Chapter IX: The Hidden Voice

In which a scientist half opens a reluctant door—The strange sleep of
Florence Ballau—The broken murmur—“It was ... it was ...”—In which a
detective scratches his ear and sighs—In which Julien De Medici puts
on his armor.

“May I examine this?” Dr. Lytton asked as the aide walked out of the lieutenant’s office.

“Yes, of course.”

Dr. Lytton and De Medici studied the bit of charred paper.

“The lady of the dagger,” the doctor spoke softly. De Medici nodded, and the lieutenant concealed a growing curiosity behind an official indifference.

“Yes,” continued Dr. Lytton, “the same hand that wrote ‘Floria.’ The script is identical.” He raised his voice. “I presume,” he inquired, “that you’ve established the fact this is Miss Ballau’s handwriting, lieutenant?”

Norton nodded comfortably.

“Yes,” he answered, “we’ve gone into that at some length. We’ve compared it with specimens of Miss Ballau’s normal handwriting. The similarity is obvious. Miss Ballau has two different handwritings. One of them a normal hand. The other—this. Our experts tell me that the writing here is indicative of a high emotional tension, almost fury, and that its resemblance to Miss Ballau’s normal hand is unmistakable. Dr. Greer is of the opinion that it’s the handwriting either of a drug addict or a person suffering from periodic insanity.”

“Exactly,” murmured Dr. Lytton. De Medici raised his eyes suddenly.

Framed in the doorway stood the pale, silent figure of Florence Ballau. De Medici sprang to his feet.

“Florence!” he cried.

She regarded him with an intent smile. He seized her hand and his eyes searched her face. An inscrutable pallor, a defiant and guarded gleam, these he observed instantly. But behind the unyielding pride of the young woman he perceived a confusion.

“Not fear, not fear,” repeated itself swiftly in his thought. “Then she is innocent. It’s something else. Grief, apprehension....”

He murmured her name again.

“Florence, do you forgive me for the thing I said in the theater?”

Her head moved imperceptibly.

“Yes.”

The dulled voice echoed miserably in his ears. Pity and love overcame his tongue. He continued to look at her in silence.

“Suffering ... suffering,” whispered itself in his thought. He noted that she had turned her eyes to the detective. A bustling little matron in white stood behind her.

“Good evening, Miss Ballau,” Norton addressed her. “Will you sit down, please?”

She lowered herself into a chair, her gestures preoccupied as if her wits were sleeping. Dr. Lytton had neither moved nor spoken. He sat now facing her, his eyes gleaming with a curious avidity.

“I have told Mr. De Medici,” began Norton. “He knows our whole story.”

“Yes,” De Medici smiled at her, “a charming and impossible tale.”

“Then you have changed your mind, Julien?” she murmured.

“Yes,” he answered, “I have, as they say in the melodramas, unshaken faith in your innocence.”

Again he took her hand and his voice grew deep with assurance.

“For a reason, Florence,” he said softly, “for a perfect and impregnable reason. Because——”

He paused, aware of Dr. Lytton’s restraining frown. He had been about to speak of the letter from Rollo.

“Tell me as much or as little as you wish,” he added. “Lieutenant Norton’s theories....” He shrugged his shoulders and smiled politely toward the detective. “Preposterous,” he finished.

Florence looked at him, her eyes dulled. She seemed to hear vaguely what he said. Fatigue and anguish appeared to have reduced her to a condition of semiconsciousness. Yet, behind the ivory mask of her face, her emotions were tearing at her senses. Her fingers moved spasmodically in her lap, her lips twitched, and the taut posture of her shoulders seemed to hold a hidden scream. Dr. Lytton leaned slowly forward and took her hand.

“I would like to talk to you,” he said in a low voice.

She moved her hand tiredly over her eyes.

“What do you want?”

“Look at me,” the pathologist demanded quietly. “And sleep.”

De Medici frowned. Hypnosis! The doctor was placing her under a sleep. His gleaming eyes were fastened unwaveringly on the face of the weary, anguish-ridden girl.

Norton raised his hand to object.

“A confession will be easy ... if there is one to be gotten,” Dr. Lytton anticipated him. Lowering his voice, he repeated the word, “sleep ... sleep....”

The figure of Florence Ballau underwent a curious change. The tension of her body slowly relaxed. Her eyes that had veiled the wildness of her thought grew large, calm and centered.

“Asleep,” murmured Dr. Lytton. The three men sat looking at her with amazement.

“She’s in a hypnotic state,” continued the doctor. “It was easy to put her to sleep. Her consciousness was already almost spent and exhausted with the struggle in her. And now,” he continued, facing the detective, “we can put the dual personality theory to a test. Not an infallible one. But a convincing one. It is almost impossible to obtain admissions from a hypnotized subject concerning crimes or sins openly committed. Because the mind which conceived and enjoyed these crimes and sins is usually the conscious mind. And it is this conscious mind which now sleeps in Miss Ballau.

“But,” he went on, still staring at her, “if the crime is committed by a usurper, if murder is done by the masked stranger, the subconscious mind, then it is sometimes simple. I’ll talk to her now. Not to Florence Ballau but to the other thing—the other personality, if there is one, that lives in the underworld of her soul. Miss Ballau is asleep. A door opens inside her and a furtive stranger steps out.”

His hand rested on her shoulder. He had risen and was leaning over her.

“Do you know who you are?” he asked softly.

The rigid lips of the subject parted and moved as if operated by marionette strings.

“Yes.”

“Who? Tell us your name....”

There was a pause.

“Your name?” repeated Dr. Lytton tensely. “She hesitates,” he whispered. “You see. There’s another name to come.... She hesitates.... A wary creature, this thing....”

The girl’s face swayed against the back of the chair. A moaning sound came from her.

“Acting,” mused De Medici slowly as his eyes watched her. “She pretends. She is awake, alive. She hesitates, uncertain what to do, what course to follow. Why? Ah, something to confess.”

His thought grew confused. She was acting, pretending a hypnoidal state and talking shrewdly, falling into the monotone familiar to the stage as denoting “trance condition.” De Medici felt convinced of this. Her monotone had betrayed her. At least, as her first words came he recalled instantly that this was the voice she had used in the part she had played a year ago.

“But I may be wrong,” he thought swiftly. “If it was real, if she were actually under hypnosis, her subconscious would utilize an easy voice—a voice without inflections or nuances and easy for its unaccustomed energies to operate....”

“Can’t you think of your name?” pressed Dr. Lytton. Her lips began again to move.

“Flor ... Flor ...” they pronounced.... “Florence Ballau.”

“A censorship operates,” murmured the pathologist. “The conscious mind lies on the threshold of this door and prevents it from opening. But she hesitated. A significant fact.”

His eyes held the wide, centered eyes of his subject.

“Do you remember the night your stepfather was killed?” he asked.

The lips parted and answered slowly, “Yes.”

“Will you tell the truth?” Dr. Lytton whispered.

“The truth,” repeated itself from her lips.

“Do you remember the murder of your stepfather?”

She shuddered. Her eyes moved as if they were struggling. Her hands quivered in her lap. But her lips remained firm.

“The truth,” Dr. Lytton whispered close to her. “Tell me the truth. There is nothing to fear. I’m your friend. I demand that you tell me what happened. Did you kill Victor Ballau?”

“No,” the lips moaned. “I came ... I came in....”

The girl swayed in the chair and the sentence remained unfinished.

“Go on,” Dr. Lytton spoke gently. He paused. She continued silent. “Listen, then,” he said, “tell me, then, who is Floria? Come, I insist on it. Who is Floria?”

The girl’s body shuddered. Her lips moved but made no sound.

“Acting,” De Medici whispered miserably to himself. “She wants to tell us something but can’t think clearly what.... No, not that. She does just what she wishes. She confuses us, leaves us up in the air more than before....” He caught a glimpse of Norton’s intent and reddish face.

“Who is Floria?” repeated Dr. Lytton.

Florence stared at him with her pupil-centered eyes.

“Floria,” she murmured. There was a pause. Suddenly a scream rose from her lips. She tumbled forward in her chair. De Medici sprang to her side and saved her from falling to the floor.

“She wakened,” Dr. Lytton explained, mopping his heavy face. “And she’s unconscious now.”

He summoned the startled-looking matron and ordered her to bring water and ammonia. Norton assisted them in reviving her.

“Please let me go back to the cell,” she murmured as her eyes opened. “I feel so tired....”

Norton shrugged his shoulders.

“We can gain nothing by talking to her,” Dr. Lytton agreed. “She’s on the verge of a collapse.”

The matron helped her to rise. De Medici stood beside her. He looked calmly at her eyes until they turned from him. Her confusion and anguish brought a deep pain to his own heart. But a conviction masked his emotions.

“She knows,” he murmured silently, “she knows and keeps silent. For a reason....”

He smiled almost happily at her as the matron led her away.

“Who is this Floria?” Lieutenant Norton was demanding.

De Medici turned to him.

“Ah, my dear lieutenant,” he answered, his voice strangely light, “a marvelous person. A suave Messalina.... You will find her some day. With our assistance.”

He bowed and his hand gracefully indicated the doctor.

“I’ve found just who I want,” Norton grunted. His keen eyes gleamed with irritation. “Miss Ballau has been booked for the murder of her stepfather.”

De Medici’s eyes showed no emotion.

“Good night,” he answered.

Dr. Lytton followed him out of the building. The pathologist’s face wore an air of violently suppressed excitement.