Rex Stout (11 page)

“Not at all.” Skinner remained suave. “I merely say it isn’t necessary. It has been examined by three of the
best experts available. They agree that it is genuine bayeta.”

“That means very little.”

“Why?”

“Because bayeta is a very broad term. The whole period during which those blankets were being woven extends to nearly two centuries. Between any two specimens now extant, the yarn always shows a variation, sometimes minute, sometimes apparent even to a novice. So to say that the yarn is bayeta doesn’t mean much. But say—just as a hypothesis—say that I have in my possession a strand of bayeta taken from one of the blankets at Lucky Hills or in the National Indian Museum, and an expert is permitted to compare it microscopically with your specimen. He can tell with a high degree of certainty whether they came from the same source.”

“No doubt.” Skinner’s eyes narrowed. Then he smiled. “I see no reason, Orlik, why you shouldn’t be told—just between us. What you suggest has been done. Our piece of bayeta has been compared with over fifty specimens collected from various places—including the two you mentioned. Oh, we were careful about it, and circumspect—we didn’t injure valuable property. The experts tell us we haven’t found
the
source. But your taking the trouble to come—as busy a man as you—makes me wonder—do you have a strand of bayeta in your possession?”

“I said a hypothesis.”

“I know, but do you?”

“I could easily have several.”

“Of course you could, but do you have one? One in particular with which you would like to compare ours?”

The lawyer smiled. “If I have, and if you let me compare them, you could ask that question again.”

“I’d rather ask it now.” Skinner’s voice was oiled.
“It’s a murder case, Orlik. A mean thing to monkey with, no matter what your professional standing may be. And you’re not very discerning to play me for a fool. Did you really think I’d be ass enough to let you get your hands on that piece of evidence?”

“Not my hands. An accredited expert. On your premises. In the presence of your men.”

“Then you admit that you have in your possession a piece of bayeta which you suspect—”

“I admit nothing. I came here to ask a professional courtesy. I would appreciate it. Mr. Guy Carew would apprec—”

“Appreciate hell!” The district attorney leaned forward and slapped his palm on the desk. “Listen, Orlik! By God, if you have got some yarn that came from the same place our piece came from—and you have the nerve to come here and start bellyaching about the ends of justice—”

Mr. Orlik was standing up. He faintly smiled, and held out his hand. Skinner, with a jerk, swivelled away from him. Orlik smiled again, and went.

L
eo Kranz, having locked the door, led the way to the rear of the gallery, where there were comfortable chairs and a smoking stand, and gestured his caller to a seat. “Now,” he said, “we won’t be disturbed. I’m sorry, but that was an important customer. It isn’t often, in August, that someone walks in and selects three thousand dollars’ worth of old French prints. And two of my assistants are on vacation and the third is ill….”

Inspector Cramer mumbled something and shook his head at a proffered cigarette box of ivory, and glanced again at his wrist watch. “I’m a little pressed for time,” he declared. “Suppose you tell me briefly in your own words. I understand you were a frequent guest at Lucky Hills?”

Kranz nodded. “I first met Carew about fifteen years ago. I used to have a little place up north of Mount Kisco, not far from his estate, and we got into the habit of playing billiards together and we hit it off pretty well. I liked him, and I think I can say he liked me. Of recent years I’ve been there often, in the summer.”

“Was there anything special about your visit on July 6th?”

“Special?”

“Well—it was Tuesday. Not a week-end.”

“Oh. No, nothing special. I went sometimes in the middle of the week.”

“Nothing, for instance, in connection with Carew’s intention to marry Portia Tritt?”

“No.” Kranz flicked ash from his cigarette. “Why?”

Cramer shrugged. “We just ask questions, because we have to. You know how that is, Mr. Kranz. I understand you got there around five o’clock.”

“About that. I left early and motored up. I played a little tennis with Guy, then Buysse and the Barths came—Miss Tritt was already there—and there were some cocktails. After dinner Miss Tritt and I played billiards. Carew was off somewhere with Barth, and I think the others were out on the terrace. I told Miss Pritt good-night a little after eleven and went up to bed. I was up and dressed early—I’m an early riser and I always want coffee as soon as I’m up—and at half-past seven I was sitting on the east terrace drinking coffee when Wilson, the old Indian, passed by, and I thought he looked odd. I followed him in the house, thinking I don’t know what, because I had never seen such a look on his face and I had known him a long time. He went upstairs. In a little while he came down and Guy was with him. Guy said his father had been killed and told me to come along, and told Wilson to go back in and tell Buysse. We ran, and by the time we reached the tomb Guy was thirty yards ahead of me. Carew was there—”

Kranz stopped. Cramer waited. In a moment Kranz went on: “I’m emotional. I suppose I’m hyper something. When I speak of it I see it again—and feel it again—I can’t help it. Carew was there dead. We saw at once he was dead. Guy asked me to stay there and he went back to the house. In about ten minutes Buysse arrived, and
we remained there together. The police came—a couple of the state police—at five minutes after eight.”

Cramer sighed, and began questions. He knew that Kranz had answered them all before, and he knew what the answers had been, but he had to get acquainted with these people as the first step in his effort to send one of them—or two or three—to the electric chair. So he asked questions, and found that although Kranz might be emotional, he was also a man of sense. He agreed with the inspector that if he himself had had a desire to murder Carew, he could easily have got to the tomb unobserved at that early hour, knocked the Indian out, entered the tomb and performed the deed, and returned to the house to sit on the terrace and ask the butler for coffee. He also agreed that any of the guests might have done the same thing, leaving the house by the door at the end of the corridor of the north wing, unlocking the door from the inside and locking it again upon returning.

More questions. Kranz was as patient as Barth and Buysse had been, even when Cramer abruptly inquired:

“When did you first learn that there was a bequest to you of a couple of hundred thousand in Carew’s will?”

“When the will was made public.”

“Carew had never told you?”

“No. If I had thought about it I might have expected it, for he was a generous man, but he never mentioned it.” Kranz frowned. “I know there’s no point in getting indignant about implications, but it does seem that by this time you might have eliminated the possibility that I killed him for the money I would get. Even if I had known of it. My affairs are in excellent condition. I have no need of money. Haven’t you found that out?”

Cramer admitted that they had, and added that he had intended no implication. “It is merely,” he explained, “the necessary technique of investigation. I haven’t the
slightest reason to suspect that you murdered your friend, Val Carew, to get the money he had left you in his will. I don’t even think it’s credible. But I ask you anyway whether you knew about it before he died. You say ‘No.’ What if later, when I’m talking with Portia Tritt for instance, I am told that you discussed with her, previous to Carew’s death, the legacy you expected from him and mentioned the amount? You see. There’s no use resenting implications when there aren’t any. And by the way, speaking of Miss Tritt, what was your attitude toward her contemplated marriage?”

“Well.” Kranz crushed a cigarette in the tray. “I didn’t like it.”

“Why not?”

“Various reasons. For one thing, he was twice her age. Val was over sixty.”

“Did you discuss it with him?”

“Not much. Once or twice.”

“Have an argument?”

“No, I wouldn’t call it an argument. You didn’t argue with him regarding his personal projects. He made his own decisions—that is, he had his own way of making them.”

“Was he really nut enough to leave an important decision to that contraption in the tomb? Sunshine through a hole in the wall?”

“He wasn’t a nut. To an unbeliever, a saint’s relic is garbage. To a Christian, Mecca is an unsanitary town full of fleas. A man who has a shrine has transcended reason.”

“Uh-huh. But about the marriage. What other reasons did you have for not liking it?”

Kranz waved a hand. “I gave you the most important one. For another—I had a selfish one. Miss Tritt is one of the most accomplished stylists and publicity counsellors
in New York. I am one of her accounts. She has handled publicity for my textile business for four years, and for this gallery for over a year, and she is extremely good. I didn’t want to lose her.”

“Any others?”

“No.” Kranz smiled a little. “That was enough. I’ve admitted my selfishness. Of course you’ve discovered that I wasn’t alone in disapproving of that proposed marriage—but that’s an old story. I don’t suppose it has ever happened that a man over sixty marrying an attractive young woman has met with approval from any one, except the couple themselves. But it isn’t often that the disapproval is sufficiently strong to cause a resort to murder.”

“Does that mean that you think there was another motive for the murder?”

“Not at all. I am as much at sea as—well, as you are, apparently.”

Cramer grunted. “I’m not even floating yet, I’m just shoving off. That’s why I have to ask you a lot of questions you have already answered. For instance, did Carew ever mention to you an intention to stop his support of the National Indian Museum?”

“No.”

“Or to curtail it?”

“No.”

“Did you ever hear such an intention discussed by Carew or Buysse or any one else?”

“No.”

The inspector went on asking questions which had already been answered.

At five o’clock, which was about the time Leo Kranz was locking the door of his gallery for a tête-à-tête with Inspector
Cramer, Eileen Delaney was sitting at her desk in her own little office at the premises of Jean Farris Fabrics. It was not at all chaotic, but was fairly filled with filing cabinets, stacks of magazines and papers, miscellany, and a couple of chairs. She looked up from a sheet of figures she was studying as the door opened and the chunky little woman from the ante-room appeared.

“A man named Parker from a newspaper.”

“What newspaper?”

“He wouldn’t say. He says he spoke to Miss Farris at the street door as she ws going out.”

“Send him in.”

Cora went. In a few moments the door opened again, and a man entered. The fact that Miss Delaney had again bent over the sheet of figures with a frown of concentration gave him an opportunity to appraise her with a keener glance than, presumably, he would otherwise have permitted himself. He was medium-sized and carelessly dressed, with a wide mouth and full lips, a small nose, and lively dark eyes which seemed to change expression instantaneously as Miss Delaney looked up.

She demanded, brusquely but amicably, “You’re somebody new? I never saw you before, did I?”

He shook his head apologetically. “I’m not in the trade line, Miss Delaney. As a matter of fact, I’m not on a newspaper at all. I’m a free lance, and I want to propose a piece of publicity—”

“Our publicity is handled by—”

“Sure, I know. Ethel Gannon. As I said, I’m not in the trade line, but I know the ropes and I get around. I know you’re highly specialised and none of the ordinary junk would interest you, but what I have to propose is a natural for the
Town and Country Register,
and I have a connection there. I wanted to discuss it with Miss Farris, but she was leaving just as I came in, and she said for me
to see you.” He had got to the desk and opened his portfolio on it, and now swiftly extracted something and handed it across. “What do you think of that?”

Miss Delaney took it and saw a glossy—a snapshot of a group of people on a lawn under trees. It was a good shot, but having seen thousands of others as good, she demanded merely, “Well?”

“Well,” the man smiled, “of course I know you couldn’t do anything very special just with that. It’s a good picture of Miss Jean Farris in a new fall ensemble on the lawn of Mr. and Mrs. Melville Barth’s country home, and the rotos would use it, but that’s not what I’m after. What I want, and what I can get with your co-operation, is a page spread in the
Tee and See.
As you know, it was taken yesterday.”

“Where did you get it?”

“From one of the boys. As I said, I know the ropes. That outfit Miss Farris was wearing created a sensation yesterday afternoon—but, of course, she told you about it?”

“I don’t know that she did. It’s been a busy day here.”

The lids of the man’s eyes had drooped a little—against the light? They opened again. “Well, it did. I want to do a piece—for one thing, one thing that would help—could I see it? On a model would do—or even just see it—if it happens to be handy—”

Miss Delaney shook her head. “It isn’t here. I suppose it’s at Miss Farris’s apartment, since she wore it home.”

“I wanted to see it.” The man looked disappointed. He picked up the glossy, glanced at it, and tossed it to the desk again. “It’s a good picture, anyway. And what I really want is something else, to make a story out of it. That’s what I’m good at, I see a story that other people
miss. Yesterday afternoon everybody was interested when Miss Farris told about the bayeta yarn in that ensemble, but do you think any of the press girls had the sense to pick it up? Not a one. They all muffed it. It was a good-looking outfit and all that, but the real story is in that bayeta yarn. Think of it! The dye made in Persia, and the yarn in Spain, three centuries ago! The Indians killing the Spanish soldiers, and taking their uniforms and unravelling them, and weaving the yarn into blankets! And now, in the twentieth century, the foremost designer in America using that same yarn in a fashionable ensemble that makes a sensation at an exclusive garden party showing! Tell me that’s not a story? It’s a natural for the
Tee and See
!”