HALF A SHEET
POLLY DAVIS closed the vestibule door of her home in C Street with a
veritable slam and proceeded up the street oblivious of greetings from
several of her neighbors. The street, celebrated in its day for having
among the occupants of its stately old-fashioned brick houses such
personages as John C. Fremont, John C. Calhoun, and General Winfield
Scott, was chiefly given over to modern business enterprises, and only
a few “Cave-dwellers” (the name bestowed upon Washingtonians by an
earnest “climber” to its exclusive resident circles) still occupied the
homes of their ancestors.
Polly slackened her swift walk into a saunter as she turned the corner
from C Street into John Marshall Place. On reaching D Street she
accelerated her speed somewhat on catching sight of an approaching
street car, but it did not stop to take on passengers, and Polly walked
back to the curb with an uncomplimentary opinion of the service of
one of Washington’s public utilities. She waited in indecision on
the corner, then opening her hand bag, took from it a scrap of paper
and consulted the name written thereon. After studying the paper for
a minute, she turned and eyed the large, red brick and stone trimmed
office building standing on the southeast corner facing the District
Court House. She had seen the Fendall Building innumerable times since
her childhood days, but never before had it held her interest.
There was a certain set air to Polly’s shoulders, which, to one
acquainted with her characteristics, indicated obstinacy, as she
crossed the street and entered the Fendall Building. She paused in the
lobby in front of the floor directory and then continued to the second
story. At the far end of the corridor she stopped before a closed door
bearing on its ground glass the title, in gold lettering:
=Burroughs Detective Agency=
ALFRED BURROUGHS, _Prop._
Polly returned to her hand bag the scrap of paper which she still held
tightly between the fingers of her left hand, took out a visiting card,
and stepped inside the office. There was no one in the room, and,
with a surprised glance about her, Polly crossed to a door evidently
leading to an inner office. The door was only partly closed, and
through the opening a familiar voice floated out to her:
“I depend upon your discretion, Mr. Burroughs. Remember, my name must
not be mentioned in connection with your employment in the case--” The
grating sound of chairs being pushed back followed, and any answer was
drowned thereby.
The hand which Polly had extended to knock against the panel of the
door fell nerveless to her side. With eyes distended to twice their
normal size, she retraced her footsteps out of the office and the
building.
When Polly reached the Hale residence she was admitted by the parlor
maid instead of the ever smiling Anna.
“Mr. Hale left word, Miss Polly, that you were to go to Mrs. Hale,”
Maud announced, helping Polly off with her coat and hat.
“Oh,” Polly paused. “Where is Mrs. Hale?”
“I don’t rightly know, miss.” Maud emerged from the depths of the hall
closet where she had hung Polly’s wraps. “Mrs. Hale came in not three
minutes ago. I think she has gone to her bedroom. Will you have some
lunch now, miss, or a little later?”
“A little later, thanks”--Polly regarded the hall clock. “I had no idea
it was nearly noon. You will find me with Mrs. Hale, Maud.”
“Very good, miss,” and they separated, the maid going to her pantry,
and Polly in search of Mrs. Hale. She found that energetic matron just
crossing the hall toward Judith’s boudoir. At the sound of Polly’s hail
she faced around.
“Is it you, Polly!” Mrs. Hale frequently asked the obvious. “My dear,
aren’t you very late to-day?”
Polly blushed at the emphasis on the adjective. “A little later than
ordinary,” she answered good-naturedly. “I will make up the time, Mrs.
Hale, and your husband’s manuscript will be completed without delay.
Maud said that your husband left word that I was to report to you.”
“Did he?” Mrs. Hale regarded her in some perplexity. “Why, last night
he decided that you were not strong enough to aid me in answering my
letters; he must have changed his mind, for he wouldn’t have sent you
to me for anything else.”
Polly’s attention had been caught by one phrase and the rest of Mrs.
Hale’s speech went unheeded.
“Your husband said I was not strong?” she questioned. “I am quite well.
What made him think otherwise?”
“Judith put the idea in his head.” Mrs. Hale led the way into the
boudoir as she spoke and selected a chair near her daughter’s desk, on
which were piled the notes of condolence, in anticipation of Richards’
answering them under Judith’s supervision. “Judith is very much worried
about your health, my dear.”
“That is very kind of Judith.” Polly slipped into the seat before
Judith’s desk at a sign from Mrs. Hale. “But your daughter is mistaken.
I am not in the least ill.”
“I am delighted to hear it.” Mrs. Hale looked at her husband’s
pretty secretary with approval. “Judith is always so positive in her
statements. I could not see that you looked run down, but she insisted
that you needed a change, and arranged with Mr. Hale to give you a
vacation.”
“Indeed!” The frigid exclamation escaped Polly unwittingly, but Mrs.
Hale apparently was oblivious of the girl’s chilly reception of
Judith’s plans.
“I am glad you don’t require a vacation,” she went on. “Mr. Hale is
particularly in need of your services, and it would be most unkind to
leave him in the lurch.”
“I have no intention of doing so, Mrs. Hale,” declared Polly with
some warmth. “Aside from the question of my not being able to afford
a vacation, gratitude to Mr. Hale, alone, would prevent me from going
away just now.” She passed one restless hand over the other. “What
possessed Judith to wish to get rid of me?”
“Now, my dear,”--Mrs. Hale held up a protesting hand--“don’t get such
a notion in your head. Judith is devoted to you; we all are, but she
imagined--you know Judith greatly depends upon her imagination--she is
so, so,”--hunting about for a word--“so shut in with her deafness, and
she is forever imagining things about people.”
“And what does she imagine about me?” asked Polly, as Mrs. Hale came to
a somewhat incoherent pause.
“That you were on the point of nervous prostration--”
Polly laughed a bit unsteadily. “Only the wealthy can afford
nervous ‘prosperity,’ and I am not in that class,” she said. “I
must work--work!” She spoke with nervous vehemence; Mrs. Hale’s
surprised expression checked her; and with an effort she regained her
self-control. “What can I do for you?”
“Answer these notes,” and Mrs. Hale laid her hand on them. “Take this
black-edged note paper,” holding out a box she had brought with her.
Mrs. Hale’s powers of observation were wool-gathering as she dictated
her answers, first reading each letter in a monotone--in itself
enough to try the steadiest nerves--before composing its answer;
then losing her place and having to be prompted, which added to her
already confused state of mind. Every expression of sympathy in the
notes brought tears in its train, and if the steady application of
Mrs. Hale’s handkerchief proved an additional barrier to the speedy
completion of her task, it also prevented her perceiving the wavering
writing of Polly’s swiftly moving pen.
“Austin was very much beloved,” she remarked. “I cannot understand, as
I told my husband over and over, I cannot understand who would have a
motive for killing him. It is beyond me.”
“Yes,” murmured Polly. She laid down her pen and rubbed her stiff
fingers. There still remained numerous notes to answer. “Dear Mrs.
Hale, let me finish answering these later on. You must be exhausted.”
“No, they must be completed now,” Mrs. Hale spoke with firmness, and
Polly, hiding her unsteady fingers under pretense of searching for
another pen among Judith’s papers, resigned herself to the situation.
“Judith suggested that I order an engraved card of acknowledgment, but
I desire an individual letter sent to each of our friends. It will
not take much more of your time,” observing Polly’s eyes stray to her
wrist-watch.
“Will you let me complete the letters this afternoon?” Polly asked. “I
have not touched my regular work for your husband, and it is nearly
your luncheon hour.”
“Luncheon will be half an hour later to-day,” responded Mrs. Hale.
“Anna is laid up and Maud asked for more time. She is not very quick at
her work, you know.”
“Anna ill! That is too bad,” exclaimed Polly. “I hope it is nothing
serious.”
“A sprained ankle.” Mrs. Hale leaned back in her chair and relaxed;
she felt the need of a little gossip, for in spite of her insistence
on completing her letters, the steady application was commencing to
wear upon her. “When anything goes wrong with Anna the whole house is
upset.”
“She is certainly a domestic treasure,” agreed Polly. “How many years
has she been with you?”
Mrs. Hale considered before answering. “She came to us at the time
Austin had typhoid fever; the trained nurse wanted a helper--what did
she call Anna?”
“Nurse’s aide?” suggested Polly.
“That was it,” and Mrs. Hale smiled. “We persuaded her to stay on as
waitress.”
“How did you manage it, Mrs. Hale?” asked Polly. Another glance at her
watch showed her that the announcement of luncheon must shortly occur,
and she wished above all not to resume answering letters of condolence.
“It has always struck me that Anna was very much above the regular
servant class.”
“So she is, my dear,” Mrs. Hale was launched on her favorite topic.
“But Mr. Hale offered her such high wages, really ridiculous wages at
the time, that it wouldn’t have been in human nature to resist his
offer. I must say for Anna that she has earned every cent we pay her.
Lately”--Mrs. Hale hesitated and surveyed the boudoir to make sure
that the hall door was closed--“lately, Anna has appeared so--so
absent-minded. Do you suppose it can be a love affair?”
“The most natural supposition in the world,” smiled Polly. “Anna is a
remarkably pretty girl.”
“So she is,” Mrs. Hale nodded her head in agreement. “I suspect it
is that new clerk in the drug store. I meet them quite often walking
together, and I called Austin’s attention to them when he was last
in Washington, just six weeks ago to-day.” Mrs. Hale looked at the
calendar hanging near Judith’s desk to be sure of her facts. “Polly, if
I tell you something will you promise to hold your tongue about it?”
Polly stared at Mrs. Hale--the latter’s tone had completely changed and
her customary irresponsible manner had become one of suppressed anxiety.
“Certainly, Mrs. Hale,” she replied, and her manner reflected the
other’s seriousness. “I will consider whatever you say as confidential.”
“First, answer this, on your word of honor,”--and Polly’s wonderment
grew as Mrs. Hale hitched her chair nearer, and her voice gained in
seriousness. “Have you come across a small piece of yellow paper; it
is folded and has the word ‘Copy’ as a watermark?” Seeing Polly’s
uncomprehending stare, she added impatiently, “The kind reporters use
in newspaper offices. Have you seen such a paper among my husband’s
correspondence?”
“No, Mrs. Hale; not as you describe it,” Polly shook a puzzled head. “I
may not have noticed the word ‘Copy,’ though. Was there anything else
to identify it?”
Mrs. Hale thought a minute, then came to a decision. “It is no matter,”
she said brusquely. “Forget I mentioned it; there is a more pressing
matter”--from her silver mesh purse she drew out a much creased letter.
“Read that,” she directed, and held it almost under Polly’s nose, “but
not aloud, read it to yourself.”
Obediently Polly took the paper and, holding it at the proper focus,
read:
DEAR AUNT AGATHA:
I started for San Francisco on the midnight train, so forgive this
hasty scrawl in answer to your long letter. I will see the happy bride
and groom on my return. Sorry Uncle Robert doesn’t like Richards. I
found on inquiry that Richards----
Polly turned the letter over--the second sheet was missing. The young
girl looked in bewilderment at Mrs. Hale.
“Have you the end of the letter?” she asked.
“No, that is all there is to it.”
“This”--Polly turned it over again. “Why, it is not even signed.”
“But it is in Austin Hale’s handwriting,” asserted Mrs. Hale. “You know
it is, Polly.”
Polly again inspected the clear, distinctive writing. She had seen it
too often to be mistaken in identifying the chirography.
“It looks like Austin’s writing,” she qualified. “When did you receive
the letter and what does it mean?”
“Mean? We’ll come to that later,” Mrs. Hale lowered her voice to a
confidential pitch. “You see the date there,” indicating it, and Polly
nodded. “The letter was begun on Tuesday in New York, and Austin was
murdered between Tuesday midnight and one A. M. Wednesday _here in
Washington_.”
“He was----”
“Of course he was.” Patience was never Mrs. Hale’s strong point. “Now,
Polly, let us dissect this letter. On Tuesday in New York Austin states
that he is to take the midnight train for San Francisco; instead of
that he comes to Washington. Why?” And having propounded the conundrum,
Mrs. Hale sat back and contemplated Polly. There was a distinct pause
before the girl replied.
“I cannot answer your question, Mrs. Hale.” Polly avoided raising her
eyes as she turned the letter over once again and looked at the blank
side. It was a small-sized sheet of note paper of good quality, and
Austin’s large writing completely filled the first page. Polly held the
letter nearer Mrs. Hale.
“The back sheet has been torn off,” she pointed out. “See, the edges
are rough and uneven.”
“So I observed.” Mrs. Hale was a trifle nonplussed. She had anticipated
more excitement on Polly’s part, and the girl’s composure was a
surprise. That Polly was maintaining her composure through sheer will
power, Mrs. Hale was too obtuse to detect. She was convinced, however,
that Polly had been more than ordinarily attracted by Austin Hale’s
good looks and his marked attention to her charming self. It was not
in human nature, Mrs. Hale argued, that a young and penniless girl
would refuse a wealthy young man, especially not in favor of a man of
John Hale’s age. It was absurd of Joe Richards to insinuate that her
brother-in-law might have supplanted Austin in Polly’s affections.
Having once gotten an idea in her head no power on earth could
dislodge it, and Mrs. Hale, to prove her viewpoint, had decided to
investigate the mystery of Austin’s death to her own satisfaction. Mrs.
Hale thought over Polly’s conduct for several minutes, then changed her
tactics.
“Had you heard recently from Austin?” she asked, and at the direct
question Polly changed color.
“Not since this letter to you,” she replied calmly and Mrs. Hale,
intent on framing her next question, failed to analyze her answer.
“Did he make any reference to coming to Washington?”
“Only in a general way,” and before Mrs. Hale could question her
further, she added, “His letter of ten days ago said that he might be
here in April.”
“Ah!” Mrs. Hale felt that she had scored a point. “That goes to prove
that Austin’s trip here Tuesday was unexpected.”
“So unexpected that he never even wired you,” supplemented Polly, and
Mrs. Hale eyed her sharply.
“True,” she replied. “It must have been something frightfully urgent
that brought him here--to his death.”
Polly shivered slightly and laid down the letter.
“When did Austin mail this letter to you?”
“I don’t know.”
Polly glanced at her in surprise. “Was there no postmark on the
envelope?”
“There was no envelope.”
“What!” Polly half rose then dropped back in her seat. “No envelope?
Then how did you get the letter?”
Mrs. Hale looked carefully around to make sure that no one had entered
the boudoir or was within earshot. Her next remark ignored Polly’s
question.
“I have not shown Austin’s letter to my husband,” she began. “Mr.
Hale does not always view matters from my standpoint, and he might be
displeased at my having mentioned to Austin that he was disappointed in
Judith’s choice of a husband. Therefore, Polly, you will say nothing to
him.”
“Certainly not,” agreed Polly. “But about the letter--”
“Nor mention the letter to Judith,” pursued Mrs. Hale, paying no
attention to Polly’s attempt to question her. “I shall not discuss it
with Judith, for she might readily resent my writing Austin to find
out something about her husband’s career before he entered the army in
1917. This letter”--Mrs. Hale picked it up, refolded it, and replaced
it in her purse--“must remain a secret between you and me.”
“But, Mrs. Hale,”--Polly stopped her as she was about to rise--“where
did you get the letter and who tore off the last sheet?”
“It is for us to find out who tore it off and what became of it,”
declared Mrs. Hale. At last Polly was roused out of herself, and the
older woman observed with interest the two hectic spots of color in her
cheeks. “And why the sheet was torn off.”
The opening of the boudoir door caused Polly to start nervously, a
start which, in Mrs. Hale’s case became a jump, as Richards addressed
them from the doorway.
“Maud is looking for you, Mrs. Hale,” he announced. “Luncheon is
waiting for you.”
“Thanks, yes; we will come at once.” Mrs. Hale was conscious of her
flurried manner and her ingratiating smile was a trifle strained as she
faced her handsome son-in-law. “Where is Judith?”
“She telephoned that she was lunching at the Army and Navy Club.”
Richards gave no sign that he was aware of Mrs. Hale’s agitation. “Your
husband is waiting for you.”
“Run down, Joe, and tell him not to wait for me.” Mrs. Hale laid her
hand on Polly’s shoulder and gave her a slight push. “Go also, my dear.”
But Polly hung back. “Wait, Mrs. Hale,” she whispered feverishly.
“There, Major Richards is downstairs by now. Tell me quickly who gave
you Austin’s letter?”
“No one.”
“Then where did you get it?”
Mrs. Hale paused and looked carefully around--they had the boudoir to
themselves, but before she spoke Mrs. Hale took the precaution to close
the boudoir door.
“I found the letter this morning,” she stated, “in the leather pocket
of Judith’s electric car.”