Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
I. The Stolen Motor
II. The Murder Car
III. The Mystery of the Thicket
IV. The Liquid Bullet
V. The Blackmailer
VI. The Gambling Den
VII. The Motor Bandit
VIII. The Explanation
IX. The Raid
X. The Gambling Debt
XI. The Gangster's Garage
XII. The Detectaphone
XIII. The Incendiary
XIV. The Escape
XV. The Plot
XVI. The Poisoned Needle
XVII. The Newspaper Fake
XVIII. The Vocaphone
XIX. The Eavesdropper Again
XX. The Speaking Arc
XXI. The Siege of the Bandits
XXII. The Man Hunt
XXIII. The Police Dog
XXIV. The Frame-Up
XXV. The Scientific Gunman
An Adventure in the New Crime Science
"You are aware, I suppose, Marshall, that there have been considerablyover a million dollars' worth of automobiles stolen in this city duringthe past few months?" asked Guy Garrick one night when I had droppedinto his office.
"I wasn't aware of the exact extent of the thefts, though of course Iknew of their existence," I replied. "What's the matter?"
"If you can wait a few moments," he went on, "I think I can promise youa most interesting case—the first big case I've had to test my newknowledge of crime science since I returned from abroad. Have you timefor it?"
"Time for it?" I echoed. "Garrick, I'd make time for it, if necessary."
We sat for several moments, in silence, waiting.
I picked up an evening paper. I had already read it, but I lookedthrough it again, to kill time, even reading the society notes.
"By Jove, Garrick," I exclaimed as my eye travelled over the page,"newspaper pictures don't usually flatter people, but just look atthose eyes! You can fairly see them dance even in the halftone."
The picture which had attracted my attention was of Miss Violet
Winslow, an heiress to a moderate fortune, a debutante well known in
New York and at Tuxedo that season.
As Garrick looked over my shoulder his mere tone set me wondering.
"She IS stunning," he agreed simply. "Half the younger set are crazyover her."
The buzzer on his door recalled us to the case in hand.
One of our visitors was a sandy-haired, red-mustached, stocky man, witheverything but the name detective written on him from his face to hismannerisms.
He was accompanied by an athletically inclined, fresh-faced youngfellow, whose clothes proclaimed him to be practically the last word inimported goods from London.
I was not surprised at reading the name of James McBirney on thedetective's card, underneath which was the title of the AutomobileUnderwriters' Association. But I was more than surprised