Free Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 01 by Double for Death

hundred yards of private water front. Its name is Sweet Wilderness. My name there is George Byron.”
    Fox rubbed his nose to camouflage a grimace. “Where’s the car Luke drove there?”
    “In the pinewoods back of the cottage. My property.”
    “That’s bad.”
    “We had to leave it somewhere.”
    “You should—never mind. Where’s the one Kester drove?”
    “This is it.”
    “What about servants at the cottage?”
    “A local woman cleaned during the week. There was no one there weekends. Miss Duke did the cooking. There’s nothing to fear there.” Thorpe pointed. “What’s that—that pink—”
    “That’s the sun. Or it soon will be. I’m willing to have a try at your job, Mr. Thorpe, but I’m afraid it’s impossible. I’m afraid the American public is destined to see the name of that cottage in big type. Sweet Wilderness. The requirements are too drastic. It has to be plausible enough to allay suspicion. We can’t say you were alone, anywhere at all, from Friday evening until now; they wouldn’t swallow it. We must have corroboration. So we must find a man who will fill this bill:
    “One. He must be a friend of yours, or at least anacquaintance on friendly terms. Two. He must be willing to lie, either for friendship or for money. Three. He must have a cool head and adequate intelligence and discretion. Four. He must accept your word that you want an alibi not to protect you from a charge of murder, but merely from the disclosure of certain non-criminal activities which you wish to keep secret. Five. He must have been alone, in some place where you might conceivably have been with him, either for pleasure or for profit, from Friday evening until the time we find him; or if not alone, with another person or persons who can meet the other requirements along with him.” Fox grunted. “That’s a minimum. Without that it would be foolish to try.”
    Thorpe, sitting with his mouth open, muttered hopelessly: “Good gracious!”

 Chapter 6 
    W hile the morning breeze danced in at the window and birds sang in the trees, they discussed it and sank more deeply into hopelessness. A dozen, three dozen, names were suggested: a man who was at his cabin in the Adirondacks, one whose hobby was an amateur research laboratory at his estate on the Hudson, one who fished a privately stocked stream somewhere north of Pawling, many others; but there were insuperable objections to each and all. Thorpe proposed that Fox should himself furnish a reliable man whose testimony could be bought, but that was only the blabber of despair; he agreed that it would be too risky. Finally, into a glum silence Luke Wheer blurted a name:
    “Mistah Henry Jordan?”
    Thorpe glowered at his valet. “What made you think of him?”
    “Well, sir, I was running through my head persons who might be alone, and his name has been in and out all the time, because once I heard Miss Duke say he was away most of the time alone on his boat and once she sent me to take something to him, and he was away then on his boat—”
    “Who is he?” Fox demanded.
    “He’s a stubborn old fool. It’s out of the question.”
    “A friend of Miss Duke’s?”
    “He is Miss Duke’s father. Dorothy Duke is the name she used on the stage.”
    “Oh. Do you—does his daughter support him?”
    “No. He has a little income from capital—his savings. He’s a retired ship’s officer—purser. I have only met him once—no, twice.”
    “As Ridley Thorpe or as George Byron?”
    “He knows who I am.”
    Fox frowned. “You said no one knew of that cottage except Luke and Kester.”
    “Jordan wasn’t in my mind.”
    “And I suppose he’s disaffected? You being the companion of his daughter’s weekends?”
    “I don’t think so. I don’t think he’s affected one way or the other. Miss Duke is not a child. Jordan doesn’t like me, but very few people like me. I called him a stubborn fool on account of his obstinate pride. He won’t accept presents