Rex Stout (18 page)

“Because that meant your father wouldn’t marry Miss Tritt?”

“Yes. Of course no Cherokee is a sun worshipper today, but I know the old chants. I lay on the bed again, but didn’t go to sleep. At seven I got up and bathed and dressed. There was a knock on the door and I said come in and it was Portia Tritt. She was pale and trembling. She said my father was lying on the floor of the tomb, dead.”

“How did she know that?”

“She had seen him. She had got up early and gone for a walk—I suppose she was as anxious about the sunshine as I was—and had looked inside the tomb enclosure, and had seen Wilson lying there unconscious, bound and gagged. Then she had seen that the tomb door was partly open, and had gone and looked in. She saw a body on the floor, and had entered and found it was my father.”

“And went straight to your room?”

“No. I asked her about that later. She couldn’t have, if she saw Wilson still bound and unconscious. She said she had been badly frightened and shocked, and I suppose she was. She said she left the enclosure at the far end, the north, and went round about to the north wing of the house, where she had left the door unlocked. She sat in her room thinking about it, and she decided that I had killed my father to keep him from marrying her. Then she decided to come to my room and see how I acted and have a talk with me. So she came.”

“She actually told you all that?”

“Yes. Not all at once. It came out gradually. I saw a good deal of her after that morning.”

“Yeah, I know you did. Does she still think you killed your father?”

“I don’t know. I’m no good at telling what a woman thinks. She had been there only a few minutes when Wilson came. You know what happened then. Later a state policeman, Captain Goss, was asking us about our movements. It happened that I was present when he was questioning Miss Tritt. I was astonished when I heard her tell him that she was in my room with me from two o’clock until the time Wilson arrived, but my face doesn’t show astonishment much. I was too bewildered to tell Captain Goss at that moment that she was lying. Then I considered it. I decided she had done it to conceal something important, perhaps even a knowledge of who the murderer was, and I thought it gave me a hold on her. I didn’t realise that it gave her a hold on me. I knew that I as well as the others would be suspected by the police, and I figured her story would remove suspicion from me and leave me unhampered in my own efforts to learn the truth. I suppose it did work that way, but it hasn’t helped me any to be unhampered; at least, I haven’t accomplished anything. I’ve kept it to myself. I haven’t even told my lawyer. Now it comes out like this.”

“So it does.” Cramer spoke slowly. “Is it out now? All of it?”

“It is. You asked me a while ago if I would sign a statement. I will. I’ll dictate it myself, or you can—”

“No, thanks.” Cramer compressed his lips and sat silently regarding him. Finally he heaved a sigh. “I’ll tell you, Mr. Carew. If I’m going to charge a man with a crime, there’s no law in this state that compels me to
warn him not to incriminate himself. It’s often done, but that’s just courtesy; in most cases we don’t bother. But naturally, you’re in a special category. You’re a millionaire, and you’re going to have lawyers who can toss oak leaves through a window screen. You’ve already got Sam Orlik. So I’m much obliged, but I don’t want any signed statements, to give Orlik an excuse to start yelling about duress. The next questions you answer will be asked by the district attorney.”

He pushed a button on his desk. Jean stared at him, then at Guy, and Guy nodded at her grimly. She demanded, “But, Guy—what does he mean—he can’t—”

Guy said, “All right, Jean. Don’t worry. I’m glad that damned thing is out of my system. I want to say—in case I don’t get another chance for a while—how grand you were to stick it out all night—just because you promised me. Of course I would have done as much for you, and more, because I love you, but you did it just because you had promised. That was pretty damn swell—”

The door had opened and Sergeant Burke was in the room. Cramer beckoned him to the desk.

“Is the commissioner in the building?”

“Yes, sir. He came a few minutes ago.”

“Good. Phone him I’ll be right up. Then phone the district attorney and tell him to come at once to the commissioner’s office, urgent. Have you had a report from Portia Tritt’s shadow this morning?”

“Yes, sir. She hadn’t left home at ten o’clock.”

“Okay. Send a man to bring her down here immediately. Better send Stebbins. I hope he gets her before she’s off on a week-end—anyhow, get her no matter where she is. Leave a man in here with Miss Farris and see that she does no phoning. As soon as Portia Tritt arrives, turn Miss Farris loose and put her in a taxi. Keep Mr. Carew—”

Jean burst out, “I don’t want a taxi! I’m going to stay—”

“Don’t be foolish, Miss Farris. You’re going home—at least, you’re going out of this building—Keep Mr. Carew in McConnell’s room, with two men. Search him, if he doesn’t object. If he objects, watch him. He can make one phone call, to his lawyer, Sam Orlik. Nothing else. If Orlik shows up—or rather when he shows up—don’t let him see Mr. Carew until you get word from me or the commissioner or the district attorney. You’d better get Mr. Carew out of here first—All right, Mr. Carew?”

Guy stood up. Jean stood too, and went close to him, faced him. Her voice was steady: “Guy … is this the way it goes? Is there nothing to do? Simply nothing?”

He shook his head. “Thanks, Jean. Not a damn thing. It’ll come—it’ll work out.”

“I know it will.” She put out her hand. “Shake.”

Cramer demanded gruffly, “Well, Burke?”

A
t half-past eleven Eileen Delaney, haggard as to countenance and lamentably untidy as to apparel, was sitting at her desk in her office, talking on the telephone in a harsh but energetic voice.

“What do you mean, argument on the motion at two o’clock? Argument with who, the judge? Then what? When does he decide? To-morrow or next day! That’s impossible! I’m telling you, Mr. Raleigh—for God’s sake, let me alone! That wasn’t for you, someone’s here pulling at me. I’m telling you, if she has to wait until to-morrow or next day, my opinion of justice and everything connected with it, including lawyers—wait a minute, hold the wire, I’m having my clothes pulled off—”

The tugging at her sleeve, by the chunky woman from the ante-room, did indeed seem purposeful. Miss Delaney turned to glare at her: “Can’t you wait till I’m through?”

Cora said, “Miss Farris is back! She’s here!”

“What? She’s what?”

“She’s here! She just came back! She’s—”

Miss Delaney dropped the telephone, leaped from her chair, almost trampled Cora, and rushed from the room. Through another room, another door, into Jean ’s chamber.
Jean was there at the big table, perched on her stool, her head down, buried in her crossed forearms. Miss Delaney stopped short ten feet away and made a noise in her throat.

Jean raised her head. “Oh. Hallo, Eileen. I’m late to work again.”

“Well, hallo.” Miss Delaney snorted. “You look like flotsam and jetsam. What in the name of God—”

“Please.” Jean put up a hand. “Don’t ask me any questions of any kind whatever. I never want to hear another question as long as I live. But I want to ask you one—right now, and get it over with. When a detective came here yesterday and asked you for a piece of yarn and you got it out of my file—”

“It wasn’t a detective! It was a newspaper—”

“No. It was a detective. Investigating the Carew murder. That piece of yarn you kindly gave him has put Guy Carew in jail. Did they come for the rest of it this morning, and the scraps? I was too tired to look—anyhow, it doesn’t matter now. The place doesn’t seem to be messed up much.”

“Yes, they came. They got it.” Miss Delaney stood regarding, in mingled concern and disapproval, her partner’s pallid face. “I didn’t understand it, from the newspaper, and I don’t understand it now. So that man was a detective. He said his name was Parker and he wanted it for publicity in the
Town and Country Register.
The clever, dirty, double-crossing, slimy crocodile.”

“All right. You couldn’t help it.” Jean wearily brushed back her hair. “They didn’t search here this morning, did they? Did they go through my desk?”

“No. They were here when I came, and they had a warrant, so I gave them the scraps and the rest of the yarn.” Miss Delaney moved to the table. “Look here, Jean. If I’m responsible for all this, I’m perfectly willing
to crawl off and die. I feel like a worm. What’s Guy Carew in jail for? Murder?”

Jean nodded.

“Well. Can I do anything?”

“Nothing. Thanks, Eileen. Except you’ll need a lot of patience. I’m afraid I won’t be much good around here for a while.”

Miss Delaney snorted. “Nor anywhere else. At least not to-day. Look at you! You ought to be in bed. Listen … Jean? Under the circumstances … I withdraw the remarks I made that day before yesterday about Guy Carew. I’ve never seen him, and it would suit me all right if he went to Alaska and lived in a tent … but I’m for you twenty-four hours a day. So if there is anything I can do …”

“No, thanks. If there is, I’ll let you know. You might tell Cora I don’t want any phone calls and I don’t want to see anybody.”

“I will.” Miss Delaney turned abruptly and left the room.

Jean let her head fall on to her arms again. Her head was no good; it was like a choked shuttle; it wouldn’t work. What she ought to do was go to bed and sleep for twelve hours, but she wouldn’t. It was an inexpressible relief to rest her head on her arms like this. What was it he had said just as that policeman came in the room? “Of course I would have done as much for you, and more, because I love you …” Surely that was direct enough. It would be impossible to say it more directly and positively than that. Then what he had said to the inspector: “You guessed I’m in love with Miss Farris. I am.” That was direct too, but it was more like a cold statement of any fact, just any kind of a fact. The other was better … it was more … it was better … “Of course I would have done as much for you, and more, because I
love you … because I love you … because I love you …”

She jerked her head up, jerked herself erect, blinking. So! That was how far gone she was! Putting herself to sleep by letting those words sound in her ears, inside her head, over and over again! That would be a big help, wouldn’t it? But there was something she had wanted to do that might be a help—what the dickens was it—of course! She climbed down from the stool, went to the bowl in the corner alcove, and with a washcloth gave her face and neck a good dousing in cold water. After a vigorous rub she went to her desk and took some papers from the centre drawer. Thank goodness Eileen hadn’t made them search for the yarn and scraps! She sat down, unfolded the papers, and read the one on top:

It was written in pencil, in neat tight characters, and was reasonably legible. She re-read it, frowned at it a while, and went on to the next.

That one was in letters half an inch high, crooked and sprawling. Jean thumbed through the others and pulled one from the middle:

Jean put that one off to the right, by itself, and found the one signed by Portia Tritt. It agreed with Guy’s. Next she read Buysse’s, and found that it corroborated Wilson’s. There was one, surprisingly, from Mrs. Barth; it recounted trips from guests to kitchen to butler to terrace, which obviously left no opportunity for crowding in assault and robbery at a distant spot in the grounds. She took up the last one:

Jean frowned at that one, and read it over before placing it with the others. As near as she could see, the papers were very little help. She hadn’t needed evidence to prove that Guy Carew had not knocked her on the head. As for the others, either Kranz or Barth might be suspected, and of course it was quite possible that although Buysse and Wilson had been together, they had not been sitting under a tree. And the cold water on her face and neck hadn’t helped her head any; she simply didn’t have the energy to hold it up and think both at the same time; but she must think; her arms were folded on the desk and her head went down to them….

Something had hold of her shoulder, and a voice was irritatingly and persistently repeating her name. “Jean! Jean! Jean, wake up!”

She struggled, and was erect. “What—Oh, Eileen. What—good Lord! I went—what time is it?”

“One o’clock. Ten after. There’s a man here—I tried to chase him, and couldn’t. His name is Orlik. Guy Carew’s lawyer.”