There Was an Old Woman

by Ellery Queen

  "I never wear tweeds, so I knew there was a mistake. Then I remembered Thurlow's quizzing me about my tailor. So I asked Thurlow about the tweed jacket my tailor'd billed me for and he said, yes, it must have been his jacket the man meant, because he'd had my tailor make some repairs on it and hadn't received a bill. So Thurlow asked me to pay for the repairs and said he'd reimburse me. He did, too," added Charley grimly, "in cash, the cagey devil!"

  "Repairs," exclaimed Ellery softly. "What kind of repairs, Charley, did Thurlow say?"

  "No, Thurlow didn't say," retorted the lawyer. "But I smelled a little mouse, I can't tell you why. I asked my tailor when I paid the bill. And he said Mr. Potts had asked him to change the right-hand outside pocket of the tweed jacket into a double pocket—"

  "Double pocket!" The Inspector leaped to his feet.

  "With a partition lining between."

  "Charley, that's it," whispered Sheila.

  "Double pocket," grinned the Sergeant, "double guns, double bye Mr. Potts!"

  "If that won't establish premeditation, I don't know what will," said the Inspector, rubbing his hands briskly. "Charley, I thank you."

  "Yes, that's it," said Ellery. "I should have seen it myself. Of course he'd have to take the precaution of preventing a mix-up in the two guns during the short time he had them both in the same pocket. But with a double pocket, he could put the live-loaded Colt in one half, say the half at the front of the pocket; and the Colt with the blank in the half at the back. That made it easy to locate the live-loaded Colt with his fingers when the time came to withdraw the gun for the duel."

  "Better get hold of that coat immediately, Inspector," advised Charley. "Thurlow thinks he's safe, so he's done nothing about it. But if he suspects you're looking for evidence, he'll burn the coat and you'll never have a case for Sampson."

  A dark figure flung itself through one of the French doors off the terrace and stumbled into the study.

  It was Thurlow Potts.

  One glimpse of his contorted features was proof enough that Thurlow had overheard every word of the analysis by which Ellery Queen had relegated him to the Death House, and of the testimony of Charley Paxton's which was to provide the switch.

  For the second time that evening they were paralyzed by the inhuman quickness of Thurlow's appearance. This was a Sparrow possessed of demons. Before any of them could stir, he had flung himself at Charley Paxton's throat.

  "I'll kill you for telling them about that pocket," Thurlow shouted, digging his fingers into Charley's flesh. The young lawyer, taken completely by surprise, had not even had time or presence to rise from his seat; the force of Thurlow's assault had sent him hurtling over backward, and his head had struck the floor with a soggy thud. Thurlow's fingers dug deeper. "I'll kill you," he kept screaming. "That pocket. I'll kill you."

  "He's unconscious," Sheila was shrieking. "He hit his head. Thurlow, stop it! Stop, you dirty butcher—stop!"

  The Queens, father and son, and Sergeant Velie hit the little man simultaneously from three directions. Velie scooped up Thurlow's legs, which instantly began kicking. Ellery grabbed one arm and yanked, and the Inspector the other. Even so, they found it difficult to pluck him from Paxton's throat. It was only by main force that Ellery was able to tear those stubby, suddenly iron fingers away.

  Then they had him loose, and Sheila dropped hysterically by Charley's side to chafe his swollen neck, where the bite of Thurlow's fingers was deep and clear.

  Sergeant Velie got Thurlow's throat from behind in the crook of his arm, but the little man kept kicking viciously even as his eyes bugged from his head. They were red, wild eyes. "I'll kill him," he kept screaming. "I killed the twins, and I'll kill Paxton, too, and I'll kill, I'll kill, kill . . ."

  And suddenly he went soft all over, like a rag doll. His head draped itself over the Sergeant's arm. His legs stopped kicking.

  "On the davenport," said Inspector Queen curtly. "Miss Brent, is Charley all right?"

  "I think so, Inspector! He's coming to. Charley, Charley darling..."

  Velie picked up the little man and carried him to the studio couch. He did not drop Thurlow; he laid him down carefully almost tenderly.

  "Cunning as they come," grunted the Inspector. "Well, son, you heard him say he did it. So you're right, and we've got plenty of witnesses, and Thurlow's a gone rattlesnake."

  Ellery brushed himself off. "Yes, Dad, premeditated purchase of two pairs of guns, premeditated manufacture of a double pocket, premeditated build-up of a perfect alibi, a clear motive—I think you've got a case for the District Attorney."

  "He won't need it," said Sergeant Velie. There was something so sharply strange in Velie's tone that they looked at him in inquiry. He jerked his big jaw in the direction of the man on the couch.

  Thurlow Potts lay quiet, with a stare at right angles to sanity. There was nothing in his eyes now, nothing. They were lifeless marbles. The face was putty patted into vertical lines. He was staring up at Sergeant Velie without resentment or hatred, without pain—without recognition.

  "Velie, call Bellevue," said Inspector Queen soberly.

  Ave atque vale, Thurlow, thought Ellery Queen as he looked down at that stricken flesh of the Old Woman's flesh. For you there will be no arrest, no arraignment, no Grand Jury, no trial, no conviction, no electric chair. For you there will be a cell and bars, and green fields to watch with eyes that see crookedly, and jailers in starched white uniforms.

  27 . . . The Beginning of the End

  It cannot be stated that Ellery Queen was satisfied to the point of exaltation with his role in the Potts murder case.

  Heretofore, Ellery's pursuit of truth in the hunt of human chicanery had been attended by a sort of saddle irritation which magically disappeared when the hunter returned to his hearth. But now, a week after Thurlow Potts had confessed his crime and lapsed into burbling insanity, Ellery's intellectual seat still smarted.

  He wondered at himself, thinking over the horrid fantasy of the past week. That he had succeeded, there could be no question. Thurlow Potts had murdered Robert Potts with his own hand. Thurlow Potts had murdered Maclyn Potts similarly. Logic had triumphed, the miscreant had confessed, the case was closed. Where, then, had he failed?

  King James had said to the fly, "Have I three kingdoms and thou must needs fly into my eye?"

  What was the nature of the fly?

  And suddenly, at breakfast with his father that morning, he saw that there were two flies, as it were, in his eye. One was Thurlow Potts himself. Thurlow was still a conundrum, logic and confession notwithstanding. Mr. Queen was uncomfortably aware that he had never known the true nature of Thurlow, and that he still did not know it. The man had been too rich a mixture of sense and nonsense, a mixture too thoroughly mixed. But the recipe for Thurlow was preponderantly madness, and for some reason this annoyed Mr. Queen no end. The man had been mostly mad, and his crime had been mostly sane; perhaps this was the source of the smart. And yet there could be no doubt whatever that Thurlow had murdered his twin brothers, knowing exactly what he was doing.

  Ellery gave it up.

  The other fly was equally obvious, and equally pestiferous. It had dimples, and its name was Sheila. At this point, Ellery quickly resumed the attack on his breakfast under his father's inquiring eye. Sometimes it is wiser, he thought, not to probe too deeply into certain branches of entomology.

  By coincidence Sheila and Charley Paxton dropped into the Queen apartment before that uneasy breakfast was concluded; and it must be said that Mr. Queen rose heroically to the occasion, the more so since the young couple had come to announce their approaching marriage.

  "The best of everything," he said bravely, pressing their hands.

  "If ever two snooks deserved happiness in this world," said the Inspector, shaking his head, "it's you two. When's it coming off?"

  "Tomorrow," said Sheila. She was radiant.

  'Tomorrow!" Mr. Queen blinked.

  Charley was1 plainly e
mbarrassed. "I told Sheila you'd probably be pretty busy catching up on your book," he mumbled. "But you know how women are."

  "Indeed I do, and I'd never have forgiven you if you'd taken any such silly excuse for not dropping in."

  "There, you see, dear?" said Sheila.

  Charley grinned feebly.

  'Tomorrow," smiled Inspector Queen. "That's as fine a day as any."

  "Then we're going on a honeymoon," said Sheila, hugging Charley's arm, "and when we get back—work, and peace."

  "Work?" said Ellery. "Oh, of course. The business."

  "Yes. Mr. Underhill’s going to manage the production end—he's far and away the best man for it, and of course the office staff will keep on as before."

  "How about the executive set-up?" asked the Inspector curiously. "With Thurlow out of circulation—"

  "Well, we've tried to get Sheila's father to change his mind about taking an active part in the business," said Charley, "but Steve just won't. Says he's too old and wants only to live the rest of his life out playing checkers with that old scalawag Gotch. So that sort of leaves it up to Sheila. Of course, Louella and Horatio are out of the question, and now that Thurlow's gone, they'll do as Sheila says."

  "We've had a long talk with Louella and Horatio," said Sheila, "and they've agreed to accept incomes and not stand in the way of the reorganization. They'll live on at the old house on the Drive. But Daddy and Major Gotch are taking an apartment, and of course Charley and I will take our own place, too." She shivered the least bit. "I can't wait to get out of the house."

  "Amen," said Charley in a low voice.

  Ellery smiled. "Then from now on Fm going to have to address you as Madam President, Sheila?"

  "Looks that way," retorted Sheila. "Actually, m be President only for the record. With Mr. Underhill handling production and Charley the business end—he insists on it—I won't have anything to do but clip coupons."

  "What a life," groaned the Inspector.

  "And of course," said Sheila in an altered tone, gazing at the floor, "of course, Ellery, I can't tell you how grateful I am for everything you've done for us—"

  "Spare me," pleaded Ellery.

  "And Sheila and I sort of thought," said Charley, "that we'd be even more grateful if you sort of finished the job—-

  "Beg pardon?"

  "What's the matter with you two?" laughed Sheila. "Charley, can't you even extend a simple invitation? Ellery, Charley would like you to be best man tomorrow, and—well, I think you know how thrilled I'd be."

  "On one condition."

  Charley looked relieved, "Anything!"

  "Don't be so rash, Charley. I'd like to kiss the bride." That'll hold you, brother! thought Mr. Queen uncharitably.

  "Sure," said Charley with a weak grin. "Help yourself."

  Mr. Queen did so, liberally.

  Now this was strange, that even in the peace of the church, with Dr. Crittenden smilingly holding his Book open before him, and Sheila standing before him straight and still and tense to the left, her father a little behind and to one side of her, and Charley Paxton standing just as solemnly to the right, Ellery behind him . . , even here, even now, the flies buzzed about Ellery's eye.

  "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company ..."

  Inspector Queen stood behind Ellery. With his father's quiet breathing in his ear, the son was suddenly seized with an irrelevance, so unpredictable is the human mind in its crises of desperation. He slipped his hand into his coat pocket to feel for the ring of which he was honored custodian, and also to finger absently the three documents that lay there. The Inspector had given them to Ellery that morning.

  "Give them back to Charley for his files, or hold them for him," the Inspector had said. "Lord knows I can't get rid of 'em fast enough."

  One was the Old Woman's will. His fingers knew that by the thickness of the wrapper. The Old Woman ...

  ". . , to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God..."

  The Old Woman's confession. Her notepaper. Only one left, anyhow, so it must be. He found it outside his pocket, in his hand. Now how did that happen? Ellery thought innocently. He glanced down at it.

  ".., and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly ..."

  Forged confession. Never written by the Old Woman. That signature—traced off in the same soft pencil ... Ellery found himself turning the closely typed sheet over. It was perfectly clean. Not a pencil mark, not the sign of an erasure.

  ". . , but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly and in the fear of God."

  Something clicked in the Queen brain. Swiftly he took the slip of flimsy from his pocket, the stock memorandum from which he had decided—how long ago it seemed!— the signature of Cornelia Potts had been traced onto the "confession."

  He turned it over. On the back of the memorandum he now noticed, for the first time, the faint but clean pencil impression in reverse of the words "Cornelia Potts."

  He shifted his position so that he might hold the memorandum up to a ruffle of sunlight skirting Charley's arm. The pencil impression on the reverse of the memorandum lay directly over the signature on the face, with no slightest blurring.

  "Into this holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined."

  Ellery turned, groped for his father's arm.

  Inspector Queen looked at him blankly. Then, scanning Ellery's face, he leaned forward and whispered: "Ellery 1 Don't you feel well? What's the matter?"

  Ellery wet his lips.

  "// any man can show just cause, why they may not ¡awfully be joined together, let him speak now—"

  "Damn it!" blurted Ellery.

  Dr. Crittenden almost dropped the Book.

  Ellery's face was convulsed. He was pale and in a rage, the two documents in his hand rustling like rumors. Later, he said he did not remember having blasphemed. "Stop," he said a little hoarsely. "Stop the wedding."

  The End of the Beginning

  Inspector Queen whispered: "El, are you crazy? This is a wedding!"

  They'll never believe me, thought Ellery painfully. Why did I get mixed up in this fandango? "Please forgive me," he said to Dr. Crittenden, whose expression of amazement had turned to severity. "Believe me, Doctor, I'd never have done this if I hadn't considered it imperative."

  "I'm sure, Mr. Queen," replied the pastor coldly, "I can't understand how anything could be more important than a solemnization of marriage between two worthy young people."

  "What's happened? What's the matter, Ellery?" cried Charley. "Dr. Crittenden, please—would you be kind enough to leave us alone for five minutes with Mr. Queen?"

  Sheila was looking fixedly at Ellery. "Yes, Doctor, please."

  "B-but Sheila," began her father. Sheila took old Steve's arm and took him aside, whispering to him.

  Dr. Crittenden looked appalled. Then he left the chapel with agitated steps to retire to his vestry.

  "Well?" said Sheila, when the vestry door had closed. Her tone was arctic.

  "Please understand. This can't wait. You two can always be married; but this can't wait."

  "What can't wait, Ellery?" demanded Charley.

  "The undoing of the untruth." Ellery cleared his throat; it seemed full of frogs and bulrushes. "The telling of the truth. I don't see it clearly yet, but something's wrong—"

  His father was stern. "What are you talking about? This isn't like you, son."

  "I'm not like myself—nothing is as it should be." Ellery shook his head as he had shaken it that night on the floor of the Potts study after Thurlow had shot at him. "We've made a mistake, that's all. I've made a mistake. One thing I do see: the case is still unsolved."

  Sheila gave voice to a little whimper, so tired, so without hope, that Ellery almost decided to say he had slipped a gear somewhere and that this was all, all a delusion of a brain fallen ill. Almost; not quite.


  "You mean Thurlow Potts is not our man?" cried the Inspector. "But that can't be, Ellery. He admitted it. You heard him admit the killings!"

  "No, no, that's not it," muttered Ellery. "Thurlow did commit those murders—it was his hand that took the lives of Bob and Mac Potts."

  "Then what do you mean?"

  "There's^ someone else, Dad. Someone behind Thurlow."

  "Behind Thurlow?" repeated his father stupidly.

  "Yes, Dad. Thurlow was merely the hand. Thurlow pulled the triggers. But he pulled them at the dictation, and according to the plan, of a brain, a boss—the real murderer!"

  Major Gotch retreated into a corner of the chapel, like a cautious bear, and it was curious that thenceforth he kept his old puff eyes fixed upon the pale blinking eyes of his crony, Stephen Brent.

  "Let me analyze this dreary, distressing business aloud," continued Ellery wearily. "I'll work it out step by step, Dad, as I see it now. If I'm wrong, call Bellevue. If I'm right—" He avoided looking at the others. Throughout most of what followed, he kept addressing his father, as if they had been alone with only the quiet walls of the chapel to keep them company.

  "Remember how I proved the Old Woman's signature on that typewritten confession we found on her body was a forgery? I placed the stock memorandum against a windowpane; I placed the confession over the stock memorandum; and I worked the confession about on the memo until the signature of the one lay directly over the signature of the other. Like this." Ellery went to a clear sunny window of the chapel and with the two documents illustrated his thesis.

  "Since both signatures were identical in every curve and line," he went on, "I concluded—and correctly—that one of the signatures had been traced off the other. No one ever writes his name exactly the same way twice."

  "Well?" The Inspector was inching toward the chapel door.

  "Now since the stock memo was handed to Charley Paxton in our presence by the Old Woman herself—in fact, we saw her sign it—we had every right to assume that the signature on the memorandum was genuine, and that therefore the signature on the confession had been traced from it and was the forgery.

  "But see how blind I was." Ellery rapped the knuckles of his free hand against the superimposed documents his other hand held plastered against the window. "When a signature is traced off by using light through a window-pane, in what position must the genuine signature be in relation to the one that's to be traced from it?"