Forgetful of all but the paper in his hand, Potter turned it over and searched for the item of news.
“Try the first page,” suggested Rodgers. Potter switched the sheet around and gave vent to a startled exclamation as his eyes fell on the double column heading:
ELDERLY SPINSTER FOUND DEAD SUICIDE SUSPECTED
“Suicide!” Potter gasped. “Bless my soul! Who would have believed Cousin Susan would kill herself?”
“She didn’t!” The denial rang out clearly from the direction of the door and wheeling around the three occupants of the room saw Kitty Baird confronting them. “Aunt Susan did not commit suicide, Ben; you know she didn’t.”
Potter stared at her long and earnestly. Twice he opened his mouth to speak and closed it again, after a look at Ted Rodgers who, upon Kitty’s entrance, had stopped somewhat in the background so that his face was in shadow.
“I don’t know anything,” Potter said finally. “I haven’t read the paper—”
“The paper has printed lies!” Kitty’s foot came down with an unmistakable stamp, and her eyes sparkled with wrath. “I tell you Aunt Susan did not commit suicide.”
“Yes, dear.” Nina stepped hastily forward and threw her arm protectingly across Kitty’s shoulder. “Come and sit down, and when you are more composed you can tell us of—of the details.” Exerting some strength, she pulled the unwilling girl to the lounge and gently pushed her down upon it. “I am so, so sorry, Kitty. Your aunt—” she stumbled a bit in her speech— “Your aunt’s death is a great shock—”
“To me,” bitterly. “I know many people disliked her. Poor Aunt Susan—” Kitty’s lips trembled. “You need not try to dissemble your feelings, Ben. I know you hated Susan.”
“Oh, come, Kitty; that’s pretty strong language!” Potter flushed angrily. “You are unstrung—where are your smelling salts, Nina?”
“A glass of wine would be better.” Rodgers spoke for the first time, and Kitty looked up in startled surprise. She had been conscious of a third person in the room when she first entered, but, absorbed in her talk with her cousin, had forgotten his presence.
“Where’s my flask?” demanded Potter, considerably shaken out of his habitual calm. “Oh, thank you, my dear,” as Nina snatched it out of one of his desk drawers. “Now, Kitty,” unscrewing the stopper and pouring some cognac into an empty tumbler, which, with a water carafe, stood on his desk. “Drink this; no, I insist—” as she put up her hand in protest. “You will need all your strength—drink every drop.”
Kitty’s eyes sought Rodgers and his quick “Please do” did more to make her drink the cognac than all Potter’s urging. The fiery strength of the old brandy made her catch her breath, but she did not put the tumbler down until she had swallowed its contents. As the stimulant crept through her veins, her head cleared, and the feeling of deadly faintness which had threatened to overcome her several times on her way to her cousin’s apartment, disappeared.
“I will tell you what I know,” she began. “Aunt Susan was found by the police dead in our library. The coroner claims that she had taken poison.”
“Well?” prompted Potter. “Go on.”
“Aunt Susan never swallowed poison—of her own free will.” Kitty turned and gazed at Ted Rodgers. Intently she studied his face, noting his clear-cut features and shapely head. Standing six feet four, he seemed to dwarf Ben Potter. Although the latter was nearly his equal in height, the stoop in his shoulders, which betrayed the hours spent in pouring over books, made Potter appear much shorter. Something of his quiet, determined character showed in Rodgers’ firm mouth and handsome eyes, eyes which redeemed the severe lines of his face.
He had fallen madly in love with Kitty and had courted her with the persistency of his faithful nature. Heartsick, craving sympathy, which had brought her to her cousin only to be rebuffed by his reception of the news of her aunt’s death, Kitty turned instinctively to Rodgers.
“Won’t you help me prove that Aunt Susan did not commit suicide?” she asked.
As he studied the upturned face, the deep blue eyes, made more brilliant by the tears she had shed that morning, and noted the forlorn droop of her shoulders, Rodgers’ decision was taken.
“I will do anything for you—anything,” he promised, his deep voice vibrating with feeling.
“Then find the murderer of Aunt Susan,” she cried.
“How—what?” Potter looked at her aghast. “What makes you think Cousin Susan was murdered?”
“My intuition,” promptly. “Oh, you may jeer, but it was no case of suicide. Aunt Susan did not court death—she feared it.”
Chapter V
At the Morgue
Coroner Penfield adjusted his glasses and gazed at the six men who composed the jury, as they filed into their places, and then turned to look at the spectators assembled in the room reserved for the coroner’s inquests at the District of Columbia Morgue. Not only Washington society was taking a deep interest in the inquiry into the death of Miss Susan Baird, but many other citizens of the national Capital, to whom the name of Baird meant nothing, and who had been unacquainted with the spinster in her life-time. Every seat was taken in the large square room, and from his position on the elevated platform, where stood tables and chairs for the coroner, his assistant, the reporters, and the witnesses, Coroner Penfield saw Dr. Leonard McLean conversing with Inspector Mitchell of the Central Office.
The hands of the wall clock were within five minutes of ten, the hour at which the inquest had been called, on Tuesday morning, when the outer door opened and Ted Rodgers stepped inside the room, followed a second later by Benjamin Potter. Observing two unoccupied seats on the second row they crossed the room, exchanging, as they did so, low-spoken greetings with friends and acquaintances who had come early to secure the most advantageous seats.
The swearing in of the jury by the Morgue Master required but a short time. Clearing his throat, Coroner Penfield outlined the reason for the inquest, and asked the jury if they had inspected the body of the dead woman.
“We have,” responded the foreman, and Penfield turned to the Morgue Master, who occupied a chair at the foot of the platform.
“Call the first witness,” he directed. “Inspector Mitchell.”
Hat in hand, the Inspector advanced to the steps and mounted to the witness chair, and was duly sworn by the Morgue Master. In businesslike tones he answered the coroner’s quickly put questions as to his identity and length of service on the Metropolitan Police Force and Detective Bureau.
“Did you find Miss Baird’s body?” asked the coroner.
“I did, Sir.”
“When?”
“Yesterday, Monday morning, when summoned to her home in Georgetown.”
“How did the summons reach you?”
“By telephone.” Mitchell hesitated, and the coroner waited for him to continue before putting another question. “The message was to go at once to ‘Rose Hill,’ that a crime had been committed there.”
“Did the person talking on the telephone give his name?”
“No, Sir.”
“Did you ask his name?”
“I did, but she rang off instead of answering.”
“She?” inquiringly.
“I took the voice to be that of a woman,” explained Mitchell cautiously.
“Are you not certain that it was a woman speaking?”
“To the best of my belief it was.” Mitchell paused. “I am sure it was a woman’s voice.”
“Have you tried to trace the call?”
“Yes,” somewhat glumly. “But Central had no record of it.”
“Then it did not come over a public telephone?”
“No, Sir.”
“Was it on a limited service wire?”
“No. Central declares not,” responded Mitchell. “She insists that it must have been sent by some one using unlimited service.”
Penfield paused to jot down a note on his memorandum pad before again questioning the
inspector.
“At what hour did the telephone call reach you?”
“At eight minutes past eight o’clock yesterday morning. I was in Police Headquarters and took the message myself,” tersely.
“At what hour did you reach Miss Baird’s home?”
“Fifteen minutes later. I took O’Bryan, a plain clothes man, and Patrolman Myers with me.”
“Tell us what you found when you reached the Baird house,” Coroner Penfield directed, settling back in his chair. Conscious that he had the undivided attention of every one in the crowded room, Mitchell spoke with slow impressiveness.
“We went up the front steps of the house and rang the bell; not getting any response we rang several times. I was just thinking that we had better try the back entrance when O’Bryan saw the key in the front door—”
“Wait.” Penfield held up his hand. “Do I understand that the key to the front door was left in the lock on the outside in plain view of every passerby?”
“It wasn’t exactly in plain view,” protested Mitchell. “We didn’t see it at once, and the sidewalk is some distance from the house, which stands on a high terrace. Passers-by could not see the key in the lock unless they ran up the steps and stood in the vestibule of the front door.”
“Was the door locked?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Was it a spring lock?”
“No, Sir.” Mitchell drew an old-fashioned brass key from his pocket and handed it to the coroner. “That lock, Sir, was made by hand many years ago. It’s the kind that if you lock the door, either from the inside or the outside, the door could not be opened unless you had the key to unlock it.”
“Then, Inspector, some person, on leaving the Baird house, locked the door on the outside, and thereby locked in any person or persons who might have been in the house at that time?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Ump!” Penfield picked up the brass key and handed it to the foreman of the jury. “Did you find finger marks on the key?” he asked.
“No, not one.” Mitchell hesitated. “Whoever handled the key wore gloves.”
“Very likely.” Penfield spoke more briskly. “What did you discover inside the house, Inspector?”
“We found no one in the hall; so we walked into the parlor which is on the right of the front door. No one was there, so we kept on through the door opening into the rear hall, and from there walked into the library.” Mitchell paused dramatically. “There we found Miss Baird’s dead body lying huddled up in a big chair in front of her tea table.”
“Had she been taking tea?”
“Yes, judging from the plate of sandwiches and cakes, and her nearly empty teacup.” Mitchell explained in detail. “There was a plate in front of her on which lay a half-eaten peach.”
“Was there evidence to show that some one had been having tea with Miss Baird?” inquired Penfield.
“Only one cup and saucer and plate had been used, Sir.”
“And the chairs, how were they placed?”
“About as usual, I imagine.” Mitchell looked a trifle worried. “There was no chair drawn up to the tea table, if you mean that. Only Miss Baird’s chair stood close by it.”
“What did you do upon the discovery of Miss Baird’s body?” asked Penfield, after a pause.
“Made sure that she was dead and not in need of a physician, then sent O’Bryan to telephone to the coroner, while Myers and I searched the house,” replied Mitchell.
“Did you find any one in the house?”
“No, Sir. It was empty, except for the dead woman and a cat.”
The inspector’s reply caused a stir of interest, and one juror started to address him, then, conscious of attracting attention, decided not to speak.
“Did you find the windows and doors locked?” inquired Penfield, after a second’s thought.
“Yes; that is, those on the first floor and in the basement were locked,” explained Mitchell. “The windows on the second and third floors were unlocked, but closed. Sunday was a cold day,” he added.
“In your opinion, Mitchell, could the house have been entered from the second story?” asked Penfield.
The inspector considered the question before answering. “No, Sir, not without a ladder, and we found none on the premises. The house sets back in its own grounds, so to speak, and the neighboring houses are quite far away. There is no party wall, and no porch roof to aid a housebreaker.”
“That is all for the present, Inspector. As you go out, ask O’Bryan to come here.”
The plain clothes officer kept them waiting only a brief second. His testimony simply corroborated that of his superior officer, and Patrolman Myers, who followed him, added nothing of interest. Upon his departure from the platform, his place was taken by an old negro, who, with some difficulty, mounted the steps and hobbled across the platform to the witness chair.
“What is your name?” asked Coroner Penfield, who had waited in some impatience while the witness was being sworn.
“Oskah, Sah, please, Sah.”
“Oscar what?”
“Oscar Benjamin De Cassenove Jackson, Sah.”
“Well, Oscar, are you acquainted with the nature of an oath?”
“Laws, Sah, ain’t I been married mos’ forty years? My wife, she’s kinda handy wif her tongue,” and Oscar smiled, deprecatingly.
“I am not alluding to swearing,” exclaimed Penfield. “I mean the sort of oath requiring you to tell the truth and nothing but the truth.”
“Laws, Sah, I tells de truf every day o’ my life,” replied Oscar with some indignation. “’Tain’t no occasion to tell me that.”
“Very well.” Penfield spoke with sternness. “Remember, you are under oath to tell only the truth. When did you last see Miss Susan Baird alive?”
Oscar blinked at the abruptness of the question. “Sunday mawning, Sah, when I was servin’ dinner at one o’clock.”
“Did she appear to be in good spirits?” asked Penfield. “In good health—” he added, noting Oscar’s mystified expression.
“Yessah. She ate real hearty, and when I went in de lib’ry after dinner, she was jes’ as peaceful an’ ca’m, a-sittin’ in that great easy chair o’ her’s as if she never had had no words with Miss Kitty.”
“Oh, so Miss Baird had words with Miss Kitty—and who might Miss Kitty be?”
A startled look flitted across Ted Rodgers’ face, to be gone the next instant. He had followed the testimony of each witness with undivided attention, answering only in monosyllables the muttered remarks made to him occasionally by Ben Potter, whose expression of boredom had given place to more lively interest at sight of Oscar on his way to the witness chair.
“Who am Miss Kitty?” asked Oscar in scandalized surprise. “Why, Miss Baird’s niece. They live together, leastwise they did ’till yesterday. Poor ole Miss, she didn’t mean no harm—”
“No harm to whom?” questioned Penfield swiftly.
“To Miss Kitty. She jes’ said she wouldn’t have no such carrying-on,” explained Oscar.
“To what did she refer?”
Oscar favored the coroner with a blank stare. “I dunno, Sah. That’s all o’ de conversation that I overheard.”
Penfield regarded him attentively, but the old man’s gaze did not waver, and after a moment he resumed his examination.
“How long have you worked for Miss Baird?”
“’Most twenty years, Sah.”
“And what did you do for her?”
“I cooked, waited on de table, tended the fires and the garden, cleaned de house, an’ run errands,” ended Oscar with a flourish, and Penfield had difficulty in suppressing a smile. Oscar’s rheumatic legs did not suggest an agile errand boy.
“Who were the other servants?”
“Weren’t none,” tersely. “Miss Baird, she wouldn’t keep no yeller help, so Mandy, my wife, washed de clothes, an’ I done de rest.”
“Did you and Mandy sleep in Miss Baird’s house?”
>
“No, Sah. We lives in our own house, two blocks away.”
“What were your working hours?”
“Hey?” Oscar stroked his wooly head reflectively. “’Most all day,” he volunteered finally. “Mandy had one o’ her spells yesterday mawnin’ an’ I had ter get a doctah fo’ her, an’ that’s why I never reached Miss Baird’s ’til ’bout noon.”
“I see.” Penfield sat back in his chair and fumbled with his watch charm. Oscar as a witness was a disappointment, whatever his accomplishments as an all-round servant. “At what hour did you leave Miss Baird’s on Sunday?”
“’Bout half-past two,” answered Oscar, after due thought.
“And whom did you leave in the house?”
“Miss Baird and her niece, Miss Kitty.”
“No one else—no visitor?”
“No, Sah.”
“Think again, Oscar. Remember, you are under oath. Did either Miss Baird or Miss Kitty Baird have callers before you left on Sunday afternoon?”
“No, Sah. they did not, not while I was there.”
Penfield pushed back his chair and rose. “That will do, Oscar, you are excused. Hume,” to the Morgue Master. “Call Miss Katrina Baird.”
Chapter VI
Testimony
There was craning of necks and bending of heads as the Morgue Master opened the door leading to the room where the witnesses waited to be called, and every eye was focussed on Kitty Baird as she stepped into the court room.
“Don’t look so startled, Kitty,” whispered Dr. Leonard McLean in her ear. He had retained his seat by the door, expecting to leave at any moment. “This inquest is only a legal formality.”
“But these people—the publicity,” she faltered.
“Move on, Miss, move on,” directed Hume, the Morgue Master. “You can’t talk to the witnesses, Doctor. This way, Miss,” and interposing his thickset, stocky figure between Leonard and Kitty, he followed her to the platform and administered the oath: “To tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
Kitty sat down in the witness chair with a feeling of thankfulness. The space between it and the door through which she had entered had seemed an endless distance as she traversed it. Coroner Penfield swung his chair around so as to obtain a better view of her.
The Cat's Paw Page 4
