Wolf in Man's Clothing (32 page)

But it was only a knife, inanimate and clean, and I didn't hear a sound, unless the dry leaves on the little porch outside scraped softly against the trellis. The cottage was breathless, undusted, unaired, with the furniture taking over the place a little inimically the way it only does in an empty house.

That perhaps as much as anything convinced me there was no one in the cottage; but I looked anyway around the first floor, treading very lightly and holding my cape close to me so it wouldn't brush against anything, pausing to listen as a cat does in strange territory, hearing nothing.

On my right hand, opening from the narrow hall was a living room, very precise, but dark with its curtains drawn and more withered flowers on a table. This led back to a small dining room so neat and yet so deserted that you couldn't imagine a meal being served on that glistening table with its silver cockatoo ornament and candlesticks; beyond this was a kitchen; from here you went to a kind of passage with narrow back stairs leading upward, a store closet or two and then (by a door which I opened very cautiously) into what was evidently Dr. Chivery's consulting room—all white enamel and glistening instrument cabinets. From here, in turn, I went on into his study, or perhaps his reception room which led again to the front hall; this made a complete circuit of the first floor of the house. Nothing had moved, nothing had breathed and all the chairs and bookshelves watched me with cold, alien eyes. Out in the tiny hall again, I glanced up the front stairs, a narrow carpeted flight broken by a landing.

There again I looked at the knife.

It was just a knife; somebody had left it there casually, I decided, in the pursuit of household duties, and forgotten it. Perhaps it had been used to open mail or to cut the strings of a package.

I did have, though, a strong aversion to touching it; after I'd seen Claud Chivery. So I listened again and, as nothing anywhere in that silent little house moved, I went back to the doctor's study.

His books were ranged neatly along bookshelves. I didn't turn on the light. It was still light enough to see, and I set myself to look for the book—a book about toxicology, Craig had said; if Chivery had a fairly large library that would cover a wide field.

As a matter of fact, it didn't; I ran hastily through the shelves, selected I believe four or five books which I thought might bear fruit, shook them upside down vigorously with the leaves open, over the big roll-top desk, and, unexpectedly, one of them did. An odd piece of fruit it proved to be, too. For a paper fluttered out, I seized it—incredulously, really not quite believing that I might actually have at last, in my hand, a tangible clue. It was a piece of thin white stationery, like that I had seen on writing tables here and there in the Brent house, and there were hurried, pencilled notes upon it.

I went quickly to a window at the west which was built into a little niche with heavy, linen draperies over it. I thrust the curtains aside and held the letter so I could catch the last of the rapidly fading daylight.

I understood the necessity for Claud's decision to keep the thing a secret. For horrible things were written lightly, in pencil, on that piece of paper.

“Toxicity of digitalis varies—each lot tested before sold as drug—symptoms vary—may be nausea, convulsion, rapid pulse—single massive dose may cause instant complete heart block—both sides of heart try to beat at once causing stop—fatal dose anywhere from—grains to—. Soluble in alcohol.”

All that was scribbled hurriedly, in pencil; and below it was added a grisly, jaunty little statement: “Entire box of pills ought to be enough.”

That was all. I didn't recognize the handwriting. But whoever had written it had murdered Conrad.

Claud Chivery knew that! He couldn't tell because—why because he must have thought that Maud had written it. There could be no other reason. “She” he'd said, not meaning to, when talking to Craig. Yes, he must have had some reason for believing the notes had been made by Maud. If it was not because it was her handwriting and he recognized it, it was because there was some other identifying clue in that piece of paper which led to Maud. So much was obvious. It explained his fear, his haunted eyes. It explained, if Craig was right, his murder.

But had Maud murdered him? Maud with her sweeping skirts and violet sachet?

It was just then that the cottage door opened quietly. A breath of air from outside rustled the withered chrysanthemums. Someone entered the house.

I
SHRANK BACK, SWIFTLY
as an animal, into the shadow of the heavy linen drapery, and looked to make sure my long blue cape didn't show. I was perfectly still, crushing that note against me.

I couldn't see much of the hall from the window, only a strip of carpet before the stairs and some wall and half an oil painting. But I could hear. Although I couldn't have moved if it had been Gabriel with his trumpet.

After a long moment someone spoke, softly but clearly; that surprised me, somehow, but not as much as when unexpectedly there was an answer.

So I realized there were two people in that little hall, and that they had entered together very quietly, very softly.

“You followed me,” said a voice, and someone else said, “Certainly. So, this is the way of it.”

“Get out of here! Go back! Go home!”

“I guessed as much. When Claud was murdered … Why have you come here?”

“Because I don't think the police have searched here. They wouldn't have known it was empty.”

“You came to look for Drue. But she isn't here,
is she
?”

It was Nicky and Alexia. Their voices were curiously alike in quality, soft, vehement, hushed, and suddenly clearer, so I realized that they must be almost at the door of the study. Otherwise, of course, I couldn't have heard them. I shrank still further behind the curtains, at least instinct bade me do so; I was actually quite completely paralyzed and doubt if I so much as breathed.

Alexia said, “Never mind that. You've spied on me.”

“My darling sister, I had to know the truth. I want some of your money, my pet. You'll have to provide for me, you know.”

“You needn't try to blackmail me. I'm not afraid of you, Nicky.”

“No? You're afraid of the police though, darling.”

“
You wouldn't …
”

“Oh, wouldn't I! I want half of Conrad's money.”

“
Half
!” she said scornfully.

“All right,” said Nicky. “If you won't play, you can take what comes.”

“I'm not afraid of you,” she said again. “You tricked Conrad. He gave you money all year because you made him think you had induced Drue to go away with you.”

“Why not?” said Nicky softly and with the greatest good-humor. “Conrad wanted to get rid of Drue and he did. I'm always willing to be of service.”

“How exactly did you do that? I never asked; it seemed better not to know. But Drue hated you; I watched you trying to lure her away with your charm, Nicky dear; and I knew it when you failed.”

Nicky's voice was less pleasant. “Oh, really? I tried to make love to her only to please you and Conrad. I wasn't serious. Yes, she turned me down; she was furious, but I didn't care. I”—a kind of complacence returned to his gentle voice—“I turned around and worked it a different way; I pretended to be her friend, sorry for her, loved her hopelessly, would do anything for her. When she left the house I took her to the train; I went in to New York with her. It worked; at least, it convinced Conrad that he had reason to be grateful to me. He could honestly tell Craig that Drue had gone away with me; and he did. That was all he wanted. Drue got in a taxi at the Grand Central station and I never saw her again till she came here. But I was of service to Conrad, and he knew it. I'll be of service to you, too, if you pay me.”

There was all at once a small note of fear in Alexia's voice that hadn't been there before. “What are you going to do, Nicky?”

“I'm not going to do anything unless I have to.”

“So it is blackmail. Why don't you try Craig? He's got as much money as I have.”

“I already have,” said Nicky almost naively. “I thought (since we're being frank) that I could invent a bit of evidence against Drue in the matter of Conrad's murder. His
murder,
Alexia; people hang for murder …”

“
Nicky—”
she said in a sharp whisper. Nicky went on cheerily, “I knew Drue had been with Conrad the night he was killed; I'd heard part of the row they had. I decided I could make what I'd heard sound pretty bad to the police. …”

“That's why you were so mysterious about not swearing to evidence against her?”

“Well, naturally. I didn't know yet exactly what I intended to swear to. She doesn't have any money. But I thought if Craig was still in love with her he'd pay to keep me still.”

“And is he?”

“No,” said Nicky ruefully. “He didn't turn a hair. Even when I hinted that I was ready now to make an honest woman of her.”

Unexpectedly, Alexia laughed; there was the strangest note of pleasure and pride and, mainly, understanding. Nicky laughed, too, so for a moment they seemed to be congratulating each other's cleverness, complacently, understanding each other.

Then the little musical, wicked laughter stopped. I could imagine them, wary again, mutually on guard, watching each other like two reflections of the same face. Nicky said, “So, my dear. I've got to feather my own nest, you know. As soon as I knew Conrad was dead and that source of supply was shut off I realized I had to …”

“To find out who killed him, and bleed him for the rest of his life,” broke in Alexia in sudden, low vehemence.

“Oh, now, dear! Only to turn an honest penny for myself. By bleeding
her.
You, darling.”

“Nicky, you wouldn't dare! Your own sister.”

Nicky laughed a little, but this time Alexia didn't join him. He said, “Don't be difficult. You oblige me to put the screws on, so to speak.” His soft voice had an ugly undertone. “First, Conrad's own medicine, all of it, a fatal quantity was put into the brandy. Digitalis is soluble in alcohol.”

“How much you know, Nicky!” There was a jeering note in her voice. “Too much, if you ask me. Be careful I don't set the police on you.”

“Then later, after a vase, dear, had been pulled down a stairway and broken …”

Alexia interjected jeeringly again. “You really do know too much, Nicky. Did you murder him?”

“… the brandy was changed. Poisoned brandy poured out, good brandy poured in. I figured it all out. What did you do with the medicine box? Burn it?”

Alexia was still perfectly possessed and unafraid. “It may have been planted,” she said coolly. “To turn suspicion one way or another. I'm sure I wouldn't know about that, however.”

“Planted?” said Nicky. “Where? Craig?”

“Perhaps,” said Alexia with a little laugh.

Nicky said, “It was you, of course, in the meadow, when Chivery was killed.”

“Beevens says it was you,” she said, still sure of herself “Of course, we do resemble each other.”

The ugly undertone in Nicky's voice was more marked “Listen, Alexia, you can't get away with that. You had time to get back to the house and put on that long green dress over the clothes you were wearing. My clothes! And don't tell the police I killed either of them! That would be very foolish. I know too much about you.”

“I didn't kill Conrad,” said Alexia rather slowly.

Nicky gave a soft little laugh but said nothing. Alexia said, after a moment, “I had no motive.”

“Oh, dear me, no,” said Nicky. “Rich and attractive widow marries …”

“Nicky, you killed him. You had just as much motive as I had. Money.”

“It won't go, Alexia. I tell you that I know things.”

“But I didn't …”

“What of the Frederic Miller checks?”

There was another silence. Then Alexia said in a kind of stifled way, “All right. But if you say a word …”

“You took them out of his desk yourself, didn't you? So you've been in on the thing from the beginning.”

“Nicky, is this a guess or do you know … ?”

“I know enough,” said Nicky. “Part of it is guess work but extremely effective guess work. I think I know the whole story.”

“You don't,” said Alexia. “You can't possibly. But if you'll keep still …”

“I knew you'd see the light.”

“You little selfish beast,” said Alexia suddenly and low. “All you've ever wanted is money. Money from anyone you think you can blackmail.”

“Blackmail,” said Nicky. “It was blackmail, wasn't it?

Never mind. It's an agreement. It's a good thing for you that you believe me and are a sensible girl. …”

“
Will you go
?” demanded Alexia in a voice that trembled with anger.

“Right,” said Nicky.

There was another silence, then the sound of the front door opening and closing and somebody crossed the porch on tiptoe, softly. I looked out the window, but there was only the hedge and the white picket fence, growing dimmer in the dusk.

So Nicky knew, or effectively pretended to know the “whole story.” Whatever it was, it was so damning that Alexia would promise anything to silence him.

But if Maud had murdered Conrad, and Claud Chivery, why was Alexia willing to bargain with Nicky? And did Nicky really know as much as he pretended to know?

After a long time of utter silence in the cottage, I moved, stiffly, very cautiously, so I could see through the little crack between curtain and window casing.

Then I wished I hadn't looked. For Nicky stood in the doorway; he was looking slowly around the study, and he held the long carving knife in one hand.

Only it wasn't Nicky.