Hunt in the Dark

by Q. Patrick

  She produced a cigarette and lighted it deliberately. To my surprise I noticed that her hand shook. Apparently, she was less composed than she appeared to be.

  Cobb was staring gravely at the scarlet peignoir. I had the impression that he was mildly shocked by its scantiness and transparence.

  “Miss Davenport,” he began, “I expect you’ve heard something of the things that happened here tonight. Just as a matter of form, we’re asking every one to check up on their movements since dinner time.”

  A frown rippled the girl’s smooth young forehead. Then she smiled. “Well, I guess I can tell you without damaging my reputation. After dinner, I helped Jay with a—er—chemical experiment. We had a devil of a row in the middle of it. I got raving mad and stamped off to my room.” A swirl of cigarette smoke curled upward, mingling with the wreaths that still trailed from the smoldering logs. “The emotion must have been too much for me because I developed a foul headache. I came here for an aspirin and have been sleeping peacefully ever since. I didn’t even know about Mrs. Bellman until Miss Clymer came in a few minutes ago and gave me all the gory details.”

  She turned to me with a quizzical expression. “By the way, Doctor Westlake, I hope you were lying when you said you were changing your clothes. It’s hardly my idea of decency to sit here in the nude and entertain Mrs. Bellman—dead or alive.”

  Cobb coughed a trifle prudishly. “You seem an—er—intelligent young woman. Miss Davenport,” he said mildly. “Have you any ideas about what’s been going on?”

  “Nothing except that every one’s crazy.” Miss Davenport crossed her legs, showing a long expanse of stocking. “Either they’re queer like Mr. Washer and the Furnivalls, or stodgy like the Browns, or repressed like Miss Clymer. Don’t the medical textbooks tell you, by the way, that people who go in for repressing their sex are capable of anything?”

  “Well, we aren’t accusing you of that,” murmured Cobb with a furtive glance at her sheer silk stockings. “By the way, Miss Davenport, have you noticed that all the people in the house have been unnaturally interested in this room?” He turned to me. “I don’t like to quote Doctor Westlake, but he feels that even you—”

  Miss Davenport laughed. “You’ll have to think out harder questions than that, inspector. Yes, I’ll admit I was inquisitive about this place—darn inquisitive. And who wouldn’t be? For months there’ve been wild rumors around the house that a monster used to live here with Miss Furnivall. I was raring to see it, and, failing that, raring to see its den. After all, I am a student of physiology, and I’ve never had a break with a monster yet.”

  “That was your only interest, Miss Davenport?”

  The girl grinned at me. “It was nice to meet Doctor Westlake, of course—but it was mostly the monster. And I expect every one else felt the same. I know Miss Clymer would break her neck to pick up some nice dirt. You’d be horrified if you knew some of the things that go on in a good woman’s mind.”

  Cobb did not speak for a moment. He pushed the unlighted pipe between his teeth. “So there’s nothing you can tell us that might help?”

  “Nothing. At least, there is one thing, if it’s not indelicate to mention it before two gentlemen.” Miss Davenport screwed up her nose in a rather delightful way.

  I remarked that nothing was too indelicate to mention before a doctor and a policeman—especially in these circumstances. She laughed, tossed away her cigarette butt, and produced another from a pocket in her peignoir.

  “Well, a few days ago I found the toilet wasn’t working on the second floor. Jay and I had poured some chemicals down it some hours before and I was scared we’d done the damage. I got Jay and one of those rubber plungers and we put in some hard work.” Her violet eyes were staring straight into mine. “At last something came up—the craziest thing you could imagine, yet maybe it has something to do with this. It was a dead canary, and it wasn’t the nasty little beast in the hall that Miss Clymer slops over. We went down to look.”

  “Good.” Cobb seemed to be talking to himself rather than to Miss Davenport. “That’s another little point cleared up.” He raised his eyes. “There’s nothing else?”

  The girl seemed amused that the canary interested him. She smiled and shook her head.

  “Very well. It’s getting late, Miss Davenport. If there are any more questions, I’ll keep them till tomorrow.”

  The girl uncurled herself from the arm of the chair and pulled the peignoir around her. “You never asked me what my row with Jay was about, Doctor Westlake,” she said. “I think it was mean of you because I was dying to tell. But perhaps you know already. There’s an account of it in the Grovestown Times, and I gave it to Miss Furnivall at dinner tonight.”

  She crossed to the door and stood with her back pressed against it. “I spat out at Jay in the middle of an experiment because he forgot that we’d been married this afternoon. That’s why I got a headache. That’s why I had to go to bed with an aspirin on my wedding night. What do you think of that for a crime?”

  She smiled at me, turned on her heels, and disappeared into the passage.”

  As she left, I rose and threw another log on the fire. “Nice girl that,” I said. “I don’t see her dabbling in murder.”

  Cobb growled. “Fresh, if you ask me. Still, she’s helped us along with that canary. Now I think it’s that to see Constance Furnivall. I don’t mind telling you, Westlake. When you called up yesterday, I made a little investigation of the boarders here and found out about Mrs. Constance Farrar. I wondered whether perhaps she wasn’t up to her tricks again.”

  Once more the officer was sent away, only to return within a very few minutes.

  Constance Furnivall—or Farrar—looked ghastly pale when she entered. I noticed, too that she brought with her a faint odor of brandy. Obviously she had been buoying herself up for the ordeal of meeting the police.

  It is to the credit of my friend Cobb that he was more than courteous and considerate with this woman who had spent fifteen years in prison. He rose and placed a chair for her.

  “Sit down, Miss—er—Furnivall.”

  The woman did not seem to hear him. The large dark eyes flamed in her pale face.

  “Is it—is it true that Mrs. Bellman has been killed?” she said quietly.

  Cobb nodded.

  “Very well.” Miss Furnivall crossed her arms. I noticed her lips trembling. “I think it’s about time I spoke. Before you question me, I want to tell you something—something that has been on my mind now for several months—a suspicion that has kept me awake through many of these hot summer nights.” She broke off and added almost in a whisper: “A suspicion that may help you to understand why Mrs. Bellman was killed.”

  The silence that followed this remark was charged with strained excitement. I saw Cobb gazing tensely at Miss Furnivall. A puff of gray smoke wafted upward from the fire. I followed its slow progress to the ceiling with unseeing eyes.

  “Go on,” said Cobb at length.

  Miss Furnivall began to speak and then paused. Turning, she opened the door swiftly and looked out into the passage. Apparently she knew the ways of her fellow boarders.

  “Mr. Cobb,” she said, “you know, and Doctor Westlake knows, that I have taken a human life. I have paid for it dearly, but I have an instinct about these things and this is why I want you to give close attention to what I say.”

  Cobb nodded gravely.

  “I believe,” she continued slowly, “that Mrs. Bellman was killed because she had found out something about another murder.”

  “Another murder!” The words shot from Cobb like lightning. “You mean you know of another murder committed in this house?”

  “I don’t know of one.” The woman’s voice was sad. “But I do suspect it. You see, I’ve got no evidence, but I’m almost positive now that Mrs. Salt murdered Agnes—that wretched creature whom I was taking care of.”

  A log fell in the grate. The noise sounded u
nnaturally loud. “Yes,” Miss Furnivall was continuing. “I think she killed her own stepchild here in this very apartment.”

  I shivered despite the fact that I was crouched over the smoky flames.

  “I have several reasons for believing so.” Miss Furnivall tossed her head defiantly. “In the first place, there was a financial motive.”

  Cobb looked up sharply.

  “Of course, it doesn’t necessarily mean a person will commit a murder just because they have a motive, but one day, when I was acting as a nurse for Agnes, three men and a woman came to see her. They came all the way from the Middle West. They were the only visitors she ever had. They explained to me they were the trustees of her father’s will. It seems he had been wealthy, and he had, naturally, felt a great responsibility toward Agnes. She was only five years old when he died, and the doctors had told him positively that the child could not live for long. Even so, he left the greater part of his estate in trust for her for ten years, so that while she lived, there would be no chance of her wanting for anything. He stipulated that she should not be put away in an institution. That’s why all that money was spent on having me and on this apartment.”

  “Go on,” said Cobb.

  “Well, it appears that the day on which they came to see her was her fifteenth birthday. Contrary to all medical opinion, Agnes had lived. But the ten years were up and the trust fund was to stop automatically.” Miss Furnivall crossed her strong arms across her breast. “All the money from then on was to go to Mrs. Salt, the stepmother. As a mother, naturally, she was expected to continue supporting Agnes, but she was under no compulsion. Nor would the trustees be interested in the child any longer. There was no one to keep an eye on what happened to her—no one but Mrs. Salt.”

  “And you suggest Mrs. Salt killed Agnes because—”

  “Exactly. It takes a great deal of money to support a child

  like that—even in an institution. You may think Mrs. Salt had insufficient motive, but I can understand how she must have felt about—about that monster.” Miss Furnivall’s eyes flickered strangely as though she were remembering something. “I can imagine the horror, the physical loathing she could have had for it. Don’t you see, it was not her own child, but the child of the first wife. Sometimes even I myself was almost driven to do what I think Mrs. Salt really hired me for—”

  She stopped suddenly and lowered her eyes. Neither Cobb nor I spoke for a moment, then Cobb said:

  “You think Mrs. Salt killed her stepdaughter in this room?”

  “Yes.” Miss Furnivall’s dark eyes flashed as she looked up.

  “Otherwise, why was she always so careful to let no one see her? She made her arrangements with Mrs. Bellman through an agent. She hired me by mail and dismissed me before her arrival. And she came to take Agnes away in the dead of night. She probably gave as her excuse that she wanted to keep the child from prying eyes. No one saw her leave, not even Mrs. Bellman. And I know why they didn’t. Mrs. Salt didn’t want any one to know that she left alone—that she had murdered Agnes.”

  Cobb sucked fiercely at the unlighted pipe. “I’m beginning to see what you are driving at. You think Mrs. Bellman started to suspect something about this other murder and— But, no!” Suddenly, he thumped his fist on the table. “We know perfectly well that Mrs. Salt can have nothing to do with this, because we know for certain that the murderer must be one of the boarders.”

  “Wait a minute,” I broke in. “I agree with you. We know the murderer is one of the boarders, but why couldn’t she be Mrs. Salt, too? Don’t you see? No one ever saw Mrs. Salt. She was a complete stranger in these parts. She could easily be living here under another name. She could have been living here for years and no one would have suspected anything.”

  Cobb whistled through his teeth. “So she could.”

  “Yes,” I went on. “And that gives us the motive we’ve been searching for. None of these boarders have a motive as themselves, but if one of them were Mrs. Salt—”

  I shall never know why I broke off at that particular moment. I remember the look of eagerness on Cobb’s face turning suddenly to surprise. I remember Miss Furnivall standing squarely against the door, her arms crossed, her chin thrust forward.

  The room was quiet—horribly quiet. A long tendril of smoke wafted from the fire, bringing with it a pungent smell of burning wood.

  Or was it the smell of wood? As I sat there, I seemed to detect something else—something reminiscent of that stale, musty odor that had lingered in the room since my arrival.

  We were all leaning forward, gazing at the grate. There was a rustling sound somewhere up the chimney, and a few flakes of soot fell harshly onto the sullen flames. The vague stirring sounded again. Once more soot descended in a sudden stream. I could hear Miss Furnivall’s heavy breathing—unnaturally quick and loud. Then for the moment it seemed to stop entirely. It was as though the whole world were still—everything but that slow, tumbling noise in the wide chimney.

  The smell was almost unbearably strong row. For an instant it was the only thing of which I was conscious. Then, suddenly, a sharp, hysterical scream split the silence.

  It was Constance Furnivall and she was shouting: “Agnes—Agnes Salt.”

  In a dash, I saw what she saw. Gradually slipping down into the grate on top of the now almost extinguished fire was a body. At first I thought it must be that of some animal. Then I realized my mistake.

  Lying in the fireplace, almost at my feet, were the decomposed remains of a hideously misshapen child.

  VIII

  HER LAST CHANCE

  It is not pleasant to dwell on the happenings of the next few minutes. Finally the body was gathered up and laid in the next room. Doctor Foley had been recalled even before he had finished his examination of Mrs. Bellman.

  Cobb had given strict orders that, for the present, the news of this second gruesome revelation should not be imparted to any one outside the officials. Miss Furnivall, who had so dramatically and surprisingly guessed at the crime before its discovery, was sent back to her room with instructions not to mention the matter—not even to her sister.

  Doctor Foley called me in at length for a superficial examination of the body. His pale eyes behind the pince-nez were shining with scientific interest.

  “Too bad we can’t get a picture for publication in the medical journals,” he sighed. “The skeletal structure is different from anything I’ve ever seen before. How do you suppose she got that way?”

  I looked down at what remained of that pathetic, twisted body. Some of the purplish skin of the face was still intact. The dark hair was long and coarse, reaching almost to the crooked hands.

  “How she got that way?” I repeated. “Oh, acondroplasia, cretinism, epilepsy, injuries at birth—any or all of them might have been responsible.”

  “Well,” muttered Foley, “it’s no wonder someone wanted to get rid of her.”

  It was impossible to tell without a complete autopsy how long the child had been dead. The cause of death, however, seemed obvious. There was a cord tied tightly around the neck. Several feet of it still adhered to the head. The hemp was charred in places and blackened at the spot where some lighted fragment of paper or a spark must have burned it through and thus precipitated our ghastly discovery.

  “Not less than three months,” Foley was saying. “It’s murder all right. I’m amazed you got that fire started at all. The chimney must have been almost entirely blocked.”

  When we rejoined Cobb and told him what little we had gathered, I noticed that his kindly face was more drawn and haggard than I had ever before seen it. He glanced up wearily as I sat down at his side.

  “Well, Westlake, we’re not going to get very far until we’ve gone into the background of these boarders. Tomorrow we can start a search for those trustees. One of them could pick out Mrs. Salt. But it’s going to be damned hard to find them. They might be living anywhere in the States, and I exp
ect Salt’s an assumed name, anyway.”

  I lighted a cigarette and glanced at the stretcher bearers who had returned and were carrying the cretin’s body out of the room.

  “Yes, it’s going to take time getting around to Mrs. Salt that way. Let’s put together the facts we’ve already got. It may help.”

  “O.K.” Cobb picked up a pencil. “Let’s see what you make of it.”

  “Well, the beginning’s easy to guess at. Mrs. Salt comes to Grovestown and rents a room here at No. 12. She knew the child’s fifteenth birthday would soon be coming. I expect even then she was looking around for a suitable place to—to murder her. She finds this apartment and starts to make her plans.”

  Cobb leaned forward. “Yeah. I guess she persuaded the trustees that the air or something here would be good for the kid. Really, of course, she was getting Agnes away from the place where she was known.

  “She sees Miss Furnivall’s advertisement in the paper and hires her to look after Agnes. She knows Miss Furnivall must be desperate—possibly even finds out that she is a convicted killer. She’s not one that’s likely to talk. Perhaps, as Miss Furnivall hinted, Mrs. Salt was even hoping to use her as an accomplice.”

  I thought of Miss Constance Furnivall as I had seen her but a short time before, her eyes flashing, her arms crossed tightly over her breast. “Sometimes even I was almost driven to do what I think Mrs. Salt really hired me for.”

  “Very well,” Cobb was saying. “She gets Agnes installed here, still living in the house herself, of course, under another name. The fifteenth birthday comes and goes, and the time arrives for the murder. She fakes up the story of a trip to Arizona, dismisses Miss Furnivall, strangles Agnes and puts her in the chimney.”

  “Yes,” I broke in. “You see, the hearth was blocked up then. It was an ideal place to put a body. Mrs. Salt must have gone up onto the roof garden and hung Agnes down the chimney, thinking she would never be found.”