The seventh shot A detective story
What became apparent now, however, was that the trapdoor had served
other ends than that of legitimate café service. What could be easier
than to inveigle a man into the room and get rid of him through the
cellar door? As for the disposal of the body, that, too, was quaintly
provided for and covered by Ferrati’s business. Every morning, just
at dawn, the restaurant garbage was carted away. It was not difficult
to carry other and more ghastly things away at the same time; and the
road is lonely at that hour. A couple of discreet henchmen could quite
easily drop something over the cliffs in the direction of the river.
But, after all, this was a secondary matter for the moment.
The great thing was that they knew now who had fired the seventh shot.
It only remained to find out how it had been done, for even after Kitty
had admitted it, the thing seemed impossible from the facts which they
had securely established.
She did not in the least mind telling them about it. She told her story
with simplicity and directness. In her curious, calculating little head
there was not the slightest trace of regret or remorse for what she
had done. Barrison, watching her, remembered his talk with Wrenn, and
seemed to descry in the daughter the same strange bias he had noted in
the father; the same profound selfishness, the same complete absence
of conscience where her own wrongdoing was concerned. It also appeared
clear that only one person had ever sincerely touched the heart of
either of them, and that was the man who was dead.
There was one thing that Kitty did truly grieve for, and that was
Mortimer’s death. Whether it was because she had loved him, or because
in losing him, she had lost the chance of marrying and so squaring her
somewhat twisted and clouded past, would never be known to any one but
herself. That she did grieve, however odd it might appear, was certain.
The detectives exchanged glances of wonder as they realized how simple
the case had been from the very first, once given the clew. As for the
clew itself, Barrison had had it once, but had lost it. It was, as
he had at one time suspected, that red evening coat. It had left the
theater exactly when it was supposed to have left; only—it was not
Kitty who had worn it!
It was the morning after the episode at Ferrati’s, and Lowry was
holding an informal inquiry. None of them who were present would ever
forget it—nor the enchanting picture which the self-confessed murderess
presented as she sat there with a poise that her situation could not
impair, looking exquisite in the swathing black which she wore for the
man whom she had herself killed!
Inspector Lowry was, for once in his life, totally at a loss,
absolutely nonplused. To Barrison, and the other men who knew him
well, his blank amazement in the face of the phenomenon represented by
Kitty Legaye was, to say the least of it, entertaining.
At last he remarked, still staring at her as though hypnotized: “It is
a most remarkable case! Miss Legaye, if you feel the loss of this man
so deeply—and I am convinced that you do, in spite of the paradox it
presents—why, if you don’t mind, did you shoot him?”
She flashed him a scornful glance. “Shoot him!” she repeated
vehemently. “You surely don’t suppose for one moment that I meant to
shoot him?”
“But——” the inspector was beginning.
“Shoot _him_!” she rushed on, with a different emphasis. “Of course I
didn’t! It is the sorrow of my life that it turned out in that horrible
manner. No; it was that Merivale woman whom I meant to shoot! He was
making love to her, and I couldn’t stand it! I aimed at her, but—but—I
suppose he was closer to her than I thought, and—it happened!”
She bit her lips and clenched her small hands. They could all see that
it was only with the greatest difficulty and by the most tremendous
effort that she was able to control the frenzy of her rage and despair
over that fatal mischance.
“At that, I hadn’t planned to kill even her,” she went on, after
a moment or two. “Not then, at any rate. But when the opportunity
came, sent straight from heaven as it seemed,” said this astounding,
moralless woman most earnestly, “I simply could not help it.”
“Suppose you tell us what actually happened.”
“Why not, now? What I told him”—she looked at Jim Barrison—“was all
quite true up to the point where I stopped at Alan’s door and heard my
sister’s voice. The rest, of course, was different. What I really did
then was to wait, listening to the struggle and quarrel inside until I
could make out that my—my father was succeeding in separating them. The
door opened and Marita almost staggered out, with her waist all torn
and her hair half down. She looked dreadful, and I was so afraid some
one would see her.
“At the same second I saw the pistol lying just inside the door. Alan
said: ‘Shut that door!’ Neither he nor my father had seen me. I bent
down quickly and, reaching in, picked up the pistol. The next second my
father had shut the door very quietly and quickly, for no lights were
to be shown in the theater.
“I still had no real intention of using the thing that night. I just
picked it up, acting on an impulse. Besides, I didn’t think that my
sister was in any state to handle it then; so I kept it, and did not
give it to her. Then I pulled off my evening coat and made Marita put
it on.”
“One moment, with Inspector Lowry’s permission,” Barrison interrupted.
“All that must have taken time, Miss Legaye, and there were people all
around you. I myself was only a short distance away.”
“You were standing up stage,” she informed him tranquilly, “and the
stairway going to the second tier of dressing rooms masked Alan’s door
from where you were. As for the time, it took scarcely a minute; it
happened like lightning. Such things take time to tell about, but not
to do.”
“And in giving your sister your wrap, you were trying to shield
her, and were moved by sisterly affection?” suggested the inspector
sympathetically.
“Indeed I was not!” snapped Kitty resentfully. “I never had the least
affection for my sister! I was moved by the fear of a lot of talk and
scandal. I wanted to get her out of the theater, and out of my life
entirely, and the quickest way I could think of was to give her my
coat and send her home in my taxi.”
“Why did you not go with her?”
“Haven’t I told you I wanted to get rid of her? I didn’t think of
anything but that for a moment, and then—then something else came over
me, after she had gone.”
Her tone had changed. It was plain that she was no longer merely
narrating something; she was living it again. She was again stirred by
what had stirred her on that fateful night; no eloquence in the world
could have made her hearers so vividly see what she saw, nor so gravely
appreciate what she had felt, as the expression which she now wore—a
terrible, introspective expression, the look of one who lives the past
over again.
“Sybil Merivale was waiting for him at the top of the little flight
of steps, and—I had the pistol still in my hand. Even then I was not
perfectly determined on killing her. I hated her and I feared her, but
I had not planned anything yet. There was a dark scarf over my arm; I
slipped that over my head so that it shaded my face from any chance
light, and I slipped across the few feet of distance and stood just
below her, close by the steps.
“Then Alan came out of his room. There was no light, for he had had
them put out, of course, according to Dukane’s directions, for the dark
scene which was almost on. I stood so near that I could have touched
him as he went up two steps and stopped, and laughed under his breath
and spoke to her.”
Again she fought for self-control, and again she won it, though her
face looked older and harder when she began to speak once more.
“He was trying to make love to her, and she would have nothing to do
with him.”
“Didn’t that make you hate her less?” queried Lowry, being merely a man.
“It made me hate her more! She was throwing aside something which I
would have risked anything to get! I went mad for the moment. Then the
shots began, and it was pitch dark. I—I found myself lifting my hand
slowly, and pointing it. I knew just where she was standing. It seemed
to me I could scarcely miss. When I had heard what I thought was the
fifth shot, I fired. I suppose I was excited and confused, and counted
wrong. I meant my shot to come at the same time as the last shot; that
would have given me a longer time to get away. As it was, she screamed,
and I was sure I had hit her. And I was very glad!
“But I had no time to make sure. There was commotion and confusion, and
I had to get away. I did not dare to go out through the stage entrance
where there was a light. I knew my way to the communicating door, and I
took a chance that the lights would not go up until I was through it. I
brushed past the man who was supposed to guard it, in the dark, but I
suppose he was too excited to notice. I got through and ran down past
the boxes to the front of the house. People were already beginning to
come out, and there was a lot of confusion. I had my dark scarf over
my head, so I easily passed for one of the women in the audience who
had turned faint and wanted air. I walked quietly out of the lobby and
hailed a taxi. That’s all.”
“What did you do then?”
“I went home—to my hotel. I didn’t go in by the front way, but through
the side entrance, and slipped into my room without meeting any one. I
sent out for some chloral, for I knew I could not sleep without it, but
I would not let my maid see me, for she would have noticed that I was
without my coat.”
“And the coat?”
“Marita sent it back to me in the morning before Maria came to the
door. I put it on a chair by the window so that it would seem to have
been rained on that way. When the boy brought it, it was pouring
outside, and the wet had soaked through the paper wrapping.”
There was a short silence. The mystery was solved. It was curious to
think that this small, black-clad figure was the criminal. Yet—when
one looked deep into Kitty’s eyes, one might discern something of her
Mexican mother’s temperament and her time-serving father’s selfishness
which could explain her part in this tragedy.
“And did you still believe that it was Miss Merivale that you had
killed?” asked Inspector Lowry.
“Yes; I believed it until that man”—again indicating Jim—“came to me in
the morning and told me of Alan’s death. It was a frightful shock.”
“I should imagine that it might have been,” remarked the inspector
thoughtfully. “And when did you decide that it was—er—advisable—to get
rid of him?” pointing to Barrison.
“Yesterday afternoon, when he told me that you were bringing my sister
back, and that he was going to have an interview in a short time with
the boy who had done her errands. I knew then that he would soon learn
too much. It was that boy who brought me the red coat the morning after
Alan’s death, and I did not want him to talk.”
“But surely you did not think that investigations would stop just
because you had got Mr. Barrison out of the way?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t reason about it very clearly,” she said.
“I had been under a good deal of strain, you must remember. All I
thought of was that he was on my track, and that the sooner I put him
where he couldn’t harm me, the better for me. So far as any one else
was concerned, I suppose, if I thought of them at all, I thought that
it was worth a chance. I’ve got out of some pretty tight places before
now; I’m always inclined to hope till the last moment.”
“I am afraid, Miss Legaye,” said the inspector seriously, “that you
have come to that last moment now.”
She glanced at him, and she had never looked more charming. “Sure?” she