Rex Stout - The Mountain Cat

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The Mountain Cat: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Here is another topnotch mystery by the author of TOO MANY COOKS and SOME BURIED CAESAR. In this story of Wyoming, silver mining, politics and murder, Rex Stout has brought to vigorous life a group of new characters. Not all of them are nice, but all of them are memorable.
When Delia Brand planned to murder Preacher Rufus Toale, she thought she would be meting out justice for the murder of her father and the suicide of her mother. But when she went to Dan Jackson’s office at ten o’clock that night she only wanted to keep Jackson from firing her sister. She found Jackson dead and she found her gun on the table beside him.
Delia couldn’t murder Rufus Toale because she was arrested for a murder she didn’t commit. That was the beginning of a series of events that had great repercussions. It was almost too late when Wynne Cowles, divorcee, told Delia what Mountain Cat really meant.

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There was no gun in it.

She looked around, not at the man in the chair, but searching; and almost at once she saw it. It lay on the seat of a chair near the door. Three quick steps took her there, and she grabbed it up. Yes, it was the gun, her father’s gun; there was the notch which she herself had playfully scratched in it one day with her father’s knife when he had spattered a gopher. In the first instant when she had turned on the light and seen the man in the chair the blood had left her head, blanching her; but now it was rushing back as she began to realize, vaguely but overwhelmingly, the significance of the properties she was collecting on this sinister stage. With her teeth clenched and the gun in her hand, she started around the desk toward the chair on the other side, but halfway there was stopped in her tracks by a voice behind her.

“Better lay it down, ma’am.”

She had heard no steps; apparently her ears hadn’t been working. She wheeled. A man with a weathered face and nearly white hair stood towering a pace from the doorway, with his eyes no more than slits. Delia stared at him without moving or speaking. She knew him; it was Squint Hurley, the prospector who had been put on trial for murdering her father and had been acquitted. She stood and stared.

He came forward with a hand outstretched. “Give it to me. The gun.”

She said idiotically, “It’s my father’s gun.”

“Give it to me anyway. I’ll keep it for him. Who’s your father?” He peered down at her. “By all hell! It’s Charlie Brand’s girl. I don’t want to twist that thing away from you, ma’am. Just hand it over.”

She shook her head. His extended hand shot downward and he had her wrist. She made no struggle or protest as, with his other hand, he eased the gun from her fingers and rammed it into his pocket without looking at it. Then he strode to the chair on the other side of the desk and stooped to get a look at the face of the man who was still whimsically hanging there.

In a moment he straightened up, observing, “It appears that Dan Jackson won’t do any more grubstaking.” He faced Delia and demanded in a grieved tone, “What’s the idea, anyway?”

Chapter 5

So the Brand family troubles made the front page again, in spite of Quinby Pellett’s assertion that they had been there enough. This time the prominence and space given it, not only in Cody, but in distant cities, was considerably greater than on the two previous occasions, for the dish was a more highly seasoned one than a killing in a remote prospector’s cabin or the suicide of a desolated wife. A girl had been found with a gun in her hand, in an office at night, approaching the body of a man with a bullet through his heart who had liked the ladies; and the girl was variously described as strikingly beautiful, glamorous, seductive, enigmatic, captivating, and on up and down.

Of all the people involved and active in the affair one way or another — relatives, friends, associates, officials, photographers, politicians, reporters — the only one who was in a state of indifference at ten o’clock Wednesday morning was the girl herself. She was sound asleep on a cot in a cell of the county jail, lying on a clean white sheet, with no cover, clad in soft, clean, yellow pajamas which her sister Clara had brought to the jail, along with other accessories, shortly after dawn. Seated on a chair in the corridor outside the cell door was Daisy Welch, wife of the deputy warden, slowly fanning herself with a palm leaf and from time to time sighing heavily. It was a self-imposed vigil. One day a few months ago, when little Annie Welch had tumbled downstairs at school and had bitten a hole in her tongue, Delia had driven her home in her car.

At that moment, in the principal’s office of the Pendleton School, the large woman with sweat on her brow who had glanced in at the door during the assembly for Rhythmic Movement the preceding day, was seated at her desk regarding with grim disapproval a young man who stood before her with a notebook and pencil in his hand. She was saying:

“... and you might as well get out of the building and stay out. It won’t do you any good to snoop around anyhow, because I’m sending a memo around to the teachers that they are not to speak with you. I’ve told you that Delia Brand’s work and character and personality have been completely satisfactory and that’s all I have to say.”

“But Miss Henckel, I tell you we want to give her a break! Comments by you and all the teachers, quoting them by name, would help to sway public opinion—”

“Of course you do,” said the principal sarcastically. “You mean you want to break her. I read the Times-Star this morning, didn’t I? I ask you once more to leave this building.”

He soon accepted defeat and departed, hoping for better luck at one of the six other schools, since Delia had had a class in each of them. It was his own idea.

At the Brand home on Vulcan Street, Clara sat on the bench in the breakfast nook in the kitchen, her elbows on the table and her forehead resting on her palms with a plate of three greasy-looking fried eggs, untouched, in front of her. The floor began to shake from a ponderous tread and the form of Mrs. Lemuel Sammis came through the swinging door.

“That was someone like Vatter or Vitter on the phone,” Evelina Sammis announced.

Clara said without looking up, “Mag Vawter.”

“Mebbe. I told her I was here and you don’t want any company. Also I called the ranch and told Pete to drive in and bring a turkey. We’ve always got a roast turkey or two. There’s no use cooking anything because you won’t eat it while it’s hot, like those eggs, and with a turkey around, any time you’re ready to swallow there it is. Pete can stay here today at least and answer the door and the phone. I’m not built for a canter any more.”

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Sammis, but I’m perfectly able—”

“Forget it, girlie.” She sat down. “I’m taking my shoes off.” She did so and wiggled her toes. “On the ranch I can keep my shoes on all day, but these town shoes start turning on me. Now listen. Lem’ll have her out of there before night, don’t you worry. What’s the use of his owning the state nearly, if he can’t get a girl out of jail? As for her shooting Dan Jackson, that was only a question—”

“I tell you she didn’t do it!”

“All right.” Evelina looked annoyed. “Don’t start an argument. Her shooting Dan Jackson was nothing more nor less than a blessing. I’m surprised Lem didn’t do it himself years ago. My Amy is in a state fit to be tied, but she’ll get over it. As soon as Pete gets here I’ll put my shoes back on and go back over to Amy’s and see if she’s eating yet. She’s going to be a different woman. After all, she’s half Sammis and half Freyvogel— There’s that damn bell again.” She got up with a grunt.

“I don’t want to see anyone, please,” said Clara as Evelina made off in her stocking feet.

But it became evident in less than a minute that Evelina had met her match at the front door. Her raised voice was heard, and other footsteps approaching down the hall, and when Clara lifted her head a young man was standing there.

“Oh.” She nodded.

As the man opened his mouth to speak Evelina appeared. “He shoved past,” she declared indignantly. “I grabbed for him, but he tore loose—”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Sammis,” said Clara. “This is Mr. Dillon. Tyler Dillon.”

“Oh, Phil Escott’s fellow from the coast?” She put out a hand and they shook. “Looks like a smart colt. If he’s staying I guess I’ll be getting back over to Amy’s. Would you mind handing me those shoes?”

Dillon stooped for them, gallantly offered to put them on and did so, using the handle of a teaspoon. She thanked him, stamped with each foot, grimacing, told Clara not to worry and that she would phone in case she heard anything from Lem, and departed. Dillon went to open the front door for her. When he returned he moved the kitchen chair around and sat on it and said, “That was Mrs. Lemuel Sammis?”

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