Penfield frowned at his note pad. “What had made her nervous?”
“A motor accident in the early afternoon,” quietly. “Her electric was run into by a taxicab, and while no one was hurt, she suffered from fright and shock.”
“Too bad,” commented Penfield, his manner somewhat sympathetic, and would have added more, but Detective Ferguson, tired of the rôle of listener, broke in brusquely.
“Who is the dead man, Major Richards?” he demanded.
“I do not know.” The low-spoken answer was firm and Richards’ gaze did not waver before their stares. The detective was the first to look away.
“I see, a case of ordinary burglary,” he said, moving to the dead man. “He’s wearing a dark suit, good quality cloth, however, and rubber heeled shoes.” He transferred his gaze to the safe, only partly visible from where he stood owing to the position of a large, tufted lounging chair. “Ah,” striding over to it, he laid his hand on the levers and the door swung open without resistance. “It’s unlocked; evidently the burglar got it open before—” He checked his hasty speech and faced Richards who had watched his rapid movements with interest. “Who owns this safe?”
“Mr. Robert Hale.”
“Is it usually left unlocked?”
“I believe not.”
“You believe not”—the detective caught him up quickly. “Are you not familiar with Mr. Hale’s habits?”