The trapdoor which he had just replaced was rising in the moonlight, and a head was coming out from beneath it!
Harling was shielded by an old skylight as this phenomenon occurred, and rather than raise himself up in the moonlight to descend the fire escape in a hurry, he drew even closer to the wooden, turret-shaped structure. From this post of vantage, he watched with growing alarm the figure which was emerging from the trapdoor.
The latter individual carefully replaced the trapdoor, as Harling himself had done, and then started crawling along the roof, following the same path that Harling had taken. The latter, more bewildered than ever, entrenched himself still further behind the old skylight, and waited until the newcomer should pass his hiding spot.
Beyond all doubt, the man who had emerged from the trapdoor was trying to keep secret the fact of his having been an inmate of the house, for his crawling was done in utmost quiet and with exasperating slowness. As Harling peeped from around a corner of the skylight, it seemed to him that he perceived the reason: the man who had just come out of No. 63 had a small newspaper package of some sort; he was forced to hold it in one hand and crawl much as a dog crawls on three legs. And not once did he let down the package, whatever it contained.
Harling’s fingers, groping along on the gravel, closed suddenly on a short, rusty, iron bar which lay on the roof. He crouched nearer the skylight than ever, and gripped the bar with all his might. He was not sure quite what to expect, but he told himself grimly that he intended to be ready for an emergency.
Slowly the approaching figure drew nearer. It turned its head suddenly and glanced back toward the trapdoor it had just left. At once, the full rays of the moon, now well above the eastern roofs, lighted up its face with startling distinctness.
And Harling, heaving a great sigh of relief and astonishment, released his grip on the iron bar and came out from his place of concealment.
The mysterious crawler was Phelps Morningstar!
CHAPTER XXIV
A STARTLING STATEMENT
WHEN Harling showed himself from behind the skylight, he noted that the other betrayed no surprise. Instead, Morningstar raised one finger to his lips and pointed silently to the fire escape, some thirty feet from them at the edge of the roof. As Harling, realizing that the other had known of his presence all the time, and wisely surmising that an explanation would be forthcoming when they got away from the dangerous area, held his curiosity back and led the way on hands and knees to the fire escape.
He went down ahead of Morningstar carefully, watching the officer far up the row of fences, still sitting on the ash barrel at the rear of No. 63. The latter appeared, however, to be quite engrossed, and Harling correctly guessed that the flashes of the electric torches had moved into the rear room, and that the bluecoat was watching with interest the actions of the men from his own police station.
As a result of this abstraction on the part of the man on guard; of the fact that the moonlight was cut off from the dark fire escape, and that the rays of the Chestnut Street light were weak indeed at this distance, Harling and Morningstar made the descent of the iron fire escape successfully. They paused for a second at the rear fence, and then as if by concerted action, dived across the open space together and into the dark court that led to Chestnut Street. Three minutes later, they were rapidly walking eastward, the dangerous zone far behind.
“And now,” said Harling abruptly, “what in the love of Mike were you doing in that place, and why the trapdoor as an exit?”
The other looked curiously toward his companion. “First, I’m thinking, you had better tell me what you were doing there yourself. I was up on that top floor, snapping the button of my electric torch, trying to find a roof trap when the bulb burned out and left me without even a match. To my surprise, I saw a man plump in through the window of the top floor and go downstairs. I waited patiently in the darkness until that man — yourself — finally returned to the top floor. Luckily you seemed to have matches as well as some idea where to look, and you found what I couldn’t ever have found in that gloomy labyrinth — the ladder and the trapdoor. As soon as you were up and out, I heard voices and footsteps downstairs, and decided to get out in a hurry myself.”
So Harling told him in detail, as they walked rapidly along, turning the corner of Lake Shore Drive and proceeded northward, of his return to the Vanderhuyden mansion and his overhearing of the proposition put to Trudel by Courtenay Vandervoort. Then he related briefly how he had made the desperate attempt to secure the dragon’s head before the police should arrive on the scene.
“And you succeeded?” queried Morningstar quickly.
The younger man nodded: “It’s in my coat pocket now — paper knife, steel knife point, burned matches — everything.”
“Splendid!” was the other’s only comment for a minute. Morningstar walked along in silence for a few hundred feet and then spoke.
“I examined Bond’s body this afternoon,” he remarked quietly, “through the kindness of the police morgue keeper, who happens to be about my one remaining friend in the Department.” His face darkened. “Since the Hepburn case — a well-known case in which I was fortunate enough to scoop completely the Police Department of this town — I’ve been persona non grata in all police cases. When I tried to get entrance into that house this afternoon, by showing my badge and card, I was politely refused. I saw in a jiffy that I was to be frozen out by the scheming of the Chicago police. At any rate, it became absolutely necessary, on account of certain theories of mine, that I get into that house — particularly after I had examined Bond’s body.
“So tonight,” Morningstar continued, “after I left Rafferty at Federal Headquarters, I made my way straight over here, and when the bluecoat in front had tramped up the sidewalk a short way, I managed to slip in through the basement door as easy as pie. But my luck had to turn.” He pointed to the newspaper package which he still held carefully in his hand. “I could not afford to be caught getting out — and have this taken away from me. Not on your life! So I tried to find the trapdoor and exit via the roof — when you came along to help me out.”
Harling gazed at the paper packet curiously, wondering what its contents might be. “I should infer then,” he remarked after a short pause, “that you’ve uncovered something that might indicate who thrust that hat pin into Bond’s brain. Am I right?”
The red-haired man laughed quietly. They were nearing Burton Place and the Vanderhuyden residence by now. “My dear chap, the person who killed Bond never accomplished it with the hat pin. I believe I know who, of the few million or so people in Chicago, it was who did it. In fact I’m going so far as to make the assertion that Samuel P. Bond met his death before that hat pin was thrust into his eye!”
CHAPTER XXV
A FEW PHONE CALLS
AT THIS unexpected statement on Morningstar’s part, Harling stared at him in amazement. “Why — why — how — ” he began, but got no further, for the other raised his free hand.
“No questions just now, Harling. Explanations will be forthcoming tonight — also some very scientific gentlemen who will arrive at the Vanderhuyden house in response to my invitation. Until then, therefore, we’ll say no more about the Bond death. The first thing to do now — the vital thing — is for you and me to get out to Calvary and regain this Vanderhuyden ruby. Rafferty is safely locked up at Federal Headquarters, but I dare not take chances. There’s no telling but that, in some manner, he might get in touch with another pal of his, slip him the information, and when we get to Calvary we might find the earth dug up around — er — lot marker 67-N.”
By this time they had reached the Vanderhuyden residence, and together they turned in at the big gateway.
Trudel herself answered the door. “I’ve sent Santi to Clark Street for all the latest newspapers,” she whispered fearfully. “Come into the library and tell me — both of you — everything that has developed.”
She led the way into the cheery room off th
e long hallway, and, sinking into a chair, waited expectantly, tensely. While Morningstar closed the door, Harling told the girl of his success in recovering the incriminating dragon’s head just about sixty seconds ahead of the police, and without the latter knowing it.
The look of gratitude on her face when he finished was reward for much of what he had gone through. When he finished, he handed her the dragon’s head and the broken knife, and she took them at once over to the wall safe and prepared to lock them safely up.
But at this juncture, Morningstar’s voice broke in on the procedure. “While you’re about it, Miss Vanderhuyden,” he said, “please lock up this dirty newspaper packet of mine — and don’t open it. I’m going to use it tonight in a little demonstration in this library.”
Wonderingly the girl obeyed, and soon the click of the combination showed that all the articles, including Morningstar’s mysterious possession, were safely put away. When she returned to the library table, the red-haired man was searching through the telephone book and jotting several numbers on a tiny card.
“Miss Vanderhuyden,” he said as he closed the book,” I have just told Mr. Harling I am going to make the statement that Bond was never killed with a hat pin at all. And I think also that I shall be able to prove whether a man or a woman did it. His death, I feel convinced, occurred before that hat pin was thrust into his eye, but more than that I don’t care to say at present.” He paused a minute and then went on: “The main thing now is to secure permission from you for the use of this library late tonight for a meeting of — let’s see” — he consulted his card — ”a meeting of seven or eight people, four of whom I am going to call up. I shall appoint the meeting for — say eleven o’clock — if I can persuade my people to come here so late. It’s eight-twenty now and that gives Harling and me a chance to make Calvary and regain the ruby before there are any more slips. At this meeting, much of interest, I hope, will be brought out. Is that satisfactory?”
Trudel’s face betrayed the greatest surprise, but with a quick glance at Harling’s immobile countenance, she asked no questions: “Indeed, it is satisfactory, Mr. Morningstar. I shall be glad to let you have the library for the meeting.”
“Good, then,” he said. He dropped into a leather chair and lifted up the telephone instrument. “And now for the machine-gun delivery!” He dialed the instrument with but one swing. “I’m a lazy man,” he said, off to one side, “and hate dial twiddling. I — oh — Central? Give me Midway 8000. Yes. The dial here is jammed in the middle. And I’ll need some more numbers, too, so don’t run away!” A clicking ensued. Both Trudel and Harling were silent, held by Morningstar’s calm efforts to introduce something new into the case. “Hello. Chicago University wire? Put me on the private wire of Professor Hughes Yergin at once. Yes.” A pause. “Professor Hughes Yergin? This is Phelps Morningstar — class of ‘27 — a special criminal investigator in the Mather Tower.”
Another pause. Morningstar laughed genially: “Well, Professor Yergin, I should like to have you come out to 1500 Lake Shore Drive if at all possible, at eleven o’clock this evening. Very peculiar developments in regard to the death of Samuel P. Bond, of Evanston, which you may have read of in tonight’s papers, point to me that something is involved which lies in your special field. At any rate, I’d like to have your expert testimony upon a matter in which I know you are mighty well versed.
You will do that? Good! That’s splendid. I know it’s a late hour, but I promise you much of interest to you. Thank you. Eleven o’clock sharp — 1500 Lake Shore Drive.”
Morningstar hung up. As he waited for the switchboard girl to come back on the circuit, he turned to the other two and smiled. “That estimable gentleman’s curiosity is so aroused by the mention of his ‘Special field’ that he’ll be Johnny on the spot at eleven tonight.”
He turned to the instrument in his hand: “Now give me Toll — Evanston 1336.” A long clicking ensued: “Hello. Dr. John Hemingway, if you please. Doctor Hemingway speaking? Is this the Dr. Hemingway who is or was the physician to Mr. Samuel P. Bond, senior?” A pause. Again Morningstar repeated his brief statement regarding his own identity and, as before, in somewhat mysterious terms, requested the presence of this second party at the Lake Shore Drive residence at eleven o’clock that night.
“The simple matter of the case, Doctor,” he proceeded to explain, “is that your testimony will be required to clear up the death of your patient on Washington Square, Chicago, tonight. A number of scientific gentlemen are to be here tonight, and much of unusual interest will be brought out.
You’ll come? Good! Thank you. Eleven o’clock — and you have the address.”
He hung up, and again smiled broadly: “Another estimable gentleman bewildered and flattered — and afraid he’s going to lose something. He’ll be Johnny number two on the spot.” He raised the receiver again. “And now for guest number three.”
CHAPTER XXVI
THE MAN BEHIND
AFTER a short pause, Morningstar spoke into the one-handed telephone instrument: “Give me Harrison 2443.” Getting his connection quickly, he said: “Hello. Inspector Chapley, please.” In a moment he went on speaking: “Inspector Chapley, this is Phelps Morningstar, who brought the man Rafferty to your department tonight. You were out, so I have held the counterfeit bills which he turned over to me until I could give them into your hands personally.
“You’ll find, Inspector,” he went on, “that this man Rafferty is innocent of any intent to circulate spurious money, and if you can come to this address tonight at — say — eleven o’clock or a little before, I shall be glad to turn over the one hundred and forty-two remaining bills to you.”
Morningstar then launched into a very brief explanation of Rafferty’s connection with the case and also the facts regarding the dead crook.
Then he added: “So there is a complete chain against Mazzoli, now, with the exception of proving he’s Silvestro Ruggieri. If he’s under arrest, as your assistant said he would be in sixty minutes, I suggest that you explain to him that the three hundred fives which your Italian prisoner stated he was to get from Mazzoli have turned up, wrapper and all, in the form of a package. Then tell him that this package was stolen from the same safe in which witnesses saw him deposit a similar package the night it was robbed. I think he’ll realize that his defense has crumbled.” He paused. “Yes. Gladly. Eleven o’clock or a quarter to. 1500 Lake Shore Drive.”
Morningstar turned to the others a moment: “Inspector Chapley says that Mazzoli managed finally to get released last night on bail, but that he’s been re-arrested and is on his way again to Federal Headquarters in a cab with operatives. Chapley himself is coming here in a couple of hours, bringing with him Horace G. Devontree, the national expert on forgeries. Devontree is going to examine the remainder of the bills, and Chapley expects to establish in that way the fact that they are from the hand of Silvestro Ruggieri, the escaped counterfeiter of ten years back who Mazzoli denies he is.” He rubbed his hands: “That makes four more to our little party. Better get in some more chairs, Miss Vanderhuyden.”
Morningstar thought for a moment, wrinkling up his brows. Then he looked at Trudel: “Now, Miss Vanderhuyden, I’m going to have you call up the fourth number — Diversey 5062 — if you will. I see you recognize it. It’s the Three Links Bachelor Apartments, which houses one Mr. Courtenay Vandervoort. I want you either to get him on the wire or to leave word that he should call to see you at eleven o’clock tonight.” He shoved the telephone across the table to her.
Without any response, Trudel raised the instrument: “Diversey 5062, if you please.” A short pause: “Hello. The Three Links Bachelor Apartments? Connect me with the apartment of Mr. Courtenay Vandervoort.” A clicking ensued. Harling could hear a man’s voice answer the phone. “Courtenay? Oh, his man. Then will you kindly tell Mr. Vandervoort if he comes in or calls up that Miss Vanderhuyden wishes to see him at her house at eleven o’clock tonight. It’s very important. Be sure to
give him the message.”
Morningstar smiled. “I hope to have Vandervoort join us tonight, but — ” He stopped and then added, cryptically: “I am not quite sure that it matters vitally whether or not he is here. If he gets the message by calling up his apartment and comes, Miss Vanderhuyden, admit him to the library just as if nothing had happened between you. But if he doesn’t come, we shall have plenty of other guests to occupy the chairs.”
Morningstar looked at his watch. “And now for the last call.” He drew the cradle-base toward him and raised the phone instrument. “Webster 1336.” He waited a moment. “Hello, Bobby! This is Phelps. Bobby, any chance of borrowing one of your motorboats at once to make a trip along the lake shore northward? Yes; police work. Want to go that way instead of by the surface and elevated cars.” A pause. “Sure I will. The shorter one is the easier to handle. And the padlock key is under the stern seat of the longer one? Oke. Thanks, Bobby. I’ll take good care of the boat and return the favor one of these days.”
Morningstar replaced the instrument on its base and stood up: “I’ve got the loan of one of the swiftest little motorboats in Chicago,” he said, “and if you like, Harling, you can ramble along with me to the Lincoln Park lagoon, and we’ll skim down to Calvary along the lake. My friend says the lagoon watchman is withdrawn this late in the year, so we won’t have any delay or questioning in getting out of the lagoon into the lake. And once there — straight ahead to Calvary. There’s a rear entrance to the cemetery right on the lake; hence we won’t have any red tape to follow to get in. The moon is well out, now, and we’ll hunt for post 67-N together and have the pleasure of digging up the Vanderhuyden ruby.”
“I’m with you,” said Harling enthusiastically. He arose. “And now for that raincoat and hat again, Miss Vanderhuyden, please.”
The Washington Square Enigma Page 11
