Rex Stout - Double for Death

Jordan, grumbling about the boat, climbed in the rear with Dan and Fox took the wheel.

It was dark, after nine o’clock, when they got home. In spite of the fact that Mrs. Trimble greeted him with the news that Andrew Grant and his niece were up in the room that had been assigned to Nancy, waiting for him, Fox did not go there when he proceeded upstairs, but to his own room. After a bath and shave he returned below, joined Dan and Jordan in the dining room, and helped them dispose of cold roast beef, bread and butter, a mixed salad, iced tea, pot cheese, home-made sponge cake and strawberries and cream, while Mr. and Mrs. Trimble and various guests sat around and listened to a recital of such of the day’s activities as he cared to recite. He liked that and so did they.

That over, he went back upstairs, stopped in his room a moment, proceeded to Nancy’s room and entered after knocking, greeted her and her uncle, handed her a large rectangle of pasteboard and inquired:

“What was that doing in a drawer in a cabinet in Ridley Thorpe’s dressing room in his New York residence?”

Nancy looked at it, saw what it was and looked up at Fox in astonishment.

“What kind of a crazy trick is this?” she demanded. “Did you say — say it again.”

“That photograph of you, bearing the inscription, was found by the police when they searched Ridley Thorpe’s rooms in his New York residence, in a drawer in a cabinet.”

Grant, having peered at the pasteboard over his niece’s shoulder, snorted incredulously. “Who says it was?”

“Derwin. He had it. He must have got it somewhere. But also, he put it up to Ridley Thorpe himself and all Thorpe did was hit the ceiling because the cops had invaded his home. He didn’t deny the picture had been there.” Fox’s eyes were on Nancy. “What about it?”

“Nothing about it.” She looked dazed. “But I can’t — do people actually do things like this? I’ve heard of frame-ups, but I never — I can’t believe—”

“It’s — why, it’s too damned funny!” Grant stared at the picture in helpless and indignant bewilderment.

“You say Thorpe — it wasn’t him that was killed, was it?”

“No. You’ve heard about it?”

“Yes. Crocker got it on the radio and came up and told us. He’s alive?”

“He is. Alive and kicking. Especially kicking. But, Miss Grant, while it may be incredible that the photograph was where the police say they found it, it is still more incredible that it’s a frame-up. No one but a lunatic would think of trying—”

“Then it’s a lunatic,” said Nancy firmly. “Those pictures were taken more than two years ago, when I was going to try a concert. I only got six. I sent one to my mother and gave one to Uncle Andy, and two went to the newspapers and— Oh!” Her eyes widened in horrified disbelief, and she lifted her fists and pushed them into her cheeks. “My God! Uncle Andy! Do you know—” She was speechless.

“Do I know what?” Grant demanded irritably.

Fox, gazing at her, said nothing.

“Oh — it’s awful!” she cried. It was the bleat of a camel whose back is bending under the last straw. “Of all the people in the world — did it have to be Ridley Thorpe? Did it?”

“I don’t know,” said Fox shortly. “Apparently it was.”

Grant shook her shoulder in a rough grasp. “What the hell are you talking about? Do you mean to say you wrote that on that picture and gave it to Ridley Thorpe?”

Nancy wriggled free, looked up at him, nodded and burst into laughter. She kept on nodding, bent over, laughing louder — high-pitched and half hysterical. Her uncle got her shoulder again and straightened her up.

“Cut it out,” he ordered. “This isn’t—”

“But it’s funny!” She gasped. “It’s a scream! It is funny!”

“Good,” said Fox. “Let’s hear it.”

Grant shook the shoulder he held. She pulled free again and told him with spirit, “Quit that! It hurts!” She looked at Fox. “It must have been — I suppose — Ridley Thorpe. And I say it’s funny. But I swear I don’t remember the name, not even now. Uncle Andy was helping me all he could, paying for my lessons, and my teacher said I should have a recital, but it would cost a lot of money and I couldn’t afford it — or rather, I just didn’t have it. My teacher was sure I was going to have a big career on account of my personality — I didn’t have sense enough to know I was being played for a sucker — and he said he could get a thousand dollars to finance the concert from a millionaire who was a well-known philanthropist and patron of the arts and I told him to go ahead. I suppose he must have told me the name of the millionaire, but if he did it glanced off because at that time I didn’t hear anything that wasn’t about me and my voice and my personality and my career. It was one of those. If you think I’m off the key now, you should have known me then. Having those pictures taken was one of the things I did with the thousand dollars and my teacher said it would be nice to autograph one for the millionaire, and I did so and gave it to my teacher to give to him. I’ll bet I thought he was getting more than his money’s worth, having that picture. That’s the way young geniuses feel about the rich boobs that stake them. And now — it was Ridley Thorpe! It must have been! Do you say that isn’t funny?”

Her uncle was scowling at her. “You never told me anything about a millionaire.”

“Certainly not. I was afraid to. I let you think enough tickets were sold to cover expenses. I guess eight or ten tickets actually were sold. The rest was paper.” She touched Grant’s sleeve. “Now don’t get huffy. You darned sweet old Puritan.”

“I’m not a Puritan.”

“Yes, you are, Andy, I’ve told you that myself.” Fox tossed the photograph on the bureau, pulled a chair around and sat. He smiled at Nancy. “I like you very much. Every time evidence turns up that you’re a liar, you dissolve it with a story out of your past so improbable that no liar could invent it. And you can’t be much over twenty. You should have a marvelous future.”

“Are you kidding me?” Nancy wrinkled her brows at him. “You believe me, don’t you? About the picture?”

“Of course I believe you. I doubt if you could be trained to lie, you’re too conceited— No, we’ll argue that some other time. I want to ask you — I understand that you’re under bond as a material witness?”

“Yes. Mr. Collins—”

“Both of us are,” Grant put in. “Collins arranged it. He drove us here — he suggested it. He said if we went to New York we’d be pestered... we took the liberty of coming here...” He hesitated with embarrassment. “I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for letting me stay here — as your guest — so long that time... and now you’re doing this just because Nancy came and asked you—”

“Forget it.” Fox waved a hand. “I do what everyone else does who can afford it, I do what I like to do. I suppose you’ve heard me say that what keeps my spring wound up is curiosity. I’ve never seen or heard of anything yet that I wasn’t curious about. The things that move are more interesting than the things that stand still and the most interesting moving things that I’ve seen so far are people. All I’m saying, I’m just relieving your mind of the notion that you have anything to thank me for. The fact is, I ought to be thanking you, because I’m collecting a big fat fee out of this. I can’t tell you who from or what for, but I wanted to mention it and tell you that it won’t conflict with the job I undertook—”

There was a knock at the door. He looked at Nancy. She said, “Come in,” and the door swung wide to make room for the broad shoulders of Dan Pavey. To Fox’s inquiring glance he said: