“Mr. Kester!” A voice was raised from the doorway. “Come in, please.”
Kester got up and went. Harlan McElroy and another man started for the voice with voluble protests that they must leave for New York … that they should be permitted….
“I understand, Mrs. Pemberton,” said Fox. “I will say this, that if anything like this happened in my house, I would regard it as proper to prevent them from making it an occasion for a general inventory of my personal possessions or an inquiry into my purely private affairs. I also think you should telephone, at once, to your father’s attorneys, Buchanan, Fuller, McPartland and Jones.”
“Thank you. I will,” said Miranda, and turned and swiftly entered the house.
Fox took the last bite of the chicken salad, saw two feet stopping in front of him, looked up and was facing the scowl of Jeffrey Thorpe.
“I heard my sister saying my name,” Jeffrey growled.
Fox nodded. He was chewing.
“This is one hell of a thing. It … it’s got me. This second time.”
Fox swallowed enough to talk. “Your sister was asking me what you and she should do.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her I wouldn’t trust any investigator to set his own limits and to telephone your father’s attorneys.”
“That sounds—sensible.” Jeffrey set his jaw and in a moment released it for speech. “Sunday night was different somehow—off up there in that bungalow—but this is right here in our own house. I was born in this house. I was … it was nice here when I was a kid and Mother was here—”
“Hold it, son,” Fox said sharply, in an undertone. “You’ve taken some punches. Sunday night your father killed. Yesterday he came back to life. Today killed again. Three knockouts in a row are tough going.”
“I’m all right,” the boy declared. “I think I am. You say my sister is phoning my father’s lawyers? You mean that Buchanan-Fuller outfit?”
“Yes.”
“They’re a bunch of damned stuffed shirts. I want to ask you something. Would you mind telling me why my father asked you to come here today?”
“No, I wouldn’t mind. He said he mistrusted the ability of the police to discover who killed Corey Arnold and he wanted to hire me to work on it.”
“Did you agree to do it?”
“We were going to discuss it later. I told him I was working for Grant.”
“I want to hire you to work on this.”
“You do? Why, do you mistrust the police too?”
“Well, I … yes. That’s it. I mistrust them. I don’t like the way—look at that rooster Brissenden—”
Fox pivoted out from his hips to shove away the table with his tray on it, and to reach for a chair and pull it closer. “Sit down here,” he muttered, “and I won’t have to talk so loud. That man has an ear cocked to listen.”
Jeffrey yanked the chair another foot forward and sat. Fox went on, “I could just say no and let it go at that, but I feel kind of sorry for you, so I want to explain that you’d be wasting your money. If I discovered that a member of your family had fired that shot, the fact that I was in your employ wouldn’t prevent—”
“Don’t be a goddam mucker, Fox.”
“All right. Weren’t you worried by the fear that your sister killed Arnold? Sure you were. And now you’re afraid—don’t glare like that. Learn to control your face. Do you play poker? Pretend you didn’t fill and you’re going to ride it. You’re afraid she did this too, and you think the police may miss it but I may not and you want to sew me up. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I admit I would like to work on this and it would be a big advantage—”
“Mr. Thorpe! Come in, please?”
Jeffrey shot up out of his chair and strode to the door that was being held open for him, fifteen pairs of eyes following him across the terrace.
Fox arose to retrieve a bunch of grapes that was left on his tray and, pulling one off and popping it into his mouth, wandered to the far edge of the terrace where Henry Jordan sat gazing gloomily at a twig of clematis hanging listless in the still heavy air.
“You ought to eat something,” Fox declared.
Jordan shook his head. “I was hungry and I didn’t want to eat here and then this—my appetite went.”
“Eat anyway. Keep your voice down. Where were you when you heard the shot?”
“Sitting under a tree around the corner there. Some men came out here and I left.”
“Was anyone with you? Anybody in sight?”
“I didn’t see anyone.”
“That’s too bad.” Fox spat a seed on to the lawn and took another grape. “You’re stuck for a good one. What I want to say, I regard our obligation to guard Thorpe’s little secret as still binding. Do you?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you would, for your daughter’s sake if nothing else. But they’ll make it hard for you. They’ll want the details of your friendship with Thorpe. Keep it simple. Don’t put in any complications you don’t have to.”
“I’ll try to.” Jordan gulped. “I’m glad you came and spoke to me. I’m afraid of it. My mind doesn’t work fast.”
“It’ll work better if you eat something. I mean it. I’ll send for a tray for you. Keep it simple and don’t get rattled.”
For errand boy he selected the trooper named Hardy, figuring that he had established a little prestige there. Hardy having acquiesced and departed for a tray for Mr. Jordan, Fox ate another grape and continued his wandering to the two chairs behind a table near the wall of the house, where Andrew Grant and his niece were sitting and saying nothing. They looked up at him. He pushed a tray away and sat on the edge of the table. There was no warden within ten yards.
“I certainly pick good places to go calling,” said Grant grimly.
“You sure do,” Fox agreed. “Did you shoot Thorpe?”
“No.”
Nancy began, “It’s the most incredible—”
“Please, Miss Grant. I’d like to ask a couple of questions and get brief answers. One of us may be called in there at any moment.” He returned to Andy. “Where were you when you heard the shot?”
“I had just left the front terrace, heading this way, starting to look for Nancy. Mrs. Pemberton had gone into the house a little before, asking me to wait there for her, but I wanted to find Nancy to tell her I had agreed to stay for lunch.”
“Was there anyone in sight at the moment you heard the shot?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t see anyone.”
“Let’s hope someone saw you.” Fox shifted to Nancy. “Where were you?”
“Right here. On this terrace.”
“Who else was there?”
“No one.”
“What about Jeffrey Thorpe?”
Nancy’s chin went up. “I don’t know where he was. He had followed me down to the swimming pool and I was trying my best to tolerate him on account of what you said last night, but he—he annoyed me and I told him a few things and left him there and came back here.”
“Weren’t there some men here?”
“Not when I heard the shot. They were there when I came, four of them, I think, but pretty soon they went in the house.”
“How long before the shot was fired?”
“Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. What I don’t—”
“One second. Were you here when Andy came by after he heard the shot?”
“I didn’t come this way,” Grant said. “The shot didn’t startle me much because I thought it was a car, but then somebody in the house let out a yell and I ran across the front terrace and in that way.”
Fox grunted. “Better and better.” To Nancy: “That blue thing that was on the floor in the library. You say it’s your scarf?”
“Yes, it is. That’s what I was saying is incredible—”
“Why is it incredible?”
“Because I don’t know how it got there. I know I didn’t take it there.”
“You didn’t
have it on when you went through the music room.”
“I know very well I didn’t. I hadn’t had it on at all. When we got here and got out of the car I left it on the seat.”
Fox frowned. “You must be mistaken.”
“I am not mistaken! I left it there on the seat of the car and I haven’t been back there!”
“Don’t talk so loud. This begins to have points. If you were right here on this terrace, why did it take you so long to get into the house, and where were you when you heard Andy calling your name, and why were you panting when you went through the music room?”
Nancy flushed. “If that’s the tone—”
“Nonsense. Never mind my tone, you’ll hear worse ones when they get you in there. I’m in a hurry.”
“Answer him,” Grant said.
“Well, I …” Her color stayed. “I was panting because I had been running. The shot didn’t sound like a backfire to me, it sounded like a shot. I couldn’t tell what direction it came from, but I thought it came from the swimming pool. I suppose the reason I thought that was because that idiot had been talking, trying to be funny, talking about committing suicide if I didn’t—”
“What idiot? Jeffrey Thorpe?”
“Yes. Like a perfect fool, threatening to kill himself unless I—but the shot wouldn’t have made me think of that if it hadn’t been that he had had a revolver in his pocket and naturally—”
“Did he show you the revolver?”
“No, he didn’t show it to me, but I saw it. So did Uncle Andy.”
“Did you?”
“Yes,” said Grant. “When we drove up here he came out to welcome us, and a corner of his jacket caught on something and there was a gun in his hip pocket. A big one. Nancy and I both saw it.”
To Nancy again: “Was it still in his pocket at the swimming pool?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see it, but I had seen it, and then his talking like an idiot about killing himself—when I heard the shot I thought it came from the direction of the pool and I jumped and ran. I ran all the way to the pool and it’s quite a distance. There was no one there. The water is clear and he wasn’t—there was nothing in it. Then I heard Uncle Andy calling, yelling my name, and I ran back to the house.”
Fox looked at Andy. “You were in the library with the rest of them when I got there.”
He nodded. “I entered by the front terrace and the voices guided me to the library. There was already a lot of commotion in there, half a dozen people. Pretty soon everyone else was there, but not Nancy, and I guess I got panicky. I ran through the house out to this terrace and yelled for her. I couldn’t hear any answer and I ran around the house to where the cars were parked, and then on around to the other side, but there wasn’t any sign of her. From there I could hear the voices in the library and I thought I recognized hers, so I went through some shrubbery and entered by the French windows, but she wasn’t there. Then you came in and then you went out. I was just going after you to ask if you had seen Nancy when she came.”
“How did you know you could get into the library—hold it.”
Fox slipped off the table and stood. The door from the house had opened for the exit of District Attorney Derwin. He was in his shirt sleeves and his face was covered with perspiration. He took four paces on the flags, stopped, looked the party over and spoke:
“If you please, everybody! I won’t insult you by apologizing for the inconvenience you are enduring. To talk of such inconvenience in the presence of such a tragedy, such a crime, would be—uh—insulting. We are doing all we can. Two of my assistants are talking with Mrs. Pemberton. Colonel Brissenden is talking with Mr. Jeffrey Thorpe. I am talking with Mr. Kester.”
A man blurted, “Is there any reason—”
“Please! We are doing all we can to expedite matters. We would like first to have from each of you a brief statement as to where you were and what you were doing when the shot was fired. You will be asked to sign it. Sergeant Saunders of the state police is in the breakfast room and you will be taken there one at a time to give him the statement, which he will take down. Also in that room is the equipment for examining a person’s hands to ascertain if that person has recently fired a revolver. You will be asked to permit the examination. You have the right to refuse to permit it, but we hope that none of you will. Mrs. Pemberton, Mr. Thorpe and Mr. Kester have already permitted it. When that is concluded we shall proceed to further steps with all possible expedition.”
He turned. A man darted forward expostulating. Derwin snapped at him:
“We’re doing the best we can!”
He disappeared inside. A man who had come out with him looked around and said, “Miss Grant? Come with me, please.”
Chapter 15
Two hours later, Fox, ushered into the library by a trooper and guided to a chair which was turned to face directly the light from the expanse of windows, glanced around before he sat. To his accustomed eye the room, though its contents were in order, displayed numerous signs of having been subjected to a rigorous police examination. The place on the rug where Ridley Thorpe’s body had sprawled was vacant. Four men were looking at him. District Attorney Derwin, sweating more generously than ever, was seated at Ridley Thorpe’s desk, and off at his right was a pimply young man with a stenographer’s notebook and fountain pen. At the far end of the large desk was a slightly older young man with horn-rimmed glasses, whom Fox recognized as an assistant district attorney, and standing near the door was the trooper who had brought Fox in.
Derwin said, not belligerently, “Well, Fox, this time apparently it was really Ridley Thorpe. What do you think?”
Fox smiled at him. “Reserving decision, Mr. Derwin. I only saw him when he was lying face down.”
Derwin nodded without attempting to return the smile. “I like to be prudent too, but we’re going on the assumption that it was Thorpe.” He picked up the top paper from a pile. “You seem to have been further away than anyone else when it happened. A third of a mile or more. Down the other side of the greenhouse. Are you interested in greenhouses?”
“Sure, among other things.” Fox threw one knee over the other and folded his arms. “If you want to make it a sparring match I don’t mind, but it would be a waste of time. I was waiting to have a talk with Thorpe and was out strolling around.”
“You had already had a talk with Thorpe, hadn’t you?”
“A very brief one. Kester, his secretary, was present. Thorpe asked me to wait until he had seen Colonel Brissenden and some business associates.”
“What did he want to talk to you about?”
“He said he mistrusted the ability of the police to discover who killed Arnold and he wanted to hire me to do it.”
“You agreed with him about the ability of the police, of course.”
“I neither agreed nor disagreed. It promised to be an interesting job.”
“And a lucrative one?”
“Sure. Thorpe could afford to pay.”
Derwin glanced at the paper in his hand. “You say here that you were on the service drive about 300 yards from the house when you heard the shot, that you thought it might be a car backfiring but walked faster, then you heard excited voices and began to run. When you were about 150 yards from the house you saw a man running towards it from another direction, one of the guards with his revolver in his hand.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you see anyone besides the guard?”
“No. From the time I left the greenhouse until I entered the library, I saw no one but the guard.”
“Had you seen someone in the greenhouse?”
“No. I merely used that as a starting point. Let me put it this way: I saw or heard no one and nothing, at any time, that would help you or me to find the murderer.”
“That ought to cover it,” said Derwin dryly. He glanced aside at the gliding pen of the stenographer and in the other direction at the face of his assistant, a solemn owl with the horn-rimmed glasses, and
then looked at Fox again and asked abruptly:
“How long have you known Ridley Thorpe?”
“I met him in your office yesterday evening.”
“Was that the first time you ever saw him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever do any work for him?”
“No.”
“Did you ever sell him anything?”
“No.”
“Was he ever indebted to you for any services performed for anyone, or for anything else?”
“No.”
“Did he ever pay you any money, cash or check, for anything whatever?”
“No.”
“Will you swear to that?”
“Certainly not,” said Fox impatiently. “Not since you’ve made it so plain that you’ve found the stub of the check for fifty thousand dollars that he gave me this morning.”
Derwin stared. The trooper shifted to his other foot. The owl emitted a little grunt.
“You admit it?” Derwin demanded, his voice raised.
“Of course I do. How can I help it?”
“You admit you just lied about it!” Derwin had a fist on the desk. “You admit you had reason to attempt to conceal the fact that Thorpe paid you a large sum of money shortly before he was murdered! There’s one question I didn’t ask you! Were you blackmailing Ridley Thorpe?”
“No. I haven’t—”
“Then what did he pay you for? What did he pay you fifty thousand dollars for?”
Fox was looking disgusted. “This is a dirty shame,” he declared. “Send for Luke Wheer and Vaughn Kester.”
“I’ll send for nobody! I’ve got it on you, Fox! I’ve got you! Unless you tell me—”
“You’ve got nothing,” Fox snapped. “Specifically you’ve got nothing that has any connection with the murder you’re investigating. I don’t intend to tell you very much about that check, and I’ll tell you nothing whatever unless you get Wheer and Kester in here. Make a fool of yourself and put a detention on me. That’s that.”
“What have Wheer and Kester got to do with it?”
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