Rex Stout (14 page)

J
ean Farris would probably not have been guilty of trite elegance in her home even if she had been able to afford it; but the question is academic and therefore not worth enlarging upon, for she couldn’t afford it. She had finally, after a protracted struggle, matured her talent for design and found successful application for it; but so far, all the profits had been carefully funnelled into the bottle for nursing the infant business. So, in the modest three rooms she rented in the Fifties near Lexington Avenue, bed was merely a bed and her chairs merely something to sit on. Its charm, if you liked it, was due to the circumstance that the draperies, rugs and upholstery were in fabrics of her own design.

Friday evening at eight o’clock she was there, alone at the little table in the living room eating a strawberry tart, and thanking heaven for Oletha, who had cooked the tart as well as the dish of spaghetti with mushrooms, tomatoes and chicken livers which had preceded it. Having left her office before five for a necessary visit to the workshop of Muir & Beebe, and having begged off from a dinner engagement with Adele Worthy of
Harvey’s Bazaar
on account of a combined buzz and ache in her head, she was now enjoying the taste of the tart and the
smell of the black coffee, and looking forward to a leisurely cigarette, a still more leisurely warm bath, and a clean white bed with a soft pillow for her abused head.

The doorbell rang, and she called, “Punch it, will you, Oletha?” She didn’t know why she always did that, since Oletha would of course have punched it anyway, unless it was because she liked to hear the soft voice calling from the little kitchen, “Yes, Miss Jean!” She took the penultimate bite of tart. It was Friday; it would be the laundry; they came at all hours.

But after the wait for the caller to climb the two flights, and the opening of the hall door, and a brief murmur of voices, Oletha appeared and had her company manners on to announce, “A gentleman, Miss Jean—”

She was interrupted by the entrance of the gentleman himself, bulky, broad-shouldered, middle-aged at least, with a straw hat in his hand. Passing, he growled, “Thank you, Jemima,” and approached the table. “I beg your pardon. Are you Miss Jean Farris? I’m Inspector Cramer of the homicide squad. Police inspector.”

Jean’s first feeling was hot resentment of the “Jemima.” For one thing, she disliked vulgar familiarity, and for another, she thought Oletha was a lovely name. She was about to blurt something when she realised what else he had said. She hesitated, and then proceeded to blurt anyway:

“Do you walk in on people like this because you’re an inspector? Or can any policeman do that?”

The caller grunted. “We walk in because if we don’t sometimes we don’t get in at all. Politeness is like a stick, it has two ends, and we only have hold of one. I begged your pardon. I do so again. Are you Miss Jean Farris?”

“I am.”

“Then I need to have a talk with you.”

“I hope …” Jean shrugged. “Bring the coffee, will you, Oletha?”

Oletha went. The caller observed, “I might as well sit down.”

“Do so. That other chair is more comfortable.”

He sat, deposited his hat on the floor beside him, crossed his ankles, and aimed a straight gaze at her. He declared as if he meant it, “I’m sorry to interrupt your meal, but this is urgent. I want to ask you something about a suit—a skirt and jacket—you wore yesterday afternoon.”

Jean, with the last bite of tart in her mouth, stopped chewing for an instant. Then her jaws moved again. She waited until she had swallowed before inquiring, “Yes? What about it?”

“You wore it yesterday afternoon to Melville Barth’s place up near Portchester. There was a lot of talk about it. Around 8.15 you disappeared. At dinnertime, nine o’clock, they couldn’t find you, and decided you had run out on them. A little before ten you showed up at the house minus the suit and said someone had hit you on the head and took it. Right?”

Jean said, “Thanks, Oletha. Leave the pot, please. You go whenever you’re through.” She put in a lump of sugar and began stirring, then looked aside at the inspector. “I didn’t complain to the police, did I?”

“No, ma’am, you didn’t.”

“Then how did you—Oh!” She turned, her eyes open at him. “You’ve found it!”

“No, ma’am, we haven’t found it. Not so far as I know. As to how we learned about it, there were twenty people at that dinner table, and when there’s talk about an incident like that we’re apt to hear of it sooner or later, especially when seven of the persons present are
more or less involved in a murder case. But I’d like to have you confirm it. Did it happen that way?”

Jean nodded.

“Approximately. Except the way you told it—you said I
said
someone hit me on the head. Someone
did
hit me on the head.”

“And took your suit?”

“Presumably. I was unconscious. To assume that the person who hit me was the one who took the suit—it seems plausible.”

“Yeah. Have you any idea who did it?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Or why it was done?”

“No. My watch and ring and purse weren’t taken.”

“Yeah. What he wanted was the suit. Was that the first time you ever wore that suit, Miss Farris?”

“Yes.”

“Who made it for you?”

Jean took a sip of coffee. Her head was buzzing, and she was feeling that it was particularly desirable that at this moment her head should be clear. She took another sip, and another. Then she turned and tried to smile:

“Really, Inspector, I don’t quite see why I should discuss this affair with you. I haven’t requested your help, have I? And besides, aren’t you a New York inspector? This didn’t happen in the city, it was in Westchester County.”

Cramer grinned. “Don’t worry about the jurisdiction part. That’s all right. New York and Westchester—we’re all one big family. As for discussing it, why should you object?” He spread out his hands. “What I’m asking you is no secret—like who made it for you. Isn’t that more or less common knowledge? I just want to be sure a few facts are correct, and you’re the best one to ask, if you don’t mind.”

Common knowledge? Yes, Jean thought, of course. She said, “Krone made it. Krone, West Forty-eighth Street.”

“Thanks. And you furnished the material?”

“Yes.”

“Your own design?”

“Yes.”

“Did you weave it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“On a loom in your own shop?”

“Yes.”

“With yarn?”

“Certainly. One weaves with yarn.”

“Yeah. Was some of the yarn that you used a kind called bayeta?”

Jean’s mouth opened, and closed again. Unquestionably, she needed a clear head and didn’t have it. She lifted her coffee cup and half emptied it, scalding her throat. She grabbed her glass of water and took a mouthful, and swallowed.

She looked at the inspector: “I’ll tell you. Frankly. I’ve decided not to say anything more about it.”

“But we’re nearly to the end, Miss Farris. Practically there. As for the bayeta, didn’t you announce it yesterday yourself, publicly, to various people? Didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“It was bayeta, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. There’s only one more question, and after that may be a couple of details, and that’s all. Where did you get the bayeta yarn?”

Jean’s fingers tightened on the handle of the coffee cup. Of course. Here it was. Here she was. He had certainly got to the point in a hurry. With a clear head, could she have kept him away from it? But what the
devil, after all, it was simple. That you were asked for a fact didn’t mean that you must surrender it; and it wasn’t like a skirt and jacket; they couldn’t knock you on the head and strip you of it. She turned to him:

“Now you are after a secret, Inspector. I can’t tell you where I got the yarn.”

“Why can’t you tell?”

“Because …” Then Jean thought her head must be clearing, because a brilliant idea popped into it. “Because I’ve forgotten.”

Cramer grunted. “Oh, my God. When did you get it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve forgotten.”

“Nonsense. I happen to know that you got it within the past month. Where did you get it?”

“Really, Inspector, I don’t remember.”

He sat and gazed at her in silence, frowning, his eyes now absolutely unfriendly. Finally he sighed, got up, and walked across to confront her. “Look here, Miss Farris. Get this. I haven’t got time to fool around. I don’t know whether you know what kind of a mess you’ve stepped into or not. It’s barely possible you think you’re just playing bean bag, but you’re not. This is a different kind of a game entirely. Either you tell me within, say three minutes, where you got that bayeta yarn, or you’re on your way to headquarters under arrest.”

Jean was so shocked and incredulous that she even wanted to laugh, but somehow didn’t. She merely stared, and demanded weakly, “Arrest? What for?”

“As a material witness in the Valentine Carew murder case.”

The growl of a lioness defending her cub came from the door to the kitchen. That was Oletha.

N
either paid any attention to Oletha’s growl. Jean continued to stare, with her chin tilted up. Her head had suddenly stopped buzzing and felt clear and cool. So it wasn’t simple after all; apparently far from it.

She said, “Sit down again, please.”

“There’s no use sitting down unless you’re going to tell me where you got that yarn. We might as well be going.”

“I wish you
would
sit down.”

Cramer glared a moment, then returned to his chair. “All right. Shoot.”

“First—I want to ask—I don’t know much about the law—can you arrest anybody you want to like this—when they haven’t done anything?”

“We can.”

“And actually
take
them—to jail?”

“Yes. It is lawful to arrest any one who is in possession of vital evidence in a capital crime and refuses to divulge it.”

“Oh.” Jean’s stare was now only a level regard. “What makes you think I have vital evidence?”

“I don’t think. I know all about it.” Cramer leaned
forward. “Listen here, Miss Farris. You don’t want any part of this. The best thing you can do is unload completely. I’ll be frank. I have no idea what else you know or don’t know, or did do or didn’t do, but I know damn well you know where you got that yarn. That detail is sewed up. It won’t do any harm to give you a clear idea of where you stand; may be that will show you how foolish it is for you to try to hold out. You may know, or you may not, that when Valentine Carew was found murdered he held clutched in his hand a strand of bayeta yarn which he had obviously torn from the clothing of the murderer. Under a microscope that yarn has been compared with fifty or more samples of bayeta taken from various places. Two hours ago it was discovered that it is identical with the bayeta yarn you used in weaving your suit. That’s why I say you have vital evidence in a capital crime. We’ve got to know where you got the yarn, and we’re going to know.”

“But you have no evidence.” Jean was calm. “You can’t possibly know the two yarns are identical. How could you, without a sample of mine?”

“We couldn’t. We’ve got the sample.”

“Of the yarn I used? You—Oh! You have found the suit!”

“Not the suit. We have a strand of the yarn you used, taken from your own file, with a signed statement to authenticate it.”

“Signed by whom?”

“By the person we got it from. Eileen Delaney.”

“Eileen—” Jean straightened and her eyes flashed. “That’s a lie!”

“No, ma’am. It’s the truth. She’s all right, she’ll explain it—we don’t want to bust up a partnership.” He gestured impatiently. “Forget it, that can wait. I’m just letting you know where you stand. If you don’t tell me
where you got that yarn, two things can happen to you. First, I can take you down as a material witness, and keep you, and I’m going to, and we’ll even fight bail if I have anything to say. Second, there’s a chance that you’ll be prosecuted as an accessory to murder. That’s not a threat, it’s information. You asked about the law, and I’m telling you. I’m also telling you, as a man of experience, that you’re acting like a lunatic. You can’t possibly have any stake in this that’s worth what it would cost you. You never knew Val Carew, and you never met his son until two weeks ago. You never knew Buysse or that Indian. You had only a casual acquaintance with the Barths. You only had business relations with Portia Tritt, and not even business relations with Leo Kranz. So as I say, your ante in this game can’t be anything big, and you’re a plain lunatic if you don’t cash in and exit. This is not—where are you going?”

Jean was swiftly crossing the room. Disregarding his question, she reached the stand in the corner which held the telephone, and rapidly and accurately, in spite of her trembling hand, started to dial. But the inspector was rapid too. He was across to her as the dial was whirring for the first digit, and his big hand was heavy on dial and cradle both.

He shook his head and said calmly, “No, ma’am.”

Jean tugged an instant, gave up, jerked her hand away, and stood with blazing eyes. “That’s my telephone!”

“Not right now it ain’t. Right now nothing is yours. I’ve been trying to tell you, in a murder case it’s a new set of rules entirely. I know what they are and you don’t.”

Jean wheeled and called, “Oletha!”

“Yes, Miss Jean?”

“Run down to the corner and phone Miss Delaney
and tell her to come here at once—I don’t suppose Oletha is under arrest too?”

Cramer shrugged. “Not interested in Oletha. But by the time your partner gets here you’ll be gone. You can phone yourself from headquarters, one call—”

“Wait, Oletha.” Jean’s hands, at her sides, were tight fists. Her voice was tight too: “I suppose what you’re doing is legal or you wouldn’t do it. But even if I’m an accessory to a murder, which I’m not, is there any reason I shouldn’t talk to my business partner? I want to tell her—there are things to be done at my office tomorrow—”

“Not to-morrow. Not by your partner.” Cramer looked exasperated. “Don’t you realise what’s going on? Don’t you think we already know that Krone made that suit, and we’ve talked to Krone and learned that he sent the scraps to you, by your order, in the same box the suit was delivered in? There are two men outside your place of business right now. To-morrow morning there will be more, with a search warrant. We want those scraps of material, and we also want the rest of that bayeta yarn in your files.”