Guy Garrick Read online

  Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

  THE CRAIG KENNEDY SERIES

  GUY GARRICK

  ARTHUR B. REEVE

  WITH FRONTISPIECE

  CONTENTS

  I. The Stolen Motor

  II. The Murder Car

  III. The Mystery of the Thicket

  IV. The Liquid Bullet

  V. The Blackmailer

  VI. The Gambling Den

  VII. The Motor Bandit

  VIII. The Explanation

  IX. The Raid

  X. The Gambling Debt

  XI. The Gangster's Garage

  XII. The Detectaphone

  XIII. The Incendiary

  XIV. The Escape

  XV. The Plot

  XVI. The Poisoned Needle

  XVII. The Newspaper Fake

  XVIII. The Vocaphone

  XIX. The Eavesdropper Again

  XX. The Speaking Arc

  XXI. The Siege of the Bandits

  XXII. The Man Hunt

  XXIII. The Police Dog

  XXIV. The Frame-Up

  XXV. The Scientific Gunman

  An Adventure in the New Crime Science

  CHAPTER I

  THE STOLEN MOTOR

  "You are aware, I suppose, Marshall, that there have been considerablyover a million dollars' worth of automobiles stolen in this city duringthe past few months?" asked Guy Garrick one night when I had droppedinto his office.

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

  "If you can wait a few moments," he went on, "I think I can promise youa most interesting case--the first big case I've had to test my newknowledge of crime science since I returned from abroad. Have you timefor 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 lookedthrough 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 atthose eyes! You can fairly see them dance even in the halftone."

  The picture which had attracted my attention was of Miss VioletWinslow, an heiress to a moderate fortune, a debutante well known inNew 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 crazyover 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, witheverything but the name detective written on him from his face to hismannerisms.

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

  I was not surprised at reading the name of James McBirney on thedetective's card, underneath which was the title of the AutomobileUnderwriters' Association. But I was more than surprised when theyounger of the visitors handed us a card with the simple name, MortimerWarrington.

  For, Mortimer Warrington, I may say, was at that time one of thecelebrities of the city, at least as far as the newspapers wereconcerned. He was one of the richest young men in the country, and goodfor a "story" almost every day.

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

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

  Miss Winslow, by the way, was rather closely guarded by a duenna-likeaunt, Mrs. Beekman de Lancey, who at that time had achieved a certainamount of notoriety by a crusade which she had organized againstgambling in society. She had reached that age when some women naturallyturn toward righting the wrongs of humanity, and, in this instance, asin 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 ofnervousness. "Worse than that. I can stand losing a bignine-thousand-dollar Mercedes, but--but--you tell it, McBirney. Youhave the facts at your tongue's end."

  Garrick looked questioningly at the detective.

  "I'm very much afraid," responded McBirney slowly, "that this theftabout caps the climax of motor-car stealing in this city. Of course,you realize that the automobile as a means of committing crime and ofescape has rendered detection much more difficult to-day than it everwas before." He paused. "There's been a murder done in or with or bythat car of Mr. Warrington's, or I'm ready to resign from theprofession!"

  McBirney had risen in the excitement of his revelation, and had handedGarrick 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 examiningthe cartridge. "We haven't found it," replied the detective with adiscouraged sigh.

  "Haven't found it?" repeated Garrick. "Then how did you get thiscartridge--or, at least why do you connect it with the disappearance ofthe car?"

  "Well," explained McBirney, getting down to the story, "you understandMr. Warrington's car was insured against theft in a company which is amember of our association. When it was stolen we immediately put inmotion the usual machinery for tracing stolen cars."

  "How about the police?" I queried.

  McBirney looked at me a moment--I thought pityingly. "With alldeference to the police," he answered indulgently, "it is the insurancecompanies and not the police who get cars back--usually. I suppose it'snatural. The man who loses a car notifies us first, and, as we arelikely to lose money by it, we don't waste any time getting after thethief."

  "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, hadstopped early this morning at a little garage over in the northern partof New Jersey."

  Warrington, excited, leaned forward and interrupted.

  "And, Garrick," he exclaimed, horrified, "the car was all stained withblood!"