A 512218


11
18 177
ARTES
SCIENTIA
LIBRARY LAST OF THE
IVERSITY OF MICHI
UNIVERSIT
Lukiaus vous
19
34410MM
TIEBOR
con
QUERIS PENIN
FENINSULAMAMA
INIMUM
RCUMSP
M
WA
C
ULOADWAALULAZWWW
.OLIQUES
ANMAN
HU
PAMA
be



828
H225w











WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?



THE MAC MILL AN COMPANY
BW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO ■ DALLAS
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., Limited
LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
OF CANADA, Limited
TORONTO


??????????????
WHY MURDER
?
p
THE JUDGE?
?
?
CLAUDE STUART HAMMOCK
?
?
NEW YORK
?
?
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
?
?
1930
?
??????????????


Copyright, 1930
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
All rights reserved—no part of this book
may be reproduced in any form without
permission in writing from the publishers.
Set up and electrotyped. Published April, 1930

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BY
THE BERWICK & SMITH CO.





Sen. Lite
3.16-1933
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
·
.
1
10
·
·
.
·
·
·
.
·
·
.
·
·
·
·
.
·
·
·
.
·
·
·
.
DACITY
..
·
·
·
.
GA
·
·
·
.
97
·
·
.
I HYDROCYANIC ACID
II FROM SCRATCH
III VERSIONS . . .
IV UNEXPLAINED
V INTERFERENCE
VI GRAPHOLOGY.
VII OPEN SESAME .
VIII AUDACITY
IX SCRAP OF PAPER
X TANGENTS
XI ZENITH AND NADIR
XII Ruses . . . .
XIII EMPTY CASKET
XIV HYOSCYAMOUS . .
XV INTERVIEWED . . .
XVI MOTIVES IMPUGNED ..
XVII WITHOUT A WARRANT .
XVIII THREE DAYS OF Grace
XIX STEEL AND STONE . ..
XX SURPRISED . . .
XXI ECHOES . . . .
·
·
.
·
·
.
.
·
·
·
.
·
·
108
. 117
. 130
. 139
152
160
174
183
191
204
216
·
.
.
.
.
.
·
.
.
.
.
·





Probus Thorne looked up from his newspaper. The
murder of Judge Stilwell, played up under a scare-head
on the front page, seemed almost baffling enough for
the police to call him up. He smiled as he waited, half
amusedly, for the phone to ring.
Looking over the principals whose pictures appeared
with the story, he saw a man of patriarchal bearing,
whose kindly eyes relieved the strong, rugged face of
the grim austerity that so often characterizes the judi-
ciary.
In the group was a young woman, almost beautiful
enough to be a murderess or to have murder done for
her. He smiled as he looked again . . . yes, there was a
sweetness in her sad look ... a wistfulness that
brought forth vague and fleeting memories. The news-
paper fell unheeded to the floor as Thorne, with half-
closed eyes, allowed his mind to wander where fact
and fancy wove themselves into a dream. Or was it
a nightmare?


CHAPTER I
HYDROCYANIC ACID
Judge and Mrs. Stilwell had taken more than usual
interest in planning the rather informal little house
party that began in their West Eighty-fourth Street
home on the evening of July 18th.
Always fond of congenial company, they had en-
tertained a great deal in the past; but since their only
child, Fred Styles, the judge's step-son, had married
and gone to Washington to live, there had been little
social activity about the place; and its lack had been
felt rather keenly by the Stilwells. This, then, was to
be somewhat of an occasion. Fred Styles was bringing
his wife from Washington, her home town; and to
make their visit more pleasant, another young couple
from Cleveland, Mr. and Mrs. Hayward, had been
invited.
Junius Harkley, a bachelor of forty-five, a close
friend of the family and the judge's law partner, would
of course be there. John Morley, a somewhat eccentric
collector and appraiser of rare books, would complete
the party. The latter's presence, no doubt, was due in
a large measure to the fact that the judge, himself an
enthusiastic collector, wanted his guests to hear Mor-
ley's opinion of a newly acquired volume.


2 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
For one who had spent twenty years in the general
practice of law and ten more on the supreme court
bench, Judge Stilwell had made an unusually large
number of friends; and it is doubtful if he had a
real enemy. There were many, of course, who had felt
the burden of judgment at his hands; but even they,
for the most part, had considered his rulings not only
fair and just but frequently tempered with compassion.
His tall, commanding figure attracted attention in
any gathering. The generous mass of rather unruly
white hair that topped his well formed head had often
been referred to by newspaper reporters as the Lion's
mane. Angular, rough-hewn features, strongly sug-
gestive of a sculptor's sketch in clay would have given
the judge a rather puritanical look, had they not been
relieved by a pair of eyes that seemed to smile even
when the face was in repose. A low-pitched but clear
and well modulated voice that gave more than a hint of
vocal training, a broad range of human interest and
flashes of subtle humor that never left a sting, made
him a most enjoyable conversationalist.
Even though middle age was passing, the judge and
his wife continued to show each other the tender solici-
tude and thoughtful courtesy of sweetheart days while
their faces reflected the mature devotion of those who
live in perfect harmony and understanding.
Mrs. Stilwell, although only fifteen years younger
than her husband, would never have been accused of
the fifty years that she freely admitted. She was not
slender, as figures are now regarded, but she certainly


4. WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
letic; well groomed, quiet and very much at ease. His
eyes, the lids of which seemed to droop slightly, missed
nothing at all. His face suggested sophistication rather
beyond his thirty years and he had the air of one to
whom life is an open book whose pages hold few illu-
sions; polished, keen—and hard.
His wife, Evelyn, was to most people who took the
trouble to consider her deeply, somewhat of a puzzle.
In attempting to describe a young woman, it is an easy
matter to become involved in superlatives. Many
women may be spoken of as pretty; some may even be
called beautiful; a few, charming; and occasionally one
is mysterious. That Evelyn Hayward was beautiful, few
would question; but there was something elusive—a
reservedness—in her manner, even in her very appear-
ance. To say that she wore short skirts and bobbed
hair, powdered and rouged her face and plied the lip-
stick—all this would have been truthful in a manner,
but rather misleading; for while she used cosmetics she
did so sparingly and her hair though bobbed was not
in the least mannish. Neither was there the slightest
suggestion of the extreme in the style or cut of her
simple frock.
There were violet tints in the shadows of her black
hair, her eyes were dark, luminous and full of secrets
and her Mona Lisa smile drew a veil of mystery about
her face.
People liked to talk to Evelyn Hayward. She had the
rare accomplishment of being a good listener and such


8 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
the others to the study of the collection and returned
to their port.
"Your health!" toasted Hayward to the judge and
the three men drank.
A wild, agonizing cry threw the room into a panic.
All turned, horror stricken, to see Judge Stilwell fall
heavily into his chair, his face hideously distorted with
pain and his body in convulsions. Before anyone could
reach him the judge collapsed. His body became some-
what relaxed, his head fell back and his eyes stared,
bulging and glassy.
Philip Hayward had the situation in hand in an in-
stant. Bidding Harkley and Styles to take the women,
now bordering on hysteria, to another room, he gave
the butler's bell several short, quick rings and ran to
Stilwell's side.
After a few minutes Styles and Harkley returned
to the library. Hayward started again toward the bell
muttering, "Where in hell is that butler!"
"I sent him for Dr. Bardwell, next door," said Hark-
ley as he went over toward the judge. His next move
seemed to be anticipated by Hayward.
"He's dead, Mr. Harkley, and I'd advise not touch-
ing a thing until the police get here."
Fred Styles turned to him in amazement.
"What have the police to do with it?"
The question was not answered for just then Dr.
Bardwell arrived.


CHAPTER II
FROM SCRATCH
Deputy Commissioner Billings had been sent by his
superior to make it plain to Inspector MacKean that
something quick and definite must be done or there
would be a house-cleaning in the detective bureau. For
weeks the press had been launching daily attacks upon
the police department, charging them with everything
from inefficiency to collusion with crooks and the
crime wave continued to increase in violence. There
had been the Newell robbery, the Ware kidnaping and
the Everhard murder in quick succession, all of which
had created a great furor before outside talent had
finally helped to solve them.
"And now, MacKean, with this Stilwell murder, the
commissioner has simply gone wild! It's either results
or—" and Billings made a motion suggesting decapita-
tion. "This is really serious, Mac!"
The inspector sat for a moment deep in thought.
His brows were drawn and he chewed nervously at
his cigar as the ashes fell unheeded into his lap.
"It's serious enough," he finally replied, "so that I'm
going to get Probus Thorne on the job."
"Probus Thorne? Isn't he the fellow that helped in
10


FROM SCRATCH
11
the Everhard case?" and as MacKean nodded af-
firmatively, "Just who is Probus Thorne, anyway?"
"I'm frank to say, Billings, that I don't know much
about just who he is; but he's a wizard at solving
mysteries and that's just what we need right now."
As a matter of fact, there had been a great deal
of conjecture concerning the early history of Probus
Thorne. He had spent three or four years in New
York and during that time had been of help to the
local police, and even to the federal authorities, in
solving troublesome crime mysteries; but aside from
that, very little was really known about him.
Whether he was one of Europe's master man-
hunters who had chosen to retire early in life under
the nom-de-plume of Probus Thorne as some believed;
or whether, as others asserted, he was merely a
wealthy man who saw in every mystery a challenge to
his ability to find the solution, were better left to
those who cared to argue the point; but in all fairness
one would not attempt to gloss over what had been
hinted more than once—that the respected citizen now
known as Probus Thorne had spent several years as
an international super-criminal before some unrevealed
influence had changed the course of his life and ranged
his abilities on the side of law and order.
From his knowledge of the technique of crime he
may well have served a broad apprenticeship in that
lawless calling, as anyone would admit who had seen
his demonstrations, for instance, of the tricks of the


12 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
light-fingered gentry, before the class of young de-
tectives in training at headquarters.
Wealthy he surely was; at least to such a degree
that all the comforts and many of the luxuries of life
were his without the apparent necessity of engaging
in remunerative occupation.
And again, his knowledge of the history and methods
of crime detection in all countries and times, placed
him in the front rank of criminal investigators. One
knew, as Inspector MacKean had said, very little
about who Probus Thorne really was; but the really
important fact was that he could solve mysteries.
About a year before, when the palatial home of Effing-
ham Newell had been so spectacularly robbed of jewels
whose value ran well into six figures, Thorne had en-
tered the case several weeks after the robbery when
the police had practically given up hope. Not only
had he recovered the jewels and brought about the ar-
rest and conviction of the criminals, but he had given
all the credit to the police.
Again when the grandson of old Thaddeus Ware,
the ironmaster, had been kidnaped and held for ran-
som, Thorne had outwitted the kidnapers and had re-
turned the child unharmed ro the grateful family. Few
people knew that the substantial check that old Thad-
deus had sent to Thorne in appreciation of his efforts
had been donated to the police pension fund. Then, a
few months later, Kent Everhard, the scapegrace son
of a proud old family had been murdered under the


FROM SCRATCH 13
most baffling circumstances; but on that occasion
Thorne had been absent from the city and his services
not available until the handling of the case had be-
come a scandal in the department and the newspapers
were loudly clamoring for a reorganization of the de-
tective bureau. He had returned in time to be of help
in turning seeming defeat into victory and, as usual,
the police got the credit.
Then there were cases of international importance
in which Thorne had figured, as Inspector MacKean
had learned from a visiting official from Scotland
Yard. All this MacKean explained to Deputy Com-
missioner Billings who would have known all about it
already except for Thorne's unwillingness to have his
name mentioned and for the further fact that he had
never accepted a fee from the department.
"Well, I'd get him," counseled Billings, after con-
sidering the matter carefully. "Anything to keep from
being panned again as we were in the Everhard case.
I'll go along and let you get at it."
Late as it was, MacKean phoned Probus Thorne's
apartment and was agreeably surprised at the quick
response.
"This is Gavin MacKean, Thorne; sorry to disturb
your sleep but it's a matter of greatest importance."
"Sleep? My dear Inspector! I was just settling down
to an evening's reading. But what's troubling you, Mac-
Kean?—Insomnia?"
"Be serious, Probus. Judge Stilwell has been mur-


14 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
dered! I'm in the devil of a jam and I want you to help
me out."
"Oh, yes! I've been reading about that murder," and
as the inspector expressed his surprise Thorne ex-
plained: "A young barbarian was making the night
hideous with his 'extree' and I had one sent up. But
who is this Judge Stilwell and what's it all about?"
"Why, I thought everybody knew Gordon Stilwell;
formerly supreme court judge and for the past few
years head of the law firm of Stilwell and Harkley."
"All right, Mac, come up and have breakfast with
me in the morning and we'll have murder with our
grapefruit."
"Sorry, Probus, but we can't wait," protested the
inspector. "You'll understand when I tell you about
it. Be ready and I'll call for you in ten minutes."
"Oh, very well, if you insist," Thorne replied lan-
guidly; but Inspector MacKean knew very well that
the indifference in his tone was carefully simulated. He
knew that when a mystery presented itself, Thorne
would be as eager to dig into it as an old maid in a
country village would be to get the latest details of a
local scandal.
Probus Thorne was between 30 and 35 years old,
six feet tall, lithe and tireless. He had a long straight
nose, blue eyes and strong but delicately molded fea-
tures. Always master of himself, he gave the impres-
sion of great reserve force and poise. In the matter
of dress he was more the Londoner than the New


16 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
hell with the department. The commissioner is on the
warpath and I'm afraid we're in for a shake-up. Let's
go and I'll tell you all I know about it as we ride,"
and he led the way to his car.
"Here's the lay," began the inspector as he started
the motor. "Judge Stilwell lived in one of those old
brownstone houses on West Eighty-fourth Street and
we'll get along up there. Everything is just as it was and
we'll get a clear start. They had a, small party at his
house tonight. Just before it broke up they all went into
the library to have a little drink and somebody poisoned
the judge's liquor. They got a doctor right away but
the judge must have died instantly."
"Do you have any idea who did it or what's back
of it?"
"Not the slightest, Probus, that's why I called you in
at the start. The whole thing just don't add up. Well,
here we are, first house to the right," as the car drew
up to the curb.


CHAPTER III
VERSIONS
As they ascended the steps of the Stilwell home the
door was opened by Officer Brady, a typical husky in
uniform, who saluted smartly and announced: "They're
waiting for you in the library, Inspector."
"Who are there?"
"Dr. Bardwell who lives next door and Dr. Cush-
man from the coroner's office. Sergeant Floyd is there
too," Brady explained as they entered the hall. Open-
ing a door at the left of the main entrance he ushered
the newcomers into the library and returned to his
post at the front door.
Inspector MacKean greeted the two physicians, re-
turned the salute of Sergeant Floyd and announced:
"Gentlemen, this is my friend Probus Thorne; Dr.
Bardwell and Dr. Cushman, Mr. Thorne; Sergeant
Floyd I think you already know."
"I remember Sergeant Floyd," acknowledged
Thorne, with a twinkle in his eye.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Thorne, I haven't seen you since the
Everhard case." The sergeant's tone was friendly
enough but it would have taken no deep student of
17


18 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
facial expression to see that he was not overjoyed by
having Thorne concerned in the case.
"Now, gentlemen," said Dr. Cushman, "if you will
look things over a little we can send the body away
and I can be getting along. I have another urgent call
to make."
With one accord they turned to the front corner of
the room, opposite the door where, huddled in a big
easy-chair, hands still clutching the chair arms, head
thrown back, was the body of Judge Gordon Stilwell.
A large-framed, robust man in his late sixties, with an
abundance of wavy, white hair surmounting his strong
regular features, the judge had, even in the repellent
attitude of death, much of the old viking about him.
"What do you make of it, Dr. Cushman?" asked
the inspector.
"Dr. Bardwell and I have both examined the body
carefully," replied the coroner's physician, "and it gives
every indication of poisoning by hydrocyanic acid, usu-
ally known as prussic acid. Very few poisons cause
death in so short a time, outside of story books. Of
course fiction writers are very free with the use of un-
known poisons brought from some obscure part of the
world, that kill instantly and leave no trace.
"In this case there is nothing obscure," continued the
physician. "The symptoms are plain. The judge uttered
a cry of agony, followed almost immediately by con-
vulsions and collapse. Then, there is the unmistakable
odor of bitter almonds. Undoubtedly hydrocyanic


VERSIONS 19
poisoning, apparently administered in his liquor; but
who put it there and when and why, will have to be
determined."
"Dr. Bardwell," asked Thorne, "what was the
judge's condition when you arrived?—I understand
you were here first."
"Just as you see him now," explained the physician.
"I had retired when the call came and it took me per-
haps fifteen minutes to dress sufficiently to come," and
he indicated with a gesture his evidently hurried toilet.
"When I arrived he had been dead for several min-
utes. Whoever gave him the poison judged the dose
very accurately, as a larger or a smaller dose might
not have terminated life so quickly."
"Does that kind of poison always kill so quick?"
asked Sergeant Floyd.
"No, Sergeant. Death usually occurs anywhere from
two minutes, to three, or even four, hours; but again it
may be instantaneous. You see, hydrocyanic acid enters
the blood, forming a compound with its haemoglobin,
then passes to the medulla oblongata and paralyzes the
centers of respiration."
"That's just what I thought," replied the sergeant,
ponderously. With difficulty Thorne suppressed a smile
as the two doctors looked dubiously at the sergeant and
then at each other.
"And nothing in the room has been disturbed?"
asked the inspector.


20 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"No, nothing at all," replied Dr. Bardwell, "and I
haven't left the room since I first arrived."
As Officer Brady then appeared at the door fol-
lowed by two stretcher bearers, Dr. Cushman mo-
tioned them in, saying, "All right, Brady, the body can
be removed." Then turning to the others, "The autopsy
will be performed tomorrow and the inquest will be
announced later. I hope you will excuse me as I must
hurry along. Good night, gentlemen," and he took his
leave. Dr. Bardwell also prepared to go. "If you need
me," he said, "I live just next door and will be glad
to oblige."
"Thanks, Doctor, we'll call you if necessary," replied
the inspector, and Sergeant Floyd showed the doctor
out.
"Now, Floyd," said MacKean, as they and Thorne
were left alone, "you've kept everybody here, I sup-
pose?"
"Yes, Inspector, they're all in the front parlor across
the hall, family, guests and all. The servants are in
the dining room just back of the parlor and Officer
O'Rourke has his eye on them."
"Just who are in the parlor?"
"Let me see," reflected the sergeant; "there's Mrs.
Stilwell and her son by her first husband, Fred Styles;
and his wife. They are stopping in the house. There's
Stilwell's law partner, Junius Harkley and John Mor-
ley, a queer old duck. Then there's another young
couple here from Cleveland, Philip Hayward and his


VERSIONS
21
wife. They are spending a few days here with the Stil-
wells. That's the whole works, Inspector."
"And the servants?"
"There is just the cook and one maid and old Wat-
tles the butler."
Probus Thorne had been walking about the room
giving it a careful but seemingly casual inspection.
"Well, Inspector," he said, pausing before MacKean,
"the routine stunt is to get a statement of some kind
from each of these folks, what?" Then to Sergeant
Floyd, "You've heard the case from the beginning,
Sergeant, have you formed any theory?"
"Mr. Thorne," replied that personage with some
dignity, "I don't believe in theories. I work on facts,
cold facts, see?"
"All right, Sergeant, I suppose that is best," ad-
mitted Thorne in a spirit of acquiescence. Then to the
inspector, "Suppose we take Harkley first, MacKean,
and then Morley, as they both live outside."
"But when they go," said Floyd, with a look of de-
termination on his face, "I'll have them both followed.
What say, Inspector?"
"All right, Floyd; have Harkley in and arrange for
your shadows. We've got to get this thing started."
In a moment Harkley entered and Probus Thorne
took occasion to size him up carefully. "A very able
citizen," decided Thorne, "a worker and a fighter;
just the kind to make a success in law."
"Mr. Harkley," began the inspector, "I understand


22 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
that you were Judge Stilwell's legal partner. Naturally
we want to get to the bottom of this affair as quickly
as possible. Will you just tell us what took place here
tonight, as far as you observed?"
"Why, certainly," came the reply in a calm, well con-
trolled voice. "I was asked to come over for the eve-
ning to meet some friends of the judge's. I arrived
late, just before dinner was announced."
"What time was that?"
"I should say about eight o'clock. We went in to
dinner almost at once. At the table were the judge and
Mrs. Stilwell, Mr. and Mrs. Styles and Mr. Morley
whom I had met before; and Mr. and Mrs. Hayward,
who were strangers to me."
"Anything unusual happen during the dinner?"
asked MacKean.
"No, just the ordinary small talk of the dinner
table. Everyone seemed to be in a very good humor.
After dinner the young folks tuned in on the radio
and there was dancing and a game of cards."
"May I ask," interposed Thorne, "if you and the
judge had occasion to talk business at any time during
the evening?"
Harkley seemed to hesitate the merest fraction of
a second.
"Well, nothing in particular," he replied. "He did
say that he wanted me to attend to a matter for him
tomorrow, but there really was little chance to talk
business."


VERSIONS 23
"Would you mind telling us what he wished you to
attend to?" pursued Thorne.
"It was a slight alteration in his will. He wished to
make some change in the beneficiaries."
"You understand, Mr. Harkley," said the inspector,
"that we simply wish to get all angles on the case. It
may have no relation to the tragedy, but just what
change did he wish made?"
"I'll gladly tell you all I know, although it surely
had no bearing on the murder, if it was a murder.
Some years ago Judge Stilwell made a will leaving
practically everything to his wife; but last night he
said that he wished to change it so that she would
merely have the income from the estate for life. We
were interrupted just then and I don't know what else
he had in mind."
"Very well, Mr. Harkley. Now what happened after
the party came into this room?" asked the inspector,
making a few notes in his book.
Probus Thorne was again poking about the room
like an inquisitive small boy, looking at books and
curios in the wall cases, moving them about and peer-
ing behind them in a most casual way and apparently
taking no notice of the proceedings.
"About one o'clock," said Harkley, "we talked of
going home; that is, those of us who live outside the
house. The judge proposed that we come into this
room and have a little drink. The drinks had been
served and the butler had left the room when Stilwell


24 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
was reminded of a rare old book that he had just
bought. He was quite an enthusiastic collector in an
amateur way and Morley, you know, is a professional
collector and appraiser of such things. The judge espe-
cially wanted Morley to tell us about the book. We
set down our drinks and went over there," indicating
the farthest corner from the door, "where the volume
was displayed on top of the case."
"How long were you all busy with the book?"
"Well, I should say that we were milling around
for fifteen or twenty minutes. We didn't stay right in
the corner all that time, you understand, but moved
about, looking at the various objects of interest that
you see there now."
"And finally?" prompted the inspector.
"I was one of the last to look at the book and had
just turned around when Judge Stilwell screamed. He
seemed to collapse at once. Dr. Bardwell was sent for
and pronounced the judge dead."
Thorne walked over toward the others now and
seemed to take an interest.
"Mr. Harkley, do you think it possible," he asked,
"during the time that elapsed after the drinks were
poured, that any of the party could have poisoned the
judge's drink?"
"Yes, I should think so, it might have been done."
"Who had such an opportunity?"
"We all did, I suppose," admitted the lawyer with


VERSIONS 25
a wry smile, "including the butler, as the door was
left open and he could have returned unnoticed."
"Is there any certainty that the poison was meant
for the judge?" asked Thorne. "Wasn't there a chance
that someone else might have gotten it?"
"The judge had placed his drink, on a small table
near his favorite easy-chair and the other glasses were
all on the big table. Everyone knew which was the
judge's glass."
"It is worth considering," suggested Thorne, "that
Stilwell poisoned his own drink."
"Now, Mr. Thorne, that's nonsense," exploded Ser-
geant Floyd. "This is a clear case of murder and a plain
one too, to my way of thinking."
Inspector MacKean, disregarding Floyd's outburst,
proceeded to question Harkley.
"Do you know any reason why the judge should
contemplate suicide?" he asked.
"Not the slightest," the lawyer replied. "But then
I know of no reason why anyone should murder him,
either."
"Very well," said the inspector, rising, "you'll be
notified as to the time of the inquest, of course; and
thank you for your help."
When Harkley had gone Sergeant Floyd remarked,
"Say, maybe Thorne is right. It might be suicide at that.
Simple enough when you look at it that way."
MacKean turned to Thorne. "Do you really think it
was suicide?" he asked.


26 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"Not a chance, Inspector. He would have waited
until after the will was changed if he intended com-
mitting suicide."
"A minute ago you said it was suicide," Floyd im-
patiently remarked, his face coloring.
"No, Floyd," Thorne explained, in a quiet tone
that seemed to infuriate the sergeant, "I merely stated
that the suicide idea should be considered; and that
was said for a purpose. Anyway, his age doesn't sug-
gest suicide."
"Mean to say a man has to be a certain age to
commit suicide?"
"Oh, no, Floyd; but statistics show that the proba-
bility of suicide is greatest between 35 and 40. Not
over 5 percent of the suicides are Stilwell's age." *
The inspector addressed Floyd: "Get Morley in
here and allow all the others to go to their rooms, as
they are staying in the house. Tell them that we shall
want to question them early in the morning; it's pretty
late now."
"It is a safe guess that this Morley, a collector and
appraiser of books, gave all his attention to the new
volume and knows little of what happened," was
Thorne's prophecy.
Morley looked his part. A rather small, gray man,
carelessly attired, but with the clear eye and open
countenance of the scholar.
* Reports of Chief Medical Examiner, New York City.


VERSIONS 27
His testimony brought out nothing new except one
point.
"What was this book in which you were all inter-
ested, Mr. Morley?" asked Thorne, "and what was its
value?"
"It was a rare copy of the first edition of Lord
Byron's 'Hours of Idleness'. It was listed in the cata-
logue at $500, but this particular copy was worth very
much more."
"How so?" Floyd wanted to know, "if it was listed
at $500?"
"You see," the expert explained, "there were a few
copies printed with an error on the title page. Then
the error was corrected and the printing proceeded.
This happens to be one containing the error, therefore
very rare. If you will hand me the book I will show
you."
Sergeant Floyd arose to get the volume but Thorne
spoke up: "No use looking, Floyd, the book is not
there."
"I thought nothing had been disturbed," the in-
spector remarked, looking sharply at Floyd, who
seemed clearly befuddled.
"Perhaps it hasn't," suggested Thorne. "Anyway the
book isn't here." Then to the witness, "Mr. Morley,
did you discuss the real value of the book with any-
one?"
"No. Or rather, not extensively. I think I did men-


28 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
tion to Mr.—er—Hayward, I think the name was,
that the book was worth several times what Stilwell
paid for it."
As nothing more could be developed from Morley's
testimony, he was allowed to leave the house.
"Now where could that damn book have gone to?"
Floyd asked of the world in general, as he rushed
over to the bookcase and began pawing things over.
"Dr. Bardwell said that no one left the room before
I got here and I'm damn sure no one carried the book
out after I came."
"If I were you," suggested Thorne, "I'd go out-
side and look for it among the shrubs under those
windows that have been open all evening."
With an incredulous curl to his lips Sergeant Floyd
left the room, and in less than ten minutes he returned
triumphantly with the book.
"Here it is, sure enough," he exclaimed, his face
wreathed in a smile of pleasant surprise. "How did
you dope that out, Mr. Thorne?"
"Just a little theory of mine," and Thorne also
smiled.
Floyd laid the book on the table but made no reply.
"Now, Inspector," said Thorne, "let's leave the book
on the shelf where it was supposed to be and perhaps
someone will be surprised to see it there again."
The inspector agreed. "But Floyd will stay here
until we come back in the morning, and the book had
better stay there too."


CHAPTER IV
UNEXPLAINED
Probus Thorne arrived at the Stilwell house the next
morning some little time in advance of Inspector
MacKean who was detained with routine business. He
was glad of this opportunity to give the library a more
thorough examination.
The house was built in the days before space was
at a premium, and the library was sufficiently large to
accommodate the bookcases, large table and easy-chairs
without the least suggestion of crowding. Richly ap-
pointed in quiet taste, the room appealed to Thorne,
who now began a methodical inspection of the book-
cases, shelf by shelf.
An omnivorous reader, this Judge Stilwell, as evi-
denced by the catholic selection of books—history,
biography, science, philosophy, metaphysics—each vol-
ume by an authority. Not a hit or miss collection, but
a well balanced library betokening a liberally educated
and orderly mind.
Presently Inspector MacKean arrived. Sergeant
Floyd, aroused from a big arm-chair where he had
been dozing, reported to the inspector and was re-
lieved from duty.
30


UNEXPLAINED 31
"Suppose we begin with the butler this morning,
Thorne."
Thorne nodded assent.
MacKean called through the partly open door to
the officer on duty: "Have the butler sent in, Officer,
and then close the door."
"Wattles," the inspector began, "tell us in your own
way just what happened here last night."
Wattles, a typical English serving-man somewhat
over fifty, gave a straight-forward report of the eve-
ning's happenings, in no way at variance with the pre-
vious accounts, up to the time of serving the drinks.
"I then left the room, sir."
"When did you next return to this room?" asked
MacKean.
"Not until the present moment, sir."
Probus Thorne turned to the butler and asked,
"What was the trouble between the judge and his
step-son, Styles?"
"Trouble, sir? There was no trouble, really."
"Come now! I don't mean last night; you know
what I mean and we want to hear your version of it."
Thorne took a step closer and held the butler with his
keen blue eyes.
"Well, sir, one could scarcely call it trouble. The
judge was not pleased with Mr. Styles' marriage, sir,
if that is what you refer to."
Thorne followed up the opening. "Just how did he
show his displeasure?"


32 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"All I really know, sir," replied Wattles as he
fidgeted with a button on his coat, "is that when the
Styles were married, about three months ago, the
judge told Styles in my hearing, 'You'll regret it!'
That's all I actually heard, sir; but it was well known
about the house that the judge had not approved of
the match and had tried to prevent it."
"Do you know why?"
"No, sir, not definitely, but I have heard it stated
that the judge had picked out some other girl for Mr.
Styles."
"Have the Styles been here much since the wed-
ding?" asked MacKean.
"This is the first time, sir," admitted the butler.
"Another question, Wattles, and you may go," an-
nounced the inspector. "I understand that there were
only two other servants in the house; where were they
when the tragedy occurred?"
"They had gone to their rooms on the third floor,
sir, at least an hour before. They knew nothing of the
affair until the officer sent me to fetch them and then
I had to wait while they dressed."
"Then they could have had no part in the matter?"
"No, sir, quite impossible."
"I see," mused MacKean, drumming his fingers on
the table. "That's all for now, Wattles. Suppose you
ask Mrs. Stilwell in and then stay near by where we
can reach you."
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," and with an inscrutable air


36 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"Are you letting him go?"
"Yes, I believe the judge gave him notice a few days
ago on account of a quarrel between Wattles and the
other help. He is rather difficult at times, domineering
with the other servants, you know."
"That will be all for the present, Mrs. Stilwell, and
thank you very much. We are very sorry to have dis-
turbed you at all."
The inspector arose and opened the door for her
to pass out, then rang for Wattles.
"Show Mr. Styles in, Wattles."
"Very well, sir."
"Mr. Styles," began the inspector, "we are trying
to get the complete history of this affair. First let me
ask you, do you know of any reason why the judge
should poison himself?"
The young man's face expressed his horror.
"Suicide? Impossible!" he cried. "He couldn't have
done such a thing. He was prosperous and happy, he
had plenty of money and his health was excellent. Sui-
cide is out of the question!"
"Do you know of anyone who had reason to wish
him out of the way?"
"Not a soul. The judge had no enemies. The whole
thing seems so impossible." There could be little doubt
that Styles was speaking sincerely.
"Are you a beneficiary under his will?" asked
MacKean.
"I think so," admitted Styles. "At least I was. He


UNEXPLAINED 37
spoke of changing the will when I married," he said
with a deprecatory gesture, "but I doubt if he ever did
it. He didn't approve of my marriage although he had
nothing against Lucile, my wife. As to the will, it
had always been my understanding that Mother was
to receive practically the entire estate at the judge's
death."
"How long have you known the Haywards?"
Thorne inquired.
"Only since yesterday. The judge asked us up here
to meet them and they seem a very agreeable couple."
"Do you happen to know anything of the business
that brings Hayward here?"
"No, nothing at all. I heard Mother say that it
was something confidential between Hayward and the
judge, so that, of course, closed the matter."
"Very well," said MacKean. "Now last night after
the drinks had been served in this room, just what
happened?"
"Wattles served us and left the room. We were
just ready to have our drinks when the judge called
our attention to a book he had just got—I see it over
there now, where it was left," nodding his head toward
the bookcase.
"We were looking at the book—and then—" he
hesitated.
"Yes, we know," interposed Thorne; "but while you
were all looking at the book was there time for some-
one to poison the judge's drink?"


UNEXPLAINED 39
"Would you care to tell us the nature of the busi-
ness in question—we just want to get at everything
bearing on the matter."
"As it doesn't concern this affair in any way," replied
the reporter, "I ask to be excused from discussing it."
"Better let us be the ones to decide whether it
concerns this case. Come, tell us about it," urged Mac-
Kean, whose attitude plainly showed his impatience.
"Sorry, Inspector, but I can't discuss it. That's final."
"Do you realize that you can be made to talk?"
asked MacKean, as the color mounted to his cheeks;
but the reporter was unmoved.
"Inspector," suggested Thorne, "perhaps the young
man is right—suppose we let it rest for the present."
Then to Hayward:
"Tell us, will you, just what occurred after you en-
tered this room last night?"
Hayward corroborated the other reports of the epi-
sode in every detail. "When the judge was stricken,"
he concluded, "I sort of took charge, as I am rather
accustomed to such things."
"Did anyone," asked Probus Thorne, "among those
present, have the opportunity to poison the judge's
liquor?"
"I should say that we all had the opportunity."
"Do you think it may have been suicide?"
"No, it wasn't suicide," calmly replied the reporter,
"my business with him puts that out of the question."


40 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"And you still refuse to tell us what that business
was?"
"Yes."
"That's all for the present, Hayward," announced
the inspector, grudgingly; "but I warn you that if you
make any attempt to leave town you will be arrested
as a material witness, at least. And when the time
comes, you'll talk!"
"Yes, when the time comes, I'll talk," repeated Hay-
ward calmly as he left the room, his irritating self-
possession causing the inspector's color to deepen.
Mrs. Styles and Mrs. Hayward were then ques-
tioned, but neither of them could add anything to
what already had been developed.
"Well, Probus," remarked the inspector, as he gath-
ered his notes together, "not very much to go on so
far. Let's go to lunch."


CHAPTER V
INTERFERENCE
"I told Sergeant Floyd we'd meet him for lunch at
the Chemists' Club," said MacKean as they started the
car.
"My old friend Floyd—" mused Probus Thome.
"He's not a bad sort, MacKean, really. Even as a de-
tective he does pretty well, considering."
"Meaning just what?"
"Oh, you know, the way American cities select men
for such work—no training, no natural aptitude for
the job; just a few years pounding a beat, a lucky break
or two and behold, a new detective is created."
"Experience is the best teacher," the inspector tritely
remarked as he deftly dodged a jaywalking pedestrian.
"You wouldn't promote a doctor's office boy to be a
doctor, without a medical course, would you, Mac-
Kean? And yet in many European countries, Austria
for example, the time required in a university to be-
come a doctor is little more than half that required to
become a detective."
"So you don't think much of the New York police?"
demanded the inspector with heat.
"Easy there, my dear MacKean, no need to run over
41


42 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
that old lady just because I got under your skin. As
to the New York police, I have the greatest respect
for them as an organization. In the hundred years
that they have been developing they have done won-
derfully well, considering the fact that the department
is woefully underpaid and always at the.mercy of the
politicians. There is no fixity of purpose—no definite-
ness of policy. With every change of political adminis-
tration comes a new commissioner and his chief aim
seems to be to reverse every policy and defeat every
plan of his predecessor; but I am still hoping that the
time will come when adequate training at least will be
given the men before results are expected. That would
remove one very serious handicap."
"Well, perhaps we are a bit behind Scotland Yard
and the other older organizations," admitted the in-
spector, reluctantly.
"You are as old as Scotland Yard, in fact as old
as the London Police Department," argued Thorne.
"It isn't the age, it's the method. Of course methods
vary greatly in different countries; but England, France,
Germany, Italy—all of them have their dominating
principles, varying according to their national traits
and points of view. They have all gone into the mat-
ter in a more thorough way than we have; but with
our American genius and progressive spirit we long
ago should have adapted the best from all their sys-
tems, evolving an eclectic system superior to them all.
Maybe we will do it yet!"


INTERFERENCE 43
"Well, thanks for the lecture, anyhow, Probus; here
we are if we can squeeze into that parking space."
Sergeant Floyd was pacing impatiently up and down
the lobby of the club when Thorne and MacKean en-
tered.
"I thought you'd passed me up," he called to them,
"and I'm about starved."
"So are we," replied the inspector as they headed
for the dining room.
Their order hastily given, MacKean pulled out his
notes and began sorting them over.
"This Stilwell case," remarked Thorne, "promises
to become quite a mysterious affair."
"I don't agree with you, Mr. Thorne," said Ser-
geant Floyd with an air of one who is in the know.
"I've thought this thing all out and it's just a simple
affair being made mysterious. The low down on it is
about this, regardless of a lot of fine theories," and
he cast a side glance at Thorne. "That old butler,
Wattles, was fired. See? He's along in years and nat-
urally he is sore. Easiest thing in the world for him to
poison the judge's liquor. Revenge, that's his motive
and there's no greater motive for murder than re-
venge," and he looked triumphantly from one to the
other.
"You're forgetting fear, Sergeant," suggested
Thorne, with the half smile that always seemed to irri-
tate Floyd so much, "and fear is a greater motive than
revenge."


44 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"Where does fear come In? Nobody was afraid of
the judge," Floyd countered. "Just what is your theory,
Mr. Thorne?"
"Theory? Oh, really, I have no theory. I thought we
had agreed to go on facts," replied Thorne in-
genuously.
Sergeant Floyd merely glared at him.
"Speaking of facts," said the inspector, "look at
these. Here is a prosperous and popular man, with a
happy home and everything, poisoned in his own house,
apparently by one of his relatives or guests. Among
the eight people who had the opportunity—and they
all seem to have had equal opportunity—any of them
could have found the means. That leaves only the mo-
tive for us to find."
"Only the motive?" Thorne asked with a smile.
"It's worth considering, Mac, that what would impel
one man to commit a murder might be considered a
trifling matter to another. We must consider motive
in its relation to traits of character."
On a sheet of paper MacKean set down a list of
names and resumed:
"First, there's the judge's wife. As a possible mo-
tive, and that's all we can consider at present, as a
possible motive, remember that the will was to be
changed, giving her the property for life only. She
may or may not have known all about it; but wives
have murdered their husbands for less.


46 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
is left, then, Styles' wife. The judge opposed her mar-
riage into the family. She doubtless knew of the change
in the will and that provides a clear motive.
"There," the inspector concluded, "is where we stand
on facts right now. Eight suspects, each with means,
motive and opportunity. That would make a fine start
for a fiction writer, wouldn't it?" and they all smiled.
"What's the next move, Thorne?"
"It seems to me, Inspector," replied Probus Thorne,
"that you have enough there to keep the whole force
busy for a while, getting it checked up."
"I shall be otherwise engaged this afternoon, so
suppose you two take dinner with me in my apartment,
say at eight, and we will plan a campaign. In the mean-
time, of course, you can get a copy of StilwelFs will,
look over his office papers, burgle his safe and attend
to a lot of other pleasant little details. Anyway, here's
the lunch and homicide is barred."
After luncheon, Thorne left the two police officers
at the club as the inspector had some telephoning to
do. Hailing a cruising taxi, he went at once to the ga-
rage where his roadster was being overhauled. The car
was ready. Its surface shone like a mirror; and when
he pressed the starter the motor responded with that
gentle purring which is so reassuring to the man who
drives.
Before starting for the afternoon run in the country
which Thorne had promised himself, he decided to stop
at his apartment on Park Avenue for a few minutes.


INTERFERENCE 47
Driving around to the side-street entrance he locked
the car and went in.
The mail on his table seemed just the usual run: an
invitation to a banquet—one of the things he especially
abhorred; two or three personal letters that could wait
until later; and the ever present advertising matter in
various guises. Thorne identified them by their appear-
ance, all except one. It was unusual. The plain manila
envelope, fully nine by twelve inches in size, stamped
"First Class Mail" piqued his curiosity and he opened
it, disclosing a large folded sheet of wrapping paper
upon which a message.had been printed in letters an
inch high, with rubber stamps, such as merchants use
for making window price-cards. A low whistle escaped
Thorne as he perused the uneven lines.
"Drop Stilwell case," the message ran, "if you want
to live. Call it suicide and quit. Accidents happen."
After refolding the letter and returning it to the en-
velope, Thorne stood for a minute, tapping the missive
against the table as he considered what to do. Nikko,
his butler, was off and would not return until four. The
only thing then, was to run down to headquarters with
the letter and thus give MacKean an early opportunity
to follow it up.
None too well pleased with the necessity for this
delay when the roads of Westchester were calling, he
went out to his car, carefully placed the big envelope
in the pocket of the right-hand door and climbed in.
"Damn," Thorne announced to the universe a minute


48 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
later, when the self-starter buzzed and buzzed and
nothing else happened.
"Anything wrong, Mr. Thorne?" asked one of the
doormen, coming out to the car. "The man who just
fixed your car said it would be all right now."
"What man?" Thorne wanted to know.
"There was a repair man here a few minutes ago,"
explained the doorman, "who said that you had asked
him to do something to the car. He was busy for a few
minutes and then said it was O.K."
Thorne jumped out and lifted the hood. After a
little inspection he growled, "Someone has disconnected
the spark plugs."
The doorman called a chauffeur from a waiting car
nearby and with his help everything was soon in run-
ning order again. Thorne tipped the chauffeur, got in
and started the car; it moved off like a living thing.
With scant regard for traffic rules he made his way
directly to police headquarters. When he had found a
parking place and locked his car he reached into the
pocket for the big envelope. It was gone! A search of
the car was fruitless of results. Then he remembered
the disconnected spark plugs and—yes, the chauffeur
had opened the car door and tested the self-starter be-
fore leaving the car; but he had gotten well beyond
pursuit by this time and Thorne decided to drop the
matter and go on with his ride.
It was evident that he was dealing with experts. The
disabled car, the chauffeur conveniently near and ready


50 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
the telephone rang. Scowling at the interruption, he
crossed the room and took up the instrument.
"Hello," he spoke in his usual languid tone.
"This Probus Thorne?"
"Yes, what is it?"
"I'm a stranger to you, Mr. Thorne, so my name
doesn't matter. I sent you a message today which you
received soon after noon."
"Who are you?" demanded Thorne.
"As I say, it doesn't matter; but I showed you this
afternoon how easily one's affairs may be interrupted.
Better take my advice. The warning will not be re-
peated," and the wire went "dead."


CHAPTER VI
GRAPHOLOGY
Probus Thorne and his guests, Inspector MacKean
and Sergeant Floyd, had just finished their cocktails,
which Thorne characterized as "just a little temperance
mixture of Nikko's," when that worthy son of Nippon
announced dinner.
"If that's a temperance mixture," remarked Floyd
with a broad smile, as he arose from his chair, "then
I'm all for temperance!"
"Nikko is a wonder," agreed the inspector as they
entered the dining room. "Where did you get him,
Thorne?"
"Stole him!" was the enigmatical reply.
MacKean smiled. "It's grand larceny, then," he said,
"but doubtless justified."
The dinner was a masterpiece from hors d'oeuvres
to sweets and during it no mention was made of the
case that filled the minds of the three. But when it was
over they withdrew to the library and proceeded to
business. Nikko served cigars and quietly disappeared.
The guests were agreeably surprised to find that each
had been given his favorite brand.
51


52 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"Well," said Thorne, lighting a cigarette, "I sup-
pose you have a lot of interesting things to report?"
"We've done some checking up," said MacKean,
rolling his cigar to the corner of his mouth and pro-
ducing a bundle of papers which he proceeded to sort
out on the table. Floyd pulled up his chair with the air
of one upon whom great responsibility devolves and
puffed industriously at his cigar.
"We haven't much," said MacKean, "but I'll give
it to you and then we can discuss some plan. We have
allowed everyone in the Stilwell house to go and come
as he wished, but everyone leaving the house has been
shadowed every minute until his return. I have reports
here," indicating a few sheets clipped together, "cov-
ering the movements of everybody up to six o'clock
when the relief changed. Most of them have been out
during the day but only on commonplace errands. All
had returned at six o'clock except Hayward. Gallagher
is on his trail and we will get a report when he returns.
Gallagher is one of our best men.
"Now as to the movements of the various people
previous to the murder: take Stilwell first. We have
been through his papers at home and at the office and
everything is in perfect shape, except one item that
needs explanation. Stilwell drew $5,000 in cash the
day he was killed. Mrs. Stilwell says she saw him put
it into the small safe in his library. No one admits
knowing anything further about it but it has disap-
peared, though nothing else in the safe has been both-


GRAPHOLOGY S3
ered. Stilwell has been practically retired for two or
three years, taking only an advisory interest in the law
practice and looking after his private investments. He
is a very rich man—much richer than we had supposed.
"We have traced his activities of yesterday," the
inspector continued, "and find nothing unusual, with
one possible exception. He asked his secretary for the
addresses of several handwriting experts. This may
or may not be important; but his secretary said that
as he had no legal cases in hand she could think of no
reason for such a request. Anyway, all such matters
are usually handled by the chief clerk."
"Did he telephone any of these graphologists?"
Thorne asked.
"No, he just took the addresses of two or three and
put them in his pocket. He left for lunch soon after
and didn't return. But his not going back to the office
was nothing unusual, in itself."
Turning to the sergeant, MacKean asked: "What
luck did you have with the handwriting sharks, Floyd?"
"I took the list you gave me and called on them all.
I found that Stilwell had seen one of them, Jorgensen,
on Lafayette Street, at about three o'clock. He asked
Jorgensen to compare two bits of writing and tell him
if they were both written by the same person or by
different people." Floyd was in his element; he liked to
shine.
"And did you get the samples?" Thorne asked
casually, then resumed the blowing of smoke rings.


54 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"I'm no amachoor," Floyd replied quickly, as he
reached into his pocket and produced some papers.
"Here they are,” he said, and with a flourish tossed
them across the table and sat chewing his cigar.
Thorne and MacKean inspected the specimens care-
fully. They were marked No. 1 and No. 2, and had
evidently been clipped from letters. They read:
No. 1
him Dam not interested m
selling the property
Yours truly
No. 2
sell all the bonsolidated
bonds at the market and
place the proceeds to my
credit as usual. As son as d
“Well, Floyd," said Thorne, languidly crossing his
knees, “what was Jorgensen's answer, and what do
these mean?” tapping the specimens with his pencil.
"Jorgensen said he made a careful examination of


GRAPHOLOGY
55
them both and then phoned Stilwell that they were
written by the same man; but they certainly look dif-
ferent. Personally I think he's all wet."
The inspector made no comment and Thorne's little
smile seemed to irritate the sergeant. After a few min-
utes Thorne asked:
"Have you looked for more of this writing in Stil-
well's files ?”
"Sure," declared Floyd. “That's the first thing any-
one would do; but there's nothing there like either one
of them."
“Let's see what we can find out," and Thorne rang
for Nikko.
"Nikko,” he said, offering the specimens, "we would
like to know all you can tell us about these samples
of writing.”
"Very well, sir,” said Nikko, taking the papers and
bowing himself out.
"Say, Mr. Thorne,” expostulated Floyd, "what does
that heathen know about writing? Is that some joke ?"
"We'll wait and see what he knows," said Thorne;
"but as to his being a heathen, he has more college
degrees than all of us together and his ancestors were
probably enjoying a well advanced degree of civiliza-
tion when our forebears were still living in the tree-
tops.”
Floyd's face was a study. His look of incredulity
finally gave way to a smile as he apparently decided
that Thorne was joking.


GRAPHOLOGY 57
She is not in very good health and does not go out
much.
"Harkley does all the active work of the law part-
nership and seems to be unusually industrious. He has
been practicing law ever since he left school about
twenty years ago. For the first few years he had the
usual struggles of a young lawyer but before he joined
Stilwell he had already made a name for himself and
had built up quite a practice. When Stilwell retired
from the bench he attracted to the new firm of Stil-
well & Harkley a very considerable clientele, among
whom were many of the wealthy and prominent men
of the city. The partnership prospered from the start
and both Stilwell and Harkley are reputed to be well
off; but we had no idea that the judge was really
wealthy."
"What was Harkley's attitude toward your investi-
gation at their office?"
"He was very courteous and offered all possible help;
but he could throw no light on the case. He has per-
sonally offered ten thousand dollars as a reward for
information leading to the murderer's arrest. Harkley
attaches no importance to this man Hayward's private
business with the judge. Thinks he was merely on some
lead for his paper. But he called attention more than
once to the fact that young Styles knew about the pro-
posed change in the will."
"Have you read the will?" Thorne asked.
"Yes, we have a copy. It leaves the estate to Mrs.


58 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE ?
Stilwell, except $100,000 which goes to Styles. That
makes the widow a very rich woman, too,” the inspector
observed.
"No need to suspect her," Floyd stated with finality.
"You know, Floyd,” suggested Thorne, “that poison
has always been a woman's weapon."
"So you think Mrs. Stilwell killed her husband ?”.
“She could have, Sergeant, and there's a lot of money
at stake. History shows that when women do kill, they
incline toward poison.” Then to MacKean:
"By the way, Inspector, did the autopsy disclose
anything new?"
“No, it was as they thought, prussic acid poisoning.
The analysis of the little remaining in the judge's glass
showed traces of it, too."
"Yes, but the butler put it in the glass, all right,”
ventured Floyd; “I'd like to take that guy down to
headquarters and sweat it out of him."
Thorne readjusted himself more comfortably in the
easy-chair, ignoring Floyd's outburst, as did the in-
spector.
"Say, Probus,” said MacKean, digressing from the
case, “that François Valois, Harkley's clerk, would in-
terest you.”
“How so?"
"Something queer about him. I don't know where
Harkley picked up the fellow. He is the soul of cour-
tesy, a little too much so; someway I get the feeling


GRAPHOLOGY 59
that he is laughing at me. He's sort of cross-eyed and
you can't tell for sure just when he is looking at you."
"I'll be glad to have a look at your friend Valois
some time," said Thorne, showing little interest. They
were interrupted at this point by the entrance of Nikko
who returned the specimens of writing. Thorne merely
raised his eyebrows and waited for the oriental to speak.
"Both were written by one man," began Nikko, "but
several years apart and under different circumstances.
No. 1, was written eight or ten years ago with an ordi-
nary pen and ink. The writer was then about forty-
five years of age and in ordinary health. No. 2 was
written very recently on the same kind of paper but
with a fountain pen. The writer was either very ill or
working under a great strain. Anyway, he was ex-
tremely nervous."
"You mean to say," blurted out Floyd, "that you
can tell all of that just by looking at that writing?"
"He doesn't understand, Nikko," said Thorne. "Tell
him about it."
"Very simple, sir," he explained, "when you look
carefully. First, the paper has the same watermark,
therefore the same kind. By treating the ink with
chemicals it is not difficult to ascertain the age of the
writing. In looking at No. 1 through a strong glass, we
see that in some words the ink is very heavy, gradually
getting lighter as the pen ran dry and becoming heavy
again as the pen was dipped. That means that an ordi-


60 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
nary pen was used. In No. 2, the line is the same weight
throughout, showing that the flow of ink was con-
tinuous; therefore suggesting a fountain pen. It would
take some time, sir, to show you how I arrive at the
age of the writer, but it can be judged very accurately,
as authorities agree. I will loan you a book on the sub-
ject if you are interested.
"By enlarging the letters," continued Nikko, "and
comparing their characteristics it becomes plain that
they are all the same person's work; but the words
move along freely in No. 1, indicating that it is the
normal writing of the man, while in No. 2 there is a
nervousness and indecision running through it all,
pointing clearly to the fact that the writer was laboring
under some unusual strain. I'm sorry that I cannot tell
more from the samples."
"Thank you, Nikko," said Thorne, "that will do
nicely," and Nikko left the room as noiselessly as he
had entered.
"I thought Nikko was a butler?" asked the inspector
in surprise.
"He is a butler," admitted Thorne, "and a good
one; but his accomplishments do not stop there," and
he smiled knowingly as he puffed a few smoke rings
and studied Floyd's interesting expression. Then he
said: "Let's get back to our reports. How did Harkley
spend the day?"
"Let me see," and the inspector, looking among his
papers, selected one. "Here it is. Left the Kenton


62 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"Probus, I think Hayward is the guy we want. That
private business with the judge is the bunk. He'll have
to do a lot of explaining."
"I, too, am curious," admitted Thorne, "to know
what he could tell if he would; but he seems all for
keeping still."
"By gad, I'll make him talk!" threatened the in-
spector, bringing his huge hand down on the table with
a bang. "Floyd, go up there early in the morning and
bring him down!"
"I'd go slow with him, Inspector," cautioned Thorne,
"you know he is not easily scared and I doubt if he
can be driven. Why not invite him down; of course if
he refuses, bring him."
"You're right, Thorne. Floyd, get the idea?"
Sergeant Floyd nodded; but one could see from his
expression that the invitation would not be engraved
on scented stationery.
"Come down at nine in the morning, Thorne," Mac-
Kean suggested, "and we will all have a whirl at him."
"I wouldn't miss it! I'll be there at nine."


CHAPTER VII
OPEN SESAME
As soon as the two police officers had gone, Thorne
rang for Nikko.
"Nikko, are we going out?''
"It is quite advisable, sir,” replied the oriental, his
face beaming. "Everything is in readiness.”
"Let's see: sure you have everything-masks, tools,
and all that sort of thing?"
“Quite sure, sir. May I suggest that you wear this
in case of emergency,” and he handed Thorne a neat
gold badge which he pinned under his lapel. In a very
few minutes the two left the apartment by a rear exit.
Thorne swung along the quiet street with a long steady
stride and beside him Nikko, with his short legs, al-
though unable to keep step was nevertheless capable
of even greater speed.
“Just why do you suspect Morley so strongly?"
asked Thorne as they approached within a block or
two of the old bookstore.
"I am not sure, sir," replied Nikko, with some hesi-
tation; “but there is something queer about him. His
past, as far as I can find, is somewhat of a mystery,
sir. He makes few sales. He seldom goes out and he
63


OPEN SESAME 65
"Well, this is the block," said Thorne; "we'll take
a look at the store from across the street," and the two
slipped along quietly, stopping opposite the store where
their forms melted into the gloom of a deep-set door-
way.
The bookstore was dark, as was the apartment over-
head; there was not even a strip of light beside a cur-
tain. The street was deserted at this late hour. After
a few minutes Thorne remarked, "All quiet here, let's
go around to the rear." They walked around the block
and took up their vigil on the far side of the next street
where they could watch the vacant building and still
be unobserved.
"We may have to wait a while, sir," offered Nikko.
Then opening the case of his old style watch and deftly
feeling of the hands, he announced, "It is twenty min-
utes to one."
Thorne studied the old structure, a two story affair,
its shadeless gaping windows proclaiming its disuse.
The ground floor, in somewhat better repair than that
above, was fashioned for a store, with double doors
in the center and show windows on either side. Near
one of the windows was a narrow wooden door, pre-
sumably a side entrance to the second floor; but it was
closed.
As the two stood scrutinizing the old building, the
sound of lightly running feet fell upon their ears and
they crowded back into the shadows with every sense
alert. A dark figure slithered along the opposite side


66 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
of the street, stopped and after a cautious look up
and down the street, ran quickly to the small door in
the vacant building. Reaching up toward the top of
the door he pulled down a piece of board which seemed
hinged to the door frame. The door opened, the board
went back into place and the dark figure disappeared
within. The door closed after him just as a police-
man's shrill whistle sounded down the street and the
watchers heard the tattoo of a night stick on the pave-
ment. In a few minutes two policemen came running
up the street, their heavy footfalls breaking the silence.
Thorne and his companion barely escaped being seen.
"That's a lucky break," said Thorne, as the police-
men passed on up the block. "Those cops might have
spoiled our game. You have tumbled onto something,
Nikko, for certain. At the very least that place is a
hangout for crooks; old Morley may know no more
about it than we do; but we will soon find out."
The two policemen had evidently given up the pur-
suit of the fugitive and were returning. Thorne stepped
out in plain view and lit a cigarette just as the police-
men came abreast. The officers looked at the two
watchers suspiciously and questioned them as to their
business there. Thorne quickly identified himself, then
he remarked, "So your man got away, did he?"
"He sure did, Mr. Thorne, but how did you know
about it?" replied one of the officers.
"Oh, we were standing here and saw it all," Thorne
replied. "What was the trouble?"


OPEN SESAME 67
"Well, sir," the officer explained, "I was on my beat
on the next street just around the corner. I saw a man
go to the door of a store and begin to fool with the
lock. When he saw me he ran and I chased him around
here."
"What, store was it?"
"A bookstore, run by a chap by the name of Mor-
ley."
"Then," said Thorne, "perhaps we can help you
find your man. One of you stay here in plain sight and
keep your eyes open; the other, come along with us."
"Did you see where—" began the officer, but Thorne
silenced him with a gesture and turned away, leaving
one officer on watch. As they passed around the corner
and approached the bookstore a very narrow strip of
light showed beside one of the curtains in Morley's
apartment.
"Officer," directed Thorne, "you stay out of sight
here near the door and keep watch. We are going to
call on Morley. If anyone tries to leave, grab him,"
and he rang the doorbell. For several minutes they
waited; no answer. Thorne rang again and kept ring-
ing persistently. Finally an upstairs window was opened
and a voice called out: "Who is there?"
"It's Probus Thorne, Mr. Morley, will you come
down a minute?"
After what seemed an interminable time a key turned
in the lock and Morley, clad in a long dressing gown,
opened the door.


68 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE ?
"Why am I disturbed in this manner ?” he asked
as he stood blocking the door.
"We want to ask you some questions,” replied
Thorne, and as the other seemed unwilling to invite
them in, Thorne rather brusquely pushed to one side
of him and entered, flashing his light before him.
"Come in Nikko," he said, "and close the door."
"This is an outrage!” protested Morley.
"We have something urgent to talk to you about,”
replied Thorne. “Will you invite us up to your apart-
ment, or shall we go uninvited?”
Morley said nothing and led the way with poor
grace.
"Are you alone ?” asked Thorne as they reached the
living room.
"Certainly. I live alone and don't care for company
at this time of night.”
Thorne glanced about the room. "Have a smoke?"
he asked, offering his cigarettes.
“I have never smoked in my life,” replied their
host with some hauteur. "I abhor the habit !"
"Then perhaps you will be good enough to explain
this?" said Thorne calmly as he picked up a still
smoldering cigarette stub from an ash tray.
“Mr. Morley," said Thorne as the book dealer re-
mained silent, “it will be best for you to tell us at
oncé who your visitor was and where he is now.”
"I-he-there was no visitor," stammered Morley,
as he dropped into a chair before a small writing desk.


OPEN SESAME 69
There was silence for a few minutes. Morley was
moving his hand slowly and cautiously toward the
drawer in the desk but Nikko saw it in time. Stepping
over to the table he opened the drawer and took out
a stubby automatic, which he dropped into his pocket.
"Stand up," he ordered Morley, who reluctantly
obeyed. Nikko ran deft hands over him but found no
other weapon.
"Take care of him, Nikko," Thorne directed, "while
I have a look around."
Morley started to protest but Nikko silenced him
with a motion of his hand. Thorne studied the apart-
ment carefully. The living room where they had been
received, a dining room adjoining and a bath room
yielded nothing unusual. A small kitchenette completed
the suite. Certainly nothing could be hidden there.
Built into the wall was a dish cupboard with two
doors, one above'the other. Thorne opened one which
disclosed a scanty array of chinaware but as he closed
the door it clicked twice. He studied it thoughtfully,
opened the door again and closed it; but he could not
reproduce the double click of the latch. Then it dawned
upon him. Going back through the living room Thorne
went out and brought in the waiting policeman.
"Come on, Morley, we'll take a look for your
visitor."
Taking the bookseller's arm he pushed him forward
into the kitchenette as the others followed.


70 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"Open that door," said Thorne, pointing to the
cabinet, "go on ahead and we will follow."
As Morley paid no heed, Thorne gave his arm a
backward twist that brought a cry of pain. Then,
pale and trembling, Morley pressed a hidden release
and the entire cabinet swung free like a door, reveal-
ing an opening. Somewhere ahead of them in the dark
they heard hurried footsteps that gradually became
fainter. A door slammed and all was quiet again.
Flash lights were brought into play and the passage
was lighted. Passing through the door, they were in
a narrow hall, at the end of which stairs descended;
but at the right was a heavy door, securely padlocked.
Thorne compelled Morley, under threat of arrest, to
produce a key and unlock the door. It opened upon
the first of several rooms, which upon examination
proved to be literally filled with plunder of various
kinds, silks, furs, silverware, ornaments, a huge assort-
ment of the finest wares. In the corner stood a large
safe.
"That will do for now," said Thorne, as his asso-
ciates stared at the display. "This will keep." He then
ushered them all out, locked the door and gave the
key to the officer.
"This way," he announced, and he led the party
along the passage and down the stairs. They had
barely reached the ground floor when there was a
commotion ahead of them in the hall. Throwing their
lights well ahead, they saw the officer who had been


OPEN SESAME 71
left at the rear of the building coming along the pas-
sage with a firmly held prisoner slouching beside him.
"I caught the dirty rat," the officer said, "just as
he ran out the door," and he brought the cringing
captive forward. It was Wattles, the Stilwell butler!
"Good work," commended Thorne. "One of you
officers go down and ring for the wagon. Take these
two birds to the station and make a report. There's
a whole house full of swag here, and besides these two
probably are implicated in the Stilwell murder!"


CHAPTER VIII
AUDACITY
While Thorne was busily engaged upon the Stilwell
case from early that morning until late at night, several
things happened which he only learned later, and which
served further to complicate the mystery of the judge's
death.
At about two o'clock in the afternoon the door of
the Stilwell house opened and Philip Hayward, the
dapper young reporter from Cleveland, appeared upon
the steps. Pausing only to light a cigarette, he walked
quickly to Broadway and took a surface car down-
town, a newspaper tucked loosely under one arm.
Detective Gallagher, assigned to the task of shadow-
ing him, followed at a discreet distance. The street was
nearly deserted at that time of day; but even had it
been crowded, Hayward's tall, erect figure, his alert
bearing, his new Panama hat with an unusually wide
brim and the light malacca cane that he twirled so
nonchalantly would have made him easy to keep in
sight.
Hayward opened his paper and gave it his undivided
attention until the car turned into Forty-second Street.
Leaving the car at Fifth Avenue, he entered the public
72


AUDACITY 73
library and, until about four-thirty, busied himself with
the old files of local newspapers. Then sauntering out
of the building, he climbed to the top of a bus and rode
down to Washington Square and for the next two or
three hours Gallagher was somewhat surprised to see
his quarry prowl aimlessly about Greenwich Village,
his eyes upon the ground as though deep in thought.
During this time Gallagher had a feeling that some-
one was following either himself or Hayward, and
at last he became certain that one man in particular
had been in evidence two or three times when he had
looked behind him. While he was somewhat surprised
at the counter-espionage it really did not seriously com-
plicate his problem as his job was to keep an eye on
Hayward; and as to which of them the third man was
following, that would doubtless develop all in good
time. When Hayward finally entered the Brevoort
Hotel and ordered dinner, it would have been in ac-
cordance with routine for Gallagher to telephone for
relief; but his curiosity was so aroused by that time
that he decided to carry on alone. He was anxious,
too, to see whether the man who was now idling across
the street was interested in Hayward or in himself,
a matter which he could easily determine. He stood for
a moment on the steps of the hotel looking at his
watch, then swung off up Fifth Avenue at a brisk
walk. After going about two blocks he ventured to
look back while ostensibly tying his shoe-lace. The man
was still at his post apparently interested only in Hay-


74 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
ward. Gallagher turned east on Eleventh Street, went
around a few blocks and approached Washington
Square from the south to a point where he could watch
the hotel entrance and still keep the shadower in view.
About eight-thirty Hayward came out of the hotel
and crossed over to a bench in Washington Square
park. There were not many people in that particular
portion of the park so Gallagher, in order not to be
conspicuous, contented himself with a seat some dis-
tance away.
After some time Gallagher was surprised to see not
only one but two men approach Hayward and engage
him in conversation. They sat down, one on either side
of Hayward who seemed at first to protest but who
finally yielded and the newcomers sat very close to him.
Gallagher was surprised a few minutes later to hear
the three burst out laughing. They then arose and, arm
in arm, walked quickly away. As they left the square
the three made their way to the subway at Astor Place
and Gallagher, following at a discreet distance, was
able to identify one as the man who had previously
followed him but the third he had never seen before.
The three entered the kiosk on the uptown side and
the detective, hurriedly crossing the street, went in at
another entrance just in time to catch a train which
the others had apparently boarded.
Working his way forward in the train, his air
supremely casual but with every sense alert, he reached
the front car without finding his men. Doubling back


76 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
hustled him in. The car leaped with a roar and started
up Broadway at high speed. Just then something struck
Gallagher a smashing blow on the back of the head
and he crumpled to the pavement.
On that same night, Dr. Bardwell sat in a well worn
easy-chair in the library of his West Eighty-fourth
Street home deeply engrossed in a monograph on the
results of a new electrical treatment for arteriosclerosis.
The other members of the family had long since retired
and the house was quiet. The physician laid down his
book and yawned.
"Time I was in bed," he muttered to himself as he
glanced at the clock on the bookcase—it was nearly one
o'clock.
The stillness of the place was shattered by the shrill
peal of the doorbell. With a quick step the doctor
passed along the hallway, switching on the lights as he
went, and opened the door to a well dressed man of
perhaps thirty-five, apparently very much excited.
"Can you come, Doctor, at once?" he asked anx-
iously; "an accident in the next block! If you hurry
perhaps we can save him!"
"Where is the injured man?" asked the physician.
"I'll get my bag and be right over."
"But we haven't a minute to lose," urged the
stranger. "Get your bag and I'll take you," indicating
a big green car at the curb.
It took but a minute for the doctor to pick up his


AUDACITY
77
emergency kit and step out to the car, a high-powered
five-passenger affair. A chauffeur sat at the wheel with
the motor running and the other man stood with his
hand on the open door. Looking both ways along the
street and seeing no signs of an accident, Dr. Bardwell
hesitated at the car door and asked again: "Where
was the accident?"
"A block over and around the corner," replied his
guide, "hurry!"
The doctor entered the car. The other jumped in,
slammed the door and they were off. Going east on
Eighty-fourth Street, the doctor expected the car to turn
down Central Park West (a one-way traffic street),
which would bring them to the place so vaguely indi-
cated; but to his surprise the car turned the wrong
way, dashed into the park at Eighty-fifth Street and
headed around one of the curving driveways going
north. The doctor's surprise gave way to suspicion as
the car sped along at a reckless pace and he turned to
the man beside him to demand an explanation, only to
find himself facing an ugly automatic.
"Keep still and mind your own business," he was
told, "and nothing will happen to you; but one chirp
out of you and it will be your last." Then to the chauf-
feur, "Stop in a dark place, Big Boy, and give me a
hand. Open the hood when you stop and if a cop
comes along, tinker with the motor."
They stopped in a deep shadow. Bardwell was
quickly blindfolded and gagged. Then with his hat


78 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
pulled down to hide his face, he was thrust hack in a
corner of the car.
"Step on it, Big One," the man in authority di-
rected. He then turned to the doctor to explain:
"There has been an accident, all right. A friend of ours
was hurt and we are taking you to him. It's our busi-
ness why we don't want you to know where you have
been; but if you do as you are told and don't try any
monkey business, you'll be back in an hour. If not, not!
See?"
Bardwell kept silent through necessity. He fixed his
attention upon the turnings of the car in the hope of
being able to remember the route; but it soon became
apparent that the chauffeur had driven around several
turns in the park to confuse the passenger. Finally
they were out on a straightaway and driving at high
speed.
Dr. Bardwell pondered the situation. In view of the
many recent crimes he feared that, in the language of
the street, he was being "taken for a ride," although
he could think of no possible reason for it. An idea
occurred to him. With extreme caution he slowly
worked his hand into his pocket and drew out the
little leather wallet containing his keys. This, he knew,
bore a small metal plate giving his name and address
and offering a reward for its return. Should anything
happen to him, the keys might be found and thus give
some clew to his disappearance.
It seemed to the blindfolded man that they had


AUDACITY 79
driven several miles on a well paved road, up hill and
down, with many turnings; and by the smell of the
air they were near the water. Taking a chance that his
keeper's vigilance had somewhat relaxed by this time,
the doctor moved about as though to relieve his
cramped position. As he did so, he slipped his hand
over the side and dropped his key wallet. Apparently
the action was not noticed since nothing was done about
it. Eventually the speed slackened. They were on an
upgrade now, and the car, making a slow, easy turn
to the right, went forward a short distance and
stopped. Bardwell decided to take a desperate chance
and snatched off his blindfold; but before he could see
anything the back of a big hairy hand struck him flat in
the face. He was unceremoniously blindfolded again
and none too gently.
"So you're a wise guy, are you?" taunted his cap-
tor. "I'll take care of you later for that. Come along,"
and he was dragged out of the car.
The way led along a rough path and up a few
steps. A door was opened. The doctor was taken by
the arm and led through a large room, along a hall,
and then down a long flight of steps. The place was
damp and musty. Another door opened and after they
had passed, closed again. The blindfold and gag were
now removed and Dr. Bardwell found himself in a
cellar or subcellar room some twenty feet square, with
a cement floor and walls of stone. Without doubt it
was used as a sort of dormitory as there were several


80 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
cots placed along the wall. On one cot directly in front
of the doctor was a man dressed in shirt and trousers.
He lay on his back and bloodstains covered the shoul-
der and front of his shirt.
"This man is hurt," said the guide. "Fix him up and
be quick about it."
His bag was brought over and placed at his side
and without a word the physician proceeded to the task
before him while his captors withdrew from the room,
locking the heavy door behind them. On a stool beside
the door an uncouth gorilla-like guard sat idly watch-
ing the doctor.
On examination, Dr. Bardwell discovered that the
man was not very seriously hurt. A bullet had gone
through the left shoulder, leaving a clean wound, which
he proceeded to dress. In a short time his professional
work was completed and he replaced his impedimenta
in his bag and said to the guard:
"He'll be all right now, it's nothing serious. Keep
him still and leave the bandages as they are for a day
or two. I'm ready to go now," and he picked up his
bag.
The guard glared at him. "Aw, shut up and go to
bed," he said, "that's the only place you'll go," and
he turned his head away.
"But the patient is all right, he is in no danger—"
protested the doctor.
"Well, you'll be in plenty danger in a minute, see?"
came the surly response. "If you hadn't been so smart


AUDACITY 81
you could go. You had to get fresh and take off the
blind and now you stay ! Grab a bunk and flop," and he
mentioned to the row of cots.
"But look here, man"
The guard arose with a murderous scowl and picked
up a heavy club which lay by the stool.
"Will you do as I tell you?" he asked as he slowly
advanced, balancing the club in his paw-like hands.
The doctor went to bed.
Turning his back to the guard, he lay very still, re-
viewing in his mind the incidents of the night, wonder-
ing vainly what was back of his kidnaping and in-
carceration and how he came to be mixed up in the
matter at all. Beyond a doubt his impulsiveness in try-
ing to remove the blindfold had been the cause of his
detention; but then, he reasoned, his captors may have
had no intention of releasing him, anyway.
His only hope was the possibility that his keys might
be found and that through them he might be traced;
but that possibility seemed rather remote. He had
little doubt that he would be kept a prisoner as long
as his professional services were needed, and then
would be conveniently disposed of.
Dr. Bardwell judged that it must be near morning
when he heard footsteps in the hall and a key turned
in the lock. Feigning sleep, he watched with partly
closed eyes as two men entered, half dragging a third
who was roughly thrown upon a cot. As the two were
leaving they held a mumbled conversation with the


82 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
guard, passed into the hall and locked the door behind
them. In the dim light the doctor could get no definite
idea of the appearance of the visitors. The guard came
over and gave the doctor a rough shake.
"Get up," he ordered, "here's another one for you
to patch up."
The guard turned on more light as Dr. Bardwell
arose and went over to examine the new patient. One
look convinced him that he had never seen the man be-
fore. Examination showed that the unfortunate man
had been dealt a blow at the base of the skull, rendering
him unconscious. From all appearances the wound had
been inflicted several hours before. The patient was
robust and in good health; his pulse was strong and
regular and his respiration nearly normal. Rendering
such aid as he could, the doctor loosened the victim's
clothes and arranged him more comfortably. Then he
said to the guard:
"He has had a bad bump but he will probably re-
gain consciousness any time, now. Nothing much to do
but wait."
"You talk too damn much," was the only reply and
the guard returned to his station, taking the doctor's
kit with him. After a time the injured man groaned,
moved slightly and lay still again. Then his eyes slowly
opened and he looked around, blinking at the light.
He started up with a groan, dropped back on the
couch and closed his eyes. It was not until perhaps a
half hour later that he came out of his coma.


AUDACITY 83
"What does this mean?" he asked, surveying his
surroundings. "And who are you?" he asked the doc-
tor.
"I'm Dr. Bardwell. You have had an accident but
you will be all right in a little while," explained the
physician. "Just try to keep quiet."
But the other was not to be put off so lightly.
"Where am I and how did I get here?" he de-
manded.
"I can't tell you," said the doctor, "because I don't
know. Who are you?"
"I'm Detective Gallagher from Police Headquar-
ters."
The guard came over and glared at the two.
"You get back to bed," he ordered the doctor, "and
both of youse keep your damn traps shut. See?"
Having no alternative, the doctor returned to his
cot.
As Detective Gallagher gingerly felt of the bump
on the back of his head, his memory began to return.
The murder in the subway—the flight, the shot; but
the rest of it he couldn't figure out. His head ached
most horribly and he closed his eyes. Eventually he
slept.


CHAPTER IX
SCRAP OF PAPER
At nine o'clock the next morning, punctual to the
dot, Thorne kept his appointment at MacKean's office.
"Now for that grand old institution, the mysterious
third degree!" cried Thorne melodramatically, with
a nourish of his cane. "Have at him! Bring on your
man from Cleveland!" and with one of his infectious
laughs he dropped into a chair and lit a cigarette; but
Inspector MacKean failed to respond to Thorne's
mood. He was very much worried, judging by the
expression on his face.
"What the hell were you up to last night, Thorne,"
he growled, "you and that damned Jap?"
"Oh, about Morley, you mean?" Thorne asked in-
nocently. "Why that was just a little effort to satisfy
a consuming curiosity."
"But why didn't you take me into your confidence?"
"Well, I had so little to go on you know, Inspector,
and really it was done on the spur of the moment.
Anyway, old dear, police methods are so cumbersome
at times. Now I ask, would you have taken the course
we did without first waiting to get a search warrant?"
84


SCRAP OF PAPER
85
"Certainly not," the inspector replied, truculently,
"and you had no right to do it, either!"
"But, MacKean, Nikko recommended it and I have
a lot of confidence in him."
"You really surprise me, Thorne. Now you want
to lay the blame on your butler!"
"Not blame, Inspector, rather let us say credit; he
got the lead, you know. The police department has
all the public credit for the arrests and if there is any
blame, I'll take it."
"But you had no authority and I don't see how you
ever got those cops to take part without orders from
the department."
Thorne kept silent, smoking contentedly.
"By the way," he said at last in the most casual
manner, "have you checked up the junk in old Morley's
back rooms?"
"I'll say we have!" said the inspector, a smile light-
ing up his gloomy face. "The swag from some of the
biggest jobs of the year was there. Morley is such an
innocent looking old devil that he had us all fooled.
In his safe we found practically all the jewels from the
Newell robbery; he was just hanging on to the stuff.
He had over a hundred thousand dollars in cash there,
too. There's enough stuff in his place to connect him
with a dozen big jobs. Tell me, Thorne, what made
you suspect the old devil?"
■"' "His finger prints, for one thing."


86 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"Finger prints! Where?" The inspector showed his
surprise.
"On the little bottle that held the poison. I found
it among the curios on Stilwell's bookcase. It had two
or three small stones in it so that it would be taken for
a specimen on display."
"You never mentioned"
"Sorry, MacKean," apologized Thorne, "you see I
wasn't sure that it was not a specimen, so I took it
along and let Nikko examine it. It had finger prints all
over it. We developed them later and after a lot of
trouble we identified some as belonging to Mrs. Styles
and some to Morley. The others were blurred beyond
identification. That was a deucedly clever trick, Mac.
The poisoner knew that a search would be made for
the poison container and he planned carefully. There
would be very little time to dispose of the bottle and
it would be fatal to have it found on his person. He
might have thrown it out of the window but he could
not afford to depend upon a window being open, and
again the opportunity to toss it out unseen might not
present itself. Knowing the place as he must have,
he was aware that some other specimens were in bot-
tles; so he provided himself with a similar bottle and
two or three small stones. Having poured the acid
into the liquor, he put the stones into the bottle, corked
it and put it in the collection. In this way he was rea-
sonably sure that it would never be detected. Even if
it were, he had carefully removed his own finger prints


SCRAPOFPAPER 87
from the bottle and if it were examined it would either
bear no evidence at all or it would show prints of any-
one who might chance to handle it."
"Then what made you suspect it, Probus?"
"Merely the fact that it had a drop or two of liquid
in with the stones."
"Well, I'll be damned!" was the inspector's com-
ment.
"Oh, doubtless many of us will," agreed Thorne
with a smile. "But how about our friend Hayward?"
"Don't you ever read the papers?" asked MacKean,
his face again taking on a worried look.
"Rarely. Have the yellow journals been saying un-
kind things about the police again?"
"Be serious, Thorne," admonished his friend. "The
fact is that this bird Hayward was mysteriously mur-
dered in the subway last night. Floyd just now phoned
that he, too, had identified the body."
"Good God! How about your man Gallagher?"
"Gallagher," replied the inspector ominously, "has
not been found."
"Tell me all about it," Thorne requested, sobering.
"There isn't much to tell. About nine-thirty last
night there was a commotion in the subway at Seventy-
ninth Street and Broadway. It started when a woman
,»screamed and two men rushed out of the rear car of *
an uptown local and dashed for the street. On the car
seatjjbey left a dead man—we know now that it was
Hayward—with a knife in his back. A man from the


88 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
next car drew a revolver and went after the two. It's
a safe bet that that was Gallagher. Out on the street
he fired at them and hit one but they both got away
in a big green car."
“Isn't there an officer at that street corner ?" Thorne
asked, raising his brows.
“Yes, but it is a wide street and he is stationed on
the far side. He saw the shooting and started after
them as soon as he could grab a car; but they had
too much speed for him and soon got away. When he
came back bystanders told him that the other man,
Gallagher, had collapsed on the sidewalk and some
motorist had volunteered to take him to a hospital."
"Well ?” queried Thorne.
"Well,” repeated the inspector gloomily, "he hasn't
arrived at any hospital yet!”
MacKean sat staring silently at Thorne who seemed
lost in thought. Finally he asked: "Did Hayward have
any papers on him ?”.
“Not a scratch."
“How was he identified ?"
"He wasn't completely identified to our satisfaction
until Floyd got there an hour ago. They found a wallet
with his initials, 'P. H. Hayward's name was Philip,
you remember. On his belt was a reporter's badge
issued by the police department of Cleveland admitting
the bearer inside police lines at fires, riots, etc.; but
when Floyd got there he completed the identification.”


SCRAP OF PAPER
89
W
Just then Sergeant Floyd burst into the room, bub-
bling with excitement.
"Now don't that beat the devil !” he fairly exploded.
“This thing ain't so simple. I'm not sure about that
butler; now it looks more like this guy Hayward. Then
somebody got him!”
"I'll admit,” said MacKean, "that I thought Hay-
ward was the man all along; but now I'm up a tree.
What do you think, Thorne ?"
"Hayward? No, Hayward didn't kill Stilwell.”
“What about his confidential business with the
judge?" reminded Floyd.
"That's his best alibi,” Probus Thorne explained.
"If he had killed Stilwell he would have had a very
plausible story all ready and he never would have
taken such an independent attitude. No, he didn't do
it; but I'd like to know, just the same, what that con-
fidential business was. There's something big behind
all this or there wouldn't be so many in on it."
He then told the two officers for the first time of
the warning he had received the day before and of
the events immediately following
"And there were,” he pointed out, "at least four or
five men concerned in last night's murder; two were
with Hayward, one drove the green car and at least
one other made off with Gallagher. Now the quickest
way to find out who they are is to discover just why
they are doing these things. I think that Hayward,
probably, is the key to it."


go WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
Thorne lit a cigarette and sat thinking.
"Have you questioned Morley and Wattles?" he
asked.
"Yes, but we didn't get much. Morley won't talk
at all and Wattles says that he went down to play
chess with Morley; says he was rattling at the door
when a cop chased him away. But later we found that
he had a key to Morley's front door. He ran around
the block and when he saw an open door he popped
into it to keep away from the cop. He says that he
waited in the old hallway without seeing anybody and
didn't know where he was. When he thought the cop
had gone he came out and was grabbed. He swears he
didn't see Morley and doesn't know a thing about the
place."
"Cheerful old liar," commented Thorne.
"Well, what can we do?" asked Floyd. "I don't
see anything to start on."
"The first thing," suggested Thorne, "is to get some
definite line on Hayward. Trace him back to his boy-
hood if necessary and find out who his relatives and
associates were. Then we may have some clue to what
it's all about. Of course we'll see his wife and go
through his effects here without delay."
The telephone rang. MacKean lifted the instrument
and spoke:
"Inspector MacKean speaking," a slight pause and
then: "Yes, Mrs. Bardwell, what can I do for you?"


SCRAP OF PAPER 91
The conversation was not a long one and when he
had replaced the receiver MacKean turned to Thorne:
"You remember Dr. Bardwell—lives next door to the
Stilwells?—that was his wife. She's worried about
something and wants to see us. We'll run up there
and see her and Mrs. Hayward, too," and he reached
for his hat.
"We'll be back in an hour, Floyd."
The sergeant seemed quite disappointed at being
thus left out of the party.
On the way, the inspector shifted an unpleasant
task to his companion. "You'd better break the news to
Mrs. Hayward, Probus, you can do that sort of thing
better than I can. She's going to take it mighty hard
at best as they have been married only a short time.
You'll know what to say—I wouldn't."
Probus Thorne merely nodded and during the rest
of the short ride he kept silent, turning over in his
mind the gentlest way to deal such a crushing blow.
When they arrived at the house Mrs. Hayward re-
ceived her callers with an air of mild surprise and
showed them into the living room. She sat, looking
questioningly from one to the other, her fingers toy-
ing nervously with a dainty handerchief. Thorne
dreaded the ordeal.
"Mrs. Hayward, I'm afraid we have some very dis-
tressing news for you."
Her face paled as she half arose from the chair.


92 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"It's about my husband! Tell me, what has hap-
pened?"
She stared at Thorne, her eyes unusually wide and
her lips parted. With all the gentleness of a brother,
he conveyed to her by a rare choice of words and a
deeply sympathetic manner, the import of the message
that was to ruin her happiness. For all his subtleness,
the effect was that of a blow. She stared for a moment
as though overcome by surprise; then dropped in her
chair and buried her face in the crook of her arm as
she became convulsed with grief.
Thorne whispered to the inspector who left the room
at once, but a moment later he returned with Mrs.
Stilwell who with a slight motion of her head, sent the
two men out of the room and then proceeded to com-
fort the stricken girl. It was all of half an hour be-
fore Mrs. Stilwell came out.
"The poor girl is heart-broken. Surely you don't
need to say anything more to her?" and she looked be-
seechingly at her guests.
"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Stilwell, but Inspector
MacKean and I must ask her a few questions. There
are some things we must know in order to trace the
murderer. We will be very brief and as considerate
as possible."
MacKean, for all his outward brusqueness, was
singularly touched by Mrs. Hayward's grief and gladly
left the questioning to Probus Thorne.


SCRAP OF PAPER
93
"Can you tell us anything at all, Mrs. Hayward,
about the business that brought you folks to New
York?"
She hesitated; but when she spoke her expression
was one of utter frankness.
"No, I'm afraid I can't. Philip never talked busi-
ness matters over with me. Just yesterday I tried to
get him to answer that same question for me; but he
just laughed and said he would tell me later. And
now"
Again she appeared at the point of breaking down
and Thorne patiently waited.
"Perhaps," suggested the inspector, "there may be
something among his papers that would help us. Do
you mind if we look?"
"No, certainly not," and she led the way to her
room.
"All his papers are in there," and she pointed to a
black brief case.
A careful examination was made not only of the
contents of the brief case but of everything else in the
room. Nothing among his effects seemed in the least
illuminating except one piece of paper, evidently the
second sheet of a letter from the judge which Mrs.
Hayward found in a coat pocket. It ran:
2
"don't let her get the slightest hint of it for even
now I cannot be sure. All my suspicions may be
unfounded—/ hope they are; but I seriously urge


94 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
you to come without delay and make a search-
ing investigation. I will pay all expenses.
Yours very truly,
Gordon Stilwell"
"We would like to take this along, Mrs. Hayward,"
and the inspector put the letter into his pocket, "but
we must ask you not to mention it to anyone. Remem-
ber, not to anyone!"
"I understand."
"Do you happen to know where we can reach any
of Mr. Hayward's near relatives?"
"No, not definitely. I believe he has no very near
relatives. His parents are dead and I am sure that he
has no brothers or sisters. I met him in Cleveland.
He has occasionally spoken of having lived in Wis-
consin; but from little things that he said I got the
idea that his folks originally came from New York
state—let's see—I think he once spoke of the town of
Norway—Norwich—or perhaps it was Norwood;
something like that."
"Very well," said Thorne, preparing to leave, "we'll
see what we can find out in all those towns. In the
meantime we will keep you informed." He took her
hand and looked into her deep troubled eyes. "If we
can be of the least help, in any way, Mrs. Hayward,
don't hesitate to call us," and they withdrew.
"Now let's drop in on Mrs. Bardwell, Thorne, and
see what's on her mind," and he rang the doorbell.
MacKean gave his card to the maid who answered


SCRAP OF PAPER
95
the bell and the two men waited in the hall. The house
was the exact counterpart of the Stilwell home as the
open doors on either side of the hall showed. They
had not long to wait for Mrs. Bardwell, a pleasant
looking woman of forty-five, who seated them in the
living room at the left.
"It was so good of you to come," she said, "and
now I hardly know what to say, but I'm worried about
my husband. We don't know where he is."
"Tell us all about it, Mrs. Bardwell," said the in-
spector.
"Last night," she began, "we all retired rather early
except the doctor who sat up reading as he so fre-
quently does. I remember hearing the clock strike
twelve. Then some time later the doorbell rang. My
room is just above this one," she explained, "and I
listened. The door was quietly opened and I heard
voices at the door. I went to the window just in time
to see the doctor get into a big green car which left
at once."
For a minute she hesitated, then with a look of great
anxiety on her face she said, "I haven't heard from
him since and I'm afraid something dreadful has hap-
pened. He hasn't even telephoned."
"Does he usually call you if he is detained on a
case?"
"Yes, always; and when he is called out at night it
has been his rule for years to leave a note on his desk


96 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
telling me where he can be reached. This time he
didn't." Her lip quivered.
"I really think you have no cause to worry, Mrs.
Bardwell," the inspector remarked reassuringly. "He
was no doubt called on a very urgent case and forgot
to leave a message. It is quite possible that he has
been too busy with the case even to telephone; but we
will look into it," he told her in his most cheerful
manner.
Mrs. Bardwell thanked them and showed them out.
Her fears to some extent had been quieted by her
guests' attitude but it was clear that she was not com-
pletely reassured.
"Women are funny things," said MacKean as they
entered the car and started off. "A doctor's wife
shouldn't worry about a few hours absence. The Stil-
well case has upset her."
"Then you think there is no cause for her anxiety?"
"No, Thorne, of course not. A serious case has
probably kept him up all night and he has turned in
for a snooze. Don't you think so?"
Thorne did not reply at once.
"I might," he said, "except for the big green car."
"You mean—you don't mean that Hayward mur-
derer's car?" asked the inspector in amazement.
Thorne nodded affirmatively.
"My God!" exclaimed MacKean. "And one of them
was wounded—shot by Gallagher!"


CHAPTER X
TANGENTS
When MacKean and Thorne returned to headquar-
ters they found a caller waiting for them.
"You remember me," he said, "Harkley, of Stilwell
& Harkley. My clerk phoned over and was told that
you would be in soon, so I came over."
"Oh yes, Mr. Harkley," replied the inspector, ex-
tending his hand. Thorne greeted Harkley pleasantly
and they were seated.
"Inspector," said Harkley, going directly to the
object of his call, "this Stilwell case worries me. May
I ask what progress you are making, since the news-
paper accounts are so vague? I really want to be of
help if I can."
"Not for publication, you understand, Mr. Hark-
ley," said the inspector with a wry smile, "but the case
is getting more and more complicated. I'll admit that
for a time we suspected Hayward of Judge Stilwell's
murder, although technically there were seven others
who had equal opportunity and we could find no defi-
nite motive for Hayward. Then Hayward's murder
followed; that involved at least four other men and
97


98 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
changed the whole complexion of the affair. It was no
longer a one man job.
"Assuming that for some reason unknown to us,
Hayward did murder the judge, who were these four
men who put him away? Surely Stilwell had no 'gang'
ready to avenge his death."
"No," agreed Harkley, "that is inconceivable. I
think we will find that both murders will be traced to
the same motive. But that is not all—I hear that Dr.
Bardwell has been kidnaped?"
MacKean showed his surprise. "Where did you hear
that?"
"Mrs. Stilwell phoned a while ago. Mrs. Bardwell
had been over and told her all about it."
"Well, Mr. Harkley," the inspector admitted after
some hesitation, "it is true that Dr. Bardwell went out
on a case last night and has not returned, but that
doesn't mean that he has been kidnaped."
Thorne spoke up.
"Supposing he has been kidnaped. It only means
that three crimes have been committed within twenty-
four hours. They may be related and they may not.
At present we haven't much to connect them definitely."
"Have you formulated any theory?" Harkley in-
quired, looking from one to the other.
The inspector seemed about to reply but Thorne
hastened to say: "We have canvassed the various pos-
sibilities, of course; while several theories suggest them-
selves, none seems sufficiently tenable even to express


TANGENTS 99
at this time. Various lines of investigation are under
way and quite naturally we are hoping for results be-
fore long."
MacKean opened a drawer of his desk, drew out
a package and unwrapped it.
"Did you ever see this before, Mr. Harkley?" he
asked, offering the lawyer a peculiarly decorated pearl-
handled knife of the dagger type. Its long slender
blade was fluted somewhat like a bayonet and near the
point there was an opening like a needle's eye. Harkley
examined the weapon carefully.
"Yes," he said, "I have seen it before, among the
curios in Judge Stilwell's collection. It is one he got
in Venice. I remember particularly the decoration on
the handle and the poison slot near the point. Just
where does it come in?"
"It is the only link connecting these crimes," re-
plied the inspector. "It was Stilwell's knife and yet it
was the one used to murder Hayward," and he scru-
tinized his visitor intently. From his appearance Hark-
ley's only reaction was one of surprise.
Finally he ventured: "That looks rather bad for
young Styles, if you ask me!" Then, as he prepared to
leave, he added, "If we don't get something definite
in two or three days more, I think I'll increase the re-
ward. Surely someone knows something that will help
us!"
When Harkley had gone, MacKean scowled and


1oo WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
said: "That clerk of Harkley's, Francois Valois; I
can't seem to get him out of my mind, someway."
Just then Sergeant Floyd entered and handed some
papers to the inspector.
"Now that's a hell of a note," Floyd wailed, "just
read last night's report on Styles and that damn but-
ler. Gone—both of them! Whaddaya think of that?"
and he puffed vigorously at his cigar. MacKean glanced
over the reports and passed them to Thorne, who read
them more leisurely.
"So Styles gave his shadow the slip and hasn't been
seen since yesterday noon. Well, he's probably at home
by this time."
"Oh, no," Floyd hastened to inform them. "I
phoned as soon as I got these reports and Styles hasn't
shown up yet."
The inspector nervously drummed his fingers on the
desk.
"That means," he remarked, "that Styles could have
been one of the subway murderers!"
"Yeah," Floyd quickly agreed, "and this other re-
port means that the butler was the other one. He left
the Stilwell house last night after seven and Dorrance
followed him to a drug store. There's a side door and
Wattles gave Dorrance the slip while he pretended
to telephone. He's the bird all right," and he looked
from one to the other for confirmation.
"Well, Wattles is safe enough, Floyd," said
MacKean. "He's downstairs right now; so's Morley."


TANGENTS
101
He then told Floyd of the raid of the night before.
Being detailed outside on other matters he had known
nothing about it and, of course, nothing had been given
to the papers. MacKean then seemed to come sud-
denly to a decision. "Floyd," he instructed the ser-
geant, "send another officer up to the Stilwell house
right away and keep two men on duty day and night,
one at the front and one at the rear. Don't allow any-
body to leave the house without my permission and
don't even allow them to have any telephone calls
direct, without someone listening in. If Styles shows
up, have him brought down here. Understand? Now
step on it."
Floyd stepped.
The inspector smoked in silence for a few minutes
and then addressed Thorne: "What do you make of
it, anyway?"
"It opens up possibilities, at any rate," was the re-
ply. "Wattles left the drug store before eight. Styles
had been on the loose since noon. The two could have
got together around eight o'clock. Plenty of time to do
the Hayward murder. Yes," he repeated, "it opens up
possibilities."
"That's just about what happened," agreed
MacKean. "And as one of them was wounded by Gal-
lagher, the first doctor they would think of was Bard-
well!"
"That's the weakest part of it, Mac, they wouldn't
want Bardwell of all the doctors in New York. He


TANGENTS 103
just brought Dr. Bardwell's keys to the house. He says
he found them and he claims the reward. What shall
I do?"
"I hadn't heard of a reward and didn't even know
that the keys were lost," replied the inspector.
"Oh, I forgot to explain. There is a little metal
plate attached to the key wallet, giving the owner's
name and address and offering a reward for the return
of the keys."
"How long have the keys been lost, Mrs. Bard-
well?"
"They weren't lost at all. I'm positive that the doc-
tor had them with him!"
"Does the man who found the keys know that you
are calling me?"
"No, Inspector, he is in another room."
"Then listen closely, and act quickly; this may be
very important. Don't let the man know what you are
doing but send the maid to the Stilwell house next
door for an officer—have him take charge of the man
and the keys—then let me talk to the officer. Hurry
now, I'll hold the wire."
MacKean sat drumming his fingers and, in his im-
patience, it seemed a very long time, but in reality it
was only a few minutes, when the officer's voice came
over the phone:
"Inspector MacKean? Officer Blake reporting."
"Have you got him?"
"Yes, sir."


104 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"Good. Bring him and the keys down here as quick
as you can. Now let me speak to Mrs. Bardwell again,"
and almost at once the doctor's wife spoke:
"Yes, Inspector?"
"Mrs. Bardwell," said MacKean, "you did a very
wise thing to call me while the man was there. There
are several ways in which he may have come by the
keys and we want to learn all about it. We will cer-
tainly do our best. Have you heard from the doctor
in any other way?"
"No, not a word. Oh, can't something be done, In-
spector? I feel so helpless and this uncertainty is ter-
rible!"
"Now don't you worry, Mrs. Bardwell. I feel sure
that the doctor is safe and that we will soon find him,"
and he continued for some minutes in his efforts to
allay her fears. "Yes, I'll call you as soon as we learn
anything. Good by," and he returned to his work. In
less than an hour Officer Blake ushered in a rough
looking, shifty-eyed character. From his appearance
he was some sort of laborer but he was not overawed
by being brought to headquarters as most men would
be; rather, he took a belligerent attitude.
"Wat's de idee of de pinch?" he demanded, "you
ain't got nuttin on me. I oney found a guy's keys."
"You're not pinched," said the inspector quietly,
"sit down and tell us about it."
"Do I git de reward?" asked the stranger as he
slid into a chair.


106 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE ?
Pay him and let him go. Stick around the park until
he leaves but don't follow him."
"O.K., Inspector," said Blake. Then to the other,
"Let's go."
As Blake and the finder of the keys left the build-
ing a commonplace, inconspicuous little man sauntered
out after them, with orders to tail the stranger until
he "flopped” for the night.
MacKean hastily arranged his papers and went out
for a belated dinner. In less than an hour he was back
at his desk again but it was nearly midnight when the
report came in on the man who had found the keys.
His shadow had followed him—but not to Tenth Street,
Hoboken. MacKean reached for the phone and called
an apartment on Park Avenue.
"Hello; Probus Thorne? This is MacKean."
“Well, well, Old Sleuth, still at it?" and Thorne's
merry laugh came over the wire. “I was just about to
‘Alop' as you so aptly express it. What's up?”
“We just picked up a hard-boiled baby that says
he found a key wallet and he wanted a reward. The
keys belong to Dr. Bardwell.”
"Did you lock him up?"
"No, Probus, I'm not that bad. He said he found
the keys in Madison Square park this afternoon, be-
side a bench. Of course that's hooey; they couldn't
have been there all this time. Then, too, he said he
lives in Hoboken."


TANGENTS 107
"Maybe he does, Inspector. Folks do, you know.
What did you do with him?"
"I gave him ten bucks and had him followed to
where he really does live."
"Stout fella! And where is that?"
"In a little shack up on the Spuyten Duyvil."
"Well?"
"I thought it might interest you, Probus, since
you're going driving in the morning, to take a look
around his part of town. You know that section, I
suppose?"
"In a general way, yes. Which side of the river does
he live on?"
"The north side."
The inspector gave him detailed directions: "Run
up to the end of Riverside Drive and turn into Broad-
way at Dyckman Street; follow Broadway on up and
across the bridge, then turn left on Two Hundred and
Thirtieth Street. Keep on four or five blocks to Spuyten
Duyvil Road. Follow the road down to the point. It's
somewhere down there on the river bank—you don't
need the exact spot—but just take a good look around.
Got it?"
"Yes, I can follow that," said Thorne. "See you to-
morrow night. Good by." But neither of them had
any idea of the circumstances under which their next
meeting was destined to take place.


ZENITH AND NADIR 109
of the whole plot for the sake of the small reward
that might be expected for the return of a bunch of
keys? It seemed improbable. But if the man had no
connection with the gang and had really found the
keys, then why the fiction about living in Hoboken?
Yet, a man of his type might conceivably have other
very personal reasons for not wanting the police to
know where to find him.
After mulling the matter over Thorne came to the
conclusion that either the man had really found the
keys in which case he had probably found them some-
where in the neighborhood of his shack-or he was
some minor member of the gang and had stolen them
for the paltry reward. Either of these hypotheses
seemed to indicate that Dr. Bardwell had been-per-
haps was still in the Spuyten Duyvil section.'
Thorne turned to the left on Two Hundred and
Thirtieth Street as directed and went on to Spuyten
Duyvil Road, following its winding course down toward
the point. Up on the higher ground he had passed many
excellent properties, but as he stopped his car at the
lower end of the curve and scanned the river front he
saw only a number of boathouses and decrepit old
shacks, one of which, he surmised, must be the domicile
of the man in question.
At this early hour on Sunday morning there was
little sign of life along the shore. As no other cars
were passing, Thorne's continued presence there would
render him too conspicuous for his purpose. He de-


ZENITH AND NADIR 1n
splendid tract of rising ground not too far from the
river, the place, if remodeled and repaired, could be
transformed into a wonderful estate and would be just
the kind of hermitage he had always wanted. It was too
good to overlook. Thorne parked his car near the
ruins of what had been, years ago, a white picket fence
and walked up through the weed-grown yard, plan-
ning, as he went, the changes he would like to make
in the house and grounds.
"Git away from there!" a voice suddenly called out.
Thorne saw a man emerge from a small outbuilding
at the left of the main structure and walk rapidly
toward him. Coming nearer, the man, evidently a care-
taker, said:
"No trespassin', mister. Whatcha want here any-
way?"
He was not a prepossessing looking person at best
and his decidedly unfriendly attitude was emphasized
by the unusually heavy club-like walking stick that
swung a little too freely in his hand.
"I just wanted to look at the place," said Thorne.
"I thought perhaps it might be for sale."
"Well, you can't and it ain't; so clear out," and
the caretaker motioned toward the road with his stick
as he planted himself squarely in front of his visitor.
Thorne merely smiled and turned back to his car,
mumbling to himself, "'Twas ever thus from child-
hood's hour, I've seen my fondest hopes decay." His
car swung along the sweeping curves of the road back


112 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
to the main thoroughfare. Then, north, on and on,
through the various villages along the Hudson for
half a hundred miles, across the Bear Mountain Bridge,
to the delightful hill country along the Storm King
Highway.
On he sped, the everchanging landscape swiftly un-
folding before him like a panorama. Now on a high
mountain road overlooking miles of the lower coun-
try, dotted here and there with toy-like villages, the
roads appearing at a distance like a network of white
ribbon against the green of the foliage; now through
a deep wooded valley where a glistening stream hurried
on its way down the hillside, pausing occasionally to
rest in shaded pools that temptingly held out their in-
vitation to come with hook and line and try for the
finny prizes hidden within their cool depths. Thorne
was a boy again—a boy on a real holiday!
It was well past noon when he parked his car be-
side a little-used side-road and got out the hamper of
food that Nikko had insisted upon preparing. Nikko
was a jewel!
A lunch beside the brook, a smoke in the cool shade
and he was off again, bent on getting the most out
of his day. Eventually he headed back circuitously
toward the main highway, and none too soon, for his
day-dreaming had taken him far afield and the sun
was getting low.
When Thorne came out again upon the Storm King,
the spell was broken. Gone was the spirit of boyhood


ZENITH AND NADIR 113
adventure in the woods; gone the peaceful solitude of
the country by-ways as he cautiously guided his car
into the maelstrom of traffic that now filled the road
to overflowing. An hour ago he had the world to him-
self; now he was merely an atom in the apparently
endless stream that flowed onward toward the city.
Dusk was closing in as he crossed Bear Mountain
Bridge. He had some thought of dinner at a roadside
inn, but threatening storm clouds overcast the sky and
he kept on, making such headway as he could. Some
two hours later he swung off again on Two Hundred and
Thirtieth Street. It was very dark now and rain was
imminent. Hoping that he would be able to do his recon-
noitering before the storm broke, he eased his car down
the Spuyten Duyvil Road to a place he had selected
earlier in the day, locked it and switched off the lights.
As he approached the line of shacks along the shore
he noted that lights burned dimly in several of them.
After some maneuvering he found a listening post near
one hut, but from it only an occasional word was heard.
When, after seemingly endless waiting, he ventured
at some distance to look in at the open door he saw
only a white-bearded old man deeply absorbed in a
newspaper while in a rocking chair an old lady frankly
dozed. Thorne passed on to another house and spent
fifteen minutes there with no better results. As he
neared a third, he heard the murmur of voices and
decided that by approaching it from a landing dock
below he could get near enough to an open window to


114 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
hear and perhaps see, what was going on inside. Thorne
kept close to the hut and cautiously worked his way to
the corner. When he peered around, the dock seemed
clear and he felt that now was his opportunity. So
noiselessly did he make his way that no sound was
heard except the plop-plopping of the water against
the boats moored at the dock, and the drone of voices
within the shack. He reached a point near the window
and stopped for a moment to listen. From the con-
versation a game of cards was in progress.
The rain that had been threatening for hours now
began to fall, lightly at first but rapidly increasing in
volume. Thorne was leaning over trying for a view in-
side the hut when a rough voice asked: "Wot the hell
you want?" Thorne turned quickly and saw a man
standing in one of the boats not ten feet away. As
his position was absolutely unexplainable a hasty re-
treat was clearly indicated. With a mumbled oath he
whirled to leap across the dark space at the corner
of the house, but as he stepped too close to the end
of a loose board, the opposite end flew up and he
landed waist deep in the soft mud and water beside
the dock. He attempted to scramble to solid ground
but his progress was slow. The men in the shack,
disturbed by the commotion, rushed out and dragged
him to his feet, holding him roughly by the arms.
"He was listenin' by the winda," called the man in
the boat, "soak him!"


CHAPTER XII
RUSES
When consciousness returned to Thorne, he first
became aware of the faint but cleanly odor of drugs.
He lay perfectly still and opened his eyes. A sprightly
young woman in a nurse's uniform sat near a window,
apparently enjoying the invigorating breeze of the
summer morning which gently swayed the window
draperies, giving Thorne a glimpse of fresh green tree-
tops bathed in bright sunshine.
The quietness of the slightly darkened room, though
austere and business-like in its white simplicity, con-
trasted pleasantly with the turbulence of the scene
Thorne last remembered. As he moved slightly, the
nurse turned her head and glanced at her patient, then
came quickly to the bedside.
"Oh, so you are awake?" she said in a low, pleasant
voice. "How do you feel this morning?"
"Wonderful," lied Thorne, "never felt better in my
life," as he noted her clear fresh complexion and deep
blue eyes. The smile on her lips, too, was contagious
and he responded.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"Ten-thirty."
117


RUSES 119
Thome attempted to turn in his bed but found the
pain quite distressing.
"Better lie still," the doctor admonished, "your left
arm is broken and it will be very painful for a while;
but we will have you out in a few days," and he smiled
reassuringly.
"How soon may I see Inspector MacKean?" Thorne
asked.
"In a few minutes," he was told, "as soon as you
have taken a little nourishment; he is waiting down-
stairs."
"So, then, he knows where I am?"
"Does he?" and the doctor laughed good-naturedly.
"He was here three times yesterday to see you and
he has been here all morning."
"Yesterday?' queried Thorne in surprise.
"Yes," replied the physician, "you were brought
here Sunday night and this is Tuesday."
When Inspector MacKean entered the room a half
hour later his face was grave.
"Cheer up, Mac," said Thorne, "you look like you
were about to attend your own funeral!"
The inspector's face relaxed somewhat.
"I was afraid I would have to attend yours," he re-
plied; "but the doctor seems to think you will sur-
vive."
"How did you know I was here?"
"Why, Probus, I sent you here. I was expecting to
hear from you Sunday night and when I went home


120 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
about ten o'clock, I phoned your apartment, but your
little playmate said he had no word from you. The
next I heard was that an ambulance call had been sent
in, that you had had a smash up, so I had them bring
you here. How do you feel now?"
"Oh, just a little battered up, but otherwise all
right."
"Feel like talking?"
"Never more so. They say that I have lost a day and
you'll have to make it up to me."
"Tell me about Sunday," suggested the inspector.
Thorne gave him an account of his trip in the coun-
try and his encounter, later, with the men on the
Spuyten Duyvil.
"I had a feeling of flying through the air and I
landed at the foot of a muddy bank, but how it hap-
pened is beyond me."
"I think I can tell," said MacKean. "That bunch
of river rats took you for a ride after they knocked
you out. They either knew you by sight or found out
who you were from your car. Did you have any papers
or anything on you?"
"No, not a thing."
"Well, anyway your car was driven up along the
river a mile or two and run off the bank with you in1
it. It's a wonder that you came out of it alive for the
car is a nice mess of junk."
"Those fellows do play rather roughly, now don't
they?" and Thorne smiled as though enjoying the


122 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
MacKean held a short conference with Dr. Gratz,
before leaving the hospital, and arrangements were
made for carrying out Thorne's plan. The later after-
noon papers all carried front page notices of Thorne's
death with a plausible story of how the accident prob-
ably had occurred, but stressing the point that it was
only conjecture as the victim had died without regain-
ing consciousness.
Some hours later MacKean called up Dr. Gratz.
"How is Probus Thorne, Doctor?" he asked.
"Excellent," was the report. "Except for his broken
arm and a few bruises, he is all right. He will be out
in a day or two." To the inspector's next question he
replied, "Certainly, come on up; Thorne has had a
good sleep and a visit will do him good."
MacKean picked up a few papers from his desk,
arranged with his subordinates concerning some mat-
ters demanding attention and went at once to the hos-
pital where he found Thorne propped up in bed, al-
most hidden with bandages.
"Hello, Probus," called out MacKean. "You look
like a real live mummy coming out of his wrappings.
Have you seen your obituary?"
Thorne gave a negative shake of the head and
reached eagerly for the clippings that his friend of-
fered. He read them with much satisfaction.
"Fine," he commented. "This will help our case
immensely. Whoever killed Stilwell sent me that warn-
ing; now they think they 'bumped me off' as Floyd


RUSES
123
would say, without even raising a suspicion. I think
we'll soon be making headway. Anything else ?"
"This," said the inspector. "It is the first ray of
light on Hayward," and he handed Thorne a telegram.
The message read:
“Norwood New York.
“Nothing in Norway or Norwich Stop No Hay-
ward ever lived here Stop Silas Hayward visited
here thirty five years ago Stop Year later Mary
Van Dorn of old local family went Racine Wis-
consin and married Silas Hayward Stop Mary
Hayward died twenty years ago Stop Peter Van
Dorn only family survivor reported living New
York Stop Arrive tomorrow
"Farnam"
C
Thorne studied the message for a moment then
dropped it on the bed.
“MacKean, I just wonder—" then after a pause,
“if Philip Hayward was a son of this Mary Hayward,
née Van Dorn, we've found a starting place."
The inspector nodded. "I've phoned Mrs. Hay-
ward,” he said, "and she is sure that his mother's
name was Mary.”
· "Then we must locate this Uncle Peter Van Dorn
and see what he has to say. Have you had him looked
up yet?"
"I have a good man on it now. In the telephone


124 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
book and the city directory together, we found about
forty Van Dorns, Van Dorens and Van Doorns. We
are checking up on all of them and it will take some
time."
"Well, that," concluded Thorne, "is that. Anything
else?"
"They have held inquests on Stilwell and Hayward.
Only the formal evidence of death was presented in
each case and then an adjournment was taken. That
helps; but the Commissioner has had me on the carpet
and threatens that unless I get the matter all cleared
up in ten days I'll be pounding a beat. He means it
tool"
"Cheer up, Old Sleuth," Thorne chaffed his friend,
"we'll have enough in ten days, I hope, to at least get
you a reprieve! What else?"
"Old Morley has been remanded for trial on a
charge of receiving stolen goods, with Wattles as an
accessory, so they're safe. We didn't press the murder
charge against either one, but we can later."
"No news of Dr. Bardwell?"
"Not a word and his wife is frantic. She even called
up the Commissioner and raised merry hell about it.
Oh, I'll be lucky if they don't tie a can to me this
time!"
The nurse came in and announced: "There's a Ser-
geant Floyd on the telephone, Inspector, who is very
anxious to speak to you."
MacKean excused himself and was gone for perhaps


RUSES
125
ten minutes. When he returned, his bearing showed
that he had some news.
"Styles has returned,” he explained. "They picked
him up and took him down to headquarters without
letting him talk to anyone. He's locked up now where
he can't be reached; but I'd better get along down and
razz him. See you in the morning."
Sergeant Floyd was waiting for MacKean at head-
quarters.
"Well, Inspector, I've got Styles downstairs waitin'
for you," he said and his countenance glowed like that
of a school boy who has just presented his teacher with
a big red apple.
"Has he talked ?"
"Wouldn't let 'im !” said Floyd, triumphantly.
"Bring him up."
The inspector seated himself at his desk and glanced
hurriedly at the papers left for his attention. His face
was overcast one moment and bright the next, like an
autumn sky, as he awaited the arrival of the prisoner.
The door opened and Styles entered, closely followed
by Sergeant Floyd who motioned to a chair and then
closed the door.
"Why am I here under arrest?” asked Styles.
The inspector ignored the question.
"Where have you been,” he asked, “and why did you
beat it?"
Styles repeated the question with some heat, “Why
was I arrested—what's the charge?"


126 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"I'll ask the questions here, Styles," the inspector
informed him. "You answer them. Where have you
been?"
Styles shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette.
"Suppose I don't care to answer?" he countered, a
half smile gathering around his lips.
"You'll answer!" McKean replied with conviction,
and his eyes flashed like sunlight on steel. He opened
a small safe that stood near his desk and took out a
small glass vial which he held out before the prisoner.
"Do you know what that is?"
"Looks like a small bottle," said Styles.
"It's the bottle that held the prussic acid that poi-
soned Judge Stilwell," said the inspector, ominously;
but the pronouncement seemed in no way to affect the
prisoner.
"Well?" remarked Styles, still smiling, "what about
it?"
MacKean held him with his steady gaze and slowly
answered: "It has the murderer's finger prints on it—
and they are your wife's/"
Styles recoiled as from a blow. His face became sud-
denly colorless and fixed like a plaster mask as he
sat staring vacantly at the officer. Finally as though
by a great effort he aroused himself and a look of
resignation came over his countenance.
"I'll tell you what you want to know," he said. "I .
killed Judge Stilwell—Lucile had nothing to do with
it."


RUSES 127
Floyd whistled softly. MacKean sat rigid, his eyes
on the prisoner.
"Why did you do it?" he asked.
"I killed him; that's enough. Give me a paper and
I'll sign a confession; but you can't hold my wife."
"Bring a stenographer," Floyd was told; and when
a young man with a notebook and pencil came in, Mac-
Kean said:
"This man, Fred Styles, wants to make a confes-
sion. Take it down." Then to the prisoner: "All right,
Styles, go ahead."
"I killed Judge Stilwell," Styles dictated, "by put-
ting poison in his liquor. I did it for reasons of my
own and am ready to take the consequences. No one
else had anything to do with it. That's all."
As they could get nothing more out of him, the doc-
ument was typed, signed and witnessed.
"Now I want a lawyer," demanded Styles.
"Who do you want?"
"Harkley."
"Take him back to his cell, Floyd, and I'll get
Harkley."
When he telephoned Harkley's office he was an-
swered by the clerk, Valois, who stated that Harkley
was out.
"Will you leave a message?" he asked.
"I want to see Mr. Harkley as soon as possible on
a very important matter," replied the inspector,
gruffly. "Do you know where you could reach him?"


128 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"I think so, Inspector, I'll try to get him right away.
Shall I tell him what you wish to see him about?"
The bland oily voice of the Frenchman nettled Mac-
Kean.
"I'll tell him myself," he declared, and hung up.
Valois must have been successful in reaching Hark-
ley at once, if the lawyer was, in fact, out of the office
at all; for in a very few minutes he was announced to
MacKean.
"Francois said that you wish to see me?"
"Yes, Mr. Harkley," said the inspector, offering &
chair. "We have Fred Styles under arrest for Stilwell's
murder. Read that!" and he passed over the signed
confession.
Harkley's eyes brightened as he read, but otherwise
his face remained expressionless.
"I'm not surprised," he said, handing back the
paper.
"He wants you to defend him!" announced Mac-
Kean.
"He what? That does surprise me. He doesn't like
me and I think he is guilty—have thought so all along.
I certainly could not undertake his defense under any
consideration."
"I wish you would see him anyway, Harkley; other-
wise he will think we are keeping you apart. He asked
for you, you know."
"Very well, Inspector, I'll see him and tell him to
get someone else. I'll be back soon," and he went out


RUSES 129
of the room. It was over half an hour later when he
returned and his whole attitude seemed changed. The
inspector would have given a pretty penny to have
heard what had been said between the two.
"On second thought, Inspector," Harkley said
slowly, "I suppose I'll have to defend him after all."
He walked to the window and for a time stood looking
out into the street. Then lighting a cigarette, he blew
a cloud of smoke, turned around and said:
"That was a terrible thing that happened to Probus
Thorne. Did you get any particulars? The newspapers
didn't give much."
"No, simply another automobile accident. Lord
knows there are plenty of them."
"He remained unconscious to the end?"
"Yes—concussion of the brain and internal injuries,
the doctor said."
"Well, Inspector, let me know as things develop,"
said Harkley and he took his leave.


CHAPTER XIII
EMPTY CASKET
Inspector MacKean made an early call at Dr. Gratz's
hospital the next morning, and was agreeably surprised
to find Thorne fully dressed, sitting by a window en-
joying a cigarette.
Thorne welcomed his guest with a smile.
"I'm glad you came early, Mac, I was just planning
my getaway. What's new?"
"For one thing, Styles has confessed."
"Confessed? What the deuce did he have to con-
fess?"
"He says that he poisoned Stilwell," the inspector
explained, as he took some papers from his pocket.
"But this is all we could get out of him," and he gave
Thorne the signed confession.
"Really, MacKean," said Thorne with a sly look,
"most remarkable. Tell me, old thing, in strictest con-
fidence of course, what did you do to this poor mis-
guided youth to cause him to make such an incrim-
inating statement? Is Styles now an honor graduate
of your famous third degree?"
The inspector's face colored.
130


EMPTY CASKET 131
"Nothing like that, Thorne," he replied, "we didn't
do a thing to him. Just showed him the poison bottle."
"You kept it a secret, of course, that his wife's finger
prints were on the bottle?" asked Thorne with a sly
chuckle.
"Well, no, not exactly. Fact is, I told him about it.
Why not?"
"Then," suggested Thorne, "he immediately con-
fessed but refused to go into details. Right?"
"Right," the inspector admitted.
"Wise lad. He never will give you any details. He
doesn't know them!"
"Well, if he didn't kill Stilwell he knows who did,"
but as Thorne continued to smile, MacKean finished
with somewhat less assurance, "he knows something,
all right!"
"Quite so," said Thorne, slowly nodding his head.
"He knows, for instance, that Stilwell was poisoned.
He knows, too, that you have finger print evidence
against his wife; so he most gallantly confesses the
dastardly deed to save her, fearing that possibly she
did do it. Chivalry, my dear Inspector, is not dead
yet!"
"What makes you so sure that Styles is innocent,
Thorne?" After a pause he added: "He could have
done it—he could have been one of Hayward's mur-
derers and he could have been back of Bardwell's dis-
appearance. He refuses to tell where he has been or
what he was doing. Unless we learn a whole lot more


132 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
about it, we'll hold him for it," the inspector stated
emphatically.
"You mean that unless you learn a whole lot more
about it, you will turn him loose," Thorne suggested.
“What can you prove? The confession means nothing
by itself. An American court can't accept a plea of
guilty on a first degree murder charge, you know;
and as for proof-well, you just haven't any! By
the way, MacKean, who knew the combination of Stil-
well's library safe?".
"The whole family."
“Meaning?”
“Why, Mrs. Stilwell and—Styles !” After a mo-
ment: "I wonder ..."
"Remember, Mac, Styles has been a.w.o.l.—he lives
in Washington-five thousand dollars is missing. Why
not send a man to Washington to look-see?”
MacKean nodded understandingly and made a note
in his book.
"Of course, you are still looking up the past of all
the suspects. Have you found anything new?”
“Yes. That little blonde cutie, Lucile Styles, handed
me a surprise. I thought she was a soft clinging vine."
Thorne smiled and raised his brows as he kept on
blowing smoke rings. MacKean continued:
"Last night Lucile left the house about eight o'clock.
Of course she was followed. She went over to Broad-
way and Fifty-third Street and met a tough looking
bird and they stood on the side street and talked where
TO


EMPTY CASKET 133
it was hard for my man to get near. He got only a
small part of the conversation. Evidently the guy was
threatening her with something for she got mad and
bawled him out like a longshoreman. Then he mumbled
something more and she socked him in the jaw and
yelled: 'Tell, you damn yellow-bellied lizard ... I
dare you to tell!' What do you think of that, Probus?"
"I'm astounded, Mac! She appeared quite the little
lady. She's not a mental heavy-weight, to be sure, but
I can't quite square such actions with my estimate of
her; still, you never can tell about these little golden
haired baby-dolls. Did the shadow have sense enough
to follow the man?"
"No ... he followed . . . instructions!"
"Mac, she may be the connecting link between the
subway murderers and the Stilwell murder. She could
have given them the dagger, too. Perhaps this fellow
is blackmailing her. You know the judge was a very
level headed man; he wouldn't have objected to her
marrying into the family without some good reason.
When you find out what it was it may be very illu-
minating. Keep at it."
"Yes, I'll keep at it and I'll remember too that her
finger prints were on the poison bottle and that she
probably knew about the change in the will. Maybe
the judge had Hayward come here to look into her
past for him, supposing that Lucile was the her the
judge's letter referred to."


134 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE ?
"That's possible, Mac. Now let's get back to Styles.
Has he asked for a lawyer ?”
“Yes, he had us send for Harkley. Funny thing, too,
for Harkley has cast suspicion on Styles more than
once. When he came he said that he wouldn't defend
Styles under any consideration. But I asked him to see
the boy anyway. Then he comes back and says that he
will defend him after all.”
"That's easily understood. If he's innocent he would
naturally want Stilwell's partner to defend him and if
he's guilty it would be a masterful stroke as he would
thus silence anything that Harkley might have to say
against him."
'But suppose that Lucile Styles poisoned the judge ?"
"In that case her husband might be willing to go
on trial, feeling sure that he could not be convicted
and that she would be overlooked; that is, if he knows
or even strongly suspects that she did it.”
They smoked in silence for a while.
"Did Harkley mention my untimely demise ?"
“Oh, yes, and he spoke very highly of you.”
"You don't think he suspects the truth, do you?"
“No, Probus, why should he? I don't think anybody
does.”
“Anyway,” said Thorne, “I'd advise that you give
out the statement that the remains will be sent to
London for burial. Then ship a weighted box from here
in the regular way to a London address that I'll give


EMPTY CASKET 135
you and the illusion of my demise will be complete,
in case anyone should happen to be curious."
"All right, I'll attend to it." Then after a time he
remarked: "I'd sure like to know what Styles said to
Harkley."
"Yes, MacKean, so would I. In fact there are sev-
eral other little things I'd like to know, for we will
never make much headway until we find them out.
Here are a few of them:
"First. What was Hayward's business with the
judge?
"Second. Was it associated with the handwriting1
specimens, or had it to do with Lucile Styles?
"Third. Was Stilwell's liquor poisoned by one of
the eight we suspected or by an accomplice of one of
them?
"Fourth. What connection, if any, is there between
Morley and the gang back of these other crimes?
"Fifth. Where did that fellow actually get Bard-
well's keys?
"Sixth. Are those fellows up on the Spuyten Duyvil
who gave me such an ungentlemanly reception, really
connected with these various crimes, or are they simply
a rough bunch who took such drastic means to express
their disapproval of my unconventional visit?
"Seventh. Where was Styles and what was he
doing?"
"Yes," interrupted the inspector, "and you might
add: Who threw that book out of the judge's window?


136 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
The Commissioner asked me another one last night,
too. He wanted to know how Stilwell's knife got out
of the house while officers were on guard!"
"The main question is, MacKean, what's back of it
all. When we know why, it is easier to tell who. Hay-
ward is the key to the puzzle. He was killed because
he suspected something. The judge's letter to Hay-
ward expressed a suspicion, you remember, and that is
undoubtedly why he was killed. Who and what were
they suspicious of? It certainly had something to do
with Hayward. By the way, have you located his Uncle
Peter?"
"I think so, Thorne, and I'm going to see him my-
self. We got into communication with all of the Van
Dorn's on our list except one and drew a blank every
time. This only remaining one is named Peter and he
lives on the Spuyten Duyvil Road. He has no telephone
so I am driving up; wish you could go along."
Thorne whistled, then sat thinking.
"What is your own plan now, Thorne?"
"The faithful Nikko," he replied, as his face bright-
ened, "is an expert at many things. He will come over
presently and give me a make-up that will make a new
man of me."
"And then?"
"Then, Inspector, I'll wend my weary way home-
ward; not directly, of course, but eventually I will get
there. After that I'll take my ease for a while as any


EMPTY CASKET 137
respectable corpse should," and he indulged in a merry
laugh in which MacKean heartily joined.
At this juncture, Nikko was shown in.
"Ah," said Thorne, "here comes Nikko now, to pre-
pare the body!"
"Quite so, sir," replied the Japanese, "but I am very
much pleased that I am to use grease paint and false
hair instead of embalming fluid," and his expression
approached as nearly to a smile as a perfect butler's
may.
MacKean arose and picked up his hat.
"When shall I see you again, Probus ?" he asked.
"I'll be at home this evening. You might call osten-
sibly to see Nikko to help him with any final arrange-
ments."
MacKean extended his hand. "See you tonight, then.
Good by," and he left the two to their plans.
Thorne never knew whether he was right in his sur-
mise that the hospital would be watched, but it would
have been an easy matter to keep it under surveillance
from a park bench across the street. If there were
watchers, they might have seen a cab stop at the hos-
pital entrance at about eleven o'clock and discharge
two fares—a feeble, old, white-haired man who wore
an old style cape-coat around his bent shoulders, ac-
companied by a neatly dressed young woman.
The two visitors entered the hospital and in less
than an hour came out again, called a taxi and were
driven to an actors' boarding house in the West Forties.


CHAPTER XIV
HYOSCYAMOUS
Inspector MacKean drove up to the Spuyten Duyvil
Road and, after one or two fruitless inquiries, was di-
rected to the home of Peter Van Dorn; but when he
arrived at the dilapidated and apparently untenanted
old mansion he couldn't help feeling that something
was radically wrong. Surely no wealthy man, as Van
Dorn was reputed to be, would allow his property to
look so down at the heel, but his informant had been
positive that this was the Van Dorn house.
MacKean had been a long time in the service how-
ever, and he knew better than to allow himself to be
guided too much by appearances. Peter Van Dorn was
an old man and, according to some vague reports that
were going around, just a little queer, as men are
likely to be when they live too much to themselves.
The inspector alighted and started briskly up
through the weed-grown yard toward the house, still
wondering at the condition of the property. About
half way he altered his course somewhat in order to
meet a man whom he now saw coming toward him
from a small building to the left of the mansion.
139


140 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"What do you want here?" the man called from a
little distance.
"Is this Peter Van Dorn's residence?" asked Mac-
Kean.
"What's the difference?" was the noncommittal
reply.
The men came to a halt, squarely facing each other.
MacKean's voice, although pleasant enough, took on
a tone of authority.
"I'm Inspector MacKean, from Police Head-
quarters," he said. "I have some important business
with Mr. Van Dorn and I want to see him at once."
"Well, you can't," the other replied, seemingly un-
impressed by the announcement. Then he added as an
afterthought, "He ain't here."
"Where is he?"
"Dunno; Europe, I reckon."
"Do you know when he will be back?"
"No."
"Who are you, anyway?"
"Me? I'm the caretaker. Ain't nobody here and it's
my job to look after the place."
MacKean curbed his impatience with difficulty.
"Is there anyone," he asked, "who knows Mr. Van
Dorn's address in Europe?"
"Dunno. Maybe his lawyer."
"Who is his lawyer?"
"Dunno nothin' about it. I'm here to keep folks


HYOSCYAMOUS
141
away and not to answer fool questions," and uncon-
cernedly he turned away.
There was nothing left for MacKean to do but re-
turn to his car and be off. He knew that he would not
be able to get any information from the caretaker,
whether he knew anything or not; but that it was
possible, though it might be troublesome, to discover
who was Van Dorn's lawyer. His hopes of getting
any immediate information concerning Hayward from
Peter Van Dorn were dashed and he returned to head-
quarters in no pleasant frame of mind. Sergeant Floyd
rushed in before MacKean had hung up his hat.
"Gallagher has been found," announced Floyd, his
whole being radiating excitement.
"Where is he? Is he all right?"
"He's in the psychopathic ward at Bellevue; gone
clean off his nut!"
"Tell me all you know about it, quick," ordered
MacKean.
"He was picked up in Central Park about an hour
ago, plumb crazy. A traffic cop found him and sent him
to Bellevue. That's all I know about it."
"Good Lord!" wailed the inspector. "I'll be there
myself if this keeps up much longer. Get the hospital
on the phone and ask for a complete report. Have a
stenographer take it down—and hurry up."
MacKean walked up and down his office like a caged
bear at the zoo as he fairly masticated the dead stump
of his cigar. After what seemed to him an interminable


HYOSCYAMOUS 143
shoulder blades in a big easy-chair, enjoying a book
while a cigarette dangled from his lip.
"Well, well, how's the invalid?" was the inspector's
greeting as he approached his friend with extended
hand.
"Just fine!" was the cheerful response. "Glad you
came. It's terribly monotonous being dead, you know."
The caller took a chair, crossed his legs comfortably
and lit a fresh cigar.
"Now, old Sherlock," said Thorne with a broad
smile, "tell me what has developed. What does Uncle
Peter say?"
MacKean's face clouded and he shook his head.
"Old Lady Luck never heard of me, Probus," he
said. "Uncle Peter seems to be in Europe."
He then proceeded to tell of his experience at the
Van Dorn mansion. During his recital of the events
Thorne listened eagerly. He picked up a pencil and a
pad of paper and seemed to be marking aimlessly as
one frequently does while listening. Occasionally he
asked a question concerning the appearance of the
house. When MacKean had finished his narrative,
Thorne handed over the pad with the question: "Does
that look something like the place?"
"That is the place; but see here, you have drawn the
house as I described it but you have put in a lot of de-
tails that I never mentioned. How did you do it?"
"Partly from imagination," replied Thorne. "Your
description was better than you thought, I guess."


144 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
MacKean smiled.
"Oh, I see," but he didn't. "When did you learn to
draw?"
"Years ago. More years than I like to admit. I really
started out to be an artist; but when I found that my
ability in that direction was really quite limited, I
turned to other things. However, when I was in the
British Intelligence in the days when civilization was
trying to commit suicide, my drawing often proved to
be my most useful accomplishment."
That Thorne had been in the Intelligence was news
to the inspector; but the only surprising phase of it
was that it had been disclosed at all, as Thorne almost
never referred to the past.
"So now, Inspector," and Thorne picked up again
the thread of their conversation, "all you have to do
is to ask every lawyer in New York if he is acting for
Peter Van Dorn. Quite a job, that. What?"
"Well, how would you go about it? Advertise?"
"And show your hand to everybody?"
"What then?" asked the inspector.
"Let's see. Van Dorn is a very conservative old
Dutchman, from all reports. Rather a hermit. A man
like that wouldn't go to some upstart. No, he would
have a staid, reliable, old-fashioned firm, conservative
like himself. I say, why not try the bar association for
a list of the old established firms?"
"How about having Brother Harkley help us out?
He would know the quickest way."


HYOSCYAMOUS 145
"No doubt he would; but my dear Inspector, you
must remember that Harkley is going to defend young
Styles against your charge. That automatically puts
him in the enemy's camp. No, better do it yourself."
He smoked in silence for a few minutes and then asked:
"Anything else new?"
"Well, this may help some," and MacKean took
the anonymous letter from his pocket and passed it
to his friend who scrutinized the communication care-
fully. "What are you going to do about it, Mac?"
he asked.
"Go, of course. Wouldn't you?"
"Certainly not. They are simply trying to 'put you
on the spot,' as our gangster friends say."
"But Thorne, lots of good tips come to us that way I
Crooks often fight among themselves and squeal."
"Yes, I can quite understand that; but I've given
lots of thought to anonymous letters and I'd brand this
as a fake. I'd have two or three plain clothes men down
in that block to keep an eye on the place but don't let
any of them go to that address."
Holding the letter where the inspector could see, he
continued:
"You see, Mac, this note was undoubtedly written
by a feminine hand; that is, all but the street and num-
ber. While that part looks like the remainder at first
glance, it was really written by another hand. Does
that mean anything to you?"
"Can't say that it does especially, why?"


146 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"Whoever sent that note had it written by some
woman—but he didn't trust her with the address. He
wrote that in afterward."
Thorne handed his colleague a magnifying glass and
the letter.
"Look at it through the glass and you will see the
difference."
"I guess you're right," agreed the inspector.
"Another thing," explained Thorne, "that so many
overlook, is the fact that it is very difficult to feign
ignorance in a letter. Note that all the most difficult
words, 'inspector, murderer, expecting' are spelled
correctly. The name Stilwell is misspelled, although it
has been in the papers every day. Then in one place
they have said 'half pas' and in another 'haf past';
that's no good. The formation of the sentences is far
better than the choice of words or the spelling. You see,
it is not 'in character' as a dramatic critic would say."
"All right, Thorne, I'm convinced," admitted the
inspector. "There's something else, though, that is a
lot more important. They have found Gallagher, the
man who disappeared after the subway murder."
"Where was he and what does he say for himself?"
"He has lost his mind, entirely," and MacKean ex-
plained the situation and produced the report from
Bellevue which Thorne read with great care. Then he
lit another cigarette and read it again.
"Reach behind you, MacKean," he requested, "and


HYOSCYAMOUS 147
hand me that red volume* at the end of the shelf,"
pointing to a case of books. "Yes, that's the one."
Thorne took the book and turned to the index. As
he ran his finger down the page he asked:
"Are you pretty well up on poisons, Mac?"
"No, I'm not. We always leave that to the doctors.
Why?"
"It just occurs to me that Gallagher was poisoned.
Stilwell was poisoned, you know, and it was admin-
istered very expertly."
"But, Thorne, the report says that Gallagher is in-
sane; probably caused by fear or torture, they can't
be sure."
"True, but the report also says that he bore no
trace of violence. They couldn't torture him much with-
out leaving some trace and the right kind of poison
would drive a man insane very quickly. I begin to
think that we are dealing with a real poisoner—not
just a common gangster."
Thorne read for a moment, then straightened up
abruptly.
"Phone Bellevue at once. Say that you have reason
to believe that Gallagher is suffering from hyoscyamous
poisoning. Quick, man, you may save his life!"
MacKean was on his feet at once. "Write it down
for me," he said. Thorne made a hasty notation and
the inspector hurried to the phone and called the hos-
* Manual of Toxicology—Brundage.


HYOSCYAMOUS 151
Kean, doggedly. "Where does a foreigner come in on
the Stilwell case?"
"But, Mac, poisoning is really a foreign method of
committing murder. It's very unusual in America."
Inspector MacKean smiled knowingly.
"There are more cases of poisoning than you imag-
ine, Probus."
"Look up the records, Inspector, you'll be surprised.
Why, in the last ten years, there have been over 3300
murders in New York City alone and only 21 were by
poisoning! * Shooting is the American method—two
out of three murders are done that way."
MacKean shrugged his shoulders.
"What's back of this Stilwell case, anyway?"
"If we knew that, Inspector, our work would be
simple."
'Reports of Chief Medical Examiner, New York City (1918-1927).


CHAPTER XV
INTERVIEWED
On arriving at his office the next morning, Inspector
MacKean's first act was to ring for Sergeant Floyd,
who, apparently, was expecting the summons as he
entered almost immediately.
"Floyd,” said MacKean, "I had a little talk with
Thorne last night and we found that Gallagher had
been poisoned."
“Poisoned ?" Floyd repeated in astonishment. “He
was crazy. The Bellevue report said "
"Yes, yes, I know," the inspector interrupted with
an impatient wave of the hand; "but Thorne figured
out that Gallagher was poisoned and Bellevue found it
out too, only it was too late; Gallagher died last night.”
After a short interval he continued, “Remember that
guy Thorne saw up in that fishing shack on the Spuy-
ten Duyvil ?"
"Sure, I remember. Thorne said he had seen him
before but couldn't just place him.”
"Well, he remembers him now; he was 'Louis the
Poisoner.' He was mixed up with the police in London
and Paris during the war. His real name is Louis
152


INTERVIEWED 153
Perron. Now get this: I want you to get a line on him
on the quiet. He's a wise baby, so watch your step."
"O.K., Inspector."
"Now, Floyd, tell me what happened on that block
in Mott Street last night."
"Not a thing. We had three men in the block from
10:30 to 1:30 and nobody went in or out of No. 106.
I stopped by there this morning and the place is va-
cant."
"All right, Floyd. Better get on that Louis Perron
trail now." As Floyd was leaving, the inspector added:
"Send Tasker in here."
Detective Tasker, a tall slender man, with sharp
features and a calm, complacent air came in quietly
and took a chair.
"I've got a job for you, Tasker. Go about it your
own way, but I want you to find out for me as soon as
possible what lawyer or firm of lawyers takes care of
Peter Van Dorn's affairs."
"Who is this Peter Van Dorn?" Tasker wanted to
know, as he drew out a notebook.
"He's a rich old Dutchman, something of a hermit;
lives up on Spuyten Duyvil Road. I understand he is
in Europe now. I want you to find out who represents
him, that's all. Just say that we have information of
interest to his lawyer. Get me?"
"Sure. Nobody at his house?"
"Only a caretaker. I've been there and he can't help
us any. Van Dorn is a conservative old fellow and


154 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
you'll probably find that he has some old established
firm of lawyers. Anyway, find out about it." Tasker
made a few notes and started on what promised to be
a long and tedious job. During the remainder of the
morning Inspector MacKean was busy with the un-
ending stream of detail matters that came to his desk.
Later on an officer entered and handed a newspaper
to the inspector, with the question: "Did you see this,
MacKean?"
Across the front page a glaring headline announced:
"BIG POLICE SHAKE-UP PLANNED."
MacKean dismissed the officer and plunged into the
article. "Commissioner Denbro demands results," the
sub-head proclaimed. The inspector read on: "In an
exclusive interview given by Police Commissioner
Denbro to a reporter for the Clarion, the Commis-
sioner stated that a complete reorganization of the
detective force of the city was being planned and
would be put into effect very soon.
"Although no details of the contemplated changes
were forthcoming at this time it is considered highly
significant that the Commissioner was in conference
with the Mayor for two hours this morning. Neither
the Mayor nor the Commissioner would discuss what
transpired but it is an open secret that the Mayor is
very much displeased with the way in which the Stil-
well murder case is being handled . . ."
MacKean threw down the paper and called the Com-
missioner's office.


INTERVIEWED 155
"I'd like to speak to Commissioner Denbro," he
said.
"The Commissioner is not in," came the reply. "We
do not expect him until late this evening. Perhaps I
can relay a message for you?"
This, however, did not appeal to the inspector and
he gave it up. During the remainder of the day those
having business with MacKean discovered that he was
in no affable mood. It galled him to think that the
Commissioner would give out such a statement, even
though the action were planned, without first discuss-
ing the matter with him. The Commissioner had given
him ten days to clear up the matter and the time was
not up. When the afternoon was drawing to a close,
Detective Tasker phoned in and asked MacKean to
wait for him. Half an hour later he arrived.
"Well, Tasker, what's the trouble?"
"No trouble, Chief, I've got some news for you."
"Spill it."
"I had a lucky break, Inspector; I found out who
represents Peter Van Dorn."
"Yeah?"
"I had lunch with a fellow I know who is a paying
teller in the Wendover Bank. He gave me the idea.
He said that the quickest way to find the lawyer was
through the bank. So he let me go over there and I
worked on their phone."
"What in hell has the bank got to do with it?"
"Well, you see, this guy thought that if we found


156 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
where he had his bank account we could find his
lawyer."
"How?"
"He says that a lawyer often has a client's power
of attorney and files it with the bank."
"The main thing is, who is Van Dorn's attorney.
Did you find out?"
"Sure I did."
"Well, damn it, why don't you tell me? Do I have
to write you a letter about it?"
Tasker was very much surprised at the inspector's
attitude, for they had always been on very friendly
terms.
"I'm sorry, Inspector. The law firm is Stilwell &
Harkley. They have represented him for years and
Junius Harkley, one of the firm, has Van Dorn's power
of attorney filed with the Humboldt Bank and Trust
Company."
"That's fine, Tasker, I didn't mean to be rude. Fact
is, I've had a hell of a jolt. Did you see the Clarion?"
"Yes, Inspector, and I'm awfully sorry. It'll blow
over, though—it always does."
"Well, I hope so, but I'm worried this time, I don't
mind telling you."
Detective Tasker left after doing all he could to
allay the anxiety of the inspector. "It'll blow over, all
right, don't let it worry you," he said in parting. Mac-
Kean decided to call it a day and he went to put the
whole matter up to Thorne. A half hour later he was


158 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE ?
They both laughed; but MacKean's expression soon
became troubled again.
"To begin with, Probus, did you see the Clarion."
“Yes, yes; the Commissioner is bursting into type,
what?"
"Then you know all about it. It's been a hell of a
blow to me; but, after all, there's a little ray of sun-
shine—we have found out who is Van Dorn's attorney.
It's Harkley !"
"Quick work, Mac.”
“Yes, we had a break. We found the bank where
Van Dorn has an account-The Humboldt Bank and
Trust Company. They have on file a power of attorney
that Van Dorn gave Harkley. Here is a photostatic
copy of it, showing Van Dorn's signature.”
"That,” said Thorne, as he examined the print,
“makes the matter very much simpler-or a whole
lot more complicated. Say on.”
"You say, Thorne; I've said."
"Very well, Mac; I really wish I were alive again.
How I would relish visiting our old playmate Harkley
and talking the affair over with him; but there must
be no ghost walking at this juncture. Better go over
to Harkley's office in the morning, alone, and tell him
that you want him to find out for you who Van Dorn's
lawyer is.”
"Suppose he doesn't admit that he is ?” queried the
inspector, anxiously.
“Oh, I think he'll tell you all about it. Get the 'low


CHAPTER XVI
MOTIVES IMPUGNED
"I'd like to see Mr. Harkley, if he isn't too busy,"
MacKean announced to the reception clerk, as he
handed her his card.
"Just a minute, please," and she plugged into the
switchboard to announce the visitor. Mr. Harkley
came out at once.
"This is an agreeable surprise, Inspector," he said,
"come on in," and he indicated the way. "Anything
new?"
"No, Mr. Harkley, nothing of importance. The
Cleveland police have been after us about that Hay-
ward murder but we can't see any daylight on it. The
only thing we have found out, and that isn't much, is
that Hayward had an uncle here in New York, by the
name of Peter Van Dorn. He seems to be away and
we thought that you, being a lawyer, might be able to
find out for us who represents him. Then we could get
an interview with his lawyer and close the matter."
"That's easy," said Harkley. "Peter Van Dorn has
been a client of this office for fifteen years; but I didn't
know that Hayward was related to him. I understood
that he had no relatives."
KO


162 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
"What sort of a chap is he?"
"He's queer, Inspector. Until eight or ten years ago
he lived almost as a hermit up in his big house on the
Spuyten Duyvil, although he had plenty of means.
Eventually he became obsessed with the thought that
he was to die and leave his property to strangers; so
about eight years ago he sent us a letter saying that
he had decided to spend his money on travel instead
of leaving it. His plan, evidently, was to go abroad
and have a somewhat belated fling. I went up to see
him about it—he never came to the office—and I found
that he had already closed the house and left.
"Since then," continued the lawyer, "he has written
us at more or less regular intervals from various Eu-
ropean cities giving instructions concerning the han-
dling of his interests."
"That's an odd notion for a man like him to take.
I had heard that he was quite a miser," suggested
MacKean.
"Yes, he had been a miser, but when he decided to
cut loose he hasn't counted the cost. Oh, well, he can
afford it," and Harkley indulged in a mirthless smile.
"Do you know when he will return?"
"I haven't the least idea, Inspector, maybe next
week and maybe in five years. He's queer and he keeps
his own counsel."
As MacKean arose to go, Harkley asked: "Would
you like to see his correspondence?"
"Lord, no; that's nothing to me. Clearly it didn't


164 WHY MUHDER THE JUDGE?
he that Valois had not the slightest idea that he was
being followed.
When Inspector MacKean returned to headquarters
he at once cabled Scotland Yard asking verification of
the report that Peter Van Dorn of New York was a
guest of the Cecil. On his desk was a letter from
Thorne. It ran:
"/ think that someone is interested in my dig-
gin's. Better lie low for a couple of days and carry
on. If urgent need of my humble collaboration
should arise, call my number and ask for Mr.
Johnson. When you find that there is no Mr. John-
son there, merely hang up. Then Nikko will go out
and get into communication with you.
"Yours until my resurrection,
"Thome."
Inspector MacKean was really perturbed by
Thorne's note but he had long since learned to defer
to his friend's judgment. So, with what patience he
could command, he bided his time.
Sergeant Floyd came in and reported that he could
find no trace of anyone who even remotely resembled
the description of Louis Perron; neither could any-
one among the stool pigeons known to the department
tell anything about him.
"Know what I think, Inspector?" asked Floyd.
"What?"
"I think Thorne dreamed this Louis Perron thing.
No, no, wait a minute," as the inspector attempted to


168 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
one from Garrity, the man he had set to follow Fran-
çois Valois. The report ran:
"Valois left office at 6:30. Walked up Fifth
Avenue to Forty-fourth Street. Went into a speak-
easy on Forty-fourth. Stayed half an hour. Dined
at Roosevelt Hotel. At 8:30 took taxi to Haw-
ley's garage on West Fifty-eighth Street. Got out
big green touring car and drove to-West Fifty-
sixth. Went in and soon came out with crippled
old man with long white hair; left arm and left
leg badly twisted up or deformed. Valois put him
in car and drove up and down Riverside Drive
for an hour, then home again. Valois put up car
and went to a Broadway movie. At Hawley's ga-
rage I was told that the car belonged to David
Quint, the cripple Valois was driving. He goes
out only at night and never without Valois' help.
“Garrity."
Inspector MacKean threw the report into a basket.
“Damn the Stilwell case !” he muttered.
Next morning, as soon as he arrived at the office,
the inspector rang up Thorne's apartment and this
time was rewarded by Nikko's "Hello.”
"Is this Mr. Johnson's residence?"
"No, sir, wrong number."
Perhaps fifteen minutes elapsed before Nikko called
up.
"Did you call Mr. Johnson ?” he asked.
“Yes."


MOTIVES IMPUGNED 171
seem to fancy him; but all this seems to tally with
Harkley's tale."
A few minutes passed and then MacKean asked:
"What about your place being watched, Thorne?"
"I'm not sure that we were watched, Mac, but
in case we were I wanted to be in the clear. I must
remain dead a while yet and it would never do to see
a police inspector calling on a dead man too often."
Thorne's attitude was such as to dispel, momen-
tarily, the dark suspicions that Floyd's distrusting out-
burst had planted in the inspector's mind. Thorne went
into the bath room and soon reappeared with two tall
glasses and some cracked ice and from a dresser drawer
he produced a silver flask.
"Now, Mac, we will have a long, cold one," he an-
nounced, as he poured liberal portions into the glasses
and handed one to the inspector. Time passed quickly
as the two sat by the window enjoying the cool breeze
and sipping their high-balls.
"Thorne," said MacKean finally, "this Stilwell case
and all that goes with it is going to break me. The
papers are after the Mayor. The Mayor is after the
Commissioner and he is after my scalp. I might just as
well resign as to wait for the shakeup and find myself
pounding a nice quiet beat up in the Bronx."
"As you were, Mac, as you were! I know this case
has gotten under your skin; but you're too good a man
to lose your head—either by your own act or by the


172 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
Commissioner's ax. Will you try a scheme tonight that
I have in mind?"
"I'll try anything."
"Fine! Take two of your best men and the three of
you go up to Peter Van Dorn's house right after dark.
Better get in from the rear of the property and work
up toward the caretaker's hut. One of you stay near
the hut and the other two patrol the grounds, keeping
well under cover. See if anyone enters or leaves the
premises during the night. If so, find out, if possible,
who they are; but don't show yourselves no matter
what turns up. Then meet me at my apartment at noon
tomorrow and we will compare notes." With a smile
he added: "I want to try a little experiment of my
own."
"All right, but what do you hope to find out?"
"I don't quite know, but hope is the right word.
Better go and make arrangements and a little later I
will check out."
The inspector's face showed that he felt encouraged,
although Thorne promised nothing; but this plan
offered activity, at least, and he was ready to enter
upon it even though he may have had some mental
reservations as to Thorne's motive.
On the way to the door the inspector remembered
something:
"By the way, Probus, we've been following up Lu-
cile Styles' past as closely as we can."
"Find anything?"


MOTIVES IMPUGNED
173
"Only this, so far. She calls Washington her home
town but she was born and raised right here in New
York; on Eighth Avenue, over in Hell's Kitchen.
We are just getting a line on some of her old assos
ciates and they are a sweet bunch. I'll bet she's the
dame that wrote the note trying to put me on the
spot."
"Have you any of her writing?"
"That's a funny thing, I can't seem to get a scratch
of it anywhere. But I'll get some, some way."


176 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
that there were no shutters. He could see nothing In-
side the dark room. After listening again he flashed
his electric torch through the window revealing a single
room furnished only with a table and two chairs. As
he played his light about the cubicle, certain that there
was no place for one to hide, he assured himself that
the room was vacant! The inspector snapped off his
torch and went around to the door. It was locked.
It was with difficulty that MacKean restrained his
impulse to investigate further even though Thorne
had made such a point of watching, only; but he re-
turned to his vigil and it was all of an hour before he
heard another sound. Again someone was coming up
the hill and as he came near, MacKean was certain
that it was the same man, although he knew positively
that he had remained in the cottage after locking the
door. This time the visitor stopped a few feet from
the door, struck a match and lighted a cigar. From his
hiding place in the shrubbery MacKean clearly saw
his features by the flare of the match. It was Frangois
Valois!
The inspector's heart skipped a beat as he feared
for his discovery; but Valois apparently had not seen
him, and proceeded to unlock the door and enter. An-
other momentary flash and the place became dark and
quiet again.
The situation was puzzling. Why Valois was here at
all and how he accomplished his disappearing act—


180 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
greatly surprised for none but a tyro would keep such
papers in an office desk. They would be hidden where
no casual search would find them, if any papers really
existed. They next turned their attention to the filing
cases.
"Look for the folders containing the correspondence
with Peter Van Dorn," directed the taller man. Then
he added: "Get the folder for David Quint. He is a
client, too."
"Very singular," reported his companion, "these
drawers are marked Clients' Correspondence and yet
for some reason the particular folders we want are
not here. Let's see," he considered, "there is a vault,
presumably for records and such things. Then this safe
marked GORDON STILWELL no doubt has been
examined already."
The two inquisitive visitors passed into a small room
just off the main office where there was a four drawer
metal filing case. It was locked.
"You are sure that Valois has entire charge of these
matters?"
"Quite. Mr. Harkley does nothing but prepare briefs
and try cases. All other matters are entirely in Valois'
hands and I doubt that Harkley knows half that goes
on. At least Valois has ample opportunity to do many
things to the records."
"Better try your skill with this lock."
They closed the door and switched on the room
lights which could not be seen from the hall and went


CHAPTER XVIII
TH3EE DAYS OF GRACE
Inspector MacKean reached his office later than
usual the next morning but there should have been
plenty of time to clear up his desk and get away to his
appointment with Thorne at noon. As he ran through
the accumulation of papers he found a sealed com-
munication from the Commissioner. With grave mis-
givings he ripped open the envelope in which he found
a very formal note ordering him to appear before the
Commissioner at eleven o'clock.
MacKean read the note two or three times and then
sat for a time drumming his fingers as was his habit.
Finally he looked at his watch. Picking up his hat,
he hurried out to his car and in a remarkably shortl
time rang the bell of Thome's apartment.
"You said to come at noon, Probus, but this changes
matters," and he gave Thorne the Commissioner's
note. It took but a moment to read it and its meaning
was plain.
"Does the worthy Commissioner know that I wasn't
really killed, Mac?"
"No.'*
"Then better go and see what he has to say. You'll
183


184 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
just have about time to make it," and he glanced at
the clock. "If he gets too rough let him in on our se-
cret. Then say that I wish you would both come up
here and we will go over everything. I think that pos-
sibly we may surprise him."
MacKean agreed and hurried away, but judging
from his expression, he thought that his days as in-
spector were about over. At headquarters he was kept
waiting for half an hour in the Commissioner's outer
room and when he was finally admitted to the private
office Commissioner Denbro kept on writing for some
minutes before he looked up; and then his manner
was sullen.
"Inspector, I've waited long enough for results in
this Stilwell case. Here's how it looks: A prominent
citizen is murdered. Immediately you call in outside
help, a supposedly capable man, and he is promptly
killed. Then one of Stilwell's guests is stabbed to death
in the subway, a well known physician kidnaped and
one of your best men is driven insane and dies! All this
inside of a week and nothing done! What have you to
say for yourself?" and he assumed a more belligerent
attitude while his steely eyes glared at the harassed
inspector.
"All I can say, Commissioner, is that we are doing
everything possible and are making some headway."
It sounded rather lame even to himself as he said
it and the Commissioner's attitude was clearly ex-
pressed in his deepening scowl.


THREE DAYS OF GRACE 185
"Just where do you stand?" he demanded.
"I'd like to make a suggestion, Commissioner, if I
may. If you will go with me now to Probus Thorne's
apartment, I feel sure that we can clear up several
points to your satisfaction."
"Thorne's dead—due to your carelessness. Why go
to his apartment?"
"No, Commissioner, Thorne is alive and well at his
apartment and has asked that we both go up there.
There were very excellent reasons for announcing his
death. It was a part of his plan."
The chief seemed quite undecided but with unfeigned
reluctance he at last arose.
"All right, we'll go; but if this is a wild-goose
chase"
He did not finish the sentence but MacKean had no
difficulty in understanding. Little was said as they
passed out and drove swiftly uptown, Denbro sitting
moodily in his corner while the inspector felt like a
small boy about to be spanked.
Probus Thorne received his guests in his most en-
gaging manner; and when they were comfortably
seated and supplied with cigars he took the situation
in hand.
"Commissioner Denbro," he began, "I know that
this Stilwell case with its related crimes has taxed your
patience. I want to say at the start, however, that I
really believe we will soon be in a position to refute


THREE DAYS OF GRACE 187
He paused while he lit a cigarette and enjoyed it
for a moment.
"Have you found it?"
"I'd like to run over the case as we see it and let
you judge how near we are to it.
"Stilwell was poisoned with prussic acid. Eight
people had the opportunity and each could have had
the means. All, or nearly all of them had motives of
some sort. Our big problem was to find why the murder
was committed. Why murder the judge, of all people!
We could find no reason connected with his life or his
business affairs that seemed sufficient, nor could we find
anything in the actions of the eight suspects either be-
fore or after the murder.
"Then Hayward was murdered with a dagger be-
longing to Stilwell and his shadow, Gallagher, disap-
peared. The same night Dr. Bardwell vanished. Hay-
ward's death seemed to exonerate him from Stilwell's
murder although it complicated the whole case. Our
first real clue came from a part of a letter from Judge
Stilwell that we found among Hayward's papers."
Commissioner Denbro stirred uneasily in his chair.
"It seems hardly worth while," continued Thorne,
"to take you through the various steps of our search
so we will merely touch upon the facts we have dis-
covered and the deductions we have made. Stilwell was
suspicious of something that concerned Hayward and
urged Hayward to come and investigate. I believe that
Stilwell was killed merely because of his suspicion of


188 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
someone's act or acts. This is borne out by the fact
that Hayward, to whom the judge communicated these
suspicions, was also murdered."
"Then we found, after some difficulty, that Hayward
had an uncle, Peter Van Dorn, who is now abroad. We
know that Stilwell's suspicions centered upon the genu-
ineness of certain specimens of handwriting, which we
have found out today were written by this Peter Van
Dorn."
Commissioner Denbro began to take interest in the
narrative but he did not interrupt. MacKean's face
showed that Thome's last statement had taken him by
surprise.
"Now," continued Thorne, "we conclude that Stil-
well's suspicions, whatever their nature, must have had
a basis of fact, since all these crimes have been com-
mitted to prevent investigation. The big question is,
what did Stilwell suspect?"
"I think," interrupted Denbro, "that your assump-
tion is highly speculative. You feel sure that these men
were murdered because they suspected something and
you don't seem to have any idea what it was they sus-
pected! At that rate it would take fifty years to solve
the mystery!"
"It's the only way it will be solved, Commissioner,
and I don't believe it will take fifty hours/"
The Commissioner's face reddened and he chewed
viciously at his cigar. He made no reply but it was evi-
dent that he was not much in sympathy with Thorne's


190 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
seated at the table, "Nikko had Van Dorn's signatures
on the letters identified as genuine by the banks. The
specimens of writing that Stilwell was suspicious about
were taken from Van Dorn's letters."
"I see, Probus, but even that doesn't get us any-
where."
"That isn't all, Mac. We've got a record of each
bank account of Van Dorn's and there's something
radically wrong. He has been a miser all his life, but
his various accounts show that nearly a million dollars
have been drawn out on checks since he went to Eu-
rope."
"Well, it's his money, Probus."
"It was his, but who is getting it? I cabled my old
friend Wilkins at Scotland Yard as soon as you told
me that Van Dorn was at the Cecil in London, and
asked for a description of Van Dorn. His cable says
that Peter Van Dorn is a short, fat fellow, not over
thirty-five years old, with a thin yellow mustache and
short light hair."
"Good God! Then where is the real Peter Van
Dorn?"
"That," said Thorne, "is the question."
As soon as luncheon was over Thorne asked Nikko
to bring around the car.
"I'm not dead from now on, Mac, we've got some
lively stepping to do. Let's go down and make talk
with your little friend Frangois."


CHAPTER XIX
STEEL AND STONE
MacKean was interested to see what effect it might
have upon the lawyer to meet a man he thought dead;
but he was informed that Harkley had gone to Wash-
ington to be gone for two or three days.
"Then let me talk with Mr. Valois, please," re-
quested the inspector.
"I'm very sorry," said the switchboard operator,
"but he-is no longer connected with this office."
"What's that? He was here yesterday!"
"Yes, but he said he had a wire calling him away
so he resigned his position yesterday and left."
"Do you know where he has gone?"
"No, he left no address, although I asked him about
it."
"What was his address here in town?"
"Why, we never had his address; that is, unless Mr.
Harkley had it."
As there was nothing else to do, Thorne accompanied
the inspector to headquarters, where they might revise
their plans.
"Now what the hell do you think of that, Probus?
191


STEEL AND STONE
193
passage connecting the boathouse and the other build-
ings."
Suddenly the inspector dropped his papers and
looked up.
"My God! Thorne, it just struck me that this Valois
is 'Louis the Poisoner.'”.
“What?” Thorne was on his feet in an instant. "De-
scribe him, carefully.”
The inspector gave a most accurate word picture of
the little Frenchman.
"I wonder,” mused Thorne as he walked slowly back
and forth across the room. “It sounds like him, sure
enough.” He paused at the window and stood aimlessly
-Watching the traffic for a few minutes. Then turning
to the inspector:
"Mac, if Valois is Louis the Poisoner he hasn't left
town and we've simply got to get him!”
“How?"
Thorne sat down beside MacKean and lit another
cigarette.
"This thing centers around the Van Dorn place.
Get some of your men ready and we will go up there
along toward midnight. We can find out what has been
going on from your men on watch, then raid the place.”
"How many will we need? I have arranged for five
already."
"If it's Louis, we'll need ten good men besides the
five, for he always works with a big gang. Suppose you
get your men together and come up to my apartment
TOI


STEEL AND STONE 195
There had been men about the boathouse, he reported,
but all was quiet now. No one had been seen or heard
elsewhere.
"So we're all ready, Probus; what next?"
"You take five of your men up near the caretaker's
hut, Mac, and the rest of us will go down to the boat-
house."
"I see," spoke up Sergeant Floyd, who was of the
party, "we'll trap them in the tunnel!"
"No, not that," Thorne explained. "If trouble starts
we'd be in danger of our own cross fire. All of you
keep near the hut and we'll rush the tunnel from be-
low. If they are in there they will try for a getaway
through the hut or maybe through the mansion. All
ready."
The inspector's party started up the hill and almost
immediately disappeared in the gloom. Thorne's men
cautiously worked their way down toward the boat-
house. As no one seemed to be within sight or hear-
ing, they quickly explored the boathouse by the aid
of a flash light. It consisted of a single room furnished
with only a rude table and some broken-down chairs.
The door and two windows were the only openings.
Making sure that there was no trap door in the floor
which was formed by the heavy plankings of the dock
upon which the house was built, Thorne took Nikko
and leaving the others on guard began an investigation
of the dock.
The tide was high and it was impossible to get more


196 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
than a glimpse under the structure without using a
rowboat which they found moored to a pile. Entering
this, they bent low and worked their way under the
dock. At first their flash light showed only a hollowed
out place, the rear wall of which was shored up with
old planks to prevent caving; but on careful inspec-
tion it was found that some of the planks formed a
cleverly concealed door. Thorne quickly got his men
into the boat and they all passed through the door.
Inside they landed at the entrance of a tunnel scarcely
wide enough for two to walk abreast and its course
was practically straight in the direction of the mansion.
From its appearance, the tunnel was very old, prob-
ably constructed during the Revolutionary days as a
means of escape from the mansion in case of attack.
It had been well timbered but here and there one of
the hewn slabs had rotted away and the walls had
caved. Nikko bent over and studied the footprints.
"At least six men use this entrance,"he said as he
arose; "there are that many different footprints easily
distinguished."
There was no sound and nothing was to be seen as
they flashed their torches ahead. Snapping off the lights,
they felt their way along the tunnel for perhaps a hun-
dred yards. Still no sound. Another hundred yards—
Thorne was counting his steps—and again they paused
while a light was flashed. From farther up the tunnel
came a crashing noise as of some heavy metallic object
falling. There was no further need for caution.


STEEL AND STONE 197
"Lights, everybody," cried Thorne, "and come on,"
as he dashed ahead closely followed by his men; but
they had not gone far when their way was barred by
a solid wall of masonry into which was fitted a heavy
metal door.
"No use," said Thorne, as the men tried to find some
mode of entrance. "Back to the dock, quick!"
When they emerged at the boathouse, lights were
flashing all over the hillside and the shrill note of police
whistles was answered by the sirens of the police cars.
The two men who had been watching the dock were
left to guard the tunnel entrance and the others ran
up the hill.
Sharp reports of pistol shots came from the direc-
tion of the parked cars and Thorne dispatched his three
police officers to investigate, while he and Nikko went
on to the caretaker's hut, where MacKean and his
men were gathered around someone who was rolling
about on the grass.
"What happened, Mac?" asked Thorne breathlessly.
"Who's hurt?"
"It's Floyd. Tear gas, I think."
"Better get him into a car and rush him to Dr.
Gratz's hospital. It may be more than tear gas."
Two men helped the unfortunate sergeant to his
feet and started down toward the cars where every-
thing was now quiet.
"The gang broke cover suddenly, Thorne," the in-
spector explained, "and began throwing bombs as they


STEEL AND STONE 199
men came running up the path from the entrance of
the grounds. He hurriedly explained that he was one
of the guards from the boathouse and that he had
heard a faint call for help from the direction of the
cars. Thorne and MacKean, leaving their men where
they were, hurried off to investigate. They called as
they neared the place but there was no answer. When
they got there, only one car remained and, lying on
the grass beside it, was one of the detectives who had
stayed to watch the cars.
Thorne flashed his light while MacKean lifted the
man's head. A hasty examination showed that he had
been shot in the shoulder and, although unconscious,
he seemed not to be fatally hurt. As tenderly as pos-
sible they placed him in the remaining car and drove
up to the main entrance. MacKean called one of his
men and explained that the search of the house would
be postponed but to keep a close watch over the place.
Then he and Thorne started with the wounded man
to the hospital.
After they had gone a few blocks he regained con-
sciousness and, though weak from loss of blood and
suffering much pain, he managed to explain what had
happened.
"We were suddenly fired upon by men who seemed
to come from every direction. They took the first car
and drove off, taking my side kick with them. Then
three of your men came up just in time to see what


200 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
had taken place. They grabbed another car and hit
the road."
After a few minutes' rest he continued:
"Pretty soon Sergeant Floyd was brought down by
two men. I knew I was hit but I told them to go ahead;
that I was all right."
"There's a chance yet, Mac," said Thorne, "if we
can get in touch with your men who took the second
car.
"Oh, they'll report to headquarters as soon as pos-
sible. We'll.call up when we get to a phone."
The inspector was the picture of discouragement.
"It's a hell of a mess, Probus." But there was no dis-
couragement in Thome's tone: "Cheer up, Mac, we'll
get a break pretty soon."
As soon as an interne came out to their car at Dr.
Gratz's hospital, MacKean ran to the telephone and
called headquarters.
"Inspector MacKean. Any of my special detail called
up yet?"
"Yes, Inspector, there's a report from Sullivan. I'll
read it to you—" and MacKean listened attentively
to the report while he made a few notes.
"All right. When they get there have them wait for
orders. I'll call up again, soon," and the inspector hung
up.
After making sure that their patient was not dan-
gerously hurt, Thorne and MacKean asked about Ser-
geant Floyd.


STEEL AND STONE 201
"He's all right now," the interne informed them.
"Shall I call him?"
Floyd joined them in a few minutes.
"It was that damned Valois, Inspector, I saw him
plain!"
"Well, we'll get him, Floyd," said MacKean, though
without much conviction.
"I congratulate you, Sergeant," offered Thorne.
"The bomb might have been mustard instead of tear
gas." Then turning to the inspector, "Anything from
headquarters?"
"Yes. Sullivan reported. He's one of the men you
sent back to the cars. When the gang grabbed your
car, Sullivan and the other two took mine, and fol-
lowed but they couldn't overtake your car. They found
it, later, at Sixth Avenue and Forty-sixth Street with
all the tires cut."
"So they all got away?"
"Looks like it," the inspector admitted. "There's
one thing though, that Sullivan mentioned. When they
were chasing your car down Fifth Avenue, it turned
off into West Fifty-fourth Street. When they came
into the block, it was just leaving the curb near a little
hotel, the Rockmoor, and Sullivan thinks that a man
went into the hotel as the car was leaving."
"It's worth a try, Mac, let's get over there."
The sleepy night clerk at the Rockmoor sharply re-
sented being disturbed, when MacKean asked him if
anyone had come in during the last hour.


STEELANDSTONE 203
"Why didn't you tell us before?" MacKean's pa-
tience was finally giving way.
"Didn't ask me," was the exasperating rejoinder.
The clerk then unlocked the door and the room was
indeed vacant. Thorne took the inspector to one side
and whispered in a low voice: "Our bird has been
tipped off, Mac. Get an officer to report here and have
him wait inside the room. Don't let him touch any-
thing and I'll have Nikko come down and look the
place over. Leave Floyd here until the officer comes."
The matter was explained to Floyd. "And when
you are relieved, Floyd," said the inspector, "you'd
better go home. If this baby shows up, simply have
him kept here and report."
As Thorne and MacKean passed out of the hotel
the clerk was busy trying to find out from Floyd what
it was all about.


SURPRISED 205
The front door of the house was locked, (the others
were boarded up) but it was a short job to force an
entrance, the rotting door casing offering little re-
sistance.
The large rooms of what must have been at one
time a proud colonial mansion were furnished, though
rather sparsely, with relics of other years, now falling
to decay; and everything was covered with a coat-
ing of dust that could not have accumulated in less
than a decade. A path of footprints in the dust led
across the floor of the large reception hall to a door
in the rear of the room but there was no other sign
of recent entrance or occupancy. They passed on and
ascended the stairs where the same dilapidated and
abandoned appearance met their eyes, but here there
was not even a solitary footprint in the dust.
Returning to the ground floor, they followed the
path through the rear door and down a flight of stone
steps to a long basement corridor which ended at a
massive iron door set in masonry.
"Here's our door again, Inspector, this must open
into the tunnel," and with only a casual look Thorne
turned and led the party back again and out into the
front yard, just as the men with the surveyor's tape
had finished their work.
"How do the measurements tally, boys?" Thorne's
face lit up with a smile as one of the men answered:
"It's fifty-six feet farther on the surface than in the
tunnel."


SURPRISED 207
room Had not returned and the Planet management
knew nothing of a Mr. Wade.
"There were no tailor's labels on the clothing, sir,
or laundry marks on the linen; no papers, absolutely
nothing of a personal nature to identify the occupant."
"Then," interrupted the inspector somewhat de-
jectedly, "you didn't find out anything at all?"
"Oh, yes, a little, sir." Nikko's expression, except
for his eyes, was sphinxlike. "The man who had occu-
pied the room is between thirty-five and forty years
old, five feet eight inches tall and weighs about 175
pounds. His hair, sir, was once black but it is now
mixed with gray and has been cut quite recently. His
mustache was short and black but he shaved it off
before leaving. Also he has trouble with his eyes and
probably will have more today, sir."
When he had finished the description he showed no
more emotion than a small boy in school reciting the
multiplication tables. His hearers, neglecting their
coffee, watched him with expressions varying from
astonishment to amusement. Thorne put the question:
"What's the matter with his eyes, Nikko?"
"Probably chronic conjunctivitis and also exterior
strabismus of the left eye." He reached into a pocket
and brought out two envelopes which he handed to
Thorne, who smiled his appreciation. "In one of these
are the pieces of a broken lens for the left eye and in
the other his finger prints."


208 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
MfccKean turned to Thorne. "What's that about
the eyes?"
"Those medical terms simply mean that his eyes
were habitually inflamed and that the left eye turned
outward—was 'crossed.'"
"That's Valois, to a dot! but how the devil could
he find out all that from an empty room?"
"Let Nikko tell you, Inspector, while I take this
junk down and tackle those doors." There were plenty
of volunteers to help and they quickly disappeared down
the ladder.
Nikko drank a tin of coffee and then addressed the
inspector:
"I will be brief, sir. There were tracks of bare feet
in the bathroom and by Bertillon measurements I esti-
mated his height and weight. In the hair brush on the
dresser were black and gray hairs and also some very
short ones that showed a recent haircut. In the wash
basin were mustache hairs and the shaving brush was
still wet. Finger prints were everywhere, sir, of course."
"Yes, I see, but how about the eyes?"
"In the medicine chest, sir, there were three small
bottles. One contained boric acid and another was
labeled Adrenalin Solution. In the third was a solution
of Argyrol. Each bottle had a dropper stopper, as eye
prescriptions usually specify. Many people, sir, use
boric acid in eye cup to wash out eyes; but if inflam-
mation of the conjunctiva is present one uses Argyrol."
The inspector was deeply impressed.


210 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
chamber some forty feet square, which was, from ap-
pearances, a store room. A rude cupboard in one corner
was filled with guns and ammunition and on the floor
near by was a Browning machine gun.
"Look, a regular arsenal," one commented.
A large packing case near the door was nearly full
of smaller boxes. Ripping the thin cover from one,
Thorne gave voice to a single word, "Dope!"
Directly opposite the entrance they had made was
another metal door, evidently connecting with the lower
part of the tunnel. Amid the disorder of the place they
discovered a smaller door on one side of the room.
This was hinged and fortunately the key was in the
lock. Throwing open the door, a lighted room was re-
vealed and the sight that confronted them was enough
to horrify even the most experienced police officer.
On a cot near the wall lay a man, bare to the waist,
his torso covered with blood. Near by, a decrepit old
man with white hair and long, scraggy beard sat on
some old blankets on the floor and leaned helplessly
against the wall, mumbling to himself. His clothes were
in rags and scarcely covered his emaciated body. Iron
bands encircled his wrists and ankles and were con-
nected by chains with a ring set in the stone wall. Be-
side him sat the only other occupant of the dungeon,
an unkempt man of fifty, with straggling hair and sev-
eral days' growth of beard. As he looked up MacKean
gave one glance and cried:
"My God! It's Dr. Bardwell!"


SURPRISED
211
ma
"I wondered if you would come," said the doctor,
rising unsteadily to his feet. As they reached out to
support him he said: “I'm all right, it's Peter Van
Dorn that needs your help," and he motioned to the
manacled man on the floor. Orders were quickly given.
The acetylene torch was brought to sever the chains
and the old man was placed on a cot as ambulance calls
were hurriedly sent.
"And who is this," asked MacKean, turning to the
third man. "Is he dead?”
"No, but near it,” the physician replied. "He was
one of them."
Clearly the man was mortally wounded but retained
consciousness and seemed anxious to talk, although his
voice was weak. MacKean leaned over him to catch
the halting words.
“They-got me 'fraid I'd squeal.”
He closed his eyes. The effort to talk seemed too
great.
"Can't you give him some kind of a stimulant, Doc-
tor?” urged Thorne, "it's terribly important that we
hear what he has to say."
Bardwell gave him a hypodermic and the patient
rallied. Again he spoke. Piecing together the message
of the hapless victim, they got his story. He had been
an unwilling member of the dope ring and when they
had bolted they had shot him, fearing to take him
along. The leader's name he did not know "but he


SURPRISED
213
was a new man and seemed to know nothing of Quint's
affairs, had just finished washing the car and was pre-
paring to leave.
"Where is Mr. Quint, your employer ?” he was
asked. “I'm Inspector MacKean from Headquarters.
Answer my question and be quick about it!".
"I took him to call on a friend an hour ago and he
told me not to wait.”
"Where did you take him?"
"To the Kenton Arms on "
“Come along with us,” ordered the inspector and
without waiting for details they entered the car and
sped away.
"He's gone to Harkley's,” whispered MacKean.
Thorne merely nodded.
Although the hallman at the Kenton Arms seemed
bewildered by such an unexpected visit, he promptly
directed them to Harkley's apartment.
"Yes," he said, “a crippled old gentleman had re-
cently called”; but he was uncertain whether he had
left again. As the officers left the elevator and ap-
proached Harkley's apartment, the door was opened
and an elderly lady came out.
“Harkley's sister," whispered the inspector.
She wore an old-fashioned veil-in fact her entire
appearance was old-fashioned, her clothing long out of
style. Her shoulders were bent and she seemed not
quite so tall as her brother. In her hands she carried
two battered old suitcases.


214 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
MacKean addressed her: "This is Miss Harkley, I
suppose?”
“Yes,” and she stood staring at them through her
dark glasses. “What do you want?"
“We are looking for Mr. Quint and were told that
he was here."
"Nobody here but me. My brother is in Washing-
ton. There was an old man here a while ago asking to
see Junius, but I didn't let him in. I didn't know him,
and he didn't give any name."
"Pardon me, Miss Harkley," interposed Thorne,
"but were you going away?"
"Yes, I was and I am. I'm going back home. I
want to see my doctor.”
They stood aside as she picked up the baggage and
started toward the elevator. As the old lady had passed
Thorne, MacKean cried in alarm: "Good Lord,
Thorne, what does this mean!" and he ran forward.
Thorne had grabbed the elderly spinster's arms, pin-
ioning them behind her back. She dropped the bags
and to their consternation began kicking, swearing and
fighting like a longshoreman!
Nikko sprang to Thorne's assistance and snapped a
pair of handcuffs on the captive's wrists. Then drawing
an automatic, he stepped back while Thorne released
his grip.
"It means, Inspector," said Thorne coolly, "that
there is Stilwell's murderer and the one back of all
the other crimes. Miss Harkley, alias David Quint-"


SURPRISED
215
and with a quick movement he tore off the veil and
with it came hat and wig.
"Junius Harkley !" cried MacKean in amazement.
Harkley, his eyes glaring like an animal at bay,
turned and made a break for the stairway, but was
quickly intercepted.
"Take him down and lock him up," ordered the sur-
prised inspector.
“Yes,” said Thorne, "and take these bags, too. If
I'm any good at guessing, a large part of Peter Van
Dorn's fortune is in them.”


CHAPTER XXI
ECHOES
The informal little dinner in Probus Thorne's apart-
ment was about over.
"We'll have our coffee in the library, Nikko."
"Very well, sir."
They arose and Inspector MacKean led the way,
followed by Fred and Lucile Styles and Sergeant Floyd.
Thorne paused to allow Evelyn Hayward to join him
and they all passed into the library. Coffee was served
along with cigarettes and cigars. Neitner before nor
during the dinner had there been any mention of the
distressing events that had thrown these people to-
gether; but now, at their ease, they looked inquiringly
at their host as Inspector MacKean voiced what was in
the minds of all:
"Mr. Thorne, we are deeply indebted to you—every
one of us—for the help you have given in solving a
most baffling mystery; but there are several points
that are not yet clear, in my mind at least."
"Why, wasn't everything cleared up?" asked Thorne
ingenuously.
"Yes, in the main, Probus, but your modesty has
kept us in the dark about many details. For instance,
216


ECHOES 219
"we had only to study our suspects and decide which
one was most likely to have been actuated by it."
"But, Probus, when did you learn that David Quint
was Harkley?"
"We studied the various bank accounts and found
that Quint's grew in direct proportion as Van Dorn's
was depleted! Then, too, as the files showed no corre-
spondence with Quint, I suspected that this personality
was assumed."
"But why didn't you arrest Quint, then?"
"I knew that we were dealing with a shrewd mind.
If Quint was Harkley, as I suspected, I felt sure that
he had everything fixed to incriminate Valois. I knew
that Valois was probably innocent, or at worst a tool,
and we wanted to let Harkley play his hand and get
him right, and at the same time recover Van Dorn's
money."
"But, Probus, you took a big chance when you
grabbed him. How did you know it was not really his
sister?"
Thorne laughed and blew a cloud of smoke.
"We studied their habits thoroughly and found that
Harkley had never been seen with his sister and that
the two had never been out of the apartment at the
same time. I decided that he had no sister. Then, even
though he wore a veil, it failed to hide the fact that
while his face was dark his upper lip was white—
where his mustache had been! It was the moment I


220 WHY MURDER THE JUDGE?
had been waiting for; he had played his hand and was
making a getaway and the logical place for the money
was in the suitcases."
"How about Wattles and old man Morley, Mr.
Thorne?" Sergeant Floyd asked. "And how did that
knife of Stilwell's get out of the house?"
"Harkley had access to the house and had plenty
of opportunities to take the knife. Watdes' only crime
was playing poker with Morley, although his actions
were not above suspicion. Morley was a clever receiver
of stolen goods and had nothing to do with the mur-
der, even though he did throw the book out of the
window and come back to steal it."
"Then you think that Valois was not this 'Louis the
Poisoner' at all?" asked Floyd. "For an innocent man
he made a mighty quick getaway!"
"Really, Sergeant, Valois didn't make a getaway
at all," and Thorne rang for the butler. As the door
opened he smiled and said: "Nikko, send your friend
in."
Surprise was written on the face of each guest as
Francois Valois entered the room.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Mr. Valois," said
Thorne, "the man upon whom Harkley planned to
throw all the blame for his own despicable acts.
"Valois once found himself in jail on an unimportant
charge and Harkley got him out. Valois then became
a clerk in Harkley's office and because he was not
overly scrupulous, he later found himself in a web of


ECHOES
223
out." He drew some papers from his pocket. “Here
is a check for the amount drawn to your order and
you can divide it among your men as you see fit.”
MacKean was about to make a protest but Thorne
silenced him with a gesture, and turned to Mrs. Hay-
ward: "There was a fortune in those suitcases and it
is yours . . . a part of the Van Dorn estate to which
you are the sole heir."
When, a little later, as the guests had prepared to
go, Evelyn Hayward held out her hand, saying: "Mr.
Thorne, how can I ever thank you for what you have
done?”
Probus Thorne held her hand for a moment and
looked steadily into the depths of her eyes.
"Please don't,” he said.
After the door had closed upon the last of his de-
parting guests, Thorne walked slowly across the room
humming softly: "Believe Me If All Those Endearing
Young Charms ..."





--
-
-



UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
BOND
OCT 10 1934
3 9015 02237 9567
Bà Nà V. C
ÁCH,
LIBRARY