There Was an Old Woman (20 page)

“Nor could you destroy the will which contained that paragraph
—”

“Because we knew it existed and after I gave it to you to hold till the formal reading,” snapped the Inspector, “you were responsible for it, Paxton!”

“Nor could you substitute another revelation”
Ellery's monotone persisted, “for if you had, the revelation to further your plans could only accuse Thurlow, and no one would believe that the Old Woman, on her deathbed, would accuse her favorite son of murder—she, who had shielded him from the consequences of his aberrations all his life.

“No, indeed,” continued the great man, “you were trapped by the trap of circumstance, Charley. You did the only possible thing:
you tried to make us believe the Old Woman's confession was untrue.
The simplest way to do that was to make it appear a forgery. If we could be led to believe it was a forgery then logically we'd conclude the Old Woman had not been the killer at all, we would continue the investigation, and eventually, following the trail you were so carefully laying down, we would arrive at Thurlow.”

And now Charles Hunter Paxton turned from the window and stood black and stormy against it, rocking a little on the balls of his feet and glaring at the revolver in the Inspector's hand which was aimed steadily at his belly.

“I referred a few moments ago,” said Ellery amiably, “to the only serious mistake you made, Charley my boy—the mistake that gives the D.A. his evidence and will bring your career to a fitting climax.

“What was your mistake? You had to prove the Old Woman's confession a forgery. To accomplish this, two series of actions on your part were mandatory.

“One: You had to get hold of some document which the authorities knew of their own knowledge had been signed by Cornelia Potts. You remembered the stock memorandum, the signing and discussing of which had taken place before our eyes and ears. That would serve admirably, so you decided to get the original stock memo—”

“Sure!” said the Inspector. “It was in that kneehole desk in the Potts library Paxton always used for business.”

“Yes. You had to get hold of it, Charley, prepare an exact duplicate on the Old Woman's portable, and then you had to trace onto the duplicate memo the signature at the bottom of the Old Woman's confession.”

“Just a minute, Ellery.” The Inspector seemed troubled. “Since the original stock memo was in this fellow's desk in the library, anybody in the house could have got to it. It doesn't necessarily pin anything on Paxton.”

“How true,” said Paxton.

“Yes, Dad,” said Ellery patiently, “but what was the second thing Professor Moriarty had to do? He had to get hold of the
confession
in order to trace its signature onto the faked stock memo.
And who had access to the Old Woman's confession?
One person. Of all the people in the world, one person only. And that's how I know Charles Hunter Paxton forged the stock memorandum. That's why I say there's evidence to convict him.”

“Only Paxton had possession of Cornelia's confession?” muttered the Inspector.

“It's a tight little question of knowledge and opportunity,” smiled his son. “All capable of confirmation. First, the confession in its envelope lay in the larger sealed envelope which also contained the will. When we found that large sealed envelope in Cornelia's hand, not only
didn't
we know that it contained a confession, we
couldn't
have known. It was just a large sealed envelope with the words on it:
Last Will and Testament,
and signed
Cornelia Potts.

“Second step: You, Dad, hand that large sealed envelope, contents thought to be only a will, to Mr. Paxton. The envelope is still sealed; it hasn't been opened or tampered with. You hand it to him in that bedroom, over the still warm corpse of old Cornelia, only a few minutes after we found it in her dead hand. And you ask Mr. Paxton to hold that large sealed envelope containing what we can only think is the dead woman's will—to hold it until the formal reading after the funeral.”

Mr. Paxton began to breathe quickly, and the Inspector's weapon waved a little.

“Third: At the formal reading Mr. Paxton produces the large sealed envelope. It is opened, we discover the confession as well as the will … and from that instant you, the officer in charge of the case, Dad, take possession of that confession as important new evidence in the case. It becomes part of an official file.

“Now we know,” said Ellery with a cold smile, “we can prove, that some time
before
the opening of that envelope at the formal reading of the will, the envelope had been secretly opened by someone, because we have proved that the Cornelia Potts signature on the confession had been used as a guide to forge a signature on the fake stock memorandum, and it couldn't possibly have been done
after
it got into your possession, Dad, and the police files. When, then specifically, could that envelope have been opened?
Only in the interim between the finding of it in the dead woman's hand and the opening of it before us all in the library for purposes of the will reading. Who
could have done it in that interim?
Only the person who had possession of the large sealed envelope.

“Who had possession of the large sealed envelope during that interim?
Only one person
:
Charles Hunter Paxton.
Mr. Paxton, who when you originally handed him the envelope at the dead woman's bedside, Dad, couldn't contain his curiosity and at the first opportunity steamed it open, found the will, found the note at the bottom of the will, found the smaller sealed envelope purporting to contain a revelation of the murderer's identity—who naturally steamed
that
envelope open, read the Old Woman's confession, realized that he couldn't destroy it, saw that he could only make it seem a forgery, and thereupon went through all the motions necessary to achieve that end; and when he had forged the stock memo, he resealed the small envelope with the confession in it, resealed the large envelope with the small envelope and will in
it,
and then produced the sealed large envelope at the formal reading, as if its contents had never been disturbed at all.” Mr. Queen's voice became a whip. “You're a fool, Paxton, to think you could get away with any such involved stupidity!”

For a moment Inspector Queen thought the young lawyer would spring at Ellery's throat. But then Paxton's shoulders seemed to collapse, and he dropped into a chair to cover his face with his hands. “I'm tired. It's true. Everything he said is true. I'm glad it's over. I'm tired of being clever.”

Mr. Queen thought this last remark might very well be added to the distinguished list of native American epitaphs.

30 . . . There Was a Young Woman

“Say, Maestro,” said Sergeant Velie the next day, stretching his legs halfway across the Queen living room, “I always seem to miss the third act. Why didn't you send me an Annie Oakley?”

“Because I didn't know myself,” grinned Ellery. The lines of anxiety had disappeared from his lean face and he seemed passably pleased with himself.

“Seems to me,” chuckled the Inspector, “you didn't know a whole lot of things, my son.”

“True, how true,” mourned Ellery.

“When you really take a look at it, your proof was pretty much a matter of slats, cardboard, and spit.”

“Mmm,” said Mr. Queen. “Well, yes. But remember, I was working it out extempore. I'd no chance to prepare my attack; I couldn't let that wedding proceed; I had to do what I could on the spot, working my way from point to point.”

“What a man,” said Sergeant Velie. “He works his way from point to point. Sort of like a mountain goat, huh?”

“But I had certain advantages, too. Charley was caught off guard in the middle of his wedding—at a time when he thought he'd pulled the whole thing off and had got away with it.”

“And now he's chewing his fingernails off in the hoosegow,” said the Sergeant. “Such a life.”

“Circumstantial evidence,” persisted the Inspector.

“But very strong circumstantial evidence, Dad. That last point—about the possession of the sealed envelope—powerful. It was my silver bullet. And it caught Charley Paxton dead center. Yes, he cracked and confessed. But I knew he would. No man can stand up under a confident attack at a time when he's unprepared, after a long period of strain. Charley's the intellectual type of killer, the type that will always crack under blows an ordinary desperado wouldn't even feel.”

“Yes, sir,” nodded Sergeant Velie, “here yesterday, in the hoosegow today. It makes you think.”

“It makes
me
think I've never been so happy to see the end of a case,” yawned the Inspector.
“What
a case!”

“You haven't quite seen the end of it,” suggested his son respectfully.

“Huh?” The Inspector bounced to his feet. “Don't tell me you just realized you've made
another
mistake!”

“In a way, yes,” mused Ellery. But his eyes were twinkling. “Sheila Brent phoned me. She's on her way over.”

“What for?” Inspector Queen stuck his little jaw out. But then he shook his head. “Still got a hangover, I guess. Poor girl's taken a bad beating. What's she want, Ellery?”

“I don't know. But I know what
I
want.”

“What?”

“To help her. I don't know just why—”

“Aha,” said his father. “Velie, let's get out of here.”

“And why not?” The Sergeant rose, stretching. “
I'll
tell you what you can do for Miss Brent Maestro. You can help her spend some of those millions of bucks.” And the Sergeant left, grumbling that the policeman's lot is not a lucrative one.

“I don't think, Velie,” Mr. Queen called after him, “that that's quite what the doctor ordered for Miss Brent.”

And he sat musing on various therapeutic matters until his doorbell rang.

“It's good to see you minus a hunted look,” said Ellery. “I'd begun to be afraid it was permanent.”

But Sheila was not looking too well. She was pale and her dimples spiritless this morning. “Thanks. Could you give a woman a drink of something wet and cold?”

“For a dry and thirsty day—certainly.” And Ellery promptly set about mixing something wet and cold. He was nervous, and Sheila remarked it.

“I hope I'm not getting in your hair,” she sighed. “I seem to have been hanging onto you—in a way—since … Oh. Thanks, Mr. Queen.”

“Ellery.”

He watched her sip the frosty drink and thought how pleasant it might be to repeat the service
ad infinitum.

“I can't tell you how sorry I am about what I had to do yesterday, Sheila—”

“Sorry!” She set down the drink. “And here I've been so grateful—”

“You weren't too shocked?” he asked anxiously. “You see, I had no time to warn you—”

“I understand.”

“Naturally I couldn't let you go through with it.”

“Naturally.” She even smiled. “If that isn't just like a man. Save a woman from—” she shuddered— “from the most horrible kind of mistake … and apologize for it!”

“Well, but I thought—”

“Well, but you're a love,” said Sheila queerly. “And I can never thank you enough. That's why I asked if I might drop in. I had to tell you in person.”

“Don't say another word about it,” said Ellery in a nettled tone. “I don't know why you should thank me. I must be associated in your mind almost entirely with nastinesses, and clues, and policemen, and brutal revelations—”

“Oh, don't be an idiot!” cried Sheila. And then she said, blushing: “I'm sorry, Mr. Queen.”

“Ellery.” Ellery felt vastly pleased. “Sheila, why don't you start a new life?”

She stared. “If you aren't the suddenest man!”

“Well, I mean—you ought to leave that nest of blubbering imbeciles on Riverside Drive, put yourself into a new and cheerful environment, get a real interest in life—”

“Of course you're right.” Sheila frowned. “And I'm certainly going to get out into the world and try to forget everything I ever … I've found that having money doesn't solve anything important. I've always wanted to do something useful, but Mother wouldn't let me. If I could only find work of some sort—work I'd enjoy doing …”

“Ah,” said Mr. Queen. “That brings up an important question, Miss Brent.” He fingered his ear. “Would you—uh—consider that I come under the heading of enjoyable occupations?”

“You?” Sheila looked blank.

“How would you like to come to work for me?” Ellery added hastily: “On a salary, of course. That's understood. I'm not trying to take advantage of your millions.”

“Work for
you?”
Sheila propped one elbow on her knee and put her fist under her chin and stared at him thoughtfully. “Tell me more, Mr. Queen.”

“You're not offended? Wonderful woman!” Ellery beamed. “Sheila, forget the past. Break every tie you've ever had. Except with your father, of course. But even in that case I think you should live alone. Change everything. Surroundings, way of living, clothes, habits. Pretend you've been born all over again.”

Sheila's eyes had begun to sparkle. But then they clouded over. “Listens good, Ellery, but it's impossible.”

“Nothing's impossible.”

But Sheila shook her head. “You forget I'm a marked woman. I'm Sheila Potts, or Sheila Brent—it doesn't matter; they know both names.”
They
as she uttered the word sounded ugly. “I'd only mess your life up with a lot of notoriety, and I'd never be allowed to forget who I was … who my mother was … my half brother Thurlow … o the man I almost married …”

“Nonsense.”

She looked curious. “But it's true.”

“It's true only if you let it be true. There's a perfectly simple way of making it not true.”

“How?” she cried. “Anything—tell me how! You don't know how I've wanted to lose myself in crowds and crowds of ordinary, decent, sane people. …
How
Ellery?”

“Change your name,” said Ellery calmly. “And with it your life. If Mr. Queen, the scrivener of detective stories, suddenly hires a secretary named Susie McGargle, a nice young woman from, say, Kansas City—”

“Secretary,” whispered Sheila. “Oh, yes! But …” Her voice became lifeless again. “It's out of the question. You're a dear to make the offer, but I'm not equipped, I don't know how to type, I can't take shorthand—”

“You can learn. That's what secretarial schools are for.”

“Yes … I suppose …”

“And I think you'll find me an understanding employer.”

“But I'd be a liability for such a long time!”

“Six weeks,” said Ellery reflectively. “Two months at the outside—to become as efficient a stenographer as ever drew a pothook or made a typewriter sing for its supper. I give you two months, no more.”

“Do you think I … really could?”

“Shucks.”

Almost rapturously, Sheila said: “If I could … a new life … It would be fun with you! If you really meant it—”

“I really mean it,” said Mr. Queen simply.

“Then I'll do it!” She jumped from the sofa. “By golly, I'll do it!” In her excitement she began to race up and down, flying from place to place. “Is this where you work? Is it hard? Doesn't anyone ever clean this desk? That's a terrible photo of you. Light's bad in here. Where's your typewriter? Maybe I could start today. I mean, the school . . . Oh, gosh, a new life, a new name, working with Ellery Queen … A new name,” she said damply. “But I don't
like
Susie McGargle.”

“That,” said Ellery, watching her skim about with a delight that surprised him, “that was a low inspiration of the moment, chosen merely for illustration.”

“How you talk!” Sheila laughed and for the first time in a long time Mr. Queen thought how delicious can be a woman's laughter. “Well, then, what's my name going to be? It's your idea—you baptize me.”

Ellery closed his eyes. “Name … Pretty problem. Pretty problem for a pretty subject. Red hair, dimples…” He sat up, beaming. “D'ye know, here's a remarkable coincidence!”

“What, Ellery?”

“The heroine of my new book has red hair and dimples!”

“Really? What's her name? Whatever it is—even if it's Grimalkin—or Pollywog—I'll take it for my own!”

“You will?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, you're in luck,” said Ellery, grinning. “It's a darned sweet name, if I do say so as shouldn't.”

“What is it?”

Mr. Queen told her.

“Nicky?” Sheila looked doubtful.

“Spelled N-i-k-k-i.”

“Nikki! Oh, wonderful, wonderful. That's a
beautiful
name. Nikki … Mr. Queen, I buy it!”

“As for a last name,” murmured that gentleman, “I can't give you my heroine's … it's Dempsey … perfectly good name, but inappropriate for you, somehow. Let me see. What would go well with ‘Nikki' and you?”

“Nikki… Nikki Jones? Nikki Brown? Nikki Green—”

“Heavens no. No poetry. Nikki Keats? Nikki Lowell? Nikki Fowler? … Fowler.
E-r
ending.
Er.
Yes, that would be good. An
er
ending in a two-syllable name. Parker. Farmer. Porter … Porter! Nikki Porter!” Ellery sprang to his feet. “That's it,” he cried.
“Nikki Porter.”

“Yes,” said Nikki Porter, all soft and tender and merry and grateful at once. “Yes, Mr. Queen.”

“Ellery to you, Miss Porter,” beamed Mr. Queen.

“Nikki to
you…
Ellery.”