Black Cat Weekly #12

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IIIMiss Peterson was accustomed to responsibility, and her first thought was to keep those guests quiet. They were all looking toward Cecily, but they were, she thought, too far away to have heard the girl above all the noise of wind and rain.

“Come!” she said, and the girl followed her past the desk and out to the sun-deck. Mr. Fernandez came after them.

“I’ve just killed a man,” Cecily said again. She spoke quietly, her light clear eyes were steady, but she swayed on her feet.

“Sit down!” said Mr. Fernandez; and she did sit down on the couch, straight and rigid in her dainty theatrical uniform, the little fluted cap like a crown.

“I killed a man,” she said.

“Yes, we understand that,” said Mr. Fernandez. “But how? Where did this happen?”

“In your room,” said Cecily. “I shot him. I killed him.”

The two tall people standing before her looked down at her with no sign of emotion. She herself was quiet, but she was breathing fast.

“I was going to speak to you, Mr. Fernandez,” she went on after a moment. “I knocked at your door and a man opened it and dragged me in. He tried to—make love to me, and I shot him.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know. Someone I’d never met before.”

“Where did you get the gun?”

“It was there on a table.”

“In my room, eh?”

“Yes,” she said, and snapped her teeth shut. But still her jaw trembled. She shivered in this airless place. Miss Peterson proffered a glass of water, and the girl took a sip. Mr. Fernandez looked at Miss Peterson over the girl’s head; their eyes met.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he said. “In the meantime, we’ll say nothing about this to anybody, eh?”

He went out, closing the door behind him, and Miss Peterson sat down in a wicker chair, stretching out her long legs and crossing her ankles.

“I didn’t know the wind could be so bad,” said Cecily.

“It can be worse than this,” said Miss Peterson.

“Will it last long?”

“It will seem long,” said Miss Peterson.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Just one shot?” asked Miss Peterson.

“Yes,” Cecily answered.

“Then maybe you didn’t kill him.”

“I did. I know I did.”

Miss Peterson clasped her hands behind her head, and gazed before her at nothing.

“Well, let’s hope for the best,” she said. “Let’s hope the police believe your story.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Do you mean that you don’t believe my story?” Cecily asked with a sledge-hammer directness.

“That’s right,” said Miss Peterson. “I don’t.”

“You don’t?” Cecily repeated. “But—why? What is it you don’t believe?”

“Well…” said Miss Peterson, “you said you were dragged into Mr. Fernandez’s room by an unknown man. He attacked you, and you found a gun lying on the table, and you fired one shot, and you killed him. If I were you, I shouldn’t give the police that story.”

“You mean—” Cecily began, and stopped short. One of the old ladies was trying to open the glass doors, a spare and very straight old lady in a white blouse and a long black skirt, and a broad belt about her neat waist-Her gray hair was done in two hard little rolls up from the temples, giving her an alert air. She rattled the door handle furiously in a sort of convulsion of annoyance.

“Mrs. Boucher,” said Cecily. “She hates me.”

“You’ll remember not to say anything, won’t you?” said Miss Peterson, rising. She looked at Cecily then, and the girl looked back at her, her strange, pale eyes brilliant. “All right!” she said.

Miss Peterson tried to open the doors from inside, but the old lady kept on twisting at the handle. The doors burst open suddenly, and Mrs. Boucher rushed forward against Miss Peterson.

“I want to go up to my room,” she said.

“Certainly, Mrs. Boucher,” said Miss Peterson, a little surprised at so ordinary a request after such an energetic struggle.

“Well, it seems that the lift’s not working,” said Mrs. Boucher, indignantly. “I can’t walk up five flights of stairs at my time of life. And I want to go to my room. It’s time for me to take my pill, and I want to write a letter. I want to go up at once!”

In the absence of Mr. Fernandez, Miss Peterson felt obliged to cope with this.

“I think we can arrange that, Mrs. Boucher,” she said. “If you’ll come back into the lounge, I’ll see…”

She closed the glass doors as they went out, and glancing over her shoulder, she saw Cecily in her theatrical uniform, standing in there as if in a glass cage. The other guests still sat in the lounge, with three oil lamps on tables; they were silent now, in a haze of tobacco smoke. There were none of the boys about, and she borrowed a flashlight from the Major, and went out to the kitchen in search of them.

The kitchen presented an extraordinary appearance. A big room lit by two oil lamps, it was crowded with people sitting and standing; an old Negress was on her knees before a chair. “Oh, Lawd! Take away this wraf!” she chanted. “You got some good an’ faithful people here, oh, Lawd!”

Miss Peterson had a few words with the cook, a thin and sorrowful man with gold earrings, standing before the big stove in a heat that was beyond belief. He was attending to his business.

“Maybe the end of all things,” he said, stirring a red sauce.

“I want two good strong boys, to carry Mrs. Boucher up to her room,” she said; and the cook called two for her. They were, oddly enough, enchanted by the proposal; they found it humorous. “But you mustn’t laugh!” Miss Peterson said.

“She goin’ to ride up in she chair like the great golden idol!” said one of them, bent double with laughter.

“If you drop she,” said the cook, “going to be calamity.”

“But you must stop laughing,” said Miss Peterson.

The old lady accepted the arrangement in a matter-of-fact spirit. “I hope you’re quite sure the boys haven’t been drinking,” was all she said.

Miss Peterson picked out a wicker arm-chair, a light chair, and the old lady was light; the boys lifted her without any difficulty, and Miss Peterson went ahead of them with a hurricane lantern. In his modern hotel Mr. Fernandez had a modern fireproof staircase of stone, all enclosed, with a heavy door on each landing. And somehow this staircase caught and held the noise of the wind in a great, steady rushing roar; it pressed against the ears, it confused and almost stunned the little party mounting by the light of the lantern.

When they reached the fifth floor, Miss Peterson opened the door into the corridor, the boys set down the chair and the old lady rose. “Thank you!” she said, and set off briskly. Miss Peterson followed her to light her way; she left her in her room with a lamp lighted and everything very neat, and a vase of flowers, dead as if smothered. The boys had gone; as Miss Peterson returned to the enclosed stairs she could hear their voices from below, muffled by the roar of the wind; they were in complete darkness, and looking down, she saw a little light flash as a match was struck. The flame went out, and the voices were silent, the wind obliterated the sound of their footsteps. She went on, went fast, anxious to get out of this gloomy cavern.

A frightful yell came up to her, and she stopped with a sharp intake of the breath. For of all the sounds in the world, she most feared and dreaded a human voice screaming. Another yell came. “Oh, ma sweet Lawd!”

“What’s the matter?” she called, holding out the lantern and looking down. She could see nothing, she could hear nothing but that eternal hollow roar of the wind. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

There was no sense in going back up the stairs again, she thought. No one there who’d be any help. There’s no other way down but this. And she went on down the stairs. She went half sideways, keeping close to the wall, moving the lantern so that she could see above and below her. As she drew near the next landing she stopped for a moment. I hope that door won’t open, very slowly, she thought. She went on past the door. She had to go on down, to see what had happened to the boys, and to get out of this tomb.

I’d be very glad to see Carlos Fernandez just now, she thought.

She had lost track of the floors now. She didn’t know where the boys had been when that yell came; she wouldn’t know when she came to that door. I hope I won’t go too far and come out in some sort of cellar, she thought. I hope there’s plenty of oil in the lantern. This is the way it is in a nightmare. You go on, and on, and on, downstairs like this, and after a while, you try to run…

Nerves, that’s all. This weather, with the glass so low… After all, what does this amount to? I’m going down the stairs, in a hotel, and there’s a gale blowing, and two colored boys yelled.

But there’s a dead man somewhere. A murdered man.

And what of it? A dead man is one man we don’t have to worry about. If… She stopped short, because a door was opening. Slowly. She was two steps above it, and she waited with her back to the wall, holding the lantern steady.

A round white circle of light from a flashlight played on the wall; the door opened wider. “Who’s that?” she asked.

“My dear girl…” said Mr. Fernandez. “Where the devil have you been?”

He came toward her, and the heavy door began to close very slowly after him. He laid his hand on her shoulder, looking at her with a smile. In the light of the lantern, his dark face had a copper tinge, his lips looked very red, his teeth very white; there was an air of gaiety about him.

“I was worried,” he said. “Those fool boys came running down to the kitchen with some crazy story about seeing the Devil—”

“The Devil?” said Miss Peterson.

“You know the sort of thing,” he said. “And you didn’t come along… I was getting damn worried. I was afraid you’d slipped, fallen in the dark.”

“I didn’t hurry,” she said.

“Come and have a drink?” he said, and began to push open the heavy door. Over his shoulder she could see the desk, and a young man sitting at the cashier’s window, with the light of a green-shaded lamp on his bent fair head. He glanced up, and she saw his face, a wide mouth, a blunt nose; a sort of Pierrot face, half rueful, and half merry.

“Mr. Fernandez…” said Miss Peterson. “About the man in your room?”

He let the door go, and it began to close by itself.

“That?” he said. “Well, I went up to my room. The door was locked, of course. All the doors lock automatically. Well, I opened the door—” He made a gesture with his wrist. “I went in. All right! There’s nothing there. No man. No gun. Nothing.”

“Nothing?” she repeated.

“Absolutely nothing. Are you surprised? Did you believe the girl’s tale?”

“You don’t think there’s any truth at all in it?”

“Not a word,” he said.

No, thought Miss Peterson. That won’t do. Cecily wasn’t putting on an act. Something certainly happened. “Did you tell Cecily you didn’t find anything?” she asked.

“Certainly! I went to her at once. My dear girl, I said, I’ve looked in my room, and I can’t find any dead men. She sat there looking at me with those big, cat’s eyes, and never said a word.”

“Do you think you convinced her, Mr. Fernandez, that she’d made a mistake?”

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “I don’t care. I said to her, if you’re not satisfied, then later on, when the telephone is working again, call the police if you like. Tell them this little story. By all means.”

“Is she going to do that?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” he said again. “Now let’s go and have a drink, eh?”

She made no demur, and they went out through the door. The guests were still sitting in the lounge, as they had been for ever and ever.

“I’ve ordered tea to be served to them,” said Mr. Fernandez. “Also to the two ladies upstairs in their rooms.”

As they passed the desk, Miss Peterson glanced sidelong at the young man, and he looked straight at her with an odd smile; a mocking smile, she thought.

“Is your clerk an American?” she asked Mr. Fernandez.

He was struggling to close the glass doors; he got them closed at last.

“I must tell you about that lad,” he said. “Sit down, dear lady. What will you have to drink?”

“Nothing, thanks,” she said. “Do you know, I think the wind is letting up.”

He turned his head alertly; they both listened. The hollow spinning roar went on, and that savage pounding of the surf; but a high whistling note that was like the shriek of a Fury, was gone.

“I believe you’re right—as always,” he said, and offered her a cigarette; he bent to light it for her, his eyes smiled into hers. Very debonair, he was.

“Six months ago I was in Havana,” he said. “That’s my favorite place to take a holiday. You know Havana? Little Paris… Well, I was in a bar, having a drink, when somebody reached for the package of American cigarettes I’d laid down beside me. I caught hold of this fellow’s wrist, and he laughed. He apologized. Said he was tired of the native cigarettes. There was something about him… He was down and out, all right, jacket all buttoned up, and no shirt, pair of tennis shoes all coming to pieces. But there was something… I offered him one of the cigarettes and a drink, and we got into a little conversation. He told me a wonderful tale, which I certainly didn’t believe. But I took a liking to him. I thought he’d be an asset to my new hotel; and I brought him back with me.”

“How about his passport?” asked Miss Peterson.

“You always come right to the point,” he said. “I never saw such a woman. He had an American passport, all right. For Albert Jeffrey, aged forty. He said he’d come down with one of those tours, and that he’d lost his money and his luggage in a poker game.”

“He’s young-looking for forty…” she observed.

“He is, isn’t he?” Mr. Fernandez agreed. “And he seems to have grown a little since he got his passport. Two inches, I’d say.” He smiled. “Still, nobody bothered much about the passport, and I don’t either. If there’s something in his past, some little difficulty—very well. I was glad to give him a chance. It’s worked out very well, too.”

“I see…” said Miss Peterson, and smiled a little herself. She thought that Mr. Fernandez would know very well how to take the fullest advantage of any ‘little difficulty’ in an employee’s past. But about taking a chance…? I don’t know how far he’d go, she thought. Or how far he has gone.

Because, though she had not entirely believed Cecily’s story, she did not believe his story, either. Something has happened, she thought. Something bad.

The wind was undoubtedly moderating; it came fitfully now; the rain would come rattling against the boards and then withdraw, and the heavy artillery of the sea would advance, shaking the earth.

“It may be just a lull,” said Mr. Fernandez. “In that case of course, it will come back from the opposite quarter, and possibly worse than ever. But I don’t think so. I think it’s missed us this time. We—” He stopped. “What’s that?” he asked.

It was music; somebody was playing the piano. He sprang to his feet and wrenched open the glass doors, and a Chopin mazurka came to them, loud, very brilliant.

“No—diga!” he said, appalled. “No! This is too much!”

He hastened along the passage to the lounge, and Miss Peterson went after him. There was Cecily at the piano, still in her cap and apron. The mazurka came to an end, and the Major clapped. But nobody else did. She began a waltz.

“Please stop her!” said Mr. Fernandez to Miss Peterson. “It’s an outrage!”

“Don’t you think that perhaps it might amuse the guests?” Miss Peterson asked.

“No! I don’t! Did you ever see anything of the sort in a first-class hotel? And after what she told me… That girl is a devil! Please make her stop!”

Miss Peterson moved forward, and stopped, because above the virtuoso playing of the waltz she heard another sound; a hammering at the door.

“My God!” said Mr. Fernandez.

Miss Peterson went to the girl, and laid a hand on her shoulder; the music ceased and a little stream of fresh air blew in, exquisitely cool, as Mr. Fernandez opened the door to admit three men in rubber coats, two white men and a n***o. And two of them were police constables. Mr. Fernandez closed the door.

“Ah, Superintendent!” cried Mr. Fernandez. “Overtaken by the storm, eh? Well, it’s an ill wind, eh…?”

He was too genial. And the man he was speaking to would notice that, Miss Peterson thought. He looked like a man who would notice everything; a slender, almost slight man with dark hair growing a little gray, a big bony nose, and small deep-set blue eyes.

“Quite!” he said civilly enough. “I’d like a word with you, if you please, Mr. Fernandez.”

“This way, Superintendent. This way, please!”

Mr. Fernandez opened a door at the far side of the desk, he bowed the superintendent in before him, and the door closed.

“What’s all this?” asked the Major. “Accident? Anything wrong?”

“I could not say, sah,” answered the n***o constable.

In her heart, Miss Peterson echoed the Major’s question. What’s all this? Something of grave importance to bring out a police superintendent in this weather… She started nervously at the sound of stirring chords on the piano; the opening of Weber’s Invitation to the Waltz.

“Don’t!” she said.

But Cecily went on until Miss Peterson took her right wrist and raised her hand from the keyboard. The superintendent had come out and stood beside them.

“Will you ladies be kind enough to step into the office?” he said.

Cecily rose, and they followed him into a small room, hot as an oven, furnished with a flat-topped desk, a swivel chair, a safe, a glass-fronted bookcase, and two fancy armchairs with green plush seats. Mr. Fernandez stood waiting to receive them.

“Miss Peterson,” he said, “allow me to introduce Superintendent Losee. Superintendent, this is Miss Peterson, our new hostess, and a great acquisition to my little hotel.”

He was overdoing it. He was too flowery, his smile was too brilliant.

“Thank you,” said the superintendent, and glanced toward Cecily.

“This is Miss Wilmot, Superintendent,” said Mr. Fernandez. “I’m afraid she’s the only one who can give you any information about this—killing. She’s the only one who seems to know anything about it.”

Cecily made a faint sound like a gasp; Miss Peterson, too, was startled by this sudden attack, and by the venom in his tone.

“You’re not obliged to answer any questions,” said Losee to everyone in general. “It is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be written down and may be subsequently used in evidence against you. Will you be seated, ladies?”

They sat down in the green-seated armchairs, Losee took the swivel chair, Mr. Fernandez sat on the edge of the desk, smoking a cigarette. He looked very debonair in his white suit; he looked too debonair, even arrogant. And Losee and his constable looked very businesslike.

Well, something’s happened, she thought. I wish they’d get on with it. She glanced about the little office, and on the top of the bookcase, directly behind the superintendent’s head, she caught sight of a stuffed baby alligator dressed in a constable’s uniform, helmet with chin-strap, belt and so on, leaning back a little to rest upon its varnished tail. She stared and stared at it, half hypnotized by this grotesquerie.

“We have received information,” said Losee, in his level voice, “that a murder has been committed on these premises.”

“May I ask—how you received information, Superintendent?” Mr. Fernandez asked.

“We’ll go into that presently,” said Losee. “It is the duty of anyone having any information to communicate the information to the police.”

“Miss Wilmot is the only one with any information,” said Mr. Fernandez.

Cecily looked up at him with her clear pale eyes, and he looked back at her; it was a long and deadly glance that they exchanged.

She took time to answer.

“I killed a man,” said Cecily briefly.

“Cannon,” said the-superintendent, and the constable brought out a notebook and a pencil.

“Do you wish to make a statement, Miss Wilmot?”

“I killed a man. I shot him—in self-defense.”

“Where did this take place, Miss Wilmot?”

She was slow to answer that.

“In one of the rooms upstairs,” she said at last. “I don’t know which.”

Mr. Fernandez looked at her quickly.

“On what floor, Miss Wilmot?” the superintendent asked.

“I’m not sure,” she answered.

“You will save everyone—yourself included—considerable time and trouble, if you give me some idea—”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Will you relate the circumstances which led up to this occurrence?”

“I was coming down from my room on the top floor,” said Cecily. “I thought I’d stop and ask Miss Peterson if there were any orders for me. I was going along the hall—”

“On what floor is Miss Peterson’s room?”

“The second.”

“You were on the second floor, then?”

“I don’t know. The lights were all out. I only had a flashlight. It might have been another floor.”

“Very well. Continue, please.”

“I saw an open door and a light inside. When I went there, a man dragged me inside. He attacked me: There was a gun lying on a table, and I picked it up and shot him.”

“What did you do then?”

“I came downstairs and told Mr. Fernandez and Miss Peterson.”

“How many flights of stairs did you go down?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What happened when you fired the shot?”

“The man fell down.”

“What reason did you have for believing him dead?”

“He looked dead,” said Cecily. “I spoke to him. I touched him. He was dead.”

“Mr. Fernandez,” said the superintendent, “can you supply Constable Cannon with a lantern? Thank you! We’ll have to make a search of the premises.”

“Some of the rooms are occupied,” said Mr. Fernandez. “I hope you won’t feel it necessary to disturb any of the guests, Superintendent.”

“I hope not,” said the superintendent. “Miss Wilmot, I’ll ask you to come with us. You have a passkey, Mr. Fernandez?”

“Oh, yes. Certainly. But I’d better come too. I can tell you what rooms are occupied.”

“Quite!” said the superintendent. “And Miss Peterson as well, if you please.”

He looked at Miss Peterson; for the first time, their eyes met. And it seemed to her that his small, deep-set, unwinking eyes were a little like the alligator’s.