Double for Death

Chapter 7

That was at 4:40 p.m.

Across Long Island Sound and some miles west, Dan Pavey slouched in the front seat of the convertible, parked in front of Don Carter’s place at South Norwalk. He was motionless and his eyes were closed. Suddenly his right leg twitched, then his left arm; his eyes opened; he jerked himself upright, stared around, blinked at his wristwatch and saw that it said 4:40.

“Well!” he told himself, in a rolling rumble of shocked incredulity.

He stared fixedly at space for three minutes.

“Well!” he repeated, still incredulous. “Mrs. Pavey’s boy Dan dreaming about a girl. Don’t deny it. Wake up. Is your boy running a fever, Mrs. Pavey? Perhaps he has acute cerebral flimmuxosis. What a pity. Flush out his skull and let it dry in the sun. How far can he spit? Phut!”

He got out, walked along the sidewalk to a door with a sign, BAR & GRILL, entered and ordered a double Scotch.

He downed it in a gulp, frowned around the place and ordered another. It went the way of the first. He ordered a third, sent it after its predecessors and ordered another one. The man behind the bar demurred.

“Right,” Dan growled. “It’s a waste of money. You might as well try to fill a gas tank with a teaspoon.”

He picked up his change from the bar, returned to the street, walked a block and a half to a drugstore, climbed on to a stool at the fountain and told the boy:

“Westchester Delight with nuts.”

He muttered to himself, as the boy started the complex operation.

“Yes, sir, nuts.”

In the late afternoon, a little after six o’clock, District Attorney P. L. Derwin sat at his desk in his office at White Plains, wearily mopping his face with a damp handkerchief. Not only was he harassed by the impacts and exigencies of the most spectacular murder case Westchester County had enjoyed during his term of office, but also the weather was getting him; the thunderstorm that had raged across the city on its way to the sound in midafternoon had brought only ephemeral relief; it was now hotter and more humid than ever. Derwin looked at the man and girl in chairs facing him, let his handkerchief drop to the desk and spoke irritably:

“I may need to question you further at any time. I can’t say when or how long or how often. Mr. Collins is of course correct when he says that it is your right to refuse to answer questions, but if you do so, the law has a right to make inferences from that refusal. You have both been released under bond as material witnesses.” Perspiration showed on his forehead again. “You are bound, under severe penalty, to be available when needed. That publicity stunt of Tecumseh Fox’s — that radio broadcast — has no bearing whatever on your status. As you know, Fox disappeared from his home during the night, has not returned and cannot be found.”

He shifted to a man standing between two chairs — a large healthy-looking man in a white linen suit, with an amused mouth and sharply watchful dark eyes. “I resent your last remark, Mr. Collins. I’m not man infant. I’m well aware that you are acquainted with the law. I merely ask that you keep me informed of the whereabouts of Grant and his niece, so that in case—”

“Refused.” Nat Collins was brusque. “I’m under no obligation to keep you informed. If you want to see them at any reasonable hour I’ll produce them and I’ll be with them.” He put his hand on Andrew Grant’s shoulder. “Come on, my boy.” He must have been at least four years older than Uncle Andy. “Come, Miss Grant.”

They left Derwin wearily mopping his face again. As they traversed the anteroom, the faces of four or five men sitting there, one a trooper in uniform, were turned to escort them across. Nearing the exit, Grant, who was in the lead, halted abruptly to avoid head-on collision with the door, which was being opened from without. The trio stepped aside to make gangway and were face to face with the pair who were entering.

Jeffrey Thorpe, red-faced from the heat, but no longer sartorially incongruous, confronted Nancy, blocked her off and demanded:

“Why wouldn’t you see me?”

Nancy’s look should have been cooling. “I don’t know you. Let me—”

“The name is Jeff Thorpe. Not only do you know me, I am in your thoughts. You hate me. That’s why you looked out of the upstairs window both times when I was leaving the Fox place today after you refused to see me. You couldn’t help looking out of the window because I fascinate you like a snake. You fascinate me too, damn it! Did you get my letter? What did you — Randa, let go of me!”

His sister pulled him around. “Behave yourself, Jeff. It’s picturesque to be headstrong, but it’s an open season on Thorpes — oh, I didn’t mean that, that was brutal — well, maybe I am brutal—” She tilted her face for her handsome eyes to slant up at Andrew Grant. “You’re picturesque too, Mr. Grant, much more subtly than my brother, but I doubt if you’re headstrong. That was quite effective — what you said to me yesterday in there — and the way you said it.”

Andrew’s eyes, gloomily withdrawn, met hers. “Was it?”

She nodded. “Very. Impressive. I told Mr. Derwin immediately that I believed you. I’m sorry — I speak as the daughter of Ridley Thorpe, surely with as much right to speak as an outsider, even a district attorney — I am sorry that you are innocently involved in the tragedy of my father’s death. Shall we shake hands?”

“Why...” Grant’s lips twisted a little. “I think not. I don’t want to be doggish, but in such a situation as this a handshake would be so extremely... personal...”

“I suppose it would.” She shrugged. “Will you introduce me to your niece?”

He did so. Each of the two women, one beginning her twenties and the other ending them, extended a hand and there was a clasp as Nancy said:

“Of course he’s innocent! We’re both under bond as material witnesses, but you can’t help that.”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t, Miss Grant. You’re very lovely. Exactly the type that makes me look like a frump. I hope you’ll go on hating my brother; it will do him good. If you’re under bond...” She glanced at Nat Collins. “So this man isn’t a policeman?”

“No, this is Mr. Collins, our lawyer. Mrs. Pemberton. Mr. — ” Nancy stopped short and bit her lip.

“Thorpe,” said Jeffrey, giving Collins a hand. “She doesn’t know me. If anybody wants to make a study of headstrength or headstrongness, whichever it is—”

“Don’t get started again, Jeff. Come, we’re late.” Miranda nodded to the others and turned to the room. “I believe Mr. Derwin is expecting us?”

A man said yes, he was waiting for them, and got up to open the inner door. Collins and his clients departed.

Derwin arose to greet the visitors, saw them disposed in the chairs recently vacated by the Grants and sat down again.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “It was next to impossible to get away from here to see you. I appreciate it very much—”

“Oh no, please,” said Miranda. “It would be shabby of us not to remove difficulties for you if we can. Not that I would lift my finger for — well, for vengeance — and I’m sure my brother wouldn’t either. But after all, we’re his offspring, his family, and we inherit his wealth—”

“Of course,” Derwin agreed. “Anyhow, I appreciate it. Colonel Brissenden wanted to be here, but he’s busy on another angle of it in New York and couldn’t get away. You must excuse me if I’m blunt and frank. Apropos of a new theory that is being considered. I want to ask some questions. You first, Mrs. Pemberton. Yesterday you suggested the possibility that your father used the bungalow for the purpose of — uh — female companionship.”

“I did more than suggest it as a possibility. I said you’d find it to be a fact.”

“Just so. I’d like to know, if you don’t mind, on what information — on what grounds you based that statement.”

“I told you.” Miranda frowned. “On my knowledge of my father. I knew him better than he thought I did. Better than any one else, I’m pretty sure, except possibly Luke. It wasn’t like him to seek solitary secluded weekends with his valet. And as I said, he was by no means as austere—”

She stopped because of a knock at the door. Derwin called come in and a man entered and approached the desk.

“Well?”

“I thought I’d better tell you, sir, though of course there’s nothing to it. The Chief of Police over at Port Jefferson, Long Island, just called up. He’s got a nut that claims he’s Ridley Thorpe.”

Derwin gestured irritably. “Why do you bother me about it? I have enough nuts to contend with as it is.”

“Yes, sir, I know, but he says that this one is absolutely a dead ringer for Thorpe and the way he talks, and he’s corroboration, a man that says his name is Henry Jordan — he says, this nut, he says he was out on the sound with his friend Jordan in his boat ever since Friday night and it wasn’t until they went ashore for supplies at Port Jefferson this afternoon that he heard about the murder — of course that’s goofy, hearing about his own murder — anyhow, the chief and a trooper are on the way here with him—”

“Bosh! I haven’t time — let Ben Cook see him.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man went. Derwin mopped his face and neck. “You see, Mrs. Pemberton, the kind of vexations that interrupt us constantly. You were giving me the reasons for that statement you made.”

“I have done so.”

“You had no other reason?”

“No.”

“It was only a surmise? You had no facts, no actual knowledge of — uh — a woman or women—”

Miranda shook her head. “No facts, but it was more than a surmise. It was a conclusion from premises.”

“A logical deduction. I see. It should gratify you to learn that a fact has turned up to support it.”

“I suppose it should. What is it?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment. First I’d like to ask your brother something.” The district attorney turned his regard to Jeffrey. “Mr. Thorpe, I want to say that I understand perfectly your reaction to Colonel Brissenden in this office yesterday. I even sympathize with it. The colonel’s manner is sometimes — uh — brusque. Nevertheless, the question that was asked you is an important one and I would greatly appreciate it if you would give me the information. I refer to the circumstances of your previous acquaintance with Nancy Grant. I may tell you that I have good reason to suspect — come in! Damn it! Excuse me, Mrs. Pemberton.”

The door burst open and the same man entered as before, but this time his eyes were shining with excitement.

“They’ve got Vaughn Kester and Luke Wheer!”

Apparently Derwin had heard that one before too, for he demanded dryly, “Who has?”

“No, they’ve really got ’em! A boat tied up to a dock at Southport and Tecumseh Fox went in the clubhouse to use a phone—”

“What!” Derwin goggled at him. “Fox?”

“Yes, he was with ’em! A cop happened to be on the dock and recognized Fox, and he got curious and thought he’d take a look in the boat while Fox was inside phoning and there were two guys that looked like the pictures of Kester and Wheer, and he pulled a gun and took ’em, and when Fox came out he took him too—”

“Where are they?”

“They’re on the way, they’ll be here in less than an hour.”

Derwin scowled. He picked up his handkerchief and mopped his face, and then scowled some more. “It sounds screwy to me,” he said finally, in slow bewilderment. “Tying up at a dock and leaving them there in plain sight — that doesn’t sound like Tecumseh Fox to me, not for one second.”

Miranda sighed. “Darn that Fox man anyway,” she muttered. “Refusing three invitations to dinner—”

“He’ll dine on the county tonight,” said Derwin grimly.