There Was an Old Woman (8 page)

So what?” demanded the Inspector.

“So very little,” retorted his son, “except that each one of the guns is of different manufacture. Ought to make the check-back easier. Sergeant, phone Cornwall & Ritchey and get an exact list of the fourteen guns Thurlow purchased.”

“Piggott's on that angle.”

“Good. Make sure you locate those two missing toys of Thurlow's.”

“And while we're playing detective,” put in the Inspector dryly, “we might start thinking about who had a motive to want Bob Potts six feet south. We already know who had your blasted whatchamacallit—opportunity.”

“I can't imagine who'd want Bob out of the way,” muttered Charley. “Except Thurlow, because Robert was always picking on him. But we know Thurlow couldn't have done it.”

“Cockeyedest case I ever saw,” grumbled the Sergeant. “Guy who fires the shot
can't
be the killer. Say, this chicken salad ain't bad.”

“Point is,” frowned Inspector Queen, “somebody wanted Robert Potts dead, so somebody had a reason. Maybe if we find the reason we'll find the somebody, too. Any ideas, Ellery?”

Ellery shrugged. “Charley, you're attorney to the family. What are the terms of Cornelia Potts's will?”

Charley looked nervous. “Now wait a minute, Ellery. The Old Woman's very much alive, and the terms of a living testator's will are confidential between attorney and client—”

“Oh, that mullarkey,” said the Inspector disgustedly.

“Come on Ellery, we've got to talk to the old gal direct.”

“Better take along a bullet-proof vest!” Sergeant Velie shouted after them through the mouthful of chicken salad.

11 . . . “Infer the Motive from the Deed”

“But only for a few minutes, Inspector Queen.” Dr. Waggoner Innis was pinch-pale, but he had recovered his stance, as it were; and here, in Cornelia Potts's sitting room, he was very much the tall and splendid Physician-in-Ordinary.

“How is she?” inquired Ellery Queen.

“Nerves more settled, but heart's fluttering badly and pulse could be improved. You've got to co-operate with me, gentlemen—”

“One side, Doctor,” said the Inspector; and they entered the Old Woman's bedchamber.

It was a square Victorian room crowded with those gilded phantasms of love which in a more elegant day passed by the name of “art.” Everything swirled precisely in a cold paralysis of “form,” and everything was expensive and hideous. There were antimacassars on the over-stuffed petit-point chairs, and no faintest clue to the fact that a man shared this room with its aged mistress.

The bed was a piece for future archeologists. Its corners were curved, the foot forming a narrower oval than the head. There was no footboard, and the headboard was a single curved piece which extended, unbroken, although in diminishing height, along the sides. Ellery wondered what was wrong with the whole production aside from its more obvious grotesquerie. And then he saw. There were no front legs; the foot of the bed rested on the floor. And since the head stood high, supported on a single thick, tapering block of wood, the sides showed a downward slant, while the spring and mattress had been artfully manufactured to maintain a level. It was all so unbelievable that for a moment Ellery had no eyes for its occupant, but only for her couch.

Suddenly he recognized it for what it was. The bed was formed like a woman's oxford shoe.

The Old Woman lay in it, a lace cap set on her white hair, the silk comforter resting on her plump little stomach. She was propped up on several fat pink pillows; a portable typewriter lay on her thighs; her claws were slowly seeking out keys and upon discovery striking them impatiently. She paid no attention to the four men. Her black eyes were intent on the paper in her machine.

“I told you, Mrs. Potts—” began Dr. Innis peevishly, raising his careful eyes ceilingward—and hastily lowering them, since they had encountered there the painful spectacle of two plaster cupids embracing.

“Shut up, Innis.”

They waited for her to complete her inexplicable labors.

She did so with a final peck, ripping the sheet of white paper from the typewriter; quickly she glanced over it, made a snapping movement of her jaws, like an old bitch after flies, then reached for a thick soft-leaded pencil on the bed. She scribbled her signature, picked up a number of similar typewritten white sheets near the portable, signed those; and only then looked up. “What are you men doing in my bedroom?”

“There are certain questions, Mrs. Potts—” began Inspector Queen.

“All right. I suppose I can't be rid of you any other way. But you'll have to wait. Charles!”

“Yes, Mrs. Potts.”

“These memos I've just typed. Attend to them at once.”

Charley took the sheaf of signed papers she thrust into his hands and glanced through them dutifully. At the last one his eyes widened. “You want me to
sell
your Potts Shoe Company stock—
all
of it?”

“Isn't that what my memorandum says?” snapped the Old Woman. “Isn't it?”

“Yes, Mrs. Potts, but—”

“Since when must I account to you, Charles? You're paid to follow orders. Follow 'em.”

“But I don't get it, Mrs. Potts,” protested Charley. “You'll lose control!”

“Will I.” Her lip curled. “My son Robert was active head of the company. His murder and the scandal, which I tried so hard just now to avoid”— her voice hardened—“will send Potts stock down. If I can't avoid the scandal, at least I can make use of it. Selling my stock will send the price down still further. It opened at 84 this morning. When it hits 72, buy it all back.” Charley looked dazed. “Why are you standing here?” shrilled the old lady. “Did you hear what I said? Go and phone my brokers!”

Charley nodded, curtly. As he passed Ellery he muttered: “What price Mama, Mr. Q? Takes advantage of her son's murder to make a few million boleros!” And the young lawyer stamped out.

Dr. Innis bent over the Old Woman with his stethoscope, shook his head, took her pulse, shook his head, removed her typewriter, shook his head, and finally retired to the window to look out over the front lawn, still shaking his head.

“Ready for me now, Madam?” asked the Inspector courteously.

“Yes. Don't dawdle.”

“Don't—!” The inspector's hard eyes glittered. “My dear Mrs. Potts,” he exclaimed softly, “do you know that I could have you put in jail this minute on a charge of attempting homicide on an officer of the law?”

“Oh, yes,” nodded the Old Woman. “But you haven't.”

“I haven't! Mrs. Potts, I warn you—”

“Fiddlesticks,” she snarled. “I'm much more use to you in my own house. Don't think you're doing me favors, Inspector Queen. I know your kind. You're all nosey, meddling, publicity-seeking grafters. You're in this case for what you can get out of it.”

“Mrs. Potts
!
”

“Stuff. How much d'ye want to pronounce my son's death an accident?”

Mr. Queen coughed behind his hand, watching his father with enjoyment.

But the Inspector only smiled. “You'd play a swell game of poker, Mrs. Potts. You say and do a lot of contradictory things, all to cover up the one thing you're afraid of, that I'll call your bluff. Let's understand each other. I'm going to do my best to find out who murdered your son Robert. I know that's what you want, too, only you're full of cussedness, and you want to do it your own way. But I hold all the cards, and you know that, too. Now you can cooperate or not, as you see fit. But you won't stop me from finding out what I want to know.”

The Old Woman glared at him. He glared back. Finally, she wriggled down under her silk comforter like a young girl, sullenly. “Talk or get out. What d'ye want to know?”

“What,” said the Inspector instantly, with no trace of triumph, “are the terms of your will?”

Ellery caught the flash from her shoe-buttony eyes, the snick of her jaws. “Oh, that. I don't mind telling you that, if you promise not to give it to the papers.”

“That's a promise.”

“You, young man? You're his son, aren't you?”

Ellery glanced at her. She glanced away to Dr. Innis. The physician's back was like a wall.

“My will sets forth three provisions,” she stated in a flat, cold tone. “First: On my death, my estate is to be divided among my surviving children, share and share alike.”

“Yes?” prompted Inspector Queen.

“Second: My husband, Stephen Potts, gets no share at all, neither principal nor income. Cut off. Without a penny.” Her jaws snicked again. “I've supported him and Gotch for thirty-three years. That's plenty.”

“Go on, Mrs. Potts.”

“Third: I am President of the Board of Directors of the Potts Shoe Company. On my death, a new President will have to be elected by the Board. That Board will consist of all my surviving children, and I specifically demand that Simon Underhill, manager of the factories, have one vote, too. I don't know whether this last will hold up in law,” she added with the oddest trace of humor, “but I don't imagine anyone involved will take it that far. My word's been law in life, and I guess it'll be law in death. That's all, gentlemen. Get out.”

“Extraordinary woman,” murmured Ellery as they left Cornelia Potts's apartment.

“This isn't a case for a cop,” sighed his father. “It needs the world's ace psychiatrist.”

Charley Paxton came running upstairs from the foyer, and the three men paused in the upper hall. “Is Innis with her?” panted Charley.

“Yes. Does he get much of a fee, Charley?” the Inspector asked curiously.

“An annual retainer. A whopper. And he earns it.”

The Inspector grunted. “She told us about her will.”

“Dad went to work on her,” chuckled Ellery. “By the way, Charley, where does she keep that will?”

“With her other important papers in her bedroom.”

“Was that typewriting exhibition a few minutes ago something new, Charley?”

“Hell, no. We once had a difference of opinion about one of her innumerable verbal ‘instructions.' She claimed she'd told me one thing, and I darned well knew she'd told me another. We had quite a row over it, and I insisted that from then on I wanted written, signed instructions. Only time she and I've agreed on anything. Since then she types out her memos on that portable, and always signs them with one of those soft pencils.”

The Inspector brushed this aside. “She told us she'd cut her husband, this Stephen Brent Potts, off without a cent. Is that legal, Charley? I always thought a husband in this state came in for one third of a wife's estate, with two thirds going to the surviving children.”

“That's true nowadays,” nodded the attorney. “But it's been true only since August 31, 1930. Before that date, a husband could legally be cut out of any share in his wife's estate. And the Old Woman's will antedates August 31, 1930, so it's quite legal.”

“Why,” asked Ellery pointedly, “is Sheila's father being cut off?”

Charley Paxton sighed. “You don't understand that old she-devil, Ellery. Even though Cornelia Potts married Steve Brent, he never was and never will be a genuine Potts to her except in name.”

“A convenience, huh?” asked the Inspector dryly.

“Just about. The children are part of
her,
so they're Pottses. But not Steve. You think Thurlow's got an exaggerated respect for the Potts name? Where do you suppose he got it from? The Old Woman. She's drummed it into him.”

“How much is the old witch worth?”

Charley grimaced. “It's hard to say, Inspector. But on a rough guess, after inheritance taxes and so on are deducted, I'd say she'll leave a net estate of around thirty million dollars.”

Mr. Queen gurgled.

“But that means,” gasped the Inspector, “that when Bob Potts was alive, the Old Woman's six kids would have inherited five million
apiece?”

“An obscene arithmetic,” groaned his son. “Five million dollars left to a woman like Louella!”

“Don't forget Horatio,” said Charley. “And for that matter, Thurlow. Thurlow can buy a mess of guns for five million dollars.”

“And with Robert out of the way,” mused the Inspector, “there's only five to split the loot, so that makes it about
six
million apiece. Robert's murder was worth a million bucks cold to each of the Potts heirs!” He rubbed his hands. “Let's see what we've got. Our active suspects are Cornelia, hubby Steve, Major Gotch, Louella, Horatio, and Mac …”

Ellery nodded. “The only ones who had opportunity to switch bullets.”

“All right, Cornelia first.” The Inspector grinned. “Lord knows I never thought I'd be serious about thinking a mother'd kill her own son, but anything's possible in this family.”

Charley shook his head. “It's true she hated Robert—she's always hated the three children of her marriage to Steve—but murder …”

“I'm not impressed, either,” said Ellery with a frown.

“Unless she's loco in the coco,” said the Inspector.

“I think she's sane, Dad. Eccentric, but sane.”

“Well, theoretically she's got a hate motive. Now how does Stephen, the husband, stack up?”

“I can't see that Steve would have any motive at all,” protested Charley. “Since he's cut out of the will—”

“By the way,” interrupted Ellery, “does the whole family know the terms of Cornelia's will?”

Charley nodded. “She's made no bones about it. I'm sure they do. Anyway, with Steve not getting a cent, he'd have nothing to gain financially by cutting down the number of heirs. So I can't see a motive for him.”

“Let's not overlook the fact, too,” Ellery pointed out, “that Stephen Brent Potts is a perfectly sane man, and perfectly sane men don't murder their sons in cold blood.”

“Steve loved Bob, I think, even more than he loves Mac and Sheila. I can't see Steve for a moment.”

“How about the old panhandler, Gotch?” demanded the Inspector.

“Nothing to gain financially by Bob's death.”

“Unless,” said Ellery thoughtfully, “he's in the pay of one of the others.”

The Inspector looked startled. “You're kidding.”

Ellery smiled. “By the way, I've had a fantastic notion about Gotch. It gives the man a possible motive.”

“What's that?” asked both men quickly.

“I'd rather not be explicit now. I've got quite accustomed myself to the timbre of this case—the operatic timbre. I can only conjecture absurdly without intellectual conviction. But Dad, I'd like to see a report on Gotch's background.”

“I'll send a couple of cables … Now Louella.” The Inspector stroked his chin. “Didn't you say you heard her rant about the money she needs for her laboratory ‘experiments,' and how Mama turned her down?”

“Seems to me an excellent motive for killing her mother,” retorted Ellery, “not Bob. But I grant that Louella gains by Bob's death.”

“Then there's Horatio, the Boy Who Never Grew Up—”

“Aaa, Horatio has no interest in money,” grunted Charley. “And I don't think he's said ten words to Bob in a year. He gains, but I can't see Horatio as the one behind this.”

Ellery said nothing.

“And the twin brother, Maclyn?” asked the Inspector.

Charley stared. “Mac? Kill Bob? That's ridiculous.”

“He had opportunity,” argued the Inspector.