CHAPTER VMORE THEORIES
Rainand 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 sidewalkthe 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-alcovewhere 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 bemade 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’sdeath? 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, layingdown 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 hardwork. 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 theflask, 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 andher 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, hisfountain 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 hadforgotten 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 wasnot 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.