Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 01 by Double for Death Page B

you.”
    “But this bunch of crap—” He confronted her trembling with fury. “Do you realize that this poisonous cream puff is actually suggesting—”
    “Perfectly.” Her tone was sharp. “I also realize that he actually wants to find out who murdered our father and I expect he will before it’s over, and if it turns out that it was the lovely Nancy—which I do not believe—you are in for a piece of hell. But it isn’t going to help any to double up your fists and call him names—”
    Derwin interposed, his tone also sharp. “Thank you, Mrs. Pemberton. You’re right, that won’t help any. If you’ll sit down again, Mr. Thorpe, I have some more explaining to do. I told you about the photograph and the gloves for a specific purpose. I thought it possible that your reluctance to tell about your previous meeting with Nancy Grant was because she was in the company of your father and if I showed you that I already know—”
    “You don’t know a damn thing! About her!”
    “Well—I have grounds for inference. Was she with your father when you met her?”
    “No!”
    “Will you tell me about it—now?”
    “No.”
    Miranda put in, “What does she say about the photograph and the gloves?”
    “I haven’t asked her about the photograph. It wasn’t found until this morning and by the time I got her here Nat Collins was present as her counsel, andhe was advising her to answer no questions except those pertaining to the events at the bungalow Sunday evening. Her denial that she had ever seen or met Ridley Thorpe is on record. Also her denial that the gloves are her property or that she had any knowledge of them.”
    “It’s strange that the gloves are both for the right hand. Do you suppose there could have been two women, wearing the same kind of gloves, and each happened to lose the right one?”
    “No. It’s possible, but very unlikely. If one of them was Nancy Grant and she lost hers on the running board of her car, why should she deny knowledge of it? If she lost it by that shrub outside the window, she’s lying about her movements. And to suppose there were two women there besides her—that’s a little too much, since there’s no evidence that there was even one. It is more likely that both gloves belong to a woman who had taken two right-hand ones by mistake.”
    Derwin picked up his handkerchief and mopped his face. “But that’s a police job, tracing those gloves. I mentioned them and the photograph only—for the purpose I stated. There’s another subject I have to ask you to discuss with me: your father’s will. Won’t you sit down, Mr. Thorpe? Thank you. You know, of course, that you two are the residuary legatees. There are various bequests: Luke Wheer gets a life annuity of three thousand dollars …”
    They discussed that at some length. Then Derwin wanted to know more about their meeting with Vaughn Kester on Sunday evening, for dinner at the Green Meadow Club. He was suave and deferential again on that subject—as suave, at least, as a man can manage with sweat trickling down his neck two minutesafter he has wiped it off. The discussion of Kester eventually brought him back to the will again, to that clause in it which left the confidential secretary a handsome legacy, and the possible ramifications of that were being considered when there was a tap at the door and a man entered. It was Ben Cook, the chief of police, with his mind too engaged to take notice of the presence of the Thorpes.
    “Something new?” Derwin demanded.
    “I don’t know how new it is,” Cook said, “but it’s worse than a horsefly. It’s that specimen that they brought over from Port Jefferson that says he’s Ridley Thorpe—”
    “I gave instructions for you to take care of him.”
    “I know you did, but you ought to hear him. He sure
thinks
he’s Ridley Thorpe. I thought the easiest way to get rid of him would be to bring him in here and let the son and daughter see him—”
    “Nonsense!