The unseen ear — Reading Companion

time as she gazed at the face before her, a face scarcely less gray in death than her own, from which every ray of color had been stricken. Slowly, slowly she took in every detail of the man’s appearance, then with numb, clumsy fingers she jerked a long pair of steel shears from her sewing bag and, kneeling down once more by the dead man, she hacked and tore at his watch chain until she had loosened a small locket.

Slipping the locket inside her belt and clutching the sewing bag, she staggered to her feet and made her way into the large central hall as a key turned in the front door and a man stepped inside the house.

“Joe! Thank God!” Judith’s low cry ended abruptly, and her husband was just in time to catch her as she fell unconscious to the floor.

DETECTIVE FERGUSON laid an impatient finger on the bell of the front door of the Hale residence and, removing his hat, fanned himself vigorously. Coroner Penfield’s message had been imperative and, the Headquarters’ car having been out on an errand, he had commandeered a “bike” which a patrolman had left in the outer hallway, and had pedaled uptown as rapidly as possible. The unwonted exertion, as well as his intense curiosity, had both served to excite him. What untoward circumstances had required his immediate presence at three in the morning at the home of Robert Hale, eminent scientist and respected citizen of the National Capital?

The detective’s wonderment grew as the front door flew back and he stepped over its threshold into the semidarkness of the large central hall of the house. The stillness was broken by a low-voiced direction, and Ferguson, peering around, saw a man, his presence partly concealed behind the open front door, watching him. The man shut the door with such care that it made no sound.

“Come this way,” he repeated, and Ferguson, with an instinctive bow, realized he was addressed by a member of the household and not a servant. Checking his impulse to ask questions, the detective followed his guide across the hall and into a brilliantly lighted room. The sudden transition from semidarkness caused Ferguson to blink owlishly, and he paused abruptly on hearing the faint click of the folding doors, through which they had entered, being closed behind them.

“Coroner Penfield is over there,” stated his guide, and Ferguson, grown more accustomed to the light, looked in the direction indicated just as Penfield rose from his stooping position and turned toward him. The coroner’s expression changed at sight of the detective and he beckoned him to approach. An instant later and Ferguson was staring down at the figure of a man lying partly turned upon his back. Penfield pointed to the small wound over the heart and to the ashen cheeks and staring eyes.

“Dead,” he said, tersely. “Stabbed.”

Ferguson whistled low, shot one questioning look at the coroner, and then turned his attention to the dead man and the room. With minute care he examined the body and then scanned the library. There was no indication of a struggle having taken place, no chairs or tables were overturned. Ferguson paused in perplexity--the orderly appearance of the room surprised him; his eyes ran up and down the book-lined walls, over the handsome curtains drawn across the deep window alcoves, and the drawn portières--the furnishing of the library was a key to the wealth and good taste of its owner, but as the background for the scene of a tragedy it failed lamentably to give any clew to it or answer his yet unasked questions.

“Well, doctor,” he turned to the coroner, “who’s the dead man and who stabbed him?”

Instead of replying, Penfield addressed the third man in the library who, since admitting the detective, had remained a silent witness of their investigations.

“Major Richards,” he began, “kindly repeat just what you told me on my arrival,” and seating himself at a convenient table, he drew out a fountain pen and a memorandum pad. “Major Joseph Richards,” he added by way of explanation, “is Mr. Hale’s son-in-law, Ferguson.”

Richards acknowledged the detective’s jerky bow at mention of his name with a grave inclination of his head.

“The information I can give you is meager,” he stated, and Ferguson, sensitive to first impressions, grew conscious of an undercurrent of agitation admirably controlled by Richards’ deliberation of speech; only a longer acquaintance would tell whether such was characteristic of him. “I returned from the club about twenty minutes past one, found my wife”--his hesitation was almost imperceptible--“indisposed, and on coming in here later to look for a bottle of bromide which she had left on the library table, I discovered”--

He stopped, and an eloquent gesture completed his sentence.

“You found the room occupied,” supplemented the coroner practically. “Was the man dead or alive?” and the look he shot at Richards under his shaggy brows was penetrating.

“The man was dead.” Richards’ eyelids flickered somewhat. “At least I judged so from my superficial knowledge of medical matters. I certainly did not kill him.”

Penfield let pass a certain flippant hardness which had crept into Richards’ manner, and Ferguson, who had worked with the coroner in many criminal cases, followed his cue.

“What was your next action, Major Richards?” Penfield inquired.

“I returned to my wife and gave her the medicine, then slipped downstairs and called you up,” was the concise reply. “You came and instructed me to send for Detective Ferguson, and after doing so, I awaited his arrival and brought him here.”

“Did you inform your wife of your gruesome discovery in the library?” inquired Penfield.

“My wife was already in a highly nervous state, and I feared she would become ill if further excited,” Richards explained.

Penfield frowned at his note pad. “What had made her nervous?”

“A motor accident in the early afternoon,” quietly. “Her electric was run into by a taxicab, and while no one was hurt, she suffered from fright and shock.”

“Too bad,” commented Penfield, his manner somewhat sympathetic, and would have added more, but Detective Ferguson, tired of the rôle of listener, broke in brusquely.

“Who is the dead man, Major Richards?” he demanded.

“I do not know.” The low-spoken answer was firm and Richards’ gaze did not waver before their stares. The detective was the first to look away.

“I see, a case of ordinary burglary,” he said, moving to the dead man. “He’s wearing a dark suit, good quality cloth, however, and rubber heeled shoes.” He transferred his gaze to the safe, only partly visible from where he stood owing to the position of a large, tufted lounging chair. “Ah,” striding over to it, he laid his hand on the levers and the door swung open without resistance. “It’s unlocked; evidently the burglar got it open before--” He checked his hasty speech and faced Richards who had watched his rapid movements with interest. “Who owns this safe?”

“Is it usually left unlocked?”

“You believe not”--the detective caught him up quickly. “Are you not familiar with Mr. Hale’s habits?”

“No,” regarding him steadily. “My wife and I returned from our wedding journey only two weeks ago. We are at present the guests of her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hale. During our visit I have not,” with quiet emphasis, “familiarized myself, as you put it, with Mr. Hale’s habits, but I once overheard him tell his wife that he never left the safe unlocked.”

Ferguson stooped down and examined the safe with careful attention.

“The lock’s not been forced,” he muttered. “It looks like the job of an expert safe cracker, or”--with an upward glance at Richards--“some one familiar with the combination.”

“The Rogues’ Gallery will aid in identifying the dead man if he is a ‘regular,’” broke in Coroner Penfield. “But who killed the burglar?” He looked across at Richards. “Who is in this house besides you and your wife?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Hale have residing with them, besides my wife and myself, Mr. Hale’s younger brother, John Hale,” Richards answered. “There are a number of servants who also sleep in the house.”

Penfield consulted his note pad. “Did you go for Mr. Hale or his brother on finding the dead man?” he questioned.

“Mrs. Hale and her brother-in-law are at a reception given by the French Ambassador and his wife,” responded Richards. “They have not yet returned.”

“And Mr. Robert Hale--?”

“Is ill in bed,” Richards perched himself on the arm of a chair. “When I rushed upstairs with the medicine for my wife I went first to Mr. Hale’s bedroom and, on finding him asleep, withdrew as quietly as possible.”

“Didn’t you summon the servants?” asked Penfield.

“I did not.” Observing the look of surprise on their faces, he added, “The servants are women. I did not wish to terrify them with this sight,” and he waved his hand in the direction of the dead man.

Penfield reflected a moment, and in the brief interval Ferguson took mental note of Major Richards’ fine physique and strongly molded features. He did not look the man to lose his head in an emergency; on the contrary, his self-possession and poise made a favorable impression on both the men watching him so intently. Richards was about to speak again when Penfield held up his hand.

“Just a moment,” he cautioned. “Let me get this straight. You reached this house about twenty minutes after one this morning; Mrs. Hale and her brother-in-law are still at the French Embassy reception, leaving at home Mr. Hale, ill in bed, your wife, and the female servants. An unidentified man enters the house in your absence and upon your return you find him dead in the library. Did you hear voices or retreating footsteps when you came in the front door?”

“Did you meet any one when on your way to your wife’s room?”

“No.” Richards’ eyes did not falter in their direct gaze at the coroner. He confined his replies to monosyllables.

“Strange!” Penfield walked back and stood looking down at the dead man. “Very strange. I have made only a superficial examination, Major Richards, but I’ll stake my reputation that that wound was not self-inflicted. The man was stabbed”--he paused and his voice deepened--“murdered.”

The lines in Richards’ face showed more plainly as he set his square jaw at a determined angle. “The killing of a burglar is generally considered justifiable homicide,” he said sternly. “It is one’s right to protect one’s property from midnight marauders.”

“Who protected Mr. Hale’s home in this instance?” demanded Ferguson.

“I cannot tell you that,” responded Richards. “But, Mr. Coroner, until you know further details of how this man came to his death, you cannot proclaim it a murder committed by an inmate of this household.”

“I proclaim nothing,” denied Penfield. “On the contrary, I am first most anxious to question the servants, Mr. Hale, and your wife--the only people, according to your statement, at home when this man was killed--and find out if possible what transpired here in your absence.”

“You cannot do that now,” interposed Richards hastily. “Mr. Hale and my wife are not in condition to be interviewed at this hour--later in the day, perhaps”--Ferguson gave a gesture of dissent.

“And in the meantime,” he interposed harshly, “the murderer will slip through our fingers, and every clew grow cold.”

“Not necessarily,” replied Richards warmly. “You are at liberty to examine this floor and the basement at the present time, only I must insist that you do not disturb either my wife or Mr. Hale.”

“Very well, sir.” Ferguson turned toward the folding doors leading to the central hall. “Where are the servants’ bedrooms?”

“On the third floor.” At the words the detective vanished.

Richards rose from his perch on the chair arm and paced slowly up and down the library. Penfield, paying no attention to his movements, knelt down by the dead man and with infinite care went through his pockets. His search produced some loose change, a bill-folder containing nearly a hundred dollars, and a bunch of keys.

“Not much help for identification purposes,” he remarked dryly, as Richards halted by his side. “He was a handsome fellow; women rave over that type of beauty in a man. He looks a gentleman--high-bred, and all that.”

“He could not have been in destitute circumstances,” commented Richards, pointing to the Treasury bills.

“Hm--yes,” Penfield looked thoughtful. “It might be that he rifled this money from Mr. Hale’s safe.” He wheeled suddenly on Richards. “What did Mr. Hale keep in his safe?”

“You will have to ask Mr. Hale,” answered Richards composedly. “I am ignorant of his affairs.”

Penfield stroked his chin slowly; Richards as a source of information was a disappointment. Should he not insist upon seeing Mr. Hale, illness or no illness, unconventional hour or not? Valuable time was slipping away and he was no nearer vital information than at the moment of his arrival--over an hour had elapsed since receiving his hasty summons. Penfield stood up.

“By the way, Major,” he began, “as you are a stranger in Washington and did not ask the advice of others”--with a quick side-long scrutiny of which Richards appeared unaware--“how did it happen that you called me on the telephone first and not the police?”

For answer Richards strode over to the table near the fireplace and, picking up the evening newspaper which lay spread across it, pointed to a column of news bearing display type.

“I had been reading earlier in the evening this account of the Fuller inquest,” he explained. “Your name is given, Coroner Penfield, and it also stated that the body of the dead woman could not be moved until you had arrived on the scene; therefore,” calmly, “I judged that you would be of more immediate aid than the police. It was a simple matter to find your number in the telephone directory.”

“True.” Penfield considered a moment, then moved restlessly over to the safe. Without removing the contents of its compartments he took careful note of such papers and objects as came within his view. He was still gazing steadily at them when the portières before the dining room parted and Ferguson stepped again into the room.

“Every window on this floor and the basement is locked on the inside,” he announced. “And I also examined those on the landings of the stairs and the hall of the second floor.”

“You went upstairs?” Richards moved toward him, his jaw set at an angry angle. “After what I told you?”

“Yes.” There was open defiance in the detective’s manner. “I looked only in the rooms where the doors were open,” he turned and addressed Penfield. “So far as I could discover, there is no trace of the burglar’s having gained entrance through forcing a window or door.”

“No trace of any one’s lurking downstairs?” demanded Penfield.

“No.” Ferguson’s tone was glum. His gaze, shifting about the room, happened to light on Richards and he saw him start and stiffen in a listening attitude.

Ferguson’s eyes brightened, and he checked further speech. Suddenly he caught the sound of a soft footfall and, as Richards started forward, he interposed his bulky form between him and the folding doors as they were pushed apart and Judith Richards stepped into the library. With a shove which sent the detective sprawling, Richards gained his wife’s side.

“Why have you come down, dearest?” he asked tenderly, bending his head until his mouth almost touched her ear.

She shook her head, as her hand crept into his and leaned her weight on his protecting arm.

“I came down to find,” she commenced, and her soft voice, though low-pitched, reached the two listening men, then she stopped in fright as, moving slightly forward, she caught a glimpse over Richards’ shoulder of Penfield regarding her. “Joe--who is that?”

“Ah, eh--” Richards stammered, then caught himself up. “It is Mr. Penfield, dearest.” She raised her eyes and regarded him closely, and more slowly he repeated, “Dr. Penfield.”

She shook her head in bewilderment, and drew her silk wrapper more closely about her; the movement brought into view the large sewing bag suspended by its cord from her wrist.

“I came down to find,” she commenced again----

“I know,” broke in Ferguson from his seat on the floor where his encounter with Richards’ muscular figure had landed him. His tumble had disarranged the rug and under its lifted folds he had caught the gleam of light on metal. With impetuous fingers he drew out a pair of long steel shears and held them aloft. “You left a dead man here and came back to find your bloodstained shears.”

An oath ripped from Richards and he made a step forward, but Judith’s clinging hand detained him. She reeled against him as she caught sight of the shears, and he held her closely; his voice, though low, vibrated with passion.

“You--Ferguson!” he gasped.

“Stop!” commanded the detective. “I am not interested in your statements, Major Richards; let your wife answer my last remark.”

“Answer!” Richards choked; then spoke more clearly. “You ---- fool! My wife has not heard a word you said--she is stone deaf.”

Ferguson and Coroner Penfield stared dumfounded at husband and wife. The latter was the first to break the strained silence.

“I am sorry, gentlemen,” she said, and her deprecating look, as well as charming voice, conveyed an apology, “I cannot understand what you are saying.” She raised her eyes and gazed perplexedly at her husband. “Joe, I came down to get my ear trumpet.”

Penfield recovered from his surprise. “It is here, madam,” he exclaimed and hurrying to the safe picked up the instrument from one of the compartments and handed it to Judith. With quick deft fingers she adjusted it to her ear and then Ferguson addressed her.

“Now, madam, perhaps you will explain--don’t interfere, Major Richards--I must have an explanation--”

“And so must I.” The interruption came in an unexpected quarter, and both Penfield and the detective wheeled toward the hall door. “What is the meaning of this scene in my house, gentlemen?” Mrs. Hale, tossing her ermine cape on the nearest chair, advanced to the little group, followed by her brother-in-law, John Hale.

Penfield spoke before the others.

“A crime has been committed here to-night, madam, in your absence,” he began.

“A crime?” She interrupted in her turn, her eyes leaving her daughter’s blanched face for the first time. “A crime--?”

“Yes; a burglar forced an entrance and was murdered----”

“A burglar!” John Hale pushed past his sister-in-law to the center of the room. His manner was rough and domineering. “What the devil are you talking about?”

Without answering, Ferguson wheeled about and, walking over to the motionless figure on the floor, signed to Hale to approach.

“Here’s the burglar--and he’s dead,” he announced concisely, then held up the shears, “and here’s the weapon--from a workbag,” casting a significant glance at the bag still suspended from Judith’s icy fingers. Richards’ furious retort was checked by a cry of horror from John Hale.

With staring eyes and ghastly face he gazed down at the dead man.

“A burglar!” he cried. “Austin--my son!” and pitched headlong to the floor.

MRS. HALE rattled her coffee cups and looked over the top of her silver urn at Joe Richards; he had asked for a third cup of coffee and he drank it clear. Mrs. Hale was shocked. But the remonstrance on the tip of her tongue died unspoken as she studied his clear-cut profile and observed the dogged set to his determined jaw. She took silent note of his unusual pallor, the dark circles under his eyes, and his continued silence. Mrs. Hale felt resentful; she was of a talkative disposition and had welcomed an opportunity to discuss the mystery surrounding Austin Hale’s death with her handsome son-in-law, but instead of following her lead he had answered in monosyllables. A less persistent woman would have given up the attempt.

“Did you ask Judith if she saw a light in Austin’s bedroom?” she inquired, for at least the sixth time. “Your suite of rooms is directly under his, poor boy,” and she sought refuge behind her damp handkerchief. She emerged a moment later to add, “Austin must have gone to his room, for his overcoat and suit case were there when I went upstairs after that distressing scene in the library--dear me, was it only this morning?”

“It was.” Richards’ tone was grim and did not invite further remarks. For a moment there was silence.