There Was an Old Woman (2 page)

Sergeant Velie stuck his head out of Room 335. “Charley! The judge settled that hot-trumpet case, and the Old Woman's bellowin' for you.”

“May she crack a cylinder,” muttered Counselor Paxton; and he marched back into Trial Term Part VII with the posture of one who looks forward only to the kiss of Madame Guillotine.

“Tell me, Dad,” said Ellery when he had fought his way back with Sergeant Velie to the Inspector's side. “How did Charley Paxton, who seems otherwise normal, get mixed up with the Pottses?”

“Charley sort of inherited 'em,” chuckled Inspector Queen. “His pappy was Sidney Paxton, the tax and estate lawyer—fine fella, Sid—many a bottle of beer we cracked together.” Sergeant Velie nodded nostalgically. “Sid sent Charley to law school, and Charley got out of Harvard Law with honors. Began to practice criminal law—everybody said he had a flair for it—but his old man died, and Charley had to chuck a brilliant career and step in and take over Sid's civil practice. By that time the Potts account was so big Sid had had to drop all his other clients. Now Charley spends his life trying to keep out of the nut house.”

Thurlow Potts could scarcely contain himself at the front of the room. He squirmed in his seat like a fat boy at the circus, the two gray tufts behind his ears standing up nervously. He exuded a moist and giggly fierceness, as if he were enjoying to the full his indignation.

“That little man,” thought Ellery, “is fitten fodder for a psychiatrist.” And he watched even more intently.

Ensued a brilliant but confusing battle of bitternesses. It was evident from the opening sortie that Mr. Justice Cornfield meant to see justice done—to Mr. Conklin Cliffstatter, who sat bored among his attorneys and seemed not to care a tittle whether justice were done or not. In fact, Ellery suspected Mr. Cliffstatter suckled only one ambition—to go home and sleep it off.

“But Your Honor—” protested Charley Paxton.

“Don't Your Honor me, Counselor!” thundered Mr. Justice Cornfield. “I'm not saying it's your fault—heaven knows lawyers have to live—but you ought to know better than to pull this stunt in my court for—how many times does this make?”

“Your Honor, my client has been grossly slandered—”

“My Honor my eye! Your client is a public nuisance who clutters up the calendars of our courts! I don't mind his wasting
his
money—or rather his mother's—but I do mind his wasting the taxpayers'!”

“Your Honor has heard the testimony of the witness—” said Counselor Paxton desperately.

“And I'm satisfied there was no slander. Case dismissed!” snapped Mr. Justice Cornfield. He grinned evilly at the Old Woman.

To Charley Paxton's visible horror, Thurlow Potts bounced to his feet. “Your Honor!” Thurlow squeaked imperiously.

“Sit down, Thurlow,” gasped Charley. “Or rather let's get out of here—”

“Just—one—moment, Counselor,” said Mr. Justice Cornfield softly. “Mr. Potts, you wish to address the Court?”

“I certainly do!”

“Then by all means address it.”

“I came to this court for justice!” cried Thurlow, brandishing his arms as if they were broadswords. “And what do I get?
Insults.
Where are the rights of Man? What's happened to our Constitution? Don't we live in the last refuge of personal liberty? Surely a responsible citizen has the right of protection by law against the slanders of
drunken, irresponsible persons?”

“Yes?” said Mr. Justice Cornfield. “You were saying—”

“But what do I find in this court?” screeched Thurlow. “Protection? No! Are my rights defended by this court? No! Is my name cleared of the crude insinuations of this defendant? No! It is a valuable name, Your Honor, an honorable name, and this person's slander has reduced its value by considerable sums—!”

“I'll reduce it still more, Mr. Potts,” said the judge with enjoyment, “if you don't stop this outrageous exhibition.”

“Your Honor,” Charley Paxton jumped forward. “May I apologize for the hasty and ill-considered remarks of my client—”

“Stop
!
”
And the Old Woman arose, terrible in wrath.

Even the judge quailed momentarily.

“Your
Dishonor”
said Cornelia Potts, “—I can't address you as Your Honor, because you haven't any—Your Dishonor, I've sat in many courtrooms and I've listened to many judges, but never in my long life have I had the misfortune to witness such
monkey's
antics, in such a court of Baal, presided over by such a wicked old
goat.
My son came here to seek the protection of the court in defense of
our good name
—instead he is insulted and ridiculed and our good name further held up to
public scorn. . . .”

“Are you quite finished, Madam?” choked Mr. Justice Cornfield.

“No! How much do I owe you for contempt?”

“Case dismissed! Case dismissed!” bellowed the judge; and he leaped from his leather chair, girding his robe about him like a young girl discovered
en déshabille,
and fled to chambers.

“This is surely a bad dream,” said Ellery Queen exultantly. “What happens next?”

The Queens and Sergeant Velie joined the departing Potts parade. Bravely it swept into the corridor, Queen Victoria in the van flourishing her bulky bumbershoot like a cudgel at the assorted bondsmen, newspaper folks, divorce litigants, attorneys, attendants, rubbernecks, and tagtails who had joined the courtroom exodus. The Old Woman, and then steaming little Thurlow, and red-faced Dr. Innis, and Charles Hunter Paxton, and Sergeant Velie, and the Queens
père et fils.
Bravely it swept onto the balcony under the rotunda, and into the elevators, and downstairs to the lobby.

“Uh, uh. Trouble,” said Sergeant Velie alertly.

“How she hates cameramen,” remarked Inspector Queen.

“Wait—no!” shouted Ellery. “Charley! Somebody! Stop her. For goodness' sake!”

The photographers had lain in ambush. And she was upon them.

The guns of Cornelia Potts's black eyes sent out streams of tracer bullets. She snarled, grasped her umbrella handle convulsively, and rushed to the attack. The umbrella rose and fell. One camera flew through the air to be caught willy-nilly by a surprised man in a derby. Another fell and tumbled down the steps leaving a trail of lens fragments.

“Break it up, break it up,” said Sergeant Velie.

“That's just what she's doing,” panted a cameraman. “Joe, did you get anything?”

“A bust in the nose,” groaned Joe, regarding his encarmined handkerchief with horror. He roared at the old lady: “You old crackpottia, you smashed my camera!”

“Here's the money to pay for it,” panted Cornelia Potts, hurling two hundred-dollar bills at him; and she darted into her limousine and slammed the door shut behind her, almost decapitating her pride and heir, Thurlow, who was—as ever—just a step too late.

“I
won't
have public spectacles!” she cried through her tonneau window. The limousine jerked away, slamming the old lady against her physician, who had craftily sought the protection of the car before her, and leaving Thurlow, puffing and blowing, on the field of glory where, after a momentary panic at this being left exposed alone to the weapons of the enemy, he drew himself up to his full five foot and grimly girded his not inconsiderable loins.

“Happens this way every time,” said Inspector Queen from the top of the courthouse steps.

“If she's smashed one camera, she's smashed a hundred,” said Sergeant Velie, shaking his head.

“But why,” wondered Ellery, “do the cameramen keep trying? Or do they make a profit on each transaction? I noticed two rather impressive-looking greenbacks being flung at the victim down there.”

“Profit is right,” grinned his father. “Take a look. That fella who had his camera broken. Does he look in the dumps?”

Ellery frowned.

“Now,” instructed his father, “look up there.”

Ellery sighted along the Inspector's arm to a window high in the face of the courthouse. There, various powerful camera eyes glittered in the sun, behind them human eyes intent on Thurlow Potts and Charley Paxton on the sidewalk before the courthouse.

“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Velie with respect, “when you're dealing with the Old Woman you just naturally got to be on your toes.”

“They caught it all from that window,” exclaimed Ellery softly. “I'll bet that smashed camera was a dummy and Joe a rascally, conniving stooge!”

“My son,” said the Inspector dryly, “you've got the makings of a detective. Come on, let's go back upstairs and see if Mr. Justice Greevey's over his irrigation.”

“Now listen, boys,” Charley Paxton was shouting on the sidewalk. “It's been a tough morning. What d'ye say? Mr. Potts hasn't one word for publication. You better not have,” Charley said through his teeth three feet from Thurlow's pink ear, “or I walk out, Thurlow—I swear I walk out!”

Someone applauded.

“You let me alone,” cried Thurlow. “I've got
plenty
to say for publication, Charles Paxton! I'm through with you, anyway. I'm through with
all
lawyers. Yes, and judges and courts, too!”

“Thurlow, I warn you—” Charley began.

“Oh, go fish! There's no justice left in this world—not a crumb. Not a particle!”

“Yes, little man?” came a voice.

“No Justice, Says Indignant Citizen.”

“Through with all lawyers, judges, and courts, he vows.”

“What a break for all lawyers, judges, and courts.”

“What you gonna do, Pottso—protect your honor with
stiletti?”

“You gonna start packing six-shooters, Thurlow-boy?”

“Thurlow Potts, Terror of the Plains, Goes on Warpath, Armed to the Upper Plates.”

“Stop!” screamed Thurlow Potts in an awful voice; and, curiously, they did. He was shaking in a paroxysm of rage, his small feet dancing on the sidewalk, his pudgy face convulsed. Then he choked: “From now on I take justice in my own hands.”

“Huh?”

“Say, the little guy actually means it.”

“Go on, he's hopped to the eyeballs.”

“Wait a minute. Nuts or no nuts, he can't be left running around loose. Not with
those
intentions, brother.”

One of the reporters said, soberly: “Just what do you mean—you'll take justice in your own hands, Mr. Potts?”

“Thurlow,” muttered Charley Paxton, “haven't you raved your quota? Let me get you out of here—”

“Charles, take your hand off my arm. What do I mean, gentlemen?” said Thurlow quietly. “I'll tell you what I mean. I mean that I'm going to buy myself a gun, and the next person who insults me or the honorable name I bear won't live long enough to hide behind the skirts of your corrupt courts!”

“Hey,” said a reporter. “Somebody better tip off Conk Cliffstatter.”

“This puffball's just airy enough to do it.”

“Ah, he's blowing.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe he'll blow bullets.”

Thurlow launched himself at the crowd like a little ram, butting with his arms. It parted, almost respectfully; and he shot through in triumph. “He'll get a bullet in his guts, that's what he'll get!” howled the Terror of the Plains. And he was gone in a flurry of agitated little arms and legs.

Charley Paxton groaned and hurried back up the steps of the courthouse.

He found Ellery Queen, Inspector Queen, and Sergeant Velie emerging from Room 331. The Inspector was holding forth with considerable bitterness on the subject of Mr. Justice Greevey's semicircular canals, for it appeared that the justice had decided to remain at home sulking in an atmosphere of oil of wintergreen rather than venture out into the earacheless world; consequently the case which had fetched the Queens to court was put off for another day.

“Well, Charley? What's happening down there?”

“Thurlow threatened to buy a gun!” panted the lawyer. “He says he's through with courts—the next man who insults him gets paid back in lead!”

“That nut-ball?” scoffed the Sergeant.

Inspector Queen laughed. “Forget it, Charley. Thurlow Potts hasn't the sand of a charlotte russe.”

“I don't know, Dad,” murmured Ellery. “The man's not balanced properly. One of his gimbals out of socket, or something. He might mean it, at that.”

“Oh, he means it,” said Charley Paxton sourly. “He means it
now,
at any rate. Ordinarily I wouldn't pay any attention to his ravings, but he's been getting worse lately and I'm afraid one of these days he'll cross the line. This might be the day.”

“Cross what line?” asked Sergeant Velie, puzzled.

“The Mason-Dixon line, featherweight,” sighed the Inspector. “What line do you think? Now listen, Charley, you're taking Thurlow too seriously—”

“Just the same, don't you think we ought to take precautions?”

“Sure. Watch him. If he starts chewing his blanket, call Bellevue.”

“To buy a gun,” Ellery pointed out, “he'll have to get a license from the police department.”

“Yes,” said Charley eagerly. “How about that, Inspector Queen?”

“How about what?” growled the old gentleman in a disgusted tone. “Suppose we refuse him a license—then what? Then he goes out and buys himself a rod without a license. Then you've got not only a nut on your hands, but a nut who's nursing a grudge against the police department, too. Might kill a cop. … And don't tell me he can't
buy
a gun without a license, because he can, and I'm the baby who knows it.”

“Dad's right,” said Ellery. “The practical course is not to try to prevent Thurlow from laying hands on a weapon, but to prevent him from using it. And in his case I rather think guile, not force, is what's required.”