Double for Death

Chapter 10

Luke sat, stiff and erect, on a chair back of his employer’s shoulder making faint sucking noises with his tongue and teeth.

“Move your chair over,” said Derwin irritably, “so I can see you better. Where were you when the shots were fired?”

Luke lifted himself an inch, moved his chair six inches, and went on making the noises.

“Are you dumb?” Derwin demanded.

Luke shook his head. “No, sir,” he said in a low but firm tone. “I am not dumb in the vocal sense. I am being careful what I say because I realize the preponderance—”

“Oh, spill it, Luke,” Jeffrey blurted.

“Yes, Mr. Jeffrey. At the time the shots were fired I was in my room writing a letter to the editor of the Harlem Courier.”

Derwin nodded. “I’ve read it. You left it there. Your room is the one at the right of the kitchen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you do when you heard the shots? How many did you hear?”

“I heard two shots, almost simultaneously consecutive. At first I thought they were shots, then I thought they were a part of the radio program which was turned up very loud, but after an interval of three or four minutes, according to my judgment, I became dissatisfied with that thought and went to look through the door into the living room. The sight that met my eyes was the worst I have ever seen. I ran over to him and saw it was the end. My blood ran cold. The psychology—”

“What did you do?”

“Yes, sir. My blood ran cold. On account of psychology, I was imbued with the impression that Mr. Thorpe, for whom I have worked more than twenty years, had been murdered. That impression was because I had strictly trained myself for three years to speak of him and think of him as Mr. Thorpe when he was there in the bungalow. Then I realized it was not Mr. Thorpe, it was him. Then I realized the only thing to do was obey my orders to never cause or permit any suspicion that he was not Mr. Thorpe. Then I realized that if I did that the news would get out that Mr. Thorpe was dead, and that would be inconvenient because he was dead. Not knowing where Mr. Thorpe was, I thought the only thing I could do was telephone Mr. Kester, but then I thought that would be bad because everything that happened in that bungalow was going to be taken into consideration. So I realized I couldn’t use the telephone and I couldn’t conveniently be there when anybody came if they had heard the shots, and I went out and got the car and drove away.”

“Did you see a car parked on the road outside the gate?”

“Yes, sir. That increased my desire to get away. My rear fender hooked it as I swung into the road and I would have run over a woman if she hadn’t jumped, because I didn’t see her until I was right on her. I have been worried about her, provided she wasn’t the murderer, because I have never struck a living creature—”

“She’s all right. Where did you go?”

“I turned west before I got to Mount Kisco and then went on through Millwood to Chappaqua. I stopped the car there and sat in it a while, thinking it over, and then went in a drugstore and telephoned Mr. Kester at the Green Meadow Club. He had just been notified by the police and was up dressing. I drove to Pine’s Bridge and he met me there, and we had a talk and decided to find Mr. Thorpe. First we decided to try—”

“Let’s go back to the bungalow. You were in your room when the shots were fired?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see anyone, hear anyone, hear any noise?”

“No, sir, the radio was on so loud—”

“Had anyone called to see Arnold during the weekend?”

“No, sir, no one was ever let in. The gate to the drive was kept locked. Not anyone for deliveries even — I brought everything from Mount Kisco.”

“Had there been a phone call for Arnold?”

“No, sir, there couldn’t be. When he was there he was Mr. Thorpe. We never forgot that for a second, neither of us. If the phone rang I answered it. It was never anybody but Mr. Kester with instructions.”

“Had Mr. Kester phoned this weekend?”

“No, sir. Usually he only phoned to tell us when to leave because Mr. Thorpe was returning to his home or his office.”

“What had you and Arnold been fighting about?” Luke blinked. “Me? Fighting with him?”

“That’s what I said. What was it about?”

Ridley Thorpe snapped, “Bosh! If you’re cooking up a theory that Luke—”

“I’m not cooking up a theory,” Derwin snapped back. “God knows there are plenty of theories without trying to cook one up. Would you like to hear a few of them?”

“I’d like to hear all there are. I want this thing cleared up.”

“So do I.” Derwin met his gaze. “I’ll state some of them briefly and bluntly. One. Luke Wheer had a quarrel with Arnold and killed him. Two. Vaughn Kester, knowing it was Arnold and not you, killed him for financial profit— No, let me finish, Mr. Thorpe wants to hear them. Three. Andrew Grant, thinking it was you, killed him for revenge or some other undisclosed motive. Four. Nancy Grant, thinking it was you, killed him for revenge or some other undisclosed motive. Five. Jeffrey Thorpe, thinking it was you, killed him to inherit a fortune. Six. Miranda Pemberton, thinking it was you, killed him to inherit a fortune. Seven. You yourself, knowing it was Arnold, killed him for financial profit. Eight. Some enemy of Arnold’s knowing he was there, killed him. Nine. Some enemy of yours, thinking it was you, killed him. That’s all. At this moment they’re all possible. I can ignore none of them.”

“You might explain a couple of them, though,” Vaughn Kester said dryly. “How would Mr. Thorpe or I have profited financially by killing Arnold?”

Derwin looked at the secretary’s pale cold eyes. “I can answer that, Mr. Kester, by repeating a piece of information I got on the telephone a little while ago. Over a hundred thousand shares of Thorpe Control were sold on the exchange yesterday and today, at prices ranging from 29 to 40. If they were sold, somebody bought them. With Mr. Thorpe alive and well, it will jump back around 80 tomorrow. Whoever bought them will have a nice profit.”

Ridley Thorpe inquired quietly, “Are you daring to intimate—”

“I’m not intimating anything. You asked for the theories. I hardly need to say that such an accusation against a man of your standing would not be remotely considered without conclusive evidence and I have no evidence at all. Until an hour ago — two hours ago — I thought you were dead. But that theory applies to Mr. Kester as well as you. The theory which formerly applied to him—”

“May I ask what that was?” Kester sneered.

“For the record, if you want it. It no longer applies, since you knew the man in the bungalow was not Thorpe. It was simply that investigation had disclosed that you aspired to marry Thorpe’s daughter and if she inherited millions — the theory embraced the possibility of a conspiracy—”

“Also the possibility that I hired him to do it, or Jeffrey and I both did while we were dining with him Sunday evening,” said Miranda calmly. “For shame, Mr. Derwin! That’s plain nasty.”

“He asked for it, Mrs. Pemberton. You often find nasty things back of a murder.”

“You will permit me,” said Kester icily, “a comment on your statement that I aspire to marry Mr. Thorpe’s daughter. It is true that at one time—”

Derwin cut him off. “It’s no longer relevant. I would like to say that most of the theories I proposed are at present no better than moonshine. Obviously those applying to the Grants, both uncle and niece—”

“More moonshine,” Ridley Thorpe said impatiently. “All that stuff in the paper — just because he happened to go there—”

“Don’t you know them, Mr. Thorpe?”

“No. Not from Adam. Apparently the man works for an advertising agency that does copy for some of my companies—”

“Have you never met either of them?”

“Never.”

“That’s curious.” Derwin pulled open a drawer of his desk. “Would you mind telling me how this happened to be in a drawer of a cabinet in your dressing room in your New York residence?”

Thorpe took the photograph of Nancy Grant, gave it one sharp glance, let a near-by hand, which happened to be that of Tecumseh Fox, take it from him and arose. He put his fists on the desk and leaned on them, towards the district attorney.

“Do you mean to say—” he demanded in a voice trembling with outraged indignation, “are you telling me that men have ransacked my private apartments in my private residence?” He thumped the desk. “That you have actually had the effrontery—”

“But my God, we thought you were murdered!”

“I wasn’t! I’m not! If anything, anything whatever has been removed from my belongings, I want it returned at once! You understand that? Where’s that picture? What did I do with it?”

“I have it,” said Fox.

“Keep it!” He pointed a finger at the drawer. “What else have you got in there that belongs to me?”

“Nothing. That was taken because — really, Mr. Thorpe, this is ridiculous. We were investigating a murder. We still are. This is childish—”

“Oh, I’m childish, am I? What about you?” Thorpe thumped the desk again. “With your imbecile theories about my son and daughter and secretary and valet and people named Grant that I have never seen! Wasting time having me make signed statements about a trip on a boat and asking Luke what he was fighting about! You’re a fool. Why don’t you ask me who killed me — who killed Arnold? Good gracious! Do you want me to tell you or not? I will!” He reached in his pocket for something and tossed it on the desk. “There! Whoever sent me that killed Corey Arnold! You and your half-witted theories!”

Derwin picked it up, an envelope that had been slit open, and removed from it a piece of paper. The others sat watching him, except Thorpe and Fox, who stood, as he unfolded the paper and read it, first rapidly, then a second time slowly.

Fox put out a hand. “May I see it?”

“No,” said Derwin shortly. He raised his eyes to Thorpe. “When did you—”

“Give it to him.”

“But I want—”

“I said give it to him! It’s mine!”

Fox got it and with the same swoop of his hand collected the envelope from the desk.

Thorpe faced him: “Keep it. I want to see you about it. Your name is Tecumseh Fox? I’ve heard of you. Apparently your head works, since you seem to have deduced for yourself that it wasn’t me that was killed. A head’s going to be needed—”

Derwin blurted, “I want that paper. It’s vital—”

“Quiet,” Thorpe snapped. “Stop interrupting me— Where’s your office? New York?”

“I haven’t any office. I live up south of Brewster.”

“Can you be at my New York office at nine in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Ask for Kester and he’ll get you in to me. Vaughn, bring him in at once. I’m tired and hungry. You’d better come and spend the night at Maple Hill. What about you children? Where are you bound for?”

“I was in bed at Maple Hill last — Sunday night, when this news came,” said Miranda. “I slept there last night. So did Jeff.”

“Then we’ll all go there. Have you got a car? Good.” Thorpe wheeled to the stenographer. “Is there any good reason why you aren’t getting those statements typed so we can sign them and go?”

The stenographer flushed, arose and trotted out. Derwin said firmly:

“I want that paper. I am not through with Luke Wheer. Also I want to question Mr. Kester—”

“That paper is mine.” Thorpe looked as if he might begin thumping again. “I’ll send you a photostat of it tomorrow. Fox, remember that. We’ll keep the original or turn it over to the New York police. I suppose I should have done that when I got it, but I was too busy. Luke is my valet and I need him — look at me! If you insist on heckling him, you can see him at Maple Hill tomorrow. You can see Kester at my New York office, but you’d better phone for an appointment. In case you want an appointment with me, make it through my counsel Buchanan, Fuller, McPartland and Jones— Yes, Henry? You saying something?”

“I’ve been trying to.” The wiry little man had to tilt his head back to meet the eyes of the taller one. “I’m worrying a little about my boat. I’d like to get back over there and I don’t know about a bus or a ferry from Bridgeport—”

“Excuse me,” Tecumseh Fox interposed. “You’re Henry Jordan, aren’t you? The owner of the boat Mr. Thorpe was on?”

“I am.”

“Well, if I were you I wouldn’t try to get back there tonight. You and your boat are objects of great romantic interest. The Hermit of the Armada, they’ll probably call you. They’ll interview you and photograph you all night and all day. You couldn’t keep them off with a machine gun. It wouldn’t be any better if you went home. You’d better come and spend the night with me; there’s plenty of room at my place.”

“I’m worried about the boat.”

“The police will take care of it.”

“He’s right, Henry,” Thorpe asserted. “You’d better spend the night with him, or you can come with us to Maple Hill.”

Jordan shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t know—”

He was kept from finishing it by an interruption almost as startling as the former one at the window, only this came from the anteroom. There were scuffling noises and the door burst violently open, and the floor shook under their feet as a man came bounding through. Bounding after him, clutching for him, tripping each other up in their eagerness, were four others, two state troopers and two in plain clothes. The hare kept coming without deceleration clear to the desk, the hounds at his heels, greeted by exclamations from the group as it scattered to avoid being trampled underfoot. Derwin was up barking again.

The man looked at Tecumseh Fox, ignoring the hands reaching and grabbed him, and said in a deep rumble of relief, “Oh, there you are.”

“What in the devil is this?” Derwin shouted.

A trooper panted, “Chased him all the way upstairs — a mob outside and we’re guarding the entrance — said he wanted to find Tecumseh Fox — wouldn’t let him in — he tore through and got in and up the stairs—”

“You’re out of breath,” said the man. “Let loose of me.” He looked at Fox. “I know you told me to stay in the car, but I heard they had pinched you and I thought it would be better—”

“No.”

“Right again.”

“I apologize,” Fox said to everybody. “Let me present Mr. Pavey, my vice-president. Mr. Derwin, Mr. Thorpe, Mrs. Pemberton, Mr. Kester, Mr. Jeffrey Thorpe, Mr. Wheer, Mr. Jordan. I’m going home and take a bath and eat something. I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Thorpe. Come on, Dan. Come, Mr. Jordan—”

“Wait! He hasn’t signed that statement!”

They waited for it. Derwin was summoned by the phone. Ridley Thorpe spoke with his son and daughter. The troopers and the other two left. Kester approached Fox and muttered at him in an undertone, and got nods but no words in reply. Finally the stenographer entered, and Henry Jordan was given a chair and a pen, and the statement was read and signed. He departed, looking stubborn and a little bewildered, with Fox at one elbow and Dan Pavey at the other.

In that formation they fought their way through the street mob at the entrance to the building and walked two blocks to where Dan had parked the convertible. There, when he was invited to climb in, Jordan’s stubbornness found words.

“I’m much obliged,” he said, hanging back, “but I’m worried about the boat. I have no doubt I can find a bus—”

“I expect you can,” Fox agreed, “but you won’t. The fact is, Mr. Jordan, I want you around. You’re an extremely important person, since you’re in on the secret of our little dodge. Frankly, you strike me as a man to be trusted, and I admire you and respect you for refusing to take pay for this. But a bunch of newspaper reporters are quick to take a hint and you might let one out inadvertently. If you did and they got a nose on the trail, a day’s hard work would be spoiled. Not only that, you’d have all your trouble for nothing, since you’re doing this to prevent a blaze of publicity on your daughter. Get in.”

“I can keep my mouth shut.”

“You can do it a lot easier if you stick with me. I insist on it, really. It’s the only way to do it. I like to play safe when I’ve got a choice.”

Jordan, grumbling about the boat, climbed in the rear with Dan and Fox took the wheel.

It was dark, after nine o’clock, when they got home. In spite of the fact that Mrs. Trimble greeted him with the news that Andrew Grant and his niece were up in the room that had been assigned to Nancy, waiting for him, Fox did not go there when he proceeded upstairs, but to his own room. After a bath and shave he returned below, joined Dan and Jordan in the dining room, and helped them dispose of cold roast beef, bread and butter, a mixed salad, iced tea, pot cheese, home-made sponge cake and strawberries and cream, while Mr. and Mrs. Trimble and various guests sat around and listened to a recital of such of the day’s activities as he cared to recite. He liked that and so did they.

That over, he went back upstairs, stopped in his room a moment, proceeded to Nancy’s room and entered after knocking, greeted her and her uncle, handed her a large rectangle of pasteboard and inquired:

“What was that doing in a drawer in a cabinet in Ridley Thorpe’s dressing room in his New York residence?”