The Whistling Legs

by Roman McDougald

  “There were times, you see, when Gail’s charm could accomplish things that my brains couldn’t accomplish, and there were other times when she needed my wits. We realized that each had something that the other lacked—like the two halves of an unattainable perfection—and for that reason we came to depend upon each other. And for that reason, also, neither of us has ever felt quite whole without the other.”

  Cabot, watching her, became aware that she was gripping the glasses a little more tightly. But her voice remained even.

  “With that background, you can imagine the situation that resulted when Gail married. I tried to do the conventionally noble thing and fade out of the picture, but it didn’t work for either of us. It was not simply loneliness; I actually felt lost without her, and she was even more completely lost without me. So I had to come here, and I’ve had to remain here in spite of everything.”

  Jan paused for a moment and then said thoughtfully, “The point is that I can’t be around Gail without influencing her to some extent, and in the larger sense any influence I exert is against Darryl Rand. For he realizes that if I didn’t exist he could attain the domination over her which to a man of his type represents complete possession—and the complete possession which represents love. My very presence engenders suspicion and leads to endless conflict. And the conflict is no less real because it is hidden. We remain polite to each other, but under the surface we both realize one thing very clearly. If something were to happen to me, he could be ideally happy. And if something were to happen to him——”

  Mallie came in hesitantly and looked at them. She said, “Mrs. Rand telephoned down, Miss Jan, that she wants to see you when you’ve had breakfast.”

  Jan nodded and got up. “So there you are, Mr. Cabot,” she said. “I could talk much longer without making it any clearer.” She put the homely glasses on again slowly. “But I’ve been frank about it, and I’ve even tried to be fair.”

  Cabot stood there for a moment longer after she went out. He was looking down at the faintly traced designs which in her preoccupation she had been making on the tablecloth.

  They were all irregularly defined triangles.

  He went on to the drawing-room, where Boynton and Kroll were engaged in a sober discussion. Jeff’s salutation was accompanied by a slight scowl. The Captain went on talking.

  “It’s worse than those cases where everybody has an alibi. You can break down an alibi; you can fish around until you find the one that won’t hold water. But when you get a case in which nobody has one, there’s nothing to bite into——”

  Boynton broke in. “Let’s don’t forget that somebody does have one.” He scowled at Cabot again. “And the question is whether the murderer would have committed this crime without providing himself with one in advance.”

  Cabot sat down. “I take it,” he said, “that you haven’t dug up any except Rand’s?”

  Kroll said, “That’s right. Between 10:15 and 10:45 any of them could have killed that boy. Gregory Rand says that after he met you in the hall he went to his room and stayed there. Jan Utley claims that she was in the library nearly all the while. Carlo Pugh can tell us exactly where he was at 10:16, 10:21, and so on, but he can’t prove any of it by anybody. And the beautiful but dumb dame can’t remember where she was any time. Maybe she doesn’t even know where she is now.”

  Cabot said thoughtfully, “The cleverest alibi is the one that is not immediately apparent, but emerges gradually from the circumstances. The murderer doesn’t seem to realize that he is in the clear; he lets somebody else stumble upon the discovery that he couldn’t have done it.”

  Boynton got up abruptly. “I suppose you’ve heard, Phil,” he said, “that your client has not yet regained consciousness and possibly won’t for hours. That means that your plan of talking with Rand before talking with us is out, definitely out. Any delay now would be too dangerous.”

  Cabot asked, “Dangerous—to whom?”

  Boynton boomed, “To you—confound it! Don’t you realize that if you know something you haven’t told, you are in peril at this moment? You are in far greater peril than Rand—because you are a more immediate danger to the murderer!”

  Cabot replied, somewhat reflectively, “I hadn’t thought of that. The murderer might indeed have an idea——”

  “The murderer will,” Boynton amended emphatically. “That fact forced itself upon me this morning when I saw how things were developing. That was why I called you at your apartment.” His voice softened a trine. “I was sorry, of course, to disturb you at such a time. I told Lib so.” Cabot said with a slightly sheepish abstraction, “It was all right. She was just leaving.”

  Boynton’s manner remained eloquently persuasive. “You can no longer afford to undergo those insane risks, Phil. You must remember that you have taken an irrevocable step.” Cabot, rousing from his brown study, appeared vaguely startled. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” said Boynton earnestly, “that you’ve no right to make Lib a widow now!” He gestured forcefully. “Suppose you were to get yourself killed today and in nine months, possibly, Lib—left all alone—were to bring your child into the world?”

  Cabot said, “I’ll be damned if it wouldn’t be a miracle.”

  Chapter Ten

  Fleming came in and handed Kroll some reports, which the Captain glanced at and passed on to Boynton. While Boynton was looking over them, Cabot slipped out.

  He went to the telephone in the library and called his office.

  Lib said, “Cabot Detective Agency—oh, it’s you again. I hope you’re not expecting a report in less than an hour——”

  “No, sweetheart, I’m just checking. You told Velery to concentrate on the Kirk angle, didn’t you? Good. Well, here’s something else. Wire Trotter in Cleveland and ask him to check on a Mrs. Martin Kirk for us, also a Theresa Church in a private agency. Pronto.”

  She said, “Very well, Mr. Cabot.”

  He drew the mouthpiece closer to his lips. “Darling,” he began and stopped. Somebody was outside the door. He murmured, “I’ll call you—get it?”

  “Yes, Mr. Cabot.”

  He put the receiver down and cursed softly.

  He strode to the door at once and flung it open. Carlo Pugh recoiled a step from the threshold before he recovered his composure.

  “Caught!” he said cheerfully, and then asked with professional interest, “But what led you, Cabot, to suspect my presence?”

  Cabot said annoyedly, “Were you looking through that keyhole?”

  Carlo, unabashed, nodded casually. He seemed to be trying unobtrusively to peer past Cabot into the room behind him “I saw you slip in rather secretively,” he said, “and it occurred to me that something was making you pursue your investigation at this point. Candidly, Cabot, when I looked through the keyhole I expected to see you engaged in professional activity. I was disappointed to find that I couldn’t see you at all, but after a moment I heard you address someone distinctly as ‘Darling.’ That changed the aspect of the whole thing.” He was still twisting his neck, trying to glance over Cabot’s shoulder. “By a process of elimination I arrived at the conclusion that it was Gail who was in there with you.”

  Cabot came out, closing the door behind him. “You were wrong,” he said. “It was Mallie. We were on the couch.”

  “Oh!” Carlo grinned, somewhat uncertainly. “By the way, Cabot, I was questioned this morning by the District Attorney. From the direction which the inquiry took I gathered that you have said nothing whatever to him about the note.” He paused. “That was wise, I think. I anticipated last night that you would withhold the information I gave you.”

  “Did you?” Cabot looked at him with sharpened attention. “Why?”

  Carlo shrugged. “As I said then, there was no obvious connection between that and the murder of Deb. At least you would be likely to see no connection—unless you had already talked with Darryl. Under the circumstances you would be almost sure to hold your hand
until he himself had supplied the missing link.”

  Cabot’s face was thoughtful. “I see,” he said. “So you can be reasonably sure now not only that I haven’t talked with Boynton but that I haven’t talked with Rand. Where does that leave us?”

  Carlo moved a little closer. “Together,” he said significantly. “We are clearly in a position that calls for collaboration. Unlike the police, we are in possession of certain facts whose possible meaning has not yet emerged—facts which we cannot afford at this stage to disclose.” His eyes were searching Cabot’s face. “Or can we?”

  Cabot replied deliberately, “I don’t think so,” and then wondered whether the tiny change in the expression of the sharp little eyes indicated relief.

  Carlo said, “True. Very true. For if these facts have no bearing on the murder their disclosure would betray and embarrass Darryl Rand, our mutual employer, and in the meanwhile merely muddy the waters. If they do have a bearing, it will very shortly begin to grow apparent.”

  That is, thought Cabot, Rand would fall under suspicion of murdering Deb, his alibi would collapse, and he would finally be found dead with a suicide note beside him. And Carlo, despite the fantastic theory which he had first advanced to account for the note, had really been aware throughout of all the possibilities. It was not difficult to see now that he hadn’t missed a trick.

  It suddenly occurred to Cabot that it might be fatally easy to underestimate the little man in the neat gray suit. The most infallible of all smoke screens was the ridiculous, and behind it a person like Carlo could play an incredibly subtle and involved game. There would be only one inconvenience attached to the strategy which he had thus far followed.

  That is, thought Cabot, he would have to make Jeff a prophet and Lib a widow. He would have to kill me.

  Carlo was looking reflectively toward the drawing-room. “Greg has been in there,” he said, “since shortly after you entered the library. I wonder what they are asking him?” He swung around as Cabot began moving away. “We must confer later, of course.”

  Cabot nodded and went on toward the drawing-room. He noticed Cotton, picked him up, and carried the big cat with him. Just as he reached the drawing-room, he glanced back swiftly over his shoulder.

  Carlo had opened the library door soundlessly and was peeping into the room.

  Jefferson Boynton halted in the middle of a sentence as Cabot appeared bearing the huge Persian.

  Cabot said, “Good morning, Mr. Rand,” and put Cotton down two feet from Greg’s legs.

  The old cat raised his head, whiffing slightly in the direction of Boynton and Kroll before he turned quickly for a startled glance at Greg. Almost instantly he appeared to relax, and after a moment he raised his paw deliberately, licked it, and began washing his face.

  Cabot thought: One down...

  Boynton said impatiently, “Have a seat, Phil,” and swung back to Greg. “Now, let’s go over this again, Mr. Rand.”

  For the first time Cabot noticed that Greg’s youthful face was faintly flushed, and there was a film of perspiration on his forehead. He was squirming uncomfortably in the chair.

  “Look here, Mr. Boynton,” he said in a harassed tone. “You’ve dug this out of me before I realized what you would make of it. But if you think you’re going back over it and make me read a meaning into it——”

  Boynton said, “That is not our purpose. We are simply reexamining this incident analytically, as one might under a microscope. The explanation of it may well lie in some detail which we have overlooked.” He regarded the tall, wriggling youth before him with a tolerant understanding. “I know exactly how you feel, Mr. Rand. You are at an age—and of a generation—which finds it embarrassing to display its loyalties. But rather than seem disloyal to your cousin——”

  Greg broke in. “This guy—cousin or no cousin—has been decent to me. And you can take my word for it that he’s too decent to everybody to have killed that kid. He wouldn’t have thought of killing him—on the basis of what I heard. He would have been more likely to have killed her.”

  “Now you are reading a meaning into it. Let’s go back.” Boynton’s voice was kindly but firm. “This incident took place at approximately nine o’clock on the night before last—that is, the night before the murder. You were going upstairs at the time, and when you reached the landing you saw Darryl Rand walking toward Deb’s door. The door was open about two inches, and Rand halted outside, apparently listening for a few moments before he turned abruptly and walked away. You noticed then that his face had an unmistakable expression of great shock.”

  Greg tugged miserably at his collar. “I didn’t say great shock, did I?” he muttered, glancing at the stenographer. “He simply looked like a man who had been hit by something—well, pretty hard.”

  Boynton continued without noticing the interruption. “The scene aroused your curiosity so much that you went to the door and listened in. Standing there, you caught a snatch of a conversation, the preceding part of which Darryl Rand himself had evidently overheard. The speakers were Deb and a low-voiced woman whom you took to be Gail Rand.”

  “I took her to be Gail,” Greg stressed. “Mind you, I didn’t recognize her voice. It was too low.” He clung to the point as to a saving straw. “When it comes right down to it, I was guessing. I guessed that it was Gail because she was the one who was always running in there.”

  “And also,” Boynton added inexorably, “because the conversation confirmed an impression which you had already received—that a romantic feeling had developed between Mrs. Rand and the young man known as Deb. She has, as you expressed it, made a play for Deb——”

  “Listen!” Greg interrupted desperately. “To get this straight, you have to know Gail. She is the sort who would make a play for any young fellow in Deb’s position. She is the sort who would make a play for a tailor’s dummy, just to keep in practice. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “But evidently,” commented Boynton dryly, “it did mean something both to her husband and to Deb. Deb’s voice, as you told us, was tense with emotion. In his excitement he had unconsciously raised it, and that is probably the reason it was audible to you and to Mr. Rand.”

  He paused and then went on in a level voice, “You distinctly heard him say, ‘You know how much I care for you. You’ve made me care, even though I didn’t want to. I’ll do anything on earth for you—but all the same this makes me feel all queer and mixed-up somehow, because he has been so nice to me.’” Boynton’s eyes were boring into him. “Are you quite sure, Mr. Rand, that you heard nothing else after that?”

  Greg shook his head. “I think she was whispering to him to lower his voice. When he spoke again, I couldn’t make out what he was saying, so I walked away.” He made a deprecatory gesture that was a trifle too sweeping. “You see, I didn’t take all this very seriously. I knew Gail.”

  Cabot, studying his face, found himself wondering whether the big, blond young man twisting around in the chair might not be a remarkable actor.

  Kroll was leaning forward. “Now, about this veronal. You admit that you had it?”

  Greg said, “That’s right. It was there in my room. But what happened to it I don’t know.”

  “When did you see it last?”

  “I’m not certain. Two weeks ago—maybe three.”

  “Sorta vague about time, aren’t you? Let’s try again.” Kroll paused. “When did you last see Deb alive?”

  “Two days ago. I stopped in for a minute.”

  “Was anybody else there?”

  “No. Why?” Greg scowled. “Must I prove that I did see him?”

  Kroll said, “You’re getting warm around the edges. Deb told Cabot that you didn’t stop in.”

  “Oh!” Greg glanced toward Cabot. “He meant that in a relative sense. I didn’t run in every day, as the others did. And why should I? I wasn’t Gail, and this kid didn’t happen to be any of my business.”

  Boynton was looking at Cabot again with a renewed inte
rest. But Kroll, fortunately, was still preoccupied with Greg, and Cabot seized the opportunity to slip out before Jeff could train his guns upon him once more.

  He went on to the office and found Lib gone. He waited in growing impatience, watching the door and expecting the telephone to ring. A little mound of cigarette stubs began to rise in the tray on his desk, like vaguely defined levels on a gauge of nervousness.

  He realized at length that the air of evil foreboding in that house had crept into his blood. He had breathed it in. He had carried it away with him. It was pulsing through his veins.

  The door didn’t open. Lib didn’t walk in. The telephone didn’t ring. He paced across the room, back and forth, glancing from time to time at his wrist watch. The green hands crawled on to two o’clock, and then he muttered an imprecation and sat down at the desk again.

  He scribbled a note to Lib: “Memo to Miss Terry—Two hours are the maximum for lunch.”

  He’d show her, he reflected. He could be casual, too. This business stuff.

  He went out to eat and then returned to the Rand house. He had no desire to run into Jefferson Boynton again just then, so he went to the rear entrance to explore the possibility of getting in unobserved.

  By a stroke of luck Theresa Church was in the little service hall. He tapped on the glass panel of the door to attract her attention, and she whirled toward the sound. He saw naked terror glimmering for a moment in her eyes before recognition brushed it away. Then she came swiftly to the door and unlocked it, her hand unsteady on the handle.

  He said, “What’s happened, Theresa?”

  “Nothing. That is, nothing else. I——”

  “You seem more afraid now, more nervous, than you were last night. I don’t get that.”

  She faltered. “I—I can’t explain it. It must be a sort of delayed effect. As though I were just now realizing what has happened.”

  He studied her face briefly, asking himself whether it was indeed that or an anticipation of something to come.