Rex Stout by The Hand in the Glove Page A

Storrs, demonstrating something. Sylvia was perched on the arm of Martin Foltz’s chair; evidently, as she had predicted, they were indeed speaking again, or at least she was. Zimmerman remained as before. Mrs. Storrs turned from her conversation with George Leo Ranth as Dol approached:
    “My dear, Mr. Ranth and I were speaking of you! Mr. Ranth has taught me that the essence cannot be invited, it seeks its own residence, it alights upon the crooked twig as well as the straight young shoot! If you should be chosen, as I have been! Mr. Ranth thinks not! They are trying to decide where to eat, and of course Sylvia in particular because she has Martin to manage. Siva destroys husbands with wives, and wives with husbands, even before the rites. Mr. Ranth says you have no insight, you are too lonely for the communion.”
    Dol protested, “But if I can’t invite I can only wait. Perhaps, Mr. Ranth, you don’t know how hopefully some people do wait.”
    “Never in vain, Miss Bonner.” Ranth was positive but polite. “Not in vain if they are destined. Drops of water unite always, if they touch, but their strongest reluctance just precedes the union.” He raised a deprecating hand. “The enthusiasm of Mrs. Storrs races ahead of me at times. I would hesitate to disturb your bliss in ignorance.”
    “When better bliss is made, ignorance will make it.” Dol was aware that her remark was silly and her voice pitched too high. She moved. “I think I can use a drink—no, thanks—please don’t—rather do it myself—”
    She poured Irish, conscious that Steve Zimmerman, from his chair nearby, was observing her without turning his head. She looked directly at him, then turned her back for another glance at Ranth and Mrs. Storrs and the others farther off. She perceived the futility of the little project she had determined upon after she had left the nook. If P. L. Storrs had been murdered by someone present there in that group, he was not likely, however unsuspected and on whatever edge of horrible expectancy, to exhibit any stigmata of guilt which she could recognize with any assurance. “Someone present there” meant chiefly, of course, George Leo Ranth. He was apparently completely himself. So was Len Chisholm, loudly ragging Janet Storrs, who was looking bewildered. So was Steve Zimmerman, who was commonly either glum and silent or inquisitive and loquacious. Likewise Martin Foltz, who was suffering Sylvia to berate him and cozen him, in turn, out of a fit of jealousy. Dol swallowed the Irish straight, shivered, and surveyed them all again, beginning and ending with Ranth. Detect? Detect nothing.
    She put the glass down. Now, then … but not any of them. Certainly not dear Sylvia. Not Len Chisholm.… Dol set her lips. She was apart from them all, really. She had no strength but her own, and she didn’t want any, neither for trivialities nor for this shocking emergency. She left them. Abruptly she started back toward the house. Mrs. Storrs said something, and Sylvia called after her, but she went on without answering, into a trot along the slope, running by the time she reached the terrace.
    The butler was not in the reception hall nor in the dining-room. She found the button and pressed it, and in a moment he entered by the swinging door. She faced him:
    “Belden, something terrible has happened. I speak to you because you are the only man this house has got left, and jobs like this are supposed to be for men. Telephone the police—I suppose the state troopers, that will do—and tell them Mr. Storrs has been murdered.”
    Belden stiffened and stared. “Good God, Miss Bonner—”
    “Yes. Be a man—you know how, don’t you? When thepolice come send them to the nook below the fish pool. That’s where he was murdered. You know that nook?”
    “But good God, when—”
    “Don’t tremble like that, Belden! Be a man. Phone them at once and send them to that nook. Then you can tell Mrs. Storrs and the