"Hold the line, please!"
Thirty seconds later his vigilance was rewarded.
"This is the Chief Operator. The call you inquired about came from booth number fourteen at the Biltmore. Send the reward to Operator One-hundred-and-Six, please."
To secure a connection with the switchboard operator at the Biltmore required only an instant.
"Inspector Des Moines, Headquarters, speaking. A man just called me up from booth number fourteen. There's a ten in it for you if you'll get a description of him for me inside of a minute. Do you understand? Move fast!"
"You can send the ten right along, inspector. The man who used booth number fourteen stopped at the desk and gave me a tip as he passed out. He just went through the door a second ago."
"Fine! Fine! His description? Quick!"
"You know him, inspector. It was Augustus Winters, the millionaire!"
V
Inspector Des Moines was a man of action. While even his best friends did not claim for him the brilliancy of a Sherlock Holmes, a Cleek of The Forty Faces, an Arsène Lupin, or any of the other celebrated sleuths of fiction, yet, once given the slender thread of a clew, he followed it to the end. The taunting telephone call led him to believe that, in Augustus Winters, he had the master mind who was directing the crimes in the millionaire's own household. Why Winters would make way with his wife and her maid — for the detective was firmly of the belief that both women had been murdered — he did not attempt to reason out. He only knew that a crime had been committed and that he, as an officer of the law, was pledged to find the murderer, regardless of who he might be. Just now all straws pointed to Augustus Winters himself.
He believed that Winters had overlooked a point in telephoning from a public booth in a hotel where he was so well known; that he was likely to recall his indiscretion and, in an effort to retrieve his lost ground, hasten home in order to provide himself with an alibi, the officer believed, would be his next move. Consequently, to checkmate that alibi and prove it false from its very inception was the obvious thing to do.
He reached for the telephone again and called the number of the millionaire's residence. Not over three or four minutes had elapsed since Winters — or Lessman, as the inspector believed him to be — had talked to him from the Biltmore. To drive from the hotel to his home would take the better part of an hour, even with a fast car. It would take nearly as long to go from Headquarters. And there was always the danger of an accident. Des Moines thought rapidly, then made his decision. The telephone was faster and better than making the trip in person and standing the possible chance of having the aged criminal — and the inspector now had no doubts on that score — reach there first.
A sleepy voice answered his ring. "Augustus Winters' residence," it said.
"Who is this?" he demanded.
"Wilkins, the butler, sir."
"Has Mr. Winters returned, yet?"
"He has not been out, sir."
"Let me talk to him then." Des Moines chuckled softly to himself as he made the demand. He knew that there was no possibility of the millionaire replying. And the testimony of Wilkins would support his charges when the time came to prove the falsity of the alibi.
"I'll connect you with his room, sir," answered the butler. A second later the inspector was astonished to hear the clear, calm voice of Winters at the other end of the wire. It nearly floored him. He was almost too nonplussed to reply. For Winters, obviously, could not be in two places at once. If this was Winters, then the man who had called him up from the Biltmore must, necessarily, be an impostor. And what manner of man was he who could disguise himself so cleverly that even those who were personally acquainted with the millionaire mistook the counterfeit for the real?
"Des Moines speaking. When did you get back?" he asked casually, making an effort to hide the agitation that he felt.
"When did I get back? I was not aware that I had been away!" answered the other testily. "What was it you wanted, inspector? Must be something important to call up at two o'clock in the morning. Have you secured some new information? Or, possibly you have the guilty wretch under arrest?"
Des Moines knew that he was defeated. The least he could do was back out gracefully. It was not necessary to divulge his suspicions. He informed Winters as casually as he was able of the telephone message he had received from "The Man Who Would Not Die." reserving, however, the information that the other had been masquerading as Winters. Then, he abruptly hung up the phone.
The case was growing more puzzling every minute. Instead of the telephone call clearing up the mystery, he was forced to confess to himself that it only made it darker.
VI
Who was Lessman, the man who termed himself "The Man Who Would Not Die"? Was there such a person, or was it an alias? Des Moines, humped up in his chair, chewing his dry cigar, went over the case detail by detail. Figuratively speaking, he held it up to the light and dissected it bit by bit, piece by piece. And, when he had completed the process, he was obliged to confess himself as much in the dark as ever.
Who was Lessman? Who was the man of iron nerve and diabolical cunning? Could it be Winters? The inspector had been inclined to suspect the aged moneybags — was still disposed to do so — but what was his motive? Was he insane? Had he the ability — and the nerve — to carry out such a plot? And there, too, was his alibi, cast-iron, puncture proof.
If Winters was not Lessman, who was? Could it be Doctor Bennett? The physician admittedly had more opportunity to commit the murders than any one else. But, in his case, too, there was lacking the motive. Could young Johnson, the diamond salesman, be the man? In his case there was a motive — the theft of the brooch. But, on the other hand, there was nothing to show that he had ever visited the Winters home under any pretext. And it was natural to suppose that the person who could cause the death of both the mistress and the maid must have had, sometime at least, entrée to the millionaire's residence. Des Moines had had both the physician and the salesman investigated. The reports of his men, lying on the desk before him, showed nothing against them.
Who had spirited the body of Mrs. Winters from its casket? How could she, a dead woman, be alive? And Johnson, as well as other employees of Harden & Company, swore that she had been? They had seen her — talked with her — nearly twenty-four hours after her reported death. How had the body of the maid been placed in the casket the mistress had occupied? Who was the disguised man who had so cleverly passed himself off on the employees of the Biltmore as Augustus Winters?"
It was not until dawn was breaking that Des Moines gave up wrestling with the problem. And when, at last, tired and stiff from his long vigil, he arose and stretched himself, he was forced to admit that he knew no more than when he had first been called into the case.
There was nothing to do but wait.
VII
Human nature is peculiar. A circus always advertises a thriller as its chief attraction; people attend in the hope of seeing the performer make the one little miscalculation that will end fatally. The newspapers had heralded the announcement sent them by Less-man in huge type. Their front pages shrieked forth in colored ink and huge type the news that at ten o'clock the mysterious man who in his letter confessed to the murder of Mrs. Winters and her maid would take another life.
For miles people came for the purpose of enjoying what promised to be a thrilling spectacle. A score of policemen attempted to stem the tide, but without success. Around 1416 Broadway, the street was packed for blocks in either direction. Even the reserves were called into action.