Rex Stout - Alphabet Hicks

“Certainly I have,” Heather said firmly. “You never knew my sister, did you?”

“I did not.”

“You never met her or knew anything about her?”

“How could I? She was in France. You told me about her. I only met you—”

“Then where did you get that sonograph plate with her voice on it? And why—”

“Where did I get what ?”

“That plate with Martha’s voice on it. And why were you so anxious and determined to get it back?”

Ross was gaping at her incredulously. “Are you saying — are you trying to tell me—”

A knock, a series of sharp taps, sounded in their ears — not at the door, but on the wall against which the dresser stood. It was followed at once by a voice sharp with anger:

“Damn you, what do you mean by that?”

Then another voice, quick footsteps, a door opening, and, as Heather got to her feet, the door of her room swung open and Brager was there; and entering immediately behind him was a man in the uniform of the state police. The policeman was saying in an unfriendly tone:

“Okay, it’s your wall and you tapped on it. If you people aren’t careful there’s going to be some tapping around here on something besides a wall.”

“What’s the idea?” Ross demanded.

Brager’s eyes popped at him, popping with indignation. “He expects me to keep still!” he sputtered. “He comes to my room! He hears voices at my open window, coming from your open window, and he stands there to listen, and he expects me to keep still! I know policemen do those things, all right, they do, but that is no reason to think I am a swine! To expect me to keep quiet while he listens to you and you are not aware of it! I knocked on the wall!”

He glared defiantly at the policeman.

“Thank you, Mr. Brager,” Ross said. “He’s quite welcome to anything he heard.” He scowled at the policeman. “We’ll shut the window and try to keep our voices low enough not to disturb you—”

“I’ll save you the trouble,” the policeman said dryly. “If the lady will please come downstairs. If you’ll just come with me, Miss Gladd?”

“She’s been there,” Ross asserted truculently. “They’ve already talked with her.”

“I know, but things come up. Will you come, please, Miss Gladd? Under the circumstances?”

Heather went to the door and passed through, with the policeman at her heels. She was filled with mortification, and was furious both with herself and with Ross Dundee. They had acted like children, talking like that, in that house at that time, by an open window without even taking the precaution to lower their voices. Not that she had anything to conceal from anyone, now that George was dead... but yes, she had... she had given Hicks a promise and said she would keep it...

They were approaching the door to the living room when it opened and Hicks emerged. His eyes darted at her, at her escort, and back to her.

“Hello,” he said. “Straighten your shoulders.”

She took the hand he offered and the clasp of his fingers was good for her. “I didn’t know you were here. I was — George—”

“I know. They’ve been telling me about it. I’d like to hear it from you. We’ll go outdoors.”

“I’m being taken in there. To the district attorney.”

“Yes? I’ll go along.”

But that didn’t work. Hicks did enter with them, but he was immediately put out, Corbett being in no mood to waste any words on the matter. After the door had been closed again, and Heather had been seated, the policeman stood at a corner of the table and reported succinctly what had just happened and the substance of what he had overheard. Manny Beck had apparently left by another door, for he was no longer there. Corbett listened with his baby mouth puckered as though preparing to whistle.

He shook his head at Heather in disapproval. “You see,” he said regretfully. “You should have learned that we discover the things you try to conceal from us. That Cooper was in love with you. We learned that, didn’t we? And other things. And now young Dundee is in love with you.” Corbett wet his lips. “Has he asked you to marry him?”

“Don’t be disgusting,” Heather said, and compressed her mouth.

“There is nothing disgusting about marriage, my dear. Nor even about love.” Corbett wet his lips again. “Not necessarily. This is interesting. Very. You told me only an hour ago that you had no idea of why your sister and her husband were killed, nor any reason to suspect anyone. Now it seems that you do in fact suspect Ross Dundee. Why?”

“I didn’t say I suspected him.”

“What she said,” the policeman put in, “was that she didn’t believe him when he said he didn’t know anything about it.”

“I’ll handle this,” Corbett said sharply. “Why didn’t you believe him, Miss Gladd?”

“Because I don’t know what to believe. He was there, that’s all.”

“Do you think he’s a liar?”

“No.”

“Do you — uh — return his love?”

“No.”

“What specific reason did you have for telling him to his face that you didn’t believe him?”

“I had no specific reason. Just what I said.”

“My dear young lady.” Corbett was reproachful. “This will never do. You heard the officer say that you told Ross Dundee that you had a reason, and he asked what it was, and you said it was a sonograph plate of your sister’s voice. That is something else you have been concealing from us, and obviously something important. Have you got the sonograph plate?”

“No.”

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s on it? What does your sister’s voice say?”

“I don’t know.” Heather swallowed. “I know nothing whatever about it. It is a private matter. I don’t intend to talk about it or answer any questions about it.”

“That’s a strange attitude for you to take, Miss Gladd.”

“I see nothing strange about it.”

“I do.” Corbett gazed at her. “It’s more than strange. We are investigating the murder of your sister, whom you say you were fond of. But instead of helping us you hinder us. You deliberately and defiantly withhold information. You say it is a private matter! If the dead could speak I would like to ask your sister you were so fond of whether she agrees that it is a private matter.”

“I won’t—” Heather’s chin was quivering. She made it stop. “I won’t listen to things like that.” She stood up. “You can’t make me listen to things like that. I won’t listen to you and I won’t talk to you.”

She started for the door. A policeman moved to get in her path, and, making no attempt to detour, she stopped. For a brief second it was a tableau, a drama in suspense; then, just as Corbett piped, “Let her go, officer,” the door burst open and Ross Dundee marched in, with an angry and expostulating individual coming for him from behind. In the confusion Heather slipped around them and through to the hall.

She had formed a resolution, impulsively but unalterably, and the immediate necessity was to communicate it to Alphabet Hicks, not so much to enlist his help as merely to communicate it. He was not in the hall. She went to a door at the end of it and entered the dining room, found it empty, and passed through to the kitchen. Mrs. Powell was there, pouring a cup of coffee for a man in a Palm Beach suit and a battered Panama hat.

Heather asked, “Have you seen Mr. Hicks?”

“No,” Mrs. Powell said, “and I don’t want to.”

“He’s all right,” the man said tolerantly, “except he’s batty. Why, do you want him?”

“Yes.”

“He went upstairs to see Dundee. Last door on the right.”

That would be Ross’s room. Heather took the back stairs. Her resolution quickened her step, and, on the upper floor, even caused her to omit the common amenity of knocking on the door of another’s room before entering. She turned the knob and went in, disregarded Dundee, who stopped pacing the floor to glare at her, confronted Hicks, who was straddling a chair, and told him: