“I didn’t really read it. I stopped on my way here — I think it was Bedford Hills — and bought one, but I didn’t read it through, I just looked...” Her color was better and so was her voice. “But Uncle Andy couldn’t possibly have known that colored man. How could he? What about him?”
“He’s gone. Can’t be found. You didn’t read much if you didn’t read that. The paper suggests, dodging libel, that collusion is suspected between Andy and Luke Wheer.” Fox emptied his highball glass and put it down. “Other items you may have missed. Thorpe’s pockets were empty — no wallet, no keys, no nothing. His wristwatch was gone. Two bullets hit him and none missed him. He has spent every weekend at the bungalow since April. His wife died years ago. His son Jeffrey was found at a roadhouse night club on Long Island and brought to identify the body. His daughter Miranda was notified somewhere in the Adirondacks and is returning by plane. Do you know either of them?”
“Of course not. How could I know people like that?”
“Like what?”
“Why — a millionaire’s sons and daughters.”
“Oh. The police can’t locate Thorpe’s confidential secretary, a man named Vaughn Kester. He was weekending at the Green Meadow Club, playing golf, was got out of bed by a phone call at midnight, notifying him of Thorpe’s death, and left immediately for the scene. But he seems to have got ditched on the way. Hasn’t turned up. Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t. I tell you I don’t know any Thorpes or any one connected with them and neither does Uncle Andy. It was just like I said. We were at the Bascoms, friends of mine, over near Westport, for the weekend, and he was telling about what he had done and his being fired, and how he had spent a week trying to get to Thorpe, and he mentioned the bungalow where he hides himself weekends, and Della Bascom and I talked him into going there, and Della lent me her car and I drove him over—”
“Why didn’t he drive himself?”
“Because he didn’t really want to go and I was pushing him. He has plenty of guts, real guts, he really has, but he’s not — well, not very aggressive. He didn’t know exactly where the place was and we had to drive around and ask, and finally a man at a filling station about three miles out of Mount Kisco told us. We—”
“What time was that?”
“Around eleven o’clock. Maybe not quite. We had left the Bascoms about nine and had spent a lot of time looking for it, and of course it was some distance to Mount Kisco. The filling station man told us the place was fenced and the gate would be locked, and it was, so we couldn’t drive in. We couldn’t see the bungalow from the road on account of the trees and apparently it was quite a ways in or he had gone to bed, because we couldn’t even see any sign of lights. We parked the car at the edge of the road near the gate and Uncle Andy climbed the fence. I wanted to too, but he wouldn’t let me; he said there might be a savage dog.”
Fox observed: “I wouldn’t have picked Andy Grant to climb fences at night in the direction of savage dogs.”
“He’s not a coward!”
“Okay. But he’s not — as you say — not very aggressive.”
“Don’t I know it?” Nancy demanded. “I had — that’s why it’s all my fault! Don’t you understand that? I persuaded him — I hounded him into it!”
“And now you want me to pull him out. Go ahead.”
“You will! Won’t you?”
“Go ahead. He climbed the fence. What did you do, wait in the car?”
“Yes. I sat and waited, I suppose fifteen minutes, and I was feeling satisfied with myself because I thought he must have got in to see Thorpe or he would have been back, when I heard someone scrambling over the fence and he called to me to turn on the car lights. He came and got in and I asked him what happened, and he said to drive on and he would tell me on the way, but I sat tight and made him tell me. He said he had followed a winding drive about three hundred yards to the bungalow and instead of going to the door had gone around to the side where light was coming from a window. The window was open, and he stood behind a tree only a few feet away and looked in. Thorpe was there in a chair, leaning back comfortably smoking a cigar, listening to the radio playing a piece of band music—”
“Could you hear the radio out at the road?”
“Yes, I heard it plainly, it must have been turned up high. I looked at the dashboard clock and my wrist-watch too, and it was ten minutes past eleven and I decided it must be Al Rickett’s orchestra at the Regency on WRK, and I turned on the car radio, low, and it was. Uncle Andy said it was playing very loud. He stood there a minute or two, watching Thorpe through the window, and then went back around the corner and into an enclosed terrace to the door. He stood on the terrace for two or three minutes, waiting for a rest in the radio so his knock would be heard and that’s where he was when he heard the shots fired.”
“Uh-huh,” Fox grunted. “Did he tell you that at that time, sitting there?”
“Of course. He said he heard two shots. That’s where it was my fault again. I said he had got cold feet and was using that for an excuse, that it must have been something on the radio. I had heard something myself that had sounded like shots, but had taken it for granted it was a trick of Al Rickett’s. I... I made fun of him. He wanted to drive on and get away from there, but he never had wanted to go. We argued about it and we both got worked up, and I said things I’m darned sorry for now. I finally got out of the car and said he could drive on alone if he wanted to, and we went on arguing. We were still at it when we saw the lights of a car inside on the drive coming our way. It stopped the other side of the gate and in a minute the gate swung open, and then the car came out in a rush, swerving sharp into the road. I was standing there and had to jump for my life, and by the time I got straightened up again the car had gone and its rear bumper had hooked into our left front tire and torn a gash in it and pulled it half off.”
“Your lights were on.”
“Uncle Andy had turned them off.”
“Did you see who was in the car?”
“I was too busy jumping and Uncle Andy was too busy yelling at me. Naturally I was so furious I was trembling. He got out and looked at the tire and swore some, and began looking for tools. I walked through the gate and on up the drive to the bungalow. He called after me, but I didn’t answer. I felt I had ample excuse to knock on Thorpe’s door myself.”
“After hearing shots fired? Brave girl?”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t brave, I was mad. I hadn’t thought they were shots, anyway. You’ll see how brave I was in a minute. The door of the bungalow was wide open and at the end of the entrance hall another open door showed a lighted room. I stood on the terrace and called a few times and got no answer, and then went in, entered the lighted room, and saw a body on the floor. One look was enough to tell you it was a body and not a man. I turned and ran, ran as hard as I could back down the drive, and told Uncle Andy and said he must get the spare tire on as quick as he could so we could get away from there.”
“I take back the brave. Nor was it bright.”
“That’s what Uncle Andy said. He said the man might not be dead and we should find out, and besides, everybody at Bascoms’ knew where we had gone and we had asked half a dozen people the way to Thorpe’s place, so if we bolted we might be in the soup. He took a flashlight and trotted back up the drive with me behind him. I wasn’t brave then either; I trembled all over while I stood watching him kneeling to look at the body. He got up and said it was Ridley Thorpe and he was dead, and went to the phone and called the police. Pretty soon a car came with state troopers and then some others came. They kept us there a long while and then took us to White Plains and put us in separate rooms and asked me questions the rest of the night, and I suppose Uncle Andy too—”