“Then you brought me here to tell me I am not to go?”
“Will you let me read you two reports?”
“You could have told me that at the corner!”
“Will you let me read you two reports?”
“If you don’t mind I’ll first order something to eat. I’m to be there
before dark.”
“Will you let me——”
“I’m going, and you know I’m going. If you don’t want me to represent
you I’ll go on my own. They want a nurse, and they’re in trouble.”
I think he was really angry. I know I was. If there is anything that
takes the very soul out of a woman, it is to be kept from doing a thing
she has set her heart on, because some man thinks it dangerous. If she
has any spirit, that rouses it.
Mr. Patton quietly replaced the reports in his wallet and his wallet in
the inside pocket of his coat, and fell to a judicial survey of the
menu. But although he did not even glance at me he must have felt the
determination in my face, for he ordered things that were quickly
prepared and told the waiter to hurry.
“I have wondered lately,” he said slowly, “whether the mildness of your
manner at the hospital was acting, or the chastening effect of three
years under an order book.”
“A man always likes a woman to be a sheep.”
“Not at all. But it is rather disconcerting to have a pet lamb turn
round and take a bite out of one.”
“Will you read the reports now?”
“I think,” he said quietly, “they would better wait until we have eaten.
We will probably both feel calmer. Suppose we arrange that nothing said
before the oysters counts?”
I agreed, rather sulkily, and the meal went off well enough. I was
anxious enough to hurry but he ate deliberately, drank his demi-tasse,
paid the waiter, and at last met my impatient eyes and smiled.
“After all,” he said, “since you are determined to go anyhow, what’s the
use of reading the reports? Inside of an hour you’ll know all you need
to know.” But he saw that I did not take his teasing well, and drew out
his pocketbook.
They were two typewritten papers clamped together.
They are on my desk before me now. The first one is indorsed:
Statement by Laura J. Bosworth, nurse, of St. Luke’s Home for Graduate
Nurses.
Miss Bosworth says:
I do not know just why I came here. But I know I’m frightened. That’s
the fact. I think there is something terribly wrong in the house of
Francis M. Reed, 71 Beauregard Square. I think a crime of some sort
has been committed. There are four people in the family, Mr. and Mrs.
Reed and two children. I was to look after the children.
I was there four days and the children were never allowed out of the
room. At night we were locked in. I kept wondering what I would do if
there was a fire. The telephone wires are cut so no one can call the
house, and I believe the doorbell is disconnected too. But that’s
fixed now. Mrs. Reed went round all the time with a face like chalk
and her eyes staring. At all hours of the night she’d unlock the
bedroom door and come in and look at the children.
Almost all the doors through the house were locked. If I wanted to get
to the kitchen to boil eggs for the children’s breakfast—for there
were no servants, and Mrs. Reed was young and didn’t know anything
about cooking—Mr. Reed had to unlock about four doors for me.
If Mrs. Reed looked bad, he was dreadful—sunken eyed and white and
wouldn’t eat. I think he has killed somebody and is making away with
the body.
Last night I said I had to have air, and they let me go out. I called
up a friend from a pay-station, another nurse. This morning she sent
me a special-delivery letter that I was needed on another case, and I
got away. That’s all; it sounds foolish, but try it and see if it
doesn’t get on your nerves.
Mr. Patton looked up at me as he finished reading.
“Now you see what I mean,” he said. “That woman was there four days, and
she is as temperamental as a cow, but in those four days her nervous
system went to smash.”
“Doors locked!” I reflected. “Servants gone; state of fear—it looks like
a siege!”
“But why a trained nurse? Why not a policeman, if there is danger? Why
any one at all, if there is something that the police are not to know?”
“That is what I intend to find out,” I replied. He shrugged his
shoulders and read the other paper:
Report of Detective Bennett on Francis M. Reed, April 5, 1913:
Francis M. Reed is thirty-six years of age, married, a chemist at the
Olympic Paint Works. He has two children, both boys. Has a small
independent income and owns the house on Beauregard Square, which was
built by his grandfather, General F. R. Reed. Is supposed to be living
beyond his means. House is usually full of servants, and grocer in the
neighborhood has had to wait for money several times.
On March twenty-ninth he dismissed all servants without warning. No
reason given, but a week’s wages instead of notice.
On March thirtieth he applied to the owners of the paint factory for
two weeks’ vacation. Gave as his reason nervousness and insomnia. He
said he was “going to lay off and get some sleep.” Has not been back
at the works since. House under surveillance this afternoon. No
visitors.
Mr. Reed telephoned for a nurse at four o’clock from a store on
Eleventh Street. Explained that his telephone was out of order.
Mr. Patton folded up the papers and thrust them back into his pocket.
Evidently he saw I was determined, for he only said:
“Have you got your revolver?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know anything about telephones? Could you repair that one in an
emergency?”
“In an emergency,” I retorted, “there is no time to repair a telephone.
But I’ve got a voice and there are windows. If I really put my mind to
it you will hear me yell at headquarters.”
He smiled grimly.