THE UNSEEN EAR

By NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN

Author of “I Spy,” “The Moving Finger,” “The Nameless Man,” “The Red Seal,” “The Three Strings,” etc.

With Frontispiece

A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York

Published by arrangement with D. Appleton & Company

Printed in U. S. A.

COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY Copyright, 1920, by Street and Smith PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

DROPPING ON HER KNEES, SHE TURNED THE DIAL [page 249]

TO MY MOTHER WHOSE UNFLAGGING INTEREST HAS STIMULATED MY LITERARY WORK, THIS LATEST BOOK IS LOVINGLY INSCRIBED.

CONTENTS

[Pg 1]

THE UNSEEN EAR

CHAPTER I THROUGH THE PORTIÈRES

The bedroom door opened and closed on its oiled hinges without a sound, and a man walked over to the closet. With methodical care he hung his coat on its accustomed peg before moving deliberately over to his bureau. On its highly polished top he laid down a soiled scrap of paper. His quiet, orderly actions gave no indication of the rage consuming him. As he raised his head his eyes traveled upward and he started back involuntarily at the face contemplating him in the mirror. His face—but was that distorted countenance his face? With a shudder he glanced over his shoulder and about the room; then slowly, fearfully he turned to face his other self mirrored in the glass before him.

Judith Richards poked the fire into a brighter blaze, then leaned back in her chair with a little [Pg 2]sigh of content and idly turned over the pages of the book she had been reading. The happy ending recorded in the romance reflected her own mood. Two months a bride! Her lips parted in a tender smile as events of her happy married life recurred to her, and dropping the book in her lap, she rested her head against the tufted chair and watched the burning logs in dreamy contemplation. She was not conscious of the lateness of the hour or of the fact that she was no longer alone in the large library.

The newcomer who had entered noiselessly through the portières hanging before the doorway leading from the library into the dining room, moved cautiously forward to obtain a better view of Judith. Satisfied that he had not disturbed her reverie, he sidled stealthily over to a large safe, which stood near a mahogany desk, and dropped on his knees before it.

Without rising from his crouching position, he pushed forward a chair until its broad proportions completely sheltered his movements should Judith turn around and glance in his direction; then, losing no further time, he twirled the dial of the safe around with practiced fingers, and as the massive door finally swung open he went systematically through each compartment of the safe. Fully [Pg 3]twenty minutes passed and the man moistened his dry lips. Was his search to go unrewarded?

As he felt about in the last compartment to be examined his fingers encountered a piece of paper caught apparently in a crevice. With infinite care he pulled it loose, and rising, walked over to the electric-light bracket on the wall by the door through which he had entered the library. One of the bulbs was burning, and as he bent his head to examine the piece of paper, his eyes caught the flash of steel as it darted through the portières, and he instinctively recoiled—but too late to avoid the thrust. With a whimpering cry he fell face downward, his blood staining the handsome rugs.

Judith stirred and sat up, then after a comfortable stretch of her stiffened muscles, she replaced her book on the table, and with a glance at the mantel clock, paused to warm her hands at the smoldering embers.

It was much later than she had supposed—one o’clock. With a faint shiver she pulled her dainty warm wrapper more closely about her slender figure before leaning over to switch off the reading lamp. Picking up her large sewing bag she walked across the library intending to press the wall button which controlled the electric side [Pg 4]lights. But her intention was forgotten as her sleepy eyes caught sight of the crumpled figure lying in front of the entrance to the dining room.

A cry broke from her and slowly her shocked wits took in the significance of the ever widening red stain creeping across the rugs and floor. For long seconds she stood staring, too terrified to move. Gradually gathering courage, she advanced and, placing one trembling hand on the man’s shoulder, rolled him over until his face was exposed to view. With a bound she regained her feet, her hands raised to her throbbing temples, while the sewing bag tumbled unheeded to the floor.

She was unaware of the passing 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 [Pg 5]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.

[Pg 6]

CHAPTER II 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 [Pg 7]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 [Pg 8]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.”

[Pg 9]

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,[Pg 10] 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.

[Pg 11]

“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.”

“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 [Pg 12]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 [Pg 13]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 [Pg 14]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?”

“No.”

“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.”

[Pg 15]

“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 [Pg 16]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 [Pg 17]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 [Pg 18]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.

“None.”

“Found any weapon?”