The Cat's Paw

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  Mouchette stood in the chair with her fore-paws resting on the table and her fluffy tail was lashing itself into a fury. It was the cat’s evident intention to spring upon the table and Mrs. Parsons retreated precipitously. She hated cats. As she passed the table, she dropped the sugar bowl on its polished surface. The bowl skidded, half righted itself, then fell to the floor, the heavy rug deadening the noise. With it went a small object unseen by Mrs. Parsons who, not stopping to pick up the bowl, proceeded into the hall.

  Mouchette, surprised by Mrs. Parsons’ rapid retreat, stood where she was for an instant, then jumped lightly to the floor and sniffed at the sugar bowl. Going over to the small object lying by the bowl she sniffed at that, stretched out an inquisitive paw, gave it a gentle pat, watched it roll a short distance, then convinced that she had a plaything after her own heart, the cat proceeded to roll it hither and yon.

  Mrs. Parsons was making straight for the front door when she caught sight of some one in the parlor, the door of which stood ajar. With a quiet air of authority she entered the room. So silently did she move that not until Nina Potter turned away from the Florentine cabinet was she aware of Mrs. Parsons’ presence. The ivory chessman which she held slipped from her fingers and shattered on the hardwood floor.

  “Oh, what a pity!” Mrs. Parsons’ air of concern sat prettily upon her. “My dear Nina, did I startle you? I am so distressed.”

  “You did,” admitted Nina with a rueful smile. “The quinine I have taken for my cold has made me quite deaf. Does Kitty know that you are here?”

  “I have just seen her,” Mrs. Parsons selected a chair and motioned Nina to one beside it. She did not propose to have her call cut short. She had found her source of information. “Kitty had to go upstairs to be with Edward Rodgers. When did the shooting occur?”

  “Late last night.” Nina moved uneasily; she knew Mrs. Parsons’ predilection for scandal.

  “And where—” with gentle insistence.

  “In Rock Creek Park.” Nina’s hoarse voice rasped Mrs. Parsons’ ears. She was sensitive to sound. “Ben was here when Kitty returned with Ted Rodgers, and he came right home and brought me back to stay with Kitty.”

  Mrs. Parsons eyed her in silence, noting every detail of her pretty morning dress as well as the unusual redness of her eyelids and the nervous twitching of her hands.

  “How fortunate for you,” she exclaimed. Nina looked up and caught her eyes; for a moment their glances held, then Nina looked away.

  “I don’t catch your meaning,” she faltered.

  “No?”—with a rising inflection which implied doubt, and Nina blushed painfully. Mrs. Parsons avoided looking at her; instead she inspected the furniture in the parlor and shuddered. “Such taste in decoration,” she said calmly. “But then Kitty can change all that with the fortune Miss Susan Baird left to her. What a sensation the news of her wealth has made in Washington! Has no one asked you how Miss Baird acquired it?”

  Nina’s color slowly ebbed away. The eyes she turned on Mrs. Parsons were like some hunted animal.

  “You—you know?” she stammered.

  Mrs. Parsons nodded her head.

  “Confide in me, my dear Nina,” she spoke with a world of sympathy in voice and manner. “I know that I can aid you.”

  Chapter XIX

  Suspicion

  It was not often that Charles Craige was late in keeping an appointment with Mrs. Parsons. But the pretty widow had occasion to glance repeatedly at her parlor clock with ever increasing annoyance before she heard the butler ushering some one upstairs. She masked her displeasure under a smiling face.

  “Ah, Charles, what has detained you?” she asked, as he bent low over her hand and kissed it.

  “Pressing business,” he answered. “I am deeply sorry to be late, Cecelia. Judge McMasters simply would not hurry. Has Ben Potter been here?”

  “Not to-day.” Mrs. Parsons’ surprise at the question was manifest. “You know he is not one of my favorites. He bored me to death in San Francisco; he is so intense—” she shrugged her shoulders. “I saw his wife this morning.”

  “Indeed?” Craige selected a cigarette from the box on the table and accepted a lighted match.

  “Silly sentimental little fool,” commented Mrs. Parsons. “Just the kind of wife Ben could have been counted on to pick out.”

  “Men usually marry to please themselves.” Craige laughed. “Ben telephoned me an hour ago and said that he was coming around to see you—”

  “What about?”

  “He did not state.” Craige looked at her in surprise, abruptness was not usual with her. “He may come at any moment—” glancing at his watch. It lacked five minutes of the hour. “I stopped at the bank this morning and President Walsh said he would accept your note for two thousand dollars provided you have collateral—”

  “Certainly.” Mrs. Parsons colored deeply. “In fact, I am not sure that I shall need the loan from the bank. I was only temporarily embarrassed until my property in San Francisco is sold. To-day,” she paused, “I have arranged another matter satisfactorily. It is kind of you, Charles, very kind, to handle my business for me.”

  “My dearest Cecelia—” Craige laid his hand on her’s. “I am happiest when I serve you.”

  Her eyes sparkled with a hint of tears. “I am grateful,” she murmured. “You have been so good, so very good since I came to Washington.”

  “Cecelia!” Craige bent forward impulsively, but she drew away from his embrace.

  “Not now, dear,” she protested. “You know you promised—”

  Craige’s handsome face, alight with eagerness, altered. “I will keep my word—” he said. “One month, Cecelia, and then the whole world is to know of my happiness—”

  “Our happiness—” she corrected softly. Craige caught her hands and pressed the palms against his face before kissing them with lingering tenderness.

  “A la bonne heure!” he exclaimed, and his voice betrayed his happiness. “Cecelia, you grow prettier every day.”

  “My mirror is not so kind as you, Charles!” A sigh accompanied the words, and she swiftly changed the subject. “Have you seen Kitty Baird to-day?”

  “I am on my way there now.” A worried look crossed his face. “That poor girl seems fated for tragedy. You heard of the attempt to kill Ted Rodgers last night in the Park, did you not?”

  “I understood that it was an accident.” Horror crept into Mrs. Parsons’ eyes. “How dreadful!”

  “Kitty declares that the headlights of the car blinded her, and that she has no idea of the identity of the person who did the shooting. She says that she could not even tell whether it was a man or a woman.”

  Craige, sitting facing the light from the western window, failed to detect the faint alteration in Mrs. Parsons’ expression.

  “How is Ted Rodgers?” she asked. “Out of danger?”

  “I haven’t heard; which reminds me that I am to meet Dr. McLean at ‘Rose Hill’ at three o’clock.” Craige rose. “I sincerely hope that Ted recovers—it will kill Kitty if anything happens to him.”

  Mrs. Parsons held out her hands and Craige helped her slowly to her feet. “So Ted really has cut out Leigh Wallace in Kitty’s affections,” she remarked.

  Craige frowned. “It was nothing more than a flirtation between Kitty and Wallace,” he declared. “Her whole heart is centered on Ted.”

  “You speak with positiveness—” Mrs. Parsons’ laugh held a touch of malice. “Remember, women are fickle—and Leigh very attractive.”

  “I fail to understand the fascination he apparently has for women.” Craige’s tone was stiff. A mischievous smile touched Mrs. Parsons’ lips and her eyes danced.

  “Leigh was very, very smitten with Kitty,” she asserted, as she paused before the long gilt mirror and adjusted her lorgnette chain. “Do you suppose it could have been Leigh who tried to kill Ted last night?”

  Craige stood just behind her and looking in the mirror she saw his face ref
lected over her shoulder. His expression of surprise gave place to doubt—to wonder—

  “By Jove!” he exclaimed. “No, it can’t be, Cecelia. Leigh, whatever his faults, is the type of man who fights in the open.”

  “Jealousy changes a man’s nature sometimes,” she murmured. “Leigh has not been himself since his return from France.”

  “You knew him before, then?”

  Mrs. Parsons nodded. “Very slightly. It was Nina Potter who commented upon the change in him; he was an old sweetheart of hers.”

  Craige paused. “Upon my word, Cecelia,” he ejaculated. “How do you learn so much about people?”

  She laughed aloud in her amusement. “I am observant. I find—” and the lines about her mouth hardened—“it pays to be. Will you dine with me to-morrow night, Charles?”

  “Surely,” with eager haste. “And will you go to the theater afterward?”

  “Perhaps.” She laid her hand for the fraction of a second against his cheek with a caressing motion. “Careful, dear, James is waiting to open the door for you—” and Craige perforce contented himself with a formal handshake as the servant came forward to the foot of the short flight of steps with his overcoat and hat.

  Craige was about to step into his motor when he became aware that the butler was at his elbow.

  “Can I have a word with you, sir?” he asked, and a jerk of his thumb indicated Craige’s chauffeur. “In private, sir.”

  “Certainly, James.” Mystified by the butler’s air of secretiveness Craige followed him a few steps down the street. When convinced that the chauffeur could not overhear them, James halted. But they were not destined to have their interview in private, for as Craige stood waiting for James to explain what he wished Inspector Mitchell stopped beside them.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Craige,” he said, as he nodded a greeting to the butler. “Glad to see you, sir. Now, James, why did you send for me?”

  James rubbed his hands together and cast an appealing look at Craige. “I had to,” he began, addressing his remarks to him rather than to Mitchell. “My conscience couldn’t rest easy, sir, after I read the newspapers about the inquest.”

  “The inquest?” Mitchell’s eyes snapped with excitement. “Go on, man—you mean the Baird inquest?”

  “Yes. Mr. Craige, sir, the newspapers said that Miss Baird was killed by poison put on a peach,” he spoke in nervous haste and Craige had some difficulty in catching what he said. “Nobody seemed to know where the peaches came from ’cording to the papers.”

  “No more we did,” prompted Mitchell. “Well, what then?”

  James licked his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Miss Kitty Baird goes to the market sometimes for Mrs. Parsons, sir. On Saturday she brought back some California peaches,” his voice sank even lower. “She called here Sunday morning, and when she left, the peaches wasn’t on the dining room table.”

  Craige stared the butler out of countenance. “Preposterous!” he exclaimed, turning red with indignation. “What are you suggesting, James?”

  “Nothing, sir, Mr. Craige. I’m just telling you about the peaches.”

  Craige’s face was a study of wrath and bewilderment; the former predominating. With an effort, he checked an oath and instead drew out some loose silver.

  “I am glad you spoke only to us, James,” he said. “Come with me, Mitchell,” and paying no attention to the inspector’s protests that he wished further word with the butler, he hurried him toward his car.

  So occupied were both men that neither caught James’ furtive glance at the parlor window as he turned to reenter Mrs. Parsons’ house.

  Chapter XX

  The Feet of the Furtive

  Mandy was not happy in her mind. No matter how tempting the dishes she cooked, her beloved “Miss Kitty” failed to eat more than “jes’ scraps,” as Mandy expressed it in her disgust. But Kitty’s heart as well as her thoughts were centered in the sickroom and she did not linger elsewhere. Weakened through loss of blood and shock, Ted Rodgers had lain partly conscious all through the morning, taking no interest in his surroundings and only rousing when Kitty spoke to him. But even to her he addressed no conversation, being content to hold her hand and gaze at her with his heart in his eyes.

  “Do go and lie down, Miss Baird.” Miss Grey, the trained nurse, laid a sympathetic hand on Kitty’s shoulder. “I assure you Mr. Rodgers is better, and I promise to call you the moment Dr. McLean gets here.”

  Kitty stretched her cramped muscles and looked at Ted. Even to her inexperienced eyes, he appeared to be resting more comfortably and his cheeks were a healthier color. She felt inexplicably weary; her eyelids were heavy from lack of sleep and her head ached unmercifully. Taking care not to arouse Rodgers, Kitty moved away from the bedside.

  “I’ll be in the room,” she told Miss Gray, lowering her voice, “just across the hall, and I will leave my door open. If you want the slightest thing just call me, and I will come at once.”

  Kitty’s desire for “forty winks,” as her aunt had always termed her afternoon nap, was not to be gratified immediately, for as she stepped into the hall, Mandy came toiling up the stairs.

  “Law, ma’am, Miss Kitty!” she ejaculated. “Dis hyar day am gwine to be de ruination of me. I wish that no-count nigger, Oscar, was hyar attendin’ to his work.”

  “I wish so, too!” echoed Kitty fervently. “Have you had word from Oscar?”

  “No, m’m.” Mandy had a habit of mumbling her words. “Whar’s Mrs. Potter?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.” Kitty yawned. “In the library, probably.”

  “No she ain’t, neither!” Mandy’s exasperation was gaining the upper hand. “Thar’s been two telephone calls fo’ her, an’ I ’spects Mister Ben’ll jump clear through his skin if she don’t come an’ talk to him.”

  “Is Mr. Ben on the ’phone now?”

  “Yessim.”

  “I’ll talk to him on the branch ’phone.” Kitty crossed the hall. “You might see if Mrs. Potter is lying down in the boudoir.”

  The telephone instrument was close by the door and Kitty, who had earlier in the day deadened the sound of the bell by stuffing cotton about it, so that its ring might not disturb Rodgers, took off the receiver. No masculine voice answered her low hail, and finally, convinced that her cousin must have grown tired and rung off, she hung up the receiver. Going over to her bed she threw herself fully dressed upon it, and in a few minutes her even breathing showed that she had fallen into the heavy slumber of utter exhaustion.

  Mandy, left to her own devices, wandered down the hall to the boudoir. It was located next to the bedroom which had belonged to Miss Susan Baird. The old colored woman cautiously poked her head inside the door sufficiently for to convince herself that the boudior was empty, then withdrew. She stood for some seconds before the closed door leading into “Miss Susan’s” bedroom, but her superstitious dread kept her from entering it. Had she done so she would have found the object of her search.

  Nina Potter, her ear close to the key-hole of the door, heard Mandy stump heavily away and drew a long, long breath of relief. Getting up from her knees, she looked about the room. It had been left untouched since the funeral, Mandy not having found courage either to dust or sweep, or, for the matter of that, to enter it upon any occasion whatever, in spite of Kitty’s directions to put the bedroom in order.

  It was a large room with high ceilings and diamond-paned windows. The shades were raised and the afternoon sunshine fell full upon the carved four-post bedstead with its time-worn canopy and broad valance. Going over to the bureau, Nina tried the different drawers; they were all unlocked. Turning once again to convince herself that she really was alone in the room, she waited a second and then went through the bureau with neatness and dispatch. Her search was unproductive of result. Nothing daunted, she examined the old desk with equal thoroughness, and then turned her attention to the mahogany wardrobe which occupied one corner of the room. She found that it contained no
thing but clothes which a generation before had been fashionable. They hung on the wooden pegs, rainbow hued, beribboned, and musty. Nina hastily closed the doors and turned her back on the wardrobe.

  The action brought her face to face with the bedstead. It was the only piece of furniture in the room which she had not examined. With some hesitancy she walked over to it. The sheets had been spread neatly over the mattress, but the bolster and pillows had evidently been tossed in place, for they had assumed grotesque shapes and to her excited imagination it seemed as if some human form lay sprawled across the bed.

  Raising the sheets, she ran her hands back and forth over the mattress as far as she could reach. No rustle of papers, such as she had hoped to hear, resulted. Looking about, she spied the short wooden steps which Miss Susan Baird had used to mount into bed every night, and dragged them into place. Standing on the top step and resting her weight partly on the bed, Nina managed to feel the whole surface of the mattress.

  Finally, she straightened her aching figure and stood upright. She was conscious of a slight feeling of giddiness; the next instant she had lost her balance and rolled to the floor. As she descended she threw out her hand and instinctively clutched the valance. It ripped away with a tearing sound, and when she sat up, bewildered, her eyes were on a level with the wooden springs of the bed. Between them and the mattress rested an oblong box. It was painted the color of mahogany and fitted snugly into its cleverly contrived hiding place.

  Nina’s fingers trembled as she lifted out the box and tried to raise the cover. It was locked. Scrambling to her feet, she hurried to the bureau and selected a steel shoe horn. Slipping it under the box-lid she exerted all her strength. The lock resisted her efforts at first, then the rotten wood gave with a slight splintering sound.

  In panting haste she threw back the lid. The box appeared to be filled with papers of all sizes, but Nina lost no time in examining them. On top lay a package of letters bearing her name in a familiar handwriting. Snatching them up, Nina replaced the box. With the aid of pins she tacked the valance back in place as best she could, straightened the bedclothes, and then stole from the room, her precious package clasped tightly in her hand. As she passed down the staircase, she was totally unaware that she was watched, nor did she catch the faint sound made by the opening and closing of “Miss Susan’s” bedroom door.