Of the two detectives who arrived in response to the Examiner’s call,
one almost literally fulfilled Eunice’s prophecy of a rude, unkempt,
common man. His name was Shane and he strode into the room with a
bumptious, self-important air, his burly frame looking especially
awkward and unwieldy in the gentle surroundings.
His companion, however, a younger man named Driscoll, was of a finer
type, and showed at least an appreciation of the nature of the home
which he had entered.
“We’re up from the homicide bureau,” Shane said to Dr. Crowell,
quite ignoring the others present. “Tell us all you know.”
In the fewest possible words the Medical Examiner did this, and Shane
paid close attention.
Driscoll listened, too, but his glance, instead of being fixed on the
speaker, darted from one to another of the people sitting round.
He noted carefully Eunice’s beautiful, angry face, as she sat, looking
out of a window, disdaining any connection with the proceedings. He
watched Miss Ames, nervously rolling her handkerchief into a ball
and shaking it out again; Mason Elliott, calm, grave, and earnestly
attentive; Alvord Hendricks, alert, eager, sharply critical.
And in the background, Ferdinand, the well-trained butler, hovering in
the doorway.
All these things Driscoll studied, for his method was judging from the
manners of individuals, whereas, Shane gathered his conclusions from
their definite statements.
And, having listened to Dr. Crowell’s account, Shane turned to Eunice
and said bluntly, “You and your husband good friends?”
Eunice gasped. Then, after one scathing glance, she deliberately turned
back to the window, and neglected to answer.
“That won’t do, ma’am,” said Shane, in his heavy voice, which
was coarse and uncultured but not intentionally rude. “I’m here to
ask questions and you people have got to answer ‘em. Mebbe I can put
it different. Was you and Mr. Embury on good terms?”
“Certainly.” The word was forced from Eunice’s scornful lips, and
accompanied by an icy glance meant to freeze the detective, but which
utterly failed.
“No rows or disagreements, eh?” Shane’s smile was unbearable, and
Eunice turned and faced him like an angry thing at bay.
“I forbid you to speak to me,” she said, and looked at Shane as if
he were some miserable, crawling reptile. “Mason, will you answer this
man for me?”
“No, no, lady,” Shane seemed to humor her. “I must get your own
word for it. Don’t you want me to find out who killed your husband?
Don’t you want the truth known? Are you afraid to have it told?
Hey?”
Shane’s secret theory was that of a sort of third degree applied at
the very beginning often scared people into a quick confession of the
truth and saved time in the long run.
Driscoll knew of this and did not approve.
“Let up, Shane,” he muttered; “this is no time for such talk. You
don’t know anything yet.”
“Go ahead, you,” returned Shane, not unwillingly, and Driscoll did.
“Of course we must ask questions, Mrs. Embury,” he said, and his
politeness gained him a hearing from Eunice.
She looked at him with, at least, toleration, as he began to question
her.
“When did you last see Mr. Embury alive, ma’am?”
“Last night,” replied Eunice, “about midnight, when we retired.”
“He was in his usual health and spirits?”
“Yes.”
“You have two bedrooms?”
“Yes.”
“Door between?”
“Yes.”
“Open or shut--after you said good-night to Mr. Embury?”
“Closed.”
“Locked?”
“No.”
“Who shut it.”
“Mr. Embury.”
“Bang it?”
“Sir?”
“Did he bang it shut? Slam it?”
“Mr. Embury was a gentleman.”
“Yes, I know. Did he slam that door?”
“N--, no.”
“He did,” and Driscoll nodded his head, as if not minding Eunice’s
stammered denial, but not believing it, either.
“Now, as he closed that door with a bang, ma’am, I gather that you
two had a--well, say, a little tiff--a quarrel. Might as well own up,
ma’am,--it’ll come out, and it’s better you should tell me the
truth.”
“I am not accustomed to telling anything else!” Eunice declared,
holding herself together with a very evident effort. “Mr. Embury and I
had a slight difference of opinion, but not enough to call a quarrel.”
“What about?” broke in Shane, who had been listening intently.
Eunice did not speak until Elliott advised her. “Tell all Eunice--it
is the best way.”
“We had a slight discussion,” Eunice said, “but it was earlier in
the evening. We had spent the evening out--Mr. Embury at his club, and
I at the house of a friend. We came home together--Mr. Embury called for
me in our own car. On reaching home, we had no angry words--and as it
was late, we retired at once. That is all. Mr. Embury closed the door
between our bedrooms, and that is the last I ever saw of him until--this
morning--”
She did not break down, but she seemed to think she had told all and she
ceased speaking.
“And then he was dead,” Shane mused. “What doctor did you call?”
Dr. Crowell took up the narrative and told of Dr. Harper and Dr.
Marsden, who were not now present. He told further of the mysterious and
undiscoverable cause of the death.
“Let me see him,” said Shane, rising suddenly.
Most of this man’s movements were sudden--and as he was in every
respect awkward and uncouth, Eunice’s dislike of him grew momentarily.
“Isn’t he dreadful!” she cried, as the two detectives and the
Medical Examiner disappeared into Embury’s room.
“Yes,” agreed Hendricks, “but, Eunice, you must not antagonize
him. It can’t do any good--and it may do harm.”
“Harm? How?” and Eunice turned her big, wondering eyes on Hendrick.
“Oh, it isn’t wise to cross a man like that. He’s a common clod,
but he represents authority--he represents the law, and we must respect
that fact, however his personal manner offends us.”
“All right, Alvord, I understand; but there’s no use in my seeing
him again. Can’t you and Mason settle up things and let Aunt Abby and
me go to our rooms?”
“No, Eunice,” Hendricks’ voice was grave. “You must stay here.
And, too, they will go through your room, searching.”
“My room! My bedroom! They shan’t! I won’t have it! Mason, must I
submit to such horrible things?”
“Now, Eunice, dear,” Mason Elliott spoke very gently, “we can’t
blink matters. We must face this squarely. The police think Sanford was
murdered. They’re endeavoring to find out who killed him. To do their
duty in the matter they have to search everywhere. It’s the law, you
know, and we can’t get away from it. So, try to take it as quietly as
you can.”
“Oh, my! oh, my!” wailed Aunt Abby; “that I should live to see
this day! A murder in my own family! No wonder poor Sanford’s troubled
spirit paused in its passing to bid me farewell.”
Eunice shrieked. “Aunt Abby, if you start up that talk, I shall go
stark, staring mad! Hush! I won’t have it!”
“Let up on the spook stuff, Miss Ames,” begged Hendricks. “Our
poor Eunice is just about at the end of her rope.”
“So am I!” cried Aunt Abby. “I’m entitled to some consideration!
Here’s the whole house turned upside down with a murder and police and
all that, and nobody considers me! It’s all Eunice!” Then, with
a softened voice, she added, “And Lord knows, she’s got enough to
bear!”
“Yes, I have!” Eunice was composed again, now. “But I can bear it.
I’m not going to collapse! Don’t be afraid for me. And I do consider
you, Aunt Abby. It’s dreadful for you--for both of us.”
Eunice crossed the room and sat by the elder lady, and they comforted
one another.
Shane came back to the living-room.
“Here’s the way it is,” he said, gruffly. “Those three bedrooms
all open into each other; but when their doors that open out into these
here other rooms are locked they’re quite shut off by themselves,
and nobody can get into ‘em. Now that last room, the one the old lady
sleeps in, that don’t have a door except into Mrs. Embury’s room.
What I’m gettin’ at is, if Mr. and Mrs. Embury’s room doors is
locked--not meanin’ the door between--then those three people are
locked in there every night, and can’t get out or in, except through
those two locked doors.
“Well, this morning--where’s that butler man?”
“Here, sir,” and Ferdinand appeared promptly, and with his usual
correct demeanor.
“Yes, you. Now, this morning, those two doors to the sleeping rooms
was locked, I understand?”
“Yes, sir. They were.”
“Usually--what happens?”
“What--what happens, sir?”
“Yes; what’s your first duty in the morning? Does Mr. Embury call
you--or ring for you?”
“Oh, that, sir. Why, generally Mr. Embury unlocked his door about
eight o’clock--”
“And you went to help him dress?”
“No, sir. Mr. Embury didn’t require that. I valeted his clothes,
like, and kept them in order, but he dressed by himself. I took him some
tea and toast--he had that before the regular breakfast--”
“And this morning--when he didn’t ring or make any sound, what did
you do?”
“I waited a little while and then I rapped at Mrs. Embury’s door.”
“Yes; and she--now, be careful, man--” Shane’s voice was
impressive. “How did she act? Unusual, or frightened in any way?”
“Not a bit, sir. Mrs. Embury was surprised, and when I said Mr. Embury
didn’t answer my knock, she let me go through her room to his.”
“Exactly. And then you found your master dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now--what is your name?”
“Ferdinand.”
“Yes. Now, Ferdinand, you know Mr. and Mrs. Embury had a quarrel last
night.”
“Yes, sir.”
The trap had worked! Shane had brought about the admission from the
servant that Eunice had refused to make. A smile of satisfaction settled
on his ugly features, as he nodded his head and went on.
“At what time was this?”
“Ferdinand, be quiet,” said Eunice, her own voice low and even, but
her face was ablaze with wrath. “You know nothing of such things!”
“That’s right, sir, I don’t.”
Clearly, the butler, restored to his sense of the responsibilities of
his position, felt he had made a misstep and regretted it.
“Be quiet, madam!” Shane hurled at Eunice, and turning to the
frightened Ferdinand, said: “You tell the truth, or you’ll go
to jail! At what time was this quarrel that you have admitted took
place?”
Eunice stood, superbly indifferent, looking like a tragedy queen.
“Tell him, Ferdinand; tell all you know, but tell only the truth.”
“Yes, ma’am. Yes, sir; why, it was just before they went out.”
“Ah, before. Did they go out together?”
“No, sir. Mrs. Embury went later--by herself.”
“I told you that!” Eunice interposed. “I gave you a detailed
account of the evening.”
“You omitted the quarrel. What was it about?”
“It was scarcely important enough to call a quarrel. My husband and
I frequently disagreed on trifling matters. We were both a little
short-tempered, and often had altercations that were forgotten as soon
as they occurred.”
“And that’s true,” put in Miss Ames. “For two people who loved
each other to distraction, I often thought the Emburys were the most
quarrelsome I ever saw.”
Shane looked sharply at the old lady. “Is that so?” he said. “Did
you hear this particular quarrel, ma’am?”
“Not that I remember. If I did, I didn’t take’ much notice of
it.”
“What was it about?”
“Oh, the same old subject. Mrs. Embury wanted--”
“Aunt Abby, hush! What are you talking about! Leave me to tell my own
secrets, pray!”
“Secrets, ma’am?” Shane’s cold blue eyes glistened. “Who’s
talking of secrets?”
“Nobody,” offered Hendricks. “Seems to me, Shane, you’re trying
to frighten two nervous women into a confession--”
“Who said anything about a confession? What’s to be confessed?
Who’s made any accusations?”
Hendricks was silent. He didn’t like the man Shane at all, but he saw
plainly that he was a master of his craft, and depended on his sudden
and startling suggestions to rouse antagonism or fear and so gather the
facts he desired.
“I’m asking nobody’s secrets,” he went on, “except in so
far as I’m obliged to, by reason of my duty. And in that connection,
ma’am, I ask you right here and now, what you meant by your reference
to secrets?”
Eunice looked at him a moment in silence. Then she said, “You have,
I daresay, a right to ask that. And I’ve not the least objection to
answering. Mr. Embury was the kindest of husbands, but it did not suit
his ideas to give me what is known as an allowance. This in no way
reflects on his generosity, for he insisted that I should have a charge
account at any shops I wished. But, because of a whim, I often begged
that I be given a stated and periodical allowance. This, I have no
reason for not admitting, was the cause of most of our so-called
‘quarrels.’ This is what I should prefer to keep ‘secret’ but
not if it is for any reason a necessary admission.”
Shane looked at her in undisguised admiration.
“Fine!” he ejaculated, somewhat cryptically. “And you quarreled
about this last night?”
“Last evening, before we went out.”
“Not after you came home?”
“No; the subject was not then mentioned.”
“H’m. And you two were as friendly as ever? No coolness--sorta left
over, like?”
“No!” Eunice spoke haughtily, but the crimson flood that rose to her
cheeks gave the lie to her words.
Driscoll came in.
“I’ve found out what killed Mr. Embury,” he said, in his quiet
fashion.
“What?” cried the Examiner and Shane, at the same time.
“Can’t tell you--just yet. I’ll have to go out on an errand. Stay
here--all of you--till I get back.”
The dapper little figure disappeared through the hall door, and Shane
turned back to the group with a grunt of satisfaction.
“That’s Driscoll, all over,” he said. “Put him on a case, and
he don’t say much, and he don’t look like he’s doing anything, and
then all in a minute he’ll bring in the goods.”
“I’d be glad to hear the cause of that death,” said Dr. Crowell,
musingly. “I’m an old, experienced practitioner, and I’ve never
seen anything so mysterious. There’s absolutely no trace of any
poison, and yet it can be nothing else.”
“Poison’s a mighty sly proposition,” observed Shane. “A clever
poisoner can put over a big thing.”
“Perhaps your assumption of murder is premature,” said Hendricks,
and he gave Shane a sharp look.
“Maybe,” and that worthy nodded his head. “But I’m still
standing pat. Now, here’s the proposition. Three people, locked into
a suite--you may say--of three rooms. No way of getting in from this
side--those locks are heavy brass snap-catches that can’t be worked
from outside. No way, either, of getting in at the windows. Tenth-story
apartment, and the windows look straight down to the ground, no
balconies or anything like that. Unless an aryoplane let off its
passengers, nobody could get in the windows. Well, then, we have those
three people shut up alone there all night. In the morning one of ‘em
is dead--poisoned. What’s the answer?”
He stared at Eunice as he talked. It was quite evident he meant to
frighten her--almost to accuse her.
But with her strange contradictoriness, she smiled at him.
“You have stated a problem, Mr. Shane, to which there can be no
answer. Therefore, that is not the problem that confronts us.”
“Fine talk--fine talk, lady, but it won’t get you anywhere. To the
unbiased, logical mind, the answer must be that it’s the work of the
other two people.”
“Then yours is not a logical or unbiased mind,” Hendricks flared
out, “and I object to your making implications. If you are making
accusations, do so frankly, and let us know where we stand! If not, shut
up!”
Shane merely looked at him, without resenting this speech. The detective
appeared to be marking time as he awaited the return of his partner.
And Driscoll returned, shortly. His manner betokened success in his
quest, whatever it may have been, and yet he looked distressed, too.
“It’s a queer thing,” he said, half to himself, as he fell into a
chair Shane pushed toward him. “Mrs. Embury, do you keep an engagement
book?”
“Why, yes,” replied Eunice, amazed at the question put to her.
“Let me see it, please.”
Eunice went for it, and, returning, handed the detective a finely bound
volume.
Hastily he ran over the dates, looking at notes of parties, concerts and
theatres she had attended recently. At last, he gave a start, read over
one entry carefully, and closed the book.
Abruptly, then, he went back to Embury’s room, asking Dr. Crowell to
go with him.
When they reappeared, it was plain to be seen the mystery was solved.
“There is no doubt,” said the Medical Examiner, “that Sanford
Embury met his death by foul play. The means used was the administering
of poison--through the ear!”
“Through the ear!” repeated Elliott, as one who failed to grasp the
sense of the words.
“Yes; it is a most unusual, almost a unique case, but it is proved
beyond a doubt. The poison was inserted in Mr. Embury’s ear, by
means--”
He paused, and Driscoll held up to view a small, ordinary glass medicine
dropper, with a rubber bulb top. In it still remained a portion of a
colorless liquid.
“By means of this,” Driscoll declared. “This fluid is
henbane--that is the commercial name of it--known to the profession,
however, as hyoscyamus or hyoscyamine. This little implement, I found,
in the medicine chest in Miss Ames’ bathroom.”
“No! no!” screamed Aunt Abby. “I never saw it before!”
“I don’t think you did,” said Driscoll, quietly. “But here is a
side light on the subject. This henbane was used, in this very manner,
we are told, in Shakespeare’s works, by Hamlet’s uncle, when he
poisoned Hamlet’s father. He used, the play says, distilled hebenon,
supposed to be another form of the word henbane. And this is what is,
perhaps, important: Mrs. Embury’s engagement book shows that about
a week ago she attended the play of Hamlet. The suggestion there
received--the presence of this dropper, still containing the stuff, the
finding of traces of henbane in the ear of the dead man--seem to lead
to a conclusion--”
“The only possible conclusion! It’s an open-and-shut case!” cried
Shane, rising, and striding toward Eunice. “Mrs. Embury, I arrest you
for the wilful murder of your husband!”