The Cat's Paw

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  “Shouting won’t help matters,” Mitchell remarked. “For I have the goods on you.” He tapped the papers in front of him. “Here is the sworn testimony of Mrs. Murray, who saw you enter this house on Sunday afternoon with a paper package under your arm, and when you left you carried no package and were so agitated that you weren’t even conscious of bumping into Mrs. Murray as you hurried down the street toward Washington.”

  Wallace stared at the Inspector and then at the others, but always his eyes passed over Nina Potter, sitting huddled in her chair, her eyes upraised in mute pleading.

  “Well,” his voice was hoarse—discordant. “What if I did bring some peaches to Miss Susan as a ‘peace offering?’” His lips twitched into a ghastly smile. “It doesn’t follow that I murdered her.”

  “No—?” Mitchell’s tone expressed incredulity. “That’s for the jury to decide.” He looked across at Kitty. “You I charge with being an accessory to the crime.”

  Charles Craige was the first to speak. “You bring a serious charge against my godchild,” he said sternly. “I demand your proof.”

  Mitchell turned slightly to address the man on his left. “How about it, Mr. Potter?” he asked.

  Potter seemed to have some difficulty in speaking, for a moment elapsed before he answered.

  “Kitty spent Sunday night with us,” he began. “I came home late, having been detained at my club, and was surprised to see Kitty walk out of my apartment house and jump into Major Wallace’s car—”

  He got no further. Kitty was on her feet, her face scarlet.

  “You saw me?” she cried. “Me!”

  “Yes,” meeting her gaze unwaveringly. “I recognized your red coat.” He paused, then added slowly, “I followed you to Georgetown and saw you enter this house—”

  Kitty dropped back in her chair as if shot. Her eyes wandered from Nina Potter, sitting with head averted, to Wallace, who stared straight in front of him, and then to Ted Rodgers, who sat with closed eyes, his head resting against the high back of the throne-shaped chair. No one broke the tense silence and after a brief pause Mitchell spoke.

  “You got your aunt’s fortune, Miss Baird—and then you got cold feet—” he paused dramatically. “There was one man who suspected you, and so you tried to do away with him. I found your revolver, with one chamber discharged in the bottom of Mr. Rodgers’ car—”

  “So I have heard,” Kitty’s fighting spirit was coming to her aid. It had conquered her feeling of deadly faintness, and she faced them, white-lipped but with blazing eyes. “And who was with you, Inspector, when you made that discovery?”

  “My chauffeur and Mr. Potter.”

  “Is that so?” Kitty’s smile was peculiar as she glanced at her cousin. “Has it occurred to you that it may be manufactured evidence?”

  Mitchell looked at her in astonishment. “Are you accusing your cousin of lying?”

  “He is accusing me of a far more despicable crime,” she retorted. “Of wilfully aiding in the murder of my aunt, of trying to kill the man whom, last night, I promised to marry—” she faced them proudly, her heart beating with suffocating rapidity. Why, why had not Ted Rodgers spoken in her defense? “Mr. Rodgers,” she went on, after an almost imperceptible pause, “was shot by a person riding in a car which passed us when we were driving in Rock Creek Park last night. When I left this house with Mr. Rodgers, my revolver was upstairs in the drawer of my desk—” Again she paused, finding speech difficult—her throat felt parched and dry. “Upon my return I found not only you waiting for me, Inspector Mitchell, but Mr. Potter. My cousin knew where I kept my revolver; it was no secret. He could easily have slipped upstairs during the confusion of getting Mr. Rodgers to bed and sending for a nurse and doctor, secured my revolver and, unknown to you, dropped it in Mr. Rodgers’ car—for the purpose of incriminating me.”

  “And Mr. Potter’s object in doing that?” questioned Mitchell, as she came to a breathless pause.

  “Ask him—” and Kitty pointed to her cousin, who had half risen, then dropped back in his chair. Mitchell stared at them both for a second, then faced the throne-shaped chair.

  “Can you tell us who shot you, Mr. Rodgers?” he asked.

  Rodgers opened his eyes and faced their concentrated attention.

  “Miss Baird,” he commenced, and Kitty almost cried out at the formality of his address, “has told you how the revolver might have been ‘planted’ in my car to incriminate her. To be exact it was thrown into the car by the person who shot me, and with it a handkerchief.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a piece of linen, bloodstained and torn. “You bound my head, did you not, before you started to drive me home?” turning to Kitty.

  “Yes.”

  “My nurse—” Rodgers was speaking more clearly, “showed me the handkerchiefs which Dr. McLean had removed to put on a proper bandage,” touching his head. “Look at that handkerchief, Mitchell—and tell us what you see.”

  Mitchell spread out the costly linen so that all could view it.

  “A woman’s handkerchief,” he remarked. “There’s an initial in the corner—the letter—” holding it closer—“the letter ‘P.’” In the utter stillness that followed he laid down the handkerchief. “‘P,’” he repeated musingly—“Potter.”

  A cry escaped Nina Potter and she shrank back in her chair, her face buried in her hands, shaking from head to foot. “Not that,” she gasped. “Not that!”

  Ted Rodgers bent forward. “‘P’ stands as well for ‘Parsons,’” he commented, and got no further.

  “Yo’se done said it!” gasped a voice behind them, and Oscar, perspiration trickling down his black face, came forward, his arm tightly clutched by Welsh, the plain clothes’ detective. “Dar’s de woman who done up ole Miss,” shaking his fist in Mrs. Parsons’ face. “I see’d her acreepin’ away from here on Monday mawnin,’ an’—”

  “You—you—Oscar!” Mrs. Parsons’ voice rose and cracked. Again she tried to speak in her natural tones—“Oscar!”

  Kitty cried out—a chord of memory had been touched—

  “It was you I heard trying to bribe Oscar!” she exclaimed. “You!”

  Mrs. Parsons turned with livid face to Charles Craige.

  “Charles—they—she—stop her!” She reeled backward and Craige, awakening from his stupor, flung Mouchette toward Kitty and reached forward to catch Mrs. Parsons as she swayed dangerously near the edge of her chair.

  The Angora cat, roused suddenly from her sleep, missed Kitty by the fraction of an inch and alighted in Mrs. Parsons’ lap. As the terrified woman attempted to throw her down, the cat sank her claws into her bare arm, tearing the delicate flesh with gash after gash.

  The men sprang to Mrs. Parsons’ aid, but too late. Her screams gave place to a gurgling cry and she sank back a dead weight. Mitchell, kneeling by her side, stared at her convulsed features in horror as his hand went to her wrist.

  “By God! She’s dead!” he gasped in awe. His glance traveled downward. “Look—look at the cat!” His shaking finger pointed to where Mouchette sat licking first one paw and then the other. A streak of blood was flowing from where she had gashed herself in her fury. Suddenly they saw the cat stiffen, throw back her head convulsively, roll over and lie still.

  A clicking sound caused Inspector Mitchell to whirl around in time to see a pair of handcuffs dangling from Charles Craige’s wrists.

  “What—what?” he gasped.

  “Charles Craige—murderer of Miss Susan Baird,” explained Rodgers. “Don’t move,” and a revolver rested dangerously near Craige’s heart. “Open your hand.” The command was accompanied by a threatening movement of the revolver.

  Slowly, very slowly Craige did as he was told. A small rubber bulb syringe dropped to the floor.

  “Don’t touch it,” Rodgers cried sharply, as Mitchell bent down. “It is filled with the poison which Craige sprayed on the cat’s paw—and thus killed Cecelia Parsons, his fiancee.”

  Chapter XX
II

  Greed

  Charles Craige sat staring into vacancy, while beads of perspiration trickled down his ghastly face. Several drops slipped into his eyes and half blinded him. Raising his hands he brushed them away. The action brought the handcuffs encircling his wrists into view. He regarded them apathetically, then his uncomprehending gaze traveled over the horror-stricken men and women grouped about his chair. It was not until he saw Kitty Baird that the situation dawned upon him. Before the others suspected his intention, he sprang at her, his manacled hands upraised to strike. The blow was turned aside by Inspector Mitchell, who darted to Kitty’s assistance.

  “Hold him down in that chair, Welsh,” he directed as the detective came to his aid. Rodgers, whose false strength had departed, dropped into the nearest chair, the revolver hanging useless in his grasp. His shot, as Craige sprang forward, had gone wild. Kitty was by his side in an instant.

  “I’m all right,” he panted, as she bent over him. “Don’t worry, my darling. Now, Craige, what have you to say?”

  “Say?” Craige was winded from his exertions and spoke with difficulty. “Why should I say anything?”

  “Because the game’s up,” Mitchell stated, and stepped aside so that Craige had a clear view of Cecelia Parsons. “Why did you kill that woman?”

  “I did not mean to kill Cecelia,” Craige shouted. “God knows I did not.” His bloodshot eyes again sought Kitty. “I threw the cat at you. Cecelia called to me to stop you—”

  “Ah, so Mrs. Parsons aided you in your murder of Miss Susan Baird,” broke in Mitchell.

  “She did not.” Craige, his tongue unloosened, spoke in desperate haste, his words tripping over one another. It seemed almost as if he gained courage from the sound of his own voice. “Miss Susan Baird was warned—but she would not listen to me.”

  “Why did you kill my aunt?” demanded Kitty, indignation for the moment mastering her horror. “She was always kind to you. She trusted you.”

  “Trust? It was greed which prompted her friendship.” Craige laughed harshly, jeeringly. “It was by my aid that she made her fortune. Do you know what she was—your aristocratic aunt—a money-lender!”

  Kitty stared at him—appalled. “It can’t be,” she cried, and turned appealingly to Ted Rodgers. “Make him tell the truth.”

  “I am speaking the truth,” Craige retorted. “Many’s the person I’ve brought over here when you, Kitty, were not around, and your aunt has admitted us at that side door. She charged high rates of interest, but no one gave her away. She was square with them.”

  “Were you square with her?” asked Rodgers quietly, and a dull red suffused Craige’s white face.

  “When I had to borrow, she treated me like the others,” he answered. “The fact that I helped her amass a fortune cut no ice. I got deeper and deeper in debt, and then—” his voice changed. “I had to have money, so I told her I wanted to marry you.”

  Kitty retreated, aghast. “Marry me? You!”

  “Yes,” coolly. “I am only fifty-four; there is not such a difference in our ages. I saw your aunt on Sunday about six o’clock. She laughed at me and refused to consent to our marriage.” Beads of perspiration had again gathered on his forehead, but he went steadily on with his story, oblivious apparently of the abhorrance with which his companions were regarding him. “I had forged Miss Susan Baird’s name in my desperation last week. I knew that if Kitty and I were married quickly, she would keep quiet about the forgery for her family’s sake. When she laughed my plan to scorn, I realized there was only one thing to do—to kill her.”

  “How did you go about it?” asked Mitchell.

  It was some seconds before Craige answered. “I went prepared for failure,” he admitted. “I could not face ruin—perhaps the penitentiary for forgery. My father was a famous expert in toxicology and,” he moistened his lips—“I often worked in his laboratory,” with a side glance at the bulb syringe still lying where it had fallen on the floor. “I at first planned to squeeze some poison in her tea cup, but got no chance. Then Miss Baird asked me to peel a peach for her. I don’t know where the peaches came from, but there were three in a dish on the table. Before cutting the peach in two, I sprayed some hydrocyanic acid on the knife blade when Miss Baird was not looking, holding the knife just over the edge of the table and the bulb in my left hand, out of sight in my lap.”

  “It was devilishly ingenious,” commented Mitchell. “Well, did you steal the forged paper after killing the old lady?”

  “No.” Craige looked at Kitty with a faint sneer. “It was among those canceled checks from the bank which you so obligingly left in your desk yesterday alongside your revolver. I stole them both last night.”

  “Last night?” Kitty looked at him in astonishment. “Why, we found you at home last night, Ted and I. We telephoned you first that we were coming and—”

  “I answered the ’phone; quite so.” Craige’s smile was peculiar. “My butler, Lambert, is well trained and,” with emphasis, “well paid. He is quick at recognizing the voices of my intimate friends. I happened to be in Washington in my, eh, town apartment,” with a sidelong look at Kitty. “From there I have a direct wire to my switchboard in my house, and Lambert plugged in your call. You thought you were talking to me at ‘Hideaway,’ Rodgers, whereas I wasn’t six blocks away from here.

  “I told Lambert to take care of you until I got home, then hurried over here. I have a key to the side door. It took but an instant to slip upstairs to your room and to go through your desk. Mandy never woke up, but that infernal cat,” with a vindictive snarl. “I wish I had strangled her. When I got back to ‘Hideaway,’ I found you and Kitty so engaged with each other that I knew you never realized the time I took to appear.”

  “So that was it!” Rodgers drew a long breath. “And you followed us and tried to shoot me in the Park!”

  “Yes.” Craige favored him with a scowl. “I got word yesterday that you were wise to the kind of life I was leading—you knew too much. I detected you watching me last night. If Kitty had not swerved her car when she did, I’d have potted you, for I’m a crack shot as a general thing.”

  “And did you throw the revolver into the car as you dashed by?” asked Kitty.

  “Yes. I had tied a handkerchief loosely about the butt of the revolver so as not to leave finger prints,” Craige added. “It was clever of you, Rodgers, to trace the handkerchief as you did. In my haste that night, I never noticed that I had one of Cecelia’s handkerchiefs in my pocket and none of my own.” He paused, his voice had grown husky. “Well, that clears up the mystery.”

  “All but Mrs. Parsons’ part in it,” broke in Rodgers. “Where did she come in, Craige?”

  Craige’s color mounted, then receded, leaving him deadly white.

  “She cut a big splurge here,” he began, “and soon went through her money. She found out about Miss Baird and came here early Monday morning, knowing that Kitty was spending the night with her cousins, hoping to borrow from Susan. She found the front door open, so she told me, and walked in. When she discovered Miss Baird lying dead in the library, she bolted home and called up the police.”

  “And why did she try to bribe Oscar?” demanded Kitty.

  “She wanted some papers to prove that your aunt was a money-lender,” Craige twisted about, his growing uneasiness plainly indicated by his avoidance of their gaze.

  “In other words,” cut in Mitchell. “Mrs. Parsons hoped to blackmail Miss Kitty Baird by threatening to expose her aunt’s career.”

  Craige nodded sullenly. “Something like that,” he admitted.

  Rodgers had not taken his eyes from him. “Did Mrs. Parsons know that you wished to marry Kitty?” he asked.

  Craige shifted his feet about. “No,” he muttered.

  “Did she know that you killed Miss Susan Baird?” Rodgers was persistent in his questioning.

  “I’m not sure,” Craige glanced up at him quickly, then dropped his eyes. The sight of his handcuffs sent
a shiver down his spine and he again shifted his gaze.

  “Mrs. Parsons done picked up dat ar’ rubber ball befo’ she left on Monday mawnin’,” volunteered Oscar. The old man had been a fascinated witness of all that transpired; his face, gray from fright at the death of Cecelia Parsons, had regained its normal hue somewhat, but his eyes still bulged from his head.

  “She did!” A startled look crept into Craige’s ever-shifting eyes. “Why, I found the cat playing with the syringe when I first entered this room. I knew that I had dropped it on Sunday, probably when I reentered the library after Susan Baird screamed.” A shudder shook him, in spite of his iron self-control. “Seeing it here this afternoon, I supposed it had rolled in some corner, and been overlooked. I judged that the cat had selected it as a plaything.”

  “It’s a wonder the cat didn’t poison herself,” commented Mitchell.

  Craige’s face was distorted into what he meant for a smile. “There wasn’t a drop of poison left in the syringe,” he said. “I considered finding it a direct act of Providence, for I expected trouble of some kind, and brought with me a small phial of a concentrated solution of crotalidae—”

  “What’s that?” asked Mitchell.

  “Snake venom, and deadly when introduced into the blood,” explained Craige. “It’s sometimes used in drugs given by homoeopathists. During the few minutes I was alone in the library I put the poison in the syringe.”

  “But if Mrs. Parsons carried away the syringe on Monday morning, how did it get back in this library to-day?” asked Kitty.

  “She probably guessed that it was used to kill Miss Susan Baird in some way, and brought it back to incriminate Miss Kitty Baird,” declared Mitchell. “Mrs. Parsons was as clever as they make them, but she overreached herself when she tried to involve you, Mr. Rodgers. I kept the wires to San Francisco hot until I found out that the papers she produced to prove that you were involved in the Holt will forgery were ones found in Gentleman Jake’s house, when he and his confederates were trying to forge Holt’s will.” He turned to Craige. “Did you put Mrs. Parsons up to that deviltry, Mr. Craige?”