“Chief, don’t! You’re putting—”
“Vaughn, get in the front seat with Luke and be quiet. What have we accomplished in twenty-four hours? Nothing. The man who was killed in my bungalow was named Corey Arnold. He was my stand-in.”
Fox grunted. “Oh, you had a stand-in.”
“I did. Three years ago certain activities of mine which I wished to keep secret seemed in danger of being exposed. They were not illegal activities, but for personal reasons I did not care to have them known. I saw pictures in a magazine of the stand-ins of various motion picture actors and that gave me an idea. At the cost of a great deal of time and trouble, on account of the necessary caution, I found a man who was very nearly my twin. I found others who resembled me, but I needed other qualities too, for instance trustworthiness; this one seemed to meet every requirement. I had already had that bungalow for some time. I arranged for Arnold, impersonating me, to go there weekends with my valet—you see I was thorough. It was a great inconvenience for me to be without Luke, but he had been going to that bungalow with me and so I had him continue to go with Arnold.”
“While you followed certain activities elsewhere?”
“Yes. There had been attempts—but that’s irrelevant. There seemed to be not the slightest chance of discovery. Arnold was well paid and was absolutely reliable. Luke was always there with him. No one except Kester was ever permitted to go there—never had been. When I had spent weekends there I had refused to talk on the telephone; all communications, if any were necessary, were through Kester. There appeared to be no chance whatever of its being known. And now this! Now the front page of every newspaper in America says that I’ve been murdered!”
“But you haven’t,” said Fox dryly. “You can prove that easy enough. Only what about the certain activities you were following?”
“That’s exactly it! They must not be known!”
“But if you suddenly appear and announce: ‘Here I am!’ a great many people, including a lot of newspapers and police who are investigating your murder, will want to know: ‘Where were you?’”
“Yes. They will.”
“They sure will. And I’m afraid you’ll have to tell, for under the peculiar circumstances—even though you’re Ridley Thorpe—any explanation you give is going to be run through a meat grinder.”
Kester offered from the front seat: “My advice has been to refuse to give any explanation.”
Fox shook his head. “You might try it, but.” Enough dawn had sifted through the leaves so that he could easily have recognized all three faces from the pictures in the newspapers. “Very doubtful. The police are after a murderer. Not to mention such items as the angry clamor of the folks who have dumped Thorpe Control at 30 in the effort to keep a shirt, and the fact that you’ve waited a day and two nights to reveal yourself. If you were going to do that you should have done it immediately.”
“I advised it first thing—”
“Quiet, Vaughn! It wouldn’t have worked! Fox agrees that it wouldn’t have worked! Don’t you?”
“I do. If the police hadn’t traced you, the papers would. Now you’ll have to tell all about it.”
“I can’t do that.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘can’t.’ Like the woman on a horse who said: ‘I can’t get off.’ The horse reared and she fell off. So she was wrong. So are you.”
“No, I’m not wrong.” Thorpe was peering at him. “That’s the job I have for you. I want you to arrange an explanation for me that will stand investigation. I want an alibi that will stand up. Kester and Luke and I have been discussing it all day and got nowhere. We’re handicapped because none of us dares to make an appearance, even on the telephone. That’s the job I’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars for, and it has to be done in a hurry. I want it done before the stock market opens in the morning. Will you do it? Can you do it?”
“I’m working for Andrew Grant.”
“This won’t interfere. You said yourself that Grant will be clear as soon as I reappear.”
“But there will still be a murder. To arrange a false alibi—”
“Not for a murder. I had nothing to do with that. I was … nowhere near the bungalow.”
“That’s good. Where were you?”
“I was in the woods, walking. The pinewoods in New Jersey. I often do that, with a rucksack, alone, and sleep on the needles, under the stars, the summer nights—”
“Don’t waste it.” Fox sounded disgusted. “Where were you?”
“I tell you I was in the woods, walking—”
“No, no. That must be one of the explanations you and Kester invented and discarded; and it sounds like the poorest of the bunch. Don’t forget, Mr. Thorpe, that your activity was one which you were, and are, determined to keep secret. I have to know what it was and you have to satisfy me on it. Don’t waste time like that. Where were you?”
Silence, except for a faint noise the source of which was now visible in the unfolding light. It came from the suction of the gums of the colored man against his teeth as he nervously and monotonously worked his lips. Vaughn Kester’s lips, thin anyway, made a tight straight line as he sat twisted around in the front seat for a level gaze of his pale hostile eyes at Tecumseh Fox. Ridley Thorpe, disheveled and unornamental with a streak of dirt slanting across his unshaven cheek, ground his right palm against his left, as if with that mortar and pestle he expected to pulverize all obstacles.
Fox said impatiently: “You understand it has to be the truth. Depending on how it sounds, I’ll either accept it for the time being or I won’t. I’ll check up on it as soon as I can, and if it’s phony I’ll turn it loose. I must be satisfied that I’m not establishing an alibi for a man who might be a murderer.”
Thorpe sputtered: “But I tell you—”
“Don’t do that. It will soon be sunup. Tell me where you were.”
“If I do that, Mr. Fox, I’ll be putting myself completely in your power—”
“No more than you are now.” Fox frowned at him. “Must I diagram it for you? I could trace you down. Any competent man could and a lot of them will, if they are given a suspicion to start on. That’s why you have to furnish an alibi that will exclude all suspicion, which is a big order to fill. It is also why I must have the truth and all of it or you can count me out.”
Thorpe gazed at him, and suddenly abandoned the mortar and pestle to make a gesture of decision. “Very well. Quiet, Vaughn. I never supposed—very well. I was in a cottage at Triangle Beach, New Jersey. I arrived there Friday evening and remained continuously. Shortly before midnight Sunday—I was in bed—the phone rang and it was Luke. He said someone had shot through the window and killed Arnold—”
“Did he phone from the bungalow?”
“No. Luke is no fool. He had left in the car and phoned from a booth in Mount Kisco without being observed. He asked what to do and I told him to come to the cottage. He arrived there around two o’clock; it’s over ninety miles. In the meantime Kester had phoned, having been notified of the murder at the Green Meadow Club. I told him also to come to the cottage and he got there about an hour after Luke did. We began a discussion of the situation and we’ve been discussing it ever since. Luke and Kester are the only people on earth who know of that cottage. Except you. Now.”
“The only ones?”
“Yes.”
Fox shook his head. “It won’t do. It sets up the conclusion that you were alone there and that—”
“I didn’t say I was alone there. I was … I had a companion.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t think you need that.” Thorpe was scowling. “This is very embarrassing to me. Very. If my reputation with the American public which I have so scrupulously earned—if I have chosen to safeguard it by maintaining a decent privacy for certain activities which are natural and normal—”
“I’m not the American public, Mr. Thorpe, I’m only a man you want to hire to manufacture an alibi for you. If this lady felt
like it, she could make both it and me look silly. What’s her name?”
“Her name … is Dorothy Duke.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Five years.”
“She used to spend weekends at the bungalow with you before you got your stand-in?”
“Yes.”
“How thoroughly do you trust her?”
“I trust no one alive thoroughly except Luke. I trust Kester because it is to his advantage to remain loyal to my interests. With Miss Duke other—ah—considerations are involved, but I rely on her discretion for the same reason that I rely on Kester’s loyalty. Quiet, Vaughn.”
“Is she at the cottage now?”
“No, she’s there only for weekends. She returned to her New York apartment. I instructed her to stay there in case it was necessary to communicate.”
“Do you ever call at her apartment?”
“Never. I never see her in New York.”
“What’s the address of the cottage at Triangle Beach?”
“It hasn’t any. It’s remote, two miles south of the village, with five hundred yards of private water front. Its name is Sweet Wilderness. My name there is George Byron.”
Fox rubbed his nose to camouflage a grimace. “Where’s the car Luke drove there?”
“In the pinewoods back of the cottage. My property.”
“That’s bad.”
“We had to leave it somewhere.”
“You should—never mind. Where’s the one Kester drove?”
“This is it.”
“What about servants at the cottage?”
“A local woman cleaned during the week. There was no one there weekends. Miss Duke did the cooking. There’s nothing to fear there.” Thorpe pointed. “What’s that—that pink—”
“That’s the sun. Or it soon will be. I’m willing to have a try at your job, Mr. Thorpe, but I’m afraid it’s impossible. I’m afraid the American public is destined to see the name of that cottage in big type. Sweet Wilderness. The requirements are too drastic. It has to be plausible enough to allay suspicion. We can’t say you were alone, anywhere at all, from Friday evening until now; they wouldn’t swallow it. We must have corroboration. So we must find a man who will fill this bill:
“One. He must be a friend of yours, or at least an acquaintance on friendly terms. Two. He must be willing to lie, either for friendship or for money. Three. He must have a cool head and adequate intelligence and discretion. Four. He must accept your word that you want an alibi not to protect you from a charge of murder, but merely from the disclosure of certain non-criminal activities which you wish to keep secret. Five. He must have been alone, in some place where you might conceivably have been with him, either for pleasure or for profit, from Friday evening until the time we find him; or if not alone, with another person or persons who can meet the other requirements along with him.” Fox grunted. “That’s a minimum. Without that it would be foolish to try.”
Thorpe, sitting with his mouth open, muttered hopelessly: “Good gracious!”
Chapter 6
While the morning breeze danced in at the window and birds sang in the trees, they discussed it and sank more deeply into hopelessness. A dozen, three dozen, names were suggested: a man who was at his cabin in the Adirondacks, one whose hobby was an amateur research laboratory at his estate on the Hudson, one who fished a privately stocked stream somewhere north of Pawling, many others; but there were insuperable objections to each and all. Thorpe proposed that Fox should himself furnish a reliable man whose testimony could be bought, but that was only the blabber of despair; he agreed that it would be too risky. Finally, into a glum silence Luke Wheer blurted a name:
“Mistah Henry Jordan?”
Thorpe glowered at his valet. “What made you think of him?”
“Well, sir, I was running through my head persons who might be alone, and his name has been in and out all the time, because once I heard Miss Duke say he was away most of the time alone on his boat and once she sent me to take something to him, and he was away then on his boat—”
“Who is he?” Fox demanded.
“He’s a stubborn old fool. It’s out of the question.”
“A friend of Miss Duke’s?”
“He is Miss Duke’s father. Dorothy Duke is the name she used on the stage.”
“Oh. Do you—does his daughter support him?”
“No. He has a little income from capital—his savings. He’s a retired ship’s officer—purser. I have only met him once—no, twice.”
“As Ridley Thorpe or as George Byron?”
“He knows who I am.”
Fox frowned. “You said no one knew of that cottage except Luke and Kester.”
“Jordan wasn’t in my mind.”
“And I suppose he’s disaffected? You being the companion of his daughter’s weekends?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think he’s affected one way or the other. Miss Duke is not a child. Jordan doesn’t like me, but very few people like me. I called him a stubborn fool on account of his obstinate pride. He won’t accept presents from his daughter. A year ago she told me that the only thing in the world he wanted was a new boat of a certain design and I offered—through her—the necessary twenty thousand dollars to buy it, but he wouldn’t take it. Also I have given him some good market tips, but I doubt if he has profited by them.”
“Is it generally known that you have an aversion to water—as something to float in—and boats?”
“Certainly not. I like the water. I used to sail, years ago. Later I had a yacht.”
“So there would be nothing implausible about your enjoying a weekend cruise with your friend Jordan?”
“No.” Thorpe tasted vinegar. “But to ask that man—”
“He sounds good to me,” Fox declared. “Obviously he’s not a chiseler. He must be discreet, since your relations with his daughter have remained a secret. He can probably be persuaded to lie, if not for money, then to avoid unpleasant publicity for his daughter. He can’t suspect you of wanting an alibi for a murder, since his own daughter supports your real alibi. If he can meet the fifth requirement on my list, he’s better than good, he’s perfect.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Of course you don’t! If you’re going to sit here and wait for something you like—”
Vaughn Kester put it urgently: “He’s right, Chief. I could kick myself for not thinking of Jordan—”
“Quiet, Vaughn.” Thorpe swallowed the vinegar. “All right.” He looked at Fox. “I haven’t a blank check with me—”
“I’ll collect if I earn it.” Fox opened the door and stepped out. “But it’s my job and I’m in command. My instructions are to be followed without question and if they’re not I drop it. Understood? You too, Kester. Understood?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” Fox turned. “Dan!”
The vice-president emerged from the door of the convertible, trod the roadside grass and was there. Fox told him: “This is Ridley Thorpe, Vaughn Kester and Luke Wheer. You saw their pictures in the paper. We’re going to run their car into that wood lane out of sight and wait there. You drive home and get Bill, and then go to the Excelsior Market in Brewster and offer Sam Scott twenty dollars for the use of one of his closed delivery cars. He has two. He’ll let you have it. Drive it back here and have Bill follow you in the convertible. Stop here, but don’t start blowing horns. I’ll see you.”
Dan turned.
“Wait. Tell Miss Grant to sit tight and do nothing, that I’m making progress and will soon have her uncle out. That will be enough. Don’t invite her to go to Brewster with you for an ice-cream soda.”
“Right.” Dan went.
That was the initial maneuvre of an extraordinarily complex and critical operation by land and sea, during which Fox had to contend with mutiny, bad luck and acts of God. The mutiny, or a threat of it, was recurrent; it first confronted him as, waiting in the shelter of the woods, he det
ailed the next step of the operation. Thorpe vetoed it. Fox stated bluntly that he would not proceed until he saw Miss Duke; he would not leave so unknown and dangerous a factor in the rear without a reconnoitre; Thorpe surrendered and gave the address. The threat of mutiny recurred when Dan arrived with the closed delivery truck, EXCELSIOR MARKET painted in red on its shiny white side, and the trio were instructed to climb in at the back and dispose themselves on the piles of gunny sacks which Dan had thoughtfully furnished. Thorpe demurred again and again Fox was blunt. Kester’s car was left concealed in the woods; Bill Trimble was sent home with the convertible; and it was not yet six o’clock of a sultry summer morning when the truck headed south, with Fox driving, Dan beside him on the seat, and Luke Wheer the valet, Vaughn Kester the secretary, and Ridley Thorpe the national ornament, inside bouncing on the burlap.
In spite of the fact that with a commercial car the restricted boulevards had to be avoided, it was only twenty minutes past seven when the truck stopped at the curb on East 67th Street and Fox jumped to the sidewalk, walked around the corner to Park Avenue and entered an apartment palace, and asked to be announced to Miss Duke. The functionary stared in amazement at a creature who called on people in the middle of the night, but used the phone; and since Fox had already telephoned en route and so was expected, in a moment he was motioned to the elevator.
To the woman who opened the door of Apartment H on the twelfth floor he said with his hat off: “Good morning, Miss Duke, I’m Tecumseh Fox. Here’s the note.”
Without saying anything she took the sheet of paper, a page torn from Kester’s memo book bearing Thorpe’s scribble, read it twice, held it an angle for better light to inspect the writing and said huskily: “Come in.”
The door closed, she was starting to lead the way to an inner room when Fox’s voice stopped her. “This will do, Miss Duke. I’m in a hurry.” He had already seen what there was to see: a woman of thirty and something got out of bed too early, distress and anxiety pulling at her face to make wrinkles, but displaying to a penetrating eye characteristics which might conceivably render a wilderness, if not sweet, at least tolerable. Under more favorable circumstances, he thought, homage might have needed no lift from charity.
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