Rex Stout by Red Threads

Barth?”
    “Me?” The slits of Wilson’s eyes widened a fraction of an inch. “Hell, no. More fact about Cherokee life: A man never go see woman of another man in her house, never if man there. If a man want to see that woman his eyes tell her where, or maybe he wait till the dance and then tell her. She say yes come or she say not come, but never her house. For that reason me not go see Mrs. Barth. But she say stay and eat—”
    “Yeah, you said that. You listen to me. You understand a plain question, don’t you? You’re damn right you do. You went to Barth’s house to see someone.
Who?
”
    Wilson shrugged. “Too many people there. See Mr. Kranz, woman Portia Tritt. See Guy Straightfoot Carew, son of Tsianina. See my friend Mr. Buysse, reason I ride with him. See woman with yellow eyes, bright red dress, little feet. Mr. Buysse said come on and ride, what thehell, nice day to ride. Then not what I expect, Mrs. Barth said stay and eat. More fact about Cherokee life—”
    Cramer demanded of the White Plains man, “Did you fellows work on this specimen for two weeks?”
    “Off and on, nothing had any effect. If you stuck him in boiling oil up to his waist it would remind him of more fact about Cherokee life.”
    Cramer grunted in disgust. “I’ll see him again later. Now I’m just meeting folks and getting the picture. At present I’m willing to get a bet down on Commissioner Humbert’s choice.”
    “Me?”
    Two heads jerked around at the Indian who, judging from his tone, intended it for a polite question. Cramer stared at him a second, growled, “For God’s sake,” and strode off.
    The inspector was still moving fast. At four o’clock he had telephoned twice to his office and given detailed instructions regarding a new development that had presented itself, phoned also to the commissioner and the district attorney, been driven south again as far as the National Indian Museum on Ninety-third Street and spent half an hour with its director, Amory Buysse, and was still there.
    They sat together in the director’s modest but attractive office at the rear of the museum’s third floor, which contained implements and clothing of the Mackenzie and California areas. Cramer had actually got something: a peach seed, now reposing in his pocket, and a recital of its history. The mystery of Woodrow Wilson being taken for a ride to the house of Mrs. Barth had been cleared up; and Buysse had further stated that he had been aware that his car had been followed on that occasion,but that he had been undisturbed by the fact, because he had got used to it. Buysse had also recapitulated briefly but patiently his answers to thousands of previous questions. His invitation for dinner and to spend the night of July 6th at Lucky Hills was nothing out of the ordinary; all the conferences regarding the affairs of the museum had taken place in that manner; besides, he was Val Carew’s oldest friend and Carew had continued to enjoy his company. He had arrived at Lucky Hills at six o’clock, chatted for an hour with Guy Carew, who had just returned from the West, dined with the others, smoked a couple of cigars on one of the terraces with Guy and Woodrow Wilson, and gone up to bed a little before midnight, to the room he always occupied when there. He had slept well, had heard or seen nothing unusual, and had not again left his room before 7.40, when Wilson had come to his door to tell him that Carew had been found murdered. Yes, while smoking on the terrace they had discussed the probability that Carew would marry Portia Tritt, but none of them had expressed undue resentment. The subject had been opened by questions from Guy, who had in fact come east in some haste because it had been suggested in a letter which had been written him by Buysse. They had agreed that such a marriage would be unfortunate, but certainly there had been no thought of active interference to prevent it. Their chief concern, in fact, had been for the