Rex Stout (13 page)

Dol shrugged, and followed him out of the house, across the main terrace, and onto the graveled space. He opened the door of her coupe and stood back, and she opened the dashboard compartment and fished out the key and gave it to him. Around at the back, she stood and watched him as he unlocked the panel and raised it and began pulling things out. There was a sweater, a kodak, two tennis balls, a leather jacket of Sylvia’s, a copy of a book by Ogden Nash and one of the third volume of Gibbon’s
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
 … then the trooper brought forth a leather case, not large but handsome and sturdy, of light pigskin with chromium hinges and clasps, with “T. B.” stamped in gold beneath the handle. Not wanting to scratch it on the gravel, he rested it on the sweater to open it, and as he did so Dol felt herself blushing and could do nothing about it. Immediately disclosed, strapped to the under side of the lid, was a little blue-metal Holcomb automatic pistol and a box of cartridges.

The trooper said solemnly, “Of course you’re a detective.”

Dol snapped, “I have a license. I mean for that gun.”

He nodded and examined further. As his eye took in the significance of the case’s contents, he muttered admiringly, “By golly, quite an outfit.” Dol felt sure that in another minute she would kick him. That case was not Bonner & Raffray property, it was her own, a gift from Sylvia, who had taken the trouble to meet and consult with two New York inspectors of police in order to determine what it should hold. Possibly Sylvia had overdone it a little, but that was her way.…

The trooper was observing, “Tannic—muriatic—three magnifying glasses in there—fingerprint powders, squirters, pads—yep, litmus paper—envelopes, that’s for clues—empty bottles, you never can tell when you might need one—gauze and tape—say, that flashlight’s a pippin—” He looked up at her: “But that gat—of course it’s all right to keep it here ordinarily, but I should think you ought to have it right on you when you’re on a murder case like this—”

Dol said, “Put the key back when you’re through,” and left him. She thought to herself, as she sought the winding walk to the tennis court, that the annoying little incident was without significance, since she already disliked men to the limit of her capacity. She tossed it off.

In two bright yellow chairs near a corner of the tennis court sat Martin Foltz and Sylvia Raffray. As Dol approached Sylvia sat leaning back, with her hands up covering her eyes, and Martin was talking with a man who stood before his chair looking down at him. The man presented a rather singular appearance. If you looked at him only from the neck down, it would scarcely have been far-fetched to say that you saw an enormous ape in a suit of clothes and shoes; it was an inescapable impression from broad shoulders slumping to dominate the chest, the hips stuck onto the trunk like a mammoth jointed doll, the hang of all the muscles giving you the feeling that uprightness was a strain. Then, looking up, you were startled to see the uneasy, enigmatic, intelligent face and eyes of a sensitive and sapient man, around sixty years old. The way his shoulders slumped, he was not much taller than Martin Foltz.

Martin interrupted his talk with the man: “Here’s Dol, Sylvia.—I’m glad you came, Dol. De Roode wants to ask you about that man you sent down—”

“Dol darling, you’re a bum.” Sylvia had uncovered her eyes and sat up. Her eyes looked deep, her gay aggressiveness was gone, and there was gray in the accustomed loveliness of her skin. “You are always going off. What the dickens are you doing?”

Dol put her hand on Sylvia’s shoulder and looked into her face. “I’m having a headache, that’s all. I suppose we all are.” She straightened up, and around to Martin. “You mean Silky Pratt watching the pheasants. I thought of him last night. It seemed—I don’t know—ridiculous. Did he come, de Roode? Did you get him at Ogowoc?”

The man nodded. “Yes, miss.” His voice was husky and guttural. “I couldn’t sneak him into my attic like I was supposed to, because when I got back with him there was police there—from here—and they had the men, talking to them. They questioned your man too, and of course they
questioned me. He spent the night watching anyhow. I told him you’d let him know today. It seems sort of useless, since everybody knows about it.”

“I suppose so.” Dol’s forehead was wrinkled. “What do you think, Martin?”

Foltz hesitated. “Well … I don’t know … since you said you wouldn’t let me pay for it …”

“You mean it’s my money we’re wasting. Or rather, Sylvia’s. All right, I say go ahead. I know we all feel right now that we’re in an earthquake, but if we’ve started a job we ought to go on with it.” She looked at de Roode. “I’ll phone him to come tonight. Meet him at Ogowoc on the same train.”

Sylvia burst out, “Dol, it’s so silly! After what’s happened … a man sitting there all night watching those pheasants.…” She stopped, then abruptly went on, “Anyway, there’s no sense in it. Martin and I mentioned it this morning, and we’re going to get rid of them right away.”

De Roode muttered, “That remains to be seen, Miss Raffray.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Sylvia looked straight at him. “There’s been enough of this foolishness, de Roode. You’re too darned stubborn. Martin’s a nervous wreck. Oh, I know you’ve been in the family fifty years, or maybe a hundred, and you rode Martin piggy-back, and you’d give both arms to save him from a bad cold, and you hate me, but if you like those pheasants you’d better go off with them somewhere.”

“I don’t hate you, Miss Raffray.” The man’s face twitched. “But you’re very young, and it’s not my duty to let you interfere—”

“De Roode!”

“Yes, Mr. Martin.”

“Don’t argue with Miss Raffray.”

“Yes, sir.” A tremor, just perceptible, ran over the man’s frame, then he was still. “I didn’t start it, sir.”

Sylvia insisted, “You did start it. You said it remains to be seen. It does not remain to be seen. It’s decided.”

“Yes, Miss Raffray.—Is it decided, sir?”

“Suffering saints!” Martin threw up both hands. “You get. Beat it. Go on home. I’ll have a talk with you later.”

De Roode moved only his eyes, to Dol. “And about the man, Miss Bonner. Am I to get him tonight?”

Dol said, “Yes, until further notice. I can let you know.”

De Roode turned and went, without celerity, but with no retardation of age in the power of his great muscles. Dol looked at his back as it receded—his sinewy rounded shoulders, the smooth vigorous swing of his legs.

She said to anyone, “He’s a strange beast, that man.” And to Foltz, “If I were you, Martin, I’d send him away at the same time as the pheasants. He is obviously so insanely jealous of Sylvia they couldn’t possibly live in the same establishment. He gets worse all the time.” She shrugged. “He has idolized you long enough anyhow, he should have a vacation.” She sat down on the footrest of Sylvia’s chair. “Well, Raffray, what about it? How goes it?” She patted Sylvia’s ankle.

“Rotten, thank you, Bonner.”

“I suppose so. You’re young, and you were just a kid when your mother and father went, and this is the first real sock life has handed you.”

“It isn’t only that.” Sylvia drew a long deep breath, with a trembling catch at the end of it. “P. L. was a swell guy and … you know what he was to me … and it’s awful that he’s dead.” She bit at her lip, looked down at her twisting fingers, looked at Dol. “But this is worse than awful.” She bit at her lip again, then suddenly burst out, “Don’t they know that man killed him? Why don’t they take him away from here? Why don’t they let us go? I hate this place!”

Martin leaned to her: “Now Sylvia. Don’t do that.”

Dol said, rubbing Sylvia’s ankle, “You’re a spoiled child. So was I, once. Even you, you have to learn you can’t just snap your fingers. There are some doses you have to swallow even if you are fortune’s darling. I swallowed one and darned near choked on it.”

“But dragging it out like this—making us sit there and listen to him—and to that crazy woman—”

Dol shook her head. “You’re taking too much for granted. They do not know that Ranth did it. Even if they knew it—”

“Of course they do! Who else could? Of course they know!”

“No, Sylvia dear.” Dol was gentle. “They don’t know at all. They are up a stump. They prefer Ranth on account of motive, but as it stands now, after what Len said, they haven’t a particle of evidence. And there’s a strong point in Ranth’s favor: if he went back there after 4:40, and did it, surely he wouldn’t have left that paper there on the grass. It’s possible, he might have gone off in a panic, but it isn’t likely.”

Sylvia was staring at her. “But … I supposed of course it was him. If it wasn’t him …”

“That’s just it,” Dol agreed. “If it wasn’t him. It might have been somebody we never heard of, but Sherwood is convinced it wasn’t. It might have been you or me or Janet or Mrs. Storrs, but he thinks it wasn’t a woman. It might have been Len, losing his head, or Martin, mistaking him for a rival, or Steve, to observe a reaction—now hold your horses, Raffray, I’m not talking just to hear myself or to pile anything on. I didn’t come here as your guest, either, it was P. L. Storrs who invited me.” Dol abruptly switched to Foltz. “What do you think, Martin? Have you got any more opinions than you had last night?”

“No. I haven’t.” Martin slowly shook his head. “I guess there’s nothing very rugged about my nerves, but I can’t help it. Last night I was so shocked I wasn’t capable of doing any thinking. When those troopers wanted me to go down there and look … look at P. L.… and I didn’t want to go, they actually got suspicious, but I couldn’t help that either. I’ve got too much imagination … I didn’t need to go there to see it.” He put up his hands and pressed his fingers against his eyelids, then looked at Dol again. “I would be better off if I could be hard. Maybe more manly.”

Sylvia fluttered a hand at him. “Please, Martin. You are you. Such as you are, you are mine.”

He gazed at her and muttered, “God knows I am.”

Dol, not caring for love manifestations with a certain poignant memory still too acute, put in brusquely, “And such as you are, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions. May I?”

“You mean me?” Martin’s gaze left Sylvia reluctantly.

“Both of you. You first. What happened over at your place yesterday?”

“What happened?” Martin’s brow folded. “Why, nothing. We played a little tennis.…”

“Something must have happened, to make you come over here through the woods in groups of one, at lengthy intervals. Sylvia told me that Len misbehaved. Len said that Sylvia was badgering you and you were a jackass.—But wait, I suppose I ought to tell you, this isn’t just friendly curiosity. I am investigating the murder of P. L. Storrs.”

Sylvia stared at her in astonishment. Martin stammered, “Why … of course. If you want to know—”

Sylvia interrupted him: “Don’t humor her, Martin. She’s wonderful and I love her, but she is a prima donna.—Dol Bonner, this isn’t—it is
not
in good taste.”

“On the contrary,” Dol declared calmly, “it is. I merely didn’t want Martin to misunderstand and think he was speaking under the protection of private confidence, which naturally I couldn’t betray. But I would like to know what happened over there yesterday.”

“It is still bad taste. What happened there has nothing to do with P. L.’s death.”

“All right, forget it.” Dol abruptly rose to her feet. “Don’t think I’m grandstanding, Sylvia. The firm of Bonner & Raffray, which is not yet dissolved, is investigating the murder of P. L. Storrs. If you don’t like it, I’m sorry. About yesterday, I can ask Len Chisholm.” She moved to go.

“Wait a minute, Dol.” Martin groaned. “My God, you girls! What’s the difference whether it’s friendly curiosity or what it is? Nothing happened yesterday except that I suppose we all made fools of ourselves. We got to my place around three o’clock. I had forgotten about Steve, and he was already there when we arrived, and he was grouchy and I spent half an hour smoothing him down. When I finally went outdoors I suppose Sylvia had decided I was neglecting her, and she undertook to teach me a lesson by pretending there was no one there but Len Chisholm. I suppose I showed that I didn’t enjoy being taught, and Len made some remarks, and I also made some. Len blew up a little, and left, headed for the path over here. Then Sylvia and I went at it—and I may say I
was
a jackass—and pretty soon she left too. I sulked a little while, and looked around for Steve and couldn’t find him, and then I came over here
too. I heard Sylvia and Len on the tennis court and didn’t care to join them, so I went around by the evergreens and got to the house from the south, the sun room, and went to the dining-room and had a drink. Belden came in and told me there were supplies at the tennis court, and I couldn’t stay away anyhow, so I came out and sat in that blue chair—that one—and had another drink, and I was still there when you showed up.”

Dol nodded. “And Steve was there too.”

“Not when I got there. He came a few minutes later. That must have been about a quarter of an hour before you came.”

“What was Steve grouchy about when you got to your place yesterday and he was already there? If you want to tell me.”

“Nothing in particular. You know Steve. He’s touchy. He thought I had forgotten he was coming, and I had.”

“Did he say anything about his visit yesterday morning to Storrs’ office?”

“No, he didn’t mention it. I had intended to ask him about it, because I couldn’t imagine what he had gone there for, but in the—the confusion—I forgot about it.”

“What time yesterday did you get here to the tennis court?”

“I don’t know. It must have been, I would say, about twenty minutes before you did.”

“That was six o’clock. So you got here about 5:40.”

“I suppose around that.”

“Did you stop anywhere on the way? In the evergreens for instance, to listen to the gayety from the tennis court?”

Martin colored a little. “I may have stood there a minute or two.”

“And you went to the house and got a drink. Then—let’s see—you must have left your place about 5:15 or 5:20. Where was de Roode when you left there? Did you see him?”

“De Roode?” Martin looked surprised. “Why de Roode?”