MOUCHETTE, THE SEVEN-TOED
When Nina Potter re�ntered the library a few minutes later she found
Charles Craige playing with the Angora cat, Mouchette. With a word of
greeting she moved over to the fire and held out her hands before the
blaze. Craige, who had risen at sight of her, observed her effort to
avoid his gaze.
"I feel chilled," she confessed, and a shiver shook her from head to
foot.
"You have a bad cold," Craige remarked. "Was it wise to linger in the
garden--?"
Nina, intent on her own thoughts, never noticed the gravity of his
manner.
"Perhaps not," she admitted absently. "I should have remembered my
coat. Where is Kitty?"
"Upstairs, I imagine. Your husband went to find her."
"Ben!" Nina whirled around. "Ben--here?"
"Look out, you will scorch yourself," Craige stepped hastily toward
her. "Don't stand so near the fire."
"I am in no danger--" but Nina drew away from the fireplace with a
paler face. "How long have you been in the library, Mr. Craige?"
"About ten minutes."
"Was Ben here with you?"
"I found him here when I arrived. Do sit down, Mrs. Potter, you look
utterly fagged," and Craige wheeled forward a chair. As she still
remained standing he started to remonstrate, but the words died on his
lips as Kitty came into the room, followed by Ben Potter.
"Thank heaven you are here," she cried, running to her godfather's
side. "You will bring Ben to his senses."
Potter walked up to them, his eyes ablaze with anger. "I've told her a
few plain truths," he stated. His truculent manner made anything but an
agreeable impression on Craige, who viewed him with contempt. He had no
use for bullies.
"Stop shouting, Ben," he remarked cuttingly. "You forget you are
addressing your cousin and your wife."
Nina moved slightly to one side and looked at her husband. Upon
his entrance she had shrunk behind Craige. The movement had been
instinctive.
"Why are you so excited, dear?" she asked, timidly.
Potter avoided her gaze and addressed Craige. "I'm tired of
mysteries," he declared. "First, Cousin Susan is murdered, brutally
murdered, poor old lady; then my friend, Ted Rodgers, is shot while
driving in his own car with Kitty--and Kitty's revolver, with one
chamber discharged, is found in the car. Damn it!" His teeth clenched
together. "It's time the police took action."
"We will, never worry--" Inspector Mitchell, who had been an interested
spectator of the scene from the doorway, stepped inside the library,
his face set and stern. "Allow me to conduct this investigation in my
own way, Mr. Potter. Stand aside, sir." He turned to address some one
in the hall. "Welsh, go tell Major Wallace that he will find Miss Baird
here and not in the parlor."
"Wallace!" Potter faced about. "Is he still hanging around here? Why
don't you throw him out?"
"Major Wallace has a perfect right to come here if he wishes to." Kitty
spoke with warmth. "How dare you, Ben, dictate who shall call here and
who shall not? This is my house."
"Is it?" Potter had lashed himself into a fury--a fury apparently
intensified by the arrival of Leigh Wallace, for he turned and shook
his fist at the young officer. "As your nearest of kin, Kitty, I
insist that your aunt's wishes be carried out and that you shall not
receive Wallace again. She knew what character of man he is--and that
knowledge was the cause of her death."
Craige stepped forward. "Are you aware of what you are saying, Ben?" he
asked. "That you virtually accuse Major Wallace of killing Miss Susan
Baird?"
"Sure." Potter laughed recklessly. "Miss Baird had proof of his
treachery--"
"Treachery? To whom?" Craige's hand on Kitty's shoulder warned her to
be silent as he shot his questions at the distraught naturalist.
"To Kitty--playing fast and loose with her affections, and holding
clandestine meetings with--" Potter licked his dry mouth, while his
eyes, inflamed with hate, rested on Wallace's white face, "with my
wife."
"You lie!" The denial rang out clearly. Only Inspector Mitchell's
powerful arm prevented Wallace from springing on Potter. "You d--mn
scoundrel, to blacken your wife's name."
"Stop! Stop!" Nina Potter wrung her hands. "You are both mad!"
"This scene has gone far enough!" Craige spoke with authority. His
calmness brought some comfort to Kitty--they were not all losing their
heads! "Quiet, Potter. Now, Mitchell, what have you to say?"
Inspector Mitchell surveyed the small circle with critical eyes. He
noted Nina Potter, standing white-faced and terror-stricken, her gaze
riveted on her infuriated husband. Kitty, bewilderment struggling with
dawning horror as she stared at her cousin and his young wife and then
at Wallace, had sunk down on the nearest chair. Wallace, his eyes
downcast, stood swaying on his feet. Mitchell glanced at Craige and
pointed slightly to Wallace. It was plain to both men that the young
officer had been drinking.
"Suppose we sit down," Mitchell indicated the chairs about the tea
table, and taking their consent for granted, deliberately seated
himself. With some hesitancy, Potter followed his example and Wallace
did so mechanically. Nina Potter, her feet dragging as she stumbled
nearer, half fell into an armchair and Craige took the vacant one by
Kitty's side.
"Draw up," Mitchell directed. "I will lay my cards on the table--and
then, Mr. Potter," as the naturalist started to speak, "we'll hear what
you have to say. Until then, keep quiet."
Mitchell spoke in a tone which commanded respect and Potter sullenly
obeyed him. The silence remained unbroken for a tense moment, then the
porti�res were drawn aside and Welsh, the plain clothes detective,
stuck his head inside the library.
"Mrs. Parsons," he announced, and drew back to let her enter.
Half way across the library the pretty widow paused and inspected the
company assembled around the tea table in astonishment.
"My dear Kitty," she said, dropping her lorgnette. "I stopped only for
a minute," she hesitated. "I fear I am _de trop_," and she turned to
leave.
"Not a bit of it." Mitchell spoke so quickly that Kitty, who had risen,
had no opportunity to answer Mrs. Parsons. The instinct of courtesy
gained ascendancy over her perturbed spirit, and she offered her chair
to the pretty widow. "Join us here, Mrs. Parsons," added Mitchell. "We
want your advice."
Mrs. Parsons' smile was charming, but her eyes were keenly alert as
she moved forward, searching each face for a clue to the scene which
she felt she had interrupted. Not observing where she was going, she
stepped on something soft. A loud wail from Mouchette caused her to
start convulsively, and the Angora cat, switching her injured tail,
back and forth, sprang on Kitty's vacant chair and from there to the
tea table.
"That cat is always under my feet, horrid beast!" Mrs. Parsons,
conscious of appearing ridiculous, for Wallace had not restrained a
chuckle, spoke with irritation.
"Let me help you," and Craige, who with the other men had risen on the
widow's entrance, assisted her in removing her wrap.
Mrs. Parsons presented an alluring picture in her chic cr�pe de
Chine calling costume, its soft folds showing her graceful figure to
advantage. Mrs. Parsons, with reason, was vain of her neck and arms
and generally wore elbow sleeves and square cut neck. She was making a
round of visits, and as she removed her long white gloves, she laid her
gold card case and mesh bag before her on the tea table.
Mouchette eyed them for a second and then put out an inquisitive paw.
Mrs. Parsons promptly drew both bag and card case out of the cat's
reach. Craige, who missed nothing the widow either said or did, lifted
Mouchette off the table and held her on his knee. He was aware of Mrs.
Parsons' fear of cats. Mouchette submitted to his petting with good
grace and much purring, and finally curled up in his lap, but her
yellow eyes never ceased watching Mrs. Parsons.
"Is this a s�ance?" asked Mrs. Parsons as the silence continued. "If
not," her eyebrows lifted, "why are we sitting around this table?"
"We are waiting for Inspector Mitchell to, as he expressed it, 'lay
his cards on the table,'" Potter spoke with a sneer. "In other words,
Cecelia, you are in at the death."
Mrs. Parsons' slight start was lost on all but Craige.
"Drop the melodrama, Ben," he said. "We prefer to listen to Inspector
Mitchell and not to you. Go on, Inspector."
But the Inspector was doomed to another interruption, for as he hitched
his chair closer to Nina Potter, the sound of footsteps in the gallery
circling the library drew all eyes upward. With the aid of his nurse,
Ted Rodgers was making his way down the gallery steps with faltering
speed.
"Don't any one rise," he begged, as they started to their feet. Kitty
was the first to reach his side.
"Ted, is this wise, dear?" she asked, making no attempt to conceal her
anxiety. "How could you let him get up, Miss Gray?"
"She couldn't help herself." Rodgers gently but firmly disengaged his
hand from Kitty's tender clasp. "Go and sit down, dear; I'll take this
chair."
Miss Gray aided him in pulling out the throne-shaped chair. By tacit
consent the others had avoided sitting in it. As Rodgers sank back,
the bandage on his head showed up plainly. Leigh Wallace transferred
his gaze elsewhere. Vividly before him had loomed the memory of Miss
Susan lying dead in her throne-shaped chair on Monday morning. Rodgers'
complexion matched the dead woman's in pallor. His exertions had made
him deadly faint and it was some seconds before he could gather his
strength to speak with clearness.
"Don't wait, Miss Gray," he said courteously. "They will call you if
I need your aid. Thank you." Then as the nurse withdrew, he turned to
Inspector Mitchell. "Well, what news?"
"Miss Baird," Mitchell cleared his throat and pointed to a typewritten
manuscript which he had lain before him on the table just as Rodgers
joined them. "You quarreled with your aunt on Sunday--"
"We had an argument, I admit--" Kitty rubbed one nervous hand over the
other--they were both cold.
"It was more than an argument--it was a quarrel, and about Major Leigh
Wallace," Mitchell's manner was dictatorial. "Don't contradict me,
madam, I know."
"Well, what else do you know?" demanded Craige, losing patience.
"What's that document you have there, Mitchell?"
"All in good time, sir." Mitchell's smile was tantalizing. "You went
out of here, Miss Baird, in a rage, because your aunt had ordered you
not to return. Can you deny it?"
"N--no."
"Stop a moment," Craige held up his hand. "You are not obliged to
answer these questions, Kitty, except in a law court. Don't overstep
your authority, Mitchell."
Mitchell's only answer was to shrug his heavy shoulders, and look
across the table at Kitty. "Miss Baird," he began. "You purchased some
peaches for Mrs. Parsons on Saturday--"
She looked at him dumbly. Then at Mrs. Parsons, who gazed back at her
in silent astonishment. "I bought some fruit for her on Saturday," she
admitted. "But if there were any peaches in the basket, they were there
unknown to me."
Mitchell smiled significantly. "Pretty thin," he commented, and glanced
over at Craige, before again addressing her. "You stopped to see Mrs.
Parsons on Sunday morning, Miss Baird--and you brought those peaches
home to your aunt."
"I did not!" Kitty's voice rang out clearly. "I was at Mrs. Parsons'
for a few minutes on Sunday on my way from church--"
"With Major Wallace?"
Kitty changed color. "Yes."
"And Major Wallace went into the house with you?"
Kitty paused in uncertainty and her eyes sought Wallace. He sat lolling
back in his chair, his air of indifference plainly assumed as his
restless fingers played with the catch of Mrs. Parsons' gold mesh bag.
"I went upstairs to see Mrs. Parsons," she explained. "I left Major
Wallace standing in the vestibule--"
"And the front door open--" Mitchell broke in rudely. He turned to Mrs.
Parsons. "Your house is an English basement, with the drawing room on
the second floor. Where is your dining room?"
"On the first floor." Mrs. Parsons had been following the dialogue with
unwavering attention. At her answer Mitchell nodded his head with an
air of triumph.
"I'll amend my statement, Miss Baird," he said. "You did not carry
those peaches home to your aunt, but Major Wallace did--when he called
here to see her alone on Sunday afternoon."
Wallace's air of indifference dropped from him and he swung to his
feet, his hands clenched. "You're a damned liar!" he shouted.
"Shouting won't help matters," Mitchell remarked. "For I have the
goods on you." He tapped the papers in front of him. "Here is the
sworn testimony of Mrs. Murray, who saw you enter this house on Sunday
afternoon with a paper package under your arm, and when you left you
carried no package and were so agitated that you weren't even conscious
of bumping into Mrs. Murray as you hurried down the street toward
Washington."
Wallace stared at the Inspector and then at the others, but always his
eyes passed over Nina Potter, sitting huddled in her chair, her eyes
upraised in mute pleading.
"Well," his voice was hoarse--discordant. "What if I did bring some
peaches to Miss Susan as a 'peace offering?'" His lips twitched into a
ghastly smile. "It doesn't follow that I murdered her."
"No--?" Mitchell's tone expressed incredulity. "That's for the jury
to decide." He looked across at Kitty. "You I charge with being an
accessory to the crime."
Charles Craige was the first to speak. "You bring a serious charge
against my godchild," he said sternly. "I demand your proof."
Mitchell turned slightly to address the man on his left. "How about it,
Mr. Potter?" he asked.
Potter seemed to have some difficulty in speaking, for a moment elapsed
before he answered.
"Kitty spent Sunday night with us," he began. "I came home late, having
been detained at my club, and was surprised to see Kitty walk out of my
apartment house and jump into Major Wallace's car--"
He got no further. Kitty was on her feet, her face scarlet.
"You saw me?" she cried. "Me!"
"Yes," meeting her gaze unwaveringly. "I recognized your red coat." He
paused, then added slowly, "I followed you to Georgetown and saw you
enter this house--"
Kitty dropped back in her chair as if shot. Her eyes wandered from
Nina Potter, sitting with head averted, to Wallace, who stared straight
in front of him, and then to Ted Rodgers, who sat with closed eyes, his
head resting against the high back of the throne-shaped chair. No one
broke the tense silence and after a brief pause Mitchell spoke.
"You got your aunt's fortune, Miss Baird--and then you got cold feet--"
he paused dramatically. "There was one man who suspected you, and so
you tried to do away with him. I found your revolver, with one chamber
discharged in the bottom of Mr. Rodgers' car--"
"So I have heard," Kitty's fighting spirit was coming to her aid. It
had conquered her feeling of deadly faintness, and she faced them,
white-lipped but with blazing eyes. "And who was with you, Inspector,
when you made that discovery?"
"My chauffeur and Mr. Potter."
"Is that so?" Kitty's smile was peculiar as she glanced at her cousin.
"Has it occurred to you that it may be manufactured evidence?"
Mitchell looked at her in astonishment. "Are you accusing your cousin
of lying?"
"He is accusing me of a far more despicable crime," she retorted. "Of
wilfully aiding in the murder of my aunt, of trying to kill the man
whom, last night, I promised to marry--" she faced them proudly, her
heart beating with suffocating rapidity. Why, why had not Ted Rodgers
spoken in her defense? "Mr. Rodgers," she went on, after an almost
imperceptible pause, "was shot by a person riding in a car which passed
us when we were driving in Rock Creek Park last night. When I left
this house with Mr. Rodgers, my revolver was upstairs in the drawer
of my desk--" Again she paused, finding speech difficult--her throat
felt parched and dry. "Upon my return I found not only you waiting for
me, Inspector Mitchell, but Mr. Potter. My cousin knew where I kept
my revolver; it was no secret. He could easily have slipped upstairs
during the confusion of getting Mr. Rodgers to bed and sending for a
nurse and doctor, secured my revolver and, unknown to you, dropped it
in Mr. Rodgers' car--for the purpose of incriminating me."
"And Mr. Potter's object in doing that?" questioned Mitchell, as she
came to a breathless pause.
"Ask him--" and Kitty pointed to her cousin, who had half risen, then
dropped back in his chair. Mitchell stared at them both for a second,
then faced the throne-shaped chair.
"Can you tell us who shot you, Mr. Rodgers?" he
Rodgers opened his eyes and faced their concentrated attention.
"Miss Baird," he commenced, and Kitty almost cried out at the formality
of his address, "has told you how the revolver might have been
'planted' in my car to incriminate her. To be exact it was thrown into
the car by the person who shot me, and with it a handkerchief." He
fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a piece of linen, bloodstained and
torn. "You bound my head, did you not, before you started to drive me
home?" turning to Kitty.
"Yes."
"My nurse--" Rodgers was speaking more clearly, "showed me the
handkerchiefs which Dr. McLean had removed to put on a proper bandage,"
touching his head. "Look at that handkerchief, Mitchell--and tell us
what you see."
Mitchell spread out the costly linen so that all could view it.
"A woman's handkerchief," he remarked. "There's an initial in the
corner--the letter--" holding it closer--"the letter 'P.'" In the
utter stillness that followed he laid down the handkerchief. "'P,'" he
repeated musingly--"Potter."
A cry escaped Nina Potter and she shrank back in her chair, her face
buried in her hands, shaking from head to foot. "Not that," she gasped.
"Not that!"
Ted Rodgers bent forward. "'P' stands as well for 'Parsons,'" he
commented, and got no further.
"Yo'se done said it!" gasped a voice behind them, and Oscar,
perspiration trickling down his black face, came forward, his arm
tightly clutched by Welsh, the plain clothes' detective. "Dar's de
woman who done up ole Miss," shaking his fist in Mrs. Parsons' face. "I
see'd her acreepin' away from here on Monday mawnin,' an'--"
"You--you--Oscar!" Mrs. Parsons' voice rose and cracked. Again she
tried to speak in her natural tones--"Oscar!"
Kitty cried out--a chord of memory had been touched--
"It was you I heard trying to bribe Oscar!" she exclaimed. "You!"
Mrs. Parsons turned with livid face to Charles Craige.
"Charles--they--she--stop her!" She reeled backward and Craige,
awakening from his stupor, flung Mouchette toward Kitty and reached
forward to catch Mrs. Parsons as she swayed dangerously near the edge
of her chair.
The Angora cat, roused suddenly from her sleep, missed Kitty by the
fraction of an inch and alighted in Mrs. Parsons' lap. As the terrified
woman attempted to throw her down, the cat sank her claws into her bare
arm, tearing the delicate flesh with gash after gash.
The men sprang to Mrs. Parsons' aid, but too late. Her screams gave
place to a gurgling cry and she sank back a dead weight. Mitchell,
kneeling by her side, stared at her convulsed features in horror as
his hand went to her wrist.
"By God! She's dead!" he gasped in awe. His glance traveled downward.
"Look--look at the cat!" His shaking finger pointed to where Mouchette
sat licking first one paw and then the other. A streak of blood was
flowing from where she had gashed herself in her fury. Suddenly they
saw the cat stiffen, throw back her head convulsively, roll over and
lie still.
A clicking sound caused Inspector Mitchell to whirl around in time to
see a pair of handcuffs dangling from Charles Craige's wrists.
"What--what?" he gasped.
"Charles Craige--murderer of Miss Susan Baird," explained Rodgers.
"Don't move," and a revolver rested dangerously near Craige's heart.
"Open your hand." The command was accompanied by a threatening movement
of the revolver.
Slowly, very slowly Craige did as he was told. A small rubber bulb
syringe dropped to the floor.
"Don't touch it," Rodgers cried sharply, as Mitchell bent down. "It is
filled with the poison which Craige sprayed on the cat's paw--and thus
killed Cecelia Parsons, his fianc�e."