CHAPTER XXIV

The Man With the Magic Eardrums

Parks Wainright looked, at that second, utterly con­founded. Wah Lung, too, in the front row, stroked his chin troubledly, and Penworth went on speaking sternly, as one who knew that only he could elicit all the facts in this strange conspiracy.

“Well, quite obviously, Wainright, your—and Mr. Wah’s—man whom you sent into this suspect’s home was no nitro-glycerine artist. And intended, quite plainly, to drill the suspect’s safe. Which, therefore, is burglary, all right. And so—”

“No, Your Honor. We dared not use burglary, of any type. Of any type—let me qualify that—which would leave traces. In short, we had to work in such manner that if our suspicions—”

And now came another unexpected interruption.

For the square-headed Gus Triglett, of the Evening Gazette, his chin thrust belligerently out, had risen in his seat between the reporter of the News and that of the Sun.

“Judge,” he bit out angrily, wasting no time on such phrases as “Your Honor,” “I’m a newspaperman—local sheet, yes—but delegated also, as Chicago correspondent, to wire a special story on this trial, that’s now legally over and completed, to a New York morning daily who’s probably holding open for it right now—in view of the one hour’s time difference. And in the face of the fact that no actual trial is now being held, I demand ‘out’ o’ here—so I can do my work.”

“So you demand of the Court, do you,” said Penworth coldly, “that you he let out?”

“Yes, I do demand it, and if I don’t—”

“That’ll do, Triglett. For a man who was a police reporter back in the Wah Lee kidnapping days, you’ve come a long ways. Rather, you think you have! Well, this Court’s not interested in New York dailies, or anything else.” Penworth swung his gaze across chat very front row to Inspector Scott on the other end. “You will just continue, Inspector, hanging on to that key until I say the court really is adjourned.” He swung his gaze back.

“And you, Triglett, take your seat and subside. I’ll see that you—and all the rest of your confrères—are out in time to write any stories for Chicago papers, but this Court isn’t running itself for any New York papers. And no more ‘demanding’ out of you. Sit down!”

And Triglett, biting his lip savagely, sat down, though only on the edge of his chair.

Penworth tool up his questioning again of Parks Wain­right.

“And you were saying, before this last interruption, that, in the case of yours and Mr. Wah’s suspect, you had to work in such manner—as what?”

“Yes, Your Honor. We had to work in such manner that if our suspicions proved to be false—at least remained unconfirmed—not a sign would be left of what we had done or tried.”

“No sign,” commented Penworth dryly, “but a headache in the head of the servant you drugged?”

Wainright smiled ruefully and worriedly.

“I suppose—yes. But at any rate, Your Honor, now that I’m facing a year in jail and a thousand dollar fine for con­tempt of court, if I say nothing at all, I am proceeding to—well—shoot the works. Except that I am absolutely not giving any details that—that will incriminate this man who has helped Mr. Wah and myself. Sufficient to say that he is a safe expert who works for a new and second-hand safe exchange on—oh, we’ll say West Lake Street, though, of course, that isn’t the actual street. But he is one of the best in the country. A real lock expert. And a genius, in his line. And like all true geniuses, specially talented in copious other ways. For he can take the cork out of a bottle at fifty paces—by shooting from his hip alone. And is beyond doubt the best informed individual in the United States today on the chrysanthemum—which is said, Your Honor, to have a thousand different forms. He has known Mr. Wah Lung for years, and is indebted to him deeply for many things. And—but the point of the matter is that a quiet investigation Mr. Wah had made of this suspect’s home revealed that, like everybody else in Chicago, he had a safe. But ’twas a safe, Your Honor, which—so Mr. Wah’s safe-expert friend informed him—possessed only 57,600 different settings, each of which could be individually set and tried, with the handle, in an average of three seconds each. And—”

“Well, good Lord, Wainright, 57,600 different settings at three seconds each is—is—let’s see—is thirty-six hours. So—”

“Yes, Your Honor. But this expert is, as I told you, a real expert. And he has invented a tiny pair of cone-like eardrums not greatly unlike those I described in my fictitious story tonight—except that they connect to a microscopic microphone that can be stuck to the door or dial of a safe, and also to a vest pocket battery. And will magnify certain sounds, or rather nuances of sound. And this downright genius has also discovered that five sets of 7,200 settings, each embracing one distinct concentric relationship of the dials, but false sets all, since none contain the true unlocking setting, can be eliminated entirely from the total of 57,600 setting by a certain sound that is created in the ‘magic eardrums’ when the safe door is lightly tapped with a tile, with the false setting on.”

“Well, this is getting too deep into the intricacies of safe locks for me,” said Penworth helplessly. “But I get your point: that the said test reduces the total settings to be actually tried out to 7,200, which—hm?—three seconds each?—yes, I see now where you get your six hours!”

“Six hours, yes, Your Honor, if our man had bad luck and caught the correct setting only on the wrong end! But no hours at all—if he caught it on the beginning.”

“And it rather seems,” said Penworth dryly, “that he caught it—not at all! For no signal has been flashed to this block. And my hunch is that he has been nabbed himself. In the face of which, you and Mr. Wah have lost whatever chances you ever had to acquire this hypothetical evidence against your suspect. For I think I can safely say that on such slight premises as you and Mr. Wah are operating, the suspect in the case does not have to open his safe for, or by order, of all the police in the world. And when or if he does, if such evidence is there now, it won’t any longer—however, why not name the man to me privately—‘in chambers,’ as we call it—since your expert has come a cropper?”

“But, Your Honor, I believe I can say, without any hesitation, that our man did get into the safe in question!”

“How can you?” And Penworth gazed back of him again at the clock. “More than seven hours,” he said, returning his gaze to the ex-defendant, “and not just six, have gone by. And no signal was flashed to this section tonight.”

“Well, Your Honor, there was at that—when you come down to it. For if you’ll recall that when Inspector Scott, at Miss Colby’s request, snapped off the lights in this room tonight, so that she could demonstrate with her ultra-violet lamp, the lights in the chandelier here started to dim just a second before the click of the button. And I maintain that that was when the signal came in.”

The Judge looked incredulous, and turned to Scott, on whose own face was a puzzled look.

“How about that, Inspector Scott?”

“It’s a fact, Your Honor,” Scott admitted. “The lights started to dim practically as I touched the snapswitch. I was certain, myself, at the time, that the switch spring was merely out of order—loose, that is.”

Penworth turned back to Wainright. “Well then, it does look as though your man made it. And getting safely out, called up the sub-station operator of this district—and sent the signal. And it looks also, with what you’ve told, as if both the sub-station operator and superintendent of A.C. distribu­tion Domaire will be indicted tomorrow as at least acces­sories-after-the-fact of burglary—while you and Mr. Wah, on the other hand, will be locked up tomorrow under charges of actual burglary—at least conspiracy to commit burglary, and heaven knows what el—”

“But—Your Honor! What if our man, having opened the safe in question, found the evidence? What then?”

“What then? Well, I figure the suspect in question, who­ever he may be, will be very glad to waive charges against you—being too busy saving his own skin from the electric chair!” Penworth was thoughtful for a second. “Well, Wain­right, I fear you’ve dug your own pit—as well as that of my good friend Wah yonder—and so I’m not going to dig it deeper for both of you by sticking a contempt-ofcourt sen­tence on either of you. If, however, Mr. Vann there, as Dis­trict Attorney, orders me to sign a warrant so that Officer Mullarky can take you in tow, I have absolutely no choice but to sign it, since I am a sitting judge. And while Mr. Vann is deciding on that, I declare Court to be adj—”

“But wait, Your Honor! I believe that, before Mr. Vann has me arrested, we can determine definitely whether Mr. Wah’s and my expert found ‘hanging evidence.’”

“How? By some spiritual telegraphy? Table-knocking? Well, at least we have three tables in the room here. No, four, with Mr. Mullins’ low deal table there.”

“Well not exactly, Your Honor. And yet—yes, too! That is—” And Parks Wainright turned his gaze toward Inspector Scott.

“Inspector Scott, would you mind knocking thrice on that locked door!”

“Knocking? Thrice?” Scott looked disgusted. “What the–” And then he stopped abruptly, a blank look on his face. And with amazing mildness rose from his chair and knocked once, twice, three times on the door.

And back came an answer. A knock! And it was repeated—once—twice!

Scott passed a hand dazedly over his head. And then, with a helpless glance back of him, and drawing the key from his vest pocket, stuck it in the lock and flung the door back.

And there, on the threshold, stood no other than Mr. Harry Seeong, the loudly check-suited Chinese youth with the gold-rimmed spectacles, who many, many hours ago had “had to go—when he had to go!”

And, under his arm, facing all in the room, was a grinning, ghastly skull!