The Window at the White Cat

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  The WINDOW at the WHITE CAT

  By MARY ROBERTS RINEHART

  TRIANGLE BOOKS NEW YORK

  TRIANGLE BOOKS EDITION PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER 1940

  REPRINTED DECEMBER 1940 REPRINTED FEBRUARY 1941

  TRIANGLE BOOKS, 14 West Forty-ninth Street, New York, N. Y.

  PRINTED AND BOUND IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BY THE AMERICAN BOOK--STRATFORD PRESS, INC., N. Y. C.

  THE WINDOW AT THE WHITE CAT

  CHAPTER I

  SENTIMENT AND CLUES

  In my criminal work anything that wears skirts is a lady, until the lawproves her otherwise. From the frayed and slovenly petticoats of thewoman who owns a poultry stand in the market and who has grown wealthyby selling chickens at twelve ounces to the pound, or the silk sweep ofMamie Tracy, whose diamonds have been stolen down on the avenue, or thestaidly respectable black and middle-aged skirt of the client whosehusband has found an affinity partial to laces and fripperies, and hasrun off with her--all the wearers are ladies, and as such announced byHawes. In fact, he carries it to excess. He speaks of his wash lady,with a husband who is an ash merchant, and he announced one day in someexcitement, that the lady who had just gone out had appropriated all theloose change out of the pocket of his overcoat.

  So when Hawes announced a lady, I took my feet off my desk, put down thebrief I had been reading, and rose perfunctorily. With my first glanceat my visitor, however, I threw away my cigar, and I have heard since,settled my tie. That this client was different was borne in on me atonce by the way she entered the room. She had poise in spite ofembarrassment, and her face when she raised her veil was white, refined,and young.

  "I did not send in my name," she said, when she saw me glancing down forthe card Hawes usually puts on my table. "It was advice I wanted, andI--I did not think the name would matter."

  She was more composed, I think, when she found me considerably olderthan herself. I saw her looking furtively at the graying places over myears. I am only thirty-five, as far as that goes, but my family,although it keeps its hair, turns gray early--a business asset but asocial handicap.

  "Won't you sit down?" I asked, pushing out a chair, so that she wouldface the light, while I remained in shadow. Every doctor and everylawyer knows that trick. "As far as the name goes, perhaps you wouldbetter tell me the trouble first. Then, if I think it indispensable, youcan tell me."

  She acquiesced to this and sat for a moment silent, her gaze absently onthe windows of the building across. In the morning light my firstimpression was verified. Only too often the raising of a woman's veil inmy office reveals the ravages of tears, or rouge, or dissipation. My newclient turned fearlessly to the window an unlined face, with a clearskin, healthily pale. From where I sat, her profile was beautiful, inspite of its drooping suggestion of trouble; her first embarrassmentgone, she had forgotten herself and was intent on her errand.

  "I hardly know how to begin," she said, "but suppose"--slowly--"supposethat a man, a well-known man, should leave home without warning, nottaking any clothes except those he wore, and saying he was coming hometo dinner, and he--he--"

  She stopped as if her voice had failed her.

  "And he does not come?" I prompted.

  She nodded, fumbling for her handkerchief in her bag.

  "How long has he been gone?" I asked. I had heard exactly the same thingbefore, but to leave a woman like that, hardly more than a girl, andlovely!

  "Ten days."

  "I should think it ought to be looked into," I said decisively, and gotup. Somehow I couldn't sit quietly. A lawyer who is worth anything isalways a partisan, I suppose, and I never hear of a man deserting hiswife that I am not indignant, the virtuous scorn of the unmarried man,perhaps. "But you will have to tell me more than that. Did thisgentleman have any bad habits? That is, did he--er--drink?"

  "Not to excess. He had been forbidden anything of that sort by hisphysician. He played bridge for money, but I--believe he was ratherlucky." She colored uncomfortably.

  "Married, I suppose?" I asked casually.

  "He had been. His wife died when I--" She stopped and bit her lip. Thenit was not her husband, after all! Oddly enough, the sun came out justat that moment, spilling a pool of sunlight at her feet, on the dustyrug with its tobacco-bitten scars.

  "It is my father," she said simply. I was absurdly relieved.

  But with the realization that I had not a case of desertion on my hands,I had to view the situation from a new angle.

  "You are absolutely at a loss to account for his disappearance?"

  "Absolutely."

  "You have had no word from him?"

  "None."

  "He never went away before for any length of time, without telling you?"

  "No. Never. He was away a great deal, but I always knew where to findhim." Her voice broke again and her chin quivered. I thought it wise toreassure her.

  "Don't let us worry about this until we are sure it is serious," I said."Sometimes the things that seem most mysterious have the simplestexplanations. He may have written and the letter have miscarriedor--even a slight accident would account--" I saw I was blundering; shegrew white and wide-eyed. "But, of course, that's unlikely too. He wouldhave papers to identify him."

  "His pockets were always full of envelopes and things like that," sheassented eagerly.

  "Don't you think I ought to know his name?" I asked. "It need not beknown outside of the office, and this is a sort of confessional anyhow,or worse. People tell things to their lawyer that they wouldn't think oftelling the priest."

  Her color was slowly coming back, and she smiled.

  "My name is Fleming, Margery Fleming," she said after a second'shesitation, "and my father, Mr. Allan Fleming, is the man. Oh, Mr. Knox,what are we going to do? He has been gone for more than a week!"

  No wonder she had wished to conceal the identity of the missing man. SoAllan Fleming was lost! A good many highly respectable citizens wouldhope that he might never be found. Fleming, state treasurer, delightfulcompanion, polished gentleman and successful politician of the criminaltype. Outside in the corridor the office boy was singing under hisbreath. "Oh once there was a miller," he sang, "who lived in a mill." Itbrought back to my mind instantly the reform meeting at the city hall ayear before, where for a few hours we had blown the feeble spark ofprotest against machine domination to a flame. We had sung a song tothat very tune, and with this white-faced girl across from me, its wordscame back with revolting truth. It had been printed and circulatedthrough the hall.

  "Oh, once there was a capitol That sat on a hill, As it's too big to steal away It's probably there still. The ring's hand in the treasury And Fleming with a sack. They take it out in wagon loads And never bring it back."

  I put the song out of my mind with a shudder. "I am more than sorry," Isaid. I was, too; whatever he may have been, he was _her_ father. "Andof course there are a number of reasons why this ought not to be known,for a time at least. After all, as I say, there may be a dozen simpleexplanations, and--there are exigencies in politics--"

  "I hate politics!" she broke in suddenly. "The very name makes me ill.When I read of women wanting to--to vote and all that, I wonder if theyknow what it means to have to be polite to dreadful people, people whohave even been convicts, and all that. Why, our last butler had been aprize fighter!" She sat upright with her hands on the arms of the chair."That's another thing, too, Mr. Knox. The day after father went away,Carter left. And he has not come back."

  "Carter was
the butler?"

  "Yes."

  "A white man?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "And he left without giving you any warning?"

  "Yes. He served luncheon the day after father went away, and the maidssay he went away immediately after. He was not there that evening toserve dinner, but--he came back late that night, and got into thehouse, using his key to the servants entrance. He slept there, the maidssaid, but he was gone before the servants were up and we have not seenhim since."

  I made a mental note of the butler.

  "We'll go back to Carter again," I said. "Your father has not been ill,has he? I mean recently."

  She considered.

  "I can not think of anything except that he had a tooth pulled." She wasquick to resent my smile. "Oh, I know I'm not helping you," sheexclaimed, "but I have thought over everything until I can not think anymore. I always end where I begin."

  "You have not noticed any mental symptoms--any lack of memory?"

  Her eyes filled.

  "He forgot my birthday, two weeks ago," she said. "It was the first onehe had ever forgotten, in nineteen of them."

  Nineteen! Nineteen from thirty-five leaves sixteen!

  "What I meant was this," I explained. "People sometimes have sudden andunaccountable lapses of memory and at those times they are apt to strayaway from home. Has your father been worried lately?"

  "He has not been himself at all. He has been irritable, even to me, andterrible to the servants. Only to Carter--he was never ugly to Carter.But I do not think it was a lapse of memory. When I remember how helooked that morning, I believe that he meant then to go away. It showshow he had changed, when he could think of going away without a word,and leaving me there alone."

  "Then you have no brothers or sisters?"

  "None. I came to you--" there she stopped.

  "Please tell me how you happened to come to me," I urged. "I think youknow that I am both honored and pleased."

  "I didn't know where to go," she confessed, "so I took the telephonedirectory, the classified part under 'Attorneys,' and after I shut myeyes, I put my finger haphazard on the page. It pointed to your name."

  I am afraid I flushed at this, but it was a wholesome douche. In amoment I laughed.

  "We will take it as an omen," I said, "and I will do all that I can. ButI am not a detective, Miss Fleming. Don't you think we ought to haveone?"

  "Not the police!" she shuddered. "I thought you could do somethingwithout calling in a detective."

  "Suppose you tell me what happened the day your father left, and how hewent away. Tell me the little things too. They may be straws that willpoint in a certain direction."

  "In the first place," she began, "we live on Monmouth Avenue. There arejust the two of us, and the servants: a cook, two housemaids, alaundress, a butler and a chauffeur. My father spends much of his timeat the capital, and in the last two years, since my old governess wentback to Germany, at those times I usually go to mother's sisters atBellwood--Miss Letitia and Miss Jane Maitland."

  I nodded: I knew the Maitland ladies well. I had drawn four differentwills for Miss Letitia in the last year.

  "My father went away on the tenth of May. You say to tell you all abouthis going, but there is nothing to tell. We have a machine, but it wasbeing repaired. Father got up from breakfast, picked up his hat andwalked out of the house. He was irritated at a letter he had read at thetable--"

  "Could you find that letter?" I asked quickly.

  "He took it with him. I knew he was disturbed, for he did not even sayhe was going. He took a car, and I thought he was on his way to hisoffice. He did not come home that night and I went to the office thenext morning. The stenographer said he had not been there. He is not atPlattsburg, because they have been trying to call him from there on thelong distance telephone every day."

  In spite of her candid face I was sure she was holding something back.

  "Why don't you tell me everything?" I asked. "You may be keeping backthe one essential point."

  She flushed. Then she opened her pocket-book and gave me a slip of roughpaper. On it, in careless figures, was the number "eleven twenty-two."That was all.

  "I was afraid you would think it silly," she said. "It was such ameaningless thing. You see, the second night after father left, I wasnervous and could not sleep. I expected him home at any time and I keptlistening for his step down-stairs. About three o'clock I was sure Iheard some one in the room below mine--there was a creaking as if theperson were walking carefully. I felt relieved, for I thought he hadcome back. But I did not hear the door into his bedroom close, and I gotmore and more wakeful. Finally I got up and slipped along the hall tohis room. The door was open a few inches and I reached in and switchedon the electric lights. I had a queer feeling before I turned on thelight that there was some one standing close to me, but the room wasempty, and the hall, too."

  "And the paper?"

  "When I saw the room was empty I went in. The paper had been pinned to apillow on the bed. At first I thought it had been dropped or had blownthere. When I saw the pin I was startled. I went back to my room andrang for Annie, the second housemaid, who is also a sort of personalmaid of mine. It was half-past three o'clock when Annie came down. Itook her into father's room and showed her the paper. She was sure itwas not there when she folded back the bed clothes for the night atnine o'clock."

  "Eleven twenty-two," I repeated. "Twice eleven is twenty-two. But thatisn't very enlightening."

  "No," she admitted. "I thought it might be a telephone number, and Icalled up all the eleven twenty-twos in the city."

  In spite of myself, I laughed, and after a moment she smiled insympathy.

  "We are not brilliant, certainly," I said at last. "In the first place,Miss Fleming, if I thought the thing was very serious I would notlaugh--but no doubt a day or two will see everything straight. But, togo back to this eleven twenty-two--did you rouse the servants and havethe house searched?"

  "Yes, Annie said Carter had come back and she went to waken him, butalthough his door was locked inside, he did not answer. Annie and Iswitched on all the lights on the lower floor from the top of thestairs. Then we went down together and looked around. Every window anddoor was locked, but in father's study, on the first floor, two drawersof his desk were standing open. And in the library, the littlecompartment in my writing-table, where I keep my house money, had beenbroken open and the money taken."

  "Nothing else was gone?"

  "Nothing. The silver on the sideboard in the dining-room, plenty ofvaluable things in the cabinet in the drawing-room--nothing wasdisturbed."

  "It might have been Carter," I reflected. "Did he know where you keptyour house money?"

  "It is possible, but I hardly think so. Besides, if he was going tosteal, there were so many more valuable things in the house. My mother'sjewels as well as my own were in my dressing-room, and the door was notlocked."

  "They were not disturbed?"

  She hesitated.

  "They had been disturbed," she admitted. "My grandmother left each ofher children some unstrung pearls. They were a hobby with her. Aunt Janeand Aunt Letitia never had theirs strung, but my mother's were made intodifferent things, all old-fashioned. I left them locked in a drawer inmy sitting-room, where I have always kept them. The following morningthe drawer was unlocked and partly open, but nothing was missing."

  "All your jewelry was there?"

  "All but one ring, which I rarely remove from my finger." I followed hereyes. Under her glove was the outline of a ring, a solitaire stone.

  "Nineteen from--" I shook myself together and got up.

  "It does not sound like an ordinary burglary," I reflected. "But I amafraid I have no imagination. No doubt what you have told me would bemeat and drink to a person with an analytical turn of mind. I can'tdeduct. Nineteen from thirty-five leaves sixteen, according to my mentalprocess, although I know men who could make the difference nothing."

  I believe she thought I was a l
ittle mad, for her face took on again itsdespairing look.

  "We _must_ find him, Mr. Knox," she insisted as she got up. "If you knowof a detective that you can trust, please get him. But you canunderstand that the unexplained absence of the state treasurer must bekept secret. One thing I am sure of: he is being kept away. You don'tknow what enemies he has! Men like Mr. Schwartz, who have no scruples,no principle."

  "Schwartz!" I repeated in surprise. Henry Schwartz was the boss of hisparty in the state; the man of whom one of his adversaries had said,with the distinct approval of the voting public, that he was so low inthe scale of humanity that it would require a special dispensation ofHeaven to raise him to the level of total degradation. But he andFleming were generally supposed to be captain and first mate of thepirate craft that passed with us for the ship of state.

  "Mr. Schwartz and my father are allies politically," the girl explainedwith heightened color, "but they are not friends. My father is agentleman."

  The inference I allowed to pass unnoticed, and as if she feared she hadsaid too much, the girl rose. When she left, a few minutes later, it waswith the promise that she would close the Monmouth Avenue house and goto her aunts at Bellwood, at once. For myself, I pledged a thoroughsearch for her father, and began it by watching the scarlet wing on herhat through the top of the elevator cage until it had descended out ofsight.

  I am afraid it was a queer hodgepodge of clues and sentiment that Ipoured out to Hunter, the detective, when he came up late thatafternoon.

  Hunter was quiet when I finished my story.

  "They're rotten clear through," he reflected. "This administration isworse than the last, and it was a peach. There have been more suicidesthan I could count on my two hands, in the last ten years. I warnyou--you'd be better out of this mess."

  "What do you think about the eleven twenty-two?" I asked as he got upand buttoned his coat.

  "Well, it might mean almost anything. It might be that many dollars, orthe time a train starts, or it might be the eleventh and thetwenty-second letters of the alphabet--k--v."

  "K--v!" I repeated, "Why that would be the Latin _cave_--beware."

  Hunter smiled cheerfully.

  "You'd better stick to the law, Mr. Knox," he said from the door. "Wedon't use Latin in the detective business."