“I wouldn’t have picked him for a murderer. Did he kill Thorpe?”
“No!”
“Good. Why was he arrested?”
“He … I’ll have to tell you all about it.”
“Go ahead.”
“Will you help him? Will you get him out of it?”
“Go ahead and tell me.”
“He was there last night—where Thorpe was murdered.”
“Where was that? I apologize again. There are papers in the house. Shall I get one and read it?”
Nancy shook her head. “I’ll tell you. I know things that aren’t in the papers. He was killed at a place over near Mount Kisco—a little place with a bungalow off in the woods where he went weekends alone. No one ever went there with him, or was invited there, not even his family, except a colored man who was his chauffeur and valet and cook for the weekends. No one else was allowed on the place. Last night somebody sneaked through the woods and shot through an open window and killed him.”
“And Andy Grant was there?”
“Yes. It’s things about that that I know that aren’t in the papers. I drove him there.”
“You did. Invited?”
“No. He—Uncle Andy works, writes copy for the Willoughby Advertising Agency. Thorpe Control is their biggest account. He wrote a series for a campaign for a new product they’re going to bring out and Thorpe executives turned it down. He thought it was the best thing he had ever done and it should be a big thing for him, and he fought for it too hard and maybe lost his temper, and the agency fired him. That was a week ago. He was sure he could sell the campaign to Ridley Thorpe if he could get to him, but he couldn’t get near him. He knew about the bungalow where Thorpe spent secluded weekends, apparently everybody at the agency did, and he decided to try to see Thorpe there. He knew I was … he knew … I had gone …”
Her voice trailed off. She looked apologetically at Tecumseh Fox, then closed her eyes and put her palms to her temples and pressed so hard that he could see the backs of her hands go white. When she opened her eyes again she tried to smile, but all it amounted to was a quivering of her lips. “I guess I’m a softy,” she said. “I guess I’ll have to have that drink. You see they kept me at the police station, or maybe it was the jail, at White Plains all night, and I didn’t get any sleep, and then I got away and phoned—”
“You ran away from the police?”
“Yes, they left me alone in a room and I sneaked out and went down an alley and phoned here and then I stole a car and—”
“You did. You stole a car? The one parked out back?”
“Yes, I had to get here, and I was afraid to try to rent one, even a taxi, for fear—”
“Hold it.” Fox was frowning. “Look at me. No, right in the eyes…. Uh-huh. How straight are you?”
“I’m pretty straight.” Her lips quivered again. “I’m a little stupid sometimes, but I’m reasonably straight.”
“Let me see your hand.”
Without hesitation she extended it. He took it, inspected the back and palm, the joints and fingertips, the firm little mounds. “Not palmistry,” he said curtly. “Nice hand. Is there anything of yours in that car?”
“No.”
“Not a thing? Sure?”
“Nothing.”
He turned his head and made his voice a baritone bellow:
“Dan!”
After a moment there was the sound of steps, much heavier than Fox’s had been, and the screen door opened for a man to come through. He was under forty but not much, in shirt sleeves with no tie, excessively broad-shouldered, and had a swarthy face so remarkably square that its outlines could have been reproduced with a straight rule. Restrained movements of his jaw indicated that he had not quite finished chewing something. He approached and rumbled as from the bottom of a deep cavern:
“Right here, Tec.”
“Uh-huh,” said Fox, “your shirt’s showing. Miss Grant, this is Mr. Pavey, my vice-president. Dan, that coupé out back was driven here by Miss Grant. It’s hot. She took it from the curb in White Plains this morning. Tell Bill to take the station wagon and go by the back road towards Carmel, turn left at Miller’s Corner and go over the hill towards the lake. You follow him in the coupé and ditch it along there after you top the hill. Take a rag along to wipe the doors and handles and steering wheel. You don’t want any audience while you’re transferring to the station wagon.”
Dan Pavey shook his head. “That’s too close by, only four miles from here. Wouldn’t it be better if we went down beyond—”
“No.”
“Right again,” Dan rumbled and tramped off.
“Excuse me,” Fox said, and arose and followed his vice-president into the house. Nancy’s head fell forward, like a tulip with the sap out of its stem. Again she pressed her palms tight against her temples and was still sitting that way ten minutes later when Tecumseh Fox reappeared, with a newspaper under one arm and, balanced on the other, a tray with chicken sandwiches, a bottle of sherry, a glass and a highball.
“Here,” he said, pulling a table over with his foot, “you break your fast while I see what this says.”
Chapter 2
Fox refolded the news section of the paper and tossed it aside. All but one of the sandwiches were gone from the plate and the level of the sherry was down two inches.
He frowned at her. “Did your uncle know Luke Wheer?” he demanded.
“Luke? …” She frowned back. “Who is that?”
“The colored servant at the bungalow with Thorpe. You said you read a paper this morning.”
“I didn’t really read it. I stopped on my way here—I think it was Bedford Hills—and bought one, but I didn’t read it through, I just looked …” Her color was better and so was her voice. “But Uncle Andy couldn’t possibly have known that colored man. How could he? What about him?”
“He’s gone. Can’t be found. You didn’t read much if you didn’t read that. The paper suggests, dodging libel, that collusion is suspected between Andy and Luke Wheer.” Fox emptied his highball glass and put it down. “Other items you may have missed. Thorpe’s pockets were empty—no wallet, no keys, no nothing. His wristwatch was gone. Two bullets hit him and none missed him. He has spent every weekend at the bungalow since April. His wife died years ago. His son Jeffrey was found at a roadhouse night club on Long Island and brought to identify the body. His daughter Miranda was notified somewhere in the Adirondacks and is returning by plane. Do you know either of them?”
“Of course not. How could I know people like that?”
“Like what?”
“Why—a millionaire’s sons and daughters.”
“Oh. The police can’t locate Thorpe’s confidential secretary, a man named Vaughn Kester. He was weekending at the Green Meadow Club, playing golf, was got out of bed by a phone call at midnight, notifying him of Thorpe’s death, and left immediately for the scene. But he seems to have got ditched on the way. Hasn’t turned up. Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t. I tell you I don’t know any Thorpes or any one connected with them and neither does Uncle Andy. It was just like I said. We were at the Bascoms, friends of mine, over near Westport, for the weekend, and he was telling about what he had done and his being fired, and how he had spent a week trying to get to Thorpe, and he mentioned the bungalow where he hides himself weekends, and Della Bascom and I talked him into going there, and Della lent me her car and I drove him over—”
“Why didn’t he drive himself?”
“Because he didn’t really want to go and I was pushing him. He has plenty of guts, real guts, he really has, but he’s not—well, not very aggressive. He didn’t know exactly where the place was and we had to drive around and ask, and finally a man at a filling station about three miles out of Mount Kisco told us. We—”
“What time was that?”
“Around eleven o’clock. Maybe not quite. We had left the Bascoms about nine and had spent a lot of time looking for it, and of
course it was some distance to Mount Kisco. The filling station man told us the place was fenced and the gate would be locked, and it was, so we couldn’t drive in. We couldn’t see the bungalow from the road on account of the trees and apparently it was quite a ways in or he had gone to bed, because we couldn’t even see any sign of lights. We parked the car at the edge of the road near the gate and Uncle Andy climbed the fence. I wanted to too, but he wouldn’t let me; he said there might be a savage dog.”
Fox observed: “I wouldn’t have picked Andy Grant to climb fences at night in the direction of savage dogs.”
“He’s not a coward!”
“Okay. But he’s not—as you say—not very aggressive.”
“Don’t I know it?” Nancy demanded. “I had—that’s why it’s all my fault! Don’t you understand that? I persuaded him—I hounded him into it!”
“And now you want me to pull him out. Go ahead.”
“You will! Won’t you?”
“Go ahead. He climbed the fence. What did you do, wait in the car?”
“Yes. I sat and waited, I suppose fifteen minutes, and I was feeling satisfied with myself because I thought he must have got in to see Thorpe or he would have been back, when I heard someone scrambling over the fence and he called to me to turn on the car lights. He came and got in and I asked him what happened, and he said to drive on and he would tell me on the way, but I sat tight and made him tell me. He said he had followed a winding drive about three hundred yards to the bungalow and instead of going to the door had gone around to the side where light was coming from a window. The window was open, and he stood behind a tree only a few feet away and looked in. Thorpe was there in a chair, leaning back comfortably smoking a cigar, listening to the radio playing a piece of band music—”
“Could you hear the radio out at the road?”
“Yes, I heard it plainly, it must have been turned up high. I looked at the dashboard clock and my wrist-watch too, and it was ten minutes past eleven and I decided it must be Al Rickett’s orchestra at the Regency on WRK, and I turned on the car radio, low, and it was. Uncle Andy said it was playing very loud. He stood there a minute or two, watching Thorpe through the window, and then went back around the corner and into an enclosed terrace to the door. He stood on the terrace for two or three minutes, waiting for a rest in the radio so his knock would be heard and that’s where he was when he heard the shots fired.”
“Uh-huh,” Fox grunted. “Did he tell you that at that time, sitting there?”
“Of course. He said he heard two shots. That’s where it was my fault again. I said he had got cold feet and was using that for an excuse, that it must have been something on the radio. I had heard something myself that had sounded like shots, but had taken it for granted it was a trick of Al Rickett’s. I—I made fun of him. He wanted to drive on and get away from there, but he never had wanted to go. We argued about it and we both got worked up, and I said things I’m darned sorry for now. I finally got out of the car and said he could drive on alone if he wanted to, and we went on arguing. We were still at it when we saw the lights of a car inside on the drive coming our way. It stopped the other side of the gate and in a minute the gate swung open, and then the car came out in a rush, swerving sharp into the road. I was standing there and had to jump for my life, and by the time I got straightened up again the car had gone and its rear bumper had hooked into our left front tire and torn a gash in it and pulled it half off.”
“Your lights were on.”
“Uncle Andy had turned them off.”
“Did you see who was in the car?”
“I was too busy jumping and Uncle Andy was too busy yelling at me. Naturally I was so furious I was trembling. He got out and looked at the tire and swore some, and began looking for tools. I walked through the gate and on up the drive to the bungalow. He called after me, but I didn’t answer. I felt I had ample excuse to knock on Thorpe’s door myself.”
“After hearing shots fired? Brave girl?”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t brave, I was mad. I hadn’t thought they were shots, anyway. You’ll see how brave I was in a minute. The door of the bungalow was wide open and at the end of the entrance hall another open door showed a lighted room. I stood on the terrace and called a few times and got no answer, and then went in, entered the lighted room, and saw a body on the floor. One look was enough to tell you it was a body and not a man. I turned and ran, ran as hard as I could back down the drive, and told Uncle Andy and said he must get the spare tire on as quick as he could so we could get away from there.”
“I take back the brave. Nor was it bright.”
“That’s what Uncle Andy said. He said the man might not be dead and we should find out, and besides, everybody at Bascoms’ knew where we had gone and we had asked half a dozen people the way to Thorpe’s place, so if we bolted we might be in the soup. He took a flashlight and trotted back up the drive with me behind him. I wasn’t brave then either; I trembled all over while I stood watching him kneeling to look at the body. He got up and said it was Ridley Thorpe and he was dead, and went to the phone and called the police. Pretty soon a car came with state troopers and then some others came. They kept us there a long while and then took us to White Plains and put us in separate rooms and asked me questions the rest of the night, and I suppose Uncle Andy too—”
“Did you send for a lawyer?”
“I don’t know any. I don’t think Uncle Andy does either. Why would he know a lawyer?”
“He might. Lots of people know lawyers. Go ahead.”
“That’s all.” Nancy upturned the palms of her nice hands. “They left me alone in the room, and I climbed out a window and hung on the ledge and dropped and went down an alley and phoned and took that car and came here.”
“You left by a window?”
“I had to because the door was locked.”
Fox grunted. “Didn’t you know you had the right to insist on making a phone call?”
“I only wanted to phone to ask if you were here. You were the only person I could think of that might help him and I had to persuade you, and I was afraid I couldn’t on the phone. You see, I haven’t got any money and neither has he. I guess I could scrape up about a hundred dollars and I could borrow—”
“What have you left out?”
“Left out?” She frowned. “You mean about money?”
“I mean facts. What have you left out?”
“Why, nothing. Honestly I haven’t. Didn’t I admit I stole the car?”
“Not the car. The murder. What happened last night and what led up to it. What have you left out about that?”
“Not one thing.” Her lips quivered again for a smile. “You see why I had to come instead of just phoning you? With me here like this looking at you and you looking at me, you can’t possibly think I’m lying about anything. Won’t you—please? It’s all my fault … the whole thing is entirely my fault—”
“Excuse me,” Fox said abruptly, and got up and left her to finish her plea to the air.
Within the screen door was a wide hall with a waxed wooden floor, a stairway, tan wallpaper with gold stripes, pretty bad, and six doors, all of them standing open except two which were for closets. In the room to the left, which was very large and very full of books, chairs, shotguns, tennis rackets, geraniums, guitars, binoculars, parrots and so forth, Fox paused to put his hand on the shoulder of the man with the bee stings, who sat with a drink in his hand watching the homely young man stalk a fly with a swatter.
Fox asked: “Did you put soda on them?”
“No, I—”
“Put soda on them.”
Through the room beyond, which contained a table that could have seated twenty and also chairs for that number, and he was in the kitchen—huge, clean, hot and aromatic. He intercepted Mrs. Trimble on a trip from the range to the sink.
“Well, darling, how goes it?”
A man washing red radishes at the sink snorted. “I’m glad to hear she’s someb
ody’s darling.”
“I’m sure, Bill, all you did was marry her. I’m free to adore her. I’m going out on business.”
Mrs. Trimble glared at him. “Back for dinner?”
“I’ll try.”
“You won’t. Starve.”
Fox went out the back door and stuck his head around the roses to see Dan Pavey rubbing a chamois over the polish of the black convertible.
“Dan! All right?”
Dan tramped over to him, which seemed a long way to come for the one word he growled: “Right.”
“You left it the other side of the hill?”
“Right.”
“Put things away and get a coat on. We’re going over to White Plains and maybe around a little. On business.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if we took the station—”
“No.”
“Right again.” Dan turned, flipping the chamois, then suddenly turned again and stood hesitant.
“Well?” Fox inquired.
“Nothing. Only I remembered something. I remembered the time that good-looking Bennett woman came here to get you to help her, and after we’d had a talk with her we put her in the car and took her to New York and turned her over to the cops for poisoning her husband.”
Fox shook his head. “It didn’t happen that way. You’ve garbled it. Anyway, this is different. Miss Grant hasn’t poisoned anyone.”
“Thorpe wasn’t poisoned, he was shot. According to the paper.”
“She hasn’t shot any one either. Do you agree?”
“I do.”
“Good. If I change my mind I’ll let you know.”
Fox left him. Re-entering the house, he went upstairs to a large corner apartment which, in addition to the usual furnishings of a bedroom, contained a desk, a safe that reached the ceiling and filing cabinets. Nine minutes later, having washed his face and hands, cleaned his nails, brushed his hair and changed his shirt, tie and suit, he trotted down to the front porch and said to Nancy Grant:
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