THE MARATHON MYSTERY
CHAPTER I
A Call in the Night
A SUDDEN gust of wind wrenched the door from Godfrey’s grasp and slammed it with a bang that echoed through the building.
“Anything doing?” he asked, as he flapped the rain from his coat.
Simmonds, the grizzled veteran of the Central Office, now temporarily in charge of the devious business of the “Tenderloin,” shook his head despondently.
“Not a thing. Only,” he added, his eyes gleaming suddenly with appreciation, “you were right about that Delanne abduction case. It was all a faked-up story on the mother’s part. She confessed this evening.”
“I thought she would if you kept at her,” said Godfrey, sitting down with a quick nod of satisfaction. “She hasn’t nerve enough to carry through a thing like that—she’s too pink-and-white. How does it happen you’re alone?”
“Johnston’s gone down to Philadelphia to bring back Riggs, the forger. Fleming’s got the grip. Bad night, ain’t it?”
“Horrible!” agreed Godfrey. “Listen to that, now.”
A gust of extra violence howled down the street, rattling the windows, shrieking around the corners, tearing down signs, and doing such other damage as lay in its power.
There was a certain similarity in the faces of the two men, especially in the expression of the eyes and mouth. Age, however, had given to Simmonds’s features a trace of stolidity which was wanting in those of his companion. He had been connected with the Central Office for many years — was dean of the force, in fact — and though he had developed no special genius in his dealings with crime, he possessed a matter-of-fact industry and personal courage which had frequently achieved success. In the end, his chief had come to trust him greatly, probably because the brilliant theorists of the force made so many unfortunate mistakes.
Godfrey was a brilliant theorist and something more. He was not so patient as Simmonds, but then he was much younger. He had more imagination, and perhaps his greatest weakness was that he preferred picturesque solutions to commonplace ones. During his three years’ connection with the force he had won four or five notable victories — so notable, indeed, that they attracted the attention of the Record management. The end of it was that Godfrey resigned his badge and entered the Record office as criminal expert, climbing gradually to the position of star reporter. Since then, the Record had not waited on the police; indeed, it had been rather the other way around.
It was with Simmonds that Godfrey had long since concluded an alliance offensive and defensive. The one supplemented the other—the eagle gave eyes to the mole; the mole gave the eagle the power of working patiently in the dark. Simmonds kept Godfrey in touch with police affairs; Godfrey enabled Simmonds to make a startling arrest now and then. Godfrey got the story, Simmonds got the glory, and both were satisfied. It may be added that, without in the least suspecting it, the mole was considerably under the influence of the eagle. Brains naturally lead industry; besides, the blind must have guidance.
They listened until the gust of wind died away down the street, then Godfrey arose and began to button up his coat.
"Nevertheless," he said, "I've got to be moving on. I can't stay loafing here. I wouldn't have stopped at all but for the chance of seeing you."
"Oh, don't go," protested Simmonds. "I was mighty glad to see you come in. I was feeling a little lonesome. Wait till this squall's over, anyway—and have a smoke."
Godfrey took the proffered cigar and relapsed into his chair.
"I'm only human," he said, as he struck a match, "and, besides, there's a fascination about you, Simmonds—there’s always a chance of getting a good story out of you. You know more about the criminal history of New York than any other man living, I think."
Simmonds chuckled complacently. "I have been in on most of the big cases." he agreed.
"Come, now," continued the other persuasively, “if I consent to stay, you’ve got to produce a story. Take those big cases—which do you think was the best of the lot?”
“The best?”
“The most intricate, I mean—the most puzzling—the hardest to solve.”
“Well,” and Simmonds rolled his cigar reflectively, “the hardest to solve, of course, were those that were never solved at all. There was the shooting of old Benjamin Nathan, in the summer of ’70, at his house on West Twenty-third Street, and there was the stabbing of Harvey Burdell. I never had the least doubt that Burdell was killed by Mrs. Cunningham, the woman he’d secretly married. The stabbing was done by a left-handed person, and she was left-handed; but we weren’t able to convict her.”
“Yes,” nodded Godfrey; “and the Nathan case?”
“There wasn’t anybody in the house, so far as known, but the two sons,” said Simmonds slowly, “and both of them managed to prove an alibi. But I’ve always thought Hello! What’s this?”
The door flew back with a crash and a man, rushed in—a heavy-set man, with red cheeks, who stopped, gasping, clutching at his throat.
Godfrey had a flask to his lips in an instant.
“Come, brace up!” he commanded sternly, slapping the stranger on the back. “Take a swallow of this—that’s it.”
“It seems to me I know him,” remarked Simmonds, looking at the flushed countenance with contemplative eye.
“O’ course you do!” gasped the stranger. “I’m Higgins—th’ Marathon,” and he jerked his head toward the door.
“Oh, yes,” said Simmonds. “You’re the janitor of the Marathon apartment house, just across the street.”
“Well, what’s happened at the Marathon?” demanded Godfrey. “No ghosts over there, I hope?”
“There’ll be one,” answered Higgins, his eyes beginning to pop again. “Oh, my God!”
“Come,” repeated Godfrey sharply. “Out with it! What is it?”
“It’s murder, that’s what it is!” cried Higgins hoarsely. “I seed him, a-layin’ on his back”
He stopped and covered his eyes with his hands. Simmonds had quietly opened a drawer and slipped a revolver into his pocket. Then he took down the receiver from his desk ‘phone.
“That you, sergeant?” he called. “This is Simmonds. Send three men over to the Marathon right away.”
He put back the receiver with a jerk. Godfrey twirled the janitor sharply around in the direction of the door.
“Go ahead,” he commanded, and pushed rather than led him out into the storm.
They made a dash for it through the rain, which was still pouring in torrents. Halfway across the street, they descried a cab standing at the farther curb, and veered to the right to avoid it.
“Here we are,” said Higgins, running up a short flight of steps into a lighted vestibule. “It’s in soot fourteen—second floor.”
They sprang up the stairs without thinking of the elevator—one flight, two … Higgins began to choke again.
A single door stood open, throwing a broad glare of light across the hallway.
“It’s there,” said Higgins, and stopped to gasp for breath.
The others ran on. For an instant, they stood upon the threshold, gazing into the room—at a huddled form on the floor, with a red stain growing and growing upon its breast—at a woman staring white-faced from the farther corner—a woman, tall, with black hair and black eyes.
Then Godfrey stepped toward her with a quick exclamation of surprise, incredulity, horror.
“Why, it’s Miss Croydon!” he said.