“Charles—they—she—stop her!” She reeled backward and Craige, awakening from his stupor, flung Mouchette toward Kitty and reached forward to catch Mrs. Parsons as she swayed dangerously near the edge of her chair.
The Angora cat, roused suddenly from her sleep, missed Kitty by the fraction of an inch and alighted in Mrs. Parsons’ lap. As the terrified woman attempted to throw her down, the cat sank her claws into her bare arm, tearing the delicate flesh with gash after gash.
The men sprang to Mrs. Parsons’ aid, but too late. Her screams gave place to a gurgling cry and she sank back a dead weight. Mitchell, kneeling by her side, stared at her convulsed features in horror as his hand went to her wrist.
“By God! She’s dead!” he gasped in awe. His glance traveled downward. “Look—look at the cat!” His shaking finger pointed to where Mouchette sat licking first one paw and then the other. A streak of blood was flowing from where she had gashed herself in her fury. Suddenly they saw the cat stiffen, throw back her head convulsively, roll over and lie still.
A clicking sound caused Inspector Mitchell to whirl around in time to see a pair of handcuffs dangling from Charles Craige’s wrists.
“What—what?” he gasped.
“Charles Craige—murderer of Miss Susan Baird,” explained Rodgers. “Don’t move,” and a revolver rested dangerously near Craige’s heart. “Open your hand.” The command was accompanied by a threatening movement of the revolver.
Slowly, very slowly Craige did as he was told. A small rubber bulb syringe dropped to the floor.
“Don’t touch it,” Rodgers cried sharply, as Mitchell bent down. “It is filled with the poison which Craige sprayed on the cat’s paw—and thus killed Cecelia Parsons, his fiancée.”