The Whistling Legs

by Roman McDougald

  “No!” She scrambled up. “It may be important. It probably is important. Answer it, Phil.”

  He crossed to the table and picked up the receiver, noting uneasily out of the corner of his eye that Lib was slipping from the room. “All right?”

  “I’m calling from the District Attorney’s office, Mr. Cabot. Mr. Boynton wants you to come back at once to the Rand home.”

  Cabot recognized the voice as that of McCauley, an Assistant D.A. He said, “What’s up, McCauley?”

  McCauley was noncommittal. “I really couldn’t say.”

  Cabot caught a glimpse of Lib going quietly down the corridor beyond the living-room doorway. She had her hat on again. She had almost reached the entrance.

  He shouted, “Wait!”

  “I beg your pardon?” McCauley’s voice crackled with surprise.

  Cabot said hastily, “Not you. I’m sorry. Good-by, McCauley.”

  He slammed the receiver back into its cradle and ran out into the corridor. But he saw at once that the goodby could have served for both McCauley and Lib. She was gone.

  He stood there for a moment and then he turned with an enormous, exaggerated, almost comic opera shrug and began looking for his hat.

  He was thinking: Women. If I could get to the bottom of this, as likely as not I’d find that she does suspect I’ve been kissing another girl. But how the devil...

  As he walked back into the Rand house, he saw Carlo Pugh coming down the stairs at the exact moment when King Cotton faded discreetly out of sight into the dining-room.

  Cabot swerved abruptly toward the staircase and said, “What appears to be the excitement this morning, Pugh?”

  “I,” replied Carlo genially, “appear to be the excitement, Cabot.”

  “You!”

  Carlo nodded complacently. “Your friend, Mr. Boynton, has apparently learned that I have been in contact with Military Intelligence. He has started clamoring for a conference.”

  “Military Intelligence?” Cabot’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of line are you getting on this thing, Pugh?”

  “So you, too, are intrigued?” Carlo adjusted the knot of his cravat. “Well, I shall be in presently and give all of you a clarification.”

  Cabot said suddenly, “Wait here a moment, will you?”

  He walked into the dining-room and reappeared shortly with Cotton in his arms. He returned to within two feet of Pugh.

  “Pretty kitty!” he said. “Pretty kitty! Isn’t he, Carlo?”

  Carlo was staring at him in astonishment. “You astound me, Cabot!” he exclaimed. “Rushing off in the midst of an investigation to fondle cats!”

  Cabot said, “Rub his head, won’t you? My hands are full.”

  Carlo hesitated and then rather gingerly extended his finger and touched the squat white head. Cotton received the overture with a stare of profound indifference but no sign of nervousness. Cabot promptly put him down and began to brush hairs from his coat.

  Carlo said, “To be candid, I can’t endure the creature.”

  “It’s fortunate,” replied Cabot, “that he can endure you.” Fant came out of the drawing-room and hurried up to them. He said, “Mr. Pugh, they’re waiting on you.”

  Carlo was feeling in his pocket. “Very well, O’Fant,” he said amiably. “I’ll be in presently. I’ve forgotten something.” He turned back up the stairs.

  Cabot went into the drawing-room and at once noticed an increased tension in the faces of both Boynton and Kroll.

  He said, “What’s all this? Does competition worry you?”

  Boynton shrugged. “Certainly not. It’s wondering where that competition comes in.” He stopped. “When we learned definitely that G-2 was taking a hand in this business, Phil, it startled me. It opened up new possibilities.”

  Cabot sat down and said thoughtfully, “It was that possibility which brought me here in the first place. But I learned soon afterward, through Terry Crowell, that Magnamite had been turned over to the government, and it was difficult after that to see how Rand’s death could do anything toward sabotaging the war effort. It’s still difficult.” Boynton nodded preoccupiedly. “They realize that,” he replied. “But they’re thorough. They don’t overlook any bets.” He ran his fingers over his still unshaven chin. “I talked with Washington a while ago. They called it only a routine investigation of a rumor—a rumor that there were Nazi agents involved. Carlo Pugh seems to have something to do with it.”

  Cabot looked at Kroll. “Have you seen Theresa yet?”

  “No. She is sticking to her quarters. She claims to be ill.” Kroll tugged worriedly at his ear. “I wonder who that woman is?”

  Cabot said, “I’ve had a hunch about it that startled me.”

  They looked at him quickly. Boynton said, “What——”

  Carlo walked in and said cheerfully, “Good morning, gentlemen. My, what long faces! The very lineaments of perplexity!” He sat down and crossed his legs. “Now, let me clarify this situation. Am I appearing today solely as a witness, or as a consultant?”

  Kroll regarded him with a fishy eye. “We had you as a consultant yesterday,” he said, “and there was something about an orangutan.”

  Carlo waved his hand airily. “That,” he said, “was merely a preliminary observation, Captain McKroll——”

  Boynton boomed, “I understand, Pugh, that you have solved this case.”

  Carlo responded cautiously, “I have achieved a synthesis——”

  Kroll pointed a finger at him. “You knew who that kid was.”

  The cautious expression froze on Carlo’s face. “I didn’t know,” he replied. “I still don’t know. But I did make a surmise.”

  “Basing it upon what?”

  “Upon a marked facial resemblance to someone I had known, plus the probability that a person with those features would eventually show up.”

  “Why did you withhold this information?”

  “It wasn’t information. I repeat that it was a surmise.”

  “All right. But you told Deb he was in danger, didn’t you?”

  “That was because of my mistaken impression that the accident had been attempted murder. I know now that there was no reason at that time for Deb to be killed.”

  “But there was a reason later?”

  Carlo leaned back and put his fingertips together. “Oh, yes,” he said. “The very fact that the accident occurred initiated the whole sequence of events. It created a situation which made it vitally necessary for both Deb and Darryl to be murdered.”

  Kroll had begun to look completely flabbergasted, and after a second Boynton took over. He said, “Let’s go back. How well did you know the late Martin Kirk?”

  “Well enough to notice at once whom Deb resembled.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant. Were you a friend of Kirk’s?”

  Pugh hesitated. “Not exactly. I was interested in him, of course—but as a scientist rather than as a man.”

  “Were you the one who introduced him to Rand?”

  “Well—yes. I had run across Kirk in Mexico City, and I had learned just enough about his researches to become convinced that he had a real discovery—if it could be developed. Kirk and I were both rather down on our luck at the time, but I thought about Darryl Rand. Darryl’s first wife was my sister Louise, who died six years ago. I had seen nothing of Darryl since then, but I knew that he had money and would be interested——”

  Boynton broke in, “To be explicit about it, Pugh, you had never been on particularly good terms with Darryl Rand?”

  Carlo conceded the point carelessly. “Oh, that’s true enough. I shouldn’t have approached Darryl on sentimental grounds. But this was business. It was also a delicate situation, due to Kirk’s eccentricity. I don’t mind saying that it would never have come off without my help. I acted as the intermediary throughout—up to the very time of Kirk’s ouster from the company——”

  Cabot said, “Excuse me. That’s one thing I don’t understand. Kirk, pres
umably, would have received some money for his rights. Yet he died not long afterward in straitened circumstances.”

  Carlo looked at him. “To understand that fully,” he replied, “you would have had to know Martin Kirk. When he realized at length how he had been led by the nose, that sum in his view was blood money. He wanted none of it. I think that most of it went to a pacifist organization.” Boynton said casually, “It appears from this that you kept in touch with Kirk after his ouster from the company?”

  “Yes. I saw him, in fact, the day before his death.”

  “Did you have any intimation that he would commit suicide?”

  “Nothing tangible. But I wasn’t surprised in the least.” Carlo shrugged. “He always had plans. He was going to move. He was going to stop drinking—things like that. But I took none of them seriously. I knew that he had reached the end of his rope.”

  “I know, but——“ Boynton paused. “Did you have any reason to believe that Kirk was having dealings with foreign agents?”

  Carlo bounced his fingertips together for a moment and then said very deliberately, “Yes.”

  Boynton’s jaw sagged. “What?”

  “I can’t tell you anything definite. But it was something I anticipated from the first. That was why I kept in contact with Kirk.” Carlo spread out both hands. “I didn’t see anything—understand? But I know what happened just as surely as if I had.”

  Boynton prompted, “Go ahead.”

  “Kirk made an arrangement with them by which—in the event of war—the formula of Magnamite would be handed over. That in itself was a crackpot idea, but it was typical of Kirk. His notion was that it would work out somewhat like poison gas. If both sides possessed it, dreadful as it was, each would hesitate to use it, knowing that the other could retaliate.”

  He stopped, and Boynton asked, “What sort of arrangement?”

  “He would, I believe, have entrusted the Magnamite formula to someone who would get in touch with them at the proper time.”

  “To whom would he have entrusted it?”

  Carlo said calmly, “I think it would have been his son.”

  There was an interval of stunned silence, and then Boynton said, “Deb? Yes—but how does this tie in with the rest of it—with, for instance, the fact that he was coming here that night?”

  “Don’t you see?” Carlo maintained his suggestive pose for a moment before he added triumphantly, “He was coming here to establish contact with that secret agent!”

  “Here?” cried Boynton. “You mean there’s a Nazi in this house?”

  Carlo said softly, “That, my dear Boynton, is the whole point!”

  Boynton glared at him. “But under those circumstances why should Deb have been killed? The agent, surely, wouldn’t have done it.”

  Carlo said, “Ah, but he would! He had to.”

  “In heaven’s name—why?”

  Carlo leaned forward. “Can’t you see?” he said tensely. “Everything unravels from that point. Everything falls neatly into place.” He made a sweeping gesture. “Deb was coming here to meet this agent, whom we shall call X. But Providence intervened. There was the accident, and when Deb woke up he couldn’t remember either his identity or his mission. Then Darryl, who suspected something, brought him here to the house and threw him face to face with the very person whom he had been on his way to meet. But Deb could recall nothing of that, and X saw at once how dangerous the affair had become. There was the constant risk of exposure. And all the while Deb had the formula in his possession.”

  Kroll objected. “They checked his belongings at the hospital.”

  Carlo waved the point aside. “They checked for means of identification—the very thing that wouldn’t have been there in view of his hazardous undertaking. But the formula itself would have been well concealed—in code—disguised as something else. In whatever form it was, X knew that it was among Deb’s things there in his room. But how could he get to it without Deb’s co-operation? It was a frightful problem. And time was against him.”

  Carlo paused. “Now!” he went on presently. “X knew that Darryl suspected something. He didn’t know how much, but he did know that Rand was definitely a danger. He was, of course, watching Darryl like a hawk—and had been all along. As a result of this unwinking surveillance, he had been able to get his hands on the one object that made his plan possible—that suicide note which Darryl wrote while three-fourths drunk and one-fourth crazy——”

  Cabot interrupted, “You’re suggesting, that is, that it was the agent who stole the note from Jan Utley?”

  Carlo shook his head. “Cabot, Cabot!” he said reprovingly. “How nimbly your mind skips, hops, and jumps! I am suggesting nothing of the sort. I am suggesting only that it would have been the agent who had the note.” He stopped. “Well, that was the situation, and I can leave it to your imagination as to what happened afterward. The moment X learned that Darryl was bringing a detective to this house he knew that he had to act at once. He had to get that formula without further delay. And to cover his tracks he had to kill Deb and Darryl. There was no other way.”

  Boynton’s dazed eyes turned toward Kroll. “If we accepted this,” he said, “it would turn the case upside down. The real motive, after all, would be the murder of Deb, with the succeeding murder of Rand only a smoke screen, utilizing the note.”

  Carlo said, “Surely it had occurred to you that it could have been used both ways?”

  Kroll muttered grudgingly, “You have to admit that it does clear up a lot of things. Why the murderer, for instance, didn’t want either Deb or Rand to talk with Cabot that night. And why the killer had to get into Deb’s room after the body was found.” He stopped. “He had to do it that way. He relocked the room to make it unlikely that the crime would be discovered before morning. That gave him a chance to slip back later, when everybody was asleep, and search for the formula. But when Mrs. Rand went in——”

  Carlo was leaning back with a faintly smug expression. “I thought,” he said archly, “that everything would fit in.” He tapped his fingers together again. “But thus far I have given you only the bare bones of my theory, without detailing the logical steps by which I arrived at it. Let me take them up now concisely and in order.” His right forefinger shot up to rigid attention, and he said expressively, “Point 1!”

  Cabot fled.

  He went up to the third floor and looked into the maid’s room. It was empty, and he walked on automatically toward the balcony alcove until he found himself confronting Theresa’s still, direct stare. As he moved toward her unhurriedly, he might have been doom itself steadily drawing near; and when he spoke to her, she did not answer, even with her eyes.

  He said, “Good morning, Mrs. Kirk.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The brief flicker in her widened eyes might have been a rigidly restrained surprise or it might, inexplicable as it seemed, have been relief. She merely said, “Mrs. Kirk?”

  He looked at her. “Do you recall what I told you, Theresa?”

  “That I couldn’t lie? Yes.”

  “Well, you fooled me for a while. But I still think so.” Her hand strayed involuntarily to her throat, and for the first time he noticed the fragile chain under the collar of her dress. On the end of it there was a tiny golden crucifix. She asked dully, persistently, “Why did you call me Mrs. Kirk?”

  He said, “It was clever of you to leave your friend in the apartment to answer for you. Had we made only a superficial check, it would have worked nicely. We’d have found not only that a Mrs. Martin Kirk lived at that address but that Mrs. Kirk was there. But early this morning, on a sudden impulse, I made a long distance call to Cleveland and I talked with Mrs. Kirk.”

  She was motionless. “Well, if you talked with her——”

  He shook his head. “It won’t work, Theresa. I know.” He glanced away, toward the balcony. “You thought you were well covered, didn’t you? Leaving her there seemed at the time only a provision for an unlikel
y emergency. You were sure that the maid disguise would hold up. But if it didn’t you could fall back upon that story of being an impersonal detective employed by Mrs. Kirk—that is, yourself. It would be convenient——”

  She said, “You’re making a wild guess.”

  “No, Theresa. Where you really fell down was in being too cautious. You didn’t tell even your friend what you were doing. Perhaps you thought it unwise—or unnecessary—to disclose your game. There were too many other stories you could tell her to induce her to use your apartment for a time, answer if Mrs. Kirk happened to be paged, and simply be uncommunicative if any questions were asked.

  “That is the line she attempted to take. Quite evidently she is a woman who knows something about your past. When I told her about Deb, she reacted to the news precisely as she imagined that you would have done; but she backed a little too hastily out of a discussion of it, for she realized that she didn’t know enough to be able to do it convincingly. Then when I referred to the detective whom she had employed, she began to suspect that I was fishing for information. But while she was stalling over the point she spoke of the detective as him, and I saw that this was probably a natural assumption arising out of genuine ignorance of the situation. For when I mentioned the detective’s real sex, she promptly began stalling again. I think that it occurred at once to the quick-witted lady that there was a sort of off-chance that it might be you. She wanted a description.”

  Theresa asked slowly, “Haven’t you considered the possibility that she was Mrs. Martin Kirk and that I am somebody else?”

  Cabot said frankly, “It is a possibility still, despite the tests I made. But I think now that it’s very unlikely. For, after all, there are some other indications. Your very name, for instance. It’s queer, Theresa, how a person’s subconscious mind will work when he sets out to find a new name for himself. Unless you watch yourself very closely, you’ll pick a substitute that will offer a clue to the real one.” He stopped. “Church, I’d say, is a fairly uncommon name—more so than Kirk. But, then, Kirk means Church, doesn’t it?”