Wolf in Man's Clothing: A Sarah Keate Mystery (23 page)

And it was equally conceivable that the little I knew might later, in some way, clear Drue or another innocent person, rather than convict anyone.

So I wrote it quickly, a bare statement of facts about the hypodermic—
not the medicine box,
for that was still Drue’s secret—put it in an envelope, and, as I didn’t know what else to do with it, I pinned that too to the under side of my uniform, just below a pocket so it didn’t show, and patted it down flat. Although, as to that, mine is not exactly the kind of figure which reveals an extra bulge or two.

Even then, however, I didn’t go to Drue. I had nothing to tell her, nothing at all to offer that would give her support, except my affection for her and she knew she had that.

Besides, I’d have had to ask her again about the medicine box.

But I was beginning to be thankful for the trooper on guard at her door. Whatever the intention was, the result must be a degree of safety for Drue. After that twilight moment or two down in the meadow, a queer and horrible
unsafeness
was everywhere in that house, among the shadows of driveway and garden, across the stretch of lawns, around every corner. Even the encircling, shadowy hills seemed to know it and wait and watch.

I went first in search of Anna’s room. The narrow hall that crossed the main corridor near the stairway led to the back of the house and I turned into it, passed the entrance to some rather steep back stairs, turned again and brought up in a wing that was obviously the servants’ wing. I walked along, passing one or two open doors beyond which Anna obviously was not, and came to a closed one.

And just as I knocked someone inside the room spoke. It was a murmur, further muffled by my knock, but it sounded masculine. And it stopped abruptly at the sound of my knuckles on the door.

But it was Anna’s room; for, after a longish pause, I knocked again and then Anna said quaveringly, “Is that you, Gertrude? I—I’m asleep.”

“It’s Miss Keate. I want to see you.”

There was another sudden silence on the other side of the door. This time however there was a quality of consternation about it. Anna was not the type for tender dalliance; I didn’t even think of that. But I didn’t imagine the consternation either for it was plain in Anna’s voice when she said suddenly, almost at the keyhole, breathlessly, “I—I’m all right now. I’m not upset any more.”

And when I insisted, she just kept repeating it, “I’m all right. Thank you, Nurse. There’s nothing wrong—nothing wrong …” with her voice growing thinner and more frightened at every word. It was exactly as if whoever was there with her, and had stopped talking when I knocked, was standing beside her holding a club over her head.

But it wasn’t really till sometime the next morning that they found the other yellow glove, bloodstained and stiff, hidden under the mattress in Anna’s room. And by that time it was impossible to question her.

W
ELL, LUCKILY IN A
way, I didn’t yet know about that. And I couldn’t break down the door to Anna’s room and I couldn’t see through hard pine.

I said, “Open the door, Anna. Beevens said you were ill. I’d like to get some medicine for you.”

“Thank you, Miss Keate. No, I’m all right now.” There was another slight pause, and she added, “I don’t need medicine, thank you. I don’t need anything.”

So in the end I was obliged to retire to the end of the hall, loudly, and return on tiptoe to the open door of a room opposite Anna’s. But after five minutes no one had emerged and there was no further sound of a (possibly) masculine voice from behind the closed door on which my eyes were glued. I was eyeing the keyhole thoughtfully and, indeed, had tiptoed nearer and was bending over (merely to see if a key was in it; as there was) when I heard footsteps behind me and straightened and whirled around and it was Beevens.

Who said “Ah” and coughed, giving me a chance to pull myself together. Not that I needed it; I said “Yes, Beevens?” as calmly as if keyhole investigation were my everyday and normal activity.

“Dear, dear, dear,” observed Beevens, and again coughed and choked and choked and coughed so wildly that I saw that he was agitatedly concerned with something else and possibly had scarcely noted my posture and pursuit. His eyes were bulging and his throat palpitated like a fish’s gills, quite noticeably, above the little white wings of his collar.

Craig wanted me—at once, quickly, he said.

Not even by a look did he question my presence just where I was and where I had no business to be. There was silence in Anna’s room. So I followed Beevens back to Craig’s room and Craig was waiting impatiently, watching the door, harassing the folds of blanket and coverlet across him with nervous fingers.

“There you are,” he said. “Come in. That’s all, Beevens. Shut the door.”

Beevens hesitated. “If you please, Mr. Craig …” He looked uneasy but determined—so determined that it checked Craig’s impatience.

“What is it, Beevens?”

The butler cleared his throat and came nearer the bed. “Two things, really, Mr. Craig. I’ve been in some doubt, but I—if you feel quite able …” He glanced anxiously at me as if for my permission and Craig said quickly, “Yes, of course. What is it?” Beevens swallowed. “A large blue vase has disappeared from the hall.”

Craig frowned, his eyes perplexed. Beevens said, “No one knows anything about its disappearance.”

After a moment Craig said: “What else?”

The other item Beevens had to relay was more serious. “It’s a question of alibis, sir,” he said. “Mr. Nicky told the police he spent two hours this afternoon in the morning room; he said he didn’t leave the room at all—during the time Dr. Chivery was killed. And Gertrude—the housemaid—saw him there twice.”

“Well, go on.”

“But he did leave, sir. I saw him.”

Craig sat up abruptly. “You saw him! When? Where?”

Beevens looked quickly over his shoulder and lowered his voice still further. “He went out the side door, sir. Walking toward the garage. I thought nothing of it, naturally. Until the police …”

“What time?”

Beevens swallowed hard. “Not more than half an hour before the nurse found Dr. Chivery and reached us with the news. Scarcely half an hour, as a matter of fact.”

There was another silence. Beevens’ intelligent blue eyes watched Craig and reserved conclusions. And I thought, was it Nicky then in the meadow? But Claud Chivery had been dead for some time when I found him. Then why, if it was Nicky, had he lingered? Or had he returned for something? The glove? The knife?

Craig said, “Are you sure it was Nicky?”

Beevens permitted himself a slight shrug. “I saw him walking toward the garage and thus toward the meadow. Besides, I couldn’t mistake his checked coat; I was looking out the pantry window. But I didn’t see him return. I was busy then in the dining room; he could have returned by the door just opposite the back stairs, gone upstairs and then down again by the front stairs. There’s no doubt he had returned by the time the nurse reached the house.” He paused. “Shall I tell the police, sir? I heard them question him and he definitely did not admit his absence from the house.”

“Yes …” said Craig, and changed his mind. “No! No—I’ll tell them. Is that all, Beevens?”

It was apparently all. But after Beevens had gone, closing the door carefully behind him, Craig lay for a moment in thoughtful silence; he looked perplexed—but there was something else in his eyes, as if Beevens’ story had given him the barest glimpse of some new idea. Well, Nicky had been one of my choice suspects all along. And there’s no doubt there was something queerly feral and inhuman in his very grace and lightness, as if behind his pointed face a graceful jungle beast might well inhabit.

Craig finally shook his head in an impatient and perplexed way and looked at me. “See here, Miss Keate, I’ve been thinking. You’re fond of Drue, aren’t you? Never mind answering, I’ve got eyes. Well, then …” He paused, his gaze plunging deeply into my own as if to test some quality within me. “Look here,” he said. “I’ve got to trust you. You’re pretty discreet—aren’t you?”

I lifted my eyebrows and nose and he said, “Oh, yes, I know, but this is murder …”

“My dear young man,” I said. “I have been a nurse since you were in rompers. The exigencies of my career have not failed to include a brush or two with the law.”

“Oh,” he said and looked at me speculatively for a moment. I did not see fit to explain, however, for one reason, the memories induced were a little unnerving, particularly just then and in that murder-ridden house. And for another reason, what is past is past and usually a good thing. So I merely waited in silence and presently he frowned and said, “I know. But it’s not me or you that’s in danger. It’s Drue.”

And at that, though it was not a new thought, I sat down on my patient’s bed for the first time in my professional career. “
What do you mean? What new …
?”

“Oh, it isn’t new! I guess I’ll have to tell you. You’re her friend. It—well, what I want you to undertake, Miss Keate, is a little second-story job.”

I digested that for an instant. “Exactly what do you want me to steal?”

His eyes were very intent; he put his hand tight and hard on mine as if to compel my understanding. “This is important, Miss Keate. It means everything to her. If they get hold of material evidence against her …”

“All right. Tell me quickly.”

He was still reluctant to share the thing with me. “If I could only do it myself. I’ll be up tomorrow. I
must
be. I tried to get up just now, while you were out of the room. Beevens helped me. It was no good.”

“Don’t be a fool,” I said hotly. “Do you want to work up a fancy temperature?”

“I’ve got about as much strength as a kitten,” he said angrily. “It’s a hypodermic, Miss Keate. It’s Drue’s hypodermic syringe.”

“Oh …” I said a little weakly.

“You see, Alexia’s got it. She is sure it belongs to Drue. She found it somewhere …”

“Never mind—I know …”

“You know!”

“I put it there. In the fern.”

He started abruptly upright, clasped his free hand quickly over his wounded shoulder and cried, “You, for God’s sake! Why?”

“Never mind that either; I thought I was doing the right thing. Where does Alexia keep it?”

But he lay there staring at me. “She didn’t tell me you had put it there,” he said, and muttered something which sounded more or less profane. Then he said more sensibly, “Do you know what happened? Why did you hide it? Did Drue really give my father the hypodermic?”

“Yes, she did,” I said, sighing and very cross. “But she didn’t kill him with it. I’ll tell you anything I know later. But I think everybody but Maud is downstairs now. If I’m to search Alexia’s room I’d better do it quickly.”

He was still anxious and frowning but agreed with me at once. “Right. You’ll have to hurry. Look in her dressing room, and in the cupboard in her bathroom. Then also, there is a kind of cupboard built into the wall beside her bed. You’ll see. She says she puts jewelry and stuff in there when she doesn’t want to bother to put them in the safe. Look there. Look …” He moved restlessly and impatiently. “If only I could go! I suppose there’s not a chance of your finding it. There’s no telling where she’s put it and it’s so little …”

I was on my feet. “When did Alexia tell you this? How long have you known?”

A subtle change came over his face; his mouth tightened a little, his lean jaw hardened; his eyes went past me and looked very remote and uncommunicative. “Not very long,” he said. “She wouldn’t tell me where she kept it. You’d better go. It’s the second door to the left across the hall. I hate to ask you to do this …”

I didn’t tell him I only wanted the chance. I went at once to Alexia’s room and the trooper was the only person in the long, wide corridor and he was away down near Drue’s room with his back turned toward me and thus didn’t see me.

But I didn’t find the hypodermic. I found Alexia’s room with no trouble and I searched it, and her tiny, luxurious dressing room as quickly as I could; and, while I don’t happen to have the underworld training really requisite for such a task, still I do have a native aptitude for thoroughness. Indeed, the cool way I went through that glittering little dressing room confirmed a kind of impression I’ve had from time to time in a perfectly law-abiding life that I’d chosen the wrong era and sex to be born in and of. I mean, well, I wouldn’t have been a successful courtesan but, after all, there were pirates.

I felt it even more so when, giving up the dressing room and going back into the beige and rose bedroom with its deep rugs and great leopard-skin hassocks and huge sheets of mirrors, I went directly to the little bookshelf and found the cupboard. And found not the syringe but something else and that was a little cluster of checks made out to Frederic Miller.

There were three of them, for five thousand dollars each, signed by Conrad Brent, dated in July, September and October of 1938. They were canceled and endorsed “Frederic Miller” in an ornate and curly handwriting and pinned together with a little steel pin. They were lying flat, under a soft suede case, the kind you use for jewelry when traveling.

The multitudinous nurses reflected in the mirrors (all in white, all inclined toward embonpoint, all with great wads of red hair and white caps which were in every case a little crooked) gave a simultaneous and rather theatrical start.

There was no shadowy pirate forebear standing behind each one of them, but there might well have been for, after only a few seconds meditation, I took the checks, adding them to my already substantial little hoard of clues. I’d have to tell Nugent. But I’d tell Craig first.

I didn’t go then into the intricacies of explaining to Nugent how I’d got hold of the checks. And perhaps five minutes later I had to give up; it seemed more like an hour what with watching the door with one eye, looking for the syringe with the other, and listening with both ears in case someone came—which sounds involved but wasn’t and had no really permanent effect upon my eyesight.

When I heard voices somewhere in the distance I thought I’d better give up. I ducked out of Alexia’s room and into my patient’s room as Alexia emerged at the head of the stairs and was followed by Peter Huber.