The Sheridan Road Mystery | Page 4

I was
just moving. It is located almost in the center of the room--obviously
not its regular position. So why was it there?"
"Say, you'd make some detective!" came in an admiring tone from

Murphy. The others nodded approval of the remark.
"I began to examine that chair and its surroundings carefully,"
continued Marsh, ignoring the interruption. He then moved over to the
chair, and added, as he pulled it to one side, "I moved it away like this.
Now, look at the floor!"
The policemen crowded forward. What Marsh had found was apparent
at once. On the light background of the rug was a large, dark spot
which the chair had covered. The plain-clothes man stooped and placed
his hand on the spot. It felt damp to the touch, and as he stood erect
again, holding his hand under the light, they all saw that the fingers
were covered with a thin film of red.
"Blood!" cried Murphy.
"Yep," affirmed the plain-clothes man. "Fresh blood!"
Excited exclamations from the others showed their appreciation of the
discovery.
Marsh smiled.
"I guess that looks like a possible murder," he said.
"The chair was placed there to cover the spot, all right," now admitted
the plain-clothes man.
"But what became of the body?" again questioned Murphy.
"As I said before," Marsh answered him, "that is for you to find out. It
is not my business."
"SOME mystery!" exclaimed the plain-clothes man. "This is a job for
Dave Morgan."
CHAPTER II
DETECTIVE SERGEANT MORGAN

On Sheffield Avenue, just across from the ball park, where the "Cubs,"
Chicago's famous baseball team, has its headquarters, is a row of
apartment houses. One realizes, of course, that these are not homes of
wealth, but they have a comfortable, substantial look, which somehow
conveys the idea that those who live there are good citizens, typical of
the hard-working, progressive class that has made Chicago one of the
greatest commercial cities of the world.
In one of these apartments lived Detective Sergeant Dave Morgan and
his mother. He had located here in the days when, as a patrolman, he
had walked beat out of the Town Hall Police Station, a short distance
away. After his promotion to the detective force, he remained here
because of the convenient location. The elevated railroad had its right
of way directly back of his home, and the Addison Street station was
only around the corner. He could quickly get to the Detective Bureau or
almost any part of the widespreading city.
Morgan's home was unpretentious but comfortable. The hand of a
careful and thoughtful housekeeper was in evidence everywhere. In the
big living room, at the front, were several lounging chairs, and along
one wall, between the front windows and the entrance door, stood two
roomy bookcases. A glance at the titles showed the owner's inquiring
and investigative turn of mind. His interest in his profession was also
indicated by several volumes on criminology, and even popular
detective stories of the day. In the center of the room was a
commodious table with a large reading lamp. Beside the table was the
big easy chair in which Morgan always sat, and where many of the
solutions of difficult criminal problems had been worked out by him.
Just across from this easy chair, and within reach of an outstretched
hand, stood a tabouret, holding the telephone.
On the morning following the peculiar occurrence on Sheridan Road,
Morgan was sitting in his favorite chair. His slippered feet were
stretched before him and clouds of smoke hung about as he puffed at
his favorite pipe, selected from a row of about ten that were hanging on
a nearby home-made pipe holder. This might be said to be an eventful
day for Dave Morgan. Only the day before, he and his partner,

Detective Sergeant Tierney, had completed the solving of a baffling
case and placed the criminal behind the bars. Now he had a well-earned
and long-awaited "day off," and he was going to devote it to the restful
pursuit of his favorite amusement--reading.
His mother, a white-haired, pleasant faced little woman, entered the
room.
"Dave," she reminded him, "here's the morning paper. You forgot to
look it over at breakfast."
"I know, Mother," he returned, "but I wanted to forget all about the
world this morning. That Brock case has tired me out."
"But," she protested, "I notice from the headlines that there was a big
murder on Sheridan Road last night. I didn't think you'd want to miss
the details of that."
Professional instinct was too strong. Morgan reached for the paper and
glanced quickly over the glaring headlines and the few words below,
while the mother proudly watched him.
Morgan made a good figure for a detective. Not so tall as to be
conspicuous, his breadth