CHAPTER XVTHE PUSH BUTTON
Mrs. Halecontemplated 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”—andAnna 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 reachingthe 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 toaddress 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 detailstogether,” with marked emphasis, “that I may not be able to detect some point of vital importance whichyoumay 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 aidhim 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 anarrest 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 thisbedroom. 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 bedroomon 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 anotherwoman 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 whomighthave 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 suspectme? 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 sawstamped 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 pushbutton, 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?