Wolf in Man’s Clothing

Well, I’m not too fleet on my feet, although I took the stairs at what amounted to a gallop. When I reached the hall above Peter Huber had disappeared. The main, wide part of the corridor stretched dimly away ahead of me and behind me; there were two or three night lights along it; they were not bright and the shapes of occasional chairs ranged against the walls loomed up like clumsy dark creatures waiting there for prey, but did not move. In fact nothing moved.

A narrow corridor crossed the main one just on the other side of the stairwell and appeared to lead toward the servants’ wing and backstairs; Peter Huber must have turned into that or into some room. I didn’t stop to look for him. As I ran along that dim, wide corridor, my starched, white skirt rustling and whispering against the shadowy walls, the house began to stir. Someone rang a bell somewhere, so its distant peal was audible even there. Someone flung open a door. Then I reached my patient’s room.

It was lighted as I had left it. But the bed was empty. The room was empty. Craig Brent was gone and so was Drue.

I must have gone into the room and searched it a little frenziedly; I remember looking under the bed and pulling out the heavy red curtains and looking behind them, though not even a cat could have hidden successfully there. The cat-but the cat was gone, too. No one was in the bathroom, no one in the little dressing room. As I came out of it, hurrying, Maud Chivery, in a voluminous, flowered dressing gown came sweeping into the bedroom and aimed a flashlight directly into my eyes. “What was that noise? What happened?” she cried. Then she saw the bed and squealed, “What have you done with Craig?”

What had I done with Craig!

“Conrad Brent is dead. He’s in the library. You’d better call the doctor.” I snatched the flashlight from her hand. Her face turned waxy and her bright eyes became two sharp points of light; I thought she was going to faint, for she said, “O-o-o-oh,” in a kind of whistle from utterly blanched lips. So I gave her a push toward a chair and turned to the door.

Alexia was standing there in the door; a crimson dressing gown clung to her lovely, curved body and fell, trailing, around her feet; her small, pointed face loomed from a cloud of fine black hair.

“Conrad…” she said in a kind of whisper. “Conrad.” And then, as I made to pass her, she clutched at me. “Where is Craig? What has happened to him…?”

“It’s what I’m trying to find out.” I unloosed her pointed, vehement fingers and went hurriedly into the hall. Craig couldn’t be far away. So I tried the bedroom nearest me; the door opened upon chill, orderly emptiness and a “Stag at Eve” gazed mournfully at me from above the mantel. No sign of Craig or Drue. I started toward the door opposite and, as I turned, I bumped into a man hurrying along. We collided with a shock that whirled us around toward each other and it was Nicky. He all but pushed me out of the way and I dropped Maud’s flashlight. It struck his foot, I believe. At any rate, he swore in a sharp, startled way and cried, dancing on one foot and clasping the other in his hand, “Did you see Conrad? Where is he?”

“In the library. Why don’t you look where you’re going?” I caught my balance and my cap and wondered if I’d damaged the flashlight.

“Is he dead? Are you sure? Is he dead?” His eyes were bright as jewels in his elegant, small face.

“Go and look for yourself,” I snapped, and retrieved the flashlight as he hurried limping toward Maud and Alexia who were at the door of Craig’s room. I heard Alexia say, “I’m going down. Come with me, Maud…”

Then I opened the next door and found Craig. The room was a kind of linen closet, narrow and long, lined with cupboards and smelling of lavender, and Craig lay at full length on the floor with Drue bending over him apparently trying to drown him, for she was holding a towel dripping with water to his head.

“Drue!”

“Sarah, he’s been hurt! Look…”

His face was drained-looking and white; she lifted the towel from one temple and it was broken and cut and bleeding.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t in his room when I came upstairs. I looked for him and found him here. Like this…”

He wore a dressing gown and slippers and a blanket had been put around him. “Blanket and all?” I asked, kneeling to look closer at the cut.

“No. I brought the blanket. He must have heard us downstairs, and tried to come, and fell against something.”

“What was he doing in here?” His pulse wasn’t bad; I took a gingerly look at the dressings on his shoulder and the wound hadn’t opened again for there seemed to be no fresh bleeding.

“I don’t know. But he was here, not in the hall. Sarah, is he hurt?” There was a sharp anxiety in her tone.

“Oh, the cut isn’t bad. Painful maybe, later. We’ll put something on it. The thing to do is get him back to bed before he gets pneumonia.”

I sat back on my heels and took a long breath. At any rate he wasn’t dead. And she had thought of that too; for she said then, jerkily, “When I saw him like that I thought he was dead. There’d been no sound of a shot. But I thought…” She stopped and leaned over him and pressed the towel to his temple again. “I’ve got some surgical dressing in my bag.”

My knees were still shaking. “What was the noise?” I asked.

“What noise?”

“What…” I stared at her face, bent over Craig. “That noise! Surely you heard it.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” she said, intent on Craig. “Perhaps I was in the bathroom. Sarah, do you think we can carry him?”

I gave up. “No,” I said. “I’ll get somebody to help.”

I got up, and, as I moved, Craig Brent’s eyelids fluttered and opened. His eyes were hazy, the pupils were small and sharply black so I knew he was still heavily drugged. But his eyes fastened upon Drue’s face leaning close above him, fastened and then changed as if a flame leaped into them. His lips moved a little and he said in a faint whisper, “Drue…”

She didn’t speak; she only leaned over him, her white cap haloish in the light, her face inexpressibly tender and brooding. I cleared my throat abruptly and said, “How did you get here? What happened?”

He didn’t look at me; I don’t think he heard me. He just kept on looking up at Drue with something alive, something urgent and important and so vital it had almost a being of its own, in their meeting look and in their stillness.

Yet Conrad Brent lay dead in the study; a hypodermic syringe was in my white pocket; and Craig had said, there’ll be murder done.

It was curious and extremely unpleasant how the word murder-somewhere in that house, somewhere in that night-kept thrusting itself at me with a grisly persistence.

But I was cross by that time too; fright affects me like that. I said something which emerged as only an exasperated mutter and went to the door. No one was in the hall; Alexia, Maud and Nicky had vanished. I hurried to the stairs and just at the landing was Beevens (in a long white bathrobe, vaguely Ku-Klux in character) ascending and puffing. I said, “Come and help me. Hurry!”

He didn’t question. Not even when we arrived in the linen closet and there was, so to speak, the young master stretched full length on the floor. Full length, that is, except that Drue had lifted him a little so she held his head against her breast and the towel pressed against the ugly bleeding bruise on his temple. Beevens said something that really did sound like “Tush-tush…” and stooped over. “Take his feet, Nurse, please,” he said efficiently.

So we got Craig back to bed. By the time we had him covered warmly and hot water bottles around him to ward off pneumonia, he was completely unconscious again. Beevens, still without a question, helped us. It took time-all of it had taken time.

At last everything we could do was done, and Beevens looked at me. “They want you in the study, Miss Keate,” he said.

Drue looked at me quickly, so her little white cap jerked toward me.

Something seemed to jerk and tighten within me. I won’t say that my mind began to work, for I have since then doubted its existence, but I did take a kind of hold on myself.