Mignon Eberhart - Wolf in Man’s Clothing

I couldn’t then, even, try to discover the syringe. If the person who had found it in the fern (who must have seen me place it there) had taken it to the police then we were already lost. But if not there might be some chance.

If it was murder, then who? Who had shot Craig? Who had killed his father?

I had ensconced myself on the couch in front of the fire by that time, feeling that since we could accomplish nothing by further talk, Drue and I, I might as well try to get some sleep. I remember their names kept going around and around in my head like a nightmarish kind of merry-go-round-Alexia, Nicky, Maud, Peter Huber, Dr. Chivery (for he was not in the house, but he was fairly near presumably, and could have returned somehow without anyone’s knowledge), Beevens, Anna-the other servants.

Just as I was about to catch the tail of a nap I began to think again of the telephone call to the police. Who had called them? And more important-tremendously important- why ? In that answer, I thought suddenly, with that queerly elusive clarity one discovers on the edge of sleep, might lie the answer to the whole ugly problem.

After that I was wide awake for what was left of the night. Craig slept heavily and seemed none the worse for his mysterious peregrinations; Drue sat in an armchair near the bed with her starched cap off and her hair a little rumpled from pressing her head back against the cushions of the chair-her face pale, her eyes very dark, watching Craig’s sleeping face broodingly. It rained all that night, rain and sleet and rain again. We could hear nothing of what was going on in the house. Twice I got up and tiptoed into the hall, once going down the stairs, pausing again at the fern. But the syringe was really gone.

The hall below was deserted, but Nicky Senour and Peter Huber were sitting in the morning room in front of the fire, smoking. There were state troopers in the library; I went down into the hall and as far as the library door. No one stopped me and I wanted to see what they were doing. I was little wiser for my pains but convinced, if I had not been before, that they were in earnest about an investigation. For they had been taking fingerprints from smooth surfaces in the room; they had been using a tiny hand vacuum on furniture and rugs; the decanter of brandy had been removed; there were chalked crosses on the sofa and on the rug indicating, I thought, the position of Conrad Brent’s body. Pictures had been taken, then. But the body of Conrad Brent had been removed.

Two troopers were still there, one of them writing shorthand notes rapidly in a little tablet; the other blowing a small cloud of yellowish powder from a contrivance that looked like a tiny bellows upon one of the wooden panels across the room on the right side of the fireplace-a panel that I saw then, was actually a swinging door leading into a tiny washroom, for I could see walls tiled in shining, pale green beyond. He turned to look at me and the trooper with the tablet stopped writing to look at me, too, and there being, to say the least, no welcome in either look but rather the contrary, I retreated; anyway I had seen all I wanted to see. Nicky looked up as I passed through the hall but did not stop me. Peter however came out.

“Have you told Craig?” he asked me.

“No.”

“Better not for a while.”

“What was that noise, Mr. Huber? You remember-while you were calling the doctor. Did you find out about it?”

He frowned; his face looked tired and worried. “I didn’t find anybody,” he said. “I guess I’m not much of a detective. From the sound I thought a window had been broken somewhere, but I was wrong. I looked all along the hall leading toward the back of the house. But I found just nothing to account for it.”

“Could there have been some-some intruder? A thief, perhaps?”

Peter Huber shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll tell the police about it. I take it Craig is all right?”

“Oh, yes.”

“They took him away-Conrad Brent, I mean. I suppose they are doing an autopsy now.”

Nicky watched, bright eyes intensely curious, as I took my way upstairs again. That must have been about four or five o’clock-a cold, still, gusty February dawn. By six o’clock Craig hadn’t wakened. At about seven Beevens, clothed in his right mind as well as trousers and dark sack coat, brought Drue and me some coffee and toast. Breakfast would be along soon, he said; in the meantime he thought we might enjoy the coffee. He spoke to me and looked at Drue with a kind of sympathy and kindliness; naturally all the servants knew of her position in that household. Perhaps the romance of it appealed to them, but I think they liked her, too.

Beevens could tell us nothing, though, of what the police were doing and, looking very haggard himself with great puffs under his eyes, went away. After we drank the coffee and Drue nibbled at some toast because I made her, I sent her to her room. Sometime that day she would have to face the police and she’d had no sleep at all that night. So I made her rest; and thus I was alone with Craig when he awoke.

He awoke rather suddenly; in full possession of his senses. He looked white and tired, but his pulse was good. He had no temperature and the wound in his shoulder, while stiff and sore, seemed to be healing with normal rapidity.

He said almost at once, “Where is Drue?”

“In her room, resting.”

He looked at me, frowning a little. He was very sober, and there was a kind of authority about him. All at once I seemed to see a very faint likeness to his father-his nose, perhaps, and brown, decided chin: His eyes, however, were darker and had spirit and luminousness. His father’s eyes had been very cold and chill. He said, “You’re the other nurse. Yes, I remember you.”

“I’m Sarah Keate. I’ll ring for some breakfast. I think you can manage something light…”

He interrupted me. “Listen, Nurse, something happened last night-something-I can’t remember…”

I did not hesitate. “Nothing happened, except that you got out of bed once when I was out of the room and got a bump…”

He put his hand to his bandaged temple. “Why, yes,” he said. “I remember that! But something had happened downstairs. Somebody screamed. You left and I-I got up to see what it was. I put on slippers and a robe and…” he stopped. There was a sudden and clear recollection in his eyes.

I said, “And you fell…” and he said, shaking his head, “No. Somebody hit me.”

“ Somebody… ” I stopped with a kind of gulp.

He gave me a look of annoyance. “Don’t gargle,” he said briefly.

“B-but you said…”

“Certainly I said somebody hit me. Somebody did. I was just at the top of the stairs. I heard someone behind me and I turned and that’s all. Just as I turned it hit and I went out like a light. I remember that.”

Suddenly and completely I believed him. His look and his voice were perfectly clear and rational. I said, after a moment, “ Who ?”

“I don’t know. I tell you that’s all I remember except later-a long time later-Drue was here.” His voice when he said her name changed subtly, so it was grave and yet somehow warm and tender, as if it spoke a loved name. But he had left her and had let her shift for herself, without ever a word from him. A nurse’s life is not an easy one. I hardened my heart against him.

All at once he caught my wrist in a quick, impatient grip. “But what happened? Who screamed?”

So I told him. I would have evaded but I couldn’t. I knew an attempt would only make a bad matter worse and excite him unnecessarily. I did it as gently and as kindly as I could, and I reminded him that his father had had a bad heart condition apparently for years. I also said it had been quick.