The Silent Bullet. Arthur B. Reeve
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it to find a messenger-boy with a large brown paper parcel.
“Is Mr. Bruce here?” he asked.
“Why, no, he doesn't—” then I checked myself and added “He will be here presently. You can leave the bundle.”
“Well, this is the parcel he telephoned for. His valet told me to tell him that they had a hard time to find it, but he guesses it's all right. The charges are forty cents. Sign here.”
I signed the book, feeling like a thief, and the boy departed. What it all meant I could not guess.
Just then I heard a key in the lock, and Kennedy came in.
“Is your name Bruce?” I asked.
“Why?” he replied eagerly. “Has anything come?”
I pointed to the package. Kennedy made a dive for it and unwrapped it. It was a woman's pongee automobile-coat. He held it up to the light. The pocket on the right-hand side was scorched and burned, and a hole was torn clean through it. I gasped when the full significance of it dawned on me.
“How did you get it?” I exclaimed at last in surprise.
“That's where organisation comes in,” said Kennedy. “The police at my request went over every messenger call from Parker's office that afternoon, and traced every one of them up. At last they found one that led to Bruce's apartment. None of them led to Mrs. Parker's home. The rest were all business calls and satisfactorily accounted for. I reasoned that this was the one that involved the disappearance of the automobile-coat. It was a chance worth taking, so I got Downey to call up Bruce's valet. The valet of course recognised Downey's voice and suspected nothing. Downey assumed to know all about the coat in the package received yesterday. He asked to have it sent up here. I see the scheme worked.”
“But, Kennedy, do you think she—” I stopped, speechless, looking at the scorched coat.
“Nothing to say—yet,” he replied laconically. “But if you could tell me anything about that note Parker received I'd thank you.”
I related what our managing editor had said that morning. Kennedy only raised his eyebrows a fraction of an inch.
“I had guessed something of that sort,” he said merely. “I'm glad to find it confirmed even by hearsay evidence. This red-haired young lady interests me. Not a very definite description, but better than nothing at all. I wonder who she is. Ah, well, what do you say to a stroll down the White Way before I go to my laboratory? I'd like a breath of air to relax my mind.”
We had got no further than the first theatre when Kennedy slapped me on the back. “By George, Jameson, she's an actress, of course.”
“Who is? What's the matter with you, Kennedy? Are you crazy?”
“The red-haired person—she must be an actress. Don't you remember the auburn-haired leading lady in the 'Follies'—the girl who sings that song about 'Mary, Mary, quite contrary'? Her stage name, you know, is Phoebe La Neige. Well, if it's she who is concerned in this case I don't think she'll be playing to-night. Let's inquire at the box-office.”
She wasn't playing, but just what it had to do with anything in particular I couldn't see, and I said as much.
“Why, Walter, you'd never do as a detective. You lack intuition. Sometimes I think I haven't quite enough of it, either. Why didn't I think of that sooner? Don't you know she is the wife of Adolphus Hesse, the most inveterate gambler in stocks in the System? Why, I had only to put two and two together and the whole thing flashed on me in an instant. Isn't it a good hypothesis that she is the red-haired woman in the case, the tool of the System in which her husband is so heavily involved? I'll have to add her to my list of suspects.”
“Why, you don't think she did the shooting?” I asked, half hoping, I must admit, for an assenting nod from him.
“Well,” he answered dryly, “one shouldn't let any preconceived hypothesis stand between him and the truth. I've made a guess at the whole thing already. It may or it may not be right. Anyhow she will fit into it. And if it's not right, I've got to be prepared to make a new guess, that's all.”
When we reached the laboratory on our return, the inspector's man Riley was there, waiting impatiently for Kennedy.
“What luck?” asked Kennedy.
“I've got a list of purchasers of that kind of revolver,” he said. “We have been to every sporting-goods and arms-store in the city which bought them from the factory, and I could lay my hands on pretty nearly every one of those weapons in twenty-four hours—provided, of course, they haven't been secreted or destroyed.”
“Pretty nearly all isn't good enough,” said Kennedy. “It will have to be all, unless—”
“That name is in the list,” whispered Riley hoarsely.
“Oh, then it's all right,” answered Kennedy, brightening up. “Riley, I will say that you're a wonder at using the organisation in ferreting out such things. There's just one more thing I want you to do. I want a sample of the notepaper in the private desks of every one of these people.” He handed the policeman a list of his 9 “suspects,” as he called them. It included nearly every one mentioned in the case.
Riley studied it dubiously and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “That's a hard one, Mr. Kennedy, sir. You see, it means getting into so many different houses and apartments. Now you don't want to do it by means of a warrant, do you, sir? Of course not. Well, then, how can we get in?”
“You're a pretty good-looking chap yourself, Riley,” said Kennedy. “I should think you could jolly a housemaid, if necessary. Anyhow, you can get the fellow on the beat to do it—if he isn't already to be found in the kitchen. Why, I see a dozen ways of getting the notepaper.”
“Oh, it's me that's the lady-killer, sir,” grinned Riley. “I'm a regular Blarney stone when I'm out on a job of that sort. Sure, I'll have some of them for you in the morning.”
“Bring me what you get, the first thing in the morning, even if you've landed only a few samples,” said Kennedy, as Riley departed, straightening his tie and brushing his hat on his sleeve.
“And now, Walter, you too must excuse me to-night,” said Craig. “I've got a lot to do, and sha'n't be up to our apartment till very late—or early. But I feel sure I've got a strangle-hold on this mystery. If I get those papers from Riley in good time to-morrow I shall invite you and several others to a grand demonstration here to-morrow night. Don't forget. Keep the whole evening free. It will be a big story.”
Kennedy's laboratory was brightly lighted when I arrived early the next evening. One by one his “guests” dropped in. It was evident that they had little liking for the visit, but the coroner had sent out the “invitations,” and they had nothing to do but accept. Each one was politely welcomed by the professor and assigned a seat, much as he would have done with a group of students. The inspector and the coroner sat back a little. Mrs. Parker, Mr. Downey, Mr. Bruce, myself, and Miss La Neige sat in that order in the very narrow and uncomfortable little armchairs used by the students during lectures.
At last Kennedy was ready to begin. He took his position behind the long, flat-topped table which he used for his demonstrations before his classes. “I realise, ladies and gentlemen,” he began formally, “that I am about to do a very unusual thing; but, as you all know, the police and the coroner have been completely baffled by this terrible mystery and have requested me to attempt to clear up at least certain points in it. I will begin what I have to say by remarking that the tracing out of a crime like this differs in nothing, except as regards the subject-matter, from the search for a scientific truth. The forcing of man's secrets is like the forcing of nature's secrets. Both are pieces of detective work. The methods employed in the detection of crime are, or rather should be, like the methods employed in the process of discovering scientific truth. In a crime of this sort, two kinds of evidence need to be secured. Circumstantial evidence must first be marshalled, and then a motive must be