Rex Stout - Bad for Business

To the old Tingley landmark on 26th Street it was even a shorter distance than it had been to 320 Grove Street, and within a few minutes the cars came to a stop again at the curb, nose to tail, and the two men joined company again at the stone steps and entered together, Damon opening the door with a key. Inside it was pitch-dark. The inspector produced a flashlight, and with the aid of its beam they mounted the stairs and threaded their way through the maze of doors and partitions, not bothering to turn on any lights. When they got to the door bearing the ancient legend, THOMAS TINGLEY, they found it wide open, and a large man with a slight strabismus in his left eye was standing just outside with an automatic in his hand. At sight of them he looked simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

“Hello, Drucker.”

“Good evening, Inspector.” The man moved aside to let them enter.

The table and chairs which had been in the middle of the room for the afternoon meeting of the trustees were no longer there; the table was now at the far end near a window, littered with newspapers and a deck of playing cards, and standing beside it, just up from a chair, was a man with a thin little mouth in a big face.

Damon tossed him a nod. “Hello, Bowen.” His head pivoted slowly, to the right and then to the left, taking in everything. He ended with Drucker, who had followed them in. “Nothing to report?”

“No, sir. Nothing but monotony.”

Damon transferred to Fox. “Well? Show me.”

Fox walked to the safe and grasped the lever of the door, but it wouldn’t budge.

“They keep things in there,” said Drucker. “Checks and things. They open it in the morning and close it in the afternoon.”

Fox frowned. “That sounds pretty loose to me.”

“Stalling?” The inspector snorted. “I told you why we didn’t seal it. Everything that goes out, and everything that comes in, is handled and checked. Perhaps you’d like to prepare a new set of regulations?”

“No, thanks, Inspector. Don’t bristle. Cooperate. If you have the combination of the safe—”

“I haven’t. But I say you’re stalling. That safe was searched by Lieutenant Rowcliff Tuesday night, and he never yet let a cubic millimeter get by.”

“Did Rowcliff do this room?”

“He did. With assistance.”

“Mmm.” Fox shook his head and bit his lower lip. “Then the safe’s out. So is the desk, and everything else that can be ruled and calipered.” He slowly surveyed the room, the shelves and cabinets, the photographs on the walls, the piles of trade journals, the desk, Tingley’s coat on its hanger and the hat on the little shelf above, the screen and wash basin.

“It looks like a job,” he admitted. “I’m not stalling. I think it’s here. I hope to heaven it’s here. But it looks like an all-night job. There is, of course, one chance. A squad of scientific searchers might possibly be too scientific. I mean they might overlook something so obvious that science would sneer at it.” He glanced around. “For instance, take that hat there on the shelf. What if Tingley simply stuck it under his hat?” He crossed the room and reached up for the hat. “Not that I’m expecting—”

He stopped short, with his voice, but not with his hand.

The next thirty seconds were comic relief. When Damon and Drucker saw, as they did, that an object on the shelf had been concealed under the hat and that Fox was grabbing it, they made for him. Fox, seizing it, held it in the air out of their reach, and they attacked him, jumped for it, pulled at him. It was like a boy protecting an apple against the raid of hungry and covetous pals.

“Prints, you damned fool!” Drucker screamed.

“Let go! Cut it out!” Fox shook them off and back-stepped away. “To hell with prints! I’m not interested in prints.” They stood and glared at him as he raised the object — a little glass jar with no cover — to his nose and sniffed at it. “I’m interested in something else. Who found it, anyhow? Let me alone.” He got a penknife from his pocket and opened a blade, with its tip dug out a little of the stuff in the jar, and conveyed it to his mouth. While his lips and cheeks moved to facilitate dissolution in that primitive laboratory retort, the others watched in silent fascination.

“Brrr,” he said, and made a horrible face, holding the jar out to Damon. “Grand for a febrifuge. Have a little.”

The inspector took the jar. “And you knew it was under the hat,” he said grimly. “And you either put it there yourself Tuesday night, expecting us to find it, or you—”

“You’re a tadpole,” said Fox, loud enough to stop him. “You make me sick, and if you’ll send your subordinates from the room I’ll tell you what else you make me. Also it’s midnight and I’m going home. It takes me over an hour to get there, and during that time I’ll be trying to tidy up the inside of my head. I’ll be back here at ten in the morning, and I respectfully request you to meet me here with the box, the jar, Miss Duncan, Mr. Cliff, Philip, and Guthrie Judd. If you want me to bring Judd, phone me before I leave home, which will be at 8:40. I presume that Miss Murphy and Miss Yates and Mr. Fry will be on the premises. I did not know that the jar was under the hat, and it was a moment I shall never forget.”

Amy Duncan sat on a wooden straight-backed chair, with her eyes downcast, her hands tightly clasped in her lap, and a weary tenseness in every muscle of her body. It was the first time she had been in that room since, sixty-two hours before, she had regained consciousness there on the floor and opened her eyes on the most hideous sight she had ever seen. She had had to control a shudder of repugnance when she had entered some minutes previously; now she sat numbly waiting for whatever was going to be done. Without having to move her eyes, she looked at her wrist watch; it was ten after ten. It was bright and sunny outside, and when she raised her heavy lids the glare from the windows, which she as well as others was facing, made her blink with discomfort.

There was no one there she cared to talk to, even if conversation had been in order, which it apparently wasn’t. There were seven other persons in the room, and several empty chairs, brought in for the occasion. Not far from her on the left was a man she didn’t know — a man more than twice her age, well-dressed, erect on his chair, his mouth tight in the control of acerbity. She had heard him addressed as Mr. Judd. Beyond him was Leonard Cliff, and beyond Cliff was her cousin Philip. Toward the windows a man was seated at a table with a notebook open in front of him, and standing behind him was Inspector Damon. On the table was a leather bag. Another man was seated in the rear, near the door, and still another was standing by the safe, which was at her right. No one was saying anything.

The door which led to the factory opened, and Carrie Murphy entered. Amy nodded at her and she nodded back. She was followed by Mr. Fry, Miss Yates, and Tecumseh Fox. While Fox crossed to join Inspector Damon, the other three sought empty chairs and occupied them.

Fox muttered to Damon, “Okay.”

Damon morosely surveyed the faces before him and said loudly, “This is an official inquiry.” It came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat. “I announce that because Mr. Fox is going to say some things and ask some questions, and he is not connected with the police, but that’s our business and not yours. Everything said here will be taken down and will be a part of the official record. Mr. Guthrie Judd asked permission to have a lawyer present and it was refused. He is completely at liberty to say nothing or to say anything he wants to, and that is true of all of you.” He shot a glance at the man with the notebook. “Got that, Corey?”