Rex Stout (26 page)

“No.” Martin clipped the word. “I went up with Miss Raffray, but I came down again.”

“The devil you did. When?”

“It must have been around ten o’clock, or a little later. I talked with Miss Raffray a few moments at the door of her room, and then went to my room. I walked up and down and smoked a couple of cigarettes, trying to quiet my nerves. I haven’t got the kind of nerves a man ought to have. I never have had. It affects my stomach too, when I’m upset, and I didn’t have any of my tablets with me. I thought of going down to phone de Roode to bring some over, but if I did that I would have to pass that trooper in the hall again, and I didn’t want to. I hated his being there and what it meant, and anything I hate has a bad effect on me.” Martin fluttered a hand. “You wouldn’t understand that, you haven’t got my nerves. I hadn’t slept Saturday night, and I knew I wouldn’t sleep with my stomach like that, and I might not anyway. I went down the back stairs to the kitchen, and got some baking soda and a spoon and a glass. I opened the door and went out to smoke a cigarette, because it calms me down to smoke outdoors more than it does with walls around me. I returned to my room and took the soda and went to bed, and I had just managed to get to sleep—at least that was how it seemed—when that damned trooper knocked on my door and insisted on coming in. He said you had phoned to ask if I was in my room. I took some more soda, but I couldn’t go to sleep again, and I was awake when Miss Raffray came to tell me what Miss Bonner had told her.” Martin stopped, took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead, and crumpled the handkerchief tight in his hand. He said, “I … I hope I made it lucid and succinct.”

Sherwood nodded. “Thanks. When you went down to the kitchen did you see anyone?”

“There was no one there.”

“On the stairs or in the hall?”

“No.”

“Did you leave your room except for that trip downstairs?”

“No.”

“Did you hear any noises before the trooper knocked on your door?”

“I heard footsteps. It sounded like Mrs. Storrs, she walks on her heels. I heard a door close, I think two doors. That
was before I went to sleep. After the trooper woke me up, a long time after, I heard knocking, very low, and low voices, and then I heard a door bang.”

“Any other noises? Anything at all?”

“No. Nothing. Until later I heard footsteps and voices again. That must have been Miss Bonner and the trooper, because it was soon afterwards that Miss Raffray came to tell me.”

“You heard no sounds from Ranth’s room? It’s next to yours, between yours and Zimmerman’s.”

Martin shook his head. “The closets are arranged here to separate the rooms, and Ranth isn’t noisy.”

Sherwood regarded him in silence. Then abruptly he demanded, “What was de Roode’s grudge against Zimmerman?”

Martin stared. The attorney waited. Martin said, “I don’t pretend to know what it’s about, this business about de Roode. You say you’re detaining him as a material witness and that he’s either a liar or a murderer. Now you ask me … why the devil would he have a grudge against Steve Zimmerman?”

“I don’t know. I’m asking you.”

“All right, I’m answering. He didn’t. I have a right to know why you’re holding him!”

“Maybe,” Sherwood conceded sourly. “I’m not particularly excited about your rights just at present. There’s been two men killed here. Did you know that de Roode came here last night a little after ten o’clock and went to Zimmerman’s room and stayed in there fifteen or twenty minutes?”

“No. Who told you that?”

“He did. Anyway, the man we had there in the hall wasn’t blind. De Roode says he came to see you and couldn’t find you, and went to Zimmerman’s room to see if you were there. Zimmerman was there and spoke to him, so de Roode was the last one to see him alive. He says he left him alive.”

“What reason have you to assume he didn’t?”

“None at all. But it’s a cinch that someone didn’t leave him alive, and besides, there’s another item in de Roode’s statement that doesn’t fit at all. I’m saving that item, for the
present. And I’m holding de Roode. If you want his rights attended to, get a lawyer. Just now I’m more interested in other rights that have been violated—the rights of Storrs and Zimmerman to go on breathing. And the right of the people of the State of Connecticut to know who did the violating. There are a couple more questions I’d like to ask, Mr. Foltz, and I put them to you as the closest and oldest friend of Steve Zimmerman. Do you know of any grievance that de Roode had against Storrs, or reason to fear him?”

“No.”

“Do you know of any motive that anyone here might have had for killing Zimmerman?”

“No.”

“You haven’t the faintest idea of why Zimmerman was killed, or who did it?”

“No.”

Sherwood leaned back. He pulled at the lobe of his ear, sighed, and finally turned an inquiring glance on the colonel and the inspector. Brissenden shrugged, and Cramer shook his head. Sherwood returned to Martin:

“I guess that’s all for now, Mr. Foltz. Your man de Roode is under arrest and I don’t want him talking with anyone for the present. You of course are not, but I ask you to keep yourself within these grounds. If you wish to get a lawyer for de Roode, which doesn’t seem to me an urgent necessity, you may use the telephone or send a message by one of the men.” He shifted to the trooper: “Send Miss Storrs in.”

Martin stood up. He looked at Dol as if he would say something, but ended by turning away wordless. He had Sylvia to go to, and Dol watched him go. Then, with a wrinkle in her brow that threatened to become permanent if this kept up much longer, she leaned back and closed her eyes. She was wishing that she dared confront Janet with her lie here in front of these men and let them worry the truth out of her, but she knew she could not. It was too great a chance to take. That truth could not be worried out of Janet, it would have to be forced out. Somehow …

If the illumination got from the others had been scanty, that received from Janet Storrs and Sylvia Raffray was considerably less than scanty. Ten minutes for each of them
was enough. Janet, self-possessed, fully clothed and toileted, and inscrutable, said she had not left her room after entering it at something before ten o’clock, had gone to bed about midnight and lain awake, and had heard nothing of any significance. Sylvia, not toileted at all but with a steady chin, which Dol saw with relief and inward gratitude to heaven, had heard nothing, had slept almost from contact with the pillow, and had awakened only for Dol’s knock on her door. To questions regarding the possibility of a motive for de Roode to kill either Storrs or Zimmerman, or both, she offered ignorance, reinforced by an obvious disbelief.

Awaiting Ranth, Sherwood went to the window and stretched himself comprehensively; outside was no longer a black opacity but a gray and dingy blue. Brissenden shifted in his chair and sent Dol a brief scowl, the thirtieth, perhaps, of a series. Cramer deposited a horribly mangled cigar in an ashtray and got out another one.

George Leo Ranth entered and walked to the table, sat down and crossed his legs and looked patiently and politely receptive. Sherwood crossed from the window and stood frowning down at him with his hands thrust into his trouser pockets and his shoulders hunched up.

“Well, Mr. Ranth. I suppose you know what we’re here for now.”

Ranth nodded. “Mrs. Storrs told me. I am sorry. Violence is inherent in all natural processes, but the kind of violence displayed in murder is proof of the lack of spiritual development in man. I deplore this second manifestation of it, though it is an advantage to me as an individual. You had some reason to suppose me involved in the death of Mr. Storrs, but certainly not in that of Mr. Zimmerman, since I scarcely knew him.”

“Yeah. Thank you for calling my attention to that. Of course out of all the possibilities we have to consider—if you killed Storrs and Zimmerman knew it, you might have had to remove him to protect yourself. That has been known to happen.”

Ranth faintly smiled. “Nevertheless, it does complicate things for you. It probably does in any event, even with all suspicion of me removed; but on the other hand, it might
simplify it for you by presenting fresh considerations. I should think it might.”

Brissenden barked, “What does that mean? What do you know about it?”

“Nothing. I know nothing. But pardon me, I believe there is one thing I do know. If you would tell me this: is it true that Zimmerman was found on his bed, strangled by an electric light cord around his throat?”

Sherwood grunted a yes.

“Was that cord tied there against his struggles, or held against his struggles while he died? Or was he first rendered unconscious by a blow or narcotic?”

“I don’t know. I think he struggled. The bed looks like it.”

“If he did—if he struggled—I do know one thing that may help, in case time is significant. I know that he was killed before 11:25. At that time I went to my room, which is next to his. There are closets between the rooms, but my hearing is acute, and I did not go to sleep. I went to bed and lay relaxed. The sound of two men struggling on that bed would surely have reached me. I heard other sounds plainly—for instance, quite late, a knocking that seemed to be on a door not far from mine, followed by two men talking in low voices, and that followed by footsteps and the banging of a door. I also, as you probably know, heard the trooper and Miss Bonner; at the agitation of their voices and movements I went to the hall to investigate. The trooper would not let me enter Zimmerman’s room. Miss Bonner had gone downstairs to get the men from outdoors. My assistance was not required—it appeared, not wanted. I re-entered my room and dressed.”

Sherwood sat down. He eyed Ranth with no visible satisfaction or gratitude. Finally he grunted, “So that’s your story. I’ll be damned if you mightn’t think this is a deaf and dumb asylum. A men gets strangled in bed with the house full of people, and nobody saw anything or heard anything or even dreamed of anything. You put it that the fact that you heard nothing after 11:25 proves that Zimmerman was killed earlier than that. It doesn’t at all; it only proves that if he was killed after 11:25 you did it yourself. I’m not accusing you; I tell you frankly that I have nothing whatever
on which to base such an accusation. I’d like to ask you this: have you anything to add to what you’ve said that might help us? Anything at all regarding events here, or anything you knew or suspected or that you now suspect?”

Ranth slowly shook his head. “Nothing whatever.”

“Okay. That’s all. Please stay on the premises.”

When Ranth had gone there was silence. Dol closed her eyes again, Sherwood sat with his chin on his chest, Cramer chewed his cigar and stared at the opposite wall.

Brissenden stood up. “I’m going to tell Talbot to take de Roode down to the barracks.” He licked his lips.

The attorney nodded wearily. “Go ahead. I’m not sanctioning anything but questioning of a suspect. Tell your men that.”

“You wouldn’t,” the colonel snorted contemptuously, and stalked out.

The inspector arose, poured himself half a cup of cold coffee and gulped it down, coughed a couple of times, and replaced his cigar. He moved around and stood in front of Sherwood. Dol let her black lashes lift a little to see what he was doing, then dropped them again.

“Well,” Cramer said, “you’re up against the same thing as you are with Storrs. Motive. That’s the place to dig, and I don’t see how I can help you any. I doubt if they’ll get anything out of that de Roode, granting that there’s anything to get. I suppose it has occurred to you that he may not be a lair or a murderer either one; it could have happened, his visit to Zimmerman’s room, just the way he said it did. He might have heard Zimmerman locking the door, provided that there was someone hid in Zimmerman’s room while de Roode was in there. Then after Zimmerman went to sleep the guy unhid himself, did the job, unlocked the door and went to his room to take a rest, of course expecting to have until morning for that. He must have been exasperated when he was got out of bed again so soon afterwards. If it happened that way, it must have been Foltz or Chisholm, it couldn’t have been Ranth. If it was Ranth, either de Roode is lying or cuckoo about hearing the door locked, or Zimmerman himself unlocked it later; maybe he went to the bathroom and neglected to lock it
again when he went back. If de Roode did it, you’ll certainly have to find out why.”

“Yeah.” Sherwood was forlornly sarcastic. “Much obliged.”

“Don’t mention it. But there’s one little experiment we might try. We might satisfy our curiosity about that, if we don’t do anything else. Ranth said if there was any struggling on that bed after 11:25 he would have heard it. I wonder if he would. I also wonder if it might not have been heard from Miss Bonner’s room, or even Foltz’s. What do you say we shoo everybody downstairs and make a few tests?”

Sherwood dragged himself to his feet. Dol opened her eyes.

Thus it was that the lovely and happy flush of dawn, as its rays reached the second story windows of Birchhaven that September Monday morning, would surely have danced gaily with laughter if it had been blessed with a sense of humor and ignorant of the significance of the ludicrous antics to be observed there. First in Ranth’s room, then in Foltz’s, then in Dol Bonner’s, a woman and three grown men stood motionless and silent, in attitudes of strained attention, while, in the room from which Zimmerman’s body had been removed on its journey to the dissecting table, a 190-pound trooper rolled on the bed and bounced up and down, rolled and bounced some more like a boy in exuberant play, while three of his comrades stood there and scowled at him.

Six hours later, at eleven o’clock, Dol Bonner sat on the window seat in her room, sipping a cup of hot tea and staring out at the sunny lawn.

She had reached the conclusion that there was no safe detour for her, no trail that might be found or blazed to avoid the risk she must take; she must either leap the crevasse or give it up. There had been a chance; but when, around ten o’clock, de Roode had been brought back to Birchhaven by a couple of troopers and released from custody, that chance had disappeared. She had seen de Roode clamber out of the car and heard him demand to see Martin; he had not, apparently, suffered mayhem, and he certainly did not look crushed.