Rex Stout by Red Threads Page B

which ones took only a part and so on. That’s all goose feathers. I mean that scalping stunt. Forget it. I can see how it would strike you. Wilson’s an Indian, and Guy Carew is part Indian, and so when they killed a man they would scalp him. Well, maybe they might. But so might any one else if they wanted to make it look like an Indian.”
    “Yeah, I thought of that alone.”
    “I suppose you did. Another thing, that business about a piece of bayeta yarn in Val’s hand. A newspaperman was here a couple of days ago, and one of your men yesterday. People don’t wear things made of bayeta. But any one who knows about it could have got a strand of it from a blanket and closed Val’s fingers over it after they killed him. There are three bayeta blankets at Lucky Hills. There are eight in this museum.”
    “Uh-huh, I thought of that too, but I don’t like it much.”
    “You don’t? Why not?”
    “Oh, I just don’t. But this scalping stunt, I’d like to ask a few more questions about that….”

    District Attorney Skinner sat in his office sidewise to his desk, with his eyes narrowed at the man who was in a chair facing him. The visitor, medium-sized and grey-haired, was tailored and outfitted with expensive care and the best of taste, and would have been notable anywhere for his shrewd steadfast eyes, as pale as ice.
    Skinner broke a silence, suavely, choosing his words. “No, Orlik, I don’t say it’s unethical. I only say I’m surprised that a man of your standing would suggest such a thing. You know very well the police can’t permit valuable evidence, especially in a murder case, to be examined by any one who takes a fancy—”
    “Not fancy.” The visitor gestured impatiently. “I’m aware that I’m not representing a defendant, with a legal right to enforce, because there is no defendant, since you’ve made no charge. But they took that Indian on a fishing expedition up in Westchester, and kept him two weeks, didn’t they? And all the time they had that piece of yarn and kept it quiet. Wilson is still my client, and he is still in jeopardy, and you know it. How do I know when you’ll nab him again? So is Buysse my client, and Mr. Guy Carew, and they are all being kept under surveillance. Must they submit indefinitely to that annoyance? Now that your finding that piece of yarn in the dead man’s hand has been made public—”
    “We didn’t publish it.”
    “All the worse. You should either have published it or defended it. Instead, it was permitted to trickle out in a manner most damaging to the repute of respectable citizens. Now you insinuate that it would be contrary to the ends of justice to allow me to have the yarn examined by an accredited expert in my employ.”
    “Not at all.” Skinner remained suave. “I merely say it isn’t necessary. It has been examined by three of thebest experts available. They agree that it is genuine bayeta.”
    “That means very little.”
    “Why?”
    “Because bayeta is a very broad term. The whole period during which those blankets were being woven extends to nearly two centuries. Between any two specimens now extant, the yarn always shows a variation, sometimes minute, sometimes apparent even to a novice. So to say that the yarn is bayeta doesn’t mean much. But say—just as a hypothesis—say that I have in my possession a strand of bayeta taken from one of the blankets at Lucky Hills or in the National Indian Museum, and an expert is permitted to compare it microscopically with your specimen. He can tell with a high degree of certainty whether they came from the same source.”
    “No doubt.” Skinner’s eyes narrowed. Then he smiled. “I see no reason, Orlik, why you shouldn’t be told—just between us. What you suggest has been done. Our piece of bayeta has been compared with over fifty specimens collected from various places—including the two you mentioned. Oh, we were careful about it, and circumspect—we didn’t injure valuable