“Make him shut up,” Nancy said savagely, “or I’ll open the door and jump out!”
“Another thing.” Jeffrey leaned farther forward. “I spoke of the exper—”
Nancy grabbed the door handle and pushed it down. Fox lifted his foot from the accelerator and snapped: “Don’t do that!”
“But I will! I swear I will—”
The car left the concrete, bumped a few feet along the wide grassy shoulder and stopped. Fox reached across Nancy to pull the door to, twisted around to face the back seat, saw that the Wethersill was stopping a dozen yards behind and spoke to Jeffrey.
“Will you quit talking to her?”
“But my God, I’ve just begun—”
“You’ll have to swallow it. She’ll jump out and break her neck. Or there’s your car waiting for you.”
“I like it here.”
“You can’t talk to her.”
“All right, I won’t. I’ll sit and look at the back of her head.”
“I see no profit in that — for me. I’m paying for the gas.”
“Well, hell’s bells, what do you want me to do? Talk to you?”
“You might.”
“What about?”
“Oh... tell me about Luke Wheer, your father’s valet. Have the police found him?”
“No.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s dark brown, tall and skinny, and a little popeyed. As I just told what’s-his-name back there, he’s square and straight and easy-going, and Father had complete confidence in him. He’s been with Father over twenty years.”
“Have they found your father’s car — the one Luke went away in?”
“No.”
“Where did they take you to identify the body — was it still in the bungalow?”
“No. They didn’t find me till after two o’clock, out on Long Island and he — they had taken it to White Plains for the autopsy. I went there.”
“Have you ever been in that bungalow?”
“No. Nobody has.”
“Nobody at all?”
“No one that I know of. Of course, there might have been dozens and I wouldn’t have known it. All I knew about my father was what I read in the papers. I happen to know, though, that Kester had been in the bungalow.”
“Vaughn Kester, your father’s confidential secretary?”
“Yes. He mentioned it only last night. He said he was up there a couple of weeks ago to arrange about some repairs—”
“Wait for me. I must have skipped something. I thought Kester was at Green Meadow, near Pleasantville, last night, and it was after he was notified of the murder and left there for the bungalow that he disappeared.”
“That’s right.”
“And you were on Long Island?” Fox was frowning. “Where did you see Kester?”
“At Green Meadow. My sister and I had dinner there with him, and I went to Long Island afterwards.”
Fox’s frown gathered another wrinkle. “I guess I’ll quit reading the papers. I read that your sister was in the Adirondacks.”
“She was, but she flew down yesterday afternoon for the meeting I had arranged with Kester. He was our liaison officer with headquarters, meaning our parent. I’m not revealing secrets. All our best friends love to talk about it. When we needed to undertake financial negotiations we went to Kester. When I decided to be a Communist a few years ago it was Kester I notified.”
“Oh. Are you a Communist?”
“Not any more. I tried it a couple of months. I was so damn bored and useless. I ought to have a job, but I don’t seem to find anything. How about being a detective? Have you got an opening?”
“Not right this minute.” Fox’s tone had no banter. “I’ll consider it. After dining with Kester, did your sister go to Long Island with you?”
“Nuts.” Jeffrey scowled. “Mr. Fox, my sister didn’t kill my father and neither did I. That what’s-his-name back there had me convinced that Andrew Grant did, but now that I know who his niece is I hope he’s a fathead. I mean what’s-his-name.”
“Your hope seems reasonable,” Fox declared. “He has no evidence that Grant had a gun. The only motive that can be imputed to him, resentment at being fired from his job, is puerile. Beyond that, Derwin has nothing whatever except that Grant was there.”
“Oh, yes, he has. Grant lied.”
“Lied? What about?”
“About the time he got there, or maybe — anyway, he lied. He said when he looked in at the window Father was sitting there smoking a cigar and listening to the radio play band music, and it was a little after eleven o’clock. That’s impossible. If it was between eleven and eleven-thirty, Father was listening to Dick Barry. He hasn’t missed it once in three years.”
Fox made a noise of contempt. “As thin as that? Maybe he couldn’t get that station, or maybe in the bungalow his tastes changed, or maybe someone else turned on the radio — that’s as close to nothing—”
“No, really,” Jeffrey protested. “I tell you it’s a point. Grant must be lying. Ask anybody that knows my father. A year ago, when Dick Barry changed from seven to eleven o’clock, Father changed his bedtime. I don’t say he would have lost a leg to avoid missing it, but it’s a million to one that if he was in a room where a radio was at eleven o’clock, and he was conscious and free to act, he dialed WLX and got Dick Barry. Ten million to one. I suppose I shouldn’t tell you how what’s-his-name dopes it, but I will. He thinks Grant was in the room, covering Father with the gun, and Grant turned on the band music to smother the sound of the shots. Then of course he had to say the band music was playing because someone might have heard it. I hate to say it, but it sounds to me — what are you staring at?”
“Excuse me,” said Fox softly. “I apologize, Mr. Thorpe. I also apologize for a sudden decision I’ve made. I’m going somewhere in a hurry. So if you’ll kindly take possession of your car—” He stuck his head out the window and called: “Dan! Come here! Step on it!”
“But my God,” Jeffrey complained, “I was doing my best—”
“I know you were. I appreciate it. Thank you. Why don’t you write Miss Grant a letter? Get in, Dan, get in! If you don’t mind, Mr. Thorpe — thanks — women always read letters before they return them unopened. See you again. Look out, I’m—”
The convertible moved, regained the concrete, was at 20 in second, at 40 in high, at 60. Fox’s baritone was approximating the tune of “The Parade of the Wooden Soldiers”:
“Lah-de-dah, dum dum, lah-de-dah, dum dum...”
The back seat, Dan’s bass again, demanded: “Why, are we getting hot?”
“Dee-dee-dee — no! We’re taking a flyer on a ten-million-to-one shot!”
Nancy spoke loud to his ear: “But you’re turning south! I don’t — where are we going?”
“Going to work, Miss Grant. Heigh-ho! We’re going to New York to find someone who knows someone who knows Dick Barry.”
Two hours later Dan and Nancy were seated at a table in a corner of an enormous air-conditioned room on Madison Avenue near 60th Street. She was sipping an orangeade and he was finishing a Perisphere Float.
Dan was telling her not to worry. “He’ll find him all right,” he assured her. “If he’s buried he’ll dig him up. Don’t worry about your uncle either. That’ll work out. If you’ve got to worry, worry about me. I’m supposed to keep you awake. You might think it wouldn’t matter where you were awake or not, but you heard me trying to suggest — huh. Here he comes again. Find him, Tec?”