Rex Stout Read Online Free Page B

enormouselectric motor. Every day, at noon, the platform holding the casket, and the stone steps, slide automatically to the proper position for the next morning.”
    The inspector grunted. “He went to a lot of trouble.”
    “He did. But as I say, Tsianina’s people were sun worshippers, and he worshipped Tsianina, and he was a superstitious gambler. All that arrangement had a purpose. Undoubtedly you could call him a nut if he hadn’t piled up more millions than he had fingers and toes; you can anyway, if you want to, but it won’t have any effect on your bank account. As for the purpose of the sunshine on Tsianina’s face, he made no secret of it. He often went to the tomb at daybreak and stayed there until an hour after sunrise, and when he had any sort of important decision to make, he let her make it. If at that moment the sun’s rays were on Tsianina’s face, it meant that he was supposed to be concentrating on his memory of her and that nothing else mattered, and therefore it was thumbs down on whatever course of action he might be contemplating; but if her face remained in shadow he was supposed to go ahead with whatever he had in mind.”
    “For God’s sake.” Cramer sounded disgusted. “I still think he went to a lot of trouble. Who kept him from fudging?”
    The district attorney shook his head. “You’re not a mystic, Cramer. Neither am I. I don’t know whether Val Carew fudged or not, but I do know that plenty of modern buildings, right here in this modern metropolis, omit the thirteenth floor. I’m just letting you know what that tomb is like and how it got that way. You have to know, because it was in Tsianina’s tomb that Val Carew was found murdered at 7.20 in the morning of Wednesday, July 7th, four weeks ago yesterday.”
    “Huh. Four days after I left.” Cramer took out a fresh cigar and settled into his chair. “Go ahead.”
    Skinner settled too. “His body was found at the foot of the stone steps leading to the platform on which the casket with Tsianina rested, huddled as if it had fallen down the steps. You’ll see the photographs. A few feet away on the floor was one of the relics from the wall, an Indian war club—a round heavy stone with a hickory sapling for a handle. Carew had been struck twice with it—a glancing blow on the right cheekbone, and a crusher back of the left temple. The second blow caved his skull in. Also near by on the floor was another relic, an old hunting knife with a curving blade. It had been used to remove a circle of hide and hair from the top of Carew’s head, some three inches in diameter. In other words, he had been scalped. The scalp was found. Among the relics on the wall is a buckskin tunic that was once worn by Tsianina’s great-grandfather, and the scalp had been tucked into the girdle of that.”
    Cramer grunted. “This ain’t a case for a detective inspector, what you need is Buffalo Bill. Who found the body, a party of Boy Scouts?”
    “No. Woodrow Wilson.”
    “Who?” Cramer stared. He growled sarcastically, “I see you’re being funny. I’m still sore and I’m not laughing. Save the gags till next time.”
    “It wasn’t a gag. Carew’s body was found by Woodrow Wilson. When Carew came east in 1913 with his wife and young son, and his stake, an Indian came along—a cousin or something of Tsianina’s. The Indian decided that since he was coming to the white man’s big city he should take a white man’s name, and he had often heard of Woodrow Wilson because Wilson was President then, so he picked that one. I suppose it doesn’t matter what his Indian name was, and it’s a good thing it doesn’tbecause he claims he has forgotten it. I don’t know how old he was in 1913, but now he appears to be somewhere between 60 and 90. He grunts exactly the way an Indian is supposed to grunt. For the past ten years, since Tsianina died, he has spent most of his time hanging around her tomb, either inside or outside the high yew hedge