“THE WHISPERING VOICE”
In the greatest city of the modern world, in the Metropolis of Guilt and Guile—where Alias and Alibi ride in gum-shod limousines while Mary Smith of the pure heart walks the pavements with broken shoes—there is a mansion so rich and so rare that it stands alone.
Turret and tower, green-bronze roof, Cararra-marbled portico and iron-grilled gates brought from Hyderabad, have made this mansion the show place and the Peri’s paradise for those who parade the Avenue called Fifth, in an unending sash of fashion.
Out from this palace at the close of a winter’s day, there flashed the tiny pulsations of voice-induced currents of electricity which reached the telephone-central, were plugged upon the proper underground paper-insulated wires and entered, even as the voice was speaking, the cloud-hung office of Detective Drew.
Triggy Drew, as he was called, was dark, stout and forty-one years of age to a month. He crooked his elbow, removed his cigar and pressed the telephone-receiver to his ear.
The voice that came over the whispering wires was as clear as a bell within a bell. It said:
“Montgomery Stockbridge wants you.”
Drew hung up the telephone-receiver. He replaced the cigar in his mouth. He wheeled in his chair and pressed a buzzer. To the operative who entered he said:
“Delaney, watch things while I’m gone. I’m called up-town!”
The operative reached and handed Drew his coat. He took the swivel-chair before the desk, as his chief clapped on a hat, turned his eyes toward the ground-glass door, and passed out with a brisk stride.