Rex Stout - Double for Death

She crossed to the mirror, decided her face was too red, went to the washbowl and started the faucet running, and when the water was cold enough took a cloth and dabbed her forehead and cheeks and neck. She was engaged at the mirror with her compact when there was a tap at the door. It opened as she turned, to admit Andrew Grant.

“Well?” Nancy demanded.

“More complications,” said her uncle wearily. “Fox wants to ask you something.”

“I’m not going back where that—”

“Oh, forget it, Nan. Let him yap. What’s the difference? We’re in Fox’s house and he’s trying to help us. Come on.”

Nancy compressed her lips, and after a moment said, “All right, I’ll come in a minute.”

She finished with the compact, made a couple of passes at her hair with a comb, marched into the hall and along it to Fox’s room, and entered. Her uncle was back in his chair between Miranda and Jeff.

“Sit down,” Fox told her curtly. He looked and sounded exasperated. “You bounce around too much. I would like to discuss ladies’ gloves. Mrs. Pemberton tells me that the police found one Sunday night under a shrub outside the window of the bungalow, and one on the running board of the car you were driving. Also that Derwin says you told him they aren’t yours and you know nothing about them. You undertook to tell me everything you know about this business, but you didn’t mention gloves.”

“Why should I?” Nancy demanded. “They weren’t mine. I had never seen them before.”

“Derwin showed them to you?”

“Yes.”

“What were they like?”

“Yellow cotton with outseams, very nice, about my size, with the Hartlespoon label.”

“You work at Hartlespoon’s.”

“What if she does?” Jeffrey sputtered. “That’s no proof—”

“Mind your own business,” said Nancy scornfully. “I don’t need your assistance, thank you.”

“Ha! You spoke to me!”

“You certainly are battering down obstacles, Jeff dear,” Miranda told him. She turned to Fox. “I took a good look at the gloves when Derwin showed them to us.” She smiled. “I think they would fit me as well as they would Miss Grant. The strange thing was that they were both for the right hand.”

“They were?”

“Yes.”

“Were they alike?”

She nodded. “Exactly alike. And both new, or almost new. Derwin seemed to think the police could trace them, but he said hundreds of pairs like that had been sold by Hartlespoon’s, so I think it would be rather difficult.”

“And one of them was found on the running board of Miss Grant’s car?”

“So Derwin said.”

“Did he tell you that, Miss Grant?”

“Yes, he did,” Nancy declared, “and I don’t believe it.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Jeffrey asserted. “Who found the gloves? Some cop. If you think cops don’t lie — once a motorcycle—”

“Please, Jeff dear,” his sister remonstrated. “I didn’t know you were hauling me over here as a witness, but now that I’m here—” She looked at Fox and smiled. “I want to say something that is hard to say without giving offense.”

“Try it one way,” he suggested, “and if that doesn’t work, try another.”

“I might not get a second chance. But I’ll try. I want to ask first, does this — the fact that it wasn’t my father who was killed — does that make any difference in the position of Mr. Grant and his niece?”

Fox shook his head. “I don’t see how it could. Not if they thought the man in the bungalow was really Thorpe. And they did.”

“Then they’re still in danger?”

“I wouldn’t say great danger. Unless something startling and unexpected turns up I doubt very much if either of them will be charged. Especially if Miss Grant can continue to explain suspicious circumstances as she did your father’s possession of that photograph. It was given to him by a voice teacher of hers, in grateful acknowledgment of his donation towards the expenses of a recital. She had never seen him before Sunday night in the bungalow and since that wasn’t him, she never has seen him.”

“I knew it!” Jeffrey cried exultantly. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say I was perfectly certain—”

“You said that, yes,” Miranda interposed crushingly, “but you were afraid to ask him and you didn’t eat any dinner. Don’t start your married life with misrepresentation.” She returned to Fox. “But they’ll still need a lawyer? And you?”

“Oh, yes. They’re under bond, and that’s unpleasant. They were unlucky enough to be at the bungalow without having been invited. Until the murderer is discovered—”

“Isn’t that Collins man expensive?”

“He is.”

“Then that...” Miranda sent a quick glance at Nancy and another at her uncle. “That’s what I want to say. My father regrets very much that Mr. Grant and his niece have got into trouble — through no fault of theirs — on account of him. Not that it was his fault either, but that’s his place, and that man was supposed to be him... so he feels it would be unjust to expect them to bear the expense in addition to the unpleasantness and notoriety, which can’t be helped...”

Nancy, flushing, opened her mouth, closed it and bit her lip. She looked at Miranda and said with restraint, “Damn it all. I took money from your father once, though I didn’t know him. For the sake of my career, not to deprive the world of my gifts. Honestly, I believed it! Now that I’m working for $31.50 a week, I know more about money and I’ve got snobbish about it. I like my own more than anybody else’s. At five dollars a week I could pay my share of the lawyer’s fee in a couple of years. Don’t you agree, Uncle Andy?”

Andrew Grant shook his head. “No, I can’t say that I do. I’m not snobbish about anything. If Ridley Thorpe, with his millions, would feel better if I let him pay the lawyer, I’m willing to accommodate him.”

“That’s sensible—”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Pemberton. The trouble is, while I could easily persuade myself that it would be all right for your father to pay it, I see no reason why you should.”

“I didn’t say—”

“I know you didn’t, but I suspect you should have. I don’t think you’re telling the truth. From your manner, the way you spoke, I don’t think your father said a word about it. I’m sure he didn’t. You were making the offer on your own hook. I’m pretty good at self-justification, I’ve had a lot of practice, but I’m afraid I couldn’t justify my accepting that offer from you, except on the supposition that you committed the murder yourself and you don’t want to see innocent people suffer on account of it.”

“Really,” said Miranda. “I couldn’t very well confess it before witnesses, could I?”

“Not very well. I realize that. Or the alternative supposition that you know your brother did it and you feel similarly—”

“You’re not funny,” said Jeffrey gruffly.

“I know I’m not, Mr. Thorpe. I just threw that in. You’d never kill any one if you were sober. Tecumseh Fox taught me how to look at people.” He regarded Miranda. “You might, though, if you were working on a problem and that was the only answer you got.” He smiled at her. “Of course it would depend on how vital the problem was.”

She smiled back. “All right, I did the murder. I want to pay your lawyer and Mr. Fox.”

“No, Mrs. Pemberton, I’m sorry. I’m especially sorry because I’m out of a job right now.”

“But why can’t I be permitted to dislike seeing innocent people suffer even if I’m—”

He shook his head with finality. “No, please don’t. I can assure you that it hurts me worse than it does you. I’ll probably be paying the damn thing for years.”