Free The Last Drive by Rex Stout Page A

handkerchief as he replied that he had been unable to sleep. “So I thought I might as well come in and keep the Doctor company,” he continued. “Though when I got here—it was three hours or more ago—a little after midnight—I found him dozing very well alone.”
    â€œTo tell the truth, I had dozed off,” Dr. Wortley put in somewhat shamefacedly.
    â€œIt was inexcusable. But it’s been a strenuous day, and I’m not as young as I used to be. I suppose I should have allowed Fred to divide the night with me—he wanted to—but the boy was completely worn out, and anyway I felt I owed it to Carson . . . And I went off like a log. When I woke up half an hour ago Mawson was sitting there.”
    As the Doctor spoke Rankin was regarding Mawson from a corner of his eye. The disarranged hair, the soiled collar, the general air of untidiness about his attire, all these were natural enough in a man who had been up all night in a house of bereavement; but what was the explanation of those two long scratches, one on his forehead, the other on his cheek, from which the blood had been carefully wiped away? Such scratches as might come, for instance, from low-hanging branches when making your way hastily through the woods at night.
    For a while the three men conversed together, turning naturally to the virtues of their departed friend whose still form lay there beside them. The windows became grey squares as the dawn arrived, and when the light began to dim the rays of the candles the Doctor arose and pulled down the shades. At length Rankin left them and returned down the corridors to his own room; from below came the faint stirrings of the waking household.
    â€œYes, but how the devil did he do it?” muttered the detective once more as he took off his coat and shoes and got into a dressing-gown. Then he stretched himself out on the bed and slept.
    When he awoke it was broad day. Going to the window and letting up the shade to look at the sun, he saw that the morning was half gone. In the rear of the grounds near the garage a man was playing a hose on an automobile; nearer, in the driveway, a dismal black conveyance proclaimed the presence of the undertaker. The blossoms of the garden were smiling in the sunshine, all unconscious of anything but beauty and virtue and happiness in the world they adorned. The detective turned away, his mind attacking freshly the problem of the day before as he began to dress.
    Downstairs he found Fraser Mawson and Fred Adams and Dr. Wortley still at the breakfast table. Over the steaming coffee they discussed the details of the military ceremony to take place on the morrow; an officer from Governor’s Island was expected sometime during the day to confer with them. Mawson entered into the discussion with a naturalness and freedom that caused Rankin to wonder a little. Could he be mistaken? Had the lawyer really been sitting in that room upstairs during the chase in the woods the night before? If only he had gone there at once on his return to Greenlawn!
    After breakfast the detective went in search of Harry Adams, and at length found him seated on a bench in the gun room with a bag of golf clubs at his side and an assortment of emory paper, cloths and oil; he was industriously polishing a midiron. The detective’s surprise at finding him thus occupied must have been apparent on his face, for the young man explained:
    â€œThey’re Uncle Carson’s, sir. I wanted—I just thought I’d polish ’em up a little. Don’t you remember how he always said a good soldier could shoot better with a clean gun? He used to keep after Fred and me because our irons were always rusty.”
    The detective nodded and stood watching the gritty paper slide to and fro over the shining metal. But he had sought out the young man for a purpose, and presently broached it. Harry was surprised at first, and then, as he caught the other’s