There was Mrs. Loos in an old wicker chair, stitching busily at something held in an embroidery hoop. Next her sat Gertie, the general maid, a woman almost as old as the housekeeper, but thin, where Mrs. Loos was plump, short sighted and not beautiful.
In a third chair, rather upright and uncomfortably suspicious, Alf Doran, the furnace man and all-work man, lingered, smoking one of Henry Rood’s cigars with enjoyment, but not lulled into entire security despite that gift.
As for Henry, he was doing his best to be good company and establish himself on friendly terms with the three who made up Stuyvesant’s household staff. His youth and pink cheeks and round, innocent face were in Henry’s favor. He did not look like a detective, and he let drop hints that he was less detective than a handy man called in to rid the house of cats. In fact he had just finished relating a somewhat imaginary account of finding the black cat in Matthew Stuyvesant’s study.
“He seemed to hold it against me,” Henry complained. “Gosh, he’s got to give me a little time, hasn’t he? Believe me, I want to get the cats out of the house, because I took this job on the no-cure-no-pay basis.”
“Then you’d better kiss your money good-by,” Doran said, sourly. “I’ve been trying to get the cats out of here for two weeks. I catch the devil from the old man every day! I can’t keep ’em out, and I don’t believe anybody else can.”
“Well, maybe Mr. Stuyvesant will pay me something, even if I fail. I guess that’s only fair,” Henry mused hopefully.
Doran snorted. The two women glanced at each other, and a cynical smile passed.
“No?” Henry asked, observing this.
“I wouldn’t count on it, young man,” said Mrs. Loos.
“Any time!” Doran jeered. “His pockets are sewed up tighter than a drum.”
Gertie the maid giggled and shook her head.
“Well, you ought to know,” Henry said mournfully. “You’ve been with him quite awhile, I suppose?”
“Eighteen years for me,” Doran said. “Nineteen for you, eh, Mrs. Loos?”
“No, indeed, twenty!” Mrs. Loos corrected.
“Twenty years, Mr. Rood, every day of them spent in this very house working for Mr. Stuyvesant. And if I was to tell you the amount in wages I was paid for those twenty years.”
Mrs. Loos raised her eyes to heaven and her hands also.
The thin maid, Gertie, rolled up her blue eyes behind her thick lensed spectacles and sighed.
“Wages!” Doran snorted.
“Would you believe it, Mr. Rood,” Gertie chimed in shrilly, “I’ve been twenty-three years here, longer than any of ’em, and I get the same wages to-day I did the day I started. And if you want to know how much wages that is, I say it’s board and room and five dollars a month. And I can prove it.”
Gertie glanced at her fellow servants and both nodded earnestly, watching Henry to enjoy his astonishment. Henry looked properly astonished.
“Goodness knows, I do little better,” said Mrs. Loos. “A mere matter of fifteen a month, I do assure you, Mr. Rood.”
“Yes, and twelve a month for me,” Doran grumbled. “The old tightwad!”
“Ah,” said Henry, “but Mr. Stuyvesant will do the handsome thing by you in his will, I know!”
The three exchanged silent looks. Doran said reluctantly: “Well, providing he ever dies. I give him more years than I’ll ever see.”
“It’s not the money with me, Mr. Rood,” the housekeeper explained, confidentially. “I’m not one to set money above everything. It’s living in this old house I mind. When I came here as a young woman this house was all well enough, but time hasn’t mended it any, and the neighborhood is not what it was, I assure you.”
“It’s nothing but a slum!” said Gertie.
“A dump,” said Doran.
“Well, for my part, I could stand it, though it’s not what I’m used to,” Mrs. Loos reasoned. “But it’s bad for Mr. Stuyvesant. A man of his wealth and position! His old friends laugh at him for living here! Why doesn’t he go out to the country like a sensible person?”
“Ah, why!” Gertie exclaimed.
“I’ll tell you why,” the furnace man volunteered, hitching his chair forward. “He’s too stingy, that’s why! Too tight with his money. Afraid to spend a cent.”
“And him with an elegant place on Long Island. A fine country place, if ever there was one,” said the housekeeper. “But no, he’d rather take the rent from it.”
“He makes me so mad!” Gertie burst out. “Why don’t he sell these houses? Goodness knows he can get any price he asks. Why, he’s been offered—”
Mrs. Loos coughed sharply. Gertie stopped and bit her lip.
Doran pushed back his chair. “I’m off,” he declared.
“Yes, we gossip too much, goodness knows,” Mrs. Loos agreed. “A person would think we had nothing better to do. Would you like a bite of lunch, young man?”
“Thank you,” Henry smiled. “I breakfasted late, but I would enjoy a cup of hot tea.”
Henry watched to note if this innocent remark had any effect upon them.
It had no effect except to bring a hospitable nod from Mrs. Loos. Gertie rose. “I’ll get it for the gentleman,” she offered.
Doran gave Henry a nod and went through the butler’s pantry toward the rear of the house. The two women followed him.
The door between the dining and sitting room and the kitchen was a swing door. When they were gone Henry stepped to it and peered through the crack.
Gertie had started water to boil, and the three servants had their heads close together. They talked in whispers Henry could not distinguish, and their eyes turned toward the room he was in. They were discussing him.
The water boiled. Gertie made tea.
“I’ll take a cup myself,” Doran offered in his natural voice. He suited the action to the word by reaching down a cup from the closet and pouring for himself.
He raised his cup, sipped noisily and sputtered like a geyser. Doran bounded to the sink, seized a glass and washed his mouth with water.
“Is that nice?” said Mrs. Loos.
Over his shoulder Doran demanded: “Say, what’s the big idea? Trying to poison me?”
“What’s the matter with the man?” Gertie and Mrs. Loos chorused together.
“Matter!” Doran cried angrily. “That stuff ain’t tea. My God, maybe it’s poison!” He applied his head to the water that was streaming out of the faucet, gulping noisily.
“For evermore!” the housekeeper gasped. “Here, Gertie.” She poured herself a taste from the teapot and sipped. She passed the cup to Gertie, who tasted and shuddered.
“Where’s that tea caddy?” Mrs. Loos exclaimed. “I thought so! Look here.”
The three clustered about the tea caddy.
“I declare, Gertie, you’re getting blind as an owl,” Mrs. Loos snapped. “You got the two caddies mixed.”
“Well, what in the nation did you go put it in a tea caddy for?” Gertie mourned. “A person would think you’d know better. Oh, misery! I made up a potful of this for Mr. Stuyvesant this morning! He never said a word. Drank every drop!”
Mrs. Loos began to laugh. “I always said the man never knows what’s in his mouth!”
“But what is it?” Doran persisted. Henry saw him taste a leaf. He began to laugh, too. “Catnip!” he exclaimed.
“Shush your mouth and get out of here,” Mrs. Loos snapped. Her eyes rolled toward the room where they had left Henry. “Get out,” said Mrs. Loos, “and hold your tongue. Do you want him to hear and to spoil everything?”
Henry had seen and heard enough to throw a great light on his activities.
Catnip!
Then it was catnip tea that had been served to Matthew Stuyvesant for breakfast. The shortsighted Gertie had confused the caddy containing tea with the tin containing that contraband.