It was obviously hopeless; their cerebrums had entirely suspended operations. They were blissfully incapable of understanding why news of the telegram had caused Fox to risk life and limb and make his car a deadly menace over fifty miles of highway and byway; the question didn’t even occur to them.
He demanded, “What are you going to do now?”
“Oh,” Ted said, “there’s a train back at ten thirty. We’ll take a walk or fool around...”
“That’s a good idea. Take a long walk. You may get lost and starve to death.”
Fox marched for the door on the street side, debouched, found his friend Joe Prisco, the taxi man, and asked to be driven to Croton Falls. When they got there a brief inspection of the Wethersill disclosed no marks of battle except scratched paint where the rear fender had grazed the pole.
“You ought to be more careful,” Joe admonished him.
“Yeah, I’m going to be,” Fox agreed.
Heading towards New York, he left Route 22 at the first intersection, worked east, and eventually made the Hutchinson River Parkway. That way he didn’t go within miles of Hawthorne Circle. Idling along at 50, he invited his nerves to calm down a little, but they ignored the invitation. They had prepared themselves for an explosion of energy, and all they were getting was an evening ride in the country.
It was a quarter to eleven when, having left the car at a garage, he arrived at the address on 51st Street where Perry Dunham had maintained a bachelor apartment. There he encountered a fresh irritation in the shape of a sour and suspicious hallman, who, not satisfied by Fox’s possession of the key and the note signed by Mrs. Pomfret, insisted on communicating with the police; and since the matter had to be referred to Inspector Damon and he was not on duty, it was necessary to phone him at home. At length the hurdle was cleared, and Fox was taken in an elevator to the sixth floor and directed to a door. He opened it with the key, entered and found light switches and flipped them, and gazed around in blank astonishment.
“I suppose,” he muttered sarcastically, “it was Ted Gill looking for a telegraph blank.”
There was a phone on a table by the opposite wall. Dodging obstacles, he crossed to it, found it was connected, and asked for a number. After a wait he responded to a hello:
“Inspector Damon? Tecumseh Fox. I’m sorry to disturb you again, but whoever worked Dunham’s apartment neglected to straighten up. I never saw such a mess, books and things all over the floor, cushions slashed open— What? No. I don’t know, I just came in. Sure. Okay.”
He stood and glared around at the indescribable jumble. This was where he had intended to spend a restful night after an hour or so of leisurely inspection. A feather, one of thousands out of the cushions, was clinging to the cuff of his trousers, and he plucked it off and puffed it into the air. There was no bed in sight. He went to a door that was standing ajar, passed through, and discovered a bed, but not in a condition to invite repose. The covers were strewn around, and the mattress was in the middle of the floor with its ticking ripped off and its insides scattered in all directions. He returned to the other room and made a tour, looking, but not touching anything. He would have liked to rescue a copy of Inside Asia that was sprawling in a heap of other books, its leaves crumpled, but forbore. He saw The Grapes of Wrath; Rouge et Noir; The Mason Wasps — apparently Dunham’s tastes had ranged — Madame Recamier; No Arms, No Armour; Thomas Bissell Old Coins Catalogue No. 38—
He frowned down at the last, emitted a grunt, and stooped and picked it up. Leafing through it, he found that it was merely what its cover indicated: a catalogue of old and rare coins, with pictures of some and prices of many. Coenwulf of Britain, 9th century. Byzantine coin of Andronicus II. The Great Mogul Jahangir...
When Sergeant Craig arrived with men and equipment thirty minutes later, Fox was still learning things about old and rare coins. He greeted the sergeant and wished him luck, told him that his fingerprints would be found on the coin catalogue but on nothing else except the telephone, and left him to his laborious and probably fruitless task. He had it in mind to stop downstairs for some queries regarding recent visitors to the Dunham apartment, but found that he had been forestalled by two plain-clothes men who had the acidulous hallman in a corner and were thrusting their jaws out at him, so he departed, walked six blocks to the Sherman Hotel, got a room, and went to bed.
In the morning he had his choice of several moves, all obvious and uninspired, and none promising. He settled, not wholly by contrariety, on the least obvious. The weakest link in the official chain of negatives, judging from Damon’s sketchy report the previous afternoon, was that dealing with the ménage of Adolph Koch, with particular reference to visitors resembling Garda Tusar; and Fox, having spoken with the maid on the telephone and appraised her from her voice, decided to test that link. It would of course be desirable not to arrive until after Koch had left for his office, so he went uptown first for a brief call on Mrs. Pomfret, where he learned nothing new except that her son Perry, as far as she was aware, had not collected old and rare coins or displayed any interest in them.
But though it was after ten o’clock when he arrived at the Koch house on 12th Street, it was still too early. He never got to see the maid at all. The large and dignified colored man who opened the door informed him, to his chagrin, that Mr. Koch was at home; and, after asking him to wait, returned shortly and conducted him to a door in the rear and bowed him through.
Koch, putting something down on a table, came toward him to shake hands. As Fox met him and they exchanged greetings, a buzzer sounded.
“Damn it,” Koch said, “I might as well be the office boy. Excuse me.”
He went to a telephone the other side of the table and answered it, waving Fox to a chair. Fox sat down and looked around, as one does during a phone conversation that is none of one’s business. It was a solid and attractive room, subdued as to color, with comfortable chairs, handsome rugs, a large cabinet of pottery at one end and the walls of two sides lined with books...
It was as Fox’s eyes were traveling to the other wall that they stopped and fastened themselves to one spot. It was occupied by the object which Koch had been depositing on the table when he entered; and the object — yes, his eyes told him, indubitably — was the Wan Li black rectangular vase which he had last seen behind a pile of washcloths in Diego’s bathroom closet.
Chapter 13
Fox looked in another direction, with, he hoped, no gleam in his eye.
Koch finished with the phone, pushed it away, and dropped into a chair.
“You would suppose,” he observed testily, “that a man’s business might run itself for an hour or two. It’s my own fault, letting them depend on me for everything, so when I don’t get there sharp at nine thirty as usual...” He shrugged. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m out fishing.” Fox smiled at him. “Mrs. Pomfret got impatient and hired me to find out who killed her son.”
“Ah.” Koch smiled back. “She would.”
“And I’m trying to get a rise somewhere.”
Koch’s brows went up. “From me?”
“From anyone. I’m not particular.”
“Then the police haven’t made much progress?”
“Nothing very notable.” Fox threw one knee over the other. “By the way, you were speaking of your business — I know you make women’s clothes — do you make fabrics too? I have a note here from Mrs. Pomfret, if you’d care to see it, requesting co-operation—”
“That’s all right.” Koch waved it away. “You couldn’t be as objectionable as the police have been even if you tried. Nor as clumsy, I hope. They’ve been pumping my servants about the guests I invite to my house.” He smiled. “Yes, we manufacture some of our own fabrics. Does that have some sinister significance?” His eyes looked amused.