The Man Who Was Not. John Russell Fearn

sir.”

      Hargraves picked up the telephone again, and for several minutes was in the midst of making inquiries. It was only when he contacted the Criterion that he got a result. The address of David Warlock was given to him instantly. After that it was a matter of getting Warlock himself—and as it happened he was lucky. The private hotel where Warlock was residing announced that he was in, and in another moment he came to the phone.

      “The police?” Warlock exclaimed, when Hargraves had identified himself. “But what do you want with me?”

      “Just a matter of routine, sir,” Hargraves said, reflecting how beautifully the man spoke—as became his profession of an actor. “I believe you gave a party two nights ago at the Café Criterion and invited several guests?”

      “Why yes, I did. There was nothing wrong with that, was there? The premises of the Criterion are licensed for—”

      “I’m not concerned about that, Mr. Warlock. Just let me do the talking please. I’m inquiring into the murder of Trudy Dawson, about which you probably know.”

      There was a gasp. “Trudy murdered! Murdered, did you say?”

      “I did. Evidently you didn’t see the stop-press notices in this morning’s paper.”

      “No I didn’t, as a matter of fact.”

      “You can read the full report in this evening’s papers.... Now to the matter on hand: Can you supply me with a full list of all the guests present at your celebration party?”

      “Sure I can. Take a little time, though. There were nearly a hundred of them.”

      “No matter. Just submit the list to me as soon as possible—Chief-Inspector Hargraves, Scotland Yard. I want that list today if at all possible.”

      “You can have it in an hour. I’ll bring it myself.”

      “Fair enough.”

      Hargraves rang off and gradually lost himself in thought again as Sergeant Brice typed energetically in the corner. Then, presently, the arrival of Larry Hayes, the chief telephone engineer, brought an interruption.

      “Afternoon, inspector,” he greeted breezily. “What can I do for you this time?”

      “You can explain a few things to my woefully non-technical mind,” Hargraves responded. “Sit down, Larry. Have a cigarette.”

      “Thanks.” Hayes lighted up and then waited—a keen-faced, short man who had rapidly climbed to the top in his career as an engineer.

      “First, I must put you in the picture,” Hargraves said. “It’s a case of murder—possibly two murders. You’ll read the bare facts later in the press.... To cut it short, a girl named Trudy Dawson, and her brother Gerald, have both been murdered. Where you come in is that they were informed beforehand, by telephone, when the murder would happen.... Now, to trace a call from a dial phone is impossible. I have reason to think there will be more attempts at murder yet and I want to nab the person sending the telephone warning. How do I do it?”

      “You don’t know if the warning came from a telephone box, I suppose?”

      “I haven’t the least idea.”

      “Hmm.” Hayes pondered for a moment and then asked a question. “What’s the telephone set-up at the receiving end?”

      “It’s on the automatic line.”

      “Yes, yes. Practically all phones are automatic these days. I mean are there extensions and so forth?”

      “There is one main phone in the hall, and extensions to every bedroom.”

      “It isn’t a party line, shared with somebody else?”

      No—direct. It’s the residence of Sir Robert Dawson, the resident surgeon to St. Luke’s hospital.”

      “I see. Is there a direct line from the hospital for emer­gency calls?”

      Hargraves shook his head. “No. Just the normal line.”

      “Then that makes it simpler,” Hayes mused. “We can concentrate on the main incoming line. What we can do, inspector, is have some men use an electronic detector hitched to the main line. When a call comes through one can tell from the strength of the signal, and the direction, the approximate point of origin. It isn’t foolproof by any means, but it will give you the source of origin within, say, five miles.”

      “You can’t narrow the field a little? Five miles is the hell of a lot of territory to cover to pinpoint one caller—and murder could be done in the interval.”

      Hayes shrugged. “Sorry, inspector, but that’s the best I can promise. In some ways the automatic exchange has proved a bit of a drawback to the law.”

      “You’re telling me!” Hargraves growled.

      “There’s one other way,” Hayes said, pondering further. “It would be surer, but it’s damned complicated. It would mean several men on night and day watch at the telephone exchange—”

      “Okay if we have to,” Hargraves said. “What’s the angle?”

      “The unit containing the Dawson number would have to be watched, and every time it started to function from an incoming call we should have to trace it. We could do it by the pulsa­tions and discover the exact source—But like I said, it’s complicated.”

      “Nothing’s so complicated when you’re trying to catch a murderer and prevent a further murder,” Hargraves said. “Do that, Larry, and I will satisfy the Postmaster General if it be necessary. If he won’t believe me, I don’t doubt the Assistant Commissioner will be able to reassure him.”

      Hayes nodded and got to his feet. “Sir Robert Dawson, you say? Okay—we’ll get his number.”

      “And don’t advise him, or anybody else, of what you’re doing,” Hargraves added, as he accompanied the engineer to the door. “Absolute secrecy is essential, and the same goes for the men employed on the job.”

      “Rely on us,” Hayes smiled. We’ve helped the Yard before and we know how to keep our mouths shut.”