building,” the operator reported.
“Thanks,” answered Farnsworth. “Darwin and I are going out. But don’t let any one know we have left the building. If any calls come for me, trace them immediately, and keep a record.”
“O. K., inspector.”
Farnsworth replaced the receiver and with a catlike movement was on his feet. Thirty seconds later, Darwin and he were being driven rapidly across the city.
“Mebbe Thompson’s throwin’ a gin party,” observed Darwin.
“Do you know Horace G. Thompson?” asked Farnsworth.
“Know him when I see him. Bachelor. Lives in a big house out on Russell Road. His father left him that house ’long with plenty dough. Funny thing too, he’s got an office in the old Tremont Buildin’. I was in there the other day. Only new thing in that dump’s a fresh elevator kid. But with all his jack, Thompson’s got his office there.”
Farnsworth was about to speak when the car drew up to the curb.
“Wait here, Rickey,” he said to the driver.
Chapter II
The Sixth Floor
Standing among modern, tall office buildings, the begrimed six-story Tremont looked like a stunted, dirty-faced orphan.
Not a light showed from any of the windows, and the lobby being equally dark, Darwin fumbled as he reached for the night bell.