Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 02 by Bad for Business

your hat and covered your legs and did a little detecting. You’ve been walking in the rain, you left your bag somewhere, you’ve been wiping blood from your hand, not very thoroughly, and someone hit you on the head with something.”
    She made an effort to hold her eyes open, and to speak. The brandy was burning. “How do you know they did?”
    “There’s a lump above your right ear the size of a lemon. Feel it yourself. Who hit you?”
    “I don’t know.” She tried to concentrate. “I didn’t even know I was hit.”
    “Where were you?”
    “In Uncle Arthur’s office. He—he’s dead. He’s there on the floor with his throat cut open—Oh, I—I—”
    “Take it easy,” said Fox sharply. The suggestion of a smile which was more or less continuously at the corners of his mouth had suddenly disappeared. “And keep your head still; we don’t want you passing out again. Did you see your uncle dead on the floor with his throat cut?”
    “Yes.”
    “When you arrived?”
    “No. He wasn’t there when I arrived—I mean I didn’t see him—there was a light in the office and I walked in—I didn’t see anybody or hear anybody—”
    She stopped and Fox said, “Go ahead.”
    “That’s all I know. When I came to and opened my eyes—my hand slipped when I went to lift myself up—and I saw it was blood and Uncle Arthur was there so close—”
    “Just keep your voice calm. Go ahead.”
    “I crawled over to the wall and got a towel and wiped my hand—then I stood up—then when I could walk I went away. I knew something was wrong with my head but I was too dumb to realize what—”
    “Dumb or numb. Did you come straight here?”
    “I walked to an avenue—I think Eighth—and got a taxi.”
    “Did you phone me as soon as you got here?”
    “Yes, right away.”
    “You phoned me at eight forty-two.” Fox calculated. “Then you left there about ten after eight. What time did you get there?”
    “At seven o’clock. Only I was late, maybe ten minutes late. Uncle Arthur phoned and asked me to come at seven, but I was late.”
    “Did you take a taxi?”
    “Yes, it was raining.”
    “You left your bag there?”
    “I must have—in the taxi I didn’t have it.”
    “Why did your uncle ask you to come? What for?”
    “I don’t know. He said he had a problem—he asked it as a favor—a family favor, he said—if you’d give me a little more brandy.”
    He poured a small finger and handed it to her, and waited for it to go down.
    “Did he say what the problem was about?”
    “No.”
    “Did you think it was about the quinine?”
    “I didn’t see how it could be—I don’t remember exactly what I thought.”
    “What time did he phone you?”
    “I don’t—wait, yes I do. I saw I’d have to leave in about an hour, so it was a little before six. Around a quarter to six.”
    “What did you do during that hour?”
    “I went in the bedroom and lay down. I had a headache.”
    “Let me feel your head.”
    She let him. His competent fingertips, inserted through the strands of her brown hair, moved gently over and around the bump over her ear, then, with his eyes on her face, the fingers suddenly pressed firmly, and she winced and grimaced.
    “Did that hurt much?”
    “Well—enough.”
    “Sorry. I think you’ll be all right. Excuse me for rushing things, but there’s a possibility even now—did you make sure your uncle was dead?”
    “Make sure—” She stared.
    “Make sure he wasn’t breathing or his heart beating.”
    “My God.” Her tone was horror. “But he—no—what I saw—”
    “All right. But the jugular had to be reached.” Fox gazed down at her. “Why didn’t you phone the police?”
    “I couldn’t. My head—I wasn’t really conscious of what I was doing until I got outdoors—”
    “I don’t mean there. After you got back here. You knew I was sixty miles away and it would take me an hour and a half to get here. Why didn’t you phone the police?”
    She met his