CHAPTER XII

THE HAND OF THE VOICE

It took stoicism to the Nth degree for Shirley to respond to the early telephone call next morning, from the clerk of the club.  A few minutes of violent exercise, in the hand ball court, the plunge, a short swim in the natatorium and a rub down from the Swedish masseur, however, brought him around to the mood for another adventure.  Sending for the racing car he began the round-up of details.  There was, first of all, Captain Cronin to be visited in Bellevue.  Here he was agreeably surprised to find the detective chief recuperating with the abettance of his rugged Celtic physique.  The nurse told Shirley that another day’s treatment would allow the Captain to return to his own home:  Shirley knew this meant the executive office of the Holland Detective Agency.

“And sure, Monty, when I have a free foot once again, I’m going to apply it to them gangsters who put me to sleep.”

“Just what I want you to do, Captain!  I ’phoned to your men this morning while I had breakfast at the club:  they have that taxicab which was left near Van Cleft’s house.  It’s put away safely, Cleary said.  There are two gangsters where the dogs won’t bite them; today they are sending out to Jim Merrivale’s house to get the third and he’ll be busy with a little private third degree.  I have no evidence which would connect the man who tried to kill me last night with the other murders, except in a circumstantial way.  What I must do is to follow up the trail, and get the gentleman carrying out the bales, in other words, with the goods on him.”

“You’ll get him, Monty, if I know you.  The fellow hasn’t called up at all on the telephone to-day.  I think he’s afraid of you.”

“No, Captain Cronin, not that!  He’s up to some new game.  Well, I’m off—­take care of yourself and don’t eat anything the nurse doesn’t bring you with her own hands.  I wouldn’t put anything past this gang.”

He shook hands and hurried out of the hospital, with several more errands to complete.  He looked vainly about him for the gray racing-car.  It was gone!  Here was another unexpected interference with his work, and Shirley, sotto voce, expressed himself more practically than politely.  He hurried to an ambulance driver who stood in a doorway, solacing his jangled nerves with a corn-cob smoke.

“Neighbor, did you see any one take the gray car standing here a few minutes ago?”

“Yep, a feller just came out of the hospital entry, cranked her and jumped in.”

“How long ago?”

“Well, I just returned with a suicide actor case five minutes ago.”

“Then you might have seen him enter first?”

“Nope.  Not a sign.  All I seen was the way he cranked the machine, and he didn’t waste any elbow grease doin’ it, either.  He knew the trick.  That’s what I thought when I seen him, even if he did look like a dude.”