Rex Stout (25 page)

Silence, except for Jean’s breathing. The Indian muttered, barely audible, “Maybe good woman.”

Buysse said, “Sit down, Miss Farris. Sit down and cool off.”

Cramer stirred in his chair. At length he conceded, “Okay. As Buysse says, I’m a cop. I’ll string along with the Indian, maybe good woman.”

Jean was still glaring at him. “Do you believe me? Do you believe everything I’ve told you?”

“Now don’t shove. My capacity for believing people ain’t what it used to be. Let’s say you’ve made a point, I’ll agree to that. Sit down, and we’ll—what do you want, Wilson?”

The Indian had reached forward to tug at Jean’s sleeve. She turned to face him. He looked up at her:

“You say tell truth. All truth?”

“Yes, Wilson, all of it. Everything.”

He peered up at her, and she let her eyes meet him straight. At length he nodded as if satisfied, looked at the inspector and spoke:

“Okay. Damn fool maybe. In tomb I see Tsianina’s man on floor dead. I lift one eye more open, dead. I think he forget Tsianina, daughter of chief, he look at other woman, now dead. I happy to think, very happy. Then I think young one do good maybe. Then I think fact about Cherokee life. Old far life, gone. I happy to think. I get knife, real Cherokee knife, I scalp Tsianina’s man, first time I scalp, come off hard. I put scalp in belt of old Cherokee chief on wall. I go out, wash hands in dew, hide jacket, go to see young one.” He grunted. “Plenty truth.”

Buysse was looking at him disapprovingly, with compressed lips. Jean had backed off a step. Cramer gazed and said, “Well, by God.”

Wilson observed, an afterthought, “Knife plenty dull.”

Buysse muttered at him, “You damn old cuss.” He turned to Jean: “You win as far as I’m concerned. Kranz did it. I couldn’t swallow it before, because I simply couldn’t believe that he had taken that scalp. I know, he might have done it to throw suspicion on Guy or Wilson, but even so I couldn’t believe it. But by persuading Wilson to tell the truth you’ve fixed him. He committed a crime. They call it mutilating a corpse.”

Jean shivered. Cramer growled, “I’m not interested in mutilating a corpse.” He glared at Wilson. “Damn you, anyway, and your plenty truth!” He glared some more, in silence. Suddenly he arose, pulled a jack-knife from his pocket, opened the large blade, walked around the desk, and extended the knife in his hand.

“Here. You say you scalped Carew? Show me how you held the knife.”

Wilson grunted. “How you think? Teeth maybe?
Damn fool.” He took the knife and gripped its handle. “I hold him that way.”

“Yeah?” Cramer’s eyes narrowed. “And you scalped him, and put the scalp in the belt of that outfit on the wall, and threw the knife down—”

“Me?” The dry rattle was contemptuous. “Head full of rabbit soup? You think? Take doeskin moccasin, wipe fingerprints from knife. Put back moccasin, knife on floor.”

“How did you happen to think of fingerprints?”

“Movies.” Wilson shrugged. “See movies two days every week. Movies full of fingerprints. You know?”

Cramer looked disgusted. He took back his knife and snapped the blade shut, and returned to his chair. Jean, sitting again, jabbed at him, “I suppose I invented that too.”

Buysse observed, “That seems to settle the scalping. You thought an Indian scalped him. All right, an Indian did. But an Indian didn’t kill him.”

“So you say,” Cramer snapped. “You say Kranz did it. Huh? For what? He had been a close friend of Val Carew’s for fifteen years. So he murdered him for the lousy quarter of a million legacy he would get? No. Kranz is worth a million or more himself, and his affairs are in good shape.”

“It wasn’t that,” Jean blurted. “It was Portia Tritt.”

“What about her?”

“Carew was going to marry her.”

“Baloney. Kranz killed his old friend because he didn’t want to lose a good publicity agent?”

“Of course not. He killed him because—” Jean stopped short.

“Well? Because what?”

Jean shook her head. “I—I shouldn’t. Everything
else I’ve told you, I know, but I don’t know this. It’s only gossip.”

“Then I’ll take it for gossip. If you mean he was in love with her, her lover maybe, naturally we’ve thought of that but we haven’t got anywhere with it. Is that what you mean?”

She shook her head again, more firmly. “I won’t talk about it. I shouldn’t have said what I did, because I don’t really know it.”

“Suit yourself.” Cramer glanced at his watch. “I’m late. I’ll give you folks some good advice. You’ve cooked up a nice mess of hash, and the best thing you can do is go and dump it on Sam Orlik. He’s Guy Carew’s lawyer and he has a right to it. I was chiefly responsible for this charge against Guy Carew, and I still think he’s guilty, but I have no more desire—”

“You
can’t
think he’s guilty!”

“Pardon me, Miss Farris, but I sure can, and I do.” Cramer leaned towards her and extended an upturned palm. “Now look here. Use some common sense. You seem to have an idea that you came here this morning with evidence. Evidence of what? I mean evidence for a court and a jury, or even for a prosecutor. Nothing whatever. For the sake of argument, let’s say you’ve got me believing that Kranz killed Carew. You haven’t, but let’s say you have. Let’s say I’d like to go to District Attorney Anderson and tell him that I think I made a mistake and that Guy Carew is innocent and Kranz is guilty. Anderson asks me why. I tell him. First, the whip-poor-will stunt, for which we have only your word, and it can’t be corroborated. Second, that Kranz went to your apartment wearing gloves and said he wanted to have a talk with you. Third, that Wilson found the jacket under the hedge and hid it. Fourth, that it was Wilson who scalped Carew.”

Cramer spread out both hands. “Wouldn’t I make a hot impression with that? Anderson would have me committed for lunacy! And here, let me put it another way. Let’s say that Kranz is actually guilty, he really did kill Carew, and I’m convinced of it and want to prove it. I’m telling you straight, I wouldn’t know where to start. There’s not a shred of evidence against him. I’m not saying he couldn’t have done it. I’m only saying there’s nothing whatever to show that he did, whereas there are four damaging and conclusive proofs that Guy Carew did. I mean conclusive enough for a jury—”

“Back up a minute.” It was Buysse, wearing a scowl. “You say there’s no evidence against Kranz or any one but Guy. If I present you with a little scrap, will you follow it up? You personally?”

“I’ve already said, Mr. Buysse, it’s not my case—”

“I know, I heard you, and I heard Miss Farris’s reply, and I think it was a good one. I’m not offering anything to brag about, but it’s a fact I don’t think you know, and I think you ought to hear it. The reason I’d rather have you hear it than Orlik is because you’ve got official investigating power, and he hasn’t. Will you follow it up yourself?”

“I’ll tell you that when I hear it.”

Buysse tightened his lips. Then he opened them again: “All right. I wish to God there was some place to talk besides here. I brought a man down here with me. His name’s Richards, Val Carew’s valet. He’s outside. Have him brought in here.”

C
larence Richards was obviously scared. He sat on a chair which had been placed between Jean and Buysse, and gulped every few seconds, with his colourless eyes fastened on a corner of the inspector’s desk and his hands twisted together in his lap. Nor did he seem to be able to speak at the first invitation.

Cramer demanded impatiently, “Come on, Richards. Let’s hear it.”

He stammered, “I didn’t think—the police—”

Buysse was impatient too: “Didn’t I tell you the police can’t touch you unless there’s a complaint, and there won’t be any?”

“Yes, sir.” He gulped again. Then he looked at a button on the inspector’s vest and plunged: “I promised Mr. Buysse to tell you about the impression of the key Miss Tritt wanted me to get.”

“Okay.” Cramer’s eyes narrowed. “Shoot.”

“Well—” Another gulp. “It was in June, the last Saturday in June. Miss Tritt was at Lucky Hills for the week-end. She came to me—she said she supposed I would be putting out Mr. Carew’s clothes while he was in the bath, and I said yes. She said she supposed I knew that Mr. Carew carried the key to the tomb in a special
pocket on his belt and I said yes. She said she supposed his belt would be with me putting the clothes out and not in the bathroom and I said yes. Then she offered me a hundred dollars if I would make an impression of the key on some wax she had, and I said no. I was very much shocked.”

He glanced from right to left, but there was no vocal commiseration for his shock, so he assaulted the silence again: “That evening she came back to me. She offered me one thousand dollars. I said I would think it over. I didn’t promise, I just said I would think about it. I got to thinking about my radio. I had a radio in my room, an old seven-tube Hostetter, and a new Clarkson had just come out, the very finest in the market, and I had seen one and been permitted to try it during a visit to New York—its price was three hundred and fifteen dollars—”

Cramer grunted. “Did you take the impression of the key?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I did. Two of them.”

“With the wax Miss Tritt gave you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“Sunday morning, sir.”

“Did you give her the impressions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did she pay you the thousand dollars?”

“Yes, sir. Not all at that moment. She gave me two hundred, and the balance the following Wednesday.”

“What did she want to get into the tomb for?”

“I don’t know, sir. She said she would do no harm, that she only wanted to prepare a surprise for Mr. Carew, but it would be of such a nature that he would never know she had been there, and there was no chance of his discovering about my—my co-operation. I would
never have done it if I had thought there could be harm in it.”

“Sure you wouldn’t. Then what?”

“Nothing, sir. That was all.”

“Do you know how often she used her duplicate key or when she used it?”

“No, sir, I know nothing about it.” For the first time Richards’s eyes met those of the inspector. “But I repeat, sir, I believed her assurance that no harm would be done. She was very direct about it, very convincing. Do you know the lady, sir?”

“I’ve met her.”

“Yes, sir. As I say, that was the last week-end in June. So it was just nine days later that Mr. Carew was murdered in the tomb. I was very much shocked. I thought about it, I sat in my room thinking about it. It didn’t seem possible that Miss Tritt had done it, and anyway, the murderer hadn’t used a key to get into the tomb, because Mr. Carew was already in there. But I had had strong regard for Mr. Carew, he had been very good to me, and I felt very miserable about it. I decided I must tell someone. I thought perhaps I should tell the police, but I didn’t want to, and what I finally did, I went to Mr. Kranz and told him everything and asked his advice.”

“Why Mr. Kranz?”

“Well, he was Mr. Carew’s oldest friend. He had been there often, for years, and I thought—”

“Did he give you any advice?”

“Yes, sir. He remarked about the murderer not using a key, and said it would be very embarrassing for me to tell the police, which, of course, agreed with my view. He said he would consider it, and if it seemed necessary to inform the police he would do so himself and save me the embarrassment. He was very kind.”

“He sure was. Then what?”

“Nothing, sir. Nothing at all. I don’t know whether he told the police or not. I was never approached.”

“I approached you myself Friday morning. Day before yesterday.”

“Yes, sir, of course. I mean—”

“I know what you mean. If nothing else happened, why did you come here to-day?”

“But something did happen, sir. I came here because Mr. Buysse insisted on it. Yesterday afternoon, as soon as I learned that Mr. Guy Carew had been charged with murdering his father and put in jail, I was very miserable again. I began thinking again. It looked very uncertain whether I had gone to the right place for advice when I went to Mr. Kranz. I knew that at one time he had been extremely intimate with Miss Tritt, for once at Lucky Hills I had seen them clasped in each other’s arms, kissing and so on—”

“When was that?”

“Last summer, sir. Nearly a year ago.”

“Did you see that more than once?”

“No, sir. In a way, you might say, if you will pardon the freedom, once was quite enough.”

“Okay. And Guy Carew’s arrest got you thinking again?”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t know Mr. Guy very well, I had seen little of him, but when I heard he had been arrested I was very much shocked. I felt sure that Mr. Carew would not have wished his son to be suspected of killing him. I still could not believe that Miss Tritt had lent herself to murder, but after all the key she got was for that tomb, where the murder was. So I felt I should have more advice, and since Mr. Guy was in jail the only one left was Mr. Buysse. I tried to telephone him last evening from Lucky Hills, but there was no answer, so this
morning I came to town to see him. He was very kind, but he insisted I should come here.”

Richards hesitated, then went on, “There is one thing, sir, I should like your opinion on.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a bulky envelope. “I have six hundred and three dollars and fifty cents left of that money, after buying the radio and a few odds and ends. I brought it with me. What would be the ethical thing for me to do with it?”

“Stick it—” Cramer stopped himself. “Here, give it to me. You’ll get a receipt for it. It may be wanted as evidence. Did I hear you say that Mr. Buysse told you that the police can’t touch you?”

Buysse broke in, “You did. I wanted to get him down here. His offence was against Val Carew, and he’s dead. I undertook to guarantee that Guy will make no complaint.”

Cramer grunted. He sat a moment regarding Richards, and then asked him, “You never saw the key Miss Tritt had made from the impressions you gave her?”

“No, sir.”

“You have no idea whether she had it made or used it?”

“No, sir.”