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Authors: The Hand in the Glove

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Detective and Mystery Stories, #Women Sleuths, #American Fiction

Rex Stout (10 page)

BOOK: Rex Stout
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“Who is in charge here, please? You?—You, sir? I want to discuss this business.”

6

The men at the table were on their feet. Sherwood advanced to greet Mrs. Storrs and to introduce his assistant and Colonel Brissenden. Foltz and Zimmerman pulled chairs around for others and themselves. Ranth, a little pale, stood with his hands thrust into his trouser pockets, obviously under a strong self control. Janet Storrs refused Chisholm’s offer of a chair and crossed to one at the other side of the room. Dol had left the table to meet Sylvia, and the erstwhile partners clasped hands without saying anything.
Brissenden, scowling, got back to his place and sat down again. Sherwood was saying:

“… by all means, if you prefer that chair, Mrs. Storrs … certainly. I only thought … you say you want to discuss …”

Mrs. Storrs, seated squarely facing him, nodded. There was no distinction to her costume—a jersey jacket over a pale yellow blouse, and a jersey skirt, with country shoes—but her face, never quite ordinary, aside from the quality of her eyes, had the stiff white dignity of some inner irresistible conviction. Her fingers rigidly interlocked, her hands resting on her lap, a little shiver visibly ran over her, then she sat still and asked, “You say you are in charge here?”

Sherwood said he was. “I am the prosecuting attorney for this county. I am legally in charge of the investigation. Colonel Brissenden here is giving every assistance—”

“Yes, you told me that.” Her eyes were boring into him. “I was sorry that I was unable to talk with you last night, and I do not know whether I fainted with weakness at the physical shock, or whether the spirit refused to recognize the child of its devotion, and departed. If that was it”—her voice tightened its intensity—“it is back again. I was told it had been revealed to you that my husband was destroyed.”

She stopped, apparently under the impression that she had asked a question. Sherwood hesitated: “Well … revealed, Mrs. Storrs? It seems … probably, that your husband was murdered. We are, at present, satisfied that that is so. There will be a coroner’s inquest on Tuesday, unless Dr. Flanner changes the date. The evidence of violence … the evidence that he did not kill himself—”

She shook her head impatiently. “No. I know all about that.”

“Ah, you do?”

“I know he didn’t kill himself. The impulse to destroy and to restore—but that is beyond your interest and above your understanding. I have come to tell you something, and I have brought these people with me because they were here, and while they too will be unable to understand, they should at least hear what the manifestation has been. You shall know, all of you, that the death of my
husband means my own death. He never followed me above the lower planes of comprehension, but he was my only companion in the sphere he reached, he was my only husband, and only in that sphere can I survive him. In confining myself to that, I die, but I owe that to him, for his destruction was never intended by me—”

George Leo Ranth, without moving, called sharply, “Mrs. Storrs! You are giving an entirely wrong impression!—Sir, all of you, I protest—”

“Don’t interrupt,” Sherwood snapped. “You can correct impressions later.—Yes, madam?”

Mrs. Storrs shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I was offering an apology, but my true apology can never be made now—not even to my daughter—his daughter.” She looked at Janet, seated across the room, and shook her head again. “No. I wish to talk to you—quite differently, on your own level. I can do that. My husband knew I could do that, and admired me for it.” She was silent, and stayed so for long seconds. There was no change in her expression, no faint visible effort at composure; she merely sat unmoving and silent, and no one stirred. Then she went on, “First I must make sure no mistakes have been made, nor will be. I wish to know why your men are invading all parts of my grounds, disturbing the plantings, ruining the gardens.”

“You understand, Mrs. Storrs …” Sherwood cleared his throat, and called that off. He told her briefly, “They are looking for something.”

“What are they looking for?”

“Things. Specifically, a pair of gloves.”

“Whose gloves? I am not protesting, I am inquiring. I wish to have the practical steps, the facts, explained. Have I a right to ask that?”

Sherwood nodded. “You have. If not a right, at least a privilege which we are certainly inclined to grant. If you are sure you can—you want to hear these details—”

“I do. Precisely.”

“Well. Last night we decided that someone killed your husband by fastening a loop of wire around his neck and then pulling him up, hanging him, by pulling on the other end of the wire which had been passed over a high limb of a tree. It seemed possible that the loop had been fastened
by first assaulting your husband and perhaps knocking him unconscious, but the doctor could find no indication that he had received a blow. We discussed another theory, that your husband had gone to sleep on the bench and the loop had been fastened as he lay there asleep. Questioning the servants and others, we learned that that bench was in fact your husband’s favorite spot for a summer nap. Testing the possibility of fastening such a loop without waking a man up, we found that with a man lying in a certain position it was not even difficult; the end of the wire could be passed through under his neck without touching him, pulled through carefully, brought over and a slip knot made with twists just as it was actually done, leaving a large loop. It would take only an instant to run to the tree and grab the other end of the wire and jerk it, taking up the slack in the wire and pulling the noose tight. Being awakened by a wire tightening around his neck, the natural thing for Storrs to do would be to struggle to his feet, and that would offer the chance to pull the wire some more and hold him there. Then he might try to get on the bench, and perhaps kick it over and away. If he tried rushing at the murderer, the wire would hold him. If he tried to jump to reach the limb, that would finish it—”

An agonized cry sounded: “My God, why must he—why must we—” Dol Bonner squeezed Sylvia Raffray’s shoulder hard: “Now. Now hold it.” Martin Foltz was there: “Sylvia dear, please dear—”

Mrs. Storrs’ gaze did not waver from Sherwood’s face. She said, in the tone of a priestess declaiming a dogma, “My husband would have tried to reach the man pulling the wire. He
would
have reached him.”

Sherwood shook his head. “No, madam. We have tried this thing out.—But you asked about the gloves. It was obvious that to pull that wire as hard as that would bruise a man’s hands badly—it would certainly mark them. That was why last night we examined the hands of everybody here, except yourself. We have examined hands all over this countryside. But I may say here, and I mean only what I say”—Sherwood glanced around at all the occupants of the room—“that we have been able to find no evidence of the presence here yesterday of any outsider. It is pretty
well established that no one approached that spot from the east. Other considerations—the unlikelihood of anyone going there at all unless he already knew of the place, the difficulty of a stranger’s getting in here without observation, the fact that Storrs had over three hundred dollars in his wallet and it hadn’t been touched, the method of committing the crime—no. We have about given up the idea of an outsider.”

There was a stir and a murmur. Mrs. Storrs said, “Only Siva destroys. You mean the agent is here. I believe you. And the gloves?”

“There must have been gloves. No one’s hands are marked, as they must have been without gloves. We have also been examining gloves, all we could find. Last night one of my men, wearing a pair of heavy buckskin, pulled up a 170 pound weight with a piece of that wire passed over the limb of a tree, and those gloves are marked and bruised ineradicably.” Sherwood looked around the room again. “Somewhere there is a pair of gloves marked like that. There must be. That’s what the men are looking for. I realize that on a place of this size such a search is next to hopeless, but we may find them … and by the way, Mrs. Storrs, I have a request to make. I intended to make it of you this morning, but your bringing everyone in here simplifies it a little. While we are here, I would like to instruct the men to search this house. May I do that?”

Mrs. Storrs, without any hesitation, said, “I think it may not be necessary.”

Sherwood frowned. “You’ll have to explain that. You don’t mean you know where the gloves are?”

“Oh, no. I mean … but then, you need proof. In your sphere … you will require proof?”

“Proof? Certainly.”

“Very well. You may search the house.”

Sherwood looked at Brissenden. The colonel nodded and called, “Peterson!” The trooper approached and saluted. Brissenden told him, “Tell Quill to take five men and search the house from top to bottom, and don’t mess things up. I understand you’ve already searched this room and in front? All right, tell Quill to cover the rest and do it thoroughly. Any gloves that are found are to be brought to
me, with a tag telling where they are found. Step on it, now.”

The trooper went. Mrs. Storrs spoke to the room:

“I know that the proof of fools is an impertinence to Siva and to the principles. This is a concession I am making, and if I have to pay for it I am willing to do that. Even Siva may be held to a bargain once it has been made, and the destruction of my husband was not intended. I suffer for it.” Her voice went suddenly high, half hysterical, the words forced through her constricted throat: “I tell you, I suffer for it!”

Janet Storrs, sitting with her hands clasped tight, cried softly, “Mother! Mother!”

“Yes, Janet. You too, child.” Mrs. Storrs nodded at her daughter. She looked back at Sherwood and controlled her voice to its normal intensity: “You say the agent is here? You know that? Do you know him? I would like to hear what you know.”

The attorney was regarding her steadily. “It might be better, madam,” he suggested, “if you would tell me what
you
know. I have not asked you any questions—”

“You may. But you granted me a privilege. Do you know who killed my husband?”

“No. I am counting on you to help me find out.”

“I will do that. But first I must know—I do not intend to attempt to destroy your facts. Only Siva can create facts, or destroy them, and it is Siva I am betraying, for my husband’s sake. I must know your facts. You know the agent is here, among these people. What have you found out about them?”

Sherwood glanced at Brissenden and saw by the colonel’s fierce scowl that he was hopelessly sunk; and, remembering the $50,000 promissory note among his papers, signed by Cleo Audrey Storrs, Sherwood himself would not have risked a nickel on the question, whether he was confronted by cunning guilt, or determined remorse, or complicated idiocy. He considered, and at length turned to her with an air of frank sympathy:

“I’ll tell you, Mrs. Storrs. I can only say that it seems to us likely that the man who murdered your husband is at present in this room.” He disregarded a gasp from Sylvia
Raffray and a muttering from the group, and went on, “We have narrowed it down to about fifteen people, any one of whom might conceivably have got to that spot yesterday without being observed. We can find no support for suspicion against any of the servants here, including the outdoor men, and no trace of a motive. One of the workmen from Foltz’s place could have come by the path through the woods, but there is no reason to suspect them and they give mutual alibis—except for the man in charge, Wolfram de Roode. He seems—but we’re looking into that. Of the eight left, four are women, including yourself. They are not absolutely excluded, but it seems improbable that a woman could have pulled that wire. None of the four men can prove lack of opportunity.”

The attorney shuffled among his papers and drew out one. “Your daughter has told us that at about a quarter past three yesterday afternoon Mr. Storrs left the house by way of the side terrace. Bissell, your assistant gardener, says that at about that time he saw him going down the path near the base of the slope, toward the fish pool. We have found no one who will admit seeing him between that hour and the time Miss Bonner found him dead, a little before seven o’clock. But as I said, neither do we find anyone who could not have had an opportunity. Ranth did leave this house around four o’clock, and returned some twenty minutes later—and, according to his story, went to see you in your room. Your daughter Janet was out of the house for over two hours previous to the arrival of guests. Leonard Chisholm came here alone from Foltz’s place, by the path through the woods, about four-thirty, perhaps a little earlier. He says he looked for Storrs but didn’t find him. Sylvia Raffray also walked here alone, some fifteen or twenty minutes later, and about an hour afterwards was followed by Foltz. Zimmerman had left the group at Foltz’s place before four o’clock, for a walk in the woods, and was seen by no one until half-past five, when he suddenly appeared at the stables, talked a little with one of the men, and then went to the tennis court. Those are the stories we get. I’ve made up a complete timetable of yesterday afternoon from 3:15 to 6:45, and it proves nothing and eliminates nobody.”

Sherwood shoved the paper aside, looked slowly around the room, at each face, and back at Mrs. Storrs. “We are of course being deliberately obstructed. We expect that. Those obstructions must be removed. We are told things we do not believe, and we are refused information we have a right to ask for. We are not satisfied with Miss Bonner’s explanation of her peculiar conduct, in going to the tennis court after finding the body, and spending ten minutes with you there, before returning to the house and telling Belden to notify the police. We are not satisfied with Chisholm’s statement of his failure to find Mr. Storrs when he looked for him, nor with his statement of his purpose in looking for him. We are not satisfied with Wolfram de Roode’s contradictory assertions regarding the sequence of events at Foltz’s place yesterday afternoon. We are not satisfied with Foltz’s explanation of how his woolen jacket came to be on the back of a chair in the reception hall, when the butler found it there and then found Foltz in the dining-room pouring himself a drink—Foltz having previously told us that he had entered the house by way of the sun room. We are not satisfied with Zimmerman’s flat refusal to tell us the subject of his talk, which he denies was a quarrel, with Storrs in his office yesterday morning. We are not satisfied with Ranth’s denial that he picked up a piece of paper from the grass by that overturned bench, and tried to get away with it, since we have Miss Bonner’s unequivocal testimony that he did so—”

BOOK: Rex Stout
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