Rex Stout - The Mountain Cat

“No, sir, I couldn’t.”

“And the paper’s gone?”

“It sure is. Took out of his wallet by whoever shot him.”

“And you say you found it under Charlie Brand’s body?”

“Yep. When I turned him over.”

“And now nobody knows what was written on the paper?”

“That’s the way it looks.”

“And this is what you came to tell Miss Brand?”

“That’s it exactly. To tell her all that, and then tell her what was written on the paper if she thinks she might like to know.”

They both stared. “But you said you couldn’t read it.”

“No I didn’t. I said I told that Baker I couldn’t read it. After he acted the way he did about the grubstake—”

“Oh.” Ty was squinting back at him. “I get you. You want a stake. If Miss Brand will stake you, you’ll tell her what was on the paper.”

“That’s about it.”

“What if there never was any such paper? What if you made all this up?”

Hurley grunted. “That would be too bad. It sure would. But I didn’t make it up. I lugged that paper around with me for two years.”

“What if Miss Brand refuses to stake you? What are you going to do then?”

“That’s just the hell of it.” Hurley looked disgusted. “I’ll have to tell her what was on the paper anyway. She’s Charlie Brand’s girl and she has a right to know. But I’m telling you that place I know down on the Cheeford range—”

“I’ll stake him, Ty,” Delia blurted. “I have enough saved up so—”

“I’ll stake him myself.” Ty pulled papers and envelopes from his pocket, dumped them on the table, and found a checkfold among them. From another pocket he took a fountain pen and laid it on the checkfold. “All right, Hurley. Tell us what was on the paper, and I’ll give you a check now, or if you prefer cash—”

“I don’t want it now. I don’t want it till they’re letting me leave this town.” The old prospector’s lips twitched with an eagerness he could not conceal, and the tips of his fingers, one missing, were rubbing the table cover. “You mean you’ll stake me? Up to three hundred dollars?”

“Yes.”

“Half and half?”

“Whatever is usual.”

“All right.” His lips twitched again. “You don’t sound much like a lawyer. All right. What was on that paper was ‘Mountain cat ready for prey four hundred and fifty WD.’ ”

Delia exclaimed, “Mountain cat!”

Ty said urgently, “Wait a minute! Was it written in pencil or ink?”

“Ink. Black ink.”

“Was it — would you know if it was in Charlie Brand’s handwriting?”

“It wasn’t. I knew Charlie’s writing. This was big and round and heavy.”

“Was the whole thing written right along on one line?”

“No. ‘Mountain cat’ was on one line and below that was ‘ready for prey’ and below that was the ‘four hundred and fifty’ and below that was ‘WD.’ ”

“Was the four hundred and fifty written out or in figures?”

“In figures. Just a four and a five and a zero, no decimals or anything. Then the ‘WD’ was in capital letters, at the bottom.”

Delia exclaimed, “Ty! I tell you the ‘mountain cat’ stood for Wynne Cowles! I tell you it did! She was after Dad just then, trying to find out about his business — he used to joke about it at home—”

“It might have,” Ty conceded, “or it might not. Wynne Cowles is certainly always ready for prey. But the ‘WD’ sounds like a signature, initials. WD?”

“I don’t know. But the ‘mountain cat’ is Wynne Cowles.”

“Possibly. Do you know anyone whose initials are WD, Hurley?”

“Nope. I’ve had that in my head for two years.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t Brand’s own writing?”

“As sure as sand eats water.”

“You say the paper was under him? How, under him?”

“Just under him. I turned him over to get a hold to carry him out to the horse and the paper was there, folded up.”

“It might have been there before he ever got there.”

“Damn lawyer,” Hurley said impatiently. “Who put it there? I had been in and out of that cabin for two months and no one else.”

“It might have been just a paper he had with him and it fell out of his wallet when the murderer was going through him for the money.”

“Charlie Brand never carried a wallet. When he had a bulk of money like that he kept it belted to him, and papers, receipts and things, in a little leather case he could put in a saddlebag. It was there with the saddle on a post outdoors — hadn’t been opened.” Hurley’s eyes were buried by his squint. “If you want to know how that paper got there I’ll tell you.”

“You mean you know?”

“I mean I’ll tell you. I ain’t a lawyer, but I can figure out how a thing worked. I’ve had two years to figure this. The fellow that killed him left the road about two miles north of Sugarbowl, across the hills on the hoof—”

“Why two miles north?”

“Because that’s the only place along that road you can hide a car where it won’t be seen, where them cliffs are.”

“Why on the hoof? Why not on a horse?”

The prospector looked disgusted. “And exactly where the hell would he get a horse and no one know it?”

“All right. Go ahead.”

Delia put in, “That’s right about the money belt and the leather case. He always took them on a trip.”

“Sure he did. Who says he didn’t? So this fellow hoofs it across the hills and gets to the cabin before Charlie does—”

“Why before?”

“Because Charlie was riding Bert Oakley’s palomino he had got at Sugarbowl, and he had tied him to a post just outside the cabin door. That horse has got a habit when he’s tied, if anybody comes anywhere near except the man that’s riding him, he snorts fit to rip a gut. Charlie would have heard him and gone to the door, and he probably would have got his gun out with all that money on him. But his gun was still in the holster, and where he fell and died he was all of ten, twelve feet away from the door. So the fellow was already there, hid in the cabin.”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, Charlie comes in and the fellow shoots him. It only takes one shot, as close as that. What he wants is the money and he goes after it in a hurry because he don’t know I’m going to be five or six hours late on account of my leg. That belt is good and bulky, and he takes off his coat or jacket so he can strap the belt up high on him and when he puts the coat back on it will be covered when he’s hoofing it back. Them hills is plenty lonesome, but it always might be someone sees him. He thinks I might be coming any minute and he’s nervous and he works fast, trying to get the belt off, and he don’t notice that when he jerks his coat off a piece of paper drops out of a pocket. When he turns Charlie over, working at the belt, he flops him on top of the piece of paper and never sees it.”

Delia was chewing at her lip. Ty was frowning, intent. He demanded, “Why did he hoof it back? Why didn’t he take Brand’s horse?”

“I wish to God he had. Even Ken Chambers couldn’t have locked me up if that palomino had been untied and gone and found two miles north of Sugarbowl. That fellow was smart enough to let the horse alone. Speaking of which.” Hurley squinted at Delia and back at Ty. “Ken Chambers is in Cody now. For all I know he was there Tuesday night when Jackson was killed. Whoever killed Jackson took that piece of paper from him. All I’m doing is telling you what was on that paper, but if I was you and I was really smart I’d get so curious about Ken Chambers I’d split my britches.”

“Do you think Ken Chambers killed Brand?”

“I ain’t saying I think. I say I’d be curious.”