John Ames - Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 28, No. 3, November 12, 1927

In which the popular Malcome Steele bumps his nose against the rare predicament not of too few but of too many clews

As he stared through the window at the soft swirl of snow, Roscoe Stewart’s face was not a pleasant sight. Its usual ruddy color had receded, leaving it sagging and pastelike.

It seemed almost a dead countenance, that of a man mortally stricken by terror. Yet even when gripped and blanched by fear, Stewart’s features betrayed the slyness, the avarice, the total disregard for others, which had dominated his life.

For a half minute he crouched in his chair, his gaze rigid. Then, slowly, stealthily, he began groping behind him toward the wall, toward the electric light switch. His cold fingers found it. He plunged the study into darkness.

Distinct now was the gentle flutter of snowflakes against the glass. Through the window Stewart could discern a section of his lawn, already white. He leaped up from his desk. In the security of the dark, he ran hastily from window to window, on each side of the room, drawing the shades to the bottom.

He groped his way back to his desk, and sat there for an instant, limp and shaken, his face covered with clammy perspiration, the study pitch-black.

He listened. The snow swished against the east windows.

Stewart was a plump man of fifty — a sly and calculating attorney, whose wits had brought him wealth. His wealth, in turn, had brought him many of the advantages which he regarded as indispensable to happiness: political influence, social prominence, women. The more terrible, therefore, was the glimpse which he had just obtained through the window.

He rose and crossed the floor again, cautiously pulling aside the nearer shade which fronted the eastern end of his grounds. He could see nothing but the soft, cold snow, hard-driven by the wind.

Stewart returned to his desk, with the room still dark, and snatched up the telephone.

“Police headquarters!” he demanded, in a voice which crackled harshly. “Police headquarters, emergency!”

“Police headquarters — thank you—”

“Police headquarters. Lieutenant Nelson speaking—”

“I want to talk to the commissioner — quickly, please—”

“The commissioner is not here at present, sir.”

“Come, come — this is Roscoe Stewart of 88 Arborway. I want to speak with the commissioner—”

“I’m very sorry, sir, but he has left the building.”

“Give me the superintendent, then, please!”

“The superintendent has gone, too, Mr. Stewart. Captain Needham is here. One moment, sir—”

“Hello. Captain Needham speaking.”

Stewart’s hand shook as he held the receiver to his ear.

“Captain — this is Roscoe Stewart of 88 Arborway—”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Stewart!”

“Can you send several of your best men right out here?”

“Why, certainly, Mr. Stewart. But what’s the trouble?”

“My life is in danger!”

“Good heavens, sir! What do you mean? From what source?”

“I… can’t explain that over the phone — please send your men right out. Rush them!”

The captain promised. He declared that he would call the local station instantly, and also dispatch an inspector from headquarters. All of the police knew Stewart, and nearly all of them endeavored to please him whenever it was possible. They knew that he had political influence, also that he was a friend of the commissioner.

Hanging up the receiver, the attorney again sat motionless in the dark, listening, fearful of what he might hear in the large, lonely house, and equally fearful lest he might not hear it quickly enough.

The only sounds were the swish of snowflakes, the whine of the east wind, the rattle of a shutter upstairs.

It was true that this danger which had so suddenly confronted him, had been in the background for years. Ever since he had come East it had been there, remote, yet definite, despite his efforts to deny its existence.

The worst of it had been the realization that the law, the profession which he practiced to such advantage, could be of little help to him. Stewart knew every legal trick and twist. He knew how to do what other attorneys could not do, or would not do.

He himself had never overstepped the law. Always he had been just within its bounds. He had capitalized the failure of others to comprehend how wide its bounds were.

He had made his money through all these years by his superior knowledge, enabling him to take stands which, although often morally contemptible, were legally sound.

But in his heart Stewart knew now that the law might not be sufficient to protect him from the peril which had peered in through the window.

God grant that the police would hurry!

Rising nervously once more, he crossed the heavy rug to the nearer window at the east. He pulled back an inch of the shade and pressed his face to the glass.

Away down at the end of his grounds, where his fence flanked the Arborway, a single, small red light twinkled through the storm. A tail lamp — an automobile, undoubtedly. Why was it standing there near his residence, in the darkness of the Arborway?

Could it be the police already? Impossible. Besides, the officers would have brought their machine up the drive.

Stewart cursed and went back to the telephone.

He knew that he was in need of more help than the police could give him. More confidential help. There were certain aspects of the case which he really could not tell the officials.

What was the name of that first-class private detective concern which had worked for Hickey once? The National Detective Agency — that was it. Stewart would not put on the light to look for the number. He demanded it of the information operator.

He tried the wrong exchange. Guessing again, he obtained the number.

A man named Clapp promised to have two competent operatives at the house within an hour.

An hour! When an hour might mean so much!

“Get them out here in a hurry!” he flung over the wire.

Then, telephone in hand, he hesitated. A new thought had come to him.

Should he call Fraim?

No! Damn Fraim! To the devil with Fraim! He was a blackguard!

A certain fascination mixed with fear drew Stewart again to the east window. He caught his breath in relief. The car which had been standing outside his fence was gone.

At least — the tail-lamp of the automobile no longer showed.

Again he listened, and heard only the moaning of the wind and the rattling of a shutter in the storm.

Yet his fear was growing, was gripping him closer with each minute. It was an unexplained fear now. He realized that he was afraid even to leave the darkened security of his study. Every window and door in the house was locked — he was certain of that. They always were when he was at home alone. But windows could be forced—

He cursed the combination of circumstances which had left him alone here at this time. His servant, Johnson — the sudden illness in his family, the telegram. The appointment to meet a prospective client at sevent thirty — a man whom he had never seen. The fact that it was Thursday evening and the other servants’ night out. The fact that Grimes, his chauffeur, always went home to supper between seven and eight unless instructed otherwise.