Rex Stout: Bad for Business

A low growl came from Damon.

“Excuse me,” Fox said. “But you couldn’t open the box while Miss Murphy was there, and before she left your friend Miss Harley arrived to play cribbage. You could of course have said you had a headache and sent Miss Harley away, but, not knowing when Miss Duncan would regain consciousness, or even, as a matter of fact, whether she ever would, you wanted an alibi to as late an hour as possible. So you swallowed your anxiety and played cribbage for two and a half hours. As soon as Miss Harley had gone you forced the lid open with something, say a heavy screwdriver — and I can imagine your disappointment and dismay when you saw no jar. Only a pair of child’s shoes and an envelope!

“I doubt if you returned here that night. You may have, for you certainly wanted that jar, but I doubt if you had the guts. If you did, naturally you moved with caution, and you either didn’t enter this room because you heard me in here, or you did enter it, failed to find the jar, and fled again when you heard the police arriving shortly after midnight. Or perhaps it took you a while to screw your courage up to it, and when you finally did come the police were already here. I know you were at home at ten minutes to twelve, for at that time I phoned to you at your apartment. Those are speculations; in any event, you didn’t get the jar.”

Fox paused for breath; and Miss Yates snapped at Inspector Damon, “Is this going on all day?”

Damon neither spoke nor moved. Fox continued:

“I’m about done. But you deserve to hear this: your mailing that box to the inspector this morning was extremely stupid. I realize that you didn’t want it in your flat, and that your suspense about the jar must have been terrific, since you knew Miss Murphy had told me about the samples secretly delivered to Tingley. But why didn’t you fill the box with stones and throw it in the river? Or if stones are scarce at your place, anything with enough weight? I suppose you put on a pair of gloves, examined the contents of the envelope, and figured that if the police got hold of it their attention would be directed to Guthrie Judd and Philip. So you wiped the box clean of prints and wrapped it and mailed it. I hope you see now how dumb that was. Instead of directing suspicion against Philip or Judd, the result was just the opposite, for it was obvious that neither of them would have mailed the box to the police, and therefore some third person had somehow got possession of the box, and the who and how became immediately the most important questions to get answered.”

If anyone looked away from Miss Yates at that moment for a glance at Fox, they saw a glint of something resembling admiration in his eyes. “I can see,” he said, “that though your brain may have gone fuzzy on you when you decided to mail that box, it is clear and cool now. You know where you stand, don’t you? You realize that I can prove little or nothing of what I’ve said. I can’t prove what Tingley said to you Tuesday evening, or what time you left here, or that you got the box from the safe and took it with you, or that it was you who mailed it to the police. I can’t even prove that there wasn’t someone here at eight o’clock who imitated Tingley’s voice and deceived you into thinking that he was talking to you on the phone. I can’t actually prove a darned thing. That’s what’s in your head, and you’re right. So I’ll have to take back what I said a little while ago, that I had no more questions to ask. I’d like to put one or two to Miss Murphy.” Fox turned to reach a hand into the leather bag, and when he withdrew it there was something in it. He stepped forward, circling around Philip’s chair, and was standing in front of Carrie Murphy. He held the object in front of her eyes.

“Please look at this carefully, Miss Murphy. As you see, it is a small jar half full of something. Pasted on it is a small plain white label bearing the notation in pencil, ‘eleven dash fourteen dash Y.’ Does that mean anything to you? Look at it—”

But Carrie had no chance to give it a thorough inspection, let alone voice her fatal response. The figure of Miss Yates, from eight feet away, came hurtling through the air. She uttered no frenzied cry, uttered no sound at all, but flung herself with such unexpected speed and force that the fingers of her outstretched hand, missing what they were after, nearly poked Fox’s eye out. He grabbed for the wrist and got it, and then the man who had been on the other side of her chair was there and had her. He seized her from behind by her upper arms, with a grip that must have made her flesh wince, but apparently she didn’t feel it. She stood, with no protest or attempt to struggle, looked at Tecumseh Fox, who had backed away, and asked him what Fox afterwards said was the most startling question — under the circumstances — that had ever been addressed to him:

“Where was it?”

He told her.

Half an hour later, down on the street, Fox had his foot on the running board of his car ready to climb in when he felt a touch at his elbow, turned, and saw it was Leonard Cliff.

“Beg pardon,” Cliff said. His eyes had that peculiar fixed vacancy which eyes have when the object they are focused on is not the one they are seeing. Amy Duncan’s eyes, from where she sat at the other end of the driver’s seat, were more honestly directed. She was looking at Cliff.

It appeared that Cliff didn’t intend to go on until pardon had been granted, so Fox asked politely, “Want something? Can we give you a lift? We’re going down to Grove Street—”

“I’ll take a taxi, thank you,” Cliff said stiffly. “I wanted to ask if you wouldn’t come to my office some day next week and meet the president of the company. I was very much impressed by the way you handled that up there. We are one of the largest corporations in the country, and we could make a very tempting offer—”

“You’re a liar,” Fox said bluntly. “I mean that isn’t what you touched my elbow for, at this particular moment. Your corporation doesn’t need me that bad. You simply couldn’t resist the desire to get close to Miss Duncan.”

“Really,” said Cliff. “Really—”

“Yep, really. By the way, I’ve just told her why you were tailing her Tuesday evening, and she didn’t laugh. Far from it.”

“Well, that... that is no longer of any...” It ran off into nothing, because his eyes had had their way and were meeting Amy’s.

“Hop in,” Fox invited him. “We’re going to stop in at Grove Street for Miss Duncan’s umbrella. She’s going to give it to me to add to my collection of souvenirs. Go around to the other side and squeeze in with us. Then we’re going to Rusterman’s for lunch.”

“I... I’ll get in the back.”

“There’s plenty of room,” said Amy, who up to that point had taken no part in the conversation.

Cliff hesitated, looked like a man who feared he was looking like a fool, and then moved. He went around the front of the car and was at the other door, which Amy had swung open. She moved over against Fox, but even so it was fairly close quarters. When Cliff got the door closed he was touching her all along the frontier. There was no help for it.

The car rolled east. As it turned into Eighth Avenue Cliff said, “Of course you didn’t invite me for lunch, but it would be very — I mean if you would both accept an invitation from me — at Rusterman’s if you like it there—”

“Nothing doing,” Fox said firmly. “You’ve been neglecting your business all week and you’d better start catching up. Besides, Miss Duncan and I met romantically and we’re going to part romantically. I’ll drop you off wherever you say. Your office?”

So Mr. Cliff worked that afternoon — at least, he was at his desk. The evening was another matter.