Rex Stout (7 page)

She left the toolhouse and went back to the nook, but stayed on the concrete walk. Her eyes were sharp with irritation at her own stupidity, and surveyed without compunction Storrs’ suspended body. She thought it looked stiffer than before—or perhaps the twilight made it seem that way. At all events, it offered no answer to her question. She looked at the grass again, and saw the crushed blades, not yet uplifted, where she had stepped to reach the paper. She looked at the overturned bench and
measured with her eye … surely it was two yards, or nearly that, from its edge to Storrs’ feet. She made calculations and considered possibilities, but saw that her knowledge and her experience were both inadequate. She turned her attention to the wire. From where she stood the knot at the back of Storrs’ neck was not visible, but she did not approach; instead, she let her eye follow the wire up to the limb, and diagonally down to the trunk of the tree, through the crotch, into the spiral—and guessed now at the final twisted end, which she had seen plainly before in the better light. She stared at the spiral, frowning, a long steady stare; but turned abruptly at a sound. The footsteps faint on the grass became more distinct, and a man appeared, bending under a dogwood branch. He approached:

“Miss Bonner! What—Ah!” He exclaimed sharply two words that Dol did not know, throwing his head up like a startled animal, standing poised. He stood gazing at the dance of P. L. Storrs, and Dol gazed at him. After some seconds of that George Leo Ranth said slowly without moving:

“Destruction and restoration. The cycle. But the spirit—Miss Bonner! How do you know he is dead?”

“Look at him.”

Then, as Ranth moved, she snapped, “Don’t walk there! Of course he’s dead! Can’t you see—”

She was interrupted—a voice calling her name—a rush into the nook through the leaves that curtained it—and Len Chisholm there: “What the devil, Dol, what kind of a—”

Dol said, “There.”

Len turned. He leaned forward, peering. “My God.” He straightened. “Like that, huh? P. L. darling. And you found him? My God, Dol, what are you trying to do around here? Pretty cool, huh? Me too. Belden told us. I think I had been drunk. He called the police first. I got a laugh out of it. I grabbed Sylvia to keep her from running down here, and Foltz frothed at the mouth and took her away from me. If it weren’t for you—” Len stopped abruptly, regarding Dol as if he would like her to tell him what he had been saying. Then he turned from her to look again at the hanging body.

He muttered, “You’ve got nerve, Dol. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve got more nerve than I have. You’d better go up to the house, to Sylvia. I’ll wait here for the cops.”

Dol shook her head. “Sylvia’s all right. I’m all right.”

“Good. I’m not. Oh, the devil, I am too.” He was frowning at Storrs in the fast gathering twilight. “Look here. I don’t see … did he do it himself? How did he get up there? His feet are off the ground … what—”

He saw, turning, only Dol’s back; and she said in her coolest and lowest tone: “Mr. Ranth. Put that back where it was.”

Ranth stood on the concrete walk. His voice was likewise cool: “Put what back, Miss Bonner? What do you mean?”

“I mean that piece of paper. I saw you pick it up. You thought my back was turned, but it wasn’t. Put it—no. Give it to me.”

“Really …” Ranth moved a step toward her; she was between him and the exit. “I don’t understand … possibly the light is deceptive. I picked nothing up.” He moved again. “Since Mr. Chisholm is here, I should see if Mrs. Storrs—”

“Mr. Ranth!” Dol squared in his path. “Don’t be a fool. Give me that paper.”

He shook his head calmly. “You’ve made a mistake, Miss Bonner.” He made to move, but Dol stepped in front, and he hesitated. Without taking her eyes from him, Dol demanded brusquely, “Len, you’ve got to make this man give up that paper. Can you?”

“Sure.” Len was beside her. “What’s it all about?”

“There was a piece of paper on the grass by the bench there. I looked at it and put it back. Ranth just picked it up and put it in his pocket. I want it.”

“Okay.” Len, from six feet two, looked down on Ranth. “Hand it over. She wants it.”

Ranth said evenly, “Miss Bonner is mistaken or she is lying when she says I picked up something. That is not true.”

“Is it true, Dol?”

“It is. I saw him.”

“Then it’s true. Hand it over, Ranth, and hurry up. Don’t be silly. In four seconds I’ll take it away from you.”

“I have nothing to hand over.” Ranth’s voice was quite composed. “If you attempt force—”

“I won’t attempt it, I’ll use it. First I’ll knock you down to save time. Hand it over. I’ll count four.” Len doubled his fist. “Wait a minute, I can use diplomacy. Which pocket is it in, Dol?”

“His righthand coat pocket.”

“Good. You get away a yard or so. Don’t move, Ranth.” With his right fist doubled, Len reached with his other hand into the coat pocket indicated. Ranth stood motionless. Len fumbled a little, then his hand emerged with a paper between the fingers. He extended the hand off to his side without turning his head and asked, “Is that it?”

Dol took it. She needed only a glance. “Yes. Thanks, Len. I’m glad you—very neat.”

Ranth spoke, and for the first time his voice had undertones. “That paper is my property, Miss Bonner. It was taken from my person, and has been constantly in my possession. If you say you saw me pick it up here you will be lying.”

“Oh, yeah?” Len growled. “How about it if two of us lie? God knows I can lie if Miss Bonner can. I saw you pick it up too. How does that sound?”

Dol shook her head. “You won’t need to do that, Len. Thanks all the same. It will be all right—Oh! They’re coming.”

She stood listening. Ranth moved a couple of paces and stopped. Len opened his mouth and closed it again. The sound of men talking steadily approached, with strangers’ voices and the only familiar one Belden’s. Belden, as they got nearer, sounded out of breath and exasperated. They came brushing through the leaves of the low-hanging branches with no respect for delicate dogwood twigs, three of them in the uniform of the state police, with big hats, cartridge belts and guns. Belden had been in front, and his gasp of horror was probably the first uncultured sound he had uttered in the presence of his superiors for thirty years. One of the police took him by the arm:

“Stand back a little. Don’t go closer.” He addressed his colleagues: “Hell, it’s nearly dark in here.”

“There’s a lady there.”

“Oh. Excuse me, ma’am.”

The trio stood with their eyes focused on the hanging corpse. For a while, without comment. Then one of them demanded, “Murder? Who said it was murder?”

Another said, “Don’t go closer. If it’s murder it won’t be our job, except to take orders. There might be footprints, only it’s grass. If we’d had any sense we’d have brought the lights. Go get ’em, Jake, make it snappy.” One of them went, trotting. The speaker turned to Len: “What’s your name?”

Len told him.

“What do you know about this?”

“Nothing at all. I was playing tennis and drinking.”

He turned to Ranth. “What’s your name?”

“George Leo Ranth. I have a complaint, officer, that I would like you to attend to. This man has just taken my property, a paper that belonged to me, by force. From my pocket, where—”

“What? What man?”

“Leonard Chisholm. He took it—”

“Oh, forget it. We’ll get your paper later.”

“But I tell you he took it, and this woman lied—”

The trooper demanded of Len, “Have you got his paper?”

“No. He picked it up—”

“Forget it.” The trooper looked disgusted. “You folks fighting about a paper with a dead man hanging here on a wire? You will all please go up to the house and stay there. I don’t know how long, not very long maybe. Belden, you go with them.”

Ranth began, “But—”

“Listen, mister. I like to be polite, but you beat it.”

Ranth hesitated, then turned and went without any glance at his adversaries. Belden had already backed off, and now left the nook at Ranth’s heels. Len took Dol’s elbow, but she moved away and preceded him, and he followed her to the edge of the dogwoods and into the light
of the open sky. At the far side of the fish pool she suddenly stopped and turned on him:

“You go ahead, Len. I want to give that man that paper.”

He looked sourly down at her. “You come with me. You can give it to him later. Come along.”

“No, I’m going back.”

“Yeah? Okay. Me too.”

“No. I have something to tell him and you haven’t. Besides … has it occurred to you that you’re supposed to be a newspaper man? There are several phones at the house—or you might go by way of the stable and use that one. The Gazette might appreciate it if they heard of this murder first.”

“Holy womanhood.” Len stared at her. “And me enamored of you! No jelly in your bones, huh, Dol? And refrigerator pipes for your blood to run through. After all, hospitality—”

“Nonsense.” Dol gestured impatiently. “Whose hospitality, Mr. Storrs’? He’s dead. Mrs. Storrs’ or Janet’s? No. Storrs asked me to come here … but that’s his business. It was. As for phoning the Gazette, all the papers will know within an hour or so anyhow—but do as you please. My Lord, do you think the murder of P. L. Storrs is going to be hushed up to save Sylvia’s feelings? The only thing that could help Sylvia any would be—”

“Who mentioned Sylvia?” Len was frowning. “Did I say anything about Sylvia?”

“No, I did.”

“You’re a friend of hers. Huh?”

“You bet I am.”

“Okay. I am if you are. Also, if you say phone the Gazette I’ll do just that, I don’t owe any more debts around here than you do. But my head seems to be clearing up, and it don’t look to me as if anybody murdered Storrs. I don’t see how they could. It looks to me like suicide, and if I sell the Gazette a murder—”

“Don’t sell them anything. Tell them where he is, and he’s dead. If they want you to do the story for them, tell them you can’t because you’re one of the suspects, and if they—”

“I’m what? Now what? What kind of a—”

“Certainly you are. We all are. We were all here. At one time this afternoon you were wandering around this place alone looking for P. L. Storrs, to do a grovel, you said. Weren’t you? Today in my office you said you would come out here and strangle him. Didn’t you? Oh, I know you were being playful, but you do have a temper, and Martin Foltz heard you say it. I know Martin is a decent man, if there are any decent ones, but he is as jealous as the devil, and especially of you at the moment, because Sylvia decided you deserved being sweet to. Martin’s imagination is terrific. Sylvia heard you say it too, and she loved P. L. Storrs. You are probably in for it. We all are. Unless … one thing. That might prevent it. If you intend to phone the Gazette you’d better go by the stable and do it from there or you may not get a chance. Then go to the house and restrain yourself. I’ll be there pretty soon—maybe sooner, if that man is too busy to listen to me.” She moved to go.

Len got her arm. “Your mind certainly works, lady. Swell. Some fancy mind. You don’t want me, huh?”

“Not now, Len. But—thank you again for taking that paper away from Ranth. That was nice. I couldn’t have done that. See you at the house.”

She turned and headed for the gloom of the dogwoods. Len watched her until she was under the first branches, then turned and strode off up the slope, swerving right toward the stables. By now twilight had come even on the open lawn; the sun had gone, and a chill was in the air.

Dol did not proceed directly to the nook. She circled a few feet to the left, noiselessly under the branches on the grass, and stopped behind the shelter of a clump of French willows which kept their roots moist in the overflow from the fish pool. She could see the three troopers dimly through the leaves in the semi-darkness. The one called Jake, who had returned with the flashlights, was on the concrete walk, squatted on his haunches, smoking a cigarette. The one with a flat nose, evidently in charge, was standing flashing one of the lights indiscriminately over the scene, while the third one appeared to be merely chewing a blade of grass. The one with a flat nose was saying:

“… but of course you can’t do that until Doc Flanner
comes, and the photographer, and I suppose Sherwood, he’ll want to see it. If we could move things around we could try it. Maybe the bench could have been a lot closer and he could have kicked it back as he dropped, but it looks heavy and I don’t see how he could kick it that far. If he stood it on end and climbed up and jumped from there and kicked it over, it might have rolled that far, but it would have made more dents in the grass, and from as high as that I should think he would break that limb, he must weigh over a hundred and sixty.” He moved the light. “Look at it, not much bigger than your wrist. What the hell, jumping from six feet up? Damn it, they ought to be getting here. Sherwood only had twenty miles to do, and if Doc Flanner waited to finish his supper somebody ought to set fire to his pants.”

The man chewing grass shook his head. “All I say is, try to fasten a wire around a man’s neck like that. Unless you knock him cold first. There’s no bruises on him, and there’s no signs of any scrap. Crowder’s
Manual of Crime Detection
, which I’ve read and so have you, says you can’t accept any hypothesis if there’s a fact that don’t agree with it. Like that case up in Buffalo, where there was two bullet holes in the wall in the same side of the room and the guy said he had been shot at before he shot back, and the woman said the same thing and she didn’t seem to be lying, but they was able to prove by the science of ballistics that if both shots—Hey, who’s that?”

Dol, seeing and hearing that she would be interrupting nothing of much moment, had become impatient and stepped out of her shelter. She stopped at the border of the nook, facing them, and then blinked indignantly as the flashlight swiftly circled and spotted her right in the eyes. She put up her hand and demanded:

“Move that thing.”

The light darted away, and the man with the flat nose, who held it, inquired, “Well? Didn’t I ask you to go to the house? What do you want?”