“As they approached the place, they heard a whistle being blown, and calls for police. And right at the end of the lawn, where the wall comes to a point at Arborway and Burton Street, a man was hiding in the shrubbery.
“They took him in the house and held him. At first, things looked bad for him. But, as far as Reilly can see, he’s simply a tramp; and, confound it, he had no motive to kill Stewart.”
“M-mm,” said Steele. “Unless my memory is at fault, Gray, the last time we worked on a case with young Mr. Reilly, he proceeded to outguess us quite shamefully, didn’t he?”
The inspector smiled. “Well, we’re giving you a chance to even the score now. As I said, I don’t see what possible reason this hobo could have had for killing Stewart, or how he could have got into the house and done it if he had wanted to. Since his arrest, they’ve found a lot more — a whole lot more.”
“Implicating whom?”
“W-well—” Gray hesitated. “Ever heard of Winslow Fraim?”
Steele displayed keener interest. “The Fraim who was rumored to be involved with Stewart in the Benson perjury matter?”
“That’s the fellow. One of these very oily, smooth-working chaps. He was connected with Stewart in a good many more things that I dare say you never heard of — especially while they were out West together some years ago.
“In fact, Fraim’s brother was mayor of a town out there, and had to leave one night under cover of darkness. Fraim and Stewart quarreled violently several months ago over money matters. I hear Fraim said Stewart had defrauded him and promised to square things.
“But Fraim is a tough bird to handle — rich and influential, with all kinds of friends ‘up aloft.’ He could break me easily if he felt like it. Here’s the house right ahead.”
Chapter VI
A Typical Vagrant
Harry Gray had hoped that much valuable evidence would be found preserved in the snow by the cold snap. He was doomed to disappointment, however, for it had been a hard and dry Snow, and had blown and drifted until the east wind had abated about midnight. The only footprints and wheel tracks discernible on Stewart’s premises were those made by the police in the early morning.
The inspector showed Malcome Steele the approximate spot where Frank Reilly of headquarters had found an automatic pistol, equipped with a Maxim silencer, in a drift behind the garage.
“A thirty-eight,” he added. “Fully loaded — no shots fired.”
“What was the caliber of the bullet which killed Stewart?”
“That we don’t know, and won’t know until to-night,” replied Gray, in disgust. “Dr. McQueen, the medical examiner in the south district, is out of town; and his assistant has been taken ill. Porter, from the north district, won’t make the examination. McQueen will be back to-night.
“The main trouble with our system of justice at present, Steele, is that every one connected with it is too darned afraid he might do a little of some one else’s work!”
“I guess that’s about the truth of it,” his friend agreed. “Then the body is still in the house?”
“Oh, no; Porter did look after that much. It’s at the south mortuary, waiting for McQueen.”
Steele was taken to the dining room, where young Detective Reilly shook hands warmly with him.
“Sure, it’s a pleasure to have you work-in’ with us again!” he declared, with the faintest suggestion of amusement in his merry blue eyes. “A strange case, indeed, Mr. Steele. One fellow we have, but he has no motive.
“Another man has the motive — an’ sure, we’ve found his car ditched near-by besides — but Sergeant White says he has an alibi for the time o’ the killin’, all the same.”
Steele sat down thoughtfully and glanced around the room.
“M-mm… yes… it seems so,” he seconded. “An automatic pistol outside; a murdered man inside; and no glass broken. By the way, you spoke of a whistle being blown as the first officers arrived, Gray. Who was blowing it?”
“A young man named Duncan. We can’t make out yet whether he’s a friend of the family, of the daughter, or what he is. Says he always carries a whistle on his key-ring.”
“Stewart had a daughter?”
“Yes. She’s in Philadelphia, the servant Johnson says. And there’s another peculiar circumstance. Johnson was called to his home in Salem late yesterday afternoon by a fake telegram. We have the telegram.”
Steele stretched his long legs before him and crossed his feet. “It begins to look as though some one did a very careful piece of work.”
“That’s it.” Gray nodded in a meaning way. “A smooth piece of work.”
“Maybe, Mr. Steele,” offered Reilly, taking up his hat, “you’d like to come along with us? We’re going to interview both of these fellows we have in mind.”
“Both—”
“The tramp, Egan, first — him that they grabbed down here by the gate, you know. At the station he told a pretty straight story, they say. He swears he only come in from the street to ask for some food, an’ by the looks of him he needed some.”
“Yes, thank you; I’ll be glad to go with you,” the private investigator said.
John Egan appeared to be a typical vagrant. He was of medium stature, rather pale and emaciated, although wiry of build, with unkempt hair and filthy clothing.
Harry Gray asked a few questions which the prisoner answered in a straightforward manner.
“I’ve not always been down in the world, mister inspector,” he told him, earnestly. “But for a year or so me luck has been out for fair. I’ve tried to get work, and I ain’t never touched the booze—”
“That part’s all right,” returned Gray. “We want to know how you happened to be in Mr. Roscoe Stewart’s grounds when he was murdered.”
“S’ help me, sir, I had nothing to do with that! I swear it, sir! I just been telling the captain, here, I was on’y there in the hopes of getting a bite to eat. Never a morsel had passed me lips in two days, inspector—”
“Whom did you ask for food at Mr. Stewart’s house?” Steele inquired.
“I didn’t see no one to ask, sir. The whole house was dark. And just while I stood there, wonderin’like, I hears a whistle and a man shouting for the police. So I starts to run, not bein’ anxious to get in trouble—”
“So you’re changing your story!” bullied the captain of division eighteen. “What did you tell Lieutenant Burke this morning earlier?”
The man glanced up in fear.
“S’ help me, I never told him nothin’ different, chief! ’Cause they ain’t nothin’ different to tell! I told him I was just goin’ to ask the folks for a bite to eat. Then he asked me how long had I been ridin’ the rods, and I told him two years, and—”
“Two years, have you? How long you been in this town?”
“I just come a few days ago, chief!”
“That so? Where were you before that?”
“I been in Pittsburgh for three months, sir.”
“Oh, in Pittsburgh, were you? How’d you get over here — breeze it?”
“No, sir. I’ll tell the truth about it, sir. I stole a ride on a freight train. I ain’t got no money—”
“All right… all right!” And the captain gave the prisoner a push back into the corner of his cell.
Chapter VII
The Stolen Car
Winslow Fraim, clad in his bathrobe, received the three men at his luxurious apartment on Southboro Street. He was a large man of forty, with dull beads of perspiration on his face.
“I’ve just talked with the commissioner,” he told them, gently and frankly. “I realize, of course, that I am probably in a serious predicament. I think my only safe course is to lay everything openly before you.”