Rex Stout - Double for Death

“I heard two shots, almost simultaneously consecutive. At first I thought they were shots, then I thought they were a part of the radio program which was turned up very loud, but after an interval of three or four minutes, according to my judgment, I became dissatisfied with that thought and went to look through the door into the living room. The sight that met my eyes was the worst I have ever seen. I ran over to him and saw it was the end. My blood ran cold. The psychology—”

“What did you do?”

“Yes, sir. My blood ran cold. On account of psychology, I was imbued with the impression that Mr. Thorpe, for whom I have worked more than twenty years, had been murdered. That impression was because I had strictly trained myself for three years to speak of him and think of him as Mr. Thorpe when he was there in the bungalow. Then I realized it was not Mr. Thorpe, it was him. Then I realized the only thing to do was obey my orders to never cause or permit any suspicion that he was not Mr. Thorpe. Then I realized that if I did that the news would get out that Mr. Thorpe was dead, and that would be inconvenient because he was dead. Not knowing where Mr. Thorpe was, I thought the only thing I could do was telephone Mr. Kester, but then I thought that would be bad because everything that happened in that bungalow was going to be taken into consideration. So I realized I couldn’t use the telephone and I couldn’t conveniently be there when anybody came if they had heard the shots, and I went out and got the car and drove away.”

“Did you see a car parked on the road outside the gate?”

“Yes, sir. That increased my desire to get away. My rear fender hooked it as I swung into the road and I would have run over a woman if she hadn’t jumped, because I didn’t see her until I was right on her. I have been worried about her, provided she wasn’t the murderer, because I have never struck a living creature—”

“She’s all right. Where did you go?”

“I turned west before I got to Mount Kisco and then went on through Millwood to Chappaqua. I stopped the car there and sat in it a while, thinking it over, and then went in a drugstore and telephoned Mr. Kester at the Green Meadow Club. He had just been notified by the police and was up dressing. I drove to Pine’s Bridge and he met me there, and we had a talk and decided to find Mr. Thorpe. First we decided to try—”

“Let’s go back to the bungalow. You were in your room when the shots were fired?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see anyone, hear anyone, hear any noise?”

“No, sir, the radio was on so loud—”

“Had anyone called to see Arnold during the weekend?”

“No, sir, no one was ever let in. The gate to the drive was kept locked. Not anyone for deliveries even — I brought everything from Mount Kisco.”

“Had there been a phone call for Arnold?”

“No, sir, there couldn’t be. When he was there he was Mr. Thorpe. We never forgot that for a second, neither of us. If the phone rang I answered it. It was never anybody but Mr. Kester with instructions.”

“Had Mr. Kester phoned this weekend?”

“No, sir. Usually he only phoned to tell us when to leave because Mr. Thorpe was returning to his home or his office.”

“What had you and Arnold been fighting about?” Luke blinked. “Me? Fighting with him?”

“That’s what I said. What was it about?”

Ridley Thorpe snapped, “Bosh! If you’re cooking up a theory that Luke—”

“I’m not cooking up a theory,” Derwin snapped back. “God knows there are plenty of theories without trying to cook one up. Would you like to hear a few of them?”

“I’d like to hear all there are. I want this thing cleared up.”

“So do I.” Derwin met his gaze. “I’ll state some of them briefly and bluntly. One. Luke Wheer had a quarrel with Arnold and killed him. Two. Vaughn Kester, knowing it was Arnold and not you, killed him for financial profit— No, let me finish, Mr. Thorpe wants to hear them. Three. Andrew Grant, thinking it was you, killed him for revenge or some other undisclosed motive. Four. Nancy Grant, thinking it was you, killed him for revenge or some other undisclosed motive. Five. Jeffrey Thorpe, thinking it was you, killed him to inherit a fortune. Six. Miranda Pemberton, thinking it was you, killed him to inherit a fortune. Seven. You yourself, knowing it was Arnold, killed him for financial profit. Eight. Some enemy of Arnold’s knowing he was there, killed him. Nine. Some enemy of yours, thinking it was you, killed him. That’s all. At this moment they’re all possible. I can ignore none of them.”

“You might explain a couple of them, though,” Vaughn Kester said dryly. “How would Mr. Thorpe or I have profited financially by killing Arnold?”

Derwin looked at the secretary’s pale cold eyes. “I can answer that, Mr. Kester, by repeating a piece of information I got on the telephone a little while ago. Over a hundred thousand shares of Thorpe Control were sold on the exchange yesterday and today, at prices ranging from 29 to 40. If they were sold, somebody bought them. With Mr. Thorpe alive and well, it will jump back around 80 tomorrow. Whoever bought them will have a nice profit.”

Ridley Thorpe inquired quietly, “Are you daring to intimate—”

“I’m not intimating anything. You asked for the theories. I hardly need to say that such an accusation against a man of your standing would not be remotely considered without conclusive evidence and I have no evidence at all. Until an hour ago — two hours ago — I thought you were dead. But that theory applies to Mr. Kester as well as you. The theory which formerly applied to him—”

“May I ask what that was?” Kester sneered.

“For the record, if you want it. It no longer applies, since you knew the man in the bungalow was not Thorpe. It was simply that investigation had disclosed that you aspired to marry Thorpe’s daughter and if she inherited millions — the theory embraced the possibility of a conspiracy—”

“Also the possibility that I hired him to do it, or Jeffrey and I both did while we were dining with him Sunday evening,” said Miranda calmly. “For shame, Mr. Derwin! That’s plain nasty.”

“He asked for it, Mrs. Pemberton. You often find nasty things back of a murder.”

“You will permit me,” said Kester icily, “a comment on your statement that I aspire to marry Mr. Thorpe’s daughter. It is true that at one time—”

Derwin cut him off. “It’s no longer relevant. I would like to say that most of the theories I proposed are at present no better than moonshine. Obviously those applying to the Grants, both uncle and niece—”

“More moonshine,” Ridley Thorpe said impatiently. “All that stuff in the paper — just because he happened to go there—”

“Don’t you know them, Mr. Thorpe?”

“No. Not from Adam. Apparently the man works for an advertising agency that does copy for some of my companies—”

“Have you never met either of them?”

“Never.”

“That’s curious.” Derwin pulled open a drawer of his desk. “Would you mind telling me how this happened to be in a drawer of a cabinet in your dressing room in your New York residence?”

Thorpe took the photograph of Nancy Grant, gave it one sharp glance, let a near-by hand, which happened to be that of Tecumseh Fox, take it from him and arose. He put his fists on the desk and leaned on them, towards the district attorney.

“Do you mean to say—” he demanded in a voice trembling with outraged indignation, “are you telling me that men have ransacked my private apartments in my private residence?” He thumped the desk. “That you have actually had the effrontery—”

“But my God, we thought you were murdered!”