Halfway House (8 page)

“Mrs. Gimball—” began Ellery frigidly.

“No! Do something about these people, Ducky, please. You can see that this woman is paid hush-money, or whatever it is they call it. Anything! I’m sure a cheque will keep her quiet; it always does.”

“Jessica,” said Finch angrily. “Please.”

“I’m afraid it won’t be as simple as that, Mrs. Gimball,” snapped Ellery. “Lucy… Lucy!”

Lucy’s black eyes went smoking to his face. “Yes?”

“Did you ever go through a marriage ceremony with the man you know as Joseph Wilson?”

“He married me. I’m not a—a… He
married
me!”

“Married you,” sniffled the society woman. “A likely story!”

“Where were you married?” asked Ellery quietly.

“We got our license in the Philadelphia City Hall. We were—we were married by a minister in a midtown church.”

“Have you your marriage certificate?”

“Oh, yes, yes.”

Mrs. Gimball moved restlessly. “How long,” she demanded, “do I have to submit to this intolerable situation? It’s quite obvious this is a plot. Ducky, do something! Marriage certificate…”

“Can’t you see, Mother,” whispered Andrea, “that Mrs.. Wilson isn’t—isn’t what you said? Please, Mother. This is more serious than—Oh, you must be reasonable!”

Bill Angell asked in a strangled tone: “When did you marry Joseph Kent Gimball, madam?”

The elderly woman tossed her head, disdaining to reply. But Grosvenor Finch said in a worried voice: “They were married at St Andrew’s Cathedral in New York on June tenth, 1927.”

Lucy cried out, in something so much like triumph that the cold woman opposite her started. They faced each other, separated by five feet of empty space, the stark legs of the dead man beyond and between them, like rails of a fence. “Sunday. Fifth Avenue,” said Lucy in a throbbing murmur. “The Cathedral. High hats, limousines, jewelry, flower girls, society reporters, the Bishop himself… Oh, my God!” She laughed. “I suppose it was cheap when Joe courted me in Philadelphia, hiding behind the name of Wilson because he was afraid, I suppose, to become involved under his right name. I suppose it was cheap when he fell in love with me and married me.” She sprang to her feet, and in the shocked silence her voice rang. “For eight years the cheapness has been all on his side and yours. Cheap, am I? For eight years you’ve lived with that man with no more right than—than any woman of the streets!”

“What,” whispered Andrea, “do you mean, Mrs. Wilson?”

Bill said slowly, “As Joseph Wilson he married my sister on February twenty-fourth, 1925. Over two years before he married your mother, Miss Gimball.”

The only sounds for seconds after was the short sharp cry wrung from Jessica Gimball. Then she said, “1925? You accuse him of being a bigamist, me of—of not… You’re lying, the pack of you!”

“Are you sure, Bill Angell?” whispered Andrea Gimball. “Oh, are you sure?”

Bill passed his hand over his lips. “It’s true, Miss Gimball, and we can prove it. And unless you can produce a marriage certificate antedating February twenty-fourth, 1925, your mother is in for it. We’ve nothing but justice on our side, and we must protect ourselves.”

“Oh, but this is infamous!” said Mrs. Gimball furiously. “There must be a mistake somewhere. There must!”

Grosvenor Finch said, “Now let’s not be hasty, please. Mr. Angell, Mrs. Gimball is naturally overwrought, and of course she’s sorry for what she said about your sister. Can’t this be adjusted in some way? No, Jessica! Perhaps, Mr. Queen, a little influence—”

“Too late,” said Ellery coldly. “You saw that red-haired young woman fly out of here. She’s the press. The story is already on the wires, Finch.”

“But this bigamy angle. She hasn’t heard that. I’m sure—”

Bill scowled and began to pace about. “Nothing on earth will stop those bloodhounds from hunting up the marriage dates. We’ll have to face it together. God knows we’re all in the same mess.” Lucy sat quietly, still as death.

“Very well,” said Finch slowly. The muscles of his large jaw were churning. “If it’s to be a battle, I’ve a card to play—”

“I think,” said a sardonic voice from the corner, “that I’ve let this go just about far enough.” Chief De Jong grinned at them without humor; they had forgotten him. “Now that everybody’s getting ugly, I’ll get tough myself. Murphy, you took it all down?” The detective in the doorway chewed his pencil, nodding. “Now, then,” continued De Jong, striding forward, “let’s get organized. You first, Queen. I think your actions call for an explanation.”

Ellery shrugged as he put his pipe away. “This man’s face bothered me all evening. I didn’t know why. Then it came back to me. The irritant was a resemblance. I attended a banquet some months ago in honor of somebody or other, and I met and conversed with a man who, I saw, might have been the twin brother of the man I had been told tonight was Joe Wilson, Lucy’s husband. But my
tête-à-tête
had been introduced to me as Joseph Kent Gimball of New York. When I recalled Joseph Wilson’s habitual absence from his Philadelphia home, it seemed to me a tragic possibility that Wilson and Gimball were the same man. So I went down the road and telephoned Gimball’s home in New York.”

“We’d have spotted it soon enough,” said De Jong grudgingly. “So?”

Ellery stared at him. “The only one in was Jasper Borden, Gimball’s father-in-law. I asked a few questions, discovered that Gimball hadn’t been home since the middle of last week, knew I was on the right track, and announced what had happened. Mr. Borden said his family was out, but that he’d sound the tocsin and send them out here as soon as possible.”

“Borden, hey?” muttered De Jong. “Old railroad man. Why isn’t your father with you, Mrs. Gimball?”

Andrea sighed. “Grandfather hasn’t stirred from the house for several years. He suffered a stroke in 1930 that paralyzed his entire left side.”

“Where were you people tonight? Where’d the old boy reach you?”

“Mother and I attended a charity ball at the Waldorf. We were there with a party of friends. Mr. Finch, my
fiancé
Mr. Burke Jones of Newport, Mrs.—”

“All together, hey?” said De Jong. “Big ball, I suppose?” For some reason not altogether clear, Bill Angell felt himself flushing. He might have known, he thought. He glanced at the girl’s face, and then at her left hand. She had slipped the setting off her finger.

“If you mean,” said Finch icily, “that any of us could have stolen off, driven out here, and stabbed Joe Gimball to death, I suppose you would be hypothetically correct. But if you’ve quite finished with this nonsense, I have something to say—”

“A good alibi never hurt anybody, see?” drawled De Jong. “Where’s this boy-friend of yours, Miss Gimball? This Jones.”

“We weren’t sure that it
was
Joe who’d been…” Andrea caught herself up; she avoided Bill’s gaze. “Well, I—I didn’t tell Burke. Grandfather spoke to Mother on the telephone when he had located us, and we didn’t believe it. But he was so insistent we felt we had to come and see. I didn’t want to involve Burke in a—in a…”

“I get it, I get it,” said De Jong. “Might spoil the match. Boy-friend jilts gal. Bad stuff for the papers. Nuts! Now, Mr. Finch, you’ve been steaming to get something off your chest. Go to it.”

“Under ordinary circumstances,” replied Finch in a stiff tone, “I should dislike even to bring the matter up. But we have our position to defend as well. This middle-class antagonism toward wealth, De Jong, can be damned annoying at times. Yes, I’ve something to reveal; and I’m afraid it’s going to prove unpleasant.”

Ellery stirred. “May I suggest you come to the point?”

“I suppose you do not know who I am. It wouldn’t matter ordinarily, and I shouldn’t bring it up; but it happens to be relevant to what I have to say. I am Executive Vice-President of the National Life Insurance Company, you see.”

“Yeah?” said De Jong; he did not seem impressed, although the National was one of the largest life-insurance companies in the world.

“In the course of my connection with the company,” continued Finch gently, “I’ve had occasion to insure many of my friends. Not as a broker, you understand—we’ve progressed since those days.” He smiled a little. “Purely as an accommodation. My friends call me the highest-paid insurance broker in the world. Ha, ha!”

“Ha, ha,” said De Jong sourly. “So?”

“Among the small number whose policies I have handled personally was Gimball. We’ve often jested about it. Rather remarkable policy. He came to me in ’30 and asked me to insure him for a million dollars.”

“A
what
?” gasped the policeman.

“A million dollars. It isn’t the largest policy I’ve seen drawn, by any means, although it’s the only one I’ve ever heard of issued to a man so young. You see, in 1930 Gimball was only thirty-three years old. The annual premium came to a mere twenty-seven thousand or so. At any rate, we managed it for him; he was in perfect health; and the policy was issued as of that year.”

“All by the National?” murmured Ellery. “I’ve always thought some law or other forbids one insurance company assuming such a large risk.”

“Quite true. The legal limit for a single company is three hundred thousand. In the case of a contract exceeding that amount the excess is underwritten by other companies; quite the usual procedure. The National took three hundred thousand, and we arranged matters so that seven other companies took up one hundred thousand each. The contract was handled as a unit, and Gimball paid his premiums through the National. Policy’s in excellent condition—no loans outstanding and the premiums are paid up to date.”

“A million dollars,” said Bill dazedly. De Jong looked down at the still body in awe.

“Just what,” asked Ellery in a patient tone, “is the point?”

The tall man looked him in the eye. “I am an officer of the National,” he said dryly. “Every insurance company has occasion to question the death of some insured. We have here a case of out-and-out murder. A case of murder, moreover, in which the victim was carrying a million dollars’ worth of insurance. I presume you know the law. In effect the law says that an insurance contract is automatically cancelled upon sufficient proof that the insured met his death
through the instrumentality of his beneficiary
.”

For a moment there was silence; and then Mrs. Gimball said with a gasp, “But, Ducky—”

“Ducky!” cried Andrea. “Are you mad?”

Finch smiled. “My duty, of course, is first to the company. The merest routine would dictate that we thoroughly investigate this murder. The amount at stake is considerable. If Gimball was murdered by his beneficiary proof of that would mean that the National and the seven other companies are liable only for the money he invested, plus accumulated dividends and interests—over a period of only five years—especially when the cash-surrender value is taken into consideration, a negligible sum compared with the million-dollar face of the policy.”

“By God,” exclaimed De Jong, “don’t tell me an outfit like the National Life can’t stand paying out three hundred grand.”

The tall man looked shocked. “My dear man! That’s not the point at all. Under the law it is virtually impossible for any company insuring lives to be in a precarious financial position. As for the National… Preposterous! It’s a matter of principle, that’s all. If insurance companies didn’t protect themselves by such investigations, it would invite every morally unbalanced beneficiary to murder the insured.”

“And who,” asked Ellery, “
is
Gimball’s beneficiary?”

The same two uniformed men who had appeared hours before with their stretchers clumped in. They dropped the stretcher by the body.

Mrs. Gimball suddenly buried her stern face in her hands and began to sob. From the expressions of stupefaction on the faces of Grosvenor Finch and Andrea it was evident that the spectacle of Jessica Gimball weeping was as rare as rain in the Sahara.

“Jessica,” said Finch in a troubled voice. “Jessica! Surely you don’t think——”

“Don’t touch me, you—you Judas!” sobbed the middle-aged woman. “To accuse
me
of—of…”

“Mrs. Gimball is Gimball’s beneficiary?” remarked Ellery. He watched them without expression.

“Jessica, don’t, please. I’ve been an ass… Look here, Queen, of course I’m not accusing Jessica Gimball of the murder. That’s…” He could not find an adequate word to express the ridiculousness of the thought. “I meant to explain than Jessica Gimball
was
the beneficiary of Joe Gimball. She isn’t any more.”

The weeping woman stiffened. Andrea drew her slender figure to its full height, her blue eyes sparkling with indignation. “Hasn’t this gone far enough, Ducky? We all know that Mother was Joe’s beneficiary—it was Grandfather who suggested his taking the insurance in the first place, with his old-fashioned ideas about the ‘responsibilities’ of a husband. Not that Mother needs it! You can’t be serious.”

“But I am,” said Finch miserably. “I was in no position to tell you, Jessica, or I should have. These matters are confidential, and when I discovered that Joe had arranged for a change of beneficiary, he swore me to silence. What could I do?”

“Let’s get this straight,” said De Jong, his predatory eyes glittering. “Start from the beginning. When did he come to you?”

“He didn’t come to me. About three weeks ago—it was on May tenth—I was informed by Miss Zachary, my secretary, that a request had been received in the mail from Gimball for a change-of-beneficiary form. I was surprised that Joe hadn’t spoken to me about it, because I had always handled his policy—with a select few others—personally. However, it didn’t make any difference, because all Gimball policy matters automatically reached my desk. Of course, the requested forms were immediately sent out, and then I telephoned Joe at his office.”

“Hold it,” rasped De Jong. “Hey, you guys, get that stiff out of here, will you? What the hell you rubbernecking for?” The uniformed men stopped gaping and hastily departed with their covered burden.

“Joe,” faltered Lucy, staring at the closed door; and then she fell silent. Mrs. Gimball glared at the door with resentment, as if she could never forgive what the dead man had done. Her jeweled fingers were twitching.