Guy Garrick Read online

  CHAPTER XXIV

  THE FRAME-UP

  Although I felt discouraged on our return to the city, the morningfollowing our exciting adventure at the mysterious house in the Ramapovalley, Garrick, who never let anything ruffle him long, seemed quitecheerful.

  "Cheer up, Tom," he encouraged. "We are on the home stretch now."

  "Perhaps--if they don't beat us to the tape," I answereddisconsolately. "What are you going to do next?"

  "While you were snatching a little sleep, I was rummaging around andfound a number of letters in a table drawer, up there. One was a note,evidently to the garage keeper, and signed merely, 'Chief.' I'll wagerthat the handwriting is the same as that in the blackmailing letter toMiss Winslow."

  "What of it?" I asked, refusing to be comforted. "We haven't got himand the prospects--"

  "No, we haven't got him," interrupted Garrick, "but the note was just aline to tell the Boss, who seemed to have been up there in the countryat the time, to meet the Chief at 'the Joint,' on Second Avenue."

  I nodded, but before I could speak, he added, "It didn't say any more,but I think I know the place. It is the old International Cafe, aregular hang-out for crooks, where they come to gamble away theproceeds of their crimes in stuss, the great game of the East Side,now. Anyhow, we'll just drop into the place. We may not find them, butwe'll have an interesting time. Then, there is the possibility ofgetting a strangle hold on someone, anyhow."

  Garrick was evidently figuring on having driven our gunman back intothe haunts of the underworld.

  There seemed to be no other course that presented itself and therefore,rather than remain inactive until something new turned up, I consentedto accompany him in his excursion.

  Forbes, still uncommunicatively protesting that he would say nothinguntil he had an opportunity to consult a lawyer, had been taken down toNew York by Dillon during the morning and was lodged in a West Sideprison under a technical charge which was sufficient to hold him untilGarrick could investigate his case and fix his real status.

  We had taken a cross-town car, with the intention of looking over thedive where Garrick believed the crooks might drop in. The ride itselfwas uninteresting, but not so by any means the objective point of ourjourney.

  Over on the East Side, we found the International Cafe, and slouchedinto the back room. It was not the room devoted to stuss, but theentrance to it, which Garrick informed me was through a heavy doorconcealed in a little hallway, so that its very existence would not besuspected except by the initiate.

  We made no immediate attempt to get into the hang-out proper, which wasa room perhaps thirty feet wide and seventy feet deep. Instead, we satdown at one of the dirty, round tables, and ordered something from thewaiter, a fat and oily Muscowitz in a greasy and worn dinner coat.

  It seemed that in the room where we were had gathered nearly everyvariety of the populous underworld. I studied the men and women at thetables curiously, without seeming to do so. But there could be noconcealment here. Whatever we might be, they seemed to know that wewere not of them, and they greeted us with black looks and now and thena furtive scowl.

  It was not long, however, before it became evident that in some wayword had been passed that we were not mere sightseers. Perhaps it wasby a sort of wireless electric tension that seemed to pervade the air.At any rate, it was noticeable.

  "There's no use staying here," remarked Garrick to me under his breath,affecting not to notice the scowls, "unless we do something. Are yougame for trying to get into the stuss joint?"

  He said it with such determination to go himself that I did not refuse.I had made up my mind that the only thing to do was to follow him,wherever he went.

  Garrick rose, stretched himself, yawned as though bored, and togetherwe lounged out into the public hall, just as someone from the outsideclamoured for admission to the stuss joint through the strong door.

  The door had already been opened, when Garrick deftly inserted hisshoulder. Through the crack in the door, I could see the startledroomful of players of all degrees in crookdom, in the thick, curlingtobacco smoke.

  The man at the door called out to Garrick to get out, and raised hisarm to strike. Garrick caught his fist, and slowly with his powerfulgrip bent it back until the man actually writhed. As his wrist wentback by fractions of an inch, his fingers were forced to relax. I knewthe trick. It was the scientific way to open a clenched fist. As thetendons refused to stretch any farther, his fingers straightened, and amurderous looking blackjack clattered to the floor.

  All was confusion. Money which was on the various tables disappeared asif by magic. Cards were whisked away as if a ghost had taken them. In amoment there was no more evidence of gambling than is afforded by anyroomful of men, so easy was it to hide the paraphernalia, or, rather,lack of paraphernalia of stuss.

  It was the custom, I knew, for criminals, after they had made a haul toretire into such places as these stuss parlors, not only to spend theproceeds of their robberies, but for protection. Even though they wereunmercifully fleeced by the gamblers, they might depend on them to warnof the approach of the "bulls" and if possible count on being hidden orspirited off to safety.

  Apparently we had come just at a time when there were some criminals inhiding among the players. It was the only explanation I could offer ofthe strange action that greeted our simple attempt to gain admission tothe stuss room. Whether they were criminals who had really made a haulor mere fugitives from justice, I could not guess. But that a warninghad been given the man at the door to be on his guard, seemed evidentfrom the manner in which we had been met.

  There was a rush of feet in the room. I expected that we would beoverwhelmed. Instead, as together we pushed on the now half-open door,the room emptied like a sieve. Whoever it might be who had taken refugethere had probably disappeared, among the first, by tacit understandingof the rest, for the whole thing had the air of being run off accordingto instructions.

  "It's a collar!" had sounded through the room, the moment we hadappeared at the door, and it was now empty.

  I wondered whether the letter which Garrick had found might not, afterall, have brought us straight to the last resort of those whom wesought.

  "Where have they gone?" I panted, as the door opened at last, and wefound only one man in the place.

  There he stood apparently ready to be arrested, in fact courting it ifwe could show the proper authority, since he knew that it would be onlya question of hours when he would be out again and the game would beresumed, in full blast.

  The man shook his head blankly in answer to my question.

  "There must be a trap door somewhere," cried Garrick. "It is no use tofind it. They are all on the street by this time. Quick--before anyonecatches us in the rear."

  We had been not a moment too soon in gaining the street. Though we haddone nothing but attempt to get into the stuss room, ostensibly asplayers, the crowd in the cafe was pressing forward.

  On the street, we saw men filing quickly from a cellar, a few doorsdown the block. We mingled with the excited crowd in order to coverourselves.

  "That must have been where the trap door and passage led," whisperedGarrick.

  A familiar figure ducked out of the cellar, surrounded by others, andthe crowd made for two taxicabs standing on the opposite side of thestreet near a restaurant which was really not a tough joint but made aplay at catering to people from uptown who wanted a taste of near-crimeand did not know when they were being buncoed.

  Another cab swung up to the stand, just as the first two pulled away.Its sign was up: "Vacant."

  Quick as a flash, Garrick was in it, dragging me after him. The drivermust have thought that we, too, were escaping, for he needed only oneorder from Garrick to leap ahead in the wake of the cabs which hadalready started.

  A moment later, Garrick's head was out of the window. He had drawn hisrevolver and was pegging away at the tires of the cabs ahead. Ananswering shot came back to us. Meanwhile, a policeman at a cornerleaped on a
passing trolley and urged the motorman to put on the fullpower in a vain effort to pursue us as we swept by up the broad avenue.

  Even the East Side, accustomed to frequent running fights on thestreets between rival gunmen and gangs, was roused by such an outburst.The crack of revolver shots, the honking of horns, the clang of thetrolley bell, and the shouts of men along the street brought hundredsto the windows, as the cars lurched and swayed up the avenue.

  The cars ahead swerved to dodge a knot of pedestrians, but their pacenever slackened. Then the rearmost of the two began to buck and almostleap off the roadway. There came a rattle and roar from the rear wheelswhich told that the tires had been punctured and that the heavy wheelswere riding on their rims, cutting the deflated tubes. At a crossstreet the first car turned, just in time to avoid a truck, and dodgeddown a maze of side streets, but the second ran squarely into the truck.

  As the first car disappeared we caught a glimpse of a man leaning outof it. He seemed to be swinging something around and around at arm'slength. Suddenly he let it go and it shot high up in the air on theroof of a tenement house.

  "The automobile is the most dangerous weapon ever used by criminals,"muttered Garrick, as the first car shot down through a mass of truckingwhich had backed up and shifted, making pursuit momentarily moreimpossible for us. "These people know how to use the automobile, too.But we've got someone here, anyhow," he cried, leaping out and pushingaside the crowd that had collected about the wrecked car.

  In the bottom of it we found a man, stunned and crumpled into a heap.Blood flowed from his arm where one of the bullets had struck him.Several bullets had struck the back of the cab and both tires were cutby them.

  As I came up and looked over Garrick's shoulder at the prostrate andunconscious figure in the car, I could not restrain an exclamation ofsurprise.

  It was the garage keeper, the Boss--at last!

  Policemen had come up in the meantime, and several minutes wereconsumed while Garrick proved to them his identity.

  "What was that thing the fellow in the forward car whirled over hishead?" I whispered.

  "A revolver, I think," returned Garrick. "That's a favourite trick ofthe gunmen. With a stout cord tied to a gun you can catapult it farenough to destroy the evidence that will hold you under the Sullivanlaw, at least. I mean to get that gun as soon as we are through withthis fellow here."

  Someone had turned in a call for an ambulance which came jangling upsoon after, and we stood in a group close to the young surgeon as heworked to bring around the captured gangster.

  "Where's the Chief?" he mumbled, dazed.

  Garrick motioned to us to be quiet.

  The man rambled on with a few inconsequential remarks, then opened hiseyes, caught sight of the white coated surgeon working over him, of usstanding behind, and of the crowd about him.

  Memory of what had happened flitted back to him. With an effort he washimself again, close-mouthed, after the manner of the gangsters.

  The surgeon had done all in his power and the man was sufficientlyrecovered to be taken to the hospital, now, under arrest. As far as wewere concerned, our work was done. The Boss could be found now, at anytime that we needed him, but that he would speak all the traditions ofgangland made impossible.

  I wondered what Garrick would do. As for myself, I had no idea whatmove to make.

  It surprised me, therefore, to see him with a smile of satisfaction onhis face.

  "I'll see you this afternoon, Tom," he said merely, as the ambulancebore the wounded Boss away. "Meanwhile, I wish you'd take the time togo over to headquarters and give Dillon our version of this affair.Tell him to hold to-night open, too. I have a little work to do thisafternoon, and I'll call him up later."

  Dillon, I found, was overjoyed when I reported to him the capture of atleast one man whom we had failed to get the night before.

  "Things seem to be clearing up, after all," he remarked. "Tell GarrickI shall hold open to-night for him. Meanwhile, good luck, and let meknow the moment you get any word about the Chief. He must have been in.that first cab, all right."

  As I left Dillon's office, I ran into Herman in the hall, coming in. Ibowed to him and he nodded surlily. Evidently, I thought, he had heardof the result of our activities. I did not ask him what progress he hadmade in the case, for I had had experience with professional jealousybefore, and thought that the less said on the subject the better.

  Recalling what Garrick had said, I curbed my impatience as best Icould, in order to give him ample time to complete the work that he hadto do. It was not until the middle of the afternoon that I rejoined himin his office.

  I found him at work at a table, still, with a microscope and anarrangement which I recognised as the apparatus for makingmicrophotographs. Several cartridges, carefully labelled, were lyingbefore him, as well as the peculiar pistol we had found when we hadcaptured Forbes in the little room. There were also the guns we hadcaptured in the garage and one found in the cab which we had chased andwrecked.

  On the end of the table was a large number of photographs of a mostpeculiar nature. I picked up one. It looked like an enlarged photographof an orange, or like some of the pictures which the astronomers makeof the nearer planets.

  "What are these?" I asked curiously, as he leaned back from his work,with a smile of quiet satisfaction.

  "That is a collection of microphotographs which I have gathered," heanswered, adding, "as well as some that I have just made. I hope to usethem in a little stereopticon entertainment I am arranging to-night forthose who have been interested in the case."

  Garrick smiled. "Have you ever heard?" he asked, "that the rounded endof the firing pin of every rifle when it is examined under a microscopebears certain irregularities of marking different from those of everyother firing pin and that the primer of every shell fired in a rifle isimpressed with the particular markings of that firing pin?"

  I had not, but Garrick went on, "I know that it is true. Such markingsare distinctive for each rifle and can be made by no other. I havetaken rifles bearing numbers preceding and following that of aparticular one, as well as a large number of other firing pins. I havetried the rifles and the firing pins, one by one, and after I mademicrophotographs of the firing pins with special reference to therounded ends and also photographs of the corresponding roundeddepressions in the primers fired by them, it was forced upon me thatcartridges fired by each individual firing pin could be positivelyidentified."

  I had been studying the photographs. It was a new idea, and it appealedto me strongly. "How about revolvers?" I asked quickly.

  "Well, Dr. Balthazard, the French criminologist, has made experimentson the identification of revolver bullets and has a system that mightbe compared to that of Bertillon for identifying human beings. He hasshowed by greatly enlarged photographs that every gun barrel leavesmarks on a bullet and that the marks are always the same for the samebarrel but never identical for two different barrels. He has shown thatthe hammer of a revolver, say a centre fire, strikes the cartridge at apoint which is never the exact centre of the cartridge, but is alwaysthe same for the same weapon. He has made negatives of bullets nearly afoot wide. Every detail appears very distinctly and it can be decidedwith absolute certainty whether a certain bullet or cartridge was firedby a certain revolver."

  He had picked up one of the microphotographs and was looking at itattentively through a small glass.

  "You will see," he explained, "on the edge of this photograph a roughsketch calling attention to a mark like an L which is the chiefcharacteristic of this hammer, although there are other detailedmarkings which show well under the microscope but not in a photograph.You will note that the marks on a hammer are reversed on the primer inthe same way that a metal type and the character printed by it arereversed as regards one another. Moreover, depressions on the end of ahammer become raised on the primer and raised markings on the hammerbecome depressions on the primer.

  "Now, here is another. You can see that it is radical
ly different fromthe first, which was from the cartridge used in killing poor RenaTaylor. This second one is from that gun which I found on the tenementroof this morning. It lacks the L mark as well as the concentriccircles. Here is another. Its chief characteristics are a series ofpits and elevations which, examined under the microscope and measured,will be found to afford a set of characters utterly different fromthose of any other hammer.

  "In short," he concluded with an air of triumph, "the ends of firingpins are turned and finished in a lathe by the use of tools designedfor that purpose. The metal tears and works unevenly so thatmicroscopical examination shows many pits, lines, circles, andirregularities. The laws of chance are as much against two of thesefiring pins or hammers having the same appearance under the microscopeas they are against the thumb prints of two human subjects beingidentical."

  I picked up the curious little arrangement which we had found in thedrawer in Forbes' room and examined it closely.

  "I have been practicing with that pistol, if you may call it that," heremarked, "on cartridges of my own and examining the marks made by thepeculiar hammer. I have studied marks of the gun which we found on theroof. I have compared them with the marks on cartridges which we havepicked up at the finding of Rena Taylor's body, at the garage thatnight of the stupefying bullet, with bullets such as were aimed atWarrington, with others, both cartridges and bullets, at various times,and the conclusion is unescapable."

  Who, I asked myself, was the scientific gunman? I knew it was uselessto try to hurry Garrick. First, by a sort of intuition he had pickedhim out, then by the evidence of hammer and bullet he had made itpractically certain. But I knew that to his scientific mind nothing butabsolute certainty would suffice.

  While I was waiting for him to proceed, he had already begun to work onsome apparatus behind a screen at the end of his office. Close to thewall at the left was a stereopticon which, as nearly as I could makeout, shot a beam of light through a tube to a galvanometer about threefeet distant. In front of this beam whirled a five-spindled wheelgoverned by a chronometer which was so accurate, he said, that it erredonly a second a day.

  Between the poles of the galvanometer was stretched a slender thread offused quartz plated with silver. It was the finest thread I couldimagine, only a thousandth of a millimeter in diameter, far too tenuousto be seen. Three feet further away was a camera with a moving plateholder which carried a sensitized photographic plate. Its movement wasregulated by a big fly-wheel at the extreme right.

  "You see," remarked Garrick, now engrossed on the apparatus andforgetting the hammer evidence for the time, "the beam of lightfocussed on that fine thread in the galvanometer passes to thisphotographic plate. It is intercepted by the five spindles of thewheel, which turns once a second, thus marking the picture off in exactfifths of a second. The vibrations of the thread are enormouslymagnified on the plate by a lens and produce a series of wavy or zigzaglines. I have shielded the sensitized plate by a wooden hood whichpermits no light to strike it except the slender ray that is doing thework. The plate moves across the field slowly, its speed regulated bythe fly-wheel. Don't you think it is neat and delicate? All thesemovements are produced by one of the finest little electric motors Iever saw."

  I could not get the idea of the revolvers out of my head so quickly. Iagreed with him, but all I could find to say was, "Do you think therewas more than this one whom they call the Chief engaged in theshootings?"

  "I can't say absolutely anything more than I have told you, yet," heanswered in a tone that seemed to discourage further questioning alongthat line.

  He continued to work on the delicate apparatus with its threadstretched between the stationary magnets of the galvanometer, a threadso delicate that it might have been spun by a microscopic spider, solight that no scales made by human hands could weigh it, so slenderthat the mind could hardly grasp it. It was about one-third thediameter of a red corpuscle of blood and its weight had been estimatedas about .00685 milligrams, truly a fairy thread. It was finer than themost delicate cobweb and could be seen with the naked eye only when astrong light was thrown on it so as to catch the reflection.

  "All I can say is," he admitted, "that the bullets which committed thishorrible series of crimes have been proven all to be shot from the samegun, presumably, I think I shall show, by the same hand, and that handis the same that wrote the blackmailing letter."

  "Whose gun was it?" I asked. "Was there a way to connect it and thebullets and the cartridges with the owner--four things, allseparated--and then that owner with the curious and tragic successionof events that had marked the case since the theft of Warrington's car?"

  Garrick had apparently completed his present work of adjusting thedelicate apparatus. He was now engaged on another piece which also hada powerful light in it and an attachment which bore a strongresemblance to a horn.

  He paused a moment, regarding me quizzically. "I think you'll find itsufficiently novel to warrant your coming, Tom," he added. "I havealready invited Dillon and his man, Herman, over the telephone justbefore you came in. McBirney will be there, and Forbes, of course.He'll have to come, if I want him. By the way, I wish you'd get intouch with Warrington and see how he is. If it is all right, tell himthat I'd like to have him escort Miss Winslow and her aunt here,to-night. Meanwhile I shall find out how our friend the Boss is gettingon. He ought to be here, at any cost, and I've put it off untilto-night to make sure that he'll be in fit condition to come. To-nightat nine--here in this office--remember," he concluded gayly. "In themeantime, not a word to anybody about what you have seen here thisafternoon."