IDENTIFIED
DETECTIVE FERGUSON laid an impatient finger on the bell of the front
door of the Hale residence and, removing his hat, fanned himself
vigorously. Coroner Penfield’s message had been imperative and, the
Headquarters’ car having been out on an errand, he had commandeered
a “bike” which a patrolman had left in the outer hallway, and had
pedaled uptown as rapidly as possible. The unwonted exertion, as well
as his intense curiosity, had both served to excite him. What untoward
circumstances had required his immediate presence at three in the
morning at the home of Robert Hale, eminent scientist and respected
citizen of the National Capital?
The detective’s wonderment grew as the front door flew back and he
stepped over its threshold into the semidarkness of the large central
hall of the house. The stillness was broken by a low-voiced direction,
and Ferguson, peering around, saw a man, his presence partly concealed
behind the open front door, watching him. The man shut the door with
such care that it made no sound.
“Come this way,” he repeated, and Ferguson, with an instinctive bow,
realized he was addressed by a member of the household and not a
servant. Checking his impulse to ask questions, the detective followed
his guide across the hall and into a brilliantly lighted room. The
sudden transition from semidarkness caused Ferguson to blink owlishly,
and he paused abruptly on hearing the faint click of the folding doors,
through which they had entered, being closed behind them.
“Coroner Penfield is over there,” stated his guide, and Ferguson, grown
more accustomed to the light, looked in the direction indicated just
as Penfield rose from his stooping position and turned toward him. The
coroner’s expression changed at sight of the detective and he beckoned
him to approach. An instant later and Ferguson was staring down at the
figure of a man lying partly turned upon his back. Penfield pointed to
the small wound over the heart and to the ashen cheeks and staring eyes.
“Dead,” he said, tersely. “Stabbed.”
Ferguson whistled low, shot one questioning look at the coroner, and
then turned his attention to the dead man and the room. With minute
care he examined the body and then scanned the library. There was no
indication of a struggle having taken place, no chairs or tables were
overturned. Ferguson paused in perplexity--the orderly appearance of
the room surprised him; his eyes ran up and down the book-lined walls,
over the handsome curtains drawn across the deep window alcoves, and
the drawn portières--the furnishing of the library was a key to the
wealth and good taste of its owner, but as the background for the scene
of a tragedy it failed lamentably to give any clew to it or answer his
yet unasked questions.
“Well, doctor,” he turned to the coroner, “who’s the dead man and who
stabbed him?”
Instead of replying, Penfield addressed the third man in the library
who, since admitting the detective, had remained a silent witness of
their investigations.
“Major Richards,” he began, “kindly repeat just what you told me on
my arrival,” and seating himself at a convenient table, he drew out a
fountain pen and a memorandum pad. “Major Joseph Richards,” he added by
way of explanation, “is Mr. Hale’s son-in-law, Ferguson.”
Richards acknowledged the detective’s jerky bow at mention of his name
with a grave inclination of his head.
“The information I can give you is meager,” he stated, and Ferguson,
sensitive to first impressions, grew conscious of an undercurrent of
agitation admirably controlled by Richards’ deliberation of speech;
only a longer acquaintance would tell whether such was characteristic
of him. “I returned from the club about twenty minutes past one, found
my wife”--his hesitation was almost imperceptible--“indisposed, and on
coming in here later to look for a bottle of bromide which she had left
on the library table, I discovered”--
He stopped, and an eloquent gesture completed his sentence.
“You found the room occupied,” supplemented the coroner practically.
“Was the man dead or alive?” and the look he shot at Richards under his
shaggy brows was penetrating.
“The man was dead.” Richards’ eyelids flickered somewhat. “At least I
judged so from my superficial knowledge of medical matters. I certainly
did not kill him.”
Penfield let pass a certain flippant hardness which had crept into
Richards’ manner, and Ferguson, who had worked with the coroner in
many criminal cases, followed his cue.
“What was your next action, Major Richards?” Penfield inquired.
“I returned to my wife and gave her the medicine, then slipped
downstairs and called you up,” was the concise reply. “You came and
instructed me to send for Detective Ferguson, and after doing so, I
awaited his arrival and brought him here.”
“Did you inform your wife of your gruesome discovery in the library?”
inquired Penfield.
“I did not.”
“Why not?”
“My wife was already in a highly nervous state, and I feared she would
become ill if further excited,” Richards explained.
Penfield frowned at his note pad. “What had made her nervous?”
“A motor accident in the early afternoon,” quietly. “Her electric was
run into by a taxicab, and while no one was hurt, she suffered from
fright and shock.”
“Too bad,” commented Penfield, his manner somewhat sympathetic, and
would have added more, but Detective Ferguson, tired of the rôle of
listener, broke in brusquely.
“Who is the dead man, Major Richards?” he demanded.
“I do not know.” The low-spoken answer was firm and Richards’ gaze did
not waver before their stares. The detective was the first to look away.
“I see, a case of ordinary burglary,” he said, moving to the dead man.
“He’s wearing a dark suit, good quality cloth, however, and rubber
heeled shoes.” He transferred his gaze to the safe, only partly visible
from where he stood owing to the position of a large, tufted lounging
chair. “Ah,” striding over to it, he laid his hand on the levers and
the door swung open without resistance. “It’s unlocked; evidently the
burglar got it open before--” He checked his hasty speech and faced
Richards who had watched his rapid movements with interest. “Who owns
this safe?”
“Mr. Robert Hale.”
“Is it usually left unlocked?”
“I believe not.”
“You believe not”--the detective caught him up quickly. “Are you not
familiar with Mr. Hale’s habits?”
“No,” regarding him steadily. “My wife and I returned from our wedding
journey only two weeks ago. We are at present the guests of her
parents, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hale. During our visit I have not,” with
quiet emphasis, “familiarized myself, as you put it, with Mr. Hale’s
habits, but I once overheard him tell his wife that he never left the
safe unlocked.”
Ferguson stooped down and examined the safe with careful attention.
“The lock’s not been forced,” he muttered. “It looks like the job of an
expert safe cracker, or”--with an upward glance at Richards--“some one
familiar with the combination.”
“The Rogues’ Gallery will aid in identifying the dead man if he is a
‘regular,’” broke in Coroner Penfield. “But who killed the burglar?” He
looked across at Richards. “Who is in this house besides you and your
wife?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Hale have residing with them, besides my wife and myself,
Mr. Hale’s younger brother, John Hale,” Richards answered. “There are a
number of servants who also sleep in the house.”
Penfield consulted his note pad. “Did you go for Mr. Hale or his
brother on finding the dead man?” he questioned.
“Mrs. Hale and her brother-in-law are at a reception given by the
French Ambassador and his wife,” responded Richards. “They have not
yet returned.”
“And Mr. Robert Hale--?”
“Is ill in bed,” Richards perched himself on the arm of a chair. “When
I rushed upstairs with the medicine for my wife I went first to Mr.
Hale’s bedroom and, on finding him asleep, withdrew as quietly as
possible.”
“Didn’t you summon the servants?” asked Penfield.
“I did not.” Observing the look of surprise on their faces, he added,
“The servants are women. I did not wish to terrify them with this
sight,” and he waved his hand in the direction of the dead man.
Penfield reflected a moment, and in the brief interval Ferguson took
mental note of Major Richards’ fine physique and strongly molded
features. He did not look the man to lose his head in an emergency; on
the contrary, his self-possession and poise made a favorable impression
on both the men watching him so intently. Richards was about to speak
again when Penfield held up his hand.
“Just a moment,” he cautioned. “Let me get this straight. You reached
this house about twenty minutes after one this morning; Mrs. Hale and
her brother-in-law are still at the French Embassy reception, leaving
at home Mr. Hale, ill in bed, your wife, and the female servants. An
unidentified man enters the house in your absence and upon your return
you find him dead in the library. Did you hear voices or retreating
footsteps when you came in the front door?”
“No.”
“Did you meet any one when on your way to your wife’s room?”
“No.” Richards’ eyes did not falter in their direct gaze at the
coroner. He confined his replies to monosyllables.
“Strange!” Penfield walked back and stood looking down at the dead
man. “Very strange. I have made only a superficial examination,
Major Richards, but I’ll stake my reputation that that wound was
not self-inflicted. The man was stabbed”--he paused and his voice
deepened--“murdered.”
The lines in Richards’ face showed more plainly as he set his square
jaw at a determined angle. “The killing of a burglar is generally
considered justifiable homicide,” he said sternly. “It is one’s right
to protect one’s property from midnight marauders.”
“Who protected Mr. Hale’s home in this instance?” demanded Ferguson.
“I cannot tell you that,” responded Richards. “But, Mr. Coroner, until
you know further details of how this man came to his death, you cannot
proclaim it a murder committed by an inmate of this household.”
“I proclaim nothing,” denied Penfield. “On the contrary, I am first
most anxious to question the servants, Mr. Hale, and your wife--the
only people, according to your statement, at home when this man was
killed--and find out if possible what transpired here in your absence.”
“You cannot do that now,” interposed Richards hastily. “Mr. Hale and my
wife are not in condition to be interviewed at this hour--later in the
day, perhaps”--Ferguson gave a gesture of dissent.
“And in the meantime,” he interposed harshly, “the murderer will slip
through our fingers, and every clew grow cold.”
“Not necessarily,” replied Richards warmly. “You are at liberty to
examine this floor and the basement at the present time, only I must
insist that you do not disturb either my wife or Mr. Hale.”
“Very well, sir.” Ferguson turned toward the folding doors leading to
the central hall. “Where are the servants’ bedrooms?”
“On the third floor.” At the words the detective vanished.
Richards rose from his perch on the chair arm and paced slowly up and
down the library. Penfield, paying no attention to his movements, knelt
down by the dead man and with infinite care went through his pockets.
His search produced some loose change, a bill-folder containing nearly
a hundred dollars, and a bunch of keys.
“Not much help for identification purposes,” he remarked dryly, as
Richards halted by his side. “He was a handsome fellow; women rave over
that type of beauty in a man. He looks a gentleman--high-bred, and all
that.”
“He could not have been in destitute circumstances,” commented
Richards, pointing to the Treasury bills.
“Hm--yes,” Penfield looked thoughtful. “It might be that he rifled this
money from Mr. Hale’s safe.” He wheeled suddenly on Richards. “What did
Mr. Hale keep in his safe?”
“You will have to ask Mr. Hale,” answered Richards composedly. “I am
ignorant of his affairs.”
Penfield stroked his chin slowly; Richards as a source of information
was a disappointment. Should he not insist upon seeing Mr. Hale,
illness or no illness, unconventional hour or not? Valuable time was
slipping away and he was no nearer vital information than at the moment
of his arrival--over an hour had elapsed since receiving his hasty
summons. Penfield stood up.
“By the way, Major,” he began, “as you are a stranger in Washington and
did not ask the advice of others”--with a quick side-long scrutiny of
which Richards appeared unaware--“how did it happen that you called me
on the telephone first and not the police?”
For answer Richards strode over to the table near the fireplace and,
picking up the evening newspaper which lay spread across it, pointed to
a column of news bearing display type.
“I had been reading earlier in the evening this account of the Fuller
inquest,” he explained. “Your name is given, Coroner Penfield, and it
also stated that the body of the dead woman could not be moved until
you had arrived on the scene; therefore,” calmly, “I judged that you
would be of more immediate aid than the police. It was a simple matter
to find your number in the telephone directory.”
“True.” Penfield considered a moment, then moved restlessly over to
the safe. Without removing the contents of its compartments he took
careful note of such papers and objects as came within his view. He was
still gazing steadily at them when the portières before the dining room
parted and Ferguson stepped again into the room.
“Every window on this floor and the basement is locked on the inside,”
he announced. “And I also examined those on the landings of the stairs
and the hall of the second floor.”
“You went upstairs?” Richards moved toward him, his jaw set at an angry
angle. “After what I told you?”
“Yes.” There was open defiance in the detective’s manner. “I looked
only in the rooms where the doors were open,” he turned and addressed
Penfield. “So far as I could discover, there is no trace of the
burglar’s having gained entrance through forcing a window or door.”
“No trace of any one’s lurking downstairs?” demanded Penfield.
“None.”
“Found any weapon?”
“No.” Ferguson’s tone was glum. His gaze, shifting about the room,
happened to light on Richards and he saw him start and stiffen in a
listening attitude.
Ferguson’s eyes brightened, and he checked further speech. Suddenly he
caught the sound of a soft footfall and, as Richards started forward,
he interposed his bulky form between him and the folding doors as they
were pushed apart and Judith Richards stepped into the library. With a
shove which sent the detective sprawling, Richards gained his wife’s
side.
“Why have you come down, dearest?” he asked tenderly, bending his head
until his mouth almost touched her ear.
She shook her head, as her hand crept into his and leaned her weight on
his protecting arm.
“I came down to find,” she commenced, and her soft voice, though
low-pitched, reached the two listening men, then she stopped in fright
as, moving slightly forward, she caught a glimpse over Richards’
shoulder of Penfield regarding her. “Joe--who is that?”
“Ah, eh--” Richards stammered, then caught himself up. “It is Mr.
Penfield, dearest.” She raised her eyes and regarded him closely, and
more slowly he repeated, “Dr. Penfield.”
She shook her head in bewilderment, and drew her silk wrapper more
closely about her; the movement brought into view the large sewing bag
suspended by its cord from her wrist.
“I came down to find,” she commenced again----
“I know,” broke in Ferguson from his seat on the floor where his
encounter with Richards’ muscular figure had landed him. His tumble had
disarranged the rug and under its lifted folds he had caught the gleam
of light on metal. With impetuous fingers he drew out a pair of long
steel shears and held them aloft. “You left a dead man here and came
back to find your bloodstained shears.”
An oath ripped from Richards and he made a step forward, but Judith’s
clinging hand detained him. She reeled against him as she caught sight
of the shears, and he held her closely; his voice, though low, vibrated
with passion.
“You--Ferguson!” he gasped.
“Stop!” commanded the detective. “I am not interested in your
statements, Major Richards; let your wife answer my last remark.”
“Answer!” Richards choked; then spoke more clearly. “You ---- fool! My
wife has not heard a word you said--she is stone deaf.”
Ferguson and Coroner Penfield stared dumfounded at husband and wife.
The latter was the first to break the strained silence.
“I am sorry, gentlemen,” she said, and her deprecating look, as well
as charming voice, conveyed an apology, “I cannot understand what you
are saying.” She raised her eyes and gazed perplexedly at her husband.
“Joe, I came down to get my ear trumpet.”
Penfield recovered from his surprise. “It is here, madam,” he exclaimed
and hurrying to the safe picked up the instrument from one of the
compartments and handed it to Judith. With quick deft fingers she
adjusted it to her ear and then Ferguson addressed her.
“Now, madam, perhaps you will explain--don’t interfere, Major
Richards--I must have an explanation--”
“And so must I.” The interruption came in an unexpected quarter, and
both Penfield and the detective wheeled toward the hall door. “What is
the meaning of this scene in my house, gentlemen?” Mrs. Hale, tossing
her ermine cape on the nearest chair, advanced to the little group,
followed by her brother-in-law, John Hale.
Penfield spoke before the others.
“A crime has been committed here to-night, madam, in your absence,” he
began.
“A crime?” She interrupted in her turn, her eyes leaving her daughter’s
blanched face for the first time. “A crime--?”
“Yes; a burglar forced an entrance and was murdered----”
“A burglar!” John Hale pushed past his sister-in-law to the center of
the room. His manner was rough and domineering. “What the devil are you
talking about?”
Without answering, Ferguson wheeled about and, walking over to the
motionless figure on the floor, signed to Hale to approach.
“Here’s the burglar--and he’s dead,” he announced concisely, then
held up the shears, “and here’s the weapon--from a workbag,” casting
a significant glance at the bag still suspended from Judith’s icy
fingers. Richards’ furious retort was checked by a cry of horror from
John Hale.
With staring eyes and ghastly face he gazed down at the dead man.
“A burglar!” he cried. “Austin--my son!” and pitched headlong to the
floor.