Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 51, No. 2, June 28, 1930

“Not at all. Caresse is not musical. We have no radio and no musical instrument of any sort in the house. This is the ninth or tenth time I have heard the thing. At night it is hideous, when I am down here alone.”

The sound of the violin was dying out. Exquisitely played, it was growing fainter, and even as the lieutenant, using the combination he remembered, wrenched open the door, it ceased.

The softly carpeted corridor stretched away in both directions, entirely empty. There were no doors near the professor’s workroom.

“You have looked for this violin?” he asked the professor, as he returned to the room.

“Certainly,” said Wheatland still mopping his brow. “I have done all that mortal man can to solve its mystery. Of course it is a human agency, and it is not the thought of ghosts which upsets me, lieutenant. It is the thought of my own death with my work unaccomplished, and my wife and her lover triumphing.”

Chapter III

A Murderer Defied

Dinner at the Wheatlands’. The long table, set in a room which was a triumph of paneling and tapestries, was weighed down with silver, exquisite china and glass. A delicate garden of orchids and ferns ran straight down the middle of it. Candlelight shed a soft glow over the women’s gowns, the men’s white shirt fronts, the silently moving figures of the two men serving, the pugilistic Jock and another man whom Lieutenant Williams did not know. A breath of flowers drifted in from the gardens through the open French windows.

At the head of the table sat Caresse Wheatland, a girl whom the lieutenant instantly found it difficult to describe. She was a flame, a flash, a vivid dash of exotic color, a lovely flare of something unbelievably exquisite — but definitely dangerous. Auburn-haired and brown-eyed, slim as a rapier, with a delicious curving mouth and a naturally perfect skin, she would dominate any gathering. For behind her arresting beauty was plenty of brains. Williams could see why the professor might fancy her in love with some other man, even plotting with the other man to free herself. She was nothing that could ever be held long by one person — as uncertain as quicksilver.

Had it not been for the music of that weird violin down in the strange room where the professor worked, the blasé young police lieutenant would not have believed any of the professor’s story. The man might be a genius, but he seemed a trifle cracked. But he could not forget that violin. If it could be explained by something logical, as of course it could, it at any rate spelled clanger for the professor.

Again and again the lieutenant’s puzzled eyes came back from a study of the guests, to that exotic young hostess, an emerald-studded cigarette holder between her rouged lips. What material she would make for the press if she ever got herself into a mixup! And then, naturally, his eyes went to the reporter, Fred Frisby, who sat on Mrs. Wheatland’s right and absorbed a good deal of her attention. Frisby was a sandy-haired young man with a likeable face and a store of good dinner yarns.

Next to Frisby sat Saleworth, the diamond expert, a gray-haired youngish man with a slow voice and a droll wit. The lieutenant did not pay much attention to him. Then came Linda Price, a fair-haired, dimpled young woman, who wore many diamonds and laughed at everything any one said.

Phil Farren, the lawyer, sat beside Linda. He was a type one passes on the street every day, medium height, medium color, medium brains, Williams decided, though he could not be too sure. He must not make a mistake about these people, for if that crazy professor was right, a clever crime was hatching about that magnificent dinner table. Boy, what news it would make! And what a case for his office!

Next to Farren sat the host, and next to him the chemist, Will Clinton. Stout and rather red-faced, and possessed of a jovial laugh, Clinton did not seem the type to make the brilliant successes he had made in his line, which went to show, thought Williams grimly, that one must not be too swift to judge, and certainly not in his work.

He himself sat beside Clinton, and next to him came Eddie Harmer, the idle millionaire. Harmer was young, as young as the lovely hostess, and his wavy dark hair, dark eyes and swarthy skin, coupled with a good figure and perfect grooming, made him very attractive. Caresse seemed to think so, for when she could tear herself from Frisby she turned instantly to Harmer, to the exclusion of the rest of the table which she left to Linda Price and her husband.

If any of those well bred people felt uncomfortable to have a police lieutenant seated at that exclusive board with them, they gave no evidence of it. Perhaps they were accustomed to the eccentricities of the host, although his presence, thought Williams, must cause the man who was contemplating a crime, some uneasiness.