CHAPTER I. WHEN THREE IS A MYSTERY

“Mr. Shirley is waiting for you in the grill-room, sir. Just step this way, sir, and down the stairs.”

The large man awkwardly followed the servant to the cosey grill-room on the lower floor of the club house. He felt that every man of the little groups about the Flemish tables must be saying: “What's he doing here?”

“I wish Monty Shirley would meet me once in a while in the back room of a ginmill, where I'd feel comfortable,” muttered the unhappy visitor. “This joint is too classy. But that's his game to play—”

He reached the sought-for one, however, and exclaimed eagerly: “By Jiminy, Monty. I'm glad to find you—it would have been my luck after this day, to get here too late.”

He was greeted with a grip that made even his generous hand wince, as the other arose to smile a welcome.

“Hello, Captain Cronin. You're a good sight for a grouchy man's eyes! Sit down and confide the brand of your particular favorite poison to our Japanese Dionysius!”

The Captain sighed with relief, as he obeyed.

“Bar whiskey is good enough for an old timer like me. Don't tell me you have the blues—your face isn't built that way!”

“Gospel truth, Captain. I've been loafing around this club—nothing to do for a month. Bridge, handball, highballs, and yarns! I'm actually a nervous wreck because my nerves haven't had any work to do!”

“You're the healthiest invalid I've seen since the hospital days in the Civil War. But don't worry about something to do. I've some job now. It's dolled up with all them frills you like: millions, murders and mysteries! If this don't keep you awake, you'll have nightmares for the next six months. Do you want it?”

“I'm tickled to death. Spill it!”

“Monty, it's the greatest case my detective agency has had since I left the police force eleven years ago. It's too big for me, and I've come to you to do a stunt as is a stunt. You will plug it for me, won't you—just as you've always done? If I get the credit, it'll mean a fortune to me in the advertising alone.”

“Haven't I handled every case for you in confidence. I'm not a fly-cop, Captain Cronin. I'm a consulting specialist, and there's no shingle hung out. Perhaps you had better take it to some one else.”

Shirley pushed away his empty glass impatiently.

“There, Monty, I didn't mean to offend you. But there's such swells in this and such a foxey bunch of blacklegs, that I'm as nervous as a rookie cop on his first arrest. Don't hold a grudge against me.”

Shirley lit a cigarette and resumed his good nature: “Go on, Captain. I'm so stale with dolce far niente, after the Black Pearl affair last month, that I act like an amateur myself. Make it short, though, for I'm going to the opera.”

The Captain leaned over the table, his face tense with suppressed emotion. He was a grizzled veteran of the New York police force: a man who sought his quarry with the ferocity of a bull-dog, when the line of search was definitely assured. Lacking imagination and the subtler senses of criminology, Captain Cronin had built up a reputation for success and honesty in every assignment by bravery, persistence, and as in this case, the ability to cover his own deductive weakness by employing the brains of others.

Montague Shirley was as antithetical from the veteran detective as a man could well be. A noted athlete in his university, he possessed a society rating in New York, at Newport and Tuxedo, and on the Continent which was the envy of many a gilded youth born to the purple.

On leaving college, despite an ample patrimony, he had curiously enough entered the lists as a newspaper man. From the sporting page he was graduated to police news, then the city desk, at last closing his career as the genius who invented the weekly Sunday thriller, in many colors of illustration and vivacious Gallic style which interpreted into heart throbs and goose-flesh the real life romances and tragedies of the preceding six days! He had conquered the paper-and-ink world—then deep within there stirred the call for participation in the game itself.

So, dropping quietly into the apparently indolent routine of club existence, he had devoted his experience and genius to analytical criminology—a line of endeavor known only to five men in the world.

He maintained no offices. He wore no glittering badges: a police card, a fire badge, and a revolver license, renewed year after year, were the only instruments of his trade ever in evidence. Shirley took assignments only from the heads of certain agencies, by personal arrangement as informal as this from Captain Cronin. His real clients never knew of his participation, and his prey never understood that he had been the real head-hunter!

His fees—Montague Shirley, as a master craftsman deemed his artistry worthy of the hire. His every case meant a modest fortune to the detective agency and Shirley's bills were never rendered, but always paid!

So, here, the hero of the gridiron and the class re-union, the gallant of a hundred pre-matrimonial and non-maturing engagements, the veteran of a thousand drolleries and merry jousts in clubdom—unspoiled by birth, breeding and wealth, untrammeled by the juggernaut of pot-boiling and the salary-grind, had drifted into the curious profession of confidential, consulting criminal chaser.

Shirley unostentatiously signaled for an encore on the refreshments.

“You're nervous to-night, Captain. You've been doing things before you consulted me—which is against our Rule Number One, isn't it?”

The Captain gulped down his whiskey, and rubbed his forehead.

“Couldn't help it, Monty. It got too busy for me, before I realized anything unusual in the case. See what I got from a gangster before I landed here.”

He turned his close-cropped head, as Montague Shirley leaned forward to observe an abrasion at the base of his skull. It was dressed with a coating of collodion.

“Brass knuckled—I see the mark of the rings. Tried for the pneumogastric nerves, to quiet you.”

“Whatever he tried for he nearly got. Kelly's nightstick got his pneumonia gas jet, or whatever you call it. He's still quiet, in the station house—You know old man Van Cleft, who owns sky-scrapers down town, don't you?—Well, he's the center of this flying wedge of excitement. His family are fine people, I understand. His daughter was to be married next week. Monty, that wedding'll be postponed, and old Van Cleft won't worry over dispossess papers for his tenants for the rest of the winter. See?”

“Killed?”

“Correct. He's done, and I had a hell of a time getting the body home, before the coroner and the police reporters got on the trail.”

Shirley lowered his high-ball glass, with an earnest stare.

“What was the idea?”

“Robbery, of course. His son had me on the case—'phoned from the garage where the chauffeur brought the body; after he saw the old man unconscious. Just half an hour before he had left his office in the same machine, after taking five thousand dollars in cash from his manager.”

“Who was with him?”

“Now, that's getting to brass tacks. When I gets that C.Q.D. from Van Cleft, I finds the young fellow inside the ring of rubbernecks, blubbering over the old man, where he lies on the floor of the taxi—looking soused.”

“He was a notorious old sport about town, Captain.”

“Sure—and I thinks, it sorter serves him right. But, that's his funeral, not mine. Van Cleft, junior, says to me: 'There's the girl that was with him.'”

“Where was the girl?”

“She was sitting on a stool, near the car, a little blonde chorus chicken, shaking and twitching, while the chauffeur and the garage boss held her up. I says, 'What's this?' and Van Cleft tells me all he knows, which ain't nothing. Them guys in that garage was wise, for it meant a cold five hundred apiece before I left to keep their lids closed. Van Cleft begs me to hustle the old man home, so one of my men takes her down to my office, still a sniffling, and acting like she had the D.T.'s. The young fellow shook like a leaf, but we takes him over to Central Park East, to the family mansion,—carrying him up the steps like he was drunk. We gets him into his own bed, and keeps the sister from touching his clammy hands, while she orders the family doctor. When he gets there on the jump, I gives him the wink and leads him to one side. 'Doc,' I says, 'you know how to write out a death certificate, to hush this up from your end. I've done the rest.'”

Captain Cronin leaned forward, a queer excitement agitating him.

“Do you know what that doctor says to me, Monty?”

Shirley shook his head.

He says; “My God, it's the third!”

Shirley's white hand gripped the edge of the table. “The Van Cleft's doctor is one of the greatest surgeons in the country, Professor MacDonald of the Medical College. He said that?”

“He did. I answers, 'Whadd'y mean the third?' Then he looks me straight in the eye, and sings back, 'None of your business.'” Cronin shook his head. “I never seen a man with a squarer look, and yet he has me guessing. I goes back to the garage, over past Eighth Avenue, you know, where two johns come up along side o' me. One rubs me with his elbow and the other applies that brass knuckle,—then they gets pinched. I got dressed up in a drug store, got the chauffeur's license number, and goes on down to my office to see this girl. She's hysterical about his family using all their money to put her in jail. I looks at her, and says, 'You won't need their money to get to jail. That old man's dead!' Her eyes was as big as saucers. 'I thought old Daddy Van Cleft was drunk.' I tells her, 'He was dead in that taxi, with a chorus girl, and a roll of bills gone. What you got to say?' She staggers forward and clutches my coat, and what do you think SHE says to me?”

Shirley made the inquiry only with his eyes, puffing his cigarette slowly.

“She looks sorter green, and repeats after me: 'Dead, with a chorus girl, and a roll of bills gone,'—just like a parrot. Then she springs this on me: 'My God, it's the third!'”

Shirley dropped his cigarette, leaning forward, all nonchalance gone.

“Where is she now? Quick, let's go to her.”

He rose to his feet. Just then a door-boy walked through the grill-room toward him. “A telephone call for Captain Cronin, sir; the party said hurry or he would miss something good.”

Shirley snapped out, “When has the rule about telephone calls in this club been changed? You boys are never to tell any one that a member or guest are here until the name is announced.”

He turned toward the puzzled Captain.

“Did you ask any of your operatives to call you here? You know what a risk you are taking, to connect me with this case like that, don't you?”

“I never even breathed it to myself. I told no one.”

“Follow me up to the telephone room.”

Shirley hurried through the grill, to the switchboard, near which stood the booths for private calls. He called to one of the operators. “Here, let me at that switchboard.” He pushed the boy aside, and sat down in the vacated chair.

“Which trunk is it on? Oh, I see, the second. There Captain, take the fourth booth against the wall.”

Cronin stepped in. Shirley connected up and listened with the transmitter of the operator at his ear, holding the line open.

“Go ahead, here's Captain Cronin!”

A pleasant voice came over the wire. It was musical and sincere.

“Hello, Captain Cronin, is that you?”

“Yes! What do you want?”

The voice continued, with a jolly laugh, ringing and infectious in its merriment.

“Well, Captain, the joke's on you. Ha, ha, ha! It's a bully one! Ho, ho! Ha, ha!”

“What joke?”

“You're working on the Van Cleft case. Oh, sure, you are, don't kid me back. Well, Captain, you've missed two other perfectly good grafts. This is the third one!”

There was a click and the speaker, with another merry gurgle, rang off.

“Quick, manager's desk,” cried Shirley, jiggling the metal key. “What call was that? Where did it come from?”

After a little wait, a languid voice answered: “Brooklyn, Main 6969, Party C.”

“Give me the number again—I want to speak on the wire.”

After another delay, the voice replied “The line has been discontinued.”

“I just had it! What is the name of the subscriber. Hurry, this is a matter of life and death.”

“It's against the rules to give any further information. But our record shows that the house burned down about two weeks ago. No one else has been given the number. There's no instrument there!”

CHAPTER II. THE FLEETING PROMPTER

Monty's puzzled smile was in no wise reciprocated by the Captain, whose red face evidenced a growing resentment.

He began a tirade, but a wink from the club man warned him. Shirley replaced the receiver, and the regular attendant resumed his place at the switchboard. The lad was curious at the unusual ability of the wealthy Mr. Shirley to handle the bewildering maze of telephone attachments. Monty explained, as he turned to go upstairs.

“Son, that was one of my smart friends trying to play a practical joke on my guest. I fooled him. Don't let it happen again, until you send in the party's name first.”

“Yes, sir,” meekly promised the boy.

“Well, Captain Cronin, as the old paperback novels used to say at the end of the first instalment, 'The Plot thickens!' At first I thought this case of stupid badger game—”

“You aren't going to back out, Monty? Here's a whole gang of crooks which would give you some sport rounding up, and as for money—”

“Money is easy, from both sides of a criminal matter. What interests me is that ghostly telephone call from a house that burned down, and the caller's knowledge of Number Three. I'm in this case, have no fear of that.”

Shirley led his guest to the coat room.

“I'll get a taxicab, Monty. We'd better see that girl first and then have a look at the body.”

The Captain turned to the door, as the attendant helped Monty with his overcoat. The waiter from the grill-room approached. “Excuse me, sir, but the gentleman dropped his handkerchief in his chair opposite you.”

“Thank you, Gordon,” he said, as he faced the servant for an instant. When he turned again, toward the front hall, the Captain had passed out of view through the front door.

Shirley received a surprise when he reached the pavement on Forty-fourth Street, for Captain Cronin was not in sight. Two club men descended the steps of the neighboring house. Others strolled along toward the Avenue, but not a sign of a vehicle of any description could be seen, nor was there anything suspicious in view. Cronin had disappeared as effectually as though he had taken a passing Zeppelin!

“I'm glad this affair will not bore me,” murmured the criminologist, as he evolved and promptly discarded a dozen vain theories to explain the disappearance of his companion.

Twenty minutes were wasted along the block, as he waited for some sight or sign. Then he decided to go on up to Van Cleft's residence. But, realizing the probability of “shadow” work upon all who came from the door of the club, after the curious message on the wire, Shirley did not propose to expose his hand. Walking leisurely to the Avenue, he hailed a passing hansom. He directed the driver to carry him to an address on Central Park West. His shrewdness was not wasted, for as he stepped into the vehicle, he espied a slinking figure crossing the street diagonally before him, to disappear into the shadow of an adjacent doorway. This was the house of Reginald Van Der Voor, as Shirley knew. It was closed because its master, a social acquaintance of the club man's, was at this time touring the Orient in his steam yacht. No man should have entered that doorway. So, as the horse started under the flick of the long whip, Shirley peered unobserved through the glass window at his side.

A big machine swung up behind the hansom, at some unseen hail, and the figure came from the doorway, leaping into the car, as it followed Shirley up the Avenue, a block or so behind.

“It is not always so easy to follow, when the leader knows his chase,” thought Shirley. “I'm glad I'm only a simple club man.”

The automobile was unmistakably trailing him, as the hansom crossed the Plaza, then sped through the Park drive, to the address he had given his driver.

As Shirley had remembered, this was a large apartment house, in which one of his bachelor friends lived. He knew the lay of the building well: next door, with an entrance facing on the side street was another just like it, and of equal height.

“Wait for me, here,” said Shirley. “I'll pay you now, but want to go to an address down town in five minutes.”

He gave the driver a bill, then entered and told the elevator man to take him to the ninth floor.

“There's nobody in, boss,” began the boy. But Shirley shook his head.

“My friend is expecting me for a little card game, that's why you think he is out. Just take me up.”

He handed the negro a quarter, which was complete in its logic.

As he reached the floor, he waved to the elevator operator. “Go on down, and don't let any one else come up, for Mr. Greenough doesn't want company.”

As the car slid down, Shirley fumbled along the familiar hall to the iron stairs which led to the roof of the building. Up these he hurried, thence out upon the roof. It was a matter of only four minutes before he had crossed to the next apartment building, opened the door of the roof-entry, found the stairs to the ninth floor, and taken this elevator to the street.

He walked out of the building, and turned toward Central Park West, to slyly observe the entrance of the building where waited the faithful hansom Jehu. A young man was in conversation with the driver, and the big automobile could be seen on the other side of the street awaiting further developments.

“He has a long vigil there,” laughed Shirley. “Now, for the real address. I think I lost the hounds for this time.”

Another vehicle took him through the Park to the darkened mansion of the Van Clefts'. Here, Shirley's card brought a quick response from the surprised son of the dead millionaire.

“Why—why—I'm glad to see you, Mr. Shirley—Who sent you?” he began.

Shirley registered complete surprise. “Sent me, my dear Van Cleft? Who should send me? For what? It just happened that I was walking up the Avenue, and to-morrow night I plan to give a little farewell supper to Hal Bingley, class of '03, at the club You knew him in College? I thought you might like to come.”

“Step in the library,” requested Van Cleft, weakly. “Sit down, Mr. Shirley—I'm upset to-night.”

He mopped his brow with a damp handkerchief, and Shirley's big heart went out to the young chap, as he saw the haggard lines of horror and grief on his usually pleasant face.

“What's the trouble, old man? Anything I can do?”

“My father just died this evening, and I'm in awful trouble—I thought it was the Coroner, or the police—” he bit his tongue as the last words escaped him. Shirley put his hand on Van Cleft's shoulder, with an inspiring firmness.

“Tell me how I can help. You've had a big shock. Confide in me, and I pledge you my word, I'll keep it safer than any one you could go to.”

Van Cleft groped as a drowning man, at this opportunity. He caught Shirley's hand and wrung it tensely.

“Sit down. The doctor is still upstairs with mother and sister. When the Coroner comes, I would like to have you be here as a witness. It's an ordeal—I'll tell you everything.”

Shirley listened attentively, without betraying his own knowledge. Soothing in manner, he questioned the son about any possible enemy of the murdered man.