Rex Stout (17 page)

“What information?”

“She had in her possession some bayeta yarn identical with the piece found in your father’s hand. She won’t say where she got it.”

“What makes you think it’s identical?”

“We know it is. We got a sample from her file and compared it microscopically.”

“What …” Guy hesitated. He went on, “What happens if she refuses to tell? I’ve asked a lawyer. I’m asking you.”

“You’re asking the right man.” Cramer smiled grimly. “We’ll continue to try to persuade her that it’s her duty to tell. We’ll do our best to show her that if she doesn’t tell it creates an uncomfortable situation for her as well as for us. Except when she falls asleep—” He shrugged. “We’ll fight any legal steps taken to release
her, and unquestionably we’ll fight successfully, with what we can show the court. I may add that if developments show that she has been shielding the actual criminal, she will be subject to prosecution as an accessory.”

“I see.” He took a look at Jean, then turned back to Cramer. He took a breath. “Well, she isn’t shielding the criminal. She’s shielding me, I gave—”

“Guy!
Guy!
”

“No, Jean. You sit down—I gave her that yarn myself. It was part of a jacket—Jean, damn it, do you think I can let you carry this when it belongs to me?”

“Yes, I do!” She was glaring at him. “You needn’t be such a frightful snob! I was enjoying it!”

“Yes, you were. Not much. I’m not a snob—or maybe I am—you remember what I told you yesterday morning about a cad—the nuances are too fine for me.” Guy returned to the inspector: “So Miss Farris got the yarn from me. Was there anything else you wanted of her?”

“That was the main thing.”

“Then let her go. Send her home. You’ve kept her up all night and she needs rest. Send her home, and I’ll give you whatever details you want.”

“We’ll send her pretty soon.” Cramer spoke as if words might shatter eggshells. “We haven’t abused her any.” He looked at her. “I’d like to have you confirm Mr. Carew. Did you get that yarn from him?”

“No!”

Guy stared at her. Cramer demanded, “Oh, you didn’t?”

Jean’s eyes were defiant at the inspector. “I didn’t mean no. Nor yes either. I’ve told you a thousand times that I will never tell you where I got that yarn, and I won’t. If Mr. Carew wants to pretend that he gave it to me, he can.”

Cramer observed dryly, “It looks like you don’t want to go home.”

“Nonsense.” Guy leaned; touched her arm. “Look here, Jean. You should never have been in this at all. This is my battle and I can fight it. I release you from the promise you made. I command you to confirm what I said.”

“You
command
me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, of all the—” Her eyes were wide at him. “You big fool! You should never have come here! I was doing all right! And now you
command
me!”

Cramer growled, “She means she don’t take orders. I could have told you that.”

Guy, looking a little bewildered, had hold of Jean’s elbow. He stammered, “I only meant—damn it, I told you I don’t know how to get along with women! Jean, I beg you! I beg you, Jean! I’ve told him anyhow. Don’t be stubborn. I would never be stubborn with you.”

“All right,” she said shortly. “But I won’t go home, not right now.”

“You won’t need to,” Cramer assured her. “There will be a few little details. Did Mr. Carew give you that yarn?”

“Yes.”

“Was it part of a jacket?”

“Yes.”

“Okay—Now, Mr. Carew, the jacket. Tell me about it.”

“There’s not much to tell.” Guy looked straight at him. “It was mine. It was made for me last April by a Choctaw woman in Oklahoma from a piece of a bayeta blanket. I had it with me when I came east a month ago, the day before my father was killed. I showed it to two men, along with other things I had brought. That afternoon
I took it with me when I went to the tennis court with Miss Tritt. I put it on after the game and wore it to the house, and left it in a closet in the side hall when I put the balls and rackets away. I told Miss Farris yesterday I wasn’t positive about that, but since then I’ve thought about it, and now I’m sure I did, because when Buysse came I took him there and showed it to him. That was the last I saw of it for two weeks. I never thought of it or looked for it, since my mind was occupied with something else. My father had been murdered. I didn’t know until four days ago that a piece of bayeta yarn had been clutched in his hand.”

Guy’s jaw worked. He controlled it and went on, “On Wednesday, July 21st, I met Miss Farris. A friend of mine who knew that one of my methods of trying to promote the welfare of the Indian tribes was to have them instructed in modern weaving took me to her workshop. I was extremely impressed … by her talents and achievements …” He turned his head and blurted abruptly at Jean, “Other ways too.” To the inspector again: “I invited her to drive with my friend and me to Lucky Hills the following day and see some Indian things there. She came. That was Thursday the 22nd. We went into my room, and there, lying on a chair, was the jacket. As I said, I hadn’t seen it since July 6th. I thought it would be—that is, I thought I would like to see Miss Farris wear something of her own design with bayeta yarn in it—the yarn that was used by the Indians centuries ago. I offered it to her and she was kind enough to take it and say she would use it. When she left, after dinner that evening, she took it along.”

Guy looked at Jean. “If I had had any idea—if I could have known it would mean getting her into this—”

Jean muttered, “Forget it.”

Cramer said, “Yeah. Of course at that time you didn’t know the yarn had been found in your father’s hand.”

“No. The police saw fit to keep that secret.”

Jean offered, “And of course that proves that the fact that the jacket belonged to Mr. Carew—I mean, since he didn’t know the yarn had been found in his father’s hand—”

Cramer grunted. “Neither did the murderer know it. If he had known it was there he would never have left it there. Not even the murderer had any reason to suppose we were interested in bayeta yarn until four days ago, when that newspaper reporter got hold of it and made the rounds…. Who were the two men you showed the jacket to?”

“Amory Buysse and Wilson. The Cherokee Indian.”

“Yeah, I know him. When and where?”

“To Wilson, in my room, unpacking my trunks, early in the afternoon. To Buysse, in the hall closet where I had put it, around half-past six.”

“Did any one else see it?”

“Yes. Miss Tritt of course, but I don’t believe anything was said about it. Leo Kranz must have seen it, but I don’t know whether he especially noticed it. I had it on, I suppose, when the Barths arrived and I was introduced to them. That was when we left the tennis court.”

“You hung it on a hook in the closet?”

“No, on a hanger. On the rod.”

“And you never thought of it again for over two weeks?”

“No. As I said, under the circumstances—”

“I know. But you were at Lucky Hills most of the time, and you wore clothes. Did you never go near that closet?”

“No. Or maybe I did. It wasn’t my personal closet. Outdoor things were kept there—sweaters and so on. If
I did go near it I didn’t notice the jacket or think to look for it.”

“In spite of the fact that it was made from an old bayeta blanket?” Cramer was slightly brusque. “As rare and valuable as that? And a gift, a keepsake? And your mind was so occupied that you never thought of it once?”

“You seem to be arguing.” Guy’s eyes had narrowed a little. “I’m not defending my thoughts; I’m just telling you.”

“And I’m commenting on the laws of probability. You shouldn’t be squeamish, sir; after all, the presumption is that your interest in this case is identical with ours. Who was the friend who went to Lucky Hills with you and Miss Farris on July 22nd?”

“Walter Vaughn of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. He had come to New York to see me.”

Cramer scribbled on a pad. “In Washington now?”

“I suppose so. His office is there.”

“Was he present when you found the jacket in your room and gave it to Miss Farris?”

“Yes.”

“Was the jacket in good repair?”

“Not very. It was made from a piece of old damaged blanket which had never been restored. It had been cleaned, but there were a couple of small holes in it, and it was somewhat frayed.”

“So that if a man had grabbed at it he might easily have pulled off a piece of yarn.”

“Yes. Quite easily.”

“If I put all this in the form of a statement, I suppose you’ll have no objection to signing it?”

“None at all.”

Jean interposed, “Wait a minute, Guy. I don’t think you ought to sign anything until your lawyer sees it. Haven’t you got a lawyer?”

“I had one. Sam Orlik.”

“Then I think you should send for him, and you shouldn’t do any more talking until he’s here. I’m sure you shouldn’t sign anything—”

Cramer put in smoothly, “Now, Miss Farris. Please. I submit that Mr. Carew owes us a little co-operation. After all, he has known for four days that we were moving heaven and earth in the effort to trace that yarn, and he knew all about it, and said nothing. I don’t say that’s suspicious, I only say—”

“But you think it’s suspicious.” Jean was sharp. “It was you who told me that in a murder case it’s an entirely new set of rules. I understand that one of them is that you suspect everybody, and I think you have a nerve to ask for co-operation from a man under suspicion. Mr. Carew only came here because he thought I was in a hole, and I—I think it was wonderful of him to do it—”

“Certainly it was. I agree absolutely. I also agree that he should stand on his legal rights, and particularly that he should refuse to sign anything, if there was a chance that he might incriminate himself. But there isn’t. You said we suspect everybody, but we can’t very well suspect Carew of murdering his father when he has an airtight alibi.”

“Oh! He has—”

“An alibi. Sure. He’s had it from the beginning. That’s another of the items the police have seen fit to keep to themselves, but I might as well relieve your mind of any fear of a murder charge against Mr. Carew. His father was killed between ten minutes to six and a quarter past seven in the morning. When Wilson, the Indian, went to the house at half-past seven to report what he had discovered in the tomb, he found Portia Tritt in Guy Carew’s room. An hour later she told the
police that she had been there with him continuously for over five hours, since 2 a.m. Mr. Carew confirmed it.”

Cramer saw Guy’s brows meeting and his face darkening. He saw Jean’s glare of incredulity, the quick intake of her gasp, and the stiffening of her body. He went on smoothly, “Since then, both of them have on various occasions repeated the statement. They both refuse to tell the object of her visit to his room, or what was being discussed during that five and a half hours, but that doesn’t affect the alibi
as
an alibi.” Cramer shrugged. “Some people might sort of raise their brows at it, his father’s fiancée in his room with him all night, but he just said a while ago that the nuances are too fine for him. Anyhow, that’s none of my—you wanted to say something, Miss Farris?”

Twice Jean’s mouth had opened and closed again. She had glanced to her right for one bright instant and met Guy’s dark inscrutable scowl, and hastily looked away. Now she gazed miserably at the inspector’s blandness and said in a painfully flat voice, “I don’t believe it.”

Cramer shrugged again. “Ask him.”

Jean turned her head, and all she saw was the scowl. She stood up. Her shoulders swayed a little, and she jerked them to rigidity. She spoke to Cramer: “I seem to have—misunderstood. I’ve been pretty stupid. If I may—may I go now? I’d like to go home—”

She turned and took two firm steps. Cramer made no move, but Guy did. One stride took him to her, and his grasp on her shoulders wasn’t gentle. “Wait, Jean. This time I do command you—”

“Let go of me!”

“Oh, no. You listen.” Guy turned her, by force, so that they were facing Cramer, and spoke to him: “You too. I let you go on talking because I deserved it. I’m not quick-witted, but I’m not too dumb to live. You were
being slick. You guessed I’m in love with Miss Farris. I am. I’ve never been in love before, but I am now and I have been ever since I saw her, and I don’t want anything as much as I want her good opinion. You saw that and you worked up to this, but I don’t resent it because I was sick of the damn lie anyhow. Portia Tritt wasn’t in my room five hours. She was there five minutes. She came to tell me that she had been to my mother’s tomb and found my father lying there dead.” Still gripping Jean’s shoulders, he turned her, again by force, so that she was facing him, and demanded of her, “Do you believe me?”

She had to tilt her head far back to look up at him. He shook her a little and repeated, “Do you believe me?” Their eyes met, his down, hers up. She nodded. In a moment she nodded again. He released her and said gruffly, “Now you can go home. You’re played out. You go home and go to bed.”

“Oh, no.” She tried a smile, but her lips trembled and she gave it up. “You can’t command me twice the same day. I’m going to stay—”

Cramer’s voice sounded crisply: “Will you sit down, please? I mean you, Mr. Carew. I think he’s right, Miss Farris. You’re free to go. In fact, you are to go.”

Jean returned to her chair, sat down, met his eye and told him, “If I go I’ll be carried.”

Guy sat down too. The inspector looked from him to her, and finally grunted. “Okay. We’ll see…. Now, Mr. Carew. I take it for granted that you realise what you’re doing. You say it was a lie about Miss Tritt being in your room with you from two till seven-thirty?”

“I do. She was there four or five minutes.”

“What time did she arrive?”

“Around 7.25. I was up, and bathed and dressed, ready to go downstairs—”

“What time did you get out of bed?”

“I got out of bed twice. The first time was at 6.15, I had set the alarm. I got up and went to the window to see if the sun was shining. I stood there for perhaps twenty minutes, and there was a bright sun constantly, and I said an old Cherokee chant of gratitude.”