Roland Phillips - Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 60, No. 1, July 4, 1931

The gray ghost mocked in the darkness of the Tremont Building and a madman laughed.

Farnsworth raised his eyes from his littered desk, looked at the wall clock, and then glanced at a heavily-jowled, compact companion nodding at a desk in the corner.

Its after midnight, Darwin, he said finally. Youd better go on home.

Darwins round, brown eyes snapped wide open.

Are you through, inspector? he asked sleepily.

Not quite; I have some reports to complete. But you neednt wait for me. Youve had a long, hard pull.

Inspector, let them reports go till to-morra. Youve got nough time now, the Pope cases closed.

All closed, remarked Farnsworth, with a smile.

The newspapers is sorry. Theyll have to dig up somethin different for the first page. You got a lotta publicity outta the Pope case.

Publicity doesnt help, asserted Farnsworth.

Let me fall down just once and see whatll happen to whatever reputation I may have made.

I aint worryin bout you failin down, inspector. Anybody that broke the Pope case like you done, aint gonna fall down. You dont only recover Mrs. Garfield Popes pearls but you put Red Lyons and his mob away. And that big gorilla, Lyons, aint no more dangerousn a rattlesnake neither. When he stood up in court and said hed kick his way outta stir and

This discussion isnt clearing up my desk, interrupted Farnsworth.

Turning, he started to sort his papers only to be stopped by the ringing of the telephone.

Ill take it, he said, lifting the receiver.

For an instant, with an unreadable look on his young, strong face, he listened.

What was that? inquired Darwin sharply.

Didnt you hear it? asked Farnsworth.

Thought I did sounded like some one was givin you the laugh.

Thats all it was just a laugh.

Mebbe its a nut or a junker. Theres a lotta dope in this town, inspector, been comin in heavy for some time. But dopes outta our line. Lets call it a day and go home. Even if you dont never get tired, youd oughta take some rest.

I have more work to do, Darwin. I

Youve always got work to do. But if youre goin to stick, Ill roost right here with you.

Darwin clasped his big hands over his stomach and leaned back in his chair.

And Farnsworth, instead of giving his attention to his papers, sat as if waiting for another telephone call.

The clock ticked loudly. Darwin lighted, a cigar.

Ten minutes passed. Darwin shuffled his feet uneasily. But Farnsworth, his chin cupped in a slender hand, sat immobile.

You look like a bank cashier, commented Darwin. Wish my clothes wouldnt wrinkle butd stay pressed like yours do.

If youre tired, you can go, returned Farnsworth in a preoccupied voice.

We both need some rest. Wed

The telephone bell rang stridently.

Take the extension, said Farnsworth, picking up the receiver.

That same laugh! exclaimed Darwin, his hand over the transmitter.

Keep still, snapped Farnsworth, working the hook.

Miller, late watch headquarters operator, came on the wire.

Trace that call, ordered Farnsworth.

O.K., inspector, replied Miller alertly.

Somebodys kiddin, asserted Darwin.

A few seconds of silence followed.

Central cant give me anything, reported Miller. Says somethings wrong with her board.

Shes kiddin too, drawled Darwin.

Watch all my calls, Miller, said Farnsworth.

Im on the job, inspector, responded the operator.

Farnsworth put on his hat, and sat on the edge of his chair, the telephone within easy reaching distance.

Darwins cigar ash grew longer and longer. Finally it broke and dropped on his vest. Five minutes passed. Inspector Farnsworth moved slightly and Darwins drooping head came up suddenly.

Prohibition booze does funny things, he observed, tossing his cigar into the cuspidor and lighting another. Some stews got you on his mind cause you been in the papers so much lately.

Farnsworth gave no indication that he heard the remark.

Darwins head again began to sink. The ticking of the clock was the only break in the silence.

Of a sudden, a woman screamed shrilly just under the window.

Darwin, his hand on his service revolver, bounded to his feet.

Thats your prohibition booze, asserted Farnsworth. Theyre bringing in a drunk downstairs I heard the wagon come up.

Darwins hand dropped.

I must be gettin jumpy, he said sheepishly.

Stepping to the window, he looked down on the sidewalk.

Somebodyll be broke for this! screamed a feminine voice. I know Inspector Farnsworth.

And so does everybody else in town, responded a deep voice. Come on, Molly, your old cells waitin for you.

Im a respectable working woman and you havent any right dont twist my arm!

Mebbe it was Molly doin that laughin, Darwin observed.

Molly?

Sure, the broad they just brought in downstairs Molly Davis, shoplifter, street walker and dope. She knows you. She oughta. You run her in a coupla times when you was new. Mebbe she called you up and give you the laugh for old times

Seemingly, even before the bell of the telephone started to ring, Farnsworth had the instrument in his hands and even as he was lifting the receiver, Darwin was at the extension.

Worse this time, whispered Darwin. Nough to give you the shivers. Dont sound human.

Farnsworth motioned impatiently for silence.

Only for a moment did his tension continue. Then Miller came on the wire.

Horace G. Thompsons office, Tremont Building, the operator reported.

Thanks, answered Farnsworth. Darwin and I are going out. But dont let any one know we have left the building. If any calls come for me, trace them immediately, and keep a record.

O. K., inspector.

Farnsworth replaced the receiver and with a catlike movement was on his feet. Thirty seconds later, Darwin and he were being driven rapidly across the city.

Mebbe Thompsons throwin a gin party, observed Darwin.

Do you know Horace G. Thompson? asked Farnsworth.

Know him when I see him. Bachelor. Lives in a big house out on Russell Road. His father left him that house long with plenty dough. Funny thing too, hes got an office in the old Tremont Buildin. I was in there the other day. Only new thing in that dumps a fresh elevator kid. But with all his jack, Thompsons got his office there.

Farnsworth was about to speak when the car drew up to the curb.

Wait here, Rickey, he said to the driver.

Standing among modern, tall office buildings, the begrimed six-story Tremont looked like a stunted, dirty-faced orphan.

Not a light showed from any of the windows, and the lobby being equally dark, Darwin fumbled as he reached for the night bell.

In response to the faint summons, there was the sound of a chair scraping over tiling. A light was turned on, and then a gnome-like figure shambled out of the shadows and peered through the dirty glass of the front door.

Hardly more than five feet tall, the man had the head, shoulders and torso of a giant. His muscular arms hung down almost to his knees and black bristles covered the backs of his huge, gray hands. His face was gray, darkened by black beard stubble.

He drew from his pocket a large bunch of keys and grudgingly opened the door.

Darwin and Farnsworth pushed their way into the ornate but dingy lobby.