01 - Last Drive by Rex Stout

Dive into Last Drive, an intriguing mystery from famed crime author Rex Stout, the mind behind the enduring Nero Wolfe detective series. This riveting tale, which inspired the inaugural Nero Wolfe novel, Fer-de-Lance, revolves around a golfer who suddenly drops dead of an apparent heart attack on the golf course. However, the plot thickens when the death is ruled a poisoning. Canby Rankin, the country clubs president, steps up to the challenge of unmasking the killer. This riveting summary is brought to you by Ben Tucker.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter one of the Last Drive. This is a LibriVox recording.
All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Read
by Ben Tucker, The Last Drive by Rex Stout, Chapter one.
There had been a friendly argument before the fsome got

(00:23):
started that Saturday afternoon in June. Carson Phillips retired from
the Army with the rank of colonel and a possessor
of a fortune ample enough to allow him to regard
the monthly check from Washington as just a little added
pen money. Had hotly resented the insinuations of his two nephews,
Harry and Fred Adams, concerning the relation between a man's

(00:45):
age and his golf score. So you'll be kind enough
to dividge ourselves between us, he snorted, Do you hear that, Fraser?
A wonder their impudence doesn't choke em. I'm hanged if
I would play their best ball. I've tamed wilder life
lads in the service. Frasier Mossin smiled and nodded, his
head held with the poise and air of authority acquired

(01:07):
by thirty years of experience at the New York Bar
as a matter of fact, Colonel, he agreed, you'd probably
give them a run for their money. I'm rather a
better lawyer than golf player, but impertinence. So you want
to let us old fellows down easy, do you?

Speaker 2 (01:23):
Boys?

Speaker 1 (01:24):
We'll show you, won't we, Carson, Shall we give them
a trimming? The soldier nodded and straightway produced a silver
coin from his pocket and sent it spinning in the
air with a call at hurry, directed at one of
the young men, who stopped laughing long enough to pronounce
the word heads. But it fell with the eagle up,
and having thus won the honor, the colonel motioned to

(01:46):
the waiting caddies and turned to lead the way to
the first tea. They found a crowd there ahead of them,
for it was a clear, brilliant June day, and the
links of the Corona Country Club was one of the
most convenient and best patronized within easy motor distance of
New York. For the most part they were men, and
you might have found among them the possessors of many

(02:08):
well known names in the business and professional world of
the metropolis. Not the least prominent were the members of
the forsome with which we are especially concerned. Colonel Carson Phillips,
fifty six and straight as an arrow, was a fine
figure of a man, with his clear cut, bronzed features,
steady gray eyes, and a military bearing Fraser Mawson, also

(02:30):
a little more than fifty, one of the most popular
men among his own profession, as well as a welcome
addition to a jolly corner in any of the exclusive clubs,
was perhaps a little less distinguished in his appearance, but
still a handsome man. And Harry and Fred Adams, brothers
and nephews and heirs of the Colonel twenty four and
twenty six, respectively, were engaging young fellows with a great

(02:53):
deal of foolishness still clinging to them and all their
accomplishments so far developed of a purely social miness. They
were spending a week at their uncle's country home, not
far from the Corona Club back in the Jersey Hills,
and Fraser Mawson, who had handled the colonel's business and
legal affairs for the past twenty years, was down for

(03:13):
the week end. Silent nods and low spoken greetings not
to disturb the pair who were driving off, were exchanged
as they reached the first tee every one knew Colonel Phillips,
open handed and good natured old warrior that he was,
and there were friendly smiles for him from men like
Bolton Cook, the Colorado millionaire who was waking up a

(03:35):
section of Wall Street, Harrison Matlin Corporation attorney John Whering,
widely known as a traveling lecturer, and can Be Ranken,
a wealthy Southerner who had become interested in the detection
of crime as a pastime and performed it so well
that his talents had more than once pulled the New
York Police Commissioner out of a hole. The Colonel and

(03:58):
Rankin were old friends, and now they joined each other
for a low toned conversation while most of the others
in the crowd swung drivers and irons at blades of
grass to limber up. In thirty minutes or so, the
Foresome's turn came, and Mosson and the Colonel teed up
with a short, nervous swing all forearm. Mawson got a

(04:19):
ball one hundred and eighty yards straight down the middle
of the fairway. Then the Colonel, his style was slashing
in business like you might have thought he was using
a cavalry sword on an adversary in the heat of battle.
A slice carried him into a trap on the right
two hundred yards away. His two nephews followed with the
gracefulness and assumed carelessness of a generation who plays thirty

(04:41):
six holes in the daytime and dances thirty six numbers
at night. They got long, straight drives. As the four
men started off down the smooth turf side by side,
the colonel turned to call over his shoulder to those
assembled at the tee. We're going to show these youngsters
the match will und on the fourteenth green, and with

(05:02):
a wave of his hand and a smile, he strode
ahead beside Mawson with what suddenness would the answering smiles
and shouts have died away if they had known what
the next hour held in store. The Colonel's optimistic enthusiasm
was reinforced by an astonishing three for the first hole
by Mawson, who reached the green with his second a

(05:22):
long iron over a trap and sunk a twenty footer.
The two young men took fours. Colonel Phillips needed six.
That's all right, observed the old soldier cheerfully. As they
headed for the second tea. If I don't do it,
my partner will one under parr. Do you still think
we're too old to make it interesting? Fred a miracle, sir,

(05:45):
laughed the elder of the two young men. To my
certain knowledge, mister Mawson never made that hole in less
than five before in his life. Confess it, mister Mawson.
The lawyer was nervously swinging his putter back and forth,
nipping the tops of the blades of grass. That three
was a little unusual, he admitted. But it's the colonel
I'm looking to slicing. Is something new for you, Carson?

(06:09):
Been at it for a week, frowned the soldier in reply.
Some devilish trick that's caught me unawares, totally undiscoverable. I
had Mac go around with me yesterday, but he could
find nothing wrong. Advise me to try my brassy off
the tea. I am doing so, you saw worse than ever.

(06:29):
The honors still yours, gentlemen, came from Harry Adams as
they reached the tea. Let's take this one, Fred miracle
or no miracle. It was a short hole a mid
iron over a lake, and three of them laid their
balls neatly on the green. It was a half in three,
with the colonel barely missing a fifteen footer for a two.
On the next, a two shot hole, the colonel used

(06:51):
his brassy again from the tea, and again he sliced
badly into the rough. No miracle came to assist Mawson,
and the elder lost the hole four to six. The
fourth was something over five hundred yards. Once more, the
colonel went far to the right. He chopped out of
some underbrush, gritted his teeth, called for his brassy, and
sliced out of bounds. They lost the hole by two

(07:15):
strokes and became one down. On the way to the
fifth tee. The colonel grew highly voluble. I've been led
forty miles on a false trail out in Luzon, he declared,
in deliberate disgust, And I've seen twelve pounders suddenly kick
up their heels and grin in your face. Also, I've
had experience with women, But for pesky, petty, unholy tricks,

(07:37):
nothing can equal golf incomprehensible satanic all at once from
nowhere I acquire this damnable slice cause not to be
found for figgleness. Women are hopeless amateurs compared to a
golf club. He was an iron, Sir, suggested young Harry Adams, respectfully,
you should have fought it out with the driver, put

(07:59):
in Fraser Mawson, busying himself with the selection of a
new ball. Don't give into their whims. You see that
the brassy is even worse. Something in your stance, or
grip or stroke. I didn't suppose it was the way
I combed my hair, observed the colonel in wrathful sarcasm.
The younger pair had the honor now, and each got
a long straight one from the tea. Mawson's nervousness appeared

(08:22):
to have increased, and he topped badly, dribbling along into
a hazard. The Colonel hesitated a moment, took out his brassy,
then handed it back and called for his driver. As
he teed up and took his stance, his jaw was
set and his eyes were grim. He did not take
his golf with the poignant earnestness with which the famous
Missus Battle played Bridge. Perhaps, but he had sworn to

(08:45):
beat the youngsters, and like a good soldier, he put
his brave old heart into it. Slow back, an easy
well timed swing, and away went the ball, straight and
true as a bullet, two hundred and twenty yards down
the fairway. The colonel watched it tense till it came down,
then relaxed, straightened, and grinned happily. A beauty, Sir Harry

(09:06):
called out longer than ours. Fred agreed. The Colonel waved
his driver valiantly in the air. The weapon of a gentleman,
he announced, vaingloriously, I retract my remarks of a moment ago.
After Fraser recovers from that trap, you boys may play
the odd. Permit an old man to exult. They tramped
together down to the bunker, on their way, meeting and

(09:29):
exchanging greetings with another foursome coming back on the fourteenth hole.
It might have been thought a pity that their interest
in the game kept them from appreciation of the lovely
landscape that spread itself out in four directions. Woods in
a winding ribbon of road to the left, a bubbling
merry brook in front, and on the other two sides,
the gentle, swelling green hills smiling in the sunshine, with

(09:52):
the smooth turf of the lynx, dotted here and there
with thick clumps of underbrush, a solitary tree, or a
miniature grove, and all made alive by a group of
players at a tea here or scattered there along the fairway,
the caddies with their bright yellow caps, making little dots
of color in the most unexpected places, as though a
painter had carelessly thrown drops of ochre about from the

(10:16):
point of his pallet knife. Fraser Mawson, standing in a
sand pit niblick in hand, was certainly not thinking of
the landscape. He took three to get out, and a
fifth was played before they came up to the other balls.
The two young men took brassy's to make the green
just over a deep ditch two hundred yards aways. One
reached it nicely, the other hooked a little to the

(10:38):
left in some deep grass. The colonel, with twenty yards
less to go, used a driving mashy again, his jaw
was set firmly. Down came the heavy iron head, and
the ball sailed through the air, just clearing the top
of the ditch and dropping dead on the sloping green. Again,
the Colonel grinned nice approach, Sir, came from Fred Adams,

(11:01):
and he added to his younger brother in undertone, We'll
have to go some Harry, the old Boy's back on
his game. Then he turned quickly at a swift expression
of alarm in Harry's eyes, and the two young men
stepped forward together, calling out, what's the matter, sir. The
cause of their alarm came from their uncle, the colonel.
He had let his mashy fall to the ground, and

(11:23):
he stood with white face and eyes drawn close in pain,
trembling visibly, while a half comical expression of surprise. Dismay
parted his lips. What the deuce, wh he stammered, moving
his hands uncertainly upwards to his chest, while his two
nephews ran forward crying out what is it, sir? And

(11:43):
Fraser Mawson stood still, opened his mouth and let out,
in a high pitched voice, the one word indigestion. Suddenly
the colonel straightened himself up with an apparent effort and
made his voice steady. Most curious sensation in my chest,
Oh here, lower down, I don't think in ingestion, quite

(12:06):
acute and hateful. By that time, the two young men
had him by the arm, one on either side, and
were trying to lead him toward the seats at the
sixth tee, but he shook them off impatiently and stood
still on the green turf, swaying a little from side
to side, with his hands pressed tightly on his breast.
Harry turned to Fraser Mawson with a frightened look. Maybe

(12:30):
it's as hard I better. As he spoke, there came
a cry from his brother, and again they sprang forward
as the colonel suddenly thrust his hands straight in front
of him and sank to the ground. They caught him
and led him gently on to the turf, while Fred
knelt to hold his uncle's head and his arms, calling
frantically to the others, run quick, a doctor Whortley's around somewhere,

(12:52):
for God's sake, hurry. Harry was off like a shot
in the direction of the clubhouse. Fraser Mawson stood as
one helpless with astonishment, his eyes staring. The caddies, who
had gone on towards the green came running back at
sound of the young man's shouts and were speedily scattered
over the links in every direction in search of doctor Wortley,
as were several other golfers who hastened over from nearby

(13:14):
tees and greens. Their shouts for a doctor soon filled
the air over all the June landscape. Meanwhile, Fred knelt
with his arms around the shoulders of his uncle, whose
eyes had assumed a glassy, fearful stare, while unintelligible sputterings
came from his lips and his fingers tore nervously at
the grass. Fraser Mawson had knelt down beside him and

(13:36):
was saying, over and over, what is it, Carson, for
God's sake, what is it, finally causing the young man
to exclaim, half angrily, shut up, don't you see he
can't answer you? All? At once, a great shudder ran
through the colonel's form, and his hands were clenched tightly
against his sides. A line of white foam appeared between

(13:57):
his lips as his voice became articulate, barely so a
mere series of gasps.

Speaker 2 (14:03):
Fred here, so I can see you. That's right, my boy?
Hooh by, tell Harry and you Frasier. I don't know
what this is. Let us the end all on fire
inside water, cool me off a little, you know.

Speaker 1 (14:25):
The words gave place to meaningless sounds, little noises that
escaped the old warrior in his terrible agony. Despite the
tremendous effort he was making to control himself. His eyes
were the eyes of a tortured man, rolling from side
to side, and froth covered his lips. He had seized
Fred's arm with his right hand, and the crazy force

(14:46):
of the grip crunched the bone, so that the young
man had to set his teeth on his lip to
keep from crying out. Fraser Mawson had disappeared and now
came running back with a pail of water from a
nearby drinking tank. They tried to get the colonel to
but he was beyond sensible action, and the water ran
over his neck on to the grass, with little splotches
of white in it. Shouts were heard. The doctor and

(15:10):
men seemed suddenly to appear from all sides, while from
the direction of the club house, an automobile was seen
dashing over the smooth fairway and leaping across the rough.
By the time it arrived, a crowd of twenty or
thirty golfers had gathered. Three or four of them had
knelt down to assist Fred in his efforts. As the
colonel's body writhed and twisted horribly about in his pain.

(15:32):
As the automobile jerked up suddenly with a grinding of brakes.
They made room for doctor Wartley, and he leaped out
toward the group. Just as he arrived, a mighty, convulsive
shudder ran over the prostrate form from head to foot,
and then it lay still. The doctor leaned over with
an ejaculation of amazement, and silence fell over the crowd
as he knelt to unbutton the old, faded army shirt

(15:54):
that the colonel had always worn on the lynks. Mutterings
and whisperings from forty throats accompanied his quick, deft movements,
lasting for the space of two long minutes, then absolute
silence again as he slowly rose to his feet and
turned about a glance to one side, a clearing of
the throat, and he spoke, in an undertone, gentlemen, Colonel

(16:15):
Phillips is dead. There was a gasp from the crowd,
and two muttered words of dismayed unbelief from Frasier Mawson
as he stood white faced beside the doctor.

Speaker 2 (16:26):
My God.

Speaker 1 (16:29):
Then a boyish cry of despair from Harry Adams as
he threw himself down beside his uncle's body and seized
the hand that lay there on the grass in his own.
His brother Fred was supporting the gray head on his
knees and was trying to close the eyes with pasthetic
little strokes of his fingers, stammering amazed. Whisperings passed around,
and suddenly a direct question was put to the doctor
by somebody. He seemed to hesitate, then turned again to

(16:53):
the bare headed group. Gentlemen, you are all members of
the Corona Club, and you have a right to know
the colonel was poisoned. I tell you this at once
that there may be no gossip about it. The nature
of the accident will have to be investigated, and it
will be well if no silly rumors are circulated, both
for the sake of the colonel's memory and the reputation

(17:15):
of the club. I think you may be trusted in
that respect. I'll leave it to you, Mattlin, to see
that the caddies do no talking. Call it heart disease.
Here some hands, if you please cook, Will you kindly
run your car a little closer? There was a tug
at Doctor Wortley's arm, and he turned to look into
Harry Adam's set face and staring eyes. Doctor, did you

(17:37):
say my uncle was poisoned? A nod answered him, and
he spoke again, stammering.

Speaker 2 (17:44):
But what what was it?

Speaker 1 (17:47):
The doctor threw his arm across the last's shoulder. We'll
find that out later, my boy. Keep steady. The thing
now was to get him home. Here, you min carefully
and gently. The still body was lifted and carried to
the automobile and covered with a robe. The faces of
the crowd filled with the fearful solemnity that always accompanies
the presence of death, no matter whose also bore the

(18:10):
finer imprint of the hand of real sorrow, testifying eloquently
to the quality of the man who had just left them.
The caddies were permitted to approach now, and one of them,
a little bright faced fellow, with his eyes filled with tears,
came sidling up with a timid query as to what
he should do with the colonel's back of clubs, which
he carried on his shoulder. Mawson bestirred himself at that

(18:33):
and reached out for the strap, but it was grasped
by Harry Adams, who tucked the bag under his arm
as though it had been some sacred thing. I'll take it,
Harry Mossen called, But the young man paid no attention
to him. The little caddy had meanwhile made his way
silently to the automobile, where he stood gazing tensely at
the robe, over the form and the tonneau. Now he

(18:55):
suddenly burst into tears and turned away with his hands
over his face. Perhaps the colonel would have appreciated that
tribute more than any other, if he could have known
of it. The automobile started slowly in the direction of
the club house, with a group of golfers trooping silently,
heads bare. In the rear. Bolton Cook, the Colorado millionaire,

(19:16):
was at the wheel, and beside him sat Fraser Mawson,
the dead man's attorney, business viser, and friend. Among those
who walked behind, there was one face in which the
general shocked expression of grief and solemnity was overshadowed by another,
a look of keen professional interest and speculation. Throughout the

(19:37):
scene at the fifth hole, this man had remained silent
in the background, but his steady penetrating eyes had not
missed a word or glance or movement among the actors
in the tragedy, And now they were fastened on the
backs of Harry and Fred Adams, the dead colonel's nephews
and heirs. As the two young men trudged along beside

(19:58):
the slow moving car, the face was that of Canby Rankin,
the Southerner who had turned detective. End of chapter one,