The unseen ear

Detective Ferguson completed his tour of the suite of three rooms and bath which Judith and her husband occupied and took up his station in the boudoir. At Richards’ earnest solicitation she had notified Police Headquarters of the robbery and Ferguson had been detailed to investigate it. He was followed into the room an instant later by Judith who watched him inspect her empty jewelry box with the aid of a magnifying glass. Quickly he made his test for finger prints, but she judged from the negative shake of his head and his puzzled frown that the results were barren.

“About what hour did the robbery occur last night?”

Judith started at the abrupt question, for Ferguson, recalling her deafness and forgetful of the cleverly concealed earphone which she wore continually, raised his voice almost to a bellow.

“It must have been between half-past nine and half-past eleven last night,” she answered. “You need not speak so loudly, Mr. Ferguson; I can hear quite well if you use your ordinary tone.”

“Beg pardon, I’m sure,” and Ferguson sunk his voice to its normal pitch. “When did you last see your jewelry?”

“Just after taking off my wraps upon my return from dining at Rauscher’s,” Judith explained, “I opened the box to put away the diamond horseshoe pin which I had been wearing.”

“And your other jewelry was then in the box?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you between half-past nine and half-past eleven?”

“Here, in this boudoir.”

“Any one with you?”

“My husband, Major Richards.”

“Any one else?”

“No.”

Ferguson blinked at her solemnly for a minute, then rising, stepped to the bedroom door and glanced inside.

“This is the only entrance to your bedroom,” he remarked, turning to the silent girl. “How could a thief enter your room while you and your husband were here, and you remain unaware of it?”

“I am sure I don’t know.” Judith shook her head in bewilderment. “I lay awake nearly all night puzzling over the enigma.”

Ferguson surveyed the boudoir from every angle before again addressing her.

“Where were you sitting?” he inquired.

Judith crossed the boudoir toward the fireplace and wheeled the morris chair forward until it stood in the exact spot of the night before.

“I sat here,” she explained, “and my husband was perched on the chair arm.”

Ferguson walked over and sat down in the chair.

“I presume you and Major Richards were absorbed in conversation,” he grumbled, and not giving her an opportunity to answer, continued, “But you both had a good view of the boudoir door leading into the hall, through which every one has to enter. Any one entering last night would have had to come directly in your line of vision. Was the door open or closed?”

“Open.”

“All the way open?” he persisted.

“The door stood just as it is now,” declared Judith, after studying it a moment. A look outside convinced Ferguson that a person in the hall would be unable to see what was transpiring in the boudoir at the angle at which the door stood ajar.

“A person could enter without having to push it farther open,” he announced. “Does the door squeak?” Springing to his feet he answered his own question by moving the door to and fro. “Nary a squeak,” he commented, and drawing out his memorandum book sat down near Judith. “Now, madam, was it your custom to keep the jewelry box on your dressing table?”

“When I was in my bedroom or in here, yes,” replied Judith. “At other times I kept it in the drawer of my bureau.”

“Was the key in the lock of the box?”

“Yes.” Observing his smile, Judith frowned. “I do not usually leave the key in the lock, but my husband called to me and I joined him here, leaving the box standing on my dressing table.”

“I see.” Ferguson stared reflectively at her for a few seconds. “Ever had anything stolen before?”

“Never any jewelry,” Judith spoke with unusual rapidity. “Nor any money,” she added.

Ferguson pursed his lips and tapped them with his pencil.

“Odd!” he exclaimed. “Were the servants aware that you had this jewelry box?”

“They may have been, for while I do not have a personal maid, Anna, the waitress, and Maud sometimes assist me in dressing for evening entertainments.” Judith wondered when Ferguson would go. She desired most heartily to be alone and thresh out her problems by herself. “It is probable that both the girls have seen the jewelry box on my dressing table,” she added after a brief pause.

“Where were the servants last night?” asked the detective.

“Anna was in her bedroom suffering from a sprained ankle”—Judith’s foot was keeping up an incessant tattoo. “Maud let me in; after that I did not see her again. They have both been here for years and are excellent servants—they are English.”

Ferguson made a slight grimace. “That Maud is a nice she-devil,” he exclaimed below his breath; Maud’s scathing remarks about the inefficiency of the detective force in general and Ferguson in particular still rankled. “I’d like to”—he checked himself and again addressed Judith.

“How much approximately was your jewelry worth, Mrs. Richards?”

Judith took a paper from her mesh bag. “Here is a list of the articles in the jewelry box,” she explained. “Major Richards suggested that I prepare it for you.”

“That’s fine.” Ferguson reached eagerly for the paper and scanned the items with increasing interest. “I see you estimate the jewelry at four thousand five hundred dollars,” he remarked. “A pretty haul for any thief. Fortunately your initials are on every piece,” running his eye down the list in which Judith had inserted a minute description of the jewelry. “Hold on, here’s one item, a locket—with nothing checked against it—has the locket any distinguishing mark?”

Footsteps behind Judith caused her to whirl around, and she saw Richards stop behind her chair.

“I couldn’t get away any sooner,” he explained. “Your mother detained me in the dining room. Good-morning, Ferguson; has my wife told you of the disappearance of her jewelry?”

“Yes, Major, and I was just asking her for details to aid in identifying it at the pawn shops,” Ferguson again referred to the list he was holding. “What about that locket, Mrs. Richards?”

Judith closed her mesh bag with a snap and the quick tilt upward of her chin indicated to Richards, who had grown to know each mood and tense, that she had reached a sudden decision.

“The locket bore the word ‘Mizpah,’ in raised lettering,” she stated. “Otherwise it is insignificant in appearance.”

“Do you attach any particular value to it?” questioned Ferguson.

“No money value,” she responded quietly, and the detective looked sharply at her.

“I see; you mean it is a trinket of importance from sentiment only,” he commented.

It was Major Richards who answered and not his wife. “You’ve hit it,” he laughed. “I presume Mrs. Richards values the locket more highly than rubies.”

Judith looked at him oddly before turning to the detective. “I have a request to make of you, Mr. Ferguson,” she began, without preface. “It is that you make no mention of the loss of my jewelry to any one. I am convinced that if we conduct the search in secrecy, the thief will betray himself.”

Ferguson stroked his cheek thoughtfully. “I don’t like the idea,” he objected. “I am a believer in publicity myself.”

“You have had plenty of publicity in the Austin Hale case,” Richards pointed out dryly. “I cannot see that it has advanced you very far.”

Ferguson reddened. “We haven’t told the public all we know,” he admitted. “There are a few cards up our sleeve.”

“For instance?” and Richards’ smile was tantalizing.

“As to the nature of Hale’s wound”—the detective paused abruptly—“but that will come out in the medical evidence at the inquest.”

“And when will the inquest be held?” demanded Richards.

“When we lay our hands on a material witness necessary before we can present the case,” Ferguson spoke with provoking slowness. “You will learn all the facts in good time, Major; at present certain clews cannot be divulged.”

“I thought you were an advocate of publicity,” Richards remarked, and again Ferguson flushed.

“You’ve got me,” he acknowledged with a show of good nature. “All right, Mrs. Richards, I’ll conduct this investigation as quietly as possible. But how are you going to prevent your family’s knowing that you have lost your jewelry? Won’t they comment when you don’t wear it?”

“If they do I shall say that I have put it in my safe deposit box,” was Judith’s ready response. “My father has frequently urged me to do so in the past and with Austin’s death and the theft of his watch, what’s more likely than that I should place my jewelry in a safe place?”

Ferguson nodded his approval. “That is a wise argument,” he said. “No one can dispute it. Now, about Mr. Hale’s watch,”—he turned back the pages of his memorandum book until he came to a certain entry—“can you describe it?”

“In a general way,” Judith spoke with some hesitation. “I have seen the watch often, but I am not very observant.”

Ferguson considered her for some seconds in silence. He disagreed with her statement—Judith, in his opinion, was not the heedless type; her detailed description of her jewelry, safely tucked away in his pocket, proved that.

“What was the watch like, Mrs. Richards?” he asked for the second time.

“It was an antique, made before the Revolution, so family tradition has it,” she stated, “an open-faced watch, wound with a key and the dial has an American eagle beautifully etched upon it.”

Ferguson took down her words, closed his notebook and rose.

“I am greatly obliged,” he said. “It should not be difficult to trace young Hale’s watch and also your jewelry if the thief tries to dispose of it. But that,” he stared at her, “presupposes it was the work of an ordinary thief.”

“And what leads you to think otherwise?” asked Judith swiftly.

Ferguson took several steps toward the door and hesitated in some uncertainty. “Your jewelry was stolen by some one familiar with your habits and familiar with the arrangement of these rooms,” he stated gravely. “There is no possible way of entering your bedroom save through this boudoir, as all your windows were found locked on the inside. How the thief stole by you and your husband unobserved while you sat here, we have yet to discover. But, take it from me, the thief was a member of this household. Good-morning.” Not pausing for reply, the detective vanished.

“A member of this household,” repeated Richards thoughtfully. “Judith, have you no suspicion—no clew?” and his eyes searched her face anxiously.

Judith leaned back in her chair and gradually her tense muscles relaxed.

“I have no clew,” she replied. “But—tell me, when you got that glass of water for me, did you glance at all into our bedroom?”

Richards pressed down the tobacco in his pipe and hunted through his pockets for a match.

“Did I look into our bedroom?” he asked. “I may have looked, but I can’t swear to it.”