Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 02 (6 page)

S
he thought—if a numbed and blurred awareness can be called thought—that it was the shock of what she saw that was holding her paralyzed, but the contrary was the fact. Actually the shock gave her strength, in spite of the injury she had sustained, to twist away, pull herself to her knees, and crawl across the floor, skirting the pool of blood, to where the marble wash basin stood against the wall. Still on her knees, she reached to pull a towel from the rack, and with it, steadying herself with a shoulder against a leg of the basin, she wiped at the hand that had slipped in the pool. That action was necessitated by something more primitive than the will, it was instinctive; simply, there could not be blood on her hand. As she let the towel fall to the floor, there was revolt in her stomach. She rested her head against the rim of the basin, shut her eyes, and tried not to breathe. After an eternity she tried desperately to swallow saliva, and managed it. In another eternity she gripped the basin with both hands, pulled herself up, using all her strength, and was on her feet.

It remains problematical what she would have done then if her wits had been clear. It is charitable to
her character and intellect to suppose that she would have gone to the telephone and called the police, and probably she would. But her wits were anything but clear. She was still more than half stunned. So she stood there awhile by the basin, gazing with widened but pain-dulled eyes at the body and its blood on the floor, and then relinquished her hold on the basin, found she could stay upright, and started to move. Her course was a wide circle around the obstruction on the floor and the burlap screen which stood there; she achieved it by making it a section of a polygon instead of an arc. At the door she leaned against the jamb to gather more strength. She knew now that there was something wrong with her head other than the shock of seeing Uncle Arthur on the floor with his throat cut, and, resting against the door, she put up her hand to feel and looked at her fingers, but apparently there was no open wound. Then she was driven on.

She would certainly never have made it to the street if anyone had pulled the chains of the lights she had left on as she entered, but no one had, so she reached that goal. It was still raining and she walked into it unheeding without wasting precious energy for closing the door behind her. On the two stone steps to the sidewalk she staggered and nearly fell, but regained her balance without going down, and started east. By now she had a dim feeling that there was something wrong with what she was doing, but its force was weak against the compelling necessity to keep going, keep going. She set her jaw, though that made the hurt in her head worse, and tried to walk faster and straighter. She crossed an avenue, came to another one, saw a taxi at the curb, and got in and told the driver 320 Grove Street.

Only there, at her destination, did she become aware that she didn’t have her bag containing her purse. That made her, for the first time since she had regained consciousness, really try to use her brain. It was a pitiful attempt. The bag, of course, was there in that place. It shouldn’t be there. If it should turn out, for any reason, to be advisable for her to conceal the fact that she had been there—a point much too intricate and abstruse to be given immediate consideration—the bag not only shoudn’t be there, it mustn’t. Then it had to be removed. The only person who could or would remove it was herself. The only way she could remove it was to go back and get it. She wasn’t going back. Her brain having completed that elementary but flawless performance, she asked the taxi driver to come up to her apartment with her, got a ten-dollar bill from a cache in her closet and paid him, and, when he had departed, took the Westchester phone book to the reading lamp, found the number she sought, Croton Falls 8000, and called it.

She pulled a chair up to the table to sit and supported her head with her clenched fist as she talked:

“Hello! Mr. Fox? May I speak to him, please?” A wait; she closed her eyes. “Hello! This is Amy Duncan. No, I—I’m here at home. Something has happened. No, not here, it happened—I don’t want to tell you on the phone. No no, not that—something awful. My head is only half working and I guess I’m not very coherent—I know I have a terrible nerve—there’s no reason why you should except that there’s no one else I can ask—could you come right away? No, I can’t on the phone—I only half know what I’m saying—all right. Yes, I know it will—I—all right, I’ll be here—”

She dropped the phone on its cradle, sat there a moment, and then braced her hands on the table and
got to her feet. The collar of the gray fur coat was wet against her neck. She got it off and hung it on the back of the chair, but when she put her hands up to remove her hat she staggered, swayed sidewise, crumpled into the sofa, and passed out again.

The first thing she knew, she smelled something disagreeable and irritating but familiar. Anesthetic? No. Ammonia. But why had she brought ammonia to bed with her? She opened her eyes. There was a man.

He asked, “Do you know me?”

“Certainly I do. Tecumseh Fox. But why—” She stirred.

He put his fingertips on her shoulders. “You’d better lie still. Do you remember phoning me?”

“Yes—I—”

“Just a minute. If you turn your eyes you can see Mr. Olson here. He had to let me in, and he needs to know whether I’m friend or enemy.”

She moved her head, said ouch, and saw the janitor there looking worried. “It’s all right, Eric,” she said. “Mr. Fox is a friend. Thank you.”

“But you—you look sick, Miss Duncan.”

“I’ll be all right. Thanks.”

When the door had closed behind Mr. Olson, Fox got a glass from the table and proffered it. “Here, take a sip of this. Just enough for a spark until I know what floored you. I found it in the kitchen, so it’s on the house.”

The brandy lit a fire in her. She swallowed the other spoonful and let him take the glass. Her head dropped back to the cushion and a spasm passed over her from top to foot.

Fox’s voice sounded like a roar to her, though in
fact it wasn’t: “Before I used the ammonia I took off your hat and covered your legs and did a little detecting. You’ve been walking in the rain, you left your bag somewhere, you’ve been wiping blood from your hand, not very thoroughly, and someone hit you on the head with something.”

She made an effort to hold her eyes open, and to speak. The brandy was burning. “How do you know they did?”

“There’s a lump above your right ear the size of a lemon. Feel it yourself. Who hit you?”

“I don’t know.” She tried to concentrate. “I didn’t even know I was hit.”

“Where were you?”

“In Uncle Arthur’s office. He—he’s dead. He’s there on the floor with his throat cut open—Oh, I—I—”

“Take it easy,” said Fox sharply. The suggestion of a smile which was more or less continuously at the corners of his mouth had suddenly disappeared. “And keep your head still; we don’t want you passing out again. Did you see your uncle dead on the floor with his throat cut?”

“Yes.”

“When you arrived?”

“No. He wasn’t there when I arrived—I mean I didn’t see him—there was a light in the office and I walked in—I didn’t see anybody or hear anybody—”

She stopped and Fox said, “Go ahead.”

“That’s all I know. When I came to and opened my eyes—my hand slipped when I went to lift myself up—and I saw it was blood and Uncle Arthur was there so close—”

“Just keep your voice calm. Go ahead.”

“I crawled over to the wall and got a towel and wiped my hand—then I stood up—then when I could walk I went away. I knew something was wrong with my head but I was too dumb to realize what—”

“Dumb or numb. Did you come straight here?”

“I walked to an avenue—I think Eighth—and got a taxi.”

“Did you phone me as soon as you got here?”

“Yes, right away.”

“You phoned me at eight forty-two.” Fox calculated. “Then you left there about ten after eight. What time did you get there?”

“At seven o’clock. Only I was late, maybe ten minutes late. Uncle Arthur phoned and asked me to come at seven, but I was late.”

“Did you take a taxi?”

“Yes, it was raining.”

“You left your bag there?”

“I must have—in the taxi I didn’t have it.”

“Why did your uncle ask you to come? What for?”

“I don’t know. He said he had a problem—he asked it as a favor—a family favor, he said—if you’d give me a little more brandy.”

He poured a small finger and handed it to her, and waited for it to go down.

“Did he say what the problem was about?”

“No.”

“Did you think it was about the quinine?”

“I didn’t see how it could be—I don’t remember exactly what I thought.”

“What time did he phone you?”

“I don’t—wait, yes I do. I saw I’d have to leave in about an hour, so it was a little before six. Around a quarter to six.”

“What did you do during that hour?”

“I went in the bedroom and lay down. I had a headache.”

“Let me feel your head.”

She let him. His competent fingertips, inserted through the strands of her brown hair, moved gently over and around the bump over her ear, then, with his eyes on her face, the fingers suddenly pressed firmly, and she winced and grimaced.

“Did that hurt much?”

“Well—enough.”

“Sorry. I think you’ll be all right. Excuse me for rushing things, but there’s a possibility even now—did you make sure your uncle was dead?”

“Make sure—” She stared.

“Make sure he wasn’t breathing or his heart beating.”

“My God.” Her tone was horror. “But he—no—what I saw—”

“All right. But the jugular had to be reached.” Fox gazed down at her. “Why didn’t you phone the police?”

“I couldn’t. My head—I wasn’t really conscious of what I was doing until I got outdoors—”

“I don’t mean there. After you got back here. You knew I was sixty miles away and it would take me an hour and a half to get here. Why didn’t you phone the police?”

She met his gaze. “Oh,” she said. “I simply don’t know. I guess I was afraid, but I don’t know what I was afraid of. Right after I phoned you I tumbled here on the sofa. If you think—what I’ve told you is exactly the way it was—but if you think—”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Why, I—all I can say is, when I phoned you, it was awful and I was stunned and felt helpless—I don’t know what you can do and of course there’s no reason why you should do anything—”

Fox suddenly and surprisingly grinned. “Okay. You sound good to me.” He stepped to the table, got out his notebook and found a page, pulled the phone across, and dialed a number. After a moment he spoke:

“Hello, Clem. ’Tec the Fox alias Fox the ’Tec. Greetings. Come out in the rain, please. No, but a little job that may be important. Come right away to 320 Grove Street apartment of Miss Amy Duncan, two flights up. I won’t be here, but she will. Examine her head. First, attend to her—I’m sure there’s no fracture. Second, determine if you are prepared to swear that she received a blow about three hours ago which knocked her cold. Third, take her to that hospital you try to boss and put her to bed. No, I didn’t. When I hit ladies they land in China. Right away? Good. Many thanks and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Fox shoved the phone back and turned. “So. That’s Doctor Clement Vail and he’ll be here within half an hour. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. You’ll be in better shape to converse with cops tomorrow than you are tonight. Doctor Vail is handsome and sympathetic, but don’t tell anyone anything until you hear from me, which should be in the morning. This may be rough going, or there may be nothing to it as far as you’re concerned. Even if we wanted to pretend you weren’t there, which is rarely a good idea, we couldn’t, with all your taxi rides and leaving your bag behind. Is there a catch lock on that door at Tingley’s Titbits?”

“But you—you’re not going there—”

“Somebody has to. Don’t hold me up. Is the door locked?”

“No—I think I didn’t even close it—it’s open—”

“Good.”

Fox picked up his coat and hat. Amy stammered:

“I don’t know what to say—I mean, I had a nerve yesterday to ask you to help me, and now—”

“Forget it. I love to shine my light. Also, this is my chance to make the P. & B. vice-president no better than a dim and trivial memory. By the way, though you’re minus your purse, apparently you’re not broke. There’s nine dollars and thirty cents on the table.”

“I had some money here.”

“Good for you. Remember, no talking until you hear from me. See you tomorrow.”

He left her. Downstairs he found the janitor, to hand him a dollar and ask him to admit Dr. Vail. It was still raining, but his car was right in front. He had to make three turns to get to Seventh Avenue, where he headed north. If any of his friends or associates had been in the car, they would have felt a tingle of expectation at hearing him strike up the tune of the “Parade of the Wooden Soldiers.” “Lah-de-dah, dumdum, lah-de-dah, dum-dum,” as the Wethersill rolled uptown, with the windshield wiper for a metronome.

In the neighborhood of the Tingley building the street was completely deserted, desolate in the driving rain. He parked squarely in front of the pedestrian entrance, unlocked the dash compartment and took out a pistol and a flashlight, slipping the former into his pocket and keeping the latter in his hand, and got out and darted across the sidewalk. But what he headed for was the dark tunnel of the cobbled driveway
for trucks a little to the right of the entrance. The beam of the flashlight showed him that it was empty throughout its length, past the loading platform to the other end of the premises. He darted out again and up the two stone steps, found the door open as Amy had said, entered the building, and mounted the stairs, not needing the torch because the lights were on. In the anteroom he stood motionless for ten seconds, heard nothing whatever, and proceeded, with no effort to conceal his own noise. The doors were all standing open.