“Come on, let’s go.”
Chapter 3
The husky heavy man in a blue suit and black shoes with his chair tilted back against the wall was Ben Cook, the White Plains chief of police. The one at the big desk, in tailored grey summer worsted with slick hair and quick eyes was P. L. Derwin, the Westchester County district attorney. The younger one, incongruous in white dinner jacket and black trousers, with tousled hair and bloodshot eyes, was Jeffrey Thorpe; and the impeccably arrayed and arranged young woman with sleepy lids half down was his sister Miranda.
Miranda, whose name was Pemberton and not Thorpe because that was the one vestigial remain of a divorced husband, said: “I couldn’t even offer a guess.”
“Neither could I,” her brother declared. “Luke has been with Father over twenty years, almost ever since I was born. I don’t say he was devoted to him, but—hell, you know. He was square and straight and easy-going, and I would have bet Father had more confidence in him than any one else in the world. Anyway, why would he? He had a good job for life and an easy one. All he had to do was valet, which with Father was a cinch. He cooked and chauffeured only in that damn’ weekend hideout.”
“It’s ridiculous,” said Miranda.
The district attorney put his fingertips together. “I accept your opinion, of course,” he stated, in the tone of politic patience which an elected person has always in stock for such citizens as bereaved millionaires. “But the fact remains that Luke Wheer has disappeared. If we are to believe Grant and his niece, he went precipitately, in your father’s car, within a few minutes after the shooting, and your father’s pockets had been emptied. No one knows what money or valuables he may have had with him or in the bungalow.”
“Luke never did it,” said Jeffrey Thorpe with conviction and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles.
“Someone did,” Ben Cook rasped and scowled unimpressed at the district attorney’s admonitory glance.
“I doubt it myself.” Derwin was judicious. “I doubt if he—uh—fired the shots, but he may have—uh—taken advantage of the situation. I’m satisfied in my own mind that Grant did the shooting. It’s unfortunate—yes, Bolan?”
The man who had entered reported nasally: “Grant says he’s perfectly willing, sir, but nothing doing on any more questions.”
“I don’t want to ask him any. Bring him in.” The man went and Derwin turned to Miranda. “I dislike asking this of you, Mrs. Pemberton. I know it’s a painful thing—”
“I don’t mind.” She compressed her lips and released them. “I mean it’s all pretty painful. To look at the man who did it won’t make it any worse.”
They all turned their heads as the door opened. The man who entered, ushered in, was near forty, one side or the other. In spite of looking unwashed, extremely weary and disarranged as to clothing, there was an air of efficacy and distinction about him. Under the circumstances, which he understood, it must have been difficult not to make too much either of defiance or contempt, but his face and attitude displayed only a composed resentment. He walked in nearly up to the desk, stopped and turned to confront the young man, and then wheeled to face the young woman, looking down straight at her.
“I didn’t kill your father,” he said in a voice strained with fatigue. “That’s nonsense. I’m sorry anybody did. I needed to get my job back and he was my only chance of getting it. You look more intelligent than any of these idiots around here. Are you? If you are, for God’s sake tell them to quit bullying me and start looking for the damn murderer. They brought me in here to see if you would recognize me as someone who has been prowling around the basement door. Do you?”
“No.”
“Have you looked at me long enough?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He walked out.
Miranda’s eyes followed him to the door, then her face returned to the district attorney. “I—” She bit it off and compressed her lips.
“Yes, Mrs. Pemberton?”
“I believe him.”
“Rot.” Her brother snorted. “You have no reason to believe him or disbelieve him either. Maybe he’s a good liar. He certainly knows how to look into a girl’s eyes and hand it out, Sis dear.” He looked at Derwin. “But one thing, I’ve never seen him before.”
“Have you, Mrs. Pemberton?”
“No. Never.”
“Why do you say you believe him?”
“I do, that’s all.” She shrugged. “And I think—”
She stopped and he prodded her. “Yes, Mrs. Pemberton?”
“I think you’re going to find things that will make it more painful than it is now. If I didn’t think you’d find them eventually, I wouldn’t say this, but I think you will. I know you have the impression that I’m cold-blooded about my father’s sudden death, but Ridley Thorpe wasn’t much of a father. He was too busy being a financier and a philanthropist and a great man. The fact is that since Mother died, when I was ten years old, my brother and I have been orphans except that we have had our bills paid. But I knew my father a good deal better than he knew me, because I was interested in him—at least I used to be—and he was never interested in me. And what I think you’re going to find out eventually, if a murder is investigated the way it’s supposed to be, is that he didn’t have that bungalow for seclusion with Luke and his thoughts. He had it for—I mustn’t shock you, I suppose—for secret female companionship.”
“Good lord!” her brother blurted incredulously. “Him?”
“Yes, Jeff, him,” she declared imperturbably. “I knew him a lot better than you did and I’m a woman myself. He didn’t want to be bound by marriage again, because he was too selfish to be bound by anything, and open philandering would have been bad for his reputation as a national ornament, but he was by no means devoid of carnality. I’m not saying tritely find the woman; I just predict you’ll find out things about that bungalow if you really try, instead of putting it on to this Grant man because by bad luck the poor devil—”
“Excuse me,” Derwin put in a little less patiently. “I assure you, Mrs. Pemberton, we’re not putting it on to any one. Every angle is being thoroughly investigated. The New York police are cooperating from that end. An intensive search is being made for the three people who have disappeared: Luke Wheer, Nancy Grant, this man’s niece, and Vaughn Kester, your father’s confidential secretary. We’re not putting it on to Grant, though I repeat that the evidence against him is strong. He was there, right there when the shots were fired. There is no evidence that any one else was, except Luke Wheer. He was a disgruntled employee, fired from his job. And he has been caught in a lie regarding the time he got there. The servants at the New York residence, and others, have corroborated what you and your brother told me about your father’s invariable custom of listening to Dick Barry’s broadcast every evening from eleven to eleven-thirty. So Grant lied and his niece, too. But we’re not neglecting other angles. For one thing and perhaps the most important, where’s Vaughn Kester? Possibly he could tell us things about Grant that we don’t know. And where the devil is he? Has he been murdered too? Colonel Brissenden thinks so. Regarding your surmise about your father’s—uh—his weekends in that bungalow—yes, Bolan?”
The man who talked nasally closed the door behind him, approached, stopped and cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said, “I don’t know. He insisted on it.”
“Who insisted on what?”
“Tecumseh Fox. He wants to see you.”
“What does he want?”
“All he says is he wants to see you.”
“Tell him I’m engaged. I can see him in an hour.”
“Yes, sir.” The man turned to go.
Miranda touched his sleeve to stop him. “Is it Tecumseh Fox the detective?”
“Yes, ma’am. I guess that’s the only one there is.”
“Then couldn’t … I’d like to see him.” She transferred to Derwin. “When I was collecting celebrities and notorieties I invited him to dine at my house t
hree times and he declined—and I had good dinners, too.”
“I don’t know what he wants, Mrs. Pemberton.”
“Send for him and ask him.”
Derwin frowned, but took it. “Send him in, Bolan.”
Jeffrey said: “Randa dear, you’ll stop your own funeral to get out and ask a man about a dog,” and rubbed his bloodshot eyes with his knuckles again.
Ben Cook rasped: “If it’s this one it’ll be a fox.”
The door opened, quick light steps sounded, and that one was there at the desk before they knew it. Passing, his eyes swiftly took in all of the brother and sister; now, amiably, they were for the district attorney. “Good morning, Mr. Derwin. I apologize.”
“Good morning. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to see Andrew Grant. The fellow that found Ridley Thorpe’s body and reported it. You’ve got him around here, haven’t you?”
“What do you want to see him about?”
“I’m working for him.”
Derwin tightened his lips, folded his arms and hunched his shoulders. The impression he produced was one of shrinkage. “Since when have you been working for him? He has made no communication that I know of.”
“Oh, yes, excuse me, he has. Through his niece Nancy. She came to see me.”
“His niece …” Derwin stared. “She went to see you?”
“Yes.”
“She is a fugitive! Where is she?”
“She’s available. I didn’t know she was a fugitive. I apologize. I didn’t know she had been charged.”
“She was being held for questioning.”
“Well, she’s available. No charge, was there?” Fox, conciliatory, smiled. “By the way, she borrowed a dollar from one of your men. Would you mind finding out which one and returning it?” He handed across a dollar bill. “Thanks. She had left her purse in her friend’s car that had the tire ripped off and she wanted to make a phone call. No commitment, was there? Just holding her without one. That’s risky sometimes. I request permission to see Andrew Grant.”
The district attorney, with his head tilted back, scowled up into the brown eyes which Nancy Grant had decided were too wide open to be called sly. He lowered his chin, turned his head, saw a speck on his desk blotter and flipped at it with his finger four times before he got it off. His glance went sidewise in the direction of Ben Cook, and the chief of police’s head all but imperceptibly moved to the left and then to the right. Derwin brought his around and up again and said:
“You can’t see him.”
“Has he been charged with murder, Mr. Derwin?”
“Not—no.”
“Or with anything?”
“No.”
“May I ask, did you find a gun on him? Or find one anywhere? Or evidence that he had one?”
“Not yet.”
“You’ve had him here nearly twelve hours and he’s not under arrest. I’m afraid I’ll have to insist on his right and mine—”
“I said you can’t see him. That’s that.” Derwin had a fist on the desk. “And I want the girl, his niece, back here as quick as she can get here.”
Fox wheeled as if to go, but he stayed on his spot. He glanced at the two seated there and spoke to the young man. “I’m sorry to interrupt you folks. I apologize. I expected just to make a request and have it granted and get out, but now I guess there’ll have to be a discussion—”
“No discussion at all,” Derwin snapped. “I want to know where the Grant girl is—”
Miranda’s voice cut in, her sleepy lids lifted for a focus up at Tecumseh Fox. “I’m Miranda Pemberton, Ridley Thorpe’s daughter. A couple of years ago I invited you to dinner three times and you didn’t come. This is my brother Jeffrey.”
“I don’t like to dress.” Fox stepped to her, took the offered hand and bowed over it. Jeffrey got halfway up from his chair for the handshake and then dropped back again.
“Go on and discuss it,” Miranda said.
“Thanks.” Fox turned to the district attorney and his eyes, not more sly, were less conciliatory. “It’s like this, Mr. Derwin. I could have Nat Collins here in less than an hour, I’ve already phoned him, and you’d have to let Grant’s lawyer see him. Collins would be sore to begin with, called away for suburban penny ante, and he’d be in a mood to make all the trouble he could. You know how that would be, especially if you’re not ready to charge Grant with murder and I don’t think you are. It’s just possible he won’t need a lawyer at all and, in that case, it would be a pity to give Nat Collins the kind of retainer he’s accustomed to. Wouldn’t it be simpler all around to let me have a little talk with Grant?”
“Nat Collins wouldn’t touch it.”
“I said I had phoned him. I don’t lie on Monday.”
Derwin regarded Fox for a moment and then turned for a look at Ben Cook. Cook pursed his lips and raised his shoulders and refused the office. Derwin arose and beckoned to him, and led him to a far corner of the room, where they held a whispered conference. Miranda said:
“Mr. Fox. I don’t believe that man Grant killed my father.”
“Don’t be a goof, Sis,” Jeffrey blurted. “This bird is a detective working for Grant.”
Fox ignored him. “Why do you not believe it, Mrs. Pemberton?”
“Because he was in here in a while ago and I saw him and he said something to me.”
Fox smiled down at her. “That’s the kind of reason I like.”
“I say don’t be a goof,” Jeffrey repeated.
“Shut up, laddie,” said his sister; and then they looked at Derwin resuming his chair. He slanted his gaze up at Fox and demanded:
“How long would it take to get Nancy Grant here?”
“Not long.”
“All right. Bring her. Then you can talk to Grant for ten minutes in the presence of a police officer.”
Fox shook his head. “No, thank you. I’ll deliver Miss Grant if there is really something you want to ask her, but she has already told you fellows everything she knows upside and down, and when I leave here she’s going with me. And ten minutes with Grant isn’t enough, and I won’t need any help with him.”
Derwin shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll leave it. My request was reasonable.” Fox put his hands behind his back and stood rigid, and two faint spots of color showed on his tanned cheeks. “Now you’ve got me sore. You did that once before. How did you like it?”
He whirled, and was nearly to the door with steps quicker and lighter than before when a rasp came from Ben Cook: “Hey, Fox, come back here!” Fox whirled again. Cook looked at Derwin and said: “Suit yourself. I’d as soon be a Nazzy Dutchman with Joe Louis after me.”
Derwin sat a moment, with a fist on the desk again, and then snapped: “All right. But first I want to see Miss Grant.”
Fox snapped back: “I stated fair conditions. She will be with me when I see her uncle.”
“Bring her. I’ll allow it.”
“The talk with Grant will be private.”
“All right, all right, bring the girl.”
Fox left. In the anteroom there was a collection of three county detectives in plain clothes and two state troopers in uniform, and along the corridors of the courthouse there was more bustle than usual. As he descended the steps to the sidewalk he met, coming up, another in uniform, with the collar insignia of a colonel and with a sternly preoccupied face that took no notice of the encounter. Fox walked briskly to the corner and turned right, proceeded a block and turned left, and down a hundred yards opened the door of the black convertible. With a foot on the running board he stopped short, finding himself confronted by empty seats front and rear. Frowning, he banged the door shut and sent his eyes on a quick survey of the street buildings, on both sides and in both directions. Apparently something expected was in view, for he strode down the sidewalk some fifty paces, opened a screen door for admission to a tiled floor and the buzz of electric fans, marched half the length of a soda foun
tain stretching for infinity, and stopped.
Dan Pavey twisted around on his stool and announced: “Miss Grant is trying a Westchester Delight.”
“A super-soda,” said Nancy, abandoning her straw. “Colossal.” She saw Fox’s compressed lips. “Did … did you see Uncle Andy?”
“No. We’ll see him together. You’re going in with me to the district attorney. Remember what I told you and behave yourself.” Fox looked at a hunk of pink ice cream consigned to the interior of the vice-president. “When we’re on business and I say wait here, I mean here. I’ve told you that a thousand times.”
“Right,” Dan agreed in low thunder. He swallowed the hunk. “My responsibility. Miss Grant accepted my invitation. She was about to go to sleep. She had no sleep last night. In my opinion she is in no condition to scrap with a district attorney. Wouldn’t it be better—”
“No.”
Dan did not say “Right.” What was even more startling, he scowled at his Westchester Delight and pushed the glass away without finishing it. He and Nancy descended from their stools and followed Fox out to the sidewalk and along to the convertible.
Fox started the engine and engaged the clutch and the car rolled to retrace the route he had taken from the courthouse. He parked in front and told Dan to stay in the car and Nancy to hop out. In the anteroom of the district attorney’s office one of the state troopers started across with an evident intention of intercepting them, but he was too slow. They were at the door and through it.
Their entrance interrupted an oration. Its loud and uncompromising tone issued from the mouth of the colonel of state police, who stood erect at one end of the desk glaring in all directions at once and who chopped it abruptly off at the approach of the newcomers. Fox started to speak and so did Derwin, but they were both forestalled by Jeffrey Thorpe, who sprang to his feet with an amazed ejaculation:
“I’ll be damned!” He was staring at Nancy Grant. “Of all the—got you! By God, got you!”
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