Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 01 (21 page)

“Mr. Fox!”

“Coming!”

He went up the grassy slope, nodded to the trooper’s information that Derwin was in the library, and when he got to the house, entered by the French windows. In addition to the four who had been there previously, Colonel Brissenden and another trooper were standing beside the desk. Fox had guessed that he was being summoned for the purpose of ejection, but he abandoned that notion with his first glance at Derwin’s face. It bore the expression of a novice gambler who has been dealt a full house pat, and Fox’s nerves tightened into wariness all over his body as he dropped into the chair that was indicated for him.

Derwin’s eyes met his. “I’m sorry to interrupt your talk with Mrs. Pemberton.”

“That’s all right. We were through.”

“That’s good. A while ago you advised me not to waste time in a sparring match. So I won’t. I’ve found out what the job was that Thorpe paid you for. I’ve found what you got for him.”

“Have you?” Fox looked interested. “Where did you find it?”

“Here in a drawer in the safe. It was found hours ago, before I got here, but we’ve just learned the part it played. Would you like to look at it again?” Derwin opened the flap of a canvas case that was before him on the desk, took from it an object and extended his hand.

Fox took it and inspected it. It was a revolver, old but in good condition, of a make he had seen only once before in all his experience, a German Zimmerman. He frowned. “You found this in a drawer of Thorpe’s safe?” He held the muzzle to his nostril and sniffed. “It’s been fired quite recently.”

“Yes. We did that in our tests.”

“What did you test it for? If it was found in the safe it can’t be the gun that killed Thorpe.”

Colonel Brissenden made a noise of impatience. Derwin snapped, “It isn’t. As you damn well know, it’s the gun that killed Corey Arnold at the bungalow Sunday night.”

F
ox gazed at the district attorney through an extended silence. Without saying anything, he inspected the revolver again, carefully on both sides, and then leaned forward to place it gently on the desk so as not to mar the polished surface.

He leaned back and folded his arms. “This is beautiful,” he declared. “Perfectly magnificent. The gun that killed Arnold found in Thorpe’s safe! I appreciate your telling me this. I take it that the tests were conclusive?”

Brissenden said succinctly, “Yes.” Derwin merely nodded.

Fox glanced around at the faces. They had their eyes on him like a circle of hungry cats surrounding a robin. “It’s an amazing find,” he declared. “Simply amazing. I congratulate you. What are we going to say next?”

“We’re waiting,” said Derwin, “for you to tell us where and how and when you got the gun and delivered it to Thorpe. If you want to gab a little to work yourself up to it, go ahead, we’re in no great hurry.” He clamped his jaw. “But you’re going to tell us.”

“Let’s see.” Fox pursed his lips. “How would you
figure it? You wouldn’t figure it was Kester who killed Arnold, because Kester probably had access to the safe, and so Thorpe wouldn’t have put the gun there after I got it and delivered it to him. You wouldn’t figure it was Thorpe himself who killed Arnold, since in that case he would have been in possession of the gun already without hiring me to dig it up for him. We’ll count Luke out on sentimental grounds. Of course there are Thorpe’s business associates, but I doubt if you figured it was one of them, for it isn’t likely that I would have been able to work so fast in that quarter. Also it must have been someone whom Thorpe didn’t want to denounce to the police, for he had a chance to do so with the colonel this morning and didn’t do it. That not only narrows it down, it makes it obvious. It was the son or daughter. Jeffrey or Miranda. So the only question is which? What do you think, Colonel?”

“I think,” said Brissenden curtly, “that it isn’t necessary to let you go on shooting off your mouth. You must have known that we would find that gun and that, as a matter of routine, we would fire bullets from it and compare them with the bullet that killed Arnold. Therefore you must have invented an explanation for it, to be ready for us. We’re going to get the right one before we’re through, but if you want to give us the phoney one first, go ahead and get it over with.”

Fox shook his head. “I don’t get it, I swear I don’t. You find a gun in Thorpe’s safe that was used for a murder. Granted that he didn’t just find it under a stone or receive it in the mail, why pick on me among all the possibilities? Let’s get down to cases. I hereby state that I never saw or heard of that gun before, didn’t know it was in existence, didn’t know it was in
Thorpe’s possession, didn’t know it was in his safe. Now what?”

“You’re lying,” Brissenden snapped.

“No, I’m not lying. My unqualified denial gives you the ball. Put up or shut up.”

“We’re giving you a chance—”

“I’m done. Put up or shut up.”

“Let me put it this way,” Derwin suggested. “We find this gun here in the safe and learn that it’s the one that killed Arnold. We consider all the various suppositions that might conceivably explain its presence here. We know that you met Thorpe yesterday evening for the first time and that since then you have done something for which he paid you fifty thousand dollars. It must have been something important, because that’s a lot of money. We know that you lied to me about getting money from Thorpe and that you refuse to tell what you did to earn it. We look at our facts and we draw an inference. On the strength of that inference we demand an explanation from you.” Derwin laid a fist on the desk but his voice stayed calm. “You are not a member of the bar and you can’t plead privileged communication. You say Thorpe pledged you to secrecy, but he’s dead now himself and you don’t need me to tell you that a pledge of secrecy to a murdered man is no valid excuse for shielding his murderer, no matter who it is. Even, for instance, if it should be the man’s own son. As Colonel Brissenden said, we’re giving you a chance—”

“Returned with thanks,” Fox broke in. “I simply haven’t got it in stock. You might as well give me a chance to tell you how long is a piece of string.”

“You refuse to tell us where and how and from whom you got this gun?”

“I deny that I know anything about it.”

“You stick to that?”

“I do. And I warn you that you’re wasting your time again. By the way, I should inform you that I won’t be able to leave this place within an hour as you requested. Mrs. Pemberton has engaged me to carry on an investigation—”

“That’s all right,” Derwin said quietly. “Developments have made it desirable for you to stay, anyhow.”

Fox didn’t like it. By their character as he knew them, they should have been furious. Brissenden should have been barking and Derwin should have been pounding the desk. Instead of which, he was calmly replacing the revolver in the canvas case, closing the flap and pushing the case aside, and reaching across the desk for a similar case that was lying there.

Fox didn’t like it at all. He said, “You spoke of an inference, Mr. Derwin, and on the strength of it you demanded an explanation. I want to say, meaning no offence, that it’s neither good logic nor good tactics—”

“Forget it,” said Derwin brusquely. He had opened the flap of the second case, but without taking anything from it he leaned back and met Fox’s eyes. “I didn’t pretend that I had any proof that you knew about that gun or had anything to do with it. If you did have, we’ll find it out before we’re through and I’m warning you now that if it leaves you open to any charge it will be made and prosecuted. So much for that. We’ll go on to a matter in which I do have proof.”

“That’s different. I do promise not to deny anything you can prove.”

“Thank you. You know, of course, that guns have a number stamped on them, and that all sales are recorded and can be traced.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Of course. What would you say if I told you that the gun that killed Thorpe in this room today was sold to you on October 11th, 1936, by B. L. Holmes and Company of 416 Madison Avenue, New York City?”

“I wouldn’t say anything. I wouldn’t believe it.”

“Well.” The cat had its paw on the robin. Derwin took something from the second case and extended it in his hand. “Is that your property?”

Fox took it. It was a Dowsey automatic .38, clean and new. On the metal binding of the grip “TF” was deeply engraved in block letters.

Fox nodded. “It’s mine. If you’re going to tell me that this is the gun that killed Thorpe—”

“I do tell you that.”

“Call that beautiful?” Brissenden sneered. “Call that perfectly magnificent?”

Fox was frowning at the pistol in his hand. He slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t. Colonel. I call it highly confusing and momentarily embarrassing.”

“Well?” Derwin snapped. “Are you out of stock on this one too?”

Fox looked at him. “Don’t kick me when I’m down, Mr. Derwin. Please. And please answer two questions for the record. Is this the pistol that was found here on the floor when Thorpe was killed?”

“It is.”

“Have you proven by test that this pistol fired the bullet that killed Thorpe?”

“We have.”

“All right. You’ve got me. Put a detention on me. Throw me in a dungeon. Do whatever seems appropriate, but don’t expect me to furnish one ray of light on how that pistol got here.”

Brissenden sprang up and roared, “By God, if you think you can get away with this one!”

Derwin inquired sarcastically, “Another pledge of secrecy, huh?”

“No, sir. I just don’t know anything about it.”

“Is that your pistol?”

“It is.”

“Did you have it when you came here today?”

“No. I wasn’t armed.”

“When did you see it last?”

“I don’t know—now wait a minute, give me a chance! This hurts me worse than it does you! I own six revolvers and nine pistols. Two or three of them are souvenirs, but most of them I bought. Three of them are Dowsey thirty-eights, like this. I keep all my guns in a drawer in my room at my home, except an old Vawter that I let Bill Trimble, the farmer at my place, have to pop at woodchucks. Dan Pavey, my vice-president, often goes armed, usually with a Dowsey. Yesterday I carried a Howell thirty-two and a little toy Sprague, but today I carried nothing. I didn’t even open that drawer this morning, and I have no idea what’s there and what isn’t.” Fox spread out his hands. “That’s all I can tell you.”

The district attorney looked at the colonel. Brissenden growled, “Go ahead,” and Derwin turned to Fox.

“Where’s Pavey?”

“At my home. At least I told him to go there when he reported to me here several hours ago—”

“Ah! He was here, was he?”

“Not at the time Thorpe was shot. Around eleven o’clock.”

“He didn’t come here with you?”

“No. I left home early this morning.”

“What time?”

“Twenty-two minutes past seven.”

“Where did you go?”

“Here.”

“Straight here?”

“No. I had an errand to do.”

“What was the errand?”

Fox shook his head. “I’m sorry. Private business.”

“Was it the job that Thorpe paid you for when you got here?”

“That’s out and you know it is. You’re asking me about my pistols and God knows you have a right to.”

“Thanks.” Derwin was sarcastic. “Will you tell me where you went on your errand?”

“No. No connection with the pistols. I didn’t have one with me.”

“Was any one with you on your errand?”

“Yes. Henry Jordan. He came along because we were coming here later.”

“Did Jordan have a pistol with him?”

“No—Wait a minute, let’s sew it up as we go along. I didn’t search Jordan, but it is my belief that he carried no gun. He couldn’t have had one of mine unless he sneaked into my room while I was absent or asleep and took one. I’d give big odds on it.”

“Have you given or lent a pistol to any one?”

“No. Never.”

“Who else could have sneaked into your room and got one?”

“Lots of people. Any of my guests. People who work for me—”

“What about those who were here today? Has any of them besides Jordan had an opportunity to do that?”

“Yes. Andrew Grant and his niece are staying at
my house. Jeffrey Thorpe and Mrs. Pemberton were there a little while last evening, but not alone in that room and they couldn’t have been.”

“Has Kester been there? Or Luke Wheer?” “Not to my knowledge.” Fox tightened his lips. “I’d like to say something. This surprise you’ve sprung on me is just sifting through, and I’m getting good and sore. I’m not in the practice of covering up for murderers, which you may believe or not according to your inclination, but even if it were a lifelong habit of mine I’d abandon it now. I hope you don’t get him, because I want to get him myself. Any one who takes one of my guns, one of my own Dowseys, and commits murder with it—” Fox tightened his lips again.

“That’s enough!” Brissenden snapped savagely. “Your goddam cocky insolence! So you’re indignant because one of your guns was used to commit a murder! Are you?” Exercising great control, he was barely shouting. “Good God, do you take us for a bunch of ninnies? Look here! Monday night, by your own admission before you had any communication from Kester, you told Derwin to buy Thorpe Control on the drop! You knew then it wasn’t Thorpe who had been killed, you knew he was alive! You deliberately let Wheer and Kester be taken in that boat, and yourself with them! You do an undercover job for Thorpe for which he pays you fifty thousand dollars and you refuse to tell what it was! We find the gun that killed Arnold here in Thorpe’s safe and though you have been in Thorpe’s confidence, either that or you’ve been blackmailing him, you claim you didn’t know it existed! And now we find that Thorpe was murdered with your pistol and you know nothing about that, and by God, all you can do is sit there with a smirk on
your face telling us how sore you are! You ought to have your tongue pushed all the way down your throat and there are men here who can do it!”

Fox nodded at the glare. “I admit it, Colonel, it sounds terrible. But I don’t admit that I smirk—”