Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 02 (24 page)

He stopped short, with his voice, but not with his hand.

The next thirty seconds were comic relief. When Damon and Drucker saw, as they did, that an object
on the shelf had been concealed under the hat and that Fox was grabbing it, they made for him. Fox, seizing it, held it in the air out of their reach, and they attacked him, jumped for it, pulled at him. It was like a boy protecting an apple against the raid of hungry and covetous pals.

“Prints, you damned fool!” Drucker screamed.

“Let go! Cut it out!” Fox shook them off and back-stepped away. “To hell with prints! I’m not interested in prints.” They stood and glared at him as he raised the object—a little glass jar with no cover—to his nose and sniffed at it. “I’m interested in something else. Who found it, anyhow? Let me alone.” He got a penknife from his pocket and opened a blade, with its tip dug out a little of the stuff in the jar, and conveyed it to his mouth. While his lips and cheeks moved to facilitate dissolution in that primitive laboratory retort, the others watched in silent fascination.

“Brrr,” he said, and made a horrible face, holding the jar out to Damon. “Grand for a febrifuge. Have a little.”

The inspector took the jar. “And you knew it was under the hat,” he said grimly. “And you either put it there yourself Tuesday night, expecting us to find it, or you—”

“You’re a tadpole,” said Fox, loud enough to stop him. “You make me sick, and if you’ll send your subordinates from the room I’ll tell you what else you make me. Also it’s midnight and I’m going home. It takes me over an hour to get there, and during that time I’ll be trying to tidy up the inside of my head. I’ll be back here at ten in the morning, and I respectfully request you to meet me here with the box, the jar, Miss Duncan, Mr. Cliff, Philip, and Guthrie Judd. If you
want me to bring Judd, phone me before I leave home, which will be at 8:40. I presume that Miss Murphy and Miss Yates and Mr. Fry will be on the premises. I did not know that the jar was under the hat, and it was a moment I shall never forget.”

A
my Duncan sat on a wooden straight-backed chair, with her eyes downcast, her hands tightly clasped in her lap, and a weary tenseness in every muscle of her body. It was the first time she had been in that room since, sixty-two hours before, she had regained consciousness there on the floor and opened her eyes on the most hideous sight she had ever seen. She had had to control a shudder of repugnance when she had entered some minutes previously; now she sat numbly waiting for whatever was going to be done. Without having to move her eyes, she looked at her wrist watch; it was ten after ten. It was bright and sunny outside, and when she raised her heavy lids the glare from the windows, which she as well as others was facing, made her blink with discomfort.

There was no one there she cared to talk to, even if conversation had been in order, which it apparently wasn’t. There were seven other persons in the room, and several empty chairs, brought in for the occasion. Not far from her on the left was a man she didn’t know—a man more than twice her age, well-dressed, erect on his chair, his mouth tight in the control of
acerbity. She had heard him addressed as Mr. Judd. Beyond him was Leonard Cliff, and beyond Cliff was her cousin Philip. Toward the windows a man was seated at a table with a notebook open in front of him, and standing behind him was Inspector Damon. On the table was a leather bag. Another man was seated in the rear, near the door, and still another was standing by the safe, which was at her right. No one was saying anything.

The door which led to the factory opened, and Carrie Murphy entered. Amy nodded at her and she nodded back. She was followed by Mr. Fry, Miss Yates, and Tecumseh Fox. While Fox crossed to join Inspector Damon, the other three sought empty chairs and occupied them.

Fox muttered to Damon, “Okay.”

Damon morosely surveyed the faces before him and said loudly, “This is an official inquiry.” It came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat. “I announce that because Mr. Fox is going to say some things and ask some questions, and he is not connected with the police, but that’s our business and not yours. Everything said here will be taken down and will be a part of the official record. Mr. Guthrie Judd asked permission to have a lawyer present and it was refused. He is completely at liberty to say nothing or to say anything he wants to, and that is true of all of you.” He shot a glance at the man with the notebook. “Got that, Corey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Damon folded his arms. “Go ahead, Fox.”

Fox moved to one side of the table, faced the little audience, and spoke in a quiet and even pleasant tone. “I’m going to ask you only about things I already know, and for the most part things you’ve already
told me, so there really shouldn’t be much to it. Also, I’ll make it brief if you will. Miss Murphy; did you go to Miss Yates’s apartment around 7:30 Tuesday evening to discuss something with her?”

Carrie Murphy nodded, and, as Fox waited, said, “Yes,” in a low tone.

“Did she call someone on the phone?”

“Yes.”

“Whom did she call and at what time?”

“Mr. Arthur Tingley. It was eight o’clock, just a minute or two before.”

“At his home or his office?”

“At his office. She tried his home first, but he wasn’t there, so she called here and got him.”

They were all looking at Carrie, and Philip was staring at her in unconcealed astonishment. Fox went on:

“Did you talk to Tingley yourself? Did you hear his voice?”

“No, but it was him. What she said—it must have been him.”

Fox’s eyes moved. “Miss Yates. Is Miss Murphy’s statement correct?”

“It is,” said Miss Yates firmly.

“You recognized Tingley’s voice?”

“Certainly. I’ve been hearing it all my life—”

“Of course you have. Thanks. Mr. Philip Tingley; on Tuesday afternoon did your father—let’s just say father, shall we?—did he ask you to come here at 7:30 that evening?”

“Yes!” Phil said, loudly and aggressively.

“For what purpose?”

“To have—to discuss something with him and that man.” Phil pointed with a long bony rigid finger. “Guthrie Judd.”

“Did you come?”

“Yes, but not at 7:30. I was ten minutes late.”

“Did you enter the building and come to this room?”

“Yes! And I saw Arthur Tingley on the floor behind the screen, dead, and I saw Amy Duncan there, too, unconscious, and I felt her pulse and—”

“Of course. Naturally, being human, you displayed humanity. Are you sure Arthur Tingley was dead?”

“I am. If you had seen him—”

“I did see him. His throat had been cut?”

“Yes, and the blood had spread on the floor until it was only a few inches away from Amy’s face—”

“Thank you,” Fox said curtly, and moved his eyes. “Mr. Leonard Cliff. Did you follow Amy Duncan from her apartment to this building on Tuesday evening?”

Amy’s head jerked sidewise. Cliff’s remained stationary. He spoke in a muffled tone: “I did, as I told you.”

“What time did you arrive?”

“About ten minutes after seven.”

“Miss Duncan entered this building?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do from then until eleven minutes after eight, when she came out again?”

“I stood in the entrance of the driveway tunnel. It was raining.”

“Did you see Philip Tingley arrive at 7:40?”

“I did, and I saw him come out again seven or eight minutes later.”

“Did you see anyone else arrive?”

“Yes, before that. At 7:30 a limousine drove up and stopped directly in front, and a man got out and crossed the sidewalk to the entrance with the driver holding an umbrella over him.”

“Wait a minute!” Inspector Damon said peremptorily, stepping forward. His eyes met Fox’s. “We’ll stop this right here.” He faced Cliff and snapped at him. “Did you enter the building?”

“No.”

“What were you doing here? Why did you follow Miss Duncan?”

Cliff’s mouth opened and shut. He looked appealingly at Fox.

Fox plucked at Damon’s sleeve. “Inspector, please. This is on the record, you know, and we don’t need that detail. Take my word for it. Or get it later. It’ll keep—Mr. Cliff, what was the registration number on the limousine?”

“GJ55.”

“And who was the man who got out and entered this building?”

“To the best of my belief, it was Guthrie Judd. It was dark and rainy and I wasn’t able—”

“We understand that. How long did he stay in the building?”

“Five minutes. Between four and six minutes.”

“He came out and got in the limousine and it drove off?”

“Yes.”

Fox nodded, and shifted his gaze. “Mr. Guthrie Judd.”

The two pairs of eyes met in mid-air like gamecocks leaping for the thrust of battle, but then Fox smiled at him.

“Well, sir,” Fox said, “it looks as if we need you for a referee. Miss Yates says Tingley was alive at eight o’clock, and Philip says he was dead at 7:40. We’d like to hear from you what shape he was in at 7:30. You were inside the building five minutes. You can of
course say that you didn’t come upstairs, or that you came to this room and found it empty, but we wouldn’t believe you, and neither would a judge or jury. What may be more to the point in your case, nor would ten million newspaper readers.”

There was movement in the muscles of Judd’s jaw.

“You realize,” Fox went on, “that I am not bound, as the law officers are, to protect the embarrassing secrets of prominent people from the public curiosity. And probably newspaper readers would be even more interested in the contents of that box with GJ on it than in your brief visit here Tuesday evening. Not only the story itself, which is full of human interest, but those shoes! A pair of baby shoes—”

“He was dead,” said Judd, biting the words off.

“Ah! Then you did come up to this room?”

“Yes. He was on the floor with his throat cut. Near him was a young woman I had never seen, unconscious. I was in the room less than a minute. I had come through all the doors to this room with some hesitation, because I had heard no sound and had stopped in the anteroom to call Tingley’s name, and had got no response. I returned—cautiously. Under the circumstances.”

Fox nodded. “I suppose that could have taken five minutes. I am not a policeman, and I’m certainly not the district attorney, but I think it is quite likely that you will never be under the necessity of telling this story in a courtroom. They won’t want to inconvenience you. However, in the event that a subpoena takes you to the witness stand, are you prepared to swear to the truth of what you have just said?”

“I am.”

“Thank you very much.” Fox’s gaze swept an arc to include the others. “You see what we’re up against.
According to Miss Yates, Tingley was alive at eight o’clock, and according to Philip and Judd, he couldn’t have been.” His gaze suddenly fixed. “Are you still positive it was Tingley you talked to, Miss Yates?”

She met his eyes squarely. “I am.” Her voice was perfectly controlled. “I don’t say they’re lying. I don’t know. I only know if it was someone imitating Arthur Tingley’s voice, I’ve never heard anything to equal it.”

“You still think it was him.”

“I do.”

“Why did you tell me—on Wednesday, there in the sauce room—why did you tell me that when you got home Tuesday evening you stood your umbrella in the bathtub to drain?”

“Because I—”

She stopped, and it was easy to tell from her face what happened. An alarm had sounded. Some nerve band had carried the lightning message: “Look out!” Any eye might have seen it, and to a trained eye it was so patent that Inspector Damon emitted a little growl and involuntarily straightened his shoulders. All were looking at her.

“Why,” she asked, her soprano voice a shade thinner than it had been, but quite composed, “did I say that? I don’t remember it.”

“I do,” Fox declared. “The reason I bring it up, you also told me you left here at a quarter past six and went straight home, which is only a five-minute walk. It didn’t start raining that evening until three minutes to seven, so I wondered why your umbrella needed draining at 6:20.”

“Then why didn’t you ask me?”

“A darned good question,” Fox conceded. “First, ignorance. At that time I didn’t know when the rain had started. Second, poverty of intellect. When I
found out, accidentally, what time the rain started, I couldn’t remember why it should have started earlier.”

“But you remember it now? That I said that? I don’t.”

“Well, I do.” Fox wouldn’t let her eyes away from him. “There are, of course, two possible explanations. One, that your umbrella got wet without any rain, say from a fire hose. Two, that you left here to go home, not at 6:15 as you said you did, but considerably later. May I tell you why I like the second explanation best?”

Miss Yates snorted. She looked at Damon. “Inspector, you say this is an official inquiry. It sounds to me more like this man showing off and making a poor job of it. What he remembers, what I said to him that I didn’t say …”

“Don’t answer him if you don’t want to,” Damon said dryly.

“But this is a place of business and I have something better to do—”