Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 01 (12 page)

“Yes, at Port Jefferson. And saw a headline—good gracious, what’s that?”

They all jerked around, startled; and as they jerked, it was over. A noise at one of the open windows, a face leering at them, a man’s arm thrust within the room, the hand clutching something that flashed and glittered like a reflection from polished glass—and then the explosion and the blinding glare. Miranda stifled a scream. Luke bounded towards the window. Tecumseh Fox laughed. Derwin shouted at the trooper in fury, “Go out and catch him! Put a man out there! By God, news photographers climbing up the sides of the building like monkeys! Or maybe the fire department lent him a ladder!”

“You’re nervous,” said Fox sympathetically. “You jumped three feet—”

“Oh, I am? I’m nervous, am I?”

“You are and I don’t blame you. You’re going to get a universal horse laugh because you were busy investigating a murder and the murdered man walks into your office. Think how much happier you’d be if you hadn’t got me sore yesterday. Where’s the man I’m working for, Andrew Grant? This frees him doesn’t it?”

“He’s free already. He’s out on bond.” Derwin circled his desk, seated himself, surveyed the group of faces and settled his regard on the perturbed visage of Ridley Thorpe. His jaw muscles twitched; he controlled it. “Mr. Thorpe,” he said, “you are a man of large affairs, of nation-wide—uh—renown. I don’t need to say that I have full respect for your position, your—elevated position. Your sudden appearance here has created an unprecedented situation—as you
yourself said, a fantastic mess, but you cannot be held accountable for that. In engaging a man to impersonate you at your bungalow, and yourself seeking privacy and diversion elsewhere as you saw fit, certainly you committed no wrong. I want you to understand that I take full cognizance of your rights and of your eminence in the community. But though I am glad—I am delighted—that you are alive and unharmed, the fact remains that a man has been murdered in the county under my jurisdiction, and as it stands now, I don’t even know the man’s name.”

Thorpe was frowning. “His name was Corey Arnold.”

“Who was he?”

“He was an architect.” Thorpe glanced at the stenographer who had been shorthanding his statement. “You’d better take this down. I investigated Arnold thoroughly when I engaged him three years ago. He was fifty-eight, two years older than me. Born in Zanesville, Ohio. Graduate of Stevens. Father and mother dead. Two brothers, one a druggist in Columbus, Ohio, the other an insurance man in San Francisco. No sisters. Married in Boston in 1909; wife died in 1932. One daughter, married and living in Atlanta; no sons. He lived in a boardinghouse at 643 Archer Street, Brooklyn, when I found him; I paid him well, and for two years he has been living in an apartment at 406 East 38th Street, Manhattan. I got him by advertising for a man to sit for a bust of Gladstone; my skull and facial structure bear a strong resemblance to Gladstone’s. Apparently he was a pretty good architect, but he had had one little job in two years and he needed the money. He was down in weight when I found him, but after a month of proper diet my clothes fitted him almost perfectly. He smoked cigarettes but
changed to cigars when impersonating me, drank moderately, was sober-minded, read a great deal of biography and American history—do you want any more?”

“That will do for the moment, thank you.” Derwin screwed up his lips. “What did he do when he wasn’t impersonating you?”

“Enjoyed himself. As I say, I paid him well. He gave me a report each week detailing his activities—naturally I wanted to keep tabs on him. Music and plays in the winter, golf in the summer—”

“Thank you.” Derwin screwed up his lips again. “You see, of course, the first knot in this tangle to be untied. If not the first one, at least a vital one. The person who fired a gun through the window of that bungalow Sunday night—who did he think he was shooting at, Ridley Thorpe or Corey Arnold?”

Thorpe stared. “Why, he thought it was me.”

“I hope so. In that case we have the enormous advantage of being able to consult with the man who was murdered. You realize, Mr. Thorpe, that what I am concerned with, as the district attorney of this county, is the murder. Though naturally you regret the tragic fate of Corey Arnold, with you, and possibly with everyone in this room except me, other aspects of this sensational affair may be paramount—since the victim was only an unsuccessful architect hired by you as a stand-in—but I am chiefly, and in fact exclusively, concerned with the murder. I want to find the guilty man and bring him to justice.”

“Good gracious, so do I.”

“Of course you do. I appreciate—excuse me.” He reached for the phone to answer it. It was a long conversation, his part consisting mostly of grunts, and during it there was talk among the others in low
tones. It was continuing after Derwin hung up, but he stopped it:

“Please! I was saying, what I want is the murderer. That’s my job. I want to question your valet,

Luke Wheer—”

“So do I,” Thorpe declared. “I read a paper on the way over here and that’s all I know about it. What in the name of heaven—what happened, Luke?”

“No,” Derwin snapped. “I’ll do the questioning, Mr. Thorpe.” He fastened his eyes on the colored man. “Where were you when the shots were fired?”

L
uke sat, stiff and erect, on a chair back of his employer’s shoulder making faint sucking noises with his tongue and teeth.

“Move your chair over,” said Derwin irritably, “so I can see you better. Where were you when the shots were fired?”

Luke lifted himself an inch, moved his chair six inches, and went on making the noises.

“Are you dumb?” Derwin demanded.

Luke shook his head. “No, sir,” he said in a low but firm tone. “I am not dumb in the vocal sense. I am being careful what I say because I realize the preponderance—”

“Oh, spill it, Luke,” Jeffrey blurted.

“Yes, Mr. Jeffrey. At the time the shots were fired I was in my room writing a letter to the editor of the Harlem
Courier.”

Derwin nodded. “I’ve read it. You left it there. Your room is the one at the right of the kitchen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you do when you heard the shots? How many did you hear?”

“I heard two shots, almost simultaneously consecutive.
At first I thought they were shots, then I thought they were a part of the radio program which was turned up very loud, but after an interval of three or four minutes, according to my judgment, I became dissatisfied with that thought and went to look through the door into the living room. The sight that met my eyes was the worst I have ever seen. I ran over to him and saw it was the end. My blood ran cold. The psychology—”

“What did you do?”

“Yes, sir. My blood ran cold. On account of psychology, I was imbued with the impression that Mr. Thorpe, for whom I have worked more than twenty years, had been murdered. That impression was because I had strictly trained myself for three years to speak of him and think of him as Mr. Thorpe when he was there in the bungalow. Then I realized it was not Mr. Thorpe, it was him. Then I realized the only thing to do was obey my orders to never cause or permit any suspicion that he was not Mr. Thorpe. Then I realized that if I did that the news would get out that Mr. Thorpe was dead, and that would be inconvenient because he was dead. Not knowing where Mr. Thorpe was, I thought the only thing I could do was telephone Mr. Kester, but then I thought that would be bad because everything that happened in that bungalow was going to be taken into consideration. So I realized I couldn’t use the telephone and I couldn’t conveniently be there when anybody came if they had heard the shots, and I went out and got the car and drove away.”

“Did you see a car parked on the road outside the gate?”

“Yes, sir. That increased my desire to get away. My rear fender hooked it as I swung into the road and
I would have run over a woman if she hadn’t jumped, because I didn’t see her until I was right on her. I have been worried about her, provided she wasn’t the murderer, because I have never struck a living creature—”

“She’s all right. Where did you go?”

“I turned west before I got to Mount Kisco and then went on through Millwood to Chappaqua. I stopped the car there and sat in it a while, thinking it over, and then went in a drugstore and telephoned Mr. Kester at the Green Meadow Club. He had just been notified by the police and was up dressing. I drove to Pine’s Bridge and he met me there, and we had a talk and decided to find Mr. Thorpe. First we decided to try—”

“Let’s go back to the bungalow. You were in your room when the shots were fired?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see anyone, hear anyone, hear any noise?”

“No, sir, the radio was on so loud—”

“Had anyone called to see Arnold during the weekend?”

“No, sir, no one was ever let in. The gate to the drive was kept locked. Not anyone for deliveries even—I brought everything from Mount Kisco.”

“Had there been a phone call for Arnold?”

“No, sir, there couldn’t be. When he was there he was Mr. Thorpe. We never forgot that for a second, neither of us. If the phone rang I answered it. It was never anybody but Mr. Kester with instructions.”

“Had Mr. Kester phoned this weekend?”

“No, sir. Usually he only phoned to tell us when to leave because Mr. Thorpe was returning to his home or his office.”

“What had you and Arnold been fighting about?” Luke blinked. “Me? Fighting with him?”

“That’s what I said. What was it about?”

Ridley Thorpe snapped, “Bosh! If you’re cooking up a theory that Luke—”

“I’m not cooking up a theory,” Derwin snapped back. “God knows there are plenty of theories without trying to cook one up. Would you like to hear a few of them?”

“I’d like to hear all there are. I want this thing cleared up.”

“So do I.” Derwin met his gaze. “I’ll state some of them briefly and bluntly. One. Luke Wheer had a quarrel with Arnold and killed him. Two. Vaughn Kester, knowing it was Arnold and not you, killed him for financial profit—No, let me finish, Mr. Thorpe wants to hear them. Three. Andrew Grant, thinking it was you, killed him for revenge or some other undisclosed motive. Four. Nancy Grant, thinking it was you, killed him for revenge or some other undisclosed motive. Five. Jeffrey Thorpe, thinking it was you, killed him to inherit a fortune. Six. Miranda Pemberton, thinking it was you, killed him to inherit a fortune. Seven. You yourself, knowing it was Arnold, killed him for financial profit. Eight. Some enemy of Arnold’s knowing he was there, killed him. Nine. Some enemy of yours, thinking it was you, killed him. That’s all. At this moment they’re all possible. I can ignore none of them.”

“You might explain a couple of them, though,” Vaughn Kester said dryly. “How would Mr. Thorpe or I have profited financially by killing Arnold?”

Derwin looked at the secretary’s pale cold eyes. “I can answer that, Mr. Kester, by repeating a piece of information I got on the telephone a little while ago.
Over a hundred thousand shares of Thorpe Control were sold on the exchange yesterday and today, at prices ranging from 29 to 40. If they were sold, somebody bought them. With Mr. Thorpe alive and well, it will jump back around 80 tomorrow. Whoever bought them will have a nice profit.”

Ridley Thorpe inquired quietly, “Are you daring to intimate—”

“I’m not intimating anything. You asked for the theories. I hardly need to say that such an accusation against a man of your standing would not be remotely considered without conclusive evidence and I have no evidence at all. Until an hour ago—two hours ago—I thought you were dead. But that theory applies to Mr. Kester as well as you. The theory which formerly applied to him—”

“May I ask what that was?” Kester sneered.

“For the record, if you want it. It no longer applies, since you knew the man in the bungalow was not Thorpe. It was simply that investigation had disclosed that you aspired to marry Thorpe’s daughter and if she inherited millions—the theory embraced the possibility of a conspiracy—”

“Also the possibility that I hired him to do it, or Jeffrey and I both did while we were dining with him Sunday evening,” said Miranda calmly. “For shame, Mr. Derwin! That’s plain nasty.”

“He asked for it, Mrs. Pemberton. You often find nasty things back of a murder.”

“You will permit me,” said Kester icily, “a comment on your statement that I aspire to marry Mr. Thorpe’s daughter. It is true that at one time—”

Derwin cut him off. “It’s no longer relevant. I would like to say that most of the theories I proposed are at present no better than moonshine. Obviously
those applying to the Grants, both uncle and niece—”

“More moonshine,” Ridley Thorpe said impatiently. “All that stuff in the paper—just because he happened to go there—”

“Don’t you know them, Mr. Thorpe?”

“No. Not from Adam. Apparently the man works for an advertising agency that does copy for some of my companies—”

“Have you never met either of them?”

“Never.”

“That’s curious.” Derwin pulled open a drawer of his desk. “Would you mind telling me how this happened to be in a drawer of a cabinet in your dressing room in your New York residence?”

Thorpe took the photograph of Nancy Grant, gave it one sharp glance, let a near-by hand, which happened to be that of Tecumseh Fox, take it from him and arose. He put his fists on the desk and leaned on them, towards the district attorney.

“Do you mean to say—” he demanded in a voice trembling with outraged indignation, “are you telling me that men have ransacked my private apartments in my private residence?” He thumped the desk. “That you have actually had the effrontery—”

“But my God, we thought you were murdered!”

“I wasn’t! I’m not! If anything, anything whatever has been removed from my belongings, I want it returned at once! You understand that? Where’s that picture? What did I do with it?”

“I have it,” said Fox.

“Keep it!” He pointed a finger at the drawer. “What else have you got in there that belongs to me?”

“Nothing. That was taken because—really,
Mr. Thorpe, this is ridiculous. We were investigating a murder. We still are. This is childish—”