“Isn’t that enough?”
“Like hell it is. I failed to prevent two deaths; and though it’s hard to regret Quincy’s, poor Herndon was a damned nice guy in his futile way. And for all my brilliant elucidation of the case, it’s left all the people in as confused a torment as though it had never been solved. Worse. Look at Janet.”
“She will find consolation quickly in her work. This love for Tom was a sudden growth, a forced growth under abnormal circumstances. She would never have been happy as an inactive faculty wife. She belongs back in New York.”
“Maybe. But she’s got a choice spot of hell ahead of her. And look at the Brainards. They’ve talked too much and too freely. They can never live together again in that stupid happy calm they used to know. And look at Alys.”
“There,” said Dr. Arnold, “you can do something.”
“Me? God save me from ever seeing the wench again.”
“Alys is going to a private nursing home. She is going to be cured of her drinking, and a good psychiatrist, a brilliant friend of mine in New York, is going to see what can be done about her other … defects.”
“Ha,” said Fergus tonelessly. “You think you can get that bitch to consent to such a program? That wouldn’t be Fun.”
“She will consent. Or you and I will go before the Lunacy Commission and give evidence, you as detective and I as physician, concerning her cat-killing venture. Are you willing?”
“It’s hopeless, but I’m willing. You know, sir, I admire you. It’s easy enough to hate Alys as Herndon did, or use her as did Quincy; but you’re the first person who’s ever thought of doing anything about her. And God knows I wish you luck …
“There’s one more thing to brighten my life,” Fergus added after a brief silence. “And that’s the trifling matter of my fee. One of my clients is dead, and the other, God help me, is Horace Brainard.”
“Your fee? Oh, I spoke to Alys. She’ll take care of that.”
“Alys? She hasn’t got any money.”
“What? Don’t you—? That’s right; you were off with Koplinski testing paraffin molds. When Officer Sanchez made the routine inventory of Lucas’ effects, he found a will, unwitnessed but holograph and hence perfectly valid, dated last night and leaving everything to Alys.”
Fergus goggled. The last act of Lucas Quincy’s life had been an unselfish one. Knowing the danger on the island, fearing that the persecuted Herndon had really gone mad, he had remembered Alys. No one, he thought, is completely without a part of Jay Stanhope, any more than anyone is completely without a part of Lucas Quincy.
“Hey,” the barkeep called. “You guys want to hear the late news?” He turned up the radio.
“German bombs fell twice today upon ancient Brussels, bringing death and devastation to untold …”
Fergus stared into his empty glass. Throat-slitting was comparatively clean.
About the Author
Anthony Boucher was an American author, critic, and editor, who wrote several classic mystery novels, short stories, science fiction, and radio dramas. Between 1942 and 1947 he acted as reviewer of mostly mystery fiction for the San Francisco Chronicle.
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Copyright © 1942 by the Estate of Anthony Boucher
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ISBN: 978-1-5040-5742-4
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The Case of the Seven Sneezes Page 25
