The Thing in the Trunk by Paul Ernst

Somehow or other, the cat was the worst feature of this whole thing.

Now that it was all over, the stark motionlessness of that which only a little while before had been a living woman did not trouble him so much. But that damned cat!

“Get out !” he rasped. “Scat!”

The cat slunk back, eyes slitted warily, but did not leave the room.

It was a standard living-room in a standard small bungalow. An overstuffed chair stood in a corner with a floor-lamp beside it. Opposite the chair, along one wall, was a divan to match.

A gate-legged table stood between the front windows-the blinds of which were very carefully drawn. More furniture, decorous, showing modest prosperity, was piled along the walls, leaving the center of the room clear.

The rugs had been rolled back from the center of the room. In their place was a large, waterproof blanket. On the blanket was the body.

George Opper ducked his head to wipe perspiration from his face onto the sleeve of his shirt. He was a big man, a bit too heavy, with a face that was normally florid. It was very pale, now.