offices.She's one of those uptown plungers, and the story is that she has a whole string of scalps of alleged Sunday-school superintendents at her belt.She can make Bruce do pretty nearly anything, they say.He's the latest conquest.I got the story on pretty good authority, but until I verified the names, dates, and places, of course I wouldn't dare print a line of it.The story goes that her husband is a hanger-on of the System, and that she's been working in their interest, too.That was why he was so complacent over the whole affair.They put her up to capturing Bruce, and after she had acquired an influence over him they worked it so that she made him make love to Mrs.Parker.It's a long story, but that isn't all of it.The point was, you see, that by this devious route they hoped to worm out of Mrs.Parker some inside information about Parker's rubber schemes, which he hadn't divulged even to his partners in business.It was a deep and carefully planned plot, and some of the conspirators were pretty deeply in the mire, I guess.I wish I'd had all the facts about who this red-haired female Machiavelli was--what a piece of muckraking it would have made! Oh, here comes the rest of the news story over the wire.By Jove, it is said on good authority that Bruce will be taken in as one of the board of directors.
What do you think of that"
So that was how the wind lay--Bruce ****** love to Mrs.Parker and she presumably betraying her husband's secrets.I thought Isaw it all: the note from somebody exposing the scheme, Parker's incredulity, Bruce sitting by him and catching sight of the note, his hurrying out into the ladies' department, and then the shot.
But who fired it? After all, I had only picked up another clue.
Kennedy was not at the apartment at dinner, and an inquiry at the laboratory was fruitless also.So I sat down to fidget for a while.Pretty soon the buzzer on the door sounded, and I opened it to find a messenger-boy with a large brown paper parcel.
"Is Mr.Bruce here?" he asked.
"Why, no, he doesn't--" then I checked myself and added "He will be here presently.You can leave the bundle.""Well, this is the parcel he telephoned for.His valet told me to tell him that they had a hard time to find it, but he guesses it's all right.The charges are forty cents.Sign here."I signed the book, feeling like a thief, and the boy departed.
What it all meant I could not guess.
Just then I heard a key in the lock, and Kennedy came in.
"Is your name Bruce?" I asked.
"Why?" he replied eagerly."Has anything come?"I pointed to the package.Kennedy made a dive for it and unwrapped it.It was a woman's pongee automobile-coat.He held it up to the light.The pocket on the right-hand side was scorched and burned, and a hole was torn clean through it.I gasped when the full significance of it dawned on me.
"How did you get it?" I exclaimed at last in surprise.
"That's where organisation comes in," said Kennedy."The police at my request went over every messenger call from Parker's office that afternoon, and traced every one of them up.At last they found one that led to Bruce's apartment.None of them led to Mrs.
Parker's home.The rest were all business calls and satisfactorily accounted for.I reasoned that this was the one that involved the disappearance of the automobile-coat.It was a chance worth taking, so I got Downey to call up Bruce's valet.
The valet of course recognised Downey's voice and suspected nothing.Downey assumed to know all about the coat in the package received yesterday.He asked to have it sent up here.I see the scheme worked.""But, Kennedy, do you think she--" I stopped, speechless, looking at the scorched coat.
"Nothing to say--yet," he replied laconically."But if you could tell me anything about that note Parker received I'd thank you."I related what our managing editor had said that morning.Kennedy only raised his eyebrows a fraction of an inch.
"I had guessed something of that sort," he said merely."I'm glad to find it confirmed even by hearsay evidence.This red-haired young lady interests me.Not a very definite description, but better than nothing at all.I wonder who she is.Ah, well, what do you say to a stroll down the White Way before I go to my laboratory? I'd like a breath of air to relax my mind."We had got no further than the first theatre when Kennedy slapped me on the back."By George, Jameson, she's an actress, of course.""Who is? What's the matter with you, Kennedy? Are you crazy?""The red-haired person--she must be an actress.Don't you remember the auburn-haired leading lady in the 'Follies'--the girl who sings that song about 'Mary, Mary, quite contrary'? Her stage name, you know, is Phoebe La Neige.Well, if it's she who is concerned in this case I don't think she'll be playing to-night.Let's inquire at the box-office."She wasn't playing, but just what it had to do with anything in particular I couldn't see, and I said as much.
"Why, Walter, you'd never do as a detective.You lack intuition.
Sometimes I think I haven't quite enough of it, either.Why didn't I think of that sooner? Don't you know she is the wife of Adolphus Hesse, the most inveterate gambler in stocks in the System? Why, I had only to put two and two together and the whole thing flashed on me in an instant.Isn't it a good hypothesis that she is the red-haired woman in the case, the tool of the System in which her husband is so heavily involved? I'll have to add her to my list of suspects.""Why, you don't think she did the shooting?" I asked, half hoping, I must admit, for an assenting nod from him.
"Well," he answered dryly, "one shouldn't let any preconceived hypothesis stand between him and the truth.I've made a guess at the whole thing already.It may or it may not be right.Anyhow she will fit into it.And if it's not right, I've got to be prepared to make a new guess, that's all."When we reached the laboratory on our return, the inspector's man Riley was there, waiting impatiently for Kennedy.
"What luck?" asked Kennedy.
