The Cat Wears a Mask

by Dolores Hitchens

  Miss Rachel went to the door, opened it a crack, looked out on the gallery. The bracket lamp beside the arch shone on the glassy tiles with a yellowish glow. Beyond, in the dark, was the tossing greenery of the garden. There was no sign of Ilene Taggart. Miss Rachel pulled the door wider. Behind her Jennifer cried, “Rachel! Don’t you dare!”

  Jennifer’s tone was the final-ultimatum one she used for paper boys who didn’t hit the doorstep and butchers who weighed their thumbs under the chops. Regretfully, Miss Rachel shut the door.

  “What shall I do, then? Stand and twiddle my thumbs until she comes?”

  Jennifer said, “Sit on the edge of the bed and explain this Kachina business.”

  Miss Rachel sat down, took her cat into her lap, and stroked the silky black ears. Samantha purred with the effect of a motor running somewhere inside her. “As I understand the Hopi belief, the Kachinas are returning spirits—not precisely what we think of as ghosts, but more in the way of familiar, all-knowing, and beneficent minor gods. Each has his special kind of guardianship: crops, health, some phase of family life—”

  “Yes, I read something of that in the book I had in the kitchen, and Zia explained more of it. I’m speaking of the letters.”

  Miss Rachel reached for her dress, took Hal Emerson’s Kachina letter from its pocket. “All these people have lived in Arizona or New Mexico most of their lives—they all knew of the Indian legends, the Kachina myth and its meaning. The name was signed to these letters to put across the idea that the writer was a mysteriously well-informed checker-upper.”

  “I’m sure there’s no such word as checker-upper, Rachel.”

  “But you do know what I mean,” Miss Rachel pointed out.

  “That doesn’t excuse the mutilation of the language. You’re much too quick at picking up these colloquialisms.”

  “Probably I inherit the trait from Mother’s people. They were all on the stage, more or less—”

  “Aunt Lily used a kind of runway,” Jennifer sniffed disparagingly.

  “She had lovely legs.”

  “And no reticence about showing them. Thank goodness that Father, in his kindly respectability, kept Mother from associating much with her family after they were married—”

  Miss Jennifer stopped, sat up with a jerk, put a hand on Miss Rachel’s with an effect of caution. “Someone’s turning our doorknob!”

  Miss Rachel looked, found all of Jennifer’s alarm justified. The knob was turning—rather shakily and without any sound. “Miss Taggart,” she reassured Jennifer.

  “Miss Taggart would knock—she knows we’d let her in.”

  They waited. The only sounds were those of the cat’s purring and the running of water on the windows. The knob turned to its limit, then slipped back little by little to its original position. Now the knock came—an almost inaudible tapping.

  Jennifer whispered, “Don’t go!”

  “I must … it might be Miss Taggart after all, afraid to make any noise because someone’s following her, or something.” Miss Rachel slid over to the door, turned the key softly, let the panel drift in. They saw Gail, wrapped in a dark blue robe, her brown hair blown ragged and flecked with rain. She slipped inside, closed the door, and leaned against it.

  “You’re all right? You haven’t been disturbed?” Her eyes jumped from one to another. Perhaps she noted Miss Jennifer’s attitude of being huddled under the bedding. “Nothing’s frightened you?”

  Jennifer said nothing. Miss Rachel shook her head. “I’m not very easy to scare. What’s wrong?”

  “Zia is sharing my room with me. She was watching the lightning when she thought she caught a glimpse of something below. She’s very upset. I’ve never seen her like this … usually she’s most calm, almost stoic.” Gail again looked at Miss Jennifer. “I’m trying to check up, to find out if we’re all in our rooms and all right.”

  Samantha was rubbing her ankles. Gail lifted the cat, stroked it, watched them across the ruff of black fur.

  Miss Rachel explained. “Jennifer and I haven’t been out of the room since we all came upstairs. But Miss Taggart has gone for her gown, which she forgot to bring with her.”

  Gail’s eyes dropped to the cat. “When did she go?”

  “Somewhat after that big flash of lightning.” Miss Rachel was watching her sister; Jennifer wore a stubborn, evasive look and Miss Rachel decided that she wasn’t going to talk willingly about whatever it was that had scared her. “But Jennifer saw something in the courtyard—perhaps the same thing that Zia saw.”

  There was a blank moment of silence. Gail looked at Miss Jennifer, a glance that seemed afraid—afraid that Jennifer would tell the truth. It occurred to Miss Rachel in that instant that Gail must know what the object had been. Her hair was frosted with rain, tossed and tangled by the wind—far more than it should have been in simply walking the length of the gallery, checking on her guests. She touched her lips with her tongue, hesitated, asked finally, “What did you think it was?”

  “I have no idea what it was,” said Jennifer, retreating a trifle more under the bedding.

  “Was it … something Indian?”

  Jennifer wouldn’t look at either of them. “It may have been.”

  Gail didn’t ask any further questions, which seemed odd. She stood quietly, stroking the cat in her arms. “I suppose Dave’s idea that we should separate, go to our rooms, was a sound one. We needed the rest. But still, if we had stayed together …” She frowned, as if wondering how to finish what she wanted to say.

  “Do you mean that one of us is out prowling?” Miss Rachel asked. She was full of impatience, but she didn’t let this feeling show—it was obvious that something was going on and that Gail and Jennifer knew and were being secretive about it. Secretive and scared. Since Gail hadn’t answered, she went on to ask, “How many have you found safely in their rooms?”

  Gail’s glance twitched away, her face stiffening. “I haven’t investigated yet—I came here first.”

  “Is Pedro standing watch in the lower hall?”

  “I told him to put a cot there. When I looked at him a minute ago he was sound asleep.”

  “So that he wouldn’t notice what went on,” Miss Rachel pointed out.

  “He must be very tired … all the extra work, the excitement … I decided not to wake him.” She turned, and the tangled brown hair hid her face. “Isn’t it time Ilene was coming back?”

  “It seems to me she’s been gone much longer than she should be,” Miss Rachel decided.

  Jennifer said hastily, “Perhaps she stayed to have (a bath or something. As long as she’s in her room, she’ll be all right.”

  “We aren’t sure she’s in her room. I think Gail and I should go and see.”

  “Still trying to get out, Rachel—still trying to run down your little horrors! I won’t hear of it—”

  She broke off and her eyes popped wide. From outside, sounding far away, someone was screaming—a raggedy thin noise, half smothered in the mutterings of thunder. Gail dropped the cat, spun towards the door. Miss Rachel had snatched up a coat and turned the key, hurrying out to the gallery. The sound was louder now—strangling, half sobbing. It came from the black dripping well of the garden.

  Pedro was raising himself off the cot, mumbling and rubbing his eyes, as they rushed past. Gail paused by the door, clicked the switch that illuminated the under gallery, which threw a pale yellow glow into the fringes of greenery. The screams had died to whimpering.

  Gail’s hands crept together in the blue sleeves of her robe; she hung back, her look faltering. “The sound seemed over there, past the kitchen—down where the wall forms a corner, where the room is that—that Christine is in.”

  Miss Rachel had realized where the whimpering noise was; she asked quickly, “Do you have a flashlight down here?”

  “Si; señora.” Pedro loomed behind them, alert now, his black eyes wide under the tangled thatch of his hair. “I have the light. I will lead the way.” He we
nt past them with only a trace of hesitation, of squeamishness. They were close on his heels.

  The spot of light showed silver needles of rain, a drowned matting of green stuff, the walk that led past the kitchen entry to the space of wall beyond … and something huddled there, a black shape bent and trembling.

  Not until Miss Rachel caught sight of the sly little pink ribbons run through the black net, laced in the cuffs and belt of the black chiffon, did she realize who it was—Ilene, all dressed up in her brand-new gown and negligee. Looking quite distracted and almost pretty, and more feminine than Miss Rachel had imagined she could manage.

  Other steps pounded behind them. Hal Emerson, wearing his raincoat over a pair of gray pajamas, walked close, put his hands on Ilene’s shoulders, forced her to look up at him. “What is it? What happened here?”

  Ilene’s hair, loosened from the tight sleek knot in which she had kept it, swung below her shoulders as she turned her head. It was pretty, deeply waved hair; it softened her whole face, took away the hollow plainness, the prim timidity. Only the shape of her mouth, the startled eyes, showed fear. “The spirit,” she said hoarsely. “Christine’s spirit. I saw it.” She drew her lips back across her teeth, made the childishly whimpering noise again.

  He shook her gently. “Stop that. What are you talking about?”

  Bob Ryker came into the circle of light. His face was heavy, showed traces of beard; his eyes were reddened, as if he’d been drinking since going to his room. “Wait a minute. The door is open, isn’t it? Turn your light that way.” He reached for Pedro’s wrist; the round bright spot moved down the path to the room set into the corner of the wall.

  The door was open, swung inward a foot or more. Something dangled from the doorknob, a blotch of crimson draggled from the rain.

  Ryker walked to the door, put his hand out, took the crimson cluster of feathers in his palm. Then he stood quite still, looking through the opening into the room. Gail drew her breath, touched Miss Rachel’s elbow nervously.

  “Bring the light,” said Ryker loudly.

  Pedro moved forward, lagging more definitely now, the toe of one foot seeming to catch on the heel of the other.

  “She’s moved since I brought her here.” Ryker’s tone was uneven, shaken. “I folded her hands together on her breast.”

  Grubler was with them now, his white head towering above the others, his mouth tight and his eyes unbelieving. “What is this—a ghost hunt? What do you mean, she’s moved? Someone moved her, maybe.”

  Ryker turned from the doorway, covering his eyes. “Look, then, for yourselves.”

  Christine Ryker lay on a cot in the middle of the floor. A white covering had fallen from her, lay in a heap beside the cot. She still wore the bright red linen suit. The suit seemed more rumpled than before. There were mudstains at the edges of her shoes and drops of water shone on her piled yellow hair.

  These things, Miss Rachel realized, could be explained by the door’s being open, rain blowing in to wet her hair—and that someone could have borrowed her pumps for one reason or another. But the other, the last—there was no sane explanation for that.

  On her hands Christine Ryker wore the heavy leather gauntlets, the driving gloves her husband had lost.

  Chapter 11

  They were all back in the living room, even to Zia and Miss Jennifer and the cat, who had come down from upstairs. The air in the room crackled with tension, with repressed terror. On Gail’s small desk lay the wet cluster of feathers and the heavy driving gloves.

  Behind the desk sat Dave Grubler, wearing the stoic imperturbability of a judge. It was he who had arranged Christine’s body decently, put the white sheet back as it belonged, closed the door, and brought the others here and kept them together. The one thing he hadn’t been able to manage was getting Pedro to stay and guard the body; Pedro had tagged along with the rest.

  Miss Rachel confessed to herself that he fitted the role of judge well. The white hair, the colorless features gave him somehow a look of age and wisdom. He was not grublike in the face of this emergency; he was a determined, icily angry man.

  “This ornament …” He held up the brilliantly colored but bedraggled feathers. “You claim that this is off Christine’s hat?”

  Ryker stared sullenly without speaking. He had seemed to resent Grubler’s taking charge, yet he had made no move to rearrange his wife’s body; had instead seemed to feel a sort of horror towards it.

  Miss Rachel spoke. “Mrs. Ryker complained of some feathers being gone from her hat, on the gallery, just before we left for the Snake Dance. I hadn’t seen the hat with the ornament on it, but the color looks as if it would match.”

  Zia was sitting on a cushion near the hearth, her usual spot. She didn’t glance up at the others, but kept her eyes on the fire which was beginning to flame again under Pedro’s coaxing. “Christine made much the same remark to me, when we met today at the village. She was watching the Antelope priests in the dance. She seemed struck by the wands they carried.”

  “Those feather-tipped things?” Grubler frowned, letting the feathers dangle on the long red thread by which they had doubtless been sewn to the straw and by which they had swung from the doorknob. “Do you make any sense of it?”

  “The gloves,” said Ilene in a voice that came out all at once as if on a spasm. “She—she wasn’t dead. Not that first time. She had a snake hidden somewhere. She’s put it into one of our rooms.”

  Grubler faced her stonily. “Let’s keep the insanity out of it, Ilene. You’re being rather incoherent, and what you’ve just said—”

  Ryker interrupted. “You said Christine was dead, Dave. Nobody else examined her after that snake bite … or supposed snake bite.”

  Grubler made a gesture of angry helplessness. “Don’t all go berserk on me … and don’t forget, Bob, that you were with Christine’s body for some time, there in the little room with the cot. You’d have known—you couldn’t have helped knowing—if she were still alive.”

  Ryker glanced across the room at Gail. “We covered her at once with the sheet. I didn’t keep my eyes on her. I was—this is going to kill the whole lot of you—I was praying. With my eyes shut.”

  “You’d have heard her breathing!” Grubler was leaning across the desk now, his poise shaken, perspiration coming out on his upper lip. “And the whole thing you’re hinting at is—is crazy. Utterly mad. Without motive or pattern.” His eyes swept round the room. “Miss Murdock, won’t you put in a sane word, show Bob where he’s off the track completely?”

  Jennifer looked up indignantly and said, “Of all the messes that Rachel has dragged me into, this one’s—”

  “I’m sorry,” Grubler interrupted. “I was speaking to your sister.”

  Jennifer’s mouth shut with a snap.

  Miss Rachel waited a moment, then said thoughtfully, “I’ll admit that the shock of seeing Mrs. Ryker’s body did shake my first opinion of her death. The thought came to me, as perhaps it did to all of you, that the first attack might not have been fatal, as we had assumed, that some spark of life was left—that she had revived after a while and gone out to complete some mischief. There was also the possibility that the whole thing had been a sham. This naturally involved the assistance of Mr. Grubler, to put over the belief in her death.”

  Grubler was shaking his head; perhaps he wished now that he hadn’t asked her opinion.

  “However,” Miss Rachel went on, “having an accomplice in such a scheme seemed out of character for Mrs. Ryker. We know that she was secretive, that the personality she showed the world was, as the saying is, a ‘front.’ And she would hardly have liked to have been in anyone’s power to the extent that she would have been in Mr. Grubler’s.”

  He moved back with an expression of relief, fumbled for cigarettes in the pocket of the overcoat he wore over black silk pajamas.

  “The pretense of death would seem pointless, too, unless she was planning some further move—such as a disappearance, leavin
g doubt as to what had become of her ‘body.’ There has been talk that Mrs. Ryker was organizing her affairs, converting much of her property to cash and streamlining the management of the rest, and this might be construed as a bolster to the theory of a planned disappearance.”

  Ryker and Grubler were staring at each other now. Grubler seemed irritated, and Ryker’s attitude was one of animosity. Ryker spoke. “It does add up. Christine would have taken somebody’in on the plot if she’d had to.”

  “We’ve looked at both sides of this second theory,” Miss Rachel pointed out. “But briefly, because the evidence is so flimsy. Since Mrs. Ryker is now, without a doubt, dead—”

  Ilene shivered inside the filmy black robe. “You don’t know—perhaps she’s still alive! Even now!”

  Miss Rachel shook her head. “She’s truly dead. While Mr. Grubler was gathering up the sheet I managed to touch Mrs. Ryker’s hand and her throat. She’s stone cold and her body is stiffening.”

  Ilene persisted: “I saw some kind of movement down there beside the door—I was on the gallery, on my way back to your room … something sort of—of flitted into the room … She pulled the lacy ruffles of the negligee close about her.

  Miss Rachel was looking at her curiously. “And you went down to see what it was?”

  Ilene nodded.

  Gail and Miss Jennifer were exchanging glances. Gail was white—so white she looked like something carved out of alabaster, and the shadow under her chin looked blue. Miss Jennifer was pleating the material of her sensible gray wool robe into knobs and ridges over her knee. After that one glance they seemed to avoid each other’s eyes.

  “This flitting thing,” Miss Rachel went on, “was, as you previously implied, ghostlike?”

  “I—I didn’t think of that at first. Ghosts are white, and this thing—whatever it was—was bright in color.”

  “What did you think it might be?”

  Ilene looked at the circle of faces, licked her lips, stammered lamely, “I know it will sound insane—that you won’t believe me. But I thought it looked like one of them.” She lifted her hand, pointed towards the opposite wall.