The Cat Wears a Mask

by Dolores Hitchens

  They looked, following where she indicated. On the shelf against the pale green wall the carved figures of the Kachina dolls paraded in grotesque guise, masked and painted and topped with eagle feathers.

  “That kind of ghost,” said Hal Emerson, then whistled through his teeth. He had stayed in the background, over by the door, and had taken no part in the discussion about Christine’s death. “What about it, Zia?”

  Zia seemed to crouch, to bend towards the fire as if for warmth. She flicked a look over her shoulder at Emerson. “If she saw anything like that, it was a travesty, a mockery, on the beliefs of my people. In our religion the Kachina is a guardian, a familiar and watchful spirit—there is no feeling concerning this that resembles what you feel towards what you call ghosts.” Her tone was quietly bitter. She went back to looking at the fire.

  For a little while there was silence except for the popping of the pine and mesquite in the fireplace.

  Finally Grubler seemed to rouse himself out of some inner thought. He looked at Miss Rachel. “You were about to sum up what you thought about these.” He indicated the puff of feathers and the gloves. “Before you go on, I’d like to state for the benefit of all of you that there wasn’t any plot between Christine and me. I acted in good faith in giving my opinion that she was dead. If the evidence seems to you to indicate that she revived afterward, then the reviving was an accident.”

  Emerson spoke slowly. “It seems more likely that we were meant to think that she revived.”

  “There is that possibility, certainly,” Miss Rachel agreed, “though the motive behind such deception is puzzling. Considering the manner in which we found the gloves and the feathers—the feathers almost sure to be noticed hanging from the open door, the gloves prominently displayed on Mrs. Ryker’s body—it might seem that an effort had been made to have us believe that she had revived, taken these things from some place where she had hidden them, and finished some act of mischief which she had already plotted.”

  Emerson struck a match and stared at the flame before putting it to his cigarette. The eyes of all the rest were on Miss Rachel, some wearily, some with fearful attention.

  She went on: “Doubtless we were supposed to think that she had reached the room after her mission was accomplished, in such a state of collapse that she hadn’t noticed the loss of the feather cluster nor had time and strength to take off the gauntlets.”

  Grubler’s mouth twitched; Rachel couldn’t decide whether he had repressed a sour smile or covered some other expression not related to humor.

  “Returning now to our two original possibilities: the planned returning-to-life or the accidental one”—Miss Rachel shook her head at Grubler, who was attempting to break in—“we see that acceptance of the first means that Mrs. Ryker must have died subsequently in some manner, possibly by some method quite different from what we had thought. However, belief in the accidental revival implies only that the snake venom eventually accomplished its full effect.”

  Ilene rubbed her temples with shaking fingers. “I’m horribly mixed up. Can’t we find some simple clue that will decide what might really have happened?”

  “Oh yes,” Miss Rachel said brightly. “Notice the cluster of feathers. They’re much too dry to have hung in the sheltered doorway for as long as they were supposed to—long enough, that is, for Mrs. Ryker to die and for her body to reach its present condition.”

  Ilene let out a long shuddering breath, let her head fall back against the chair.

  “Furthermore, if Mrs. Ryker had been out in the rain that long past, the raindrops should have been absorbed by her hair. Hair is absorbent, you know.” She glanced about reassuringly.

  Emerson stepped to an ash tray, tapped his cigarette into it. “You’re agreeing, then, with my idea—that we were meant to think that Christine revived but that actually—”

  “I think she died in the garden, at the time we thought she did. But someone wanted us to think that a flicker of life remained, that she came out of it long enough to accomplish some purpose …”

  “What purpose?”

  “The errand, perhaps, of the person who tried to put over the deception.”

  “I see,” said Emerson slowly. “Then afterward, if something happened to one of us—if there should be another rattler, for instance …” His glance went around the group, stopped on each face for a fraction of a moment. Then he looked at Miss Rachel. “You’ve ruined the act, whatever it was.”

  “I meant to,” she explained. “If I hadn’t, if someone hadn’t, there might have been further danger and unpleasantness.”

  She felt it, then, in the quietness of the room—the stirring of black hatred, the fury that crept towards her invisibly like a noxious breath. One of them blamed her for the failure; in one brain there was rage, burning like a fire.

  But still she wasn’t scared enough to stop. “It would have been clever if it had worked—to put the blame on a dead woman for something you did after her death. Only—there shouldn’t have been any loose ends for us to wonder about—such as whether Mrs. Ryker might have not been bitten at all, but had instead plotted with Mr. Grubler’s help to pretend to die. That made the whole thing too untidy—it involved a necessary belief in either a strangely retributive heart failure on Mrs. Ryker’s part or a second and later murder.”

  The fury surrounded her now, dwelt over her; it was like something she could reach out and feel, it was like the sensation of someone standing behind her and breathing down her neck.

  “Probably, if there had been time, some method would have been devised to make us think at once that Mrs. Ryker had simply come temporarily awake, gone out, and returned to die of the effect of the original snake bite.”

  Grubler’s eyes were wide and bright in his pale face. “Such as?”

  “Oh—a note, a few words scribbled on the wall or somewhere—some indication that she knew the venom was creeping up on her at last. Perhaps even some repentant warning, too vague to reveal what she was supposed to have done.”

  “But we’re warned now,” Bob Ryker said in a voice suddenly alert. “We’ll have our eyes open, we’ll be watching for something queer to pop up.”

  “I suggest, as a beginning, that the men of the party go in a group and search all of the bedrooms.” Miss Rachel touched her eyelids with the back of her hand; she was aware of tiredness, of need for sleep—most of all she was conscious of the thing directed towards her, the evil intelligence full of hatred and anger. “I think Gail had better check with the police again, to see if we can’t get someone out here tonight. And perhaps Florencia would be willing to get up and make us some coffee strong enough to keep us awake until morning.”

  After the men had gone upstairs and Gail was getting Florencia, Ilene rose from her chair and murmured that she was cold and that she thought she’d better dress. Miss Jennifer had from time to time cast reproving glances upon the filmy black garments. Now she clucked behind her teeth, and as soon as Ilene was out of the room she said, “Don’t you think it most odd, Rachel, that Miss Taggart should appear in those things when all day she’s seemed so quiet and sensible?”

  Zia had gone to the row of Kachina dolls, seemed to be standing there looking at them absently, her mind on something else. There was no way of telling from her quiet face whether she had heard Jennifer.

  “Perhaps Miss Taggart is just tired suddenly of being sensible,” Miss Rachel suggested. “The crime has unnerved her.”

  But Jennifer was not to be soothed in this way. “She must have brought those garments with her, have purchased them long before she became unnerved, as you say. The change in her, this switching over to these—these—”

  “Sexy?” Miss Rachel offered.

  —“fast clothes,” Miss Jennifer said hastily, “reminds me of Mr. Dinwiddie’s housekeeper. Remember? We were still in our teens, and Mr. Dinwiddie lived next door, and his new housekeeper wore gray mull dresses all the time and kept her hair in a bun …”

  “
And then one night there was a fire.”

  “And in all the excitement we suddenly caught sight of Mr. Dinwiddie’s housekeeper in a—a quite transparent pink gown.” Jennifer was blushing.

  “With ermine tails,” Miss Rachel added. “And quite pretty with her hair down. Do you know, I’ve wanted a nightgown with ermine tails ever since?”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Jennifer in reproof.

  “Do you suppose she set the fire to Mr. Dinwiddie’s house?”

  Jennifer’s jaw dropped. “What a strange thing to say, Rachel! The fire was a disaster—no insurance, and Mr. Dinwiddie felt disgraced over the appearance of his housekeeper and moved to Sacramento.”

  “It may have been a disaster from Mr. Dinwiddie’s point of view, though I think there were alleviating circumstances—don’t you recall the letter from Cousin Julia saying she met Mr. Dinwiddie afterward, some years afterward, and that he was married to a lady who had been his housekeeper?”

  Miss Jennifer moved uneasily in her chair. “You get such queer conclusions out of things, Rachel. All I meant to compare was the sudden change in Mr. Dinwiddie’s housekeeper and this change in Miss Taggart—the startling difference in the manner of dress.”

  “The way to get full value out of what one learns is to carry comparisons to their limit, Jennifer.”

  Jennifer put on her mule’s look. “Miss Taggart is no one’s housekeeper. There wasn’t a fire. No one feels disgraced—not even, apparently, Miss Taggart.”

  Zia had reached out to straighten one of the little figures on the shelf. With meticulous care she turned it to face as the others did. The oddly masked little head turned in her hand, the bright colors caught the light.

  From outside, from the courtyard, and sounding close as if directly under the wall, came a soft surreptitious rattle—as though something looped and scaly had roused itself, shook itself briefly.

  Zia jerked her hand away from the Kachina. She threw a look over her shoulder. In the depths of her black eyes was terror, naked and blazing.

  The rattle came again. Softer, sleepier.

  Then the room was very still except for the faint popping of the fire.

  Chapter 12

  The telephone made sounds like a duck—a sick duck with tinny insides. There were scratching noises, then silence, then a girl’s voice saying, “State Police Headquarters.” She seemed tired, snappish, and nervous.

  Gail said slowly, “This is Miss Dickson. I have a place out

  on the Tachapi Mesa road, about twelve miles—”

  “Yes, Miss Dickson. I’ll let you talk to Captain Isleton.”

  There was a space of silence. Gail looked across the receiver at Miss Rachel. “Can you hear?”

  “Very clearly. She’s giving you a Captain Isleton.”

  Grubler bent towards them over the desk. “Do you know any of those fellows down there?”

  “I’ve met Isleton—” Gail cut off what she was about to say, gave her attention to the telephone. A man’s voice spoke, but in contrast to the girl’s rather shrill tone, his was deep and slurring. Gail looked at Miss Rachel. “Isleton is already gone, trying to get here.”

  Grubler said, “Ask them about the roads. If they can’t reach us, we might have a stab at getting out.”

  Gail said into the telephone, “Can you tell me anything about road conditions?”

  She listened for what seemed an inordinately long time, sitting very still and not looking up at either Miss Rachel or Grubler. Finally she laid the telephone in its stand. “There have been some bad flash floods—you know, water collecting in the high canyons and then rushing down in torrents—and some of the highway is out near Winslow. He thinks that we’re cut off up here. They had a report that almost a hundred feet of the road is gone, that Tachapi Creek dug itself a new bed … they’re putting up barricades.” A shudder ran over her. She looked at the window, at the black night beyond and the faintly silvered veil of the rain.

  Grubler ran his hand nervously through his white hair. “Couldn’t you impress them with the fact that we’re in danger here, that we have a maniac on the loose plotting God-knows-what with a rattlesnake?”

  “The man I just talked with said that three cars are known to have dropped into the flood where the highway went out. They managed to get a line to one; it was caught on something. There had been a family of six people in it. All that they found was a little dog and he was dead.” She lifted her face stubbornly towards Grubler. “One car went through after the barricade was started—they tried to wave him down but he was going too fast to stop. They could hear children screaming for a minute or so. Then …” She folded her hands carefully on the lap of the blue robe, as if to hide their trembling. “You see, I couldn’t make a fuss and demand that they drop what they were doing and come here, even if there was a way for them to get across Tachapi Creek.”

  He stared blankly at a spot above her head. “No, I guess you couldn’t.”

  Gail went on: “He thought that Captain Isleton might try to reach us by means of the old road to Fort Navajo.”

  Grubler’s brows contracted. “You mean there is another road?”

  “It’s impassable. Fort Navajo is just a ruin now. I was up there in the spring, sketching. The buildings are almost all collapsed. Part of the mesa fell off into the road and blocked it.”

  Grubler’s tone was hoarse and hollow. “We’ve just got to stay here and take it, then.”

  She nodded. “Yes, we have to stay, there’s no way out.”

  He frowned again. “Who could have made that sound, providing it wasn’t a snake? Providing someone just wants to scare us?” He bit his lip. “I was with Emerson—we were in Ilene’s room. Ryker had gone to get something out of his suitcase, he said—we supposed it was his damned eternal vodka. But he was out of sight.”

  “I didn’t hear the sound,” Gail answered. “I must have been in Florencia’s room by then, or perhaps coaxing her through the door to get up. I left Miss Rachel and Miss Jennifer in here with Ilene and Zia.”

  “Zia was still with us. Ilene had gone upstairs to put on something more suitable to the night and the weather.” Miss Rachel spoke quietly, so that the group clustered by the fireplace could not hear her.

  Gail said patiently, “But Dave has just said that he and Hal were in Ilene’s room—” She stopped, coloring slightly.

  Grubler smiled with a shade of distaste. “Let’s don’t jump to such unsavory conclusions. Ilene—” He had turned, raised his voice. Ilene was huddled near the fire. She swung round hesitantly. “Come over here, won’t you? We have a very private question for you.”

  She had dressed again in the drab everyday clothes, but there was still a certain difference about her—a touch of lipstick, her soft hair hanging free, a glow of excitement she couldn’t quite suppress. She came over to the desk, stopped, looked from one to another.

  Gail asked, “Where were you, Ilene, when you heard the rattling sound?”

  Ilene didn’t pause to think about her answer; it was either the truth or she had prepared herself. “I was in Bob’s room. I was passing his door a moment or so previously, and I saw him in there pouring a terrific drink into a water glass, so I went in. I tried to talk to him about keeping sober, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  Grubler said with a touch of malice, “That’s where we thought you may have been … inadvertently.”

  She went on without seeming to notice his tone. “After we heard that—that rattling sound, I hurried into my room and changed clothes. Then I came straight down here.”

  She had made it sound smooth and quick.

  Miss Rachel asked carefully, “Mr. Ryker was … where? In just what spot?”

  “You mean when the sound came? Why, in front of his dresser. I did say that, didn’t I?” Her eyes met none of theirs; she had twisted her hands together tightly. “He was pouring his drink, you see.”

  “It’s not important, I suppose, anyway,” Miss Rachel said, and watched Ilene�
��s hands slacken in relief.

  Florencia and Pedro came in then with coffee, drinks, and food, and Gail hurried over to help them put up a card table, and arrange it as a buffet. Ilene went back to the fire.

  Grubler said, “Excuse me. I’ll go give a hand with the table.”

  There didn’t seem much necessity for another hand at the table; Miss Rachel kept her eye on Mr. Grubler. He passed close to Gail, evidently offering his help. Gail shook her head and he passed on, mingling with the group before the fire. But within a minute or so he had Bob Ryker with him over by the Kachinas, out of earshot of the rest.

  There was enough movement in the room, enough interest in the drinks which Pedro was passing on a tray, for Miss Rachel to get up and go over idly to examine some books near the Kachinas without attracting attention. She could catch something of what Grubler and Ryker were saying.

  She glanced across the book she had picked up, towards the fireplace. Emerson was stirring the fire, his square face ruddy with the glow of the flames. Ilene was handing him a piece of wood from the basket. Miss Jennifer and Zia were talking, but Zia’s eyes had settled—idly, it seemed—on Ryker and Grubler. Or perhaps it was the row of Kachina dolls behind them that she studied—Miss Rachel couldn’t quite be sure. Zia nodded as Pedro offered her the tray of cocktails, lifted one off, looked over the rim of the glass, and shifted her glance to Ilene.

  She studied Ilene as though something in the other girl was curious, puzzling.

  Grubler was speaking quietly. “… and why I’ve told you what I have. The income-tax thing might have been worrying her, and still it isn’t anything that any run-of-the-mill accountant couldn’t have fixed up in a day. She kept too much of the stuff to herself, tried to keep books on it and got lost. If anything happens to me, I wanted you to know. Get an account—”

  “What do you mean, if anything happens to you?”

  Grubler looked at the floor. “I guess I’ve got the jitters.”

  Ryker lifted his drink, drained it. “If there is an income-tax deficit, will it be big?”