Double for Death

Chapter 8

Jeffrey Thorpe crossed one knee over the other and observed, “That’s a good example of it.”

“Of what?” The district attorney shifted the scowl to him.

“Of authority. The insolence of it. My father had it too; that’s why I only lasted in his office a couple of weeks when I was started in there to learn the tricks. Here you are saying Fox will dine on the county before you even see him. How do you know but what he found Luke and Kester hiding on a desert island, and was bringing them in to you?”

“I don’t, Mr. Thorpe. But I think I am justified in making the tentative assumption, since Fox had not communicated—”

“All right, forget it.” Jeffrey waved it away. “Anyhow, this ought to lift a lot of fog for you, since Luke was apparently right there when it happened. I might suggest that you don’t try to bully Luke. I got on to Luke when I was knee-high to him and wanted little favors. Get him sympathetic and you can have his shirt, but he won’t take bluster. Kester — do you know Kester?”

“No, I’ve never met him.”

“Well, there’s one that was made to order for an authoritative bird like you. You can twist him around your little finger — provided you limber him up first with a few good blows with a sledge hammer. How the devil he happens to be with Luke, or Luke with him — can you figure that one, Sis? How come?”

“I have no idea, Jiffy.”

“So have I.” He returned to authority. “You were telling me that you have good reason to suspect something.”

Derwin nodded. “Yes, Mr. Thorpe, I have. It appears, in the first place, that Grant’s niece was not as complete a stranger to your father as she pretends and secondly, that she has not told the truth regarding her movements at the bungalow Sunday evening. I assure you I am not exercising the insolence of authority; I am stating facts; or at least inferences weighted by a preponderance of likelihood. In view of that, in view of my earnest conviction that any and every detail of Nancy Grant’s previous contacts with any member of your family may be relevant to the murder of your father and should be disclosed to the author — uh — to those conducting the investigation, I strongly urge you to tell me—”

“About her previous contacts with this member of the family. Little Jeff.”

“Yes. I strongly advise—”

“I heard you.” Jeffrey uncrossed his knees and leaned forward. “Now here. You heard what my sister told you yesterday. Down in our hearts, taking it for granted that we’ve got hearts, I guess she and I are both a little bitter about our father. That is, we were. Not that he was cruel or anything romantic like that; he just didn’t fill the bill. To look at me now, sophisticated, blasé, hard-boiled, on speaking terms with the headwaiter at Rusterman’s, you would never suppose that I once wept tears because Johnny Holcomb’s father — you see, by God, to this day I remember his name — spent a whole afternoon at the zoo with him, whereas my father not only wouldn’t take me to the zoo, he wouldn’t even take time to let me tell him what I saw when I was taken by the assistant governess, who had the teeth of a gnawing rodent, such as a beaver. Her name was Miss Jandorf.”

“Lefcourt,” said Miranda.

“No, damn it, it was Jandorf. Lefcourt took me to the aquarium — My sister was correct yesterday when she said that we have batted close to a thousand as orphans since our mother died. The murder of our father was deplorable and naturally it gave us a jolt, but to say it made our hearts heavy with grief — still taking it for granted that we’ve got hearts — that would be bunk. Nor are we out yelling for blood, because we don’t happen to be the vindictive type. In spite of which, I hope you catch the bird who did it and if I had any information that could possibly help you, I’d hand it over. I told you so yesterday morning. Which brings me to the point, namely, that if a million G-men investigated a million years they wouldn’t find any connection between my father’s death and my previous brief contact with Miss Grant. So it’s none of your business. Q.E.D. I knew I’d find a use for my geometry some day.”

Derwin dropped his damp handkerchief to the desk. “I think you should tell me about it anyway,” he insisted. “If it is completely irrelevant and innocuous—”

“I didn’t say it was innocuous, I said it had no connection with murder. It wasn’t innocuous. I made an ass of myself and earned her venomous hatred.”

“Ah! hatred—”

“No no, no like that.” Jeffrey waved it off again. “I mean the kind of hate that’s just the opposite on the other side. All you have to do is turn it over, like flipping a pancake, but it’s one hard trick.”

“You said venomous.”

“Cross it out.”

Derwin screwed up his lips. “Let me ask you this, Mr. Thorpe. Do you — no, I’ll put it this way. Is your attitude towards Miss Grant such that you would not want her to suffer the legal penalty for killing your father if she were guilty?”

Jeffrey stared a second, then snorted contemptuously. “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” he stated.

The district attorney pulled open a drawer of his desk, got out a large rectangle of pasteboard, glanced at it and handed it across. “Did you ever see that before?”

Jeffrey looked at it and Miranda stretched from her chair to look with him. It was a portrait photograph of Nancy Grant, her lips parted a little and her eyes laughing. At the lower right was an inscription in a round bold hand generous with space and ink: “I’ll never forget!” Beneath it was the signature, “Nancy Grant.”

“Is that for sale?” Jeffrey demanded.

“No. Did you ever see it before?”

“No.”

“Did you, Mrs. Pemberton?”

“No. Where did it come from?”

“It was found in a drawer in a cabinet in your father’s dressing-room in the New York residence.”

Miranda’s eyes widened. Jeffrey’s mouth fell open. He closed it, looked at the photograph again, glared at Derwin and stated, “That’s a goddam lie.”

“No, it isn’t, Mr. Thorpe.” Derwin met his glare. “Neither is this.” He opened the drawer again. “Here are two gloves. As you see, they are of yellow cotton, good quality, well-made, the kind that women wear in the summer. One of them was found on the grass back of a shrub twenty feet from the window through which Andrew Grant says he saw your father smoking a cigar and listening to the radio Sunday night. The other was found on the running board of the car which Nancy Grant parked near the gate when she drove her uncle there. We have found—”

Miranda exclaimed, “But these are both for the right hand!”

“That’s correct, Mrs. Pemberton. We have found no proof that they belong to Nancy Grant. They were bought, as the label shows, at Hartlespoon’s and they have sold several hundred dozen pairs of them this season. I do not pretend that the fact that she works at Hartlespoon’s has any important significance. But she was at the bungalow Sunday night and so far there is no reason to suspect that any other woman was anywhere near there. According to her story, she was never on that side of the bungalow where the window is; she went straight in at the terrace entrance upon her arrival. One of the gloves was found on the running board of the car she was driving. So while there is no proof, there is a strong presumption that the gloves are her property and that she dropped one of them outside that window where it was found; in which case, she is lying about her movements. She also says that prior to Sunday evening she had never met, or even seen, your father. Again, the photograph furnishes a strong presumption, if not proof, that she is lying.”

“Good heavens,” Miranda muttered.

Jeffrey stood up.

“Where are you going, Mr. Thorpe?”

“I’m going to find Miss Grant.”

“Take in the slack, Jeff dear,” Miranda advised. “She won’t speak to you.”

“But this bunch of crap—” He confronted her trembling with fury. “Do you realize that this poisonous cream puff is actually suggesting—”

“Perfectly.” Her tone was sharp. “I also realize that he actually wants to find out who murdered our father and I expect he will before it’s over, and if it turns out that it was the lovely Nancy — which I do not believe — you are in for a piece of hell. But it isn’t going to help any to double up your fists and call him names—”

Derwin interposed, his tone also sharp. “Thank you, Mrs. Pemberton. You’re right, that won’t help any. If you’ll sit down again, Mr. Thorpe, I have some more explaining to do. I told you about the photograph and the gloves for a specific purpose. I thought it possible that your reluctance to tell about your previous meeting with Nancy Grant was because she was in the company of your father and if I showed you that I already know—”

“You don’t know a damn thing! About her!”

“Well — I have grounds for inference. Was she with your father when you met her?”

“No!”

“Will you tell me about it — now?”

“No.”

Miranda put in, “What does she say about the photograph and the gloves?”

“I haven’t asked her about the photograph. It wasn’t found until this morning and by the time I got her here Nat Collins was present as her counsel, and he was advising her to answer no questions except those pertaining to the events at the bungalow Sunday evening. Her denial that she had ever seen or met Ridley Thorpe is on record. Also her denial that the gloves are her property or that she had any knowledge of them.”

“It’s strange that the gloves are both for the right hand. Do you suppose there could have been two women, wearing the same kind of gloves, and each happened to lose the right one?”

“No. It’s possible, but very unlikely. If one of them was Nancy Grant and she lost hers on the running board of her car, why should she deny knowledge of it? If she lost it by that shrub outside the window, she’s lying about her movements. And to suppose there were two women there besides her — that’s a little too much, since there’s no evidence that there was even one. It is more likely that both gloves belong to a woman who had taken two right-hand ones by mistake.”

Derwin picked up his handkerchief and mopped his face. “But that’s a police job, tracing those gloves. I mentioned them and the photograph only — for the purpose I stated. There’s another subject I have to ask you to discuss with me: your father’s will. Won’t you sit down, Mr. Thorpe? Thank you. You know, of course, that you two are the residuary legatees. There are various bequests: Luke Wheer gets a life annuity of three thousand dollars...”

They discussed that at some length. Then Derwin wanted to know more about their meeting with Vaughn Kester on Sunday evening, for dinner at the Green Meadow Club. He was suave and deferential again on that subject — as suave, at least, as a man can manage with sweat trickling down his neck two minutes after he has wiped it off. The discussion of Kester eventually brought him back to the will again, to that clause in it which left the confidential secretary a handsome legacy, and the possible ramifications of that were being considered when there was a tap at the door and a man entered. It was Ben Cook, the chief of police, with his mind too engaged to take notice of the presence of the Thorpes.

“Something new?” Derwin demanded.

“I don’t know how new it is,” Cook said, “but it’s worse than a horsefly. It’s that specimen that they brought over from Port Jefferson that says he’s Ridley Thorpe—”

“I gave instructions for you to take care of him.”

“I know you did, but you ought to hear him. He sure thinks he’s Ridley Thorpe. I thought the easiest way to get rid of him would be to bring him in here and let the son and daughter see him—”

“Nonsense! Lock him up and find out who he is.”

“But I tell you...” Cook stood his ground. “It’d only take a second. Would you mind, Mrs. Pemberton?”

“Not at all.”

“Would you, Mr. Thorpe?”

“No.”

“Okay, Phil?”

Derwin growled assent. Cook lost no time going and very little coming back. The door opened again and he marched in, standing aside to make passage for two men, both around sixty, one small but not puny and as brown as leather, the other bigger, more deliberate, more commanding. The latter stopped in the middle of the room and boomed:

“Well children?”

Miranda was slowly rising from her chair and gazing at him with wide and startled eyes. Jeffrey sat transfixed, staring, the color drained from his face.

“Well?” he boomed again.

Without moving her eyes, Miranda approached, unhurried, got within three feet of him, gazing another five seconds and said in a tight, thin, quiet voice, “We were just discussing your will with Mr. Derwin.”

“What—” Derwin came bounding. “What the — what do you—”

“This is my father, Mr. Derwin. Or his ghost.”

“Ghost—”

Jeffrey, with his white face, was there. He looked directly into the big man’s eyes and said harshly, “Yes. It’s you.”

“Yes, my boy, it is.”

“Ghost! I... what...” The district attorney was incoherent. He appealed to Miranda. “You’re mistaken... this is some—”

“They are not mistaken,” the big man declared. “I am Ridley Thorpe. This is my friend, Henry Jordan. Henry, I believe you’ve never met my son and daughter. Shake hands with them; Miranda; Jeffrey. I’m tired and I want to sit down.”