Rex Stout (6 page)

The woman was speaking to Mrs. Barth: “Oh, yes, we’ve been here a quarter of an hour or more—over at the other side of the crowd—I suppose you couldn’t see us. Extremely successful, really! I can see a headline:
Bargains in Beauty by Bernetta!
I shall certainly advise Beecher to take at least eight numbers—and I want Renée of Hollywood to see them—”

“That’s very nice of you.” Mrs. Barth looked pleased. “Ivy was saying to me yesterday, ‘No one is as important as Portia Tritt. If Portia Tritt likes them—’”

Portia Tritt laughed. “I’d love to think that, but I’m afraid Ivy exaggerates. I do know how to put a thing over, though, and it’s always a relief to find something that’s worth the trouble aside from the pay one gets for it. To be perfectly frank, I think Ivy owes a lot to those
Jean Farris fabrics.” She turned. “They’re the best you’ve done yet, Jean. They’ll certainly put you at the top if you’re not there already. That cashmere check in brick and blue with the repeats diminishing on both sides of the seam—good heavens! Stand up!”

Jean obediently stood up. Portia Tritt gazed. “Turn around. Ah, I see! Back to the other side—do you mind? Did Bernetta make it?”

“No, Krone.”

“Then you designed it. Probably you cut it yourself. I wish I had your hands. The way you swung that stripe across is almost
too
clever. You’re a subtle girl, Jean. And the stripe itself—what is it? I’ve never seen such a red. Look, Guy! Leo! That stripe. Did you ever see such a colour as that?”

Guy Carew’s black eyes surveyed the jacket, Jean’s face, and the face of Portia Tritt. He shook his head faintly and said nothing. Leo Kranz, omitting Jean’s face, said, “It’s remarkable. I had noticed it before you came.”

Mrs. Barth put in, “I’d like to know why that Indian stared at it and felt it and Miss Farris said he was correct. Correct about what?”

“It’s no mystery,” Jean said. “I use mostly modern yarn, of course, but I get old yarn from lots of places, anywhere I can. There are many old yarns that couldn’t possibly be duplicated to-day.” She touched the stripe. “This is genuine bayeta.”

“What’s that?”

“An old Spanish yarn. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries they made a red vegetable dye in Persia, and sold it to Spain. The Spaniards dyed yarn with it and made soldiers’ pants from the material they wove with the yarn. The soldiers wore the pants to America and had them on when they were fighting the Indians, and got killed. The Indians took the pants and unravelled
them, and used the yarn in weaving their finest blankets. The blankets are still called bayeta—those with some of that yarn in them—and most of the best ones are in museums. If you get hold of one that’s damaged, or a piece of one, of course you can unravel it again and use the yarn.”

“May I?” Mrs. Barth reached across to finger the stripe. “Do you mean to say that’s three hundred years old?”

“Two or three hundred.”

“And it holds that colour! And it was part of a soldier’s pants! And that—Mr. Wilson recognised it.” She looked at the old Indian with an interest slightly apprehensive. “It almost makes you feel he might have killed the soldier.”

Guy Carew smiled. “Wilson’s not quite that old, Mrs. Barth, and besides, he’s a Cherokee. Cherokees never got a crack at Spanish soldiers; that was in the South-west.”

“Then how did he recognise it?”

“Oh, I suppose—” Guy turned. “How did you recognise it, Wilson? From the museum blankets?”

“Me?” The Indian grunted. “Go hell with it. Too many words.”

Portia Tritt inquired, “But Jean, where on earth did you get the yarn?”

“Oh …” Jean faintly flushed, and fluttered a hand. Then she met Portia Tritt’s eye and said abruptly, “Mr. Carew gave it to me.”

“I see.” Portia Tritt’s brows went up. “Generous of you, Guy.” She smiled at Jean. “Would you mind having a twin? Have you any more of it?”

“Not an ounce.”

Leo Kranz observed, “Of course that sort of thing isn’t in trade, not really. It’s too rare, even for Fifty-seventh
Street. And speaking of trade—if the rest of you don’t mind—could you come to the gallery to-morrow, Portia? I think I know a new channel for some Lamois publicity….”

The group began to disintegrate. Leo Kranz and Portia Tritt drew aside. Guy Carew got into conversation with Buysse and the Indian. Jean Farris was carried off toward the gaily coloured tent by two women with pencils and pads in their hands. Mrs. Barth started briskly in the direction of the main crowd, probably to learn at first-hand from Ivy how things were going; but before she reached the fringe she was halted by the sound of her husband’s voice calling her name. She turned and waited for him to come up.

“It occurred to me, Laura—” Mr. Barth glanced around; there was no one in hearing distance of a low-pitched voice. “I understand some of these people are staying to dinner.”

His wife responded quickly to the irritation in his tone and on his face. “Yes, and you promised to be here. Good lord, it’s only once a year, and only a couple of hours—”

“I know, I know. I can stand it. Who will be here?”

“Oh, that Desher woman from the
Times,
and two from
Harvey’s Bazaar,
and that man from London, and—Miss Graham has the list. Portia Tritt. Apparently she brought Guy Carew with her, so I can ask him if you think I should—”

“By all means.”

“All right, I’ll ask him. I’ve told Grimm dinner at nine, on the terrace, informal of course, since they’ll just stay on and brought nothing with them. Oh, yes, I asked Jean Farris. And I suppose I might as well include Mr. Kranz; that might be amusing when you consider Portia Tritt.”

Her husband nodded. “I’m glad you can be amused. I wanted to suggest that you invite that fellow Buysse and the Indian.”

Mrs. Barth stared. “Good heavens, why?”

“Because I suggest it.” He glanced around again. “I’ve told you, haven’t I, that Val Carew’s death didn’t remove my difficulties? It merely forces me to deal with the son and heir instead. You saw how he greeted those two. I think it might make a good impression on him if we have them at the dinner table. Little things like that make a big difference sometimes.”

“Well.” Mrs. Barth sighed. “This fashion bunch may be peculiar in some respects, but at least they’re not Indians. I might as well start a circus.”

“Nonsense.” He was crisp. “Will you ask them?”

“Yes.”

“So they’ll accept?”

“Yes. You don’t need to pour acid on me.” She frowned. “Look here, Mel, is this thing no better? Is it as bad as ever?” She suddenly raised her voice: “I had no idea there would be so many—no, indeed, Miss Desher, you’re not interrupting at all—I believe you’ve met my husband—”

Guy Carew was saying to Amory Buysse, “I’m aware that I have no right to give you orders, but I asked you not to. Didn’t I? And I find you here asking God knows what. If you thought that peach seed meant anything, you should have turned it over to the police. Didn’t I tell you that?”

“Sure you did.” Buysse slowly shook his head. “No, Guy, I don’t believe it would do any good no matter what you turned over to the police. In a general sort of way you can give me orders because you’re your father’s son, but on a trail you don’t know it’s better to give me my
head. I’ve seen more badger holes than you have. Hell, you’re just a kid.”

“My God, I’m thirty-one years old. I’m not letting any one feed me rabbit stew. I’ve dealt with Indian agents and concession hounds and cattlemen who don’t like any fences except their own—and anyway, he was my father.”

The old Indian, his head tilted back a little to peer at the taller men from under the brim of his Panama, grunted. “That girl,” he said. “What did she feed you? You’re not a kid. You’re a man.”

“She didn’t feed me anything. What do you mean, Wilson?”

The Indian grunted again. “You saw me feel it.”

“I know I did. What do you know about it?”

“Me? Nothing.”

“The devil—” Guy Carew shrugged. “I can’t get it out of you here. But I will.” He shifted to Buysse. “And you too. I’m damn tired of all this silent paddle stuff. Of course you know the police are following all of us everywhere we go. I’ll see you to-night, you and Wilson both….”

Buysse and the Indian, both motionless, stood and listened.

   Leo Kranz, toward the end of his conversation with Portia Tritt, employed a phrase nearly identical with one Guy had used to Buysse. He said, “I can’t finish it here. I think Ella Desher is headed for you now. But it won’t do, Portia.” His voice was tense, his eyes level into hers. “I tell you it won’t do.”

“I don’t say it will.” Her smile proclaimed no amusement. “But who says it won’t?”

“I do. I’ve been patient; I always am. No one knows
that better than you. But your bringing him here today—under all the circumstances—”

“My dear Leo!” She laughed with light assurance. “I told you long ago I won’t stand for a bridle, let alone spurs. And you know very well I have never given you the slightest—Oh, hello, Ella! No, really, I was just telling Mr. Kranz that I hoped you wouldn’t be completely overwhelmed—”

It was after eight o’clock when Jean Farris finally escaped from the admiring clutches of a pair of persistent ladies who wanted to write her up for a magazine still in the period of gestation which was to be called
The Covered Woman.
They were the last of the cocktail guests to go. The dinner guests were scattered around the grounds, or in the house; on that portion of the lawn Jean was alone except for two men in white jackets who were stacking folding chairs in piles and raking up rubbish. She stood with her back pressed against the trunk of a maple tree, with her arms up for her hands to clasp on top of her head, and her eyes closed. She felt tired and not at all gay, and was wishing that she had either drunk more cocktails or had refused the two she had taken.

“Oh, there you are!”

Jean gave a little start and opened her eyes. She didn’t feel like smiling at the man who was striding towards her, so she didn’t try to.

She said, “You walk differently, you really do. As if your toes had more to do with it—but still not exactly like the Indians I’ve seen in New Mexico.”

“Well, I’m not from New Mexico.” Guy Carew stood and looked down at her. “You look different too, the way you were standing against that tree. Who were you posing for?”

She shook her head. “I was just resting. A tree does
rest me that way. Maybe I’m a half-breed dryad. What are you wandering around for?”

“I was looking for you.”

“Here I am.”

“So I see.” He came a step closer. “I want to ask you something. As you observed the other day, I don’t know how to use finesse. I’m too direct, but I can’t help it. Will you give me that—those things you’re wearing? That skirt and jacket?”

“Give you—” She stared. “You mean
give
them to you?”

“Yes. I can’t say lend, because I don’t know … You can imagine how I hate to ask you, but that’s what I mean. Give them to me. And I can’t explain, at least not satisfactorily. I can only say that something has happened which makes it very desirable that I have them.”

Jean looked at him. Finally, she said quietly, “I begin to understand why some people are called Indian givers. I had always supposed it was slander.”

“It is. It’s a detestable phrase. If I could only—”

Jean’s sudden burst of laughter stopped him. “Excuse me,” she cried, “but it’s funny! Very funny! Less than an hour ago Mr. Barth hunted me up to tell me that his wife was crazy about it and he would like to buy it for her—of course, he said, knowing its history, he would expect to pay a stiff price for it, but he would expect me to authenticate the bayeta yarn—and now you want me to give it back to you—” Jean laughed again. Then she sobered, and continued in a tone of great friendliness, “It shows you have good judgment, anyway. Portia Tritt would look very nice in it.”

“Portia! Good lord—wait a minute!”

But Jean, who could move swiftly on occasion, kept going. She tossed back over her shoulder, “She would look nice in it, but she can’t have it!”

She was twenty paces off when Guy, moving more swiftly still, overtook her, gripped her arm, and stopped her. She whirled to face him, and there was bite in her voice:

“Mr. Carew! Really!”

He released her arm, and stood. She moved again, off across the lawn—hearing his footsteps after her again—no, that was something else—he wasn’t coming—yes, he was—no—

No.

She went on, came to a gravelled drive and crossed it, detoured around a bank of rhododendrons ten feet high, and went on again. There was no sound of pursuit. She became aware that she was passing the cutting garden, where the year previously she had been taken by Ivy-Bernetta to gather gladioli. She left it behind. There was another stretch of lawn, or rather mowed meadow grass, and finally a thicket for mixed shrubbery beyond which she caught a glimpse of the fence which bounded the estate. Practical considerations arose. She might be able to climb the fence, but didn’t care to. Her car was parked far away, in the space on the other side of the house. There was no point in racing around the boundary of the grounds. She chose a grassy spot beside a luxuriant shrub with dark-green leaves, lay down flat on her back, and closed her eyes.

She was furious; she had made a howling fool of herself. It was no mitigation that she could list the contributing causes; still she listed them. First chronologically, her moderately unpleasant surprise at the appearance of Guy Carew as the escort of Portia Tritt. Second, his stoical inattention to the presence of herself and what she was wearing. Third, the unfortunate coincidence that in the dressing tent she had heard two women discussing with gusto the affair which, according to gossip, had
taken place some eight years previously, with Guy Carew and Portia Tritt as the principals. Fourth, the fact that when she had heard his voice as she stood against the tree, her heart had jumped. At that very moment she had been deciding that nothing could be sillier than her imagining she wanted a husband—and then merely at the sound of his voice her heart had jumped.

She opened her eyes, looked for five minutes past the shrubbery’s edge at the sky growing dim for the evening, and closed them again. It was incredible that she had said that to him about Portia Tritt. Even if her intention to have him for a husband had been anything more than a joke, even if she had been half-way serious about it on account of some crazy impulse, it remained the sort of thing that Jean Farris would never stoop to. Even if she should again some time decide that he had desirable qualities as a—well, as a companion—which was of course out of the question and worth thinking of only as pure hypothesis—even so, she would never care to be with him again after making that exhibition of herself.