Death Of A Dude by Rex Stout

Author:Rex Stout [Rex Stout]
Format: epub
Tags: Crime
ISBN: 9780553762952
Publisher: Bantam
Published: 1995-01-02T03:10:12.337000+00:00

Chapter 7

At a quarter past ten Saturday morning I opened a door on the first floor of the Monroe County courthouse in Timberburg and entered-a door with a glass panel that had painted on it in big bold black gilt-edged letters:

MORLEY HAIGHT

SHERIFF

Inside, not even turning my head for a glance at the county employee seated at a table inside the railing, I kept going, on through the gate in the railing, across to a door in the left wall, opened it, and stepped in.I admit it wouldn't be correct to say I was in pursuit of a fugitive from justice, but the man I had had in tow had broken loose, and it would have been a pleasure to bulldog him. I had not been cocky. Arriving at the Presto gas station twenty minutes ago, at 9:55, I had pulled over to the edge of the gravel, got out, asked the help politely if Gil was around, and gone where his thumb pointed, on through the bright sun to the shady inside. Gilbert Haight, over to the left, stacking cans of oil on a shelf, twisted his long neck for a look at me, twisted it back to see his hand place a couple of cans nice and even, turned around, and said, "Nice mahrnin'."

If it had been yesterday instead of today and I had just come from Jessup's office with the credentials, I would have had a little fun, but now it was just a job. "Better than yesterday," I said. "That was quite a rain."

"It sure was."

"Maybe we could sit somewhere for a little talk?"

He nodded. "I knew you'd be comin'."

"Naturally. If your father still says you mustn't talk to me maybe I should see him first. I wouldn't mind."

"I bet you wouldn't. He don't say that. He says the law's the law. He knows the law. But this is no place to talk, people comin' and goin'. I suppose you've got some kind of a paper from the county attorney."

I got an envelope from a pocket, took from it the "To Whom It May Concern," unfolded it, and handed it to him. He read it twice, taking his time, handed it back, and said, "It looks legal to me. I guess the best place to talk is right there in his office, where it sure will be legal. My sister's got my car so we'll go in yours. Miss Rowan's."

I could have said something like "Father knows best," but didn't bother. He put a few more cans in place, went out and told his colleague he was leaving for a while-his privilege, since his father owned the place-and came and joined me on the front seat of the station wagon. It was only half a mile to the courthouse. As usual on a Saturday morning all the nearby parking spots were occupied, but I turned in, swung around the courthouse to the rear, and on past a sign that said OFFICIAL CARS ONLY. One, I was now official, and two, his name was Haight.

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