Free Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 03 by The Broken Vase

I’ve run up against another one, and I’m afraid it’s a good deal uglier than those.”
    “Uglier?…” she faltered.
    “Yes. You’ll be hearing from Mrs. Pomfret, asking you to be there tomorrow at two o’clock. You too, Gill. In the meantime, you might be considering whether driving a man to suicide can be called murder. It’s a nice point.”

Chapter 6

    T he tendency of the human animal to follow a pattern, however recently molded, was illustrated on Sunday afternoon in Mrs. Pomfret’s library. Those twelve people had gathered there and sat at that table only once before, but as Mrs. Pomfret’s glance went down one side and up the other, she noted that each occupied the same chair as on the previous occasion. At her left Adolph Koch, and beyond him Ted Gill, Dora Mowbray, Tecumseh Fox, Diego Zorilla and Garda Tusar; at her right was Wells, then her son, her husband, Hebe Heath and Felix Beck. The meeting had convened a little late, for Fox had not arrived until a quarter past two. That must have been intentional, since he invariably got to places well ahead of time.
    Mrs. Pomfret, completing her regnant glance, said that Mr. Fox had a report to make, and nodded at him.
    Fox took a paper from his pocket, announced, “This is a statement signed yesterday by Mr. Theodore Gill,” and read it aloud.
    The reactions were varied and in two quarters spectacular: Perry Dunham burst into a roar of laughter, and Hebe Heath, after maintaining a haughty stare at Fox until he reached the end, suddenly coveredher face with her beautiful hands and moaned. Ted Gill glared across at her; Garda’s eyes were flashing daggers; Henry Pomfret, next on her left, moved to increase the space between them. Diego Zorilla muttered in astonishment:
    “A woman of course—but that one?” He demanded of Fox, “What is it, then? Merely a devil in her?”
    Felix Beck was finding his tongue. “You!” he blurted. “I warned him! I warned Jan many times about you—”
    “This is drivel,” Adolph Koch said sharply. “To begin with, I should like to know why Mr. Gill signed so extraordinary—”
    “It is not drivel!” Garda cut him off. “She’s a Nazi!”
    “Good God,” Ted Gill murmured in stupefaction.
    “You, Garda,” Koch said caustically, “are an imbecile.”
    “Oh, I am?” Garda was bitter, sarcastic, and triumphant. “I am always an imbecile, you think? When I said Jan was murdered I was an imbecile? So you said.” She snapped open her handbag, fumbled in it with hasty fingers, and took out an envelope. “This came to me today. Read it and see what you think now.”
    Diego, next to her, had a hand there for it, but she reached around him toward Fox. Fox took the envelope, glanced at the address and postmark, extracted a slip of paper and looked at it front and back.
    “No salutation,” he announced. “Hand-printed in ink—not, by the way, the same hand as on the package sent to Mrs. Pomfret—and it says: ‘Those who seek to damage the Reich will suffer for it as your brother did. Heil Hitler!’ Below, for signature, is a swastika. You say you got this today, Miss Tusar?”
    “Yes. This morning by special delivery.”
    “I noticed the special delivery. May I keep it?”
    “No. I’m going to give it to the police.”
    “As you please, of course. But I’d like to discuss it with you later—”
    “Discuss it now,” Koch said bluntly. “It’s ridiculous! The idea that Miss Heath is a Nazi—What do you say to that, Mr. Gill?”
    “Nothing. I’m petrified.”
    “It’s absurd. Nor does that swastika thing prove that Nazis were responsible for Jan’s death; they may merely be taking credit for a misfortune they had nothing to do with.”
    “Anyhow,” Mrs. Pomfret put in, “since Garda insists on turning it over to the police, that’s out of our hands. But I think the statement Mr. Gill signed entitles us to an explanation from Miss Heath. For what purpose did she remove the violin from the