Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 02 (21 page)

Judd, moving with deliberate slowness, knocked the ashes from his pipe into a tray on the table, filled it again from a pouch he fished out of his pocket, applied the lighter, and got it going well. It was through a gray-blue cloud that he finally spoke:

“You are intelligent enough, I suppose, to have considered all the possible consequences—to you, I mean—of what you’re doing?”

“Sure. Don’t let that worry you.”

“Very well. Philip’s father was Thomas Tingley, the father of Arthur Tingley.”

To cover the faulty control which permitted an involuntary start of surprise at this remarkable news, Fox coughed and got out his handkerchief. “So,” he said, “Arthur was Philip’s brother.”

“Half brother.” Judd’s face and voice were completely expressionless. “Thomas was married and had two children, a son and daughter, by his wife. The son was Arthur.”

“Was the wife still alive when—”

“Yes. My sister went to work in the Tingley factory in 1909. I was then twenty-five years old, just getting started. She was nineteen. Arthur was a year
or two younger than me. His father, Thomas, was approaching fifty. In 1911 my sister told me of her difficulty and who was responsible for it. I was making more money then, and I sent her to a place in the country. In September of that year the boy was born. My sister hated him without ever seeing him. She refused to look at him. He was placed in a charity home, and was forgotten by her and by me. At that time I was occupied with my own affairs to the exclusion of considerations that should have received my attention. Years later it occurred to me that there might be records at that place which would be better destroyed, and I had inquiries made.”

“When was that?”

“Only three years ago. I learned then what had happened. Thomas Tingley had died in 1913, and his wife a year later. Arthur had married in 1912, and his wife had died in childbirth in 1914, and the child had died too. And in 1915 Arthur had legally adopted the four-year-old boy from the charity home.”

“You’re sure it was that boy?”

“Yes. I went to see Arthur. He knew the boy was his half brother. His father, on his deathbed, had told him all about it and charged him with the child’s welfare—secretly, since at that time Thomas’s wife was still alive. Two years later, after Arthur’s wife had died and he was childless, he had decided on the adoption.”

Fox, from scribbling in his notebook, looked up. “When you saw Arthur, three years ago, did he have the records you wanted?”

“Yes, but he wouldn’t let me have them. I tried to persuade him. I offered an extravagant sum. He was stubborn, he didn’t like me, and he was bitterly disappointed in the boy, who turned out a blithering fool.”

Accounting probably, Fox thought, for Arthur Tingley’s strong feelings on the subject of unmarried mothers. He remarked, “So you made efforts to get the records by—uh—other methods.”

“No. I didn’t.” A corner of Judd’s mouth twisted faintly up. “You can’t work me into a melodrama. I don’t fit. Not even a murder. I knew Arthur’s character and had no fear of any molestation during his lifetime, and he conceded me a point. He put the papers in a locked box in his safe and willed the box and its contents to me. Not that he told me where they were. I found that out later.”

“When?”

“Three days ago.”

Fox’s brows went up. “Three
days
?”

“Yes. Monday morning Philip called at my office. I had never seen him since he was a month old, but he established his identity, and he had copies with him of those records. He demanded a million dollars as a donation to some imbecile thing he called Womon. He had it all figured out; it wasn’t to be paid to him personally; that was to avoid the income tax. A blackmailer evading the income tax!”

“What was the screw, a threat to publish?”

“Oh, no. He’s a blackguard, but he’s not a fool. He said that he came to me only because his adopted father would allow him nothing but a pittance—he said pittance—and had practically disinherited him in his will, and he wanted money for this Womon thing. Arthur had been fool enough to let him read the will, and the bequest of the locked box to me had made him smell a rat. As I say, he’s not a fool. He had stolen the box from the safe and busted it open, and there it was. His threat was not to publish, but to sue me and my sister for damages, for abandoning him as an infant.
Which of course amounted to the same thing, but that put a face on it. And was something we could not allow to happen under any circumstances, and he knew it.”

Fox nodded, with no great display of sympathy. “So why didn’t you pay him?”

“Because it was—outrageous. You don’t just scribble a voucher for a teller to hand out a million dollars.”

“I don’t, but you could.”

“I didn’t. More, because I wanted a guaranty that that would end it. For one thing, I had to be sure I was getting all the original records, and Arthur was the only one who could satisfy me on that, and he wouldn’t see me Monday. When I intimated to him on the phone what I wanted to see him about, as plainly as I dared, he took it into his head that I was only using that as an excuse to get at him, in an effort to buy his business, and the stubborn ass refused to see me. I put Philip off for a day by giving him ten thousand dollars. The next morning Arthur phoned me that the box was gone from the safe, but even then he wouldn’t come to my office or meet me somewhere, so I had to go to him.”

Fox nodded. “Tuesday morning. Name of Brown. I saw you.”

“I know you did. But for that mischance—” Judd’s quick frown was at himself, at the feeble futility of bewailing a piece of bad luck. “I went to his office, and told him of Philip’s demand and threat. He was enraged. His attitude was stupid and dangerous on account of his misconception of Philip’s character. He thought Philip could be browbeaten, and I didn’t. But what I proposed—I couldn’t do anything with him. He
would have it his way. It was left that he would talk with Philip at five o’clock that afternoon, and the three of us would have it out the next morning, Wednesday, in his office. I had to accept—”

“That won’t do.” Fox was shaking his head. “Positively not. Don’t try to bounce me off now.”

“I’m not trying anything. I am telling you, under coercion—”

“A lie, Mr. Judd. It’s no good. You were to meet at Tingley’s office Tuesday evening, not Wednesday morning. And you went there. It’s too bad that the door you want to keep shut happens to be one I must go through in order to get a murderer, but it does, and you’re going to open it. And frankly, the time’s getting short. I keep dangling Inspector Damon over you as a threat, but the fact is he’s dangling over me too, and—”

There was a knock at the door. They looked that way, and Judd said come in. The door opened and the man in uniform entered.

Judd snapped, “What is it?”

“A gentleman, sir—” The man was approaching with a salver in his hand.

“I’m busy. I’m not here. For anyone.”

“Yes, sir. But he insists—”

“Who is it? Here—bring it here!”

The salver was there, and Judd took the card and frowned at it. His eyes narrowed, bored holes in the card, and then lifted to Fox as he extended the card in his hand. Fox took it and saw what it said:

Fox met the ominous gleam of suspicion and accusation in the narrowed eyes and spoke to it:

“No.”

“If you’re playing—”

“I said no.” Fox returned the card. “Why don’t we have him in? After all, I only came to inquire about the offer Consolidated Cereals was making to buy out the business. Perhaps.” He smiled.

“I would prefer—you can wait in another room—”

The two pairs of eyes met, clashed, and decided the issue. Judd curtly told the man to bring the caller up, and the man went.

“Probably,” Fox speculated, “they’ve discovered somehow that you were the mysterious Mr. Brown of Tuesday morning. They’re thorough as the devil on that kind of thing. Your handling of that is of course your own business, but if I may offer a little advice, don’t repeat in Damon’s presence your suggestion about my waiting in another room. It might be embarrassing, because I don’t intend to.”

Guthrie Judd, gently and rhythmically rubbing the tips of his fingers against each other, made no reply, and no other movement or sound until he turned his head at the opening of the door, and arose to greet the visitor.

Inspector Damon crossed the room and, when he saw that a hand was going to be offered, shifted a leather bag he was carrying from his right to his left, to be able to accept the courtesy. Fox, also on his feet, was inwardly amused as well as impressed by the complete lack of surprise or curiosity resulting from his own, surely unexpected, presence. When his turn came he extended a hand.

“Good evening, Inspector.”

“Hello, Fox. How are you?” There was not even
conventional cordiality in Damon’s voice, and his eyes were not even more morose than usual. He turned back: “I’m sorry to have to break in on you, Mr. Judd.”

“Quite all right,” said Judd crisply. “Sit down. What can I do for you?”

“Why—” Damon shot a glance at Fox. “I’m afraid I have to discuss a very confidential matter with you. If you want to finish your business with Mr. Fox first, I can wait—”

“No no. A confidential matter? Go ahead. I’ve found—that Fox’s discretion can be trusted. Go right ahead.”

“I would much prefer,” Damon insisted, “to discuss it with you privately.”

“But I wouldn’t,” said Judd sharply. He sat down. “Please get it over with, Inspector. You were admitted, at a moment when I am fairly busy, as a courtesy due your position. Please tell me what you want.”

“I assure you, Mr. Judd, you may regret—”

“I never regret anything.”

Damon gave it up, sat down and placed a leather bag on the floor in front of him, and hunched over and released the catches and opened it. He straightened up to look at Judd:

“A parcel post package addressed to me by name was delivered at police headquarters at five o’clock this afternoon. It was mailed at 34th Street this morning. Wrapped in brown paper, tied with string, address handprinted with a lead pencil.” He bent and got an object from the bag and rested it on his knees. “This was in it. May I ask, have you ever seen it before?”

Judd said, “No.”

Damon’s eyes moved. “Since you’re here, Fox. Have you?”

Fox shook his head. “Not guilty.”

“As you see,” said Damon, “It’s a metal box with a lock, the kind sold by stores as a bond box, best quality, heavy, pretty good lock. Here on the top the letters ‘GJ’ have been roughly engraved, probably with the point of a knife. The first thing about it is this: a box of this description, including the ‘GJ’ on its top, was left to you by Arthur Tingley in his will. The police commissioner asked you about it this morning, and you stated you knew nothing of such a box and had no idea what it might contain. You remember that, Mr. Judd?”

“I do,” Judd acknowledged. “Hombert told me the will said the box would be found in the safe in Tingley’s office, and it wasn’t there.”

“That’s right. The second thing is, the lock has been forced. It was like that when the package was opened. The third thing is the contents.” The inspector regarded Judd. “Do you wish to trust them also to Fox’s discretion?”

“How do I know? I—go ahead.”

“Very well.” Damon opened the lid. “Item one, a pair of shoes.” He held them up for inspection, and nothing could have been more incongruous in that room and atmosphere as the focus for those stares. They had been worn by a small child, and well worn, so that their surfaces were scuffed, their toes curled up, their soles thin and frayed.

Damon put them on the rug by a leg of his chair. “Item two, a printed folder of the Metropolitan Trust Company, with a list of its officers and a statement of its condition as of June 30, 1939. A circle has been
made, with a pen and ink, around the name of Guthrie Judd, President, and a similar circle around the sum of the total resources, six hundred thirty million dollars and something.”

He returned the folder to the box and produced the next exhibit. “Item three, a large Manila envelope. It was sealed, but the wax has been broken and the flap slit open. On the outside, in Arthur Tingley’s handwriting, is this inscription: ‘Confidential. In case of my decease, to be delivered intact to Guthrie Judd. Arthur Tingley. July 9, 1936.”’

Judd had a hand extended. “Then it’s mine.” His tone was sharp and peremptory. “And you opened it—”

“No, sir, I didn’t.” Damon showed no indication to turn loose the envelope. “It had already been opened. It is unquestionably your property, and eventually it will be handed over to you, but we shall keep it for the present. Under the circumstances. It contains the birth certificate of ‘Baby Philip,’ dated September 18, 1911, four pages from the records of the Ellen James Home regarding the sojourn in that institution of a young woman named Martha Judd, and a written statement, holograph, dated July 9, 1936, signed by Arthur Tingley. Also a certificate of the legal adoption of Philip Tingley by Arthur Tingley, dated May 11, 1915. If you wish to inspect these documents, now, in my presence—”

“No,” Judd snapped. “I demand the immediate surrender of the box and its contents to me.”

Damon regarded him sourly. “For the present, sir—”

“I’ll replevy.”

“I doubt if you can. Evidence in a murder case—”

“That has nothing to do with Tingley’s murder.”

“I hope it hasn’t.” Damon sounded as if he meant it. “You can imagine how much I relished coming here. A man like you and a thing like this. I’m only a cop and you know what you are. I tell you frankly the district attorney should have handled it, and he got from under and wished it onto me. So it’s a job, and that’s that. You have a sister named Martha. Was she at the Ellen James Home in the year 1911?”

Guthrie Judd folded his arms. “It would have been sensible of you,” he said icily, “to follow the district attorney’s example. You’ll hear from a lawyer in the morning.” He aimed a finger at the box. “I advise you to leave that here. It’s mine.”

“Then you decline to answer any questions about it?”