Rex Stout - The Broken Vase

Mrs. Pomfret had wanted Perry to marry Dora Mowbray.

Most of which, Fox reflected as, reaching the sidewalk, he sought a drugstore for a phone booth, was not without interest as subsidiary material for a student of mankind, but it appeared to have little or no bearing on the questions of who poisoned Perry Dunham or drove Jan Tusar to suicide. Worse, the only line of inquiry it suggested was the one most distasteful to him personally; but he had taken the job.

He called the number of Diego’s apartment, got no answer, tried the Metropolitan Broadcasting Company studios, and found him there. Diego was gruff and scarcely civil; he was busy with a score, he said, and would be for some time; importuned, he agreed to be at his apartment at six o’clock. Fox hung up, frowned at the transmitter for half a minute, dialed another number, and had better luck. Returning to his parked car, he drove to the offices of the Homicide Squad on Twentieth Street, sent his name in to Inspector Damon, and was admitted at once.

Anyone curious as to the true status of the police investigation of the Dunham murder would have needed only to observe Inspector Damon’s reception of Tecumseh Fox. He got up and came around his desk to greet the visitor and shook hands as if he meant it.

Fox smiled at him. “My lord, is it as bad as that?”

“Everything’s always bad here.” Damon waved him to a chair. “All we get is crime. Something on your mind?”

“Nope. I’m in a mental blackout. I’m sorry if you thought I was Santa Claus. How’s the Dunham case getting along?”

“Fine. Who wants to know?”

“Me and my employer. I’ve got a job.” Fox took an envelope from his pocket, extracted a sheet of notepaper, and handed it over. “You’ll be pleased to know that at least I was able to persuade Mrs. Pomfret not to have you fired.”

Damon took in the brief note with a glance. He handed it back, grunted, and regarded Fox grimly. “When you get the Dunham case cleaned up,” he said sarcastically, “there’s a stabbing up in Harlem you can have.”

“Thanks. I’ll get in touch with you. I just got that commission from Mrs. Pomfret an hour ago. There’s no corking or covering involved; she wants to know who killed her son. That’s straight. If you already know, I’ll mail this back to her and go home. Do you?”

“They sell papers at the corner.”

Fox frowned. “All right. But I don’t think that’s very profound. Have I ever gone around blowing lids off? When I got lucky and broke the Coromander case, did I—”

“You’ll need plenty of luck to break this one, my boy.”

“Then you haven’t opened a seam yet?”

“I have not. I know just exactly as much about who killed Dunham as I did when I walked in there a week ago yesterday. The papers think there’s been a hush, but there hasn’t. It’s simply a case of somebody being either damn clever or damn lucky. We’ve tried everything. I don’t need to tell you what we’ve done; you know what we do.”

“I thought maybe you had it lined up but were short on proof.”

“Proof?” Damon was bitter. “Hell, we haven’t even got to the guessing stage.”

“Have you got a few minutes to talk about it?”

“I never have a few minutes, but I’ll talk about it. What do you want to know?”

The “few minutes” stretched into nearly an hour, but when Fox left, at a quarter to six, returned to his car and headed back uptown, all he had to show for it was additional material for a student of mankind. The salient and interesting items were assorted in his head:

Wealthy bachelor businessman, 52, reputation good. Generous help to painters, writers, musicians. Also generous to young women. Quid pro quo . Tusar in his way — Hebe Heath? And Dunham knew it? No other motive.

Successful publicity agent, 30, reputation good. Arrested 1938, charged with assault by theatrical producer, acquitted. Sore at Tusar for not having picture taken with Hebe? Very thin — no other motive.

Came to U.S. in 1933 with brother, 26. Lied about job, hasn’t had one for three years. N.V.M.S. Lives expensively — at least $10,000 a year. Source of income — Perry Dunham? Unable to verify. Loved her brother but on bad terms with him recently. No motive to kill him or Dunham. Evasive, slippery, clever.

Pianist, 20, teaching for a living since father’s death. Thought father was murdered, perhaps still does. Says Tusar left two notes. Motive against Tusar, avenging father’s death. Against Dunham, fear of disclosure (this for everyone).

45. Large fortune intact. Possibly wished to ruin Tusar, had quarreled with him, but would not have harmed Perry. Lavish with money for Perry.

Top-flight teacher of violin, 61, married, two children, reputation good, finances fair. Bets on horse races. No motive.

Formerly U.S. diplomatic service, married Mrs. Pomfret (then Dunham) in Rome, 1932. 41. Clean record. No private income. Mutual dislike him and Perry (motive?). Thin. No hint Perry serious threat to him. No motive Tusar. No spending habits, apparently has little to spend. Wins at bridge at the Dummy Club.

Born Mabel Daggett at Columbus, Ohio, 1915. Married 1936 to Los Angeles lawyer, divorced 1938. Nut. Arrested Santa Barbara 1938 for driving car into post office. Arrested Chicago 1939 for breaking man’s nose with tennis racket. Chased Jan Tusar since August, 1939. Motive Tusar, pique, resentment, desire to humiliate. Pathological? Dr. Unwin interviewed her, hedged.

Formerly ranking concert violinist, fingers lost in accident ruined career. 34. Salary $140 a week music arranger MBC. Reputation good. Jilted by Garda Tusar in 1935. Old friend of Tusar. Embittered envy? Motive Dunham, yes, if he still loves G.T., and Dunham was keeping her.

For the rest, only a disheartening row of negations. No trail found from a purchase of potassium cyanide. No fingerprints on the paper container of the poison or the fragments of the whisky bottle picked up in the street corner, except, in the case of the bottle, those of Schaeffer and Perry Dunham. No trail from a purchase of varnish, nor evidence of its possession. No significant result from four days’ surveillance of all those involved, abandoned after vigorous protests from Adolph Koch and Henry Pomfret. No hint of hidden designs, desires, intrigues, motives... No this, no that...

Fox was beginning to feel that he would indeed need plenty of luck, and as he rolled uptown with the traffic he was not voicing his favorite battle cry.

As it happened, luck was on the job. He would have been willing to call it luck, though what really saved him was an inborn wariness, a hair-trigger alertness of his nerves which communicated to him a warning a split second sooner than the normally equipped man would have got it. Arriving at Diego’s address promptly at six o’clock, he found it unnecessary to push a button in the vestibule, since the door was left unlocked to permit public access to a little optician’s shop on the ground floor. That was not worthy of remark, but, mounting the two flights to the door of Diego’s apartment, he found something that was. The door was not only unlocked, but was ajar a few inches, and his quick-accustomed eye caught in its first glance the bruised and splintered edge of the jamb which suggested that the door had been opened without the convenience of a key. Lifting his brows at it, he pushed the button and heard a bell ring inside — but nothing else. He pushed the button again, and got no response. He called out: