I, Spy - 6 Espionage & Detective Books in One Edition. Frederic Arnold Kummer
Those of the one to the floor below were equally so. He re-entered the room, and going to the opposite window, threw it wide open. The three dormer windows of the adjoining house were gray, dusty, as though they had not been opened for years. He turned to his companion with a look of amazement.
"In all my experience, Mrs. Morton," he said, "I do not think that I have ever encountered anything quite so astonishing. That letter must have been placed there while I was in the apartment above. Your cook, your maid, are out. Certainly you did not place it there yourself. And yet we know that someone has been in this room, or at least delivered the letter, during the past fifteen minutes. Had I not found it here myself, I should have been almost tempted to disbelieve it, but I am forced to admit its truth."
Mrs. Morton stood wringing her hands.
"It—it seems almost supernatural," she exclaimed. "Poor Ruth. What are we to do?"
"There is nothing supernatural about the matter, madam," Duvall remarked. "I don't doubt the explanation is simple enough, could we but hit upon it. But so far I confess I am unable to understand it." He went over to the wall which adjoined that of the house next door, and sounded it, inch by inch, with a small hammer he took from his bag of tools. The operation required several minutes. When he had completed it, he tossed the hammer back into his kit in disgust. "Brick, of course," he said, "and perfectly solid." He turned toward the door. "What are you going to do now?" Mrs. Morton asked.
"Try to find out something through this telegram. And also, investigate the house next door."
"But, you will come back? I am afraid."
"I shall be at your call at all times, Mrs. Morton. If anything of interest occurs, notify me here." He drew a card from his pocket and wrote upon it the name of his hotel. "Say nothing to your daughter about these new threats. I shall probably see you again later in the day." Shouldering his kit of tools, Duvall left the apartment. He was by no means satisfied with the results of his visit. In fact there had apparently been no results at all.
Chapter 5
Duvall's first move, after leaving Mrs. Morton's apartment that morning, was to enter the taxicab which had been waiting for him at the door and return to his hotel. A light overcoat which he had in the vehicle concealed his workman's disguise sufficiently to enable him to reach his room without exciting comment. Once there, he changed his clothes, putting on a professional looking frock coat, and adjusting a pair of shell-rimmed eyeglasses to complete the slight disguise. Thus equipped, he once more set out.
Grace had left a note for him, saying that she had gone shopping. Beside it lay the photograph of Ruth Morton, which he had, he remembered, left on his chiffonier while putting on his workman's clothes that morning. At the foot of her hastily written note Grace had added a postscript. "Is this the reason for your sudden interest in motion pictures?" it read. "Well, I'll admit she's a raving beauty, Richard, but I'll bet she isn't half as nice as I am." Duvall read the note with a smile. Grace was always such a thoroughly good comrade.
Leaving the hotel, he went to the telegraph office from which the message to Ruth Morton had been delivered that morning. It was on Columbus Avenue, some four blocks from the Mortons' apartment.
"Can you tell me where this telegram was sent from?" he asked. The message showed that it had been filed, as well as delivered, within the city limits.
The man behind the desk looked up his records.
"It was sent from the main office on lower Broadway, at 8.30," he said, briefly.
Duvall thanked him, then turned away. Although he realized that he could scarcely hope to obtain even a scanty description of the sender of the telegram from the main office, he determined to go there. First, however, he walked back toward the Mortons' apartment, and going up the steps of the brownstone house adjoining, rang the doorbell.
A neat maid-servant opened the door. Duvall favored her with a smile, at the same time taking a notebook and pencil from his pocket.
"I am making some corrections in the city directory," he said. "Will you please give me the names of all the persons living in this house." The girl stared at him for a moment, but his prosperous appearance, his businesslike manner, disarmed any suspicion she may have felt.
"There's—there's Mr. William Perkins," she said, "and Mrs. Perkins, and Mr. Robert, that's Mr. Perkins' son, and—and Miss Elizabeth, although she's away at boarding school, and—and Emily Thompson, the cook, and—and me. My name's Mary. Mary Wickes."
"Thank you, Mary," Duvall replied, entering the names carefully in his notebook. "And Mr. Perkins, the elder Mr. Perkins, I mean, is he the lawyer?"
"No, sir. It's Mr. Robert that's the lawyer, sir. Mr. William Perkins is in the leather business."
"Ah, yes. I see. Thank you very much indeed. And there are no boarders, or other persons whatever living in the house?"
"No, sir. Not any, sir."
Duvall closed his book and put it carefully in his pocket.
"Now, Mary," he continued. "Just one more question. Does any one sleep in the attic?"
"The attic, sir? Why, no sir. Cook and I sleep on the fourth floor, sir, but the attic isn't used, except for storage, sir. Are you going to put that in the directory too, sir?" The girl regarded him with wondering eyes.
"No, Mary. Not in the directory. But we want to be sure not to omit any names, and I thought that if there was anyone living in the attic——" he paused.
"No one, as I've told you. Nobody ever goes up there, so far as I know. Is that all, sir?"
"Yes. That's all. Thank you. Good morning."
Duvall went down the steps, and proceeded to the subway station, somewhat mystified. He had handled many curious cases in the past, many that had been notable for their intricacy, their complexity of motive and detail. But here, he felt, was a case of a very different sort, the peculiarity of which lay in its astonishing lack of clues of any sort. Usually in the past there had been motives, evidence, traces of some kind or other, upon which to build a case. Here there was nothing, except the three mysterious letters, the one equally mysterious telegram. He felt baffled, uncertain which way to turn. In rather a dissatisfied frame of mind he made his way to the telegraph office in lower Broadway. There were several clerks engaged in receiving messages. He approached one of them.
"This telegram," he said, holding out the slip of yellow paper Mrs. Morton had given him, "was sent from this office at half past eight this morning. Can you by any chance give me a description of the person who sent it?" He leaned over and addressed the clerk in a low tone. "I am a detective," he said. "The telegram is part of a blackmailing scheme."
The man looked at him for a moment, and then consulted with an older man, evidently his superior. The latter came forward.
"I received this message myself, sir," he said. "I remember it, because of its peculiar wording. What is it you wish to know?"
"I would like a description of the person who sent it," Duvall told him.
The man thought for a moment.
"I'm not able to tell you much," he said. "It was a woman—I didn't notice particularly whether she was young or old. In fact, she didn't give me a chance, just laid the message and the money down and went right out. She evidently knew the rate, for the amount she left was correct. I took the message and read it, without noticing her particularly, and then, when I had finished reading it and looked up, she had gone."
"Then you can't tell me anything about her?" Duvall asked, greatly disappointed.
"Not a thing. I remember it was a woman, and my general impression is that she was rather young and small, but I can't be at all sure. You see, sir, a great many persons come in, during the day, and we haven't time to take note of them particularly. As I say, I read the