I, Spy - 6 Espionage & Detective Books in One Edition. Frederic Arnold Kummer
the blank space at the bottom of the picture a line of typewritten characters had been placed. Duvall glanced at them. "As you will look soon," the words read. Below them was fixed the grinning Death's head seal. Unobserved in the confusion, Duvall thrust the photograph into his pocket, and turned to Ruth and the others.
The girl had recovered herself by now, and was being conducted to her dressing room by a solicitous crowd. So far as Duvall would see, she had said nothing to those about her as to the cause of her sudden indisposition, and with the exception of the man who had been Duvall's guide, none of them had observed the opening of the package containing the photograph, nor its immediate effect upon her.
The latter, however, whose name was Baker, came over to Duvall and addressed him.
"What was it about that photograph that upset Miss Morton so?" he asked. "And what has become of it?"
Duvall drew him to one side.
"Let us go to your office, Mr. Baker," he said. "I have a most important matter to discuss with you."
Baker regarded the detective for a moment in surprise, then, seeing that Duvall was very much in earnest, he led the way to his private office.
"I am not a newspaper writer, Mr. Baker," Duvall said, as soon as they were seated. "As a matter of fact, I am a detective, in the employ of Mrs. Morton, Ruth Morton's mother."
"A detective?" he questioned. "Why has Miss Morton's mother employed a detective?"
"Because someone is persecuting the girl, by sending her threatening letters, saying that her beauty is to be destroyed. This photograph"—he drew the hideous picture from his pocket—"is a sample of their work."
Mr. Baker regarded the photograph for a moment in silence, then rose with a growl of rage and struck his clenched fist upon the desk.
"This is outrageous—damnable!" he cried. "It cannot go on. No wonder the poor girl looked tired out. We will put the matter in the hands of the police. We will spend any amount of money——"
"Wait a moment, Mr. Baker," Duvall interrupted, urging the angry man back into his chair. "Nothing is to be gained by giving any publicity to this matter. The scoundrels who are at the bottom of it will at once be warned, and then our chance of catching them will be small indeed. So far, not a soul knows that I am working on this case, outside of Mrs. Morton, and yourself. Even Miss Ruth does not know it. I have already unearthed some very surprising things connected with the case, although I have been occupied with it only since this morning. Within a few days, I have no doubt, I shall be able to place my hands upon the person or persons responsible for the trouble, but I must insist that I be given a free hand."
"But," Mr. Baker expostulated, "she may be in immediate danger. At any moment something may happen that would ruin her beauty, and incidentally, ruin us as well. She is our star attraction."
"I do not think the danger is immediate," Duvall replied gravely. "All the threats so far received set thirty days as the period within which the attack is to be made. Only three days have passed, so far. And in addition, Miss Morton is being very carefully guarded."
"She certainly shall be while she is here at the studio," Mr. Baker exclaimed. "But, man, something ought to be done—at once."
"The first thing to be done is to find out how that photograph got here—who brought it—and when. It was not delivered by mail. Look here." He handed the angry official the torn manilla envelope, which Ruth, in her excitement, had dropped upon the floor.
Mr. Baker regarded it for a moment in angry silence, then pressed an electric button upon his desk. A young woman responded.
"Send Jim here," he said. The girl nodded and withdrew.
A few moments later a freckled-faced boy of twelve or fourteen came in. Duvall saw that it was the same boy who had brought in the photograph.
"You sent for me, sir?" he asked.
"Yes. Where did you get the package you delivered to Miss Morton a little while ago?"
"From Mr. Curry, sir."
"Good." Mr. Baker rose and went toward the door. "Come with me," he said to Duvall, "and you too, Jim." The three of them went along the corridor, arriving presently at the main entrance to the building. An elderly man sat at a high desk behind a wire grating.
"Curry," Mr. Baker burst out, "this boy tells me you gave him a package for Miss Morton a while ago."
"Yes, sir."
"Where did you get it?"
The man looked up in surprise.
"Why, sir, someone left it here—on my desk. I don't know who, sir. Right after lunch, it was. You know people deliver things here all the time. I didn't take any particular notice how it got here. It was just pushed through the window, I guess, same as usual. There was a lot of mail in the rack, after lunch, and everybody asking for theirs as they came in. In fact, I don't remember seeing the package handed in at all. Just found it lying on my desk, along with a lot of letters and things. Why, sir? Is anything wrong?"
Baker turned to Duvall in disgust.
"No system here at all," he grumbled. "The trail is lost, of course. Half a hundred people come through here every hour. That's all, Jim," he said, turning to the boy, who disappeared at once. Accompanied by Duvall, Baker returned to the private office.
"Well?" Mr. Baker asked. "What next?"
"How many typewriters have you in your offices, Mr. Baker? Machines, I mean, not operators."
"About thirty, I guess. Or maybe thirty-five. Why?"
"I want you to get me a sample of the writing of each machine, without letting anyone know about it. Put each one on a separate sheet of paper, with a note added, stating whose machine it is—that is, in whose office."
Mr. Baker nodded. "I'll do it to-night," he said. "Attend to it myself. I see your idea. You think this thing is the work of someone inside the studio."
"It may be, I don't know. But I mean to find out."
"All right. Anything else?"
"Yes. Tell me something about this new film you've just gotten out. 'An American Beauty,' I think it is called."
Mr. Baker's manner became enthusiastic.
"Greatest film Ruth Morton ever did," he exclaimed. "A knockout. It is to be shown at the Grand, on Broadway, to-morrow night. First time on the screen. You'd better look it over."
"I probably shall. Now, tell me this. If I wanted to add anything to that picture, put in an insert, I believe you call it, could I do so, if I told you about it to-morrow?"
"Well—it might be done," Mr. Baker replied, dubiously. "But we wouldn't want to change the film any. It's perfect as it is."
"I don't doubt that. I have no idea of improving it in any way. But it is just possible that I may have a scheme that will help us to catch these people who are threatening Miss Morton. I'll tell you more about it, to-morrow. Meanwhile, don't forget about the typewriter samples. I'll see you in the morning." He rose. "And for the present, I think it would be best for you to keep what I have told you to yourself."
Mr. Baker nodded.
"I'll do that," he said, putting out his hand. "For the present, at least. But don't forget, Mr. Duvall, that this is a very vital matter to our company, and we can't afford to take any chances."
"I realize that fully. You can depend on me. I intend to save Miss Morton from any harm, not primarily on your company's account, but on her own. Good day."
"Good day, and the best of luck."
Duvall went toward the entrance, and in the corridor met Mrs. Morton. She was about to pass him, but he detained her.
"Twenty-seven days more," he whispered to her. She turned sharply, a look of fear upon her face, but as she recognized Duvall, her expression changed.
"Oh—it's