“This fellow was connecting Morphy at state prison with this house through the two slot booths. I sneaked up and waited for him to finish. He’s busy with a pair of pliers. I falls on him like a ton of bricks. Then after I get the cuffs on, I listens in. It’s Morphy roaring there, with that big bull voice of his. He’s mad ’cause he gets no answer. He shouts over and over, Chief—’Bert! Bert! Bert! Is it planted in her room? Her room. Is it there?’” Delaney paused and stared about the sitting room.
“What does he mean, Chief?” he asked huskily. “What is that ’it’?”
“Go on!” said Drew tersely.
“I got Morphy off the wire, Chief. I got Frick and then Frick got the warden. He’s a good fellow. He listened to me, then he calls some guards and they drag Morphy through the prison and down to the coolers. I guess they’re down in the ground, somewhere. Anyway, Chief, he’s gone for good—unless they send him to the chair for his part in the murder of Stockbridge.”
“He’ll go! What I want to know now, Delaney, is this fellow’s right name. Morphy said ’Bert,’ eh?”
“Sure he did, Chief. ‘Bert! Bert! Bert!’ That’s close to Albert. Albert Jones, like’s in the letter.”
“No! That would be a throw-off. He’s some other kind of a Bert. Let me see his cap.”
Delaney picked the prisoner’s cap from the rug and passed it over to Drew. The detective examined it, ripped the silk, and looked under the lining. He straightened and handed it to Harry Nichols.
“Can you make that name out?” he asked. “Your eyes are younger than mine. Perhaps Miss Stockbridge can read it. It’s Spanish, I think. ‘Gusta’ or ‘Gasta.’ The rest is obliterated with grease.”
“Antofagasta!” declared Loris suddenly. “It’s Antofagasta, Chile.”