Рекс Стаут - The Last Drive and Other Stories

“Then you admit the theory of suicide?”

“Merely because as a possibility it cannot rightfully be excluded. Before Fred and Harry I rejected it, not to wound their sensibilities; and to me also the thought of self-destruction in connection with Carson Phillips is — well — distasteful. But reason requires me to admit it. The point is, the motive.”

“There is nothing here?” Rankin waved his hand about the room.

“Nothing. Everything is in the best possible condition, with the exception of one unfortunate financial deal, and that was hardly a serious inconvenience; it certainly was not vital enough to serve as the cause of tragedy. There is a lawsuit on with an estate in Connecticut; nothing serious.”

“What was the financial deal? A speculation?”

“Yes. Against my advice. United Traffic. Of course, you know the circumstances; the bottom fell out of it two weeks ago. I just got rid of the last of it yesterday; you see what it amounted to.”

The lawyer pointed to an entry in one of the books before him, on which the ink was scarcely dry:

2000 United Traffic 57 $114,000.00

1000 United Traffic 56 56,000.00

2000 United Traffic 52 104,000.00

“He bought around a hundred and twenty, so the loss amounted to something over three hundred thousand,” Mawson explained. “But, of course, it was only a temporary inconvenience.”

“Of course.” Rankin agreed. “Mighty imprudent, though, for Carson Phillips — but financial difficulties are beside the question. There is nothing else?”

“No. The best way, perhaps, would be to look yourself, but I know every paper in the room, and there is nothing. That isn’t to be wondered at. If there were anything in Carson’s life that might have led — as it did lead — to this, he wouldn’t have left evidence of it lying around where even I could see it. No, if my theory is correct, Mr. Rankin, the mystery of our friend’s death isn’t going to be easy to solve. For my part, I am not even convinced that it came from that little green spot that Wortley showed us. I’ll have to have better proof than that little spot on his skin.”

“The symptoms were conclusive.”

“In a way. Second-hand. Wortley didn’t get there till it was over.”

“The examination of the organs will settle it.”

“By Wortley?”

“Yes. He’s at it now.”

“Of course, that will settle it,” agreed the lawyer. “I don’t dispute the probable correctness of his diagnosis, but I wait for proof. Anyway, you have my theory. You understand my position in the matter. As the representative of the Colonel’s heirs, I feel it my duty to defend them against what seems to me unjust suspicion. I thought it best to be entirely frank with you...”

“Then you think I am merely wasting my time here at Greenlawn?”

“I do. Not that I regard the time as particularly valuable. I doubt if any direct evidence will be discoverable anywhere. It is my opinion that if the mystery is solved it will be only after a most minute and thorough examination of the Colonel’s life. I feel that the roots of this tragedy are buried somewhere deep in the past.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re right, Mr. Mawson.” The detective got to his feet. “But as you say, in that case the present time is of no peculiar value, and I believe I’ll use some of it snooping around here just to satisfy an idea I’ve got. You’ve no objection to my looking through the safe?”

For reply the lawyer handed him the bunch of keys to the several compartments. Rankin prosecuted his search in a leisurely and deliberate manner, still his eye was alert. Mawson turned to his books and resumed his writing.

The search revealed nothing. In these papers and books that the detective examined the simple straightforwardness of Carson Phillips’s life was revealed logically and in order, like the lucid march of a geometrical proposition to its Q.E.D. The mistakes of his youth were chronicled in letters of thirty-five years ago by his father; the brilliancy of his early army career in medals and copies of dispatches; his one affair of the heart in a bundle of blue-tinted envelopes; the generosity and charity of his maturity in innumerable letters and receipts and documents of various kinds. Here, too, were copies of affidavits, since proven forgeries, on which a famous breach of promise suit had been based; Rankin knew of it, though it had been before his time. The only note of hardness was a reminder here and there of the sternness with which the Colonel had insisted on the same standard of strict loyalty in others as he imposed on himself. To him treachery and deceit had been the deadly, unforgivable sin; his detestation of these qualities had at times smothered his charity.

Rankin had about finished when a servant appeared at the door with a message that Doctor Wortley wished to see him in the library. He went at once, leaving Mawson still poring over the account books. In the hall he saw the two Adams boys at the foot of the great staircase; Fred had returned from the Mortons, then. They were talking in low tones with Mrs. Graves, the old housekeeper, whose eyes were red with weeping.

Doctor Wortley was alone in the library, standing by a window overlooking the garden. As he turned at the detective’s entrance the latter saw at once by the expression of his face that he had made some new discovery. Immediately and hastily he came forward, holding out some small object in his hand.

“I’ve probed,” he said, abruptly. “See what I found.”

Rankin took the small object and examined it. It was a tiny steel needle, little more than an inch in length, with the blunt end filed off square; there was no eye. Rankin tried the sharpness of the point against his finger.

“Take care!” called the Doctor sharply, stopping him. “There may be poison left on it.”

Dusk was coming on, and the detective moved nearer the light of the window. “So this is what did it,” he breathed slowly. “A little thing like that to bring a man like Carson Phillips to the ground! You found it beneath that spot on the abdomen?”

The Doctor nodded. “Straight in, buried half an inch beneath the skin, but pointing a little upward toward the breast bone. It must have entered at that angle, for there was nothing to deflect its course. Its velocity was not very high, or a sharp pointed needle like that would have penetrated much deeper.”

“You say it pointed upwards ? Are you sure of that?”

“Absolutely. An angle of about twenty degrees from the horizontal.”

The detective seated himself and thoughtfully turned the needle over and over in his hand. During a long silence his brow was wrinkled and his eyes half closed in speculation.

“It is incomprehensible that it should have been pointing upwards,” he said at last, turning to the Doctor.

Admitting that it was difficult to understand, the other maintained that such was the fact. “To tell the truth,” he added, “it takes a load from my mind. In spite of my conviction to the contrary, I have been forced to confess inwardly that it might have been suicide. This removes that possibility. That needle was shot from a gun of some kind — possibly a blow-gun — it must have been noiseless—”

“Undoubtedly. A report would have been heard. But that doesn’t explain—” The detective got up from his chair. “See. You stand there. I here. Now how would it be possible, with any kind of a gun, for me to fire that needle at you so it would enter your breast pointing upwards?”

“If you were on the ground, and a little closer—” the Doctor suggested.

“But I’m not. Remember, concealment was out of the question. There was no place for it.”

“It might have been deflected by something — a button on his shirt, for instance.”