Rex Stout - The Second Confesion

I'll count three. One, two-” She sprinted up the bank and waited for me at the top. Going back up the drive, she got fairly caustic because I insisted that all I had come for was the card case, but when we reached the parking plaza and I had the door of the car open, she gave that up to end on the note she had greeted me with. She came close, ran a fingertip gently down the line of my scratch, and demanded, “Tell me who did that, Archie. I'm jealous!” “Some day,” I said, climbing in and pushing the starter button, “I'll tell you everything from the cradle on.” “Honest?” “Yes, ma'am.” I rolled away.

As I steered the curves down the drive my mind was on several things at once.

One was a record just set by a woman. I had been with Madeline three hours and she hadn't tried to pump me with a single question about what Wolfe was up to.

For that she deserved some kind of a mark, and I filed it under unfinished business. Another was a check on a point that Wolfe had raised. The brook made a good deal of noise. It wasn't the kind you noticed unless you listened, but it was loud enough so that if you were only twenty feet from the bridge, walking up the drive, and it was nearly dark, you might not hear a car coming down the drive until it was right on you. That was a point in support of Webster Kane's confession, and therefore a step backward instead of forward, but it would have to be reported to Wolfe.

However, the thing in the front of my mind was Madeline's remark that she had expected me to start looking under stones. It should have occurred to me before, but anyway it had now, and, not being prejudiced like Wolfe, I don't resent getting a tip from a woman. So I went on through the entrance on to the public highway, parked the car at the roadside, got a magnifying glass from the medicine case, walked back up the drive to the bridge, and stepped down the bank to the edge of the brook.

There certainly were thousands of stones, all shapes and sizes, some partly under water, more along the edge and on the bank. I shook my head. It was a perfectly good idea, but there was only one of me and I was no expert I moved to a new position and looked some more. The stones that were in the water all had smooth surfaces, and the high ones were dry and light-coloured, and the low ones were dark and wet and slippery. Those on the bank, beyond the water, were also smooth and dry and light-coloured until they got up to a certain level, where there was an abrupt change and they were rough and much darker-a greenish grey.

Of course the dividing line was the level of the water in the spring when the brook was up.

Good for you, I thought, you've made one hell of a discovery and now you're a geologist. All you have to do now is put every damn rock under the glass, and along about Labour Day you'll be ready to report. Ignoring my sarcasm, I went on looking. I moved along the edge of the brook, stepping on stones, until I was underneath the bridge, stood there a while, and moved again, upstream from the bridge. By that time my eyes had caught on to the idea and I didn't have to keep reminding them.

It was there, ten feet up from the bridge, that I found it. It was only a few inches from the water's edge, and was cuddled in a nest of larger stones, half hidden, but when I had once spotted it it was as conspicuous as a scratched cheek. About the size of a coconut, and something like one in shape, it was rough and greenish grey, whereas all its neighbours were smooth and light-coloured. I was so excited I stood and gawked at it for ten seconds, and when I moved, with my eyes glued on it for fear it would take a hop, I stepped on a wiggler and nearly took a header into the brook.

One thing sure, that rock hadn't been there long.

I bent over double so as to use both hands to pick it up, touching it only with the tips of four fingers, and straightened to take a look. The best bet would of course be prints, but one glance showed that to be an outside chance. It was rough all over, hundreds of little indentations, with not a smooth spot anywhere. But I still held it with my fingertips, because while prints had been the best bet they were by no means the only one. I was starting to turn, to move away from the brook for a better footing, when a voice came from right behind me.

“Looking for hellgrammites?” I swivelled my head. It was Connie Emerson. She was close enough to reach me with a stretched arm, which would have meant that she was an expert at the silent approach, if it hadn't been for the noise of the brook.

I grinned at the clear strong blue of her eyes. “No, I'm after gold.” “Really? Let me see-” She took a step, lit on a stone with a bad angle, gave a little squeal, and toppled into me. Not being firmly based, over I went, and I went clear down because I spent the first tenth of a second trying to keep my fingertip hold on my prize, but I lost it anyway. When I bounced up to a sitting position Connie was sprawled flat, but her head was up and she was stretching an arm in a long reach for something, and she was getting it. My greenish grey stone had landed less than a foot from the water, and her fingers were ready to close on it. I hate to suspect a blue-eyed blonde of guile, but if she had it in mind to toss that stone in the water to see it splash all she needed was another two seconds, so I did a headlong slide over the rocks and brought the side of my hand down on her forearm. She let out a yell and jerked the arm back. I scrambled up and got erect, with my left foot planted firmly in front of my stone.

She sat up, gripping her forearm with her other hand, glaring at me. “You big ape, are you crazy?” she demanded.

“Getting there,” I told her. “Gold does it to you. Did you see that movie, Treasure of Sierra Madre?” “Damn you.” She clamped her jaw, held it a moment, and released it. “Damn you, I think you broke my arm.” “Then your bones must be chalk. I barely tapped it. Anyway, you nearly broke my back.” I made my voice reasonable. “There's too much suspicion in this world.

I'll agree not to suspect you of meaning to bump me if you'll agree not to suspect me of meaning to tap your arm. Why don't we move off these rocks and sit on the grass and talk it over? Your eyes are simply beautiful. We could start from there.” She pulled her feet in, put a hand-not the one that had reached for my stone-on a rock for leverage, got to her feet, stepped carefully across the rocks to the grass, climbed the bank, and was gone.

My right elbow hurt, and my left hip. I didn't care for that, but there were other aspects of the situation that I liked even less. Counting the helps, there were six or seven men in and around the house, and if Connie told them a tale that brought them all down to the brook it might get embarrassing. She had done enough harm as it was, making me drop my stone. I stooped and lifted it with my fingertips again, got clear of the rocks and negotiated the bank, walked down the drive and on out to the car, and made room for the stone in the medicine case, wedged so it wouldn't roll around.

I didn't stop for lunch in Westchester County either. I took to the parkways and kept going. I didn't feel really elated, since I might have got merely a stray hunk of granite, not Exhibit A at all, and I didn't intend to start crowing unless and until. So when I left the West Side Highway at Forty-sixth Street, as usual, I drove first to an old brick building in the upper Thirties near Ninth Avenue. There I delivered the stone to a Mr Weinbach, who promised they would do their best. Then I drove home, went in and found Fritz in the kitchen, ate four sandwiches-two sturgeon and two home-baked ham-and drank a quart of milk.