Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 01 (10 page)

“Don’t get started again, Jeff. Come, we’re late.” Miranda nodded to the others and turned to the room. “I believe Mr. Derwin is expecting us?”

A man said yes, he was waiting for them, and got up to open the inner door. Collins and his clients departed.

Derwin arose to greet the visitors, saw them disposed in the chairs recently vacated by the Grants and sat down again.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “It was next to impossible to get away from here to see you. I appreciate it very much—”

“Oh no, please,” said Miranda. “It would be shabby of us not to remove difficulties for you if we can. Not that I would lift my finger for—well, for vengeance—and I’m sure my brother wouldn’t either. But after all, we’re his offspring, his family, and we inherit his wealth—”

“Of course,” Derwin agreed. “Anyhow, I appreciate it. Colonel Brissenden wanted to be here, but he’s busy on another angle of it in New York and couldn’t get away. You must excuse me if I’m blunt and frank. Apropos of a new theory that is being considered. I want to ask some questions. You first, Mrs. Pemberton. Yesterday you suggested the possibility that
your father used the bungalow for the purpose of—uh—female companionship.”

“I did more than suggest it as a possibility. I said you’d find it to be a fact.”

“Just so. I’d like to know, if you don’t mind, on what information—on what grounds you based that statement.”

“I told you.” Miranda frowned. “On my knowledge of my father. I knew him better than he thought I did. Better than any one else, I’m pretty sure, except possibly Luke. It wasn’t like him to seek solitary secluded weekends with his valet. And as I said, he was by no means as austere—”

She stopped because of a knock at the door. Derwin called come in and a man entered and approached the desk.

“Well?”

“I thought I’d better tell you, sir, though of course there’s nothing to it. The Chief of Police over at Port Jefferson, Long Island, just called up. He’s got a nut that claims he’s Ridley Thorpe.”

Derwin gestured irritably. “Why do you bother me about it? I have enough nuts to contend with as it is.”

“Yes, sir, I know, but he says that this one is absolutely a dead ringer for Thorpe and the way he talks, and he’s corroboration, a man that says his name is Henry Jordan—he says, this nut, he says he was out on the sound with his friend Jordan in his boat ever since Friday night and it wasn’t until they went ashore for supplies at Port Jefferson this afternoon that he heard about the murder—of course that’s goofy, hearing about his own murder—anyhow, the chief and a trooper are on the way here with him—”

“Bosh! I haven’t time—let Ben Cook see him.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man went. Derwin mopped his face and neck. “You see, Mrs. Pemberton, the kind of vexations that interrupt us constantly. You were giving me the reasons for that statement you made.”

“I have done so.”

“You had no other reason?”

“No.”

“It was only a surmise? You had no facts, no actual knowledge of—uh—a woman or women—”

Miranda shook her head. “No facts, but it was more than a surmise. It was a conclusion from premises.”

“A logical deduction. I see. It should gratify you to learn that a fact has turned up to support it.”

“I suppose it should. What is it?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment. First I’d like to ask your brother something.” The district attorney turned his regard to Jeffrey. “Mr. Thorpe, I want to say that I understand perfectly your reaction to Colonel Brissenden in this office yesterday. I even sympathize with it. The colonel’s manner is sometimes—uh—brusque. Nevertheless, the question that was asked you is an important one and I would greatly appreciate it if you would give me the information. I refer to the circumstances of your previous acquaintance with Nancy Grant. I may tell you that I have good reason to suspect—come in! Damn it! Excuse me, Mrs. Pemberton.”

The door burst open and the same man entered as before, but this time his eyes were shining with excitement.

“They’ve got Vaughn Kester and Luke Wheer!”

Apparently Derwin had heard that one before too, for he demanded dryly, “Who has?”

“No, they’ve really got ’em! A boat tied up to a dock at Southport and Tecumseh Fox went in the clubhouse to use a phone—”

“What!” Derwin goggled at him. “Fox?”

“Yes, he was with ’em! A cop happened to be on the dock and recognized Fox, and he got curious and thought he’d take a look in the boat while Fox was inside phoning and there were two guys that looked like the pictures of Kester and Wheer, and he pulled a gun and took ’em, and when Fox came out he took him too—”

“Where are they?”

“They’re on the way, they’ll be here in less than an hour.”

Derwin scowled. He picked up his handkerchief and mopped his face, and then scowled some more. “It sounds screwy to me,” he said finally, in slow bewilderment. “Tying up at a dock and leaving them there in plain sight—that doesn’t sound like Tecumseh Fox to me, not for one second.”

Miranda sighed. “Darn that Fox man anyway,” she muttered. “Refusing
three
invitations to dinner—”

“He’ll dine on the county tonight,” said Derwin grimly.

J
effrey Thorpe crossed one knee over the other and observed, “That’s a good example of it.”

“Of what?” The district attorney shifted the scowl to him.

“Of authority. The insolence of it. My father had it too; that’s why I only lasted in his office a couple of weeks when I was started in there to learn the tricks. Here you are saying Fox will dine on the county before you even see him. How do you know but what he found Luke and Kester hiding on a desert island, and was bringing them in to you?”

“I don’t, Mr. Thorpe. But I think I am justified in making the tentative assumption, since Fox had not communicated—”

“All right, forget it.” Jeffrey waved it away. “Anyhow, this ought to lift a lot of fog for you, since Luke was apparently right there when it happened. I might suggest that you don’t try to bully Luke. I got on to Luke when I was knee-high to him and wanted little favors. Get him sympathetic and you can have his shirt, but he won’t take bluster. Kester—do you know Kester?”

“No, I’ve never met him.”

“Well, there’s one that was made to order for an authoritative bird like you. You can twist him around your little finger—provided you limber him up first with a few good blows with a sledge hammer. How the devil he happens to be with Luke, or Luke with him—can you figure that one, Sis? How come?”

“I have no idea, Jiffy.”

“So have I.” He returned to authority. “You were telling me that you have good reason to suspect something.”

Derwin nodded. “Yes, Mr. Thorpe, I have. It appears, in the first place, that Grant’s niece was not as complete a stranger to your father as she pretends and secondly, that she has not told the truth regarding her movements at the bungalow Sunday evening. I assure you I am not exercising the insolence of authority; I am stating facts; or at least inferences weighted by a preponderance of likelihood. In view of that, in view of my earnest conviction that any and every detail of Nancy Grant’s previous contacts with any member of your family may be relevant to the murder of your father and should be disclosed to the author—uh—to those conducting the investigation, I strongly urge you to tell me—”

“About her previous contacts with this member of the family. Little Jeff.”

“Yes. I strongly advise—”

“I heard you.” Jeffrey uncrossed his knees and leaned forward. “Now here. You heard what my sister told you yesterday. Down in our hearts, taking it for granted that we’ve got hearts, I guess she and I are both a little bitter about our father. That is, we were. Not that he was cruel or anything romantic like that; he just didn’t fill the bill. To look at me now, sophisticated, blasé, hard-boiled, on speaking terms with the
headwaiter at Rusterman’s, you would never suppose that I once wept tears because Johnny Holcomb’s father—you see, by God, to this day I remember his name—spent a whole afternoon at the zoo with him, whereas my father not only wouldn’t take me to the zoo, he wouldn’t even take time to let me tell him what I saw when I was taken by the assistant governess, who had the teeth of a gnawing rodent, such as a beaver. Her name was Miss Jandorf.”

“Lefcourt,” said Miranda.

“No, damn it, it was Jandorf. Lefcourt took me to the aquarium—My sister was correct yesterday when she said that we have batted close to a thousand as orphans since our mother died. The murder of our father was deplorable and naturally it gave us a jolt, but to say it made our hearts heavy with grief—still taking it for granted that we’ve got hearts—that would be bunk. Nor are we out yelling for blood, because we don’t happen to be the vindictive type. In spite of which, I hope you catch the bird who did it and if I had any information that could possibly help you, I’d hand it over. I told you so yesterday morning. Which brings me to the point, namely, that if a million G-men investigated a million years they wouldn’t find any connection between my father’s death and my previous brief contact with Miss Grant. So it’s none of your business. Q.E.D. I knew I’d find a use for my geometry some day.”

Derwin dropped his damp handkerchief to the desk. “I think you should tell me about it anyway,” he insisted. “If it is completely irrelevant and innocuous—”

“I didn’t say it was innocuous, I said it had no connection with murder. It wasn’t innocuous. I made an ass of myself and earned her venomous hatred.”

“Ah! hatred—”

“No no, no like that.” Jeffrey waved it off again. “I mean the kind of hate that’s just the opposite on the other side. All you have to do is turn it over, like flipping a pancake, but it’s one hard trick.”

“You said venomous.”

“Cross it out.”

Derwin screwed up his lips. “Let me ask you this, Mr. Thorpe. Do you—no, I’ll put it this way. Is your attitude towards Miss Grant such that you would not want her to suffer the legal penalty for killing your father if she were guilty?”

Jeffrey stared a second, then snorted contemptuously. “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” he stated.

The district attorney pulled open a drawer of his desk, got out a large rectangle of pasteboard, glanced at it and handed it across. “Did you ever see that before?”

Jeffrey looked at it and Miranda stretched from her chair to look with him. It was a portrait photograph of Nancy Grant, her lips parted a little and her eyes laughing. At the lower right was an inscription in a round bold hand generous with space and ink: “I’ll never forget!” Beneath it was the signature, “Nancy Grant.”

“Is that for sale?” Jeffrey demanded.

“No. Did you ever see it before?”

“No.”

“Did you, Mrs. Pemberton?”

“No. Where did it come from?”

“It was found in a drawer in a cabinet in your father’s dressing-room in the New York residence.”

Miranda’s eyes widened. Jeffrey’s mouth fell open. He closed it, looked at the photograph again, glared at Derwin and stated, “That’s a goddam lie.”

“No, it isn’t, Mr. Thorpe.” Derwin met his glare. “Neither is this.” He opened the drawer again. “Here are two gloves. As you see, they are of yellow cotton, good quality, well-made, the kind that women wear in the summer. One of them was found on the grass back of a shrub twenty feet from the window through which Andrew Grant says he saw your father smoking a cigar and listening to the radio Sunday night. The other was found on the running board of the car which Nancy Grant parked near the gate when she drove her uncle there. We have found—”

Miranda exclaimed, “But these are both for the right hand!”

“That’s correct, Mrs. Pemberton. We have found no proof that they belong to Nancy Grant. They were bought, as the label shows, at Hartlespoon’s and they have sold several hundred dozen pairs of them this season. I do not pretend that the fact that she works at Hartlespoon’s has any important significance. But she was at the bungalow Sunday night and so far there is no reason to suspect that any other woman was anywhere near there. According to her story, she was never on that side of the bungalow where the window is; she went straight in at the terrace entrance upon her arrival. One of the gloves was found on the running board of the car she was driving. So while there is no proof, there is a strong presumption that the gloves are her property and that she dropped one of them outside that window where it was found; in which case, she is lying about her movements. She also says that prior to Sunday evening she had never met, or even seen, your father. Again, the photograph furnishes a strong presumption, if not proof, that she is lying.”

“Good heavens,” Miranda muttered.

Jeffrey stood up.

“Where are you going, Mr. Thorpe?”

“I’m going to find Miss Grant.”

“Take in the slack, Jeff dear,” Miranda advised. “She won’t speak to you.”

“But this bunch of crap—” He confronted her trembling with fury. “Do you realize that this poisonous cream puff is actually suggesting—”

“Perfectly.” Her tone was sharp. “I also realize that he actually wants to find out who murdered our father and I expect he will before it’s over, and if it turns out that it was the lovely Nancy—which I do not believe—you are in for a piece of hell. But it isn’t going to help any to double up your fists and call him names—”

Derwin interposed, his tone also sharp. “Thank you, Mrs. Pemberton. You’re right, that won’t help any. If you’ll sit down again, Mr. Thorpe, I have some more explaining to do. I told you about the photograph and the gloves for a specific purpose. I thought it possible that your reluctance to tell about your previous meeting with Nancy Grant was because she was in the company of your father and if I showed you that I already know—”

“You don’t know a damn thing! About her!”

“Well—I have grounds for inference. Was she with your father when you met her?”

“No!”

“Will you tell me about it—now?”

“No.”

Miranda put in, “What does she say about the photograph and the gloves?”

“I haven’t asked her about the photograph. It wasn’t found until this morning and by the time I got her here Nat Collins was present as her counsel, and
he was advising her to answer no questions except those pertaining to the events at the bungalow Sunday evening. Her denial that she had ever seen or met Ridley Thorpe is on record. Also her denial that the gloves are her property or that she had any knowledge of them.”