Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 02 (14 page)

“That part of it’s all right. It might easily have been a G instead of an O, and since there is no OJ55 it must have been. It was dark and rainy, and I saw it from a distance as it drove off, and the light on the plate wasn’t very good. I would be quite willing to state positively that it was G, at least for the purpose of pressure. But—” Cliff was silent, his eyes narrowed
and his lips compressed, and finally shook his head. “But I can’t do it.” He shook his head again. “No, I simply can’t do it.”

“That’s too bad. I got the impression that you were ready to go through fire and water, and maybe even splash around in the mud a little, to help Miss Duncan.”

“I am. But it wouldn’t be worth—after all, the main thing is the fact, and you have that—”

“Not enough. Not in this case.” Fox leaned forward to appeal to him: “It might never be needed for anything but the pressure, and I’m working for Miss Duncan, and I want it and need it. Don’t be so damn scared of a P. & B. vice-president getting his name in the paper.”

“It’s not that.”

“What is it, then?”

“It’s—” Cliff chopped it off, sat in uncertainty, and at length took a breath of resolution. “It’s Miss Duncan. I was acting like a lovesick jackass.”

“Well,” Fox smiled, “evidently that’s what you are, so what’s wrong with that?”

Cliff’s innermost concerns were much too deeply involved for him to return the smile. “I was watching her,” he blurted. “I was following her.”

“You followed her to Tingley’s?”

“Yes. We had had an engagement for dinner and a show Tuesday evening, and she had canceled it. I thought maybe she had another—I couldn’t help wanting to know what she did that evening. When I left the office—”

“Just after Tingley phoned you. Twenty to six.”

“Yes. I went to Grove Street and watched the entrance to her apartment—that is, the building. I watched from across the street for nearly an hour, but
when it started to rain I moved along to a doorway, and just as I did so she came out. She took a taxi at the corner and I managed to flag one soon enough to follow—”

“Wait a minute.” Fox was frowning. “The rain.”

“What’s the matter with it?”

“According to you, it started raining around seven o’clock. Up at my house in the country it started around five, but that’s sixty miles away, so that can’t be what’s wrong with it.” Fox was scowling in concentration. “It’s something else. There’s some reason why it should have been raining long before seven o’clock right here in Manhattan. Are you sure it started at seven?”

“Certainly I am. Not more than two or three minutes before—”

“All right. Don’t mind me, I have these spells. You followed Miss Duncan to Tingley’s?”

Cliff nodded. “And wondered what in the name of heaven she was doing there, since I didn’t know she was Tingley’s niece. I dismissed my taxi. It was raining even harder than before, so I ducked into the opening of the driveway tunnel. You know the rest. When she came out—”

“What time was that?”

“Exactly eleven minutes past eight. I had just looked at my watch a moment before. When she stumbled and nearly fell I started toward her, but backed up into the tunnel again. Under the circumstances it would have been extremely embarrassing—anyway, I followed her to Eighth Avenue, wondering what could have happened to her, the way she was walking, wondering even if she was drunk—” Cliff halted, bit his lip, and shook his head. His voice shook a little: “If I had only known—but I didn’t. She took a taxi and so
did I. After she went into her apartment with the driver, and he came out again pretty soon, I stuck around over an hour, and at ten o’clock I left and went home.”

Fox grunted. “If you had stayed ten minutes longer you’d have seen me arrive. Did you put everything that happened in that letter to Collins?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t enter the building at all?”

“I just said that I put everything in the letter.”

“Don’t get touchy. I want all there is. Did you leave the tunnel at all between Miss Duncan’s arrival and departure?”

“No. It was a cold rain and I had no umbrella or raincoat—only a cloth topcoat.”

“You were there an hour. Could anyone have entered or left by that door without you seeing them?”

“No. I was thinking she might come out any minute, in spite of her having dismissed her taxi.”

“How sure are you that the man in the raincoat was Philip Tingley?”

“Well—I told Collins on the phone, a hundred to one. When I saw him there in the anteroom—he has a very unusual face, but of course it was dark Tuesday evening and the street light wasn’t very close. What decided me was his walk when he got up to go inside.”

“I see. That’ll probably do for him. But on the GJ55 you’ll have to be prepared to get your back to the wall and show your teeth. And what about Judd himself? You saw him.”

“The driver held an umbrella over him.” Cliff hesitated. “It could have been Judd. When he came out he dived for the car and I didn’t see his face at all.”

“You saw him,” Fox insisted. “For the—uh—pressure. You saw him.”

Cliff considered. “I might,” he agreed, “be willing to stretch a point for the pressure. But what if it goes beyond pressure?” He appealed with an upturned palm. “Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Fox. As unpleasant as it would be, I am prepared to be a witness at a murder trial if there’s no decent way of avoiding it. This may sound sappy to you, but what I would dislike more—I mean, to have Miss Duncan know I was watching her and following her—”

“I thought you two were happily reunited.”

“We are—that is—”

“Then don’t worry. To have it known that you were tailing her to learn if you had a rival, and if so what he looked like, may make you ridiculous in the eyes of two billion people—roughly the population of the world—but not in hers. She’ll think it’s wonderful.”

“Honestly—you think she will?”

Fox groaned. “And you an able, shrewd, cool-headed executive—you must be and you look it. It’s amazing what can happen to a brain without impairing it in other respects.” He glanced at his watch and got up. “But you’re busy. I guess we understand each other. One thing, I am tentatively putting you in Miss Duncan’s class and assuming that you did not go upstairs Tuesday evening and murder Arthur Tingley.” He smiled. “Say ninety to one. But sometimes a long shot wins. I mention it only—”

He stopped because a buzz had caused Cliff to reach for his phone; and stood with the blank polite look one assumes when forced to listen to one end of a conversation which is none of one’s business. From what he heard it appeared that Mr. Cliff’s presence was being not only requested, but insisted upon, by someone strongly disinclined to take no for an answer;
and from the expression on Cliff’s face as he pushed the phone back, it seemed that this new interference with his busy day was extremely unwelcome.

But the expression evidently was meant for Fox, and certainly the tone of voice was when Cliff spoke: “So,” he said with biting contempt, “you give it to them first, and then come to appeal to me to help Miss Duncan!”

“It?” Fox’s eyes opened in astonishment. “Them?”

“Yes, them. The police. Don’t think you can make a monkey of me on this too. Inspector Damon wants me to call at headquarters immediately. He already has my signed statement covering everything he could want to ask about—unless you’ve told him about that letter and phone call and your damned deductions.” Cliff set his jaw. “I’m denying it! You wanted it to help Miss Duncan, did you?”

“I did,” said Fox quietly. “Quit going off half-cocked, or Damon will make a monkey of you too. Did he say specifically that he wanted—”

“He said nothing specific, but—”

“But you lunged for me anyhow. Steady up. You don’t seem to realize that you’re right plunk in the middle of a murder case in the borough of Manhattan, city of New York, you were at the scene when the crime was committed or darned close to it, and you have concealed that fact from the police—and also what you saw there. I didn’t ‘give it to them’ before I came here, and for the present I don’t intend to. I have no idea what Damon wants to ask you about, but he’ll certainly keep on asking you things until this case is solved, and under the circumstances you’d better play them close to your chin.” Fox had his coat and hat. “Good luck and watch your step.”

He turned and went.

There were at least three things which required doing with as little delay as possible, and when, down on the street, he struck off in the direction of Grand Central and took to the subway again, he seemed to be aiming for one of them; but instead of emerging at Wall Street he stayed on the train for two more stations, got out and walked to Battery Place, and took an elevator to the top of the building numbered 17. The door he entered had painted on it: U.S. WEATHER BUREAU. He told a man with friendly eyes behind spectacles:

“I was going to phone for some information, but came instead, because I want to establish a fact beyond any attack by fire, flood or famine. What time did it begin raining, say in Greenwich Village, last Tuesday evening?”

He left ten minutes later, with the fact established as firmly as a fact well can be. The rain had started at 6:57. Up to that moment there had been no downfall, not even what is officially called a trace, in any part of Manhattan. The man with the friendly eyes had permitted Fox to scan the record and reports for himself. Fox, with a crease in his brow which betokened utter dissatisfaction with the state of things inside his skull, descended to the street, entered a Bar & Grill, and consumed four cheese sandwiches with lettuce and four cups of coffee like a man in a dream. The waiter, who liked to study faces, finally decided that this customer had just dropped his entire wad in a broker’s office and was contemplating suicide, and would have been chagrined to know that in fact he was merely trying to remember what was wrong with the rain starting at 6:57 Tuesday evening. The crease was still on Fox’s brow as he paid for his meal and left, took
the Seventh Avenue subway to 14th, and walked to 320 Grove Street.

Mr. Olson, the janitor, was hanging around the vestibule. He watched Fox punch the button marked “Duncan” several times, but said nothing until he was addressed:

“Isn’t Miss Duncan at home?”

“She may be and she may not be,” said Mr. Olson. “If she is she ain’t opening the door. There’s been reporters and photographers and God knows what, trying all kinds of dodges to get in, and I’m staying here.”

“Good for you. But you know I’m her friend.”

“I know you was last night, but that don’t mean you are today. She’s in trouble.”

“And I’m getting her out of it. Open the door and I’ll—”

“No.”

The refusal was so utterly adamant and uncompromising that Fox grinned at him. “Mr. Olson,” he said, “unquestionably you are a good-hearted man, kind to your tenants, and well-disposed toward Miss Duncan. But I never heard a more unalterable ‘No.’ That had more behind it than a disinterested desire to defend beauty, youth and innocence from intrusion. What did Mr. Cliff give you, a twenty-dollar bill? Or even fifty? I’ll bet it was fifty. You beat it upstairs in haste and tell Miss Duncan that Mr. Fox wants to see her.” Fox’s hand sought an inside breast pocket. “Or I’ll serve you with a habeas corpus delicti and throw you in the coop.”

Olson had courage, at that. “You stay here,” he growled.

“I’ll tend to me. Trot.”

Olson went. In two minutes he returned, admitted
Fox, not too graciously, and stood at the foot of the stairs watching him go up.

“The power of money,” Fox told Amy when he was in the living room and the door was closed, “is enough to scare you. You might think you were Juliet and Olson was the nurse. The P. & B. vice-president bribed him. Did you go to the funeral?”

Amy nodded. She had on a simple dark woolen dress and was without makeup, and her face was pallid and strained. “I went to the services, but not to the cemetery. It was awful—I mean the whole thing. It’s the first awful thing, really, that ever happened to me. My mother’s death was sadder, much sadder than this, but not awful—she died so—so quietly. Yesterday a woman from the
Gazette
offered me three hundred dollars to let them take a picture of me lying on the floor—unconscious like I was up there. And the way—even there at the funeral this morning—” She shivered.

“They have people with appetites to feed,” said Fox. “Not that I’d expect you to enjoy being an ingredient of the feast.” He stood, not removing his coat. “Anything new from the forces of the law?”

“I’m to meet Mr. Collins at the district attorney’s office at four o’clock.” Amy laughed shortly and self-derisively. “And I thought I wanted to be a detective.” Her hands twisted nervously in her lap. “I’m getting—I guess I must be a coward. The way they look and the questions they ask—and dashing across sidewalks hiding my face—it would be all right if it just made me mad, but I seem to get scared and my knees get weak—”

“It’s not very easy to take.” Fox patted her on the shoulder. “Especially when you started by getting knocked on the head with a chunk of iron and opening
your eyes on the sight you did. Was your cousin Phil at the funeral?”

“Yes. That part of it was awful, too. All the faces, some of them people who had known my uncle all his life, and all just stiff and solemn—no real grief or sorrow, not a single one. Certainly he wasn’t a lovable man, but when you’re dead and the people who have known you best meet to bury you—” Amy gestured for the rest. “And right there, while they were putting the coffin in the hearse, Mr. Austin and Mr. Fry and Miss Yates came and asked me to go to some kind of a meeting at two o’clock—they’re the trustees and they’re going to sign papers and they wanted me there because they’re afraid Phil may start a fracas and they thought I would be a restraining influence—”

“It’s two o’clock now.”

“I’m not going.”

“Well, Phil doesn’t throw bombs. Is the meeting at Tingley’s?”

“Yes.”

Fox frowned at her. “You’re piling on the misery. To be under suspicion of murdering your uncle, and what goes with it, is naturally not very pleasant, but there’s nothing revolting about the trustees holding a meeting immediately after the funeral. Quite the contrary. Arthur Tingley may be through with titbits, but those who remain aren’t. You buck up and don’t be morbid, and I’ll kiss you again on your wedding day, one way or another.” Fox took steps toward the door, then turned. “By the way, you told me that you got the phone call from your uncle a little before six Tuesday evening, and then you went to the bedroom and lay down for an hour. How did you know it was
raining when you went to the bedroom? Look out the window?”