Rex Stout (28 page)

Kranz nodded. “Yes.”

“Then—I don’t want to overlook anything—why didn’t we find your fingerprints on the harpoon handle?”

Kranz smiled. “Because I wiped them off. It was the scene of a murder, and I didn’t care to explain what I had been doing with the harpoon. As I said, I didn’t want to involve Miss Tritt—”

“Yeah, I remember that. How did you know the stuff was hers?”

“Why—” Kranz hesitated. He lifted his shoulders and dropped them. “That’s a luxury article, quite expensive, and not many women use it. I happened to know that Miss Tritt did. Also it was yellow, which is the shade she uses. Also she was present, there at Lucky Hills.”

“So you felt sure it was hers as soon as you saw it?”

“Yes.”

“How did you happen to see it up there in the holes?”

“I was looking around. Guy had left me there alone while he went to the house to telephone. After the first shock of seeing Val there dead, I investigated a little. I
examined the floor, and looked around, and went up the steps to the platform where Tsianina’s casket was. Standing on the platform, I looked at the holes, and I noticed that by stretching my neck I could see daylight, the bright sky, through two of the holes that I could line my eye up with, but not through the three nearer ones. The light was dim, but it looked as if there was an obstruction in the entrance of the holes. I went down and got a harpoon from the wall and went back up and poked carefully, and pulled the stuff out. From all three holes. I wiped off the harpoon handle and replaced it, and picked up the pieces where they had fallen to the floor. I took them to the door, to the light, and saw what they were. Naturally I was astonished. I was considering what to do, when I saw Buysse coming, and I stuffed them into my pocket.”

Cramer looked stern. “Mr. Kranz, you were deliberately removing evidence from the scene of a murder.”

“I know I was. I don’t pretend it hasn’t bothered me, because it has, but it seemed to me a justifiable thing to do, because it was inconceivable that it was in any way related to the murder. Certainly Miss Tritt had not killed Carew.”

“Nevertheless, you were violating a law, and making for yourself a decision which was the function of the police. You say you stuffed the Pasilex into your pocket?”

“Yes.”

“Which pocket?”

Kranz put a hand on his right thigh. “This one. My side trouser pocket.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Certainly.” Kranz raised his brows. “Those moments made an indelible impression, Inspector.”

“Yeah, I suppose they did. You told Miss Tritt two
days ago that you still had the Pasilex. Have you got it now?”

Kranz smiled. “Not with me.”

“Where is it?”

“At my home.”

“Whereabouts at home? You see, Mr. Kranz, I want that Pasilex. Whether it’s evidence of anything about the murder or not, I don’t want any one else to have it, and the safest way to avoid that is to get it myself. Will you give it to me?”

Kranz was frowning. “I don’t like to.”

“Why not?”

“Well—there is still the question of involving Miss Tritt—”

“She can’t be more involved than she already is. My possession of the Pasilex won’t hurt her any. Of course we can get it with a warrant, but why force us to take that trouble? Where do you keep it at home?”

“I—” Kranz stopped. Then he shrugged. “In my bedroom. I have a small safe there.”

“Much obliged. Now to go back a minute. You say that there in the tomb you put the Pasilex in your side trouser pocket. Right?”

“Yes.”

“That was when you saw Buysse coming?”

“Yes.”

“A little later Guy returned. And soon after, a few minutes past eight, the police came. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“From the time Buysse came until the police arrived, did you go outside the tomb at all?”

“Outside the tomb?”

Cramer nodded. “I mean leave the tomb. Go outdoors.”

“No.”

“Or while the police were there?”

Kranz frowned. He lifted his head a little, slowly. “Why, I went eventually, of course—”

“Yeah, I know. Around nine o’clock you and Guy went to the house with Captain Goss. I mean, did you leave the tomb between the time the first cops arrived and the time you left with Guy Carew and Captain Goss? I know you didn’t, I’ve read the reports and I know ’em by heart.”

“Then why the devil do you ask me?”

“Because I like to check things. Did you?”

“No.”

“And when you left the tomb with Guy Carew and Captain Goss, and went with them to the house, the Pasilex was in your side trouser pocket?”

There was no answer. Something was happening to Leo Kranz. The blood was leaving his face, his lips were parting, and the tips of his fingers were digging into his legs.

Cramer went on inexorably, “And it had been there all the time, undisturbed?”

Kranz was white, his mouth open, speechless. Portia Tritt got up and took three steps to stare at him. The others stared from their seats. Sergeant Burke moved brusquely from the wall.

Cramer asked in a tense voice, “Got it at last, have you? It took you long enough! But you finally got it, huh?”

Skinner demanded irascibly, “What the hell did he get?”

“Plenty,” said Cramer grimly. “As that Indian says, plenty truth. He couldn’t have found that Pasilex when Guy left him in the tomb, and put it in his pocket and kept it there, because when the cops came he was
searched, and searched good. There was only one other time when he could possibly have got it, and that’s when he did get it—when he went to the tomb before, earlier that morning, and murdered Val Carew!”

Portia Tritt sank back into her chair.

I
t was close to six o’clock when Inspector Cramer left the elevator at the third floor and tramped down the hall to the entrance to the homicide bureau. From the side of his mouth a cigar was tilted well on its way to the perpendicular. He entered the office and was making a beeline across the ante-room when out of the side of his eye he caught a glimpse of something that stopped him. He wheeled, looked a moment, and ejaculated:

“For God’s sake! Have you folks signed a lease?”

The Indian, who had been stretched out on three chairs, slowly raised himself, blinking. Clarence Richards, confined to one chair, didn’t move. Amory Buysse lifted his eyes from a magazine. Jean Farris moved her head a little; she was seated next to Buysse, her shoulders sagging, her eyes lifeless.

Cramer demanded, “Have you been sitting here all afternoon?”

Buysse shook his head. “We went out for a bite to eat.” He put the magazine down. “We saw Miss Tritt going through here around three o’clock, and Kranz over an hour ago. You didn’t send for Richards.”

“I didn’t need him.” Cramer had crossed to them. “I got along without him.”

“You got along?”

“Yes. It’s sewed up. Thanks to you folks. Especially you, Miss Farris. I guess you’re part bulldog. Anyway, you were right. It was Leo Kranz. It’s him that’s sewed up.”

Buysse stood, kicking his chair back. Wilson yawned. Richards raised his colourless eye, looking very shocked. Jean gasped, “What?”

Cramer nodded. “It was Kranz who killed Val Carew. As near as I can see, Guy is out of it and so is everybody else. Anderson’s on his way down here now to get Kranz.”

Buysse said, “You sure changed your mind in a hurry.”

“Yeah, I know.” The inspector looked down at Jean. He opened his mouth and closed it; then opened it again and got it out: “Any time you’d like to have a medal, Miss Farris, let me know and I’ll arrange it. You’re okay. I’ve got a daughter in High School and I’m going to tell her about you. I think kids ought to have ideals.”

Jean rose to her feet, but her knees buckled and she sat down again. The colour had left her face, but was coming back. “I guess,” she said, “I’ve been sitting down too long.” She tried a little laugh, but it was squeaky. “Do you mean it’s all over? You can prove it wasn’t Guy? It’s all over?”

“That’s what it looks like, yes, ma’am.”

“Well.” Jean sat gazing up at him. Suddenly she jumped to her feet. “Well!” she cried. She wheeled to the Indian: “Did you hear that, Wilson? Am I a good woman?”

Wilson grunted. “Damn good maybe,” he conceded.

She pivoted to Cramer. “You did it! You believed me all the time! You did it!” She faced him, her hands up to his shoulders.

Cramer blushed. “Well,” he admitted, “a notion did finally come to me—”

“Of course you did it! I knew you would! And I’d like to—you say you have a daughter? Send her to me, right away, to-morrow, and I’ll take her to Krone and she’ll have the swellest fall outfit in New York! I’ll design it right on her! If you want to come along I’ll design something on you too!” She giggled.

Buysse took two strides and reached to pluck her sleeve. “Now here,” he commanded firmly, “don’t you get started laughing—”

Wilson yawned.

M
onday afternoon, two hours after lunch, Jean was perched on the high stool at the big table, frowning with disgust at an enormous sheet of squared paper which didn’t have a mark on it. Two chronological facts were in a bitter struggle for the front of her consciousness: (1) that it had been six days since she had done a lick of work; and (2) that it had been twenty-two minutes since he had telephoned to ask if he might come. She was tapping against a pin rack with a large red crayon. The door behind her opened. She hastily started to pretend she had been using the crayon on the squared paper, then with a derisive grunt threw it down, and turned the stool on its swivel.

Guy Carew said, “Hello, here I am.”

Jean slid from the stool and met him, extending a hand. “Well!” She tried not to wince at the squeeze he gave her hand, and said “Well!” again.

Not being able to think of anything more to say, she returned to the stool and sat on it and looked at him. He sat down on a chair and looked at her.

She said, “You don’t look—you look quite fresh.”

He nodded. “I had a bath and a change. You look—you look all right.”

“Thanks. Did you say you were phoning from your lawyer’s office? I thought that was near here somewhere.”

“It’s over at Forty-third and Madison. The cross-town traffic was terrible. I left the taxi and walked.”

“Sure.” She nodded in sympathy. “The traffic.”

“Yes, it’s terrible.” He crossed his legs and uncrossed them again. “Orlik—that’s the lawyer—was telling me some things he had just learned from Inspector Cramer. One thing I thought would interest you—about the jacket. You remember I left it in a closet in the hall when I came in from the tennis court? Portia Tritt has admitted that later that evening, when she went outdoors, she wore that jacket, and when she came in she left it in the upstairs hall in the north wing. That explains how Kranz happened to be wearing it. He just saw it there and put it on. I suppose he got the idea later of leaving it out there by the hedge because he knew it was mine.”

“I suppose so. I suppose you feel pretty sorry for Portia Tritt, don’t you? I do.”

“Yes. I feel sorry for everybody, including Kranz. I feel particularly—it’s my fault that you were dragged into this—”

“Forget it,” Jean said brusquely. “Was it pretty bad up in that jail? Dirty?”

“No, it was quite clean. There was a strong smell of disinfectant, but that was better than dirt.”

“Did you—could you sleep?”

“Towards morning I slept some. They let me smoke cigarettes until ten o’clock. Then I lay on the cot and thought about you. I said some poetry to myself about you. I’m not very familiar with the kind of poetry you would know, but I’m an authority on Indian poetry. Some of it I’ve had a real feeling for, and some of it I haven’t, but I have a new feeling about it now. For instance,
this song from the Haida, translated by Constance Lindsay Skinner:

“You didn’t—” Jean stopped to swallow. “You didn’t say that to yourself about me!”

“Yes. Many times.”

“But that’s absurd! I’m not at all cold!”

Guy shrugged. “I don’t think it means cold in a general sense. I’m sure it meant a specific coldness to the Indian who sang it centuries ago; it meant that he loved the beautiful woman but she didn’t love him. That’s what it meant to me last night. Then there was a Shoshone love song, translated by Mary Austin:

Jean said a little faintly, “Well … that Indian knew how to make love. It was a Shoshone who sang that? What would a Cherokee sing?”

Guy, looking into her eyes, and seeing but not believing, stammered, “I sang—I said—a Cherokee song too, but I couldn’t say it to you now because it boasts—it is the song of a lover who had won—” He stood up, pulled up by her eyes.

She said, “Sing it now—come here, Guy—sing it now—Guy!”

He sang the boastful Cherokee song a little later.