Mignon Eberhart - Wolf in Man’s Clothing

But there was something else-something terribly important. Oh, yes. Is Drue here? Nicky had asked.

If Drue was in that gloomy silent cottage she was upstairs, where I hadn’t looked. If she was alive, why hadn’t she come down, or telephoned the house or let me know somehow?

Perhaps she couldn’t. Perhaps they had her locked up in some upstairs room so she couldn’t telephone. Yes, I thought; it had to be that. And Nicky (no, Alexia) had come to the Chivery cottage. Yet she hadn’t seemed to be sure of Drue’s presence; she’d replied obliquely to Nicky, saying only that the police hadn’t thought of the Chivery cottage. As I hadn’t; as Craig hadn’t, for there was no reason to think for an instant that Drue was there.

I didn’t then consider why and especially how anyone could have got Drue out of the house (an able-bodied and supple young woman with a good pair of lungs), for I was watching Alexia, and afraid to watch her at the same time for fear she would feel my eyes upon her. But she didn’t, for she was looking at the books I had left on the desk. No: that was wrong. She was actually looking at the telephone.

The telephone! I’d forgotten it. I could telephone, the instant Alexia started upstairs to Drue!

Well, I couldn’t. I shall never forget my feelings as before I could move Alexia took one swift step to the telephone, and slashed through its wire with the knife, swiftly, as if she had wiry, feral strength in those white wrists. Then she glanced quickly around the study again and I shut my eyes to keep from attracting her gaze and when I opened them an instant later she was gone. Quietly as a cat, stalking.

There were back stairs. I remembered that. I crept out from behind the draperies and Alexia didn’t come back. The big roll-top desk was beside the door which led back toward the little hall and the back stairway, and, as I passed it, a very queer little thing happened. It was an instance, I suppose, of the instinct of self-preservation, for it flashed through my mind that nobody would live like that, isolated in the country, without a revolver, and my hand went out to the desk drawer and opened it cautiously and there was actually a revolver, big and serviceable-looking, lying on top of some papers. It didn’t seem at all strange; I snatched it up as if I’d known it would be there, and went on with scarcely a pause, through the little consulting room and into the tiny hall beyond.

But it was much darker than it had been. The hall was in blackness and I groped with my free hand for the stairs. Something took a kind of quivering breath out of that darkness before me just as my hand encountered hair.

Human hair.

I drew back somewhat quickly. I would have fired the revolver if I had been able to find the trigger.

Then luckily for us both, perhaps, I realized that the hair I touched was a braid. So it was Anna, and she was alive.

In fact, she was shrinking over the bannisters, away from me. Fortunately, she was simply petrified with fright, and I got my hand over her mouth before she even whimpered. I whispered sternly, “Anna, it’s only me. The nurse, Miss Keate.

“Oo-woo-woo-” she observed with vehemence. I held my hand harder over her teeth and was horrified to realize that she was heaving wildly up and down in an effort either to scream or sob; so I dragged her nearer and put my mouth where I thought her ear ought to be.

“ Anna, listen ! It’s Nurse Keate. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She heard that. A gigantic heave caught her amidship, and I thought she was going to burst or strangle and didn’t care which, but she did neither.

Instead all at once she caught herself away from me, sucked in a great gulp of air while I sought desperately for her mouth again in the darkness, and then said quite clearly, but whispering, “Turn me over to the police. It’s all my fault. I began it. I knew… Oh, Nurse, Nurse, will they put me in the electric chair, too?”

“Not if I get you first,” I said between my teeth, but whispering too. “Is Miss Cable here?”

“Oh, yes, yes.” I thought she was wringing her hands. “She’s not hurt. She’s upstairs, in a bedroom. I swear I didn’t hurt her. I wouldn’t have hurt her, not really. I had to keep her quiet, that’s all. I was afraid. I didn’t know what to do. All day; I didn’t mean anything.”

It wasn’t the time to cut through her maunderings and get at any sense that, problematically, lay behind them. “You’ve got to go for the police! Quick! Out the back door!”

“ Police ?”

“They won’t hurt you. Be quiet. Hurry.”

“No, no! I lied to them! I said I didn’t telephone the night Mr. Brent was killed. But I did. I knew it was murder. I was afraid something terrible would happen. And it did.”

“ You telephoned the police!”

“Yes. Yes. Oh, Nurse, I’ve been so wicked. I picked up the vase. I had to; I was made to do it; I didn’t want to.”

“Anna, you did that!”

“Yes, yes. But I didn’t want to. So I hurried to the telephone. I told the police it was murder.”

“For heaven’s sake, Anna! What are you saying? Who made you pick up the broken vase? Why did you know it was murder? Anna… ”

But I was too vehement. I had her by the shoulders and I clutched too hard. I only frightened her into a gibbering, quaking, sobbing jelly with about as much intelligence. I couldn’t get another sensible or coherent two words out of her. And Drue was alone and Alexia somewhere in the house. So finally I shoved the revolver against Anna’s neck where she could feel the cold steel-hoping it wouldn’t go off but not caring very much just then. “Go out the back door,” I said despairingly. “Go through the kitchen. Don’t make a sound. And if you don’t bring the police back here as soon as you can I’ll shoot you with this. I’m a good shot,” I said, having held a revolver in my hand only once before in my life.

But I must have impressed her with sincerity; at any rate, something penetrated the fog of terror and self-blame around her. “I will-oh, I will-I started everything. It’s all my fault. But don’t shoot…” she quavered out of the darkness.

I had to let her go. She groped her way around me and I could hear the soft patter of her feet for a few steps; I waited, listening with all my ears.

I couldn’t then explore, even in my thoughts, the incoherent, terrified flood of self-reproach I had unleashed.

I couldn’t explore the conversation between Nicky and Alexia, either. Nicky’s accusations, Alexia’s denials and half-admissions and her final surrender to his demand were both enlightening and baffling. And there were those ugly scribbled notes about digitalis which Claud Chivery must have attributed to Maud.

But just then there was no time to grope my way through the contradictions and the half-admissions. It is queer though to remember now that I had had the key to the thing, the link in the chain actually in my hands and had not had the wit to see it. Just then my main preoccupation was Drue.

I couldn’t hear anything at all from upstairs or from the front of the house, but presently I did hear the soft opening and closing of a door near by and I was reasonably sure it was Anna. Unfortunately, I wasn’t at all sure she would go for the police.

There was no other sound at all anywhere. I took a harder grip on the revolver, wished I knew more of its habits, and, holding it well away from me, started up the narrow little flight of stairs; I came out into a kind of landing, barely lighted by a window. I listened there and poked my head cautiously around the corner and there was a narrow hall, going toward the front of the house, with doors opening from it.