Rex Stout - Bad for Business

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.”