The Whistling Legs

by Roman McDougald

  “The murder, circumstantially, was the perfect crime. It probably wasn’t difficult. The murderer simply slipped up to the drunken man’s room, stuffed Kirk’s shirt into the cracks, and turned on the gas.

  “But what keeps any murder, in the final analysis, from being the perfect crime is the nervous system of the murderer. It was fear, in the first place, which led this man to kill. He had defrauded Kirk, and he was afraid of eventual retribution. So long as Kirk lived he was a danger.

  “And now, after three years, it was fear again. When he learned that the son of his victim was on his trail, the killer was seized once more by all his old terrors, his dread of justice, and his suspicion that he might, after all, have made some fatal mistake.

  “Of course he couldn’t be sure at first exactly why Deb had been coming here that night. That was what he wanted to find out. And he did find out at last, not only that Deb’s amnesia was faked, but that he was working m league with somebody here in the house. Who that other person was the killer was unable to learn, but he made an almost inevitable guess about it, and the guess was wrong.

  “Perhaps in thinking that his other enemy was a psychologist—a psychologist who could have been expected to see through a case of pretended amnesia—the murderer had a delusion that some strange Providence was working on his side. For fate had given him the means of destroying them both.

  “Thus he conceived the idea of killing Deb and using the note, which he had stolen from Jan, as an elaborate smoke screen. And his whole plan worked—except for one unforeseen development.

  “Deb’s real confederate—Theresa—was on the stairs when Rand was shot, and she thereby learned beyond doubt who the killer was. So it became necessary to kill again, and that was where he gave himself away.”

  Once more Cabot stopped, and Boynton said grudgingly, “It’s convincing—as far as it goes. In motivation and background it’s far more convincing than the case against Jan Utley. It explains the things that remain a mystery there—that whole business about Theresa and Deb and Kirk, but—who is it, Phil?”

  Kroll sprang to his feet. “I can answer that!” he said. “Because there is only one answer to it!”

  His eyes were boring into Carlo Pugh again, and suddenly everyone in the room except Cabot was staring at the little man, who sat there gazing back at the Captain in horrified fascination.

  Boynton said incredulously, “But——”

  Cabot watched Kroll as the Captain deliberately raised a wiry forefinger and pointed it accusingly at the paralyzed Carlo. He reflected suddenly that if he and Kroll had rehearsed it it couldn’t have come off better. The Captain was providing precisely the kind of fireworks that might have been needed.

  Kroll’s voice cracked like a whip. “It could have been only one person. It was the one person here who, besides Rand, knew Martin Kirk and thus would have been able to recognize Deb. It was the one person who, besides Theresa, knew about the suicide note. It was the one who visited Kirk, who took him whisky, who robbed him of his money——”

  Carlo managed to drag himself out of the chair, his eyes bulging. “Wait! I visited Kirk——”

  The finger lunged closer. “Exactly! You’re the little man, Pugh, who has been afraid so long—ever since the last time you visited Kirk!”

  Carlo fell back, stumbling against the desk. “Wait——”

  “This accounts for it,” snapped Kroll. “It accounts for everything. You’re the one who fits in——”

  Carlo cried desperately. “I can explain this! Don’t you see? There’s a simple——”

  Darryl Rand was getting up behind the desk. Something in his manner made the eyes of all of them turn instantly from Pugh to him.

  He stood there, shivering a little before he managed to speak. “I should have said this a while ago. But, God forgive me, I could not make the choice then. I thought it might be only a clever trick to make me say it——”

  He broke off, and Boynton took a quick step toward him. “Rand,” he exclaimed, “you did see the killer!”

  Rand went on heedlessly. “And perhaps it is a trick, but I cannot bear to see an innocent person framed. Not even Jan——“ His eyes were telling Gail goodby forever across the room. “It was my wife who shot me.”

  Chapter Twenty

  There was a moment of silence. Then Greg Rand took a long breath and said, “Christ!” He looked scared.

  Gail sat as if stunned. Jan got up slowly and stepped uncertainly toward the indistinct figure behind the desk.

  “You’re lying,” she said. “Gail went to you on my behalf.”

  He gazed at her with something like pity in his eyes. “You thought so, Jan,” he replied. “But that wasn’t it. You were to be the goat.”

  “But—but that means that Gail was trying to incriminate me.

  “I’m afraid that’s it,” he said. “She hates you, Jan. She always has.”

  Gail Rand struggled to her feet, swaying as if on the point of collapse. She said a half-hysterical word or two and stopped.

  Darryl Rand shook his head. “No, Gail. This is the end. When I promised you that I’d keep quiet, I didn’t know how far it would go. I shall make a complete statement now, regardless of whether or not I was tricked into it.”

  Boynton was staring at Cabot. “But it couldn’t have been a trick! It was true——”

  Cabot nodded. “Everything I said about the motivation and the background of this case was exactly and literally true.” He turned to Rand. “I can understand your present action,” he said, “but you are letting yourself slip into a fundamental error. Your wife couldn’t have been the killer.”

  Kroll snapped, “No. Not by a long shot! The killer was Pugh.”

  Carlo was shaking. “But this is madness! He is telling you——”

  “And I am telling you!” Kroll’s finger jabbed at him again, and Carlo fell back. “You knew Martin Kirk. You knew him even before Rand did. You kept in touch with him after he left the company. You saw him just before he died—just before. And you know that everything Cabot said was correct.”

  Carlo’s shoulders were squirming against the wall, as though he were being prodded by the menacing finger. “Yes,” he cried frenziedly, “it’s correct, but—I am not the man!”

  Darryl Rand was trying to make himself heard above the clamor. “Wait, Carlo. Don’t go to pieces——”

  Kroll’s voice rang out harshly almost in Pugh’s face. “Who else could it be? There is nobody else—nobody at all—who would fit into that picture except you!”

  “There is somebody else!” shouted Pugh. “Can’t you understand? Are you all blind? He is standing there before you! It’s Darryl Rand!”

  The wild words died out, and silence closed over the room, where everyone was now standing except Cabot.

  Cabot spoke mildly from his chair. “I’d suggest, Kroll,” he said, “that you take a deposition at once. I don’t think that Pugh’s evidence will be at all conclusive, but every little bit helps.”

  Darryl Rand stood with his tremulous fingertips resting against the top of the desk. He was looking at Boynton.

  “I protest,” he said, “against your questioning this man in his present condition. He is obviously hysterical, making a wild accusation——”

  Cabot said, “You saw the danger of that well in advance, didn’t you, Rand? That was what you were trying to circumvent by accusing your wife.” He shrugged. “That was why I let Kroll go on. The situation had dynamite in it, since Pugh was the one associate of yours who was in a position to guess that you had killed Kirk. I was sure that he would crack—or you would.”

  Rand was smiling coldly. “I take it,” he said, “that you are now accusing me of being the murderer?”

  “I was accusing you all the time,” replied Cabot grimly, “and you knew it. So far as the motivation went, to be sure, it had to be either you or Carlo. But so far as the murder of Theresa was concerned, it had to be either you or Jan. And that left you.”
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  Rand said, “Indeed?” He was still smiling.

  Cabot’s voice was coolly casual when he went on. “It’s probably one of the most amazing cases in the history of crime. But it’s no more amazing than human nature itself. There was one dreadful consistency of character throughout, and in the light of it we can understand everything that occurred. That one consistency was fear.

  “It was fear, in the first place, that made you murder Martin Kirk after you had robbed him. It was the same fear that seized you three years later, when you learned that his death was being investigated. It was the explanation of the ‘nervousness’ you showed before the accident.

  “We shall probably never be quite certain whether it was an accident. But I’m inclined to think that, in our sense, it was. It was one of those strange things that every man experiences at some time and which make him wonder whether there isn’t a hidden design in what happens to him.

  “So when you picked Deb up you knew who he was, not only because of his striking physical resemblance to his father, but because his presence fitted into a situation that already existed. Someone had been asking questions about Kirk’s death; this young man was going toward your house; he looked like Kirk—it all linked up.

  “The irony of the thing overwhelmed you. You saw at once that the circumstances suggested murder. When they learned Deb’s identity and checked back on his recent actions, they would see that you had had a motive for killing him. They would see that you had killed his father. They would see everything.

  “All in all, it’s easy to understand why you decided to commit suicide when you heard that Deb was dead. There again the essential fact, as often happens in suicide as well as murder, was simply fear. You were dying because you had become afraid to live.

  “The second telephone call changed all that. But when you walked back into the bedroom you found the suicide note gone. That was a shock, but it was not a mystery. You guessed at once who had it; it was Jan, whose light you had seen burning when you came into the house. It was Jan, whose ‘whistling legs’ you had very likely heard and recognized from the study. And you surmised, too, that Theresa recognized her as she came out, and you saw from the start that this fact would eventually be revealed.

  “It was thereafter merely a matter of searching Jan’s room at the first opportunity, finding the note, and stealing it back.”

  Cabot paused, fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette. Rand, from behind the desk, was watching him steadily.

  Cabot continued. “You were not certain at this time what Deb was up to, but his amnesia gave you an apparently heaven-sent chance to find out.

  “The next development was that little scene which Greg described and to which we gave a misinterpretation which you later cleverly confirmed. Perhaps it was natural that we should have read the wrong meaning into it—until we learned who Theresa was. We should have realized then that Deb’s words were addressed, not to Gail Rand, but to a stepmother for whom he had rather unexpectedly developed a certain degree of affection, simply because they had become allies—and the mental conflict was between the hatred of Rand which she had instilled in him and the natural feeling of anyone who had been befriended. It’s no wonder that Deb at that moment felt all ‘mixed up’ and that Theresa was trying to stiffen his resolution to go on with their plan.

  “You yourself actually caught only a few words of it—Deb’s words, of course—but from them you learned definitely that his amnesia was faked and that he was working with this low-voiced woman, who, you naturally guessed, was your worst enemy, Jan Utley. It was Deb who had tricked you, instead of your tricking Deb.

  “This was the supreme moment of your fear. We can readily believe Greg’s statement that you walked away looking like a man who had had a hard blow. You saw immediately that you would have to kill Deb, the person whose death, ironically enough, you had already confessed in the suicide note. You would have to fulfill your own words—you would have to murder your supposed victim in actuality.”

  Boynton said in a dazed voice, “My God!”

  Cabot was watching Rand. “It looked like a perfect setup. Jan was your enemy. She had stolen the note. That fact could be established. You now had the note back. You could kill Deb and fasten the crime upon her by making it appear that the real motive was your own death. It was probably the first time that a confession has ever been used as an alibi.

  “I was naturally the first step in your plan, and the fact that you wanted me was a clue in itself. It was absolutely necessary to have somebody whom the District Attorney would believe implicitly. You were afraid, however, to let me talk with Deb, and you thought it best that I should find him asleep. So you slipped the drug into the milk from which you knew that the drink would be prepared. That failed, but in this case your fear was groundless. Deb, playing his own game, told me nothing that he wouldn’t have wanted you to hear.

  “There was only one hitch. You found me telephoning Crowell as you came back through the corridor, and then I started toward the bedroom and you saw that I would find it empty. There was nothing to do except to knock me out, and then you went back into the corridor and entered the bedroom as you had left it, thus maintaining the illusion that you had been there all the time, unconscious.”

  Kroll muttered, “That answers your own question—why he had to knock you out——”

  Cabot said, “Yes,” without taking his eyes from Rand.

  “After that you didn’t miss a trick. I think you actually wore Jan’s trousers last night when you crawled under the bed. It was the trousers, which you had there in readiness, that Cotton smelled.

  “You knew the microscopes would have their day. Jan would go to the chair. Your one mistake, all through, was Theresa. And Theresa was our mistake, too. Considering the motive which had brought her here—which was plainly mercenary—her actions could be plausibly interpreted in only one way. If she had obtained vital information about the crime and was withholding it—as we knew she was—it was plainly in the interest of her dominant purpose. Her testimony, in other words, was against the very person with whom she could bargain for the thing she wanted more than revenge—against you.

  “So Theresa kept on playing, and she was on the stairs last night when the shot sounded in your bedroom—the shot that by your plan had to sound as the culmination of the supposed plot against you.

  “We presumed that Theresa knew who the killer was because she saw him run out of your apartment. We presumed that she had the key to the whole case because she saw something as she stood there on the stairs. What we didn’t realize was that the very reverse could be true.

  “Theresa knew who the killer was because she didn’t see him run out. She had the key to the whole case because she didn’t see anything at all.”

  Cabot paused, and Darryl Rand said soberly, “Brilliant. And, in a sense, it’s true.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “I don’t mind telling you that I talked with Theresa about this.’ She told me that she was asleep when the shot sounded; that when she got to her door, there was no one in sight. But she had heard somebody run by.” His eyes were moving slowly around the circle of faces. “She may have mentioned this to some other person here.”

  No one moved.

  Cabot said coldly, “She would have said it to nobody except you. She was saying it to you in an attempt to save her own life.”

  Kroll said doggedly, “But nobody except Jan Utley——”

  He stopped and came up spasmodically, as if lifted out of his chair by a sudden realization. “My lord!” he exclaimed. “Somebody else could have gone to that third floor without being seen!”

  Cabot said, “Somebody could have—and did.”

  Boynton nodded. “In saying that no one could have gone up unobserved,” he agreed, “we were automatically eliminating Darryl Rand. All he had to do was to cross the corridor and go up the third floor stairs with no chance of being seen by either Fleming or McCann. Moreover, he was in a position to see Jan Utl
ey when she went up the fire-escape.”

  Cabot said, “But that was where his luck almost played out. When he returned from the attic, he found his path blocked; I was still there. And to his horror he saw me actually starting into his apartment and he knew that his absence would be a giveaway.

  “There was one way—and one way only—to explain the fact that I didn’t see him as I crossed the study to the empty bedroom. He had to be lying on the floor behind something. It was a bold, impromptu plan, and he staged it cleverly. He simply walked into the study while I was in the bedroom and lay down behind the desk.

  “To all appearances it worked. But Rand couldn’t be sure how much I had seen as I went through the study; and when I later made an ironic remark on how thick was the skin of his teeth, he decided that he had better eliminate me with the typewriter.”

  Cabot stopped, looking into Rand’s narrowed eyes. The man’s face was still expressionless. But his extended hands were no longer resting lightly on the desk. They were gripping the edge.

  “Interesting,” he said. “But what about the evidence, Mr. Detective? Surely there would have to be a cuff link—something——”

  Cabot was getting up. “There is something,” he said.

  Kroll was on his feet. “What is it, Cabot?”

  Cabot said, “The knife with a blade like Jan’s—the one which really killed Deb and Theresa. He hasn’t had time to dispose of it yet. It’s in this room now. It’s on Rand.”

  Rand was up. His left hand was still resting on the desk, but his right had disappeared. He was looking at Kroll.

  He said, “I want you to search me at once—to refute Cabot’s charge.” His left hand slid off the desk. He was sidling toward Kroll.

  Kroll half turned, his fingers twitching upward. His arm abruptly froze in its arrested movement as Rand swerved sharply behind him, the muzzle of his automatic pressed against the Captain’s ribs.

  He said in a queer, soft voice, “Move out into the hall with me in exactly this position—between me and Fleming.”