There Was an Old Woman [= The Quick And the Dead]

The Queens hurried toward the house. But before they could reach the steps, Cornelia Potts blew, and blew in an unexpected manner.

One moment she was standing there like an angry pouter pigeon, glaring down at her tormentors; the next her claws had flashed into a recess in the overlapping folds of her taffeta skirt and emerged with a revolver. It was absurd, but there it was: an old lady, seventy years old, pointing a revolver at a group of men.

Somebody said: “Hey,” indignantly; then they grew very quiet.

It was a long-barreled revolver alive with blue fires in the sun. All eyes were on it.

Dr. Innis took a quick backward step. On the Old Woman’s other side, Sergeant Velie looked dazed. Ellery had seen the Sergeant disarm five thugs all by himself without excitement laying them out in a neat and silent row; but the spectacle and the problem of a septuagenarian who resembled Queen Victoria brandishing a heavy revolver evidently frustrated him.

“One of Thurlow’s mess of guns,” the Inspector said bitterly, eyes intent on the talon that was crooked about the trigger. “So she knew where Thurlow’d hid ’em after all. I swear, anyone who mixes with these crazy drooglers gets addled — even me.”

“Someone ought to stop her,” said Ellery nervously.

“Care to volunteer your services?” And since there was no answer, his father lit a stogie and began to puff on it without relish. “Mrs. Potts,” he called, “put that naughty thing down and—”

“Stand where you are!” said the Old Woman grimly to the Inspector; at which he looked surprised, for he had exhibited no least intention of moving from the spot. She turned back to the fascinated group below her. “I told you men to get off my property.” She waved the revolver shakily.

One witless enthusiast raised his camera for a furtive shot of Cornelia Potts Draws Bead on Press. There was a shot, but it came towards the camera, not from it. It was a bad shot, merely nicking one edge of the lens and ricocheting off to bury itself in the grass; but it had the magical property of causing a group of grown men to disappear from the foot of the steps and reintegrate behind the solid bronze of the Shoe some yards away.

“She’s loco,” said the Sergeant hoarsely to Dr. Innis.

“Get out!” shrieked Cornelia Potts to the men cowering behind the Shoe. “This is my family’s business and I won’t have it all over the dirty newspapers. Out!”

“Piggott, Hesse,” said the Inspector wearily. “Where in time are you men? Escort the boys from the grounds.”

Several heads peered from behind several trees, and it was seen that they were the heads of several large persons — what was more shameful, of detectives attached to Inspector Queen’s staff.

“Well, go on,” said the Inspector. “All she can do is kill you. That’s what you’re paid for, isn’t it? Get these brave men out of here!”

The detectives emerged, blushing. Whereupon Mr. Queen enjoyed the spectacle of numerous male figures scampering helter-skelter toward the front gates, their flank covered, as it were, by plain-clothes men who were running as energetically as they. Within seconds only the three at the top of the steps and the two a short way off on the grass were left to watch the fires burn blue on the barrel of the faintly smoking revolver.

“That’s the way it is,” said the Old Woman with satisfaction. “Now what are you men waiting for?” The barrel waggled again.

“Madam,” said the Inspector, taking a step.

“Stop, Inspector Queen.”

Inspector Queen stopped.

“I’ll say this now, and not again. I don’t want you. I don’t want an investigation. I don’t want police. I don’t want any outside interference. I’ll handle my son’s death in my own way, and if you don’t think I mean it—”

Ellery said respectfully: “Mrs. Potts.”

She gave him a sharp glance. “You’ve been hanging around to no good, young man. What d’ye want?”

“Do you quite realize your position?”

“My position is what I make it!”

“I’m afraid not,” said Ellery sadly. “Your position is what your impulsive son Thurlow has made it. Or rather whoever was using Thurlow as a witless fool to commit a revolting crime. You can’t get out of your position, Mrs. Potts, with revolvers, or threats, or loud tones of voice. Your position, Mrs. Potts, if you’ll reflect for a moment, dictates that you hand that revolver to Sergeant Velie, go into your house, and leave the rest to those whose business it is to catch murderers.”

Sergeant Velie, thus obliquely brought into the conversation, gave a nervous start and cleared his throat.

“Don’t move,” said Cornelia Potts sharply; and the Sergeant gave a feeble laugh and said: “Who, me, Mrs. Potts? I was just shiftin’ to the other foot.”