“I am the friend of Howard Van Cleft, about whom Captain Cronin telephoned you from Bellevue. I am to help him interview the girl: may I wait until he arrives?”
“Oh, you're wise to the case? Sure then, come into the reception room on the right. What's that in your grip?” asked the apparent leader of the men.
“Just an idea of Van Cleft's,” said Shirley, as he followed into the adjoining compartment. “It's a phonograph. Have you received any phoney 'phone calls to-night? Queer ones that you didn't expect and couldn't explain? Van Cleft has, and he decided to take records of them on this machine.”
The superintendent nodded. Shirley opened the grip and drew out the instrument, and made ready on the small table, near which was the desk telephone.
“Let's get this in readiness then, and if you get any calls have them switched up to this instrument, so that when you talk, you can hold the receiver handy to the horn.”
“Young feller, I think you must know more about this business than you've a right to. Just keep your hands above the table—I think I'll frisk you!”
“No need,” snapped Shirley with a smile in his eyes, and the automatic revolver was drawn and covering the detective before he could reach forward. “But I have no designs on you. You will have to work quicker than that with some people in this case.”
He slid the weapon across the table to the other who snatched it anxiously.
“If a call comes and you don't recognize the voice at once, please ask the party to come closer to the 'phone, to speak louder—listen, there is the bell now! Get it connected here at once!”
The surprised superintendent, fearing that after all he might miss some good lead, yielded to his professional curiosity against his professional prejudices. He bawled down the hall.