Rex Stout (18 page)

“About four o’clock, a little after.”

“Could someone have gone there and hid the gloves, while you were reading in the pergola, without you seeing them?”

“No. I’m sure they couldn’t. It was only ten yards away.”

“Then it was done while you were off looking for the bird. How long were you gone?”

“I suppose ten minutes.”

“Didn’t you see anyone? Or hear anyone?”

“No, I was in the filbert thicket—you know how dense it is.”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t know a filbert thicket from a pine tree.” Dol’s eyes were slits of concentration. “Did you bring the gloves away with you? Did you go and hide them then?”

“No. I … I brought them. I had heard voices at the tennis court, and decided to go there, and I came to my room first to change my shoes. I brought my book and the gloves along and left them here.” She pointed to a bureau. “I put the gloves in that drawer. Then I went down to the tennis court. I had been there only about ten minutes when you came.”

“Was what you told me this morning the truth? That all the time you were in the rose garden you saw no one around at all?”

Janet slowly and positively shook her head. “No one.”

“When did you hide the gloves in the watermelon?”

“This morning. Early. I was up early.”

“You went there alone, and cut the hole in the melon, and took out some of the insides, and stuffed the gloves in, and put the rind back. Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you carry what you took out to the compost heap?”

“Because I thought that was the natural place for it. I … I didn’t want to leave it anywhere else.”

“Where did you get the knife you used?”

“At the tool shed.”

“Did you take it back there?”

“Yes.”

Dol removed her eyes from Janet’s face for the first time since entering the room. With her elbow on her knee and her knuckles against her lips, she let her lashes fall. There was nothing wrong with it anywhere; there seemed not to be. She went back over the times Janet had given, the chronology of her movements; she considered the
mise en scene
out there on the east slope as she knew it; and could detect no contradiction, no improbability.…

Finally she straightened up. “Okay. I’ll swallow all of that for the time being and digest it later. Of course the question is,
why
did you hide the gloves? I’m not going to devil you with it. If all you’ve told me is the truth, there is only one conceivable reason: because you knew who they belonged to. Was that it?”

Janet’s hands were clenched tight, rigid, on her lap. Her reply was a barely audible murmur: “Yes.”

Dol nodded. “Of course. When you found them, why did you bring them to your room and put them away in the drawer? Why didn’t you return them to the owner?”

“Well … it was peculiar finding them there.” Janet cleared her throat, but it didn’t seem to help her voice any. “I thought I would just keep them …”

“As a souvenir. Then, when you learned what had happened, and later last night when they examined everybody’s hands and mentioned gloves, you came upstairs and examined the pair you had found to see if they had been used to pull a wire, and you decided that you would defend the man who owned them against the consequences of his crime, though the crime was the murder of your father. Like that?”

“No,” Janet muttered. “Not like that. It was not his crime. He didn’t do it.”

“How do you know he didn’t?”

“Because he didn’t. You know he didn’t. You know … it was Martin.…”

“You mean you recognized them as Martin’s gloves.”

“Yes.”

“Obviously. I’ve read your poems, and I have eyes, especially for what you have made no great effort to conceal. I know that Martin is the only man whose gloves you would want to put in a drawer in your room, and certainly the only man you would want to protect from injury—at any cost. Since they were his gloves, what made you so sure that Martin hadn’t done it?”

“Because he wouldn’t.” Janet’s fingers twisted. “Would he? Why would he? You know he wouldn’t. Someone else got his goves … someone else wanted him to be accused.…”

“That could be a theory.” Dol was frowning. “It certainly could have been your theory, no doubt of that. At least, someone could have used them. It seems less clear that Martin was supposed to be accused, since it was quite possible that they might never have been found, under the peat moss.” Her eyes, on Janet, narrowed speculatively. “I know you’re a strange girl. A strange woman. After you learned what the gloves had been used for, why didn’t you give them to Martin and tell him where you had found them, and leave it to him?”

“I couldn’t. I … I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t shock him like that.”

“My Lord. You didn’t want to shock him. You have got it bad, and him pledged to another and a richer girl. So you haven’t told him about it? You just went and hid them in the watermelon?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you realize that by doing that you might be making it impossible to discover and punish the murderer of your father?—No, I take that back—what you realized or didn’t is none of my business. You did it, and that’s that. I think you were a Grade A ninny, but I doubt if that interests you any.”

Dol arose and got the pigskin case, put it on the chair, and opened it. Then she lifted her skirt, pulled out the gloves, and arranged the tops of her stockings. She stood
with the gloves in her hand: “Here they are. You see how much good it did you.” She tucked the gloves in the case and shut the lid. “I’m going down now and turn them over to Sherwood. I’ll keep you out of it. It would look nice in the papers, that story, wouldn’t it? And that bully Brissenden would enjoy the details of your passion for another girl’s swain. Wouldn’t he? I say you’re a ninny.”

She picked up the bag and turned to go. Janet’s soprano came faltering, “But they’ll find out … you said my fingerprints …”

“Leave that to me. I’ll keep you out if I can. If they do get onto you, you’ll just have to tighten up your belt and take it. Holy matrimony, the things a woman will do!” She opened the door, passed through, and closed it behind her.

Downstairs, in the reception hall, she was very nearly tripped up by an unlucky coincidence, but she jumped it neatly without a stumble. The coincidence was the fact of Sergeant Quill’s presence there, talking to a colleague, at the moment that she entered; and the additional fact that, seeing the pigskin case in her hand, he decided that he had time to spare for a little entertainment.

“Oh, Miss Bonner!” The sergeant was in her path. “I see you took my advice, only I didn’t mean the whole works, I just meant the gun. I been telling Miller here about that outfit, it sure is a pippin. I’d like to show it to him.” He extended a hand for it. “You don’t mind, do you?”

For an instant Dol’s heart stopped, as her quick imagination showed her the calamitous outcome if she refused, and the trooper insisted and got stubborn and took it—and opened it to show his brother. So she smiled at him charmingly:

“Not at all, sergeant. In just a few minutes, when I come out—Mr. Sherwood sent for me—”

She brushed past him briskly, crossed to the door to the card room, opened it and entered; as she went to close it behind her, it was obstructed by the sergeant following her, and she abandoned it to him. Another trooper, in there, was moving to intercept her; she circled, ignoring him, and went to the table. Brissenden, who had been standing looking out of a window, turned at the intrusion; Sherwood and his spectacled assistant were at the table as
before; a big man with a Morgan nose, in his shirt sleeves, was at the farther end; in the chair at this end where Dol had sat in the morning, was Sylvia Raffray.

Dol deigned no reply to Sherwood’s indignant protest at her unceremonious interruption. She lifted the case to the table, opened it, took out the gloves and tossed them down.

“There they are. I found them.”

“The—well, by God.”

Brissenden nearly knocked over a chair getting there. The man in his shirt sleeves stood up and leaned to see. But their concentration on the find was arrested by Sylvia. She too, staring at the gloves, had stood up, and they all heard her involuntary gasp; and, looking at her, saw her eyes fixed in amazement. Sherwood’s hand, reaching for the gloves, stopped in the air.

He snapped, “What is it, Miss Raffray? You recognize them?”

Sylvia drew back, and looked, horrified, at Dol. Dol was at her side, a hand on her shoulder: “Now, Sylvia. Sylvia dear! Everything—”

“Step back, Miss Bonner.” Sherwood was curt. “If Miss Raffray recognizes—”

Dol wheeled on him. “What if she does? You’re not afraid you’re not going to find out who they belong to, are you? With all the help you’ve got? If she got a jolt, give her a chance. If she knows whose they are, she’ll tell you.”

“Do you know?”

“No.” Dol was patting Sylvia’s shoulder, softly. “I never saw them before. You might see what you think of the marks on them.”

Sherwood had the gloves in his hand, and the others were crowded around him. Sergeant Quill was peering over the attorney’s shoulder with compressed lips, slowly nodding his head. Brissenden wore a ferocious scowl. The spectacled assistant looked interested but skeptical. The man in shirt sleeves grabbed one of the gloves and went with it to the window.

The sergeant muttered, “That’s it. Exactly the same as the ones we tested with, them marks.”

Brissenden growled, “Where did you get them?”

“Just a minute, colonel.” Sherwood reached across to lay
the glove on the table in front of Sylvia. “Please look it over, Miss Raffray. Miss Bonner says she never saw them before. Have you?”

Sylvia didn’t take it. Dol picked it up. “Here, Sylvia. Buck up. Don’t be deducing things. All this is, it’s a fact, and you don’t know what other facts it leads to and neither do I. That glove
was
used to murder Storrs with.”

Sylvia had it in her hand looking at it, but as Dol said that she dropped it and it fell to the floor. Quill moved to get it. Sylvia looked up at Dol: “I know it’s only a fact. But Dol … that’s a pair of gloves I bought yesterday in New York. I bought them myself.”

“Good Lord! No wonder it was a jolt. What did you do with them?”

“I gave them to Martin.” Sylvia swallowed. “I had made a bet with him and lost. You remember I left the office yesterday with Martin and Len? On our way to lunch we stopped in at Gordon’s and I bought them to pay the bet.” Sylvia’s chin began to tremble and her fingers clutched Dol’s skirt. “Where … where did you find …”

“Sylvia!” Dol’s low cry was a call to courage, a bugle to summon grit. Having herself once, just once, wept in the presence of a man, it was not to be borne that any woman in the world should ever do so again. Above all, not Sylvia. She turned to the beasts: “Miss Raffray bought the gloves yesterday afternoon in New York, between twelve and one o’clock, at Gordon’s on 48th Street, and gave them to Martin Foltz to pay a bet. That should do for her. Let her alone. As for me—”

Brissenden blew: “We’ll let her alone when we’re through with her. You seem to think—”

“Then I’m unique around here. If I think.” Dol was withering. “I know you can’t investigate a murder without hurting somebody’s feelings, but there’s no sense in your tormenting this girl, and under the circumstances it would be a good idea for you to consider
my
feelings. I did some darned good detective work finding those gloves, and would you like to hear about it now, or would you rather read it in the paper tomorrow morning?”

The man in shirt sleeves cackled loudly and said, “Your name’s Bonner? Mine’s Maguire. Pleased to meetcha. I’m
Chief of Police at Bridgeport. Some of my boys have been working here, and I know damn well they didn’t find the gloves.” He cackled again.

Sherwood was looking at him without pleasure. He turned to the sergeant: “Bring Foltz.—No, wait a minute.” He switched to Dol: “Tell us about your detective work. Where did you find them?”

Dol pulled a chair close to Sylvia and sat down. She picked Sherwood to look at: “There wasn’t much to it. I wasn’t really looking for the gloves, but of course they were in my mind. I happened to be out in the vegetable garden, and looking at the compost heap I saw a little pile of the insides of a watermelon. It wasn’t ripe, and there was no rind. It occurred to me that someone might cut out a piece of rind, remove some of the inside, stick the gloves in, and replace the rind. Of course it was one chance in a million, but anyway I went to the watermelon patch and looked. I found one that had been cut. I removed the piece of rind, and the gloves were inside. There they are.”

Maguire of Bridgeport leaned to Sherwood: “Get that melon. Fingerprints.—You left the melon there, Miss Bonner?”

Dol shook her head. As she she had been speaking she had changed her mind about this. “I thought of fingerprints too. I got specimens from everybody here, and then I took the melon to the compost heap and powdered it. There were none, except my own. So I wiped it off and took it back to the patch—”

Brissenden barked, “Destroying evidence!”

“Please, colonel.” Sherwood raised a hand at him. He looked at Dol: “You understand, Miss Bonner, we appreciate your finding the gloves. It was a remarkable piece of work, and you deserve great praise. But searching for fingerprints is a job for experts. It was most audacious of you to tamper with the melon. Tampering with evidence. That sometimes leads to serious trouble, if it gets before a court—”

“I found the gloves.”

“I know you did. But you say you took specimens from everybody? That takes time. You must have found the gloves an hour ago or more. Precious time wasted—”

“I found the gloves.”

“I know. The implication doesn’t escape me that we should be thankful for what we have got, since you brought it to us. Well, we are. But … you say you wiped the melon off? Why?”

“Oh, it was all covered with powder. I found the gloves.”

Maguire cackled. Sherwood observed drily, “So I understand. Anyway, the melon’s no good now. We can get it later.—Quill, bring Mr. Foltz. Tell Grimes to make sure he knows where everyone is.” The sergeant went. “You ladies will go, please? I may need you later, Miss Raffray. I don’t want to torment you, as Miss Bonner puts it, but I may have to ask you some more questions about your conversation with Mr. Storrs yesterday morning.”