by Marion Bryce
Eunice flew after him and snatched the instrument from his hand.
“Stop!” she cried, fairly beside herself with fury. “You shall not!”
Both Elliott and Hendricks sprang from their chairs, and Dr. Harper rose to take care of Eunice as an irresponsible patient, but Crowell waved them all back.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” he said; “Mrs, Embury, think a minute. If you act like that you will—you inevitably will—draw suspicion on yourself!”
“I don’t care!” she screamed; “better that than the—the publicity—the shame of a police investigation! Oh, Sanford—my husband!”
It was quite clear that uppermost in her disturbed mind was the dread of the disgrace of the police inquiry. This had dulled her poignant grief, her horror, her sadness—all had been lost in the immediate fear of the impending unpleasantness.
“And, too,” the Examiner went on, coldly, “It is useless for you to rant around like that! I’ll simply go to another telephone.”
Eunice stepped back and looked at him, more in surprise than submission. To be told that she was “ranting around” was not the way in which she was usually spoken to! Moreover, she realized it was true, that to jerk the telephone away from Dr. Crowell could not permanently prevent his sending his message.
She tried another tack.
“I beg your pardon, doctor,” she said, and her expression was that of a sad and sorry child. “You’re right, I mustn’t lose my temper so. But, you know, I am under a severe mental strain—and something should be forgiven me—some allowance made for my dreadful position—”
“Yes, ma’am—oh, certainly, ma’am—” Crowell was again nervous and restless. He proved that he could withstand an angry woman far better than a supplicating one. Eunice saw this and followed up her advantage.
“And, so, doctor, try to appreciate how I feel—a newlymade widow—my husband dead, from some unknown cause, but which I know is not—murder,” after a second’s hesitation she pronounced the awful word clearly—“and you want to add to my terror and distress by calling in the police—of all things, the police!”
“Yes, ma’am, I know it’s too bad—but, my duty, ma’am—”
“Your duty is first, to me!” Eunice’s smile was dazzling. It had been a callous heart, indeed, that would not be touched by it!
“To you, ma’am?” The Examiner’s tone was innocence itself.
“Yes,” Eunice faltered, for she began to realize she was not gaining ground. “You owe me the—don’t they call it the benefit of the doubt?”
“What doubt, ma’am?”
“Why, doubt as to murder. If my husband died a natural death you know there’s no reason to call the police. And as you’re not sure, I claim that you must give me the benefit of your doubt and not call them.”
“Now, ma’am, you don’t put that just right. You see, the police are the people who must settle that doubt. It’s that very doubt that makes it necessary to call them. And, truly, Mrs, Ernbury, it won’t be any such horrible ordeal as you seem to anticipate. They’re decent men, and all they want to get at is the truth.”
“That isn’t so!” Eunice was angry again. “They’re horrible men! rude, unkempt, low-down, common men! I won’t have them in my house! You have no right to insist on it. They’ll be all over the rooms, prying into everything, looking here, there and all over! They’ll ask impertinent questions; they’ll assume all sorts of things that aren’t true, and they’ll wind up by coming to a positively false conclusion! Alvord, Mason, you’re my friends—help me out! Don’t, let this man do as he threatens!”
“Listen, Eunice,” Elliott said, striving to quiet her; “we can’t help the necessity Dr. Crowell sees of notifying the police. But we can help you. Only, however, if you’ll be sensible, dear, and trust to our word that it can’t be helped, and you must let it go on quietly.”
“Oh, hush up, Mason; your talk drives me crazy! Alvord, are you a broken reed, too? Is there nobody to stand by me?”
“I’ll try,” and Hendricks went and spoke to Dr. Crowell in low tones. A whispered colloquy followed, but it soon became clear that Hendricks’ pleas, of whatever nature, were unsuccessful, and he returned to Eunice’s side.
“Nothing doing,” he said, with an attempt at lightness. “He won’t listen to reason—nor to bribery and corruption—” this last was said openly and with a smile that robbed the idea of any real seriousness.
And then Dr. Crowell again lifted the telephone and called up Headquarters.
CHAPTER IX. HAMLET
Of the two detectives who arrived in response to the Examiner’s call, one almost literally fulfilled Eunice’s prophecy of a rude, unkempt, common man. His name was Shane and he strode into the room with a bumptious, self-important air, his burly frame looking especially awkward and unwieldy in the gentle surroundings.
His companion, however, a younger man named Driscoll, was of a finer type, and showed at least an appreciation of the nature of the home which he had entered.
“We’re up from the homicide bureau,” Shane said to Dr. Crowell, quite ignoring the others present. “Tell us all you know.”
In the fewest possible words the Medical Examiner did this, and Shane paid close attention.
Driscoll listened, too, but his glance, instead of being fixed on the speaker, darted from one to another of the people sitting round.
He noted carefully Eunice’s beautiful, angry face, as she sat, looking out of a window, disdaining any connection with the proceedings. He watched Miss Ames, nervously rolling her handkerchief into a ball and shaking it out again; Mason Elliott, calm, grave, and earnestly attentive; Alvord Hendricks, alert, eager, sharply critical.
And in the background, Ferdinand, the well-trained butler, hovering in the doorway.
All these things Driscoll studied, for his method was judging from the manners of individuals, whereas, Shane gathered his conclusions from their definite statements.
And, having listened to Dr. Crowell’s account, Shane turned to Eunice and said bluntly, “You and your husband good friends?”
Eunice gasped. Then, after one scathing glance, she deliberately turned back to the window, and neglected to answer.
“That won’t do, ma’am,” said Shane, in his heavy voice, which was coarse and uncultured but not intentionally rude. “I’m here to ask questions and you people have got to answer ’em. Mebbe I can put it different. Was you and Mr. Embury on good terms?”
“Certainly.” The word was forced from Eunice’s scornful lips, and accompanied by an icy glance meant to freeze the detective, but which utterly failed.
“No rows or disagreements, eh? “Shane’s smile was unbearable, and Eunice turned and faced him like an angry thing at bay.
“I forbid you to speak to me,” she said, and looked at Shane as if he were some miserable, crawling reptile. “Mason, will you answer this man for me?”
“No, no, lady,” Shane seemed to humor her. “I must get your own word for it. Don’t you want me to find out who killed your husband? Don’t you want the truth known? Are you afraid to have it told? Hey?”
Shane’s secret theory was that of a sort of third degree applied at the very beginning often scared people into a quick confession of the truth and saved time in the long run.
Driscoll knew of this and did not approve.
“Let up, Shane,” he muttered; “this is no time for such talk. You don’t know anything yet.”
“Go ahead, you,” returned Shane, not unwillingly, and Driscoll did.
“Of course we must ask questions, Mrs, Embury,” he said, and his politeness gained him a hearing from Eunice.
She looked at him with, at least, toleration, as he began to question her.
“When did you last see Mr. Embury alive, ma’am?”
“Last night,” replied Eunice, “about midnight, when we retired.”
“He was in his usual health and spirits?”
“Yes.”
“You have two
bedrooms?”
“Yes.”
“Door between?”
“Yes.”
“Open or shut—after you said good-night to Mr. Embury?”
“Closed.”
“Locked?”
“No.”
“Who shut it.”
“Mr. Embury.”
“Bang it?”
“Sir?”
“Did he bang it shut? Slam it?”
“Mr. Embury was a gentleman.”
“Yes, I know. Did he slam that door?”
“N—, no.”
“He did,” and Driscoll nodded his head, as if not minding Eunice’s stammered denial, but not believing it, either.
“Now, as he closed that door with a bang, ma’am, I gather that you two had a—well, say, a little tiff—a quarrel. Might as well own up, ma’am,—it’ll come out, and it’s better you should tell me the truth.”
“I am not accustomed to telling anything else!” Eunice declared, holding herself together with a very evident effort. “Mr. Embury and I had a slight difference of opinion, but not enough to call a quarrel.”
“What about?” broke in Shane, who had been listening intently.
Eunice did not speak until Elliott advised her. “Tell all Eunice—it is the best way.”
“We had a slight discussion,” Eunice said, “but it was earlier in the evening. We had spent the evening out—Mr. Embury at his club, and I at the house of a friend. We came home together—Mr. Embury called for me in our own car. On reaching home, we had no angry words—and as it was late, we retired at once. That is all. Mr. Embury closed the door between our bedrooms, and that is the last I ever saw of him until—this morning—”
She did not break down, but she seemed to think she had told all and she ceased speaking.
“And then he was dead,” Shane mused. “What doctor did you call?”
Dr. Crowell took up the narrative and told of Dr. Harper and Dr. Marsden, who were not now present. He told further of the mysterious and undiscoverable cause of the death.
“Let me see him,” said Shane, rising suddenly.
Most of this man’s movements were sudden—and as he was in every respect awkward and uncouth, Eunice’s dislike of him grew momentarily.
“Isn’t he dreadful!” she cried, as the two detectives and the Medical Examiner disappeared into Embury’s room.
“Yes,” agreed Hendricks, “but, Eunice, you must not antagonize him. It can’t do any good—and it may do harm.”
“Harm? How?” and Eunice turned her big, wondering eyes on Hendrick.
“Oh, it isn’t wise to cross a man like that. He’s a common clod, but he represents authority—he represents the law, and we must respect that fact, however his personal manner offends us.”
“All right, Alvord, I understand; but there’s no use in my seeing him again. Can’t you and Mason settle up things and let Aunt Abby and me go to our rooms?”
“No, Eunice,” Hendricks’ voice was grave. “You must stay here. And, too, they will go through your room, searching.”
“My room! My bedroom! They shan’t! I won’t have it! Mason, must I submit to such horrible things?”
“Now, Eunice, dear,” Mason Elliott spoke very gently, “we can’t blink matters. We must face this squarely. The police think Sanford was murdered. They’re endeavoring to find out who killed him. To do their duty in the matter they have to search everywhere. It’s the law, you know, and we can’t get away from it. So, try to take it as quietly as you can.”
“Oh, my! oh, my!” wailed Aunt Abby; “that I should live to see this day! A murder in my own family! No wonder poor Sanford’s troubled spirit paused in its passing to bid me farewell.”
Eunice shrieked. “Aunt Abby, if you start up that talk, I shall go stark, staring mad! Hush! I won’t have it!”
“Let up on the spook stuff, Miss Ames,” begged Hendricks. “Our poor Eunice is just about at the end of her rope.”
“So am I!” cried Aunt Abby. “I’m entitled to some consideration! Here’s the whole house turned upside down with a murder and police and all that, and nobody considers me! It’s all Eunice!” Then, with a softened voice, she added, “And Lord knows, she’s got enough to bear!”
“Yes, I have!” Eunice was composed again, now. “But I can bear it. I’m not going to collapse! Don’t be afraid for me. And I do consider you, Aunt Abby. It’s dreadful for you—for both of us.”
Eunice crossed the room and sat by the cider lady, and they comforted one another.
Shane came back to the living-room.
“Here’s the way it is,” he said, gruffly. “Those three bedrooms all open into each other; but when their doors that open out into these here other rooms are locked they’re quite shut off by themselves, and nobody can get into ’em. Now that last room, the one the old lady sleeps in, that don’t have a door except into Mrs, Embury’s room. What I’m gettin’ at is, if Mr. and Mrs, Embury’s room doors is locked—not meanin’ the door between—then those three people are locked in there every night, and can’t get out or in, except through those two locked doors.
“Well, this morning—where’s that butler man?”
“Here, sir,” and Ferdinand appeared promptly, and with his usual correct demeanor.
“Yes, you. Now, this morning, those two doors to the sleeping rooms was locked, I understand?”
“Yes, sir. They were.”
“Usually—what happens?”
“What—what happens, sir?”
“Yes; what’s your first duty in the morning? Does Mr. Embury call you—or ring for you?”
“Oh, that, sir. Why, generally Mr. Embury unlocked his door about eight o’clock—”
“And you went to help him dress?”
“No, sir. Mr. Embury didn’t require that. I valeted his clothes, like, and kept them in order, but he dressed by himself. I took him some tea and toast—he had that before the regular breakfast—”
“And this morning—when he didn’t ring or make any sound, what did you do?”
“I waited a little while and then I rapped at Mrs, Embury’s door.”
“Yes; and she—now, be careful, man—” Shane’s voice was impressive. “How did she act? Unusual, or frightened in any way?”
“Not a bit, sir. Mrs, Embury was surprised, and when I said Mr. Embury didn’t answer my knock, she let me go through her room to his.”
“Exactly. And then you found your master dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now-what is your name?”
“Ferdinand.”
“Yes. Now, Ferdinand, you know Mr. and Mrs, Embury had a quarrel last night.”
“Yes, sir.”
The trap had worked! Shane had brought about the admission from the servant that Eunice had refused to make. A smile of satisfaction settled on his ugly features, as he nodded his head and went on.
“At what time was this?”
“Ferdinand, be quiet,” said Eunice, her own voice low and even, but her face was ablaze with wrath. “You know nothing of such things!”
“That’s right, sir, I don’t.”
Clearly, the butler, restored to his sense of the responsibilities of his position, felt he had made a misstep and regretted it.
“Be quiet, madam!” Shane hurled at Eunice, and turning to the frightened Ferdinand, said: “You tell the truth, or you’ll go to jail! At what time was this quarrel that you have admitted took place?”
Eunice stood, superbly indifferent, looking like a tragedy queen. “Tell him, Ferdinand; tell all you know, but tell only the truth.”
“Yes, ma’am. Yes, sir; why, it was just before they went out.”
“Ah, before. Did they go out together?”
“No, sir. Mrs, Embury went later—by herself.”
“I told you that!” Eunice interposed. “I gave you a detailed account of the evening.”
“You omitted the quarrel. What was it about?”
“It was scarcely im
portant enough to call a quarrel. My husband and I frequently disagreed on trifling matters. We were both a little short-tempered, and often had altercations that were forgotten as soon as they occurred.”
“And that’s true,” put in Miss Ames. “For two people who loved each other to distraction, I often thought the Emburys were the most quarrelsome I ever saw.”
Shane looked sharply at the old lady. “Is that so?” he said. “Did you hear this particular quarrel, ma’am?”
“Not that I remember. If I did, I didn’t take’ much notice of it.”
“What was it about?”
“Oh, the same old subject. Mrs, Embury wanted—”
“Aunt Abby, hush! What are you talking about! Leave me to tell my own secrets, pray!”
“Secrets, ma’am?” Shane’s cold blue eyes glistened. “Who’s talking of secrets?”
“Nobody,” offered Hendricks. “Seems to me, Shane, you’re trying to frighten two nervous women into a confession—”
“Who said anything about a confession? What’s to be confessed? Who’s made any accusations?”
Hendricks was silent. He didn’t like the man Shane at all, but he saw plainly that he was a master of his craft, and depended on his sudden and startling suggestions to rouse antagonism or fear and so gather the facts he desired.
“I’m asking nobody’s secrets,” he went on, “except in so far as I’m obliged to, by reason of my duty. And in that connection, ma’am, I ask you right here and now, what you meant by your reference to secrets?”
Eunice looked at him a moment in silence. Then she said, “You have, I daresay, a right to ask that. And I’ve not the least objection to answering. Mr. Embury was the kindest of husbands, but it did not suit his ideas to give me what is known as an allowance. This in no way reflects on his generosity, for he insisted that I should have a charge account at any shops I wished. But, because of a whim, I often begged that I be given a stated and periodical allowance. This, I have no reason for not admitting, was the cause of most of our so-called ‘quarrels.’ This is what I should prefer to keep ‘secret’ but not if it is for any reason a necessary admission.”
Shane looked at her in undisguised admiration.