Rex Stout - Double for Death

Meanwhile the law had been arriving. From the side terrace a curve of the main driveway was in plain view. Two of the cars were the familiar brown of the state police and Fox recognized most of the others. One was the old Curtis of the county medical examiner; in another District Attorney Derwin sat beside the driver. They were entering the house, apparently, from the other side; sounds of activity came from within. Soon after the luncheon trays had been served, three men, one a state trooper and the others in plain clothes, emerged on to the terrace, said nothing whatever, scattered and sat. Miranda, after pecking at her tray a while and having obvious difficulty swallowing, left it and made a tour of her guests, speaking to them. When she got to where Grant sat beside his niece, she put her hand on Nancy’s and Nancy drew hers away.

“Sorry,” said Miranda.

Nancy colored. “Oh! I didn’t mean — it’s just that I... please... I’m sorry—”

“So am I,” said Miranda and passed on. She stopped in front of Tecumseh Fox:

“We can’t count this in place of that dinner, Mr. Fox.” A shiver went over her. “This is horrible.”

He nodded. “Pretty bad.”

“Have you enough to eat? There’s plenty of the chicken salad.”

“I have enough, thanks.”

She frowned down at him and made her tone still lower. “Tell me. Should Jeffrey and I be in there with them? Should we let them do whatever they want, however they want? Like going through things, for instance?”

“That depends.” Fox passed his napkin across his lips. “Legally you can do a lot of restricting and obstructing. You can’t keep them from going over the library, but if there is anything anywhere else in the house that you don’t want them to find, whether it would help them in their job or not, you can certainly make it difficult for them. It’s your house.”

She bit her lip. “The way you put it, it sounds — offensive. I don’t want to obstruct them — in their job. I don’t regard this as my house and I’m sure Jeffrey doesn’t regard it as his — but to be put out here on the terrace with a lot of men in there—”

“Mr. Kester!” A voice was raised from the doorway. “Come in, please.”

Kester got up and went. Harlan McElroy and another man started for the voice with voluble protests that they must leave for New York... that they should be permitted...

“I understand, Mrs. Pemberton,” said Fox. “I will say this, that if anything like this happened in my house, I would regard it as proper to prevent them from making it an occasion for a general inventory of my personal possessions or an inquiry into my purely private affairs. I also think you should telephone, at once, to your father’s attorneys, Buchanan, Fuller, McPartland and Jones.”

“Thank you. I will,” said Miranda, and turned and swiftly entered the house.

Fox took the last bite of the chicken salad, saw two feet stopping in front of him, looked up and was facing the scowl of Jeffrey Thorpe.

“I heard my sister saying my name,” Jeffrey growled.

Fox nodded. He was chewing.

“This is one hell of a thing. It... it’s got me. This second time.”

Fox swallowed enough to talk. “Your sister was asking me what you and she should do.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her I wouldn’t trust any investigator to set his own limits and to telephone your father’s attorneys.”

“That sounds — sensible.” Jeffrey set his jaw and in a moment released it for speech. “Sunday night was different somehow — off up there in that bungalow — but this is right here in our own house. I was born in this house. I was... it was nice here when I was a kid and Mother was here—”

“Hold it, son,” Fox said sharply, in an undertone. “You’ve taken some punches. Sunday night your father killed. Yesterday he came back to life. Today killed again. Three knockouts in a row are tough going.”

“I’m all right,” the boy declared. “I think I am. You say my sister is phoning my father’s lawyers? You mean that Buchanan-Fuller outfit?”

“Yes.”

“They’re a bunch of damned stuffed shirts. I want to ask you something. Would you mind telling me why my father asked you to come here today?”

“No, I wouldn’t mind. He said he mistrusted the ability of the police to discover who killed Corey Arnold and he wanted to hire me to work on it.”

“Did you agree to do it?”

“We were going to discuss it later. I told him I was working for Grant.”

“I want to hire you to work on this.”

“You do? Why, do you mistrust the police too?”

“Well, I... yes. That’s it. I mistrust them. I don’t like the way — look at that rooster Brissenden—”

Fox pivoted out from his hips to shove away the table with his tray on it, and to reach for a chair and pull it closer. “Sit down here,” he muttered, “and I won’t have to talk so loud. That man has an ear cocked to listen.”

Jeffrey yanked the chair another foot forward and sat. Fox went on, “I could just say no and let it go at that, but I feel kind of sorry for you, so I want to explain that you’d be wasting your money. If I discovered that a member of your family had fired that shot, the fact that I was in your employ wouldn’t prevent—”

“Don’t be a goddam mucker, Fox.”

“All right. Weren’t you worried by the fear that your sister killed Arnold? Sure you were. And now you’re afraid — don’t glare like that. Learn to control your face. Do you play poker? Pretend you didn’t fill and you’re going to ride it. You’re afraid she did this too, and you think the police may miss it but I may not and you want to sew me up. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I admit I would like to work on this and it would be a big advantage—”

“Mr. Thorpe! Come in, please?”

Jeffrey shot up out of his chair and strode to the door that was being held open for him, fifteen pairs of eyes following him across the terrace.

Fox arose to retrieve a bunch of grapes that was left on his tray and, pulling one off and popping it into his mouth, wandered to the far edge of the terrace where Henry Jordan sat gazing gloomily at a twig of clematis hanging listless in the still heavy air.

“You ought to eat something,” Fox declared.

Jordan shook his head. “I was hungry and I didn’t want to eat here and then this — my appetite went.”

“Eat anyway. Keep your voice down. Where were you when you heard the shot?”

“Sitting under a tree around the corner there. Some men came out here and I left.”

“Was anyone with you? Anybody in sight?”

“I didn’t see anyone.”

“That’s too bad.” Fox spat a seed on to the lawn and took another grape. “You’re stuck for a good one. What I want to say, I regard our obligation to guard Thorpe’s little secret as still binding. Do you?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you would, for your daughter’s sake if nothing else. But they’ll make it hard for you. They’ll want the details of your friendship with Thorpe. Keep it simple. Don’t put in any complications you don’t have to.”

“I’ll try to.” Jordan gulped. “I’m glad you came and spoke to me. I’m afraid of it. My mind doesn’t work fast.”

“It’ll work better if you eat something. I mean it. I’ll send for a tray for you. Keep it simple and don’t get rattled.”

For errand boy he selected the trooper named Hardy, figuring that he had established a little prestige there. Hardy having acquiesced and departed for a tray for Mr. Jordan, Fox ate another grape and continued his wandering to the two chairs behind a table near the wall of the house, where Andrew Grant and his niece were sitting and saying nothing. They looked up at him. He pushed a tray away and sat on the edge of the table. There was no warden within ten yards.