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 SECOND EDITION

Oracle PL/SQL Best Practices

Steven Feuerstein

Beijing • Cambridge • Farnham • Köln • Paris • Sebastopol • Taipei • Tokyo

Oracle PL/SQL Best Practices, Second Edition
by Steven Feuerstein

Copyright © 2008 Steven Feuerstein. All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America.

Published by O’Reilly Media, Inc., 1005 Gravenstein Highway North, Sebastopol, CA 95472.

O’Reilly books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. Online
editions are also available for most titles (safari.oreilly.com). For more information, contact
our corporate/institutional sales department: (800) 998-9938 or [email protected].

Editors: Deborah Russell and Mary Treseler Cover Designer: Karen Montgomery
Production Editor: Rachel Monaghan Interior Designer: David Futato
Proofreader: Rachel Monaghan Illustrator: Robert Romano
Indexer: Angela Howard

Printing History:
April 2001: First Edition.
October 2007: Second Edition.

Nutshell Handbook, the Nutshell Handbook logo, and the O’Reilly logo are registered
trademarks of O’Reilly Media, Inc. Oracle PL/SQL Best Practices, the image of red wood ants,
and related trade dress are trademarks of O’Reilly Media, Inc.

Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are
claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book, and O’Reilly Media,
Inc. was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed in caps or initial
caps.

While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and
author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use
of the information contained herein.

This book uses RepKover™, a durable and flexible lay-flat binding.

ISBN-10: 0-596-51410-7
ISBN-13: 978-0-596-51410-5
[M]
 To the many PL/SQL programmers
around the world who have enriched my
life and made PL/SQL the amazing
success that it is.
 Table of Contents

Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix

1. The Big Picture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Successful Applications Are Never an Accident 2
Best Practices for Successful Applications 5

2. Real Developers Follow Standards . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37

Best Practices for Developing and Using Standards 38

3. Life After Compilation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51

Testing, Tracing, and Debugging 52
Best Practices for Testing, Tracing, and Debugging 53

4. What’s Code Without Variables? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73

Best Practices for Declaring Variables and Data Structures 73
Best Practices for Using Variables and Data Structures 81
Best Practices for Declaring and Using Package Variables 88

5. Developer As Traffic Cop . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95

Best Practices for Conditional and Boolean Logic 95
Best Practices for Loop Processing 101
Best Practices for Branching Logic 111

6. Doing the Right Thing When Stuff Goes Wrong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114

Best Practices for Understanding Error Handling 115
Best Practices for Nitty-Gritty, Everyday Exception Programming 131
Best Practices for Coding Defensively 135

vii
 7. Break Your Addiction to SQL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140
SQL Is Bad! 141
General SQL Best Practices 144
Best Practices for Querying Data from PL/SQL 158
Best Practices for Changing Data from PL/SQL 163
Best Practices for Dynamic SQL 168

8. Playing with Blocks (of Code) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179

Best Practices for Parameters 180
Best Practices for Procedures and Functions 186
Best Practices for Packages 205
Best Practices for Triggers 211

9. My Code Runs Faster Than Your Code . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 218

Best Practices for Finding Slow Code 219
Best Practices for High-Impact Tuning 225
Best Practices for Other Tuning 240

A. Best Practices Quick Reference . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247

B. Resources for PL/SQL Developers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 252

Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259

viii | Table of Contents

 Preface

I love getting started on new projects (and I include working on new editions of
existing books in that general category). It is the perfect opportunity to say to
myself: “I am going to get it right this time!”
That fantasy usually persists only for days (or maybe weeks) into a project before
it fades, but in the case of the second edition of Oracle PL/SQL Best Practices, I
managed to live out my fantasy all the way through. You are holding the result in
your hands, and I hope you enjoy reading and learning from it as much as I
enjoyed writing it.
Here’s how I managed this remarkable feat: I took a vow to not let best practices
get boring.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I liked the first edition of this book, and so did its
many readers. Yet in hindsight, I feel as if I took a right turn when I should have
kept going straight. My first book, Oracle PL/SQL Programming, has been
extremely popular over the years, and many people have told me how much they
like the sense of humor, the anecdotes, and the many detailed examples.
Several years after the publication of Oracle PL/SQL Programming, I wrote Oracle
PL/SQL Best Practices. And somehow, for reasons I cannot recall, I managed to
make this book a somewhat preachy and rigidly structured text. Luckily for me,
developers seem to like lots of structure and don’t mind too much being preached
at by people they trust!
But as I considered revamping this book for its second edition, I found myself
thinking: best practices are really important, but that doesn’t mean they have to
be serious—they can be fun and entertaining (as much for me to write as for you
to read)!
So that’s what I did: I had fun writing this book. I sacrificed some of the rigidity
of structure, emphasized practicality over theoretical usefulness, and generally
came down off my perch (don’t worry—there are still more than enough rants
and soapboxing!). In this second edition, I’ve tried to make the discussion a lot
more interesting by sharing many of my ideas about best practices through

ix
stories about the successes and failures of the employees of the fictitious
company, My Flimsy Excuse, Inc., and the adventures of its development team
(the members of the team are described later in the Preface). Of course, I have also
updated the text to keep pace with Oracle Corporation’s implementation of new
PL/SQL features, including those in Oracle Database 11g.

Why Best Practices?

My intention with this book is to provide you with a set of best practices—guide-
lines for building programs and applications—that will improve (and, I hope,
transform) the PL/SQL code you write. Some of these best practices are high-level
recommendations for how to approach designing and writing your overall appli-
cations. Other best practices are much more oriented to day-to-day programming
practice. In most of my recommendations, I include references to code or tools
that you can download that will make it easier for you to apply these
recommendations.
Chapter 1, The Big Picture, covers the high-level recommendations for writing
high-quality code. The remaining chapters of the book explore how to apply
specific guidance to the everyday realities of software development. Before we
delve into these specific recommendations, though, I would like to take advan-
tage of this Preface to offer some thoughts on the role of software developers—
and the nature of our jobs—in the big, wide world “out there” beyond our code.

Best Practices and the Real World

Clearly, software developers want to (and should) pay attention to best practices
so that they will be able to create more successful applications. I also believe,
however, that the responsibility of developers goes well beyond the specific
projects on which they are working.
After all, you are one of the people who make software possible, who therefore
make computer systems like the Internet possible. That is an awesome amount of
power, but as Spider Man’s uncle tells us, “With great power comes great
responsibility.”
From this perspective, it is very important to understand that you are not just a
cog in the corporate wheel. When you are told to write a program, you should
engage fully with that request. You should make sure not only that you under-
stand in detail what it is the user wants you to write, but also that you appreciate
how this program will meet its business objectives.
As a programmer, you are trained to think logically about the challenges in front
of you. This rational thought process is not something to be taken for granted.
Many other humans have never received such training and don’t know how to
reason their way through complex and thorny problems. Given this background,
you can often help your users more clearly understand their own roles and their
own challenges.

x | Preface
Your responsibility also extends beyond business objectives. You have an ethical
responsibility to make sure that the software you write will not cause harm. Let’s
face it: executives of companies cannot always be trusted to do the right thing for
their customers, for the company and its employees, and for society at large. Let’s
not forget the terrible lessons learned from Enron, Arthur Andersen, Union
Carbide, Halliburton, and so many others. If you write software that enables exec-
utives in your firm to break the law or simply take advantage of those less
fortunate, then you are complicit in that unethical behavior.
Of course, most of us will never be placed in such an ethical quandary. Instead,
our main challenge will be to remember how much humanity depends on soft-
ware, and how much we can all be hurt by buggy software, software that is not
secure, and software that is simply badly designed—programs that waste the time
of users and greatly increase their stress levels.

They Call This “Work”?

Can you really call what we do work? Most people on this earth work very hard in
exchange for a paycheck. They drive buses, clean sewers, work in factories, pick
vegetables and fruit under a blazing sun, teach children, take care of sick people—
hard work that often takes a toll on their health and well-being. We, on the other
hand...what do we do? Here are a variety of ways to characterize our “work”:
Programming as poetry
We sit around in nice, air-conditioned offices or cubicles. We think about
things and write them down (or type them). And for this we get a paycheck.
It’s like getting paid to write poetry (and some of us actually do feel that our
programs are a form of poetry).
Programming as Sudoku
We play logical puzzles, similar in nature and often form to Sudoku or Master-
mind, all day long. Incredible! Seriously, think about it: when your manager asks
you to implement a program, it may initially sound boring and therefore like
work. Here’s an example: suppose you are told to write a program to calculate
the mortgage payments for a customer. OK, you can be bored with it, or you
can in your mind “translate” the specification for that program into the logic
puzzle that it really is. The solution is the working program. The logical steps
you have to go through represent the algorithm you will need to write.
Programmer as mediation
Software generally aims to capture a small slice of the real world within
cyberspace. Cyberspace is an artificial environment of our own making that is
powered by computers. Computers are dumb machines that perform compu-
tations very rapidly. Because computers are dumb, humans must
communicate with them using very rigid syntax and commands, following
patterns that match up with the computer. Most people don’t know the
syntax or are not very good at thinking in these ways (procedural, object-
oriented, symbolic logic, etc.). So we, the programmers, act as intermediaries
between “normal people” and dumb computers.

Preface | xi
Software is a responsibility, but it can also be a joy. So the next time you find
yourself complaining about how dull your job is, or how you hate Cubicle Land
and wish you could see out a window, please try to keep in perspective just how
wonderful our lives really are!
And then express your gratitude for the opportunity to live a “life of the mind” by
writing the best possible code and testing it thoroughly. Your users will thank
you, and you will be so much more satisfied with life inside that cubicle.

The Cast of Characters

Software is still, for the most part, written by humans. So who are the humans
who write the software I describe and critique in this book? Let’s meet the cast of
characters who inhabit the second edition of Oracle PL/SQL Best Practices. They
work for a company called My Flimsy Excuse,* Inc. (MFE), and their web site is
myflimsyexcuse.com. The mission statement of My Flimsy Excuse is simple and
powerful:
Provide a wide array of excuses (flimsy and otherwise) to people in need of a
way to explain away questionable behavior.
The MFE founders love technology and don’t want to have any flimsy excuses for
failure, so they have chosen Oracle as their database technology. They have
several different development teams working on various aspects of the web-
deployed business plan. The team that has graciously volunteered to share its
experiences with my readers is made up of the following individuals:
Sunita
The team leader, a very smart woman with a fast, razor-sharp mind. She is
always busy, always constructive, and somewhat intimidating. She was a
programmer in years past, mostly trained in Fortran and then some C+. She
isn’t sure if that makes her a better manager or a bigger danger to the team,
but she still likes to get her hands “dirty” now and then, writing code.
Delaware
A classic anarchistic, anti-standards, big ego kind of programmer. He has a
hard time learning from anyone else, and writes code that is hard to
understand...but he is very productive and very bright. If you need a job
done overnight (literally), Delaware is the guy to do it. He claims to read up
on all the latest features of PL/SQL, but he generally programs in a rut—
relying on techniques learned years past in Oracle7. He keeps his thinning
hair neatly trimmed, with just a hint of a comb-over, and favors three-piece
suits from the Men’s Wearhouse.

* A “flimsy excuse” is an explanation for an action that is not very convincing and is easily exposed
as a rationalization or cover-up for the real intention of the action.

xii | Preface
 The “Proper” Way to Write Code
Best practices mean different things to different people.
As I was gearing up to write the second edition, a British reader of the first edi-
tion got in touch with me. He had passed along the first edition pullout of best
practice summaries and circulated it to the members of his development team.
A day or two later, he received the following message.
Jason,
I don’t know anything about the guy who wrote this book, but it’s obvious he
doesn’t know anything about doing “proper” programming.
Step 1 should always be start coding, without any delay.
Then add in these steps as well. Just fit them in wherever you think they
should be:
• Draw some sort of rough design on a scrap of paper (perhaps this
should be near the end).
• Rewrite code, since the initial thoughts were wrong.
• Rewrite code, since the user requirements were nothing like they really
wanted.
• Rewrite code, as you’ve just read an article on some obscure coding
method/language/technology and you thought it might look good on
your CV (translation: resume).
• Rewrite bits of code because an editor/PC/network failure has caused a
loss of work.
• Rewrite code, as they’ve found a really cheap Sun IPX on eBay for 15
pence (translation: roughly 30 cents) so they’re not getting the super all-
singing/all-dancing PC that was mentioned in the spec. This usually
involves switching language and development tools.
• Add some comments, as you’ve completely forgotten what a really
complicated function or procedure was doing.
• Rewrite the above function, as you’ve found a library routine that will
do it all in one call.
• Add a few days/weeks onto the plan for emailing your mates with
“witty” replies to their emails.
• The final step is to always do documentation (usually some months or
even years later, when you’ve likely forgotten whatever it is you were
doing “back then”).
Hope this helps bring you back to the real world.
Don’t show this to anyone important, as it might ruin any future employment
opportunities with our firm, unless of course they use the same methodology
as me....

Preface | xiii
 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
no money return, for the first attempt to sell it would focus suspicion
upon him.
If he had been so mad as to steal the watch as well as the bonds,
why had he been so foolhardy as to send it to a watchmaker to have
the chain repaired, trusting to any messenger to return it to him
unknown to others?
Judith stopped short in her restless walk as a sudden idea
occurred to her. Was her husband a kleptomaniac? Had he yielded
to an insane impulse to steal? Judith racked her brain to remember
what she had heard of kleptomania—that it was a recognized mental
derangement, an irresponsible and irresistible propensity to steal,
and that the kleptomaniac cared nothing for the objects stolen as
soon as the craze to steal was gratified. But Joe had cared enough
to sell her Valve bonds. That might have been a sane act, Judith
acknowledged to herself bitterly, but to take a useless watch which
would surely involve him in another and greater crime was the act of
insanity.
Would involve him—it had already involved him. Judith’s breath
came faster and perspiration appeared in beads on her forehead.
She knew John Hale’s stubborn will, his passionate affection for
Polly Davis—he would move heaven and earth to convict her
husband. What more likely than that he was already at Police
Headquarters swearing out a warrant for his arrest?
Judith’s loyalty to her husband was instantly in arms. He might be
a kleptomaniac,—if so, he was to be pitied and protected,—but he
was not a murderer—Judith’s faith remained unshaken. With all her
woman’s wit she would prove him worthy of her trust and devotion,
and clear him of any suspicion of complicity in Austin’s murder.
But how to go about it? The locket had disappeared while she
and her husband were sitting in the boudoir through which the thief
had to pass to enter the bedroom. There was but one person to her
knowledge to whom the locket was of vital importance—Polly Davis.
And she, Judith, had informed Polly that it was in her possession
only a short time before its disappearance. But the only living
persons who had had an opportunity to steal her jewelry were—
herself or her husband.
Judith shuddered—had Joe’s thieving propensities caused him to
take her jewelry? Her back had been toward him when he went to
get her glass of water, but even if there had been time for him to slip
into their bedroom and get the jewelry, where had he hidden it
without her seeing him? Judith stared dully at the opposite wall,
despair tugging at her heartstrings.
“Hello, Judith,” called a cheery voice from the doorway, and
Judith, whirling around with a violent start, saw Dr. McLane, black
bag in hand, looking at her. “I have just been upstairs treating Anna’s
ankle and I stopped in here on my way out to see if any one was at
home.”
“Come in, doctor,” she exclaimed. “You have arrived in answer to
my thoughts.”
As he took her extended hand in greeting he glanced quickly at
her—her palm was dry and hot to the touch. Instantly his fingers
sought her pulse.
“Come, Judith, this won’t do,” he remonstrated gravely. “Your
pulse is pounding like a millrace. I have cautioned you before—”
“Please, doctor, don’t scold,” she pleaded. “It is only caused by
momentary excitement. I’ll calm down after a talk with you.”
“Will you?” doubtfully. “Well, fire away.”
Judith wheeled a chair around. “Do sit down,” she coaxed, “I can’t
think of a thing to say while you stand with that air of bolting away.”
McLane laughed as he followed her wishes, placing the black
bag within reach. “I am all attention,” he declared. “Go ahead.”
“Can kleptomania be cured?”
McLane stared at her; the question was unexpected.
“Not permanently,” he replied, and Judith, who was toying with a
fan which was attached to a silk cord about her neck, raised it to her
lips to hide their trembling.
 “What are its symptoms?” she asked.
“Symptoms?” The surgeon was distinctly puzzled by her
questions. “It is a mental derangement usually found among the
wealthy class, for the craze lies in the act of stealing, and the article
stolen is of indifference to the genuine kleptomaniac and is often of
no value whatever. A thief steals for gain for himself or another.”
“I see.” Judith paused, and a moment later Dr. McLane, who had
been openly studying her—though she was unconscious of it—
roused her from her bitter thoughts.
“Where are your mother and Major Richards?” he inquired.
“They have gone to Walter Reed Hospital to see Major LeFevre,”
she explained. “I did not feel equal to the long trip and had them
leave me here after a short turn on the speedway.”
“It would have been better had you stayed out in the fresh air,”
commented McLane frankly. “You are brooding too much, Judith. I
fear”—with a keen glance at her—“Austin’s death has upset you
more than you realize.”
“We are all upset,” she admitted. “And the suspense—not
knowing who is guilty of the crime is terrible.” She paused a moment.
“Could it have been suicide?”
McLane shook his head. “Impossible, judging from the nature of
the wound,” he insisted. “The autopsy proved that.”
Judith straightened up. “You were present at the autopsy, were
you not?”
“Yes.”
“Doctor,”—Judith’s hesitation was perceptible as she toyed with
her fan—“do you believe that Austin was stabbed with a pair of
shears?”
“That is a difficult question to answer offhand, Judith,” he replied
gravely. “Austin’s death was caused by a punctured wound. These
wounds, Judith, are generally smaller in circumference than the
weapon used, for the skin is stretched and yields to a certain extent.
Therefore the wound might have been inflicted with long, slender
shears.”
Judith considered his answer in silence, a silence which seemed
endless to the busy surgeon. Finally, with a glance at her and
another at the dial of the clock, he rose and picked up his bag.
“I must go, Judith,” he said. “Take my advice, child, and lie down
for a while. If you don’t you will be added to my list of patients.
Please do as I ask you.”
Few could resist McLane’s charming smile, and Judith’s “I will”
was prompt. She experienced a strange reluctance to have him go,
and only an exertion of her self-control prevented her from calling
him back as she closed the front door on his retreating figure. In her
room Judith did her best to comply with McLane’s request, but she
could not lie still on the bed. Finally, unable longer to control her
desire for motion, she got up and wandered into the boudoir. From
there she went to her father’s den. He was not there, and Judith with
a glance into his bedroom, closed the door, and, going over to his
desk, she sat down before it and went carefully through his papers.
It was dusk, the early dusk of a winter afternoon when Judith
again entered the library. Anna, the waitress, had not performed her
usual duties of turning on the electric lights, and Judith contented
herself with switching on the lamp nearest her father’s safe.
Dropping on her knees before it, she propped a playing card on a
stool beside her, and, placing her hand on the knob of the steel door,
turned the dial. It was slow, laborious work and perspiration trickled
into Judith’s eyes. She saw but dimly the Knave of Hearts—the red
of the playing card alone showed up plainly. A last twist of her wrist
and the heavy steel door swung backward, and Judith sank down in
a crouching position to rest her cramped muscles.
She was still looking directly inside the safe when a handkerchief
was drawn across her eyes and a hand detached the wire
connecting her earphone and the little electric battery which she
wore tucked inside her belt. Completely taken by surprise and too
paralyzed to move, Judith sat motionless as the hand, having
completed its mission, slid around and covered her mouth. Then,
before she could scramble to her feet, hands dragged her backward
until she felt herself resting against a table leg. It took but a moment
to tie her to it; the next instant a handkerchief gag replaced the hand
across her mouth.
For what seemed an eternity Judith sat without motion, cut off
from sound, from sight—
Surely the distorted silhouettes dancing before her vision were
creatures of her imagination! Or could it be the shadows of real
people seen through the folds of the handkerchief?
Bound, blindfolded, gagged, deprived of her earphone, and her
hearing deadened by nature, Judith’s heart was beating with
suffocating rapidity. She must get aid—aid before she fainted.
Instinctively she bit and worried her gag, and the handkerchief,
insecurely tied, parted finally. Judith filled her lungs with air,
moistened her parched lips, and tried to call for help.
The whispered cry reached only to the confines of the room. To
Judith’s ears no sound penetrated, and she waited in agony. Had her
shout carried beyond the library? Surely the maids, her father—
some one must hear her?
She opened her mouth for another attempt, and an oblong object
was thrust between her teeth and lashed around her head. Once
again she was left to herself. The excruciating pain produced by the
new gag caused Judith to clench her teeth against it so as to relieve
the pressure on the strained flesh.
Judith had lost all track of time when suddenly she felt the cords,
binding her to the table leg, loosened, and, as consciousness left
her, she was lifted upward, a dead weight.
 CHAPTER XVIII
EDGED TOOLS

Robert Hale crossed the central hall and entered the library with
characteristic haste. On finding only a solitary light burning, he
stopped and switched on the other lamps until the library was
flooded with light.
“Hello!” he exclaimed, catching sight of Major Richards standing
in front of the fireplace. “Glad you are ready for dinner. It never fails,
Joe, if I am hungry, Mrs. Hale is always late. She never has a well
regulated appetite.”
Richards laughed. “Your wife told me not to change into a dinner
coat,” he explained, glancing apologetically at his sack suit. “She
said we were so late in getting back from Walter Reed Hospital that
there was not time.”
“Beastly bore changing for dinner.” Hale wandered aimlessly
about the library. “Agatha insists upon it, so”—a shrug completed the
sentence. “See that you imbue Judith with the idea that you are
master, and you will enjoy future peace of mind.”
“I cannot conceive of Judith’s ever requiring a master,” retorted
Richards, a trifle heatedly, and Hale laughed.
“You are young and you haven’t been married long,” he remarked
indulgently. “Where’s Judith?”
“She hasn’t come down yet.” Richards removed his foot from the
brass fire iron and stood with his back to the mantel. “I plan to take
Judith to Palm Beach on Thursday.”
“You do, eh?” and Hale looked taken aback.
“Yes,” steadily. “Judith is not strong.”
 Hale did not reply. Instead, he scrutinized his son-in-law from his
well shod foot to the top of his short cropped hair. There was an air
of distinction, of courage, in Richards’ carriage and in his firm chin
and clear eyes, eyes which did not waver before Hale’s piercing
glance.
“That is not a bad plan of yours,” Hale remarked finally. “Perhaps
Agatha and I will follow you in a week or two. The fact is”—he
selected a chair near Richards—“Austin’s death and the mystery
surrounding it are getting on every one’s nerves. It is demoralizing
the household. The police—bah! they are incompetents. They never
see the obvious.”
“And what is the obvious, Mr. Hale?”
Hale hesitated and cast a doubtful look at his son-in-law.
“The curious behavior of a certain female—”
Richards bent forward and stared at him, waiting for the sentence
to be completed.
“What female do you allude to?” he demanded impatiently,
breaking the pause.
The portières were pulled aside, and Anna, the waitress,
appeared, silver salver in hand.
“Beg pardon, Mr. Hale, but here is a telegram for Miss Davis,”
and she extended it to him. “The messenger refused to take it to her
house address.”
“Very well, I will see that it is forwarded.” Hale put on his glasses,
inspected the Western Union envelope and its address, then laid the
telegram on the table. “Has Mr. John returned, Anna?”
“No, sir,” and Anna limped away to the pantry by way of the
dining room as Mrs. Hale stepped between the portières in front of
the doorway leading to the central hall.
“Now, don’t say I am late, Robert,” she began. “I have lost no
time, and I do believe I am down before Judith,” with a quick glance
about the library. “What did you do with yourself this afternoon?”
 “Took a walk,” laconically. Hale drummed his fingers on the chair,
and Richards wondered for the second time what made him so
restless. He had always an alertness of manner, but to Richards it
now appeared almost furtive. Hale pointed to the clock. “Why do we
have to wait for Judith and John?” he demanded. “Suppose we go in
to dinner.”
Richards left his place by the mantel. “I’ll go for Judith,” he
volunteered. “I would have done so before, Mrs. Hale; I but stopped
in here on our return, thinking she would come in every minute.”
As he crossed the library, a door slammed in the distance and
heavy footsteps approached just as Richards reached the portières.
They were dragged aside and he came face to face with John Hale
whose labored breathing indicated haste or excitement, or both
combined.
“So you are here!” John Hale exclaimed in high satisfaction, and
called over his shoulder, “Come in, Ferguson. No, you don’t,” as
Richards, who had stepped back courteously to permit him to
advance into the library, started for the hall. “You’ll stay here and
face the music,” and he thrust out his hand to push him back.
“Take your hands off my shoulder,” commanded Richards, his
anger rising both at his words and action. “What do you wish with
me?”
“I wish you to explain in the presence of witnesses”—John Hale
cast a triumphant look at his brother and sister-in-law before
continuing—“how you obtained this watch,” and, drawing it out of his
pocket, he swung it before Richards.
Richards looked first at the watch and then at his questioner.
“It would be just as well if you first explained how it came into
your possession,” he remarked quietly, and John Hale crimsoned.
“Don’t take that tone with me,” he exclaimed. “I have the law
behind me.”
“If the law is represented in the person of Detective Ferguson, it
is loitering directly back of you,” broke in his brother who, with Mrs.
Hale, had drawn closer to the two angry men. “Come in, Ferguson,
don’t stand on the outskirts. My brother is not really so formidable as
he appears.”
Ferguson, who had purposely remained in the background, an
interested spectator of the scene, flushed at Hale’s mocking tone
and entered the library with some precipitancy. Hale watched him in
open amusement, then he turned to his brother.
“Continue your remarks, John,” he directed. “We are waiting.”
“I am addressing Major Richards and not you,” retorted his
brother. “Well, sir, what about the watch?”
“I am waiting for an answer to my question, Mr. Hale,” responded
Richards.
“How I got the watch doesn’t concern you.” John Hale spoke with
more deliberation. “How you obtained possession of Austin’s watch
does concern—the police.”
“Austin’s watch!” gasped Mrs. Hale. “Good heavens!” She leaned
nearer and inspected it, taking care not to touch the watch. “Where
did it come from?”
“That is what I am asking Major Richards. Perhaps he will be
more courteous and answer your question, as it is addressed by a
woman”—and John Hale looked scornfully at Richards.
“The gibe is unnecessary,” retorted the latter. “As the watch is in
your possession and not in mine, it is up to you to explain how you
got it.”
Hale laughed outright. “He has you there, John,” he chuckled.
“Have you an answer ready?”
Ignoring his brother, John Hale addressed himself exclusively to
Richards.
“Austin’s watch was sent to this house by Jennings, the
watchmaker, with whom you left it to have the chain repaired. See, it
bears your name,” and he displayed the label still attached to the
watch. Richards read the words on it with interest.
 “Well, what have you to say?” demanded John Hale, as he made
no remark.
“That the watch bears my name does not prove that I left the
watch with this man, Jennings,” Richards stated, and John Hale
turned triumphantly to the detective.
“There, didn’t I tell you he would take that attitude?” he cried. “It
won’t do, Richards. Ferguson and I have just seen Jennings and he
described you accurately in giving an account of the man who left
the watch with him on Wednesday—mind you, later in the same
morning on which Austin was found murdered. How did you get
possession of Austin’s watch?”
Richards looked steadily at the excited man before him, at the
others—noting instantly the serious expression of Mrs. Hale’s
countenance, her husband’s intent interest, and Ferguson’s keen
attention. Then, slowly, he glanced around the library—Judith was
not present. He drew a long breath.
“I decline to answer your question, Mr. Hale,” he said.
Ferguson stepped forward. “It would be best, Major, if you did,”
he suggested. “That is a bit of friendly advice.”
“Thanks,” dryly. “Had you not better warn me that anything I say
will be used against me?”
Hale chuckled, then grew serious. “Come, John, what does this
scene mean?” he demanded of his brother. “What are you trying to
prove?”
“That Major Richards has a guilty knowledge of, or is guilty of,
Austin’s murder,” he replied, and at his words a cry broke from Mrs.
Hale and she collapsed in the nearest chair.
Richards looked at John Hale in silence for a brief second.
“So that is it,” he exclaimed. “I congratulate you on your acumen.
Now, perhaps you will tell me why I murdered a man whom I had
never seen?”
 “Oh, don’t say that, don’t,” wailed Mrs. Hale. “I found your name
in Austin’s membership book of his Senior secret society at Yale.”
Richards regarded her in surprise. “Certainly my name is in the
book; but I graduated at Yale before Austin’s freshman year.”
John Hale smothered an oath. “Whether you knew Austin or not
is immaterial. When a man is caught in the act of burglarizing a safe
he doesn’t need an introduction to the man who detects him—he kills
him—as you murdered Austin.”
Richards shrugged his shoulder. “You will have it that way,” he
spoke with studied indifference, as he again stole a look about the
room—where was Judith? “Has it ever occurred to you that Austin
might have been rifling Mr. Hale’s safe and was killed in the act—”
“By whom?” gasped Mrs. Hale; her face was ashen in color.
“I leave that conundrum to the police,” replied Richards. “It was
but a suggestion.”
“Which carries no weight,” retorted John Hale. “This watch isn’t
the only thing we have on you, Richards.” He turned to his brother.
“What was stolen from your safe on Tuesday night?”
Mrs. Hale’s sudden start was lost on her husband. Hale looked at
Richards queerly, thought a minute, then answered with brevity.
“Ten bonds of the Troy Valve Company belonging to Judith.”
“And those bonds, Richards, you sold to cover your losses in
speculation,” declared John Hale.
Richards contemplated the two brothers in thunderstruck silence.
“You say that Judith had Valve bonds in your safe which were
stolen on Tuesday night, Mr. Hale?” he demanded of the elder
brother.
“Yes.”
“So it was your wife’s bonds which you first stole and then sold”—
John Hale was enjoying himself. He had caught the hunted look in
Richards’ eyes. Turning, he winked at Ferguson, and when he again
faced Richards, the latter had himself well in hand.
“You have stated twice now that I sold Valve bonds,” Richards
began. “It is up to you to prove it.”
“And I can”—wheeling around, John Hale seized the desk
telephone and repeated a number. A second more and he called into
the instrument:
“John Hale speaking, Frank. Come over to the house as quickly
as you can. Polly—what about Polly?—I don’t catch that—tell me
when you get here,” and he banged up the receiver, then turned to
the others in the library. “It won’t take Latimer five minutes to reach
here.”
“And why is his presence required?” questioned Richards. “It
strikes me that this scene has been prolonged unnecessarily.”
“Possibly, from your viewpoint.” John Hale’s smile was not
pleasant. “Don’t get nervous at this stage of the game.”
Richards’ eyes blazed and he made a quick step in his direction
—to find the way blocked by Detective Ferguson.
“None o’ that,” he exclaimed hastily. “Remember, Mrs. Hale is
present.”
Richards pulled himself together and his right arm dropped to his
side.
“I quite understand that Mr. John Hale is aware that he has the
protection of a woman’s presence,” he remarked. Again Robert Hale
chuckled faintly, while his brother, coloring hotly, had difficulty in
curbing his unruly tongue. The latter turned abruptly to his sister-in-
law.
“Agatha, suppose you leave us,” he suggested.
“I will not,” and Mrs. Hale, whose eyes were twice their usual
size, squared herself in her seat. “I gather, John, I am needed here
to keep you in order.”
 “Quite right, my dear,” and her husband patted her approvingly on
the back, before turning to his brother. “Now, John, if you have any
more remarks to address to Major Richards, omit all personalities
or”—his voice deepened—“I shall have to request you to leave the
room.”
Ferguson caught the look that John Hale shot at his brother and
stepped gamely into the breach. He had divined earlier in the
investigation that it took little to arouse the smoldering animosity
between the brothers.
“Major Richards,” he commenced, “you told Coroner Penfield that
you spent Tuesday evening at the Metropolitan Club. At what hour
did you leave the club for home?”
Richards considered the question. “It was just midnight,” he
stated. “I am positive as to the time for the clocks were chiming when
I left the building, and I waited and counted the strokes—twelve of
them.”
The detective consulted a page in his notebook. “You also told
the coroner that you reached here about twenty minutes past one on
Wednesday morning. Where did you stop between here and the
club?”
“Nowhere.”
Ferguson eyed him intently. “The club is about fifteen minutes
walk from here, at the outside,” he declared. “Do you contend that it
took you over an hour to reach this house?”
“Yes,” quietly. “Your circles and avenues are confusing and I lost
my way.”
John Hale laughed aloud. “A great alibi,” he sneered. “Austin was
murdered between Tuesday midnight and one a. m. Wednesday—
thus you had ample time to reach here, kill him, leave the house and
return a few minutes after one o’clock.”
“You think so?” Richards shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.
“Well, prove it.”
 “I will.” John Hale waved his walking stick which he had brought
with him into the library in his haste to encounter Richards. “And
here’s one link in the chain now,” as Frank Latimer was ushered in
by Anna, the waitress, whose curious glance at the excited group
escaped notice. “Frank, did Major Richards sell ten bonds of the Troy
Valve Company in your office on Friday afternoon?”
“He did.” The little stockbroker stared at each in turn, and the
gravity of their expression was reflected in his manner.
“Did Judith call there that same afternoon?” Richards’ violent start
was seen by all, and John Hale’s eyes gleamed viciously as he
continued his questions. “Did she tell you that she owned ten bonds
of the Troy Valve Company, numbering from 37982 to 37991?”
“Yes.”
“And did those numbers correspond with the numbers on the
bonds sold you by Major Richards?”
“They did.”
John Hale turned to his brother. “You have a memorandum of
Judith’s bonds which were stolen from your safe on Tuesday night,”
he stated. “Repeat the numbers.”
There was a slight hesitation in Hale’s manner before he
complied with his brother’s abrupt request. Opening his leather
wallet, he found a memorandum and ran his eye down it.
“The numbers are the same,” he said, and replaced his wallet.
“Well, Richards, have you anything to say?” demanded John
Hale, and edged nearer him.
“Nothing—to you,” and John Hale flushed at his cutting tone.
“Perhaps you’ll have something to say to me, Major,” broke in
Detective Ferguson. “Will you tell us how you got those bonds?”
Richards eyed the little group; his gaze rested longest on Robert
Hale, then he turned to Ferguson, as the detective repeated his
question.
 “No,” he responded. “I will not tell you.”
Mrs. Hale leaned forward and placed a trembling hand on his
arm.
“Did Judith give you the bonds?” she asked timidly.
“No, Mrs. Hale, she did not,” and Richards, catching her pitying
look, felt a sudden tightening of his heartstrings. It was the first
expression of sympathy vouchsafed him. Where—where was
Judith?
Ferguson broke the brief pause.
“Major Richards,” he began, and Mrs. Hale clutched her chair in
her excitement. Her head felt heavy, her breathing stifled—Dr.
McLane had warned her about a weak heart. “You have heard Mr.
Latimer, a reputable witness, testify that you sold bonds belonging to
your wife, and Mr. Hale, your father-in-law, has stated that those
bonds were stolen from his safe on Tuesday night. You declare that
you left the Metropolitan Club on Tuesday at midnight, and that you
lost your way and spent an hour walking about the streets before
reaching this house at twenty minutes past one o’clock on
Wednesday morning. Can you substantiate that statement with
witnesses?”
“I cannot.” Richards’ gaze was unwavering and his voice firm, but
his face was white and strained. “I met no one while walking home.
That was the chief reason for my delay, because I had no
opportunity to ask the right direction to take. I have no sense of
locality.”
“Humph, very pretty!” commented John Hale, and Detective
Ferguson scowled at him.
“I’m handling this case, Mr. Hale.” He spoke harshly, and John
Hale showed instant resentment by returning the scowl as the
detective again addressed Richards. “You left the watch belonging to
the murdered man, Austin Hale, with Jennings to repair. That is
conclusive evidence that the watch had been in your possession.”
 “So you claim”—and Richards smiled politely. “Don’t let me
interrupt your little romance, Ferguson. Go on.”
Ferguson swallowed his wrath. “I am stating facts, Major, facts
which have been proved. Once more I’ll give you a chance to state
your version of how Austin’s watch came into your possession, and
the Valve bonds as well.”
“Thanks.” Richards’ brows were knit in a deep frown. “Do I
understand that I am your prisoner?”
Ferguson drew out a legal document. “I have this warrant for your
arrest,” he admitted.
“Then I will reserve what I have to say until I see a lawyer.”
“But, Major—”
“No, Ferguson,” firmly. “A prisoner’s right to consult a lawyer is a
constitutional right.”
“Prisoner!” Mrs. Hale started from her chair. “Robert—”
Robert Hale stepped forward. “Sit down, Agatha.” He pushed her
gently back in her chair before turning to Ferguson. “Who swore out
that warrant?”
“Your brother, Mr. John Hale.”
“So”—Hale faced his brother. “Have you forgotten our
conversation early this afternoon?”
“I have not.” John Hale shouldered Latimer to one side as he
stepped nearer the center of the room. “You tried to fasten Austin’s
murder on an innocent girl to shield your daughter’s husband.”
“An innocent girl!” Hale’s mocking smile brought his brother’s
rage to fever heat. “So innocent that when she quarreled with her
lover at their midnight meeting she killed him with her shears—
shears which I had bought for her the week before.” Swiftly he turned
to Ferguson. “Release Major Richards and arrest the real criminal,
Polly Davis.”
 An oath broke from John Hale, and in blind fury he twirled his
walking stick. His brother, by a dexterous twist only, avoided the
thrust. As the steel point of the sword cane came to rest directly
under the powerful light from a standing reading lamp, a scream
escaped Mrs. Hale.
“Look, look!” she cried. “It’s covered with blood.”
 CHAPTER XIX
THE UNSEEN EAR

Asslowly,
if hypnotized, John Hale stared at his sword cane, raising it
very slowly, then as slowly dropped the point and gazed at
his brother.
“It is blood,” he gasped. “But you are unhurt?”
“Yes.” Robert Hale’s voice was not quite steady. “You did not
reach me.”
“Then where did this blood come from?” demanded John Hale.
“It’s—it’s not fresh,” and there was a growing horror in the look he
cast at his companions.
Ferguson, who had followed every act and word with rapt
attention, picked up the bamboo cane casing which John Hale had
tossed to the floor when he drew the concealed weapon and lunged
at his brother. Stepping up to the dazed man, the detective took the
sword from his unresisting hand and examined it with interest.
“Austin Hale was killed by a rapier-like thrust,” he stated slowly.
“The autopsy proved that the wound was greater in depth than in
length. Is this your cane, Mr. Hale?”
John Hale wet his dry lips. “It is,” he muttered, and looked dumbly
at his silent, motionless companions.
“You carry it always?” asked Ferguson with dogged persistence.
“When I go out, yes.”
“Who knows that this ordinary-appearing bamboo cane conceals
a rapier?”
“My brother.” John Hale avoided looking at them, his eyes were
still on the sword cane.
 “Any one else?”
“N—no.”
“Quite sure?” and Ferguson tried to meet his eye.
“No—yes.” With an effort John Hale recovered some semblance
of his usual manner. “I may have spoken of the cane but I don’t recall
doing so. I bought it from an antique dealer and it’s been a fad of
mine to carry it.”
“I see.” Ferguson considered him steadily for a moment. “Where
were you on Tuesday night?”
“At the French Embassy reception.”
“Mrs. Hale,”—the detective spoke her name with such sharpness
that she jumped involuntarily—“was your brother-in-law with you at
the Embassy between midnight Tuesday and one o’clock
Wednesday morning?”
Mrs. Hale looked at no one in particular and wrung her hands.
“Must I answer?” she begged, turning imploringly to her husband
and, as she caught his expression, exclaimed: “No, I refuse to.”
“Don’t put yourself out for me, Agatha.” There was a sudden utter
weariness in John Hale’s tone, and Richards started and looked at
him intently. What did it portend? “I will answer your question,
Ferguson. I was not at the French Embassy during that time.”
“Where were you?”
There was a tense silence. When John Hale answered he spoke
hardly above a whisper.
“I had returned to this house to meet my stepson, Austin.”
Mrs. Hale collapsed. “Oh, dear! oh, dear, I’ve feared it all along,”
she wailed, and burst into tears. “Oh, Polly, Polly, you have a lot to
answer for!”
“Have I?” asked a strained voice, and Polly Davis, who had been
a stunned witness of the scene, advanced a few steps further into
the room, Anna, the waitress, peering over her shoulder with wide,
curious eyes. “Well, I am here to face the consequences.”
John Hale, who had not taken his eyes from her ghastly face,
sprang to her side.
“No!” he exclaimed vehemently. “No. Go home.”
“Presently,” she silenced him with an imperative gesture, before
turning to the detective.
“Whom do you accuse of the murder of Austin Hale?” she asked.
Ferguson scratched a bewildered head. “I did believe Major
Richards guilty,” he admitted slowly. “But seeing that Mr. Hale states
he came back here to meet his stepson, that Austin was killed at that
time with a rapier thrust, and that Mr. Hale’s sword cane has
bloodstains on it—” He paused. “Well, taking all that into
consideration and with the knowledge that he and Austin were not on
good terms—I guess—it looks as if Mr. Hale killed him.”
Polly drew a long, painful breath. “Wait,” she cautioned. “I was
here on Tuesday night.”
“Hush!” commanded John, a look of agony on his strong face.
“No, I must speak.” Polly partly turned from him and addressed
the others. “I wrote Austin on Saturday breaking our engagement,
but as Monday was Washington’s Birthday he never received the
letter until Tuesday morning. In answer I had a wire from Austin
stating that he would get here Tuesday about midnight. I”—her voice
quivered a bit, then steadied—“it was imperative that I see him
without delay, so I came, admitting myself with Mrs. Hale’s latchkey
which I had borrowed one day last week. I walked into the library”—
she caught her breath.
“Stop, Polly,” pleaded John Hale. “Stop. You don’t know what you
are saying.” Seeing that she paid no attention to his words, he
appealed to the detective. “For God’s sake tell her to stop—it’s not
fair—it’s cruel—she shall not convict herself.”
“What are you insinuating?” cried Polly. “Convict myself? Are you
mad? Austin was stabbed before I entered this house.”
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