A CRY IN THE NIGHT
“Why doesn’t God create an insect to destroy weeds,” mused Mrs.
Meredith. Albeit not given to expressing her emotions aloud, she had
acquired the habit of airing her wrath when alone by a sort of audible
conversation under her breath which, unsuspected by her, Susanne had
often utilized, thereby acquiring much desirable information quite
unknown to her mistress.
“Susanne!” Mrs. Meredith raised her voice and her maid came out of
Anne’s room and into the boudoir.
“Madame, you called?”
“Which bedroom have you given to Mrs. Hull for the night?”
“The pink bedroom, madame; across the corridor from zat of Doctaire
Curtis,” explained Susanne, smoothing out a fold in her pretty apron.
“Oh, very well.” Mrs. Meredith consulted her watch. “It is late,
Susanne; I have everything I wish, so do not wait for me. Good night.”
“Good night, madame.” Susanne turned at the door. “I hope you sleep,
madame.”
Mrs. Meredith looked up sharply in time to catch a glimpse of the French
maid’s trim figure in its becoming black gown as Susanne whisked through
the hall door, closing it after her. Crossing the boudoir, she entered
her daughter’s bedroom. Anne, on the point of switching off the reading
lamp, left it lighted as her mother approached the bed.
“Now, Anne,” Mrs. Meredith seated herself on the nearest chair, “we are
alone, and you can tell me in detail about this escapade of yours.”
“Escapade?” Anne sat bolt upright. “What a word, mother.”
“Does it not fit the occasion?” smoothly, meeting Anne’s indignant
glance with unperturbed equanimity. “You slip away without a word to me,
drive for miles in the country, just escape a serious accident, leave
your car broken on the roadside, and come home close upon midnight in a
farm truck. I might well add the adjective ‘indiscreet’ before
escapade.” Anne’s small hands closed spasmodically over the bedclothes
as she dragged them closer to her.
“You forget that I was not alone, mother,” with emphasis. “Doctor
Curtis, my fiance, was with me.” Mrs. Meredith gazed at her daughter in
silence for a minute. “You still persist in carrying out this bargain
marriage?” she asked, bitingly.
Anne flushed scarlet. “Kindly recollect, mother, that the bargain was
not of my seeking,” she replied. “And you were its strongest advocate.”
Mrs. Meredith’s gaze strayed from Anne to a photograph standing in a
silver frame on her dressing table. It was an excellent likeness of her
brother-in-law, John Meredith. Mrs. Meredith hastily averted her eyes.
“Have you recovered entirely from your fright, Anne?” she asked more
kindly. At the unexpected change of topic Anne relaxed against her
pillows. Was it possible that her mother did not care to pursue a
conversation which, in her present mood, might lead to an open quarrel?
“I am better, thank you,” she responded. “Doctor Curtis did everything
in the world for me. But for his presence of mind when the brakes on the
car would not work, I would have been killed.”
Mrs. Meredith blanched. “I am very grateful to Doctor Curtis,” she spoke
with more feeling than usual. “I fear that I have misjudged him.”
Anne eyed her mother inquiringly. What did such a _volte face_ portend?
They sat in silence for over two minutes, then Mrs. Meredith rose and,
leaning down, kissed Anne.
“To-morrow morning,” she stated, “I will send a note to the society
editors of the local newspapers and ask them to announce your engagement
to Doctor Curtis. Good night, Anne; pleasant dreams.” And she went to
her bedroom to undress feeling that her whole duty to herself, to Anne,
and to society in general had been admirably performed.
Downstairs in the library David Curtis hung up the telephone receiver
with growing impatience. It was the sixth time he had tried to get
Doctor Leonard McLane on the telephone. He was most anxious to speak to
McLane, but the latter had been called to Baltimore to perform an
operation, so had reported McLane’s servant, and had not returned.
Curtis did not like to leave word for McLane to ring him up, owing to
the lateness of the hour. The telephone bell might disturb the inmates
of the household. He had not seen McLane since the discovery of the
discolored scalpel concealed among the ferns in the reception hall. Much
had transpired since then, and Curtis was in a fever to discuss the new
events with his level-headed friend. In McLane’s judgment and advice he
could place implicit confidence.
Anne’s condition troubled him. Upon reaching home in the farmer’s small
truck, he had persuaded her to go immediately to bed and had given
Susanne a sedative to administer when she was undressed.
Anne had not told him of her encounter with the masked man, and Curtis
had concluded that her second fainting spell had been caused by nerves
frayed to the breaking point.
As Curtis reached the table, standing by the entrance to the library, on
which he had laid his cigarette case and box of matches, he heard the
front door open and a startled exclamation in a girl’s voice, and then a
man’s heavier bass.
“Good gracious, Lucille, where have you been at this time of night?”
asked Sam Hollister, stopping on his way from the circular staircase to
the library.
Lucille closed the front door softly and placed her finger to her lips.
“Not so loud, Sam,” she said cautiously. “I don’t want to awaken any
one. I couldn’t sleep, and so went out for a walk about the grounds.”
Hollister eyed her in concern. Lucille’s beauty was enhanced by her
pretty evening gown and graceful wrap, which she had partly thrown back,
disclosing her perfectly shaped neck and throat.
“See here, Lucille,” he said, going closer to her, “I’ve wanted very
much to see you; to tell you how badly I feel about this will business.”
“It is not your fault, Sam—”
“I know. But to deprive you of anything—” His voice shook with a depth
of feeling which surprised Curtis, an unwilling listener to their
conversation. “I wish to God I could find that codicil giving you the
million dollars, even though it would put the final barrier between us.”
“Sam!”
“I’ve asked you a dozen times to marry me.” Hollister made a brave
attempt to smile humorously, but the look of passionate love and sorrow
in his eyes told a story of self-effacement and dogged devotion to an
ideal. “I know that I am not much to look at, and while I’m not poor, I
am not a millionaire. Just the same, Lucille, I’d give my life to serve
you—to save you from pain.”
“Sam!” Lucille’s eyelids were wet with unshed tears as she laid her hand
on the little lawyer’s.
“You are the best and truest friend—”
“And nothing else.” Hollister sighed forlornly. “There, I won’t detain
you, Lucille. You look utterly weary. Go to bed, dear.” He turned away
quickly, fearing he might say more, and thereby missed her quick,
furtive glance at him as she ran softly up the staircase.
Curtis was sitting at the telephone stand when Hollister appeared in the
library.
“I couldn’t find you in your bedroom, Curtis,” explained Hollister,
drawing up a chair. “I thought perhaps that you might be here, so came
down. I hope you are not in a hurry to go to bed.”
“No.”
“Good.” Hollister drew his chair close to Curtis and took several papers
out of his pocket. Selecting a telegram he opened it. “I wired a friend
of mine in Chicago, whose word I could rely on, and asked for
information regarding Frank Elliott.”
“And what was the reply?”
Hollister held up the telegram and read it aloud. “Elliott, promoter.
Has good financial backing and an assured income of fifteen thousand
dollars a year. A man of integrity and standing in his community. Member
of Stock Exchange and University Club.” He lowered the telegram and let
his glasses dangle from their cord. “That gives Elliott a clean bill of
health.”
“Apparently so,” agreed Curtis, cautiously. “Do you think your friend
could furnish you with a photograph or personal description of Elliott?”
Hollister looked questioningly at his companion. “You doubt our
visitor’s identity?”
“On general principles I doubt anybody who lays claim to one hundred
thousand dollars,” retorted Curtis. “Frankly, how did Elliott strike
you?”
“I liked his appearance,” promptly. “He was well dressed and looked what
he claims to be, a prosperous business man, and obviously a gentleman.”
“Of what age?”
“Around forty-five, I should judge offhand.” Hollister tipped his chair
back into a comfortable position. “We’ll be in a deuce of a quandary if
we can’t produce that one hundred thousand dollars. Where in the name of
God did John Meredith tuck it away?”
“And who in heaven’s name murdered Meredith!” ejaculated Curtis, with
equal fervor. He hesitated a perceptible moment. “My acquaintance with
Meredith was very slight—I never saw the man,” with a fleeting smile.
“Do you think he appropriated that money to his own use?”
“Good God, no!” Hollister’s voice denoted shocked surprise. “John was
the soul of honor in every relation of life.”
“Then,” Curtis drew a long breath, “it is up to us to locate the money
and keep his memory stainless.”
“And locate his murderer,” added Hollister solemnly.
Curtis moved restlessly. “Did Frank Elliott give you further evidence to
prove his statement regarding the ownership of that one hundred thousand
dollars?” he asked.
“No. He is returning on Thursday and promised to bring several men with
him to substantiate his statement,” replied the lawyer.
“Did he tell you their names?”
“No.” Observing Curtis’ dissatisfied frown, Hollister added hastily:
“You must take into consideration that Elliott is in an embarrassing
position.”
“How so?”
“He stated that that money is owned by certain men who pooled their
funds to fight prohibition,” Hollister spoke more slowly. “In other
words, they are trying to defeat the dry laws, and that is illegal. He
and his friends can’t go to the courts to claim that money without
getting themselves involved in trouble with the Federal Government.”
Curtis whistled softly. “So that is it,” he commented. “Suppose you ring
up Western Union and send a night letter to your Chicago friend,
Hollister, asking for a description of Frank Elliott and his present
whereabouts.”
The lawyer pursed up his lips. “Oh, well, if you insist—” He shrugged
his shoulders and went with reluctance to the telephone. It took him ten
minutes to get his despatch taken down by a sleepy operator, and when he
hung up the receiver he was not in the best of tempers.
“I’m off to bed,” he stated ungraciously. “Coming, Curtis?”
“In a moment, I want to send a call.” Curtis hitched his chair closer to
the instrument stand and reached for the telephone. “Don’t wait for me,
Hollister, I’ll come along shortly.”
The lawyer wandered over to the smoking table and helped himself to
several cigars. Then he turned back and faced the blind surgeon.
“See here, Curtis,” he began, “don’t run off with the idea that I
propose to give up a hundred thousand dollars to Elliott or any man
without incontestable proof that it belongs to him. I am not an utter
fool.” Not waiting for a rejoinder, he stalked from the library, taking
no pains to walk softly.
Curtis paused in the act of calling “Central” and replaced the telephone
receiver. What had caused Hollister’s sudden outburst of temper? The
lawyer’s conversation with Lucille Hull, which he had inadvertently
overheard, was the first inkling that he, Curtis, had had that Hollister
was in love with her. Evidently he was an unsuccessful suitor of long
standing, judging from what he had said to Lucille. Could it be that
Hollister had stolen the codicil to Meredith’s will so that Lucille
would not inherit the million dollars and thus, as Hollister himself had
expressed it, “place another barrier between them”? Bah! the idea was
absurd, and Curtis smiled to himself, but the smile vanished at the
thought that Hollister knew of the codicil and knew of its whereabouts
on Sunday night. Who could say that he had not returned to Meredith’s
bedroom, engaged Meredith in conversation and stolen the papers—and
murdered Meredith.
Curtis shook his head. Hollister was not the type of man to indulge in
bloodshed, whatever the incentive; nor had nature cast him for the role
of a Don Quixote.
Putting out his hand, Curtis lifted the receiver and gave McLane’s
telephone number to “Central.” A half-awake servant took his message to
have McLane call him first thing in the morning, and giving up all hope
of talking with his friend that night, Curtis sought his bedroom. As he
passed down the corridor leading to his room, he heard some one move
just ahead of him and an alarmed exclamation in a woman’s voice,
followed by his name in a lower key.
“I am sorry I frightened you, Miss Hull,” he said apologetically.
“It is Mrs. Hull, not Lucille, doctor.” As she spoke Mrs. Hull peeped
out from the alcove where she had retreated at his unexpected
appearance. The alcove was shallow and Mrs. Hull, as she gathered her
dressing gown about her, was thankful that she faced a blind man.
“Can you tell me, doctor, where I can find an outside telephone?”
“There is one in the library,” replied Curtis. “Can I send a message for
you?”
“No, thank you. I’ll get Lucille.” Mrs. Hull glanced nervously about.
“You will think me absurd, doctor, but my husband was not well to-day.
He was to call for me after dinner this evening, but he did not come,
and it became so late that finally Lucille persuaded me to stay here all
night.”
“Very rightly, Mrs. Hull,” responded Curtis sympathetically. “Is there
anything I can do for you?”
“Oh, no! I couldn’t sleep thinking about Colonel Hull.” She spoke
spasmodically in short, nervous jerks. “He has a new car and is _so_
imprudent. I will get Lucille to call up our home and talk with her
father. Don’t let me detain you. Good night.” And she stepped past him
down the corridor on her way to her daughter’s bedroom as Curtis turned
toward his door.
Curtis wasted little time in undressing. He was about to get into bed
when a thought occurred to him. Going over to the chair where he had
cast his suit, he took out the key which Anne had worn on the gold chain
and put it inside the pocket of the jacket of his pajamas, fastening the
flap with a safety pin. Then he climbed into bed. He had not troubled to
switch on the electric light. Moving in perpetual darkness he had
finally broken himself of the habit of pressing the button when entering
a room at night.
The night seemed endlessly long to Curtis as he twisted and turned on
his pillows, in sleepless unrest. He could not dismiss Anne from his
thoughts. Was the key which he had taken from her Meredith’s? If so, how
had it come into her possession? And what possible bearing could the key
have on Meredith’s murder?
Bitterly Curtis regretted his lack of opportunity to question Anne about
the key on their homeward journey in the farm truck. The presence of the
farmer prevented anything like a private conversation, and immediately
upon their arrival at Ten Acres Anne had been surrounded by her mother,
Mrs. Hull, and Lucille, and hurried to her bedroom.
It was approaching two o’clock when Curtis finally dropped off into
dreamless slumber, lulled to sleep by the soft breeze blowing through
his open windows.
Nearly an hour later he awoke with a start. What had aroused him?
Suddenly he caught a faint sound made by a padded footfall. Some one was
moving about in his room. Curtis lay still, every faculty awake, his
nerves tingling. By an effort of will only he kept his sightless eyes
closed. Had the intruder switched on the electric light? If so, he was
at an even greater disadvantage. At least in a darkened room he and the
intruder would have an equal chance. A rustle of papers on his desk by
the north window came to him with startling distinctness. He could not
lie there like a bump on a log and be robbed—
Throwing back the covers he gathered himself for a spring. Clearing the
footboard he landed in the center of the room and dashed in the
direction of the window. Something brushed by him as he reached the
window sill and he clutched at it frantically. His fingers closed over a
hand—a tiny hand.
A hoarse cry broke from Curtis and he almost loosened his grasp, then
his grip tightened as his wits returned, and he pulled back—and lost his
balance.
A piercing scream of such anguished intensity that it chilled the blood
in the hearer’s veins rang through the night, and echoed and reechoed in
Curtis’ ears as he staggered to his knees—a severed hand in his grasp.
With his heart pounding like a mill race Curtis touched the captured
hand at the wrist where it had been severed. His fingers encountered
hair—_hair?_—no, fur.
Curtis’ overcharged nerves gave way to a gurgling, choking laugh, and he
sank down on the floor. It was no human hand that he held—it was a
monkey’s paw.
An incessant pounding on his door aroused Curtis. Stopping at his
bureau, he picked up a handkerchief and wrapped the monkey’s paw in it
and thrust it inside the drawer. When he opened the hall door he found
several excited servants facing him.
“If _Monsieur_ pleases,” gasped Susanne, Gretchen’s terrified face
peering over her shoulder. “What is it?”
“A nightmare,” he responded. “I am sorry. Good night.”