“A thousand pounds!” exclaimed the baronet.
“Yes, at a guess. But why did he let a week go by in the belief that his valuable gold snuffbox had been stolen without mentioning the matter to anybody? The second investigation was made in the pages of a local guide. Trentby Hall is a very interesting old place. Did you know that one of your ancestors — possibly the great-grandfather who you told me was a bit of a rascal — was also a bit of an antiquary, and collected quite a lot of valuable stuff? Now — where is that stuff?”
“How should I know?” murmured Sir Arthur, shaking his head.
“Well, I’ll tell you where some of it is,” responded Crook. “It’s in an old, dilapidated chest in an attic in the east wing.” The baronet by this time was speechless.-“What isn’t there is in the temporary possession of Mr. George Tappan. I made an exhaustive tour of the east wing yesterday afternoon — scaring, I fear, one of your maids — and when I discovered the chest, it occurred to me to add my ring in the hope that it might appear again. It did appear again — not by your bedside, as I imagined, but actually on your finger. Doanes is an audacious rascal—”
“It’s not true!” cried the butler.
“Why waste time, Doanes?” asked the detective sternly. “I don’t know how you discovered the chest, or whether Mr. Tappan discovered it, and you discovered him. But I gather that you hadn’t the courage for direct burglary, or the strength of mind to forego your share.
“So this scheme was invented by which your master should apparently steal his own property to be passed on to a new owner — but only you and Mr. Tappan knew it was your master’s property, and only you knew that he never touched it until he found it on waking by his bedside.”
Doanes dropped his eyes, and Crook’s tone grew a little gentler. “I’m sorry, Doanes — very sorry,” he said. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.”
The Plague of Cats
by Jack Bechdolt
From everywhere and nowhere they came, led by a scar-faced, rusty, black Tom called “Lightning”
Chapter I
As Queer As a Cat
Milly Canby was ten minutes late at the office of the Argus Detective Agency. Such a thing never had happened before.
Milly pushed open the door and Henry Rood, president, manager and detective force of the agency, stared at her in mild surprise.
Milly’s cheeks were highly colored by her haste.
Her eyes shone with a mysterious excitement. She fairly radiated mystery, but mystery of a delightful sort.
Henry Rood, who would have forgiven Milly his own murder, forgave her tardiness, the second he saw her so pretty and so excited about something.
Milly held her coat wrapped in an unusual fashion. She now opened it wide and revealed the mystery.
“Look, ’Enry!” she said breathlessly. “Look what I found! We’ll keep it, won’t we, ’Enry? He won’t be a bit of trouble around the office. And we’ll name him Argus — unless, of course, he turns out to be a lady. He’ll be awfully useful on our staff, ’Enry. You know there are mice in this office and Argus can handle all our mouse cases — especially if he turns out a Tabby!”
Milly set a small kitten on Henry’s desk.
It was a very young kitten, so young that its legs were uncertain. Its coat was a sort of Jacob’s coat of many colors and proclaimed a very scrambled family tree. And it was pitifully thin.
The kitten advanced uncertainly over Henry’s desk and opened its pink mouth wide in a voiceless cry.
“The poor little thing!” Milly’s eyes grew moist. “Think, ’Enry, it was wandering right in the midst of traffic. Absolutely lost. And terrified. I rescued it from under a truck. And it’s starved almost to death. Wait, I’ll run down to the lunch counter and get it milk—” Milly broke off to demand again: “We will keep it, won’t we?”
Henry nodded. “I guess we can take him on, if you say so, Milly — hey, get out of my ink, Argus!” He chuckled as Argus began investigating with his paw and sent penholders and pencils rolling off the desk.
“They say cats bring good luck,” Henry mused. “Or is that only black cats? Well, never mind.”
Argus proved the adage within the hour. Milly brought word to Henry that a client had called. A client of any sort was still a great event in the office of the Argus Agency, for the agency was young and struggling hard to keep alive.
The client’s name was Matthew Hallock Stuyvesant, as his neat visiting card in old-fashioned script proclaimed. Henry seated him in tire visitor’s chair and excusing himself a minute with a number of papers kept ready on his desk to look impressive, studied Mr. Stuyvesant with secret glances.
Henry saw a man of more than sixty years, a slender, old maidish-looking man in well brushed, threadbare clothes of dark gray, wearing very starchy white linen, spats, and a carnation in his buttonhole, and carrying a gold-headed stick. He looked a fussy man, a fastidious man, a sickly man — for his skin had a waxy transparency — and a badly scared man.
“Mr. Stuyvesant, what can I do for you?” Henry asked when he had observed these things.
“Gracious, I scarcely know!” Mr. Stuyvesant spoke with a slight lisp. “I suppose you are used to solving all sorts of mysteries, Mr. Rood?”
Henry nodded serenely. The only mystery which had baffled him so far was the mystery of why he had so few mysteries to exercise his talents upon.
“I don’t know how to begin,” Stuyvesant went on. “I’m afraid you’re going to laugh.”
Then the client leaped from his chair with a jerk and a shriek. Kicking aside the overturned chair he retreated flat against the wall and began to stare with wild eyes at the floor. Henry saw that he trembled violently.
Across the floor toddled Argus, the newest member of the agency staff, his fat tail erect, his sides bulging with breakfast, drops of milk still adhering untidily to his questing whiskers. Argus spied the nice man in the corner and Argus, kitten that he was, must have sensed that the nice man was afraid of cats. With a cat’s perversity he went directly to the client and rubbed his shoe lovingly.
Matthew Hallock Stuyvesant turned white.
Before Henry could come to his rescue, Milly had pushed open the private office door and swooped down on the kitten. “I’m so sorry I forgot to latch the door!” she apologized breathlessly. “I think he’s started looking for that mouse already, ’Enry.”
Henry righted the overturned chair and Stuyvesant sank into it. He unfolded a large, very clean handkerchief and passed it over his face.
“I really beg your pardon, Mr. Rood,” he said, trying to force a smile. “I am terrified of cats. I have been afraid of cats all my life. My old nurse once told me that even as a baby I was afraid of them. I suppose this seems very silly to you—”
“Not at all,” Henry hastened to assure him. “And I’m extremely sorry this happened to upset you.”
The new client shuddered violently.
“I thought—” he began, then shuddered again before he could resume — “I thought — it was one of them — haunting me. I thought perhaps — I was — going mad.”
“One of what?” Henry asked.
“One of the cats. One of those damned cats that have made my house a madhouse, that have upset my life, that haunt me day and night in spite of everything I do — one of the cats that are making the house I was born in a howling wilderness! Mr. Rood, I have been to the police and I have been to two other detective agencies and been laughed at for my pains. I ask you — I beg of you — can you put aside professional dignity and undertake my case? If you will, name your own fee.”