The Voice on the Wire | Page 7

know on each paper, as though
this were a 'scoop,' so that knowing me, they will be confident that I tell
them the truth as a favor. Such deceit is excusable under the
circumstances. It may eventually bring the murderer to justice."
Professor MacDonald winced at the word. He turned toward Van Cleft,
on sudden thought, remarking: "Howard your mother and sister may
need the comfort of your presence. I will chat with your friend until the
Coroner comes."
The physician sank into a library chair. The criminologist quietly
awaited his cue. He lit a cigarette and the minutes drifted past with no
word between them. The doctor's gaze lowered to the vellum-bound
books on the carven table, then to the gorgeous pattern of the
Kermansha at his feet. Once more he studied the face of his companion,
with the keen, soul-gripping scrutiny of the skilled physician. As last he
arrived at a definite conclusion. He cleared his throat, and fumbled in
his waistcoat pocket for a cigar. A swiftly struck match in Monty's
hand was held up so promptly to the end of the cigar, that the doctor's
lips had not closed about it. This deftness, simple in itself, did not
escape the observation of the scientist. He smiled for the first time
during their interview.
"Your reflex nerves are very wide awake for a quiet man. I believe I
can depend upon those nerves, and your quietude. May I ask what
occupation you follow, if any? Most of Howard's friends follow
butterflies."
"I am one of them, then. Some opera, more theatricals, much art gallery
touring. A little regular reading in my rooms, and there you are! My
great grandfather was too poor a trader to succeed in pelts, so he
invested a little money in rocky pastures around upper Manhattan: this
has kept the clerks of the family bankers busy ever since. I am an
optimistic vagabond, enjoying life in the observation of the rather
ludicrous busyness of other folk. In short, Doctor, I am a corpulent

Hamlet, essentially modern in my cultivation of a joy in life, debating
the eternal question with myself, but lazily leaving it to others to solve.
Therein I am true to my type."
"Pardon my bluntness," observed MacDonald, watching him through
partially closed eyes. "You are not telling the truth. You are a busy man,
with definite work, but that is no affair of mine. I recognize in you a
different calibre from that of these rich young idlers in Howard's class.
I am going to take you into my confidence, for you understand the need
for secrecy, and will surely help in every way--noblesse oblige. This
man Cronin, the detective, was rather crude."
"He is honest and dependable," replied Shirley, loyally.
"Yes, but I wonder why professional detectives are so primitive. They
wear their calling cards and their business shingles on their figures and
faces. Surely the crooks must know them all personally. I read detective
stories, in rest moments, and every one of the sleuths lives in some
well-known apartment, or on a prominent street. Some day we may
read of one who is truly in secret service, but not until after his death
notice. But there, I am talking to quiet my own nerves a bit,--now we
will get to cases."
The doctor dropped his cigar into the bronze tray on the table, leaning
forward with intense earnestness, as he continued.
"This, Mr. Shirley, is the third murder of the sort within a week.
Wellington Serral, the wealthy broker, came to a sudden death in a
private dining room last Monday, in the company of a young show girl.
He was a patient of mine, and I signed the death certificate as heart
failure, to save the honorable family name for his two orphaned
daughters.
"Herbert de Cleyster, the railroad magnate, died similarly in a taxicab
on Thursday. He was also one of my patients. There, too, was
concerned another of these wretched chorus girls. To-night the fatal
number of the triad was consummated in this cycle of crime. To
maintain my loyalty to my patients I have risked my professional

reputation. Have I done wrong?"
"No! The criminal shall be brought to justice," replied Shirley in a
voice vibrant with a profound determination which was not lost upon
his companion.
"Are you powerful enough to bring this about, without disgracing me or
betraying this sordid tragedy to the morbid scandal-rakers of the
papers?"
"I will devote every waking hour to it. But, like you, my efforts must
remain entirely secret. I vow to find this man before I sleep again!"
"You are determined--yet it cannot be one single man. It must be an
organized gang, for all the crimes have been so strangely similar,
occurring to three men who