Rex Stout - An Officer and a Lady and Other Stories

“That’s better,” said the sweet, helpless child approvingly. “I would have pulled the trigger in another half second. I had decided to get you in the right shoulder. Now turn your back, please, but keep your hands up.”

Bill did so. Almost immediately came the command to turn about again. She had clambered out of bed and stood there on the rug with her pink nightgown trailing about her feet and her soft brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. She looked more tiny than ever. But the muzzle of the revolver wavered not a fraction of an inch as she stepped sidewise to the wall and pressed her finger against a button there. Nothing was said while she repeated the operation three times. More silence.

“Look here, little girl,” Bill began earnestly, “there’s no use gettin’ your arm all tired with that toy gun. I ain’t going to hurt you.”

“You may call me Major Wentworth,” was all the reply he got.

“All right, Major. But come, what’s the use—”

“Stop! If you move again like that I’ll shoot. I wonder what’s the matter with Hilda. She sleeps very lightly.” This last to herself.

Bill looked interested.

“Is Hilda a big sort of a woman in a blue nightgown?”

“Yes. Have you seen her?” The brown eyes filled with sudden alarm. “Oh! Where is she? Is she hurt?”

“Nope.” Bill chuckled. “Kitchen floor. Chloroform. I was eatin’ strawberry shortcake when she come in.”

The major frowned.

“I suppose I must call my father. I hate to disturb him—”

“He’s incapable, too,” announced Bill with another chuckle. “Tied up with sheets and things. You see, Major, we’re all alone. Tell you what I’ll do. There’s a suitcase full of silver down on the library windowsill. I’ll agree to leave it there—”

“You certainly will,” the major nodded. “And you’ll leave the other things too. I see them in your pockets. Since my father is tied up I suppose I must call the police myself.”

She began to move sidewise toward the silver telephone on the desk, keeping the revolver pointed at Bill’s breast.

I transcribe Bill’s thought: The little devil was actually going to call the police! Action must come now if at all, and quickly. He dismissed the idea of a dash for freedom; she would certainly pull the trigger, and she had a firm eye and hand. Bill summoned all his wit.

“My little girl’s mama is dead, too,” he blurted out suddenly.

The major, with her hand outstretched for the telephone, stopped to look at him.

“My mother isn’t dead,” she observed sharply. “She’s gone to the country.”

“You don’t say so!” Bill’s voice was positively explosive with enthusiastic interest. “Why didn’t you go along, Major, if I may ask?”

“I am too busy with the Auxiliary. We are pushing the campaign for preparedness.” She added politely: “You say your wife is dead?”

Bill nodded mournfully.

“Been dead three years. Got sick and wasted away and died. Broke my little girl’s heart, and mine, too.”

A suggestion of sympathy appeared in the major’s eyes as she inquired:

“What is your little girl’s name?”

“Her name?” Bill floundered in his stupidity. “Oh, her name. Why, of course her name’s Hilda.”

“Indeed!” The major looked interested. “The same as Cook. How funny! How old is she?”

“Sixteen,” said Bill rather desperately.

“Oh, she’s a big girl, then! I suppose she goes to school?”

Bill nodded.

“Which one?”

It was a mean question. In Bill’s mind school was simply school. He tried to think of a word that would sound like the name of one, but nothing came.

“Day school,” he said at last, and then added hastily, “that is, she moves around, you know. Going up all the time. She’s a smart girl.” His tone was triumphant.

Then, fearing that another question might finish him, he continued slowly:

“You might as well go on and call the cops — the police, I suppose. Of course, Hilda’s at home hungry, but that don’t matter to you. She’ll starve to death. I didn’t tell you she’s sick. She’s sick all the time — something wrong with her. I was just walkin’ past here and thought I might find something for her to eat, and I was lookin’ around—”

“You ate the strawberry shortcake yourself,” put in the major keenly.

“The doctor won’t let Hilda have cake,” Bill retorted. “And I was hungry myself. I suppose it’s no crime to be hungry—”

“You took the silver and other things.”

“I know.” Bill’s head drooped dejectedly. “I’m a bad man, I guess. I wanted to buy nice things for Hilda. She hasn’t had a doll for over ten years. She never has much to eat. If I’m arrested I suppose she’ll starve to death.”

The sympathy in the major’s eyes deepened. “I don’t want to cause unnecessary suffering,” she declared. “I feel strongly for the lower classes. And Miss Vanderhoof says that our penal system is disgraceful. I suppose little would be gained by sending you to prison.”

“It’s an awful place,” Bill declared feelingly.

“You have been there?”

“Off and on.”

“You see! It has done you no good. No, I might as well let you go. Turn your back.”

Bill stared.

The major stamped her little bare foot.

“Turn your back, I say! That’s right. I do wish you wouldn’t make me repeat things. Walk forward near the dressing table. No, at the side. So. Now empty your pockets and turn them inside out. All of them. Put the things on the dressing table. Keep your back turned, or — as you would say in your vulgar parlance — I’ll blow your block off.”

Bill obeyed. He could feel the muzzle of the revolver pointed directly at the back of his head, and he obeyed. He lost no time about it either, for the anesthetized Hilda would be coming to soon.

Methodically and thoroughly the pockets were emptied and their contents deposited on the dressing table: a gentleman’s watch, two silver cigarette cases, three scarf pins, five rings, a jeweled photograph frame, and ninety-four dollars in cash. The articles that were obviously Bill’s own she instructed him to return to the pockets. He did so.

“There!” said the major briskly when he had finished. “You may turn now. That’s all, I think. Kindly close the front door as you go out. I’ll attend to the suitcase on the windowsill after you’re gone. I wouldn’t advise you to try any tricks on me. I’ve never got a man on the run, but I’d love to have a crack at one. That’s all.”

Bill hesitated. His eye was on the neat roll of bills reposing beside him on the dressing table. It traveled from that to the gold wristwatch he would not take because it belonged to the sweet, helpless child. Would he take it now if he had a chance? Would he!

The major’s voice came:

“Go, please. I’m sleepy, and you’ve given me a lot of trouble. I shall have to revive Hilda, if it is possible. I have doubts on the subject. She refuses to keep herself in condition. She eats too much, she will not take a cold bath, she won’t train properly, she is sixty-eight pounds overweight, and she sleeps with her mouth open. But she’s a good cook—”

“She is that,” Bill put in feelingly, with his memory on the shortcake.

“—and I trust she has not expired. There is my father, too. To put it mildly, he is a weakling. His lack of wind is deplorable. He sits down immediately after eating. It is only three miles to his law office, and he rides. He plays golf and calls it exercise. If you have gagged him scientifically he may have ceased breathing by now.

“In one way it would be nothing to grieve over, but he is my father after all, and the filial instinct impels me to his assistance against my better judgment. You do not seem to be in good condition yourself. I doubt if you know how to breathe properly, and it is evident that you do not train systematically. There are books on the subject in the public library; I would advise you to get one. You may give my name as a reference. Now go.”