"General Westbrook!" thundered the Chief, banging his fist down on the desk; "one of our very best citizens is the victim of a dastardly assassination!"
CHAPTER IX
THE SECOND PROBLEM
The fact that John Converse was not given to betraying either surprise or astonishment only enhanced the effect of the involuntary step he took backward in the face of the intelligence flung at him by the Chief of Police. For a minute, perhaps, he returned the gaze of the agitated official; then the indomitable tenacity of the man began to manifest itself in a setting and tightening of the solid jaw; and when he presently turned to the excited McCaleb, the stunning effect of the news had been entirely overcome—he was quite himself again, masterful, determined, and inspiring confidence. Both the Chief and the young patrolman began at once to respond to his quieting influence.
Officer Harry McCaleb was of an aptness and intelligence promising rapid advancement. It was no secret that he had aspirations looking to success in the detective service; and it was of him that the Captain demanded particulars of the crime.
"Tell me what you know," said he, his manner advising promptness and despatch.
The young patrolman delivered his account with a glibness and attention to details that betokened forethought on the subject.
"Captain Converse," he began, "this month I am on the night shift, and my beat takes in Vine Street and General Westbrook's neighborhood. Mike Clancy's my partner. You know it's a pretty big beat for two men to cover—especially as we are obliged to remain together,—and we can't pass any one point oftener than once in every two hours, or such a matter.
"Well, sir, to-night we passed the Westbrook place last at about ten-thirty. Everything was perfectly quiet at that time, and we had no occasion to be more than ordinarily vigilant. We continued on our beat, and in the natural run of events should have been back at the Westbrook corner—Tenth and Vine, sir—at about twelve-thirty. At twelve o'clock we were over in the next block—on Live Oak, to the rear of the Westbrook place, and between Tenth and Eleventh. You know it's a part of our duty after dark to watch people getting off cars to see if they belong in our territory, and we can't gauge our time very well when we meet many cars on Live Oak Street.
"It was just at twelve—the Federal Building clock had just struck, sir—when Mike stopped short. 'What's that, McCaleb?' says he. It's one of those perfectly still nights, you know, when sounds carry a long way." Converse had a fleeting memory of a madly galloping horse. 'Was that a shot?' asked Mike. I had heard something, too, but couldn't tell whether it was a shot or not; and anyhow, neither of us could locate it. We waited quite a while, listening; then, hearing nothing more, we went on. In about ten minutes—maybe fifteen—we stopped suddenly again; we heard a woman scream. There was no mistaking the direction this time; it was one of those piercing, long-drawn-out screams that makes a man's blood run cold. We had no trouble following the sounds, for the screams kept up, as fast as the woman could get her breath. 'Help! Murder!' she was yelling; and Mike and I raced down Tenth Street to the Westbrook place, as fast as we could.