“You can’t possibly—” Kester’s blue eyes were staring wide. “You can’t — why — it was your gun that shot him! Where did I get your gun?”
“Just a detail.” Fox waved it aside. “That and Miss Grant’s scarf, which you used to protect your hand from powder marks. If this were anything but an idle inference, little things like that wouldn’t trouble us much.”
“I thought,” Kester observed stiffly, “that you said we had a lot of ground to cover. You told Mrs. Pemberton it was urgent. If you wish from me a categorical denial that I am guilty of murder, you may have it. I am not. I am here to answer your questions at the request of Mrs. Pemberton—”
“All right,” Fox conceded. “No more idle inferences. Let’s have some facts. What about that bunch of directors and vice-presidents? Do they alibi each other? Were they in a huddle somewhere when they heard the shot?”
“I don’t know, except McElroy. He told me he was in the bathroom on the other side of the music room. I don’t know where the others were, but I suppose they were together, since Derwin let them go back to town.”
“Probably, but we won’t forget they were here.” Fox pulled at his ear. “There was something— Oh, yes. That threatening letter Thorpe received, which I returned to him this morning. Had you seen it before?”
“Certainly. I open his personal mail.”
“You read that even before he did, then?”
“Yes.”
“Did anything about it strike you as odd?”
“Odd? Certainly. The whole thing — I would certainly call it odd.”
“No, I mean something special. Some particular detail.”
Kester shook his head. “No. No particular detail. What do you mean?”
“We’ll pass it for the moment. Where were you born?”
“I fail to see,” said Kester dryly, “any connection between an oddity in a threatening anonymous letter received by Mr. Thorpe and the place of my birth. I was born in Salisbury, Vermont.”
“Where did you go to school?”
Kester stood up. “This is absurd. I am perfectly willing to furnish any information that may be helpful, since Mrs. Pemberton asked me to, but these inane and irrelevant—”
“You’re wrong,” said Fox curtly. “Please sit down. These are the questions I wanted to ask Thorpe as soon as I read that letter yesterday. Now he’s dead and I have to ask you. I’m not going to tell you why they’re relevant, but you can take it from me they are. Where did you go to school?”
Kester was frowning. “Do you mean this?”
“I do.”
He sat down. “I attended public school at Salisbury to the tenth year. My family moved to Springfield, Massachusetts, and I got the last two years of high school there. I then went to Dartmouth and graduated in four years.”
“Have you spent any time in Canada?”
“None.”
“Been abroad?”
“Once, in the summer of 1929, for two months.”
“Thank you very much. Do you happen to know where Luke Wheer was born?”
“Yes. Macon, Georgia. His people still live there. Mr. Thorpe sent them a gift every Christmas.”
“He was a remarkable man. Since Luke was with Thorpe for over twenty years, he couldn’t have spent much time in — the British Isles, for instance. Could he?”
“Very little. He has been there a few times with Mr. Thorpe on short trips.”
“But not every year for the shooting or anything like that.”
“Oh, no.”
“Well, that’s two of you. Now for the son and daughter. Or rather, their mother first. Was she an American, do you know?”
“Yes. You understand, Fox, this is simply ridiculous. By no stretch of the imagination—”
“Don’t try it. Take my word for it, I’m being practical and sticking to the point. Mrs. Thorpe was born in this country?”
“Yes. I prepared a biographical sketch of her. You seem to be interested in Great Britain. She was there only once or twice. She didn’t go abroad much, and when she did she spent her time in France or Italy.”
“How about the children’s governess — Jandorf who took Jeffrey to the zoo, and Lefcourt who took him to the aquarium? Do you know anything about them?”
“Not a thing. That was before my time.”
“Where did they go to school?”
“Private schools here in the east and preps. Miranda graduated from Sarah Lawrence and Jeffrey went to Harvard for three years but didn’t graduate.”
“Have they been to England much?”
“Miranda never, I’m sure, and Jeffrey, I think, twice.”
“Thank you very much.” Fox leaned forward and grimaced as he felt his shirt sticking to his back. “Now here’s something I can’t do because I’m incommunicado. I could bust loose by getting arrested and arranging bond, but that takes time. About these business associates that were here today, we need to know whether any of them is or was English, or was educated in England or Canada or Australia, or has spent a considerable amount of time there.”
“Maybe you need to know that. I don’t.”
“I do. Will you get on the phone and find out? You shouldn’t have much trouble; they’re all prominent men. There’s no concealment about it; it doesn’t matter if Derwin’s sitting at your elbow.” Fox stood up. “Will you do it?”
“The whole thing sounds preposterous.”
“Sure it does. Will you do it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. One other thing, have you had, or do you have, any definite suspicion about the writer of that letter?”
“No. Mr. Thorpe was an able and realistic businessman and financier. I suppose there are thousands of men who could persuade themselves that they are his victims.”
“You put that very nicely.” Fox picked up his coat. “That inference I built up, don’t start worrying about it until I find out how you got hold of Miss Grant’s scarf and my gun.”
Chapter 19
Bellows, still trying heroically to look like a bald well-fed butler in spite of the appalling combination of heat and sudden death, stood erect before the employer who would pay the current month’s wages and nodded to her questions.
“Yes, madame, I agree. An alfresco meal always has an air of festivity, or should have. I can put fans in the dining room.”
“I think that will be better,” Miranda said. “I have spoken with Mr. Derwin. There will be four to serve in the library: Mr. Derwin and his assistant, Colonel Brissenden and someone, I think a police inspector, who just arrived from New York. There will be ten or more who will eat in your quarters; you can learn the exact number from Colonel Brissenden. Since Mr. McElroy is staying, nine will be at table. My father’s chair will be placed as always and will be left vacant; my brother will sit at his usual place.”
“Yes, madame. Shall I serve at eight o’clock?”
“You might as well.” Miranda glanced at her wrist. “That will be in forty minutes. It must be a comfort to you to know that there will be no late arrivals; the guests are already here.”
“Yes, madame. If you will please allow me to request you in advance to make allowances for any irregularities. I just overheard Redmond telling Folsom that she was sure she would drop something on account of one of the persons at table being a murderer.”
“I promise in advance to overlook it. I may even drop something myself.”
“Yes, madame.”
Miranda left him. Her passage through the dining room interrupted a conversation through an open window between Redmond on the inside and a gardener without. In the west hall a muscular giant seated on a newspaper which he had spread on a Persian musnud hastily covered a yawn with a gigantic paw at the sight of her. Through the screened entrance she could see a trooper standing at the edge of the terrace in the shade of a trellis, talking with Henry Jordan, her father’s boating friend whom she had never heard of before. She went on to the drawing room, saw Andrew Grant and Tecumseh Fox there in a corner, stood hesitant a moment with her lips compressed and went over to them.