Beware the Young Stranger (15 page)

“Your more immediate problem was your wife. You had to tell her Dorcas was dead, and you had to force her to pretend to be Dorcas—to make the call summoning me, the needed witness whose additional testimony would wrap it up tight for you.

“Dorcas was dead. Nothing Ivy might do could change that. And you had a prime weapon. You could threaten Ivy with the exposure of Keith as Dorcas's son and heir, if you went to jail. Ivy wanted that inheritance, too. She made the call.”

Ralph Hibbs was gaping at Howard Conway as if he had never seen him before.

“You were cutting it thin, but you had luck,” Vallancourt said. “But not quite enough, Howard. There never seems to be enough luck for that kind of thing.

“First detail to go haywire for you was the cashbox. I imagine you wanted it to look as if Keith had gone from the living room back to the study, grabbed the box, and opened it on his way out.

“You snatched the box, opening it outside while you waited for Keith's arrival. I'm sure you intended to return the box to any point in the house where it would look as if Keith had dropped it. From your hiding place you saw Keith arrive. A mere matter of minutes for it fall in place for you now. If I got there late, it wouldn't matter. You could pretend you'd just arrived, too; you'd seen Keith drive away hurriedly; we'd both go inside and discover the murder.

“Instead, I arrived a few seconds early and you had to leave the cashbox in Keith's car. Still, no harm done, you thought. The police would catch Keith and close the whole thing out in a matter of a few hours. The presence of the cashbox in his car would be taken to be plain stupidity on Keith's part. Anyway, so long as Keith's true relationship to Dorcas remained unknown, no one could pin a motive on you for the murder.

“Second detail to blow up in your face was your certainty that Keith would be caught. But he wasn't. He kept fighting, dodging, stayed out of the hands of the police. He strung it out, and the more he strung it out the deeper I got into it. And I got to the truth, Howard. About Keith's parentage, the reason for the fight that led to Dorcas's death, the identity of the man who wanted Keith's true parentage to remain unknown, the only woman who could have posed as Dorcas on a telephone.

“Everything building like a wall around you, Howard. Until the final detail that nails the lid on—with implications that nauseate me!”

Vallancourt's face was iron.

“When we started checking lake cottages earlier today, it was you, Howard, who went to the rear of the cottage where Nancy and Keith were hiding. Nancy later came out that back door, the door through which they'd entered after Keith broke the lock.
You couldn't have missed that broken lock, Howard
. You knew they were in there, and said nothing.
You wanted them to stay.”

“Why would I want that, John?” Conway asked blindly.

“I think you meant to go back there later—alone,” Vallancourt said. “I think you were so deeply corrupted by what you'd already done that you intended for the police eventually to find a young murder suspect in that cottage who, in despair, had apparently killed himself. And—God help you!—if Nancy was still with him when you went back, I believe you could have nerved yourself to making it appear a murder-suicide pact. Right, Howard?”

Conway wiped his forehead.

“It's a nice tale, John. But you spent too much of your life in countries where intrigue is a way of life. This isn't a foreign country. Here, you have to have proof.”

“I don't have to prove a thing, Howard. That's the job for the police. I don't think they'll have much trouble. How long do you think Sam Rollins will hold out? And Ivy—you can't delude yourself into thinking she'll last very long when the questions start coming—and she has no scotch to fall back on.”

Howard Conway rolled over the porch railing. He struck the ground and was off and running toward the road, the hills, anywhere.

And then Conway stopped dead. Keith was coming along the road, toward the lodge.

“Keith!” Vallancourt shouted. “Howard Conway killed her. Do you understand? Howard is the guilty man, Keith. Take him!”

Keith stood with face raised toward the cottage for an instant, intently. Then he looked at Conway.

Conway scrambled about and started running in the opposite direction.

Vallancourt watched a young tiger gather himself and spring. He nodded soberly as Conway crashed to the road. No more mental block, Keith, to bar the final act of winning, Vallancourt thought.

Nancy was back at her father's side. From below came the sounds of turmoil.

Nancy touched her father's arm. “Dad …”

“Going rather well, isn't it?” Vallancourt said. “Do you have a cigarette, dear?”

“Dad, there's still that Florida thing …”

“Keith's claim of innocence down there was the truth, Nancy, or he was acting drastically out of character. I'm not speaking of the first uncertainties and fears I sensed in him. I'm speaking of the basic stuff I've discovered in him, the material that survived the slings and arrows. Do I make sense?”

Her eyes were misty. “You make sense, dad.”

“But no more of this elopement nonsense. I want to give you away in style.”

“Oh, yes, daddy!”

“And Sam Rollins—don't you think we ought to suggest to him a less hostile environment?”

“Whatever you say, daddy.”

Three months later, on a day in late summer, Vallancourt happened upon a wire-story squib with a Port Palmetto, Florida dateline.

A known degenerate, with a long history of sex offenses, had been picked up on a molesting charge and, to the surprise of Port Palmetto police officials, had confessed to the sex murder of Cheryl Pemberton.

Vallancourt cut out the squib, sealed it in an envelope, and addressed the envelope to Mrs. Keith Rollins at Niagara Falls.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1965 by Ellery Queen

Copyright renewed by Ellery Queen

Cover design by Kat Lee

ISBN: 978-1-5040-1714-5

This 2015 edition published by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.mysteriouspress.com

www.openroadmedia.com

EBOOKS BY ELLERY QUEEN

FROM
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA