Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 01 by Double for Death

no bail. But for the three good reasons cited, she slept.
    Downstairs, the large room which was full of things contained also half a dozen people. Dan Pavey and the man with the bee stings were playing backgammon; the homely youth and a man with a short neck and a long grey mustache were arguing over a crossword puzzle; Tecumseh Fox was playing a guitar duet with a black-haired little Latin with narrow slanting eyes. But at 10:58 Fox put down the guitar, went to the radio and switched it on, dialed for a station, moderated the volume and stood frowning down at it. It spoke:
    “… so I introduce myself because the last time the announcer did it he said Du Barry by mistake and I had to talk falsetto for thirty minutes,and not only that, I had to do it in French which I can’t play without music. So here is Dick Barry saying hallo….”
    The homely youth called across: “I never knew your curiosity to get you down that low before.”
    He got no retort. Fox stood for ten minutes.
    “… I was sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Churchill and a bellboy came along singing: ‘Calling Dick Barry, calling Dick Barry, calling Dick Barry,’ and I told him from force of habit: ‘Take the pot, my straight’s still open in the middle.’ …”
    The homely youth arose and left the room. Fox stood another ten minutes,
    “… And now for tomorrow’s and next week’s news. My challenge as usual, check it as it happens and see if I’m wrong. The Brooklyn grand jury will indict a man who parts his hair on the side, eats at the Flamingo Club and answers if you say Leslie or just Les. ‘Hope Chest,’ opening Wednesday night at the Knickerbocker Roof, will be a flop. Tom Booker will plead guilty to the charge of smuggling and take what he gets. Tecumseh Fox, the super-sleuth, knows why the radio at the Thorpe bungalow was playing band music last night instead of Dick Barry, your favorite broadcaster and mine as was to be expected, and will inform the police if necessary to protect Andrew Grant, who is being held as a material witness and may be charged with murder tomorrow. Three women who …”
    Fox turned the radio off, gave every one a good night and left the room. He was halfway up the stairs when Dan Pavey’s rumble came from below:
    “Hey, Tec! Anything stirring tonight?”
    “I don’t know. I may have laid an
egg.
I said ten million to one.” Fox turned to continue up and then turned again. “But I’m getting a bet down. Do you want a slice?”
    “What are the chances?”
    “You might triple it.”
    “I’ll ride for a hundred.”
    “You’re on. Good night.”
    Fox ascended, went down the hall to the large room with a desk and a safe, seated himself and pulled the telephone across. He got the man he wanted and spoke:
    “How are you, Harry? Family all right? Good. I’m sorry to bother you at home like this, but I may be moving around too fast in the morning to get you at the office. I’m developing a sort of an interest in the Ridley Thorpe murder. Of course. No, I’m working in a side show. What I wanted to ask, I notice that Thorpe Control Corporation closed at 89 Saturday and dropped to 30 today. Is that because the Thorpe enterprises were dominated by Thorpe and he was responsible for their success? No other reason? Holy smoke. Oh, you think it will. He was as good as that, was he? I suppose so. Let’s see—buy me a thousand shares when you think it’s around bottom tomorrow morning. Even if you think it may drop again in the afternoon, get it before twelve o’clock. Wait a minute—get it before
eleven
o’clock. That’s important. No, I can’t, but I never bet on a sure thing. Suit yourself….”
    He hung up, tiptoed back down the hall to listen for a minute at the door of Nancy’s room, returned and undressed, and went to bed and to sleep.
    Thunder awakened him. It was low thunder issuing from the throat of Dan Pavey. Fox recognized it and stayed on the pillow.
    “What?”
    “Derwin and a state