There Was an Old Woman (11 page)

“She gave them some
broth,”
muttered the Inspector. “That chicken broth in Mac's room!”

“Without any bread,” his son added dryly. “Don't overlook that precious coincidence. Or perhaps you're not aware that on Dr. Innis's orders Mrs. Potts may not eat bread, and consequently she serves none at her table.”

“And
whipped
them all soundly—”

“Yes, or at any rate whipped Mac. And the bed motif? Mac was killed in bed. You see?”

The Inspector jumped up, fire-red. “No, blast it, I don't see! Nobody could make me believe—”

“But you do believe, Dad,” sighed Ellery. “You're terribly impressed. A number of people crazy, and now apparently a series of crimes following a Mother Goose pattern. Well, of course. Would crazy people commit rational crimes? No, no. Crazy people would commit crazy crimes. Mother Goose crimes . . . Don't you see that you're
supposed
to believe in the lunacy of these two crimes? Don't you see that a
sly brain is creating an atmosphere of madness,
or rather utilizing the one that exists,
in order to cloak the reality
? And what could madness cloak but sanity?”

The Inspector drew a grateful breath. “Well, well. And I'd have fallen for it, too. Of course, son. This is the work of a sane one, not a crazy one.”

“Not necessarily.”

The Inspector's jaw dropped.

Ellery smiled. “We just don't know. I was merely expounding an attractive theory. As far as logic is concerned, this might well be the work of a madman.”

“I wish you'd make up your mind,” said his father irritably.

Ellery shrugged. “You've got to have more than theories to bring to the District Attorney.”

“Let's get on with it, let's get on with it!”

“All right, we'll proceed on the rational theory. What comes to mind immediately?”

The Inspector said promptly: “We're supposed to pin this on Horatio Potts.
He's writing a modern ‘Mother Goose.'
”

Ellery laughed. “You saw that, you old fox.”

“Plain as the nose on your face. If this is the work of a sane mind, then Horatio is being framed for the murders of his two half-brothers.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Horatio being framed … why, the man hardly knows what's going on!”

“Don't be too sure of that,” said Ellery, knitting his brows. “Horatio's a good deal of a
poseur.
He knows lots more than he lets on. “

“Now
what d'ye mean?”

“Just speculating, Dad. The man's not a fool. Horatio has an unorthodox slant on life and a great cowardice where adult problems are concerned, but he's aware of the score at all times. Believe me.”

“You're no help at all,” grumbled the Inspector. “All right, score or no score, Horatio's supposed to take the rap; we're to think he's behind all this. That means he isn't.”

“Not necessarily,” said Ellery.

“Will
you stick to one point of view?” howled the Inspector, now maddened beyond reason. His face was very red indeed. “Look,” he began again, desperately. “Certain things we
know
—”

“You wouldn't be referring,” asked Ellery, “to the arithmetic involved?”

“Yes, the arithmetic involved! When all six children were alive, each one stood to come into five millions at the death of the Old Woman. Then Robert Potts was knocked off, leaving five. Now Mac's gone, leaving four. Four into thirty millions makes seven and a half million apiece—
so the murder of the twins means over two and a half million bucks extra
to each of the four surviving children!”

“I can't get excited over a mere two and a half million,” moaned Mr. Queen. “I doubt if anyone could, where five millions are guaranteed. Oh, well, I'm probably wrong. It's your fault for having brought into the world the son of a poor man, Dad.”

Providentially, Sergeant Velie came in.

Velie tramped in to ease his two hundred and twenty-five pounds into Major Gotch's favorite chair. He was yawning.

“Well?” snapped the Inspector, turning the wind of his fury on this more vulnerable vessel.

The Sergeant looked pained. “What did I do now? Don't follow orders, get bawled out. Follow orders—”

“What order are you following now?”

“The ballistics check-up.”

“Well, what do you think this is, the gentlemen's lounge at the Grand Street Turkish Baths? Report!”

“Yes, sir.” Velie rose with a noticeable lack of fatigue. “The Lieutenant says the gun found on the floor upstairs is the gun with which Maclyn Potts was homicidally and with murderous intent shot to death—”

“That,” said the Inspector, spreading his hands to Ellery, “is news, is it not? The gun is the gun. We're certainly progressing! What else?”

“That's all,” said the Sergeant sullenly. “What did you expect, Inspector—the Lieut should come up with the name of the killer?”

“Just what kind of gun was it, Sergeant?” interposed Ellery. “I didn't get a good look at it.”

“It's a Smith & Wesson .38/32 revolver, 2-inch barrel, takes an S. & W. .38 cartridge—”

Mr. Queen gave voice to a strangled exclamation.

His father stared. “What's the matter? Sick?”

Ellery sprang to his feet. “Sick! Don't you recall the fourteen guns Thurlow bought at Cornwall & Ritchey's? Don't you remember that you've accounted for only twelve? Don't you remember that two guns are missing, that the missing guns are exact duplicates of the two used in the Bob-Thurlow duel—don't you remember that, according to the store's check list,
one of those two missing guns is a Smith & Wesson .38/32 with a 2-inch barrel?
And now you tell me the gun which shot Mac Potts to death last night is a Smith & Wesson .38/32 with a 2-inch barrel!”

After a long time the Inspector choked: “Velie, phone the Lieutenant at H.Q. and get the serial number of the gun in Maclyn Potts's murder. Then phone Cornwall & Ritchey and get the serial number of the missing Smith & Wesson. Right away, please.”

Dazed by this politeness, Sergeant Velie staggered out. Five minutes later he returned with the information that the
S
mith & Wesson which had taken Mac's life was the same
S
mith & Wesson that appeared on the check list as unaccounted for.

One of the two missing revolvers had been found.

“Clearer and foggier,” moaned Inspector Queen. “Now we know why the killer of Robert hid two of the fourteen guns Thurlow bought—to use one of 'em, the S. & W., for a second murder.”

“The murder of Mac,” put in Velie, the simplifier.

“That's certainly the look of it,” Ellery mumbled. “But why did he steal and hide
two
guns?”

Sergeant Velie's face fell. “You mean we ain't
through?”

“Of course we ‘ain't' through!” snarled his superior. “Two guns missing, one of 'em turns up in a murder, so what would the killer be doing with the other if he isn't planning still another killing?”

“A third murder,” Ellery muttered. “Everything points to it. Not only the missing guns …” He shook his head.

“Then we got to find that last gun—the colt .25 automatic that didn't turn up,” said the Sergeant with a groan, “or go fishin' for dreams.”

“Not that finding the missing Colt would necessarily stop a third murder,” Ellery pointed out. “We have no Achilles here, and there are more ways of killing than by an arrow. But finding the missing Colt might uncover a clue to the person who secreted it. By all means search for it. And at once.”

“But where?” whined the Sergeant. “My gosh, we've turned this coocoo's nest upside down, and not only the house but the grounds, too. It's a pipe to hide a little bitty thing like that vest-pocket Colt in a square block of house and grounds! It would take twelve squads twenty-four weeks—”

The Inspector said: “Find that gun, Velie.”

16 . . . And Then There Were None

But Sergeant Velie did not find that gun. Nor Sergeant Velie, nor Detectives Flint, Piggott, Hesse, Johnson, and company, searching at all hours, in odd places, under irritated or indifferent or astonished noses.

There were days of this fruitless exploration in the Potts mansion and on the Potts grounds, and while some interesting exhibits were turned up—a Spanish leather chest, for instance, buried behind Horatio's cottage and filled with broad and crooked coins which Mr. Queen delightedly pronounced to be pieces of eight, at the disinterment of which Horatio went into a tantrum and howled that it had taken him years to gather an authentic Spanish “treasure” and a week of dark nights with an iron lantern and a cutlass between his jaws to bury it, and he wasn't going to stand by and see a lot of cursed policemen spoil his fun—the duplicate Colt Pocket Model .25 automatic remained in the limbo of lost things. The cursed policemen tramped off on aching feet, leaving Horatio to reinter his pirate's chest angrily.

Inspector Queen staged a mild tantrum himself, but for other reasons.

Then Mac was buried in the family plot at St. Praxed's churchyard. A section four blocks square was roped off for the ceremony, traffic was re-routed, and police cordons exercised their muscles.

Somehow Cornelia Potts, recovering from her heart attack in the big house, learned of her son's death.

The first inkling that the Old Woman knew came on the morning of her son's funeral. She sat up in bed and called for her maid, a woman almost as old as she, Bridget Conniveley by name, whom Dr. Innis detested. Od Bridget, who was a bent and sibilant crone, threw over the yoke of the Old Woman's authority and telephoned Dr. Innis. Innis came rushing over, pale and stammering. It was impossible. He could not be responsible. She must be sensible. She could no nothing more for Maclyn. He forbade her to leave her bed.

To all this the Old Woman said nothing. She calmly crept out of bed and flayed Bridget with her tongue. Bridget scurried, cowering, to draw her mistress's bath.

When the Inspector heard about it from the detective on guard outside the Old Woman's apartment, his face glowed with a dark joy. “Mustn't talk to her, huh?” he said to Dr. Innis. And he strode by into the Presence.

It was a short, bitter interview. The Old Woman spoke scarcely at all. What she did say was acrid and precise. No, nobody had told her. She just “knew.” And she was going to Maclyn's funeral; the State Militia could not stop her. Get out and let an old woman dress, you fool.

The Inspector got out. “It's a cinch little Thurlow spilled the beans to Mama,” he grunted. “What a bunch!”

Cornelia Potts was assisted from her Palace by Dr. Innis and Bridget Conniveley, wrapped in shawls, only the buttery tip of her nose showing. Her expression was one of gloomy interest. She shed no tears, nor would she gaze upon her son's face before the mortician's assistant closed the coffin.

At St. Praxed's Ellery kept watching her with amazement. That aged heart, to whose stuttering and whimpering he had laid his own ear, seemed unmoved by the second death of a son within a week. She was built of granite, and sulphuric acid coursed through her veins … She did not glance at Sheila, or at Stephen her husband, or at Major Gotch, who looked pinched and confused this morning. She did not seem surprised that her other children were not present.

Back at the house, Bridget undressed her and she crawled into bed. She closed her eyes and asked Dr. Innis for “a little something to put me to sleep.”

And she fell asleep and slept restlessly, moaning.

“Well,” demanded the Inspector when it was all over, “where do we go from here?”

“I wish I knew, Dad.”

“You're stumped?”

His son shrugged. “I can't believe this case is insoluble. There's sense in it somewhere. Our job is to spot it.”

The Inspector threw up his hands. “If
you
can't see any light, I certainly can't, Ellery. All we can do is keep a close watch on these people and follow up the few clues we have. Let's go home.”

A few days after Mac's funeral, Ellery Queen had two breakfast callers.

He was startled by the change in Sheila Potts. Her face seemed half its normal size, the skin gray; her blue eyes were darker and deeper blue and more liquid, their sockets underscored as by a paintbrush. She was in black, a pitiable figure of distress.

Charley Paxton looked thin and ill, too. And his eyes shared with Sheila's that burden of anxiety which Mr. Queen had come to associate with the troubled ones of this world who find themselves caught in a tangle from which there is no escape.

The Inspector had been about to leave for his office, but when he saw the haggard faces of the two young people he phoned Police Headquarters to say he would be delayed and became mine host cunningly. “How's your mother this morning?” he asked Sheila, with an elaborate expression of concern.

“Mother?” said Sheila vaguely. “About the same.”

Charley braced himself “Now you'll see it's all stuff, darling,” he said in a cheery voice. “Tell Ellery and the Inspector about it.”

“It isn't stuff, Charley, and you know it,” Sheila said tiredly. “Sometimes you make me sick. I know I've done an awful lot of weeping and squalling, but I'm not a child—I can add. This adds up to more, and you know it. You see,” she said, turning to the Queens before Charley could reply. “I've been thinking, Mr. Queen—”

“Ellery,” said Ellery.

“Ellery. I've been thinking, and I've seen—well, a dreadful design in what's been happening.”

“Have you? And what design is that?”

Sheila shut her eyes. “At first I was shocked. I couldn't think at all. Murder is so … newspapery. It doesn't happen to
you.
You read about it in a paper, or in a detective story, and it makes you wriggle with disgust, or sympathy. But it doesn't
mean
anything.”

“That's quite true.”

“Then—it happens to you. There are police in your house. Somebody you love is dead. Somebody you've been with all your life is … a fiend of some sort. You look at the faces around you, the familiar faces, even the ones you dislike … and you die yourself. Inside. A thousand times. It doesn't seem possible. But there it is.

“And there
you
are. … When Bob died I couldn't believe anything. I was all mixed up; none of it seemed real. I just went through the motions. Then Mac …” She put her hands quickly to her face.

Charley reached out to touch her, but Ellery shook his head and Charley turned away to stare blindly out the Queens' window at the quiet street below.

Inspector Queen kept his hard eyes on the weeping girl.

After a while Sheila groped in her bag and took out a handkerchief. “I'm sorry,” she sniffed. “All I seem to do these days is imitate a fountain.” She blew her little nose with energy and put her handkerchief away, sitting back and even smiling a little.

“Go ahead, Miss Potts,” said Inspector Queen. “This personal stuff is interesting.”

She looked guilty. “I don't know why I wandered that way . . . What I began to say was—I've been thinking since Mac died. There have been two murders in the house. And who's been murdered? Robert. Mac. My twin brothers.” Her blue eyes flashed. “Not one of Mother's first husband's three children—oh, no! Not one of the
crazy
ones. Only the Brents are dying. Only the Brents—
the sane ones.”

Charley cleared his throat.

“Let me finish, Charley. It's as clear as anything. We Brents are being killed off, one by one. First Robert, then Mac …
then either my father or me.
Charley, it's true and you know it! One of us is next on the list, and if Daddy gets it, I'll be the only Brent left, and I'll get it.”

“But why?” shouted Charley, out of control. “It doesn't make sense, Sheila!”

“What's the difference why? Money, hate, just plain insanity …
I
don't know why, but I know it's true, as truly as I'm sitting here this minute. And what's more,
you
know it, too, Charley! Maybe Mr. Queen and the Inspector don't know it, but you know it—”

“Miss Potts—” began the Inspector.

“Please call me Brent. I don't want ever to be called by that horrible name again.”

“Of course, Miss Brent.”

Ellery and his father exchanged glances. Sheila was right. It was what they themselves feared, a third murder. With even more reason: the missing automatic.

The Inspector went to one of the front windows. After a moment, he said: “Miss Brent, would you mind coming here?”

Sheila wearily crossed the room to stand beside him in the sun.

“Look down there,” said the Inspector. “No, across the street. The service entrance of that apartment house. What do you see, Miss Brent?”

“A big man smoking a cigaret.”

“Now look on this side, a few yards up, towards Amsterdam Avenue. What do you see?”

“A car,” said Sheila, puzzled. “With two men in it.”

The Inspector smiled. “The man in that areaway, and the two men in that car, Miss Brent, are detectives assigned to follow you wherever you go. You're never out of their sight. When you're in your mother's house, other detectives have their eye on you every possible moment. The same is true of your father. No one can get near you two, Miss Brent, unless the men on duty feel sure you're running no risk.”

Sheila flushed. “Don't think I'm ungrateful, Inspector. I didn't know that, and it does make me feel better. And I'm happy for Daddy's sake. But—you know perfectly well if I were surrounded by a cordon twenty-four hours a day—if you put the whole police department to guarding us—sooner or later we'd be caught. A shot through a window, a hand aiming around a door—”

“Not at all,” said the Inspector crossly. “I can promise you
that
won't happen!”

“Of course it won't, dear,” said Charley. “Be sensible, now—let me take you out somewhere. We can have lunch at the Ritz and go to the Music Hall or some place—get your mind off things—”

Sheila shook her head, smiling faintly. “Thank you, darling. It's sweet of you.” And then there was a silence.

“Sheila.” She turned to Ellery very quickly. His eyes were admiring, and a little color came into her face. “You have something specific in mind—a most excellent mind, by the way,” he said dryly. “What is it?”

Sheila said in a grim tone: “Have them put into an institution.”

“Sheila!” Charley was appalled. “Your own mother?”

“She hates me, Charley. And she's got a sick brain. If mother had tuberculosis, I'd send her to Arizona, wouldn't I?”

“But—to put her away…” said Charley feebly.

“Don't make me sound like a monster!” Sheila cried. “But none of you knows my mother as I do. She'd cheerfully kill me if she thought it would help some ‘plans' of hers. Her brain's twisted, I tell you! I won't feel safe until Mother and Thurlow and Horatio and Louella are behind bars somewhere! Now call me anything you like,” and Sheila sat down and wept again.

“We've already considered that plan,” said Ellery gently. She looked up, startled. “Oh, yes. We haven't overlooked any bets, Sheila. But Charley will tell you there'd be no legal grounds whatever for committing your mother to an institution. Thurlow, Louella, Horatio? It would be very difficult, as there's no doubt whatever that your mother would fight any such move with every penny of the considerable fortune she possesses. It would take a long time, with no certainty of success—they're borderline cases, I should say, if they're mentally deficient in any medical sense at all.

“Meanwhile, they could be doing … damage. No, we abandoned the idea of trying to commit anyone in the Potts family to a mental hospital. Later, perhaps, when this case is settled. Now it would be futile and even dangerous, as it might force someone's hand.”

“Then there's the possibility of throwing the lot of them in jail,” said Inspector Queen quietly. “We've considered that, too. We could hold them as material witnesses, maybe. Or on some other charge. Whatever the charge, I can tell you—and Charley as a lawyer will bear me out—that we couldn't hold them indefinitely. Your mother's money and pull would get them out eventually, and you'd be back where you started. We need more evidence before we can take that step, Miss Brent.”

“It doesn't leave me very much except to order the latest shroud, does it?” said Sheila with a white smile.

“Sheila, please! Stop talking like that!” cried Charley.

“Meanwhile,” continued the Inspector, “everything's being done that can be. Every member of your household is under a twenty-four hour guard. We're doing all we can to dig into the background of this case, in the hope that we'll find some clue to the truth. Yes, there's always the danger of a slip. But then,” added the Inspector in a peculiar tone, “you could slip on a banana peel this afternoon, Miss Brent, and break your neck.”

“Now hold on, Inspector,” said Charley angrily. “Can't you see she's scared blue? I know you're doing all you can, but—”

“Shut up, Charley,” said the Inspector.

Ellery glanced at his father quickly. This had not been on the agendum. Charley was shocked.

“How about Charley's taking Sheila away somewhere?” asked Ellery innocently. “Out of range of any possible danger, Dad?”

The Inspector's cheeks darkened to a crimson gray. “I think not,” he snapped. “No. Not out of the state, Ellery.”

Ellery drew, his horns in very quickly indeed. So that was it!

“I wouldn't go, anyway,” said Sheila listlessly. “I won't leave Dad. I didn't tell you that my father doesn't think he ought to leave. He says he's an old man and he won't start running away at his age. He wants me to go, but of course I can't. Not without him. It's all rather hopeless, isn't it?”