“You can talk through the window, Mr. Kester. I like elbow room. Even though there’s no occasion to use my gun — not to mention the fact that there’s company in my car—”
“Who is it?”
“A man that works for me named Dan Pavey. That’s my affair. Think what Dick Barry might have said on the radio.”
A grunt came from Ridley Thorpe. “Does Dick Barry know?”
“No.”
“Who knows besides you?”
“Nobody. But don’t get silly notions. I carry the gun from force of habit. Dan’s back there and if you try any tricks—”
“We have no intention of trying tricks. How did you know?”
“I didn’t. I played a probability.” Fox’s eyes were adjusted now for the darkness and he could see faces and hands. “Do you know Andrew Grant?”
“No. I’ve read the papers.”
“Of course. Grant said that he looked through the window of the bungalow at ten minutes past eleven and saw you smoking a cigar and listening to the radio play band music. Your son said that was impossible. The most obvious explanation was that Grant was lying, but I had reasons for putting that last. Among other explanations, the one I liked best was that it wasn’t you he saw. It presented difficulties, for instance that your son identified your remains, but I liked it anyway and went fishing with it. I’d call it—”
“I thought so,” came bitterly from Kester’s face at the window. “It was nothing but a bluff.”
“Quiet, Vaughn.” It was his master’s voice. “We didn’t dare risk it.”
“Correct, Mr. Thorpe,” Fox agreed. “If I hadn’t heard from you by noon tomorrow — today — your dentist would have been at White Plains examining teeth and in two minutes—”
“Yes. Just so. Certainly. And what are you — what do you intend to—”
“I’m going to inform the police. I have to, to clear Andrew Grant. Their chief ground of suspicion against him is that they think he’s lying about the radio.”
“You’ll tell the police about our phoning — about our meeting you here—”
“Certainly.”
“Why do you want to clear Grant?”
“I’m working for him. I don’t know whether you happen to know that I’m a private detective—”
“Oh, yes, yes indeed, I’ve heard of you.” Thorpe’s voice came smoothed with oil of compliment. “Of your private life too — your generous hospitality for unfortunate persons — yes, indeed — that seems to be a point of resemblance between us — not that my philanthropies have the charming personal touch that you — and by the way, that’s a coincidence, that only last week I made my annual contribution to the Society for Preserving the Culture of the American Indian — I’ve heard that you are part Indian — of course, your name—”
“I’m not.” Fox was curt. “My elder brother was named William McKinley Fox. I was named William Tecumseh Sherman Fox. Too many Williams. And I graduated from kindergarten, Mr. Thorpe. I am aware that you are an able, shrewd and ruthless manipulator. If the tears were running down your face I wouldn’t lend you my handkerchief. As for telling the police about this meeting—”
“You can’t do that,” said Thorpe with the oil gone.
“Well, I’ll try.”
“I say you can’t. You’ve got me hooked, I admit it. Your silence is worth fifty thousand dollars. Cash.”
Kester put in: “We’d have to have satisfactory—”
“Forget it,” Fox snapped. “Nothing doing.”
“How much do you want?”
“A billion. More than you’ve got, for that. Forget it.”
“Then why — what did you come here for?”
“To establish a fact — you, Kester, watch your hand. What have you got in your pocket, the gun that shot a man in Thorpe’s bungalow? Don’t try—”
“Nonsense,” Kester said. “Chief, he’ll hang on for life. We should never—”
“Quiet,” said Thorpe testily. “Was there any alternative? Mr. Fox, do you mean that your purpose in — coming here to establish a fact was not to blackmail me?”
“That’s right. Thank you.”
“You’re not demanding money and you don’t intend to?”
“That’s right.”
Kester blurted: “Then why the devil—”
“Quiet, Vaughn — I repeat my offer of fifty thousand dollars, this time to do a job for me. Five thousand in advance and the remainder when the job is successfully completed. Do you want it?”
“Certainly I want it, but it depends on the job.”
“I’ll explain it. It will soon be daylight and day-light will be dangerous. The man who was killed last night — Sunday night—”
“Chief, don’t! You’re putting—”
“Vaughn, get in the front seat with Luke and be quiet. What have we accomplished in twenty-four hours? Nothing. The man who was killed in my bungalow was named Corey Arnold. He was my stand-in.”
Fox grunted. “Oh, you had a stand-in.”
“I did. Three years ago certain activities of mine which I wished to keep secret seemed in danger of being exposed. They were not illegal activities, but for personal reasons I did not care to have them known. I saw pictures in a magazine of the stand-ins of various motion picture actors and that gave me an idea. At the cost of a great deal of time and trouble, on account of the necessary caution, I found a man who was very nearly my twin. I found others who resembled me, but I needed other qualities too, for instance trustworthiness; this one seemed to meet every requirement. I had already had that bungalow for some time. I arranged for Arnold, impersonating me, to go there weekends with my valet — you see I was thorough. It was a great inconvenience for me to be without Luke, but he had been going to that bungalow with me and so I had him continue to go with Arnold.”
“While you followed certain activities elsewhere?”
“Yes. There had been attempts — but that’s irrelevant. There seemed to be not the slightest chance of discovery. Arnold was well paid and was absolutely reliable. Luke was always there with him. No one except Kester was ever permitted to go there — never had been. When I had spent weekends there I had refused to talk on the telephone; all communications, if any were necessary, were through Kester. There appeared to be no chance whatever of its being known. And now this! Now the front page of every newspaper in America says that I’ve been murdered!”
“But you haven’t,” said Fox dryly. “You can prove that easy enough. Only what about the certain activities you were following?”
“That’s exactly it! They must not be known!”
“But if you suddenly appear and announce: ‘Here I am!’ a great many people, including a lot of newspapers and police who are investigating your murder, will want to know: ‘Where were you?’”
“Yes. They will.”
“They sure will. And I’m afraid you’ll have to tell, for under the peculiar circumstances — even though you’re Ridley Thorpe — any explanation you give is going to be run through a meat grinder.”
Kester offered from the front seat: “My advice has been to refuse to give any explanation.”
Fox shook his head. “You might try it, but.” Enough dawn had sifted through the leaves so that he could easily have recognized all three faces from the pictures in the newspapers. “Very doubtful. The police are after a murderer. Not to mention such items as the angry clamor of the folks who have dumped Thorpe Control at 30 in the effort to keep a shirt, and the fact that you’ve waited a day and two nights to reveal yourself. If you were going to do that you should have done it immediately.”
“I advised it first thing—”
“Quiet, Vaughn! It wouldn’t have worked! Fox agrees that it wouldn’t have worked! Don’t you?”