The unseen ear

Identified

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.

“I did not.”

“Why not?”

“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?”

“Mr. Robert Hale.”

“Is it usually left unlocked?”

“I believe not.”