“What people like you get away with,” he said resentfully. “Here’s a story that you know damn well would rate an eight-column spread if it ever got loose, and you act like this and still expect us to keep the cork in. And the hell of it is, we will, and you know it. We’ve got to.” He spun on his heel. “You, Fox, I want to see you. Maybe you’re going to phone the commissioner too?”
“I am not,” declared Fox, also on his feet. “I’m going along to carry your bag—Have you got anything to say to me, Mr. Judd?”
Judd didn’t even look at him. “Look out for the fire,” Fox said, and crossed to the door and opened it and went out with the inspector. Together they descended the broad stair, got their coats and hats in the reception hall, and had the door opened for them to the vestibule.
A police car with a uniformed sergeant at the wheel was there at the curb.
“You can come with me,” Damon said gruffly, opening the door.
“I intend to.” Fox climbed in and slid to the corner. “But we’ll go farther and faster if you’ll tell him to stop at 914 East 29th.”
Damon, sitting down, darted a glance at him. “No. I stopped there on my way uptown, and he’s not there. I left a man in front and I’ll be notified—”
“I don’t like to contradict you, but I’m telling you. Stop at that address and I’ll show you something.”
“You may,” said Damon grimly, “show me several somethings before the night’s ended.”
“All right, but let’s begin with that.”
Damon leaned forward and spoke to the driver, and the driver nodded respectfully. The car swung into Park Avenue and sped downtown.
“You might as well be telling me now,” said Damon, “how you got on to Judd and go on from there.”
“Nope. Not yet. Don’t start pushing.”
“Did you send me that box?”
“Good God, no. If I had got my hands on that box—”
It had started to rain, a sneaking chilly drizzle, and Fox cranked the window shut on his side. His toe was touching the leather bag which contained the box, and his mind was dancing around the box itself, or rather, around the question, who could conceivably have sent it to the police? It was absolutely weird and completely unaccountable. He progressed beyond that not at all by the time the car rolled to a stop and he jumped out at the heels of the inspector, who warned the sergeant to guard the bag.
A man in a rubber raincoat came from the protection of a near-by doorway and joined them in the vestibule. He responded to the inspector’s inquiring glance:
“He hasn’t shown up.”
“Well,” Damon said, “I suppose you’d better—hey! Where the hell did you get that key?”
“Borrowed it.” Fox inserted the key and turned it, and opened the door. “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. We won’t need any help.”
Damon told the man in the raincoat to stay on post and followed Fox up the dim and dismal stairs. At the top of the four flights he was puffing a little. He watched, inscrutably, saying nothing, at the door in the rear, as Fox tried one of the keys on a ring, abandoned it for another which worked, turned the knob, and swung the door wide. They entered and Fox shut the door.
“I’ll take those keys,” Damon said. “And if this turns out to be your method of introducing me to another sudden death in the Tingley family—”
He stopped because evidence was before him that his surmise was wrong. Fox had opened the door to the kitchen and they had crowded inside; and the gleam of wrath and hate in the deep-set eyes of the Tingley there on the chair against the water pipe proved that there was plenty of life left in him. Damon stepped over and took a look at the tape and the knots, and turned to Fox:
“Do you know who did it?”
“Certainly. I did.”
“Oh. Nice job. You sure are—” He sighed a little. “I suppose you fixed his jaw, too. Undo him.”
Chapter 17
Philip Tingley stood, swaying, clinging to the rim of the gas stove. He tried to open his mouth, grimaced, mumbled something hoarse and unintelligible, and gave it up.
“Here, take a sip of water.” Damon proffered a glass. Phil obediently tried it, and swallowed some, went to clear his throat, and winced.
“Bring him inside,” Damon said, and led the way to the room at the end of the little hall. Phil followed him, walking none too steadily but prodded on by Fox from the rear. Damon arranged the three chairs so that the light would be full on Phil’s face—not, certainly, because it was pleasant to look at—and they sat.
But Damon immediately got up again. “I’m going to get that bag. And have a phone call made.” He eyed Fox. “If you try something like taking him down the fire escape and putting him in the furnace—”
He strode out.
Phil’s eyes flashed at Fox from beneath their jutting ledges, and he articulated harshly, “You’re stronger than I am. I know that.” His hands twitched. “If you weren’t—”
“Forget it,” said Fox unfeelingily. “What do you expect me to do, hold my hands behind my back and let you take three shots? Anyway, you’ve got a jaw like an alligator.”
“She came.” There was a quiver under Phil’s harshness. “She came, and you—what did you do? Take her to the police?”
“Wait till the inspector comes. He’ll be here in a minute.”
Phil uttered a sound, half growl and half moan, raised his hand to his swollen jaw, and began a series of cautiously experimental touches and pressures, Fox watching interestedly. That pantomime was still in progress when Damon came tramping in carrying the leather bag, which he deposited on the floor beside his chair.
Fox suggested to him, “If that driver of yours does shorthand—”
“No, thanks,” said Damon dryly. “There’s enough high explosive in this damn thing to blow me to Staten Island. The district attorney will be here in half an hour, and if he wants to bring in a stenographer he can.” He gazed at Phil with unconcealed disfavor. “Fox here says it was him that operated on you and tied you up. Tell me about it.”
“If you start it like that,” Fox objected, “we’ll be here all night. I can give you a brief synopsis—”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Well,” Fox cocked his head, “where’ll I start? With a paradox. Philip didn’t like the kind of money we have, so he wanted to get hold of a lot of it, to be used for the purpose of proving that it’s no good. His foster father, not liking Philip’s dislike of money, refused to let him have any, and went so far as to disinherit him, practically, and showed him the will in which he did that. Philip’s curiosity was aroused by a bequest to Guthrie Judd of a certain box, and the first time he found himself alone in his father’s office with the safe unlocked, he explored and found the box and swiped it. He busted it open and examined the contents—what’s the matter?”
Phil was making noises. “That’s a lie!” he blurted.
“What’s a lie? That you busted it open? Show him the box, Inspector. Why not?”
Damon, after a momentary hesitation, unfastened the bag and produced the box. Phil, gazing at it fascinated, emitted an ejaculation, started up, and was apparently going for it; but it was merely such an involuntary movement as a devoted mother might make at sight of a beloved child restored from danger. He sank back into his chair, still gazing at it.
“We might as well,” said Fox, “clean up as we go along. What was the lie?”
“You’ve got it,” Phil mumbled, dazed.
“We sure have. What was the lie?”
“I didn’t bust it open.”
“No?” Fox stretched to point at the lock. “Look. Metal gouged and twisted. The lock bar wrenched up—”
“I can’t help that. I didn’t do it. I took it to a locksmith and told him I had lost my key and had him make one that would open it.”
“What locksmith? Where?”
“Over on Second Avenue, near 30th. I don’t remember the name.”
�
�All right, we’ll pass that for the present. Resuming the synopsis. Stop me at lies. Philip discovered his mother’s name was Martha Judd, and since the will and the inscription on the envelope both mentioned Guthrie Judd, and it was easy to learn that he had a sister named Martha, that was that. It was also easy to get a folder of the bank of which Judd was president and learn that its resources were over half a billion dollars of no-good money.” Fox looked at Phil approvingly. “I like that little touch. Shows a good head for detail.”
Damon grumbled, “You were going to be brief.”
“I apologize. On Monday, just three days ago, Philip went to see Judd, demanded a million dollars, that being only one six hundred and thirtieth of the total resources, and said if he didn’t get it he would sue him and his sister for damages, they having deserted him in infancy. Judd stalled him by giving him ten thousand cash, and squawked to Arthur Tingley. He went to Tingley’s office at ten o’clock Tuesday morning—”
“No,” Damon put in. “That man’s name was Brown.”
“For that occasion. It was Judd. Tingley was furious at his adopted son and agreed to help squash him. It was arranged that the three of them should meet at 7:30 that evening in Tingley’s office and have it out. At five o’clock—”
“You told me to stop you for lies.” Phil’s tone was surly. “We were to meet Wednesday morning.”
Fox shook his head. “That’s washed up. The inspector and I have just had a talk with Judd. That’s where I went with—Miss Martha Judd. At five Tuesday afternoon Tingley had a session with Philip and told him to be there at 7:30. But he thought he might need help, so he phoned Amy Duncan, his niece, and asked her to come at seven. So much for Tuesday. Between then and now I have been floundering in a swamp, and still am. But this evening I had a break. I came here to pry something loose from Philip, and had just finished preparing him for prying, when Miss Judd arrived and asked me if I was Philip Tingley and I told her yes. We had an informative talk, and I suggested that we go together to discuss it with Judd. He resented her taking me for Philip and shooed her upstairs, and he and I were still at it when you arrived.”
“Some day,” said Damon as if he meant it, “I hope you sink in a swamp and stay sunk. What I want—”
“Excuse me,” said Fox quickly. “Milk me dry before you sell me to the butcher. Remember all I’ve got out of Philip so far is growls and dirty looks. Remind me some time to tell you what happened when I took him to Judd’s office this afternoon. I don’t mind it so much now. Tuesday evening, Judd arrived at the Tingley building at 7:30, went inside, and came out in five minutes. Philip arrived at 7:40, went in, and stayed eight minutes. I suggest that Philip had better tell us what he saw and did in there, and I can compare it with what Judd told me.”
Damon grunted. Phil said sneeringly:
“That’s a good trick.”
“No, my boy.” Fox surveyed him. “Even if you killed Tingley, the time has come to leave that hole and try another one. If you didn’t kill him, the truth will do fine. If you did, make up something. After what Judd told me, the spot you’re on is so hot you’re sizzling. He doesn’t like you, you know. Is it true that you went there and found that Tingley and Judd had decided not to deal with you, to prosecute you for blackmail? Did you lose your temper and pick up that weight and crack him on the head, and then—”
“No! I didn’t!”
“And then decide you’d better finish it, and go for a knife—”
“No! The filthy liar! He did it! Judd did it! He was dead when I got there—lying there dead—”
“He was? Was Amy Duncan there too?”
“Yes! On the floor unconscious—not far from him—and Judd had just been there—I didn’t know that then but I knew he was going to be there—and I know now—”
Phil was trembling all over. Fox’s eyes probed at him, tried to appraise him; for if it was true that Arthur Tingley had been dead at 7:40, he could not very well have been talking on the telephone at eight o’clock.
“Calm down a little,” Fox said. “If you’re guilty you ought to manage a better show, and if you’re innocent you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Did you see anyone else anywhere in the building?”
“No.” Phil was trying to stop his trembling.
“Hear anyone or anything?”
“No. It was—very quiet.”
“Where did you go besides Tingley’s office?”
“Nowhere. I went straight there and straight out.”
“You were in there eight minutes. What did you do?”
“I—I felt Amy’s pulse. I wanted to get her—out of there—but I didn’t dare—and she was breathing all right and her pulse was pretty good. Then I—” Phil stopped.
“Yes? You what?”
“I looked for the box. The safe door was standing open, but it wasn’t in there. I looked a few other places, and then I heard Amy move, or thought I did, and I left. Anyway, I thought Judd had been there and killed him and taken the box, so I didn’t hope to find it. So I left.”
“One thing sure,” Damon muttered pessimistically, “you’re either a murderer or the best damn specimen of a coward I’ve ever run across.”
But Fox’s intent frown did not come from moral condemnation. “Are you aware,” he demanded of Phil, “of what you’re saying? You had previously stolen the box from the safe and had it in your possession. How the devil could you have been looking for it?”
“I didn’t have it in my possession.”
“Oh, come. Don’t be ass enough—”
“I had had it. I didn’t have it then. He came here and found it and took it.”
“Who did? When?”
“My father. I mean my brother.” Phil laughed shortly and bitterly. “He told me that Tuesday afternoon, that Thomas Tingley was my father. His father. That makes me half Tingley and half Judd, so I ought to be good. He had the box here in the safe, he showed it to me. He had come here that day, I don’t know how he got in, and found it and took it.”
Fox’s frown had deepened. “Are you telling me that at five o’clock Tuesday afternoon—at 5:40, when you left—that box was in Tingley’s safe in his office?”
“I am.”
“And two hours later, when you returned at 7:40 and found him dead, the box was gone?”
“It was.”
“By God,” said Damon in utter disgust. “If this is true, it was Guthrie Judd and it’s absolutely hopeless. I’m going to have to spend the night with this bony hero—There’s Skinner.” He got up and started for the front, muttering, “If he didn’t like it before, how will he like it now?”
He returned a moment later, bringing with him a thinnish man in a dinner jacket with a skeptical mouth and darting impatient eyes. Fox was on his feet.
“Tecumseh Fox,” said Damon, not graciously. “He plays with firecrackers—”
“I know him,” said Skinner irritably.
“So you do. Philip Tingley. This is the district attorney—hey, what’s the idea?”
“I’ve got an errand,” Fox declared, getting his other arm into his coat sleeve. “I’ll be back—”
“No no.” Damon snorted scornfully. “You’ll stay right here.”
Fox put on his hat and looked the inspector in the eye. “Okay,” he acquiesced calmly, “if you say so, naturally I stay. But in spite of that synopsis I just gave you, I still know five or six things you don’t know. I’ve got an important errand to do and I’ll come back. If you think you and the district attorney can’t get along without me for half an hour or so—”
Damon met his gaze, hesitated, and finally nodded. “If this is another of your—”
Fox, not waiting for the rest, turned on his heel and was gone. The door to the hall was open. He left it that way, descended the four flights of stairs, dashed across the sidewalk through the rain to his car, and was pulling the door to when its swing was stopped by the man in the raincoat who had jumped for it.
“Where you going, buddy?�
�
“Go up and ask the inspector. If he won’t tell you, report him. Shut the door, please.”
“You don’t need to be so damn witty—”
But Fox, having got the engine started and the gear in, didn’t wait for that either. The car slid away, gathered speed, and shot off to the west. The clock on the dash said a quarter past eleven. At that hour of the night and in that part of town, despite the rain, it took only a few minutes to make Seventh Avenue and twenty blocks south and around a couple of corners to 320 Grove Street. The pavement there was deserted. Fox stopped directly in front, hopped out and dived through the rain for the vestibule, and, since Olson the watchdog was not at his post, pushed the button above the name “Duncan.”
There was no answering click. He tried it again, and then again, with silent intervals between, the third time making it an insistent and importunate series, meanwhile muttering inelegant but expressive imprecations. He was just ready to make a dash through the downpour for a lunchroom at the corner, in search of a phone booth, when a woman came backing into the vestibule from outside—backing in, because she was collapsing an umbrella to get it through the door. That accomplished, she turned, and with a start of surprise saw Fox.
“Lucky again,” he observed. “I came for a brief chat with you. No escort at this time of night?”
Amy Duncan’s eyes were without sparkle and her skin without bloom. “I went to bed,” she said, “and couldn’t sleep. So I got up and dressed and went for a walk.” She got a key from her bag.
“Didn’t Mr. Cliff stick around awhile?”
“No. He went soon after you did. As soon as he had made a few—remarks.” She had the door open. “After you—after what you—but I asked you to help me and I suppose I have no right to resent anything. Are you coming up?”
“If I may. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
She made no reply, and Fox followed her in and up the stairs. Another key opened the door, and they were in the living room. She turned on the lights.
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