MORE THEORIES
RAIN and snow followed by sleet had reduced the traffic in the streets
of the Capital City to venturesome taxicabs and occasional delivery
cars. Few Washingtonians, not required by necessity to venture out of
doors, were so unwise as to risk a fall on the slippery pavements,
and the generally gay thoroughfares of the fashionable Northwest were
deserted. Weather-forecasters had announced in the morning press that a
decade had passed since such a combination of ice and sleet had visited
the city so late in the winter.
The small procession of automobiles returning from Oak Hill Cemetery
coasted its way with care down the steep hills of Georgetown and along
the ice-covered asphalt. John Hale, the occupant of the foremost car,
pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his face, which, in spite of the
biting north wind and the zero weather, was damp with perspiration.
“Thank God!” he muttered rather than spoke. “That is over.” He turned
and scowled at his companion. “Well, Frank, haven’t you anything to
say?”
Frank Latimer, who had been studying his friend in silence, roused
himself.
“It was a trying ordeal,” he remarked gravely, “and like you, I am
relieved that the funeral is over. Poor Austin!”
John Hale winced. “Don’t!” he exclaimed. “Suppose we leave the--the
laments to my sister-in-law, Agatha.”
Latimer nodded sympathetically. “She made an exhibition of herself in
the chapel,” he acknowledged. “I had no idea that she was so attached
to Austin. In fact,”--Latimer lowered his voice to confidential
tones--“I’ve always understood that she opposed a marriage between
Judith and Austin.”
“And quite rightly,” Hale’s voice rang out sharply. “Judith is a
splendid type of young womanhood, while----” He checked his impetuous
speech. “I opposed the match, also.”
“So I recall.” Latimer offered his cigarette case to his friend. His
chubby face wore a troubled expression. “Agatha Hale is a bit of a
trial, old man; let’s forget her.”
“I wish I could,” with gloomy fervor. “Why Robert ever picked out such
a piece of contrariness I never could understand; one moment your
friend, the next against you--and emotional!” His tone spoke volumes.
“While Robert----” He smiled wryly and Latimer finished the sentence.
“Is the most unemotional of men,” he agreed. “Judith is more like you,
John, than like either of her parents.”
Hale moved uneasily and changed the conversation with some abruptness
as the car drove up to the curb and stopped before his brother’s
residence.
“I’m much obliged to you, Frank, for bringing me home,” he said,
preparing to spring out as the chauffeur opened the door. “I don’t
think I could have stood driving back in the same car with Agatha and
Judith. Won’t you come in with me?”
“I can’t, thanks; I have an appointment,” Latimer responded. “I’ll see
you later perhaps at the club. Eh, what the----”
The ejaculation was wrung from him by John Hale’s sudden clutch on his
arm and before he quite realized what was happening he found himself
propelled out of the car. Once on the sidewalk the little stockbroker
turned to his big companion in wrathful bewilderment. The explanation
John Hale offered for his precipitous action was given under his
breath, and Jackson, the chauffeur, failed to hear it as he climbed
back in his seat and, obedient to a signal from his employer, shut off
his engine.
“That damn bounder from Police Headquarters is waiting for an
interview, Frank.” John Hale indicated one of the library windows
overlooking the street where Latimer saw a man peering out from behind
the curtains. “I had entirely forgotten that Detective Ferguson
telephoned and asked me to see him this afternoon. I want you to be
present.”
The urgency of his tone silenced Latimer’s objections, and without a
word he accompanied him into the house, Anna, the waitress, holding
the front door hospitably open for them. Almost tossing his fur-lined
overcoat and hat into the servant’s arms, John Hale strode at once into
the library, and Latimer, pausing only long enough to put down his hat
and cane on the hall table, followed him, forgetting in his interest
that he had not removed his overcoat.
At the sound of their footsteps Detective Ferguson stepped away from
the window-alcove where he had been a witness of their arrival. John
Hale’s curt greeting and Latimer’s short nod caused him to redden;
he was not accustomed to such outward display of contempt, for so he
interpreted their manner.
“What can I do for you, Ferguson?” asked John Hale, signing to the
detective to draw up a chair as he threw himself down on a lounge.
“Sit down, Frank,” and he turned again to the detective, as the latter
remained silent, with an impatient “Well?”
“You can answer a few questions, sir,” replied Ferguson.
John Hale lifted his broad shoulders in a contemptuous shrug.
“I have already shown great patience in that line,” he remarked dryly.
“Pardon me; you have answered a few questions most impatiently,”
retorted Ferguson. His temper was rising and rapidly overcoming
discretion. Instead of an angry rejoinder, John Hale gave a short laugh.
“Well, go on, what are your questions?” he asked. “Remember that we
have just come from my stepson’s funeral, and,”--he cleared his throat
before continuing--“I--have been under a severe strain.”
“True, sir; I promise not to be long.” Ferguson hitched his chair
nearer the two men. “It is in regard to the funeral that I desire to
speak. I was told by Coroner Penfield that you had requested that
Austin Hale’s body be cremated.”
“Well?” questioned John Hale as Ferguson paused.
“Why did you make that request, Mr. Hale?”
“Because I believe in cremation,” promptly.
“Were you not aware that Austin’s body could not be cremated until
after the mystery of his murder had been solved?”
“No, I am not a lawyer.”
“One does not have to be a lawyer to know that such a request would be
refused,” replied Ferguson.
Again John Hale shrugged his shoulders. “The request was perfectly
reasonable,” he declared.
“Under normal conditions, yes,” dryly. “Why did you make it?”
John Hale’s raised eyebrows indicated annoyance at the detective’s
persistence. “I have already told you,” he stated. “It is hardly
necessary to repeat that I believe in cremation.”
“And the absolute destruction of the body, so that no further medical
examination could be made if the need arose?” Ferguson smiled
skeptically. “Now, honestly, did you really think such a request would
get by?”
John Hale controlled his temper with an effort. “An autopsy had already
been held and the cause of Austin’s death determined,” he pointed out,
and then, addressing his silent companion, “What was McLane’s exact
definition, Frank?”
Latimer took out his notebook and turned its pages until he came to an
entry.
“Dr. McLane stated that Austin died as the result of a chest wound, and
that death was instantaneous, as the weapon penetrated to the heart,
or words to that effect,” he added and replaced the notebook in his
pocket, as John Hale again addressed the detective.
“You see, Ferguson, the autopsy told the cause of death; therefore my
request was not only natural, believing, as I do, in cremation, but
reasonable.” He leaned back and regarded the detective with candid
eyes. “That it was not granted was the unreasonable feature of the
case.”
Ferguson was slow in replying. “That you were advised to have the body
placed in the receiving vault at the cemetery shows how your request
was regarded by the authorities, Mr. Hale,” he remarked, and Latimer
broke into the discussion.
“Come, come,” he remonstrated. “You go too far in your zeal, Ferguson.
The ground is hard frozen and no graves can be dug; therefore all
bodies are being placed in the receiving vaults until the weather
moderates.”
“Maybe so,” Ferguson’s smile was non-committal. “But--your request came
very pat, Mr. Hale, and--it didn’t make a hit with Headquarters.”
John Hale straightened his powerful figure. “I don’t care a damn
how it hit Headquarters!” he declared, and his voice rose in angry
accents. “If this is all you wish with me, we may as well cut short our
interview; my time is valuable.”
“And so is mine, sir,” retorted Ferguson with equal heat. “How much
longer am I going to be prevented from seeing your brother, Mr. Robert
Hale?”
“Depends on how long it takes you to turn your head,” remarked a voice
back of the three men, and with one accord they spun around. Robert
Hale was occupying his favorite chair and he met their stares with one
of mild surprise.
“How long have you been in the room?” demanded John Hale.
His brother looked at the clock on the mantel. “A bare thirty seconds,”
he answered. “You were so absorbed in conversation that I hesitated to
interrupt you. When this gentleman”--with a motion of his hand toward
Ferguson--“asked in such impassioned tones for a sight of me, I could
not refrain from announcing my presence.”
“But”--John Hale bent forward and stared earnestly at his brother--“Dr.
McLane said that you were to remain in bed, that you were too weak----”
Hale interrupted him with a snap of his fingers. “That for McLane’s
diagnosis,” he said. “I am a bit weak, but staying in bed won’t cure
that complaint, so I dressed myself and came downstairs. Where is
Agatha?”
“She’s out,” tersely.
“So Anna informed me when I met her in the hall.” Hale swung his chair
around to the left so as to face them more directly. “Anna also said
that Judith was out and that Polly Davis was not in the house? Why is
every one out? Why”--with a quick impatient gesture--“is there such a
funereal air about the house?”
John Hale groaned inwardly and wasted a bitter ejaculation on his
sister-in-law. Why had Agatha postponed telling her husband of
Austin’s death? What if McLane had advised keeping the tragic news
from him--if he was strong enough to dress himself unassisted and walk
about the house, he had been strong enough to be told of the events
of the past forty-eight hours. But it had now fallen to his lot to do
so--it was generally his lot to be the harbinger of bad news in the
family. John Hale’s mouth set in grim lines.
“There has been a funeral in the house,” he announced with
characteristic bluntness. “Austin died Tuesday night.”
“Austin!” Hale sat bolt upright and regarded his brother; suddenly he
sank back in his chair and his head sagged forward on his chest.
“Good Lord!” John Hale leaped to his feet but Latimer was before him in
reaching his brother’s side.
“Some water--wine!” he called, and Ferguson bolted from the room in
search of Anna, the waitress. He found her polishing silver in the
dining room and at his breathless request she filled a glass with ice
water and thrust it in his hand. Ferguson reached the library just as
Latimer forced some cognac between Hale’s bloodless lips.
“He will revive in a minute,” he said, laying down the flask which
John Hale, recovering his dazed wits, had taken from a cabinet in one
corner of the library where his brother kept some wine secreted. “His
pulse is better now--there,” as the powerful stimulant took effect. “He
is coming to. Here, take a sip of this,” and Latimer snatched the glass
of water out of Ferguson’s hand. Hale, his eyelids fluttering, drank
slowly as Latimer tilted the glass gently against his lips.
With an effort Hale jerked himself erect and then leaned back, pushing
aside, as he did so, Latimer’s supporting hand.
“I’m all right,” he protested weakly. “Just over-estimated my
strength--wait.”
In the ensuing silence Detective Ferguson studied Robert Hale
attentively; it was the first time he had seen the scientist at close
quarters. There was something effeminate in Hale’s good looks and, in
spite of his gray hair, Ferguson put him down in his estimation as
belonging to the “pretty boy type.” The impression was enhanced by
the stalwart appearance of John Hale; the brothers were in striking
contrast, both in physical build and in mental equipment--one had
achieved fame in his chosen profession, while the other had made a bare
living as the result of hard work. Ferguson’s lips curled in contempt;
the small, slight, middle-aged man was hardly an impressive figure.
Suddenly Robert Hale reached for the flask and Latimer gave it to him.
Tilting his head backward, Hale took a long swallow, then laid the
flask carefully on the table within easy reach.
“Now, John,” he began, “tell me of Austin.”
“I should have broken the news more gently,” John Hale spoke with
contrition. “I should have remembered that you and Austin were great
pals.”
His brother passed his hand across his lips. “We were--” He paused
abruptly and did not complete his sentence. “Come, don’t be afraid, I
have myself in hand; tell me the details.”
John Hale looked dubiously at Latimer and the latter nodded his
encouragement. “Go ahead, tell him the whole story,” he advised. “It’s
worse to keep him in suspense.”
“Austin died on Tuesday night,” John Hale stated, choosing his words
with care, “to be exact, some time on Wednesday morning. He was stabbed
to death.”
“Stabbed!” Hale’s hand stole toward the flask, then was withdrawn.
“Stabbed by whom?”
“We don’t know.”
“Oh!” Robert Hale’s color was returning slowly. “Where was Austin
murdered?”
“Here.”
“Here?” The repetition was parrotlike.
“Yes, here.” Ferguson took a step forward and for the first time joined
in the conversation.
Hale turned and regarded him in silence, then looked inquiringly at
Latimer.
“This is Detective Ferguson of the Central Office,” he explained. “He
is detailed to investigate the mystery surrounding Austin’s death.”
Hale placed his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand.
“And what have you discovered, Inspector?” he asked.
“Nothing.” Ferguson, flattered by the title, spoke with courteous
promptness. “I have been waiting to interview you, Mr. Hale, as to what
transpired here on Tuesday night.”
“Tuesday?” Hale reflected a moment. “Let me see, I was taken ill with
the ‘flu’ last Friday, and I have not been up and about until this
morning. You will have to ask others in my household for information.”
“I have,” Ferguson made no effort to conceal his disappointment over
his failure to elicit news. “And every one declares nothing out of the
ordinary was either heard or seen.”
“Tuesday night,” repeated Robert Hale thoughtfully. “Tuesday
night--why, John, you went in my stead with Agatha to the French
Embassy reception; did Judith accompany you?”
“No, she stayed at home,” John Hale explained. “She said she had a
headache.”
“And her husband?” inquired his brother.
“Major Richards? Oh, he had a business engagement at the club.” John
Hale pulled forward a chair and sat down, the interview threatened to
grow protracted. “It was Joe who found Austin on his return.”
“Joe found him!” Robert Hale glanced upward and Latimer started at the
sudden flash in his dark eyes--eyes which until that moment had seemed
dull, almost dead, in their lusterless expression. “Well, what then?”
“Joe called in the police,” John Hale continued. “And to-day we are no
nearer detecting the criminal or discovering the motive for the crime
than we were at that hour.”
“Give us a chance, Mr. Hale,” protested Ferguson. “This is the first
time I’ve seen you,” turning to the elder brother. “There’s some
information you must give, if Mr. John Hale won’t.”
“Play fair, Ferguson,” objected John Hale. “I have never refused----”
“Be quiet, John.” Robert Hale spoke with authority. “As the head of the
house I will attend to this investigation.”
He was interrupted by a slight scream from the hall. The next instant
the portières were pulled aside and Mrs. Hale hurried toward him.
“Robert, you are really downstairs--and Anna did not lie,” she
commenced incoherently. “Do you not know that you are jeopardizing----”
“Quiet, Agatha”--Robert Hale let his wife clasp his hand in both
of hers, and Detective Ferguson, watching the scene with interest,
was again impressed with the quality of his voice. Rich in tone,
softly modulated, it almost caressed the ear, and Hale’s faultless
pronunciation added to the soothing effect. “Where is Judith?”
“Taking off her wraps. She will be here shortly.” Mrs. Hale seldom
completed her sentences when excited. “We have just returned from--”
“I can guess”--Hale eyed her mourning and her reddened eyelids.
“John has told me of Austin’s death.” He patted her hand gently,
sympathetically; then before she could speak, addressed the detective.
“You said you wished to question me; kindly do so.”
Ferguson pushed forward a chair for Mrs. Hale near her husband and,
drawing out his notebook, chose a seat near the table.
“When did you last see Austin Hale?” he asked.
“Before he left for New York six weeks ago.”
“Did you expect him to return on Tuesday night?”
“No.”
“Was Austin in financial difficulties?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Robert Hale addressed his brother. “How about
it, John?”
“I never heard of his having financial difficulties,” the latter
replied, his attention partly diverted by Mrs. Hale; she had an
annoying habit of biting her nails whenever perturbed in mind, and the
gnawing sound, slight as it was, was getting on her brother-in-law’s
nerves. She met his glare with a fixed stare, totally unconscious of
the cause of his wrath.
“Was Austin in love?” inquired Ferguson, his fountain pen flying over
the paper, jotting down questions and answers.
Robert Hale laughed faintly. “Does a kitten play?” he asked. “John,
you are better qualified to answer that question than I; Austin was
your”--he paused--“stepson.”
“And my adopted son, as well,” John Hale amplified his brother’s
statement. “If Austin intended to marry, I was not his confidant, and,
therefore, am unable”--his manner grew stiff and formal--“to give you
any information on the subject.”
Ferguson frowned in perplexity. The antagonism between the brothers was
plainly discernible and Frank Latimer, instinctively aware of which
way the detective’s thoughts were turning, grew uncomfortably warm and
conscious that he was still wearing his heavy overcoat.
Had Ferguson learned of the frequent disputes between the brothers,
which had at different times kept their Washington friends in constant
dread of their quarrels developing into actual conflict?
“Is it your custom to keep your safe unlocked, Mr. Hale?” asked
Ferguson, breaking the short silence.
“No.”
“Are you aware that it was open on Tuesday night?”
Hale picked up the flask of cognac, eyed it a moment, then laid it down
again before answering.
“No.”
“Has any one besides you the combination?”
“No.”
The detective watched Hale closely. Was his use of monosyllables due to
physical weakness, to a naturally taciturn disposition, or to a desire
to conceal information? Ferguson sighed impatiently and resumed his
examination with the point still undecided in his mind.
“Mr. Hale,”--he spoke with growing impressiveness--“I found Austin Hale
lying dead in this room on Wednesday morning--he was lying within a few
feet of your open safe. The door had not been forced; therefore it must
have been opened by some one having the combination.” He paused and the
silence lengthened; abruptly he broke it. “Please examine your safe,
Mr. Hale, and see if any money or documents are missing.”
“Wait, Robert.” The caution came from Mrs. Hale, and her husband looked
at her with marked displeasure. For the moment he had forgotten her
presence. “You must not overexert yourself,” she continued. “Let me
look in the safe?”
Robert Hale was on his feet before she had finished speaking.
“Don’t worry about me,” he exclaimed tartly. “I know what I am about,
Agatha,” and he walked somewhat unsteadily over to the safe, the others
following until they grouped themselves about him as he knelt down.
There was a distinct pause as he fumbled with the dial.
Mrs. Hale’s anxiety grew--would her husband never get the door open?
She was again about to intercede as she noted the paleness of his face
and his heavy breathing, but the door suddenly swung open and the
remonstrance remained unspoken.
Pushing his heavy gray hair off his forehead, Hale moved closer to the
safe, and without haste examined every compartment, then, supported by
his attentive wife, he rose painfully to his feet and dropped into a
chair.
“My papers and my wife’s jewelry are intact,” he stated.
Ferguson replaced his fountain pen and memorandum pad in his pocket.
“That settles it,” he declared. “Robbery was not the motive. The
murder of Austin Hale was an inside job----”
“You are wrong,” John Hale’s voice rang out loudly and echoed through
the large room. “Robbery was the motive.”
“Indeed!” Ferguson’s eyes snapped with excitement. Was he to learn
something tangible at last. “What was stolen?”
“Austin owned a valuable antique watch.” John Hale spoke slowly,
impressively, checking off each word on his finger. “He always carried
it--it was almost a fetish with him. The watch is missing.”
Concealed by the portières, Judith Richards leaned limply against the
door-jamb of the library and only Anna, the waitress, passing through
the hall, heard her astounded gasp, followed by a low moan.