“Good old Frank,” he said. “Shot good old Frank. I’ll stop them!”
The door fell. A hand pressed the wall switch that controlled the ceiling light.
In the midst of the illumination, Henry Windsor faced the doorway and raised the revolver. But before he could press the trigger, a man leaped forward and wrested the gun from his hand. Windsor was overpowered by three of the intruders.
“Shot Frank Jarnow!” exclaimed Henry Windsor as he was pressed against the wall. “Frank’s dead! You’ll be sorry for this. I’ll kill all of you!”
A woman screamed from the doorway. It was the landlady, following the men who had broken down the door.
Some one was running for the police.
Chaos seemed to rule the house, and in the midst of it lay the silent form of Frank Jarnow.
The morning newspapers carried a sensational story. The very circumstances of the tragedy marked it as the most startling crime news that had broken in Philadelphia during that placid summer.
Henry Windsor, wealthy clubman, had murdered his friend, Frank Jarnow, in an obscure boarding house. The occupants had broken in and had managed to overpower the murderer before he could escape, and he had threatened to kill them, also. They had heard him confess his guilt.
Pictures of Henry Windsor and Frank Jarnow were on the front page, with a photograph of the boarding house and a picture of Mrs. Johnson.
But amid the multitude of words that crowded the columns of the journals, a most important statement did not appear.
There was no mention whatever of the uncompleted sentence which Frank Jarnow was uttering when death interrupted him!
CHAPTER II
DETECTIVE GRIFFITH INVESTIGATES
Shortly before noon, Detective Harvey Griffith entered Mrs. Johnson’s rooming house. Griffith, the keenest man on the force, had been out of town on another case, and had come to view the scene of the murder immediately upon his return.
He found a policeman in the room on the second floor, but the body of the murdered man was no longer there.
“They moved the body out,” explained the officer. “Got all the evidence there was. This fellow Windsor didn’t have a chance to get away. Lucky he was drunk. He might have shot them when they grabbed him.
“Harrison is handling the case; he’ll be up in a minute. He’s talking to the landlady now.”
The sound of whistling came from the stairs, and a tall young man entered the room. He stopped suddenly when he encountered the short, stolid form of the star detective.
“Hello, Griffith,” he said. “Sorry you didn’t get here before we removed the body. You could have seen the whole layout. No mystery to it; they got the man quick enough. Guess you read it in the papers.”
“You can’t rely on them,” replied Griffith. “Let’s hear what you found out. I just thought that there might be a link between this murder and some of the cases I handled before I took my vacation. That’s why I drove up from Atlantic City. If you’ve landed the right man, I’ll head for the shore again, to-night. But if you haven’t—”
Harrison smiled at the seriousness of Griffith’s expression. The star detective was always ready to make a tremendous mystery out of a simple case. Some there were who claimed that he exaggerated all crimes purposely.
“Well,” explained Harrison, referring to notations, “Frank Jarnow came in at exactly eight o’clock. Arrived in town suddenly. Went up to his room. Told Mrs. Johnson — landlady — that he expected Mr. Windsor. At about eight fifteen, Henry Windsor arrived, nicely drunk. Came into the room. Mrs. Johnson showed him in; she heard Jarnow lock the door.
“A boarder going by the room at about eight thirty — on his way up to the third floor — heard a voice say: ‘You’ll be sorry for this!’ Claims it was Windsor’s voice — he heard Windsor speak afterward.
“Just after eight thirty the shots were fired — two of them. People rushed upstairs. Smashed down the door. Found the light out; Windsor holding the gun. He threatened to shoot to kill. They disarmed him.
“He said he shot Jarnow — also said the same thing down at the district station, but he says he doesn’t remember bringing a gun, nor does he remember the actual action of firing it. Claims his mind is pretty much a blank — says his friends will testify that he gets that way when he boozes.”
“Mm-m-m!” grunted Griffith. “How long between the time when the shots were fired and the time they captured Windsor?”
“We reckon it at about five or six minutes.”
“How did Windsor get in?”
“The landlady let him in.”
“The front door wasn’t locked when I came here just now.”
“No; they don’t lock it until midnight.”
Griffith looked about the room.
“Where was Jarnow?” he asked.
Harrison silently took his position in the chair, and slumped on the table — to indicate the position of the murdered man.
“And Windsor?” questioned Griffith.
Harrison pointed to the chair opposite.
Griffith sat in the place which Henry Windsor had occupied, and remained thoughtful for a few moments.
“What about the bullets?” he asked.
“They’re from Windsor’s gun,” replied Harrison, “His finger prints are on the gun, too. Windsor must have stood up to shoot; Jarnow was just about to get up; the bullets came downward at a slight angle.”
“How tall is Windsor?”
“About your height.”
“How tall was Jarnow?”
“About my height.”
Griffith walked to the window; raised it; and looked below. The alley was slightly raised; the distance was about nine feet to the ground.
“Window unlocked?” asked Griffith.
“It was,” replied Harrison. “Raised just a fraction of an inch at the bottom. Shade fully drawn.”
Griffith walked about the room, whistling softly.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a tiny scrap of paper that lay on the floor near the table.
“Don’t know how I missed that,” said Harrison. “Looks like it was torn from a larger sheet.”
Griffith picked up the bit of paper, and laid it on the table.
Harrison’s conjecture was correct; it was a scrap from a larger sheet. It appeared to be the corner, and it bore two written letters — o and r.
“The word ‘or’,” said Harrison, promptly.
“Don’t be too sure of that,” replied Griffith. “Why would ‘or’ be in the lower right corner?”
“There might be another sheet following,” returned Harrison. “What is it if it isn’t ‘or’?”
“Some other word ending in the letters o and r.”
“Such as—”
“Windsor.”
Harrison was dumfounded at Griffith’s terse reply. Somehow, the star detective always managed to gain his point; was always able to prove that something could be added to evidence.
“Here’s all we found on Jarnow,” said Harrison, pulling a large envelope from his pocket. “We can add the piece of paper to the collection.”
He slid the miscellaneous articles on the table. Griffith fished among them.
“Probably nothing here,” he said, “except a few notes that may be of value.”
Griffith picked up an envelope, and observed some penciled notations. They were short, with initials, such as B, and H; and it was quite possible that they might prove important.
“Better let me look these over,” said Griffith.
“Suit yourself,” replied Harrison. “There’s nothing else there — except eighty dollars in cash; that’s all that is valuable.”
Griffith continued to rummage through the remaining articles.
“Bring them along with you,” suggested Harrison. “You’re coming right down, aren’t you?”