“I think,” said Brissenden curtly, “that it isn’t necessary to let you go on shooting off your mouth. You must have known that we would find that gun and that, as a matter of routine, we would fire bullets from it and compare them with the bullet that killed Arnold. Therefore you must have invented an explanation for it, to be ready for us. We’re going to get the right one before we’re through, but if you want to give us the phoney one first, go ahead and get it over with.”
Fox shook his head. “I don’t get it, I swear I don’t. You find a gun in Thorpe’s safe that was used for a murder. Granted that he didn’t just find it under a stone or receive it in the mail, why pick on me among all the possibilities? Let’s get down to cases. I hereby state that I never saw or heard of that gun before, didn’t know it was in existence, didn’t know it was in Thorpe’s possession, didn’t know it was in his safe. Now what?”
“You’re lying,” Brissenden snapped.
“No, I’m not lying. My unqualified denial gives you the ball. Put up or shut up.”
“We’re giving you a chance—”
“I’m done. Put up or shut up.”
“Let me put it this way,” Derwin suggested. “We find this gun here in the safe and learn that it’s the one that killed Arnold. We consider all the various suppositions that might conceivably explain its presence here. We know that you met Thorpe yesterday evening for the first time and that since then you have done something for which he paid you fifty thousand dollars. It must have been something important, because that’s a lot of money. We know that you lied to me about getting money from Thorpe and that you refuse to tell what you did to earn it. We look at our facts and we draw an inference. On the strength of that inference we demand an explanation from you.” Derwin laid a fist on the desk but his voice stayed calm. “You are not a member of the bar and you can’t plead privileged communication. You say Thorpe pledged you to secrecy, but he’s dead now himself and you don’t need me to tell you that a pledge of secrecy to a murdered man is no valid excuse for shielding his murderer, no matter who it is. Even, for instance, if it should be the man’s own son. As Colonel Brissenden said, we’re giving you a chance—”
“Returned with thanks,” Fox broke in. “I simply haven’t got it in stock. You might as well give me a chance to tell you how long is a piece of string.”
“You refuse to tell us where and how and from whom you got this gun?”
“I deny that I know anything about it.”
“You stick to that?”
“I do. And I warn you that you’re wasting your time again. By the way, I should inform you that I won’t be able to leave this place within an hour as you requested. Mrs. Pemberton has engaged me to carry on an investigation—”
“That’s all right,” Derwin said quietly. “Developments have made it desirable for you to stay, anyhow.”
Fox didn’t like it. By their character as he knew them, they should have been furious. Brissenden should have been barking and Derwin should have been pounding the desk. Instead of which, he was calmly replacing the revolver in the canvas case, closing the flap and pushing the case aside, and reaching across the desk for a similar case that was lying there.
Fox didn’t like it at all. He said, “You spoke of an inference, Mr. Derwin, and on the strength of it you demanded an explanation. I want to say, meaning no offence, that it’s neither good logic nor good tactics—”
“Forget it,” said Derwin brusquely. He had opened the flap of the second case, but without taking anything from it he leaned back and met Fox’s eyes. “I didn’t pretend that I had any proof that you knew about that gun or had anything to do with it. If you did have, we’ll find it out before we’re through and I’m warning you now that if it leaves you open to any charge it will be made and prosecuted. So much for that. We’ll go on to a matter in which I do have proof.”
“That’s different. I do promise not to deny anything you can prove.”
“Thank you. You know, of course, that guns have a number stamped on them, and that all sales are recorded and can be traced.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Of course. What would you say if I told you that the gun that killed Thorpe in this room today was sold to you on October 11th, 1936, by B. L. Holmes and Company of 416 Madison Avenue, New York City?”
“I wouldn’t say anything. I wouldn’t believe it.”
“Well.” The cat had its paw on the robin. Derwin took something from the second case and extended it in his hand. “Is that your property?”
Fox took it. It was a Dowsey automatic.38, clean and new. On the metal binding of the grip “TF” was deeply engraved in block letters.
Fox nodded. “It’s mine. If you’re going to tell me that this is the gun that killed Thorpe—”
“I do tell you that.”
“Call that beautiful?” Brissenden sneered. “Call that perfectly magnificent?”
Fox was frowning at the pistol in his hand. He slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t. Colonel. I call it highly confusing and momentarily embarrassing.”
“Well?” Derwin snapped. “Are you out of stock on this one too?”
Fox looked at him. “Don’t kick me when I’m down, Mr. Derwin. Please. And please answer two questions for the record. Is this the pistol that was found here on the floor when Thorpe was killed?”
“It is.”
“Have you proven by test that this pistol fired the bullet that killed Thorpe?”
“We have.”
“All right. You’ve got me. Put a detention on me. Throw me in a dungeon. Do whatever seems appropriate, but don’t expect me to furnish one ray of light on how that pistol got here.”
Brissenden sprang up and roared, “By God, if you think you can get away with this one!”
Derwin inquired sarcastically, “Another pledge of secrecy, huh?”
“No, sir. I just don’t know anything about it.”
“Is that your pistol?”
“It is.”
“Did you have it when you came here today?”
“No. I wasn’t armed.”
“When did you see it last?”
“I don’t know — now wait a minute, give me a chance! This hurts me worse than it does you! I own six revolvers and nine pistols. Two or three of them are souvenirs, but most of them I bought. Three of them are Dowsey thirty-eights, like this. I keep all my guns in a drawer in my room at my home, except an old Vawter that I let Bill Trimble, the farmer at my place, have to pop at woodchucks. Dan Pavey, my vice-president, often goes armed, usually with a Dowsey. Yesterday I carried a Howell thirty-two and a little toy Sprague, but today I carried nothing. I didn’t even open that drawer this morning, and I have no idea what’s there and what isn’t.” Fox spread out his hands. “That’s all I can tell you.”
The district attorney looked at the colonel. Brissenden growled, “Go ahead,” and Derwin turned to Fox.
“Where’s Pavey?”
“At my home. At least I told him to go there when he reported to me here several hours ago—”
“Ah! He was here, was he?”
“Not at the time Thorpe was shot. Around eleven o’clock.”
“He didn’t come here with you?”
“No. I left home early this morning.”
“What time?”
“Twenty-two minutes past seven.”
“Where did you go?”