The Window at the White Cat

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  CHAPTER V

  LITTLE MISS JANE

  I was almost unrecognizable when I looked at myself in the mirror thenext morning, preparatory to dressing for breakfast. My nose boasted anew arch, like the back of an angry cat, making my profile Roman andferocious, and the lump on my forehead from the chair was swollen,glassy and purple. I turned my back to the mirror and dressed inwrathful irritation and my yesterday's linen.

  Miss Fleming was in the breakfast-room when I got down, standing at awindow, her back to me. I have carried with me, during all the monthssince that time, a mental picture of her as she stood there, in a pinkmorning frock of some sort. But only the other day, having mentionedthis to her, she assured me that the frock was blue, that she didn'thave a pink garment at the time this story opens and that if she did shepositively didn't have it on. And having thus flouted my eye for color,she maintains that she did _not_ have her back to me, for shedistinctly saw my newly-raised bridge as I came down the stairs. So Iamend this. Miss Fleming in a blue frock was facing the door when I wentinto the breakfast-room. Of one thing I am certain. She came forward andheld out her hand.

  "Good morning," she said. "What a terrible face!"

  "It isn't mine," I replied meekly. "My own face is beneath theseexcrescences. I tried to cover the bump on my forehead with Frenchchalk, but it only accentuated the thing, like snow on a mountain top."

  "'The purple peaks of Darien,'" she quoted, pouring me my coffee. "Doyou know, I feel so much better since you have taken hold of things.Aunt Letitia thinks you are wonderful."

  I thought ruefully of the failure of my first attempt to play thesleuth, and I disclaimed any right to Miss Letitia's high opinion of me.From my dogging the watchman to the police station, to Delia and hernote, was a short mental step.

  "Before any one comes down, Miss Fleming," I said, "I want to ask aquestion or two. What was the name of the maid who helped you searchthe house that night?"

  "Annie."

  "What other maids did you say there were?"

  "Delia and Rose."

  "Do you know anything about them? Where they came from, or where theywent?"

  She smiled a little.

  "What does one know about new servants?" she responded. "They bring youreferences, but references are the price most women pay to get rid oftheir servants without a fuss. Rose was fat and old, but Delia waspretty. I thought she rather liked Carter."

  Carter as well as Shields, the policeman. I put Miss Delia down as aflirt.

  "And you have no idea where Carter went?"

  "None."

  Wardrop came in then, and we spoke of other things. The two elderlyladies it seemed had tea and toast in their rooms when they wakened, andthe three of us breakfasted together. But conversation languished withWardrop's appearance; he looked haggard and worn, avoided MissFleming's eyes, and after ordering eggs instead of his chop, looked athis watch and left without touching anything.

  "I want to get the nine-thirty, Margie," he said, coming back with hishat in his hand. "I may not be out to dinner. Tell Miss Letitia, willyou?" He turned to go, but on second thought came back to me and heldout his hand.

  "I may not see you again," he began.

  "Not if I see you first," I interrupted. He glanced at my mutilatedfeatures and smiled.

  "I have made you a Maitland," he said. "I didn't think that anything buta prodigal Nature could duplicate Miss Letitia's nose! I'm honestlysorry, Mr. Knox, and if you do not want Miss Jane at that bump with acold silver knife and some butter, you'd better duck before she comesdown. Good-by, Margie."

  I think the girl was as much baffled as I was by the change in hismanner when he spoke to her. His smile faded and he hardly met her eyes:I thought that his aloofness puzzled rather than hurt her. When thehouse door had closed behind him, she dropped her chin in her hand andlooked across the table.

  "You did not tell me the truth last night, Mr. Knox," she said. "I havenever seen Harry look like that. Something has happened to him."

  "He was robbed of his traveling-bag," I explained, on Fred's theory thathalf a truth is better than a poor lie. "It's a humiliating experience,I believe. A man will throw away thousands, or gamble them away, withmore equanimity than he'll see some one making off with his hair brushesor his clean collars."

  "His traveling-bag!" she repeated scornfully. "Mr. Knox, something hashappened to my father, and you and Harry are hiding it from me."

  "On my honor, it is nothing of the sort," I hastened to assure her. "Isaw him for only a few minutes, just long enough for him to wreck myappearance."

  "He did not speak of father?"

  "No."

  She got up and crossing to the wooden mantel, put her arms upon it andleaned her head against them. "I wanted to ask him," she said drearily,"but I am afraid to. Suppose he doesn't know and I should tell him! Hewould go to Mr. Schwartz at once, and Mr. Schwartz is treacherous. Thepapers would get it, too."

  Her eyes filled with tears, and I felt as awkward as a man always doeswhen a woman begins to cry. If he knows her well enough he can go overand pat her on the shoulder and assure her it is going to be all right.If he does not know her, and there are two maiden aunts likely to comein at any minute, he sits still, as I did, and waits until the stormclears.

  Miss Margery was not long in emerging from her handkerchief.

  "I didn't sleep much," she explained, dabbing at her eyes, "and I amnervous, anyhow. Mr. Knox, are you sure it was only Harry trying to getinto the house last night?"

  "Only Harry," I repeated. "If Mr. Wardrop's attempt to get into thehouse leaves me in this condition, what would a real burglar have doneto me!"

  She was too intent to be sympathetic over my disfigured face.

  "There was some one moving about up-stairs not long before I came down,"she said slowly.

  "You heard me; I almost fell down the stairs."

  "Did you brush past my door, and strike the knob?" she demanded.

  "No, I was not near any door."

  "Very well," triumphantly. "Some one did. Not only that, but they werein the store-room on the floor above. I could hear one person andperhaps two, going from one side of the room to the other and backagain."

  "You heard a goblin quadrille. First couple forward and back," I saidfacetiously.

  "I heard real footsteps--unmistakable ones. The maids sleep back on thesecond floor, and--don't tell me it was rats. There are no rats in myAunt Letitia's house."

  I was more impressed than I cared to show. I found I had a half hourbefore train time, and as we were neither of us eating anything, Isuggested that we explore the upper floor of the house. I did it, Iexplained, not because I expected to find anything, but because I wassure we would not.

  We crept past the two closed doors behind which the ladies Maitland werepresumably taking out their crimps and taking in their tea. Then up anarrow, obtrusively clean stairway to the upper floor.

  It was an old-fashioned, sloping-roofed attic, with narrow windows and abare floor. At one end a door opened into a large room, and in therewere the family trunks of four generations of Maitlands. One on anotherthey were all piled there--little hair trunks, squab-topped trunks, hugeSaratogas--of the period when the two maiden ladies were in their lateteens--and there were handsome, modern trunks, too. For Miss Fleming'ssatisfaction I made an examination of the room, but it showed nothing.There was little or no dust to have been disturbed; the windows wereclosed and locked.

  In the main attic were two step-ladders, some curtains drying on framesand an old chest of drawers with glass knobs and the veneering broken inplaces. One of the drawers stood open, and inside could be seen a redand white patchwork quilt, and a grayish thing that looked like flanneland smelled to heaven of camphor. We gave up finally, and started down.

  Part way down the attic stairs Margery stopped, her eyes fixed on thewhite-scrubbed rail. Following her gaze, I stopped, too, and I felt asort of chill go over me. No spot or blemish, no dirty finger printmarked the whiteness
of that stair rail, except in one place. On it,clear and distinct, every line of the palm showing, was the reddishimprint of a hand!

  Margery did not speak; she had turned very white, and closed her eyes,but she was not faint. When the first revulsion had passed, I reachedover and touched the stain. It was quite dry, of course, but it wasstill reddish-brown; another hour or two would see it black. It wasevidently fresh--Hunter said afterward it must have been about six hoursold, and as things transpired, he was right. The stain showed a handsomewhat short and broad, with widened finger-tips; marked in ink, itwould not have struck me so forcibly, perhaps, but there, its ugly redagainst the white wood, it seemed to me to be the imprint of a brutal,murderous hand.

  Margery was essentially feminine.

  "What did I tell you?" she asked. "Some one was in this house lastnight; I heard them distinctly. There must have been two, and theyquarreled--" she shuddered.

  We went on down-stairs into the quiet and peace of the dining-roomagain. I got some hot coffee for Margery, for she looked shaken, andfound I had missed my train.

  "I am beginning to think I am being pursued by a malicious spirit," shesaid, trying to smile. "I came away from home because people got intothe house at night and left queer signs of their visits, and now, hereat Bellwood, where nothing _ever_ happens, the moment I arrive thingsbegin to occur. And--just as it was at home--the house was so welllocked last night."

  I did not tell her of the open hall door, just as I had kept from herthe fact that only the contents of Harry Wardrop's bag had been taken.That it had all been the work of one person, and that that person,having in some way access to the house, had also stolen the pearls, wasnow my confident belief.

  I looked at Bella--the maid--as she moved around the dining-room; herstolid face was not even intelligent; certainly not cunning. Heppie,the cook and only other servant, was partly blind and her horizon wasthe diameter of her largest kettle. No--it had not been a servant, thismysterious intruder who passed the Maitland silver on the sideboardwithout an attempt to take it, and who floundered around an attic atnight, in search of nothing more valuable than patchwork quilts andwinter flannels. It is strange to look back and think how quietly we satthere; that we could see nothing but burglary--or an attempt at it--inwhat we had found.

  It must have been after nine o'clock when Bella came running into theroom. Ordinarily a slow and clumsy creature, she almost flew. She had atray in her hand, and the dishes were rattling and threatening overthrowat every step. She brought up against a chair, and a cup went flying.The breaking of a cup must have been a serious offense in Miss LetitiaMaitland's house, but Bella took no notice whatever of it.

  "Miss Jane," she gasped, "Miss Jane, she's--she's--"

  "Hurt!" Margery exclaimed, rising and clutching at the table forsupport.

  "No. Gone--she's gone! She's been run off with!"

  "Nonsense!" I said, seeing Margery's horrified face. "Don't come in herewith such a story. If Miss Jane is not in her room, she is somewhereelse, that's all."

  Bella stooped and gathered up the broken cup, her lips moving. Margeryhad recovered herself. She made Bella straighten and explain.

  "Do you mean--she is not in her room?" she asked incredulously. "Isn'tshe somewhere around the house?"

  "Go up and look at the room," the girl replied, and, with Margeryleading, we ran up the stairs.

  Miss Jane's room was empty. From somewhere near Miss Letitia could beheard lecturing Hepsibah about putting too much butter on the toast. Herhigh voice, pitched for Heppie's old ears, rasped me. Margery closed thedoor, and we surveyed the room together.

  The bed had been occupied; its coverings had been thrown back, as ifits occupant had risen hurriedly. The room itself was in a state ofconfusion; a rocker lay on its side, and Miss Jane's clothing, folded asshe had taken it off, had slid off on to the floor. Her shoes stoodneatly at the foot of the bed, and a bottle of toilet vinegar had beenupset, pouring a stream over the marble top of the dresser and down onto the floor. Over the high wooden mantel the Maitland who had beengovernor of the state years ago hung at a waggish angle, and a clock hadbeen pushed aside and stopped at half-past one.

  Margery stared around her in bewilderment. Of course, it was not untillater in the day that I saw all the details. My first impression was ofconfusion and disorder: the room seemed to have been the scene of astruggle. The overturned furniture, the clothes on the floor, thepicture, coupled with the print of the hand on the staircase and MissJane's disappearance, all seemed to point to one thing.

  And as if to prove it conclusively, Margery picked up Miss Jane's newlace cap from the floor. It was crumpled and spotted with blood.

  "She has been killed," Margery said, in a choking voice. "Killed, andshe had not an enemy in the world!"

  "But where is she?" I asked stupidly.

  Margery had more presence of mind than I had; I suppose it is becausewoman's courage is mental and man's physical, that in times of greatstrain women always make the better showing. While I was standing in themiddle of the room, staring at the confusion around me, Margery wasalready on her knees, looking under the high, four-post bed. Findingnothing there she went to the closet. It was undisturbed. Pathetic rowsof limp black dresses and on the shelves two black crepe bonnets weremute reminders of the little old lady. But there was nothing else in theroom.

  "Call Robert, the gardener," Margery said quickly, "and have him helpyou search the grounds and cellars. I will take Bella and go through thehouse. Above everything, keep it from Aunt Letitia as long as possible."

  I locked the door into the disordered room, and with my head whirling, Iwent to look for Robert.

  It takes a short time to search an acre of lawn and shrubbery. There wasno trace of the missing woman anywhere outside the house, and fromBella, as she sat at the foot of the front stairs with her apron overher head, I learned in a monosyllable that nothing had been found in thehouse. Margery was with Miss Letitia, and from the excited conversationI knew she was telling her--not harrowing details, but that Miss Janehad disappeared during the night.

  The old lady was inclined to scoff at first.

  "Look in the fruit closet in the store-room," I heard her say. "She'slet the spring lock shut on her twice; she was black in the face thelast time we found her."

  "I did look; she's not there," Margery screamed at her.

  "Then she's out looking for stump water to take that wart off her neck.She said yesterday she was going for some."

  "But her clothes are all here," Margery persisted. "We think some onemust have got in the house."

  "If all her clothes are there she's been sleep-walking," Miss Letitiasaid calmly. "We used to have to tie her by a cord around her ankle andfasten it to the bedpost. When she tried to get up the cord would pulland wake her."

  I think after a time, however, some of Margery's uneasiness communicateditself to the older woman. She finished dressing, and fumed when we toldher we had locked Miss Jane's door and mislaid the key. Finally, Margerygot her settled in the back parlor with some peppermints and herknitting; she had a feeling, she said, that Jane had gone after thestump water and lost her way, and I told Margery to keep her in thatstate of mind as long as she could.

  I sent for Hunter that morning and he came at three o'clock. I took himthrough the back entrance to avoid Miss Letitia. I think he had beenskeptical until I threw open the door and showed him the upset chair,the old lady's clothing, and the bloodstained lace cap. His examinationwas quick and thorough. He took a crumpled sheet of note paper out ofthe waste-basket and looked at it, then he stuffed it in his pocket. Hesniffed the toilet water, called Margery and asked her if any clothingwas missing, and on receiving a negative answer asked if any shawls orwraps were gone from the halls or other rooms. Margery reported nothingmissing.

  Before he left the room, Hunter went back and moved the picture whichhad been disturbed over the mantel. What he saw made him get a chairand, standing on it, take the picture from its nail. Thus exp
osed, thewall showed an opening about a foot square, and perhaps eighteen inchesdeep. A metal door, opening in, was unfastened and ajar, and just insidewas a copy of a recent sentimental novel and a bottle of some sort ofcomplexion cream. In spite of myself, I smiled; it was so typical of thedear old lady, with the heart of a girl and a skin that was losing itsroses. But there was something else in the receptacle, something thatmade Margery Fleming draw in her breath sharply, and made Hunter raisehis eyebrows a little and glance at me. The something was a scrap ofunruled white paper, and on it the figures eleven twenty-two!