The sinister mark
mus'a go up fi'-'scape into da kitch', you see? Wind' broke----"
"Yes, I saw that the window was broken," said Peter, quietly. "Well,
we're much obliged to you, Angelo. I guess we won't need you any more,
but I may see you again. I may be coming in here a few times. It'll be
all right. You can ask Sullivan. He knows me and Mr. Morris, too."
At the words of dismissal the Italian, nothing loath, started for the
door. Peter followed him into the hall.
"You keep your eyes open, Angelo," he said, "and let us know if any one
comes to this apartment. We'll make it worth your while. And, by the
way, who has the apartment just below this?"
The janitor's left hand was on the knob of the door. "Nobod'. He's
empty. Been empty two, tree mont'."
"All right, Angelo," said Peter, smiling genially. "Don't forget what
I said about letting us know if any one, _any one_, mind, comes to
this apartment or asks for Miss Blake or her sister. Find out who it
is if you possibly can. It'll be worth more than this to you, by a
damsight," and he thrust a folded bill into the janitor's welcoming
palm.
The Italian's sharp little eyes glanced up and away. "Me tella you
somebod' come," he agreed, readily.
"Oh, and before you go," said Peter, in an off-hand manner, "just leave
me the door key, will you?"
"Door he shutta da spring lock," explained Angelo, quickly. "No needa
da key."
"No?" said Peter, casually. "Well, I'd rather have the key, anyway.
Always feel safer, somehow. I'm so absent-minded, Angelo, that I often
forget things and have to go back for 'em, and if the door was shut,
I'd have to go all the way to the basement to hunt you up, see? Just
give me the key and I'll leave it with you when I go down."
"Awright, awright," said the Italian, pulling a key from a ring which
was secured by a chain to his belt. "Me tinka awright," and he opened
the outer door.
As he did so, the sun, nearing the zenith, shone in from the front
room, striking full upon the white panels, and Peter, who was
just behind him, uttered a sharp exclamation and started forward.
Instinctively, he caught the Italian's arm and drew him away from the
door.
"Just a moment. Mr. Morris!" he called in a voice the excitement of
which was carefully held in check. "Come here just a moment, will you?"
"Look here." He spoke again as Donald Morris quickly reached his side.
"Look at this!"
Angelo Russo caught his breath, and crossed himself, fervently. "Madre
di Dio!" he whispered to himself.
Morris, leaning forward, felt a horrible shiver pass over him from head
to foot.
On the white door, just below the lock, was a long, dark splash of
blood.
CHAPTER VIII
THE VOICE OVER THE WIRE
"I don't know how it escaped me before, except that the hall was so
dark," muttered Peter, angrily, to himself, as he closed the door upon
the Italian's hurried departure.
Hastily he took a small but powerful electric hand-light from his
pocket and flashed it slowly all about. The door showed no further
traces, inside or out, but on the floor, which was stained dark brown
and heavily waxed, there were two or three dull, round spots. Peter
tested them with moistened forefinger, and held up his hand to Morris.
The end of the finger was stained red.
Swiftly he proceeded down the hall, flashing his torch back and forth
close to the floor. As he came opposite the door of the room which had
been used as a storeroom or closet, Morris who, white to the lips, had
followed closely, heard him give a little grunt of satisfaction and saw
him drop to his knees.
"Plenty of it here," said Clancy, pointing, and he flashed the light so
as to bring out a large, dull blot upon the softly shining wax of the
floor. "And here! and here!" he added, indicating smaller spots just
beyond on the floor and one, showing dark red, on the white baseboard.
A moment later he rose. Rapidly and thoroughly he inspected the entire
apartment, flashing his hand-torch into all the dark corners. Morris,
silent and apprehensive, followed him, closely watching every movement.
They found nothing more, and returning to the living room, Peter stood
for several moments before the window, lost in thought. At last he
turned to Donald Morris and said:
"I won't try to put anything over on you, Mr. Morris. The detective
who's able to dope out everything in a complicated case by looking at a
little bunch of ashes doesn't exist. You can take it from me," with a
wry smile, "there ain't no such animal.... Frankly, I'm at a loss. How
serious this thing is, it's impossible for me to say. But it looks like
a pretty ugly combination of circumstances, I'll go that far.... If you
want to go on with the proposition--and I take it for granted that you
do----"
"I do, I must!" There was no uncertainty in Donald's tone.
"Well, then, our best bet is to get busy tracing Miss Blake and her
sister. We're only wasting time. Apparently there's nobody here who
knows anything about where they might have gone, who their friends are,
or----"
Both men started violently. In the stillness of the room a telephone
bell rang out, loudly, insistently.
Peter faced swiftly about to the instrument which stood on a small
stand to the left of the door into the hall. With a leap he reached it,
caught the receiver off the hook, and held it to his ear.
"9282 Sturdevant?" a voice intoned over the wire.
Peter glanced at the little plate over the mouth-piece and replied at
once:
"9282 Sturdevant. Who's calling?"
"Just a moment," came the honeyed reply. "Here's your party."
"Somebody calling this apartment, all right." Holding his hand over the
transmitter, Peter spoke to Donald Morris, whose face was a study in
anxiety and excitement.
There was an instant's silence; then along the wires came another
voice, clear and resonant, deep and full, though whether that of a man
or woman Peter could not be sure.
"Anne," it said. "Anne! Are you there?"
Morris was surprised at Clancy's answering tone. It was low and gentle,
not at all like his usual voice.
"Who's calling?" Clancy repeated, softly.
"Why, Anne! You know. You----" Evidently Peter's attempt at
dissimulation was not entirely successful, for the voice went on,
sharply--"What number is this?" and waited, necessitating a reply.
"This is 9282 Sturdevant. Whom are you calling?"
"I'm calling Miss Anne Blake," was the quick response. "Is she there,
and who are you?"
"Miss Anne isn't here now," said Peter, smoothly. "Can I take a
message?"
He thought there was a note of alarm in the reply--"No. No. I want to
find Anne Blake. I want to speak to her at once."
"Would Miss Mary do?" asked Peter.
He was sure that there was a quickly restrained gasp at the other end
of the wire. Then the voice said, peremptorily:
"I want to know who this is speaking from Miss Blake's apartment."
"Who is it wishes to know?" Peter countered.
There was a pause. Peter waited.... The pause lengthened and Peter
again spoke into the transmitter--
"Hello, hello!"
No answer.
Peter waited a moment and then moved the receiver up and down on the
hook without effect. At last--
"Operator," came in a dulcet voice over the wire.
"Connect me with that party again," cried Peter, urgently. "You've cut
us off."
"What number was it, please?"
"I don't know," fiercely. "See if you can trace it. And hurry!" and
Peter waited, holding the receiver to his ear.
"Who was it?" cried Morris, unable to restrain his anxiety.
"I don't know, dammit!" said Peter, vehemently. "I'm afraid I've made
a fool of myself. Somebody calling Miss Anne Blake, and they shied
off when they found she wasn't here. I wish to God I knew who it was.
Anybody that knows her well enough to call her 'Anne'.... It must have
been a friend who might know something that would help! And they cut
off, I'm sure. Purposely. Oh----"
"Here's your party," said the operator in his ear.
"Maybe it's all right," said Clancy, hopefully, to Morris. "They've got
the connection again. Hello! Who is this?"
"Vanderbilt Hotel," came the prompt answer.
"Will you please find out for me who just called Sturdevant 9282, and
get them on the wire again?"
Peter repeated the name of the hotel to Donald Morris and both men
waited anxiously. It seemed an age before the information came back--
"Party spoke from a public booth. We don't know who it was. Sorry."
Peter hung up the receiver with an angry click and turned to Morris,
repeating the answer he had just received.
"It's a damn shame," he went on. "I'd give a good deal to know who
it is that's worried about Anne Blake just now. The man or woman,
whichever it was, that just called was pretty well fussed up and afraid
of making a break. And now it's all off!... Well--it leaves us about
where we were before we were so rudely interrupted. There's nothing to
do but to start tracing Miss Blake and her sister from here--and the
sooner we begin, the quicker we'll find them."
"But where can we start? We know nothing of their movements," said
Donald, in a tone of deep discouragement.
"Pardon me," said Clancy. "We do know something, though I admit it's
not much. We may infer, I think, that there was someone in this
apartment, probably as late as five o'clock yesterday.... That was
Sunday ... and if there was any luggage, which almost undoubtedly there
was, it means a cab, since it would have been impossible to get an
expressman.... Miss Blake didn't have a car of her own by any chance?"
he asked, on sudden thought.
"No," replied Morris, eagerly, his anxiety slightly mitigated by
the prospect of immediate action. "But I happen to know that she
habitually used a taxi from a garage over near Sixth Avenue. She spoke
once about how reliable they were. Let me see.... The name was ...
Horton--no--Holden?... No, I can't be sure. But I know the place. We
passed it coming from the theatre and she pointed it out to me." He
rose, excitedly. "Come on. I'll show you where it is," and he caught
Peter's arm in a nervous grip.
"That's good news," cried Peter, enthusiastically. "Now we'll begin.
But there's something I must do before we go. I may want to come in
here without disturbing our friend, Angelo. It won't take a minute."
He drew a small piece of wax from his pocket and began working it up in
his fingers, while Morris watched him, his impatience somewhat tempered
by curiosity.
"Carry a lot of odd things about with me," Clancy explained. "Need
almost as many as a first-class burglar. You see," he went on, as with
practised fingers he took an impression, in the wax, of the key Angelo
had left with him. "You never can tell when a thing'll come in handy. I
may need it and then, of course, I may not. But it's just as well to be
prepared." He put the model carefully away in a small case and returned
the case to his pocket. "Now I'm ready," he added, briskly, catching
up his hat from a table just inside the door of the living room. And
without further words the two men hastily closed the door, made sure
that it was fast, and descended the stairs at a run.
Peter called to Angelo from the top of the basement stairs, delivered
the key, and joining Morris, who waited impatiently at the door, they
passed out into the busy streets.
The noise of traffic increased as they neared Sixth Avenue, and Peter
Clancy, whose susceptibilities and intuitions were preternaturally
keen, contrasted the busy roar and rattle and movement of many people
with the silence and aloofness of the still place they had just left.
Somehow, he had the certain intuition that those quiet walls had
sheltered a tragic situation, unexplained and, perhaps, unexplainable.
The mere fact that he had so little to go upon piqued his vivid