Rex Stout (28 page)

“So I knew yesterday afternoon that you had killed Storrs. At first I knew it but I didn’t believe it, because I couldn’t conceive of any motive you could have had. I knew it must be so, but it wasn’t credible. Everything else about it was all right: you had the gloves, and you had the opportunity because no one really knows what time you left your place Saturday afternoon to come over here, except possibly de Roode, and he is yours body and soul. But there was no motive and no hint of one. I got my first hint yesterday afternoon, when Sylvia told me that Steve Zimmerman had asked her to marry him. Steve was your closest and dearest friend, and he knew that you worshiped Sylvia. But now all of a sudden two things: first, he wanted to marry Sylvia, and second, he didn’t want you to. But why? Granted that he had been wanting Sylvia for some time, and had concealed it because of his friendship for you, why was he suddenly not only willing, but desperately anxious, that you should be deprived of her? Because, possibly, he knew you had killed Storrs? That could be. But how did he know that, and besides, why had you done it? Then I thought, the fact that Steve had proposed to Sylvia yesterday afternoon was no proof that he had that moment decided that you should not have her. He might have decided that a month or a week or a day ago and merely have awaited an opportunity. Or he might have decided it and taken some other step—for instance, he might have
gone to Sylvia’s guardian about it. And he had in fact gone to see Storrs Saturday morning, about something which apparently wasn’t trivial, judging from what he said to Sylvia when he met her in the hall, and from the fact that he refused to tell what his errand there had been. You see how I arrived at that? You see how it was Steve’s proposal to Sylvia that gave that away?”

There was no answer. Dol no longer had to endure Foltz’s eyes, for she couldn’t see them. His head was bent, his hands were gripping the edge of the bench, and his body was moving slowly to and fro, slightly forward and back again, forward and back, as rhythmic and as ceaseless as a metronome. But she kept her eyes steadily on him:

“Last night I was fitting pieces of things together, and I tried that. It fitted, all of it. Zimmerman decided you should not have Sylvia, and went to Storrs and told him so, and told him why. Storrs was well enough convinced so that he told Sylvia he could kill you with his hands, though he didn’t say it was you, leaving that task, probably, for the evening at Birchhaven. At my office you learned from Sylvia that she had met Zimmerman coming out of Storrs’ office very agitated, and you knew then that he had told Storrs—whatever it was. When you and Len and Sylvia got to your place Saturday at three o’clock Zimmerman was there, and you and he went to your room, and he confirmed your fears: he had told Storrs. You knew you had lost Sylvia—both her person and her fortune—I have sometimes wondered which you worship more—I suppose you don’t know yourself. So you had to kill Storrs, and you did so. You must have been aware that Zimmerman would be morally certain of your guilt as soon as he learned of it, but I presume that you figured that your lifelong friend could not bring himself to denounce you and have you executed for murder. I wouldn’t be surprised if Zimmerman offered that night not to expose you to that fate if you would give up Sylvia. That would be logical. Did you agree? Did you refuse? I don’t know. Anyway, yesterday afternoon Zimmerman asked Sylvia to marry him, and last night you killed him.

“I fitted those pieces together, and finally, at two o’clock last night, I determined to go to Zimmerman and confront
him with them and insist that he tell the truth. I thought I could crowd him into it. When I got to his room he was dead. Of course that settled it; I was right; but my resolution to act had come too late to save Zimmerman. And there was still one other remote possibility: that it was de Roode, passionately devoted to you, who had actually done the killing; but I abandoned that when I heard his story to Sherwood this morning. It was obvious that he hadn’t known that Zimmerman had been killed, not because he said that, but because he said that after he left Zimmerman’s room he heard the door being locked from the inside. If he had killed Zimmerman he would have known that we had found the door unlocked, and there would have been no earthly reason for him to invent such a tale. So it must have been true; he really had heard the door locked. In that case, you must have been concealed in the room at the time that de Roode was in there; you heard his talk with Zimmerman and knew that he had been to your room and found you gone; and to account for your absence you concocted the story about going to the kitchen for soda. Possibly you had actually gone to the kitchen, but not at the time you said you had. You couldn’t have, because at that time you were hid in Zimmerman’s room, waiting for him to go to sleep so you could sneak to the bed and get that cord around his throat. I suppose with Zimmerman dead you thought you were safe. Didn’t you? You thought that with him silenced no one would ever discover your motive for killing either of them, and without motive there can be no real suspicion, let alone proof. Didn’t you? Wasn’t that what you thought?”

Foltz’s body no longer moved, to beat its rhythm, but his head was bent and he did not look at her. He was not inert with despair; she could see the rapid rise and fall of his shoulders betraying an inward activity which was demanding air, and more air—oxygen for the swiftly racing blood. He was far from inert, but he made no movement and said nothing.

Dol stirred, shifted on the bench a little. Her left hand gripped the bench’s edge, out of his sight should he turn, against her hip under a fold of her skirt. She gripped so
tight that her nails dug through the paint. She said, as curt and incisive as she could make it:

“Don’t think you’re not going to talk, Martin. There’s something you’re going to tell me before we leave here. I want to know what it was that Zimmerman told Storrs about you Saturday morning. I need to know that. That’s what I meant when I spoke about confession; you don’t have to confess anything else, I already know it. What was it?”

No movement and no reply.

“Come on, I intend to know it.”

Nothing.

“Look here.” Dol’s voice cut. “Then don’t look. I’ve got this gun, and there are six shots in it. I haven’t the faintest shred of compassion for you, not because you’re a murderer, but on account of Sylvia. I don’t need to explain that, you know how I feel about Sylvia. That’s why I have no pity for you. I knew when I brought you here what I would have to do, and I resolved to do it. You’re going to tell me what Zimmerman told Storrs. If you don’t, I’m going to shoot you. I’m a pretty fair shot. I won’t kill you. I’ll hit you in the legs and the feet, right from here where I’m sitting. Of course, people will come. I’ll tell Sherwood everything I have just told you, and I’ll say that you attacked me and I had to shoot in self-defense. Then he’ll start on you, he and Brissenden and the others. They’ll get it out of you.…”

He had moved at last, away from her with a convulsive movement, and he was staring not at her but the pistol. Then his eyes raised to her face: “Goddam you!” It was the rage of imminent fear, superimposed on the helpless despair that had been penetrating his flesh and bones. “You wouldn’t!”

“Yes, I will. You sit still.” Dol knew now—she had been afraid till this moment—she knew now that she would do it. She was cold and certain. “I know you don’t like to be hurt. I’m going to hurt you. A bullet hurts more, much more, if it hits a bone. I’m only six feet away from you. I shall count twenty. I warn you not to move—if you do I won’t wait. At twenty I’ll shoot.” She raised the pistol. “One … two … three … four …”

At twelve he cried, almost a scream of terror: “Stop! Don’t!”

“Then talk. Quick.”

“But let me … good God, let me—”

“Talk!”

“I … I … put that down!”

She let her hand go to the bench. “Talk.”

“I …” He was staring at her, and it was harder to meet his eyes than it would have been to pull the trigger, but she did it. “There was a girl killed … many years ago. Nothing was done to her … only … she was killed.” He gasped for a breath. “Steve knew about it. I was not suspected—there was no reason why I should be! I was a small boy. She was strangled with a wire. Steve knew I killed little animals—I couldn’t help it, I tell you! I had to see them …”He shuddered, and stopped.

Dol, without mercy, demanded, “Go on. Not with that. With this. Here.”

“But there’s nothing … only Steve. When the pheasants were strangled he knew I had done it. He discussed it with me. We discussed it many times … the psychology. Then he met Sylvia, but I didn’t know—at first—then about a month ago he told me I must give her up. I must go away. I refused. Good God, Dol, could I give up Sylvia? Could I give up …”

“I don’t know. Cut that. Go on.”

“That’s all. I refused. I continued to refuse. Then he said he would tell Storrs. I didn’t think he would do that. I didn’t know he wanted Sylvia himself—him! Steve! The dearest and closest friend I ever had—the only one who knew—except de Roode—but I—I—you see—”

It was his stammering that warned Dol—that, and seeing his eyes leave her for an instant, to something behind her, and then dart back to her—but they were different eyes. To her everlasting credit, she did not turn her head. She sprang from the bench and forward, leaped toward the tree, wheeling as she leaped, and from there, with her back to the tree, she could see them both: Martin, quivering from head to foot, on the bench, and de Roode standing ten feet from it, where he had emerged from the thicket with her back to him.

Martin was pleading hysterically, “Get her, de Roode! She won’t shoot! Get her!”

Dol had the pistol up. “Don’t come any closer!”

The man with the ape body and the intelligent face ignored that. He was moving, slowly and deliberately, towards her, with his eyes straight at hers, and as he came was speaking, not to her, soothingly and reassuringly: “All right, boy, don’t you move. All right, boy, don’t you worry, she won’t hurt me … boy …”

“Stop! I say stop!”

“All right, don’t move, boy—”

She pulled the trigger, twice. De Roode went down. She saw that, definitely, saw him floundering on the grass, saw him pull himself to his knees and start crawling towards her.…

“You! Halt!”

That was not her voice … was it? No, it was quite different, it was a manly military voice, and he came crashing through the dogwood branches.…

Dol went down too.

On Thursday, at something after twelve o’clock, in the office of Bonner & Raffray, Len Chisholm said: “I don’t believe a doggoned word of it. You just wanted to steal the show. Foltz wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“Don’t you fool yourself.” Dol, seated at her desk, brushed back her hair. “The chances would have been ten to one in his favor. If I had turned it over to Sherwood, he wouldn’t have got anywhere with Janet or Martin either one—even granting that he would have accepted my interpretation. Janet’s fingerprints were gone. He had nothing on her; she could have denied what she had said to
me. And without that he had absolutely nothing on Martin either, and, knowing that he hadn’t, he would have been cautious, and it was no time for caution. Not to mention the fact that I would have had to admit to Sherwood that I had deliberately erased those fingerprints.”

“You had to admit it anyhow.”

“Yes, but it was all over then. He had what he wanted … and I had given it to him.…”

“So you had indeed.” Len leaned back comfortably and sighed. “I was up at Sherwood’s office yesterday afternoon. I suppose you’ve seen today’s paper. Martin has made a signed confession, and Sherwood has got a statement from Janet, and de Roode is in the hospital with a shattered ankle bone. You must be a pretty good marksman; I suppose your second shot went right through the hole the first bullet had made.”

“It went in the ground. I was only trying to stop him. What did you go to Sherwood’s office for? What did they want?”

“I was there on business.” Len was supercilious. “Don’t you think us newspaper men ever work? How do you suppose the Gazette gets the coverage it does on all the big news?” He tapped his chest with his finger. “Me.”

“Oh. You got your job back.”

“I consented to go back, yes. Which reminds me of what I really came here for. You realize, Miss Bonner, that our readers like the human interest touch. Unquestionably, the item that appeals to them most about the Birchhaven affair, the thing that twangs their heartstrings, is the fact that when Dol Bonner, the delicate and dainty detective demon, fainted, she was caught in the arms of who or whom? Some nondescript pedestrian or passing motorist? No, sir; by the brave and puissant colonel himself, North Wind Brissenden! Now if you would let me have an exclusive interview, describing your delicious sensation as you felt his powerful protecting arms enfolding you—”

“I will. On the telephone. Go somewhere and call me up.”

“I’ll write it with a good approach, working up suspense. I’ll describe how de Roode saw you going off with Martin and got suspicious, and finally succeeded in sneaking off to
follow you without a trooper seeing him, and how Brissenden, looking from the window of the card room, happened to see de Roode going in the same direction you and Martin had gone and that made
him
suspicious, and how I saw Brissenden suddenly beat it from the card room and that made
me
suspicious—”

“Shut up. If you really have got your job back, don’t you think you’d better—well! Hello there!”

Len stood up. “Hello, Sylvia.”

Sylvia greeted them. The gray woolen Beauchamp suit and the dark gray toque would have been more becoming to her if her cheeks had been flaunting their accustomed happy coloring, but even so she could not have been called a frump. She sat down on one of the chromium and yellow chairs, sighed, and used her gloved hand for a fan.

“It’s hot as the dickens for September. I’ve just spent two hours in that lawyer Cabot’s office, and he’s a pain in the neck, but I guess he’s honest.” A little spasm went over her face, like a shadow, and disappeared. “I ought to hate you, Len, because you’re a newspaper man—good Lord, they’re awful. You’re looking very trim—isn’t that a new shirt? A new tie too, quite handsome. Aren’t you proud of him, Dol? Should I call you Bonner instead of Dol, since you’re famous now? By the way …” She stopped, flushing a little, showing what she could look like in gray, with her own pigment. “I … I want to say … I’m proud of you, and I’m grateful to you, and I want to go on being your partner if that’s agreeable.…”