Read Online Rex Stout by Red Threads - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Red Threads
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Mystery Fiction, New York (N.Y.), Murder, Murder - Investigation, Police - New York (State) - New York, Widowers, Cherokee Indians
Ads: Link
to let him drive gaily home with my suit under the seat of his car, and who can stop him except the police? Of course, he may not have it. As I say, I’ve been trying to think. He could have bundled it up and thrown it over the fence somewhere, intending to get it later. In that case, the police should look for it. And every one here should have to answer some questions. I’m sorry, really, but I absolutely insist …”
Mrs. Barth had sat down again, with the expression of one having a job to do. She made no effort to interrupt, even permitted a lengthy silence when Jean had finished, and then spoke with no heat or acrimony.
“Listen to me, Miss Farris. Won’t you? I know you’re a well-bred girl and wouldn’t dream of making unpleasantness in another woman’s house without great provocation. I don’t deny you’ve had the provocation, but just consider. You say you’re willing to incur the publicity, but what about the rest of us? We’re the ones who would really get it. You’re thinking about yourself, which is natural, and so you haven’t stopped to realise a curious fact, that all the people who were at Lucky Hills, in Val Carew’s house, the night he was murdered, are here in my house now. Guy Carew, Leo Kranz, Portia Tritt, that man Buysse and that Indian, my husband and myself.Another fact is that Val Carew was hit on the head and so were you. There’s no reason to suppose there’s any connection, but reason won’t have much to do with it if the papers once get hold of this.”
Mrs. Barth upturned both palms in desperate expostulation. “My dear, you just don’t realise. It has been perfectly terrible. And if this is added to it, you being knocked on the head right here in my house, with all these people here—and the police come—it will be more than I can
bear.
They might even arrest somebody—”
Jean put in savagely, “That’s exactly what I want them to do.”
“In
my
house? My dear, I understand, you simply feel vindictive, and I understand that, but if you would only stop to consider—if you would just let yourself cool off a little—after all, you didn’t lose anything but a suit with some old yarn in it—and I’ll gladly pay you for that, whatever amount you say—”
No, Jean declared, it wasn’t the money value of the suit, she didn’t care about that. Then, Mrs. Barth retorted, it was pure unadulterated vindictiveness, and she had never supposed Miss Farris to be that sort of person. Mrs. Barth elaborated on that theme, developed it into an appeal to Jean’s better nature, passed from that to a harrowing picture of the injury that would be done to the innocent enterprise of her cousin Ivy-Bernetta….
During the latter portion of it Jean’s head was resting on her hands again. Finally, she said wearily, without looking up, “All right, Mrs. Barth, forget it. I’ve been trying to think … I won’t insist on the police. You’ll have to take my word for it that I have a particular reason for not … just letting it drop.”
“My dear, I knew you’d be reasonable—I do hope your head—”
“Wait a minute. I’ll leave the police out of it, provided you’ll do something. You say all those people are here, even the Indian and Mr. Buysse?”
“Yes. I—I thought it would be only polite to ask them, since Mr. Carew—”
“All right. The point is, they’re here. If you don’t want the police, do exactly as I say.” Jean sat up, grimaced, and held her head motionless. “Go down right now and give each of your guests a pencil and a piece of paper, and ask each one to write down what he or she was doing from 8.30 to 9 o’clock, without any one discussing it with any one else. See that they do that, and that they sign it. Then tell them—”
“But what excuse can I give for such an extraordinary—”
“I don’t know. Tell them it’s a game. But after you have collected the papers, not before, tell them what happened to me, just as I have told it to
Mrs. Barth had sat down again, with the expression of one having a job to do. She made no effort to interrupt, even permitted a lengthy silence when Jean had finished, and then spoke with no heat or acrimony.
“Listen to me, Miss Farris. Won’t you? I know you’re a well-bred girl and wouldn’t dream of making unpleasantness in another woman’s house without great provocation. I don’t deny you’ve had the provocation, but just consider. You say you’re willing to incur the publicity, but what about the rest of us? We’re the ones who would really get it. You’re thinking about yourself, which is natural, and so you haven’t stopped to realise a curious fact, that all the people who were at Lucky Hills, in Val Carew’s house, the night he was murdered, are here in my house now. Guy Carew, Leo Kranz, Portia Tritt, that man Buysse and that Indian, my husband and myself.Another fact is that Val Carew was hit on the head and so were you. There’s no reason to suppose there’s any connection, but reason won’t have much to do with it if the papers once get hold of this.”
Mrs. Barth upturned both palms in desperate expostulation. “My dear, you just don’t realise. It has been perfectly terrible. And if this is added to it, you being knocked on the head right here in my house, with all these people here—and the police come—it will be more than I can
bear.
They might even arrest somebody—”
Jean put in savagely, “That’s exactly what I want them to do.”
“In
my
house? My dear, I understand, you simply feel vindictive, and I understand that, but if you would only stop to consider—if you would just let yourself cool off a little—after all, you didn’t lose anything but a suit with some old yarn in it—and I’ll gladly pay you for that, whatever amount you say—”
No, Jean declared, it wasn’t the money value of the suit, she didn’t care about that. Then, Mrs. Barth retorted, it was pure unadulterated vindictiveness, and she had never supposed Miss Farris to be that sort of person. Mrs. Barth elaborated on that theme, developed it into an appeal to Jean’s better nature, passed from that to a harrowing picture of the injury that would be done to the innocent enterprise of her cousin Ivy-Bernetta….
During the latter portion of it Jean’s head was resting on her hands again. Finally, she said wearily, without looking up, “All right, Mrs. Barth, forget it. I’ve been trying to think … I won’t insist on the police. You’ll have to take my word for it that I have a particular reason for not … just letting it drop.”
“My dear, I knew you’d be reasonable—I do hope your head—”
“Wait a minute. I’ll leave the police out of it, provided you’ll do something. You say all those people are here, even the Indian and Mr. Buysse?”
“Yes. I—I thought it would be only polite to ask them, since Mr. Carew—”
“All right. The point is, they’re here. If you don’t want the police, do exactly as I say.” Jean sat up, grimaced, and held her head motionless. “Go down right now and give each of your guests a pencil and a piece of paper, and ask each one to write down what he or she was doing from 8.30 to 9 o’clock, without any one discussing it with any one else. See that they do that, and that they sign it. Then tell them—”
“But what excuse can I give for such an extraordinary—”
“I don’t know. Tell them it’s a game. But after you have collected the papers, not before, tell them what happened to me, just as I have told it to
Similar Books
