CHAPTER XVIITHE DANCING SILHOUETTES
Onhearing the slam of the front door behind her uncle and Frank Latimer, Judith went to the windowed alcove of the library overlooking the street on which their house faced and, concealed from the view of passers-by, she watched John Hale and his companion enter the former’s touring car and drive off. Not until the car had turned the corner did she relax her vigilant attitude, then, turning, she paced up and down the floor. She could not keep still. Her nerves were aquiver, her brain on fire.
How had Austin’s antique watch come into her husband’s possession? Again and again her lips framed the same question—with but the one answer. Richards must have taken it from Austin’s dead body. But why—why? Austin was wearing the watch when murdered; that she could swear to. Had she not taken the Mizpah locket from its chain in that awful moment when she had first discovered his body and left the watch with its dangling broken chain in his pocket?
What was it her husband had told her? She pressed her fingers against her throbbing temples in an effort to remember. He had returned just as she reached the hall, had carried her unconscious to their boudoir, revived her, gone downstairs for a bottle of bromides and discovered Austin lying murdered in the library. She whitened to the lips. Had he seized the opportunity to rifle her father’s safe, the door of which was open, before sending for the coroner and police?
He had sold Valve bonds belonging to her which had disappeared that night from the safe, and now—Judith raised her hands in silent, passionate protest—if Joe, in dire need of money, had yielded to sudden overwhelming temptation and taken her bonds, why—why had he stolen Austin’s watch? It could bring him no money return, for the first attempt to sell it would focus suspicion upon him.
If he had been so mad as to steal the watch as well as the bonds, why had he been so foolhardy as to send it to a watchmaker to have the chain repaired, trusting to any messenger to return it to him unknown to others?
Judith stopped short in her restless walk as a sudden idea occurred to her. Was her husbanda kleptomaniac? Had he yielded to an insane impulse to steal? Judith racked her brain to remember what she had heard of kleptomania—that it was a recognized mental derangement, an irresponsible and irresistible propensity to steal, and that the kleptomaniac cared nothing for the objects stolen as soon as the craze to steal was gratified. But Joe had cared enough to sell her Valve bonds. That might have been a sane act, Judith acknowledged to herself bitterly, but to take a useless watch which would surely involve him in another and greater crime was the act of insanity.
Would involvehim—ithad already involvedhim. Judith’s breath came faster and perspiration appeared in beads on her forehead. She knew John Hale’s stubborn will, his passionate affection for Polly Davis—he would move heaven and earth to convict her husband. What more likely than that he was already at Police Headquarters swearing out a warrant for his arrest?
Judith’s loyalty to her husband was instantly in arms. He might be a kleptomaniac,—if so, he was to be pitied and protected,—but he was not a murderer—Judith’s faith remained unshaken. With all her woman’s wit she would prove him worthy of her trust and devotion, andclear him of any suspicion of complicity in Austin’s murder.
But how to go about it? The locket had disappeared while she and her husband were sitting in the boudoir through which the thief had to pass to enter the bedroom. There was but one person to her knowledge to whom the locket was of vital importance—Polly Davis. And she, Judith, had informed Polly that it was in her possession only a short time before its disappearance. But the only living persons who had had an opportunity to steal her jewelry were—herself or her husband.
Judith shuddered—had Joe’s thieving propensities caused him to take her jewelry? Her back had been toward him when he went to get her glass of water, but even if there had been time for him to slip into their bedroom and get the jewelry, where had he hidden it without her seeing him? Judith stared dully at the opposite wall, despair tugging at her heartstrings.
“Hello, Judith,” called a cheery voice from the doorway, and Judith, whirling around with a violent start, saw Dr. McLane, black bag in hand, looking at her. “I have just been upstairs treating Anna’s ankle and I stopped in here on my way out to see if any one was at home.”
“Come in, doctor,” she exclaimed. “You have arrived in answer to my thoughts.”
As he took her extended hand in greeting he glanced quickly at her—her palm was dry and hot to the touch. Instantly his fingers sought her pulse.
“Come, Judith, this won’t do,” he remonstrated gravely. “Your pulse is pounding like a millrace. I have cautioned you before—”
“Please, doctor, don’t scold,” she pleaded. “It is only caused by momentary excitement. I’ll calm down after a talk with you.”
“Will you?” doubtfully. “Well, fire away.”
Judith wheeled a chair around. “Do sit down,” she coaxed, “I can’t think of a thing to say while you stand with that air of bolting away.”
McLane laughed as he followed her wishes, placing the black bag within reach. “I am all attention,” he declared. “Go ahead.”
“Can kleptomania be cured?”
McLane stared at her; the question was unexpected.
“Not permanently,” he replied, and Judith, who was toying with a fan which was attached to a silk cord about her neck, raised it to her lips to hide their trembling.
“What are its symptoms?” she asked.
“Symptoms?” The surgeon was distinctly puzzled by her questions. “It is a mental derangement usually found among the wealthy class, for the craze lies in theactof stealing, and the article stolen is of indifference to the genuine kleptomaniac and is often of no value whatever. A thief steals for gain for himself or another.”
“I see.” Judith paused, and a moment later Dr. McLane, who had been openly studying her—though she was unconscious of it—roused her from her bitter thoughts.
“Where are your mother and Major Richards?” he inquired.
“They have gone to Walter Reed Hospital to see Major LeFevre,” she explained. “I did not feel equal to the long trip and had them leave me here after a short turn on the speedway.”
“It would have been better had you stayed out in the fresh air,” commented McLane frankly. “You are brooding too much, Judith. I fear”—with a keen glance at her—“Austin’s death has upset you more than you realize.”
“We are all upset,” she admitted. “And the suspense—not knowing who is guilty of the crime is terrible.” She paused a moment. “Could it have been suicide?”
McLane shook his head. “Impossible, judging from the nature of the wound,” he insisted. “The autopsy proved that.”
Judith straightened up. “You were present at the autopsy, were you not?”
“Yes.”
“Doctor,”—Judith’s hesitation was perceptible as she toyed with her fan—“do you believe that Austin was stabbed with a pair of shears?”
“That is a difficult question to answer offhand, Judith,” he replied gravely. “Austin’s death was caused by a punctured wound. These wounds, Judith, are generally smaller in circumference than the weapon used, for the skin is stretched and yields to a certain extent. Therefore the wound might have been inflicted with long, slender shears.”
Judith considered his answer in silence, a silence which seemed endless to the busy surgeon. Finally, with a glance at her and another at the dial of the clock, he rose and picked up his bag.
“I must go, Judith,” he said. “Take my advice, child, and lie down for a while. If you don’t you will be added to my list of patients. Please do as I ask you.”
Few could resist McLane’s charming smile, and Judith’s “I will” was prompt. She experienceda strange reluctance to have him go, and only an exertion of her self-control prevented her from calling him back as she closed the front door on his retreating figure. In her room Judith did her best to comply with McLane’s request, but she could not lie still on the bed. Finally, unable longer to control her desire for motion, she got up and wandered into the boudoir. From there she went to her father’s den. He was not there, and Judith with a glance into his bedroom, closed the door, and, going over to his desk, she sat down before it and went carefully through his papers.
It was dusk, the early dusk of a winter afternoon when Judith again entered the library. Anna, the waitress, had not performed her usual duties of turning on the electric lights, and Judith contented herself with switching on the lamp nearest her father’s safe. Dropping on her knees before it, she propped a playing card on a stool beside her, and, placing her hand on the knob of the steel door, turned the dial. It was slow, laborious work and perspiration trickled into Judith’s eyes. She saw but dimly the Knave of Hearts—the red of the playing card alone showed up plainly. A last twist of her wrist and the heavy steel door swung backward, and Judithsank down in a crouching position to rest her cramped muscles.
She was still looking directly inside the safe when a handkerchief was drawn across her eyes and a hand detached the wire connecting her earphone and the little electric battery which she wore tucked inside her belt. Completely taken by surprise and too paralyzed to move, Judith sat motionless as the hand, having completed its mission, slid around and covered her mouth. Then, before she could scramble to her feet, hands dragged her backward until she felt herself resting against a table leg. It took but a moment to tie her to it; the next instant a handkerchief gag replaced the hand across her mouth.
For what seemed an eternity Judith sat without motion, cut off from sound, from sight—
Surely the distorted silhouettes dancing before her vision were creatures of her imagination! Or could it be the shadows of real people seen through the folds of the handkerchief?
Bound, blindfolded, gagged, deprived of her earphone, and her hearing deadened by nature, Judith’s heart was beating with suffocating rapidity. She must get aid—aid before she fainted. Instinctively she bit and worried her gag, and the handkerchief, insecurely tied, parted finally.Judith filled her lungs with air, moistened her parched lips, and tried to call for help.
The whispered cry reached only to the confines of the room. To Judith’s ears no sound penetrated, and she waited in agony. Had her shout carried beyond the library? Surely the maids, her father—some one must hear her?
She opened her mouth for another attempt, and an oblong object was thrust between her teeth and lashed around her head. Once again she was left to herself. The excruciating pain produced by the new gag caused Judith to clench her teeth against it so as to relieve the pressure on the strained flesh.
Judith had lost all track of time when suddenly she felt the cords, binding her to the table leg, loosened, and, as consciousness left her, she was lifted upward, a dead weight.