Rex Stout Read Online Free PDF Page A

which surrounds it. He was doing that on the morning of July 7th, having left the house before daybreak, and he saw Carew enter the tomb, letting himself in with his key for the triple Willentz lock. Sunrise that morning was at 4.30—5.30 daylight saving; so Carew would have been awaiting the sun on Tsianina’s face, if any, at half-past six. The Indian says that he and Carew spoke to each other. Only three people besides Carew were ever permitted to enter the tomb: Woodrow Wilson, Amory Buysse of the National Indian Museum, and Guy Carew, the son. But the Indian says he didn’t enter that morning. About forty minutes after sunrise, which would have been at 6.10, he was standing by a gap at the end of an alley in the yew hedge, when something hit him from behind. That’s all he knows about it, or all he’ll tell; he was knocked out. He had a bruise on his scalp. When he came to he was tied and gagged with strips of his own shirt. He worked himself loose and went to the tomb and found Carew’s body there. He says he touched nothing and went to the house almost immediately, and he got to Guy Carew’s room a minute or two before 7.30.”
    Cramer interrupted chewing his cigar to mutter half to himself, “More than four weeks ago. I hate these damned stale setups. When did we first get it?”
    “Well, we haven’t got it. We have and we haven’t. It wasn’t in our county and it still isn’t our case, but Anderson of Westchester started yelling uncle two weeks ago, and, of course, we have to co-operate, and besides, mostof the investigation has centred in New York. Carew lived at Lucky Hills only four months of the year. The newspapers and the public regard it as a New York case, and we can’t laugh that off. You’ll have to take it, that’s all there is to it, and give it all you’ve got. I’ve given you the bare facts, and now you’d better go through the reports and all this stuff, then see the commissioner and me again, and then have a talk with Anderson. As you say, it’s stale, so you can’t rush any one off his feet anyhow.”
    “Yeah.” The inspector sounded sour and doubtful. “I’d like to ask, are any of you playing a favourite?”
    Police Commissioner Humbert put in abruptly, “The Indian did it.”
    “You mean Woodrow Wilson?”
    “I do.”
    “Motive?”
    “You’ll get it in the reports. Carew was about to forsake the memory of Tsianina and get married again.”
    “Okay.” Cramer turned back to the district attorney. “Okay?”
    “No. I doubt it.” Skinner hesitated. “It’s a damned complicated case. Anderson had the Indian in jail for two weeks, and then turned him loose when Guy Carew got Sam Orlik on the job. There’s no good line anywhere.”
    Cramer regarded him, and after a moment said slowly, “I wish to admit one thing. I said I knew nothing about it, but the truth is that on the train to-day I got into a little discussion with fellow passengers, just as a citizen. I heard a lot of scandal, nothing to it of course, but has anybody showed an inclination to try putting Guy Carew in jail?”
    A swift glance passed between the two officials. Cramer grinned and continued, “Let me tell you. Once upon a time, long before there were any Indians aroundMount Kisco, a fellow had his throat cut and died. When an honest detective found out who did it, it turned out to be a philanthropist named Izzy Gazooks, who owned both banks of the Hudson River and was vice-president of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Politicians. So the detective moved to the country and kept chickens. Well, I suppose it is understood that I don’t like chickens?”
    The police commissioner spluttered, “You’re crazy. We wouldn’t have hauled you back from Canada if what we were looking for was a cover.”
    “Good. Then Guy Carew is just folks?”
    “He is,” Skinner snapped. “And since you’ve put it that way, I may as well tell you that I think Anderson fumbled on him. Guy Carew is half