Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 03

by The Broken Vase

  He called the number of Diego’s apartment, got no answer, tried the Metropolitan Broadcasting Company studios, and found him there. Diego was gruff and scarcely civil; he was busy with a score, he said, and would be for some time; importuned, he agreed to be at his apartment at six o’clock. Fox hung up, frowned at the transmitter for half a minute, dialed another number, and had better luck. Returning to his parked car, he drove to the offices of the Homicide Squad on Twentieth Street, sent his name in to Inspector Damon, and was admitted at once.

  Anyone curious as to the true status of the police investigation of the Dunham murder would have needed only to observe Inspector Damon’s reception of Tecumseh Fox. He got up and came around his desk to greet the visitor and shook hands as if he meant it.

  Fox smiled at him. “My lord, is it as bad as that?”

  “Everything’s always bad here.” Damon waved him to a chair. “All we get is crime. Something on your mind?”

  “Nope. I’m in a mental blackout. I’m sorry if you thought I was Santa Claus. How’s the Dunham case getting along?”

  “Fine. Who wants to know?”

  “Me and my employer. I’ve got a job.” Fox took an envelope from his pocket, extracted a sheet of notepaper, and handed it over. “You’ll be pleased to know that at least I was able to persuade Mrs. Pomfret not to have you fired.”

  Damon took in the brief note with a glance. He handed it back, grunted, and regarded Fox grimly. “When you get the Dunham case cleaned up,” he said sarcastically, “there’s a stabbing up in Harlem you can have.”

  “Thanks. I’ll get in touch with you. I just got that commission from Mrs. Pomfret an hour ago. There’s no corking or covering involved; she wants to know who killed her son. That’s straight. If you already know, I’ll mail this back to her and go home. Do you?”

  “They sell papers at the corner.”

  Fox frowned. “All right. But I don’t think that’s very profound. Have I ever gone around blowing lids off? When I got lucky and broke the Coromander case, did I—”

  “You’ll need plenty of luck to break this one, my boy.”

  “Then you haven’t opened a seam yet?”

  “I have not. I know just exactly as much about who killed Dunham as I did when I walked in there a week ago yesterday. The papers think there’s been a hush, but there hasn’t. It’s simply a case of somebody being either damn clever or damn lucky. We’ve tried everything. I don’t need to tell you what we’ve done; you know what we do.”

  “I thought maybe you had it lined up but were short on proof.”

  “Proof?” Damon was bitter. “Hell, we haven’t even got to the guessing stage.”

  “Have you got a few minutes to talk about it?”

  “I never have a few minutes, but I’ll talk about it. What do you want to know?”

  The “few minutes” stretched into nearly an hour, but when Fox left, at a quarter to six, returned to his car and headed back uptown, all he had to show for it was additional material for a student of mankind. The salient and interesting items were assorted in his head:

  Adolph Koch

  Wealthy bachelor businessman, 52, reputation good. Generous help to painters, writers, musicians. Also generous to young women. Quid pro quo. Tusar in his way—Hebe Heath? And Dunham knew it? No other motive.

  Ted Gill

  Successful publicity agent, 30, reputation good. Arrested 1938, charged with assault by theatrical producer, acquitted. Sore at Tusar for not having picture taken with Hebe? Very thin—no other motive.

  Garda Tusar

  Came to U.S. in 1933 with brother, 26. Lied about job, hasn’t had one for three years. N.V.M.S. Lives expensively—at least $10,000 a year. Source of income—Perry Dunham? Unable to verify. Loved her brother but on bad terms with him recently. No motive to kill him or Dunham. Evasive, slippery, clever.

  Dora Mowbray

  Pianist, 20, teaching for a living since father’s death. Thought father was murdered, perhaps still does. Says Tusar left two notes. Motive against Tusar, avenging father’s death. Against Dunham, fear of disclosure (this for everyone).

  Mrs. Pomfret

  45. Large fortune intact. Possibly wished to ruin Tusar, had quarreled with him, but would not have harmed Perry. Lavish with money for Perry.

  Felix Beck

  Top-flight teacher of violin, 61, married, two children, reputation good, finances fair. Bets on horse races. No motive.

  Henry Pomfret

  Formerly U.S. diplomatic service, married Mrs. Pomfret (then Dunham) in Rome, 1932. 41. Clean record. No private income. Mutual dislike him and Perry (motive?). Thin. No hint Perry serious threat to him. No motive Tusar. No spending habits, apparently has little to spend. Wins at bridge at the Dummy Club.

  Hebe Heath

  Born Mabel Daggett at Columbus, Ohio, 1915. Married 1936 to Los Angeles lawyer, divorced 1938. Nut. Arrested Santa Barbara 1938 for driving car into post office. Arrested Chicago 1939 for breaking man’s nose with tennis racket. Chased Jan Tusar since August, 1939. Motive Tusar, pique, resentment, desire to humiliate. Pathological? Dr. Unwin interviewed her, hedged.

  Diego Zorilla

  Formerly ranking concert violinist, fingers lost in accident ruined career. 34. Salary $140 a week music arranger MBC. Reputation good. Jilted by Garda Tusar in 1935. Old friend of Tusar. Embittered envy? Motive Dunham, yes, if he still loves G.T., and Dunham was keeping her.

  For the rest, only a disheartening row of negations. No trail found from a purchase of potassium cyanide. No fingerprints on the paper container of the poison or the fragments of the whisky bottle picked up in the street corner, except, in the case of the bottle, those of Schaeffer and Perry Dunham. No trail from a purchase of varnish, nor evidence of its possession. No significant result from four days’ surveillance of all those involved, abandoned after vigorous protests from Adolph Koch and Henry Pomfret. No hint of hidden designs, desires, intrigues, motives.… No this, no that.…

  Fox was beginning to feel that he would indeed need plenty of luck, and as he rolled uptown with the traffic he was not voicing his favorite battle cry.

  As it happened, luck was on the job. He would have been willing to call it luck, though what really saved him was an inborn wariness, a hair-trigger alertness of his nerves which communicated to him a warning a split second sooner than the normally equipped man would have got it. Arriving at Diego’s address promptly at six o’clock, he found it unnecessary to push a button in the vestibule, since the door was left unlocked to permit public access to a little optician’s shop on the ground floor. That was not worthy of remark, but, mounting the two flights to the door of Diego’s apartment, he found something that was. The door was not only unlocked, but was ajar a few inches, and his quick-accustomed eye caught in its first glance the bruised and splintered edge of the jamb which suggested that the door had been opened without the convenience of a key. Lifting his brows at it, he pushed the button and heard a bell ring inside—but nothing else. He pushed the button again, and got no response. He called out:

  “Hey, Diego!”

  Silence.

  He lifted his hand to push the door open; but that was where the luck, or his inborn wariness, entered. He couldn’t draw his pistol, for he was unarmed; but an elementary precaution could do no harm. He flattened himself against the wall to the right of the door at the hinge side, reached out to the nearest panel, and pushed.

  Chapter 11

  Despite his prudence, what happened startled him because it was totally unexpected. As the door swung open there was a clatter, a spattering of liquid, another clatter as something hit the floor. Fox was six feet from the door—a good sidewise leap. As a pungent penetrating odor reached his nostrils he backed away another six feet, and stood there glaring incredulously at a little enameled metal pan that had rolled into the hall when a voice came from his rear:

  “Hello, sorry I’m a little late.” It was Diego’s bass rumble. “I’ve been—Hey, the door’s open?
What—”

  Fox grabbed his arm. “Take it easy. We’d better back off a little.”

  “What the hell—”

  Fox held him back. “You’d never believe it. I wouldn’t if I hadn’t seen it. I suppose it’s been five thousand years since a kid first fixed a bowl of water to fall on grandpa’s head when he opened a door. Only that’s not water. It’s either hydrocyanic or nitrobenzene, and if it’s the latter the less we breathe the better we’ll feel. I got here four minutes ago. The door had been pried open and was standing ajar. After ringing and yelling and getting no answer, I cautiously gave a push and that pan tumbled down, spilling enough to kill a horse if it landed on him.”

  Diego stared. “Kill?”

  “Yes. If it’s nitrobenzene. That stuff is as toxic as a volley from a machine gun and penetrates about as fast.”

  Diego stared down at the pan on the floor, at damp spots on either side of the threshold, and growled in his throat. “I’m going in and see—”

  “Okay, if you’ve got good soles on your shoes and don’t step in a puddle and keep moving. The fumes can get you. Don’t touch that pan. Don’t touch anything near the door.”

  Diego obeyed. He avoided the damp spots and halted only when he was in the middle of the living room. Fox went farther, to the windows opposite, and threw them both wide open. When he turned Diego was glowering around.

  “Someone’s been in here.”

  “Under the circumstances,” Fox observed dryly, “that isn’t much of a surprise.”

  “No, but look at those bookshelves.”

  Fox had already seen them on his trip across the room. Half the books were lying on the floor. Other things were disarranged. Two drawers of a chest were standing open, and Diego was striding over to them. Fox went to the bathroom, opened the closet door and inspected the shelves there, returned to the living room, and saw that Diego had dropped into a chair, his face a black cloud, his white teeth gripping his lower lip.

  “That vase,” Fox said. “It’s not where it was. Did you put it somewhere else?”

  Diego made no reply.

  “Don’t be a sap.” Fox sounded exasperated. “I know it’s the Wan Li that was stolen from Pomfret. I knew it as soon as I saw it.”

  Diego goggled at him. “How could you? You’d never seen it.”

  “I’d seen a picture of it, and I know something about pottery. Did you put it somewhere else?”

  “Yes. I put it—” Diego stopped. In a moment he went on: “What the hell. It’s gone. I put it in that top drawer and locked it and it’s been jimmied open and it’s gone.”

  “Well.” Fox crossed to a chair near a window and sat down. “I see.” He started to hum, in an undertone, “The Parade of the Wooden Soldiers.”

  Diego barked, “Shut up!”

  Fox looked startled and apologetic. “Was I doing that again? Excuse me. Well, it’s gone. The vase. If you had arrived here before I did, and shoved the door open in the usual way, you would be gone too. Or going. So I saved your life. Does that appeal to you? By the way, do you want me to call the police or will you?”

  “What are you talking about? Why should I call the police?”

  “My lord,” Fox said mildly. “Burglary? Grand larceny? Attempted murder?”

  Diego’s head fell till his chin touched his chest. His hands between his knees, he rubbed the palms together, up and down. Fox waited. Diego shook his head, without lifting it:

  “I don’t believe that. That stuff wouldn’t kill a man.

  “That’s a question for the police, Diego.”

  “They wouldn’t—I don’t want the police.” Diego raised his head. “This is my place, isn’t it? That was broken into? And it was me who was expected to open that door, wasn’t it?”

  “Presumably.” Fox’s tone sharpened. “But not to a certainty. You knew I was coming here at six o’clock. You knew it at a quarter to five. That gave you plenty of time to get over here and make arrangements. In case my discovery of the vase had made you fear I might become a serious annoyance.”

  Diego was gazing at him, speechless. He found speech only to pronounce, in disbelief and withering scorn, a completely unprintable word.

  Fox met his gaze and said calmly. “That’s the way it is, Diego. That’s exactly the way it is. There are eight of you, and one of you is a sneak and a snake and a murderer. And damn dangerous. And damn cunning. And a person of imagination. That varnish in Tusar’s violin is about tops in my experience. Or bottom. I doubt if it’s you, but if it is, I’m after you and I’ll get you. A matter of business—I’m working for Mrs. Pomfret. And if it isn’t, here are some questions I want answers to. One, are you in love with Garda Tusar? Two, what do you know of her relations with any man or men, including Perry Dunham? Three, where did you get that vase? Four, who is it that wants to kill you, and why? We’ll start with the simplest one. Where did you get the vase?”

  Diego blurted harshly, “No one wants to kill me!”

  “Then take the alternative. Why did you try to kill me?”

  Diego opened his mouth, and shut it without speaking. He gazed in silence at Fox, at the drawer still standing open, at the door still swung wide with its splintered edge plainly visible. He took a deep spasmodic breath that shook his torso, and when that convulsion had passed fastened his eyes on Fox again.

  “All right,” he said, “get the police. I knew you knew that was Pomfret’s vase. I knew that was why you wanted to see me today, to ask me to explain. The only explanation I could give was to admit that I stole it, which I didn’t care to do. So I—as you say, I made arrangements. I might have known you wouldn’t be caught in a booby trap like that.”

  “Then a few minutes after I had entered you ran up to make sure it had worked.”

  “Yes, I—to see if you—to see what—”

  “You certainly are a champion goof, Diego.”

  “I know I am. Why I ever stole it in the first place—”

  “Yeah. That was ill-advised. And now you are up against it, or will be when the cops get at you. Where did you get the nitrobenzene? You’ll have to prove that, of course. And the pan? Weren’t you at your office from the time I phoned until you left to come here? Why did you burglarize the door, why didn’t you just use your key? The same with the drawer. And what did you do with the vase? I could go on for an hour. The dumbest cop in the world would give you the horse laugh.”

  “Let them,” Diego said doggedly.

  “My God,” Fox protested in a tone of disgust, “you don’t mean to say that you actually expect anyone to swallow that!”

  “I mean,” said Diego, meeting his gaze unwaveringly, “that if you call the police on this that’s all they’ll get from me.” His face twisted with an involuntary grimace, showing his white teeth and his gums. “And anyone else. Including you. If you want to investigate a murder, that’s all right, I want that as much as you do, but not here. I’m not a murderer. Damn you! What have my feelings for Garda got to do with murder? Or that goddam vase?”

  Diego stopped; his jaw worked; he lifted a hand and let it drop again. “I’m sorry, Fox,” he said with an odd and clumsy courtesy. “You think you saved my life. Thank you. That’s all I’m going to say. To anyone.” He pointed. “There’s the phone over there.”

  Fox looked at him, at the crooked set to his mouth, at his narrowed eyes, half closed to conceal the mortal hurt to pride or hope or self-respect that had desperately moved him even to the ignominy of falsely declaring himself a thief. It was manifestly useless to badger him or wheedle him or reason with him; another time, another day, perhaps; not now. His hands were moving, and Fox, glancing there, saw that the tips of the index and middle fingers of his right hand were making little circles on the ends of the two stubs on the other hand. Fox had never seen him do that before; in fact, no one had; Diego had never permitted himself to indulge in that little gesture except in solitude.

  Fox got up and went to the table and tore a piece from a newspape
r, went to the hall and used the scrap of paper to pick up the pan, returned and put the pan on the table, and got his hat from the top of the chest of drawers. As he stopped in front of Diego, Diego looked up at him and then down again.

  “Don’t touch that pan with your bare fingers,” Fox said. “That stuff is oily. Even one drop of it is dangerous. On your skin. It wouldn’t kill you, but it might make you pretty sick. Get rubber gloves and wet a cloth with cleaning alcohol and wipe the floor and the door and the woodwork. Clean the pan with alcohol before you throw it away—unless you want to keep it for a souvenir. You can’t lock the door, the lock’s ruined. Some one tried to kill you and may try again. Don’t be a damn fool.”

  “The police,” Diego said. “I don’t expect—I’m not asking any favors. I’m perfectly willing—”

  “The police are busy on a stabbing up in Harlem,” Fox said roughly, and strode out, down the stairs, and to the street.

  Chapter 12

  In a little restaurant on 54th Street west of Lexington Fox considered the situation, meanwhile disposing of some excellent oysters, good tender calf’s liver, tolerable lyonnaise potatoes, and broccoli that was saved from being seaweed only by its color.

  At the end of the oysters he went to the phone booth, called Dora Mowbray’s number, and got no answer. In the middle of the liver he tried another number, that of Garda Tusar in an apartment house on Madison Avenue, with the same result. Before putting sugar in his coffee he tried still another, Adolph Koch’s residence on 12th Street, and was informed by the soft voice of a colored maid that Mr. Koch was out.

  None of those disappointments was the quietus of a brilliant idea. He had no brilliant ideas. There was no sense in plodding along the trails, any of them, already worn by the trampling of Inspector Damon’s battalions—as, for instance, the matter of Garda Tusar’s income. That sort of thing was pie for a good detective squad, and Damon had fully realized the possibilities it offered of opening a crack, but he had got nowhere. If Garda had been a frequent visitor, discreet or indiscreet, to Koch’s place, or to Diego’s or Perry Dunham’s; or if one of them or any other remunerative male had enjoyed recurrent hospitality at her apartment; or if she had been habitually either guest or hostess at some clandestine pied-á-terre—all those possibilities had been explored by Damon’s men with painstaking and elaborate thoroughness, and Garda’s mysterious opulence remained a mystery. The inevitable official conjecture, that she was blackmailing somebody, was certainly plausible, but on that too there was a painful and persistent lack of evidence.