The Whistling Legs

by Roman McDougald

  “You searched the place, I suppose?”

  “I looked around for a person, yes. I didn’t take time to find what was hidden. But the knife is there now, Cabot. I’d bet on it.”

  “Then it was taken out shortly before we went up and it was put back shortly before you returned.”

  “That’s the hell of it. We were playing a game with the killer.”

  “But what’s happened to Jan Utley?”

  “I don’t know. She must still be up here—somewhere.” Kroll’s shrewd eyes were darting around the room. “Suppose you go down quietly and send up a couple of the boys while I keep watch?”

  Cabot returned downstairs, relayed Kroll’s orders to the two plain-clothes men at the entrance, and then turned back into the drawing-room to tell Boynton about the new murder.

  Boynton stared at him incredulously. “Impossible!” he cried. “Nobody could have gone to that floor without being seen!”

  Cabot said, “Somebody was seen. Jan is apparently still there.”

  The District Attorney surged out of the chair and started for the door. “Phone Dr. Ware,” he called back. “I’m going up at once.”

  Cabot followed him out of the drawing-room and went into the library.

  Gail Rand was sitting there, shivering a little, with a half-empty glass of brandy on the chair arm beside her. Her blue eyes had become almost brilliant in their setting of pallor.

  She said, “What is it? What’s happened? Please tell me.”

  “What makes you so certain that something has?”

  “I saw you speak to those two detectives, and I saw them hurrying upstairs. Then Mr. Boynton——“ Her hand was trembling against the chair arm. “Is Darryl dead?”

  He studied her face for a moment. “No. Set your mind at rest.” He broke off with an odd feeling of constraint; the irony had been instinctive. He said gently, “Finish your brandy. You seem to need it.”

  She glanced down mechanically and then lifted the glass with unsteady fingers, the great diamond glittering.

  He sat down at the desk and called the Medical Examiner’s office. He was conscious that Gail Rand was watching him.

  “Cabot,” he said casually. “They want you again. Same place. Same thing.”

  “What the devil is this—a riddle?” snapped Dr. Ware testily. “You mean there’s been another murder in that confounded house?”

  “That’s right,” said Cabot. “Good-by.”

  He replaced the receiver and got up. Gail was still sitting there with the glass in her hand. She said pleadingly,

  “Philip——”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s happened?”

  He said, “Nothing that will hurt you.”

  She put the empty glass down shakily. “Whatever it was,” she said, “it couldn’t have been Jan. I’ve been with her for the past two hours—until just a few minutes ago.”

  “All the time?”

  She wavered only a moment. “Yes. In her room.”

  He looked at her and thought suddenly: She is sure that Jan was seen going up that fire-escape. She is lying deliberately to see whether I shall trap her in the lie.

  He said coolly, “Mrs. Rand, did your sister ask you to go to Rand and beg him not to say that he had seen her shoot him?”

  Her face grew blank for a second. “Ask me?” she echoed. “No. I went of my own volition. I could see her danger.”

  “And you didn’t see the inferences that would be drawn from your action?”

  “What inferences?” She put her hands on the chair as if to get up, but remained still. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  He said softly, “Mrs. Rand, just how do you feel about Jan?”

  “How could I feel? I love her.”

  “Are you quite certain that you don’t hate her—with the largely unconscious, complex sort of hate that the psychiatrists talk about?”

  Her hands tightened very gradually upon the arms of the chair, and she sat stiffly, like an automaton with bright, blank eyes.

  She asked tonelessly, “Do you believe that?”

  “I am wondering.”

  She said nothing for a moment, and then it seemed forever too late. It was as though the succession of sounds which grew up around them had put their seals upon her silence for all time.

  A siren was shrieking in the street outside.

  Somebody was running past the door.

  From far above them there came a muffled, wailing cry that drained the last drop of blood from Gail Rand’s face.

  She took a step and halted. She said mechanically, “That’s Theresa!”

  Cabot replied, “It’s not Theresa.”

  She took another faltering step, and then suddenly she was running wildly, desperately, across the room, down the hall, up the stairs, her hands grasping blindly at the railing as she went.

  The men of the Homicide Squad came piling through the front entrance past the lone detective who was still there.

  One of them was saying, “Captain Kroll phoned. Where is it?”

  “The third floor.”

  The men went pounding up the stairs, and from the two floors above noise came down in a swelling wave. The whole house, Cabot thought, seemed to be seething now with abrupt movements and excited voices and unleashed violences. It was like a whirlpool that had begun to engulf everything as it spread out slowly from the quiet spot above where Theresa Church sat staring at her hands.

  He went to the door and spoke to the plain-clothes man. “Weren’t you the one who was watching the fire-escape?”

  The detective nodded. “Fant called me when he went upstairs.”

  “Did you see Miss Utley slip up to the third floor about noon?”

  “Yes. It was 11:48 by my watch.”

  “Did you see her go back?”

  “No. As far as I know, she’s still up there.” McCann looked vaguely uncomfortable. “It’s barely possible that she could have slipped back without my seeing her. She’s a fast mover.”

  Cabot went out and around the side of the house to the fire-escape. He looked up thoughtfully for a few moments and then started climbing leisurely toward the top.

  He paused when he was nearly at the second floor level and gazed speculatively at the windows overlooking the narrow iron stairway. After a brief study he was able to identify them definitely, counting them backward from Rand’s apartment. The first was Carlo Pugh’s, the next Jan’s, the third Gail’s.

  From any of those windows, presumably, someone could have glimpsed Jan getting out upon the fire-escape and going up to the third floor. When the plain-clothes man had gone in to report it, that person could then have followed Jan up the iron stairs.

  He decided to ask McCann, as a matter of form, whether he had seen anyone looking out as Jan went by.

  He stood there, listening for a few seconds. The rooms beyond the windows seemed almost unnaturally quiet, the subdued clatter from above overhanging them like an incoherent threat.

  He climbed on slowly past the second floor turn to the third floor balcony and stood there by the iron railing where he had kissed Gail Rand. The distance down did not appear so dizzying as it had seemed against a backdrop of distant lights. But it was far enough, he reflected, to smash fatally the body of a man who fell.

  He was not sure that it was this thought alone which made the little shivery sensation pass over him as he looked down the narrow, shadowy iron stairs. There was something else. There was an unaccountable feeling about the spot itself—as though merely by standing there alone against the edge of emptiness he was finding himself at the small, unrecognized summit of everything that had occurred.

  He turned and was examining the lock on the stout French windows when Kroll bore down upon him from inside the house.

  He said, “Kroll, who was making that noise a while ago?”

  “Mallie. She came up to get something from her room and stumbled into it. She started throwing a fit at once.” Kroll stopped. “As
soon as her blood pressure goes down a little, we’re going to start questioning her. I believe she saw something the first time she was up here.”

  “The first time?”

  “Yes. She had been up to her room about noon. There’s a strong chance that she got a glimpse of the murderer—without knowing what was going on.”

  Cabot asked, “Have you searched the attic yet?”

  Kroll frowned. “The boys are at it now. But the knife was not in that trunk. The murderer evidently changed the hiding place.”

  Cabot went back down the iron steps as slowly as he had ascended. He was turning over in his mind the questions he would ask McCann.

  When he reached the second floor turn, he glanced up instinctively. The windows were all empty. The rooms were all quiet.

  He started down from the second floor level, but with each step he felt his muscles slowing, stiffening, as if bracing themselves against some strange, imminent impact.

  He put his hand involuntarily on the iron railing.

  On the level which he had left everything was utterly still, utterly silent; but he had an overwhelming conviction that something was there, behind him now, and above him. He started to look up.

  From far above a voice rang out, strident with horror. “Jump, Cabot! Great god!”

  He flung himself to the side and leaped over the railing.

  The heavy object hurtling down at him thus missed his head and grazed his left shoulder. That arm instantly went numb and dropped away from the railing. He dangled by the other.

  The thing crashed upon the iron stairs, and the whole fire-escape seemed to quiver momentarily. Almost in the same second he heard the thunderous crack of a .45, and glass showered down from a smashed window. The .45 instantly roared again, and from somewhere in the house there was a muffled cry.

  Kroll was standing on the third floor balcony shooting at the window of Jan Utley’s room.

  Cabot pulled himself back on the stairway and started up.

  Kroll was already racing down the stairs, the revolver still in his hand. He beat Cabot to the second floor entrance and dashed into the house.

  As Cabot ran after him, the door of Darryl Rand’s study swung open. Rand stood there, white-faced, gripping the facing. He called, “What was that, Cabot?”

  Cabot said tersely, “Somebody tried to brain me with a typewriter,” and ran on. Rand’s stunned echo followed him: “A typewriter?”

  Kroll was coming out of Jan’s room. He said, “Your friend escaped.”

  “So did I,” said Cabot, “thanks to you, Kroll.”

  The Captain shrugged. “I had a hunch that you were up to something, so I stepped out on the balcony for a look. When I did, I saw a hand holding that Royal over you.”

  “You couldn’t see who it was?”

  “No. He wasn’t leaning out of the window. It wasn’t necessary. The stairway is so narrow he could hardly have missed your head.”

  Cabot said reflectively, “It was Carlo’s typewriter.”

  “That doesn’t mean a thing. The door was open between his room and Jan’s. Both were empty. Anyone could have gone in, grabbed Carlo’s typewriter, and dropped it on you from Jan’s window, where it was just the right height.”

  “Who cried out when you were shooting?”

  “Mrs. Rand. She’s in her room. I still don’t know where Jan is.”

  Cabot went back downstairs to the front entrance. “McCann,” he said, “how long were you away from your post when you came in to report about seeing the girl go up the fire-escape?”

  “About ten minutes.”

  “Did you come immediately after seeing her?”

  “No. I waited two or three minutes.”

  “During that time—or before—did you see anybody at one of the windows overlooking the fire-escape?”

  “Not a soul.”

  Cabot turned back and saw Jan Utley emerging from the library. Boynton and Kroll were simultaneously coming down the stairs.

  Jan halted, waiting until they had reached her before she said in a flat voice, “I want to make a statement. At once.” Boynton replied quietly, “All right. Let’s go in here.” They passed into the library, and Boynton sat down at the desk. Kroll opened his notebook and in a dry, monotonous voice warned Jan that anything she said might be used against her.

  She was looking heedlessly at Boynton. She spoke as soon as the Captain’s drawl ceased. “Have you found those things yet?”

  “What things, Miss Utley?”

  “A hunting knife and a pair of brown corduroy trousers.” He asked quickly, “What do you know about those objects?”

  “I know everything. They are mine.”

  Kroll was writing furiously.

  Boynton asked slowly, “Are you aware that Deb—and probably Theresa—were killed with a hunting knife?”

  “I learned that this morning. About Deb, that is.”

  “Do you know that there is reason to believe the murderer wore trousers which made the peculiar whistling sound of corduroy?”

  “I had heard something, but I didn’t get the significance of it at first. The whole thing, in fact, dawned on me at once.”

  “When?”

  “This morning. I realized then that I had been caught in a trap so subtle that I had never even suspected what was going on. I saw that I had actually walked into it.”

  “How?”

  “By telling you the truth about the note. The admission in itself was not fatal. But, coupled with other evidence against me—evidence about which I knew nothing—it was damning.”

  The District Attorney’s face had set in grim lines. He said dryly, “What you’re leading up to, I take it, is that these other objects, like the note, were stolen from you?”

  “Yes, though I didn’t realize it until a few hours ago.”

  “When did you last see them?”

  “I hadn’t seen the knife since last summer when I returned from a trip to the Maine woods and put it away in an old trunk in the attic. But I had the trousers in my room and I wore them occasionally around the house. I was wearing them, in fact, the night I took the note from Darryl.”

  “So you were the ‘whistling legs’? Why didn’t you tell us before?”

  “I didn’t see the importance of it, or even clearly recall at first that I had been wearing them that night. The next morning I had put them away in a drawer and I took it for granted that they were still there—until I looked and found them gone.” She stopped. “That was when it occurred to me that these things might have been used all along as—well, delayed clues to incriminate me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I decided to go up to the attic to see whether the knife had been removed from the trunk. I went up shortly before twelve——”

  “Have you any reason to believe that you were followed?”

  She hesitated. “I didn’t see anyone while I was there.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went into the attic immediately, looked into the trunk, and saw that the knife was gone. That told me all I wanted to know. I returned the same way I had come.”

  “At what time?”

  “The clock struck twelve soon after I reached my room. I had been gone only about ten minutes.”

  “Did you see McCann as you came back down the fire-escape?”

  “No. He had left—I imagine to report about seeing me.” Jan paused. “Someone could have followed me without being seen by either McCann or myself—during that interval.” She leaned forward. “As I understand it, the murderer did, not one, but several things. He very probably went to the attic to get the knife, he certainly did go down the stairs into the corridor, he attacked Darryl Rand, and then he went back up the staircase to kill Theresa, afterward returning to the attic to conceal the weapon again. It would have been physically impossible for me to have done all those things in ten minutes.”

  Cabot said, “The trouble is, Miss Utley, that anyone who followed you up the fire-es
cape would have been subject to the same limitations. The detective was gone only ten minutes.”

  She bit her lip. “It was done some way——“ She broke off, her anxious gaze slanting toward the doorway behind Cabot.

  He looked around just as King Cotton walked regally across the threshold. Cabot leaned over and stroked the silky white back, which arched blissfully as the big cat turned to survey the rest of the room. He sniffed for a moment in the direction of Jan, and Cabot’s hand felt his spine suddenly stiffen and his muscles tense. Very slowly, without taking his eyes from Jan, Cotton backed away to the door, then whirled and was gone in a white flash.

  Cabot turned and found Kroll looking at him.

  Fant came in before either of them could speak. He said quickly, “We’ve found them, Captain. But your guess was wrong. The killer didn’t intend for us to get them.”

  Kroll got up. “How do you know?”

  “They were not in any of those old trunks where we were searching. One of the boys just happened to notice a floor board that seemed a little loose. We pried it up—and there they were!”

  Boynton asked, “What, exactly, did you find?”

  “A pair of brown corduroy trousers with dried blood on one leg and a hunting knife with fresh blood stains on the blade and a dried one just under the handle. The fingerprint boys are going over it now, and they say it’s the most beautiful thing they ever saw.”

  Kroll barked, “Beautiful?”

  “In this way,” explained Fant. “It would have been out of the question for the prints on the handle to have been made by anybody except the last person who used the knife.”

  The eyes of the men turned toward Jan Utley. She seemed to have shrunk back into the chair, her eyes lowered as she struggled doggedly for self-possession. At last she looked up and spoke in a queer, strained voice.

  “That will clear me. The fingerprints can’t be mine.”

  Philip Cabot’s face hardened a trifle as he gazed at her. “I rather think now, Miss Utley,” he said grimly, “that they will be yours.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Two hours later, as Cabot gazed slowly around the group gathered in Darryl Rand’s study, he found himself reflecting upon the curious fact that the murderer at that moment looked not a shade more nervous than the others. But this was purely relative, for the plain truth was that all of them were nervous. They were as noticeably uneasy, as fearfully fascinated, as if the thing they were about to see would be the last solemnly dreadful act of all.