The Cat's Paw

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  As Mitchell hurried to the side of the automobile, its owner stepped on the running board and faced him.

  “Mr. Potter!” exclaimed Mitchell. “Did they tell you at Headquarters that I was here?”

  Potter peered at him in uncertainty for a second. “Oh, Inspector,” he said. “I’m glad to see you, but I had no idea you were here. The fact is,” lowering his voice as Allen, tired of waiting in Mitchell’s car, climbed out on the sidewalk and drew near the two men. “My wife called up Miss Baird and couldn’t get an answer. We both felt concerned about my cousin and I ran over to see if anything was the matter. Why are you here?”

  “I wanted to talk to Miss Baird,” Mitchell answered. “However, she is out—”

  “Out? At this hour?”

  “Yes. Mandy told me that she was motoring with Mr. Rodgers,” explained Mitchell. “I decided to wait for her return, and when you drove up, I thought it was Mr. Rodgers.”

  Potter’s expression hardened. “I don’t approve of Kitty going out at night with Rodgers without a chaperon,” he grumbled. “Nor is it proper for her to live in this lonely house with only ignorant servants.” He turned back to his car and lifted out a camera and several packages. “Kitty left these at our apartment on Saturday, and Nina asked me to bring them to her before the chemicals get mixed with mine.”

  “Chemicals,” repeated Mitchell softly. “What kind of chemicals?”

  “For developing negatives.” Potter started for the house and Mitchell kept pace with him. “Kitty has quite a craze that way—does good work for an amateur. Some of her animal studies are excellent, especially of her cat, Mouchette.”

  “Seems to me there are quite a number of poisons used in developing films and negatives,” Mitchell remarked thoughtfully.

  “Yes, get all you want at a kodak shop. Kitty bought a new supply last Saturday,” Potter replied carelessly. “Good Lord! What’s that?”

  The exclamation was drawn from him by the sound of a motor horn which grew in volume as the car approached nearer and both men looked down Q Street.

  “Gee! Some one’s breaking the law!” exclaimed Allen, attracted by the oncoming car whose headlights brightened the whole street.

  With a grinding of brakes and totally regardless of stopping on the wrong side of the street, the driver drew up to the curb close to the three men and Mitchell recognized Kitty Baird sitting behind the steering wheel.

  “Come here, quick!” she called. “Quick!”

  “Kitty!” Potter sprang to her side. “What’s wrong, child? What’s happened? Don’t look so terrified.”

  “Ted has been shot!” Kitty was on the sidewalk and around the car with lightning speed. “Don’t stand there talking—help me carry Ted into my house and then go for a doctor.”

  Mitchell brushed her unceremoniously aside and looked in the car. The sight of Rodgers’ unconscious form called for action.

  “Come here, Allen,” he called. “Take hold—gently, man, gently.”

  It seemed an age to Kitty before the three men carried their burden up the long terraced steps and into the house.

  “Go up to the bedroom at the head of the stairs,” she directed. “Mandy,” to the colored woman who, aroused by the noise of tramping feet and voices, appeared at the top of the staircase. “Show them into the spare bedroom and help them get the bed ready for Mr. Rodgers. I’ll telephone at once for Dr. McLean.”

  Twenty minutes later Kitty stood with clenched hands waiting for the surgeon’s verdict. She had paced the hall until physical exhaustion had called a halt.

  “Will he live, doctor?” she asked. “Don’t keep me in suspense.” And the agony in her eyes caused McLean to hurry his usually slow speech.

  “Yes, if there are no complications—”

  Kitty waited to hear no more. Turning abruptly, she stumbled toward her own room—she could not face any one just then. She had reached the end of endurance.

  “Miss Baird,” Mitchell’s stern voice caused her to falter just outside her bedroom door. “Who shot Edward Rodgers?”

  “I don’t know,” she stammered. “We were coming home through Rock Creek Park and a car dashed by us. I was blinded by its headlights. I heard a report—” she caught her breath sharply. “I turned and found Mr. Rodgers sitting unconscious—wounded as you found him. I brought him home—ah, I can’t talk to you now—go—go!” And she half walked, half staggered across the threshold of her bedroom and into Mandy’s sympathetic arms.

  Mitchell went slowly downstairs and out into the street. Allen, his chauffeur, was standing by Edward Rodgers’ car, and at sight of the inspector waved a beckoning hand.

  “See here, Sir,” he said, turning the rays of his electric torch into the body of the roadster. “See that!”

  Mitchell stared at the revolver for several seconds. It lay just under the gear shift. Putting on his gloves, Mitchell picked it up gingerly.

  “Have you handled the revolver, Allen?” he asked.

  “No, sir. After the doctor and the nurse came, I returned here and put out the headlights which Miss Baird had left burning; then I saw the revolver lying just there on the floor of the car.”

  A step behind him caused Mitchell to turn around.

  “Hello, what have you there?” asked Ben Potter.

  “A revolver.” Mitchell held it so that Allen’s torch fell directly upon it. “And a revolver which has been recently discharged judging from the smell of burnt powder.”

  Potter whistled, then bent down for a better look. “By heaven!” he exclaimed. “That’s Kitty’s revolver. I had her initials engraved upon it—see—”

  And turning the revolver slightly, Mitchell was able to decipher the letters on the plate: “K.B.”

  Chapter XVIII

  Elusive Clues

  Inspector Mitchell felt extremely pleased with himself as he hurried along Seventeenth Street in the direction of the Munitions Building. In his interview with Mrs. Augustus Murray of Georgetown, an hour before, he had been unable to shake her confidence in her claim that she had met Major Leigh Wallace leaving the Baird mansion on Sunday afternoon about five minutes past five o’clock. Mrs Murray supplemented her original statement with the information that the Major never had the decency to apologize to her, when he ran against her in his blind haste.

  Upon leaving Mrs. Murray, Inspector Mitchell went at once to Major Wallace’s boarding house where he learned that he had missed the young officer by ten minutes only.

  “He’s gone to the Army Dispensary in the Munitions Building for treatment, Mrs. Harris, the landlady, informed him. “Dear knows, I hope the treatment does him some good. The way he moans in his sleep is something awful.”

  “Ah, is Major Wallace troubled with insomnia?” asked Mitchell.

  “I don’t know what he’s troubled with.” Mrs. Harris was not blessed with an even temper, and when it was aroused generally vented her ill-humor on the first person encountered. “His room is next to mine and the partition is mighty thin. It makes my flesh crawl to hear him moan and when he cries out, ‘Kitty!’ and again, ‘That damned cat,’ I just have to pound on the wall and wake him up.”

  “Perhaps he has an antipathy to cats,” remarked Mitchell, restraining a smile.

  “Mebbe he has; anyway I can’t say that I’m sorry he’s going—”

  “Going where?”

  “Out west somewhere,” vaguely. “If you hurry you may catch Major Wallace at the Dispensary; he’s usually there about two hours.” And taking the broad hint Mitchell bowed himself out of the boarding house.

  Unable to secure a taxi-cab at the Dupont Circle stand in place of the police car and Allen, whom he had sent on an errand earlier in the morning, Mitchell boarded a southbound street car and, standing on the forward platform, kept a sharp look-out for Major Wallace. He reached the corner of H Street, however, without catching up with him, and leaving the car continued on down Seventeenth Street.

  So absorbed was Inspcetor Mitchell in his
own thoughts that he failed to return Mrs. Parsons’ bow as her motor passed him on its way up the street. At a word from Mrs. Parsons, her chauffeur swung the touring car around and up to the curb just as Mitchell started to cross D Street. The sound of his name caused him to glance around and he saw Mrs. Parsons beckoning to him.

  “Can I give you a lift, Inspector?” she asked as he approached. “You appear to be in a hurry.”

  “Thanks.” Mitchell wasted no superfluous words but seated himself with alacrity by Mrs. Parsons’ side.

  “Where to, sir?” questioned the chauffeur, touching his cap as he closed the door.

  “Munitions Building—that is,” and Mitchell turned inquiringly toward Mrs. Parsons, “if it won’t take you out of your way?”

  “Not at all,” Mrs. Parsons’ smile was most engaging. “The car and I are at your service, Inspector. I have no engagements this morning.” She paused to wave her hand to the occupants of a passing car, then turned once more to the silent inspector. “Has anything new developed in the Baird murder mystery?”

  “Only what was in the morning newspapers,” answered Mitchell guardedly.

  Mrs. Parsons’ gay laugh interrupted him. “I applaud your caution,” she said. “The morning newspapers contained no news whatever. Perhaps my question was overstepping etiquette, but how about the other matter about which I consulted you? I mean Edward Rodgers and his erstwhile friend, Major Leigh Wallace. What of them?”

  Mitchell considered the pretty widow before replying. Her limpid brown eyes were raised to his with an appealing earnestness that was irresistible.

  “I am on my way to see Major Wallace now,” he said. “I had hoped to overtake him before he reached the Munitions Building.”

  “Not by walking, surely,” she laughed. “Major Wallace is driving his car to-day and he seldom keeps within the city’s speed limit. And to-day was no exception judging from the way he passed me on the way downtown.”

  “Indeed?” He turned so that he could face her as they talked. “His landlady informed me that Major Wallace plans to leave shortly for the west.”

  Mrs. Parsons raised her eyebrows in polite surprise. “So soon,” she murmured. “How odd! And—” her voice gained in sharpness, “does Edward Rodgers also plan to leave Washington?”

  “I don’t know what he had planned,” with quiet emphasis. “But he is not going anywhere just now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he was shot last night.”

  Mrs. Parsons’ convulsive jump almost precipitated her out of the car as the chauffeur made the turn into the street leading to the Munitions Building.

  “What—what did you say?” she stammered.

  “I did not mean to startle you,” Mitchell spoke contritely, alarmed by her pallor. “I thought that you had heard the news.”

  “I have heard nothing—” she spoke rapidly, clipping her words. “There was nothing in the morning paper—”

  “No, we didn’t give it out to the press.”

  “Then how did you expect me to know anything of the shooting?”

  “I thought Miss Kitty Baird might have telephoned to you—” Mitchell was watching her closely. “She didn’t, eh?”

  “No.” Mrs. Parsons sat back more comfortably in her car. “Was Mr. Rodgers killed?”

  Mitchell shook his head. “Seriously injured,” he said soberly. “It’s a bad business.”

  “How did the shooting occur?” she asked. The car had stopped before the lower entrance to the Munitions Building, but Mrs. Parsons motioned to her chauffeur to wait as he started to open the car door.

  “Oh, some one was skylarking in Rock Creek Park and shot Mr. Rodgers as he and Miss Kitty Baird were motoring home last night,” explained Mitchell. “Another case of an innocent bystander.”

  “It was an accident, then.” Mrs. Parsons raised her scented handkerchief and touched her lips. “I thought—it just occurred to me that he might have tried suicide.”

  Mitchell regarded her fixedly for a second. “You haven’t a great admiration for Edward Rodgers,” he remarked dryly. “No, it was not a case of suicide.” He stepped to the sidewalk. “Thanks very much, Mrs. Parsons, for bringing me down. Good morning.”

  Mrs. Parsons controlled her impulse to stop him.

  “Good morning,” she answered, and her voice was honey-sweet, but her chauffeur, happening to meet her glance, quailed at the flash of rage which darkened her eyes and then was gone. “‘Rose Hill,’ Perkins.” The sharp command caused him to thank his stars that he had left his engine running. Mrs. Parsons’ uncertain temper had not endeared her to her servants.

  The trip to Georgetown consumed less than ten minutes and Mrs. Parsons had assumed her ordinary expression of tranquil boredom when Perkins returned with the message that “Miss Baird would be happy to see Mrs. Parsons.”

  It was the first time Mrs. Parsons had been to call upon Kitty since the murder of her aunt, and she could not repress curious glances about her as she passed Mandy and went into the familiar library. She had hardly seated herself before the sound of a light footstep on the staircase leading down from the gallery into the library caused her to look up and she saw Kitty.

  “My dear child!” she exclaimed, advancing with outstretched hands which Kitty grasped while submitting gracefully to the dainty kiss which accompanied her greeting. “My heart aches for you. Your face tells me how you have suffered!” and she traced the dark circles under Kitty’s eyes with her finger-tip. “Is there nothing I can do for you?”

  Kitty did not reply at once; instead she busied herself in pulling forward a chair. She was given to acting upon impulse and Mrs. Parsons’ unexpected appearance clinched a half-formed resolve made in the early hours of the morning while watching by Edward Rodgers’ bedside.

  “There is something you can do,” she said, and her smile was very winning. “Tell me why you wrote a note of warning to Leigh Wallace?”

  The question was unexpected and Mrs. Parsons was taken off her guard.

  “He showed it to you!” she gasped. “How dared he?”

  Kitty watched the color come and go in Mrs. Parsons’ white cheeks with interest. It was seldom that the widow showed emotion. “I am waiting for an answer to my question,” she reminded her quietly.

  “Let Leigh Wallace supply the answer.” Mrs. Parsons had herself in hand again. “He can—if he has not already left town.”

  Kitty did her best to repress a start, but the keen eyes watching her under half-closed lids detected it.

  “Suppose we leave Leigh out of the question,” Kitty controlled her voice admirably. “Would you rather answer me or the police?”

  “The police?” Mrs. Parsons laughed tolerantly. “Dear child, the strain you have been under distorts your ideas. Why the police?”

  “Because they are endeavoring to solve the mystery of my aunt’s murder.” Kitty nothing daunted by the older woman’s evasions was determined to fight in the open. “I am convinced, Mrs. Parsons, that Leigh—and you—have a guilty knowledge of that crime.”

  Only the most astute observer could have translated the swift change in Mrs. Parsons’ expression. Even to Kitty’s prejudiced ears her low amused laugh rang true.

  “You have dug up a mare’s nest,” Mrs. Parsons replied. “To think that you should consider that I had a hand in poor, dear Miss Susan’s death! Why, my dear, it would be insulting if it was not ludicrous.”

  Kitty flushed with wrath; Mrs. Parsons’ ridicule was hard to bear. After all, was the widow right—had she dug up a mare’s nest? There was nothing but that note of warning to Leigh Wallace to connect her in the slightest degree with the tragedy.

  “Will you tell me to what your note referred,” she asked, “if not to my aunt’s murder?”

  “You overstep my patience.” Mrs. Parsons drew herself up with a displeased gesture. “I decline to be questioned further on the subject.”

  “Miss Baird—” the interruption came from the doorway and bot
h Kitty and her guest whirled ground to see a white-capped nurse watching them. “Mr. Rodgers keeps calling for you. Will you come, please?”

  “Yes, immediately.” Kitty was half way to the door when Mrs. Parsons addressed her with eagerness in her voice.

  “Is Mr. Rodgers here?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Kitty’s impatience was marked. “We brought him here after the—the accident. Dr. McLean thought it best not to move him to a hospital. Please don’t detain me.”

  “But, my dear,” Mrs. Parsons paused just in front of her. “Are you here alone—unchaperoned?”

  “My cousin, Nina Potter, came last night to be with me—”

  “Oh, I am relieved,” Mrs. Parsons purred out the words. “No one can afford to defy the conventions. If your cousin was not here, I would volunteer myself—”

  “Thanks—excuse me, Mrs. Parsons—” The portieres opened and closed behind her vanishing figure and Mrs. Parsons found herself alone in the library.

  Raising her gold lorgnette Mrs. Parsons took a prolonged survey of the throne-shaped chair standing in its customary place behind the tea table. It required but little stretch of the imagination to visualize Miss Susan Baird presiding over the tea cups, her hawklike nose and piercing eyes. In spite of the warmth of the library, Mrs. Parsons shivered and drew her costly fur coat more closely about her.

  With some hesitancy she approached the tea table and scanned the antique silver tea service. She had admired it on many occasions. Taking up the teapot she reversed it and tried to decipher the hall mark; failing to do so she examined first the cream pitcher and then the sugar bowl. As she lowered the bowl, she glanced across the tea table and saw two large yellow eyes regarding her from the throne-shaped chair.