A CRY IN THE NIGHT

“Why doesn’t God create an insect to destroy weeds,” mused Mrs. Meredith. Albeit not given to expressing her emotions aloud, she had acquired the habit of airing her wrath when alone by a sort of audible conversation under her breath which, unsuspected by her, Susanne had often utilized, thereby acquiring much desirable information quite unknown to her mistress.

“Susanne!” Mrs. Meredith raised her voice and her maid came out of Anne’s room and into the boudoir.

“Madame, you called?”

“Which bedroom have you given to Mrs. Hull for the night?”

“The pink bedroom, madame; across the corridor from zat of Doctaire Curtis,” explained Susanne, smoothing out a fold in her pretty apron.

“Oh, very well.” Mrs. Meredith consulted her watch. “It is late, Susanne; I have everything I wish, so do not wait for me. Good night.”

“Good night, madame.” Susanne turned at the door. “I hope you sleep, madame.”

Mrs. Meredith looked up sharply in time to catch a glimpse of the French maid’s trim figure in its becoming black gown as Susanne whisked through the hall door, closing it after her. Crossing the boudoir, she entered her daughter’s bedroom. Anne, on the point of switching off the reading lamp, left it lighted as her mother approached the bed.

“Now, Anne,” Mrs. Meredith seated herself on the nearest chair, “we are alone, and you can tell me in detail about this escapade of yours.”

“Escapade?” Anne sat bolt upright. “What a word, mother.”

“Does it not fit the occasion?” smoothly, meeting Anne’s indignant glance with unperturbed equanimity. “You slip away without a word to me, drive for miles in the country, just escape a serious accident, leave your car broken on the roadside, and come home close upon midnight in a farm truck. I might well add the adjective ‘indiscreet’ before escapade.” Anne’s small hands closed spasmodically over the bedclothes as she dragged them closer to her.

“You forget that I was not alone, mother,” with emphasis. “Doctor Curtis, my fiance, was with me.” Mrs. Meredith gazed at her daughter in silence for a minute. “You still persist in carrying out this bargain marriage?” she asked, bitingly.

Anne flushed scarlet. “Kindly recollect, mother, that the bargain was not of my seeking,” she replied. “And you were its strongest advocate.”

Mrs. Meredith’s gaze strayed from Anne to a photograph standing in a silver frame on her dressing table. It was an excellent likeness of her brother-in-law, John Meredith. Mrs. Meredith hastily averted her eyes.

“Have you recovered entirely from your fright, Anne?” she asked more kindly. At the unexpected change of topic Anne relaxed against her pillows. Was it possible that her mother did not care to pursue a conversation which, in her present mood, might lead to an open quarrel?

“I am better, thank you,” she responded. “Doctor Curtis did everything in the world for me. But for his presence of mind when the brakes on the car would not work, I would have been killed.”

Mrs. Meredith blanched. “I am very grateful to Doctor Curtis,” she spoke with more feeling than usual. “I fear that I have misjudged him.”

Anne eyed her mother inquiringly. What did such a volte face portend? They sat in silence for over two minutes, then Mrs. Meredith rose and, leaning down, kissed Anne.

“To-morrow morning,” she stated, “I will send a note to the society editors of the local newspapers and ask them to announce your engagement to Doctor Curtis. Good night, Anne; pleasant dreams.” And she went to her bedroom to undress feeling that her whole duty to herself, to Anne, and to society in general had been admirably performed.

Downstairs in the library David Curtis hung up the telephone receiver with growing impatience. It was the sixth time he had tried to get Doctor Leonard McLane on the telephone. He was most anxious to speak to McLane, but the latter had been called to Baltimore to perform an operation, so had reported McLane’s servant, and had not returned. Curtis did not like to leave word for McLane to ring him up, owing to the lateness of the hour. The telephone bell might disturb the inmates of the household. He had not seen McLane since the discovery of the discolored scalpel concealed among the ferns in the reception hall. Much had transpired since then, and Curtis was in a fever to discuss the new events with his level-headed friend. In McLane’s judgment and advice he could place implicit confidence.

Anne’s condition troubled him. Upon reaching home in the farmer’s small truck, he had persuaded her to go immediately to bed and had given Susanne a sedative to administer when she was undressed.

Anne had not told him of her encounter with the masked man, and Curtis had concluded that her second fainting spell had been caused by nerves frayed to the breaking point.

As Curtis reached the table, standing by the entrance to the library, on which he had laid his cigarette case and box of matches, he heard the front door open and a startled exclamation in a girl’s voice, and then a man’s heavier bass.

“Good gracious, Lucille, where have you been at this time of night?” asked Sam Hollister, stopping on his way from the circular staircase to the library.

Lucille closed the front door softly and placed her finger to her lips. “Not so loud, Sam,” she said cautiously. “I don’t want to awaken any one. I couldn’t sleep, and so went out for a walk about the grounds.”

Hollister eyed her in concern. Lucille’s beauty was enhanced by her pretty evening gown and graceful wrap, which she had partly thrown back, disclosing her perfectly shaped neck and throat.

“See here, Lucille,” he said, going closer to her, “I’ve wanted very much to see you; to tell you how badly I feel about this will business.”

“It is not your fault, Sam—”

“I know. But to deprive you of anything—” His voice shook with a depth of feeling which surprised Curtis, an unwilling listener to their conversation. “I wish to God I could find that codicil giving you the million dollars, even though it would put the final barrier between us.”

“Sam!”

“I’ve asked you a dozen times to marry me.” Hollister made a brave attempt to smile humorously, but the look of passionate love and sorrow in his eyes told a story of self-effacement and dogged devotion to an ideal. “I know that I am not much to look at, and while I’m not poor, I am not a millionaire. Just the same, Lucille, I’d give my life to serve you—to save you from pain.”

“Sam!” Lucille’s eyelids were wet with unshed tears as she laid her hand on the little lawyer’s.

“You are the best and truest friend—”

“And nothing else.” Hollister sighed forlornly. “There, I won’t detain you, Lucille. You look utterly weary. Go to bed, dear.” He turned away quickly, fearing he might say more, and thereby missed her quick, furtive glance at him as she ran softly up the staircase.

Curtis was sitting at the telephone stand when Hollister appeared in the library.

“I couldn’t find you in your bedroom, Curtis,” explained Hollister, drawing up a chair. “I thought perhaps that you might be here, so came down. I hope you are not in a hurry to go to bed.”

“No.”

“Good.” Hollister drew his chair close to Curtis and took several papers out of his pocket. Selecting a telegram he opened it. “I wired a friend of mine in Chicago, whose word I could rely on, and asked for information regarding Frank Elliott.”

“And what was the reply?”

Hollister held up the telegram and read it aloud. “Elliott, promoter. Has good financial backing and an assured income of fifteen thousand dollars a year. A man of integrity and standing in his community. Member of Stock Exchange and University Club.” He lowered the telegram and let his glasses dangle from their cord. “That gives Elliott a clean bill of health.”

“Apparently so,” agreed Curtis, cautiously. “Do you think your friend could furnish you with a photograph or personal description of Elliott?” Hollister looked questioningly at his companion. “You doubt our visitor’s identity?”

“On general principles I doubt anybody who lays claim to one hundred thousand dollars,” retorted Curtis. “Frankly, how did Elliott strike you?”

“I liked his appearance,” promptly. “He was well dressed and looked what he claims to be, a prosperous business man, and obviously a gentleman.”

“Of what age?”

“Around forty-five, I should judge offhand.” Hollister tipped his chair back into a comfortable position. “We’ll be in a deuce of a quandary if we can’t produce that one hundred thousand dollars. Where in the name of God did John Meredith tuck it away?”

“And who in heaven’s name murdered Meredith!” ejaculated Curtis, with equal fervor. He hesitated a perceptible moment. “My acquaintance with Meredith was very slight—I never saw the man,” with a fleeting smile. “Do you think he appropriated that money to his own use?”

“Good God, no!” Hollister’s voice denoted shocked surprise. “John was the soul of honor in every relation of life.”

“Then,” Curtis drew a long breath, “it is up to us to locate the money and keep his memory stainless.”

“And locate his murderer,” added Hollister solemnly.

Curtis moved restlessly. “Did Frank Elliott give you further evidence to prove his statement regarding the ownership of that one hundred thousand dollars?” he asked.

“No. He is returning on Thursday and promised to bring several men with him to substantiate his statement,” replied the lawyer.

“Did he tell you their names?”

“No.” Observing Curtis’ dissatisfied frown, Hollister added hastily: “You must take into consideration that Elliott is in an embarrassing position.”

“How so?”

“He stated that that money is owned by certain men who pooled their funds to fight prohibition,” Hollister spoke more slowly. “In other words, they are trying to defeat the dry laws, and that is illegal. He and his friends can’t go to the courts to claim that money without getting themselves involved in trouble with the Federal Government.”

Curtis whistled softly. “So that is it,” he commented. “Suppose you ring up Western Union and send a night letter to your Chicago friend, Hollister, asking for a description of Frank Elliott and his present whereabouts.”

The lawyer pursed up his lips. “Oh, well, if you insist—” He shrugged his shoulders and went with reluctance to the telephone. It took him ten minutes to get his despatch taken down by a sleepy operator, and when he hung up the receiver he was not in the best of tempers.

“I’m off to bed,” he stated ungraciously. “Coming, Curtis?”

“In a moment, I want to send a call.” Curtis hitched his chair closer to the instrument stand and reached for the telephone. “Don’t wait for me, Hollister, I’ll come along shortly.”

The lawyer wandered over to the smoking table and helped himself to several cigars. Then he turned back and faced the blind surgeon.

“See here, Curtis,” he began, “don’t run off with the idea that I propose to give up a hundred thousand dollars to Elliott or any man without incontestable proof that it belongs to him. I am not an utter fool.” Not waiting for a rejoinder, he stalked from the library, taking no pains to walk softly.

Curtis paused in the act of calling “Central” and replaced the telephone receiver. What had caused Hollister’s sudden outburst of temper? The lawyer’s conversation with Lucille Hull, which he had inadvertently overheard, was the first inkling that he, Curtis, had had that Hollister was in love with her. Evidently he was an unsuccessful suitor of long standing, judging from what he had said to Lucille. Could it be that Hollister had stolen the codicil to Meredith’s will so that Lucille would not inherit the million dollars and thus, as Hollister himself had expressed it, “place another barrier between them”? Bah! the idea was absurd, and Curtis smiled to himself, but the smile vanished at the thought that Hollister knew of the codicil and knew of its whereabouts on Sunday night. Who could say that he had not returned to Meredith’s bedroom, engaged Meredith in conversation and stolen the papers—and murdered Meredith.

Curtis shook his head. Hollister was not the type of man to indulge in bloodshed, whatever the incentive; nor had nature cast him for the role of a Don Quixote.

Putting out his hand, Curtis lifted the receiver and gave McLane’s telephone number to “Central.” A half-awake servant took his message to have McLane call him first thing in the morning, and giving up all hope of talking with his friend that night, Curtis sought his bedroom. As he passed down the corridor leading to his room, he heard some one move just ahead of him and an alarmed exclamation in a woman’s voice, followed by his name in a lower key.

“I am sorry I frightened you, Miss Hull,” he said apologetically.

“It is Mrs. Hull, not Lucille, doctor.” As she spoke Mrs. Hull peeped out from the alcove where she had retreated at his unexpected appearance. The alcove was shallow and Mrs. Hull, as she gathered her dressing gown about her, was thankful that she faced a blind man.

“Can you tell me, doctor, where I can find an outside telephone?”

“There is one in the library,” replied Curtis. “Can I send a message for you?”

“No, thank you. I’ll get Lucille.” Mrs. Hull glanced nervously about. “You will think me absurd, doctor, but my husband was not well to-day. He was to call for me after dinner this evening, but he did not come, and it became so late that finally Lucille persuaded me to stay here all night.”

“Very rightly, Mrs. Hull,” responded Curtis sympathetically. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Oh, no! I couldn’t sleep thinking about Colonel Hull.” She spoke spasmodically in short, nervous jerks. “He has a new car and is so imprudent. I will get Lucille to call up our home and talk with her father. Don’t let me detain you. Good night.” And she stepped past him down the corridor on her way to her daughter’s bedroom as Curtis turned toward his door.

Curtis wasted little time in undressing. He was about to get into bed when a thought occurred to him. Going over to the chair where he had cast his suit, he took out the key which Anne had worn on the gold chain and put it inside the pocket of the jacket of his pajamas, fastening the flap with a safety pin. Then he climbed into bed. He had not troubled to switch on the electric light. Moving in perpetual darkness he had finally broken himself of the habit of pressing the button when entering a room at night.

The night seemed endlessly long to Curtis as he twisted and turned on his pillows, in sleepless unrest. He could not dismiss Anne from his thoughts. Was the key which he had taken from her Meredith’s? If so, how had it come into her possession? And what possible bearing could the key have on Meredith’s murder?

Bitterly Curtis regretted his lack of opportunity to question Anne about the key on their homeward journey in the farm truck. The presence of the farmer prevented anything like a private conversation, and immediately upon their arrival at Ten Acres Anne had been surrounded by her mother, Mrs. Hull, and Lucille, and hurried to her bedroom.

It was approaching two o’clock when Curtis finally dropped off into dreamless slumber, lulled to sleep by the soft breeze blowing through his open windows.

Nearly an hour later he awoke with a start. What had aroused him? Suddenly he caught a faint sound made by a padded footfall. Some one was moving about in his room. Curtis lay still, every faculty awake, his nerves tingling. By an effort of will only he kept his sightless eyes closed. Had the intruder switched on the electric light? If so, he was at an even greater disadvantage. At least in a darkened room he and the intruder would have an equal chance. A rustle of papers on his desk by the north window came to him with startling distinctness. He could not lie there like a bump on a log and be robbed—

Throwing back the covers he gathered himself for a spring. Clearing the footboard he landed in the center of the room and dashed in the direction of the window. Something brushed by him as he reached the window sill and he clutched at it frantically. His fingers closed over a hand—a tiny hand.

A hoarse cry broke from Curtis and he almost loosened his grasp, then his grip tightened as his wits returned, and he pulled back—and lost his balance.

A piercing scream of such anguished intensity that it chilled the blood in the hearer’s veins rang through the night, and echoed and reechoed in Curtis’ ears as he staggered to his knees—a severed hand in his grasp.

With his heart pounding like a mill race Curtis touched the captured hand at the wrist where it had been severed. His fingers encountered hair—hair?—no, fur.

Curtis’ overcharged nerves gave way to a gurgling, choking laugh, and he sank down on the floor. It was no human hand that he held—it was a monkey’s paw.

An incessant pounding on his door aroused Curtis. Stopping at his bureau, he picked up a handkerchief and wrapped the monkey’s paw in it and thrust it inside the drawer. When he opened the hall door he found several excited servants facing him.

“If Monsieur pleases,” gasped Susanne, Gretchen’s terrified face peering over her shoulder. “What is it?”

“A nightmare,” he responded. “I am sorry. Good night.”