“Very well. I am going to clear this thing up. Come. You must.”
It was all confused to me, the dash in a car to the little pawnbroker’s on the first floor of a five-story tenement, the quick entry into the place by one of Muller’s keys.
Over the safe in back was a framework like that which had covered Schloss’ safe. Kennedy tore it away, regardless of the alarm which it must have sounded. In a moment he was down before it on his knees.
“This is how Schloss’ safe was opened so quickly,” he muttered, working feverishly. “Here is some of their own medicine.”
He had placed the peculiar telephone-like transmitter close to the combination lock and was turning the combination rapidly.
Suddenly he rose, gave the bolts a twist, and the ponderous doors swung open.
“What is it?” I asked eagerly.
“A burglar’s microphone,” he answered, hastily looking over the contents of the safe. “The microphone is now used by burglars for picking combination locks. When you turn the lock, a slight sound is made when the proper number comes opposite the working point. It can be heard sometimes by a sensitive ear, although it is imperceptible to most persons. But by using a microphone it is an easy matter to hear the sounds which allow of opening the lock.”
He had taken a yellow chamois bag out of the safe and opened it.
Inside sparkled the famous Moulton diamonds. He held them up—in all their wicked brilliancy. No one spoke.