Rex Stout by The Hand in the Glove Page B
Authors: The Hand in the Glove
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Detective and Mystery Stories, American Fiction
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others … you won’t faint. Will you?”
“I—I won’t faint. No.”
“Good. I’m going to the nook. I’ll be there.”
She left him, and again sought the exit by way of the side hall. The sun was finishing his day, and, racing down the rolling slope of lawn, her fantastic elongated shadow leaped and staggered before her. As she ran she thought that it had been idiotic of her not to look at that paper on the grass.
4
The nook was more somber now. Night was earlier there than on the open slope under the unimpeded sky. Dol, shivering as she entered the shadow, deliberately did not look at P. L. Storrs, and yet saw and felt the presence as she stuck to the concrete walk until nearest to the overturned bench, where she stepped onto the grass. She stood for a moment, considering the technical problem of fingerprints on paper, then moved to where the crumpled sheet lay and bent over to pick it up. Gingerly she straightened it out and frowned at it. It was a promissory note, a printed form filled out in ink. The writing was precise and eminently legible. It was dated Ogowoc, Connecticut, August 11, 1936, and it went on:
On demand I promise to pay to George Leo Ranth or order the sum of Fifty Thousand and 00/100 Dollars without interest. Value received
.
Cleo Audrey Storrs
.
Dol read it several times, turned it over and looked at the reverse side, which was blank, crumpled it up again as it had been, and returned it to its original position on the grass. She jerked up, startled at a sound, and grimaced at herself as she realized it had been a fish jumping in the pool. She moved to the concrete walk, and after some hesitation went along it to the toolhouse some fifteen yards away. The door was ajar and she pushed at it and entered. The place was neat and orderly, but a hodgepodge: wheelbarrows, lawn mowers, garden tools of all varieties and sizes, bags of fertilizer, raffia and twine, bulb racks, baskets, a shelf with hammers and pliers and heavy shears … and Dol crossed to the other side to look closer at something. It was a large reel of wire fastened to the wall, strands of fine wire twisted into a miniature cable, and as she peered up at it Dol nodded. Somenting stirred inside of her, a tiny glow of excitement and satisfaction; she had not come to the toolhouse for anything at all, and yet she had almost at once uncovered a palpable and important fact; the wire was the same, no doubt of it. The murderer had entered the toolhouse, knowing of the wire, reeled off a desirable length of it, snipped it off with pliers, returned … yes … returned the pliers to the shelf, proceeded to the nook and—Dol’s train of thought jumped the track. How had the wire got around Storr’s neck? Had he put it there himself? With a shock Dol realized that the idea of suicide had not entered her mind … why not? Because P. L. Storrs was so pre-eminently not the sort of man who would do that. The notion had not occurred to her. She saw now that it should have; possibly she had made an utter fool of herself, telling Belden …
She left the toolhouse and went back to the nook, but stayed on the concrete walk. Her eyes were sharp with irritation at her own stupidity, and surveyed without compunction Storrs’ suspended body. She thought it looked stiffer than before—or perhaps the twilight made it seem that way. At all events, it offered no answer to her question. She looked at the grass again, and saw the crushed blades, not yet uplifted, where she had stepped to reach the paper. She looked at the overturned bench andmeasured with her eye … surely it was two yards, or nearly that, from its edge to Storrs’ feet. She made calculations and considered possibilities, but saw that her knowledge and her experience were both inadequate. She turned her attention to the wire. From where she stood the knot at the back of Storrs’ neck was not visible, but she did not approach; instead, she let her eye follow the wire up
“I—I won’t faint. No.”
“Good. I’m going to the nook. I’ll be there.”
She left him, and again sought the exit by way of the side hall. The sun was finishing his day, and, racing down the rolling slope of lawn, her fantastic elongated shadow leaped and staggered before her. As she ran she thought that it had been idiotic of her not to look at that paper on the grass.
4
The nook was more somber now. Night was earlier there than on the open slope under the unimpeded sky. Dol, shivering as she entered the shadow, deliberately did not look at P. L. Storrs, and yet saw and felt the presence as she stuck to the concrete walk until nearest to the overturned bench, where she stepped onto the grass. She stood for a moment, considering the technical problem of fingerprints on paper, then moved to where the crumpled sheet lay and bent over to pick it up. Gingerly she straightened it out and frowned at it. It was a promissory note, a printed form filled out in ink. The writing was precise and eminently legible. It was dated Ogowoc, Connecticut, August 11, 1936, and it went on:
On demand I promise to pay to George Leo Ranth or order the sum of Fifty Thousand and 00/100 Dollars without interest. Value received
.
Cleo Audrey Storrs
.
Dol read it several times, turned it over and looked at the reverse side, which was blank, crumpled it up again as it had been, and returned it to its original position on the grass. She jerked up, startled at a sound, and grimaced at herself as she realized it had been a fish jumping in the pool. She moved to the concrete walk, and after some hesitation went along it to the toolhouse some fifteen yards away. The door was ajar and she pushed at it and entered. The place was neat and orderly, but a hodgepodge: wheelbarrows, lawn mowers, garden tools of all varieties and sizes, bags of fertilizer, raffia and twine, bulb racks, baskets, a shelf with hammers and pliers and heavy shears … and Dol crossed to the other side to look closer at something. It was a large reel of wire fastened to the wall, strands of fine wire twisted into a miniature cable, and as she peered up at it Dol nodded. Somenting stirred inside of her, a tiny glow of excitement and satisfaction; she had not come to the toolhouse for anything at all, and yet she had almost at once uncovered a palpable and important fact; the wire was the same, no doubt of it. The murderer had entered the toolhouse, knowing of the wire, reeled off a desirable length of it, snipped it off with pliers, returned … yes … returned the pliers to the shelf, proceeded to the nook and—Dol’s train of thought jumped the track. How had the wire got around Storr’s neck? Had he put it there himself? With a shock Dol realized that the idea of suicide had not entered her mind … why not? Because P. L. Storrs was so pre-eminently not the sort of man who would do that. The notion had not occurred to her. She saw now that it should have; possibly she had made an utter fool of herself, telling Belden …
She left the toolhouse and went back to the nook, but stayed on the concrete walk. Her eyes were sharp with irritation at her own stupidity, and surveyed without compunction Storrs’ suspended body. She thought it looked stiffer than before—or perhaps the twilight made it seem that way. At all events, it offered no answer to her question. She looked at the grass again, and saw the crushed blades, not yet uplifted, where she had stepped to reach the paper. She looked at the overturned bench andmeasured with her eye … surely it was two yards, or nearly that, from its edge to Storrs’ feet. She made calculations and considered possibilities, but saw that her knowledge and her experience were both inadequate. She turned her attention to the wire. From where she stood the knot at the back of Storrs’ neck was not visible, but she did not approach; instead, she let her eye follow the wire up
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