A. Fair - Cats Prowl at Night

“Yes.”

“No one there?”

“No. The bed had been slept in.”

“Then what?”

“Then I went down to the kitchen and looked around through the house. I couldn’t find her anywhere in the place.”

“Her day off?”

“No.”

“You think she knows about this letter?”

“I don’t know. I’m afraid that my wife got this letter and went directly to her, as the writer of the letter suggested. And Sally blew up and walked out in a rage. A maid doesn’t have to put up with that sort of stuff these days, you know.”

“Are you telling me!” Bertha said with feeling.

“What,” Belder asked, “are we going to do? We’ve got to do something.”

“For what reason?”

“To straighten this thing out.”

“Perhaps Sally straightened it out,” Bertha said. “Perhaps your wife took it up with her and found out she’d made a mistake and—”

“I’m afraid you don’t know my wife,” Belder said. “Once anything instils a suspicion in her mind, it takes days and days and days of explanation to get it out. For a long while, the more you explain the worse it gets. It’s only after long repetition she begins to believe. She’s a terribly suspicious woman. Just a little thing like this would drive her crazy. We won’t be talking about anything else for weeks.”

“Even if Sally leaves?”

“Of course. It’s my guess she’s left already.”

Bertha looked at her watch. “It’s after ten now. Think she’ll get this telephone call?”

“Probably. She told me yesterday afternoon that I could have the car until eleven, that I must have it back to the house promptly at eleven, and to see there was plenty of gas in it.”

“And you want me to do something in connection with this new matter?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I want you to trap the person who wrote that letter.”

Bertha’s eyes narrowed. “You want me to get rough?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s talk about the letter,” Bertha said. “Who do you think wrote it?”

“I don’t know.”

Bertha Cool’s quick motion brought a series of squeaks from the swivel chair. “Suppose there’s any chance this mother-in-law of yours is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“The one who wrote the letter?”

A spasm of expression twisted Belder’s face. “Of course! It’s Theresa Goldring! How dumb I was not to have tumbled as soon as I picked up the letter. She’s always hated me. She’s picked on this time to try and hit below the belt. You can see what a sweet predicament I’d be in if she could manage to break things up between Mabel and me right now.”

Bertha frowningly studied the letter.

Belder went on. “And what a sweet spot it would leave Theresa in, if she could poison Mabel’s mind against me... Well, you understand the peculiar situation, Mrs. Cool. I put all of my property in my wife’s name. I swore that it was a gift to her, as her sole and separate property. She swore to the same thing. The court found that that was right. Now then, if she pulls out and takes all the property with her, I’m absolutely powerless.”

“But she wouldn’t turn it over to her mother, would she?” Bertha asked.

“Not all of it. But—”

“How does your wife get along with Carlotta?” Bertha asked, turning the folded sheet of letter-paper over in her hand.

“Oh, they get along fine, except that of late Carlotta is brooding a lot over the fact that they won’t tell her anything about her parents. She says she’s old enough now to be free to decide what to do. She is, of course, reconciled to the idea that she probably never will know who her father was. She hopes to find her mother. She’s a spoiled lazy brat, this Carlotta.”

“Her mother still living?”

“I think so. That’s the rub. As I understand it, the mother has been moving heaven and earth to find out where her daughter is. Theresa doesn’t look particularly brilliant, but don’t make any mistake — she’s a ruthless, savage fighter. She won’t stop at anything. I understand she’s put every obstacle she could in the woman’s way.”

“What woman?”

“The mother.”

“Theresa Goldring keeps an eye on her, then?”

“I understand so.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Through detectives, I think. Theresa is a smooth one.”

“Got any money?”

“Some. And believe me, she wants more.”

“How did she get her money?”

“Insurance when her husband passed away.”

“Much?”

“Around twenty thousand. In place of putting that into sound investments and living on the income, Theresa has been splurging along, spending the money, buying herself everything she wanted, keeping herself well-dressed and attractive. She has the idea she’s still fascinating to men. She—”

“How old?”

“Around forty-eight.”

“A lot of women have their most romantic affairs after they pass forty,” Bertha said.

Belder added hastily, “Of course, Mrs. Cool, but they’re the women who are genuine; who don’t try to be something they aren’t. They’re the wholehearted, understanding women... Oh, you’d have to see Theresa to understand what I mean. She’s around forty-eight and she has hypnotized herself into the belief she looks about thirty-two. She’s still got a swell figure — I’ll say that for her. She keeps her weight down but— Oh, the hell with her. It makes me sick to talk about her.”

Bertha said, “You’re going to keep on talking about her just the same. We’ve got to find out where she’s connected with this letter. She has a stooge in it somewhere.”

“How do you mean?”

“If your wife is called on the telephone, the voice of the person talking to her must be that of a stranger; and the person she meets must be a total stranger. A friend would simply ring up and say, ‘Hello, Mabel. Don’t quote me in this, but that husband of yours is on the loose again!’ And her own mother could hardly ring her up and try to disguise her voice and say, ‘Mrs. Belder, I’m a stranger to you, but I—’ Do you get me?”

“I get you,” Belder said.

“Therefore,” Bertha pointed out, “your mother-in-law has a stooge. Someone who’s a stranger to your wife. She’ll ring up, say, ‘Mrs. Belder, I’m the one who wrote you that letter. Would you like to talk with me?... Well, I can’t come to your house for certain obvious reasons, but if you’ll meet me — etc. etc.’ Do you get me?”

“I get you.”

Bertha heaved herself wearily out of her chair. “Well, I guess I’ve got to follow your wife, find out who she meets, shadow that person to Mrs. Goldring— Hell, it’s going to be a chore.”

Belder said, “Once you’ve done it, though, we can go to my wife and show her that her mother has been—”

“Don’t be silly,” Bertha interrupted. “Mrs. Goldring would say we were all liars and make her daughter believe her. No, we’ll go to Mrs. Goldring then.”

Belder said dubiously, “Theresa can be awfully hard.”

Bertha’s jaw pushed forward. “My God, man! If you think your mother-in-law’s hard, wait until you see me in action. She’s an amateur. I get paid for being hard.”

The fog was lifting and the sun was beginning to break through as Everett Belder parked his wife’s car in front of his house, glanced surreptitiously back to where Bertha Cool was ensconced in a parked automobile in the middle of the next block. He got out of the car, buttoned his overcoat, and reached up to adjust the brim of his hat, making a furtive signal out of the motion.

Bertha Cool, watching him through the windshield of the agency car, snorted and said disgustedly to herself, “Now what the hell does he think he’s gaining by that?”