"No Clue!". Hay James
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of a second sigh deep down in his throat.
This was not the first time that Arthur Broughton Sloane had provoked a chuckle, although, for him, life was a house of terror, a torture chamber constructed with fiendish ingenuity. Mr. Sloane suffered from "nerves." He was spending his declining years in the arduous but surprisingly successful task of being wretched, irritable and ill-at-ease.
The variety of his agonies was equalled only by the alacrity with which he tested every cure or remedy of which he happened to hear. He agreed enthusiastically with his expensive physicians that he was neurasthenic, psychasthenic and neurotic.
His eyes were weak; his voice was weak; his spirit was weak. He shivered all day with terror at the idea of not sleeping at night. Every evening he quivered with horror at the thought of not waking up next morning. And yet, despite these absorbing, although not entirely delightful, preoccupations, Mr. Sloane was not without an object in life.
In fact, he had two objects in life: the happiness of his daughter, Lucille, and the study of crime and criminals. The latter interest had brought Hastings to the Sloane country home in Virginia. Judge Wilton, an old friend of the wrecked and wealthy Mr. Sloane, had met the detective on the street in Washington and urged:
"Go down to Sloanehurst and spend Saturday night. I'll be there when you arrive. Sloane's got his mind set on seeing you; and you won't regret it. His library on criminology will be a revelation, even to you."
And Hastings, largely because he shrank from seeming ungracious, had accepted Mr. Sloane's subsequent invitation.
Climbing now into the old-fashioned four-poster bed, he thought again of his conversation-spree and longed for self-justification. He sat up, sheetless, reflecting:
"As a week-ender, I'm a fine old chatter-box!—But young Webster got me! What did he say?—'The cleverer the criminal, the easier to run him down. The thug, acting on the spur of the moment, with a blow in the dark and a getaway through the night, leaves no trace behind him. Your "smart criminal" always overreaches himself.'—A pretty theory, but wild. Anyway, it made me forget myself; I talked my old fool head off."
He felt himself blush.
"Wish I'd let Wilton do the disproving; he was anxious enough."
A mental picture of Sloane consoled him once more.
"Silk socks and gingham gumption!" he thought. "But he's honest in his talk about being interested in crime. The man loves crime!—Good thing he's got plenty of money."
He fell asleep, in a kind of ruminative growl:
"Made a fool of myself—babbling about what I remembered—what I thought! I'll go back to Washington—in the morning."
Judge Wilton's unsteady voice, supplemented by a rattling of the doorknob, roused him. He had thrust one foot out of bed when Wilton came into the room.
"Quick! Come on, man!" the judge instructed, and hurried into the hall.
"What's wrong?" Hastings demanded, reaching for his spectacles.
Wilton, on his way down the stairs, flung back:
"A woman hurt—outside."
From the hall below came Mr. Sloane's high-pitched, complaining tones:
"Unfathomable angels! What do you say?—Who?"
Drawing on shoes and trousers, the detective overtook his host on the front verandah and followed him down the steps and around the northeast corner of the house. He noticed that Sloane carried in one hand an electric torch and in the other a bottle of smelling salts. It was no longer raining.
Rounding the corner, they saw, scarcely fifteen yards from the bay-window of the ballroom, the upturned face of a woman who lay prostrate on the lawn. Lights had been turned on in the house, making a glow which cut through the starless night.
The woman did not move. Judge Wilton was in the act of kneeling beside her.
"Hold on!" Hastings called out. "Don't disturb her—if she's dead."
"She is dead!" said Wilton.
"Who is she?" The detective, trying to find signs of life, put his hand over her heart.
"I don't know," Wilton answered the question. "Do you, Sloane?"
"Of course, I don't!"
Hastings said afterwards that Sloane's reply expressed astonished resentment that he should be suspected of knowing anybody vulgar enough to be murdered on his lawn.
The detective drew back his hand. His fingers were dark with blood.
At that moment Berne Webster, Lucille Sloane's fiancé, came from the rear of the house, announcing breathlessly:
"No 'phone connection—this time of night, judge.—It's past midnight.—I sent chauffeur—Lally—for the sheriff."
Hastings stood up, his first, cursory examination concluded.
"No doubt about it," he said. "She's dead.—Bring a blanket, somebody!"
Mr. Sloane's nerves had the best of him by this time. He trembled like a man with a chill, rattling the bottle of smelling salts against the metal end of his electric torch. He had on slippers and a light dressing gown over his pajamas.
Wilton was fully dressed, young Webster collarless but wearing a black, light-weight lounging jacket. Hastings was struck with the different degrees of their dress, or undress.
"Who found her?" he asked, looking at Webster.
"Judge Wilton—and I," said Webster, so short of breath that his chest heaved.
"How long ago?"
Wilton answered that:
"A few minutes, hardly five minutes. I ran in to call you and Sloane."
"And Mr.—you, Mr. Webster?"
"The judge told me to—to get the sheriff—by telephone."
Hastings knelt again over the woman's body.
"Here, Mr. Sloane," he ordered, "hold that torch closer, will you?"
Mr. Sloane found compliance impossible. He could not steady his hand sufficiently.
"Hold that torch, judge," Hastings prompted.
"It's knocked me out—completely," Sloane said, surrendering the torch to Wilton.
Webster, the pallor still on his face, a look of horror in his eyes, stood on the side of the body opposite the detective. At brief intervals he raised first one foot, then the other, clear of the ground and set it down again. He was unconscious of making any movement at all.
Hastings, thoroughly absorbed in the work before him, went about it swiftly, with now and then brief, murmured comment on what he did and saw. Although his ample night-shirt, stuffed into his equally baggy trousers, contributed nothing but comicality to his appearance, the others submitted without question to his domination. There was about him suddenly an atmosphere of power that impressed even the little group of awe-struck servants who stood a few feet away.
"Stabbed," he said, after he had run his hands over the woman's figure; "died instantly—must have. Got her heart.—Young—not over twenty-five, would you say?—Not dead long.—Anybody call a doctor?"
"I told Lally to stop by Dr. Garnet's house and send him—at once," Webster said, his voice low, and broken. "He's the coroner, too."
Hastings continued his examination. The brief pause that ensued was broken by a woman's voice:
"Pauline! Pauline!"
The call came from one of the upstairs windows. Hearing it, a woman in the servant group hurried into the house.
Webster groaned: "My God!"
"Frantic