Burke sneered an indignation that was, nevertheless, somewhat fearful of what might lie behind the woman's a.s.surance.

"What's the reason?" he demanded, scornfully. "There's the body." He pointed to the rigid form of the dead man, lying there so very near them. "And the gun was found on him. And then, you're willing to swear that he killed him.... Well, I guess we'll convict him, all right. Why not?"

Mary's answer was given quietly, but, none the less, with an a.s.surance that could not be gainsaid.

"Because," she said, "my husband merely killed a burglar." In her turn, she pointed toward the body of the dead man. "That man," she continued evenly, "was the burglar. You know that! My husband shot him in defense of his home!" There was a brief silence. Then, she added, with a wonderful mildness in the music of her voice. "And so, Inspector, as you know of course, he was within the law!"

CHAPTER XX. WHO SHOT GRIGGS?

In his office next morning, Inspector Burke was fuming over the failure of his conspiracy. He had hoped through this plot to vindicate his authority, so sadly flaunted by Garson and Mary Turner. Instead of this much-to-be-desired result from his scheming, the outcome had been nothing less than disastrous. The one certain fact was that his most valuable ally in his warfare against the criminals of the city had been done to death. Some one had murdered Griggs, the stool-pigeon. Where Burke had meant to serve a man of high influence, Edward Gilder, by railroading the bride of the magnate's son to prison, he had succeeded only in making the trouble of that merchant prince vastly worse in the ending of the affair by arresting the son for the capital crime of murder. The situation was, in very truth, intolerable. More than ever, Burke grew hot with intent to overcome the woman who had so persistently outraged his authority by her ingenious devices against the law. Anyhow, the murder of Griggs could not go unpunished. The slayer's ident.i.ty must be determined, and thereafter the due penalty of the law inflicted, whoever the guilty person might prove to be. To the discovery of this ident.i.ty, the Inspector was at the present moment devoting himself by adroit questioning of Dacey and Chicago Red, who had been arrested in one of their accustomed haunts by his men a short time before.

The policeman on duty at the door was the only other person in the room, and in consequence Burke permitted himself, quite unashamed, to employ those methods of persuasion which have risen to a high degree of admiration in police circles.

"Come across now!" he admonished. His voice rolled forth like that of a bull of Bashan. He was on his feet, facing the two thieves. His head was thrust forward menacingly, and his eyes were savage. The two men shrank before him--both in natural fear, and, too, in a furtive policy of their own. This was no occasion for them to a.s.sert a personal pride against the man who had them in his toils.

"I don't know nothin'!" Chicago Red's voice was between a snarl and a whine. "Ain't I been telling you that for over an hour?"

Burke vouchsafed no answer in speech, but with a nimbleness surprising in one of his bulk, gave Dacey, who chanced to be the nearer of the two, a shove that sent the fellow staggering half-way across the room under its impetus.

With this by way of appreciable introduction to his seriousness of purpose, Burke put a question:

"Dacey, how long have you been out?"

The answer came in a sibilant whisper of dread.

"A week."

Burke pushed the implication brutally.

"Want to go back for another stretch?" The Inspector's voice was freighted with suggestions of disasters to come, which were well understood by the cringing wretch before him.

The thief shuddered, and his face, already pallid from the prison lack of sunlight like some noxious growth of a cellar, became livid. His words came in a m.u.f.fled moan of fear.

"G.o.d, no!"

Burke left a little interval of silence then in which the thieves might tremble over the prospect suggested by his words, but always he maintained his steady, relentless glare on the cowed creatures. It was a familiar warfare with him. Yet, in this instance, he was destined to failure, for the men were of a type different from that of English Eddie, who was lying dead as the meet reward for treachery to his fellows.... When, at last, his question issued from the close-shut lips, it came like the crack of a gun.

"Who shot Griggs?"

The reply was a chorus from the two:

"I don't know--honest, I don't!"

In his eagerness, Chicago Red moved toward his questioner--unwisely.

"Honest to Gawd, I don't know nothin' about it!"

The Inspector's fist shot out toward Chicago Red's jaw. The impact was enough. The thief went to his knees under the blow.

"Now, get up--and talk!" Burke's voice came with unrepentant noisiness against the stricken man.

Cringingly, Chicago Red, who so gloried in his strength, yet was now altogether humble in this precarious case, obeyed as far as the getting to his feet was concerned.... It never occurred to him even that he should carry his obedience to the point of "squealing on a pal!" Had the circ.u.mstances been different, he might have refused to accept the Inspector's blow with such meekness, since above all things he loved a bit of bodily strife with some one near his own strength, and the Inspector was of a sort to offer him a battle worth while.

So, now, while he got slowly to his feet, he took care to keep at a respectful distance from the official, though his big hands fairly ached to double into fists for blows with this man who had so maltreated him.

His own self-respect, of its peculiar sort, was saved by the interference of Ca.s.sidy, who entered the Inspector's office to announce the arrival of the District Attorney.

"Send 'im in," Burke directed at once. He made a gesture toward the doorman, and added: "Take 'em back!"

A grin of evil humor writhed the lips of the police official, and he added to the attentive doorman a word of direction that might well be interpreted by the malevolent expression on his face.

"Don't be rough with 'em, Dan," he said. For once, his dominating voice was reduced to something approaching softness, in his sardonic appreciation of his own humor in the conception of what these two men, who had ventured to resist his importunities, might receive at the hands of his faithful satellites.... The doorman grinned appreciatively, and herded his victims from the place. And the two went shamblingly in sure knowledge of the things that were in store. Yet, without thought of treachery. They would not "squeal"! All they would tell of the death of Eddie Griggs would be: "He got what was coming to him!"

The Inspector dropped into his swivel chair at the desk whilst he awaited the arrival of Demarest, the District Attorney. The greetings between the two were cordial when at last the public prosecutor made his appearance.

"I came as soon as I got your message," the District Attorney said, as he seated himself in a chair by the desk. "And I've sent word to Mr.

Gilder.... Now, then, Burke, let's have this thing quickly."

The Inspector's explanation was concise:

"Joe Garson, Chicago Red, and Dacey, along with Griggs, broke into Edward Gilder's house, last night! I knew the trick was going to be pulled off, and so I planted Ca.s.sidy and a couple of other men just outside the room where the haul was to be made. Then, I went away, and after something like half an hour I came back to make the arrests myself." A look of intense disgust spread itself over the Inspector's ma.s.sive face. "Well," he concluded sheepishly, "when I broke into the room I found young Gilder along with that Turner woman he married, and they were just talking together."

"No trace of the others?" Demarest questioned crisply.

At the inquiry, Burke's face crimsoned angrily, then again set in grim lines.

"I found Griggs lying on the floor--dead!" Once again the disgust showed in his expression. "The Turner woman says young Gilder shot Griggs because he broke into the house. Ain't that the limit?"

"What does the boy say?" the District Attorney demanded.

Burke shook his head dispiritedly.

"Nothing," he answered. "She told him not to talk, and so, of course, he won't, he's such a fool over her."

"And what does she say?" Demarest asked. He found himself rather amused by the exceeding chagrin of the Inspector over this affair.

Burke's voice grew savage as he snapped a reply.

"Refuses to talk till she sees a lawyer." But a touch of cheerfulness appeared in his tones as he proceeded. "We've got Chicago Red and Dacey, and we'll have Garson before the day's over. And, oh, yes, they've picked up a young girl at the Turner woman's place. And we've got one real clue--for once!" The speaker's expression was suddenly triumphant.

He opened a drawer of the desk, and took out Garson's pistol, to which the silencer was still attached.

"You never saw a gun like that before, eh?" he exclaimed.

Demarest admitted the fact after a curious examination.

"I'll bet you never did!" Burke cried, with satisfaction. "That thing on the end is a Maxim silencer. There are thousands of them in use on rifles, but they've never been able to use them on revolvers before.