“I told you there’s none I need,” Sol Fry rumbled angrily. “The records of my department are where they belong. But I don’t care a Continental—”
“So you said. That’s all. It will be the way I say for the present — Allen, show Mr. Fry out and bring Fox in.”
A sergeant in uniform stepped forward to open the door, and after another rumble or two Sol Fry gave it up and went. In a moment Tecumseh Fox entered, crossed briskly to the desk, and stood.
“Good morning, Inspector,” he said politely.
Damon grunted. As he sat looking up at the caller his eyes were not only morose but also malign. After a silence he extended a hand.
“All right, Fox, I’ll shake, but by God. Sit down.”
Fox sat. “You’re going to find—” he began, but the other cut him off:
“No, no. Try keeping quiet once. I’m going to make a short speech. Do I ever bluster?”
“I’ve never heard you.”
“You’re not going to. Nor do I get nasty unnecessarily. But here is a statement of the minimum: you and Miss Duncan together held up a murder investigation twelve hours. It’s true you phoned last night, but you concealed the vital witness, the one to start with, and kept her from us until morning. What you do around other parts of the country is none of my business, but I warned you three years ago against operating in New York City on the theory that when you’re running bases the umpires go out for a drink. Have you seen the district attorney?”
Fox nodded. “I just came from there. He’s as sore as a finger caught in a door.”
“So am I. I think you’re through in Manhattan.”
“I’d call that bluster. Quiet bluster.”
“I don’t care what you call it.”
“Have you finished your speech? I’d like to make one too.”
“Go ahead, but make it brief.”
“I will. At 8:42 in the evening I get a call from Miss Duncan asking me to come to her apartment. I arrive at 10:10 and find her unconscious with a lump on her skull. I revive her, question her, and phone for a doctor, telling him to take her to a hospital if that’s where she ought to be. Thinking that Tingley may be lying in his office bleeding to death, I get there as quick as I can and find that he is dead and has been for a while. I notify the police at once. I phone the hospital and learn that Miss Duncan got a severe blow, is resting, and should not be disturbed. Early in the morning I go to the hospital, find that she is in good enough shape to talk, inform the police of her whereabouts—”
“And when I get there,” Damon cut in dryly, “I find her surrounded by Nat Collins.”
“Certainly. She had got knocked stiff alongside a murdered man she wasn’t on good terms with. Do you take the position that you object to her having a lawyer? I shouldn’t think so. To finish my speech, I then had a hasty breakfast and arrived at police headquarters at eight A.M., which is bright and early to be running bases. In your absence, I made a complete statement which was taken down by your subordinate, went by request to the district attorney’s office, got your message to return here at eleven, and here I am. On that performance you can fence me out of New York? Try it.”
“You kept vital information from us for twelve hours. At least eight hours. And maybe something worse. Why all the telephoning?”
“You mean last night?”
“Yes. Half the people we’ve talked to—”
“Five, Inspector. Only five. That couldn’t possibly have done any harm. I merely told them that I wanted to make sure they would be at work at Tingley’s this morning, as I wanted to talk with them again. I thought one of them might betray some interesting reaction.”
“Did they?”
“No.”
“Why did you pick on those five?”
“Because they were the five people who could most easily have put quinine in the mixing vats, and I was exploring the theory that Tingley had discovered the guilty one and got murdered as a result.”
Damon grunted. “Is your theory based on facts?”
“No, sir, only possibilities. All the facts I possess are in that statement you have.”
“You’d like to believe that the motive for murder was in that quinine business.”
“Like to?” Fox’s brows lifted. “It would be nice if a detective could choose a motive the way he does a pair of socks.”
“But you’d like to believe that, because it would let Miss Duncan out.”
“Now, come.” Fox grinned. “She’s already out.”
“Do you think so? Then why Nat Collins? Who paid for the phone calls you made last night? Who are you working for? And how did a set of her fingerprints, in exactly the right position, get on the handle of the knife that cut Tingley’s throat?”
Fox frowned, leaned forward, focused his gaze, and demanded, “Huh?”
“They’re there,” said Damon succinctly. “We got plenty of hers from that leather bag which you had sense enough to leave where it was. I have asked her about it, in the presence of her lawyer, and she denies having touched the knife. Her explanation, of course, is that while she was unconscious her hand was used to make the impressions. Yours too, I suppose.”
“You’re stringing me, Inspector.”
“No. I’m not. The prints were there.”
“Have you arrested her?”
“No. But if we get a motive that will carry the load—”
Fox continued to gaze, his brows drawing together, then leaned back in his chair. “Well,” he said, in an entirely new tone, “that’s different. I knew you don’t like anyone getting under your feet on a murder case, and I had decided not to annoy you on this one, thinking Nat Collins was all and more than Miss Duncan would need to make it as little unpleasant as possible. I had supposed that she had walked in there at a bad moment, and the murderer had conked her merely to get away. But now—”
“Now?” Damon prompted.
“I’m afraid I’m going to be a nuisance after all. Of all the snide tricks.” Fox abruptly rose to his feet. “Are you through with me?”
“About. For the present. I wanted to ask if you have anything to add to this statement. Anything at all.”
“No. You think I know something, but you’re wrong.”
“Why do you say I think you know something?”
“Because you told me about those prints, thinking you might open a seam. But you’re wrong. I’m starting from scratch. With your squad working on it already twelve hours, you know a devil of a lot more than I do. One of the things you know, I’d appreciate it very much if you’d tell me. Were Miss Duncan’s prints on the two-pound weight?”
“No. Why should they be?”
“Because Tingley had been struck with it on the back of his skull.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I felt the place. The body was the only thing I touched. He was struck harder and in a more vulnerable spot than Miss Duncan, and I think there was a fracture. I doubt if I’m being helpful, but I’ll finish. He was unconscious from the blow when his throat was cut. It would be next to impossible to slit a man’s throat with a single clean deep stroke like that when he was on his feet and had his faculties. So — if you’re nursing the fantasy that Miss Duncan did it — first she used the two-pound weight on him, and then the knife, and then she bopped herself on the side of the head with the weight. When she came to, she carefully wiped the weight clean but ignored the handle of the knife—”
The door opened to admit a uniformed policeman, who spoke to the inspector’s inquiring eye:
“Phillip Tingley is here, sir.”
“All right, one second.” Damon regarded Fox gloomily. “You say you’re going to be a nuisance. You know the rules, and you know you were out of bounds last night. I’m not forgetting that. You say you touched nothing in that room, but you went there alone before notifying us, and someone searched the place for something. You? I don’t know. Did Miss Duncan send you there for something and you got it? I don’t know. Did you learn something that you’re not telling about that quinine business when you were there yesterday? I don’t know. Where do I find you when I want you?”