Rex Stout by Red Threads Page A

weather. July 7th was the birthday of Tsianina; it had been the custom of Val Carew to reserve important questions for her answer on that morning, by the rays of the sun on her face or their absence; which would it be? He was sure, Buysse said, that the only action any of that trio had in mind was the action of the heavens; they wanted sunshine and plenty of it. Yes, Val Carew would actually have permitted such a question to find its answer in that manner.
    What did Buysse know of an affair, eight years ago in Paris, between Guy Carew and Portia Tritt?
    Nothing whatever, and he didn’t want to.
    What did he know of the friendship between Portia Tritt and Leo Kranz?
    Nothing whatever, and he wasn’t interested.
    Or of the conversation that night, ending after midnight, between Val Carew and Melville Barth?
    Nothing whatever.
    Was it true that Carew had told him, Buysse, that in case he married again his annual contribution to the National Indian Museum would be stopped or greatly decreased?
    No, and neither was it true that a skunk doesn’t smell.
    But hadn’t Buysse perhaps suspected such a result from Carew’s marriage to a young and handsome woman?
    No.
    But hadn’t Buysse admitted that he regarded such a marriage as unfortunate?
    Buysse said, “Listen, mister. You aiming to get me mad? What for?”
    Cramer passed it by. He chewed his cigar a while and then suddenly demanded, “When Wilson came to your room to report the murder, what did he say?”
    “You mean the exact words?”
    “If you remember, yes.”
    “Well—something like this: ‘The young one say come to tomb. Tsianina’s man dead.’”
    “The young one’ meaning Guy?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Did Wilson look grief-stricken?”
    “No. If you’ve seen him you know how he looks. He never looks different.”
    “Why didn’t he go back to the tomb with you?”
    “Because he was groggy. He had been knocked cold, and he’s an old man. I made him lie down on my bed and then beat it.”
    “When you got to the tomb what was Kranz doing?”
    “Standing there.”
    “What did you and he do while you were waiting?”
    “I took a look at Val Carew and then I sat down on the stone steps and stayed there. Kranz stood over by the door.”
    “No talking?”
    “I didn’t feel like talking. I don’t know whether Kranz did or not.”
    “How long did you wait?”
    “I guess I had been there about ten minutes when Guy came. It was fifteen minutes more before the police arrived. More came soon after. There was nothing I could do, and I started to leave, Captain Goss—asked Guy and Kranz and me if we would object to being searched. I couldn’t see any sense in that, under the circumstances, but none of us objected. They went over us one by one, and made a list of what we had on us, and then I went to the house to see how Wilson was. Before I left, Barth and Miss Tritt had arrived.”
    “I’ve seen that list. I noticed you had a piece of carved bone in your pocket and you said it was a Dakota battle charm. Do you always carry that?”
    “No. Guy had brought back some stuff from the West and had given me that for the museum. It’s downstairs now if you want to take a look at it.”
    “Much obliged.” Cramer sat moodily eyeing the museum director with his lips screwed up, and after a moment abruptly switched: “Did you ever see a man scalped?”
    Buysse shook his head. “Nope, I never did.”
    “Then you don’t know how hard it would be to pull it off.”
    “Are you asking me how hard it would be?”
    “Say I am.”
    Buysse grunted. “Then you’re a hell of a detective. How would I know? As it happens, I do know. I asked a doctor. He said it would come off easy if you used a sharp knife, but if you only used the knife to carve the circle and then pulled it would take quite some jerk.” Buysse leaned back. “My friend Peterson at the American Museum says you folks have been asking him about scalping habits—which tribes took it all and