Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 03 by The Broken Vase

because that is the only kind Mr. Dunham will drink. I beg your pardon.”
    “What for?”
    “I mean, the only kind Mr. Dunham did drink.”
    “Oh. How much was in the bourbon bottle? Do you know?”
    “Yes, sir.” Schaeffer allowed himself to look pleased. “I have been considering that point. I have expected to be asked that. The Blue Grass bourbon bottle was slightly less than half full.”
    “How do you know? Did you drink some?”
    “No, sir. On serving the bar, if any bottle is less than half full, a full one is added. But I remember deciding that the bourbon would do, since no one drank it but Mr. Dunham.”
    “How did you know no one else would drink it?”
    “It was known, sir. To the household. To everyone. That Mr. Dunham drank nothing else. Most people take Scotch or rye or Irish. You would call it a deduction, sir.”
    “I would like hell.” The inspector flushed. One of his weaknesses was that he never got along with trained menservants. He turned back to Diego Zorilla. “Did you drink any of that bourbon?”
    Diego shook his head. “As I said, I drank Scotch.”
    “Any of you?” Damon looked around. “Did any of you drink bourbon? You, Mr. Koch?”
    “No.” Adolph Koch was seated across the room by the big screen, near Garda Tusar. Apparently there was an obstruction in his throat, and he cleared it out. “I had gin and bitters.”
    “Did you go to the bar and get it yourself?”
    “Yes.”
    “You, Miss Tusar? What did you drink?”
    “Vermouth cassis,” Garda said promptly and clearly. “I went to the bar with Mr. Koch and he poured it for me.”
    “Miss Mowbray?”
    “I had a glass of sherry.” Dora’s voice squeaked and she too had to clear her throat. “I poured one for myself and one for Mrs. Pomfret and took it to her.”
    “Mr. Beck?”
    “I do not drink!” Beck declared explosively. He was seated in a chair backed up against the table, rubbing his knees with his palms. “I went to that—bar if you call it that—and poured a glass of water and put lemon juice in it and drank it!”
    “Mr. Gill. What was in your highball?”
    “Rye,” Ted said succinctly.
    “And Miss Heath, Mr. Zorilla says he took you Scotch and soda. You drank no bourbon?”
    Hebe didn’t get to answer. Felix Beck’s voice, with a ring of accusation in it, forestalled her:
    “Certainly she didn’t! She knew better! She picked the bottle up and threw it out of the window!”

Chapter 8

    H ebe Heath clutched her breasts and tilted her chin to stare blue-eyed defiance up at the inspector. Adolph Koch half rose from his chair, muttering something, and sank back again. Ted Gill stepped across, put his hand on the back of Hebe’s chair, stood there as a protector, and sighed heavily. Damon’s gaze slanted down to the brave glory of Hebe’s matchless eyes, and then he took a step toward her and inquired:
    “Well?”
    “Well,” she whispered.
    “Did you throw that bottle out of the window?”
    She nodded.
    “You did?”
    She nodded.
    “Why?”
    Her hands abandoned their clutch on her breasts and flew straight for the inspector in appeal, to the length of her outstretched arms. “Oh,” she cried softly, “it was an ungovernment impulse!”
    Tecumseh Fox stirred in his seat and looked away from her. The others stared at her in soundless fascination, then transferred to Henry Pomfret when a noisecame from him—a spasmodic tremoloso titter. He looked around abashed, and said pugnaciously to no one, “I’m sorry,” and caught his lip with his teeth. Ted Gill spoke at Damon in a patient and determined voice:
    “She means ungovernable. Miss Heath is sensitive and high-strung. She is emotionally unstable. She is impetuous, mercurial, galvanic. She is an artist—”
    “I’m not asking her for a character analysis,” said Damon. “Or you either, Mr. Gill. I’m asking her why she threw that bottle out of the window.”
    “And I’m telling you. You are dealing with an extraordinary