The Whistling Legs

by Roman McDougald

  She asked unsteadily, “Why? Nothing else will happen?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?” He watched her a moment longer as she shook her head, and then he turned. “I want to get to Rand without being seen. Is there a detective stationed upstairs?”

  She answered quickly, “Yes—but I saw him come down a few minutes ago. The coast is clear for the time being.” She stepped after him in abrupt afterthought. “Wait! If he should go back upstairs before you come out of Mr. Rand’s apartment, I know how you can get down without being seen.”

  Cabot halted. “Yes?”

  “There’s an iron stairway outside the house which serves as a fire-escape. It has entrances on both the second and third floors. The second floor entrance is at the end of the corridor, but I think it’s locked. You can cross the corridor, though, from Mr. Rand’s apartment and go up the third floor staircase without being seen by the detective in the hall. Then you can get on the outside stairs and come down.”

  Cabot said, “Thank you. That’s convenient.”

  He wondered as he went upstairs whether it hadn’t been convenient for the murderer.

  He reached the corridor without running into anyone and went on soundlessly into the bedroom.

  Rand opened his eyes at once. His face was still haggard, but his voice was stronger. “So you did slip in,” he said. “I’ve been wondering if you could.” His gaze became set in a questioning fixity as Cabot came closer. “What’s happened?” he asked quickly. “You look worried.”

  Cabot said, “I am worried. This thing has put me in a quandary, Rand. I think now that if we go on as planned you’ll get yourself killed.”

  Rand asked quietly, “It’s developing, then, as I expected?” Cabot said, “It seems to be, but in a rather unexpected way.” He looked at the man on the bed. “Have you, by the way, ever displayed jealousy about your wife?”

  Rand delayed answering for a moment, but he did not appear surprised. “I suppose I have,” he said. “The truth is, Cabot, that I’m pretty crazy about her, and——“ He stopped as in an obscure shame. “So that’s it? But perhaps I might have anticipated it. It would have seemed an obvious motive.”

  “Obvious?”

  Rand nodded with the same queer constraint. “All of them, undoubtedly, must have noticed that Gail was playing with Deb, amusing herself. So——“ He stopped again.

  “But how, exactly, did it come out?”

  “In several ways. But mainly, I think, through Greg.”

  Rand’s jaw sagged slightly before his eyes narrowed. “‘Greg?”

  Cabot summed up Gregory Rand’s story and then asked, “How much of that is true?”

  Rand’s face had grown taut. “All of it,” he said. “All of it—as far as it goes. I don’t mind telling you, Cabot, that it was quite a shock. It shouldn’t have been, perhaps, but actually hearing them in there——”

  “You discovered then, to put it bluntly, that they were lovers?”

  “Not quite that. I discovered only that Gail had succeeded in making Deb lose his head over her. He had struggled against it, but he was hooked. I could see that, and I could see that Gail was curiously triumphant over it in a teasing sort of way.” Rand turned his head on the pillow. “That was the appalling part, Cabot—the realization that that boy for whom I had done so little was more loyal to me—far more loyal—than the woman I love.” He was looking across the room. “The whole thing was so damnable that I wondered whether Jan didn’t have a hand in it.” Cabot said thoughtfully, “It’s possible that you’re too much inclined to see Jan’s hand in everything. You may have a much worse enemy than your wife’s sister.”

  Rand looked back at him. “I know,” he said. “All that I’m sure of now is that I do have such an enemy, and that enemy is implacably determined to destroy me. And you can take my word for it that there is just one chance of defeating him—and catching him. You’re going to have to play ball with me, Cabot.”

  Cabot said, “I’d be much more inclined to if the score-board wasn’t a coffin lid.” He glanced around the room. “One thing is certain—you can’t deal with him alone. I shall have to hide in this room.”

  Rand thought briefly and then shook his head. “It won’t work, Cabot,” he said. “He is far too clever; he will have to know where you are. And that’s why you’ll have to remain in sight downstairs. You’ll have to be the bait for the trap.”

  “The trap is too dangerous. Once he gets into this room, something will happen within a matter of seconds. Give him the full opportunity and he will kill you.”

  Rand said, “I have thought this out very carefully.”

  “Oh? You have?”

  Rand nodded. “On the wall just behind my pillow,” he said, “there is a button which rings a buzzer in the maid’s room. Theresa will sit there all night, waiting for it to ring.”

  “If it rings.”

  “It will. I shall be lying here with my hand under the pillow, inches from the button. I can touch it in one quick, invisible movement——”

  “Yes, and by the time Theresa gets here it will be too late.”

  “It will take a few moments,” Rand said. “For he will have to get my automatic first. You see—it will have to be mine. There in the drawer——”

  Cabot said, “How long do you think that would take?” He spun around, jerked the drawer open, and thrust his hand inside.

  The drawer was empty.

  He turned back and saw Rand smiling at him from the bed. He was propped up now on his elbow. The automatic was in his hand.

  “See?” he said.

  Cabot closed the drawer. “Nice,” he conceded, “if it happens that way.”

  He returned silently along the corridor and peered around the corner. He glimpsed Fleming on the threshold of Deb’s room and at once turned back to the third floor stairway.

  He paused on the landing and glanced into a small room, which he guessed was Theresa’s, before he went on toward the turn from which the entrance to the fire-escape most likely opened.

  He was halfway down the hall before he became quite certain that he was being followed. He kept his gaze straight ahead, despite the disturbing thought that flashed through his mind.

  Had somebody seen him coming out of Rand’s apartment?

  He recognized abruptly that if the killer had had that glimpse, he would probably feel impelled to fulfill Boynton’s prophecy immediately. And it would be difficult to find a better setting for an impromptu murder than this deserted floor or the unseen fire-escape beyond.

  He turned the corner and instantly flattened himself against the wall, his hands tensed for a lightning pounce.

  He hoped that it wouldn’t be Fleming.

  Chapter Eleven

  The squeal rang through the whole hall. It sounded exactly like a Poland China’s salutation to a butcher. Cabot’s powerful hand loosened its grip on the collar and he said, “By God, I might have guessed it!”

  Carlo Pugh, released, stepped back weakly and began to adjust his twisted cravat.

  He said indignantly, “What’s the idea, Cabot, of scaring the wits out of people?”

  Cabot countered, “What’s the idea of shadowing me?” Carlo hesitated. He still looked jumpy. “Well, I observed you coming rather surreptitiously out of Darryl’s apartment, and there seemed to be some sort of mystery involved——”

  Cabot said shortly, “You observe a lot. You’re better at observing than you are at shadowing.”

  Carlo waved his hand. “There was nothing inimical in my action,” he explained. “I was simply taking a detached view. I was reacting as you yourself would have done if you had beheld me behaving in a suspicious manner. After all, Cabot, it is most unwise to eliminate anyone—anyone at all—in a murder case.” His eyes were very thoughtful as they looked steadily at Cabot. “Even the detective.”

  Cabot said, “Now, wait a minute, Pugh! If you’re getting a brilliant theory that I am the Mr. X who walked out of Rand’s room with th
at note, or that I have a pair of cooing legs——”

  “Whistling.” Carlo corrected him automatically. “No, Cabot. I am suggesting nothing of the kind. I am only keeping you in mind.”

  “Thanks, pal.”

  “For the present,” Carlo proceeded, “I have no theory at all. I am merely correlating the facts which have emerged—as you, too, are no doubt doing.”

  Cabot said, “I haven’t even got around to the correlating yet.”

  “No?” Carlo raised his eyebrows and then stood there for a time like a man who was struggling against a powerful impulse. At last he seemed to give in to it. “I don’t mind telling you, however, in strict confidence that if one or two missing links turn up, I shall be able to advance an interpretation of the case that will astound everybody concerned.”

  Cabot answered, “I don’t doubt that for one moment.”

  Carlo turned and looked at him with a trace of malice in his sharp, shining eyes. He said meditatively, “It would be funny, Cabot—it would be downright funny—if I solved this thing before you did.”

  “Wouldn’t it?” replied Cabot grimly. “And I’d bet my bottom dollar that you’d write my publisher about it.”

  He went down the fire-escape, re-entered the house from the front, and walked into the drawing-room.

  Captain Kroll was sitting there alone, hunched over the table, studying a sheaf of reports through a pair of steel-rimmed glasses.

  He glanced at Cabot appraisingly and said, “I’ve been wanting to talk with you.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Cabot resignedly and sat down.

  Kroll took off the spectacles. “I’m not sore,” he said. “It’s the D.A. who’s hot and bothered. You being his brother-in-law and all——”

  Cabot said, “I’ll start being nice at 7 a.m. tomorrow.”

  “That leaves tonight for a margin, eh?” Kroll grinned cannily. “Oh, you needn’t look blank! I know darned well that you’re expecting something to pop—and, in a way, so am I.”

  Cabot’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you’ll have the place full of dicks?”

  Kroll answered curtly, “We’re not fools. It will be handled right. There’ll be nobody in sight except one man—. hanging around to keep Rand from hauling freight.”

  Cabot took out a cigarette. “Rand? So the alibi folded up?”

  Kroll said, “It folded up and squeaked, ‘Uncle!’ We’ve checked it from all angles, Cabot, and we know that not only could Rand have been shamming that first time you looked into his room but there’s strong reason to believe he was.”

  Cabot said, “He knew that under the circumstances I’d look into his room. So he lay there playing unconscious until I had gone, then he slipped across the hall, killed Deb, slipped back, took the veronal, and passed out. Neat.” Cabot leaned back. “And the motive was this overwhelming jealousy which had developed overnight.”

  “Not quite,” Kroll amended laconically. “It started developing, in fact, about the time Rand began acting strangely. He was checking on his wife then, and he apparently learned that she was having an affair with this young fellow. Mrs. Rand, of course, was the one Deb was coming to see that night.”

  “Sure,” said Cabot. “It was late. Rand was gone——”

  “Yes, but he had learned about the date. So he simply lay in wait for Deb and ran over him when he showed up. Lots of people have thought of committing murders that way.” Kroll made a cynical gesture. “It’s silly. You can identify car tracks.”

  “However——”

  Kroll shrugged. “I know. Why didn’t he finish the job then? Why did he rush his victim to a hospital instead of giving him the coup de grace? Well, there are several explanations. The most likely is that he got scared off. He suspected that somebody was watching. So he played safe. He took the kid to a hospital and later, when he learned that Deb couldn’t remember anything, he had the kind of bright idea that the husbands in de Maupassant’s stories used to get into their belfries. He would bring home his wife’s lover and by throwing them together he could observe her reactions and confirm his darkest suspicions. And in time he could cook up something extra special for them.”

  Cabot added, “And the wife, beautiful but dumb, promptly fell into the trap. The situation intrigued her. She was fascinated by it. She set out to make the handsome youth fall for her all over again.”

  Kroll said, “Bingo.”

  Cabot crushed out his cigarette. “All right. And Rand, after playing the French husband for a while, finally went nuts?”

  Kroll nodded. “He had been going nuts for some time,” he said, “but we now know the exact moment when the top blew off.”

  “When he heard his wife and Deb talking in Deb’s room?” Cabot’s face was thoughtful. “It all links up rather nicely, doesn’t it?”

  Kroll said, “Now you’re cooking on the front burner. And I’m not giving you all of it. That’s only a rough idea.”

  “Then what are you waiting on?”

  “Don’t rush us. What’s the difference between a murderer and a bride?”

  “I’m just finding out about brides——”

  “The murderer,” said Kroll, “always gives himself away.”

  Cabot replied, “You’re as funny as hell,” and got up. “But do me a favor, will you, Kroll? Tell the boys it will be all right for me to roam around the house. Also sort of spread the news that I’m going to spend the night here on the chance that Rand will become fully conscious before morning.”

  Kroll said reflectively, “I have the damnedest time finding good cigars.”

  An hour later Cabot, sitting on the edge of his desk, skimmed over the last page of a report from Wendell. There was little in it about Rand that was new, but a note on Carlo was revealing.

  It was Pugh who had originally known Martin Kirk and who had first brought him into contact with Rand.

  Cabot tossed the report aside and looked down at Lib.

  She was sitting there in his swivel chair, studying him with the passionate preoccupation of a young woman who had just paid an exorbitant price for a lovely piece of furniture. He grinned, swung the chair toward him on its rollers, and kissed her soundly.

  She gasped, “This is no place——”

  He swung the chair all the way around and kissed her again as her mouth revolved into abrupt recontact. “For what?”

  “Someone may come in——“ Her words were cut off as he spun the chair again and kissed her a third time. “Wait! I’m getting dizzy!”

  “Is it the chair? We’re going to make screening tests of this thing, Lib, just as the doctors do with new drugs. With and without the chair. With and without the champagne——”

  “You’re as crazy as a loon——“ The words once more came to a violent end. The whole chair tilted, swayed, and slithered, rocking crazily for a moment on its complicated mechanism.

  Somebody sneezed loudly.

  They whirled and saw Velery standing in the doorway, his eyes watering.

  Velery said in a muffled voice, “This is the first time I ever caught a cold from a sudden change in temperature. It was kinda cool outside.”

  Lib’s face was as pink as a ripe peach.

  Cabot said, “Come in, Velery. I’ve been waiting for you. Impatiently. What did you find out about Kirk?”

  Velery sat down. “I’ve just been confirming ancient history,” he said. “It all happened as you thought it did in the first place. The bird was a screwball. He went loco after Rand froze him out and finally he knocked himself off with gas.”

  “Did he leave a note?”

  Velery shook his head. “I checked on all that at the rooming house where it happened, as well as from the records. He didn’t leave a note, but from the way he acted it was easy to see afterward what he had been thinking about.

  The day before they found him he paid his rent again in advance and told his landlady, ‘I won’t be here that long, but you may be put to some trouble.’ She didn’t realize till later what
he had meant.”

  “Did he have any visitors in that rooming house?”

  “She didn’t see anybody at all the day he killed himself, but several times before that a little, smiling fellow with a mustache had called. This fellow always brought a small package which she suspected was liquor, because Kirk got worse afterward.”

  Cabot said, “Did you find any indications that Kirk was involved with the agents of a foreign government?”

  “Not unless the little fellow was one.” Velery rubbed his nose gently, as if trying to massage away another incipient sneeze. “It looks open and shut. There’s no sign that anything dark or mysterious was going on except in Kirk’s mind. If it was murder, it was the perfect crime. You can bet on that. It’s been checked and rechecked.”

  Cabot asked reflectively, “You mean by somebody else?”

  “Maybe——“ Velery’s face became contorted, he clutched wildly for a handkerchief and bent over in an explosive sneeze. From across the room Lib looked around at him half furtively with startled eyes, her expression vaguely guilty.

  “Maybe?”

  Velery went on huskily. “A man had been to the rooming house lately and had asked some questions. He claimed to be a reporter gathering material on Kirk as the discoverer of Magnamite. But he was so curious about the details of Kirk’s death that the landlady had an idea that he might be a detective. She’s a suspicious old dame.” Velery blew his nose. “She even got it into her head finally that I was one.”

  Cabot took Lib out for what seemed a hurried dinner. In reality, the twilight had deepened into night when they emerged from the restaurant. Cabot sighed. “Now, if we could just go some place and dance,” he said. “Or better still——”

  She suppressed a yawn. “Go on back and breathe some more sulphur fumes, Phil,” she said. “I’m going to sleep.” He looked at her. “Lock the door, Lib,” he replied soberly. “The outer door and the bedroom door. Understand? We have to be careful tonight.” He spun back on a sudden afterthought. “But wait! I said the bedroom door, too, didn’t I? Well, if I should happen to come in—just happen to—I’ll give five knocks.”