Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 01 by Double for Death Page A

trooper.”
    “What time is it?”
    “Ten minutes to one.”
    “Did you let them in?”
    “No, they’re on the porch.”
    Fox turned on the bed light, hopped out, donned a linen robe and slipped his toes into mules, went downstairs with Dan at his heels and opened the front door the width of his shoulders. Two faces were there.
    “Well?”
    Derwin spoke. “I want a talk with you.”
    “Well?”
    “Not through a crack. I want to know what information you have that will protect Andrew Grant.”
    “I don’t——Oh, sure. You’ve been listening to the radio.”
    “And now I’m going to listen to you.”
    “I haven’t got a thing to tell you, Mr. Derwin. Sorry.”
    The trooper muttered something to Derwin. Derwin muttered back and showed his face again, twenty inches from Fox’s nose. “Look here, Fox, what’s the use of stunting it like this? Just to be cute? You know damn well we don’t want to pin it on Grant unless he’s guilty. If he can prove he didn’t lie—if you can explain why the radio was playing band music—I’ll turn him loose right now. I’ve got him out here in the car.Damn it all, this thing is worse than dynamite—the murder of a man like Ridley Thorpe–––”
    Fox shook his head. “Sorry, nothing to tell. Radio muck. Dick Barry trying to start a sensation. But I’ll give you a hot tip, buy Thorpe Control on the drop in the morning. That’s an insult to your intelligence—see if you can figure out why. Good night.”
    He shut the door. Shoulders were against it and explosive protests came, but Dan’s bulk was with him and the door clicked shut as the lock caught. Fox thanked Dan, went back up to the corner room, heard a car retreating down the drive and was asleep again in three minutes.
    It was not thunder, but clangor, that roused him the second time—the telephone bell. He switched on the light, bounced to the floor and trotted to the desk. As he lifted the receiver, a glance at the clock told him it was a quarter past three.
    “Hallo.”
    “Hallo.” The voice in his ear was low and blurred from lips too close to a transmitter. “I want to speak to Tecumseh Fox.”
    “This is Fox.”
    “I …” A pause. “I must speak to Fox himself.”
    “You are. I’m Fox. Who is this, please?”
    “I’m calling on account of the statement made by Dick Barry on the radio. Was that authorized by you and what basis did you have for it?”
    “You’d like to know. Don’t be silly. Is your last name—”
    “Don’t say it on the phone!”
    “I won’t. Is your last name Teutonic and does it mean
from the village
?”
    “No.”
    “Is your first name Old English and does it mean
from the red field
?”
    “No. But that’s enough …” The voice was agitated and even more blurred than before. “That tells me you do know—”
    “Wait a minute. What does your last name mean?”
    “It doesn’t mean anything. It was—”
    “What does your first name mean?”
    “It’s Celtic and means
small
or
little.”
    “Hold the wire a minute.”
    Fox went to the shelves and pulled out a book bearing the title, “What Shall We Name the Baby?” flipped to a page, got what he wanted in a glance and returned to the phone.
    “Fox again. Go ahead.”
    “Do you know who I am?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m talking from a booth in an all-night lunch place at Golden’s Bridge. We want—”
    “Is he with you?”
    “Yes. Not in here—he’s in the car around the corner. We want to see you.”
    “Come to my place.”
    “No, there are people there.”
    “Go north on Route 22, six and two-tenths miles from where you are. Turn left on to Route 39 and follow it three and four-tenths miles. Turn right on to a dirt road, go one mile and stop. You’ll get there before I do. Wait for me. Have you got the directions?”
    The voice repeated them. “But you must be alone. We absolutely insist on that—”
    “I won’t be. My vice-president will be with me.”
    “Your what?”
    “Never mind.