Mignon Eberhart - Wolf in Man’s Clothing

But I was cross by that time too; fright affects me like that. I said something which emerged as only an exasperated mutter and went to the door. No one was in the hall; Alexia, Maud and Nicky had vanished. I hurried to the stairs and just at the landing was Beevens (in a long white bathrobe, vaguely Ku-Klux in character) ascending and puffing. I said, “Come and help me. Hurry!”

He didn’t question. Not even when we arrived in the linen closet and there was, so to speak, the young master stretched full length on the floor. Full length, that is, except that Drue had lifted him a little so she held his head against her breast and the towel pressed against the ugly bleeding bruise on his temple. Beevens said something that really did sound like “Tush-tush…” and stooped over. “Take his feet, Nurse, please,” he said efficiently.

So we got Craig back to bed. By the time we had him covered warmly and hot water bottles around him to ward off pneumonia, he was completely unconscious again. Beevens, still without a question, helped us. It took time-all of it had taken time.

At last everything we could do was done, and Beevens looked at me. “They want you in the study, Miss Keate,” he said.

Drue looked at me quickly, so her little white cap jerked toward me.

Something seemed to jerk and tighten within me. I won’t say that my mind began to work, for I have since then doubted its existence, but I did take a kind of hold on myself.

“Very well.” I straightened my cap. I said to Drue, “I won’t be long.”

I didn’t give her a chance to say anything but hurried away, following Beevens. I had reached the landing of the stairs just below the stained glass window when I remembered that Drue’s hypodermic syringe was still in my pocket.

Well, they weren’t likely to search me, those people waiting in the library, but I hid the syringe.

There was a kind of ledge at the bottom of the long, arched window and a funereal but very thick fern stood there. Beevens turned around the landing and started ponderously down the remaining flight of steps and I thrust the syringe under the thick ferns. I hadn’t time to do more. Beevens was already aware of my pause and starting to turn majestically around. Feeling as if I’d hidden the body, I moved hurriedly away from the fern and went on down the steps. We crossed the hall and I was vaguely aware of two or three people huddled together at the entrance to a passage beyond the stairs that went to the rear of the house-two women servants, I thought, and the stocky, thickset man who had met us at the train.

The library door was open; Alexia was pacing up and down at the other side of the great desk, taking a few steps, whirling, returning. Anna stood beside the door; she was huddled into a blue, faded bathrobe and her blue eyes were staring from a colorless face.

The others were grouped around Conrad Brent’s body on the couch and Dr. Chivery had arrived. He knelt beside the body, his back toward me. Maud was on the other side of the sofa, her face a rigid, yellowish mask with two bright eyes that watched Chivery. Peter was there too, looking thoughtfully downward and, as I entered, Nicky turned away from the sofa abruptly, walked around the long desk and flung himself into Conrad’s armchair.

Alexia saw me first. She paused as she turned to kick her short crimson train out of the way, looked at me and said, “Here’s the nurse. Did you find Craig? Where was he? What happened?”

“He’s all right. He’s in bed again. Miss Cable is with him.”

Maud glanced at me swiftly. Dr. Chivery got up a little awkwardly, dusted his knees absently and looked around in a bewildered way. “I-I wasn’t expecting Conrad’s death just now,” he said. “Well, I’m afraid it’s all over.” He glanced irresolutely at Maud. Nicky said, “It must have been quick. None of us knew he was having an attack.”

Claud Chivery passed an unsteady hand across his small chin. “He had some medicine,” he said. “He always took it for these attacks. I suppose this time…” He leaned over the body and seemed to be searching about it and the sofa. “Well, it isn’t here. The box of pills, I mean. It must have taken him so quickly he didn’t have time to get the medicine. He’s had this heart condition, you know, for years.”

“We knew,” said Alexia.

Dr. Chivery glanced at me. “You found him?”

“Yes. He was dead. I could do nothing for him.”

He looked at my wrist watch and seemed to wait a little tentatively for me to elaborate on my statement. As I didn’t on the principle of least said soonest mended, he nodded. “Ah-yes. I was afraid he would go like this.”

Maud said stiffly, “His medicine was digitalis, wasn’t it, Claud?”

Again Claud Chivery glanced uncertainly at his wife. “Why, yes, of course. Everyone knew it. He kept it in the drawer of his desk, over there.”

It was natural for all of us to glance at the desk. It was natural too, I suppose, for Alexia to reach out and pull open a drawer-the top right-hand drawer-as she did.

“It isn’t here,” she said. “He must have it somewhere about him.”

“But I…” Dr. Chivery shrugged. “Perhaps I overlooked it.”

He turned back to Conrad Brent’s body. There was a silence that had a quality of question that was still, unspoken and undefined. We all watched while he searched swiftly and with a kind of gentleness, so I remembered that Conrad Brent and his physician had been friends and neighbors for many years.

“No, it isn’t here.” He straightened up at last. Perplexity struggled with a queer kind of new uneasiness on his ever uneasy face. Maud said, “That was digitalis. Everyone knew where he kept it. Claud-Alexia-if anyone removed that box of pills it would have been murder. Murder…”

So there it was again, I thought almost angrily to myself-murder. Doggedly persistent.

But that’s all I thought just then, for Beevens uttered a kind of stifled exclamation and vanished from the door with an effect of consternation. We all heard his footsteps cross the hall and the heavy sound of the front door opening. We heard the voices, too, loud and authoritative.

“We got here as soon as we could. Where’s the murdered man?”

“ Murdered- but we-but he…” Beevens seemed to master himself by a great effort. “You are mistaken, sir. There’s no murder here. No one sent for the police.”

There was a kind of jumble of several voices and the sound of motion; then quick, hard footsteps crossed the hall toward the open library door and the state trooper of the previous day stopped in the doorway.

He took one quick look around the room. Then he addressed Dr. Chivery. “There was a telephone call to headquarters about fifteen minutes ago from this house. Whoever it was said Conrad Brent had been murdered and asked us to come at once. Who killed him?”

NO ONE SPOKE. EVEN Beevens goggled in the doorway like a stricken fish. Nicky’s small head and graceful body seemed to freeze into wariness like a young animal, sensing a trap.

Then Maud said, “Tell them, Claud. There’s a mistake.” And Dr. Chivery blinked rapidly, looked at his wife’s dark hair and the Lieutenant’s left shoulder and said that they were mistaken. “Mr. Brent was my patient. He died of a heart attack. No one called you and he was not murdered.”

The Lieutenant came into the room slowly; he was tall and spare as a whip and not unlike one, in suggesting a kind of coiled and wiry strength. A couple of policemen (troopers, by their uniform, so I reasoned that the Brent place was well outside any borough limits and thus in the jurisdiction of the state) followed him. He said, “I see. But who telephoned to us?”