Halfway House

II The Trail

“If that doesn’t beat all hell,” said De Jong. “Cheese!” With a brutal gesture he tore the cigar from his mouth and hurled it to the floor. And then he sprang after the Amity woman.

Lucy Wilson stood gripping her throat as if she were afraid it might burst. Her black eyes were groping from Mrs. Gimball to the man on the floor in helpless agony. Andrea Gimball was shivering and biting her lips.

“Gimball,” said Bill in a shocked voice. “Good Lord, Mrs. Gimball, do you realize what you’re saying?”

The society woman made an imperious gesture with her fine thin white veined hands. The jewels sparkled under the lamp. “This is insanity. Who are these people, Mr. Queen? And why am I subjected to this ridiculous scene when my husband is... lying here dead?”

Lucy’s nostrils expanded like sails in a storm. “Your husband? Yours? This is Joe Wilson, I tell you. Maybe your husband just looks like my Joe. Oh, please go away, won’t you?”

“I refuse to discuss my personal affairs with you,” said the woman in sables haughtily. “Where is that man who’s in charge? Of all the disgraceful exhibitions—”

“Jessica,” said the tall midle-aged man patiently. “Perhaps you had better sit down and permit Mr. Queen and me to handle this matter. It’s obvious that a shocking error’s occurred, but it won’t be helped by nerves or a brawl.” He spoke as if he were addressing a child. The angry line between his brows had vanished. “Jessica?”

Her lips were bitter parallel lines. She sat down.

“Did I understand you to say,” asked the man with the silk hat in a courteous voice, “that you are Mrs. Lucy Wilson of Fairmount Park, Philadelphia?”

“Yes. Yes!” cried Lucy.

“I see.” The glance he gave her was cold, rather calculating, as if he were weighing in his deliberate way how much of her was real and how much false. “I see,” he said again, and this time the line reappeared between his brows.

“I don’t believe,” said Bill wearily, “I caught the name.”

The tall man made a wry face. “Grosvenor Finch, and I’ve been an intimate friend of the Borden and Gimball families for more years than I care to count. I came here tonight only because Mr. Jasper Borden, Mrs. Gimball’s father, is an invalid and requested me to take his place by his daughter’s side.” Finch placed his silk hat carefully on the table. “I came, as I say,” he continued in his quiet way, “as a friend of Mrs. Gimball’s. It begins to appear that I shall have to stay in quite a different capacity.”

“And what,” said Bill softly, “do you mean by that?”

“May I question your right to ask, young man?”

Bill’s eyes flashed. “I’m Bill Angell, attorney, of Philadelphia. Mrs. Wilson’s brother.”

“Mrs. Wilson’s brother. I see.” Finch glanced at Ellery, nodding in an interrogatory way. Ellery, who had not stirred from the door, muttered something; and Finch rounded the table and stooped over the body. He did not touch it. For a moment he stared at the frozen, upturned face; then he said in a low voice: “Andrea, my dear, do you think you could bring yourself—?”

Andrea swallowed; she looked sick. But she set her smooth jaw and came forward and stood at his shoulder, forcing herself to look down. “Yes.” Andrea turned away, ashen. “That’s Joe. Joe, Ducky.”

Finch nodded, and Andrea went to her mother’s chair and stood behind it rather helplessly. “Mrs. Wilson,” continued the distinguished-looking man, “you must understand you’ve made a horrible mistake.”

“I haven’t!”

“A mistake, I repeat. I sincerely hope it’s that — and nothing more.” Lucy’s hands fluttered in protest. “I assure you once more,” the tall man went on soberly, “that this gentleman on the floor is Joseph Kent Gimball of New York, the legally wedded husband of the lady in the chair, who was Jessica Borden, then Mrs. Richard Paine Monstelle, and then — after the early death of Monstelle — Mrs. Joseph Kent Gimball. The young lady is Joseph Gimball’s stepdaughter Andrea, Mrs. Jessica Gimball’s daughter by her first husband.”

“You may spare us,” remarked Ellery, “the genealogical details.”

Finch’s clear and honest gray eyes did not waver. “I’ve known Joe Gimball for over twenty years, ever since his undergraduate days at Princeton. I knew his father, old Roger Gimball of the Back Bay branch of the family; he died during the War. And his mother, who died six years ago, a Providence Kent. For generations the Gimballs have been—” he hesitated — “one of our more prominent families. Now do you see how impossible it is for this man to have been your husband, Mrs. Wilson?”

Lucy Wilson uttered a curious little sigh, like the breath of an expiring hope. “We’ve never been anybody. Just working people. Joe was, too. Joe couldn’t have been—”

“Lucy dear,” said Bill gently. Then he said, “You see, the funny part of it is that we’re just as certain he’s Joe Wilson, of Philadelphia, itinerant peddler who made his living selling cheap jewelry to middle-class housewives. We’ve got his car outside, and his peddler’s stock. We have the contents of his pockets, samples of his handwriting — all evidence that he was Wilson the peddler, not Gimball the society man. Impossible, Mr. Finch? You can’t really believe that.”

The tall man returned his gaze; there was something reluctant and stubborn in the set of his handsome jaw.

Jessica Gimball said, “A peddler?” in a voice sick with loathing.

Andrea was staring at Bill with a horror in her eyes that had not gone away since she set foot in the shack.

“The answer,” said Ellery from the doorway, “is obvious enough. Of course you’ve guessed it, Bill.” He shrugged. “This man was both.”

De Jong burst in, bug-eyed with triumph. He stopped short. “Oh, getting acquainted?” he asked, rubbing his hands. “That’s the stuff; no sense getting the wind up. It’s just too bad all round, just too bad.” But he kept rubbing his hands. There was a continuous sound of departing motors from the road.

“We have just come to the conclusion, De Jong,” said Ellery, walking slowly forward, “that this is not some fictional case of twins, or impersonation, but a sordid one of deliberately assumed double identity. More frequent than people realize. There can’t be any doubt about it. You have positive identification on both sides. Everything fits.”

“Does it?” said De Jong pleasantly.

“We know that, as Joseph Wilson, this man for years spent only two or three days a week in Philadelphia with Lucy Wilson; you yourself, Bill, were disturbed by this peculiarity in his behaviour. And I am sure Mrs. Gimball can tell us that her husband spent several days each week away from the Gimball home in New York.”

The middle-aged eyes were haggard, red with lacquered resentment that made them glow from her bony face. “For years,” she said. “Joe was always... Oh, how could he have done such a thing? He used to say he had to be by himself or he would go mad. The beast, the beast!” Her voice was choked with passion.

“Mother,” said Andrea. She placed her slim hands on the trembling woman’s shoulders. “Joe said he had a hideaway somewhere not far from New York. He would never tell mother or anyone where, saying that a man was entitled to his privacy. We never suspected because he never liked the social life....”

“I can see now,” cried Mrs. Gimball, “that it was just an excuse to get away and be with this — this woman!”

Lucy quivered as if she had been struck. Grosvenor Finch shook his head at Mrs. Gimball in disapproval and warning. But she plunged on. “And I never suspected. What a fool!” Her voice was savage. “Cheap. Cheap. To do such a cheap thing... to me.”

“Cheapness is a point of view, Mrs. Gimball,” said Bill coldly. “Please remember that my sister is involved. She’s as good—”

“Bill,” said Ellery. “We’ll get nowhere with these childish recriminations. On the other hand, common sense demands a clarification of the situation. This place confirms the dual-personality theory. Here we find the two personalities intermingled. Wilson clothes and Gimball clothes, a Wilson car and a Gimball car. This was, in a manner of speaking, neutral territory. Undoubtedly he stopped here periodically on his way to Philadelphia to change into his Wilson outfit and take the Wilson Packard; and stopped again on his return journey to New York to change back into his Gimball clothes and take the Gimball Lincoln. Of course, he never did sell this cheap jewelry; he merely told Mrs. Wilson he did... And by the way, Mrs. Gimball, what makes you think your — this man was conducting a tawdry tabloid affair with Mrs. Wilson?”

The woman’s lip curled. “What would a man like Joe Gimball want with a woman like this but one thing? Oh, I suppose she’s attractive enough in a coarse way” — Lucy blushed to the cleft between her breasts — “but Joe was a man of breeding, of taste. It wouldn’t be more than the most passing fancy. Husband! Fiddlesticks. It’s a plot.” Her brittle eyes examined Lucy with a corrosive hatred that melted the clothes away and left her victim naked. Lucy flinched as the acid bit; but her eyes glittered. Bill checked her with a whisper.

“Mrs. Gimball—” began Ellery frigidly.

“No! Do something about these people, Ducky, please. You can see that this woman is paid hush-money, or whatever it is they call it. Anything! I’m sure a cheque will keep her quiet; it always does.”

“Jessica,” said Finch angrily. “Please.”

“I’m afraid it won’t be as simple as that, Mrs. Gimball,” snapped Ellery. “Lucy... Lucy!”

Lucy’s black eyes went smoking to his face. “Yes?”

“Did you ever go through a marriage ceremony with the man you know as Joseph Wilson?”

“He married me. I’m not a — a... He married me!”

“Married you,” sniffled the society woman. “A likely story!”

“Where were you married?” asked Ellery quietly.

“We got our license in the Philadelphia City Hall. We were — we were married by a minister in a midtown church.”

“Have you your marriage certificate?”

“Oh, yes, yes.”

Mrs. Gimball moved restlessly. “How long,” she demanded, “do I have to submit to this intolerable situation? It’s quite obvious this is a plot. Ducky, do something! Marriage certificate...”

“Can’t you see, Mother,” whispered Andrea, “that Mrs.. Wilson isn’t — isn’t what you said? Please, Mother. This is more serious than — Oh, you must be reasonable!”

Bill Angell asked in a strangled tone: “When did you marry Joseph Kent Gimball, madam?”

The elderly woman tossed her head, disdaining to reply. But Grosvenor Finch said in a worried voice: “They were married at St Andrew’s Cathedral in New York on June tenth, 1927.”

Lucy cried out, in something so much like triumph that the cold woman opposite her started. They faced each other, separated by five feet of empty space, the stark legs of the dead man beyond and between them, like rails of a fence. “Sunday. Fifth Avenue,” said Lucy in a throbbing murmur. “The Cathedral. High hats, limousines, jewelry, flower girls, society reporters, the Bishop himself... Oh, my God!” She laughed. “I suppose it was cheap when Joe courted me in Philadelphia, hiding behind the name of Wilson because he was afraid, I suppose, to become involved under his right name. I suppose it was cheap when he fell in love with me and married me.” She sprang to her feet, and in the shocked silence her voice rang. “For eight years the cheapness has been all on his side and yours. Cheap, am I? For eight years you’ve lived with that man with no more right than — than any woman of the streets!”

“What,” whispered Andrea, “do you mean, Mrs. Wilson?”

Bill said slowly, “As Joseph Wilson he married my sister on February twenty-fourth, 1925. Over two years before he married your mother, Miss Gimball.”

The only sounds for seconds after was the short sharp cry wrung from Jessica Gimball. Then she said, “1925? You accuse him of being a bigamist, me of — of not... You’re lying, the pack of you!”

“Are you sure, Bill Angell?” whispered Andrea Gimball. “Oh, are you sure?”

Bill passed his hand over his lips. “It’s true, Miss Gimball, and we can prove it. And unless you can produce a marriage certificate antedating February twenty-fourth, 1925, your mother is in for it. We’ve nothing but justice on our side, and we must protect ourselves.”

“Oh, but this is infamous!” said Mrs. Gimball furiously. “There must be a mistake somewhere. There must!”

Grosvenor Finch said, “Now let’s not be hasty, please. Mr. Angell, Mrs. Gimball is naturally overwrought, and of course she’s sorry for what she said about your sister. Can’t this be adjusted in some way? No, Jessica! Perhaps, Mr. Queen, a little influence—”

“Too late,” said Ellery coldly. “You saw that red-haired young woman fly out of here. She’s the press. The story is already on the wires, Finch.”

“But this bigamy angle. She hasn’t heard that. I’m sure—”

Bill scowled and began to pace about. “Nothing on earth will stop those bloodhounds from hunting up the marriage dates. We’ll have to face it together. God knows we’re all in the same mess.” Lucy sat quietly, still as death.

“Very well,” said Finch slowly. The muscles of his large jaw were churning. “If it’s to be a battle, I’ve a card to play—”

“I think,” said a sardonic voice from the corner, “that I’ve let this go just about far enough.” Chief De Jong grinned at them without humor; they had forgotten him. “Now that everybody’s getting ugly, I’ll get tough myself. Murphy, you took it all down?” The detective in the doorway chewed his pencil, nodding. “Now, then,” continued De Jong, striding forward, “let’s get organized. You first, Queen. I think your actions call for an explanation.”

Ellery shrugged as he put his pipe away. “This man’s face bothered me all evening. I didn’t know why. Then it came back to me. The irritant was a resemblance. I attended a banquet some months ago in honor of somebody or other, and I met and conversed with a man who, I saw, might have been the twin brother of the man I had been told tonight was Joe Wilson, Lucy’s husband. But my tête-à-tête had been introduced to me as Joseph Kent Gimball of New York. When I recalled Joseph Wilson’s habitual absence from his Philadelphia home, it seemed to me a tragic possibility that Wilson and Gimball were the same man. So I went down the road and telephoned Gimball’s home in New York.”

“We’d have spotted it soon enough,” said De Jong grudgingly. “So?”

Ellery stared at him. “The only one in was Jasper Borden, Gimball’s father-in-law. I asked a few questions, discovered that Gimball hadn’t been home since the middle of last week, knew I was on the right track, and announced what had happened. Mr. Borden said his family was out, but that he’d sound the tocsin and send them out here as soon as possible.”

“Borden, hey?” muttered De Jong. “Old railroad man. Why isn’t your father with you, Mrs. Gimball?”

Andrea sighed. “Grandfather hasn’t stirred from the house for several years. He suffered a stroke in 1930 that paralyzed his entire left side.”

“Where were you people tonight? Where’d the old boy reach you?”

“Mother and I attended a charity ball at the Waldorf. We were there with a party of friends. Mr. Finch, my fiancé Mr. Burke Jones of Newport, Mrs.—”

“All together, hey?” said De Jong. “Big ball, I suppose?” For some reason not altogether clear, Bill Angell felt himself flushing. He might have known, he thought. He glanced at the girl’s face, and then at her left hand. She had slipped the setting off her finger.

“If you mean,” said Finch icily, “that any of us could have stolen off, driven out here, and stabbed Joe Gimball to death, I suppose you would be hypothetically correct. But if you’ve quite finished with this nonsense, I have something to say—”

“A good alibi never hurt anybody, see?” drawled De Jong. “Where’s this boy-friend of yours, Miss Gimball? This Jones.”

“We weren’t sure that it was Joe who’d been...” Andrea caught herself up; she avoided Bill’s gaze. “Well, I–I didn’t tell Burke. Grandfather spoke to Mother on the telephone when he had located us, and we didn’t believe it. But he was so insistent we felt we had to come and see. I didn’t want to involve Burke in a — in a...”

“I get it, I get it,” said De Jong. “Might spoil the match. Boy-friend jilts gal. Bad stuff for the papers. Nuts! Now, Mr. Finch, you’ve been steaming to get something off your chest. Go to it.”

“Under ordinary circumstances,” replied Finch in a stiff tone, “I should dislike even to bring the matter up. But we have our position to defend as well. This middle-class antagonism toward wealth, De Jong, can be damned annoying at times. Yes, I’ve something to reveal; and I’m afraid it’s going to prove unpleasant.”

Ellery stirred. “May I suggest you come to the point?”

“I suppose you do not know who I am. It wouldn’t matter ordinarily, and I shouldn’t bring it up; but it happens to be relevant to what I have to say. I am Executive Vice-President of the National Life Insurance Company, you see.”

“Yeah?” said De Jong; he did not seem impressed, although the National was one of the largest life-insurance companies in the world.

“In the course of my connection with the company,” continued Finch gently, “I’ve had occasion to insure many of my friends. Not as a broker, you understand — we’ve progressed since those days.” He smiled a little. “Purely as an accommodation. My friends call me the highest-paid insurance broker in the world. Ha, ha!”

“Ha, ha,” said De Jong sourly. “So?”

“Among the small number whose policies I have handled personally was Gimball. We’ve often jested about it. Rather remarkable policy. He came to me in ’30 and asked me to insure him for a million dollars.”

“A what?” gasped the policeman.

“A million dollars. It isn’t the largest policy I’ve seen drawn, by any means, although it’s the only one I’ve ever heard of issued to a man so young. You see, in 1930 Gimball was only thirty-three years old. The annual premium came to a mere twenty-seven thousand or so. At any rate, we managed it for him; he was in perfect health; and the policy was issued as of that year.”

“All by the National?” murmured Ellery. “I’ve always thought some law or other forbids one insurance company assuming such a large risk.”

“Quite true. The legal limit for a single company is three hundred thousand. In the case of a contract exceeding that amount the excess is underwritten by other companies; quite the usual procedure. The National took three hundred thousand, and we arranged matters so that seven other companies took up one hundred thousand each. The contract was handled as a unit, and Gimball paid his premiums through the National. Policy’s in excellent condition — no loans outstanding and the premiums are paid up to date.”

“A million dollars,” said Bill dazedly. De Jong looked down at the still body in awe.

“Just what,” asked Ellery in a patient tone, “is the point?”

The tall man looked him in the eye. “I am an officer of the National,” he said dryly. “Every insurance company has occasion to question the death of some insured. We have here a case of out-and-out murder. A case of murder, moreover, in which the victim was carrying a million dollars’ worth of insurance. I presume you know the law. In effect the law says that an insurance contract is automatically cancelled upon sufficient proof that the insured met his death through the instrumentality of his beneficiary.”

For a moment there was silence; and then Mrs. Gimball said with a gasp, “But, Ducky—”

“Ducky!” cried Andrea. “Are you mad?”

Finch smiled. “My duty, of course, is first to the company. The merest routine would dictate that we thoroughly investigate this murder. The amount at stake is considerable. If Gimball was murdered by his beneficiary proof of that would mean that the National and the seven other companies are liable only for the money he invested, plus accumulated dividends and interests — over a period of only five years — especially when the cash-surrender value is taken into consideration, a negligible sum compared with the million-dollar face of the policy.”

“By God,” exclaimed De Jong, “don’t tell me an outfit like the National Life can’t stand paying out three hundred grand.”

The tall man looked shocked. “My dear man! That’s not the point at all. Under the law it is virtually impossible for any company insuring lives to be in a precarious financial position. As for the National... Preposterous! It’s a matter of principle, that’s all. If insurance companies didn’t protect themselves by such investigations, it would invite every morally unbalanced beneficiary to murder the insured.”

“And who,” asked Ellery, “is Gimball’s beneficiary?”

The same two uniformed men who had appeared hours before with their stretchers clumped in. They dropped the stretcher by the body.

Mrs. Gimball suddenly buried her stern face in her hands and began to sob. From the expressions of stupefaction on the faces of Grosvenor Finch and Andrea it was evident that the spectacle of Jessica Gimball weeping was as rare as rain in the Sahara.

“Jessica,” said Finch in a troubled voice. “Jessica! Surely you don’t think—”

“Don’t touch me, you — you Judas!” sobbed the middle-aged woman. “To accuse me of — of...”

“Mrs. Gimball is Gimball’s beneficiary?” remarked Ellery. He watched them without expression.

“Jessica, don’t, please. I’ve been an ass... Look here, Queen, of course I’m not accusing Jessica Gimball of the murder. That’s...” He could not find an adequate word to express the ridiculousness of the thought. “I meant to explain than Jessica Gimball was the beneficiary of Joe Gimball. She isn’t any more.”

The weeping woman stiffened. Andrea drew her slender figure to its full height, her blue eyes sparkling with indignation. “Hasn’t this gone far enough, Ducky? We all know that Mother was Joe’s beneficiary — it was Grandfather who suggested his taking the insurance in the first place, with his old-fashioned ideas about the ‘responsibilities’ of a husband. Not that Mother needs it! You can’t be serious.”

“But I am,” said Finch miserably. “I was in no position to tell you, Jessica, or I should have. These matters are confidential, and when I discovered that Joe had arranged for a change of beneficiary, he swore me to silence. What could I do?”

“Let’s get this straight,” said De Jong, his predatory eyes glittering. “Start from the beginning. When did he come to you?”

“He didn’t come to me. About three weeks ago — it was on May tenth — I was informed by Miss Zachary, my secretary, that a request had been received in the mail from Gimball for a change-of-beneficiary form. I was surprised that Joe hadn’t spoken to me about it, because I had always handled his policy — with a select few others — personally. However, it didn’t make any difference, because all Gimball policy matters automatically reached my desk. Of course, the requested forms were immediately sent out, and then I telephoned Joe at his office.”

“Hold it,” rasped De Jong. “Hey, you guys, get that stiff out of here, will you? What the hell you rubbernecking for?” The uniformed men stopped gaping and hastily departed with their covered burden.

“Joe,” faltered Lucy, staring at the closed door; and then she fell silent. Mrs. Gimball glared at the door with resentment, as if she could never forgive what the dead man had done. Her jeweled fingers were twitching.

The tall man said quickly, “I ’phoned him for a confirmation. I couldn’t understand why Joe should want to change his beneficiary. Of course, strictly speaking, it was none of my affair; and I told him so at once. But Joe wasn’t angry; just nervous. Yes, he said, he meant to change his beneficiary for reasons too involved to go into at the time. He did say vaguely that Jessica was independently wealthy, didn’t need the protection of the policy, or some such rot; and he asked me to keep his intention a secret, at least until he could talk to me alone and explain.”

“And did he?” murmured Ellery.

“Unfortunately, no. I hadn’t seen or talked with him since our telephone conversation three weeks ago. I’ve the feeling he was avoiding me, perhaps to escape the necessity of explaining as he had promised. When I saw the name of the new beneficiary on the application it meant nothing at all to me, of course. And I’m afraid that after the first reaction of worry over the implication of a rift between Jessica and Joe I quite forgot the whole matter.”

“What happened after your talk?” demanded De Jong.

“He filled out the forms and mailed them to me with the policies a few days later; it took a couple of weeks to handle the matter with the other companies, but the altered policies were returned to him last Wednesday; and that’s the last of it. Until tonight.” Finch frowned. “And tonight he’s dead by someone’s hand. It’s deucedly odd.”

“We seem to be arriving at the crucial point,” said Ellery patiently, “by the most circuitous route. Will you please—?”

Finch stared from face to face. “You will understand,” he said uneasily, “that what I am about to tell you is merely a statement of fact. I’ve not made up my mind, and I shouldn’t care to have my position misconstrued... The significance of this change of beneficiary didn’t strike me until I walked into this hovel tonight and discovered...” He paused. “When Gimball returned his applications and policies, he indicated in the proper places that his beneficiary was to be changed from Jessica Borden Gimball to... Mrs. Lucy Wilson. Mrs. Lucy Wilson, I repeat, giving a specific address in Fairmount Park, Philadelphia!”

“Me?” said Lucy faintly. “Me? A million dollars?”

“You’re sure of that, Mr. Finch?” De Jong leaned forward in an eager attitude. “You’re not just making that up to throw dust in my eyes?”

“I suppose,” said Finch coldly, “I shouldn’t bridle at anything. I assure you I have nothing against Mrs. Wilson, whom I’ve never even seen before tonight and who is, I feel certain, the victim of a terrible misunderstanding. On the other hand, if I am to argue the point, I should think ‘making it up’, as you put it, would be quite stupid of me. The National is an institution above personalities or the possibility of individual machination.”

“Talk United States.”

Finch stared. “Nor do I see the necessity for your insulting manner. However, to proceed, the records exist, and no one, not I nor Hathaway, President of the National, nor anyone on this earth could falsify them. Besides, you will find Joseph Kent Gimball’s application, in his verifiable handwriting, both in our photostatic files and in his own policies, wherever they may be — his office safe, or his bank vault.”

The policeman nodded impatiently; his eyes were on Lucy, pinning her to her chair with a remorseless calculation. Lucy shrank back, her fingers fumbling with a button on her dress.

“That was beastly of Joe,” cried Mrs. Gimball passionately. “This... this creature his beneficiary, his wife... I simply refuse to believe it. It’s not the money. But the callousness, the bad taste—”

“Hysterics won’t help, dear lady,” observed Ellery. He had removed his pince-nez and was scrubbing the lenses with an absent vigor. “Tell me, Mr. Finch; you haven’t breathed a word of this beneficiary change to anyone?”

“Naturally not,” growled Finch, still offended. “Joe asked me to keep quiet about it, and I did so.”

“Of course, Gimball himself wouldn’t have told anyone,” mused Ellery. “He stood apparently at some emotional crossroad; he had taken action and was making up his mind how to break the news. You know, it all tenors snugly. Bill Angell received a wire from Wilson — I suppose we should continue to differentiate between his personalities — yesterday morning, requesting him to come here last night on a matter of extreme urgency. He was in trouble, he wired. It’s obvious he meant to tell Bill the whole story, make a clean breast of his predicament, and ask his advice as to future procedure. I don’t doubt his own mind was made up, for he had changed his beneficiary to Lucy. But he was probably uneasy about how she would take the revelation that he was another man altogether. What do you think, Bill?”

“I’m past thinking,” said Bill dully. “But I imagine you’re right enough.”

“And that bulky envelope he left with you Friday? Has it occurred to you that it may contain the eight policies?”

“It has.”

“Well, it won’t take genius to determine that—”

“Mrs. Wilson,” said De Jong rudely. “Look at me.”

Lucy obeyed as if mesmerized; the bewilderment, the pain, the shock had not yet drained away from her sweet, strong features.

Bill growled: “I don’t like that tone of yours, De Jong.”

“Then lump it. Mrs. Wilson, did you know that Gimball was insured?”

“I?” she faltered. “I knew? No, really I didn’t... Joe didn’t carry any insurance. I’m sure he didn’t. I once asked him why, and he said he didn’t believe in such things.”

“Not the reason at all, of course,” drawled Ellery. “Insurance as Joe Wilson meant a medical examination, the signing of documents. And a man living constantly in the fear that his double life might be exposed would avoid signing his name whenever possible. That explains why he didn’t carry a checking account — a remote risk, but he must have been in the last stages of nervous exhaustion over the constant strain of maintaining the deception. I daresay he wrote as little as he could get by with.”

“You not only knew he carried insurance, Mrs. Wilson,” snapped De Jong, glaring at Ellery, “but maybe you persuaded him to change his beneficiary from Mrs. Gimball to yourself, hey?”

“De Jong—” warned Bill, stepping forward.

“Keep quiet, you!” The three people from New York were frozen. All at once something menacing had invaded the shabby room. De Jong’s face was very red, and the arteries in his temples bulged.

“I don’t know what you mean,” whispered Lucy. “I’ve told you I didn’t know he was anybody... I mean, anybody but Joe Wilson. How could I know about this lady?”

De Jong sneered, his nostrils derisive. Then he stepped to the side-door, opened it, crooked his finger. The small brown man who had brought Lucy to the shack came in, blinking a little in the light. “Sellers, tell me again for the benefit of these good people what you did when you drove up to Mrs. Wilson’s house in Philly last night.”

“I found the house, all right, got out of my car, and rang the bell,” replied the detective in a tired voice. “No answer. House dark. Just a private house, see? I waited on the porch a while, then I thought I’d take a look around. The back door was locked, like the front; cellar, too. I nosed around the garage. Doors shut. Iron staple across the door rusted and broken, no lock there at all. I opened the doors and switched on the light. Two-car garage, empty. Closed the doors again and went back to the porch and waited until Mrs. Wilson came—”

“That’s all, Sellers,” said De Jong; and the brown man went out. “Well, Mrs. Wilson, you didn’t drive into town to see that movie; you said yourself you took the trolley. Then where’s your car?”

“My car?” echoed Lucy feebly. “Why, that can’t be. He — he must have looked in the wrong garage. I was out driving by myself a bit yesterday afternoon and got back in the rain and put the car into the garage and closed the door myself. It was there. It is there.”

“Not if Sellers says it isn’t. Don’t know what happened to it, do you, Mrs. Wilson?”

“I just told you—”

“What make and year is it?”

“Not another word, Lu,” said Bill quietly. He strode forward until he stood chest to chest with the big policeman, and for a moment they glared into each other’s eyes. “De Jong, I don’t like the damned nasty implications in those questions of yours, d’ye understand? I forbid my sister to say another word.”

De Jong considered him in silence; then he smiled crookedly. “Now, hold your horses, Mr. Angell. You know this is just routine stuff. I’m not accusing anybody. Just trying to get at the facts.”

“Very laudable.” Bill turned abruptly to Lucy. “Come on, Lu; we’re getting out of here. Ellery, I’m sorry; but this bird’s just impossible. I’ll see you tomorrow here in Trenton — if you’re still with us.”

“I’ll be here,” said Ellery.

Bill helped Lucy into her coat and then led her like a child to the door.

“Just a moment, please,” said Andrea Gimball.

Bill stood still, the tips of his ears reddening. Lucy looked at the young girl in ermine as if she were seeing her for the first time, with a dazed curiosity. Andrea went to her and took her large soft hand. “I want you to know,” she said steadily, avoiding Bill’s eyes, “that I’m frightfully sorry about... everything. We’re not monsters, really we’re not. Please forgive us, my dear, if we’ve — we’ve said anything to hurt you. You’re a very brave and unfortunate woman.”

“Oh, thank you,” murmured Lucy. Her eyes filled with tears and she turned and ran out.

“Andrea!” said Mrs. Gimball in a shocked, furious voice. “How dare you — how can you—”

“Miss Gimball,” said Bill in a low voice. She looked at him then, and for a time he did not speak. “I won’t forget this.” He turned on his heel and followed Lucy. The door banged, and a moment later they heard Bill’s Pontiac puffing off in the direction of Camden. There was a defiant snort to the exhaust, and De Jong was white with rage. He lit a cigar with a trembling hand.

“Ave atque vale,” said Ellery. “You dislike him, De Jong, but he’s a very estimable young man. Like all male animals, dangerous when his females are threatened... In the name of friendship, Miss Gimball, may I thank you? And now, may I inspect your hands?”

She raised her eyes slowly to his face. “My hands?” she whispered.

De Jong muttered something under his breath and stamped away.

“Under less painful circumstances,” said Ellery as he raised her hands, “this would be a pleasure of considerable proportions. If I possess an Achillean heel, Miss Gimball, it’s paradoxically my weakness for the well-kept hands of a woman. Yours, it’s needless to remark, are of the essence of manual perfection... Did I understand you to say that you are engaged to be married?”

Under his fingers he felt her palms go moist; there was the merest suggestion of a tremble in the soft flesh he was holding. “Yes. Yes.”

“Of course,” murmured Ellery, “it’s none of my business. But is it the latest mode for the wealthy young bride-to-be to eschew the symbol of plighted troth? Syrus said that God looks at pure, not full, hands; but I didn’t know our upper classes had taken up the classics.” She said nothing; her face was so pale he thought she was going to faint. Mercifully, Ellery turned to her mother. “By the way, Mrs. Gimball, I’m a hound for verifications. I noticed that your — er — husband’s hands, since we’re on the subject, showed no nicotine stains, nor were his teeth discolored. And there are no tobacco shreds in the crevices of his pockets, and no ashtrays here. It’s true, then, that he didn’t smoke?”

De Jong came back. “What’s this about smoking?” he growled.

The society woman snapped: “No, Joseph didn’t smoke. Of all the idiotic questions!” She rose and offered a limp arm to the tall man. “May we go now? All this...”

“Sure,” grunted De Jong. “I’d like you people to come back in the morning, though. Certain formalities. And I’ve just heard that the prosecutor — that’s Pollinger — wants to talk to you.”

“We’ll be back,” said Andrea in a low voice. And she shivered again, drawing her wrap more closely about her. There were pale smudges under her eyes. She glanced surreptitiously at Ellery, and quickly away.

“There’s no chance,” insisted Finch, “of suppressing the story of this... I mean, this prior marriage? It’s so terribly awkward, you know, for these people.”

De Jong shrugged; his mind seemed on other things. The three stood forlornly at the front door; Mrs. Gimball’s sharp chin was forward, although her thin shoulders sagged like weighted panniers. Then, in a rather oppressive silence, they left. Neither man spoke until the thunder of their motor died away. “Well,” said De Jong at last, “that’s that. One hell of a mess.”

“Messes,” remarked Ellery, reaching for his hat, “are what you make ’em, De Jong. This is a fascinating one, at any rate. It would delight the heart of Father Brown himself.”

“Who?” said De Jong absently. “You’re going back to New York, eh?” He made no effort to conceal his ponderous wistfulness.

“No. There are elements in this puzzle that cry for elucidation. I shouldn’t sleep if I dropped out now.”

“Oh.” De Jong turned to the table. “Well, goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight,” said Ellery pleasantly. The policeman was stowing away in a paper bag the plate on the table, with its contents. The broad back was surly and antagonistic. Ellery went out to his car whistling and drove back to the Stacy-Trent.

Mr. Ellery Queen left the hotel Sunday morning with a guilty feeling. The soft arms of his bed had betrayed him; it was after eleven.

Downtown Trenton was deserted in the young sun. He walked to the corner and turned east, crossing the street, into a narrow thoroughfare quaintly named Chancery Lane. In the middle of the block he found a long low three-story building that looked remarkably like Army barracks. Before it, on the sidewalk, there stood a tall old-fashioned lamp-post topped with lantern-glass; and on the post a square white sign announced in block letters, POLICE HQRS — NO PARKING.

He turned into the nearest doorway and found himself in a narrow dingy reception room with streaky walls, a long desk, and a low ceiling; a room beyond was crowded with green steel lockers. There was a prevailing brown decrepitude and an odor of rancid masculinity in the air that depressed him. The desk sergeant directed him to Room 26, where he found De Jong in earnest conversation with a short skinny man with pale features pinched by cleverness and dyspepsia; and Bill Angell in a chair, red-eyed and disheveled, looking as if he had neither slept nor taken his clothes off all night.

“Oh, hello,” said De Jong without enthusiasm. “Queen, meet Paul Pollinger, prosecutor of Mercer County. Where’ve you been?”

“Drinking weary childhood’s mandragora.” Ellery shook hands with the skinny man. “Anything new this morning?”

“You’ve missed the Gimball crowd. They’ve come and gone.”

“So soon? Hi, there, Bill.”

“Hello,” said Bill. He was staring at the prosecutor.

Pollinger lit a cigar. “As a matter of fact, this man Finch wants to see you at his office tomorrow morning.” He surveyed Ellery over the cocked match.

“Really?” Ellery shrugged. “Have you had the autopsy report yet, De Jong? I’m perishing of curiosity.”

“Doc told me to tell you he didn’t find any burns.”

“Burns?” frowned Pollinger. “Why burns, Mr. Queen?”

Ellery smiled. “Why not? Just one of my usual aberrations. That’s all your medico reported, De Jong?”

“Oh, nuts! What’s the diff? He did say something about the knife having been stuck into Gimball by a right-handed blow, but that’s the regular baloney.”

“And how about the envelope Wilson... Gimball — damn the fellow! — left with Bill Angell here?”

The prosecutor flipped a sheaf of documents on De Jong’s desk over with his forefinger. “You guessed it. They’re the eight policies. Revised to make Lucy Wilson the beneficiary. I imagine Gimball meant to leave them in Angell’s keeping for the further protection of Mrs. Wilson. There’s no question in my mind about his intention to tell Angell all about his other personality.”

“Maybe,” grinned De Jong, “the beneficiary change was part of a deal. He knew his wife’s brother would be hopping mad, and he figured if he threw a million bucks at ’em it would sort of smooth things over.”

Bill said nothing, but he transferred his attention from Pollinger to the chief of police. The hand on his knee was trembling.

“I think not,” observed Ellery. “No man deliberately submits himself to a life of mental torture for eight years without overwhelming emotional cause. What you say, De Jong, might be true if Gimball considered Lucy Angell a mere plaything. But he married her ten years ago, and for at least the last eight years he resisted the natural temptation to solve his problem by quietly divorcing her, or simply disappearing, when by staying he was making life a complex hell for himself.”

“He loved her,” said Bill harshly.

“Oh, unquestionably.” Ellery fished for his brier and began to stuff the bowl with tobacco. “He loved her so much that he endured a veritable Proustian life to keep her. The man wasn’t a callous libertine; his face and history show that. The worst you can say about him is that he was weak. And then compare Lucy Wilson with Jessica Gimball. You haven’t seen Lucy, Pollinger; but De Jong has, and even that ophidian pulse of his must have quickened. She’s a remarkably attractive young woman; while Jessica Gimball... Well, it’s considered unkind to refer to a lady’s wrinkles.”

“All that may be true, Queen,” said Pollinger. “But if it is, why the devil did he commit bigamy with this society woman?”

“Ambition, perhaps. The Bordens are multi-millionaires. And while Gimball came of blooded stock, I seem to recall that of late years they’ve been comparatively impoverished. And then old Jasper Borden has no sons. A weak but ambitious man might not be able to resist the temptation — possibly the pressure laid on by a mother of the type he had. Old lady Gimball was a virago; she used to be called by the boudoir gossips the Old Battle-Axe of the Republic. I shouldn’t be surprised if, unaware of the mess he was in, she pushed him into the bigamous marriage.”

The two Trenton men glanced at each other. “Probably true,” remarked the prosecutor. “I talked with Mrs. Gimball this morning and from all indications it was one of those marriages of convenience — at least on Gimball’s side.”

Bill Angell stirred. “I don’t see what all this has to do with me. May I go now?”

“Wait a minute, mister,” said De Jong. “How about Wilson? I mean, as Wilson did he make a will?”

“I’m sure he didn’t. If he had, he would have come to me.”

“Everything’s in your sister’s name?”

“Yes. Both cars, the house — he owned that free and clear.”

“And the million.” De Jong sat down in his swivel-chair. “And the million. Nice wad for a good-looking young widow.”

“One of these days, De Jong,” smiled Bill, “I’m going to ram that damned hyena grin of yours down your filthy throat.”

“Why, you—”

“Now, now,” said Pollinger hastily. “There’s no need for this sort of thing. You’ve brought your sister’s marriage certificate, Mr. Angell?”

Glaring at the policeman, Bill threw a document on the desk. “Hmm,” said Pollinger. “We’ve already checked with the Philadelphia records. No question about it. He married Lucy Angell two years before his marriage with this Borden woman. It’s a mess.”

Bill snatched back the certificate. “Damned right it’s a mess — with my sister on the receiving end of the swill!”

“Nobody is—”

“Furthermore, we want custody of that body. He was Lucy’s husband and it’s our legal right to bury him. There’s going to be no argument about that. I’m getting a court order tomorrow. There’s not a judge in this State who wouldn’t award the burial right to Lucy on this evidence of marriage priority!”

“Oh, now, look here, Angell,” said Pollinger uneasily. “After all, isn’t that rubbing it in? These New York people are rather powerful; and he was Joseph Kent Gimball, you know. It wouldn’t be right—”

“Right?” said Bill grimly. “Who’s thinking of my sister’s rights? Do you think you can wipe out ten years of a woman’s life with one smear? Do you think I’m afraid of that crowd just because they’ve got position and money? I’ll see ’em in hell first!” And he stamped out, his mouth working. The three men remained silent until the clatter of his footsteps on the stairs ceased.

“I told you,” remarked Ellery, “that Bill Angell was a man of parts. And don’t underestimate his ability as a lawyer, either.”

“Now what do you mean by that?” snapped the prosecutor.

Ellery picked up his hat. “To garble Cicero a little — prudence is the knowledge of things to be shunned as well as those to be sought. Beware the Ides of March, and all that sort of thing. ’Voir.”

It was nine-thirty on Monday morning when Ellery, in natty olive gabardine and Panama, presented himself at the executive offices of the National Life Insurance Company in its handsome house on lower Madison Avenue in New York. He had spent a cloistered Sunday at home, mulling over the case between the alimentary ministrations of Djuna and the rather cynical comments of his father the Inspector; and despite the vernal gaiety of his costume he was far from cheerful.

A brisk young woman with a toothpaste smile, in the anteroom to the office lettered Office of the Executive Vice-President, raised her brows at his card. “Mr. Finch wasn’t expecting you so early, Mr. Queen. He isn’t down yet. Wasn’t your appointment for ten?”

“If it was, I wasn’t informed. I’ll wait. Any notion what your precious Mr. Finch wants to see me about?”

“Ordinarily,” she smiled, “I should say no. But since you’re a detective, I suppose there’s no point in dissembling. Mr. Finch telephoned me at home yesterday afternoon and told me all about it. It’s about this frightful business in Trenton, and I believe Mrs. Gimball is to be here, too. Won’t you wait in Mr. Finch’s private office?”

Ellery followed her into a palatial blue-and-ivory room that looked like a motion-picture set. “I seem to be moving in golden circles these days,” he observed. “That’s metaphoric, not literal, Miss Zachary — isn’t that the name?”

“However did you know? Have a seat, Mr. Queen.” She hurried to the oversized desk and brought back a box. “Cigaret?”

“No, thanks.” Ellery sank into a blue leather chair. “I believe I’ll smoke my pipe.”

“Would you like to try some of Mr. Finch’s tobacco?”

“That’s one invitation no confirmed pipe-smoker turns down.” The young woman brought him a large jar from the desk, and he filled his pipe. “Mmm. Not bad. Very good, in fact. What is it?”

“Oh, dear, I don’t know; I’m stupid about these things. It’s a special blend, foreign or something, sold by Pierre of Fifth Avenue. Would you care to have me send you some?”

“Oh, now, really—”

“Mr. Finch won’t mind. I’ve done it before. Oh, good-morning, Mr. Finch.” The young woman smiled again and went out.

“Bright and early, I see,” said Finch as they shook hands. “Well, well, this business becomes more sickening by the hour. Have you seen the morning papers?”

Ellery grimaced. “The usual orgy.”

“Frightful.” The tall man put away his hat and stick, sat down, fiddled with his mail, lit a cigaret. Suddenly he looked up. “See here, Queen, there’s no point in beating around the bush. I talked to Hathaway and some of the directors early yesterday. We’ve agreed that, from the company’s standpoint, action must be taken.”

“Action?” Ellery raised his brows politely.

“You must admit that on the surface the thing looks suspicious. We’re making no accusations, but... Excuse me. That must be Jessica.” Miss Zachary opened the door to admit Mrs. Gimball, Andrea, and two men.

In thirty-six hours Andrea’s mother had become an old woman, Ellery saw at once. She leaned heavily on her daughter’s arm, and the eyes she raised in greeting were lifeless. In the clear light cleaving Finch’s windows Ellery read the strangulation of a narrow, proud, and inhibited spirit. She could barely walk, and in silence Finch led her to a chair.

When he straightened, his face was troubled. “Mr. Queen, meet Senator Frueh, the Borden attorney.” Ellery shook the flaccid hand of a florid, paunchy little man whose shrewd eyes appraised him coldly from a face chiefly remarkable for its beard. Frueh was well-known to him by reputation: an ex-Senator of the Federal Congress, his private practice was arrogantly gilt-edged, and his bearded face was constantly being displayed in the news columns. It was an Olympian brush of the bifurcated variety, reddish in color, and reaching to his chest. He seemed proud of it; his fat hand played with it incessantly. “And this is Burke Jones, Miss Gimball’s fiancé. I didn’t expect to see you today, Burke.”

“I thought I might be of service,” said Jones in what Ellery thought was a peculiar diffidence. He was a large young man with calfish empty eyes, a skin burned walnut by the sun, and a slouch. His right arm was trussed in a sling. “Hullo. So you’re Queen, eh? I’ve been reading your books for years.” He said it as if Ellery were one of the better-known monstrosities of a freak show.

“I hope the disillusionment won’t make you stop the practice,” chuckled Ellery. “As a matter of fact, I’m not unfamiliar with your own exploits. Nasty spill you took at Meadowbrook two weeks ago. Papers were full of it.”

Jones grimaced. “Lousy pony. Bad blood somewhere. Blood tells in polo ponies as well as human beings. First time I’ve ever broken anything at the game. Lucky it wasn’t a leg.”

“Shall we sit down?” said Finch fretfully. “Miss Zachary, we are not to be disturbed. I was telling Mr. Queen,” he continued when they were seated, “what we had decided.”

“I don’t quite know why I’m honored with all this attention,” remarked Ellery. “It’s a little overwhelming. My blood isn’t bad, Mr. Jones, but it’s of the common variety, and I can’t help wondering if I’m a little out of my class this morning.”

Andrea Gimball stirred. Out of the corner of his eye Ellery noticed that, under the skilful make-up, she was an extraordinarily worried young woman. She had not once glanced at young Jones since their entrance into the office; and as for Jones, there was a pettish line between his thick brows that was curiously unlover-like. They sat stiffly side by side like children angry at each other.

“Before you proceed, Finch,” announced Senator Frueh in a gruff voice, “I want Queen to understand I’m not in favor of this.”

“Of what?” smiled Ellery.

“Of this deliberate confusion of motives,” snapped the bearded lawyer. “Finch has an axe to grind for his blasted company; and we’ve another entirely different. I agreed, Finch, as I told you last night, only because Jessica and you insisted. If Jessica took my advice — and Andrea’s — which she won’t, she’d keep strictly out of this stinking tangle.”

“No,” said Mrs. Gimball in a low voice. “That woman robbed me of everything — my good name, Joe’s love. I’ll fight. I’ve always permitted everyone to step over me — father, Joe, even Andrea. This time I’m going to defend myself.”

Ellery thought that the woman was stretching the probabilities a little. He could not visualize her as she painted herself. “But there’s very little you can do, Mrs. Gimball,” he said. “There’s no doubt whatever concerning Lucy’s — I mean Mrs. Wilson’s legal status. She was his lawful wife. The fact that she was his wife under an assumed name doesn’t alter the case at all.”

“I’ve been telling mother that,” murmured Andrea. “It can’t lead to anything but more notoriety. Mother, won’t you please—?”

Jessica Gimball’s lips compressed. Some strange quality in the undertones of her voice made them silent. “That woman,” she said, “killed Joe.”

“Oh, I see,” said Ellery gravely. “I see. And on what basis do you make this accusation, Mrs. Gimball?”

“I know it. I feel it.”

“I’m afraid,” he replied in dry tones, “that our courts won’t take cognizance of such evidence.”

“Please, Jessica,” said Grosvenor Finch with a frown. “Look here, Queen. Mrs. Gimball is naturally not herself. Of course hers is no reason at all. But I speak now for the company. The point is that the National Life as such has no personal motive against this woman which might strike anyone as persecutive. It’s interested only in determining the facts.”

“And since I am also,” drawled Ellery, “presumably an objective agent aiming at the same goal, you want my puny assistance?”

“Please. Let me finish. Let me state Hathaway’s position; he would have been here to talk to you himself, except that he’s ill. Mrs. Wilson became the beneficiary of one of our policy-holders a matter of mere days before his death by violence. True, he created her his beneficiary himself, but there is no proof that she did not beguile or coerce him into making the change.”

“Nor proof that she did.”

“Very true, very true. Nevertheless, the contingency from our standpoint exists. Now, this contract calls for payment of one million dollars to the new beneficiary. There are peculiar contributory circumstances. The new beneficiary was the secret wife of the insured — at least secret from point of view of his real identity. If she suddenly discovered his perfidy, even granting a genuine love for him prior to that discovery, she would be inhuman if her love did not turn to hate. Add the fact that she was his beneficiary to the tune of a million — that’s omitting completely the possibility that her hatred led her to wheedle him into altering his beneficiary — we have a dual motive for murder. Surely you see our position?”

Senator Frueh stirred restlessly in his chair as he fingered his beard. Ellery said apologetically, “I could make out almost as strong a theory — forgive me — to implicate Mrs. Gimball. Discovering that her husband was married to another woman, that indeed she had never been his legal wife, that moreover he had heaped the last indignity upon her of making this other woman his beneficiary... Voilà.”

“But the point is that Mrs. Wilson is the beneficiary and the million does go to her. As I say, in the face of these circumstances, the National would be remiss in its duty to its policyholders if it did not hold up payment of the policy pending an investigation.”

“Why come to me? Surely you have your own corps of trained investigators?”

“Oh, of course.” Finch paused delicately. “But there the personal element enters. I feel that an outside agent, specially employed for the purpose, could be depended upon to exercise more — er — discretion. And then you were on the scene from the beginning...”

Ellery drummed lightly on the arm of his chair. Their eyes watched him. “You know,” he said at last, “this is an odd position for me. This woman whom you propose to pillory is the sister of an old chum. I really should be in the other camp. The only element of your request that appeals to me is that you’re interested not in a preconceived result but in simply fixing the truth. You could depend upon my discretion, Finch, but not my silence.”

“What d’ye mean by that?” demanded Senator Frueh.

“Well, it logically follows, doesn’t it? In my pitiful way I try to live up to my Messianic complex. If I should discover the truth, I can’t guarantee that it will be a respecter of persons, you see.”

Finch rummaged in the papers before him, extracted one, uncapped his fountain-pen, and began to write. “All the National wants,” he said quietly, “is reasonable proof that Lucy Wilson did or did not murder or cause to be murdered her husband.” He blotted what he had written, rose, circled his desk. “Will this do as a retainer, Mr. Queen?”

Ellery blinked. The piece of paper was a cheque, and above Finch’s signature in its distinctive green ink there was stamped the sum of five thousand dollars. “Very handsome,” he murmured. “But suppose we defer the question of remuneration until I’ve had a chance to look around a bit. I haven’t quite decided, you see.”

Finch’s face fell. “As you wish, of course.”

“A question or two, please. Mrs. Gimball, have you any idea what the present condition of your — of Gimball’s estate is?”

“Estate?” she repeated blankly, almost as if she were annoyed.

“Joe was a poor business man,” said Andrea bitterly. “He had nothing in his own name. Poor in that as in everything else.”

“If it’s his will you’re after,” grunted the lawyer, “I can tell you that he leaves everything to Jessica Borden Gimball. But since he’s left virtually nothing but debts and his insurance, under the circumstances that’s a rather cynical bequest.”

Ellery nodded. “By the way, Senator, I suppose you knew nothing of Gimball’s decision to change his beneficiary?”

“Nothing whatever. The idiot!”

“You, Mr. Jones?”

“I?” The young man raised his brows. “How would I know? We weren’t on what you’d call intimate terms.”

“Ah, your prospective father-in-law didn’t care for you, Mr. Jones, or was it merely lack of common interest?”

“Please,” said Andrea wearily. “What good does this sort of thing do, Mr. Queen? Joe hadn’t anything to say about it, anyway.”

“I see.” Ellery rose. “You understand, Finch, that if I accept your assignment there are to be no strings whatever on my activity?”

“I took that for granted.”

Ellery picked up his stick. “I’ll let you know my decision in a day or so, when more facts leak out of Trenton. Good-morning.”

It was growing dark Monday evening when Ellery rang the Borden-Gimball bell on the eleventh floor of a rather staggering Park Avenue pile. A fish-faced man in tails admitted him to the living-room of a duplex apartment in the grand manner. As he lounged about waiting to be announced, inspecting the canvases and the authentic period furniture, he wondered idly out of whose pocket the cost of all this magnificence had come. The apartment itself must lease for between twenty and thirty thousand a year, he judged; and the appointments must have run into six figures, if the room he was in was a criterion. It smacked more of old Jasper Borden than the slight, poetic gentleman he had left on a slab in the Trenton morgue the day before.

The fish-faced man conducted him noiselessly to a suite mysterious with dim lights and velvet hangings, in the midst of which sat a gigantic old man on a wheelchair, enthroned like a dying king. A nurse with forbidding eyes stood guard behind him. There was a brocade dressing-gown over his wing-collar and ascot tie, and a heavy ring with a curious seal on the finger of his gnarled right hand. For an octogenarian he was remarkably well-preserved, Ellery thought, until he noticed the peculiar rigidity of the old man’s left side. The muscles on the left side of his face did not move, and even his left eye stared unwinkingly ahead as the right swam about. It was as if he were composed of two bodies, one alive and one dead.

“How do you do, Mr. Queen,” he said in a rusty bass voice out of the side of his mouth. “Please excuse me for not rising. And let me thank you for your kind and courteous message Saturday night. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

There was a mustiness in the dark air that was almost necropolitan. Ellery saw that this man was already in his tomb. The cobalt orbits in which his eyes lay were huge and dead. But, studying that grim chin and rhamphoid nose, imbedded in a face the color of unwatered earth, it came to Ellery that old Jasper Borden was still a force to reckon with. The one fierce moving eye made him as uncomfortable as if it had been a potential convulsion of nature. “Good of you to see me, Mr. Borden,” he said quickly. “I shan’t waste time in amenities that can only be painful to you. You know the nature of my interest in the death of your son-in-law?”

“I have heard of you, sir.”

“But Mrs. Gimball—?”

“My daughter has told me everything.”

Ellery paused. “Mr. Borden,” he said at last, “truth is a curious thing. It will not be denied, but one can hasten its inevitability. Since you’ve heard of me, it’s unnecessary for me to assure you that my concern with such tragedies as this is completely detached. Will you answer my questions?”

The sunken moving eye steadied. “You realize, Mr. Queen, what this means to me — to my name, my family?”

“Quite.”

The old man was silent. Then he said, “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know when you first learned that your son-in-law was leading a double life.”

“Saturday night.”

“You had never heard of Joseph Wilson — the man or the name?” The ponderous head shook once, slowly. “Now, I believe you were responsible for your son-in-law’s taking out the million-dollar policy?”

“I was.”

Ellery cleaned the lenses of his pince-nez. “Mr. Borden, did you have any special reason for doing so?”

He fancied that a faint smile lifted the grim blue lips at the right side. “Of a criminal nature, no. My motive was purely one of principle. My daughter did not need her husband’s financial protection. But,” the rusty voice hardened, “in these modern days, when every man is godless and every woman a shameless gadabout, it is good that someone enforce the old-fashioned virtues. I’m a man of the past, Mr. Queen, an anachronism. I still believe in God and the home.”

“And very properly, too,” Ellery hastened to reply. “By the way, of course you did not know that your son-in-law—”

“He was not,” rumbled the octogenarian, “anything of the sort.”

“That Gimball, then—”

Borden said quietly, “He was a dog. A carnal beast. A shame and a degradation to everything people of quality stand for.”

“I understand your feeling thoroughly, Mr. Borden. I meant to ask if you had known of the change he made in his beneficiary?”

“Had I known,” growled the old man, “feeble and chained to this foul chair as I am, I should have throttled him!”

“Mr. — would it be too personal to ask, sir, precisely under what circumstances Gimball courted and married your daughter?” Ellery coughed. “You must understand I use the conventional terms for lack of a more precise phraseology.”

For an instant the fierce eye flashed, then the lid drooped. “These are strange days, Mr. Queen. I never liked Joseph Gimball. It always seemed to me that he was a weakling, a shell of a man, too handsome and irresponsible for his own good. But my daughter fell madly in love with him, and I could not deny my only child her chance for happiness. My daughter, you know,” the bass voice paused, “was unfortunate in her first marriage. Married young, she suffered the tragedy of seeing her first husband, a very worthy young man of unimpeachable family and position, die of lobar pneumonia. When, years later, Gimball came along, Jessica was already forty.” The great right shoulder twitched. “You know how women are.”

“And Gimball’s financial condition at this time?”

“A pauper,” Borden grunted. “His mother was a cunning she-devil, and I’m sure her ambition drove him to the decision to risk bigamy. Joseph Gimball didn’t have the gumption to resist a louse, let alone a creature like his mother. Jessica had a substantial fortune in her own right — a combination of her first husband’s estate and a legacy from my dear wife — and of course I could not permit her to marry without... He had nothing. I took him into my own business. I thought it might work. I gave him every chance.” The voice died off in a dangerous mutter. “The dog, the ungrateful dog. He could have been my son...” The nurse signaled imperiously.

“He managed your affairs, Mr. Borden?”

“That part of them to which he could do the least damage. I have considerable holdings. I presented him with several directorships in corporations I control. In the crash of ’29 and ’30 he lost everything I’d given him. On Black Friday he must have been off in that den of his in Philadelphia, carousing with that woman!”

“And you, Mr. Borden?” asked Ellery with bland respect.

“I was still active then, Mr. Queen,” replied the old man grimly. “They didn’t catch Jasper Borden napping. Now—” the shoulder twitched again — “now I’m nothing, a living corpse. They don’t even let me smoke my cigars any more. They feed me with a spoon like a cursed—”

The nurse was furious; her thumb was stabbing toward the door.

“One thing more,” said Ellery hastily. “Have you always had conscientious objections to divorce, sir?”

For an instant Ellery feared the old millionaire might suffer another stroke. His good eye roved in terrifying circles and his face became suffused with dark blood. “Divorce!” he shouted. “Sinful contrivance of the Devil! No child of mine—” Then he fell silent, muttering. After a while he said in almost a mild voice, “My creed forbids divorce, Mr. Queen. Why do you ask?”

But Ellery murmured: “Thank you, Mr. Borden, you’ve been very kind. Yes, yes, Nurse, I’m going,” and backed to the door.

Someone said behind him, “Mr. Queen,” in a dull voice, and he turned to find Jessica Gimball in ghastly black behind him. The tall figure of Finch loomed nearby.

The dark air was stifling. Ellery said, “Sorry,” and stepped aside. She drifted past him, already unconscious of his presence. Finch sighed as he followed her.

As he walked off he could not help overhearing old Jasper Borden growl pettishly, “Jessica. Get that dying look off your face! Do you hear?” and the middle-aged woman’s submissive, “Yes, Father.”

He went down the stairs furiously thoughtful. Much of the background was clear now that had been obscure. And not the least illuminating fact was that Jasper Borden, dying hulk that he was, still ruled his household with an unweakened scepter.

The fish-faced man downstairs looked annoyed, insofar as it was possible for him to express any emotion whatever, when Ellery politely asked to be announced to Miss Andrea Gimball instead of leaving the sacred domain. When Andrea appeared from an inner chamber he stood to one side, stiffly, as if it were his duty to protect her from invasion. At her heels shambled Burke Jones in a dinner jacket, his arm rather sumptuously trussed in a black silk sash.

“Ah, there, Queen,” said Jones. “Sleuthing, eh? By George, I envy you chaps. Lead a dashed exciting life. Any luck?”

“None visible,” smiled Ellery. “Good evening, Miss Gimball. That man’s here again.”

“Good evening,” said Andrea. She had gone strangely pale at sight of him. Her black low-cut evening gown with its daring lines might have caused another young man to stare with admiration, but Ellery was what he was, and he chose to study her eyes instead. They were wide with fear. “You — you wanted to speak to me?”

“On my way up,” remarked Ellery casually, “I noticed a cream-colored car parked at the curb. Sixteen-cylinder Cadillac...”

“Oh,” said Jones, “that must be my car.”

Ellery caught the instant wave of sheer horror that swept across Andrea’s face. She cried involuntarily, “Burke!” and then bit her lip and groped for the back of a chair.

“What the devil’s up, Andy?” demanded Jones, his brows drawing together.

“Yours, Jones?” murmured Ellery. “Strange. Bill Angell saw a cream-colored sixteen-cylinder Cadillac roadster leave the driveway in front of the hideaway in which Joseph Gimball was murdered on the very night of the crime. Very strange indeed. Nearly ran Bill down.”

Jones’s walnut skin went gray. “My — car?” he said at last, moistening his lips. His empty eyes went to Andrea and jerked back. “I say, Queen, that’s not possible. I attended that charity jamboree at the Waldorf Saturday night with the Gimball party, and my car was parked on the Avenue all evening. Must be another car.”

“Oh, no doubt. And, of course, Miss Gimball can vouch for that.”

The girl’s lips barely moved. “Yes.”

“Oh,” said Ellery, “you do vouch for it, Miss Gimball?”

Her hands fluttered a little. “Yes,” she whispered. Jones was trying not to look at her. He seemed drawn in upon himself, his big shoulders a little hunched, as if he faced a struggle but did not quite know what course of action to take.

“In that case,” said Ellery gravely, “you leave me no choice, Miss Gimball, but to ask to see your engagement ring.”

Jones stiffened. His eyes darted from Ellery to Andrea’s left hand, and remained fixed there with horror. “Engagement ring?” he muttered. “What earthly reason could—”

“I imagine,” said Ellery, “Miss Gimball can answer that.”

From somewhere above came the sound of voices. Jones took a short step toward Andrea. “Well?” he said harshly. “Why don’t you show it to him?”

Her eyes closed. “Burke...”

“I said,” his voice became thick, “why don’t you show it to him? Andrea, where is it? Why is he asking? You never told me—”

A door banged on the balcony above; Mrs. Gimball and Grosvenor Finch appeared. “Andrea!” cried Mrs. Gimball. “What’s the matter?”

Andrea’s hands went to her face; the fourth finger of the left was still bare. And she began to sob.

Mrs. Gimball swooped down the stairs. “Stop that silly crying!” she said sharply. “Mr. Queen, I insist on an explanation.”

“I merely asked,” said Ellery patiently, “your daughter to show me her engagement ring, Mrs. Gimball.”

“Andrea,” rasped Jones, “if you’ve got me into a mess...”

“Andrea,” said Mrs. Gimball. “What—?” Her face was livid and old. Finch ran down the stairs; he was obviously distressed.

“Oh,” sobbed Andrea, “is everyone against me? Can’t you see I–I—?”

Mrs. Gimball said coldly, “If my daughter won’t answer your silly questions, Mr. Queen, she won’t. I don’t understand your motive, but I see now that you’re protecting that precious sister of that nauseating young man from Philadelphia. You’re not working with us. You know she murdered him!”

Ellery sighed and went to the door. “Oh, yes,” he said, disappointing the piscatorial flunky beside him. “Finch.”

“This is childish,” said Finch hastily. “Why not talk this over—”

“Words are women, deeds are men. I believe I shall revert to my natural masculinity.”

“I don’t—”

“Well, under the circumstances,” said Ellèry in a regretful tone, “it’s manifestly impossible for me to go to work on this case under the ægis of the National Life Insurance Company. No co-operation, you understand. Such a perfectly simple question! So I must refuse the assignment.”

“If the fee—” began the tall man helplessly.

“A fig for the fee.”

“Ellery,” said a low voice. Ellery turned. Bill Angell was standing in the doorway. The fish-faced man looked almost angry. Then he almost shrugged. Finally, with his nose in the air, he stepped aside and Bill came in.

“Well, Bill,” said Ellery slowly, his eyes narrowing. “So you’ve come at last. I thought you would.”

Bill looked unhappy, but his handsome chin was hard. “I’m sorry, El. I’ll explain some other time. Meanwhile,” he said, raising his voice and staring calmly about, “I should like to speak to Miss Gimball — alone.”

Andrea was on her feet, her hand on her throat. “Oh, you shouldn’t have come.”

“Andrea—” began Mrs. Gimball shrilly.

Jones said in a curt voice: “I’ve stood for about as much mystery as I intend to. Andrea, you’ve played me off long enough. I want an immediate explanation or, damn it all, it’s all off between us! Who is this fellow? Where’s your ring? What the devil did you do with my car Saturday night? If you’re mixed up in this murder...” For a moment Andrea’s eyes glittered. Then they fell, and a little color came into her cheeks.

Bill said blankly, “Your car?”

“Now you see,” murmured Ellery, “why candor is the better part of romance, Bill. I could have told you last night that Andrea Gimball doesn’t own or drive a cream-colored Cadillac roadster. Most elementary; a mere judicious inquiry in the right place. May I suggest the door be closed and that we all sit down and discuss this like sensible people?”

Finch muttered something to the flunky, who looked grieved, shut the door, and vanished. Mrs. Gimball sat down angrily, with pursed lips, as if she wanted to say something nasty but did not quite know what. Jones glowered at Andrea, and Andrea kept looking at the floor. She was no longer pale. As for Bill, he suddenly became conscious of his feet. He shuffled them about and looked miserable. “Just what,” asked Ellery quietly, “were you intending to discuss with Miss Gimball, Bill?”

Bill shook his head. “That’s up to Miss Gimball. I have nothing to say.” Andrea gave him a shy, queerly pained little glance.

“It seems to me,” observed Ellery after a moment of strained silence, “that I shall have to do the talking, after all. I should have preferred listening. You’ve both acted very oddly — you, Miss Gimball, and you, Bill. Childishly, when it comes to that.” Bill flushed. “Shall I tell you what happened? On Saturday night, while I was examining the rug in the shack, your eye happened to catch sight of something imbedded in the nap which glittered. You put your foot over it. When you thought no one was looking, you pretended to tie your shoelace and picked it up. I was watching, and I saw it. It was a large cut diamond of at least six carats.”

Bill stirred, and Andrea uttered a little gasp. Jones’s skin was gray again, his cheekbones tight with wrath. “I thought—” began Bill in a mutter.

“You thought you were unobserved. But, you see, Bill,” said Ellery gently, “it’s part of my training to see everything, and part of my creed not to permit friendship to stand in the way of the truth. You didn’t know whose diamond it was, but you were afraid to say anything about it to De Jong because you thought it might in some mysterious way involve Lucy. Then Miss Gimball came, and you saw a ring on her finger with the stone gone. It couldn’t have been coincidence. You realized she must have been in that shack. But, you see, Bill, I noticed it, too.”

Bill laughed a little glumly. “I’m a prize fool, of course. My abject apologies, Ellery.” His shoulders lifted in a secret sign to Andrea, as if to indicate his helplessness. Through her tension and pain she managed a ghost of a smile. Jones saw it, and his thin lips tightened.

“You drew her aside into a shadow,” continued Ellery as if nothing had happened, “and, since there was a convenient shadow adjacent, I exercised the prerogative of outraged friendship and eavesdropped. Shall I go on?”

Andrea made a little sound. Then she suddenly looked up; her eyes were clear. “No need for that any more, Mr. Queen,” she said steadily. “I see how futile it was. I’m not very good at — well, at that sort of thing, I suppose. Thank you, Bill Angell; you’ve been swell.” He flushed again and looked uncomfortable.

“You borrowed my car during the afternoon Saturday,” muttered Burke Jones. “Damn it, Andrea, you’ve got to clear me of that.”

Her eyes were scornful. “Don’t worry, Burke, I shall. Mr. Queen, on Saturday afternoon I received a telegram from — from Joe.”

“Andrea,” said Mrs. Gimball feebly.

“Don’t you think, Andrea,” began Finch in a low voice, “that it’s unwise to—”

Her lids veiled her eyes. “I’ve nothing to conceal, Ducky. I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re all thinking.” She paused. “The telegram asked me to meet him in that shack on an urgent matter. It gave me instructions for getting there. It set the time for nine.”

“I’ll bet it was a duplicate of mine,” muttered Bill.

“I borrowed Burke’s car — we were out during the afternoon and he couldn’t use it. I didn’t tell Burke where I was going.”

“Why don’t you tell them you drove?” growled Jones. “I couldn’t drive with this broken wing.”

“Please, Burke,” she said quietly. “I think Mr. Queen understands that. I got out there early. There was no one there, so I went for a spin, going off toward Camden. When I got back—”

“What time,” asked Ellery, “did you reach there the first time?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Eight, perhaps. When—”

“And what time did you reach there the second time?”

She hesitated. “Oh, I don’t remember. It was almost dark. I went inside — there was a light on — and...”

Ellery stirred. “Forgive me for interrupting, Miss Gimball. When you arrived at the shack the second time, you saw nothing suspicious?”

“No, no, nothing.” She said it so quickly that he repressed another question and lit a cigaret. “Nothing at all. I went in and there was Joe. He was on the floor. I thought he was dead. I–I didn’t touch him. I couldn’t. The blood... I suppose I screamed. Then I ran out. I saw another car near the house on the road and grew frightened. I jumped into the Cadillac and drove off. Of course, now I know it was Mr. Angell I almost ran down.” She paused. “That’s all.”

In the silence that followed Burke Jones cleared his throat. There was a new and embarrassed quality to his voice. “Well. Sorry, old girl. If you’d only told me... When you asked me Sunday not to say anything about having taken my car—”

“It was very sweet of you, Burke,” she said coldly. “I’ll always remember your generosity.”

Grosvenor Finch went to her and patted her shoulder. “You’ve been a foolish child, Andrea, as Mr. Queen has said. Why didn’t you confide in me, in your mother? You did nothing wrong. For that matter, Mr. Angell received a telegram and was there, too, without witnesses, and yet you see he had no hesitation...”

Andrea closed her eyes. “I’m very tired. I wonder if—”

“And the stone, Miss Gimball?” asked Ellery casually.

She opened her eyes. “I seem to remember banging my hand against the door as I went out. I suppose the stone was dislodged then. In my — well, I didn’t notice that it was missing until Mr. Angell called it to my attention later that night.”

“I see.” Ellery rose. “Thanks very much, Miss Gimball. If you took my advice you would tell your story to Pollinger—”

“Oh, no!” she cried in alarm. “Not that. Oh, please, you won’t tell him? To have to face those men...”

“It’s not really necessary, Ellery,” said Bill in a low voice. “Why complicate matters? It can’t do any good, and it will only get Miss Gimball a lot of unwelcome notoriety.”

“Angell’s right, Mr. Queen,” said Finch eagerly.

Ellery smiled a little. “Well, I seem to be overruled by sheer weight of numbers. Goodnight.”

He shook hands with Finch and Jones. Bill stood rather awkwardly by the door. His eyes met Andrea’s and came away. Then he followed Ellery out of the apartment with a despondent set to his shoulders.

Neither man spoke much on the journey to Trenton. Once, when they had left the General Pulaski Skyway and the lights of the Newark Airport behind, Bill muttered, “I’m sorry about not having told you, El. Somehow—”

“Forget it.”

The Pontiac rumbled along. “After all,” said Bill out of the darkness, “it’s so obvious she told the truth.”

“Oh, is it?”

Bill was silent for a moment. Then he said quickly: “What do you mean? Anyone can see that girl is the real stuff. You don’t think she — Why, that’s ridiculous! I’d no more consider her a murderess than I would my own sister.”

Ellery lit a cigaret. “It seems to me,” he remarked, “that you’ve undergone a startling change of heart in the past few days, my son.”

“I don’t get you,” mumbled Bill.

“Really? Now, now, Bill, you’re brighter than that. Really a smart young man. Only Saturday evening you were ranting against the rich, and rich young women in particular. Now, Andrea Gimball is so clearly a member of that parasitical class you detest, that I wonder at the consideration you’ve shown her.”

“She’s—” Bill paused lamely. “She’s — well, different.”

Ellery sighed. “If it does that to you...”

“If what does what to me?” glared Bill in the darkness.

“Peace, friend.” And Ellery smoked away. Bill stepped on the accelerator. They accomplished the rest of the journey in silence.

De Jong’s office in Chancery Lane was deserted. Bill drove around to South Broad, parked the Pontiac near Market Street, and they hurried into the dark lobby of the Mercer County Court House. In the office of the County Prosecutor on the second floor they found the small, dyspeptic Pollinger and the police chief with their heads together. The heads separated with the celerity of guilt. “Well, look who’s here,” said De Jong in a queer tone.

“The very man.” Pollinger was nervous. “Have a seat, Angell. Just drove down from New York, Mr. Queen?”

“Yes. I thought I’d get whatever developments there were at first hand. Bill happened to be with me. Any news?”

Pollinger glanced at De Jong. “Well,” said the prosecutor casually, “before we discuss that, I’m rather curious to hear your views, Mr. Queen. That is, of course, if you have any.”

“Quot homines, tot sententiæ,” chuckled Ellery. “So many men, so many opinions. I suppose I have one — a poor thing, but mine own.”

“What did Finch want to see you about?”

“Oh, that.” Ellery shrugged lightly. “He wanted to hire me to investigate this business for the National Life.”

“The beneficiary angle, eh?” Pollinger drummed on his desk. “I thought they’d do that. Glad to help you, of course. We can work together.”

“I didn’t,” murmured Ellery, “accept.”

“Really?” Pollinger drew his brows up. “Well, well, let’s hear your views, anyway. I’m not one of those short sighted lawyers who disdain the advice of amateurs. Fire away.”

“Sit down, Bill,” said Ellery. “Apparently we’ve run into something.” Bill obeyed. His eyes had become watchful again.

“Well?” drawled De Jong in a half-amused way.

Ellery took out his pipe. “I’m at a disadvantage. Obviously you men have information of which I’m ignorant. At the moment, I can offer no theory which focuses upon an individual. The facts don’t lend themselves to solution, at least the facts at my disposal. But, from the instant I identified Wilson as Gimball, it struck me that there was one line of investigation which might prove fruitful. I suppose you gentlemen have seen your local papers recently?”

Pollinger pulled a long face. “They’ve had a field day of it.”

“There was one story by a fellow-townswoman of yours,” continued Ellery, “which I confess impressed me. I refer to the work of that charming young hoyden with the red hair who writes special features for the Trenton Times.”

“Ella Amity’s all right,” said De Jong indifferently.

“Oh, wake up, De Jong. That’s faint praise. The woman’s grasped something which has escaped all of you. Do you recall her sobriquet for the shack in which Gimball met his death?” The two officials looked politely blank. Bill was sucking a knuckle with absorption. “She named it,” observed Ellery, “Halfway House.”

“Halfway House.” Pollinger looked impatient. “Oh, yes.”

“It doesn’t strike sparks,” said Ellery dryly. “But it should. She put her canny finger on the very heart of the problem.”

De Jong sneered. “It sounds plain screwy to me.”

“Your loss. The phrase is a positive inspiration. Don’t you see its significance?” He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Tell me. Whose murder are you investigating?”

“Whose—” The prosecutor sat up sharply.

“It’s a riddle,” grinned De Jong. “I’ll bite. Mickey Mouse?”

“Not bad, De Jong,” said Ellery. “I ask once more: Who has been murdered?” He waved his long fingers. “And if you can’t give him a name, it’s going to be more difficult to find his killer.”

“What are you driving at?” snapped Pollinger. “Joseph Kent Gimball, of course. Or Joseph Wilson, or Henry Smith, or any other damned name you want to call him by. We’ve got the man, the body; that’s the important thing; and we know who he is. What difference does his name make?”

“Possibly all the difference in the world. Old Shakespeare unfortunately didn’t live in the days of criminological science. You see, you don’t know. Gimball or Wilson — precisely. This man was Wilson in Philadelphia and Gimball in New York. He was polished off in Trenton... Halfway House, says our Ella. Very apt indeed. Now in Halfway House, to push the conceit a little further,” continued Ellery soberly, “you found Gimball clothes and Wilson clothes, a Gimball car and a Wilson car. In Halfway House this man was both Gimball and Wilson, you see. And so I ask again: In what personality was the man murdered? As Gimball or as Wilson? Whom did the murderess think she was dispatching — Joseph Kent Gimball of New York or Joe Wilson of Philadelphia?”

“I never thought of it in that way,” muttered Bill. Pollinger rose and began to patrol the floor behind his desk.

De Jong jeered. “Nuts and double-nuts. Hifalutin’ stuff.”

Pollinger halted. He shot a peculiar look at Ellery from under his sparse brows. “And in what personality do you think he was killed?”

“That,” sighed Ellery, “is indeed the question. I can’t answer it. Can you?”

“No.” Pollinger sat down. “No, I can’t. But it seems to me to be still a purely academic question. I can’t see how... Look here.”

“Here it comes,” said Bill. His hands hung loosely between his knees, perfectly controlled. Ellery smoked calmly.

The prosecutor’s slender fingers played with a paper-cutter on his desk. “De Jong’s made a major discovery. He’s found the car used by the person who murdered Gimball Saturday night — the small car with the Firestone tires.”

Ellery glanced at Bill. It was odd how Pollinger’s simple statement affected the young man. It tightened his skin like a caustic, making it look dry and old. He sat in a lump as if he were afraid the slightest movement would precipitate an avalanche. “Well?” He cleared his throat. “Well?”

Pollinger shrugged. “Abandoned. Had an accident.”

“Where?” demanded Ellery.

“And don’t think,” drawled De Jong, “there’s any doubt about it, gents. It’s the bus, all right.”

“An Olympian utterance. How can you be certain?”

Pollinger opened the top drawer of his desk. “By reason of three quite conclusive facts.” He tossed over a bundle of photographs. “The impressions of the tires. We’ve made casts of the middle set of marks from the mud in front of the shack, and compared them with the tires of the car we found — ’32 Ford, by the way, coupé, black paint job. Well, casts and tires coincide. That’s number one.”

Bill was blinking as if the green-shaded light hurt his eyes. “And number two?”

“Number two,” replied the prosecutor, putting his hand into the drawer again, “is this.” He brought out the rusty figurine of the naked woman which De Jong’s man had found in the main driveway on the night of the murder — the radiator-cap which had snapped off at the ankles of the figure. And then he placed beside it another object made of the same rust-flecked metal — the plug of the cap, with two jagged ends of metal sticking up from its top. “Examine them. You’ll find that the broken edges of the metal ankles fit exactly into the broken ends of the metal feet on the cap.”

“The cap comes from this Ford coupé?” asked Ellery intently.

“If it doesn’t,” said De Jong, “I was dreaming when I unscrewed it.”

“Of course,” continued Pollinger in an odd tone, “this is almost as sound evidence as a fingerprint. Now, number three.” For the fourth time his hand went to the drawer; when it emerged, it was swathed in some dark filmy material.

“The veil!” exclaimed Ellery; he reached for it. “Where did you find this, by thunder?”

“On the driver’s seat of the coupé.” Pollinger leaned back. “You can see how important this veil is as evidence. The tire marks and the broken radiator-cap establish the Ford as having visited the scene of the crime on Saturday evening. The veil serves to fix guilt. Found in the Ford, it sets up a reasonable presumption that the Ford was driven by the criminal. For the victim himself told Angell with his dying breath that his murderess wore a veil. And veils aren’t common these days.”

Bill was glaring at the veil. “As a lawyer,” he said hoarsely, “of course you realize that’s the frailest kind of circumstantial evidence? You haven’t connected. Where’s your eye-witness? That would be a case. Or have you checked the times involved? How do you know the car wasn’t abandoned long before the crime-period? How—”

Pollinger said slowly: “My dear young man, I know the law very well indeed.” He rose and began pacing again.

There was a knock on the door, and the thin little man whirled about. “Come in!”

Sellers, the small brown man attached to De Jong’s staff, opened the door; there was another detective behind him. The brown man seemed a little surprised at the sight of the two visitors. “Well?” barked De Jong. “Everything go off all right?”

“Fine.”

De Jong flashed a glance at Pollinger. The prosecutor nodded and turned away. Bill was gripping the arms of his chair, looking wildly from face to face. Sellers mumbled something and the other man vanished. A moment later he reappeared with his hand on the arm of Lucy Wilson. All the blood seemed permanently to have deserted her skin. There were large violet arcs under her splendid eyes. Her hands were fists and her high breasts rose and fell in surges. There was something so bedraggled and woebegone in her appearance that for a long moment no one seemed able to find his tongue. Then she said, in a weak voice: “Bill. Oh, Bill darling,” and she stumbled toward him.

Bill sprang from his chair like a catapult released. “You skunk!” he shouted at De Jong. “What the hell d’ye mean by dragging my sister down here this time of night?”

De Jong gestured to the brown man, who stepped forward and touched Bill’s arm. “Come on now, Angell. We don’t want any trouble with you.”

“Lucy.” Bill brushed the man aside. He gripped Lucy’s shoulders and shook her. “Lucy! Why did you let them bring you into New Jersey? They can’t do that. They can’t cross a State line without extradition papers!”

She whispered: “I feel so... I don’t know. Oh, Bill, they — they said Mr. Pollinger wanted to talk to me. They said—”

“You tricky shyster!” yelled Bill. “You’ve no right—”

Pollinger stalked forward with a sort of bantam dignity. He thrust something into Lucy’s hands. “Mrs. Wilson,” he asked formally, “do you recognize this automobile?”

“Don’t answer!” cried Bill.

But she said with a tired frown: “Yes. Yes, that’s my car. That’s the Ford Joe gave me for my birthday a few years ago. Joe gave me...”

“Do you still deny knowing how this car of yours happened to get out of your garage Saturday?”

“Yes. No. I mean I don’t know.”

“It was found jammed against a tree off the road in Fairmount Park, Philadelphia,” droned the prosecutor. “Not five minutes away from your home, Mrs. Wilson. Didn’t you have an accident there Saturday night — returning from Trenton?”

Something stark in the scene — the harsh green light, the standing silent men, the stiff rows of law books on the shelves, the cluttered desk — penetrated to her brain. Her nostrils quivered and perspiration sprang out on the bridge of her small nose. “No,” she whispered. “Good God, Mr. Pollinger, no!” Her black eyes were shiny with terror.

Pollinger picked up the dark veil. “And isn’t this black veil yours?”

She stared at it without seeing it. “What? What?”

“You won’t get anything out of her, Pollinger,” said De Jong gruffly. “She’s a smart gal. Let’s get this over with.” A clock ticked noisily away on the wall. The brown man’s clutch tightened on Lucy Wilson’s sleeve. Bill stood in a half-crouch, his fingers curved and his eyes liquid with fear.

“Gentlemen,” said Ellery sharply. “I warn you not to offer this poor woman up as a sacrifice to public opinion. Bill, be still!”

“I know my duty, Mr. Queen,” said the prosecutor stiffly. He reached for a document on his desk.

Bill shouted: “Don’t! Damn you, you can’t—”

“Lucy Wilson,” said Pollinger in a tired voice, “I hold here a warrant for your arrest. It charges you in the name of the people of New Jersey with the murder with malice aforethought of one Joseph Wilson, also known as Joseph Kent Gimball, in Mercer County, State of New Jersey, on the night of Saturday, June the first, 1935.”

The woman’s black eyes rolled over as she slid, fainting, into her brother’s arms.