“Yes. Waiting for me...”
“Suit yourself. If you want it settled — I don’t know how I’ll feel about it tomorrow—”
“Wait a minute.” Her head drooped, and for a while she sat there motionless, her face not visible to him. Then she straightened up, arose, and said in a controlled voice, “Very well. We’ll settle it.”
Fox lost no time getting her out of there. But out in the public hall, before he closed the door, he turned to her as one who has suddenly remembered something:
“The dog. I’d better give the dog a bone. I’ll be right back.”
He slipped away and into the kitchen. A quick inspection of the bonds of the captive showed that all the knots were still intact, which might have been expected, since that had been his intention when he tied them. To the eyes that blazed with fury he paid no attention whatever, as he applied two more strips of tape to the mouth, and then began exploring pockets, not finding the bunch of keys until he got to the right hip of the trousers, which was hard to get at. Back at the entrance door, he would have liked to make sure the right key was there for his re-entry, whenever that might be, but the lady in mink was standing waiting, facing him, so he merely pulled the door shut for the spring lock to catch.
She preceded him down the four flights, and from the way she steadied herself with her fingertips along the grimy old rail it was plain that those gloves would have a cleaning before they were worn again. Outside, there was no car in front but his own, and he decided to ignore that, since he wished to preserve appearances and it was an unlikely chattel for an idealistic young man who lived in squalor.
He hesitated. “Your car?”
“I didn’t bring it. I didn’t want to — I came in a cab.”
He turned west and they walked together to Second Avenue and after a short wait flagged a passing taxi, and she gave an address in the Seventies just east of Fifth. She took her corner and he took his, and nothing was said until the destination was reached, the driver was paid, and he hopped out and offered her a hand which she did not take.
There on the sidewalk, she looked smaller, less erect, her eyes less determined and hard.
“I had better go in first,” she said, “and tell him—”
“No,” Fox said bluntly. “We’re doing this together or not at all.”
She didn’t insist. Fox depressed the lever of the massive ornamental door to the vestibule, pushed, held it for her to enter, and followed. She touched a button in the jamb, and almost at once the inner door opened and she passed through, with him at her heels. A man in the conventional uniform closed the door and stood ready for anything from negation of his existence to decapitation without change of expression.
“Is Mr. Judd upstairs?”
“Yes, Miss Judd.”
“Then just take my things here.” He was behind her for her coat. “And take Mr.—”
“Sherman,” Fox said.
“Of course. Mr. Sherman’s coat and hat.”
That was done. Fox followed her across the spacious reception hall and up the broad carpeted stairs, admiring the fine old cherrywood of the curving rail and comparing it with the rail she had touched so gingerly less than half an hour ago. Upstairs was a landing only less spacious than the hall below, and broad corridors in three directions. She led the way to the right, opened a door, and passed through, into a large room of warmth and color and comfort and a thousand books. Only one person was there, a man in an easy chair with his feet raised to a stool, smoking a pipe and reading a magazine. His head turned to them as they entered.
Miss Judd spoke in a high-pitched voice. “Guthrie, I thought the best thing—”
She stopped and stood transfixed, at the expression on her brother’s face.
Chapter 16
Fox said, in a tone of malign and insufferable affability, “I’ve got that fire started, Mr. Judd.” To say that, in that tone, required an exceptional degree of tough audacity. It was doubtful if ever before, in all his ruthless, cold-blooded, predaceous career, Guthrie Judd had been rendered incapable of speech by a paroxysm of helpless rage, and to watch it happening on his face might have been found momentarily terrifying by almost anyone. The cold fury of his eyes, in particular, made credible the fable of the basilisk; but Fox, standing with his hands in his coat pockets and his legs apart, was meeting them.
Miss Judd was not. “I thought—” she faltered. “It seemed best—” She couldn’t go on.
“She had never seen him,” Fox said brusquely. “I was there, and she took me for him. We have discussed it fairly completely. Now I’d like to discuss it with you.”
“She — took you for Philip Tingley?”
“Yes. That’s why she brought me here.”
Judd looked at his sister and said in a tone of caged and concentrated ferocity, “Get out.”
She was gaping at Fox. “You—” The rest was stifled in pale incredulity. “You said — then who—”
“Get out!” Judd moved toward her, one step. “Get out now! You incomparable fool.”
Her mouth opened again, but nothing came out of it. She was now perforce meeting her brother’s eyes, and plainly had no will against them.
He said, “Go to your room and stay there. I may send for you.”
She turned and went, walking like an automaton. Fox opened the door for her, and after she had passed through closed it again, returned to the middle of the room, and said composedly:
“This is a very satisfactory moment for me. Very. The two other times I called on you, you were so unsociable that it wasn’t worthwhile to sit down. Maybe I’d better take a chair this time?”
Guthrie Judd, without saying anything, picked up his magazine, which had dropped to the floor, and put it on a table. With his foot he pushed the stool to one side. He sat down, got a lighter from his jacket pocket, flicked it into flame, lit his pipe, and took several puffs. Then he said:
“Sit down.”
Fox pulled a chair to a more frontal position and sat. He waited through some seconds of silence and finally asked, “Well?”
Judd shook his head. “Oh, no. I’m listening to you.”
Fox shrugged. “All right. Philip is your sister’s illegitimate son. There are documents to prove it.”
“Show them to me.”
Fox smiled. “You certainly have good rubber in you. Tough as catgut. But it won’t do you any good now, because you’re on your back. You’re licked.”
“I have never been licked.”
“Are you now?”
“No.”
“Then this is your house. Order me out. You certainly didn’t invite me to sit down for conviviality. Order me out.”
Judd said nothing.
“You see,” Fox admonished him. “You might as well quit taking me for a lightweight. Asking me to show you the documents! I may be no blazing luminary, but I am not a lightweight. I am quite aware that you are a dangerous man to monkey with, and if I had my per capita share of prudence I would take the bag just as it is down to headquarters and let Inspector Damon open it. Today you sneeringly invited me to do that. Do you now?”
Judd said nothing. His pipe had gone out again.
“You don’t. Indeed you don’t.” Fox got notebook and pencil from his pockets. “Now. When did Philip first demand money from you under a threat to publish his parentage?”
Judd shook his head. He spoke, but all he said was, “I’ve looked you up. I can find no—”
Fox laughed. “Let me save you some trouble. You’re going to say that you can find nothing in my past to support a supposition that I’m addicted to blackmailing. But money is money. You wouldn’t insult me by trying to buy me, but you will pay a legitimate sum for legitimate services, like for instance getting those papers for you. And for helping—”