deliberately and clamped his hand on Fox’s limp arm. “Look here,” he said, almost pleasantly. “We’re not trying to hurt you, or frame you, you understand. If you’re on the level, we’ll let you alone.”
“I’m on the level,” said Fox. Ellery thought he detected traces of culture in the man’s pronunciation and intonations. He watched him with growing interest.
“All right,” said Vaughn. “That’s fine. Now forget all that bunk about just driving around town. Give it to us straight. Where did you go?”
“I’m giving it to you straight,” replied Fox in a dead, even voice. “I drove around Fifth Avenue and through the Park and on Riverside Drive for a long time. It was nice out, and I enjoyed the air.”
The Inspector dropped his arm suddenly and grinned at Isham. “He enjoyed the air. Why didn’t you call for Stallings and Mrs. Baxter after they got out of the movie?”
Fox’s broad shoulders twitched in the suspicion of a shrug. “No one told me to.”
Isham looked at Vaughn, and Vaughn looked at Isham. Ellery, however, looked at Fox; and he was surprised to see the man’s eyes—it seemed impossible—fill with tears.
“Okay,” said Isham finally. “If that’s your story, you’re stuck with it, and God help you if we find out otherwise. How long have you worked here?”
“Since the first of the year, sir.”
“References?”
“Yes, sir.” Silently he turned and went to an old sideboard. He fumbled in a drawer and brought out a clean, carefully preserved envelope.
The District Attorney ripped it open, glanced over the letter inside, and handed it to Vaughn. The Inspector read it more carefully, then, flipping it on the table, inexplicably strode out of the hut.
“Seems all right,” said Isham, rising. “By the way, you, Stallings, and Mrs. Baxter are the only people employed here, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Fox without raising his eyes. He picked up his references and kept turning the envelope and paper over between his fingers.
“Er—Fox,” said Ellery. “When you got home last night, did you see or hear anything unusual?”
“No, sir.”
“You stay put,” said Isham, and left the hut. Outside, Inspector Vaughn joined him, and Ellery paused in the doorway. Fox, inside, had not moved.
“He’s lying in his teeth about last night,” said Vaughn loudly; Fox could not help but hear. “We’ll check up right away.”
Ellery winced. There was something ruthless about the tactics of both men, and he could not forget the tears in Fox’s eyes.
In silence they cut over toward the west. Fox’s hut was not far from the waters of Ketcham’s Cove, and they could see the sunny glint of blue through the trees as they stumbled along. A short distance from the hut they struck a narrow road, unfenced.
“Brad’s property,” grunted Isham. “He wouldn’t fence it. The house those Lynn people rented must he over in that stretch beyond the road.”
They crossed the road and at once plunged into cathedral woods. It was five minutes before Vaughn found the footpath which led through the dense underbrush toward the west. Shortly after the path widened, the woods grew sparser, and they saw a low rambling stone house set in the heart of the trees. A man and a woman were sitting on the open porch. The man rose rather hastily as the figures of the three visitors came into view.
“Mr. and Mrs. Lynn?” said the District Attorney, as they paused at the foot of the porch.
“In the flesh,” said the man. “I’m Percy Lynn. My wife here … You gentlemen are from Bradwood?”
Lynn was a tall, dark, sharp-featured Englishman with close-cropped oily hair and shrewd eyes. Elizabeth Lynn was blonde and fat; the smile on her face seemed fixed there.
Isham nodded, and Lynn said: “Well … Won’t you come up?”
“It’s all right,” said Inspector Vaughn pleasantly. “We won’t stay but a minute. Heard the news?”
The Englishman nodded soberly; his
“I’m on the level,” said Fox. Ellery thought he detected traces of culture in the man’s pronunciation and intonations. He watched him with growing interest.
“All right,” said Vaughn. “That’s fine. Now forget all that bunk about just driving around town. Give it to us straight. Where did you go?”
“I’m giving it to you straight,” replied Fox in a dead, even voice. “I drove around Fifth Avenue and through the Park and on Riverside Drive for a long time. It was nice out, and I enjoyed the air.”
The Inspector dropped his arm suddenly and grinned at Isham. “He enjoyed the air. Why didn’t you call for Stallings and Mrs. Baxter after they got out of the movie?”
Fox’s broad shoulders twitched in the suspicion of a shrug. “No one told me to.”
Isham looked at Vaughn, and Vaughn looked at Isham. Ellery, however, looked at Fox; and he was surprised to see the man’s eyes—it seemed impossible—fill with tears.
“Okay,” said Isham finally. “If that’s your story, you’re stuck with it, and God help you if we find out otherwise. How long have you worked here?”
“Since the first of the year, sir.”
“References?”
“Yes, sir.” Silently he turned and went to an old sideboard. He fumbled in a drawer and brought out a clean, carefully preserved envelope.
The District Attorney ripped it open, glanced over the letter inside, and handed it to Vaughn. The Inspector read it more carefully, then, flipping it on the table, inexplicably strode out of the hut.
“Seems all right,” said Isham, rising. “By the way, you, Stallings, and Mrs. Baxter are the only people employed here, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Fox without raising his eyes. He picked up his references and kept turning the envelope and paper over between his fingers.
“Er—Fox,” said Ellery. “When you got home last night, did you see or hear anything unusual?”
“No, sir.”
“You stay put,” said Isham, and left the hut. Outside, Inspector Vaughn joined him, and Ellery paused in the doorway. Fox, inside, had not moved.
“He’s lying in his teeth about last night,” said Vaughn loudly; Fox could not help but hear. “We’ll check up right away.”
Ellery winced. There was something ruthless about the tactics of both men, and he could not forget the tears in Fox’s eyes.
In silence they cut over toward the west. Fox’s hut was not far from the waters of Ketcham’s Cove, and they could see the sunny glint of blue through the trees as they stumbled along. A short distance from the hut they struck a narrow road, unfenced.
“Brad’s property,” grunted Isham. “He wouldn’t fence it. The house those Lynn people rented must he over in that stretch beyond the road.”
They crossed the road and at once plunged into cathedral woods. It was five minutes before Vaughn found the footpath which led through the dense underbrush toward the west. Shortly after the path widened, the woods grew sparser, and they saw a low rambling stone house set in the heart of the trees. A man and a woman were sitting on the open porch. The man rose rather hastily as the figures of the three visitors came into view.
“Mr. and Mrs. Lynn?” said the District Attorney, as they paused at the foot of the porch.
“In the flesh,” said the man. “I’m Percy Lynn. My wife here … You gentlemen are from Bradwood?”
Lynn was a tall, dark, sharp-featured Englishman with close-cropped oily hair and shrewd eyes. Elizabeth Lynn was blonde and fat; the smile on her face seemed fixed there.
Isham nodded, and Lynn said: “Well … Won’t you come up?”
“It’s all right,” said Inspector Vaughn pleasantly. “We won’t stay but a minute. Heard the news?”
The Englishman nodded soberly; his
Similar Books
