THE WHISPERING EYES.

Maxwell Grant.

CHAPTER I. A QUESTION OF MURDER.

LAMONT CRANSTON sauntered into the Cobalt Club and paused for a moment to listen to the chatter of the reporters who had gathered there. From doorways, balconies and alcoves, dignified club members were glaring at the newspapermen, and Cranston could hear the rumble of outraged voices. It was unthinkable, this invasion of the most exclusive club in all Manhattan. It behooved somebody to do something about it, and at once.

Somebody was trying to do something.

That somebody was Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. Himself a member of the Cobalt Club, the commissioner could sense that his standing in that exclusive retreat was somewhat at stake. Often, Weston had been eyed askance when he invited representatives of the press into these select preserves.

To date, however, Weston had only admitted reporters singly or in pairs; never in droves. He had intimated to his fellow members that he was their shield against a ma.s.s intrusion such as this. A shield no longer, the commissioner decided to become a sword and drive the upstarts out of the foyer.

"Outside please, gentlemen!" Pompous, but with booming voice, Weston was raising both hands to gesture the crowd back. "This is no place for an interview. I have no appointment with any of you!" A chorus came from the reporters: "You've got an appointment, commissioner, though maybe you don't know it."

"That's right. Your appointment is with Inspector Cardona and our appointment is with him."

"It's for seven o'clock, commissioner, right on the dot."

"Down in the grill room, where you always are at seven -"

"And it's almost seven o'clock now!"

There was no holding back the throng. A dozen strong, they were pressing Weston back toward the stairs up which he had come at first news of the invasion. Bristling to the tips of his military mustache, Weston realized suddenly that the reporters couldn't have halted if they'd tried. Shoving in behind them was a larger crew of photographers and their a.s.sistants, anxious to crowd downstairs and set up their cameras. At that, Weston would have offered a last resistance, if Cranston had not sidled in beside him, to apply a persuasive grip upon his arm.

"Let's get them down to the grill room," suggested Cranston in an even tone. "The sooner the better, unless you want to be trampled. We can ease them out through the kitchen afterward."

With a helpless gesture to the club members who bordered the foyer, Weston turned and waved for the intruders to follow him downstairs. Cranston went along to help hold back the stampede and soon Weston, purple-faced but tight-lipped, found himself seated at a table in the center of the grill room. It was the sight of Cranston, seated alongside him, that enabled the commissioner to regain his self-control.

Calm-faced, casual of manner, Cranston was taking the situation as a matter of course.

"Perhaps you can explain this, Cranston," sputtered Weston. "You act as though you had expected it."

"I have learned to expect anything," returned Cranston, nonchalantly, "but I can a.s.sure you I had no part in this affair. Perhaps one of these gentlemen"- Cranston's eyes were idly roving the group-"might act as spokesman for the rest and tell us what brought them here."

Cranston's eyes chose one face in the circle and flashed a signal by the merest pause. Catching the flash that was unnoticed by the rest, the chosen man stepped forward. He was a wiry chap, who had the look of an experienced newsman, including the slightly rea.s.suring smile that impressed people who didn't want to be interviewed. Commissioner Weston recognized him as Clyde Burke of the New York Cla.s.sic.

"It happened last night, commissioner," said Clyde, "when Inspector Cardona invited us down to headquarters."

"You mean Inspector Cardona is responsible for this?"

"Not exactly," rejoined Clyde. "I would credit it more to Professor Bogardus."

Nods from the surrounding reporters gave Clyde's statement unanimous approval, which only served to revive Weston's recent outrage.

"And who," demanded the commissioner, "is Professor Bogardus?"

"Eric Bogardus," specified Clyde. "He calls himself a P.H.D., all in single letters, which he says stands for Professor of Hypnotic Demonstrations."

Weston turned a side glance toward Cranston. "Have you ever heard of this Bogardus?"

"Frequently," replied Cranston. "He does hypnotic shows three nights a week in an upstairs hall just off Broadway. I understand he gives lessons in between."

"You have seen him work?"

"No." Cranston gave a shrug. "There are a lot of such chaps around town, commissioner. Their demonstrations are boring and very similar."

Weston turned to concentrate on Burke.

"What was Bogardus doing down at headquarters?"

"It was some question about a license," Clyde explained. "Dr. Fontaine, the psychologist, claimed that Bogardus was engaged in a form of medical quackery. He argued that unless Bogardus could demonstrate actual hypnotism, his performances should be stopped."

One of the cameramen was pressing forward with some photographs. He handed Weston one that showed a handsome man with a high forehead and a trim Van d.y.k.e beard. The commissioner scanned the photo, gave a nod.

"Big forehead, small chin," said Weston. "That's the reason he wears a beard. It's practically a disguise for the character he lacks. I could tell this man for a fraud at first sight. Now if you notice his eyes -"

Weston didn't get further with his a.n.a.lysis, because Clyde s.n.a.t.c.hed the picture away and handed it back to the cameraman.

"Come again," the reporter told the photographer. "You gave the commissioner the wrong picture. This is Dr. Fontaine and he's a real Ph.D. We want the P-h for phoney and that's Professor Bogardus."

Sheepishly, the photographer went through his prints while the surrounding newsmen chortled at his mistake. That was a bad break for Commissioner Weston, whose self-importance had been jarred by his own quick jump to conclusions. Only Cranston noticed the several shades of red that diminished on Weston's face, Then Clyde had found some Bogardus pictures and was spreading them before the commissioner.

"Here's a good shot," said Clyde, extending one photo. "It was taken down at headquarters last night."

The picture showed Bogardus as a man with a rugged, commanding face, glittering eyes and bulging jaw.

Weston made no comment on that score; he couldn't, without damaging his earlier opinion. Clyde had helped the situation however by giving Weston a picture that showed another man beside Bogardus. The other man was Inspector Joe Cardona, whose face was swarthy and square-set. In the picture, Cardona was staring intently at the eyes of Professor Bogardus.

"What is Bogardus saying?" queried Weston. "I never saw Inspector Cardona look so interested in anything before."

"The inspector is hypnotized," explained Clyde. "He wanted Bogardus to demonstrate his powers, so Bogardus did."

At that, Weston grunted disdainfully.

"Bogardus gave Cardona a post-hypnotic impression," continued Clyde. "That's why we held off thestory. At seven o'clock tonight, Cardona will again be under the professor's influence, though he doesn't know it."

An old-fashioned clock was beginning to strike seven from its place on the grill room wall. Weston gave the clock a startled glance; then laughed, a bit indulgently.

"That's why we came here," Clyde finished. "Cardona asked Bogardus if a hypnotist could make a man perform a crime, like murder. Bogardus said 'no,' but stated he could cause a subject to simulate a crime without his knowledge."

"Simulate a crime?" demanded Weston. "How do you mean?"

"Bogardus gave Cardona an imitation knife made of paper," stated Clyde. "While Cardona was hypnotized, Bogardus told him that at seven o'clock tonight, he was to seek out a certain victim and try to stab him with that knife."

"And who was that victim to be?"

"You, commissioner."

The clock had finished its chiming, which made the sudden silence all the more impressive. Suppressed wrath was purpling Weston's face anew, as he stared about the group, convinced that this whole party had been arranged as an absurd hoax. Then, before any one could interrupt Weston's mental train of indignation, the commissioner himself supplied the grand surprise.

Staring past the group, Weston fixed his eyes on the stairway, with a gaze of total unbelief. Instantly, the reporters spread apart, edging in among the tables, to clear the setting for the next scene in the drama.

The chief actor in that scene had arrived.

Moving forward from the steps that he had just descended was a swarthy man of stocky build. His face had the square-set features of the photograph, with the same rigid stare. The man was none other than Joe Cardona, ace inspector of the New York force, behaving in the fashion of a human automaton, a manner which Weston had never seen him employ before.

Step by step, as though he had become a self-appointed purveyor of doom, Inspector Cardona moved mechanically toward the target of his gaze, Commissioner Weston. The scene took on unexpected drama when Weston rose from his chair, stepped forward and gave a brushing gesture, the sort that he'd used to shoo away the reporters when they were upstairs.

"Enough of this farce, inspector!" exclaimed Weston. Then, as flash bulbs flicked: "We'll be the laughingstock of the whole city, if you continue with this farce."

Stolidly, Cardona moved forward, straight toward his goal. A photographer caught a snap of Weston's face, showing a mingling of rage and amazement. The commissioner was realizing that this wasn't a game.

Inspector Cardona wouldn't jeopardize his status by knowingly defying a superior's order.

And now, Cardona's hand, thrusting beneath his coat, was drawing out a feeble weapon, an imitation dagger made of paper that had been folded in the fashion of a child's soldier hat. Between flashes from bulbs, Cranston, calm-faced as ever, stepped forward to thrust Weston back before the commissioner could grab at the silly object in Cardona's hand.

"Let him continue, commissioner," advised Cranston. "It is always best, when a subject is under a post-hypnotic influence. He must carry his purpose to its realization." As Cranston withdrew, Cardona arrived. With a half crouch, the inspector delivered a stab with the paper knife, directly against Weston's chest. The frail weapon crumpled, but Cardona did not notice it.

His eyes were on the man whom he had made an imaginary victim. Recoiling, more through bewilderment than the force of Cardona's blow, the commissioner sat down in his chair and gave a flabbergasted look around the group while bulbs flashed anew.

In the center of the scene, Cardona slowly opened his hand and let the folded paper flutter to the floor.

His face showed no expression that could betray his thoughts, if he had any. Staring at the hypnotized inspector, Weston said, in hollow tone, "If that had been a real knife -"

Weston didn't finish the sentence. Turning to look for Cranston, he saw his calm-faced friend moving toward the wall, where the clock now registered three minutes past seven. That clock was a trophy which had been given to the Cobalt Club and other odd gifts adorned the wall along with it. Among them was quite a different sort of souvenir, a thin-bladed stiletto that some medieval duelist had used as a fencing dagger.

Plucking the stiletto from the wall, Cranston strode toward Cardona. The reporters were frozen, the photographers too stunned to remember their cameras. Planting the handle of the stiletto in Cardona's hand, Cranston gestured for Weston to rise, which the commissioner did, though slowly. Snapping his fingers toward the photographers, Cranston brought them to life.

Here was drama, indeed. A question of murder was at stake. Would Cardona use the steel blade as he had the paper? If he did, could Cranston, standing by, be quick enough to stop the thrust which Weston, stepping forward, was about to invite?

Up came Cardona's hand. As bulbs flashed, the silence was the sort in which anyone could have heard the dropping of a proverbial pin. It was more than a pin, however, that struck the tiled floor with a sudden clatter. It was a stiletto.

Cardona's eyes had tilted downward, drawn perhaps by the weight he noticed in his hand. He had dropped the stiletto in horror and now his hand was spread in the same wide fashion as his eyes.

Springing forward, Cardona gripped Weston by the shoulders.

"What have I done, commissioner? Why am I here? Where is Professor Bogardus? He said I would kill somebody. He even gave me the knife!"

Steadying, Cardona turned, saw Cranston weighing two knives, one of steel, the other of paper, in either hand. Staring toward the stiletto, the inspector noticed that its blade was not b.l.o.o.d.y and gave a relieved sigh. Looking toward Weston, Cardona saw the commissioner going toward the side of the room, where an attendant was beckoning him to a telephone. Cardona followed, Cranston accompanying him. Clyde Burke also came along, with the reporters crowding after.

"Don't worry, inspector," Cranston was saying. "You only used the dummy knife, the paper one, which Bogardus gave you. When I handed you the stiletto, you shunned the very suggestion. That's usual with subjects under a post-hypnotic influence."

Clyde Burke was busily dashing off penciled words on a sheet of paper. As Weston turned from the telephone, lowering the receiver from his ear, Clyde read what he had written.

"You can't commit murder with a paper knife," stated Clyde. "How's that for a caption, commissioner?

We'll use it with the picture that goes with the story. It won't reflect on anyone and it's a true statement.

You can't commit murder with a paper knife." Weston's eyes gave Clyde a stare that was much like Cardona's recent trance gaze. In a tone like an echo, Weston queried, "You can't?"

"Of course not."

"Tell me, Burke," said Weston, "did you ever hear of a man named James Kelthorn?"

"Why, yes," recalled Clyde. "He's an importer who was mixed up recently in a government investigation."

"Would you like a good murder story, Burke?"

"Of course."

"Very well. I'll take you along to cover one and you can bring your photographer. James Kelthorn has just been murdered."

Commissioner Weston was quite himself again and from the grimly humorous expression on his mustached face, Lamont Cranston could guess what was coming next, though Clyde Burke didn't.

"Perhaps, Burke," added Weston, "you would like to know the sort of weapon with which Kelthorn was slain?"

"Definitely," replied Clyde. "I suppose they told you over the telephone?"

"They did," declared Weston, tersely. "Make a note of it and at the same time cross out that clever caption you just wrote." Grimly, yet triumphantly, the commissioner swept his gaze around the group as he added: "James Kelthorn was murdered with a paper knife!"

CHAPTER II. KILLER UNKNOWN.

COMMISSIONER WESTON had misinterpreted the statement on the telephone that caused him to infer that James Kelthorn had been murdered with an imitation knife made of paper. He had been told that the death instrument was a paper knife, which was something quite different from the toy weapon that Inspector Cardona carried and decidedly more lethal.

Now, in Kelthorn's office, Weston was studying the paper knife along with the body of the victim.

Kelthorn's office was on the fourth floor of a building on West Twenty-fifth Street. The building was old, but well managed. It had one elevator and a watchman named Jenkins who also operated the elevator during the night shift. Only Jenkins could have gone up and down, because the stairway from the ground floor was closed off at night by a locked gate, which had not been tampered with.

When on duty, Jenkins remained in the lobby and kept a signed book of all persons who entered and left the building, listing the times of such arrivals and departures. Jenkins had come on duty at six thirty, he testified, and at six forty-five, Kelthorn had arrived, according to the register. Seven was the time at which Jenkins began his rounds and he had started on time. Arriving in Kelthorn's office, he had found the murder.

James Kelthorn, a baldish man whose limited streaks of hair were gray, was sprawled in front of an old safe at the back wall of his small and rather shabby office. The door of the safe was wide open and its contents, mostly papers, had been scattered all about the dead man. Behind the body was a desk with arevolving chair, now turned toward the safe.

Apparently, while opening the safe in the presence of some visitor he trusted, Kelthorn had been stabbed treacherously in the back. Either that, or the murderer had entered stealthily, staged a silent sneak to the spot where Kelthorn stooped, and had driven home the killing blow. Weston inclined to the theory that the killer was already present. Unless Kelthorn had been with a man he considered a friend, he would have been more cautious and would probably have locked the office door before opening the safe.