Rex Stout (19 page)

Dol said, “You go, Sylvia. I’m going to stay here, if Mr. Sherwood will let me.”

“I’ll stay too.” Sylvia had her chin firm again.

But Sherwood said positively, “No, Miss Raffray. I’m sorry, I can’t permit it. Don’t make it unpleasant, please.”

Sylvia tried to insist, but had no help from Dol, and the attorney was firm. She must go. She surrendered. Dol went to the door with her, saw her out with a squeeze on her arm, and then came back to the table and looked Sherwood in the eye and told him:

“I found the gloves. What more do I have to do—”

“All right, all right.” He pushed air down with both hands. “Sit over there, please. And no interruptions, you understand that.”

The chief of police cackled.

It appeared to Dol Bonner’s eye, as Martin Foltz entered the room and was conducted across to the table by Sergeant Quill, that he looked like a man who had recently been drinking too much, but she was sure it was only an appearance. With all the animadversions she might have made regarding Martin—the chief of which would have been that he was a male biped—the likelihood that he would get soused when subjected to a strain was not one of them. She thought him tender-skinned, too ostentatiously a social epicure, and intellectually and esthetically dandified, and she was convinced that he was miles short of deserving Sylvia—but no man alive could have passed that test.

As he took the chair Sylvia had just vacated, after a glance of mild indifferent surprise at Dol Bonner, he looked as if he were controlling an inward irritation only for the sake of avoiding an unpleasant scene. He raised his brows at Sherwood.

The attorney was leaning back with his arms folded; the gloves were not in view because they were in his right hand, concealed by his left arm. He cleared his throat. “I sent for you, Mr. Foltz, because there has been a development. We’ve found the gloves that were worn by the murderer.”

Martin’s forehead wrinkled. “Then—” He stopped. He went on, “Then you know who did it.” His frown deepened. “I suppose you sent for me … but you ought to see that I’m in an anomalous position, and it isn’t pleasant. I have no standing or responsibility in this house, I am merely the finacé of Miss Raffray. She wished me to be present at a
family conference when Mr. Cabot, the lawyer, came. Now you call me in …”

“You misunderstand.” Sherwood’s eyes were glued to him. “I didn’t send for you as a representative of the family. I wanted to ask you about the gloves.” Abruptly he leaned forward and extended his arm, holding the gloves within twelve inches of the other’s face. “Did you ever see them before?”

Martin shrank back, in reflex, from the gesture. He demanded angrily, “What is this?”

“Take them, please. Look at them. Did you ever see them before?”

He took them. Six pairs of eyes were on him. He looked at the gloves, at the leather, the fingers, the cuffs, and when he looked at Sherwood again there was perceptible apprehension in his gray eyes and pallor under his tan. Dol thought uncomfortably and scornfully, “I hope the poor lummox doesn’t faint.”

Martin said in a strained tone. “These are my gloves. They look like mine. Where did you get them?”

“Look at the palms. No, I said the palms. See those marks running across there? The wire made that. The wire Storrs was strangled with. Pulling on it.”

Martin demanded harshly, “Where did you get them?”

“They … were … found.” Sherwood leaned back. “You understand now, Mr. Foltz, why I sent for you. Don’t you?”

“No. I don’t. I don’t know how you knew they were mine.”

“Miss Raffray told us.”

“Sylvia told—” Martin stared. “She told—then did she bring—” He sprang to his feet. “I want to see her! I demand to see Miss Raffray!”

Quill moved a couple of paces. Dol thought, “There you are, a spoiled brat yelling for mama. Sylvia would do better to adopt an orphan.” Sherwood said, “Sit down. Miss Raffray was here and we showed her the gloves, and she said she bought them yesterday to pay a bet she owed you. They belong to you and they were used by the murderer. Did you kill Storrs?”

Martin met his eye. “No. I want to see Miss Raffray.”

“You can see her when we’re through here. Sit down. Did you put that wire around Storrs’ neck and use these gloves to pull him up and strangle him?”

“No.”

“Okay. You didn’t. Then will you please sit down?”

Sherwood waited. Martin looked at Dol, but not with appeal; scarcely, it seemed, with recognition. She thought, “The man really is hypersensitized. And intelligent too, I wonder why he’s not a genius.” Meanwhile Martin was sitting down, but he sat as if he might any instant he impelled upwards again.

The attorney asked conversationally, “These
are
your gloves, Mr. Foltz?”

“I think they are. They look like it.”

“Miss Raffray gave them to you yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have them with you when you drove out to your place from New York yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Where were they between 4:40 and 6:15 yesterday afternoon?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh. You don’t. Where were they at four o’clock?”

“I don’t know.”

The attorney’s next question was forestalled by a grunt from Maguire of Bridgeport. Maguire moved, beckoning with his head, and Sherwood got up to follow him across the room. Brissenden also arose and joined them, in the far corner. Mutterings came from the consultation of the high command. Martin looked at Dol: “Something like this would happen to me. Can’t you bring Sylvia here?”

Dol couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. She shook her head. “Hold the fort, Martin. Mud like this splatters on everybody.”

The trio came back and resumed their chairs. Sherwood looked among the papers on the table before him, found one, and slid it across to Brissenden and Maguire. Then he spoke to Martin: “Suppose you tell us the history of the gloves. From the time you got home with them yesterday.”

Martin said, “This is taking it for granted that it’s the same gloves.”

“Of course. That can be established.”

“I’ve already told you what I did yesterday … the hours as close as I could remember them. When we arrived at my place around three o’clock I carried the gloves into the house with me. I am positive of that, because when I was in my room changing my clothes—”

“Zimmerman was in there with you.”

“Yes. He was talking with me while I changed. I put the gloves in the pocket of my woolen jacket. I always have a jacket along when I play tennis.”

“But gloves? It was warm yesterday.”

Martin frowned. “One thing should be understood. I am not justifying anything or defending myself, I am just telling you what happened. I wear that jacket riding sometimes, and I wear gloves. I do other things around the place. Anyway, I put the gloves in the jacket.”

“Okay. Then?”

“As I’ve told you, I talked some with Zimmerman. Then I went outdoors and joined Miss Raffray and Chisholm. I put the jacket down—I suppose on the back of a chair, I usually do. Some time later Chisholm left to come over here, and shortly afterwards Miss Raffray also left. I sat there, as I’ve told you, and my man de Roode came to ask me some things—”

“Was the jacket still there?”

“Yes. It must have been, because when I finally decided to come to Birchhaven I put it over my arm and brought it along.”

Sherwood nodded. “That’s the jacket you left on a chair in the reception hall.”

“Yes. I’ve explained about that. I entered by the sun room, but after going around by the side hall to the east terrace, I went back in that way, and in the reception hall I decided to go to the dining-room and get a drink, and I threw the jacket down there. I didn’t see it again until late last night, when Belden got it out of the hall closet where he had put it.”

“Were the gloves in the jacket pocket when you put it on the chair in the reception hall?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“You don’t. Were they in it when you left your place to come over here?”

“I don’t know that either. I don’t remember noticing them.”

“When were they in it? When did you last see them?”

“In my room. When I picked them up to put them in the jacket.”

“Do you mean to say that that was the
last
time you saw them? That you noticed them at no time after that?”

“That’s what I say. Yes.”

There was a growl from Brissenden. Maguire was softly fingering his Morgan nose. Sherwood glanced at them and then eyed Martin again, in disgusted silence. “You’ve had a lot of time to think this over, Mr. Foltz. I hope you didn’t take advantage of it to enlarge any holes in your memory. You aren’t playing any favorites, you’re leaving them all in. Anyone might have taken the gloves from the jacket before you left your place—Chisholm, Zimmerman, any of your men. Anyone here might have taken them while it was in the reception hall—Mrs. Storrs, Ranth, Miss Storrs. You wouldn’t narrow the field for us? No?”

Martin said evenly, “I resent that. You have no right to any other supposition than that I am giving you the facts, since there is no contradiction of them—”

“You’re wrong there.” Sherwood put his fist on the desk. “Listen. Somebody around here is headed for trouble, and it might as well be you. I’ve had my nose pulled enough. Ranth lied and slid from under, Chisholm did the same thing, Zimmerman won’t talk and I’ll make him sorry for that—and what about you? Will you tell me that when the butler gave you the jacket late last night, you didn’t notice the gloves were gone
then?
Or, to give you the benefit of all doubts, at least this morning when you knew we were looking for gloves? No, you won’t tell me that. And when you noticed they were gone, why didn’t you inform me? Have I got a right to ask you that, Mr. Foltz?”

“I suppose you have.” Martin stirred nervously; Dol knew he had a violent dislike of raised voices. “I noticed the gloves were gone, of course. Last night. But it didn’t seem that knowing that gloves had disappeared could help you any. You already knew that gloves had disappeared;
your men were looking for them high and low. And I … I didn’t want to discuss it. I didn’t want to be questioned.” He demanded sharply, “Does anyone?”

“But last night you had a suspicion that your gloves had been used for the murder. Didn’t you?”

“It looked possible. I feared that they might have been.”

“Did you mention it to anyone? That your gloves were gone?”

“No.”

“Not even to Miss Raffray?”

“Of course not. She had enough on her mind.”

Sherwood glanced aside at a noise; it was Brissenden getting up and pushing his chair back. The colonel strode around back of Dol, around the end of the table, planted himself in front of Martin, and glared down at him.

His voice rasped: “Look here, Foltz. I think you’re lying. I don’t know what the truth is, but you’re not telling it.”

Martin blurted, “Do I have to tolerate—”

“Shut up! I’ve been tolerating all day. I’ve never heard worse poppycock than your saying you put those gloves in that jacket and then didn’t notice whether they were there or not all afternoon. You’re a damn liar! You can’t get away with it.” He pivoted, in perfectly military form, to Sherwood. “You’re in charge here. Are we nothing but a bunch of suckers? If you’ll send this woman out of here, I’ll get another tune out of him and it won’t take me long. Or let me give him a ride down to Station H. What the hell do I care whether he pays an income tax?” He wheeled back to Martin. “I’ve put out worse fires than any you can start! Don’t think I can’t open you up!”

“I think … you could.” Martin was pale and his voice had tin in it. “If I understand you.”

“I guess you understand me! I’ll give you something you can feel! You need your memory tickled!”

Dol muttered to herself, “The darned infantile sadist. I’d like to stick a pin clear through him.” She knew that Martin had an acute dread of physical pain; it was a major threat to offer to pinch him. But surely, even with the flatulent colonel, it was only a bluff; they wouldn’t dare.…

Martin was saying, his voice still tinny, “I am not lying. And I’m not a coward, but I’m morbidly sensitive to pain. If
you presumed to … to touch me, I would say anything you wanted to hear. What good would that do you?” A perceptible shiver ran over him. “I don’t imagine you’ll try it. I have told you all I know about those gloves.”

The colonel was silent, gazing down at the confessed softy in manly repugnance. At length he sighed. “For the love of Mike.” He threw up his hands, shook his head, and went back to his chair.

Martin spoke to Sherwood. “I would like to call your attention to something. You don’t want to believe me when I say that I don’t know when the gloves were taken from the jacket. But that is exactly the reason why I didn’t tell you when I found that the gloves were gone. I didn’t see that it could help you any.” His voice was better now. “The truth is, I was tempted. I could have told you that I saw the gloves still in the pocket when I put the jacket on the chair in the reception hall, and that would have eliminated everybody but Ranth. I don’t like Ranth. It would have eliminated my friend Zimmerman and … and Len Chisholm. But it was too serious a matter for that sort of temptation. I preferred to tell you the truth.”

“Then you might have tried it,” the attorney observed drily. “You didn’t tell us anything until we found the gloves and you had to.”

“I’m sorry if it hampered you.” Martin stirred impatiently. “I can’t see that it did. By the way—if I am to know—where were they found? In the house?”

“No. Miss Bonner found them. Of course it’s her story, but I would prefer that she keep it to herself for the present—”

“The devil she did.” Martin raised his brows at Dol. “So
that
was what you wanted the fingerprints for.”

Dol nodded and grunted a yes. She told the attorney, “I can keep it all right, but Miss Raffray heard it and you said nothing to her about keeping it.”

“All right. It isn’t important.” Sherwood leaned back with his arms folded, pursed his lips, and surveyed Martin gloomily. “You realize, Mr. Foltz, that what you tell us is completely unsatisfactory. If it’s the truth, you can’t help it, but that doesn’t make us any better satisfied. The gloves that the murderer used have been found, and we know who
they belong to, and we are left precisely where we were before. That doesn’t sound possible, does it? It’s a fact. We have advanced one little step, it is now certain that it must have been someone who had access to those gloves in your jacket yesterday afternoon, it was no outsider; but we were already pretty well convinced of that on other grounds.”