The Window at the White Cat

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  CHAPTER XI

  A NIGHT IN THE FLEMING HOME

  I had a tearful message from Hawes late that afternoon, and a littleafter five I went to the office. I found him offering late editions ofthe evening paper to a couple of clients, who were edging toward thedoor. His expression when he saw me was pure relief, the clients',relief strongly mixed with irritation.

  I put the best face on the matter that I could, saw my visitors, andleft alone, prepared to explain to Hawes what I could hardly explain tomyself.

  "I've been unavoidably detained, Hawes," I said, "Miss Jane Maitland hasdisappeared from her home."

  "So I understood you over the telephone." He had brought my mail andstood by impassive.

  "Also, her brother-in-law is dead."

  "The papers are full of it."

  "There was no one to do anything, Hawes. I was obliged to stay," Iapologized. I was ostentatiously examining my letters and Hawes saidnothing. I looked up at him sideways, and he looked down at me. Not amuscle of his face quivered, save one eye, which has a peculiartwitching of the lid when he is excited. It gave him a sardonicappearance of winking. He winked at me then.

  "Don't wait, Hawes," I said guiltily, and he took his hat and went out.Every line of his back was accusation. The sag of his shoulders told meI had let my biggest case go by default that day; the forward tilt ofhis head, that I was probably insane; the very grip with which he seizedthe door-knob, his "good night" from around the door, that he knew therewas a woman at the bottom of it all. As he closed the door behind him Iput down my letters and dropped my face in my hands. Hawes was right. Noamount of professional zeal could account for the interest I had taken.Partly through force of circumstances, partly of my own volition, I hadplaced myself in the position of first friend to a family with which Ihad had only professional relations; I had even enlisted Edith, when myacquaintance with Margery Fleming was only three days old! And at thethought of the girl, of Wardrop's inefficiency and my own hopelessness,I groaned aloud.

  I had not heard the door open.

  "I forgot to tell you that a gentleman was here half a dozen timesto-day to see you. He didn't give any name."

  I dropped my hands. From around the door Hawes' nervous eye was winkingwildly.

  "You're not sick, Mr. Knox?"

  "Never felt better."

  "I thought I heard--"

  "I was singing," I lied, looking him straight in the eye.

  He backed nervously to the door.

  "I have a little sherry in my office, Mr. Knox--twenty-six years in thewood. If you--"

  "For God's sake, Hawes, there's nothing the matter with me!" Iexclaimed, and he went. But I heard him stand a perceptible time outsidethe door before he tiptoed away.

  Almost immediately after, some one entered the waiting-room, and thenext moment I was facing, in the doorway, a man I had never seen before.

  He was a tall man, with thin, colorless beard trimmed to a Vandykepoint, and pale eyes blinking behind glasses. He had a soft hat crushedin his hand, and his whole manner was one of subdued excitement.

  "Mr. Knox?" he asked, from the doorway.

  "Yes. Come in."

  "I have been here six times since noon," he said, dropping rather thansitting in a chair. "My name is Lightfoot. I am--was--Mr. Fleming'scashier."

  "Yes?"

  "I was terribly shocked at the news of his death," he stumbled on,getting no help from me. "I was in town and if I had known in time Icould have kept some of the details out of the papers. Poor Fleming--tothink he would end it that way."

  "End it?"

  "Shoot himself." He watched me closely.

  "But he didn't," I protested. "It was not suicide, Mr. Lightfoot.According to the police, it was murder."

  His cold eyes narrowed like a cat's. "Murder is an ugly word, Mr. Knox.Don't let us be sensational. Mr. Fleming had threatened to kill himselfmore than once; ask young Wardrop. He was sick and despondent; he lefthis home without a word, which points strongly to emotional insanity. Hecould have gone to any one of a half dozen large clubs here, or at thecapital. Instead, he goes to a little third-rate political club, where,presumably, he does his own cooking and hides in a dingy room. Is thatsane? Murder! It was suicide, and that puppy Wardrop knows it wellenough. I--I wish I had him by the throat!"

  He had worked himself into quite a respectable rage, but now he calmedhimself.

  "I have seen the police," he went on. "They agree with me that it wassuicide, and the party newspapers will straighten it out to-morrow. Itis only unfortunate that the murder theory was given so much publicity.The _Times-Post_, which is Democratic, of course, I can not handle."

  I sat stupefied.

  "Suicide!" I said finally. "With no weapon, no powder marks, and with ahalf-finished letter at his elbow."

  He brushed my interruption aside.

  "Mr. Fleming had been--careless," he said. "I can tell you inconfidence, that some of the state funds had been deposited in theBorough Bank of Manchester, and--the Borough Bank closed its doors atten o'clock to-day."

  I was hardly surprised at that, but the whole trend of events wasamazing.

  "I arrived here last night," he said, "and I searched the city for Mr.Fleming. This morning I heard the news. I have just come from the house:his daughter referred me to you. After all, what I want is a smallmatter. Some papers--state documents--are missing, and no doubt areamong Mr. Fleming's private effects. I would like to go through hispapers, and leave to-night for the capital."

  "I have hardly the authority," I replied doubtfully. "Miss Fleming, Isuppose, would have no objection. His private secretary, Wardrop, wouldbe the one to superintend such a search."

  "Can you find Wardrop--at once?"

  Something in his eagerness put me on my guard.

  "I will make an attempt," I said. "Let me have the name of your hotel,and I will telephone you if it can be arranged for to-night."

  He had to be satisfied with that, but his eagerness seemed to me to bealmost desperation. Oddly enough, I could not locate Wardrop after all.I got the Maitland house by telephone, to learn that he had left thereabout three o'clock, and had not come back.

  I went to the Fleming house for dinner. Edith was still there, and weboth tried to cheer Margery, a sad little figure in her black clothes.After the meal, I called Lightfoot at his hotel, and told him that Icould not find Wardrop; that there were no papers at the house, and thatthe office safe would have to wait until Wardrop was found to open it.He was disappointed and furious; like a good many men who are physicalcowards, he said a great deal over the telephone that he would not havedared to say to my face, and I cut him off by hanging up the receiver.From that minute, in the struggle that was coming, like Fred, I was"forninst" the government.

  It was arranged that Edith should take Margery home with her for thenight. I thought it a good idea; the very sight of Edith tucking in herbabies and sitting down beside the library lamp to embroider me ascarfpin-holder for Christmas would bring Margery back to normal again.Except in the matter of Christmas gifts, Edith is the sanest woman Iknow; I recognized it at the dinner table, where she had the little girlacross from her planning her mourning hats before the dinner was halffinished.

  When we rose at last, Margery looked toward the music-room, where thedead man lay in state. But Edith took her by the arm and pushed hertoward the stairs.

  "Get your hat on right away, while Jack calls a cab," she directed. "Imust get home, or Fred will keep the boys up until nine o'clock. He isabsolutely without principle."

  When Margery came down there was a little red spot burning in each palecheek, and she ran down the stairs like a scared child. At the bottomshe clutched the newel-post and looked behind fearfully.

  "What's the matter?" Edith demanded, glancing uneasily over hershoulder.

  "Some one has been up-stairs," Margery panted. "Somebody has beenstaying in the house while we were away."

  "Nonsense," I said, seeing that her fright was infecting Edith. "
Whatmakes you think that?"

  "Come and look," she said, gaining courage, I suppose, from a masculinepresence. And so we went up the long stairs, the two girls clutchinghands, and I leading the way and inclined to scoff.

  At the door of a small room next to what had been Allan Fleming'sbedroom, we paused and I turned on the light.

  "Before we left," Margery said more quietly, "I closed this room myself.It had just been done over, and the pale blue soils so easily. I came inthe last thing, and saw covers put over everything. Now look at it!"

  It was a sort of boudoir, filled with feminine knickknacks and mahoganylounging chairs. Wherever possible, a pale brocade had been used, on theempire couch, in panels in the wall, covering cushions on thewindow-seat. It was evidently Margery's private sitting-room.

  The linen cover that had been thrown over the divan was folded back, anda pillow from the window-seat bore the imprint of a head. The table wasstill covered, knobby protuberances indicating the pictures and booksbeneath. On one corner of the table, where the cover had been pushedaside, was a cup, empty and clean-washed, and as if to prove hercontention, Margery picked up from the floor a newspaper, dated Fridaymorning, the twenty-second.

  A used towel in the bath-room near-by completed the inventory; Margeryhad been right; some one had used the room while the house was closed.

  "Might it not have been your--father?" Edith asked, when we stood againat the foot of the stairs. "He could have come here to look forsomething, and lain down to rest."

  "I don't think so," Margery said wanly. "I left the door so he could getin with his key, but--he always used his study couch. I don't think heever spent five minutes in my sitting-room in his life."

  We had to let it go at that finally. I put them in a cab, and saw themstart away: then I went back into the house. I had arranged to sleepthere and generally to look after things--as I said before. Whateverscruples I had had about taking charge of Margery Fleming and heraffairs, had faded with Wardrop's defection and the new mystery of theblue boudoir.

  The lower floor of the house was full of people that night, local andstate politicians, newspaper men and the usual crowd of the morbidlycurious. The undertaker took everything in hand, and late that evening Icould hear them carrying in tropical plants and stands for the flowersthat were already arriving. Whatever panoply the death scene had lacked,Allan Fleming was lying in state now.

  At midnight things grew quiet. I sat in the library, reading, untilthen, when an undertaker's assistant in a pink shirt and polka-dotcravat came to tell me that everything was done.

  "Is it customary for somebody to stay up, on occasions like this?" Iasked. "Isn't there an impression that wandering cats may get into theroom, or something of that sort?"

  "I don't think it will be necessary, sir," he said, trying to conceal asmile. "It's all a matter of taste. Some people like to take theirtroubles hard. Since they don't put money on their eyes any more, nobodywants to rob the dead."

  He left with that cheerful remark, and I closed and locked the houseafter him. I found Bella in the basement kitchen with all the lightsburning full, and I stood at the foot of the stairs while she scooted tobed like a scared rabbit. She was a strange creature, Bella--not sostupid as she looked, but sullen, morose--"smouldering" about expressesit.

  I closed the doors into the dining-room and, leaving one light in thehall, went up to bed. A guest room in the third story had been assignedme, and I was tired enough to have slept on the floor. The telephonebell rang just after I got into bed, and grumbling at my luck, I wentdown to the lower floor.

  It was the _Times-Post_, and the man at the telephone was in a hurry.

  "This is the _Times-Post_. Is Mr. Wardrop there?"

  "No."

  "Who is this?"

  "This is John Knox."

  "The attorney?"

  "Yes."

  "Mr. Knox, are you willing to put yourself on record that Mr. Flemingcommitted suicide?"

  "I am not going to put myself on record at all."

  "To-night's _Star_ says you call it suicide, and that you found him withthe revolver in his hand."

  "The _Star_ lies!" I retorted, and the man at the other end chuckled.

  "Many thanks," he said, and rang off.

  I went back to bed, irritated that I had betrayed myself. Loss of sleepfor two nights, however, had told on me: in a short time I was soundasleep.

  I wakened with difficulty. My head felt stupid and heavy, and I wasburning with thirst. I sat up and wondered vaguely if I were going to beill, and I remember that I felt too weary to get a drink. As I roused,however, I found that part of my discomfort came from bad ventilation,and I opened a window and looked out.

  The window was a side one, opening on to a space perhaps eight feetwide, which separated it from its neighbor. Across from me was only ablank red wall, but the night air greeted me refreshingly. The wind wasblowing hard, and a shutter was banging somewhere below. I leaned outand looked down into the well-like space beneath me. It was one of thoseapparently chance movements that have vital consequences, and that havealways made me believe in the old Calvinistic creed of foreordination.

  Below me, on the wall across, was a rectangle of yellow light, reflectedfrom the library window of the Fleming home. There was some one in thehouse.

  As I still stared, the light was slowly blotted out--not as if the lighthad been switched off, but by a gradual decreasing in size of thelighted area. The library shade had been drawn.

  My first thought was burglars; my second--Lightfoot. No matter who itwas, there was no one who had business there. Luckily, I had brought myrevolver with me from Fred's that day, and it was under my pillow; toget it, put out the light and open the door quietly, took only a minute.I was in pajamas, barefoot, as on another almost similar occasion, but Iwas better armed than before.

  I got to the second floor without hearing or seeing anything suspicious,but from there I could see that the light in the hall had beenextinguished. The unfamiliarity of the house, the knowledge of thesilent figure in the drawing-room at the foot of the stairs, and ofwhatever might be waiting in the library beyond, made my positionuncomfortable, to say the least.

  I don't believe in the man who is never afraid: he doesn't deserve thecredit he gets. It's the fellow who is scared to death, whose kneesknock together, and who totters rather than walks into danger, who isthe real hero. Not that I was as bad as that, but I would have liked toknow where the electric switch was, and to have seen the trap before Iput my head in.

  The stairs were solidly built, and did not creak. I felt my way down bythe baluster, which required my right hand, and threw my revolver to myleft. I got safely to the bottom, and around the newel-post: there wasstill a light in the library, and the door was not entirely closed.Then, with my usual bad luck, I ran into a heap of folding chairs thathad been left by the undertaker, and if the crash paralyzed me, I don'tknow what it did to the intruder in the library.

  The light was out in an instant, and with concealment at an end, I brokefor the door and threw it open, standing there with my revolver leveled.We--the man in the room, and I--were both in absolute darkness. He hadthe advantage of me. He knew my location, and I could not guess his.

  "Who is here?" I demanded.

  Only silence, except that I seemed to hear rapid breathing.

  "Speak up, or I'll shoot!" I said, not without an ugly feeling that hemight be--even probably was--taking careful aim by my voice. Thedarkness was intolerable: I reached cautiously to the left and found,just beyond the door frame, the electric switch. As I turned it thelight flashed up. The room was empty, but a portiere in a doorway at myright was still shaking.

  I leaped for the curtain and dragged it aside, to have a door just closein my face. When I had jerked it open, I found myself in a short hall,and there were footsteps to my left, I blundered along in thesemi-darkness, into a black void which must have been the dining-room,for my outstretched hand skirted the table. The footsteps seemed onlybey
ond my reach, and at the other side of the room the swinging doorinto the pantry was still swaying when I caught it.

  I made a misstep in the pantry, and brought up against a blank wall. Itseemed to me I heard the sound of feet running up steps, and when Ifound a door at last, I threw it open and dashed in.

  The next moment the solid earth slipped from under my feet, I threw outmy hand, and it met a cold wall, smooth as glass. Then I fell--fell anincalculable distance, and the blackness of the night came over me andsmothered me.