In his hand Kennedy held a notebook. “My stenographer writes a very legible shorthand; at least I find it so—from long practice, I suppose. As I glance over her notes I find many facts which will interest you later—at the trial. But—ah, here at the end—let me read:
“‘Well, he’s very clever, but he has nothing against me, has he?’
“‘No, not unless he can produce the agent who bought the radium for you.’
“‘But he can’t do that. No one could ever have recognised you on your flying trip to London disguised as a diamond merchant who had just learned that he could make his faulty diamonds good by applications of radium and who wanted a good stock of the stuff.’
“‘Still, we’ll have to drop the suit against Gregory after all, in spite of what I said. That part is hopelessly spoiled.’
“‘Yes, I suppose so. Oh, well, I’m free now. She can hardly help but consent to a divorce now, and a quiet settlement. She brought it on herself—we tried every other way to do it, but she—she was too good to fall into it. She forced us to it.’
“‘Yes, you’ll get a good divorce now. But can’t we shut up this man Kennedy? Even if he can’t prove anything against us, the mere rumour of such a thing coming to the ears of Mrs. Tulkington would be unpleasant.’
“‘Go as far as you like, Lawrence. You know what the marriage will mean to me. It will settle my debts to you and all the rest.’
“‘I’ll see what I can do, Close. He’ll be back in a moment.’”
Close’s face was livid. “It’s a pack of lies!” he shouted, advancing toward Kennedy, “a pack of lies! You are a fakir and a blackmailer. I’ll have you in jail for this, by God—and you too, Gregory.”
“One moment, please,” said Kennedy calmly. “Mr. Lawrence, will you be so kind as to reach behind your chair? What do you find?”
Lawrence lifted up the plain black box and with it he pulled up the wires which I had so carefully concealed in the cracks of the floor.
“That,” said Kennedy, “is a little instrument called the microphone. Its chief merit lies in the fact that it will magnify a sound sixteen hundred times, and carry it to any given point where you wish to place the receiver. Originally this device was invented for the aid of the deaf, but I see no reason why it should not be used to aid the law. One needn’t eavesdrop at the keyhole with this little instrument about. Inside that box there is nothing but a series of plugs from which wires, much finer than a thread, are stretched taut. Yet a fly walking near it will make a noise as loud as a draft-horse. If the microphone is placed in any part of the room, especially if near the persons talking—even if they are talking in a whisper—a whisper such as occurred several times during the evening and particularly while I was in the next room getting the notes made by my stenographer—a whisper, I say, is like shouting your guilt from the housetops.
“You two men, Close and Lawrence, may consider yourselves under arrest for conspiracy and whatever other indictments will lie against such creatures as you. The police will be here in a moment. No, Close, violence won’t do now. The doors are locked—and see, we are four to two.”
V. THE SEISMOGRAPH ADVENTURE
“Dr. James Hanson, Coroner’s Physician, Criminal Courts Building,” read Craig Kennedy, as he held a visitor’s card in his hand. Then to the visitor he added, “Take a chair, Doctor.”
The physician thanked him and sat down. “Professor Kennedy,” he began, “I have been referred to you by Inspector O’Connor of the Detective Bureau. It may seem an impertinence for a city official to call on you for assistance, but—well, you see, I’m completely floored. I think, too, that the case will interest you. It’s the Vandam case.”
If Dr. Hanson had suddenly turned on the current of an induction coil and I had been holding the handles I don’t think the thrill I received could have been any more sudden. The Vandam case was the sensation of the moment, a triple puzzle, as both Kennedy and myself had agreed. Was it suicide, murder, or sudden death? Every theory, so far, had proved unsatisfactory.
“I have read only what the newspapers have published,” replied Craig to the doctor’s look of inquiry. “You see, my friend Jameson here is on the staff of the Star, and we are in the habit of discussing these cases.”
“Very glad to meet you, Mr. Jameson,” exclaimed Dr. Hanson at the implied introduction. “The relations between my office and your paper have always been very satisfactory, I can assure you.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Depend on me to keep them so,” I replied, shaking his proffered hand.
“Now, as to the case,” continued the doctor slowly. “Here is a beautiful woman in the prime of life, the wife of a very wealthy retired banker considerably older than herself—perhaps nearly seventy—of very fine family. Of course you have read it all, but let me sketch it so you will look at it from my point of view. This woman, apparently in good health, with every luxury money can buy, is certain within a very few years, from her dower rights, to be numbered among the richest women in America. Yet she is discovered in the middle of the night by her maid, seated at the table in the library of her home, unconscious. She never regains consciousness, but dies the following morning.
“The coroner is called in, and, as his physician, I must advise him. The family physician has pronounced it due to natural causes, the uremic coma of latent kidney trouble. Some of the newspapers, I think the Star among them, have hinted at suicide. And then there are others, who have flatly asserted it was murder.”
The coroner’s physician paused to see if we were following him. Needless to say Kennedy was ahead of him.
“Have you any facts in your possession which have not been given to the public yet?” asked Craig.
“I’m coming to that in a moment,” replied Dr. Hanson. “Let me sketch the case first. Henry Vandam had become—well, very eccentric in his old age, we will say. Among his eccentricities none seems to have impressed the newspapers more than his devotion to a medium and her manager, Mrs. May Popper and Mr. Howard Farrington. Now, of course, the case does not go into the truth or falsity of spiritualism, you understand. You have your opinion, and I have mine. What this aspect of the case involves is merely the character of the medium and her manager. You know, of course, that Henry Vandam is completely under their control.”
He paused again, to emphasise the point.
“You asked me if I was in possession of any facts which have not been given to the press. Yes, I am. And just there lies the trouble. They are so very conflicting as to be almost worse than useless, as far as I can see. We found near the unfortunate woman a small pill-box with three capsules still in it. It was labelled ‘One before retiring’ and bore the name of a certain druggist and the initials ‘Dr. C. W. H.’ Now, I am convinced that the initials are merely a blind and do not give any clue. The druggist says that a maid from the Vandam house brought in the prescription, which of course he filled. It is a harmless enough prescription—contains, among other things, four and a half grains of quinine and one-sixth of a grain of morphine. Six capsules were prepared altogether.
“Now, of course my first thought was that she might have taken several capsules at once and that it was a case of accidental morphine poisoning, or it might even be suicide. But it cannot be either, to my mind, for only three of the six capsules are gone. No doubt, also, you are acquainted with the fact that the one invariable symptom of morphine poisoning is the contraction of the pupils of the eyes to a pin-point—often so that they are unrecognisable. Moreover, the pupils are symmetrically contracted, and this symptom is the one invariably present in coma from morphine poisoning and distinguishes it from all other forms of death.
“On the other hand, in the coma of kidney disease one pupil is dilated and the other contracted—they are unsymmetrical. But in this case both the pupils are normal, or