“According to you, it started raining around seven o’clock. Up at my house in the country it started around five, but that’s sixty miles away, so that can’t be what’s wrong with it.” Fox was scowling in concentration. “It’s something else. There’s some reason why it should have been raining long before seven o’clock right here in Manhattan. Are you sure it started at seven?”
“Certainly I am. Not more than two or three minutes before—”
“All right. Don’t mind me, I have these spells. You followed Miss Duncan to Tingley’s?”
Cliff nodded. “And wondered what in the name of heaven she was doing there, since I didn’t know she was Tingley’s niece. I dismissed my taxi. It was raining even harder than before, so I ducked into the opening of the driveway tunnel. You know the rest. When she came out—”
“What time was that?”
“Exactly eleven minutes past eight. I had just looked at my watch a moment before. When she stumbled and nearly fell I started toward her, but backed up into the tunnel again. Under the circumstances it would have been extremely embarrassing—anyway, I followed her to Eighth Avenue, wondering what could have happened to her, the way she was walking, wondering even if she was drunk—” Cliff halted, bit his lip, and shook his head. His voice shook a little: “If I had only known—but I didn’t. She took a taxi and so did I. After she went into her apartment with the driver, and he came out again pretty soon, I stuck around over an hour, and at ten o’clock I left and went home.”
Fox grunted. “If you had stayed ten minutes longer you’d have seen me arrive. Did you put everything that happened in that letter to Collins?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t enter the building at all?”
“I just said that I put everything in the letter.”
“Don’t get touchy. I want all there is. Did you leave the tunnel at all between Miss Duncan’s arrival and departure?”
“No. It was a cold rain and I had no umbrella or raincoat—only a cloth topcoat.”
“You were there an hour. Could anyone have entered or left by that door without you seeing them?”
“No. I was thinking she might come out any minute, in spite of her having dismissed her taxi.”
“How sure are you that the man in the raincoat was Philip Tingley?”
“Well—I told Collins on the phone, a hundred to one. When I saw him there in the anteroom—he has a very unusual face, but of course it was dark Tuesday evening and the street light wasn’t very close. What decided me was his walk when he got up to go inside.”
“I see. That’ll probably do for him. But on the GJ55 you’ll have to be prepared to get your back to the wall and show your teeth. And what about Judd himself? You saw him.”
“The driver held an umbrella over him.” Cliff hesitated. “It could have been Judd. When he came out he dived for the car and I didn’t see his face at all.”
“You saw him,” Fox insisted. “For the—uh—pressure. You saw him.”
Cliff considered. “I might,” he agreed, “be willing to stretch a point for the pressure. But what if it goes beyond pressure?” He appealed with an upturned palm. “Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Fox. As unpleasant as it would be, I am prepared to be a witness at a murder trial if there’s no decent way of avoiding it. This may sound sappy to you, but what I would dislike more—I mean, to have Miss Duncan know I was watching her and following her—”
“I thought you two were happily reunited.”
“We are—that is—”
“Then don’t worry. To have it known that you were tailing her to learn if you had a rival, and if so what he looked like, may make you ridiculous in the eyes of two billion people—roughly the population of the world—but not in hers. She’ll think it’s wonderful.”
“Honestly—you think she will?”
Fox groaned. “And you an able, shrewd, cool-headed executive—you must be and you look it. It’s amazing what can happen to a brain without impairing it in other respects.” He glanced at his watch and got up. “But you’re busy. I guess we understand each other. One thing, I am tentatively putting you in Miss Duncan’s class and assuming that you did not go upstairs Tuesday evening and murder Arthur Tingley.” He smiled. “Say ninety to one. But sometimes a long shot wins. I mention it only—”
He stopped because a buzz had caused Cliff to reach for his phone; and stood with the blank polite look one assumes when forced to listen to one end of a conversation which is none of one’s business. From what he heard it appeared that Mr. Cliff’s presence was being not only requested, but insisted upon, by someone strongly disinclined to take no for an answer; and from the expression on Cliff’s face as he pushed the phone back, it seemed that this new interference with his busy day was extremely unwelcome.
But the expression evidently was meant for Fox, and certainly the tone of voice was when Cliff spoke: “So,” he said with biting contempt, “you give it to them first, and then come to appeal to me to help Miss Duncan!”
“It?” Fox’s eyes opened in astonishment. “Them?”
“Yes, them. The police. Don’t think you can make a monkey of me on this too. Inspector Damon wants me to call at headquarters immediately. He already has my signed statement covering everything he could want to ask about—unless you’ve told him about that letter and phone call and your damned deductions.” Cliff set his jaw. “I’m denying it! You wanted it to help Miss Duncan, did you?”
“I did,” said Fox quietly. “Quit going off half-cocked, or Damon will make a monkey of you too. Did he say specifically that he wanted—”
“He said nothing specific, but—”
“But you lunged for me anyhow. Steady up. You don’t seem to realize that you’re right plunk in the middle of a murder case in the borough of Manhattan, city of New York, you were at the scene when the crime was committed or darned close to it, and you have concealed that fact from the police—and also what you saw there. I didn’t ‘give it to them’ before I came here, and for the present I don’t intend to. I have no idea what Damon wants to ask you about, but he’ll certainly keep on asking you things until this case is solved, and under the circumstances you’d better play them close to your chin.” Fox had his coat and hat. “Good luck and watch your step.”
He turned and went.
There were at least three things which required doing with as little delay as possible, and when, down on the street, he struck off in the direction of Grand Central and took to the subway again, he seemed to be aiming for one of them; but instead of emerging at Wall Street he stayed on the train for two more stations, got out and walked to Battery Place, and took an elevator to the top of the building numbered 17. The door he entered had painted on it: U.S. WEATHER BUREAU. He told a man with friendly eyes behind spectacles:
“I was going to phone for some information, but came instead, because I want to establish a fact beyond any attack by fire, flood or famine. What time did it begin raining, say in Greenwich Village, last Tuesday evening?”
He left ten minutes later, with the fact established as firmly as a fact well can be. The rain had started at 6:57. Up to that moment there had been no downfall, not even what is officially called a trace, in any part of Manhattan. The man with the friendly eyes had permitted Fox to scan the record and reports for himself. Fox, with a crease in his brow which betokened utter dissatisfaction with the state of things inside his skull, descended to the street, entered a Bar & Grill, and consumed four cheese sandwiches with lettuce and four cups of coffee like a man in a dream. The waiter, who liked to study faces, finally decided that this customer had just dropped his entire wad in a broker’s office and was contemplating suicide, and would have been chagrined to know that in fact he was merely trying to remember what was wrong with the rain starting at 6:57 Tuesday evening. The crease was still on Fox’s brow as he paid for his meal and left, took the Seventh Avenue subway to 14th, and walked to 320 Grove Street.
Mr. Olson, the janitor, was han
ging around the vestibule. He watched Fox punch the button marked “Duncan” several times, but said nothing until he was addressed:
“Isn’t Miss Duncan at home?”
“She may be and she may not be,” said Mr. Olson. “If she is she ain’t opening the door. There’s been reporters and photographers and God knows what, trying all kinds of dodges to get in, and I’m staying here.”
“Good for you. But you know I’m her friend.”
“I know you was last night, but that don’t mean you are today. She’s in trouble.”
“And I’m getting her out of it. Open the door and I’ll—”
“No.”
The refusal was so utterly adamant and uncompromising that Fox grinned at him. “Mr. Olson,” he said, “unquestionably you are a good-hearted man, kind to your tenants, and well-disposed toward Miss Duncan. But I never heard a more unalterable ‘No.’ That had more behind it than a disinterested desire to defend beauty, youth and innocence from intrusion. What did Mr. Cliff give you, a twenty-dollar bill? Or even fifty? I’ll bet it was fifty. You beat it upstairs in haste and tell Miss Duncan that Mr. Fox wants to see her.” Fox’s hand sought an inside breast pocket. “Or I’ll serve you with a habeas corpus delicti and throw you in the coop.”
Olson had courage, at that. “You stay here,” he growled.
“I’ll tend to me. Trot.”
Olson went. In two minutes he returned, admitted Fox, not too graciously, and stood at the foot of the stairs watching him go up.
“The power of money,” Fox told Amy when he was in the living room and the door was closed, “is enough to scare you. You might think you were Juliet and Olson was the nurse. The P. & B. vice-president bribed him. Did you go to the funeral?”
Amy nodded. She had on a simple dark woolen dress and was without makeup, and her face was pallid and strained. “I went to the services, but not to the cemetery. It was awful—I mean the whole thing. It’s the first awful thing, really, that ever happened to me. My mother’s death was sadder, much sadder than this, but not awful—she died so—so quietly. Yesterday a woman from the Gazette offered me three hundred dollars to let them take a picture of me lying on the floor—unconscious like I was up there. And the way—even there at the funeral this morning—” She shivered.
“They have people with appetites to feed,” said Fox. “Not that I’d expect you to enjoy being an ingredient of the feast.” He stood, not removing his coat. “Anything new from the forces of the law?”
“I’m to meet Mr. Collins at the district attorney’s office at four o’clock.” Amy laughed shortly and self-derisively. “And I thought I wanted to be a detective.” Her hands twisted nervously in her lap. “I’m getting—I guess I must be a coward. The way they look and the questions they ask—and dashing across sidewalks hiding my face—it would be all right if it just made me mad, but I seem to get scared and my knees get weak—”
“It’s not very easy to take.” Fox patted her on the shoulder. “Especially when you started by getting knocked on the head with a chunk of iron and opening your eyes on the sight you did. Was your cousin Phil at the funeral?”
“Yes. That part of it was awful, too. All the faces, some of them people who had known my uncle all his life, and all just stiff and solemn—no real grief or sorrow, not a single one. Certainly he wasn’t a lovable man, but when you’re dead and the people who have known you best meet to bury you—” Amy gestured for the rest. “And right there, while they were putting the coffin in the hearse, Mr. Austin and Mr. Fry and Miss Yates came and asked me to go to some kind of a meeting at two o’clock—they’re the trustees and they’re going to sign papers and they wanted me there because they’re afraid Phil may start a fracas and they thought I would be a restraining influence—”
“It’s two o’clock now.”
“I’m not going.”
“Well, Phil doesn’t throw bombs. Is the meeting at Tingley’s?”
“Yes.”
Fox frowned at her. “You’re piling on the misery. To be under suspicion of murdering your uncle, and what goes with it, is naturally not very pleasant, but there’s nothing revolting about the trustees holding a meeting immediately after the funeral. Quite the contrary. Arthur Tingley may be through with titbits, but those who remain aren’t. You buck up and don’t be morbid, and I’ll kiss you again on your wedding day, one way or another.” Fox took steps toward the door, then turned. “By the way, you told me that you got the phone call from your uncle a little before six Tuesday evening, and then you went to the bedroom and lay down for an hour. How did you know it was raining when you went to the bedroom? Look out the window?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I did. Why, did I say it was raining?”
“You mentioned rain.”
Amy looked uncertain. “But that was when I went outdoors. I don’t remember …”
“You don’t remember that it was raining when you went to the bedroom to lie down?”
“No, I don’t, but of course if I said it—does it make any difference?”
“Probably not. Maybe you didn’t say it—just an impression I got.” Fox had the door open. “Don’t get independent at the district attorney’s office, follow Collins’s instructions. For instance, don’t mention that anonymous letter. We’re saving it as a surprise.”
Chapter 11
The ancient clock on the wall above the ancient roll-top desk said twenty-five minutes past two. Since it was again the eight to four shift, the same two squad men were on duty as at the time of Fox’s visit the preceding afternoon. The plump one was propped against a window sill with his back to the outdoors. The husky one was standing near the safe, gazing dourly at the occupants of the four chairs arranged in a square in the center of the room: Philip Tingley, Sol Fry, G. Yates, and a dapper little man with a bald head and a little gray mustache. This last—Charles R. Austin, attorney-at-law—was responsible for the gathering being located in that room in spite of everything. He had put his foot down. It was in that room that his senior partner, now long deceased, had formally read the will of Arthur Tingley’s father thirty years previously, and it was therefore the only fitting place for the mournful ceremony which duty now compelled him to conduct. So that was where he was conducting it.
At this moment he was bouncing in his chair with resentment. He resented, certainly, the refusal of the policemen to withdraw decently from the scene; but what had started him bouncing a minute ago was the impertinent intrusion of an unannounced and unexpected visitor who had simply opened the door and walked in. Mr. Austin was sputtering:
“Nothing can excuse it! Good God, must you in your greed violate even the threshold of death? I tell you, Mr. Cliff, your generation which at the behest of financial masters and monsters has abandoned all scruples …”
The others let him go on. When he stopped for breath, Miss Yates looked at the intruder and said dryly, “You’re here, so you might as well tell us what you came for.”
Leonard Cliff, from beside Philip Tingley’s chair, bowed to her. “Thank you, Miss Yates. I learned of this meeting—no matter how. You know that in behalf of my company I have been negotiating with Mr. Tingley for some time to buy this business. Ordinarily I would have waited, at least until after the day of the funeral, to resume the negotiations, but under the circumstances I felt that it was dangerous to wait at all. I have learned that Mr. Tingley suspected me of bribing his employees, or one of them, to adulterate his product, and I want to say that that suspicion was utterly unfounded. My company doesn’t do that sort of thing, and certainly I don’t. But I knew of the adulteration—”
Cliff stopped and turned his head at the sound of footsteps and the opening of the door. The others looked with him, making Tecumseh Fox the focus of seven pairs of eyes as he entered, took in the situation with a sharp glance as he approached, saluted the group with a nod, and spoke directly to Philip Tingley:
“I’m sorry, I guess I’m a little late.”
The tactic wa
s absurdly simple, but none the less effective. To the policemen it established him as an expected addition to the meeting. To the three trustees it established him as expected by Phil, whom they did not desire to aggravate. And, as Fox had rightly concluded from the expression of cynical contempt on Phil’s face, that young man was in no mood to challenge an interruption to a gathering which he obviously regarded as asinine.
“Excuse me,” Fox murmured politely and self-effacingly. “Go ahead.”
Eyes returned to Leonard Cliff. “I was saying,” he resumed, “that I knew of the adulteration, and I had my own suspicions as to who was responsible for it, though I admit I had nothing to support them except my knowledge of the methods that have been pursued on other occasions by a man whose banking interests have recently gained control of a certain corporation. I knew that he wanted to buy the Tingley business. I have reasons to suppose that he was personally in touch with Tingley—uh—quite recently. I know that no considerations of propriety would deter him from any course he is determined to follow. I am aware that my appearance here at this moment is unseemly and you may even think it offensive, but I came to forestall the man I have spoken of.”
“What man?” Austin, not mollified, demanded.
Cliff shook his head. “My description names him, or it doesn’t. You people know as well as I do the honorable and enviable reputation of the Tingley business and product, started before any of us here was born. It would be a shame and a crime to let it get into the clutches of that man. My company offered Arthur Tingley three hundred thousand dollars for it. We want to buy it. We offer cash. I want to discuss it with you—if not now, then at your convenience, and before you make any other commitment. That’s the request I came to make.”
There was a moment’s silence. Austin spoke: “All right, we’ve heard you. You’ll hear from us when we have anything to say.”
Sol Fry rumbled aggressively, “He can hear from me right now. I think it’s a good proposition. This building is apt to cave in any minute, and for that matter so am I. I’m old and out of date, and I’ve got sense enough to know it.” He glared meaningly at G. Yates.
Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 02 Page 11