“THE FIRST CLEWS”
The magpie’s words, repeated over and over as Drew and Delaney stood in the room of death, struck both men as a possible clew. It was more than likely that the murderer or the murdered man had shouted something, the moment the shot was fired. This exclamation might have been, “Ah, Sing!” The bird had repeated something it had memorized, or retained in its shallow brain.
“Ah, Sing!” suggested Drew, keenly on the alert. “Ah, Sing, eh? Never forget that! We may need it—later.”
“Sounds like a Chinaman,” said the operative. “Stockbridge was shot by a Chink!”
“Get busy! Go over the room and look for a possible hiding place. You, butler, stand across that doorway! Don’t move from there!” Drew wheeled and stared at the white faces of the servants which were framed in the somber curtains of the opening to the hall.
The detective swung back. He rounded the large table with slow steps. He bent down. One knee touched the rug. He reached and grasped the magnate’s stiff arm. He worked it like a hinge. He felt of the muscles. They were rigid.
Rising, Drew again tested the air of the library. He glanced at Delaney, who was opening the book-case doors.
“What do you smell?” he asked sharply.
The operative turned and sniffed with widening nostrils.
“It’s powder!” he said. “Gunpowder, Chief.”