The Munition Magnate thrust a shaking hand toward the detective. “I’m glad!” he declared raising his voice. “You did well in the Morphy case. That’s the reason I called upon you. Now find the miscreant or miscreants, who telephoned the cemetery superintendent, and you’ll not be forgotten.”
Drew glanced shrewdly at the ’phone. “May I use it?” he asked briskly. “I’ll try to trace that call.”
Stockbridge moved his chair away from the little table. Drew glided across the room, pressed the ash-trays and match-boxes to one side, and picked up the receiver. He worked the hook up and down with his broad thumb.
“Hello! Hello!” he repeated clicking the hook. “Hello, central! Hello!”
He glanced at Stockbridge as he waited. He frowned as he stooped and spoke more directly into the transmitter. “Hello! Hello!”
“Something the matter?” asked the Magnate with quick suspicion. “Don’t they answer?”
“Hello! Hello! I Hello, there!” Drew glared at the transmitter, then tapped the receiver against the silver-plated cover. “Hello!” he shouted. “Damn it, Hello!”
He turned. “No go,” he said thoughtfully. “Connection seems to be broken. I’m talking right out into thin air. Wonder who cut your wires?”
Stockbridge bristled. He slid forward in his great chair and stared at the detective. “They’re cut, eh?” he asked.
Drew set the ’phone on the table and turned. “Looks mighty like it,” he said. His eyes swung over the walls of the splendid room. They rested upon a high, ebony stand with a belfry from which dangled a gilt spring suspending an ornate bird cage. Out of this cage, a magpie peered with beaded eyes. Its tail extended up through the bars like a feather from a hat.