Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 02

by Bad for Business

“Excuse me while I deposit this,” she said with dreary politeness, and with the dripping umbrella in her hand crossed and opened another door. Fox, with a sudden unaccountable frown creasing his forehead, stepped forward to get the room she was entering within his range of vision. It was the bathroom, and she was standing the umbrella in the tub to drain. That done, she came out and unbuttoned her coat.

  “Blister my belly!” Fox said.

  At his tone, she jerked her head up to look at him, and, seeing his face, she goggled. “What—what’s the matter?”

  “Excuse me,” said Fox. “I apologize. I have just been struck by lightning. Rain usually follows lightning, but in this case it preceded it. I no longer need to ask you any questions. You are a beautiful and enchanting creature, and whereas I loved you before I now adore you. Good night and happy dreams.”

  She was still goggling when the door had closed behind his exit.

  Fox did not descend the stairs rapidly. He went down, and out to his car, slowly and deliberately, like a man whose head is so completely engrossed with other matters that his feet, in their wisdom, are quite aware that the detail of locomotion is being left to them with no assistance from above. In the car behind the wheel, he sat a long time without moving, staring at the globules dancing down the windshield with a concentration that could not have been surpassed by his eighteenth century namesake, the statesman Charles James Fox, when he wagered fifty thousand pounds with Richard Brinsley Sheridan on a raindrop race down a club window. Finally, still deliberately, he turned the ignition key; and it took him twice as long to retrace the route to 914 East 29th Street as it had taken him to come.

  He exchanged nods with the man in the raincoat, who seemed relieved to see him back, pressed the button and opened the door on the click, and mounted the four flights for the fourth time that day. The door above was open, and Inspector Damon, standing there, rumbled at sight of him:

  “It’s about time. Come on in here. The D.A. wants to hear—”

  “Let him wait.” Fox, no longer deliberate, was crisp. He pushed by and entered the kitchen. “The place for a D.A. is a courtroom. Come in here instead, and shut the door. I’ve got it.”

  Damon, being fairly well acquainted with Fox’s tones of voice and manners of speech, after one sharp glance at him, stepped inside the kitchen and quietly closed the door.

  “All right,” he said, “I’ll bite. What have you got?”

  “I think I have,” Fox amended. “Do me a favor. Bring that box here.”

  The inspector regarded him. “I don’t know. I’m aware that you pick up a lot of gossip, but—”

  “Now come. Just bring it here, huh?”

  Damon went, and in a moment he was back with the leather bag. He placed it on the table and removed the box and handed it to Fox. Then he stood in readiness to take appropriate action in the remote event that Fox had gone crazy.

  It did in fact appear that Fox’s mind was touched, though not in a way that justified restraint by force, for instead of opening the box, he grasped it firmly in both hands and shook it violently from side to side. His attitude suggested that he was listening for something, but the banging of the shoes against the metal sides of the box was all there was to hear. He stopped and gazed at the box a moment with his lips screwed up, waggled it again as before but more gently, returned it to the bag, and looked at the inspector with a nod of satisfaction.

  “That’s all right,” he declared. “I’ve got it. I know who killed Tingley.”

  “That’s fine,” said Damon sarcastically. “That’s just fine. Name and address?”

  Fox shook his head. “Not yet. And for God’s sake don’t start shoving, because it’ll only lead to an argument and you can’t win it.”

  “I can if—”

  “No, you can’t. You’ve got nothing to open me with because you haven’t the faintest idea where the joker is. You admitted in there that as far as you can see it’s Guthrie Judd and it’s hopeless. I’m not sticking out my tongue at you, I’m just stating a fact. If you’ll just tell me one or two things—for instance, were there any prints on the box?”

  “Ha, by God. I’m to tell you.”

  Fox upturned his palms. “Be reasonable. Will it stop your circulation to tell me if there were prints on the box?”

  “No. There weren’t any. It had been wiped.”

  “Any on the stuff inside?”

  “Yes. Plenty. Tingley’s and Philip’s and a mess of old ones.”

  “Much obliged. That fits. Have you still got a man in Tingley’s office?”

  “I’ve got two men. Six men on three shifts. We couldn’t seal the room because they needed things.”

  “Fine. Have you removed anything from the room?”

  “Certainly we have.”

  “What?”

  Damon shifted, went closer, so that his eyes, straight into Fox’s, were only inches away. “You know,” he said in a hard tone, “if there is any chance, any chance at all, that this is a ride around the block—”

  “There isn’t. I have more sense. What was taken from the room?”

  “The corpse. Two bloody towels. The knife and the weight and Miss Duncan’s bag. Five small jars with some stuff in them which we found in a drawer of Tingley’s desk. We had the stuff analyzed for quinine and there wasn’t any. We were told they were just routine samples.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “No other sample jars were found?”

  “No. I didn’t do the searching myself, but those five were brought to me, and if any others had been there they would have been brought too.”

  “Then it’s still there. It ought to be. It must be. Get your hat and coat and let’s go see.”

  Damon, showing no inclination to move, demanded, “What and where?”

  “I’ll show you. Tingley’s office. I swear by heaven, if you balk on me I’ll spill it to the D.A. and get him to go with me, and leave you to chew the rag with that bony wonder in there. Well?”

  Damon, scowling, said, “You wait here,” picked up the leather bag, and stalked off in the direction of the inner room. Fox heard him speaking with Skinner, and then he reappeared and gestured to Fox to go ahead, and they left the apartment. Downstairs in the vestibule the man in the raincoat was instructed to go up and stay with the district attorney, and he went. There ensued a brief argument about cars, which Fox won: he would drive his own, and the inspector would follow in the police car.

  To the old Tingley landmark on 26th Street it was even a shorter distance than it had been to 320 Grove Street, and within a few minutes the cars came to a stop again at the curb, nose to tail, and the two men joined company again at the stone steps and entered together, Damon opening the door with a key. Inside it was pitch-dark. The inspector produced a flashlight, and with the aid of its beam they mounted the stairs and threaded their way through the maze of doors and partitions, not bothering to turn on any lights. When they got to the door bearing the ancient legend, THOMAS TINGLEY, they found it wide open, and a large man with a slight strabismus in his left eye was standing just outside with an automatic in his hand. At sight of them he looked simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

  “Hello, Drucker.”

  “Good evening, Inspector.” The man moved aside to let them enter.

  The table and chairs which had been in the middle of the room for the afternoon meeting of the trustees were no longer there; the table was now at the far end near a window, littered with newspapers and a deck of playing cards, and standing beside it, just up from a chair, was a man with a thin little mouth in a big face.

  Damon tossed him a nod. “Hello, Bowen.” His head pivoted slowly, to the right and then to the left, taking in everything. He ended with Drucker, who had followed them in. “Nothing to report?”

  “No, sir. Nothing but monotony.”

  Damon transferred to Fox. “Well? Show me.”

  Fox walked to the safe and grasped the lever of the door,
but it wouldn’t budge.

  “They keep things in there,” said Drucker. “Checks and things. They open it in the morning and close it in the afternoon.”

  Fox frowned. “That sounds pretty loose to me.”

  “Stalling?” The inspector snorted. “I told you why we didn’t seal it. Everything that goes out, and everything that comes in, is handled and checked. Perhaps you’d like to prepare a new set of regulations?”

  “No, thanks, Inspector. Don’t bristle. Cooperate. If you have the combination of the safe—”

  “I haven’t. But I say you’re stalling. That safe was searched by Lieutenant Rowcliff Tuesday night, and he never yet let a cubic millimeter get by.”

  “Did Rowcliff do this room?”

  “He did. With assistance.”

  “Mmm.” Fox shook his head and bit his lower lip. “Then the safe’s out. So is the desk, and everything else that can be ruled and calipered.” He slowly surveyed the room, the shelves and cabinets, the photographs on the walls, the piles of trade journals, the desk, Tingley’s coat on its hanger and the hat on the little shelf above, the screen and wash basin.

  “It looks like a job,” he admitted. “I’m not stalling. I think it’s here. I hope to heaven it’s here. But it looks like an all-night job. There is, of course, one chance. A squad of scientific searchers might possibly be too scientific. I mean they might overlook something so obvious that science would sneer at it.” He glanced around. “For instance, take that hat there on the shelf. What if Tingley simply stuck it under his hat?” He crossed the room and reached up for the hat. “Not that I’m expecting—”

  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.”

  Chapter 18

  Amy 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 co
me 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.”