The Red Seal
“Oh, for the motive,”--Ferguson rubbed his hands nervously together as
he shot a look at his questioner; the latter's clear-cut features and
manly bearing inspired confidence. “We know of no motive,” he corrected.
“And we know of no crime having been perpetrated,” rapped out Kent.
“Come, man; don't hunt a mare's nest.”
“Ah, but it isn't a mare's nest!” Ferguson remarked dryly.
Kent bent eagerly forward--“You have heard from the coroner--”
“Not yet,” Ferguson jerked forward his chair until his knees touched
Kent.
Had either man looked toward the window near which they were sitting, he
would have seen a black shadow squatting ape-like on the window ledge.
As Kent leaned over to relight his cigar, the face at the window
vanished, to cautiously reappear a second later.
“The case piqued my interest,” continued the detective after a pause.
“And I made an investigation on my own hook. After the departure of the
McIntyre twins and Coroner Penfield, I went back to the court room and
poked around the prisoners' cage. There I found this.” He took out of
his pocket a small bundle and carefully unwrapped the oil-skin cover.
“A handkerchief?” questioned Kent as the detective did not unfold the
white muslin, but held it with care.
“Yes. One of the prisoners in the cage told me Turnbull dropped it as
Dr. Stone and the deputy marshal carried him into the ante-room. Smell
anything?” holding up the handkerchief.
“Yes.” Kent wrinkled his nose and sniffed several times. “Smells like
fruit.”
Ferguson nodded. “Good guess; I noticed the odor and went at once to Dr.
McLane. He told me the handkerchief was saturated with amyl nitrite.”
“Amyl nitrite,” repeated Kent reflectively. “It is given for angina
pectoris.”
“Yes. Well, in this case it was the remedy and not the disease which
killed Turnbull,” announced Ferguson triumphantly.
“Nonsense!” ejaculated Kent. “I happen to know that the capsules contain
only three minims--I once heard Turnbull say so.”
“True, but Turnbull got a lethal dose, all right; and he thought he was
taking only the regular one. Devilishly ingenious on the part of the
criminal, wasn't it?
“Yes. Have you detected the criminal?” Kent put the question with
unmoved countenance, but with inward foreboding; the detective's
mysterious manner was puzzling.
“Not yet, but I will,” Ferguson hesitated. “The first thing was to
establish that a crime had really been committed.”
Kent bent down and sniffed again at the handkerchief to which a faint
fruity aroma still clung.
“How did you discover that?” he asked.
“Dr. McLane and I took the handkerchief to a laboratory and the chemist
found from the number of particles of capsules in the handkerchief, that
at least two capsules--or double the usual dose--had been crushed by
Turnbull and the fumes inhaled by him; with fatal results.”
“Hold on,” cautioned Kent. “In the flurry of the moment, Turnbull may
have accidentally put two capsules in the handkerchief, meaning only to
use one.”
“Mr. Kent,” the detective spoke impressively, “that wasn't Turnbull's
handkerchief.”
“Not his own handkerchief!” exclaimed Kent. “Then, are you sure that
Turnbull used it?”
“Yes; that fact is established by reputable witnesses; Dr. Stone,
Mr. Clymer, and the deputy marshal,” Ferguson spoke with increasing
earnestness. “That is a woman's handkerchief--look at it.”
Ferguson laid the little bundle on the broad arm of Kent's chair and
with infinite care folded back the edges of the handkerchief, revealing
as he did so, the small particles of capsules still clinging to the
linen. But Kent hardly observed the capsules, his entire attention being
centered on one corner of the handkerchief, which had neatly embroidered
on it the letter “B.”
CHAPTER VI. STRAIGHT QUESTIONS AND CROOKED ANSWERS
Colonel McIntyre, with an angry gesture, threw down the newspaper he had
been reading.
“Do you mean to say, Helen, that you decline to go to the supper
to-night on account of the death of Jimmie 'Turnbull?” he asked.
“Yes, father.”
McIntyre flushed a dark red; he was not accustomed to scenes with either
of his daughters, and here was Helen flouting his authority and Barbara
backing her up.
“It is quite time this pretense is dropped,” he remarked stiffly. “You
were not engaged to Jimmie--wait,” as she attempted to interrupt him.
“You told me the night of the burglary that he was nothing to you.'”
“I was mistaken,” Helen's voice shook, she was very near to tears. “When
I saw Jimmie lying there, dead”--she faltered, and her shoulders drooped
forlornly--“the world stopped for me.”
“Hysterical nonsense!” McIntyre was careful to avoid Barbara's eyes; her
indignant snort had been indicative of her feelings. “Keep to your room,
Helen, until you regain some common sense. It is as well our friends
should not see you in your present frame of mind.”
Helen regarded her father under lowered lids. “Very well,” she said
submissively and walked toward the door; on reaching it she paused, and
spoke over her shoulder. “Don't try me too far, father.”
McIntyre stared for a full minute at the doorway through which Helen
took her departure.
“Well, what the--” He pulled himself up short in the middle of the
ejaculation and turned to Barbara. “Go and get dressed,” he directed.
“We must leave here in twenty minutes.”
“I am not going,” she announced.
“Not going!” McIntyre frowned, then laughed abruptly. “Now, don't tell
me you were engaged to Jimmie Turnbull, also.”
“I think you are horrid!” Barbara's small foot came down with a vigorous
stamp.
“Well, perhaps I am,” her father admitted rather wearily. “Don't keep us
waiting, Babs; the car will be here in less than twenty minutes.”
“But, father, I prefer to stay at home.”
“And I prefer to have you accompany us,” retorted McIntyre. “Come,
Barbara, we cannot be discourteous to Mrs. Brewster; she is our guest,
and this supper is for her entertainment.”
“Well, take her.” Barbara was openly rebellious.
“Barbara!” His tone caused her to look at him in wonder; instead of the
stern rebuke she expected, his voice was almost wheedling. “I cannot
very well take Mrs. Brewster to a cafe at this hour without causing
gossip.”
“Oh, fiddle-sticks!” exclaimed Barbara. “I don't have to play chaperon
for you two. Every one knows she is visiting us; what's there improper
in your taking her out to supper? Why”--regarding him critically--“she's
young enough to be your daughter!”
“Go to your room!” There was nothing wheedling about McIntyre at that
instant; he was thoroughly incensed.
As Barbara sped out happy in having gained her way, she announced, as
a parting shot, “If you can be nasty to Helen, father, I can be nasty,
too.”
Colonel McIntyre brought his fist down on a smoking table with such
force that he scattered its contents over the floor. When he rose from
picking up the debris, he found Mrs. Brewster at his elbow.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“No, thanks, everything is back in place.” He pulled forward a chair for
her. “If agreeable to you I will telephone Ben Clymer that we will stop
for him and take him with us to the Cafe St. Marks; or would you prefer
some other man?”
“Oh, no.” She threw her evening wrap across the sofa and sat down. “Are
the girls ready?”
“They--they are indisposed, and won't be able to go to-night.”
“What! Both girls?”
“Yes, both”--firmly, not, however, meeting her eyes.
“Hadn't I better stay with them?” she asked. “Have you telephoned for Dr.
Stone?”
“There is no necessity for giving up our little spree,” he declared
cheerily. “The girls don't need a physician. They”--with meaning, “need
a mother's care.” He picked up her coronation scarf from the floor where
it had slipped and laid it across her bare shoulders; the action was
almost a caress. She made a lovely picture as she sat in the high-backed
carved chair in her chic evening gown, and as her soft dark eyes met his
ardent look, McIntyre felt the hot blood surge to his temples, and
with quickened pulse he went to the telephone stand and gave Central a
number.
Back in her chair Mrs. Brewster sat thoughtfully watching him. She had
been an unobserved witness of the scene with Barbara, having entered the
library in time to hear the girl's last remarks. It was not the first
inkling that she had had of their disapproval of Colonel McIntyre's
attentions to her, but it had hurt.
The widow had become acquainted with the twins when, traveling in Europe
just before the outbreak of the World War, and had made the hasty trip
back to this country in their company. Colonel McIntyre had planned to
bring the twins, then at school in Paris, home himself, but business had
kept him in the West and he had cabled to a spinster cousin to chaperon
them on the trip across the Atlantic Ocean. Nor had he reached New
York in time to see them disembark, and thus had missed meeting Mrs.
Brewster, then in her first year of widowhood.
The friendship between the twins and Mrs. Brewster had been kept up
through much correspondence, and the widow had finally promised to come
to Washington for their debut, visiting her cousins, Dr. and Mrs. Stone.
The meeting had but cemented the friendship between them, and at the
twins' urgent request, seconded with warmth by Colonel McIntyre, she had
promised to spend the month of April at the McIntyre home.
The visit was nearly over. Mrs. Brewster sighed faintly. There were two
courses open to her, immediate departure, or to continue to ignore the
twins' strangely antagonistic behavior--the first course did not suit
Mrs. Brewster's plans.
Barbara, who had left the library through one of its seven doors, had
failed to see Mrs. Brewster by the slightest margin; she was intent only
on being with Helen. The affection between the twins was very close;
but while their facial resemblance was remarkable, their natures were
totally dissimilar. Helen, the elder by twenty minutes, was studious,
shy, and too much given to introspection; Barbara, on the contrary, was
whimsical and practical by turns, with a great capacity for enjoyment.
The twins had made their debut jointly on their eighteenth birthday,
and while both were popular, Barbara had received the greater amount of
attention.
Barbara tip-toed into the suite of rooms which the girls occupied over
the library, expecting to find Helen lying on the lounge; instead, she
found her writing busily at her desk. She tossed down her pen as her
sister entered, and, taking up a blotter, carefully laid it across the
page she had been writing.
“Thank heaven, I don't have to go to that supper party,” Barbara
announced, throwing herself full length on the lounge.
“So father gave it up,” commented Helen. “I am glad.”
“Gave up nothing,” retorted her sister. “He and Margaret Brewster are
going.”
“What!” Helen was on her feet. “You let them go out alone together?”
“They can't be alone if they are together,” answered Barbara
practically. “Don't be silly, Helen.”
Helen did not answer at once; she had grown singularly pale. Walking
over to the window she glanced into the street. “The car hasn't come,”
she exclaimed, and consulted her wrist watch. “Hurry, Babs, you have
just, time to dress and go with them.”
“B-b-but I said I wouldn't go,” stuttered Barbara, completely taken by
surprise.
“No matter; tell father you have changed your mind.” Helen held out her
hand. “Come, to please me,” and there was a world of wistful appeal in
her hazel eyes which Barbara was unable to resist.
It was not until Barbara had completed her hasty toilet and a frantic
dash downstairs in time to spring into the waiting limousine after
Margaret Brewster, that she realized she had put on one of Helen's
evening gowns and not her own.