Part 2 (1/2)
”Almost immediately.”
”Two freaks,” commented Bigby. ”Do you think that anything could have attracted that lightning stroke?Anything special, I mean?”
”It would have been possible,” decided Cranston. ”I have heard of devices that will attract lightning.”
”And do you know of anything that could produce an immediate conflagration of the size you witnessed?”
”Yes, thermite could have done it.”
Cranston's statement brought a head-shake from Clem.
”Hain't had no trouble from termites for the last ten years,” began Clem. ”I've heered of rats starting fires, but never termites--”
”Mr. Cranston is speaking of a high-powered chemical,” interposed Bigby, ”not of destructive insects.
His conclusions fit precisely with my own. That is why we are all going to talk to the one man who can answer these very relevant questions.”
In dominating fas.h.i.+on, Bigby waved his visitors out through the door. He escorted them straight to the driveway, where he gestured them into a large car. As he took the wheel, Bigby turned to the rear seat and added a piece of information that was scarcely necessary.
”By 'the one man',” announced Claude Bigby, ”I mean Lamira's newest and most obnoxious citizen, Preston Brett!”
V.
WHEN he reached the bottom of his long, winding driveway, Bigby didn't turn to the right to follow the curving roundabout highway that led to Brett's gingerbread mansion. Instead, he turned to the left and followed the road into Lamira. There, he pulled up in front of new mill that Brett operated.
The workers who were coming from the mill stood stock-still as they saw Bigby alight from the arriving car. Of all visitors to these preserves, Bigby was the last they expected, because of his feud with Brett.
By the rule of things, the mill hands should have been antagonistic toward Bigby--but they weren't.
While some remained fixed in surprise, others waved a cheery greeting. This developed into handclaps as Bigby strode in through the doorway marked ”Office.” Margo was puzzled, but Cranston saw the answer. Among the mill workers were several who didn't recognize Bigby at all; they were new hirelings imported by Brett. The local men, even though glad that industry was coming back to Lamira, did not relish such outlanders. Bigby, the man whose motto was ”Kawagha for Kawaghans,” was undoubtedly rising in favor.
At the head of a stairway, Bigby shoved open a door marked ”Private” and met Brett face to face. As the others entered, they saw Brett rising to meet the man he didn't expect. There were several persons in the room, but there was no mistaking Preston Brett. He not only occupied the chair behind the big desk; his manner at seeing Bigby identified him fully.
There was a chunky hardness about Preston Brett that reminded one of rock. He appeared to be constructed of building blocks in a.s.sorted sizes, from his broad shoulders to thick neck and chiseled profile. His face was as wide as it was high and his eyes had a stony stare that his lips imitated as well as they could. Firming tightly they actually held back words that Brett was inclined to utter, but decided to withhold until Bigby, the intruder, committed himself.
”I'm here to ask you a question, Brett,” snapped Bigby. ”Where were you at the time of the stormyesterday afternoon?”
Brett didn't answer, which simply stimulated Bigby to further outburst.
”You didn't happen to be near the Old Bridge Tavern, did you?” demanded Bigby. ”They tell me that a car came racing down from that direction during the storm.”
Eyes stonier than ever, Brett retained his calm.
”If you're thinking up an alibi,” scoffed Bigby, ”let's hear it, Brett.”
Turning stiffly, Brett made a jerky gesture of his arm toward the men who were seated in the private office.
”These are the mill directors,” introduced Brett. ”They can tell you where I was.”
Voices chimed in answer. To a man they declared that Brett had been at home, having left the mill early.
He had expected to hold this meeting yesterday, but had called it off. Thinking Brett wanted to see them at the house, most of these men had gone there.
”They came flying out of the storm like snow-birds,” completed Brett, with a short laugh. ”I couldn't have gone up to the old bridge and come home in time to receive them, at least not by car. Of course”--his eye gave a hard twinkle--”I could have flown by helicopter, dropped an artificial thunderbolt on the tavern and hopped home, if that's what you're driving at, Bigby.
”But my new aerocar hasn't been delivered yet and you're welcome to inspect my roof hangar if you don't believe me. No, Bigby”--Brett shrugged his shoulders with a peculiar lift--”you're barking your s.h.i.+ns on the wrong tree. Better luck next time.”
His eyes turning slightly, Brett fixed them on Cranston. After a moment of consideration, the blocky man came from behind his desk with outstretched hand. During the handshake, Brett clapped Cranston heavily upon the shoulder. He introduced him to the directors.
”I told you we would find new investors,” declared Brett. ”I am having Ralph Lenstrom up to the house for dinner and I'm sure this gentleman will join us. His name is Lamont Cranston; he may remember having met me in New York.
”Of course you are welcome too, Bigby”--Brett turned to his arch rival-- ”and I think you would enjoy the visit. For instance, you might learn the thing you have been trying to find out; how thoroughly I plan to expand the local industries with the aid of new capital.”
Bigby shook his head, controlling his anger at Brett's sarcasm.
”Sorry, Brett,” said Bigby, ”but my niece is holding a party at the house this evening. I'm sure Miss Lane will be glad to be there, even though Mr. Cranston may consider your business more essential.”
It was neat, that way of Bigby's. He was literally shunting Cranston into Brett's hands, yet retaining a hold through Margo. Very obviously, Bigby could manage to see Cranston later and perhaps gain an inkling of what had happened at Brett's. But that didn't bother Brett in the least. He kept his lips straight, which was his method of smiling.
In his turn, Cranston took prompt advantage of the situation; he said that he would stop at the hotel and get his brief case. Brett could pick him up there later. That permitted Cranston to bow out with Bigby and Margo, which pleased Bigby immensely. Getting into the car, they drove over to the hotel. On theway, Bigby placed a few preliminary hints.
”Whatever Brett's business,” declared Bigby, ”I recognize your right to hold it in confidence, Cranston.
Of course I would advise you to think more than twice before putting money into any of his projects--and you can tell Brett that I said so, if you wish.
”Matters are too unsettled in this county for anyone to be certain of the future. Of course”--Bigby's eyes gave a wise side-glance--”there is plenty of established wealth in plain sight, in the form of orchards, farmland, quarries and natural resources. Brett will have to consider the people who own those resources, before spreading his schemes too far.”
They stopped at the hotel where Margo went to her room to put on a dinner dress. Coming down to the lobby, she found Cranston waiting there. He nudged toward the door, indicating that Bigby was waiting in the car outside. He mentioned that he had arranged for Margo to drive over to Brett's in the coupe after the party ended.
”Of course,” said Margo. ”Then I can bring you back to town, Lamont. Is that the idea?”
”It is,” replied Cranston. Then, in an undertone: ”Now that Brett has shown something of an alibi, keep tabs on anything you hear at Bigby's.”
”About Brett, you mean.”
”To a degree, but chiefly about Zeke Stoyer. They may begin to blame him for the job at the Old Bridge Tavern.”
”Why, of course!” Margo subdued her exclamation at Cranston's quick gesture. ”That would cover the case, wouldn't it?”
”Not quite,” replied Cranston, ”because it doesn't explain what happened to Zeke afterward.”
”Why, we saw what happened--”
”You mean we saw Zeke break his neck? No, Margo, we didn't.”
”But he plunged down the embankment head-first!”
”Body first, Margo, with his head tilted back and wobbling before he struck. That neck of Zeke's was a preliminary souvenir.”
Margo's eyes showed horror at this suggestion of murder. She began to picture Zeke as a witness of incendiary preparations at the tavern. Gradually she caught Cranston's viewpoint: Zeke was a logical tool, disposed of by someone who had bribed him to plant the suspected fireworks.