Rex Stout (7 page)

For many minutes, lying there on the grass beneath the shrub, she let that pot of self-scorn simmer within her breast, and kept stirring it and poking at it, as the dusk of twilight slowly settled on to the meadow. Once, hearing a rustling near by, she opened her eyes; but, deciding it was a scampering squirrel or rabbit and not worthy of investigation, she closed them again without turning her head.

Well … she had accepted Mrs. Barth’s invitation to dinner. It must be nearing nine o’clock. She would have to get up, brush herself off, walk back to the house, and join the gay party. Tomorrow morning she would have the skirt and jacket packed and sent by parcel post to Guy Carew. Indian giver! Was it actually possible that
he wanted them for Portia Tritt—to have her wear the bayeta? In that case, he was socially a monster … no, she didn’t mean socially, she meant … to the devil with it—

The train of thought ended as if cut off by a flashing sword. What cut it was a shrill sound—a piercing, earsplitting note—seemingly from the ground behind her head. Startled, she jerked herself up, sitting erect, and, as she did so, the sound was completed and she recognised it as the call of a whip-poor-will. Simultaneously she heard a rustling of the shrub and felt something strike the side of her head. Or rather, she didn’t feel, because her nervous system had quit; she was unconscious.

Twilight had thickened to darkness when she stirred. Not that she was immediately aware of it; the first twitching of her arms and legs was an experiment of the nerves, independent of the will, testing the lines of communication. Then sentience crawled timidly back and crept through the alleys of her brain. Her first demonstration of consciousness was a dim but overpowering awareness that she had a head, and cloudy irritation with it…. Why the deuce should so much importance be attached to anything so obvious as the fact that she had a head? Anyway, the head was no good, because it couldn’t be moved—or could it? She might try—good God! It was full of hot lead! Then she remembered. She had been hit on the head, a terrific, shattering blow, by a whip-poor-will. But no, it couldn’t have been like that—

Hey! She jerked up sitting, terrified, in spite of the head. Something had bit her on the leg—or something sharp had stuck her—Oh. Probably a grass stubble or a twig. But by that time she was sufficiently conscious to feel astonishment that she could see her leg, both her legs, nearly all of them, quite bare from the top of her
stocking to the edge of the—what was it? Shakespeares. But why, in the name of heaven, bare legs? And why—she would investigate that. With her right hand she felt at her left shoulder, and was touching thin silk. She began to realise that there was something highly peculiar about this whole situation; she had been assaulted by a whip-poor-will, it was dark, and her jacket and skirt were gone….

She put up her hands to feel her head.

T
he terrace was adequately lit by two electric lanterns hanging high, surrounded at the bottom by a circular trough which was half filled with electrocuted bugs. From the table beneath the corpses could not be seen, though if you cared to look you could catch glimpses of the insects hurtling to their doom.

A fair amount of jollity was being displayed by Mr. and Mrs. Melville Barth and their twenty guests, most of which was instigated by Adele Worthy of
Harvey’s Bazaar,
who told stories in a voice loud enough for all. Even Woodrow Wilson laughed heartily at her tale of the drunken Indian who operated with a hatchet on the tail of his dog because abbreviated tails were fashionable, missed his aim entirely and cut off the dog’s head, and threw the hatchet down in disgust, mumbling, “Too short!” Miss Worthy regarded that tale as especially apropos for the present group, since it referred both to Indians and to fashions. She said so, and no one contradicted her.

The roast veal was being consumed, with fresh lima beans and a modest but cheerful Moselle, when the butler approached Mrs. Barth’s chair and spoke unobtrusively.

“I beg your pardon, madam. Miss Graham would like to speak with you.”

Mrs. Barth looked astonishment, and expressed it vocally, but the butler stuck to it that Miss Graham required the presence of her employer in the house. Forsaking remonstrance, Mrs. Barth excused herself, crossed the terrace, passed through the door held open for her, and in the large reception hall turned to confront the butler, who had followed her.

He spoke hastily, not quite his placid self: “Please, madam. It was not Miss Graham. I was following the instructions of Miss Farris. In the—er—unusual circumstances—”

“Miss Farris! What do you mean? Where is she?”

“Pardon me, madam. Her instructions were very strict. No one but you, absolutely no one, is to know of her presence, and she would like to have you come to her in the pink room on the second floor. I put her there—”

“Put her! What’s wrong with her? Is she hurt?”

“No, madam. That is, not—”

He was speaking to air; Mrs. Barth was on her way. He took two steps after her, halted, hesitated, shook his head, and returned to the terrace.

Upstairs, at the door of the pink room, Mrs. Barth entered without stopping to knock. The room was lit. In a chintz-covered chair by a window sat Jean Farris, bent forward, her brow resting on both her palms. As she slowly straightened up and slowly turned her head, Mrs. Barth caught a glimpse of the garters and the bare legs. She hurried across.

“Good heavens, child! What’s the matter? Where are your clothes?”

Jean said, with her head held rigid, “You asked exactly the right question. That’s it.”

“But what—where have you been? We couldn’t imagine—we
looked all over—your car was here—we decided you had gone off with someone—”

“I went off all right.” Jean grimaced. “Do you mind sitting down? There, in front of me; I can’t turn my head. I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I didn’t want to wait…. Here’s what happened—what time is it?”

“Not quite ten.”

“Then I was there—but I’d better tell you. A little after eight, about a quarter after, I went for a walk. In the grounds. I crossed a drive and some more lawn and went past the cutting garden and on across the meadow until I saw the fence of the estate. I lay down on the grass by some shrubbery and closed my eyes. After a while I sat up. Just as I sat up something hit me on the side of the head and knocked me out. Here—” she gingerly touched the side of her head above the left ear—”there’s a bruise and you can see the swelling. When I came to I was the way I am now. My clothes were gone.”

“But—” Mrs. Barth gaped at her. “But what hit you?”

“How the dickens do I know? I didn’t see any one or hear any one.”

“But why should they take your
clothes
?”

“I don’t know that either. They didn’t take my watch or my ring, or my bag with money in it.”

“But, my dear child—” Mrs. Barth got up and went to her and examined her head, peering at it, touching it with gentle fingers. “Knocked unconscious! You should have a doctor! How does it feel now?”

“Not very good. I don’t want a doctor.” Jean grimaced again, shut her lips tight, and then opened them. “I want to find who it was. That’s why I interrupted your dinner. I’d like you to notify the police and get them here before any of your guests leave.”

Mrs. Barth was staring at her in horror. “You don’t mean—the
police
!”

“I certainly do. I’ve been thinking it over, as well as I can think with this head. I want—”

“But, Miss Farris! It’s impossible! Think of the publicity!”

“I don’t give a damn about the publicity. I don’t care how ridiculous it makes me, having the clothes stolen from my back and having to ring the bell and explain my panties to your butler. Don’t you realise I’m good and mad? It must have been one of the guests—who else could it be? I am
not
going to let him drive gaily home with my suit under the seat of his car, and who can stop him except the police? Of course, he may not have it. As I say, I’ve been trying to think. He could have bundled it up and thrown it over the fence somewhere, intending to get it later. In that case, the police should look for it. And every one here should have to answer some questions. I’m sorry, really, but I absolutely insist …”

Mrs. Barth had sat down again, with the expression of one having a job to do. She made no effort to interrupt, even permitted a lengthy silence when Jean had finished, and then spoke with no heat or acrimony.

“Listen to me, Miss Farris. Won’t you? I know you’re a well-bred girl and wouldn’t dream of making unpleasantness in another woman’s house without great provocation. I don’t deny you’ve had the provocation, but just consider. You say you’re willing to incur the publicity, but what about the rest of us? We’re the ones who would really get it. You’re thinking about yourself, which is natural, and so you haven’t stopped to realise a curious fact, that all the people who were at Lucky Hills, in Val Carew’s house, the night he was murdered, are here in my house now. Guy Carew, Leo Kranz, Portia Tritt, that man Buysse and that Indian, my husband and myself.
Another fact is that Val Carew was hit on the head and so were you. There’s no reason to suppose there’s any connection, but reason won’t have much to do with it if the papers once get hold of this.”

Mrs. Barth upturned both palms in desperate expostulation. “My dear, you just don’t realise. It has been perfectly terrible. And if this is added to it, you being knocked on the head right here in my house, with all these people here—and the police come—it will be more than I can
bear.
They might even arrest somebody—”

Jean put in savagely, “That’s exactly what I want them to do.”

“In
my
house? My dear, I understand, you simply feel vindictive, and I understand that, but if you would only stop to consider—if you would just let yourself cool off a little—after all, you didn’t lose anything but a suit with some old yarn in it—and I’ll gladly pay you for that, whatever amount you say—”

No, Jean declared, it wasn’t the money value of the suit, she didn’t care about that. Then, Mrs. Barth retorted, it was pure unadulterated vindictiveness, and she had never supposed Miss Farris to be that sort of person. Mrs. Barth elaborated on that theme, developed it into an appeal to Jean’s better nature, passed from that to a harrowing picture of the injury that would be done to the innocent enterprise of her cousin Ivy-Bernetta….

During the latter portion of it Jean’s head was resting on her hands again. Finally, she said wearily, without looking up, “All right, Mrs. Barth, forget it. I’ve been trying to think … I won’t insist on the police. You’ll have to take my word for it that I have a particular reason for not … just letting it drop.”

“My dear, I knew you’d be reasonable—I do hope your head—”

“Wait a minute. I’ll leave the police out of it, provided you’ll do something. You say all those people are here, even the Indian and Mr. Buysse?”

“Yes. I—I thought it would be only polite to ask them, since Mr. Carew—”

“All right. The point is, they’re here. If you don’t want the police, do exactly as I say.” Jean sat up, grimaced, and held her head motionless. “Go down right now and give each of your guests a pencil and a piece of paper, and ask each one to write down what he or she was doing from 8.30 to 9 o’clock, without any one discussing it with any one else. See that they do that, and that they sign it. Then tell them—”

“But what excuse can I give for such an extraordinary—”

“I don’t know. Tell them it’s a game. But after you have collected the papers, not before, tell them what happened to me, just as I have told it to you. I don’t want to see any of them; tell them I’ve gone home. Then bring—”

“But good lord! If I tell them, it will be everywhere by morning! I
can’t
tell them!”

“You certainly can. Whoever did it, that’s what he was counting on, that you would do everything in your power to keep it quiet. I’m offering a compromise with you, and you’d better accept it. My head hurts and I want to go home—and by the way, I’ll have to beg something to wear. The truth is, Mrs. Barth, I feel utterly nasty. My head hurts, and I’m madder than I’ve ever been in my life, and I have special reasons for special feelings that wouldn’t interest you. So unless you do what I ask immediately, before any one gets away, I’ll trot downstairs in this costume and phone the police myself. The phone there on the bedstand isn’t connected.”

Mrs. Barth gasped. “You tried it?”

“I did. I tell you, I’m a mean customer. And did I say you are to bring the signed papers to me at once? Then I’ll go. You understand, no one is to be left out—not even your husband, for instance. Also, if it isn’t done just as I’ve said, I’m sure to hear of it—two or three good friends of mine are down there—”

“Really, Miss Farris, you have no right—”

“I know I haven’t, and neither have your guests got a right to bounce a club on my head and steal my clothes. So I say it anyway, and I mean it.”

Mrs. Barth got up. “Everything considered,” she said stiffly, “I regard it as unfortunate that I invited you to dinner.”

“We agree on that perfectly. Will you go?”

As the door closed behind her hostess, Jean slowly and carefully lowered her brow to her palms again.

Some time between eleven and midnight, towards the end of a long level stretch on the Post Road, a stern and handsome motor-cycle cop leaned his vehicle against the highway railing and strode to the running board of the roadster which had pulled up at the curb in the rear, and directed his gaze at the tired-looking young woman behind the steering wheel.

“Let me see your licence.”

She produced it from her handbag, from which she had first to remove a thick fold of sheets of paper which had been crammed into it. He took it and examined it.

“Would you mind telling me why you’re in such a hurry to get somewhere?”

She started to shake her head, then stopped with a grimace that appeared to register pain. She tried to smile at him: “I’m sorry, I can’t. I promised not to notify the police.”

“Oh, good at gags? You’re clever?”