IT was on a certain recent New Tear's day that I received a hurry telephone call from the police headquarters of a large western city, where I was installing a thumb print identification bureau. An unusually daring robbery had been perpetrated in one of the more aristocratic suburbs, and the burglar had succeeded in escaping with a varied loot ranging from engraved silver spoons to diamond ear-rings. In detective parlance, the affair was what we term a "second story" case. The thief had ascended from the ground to one of the windows of the second floor, through which he had forced an entrance to an unoccupied bed room. It was not the work of a novice — the glass had been cut too evenly. Plainly, it was the operation of a professional and it was with the hope that the thumb print system might lead to a clue that I accompanied Jack Randolph, a plain clothes man, to the scene

       The house bore all of the ear-marks of wealth. It was the property of Curtis Jackson, a leading manufacturer, who was nearing the age when men are thinking of settling down. The family was a comparatively small one, although we found several relatives from an adjoining town assembled in the living room.

       Two men from headquarters had been detailed at the house early in the morning, and one of these, whose name I think was White, was waiting for us. He showed us at once to the upper story where the neatly removed bit of glass in a side window gave vivid evidence of the burglar's manner of entrance.

       White shook his head. "Nothing doing, and no prospect of a clue," I heard him growl as I walked over to the window ledge. Randolph joined me as I bent over the sill.

       "It is easy enough to see where the ladder rested," he muttered, pointing to the outer edge, where the paint had been freshly scraped.

       I bent over the spot with my magnifying glass and then as Randolph strolled away, I turned the lens toward the window pane and the region of the lock. I could readily understand how the thief had pushed his arm through until his fingers reached the catch. A moment's twist and the thing was done. Unless the room were occupied, the burglar had a temporarily safe entrance.

       Once just below the lock, I caught sight of a blur on the glass and again at the left side. But I gave a cry of disappointment as I focused the lens toward them. Either or both might have been made by a human thumb, but they were so faint as to be hopeless as evidence. I walked back toward the door where the two detectives were watching me silently.

       White jerked his hand toward the bureau, whose top drawer was perhaps half way open. "The burglar was working in there but he got nothing for his pains. It was not until he crossed the hall to Mrs. Jackson's room that he found his plunder. I believe he got most of the jewels that she keeps at home, but he was a bold gentleman. He had an eye on the silver also, and by the time he left, he must have been staggering."

       "A one man job?"

A Shot Came Whizzing Toward the Detective.

       Randolph nodded. "There is nothing to show that it wasn't and everything to how that it was. A man who can do a feat like this is not going to run the risk of a 'pal' if he doesn't have to."

       Together we walked into the neighboring room, which Mrs. Jackson occupied. At the request of White, the dressing table and bureau had been left as he had found them in the morning. Nothing had been altered. One or two of the toilet articles were still on the floor where the burglar had evidently knocked them in his search. The drawer of the dressing table was open, but the bureau showed hardly a mark of disturbance. It was in the former that Mrs. Jackson had kept the jewelry which she wore most frequently. All of it was gone. Evidently, the thief had drugged the sleeping woman in the bed. A faint odor of chloroform still remained.

       "I guess you are right, White," Randolph muttered testily. "Nothing doing."

       "Wait a minute," I cried. On the polished surface of the dressing table, almost at the edge, I saw another blur, similar to those which my search of the broken window had revealed. But it was deeper and more distinct. I dropped to my knees as I held my lens closer. There could be no question as to its character. The smudge was that of a man's thumb, pressed hard against the mirroring surface. My exclamation brought my companions to my side. I held the glass toward them in turn. When we descended to the floor below, we were agreed that beneath the microscope were the marks of a human thumb print.

       As the two men were conducted to the library by Mr. Jackson, I took his wife into the hall. Her story of the affair showed at once that she knew absolutely nothing of what had transpired until she had awakened to the discovery of the rifled drawer.

       "Is this the first time you have been robbed?" I queried as she turned.

       Mrs. Jackson hesitated. "It is the first time at all recently. We were robbed once before but it was over eight years ago."

       "Were you living here at that time?"

       "Oh, yes. And it was much the same kind of an affair as this. The burglar made quite a haul. But we were lucky. He was captured, and most of our things were found. The thief is in prison now."

       My companions were still closeted with the owner of the house when I left his wife. I opened the front door and made my way to the side yard, where the burglar had erected his ladder. It was still resting by the barn where the thief had evidently stumbled over it by sheer accident. The ground below the second story window was bruised and torn, and two holes had been bored in the earth where the ladder had rested. A man's blurred foot-print was visible but it was so faint as to be almost beyond recognition.

       I walked slowly around the spot with my eyes on the ground. We had been having a heavy thaw and the sun had softened the earth until in places it was little more than mud. The burglar, however, had covered his trail well. With the exception of the one foot-print he had left no trace. I was turning away when I caught a glitter in the black soil. As I stooped down I saw a battered quarter, dulled by age. It had obviously been used as a pocket piece and across its surface, I traced the faint outlines of two sprawling letters. I held it close to my lens and distinguished the initials, "J C", traced in a rough, cramped hand. I pocketed the quarter and returned to the house where my companions were preparing to leave.

       "Here's a go," said Randolph, as I opened the door. Mf I didn't know that Pete Redding was jailed, I'd say we had our man sure."

       "What's that?" I asked, as I joined the group.

       "Mr. Jackson had been telling us of Redding's operations nine years ago. Robbed the house exactly like our friend last night. And the queer part of it is that when he was caught and sentenced, he swore that if he ever got out of prison he would come back and do the same thing again! Now if Pete didn't have a year more to serve —"

       "Redding's right name was Conklin, wasn't it?" I broke in abruptly.

       Randolph nodded "You've hit it — Jimmie Conklin. Redding was really an alias. He had a half a dozen others, more or less. What are you going to do?"

       I had stepped to the telephone as the detective asked the question. When the girl at the central exchange answered, I called for the warden's office at the state penitentiary.

       "I tell you the man has a year yet to serve," Randolph, broke in.

       "You forget the new parole law," I answered and the detective gave a low exclamation. I drew out the battered quarter I had found under the window and tossed it over to him as the telephone rang. It was the warden's office on the line, and within the next two minutes we had the information that Conklin had been released the week before — and had dropped out of sight. The parole officer had reported his disappearance that morning.

       Randolph put on his hat as he heard the words. We had some brisk work before us. If Conklin was in town, the chances were ten to one that a close watch of the shady saloons would bring him to light. This meant a task which might be completed in one hour or forty-eight. If our man was the burglar he would be suspicious of his shadow.

       We discussed the situation, as the detectives telephoned headquarters and mapped out a search of the tenderloin. Another plan, however, had occurred to me as I listened to my companions' conversation. Unless I was much mistaken, Jimmie Conklin was married. If this were true, what more natural than that he should make for his own home?

       I put the suggestion to Randolph as he stepped back from the telephone. "Good," the detective commented. "Do you know where he lives?" I shook my head.

       "I think I can find the neighborhood but I am doubtful about the house. However I can devote the day to a search and then we can compare notes tonight."

       We parted with this agreement. The two men turned down the side street which led into the region of tawdry saloons and I made my way over into one of the better tenement districts where I knew Conklin had been residing just before his arrest. For hours my inquiries were fruitless. The burglar had probably taken lodging under an assumed name without anyone in the neighborhood being aware of his real identity or business. In fact your experienced crook, who makes a definite, systematic trade of dishonesty keeps as close a watch on his neighbors as he does on the police.

       I was turning away discouraged from the last door to which my search had taken me when I paused with a sudden idea. "Do you know a family near here by the name of Gordon?" I asked quickly. The woman who had answered my knock shook her head. "Nor Andrews?" I continued. Again the woman shook her head and I gave it up. I knew, however, that Conklin had used both of these names. Perhaps he had given one of them to the renting agent. I sought him out, a heavy-lipped, heavy-eyed man who surveyed me suspiciously.

       I tried my list of names patiently. They might have been so much Greek to him. I was at the door when he called after me abruptly, "There's a woman in '33' by the name of Anderson."

       "How long has she been there?"

       The agent shrugged his shoulders. "Almost ten years I should say. Before her husband left her she had three rooms at '59.'"

       It was an off chance but I determined to take it. It was over two minutes however, before I got an answer at '33.' I was repeating my knock when there were hurried foot-steps in the room and the door was flung open sharply. A woman stood peering at me with eyes red from weeping.

       I took a step forward. "How do, Mrs. Conklin? I am looking for Jimmie!"

       "I am not Mrs. Conklin, and I don't know any person by the name of Jimmie," was the swift response.

       I smiled. "You know better than to say that. But then you don't know we have been watching the place for —"

       "I don't care whether you have been watching the place for a month! I don't know whether you are a detective or a bill collector, but my name is Anderson, not Conklin, and there hasn't been a man in this room for the last six years!"

       The woman drew back abruptly and tried to slam the door shut. I shoved my foot across the threshold and seized the knob. Before she recovered from her surprise I had pushed my way inside.

       My quick glance showed that we were alone. The room was a large, square apartment which evidently served both as dining and sleeping quarters. At either end was a closed door. I walked over to the first and threw it open. It gave into a small musty closet. The second door was locked. The woman had dropped into a chair and was looking at me with a half sneer.

       "You'll have to get the key from the landlord if you're going any farther."

       "Oh, I guess this is far enough — for the present. By the way, what time did Jimmie leave home last night?"

       The woman walked over to the table without answering and began clearing away the remnants of a meal. I hesitated. I had found Mrs. Conklin, whether she chose to admit her identity or not. I had seen her too often to be disarmed by her tactics. Clearly her husband, however, was not on the premises. But if she knew where he was and what he had been doing she would lose no time in communicating with him. The sooner I was gone the sooner she would send a message.

       I turned the knob with assumed carelessness and stepped back into the hall. "I hope you are convinced there isn't a man under the bed!" she called after me ironically.

       "No, he was smoking on the edge of the bed," I flung back. "You forgot to scrape the ashes of his pipe from the foot-board!"

       I heard a muttered exclamation as the door closed and I made my way down the stairs. In the street I paused reflectively. Mrs. Conklin was aware that I had trapped her in a fabrication. If she knew of the events of the past night she would act promptly. She would be convinced that the house was watched and if she could prevent it she would not let her husband return. I lingered in the neighborhood until nearly dusk. But she did not appear on the street.

       I telephoned headquarters for some one to relieve me and joined White and Randolph shortly after 7 o'clock. Their search had been unsuccessful.

       "We brought up at Jake Mills' place and didn't get any farther," said the latter grimly. Jake's got something on his mind that has put him in an ugly temper. In the old 'days he used to be one of Conklin's closest 'pals.' The minute I mentioned his name today he closed up like a clam and then when I pushed the point he lost both his temper and his caution. He made it altogether too emphatic that he had not seen the man."

       If I were to make a shrewd guess I would say that he knows of Conklin's job last night and advised against it."

       "For all that he wouldn't refuse his share of the loot," White interposed cynically.

       "I wouldn't be surprised if both the man and his plunder are stowed away on his premises now," agreed Randolph.

       "For instance, in one of Jake's famous 'inside' rooms, eh?"

       "We tried to get past the door this afternoon," Randolph finished. "Jake exploded like a steam engine when I tried the knob. But, if the man is in the building he's cornered like a rat."

       The next morning, however, showed Conklin still at liberty. His wife had not left her room, sending an excuse to the restaurant where she was employed as a waitress that she was ill. Nor had the all-night watch on the Miils' saloon revealed the slightest clew. Conklin might have vanished into thin air.

       A thorough search was made of the saloon in spite of the owner's protests. Not a corner was over-looked and not a suspicious hair was found. The building, a long, two-story affair, was isolated completely from its neighbors, and the close surveillance of the police made it impossible for a stranger to enter or leave without scrutiny. But there was no trace of Conklin.

       Had it not been for an early morning incident the watch would have been abandoned. It was not yet 7 o'clock when Mrs. Conklin with a pale, haggard face held an earnest, low-toned conversation just outside her door with a small boy from one of the families on the opposite end of the corridor. She disappeared in her apartment and the boy scampered down the stairs and onto tho walk.

       The lad sauntered carelessly down the street, whistling. The plain clothes man on the corner hung back a moment and then walked leisurely after him. The boy never glanced back. A half a dozen blocks below he swung into the street leading to the Mills saloon and did not pause until he stood before the front door. Without a glance around he pushed it open and stepped inside. Either he was inexperienced in the wiles of the under-world or Mrs. Conklin had grown desperate from her all-night vigil.

       The lad remained in the saloon perhaps five minutes. When he emerged it was with a white, scared face. Evidently Jake realized the fatal slip that had been made if the others didn't — and had expressed himself forcibly.

       Randolph strode into the building without delay. He motioned his companions to stand back and turned to the man behind the bar with an impatient gesture. "Where's Jake?" he demanded.

       "I don't know," was the surly answer. One of the men at the rear spoke a low word in Randolph's ear and the latter sprang suddenly toward a half-opened door in the corner of the room. The bar-tender was at the spot almost as quickly as the officer but the detective gave him a quick shove and flung the door wide open. It disclosed a narrow flight of stairs leading to the cellar. With a hoarse cry to his companions Randolph darted downward. At the foot he bumped into Jake Mills, holding a flickerkig candle above his head.

       Just beyond him, stretched a row of shadowy whisky barrels. In the middle of the line, the head had been knocked from one and in the empty cask crouched a second man, with a grim, set face and in his right hand a cocked revolver. It was Conklin.

       A shot came whizzing toward the detective and Mills dropped his candle. But it was not extinguished and the next minute Randolph's companions were at his heels and the burglar and the saloon man were covered with a row of restless weapons. Conklin came out of his barrel with an ugly laugh. It was not until the prisoner had been taken upstairs that Randolph's candle showed him that the surprises of the cask were not exhausted. In its bottom was a heavy black bag. The detective plunged in his hand and drew out a collection of jewels that made his eyes bulge. The Jackson burglar had been found with the "goods on him."

       At headquarters later in the day I showed Conklin the battered pocket piece I had found under the window. The burglar clutched it eagerly. "I knew my luck had left me when I lost it," he said sadly.

       We never discovered just how much Mrs. Conklin knew of the robbery, nor whether my appearance at her door was her first intimation that something was wrong. Her husband went back to his prison stripes and she returned to the rattle and din of the three-cent lunch room on the corner.

[THE END.]

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