the possibility of the visitor’s having come by automobile?” asked Ellery.
Vaughn shook his head. “We looked for that early this morning. But in the grounds themselves the roads are gravel, which aren’t any help; the highways are macadam, and it didn’t rain or anything—no go, Mr. Queen. It’s possible, of course.”
Ellery mused deeply. “There’s still another possibility, Inspector. The Sound!”
The Inspector stared out of the window. “And haven’t we thought of that,” he said with an ugly little laugh. “What a cinch it would have been! Hire a boat from the New York or Connecticut shore—a motorboat. … I’ve got a couple of men following that lead up now.”
Ellery grinned. “Quod fugit, usque sequor —eh, Inspector?”
“Huh?”
Isham rose. “Let’s get the hell out of here. There’s work to do.”
7. Fox and the English
T HEY WALKED MORE DEEPLY into fog. No light appeared anywhere.
It was not to be expected that Mrs. Baxter, the housekeeper, for example, would have anything of importance to contribute. Yet it was necessary, in the interests of thoroughness, to question her. They returned to the drawing room and went through the dreary business. Mrs. Baxter, in a flutter, merely confirmed Stallings’s story of the excursion the night before. No, Mr. Brad had said nothing to her about visitors. No, when she served dinner to Mr. Brad alone in the dining room he did not seem particularly upset, or nervous. Just a little absent-minded, perhaps. Yes, Fox had dropped them off at the Roxy. Yes, she and Stallings had returned to Bradwood by train and taxicab, arriving a little past midnight. No, she didn’t believe Mrs. Brad or the others had come home yet, but she wasn’t certain. The house was dark? Yes, sir. Anything seem wrong? No, sir.
All right, Mrs. Baxter. … The elderly housekeeper retreated hastily and the Inspector swore with fluency.
Ellery looked on, preoccupied with a spot at the base of a fingernail at odd moments. The name Andrew Van kept swimming about in the channels of his brain.
“Come on,” said Isham. “Let’s talk to that chauffeur, Fox.”
He strode out of the house with Vaughn, and Ellery ambled after, sniffing the June roses and wondering when his colleagues would stop chasing their tails and embark for that very interesting patch of earth and trees in the Sound, Oyster Island.
Isham led the way around the left wing of the main house, along a narrow gravel path which very soon entered a carefully wild grove. A short walk, and they emerged from under the trees to a clearing in the center of which stood a pleasant little cabin built of shaven logs. A county trooper lounged conspicuously in the sun before the hut.
Isham knocked on the stout door, and a man’s deep voice said: “Come on in.”
When they entered, he was on his feet, planted like an oak, fists doubled, his face curiously mottled with spots of pallor. He was a tall straight man, thin and tough as a bamboo shoot. When he saw who his visitors were, his fists unclenched, his shoulders sagged, and he groped for the back of the homemade chair before which he was standing.
“Fox,” said Isham peremptorily, “I didn’t get much of an opportunity this morning to talk to you.”
“No, sir,” said Fox. The pallor, Ellery saw with a little sensation of surprise, was not temporary; it was the man’s natural complexion.
“We know how you found the body,” contributed the District Attorney, dropping into the only other chair in the hut.
“Yes, sir,” muttered Fox. “It was an awful exp—”
“What we want to know now,” said Isham without inflection, “is why you left Stallings and Mrs. Baxter last night, where you went, and when you got home.”
Curiously, the man did not blanch or cringe; the expression on his mottled features did not change. “I just drove around town,” he said. “I got back to Bradwood a little before midnight.”
Inspector Vaughn came forward
Vaughn shook his head. “We looked for that early this morning. But in the grounds themselves the roads are gravel, which aren’t any help; the highways are macadam, and it didn’t rain or anything—no go, Mr. Queen. It’s possible, of course.”
Ellery mused deeply. “There’s still another possibility, Inspector. The Sound!”
The Inspector stared out of the window. “And haven’t we thought of that,” he said with an ugly little laugh. “What a cinch it would have been! Hire a boat from the New York or Connecticut shore—a motorboat. … I’ve got a couple of men following that lead up now.”
Ellery grinned. “Quod fugit, usque sequor —eh, Inspector?”
“Huh?”
Isham rose. “Let’s get the hell out of here. There’s work to do.”
7. Fox and the English
T HEY WALKED MORE DEEPLY into fog. No light appeared anywhere.
It was not to be expected that Mrs. Baxter, the housekeeper, for example, would have anything of importance to contribute. Yet it was necessary, in the interests of thoroughness, to question her. They returned to the drawing room and went through the dreary business. Mrs. Baxter, in a flutter, merely confirmed Stallings’s story of the excursion the night before. No, Mr. Brad had said nothing to her about visitors. No, when she served dinner to Mr. Brad alone in the dining room he did not seem particularly upset, or nervous. Just a little absent-minded, perhaps. Yes, Fox had dropped them off at the Roxy. Yes, she and Stallings had returned to Bradwood by train and taxicab, arriving a little past midnight. No, she didn’t believe Mrs. Brad or the others had come home yet, but she wasn’t certain. The house was dark? Yes, sir. Anything seem wrong? No, sir.
All right, Mrs. Baxter. … The elderly housekeeper retreated hastily and the Inspector swore with fluency.
Ellery looked on, preoccupied with a spot at the base of a fingernail at odd moments. The name Andrew Van kept swimming about in the channels of his brain.
“Come on,” said Isham. “Let’s talk to that chauffeur, Fox.”
He strode out of the house with Vaughn, and Ellery ambled after, sniffing the June roses and wondering when his colleagues would stop chasing their tails and embark for that very interesting patch of earth and trees in the Sound, Oyster Island.
Isham led the way around the left wing of the main house, along a narrow gravel path which very soon entered a carefully wild grove. A short walk, and they emerged from under the trees to a clearing in the center of which stood a pleasant little cabin built of shaven logs. A county trooper lounged conspicuously in the sun before the hut.
Isham knocked on the stout door, and a man’s deep voice said: “Come on in.”
When they entered, he was on his feet, planted like an oak, fists doubled, his face curiously mottled with spots of pallor. He was a tall straight man, thin and tough as a bamboo shoot. When he saw who his visitors were, his fists unclenched, his shoulders sagged, and he groped for the back of the homemade chair before which he was standing.
“Fox,” said Isham peremptorily, “I didn’t get much of an opportunity this morning to talk to you.”
“No, sir,” said Fox. The pallor, Ellery saw with a little sensation of surprise, was not temporary; it was the man’s natural complexion.
“We know how you found the body,” contributed the District Attorney, dropping into the only other chair in the hut.
“Yes, sir,” muttered Fox. “It was an awful exp—”
“What we want to know now,” said Isham without inflection, “is why you left Stallings and Mrs. Baxter last night, where you went, and when you got home.”
Curiously, the man did not blanch or cringe; the expression on his mottled features did not change. “I just drove around town,” he said. “I got back to Bradwood a little before midnight.”
Inspector Vaughn came forward
Similar Books
