“I have done so.”
“You had no other reason?”
“No.”
“It was only a surmise? You had no facts, no actual knowledge of — uh — a woman or women—”
Miranda shook her head. “No facts, but it was more than a surmise. It was a conclusion from premises.”
“A logical deduction. I see. It should gratify you to learn that a fact has turned up to support it.”
“I suppose it should. What is it?”
“I’ll tell you in a moment. First I’d like to ask your brother something.” The district attorney turned his regard to Jeffrey. “Mr. Thorpe, I want to say that I understand perfectly your reaction to Colonel Brissenden in this office yesterday. I even sympathize with it. The colonel’s manner is sometimes — uh — brusque. Nevertheless, the question that was asked you is an important one and I would greatly appreciate it if you would give me the information. I refer to the circumstances of your previous acquaintance with Nancy Grant. I may tell you that I have good reason to suspect — come in! Damn it! Excuse me, Mrs. Pemberton.”
The door burst open and the same man entered as before, but this time his eyes were shining with excitement.
“They’ve got Vaughn Kester and Luke Wheer!”
Apparently Derwin had heard that one before too, for he demanded dryly, “Who has?”
“No, they’ve really got ’em! A boat tied up to a dock at Southport and Tecumseh Fox went in the clubhouse to use a phone—”
“What!” Derwin goggled at him. “Fox?”
“Yes, he was with ’em! A cop happened to be on the dock and recognized Fox, and he got curious and thought he’d take a look in the boat while Fox was inside phoning and there were two guys that looked like the pictures of Kester and Wheer, and he pulled a gun and took ’em, and when Fox came out he took him too—”
“Where are they?”
“They’re on the way, they’ll be here in less than an hour.”
Derwin scowled. He picked up his handkerchief and mopped his face, and then scowled some more. “It sounds screwy to me,” he said finally, in slow bewilderment. “Tying up at a dock and leaving them there in plain sight — that doesn’t sound like Tecumseh Fox to me, not for one second.”
Miranda sighed. “Darn that Fox man anyway,” she muttered. “Refusing three invitations to dinner—”
“He’ll dine on the county tonight,” said Derwin grimly.
Chapter 8
Jeffrey Thorpe crossed one knee over the other and observed, “That’s a good example of it.”
“Of what?” The district attorney shifted the scowl to him.
“Of authority. The insolence of it. My father had it too; that’s why I only lasted in his office a couple of weeks when I was started in there to learn the tricks. Here you are saying Fox will dine on the county before you even see him. How do you know but what he found Luke and Kester hiding on a desert island, and was bringing them in to you?”
“I don’t, Mr. Thorpe. But I think I am justified in making the tentative assumption, since Fox had not communicated—”
“All right, forget it.” Jeffrey waved it away. “Anyhow, this ought to lift a lot of fog for you, since Luke was apparently right there when it happened. I might suggest that you don’t try to bully Luke. I got on to Luke when I was knee-high to him and wanted little favors. Get him sympathetic and you can have his shirt, but he won’t take bluster. Kester — do you know Kester?”
“No, I’ve never met him.”
“Well, there’s one that was made to order for an authoritative bird like you. You can twist him around your little finger — provided you limber him up first with a few good blows with a sledge hammer. How the devil he happens to be with Luke, or Luke with him — can you figure that one, Sis? How come?”
“I have no idea, Jiffy.”
“So have I.” He returned to authority. “You were telling me that you have good reason to suspect something.”
Derwin nodded. “Yes, Mr. Thorpe, I have. It appears, in the first place, that Grant’s niece was not as complete a stranger to your father as she pretends and secondly, that she has not told the truth regarding her movements at the bungalow Sunday evening. I assure you I am not exercising the insolence of authority; I am stating facts; or at least inferences weighted by a preponderance of likelihood. In view of that, in view of my earnest conviction that any and every detail of Nancy Grant’s previous contacts with any member of your family may be relevant to the murder of your father and should be disclosed to the author — uh — to those conducting the investigation, I strongly urge you to tell me—”
“About her previous contacts with this member of the family. Little Jeff.”
“Yes. I strongly advise—”
“I heard you.” Jeffrey uncrossed his knees and leaned forward. “Now here. You heard what my sister told you yesterday. Down in our hearts, taking it for granted that we’ve got hearts, I guess she and I are both a little bitter about our father. That is, we were. Not that he was cruel or anything romantic like that; he just didn’t fill the bill. To look at me now, sophisticated, blasé, hard-boiled, on speaking terms with the headwaiter at Rusterman’s, you would never suppose that I once wept tears because Johnny Holcomb’s father — you see, by God, to this day I remember his name — spent a whole afternoon at the zoo with him, whereas my father not only wouldn’t take me to the zoo, he wouldn’t even take time to let me tell him what I saw when I was taken by the assistant governess, who had the teeth of a gnawing rodent, such as a beaver. Her name was Miss Jandorf.”
“Lefcourt,” said Miranda.
“No, damn it, it was Jandorf. Lefcourt took me to the aquarium — My sister was correct yesterday when she said that we have batted close to a thousand as orphans since our mother died. The murder of our father was deplorable and naturally it gave us a jolt, but to say it made our hearts heavy with grief — still taking it for granted that we’ve got hearts — that would be bunk. Nor are we out yelling for blood, because we don’t happen to be the vindictive type. In spite of which, I hope you catch the bird who did it and if I had any information that could possibly help you, I’d hand it over. I told you so yesterday morning. Which brings me to the point, namely, that if a million G-men investigated a million years they wouldn’t find any connection between my father’s death and my previous brief contact with Miss Grant. So it’s none of your business. Q.E.D. I knew I’d find a use for my geometry some day.”
Derwin dropped his damp handkerchief to the desk. “I think you should tell me about it anyway,” he insisted. “If it is completely irrelevant and innocuous—”
“I didn’t say it was innocuous, I said it had no connection with murder. It wasn’t innocuous. I made an ass of myself and earned her venomous hatred.”
“Ah! hatred—”
“No no, no like that.” Jeffrey waved it off again. “I mean the kind of hate that’s just the opposite on the other side. All you have to do is turn it over, like flipping a pancake, but it’s one hard trick.”
“You said venomous.”
“Cross it out.”
Derwin screwed up his lips. “Let me ask you this, Mr. Thorpe. Do you — no, I’ll put it this way. Is your attitude towards Miss Grant such that you would not want her to suffer the legal penalty for killing your father if she were guilty?”
Jeffrey stared a second, then snorted contemptuously. “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” he stated.
The district attorney pulled open a drawer of his desk, got out a large rectangle of pasteboard, glanced at it and handed it across. “Did you ever see that before?”