Rex Stout (23 page)

She jerked up, spasmodically splashing, and spit out a mouthful of the bath water. “Good Lord,” she muttered aloud, “I might have drowned myself.” She opened
the valve to let the water out, and stood up and turned on the shower and got it cool. That revived her a little, but as she dried herself and got into pyjamas and mules the drowsiness began to return and she realised that she had never been so played out in her life; after all, she reflected vaguely, walking across to the living-room wall switch, there had been that blow on the head….

The doorbell rang. She stopped on a forward foot, startled. At this time of night? Eileen, Oletha? The police? Orlik had warned her that they would be after her again soon, something about a bond. She wouldn’t open. Then they might ring all night. Then she would disconnect the bell. There was a short struggle, and curiosity and courage won. She shuffled to the kitchen and pushed the button several times rapidly, and then hastened to the hall to make sure that the door was locked. She stood and listened, and in a moment heard footsteps on the stairs. They approached, without. They halted, and the buzzer sounded.

She called a little louder than necessary, “Who is it?”

“Telegram for Jean Farris.”

It sounded like somebody with a sore throat.

She hesitated. “But—why didn’t you phone it?”

“Marked for delivery.”

Her heart jumped. It hadn’t occurred to her, but it was quite possible that people were permitted to send telegrams from jail, especially those who had enough money to bribe somebody
—because I love you—

She turned the knob of the lock and pulled the door open. A man came in with it, right against her, and she retreated a step, gaping.

It was Leo Kranz.

The door was wide-open, and he stood there, in its orbit; then, seeing her immobility, he stepped sidewise, reached for the knob, and swung the door shut. She recovered
quickly enough to grab for it, but missed its edge and banged. She retreated again, two backward steps, stood straight, and told him, “I can scream. If you move I will scream. There are people above—”

“I know there are.” He was motionless, staring at her. His voice wasn’t steady. It didn’t tremble; rather, it vibrated like a tight wire. “There’s nothing to scream about, Miss Farris. I only want to talk with you. Just a frank and friendly talk.” He moved a few inches forward, she moved as far away, and his lips twisted with a smile. “I didn’t give you my name because I knew you wouldn’t let me in. Up there to-night I saw you looking at me—and then what you said—you were mistaken. You are making a mistake.”

“Open that door and get out. I’ll give you five seconds. I’ll scream in five seconds.”

“You won’t talk? Then that means—” His hand stirred; Jean moved; the hand was still again. The wire of his voice tightened: “I tell you you’re making a mistake. If I meant any harm to you I could have struck you when you opened the door. I only want to talk—to ask you—”

Probably if he had attacked her that instant, that split second, there would have been no scream, for Jean was momentarily dumb, stunned by a fantastic mixture of physical fear that gripped her stomach and an explosive impulse in her breast to burst into laughter. It had struck her, when his hand moved, that he was wearing gloves. On a warm August night, dressed informally. Dressed for murder. The polite gloves told her politely, “Just in case I do harm you, in case I do have to kill you—” It was funny, pathetic, dangerous—deadly dangerous, like his voice—It was doubtful if he really knew what he was doing—he was desperate—he was a murderer—She would have to scream—she must scream
now—even if she screamed he might do it anyway with that stick in his hand—it would be better to leap for him, scratch at him—

The doorbell rang. Kranz’s voice stopped, chopped off the tail of a word. She moved—she could back into the kitchen, but she didn’t want to leave the hall, that was nearest to the world—she stopped. There was a fainter sound—that was the bell ringing in the flat above—and other faint sounds—someone was ringing all the bells in the house—should she scream now? Instead, she held her breath, and heard the outside door, two flights open and close. Then heavy footsteps running upstairs.

Kranz muttered something and made a movement; she paid no attention to it, but stepped forward and seized the knob of the lock and got the door open. The footsteps came nearer, on the second flight, then a man popped up at the stair head and strode along the hall. Below, a door opened and a gruff and angry voice called:

“Who the hell is that? Who rang my bell?”

Jean moved out to the rail and called down, “All right, Mr. Lawson, it’s a friend of mine! Excuse it, please!”

She turned, and saw that Kranz had stepped out too and stood there facing Amory Buysse. Neither man said anything. Kranz turned to her:

“You’re quite popular to-night. And all the commotion—really—” He took a step.

“Wait a minute.” Buysse was in front of him. “How about it, Miss Farris? Do you want him for anything?”

Kranz said, “I came to see Miss Farris. I wanted to have a talk with her.”

“All right, go ahead and talk.”

“No.” It was Jean. “There’s nothing to say. We’ll wait here until we hear the door close behind you downstairs.”

Kranz stared at her, then turned without a word and went. Buysse followed him, five steps behind, down both flights, and saw him leave and heard the door click, and then went back up. Jean, standing in her door, said, “Come in.” Then, inside, she closed the door, took him to the living-room, and sat herself on the edge of a chair.

Buysse said apologetically, “I followed you again, but not so close. I figured that if Kranz killed Val he must be half crazy and he might do anything. I guess now he really did. I was hanging around across the street—”

“God bless you. Where’s Wilson?”

“Over at my place asleep. What did Kranz say?”

“Nothing.” Jean, sitting on the edge of the chair, shivered convulsively. “He just said he wanted to have a talk with me.”

“Why did you let him in? I mean up here.”

“He disguised his voice and said it was a telegram. I thought maybe it was from Guy. Then he stood … he said I was making a mistake.” Another shiver ran over her. All at once she giggled. She bit her lip, gazing at Buysse, and giggled again. “He had on gloves! Did you notice? Gloves!” She burst into laughter. “Isn’t that a scream? Isn’t
that funny
?” Her head went back, then forward; the laughter was a rushing crescendo. “Gloves!” She rocked back and forth, the laughter rocking with her.

Buysse scowled down at her. “God blame it,” he muttered, “she’ll wake the whole damn block.” He strode to the kitchen, came back with a glass of cold water, and dashed it into her face. She gave a gasp and slumped in the chair and the laughter stopped.

Twenty minutes later she was in her bed sound asleep, and Buysse was on the couch in the living room with his shoes off, wiggling his toes in the dark.

A
t half past nine Sunday morning Amory Buysse, with his face washed, his hair combed, and his shoes on, sat at the little table in Jean Farris’s living room enjoying his second cup of coffee, having consumed two dishes of sliced peaches and cream, and four fried eggs with toast. He was enjoying the coffee, but was nevertheless glowering at the tablecloth, for he was far from easy in his mind. He had told this stylish young woman that he and Wilson would go with her to Police Headquarters, and they would; but he didn’t like it. If he had ever seen a cop that looked like a cop, it was Inspector Cramer; and in his opinion the cop who had put Guy Carew in jail was a hell of a man to go to, to help get him out. He was wishing to God he had been born clever.

The door to the bedroom opened and Jean appeared. She had been up since eight; had prepared the breakfast—since Oletha didn’t come on Sunday—and eaten her share of it; had phoned three times to Inspector Cramer’s office; and had been at average pains to produce the sartorial effect which she now displayed. Her summer dress, cream-colored with tan stripes, was topped by a hip-length jacket of the same material, her
straw falcon hat, the tan of the stripes, was at an angle that stopped before it touched the tilt of freakishness, and her brown suede pumps clicked with modish Dorian heels.

She approached the table demanding, “What do you suppose happened to Wilson? We mustn’t be late. Didn’t he say he was ready to leave?”

Buysse set down his empty cup and nodded. “He’ll be here. We’ll make it all right. Probably he’s walking to save taxi fare—he sure hates to turn loose of money—there he is now.”

The bell had rung, and Jean hurried to the kitchen to push the button. Buysse got up and went to the hall to open the door. Jean started on a trot to carry the dishes out, but on her second trip stopped with the coffee-pot and sugar bowl in her hand at sound of a voice she didn’t know. After leaving them in the kitchen she went to the hall. Wilson, the Indian, grunted at her and she grunted back; and in the doorway stood a stranger who was telling Buysse:

“Yes, sir, I know, but I had to see you. I tried to get you on the telephone last evening, and couldn’t, so this morning I came in from Lucky Hills and went to your rooms and Mr. Wilson was there just ready to leave, and he said he was going to join you, so I took the liberty—”

“Well, right now I’m going somewhere.” Buysse turned to Jean: “This is Richards, Val Carew’s valet. Guy has kept him on at Lucky Hills—what is it, Richards? Can you make it short?”

The man hesitated, glancing at Wilson and Jean. He was tall, narrow all the way up, with colourless eyes and not enough flesh to round out his cheeks, which in another hour at the most would be needing a shave. He stammered, “I’m afraid I can’t make it very short, sir.
It’s quite—personal. I wouldn’t like—with other people—”

Jean said brusquely, “He can wait here till we get back.”

“All right, Richards? Will it keep?”

“How long will you be, sir?”

“Oh, maybe a couple of hours. Maybe more. Cut out the sirs. I don’t like ’em.”

“Yes, sir.” Again he hesitated. “The fact is, I’ve worked myself up to do this. It’s really quite shameful. Absolutely shameful. I should hate to have to sit here—if there is any way of avoiding it—”

“Who’s it shameful to?”

“To me, sir.”

“What’s it about? Has it any connection with the murder of Val Carew?”

“I hope not, sir—I sincerely hope not. But there is that to be considered, and that’s why I came—”

Jean put in, “I said we’d be there promptly at ten, and it’s a quarter of. Listen, Mr. Buysse, I’ll go along with Wilson, and you come as soon as you can.”

Buysse frowned. “I don’t like the idea of Wilson—”

“It’s all right.” Jean moved. “I can take care of him as well as that lawyer could. You come as soon as you can. Be sure the door’s locked when you leave.” She touched Wilson’s elbow. “Come on.”

The Indian grunted, and followed her.

Inspector Cramer sat at his desk with a mangled cigar between his teeth and watched the door close behind the departing Sergeant Burke. To his left, across the desk from him, Woodrow Wilson sat, in blue overalls and blue shirt with red tie, the slits of his eyes only two more wrinkles among the ravines of his leathery old face; to
his right Jean Farris, though not so picturesque, was just as certainly a picture.

Cramer said, “You’ll have to make it snappy. I’m seeing you only as a favour. The Carew case is back in the hands of District Attorney Anderson of Westchester County, where it belongs. But just as a favour to you, Miss Farris—what’s on your mind?”

Jean took a breath, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “One thing is that I know who killed Valentine Carew.”

“That’s pretty good for a start.” Cramer wasn’t impressed. “Who was it?”

“Leo Kranz. Also he hit me on the head Thursday evening and took my clothes. Also he intended to kill me last night, and he probably would have if Mr. Buysse hadn’t come.”

Cramer studied her a second, then leaned back. “Listen, Miss Farris. I’ve got an appointment at 10.30. You have no idea of the number of goofy stories that have been told in this room, and the amount of rambling I’ve had to listen to. I didn’t have you down for goofy, and I wouldn’t have thought you were a rambler. If you really have got something you should take it to District Attorney Anderson, that’s where it belongs, but I’ll take it if it’s short and to the point. First, Kranz murdered Carew. Go ahead.”

Jean shook her head. “No, first he hit me. I mean I’ll tell you that first. There at Barth’s Thursday, I was lying on my back on the grass with my eyes closed, right at the edge of a thicket. Suddenly there was a loud shrill sound, it seemed right at my ear, and I jerked up, sitting. It was a whip-poor-will. Just as I realised what it was, the blow came. When I came to, my skirt and jacket were gone. You know about that.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Well, yesterday afternoon I was trying to think of some way I could do something, and it occurred to me that I hadn’t mentioned the whip-poor-will to any one. No one knew about it. I decided to try an experiment. I phoned Mrs. Barth and made arrangements, and I got hold of a man who could imitate a whip-poor-will and took him into Barth’s place without any one knowing he was there. Last evening at dusk I went to the same spot by the thicket with Mr. and Mrs. Barth, Mr. Buysse, Mr. Wilson, and Leo Kranz. I took them there on a pretext—it doesn’t matter. They were all close to me, looking at me as I talked, when the sound of a whip-poor-will came from right behind me, from the thicket. They were all startled and looked around. The call of a whip-poor-will is very loud and startling when it’s that close. But I wish you could have seen Loe Kranz. After a fraction of a second he turned and looked directly at me, and the expression in his eyes was plain as words, ‘What’s this, a trick?’ That’s exactly what his eyes said, and no one else looked at me at all, they were looking for the whip-poor-will.”

Jean leaned forward, and her voice trembled with earnestness: “I know it, Inspector, I absolutely know it, it was Leo Kranz who hit me!”

Cramer grunted. “Done with that?”