“For the record, if you want it. It no longer applies, since you knew the man in the bungalow was not Thorpe. It was simply that investigation had disclosed that you aspired to marry Thorpe’s daughter and if she inherited millions — the theory embraced the possibility of a conspiracy—”
“Also the possibility that I hired him to do it, or Jeffrey and I both did while we were dining with him Sunday evening,” said Miranda calmly. “For shame, Mr. Derwin! That’s plain nasty.”
“He asked for it, Mrs. Pemberton. You often find nasty things back of a murder.”
“You will permit me,” said Kester icily, “a comment on your statement that I aspire to marry Mr. Thorpe’s daughter. It is true that at one time—”
Derwin cut him off. “It’s no longer relevant. I would like to say that most of the theories I proposed are at present no better than moonshine. Obviously those applying to the Grants, both uncle and niece—”
“More moonshine,” Ridley Thorpe said impatiently. “All that stuff in the paper — just because he happened to go there—”
“Don’t you know them, Mr. Thorpe?”
“No. Not from Adam. Apparently the man works for an advertising agency that does copy for some of my companies—”
“Have you never met either of them?”
“Never.”
“That’s curious.” Derwin pulled open a drawer of his desk. “Would you mind telling me how this happened to be in a drawer of a cabinet in your dressing room in your New York residence?”
Thorpe took the photograph of Nancy Grant, gave it one sharp glance, let a near-by hand, which happened to be that of Tecumseh Fox, take it from him and arose. He put his fists on the desk and leaned on them, towards the district attorney.
“Do you mean to say—” he demanded in a voice trembling with outraged indignation, “are you telling me that men have ransacked my private apartments in my private residence?” He thumped the desk. “That you have actually had the effrontery—”
“But my God, we thought you were murdered!”
“I wasn’t! I’m not! If anything, anything whatever has been removed from my belongings, I want it returned at once! You understand that? Where’s that picture? What did I do with it?”
“I have it,” said Fox.
“Keep it!” He pointed a finger at the drawer. “What else have you got in there that belongs to me?”
“Nothing. That was taken because — really, Mr. Thorpe, this is ridiculous. We were investigating a murder. We still are. This is childish—”
“Oh, I’m childish, am I? What about you?” Thorpe thumped the desk again. “With your imbecile theories about my son and daughter and secretary and valet and people named Grant that I have never seen! Wasting time having me make signed statements about a trip on a boat and asking Luke what he was fighting about! You’re a fool. Why don’t you ask me who killed me — who killed Arnold? Good gracious! Do you want me to tell you or not? I will!” He reached in his pocket for something and tossed it on the desk. “There! Whoever sent me that killed Corey Arnold! You and your half-witted theories!”
Derwin picked it up, an envelope that had been slit open, and removed from it a piece of paper. The others sat watching him, except Thorpe and Fox, who stood, as he unfolded the paper and read it, first rapidly, then a second time slowly.
Fox put out a hand. “May I see it?”
“No,” said Derwin shortly. He raised his eyes to Thorpe. “When did you—”
“Give it to him.”
“But I want—”
“I said give it to him! It’s mine!”
Fox got it and with the same swoop of his hand collected the envelope from the desk.
Thorpe faced him: “Keep it. I want to see you about it. Your name is Tecumseh Fox? I’ve heard of you. Apparently your head works, since you seem to have deduced for yourself that it wasn’t me that was killed. A head’s going to be needed—”
Derwin blurted, “I want that paper. It’s vital—”
“Quiet,” Thorpe snapped. “Stop interrupting me— Where’s your office? New York?”
“I haven’t any office. I live up south of Brewster.”
“Can you be at my New York office at nine in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Ask for Kester and he’ll get you in to me. Vaughn, bring him in at once. I’m tired and hungry. You’d better come and spend the night at Maple Hill. What about you children? Where are you bound for?”
“I was in bed at Maple Hill last — Sunday night, when this news came,” said Miranda. “I slept there last night. So did Jeff.”
“Then we’ll all go there. Have you got a car? Good.” Thorpe wheeled to the stenographer. “Is there any good reason why you aren’t getting those statements typed so we can sign them and go?”
The stenographer flushed, arose and trotted out. Derwin said firmly:
“I want that paper. I am not through with Luke Wheer. Also I want to question Mr. Kester—”
“That paper is mine.” Thorpe looked as if he might begin thumping again. “I’ll send you a photostat of it tomorrow. Fox, remember that. We’ll keep the original or turn it over to the New York police. I suppose I should have done that when I got it, but I was too busy. Luke is my valet and I need him — look at me! If you insist on heckling him, you can see him at Maple Hill tomorrow. You can see Kester at my New York office, but you’d better phone for an appointment. In case you want an appointment with me, make it through my counsel Buchanan, Fuller, McPartland and Jones— Yes, Henry? You saying something?”
“I’ve been trying to.” The wiry little man had to tilt his head back to meet the eyes of the taller one. “I’m worrying a little about my boat. I’d like to get back over there and I don’t know about a bus or a ferry from Bridgeport—”
“Excuse me,” Tecumseh Fox interposed. “You’re Henry Jordan, aren’t you? The owner of the boat Mr. Thorpe was on?”
“I am.”
“Well, if I were you I wouldn’t try to get back there tonight. You and your boat are objects of great romantic interest. The Hermit of the Armada, they’ll probably call you. They’ll interview you and photograph you all night and all day. You couldn’t keep them off with a machine gun. It wouldn’t be any better if you went home. You’d better come and spend the night with me; there’s plenty of room at my place.”
“I’m worried about the boat.”
“The police will take care of it.”
“He’s right, Henry,” Thorpe asserted. “You’d better spend the night with him, or you can come with us to Maple Hill.”
Jordan shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t know—”
He was kept from finishing it by an interruption almost as startling as the former one at the window, only this came from the anteroom. There were scuffling noises and the door burst violently open, and the floor shook under their feet as a man came bounding through. Bounding after him, clutching for him, tripping each other up in their eagerness, were four others, two state troopers and two in plain clothes. The hare kept coming without deceleration clear to the desk, the hounds at his heels, greeted by exclamations from the group as it scattered to avoid being trampled underfoot. Derwin was up barking again.
The man looked at Tecumseh Fox, ignoring the hands reaching and grabbed him, and said in a deep rumble of relief, “Oh, there you are.”
“What in the devil is this?” Derwin shouted.
A trooper panted, “Chased him all the way upstairs — a mob outside and we’re guarding the entrance — said he wanted to find Tecumseh Fox — wouldn’t let him in — he tore through and got in and up the stairs—”
“You’re out of breath,” said the man. “Let loose of me.” He looked at Fox. “I know you told me to stay in the car, but I heard they had pinched you and I thought it would be better—”