Rex Stout (19 page)

The two men asked a couple of questions and departed.

Baker turned. “You can go out and get something to eat, Hurley, and come back around ten-thirty. I may want you again after I see Clara Brand.” Something in the old prospector’s face or attitude made him add, “How much money have you got?”

“None of your damn business,” Hurley growled.

Baker pulled a roll from his pocket and peeled off a bill. “Here, take it. Go ahead and take it! Call it a loan, I’ll be glad to get it back. Come back around ten-thirty.”

“I don’t know as I can stay awake till ten-thirty. You won’t need me anyhow, on account of anything Charlie Brand’s girl will tell you. If you do, you know where my bunk is.”

“Okay. But don’t you try any tricks.”

“I don’t know any,” said Squint Hurley as he headed for the door.

I
t was nearly nine o’clock that Thursday evening when Quinby Pellett entered the room where the county attorney sat, with the sheriff and the chief of police also present. He had arrived at eight, as requested when the telephone had found him at the Brand home on Vulcan Street, but had been compelled to wait by superior urgencies. The undersized prognathous man who had put in an appearance around seven-thirty, entering Baker’s room by the private door to avoid the anteroom, was the governor of the state; and upon his departure by the same route, some twenty minutes later, Baker had let fly with both barrels. He had sent for every good man available on the sheriff’s staff as well as his own, with Tuttle acquiescing, and had scattered them on a variety of trails and errands. In the midst of that activity there had been another entry by the private door, leading to a difficult, not to say stormy, quarter of an hour with Ollie Nevins, the largest mine operator in the West. If Nevins had happened to arrive before the governor the story might have been different, but Baker had already made his decision.

When Pellett was ushered in a little before nine
o’clock, Tuttle and Phelan were having what appeared to be a private altercation, since they were muttering it in low tones, and Baker, with his elbows planted on the desk, was resting his forehead in his palms. He raised his head, pressed his finger tips to his eyes, blinked a couple of times and barked, “Sit down, Pellett. What was on that piece of paper that Jackson showed you Tuesday afternoon?”

Pellett’s stooped shoulders lifted a little. “Godamighty,” he said plaintively, “you starting off like that?”

“I want to know what was on that paper!”

“Well … I’d like to know myself.”

“Didn’t he show it to you?”

Pellett compressed his lips; and then let his shoulders drop, apparently, deciding to be patient. “I told Bill Tuttle all about it yesterday. Didn’t he tell you?”

“He told me you had just been knocked out by somebody when you were talking with Jackson and you couldn’t remember much. But he showed it to you, didn’t he? What did it look like?”

“It looked like a piece of white paper, not a big piece. I was still in a daze and couldn’t hardly sit up. But I remember one thing all right, and that ought to be enough for you. He told me that he got it from Squint Hurley that morning. It was Hurley that—”

“I know. Much obliged. Did you take the paper in your hand?”

“I don’t think I did. I’m sure I didn’t. I was using my hands to hold my head up. He saw I was no good and he took me down and drove me home. That was after I realized the bag was gone—my niece’s handbag that I had.”

“Was there writing on the paper?”

“I didn’t see any, but I didn’t really look. But there
must have been, because he had told me on the phone that what was on it didn’t mean anything to him and that was one reason he wanted me to come and look at it, to see if it meant anything to me.”

“Didn’t he tell you on the phone what was on it?”

Pellett regarded him a moment, then said quietly, “It strikes me you’re acting pretty damn foolish. Even making all allowances. If you just want to find out what was on that paper, all you have to do is ask Squint Hurley; he gave it to Jackson. But I notice you seem to be wanting to ride me, and another thing I notice is that you don’t seem to have the paper or you wouldn’t have to ask Hurley or me either. Is the paper gone?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t got it. Have you?”

“That’s more like it.” Pellett nodded approvingly. “I like a straight question. I haven’t got it. If there was any good reason for me to lie to you about it I guess I would all right, but there isn’t. I didn’t see what the writing was and Dan didn’t tell me on the phone. There in his office I didn’t see the writing, except maybe so hazy that I don’t remember it, and he didn’t hand me the paper and I didn’t take it away, which is what I suppose you had in mind. Is it gone?”

“It hasn’t been found.” Baker was frowning at him. “Why did he want to show it to you? Why did he want to consult you about it?”

“I suppose because he knew I’d be interested and I might be able to help. He knew that the detectives my sister had hired for over a year had reported to me as much as to her. He knew that I never had believed Squint Hurley had killed Charlie.”

“Why hadn’t you?”

“Well, besides the evidence about the bullet, I knew Squint and the kind of man he was. I had been getting
specimens from him for years—coyotes and pronghorns and other things. I knew him.”

“Can he read?”

“What? Read? Certainly he can read.”

“How do you know he can?”

“I’ve seen him. I’ve been with him in the hills, getting hides and showing him how to handle them. I’ve given him old magazines and things—”

“Can he read writing?”

“Writing I couldn’t say.” Pellett screwed up his lips, considering. “I don’t know that I ever saw him read writing. But I should—Oh, I see! That’s it! He can’t tell you what was on that paper because he couldn’t read it? Godamighty!”

“So he says. So you never thought Hurley killed Brand?”

“No, I didn’t. And I don’t.”

“Have you any idea who did kill him?”

“No. My sister spent a fortune on high-priced detectives from San Francisco, and they never really started a trail.”

“Have you any idea who killed Jackson?”

“Yes. I have.”

“You have?”

“Wait a minute.” Pellett shook his head. “Not the identity of him. But I said it to Bill Tuttle yesterday, and now that you say that paper can’t be found, I say it double. It might have been only coincidence that Dan was killed only a few hours after he got that paper from Squint Hurley, but if the paper’s gone it must have been taken from him and that couldn’t be coincidence. It’s not just guessing, it’s a cinch. It was one and the same man that killed Charlie and Dan both. And what hauls me up, it was the same man that cracked me on the skull when I went upstairs there
Tuesday afternoon. That’s when he got the bag with the gun in it. I’ve wished to God fifty times I’d let that bum walk off with that bag. Then at least Delia—my niece wouldn’t have been mixed in it.” Pellett’s lips tightened, and his shoulders sagged more than ordinarily.

Baker eyed him and said, “There are objections to that theory.”

“I know it. I’ve thought about it. Why did he want to use that particular gun so bad that he knocked me out in order to get it? And how did he know I had it—did he see me taking it from the bum that stole it? Or say he wasn’t after the gun at all, but after he knocked me downstairs he saw the bag and felt what was in it and that gave him the idea of using that gun—in that case, why was he laying for me? What did he want to ambush me for? He couldn’t have mistaken me for Jackson, even up there in the dark, because he must have known Dan was there in his office. Another thing, if he wanted that paper so bad he killed Dan to get it, why hadn’t he got it by killing Hurley, or not necessarily killing him even, long before? Sure, I know there’s objections, but when there’s no objections to a theory it stops being a theory. That’s your job, to clear them up.”

Baker grunted. “I was going to ask you about that blow you got on the head. You have no idea who did it, huh?”

“If I did—” Pellett’s lips tightened again. He said shortly, “I haven’t.”

“You didn’t hear anything or catch a glimpse of anyone?”

“All I caught was a piece of that ore right here.” Pellett touched the bandage on the side of his head.
“Anyway Dan and the doctor said it was a piece of ore.”

“And you think it was the murderer of both Brand and Jackson who did it.”

“I do. Also I think you might be a lot further along than you are now if you hadn’t lost two whole days taking it for granted—with my niece locked in a cell charged with murder—”

“Under the circumstances anyone would have taken it for granted. Her bag on the desk, her gun in her hand—”

“You learned about the bag being stolen yesterday noon, nearly thirty-six hours ago.”

“We learned it from you. Her uncle. Without corroboration.” The county attorney gestured. “But I admit it was unfortunate and God knows I admit we’ve lost time. I’m much obliged for your theory and we’ll work on it along with others. Regarding one of the others, I’d like to ask you a question. I’d rather ask you than anybody else, and I expect you’d rather have me. It was generally known around here that before she married Dan Jackson Amy Sammis was—well, she had a good opinion of Charlie Brand. That was common knowledge. But Charlie married your sister. I was just a kid in school then. Now around three years ago there was talk. You must have heard it. It concerned Charlie Brand and Amy Jackson—God knows no one could have blamed Amy, the deal she was getting from Dan. What about it? What was there to it?”

“I don’t know,” Pellett muttered.

Baker appealed to him: “Charlie’s dead. Your sister’s dead. Amy’s life is ruined anyhow. They can’t be hurt any more, Pellett. If anyone can answer that question, you can. I don’t mean the talk, I mean the facts.”

“No.” Pellett shook his head. “I don’t know any facts. If I did know any I’d bury them. If there were any, there’s no place you can get them, thank God. My sister is dead but her memory is not and her children are not. No. No!”

“You want this murder solved, don’t you?”

“That wouldn’t solve it.”

“You don’t know whether it would or not. Your own theory may be right and it may be wrong. I have no intention and no desire—”

There was a knock on the door which led to the anteroom. Baker said come in. It opened and a man entered and closed it behind him.

“Well?”

“Mrs. Cowles says her appointment was for nine o’clock and it’s half past and she’s leaving in one minute.”

Pellett arose. Baker said, “I want to talk with you some more.”

“Not about …”

“All right. About various things. About your theory. Can you be here at eight in the morning?”

“I’ll be here.” As he went out, Pellett’s stooping shoulders were a load on his spine.

“Bring her along,” Baker told the man.

Frank Phelan said, “Quin Pellett’s right. As sure as God made little apples.”

Bill Tuttle said, “You’d better get transferred to Silverside County. It was a woman that killed Jackson and I’ve got—”

Ed Baker said, “Can it.”

Wynne Cowles was dressed up. In her suite at the Fowler she had a wardrobe which would have been adequate for any of the capitals of gaiety on either side of the Atlantic and, since her own opinion of her appearance
was the only one she cared much about, she attended to it in Cody much as she would have done in Juan-les-Pins or White Sulphur. She looked as out of place in that courthouse office as had Squint Hurley, but not at all as if she felt out of place. As she dropped into the chair indicated by Baker, she let her shimmering yellow wrap fall from her shoulders and drape itself on the chair’s back; and the three men, sitting down again, evidently found it necessary to study her. At night her pupils were elliptical only in a bright light or when contracted by an impulse from within. They were so now. She directed them at Ed Baker and told him energetically, “You got me here by a trick.”

“On the contrary, Mrs. Cowles, I—”

“Yes you did, though perhaps you didn’t know it. I agreed to come only because I thought I might get a shot in for the Brand girl, and as soon as I get to town I learn that you’ve set her free and she’s all cleared up. I came anyway because I had said I would.” She glanced at a circlet of emeralds on her wrist. “We start dancing over at Randall’s at ten o’clock, so if I’m suspected of shooting Dan Jackson you only have a little over twenty minutes to make me confess.” She turned abruptly to Bill Tuttle: “Yes, I have very nice arms and I’m glad you admire them.”

Baker said with creditable aplomb, “I’ll be as brief as I can, Mrs. Cowles, and we’ll postpone your confession till tomorrow. All I know is that you were having an argument with Jackson in his office when Delia Brand got there Tuesday afternoon around four o’clock. Is that right?”

She shrugged the admired shoulders. “Call it an argument. I went there to make a face at him.”

“Did he threaten to run you out of the state?”

She smiled. “I believe he actually did.”

“Did he yell at you to keep your hands off of him?”

She frowned; her face was always doing something. “That doesn’t sound likely. I don’t try pawing and clawing very often. Of course you got this from Delia Brand, and she looks as if she might have some imagination—Oh! That must be it. He was telling me to keep my hands off of the grubstaking business and especially he didn’t want me—but I guess that’s confidential.”

“Is that what the argument was about, the grubstaking business?”

“Yes.” She twisted her lips into a little grimace. “Are you thinking of the dear dead past, Mr. Baker? I’ll tell you about that. When I was in Cody two years ago I heard about grubstaking and it sounded fascinating—having men working for you, partners, dozens and scores of them, out in these old hills, looking for gold and silver in the rocks—and other things. I decided to take a hand in it, I like to take a hand in things, and I was told that Charlie Brand knew more about it than all the others put together, so I went after him. Without shame, you know? We all try whatever keys we have on a door we want to get through. But my keys didn’t fit with him. He was worse than contrary, he was absolutely deaf and blind. I was about to give him up when the news came that he had been found murdered. That shocked me naturally, but I was still fascinated by the idea of grubstaking and it seemed that Charlie Brand’s partner would be the best place to get the necessary information. I like to do things, but I like to know what I’m doing and do them right. So Dan Jackson and I became quite friendly. It worked out very well, until he learned that I had opened a little office and hired Paul Emery and had started grubstaking on my own. Naturally I wanted
the best prospectors available and the information I had got from him was quite valuable. Also that old orangutan that thinks he owns from the Rockies to the Sierras, Lem Sammis—he was foaming at the mouth. I said it’s a free country and went ahead. Then I left and Paul Emery was supposed to keep it going, but he’s not much good. When I came back a couple of weeks ago I looked into it and decided it was still worth trying. I was in Jackson’s office Tuesday afternoon having a talk with Clara Brand when Dan came in, and he promptly hit the ceiling. Clara left to keep an appointment and I stayed to quiet Dan down, because I would always rather have a friend than an enemy provided the cost is the same, but I didn’t get very far because we were interrupted by Delia Brand coming in. It wasn’t any fun anyway, so I left.” Wynne Cowles lifted a hand to catch, over her shoulder, a corner of her yellow wrap. “There. All right?”