Cats Prowl at Night

22 The Perils of Housebreaking

Everett Belder’s house was a typical southern Californian Monterey bungalow with a built-in garage. There were grounds which in a less outlying district would have been considered unusually spacious.

Bertha slowed her car to a crawl and sized up the situation. Behind her was a hectic half-hour of wild driving, an attempt to shake any shadows who might have been trying to trail her. Not that she had any reason to believe she was being followed, but she simply proposed to make certain no one could “put the finger” on her.

The day, which had started out fair enough, had clouded up by noon, and with the coming of darkness had developed a steady, cold drizzle. Wet pavements cast shimmering reflections of street lights at the corners, made the cold seem even more damp and penetrating.

Behind the low clouds somewhere was a moon sufficiently progressed toward the full to give a faintly diffused illumination which seeped through the drizzling clouds.

Belder’s house was dark, but Bertha, mindful of the dim-out regulations, couldn’t be certain it was unoccupied at the moment. She drove her car half-way to the corner, switched out the lights, locked both the ignition and the doors, and dropped the keys into her purse. She walked slowly back along the wet sidewalks, climbed the stairs to the cement stoop of the Belder house, and pressed the button. She waited fifteen seconds, pressed again — this time longer.

When she heard no sound of motion from the interior of the house, she tried the front door, found it locked, and walked around toward the back of the house. The built-in garage, set back some twenty feet, was on the west side of the house. The walk which led around to the back door skirted the house to the east.

Bertha followed this walk, noticing the half-windows which gave light and ventilation to the basement where the body of Sally Brentner had been found. Circling the house, Bertha tried windows and doors, finding that everything was locked. She returned to the front of the house and tried the garage door. It too was locked.

Bertha, far from the end of her resources, climbed the stoop once more and opened the lacquered mail-box, probing inside with eager fingers.

Her fingertips encountered a key.

Bertha removed the key and inserted it in the lock of the front door. It clicked back the night-latch. She dropped the key back into the mail-box, snapped the box shut, and entered the house, closing the door behind her, listening to the spring lock click shut.

Mindful of the rule of the housebreaking profession, that the most essential thing in entering a house is to arrange for a getaway, Bertha took a small fountain-pen flashlight from her purse, and, using it to guide her, padded her way through a living-room, dining-room, serving-pantry, and kitchen. She found a key on the inside of the back door. Unlocking the back door with this key, Bertha started an appraisal of the premises.

A disquieting aura hung over the entire house. Bertha Cool claimed that she could tell something about the people who had lived in a house simply from entering a place and walking through it. Now she couldn’t tell whether she was feeling vibrations which, by some unexplained physical laws, were thrown out from the walls of the house as psychic echoes of the personalities that tenanted the place, or whether a knowledge of the discord which had existed between Belder and his wife, of the hatred which Carlotta and Mrs. Goldring held for Belder, plus the knowledge that Sally Brentner had been murdered somewhere on the premises, had excited her imagination so that she saw her surroundings in the light of what had happened.

She was only conscious of the feeling that here was a house of jangling personalities, a house which had lent itself to murder, which seemed now to be brooding and expectant — waiting only for another murder to be committed.

Big and strong as she was, Bertha had a hard time shaking off the presentiment of impending evil. Snap out of it, you big boob, she muttered angrily to herself. Nothin’s going to happen here. You’re in bad. If you don’t turn up some evidence that will square things with Sergeant Sellers, you’re going to jail.

She completed her tour of inspection of the east rooms of the house, opened a door and found herself in a long corridor from which several doors opened. The one on the right led down another passage, a back bedroom on one side — on the other, a door leading into the rear of the garage, Bertha sniffed the musty odour of the dank interior. The beam of her flashlight was swallowed up in the dark loneliness of the big double garage. A work-bench ran along one wall. There was the usual assortment of discarded junk; also an overflow of objects to which the house could apparently give no adequate room — an old wardrobe trunk, a man’s coat, a pair of grease-stained overalls, a couple of boxes, a litter of old spark plugs, odds and ends of wires, a dilapidated tyre cover.

Bertha backed out, closing the door to the garage, and started exploring other doors in the corridor. The next door opened into a bedroom which Bertha assumed was Carlotta’s. Pictures of three or four young men in uniform adorned the dresser. There was a smell of cosmetics about the room. The adjoining bath held bathroom scales, a glass shelf devoted to bath salts and toilet accessories.

Bertha tried the next door and found what she wanted. Here were two bedrooms at the front of the house, finished in knotty pine, connected by a bathroom. The front room was evidently Everett Belder’s. The one in back undoubtedly had been used by his wife.

Bertha gave the room itself only a hasty inspection, going almost at once to the closet, taking an inventory of the clothing, searching for some significant clue which would loom large in the eyes of a woman, but would escape the masculine analysis of the detectives.

As Sergeant Sellers had so aptly pointed out the first time, everything about the case pointed to a man: Sally Brentner apparently peeling potatoes with a ten-inch carving-knife. Mabel Belder presumably fleeing from the scene of a murder she had just committed, yet leaving behind a whole closetful of fine clothes, taking only a small assortment of plain garments with her, even leaving her cosmetics behind.

Whoever had removed the things which had been taken, however, must have left some clue somewhere. Perhaps in the house itself was concealed the suitcase in which Mabel Belder’s things had been packed, stored and concealed.

Bertha prowled into the back recesses of the closet, the beam of her flashlight penetrating the dark corners. She frowned down at several small particles on the floor, then bent down and picked up some of these in her thumb and forefinger. Bits of wood twisted into tight spirals which had broken and left little curved segments of that yellowish appearance which is typical of freshly cut wood.

Beyond doubt these bits of wood had been turned out by an auger from a pine board. Bertha could almost tell the diameter of that auger from the shape of the tightly compressed bits of wood.

But there was no hole.

Bertha made it a point to cover every inch of that closet with her flashlight; no slightest sign of a hole anywhere in the walls, floors or ceiling.

Forgetful for the moment of her surroundings, Bertha deliberated over her discovery.

“Damn it,” she muttered, “if Donald were only here, he’d find a way out of this mess. Brainy little devil!... I’m in awfully bad. Only way to get out is to find something. What the hell are these shavings doing in the corner of the closet? Somebody bored a hole and then made the hole disappear. No chance that the hole’s been cunningly plugged up — or is there?”

Bertha once more brought her flashlight into action. On her hands and knees she again studied every inch of the closet floor and walls.

So engrossed was she in her task that she forgot her surroundings, so that the sudden slamming of a door somewhere in the house was as terrifying as the repercussion of a revolver shot.

Snatched back to the circumstances of the moment and the peculiar position in which she had placed herself, Bertha crouched on the closet floor listening.

Plainly she could hear steps, the distant subdued sound of feminine voices — then silence.

Bertha debated the possibilities of escaping through the back door. She tiptoed out of the closet, stood in the bedroom, listening. She could hear the voices more plainly now. The persons who had entered the house had gone out to the kitchen. She heard the sound of a plate being scraped along the edge of another plate and the slamming of a cupboard door.

In all probability Carlotta and Mrs. Goldring had returned to the house and were getting a snack in the kitchen.

Bertha, forced to dismiss the back door as a means of escape, thought of the possibilities of the front door, but realized the dangers of moving the length of the corridor. Then she thought of the garage and the passageway on the side of the maid’s bedroom that led to the garage. She decided to try it.

Bertha slipped her shoes off, put them under her arm, cautiously crossed the bedroom, stepped out into the corridor. She could hear the dishes and voices much more plainly now, and heard, equally plainly, the impatient “meow” of a cat.

So that was it. They were feeding the cat.

Bertha heard the sound of an icebox door opening and closing, then Carlotta’s voice, sounding very plain, saying, “I tell you, Mother, they’re going to convict Everett Belder of those murders. And I’m glad of it. They can count on my help. Hanging is too good for that man.”

Bertha listened for a reply and could hear none.

She was feeling her way along close to the wall now, trying to avoid any creaking boards. To be caught in that corridor would add a fatal complication to the predicament in which Bertha found herself — a predicament in which all avenues of escape were being closed to her.

Carlotta said, “I’m not too keen about cats myself. I’m going to get rid of this one. He always did hate me. I’m going to get some hand lotion. I get smelly handling him.” Abruptly, and before Bertha realized the full impact of the remark, the knob on the door turned and a wedge of light from the kitchen shot into the back corridor.

Bertha shifted her flashlight over to the left hand which held her shoes, doubled her right hand into a businesslike fist. But Carlotta didn’t go after the hand lotion immediately. She apparently changed her mind, and Bertha heard her move back away from the door. Through the half-opened door, Bertha could hear the steady lap — lap — lap of the cat’s tongue as it drank up the milk Carlotta had poured into its saucer.

There was no time for caution now. Bertha moved swiftly along the corridor, heedless of creaking boards, down the passage to the garage. She opened the door and heaved a sigh of relief as the musty darkness enveloped her.

She sat down on a tool chest to put on her shoes. Sheer nervousness made her hand tremble slightly. She switched out the flashlight and put on her shoes in the dark, angry with herself because of that nervous tremor which shook her hands.

Bertha got her shoes on, took a couple of steps across the cement towards the garage door, and suddenly halted. The front corner of the garage showed a peculiarly weird illumination, a light which seemed to be coming from behind a copper-covered gasket which hung from the wall on a nail. Bertha gently removed this gasket and found a neat hole approximately an inch in diameter.

Through this hole light was coming, but Bertha, applying her eye, could see nothing save a vague obstacle in front of the hole.

For the moment, Bertha forgot all risk of discovery. The detective in her came to the forefront. Evidently someone had used the garage for the purpose of spying on the interior of the house. That light would be at just about Mabel Belder’s bedroom. Bertha picked up a screw-driver from the workbench, inserted it through the hole. The bit of the screw-driver encountered an obstacle on the other side. Bertha pushed against it tentatively and realized that it was a picture hung on the wall of Mrs. Belder’s bedroom so that it effectively concealed the hole from that side. If she could push that picture to one side, she would have an unobstructed view of the bedroom. Someone must have utilized this as a means of spying on Mrs. Belder. Therefore, it should be possible to move the picture easily to one side and then in case there was any danger of discovery, let it drop back into position.

Bertha tentatively pushed at the picture and shoved the long bit of the screw-driver gently to one side. The picture moved, then slid back across the edge of the screw-driver. Bertha heard the sound of a door opening and closing, low voices, a surreptitious whispering.

Bertha’s curiosity could stand it no longer. She boldly twisted the screw-driver, put it in the hole at as sharp an angle as she could manage, and using the side of the hole as a fulcrum, pried the picture back and to one side.

She could see a portion of the interior of Mrs. Belder’s bedroom, could see Carlotta sitting in front of a dressing-table, rubbing lotion on her hands, regarding herself in the mirror with the critical appraisal which a woman reserves for her more intimate and cynical moments.

Fascinated, Bertha watched as Carlotta opened a drawer in the dressing-table, groped inside. The mirror reflected the expression on her face. Her eyes held the glittering triumph of one who is about to execute a clever coup.

Carlotta reached for the telephone, twisted the dial three quick times and said, “Information, will you give me the number of George K. Nunnely’s residence. I don’t know the address.” There was a pause. “Thank you.”

She hung up. Bertha saw her fingers flying over the dial of the telephone with the quick precision of one whose hands have developed smooth dexterity, heard her say, “Hello... Hello, is this Mr. Nunnely?... Mr. Nunnely, I have never met you, but this is Carlotta Goldring. I’m Mrs. Belder’s sister... That’s right... I’ve uncovered some very peculiar evidence, Mr. Nunnely. I thought you might like to talk it over with me. It’s about Mabel’s murder. I said murder, Mr. Nunnely... You, who were desperately in need of money, seem to be in a position to profit very handsomely from my sister’s death. You—”

Bertha saw Carlotta’s eyes in the mirror, saw them raise slightly as Carlotta, seeming very certain of herself now, shifted into a more comfortable position. Bertha saw the widening horror in those eyes, and for a moment couldn’t imagine what was causing it. Then suddenly, in a flash of sickening realization, she understood. In the mirror Carlotta could see that the picture was held far off to one side by Bertha’s screw-driver. Bertha cursed herself for a fool for failing to realize how quickly a picture hung on a long wire, and being pushed to one side of the perpendicular, would attract attention.

“Mother!” Carlotta screamed.

Bertha hastily let go of the screw-driver, heard it clatter to the floor of the bedroom. The picture slid along the wall on the other side into a perpendicular position. Bertha turned—

It seemed that a shower of meteors struck her on the head with a terrific blow, then the meteors exploded in all directions, sending out blinding streamers of light. Something cold smacked Bertha on the cheek and stayed there. Vaguely, from some distant and detached part of Bertha’s mind, came the realization that this cold surface was the garage floor.