Though a respectful and well-mannered boy, some excitement had made him a trifle unceremonious, and I looked at him curiously as I took up the receiver.
But with the first words I heard, the office-boy was forgotten, and my own nerves received a shock as I listened to the message. It was from the Detective Bureau with which I was connected, and the superintendent himself was directing me to go at once to West Sedgwick, where a terrible crime had just been discovered.
“Killed!” I exclaimed; “Joseph Crawford?”
“Yes; murdered in his home in West Sedgwick. The coroner telephoned to send a detective at once and we want you to go.”
“Of course I'll go. Do you know any more details?”
“No; only that he was shot during the night and the body found this morning. Mr. Crawford was a big man, you know. Go right off, Mr. Burroughs; we want you to lose no time.”
Yes; I knew Joseph Crawford by name, though not personally, and I knew he was a big man in the business world, and his sudden death would mean excitement in Wall Street matters. Of his home, or home-life, I knew nothing.
“I'll go right off,” I assured the Chief, and turned away from the telephone to find Donovan, the office-boy, already looking up trains in a timetable.
“Good boy, Don,” said I approvingly; “what's the next train to West Sedgwick, and how long does it take to get there?”
“You kin s'lect the ten-twenty, Mr. Burruz, if you whirl over in a taxi an' shoot the tunnel,” said Donovan, who was rather a graphic conversationalist. “That'll spill you out at West Sedgwick 'bout quarter of 'leven. Was he moidered, Mr. Burruz?”