QED (20 page)

“Well?” Donald Mackenzie licked his lips.

“All the earmarks of an anonymous letter,” murmured Ellery. “Penciled address in block printing, dime-store envelope, and no return address. Postmarked yesterday. But where's the letter that came in it?”

Mackenzie watched dumbly as Ellery dumped out the contents of Molly's wastebasket and set to work. Halfway through, Ellery suddenly rose. “I just remembered. When we found Molly, one of her hands was so tightly closed you couldn't open it. I wonder …”

“I'll bet that's it!”

Mackenzie opened Molly's bedroom door softly. Conk had drawn the shades. They tiptoed over to the bed and peered down at the sleeping girl. Her right hand was still a fist.

“We mustn't wake her up,” Mackenzie whispered.

Ellery stooped over Molly, his ear to her chest. He felt her forehead, touched her eyelids. Then he bolted to the door of the dressing room. “Conk!” he yelled. “Conk,
come back up
—
quick
!”

“But what's the matter now?” faltered Mackenzie.

Ellery brushed by him, returning swiftly to the girl's bedside. Footsteps rattled in the hall. Conk Farnham burst in, the girls and Bea at his heels.

“What is it?” Conk asked wildly.

“There's something wrong with her breathing and heart action,” Ellery said.

After a frantic examination Conk glared at his prospective father-in-law. “What the devil did you put in that milk?”

“Only two of the sleeping pills,” stammered Molly's father.

“She's had a heavy overdose of the drug! Bea, Jen—I'll need both of you for a while. The rest of you get out!”

“But I only did what you told me,” Donald Mackenzie moaned.

Ellery had to remove him forcibly.

“Listen to me, Mr. Mackenzie!” In the hall Ellery backed the bewildered man against the wall. “You're in for a shock—the same shock that made Molly faint.” He produced a small wrinkled sheet of cheap white paper. “I took this out of Molly's fist.”

The Wrightsville businessman stared at the writing on the paper. Nine words, in the same penciled block printing of the envelope:

“
You ignored my warning, so you will die today
.”

If not for Jen, as Bea said afterward, they would all have gone to pieces then. Jen was a tower of strength, managing to be everywhere at once—soothing Bea, assisting Conk, slapping Sandra when the big girl began to heehaw like a hysterical mule, getting Flo's ill-timed storm of tears under control, and coming down hard on Essie Hunker, who sat in the kitchen with her apron over her head shrieking like a banshee.

“I was born to trouble,” said Jen with a sort of pride; and she carried on.

Ellery asked questions and prowled. It was he who brought down word from Conk that Molly was conscious and out of danger; she was sick and still dazed, but she would be all right. Conk forbade anyone to come upstairs until he called.

They sat huddled in the living room, and from the lawns came the cheery sounds of the caterer's people stringing Japanese lanterns, sparkly mobiles, and ropes of evergreens.

“As long as we have to wait,” remarked Ellery, “we may as well employ the time gainfully. Let's see if we have the facts straight.

“When Conk told you to prepare the sleeping draught, Mr. Mackenzie, you took your bottle of pills down to the kitchen and set some milk to heat on the range. You opened the bottle and were about to take two tablets out when Essie called you to the phone. The minister was asking about the rehearsal. You took the call in your library, leaving everything in the kitchen as it was. Essie, who was cleaning up the dining room and terrace, was out of the kitchen all the time you were telling Dr. Highmount about Molly's fainting spell. Then you came back, turned off the range, dropped two tablets into the milk, dissolved them, poured the contents into a glass, and took the glass upstairs. You stood there while Conk put the glass to Molly's lips and she drank the milk. And within a short time, Molly was drugged.

“It's obvious, then,” said Ellery in the silence, “that someone who had planned it perhaps a different way saw a better opportunity when you left the kitchen to answer the phone, and took advantage of your absence to slip into the kitchen and dose the milk heavily from the bottle on the table. When you returned, you merely added two more pills.”

“My fault,” said Molly's father dully. “I didn't notice that the bottle, which had been almost full, was half empty when I got back. I was so upset about Molly—”

Bea pressed her husband's hand. But her eyes remained on Sandra Burnett and Flo Pettigrew, and there was a lethal glitter in them.

“The point is,” said Ellery, “someone here tried to murder Molly, and it could have been anyone in the house.”

And there was another silence.

“Are you looking at me?” screamed Flo Pettigrew. “Do you think I'd do a thing like that?”

“Yes,” said Bea Mackenzie.

“Beatrice,” cried Jennifer.

Flo sank back, trembling. And Sandra Burnett sat there with a witless look on her face, as if she could not understand any of this.

“I still can't believe it,” muttered Mackenzie. “That one of Molly's girl-friends …”

“Murder is always hard to believe, Mr. Mackenzie.”

“The police—the wedding … It's all spoiled now.”

“Not necessarily. There's no reason to call Chief Dakin yet. By the way, I've made another discovery.”

“What now?” It brought all their heads up.

“The letter indicated a
previous
warning. People embarking on a spree of crime usually establish a pattern of behavior. So I looked for another anonymous note; and I found it in one of Molly's coats—the coat she was wearing day before yesterday.”

“Give—me—that!” grated Donald Mackenzie.

The sheet of paper was identical with the one they had found in Molly's hand. There was no envelope. The message was block printed, in pencil. Mackenzie read it aloud slowly.

“
Call off your wedding to your fine Mr. Farnham, or you'll be very sorry. Remember Browning's Laboratory
.”

“That's why she was nervous yesterday,” exclaimed Jen. “The poor, poor dear.”

“Browning's Laboratory!” Molly's father looked up at Ellery, frowning. “What's that mean?”

“I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Browning's Laboratory …” He turned to his wife. “Do we know anybody named Browning?”

“No, Donald.” Bea was scarcely listening; her eyes were still on Molly's bridesmaids, and they still glittered.

“How about Molly?” asked Ellery. “Perhaps a high school teacher—chemistry lab, that sort of thing. Do you girls know?” he said suddenly, turning to Sandra and Flo.

They shrank. “No,” said Sandra. “No!”

Flo Pettigrew shook her head violently. She was very pale.

“I don't think there's a single family in Wrightsville by that name,” rasped Mackenzie. “There's a Brownell Dental Laboratory in Limpscot, but that can't …”

“All right now!” Conk Farnham's voice from upstairs rang through the house like a jubilee gong.

The rush left Ellery alone in the living room. He sank into a chair, staring at the note. He sat there for a long time. Then he got up and made for the Mackenzies' library.

“Well, we're
not
going to call off our wedding,” Conk Farnham was announcing when Ellery walked into Molly's bedroom. “Are we, honey?”

Molly smiled faintly up at him. “Not a chance.” Her voice was low but clear. “I'm not scared any more.”

“We'll be married tomorrow on schedule, and no murdering sneak is going to stop us.” Conk glared at the two girls cowering near the windows.

“May I—may we go home now?” Flo sounded far away.

“P-please …” blubbered Sandra.

“No!” roared Conk. “Because now—Oh, Ellery. What do you make of this ‘Browning's Laboratory' business? Seems to me there's a clue there.”

“Definitely,” smiled Ellery. “Well, Molly. You look human again.”

“Thanks, Mr. Queen,” whispered Molly, “for catching me in time …”

“Rescuing brides for their grooms is my specialty. Oh, by the way,” Ellery held up a fat green book he was carrying. “Here's the answer to that cryptic reference.”

Bea Mackenzie stared. “That's my volume of Robert Browning's poetry that all us girls get when we join the Robert Browning Society. Did it mean
my
Browning, Mr. Queen?”

“Your Browning,” nodded Ellery, “and his Laboratory. ‘The Laboratory' is the title of one of Browning's poems. Since the writer of the note wanted Molly to ‘remember' this particular poem, let me tell you what it's about.” He looked around benignly. “It's about a woman who, discovering that the man she loves is in love with another woman, procures some poison to kill her successful rival. That's the plot line … Those notes were a warning, all right—a warning from a woman who thinks she's in love with Conk, and who's tried to kill you, Molly, to prevent your marrying him. Sheer envy, grown to homicidal proportions. Shall I tell you,” said Ellery, “which woman it was?”

“Wait!” Molly bounced upright. “Wait, Mr. Queen, please! Were you—were you going to give me a wedding present?”

Ellery laughed and took Molly's cold little hand in both of his. “Some such thought had crossed my mind. Why, Molly?”

“Because there's only one present I want,” cried Molly. “
Don't tell who it was
. Please?”

Ellery looked down at her for a long time. Then he squeezed her hand. “You're the doctor's wife,” he said.

It was very late. The moon had set; the lawns were black behind the night breeze. There were no lights in the windows; everyone was asleep, exhausted by the events of the day. Up the road the Farnham house was dark, too.

“I think you know what I have to say,” Ellery was murmuring to the silent figure in the other lawn chair, “but I'm going to say it anyway.

“You won't get another opportunity to harm Molly—I'll see to that. And since Molly wants this kept quiet, I suggest you'd better find an excuse for leaving Wrightsville immediately after the wedding tomorrow. In fact, we can arrange to go together. How would you like that?”

There was no sound from the other chair.

“People who do what you did are ill. Suppose I send you to someone in New York who's very good at straightening out sick minds. You'll have your chance, and I strongly advise you to take it.”

The figure rustled, and a wraith of a voice drifted over through the darkness. “How did you know?” it said.

“Well, it goes back quite a way,” said Ellery. “To the Middle Ages. Even earlier, in fact, to the Fifth Century
A
.
D
. and the barbers of Rome.”

“Barbers?” said the voice, bewildered.

“Yes. Because barbers were the only people until relatively recent times who practiced surgery. It wasn't till shortly before the American Revolution that the barbers and surgeons of London, for instance, were split into two separate groups, and in France, Germany, and other European countries the practice of surgery by barbers wasn't forbidden by law until much later.

“So to be a surgeon, you see, was for centuries considered a lowly occupation. So lowly, in fact, that surgeons weren't dignified by titles. And the prejudice has carried over into modern times in some countries. To this day the most eminent surgeons of the finest British hospitals are not addressed as ‘Doctor,' like other medical practitioners, but as ‘Mister.'

“And so,” said Ellery, “when I thought over the note that referred to Dr. Conklin Farnham, a surgeon, as
‘your fine Mr. Farnham'
I realized that only one person in the house—in all of Wrightsville, for that matter—could have written it, and that was the visiting gentlewoman from England. You, Miss Reynolds.”

Probate Dept.: Last Man to Die

For well over once around the clock Ellery tried to breathe life into The Butler who was lying in the way of the new Queen novel's progress.

In the fourteenth futile hour Ellery detected the difficulty: it was so long since he had seen a real live butler that it was like trying to bring a brontosaurus to life.

The situation obviously called for research; and making a haggard mental note to start looking for a specimen—assuming the breed was not extinct—Ellery collapsed.

He had no sooner closed his eyes, it seemed, than the alarm clock brought him up with a leap, groping. Noting blearily that the time was 8:07
A
.
M
. and the alarm was off, he concluded: It's the doorbell ringing. And he staggered to the apartment door to find himself blinking out at a girl, 38-23-36, with eyes of blue, and red hair, too. Oh, brother!

“Mr. Queen?” asked a voice like temple bells, eying the Queen dishevelment doubtfully. “Am I inconvenient?”

“Not even after only two hours and eleven minutes' sleep,” said Mr. Queen, quickly showing her in. “With whom do I have the pleasure?”

“Edie Burroughs,” said the belle with the bell voice, turning pink and pleased, “and I have a problem.”

“Haven't we all? Mine concerns a butler.”

“Well, isn't that weird!” she cried. “So does mine. In fact, two of them. Did you ever hear of The Butlers Club?”

“May we make haste slowly, Miss Burroughs?” begged Ellery, dragging over a chair. “
Two
butlers? The Butlers
Club?
Where? When? In short, what?”

The goddess graciously explained. Aphrodite-like, The Butlers Club had risen out of the golden foam of the '20s. Hoity-toitier than even the Union, Century, or Metropole clubs, its membership had been restricted to the thirty noblest butlers of them all, who pooled their considerable resources and leased a haughty brownstone in the Sixties, just off Fifth Avenue, for their clubrooms.