The Murderer is a Fox Read Free

Ellery, the spirit all but
shattered. Or-and he caught himself up—or so Fox seemed.

    "And this is Mr. Ellery
Queen, Fox," said the Warden. "He's the one responsible for
this trip back to Wrightsville."

    "How do you do, sir?"
Eyes down, but the glitter again.

    "You'll technically be
in custody of Detective Howie here, of Prosecutor Hendrix's office."

    "Yes, Warden."

    Detective Howie rose from
his mooring.

    But Ellery said in the
quietest of voices: "Mr. Fox," and waited.

    Bayard Fox's glance came up
not so much against his will, it seemed to Ellery, as in the absence
of it. And when Ellery looked into those encaverned eyes—Davy's
eyes, but old, old, embalmed—he felt a pang of pity and knew
why the Warden, a sensitive man, had spoken of remoteness. On the
surface it appeared that even now, with hope held out to him—such
as it was—Bayard Fox had no hope. And yet . . . that glitter. A
little shutter-flash. A flash of something that was more life than
death.

    Ellery frowned: "You
know why we're going back to Wrightsville?"

    "The Warden told me,
sir."

    "Please call me
anything but 'sir.' And I'll call you Bayard, if I may. We must be
friends, or we can't work at this at all. I know your son—"

    "Davy?"

    That something leaped out of
the caverns again—"Quick as a fox,"

    Ellery thought absurdly—and
was gone as quickly.

    "Am I going to see Davy
again, Mr. Queen?"

    "Oh, yes."

    "My boy's one of the
big heroes of the War, Warden," said Bayard Fox with a slightly
animated smile. "I've been reading about—" He
stopped. Then he said stolidly: "I don't want to spoil my son's
life, Mr. Queen. This can't do any good."

    "You mean you don't
want your case reopened?"

    "Mr. Queen, this can't
do any good."

    Sincerity or cunning?

    Detective Howie spat into
the spittoon.

    Ellery said abruptly:
"Bayard, I don't know whether it will do any good or not. I
don't know, from my own knowledge, whether you're guilty or innocent.
But I'll tell you this: Your son's happiness—perhaps a great
deal more—hangs on this investigation."

    The eyes blinked.

    "I must have your
unquestioning co-operation. Will you trust me—and do exactly as
I ask you to?"

    That sunken glance went to
the Warden, as if—but only as if—for guidance. The
Warden, limpid soul, nodded with a sore and sympathetic pleasure.

    "Whatever you say, Mr.
Queen."

    The shoulders sagged.

    Almost deliberately.

    Despite Chief of Police
Dakin's precautions, they were spotted driving through Slocum, and by
the time they drew up before Talbot Fox's house in Wrightsville a
considerable throng had gathered before the big iron gate.

    It was neither a menacing
crowd nor a compassionate one; simply Wrightsville gaping. But the
moment held its terrors.

    Detective Howie hustled
Bayard Fox up the walk, covering the frail figure with his Himalayan
bulk. A faint flush at sight of the rubbernecks on the sidewalk
colored Bayard's cheeks; but only for a moment. Then his gaze fixed
upon the ivy-disheveled, shuttered house next door, and clung. He
actually stumbled on the bottom riser at the Talbot Fox porch steps;
Howie had to steady him with a secretly cruel paw.

    Ellery had been hopeful of
the meeting between Bayard Fox and his family. He sought a hint, the
least smear of a clue, from which to direct his researches. But the
incident told him less than nothing.

    The family was assembled in
the parlor in photographic postures. Talbot stood at one of the front
windows peering through Emily's faille curtains out at the crowd on
the sidewalk. As the four men entered, Talbot turned from the window,
a little pale, and hurried forward with a forced smile.

    "Hello, Bay."

    Bayard Fox regarded his
elder brother for an instant without recognition. Then he mumbled:
"Tal," and looked away—searching. The vague glance
rested on his sister-in-law, and awareness flickered again. Emily
crept forward to cling