There Was an Old Woman (18 page)

They were silent.

“Thurlow, and only Thurlow,” Ellery answered himself. “Let me show you why I say that.

“What would have happened if Bob and Mac had not been murdered? When the Old Woman died, there'd automatically be an election to determine the new President of the Board of Directors of the Potts Shoe Company. Seven people would have the right to vote in that election, as everyone knew from her will, which we were told was a matter of common knowledge in the household for years.

“With Robert and Maclyn alive, one of them would necessarily have been nominated to take full charge of the huge shoe enterprise. This was brought out at the actual election the day after the Old Woman's death; you said it yourself, Sheila, rather bitterly.” Sheila nodded in a puzzled way. “Now suppose the twins had not been murdered? Suppose at your mother's death, Sheila, the twins were still alive? One of them would have been nominated, and he would have been sure of the following votes: his own, his twin's, Sheila's, and Mr. Underhill's. Neither Louella nor Horatio had the desire or capacity to head the business. Thurlow, then, would have been the opposing candidate. Now, who would have voted for Thurlow?

“Well, who did vote for Thurlow—in the election that was held? Louella, Horatio and Thurlow himself. In other words, had the twins remained alive,
one of them would have been elected over Thurlow by a vote of four to three”

“That's it,” said Charley softly.

“By a plurality of one,” exclaimed Velie.

“Thurlow would have lost. . .” mused the Inspector.

“Yes, Thurlow would have lost by a vote of four to three,” murmured Ellery. “Knowing Thurlow's sensitivity, what wouldn't this have meant to him! Deflated, ‘disgraced' in his own eyes, forced to take a back seat to the two younger men when all his adult life he had been waiting for his mother to die so that he could reign supreme in the family! Yes, defeat in the election would have been the supreme insult of Thurlow's life. And not only that. He knew that as soon as his mother passed on, Sheila and the twins and their father intended to take back Steve's real name, Brent. This meant that the Potts business might eventually lose even its name. At best, it would be in the hands of those whom Thurlow had always considered outsiders—not true Pottses.

“Knowing to what lengths Thurlow has gone in the past to avenge fancied insults and ridicule where the name of Potts was concerned, it's easy to believe that his intensely concentrated ego dictated a plan whereby he would seize control of the business on his mother's hourly expected death (page Dr. Innis) and avert the ‘catastrophe' of seeing the Potts name possibly lost to a grieving posterity. And what was the only way he could accomplish this? The
only
way? By eliminating the two brothers who stood in his path, the two who not alone controlled two vital votes but who, both of them, were logical candidates to head the firm on the Old Woman's death.

“And so—Bob and Mac died by Thurlow's hand, and in the election, instead of losing by a vote of four to three, he won by a vote of three to two. Oh, no,” said Mr. Queen, shaking his head, “there was no madness in Thurlow when he hatched this little mess of eggs. Or should I say the crime was sane if the criminal was not. … Granted Thurlow's obsession with the name of Potts, everything he planned and executed afterwards was severely logical.”

“Yes,” said Sheila slowly. “I was stupid not to have seen it. Louella, Horatio—why should they care? All they've ever asked was to be let alone. But Thurlow—he's been a frustrated little shadow of my mother all his life.”

“What do you think, Dad,” asked Ellery, “of my Sparrow?”

“I buy it, son,” the Inspector said simply. “But there's one little detail you haven't supplied.”

“What's that?”

“Proof. Proof that District Attorney Sampson'll cock an eye at,” continued the Inspector, “and say: ‘Dick, we've got a case for the courts.' ”

And there fell upon them the long silence.

“You'll have to dig up the proof yourself, Dad,” said Ellery at last, uncoiling his long legs. “All I can do is supply the truth.”

“Yeah. The trouble is,” said Sergeant Velie, dryly, “they ought to fix up a new set o' laws for you, Maestro. The kind of case you make out—it puts the finger on murderers but it don't put 'em where they can get a hot foot in the seat.”

Ellery shrugged. “Not my province, Sergeant. Ordinarily at this stage I'd say to hell with it and go home to my orphaned typewriter. But I must admit—” his eye wandered to Sheila Brent— “in this case I'd feel better seeing Thurlow safely behind bars before I retire, like his sister Louella, to my ivory tower.”

“Wait,” said Charley Paxton. He was shaking his head. “I think I can supply one important fact that'll tie Thurlow up to at least one of the murders—Bob's. I'm a fool!”

“Two-times killer isn't any the less dead for being burned for only one,” said the Inspector. “What have you got, Charley?”

“I should have told you long ago, Inspector, only it didn't mean anything to me till Ellery just explained about the duplicate guns. Some time ago—you'll be able to check the exact date—Thurlow asked me the name of my tailor.”

“Your tailor!” Ellery's brows rose. “Never a dull moment. What about it, Charley?”

“I gave it to him, assuming he wanted to order a suit. Next thing I knew, I got a bill from the tailor—I still have it somewhere, and that's evidence for the D.A.—charging me for repairs made on ‘a tweed suit jacket'”

“Tweed?”

“I never wear tweeds, so I knew there was a mistake. Then I remembered Thurlow's quizzing me about my tailor. So I asked Thurlow about the tweed jacket my tailor'd billed me for and he said, yes, it must have been his jacket the man meant, because he'd had my tailor make some repairs on it and hadn't received a bill. So Thurlow asked me to pay for the repairs and said he'd reimburse me. He did, too,” added Charley grimly, “in cash, the cagey devil!”

“Repairs,” exclaimed Ellery softly. “What kind of repairs, Charley, did Thurlow say?”

“No, Thurlow didn't say,” retorted the lawyer. “But I smelled a little mouse, I can't tell you why. I asked my tailor when I paid the bill. And he said Mr. Potts had asked him to change the right-hand outside pocket of the tweed jacket into a double pocket—”

“Double pocket
!
”
The Inspector leaped to his feet.

“With a partition lining between.”

“Charley, that's it,” whispered Sheila.

“Double pocket,” grinned the Sergeant, “double guns, double bye Mr. Potts!”

“If that won't establish premeditation, I don't know what will,” said the Inspector, rubbing his hands briskly. “Charley, I thank you.”

“Yes, that's it,” said Ellery. “I should have seen it myself. Of course he'd have to take the precaution of preventing a mix-up in the two guns during the short time he had them both in the same pocket. But with a double pocket, he could put the live-loaded Colt in one half—say the half at the front of the pocket—and the Colt with the blank in the half at the back. That made it easy to locate the live-loaded Colt with his fingers when the time came to withdraw the gun for the duel.”

“Better get hold of that coat immediately, Inspector,” advised Charley. “Thurlow thinks he's safe, so he's done nothing about it. But if he suspects you're looking for evidence, he'll burn the coat and you'll never have a case for Sampson.”

A dark figure flung itself through one of the French doors off the terrace and stumbled into the study.

It was Thurlow Potts.

One glimpse of his contorted features was proof enough that Thurlow had overheard every word of the analysis by which Ellery Queen had relegated him to the Death House, and of the testimony of Charley Paxton's which was to provide the switch.

For the second time that evening they were paralyzed by the inhuman quickness of Thurlow's appearance. This was a Sparrow possessed of demons. Before any of them could stir, he had flung himself at Charley Paxton's throat.

“I'll kill you for telling them about that pocket,” Thurlow shouted, digging his fingers into Charley's flesh. The young lawyer, taken completely by surprise, had not even had time or presence to rise from his seat; the force of Thurlow's assault had sent him hurtling over backward, and his head had struck the floor with a soggy thud. Thurlow's fingers dug deeper. “I'll kill you,” he kept screaming. “That pocket. I'll kill you.”

“He's unconscious,” Sheila was shrieking. “He hit his head. Thurlow, stop it! Stop, you dirty butcher—
stop
!
”

The Queens, father and son, and Sergeant Velie hit the little man simultaneously from three directions. Velie scooped up Thurlow's legs, which instantly began kicking. Ellery grabbed one arm and yanked, and the Inspector the other. Even so, they found it difficult to pluck him from Paxton's throat. It was only by main force that Ellery was able to tear those stubby, suddenly iron fingers away.

Then they had him loose, and Sheila dropped hysterically by Charley's side to chafe his swollen neck, where the bite of Thurlow's fingers was deep and clear.

Sergeant Velie got Thurlow's throat from behind in the crook of his arm, but the little man kept kicking viciously even as his eyes bugged from his head. They were red, wild eyes. “I'll kill him,” he kept screaming. “I killed the twins, and I'll kill Paxton, too, and I'll kill, I'll kill, kill . . .”

And suddenly he went soft all over, like a rag doll. His head draped itself over the Sergeant's arm. His legs stopped kicking.

“On the davenport,” said Inspector Queen curtly. “Miss Brent, is Charley all right?”

“I think so, Inspector! He's coming to. Charley, Charley darling . . .”

Velie picked up the little man and carried him to the studio couch. He did not drop Thurlow; he laid him down carefully almost tenderly.

“Cunning as they come,” grunted the Inspector. “Well, son, you heard him say he did it. So you're right, and we've got plenty of witnesses, and Thurlow's a gone rattlesnake.”

Ellery brushed himself off. “Yes, Dad, premeditated purchase of two pairs of guns, premeditated manufacture of a double pocket, premeditated build-up of a perfect alibi, a clear motive—I think you've got a case for the District Attorney.”

“He won't need it,” said Sergeant Velie. There was something so sharply strange in Velie's tone that they looked at him in inquiry. He jerked his big jaw in the direction of the man on the couch.

Thurlow Potts lay quiet, with a stare at right angles to sanity. There was nothing in his eyes now, nothing. They were lifeless marbles. The face was putty natted into vertical lines. He was staring up at Sergeant Velie without resentment or hatred, without pain—without recognition.

“Velie, call Bellevue,” said Inspector Queen soberly.

Ave atque vale,
Thurlow, thought Ellery Queen as he looked down at that stricken flesh of the Old Woman's flesh. For you there will be no arrest, no arraignment, no Grand Jury, no trial, no conviction, no electric chair. For you there will be a cell and bars, and green fields to watch with eyes that see crookedly, and jailers in starched white uniforms.

27 . . . The Beginning of the End

It cannot be stated that Ellery Queen was satisfied to the point of exaltation with his role in the Potts murder case.

Heretofore, Ellery's pursuit of truth in the hunt of human chicanery had been attended by a sort of saddle irritation which magically disappeared when the hunter returned to his hearth. But now, a week after Thurlow Potts had confessed his crime and lapsed into burbling insanity, Ellery's intellectual seat still smarted.

He wondered at himself, thinking over the horrid fantasy of the past week. That he had succeeded, there could be no question. Thurlow Potts had murdered Robert Potts with his own hand. Thurlow Potts had murdered Maclyn Potts similarly. Logic had triumphed, the miscreant had confessed, the case was closed. Where, then, had he failed?

King James had said to the fly, “Have I three kingdoms and thou must needs fly into my eye?”

What was the nature of the fly?

And suddenly, at breakfast with his father that morning, he saw that there were two flies, as it were, in his eye. One was Thurlow Potts himself. Thurlow was still a conundrum, logic and confession notwithstanding. Mr. Queen was uncomfortably aware that he had never known the true nature of Thurlow, and that he still did not know it. The man had been too rich a mixture of sense and nonsense, a mixture too thoroughly mixed. But the recipe for Thurlow was preponderantly madness, and for some reason this annoyed Mr. Queen no end. The man had been mostly mad, and his crime had been mostly sane; perhaps this was the source of the smart. And yet there could be no doubt whatever that Thurlow had murdered his twin brothers, knowing exactly what he was doing.

Ellery gave it up.

The other fly was equally obvious, and equally pestiferous. It had dimples, and its name was Sheila. At this point, Ellery quickly resumed the attack on his breakfast under his father's inquiring eye. Sometimes it is wiser, he thought, not to probe too deeply into certain branches of entomology.

By coincidence Sheila and Charley Paxton dropped into the Queen apartment before that uneasy breakfast was concluded; and it must be said that Mr. Queen rose heroically to the occasion, the more so since the young couple had come to announce their approaching marriage.

“The best of everything,” he said bravely, pressing their hands.

“If ever two snooks deserved happiness in this world,” said the Inspector, shaking his head, “it's you two. When's it coming off?”

“Tomorrow,” said Sheila. She was radiant.

“Tomorrow!” Mr. Queen blinked.

Charley was plainly embarrassed. “I told Sheila you'd probably be pretty busy catching up on your book,” he mumbled. “But you know how women are.”

“Indeed I do, and I'd never have forgiven you if you'd taken any such silly excuse for not dropping in.”

“There, you see, dear?” said Sheila.

Charley grinned feebly.

“Tomorrow,” smiled Inspector Queen. “That's as fine a day as any.”

“Then we're going on a honeymoon,” said Sheila, hugging Charley's arm, “and when we get back—work, and peace.”

“Work?” said Ellery. “Oh, of course. The business.”

“Yes. Mr. Underhill's going to manage the production end—he's far and away the best man for it, and of course the office staff will keep on as before.”

“How about the executive set-up?” asked the Inspector curiously. “With Thurlow out of circulation—”

“Well, we've tried to get Sheila's father to change his mind about taking an active part in the business,” said Charley, “but Steve just won't. Says he's too old and wants only to live the rest of his life out playing checkers with that old scalawag Gotch. So that sort of leaves it up to Sheila. Of course, Louella and Horatio are out of the question, and now that Thurlow's gone, they'll do as Sheila says.”

“We've had a long talk with Louella and Horatio,” said Sheila, “and they've agreed to accept incomes and not stand in the way of the reorganization. They'll live on at the old house on the Drive. But Daddy and Major Gotch are taking an apartment, and of course Charley and I will take our own place, too.” She shivered the least bit. “I can't wait to get out of the house.”

“Amen,” said Charley in a low voice.

Ellery smiled. “Then from now on I'm going to have to address you as Madam President, Sheila?”

“Looks that way,” retorted Sheila. “Actually, I'll be President only for the record. With Mr. Underhill handling production and Charley the business end—he insists on it—I won't have anything to do but clip coupons.”

“What a life,” groaned the Inspector.

“And of course,” said Sheila in an altered tone, gazing at the floor, “of course, Ellery, I can't tell you how grateful I am for everything you've done for us—”

“Spare me,” pleaded Ellery.

“And Sheila and I sort of thought,” said Charley, “that we'd be even more grateful if you sort of finished the job—”

“Beg pardon?”

“What's the matter with you two?” laughed Sheila. “Charley, can't you even extend a simple invitation? Ellery, Charley would like you to be best man tomorrow, and—well, I think you know how thrilled
I'd
be.”

“On one condition.”

Charley looked relieved, “Anything!”

“Don't be so rash, Charley. I'd like to kiss the bride.” That'll hold you, brother! thought Mr. Queen uncharitably.

“Sure,” said Charley with a weak grin. “Help yourself.”

Mr. Queen did so, liberally.

Now this was strange, that even in the peace of the church, with Dr. Crittenden smilingly holding his Book open before him, and Sheila standing before him straight and still and tense to the left, her father a little behind and to one side of her, and Charley Paxton standing just as solemnly to the right, Ellery behind
him
. . . even here, even now, the flies buzzed about Ellery's eye.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company
. . .”

Inspector Queen stood behind Ellery. With his father's quiet breathing in his ear, the son was suddenly seized with an irrelevance, so unpredictable is the human mind in its crises of desperation. He slipped his hand into his coat pocket to feel for the ring of which he was honored custodian, and also to finger absently the three documents that lay there. The Inspector had given them to Ellery that morning.

“Give them back to Charley for his files, or hold them for him,” the Inspector had said. “Lord knows I can't get rid of 'em fast enough.”

One was the Old Woman's will. His fingers knew that by the thickness of the wrapper. The Old Woman …

“. . .
to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God
. . .”

The Old Woman's confession. Her notepaper. Only one left, anyhow, so it must be. He found it outside his pocket, in his hand. Now how did that happen? Ellery thought innocently. He glanced down at it.

“. . .
and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly
. . .”

Forged confession. Never written by the Old Woman. That signature—traced off in the same soft pencil … Ellery found himself turning the closely typed sheet over. It was perfectly clean. Not a pencil mark, not the sign of an erasure.

“. . .
but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly and in the fear of God.”

Something clicked in the Queen brain. Swiftly he took the slip of flimsy from his pocket, the stock memorandum from which he had decided—how long ago it seemed! — the signature of Cornelia Potts had been traced onto the “confession.”

He turned it over. On the back of the memorandum he now noticed, for the first time, the faint but clean pencil impression in reverse of the words “Cornelia Potts.”

He shifted his position so that he might hold the memorandum up to a ruffle of sunlight skirting Charley's arm. The pencil impression on the reverse of the memorandum lay directly over the signature on the face, with no slightest blurring.

“Into this holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined.”

Ellery turned, groped for his father's arm.

Inspector Queen looked at him blankly. Then, scanning Ellery's face, he leaned forward and whispered: “Ellery! Don't you feel well? What's the matter?”

Ellery wet his lips.

“
If any man can show just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him speak now
—”

“Damn it!” blurted Ellery.

Dr. Crittenden almost dropped the Book.

Ellery's face was convulsed. He was pale and in a rage, the two documents in his hand rustling like rumors. Later, he said he did not remember having blasphemed. “Stop,” he said a little hoarsely. “Stop the wedding.”