“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—”