Wolf in Man's Clothing: A Sarah Keate Mystery (17 page)

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.