“I will not,” and Mrs. Hale, whose eyes were twice their usual size, squared herself in her seat. “I gather, John, I am needed here to keep you in order.”
“Quite right, my dear,” and her husband patted her approvingly on the back, before turning to his brother. “Now, John, if you have any more remarks to address to Major Richards, omit all personalities or”—his voice deepened—“I shall have to request you to leave the room.”
Ferguson caught the look that John Hale shot at his brother and stepped gamely into the breach. He had divined earlier in the investigation that it took little to arouse the smoldering animosity between the brothers.
“Major Richards,” he commenced, “you told Coroner Penfield that you spent Tuesday evening at the Metropolitan Club. At what hour did you leave the club for home?”
Richards considered the question. “It was just midnight,” he stated. “I am positive as to the time for the clocks were chiming when I left the building, and I waited and counted the strokes—twelve of them.”
The detective consulted a page in his notebook. “You also told the coroner that you reached here about twenty minutes past one on Wednesday morning. Where did you stop between here and the club?”
“Nowhere.”
Ferguson eyed him intently. “The club is about fifteen minutes walk from here, at the outside,” he declared. “Do you contend that it took you over an hour to reach this house?”
“Yes,” quietly. “Your circles and avenues are confusing and I lost my way.”
John Hale laughed aloud. “A great alibi,” he sneered. “Austin was murdered between Tuesday midnight and one A. M. Wednesday—thus you had ample time to reach here, kill him, leave the house and return a few minutes after one o’clock.”