Wolf in Man’s Clothing

12

A SINGULAR THING ABOUT gun shots is this: no matter how little experience one has had at either the giving or receiving end, one recognizes the sound of a shot with really a peculiar facility and swiftness.

And just then another shot sung lower, over my head and over the stone wall. And I knew that that scrambling figure was at least thirty feet from me, but that the shots came from somewhere in the darkening, irregular meadow below, possibly from the wooded valley which seemed to outline the bed of a small stream.

I knew too that it wasn’t the cat shooting at me. But that was about the extent of my knowledge.

Whoever had crawled over the stone wall had ducked; at least no figure emerged from the shadow of rock wall and shrubs.

I don’t know what would have happened; perhaps in the end some car was bound to come along and rescue us. It takes a bold murderer to shoot anybody in cold blood on a public highway. But I was never to know because just then, with a loud whirring of the engine, a small automobile whirled around the bend in the road and began to climb the little ridge, its lights streaming ahead of it.

So I did what sounds dangerous and really wasn’t. At least, I don’t believe it was dangerous. I really remember very little of that moment or two during which I crept out, running low in the shelter of the rock wall and into those welcome lights and stopped the car. And it was Dr. Chivery.

He leaned out to look at me incredulously as, keeping the car between me and the dusky meadow, I approached him.

“Miss Keate…”

“Somebody’s shooting at me! From the meadow! Somebody…”

And just then another figure loomed up from the shelter of the wall and it was the maid Anna. Her face was the color of an underdone muffin and her braids had slipped over one ear, giving her a rakish air which was belied by the terror in her eyes. She gasped, “Doctor-please, sir-someone’s shooting-in the meadow…”

Neither Claud Chivery nor I spoke; in the little glow from the dashlight his chin retreated still further and his slightly popped eyes seemed to take on a kind of reflection of the terror in the maid’s face. Then the maid caught a long, rasping breath and said, still panting, “I mean-shooting rabbits, I suppose, sir. I-I was walking in the meadow, when I-I heard someone in the brush along-along the brook. It-it frightened me. I-I ran…” Her eyes shifted to me and back to the doctor. “And just then-as I got to the wall-the shots began. I don’t know who it was, sir. But they-they often shoot rabbits in the meadow. People from town and-and…” She stopped again. And then said, “Doctor, would you mind taking me back to the house? I-I’m afraid I’ve taken more than my usual afternoon time off. Beevens…”

There was another little pause. Then without a word Dr. Chivery reached back, swung open the door to the rear seat of the car and I got in and so did Anna. Still in silence so far as speech went, he turned and reversed and started back for the Brent place. Nobody said anything. There was only the staccato sound of the engine waking echoes along the looming shadows of the hills all around us.

He took us all the way to the house, up the winding drive to the front door, where he deposited us. I thanked him and he drove off into the night again with, it seemed to me, that queer reflection of terror still in his eyes. Anna hurried to open the door for me.

“Anna…”

“Yes, Miss Keate.” She had caught her breath now and straightened the fat blonde braids around her head.

“Who was in the meadow?”

“I don’t know, Miss,” she said flatly-and defiantly.

So I had to let her go.

But she knew as well as I did that unless the rabbit had jumped up in front of the gun and barked at him, our hunter wasn’t shooting at rabbits. It was too dark to have taken a good potshot at anything smaller than a horse-or a human, silhouetted against the gray sky.

Well. I glanced in the morning room and Nicky was sitting there, reading. His back was toward me but his small head and vividly checked coat were unmistakable. His coats were always a little alarming, being made up in very large checks or plaids and in an amazing range of colors-that day I believe brown and maroon again predominated. But however I felt about Nicky, it couldn’t have been Nicky shooting at rabbits or at me. Nobody else was around and, feeling a little shaken by my recent experience, I went to my room, took off my cape, and again cast my mind back over the few things I knew of the murder of Conrad Brent. But after a while I had to give up; if those shots had been, by any stretch of the imagination, intended to remove me and at the same time any clue in my possession, then I didn’t know what that clue was. The only conclusion then was, in a word, rabbits.

And since I couldn’t quite believe this, either, it was only natural that I was a little uneasy. Perhaps wary is more descriptive. But in any case, hunting in the meadow was a good excuse; it was not unusual, Anna had said. So it was within the realm of possibility that any would-be murderer might count on that.

I didn’t go in just then to see Drue; for, a little belatedly, I bethought myself of my patient and the fact that he had been presumably alone, with Dr. Chivery dashing about the roads in his little car and Anna fleeing from gunmen in the meadow. But on the way to his room I stopped and told the trooper on guard in the hall what had happened. I don’t think he believed me; or perhaps he favored the rabbit theory, for he gave me a rather pitying and indulgent smile. But he did promise to tell Nugent when he saw him.

So I went on to Craig’s room where I found Peter Huber with him and both of them talking of Chivery. “Who does Chivery think did it?” said Peter, as I entered the room and Craig looked at me, said “Hello, Miss Keate,” and replied to Peter. “He says he doesn’t know. He says it had to be somebody that knew about digitalis. How much to give and how. He says you’ve got to give enough to cause a heart block, as it does, right away. If you give too little there are all kinds of symptoms of poisoning-nausea and convulsions and-but that isn’t what happened.” Craig took a quick breath and went on hurriedly, as if to hide the pain in his eyes-yes, and the grief, for no matter what had happened between Conrad Brent and Craig in their adult life they were still father and son. He said hurriedly, “Claud has been looking it up in his reference books.” He frowned. “He says he doesn’t know who did it. But…”

“But what, Craig?”

“Oh. Nothing…” He paused again, frowned into space and said, “If only I could get up and about! If I could even find out who it was that gave me this…” His fingers touched the bandage on his temple. “I didn’t see anybody-I didn’t even hear anything… Look, Pete, scout around a little, will you? Find out, if you can, exactly who was up and about till midnight or shortly before. Find out what happened at dinner…”

“Nothing happened at dinner,” said Peter. “I was there.”

A touch of exasperation crossed Craig’s face. “I don’t mean did they throw things at each other or threaten anything. Just-oh, what did they say and how did they look and-oh, hell,” he gave a flounce, and I clutched the light eiderdown as it slid off.

“You’d better go now, Mr. Huber,” I said, eyeing the tinge of scarlet that was coming up in Craig’s lean cheeks.

“Wait, not yet, Nurse,” said Craig quickly. “Listen, Pete, keep your eyes open and tell me if you see anything out of the way. And-and another thing,” Craig hesitated, shot me an oblique glance and said, “Look through the house and see if you can find some yellow gloves. Loose-biggish. Don’t let anybody know and if you find them, bring them here.”

Peter nodded. “Okay,” he said. And then I sent him away. But Craig said no more of the mysterious yellow gloves and, still aware of that touch of red in his cheeks and the feverish brightness in his eyes, I didn’t ask further questions.

Dinner for both of us was sent up on a tray; no one came but the cat again. He meowed hoarsely and when I let him in he went to Craig’s bed, jumped on the foot of it, purred loudly and hoarsely, but eluded my hand and Craig’s and went to sleep, with his slitted grape-green eyes opening now and then to look at the door into the hall. It was only a wary look, though, normal one to one of Delphine’s pessimistic nature, nothing like the silent, listening stare of the previous night.

Eventually I folded up like an accordion on the couch again. I thought a little pensively of the bed in my room which looked very comfortable.

Nothing happened that night. Alexia and Maud disappeared directly after dinner. Peter and Nicky went for a long night walk, for I happened past the stairway as they left and had a glimpse of Nicky’s dark head and Peter’s broad shoulders and leather jacket just as they closed the front door behind them. Later, because the house was so still, I heard their return. Or rather, I heard Peter’s return; Nicky apparently got tired and returned first. I saw him as he passed Craig’s room, for the door was a little ajar, on his way apparently to Alexia’s room, and a moment later I saw him return. He glanced in both times and smiled airily, and looked exactly like a beautiful inquisitive young leopard on the prowl. It was much later when I heard Peter’s return and by that time I had closed the bedroom door.

There was no chance to talk to Drue. Once or twice during the night I glanced into the hall. Mr. Wilkins or his double sat in a chair just outside her door.

The next morning, too, was without untoward incident. The police were about, for I saw them from my window, prowling through the grounds, and later Nugent questioned me about the affair in the meadow, so the trooper was as good as his word and had reported the shooting to him. The Lieutenant questioned me, too, again as to what or whom I had seen in the hall just after the odd little bump on the door, £he night of the murder.

This time I thought he believed me when I told him again that I hadn’t seen anyone. But something to my alarm he suggested a motive for the shots of the previous night.

“Perhaps someone believed that you had seen more than you were willing, publicly, to admit. You gave me that impression, too. The way you stopped in the middle of a sentence.”

“But I saw nothing! Besides, no one last night could have known I would be just there, above the meadow.”

“Well. Can you suggest another motive?”

I couldn’t, of course. “Rabbits,” I said weakly, and Nugent said, “No doubt. But I’d not go for a walk alone again.”

He went away, then, leaving me with mixed emotions. Chiefly it seemed a good idea to hang a placard on my back with the words on it, “I know nothing,” which seemed just then a redundancy.

Alexia telephoned that morning to Bergdof’s for a full mourning outfit, and I believe Maud assisted the police in going through the papers in Conrad’s desk and in the safe. It was that morning, too, that reporters arrived; Chivery and Nicky saw them. Later one of the papers had a picture of Dr. Chivery caught, apparently, as he was stepping into his car in front of his own white-picketed gate. His face, twisted over his shoulder, had a curious expression; there was a hunted, hag-ridden look about his eyes, taken unaware like that. Or it may have been the camera.

There was a picture of Drue, too, her graduating picture which someone had discovered. She looked very young and very lovely, her eyes steady and uncompromising above the stern severity of the Bishop collar our nurses have to wear on state occasions. Some of the papers made much of her brief marriage to Craig. “Nurse’s Secret Romance” said one paper. But very few facts of evidence appeared, so I judged Nugent held his cards close to his belt, as a poker-playing patient of mine used to say.

None of the papers, however, reached us until after the next morning’s train, which was just as well. And the reporters soon left.

Naturally, all that day I was like a hound on a leash about the hypodermic and still had to wait, what with the police there, to say nothing of Maud, Alexia and Nicky, and the maids cleaning the rooms.

Craig’s condition was good, so far as the wound went; but there was a kind of nervous, fine-drawn look about his mouth and eyes. He said little but lay there, watching the door.

The police did not question Drue again that morning; she told me that when I went, about eleven, to her room. She was very pale and there were faint blue marks under her eyes. She wore a fresh white uniform like a signal of defiance and had touched her mouth with lipstick and brushed her soft, shining curls upward with a clean, childish sweep from her temples, but she could not hide the look in her dark gray eyes. We talked until I had to go back to Craig, but without any real or helpful conclusion.

She asked about Craig and some of the shadow in her eyes seemed to lessen when I told her he was better. She sent no message, however.

About one-thirty, Soper came to tell Craig there was to be an inquest that afternoon and to ask him if he knew a Frederic Miller.

“Inquest?” cried Craig. “Look here, Miss Cable ought to have a lawyer’s advice before…”

“It’s only a formality,” snapped Soper looking sulky. “She’s not to be asked to testify now. The doctor’s the only necessary witness just now. And Nugent. What I’d like you to tell me now is, who is Frederic Miller? Your father has given him checks totaling fifteen thousand dollars in the last two years. You must know…”

“But I don’t! There’s nobody… See here, I don’t understand!”

“Never heard the name before?” The District Attorney’s eyes were little and suspicious.

“Never! And I don’t think my father knew anybody by that name!” Craig looked honestly perplexed. “Did you ask Alexia-Mrs. Brent?”

“Certainly. She knew nothing of it either. Haven’t any idea who it was that struck you that night?” His eyes were on the bandage still on Craig’s temple.

“No.”

“Are you sure it was anybody? You could have fallen.”

“But I didn’t,” said Craig. “I was in the hall. Somebody hit me and dragged me into the linen room. So it must have been a man.”

“Not at all. A woman could have done it easily. Good morning,” said the District Attorney and went away looking remarkably like a stuffed frog.

And as he left Nicky came. I remained, in spite of the look Nicky gave me, which plainly invited me to leave. He was still limping a little.

“Hurt your foot, Nick?” said Craig and Nicky said, “Someone dropped a flashlight on it, in the rucku? the other night. Accidentally, I hope,” and glanced at me and lowered his silky eyelashes so there was only a half-hidden but definitely malicious gleam back of them. I looked blank, as if I’d never heard of a flashlight and Nicky said, “Craig, look here. Oughtn’t we to do something?”

“Do something?”

“I mean-well, murder’s murder. There’s either a motive or it’s a question of a-a homicidal maniac. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and that’s my conclusion.”

“It’s in the hands of the police,” said Craig. “They’ll do everything they can.”

“But, Craig,” said Nicky, leaning forward suddenly, his pointed elegant face jutting into the light, “do you know who did it?”

“No,” said Craig. And added as bluntly, “Do you?”

“N-no,” said Nicky slowly. “That is-of course the police think it was Drue.”

“Thanks to your evidence against her.”

“I didn’t tell them everything I could have told them,” said Nicky slowly and in a curiously tentative way.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh. Their conversation, for instance. Conrad’s, I mean, and Drue’s, just before he died.”

Craig’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? I suppose you listened.”

Nicky shrugged; it was again tentative, only half-assenting.

“Well,” said Craig, “what did you hear?”

If the library door had been closed, I didn’t think he had heard anything, for it was extraordinarily thick and solid. Still, it might not have been quite closed. Certainly Nicky’s handsome face looked extraordinarily disingenuous, almost, indeed, naive.

Naive like a rattlesnake, I thought abruptly. And listened.

Nicky hesitated then lifted his elegantly squared and tailored shoulders again. “Think it over, Craig,” he said.

“You didn’t hear anything,” said Craig. “And if you did, it’s nothing to me.”

“Drue is nothing to you?” said Nicky softly.

“You heard me.”

Nicky’s bland face changed a little; his cruel lower lip protruded. He got up. “I see it’s no use to talk to you, Craig. Oh, by the way, your divorce is still in good standing, I presume?”

Craig’s straight, dark eyebrows made a line across his face. “What do you mean exactly?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Nicky airily. “Except Drue is in circulation again. Prettier than ever. I’d forgotten”-he stopped, laughed a little and said-“well, no-not quite forgotten. After all, she did leave you once and I daresay you remember why. So if she is absolutely free…”

Craig said shortly, “Drue is perfectly free. As you know, Nicky. Now get out.”

When he’d gone, somewhat hurriedly, Craig lay for a long time looking at nothing, with a very grim expression.

Late in the afternoon Alexia came. She looked very beautiful and not at all like a recently bereaved widow, in a handsome tea-gownish dress, emerald green and trailing. It seemed to me that Craig’s jaw set itself a little rigidly when he looked at her, but he promptly sent me away, which I must say was rather disappointing.

Drue was sitting at the writing table when I reached her room but wasn’t writing. Sir Francis lay like a little brown muff on the table beside her, his head on her arm.

“Sit down, Sarah. What happened? Did Dr. Chivery drive you away again?”

“Alexia, this time,” I said a little grimly.

“Oh, Alexia.” Her eyelids went down and she patted the little dog’s vigilant head. And said suddenly, looking at the dog, her voice quite clear but completely without expression, “He’s in love with her, you know. I suppose now-after a decent interval-they’ll marry.”

Well, if Alexia had anything to say about it, it was more likely to be an indecent interval. I repressed my evil nature to the extent of not saying it, and she went on, “I was wrong about everything. I thought if I saw Craig again-but I was wrong.”

I said, energetically if ambiguously, “Nonsense.”

“No. It isn’t nonsense. You see, I know. He’s still in love with her, Sarah. Nicky says so. Besides I-know…” She took up a pen and traced a circle with it slowly. “I’d better tell you, Sarah. I think that’s what started everything. Alexia and Craig, I mean. You see-Alexia was in the garden with Craig a few minutes before he was shot. Nicky told me. And I think”-mindful of the trooper outside her door, she whispered-“I think Conrad shot him.”

“Shot Craig!”

“Sh. He’ll hear you.”

“But-you mean Conrad was jealous?”

“Conrad made a kind of fetish of being old-fashioned,” she said slowly. “And he was in love with Alexia.”

“If his father shot Craig in a fit of jealousy and Craig knew it, he wouldn’t tell-that’s true.” I was struck by a sudden memory. “Was that why you told Conrad you had found his revolver in the garden?”

“Yes. I knew it was his revolver; at least I knew he had one. And I knew him. I didn’t know what had happened-I don’t really know now. But I thought-you see, I was afraid. For Craig. If his father had shot him in a fit of jealousy, I wanted him to realize, the horrible thing he’d done. Everyone else, I knew-Craig himself, and Claud and anybody else who knew or guessed the truth,-would try to cover it. Conrad was defiant; he said I couldn’t have found it where I did find it. He said I was trying to blackmail him into letting me stay. But I wasn’t-I really wasn’t, Sarah. I never thought of it.”

I knew that. And Conrad’s defiance savored of guilt; it sounded as if he already knew of the revolver, for, if he didn’t, his normal reaction ought to have been to start an immediate investigation.

Yet, again, I couldn’t believe it.

“No, Drue, it’s impossible! I can’t think jealousy over Alexia would so blind Conrad. Don’t believe Nicky. Don’t believe anything he tells you. He’s in love with you himself…”

“Nicky in love with me!” She laughed shortly.

“But why then-Drue, he asked Craig if you were perfectly free. From your marriage to Craig, he meant.”

“He asked Craig that?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t look at me. “What did Craig say?”

“Nothing,” I said hurriedly, perceiving shoals too late.

“What did he say?” she repeated.

So I said reluctantly, “He only said that your divorce was final. But, my dear…”

Her lips had closed tightly. “Quite right and correct of Craig. And Nicky.”

“You can’t really think of marrying Nicky!”

“He hasn’t asked me. But if he does, why not?” she said, and began making circles again, rapid ones now, jabbing the pen into the blotter.

“But…”

Her mouth and chin were set, there were two scarlet spots on her cheeks. I stopped and took another course.

“Drue, you said you intended to find out what really happened here. When Craig came back, I mean, at the time you left this house and went back to New York. And Conrad said Craig wanted a divorce. Did you?”

“It’s too late for that.”

I was about to say tritely and not at all truly that it is never too late. But she flung down the pen. “It’s too late, Sarah! I was a fool to try it. I…”

The abrupt motion of her hand had knocked over a little blue jar of pebbles intended to hold the pen that rolled across the desk. And we both looked just as a little pasteboard box fell out upon the desk amid a shower of colored pebbles. It was a medicine box; there was the prescription sign and Conrad’s name and Dr. Chivery’s and directions and it held digitalis. Rather it had held digitalis. It was empty now, for I picked it up and opened it.