THE INQUEST
AT the sound of advancing footsteps Mrs. Ogden dropped her newspaper
with a faint scream. Her nervous system had not recovered from the
shock of the night before--fire and death had robbed her of her
customary air of repose.
“Oh, it’s you, my dear,” she exclaimed in a relieved tone, as Lois
McLane took the chair opposite her. “And how did you leave Ethel?”
“Much more composed; she will be down directly.”
“Getting up? Mrs. McLane, how could you permit it?” and Mrs. Ogden sat
bolt upright and gazed in disapproval at her guest.
“It wasn’t a case of my permitting--Ethel had made up her mind to dress
and come down stairs, and nothing I could say would dissuade her,”
responded Lois. She glanced curiously about the drawing room. “Did the
water do much damage?”
“Did it!” Mrs. Ogden’s intonation was eloquent, but she was too intent
on gathering information to be switched to another topic, no matter
how interesting it might be. “Do pull your chair closer, Mrs. McLane;
I never can talk to people at arms’ length. Tell me, don’t you think
Ethel is terribly broken up over Jim Patterson’s death?”
“I think it was a frightful shock to her,” admitted Lois. “It--it
seemed so unnecessary.”
Mrs. Ogden squirmed in her chair. “My husband walked the floor all
night, completely cut up over the result of his carelessness in leaving
the cartridges in his desk; but for that James Patterson would be alive
today.”
“I think Mr. Ogden takes too much of the blame on his shoulders,” said
Lois gently. “He was not responsible for the fire. By the way, have you
learned how it started?”
“The fire inspector and the insurance representative attributed it to
the crossed electric wires,” Mrs. Ogden moved restlessly. “But they
are to make a more thorough investigation. Will you have some tea?”
stretching out her hand toward the bell.
“No, thanks,” Lois spoke somewhat hastily. “Dr. McLane will be here
very soon to see Ethel, and I must not keep him waiting when he is
ready to leave.”
“Your husband was so kind last night,” Mrs. Ogden spoke with genuine
feeling. “I don’t know how I could have gotten on without him. He
attended to everything, even to interviewing the reporters, and I’m
sure that’s why they are not more sensational in their accounts of the
fire and poor Jim Patterson’s death.”
“Leonard was glad to do anything that he could for you, Mrs. Ogden,”
leaning forward Lois took the older woman’s hand and stroked it gently.
Shock and anxiety had left their mark on Mrs. Ogden; her lips quivered
and she seized Lois’ kind hand in a spasmodic grip.
“If you only knew all I’ve been through,” she wailed. “Ethel
unconscious for so long, and Jim lying there dead. They wouldn’t take
him up and place him respectably in bed, but must needs leave him lying
on the hall floor like something worthless, until the coroner came. And
then they took him to the Morgue--of all places, when he had a large
apartment at the Dresden!”
“But it is the law,” Lois whitened; the present tragedy brought back
memories of another in which she had been one of the principal figures
not so long since. “In case of sudden or violent death, the autopsy has
to be held at the Morgue.”
“The autopsy!” gasped Mrs. Ogden, horror-stricken. “You don’t mean they
are going to hold an autopsy?”
“So my husband said,” Lois spoke more guardedly. “He asked me to say
nothing to Ethel, thinking it might upset her, so please don’t mention
it.”
“No, of course not,” Mrs. Ogden looked sharply at her visitor. “I
believe Ethel was more deeply in love with Jim Patterson than she
realized, and now that it is too late she is grieving her heart out.”
Lois did not reply at once. “I think Ethel is shocked beyond measure,
and grieved also,” she interpolated. “But I do not think that she
entertained any warmer feeling for Jim than friendship.”
“But her emotion on hearing of his death--her unconsciousness--”
persisted Mrs. Ogden. “Did she not speak of Jim to you today?”
Lois checked a smile; she had a feeling that Mrs. Ogden had been
approaching that question ever since her entrance, and now it was out.
“She mentioned him, yes; and with deep sorrow and regret for his
death--but that was all,” she said calmly.
“Ethel is a queer girl,” mused Mrs. Ogden. “I cannot quite make her
out; apparently with all her _bonhomie_, she is at bottom reserved. She
never talks of herself, her ills, or her emotions.”
“She has one of the most loyal, lovable natures I’ve ever known,”
exclaimed Lois warmly. “When Ethel gives her friendship, her affection
is given whole-heartedly, loyally. I hope sincerely that Jim Patterson
was nothing more than a friend, for if not, Ethel will never recover
from the shock of his tragic death.”
Mrs. Ogden stirred uneasily. “I fear Ethel must dree her weird,” she
muttered. “Was anything said of Julian Barclay this afternoon?”
“No.” It was Lois’ turn to study her companion. “I have heard that
he is very much in love with Ethel,” she paused, but Mrs. Ogden made
no comment, and she continued somewhat hurriedly. “Is Mr. Barclay
remaining here through the winter?”
“He is not.” Mrs. Ogden’s decided tone spoke volumes. “Walter, my
husband, is very much displeased with him; we do not approve”--she
broke off nervously.
“Then you do not think him a suitable match for Ethel?”
“Frankly, I don’t, and I never dreamed”--Mrs. Ogden stopped abruptly.
“Julian’s behavior at times has been a source of grave anxiety to his
relations.”
“I confess I was favorably impressed with Mr. Barclay last night,” Lois
remarked. “I am sorry to learn he is eccentric.”
“Eccentric is hardly the word,” Mrs. Ogden’s conscience somewhat
reproached her for so openly criticizing a relative and a guest in
her house, but Julian Barclay was becoming an obsession, and she could
not stop talking about him altogether. “He is a bit queer--morbid--and
he is most decidedly not the man to make Ethel happy. Their--their
temperaments are too much alike for perfect harmony.”
What comment, if any, Lois would have made, remained unspoken, as
Walter Ogden and Professor Norcross joined them.
“Walter, do ring for tea!” exclaimed Mrs. Ogden, after the men had
greeted Lois. “Charles should have brought it before now.”
“We have no time for tea,” replied her husband brusquely. “We are all
summoned to the inquest on poor Patterson.”
“What? Now?” and his wife looked at him aghast.
“Yes, immediately; so get your wraps. We have to go at once to the
Morgue. Where’s Ethel?”
“Here,” and turning they beheld Ethel standing in the doorway. She
was but a wraith of the beautiful girl whose joyous spirit had added
so materially to the enjoyment of the bishop at the dinner the night
before. “Do I understand we are to go to the Morgue, Cousin Walter?”
“Yes.” Ogden’s rough tone softened. He was very fond of Ethel. “We
won’t be there very long.”
“But why should I go?” asked Ethel.
“Well, eh, the coroner wishes to know why Patterson was so fool-hardy
as to approach the den when the cartridges were exploding, and there
was some talk of----”
“My having sent him into the den?” Ethel turned pale, and Lois,
observing her emotion, slipped her arm about her waist. “I did,” Ethel
paused to control her voice. “And I shall never cease to reproach
myself--I virtually killed James Patterson.”
“My dear Miss Ogden,” Professor Norcross turned a shocked face in her
direction. “You must not permit yourself to indulge in such morbid
fancies.”
“It was more my fault than yours, Ethel,” added Ogden. “I left the
cartridges in my desk, and it was only a merciful Providence that
others were not killed. Now, don’t waste further time, run and get your
wraps.”
Ethel turned to Lois and the appeal in her eyes was unmistakable.
“Won’t you come with me?” she whispered.
“I will,” Lois’ hearty response brought comfort to Ethel. “And we can
go down in my electric, if you don’t object, Mrs. Ogden?”
“Not at all, not at all,” Mrs. Ogden, having summoned her maid a few
seconds before, was bustling into the wraps brought her. “Ethel, wrap
yourself up warmly. What about your husband?” suddenly recollecting Dr.
McLane, and wheeling on Lois. “Will you leave word for him to join you
at the Morgue?”
“I think he is already there,” broke in Ogden impatiently. “Now,
Jane, don’t keep everyone waiting,” and driving his nervous wife and
Professor Norcross ahead of him, Ogden made his noisy way to the
street, leaving Ethel and Lois to follow more leisurely.
The speedier touring car of the Ogdens’ brought them and Professor
Norcross to the Morgue some moments before Lois’ slower electric
brougham put in an appearance, and they waited outside the
weather-stained stuccoed building with some impatience. Their arrival,
however, was observed from inside the Morgue, and Leonard McLane joined
them.
“The inquest has commenced,” he said, and Mrs. Ogden wondered at his
constrained manner. “Your name has been called as a witness, Mr. Ogden;
I think you had better go in at once.”
“What about Ethel and Mrs. McLane?” Mrs. Ogden halted on the lower step
of the building. “They are coming in your electric.”
“I will wait for them,” volunteered Professor Norcross, and turned
back to the cobble-stoned pavement which did duty for a sidewalk. The
Ogdens, preceded by Leonard McLane, filed through the hall and into the
outer room.
“This room is reserved for witnesses,” observed McLane, pulling forward
a chair for Mrs. Ogden, and the men present rose; Ogden recognized
among them the fire chief and several of his servants. “Ogden, this is
the Morgue Master,” added McLane, as a heavily built man stepped toward
them.
“Mr. Walter Ogden?” inquired the latter interrogatively. “Then, sir,
kindly step into the court room with me.” He turned back at the door to
address the others. “Just sit down, all of you, and your names will be
called in due time,” and the door closed behind him.
Taking but a cursory glance about the court room, Ogden followed the
Morgue Master to the witness stand, pausing a moment at the base of the
platform to permit the first witness to descend. Ogden, while waiting
for the Morgue Master to administer the oath to “Tell the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” gazed curiously at the six men
composing the jury, who sat upright or lolled back in their chairs, as
each man’s nature inclined him to take his brief publicity.
The Morgue Master’s authoritative voice brought Ogden’s attention back
to him with a jump, and after taking the oath he turned to face Coroner
Penfield.
“Your full name?” demanded the coroner.
“Walter Ogden.”
“How long have you been a resident of Washington?”
“Five months.”
“Have you lived here before this winter, Mr. Ogden?”
“I have never rented a house here before this winter,” answered Ogden.
“But I have made trips to Washington at different seasons for at least
ten years.”
“Who is the owner of the house you rent?”
“Professor Richard Norcross, the naturalist.”
“He is visiting you?”
“Yes.”
“Was the house in good condition when you took it?”
“Oh, yes, in excellent condition.”
“No trouble with defective flues or smoking chimneys?”
“None.”
“Have you any idea, Mr. Ogden, how the fire started in your den?”
“Not the faintest,” replied Ogden frankly. “The fire chief and
insurance inspector seemed to think it came from crossed electric
wires.”
Coroner Penfield frowned. “Their testimony will be taken later; kindly
restrict your replies to your own opinions. When did you first discover
the fire?”
“While at dinner,” Ogden’s reply was curt, he did not relish rebukes.
“Were you dining alone?”
“No, my wife and I were giving a dinner.”
“Mention the names of your guests,” directed the coroner, and he
glanced down a list, checking off each person as Ogden enumerated them.
Then he examined a rough drawing of the Ogden house. “Why was it that
you did not discover the fire until it had gained such headway?”
“Because the folding doors leading into the hall and also into the
drawing room, were closed.”
“Would you have detected the fire more quickly if the doors had been
open?”
“I think so; the smell of smoke would have warned us.”
“Is it your custom to keep the folding doors closed while you are in
the dining room?”
“No, it is not.”
“Could they have been closed without your knowledge, Mr. Ogden?”
Ogden pondered before answering. “I believe so; heavy portières were
pulled across the doorways, and under cover of the noise occasioned
by our talking and the rattle of dishes, the folding doors could have
been pushed together without attracting my attention, or being seen by
others. But I cannot imagine why a servant should do it, unless a guest
complained of being cold.”
“With the portières drawn?”
“Yes. There might be draughts even then, and ladies in evening dress
are sometimes sensitive to cold.” Ogden’s voice was dry, and Penfield
frowned.
“What were cartridges doing in your den, Mr. Ogden?”
“I put two boxes in my desk drawer on my return from a hunting trip in
Maine last fall.”
“When you found the den was on fire, did you remember the cartridges?”
“No. I had completely forgotten them, and only thought of them again
when the fire reached the boxes and exploded them.”
“Who first discovered the fire?”
“One of the servants, I believe. Some one called ‘Fire,’ and we all
dashed into the hall,” answered Ogden vaguely. “I really don’t know who
turned in the fire alarm.”
Penfield consulted a memorandum. “When did you last see Mr. James
Patterson alive?” he asked.
“Helping my wife and my cousin, Miss Ethel Ogden, to cross the lower
hall, which was filled with smoke, to reach the sidewalk,” answered
Ogden thoughtfully. “I cannot recall seeing him again. I accompanied
the firemen upstairs, and Patterson may have brushed by me on the
staircase; but if so, I did not recognize him in the smoke and general
excitement.”
“I think that is all just now, Mr. Ogden,” Penfield laid down his
memorandum, and turned to the Morgue Master. “Ask Professor Norcross to
step here.”
Ogden rose with alacrity to give his seat to the professor and went
hastily from the room, conscious that reporters were eyeing him
apparently eager for an interview. But he did not loiter in closing the
door between himself and the news-gatherers, and the reporters turned
their eyes back to Professor Norcross.
“Washington is my legal residence,” the professor said a few minutes
later after answering the coroner’s question as to his age, occupation,
and length of residence in Washington. “I spend a few weeks of every
year here, and own the house now leased to Mr. Walter Ogden.”
“Have you, or your other tenants, ever had a fire in your house?”
“Once, a number of years ago, a chimney caught fire, but since then I
have had a new system of heating installed, and no more trouble has
arisen.”
“Is your house covered by fire insurance, Professor?”
“It is.”
Penfield consulted the deputy coroner before asking another question,
and Norcross spent his time inspecting the spectators who lounged about
the court room. He wondered if they had come only to hear the evidence
in the inquest on James Patterson, or if they were the _habitués_ of
the place. He had heard of the morbidly curious who haunted the scenes
of crime and the Morgue, and the dress and deportment of the majority
of the people in the room indicated they were from the poorer classes.
A few women sat in one corner, and Norcross was surprised to find Lois
McLane occupying a chair near them. She was evidently not to be called
as a witness.
“Professor Norcross,” the coroner turned back to the witness chair.
“Did you hear the closing of the folding doors to the dining room?”
Norcross smiled. “I did not hear them being shut, but they were closed
by the butler at my direction shortly after we entered the dining
room,” he said. “Madame Takasaki, wife of the Japanese attaché,
complained of being cold, and as she sat in a direct draft with the
opening and closing of the pantry door, I had the folding doors closed
at once.”
“When did you last see Mr. James Patterson?”
“At the front door of the Ogden house as he stood talking with Miss
Ethel Ogden.”
“What transpired then?” asked the coroner, as Norcross paused.
“Mr. Patterson persuaded Miss Ogden not to enter the house, and then
disappeared inside,” answered Norcross. “After seeing Miss Ogden join
her cousin, I also went into the house, hoping to be of some assistance
to Mr. Ogden.”
“And that was the last you saw of Mr. Patterson?” persisted the coroner.
“Yes. Mr. Takasaki, the Japanese attaché, stopped me on the staircase
to ask for his wife, and when I reached the second story Mr. Patterson
was nowhere in sight.”
“You are excused, Professor,” said Penfield, and Norcross departed.