“Did you know Leigh very well in San Francisco?” asked Kitty.
“Pretty well, before he entered the army—civilian appointment, you know,” he added. “I used to see him frequently at Mrs. Parsons’ home in San Francisco. By the way, Ben was a great friend of hers in those days.”
“Who, Mrs. Parsons—?” quickly.
“Yes—some people thought she might marry him.”
Kitty smiled. “The idea is droll,” she commented. “Ben has chosen a much more suitable wife. I cannot imagine Mrs. Parsons and Ben in love with each other; they are such opposite natures. But, dear,” turning troubled eyes toward him, “you say Mrs. Parsons and Leigh were good friends—there’s something I must tell you. Just vague suspicions,” she hesitated. “I cannot bear to be disloyal—to harbor suspicions against a man I have called my friend, but—” she took from her pocket a piece of mauve-colored paper—“I lunched with Leigh today at the Shoreham and our waiter slipped this paper into his hand. Leigh carelessly dropped it on my doorstep, and not realizing what I was doing, I read it.”
Rodgers took the paper and, holding it under the dash-light, peered at the writing. “Leigh, you are watched,” he read the words aloud and then reversed the paper.
“There is nothing else on it,” Kitty explained. “But the message is in Mrs. Parsons’ handwriting.”
In the darkness Kitty failed to see Rodgers’ odd expression. After waiting vainly for some comment, she added. “Do you suppose that Mrs. Parsons suspects Leigh is in some way responsible for Aunt Susan’s death?”
“That might be inferred.” Rodgers folded the paper and placed it carefully in his leather wallet. “With your permission, I’ll keep this.”
“Certainly, Ted.” Kitty put her foot on the self-starter. “I am only too thankful to give it to you and to have you, dear, to confide in.” He returned her warm handclasp with a grip that hurt. “But, Ted, how is it that Mrs. Parsons knows that the police are watching Leigh?”
“The police?” echoed Rodgers. “Oh, ah, yes. Perhaps she has had another call from Inspector Mitchell; I saw him coming away from there yesterday.”
“But why in the world should he confide in Mrs. Parsons?”
“I don’t know—” Rodgers was frowning in the darkness, and Kitty, intent on starting the car, did not notice the alteration in his voice. “I don’t know why any one puts trust in Mrs. Parsons.”
“Why, Ted!” Kitty looked at him in surprise. “I never knew you disliked Mrs. Parsons.”
“I have no use for her,” he admitted. “I never did like cats—even your Mouchette.”
“Imagine putting Mrs. Parsons in a class with Mouchette,” Kitty chuckled, then grew grave. “Ted, you don’t suppose, really suppose, that Leigh could have killed Aunt Susan, a defenceless old lady.”
“With a serpent’s tongue.” The words were no sooner spoken than Rodgers regretted them. “Forgive me, darling—”
“I know poor Aunt Susan was not loved—.” A sigh escaped Kitty. “Can it be that Aunt Susan quarreled with Leigh over his father’s treatment of her—”
“It might be,” Rodgers’ tone was grave. “But so far we do not even know that Leigh was at your house on Sunday afternoon. Don’t brood over the tragedy, Kitty; forget it, for to-night, at least. Here’s a clear stretch of road ahead—step on the gas.”
Instinctively, Kitty followed his suggestion and the car shot ahead. The wind fanned their cheeks through the opened windshield, and Kitty was conscious of a feeling of exhilaration as they tore onward, gathering speed with each throb of the powerful engine. In the distance Kitty descried a car approaching and dimmed her headlights. The courtesy was not returned; instead a spotlight swung directly on them and Kitty, blinded by the glare, swerved to the right as the oncoming car swept up. She heard a deafening report, something swished by her, and the car raced up the road they had just traversed.
Checking the speed of her own car, Kitty swung it back into the center of the road and turned, white-lipped, to Rodgers.
“How dare they drive like that!” she gasped. “They must be drunk or era—” Her voice failed her at sight of Rodgers sitting huddled back in the car—there was something unnatural in his pose which chilled the blood in her veins. “Ted!”
Her call met with no response.
Slowly she put out her hand and touched his shoulder; then her hand crept upward to his face and forehead. What she touched felt moist and sticky. She jerked her hand downward so that the light from the dash-lamp fell upon it. It was covered with blood.
There was a sound of a thousand Niagaras roaring in her ears as she brought the roadster to a standstill and turned to Rodgers. Bending down she pressed her ear over his heart—its feeble beat reassured her—he was still alive.
Kitty searched frantically for her handkerchief and for his. Tying them together she bound his wound as best she could; then with compressed lips and in breathless haste she started the car headlong for Washington. As they tore madly down the road, one question only throbbed through her aching head:
Who had shot her lover?
Chapter XVII
“K. B.”
Inspector Mitchell looked at the policeman standing in front of his desk with approval.
“You have done well, Donovan,” he exclaimed. “Exactly at what hour was Major Leigh Wallace seen leaving ‘Rose Hill’ on Sunday afternoon?”
“Mrs. Murray claims that it was about five o’clock or a little after,” Donovan replied, consulting his notes.
“And why hasn’t she reported this before?”
“She’s been ill with the grippe, and all news of the murder was kept from her,” the policeman answered. “She told her boy to-day, after learning about Miss Baird’s death, to watch for me when I was on my beat. I went over to see her the moment my relief came. It wasn’t an hour ago,” looking at the office clock which registered half-past nine, “Mrs. Murray said she would be glad to talk to you tomorrow, but to-night she feels too weak.”
“Which is her house?”
“The one next to the Baird mansion on the east—this way—” Donovan moved his hands about to demonstrate his sense of direction. “It’s the house you have to pass to return to Washington.”
“Was Major Wallace in his car on Sunday afternoon?”
“No, sir, he was walking.” Donovan waited a moment before adding, “Mrs. Murray swears she knows Major Wallace well by sight; that she’s seen him too often waiting for Miss Kitty Baird to be mistaken. She was just stepping into her front walk when the Major brushed by her in such a devil of a hurry that he nearly knocked her down.”
Mitchell closed the drawers of his desk, locked them, and arose. “That is all now, Donovan,” he said. “Report at once if you obtain any further information. Don’t wait to come in person, telephone.”
“All right, Inspector,” and saluting, Donovan hurried away. The door had hardly closed after him before it opened to admit a plain clothes detective.
“Well, Welsh, what luck?” Mitchell asked eagerly.
“An old colored man did board the three o’clock train this afternoon for Front Royal, Inspector,” he reported. “The gatekeeper and one of the porters declared that he answered the description you furnished.”
“Was a woman with him?”
“No, sir; not that I can find out. Every one swears that the old man was alone.”
Mitchell considered the answer in silence. “There is nothing for it but a trip to Front Royal,” he said finally. “Go there, Welsh, and find out if Oscar Jackson arrived there to-day on the three o’clock train—no later train, mind you—from Washington. I understood Mr. Rodgers to say that Oscar is from Front Royal and has relatives living in its vicinity. Therefore he is known and I don’t anticipate that you will have difficulty in locating him. Keep me informed by telephone.”
“Very good, Inspector.” Welsh paused half way to the door as a thought struck him. “Did you get a message from Mr. Benjamin Potter?”
“He didn’t say.” Welsh again started for the door. “Just asked to have you call him up. Wasn’t his wife one of the witnesses at the Baird inquest?”
“She was—” Mitchell was already reaching for the telephone directory. “As you go out, Welsh, tell Allen to bring my car around at once.”
Getting the Potter apartment on the telephone was more difficult than Mitchell expected; the naturalist used a private wire and it was only by virtue of his office that Mitchell was supplied with the number by “Information.” Another wait ensued as Central claimed the wire “busy,” and it was wiih perceptible irritation that the Inspector answered the hoarse, “Hello,” that finally responded to his repeated calls.
“Can I speak to Mr. Potter?” he asked.
“Mr. Potter is out—” a violent cough interrupted the speaker. “Is there any message?”
“Who is speaking?”
“Mrs. Potter.”
“I beg pardon, Madam.” Mitchell moderated his voice. “This is Detective Headquarters—Inspector Mitchell on the ’phone. Your husband left word for me to telephone to him. Do you know what he wished?”
“No.” The curtness of her tone annoyed Mitchell.
“When will your husband return?” he asked, raising his voice.
“Very soon, I imagine.” There was a pause, and Mitchell concluded she was consulting her watch, for she went on, “It is nearly ten o’clock. Shall I have Mr. Potter call you?”
Mitchell considered before replying. “No. I may have to go out, so I will ring him up. Thank you, Madam; good night.” He barely caught her hoarsely echoed “Good night,” before hanging up the receiver.
Mitchell paused to jot down the Potters’ telephone number in his notebook, then, securing his hat and overcoat, made for the street. Only pausing to exchange a hasty greeting with a brother officer, he jumped into the police car.
“The Baird house in Georgetown, Allen,” he directed, and sat in impatient silence as they whirled through the city streets. He was tired of inaction. Whatever the hour he could not rest until he had interviewed Kitty Baird. Mitchell had gained his promotion to inspector through ability, backed by dogged detemination. He had early decided that the mystery of Miss Baird’s murder could best be solved through watching Kitty Baird and, as he had expressed it earlier that evening to Coroner Penfield, “wringing the truth from her.”
“She benefited by her aunt’s death and, by heaven, she is the only one living who did,” he had declared. “And it stands one hundred to one that if she doesn’t actually know who bumped her aunt off, she can make a mighty accurate guess.”
Mitchell’s temper did not cool down on his arrival at “Rose Hill,” but on the contrary gathered heat as he stood before the front door and rang the bell with increasing vigor as the minutes lengthened. The door was finally opened a tiny bit, and through the crack a pair of beady black eyes peered at him in the uncertain light.
“Who’s dar?” demanded Mandy, her trembling tones belying her belligerent attitude as she braced herself so as to shut the door in case the caller pushed against it.
“Inspector Mitchell,” the latter announced briefly. “Let me in, Mandy.”
Slowly the door was pulled open, but it was not until the old servant could distinguish Mitchell’s features with the aid of the hall light that she stepped aside and allowed him to enter.
“What yo’ want?” she asked.
“To see Miss Kitty Baird.”
“At this time o’ night?” in scandalized surprise.
“That’s all right about the hour,” with marked impatience. “Go tell her I am here.”
Mandy wavered—the power of the law as represented by a policeman, not to mention an inspector, loomed large in her vision.
“Miss Kitty am out,” she announced briefly.
“At this hour?” Mitchell smiled skeptically. “Go call her, Mandy.”
“’Deed I’se tellin’ yo’ de truff,” she protested. “She went out wif Mister Edward Rodgers early in de evenin’, an’ she ain’t come back, ’cause I’se been awaitin’ up fo’ her.”
Mitchell stared at Mandy, then, putting out his hand, shut the front door.
“Go to bed,” he said, not unkindly. “I’ll wait here and let Miss Baird in when she returns.”
But Mandy did not budge. “Yo’ means well,” she said, somewhat mollified. “But I cain’t go to bed ’till Miss Kitty gets in. If yo’ care to set awhile, come right in to de li’bry.”
Mitchell stopped her as she turned to go down the hall. “Let me stay in the parlor,” he said. “I can see Miss Baird and Mr. Rodgers when they drive up. I wish to speak to Mr. Rodgers as well as Miss Baird, and he may leave without entering the house.”
Mandy retraced her steps to a closed door. “De parlor’s been kep’ shut up so long I ’spects yo’ll freeze,” she said. “Dar ain’t much heat comes in hyar from de furnace.”
“That’s all right; I’ll keep on my overcoat.” Mitchell stepped briskly into the room. “Let me light the gas, Mandy,” as the old servant fumbled with the gas fixture, stiffened from lack of use. “Run along, now.”
“Yes, sir,” but Mandy lingered by the door. “I’ll be up in Miss Kitty’s bedroom—jes’ fetch a yell ef yo’ needs me, Mister Inspector.”
As he listened to Mandy’s halting footsteps growing fainter and fainter as she climbed wearily upstairs, Mitchell contemplated the large square room filled with “period” furniture. The old brocades were shabby and the rugs worn, but there was an indefinable atmosphere of the refinement of a bygone generation which time and neglect had not destroyed.
Mitchell raised the shades in the windows overlooking Q Street and peered outside. No automobile except his own, waiting at the curb, was in sight. Satisfied on that point, he opened the window ever so slightly that he might be sure and hear a car drive up to the door, and then, to occupy his time, he wandered about the room and examined the many pieces of bric-a-brac on the mantel and in cabinets.
One cabinet in particular attracted his attention. It was a fine piece of Florentine workmanship and remarkably well preserved. The floor of the cabinet held miniatures of, presumably, ancestors of Miss Susan Baird, and after a cursory glance at them, Mitchell scanned the articles on the glass shelves. A set of carved ivory chessmen awoke his admiration and observing that the key was in the door of the cabinet he opened it. After examining the little chessmen, he turned his attention to the ivory checkers and then to the two ivory cups for holding dice. The carving on them was very fine and to see them better Mitchell carried them to the gas light.
Glancing at the red dice cup, he was surprised to find cotton stuffed inside it. Setting down the other cup, Mitchell pulled out the layer of cotton and found a small bottle standing upright. It was held in the center of the cup by cotton packed around it. Drawing out the bottle he held it up to the light. It was almost empty. Mitchell pulled out the glass stopper and sniffed at the contents. A distinct smell of bitter almonds caused him to draw in his breath sharply.
“Prussic acid!” he muttered. “By God! And Miss Susan Baird was poisoned with a dose of it.”
There was no label on the small phial. Taking out his handkerchief Mitchell replaced the glass stopper, and wrapped his handkerchief about the phial. Putting it carefully in his pocket, he paused for a moment to take another look at the dice cups, then replaced them in the cabinet. He and two of his assistants had made a complete and searching examination of the parlor immediately after the discovery of the crime. Mitchell was willing to swear that neither cotton nor phial had been in the dice cup then. Who had hidden the incriminating evidence there? Who had had the opportunity to do so? Kitty Baird.…
Mitchell frowned heavily as he ran over in his mind the list of callers at the Baird home since the tragedy became known. The house was under surveillance and he felt confident no one had evaded the watchful eyes of his operatives. He dismissed the majority of callers—f
riends and acquaintances who had left cards and letters of condolence—and his thoughts centered on those whom old Oscar had admitted—Charles Craige, Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Potter, Edward Rodgers, and Major Leigh Wallace—but to the best of his knowledge the Major had not been inside the Baird house. He had seen Kitty and Wallace arrive that afternoon, but Wallace had departed without entering; therefore, he could not have had an opportunity to secrete the bottle of poison in the ivory dice cup.
But Mitchell’s puzzled expression did not lighten, instead it deepened. He was wrong, Wallace had been in the house after the discovery of the murder, for he had accompanied Dr. Leonard McLean to the house on Monday morning. Could the young officer have slipped unseen into the parlor and concealed the bottle of poison while he, Mitchell, and Coroner Penfield were superintending the removal of Miss Baird’s body from the library to her bedroom?
Bah! the idea was absurd. A man would not return to the scene of a murder with incriminating evidence in his pocket when he had had hours in which to throw away the poison without arousing suspicion. But supposing Wallace had, in the horror of the moment, forgotten the bottle? Mitchell shook his head in disbelief. Whoever perpetrated so cold-blooded and premeditated a crime was not apt to overlook getting rid of the poison at the first opportunity.
With Wallace eliminated, Mitchell turned his thoughts to Kitty’s other callers—Ben Potter and his pretty wife, and Charles Craige, the brilliant lawyer and popular clubman. Mitchell smiled broadly—no possible motive linked them in any way, shape or manner with the crime. Edward Rodgers—Mitchell frowned as Mrs. Parsons’ confidences recurred to him. Whatever his connection with the Holt will case, nothing had occurred to associate Rodgers with the murder of Miss Baird. The fact that he was madly in love with her niece was patent to all, but it did not constitute evidence that he had a hand in murdering her aunt.
The exhaust from an automobile broke the stillness and Mitchell paused only long enough at the window to see that a car had stopped near his. The next second he was hurrying down the terraced steps, his mind made up. Kitty had quarreled with her aunt on Sunday afternoon; she had inherited her wealth, and she had had the greatest opportunity to slip the bottle of prussic acid into its hiding place unknown to any one. There were questions which Kitty alone could answer, and she must answer them immediately.
The Cat's Paw Page 15