d all that, but a little more work should untangle them. A
telephone engineer ought to make a crackerjack detective. He's trained
to unsnarl the worst snarls in the world. You ought to see some of our
wiring diagrams. It takes study to trace them out. You're learning!"

"I don't know if I am, Westlake. I think that Morphy, up at the prison,
has been 'phoning New York. I believe he has a confederate in this
town. This confederate, we will say, received his instructions about
midnight last night. He bored a hole through the booths and called up
Stockbridge. But what was it all for?"

"That I can't answer!"

Drew rose from the chair and crammed his notes in his inner, overcoat
pocket. "What the devil did they do that for?" he asked with flashing
eyes. "Morphy calls up Gramercy Hill 9843 at, or about, midnight.
Gramercy Hill 9844 calls up Stockbridge. Stockbridge was killed by a
bullet in the neck as he's talking over the 'phone. Was the call to
warn him? Was it to threaten him? Was it to occupy his attention so
that the murderer could get in the room and fire the shot?"

"Did you find out how he got into the room?" asked Westlake, leaning
forward.

"I have not! The whole thing gets weird. I can't sleep! I'm not going
to sleep till I get some light on this!"

"You look healthy," said Westlake, as he pressed the buzzer for the
next caller.

Drew emerged from the elevator and hurried to the street with short,
quick strides. He crossed the snow and pressed open the door to a cigar
store. He fished out a nickel and called up his office.

To Harrigan who answered, he said tersely, "Get Flynn up to the Grand
Central! Get him to the east-end telephone-booth, on the lower level.
Tell him I'll be there. He's back from Morristown, isn't he? He phoned,
eh? Get him to me! I need him!"

Drew hung up with a swift flip of the receiver. He hurried to the
subway station and caught a local up-town. He had time to flash a
fourth and fifth set of photos before Flynn came puffing across the
lower level.

"See here!" snapped Drew, drawing the operative into the middle booth.
"Bend down there where that hole is, and tell me what you see on the
varnish."

"It's fingerprints, Chief. Two, three of them. Looks like somebody
pressed hard when they drilled that hole. The outer print is a good one
of a thumb. Left thumb, I should say."

"That's right! I'm going to find out who made that impression, within
one hour. You stay here and grab