Rex Stout (10 page)

The voice of the assistant district attorney sounded: “We had to string some lights. Shall I turn them on?”

“No!” Cramer exploded hastily, and descended the steps.

Near the door again he said, “I had to see it, of course, but there’s no use wasting time, since your men have gone over it with microscopes. Where’s the lance with the prints?”

“It’s at White Plains too. It hung there.” He pointed. “And on that cabinet yonder. Do you think there’s anything to that?”

“I haven’t even begun to think.” The inspector was at the great brass door. Grasping its handle, he swung it on its hinges until it was closed, and then opened it again.
Twice more he swung it back and forth; it moved in perfect silence. He grunted. “I guess Carew wouldn’t have heard it opening, at that. Let’s go outside.”

They passed out and the White Plains man turned the key in the lock and put it in his pocket. Cramer said something to the Indian and was led across the closely clipped turf to a gap in the high yew hedge which was the beginning of an alley leading without the enclosure. The Indian pointed. “There.”

“Show me how you were standing.”

The Indian moved to a position about a foot to the left of the gap, and stood.

“You were hit on top of the head?”

“No. Here.” The Indian tapped with a finger on the left of his skull, back of the ear.

“Carew was inside the tomb, and the door was open?”

“No. Closed.”

“Was the sun shining?”

“Yes. Bright sun.”

“While you stood here, with Carew inside the tomb, what were you thinking about?”

“Me?” A grunt, possibly derisive. “Not thinking.”

“Were you thinking that Carew had forgot the Princess Tsianina and was going to marry another woman?”

The Indian shrugged and shook his head. The assistant district attorney yawned without restraint, and Cramer turned to him with mild sarcasm: “You bored?”

“No—but this damn Indian. We had him for two weeks. Your men have tried him too. You say you’ve read the reports?”

“Yeah, I know.” Cramer gazed at the face of Woodrow Wilson—the dark furrowed skin that had never felt a razor, the knobs of the cheekbones, the slits of the
eyes. Abruptly he blurted at him, “Yesterday afternoon you went to see Barth. What for?”

The Indian nodded without hesitation and said, “Yesterday. To eat.”

“I said yesterday. What did you want to see Barth about?”

“Not to see Mr. Barth. My friend Mr. Buysse took me for a ride and we went there. Among so many people you would not see me hardly. A thousand people there—more than that, two hundred. Some stayed to eat and I stayed with my friend. Mrs. Barth said by all means stay. Maybe you know Cherokee life and thoughts about woman? Always the house is the woman’s house. Whatever she say in the house you do it. If she say stay and eat and you go, bad insult. If woman gets insult in the house—”

“I see. That’s fine. Did you go there to see Mrs. Barth?”

“Me?” The slits of Wilson’s eyes widened a fraction of an inch. “Hell, no. More fact about Cherokee life: A man never go see woman of another man in her house, never if man there. If a man want to see that woman his eyes tell her where, or maybe he wait till the dance and then tell her. She say yes come or she say not come, but never her house. For that reason me not go see Mrs. Barth. But she say stay and eat—”

“Yeah, you said that. You listen to me. You understand a plain question, don’t you? You’re damn right you do. You went to Barth’s house to see someone.
Who?
”

Wilson shrugged. “Too many people there. See Mr. Kranz, woman Portia Tritt. See Guy Straightfoot Carew, son of Tsianina. See my friend Mr. Buysse, reason I ride with him. See woman with yellow eyes, bright red dress, little feet. Mr. Buysse said come on and ride, what the
hell, nice day to ride. Then not what I expect, Mrs. Barth said stay and eat. More fact about Cherokee life—”

Cramer demanded of the White Plains man, “Did you fellows work on this specimen for two weeks?”

“Off and on, nothing had any effect. If you stuck him in boiling oil up to his waist it would remind him of more fact about Cherokee life.”

Cramer grunted in disgust. “I’ll see him again later. Now I’m just meeting folks and getting the picture. At present I’m willing to get a bet down on Commissioner Humbert’s choice.”

“Me?”

Two heads jerked around at the Indian who, judging from his tone, intended it for a polite question. Cramer stared at him a second, growled, “For God’s sake,” and strode off.

The inspector was still moving fast. At four o’clock he had telephoned twice to his office and given detailed instructions regarding a new development that had presented itself, phoned also to the commissioner and the district attorney, been driven south again as far as the National Indian Museum on Ninety-third Street and spent half an hour with its director, Amory Buysse, and was still there.

They sat together in the director’s modest but attractive office at the rear of the museum’s third floor, which contained implements and clothing of the Mackenzie and California areas. Cramer had actually got something: a peach seed, now reposing in his pocket, and a recital of its history. The mystery of Woodrow Wilson being taken for a ride to the house of Mrs. Barth had been cleared up; and Buysse had further stated that he had been aware that his car had been followed on that occasion,
but that he had been undisturbed by the fact, because he had got used to it. Buysse had also recapitulated briefly but patiently his answers to thousands of previous questions. His invitation for dinner and to spend the night of July 6th at Lucky Hills was nothing out of the ordinary; all the conferences regarding the affairs of the museum had taken place in that manner; besides, he was Val Carew’s oldest friend and Carew had continued to enjoy his company. He had arrived at Lucky Hills at six o’clock, chatted for an hour with Guy Carew, who had just returned from the West, dined with the others, smoked a couple of cigars on one of the terraces with Guy and Woodrow Wilson, and gone up to bed a little before midnight, to the room he always occupied when there. He had slept well, had heard or seen nothing unusual, and had not again left his room before 7.40, when Wilson had come to his door to tell him that Carew had been found murdered. Yes, while smoking on the terrace they had discussed the probability that Carew would marry Portia Tritt, but none of them had expressed undue resentment. The subject had been opened by questions from Guy, who had in fact come east in some haste because it had been suggested in a letter which had been written him by Buysse. They had agreed that such a marriage would be unfortunate, but certainly there had been no thought of active interference to prevent it. Their chief concern, in fact, had been for the weather. July 7th was the birthday of Tsianina; it had been the custom of Val Carew to reserve important questions for her answer on that morning, by the rays of the sun on her face or their absence; which would it be? He was sure, Buysse said, that the only action any of that trio had in mind was the action of the heavens; they wanted sunshine and plenty of it. Yes, Val Carew would actually have permitted such a question to find its answer in that manner.

What did Buysse know of an affair, eight years ago in Paris, between Guy Carew and Portia Tritt?

Nothing whatever, and he didn’t want to.

What did he know of the friendship between Portia Tritt and Leo Kranz?

Nothing whatever, and he wasn’t interested.

Or of the conversation that night, ending after midnight, between Val Carew and Melville Barth?

Nothing whatever.

Was it true that Carew had told him, Buysse, that in case he married again his annual contribution to the National Indian Museum would be stopped or greatly decreased?

No, and neither was it true that a skunk doesn’t smell.

But hadn’t Buysse perhaps suspected such a result from Carew’s marriage to a young and handsome woman?

No.

But hadn’t Buysse admitted that he regarded such a marriage as unfortunate?

Buysse said, “Listen, mister. You aiming to get me mad? What for?”

Cramer passed it by. He chewed his cigar a while and then suddenly demanded, “When Wilson came to your room to report the murder, what did he say?”

“You mean the exact words?”

“If you remember, yes.”

“Well—something like this: ‘The young one say come to tomb. Tsianina’s man dead.’”

“The young one’ meaning Guy?”

“That’s right.”

“Did Wilson look grief-stricken?”

“No. If you’ve seen him you know how he looks. He never looks different.”

“Why didn’t he go back to the tomb with you?”

“Because he was groggy. He had been knocked cold, and he’s an old man. I made him lie down on my bed and then beat it.”

“When you got to the tomb what was Kranz doing?”

“Standing there.”

“What did you and he do while you were waiting?”

“I took a look at Val Carew and then I sat down on the stone steps and stayed there. Kranz stood over by the door.”

“No talking?”

“I didn’t feel like talking. I don’t know whether Kranz did or not.”

“How long did you wait?”

“I guess I had been there about ten minutes when Guy came. It was fifteen minutes more before the police arrived. More came soon after. There was nothing I could do, and I started to leave, Captain Goss—asked Guy and Kranz and me if we would object to being searched. I couldn’t see any sense in that, under the circumstances, but none of us objected. They went over us one by one, and made a list of what we had on us, and then I went to the house to see how Wilson was. Before I left, Barth and Miss Tritt had arrived.”

“I’ve seen that list. I noticed you had a piece of carved bone in your pocket and you said it was a Dakota battle charm. Do you always carry that?”

“No. Guy had brought back some stuff from the West and had given me that for the museum. It’s downstairs now if you want to take a look at it.”

“Much obliged.” Cramer sat moodily eyeing the museum director with his lips screwed up, and after a moment abruptly switched: “Did you ever see a man scalped?”

Buysse shook his head. “Nope, I never did.”

“Then you don’t know how hard it would be to pull it off.”

“Are you asking me how hard it would be?”

“Say I am.”

Buysse grunted. “Then you’re a hell of a detective. How would I know? As it happens, I do know. I asked a doctor. He said it would come off easy if you used a sharp knife, but if you only used the knife to carve the circle and then pulled it would take quite some jerk.” Buysse leaned back. “My friend Peterson at the American Museum says you folks have been asking him about scalping habits—which tribes took it all and which ones took only a part and so on. That’s all goose feathers. I mean that scalping stunt. Forget it. I can see how it would strike you. Wilson’s an Indian, and Guy Carew is part Indian, and so when they killed a man they would scalp him. Well, maybe they might. But so might any one else if they wanted to make it look like an Indian.”

“Yeah, I thought of that alone.”

“I suppose you did. Another thing, that business about a piece of bayeta yarn in Val’s hand. A newspaperman was here a couple of days ago, and one of your men yesterday. People don’t wear things made of bayeta. But any one who knows about it could have got a strand of it from a blanket and closed Val’s fingers over it after they killed him. There are three bayeta blankets at Lucky Hills. There are eight in this museum.”

“Uh-huh, I thought of that too, but I don’t like it much.”

“You don’t? Why not?”

“Oh, I just don’t. But this scalping stunt, I’d like to ask a few more questions about that….”

District Attorney Skinner sat in his office sidewise to his desk, with his eyes narrowed at the man who was in a chair facing him. The visitor, medium-sized and grey-haired, was tailored and outfitted with expensive care and the best of taste, and would have been notable anywhere for his shrewd steadfast eyes, as pale as ice.

Skinner broke a silence, suavely, choosing his words. “No, Orlik, I don’t say it’s unethical. I only say I’m surprised that a man of your standing would suggest such a thing. You know very well the police can’t permit valuable evidence, especially in a murder case, to be examined by any one who takes a fancy—”

“Not fancy.” The visitor gestured impatiently. “I’m aware that I’m not representing a defendant, with a legal right to enforce, because there is no defendant, since you’ve made no charge. But they took that Indian on a fishing expedition up in Westchester, and kept him two weeks, didn’t they? And all the time they had that piece of yarn and kept it quiet. Wilson is still my client, and he is still in jeopardy, and you know it. How do I know when you’ll nab him again? So is Buysse my client, and Mr. Guy Carew, and they are all being kept under surveillance. Must they submit indefinitely to that annoyance? Now that your finding that piece of yarn in the dead man’s hand has been made public—”

“We didn’t publish it.”

“All the worse. You should either have published it or defended it. Instead, it was permitted to trickle out in a manner most damaging to the repute of respectable citizens. Now you insinuate that it would be contrary to the ends of justice to allow me to have the yarn examined by an accredited expert in my employ.”