The Whistling Legs

by Roman McDougald

  He took a long, wavering step across the study, and she whirled after him. He said, “Is there another telephone?”

  “There’s one downstairs.”

  “Go down at once and call a doctor.” He was locking the study door behind them. “And is there another key to Deb’s room?”

  “Mrs. Rand has it.”

  “Find Mrs. Rand.” He went at a swift but slightly floundering gait around the turn of the corridor into the hall.

  Theresa Church was running after him. She caught up with him, and he heard the quick catch of her breath. She whispered, “Mr. Cabot, you can’t walk straight! What is it? You haven’t been—been poisoned, too?”

  He said grimly, “I was poisoned with a shillelagh.”

  He halted before the door and tried the handle silently. He found it still locked. He let the knob revolve back noiselessly in his grasp as he stood there listening. He could hear nothing except Theresa Church’s footsteps going hastily down the stairs. The hall behind him was as still as the room beyond the door.

  He bent down and tried to squint through the keyhole. He could see a glimmer of light inside, and it was so dim that he guessed that only the bedside lamp was burning.

  He kept his eye to the hole for a few seconds, and presently along the edge of that narrow angle of vision there was an indeterminate flutter which could have been either a glimpse of movement or an illusion created by the strain of his imperfectly focused gaze.

  He straightened up and thrust his hand into his pocket, recalling abruptly that he still had his ring of skeleton keys.

  He fitted one soundlessly into the lock, and after a moment it caught and turned.

  From the doorway the room appeared exactly as before with one exception. Cotton was no longer on the bed.

  He stared at the chair, and at first sight there was nothing horrible about it. It simply seemed empty. Then all at once he noticed the hair. It showed there at the side, perhaps slightly closer to the seat than to the padded top. It was that, he guessed—the mere position of the hair—which made the whole scene take on a peculiar and nerve-wracking quality.

  It looked from the back so much like the head of a child. As though something had made Deb a child.

  When he went on to the chair and glanced over the top of it, he found himself gazing down from what must have been the mathematically precise line of the murderer’s vision.

  That line, he saw, was the shortest distance between two points. One was his own face and the other was the fixed stare of Deb’s dead eyes. He found that as he looked at it the whole thing automatically took shape in his mind.

  Deb had been asleep, and something had awakened him. He had not even looked around at first; perhaps he had waited drowsily for a voice. But the voice had not come; and when he had glanced up at last, the face and the knife had been directly over him, poised.

  There had not been time to spring out of the chair; a left hand had already been clutching at the lapel of his pajama coat. There had been time for nothing except that transfixing certainty and the instinctive shrinking away from the actual imminence of the blow.

  He could see it plainly: Deb’s lame leg sliding out beneath him, his shoulders struggling downward toward the farther side of the chair, his eyes staring up, the pajama coat twisting away from his body in the slayer’s grasp.

  And the other half of it followed almost as a corollary: the certainty that someone had leaned over that chair, farther and farther, aiming the knife adeptly above those squirming shoulders, pursuing them downward until the cushions would give no more beneath them and the blade went into the bare flesh, swiftly and cleanly, between the two ribs.

  Cabot raised his eyes and looked at the little table beside the chair. The glass which had held the malted milk was still there, empty now except for the chocolate-colored dregs at the bottom. The mere sight of it, after what had happened, brought with it a conclusion that had the force of discovery.

  The glass of malted milk had contained a drug—possibly the same drug which had been given to Rand. Deb had sipped a little of it before their talk and had grown drowsy. Then, at the last, he had drunk the rest of it and once more had fallen asleep there in the chair, shortly after Cabot had heard him lock the door. But since he had obviously been conscious at the moment of death, the murder must have occurred before the drug had had time to take full effect.

  Cabot glanced at his wrist watch and thought: Between 10:15, when I went from here to Rand’s apartment, and 10:45, when Theresa heard footsteps in this room. The killer evidently had not wanted him to talk with either Deb or Darryl Rand. He had wanted him to find them both asleep. He had probably entered as soon as Cabot went downstairs, at about 10:30. Yet Theresa had heard the footsteps quite a bit later.

  Cabot turned his gaze back to the table and saw that the key was not there. Nor was it in the lock. That meant that the killer had taken it. But why——

  He realized abruptly that he and the dead man were not alone in the room.

  Chapter Four

  He spun around and caught a glimpse of fingers vanishing inward from the edge of the bathroom door. Something about the hand gleamed brilliantly for a second against the light before it disappeared.

  The person in there had emerged momentarily with the intention of slipping to the outer door while his attention was diverted. Then, realizing that he had been heard, he had dodged back—a second too late.

  Cabot strode to the door and flung it open. There was no one in sight. He looked around the dim green-tiled room and then switched on the light. The green tiles sprang into sharp illumination. He slammed the door and doubled up his fist.

  She was cowering there behind the door, with both hands raised to her bloodless face. The big diamond glinted on her finger. Her eyes were fixed on his poised fist in a sort of terrified fascination.

  She gasped. “Don’t hit me, Philip Cabot! I’m not the——”

  He said, “For Christ’s sake! What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know. I——”

  “You don’t know?” It dawned on him that she was almost hysterical. He said, “Don’t you dare faint! If you do, I’ll slosh water all over your head and it will play hell with your permanent.”

  She stood there, swaying a little. “I have to hold on to something,” she whispered. “Please——”

  He put his arm around her and felt her quivering all over. It was like an electric tension running through that perfectly proportioned body, giving to its contours a suggestion of almost magic animation. She put her head against the lapel of his coat and gave a long sigh.

  He said, “On second thought, maybe you’d better just sit down. There’s no sense in both of us getting nervous.”

  She sank down on the bath bench, staring at him. “What do you mean?”

  He said, “I’m surprised that you don’t know. How long have you been in here, Mrs. Rand?”

  “Only a few moments. I——”

  “Why did you come in?”

  “I—I wanted to see Deb. I thought he might be asleep, so I didn’t knock. I thought I’d just open the door with my key and glance in——”

  “And then?”

  “The light was burning, and I saw that he wasn’t on the bed. I knew that he must be in the chair. I walked over there and——“ She stopped with a convulsive shudder.

  “What did you do?”

  “I held on to the foot of the bed for a moment. It was a kind of panic. I was thinking, ‘Suppose somebody comes in and finds me here?’”

  “All right?”

  “After a time I started back toward the door. Then I realized that they would find my fingerprints on that bed—close to him—where I had held on. I forced myself to lock the door and go back to rub the fingerprints off with my handkerchief.”

  “Well?”

  “I tiptoed back toward the door, and just then someone stopped outside and turned the handle. The panic got me again. I suppose I was a little crazy. I ran in her
e. And before I could get up nerve enough to try it once more you came in——“ She was looking at him appealingly. “You know I didn’t kill him——”

  He said, “I don’t know it.”

  “If I had killed him, the knife would still be here, wouldn’t it? I couldn’t have disposed of it——”

  “So you noticed that the knife was gone? Did you notice, also, that Deb’s key wasn’t on the table?”

  “I don’t remember really noticing anything. Not even about the knife. Only that blood——“ She shivered again, looking at the closed door. “I couldn’t have killed him,” she said. “I can’t even swat a fly without closing my eyes first. And then I always miss.”

  He was studying her face. “You may be a dam good actress,” he said, “but it’s my impression right now that murder isn’t good for you.”

  She replied in a small voice, “It isn’t good for me. It isn’t good at all. I’m going to have to take some medicine or—something.”

  He said, “Make it brandy. And then lie down a while. Come on.” He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. The hand was like a lovely icicle.

  She said waveringly, “We’ll have to do something——”

  “I’ll do something. You go to your room and get that brandy. But give me your key first.”

  She handed him the key and averted her eyes when he opened the door. She went at an unsteady sidewise gait toward the hall. Her gaze was turned so far away from the chair that she missed the startling scene at which Cabot was staring.

  At first glance the most conspicuous feature of it was the shiny seat of Carlo Pugh’s trousers, straining upward almost to the ripping point as he crouched there by the chair on his hands and knees. With a gold penknife he was scraping vigorously at the rug, collecting dust upon the blade and shaking it delicately into a small envelope in his left hand.

  Cabot said explosively, “Pugh, what the devil are you doing?”

  Without otherwise altering his position, Carlo turned his head, only six inches above the floor, and looked up. There was a fanatical gleam in his eyes.

  He said, “Well, Cabot, this is it!”

  Cabot said, “Get up from there. I want to talk with you.”

  Carlo Pugh got up, and carefully sealed the little envelope before he put it into his pocket. Then he made a quick gesture toward the chair.

  “I presume,” he said tensely, “that you’ve examined the body?”

  Cabot said, “I looked at it.”

  “Then you must have been struck at once,” Pugh replied, “by one very odd, almost phenomenal, fact.”

  “I didn’t see anything phenomenal.”

  “You didn’t?” Pugh’s eyebrows went up sharply. “Look again, Cabot! Look closely and tell me what you see!” Barely waiting for Cabot to shake his head, Carlo went on in a vibrant voice. “I ask you to observe, first of all, that the back of this chair is unusually high—is it not?”

  “Well, it seems to be.”

  “Precisely! And you will note, secondly, that Deb’s eyes are focused almost squarely at the middle of the chair back. Now! Let us proceed from there.” Carlo abruptly whipped out a tape measure and began to take a complicated series of measurements, extending downward at various angles from the back of the chair toward the body wedged into the seat. At last he paused and stepped back, frowning in deep concentration. “It checks,” he announced thoughtfully. “It checks from all angles.”

  “What checks? Listen, Pugh——”

  Carlo said solemnly, “I deduce, Cabot, that the person who leaned over the back of this chair and stabbed that young man to death had an arm that was exactly thirty-nine and one-fourth inches in length. You can readily see the ghastly implications.”

  “I don’t——”

  Carlo gestured again. “I want to be conservative about this thing,” he said. “Therefore, I shall not state categorically that the killer was an ape. I shall merely say that it was somebody—or something—with definitely apelike characteristics.” He was stuffing the tape measure back into his pocket. “Think of it, Cabot! A preternaturally long arm, hanging well below the knee——”

  Cabot broke in. “Let’s not make this thing any goofier than it is, Pugh. The fellow didn’t stoop over the back of the chair. He stooped over the side.”

  “But observe the focus of the corpse’s eyes!” Carlo whipped out the tape measure again. “I can give you the exact angle——”

  “Put it up,” Cabot said wearily. “Death does things to the focus of your eyes. It does things to you all over. Now, listen, Pugh. You told me a short time ago that you had the solution of this case. All you needed was a corpse. We have the corpse now, and I want the solution. And I’ll be doggoned if I want it in twenty-five thousand words.”

  Carlo began frowning vaguely as he looked back at the body. He was still frowning when he replied.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “Of course. But, unfortunately, Cabot, it’s the wrong corpse.”

  “The wrong——”

  Carlo nodded abstractedly. He was listening with some uneasiness to the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Cabot said, “That’s Theresa. She has been telephoning.” His gaze remained fixed upon Pugh. “What do you mean by saying that it’s the wrong corpse?”

  “I mean,” said Carlo, “that I can see no connection whatever between this and the preceding case.”

  “The preceding one? Then there are two?”

  Carlo nodded again, still watching the door. “Two,” he replied significantly, “two separate and distinct ones occurring almost simultaneously under our very noses!”

  He swung back to Cabot and stood there, going up and down on the balls of his feet. His eyes were shining.

  Jan Utley appeared in the doorway and peered uncertainly into the room before she spoke in her dry, meticulous voice. “What’s going on in there?”

  Carlo raised his hand quickly. “Don’t come in, Jan! Stay where you are.”

  She stepped deliberately across the threshold. Her manner was slightly aggressive. She said, “What is this?”

  Cabot asked, “Where have you been, Miss Utley?”

  “Downstairs in the library. I read late every night—there or in my room.” Her gaze was moving slowly around the room, taking note of the emptiness of the bed and the floor and coming to rest at last on the back of the chair.

  Cabot said, “Did you see Theresa come downstairs?”

  “Yes. She was going to the telephone.” Jan’s eyes were still on the chair back.

  “Don’t!” warned Carlo.

  Jan moved doggedly around the chair and looked down squarely at the body. Her tightened features retained their curiously set expression, but after a moment they seemed to take on a faintly greenish hue. She swallowed visibly and edged backward, away from it, in something less than a step.

  Carlo said hastily, “Do you feel faint, Jan? Maybe you’d better sit down.” He bustled forward. “Shall I get you some water?”

  Her pale face turned toward him in a flash of fury. “Faint?” she snapped. “Don’t be an ass! What do you take me for?”

  Carlo said innocently, “A girl.”

  She was looking at Cabot again. “This is unbelievable,” she said. “I don’t suppose you killed him?”

  Cabot replied, “It lies between me and an ape.” He was taking Gail Rand’s key from his pocket. “We’re getting out. I’m locking this room while I telephone the police.”

  “Telephone?” echoed Jan. “But Theresa——”

  “She was telephoning for a doctor.”

  Carlo said eloquently, “A doctor? Surely you observed, Cabot, that the man was dead!”

  Cabot said grimly, “Somebody in this house knows damn well why I am telephoning for a doctor.”

  Jan suddenly exclaimed, “Gail!” and went out of the room at a frantic run.

  The gleam had come back into Carlo’s eyes. He said, “You wouldn’t want me to take charge of the scene, would you, Cabot, while you
notify the authorities?”

  Cabot replied curtly, “I would not. By the time they got here the floorboards would be up.” He shooed the little man out of the room and closed the door behind them. “But I want some more conversation with you in about five minutes, Pugh.”

  Carlo replied with some constraint, “Very well. I shall be in my room.”

  Theresa was running up from the landing. She was almost breathless when she reached the door.

  “I had to telephone three times,” she explained, “before I found one. He is coming.”

  Cabot thrust the key into her hand. “Stand here for a few minutes,” he directed, “and if anyone approaches this door—anyone at all—I want you to scream at once. Understand?”

  She took the key automatically and put her other hand out to the wall. She was gasping. “What is it? Is Deb——”

  He nodded. “As dead as somebody could make him.” He watched her for an instant longer out of sheer surprise at the degree of shock in her face. He said, “Whatever you were expecting, Theresa—it wasn’t this?”

  She shook her head dazedly, struggling for words. “Not—not Deb,” she answered almost inarticulately. “That’s impossible. I——”

  Philip Cabot said, “Get a grip on yourself, and keep your grip on that key. I repeat—if anybody approaches this door, scream as if it were Dracula. Is that clear?”

  She nodded mutely, and he went swiftly down the hall. He glanced back as he turned into the corridor and saw that there was no one in sight except Theresa. She was standing immobile before the door, her eyes on the floor.

  He unlocked the study, sat down at the desk, and immediately dialed the familiar number of Jefferson Boynton, the District Attorney of New York.

  He said, “Get Boynton to the phone—at once!”

  There was a second’s pause, and he felt an instantaneous relief. Thank heavens, it was the butler! It was Truitt. He was going after Jeff.

  And then, unexpectedly, a rich, indignant, tremendously expressive, wholly unstoppable voice began filling the receiver with a rushing torrent of words.

  “Phil! It is you! In the name of heaven, where have you been? What is this mystery? Lib gave us some silly explanation, but we knew at once that she was simply trying to be brave. Jeff cross-examined her—he actually cross-examined the child—and she almost cried——”