Rex Stout by Red Threads

The Indian grunted. “Go hell with it. Too many words.”
    Portia Tritt inquired, “But Jean, where on earth did you get the yarn?”
    “Oh …” Jean faintly flushed, and fluttered a hand. Then she met Portia Tritt’s eye and said abruptly, “Mr. Carew gave it to me.”
    “I see.” Portia Tritt’s brows went up. “Generous of you, Guy.” She smiled at Jean. “Would you mind having a twin? Have you any more of it?”
    “Not an ounce.”
    Leo Kranz observed, “Of course that sort of thing isn’t in trade, not really. It’s too rare, even for Fifty-seventhStreet. And speaking of trade—if the rest of you don’t mind—could you come to the gallery to-morrow, Portia? I think I know a new channel for some Lamois publicity….”
    The group began to disintegrate. Leo Kranz and Portia Tritt drew aside. Guy Carew got into conversation with Buysse and the Indian. Jean Farris was carried off toward the gaily coloured tent by two women with pencils and pads in their hands. Mrs. Barth started briskly in the direction of the main crowd, probably to learn at first-hand from Ivy how things were going; but before she reached the fringe she was halted by the sound of her husband’s voice calling her name. She turned and waited for him to come up.
    “It occurred to me, Laura—” Mr. Barth glanced around; there was no one in hearing distance of a low-pitched voice. “I understand some of these people are staying to dinner.”
    His wife responded quickly to the irritation in his tone and on his face. “Yes, and you promised to be here. Good lord, it’s only once a year, and only a couple of hours—”
    “I know, I know. I can stand it. Who will be here?”
    “Oh, that Desher woman from the
Times,
and two from
Harvey’s Bazaar,
and that man from London, and—Miss Graham has the list. Portia Tritt. Apparently she brought Guy Carew with her, so I can ask him if you think I should—”
    “By all means.”
    “All right, I’ll ask him. I’ve told Grimm dinner at nine, on the terrace, informal of course, since they’ll just stay on and brought nothing with them. Oh, yes, I asked Jean Farris. And I suppose I might as well include Mr. Kranz; that might be amusing when you consider Portia Tritt.”
    Her husband nodded. “I’m glad you can be amused. I wanted to suggest that you invite that fellow Buysse and the Indian.”
    Mrs. Barth stared. “Good heavens, why?”
    “Because I suggest it.” He glanced around again. “I’ve told you, haven’t I, that Val Carew’s death didn’t remove my difficulties? It merely forces me to deal with the son and heir instead. You saw how he greeted those two. I think it might make a good impression on him if we have them at the dinner table. Little things like that make a big difference sometimes.”
    “Well.” Mrs. Barth sighed. “This fashion bunch may be peculiar in some respects, but at least they’re not Indians. I might as well start a circus.”
    “Nonsense.” He was crisp. “Will you ask them?”
    “Yes.”
    “So they’ll accept?”
    “Yes. You don’t need to pour acid on me.” She frowned. “Look here, Mel, is this thing no better? Is it as bad as ever?” She suddenly raised her voice: “I had no idea there would be so many—no, indeed, Miss Desher, you’re not interrupting at all—I believe you’ve met my husband—”
    Guy Carew was saying to Amory Buysse, “I’m aware that I have no right to give you orders, but I asked you not to. Didn’t I? And I find you here asking God knows what. If you thought that peach seed meant anything, you should have turned it over to the police. Didn’t I tell you that?”
    “Sure you did.” Buysse slowly shook his head. “No, Guy, I don’t believe it would do any good no matter what you turned over to the police. In a general sort of way you can give me orders because you’re your father’s son, but on a trail you don’t know it’s better to give me myhead. I’ve seen more badger holes than you have.