THE PUSH BUTTON
MRS. HALE contemplated Anna, the waitress, with marked disapproval.
“You should not attempt to exert yourself until Dr. McLane gives you
permission,” she announced, with severity.
“Dr. McLane told me to walk about as much as possible, madam.” Anna’s
manner was respectful almost to the point of servility. “He promised
to be here this afternoon. Indeed, Mrs. Hale, I’ll be careful. Don’t
worry, madam.”
“I suppose the doctor knows what he is about”--Mrs. Hale, however,
looked extremely doubtful as she spoke. Her own attacks of illness were
distinct trials to every member of her family, as her chronic objection
to following the doctor’s orders or taking his medicines generally
retarded her recovery and produced a wish that “the Old Scratch” would
get her, that opinion having been voiced by a long-suffering trained
nurse, whose training had not included a course in insults.
“Dr. McLane is sometimes inclined to error,” Mrs. Hale continued after
a slight pause. “Don’t take his directions too literally, Anna. Modify
them. If he said walk about for an hour, cut it to one half. And never
take a full dose of anything prescribed, reduce it by one half.”
“Yes, madam; thank you,” and Anna executed a bob of a courtesy in spite
of her injured ankle. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, I think not. Now, mind what I say, don’t overexert yourself.”
“Yes, madam,” and Anna started for the door only to be called back by
Mrs. Hale.
“As you go downstairs please tell Maud that Mr. Latimer will lunch
with us--that is, I think he will, but he hasn’t answered my telephone
message.” Mrs. Hale thought a minute. “Maud can put a place for him.”
“Very well, madam.”
“Wait, there’s one thing more.” Mrs. Hale laid aside her knitting bag,
preparatory to rising. “See that the table is properly set, Anna,
please. Maud is--eh--not particular, and I am.”
“I will set the table myself, madam.”
“No, no, that is too much exertion for you, Anna.”
“But, madam, I am strong again, see”--and Anna stepped across the
room. Her limp was slight. Mrs. Hale heaved a sigh of relief.
“You have had a remarkable recovery,” she exclaimed. “My remedies can
be relied on to effect a quick cure. By the way,”--the thought of
luncheon uppermost for the moment--“if there is time enough, please
make an apple salad.”
“Certainly, madam. Is there anything else?”
“No, I can think of nothing.” Mrs. Hale wrinkled her brow, but no new
ideas came to her active brain. “Where is Miss Judith?”
“In her boudoir, madam.” Anna, who had taken several steps toward the
door, paused. “Maud told me just now that Miss Judith and Detective
Ferguson have been holding a long”--Anna hesitated--“conference.”
“Conference!” Mrs. Hale’s tone expressed astonishment. “Oh!” and she
stared at the waiting servant. “That is all, Anna,” and the waitress
made her escape.
Mrs. Hale crossed the drawing-room and stood before the large
gilt-framed wall mirror which gave her a full length view of her
figure. It took several minutes to rearrange a bow of ribbon and
several pieces of jewelry, after which Mrs. Hale proceeded leisurely
to the third floor. She did not often climb to that height, and, on
reaching the head of the stairs, she paused to take breath, then,
passing down the broad hall, she turned the knob of a closed door and
entered a semidarkened room.
It took her several seconds to pull up the Holland shades of the dormer
windows and flood the bedroom with sunlight. When she turned around she
saw a man sitting on the edge of the bed watching her. A slight scream
broke from her and she swayed dizzily. With a bound the man gained her
side.
“Don’t be frightened, Mrs. Hale. It is only I, Detective Ferguson,” he
explained. “I thought you saw me when you first entered the room.”
Mrs. Hale shook her head as she sank into the chair he placed for her.
“Dear me,” she exclaimed, “I declare you gave me quite a turn. I had
no idea I should find any one in Austin’s bedroom.” Resentment against
its cause conquered her fright in some measure and she whirled on him.
“What are you doing here?”
“I might ask the question of you,” he retorted coolly seating himself
opposite her.
“Upon my word!” Mrs. Hale continued to stare at him. Then, as he
evinced no desire to address her, her manner changed. “I heard you
were in the house,” she began, ignoring his question as he had hers;
“and I intended to ask you not to leave until I had seen you.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Hale’s manner was graciousness itself. “And I am glad to
have this opportunity for a private interview.”
“Yes?” Ferguson resorted to brevity while striving to divine a reason
for her sudden change of manner.
“I have wanted so much to question you,” she announced. “Have you made
any progress in solving the mystery of Austin’s death?”
“It depends on what you term ‘progress,’” he responded dryly.
“Have you discovered any clew to his--his murderer?” she hesitated
over the last word. “Now, don’t put me off with stupid evasions,” she
added. “How do you know, if we talk over details _together_,” with
marked emphasis, “that I may not be able to detect some point of vital
importance which _you_ may have overlooked?”
Ferguson gazed at her reflectively. There was something in what
she said. Was she really the fool he had taken her for all along?
If she was, and she held some knowledge which would aid him in
elucidating the Hale mystery, it would be to his advantage to win her
confidence--if necessary, with a show of confidence on his part.
“That is not a bad idea,” he acknowledged. “I’ve handled many puzzling
cases, but this one,”--he paused--“this one has taken the lead”; then,
as she started to interrupt him, he added, “Here are the facts so far
known,”--he smiled--“publicly. Young Austin Hale--by the way, what was
his exact relationship to you?”
“A nephew by adoption, at which time Austin assumed the name of
Hale,” was her concise reply, so unlike her usual flowery style of
conversation that it drew a smile from the detective. “His proper name
was Payne--Austin Payne.”
“I see.” Ferguson was watching her as a cat watches a mouse. He had
maneuvered his chair so that his back was to the light while she faced
the sun’s merciless rays. “Austin returns to this house unexpectedly on
Tuesday night, is found by your son-in-law, Major Richards, stabbed to
death, and not a soul in your house knows anything about the tragedy.”
Ferguson’s gesture was expressive. “No weapon to be found but a pair
of shears, no motive for the crime but the theft of a more or less
valuable antique watch--a watch whose very ownership would lead to an
arrest on suspicion. There was no trace of a burglar’s having broken
into the house. Therefore the crime must have been committed by an
inmate of your house, Mrs. Hale.”
“No, no!” she protested vehemently, and he detected the whitening of
her cheeks under the delicately applied rouge.
“And every member of your household has an excellent alibi,” he went
on, not heeding her interruption. “There must be a flaw somewhere;
there has to be one.” And he lent emphasis to his words by striking his
clenched fist in the palm of his left hand. “Now, where is the flaw?”
Mrs. Hale looked away from him, then back again. “I wish I knew,” she
wailed, and two large tears rolled down her cheeks. “I’ve racked my
brain trying to find a solution to the mystery, and at last I came up
here--”
“For what?”
“To see if Austin dropped any paper--any note paper, so big”--and she
demonstrated an approximate size while Ferguson listened eagerly.
“Austin must have had some reason for returning so unexpectedly.”
“Of course he did,” agreed Ferguson. “And you think there may be a clew
tucked away in this bedroom. Well, we think alike in that. It is the
same line of reasoning which brought me up here.” Mrs. Hale winked away
her tears and brightened visibly; she was easily influenced by flattery
and Ferguson’s tone of comradeship tinged with admiration completely
won her. “This room has been thoroughly searched.”
“But something may have been overlooked,” she interrupted eagerly.
“Exactly--suppose we look,” and, rising, Ferguson aided her in her
rapid investigation of the bureau drawers. They were rewarded by
finding only a few articles of wearing apparel. Her ardor somewhat
dampened, Mrs. Hale accompanied the detective to the closet and stepped
inside its commodious depths.
“This is evidently the overcoat and hat Austin was wearing on Tuesday
night,” Ferguson pointed out, holding them up for her inspection. “And
here is the coat of his suit,” removing it from the hook as he spoke.
Mrs. Hale shrank back, then shaking off her slight feeling of
repugnance she deliberately searched every pocket--to find a silk
handkerchief and a gold card case in which were Austin’s visiting cards.
“Austin must have come direct to his bedroom on reaching here Tuesday
night,” Ferguson remarked as he replaced the coat. “Why he went
downstairs in his vest and shirt sleeves, I cannot imagine.”
“Perhaps he was in the midst of dressing and was called downstairs,”
suggested Mrs. Hale and her voice indicated pleased surprise at her own
astuteness.
“Who called him?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea”--she did not lower her eyes before
Ferguson’s penetrating gaze.
“If it had been a woman,” mused Ferguson, “he surely would have stopped
to put on his coat.”
“Not if he was urgently needed downstairs.”
“But who could have ‘urgently needed him’?” questioned Ferguson
swiftly. “Your daughter--”
“Was unaware of his presence in the house,” haughtily. “She stood in no
need of Austin’s assistance--put that idea out of your head instantly.”
“You misunderstood me,” he protested. “I was only going to say that
your daughter was the only woman on the next floor.”
“So we suppose.”
Ferguson caught her up. “Do you suspect another woman was here?” he
demanded. “If so who was it--one of your servants?”
“No, they were asleep in their rooms.” Mrs. Hale resumed her seat. She
was commencing to feel fatigued. “You have assured yourself of that.”
“Yes,” acknowledged Ferguson. “We can eliminate them. I am, however,
considering all the women who _might_ have been here. You--”
“I?” Although Mrs. Hale laughed heartily in amusement, there was
a false note in her somewhat high-pitched voice. “You surely do
not suspect _me_? Why, my dear man, I was at the French Embassy
reception; there are plenty of friends to testify to that besides my
brother-in-law, John Hale, who took me to the reception and brought me
home. You were here when we both arrived.”
Ferguson laughed with her. “I was just running over the people who
belong in this house,” he explained. “Your husband was ill--”
“And in bed,” she interpolated.
“The servants in their quarters; Mrs. Richards in her room--at
least”--with a sharp look at her. “She was in her room, was she not?”
“Certainly. She has a suite of rooms on the floor below.”
“I was just in there.” Ferguson paused, then went back to what he had
been saying. “Major Richards was at the Metropolitan Club on Tuesday
night.”
“So he told us.” Mrs. Hale raised her hands and dropped them with a
hopeless gesture. “Every person is accounted for--we are just where we
started.”
“Not quite.” Ferguson hesitated and glanced about the room. Mrs. Hale,
upon entering, had closed the door behind her, and there seemed no
likelihood of their conversation’s being overheard. “I found on further
inquiry at the Metropolitan Club that Major Richards was last seen
there about midnight. The doorman on duty Tuesday night declares he did
not see him leave the club, and does not know the hour of his departure
for home.”
“Well, what of that?” questioned Mrs. Hale, as he stopped.
“This: according to Major Richards, he reached this house about
twenty minutes past one o’clock in the morning and he was last seen
in the club a little before midnight. It leaves an hour of his time
unaccounted for, and it was during that hour that Austin Hale was
murdered.”
Mrs. Hale sat speechless for a minute. “Preposterous!” she exclaimed
hotly, recovering from her surprise “Why should Major Richards kill a
man he does not know?”
Ferguson glanced uneasily at her and came to a quick decision.
“Suppose Major Richards came home and found Austin talking to his wife
and became jealous--”
Mrs. Hale bounced out of her chair. “How dare you insinuate that
Judith was having an affair with Austin?” she demanded. “You are most
insulting--I shall inform Major Richards--”
“My dear madam, pray, calm yourself,” Ferguson begged, appalled by the
storm he had provoked. “I thought we agreed to talk over all aspects of
the Hale murder--it was your own suggestion.”
“Certainly it was, but I did not expect--” Mrs. Hale sniffed. “If you
ask Major Richards to account for all his time Tuesday night he will do
so, I am convinced. A man of his temperament and record--”
“Where is his record?” broke in Ferguson. “What is his record? I cannot
learn anything about him.”
“His record is on file in the War Department.”
“His army record, yes.” Ferguson pulled out his watch and jumped to his
feet “Pardon me, Mrs. Hale, but I have a consultation at my office and
must leave at once.”
“Tell me before you go,”--Mrs. Hale detained him with a gesture--“did
you find anywhere among Austin’s belongings either here or in New York
a railroad ticket?”
“A ticket? No.” Ferguson eyed her sharply. “Why?”
“I was wondering if he had just stopped over a train on his way south,”
she explained glibly. “It was just an idea--don’t let me detain you
longer.”
Ferguson halted in indecision; however, his engagement brooked no
further delay if he was to be on time for it. He could question Mrs.
Hale later in the day.
“I will return,” he said. “But if you desire me at any time, please
telephone, Mrs. Hale. Good-morning.”
Left to her own resources, Mrs. Hale diligently searched the room. She
had about decided to stop, disgusted with her lack of results when on
feeling about in the depths of the top drawer of Austin’s bureau she
touched a small book, and pulled it out. On its leather cover she saw
stamped in gold the insignia of a Senior secret society at Yale.
Mrs. Hale turned over several of the leaves and glanced down the
pages, hesitated a moment then, placing the book in her convenient
knitting bag, she proceeded to the dining room to make certain that
Maud had properly set the luncheon table. She was particular about
small household details. As she passed the door of Judith’s boudoir she
failed to see Richards standing somewhat in its shadow regarding her.
Richards was still gazing after her retreating figure when Judith, who
was in their bedroom dressing for luncheon, called to him.
“Please ring for Maud,” she asked as he appeared, and obediently he
returned to the boudoir and reached for the push button. The act was
mechanical, and it was not until he had made three attempts to ring the
bell that he realized that the small object he was fingering was not
the push button.
Richards stepped back and surveyed the boudoir walls. The bell he
sought was on the other side of the door leading into their bedroom.
After pressing the button he walked back and examined the little object
on the opposite wall. To all intents and purposes it resembled an
electric push button, hanging just below an enlarged photograph of
Mrs. Hale.
Richards’ strong sensitive fingers felt behind the framed photograph
until they encountered a tiny wire. It wound in and out along the
picture wire until it encountered the wires of the branch telephone. He
stood in deep thought for some minutes, then walked into the bedroom.
“Can I be of service, dear?” he asked his wife. “Maud hasn’t answered
the bell.”
Judith, wrestling with a refractory hook, shook her head. “Thanks, but
Maud’s clever fingers are needed to disentangle this mess,” she said.
“Do you mind running downstairs and telling her to come to me? The bell
must be out of order.”
“I’ll have her here in a jiffy,” Richards answered, but, once in the
hall, his footsteps lagged.
No one was in sight, and getting down on his knees he felt along the
telephone wire which ran on top of the wall board. The same fine wire
was fastened in place alongside it. Step by step Richards traced the
two wires running side by side until they crossed the door-jamb of Mr.
and Mrs. Robert Hale’s bedroom. They were old-fashioned in their ideas
and occupied the same room.
Richards tapped, first gently, then more loudly, on the partly
opened door and getting no response, he walked inside. It was a large
room filled with handsome mahogany furniture, the carved four-post
bedstead taking up the greater space. But Richards had eyes for but
one object standing on a table in an obscure corner of the room, with
a soft typewriter cover partly concealing the receivers and earpieces
from view. Walking over to it, Richards lifted the cover and examined
the instrument. When he laid the cover down his expression indicated
incredulity and a dawning horror.
With what object had Robert Hale or his wife, or both, placed a
dictograph in Judith’s boudoir?