THEORIES
MRS. HALE rattled her coffee cups and looked over the top of her silver
urn at Joe Richards; he had asked for a third cup of coffee and he
drank it clear. Mrs. Hale was shocked. But the remonstrance on the tip
of her tongue died unspoken as she studied his clear-cut profile and
observed the dogged set to his determined jaw. She took silent note of
his unusual pallor, the dark circles under his eyes, and his continued
silence. Mrs. Hale felt resentful; she was of a talkative disposition
and had welcomed an opportunity to discuss the mystery surrounding
Austin Hale’s death with her handsome son-in-law, but instead of
following her lead he had answered in monosyllables. A less persistent
woman would have given up the attempt.
“Did you ask Judith if she saw a light in Austin’s bedroom?” she
inquired, for at least the sixth time. “Your suite of rooms is
directly under his, poor boy,” and she sought refuge behind her damp
handkerchief. She emerged a moment later to add, “Austin must have gone
to his room, for his overcoat and suit case were there when I went
upstairs after that distressing scene in the library--dear me, was it
only this morning?”
“It was.” Richards’ tone was grim and did not invite further remarks.
For a moment there was silence.
“You haven’t answered my question, my dear boy,” prompted Mrs. Hale
plaintively, “nor have you touched your breakfast!” in shocked surprise
as Anna, the waitress, removed his plate.
“I--I cannot eat.” With an effort Richards suppressed a grimace at
sight of the untasted eggs and bacon. “I have no appetite. Dear Mrs.
Hale, do not distress yourself on my account.”
Mrs. Hale regarded him in suspicious silence; she was not quite certain
what prompted his sudden change of manner. Was he poking fun at her?
But as she met his unwavering gaze she dismissed the idea as unworthy,
and returned valiantly to the task of eliciting information.
“What questions _did_ you ask Judith?” she demanded.
“I have not questioned Judith.” Richards drew out his cigarette case.
“May I smoke?” And hardly waiting for her permission, he added,
“Judith, as you know, does not feel well and is breakfasting in her
boudoir. I do not believe,”--Richards paused and his speech gained
added deliberation--“I do not believe Judith can supply any information
as to the events of last night, nor any clew to the unfortunate murder
of her cousin. Her deafness----”
“I know,” broke in Mrs. Hale hastily--any allusion to Judith’s
infirmity cut her mother love. “I cannot think why, when Austin reached
home, he did not at once tell Judith that he was in the house--he knew
she could not _hear_ him enter. It is most surprising!” and Mrs. Hale
shook a puzzled head.
Richards considered her thoughtfully. “Have you found out how and when
Austin returned last night?” he asked.
“Of course.” Mrs. Hale brightened; Richards was at last expanding
to the extent of asking questions--what had made him so morose? “I
interviewed the servants immediately after leaving the library.” She
did not add that she had scurried upstairs in dire haste so as to be
the first person to go to their rooms and personally question each and
every one--thereby upsetting Detective Ferguson’s well-laid plans, and
depriving the servants of any sleep during the remainder of the night.
“Not one of them,” impressively, “knew of his return.”
“Then how did he get in?” persisted Richards.
“With his latchkey, of course,” somewhat surprised by Richards’ manner.
“Oh, I forgot, you did not know Austin, and perhaps we have not
mentioned that he has always made his home with us since his adoption.”
“His what?” Richards’ voice rose in astonishment; and Mrs. Hale’s
complacent smile reflected her gratification; she had at last aroused
Richards’ interest. “Do you mean--was he not John Hale’s son?”
“No, only his stepson,” she explained. “John married a widow, Cora
Price, much older than himself, when he was but twenty-four--in fact
just out of college. John is only forty-seven now, ten years my
husband’s junior. Dear me, where was I?” and Mrs. Hale pulled up short,
conscious that she had wandered from the point.
“You were speaking of Austin’s adoption,” Richards reminded her gently.
“Oh, yes. Cora had a boy by her first husband, and when she died within
the year of their marriage, she left him, then about five years of
age, to John to bring up, and he legally adopted him, giving him our
name. John,” she added, “is very kind-hearted, if somewhat hasty in his
actions.”
Reminded of his cigarette by his burned fingers, Richards dropped the
stub in his coffee cup and started to light another just as Maud, the
parlor maid, appeared in the dining room.
“Detective Ferguson has called to see Mr. John,” she announced,
addressing Mrs. Hale. “Do you know when he will return, ma’am?”
“I do not,” Mrs. Hale pushed back her chair and rose with alacrity.
“Where is the detective?”
“In the library, ma’am.”
“Show him into the drawing-room,” Mrs. Hale directed, and not giving
Richards an opportunity to pull back the portières before the entrance
to the large room which adjoined the dining room on the west, she swept
majestically away.
“Maud!” The parlor maid halted as Richards’ low voice reached her. “Did
my wife eat her breakfast?”
“Yes, sir, a little.” Maud’s sympathetic smile blossomed forth as she
caught Richards’ pleased expression. She lingered before speeding
on her errand to the waiting detective. “Miss Judith has brightened
considerable since I gave her Miss Polly’s answer.”
Richards’ strong hand caressed his clean-shaven chin. “And what was the
answer?” he questioned. “Verbal?”
“Oh, yes, sir; James brought back word that Miss Polly would be right
over, and so I told Miss Judith.”
“Thank you, Maud,” and the parlor maid felt rewarded by Richards’
charming smile.
Richards had become a favorite with the servants, who idolized “Miss
Judith,” as they still persisted in calling her. They had awaited
with interest the arrival of the bride and groom two weeks before,
an interest intensified by the storm which had arisen on receipt of
Judith’s cablegram to her father telling of her marriage in far-away
Japan to Joseph Richards.
Robert Hale had made no attempt to conceal or modify his fury while
Mrs. Hale, deeply hurt by what she termed her “unfilial conduct,”
had promptly made the best of the situation and endeavored to
persuade her husband to accept the inevitable and cable Judith their
forgiveness. Hale, anxious to return to his scientific experiments,
finally succumbed to her arguments, backed up by those of his brother
John, and, going a step further than his wife had expected, added an
invitation to return to the paternal roof.
Richards had borne himself well under the inspection of his wife’s
family, and Hale had grudgingly admitted to his wife that perhaps he
wasn’t such a bad lot after all, to which Mrs. Hale, who had been won
by Richards’ charm of manner and handsome presence, had indignantly
responded that Judith had been most fortunate in her selection of a
husband. Hale’s only response had been a sardonic grin.
As the parlor maid hurried down the hall, Richards paused in thought;
Mrs. Hale had not invited him to go with her to the drawing-room,
but--with bent head he meditatively paced up and down, his steps
involuntarily carrying him nearer and nearer the portières; as he
paused irresolutely before them, Mrs. Hale’s voice came to him clearly.
“Detective Ferguson, I must insist on an answer to my question.”
Richards jerked the portières aside and without ceremony entered the
drawing-room. Ferguson turned at sound of his footsteps and bowed
to him before answering Mrs. Hale who was regarding him with fixed
attention.
“I can’t tell you anything, Mrs. Hale,” he protested. “I came here to
get information.”
“What information?” Mrs. Hale had frowned at sight of Richards, then,
her momentary displeasure gone, addressed herself to the detective. She
enjoyed the rôle of inquisitor.
“I wanted to talk with Mr. John Hale.”
“He is out.”
“So your maid said.” Ferguson fingered the table ornaments with
restless fingers; he was getting nowhere and time was slipping away.
“Where’s he gone?”
Richards answered the question. “To the cemetery, I understood him to
say.” He glanced at his watch. “Mr. Hale should be back in a very short
time.”
“Then I’ll wait, Major,” and Ferguson, who had secretly resented Mrs.
Hale’s discourtesy in not asking him to be seated, jerked forward a
chair and threw himself into it. “Can I see your husband, madam?”
“You cannot.” Mrs. Hale rapped out the reply, and Richards shot a quick
look of inquiry in her direction. “My husband is under Dr. McLane’s
care, and until the doctor gives permission he cannot be interviewed.”
“Dr. McLane,” repeated Ferguson, and his face brightened. “The doctor
came in just before I did. Will you please send him word that I would
like to see him before he leaves?”
Mrs. Hale considered for a brief second, then turned to Richards who
was standing near the mantel. “Please touch the bell for Maud,” and as
he did so, she again spoke to Ferguson.
“Why do you desire to see my husband?” she asked, and her manner had
regained its usual suavity.
“To question him regarding the occurrences of last night,” answered
Ferguson. “Have you already done so?” and he eyed her keenly.
Mrs. Hale shook her head, but before she could otherwise reply, Maud
came into the room.
“Ask Dr. McLane to come here before he leaves,” she directed. “Tell
him that Detective Ferguson and I both wish to see him,” and Maud
vanished. Mrs. Hale settled herself back in her chair and regarded
Ferguson attentively. There was a bull-dog air about the detective that
warned her he was not to be trifled with. In spite of her haphazard
characteristics and total lack of tact, she recognized determination in
the opposite sex, though never giving in to her own.
“What did you ask me, Mr. Ferguson?” she inquired sweetly.
“Have you told your husband of the death of Austin Hale?” Ferguson put
the direct question with quiet emphasis, and she answered it in kind.
“I have not,” adding before he could speak, “My husband was asleep when
I went to our rooms after my interview with you this morning, and when
he awoke two hours ago he complained of feeling feverish, so I forbore
breaking the news to him until after Dr. McLane’s visit.”
Ferguson scrutinized her narrowly; he was not prepossessed in her
favor and from the little he had seen of her wondered that she should
have refrained from telling her husband of the tragedy of the early
morning, for he judged her to be the type of woman who must talk
at all costs. That she had not told her husband implied---- The
detective’s cogitations were interrupted by the entrance of John Hale
and a companion whom Ferguson instantly recognized from the frequent
publication of his photograph in the local papers.
Francis Latimer, senior member of the firm of Latimer and House,
stockbrokers, was one of the popular bachelors of Washington. Inclined
to embonpoint, of medium height, a little bald, and wearing round, horn
spectacles, he resembled in his fastidiousness of dress and deportment
a Pickwick in modern attire. At the moment his face, generally round
and rosy with an ever present smile, wore an unusual seriousness of
expression as he greeted Mrs. Hale and Richards. He glanced inquiringly
at Ferguson and returned that official’s bow with a courteous
inclination of his head.
“Detective Ferguson has been waiting to see you, John,” explained Mrs.
Hale, as the men stood for a second in silence.
Ferguson stepped forward. “You told me to call at ten o’clock, Mr.
Hale,” he reminded him, and John nodded.
“So I did,” he acknowledged. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I
had to see the superintendent of the cemetery,” he stopped and cleared
his voice. “Latimer and I have just returned from making arrangements
for the funeral services. Have you,” again a slight huskiness in his
usually clear voice slurred his words, “have you heard, Ferguson, the
result of the autopsy?”
“No, Mr. Hale, but it was held----” Ferguson looked over his shoulder
on hearing footsteps behind him and saw Leonard McLane walk between the
portières of the folding doors, held back by the attentive waitress,
Anna.
“Dr. McLane,”--the detective gave no one an opportunity to greet
the busy surgeon--“you were present with Coroner Penfield at the
post-mortem examination of young Hale, were you not?”
“Yes.” McLane took the hand Mrs. Hale extended to him and gave it a
reassuring squeeze; he judged from her unaccustomed pallor that she was
much upset. “Yes, well?” and he looked inquiringly at the detective.
“Tell us the result, doctor,” urged Ferguson, and added as McLane
hesitated, “You will be betraying no confidences, because the coroner
telephoned me to stop and see him about it when I leave here.”
“Go ahead, McLane,” broke in John Hale. “I am entitled to know what
caused Austin’s death--don’t keep me in suspense any longer,” and
McLane, looking at him closely, saw that tiny beads of sweat had
gathered on Hale’s forehead.
John Hale, who measured six feet two in his stocking feet, presented
a striking contrast to Frank Latimer as they stood side by side,
a contrast Washington society had laughed at and grown accustomed
to. Their Damon and Pythias friendship had commenced when they were
students at Harvard University and, continued through the years of
their separation when John Hale was in Mexico, was cemented again
upon the latter’s return to make his home permanently in the National
Capital. Hale was the elder by two years. His healthy out-of-door life
showed in the breadth of his shoulders and deep chest, and he was
seldom credited with being forty-seven years of age. For the first time
McLane became aware of the crow’s-feet discernible under his eyes as
John Hale moved nearer him.
“Coroner Penfield’s examination,” McLane stated, “proved that Austin
died as the result of a wound in the chest. The weapon penetrated the
right ventricle of the heart, and death was due to internal hemorrhage.”
A heavy sob broke from Mrs. Hale. “Oh, poor Austin!” she lamented. “Oh,
why did he do so mad an act?”
“Explain your meaning, madam,” insisted Ferguson quickly, and held up a
cautioning hand as John Hale was about to interrupt her.
“Why, kill himself,” asserted Mrs. Hale. “To commit suicide _is_ a mad
act,” she added a trifle defiantly and gazed at her silent companions.
“Was the wound self-inflicted, doctor?” questioned Ferguson, and Mrs.
Hale grew conscious of the strained attention of her companions as they
waited in silence for McLane’s answer.
The surgeon answered with a question.
“Was any weapon found by the body?”
Ferguson took from his pocket a package wrapped in oilskin. Removing
the wrapping, he exhibited a pair of long slender shears. One blade was
covered with bloodstains.
“These shears were lying near the body,” he announced.
“And under a rug,” Richards broke his long silence. “I distinctly
recall seeing you pick them up, Ferguson, and remember the position
they were in when you found them.”
“They were not under a rug,” retorted Ferguson. “The edge of the rug
was turned back and covered them. Don’t touch the steel, sir,”--as
Richards stepped to his side and studied the shears--“I’ve had
impressions made for possible finger marks. You haven’t answered my
question, doctor; was it suicide?”
“Possibly.”
“But not probably?” quickly.
“Have a care, Ferguson.” Richards spoke with sternness. “Don’t impute
a meaning to Dr. McLane’s words; let him put his own construction on
them.” Abruptly he turned to the surgeon. “Could the wound have been
accidentally inflicted?”
McLane stared at him. “I don’t quite catch your meaning?”
“Could Austin have tripped or stumbled and fallen on the shears?”
“He could have tripped or stumbled, certainly; but if he had fallen
on the shears both blades would have penetrated his chest--” McLane
pointed to them. “Only one blade is bloodstained.”
“Quite sure they are bloodstains and not rust?” As he put the question,
Richards again scrutinized the shears.
Ferguson smiled skeptically. “The stains have already been subjected to
chemical tests,” he said. “It is human blood. Another thing, Major, if
Austin Hale fell on these shears and, improbable as it may seem, was
stabbed by only one blade, that blade would have remained in the wound,
would it not, doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Then we can dismiss the theory of accidental death,” argued Ferguson,
“and there remain homicide or suicide. Come, doctor, could Austin have
pulled out the shears’ blade after stabbing himself?”
McLane shook his head dubiously. “Death resulted almost
instantaneously,” he answered.
Richards, who had thrust his hands into his trousers’ pockets, clenched
them until the nails dug into the flesh, while Detective Ferguson, with
a covert smile, rolled up the shears once again in the piece of oilskin
and replaced them in his pocket.
“Suicide is then out of the question,” he commented gravely. “It leaves
us face to face with homicide. What motive inspired Austin Hale’s
murder, gentlemen?”
A low moan escaped Mrs. Hale. “There _could_ be no motive,” she
stammered. “Austin had no enemies, and this was his home; he was
surrounded only with relatives----”
“And he was murdered,” Ferguson’s lips parted in a dangerous smile, as
he swung on John Hale. “Come, sir, have you no facts to disclose, no
aid to offer in tracking down your son’s murder?”
John Hale regarded him for a moment in grim silence.
“I give you a free hand to follow every clew,” he affirmed, “and offer
a reward of five thousand dollars for the apprehension and conviction
of his murderer.”
Detective Ferguson buttoned his coat and picked up his hat which he had
brought with him into the drawing-room; then he turned to McLane.
“Can I see your patient, Mr. Robert Hale?” he asked.
“Not now.” McLane addressed Mrs. Hale. “I have given your husband a
sedative,” he said. “Keep all excitement from him when he awakens; I
will call later.”
“But see here, doctor,” objected Ferguson, “I must interview Mr. Hale,”
and in his earnestness he laid a persuasive hand on the surgeon’s coat
sleeve.
“So you can, shortly,” answered McLane. “Come with me, Ferguson, I’ll
take you to the coroner’s,” and there was that about McLane which
deterred the detective from pressing the point. With a bow to the
others McLane hurried away, Ferguson in his wake. Mrs. Hale gazed in
dead silence at her three companions, then found relief in tears.
“Hush, Agatha,” exclaimed her brother-in-law, as her sobs grew in
volume. “Calm yourself.”
John Hale’s strong voice carried some comfort, and she looked up a few
minutes later as the gong over the front door rang loudly. Through her
tear-dimmed eyes she had a fleeting glimpse of a familiar, slender
figure hurrying past the portières and through the central hall to the
circular staircase. Mrs. Hale’s tears burst out afresh.
“Oh!” she gasped. “I just can’t break the news of Austin’s death to
Polly Davis--they were engaged----”
“You don’t know what you are talking about!” John Hale spoke with rough
vehemence. “Polly and Austin were not engaged,” and turning on his heel
he stamped his way out of the drawing-room.
Mrs. Hale gazed in bewilderment at Richards and Latimer; the former
answered her unspoken question.
“Weren’t you aware of the situation?” he asked, and there was mockery
in his tone. “John Hale and Austin, his stepson, were both madly in
love with Polly--your husband’s secretary.”