Corpses at Indian Stone Read Free

misogynist. A self-made dry-as-dust. He'd have to avoid this Beth person--
    and, if Sarah was serious, that act would hurt her feelings.

    He shrugged and turned back toward the car. A shimmer at the side of the front door caught his eye. He walked toward it. Stuck into the frame of the door, impaling a small, white card, was a knife of the sort that is taken on hunting trips. Aggie himself had one much like it. He pulled it out and the card came away on its tip. He carried the card to the light. It said: "Henry H. Bogarty." Aggie looked from the knife, which was sharp and shiny, to the card. The handle of the knife was engraved and monogrammed. He put it on the rail of the porch and walked toward the automobile. Windle had carried the luggage indoors and was about to drive the car around to the garage. Aggie realized he had spent several minutes in maundering. He did not stop the chauffeur. Instead, he went into the house.

    CHAPTER 2

    Old John was coming from Sarah's room, which was on the ground floor, across the hall from the living room. Aggie beckoned with his head, and, when the old man came close, handed the card to him. "Know who that is?"

    The butler read the name and nodded. "Why, certainly. Although I haven't heard much about him for-well-thirty years, I'd say. Not till this evening, that is."

    "It was pinned to the door frame with a knife. A mean-looking knife."

    "Knife, sir?"

    "Yeah. I left the knife outside. Didn't want to alarm Sarah. It was biggish. Sort of-
    -threatening."

    Old John smiled. "I don't think it's that. Mr. Hank--that's Mr. Bogarty--was quite a gentleman--in a rugged way. He wired your aunt he was coming here. The telegram is in her mail--and she's going through it now. Mr. Hank probably had no way of leaving his card conspicuously enough for us to notice. He was like that, Mr. Aggie. I mean to say--
    the rough--and-ready sort--"

    "I see."

    "Does it look familiar to you? The house?"

    Aggie glanced around the room. It looked startlingly familiar. He recalled vividly the way the stones fitted around the fireplace--their size and their shape--and the Navajo rugs--and the opulently ponderous "rustic" furniture-Sarah had, always been what she called an "outsize." Only little things were new: stiff, white draperies, a chandelier, some bookcases. Aggie smiled slowly. "Yes," he said. "I do remember, John. It's a funny feeling."

    He stepped across the hall and knocked on his aunt's door.

    "Come in," she shouted from her bathroom. "John?"

    "Aggie."

    "Be right out. I'm fixing myself an ice bag." There was a sound of chopping.
    "These darned cubes are harder to break up than an old-fashioned hunk."

    "Need help?"

    "No." She appeared, presently, en déshabillé. That is, she was wearing some sort of net over her gray hair--a purple net--and the most voluminous red silk kimono Aggie had ever seen. The ice bag had been lashed to her neck with a lurid batik. She walked across her room and dropped down on her enormous four-poster bed. She observed, after a sigh of relaxation, the activity of her nephew. "You make a practice of going through other people's mail?"

    He glanced up from the bedside table. "Invariably. You know what you remind me of, Sarah? Sunset over Grand Canyon."

    She whooped with laughter. That act seemed to hurt her throat and she spent a moment grimacing. Then she held out her hand for the telegram.

    "That's from Hank Bogarty," she said, "'ARRIVING SHORTLY FOR NEW
    GRUBSTAKE. LOVE. HANK.''

    "I can read," Aggie answered. "Who's he?"

    "Oh. An old friend. I can't imagine why he's coming. We haven't seen him around here for ages. Some of us grub-staked him once--lent him the money to go prospecting with--ever so long ago. It'll be nice to see him."

    Aggie was satisfied.

    For a moment, the sight of the knife in the doorjamb had startled him. There was something sinister about it. Like finding a medicine man's ouanga pinned on your tent.
    Now, his momentary fear vanished. Foolish,