THE CASE OF THE GILA MONSTER
Unaware that he had a place in Mrs. Parsons' meditations as well as in
her conversation with Major Leigh Wallace, Ted Rogers parked his car
near the entrance to "Rose Hill." His ring at the front door bell was
answered by Mandy, the ebony shadow of Oscar, her husband.
"Kin yo' see Miss Kitty?" She repeated the question after him. "Why, I
'spect yo' kin, Mister Rodgers. Jes' step inside, Sah, an' I'll go find
Miss Kitty."
Closing the front door and putting up the night latch with much
jingling, Mandy led Rodgers down the hall to the entrance of the
library.
"The lamps am lighted in hyar," she said by way of explanation. "Ole
Miss never used to let Miss Kitty have a light in de odder rooms on
dis flo', cept when Oscar was a-servin' dinner. An' we all got so we
jes' never thought o' carryin' a lamp into de parlor. Make yo'self
comfortable, Sah, I'll tell Miss Kitty an' she'll be down terec'ly."
With a word of thanks Rodgers passed the old servant and entered
the library. The light from the two oil lamps was supplemented by a
cheerful fire in the brick chimney at the farther end of the room,
and its cheerful glow did much to dispel the dreary atmosphere which
prevailed.
Rodgers did not at once sit down. Instead he paused in the center of
the library and gravely regarded the tea table and the throne-shaped
chair where he had frequently seen Miss Susan Baird sitting when
entertaining guests at tea. He had a retentive memory, and as his eyes
roved about the library, he pieced out the scene of the discovery of
the dead woman as described on the witness stand by Inspector Mitchell.
As far as Rodgers could judge, no change had been made in the room,
except in the arrangement of the tea table. The soiled dishes and tea
cups had been removed, the tea service cleaned and put back, and the
fruit dish, of Royal Dresden china of ancient pattern, was empty.
Forgetful of the passing time, he wandered about examining with keen
attention the fine oil paintings of dead and gone Bairds, the camels'
hair shawls which had been converted into porti�res, the Persian rugs
on the hardwood floor. What matter that all showed traces of wear and
tear? The room was cleanliness personified.
Genteel poverty--his surroundings cried of it. Rodgers thought, with
a tightening of his heart-strings, of Kitty's brave endeavor to keep
up the old home and provide her aunt with every comfort within her
means. And her aunt had been murdered. Murdered! He shook his head in
bewilderment. What possible motive could have inspired such a crime?
Who would murder a poverty-stricken old woman? Avarice--where was the
gain? Revenge--for what? Hate--why hate a feeble old woman? There
remained robbery as a possible motive. Could it be that?
Rodgers crossed over to the "Dutch" door and examined it with interest.
Neither its lock nor its solid panels gave indication of having been
forced open. From the door his attention passed to the three small
windows, placed just under the flooring of the gallery; they appeared
tightly closed and resisted his efforts to move them. The library
gained its chief light in the daytime from the skylight and the windows
opening upon the gallery.
Turning around, Rodgers stood hesitating, his head slightly bent to
catch the faintest sound. He had heard, some moments before, Mandy's
halting footsteps as she came limping down the staircase, then along
the hall to the basement stairs, and the shutting of the door after
her descending figure. He looked at his watch; ten minutes had elapsed
since his arrival and still Kitty had not appeared. Surely she would
have sent word by Mandy if she had not wished him to wait? He took from
his pocket a crumpled note and smoothed it out. The act had become a
habit. He did not need to read the few lines penned on the paper--he
knew them by heart.
Come to-night. I must see you. K. B.
He had obeyed the summons eagerly. Kitty had asked him to find out who
killed her aunt. And the inquest had brought out what?--that Miss Susan
Baird had come to her death through poison administered by a party or
parties unknown. It had also disclosed the fact that the last person
to see Miss Susan alive was Kitty Baird, and Oscar had testified that
aunt and niece had quarreled that fatal Sunday afternoon--over Major
Leigh Wallace. Rodgers whitened at the thought. Were Kitty and Wallace
really engaged, as he had been given to understand by no less a person
than Ben Potter? If so, he cut a sorry figure dancing attendance upon
Kitty. She had grown to be all in all to him. It was a case of the moth
and the candle. Rodgers smiled wryly; he could not tear himself away,
even if he would, and she had asked him to aid her! Rodgers squared
his shoulders. As soon as the mystery of Miss Susan Baird's death was
solved, he would leave Washington and give Wallace a clear field. Kitty
was entitled to happiness.
Tired of inaction, harassed by his thought, Rodgers tramped about the
room and finally paused in front of the fireplace. Mouchette, Kitty's
Angora cat, rolled over at his approach and yawned sleepily. She had
awakened at his entrance, but the comfort of an excellent dinner and
the heat of the fire had proven too strong to keep her awake, and she
had curled up again and gone to sleep.
The hearth was set far back and two benches were framed on either hand
by the walls of the chimney. They looked inviting, and, after giving
Mouchette a final pat, Rodgers dropped down on one of the benches, his
broad back braced across the corner of the wall, while his long legs
were stretched out toward the fire burning so briskly on the hearth. He
watched the play of the firelight with unconscious intensity, his mind
picturing Kitty's alluring personality. A log broke and as the burning
embers struck the hearth, sparks flew out and upward. One landed on
the bench on which Rodgers was sitting and he leaned forward to knock
it back upon the hearth. As his hand struck the bench a glancing blow,
he felt the wood give and the next instant he was gazing into a small
hole.
Rodgers stared at it in deep surprise. Bending closer he saw that he
must have touched a concealed spring which released the trap-door.
It was not a large cavity into which he peered, hardly a foot deep
and about six inches square, or so he judged in the fitful glow of
the fire. He sat for a moment perfectly still, then drawing out his
matchbox, struck a light and held it carefully so that its rays fell
directly into the small hole. It was empty except for a medium-sized
brass key to which was tied a small tag. Bending nearer, he made out
the scrawled lines with some difficulty:
This key unlocks the inside drawer of the highboy in the blue room on
the fourth floor.
A bell reverberating through the silent house caused Rodgers to spring
up and look into the hall, in time to see Mandy emerge from behind
the door leading to the basement stairs and make her way to the front
of the house. A murmur of voices reached Rodgers, then a firm tread
sounded down the uncarpeted hall, and parting the porti�res Charles
Craige walked into the library.
"Hello, Rodgers," he exclaimed in hearty greeting. "Mandy told me that
you were here. Have you seen Kitty?"
"Not yet." Rodgers shook Craige's hand with vigor. He had grown to
like and admire the brilliant lawyer whose many acts of kindness had
added to the enjoyment of his visit. Besides, and Rodgers' eyes glowed,
was he not Kitty's godfather!
"Trust Kitty to keep a man waiting," and Craige smiled as he spoke,
then grew grave. "This is a devilish bad business--not to say shocking.
Poor Susan--the last person in the world whose death would have been of
benefit to any one, and yet she was murdered."
"If we are to believe the medical evidence, yes," replied Rodgers.
"Poison can be administered with murderous intent, but we must also
remember that it can be taken with the intent to commit suicide."
"True." Craige chose a seat at some distance from the throne-shaped
chair. "But I cannot associate either murder or suicide with Susan.
I tell you, Rodgers, Susan had an intense desire to live, and I can
conceive of no one wishing for her death sufficiently to face the
gallows."
"But the fact remains that she either did away with herself or was
cold-bloodedly murdered," retorted Rodgers.
Craige nodded his head moodily. "If murder, it was cold-blooded,
premeditated murder," he agreed. "Hush, here comes Kitty."
A door had opened on the gallery and Kitty appeared from her bedroom,
stood for a moment hesitating, then hurrying forward she almost ran
down the short flight of steps to the library. She paused by the newel
post as both men advanced to meet her.
"I am so glad you are here," she exclaimed, extending her hands
impulsively to each. "It has been so dreadful--alone."
Craige laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder and patted her gently as
he kissed her. "We understand," he said. "Now, what can we do for you?"
Rodgers, who still held Kitty's hand in both of his, released it
reluctantly. He was slow of speech, but his eyes, meeting Kitty's gaze,
conveyed a message all their own. As Kitty preceded them across the
library, a warm blush mantled her cheeks.
"Sit here, Miss Baird." Rodgers placed a chair for her near the chimney
while Craige pulled forward two others. Grateful for the warmth from
the fire, for her bedroom was insufficiently heated, Kitty stretched
out her hands to the blaze.
"Why is your telephone disconnected, Kitty?" asked Craige, after a
brief silence which neither Kitty or Rodgers made any attempt to break.
"We were deluged with calls," she explained. "Especially the newspaper
reporters." She shivered slightly. "They gave Mandy no rest."
"But to cut yourself off from your friends, Kitty, was that wise?"
chided Craige gently. "No one could reach you--I tried and failed."
"It did not stop your coming over to ask for me," she put in
gratefully. "Ben and Nina Potter stopped for a second before dinner.
They left for New York to-night."
"Indeed?" Craige frowned. "They should have remained here with you,"
noting with concern the dark shadows under her eyes and the forlorn
droop to her usually erect shoulders. "You must not stay here alone."
"But I am not alone," she protested. "Dear, faithful Mandy is with me."
Craige shook his head, unsatisfied. "Mandy is an ignorant colored
woman, old at that," he remarked. "You must have companionship--woman's
companionship of your own class. Why not ask Cecilia Parsons?"
"Oh, I would not think of asking her," Kitty objected quickly. "She is
so--so sensitive, so--" hunting about for the proper word. "Oh, the
house, all this--would get frightfully on her nerves."
At mention of Mrs. Parsons' name, Rodgers glanced from one to the
other, finally letting his gaze rest on the lawyer's kindly, clever
face. He had heard the rumor connecting the pretty widow's name with
Charles Craige, and that reports of their engagement persisted, in
spite of Mrs. Parsons' laughing denial and Craige's skillfully evasive
answers to all questions on the subject.
"As you please, Kitty," replied Craige. "But I think that you are wrong
not to ask Mrs. Parsons. She would not hesitate to tell you if she did
not wish to come. She is frankness itself."
Kitty raised her eyebrows and a ghost of a smile crossed her lips.
"Mrs. Parsons is always most kind," she remarked, "but I prefer not to
tax her friendship."
The look Craige cast in her direction was a bit sharp, and with some
abruptness he changed the subject.
"Were you wise to have your aunt's body put in the vault this
afternoon, Kitty?" he asked. "Did you not overtax your strength? You
look so utterly weary."
"I am stronger than I appear." Kitty passed her hand across her eyes.
"I could see no object in waiting. Coroner Penfield suggested that we
have simple funeral ceremonies immediately after the inquest. I tried
to get word to you, but failed. It was but prolonging the agony to
wait--" with a catch in her throat, "there was nothing to be gained by
waiting. It would not bring her back. Oh, poor Aunt Susan!" And bowing
her head Kitty gave vent to the tears she had held back for many, many
hours.
Rodgers watched her in unhappy silence. Could he find nothing to
say--do nothing to comfort her? He half rose impulsively to his
feet--caught Craige's eye and sat down again. Craige leaned forward and
put his arms about the weeping girl and soothed her with loving words.
When she grew more composed, he rose and paced up and down the library.
"Had I not better call Mandy and let her put you to bed, Kitty?" he
asked, stopping by her chair. "You can see us to-morrow when you are
more composed."
"No, wait." Kitty sat up and attempted to smile. "I am all right, now.
Is it true, as the papers said, that Aunt Susan died from poison placed
on a peach she was eating?"
"If we are to believe the medical evidence, yes. Chemical tests proved
that prussic acid still remained on one side of the blade of the fruit
knife used to cut the peach."
Kitty shuddered. "Who could have planned so diabolical a murder?" she
demanded.
"That is for us to find out." Kitty looked up quickly at sound of
Rodgers' clear voice. "Tell me, Miss Baird, have you no idea where the
peaches came from?"
"Not the slightest," she shook her head. "I am positive there were no
peaches in the house when I left here Sunday afternoon. They are very
expensive at this season of the year and," with downright frankness,
"we could not afford to buy them, although Aunt Susan was inordinately
fond of them."
"Some one must have sent the peaches who was aware of your aunt's
liking for the fruit," Craige remarked thoughtfully. "Had she spoken of
peaches to any of your friends lately?"
"Friends!" Kitty looked at him with dawning horror. "You don't
think--you don't mean that a _friend_ killed Aunt Susan?" She thrust
out her hands as if warding off some frightful nightmare. "No, no. It
was a housebreaker--a common, ordinary housebreaker."
"It may have been a housebreaker," agreed Rodgers, soothingly. "But it
was one with the knowledge that the flavor of a peach would disguise
the taste of prussic acid."
"Kitty," Craige spoke with deep seriousness. "You must realize that
this murder of your aunt was a deliberately planned crime. Burglars
don't go around carrying bottles of prussic acid in their pockets.
Also, there is one point of especial significance--but one side of the
knife-blade had poison on it."
"You mean--?" She questioned him with frightened eyes.
"That some one whom your aunt knew must have been taking tea with her,
and in administering the poison saw to it that _his_ side of the peach
was harmless," Craige responded.
Kitty looked at the two men dumbly. Craige had put into words what she
had dimly realized.
"It is dreadful!" she gasped. "What possible motive could have inspired
her murder?"
Craige looked at Rodgers, then drawing out his leather wallet he
selected a newspaper clipping and ran his eyes down the printed column.
"Tell us, Kitty," and his voice was coaxing. "Is it true that you and
your aunt quarreled on Sunday as Oscar testified?"
Kitty blanched and her eyes shifted from Rodgers to the glowing embers
on the hearth.
"It wasn't a quarrel," she declared faintly. "Aunt Susan and I had a
few words--"
"Yes," prompted Craige. "A few words about what?"
"About money matters." Kitty did not look at either man. Rodgers' heart
sank. Oscar had also testified that the quarrel was about Major Leigh
Wallace. Could it be that Kitty was prevaricating? He put the thought
from him. Oscar _must_ have lied.
"About money matters," Craig repeated, returning the clipping and
wallet to his pocket. "Then why did you not tell that to Coroner
Penfield when he questioned you in the witness stand?"
"It wasn't his business--it had nothing to do with Aunt Susan's death,"
she stated incoherently. "And," with a slow, painful blush, "our
poverty, our painful economies were bad enough without discussing them
in public."
"Oh!" Craige cast a doubtful look at Rodgers, but the latter's
expressionless face gave the keen-witted lawyer no clue as to his
opinion of Kitty's statement. "Kitty, were you your aunt's nearest
relative?"
"Yes. Ben Potter is a second cousin, I believe." Kitty paused. "Ben
has not been here very much lately."
"Since his marriage, you mean?" asked Craige.
Kitty glanced up and then away. "Yes. Aunt Susan poked fun at him at
the time of his marriage, said she did not care for 'poor whites,' and
Ben was very angry."
"Was there ever an open quarrel?"
"Oh, no. Outwardly, they were good friends; and they dined here usually
once a month," Kitty explained. "But relations were strained a little
bit."
"Could you not make Ben and Nina a visit when they return from New
York?" asked Craige.
"I can, if I wish," with quick resentment. "But I prefer to stay in
this house."
"Just a moment, Kitty," Craige held up a cautioning hand. "This house
belonged to your aunt, did it not?"
"Yes. But I--" she hesitated. "I ran the house with the money I earned.
I can still do that."
"True, if the house is left to you." Kitty stared at her godfather
aghast. "Did your aunt leave her will in your care?"
"No."
"Did she ever speak to you of a will?"
"No; she never mentioned the subject."
Craige looked at her thoughtfully. "It may be that your aunt made no
will," he said finally. "I transacted such legal matters as she brought
to me, but I never drew up a will."
"But as Miss Baird is her aunt's nearest living relative, would she not
inherit her aunt's property?" asked Rodgers.
"Possibly; but Ben Potter may claim his share of the estate," the
lawyer pointed out.
"Estate!" broke in Kitty with a nervous laugh. "Poor Aunt Susan had
only this house and its dilapidated furniture. Ben is welcome to his
share."
"Just a moment," Craige interrupted in his turn. "Your aunt must
have left a will or some legal document regarding the disposal of
her property. She had a great habit of tucking her papers away. You
recollect our search for the tax receipts, Kitty?"
Kitty's face brightened into one of her mischievous smiles, while her
eyes twinkled.
"Aunt Susan was secretive," she acknowledged. "It was a case of
searching for lump sugar even, when she was in the mood for hiding
things."
"Hiding!" Rodgers rose to his feet and his eyes sought the bench where
he had found the trap-door. "Come here, Miss Baird," and he beckoned
them to approach. "I opened that by accident just before Mr. Craige
arrived--see."
Kitty slipped her hand inside the cavity and drew out the key.
"I remember the trap-door," she said. "If you press on a spring
concealed in one of the boards, the door drops inward. But what does
this tag mean?" and they read the words aloud:
This key unlocks the inside drawer of the highboy in the blue room
on the fourth floor.
"Let us go and see what it means," suggested Rodgers, and Craige nodded
his agreement.
"Lead the way, Kitty," he added. "Do you need a lamp?"
"There is a candlestick outside my bedroom door, and we can light the
gas jets as we go through the halls," she replied.
Pausing only long enough to pick up several small match boxes, she
led the way out of the library and up the long staircase. A light
was burning dimly in the first hall and Rodgers turned it up before
following Kitty and her godfather to the next story. From there they
hurried to the fourth floor, Kitty's candle but intensifying the
darkness.
The stuffy atmosphere of a room long unused greeted them as they
entered a large square room facing the front of the house. With the aid
of her candle, Kitty located the one gas jet and by its feeble rays
they looked about them. The room evidently obtained its name from its
faded blue wall paper. The old four-post bed and the massive mahogany
furniture belonged to another and richer generation, but Rodgers had
no time to investigate its beauties, his attention being focussed on a
highboy standing near one of the windows. Kitty again read the message
on the tag before approaching the highboy.
"The inside drawer," she repeated. "What does she mean?"
For answer Rodgers pulled open the nearest drawer. It was filled with
old finery, and after tumbling its contents about, Kitty closed it.
"Try the next," suggested Craige. The second drawer proved equally
unproductive of result, and it was with growing discouragement that
they went through the next three and found them also uninteresting. On
pulling out the last drawer Kitty found it arranged as a writing desk.
"I have seen this kind before," Rodgers felt along the front of the
drawer; there was a faint click and the front woodwork swung aside,
disclosing an inside drawer.
Kitty slipped the key she was carrying into the lock. It turned with a
slight squeaking sound, showing the need of oil, and Kitty drew open
the drawer. Inside it lay another brass key also tagged.
"What does it say?" she asked as Rodgers picked it up.
He read:
This key unlocks the lower left hand drawer of the sideboard in the
dining room.
"Is that your aunt's handwriting?"
"Yes." Kitty looked as mystified as she felt. "Shall we go downstairs
and look in the sideboard?"
"Of course." As he spoke, Craige started for the door. It took them
but a few minutes to reach the dining room, and it was with a sense of
rising excitement that Kitty unlocked the "lower left hand drawer" of
the sideboard.
"Good gracious! Another key!" she gasped, and held it up so that both
men could read the tag tied to it.
The message ran:
This key unlocks the linen trunk in the attic.
"Upon my word your aunt outdid herself!" exclaimed Craige. "Come,
Kitty, as long as we have started this investigation, we must complete
it."
Not having anticipated having to return to the top of the house,
Rodgers had carefully put out all the lights, and relighting the gas
jets delayed them somewhat. Kitty's candle had almost burned itself out
when they entered the cold and unfriendly attic. No gas pipes had been
placed there, and Rodgers was thankful that his electric torch, which
he carried when motoring at night, was in his pocket. By its rays Kitty
recognized the old-fashioned brass-bound hair trunk in which her aunt
had kept some precious pieces of hand woven linen.
Crouching down on the floor with Rodgers holding his torch so that she
could see the best, Kitty turned the key in the lock and threw back the
lid of the trunk. On the spotless white linen lay a small brass key
with a tag twice its size. The message it bore read:
This key unlocks the case of the Gila monster.
"The case of the Gila monster," repeated Rodgers. "What did your aunt
mean?"
"I know!" Kitty clapped her hands. "Ben Potter spent the summer with
Aunt Susan two years ago and he left one of his cases here. It contains
the plaster cast of a Gila monster."
"And where is the case?" asked Craige.
"In the library."
"Then let us go there at once. You will catch cold up in this icy
place, Kitty." Observing that she was shivering, Craige closed the
trunk with a resounding bang, drew out the key, and preceded them out
of the attic.
Back in the library again, Kitty walked over to a Japanese screen,
which cut off one corner of the room, and pushing it aside, disclosed a
low oak case on which rested a glass box. Inside the box lay the cast
of a Gila monster. The poisonous lizard looked so alive that Rodgers
was startled for a moment. Bending closer, he viewed its wedge-shaped
head and black and yellow mottled body with deep interest.
"So that is the end of our search!" Kitty laughed ruefully. "Aunt Susan
had a remarkable sense of humor."
"Wait a bit," exclaimed Rodgers. "Why not unlock the case?"
"If you wish--" Kitty inserted the key in the lock and pulled down the
glass door of the box, and she and her companions stared silently at
the monster. Suddenly, Rodgers leaned forward and picked up the plaster
cast. An exclamation broke from Craige.
"Papers at last!" he shouted. "Look, Kitty--Rodgers--" and as Rodgers
removed the cast entirely out of the glass case, they saw that a part
of the flooring of the box, which was built to resemble a sandy desert,
came with the lizard, leaving a cavity, or false bottom, in which lay
some documents. Gathering them up, Craige walked over to the nearest
lamp and drawing up a chair sat down.
"With your permission, Kitty," he said. "These papers are not
sealed--shall I open them?"
"Certainly."
Craige pulled out a short half sheet of foolscap from the first
envelope and read its contents aloud:
Know all present that I, Susan Baird, spinster, of Washington, D. C.,
being of sound mind, do give and devise to my niece, Katrina Baird,
all I may die possessed of, real or personal property. This is a
special bequest in view of her efforts to support me.
A list of my property and a key to my safe deposit boxes in the bank,
certificates of ownership, etc., are placed here with this, my last
will and testament.
Signed in the presence of:
Josiah Wilkins, Martha Hammond, and James Duncan, June 20, 1918.
Susan Baird.
Kitty and Rodgers stared at each other as Craige, laying aside the
will, rapidly opened the three other documents and examined them. Kitty
drew a long, long breath.
"So I get the old house after all," she said softly.
"You get far more than that, Kitty," Craige laid down the documents.
"From these statements and certificates I find that your aunt owned
many valuable stocks and bonds." He looked at the surprised girl for a
moment, then added: "She has left you a fortune."