Rex Stout (24 page)

“Oh.” The prospector slowly shook his head. “That don’t make it any better. I expect you’ll find it makes it worse. But I’m no good as a trader—if I was, I wouldn’t be reduced to asking a woman for a stake at my age. Anyhow, I ought to tell it for Charlie Brand’s sake, and by all hell, I won’t tell it to that coyote up at the courthouse. I told him too much already.”

“You mean Baker? The county attorney?”

“That’s him. He had me in there yesterday and I mentioned maybe he would stake me, and from the way he took it you might think I was a desert rat. I had already told him that that day when I got to the cabin and found Charlie Brand there dead, when I turned him over there was a piece of paper under him with writing on it, and I stuck it in my boot lining the way I do, and when I put Charlie on his horse and took him out to Sugarbowl and Ken Chambers came and began to slobber his bile, I didn’t mention the paper because I knew it wouldn’t do any good and I thought I’d better hang onto it. I never did mention it. I would have to Lem Sammis later, but he treated me like a desert rat, too. So I never mentioned it to anyone till Tuesday morning this week when I showed it to Dan
Jackson and give it to him and he put it in his wallet, and he staked me. Three hundred dollars. I paid a couple of debts, and that night like a jackass I went to The Haven with Slim Fraser and dropped it all on the wheel. So since Jackson had been glad to get that paper I thought he might put up another stake and I went upstairs to see him. That was when I found you there with that gun in your hand.”

He shifted his squint to Ty and declared, “You ain’t much of a lawyer or you’d be asking questions.”

“Go on and tell it.”

“I already told it. That’s all. That’s what I told that Baker yesterday. Except that Baker told me that the piece of paper wasn’t in Jackson’s wallet when they went over him, so whoever killed him must’ve took it, so since they didn’t even take his money from him it must’ve been the piece of paper they killed him for. So whoever killed Charlie Brand two years ago killed Dan Jackson Tuesday night. That’s plain reasoning. Then of course Baker wanted to know what was on the paper and I told him I couldn’t tell him because I could read reading but I couldn’t read writing. So I told him it was a piece of white paper about the size of my hand, and it had been folded up, and the writing on it was five or six words, and that was all I could tell him—”

“You couldn’t tell him what was written on it?”

“No, sir, I couldn’t.”

“And the paper’s gone?”

“It sure is. Took out of his wallet by whoever shot him.”

“And you say you found it under Charlie Brand’s body?”

“Yep. When I turned him over.”

“And now nobody knows what was written on the paper?”

“That’s the way it looks.”

“And this is what you came to tell Miss Brand?”

“That’s it exactly. To tell her all that, and then tell her what was written on the paper if she thinks she might like to know.”

They both stared. “But you said you couldn’t read it.”

“No I didn’t. I said I told that Baker I couldn’t read it. After he acted the way he did about the grubstake—”

“Oh.” Ty was squinting back at him. “I get you. You want a stake. If Miss Brand will stake you, you’ll tell her what was on the paper.”

“That’s about it.”

“What if there never was any such paper? What if you made all this up?”

Hurley grunted. “That would be too bad. It sure would. But I didn’t make it up. I lugged that paper around with me for two years.”

“What if Miss Brand refuses to stake you? What are you going to do then?”

“That’s just the hell of it.” Hurley looked disgusted. “I’ll have to tell her what was on the paper anyway. She’s Charlie Brand’s girl and she has a right to know. But I’m telling you that place I know down on the Cheeford range—”

“I’ll stake him, Ty,” Delia blurted. “I have enough saved up so—”

“I’ll stake him myself.” Ty pulled papers and envelopes from his pocket, dumped them on the table, and found a checkfold among them. From another pocket he took a fountain pen and laid it on the checkfold. “All right, Hurley. Tell us what was on the paper, and I’ll give you a check now, or if you prefer cash—”

“I don’t want it now. I don’t want it till they’re
letting me leave this town.” The old prospector’s lips twitched with an eagerness he could not conceal, and the tips of his fingers, one missing, were rubbing the table cover. “You mean you’ll stake me? Up to three hundred dollars?”

“Yes.”

“Half and half?”

“Whatever is usual.”

“All right.” His lips twitched again. “You don’t sound much like a lawyer. All right. What was on that paper was ‘Mountain cat ready for prey four hundred and fifty WD.’ ”

Delia exclaimed, “Mountain cat!”

Ty said urgently, “Wait a minute! Was it written in pencil or ink?”

“Ink. Black ink.”

“Was it—would you know if it was in Charlie Brand’s handwriting?”

“It wasn’t. I knew Charlie’s writing. This was big and round and heavy.”

“Was the whole thing written right along on one line?”

“No. ‘Mountain cat’ was on one line and below that was ‘ready for prey’ and below that was the ‘four hundred and fifty’ and below that was ‘WD.’ ”

“Was the four hundred and fifty written out or in figures?”

“In figures. Just a four and a five and a zero, no decimals or anything. Then the ‘WD’ was in capital letters, at the bottom.”

Delia exclaimed, “Ty! I tell you the ‘mountain cat’ stood for Wynne Cowles! I tell you it did! She was after Dad just then, trying to find out about his business—he used to joke about it at home—”

“It might have,” Ty conceded, “or it might not.
Wynne Cowles is certainly always ready for prey. But the ‘WD’ sounds like a signature, initials. WD?”

“I don’t know. But the ‘mountain cat’ is Wynne Cowles.”

“Possibly. Do you know anyone whose initials are WD, Hurley?”

“Nope. I’ve had that in my head for two years.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t Brand’s own writing?”

“As sure as sand eats water.”

“You say the paper was under him? How, under him?”

“Just under him. I turned him over to get a hold to carry him out to the horse and the paper was there, folded up.”

“It might have been there before he ever got there.”

“Damn lawyer,” Hurley said impatiently. “Who put it there? I had been in and out of that cabin for two months and no one else.”

“It might have been just a paper he had with him and it fell out of his wallet when the murderer was going through him for the money.”

“Charlie Brand never carried a wallet. When he had a bulk of money like that he kept it belted to him, and papers, receipts and things, in a little leather case he could put in a saddlebag. It was there with the saddle on a post outdoors—hadn’t been opened.” Hurley’s eyes were buried by his squint. “If you want to know how that paper got there I’ll tell you.”

“You mean you know?”

“I mean I’ll tell you. I ain’t a lawyer, but I can figure out how a thing worked. I’ve had two years to figure this. The fellow that killed him left the road about two miles north of Sugarbowl, across the hills on the hoof—”

“Why two miles north?”

“Because that’s the only place along that road you can hide a car where it won’t be seen, where them cliffs are.”

“Why on the hoof? Why not on a horse?”

The prospector looked disgusted. “And exactly where the hell would he get a horse and no one know it?”

“All right. Go ahead.”

Delia put in, “That’s right about the money belt and the leather case. He always took them on a trip.”

“Sure he did. Who says he didn’t? So this fellow hoofs it across the hills and gets to the cabin before Charlie does—”

“Why before?”

“Because Charlie was riding Bert Oakley’s palomino he had got at Sugarbowl, and he had tied him to a post just outside the cabin door. That horse has got a habit when he’s tied, if anybody comes anywhere near except the man that’s riding him, he snorts fit to rip a gut. Charlie would have heard him and gone to the door, and he probably would have got his gun out with all that money on him. But his gun was still in the holster, and where he fell and died he was all of ten, twelve feet away from the door. So the fellow was already there, hid in the cabin.”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, Charlie comes in and the fellow shoots him. It only takes one shot, as close as that. What he wants is the money and he goes after it in a hurry because he don’t know I’m going to be five or six hours late on account of my leg. That belt is good and bulky, and he takes off his coat or jacket so he can strap the belt up high on him and when he puts the coat back on it will be covered when he’s hoofing it back. Them hills is
plenty lonesome, but it always might be someone sees him. He thinks I might be coming any minute and he’s nervous and he works fast, trying to get the belt off, and he don’t notice that when he jerks his coat off a piece of paper drops out of a pocket. When he turns Charlie over, working at the belt, he flops him on top of the piece of paper and never sees it.”

Delia was chewing at her lip. Ty was frowning, intent. He demanded, “Why did he hoof it back? Why didn’t he take Brand’s horse?”

“I wish to God he had. Even Ken Chambers couldn’t have locked me up if that palomino had been untied and gone and found two miles north of Sugarbowl. That fellow was smart enough to let the horse alone. Speaking of which.” Hurley squinted at Delia and back at Ty. “Ken Chambers is in Cody now. For all I know he was there Tuesday night when Jackson was killed. Whoever killed Jackson took that piece of paper from him. All I’m doing is telling you what was on that paper, but if I was you and I was really smart I’d get so curious about Ken Chambers I’d split my britches.”

“Do you think Ken Chambers killed Brand?”

“I ain’t saying I think. I say I’d be curious.”

“Have you any reason to suspect him? Any evidence?”

“Just common sense. I know him, that’s all.”

“Could he have done it? Where was he that day?”

“I don’t know. That’s part of what I meant I’d be curious about.” Ty shook his head, scowling, and was silent.

Delia said, “It couldn’t have been Chambers if the ‘mountain cat’ on the paper meant Wynne Cowles. I’m sure it did, Ty. How could there have been any connection between her and Chambers?”

“I don’t know, Del.” Ty let her have the scowl. “That damn paper that no one has even seen except Hurley here, and now it’s gone.” He shifted the scowl again. “Was it good paper or cheap paper?”

“Well—it was white paper.”

“Nothing else on it at all, nothing printed.”

“Not a derned thing.”

“Was it cheap and easy to tear like newspaper, or was it good tough nice white paper?”

“I didn’t tear it. It was just white paper.”

“You carried it in your boot lining for two years. Did it begin to come apart where it was folded?”

“No, it hung together all right. Of course it didn’t improve any as it went along. It got kinda seedy.”

“About as big as your hand?”

“About that. Maybe a little bigger.”

“What was the writing—wait a minute.” From the assortment on the table which he had taken from his pocket with the checkfold, Ty took an envelope, and on the back of it, with his fountain pen, wrote “mountain cat.” He handed it to Hurley, “Was the writing anything like that?”

The prospector squinted at it. “Not a bit. Bigger and more ink.”

“Forget the ink. That depends on the kind of pen you use. Just the kind of writing. Here, Del, you write it. Mountain cat.”

She wrote it on another envelope. Hurley took it and shook his head at it. “That’s even worse.”

“Well, here. Give him the pen, Del. Write it down yourself, as near as you can the way it looked.”

“Not me.” Hurley didn’t take the pen. “Except my name, I ain’t wrote more than a hundred words in forty years.”

“Try it.”

“No, sir. I could do it better with a pick on a chunk of rock.”

“But I just want to get an idea what the writing was like. Turn over that envelope and look on the other side. Was it anything—oh, it’s typewritten. Look at that other one. Anything like that?”

Hurley looked at the inscription on the envelope. “A little more, but not much. This is stubby.”

“Try this one.” Ty tossed another envelope across.

Hurley picked it up. As he regarded it, his lips slowly parted and his squint widened until he nearly had eyes. He lifted them from the envelope and gazed at Ty. “By—all—hell,” he said incredulously. “That’s it!”

“What’s it?”

“That’s the same writing! That’s it!”

Delia reached across and snatched the envelope. She saw, written on paper of good quality:
Tyler Dillon, Esq.
,
214 Mountain Street
,
Cody, Wyoming
.

And in the upper left-hand corner, neatly printed:
Broken Circle Ranch—Cody, Wyoming
.

She dropped the envelope on the table and Ty picked it up. She said, only half a question, “Wynne Cowles.”

He nodded, glared at the envelope, and then at Hurley. “You mean the writing on the piece of paper was like this?”

“I mean it was that.” Hurley looked as if someone had pulled a coyote out of a hat. “That word ‘mountain.’ I couldn’t mistake that word ‘mountain’ as often as I’ve looked at it.”

“It looks exactly the same?”

“It is the same.”

“I’ll be damned.” Ty stared at the envelope. He
looked at Delia. “That’s luck. I got this yesterday at the office, she was sending me a paper connected with her divorce suit, and ordinarily I’d just have tossed the envelope—”

“Oh! It was a paper connected with her divorce suit?”

“Certainly. What did you think—Hey! I’m dumb and so are you! It was there anyway—that WD! Two years ago her name wasn’t Wynne Cowles, it was Wynne Durocher! She not only wrote it, she signed it!”

“I was right, Ty. Mountain cat.”

“Yeah, you were right.”

“And that paper she wrote was found under Dad’s body. So she was—she knows something about it.”

“Not necessarily. You’ve got to go at it logically.” Ty screwed up his lips. “With what Hurley says about the writing, plus the WD at the bottom, we can regard it as settled that she wrote it. Okay. Then either she dropped it in the cabin herself and she did the murder, or it was dropped there by someone else and she knows who she gave it to. That’s easy. Ask her when she wrote that paper and what she did with it. But it’s not so easy if she dropped it in the cabin herself. In that case, since the paper is gone, there’s no evidence or proof of anything and it would be foolish to put her on her guard by asking her about it. So maybe that’s not the thing to do. Look here, Del. This is no time to hide anything, no matter what it is. Do you know of any motive Wynne Cowles might have had for killing your father?”