VII
When Mr. Snyder arrived at the Excelsior and shortly after he was shown
into the little private sitting room where he found Oakes, the third
guest of the evening unexpectedly arrived.
Mr. Snyder looked curiously at the newcomer. Captain Muller had a
peculiar fascination for him. It was not Mr. Snyder's habit to trust
overmuch to appearances. But he could not help admitting that there was
something about this man's aspect which brought Mrs. Pickett's charges
out of the realm of the fantastic into that of the possible. There was
something odd--an unnatural aspect of gloom--about the man. He bore
himself like one carrying a heavy burden. His eyes were dull, his face
haggard. The next moment the detective was reproaching himself with
allowing his imagination to run away with his calmer judgment.
The door opened, and Mrs. Pickett came in. She made no apology for her
lateness.
To Mr. Snyder one of the most remarkable points about the dinner was
the peculiar metamorphosis of Mrs. Pickett from the brooding silent
woman he had known to the gracious and considerate hostess.
Oakes appeared also to be overcome with surprise, so much so that he
was unable to keep his astonishment to himself. He had come prepared to
endure a dull evening absorbed in grim silence, and he found himself
instead opposite a bottle of champagne of a brand and year which
commanded his utmost respect. What was even more incredible, his
hostess had transformed herself into a pleasant old lady whose only aim
seemed to be to make him feel at home.
Beside each of the guests' plates was a neat paper parcel. Oakes picked
his up, and stared at it in wonderment. "Why, this is more than a party
souvenir, Mrs. Pickett," he said. "It's the kind of mechanical marvel
I've always wanted to have on my desk."
"I'm glad you like it, Mr. Oakes," Mrs. Pickett said, smiling. "You
must not think of me simply as a tired old woman whom age has
completely defeated. I am an ambitious hostess. When I give these
little parties, I like to make them a success. I want each of you to
remember this dinner."
"I'm sure I will."
Mrs. Pickett smiled again. "I think you all will. You, Mr. Snyder." She
paused. "And you, Captain Muller."
To Mr. Snyder there was so much meaning in her voice as she said this
that he was amazed that it conveyed no warning to Muller. Captain
Muller, however, was already drinking heavily. He looked up when
addressed and uttered a sound which might have been taken for an
expression of polite acquiescence. Then he filled his glass again.
Mr. Snyder's parcel revealed a watch-charm fashioned in the shape of a
tiny, candid-eye camera. "That," said Mrs. Pickett, "is a compliment to
your profession." She leaned toward the captain. "Mr. Snyder is a
detective, Captain Muller."
He looked up. It seemed to Mr. Snyder that a look of fear lit up his
heavy eyes for an instant. It came and went, if indeed it came at all,
so swiftly that he could not be certain.
"So?" said Captain Muller. He spoke quite evenly, with just the amount
of interest which such an announcement would naturally produce.
"Now for yours, Captain," said Oakes. "I guess it's something special.
It's twice the size of mine, anyway."
It may have been something in the old woman's expression as she watched
Captain Muller slowly tearing the paper that sent a thrill of
excitement through Mr. Snyder. Something seemed to warn him of the
approach of a psychological moment. He bent forward eagerly.
There was a strangled gasp, a thump, and onto the table from the
captain's hands there fell a little harmonica. There was no mistaking
the look on Muller's face now. His cheeks were like wax, and his eyes,
so dull till then, blazed with a panic and horror which he could not
repress. The glasses on the table rocked as he clutched at the cloth.
Mrs. Pickett spoke. "Why, Captain Muller, has it upset you? I thought
that, as his best friend, the man who shared his room, you would value
a memento of Captain Gunner. How fond you must have been of him for the
sight of his harmonica to be such a shock."
The captain did not speak. He was staring fascinated at the thing on
the table. Mrs. Pickett turned to Mr. Snyder. Her eyes, as they met
his, held him entranced.
"Mr. Snyder, as a detective, you will be interested in a curious and
very tragic affair which happened in this house a few days ago. One of
my boarders, Captain Gunner, was found dead in his room. It was the
room which he shared with Captain Muller. I am very proud of the
reputation of my house, Mr. Snyder, and it was a blow to me that this
should have happened. I applied to an agency for a detective, and they
sent me a stupid boy, with nothing to recommend him except his belief
in himself. He said that Captain Gunner had died by accident, killed by
a snake which had come out of a crate of bananas. I knew better. I knew
that Captain Gunner had been murdered. Are you listening, Captain
Muller? This will interest you, as you were such a friend of his."
The captain did not answer. He was staring straight before him, as if
he saw something invisible in eyes forever closed in death.
"Yesterday we found the body of a dog. It had been killed, as Captain
Gunner had been, by the poison of a snake. The boy from the agency said
that this was conclusive. He said that the snake had escaped from the
room after killing Captain Gunner and had in turn killed the dog. I
knew that to be impossible, for, if there had been a snake in that room
it could not have made its escape."
Her eyes flashed, and became remorselessly accusing. "It was not a
snake that killed Captain Gunner. It was a cat. Captain Gunner had a
friend who hated him. One day, in opening a crate of bananas, this
friend found a snake. He killed it, and extracted the poison. He knew
Captain Gunner's habits. He knew that he played a harmonica. This man
also had a cat. He knew that cats hated the sound of a harmonica. He
had often seen this particular cat fly at Captain Gunner and scratch
him when he played. He took the cat and covered its claws with the
poison. And then he left it in the room with Captain Gunner. He knew
what would happen."
Oakes and Mr. Snyder were on their feet. Captain Muller had not moved.
He sat there, his fingers gripping the cloth. Mrs. Pickett rose and
went to a closet. She unlocked the door. "Kitty!" she called. "Kitty!
Kitty!"
A black cat ran swiftly out into the room. With a clatter and a crash
of crockery and a ringing of glass the table heaved, rocked and
overturned as Muller staggered to his feet. He threw up his hands as if
to ward something off. A choking cry came from his lips. "Gott! Gott!"
Mrs. Pickett's voice rang through the room, cold and biting: "Captain
Muller, you murdered Captain Gunner!"
The captain shuddered. Then mechanically he replied: "Gott! Yes, I
killed him."
"You heard, Mr. Snyder," said Mrs. Pickett. "He has confessed before
witnesses. Take him away."
Muller allowed himself to be moved toward the door. His arm in Mr.
Snyder's grip felt limp. Mrs. Pickett stopped and took something from
the debris on the floor. She rose, holding the harmonica.
"You are forgetting your souvenir, Captain Muller," she said.
