Rex Stout

by The Sound of Murder

  “What message?”

  “The message you sent her on the phone.”

  “I sent no message to anyone.”

  Heather put in sharply, “He was playing possum. He’s been lying there listening to us. The way he talks. His head’s clear.”

  “Why the hell shouldn’t my head be clear?” Vail demanded. “What happened?”

  “Because I hit you,” Ross said. “When we came you popped up from in front of your car and pointed a gun at Miss Gladd. I jumped you and took your gun and hit you with it, and you passed out. At least we thought you did. If you didn’t, you don’t need this explanation, but you’re welcome anyhow.”

  Vail’s only reply was a grunt. He shifted his weight to his right hand, propped on the ground, and put his left to his head and felt of it, above the ear. He moved his head from right to left, grunted, forward and back, grunted again, then got onto his hands and knees, pushed himself up, and was on his feet. He felt of his head again, pivoted it slowly to one side and the other, took a trial step, and another.…

  “Better hold it,” Ross said crisply. “I’ve got your gun. If you get near the edge of the light I’ll start shooting at your legs, and I’m not much of a shot.”

  “You’re a jackass.” Vail turned to face him. “You’re as big an idiot as your father. That message. I didn’t send it. What did it say?”

  “Don’t tell him,” Heather said. “Don’t tell him anything. Make him tell you things.”

  “Make him tell me what?” Ross kept his eyes on Vail and his hand in his pocket. “Anyway he’s a dirty liar and we couldn’t believe anything he said. We won’t get anywhere chewing the rag with him. We’ve got to take him somewhere. We’ve got to do something with him. I think we’ve got to go back to the house with him, I don’t know what else to do. And the police can take this gun and test it, and if it’s the one Cooper was shot with it won’t do him any good to try to lie—”

  “What’s that?” Vail demanded. “Who was shot?”

  “Cooper.”

  “Cooper shot?”

  “Yes. If you think—”

  “Where? When?”

  “Don’t tell him,” Heather insisted. “Don’t tell him anything. The thing to do would be to take him to Hicks, only we don’t know where Hicks is.”

  “We certainly don’t,” Ross agreed. “Wherever he sent that message from—”

  “He never sent that message! If he had he would have been here! If anything had happened—oh!” Heather stopped short.

  “I forgot,” she said. “I know what I’m going to do. What he told me.” Her tone was resolute. “I’m going to see Mrs. Dundee.”

  “Mrs. Dundee? You mean my mother?”

  “Yes.”

  Ross was gaping at her. “Hicks told you to go to see my mother.”

  “Yes, and I’m going to. I won’t go back to that house again, anyway. If you want to take him there you can, but I’m not. You can take him in his car.”

  Vail took a step toward them.

  “Hold it,” Ross said warningly, as if he meant it.

  “I have no intention,” Vail said contemptuously, “of inviting bullets in my legs. You children are fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Discussing what you’re going to do with me. I can assure you, the decision involves considerations that you know nothing about. If we go to the police, they’ll want an explanation of my presence in this neighborhood at this time, and they’ll get it, and it won’t be me who will suffer for it. If I’m brought into this, and forced to tell the police what I know, for my own protection, I can’t be blamed for what happens to the Dundee family and business.”

  “Don’t believe him,” Heather said. “He’s putting on an act.”

  “Are you suggesting,” Ross said sarcastically, “that I hand you back your gun with a God bless you and just forget this little encounter?”

  “Not at all. I don’t care what you do with the gun, except that it’s my property and I want it returned some time. What I suggest is that we go with Miss Gladd to see your mother. It is she who needs and deserves an explanation, and who should decide what is going to be done.”

  “You mean—” Ross stared at him. “You have the gall to say that you want to explain to my mother?”

  “I say that, my boy. It can be left to your mother whether it is an exhibition of gall.”

  “Take him up,” Heather said.

  “He’s stalling,” Ross declared. “He doesn’t want to go to the police.”

  “You’re an imbecile,” Vail asserted.

  Ross regarded him. “Okay,” he said finally. His hand came out of his pocket with the gun in it. “You and I will go in your car and you’ll drive. Miss Gladd will follow us in the other car. If you try any monkey business.…”

  “I’ll stay right behind,” Heather said. “But you’ll have to be careful. No matter what he does, you can’t shoot him while he’s driving. If you shoot him while he’s driving, the car might—”

  “You don’t necessarily,” Ross said indignantly, “have to consider me an imbecile just because he called me one. And you’d better try to drive a little better than you did on the way here.”

  Twenty-one

  Margie Hart had determined, come what might, to hold fast. First, there was loyalty. She had worked for Mrs. Dundee for over twenty years, and was quite convinced that should she die or quit, Mrs. Dundee would be utterly helpless, starving and clothed in rags, within a matter of weeks or even days. Second, there was her pay, which, thanks to an uninterrupted series of annual raises, was now stupendous. Third, there was her curiosity. The scenes recently overheard by her between Mr. and Mrs., the murder, actual murder, at that place in Katonah which she had never seen, the visits and questionings by real detectives in that very apartment—it was an earthquake, a cosmic spasm, a nightmare. Anything could happen. The whole shooting match might be arrested and thrown into jail. She herself might be drawn into the pitiless glare of a murder trial. It was a horrible and fascinating prospect.

  But she wasn’t sleeping well, partly because she knew Mrs. wasn’t, and partly because of the feeling she had that the next development would be that Mr. would come in the night, letting himself in with his key, and kill Mrs. She derided herself for having the feeling, since it was completely unjustified and unreasonable, but she had it; and because she did, she heard, in her half sleep, the front door of the apartment open and close at twenty minutes past midnight. For a second she was rigid under the sheet, unable to move; here it was, here he was, he had come to do it; her heart stopped beating; then she was out and up, clicking the light, grabbing her dressing gown, flying from the room, down the service hall, through the kitchen, dining room, living room, into the reception hall.…

  “Well!” she cried indignantly.

  “Hello, Margie. Is Mother up?”

  “This is unseemly,” Margie said, showing how flustered she was, for she had not used that phrase to Ross since the far-off days when she had taken him to Central Park. She glared at Ross, at the young woman behind him whom she didn’t know, at the man beside him whom she did know … but Mr. James Vail wasn’t welcome at this apartment any more.…

  “Your mother’s in bed,” she said shortly.

  “I’ve got to see her. Tell her I’m here. Will you, please?”

  Margie turned and marched out. Ross ushered the other two into the living room, turned on lights, gave them seats, seated himself, and then got up again to help Heather when she started to rid herself of the long dark coat. Though the coat certainly had no aspirations to elegance, he handled it as if it had been chinchilla as he draped it over the back of a chair. A voice from the doorway turned him:

  “Ross, my child? You devil of a child!”

  He crossed to meet his mother, took her hands, put his hands on her shoulders, looked at her face, and kissed her on the cheek.

  “I always forget how big you are,” she said. She squeezed his arm and released it. “I was expecting you. That is, I w
as expecting Miss Gladd, with you probably escorting her. I suppose this is Miss—what—what’s the matter?”

  Approaching Heather, she halted to stare. Heather was herself staring, her mouth open, her eyes wide with stupefaction and incredulity—the frozen gaze that a ghost might expect to be met with, but not a comely matron in a yellow house gown from Hattie Carnegie. Ross, seeing it, stared too and demanded:

  “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “Her voice—” Heather stammered.

  “My voice? What’s the matter with my voice?”

  “My dear Judith.” It was James Vail, out of his chair. “This was bound to happen sooner or later. Miss Gladd is speechless with astonishment because of the remarkable resemblance of your voice to that of her sister. You can judge of how remarkable the resemblance must be by the shock it gave her. Isn’t that true, Miss Gladd? It is an amazing resemblance, isn’t it?”

  Heather nodded. “I can’t—it’s unbelievable—”

  Judith was frowning at her. “You mean my voice is like your sister’s?”

  “Exactly like! If I shut my eyes—it’s incredible!”

  “Then that’s why!” Ross said excitedly. “Heather! That’s why! About that sonograph plate! You thought it was your sister’s voice and I thought it was Mother’s!” He stared at his mother, and suddenly seized her arm. “By God! That’s why I thought you were out there! I heard her talking and thought it was you!” He pumped the arm up and down. “And it wasn’t your voice on that sonograph plate at all! It was Heather’s sister! It wasn’t you talking with Vail, it was her! It was Heather’s sister who—”

  He stopped.

  He looked at Heather, stunned, incredulous.

  “My God,” he said in a wilted voice.

  “Precisely.” Vail said in a dry harsh tone.

  Ross confronted him. “You can go to hell, you. I’ve knocked you cold once and if you want some more—”

  Judith spoke incisively: “Behave yourself, Ross. If you mean the sonotel record—”

  “You know nothing about it, Mother. If you heard it—”

  “I have heard it. Mr. Hicks kindly brought it—”

  “Hicks? For God’s sake! When?”

  “No matter when. I’ve heard it. And if it was Miss Gladd’s sister having that conversation with Vail—”

  “My sister never had any conversation with Vail!” Heather put in. “She never knew him! She never heard of him!”

  “Didn’t you hear that plate?” Ross demanded.

  “No! I only heard the first few words of it! And if it was a conversation with Vail it must have been your mother—”

  “Please,” Judith Dundee interposed. “You children know less than I do about it, and certainly less than Vail. His conversation on that plate wasn’t with me, because it wasn’t. And it wasn’t with Miss Gladd’s sister, because he called the lady Judith.”

  “Are you suggesting,” Vail inquired dryly, “that by a double freak of nature there is a third lady, not only with the same voice, but named Judith?”

  “No. I’m not suggesting anything.” Mrs. Dundee surveyed him stonily. “I have nothing to suggest, and if I had I wouldn’t waste my breath on you.” She walked to the divan, sat beside Heather, and reached for the girl’s hand. “My dear, I am ashamed of myself. I knew there was a girl out there at my husband’s place who was having it hard, and if I had been human I would have gone to you. I wasn’t having it any too easy myself, but that’s all the more reason, and anyway I’m twice your age. Now we’ll stick it out together. Won’t we?”

  “I think,” Heather said shakily, “I’m going to throw my arms around you and kiss you. Your voice—you have no idea, Mrs. Dundee—”

  “Indeed I haven’t. You poor kid. I have no idea about anything, but I think that man Hicks has. His voice sounded like it—”

  “Hicks?” Ross demanded in astonishment.

  “Yes. That’s why I was expecting Miss Gladd. He phoned and said she would probably come here because he had told her to—”

  “When did he phone?”

  “An hour ago. More. He should be here any minute.” Mrs. Dundee took Heather’s hand again. “My dear, he told me what happened today—your being there and hearing the shot and finding your brother-in-law dead—and I think you’re amazing. A child your age! I expected you to look like a hard-boiled female sergeant, and here you’re as lovely as a dream! I’m bitterly ashamed—”

  “Do I understand,” Vail interrupted, “that Hicks is on his way here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Dick with him?”

  “No.”

  “I’m glad of that. I came here, Judith, to give you an explanation of this business, at least what I know of it—”

  “I don’t care to hear it.” Mrs. Dundee didn’t look at him. “I don’t even ask how you came to arrive here with my son and Miss Gladd. The whole thing is so utterly incomprehensible that I have ceased to pretend I have a mind capable of functioning. I wasn’t even surprised when I entered and saw you here. I am no longer capable of surprise. Apparently my son has knocked you cold, as he expressed it. When or on what provocation I have no idea. If you have an explanation to give you can give it to Mr. Hicks—”

  A buzzer sounded.

  Ross went to answer it. Vail scowled at the young man’s receding back, stuck his thumbs in his vest pockets, straightened himself, and breathed deeply and audibly. Voices sounded in the hall, and a door closed, and in a moment Hicks entered, followed by Ross. As Hicks crossed to the divan a glance was all he had for Vail; a corner of his wide mobile mouth curved upward as he saw that Judith and Heather, sitting, were hand in hand.

  “You were right about her,” Judith said. “She came all right.”

  “Sure she did.” Hicks patted Heather’s knee. “Good girl.”

  “What happened to you?” Heather demanded. “I got a message—”

  “I know you did. We’ll get around to that.” Hicks seated himself on the divan beside her and looked up at Vail, at Ross. “Sit down, everybody. Let’s have a little talk.”

  Vail blurted aggressively, “I came here to—”

  “To explain things?”

  “Yes. To tell Mrs. Dundee—”

  “Fine. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. I’d love to hear you explain things. Go right ahead.”

  Twenty-two

  James Vail, as with deliberation he turned a chair to face the divan and sat on it, and leveled his gaze at Judith Dundee, was not a particularly prepossessing object. His visage, with the broad insensitive nose, the thin selfish mouth, and the cold shrewd eyes, had never been intended to excite admiration, even when, well-groomed and fed and rested, he moved in the congenial orbit of a top-flight business executive; and now, not too clean, not combed, not in any respect jaunty, with an enormous disfiguring lump on the side of his head above his left ear, he was simply ugly. Under the enveloping fat folds of his lids it was difficult to tell where his eyes were focused in that light, but as he leaned back and stuck his thumbs in his vest pockets it was Mrs. Dundee he spoke to.

  “I want to assure you, Judith,” he began, “that I am willing to do everything possible to limit the damage in this business, even at considerable risk—”

  “You’re not talking to me,” she snapped. “Talk to Mr. Hicks.”

  “Oh, but I am talking to you. As you will see. I am willing to take considerable risk, but not to the extent of exposing myself to the danger of being arrested as an accessory to a murder. Two murders. So talking here to four of you, I shall have to be—uh—somewhat discreet regarding what I know and what I surmise. Some things I can tell you. Some I can’t. But I can tell you enough to show you the vital necessity of a very careful and very rigorous discretion on the part of all of us.”

  Hicks grunted. “New paragraph. It’s late.”

  Vail ignored him. “In the first place, I have known for over a year that Dick had a sonotel installed in my office. I knew it the day aft
er he did it. No matter how. I am not a greenhorn in business, and I’m not a novice in the application of plastics to the science of sound recording. I amused myself by conveying to him some hints on formulas that I don’t think he found very helpful. Dick was enraged by Republic’s success, and he got so he was little better than a maniac. His suspicions that I was getting his formulas were completely unfounded, but it was no use talking to him.”

  “If you want to rest a minute,” Hicks put in, “maybe I can go on with it. You went to a play and heard an actress with a voice exactly like Mrs. Dundee’s, and decided to have some fun. You got the actress to come to your office and do a little dialogue with you for the sonotel—”

  “No,” Vail said. His eyes did not shift from Judith Dundee. “I can do this better without interruptions. I have to be a little cautious about it, for as I said, there is at least one risk I don’t care to take. I hope I don’t need to persuade you, Judith, that I would not regard it as fun to involve you in such a mess. The first I knew that you were involved was Thursday last week—a week ago yesterday. I got a phone call from Herman Brager, saying he wanted to see me. Naturally I was interested in such a call from the second-best plastic research man in the world, so I made an appointment and met him that evening. I was hoping that perhaps he was ready to quit Dundee, but quite the contrary. He was after my blood, figuratively speaking. He told me that Dick had a sonotel record from a machine picking up from my office, with a conversation between you and me, showing that I was getting Dundee formulas from you.”

  Judith, frowning, spoke. “Herman Brager told you that?”

  “He did. I gathered that he—uh—admires you, a sentiment in which of course he has no monopoly. I gathered that, because he seemed to resent, not so much my getting his formulas, as my getting you involved. He had formed the same theory that Hicks here has advanced, that, knowing of the sonotel, I had found someone to imitate your voice and put on a performance, and he demanded that I should clear you by telling Dick the facts. I denied it, naturally, since it wasn’t true. His admiration of you must be extreme, for I was impressed by his vehemence. If he were a man of violence, his being after my blood might not have been merely figurative.”