Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 01 (8 page)

“One. He must be a friend of yours, or at least an
acquaintance on friendly terms. Two. He must be willing to lie, either for friendship or for money. Three. He must have a cool head and adequate intelligence and discretion. Four. He must accept your word that you want an alibi not to protect you from a charge of murder, but merely from the disclosure of certain non-criminal activities which you wish to keep secret. Five. He must have been alone, in some place where you might conceivably have been with him, either for pleasure or for profit, from Friday evening until the time we find him; or if not alone, with another person or persons who can meet the other requirements along with him.” Fox grunted. “That’s a minimum. Without that it would be foolish to try.”

Thorpe, sitting with his mouth open, muttered hopelessly: “Good gracious!”

W
hile the morning breeze danced in at the window and birds sang in the trees, they discussed it and sank more deeply into hopelessness. A dozen, three dozen, names were suggested: a man who was at his cabin in the Adirondacks, one whose hobby was an amateur research laboratory at his estate on the Hudson, one who fished a privately stocked stream somewhere north of Pawling, many others; but there were insuperable objections to each and all. Thorpe proposed that Fox should himself furnish a reliable man whose testimony could be bought, but that was only the blabber of despair; he agreed that it would be too risky. Finally, into a glum silence Luke Wheer blurted a name:

“Mistah Henry Jordan?”

Thorpe glowered at his valet. “What made you think of him?”

“Well, sir, I was running through my head persons who might be alone, and his name has been in and out all the time, because once I heard Miss Duke say he was away most of the time alone on his boat and once she sent me to take something to him, and he was away then on his boat—”

“Who is he?” Fox demanded.

“He’s a stubborn old fool. It’s out of the question.”

“A friend of Miss Duke’s?”

“He is Miss Duke’s father. Dorothy Duke is the name she used on the stage.”

“Oh. Do you—does his daughter support him?”

“No. He has a little income from capital—his savings. He’s a retired ship’s officer—purser. I have only met him once—no, twice.”

“As Ridley Thorpe or as George Byron?”

“He knows who I am.”

Fox frowned. “You said no one knew of that cottage except Luke and Kester.”

“Jordan wasn’t in my mind.”

“And I suppose he’s disaffected? You being the companion of his daughter’s weekends?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think he’s affected one way or the other. Miss Duke is not a child. Jordan doesn’t like me, but very few people like me. I called him a stubborn fool on account of his obstinate pride. He won’t accept presents from his daughter. A year ago she told me that the only thing in the world he wanted was a new boat of a certain design and I offered—through her—the necessary twenty thousand dollars to buy it, but he wouldn’t take it. Also I have given him some good market tips, but I doubt if he has profited by them.”

“Is it generally known that you have an aversion to water—as something to float in—and boats?”

“Certainly not. I like the water. I used to sail, years ago. Later I had a yacht.”

“So there would be nothing implausible about your enjoying a weekend cruise with your friend Jordan?”

“No.” Thorpe tasted vinegar. “But to ask that man—”

“He sounds good to me,” Fox declared. “Obviously he’s not a chiseler. He must be discreet, since your relations with his daughter have remained a secret. He can probably be persuaded to lie, if not for money, then to avoid unpleasant publicity for his daughter. He can’t suspect you of wanting an alibi for a murder, since his own daughter supports your real alibi. If he can meet the fifth requirement on my list, he’s better than good, he’s perfect.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Of course you don’t! If you’re going to sit here and wait for something you like—”

Vaughn Kester put it urgently: “He’s right, Chief. I could kick myself for not thinking of Jordan—”

“Quiet, Vaughn.” Thorpe swallowed the vinegar. “All right.” He looked at Fox. “I haven’t a blank check with me—”

“I’ll collect if I earn it.” Fox opened the door and stepped out. “But it’s my job and I’m in command. My instructions are to be followed without question and if they’re not I drop it. Understood? You too, Kester. Understood?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” Fox turned. “Dan!”

The vice-president emerged from the door of the convertible, trod the roadside grass and was there. Fox told him: “This is Ridley Thorpe, Vaughn Kester and Luke Wheer. You saw their pictures in the paper. We’re going to run their car into that wood lane out of sight and wait there. You drive home and get Bill, and then go to the Excelsior Market in Brewster and offer Sam Scott twenty dollars for the use of one of his closed delivery cars. He has two. He’ll let you have it. Drive it back here and have Bill follow you in the
convertible. Stop here, but don’t start blowing horns. I’ll see you.”

Dan turned.

“Wait. Tell Miss Grant to sit tight and do nothing, that I’m making progress and will soon have her uncle out. That will be enough. Don’t invite her to go to Brewster with you for an ice-cream soda.”

“Right.” Dan went.

That was the initial maneuvre of an extraordinarily complex and critical operation by land and sea, during which Fox had to contend with mutiny, bad luck and acts of God. The mutiny, or a threat of it, was recurrent; it first confronted him as, waiting in the shelter of the woods, he detailed the next step of the operation. Thorpe vetoed it. Fox stated bluntly that he would not proceed until he saw Miss Duke; he would not leave so unknown and dangerous a factor in the rear without a reconnoitre; Thorpe surrendered and gave the address. The threat of mutiny recurred when Dan arrived with the closed delivery truck,
EXCELSIOR MARKET
painted in red on its shiny white side, and the trio were instructed to climb in at the back and dispose themselves on the piles of gunny sacks which Dan had thoughtfully furnished. Thorpe demurred again and again Fox was blunt. Kester’s car was left concealed in the woods; Bill Trimble was sent home with the convertible; and it was not yet six o’clock of a sultry summer morning when the truck headed south, with Fox driving, Dan beside him on the seat, and Luke Wheer the valet, Vaughn Kester the secretary, and Ridley Thorpe the national ornament, inside bouncing on the burlap.

In spite of the fact that with a commercial car the restricted boulevards had to be avoided, it was only twenty minutes past seven when the truck stopped at
the curb on East 67th Street and Fox jumped to the sidewalk, walked around the corner to Park Avenue and entered an apartment palace, and asked to be announced to Miss Duke. The functionary stared in amazement at a creature who called on people in the middle of the night, but used the phone; and since Fox had already telephoned en route and so was expected, in a moment he was motioned to the elevator.

To the woman who opened the door of Apartment H on the twelfth floor he said with his hat off: “Good morning, Miss Duke, I’m Tecumseh Fox. Here’s the note.”

Without saying anything she took the sheet of paper, a page torn from Kester’s memo book bearing Thorpe’s scribble, read it twice, held it an angle for better light to inspect the writing and said huskily: “Come in.”

The door closed, she was starting to lead the way to an inner room when Fox’s voice stopped her. “This will do, Miss Duke. I’m in a hurry.” He had already seen what there was to see: a woman of thirty and something got out of bed too early, distress and anxiety pulling at her face to make wrinkles, but displaying to a penetrating eye characteristics which might conceivably render a wilderness, if not sweet, at least tolerable. Under more favorable circumstances, he thought, homage might have needed no lift from charity.

“Where is Mr…. Mr. Byron?” she demanded.

“Mr. Thorpe’s all right,” Fox said. “You told me on the phone you’re alone here?”

“I am.”

“Good. I’d destroy that note if I were you. I’d like to know, when did Mr. Thorpe arrive at the cottage at Triangle Beach for the weekend?”

“Friday evening. So did I.”

“When did he leave?”

“I don’t know. I came—he sent me away yesterday morning. He was still there when I left.”

“Were Luke Wheer and Vaughn Kester there?”

“Yes. They came late Sunday night, to tell him—” Her hand fluttered in appeal. “But where is he? What’s going to happen? For God’s sake—”

“He’s all right. Don’t worry, Miss Duke. We’ll handle it. Was Thorpe with you at the cottage continuously from Friday evening until Sunday midnight?”

“Yes, he—” She stopped and her eyes narrowed.

“Why do you ask a question like that if—”

“If I’m working for him? Because no matter who I’m working for I have to be sure of the facts. Don’t waste valuable time suspecting me. Was he?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t go away at all?”

“We went for a ride and to the movies at the village. He didn’t go away from me, not for five minutes.”

“Thank you. Now what I really came for, do you know where your father is?”

“My father?” She gawked at him. “My
father
?”

Fox nodded. “Mr. Henry Jordan. Now take it easy, you’re jumpy. Thorpe says in that note that you are to answer my questions. We want to find your father because we need his help. Thorpe will explain when he sees you—or you’ll read it in the papers—I haven’t time now. Do you know where he is?”

“But, good Lord—”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Do you know whether he spent the weekend on his boat?”

“No. I know he’s on it most of the time. Weekends are the same as week-middles to him since he retired. I expect he was—”

“Where does he go on the boat?”

“Lord, I don’t know. Around on the water.”

“Where does he keep it?”

“I don’t know that either, but I suppose somewhere near his house. He lives in a little house at City Island. I suppose somewhere on the ocean—”

“City Island isn’t on the ocean, it’s on the sound.”

“Well, then, on the sound. That’s all I know—but I can give you the address of his house. Wait a minute, I’ll get it.”

She disappeared within, and in a few moments came back and handed Fox a slip of paper. “That’s the address. He hasn’t any phone.”

“Thank you very much. No, Miss Duke, I can’t tell you a thing. But don’t worry. Go to bed. I interrupted your sleep. I apologize.”

He left her, left the building, walked around the corner to the truck, got a key from his pocket and unlocked the rear door, poked his head in and spoke to the dark interior:

“I saw her. She doesn’t know where he is or where he was over the weekend. He lives at City Island and we’re bound for there.”

“This is insuf—”

“I told you not to talk,” Fox snapped and banged the door.

North on Third Avenue, on the car tracks under the elevated, the truck bumpety-bumped along, back through the city; darted deviously through the vastness of the Bronx and finally straightened its course on Central Avenue. The sun was beginning to assert itself and obviously it meant to make a day of it. On a
stretch where no sidewalk offered a risk of curious pedestrians and the bedlam of passing traffic smothered lesser sounds, Fox steered off the through lanes, stopped the truck, got out and unlocked the rear door again, and inquired:

“All right?”

“No!” Thorpe yapped. “It’s unbearable! It’s an oven in here! We can’t—”

“Sorry, you’ll have to take it. Quit banging on that partition, or I’ll park this thing and take a taxi home and you can play the hand out. You even banged after I stopped. How did you know where I was stopping?”

He swung the door to and trotted back to the front. As they eased back into the swift current, he observed to Dan, with his eyes on the road and his face straight: “Good gracious, it’s hot in there.”

“It’s even hotter where his stand-in is,” Dan rumbled. “Anyhow, people pay three or four dollars for a Turkish bath. The same thing.”

Ten minutes later they turned off of Central Avenue at a busy intersection, rounded another corner and parked at the curb. Fox opened the rear door enough to poke his head in, stated that he was leaving Dan on the seat and there was no telling whether he would be gone forty minutes or four hours, walked back to the intersection and found a taxi, and gave the driver the address he had got from Miss Duke. As the taxi headed east towards the causeway to City Island, Fox was on the edge of the seat, gripping the strap, frowning and not singing. If he found Henry Jordan at home, his boat at its mooring, the operation was defeated, done, and he might as well drive the truck straight to the courthouse at White Plains.

But the little house at 914 Island Street, perched, like its companions in the row winding with the shore
of the sound, with its rear on stilts to lift it above the tide, had no occupant. Fox, having found both front and back doors locked, and having got no response to his knocking, stood on the little elevated porch and looked out across the water. Boats of all sizes and descriptions tugged at their moorings; and bobbing dots here and there—one a hundred yards straight out from where he stood—were moorings without boats. He was saved the trouble of deciding on the next step by the sound of a voice.

“He’s not there!”

Fox turned and saw the head of a woman with frowsy hair protruding from the window of the house next door, thirty paces off.

“Good morning!” he called. “I’m looking for Henry Jordan!”

“Yeah, I see you are. He’s out on his boat.”

“Thanks. When did he go?”

“Oh, I think … yeah, I think Thursday.”

“Hasn’t been back?”

“No, he often stays out a week or more.”

“Where does he go, anywhere in particular?”

“No, nowhere particular. He likes flounder. There’s more of them down the Long Island side. Once my husband and I caught—”

“Excuse me. What’s the name of his boat?”

“Armada.
Funny name, don’t you think?”