CHAPTER VII. A MURDERER ESCAPES
IT was nearly an hour after the physician’s phone call when Detective Cardona reached the old house on Eighty-first Street. He did not enter the brownstone mansion immediately upon arrival. Instead, he stood across the street and uttered a low, almost indistinguishable whistle. Two men came from the darkness.
“Here’s the lay, boys,” whispered the detective. “I’m going in that house to see a man upstairs. There may be nothing to it, but I want you to hop in quick if you hear anything. How long have you been here?”
“Only about two minutes,” replied one of the men. “We put a couple of uniformed men out back, like you told us.”
“Good. Has any one gone in?”
“Not since we’ve been here.”
“All right. There’s no rush about it. If I come out first, be ready to grab the next fellow that comes out if I give the signal.
“If I want you inside, you’ll hear from me. If I don’t come out in thirty minutes, move into the house. If any guy enters, spot him, but don’t stop him. Savvy?”
“We got it.”
The detective sauntered across the street and silently entered the brownstone mansion. He found the front hall dimly lighted. He moved softly up the carpeted stairs.