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There Was an Old Woman [= The Quick And the Dead]
- Автор: Куин (Квин) Эллери
- Год: 1943
- Язык: английский
- Год: Little, Brown and Company
- Жанр: Классические детективы
Электронная книга - «There Was an Old Woman [= The Quick And the Dead]». Краткое содержание книги:
They went directly from the sidewalk before the front gates across the grass to the obscene bronze bulk of the Shoe, above which the neon inscription, THE POTTS SHOE, $3.99 EVERYWHERE, still glowed faintly against the early morning sky.
Thurlow glanced up at the silent windows of his mother’s mansion beyond the Shoe. “Mr. Queen,” he said formally, “you will find my pistol on the highboy in my bedroom.”
Ellery hesitated; then he bowed and hurried off to the house. In every story Ellery had ever read about a duel, the seconds bowed.
As he rounded the Shoe, the Inspector’s voice came to him in a low and wondering snarl. “He’s going through with it, Velie!”
“They’ll never believe this downtown,” whispered the Sergeant with hoarse awe. “Never, Inspector.”
The two men nodded tensely to Ellery as he strode by, and he nodded back. It wasn’t so bad, he thought, as he vaulted up the front steps. In fact, it was rather fun. He realized how gay life had been for those old boys of the romantic age, and felt almost thankful to Providence for having brought Thurlow Potts into the world a century or two late.
He realized, too, that part of his enjoyment derived from a certain giddiness of the brain, which in turn came from having tried to set Thurlow a Scotch example all night. Things were a little hazy as he tiptoed into the house, having used his magic on the lock of the front door.
Where was everybody? Wonderful household! Two brothers are to duel to the death, and of their blood none cares sufficiently to let off snoring and be miserable. Or perhaps the Old Woman was awake, peering through the curtains of her bedroom window at the scene in miniature to be enacted on the grass before her Moloch. What could she be thinking, that extraordinary mother? And where was Steve Brent Potts? Probably drunk in his bed.
Ellery stopped very suddenly halfway up the main staircase leading from the foyer to the bedroom floor. The house was silent, with that eeriest of silences which pervades a house at dawn, the silence of gray light.
Not a sound. Not even a shadow. But — something?
It seemed to be on the bedroom floor, and it seemed to pass the door of Thurlow Potts’s apartment. Was it... someone coming out of those two rooms?
Ellery sped up the remaining steps and stopped catlike on the landing to survey the hall, both ways. No one. And the silence again.
Man? Woman? Imagination? He listened very hard.
But that deep, deep silence.
He went into Thurlow’s apartment, shut the door behind him, and began to search for more palpable clues. He spared neither time, eyesight, nor his clothes. But crawl and peer and pry as he might, he could detect no least sign that anyone had been there since he himself had left the premises the night before on his last visit. The tiny Colt lay exactly where he had placed it with his own hand after his trip to Police Headquarters for the blank cartridges — on Thurlow’s highboy.
Ellery seized Thurlow’s automatic and left the apartment.
Robert and Maclyn Potts appeared promptly at six. They marched from the house shoulder to shoulder, appeared not to notice Inspector Queen and Sergeant Velie in the shadows at the base of the Shoe’s pedestal, rounded the Shoe, and stopped.
The two parties stared solemnly at each other.
Then Thurlow bowed to his brothers.
Bob hesitated, glanced at Ellery, then bowed back. Behind Thurlow, Charley grinned and clasped his hands above his head. Bob’s left eyelid drooped ever so little in reply.
But Mac’s expression was serious. “Look here, Thurl,” he said, “hasn’t this fool farce gone far enough? Let’s shake hands all around and—”
Thurlow glared disapprovingly at his adversary’s twin. “You will please inform the gentleman’s second,” he said to Ellery, “that conversation with the principals is not considered good form, Mr. Queen.”
“I so inform him,” replied Mr. Queen frigidly. “Now what do I do, Mr. Potts?”
“I should be obliged if you would act as Master of Ceremonies as well as my second. It’s a little irregular, but then I’m sure we can take a few liberties with the code.”
“Oh, of course,” said Ellery hastily. Improvise, Brother Queen, improvise. Must be some sense in the code of duello somewhere, or was. “Mr. Thurlow Potts, your weapon,” said Ellery in a grave voice. He handed the Colt, walnut stock forward, to his man.
Mr. Thurlow Potts dropped the automatic into the right pocket of his coat. Then he turned and walked off a few paces, to stand there stiffly, a man alone with his Maker. Or so his back said.
“I believe,” continued Ellery, turning to Maclyn Potts, “that as your principal’s second you should be addressed. The Master of Ceremonies should ask somebody if the duelists won’t call the whole thing off. What say?”
Before Mac could reply, Thurlow’s voice came, annoyed. “No, no, Mr. Queen. As the offended party, the option is mine.” It didn’t sound right to Mr. Queen; more like a business conference. “And I insist: Honor satisfied.”
“But isn’t there something in the code,” the Master of Ceremonies asked respectfully, “about the duel being called off if the offender apologizes, Mr. Potts?”
“I’ll apologize. I’ll do any blasted thing,” snapped Bob, “to get off this damp grass.”
“No, no!” screamed. “I won’t have it that way. Honor satisfied, Mr. Queen, honor satisfied!”
“Very well, honor satisfied,” replied Mr. Queen hastily. “I think, then, that the principals should stand back to back. Right here, gentlemen. Mac, is your man ready?”
Mac nodded disgustedly, and Robert took from his pocket the Smith & Wesson Ellery had returned to him the night before. Robert and Thurlow now approached each other, Thurlow producing from his pocket the Colt Ellery had just handed him and gripping it nervously. Thurlow was pale.
“Back to back, gentlemen.”
The brothers executed the volte-face.
“I shall count to ten. With each number of the count,” continued Ellery with stern relish, “you gentlemen will walk one pace forward. At the end of the count you will be twenty paces from each other, facing in opposite directions. Is that clear?”
Thurlow Potts said in a strained voice: “Yes.” Robert Potts yawned.
“At the end of the count, I shall say ‘Turn!’ You will then turn and face each other, raise your weapons, and take aim. I will thereupon count to three, and at three you each fire just one shot. Understand?” Sheila giggled.
“Very well, then. Start pacing off. One. Two. Three...” Ellery counted solemnly. When he said “Ten,” the two men obediently stopped pacing. “Turn!” They turned.
Thurlow’s chubby face gleamed wet in the gray light. But his mouth was set in a stubborn line, and he scowled fiercely at his brother. He raised his Colt shoulder high, aiming it. Robert shrugged and aimed too.
“One,” said Ellery. This is all wrong, he thought testily. I should have read up on it. Maybe when Thurlow finds out how I’ve messed up his duel, he’ll insist on a retake.
“Two.” And what were the Inspector and Velie thinking behind that horrible statue? He’d never hear the end of this. He spied the two men’s heads peeping cautiously from behind the pedestal.
“Three!”
There was one cracking report. Smoke drifted from the muzzle of Thurlow’s little weapon.
Ellery became aware of a leaden silence, and of a curious look on Thurlow Potts’s face. He whirled. Behind him Sheila gurgled, and Charley Paxton said: “What the—” and Maclyn Potts stared at the grass. And Inspector Queen and Sergeant Velie were racing around the pedestal, waving their arms frantically.