“Listen!” commanded White, sharply. “Who the hell’s that?”
From the interior of Roscoe Stewart’s grounds, somewhere on a level higher than the street, came the shrill notes of a whistle.
“It ain’t the route man, sarge,” Forrest offered. “We passed him two blocks back.”
The blasts were interrupted; and suddenly a man’s voice was heard shouting:
“Police! Police! Help, here! Police!” Then more whistles.
The big sergeant led the way in a race to the driveway. “Come on—”
“S-sst! Take it easy, sarge! Look!”
Through the darkness and the snowflakes, Blake had caught a glimpse of a running form, just inside Stewart’s fence, a few yards from the drive. He snatched out his flash light as the three paused.
A yellow-white beam pierced the night, and came to rest on a man who was crouching in the snow-swept shrubbery, apparently waiting a chance to scale the fence and drop to the Arborway.
The sergeant also produced a light. “Come on out of that!” he challenged.
Above, near the darkened house, the whistle was still being blown. At the command, the man in the shrubbery darted out and attempted to escape, but slipped in the snow, and was quickly seized by Blake and Forrest.
Sergeant White examined him with his light. He was a lean, pale individual of middle age, unkempt, and disreputably dressed, with no overcoat.
“Come clean, now! What was you doin’ in here?”
The prisoner gasped, and swallowed hard. He was badly frightened. “N-noth-in’, mister officer—”
“Nothin’, eh? Come clean, I said—”
“Police! Police!” called the voice near the house.
The sergeant turned. “Put him in, Blake. And you, Forrest, come on!”
“Aw, no, no, mister police!” begged the man, his voice coming with difficulty. “S-help me, sir, I was only up there askin’ a bite of food! I ain’t eat fer two days, honest! Please don’t arrest me!”
But the sergeant and Forrest had disappeared up the driveway, and the prisoner, in the grasp of Blake, was hurried to the nearest box, there to be pushed in the wagon and held as an “s. p.,” a suspicious person.
White and the other officer raced on up the drive.
They were not long in discovering the source of the whistles. A wild-eyed young man, fashionably attired, ran to meet them as they advanced toward the front door, playing their flash lights.
“Quickly, officers!” he called. “Something terrible has happened here, I’m afraid!”
His voice was cultured. White and Forrest stopped, surveyeing him.
“What’s wrong, sir? Where’s Mr. Stewart? Have you seen him?”
“He’s… he’s in the house! But—”
The sergeant hurried to the door.
“You can’t get in there. It’s locked, and no one answers the bell—”
“Who are you, sir?”
“My name’s Duncan. I came a few minutes ago to see Mr. Stewart. No one answered the bell, and I was just about to go away—”
“But what’s wrong here? Mr. Stewart telephoned — he must be here. What’s happened?”
The young man seemed unnerved. “He’s — in the house.”
“Then, if he is, why doesn’t he answer the bell?”
“W-well,” replied Duncan, his voice shaken, “if you’ll step around to the dining room windows you’ll see why.”
Something in his tone impressed the two men, and they complied hastily.
“Have you seen any one else about the premises?” White asked.
“Yes, I have! I started to tell you, sergeant. I was just about to go away, believing the house was empty, when I thought I heard a door slam inside.
“I walked around here, intending to try the bell at the side door, and I saw a man running away from that first dining room window.”
“Yeah? Which way did he go?”
“Toward the garage — but here — just look in this window.”
White and Forrest pressed their faces to the glass.
“Good… God!” protested the former.
“What is it, sarge?”
“Don’t… don’t you see it? Move your head over this side!”
The light from the arc-lamp down at the corner of Burton Street cast a single oblong patch across the floor. The patch fell near the dining room table. Sergeant White tugged vainly at the window. Raising his flash light, he added its bright rays to the rectangle of light on the floor.
Sprawled at full length near the table was Roscoe Stewart, the attorney, his extended arms limp, his face bathed in blood.
Chapter IV
How Was It Done?
“We must get into the house at once!” said Sergeant White.
The dining room windows were still secure. Marks where a jimmy had been used were plainly visible beneath the beams of the flash lights, but the intruder certainly had not completed his work — at least, not at this window.
Together with Duncan the policeman hurried to the side door. This also was locked. Returning to the front of the house, they forced entrance through a window which opened into the hall. Forrest found a switch and put on the light.
“Police officers!” proclaimed Sergeant White, but only silence answered.
“You stay here, Forrest,” he ordered. “Don’t let any one out, no matter who he says he is. The fellow that did this may be in the house right now.”
He drew his gun, and, using his lights, picked his way through the library to the dining room. There he first located the switch on the opposite wall; then, taking care to avoid the ugly spreading pool by the table, crossed the room.
Just before he reached the switch he struck his foot against some object, sending it clattering forward in the dark. He put on the light.
A single glance at Stewart’s form showed him that what he had feared was true: the benefactor of the big police “system” was beyond all aid. It was apparent that a bullet of large caliber had passed directly through the right eye to the brain.
White shook his head and drew a deep breath. It was a miserable sight.
A door behind him stood ajar. Turning swiftly, the sergeant swung his light into the adjoining room. He saw a telephone instrument on a desk, and strode across to it. The line, however, was dead.
“Wires cut outside,” he muttered.
He hurried back to the front hall, where Forrest and the young man still waited. Their glances questioned him.
“Mr. Stewart’s dead — murdered,” he stated, shaking his head. “Forrest, go right down to that box and get a squad up here. Get every spare man in the house. We’ll wait right here in the hall till you get back.”
The officer obeyed.
“Now, sir,” White questioned, “tell me just how long you was outside here ringing the bell.”
“I rang three times,” the young man stated. “I should say that I was there several minutes.”
“Humph. You heard no shot, outside or in?”
“No, I didn’t. Unless” — he caught his breath — “unless it was the noise that I thought was a door slamming inside.”
“You thought you heard a door slam, eh?” asked the sergeant heavily.
“Yes; that’s what convinced me there must be some one inside.”
“What did you say your name was, sir?”
“Grafton L. Duncan, of Kneeland Street, West End.”
“Was Mr. Stewart expecting you, do you know?”
“No, I’m quite sure he wasn’t,” the other replied with considerable emphasis.
The tone puzzled Sergeant White. He looked the young man over more narrowly.
“Friend of the family?” he ventured.
“W-well, I was; yes.”
“Were, eh?”
“Yes. I came on a little matter of business to-night.”
“I see. Mind telling me what kind of business, Mr. Duncan?”