Black Cat Weekly #12

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER IVThey went in a procession past the desk, where Alfred Jeffrey still sat; Mr. Fernandez opened the door to the staircase and they began to mount, Constable Cannon going first with the lantern.

I don’t like these stairs, Miss Peterson thought. The wind was still loud here; their shadows were monstrous on the stone walls. Nobody said a word. We’re going with a lantern to look for a body, she thought. Why does he want me along? What does he think? What information has he got, and where did he get it from?

Mr. Fernandez opened the door on the first landing.

“In what part of the corridor was the room you entered, Miss Wilmot?” asked the superintendent.

“I don’t remember,” she said.

“Then we’ll begin here,” he said.

“Allow me!” said Mr. Fernandez, and approached the door facing the staircase; he opened it with a flourish, and Miss Peterson saw him smile, vividly.

The light of the lantern showed a neat and somewhat desolate little room. Losee entered, looked in the big wardrobe, he opened the door of the bathroom. They went on to the next room, and it was the same. They turned the corner into the main corridor.

“This,” said Mr. Fernandez, “is Miss Peterson’s room.”

“Sorry, Miss Peterson,” said Losee. But he looked in there, in her wardrobe, in her bathroom. He was going to look in every room; this was going on for ever and ever.

“This is Mrs. Barley’s room,” said Mr. Fernandez. “She may be in there. My housekeeper, you know.”

He knocked, but there was no answer. He knocked again; then he unlocked the door. A candle burned in there, and by its light they could see Mrs. Barley lying on the bed, her face flushed, her gray hair disordered. She was snoring with her mouth open, and there was a bottle of gin on the floor beside her. It was a distressing spectacle, at which Miss Peterson felt ashamed and unhappy. But undaunted, the superintendent looked into her wardrobe and her closet.

They finished with that floor, and they returned to the staircase. As Mr. Fernandez opened the door, a gay faraway voice called from below. “Ahoy, there; me hearties!”

“Come up, Doctor!” said the superintendent; and they stood waiting while a man with a flashlight mounted quickly into the ring of lantern light. He was a tall man, very thin, long-legged, moving springily with bent knees; he had cropped white hair, and a brick-red face and a meaningless smile.

“Dr. Tinker,” the superintendent announced, and Mr. Fernandez shook hands with him. “Glad to see you, Doctor,” he said.

“Where’s your corpse?” the doctor asked cheerfully. “Oh, still hunting? I had a time getting here. Trees down, wires down. We may have some more corpses. But the worst of it’s over. Oh, yes. Glass is rising.”

Mr. Fernandez opened the door on the second landing.

“My little suite is on this floor, Superintendent,” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to look at that first?”

“We’ll take the rooms in order, thank you,” said the superintendent; and once more Mr. Fernandez unlocked and opened a door.

But this time it was different.

“My God!” cried Mr. Fernandez.

No one else made a sound. The light of a lantern showed a bald little man lying on his back, his eyes wide open, a pinched look about his hooked nose. He wore a singlet, and dirty white duck trousers; his heels were together and the toes of his heavy-soled shoes were turned out at right angles; his bare arms were straight at his sides.

“My—God!” said Mr. Fernandez again.

They all stood in a group in the doorway, Constable Cannon holding out the lantern so that they could see what was there.

“Can anybody identify this man?” asked the superintendent.

“That’s the one!” said Cecily instantly. “That’s the man I shot.”

The doctor turned to look at her.

“Very well,” said Losee. “Now then, kindly go down to the office and wait, Miss Wilmot. Miss Peterson and Mr. Fernandez too, if you please. Constable Cannon will accompany you.”

The doctor moved forward, the superintendent took the lantern and closed the door, and the four others were left in darkness. But Mr. Fernandez and the constable both brought out flashlights; Cannon went first, holding his behind him, like a movie usher. After him came Cecily alone; as he illumined the steps, her foot in a gleaming high-heeled pump would appear. Mr. Fernandez took Miss Peterson by the arm, in a grip a little too tight. When I came down here before, she thought, that poor little bald man must have been lying there in that room, close to the staircase… What made those boys yell? The Devil, Fernandez said. Maybe…

They went past the desk where Alfred Jeffrey was still working; the people in the lounge were still there, waiting. They went into the stifling little office, and Cannon shut the door and stood before it. Now Mr. Fernandez was sitting in the swivel chair with the alligator constable behind him. The great wind still rushed at the walls.

“Couldn’t we have some air?” Cecily asked.

“Presently,” said Mr. Fernandez, without interest.

The door opened, and Losee and the constable entered. Mr. Fernandez rose. “Take this chair, Superintendent!”

“No. No… Don’t move, Mr. Fernandez.”

“I insist…”

So Losee sat again in the swivel chair, and Mr. Fernandez sat on the edge of the desk.

“Miss Wilmot,” said the superintendent. “I’ll ask you to repeat your account of the occurrence.”

“You mean—all over again?”

“If you please.”

“I was going along the hall—”

“Can you remember now which floor?”

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I saw a room with a light in it, and I thought it might be Miss Peterson’s room—”

“You don’t know which Miss Peterson’s room is, Miss Wilmot?”

“Yes. Yes, I know. But the halls were dark. I was mixed up. I knocked, and a man pulled me in—”

“Will you describe the man?”

“It was that one. The one you saw.”

“You’re positive of that?”

“Yes,” she said. “That was the one.”

“Continue, please.”

“He—put his arm around me. He wouldn’t let me go. I struggled with him. Then I saw a little gun lying on a table, and I picked it up, and I shot him.”

“Where was the man when you shot him?”

“Standing there.”

“Then you had escaped from him?”

“For the moment. But he was between me and the door. He started to come at me again. I told him to stop. And when he kept on coming, I shot at him.”

“What happened then, Miss Wilmot?”

“He fell.”

“What was your aim when you fired this shot?”

“I didn’t aim exactly. I just wanted to stop him.”

“After the man fell, what did you do?”

“But I told you. I came down and told Mr. Fernandez and Miss Peterson.”

“After how long an interval?”

“Oh, only a moment.”

“What would you consider a moment?”

“I came down right away.”

“Miss Wilmot, did you make a telephone call to the police station at two thirty-eight?”

“No,” she said, staring at him. “No, I didn’t.”

“At two-thirty-eight, a call was received by Sergeant Brown. This call asked for police protection. According to the sergeant the call was made by a woman. ‘Please send a policeman here. I’m afraid there’s been a murder.’”

“I didn’t say that. I didn’t ring up anybody.”

“This call was made just before the telephone service was disrupted. Approximately two hours before you notified Mr. Fernandez of this shooting.”

“I didn’t make the call.”

“Were you aware of the presence of the deceased in the hotel before you confronted him in the room on the third floor?”

“No.”

“Miss Wilmot,” he said, “I’m going to ask Constable Cannon to read aloud to you the questions I have asked you, and the answers you have given. Go ahead, Cannon.”

In a gentle sing-song voice Cannon read his notes, and Miss Peterson listened with uneasiness. The girl’s lying, she thought. I can’t tell which part of her story is a lie, but maybe the superintendent can.

“Miss Wilmot,” he said, “do you wish to reconsider any of the answers you have given?”

“No, I don’t!” she said.

“You wish it to go on record that you shot this man, and that he then fell to the ground?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” he said. “I shall be obliged to place you under arrest, and subsequently to charge you with homicide. You may take with you a few articles—”

“Take…?” Cecily repeated. “But you’re not—? I don’t have to go—to prison, do I?”

“You are under arrest, Miss Wilmot, for shooting and killing un unknown person on these premises—”

The girl rose, her eyes fixed on his face.

“But it was in self-defense!” she said. “That’s not murder.”

“Miss Wilmot,” said the superintendent, “that man was shot in the back.”