Rex Stout - The Mountain Cat

“You know all the facts I do. Somebody went to Dan’s office at night and shot him and killed him. That’s all I know.”

“All right. But see here, Lem, maybe your judgment is bad because it touches Amy so close. Maybe your head isn’t quite as cool as it ought to be, whereas mine is. I’m for you, you know that, but I can’t give you good advice unless you give me good information. If you know some little fact that I don’t, it would be a lot better if you’d tell me. Otherwise I don’t quite understand why you don’t see that the way I suggest is the best way to handle it.”

“I don’t know anything you don’t know.”

Anson shrugged again. “All right, Lem.”

Delia Brand arose to her feet. Her face did show strain now, much more than it had two hours previously, when she had been conducted by the sheriff to his office, to find a crowd there to welcome her. The county attorney’s questioning had been courteous enough, but it had been thorough. She asked, “Is that all?”

“Not quite.”

“I... I’m pretty tired.”

“I know you are.” Baker screwed up his lips, regarding her. “You remember that I told you downstairs that your being released now doesn’t prohibit a future charge against you in case new evidence warrants it. I want to be sure you understand your position clearly, especially since you submitted to this questioning freely, with no lawyer present.”

“But there can’t be any charge! There can’t be any evidence—”

“Yes, there can. That’s what I want to make clear to you. At this moment I don’t believe you shot Jackson, but somebody did, and with a gun you had been carrying around in your bag. The gun had left your possession, I admit that as established, but it is possible that you had recovered it. Nothing is known—”

“But I couldn’t! I’ve told you! I went straight from Jackson’s office to the Cockatoo Ranch and didn’t even miss the bag until I was far away, and from there I went to the cemetery, and then—”

“I know. But there is a peculiar fact about the bag being taken from Pellett, your uncle, when he was knocked down the stairs — the fact being that you are the only living person who was there when it happened. I don’t say that I am accusing you of hitting him with that piece of ore—”

“You couldn’t accuse me of it if you wanted to. I was sitting in Jackson’s office with him when we heard him fall.”

“You say you were,” Baker said drily. “Jackson is dead.”

Delia stared at him with her mouth open.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” he went on. “I’m not accusing you of hitting your uncle on the head or recovering the bag or anything else, I’m just making your position clear to you. Pellett walked up those stairs carrying the bag with the gun in it, and from the moment he got knocked on the head I have no idea what happened to the bag or who got it. You might have got it as easily as anyone else — in fact easier, since you were there on the spot. Nor have you been entirely frank and open with me. You refused to explain your statement to the clerk at MacGregor’s, and the question you had written down to ask Tyler Dillon, by telling me about Rufus Toale as you could have done, and I learned that, and could ask you about it, only because the sheriff phoned up to tell me about Toale’s visit to him this afternoon. Not only that, but there is the matter of Amy Jackson driving into her yard Tuesday night just as you were going up the path.”

“What do you mean?” Delia looked puzzled. “I told you about that.”

“About her driving in, yes. But you didn’t say anything about her father being in the car with her.”

“But I... but he wasn’t! He was out at Cockatoo Ranch!”

“What makes you so sure he wasn’t? It was dark, wasn’t it?”

“Of course it was.” Delia frowned at him. “It seems to me like you’re contradicting yourself. First you say I’m not being frank because I didn’t tell you Mr. Sammis was in her car with her and then you say I couldn’t tell whether he was there or not because it was dark. Anyway, I have been frank. I’ve told you everything I know that could be connected with Dan Jackson. I’ve told you that I never liked him and I didn’t know him very well even when Dad was alive and they were partners.”

Baker leaned back in his chair, gazing at her. She stood, waiting, and finally asked, “Is that all?”

“I guess it is. For now.”

“Then I want — may I have my handbag, please?”

“No, you can’t. It’s locked up. It’s evidence.”

“I don’t mean the gun. Just the bag.”

He shook his head. “It was there on the desk and you say you didn’t take it there. It’s important evidence.”

Her lip quivered; she controlled it. “There’s a picture of my mother and father in it. May I have that?”

“I’m sorry. The bag and its contents will be kept intact. You’ll get it back when — when the time comes.”

“Thank you,” she said, and turned and walked out of the room.

She had already decided what she was going to do next, but there was a little delay in her plans. Though it was close to six o’clock, the anteroom of the county attorney’s office was far from empty. Four men, one in the uniform of a state trooper, sat in a corner talking in subdued tones. Another group of three men sat against the wall: Bill Tuttle and Ken Chambers, and between them the roughly dressed man with a weathered face and nearly white hair whom Delia had last seen Tuesday night when, with a warm gun in her hand, she had turned at the sound of a voice. Her glance had encompassed those two groups when she was attacked from two directions. A pair came trotting at her, one with a noisy vocal barrage and the other aiming a camera; and simultaneously, from the other side, her name was called and she saw Clara, Ty Dillon and her Uncle Quin. Dillon, on the run, swerved to intercept the reporters, with Pellett supporting, while Clara seized Delia’s arm and hustled her to the door and through it.

“But Sis — why — you shouldn’t have waited all this time—”

“There’s a mob out front, Del — it’s awful — come this way—”

They made it to the back stairs and clattered down, and near the bottom were overtaken by Dillon and Pellett, panting. In the basement they took a narrow side hall and came to a back door, closed, with a man standing there. Dillon handed the man something, and the door opened and they passed through. The large paved court where parking was reserved for officials’ and employees’ cars was almost deserted and they hurried across it to a maroon sedan which Delia recognized as Dillon’s.

He told her, “Pile in!”

Delia balked, shaking her head. “I’m not going home.”

They stared at her.

“I mean not now. Not first. First I’m going to see Doctor Toale.”

“Holy smoke!” said Uncle Quin. “Listen to her!”

“You’re not going to walk, are you?” Ty demanded. “Pile in anyway!”

They all climbed in, Ty taking the wheel. The engine roared and the car leaped forward, circled careening, and scooted for the gap leading to the street. Delia caught a glimpse of many faces as they swept by. She demanded of Clara’s ear, “But why a mob? Not after me!”

“Sure they are.” Clara squeezed her arm. “They want to give you three cheers and carry you home on their shoulders. The radio said you were being questioned as a witness and would soon be released. What’s this about going to see Doctor Toale?”

“I’m going, that’s all.”

Clara opened her mouth to reply, but the car careened again, turning a corner, and she grabbed for the strap; and then, apparently, thought better of it. Three minutes later the car rolled to a stop at the curb, under a tree on River Avenue, and Ty Dillon, behind the wheel, twisted himself around to face the back seat.