Rex Stout (8 page)

Dol had thought that the thing to do would be to start with a smile, but she didn’t feel like smiling. Nor any smile in her voice: “I want to tell you some things. I had no idea
you would just sit here and wait for doctors and photographers. My name is Bonner. I’m a detective.”

There was a snort from the one smoking a cigarette. The one with the flat nose sounded politely amazed:

“You’re what? A detective? What kind?”

“I run a private agency in New York. A licensed detective agency.”

“You say—you run it? That’s a—well—all right. You say your name’s Bonner? Then you found this man. They want you up at the house. It was you that told the butler it was murder. How did you know that?”

Dol moved nearer. “That’s one of the things I have to tell you. Is it you I should tell? Are you going to do anything?”

“We’ll all do what we can. The first thing is to decide whether this man killed himself. Out here in the country it takes a little while to get organized. Go ahead and tell me.”

“Very well. First, the wire. Along that walk, about fifty feet back there, is a toolhouse, and on the wall is a reel of wire like that wire, and on a shelf are some pliers and some shears you could cut it with. That’s where the wire came from.”

“Good.” The trooper sounded sarcastic. “We might have found that when we got moving. That don’t explain your calling it murder.”

“The pliers or shears might have fingerprints.”

“Thanks. Go ahead.”

Dol made her back straighter. “This is something you couldn’t have found out. I don’t know whether it has anything to do with the murder or not. When I first came here about a quarter to seven, and found this here, I looked around without touching anything, and there was a crumpled piece of paper on the grass by the end of the bench. I came back here a little after seven, and pretty soon Ranth came, and then Leonard Chisholm. While I was talking with Chisholm I saw Ranth pick up the paper and put it in his pocket. I told him to put it back and he denied he had picked it up. I asked Chisholm to get it, and first he demanded it and then he took it out of Ranth’s pocket and gave it to me. Ranth said it had been in his possession all the time and that I couldn’t prove it had been on the grass and he had picked it up. Which is silly.” Dol opened her
bag and took the paper out. “Here it is if you want to look at it.”

The trooper took it and straightened it out and put the flashlight on it. Jake moved to look over his shoulder. They took their time over it. The trooper looked up to peer at Dol in the dim light:

“Who is Cleo Audrey Storrs?”

“Mrs. Storrs. Mr. Storrs’ wife. Widow.”

The trooper grunted, undid a button of his jacket, and folded the paper and stowed it away inside. “What makes you think this had nothing to do with the murder?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t know whether it had or not.”

“Oh. Was that what you said? Then it wasn’t this paper that made you think it was murder. Was it?”

“No. I—” Dol hesitated. She resumed: “You know, I really am telling you things. The way you act, your tone of voice—it sounds as if you were dragging them out of me. You aren’t, you know.”

“Yeah. That’s all right, go ahead. You’ve been going to tell me why you told the butler it was murder.”

“I am prepared to. I told him it was murder because I was perfectly certain that Storrs was not a man to kill himself under any conceivable circumstances, and absolutely not in any circumstance which I had reason to suppose existed. I knew him fairly well.”

“Was that all?”

“That was all.”

“Not hardly enough,” the trooper said drily. “After all, it’s a serious matter to go saying a man’s been murdered. And you a detective. There might be circumstances you didn’t know about.”

Dol nodded. “I realized that. Later, when I came back here after telling Belden to phone the police. I saw that I had jumped to a conclusion when I had no right to, so I looked around more. That was when I found the reel of wire in the toolhouse. Then I came here and looked, and found real proof.”

“Proof of murder?”

“Yes.”

“Here?” He sounded skeptical.

Dol affirmed, “Yes. Part of it was what I heard you talking about—about jumping off the bench and kicking it back and so on. I thought you couldn’t tell for sure about that without trying it. But something else seemed quite certain. May I have the flash?”

He handed it to her, and she aimed it at the trunk of the tree some four yards away, and slowly moved the beam up and down. She said, “You see that spiral—the way the wire winds around. Did you look at that?”

“Yeah, I saw it.”

“Well, it seemed to me that was no way to fasten a wire. Not even for a man who never did it before. I thought I was a fair subject for experiment, because I have never fastened a wire to a tree in my life, so I imagined myself doing it. Here I am with a wire I am going to hang myself with. I drop one end over the limb and leave it dangling at the right height, and take the other end to the trunk to fasten it. It is much longer than I need. What do I do? I might bend it around that crotch and maybe pass it around a few times, and then twist it around itself so it couldn’t slip; or I might secure it to that limb a little lower—that one—; or I might wind it around the trunk itself and end with a twist, but if I did so I would certainly wind it straight around, and anybody in the world would.”

The trooper muttered, “Somebody didn’t.”

Dol nodded impatiently. “But not a man who was going to hang himself with it. Not a man who had the wire free and could take his time and fasten it as he pleased. Look at it! Imagine that you are there by the trunk with the wire in your hands, and it passes through the crotch and up over the limb and down again, and there at the end it is looped around the neck of a man you are trying to murder. The man is on his feet now and fighting it, and perhaps trying to rush at you. What do you do? You pull on the wire with all your might. Maybe in desperation the man foolishly tries to jump up and reach the limb. You pull on the wire and catch him that way, in midair, and you’ve got him. But now there is a terrific pull on the wire because it is holding the man up, and you don’t dare to release an ounce of your pull. But you’ve got to fasten it somehow. What do you do? You pull the wire hard against the trunk of the tree, and you begin
to walk around the trunk, holding the wire tight, and when you’ve encircled the trunk four times the wire is twining around it in a spiral and the pull of the weight of the body is so diminished that it is easy for you to work the end of the wire under the last circle of the spiral and twist it there.”

Dol held the flashlight out to the trooper. She said, with a suggestion of a tremble in her voice, “I think that’s proof. A man would fasten a wire to a tree like that if there was a heavy weight on the other end that forced him to, and he wouldn’t if there wasn’t. No man would. Not even a woman.”

The man who had smoked the cigarette, and who had snorted at Dol’s announcement that she was a detective, had joined them to listen. He now muttered in wondering disgust, “For cripe’s sake!” Jake said nothing. The one with the flat nose had taken the flashlight and walked to the tree and was examining the wire spiraling down the trunk. The others stood and watched him. He sidled around the tree, close to it, four times, following the line of the spiral with the spot of light, then for some seconds inspected the final twist at the end, where it looped around the last spiral. He snapped off the light and came back and peered at Dol in the dusk:

“You did that pretty good. You described that as if you had been here and seen it done—now don’t get sore again, it’s my nature to talk like that. I only meant what I said, you described it the way it would be. And maybe you noticed that the bark is scratched in three places, where he had a hard time poking the end through to twist it and fasten it.”

“I didn’t go that close.”

“Well, it’s like that.” The trooper was silent; Dol could see his face but dimly. He spoke again: “You say your name’s Bonner? Do you happen to know Dan Sherwood, prosecuting attorney of this county?”

“No.”

“I thought you might. He’ll be here pretty soon, any minute now. I hope. Have you got any more proof of anything?”

“No.” Dol had become aware that she was feeling painfully weak in her middle. Over an hour ago, on first finding P. L. Storrs hanging on that wire, she had felt that
she must find something to sit down on, and she hadn’t sat down yet. She felt her stomach shivering inside of her, and it didn’t seem likely that she could control it. She said, “I … I think I’ll go … to the house,” and was relieved to find that her legs seemed willing to undertake it as she turned and took a step. She heard the trooper saying something that appeared not to need any reply, and she took more steps successfully. When she was in the open, beyond the fish pool, she stood a moment, then headed up the slope.

Hearing voices, and not caring to encounter anyone, she made a wide circle to the right. It was a group of men coming down the hill, and a smaller group, two or three, behind, vague to her in the dusk; they strode rapidly along, and paid no attention to her. She aimed for the house, where lights now shone in the windows and on the side terrace.

On the ornamental bench at the left end of the terrace sat a trooper in uniform; Dol, passing, tossed him a glance. The living-room was empty, and the reception hall; there seemed to be no noise anywhere; Dol turned back and went to the dining-room. It was lit and Belden was standing there, and the table was properly laid for eight, but only two places were occupied. On the far side sat Len Chisholm, frowning as he dipped meat sauce over a potato, and across from him was Steve Zimmerman, his mouth full, hastily chewing.

Belden advanced, bowing, and the two men stood up. Dol’s stomach began to feel queer again. She asked, “Where’s Mrs. Storrs?”

“I don’t know.” Len sounded savage. “I guess upstairs. Come and eat something.”

“I don’t think … not now. Where’s Sylvia?”

“I don’t know that either.”

Zimmerman spoke: “She’s up front with Martin. That room with the plants in it.”

Len said, “Come and eat while it’s hot. Get some nourishment.”

Dol shook her head and turned and left them. At the foot of the wide stairs in the hall she stood a moment but could hear no sound from above, then went on through another
room to get to the front of the house. In the sun room, on a couch in a recess with palms, sat Sylvia and Martin Foltz.

Sylvia jumped up and ran to her. “Doll Dol, what is this? Where have you been? Dol, what
is
it?” She seized Dol’s arms.

Martin was there. He looked worn out and helpless, and he appealed to Dol: “For God’s sake, why didn’t you come to her? Why didn’t you tell her yourself? She wanted to go down there. I couldn’t let her do that, could I? For God’s sake, Dol, what’s happened?”

Dol drew Sylvia back toward the couch; there was a seat at last. Her voice, never harsh, was now: “Sylvia dear. You buck up. You too, Martin. It’s awful and it’s going to be awful. There’s nothing to do but take it.”

Daniel O. Sherwood was a good politician, of the plump and ruddy type. He was a fairly competent prosecuting attorney but was sometimes handicapped, in his efforts to promote justice, by his incurably benevolent attitude toward persons of standing and repute in the community. He was constitutionally disinclined to severity, except in those cases where it was obviously deserved, and prudence and experience had taught him that people who have servants and three automobiles very seldom deserve it. He was under forty and thought he might be governor some day.

At nine o’clock Sunday morning he sat in the card room of the house at Birchhaven. It was a large room with a piano in one corner and many shelves filled with books, but was called the card room instead of music room or library because, while the piano was never played and the books not often read, it saw a good deal of bridge. Sherwood was on a straight-backed chair at a table; beside him sat a
middle-aged man with spectacles and big ears, possibly a good lawyer but not the type that might be governor some day; and across from him was Colonel Brissenden of the state police, tanned and tough-looking but not without military elegance. A trooper was in an easy chair over by the door.

Sherwood was saying, “I understand that, Miss Bonner. I grant that. I believe you and I think Ranth is lying when he says he picked nothing up. As you say, how could you possibly have known there was a paper in his righthand coat pocket unless you had seen him put it there? But you must remember that when we’re investigating a crime and we uncover a fact, we must not only uncover it, we must be prepared to prove it. A jury might believe you against Ranth, that you saw him pick something up, but a lawyer would demonstrate our inability to prove that what he picked up was what was later taken from his pocket. There’s a connection, of course, but there is also a doubt.”

Dol did not look fresh. The whites of her caramel-colored eyes were not too clear, and there was no glow to her. She sat at the end of the table facing the three men, and seemed now to be considering what Sherwood had said. Finally she told him, with no animation:

“Very well. I had not realized that that could be a point. I mean that the paper taken from his pocket was the one he had picked up. I know it was because I had looked at it. I had picked it up and straightened it out and read it, and then crumpled it and put it back again.”

Colonel Brissenden growled, “You didn’t say that.”

“I think I told the trooper that.”

“No.”

“I think I did. Even if I didn’t, what’s the difference? That’s what happened. That’s how I am sure it was the same paper.”

Sherwood asked, “You’d swear to that?”

“Of course I would.”

“The paper on the grass was the promissory note to George Leo Ranth, signed by Mrs. Storrs?”

“It was.”

“All right, it’s your word for it. No one saw you.” Sherwood opened a manila folder on the table before him
and shuffled through a pile of papers. Around the middle of the pile he looked one over, then leaned back in his chair. “You seem to be quite intelligent, Miss Bonner. I don’t mind saying that last night we felt indebted to you. You had that piece of paper taken from Ranth, and you turned it over to Sergeant Quill. You called Quill’s attention to the way the wire was fastened to the tree, and that was clever. Very clever. We appreciate that. I had a little talk with you and then I started in on the others because you hadn’t arrived until six o’clock and so probably were not here when the murder was committed. Then I had a few more questions for you, and you took a most indefensible position. That’s why I’m beginning with you this morning. You stated that you came here yesterday at Mr. Storrs’ request, to see him on business, and refused to tell what the business was. You admitted it might possibly be connected with the murder. Your idea that it was a privileged communication is nonsense; you’re not a lawyer.”