Guy Garrick

Gunman

CHAPTER I

THE STOLEN MOTOR

You are aware, I suppose, Marshall, that there have been considerably over a million dollars’ worth of automobiles stolen in this city during the past few months? asked Guy Garrick one night when I had dropped into his office.

I wasn’t aware of the exact extent of the thefts, though of course I knew of their existence, I replied. What’s the matter?

If you can wait a few moments, he went on, I think I can promise you a most interesting case–the first big case I’ve had to test my new knowledge of crime science since I returned from abroad. Have you time for it?

Time for it? I echoed. Garrick, I’d make time for it, if necessary.

We sat for several moments, in silence, waiting.

I picked up an evening paper. I had already read it, but I looked through it again, to kill time, even reading the society notes.

By Jove, Garrick, I exclaimed as my eye travelled over the page, newspaper pictures don’t usually flatter people, but just look at those eyes! You can fairly see them dance even in the halftone.

The picture which had attracted my attention was of Miss Violet

Winslow, an heiress to a moderate fortune, a debutante well known in

New York and at Tuxedo that season.

As Garrick looked over my shoulder his mere tone set me wondering.

She IS stunning, he agreed simply. Half the younger set are crazy over her.

The buzzer on his door recalled us to the case in hand.

One of our visitors was a sandy-haired, red-mustached, stocky man, with everything but the name detective written on him from his face to his mannerisms.

He was accompanied by an athletically inclined, fresh-faced young fellow, whose clothes proclaimed him to be practically the last word in imported goods from London.

I was not surprised at reading the name of James McBirney on the detective’s card, underneath which was the title of the Automobile Underwriters’ Association. But I was more than surprised when the younger of the visitors handed us a card with the simple name, Mortimer Warrington.

For, Mortimer Warrington, I may say, was at that time one of the celebrities of the city, at least as far as the newspapers were concerned. He was one of the richest young men in the country, and good for a story almost every day.

Warrington was not exactly a wild youth, in spite of the fact that his name appeared so frequently in the headlines. As a matter of fact, the worst that could be said of him with any degree of truth was that he was gifted with a large inheritance of good, red, restless blood, as well as considerable holdings of real estate in various active sections of the metropolis.

More than that, it was scarcely his fault if the society columns had been busy in a concerted effort to marry him off–no doubt with a cynical eye on possible black-type headlines of future domestic discord. Among those mentioned by the enterprising society reporters of the papers had been the same Miss Violet Winslow whose picture I had admired. Evidently Garrick had recognized the coincidence.

Miss Winslow, by the way, was rather closely guarded by a duenna-like aunt, Mrs. Beekman de Lancey, who at that time had achieved a certain amount of notoriety by a crusade which she had organized against gambling in society. She had reached that age when some women naturally turn toward righting the wrongs of humanity, and, in this instance, as in many others, humanity did not exactly appreciate it.

How are you, McBirney? greeted Garrick, as he met his old friend, then, turning to young Warrington, added: Have you had a car stolen?

Have I? chimed in the youth eagerly, and with just a trace of nervousness. Worse than that. I can stand losing a big nine-thousand-dollar Mercedes, but–but–you tell it, McBirney. You have the facts at your tongue’s end.

Garrick looked questioningly at the detective.

I’m very much afraid, responded McBirney slowly, that this theft about caps the climax of motor-car stealing in this city. Of course, you realize that the automobile as a means of committing crime and of escape has rendered detection much more difficult to-day than it ever was before. He paused. There’s been a murder done in or with or by that car of Mr. Warrington’s, or I’m ready to resign from the profession!

McBirney had risen in the excitement of his revelation, and had handed

Garrick what looked like a discharged shell of a cartridge.

Garrick took it without a word, and turned it over and over critically, examining every side of it, and waiting for McBirney to resume. McBirney, however, said nothing.

Where did you find the car? asked Garrick at length, still examining the cartridge. We haven’t found it, replied the detective with a discouraged sigh.

Haven’t found it? repeated Garrick. Then how did you get this cartridge–or, at least why do you connect it with the disappearance of the car?

Well, explained McBirney, getting down to the story, you understand Mr. Warrington’s car was insured against theft in a company which is a member of our association. When it was stolen we immediately put in motion the usual machinery for tracing stolen cars.

How about the police? I queried.

McBirney looked at me a moment–I thought pityingly. With all deference to the police, he answered indulgently, it is the insurance companies and not the police who get cars back–usually. I suppose it’s natural. The man who loses a car notifies us first, and, as we are likely to lose money by it, we don’t waste any time getting after the thief.

You have some clew, then? persisted Garrick.

McBirney nodded.

Late this afternoon word came to me that a man, all alone in a car, which, in some respects tallied with the description of Warrington’s, although, of course, the license number and color had been altered, had stopped early this morning at a little garage over in the northern part of New Jersey.

Warrington, excited, leaned forward and interrupted.

And, Garrick, he exclaimed, horrified, the car was all stained with blood!

CHAPTER II

THE MURDER CAR

Garrick looked from one to the other of his visitors intently. Here was an entirely unexpected development in the case which stamped it as set apart from the ordinary.

How did the driver manage to explain it and get away? he asked quickly.

McBirney shook his head in evident disgust at the affair.

He must be a clever one, he pursued thoughtfully. When he came into the garage they say he was in a rather jovial mood. He said that he had run into a cow a few miles back on the road, and then began to cuss the farmer, who had stung him a hundred dollars for the animal.

And they believed it? prompted Garrick.

Yes, the garage keeper’s assistant swallowed the story and cleaned the car. There was some blood on the radiator and hood, but the strange part was that it was spattered even over the rear seat–in fact, was mostly in the rear.

How did he explain that?

Said that he guessed the farmer who stung him wouldn’t get much for the carcass, for it had been pretty well cut up and a part of it flung right back into the tonneau.

And the man believed that, too?

Yes; but afterward the garage keeper himself was told. He met the farmer in town later, and the farmer denied that he had lost a cow. That set the garage keeper thinking. And then, while they were cleaning up the garage later in the day, they found that cartridge where the car had been washed down and swept out. We had already advertised a reward for information about the stolen car, and, when he heard of the reward, for there are plenty of people about looking for money in that way, he telephoned in, thinking the story might interest us. It did, for I am convinced that his description of the machine tallies closely with that of Mr. Warrington’s.

How about the man who drove it? cut in Garrick.

That’s the unfortunate part of it, replied McBirney, chagrined. These amateur detectives about the country rarely seem to have any foresight. Of course they could describe how the fellow was dressed, even the make of goggles he wore. But, when it came to telling one feature of his face accurately, they took refuge behind the fact that he kept his cap pulled down over his eyes, and talked like a ‘city fellow.’

All of which is highly important, agreed Garrick. I suppose they’d consider a fingerprint, or the portrait parle the height of idiocy beside that.

Disgusting, ejaculated McBirney, who, whatever his own limitations might be, had a wholesome respect for Garrick’s new methods.

Where did you leave the car? asked Garrick of Warrington. How did you lose it?

The young man seemed to hesitate.

I suppose, he said at length, with a sort of resigned smile, I’ll have to make a clean breast of it.

You can hardly expect us to do much, otherwise, encouraged Garrick dryly. Besides, you can depend on us to keep anything you say confidential.

Why, he began, the fact is that I had started out for a mild little sort of celebration, apropos of nothing at all in particular, beginning with dinner at the Mephistopheles Restaurant, with a friend of mine. You know the place, perhaps–just on the edge of the automobile district and the white lights.

Yes, encouraged Garrick, "near what ought to be named ‘Crime Square.’

Whom were you with?"

Well, Angus Forbes and I were going to dine together, and then later we were to meet several fellows who used to belong to the same upperclass club with us at Princeton. We were going to do a little slumming. No ladies, you understand, he added hastily.

Garrick smiled.

It may not have been pure sociology, pursued Warrington, good-humouredly noticing the smile, but it wasn’t as bad as some of the newspapers might make it out if they got hold of it, anyhow. I may as well admit, I suppose, that Angus has been going the pace pretty lively since we graduated. I don’t object to a little flyer now and then, myself, but I guess I’m not up to his class yet. But that doesn’t make any difference. The slumming party never came off.

How? prompted Garrick again.

Angus and I had a very good dinner at the Mephistopheles–they have a great cabaret there–and by and by the fellows began to drop in to join us. When I went out to look for the car, which I was going to drive myself, it was gone.

Where did you leave it? asked McBirney, as if bringing out the evidence.

In the parking space half a block below the restaurant. A chauffeur standing near the curb told me that a man in a cap and goggles–

Another amateur detective, cut in McBirney parenthetically.

„–had come out of the restaurant, or seemed to do so, had spun the engine, climbed in, and rode off–just like that!"

What did you do then? asked Garrick. Did you fellows go anywhere?

Oh, Forbes wanted to play the wheel, and went around to a place on Forty-eighth Street. I was all upset about the loss of the car, got in touch with the insurance company, who turned me over to McBirney here, and the rest of the fellows went down to the Club.

There was no trace of the car in the city? asked Garrick, of the detective.

I was coming to that, replied McBirney. There was at least a rumour. You see, I happen to know several of the police on fixed posts up there, and one of them has told me that he noticed a car, which might or might not have been Mr. Warrington’s, pull up, about the time his car must have disappeared, at a place in Forty-seventh Street which is reputed to be a sort of poolroom for women.

Garrick raised his eyebrows the fraction of an inch.

At any rate, pursued McBirney, someone must have been having a wild time there, for they carried a girl out to the car. She seemed to be pretty far gone and even the air didn’t revive her–that is, assuming that she had been celebrating not wisely but too well. Of course, the whole thing is pure speculation yet, as far as Warrington’s car is concerned. Maybe it wasn’t his car, after all. But I am repeating it only for what it may be worth.

Do you know the place? asked Garrick, watching Warrington narrowly.

I’ve heard of it, he admitted, I thought a little evasively.

Then it flashed over me that Mrs. de Lancey was leading the crusade against society gambling and that that perhaps accounted for Warrington’s fears and evident desire for concealment.

I know that some of the faster ones in the smart set go there once in a while for a little poker, bridge, and even to play the races, went on Warrington carefully. I’ve never been there myself, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Angus could tell you all about it. He goes in for all that sort of thing.

After all, interrupted McBirney, that’s only rumour. Here’s the point of the whole thing. For a long time my Association has been thinking that merely in working for the recovery of the cars we have been making a mistake. It hasn’t put a stop to the stealing, and the stealing has gone quite far enough. We have got to do something about it. It struck me that here was a case on which to begin and that you, Garrick, are the one to begin it for us, while I carry on the regular work I am doing. The gang is growing bolder and more clever every day. And then, here’s a murder, too, in all likelihood. If we don’t round them up, there is no limit to what they may do in terrorizing the city.

How does this gang, as you call it, operate? asked Garrick.

Most of the cars that are stolen, explained McBirney, are taken from the automobile district, which embraces also not a small portion of the new Tenderloin and the theatre district. Actually, Garrick, more than nine out of ten cars have disappeared between Forty-second and Seventy-second Streets.

Garrick was listening, without comment.

Some of the thefts, like this one of Warrington’s car, continued McBirney, warming up to the subject, have been so bold that you would be astonished. And it is those stolen cars, I believe, that are used in the wave of taxicab and motor car robberies, hold-ups, and other crimes that is sweeping over the city. The cars are taken to some obscure garage, without doubt, and their identity is destroyed by men who are expert in the practice.

And you have no confidence in the police? I inquired cautiously, mindful of his former manner.

We have frequently had occasion to call on the police for assistance, he answered, but somehow or other it has seldom worked. They don’t seem to be able to help us much. If anything is done, we must do it. If you will take the case, Garrick, I can promise you that the Association will pay you well for it.

I will add whatever is necessary, too, put in Warrington, eagerly. I can stand the loss of the car–in fact, I don’t care whether I ever get it back. I have others. But I can’t stand the thought that my car is going about the country as the property of a gunman, perhaps–an engine of murder and destruction.

Garrick had been thoughtfully balancing the exploded shell between his fingers during most of the interview. As Warrington concluded, he looked up.

I’ll take the case, he said simply. I think you’ll find that there is more to it than even you suspect. Before we get through, I shall get a conviction on that empty shell, too. If there is a gunman back of it all, he is no ordinary fellow, but a scientific gunman, far ahead of anything of which you dream. No, don’t thank me for taking the case. My thanks are to you for putting it in my way.

CHAPTER III

THE MYSTERY OF THE THICKET

You know my ideas on modern detective work, Garrick remarked to me, reflectively, when they had gone.

I nodded assent, for we had often discussed the subject.

There must be something new in order to catch criminals, nowadays, he pursued. The old methods are all right–as far as they go. But while we have been using them, criminals have kept pace with modern science.

I had met Garrick several months before on the return trip from abroad, and had found in him a companion spirit.

For some years I had been editing a paper which I called The Scientific World, and it had taxed my health to the point where my physician had told me that I must rest, or at least combine pleasure with business. Thus I had taken the voyage across the ocean to attend the International Electrical Congress in London, and had unexpectedly been thrown in with Guy Garrick, who later seemed destined to play such an important part in my life.

Garrick was a detective, young, university bred, of good family, alert, and an interesting personality to me. He had travelled much, especially in London, Paris, Berlin, and Vienna, where he had studied the amazing growth abroad of the new criminal science.

Already I knew something, by hearsay, of the men he had seen, Gross, Lacassagne, Reiss, and the now immortal Bertillon. Our acquaintance, therefore, had rapidly ripened into friendship, and on our return, I had formed a habit of dropping in frequently on him of an evening, as I had this night, to smoke a pipe or two and talk over matters of common interest in his profession.

He had paused a moment in what he was saying, but now resumed, less reflectively, Fortunately, Marshall, the crime-hunters have gone ahead faster than the criminals. Now, it’s my job to catch criminals. Yours, it seems to me, is to show people how they can never hope to beat the modern scientific detective. Let’s strike a bargain.

I was flattered by his confidence. More than that, the idea appealed to me, in fact was exactly in line with some plans I had already made for the World, since our first acquaintance.

And so it came about that the case brought to him by McBirney and young Warrington was responsible for clearing our ideas as to our mutual relationship and thus forming this strange partnership that has existed ever since.

Tom, he remarked, as we left the office quite late, after he had arranged affairs as if he expected to have no time to devote to his other work for several days, come along and stay with me at my apartment to-night. It’s too late to do anything now until to-morrow.