Rex Stout (21 page)

“I’ll bet you were. I’d hate to tell you, Miss Tritt, what I think it would take to shock you. And I’m warning you, if you don’t give me everything straight this time, you
will
be shocked. Why did you tell the police
you had been in Guy’s room from two o’clock on? When did you think that up?”

“I didn’t think it up. It just … I knew, of course, that he would be suspected, and I knew he couldn’t be guilty, and I thought it would save him embarrassment, even misery—”

“Isn’t it true that you and Guy thought it up together? That you concocted it in his room?”

“No! We didn’t!”

“Isn’t it true that he admitted his guilt and you agreed to shield him—”

“No. Why should he admit guilt? He wasn’t guilty.”

“Isn’t it true that you made a bargain with him that if he would marry you, you would provide him with an alibi to safeguard him from a charge of murder?”

That, or something like it, went on for four hours.

The end, which came a little after seven o’clock, was not an end in the sense that it arrived at a goal; it was more like the end of a quarter in a football game, a recess to stave off mutual exhaustion. Cramer was hoarse, for something in the personality of Portia Tritt made it impossible for him to keep his voice down; and she was clenching her fists to keep herself half-way under control, for she was disarmed, at his mercy, and dared no offence. But essentially she surrendered nothing. All Cramer had on her, at the finish, was that she had lied about her movements on the fatal night, and he had had that when they began.

But he let her go. He had said he would; and besides, there was no good reason to keep her. When she got to her feet she was trembling, but soon had herself composed; and a few minutes later, down on the street, she appeared quite natural and her voice was quite steady as she gave a taxi driver the address of Nyasset House.

M
elville Barth’s frosty eyes glittered with annoyance. He demanded irritably of his wife, “How the devil could I? He’s in jail charged with murder. Hutchings & Osborn want blood. The brokers say they’re out of it, they’re only bookkeepers. The final settlement must be by Tuesday noon, and I can’t settle. For God’s sake quit asking me about it, it only aggravates me. And this idiotic business—these people downstairs—why did you agree to it?”

“Haven’t I told you?” Mrs. Barth sighed. “She said it would be a favour to Guy Carew. And after all, Mel, it was in our house, at least on our grounds, that she was beaten unconscious and had her clothes stolen and had to walk to our door and ring the bell in her underwear. If that happened to me anywhere—at Mabel Clement’s place, for instance—” Mrs. Barth shivered. “Anyhow, I told her I’d do it, and they’re all waiting downstairs and you’re supposed to be there. Another thing, I thought if I didn’t humour her there’s no telling how much trouble she could make—I had enough of it with those three detectives this morning, all over the place and asking questions and poking around, climbing the fence and falling into the shrubbery—”

“Very well. It can’t be helped. I’ll be down shortly.”

“No, now. That’s why I came up again. It’s a quarter to nine, and Miss Farris says she wants to be there with us at exactly the same time as it happened, which I admit seems silly, maybe the knock on the head did really affect her brain—”

“A lot of damned female nonsense,” Barth growled; but he put on a coat and followed his wife downstairs.

Two minutes later a procession of six people left the house and took the circling path to the right, towards the farther driveway. Jean Farris and Mrs. Barth were in the lead; behind them was Leo Kranz and then Barth; and Amory Buysse and Woodrow Wilson were in the rear. Buysse was dressed approximately as he had been on Thursday, but Wilson wore his overalls with blue shirt and red tie, and no hat. They followed the others across the gravelled drive, and another broad expanse of clipped lawn, along the edge of the cutting garden with outbuildings at one end, and through a wide stretch of meadow grass. From there the boundary fence of the estate could be seen, almost completely concealed by a riot of shrubbery. The goal, apparently, was ten yards short of it, for there Jean stopped, brushing the edge of a dense thicket of birch saplings.

Mrs. Barth nodded. “This is the place, all right. See, Mel, how they trampled those clumps of violets? No, over there. They told me they found it by looking for the spot where Miss Farris had lain down—right there, they showed me when I came to look—of course it’s nearly dark now and you can’t see it very well—and they thought they found where he went to the wall, probably to throw the clothes over it—only they didn’t find any sign on the outside, but of course it’s all stones there and there wouldn’t be any footprints if he did come back
later to get them—is that right, Miss Farris, is this it? I suppose it is, since you brought us here.”

Jean nodded. “I know it by that bush, the one with berries.” Her heart was pumping. The dusk was thickening fast, and she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to see well enough; and even if she could have seen better, her elaborate scheme seemed fantastic and even silly, now that the moment had come to try it. It would all depend on one swift instant, one fraction of a second, and while the theory was all right, the successful application of it by her looked hopeless….

Buysse and Wilson, who had first stopped ten feet off, had moved up in the gathering twilight to take a look at the spot Mrs. Barth had indicated. Leo Kranz asked, “Which way were you lying? Where was your head?”

Melville Barth observed icily, “I believe, Miss Farris, you wanted us here for some sort of experiment?”

“Yes,” Jean said. “I had some sort of an idea, when I phoned Mrs. Barth, that we might do some investigating together, but I didn’t know then that detectives had been all over it. Anyway, it’s getting dark. But there’s one thing I’d like to try—first, I want to show all of you exactly where I was lying.” She moved. “My head was right here. Come closer, Mr. Wilson, if you don’t mind, I want the opinion of all of you—you too, Mr. Buysse. My head was there, and I was on my back with my eyes closed, and—I don’t believe I’ve mentioned this before—I heard a noise—”

Everybody jumped. Not at Jean’s words, but at a shrill earsplitting note that shattered the air. Jean, not of course herself startled, had her eyes strained to watch them. She had spent hours thinking about this moment, and had reached conclusions about it, but it happened so swiftly and her faculties were all so concentrated in her eyesight that she didn’t immediately realise that her
conclusions had been completely justified. It happened precisely as she had calculated: when that piercing note sounded, five heads had turned with a jerk and five pairs of eyes had sought to penetrate the surrounding gathering gloom; but then, almost immediately, one of the pairs of eyes, and only one, had turned swiftly to look at her and she had met them; and he stood so close to her that even through the dusk she could see the change when the eyes realised what they were doing. They turned from her again.

There was movement among the others. Mrs. Barth was exclaiming, “My God, it scared me to death! But we were talking—I never heard of a whip-poor-will—good heavens, what have you got there?”

That was for Buysse, who had acted. He had dashed into the thicket of birch at their elbows, there had been the sound of a brief scramble, and now he emerged dragging something. They all stared. Jean muttered weakly, “Oh, please, please—” but no one heard her. They were staring at Buysse’s catch as he dragged it closer and stood it up, grasping its collar. Leo Kranz stepped closer to take a look. Mrs. Barth cried, “But what—what—”

Barth demanded coldly, “Who the devil are you and what were you doing there?”

The man gulped, with Buysse still gripping his collar. He was at least a foot shorter than Buysse, with a little black moustache, big ears, and his eyes popping out. He gulped again. Barth demanded, “Well?”

Jean saw there was no way out of it. She moved over beside him: “Let go of him, Mr. Buysse. It’s all right, he’s—he’s a friend of mine. May I—Mrs. Barth, this is Mr. Tamber. Mr. Roy Tamber. I brought him with me when I came.”

“You brought him—Miss Farris, this is ridiculous—”

Tamber found his voice: “I didn’t expect—I didn’t know—”

“All right, Mr. Tamber, I’m sorry. I’ll pay you double.” Jean was trembling with excitement; she couldn’t help it. “I may as well explain, because it’s all over anyway. I said I wanted to try an experiment, and I did. I brought Mr. Tamber with me and smuggled him in here. He makes noises for the Federal Broadcasting Company, and I wanted him to be a whip-poor-will, because a whip-poor-will sang close to me Thursday evening, just before someone struck me. I wanted—”

Barth put in impatiently, “Absolute insanity. I don’t want people smuggled into my grounds—”

“Of course you don’t, Mr. Barth. I didn’t want to be knocked unconscious in your grounds, either, and I wanted to find out who did it. I assure you I’m not insane, and one proof of it is that I did find out who struck me.”

“My dear child—”

“Yes, Mrs. Barth, I did. I know now, absolutely and conclusively, which one of you came from behind those bushes Thursday evening and hit me on the head and took my clothes. I can’t prove it, not yet. But there must be a way to prove it, and I’ll find it somehow. I want to thank you, Mrs. Barth, for giving me the chance to do this. Come on, Mr. Tamber, I’ll smuggle you out again.”

She moved. Tamber, who had been released, moved after her.

“But, Miss Farris, you must explain—”

“I think the rest of us have a right—”

But Jean, with Mr. Tamber trotting after her, was gone into the dusk.

As, in Jean’s roadster, they rolled along the curving secondary road leading to Portchester, Mr. Tamber cleared his throat and finally found his voice. “Of
course—” There was a squeak, and he cleared his throat again and started over. “Of course I knew there might be some danger involved in it. I agreed to it, really, for the adventure. I didn’t mention it to you, but you must have known I had read all about you in the morning paper. Quite an unusual name, Jean Farris.”

Jean, driving, muttered assent. Her mind, to put it mildly, was occupied. Mr. Tamber went on, “I’ve been an artist now nearly twenty years, and this is the first time my work has been directly connected with a murder. It was an adventure, all right, but I wouldn’t care to repeat it. That fellow would make a good weight lifter in a circus. What did you say his name was? Miss Farris?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That fellow that hauled me out. What’s his name?”

“Buysse.”

“Oh, yes. Odd name. As I say, I knew it was connected with a murder, and I like adventure, always have, but I wouldn’t have agreed to do it if I hadn’t needed the money. I’ve followed the Carew case pretty close. It was a treat to see that Indian, a real treat. Most of the folks I talk with think the Indian did it, but when I saw the paper this evening and saw they had arrested Guy Carew, I said to myself, well, they’ve got the right one at last, but it certainly took them long enough….”

He went on talking, as they rolled into Portchester, turned right on the Post Road, and continued south. Jean was aware that now and then he turned to look behind them, but there was no interruption to his verbal flow. The lights of a thousand cars flashed by, and a thousand thoughts flashed along the avenues of her mind, but it was impossible to shut her ears completely to his voice, or even to his words. Finally, and abruptly, she told him:

“I’ve just remembered that I have to make a stop
this side of Larchmont, to call on somebody, and I don’t know how long it will take. It might be hours. Do you mind if I drop you off at the Rye railroad station? There’s sure to be a train before long.”

Mr. Tamber said that would suit him fine. And that reminded him that for years he had been universally conceded to be the best imitator of a train whistle in the country….

They rolled into the Rye station plaza, circled a parked truck, and came to a stop. Jean offered a good-bye, together with an expression of gratitude for his performance and regret for its unfortunate sequel. But Mr. Tamber made no move to open his door; and Jean suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, my Lord, I forgot, I haven’t paid you! Will it be all right if I mail you a cheque?”

“Well … a cheque would do.” He sounded doubtful. “The fact is, I could use the cash.”

“Oh.” Jean hastily got into her bag and explored. “I said I would pay you double, but I don’t believe I have that much … here’s thirty dollars, will that do? I’ll send you a cheque for the balance.”

“This is quite all right.” Mr. Tamber took the twenty and two fives and made their edges flush and neatly folded them. “I assure you this is adequate.” He flung the door open and climbed out. “Good-bye, Miss Farris, good-bye, and thank you.” He had backed off a step, but now he came close again, stuck his head in the window, and said in a tone low and hurried but carefully clear, “You ought to know that that car stopped under a tree at the far end, New York TZ9205, has been following us ever since we left.” Then he whirled and trotted off, and was on the station portico before Jean realised what he had said; and before she could act on the impulse to call to him, he had disappeared inside.

She stared at the station door which had closed behind
him, minded to go after him. But she had had enough of Mr. Tamber for the evening, and besides, in his devotion to adventure he had probably been imagining things. She peered the length of the plaza and saw that there was a car parked under a tree with its dim lights on, but at that distance she could make out neither its licence number nor its occupant. She shrugged, engaged the clutch, rolled out of the plaza, and headed back for the Post Road.

By the time she was two miles south of Rye, some five or six minutes later, she was wishing that she had done differently—at least, that on leaving the plaza she had circled close enough to make out the licence number—for it appeared certain she was indeed being followed. The southbound traffic at that hour, ten o’clock Saturday night, was thin; thrice she had slowed down to twenty-five and then suddenly accelerated to fifty, keeping watch in the mirror, and there was unquestionably a car behind which neither overtook her when she slackened nor lost much ground when she speeded up. Her feeling was not so much alarm or even curiosity as it was indignation; whoever it might be, it was a damned impertinence. The indignation got hotter in her breast; she pressed the pedal until the speedometer showed sixty, and kept it there for a mile, until the follower had had time to get into the pace, and then suddenly stepped on the brake, hugged the curb, and came to a quick stop.