“I told them — they promised—” Phil faltered.
Fox nodded. “Don’t hold it against them. I bought cocktails and wine for Miss Adams and she didn’t even know she was telling me. Then there’s another thing. About your passing out throwaways on 42nd Street Tuesday evening from seven to eight o’clock. I know a man — a veracious, intelligent and reputable person — who saw you enter this building at 7:40 Tuesday evening. You came out again in seven or eight minutes. You had on a raincoat and the brim of your hat was turned down. You came, walking in the rain, from the east, and went in the same direction when you left. Leaving, you were in a hurry—”
“It’s a lie!” said Phil harshly. The self-assurance was gone from his eyes altogether.
“Don’t talk so loud. Do you deny that you were in this building Tuesday evening?”
“Certainly I deny it! You’re only trying — no one saw — how could anyone see me if I wasn’t here?”
“You also deny that you had ten thousand dollars in cash on Monday. Do you?”
“I had... I’m not admitting—”
“It is presumably on record, entered as a deposit in the Womon checkbook. They know about it and I doubt if they would perjure themselves. Did you give it to them?”
“Yes.” Phil’s bony jaw was set. “I did.”
“Did you get it from your father? Foster father?”
“No. Where I got it—”
“Did someone give it to you for putting quinine in the jars?”
“No. Where that money came from has nothing to do with quinine or this business or Arthur Tingley. And that’s all I’m going to say about it.”
“You refuse to say where you got it?”
“I do. You’re damned right I do.”
“What else are you going to say about coming here Tuesday evening?”
“Nothing. I wasn’t here.”
“Don’t be a fathead. Of course you were here. You came to see Tingley and Guthrie Judd.”
Phil stared, speechless, defenses gone, in helpless astonishment and consternation. The hoarse sound that came from him may or may not have been intended for a word. Then suddenly fierce anger blazed in his eyes and half choked him:
“It’s him, by God! Him that says he saw me! But he didn’t! He wasn’t here! How could he—”
Phil’s jaw closed as with the spring of a trap.
“Keep your voice down or one of those cops will be coming out to investigate,” Fox said quietly. “Judd got here ten minutes before you did, and went away again before you arrived. I’m giving it to you straight because I can afford to. It wasn’t Judd who saw you, it was someone else. Now tell me what you saw and did during the seven or eight minutes you were in here.”
Phil’s jaw stayed shut. His eyes, slits beneath his jutting brows, could scarcely be seen.
“You’ll have to spill it sooner or later,” said Fox patiently. “Here alone with me like this is as good a chance as you’ll have. Did you come right upstairs?”
The pivot of Phil’s jaw opened enough for him to get out, “I wasn’t here,” and closed again.
Fox shook his head. “You can’t do that now. The mention of Judd’s name got you. You’re wide open.”
“I wasn’t here.”
“You actually think you can stick in that hole?”
“I wasn’t here. No one saw me. If anyone says he did, he’s lying.”
“All right.” Fox shrugged. “Here it is in ABCs. Tingley was murdered and I’m working on it. So are the police, which is what they’re paid for. By luck and wearing out my shoes I’ve made a little collection of facts which the police haven’t got hold of. I can keep them for my private use up to a point, but beyond that point it would be not only risky but reprehensible. I ask you to tell me what you did here Tuesday evening, on the assumption that you did not murder Tingley. If you did murder him, you’ll continue to deny that you were here, and soon, probably tomorrow, I’ll feel obliged to hand my facts to the police, and they’ll screw it out of you. Don’t think they won’t. If you didn’t murder him, you’re a fool if you don’t come clean with me here and now. Let’s start with the ten thousand dollars, since you admit you had it. Where did you get it?”
“It was mine.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It was mine. I got it. I didn’t steal it. That’s all I’m going to say.”
Fox looked at the stubborn bony jaw, the sullen obdurate mouth, the dogged expression of the eyes beneath the projecting brows.
“All right,” he said incisively, “I’m not waiting till tomorrow. You and I are going together to one of two places right now. Either police headquarters or Guthrie Judd’s office. Try balking on that and it will be a pleasure for me to take the necessary steps without any help. Which do you prefer, Centre Street or Wall Street? I think I should warn you that Inspector Damon, when he has something on you as he will have now, is a good deal tougher than you found him yesterday.”
Phil was gazing at him. “You can’t make me go anywhere with you if I don’t want to.”
“No?” Fox smiled. His right shoulder twitched. “A stupid mule like you? Damon wouldn’t care what condition you were in as long as you could talk. And I’m pretty irritated.” The shoulder twitched again. “Centre or Wall? Which?”
Phil swallowed “I have no—” He swallowed again. “I’m perfectly willing to go to Judd’s office—”
“That’s fine. Come on, and don’t obey any sudden impulses.”
Chapter 12
On this second visit the suave young man never appeared at all, in the reception room on the top floor of the Metropolitan Trust Building. Nor was Fox, entering, armed with a sealed envelope or any other weapon. He merely told the young woman at the desk that Mr. Fox and Mr. Philip Tingley wished to see Mr. Guthrie Judd. After a wait of five minutes the same tough man appeared and conducted them to the room occupied by the skinny middle-aged man, who now, instead of being flanked by stenographers, was confronted by three stacks of mail on his desk ready for signing. He asked what they wanted to see Mr. Judd about.
“I think the names will be enough,” Fox told him. “Just give him the names, please.”
The skinny man got up and went out. The tough man stayed. Before long the skinny man returned, but not alone. Entering immediately behind him were two individuals in uniform, male, sturdy and rugged-looking, with deadpans for faces. They came in three paces and stood. The skinny man spoke politely:
“Come with me, please, Mr. Tingley? Mr. Judd will see you first. You won’t mind waiting, Mr. Fox?”
“It will save time if I go in with Mr. Tingley,” Fox said, and moved determinedly to do that, but with the first step he knew he was licked. A man in uniform was on either side of the door, and he saw the mobilization of their muscles. To try to slug or shoot his way through would have been heroic but futile, and the setup made it plain that argument would be wasted. Gritting his teeth, he stood and watched Phil and the skinny man disappear. For a moment the impulse to dash to the nearest phone booth and call Inspector Damon was well-nigh irresistible, but he downed it because it would have been humiliating beyond endurance; and the advantage of surprise — surprise to Guthrie Judd at the sudden and unexpected confrontation — was lost anyhow.
Outwitted, euchred, defeated and deflated, Fox sat on the edge of a chair for thrity minutes, swallowing his saliva and finding it bitter with impotence and mortification. He had not even the consolation of seeing any smirk of triumph on the faces of the men in uniform: they remained deadpans. The skinny man had returned and was at his desk busily reading and signing letters. At a buzz he pulled the phone to him and spoke into it, or rather, listened to it, and then pushed it back and turned: