“I didn’t kill your father,” he said in a voice strained with fatigue. “That’s nonsense. I’m sorry anybody did. I needed to get my job back and he was my only chance of getting it. You look more intelligent than any of these idiots around here. Are you? If you are, for God’s sake tell them to quit bullying me and start looking for the damn murderer. They brought me in here to see if you would recognize me as someone who has been prowling around the basement door. Do you?”
“No.”
“Have you looked at me long enough?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He walked out.
Miranda’s eyes followed him to the door, then her face returned to the district attorney. “I—” She bit it off and compressed her lips.
“Yes, Mrs. Pemberton?”
“I believe him.”
“Rot.” Her brother snorted. “You have no reason to believe him or disbelieve him either. Maybe he’s a good liar. He certainly knows how to look into a girl’s eyes and hand it out, Sis dear.” He looked at Derwin. “But one thing, I’ve never seen him before.”
“Have you, Mrs. Pemberton?”
“No. Never.”
“Why do you say you believe him?”
“I do, that’s all.” She shrugged. “And I think—”
She stopped and he prodded her. “Yes, Mrs. Pemberton?”
“I think you’re going to find things that will make it more painful than it is now. If I didn’t think you’d find them eventually, I wouldn’t say this, but I think you will. I know you have the impression that I’m cold-blooded about my father’s sudden death, but Ridley Thorpe wasn’t much of a father. He was too busy being a financier and a philanthropist and a great man. The fact is that since Mother died, when I was ten years old, my brother and I have been orphans except that we have had our bills paid. But I knew my father a good deal better than he knew me, because I was interested in him — at least I used to be — and he was never interested in me. And what I think you’re going to find out eventually, if a murder is investigated the way it’s supposed to be, is that he didn’t have that bungalow for seclusion with Luke and his thoughts. He had it for — I mustn’t shock you, I suppose — for secret female companionship.”
“Good lord!” her brother blurted incredulously. “Him?”
“Yes, Jeff, him,” she declared imperturbably. “I knew him a lot better than you did and I’m a woman myself. He didn’t want to be bound by marriage again, because he was too selfish to be bound by anything, and open philandering would have been bad for his reputation as a national ornament, but he was by no means devoid of carnality. I’m not saying tritely find the woman; I just predict you’ll find out things about that bungalow if you really try, instead of putting it on to this Grant man because by bad luck the poor devil—”
“Excuse me,” Derwin put in a little less patiently. “I assure you, Mrs. Pemberton, we’re not putting it on to any one. Every angle is being thoroughly investigated. The New York police are cooperating from that end. An intensive search is being made for the three people who have disappeared: Luke Wheer, Nancy Grant, this man’s niece, and Vaughn Kester, your father’s confidential secretary. We’re not putting it on to Grant, though I repeat that the evidence against him is strong. He was there, right there when the shots were fired. There is no evidence that any one else was, except Luke Wheer. He was a disgruntled employee, fired from his job. And he has been caught in a lie regarding the time he got there. The servants at the New York residence, and others, have corroborated what you and your brother told me about your father’s invariable custom of listening to Dick Barry’s broadcast every evening from eleven to eleven-thirty. So Grant lied and his niece, too. But we’re not neglecting other angles. For one thing and perhaps the most important, where’s Vaughn Kester? Possibly he could tell us things about Grant that we don’t know. And where the devil is he? Has he been murdered too? Colonel Brissenden thinks so. Regarding your surmise about your father’s — uh — his weekends in that bungalow — yes, Bolan?”
The man who talked nasally closed the door behind him, approached, stopped and cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said, “I don’t know. He insisted on it.”
“Who insisted on what?”
“Tecumseh Fox. He wants to see you.”
“What does he want?”
“All he says is he wants to see you.”
“Tell him I’m engaged. I can see him in an hour.”
“Yes, sir.” The man turned to go.
Miranda touched his sleeve to stop him. “Is it Tecumseh Fox the detective?”
“Yes, ma’am. I guess that’s the only one there is.”
“Then couldn’t... I’d like to see him.” She transferred to Derwin. “When I was collecting celebrities and notorieties I invited him to dine at my house three times and he declined — and I had good dinners, too.”
“I don’t know what he wants, Mrs. Pemberton.”
“Send for him and ask him.”
Derwin frowned, but took it. “Send him in, Bolan.”
Jeffrey said: “Randa dear, you’ll stop your own funeral to get out and ask a man about a dog,” and rubbed his bloodshot eyes with his knuckles again.
Ben Cook rasped: “If it’s this one it’ll be a fox.”
The door opened, quick light steps sounded, and that one was there at the desk before they knew it. Passing, his eyes swiftly took in all of the brother and sister; now, amiably, they were for the district attorney. “Good morning, Mr. Derwin. I apologize.”
“Good morning. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to see Andrew Grant. The fellow that found Ridley Thorpe’s body and reported it. You’ve got him around here, haven’t you?”
“What do you want to see him about?”
“I’m working for him.”
Derwin tightened his lips, folded his arms and hunched his shoulders. The impression he produced was one of shrinkage. “Since when have you been working for him? He has made no communication that I know of.”
“Oh, yes, excuse me, he has. Through his niece Nancy. She came to see me.”
“His niece...” Derwin stared. “She went to see you?”
“Yes.”
“She is a fugitive! Where is she?”
“She’s available. I didn’t know she was a fugitive. I apologize. I didn’t know she had been charged.”
“She was being held for questioning.”
“Well, she’s available. No charge, was there?” Fox, conciliatory, smiled. “By the way, she borrowed a dollar from one of your men. Would you mind finding out which one and returning it?” He handed across a dollar bill. “Thanks. She had left her purse in her friend’s car that had the tire ripped off and she wanted to make a phone call. No commitment, was there? Just holding her without one. That’s risky sometimes. I request permission to see Andrew Grant.”
The district attorney, with his head tilted back, scowled up into the brown eyes which Nancy Grant had decided were too wide open to be called sly. He lowered his chin, turned his head, saw a speck on his desk blotter and flipped at it with his finger four times before he got it off. His glance went sidewise in the direction of Ben Cook, and the chief of police’s head all but imperceptibly moved to the left and then to the right. Derwin brought his around and up again and said:
“You can’t see him.”
“Has he been charged with murder, Mr. Derwin?”
“Not — no.”
“Or with anything?”
“No.”
“May I ask, did you find a gun on him? Or find one anywhere? Or evidence that he had one?”
“Not yet.”