THE SECRET OF THE SAFE
“HELP! Murder! Murder!”
The sinister cry rang through the house.
Seated at the breakfast table, his daughter opposite him, the daily
papers at his elbow, the Attorney General, hardly realizing the
tragical interruption, sprang from his chair as the cry came nearer and
the door burst open admitting his confidential secretary.
“In God’s name, Clark, what is the matter?” he demanded, seizing the
distraught man.
“Father, Father, give him time, he is dreadfully upset,” begged
Beatrice, coming around the breakfast table and laying a restraining
hand on his arm.
Wilkins, the impassive butler, for once shaken out of his calm,
hastened to assist his master in helping Alfred Clark to a chair, and
then he gave the half-fainting man a stiff drink of whisky.
“It’s the safe, sir,” gasped Clark, struggling to regain his
self-control.
“The safe?” questioned the Attorney General.
“Yes; she’s there--dead!”
“She--who?”
“Mrs. Trevor.”
“My wife! Nonsense, man; she is breakfasting in her own room!”
“Beg pardon, sir,” Wilkins interrupted. “Mary has just brought the tray
downstairs again. She says she knocked and knocked, and couldn’t get an
answer.”
The Attorney General and his daughter exchanged glances. It was
impossible to tell which was the paler. Without a word he turned and
hastened out of the room. He hardly noticed the excited servants
who, attracted by the cry, had already gathered in the spacious hall
outside the door of his private office. With swift, decisive step he
crossed the room and stood in front of the two opened doors. A cry of
unutterable horror escaped him. For one dreadful moment the room swam
around him, and there was a roaring in his ears of a thousand Niagaras.
“Father?”
With a violent effort he pulled himself together. “Do not enter,” he
said, sternly, to the shrinking girl who had remained by the hall door.
“This is no sight for you. Wilkins, send at once for Doctor Davis.
Clark, close that door, and see that no one comes in except the doctor.
Then telephone the Department that I shall not be there to-day.” His
orders were obeyed instantly.
The Attorney General turned back to the safe; to that still figure
which was keeping vigil over his belongings. The pitiless light of a
sunny morning shone full on the beautiful face. The wonderful Titian
hair, her greatest glory, was coiled around the shapely head, and her
low-cut evening dress was scarcely disarranged as she crouched on one
knee leaning her weight on her left arm, which was pressed against the
door-jamb of the safe. Her lips were slightly parted, and her blue
eyes were wide open, the pupils much dilated. No need to feel pulse or
heart; to the most casual observer it was apparent that she was dead.
His beautiful young wife! Edmund Trevor groaned aloud and buried his
face in his hands. Clark watched him for a moment in unhappy silence;
then moved quietly over to the window and looked out with unseeing eyes
into the garden.
The large mottled brick- and stone-trimmed house was situated on one
of Washington’s most fashionable corners, Massachusetts Avenue and
Dupont Circle. On being appointed Attorney General, Trevor had taken it
on a long lease. He had selected it from the many offered because it
was very deep on the 20th Street side, thus allowing the drawing-room,
library, and dining-room to open out of each other.
On the right of the large entrance hall was a small reception room, and
back of it the big octagonal-shaped room, with its long French windows
opening into the enclosed garden, that had appealed to him for his
own private use, as a den, or office. And he was particularly pleased
with the huge safe, more like a vault, which had been built in one of
the large old-fashioned closets by the owner. It had been useful to the
Attorney General on many occasions.
The silence was broken by a tap at the door.
“Doctor Davis, sir,” announced Wilkins.
“I came at once,” said the doctor, advancing quickly to the Attorney
General’s side. A horrified exclamation escaped him as his eyes fell on
the tragic figure, and he recoiled a few steps. Then his professional
instincts returned to him, and he made a cursory examination of Mrs.
Trevor. As he rose from his knees, the eyes of the two men met. He
silently shook his head.
“Life has been extinct for hours,” he said. “Rigor mortis has set in.”
The Attorney General gulped back a sob. Reason had told him the same
thing when he first found her; but he had hoped blindly against hope.
“Can she be removed to her room?” he asked, as soon as he could control
his voice.
The doctor nodded his acquiescence, and with the assistance of Clark,
Wilkins, and the chauffeur, they carried all that was mortal of the
beautiful young wife to her chamber.
Shortly afterwards, the Attorney General returned to his office, and
together he and Clark went over the contents of the safe. They had just
finished their task when Beatrice came into the room.
Beatrice Trevor was a well-known figure in the society life of New
York, Paris, and Washington. Taller than most women, with a superb
figure, she carried herself with regal grace. She was not, strictly
speaking, a beauty; her features were not regular enough. But there
were men, and women, too, who were her adoring slaves.
Her mother had died when she was five years old, and up to the time of
her eighteenth year she had lived alone with her father. Then he met,
wooed, and won the beautiful foreigner, whose butterfly career had
come to so untimely an end.
“Father, I _must_ know just what has happened.”
“Why, my dearest--” there was deep tenderness in the Attorney General’s
usually impassive voice--“I thought you had been told. Hélène evidently
went into the safe to put away her jewelry; and in some mysterious way
she must have pulled the heavy door to behind her. Thus locked in, she
was smothered. It is terrible--terrible--” His voice shook with the
intensity of his emotion. “But--well, Wilkins, what is it?”
“A detective, sir, from headquarters.”
“A detective! What on earth--did you telephone them, Clark?” The
secretary shook his head. “No? Well, show him in, Wilkins.”
There was nothing about the man who entered to suggest a detective; he
was quietly dressed, middle aged, and carried himself with military
erectness. He had spent five years as a member of the Canadian
Northwest mounted police, and that service had left its mark in his
appearance.
“Good morning, Mr. Attorney General.” His bow included all in the room.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but my errand won’t take long.”
“Be seated, Mr. ----”
“Hardy--James Hardy, sir. Just before dawn this morning, O’Grady, who
patrols this beat, noticed a man sneak out of your back yard. O’Grady
promptly gave chase and caught his man just as he was boarding a train
for New York. He took him to the station and had him locked up on
suspicion. As the fellow had a full kit of burglar’s tools with him,
including mask and sneakers, the Chief sent me round here to ask if
you’d been robbed?”
“Oh, no,” replied the Attorney General. “I have just been through
my safe and everything is intact. There’s nothing missing in your
quarters, Wilkins?” he added, turning to the white-faced butler.
“No, sir; nothing, sir.” Wilkins’ voice trembled, and he looked at the
detective with frightened eyes.
“Perhaps he tried, and finding all the windows barred gave it up as a
bad job. I am--” continued the Attorney General, but his speech was cut
short by the entrance of Doctor Davis.
“I am told there is a detective here.” The Attorney General bowed
and motioned to Hardy. “You are properly accredited?” went on the
physician. Hardy threw back his coat and displayed his badge. “Have you
told him of Mrs. Trevor’s death?”
“No. Why speak of that terrible accident--”
“It was no accident.” The physician’s voice, though low pitched,
vibrated with feeling.
The Attorney General half rose from his chair; then sank back again.
“Davis,” he said, almost fiercely, “you _know_ that by some fearful
mischance Hélène locked herself in the air-tight safe and was
suffocated.”
The detective glanced with quickened interest at the two men.
“On closer examination upstairs,” said the doctor, slowly, “I found a
small wound under the left breast. The wound was concealed by the lace
bertha of her evening dress. The weapon penetrated to the heart, and
she bled internally. Mrs. Trevor was dead before she was put in that
safe.”
The detective broke the appalling silence with an exclamation:
“Murdered!”
Without one word Beatrice Trevor fell fainting at her father’s feet.