“Oh.” Nancy darted a sidewise glance. “I hadn’t noticed him.”
“Sure you hadn’t.”
“Well, I hadn’t. And what if I had?” She shot another glance. “What’s wrong with him?”
“I didn’t say anything was wrong with him. But since you ask, have you noticed the outfit on the chair by him? It looks professional. If you felt like guessing, you might guess he’s a news photographer.”
“What if he is?”
“Well, you’re news, aren’t you?”
“Why … but he …” Nancy looked startled. “He couldn’t know that.”
“He could if he reads the tabloids and his eyes are good.” Dan scowled across the slush of his Caramel Iceberg. “I admit it’s possible you hadn’t noticed him gazing at you. Naturally you’re used to it. You’ve had whole audiences gazing at you. It’s your job to put on clothes and walk around so people can look at you. Also it’s obvious that you’re perfectly aware that your face and figure are stareogenic, so you wouldn’t—”
“What does stareogenic mean?”
“Genic is a suffix which means generating or producing. Therefore stareogenic means ‘generating stares.’”
“Then you’re trying to say that it’s obvious that I’m aware that my face and figure generate stares.”
“That was the idea.”
“Like the bearded lady, for instance, or Albertelle the What-is-it, man or woman, only a dime ten cents—”
“I said nothing about beards or what-is-its, I merely said that you—”
“Miss Grant!”
Their argument had removed their attention from the camel at the table by the pillar, so his deft and speedy manipulation of his outfit had been unobserved. Now, as he suddenly shouted Nancy’s name and they both turned to face him, they blinked simultaneously at the blinding glare of the flashlight bulb. Dan, as he blinked, also leaped. Then the camel blinked, as Dan’s fist caught him on the side of the jaw and toppled him among chairs and tables, his camera bouncing on the floor. There were screams, and movements, and waiters came rushing.
An authoritative voice sounded: “May I ask what that was for?”
Dan, turning, frowned at Tecumseh Fox. He shook his head. “I think I’ve got a stomach-ache.”
“I hope you have.” Fox got Nancy by the arm. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Following them, Dan had the appearance of a man who could be detained only with considerable effort and difficulty, so no one tried.
At eleven o’clock that Monday night Nancy Grant was in an upstairs room at the Fox place, sound asleep. The soundness of her sleep was due partly to her healthy youth, partly to the extremity of her fatigue and partly to a tablet which Mrs. Trimble had dissolved in water for her; and her presence at the Fox place was due to the fact that it was closer to White Plains than was the little flat in New York which she shared with a Hartlespoon co-worker. Her Uncle Andy was sleeping, or not sleeping, somewhere in White Plains, just where she didn’t know. He was being held as a material witness and bail could not be arranged until Tuesday morning, in spite of the fur Nat Collins had started flying; and if he were charged with murder, as seemed likely, there would of course be no bail. But for the three good reasons cited, she slept.
Downstairs, the large room which was full of things contained also half a dozen people. Dan Pavey and the man with the bee stings were playing backgammon; the homely youth and a man with a short neck and a long grey mustache were arguing over a crossword puzzle; Tecumseh Fox was playing a guitar duet with a black-haired little Latin with narrow slanting eyes. But at 10:58 Fox put down the guitar, went to the radio and switched it on, dialed for a station, moderated the volume and stood frowning down at it. It spoke:
“… so I introduce myself because the last time the announcer did it he said Du Barry by mistake and I had to talk falsetto for thirty minutes, and not only that, I had to do it in French which I can’t play without music. So here is Dick Barry saying hallo….”
The homely youth called across: “I never knew your curiosity to get you down that low before.”
He got no retort. Fox stood for ten minutes.
“… I was sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Churchill and a bellboy came along singing: ‘Calling Dick Barry, calling Dick Barry, calling Dick Barry,’ and I told him from force of habit: ‘Take the pot, my straight’s still open in the middle.’ …”
The homely youth arose and left the room. Fox stood another ten minutes,
“… And now for tomorrow’s and next week’s news. My challenge as usual, check it as it happens and see if I’m wrong. The Brooklyn grand jury will indict a man who parts his hair on the side, eats at the Flamingo Club and answers if you say Leslie or just Les. ‘Hope Chest,’ opening Wednesday night at the Knickerbocker Roof, will be a flop. Tom Booker will plead guilty to the charge of smuggling and take what he gets. Tecumseh Fox, the super-sleuth, knows why the radio at the Thorpe bungalow was playing band music last night instead of Dick Barry, your favorite broadcaster and mine as was to be expected, and will inform the police if necessary to protect Andrew Grant, who is being held as a material witness and may be charged with murder tomorrow. Three women who …”
Fox turned the radio off, gave every one a good night and left the room. He was halfway up the stairs when Dan Pavey’s rumble came from below:
“Hey, Tec! Anything stirring tonight?”
“I don’t know. I may have laid an egg. I said ten million to one.” Fox turned to continue up and then turned again. “But I’m getting a bet down. Do you want a slice?”
“What are the chances?”
“You might triple it.”
“I’ll ride for a hundred.”
“You’re on. Good night.”
Fox ascended, went down the hall to the large room with a desk and a safe, seated himself and pulled the telephone across. He got the man he wanted and spoke:
“How are you, Harry? Family all right? Good. I’m sorry to bother you at home like this, but I may be moving around too fast in the morning to get you at the office. I’m developing a sort of an interest in the Ridley Thorpe murder. Of course. No, I’m working in a side show. What I wanted to ask, I notice that Thorpe Control Corporation closed at 89 Saturday and dropped to 30 today. Is that because the Thorpe enterprises were dominated by Thorpe and he was responsible for their success? No other reason? Holy smoke. Oh, you think it will. He was as good as that, was he? I suppose so. Let’s see—buy me a thousand shares when you think it’s around bottom tomorrow morning. Even if you think it may drop again in the afternoon, get it before twelve o’clock. Wait a minute—get it before eleven o’clock. That’s important. No, I can’t, but I never bet on a sure thing. Suit yourself….”
He hung up, tiptoed back down the hall to listen for a minute at the door of Nancy’s room, returned and undressed, and went to bed and to sleep.
Thunder awakened him. It was low thunder issuing from the throat of Dan Pavey. Fox recognized it and stayed on the pillow.
“What?”
“Derwin and a state trooper.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten minutes to one.”
“Did you let them in?”
“No, they’re on the porch.”
Fox turned on the bed light, hopped out, donned a linen robe and slipped his toes into mules, went downstairs with Dan at his heels and opened the front door the width of his shoulders. Two faces were there.
“Well?”
Derwin spoke. “I want a talk with you.”
“Well?”
“Not through a crack. I want to know what information you have that will protect Andrew Grant.”
“I don’t——Oh, sure. You’ve been listening to the radio.”
“And now I’m going to listen to you.”
“I haven’t got a thing to tell you, Mr. Derwin. Sorry.”
The trooper muttered something to Derwin. Derwin muttered back and showed his face again, twenty inches
from Fox’s nose. “Look here, Fox, what’s the use of stunting it like this? Just to be cute? You know damn well we don’t want to pin it on Grant unless he’s guilty. If he can prove he didn’t lie—if you can explain why the radio was playing band music—I’ll turn him loose right now. I’ve got him out here in the car. Damn it all, this thing is worse than dynamite—the murder of a man like Ridley Thorpe–––”
Fox shook his head. “Sorry, nothing to tell. Radio muck. Dick Barry trying to start a sensation. But I’ll give you a hot tip, buy Thorpe Control on the drop in the morning. That’s an insult to your intelligence—see if you can figure out why. Good night.”
He shut the door. Shoulders were against it and explosive protests came, but Dan’s bulk was with him and the door clicked shut as the lock caught. Fox thanked Dan, went back up to the corner room, heard a car retreating down the drive and was asleep again in three minutes.
It was not thunder, but clangor, that roused him the second time—the telephone bell. He switched on the light, bounced to the floor and trotted to the desk. As he lifted the receiver, a glance at the clock told him it was a quarter past three.
“Hallo.”
“Hallo.” The voice in his ear was low and blurred from lips too close to a transmitter. “I want to speak to Tecumseh Fox.”
“This is Fox.”
“I …” A pause. “I must speak to Fox himself.”
“You are. I’m Fox. Who is this, please?”
“I’m calling on account of the statement made by Dick Barry on the radio. Was that authorized by you and what basis did you have for it?”
“You’d like to know. Don’t be silly. Is your last name—”
“Don’t say it on the phone!”
“I won’t. Is your last name Teutonic and does it mean from the village?”
“No.”
“Is your first name Old English and does it mean from the red field?”
“No. But that’s enough …” The voice was agitated and even more blurred than before. “That tells me you do know—”
“Wait a minute. What does your last name mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything. It was—”
“What does your first name mean?”
“It’s Celtic and means small or little.”
“Hold the wire a minute.”
Fox went to the shelves and pulled out a book bearing the title, “What Shall We Name the Baby?” flipped to a page, got what he wanted in a glance and returned to the phone.
“Fox again. Go ahead.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes.”
“I’m talking from a booth in an all-night lunch place at Golden’s Bridge. We want—”
“Is he with you?”
“Yes. Not in here—he’s in the car around the corner. We want to see you.”
“Come to my place.”
“No, there are people there.”
“Go north on Route 22, six and two-tenths miles from where you are. Turn left on to Route 39 and follow it three and four-tenths miles. Turn right on to a dirt road, go one mile and stop. You’ll get there before I do. Wait for me. Have you got the directions?”
The voice repeated them. “But you must be alone. We absolutely insist on that—”
“I won’t be. My vice-president will be with me.”
“Your what?”
“Never mind. You’re in no position to dictate terms, are you, Mr. small or little? I’ll handle my part. You be there.”
Fox slipped out and down the hall, entered a room, grasped a massive shoulder and shook it, said: “Come on, Dan, work to do,” trotted back to his room, dressed in four minutes, put an automatic in a shoulder holster under his arm and another smaller one in his hip pocket, tiptoed back to Dan’s door and whispered explosively: “Come on!”
“Right,” Dan yawned.
Three dogs met them in the dark in front of the garage door and saw them off. Fox took the wheel, wound along the drive and was on the highway. The headlights split the summer night at seventy miles an hour; and since it was only fifteen miles or so to the spot on Route 39 where the dirt road offered its narrower and dustier track, the ride wasn’t as long as it was fast. Fox slowed down and swung around the sharp turn on to the dirt. It was uphill the first thousand yards, then leveled out and narrowed still more as the leaves of the trees on either side reached out for space.
Rounding a bend, there was a car, a long sedan, parked at the roadside in the entrance to a disused wood lane, a branch from a tree scraping its top. Fox drew up behind it, turned off the lights, told Dan to stay there and got out. A man emerged from the sedan and moved towards him in the darkness, all but impenetrable there in the woods. The man spoke:
“Who are you?”
“Tecumseh Fox.”
“I’m Kester. Who’s in your car?”
Instead of answering, Fox swept past him, found the handle of the rear door of the sedan and flung it open, sent the ray of a flashlight darting within, focused it on a face and uttered a cordial greeting:
“Good evening, Mr. Ridley Thorpe.”
Chapter 5
The mouth of the face opened to blurt a command: “Turn that thing off!”
Fox bent his wrist to aim the light at the front seat and saw a dark-brown face with black eyes popping out. He switched the light off, observed: “Luke Wheer too, pretty good fishing, three on one hook,” climbed in the tonneau and plumped on to the seat. The man outside muttered an ejaculation and was going to follow him in, but Fox pulled the door shut.
“You can talk through the window, Mr. Kester. I like elbow room. Even though there’s no occasion to use my gun—not to mention the fact that there’s company in my car—”
“Who is it?”
“A man that works for me named Dan Pavey. That’s my affair. Think what Dick Barry might have said on the radio.”
A grunt came from Ridley Thorpe. “Does Dick Barry know?”
“No.”
“Who knows besides you?”
“Nobody. But don’t get silly notions. I carry the gun from force of habit. Dan’s back there and if you try any tricks—”
“We have no intention of trying tricks. How did you know?”
“I didn’t. I played a probability.” Fox’s eyes were adjusted now for the darkness and he could see faces and hands. “Do you know Andrew Grant?”
“No. I’ve read the papers.”
“Of course. Grant said that he looked through the window of the bungalow at ten minutes past eleven and saw you smoking a cigar and listening to the radio play band music. Your son said that was impossible. The most obvious explanation was that Grant was lying, but I had reasons for putting that last. Among other explanations, the one I liked best was that it wasn’t you he saw. It presented difficulties, for instance that your son identified your remains, but I liked it anyway and went fishing with it. I’d call it—”
“I thought so,” came bitterly from Kester’s face at the window. “It was nothing but a bluff.”
“Quiet, Vaughn.” It was his master’s voice. “We didn’t dare risk it.”
“Correct, Mr. Thorpe,” Fox agreed. “If I hadn’t heard from you by noon tomorrow—today—your dentist would have been at White Plains examining teeth and in two minutes—”
“Yes. Just so. Certainly. And what are you—what do you intend to—”
“I’m going to inform the police. I have to, to clear Andrew Grant. Their chief ground of suspicion against him is that they think he’s lying about the radio.”
“You’ll tell the police about our phoning—about our meeting you here—”
“Certainly.”
“Why do you want to clear Grant?”
“I’m working for him. I don’t know whether you happen to know that I’m a private detective—”
“Oh, yes, yes indeed, I’ve heard of you.” Thorpe’s voice came smoothed with oil of compliment. “Of your private life too—your generous hospitality for unfortu
nate persons—yes, indeed—that seems to be a point of resemblance between us—not that my philanthropies have the charming personal touch that you—and by the way, that’s a coincidence, that only last week I made my annual contribution to the Society for Preserving the Culture of the American Indian—I’ve heard that you are part Indian—of course, your name—”
“I’m not.” Fox was curt. “My elder brother was named William McKinley Fox. I was named William Tecumseh Sherman Fox. Too many Williams. And I graduated from kindergarten, Mr. Thorpe. I am aware that you are an able, shrewd and ruthless manipulator. If the tears were running down your face I wouldn’t lend you my handkerchief. As for telling the police about this meeting—”
“You can’t do that,” said Thorpe with the oil gone.
“Well, I’ll try.”
“I say you can’t. You’ve got me hooked, I admit it. Your silence is worth fifty thousand dollars. Cash.”
Kester put in: “We’d have to have satisfactory—”
“Forget it,” Fox snapped. “Nothing doing.”
“How much do you want?”
“A billion. More than you’ve got, for that. Forget it.”
“Then why—what did you come here for?”
“To establish a fact—you, Kester, watch your hand. What have you got in your pocket, the gun that shot a man in Thorpe’s bungalow? Don’t try—”
“Nonsense,” Kester said. “Chief, he’ll hang on for life. We should never—”
“Quiet,” said Thorpe testily. “Was there any alternative? Mr. Fox, do you mean that your purpose in—coming here to establish a fact was not to blackmail me?”
“That’s right. Thank you.”
“You’re not demanding money and you don’t intend to?”
“That’s right.”
Kester blurted: “Then why the devil—”
“Quiet, Vaughn—I repeat my offer of fifty thousand dollars, this time to do a job for me. Five thousand in advance and the remainder when the job is successfully completed. Do you want it?”
“Certainly I want it, but it depends on the job.”
“I’ll explain it. It will soon be daylight and day-light will be dangerous. The man who was killed last night—Sunday night—”
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