The Dutch Shoe Mystery

“Women?” Ellery closed his eyes and smiled dreamily. “I can’t quite believe it.”

“You don’t know some women,” replied Morehouse grimly. “He’s been Broadway’s roly-poly sugar-daddy to so many women he probably doesn’t remember them all himself. It hasn’t reached the papers much — Abigail saw to that... You’d think he might live fairly comfortably with the allowance of twenty-five thousand a year Abigail provided for him. But not Hendrik! He’s perpetually broke.”

“Hasn’t he any money in his own right?” asked the Inspector.

“Not a red cent. You see, Abigail has made every penny of her enormous fortune by her own wits. The family originally was poorer than the public knows. But she had a genius for finance... Interesting woman, Abby. It’s a damned shame.”

“Legal trouble? Shady deals? Anything underhanded?” demanded the old man. “Seems likely he’d have to pay hush money to some of those Jezebels of his.”

Morehouse hesitated. “Well... I can’t say.”

The Inspector smiled. “Hmm... And the relationship between Hendrik and Mrs. Doorn?”

“Lukewarm. Abby wasn’t anybody’s fool. She knew what was going on. She put up with it because she had a fierce pride of family and wouldn’t allow the world to talk about any one with the name of Doorn. Occasionally she put her foot down, and there would be a row...”

“How about Mrs. Doorn and Hulda?”

“Oh, the most affectionate relationship!” said Morehouse at once. “Hulda was Abigail’s pride and joy. There wasn’t anything in Abby’s possession that Hulda couldn’t have by a mere word. But Hulda has always been pretty conservative in her tastes — certainly she doesn’t live up to her position as one of the world’s richest heiresses. Quiet, modest — but you saw her. She’s a—”

“Oh, beyond a doubt!” said the Inspector hastily. “And does Hulda Doorn realize her uncle’s reputation?”

“I imagine so. But it hurts her terribly, I suppose, and she’s never spoken of it, even to—” he paused — “even to me.”

“Tell me,” asked Ellery, “how old is the young lady?”

“Hulda? Oh, nineteen or twenty.”

Ellery twisted his neck toward Dr. Minchen, who had been sitting quietly in a far corner of the room, observing everything and saying nothing. “John!”

The physician started. “My turn now?” he asked with a wry smile.

“Hardly. I was just going to comment that we seem to have struck one of those not infrequent gynecological phenomena you pill-peddlers are always talking about. Didn’t you tell me this morning in one of our pre-garrotte chats that Abigail was over seventy?”

“Why, yes. But what do you mean? Gynecology refers to the diseases of women, and the old lady wasn’t—”

Ellery flicked a finger nonchalantly. “Well, surely,” he murmured, “pregnancy past a certain age might have a pathological root?... Mrs. Doorn must have been,” he said, “a most remarkable woman in more ways than one... By the way, what about the late Mr. Doorn? I mean — Abigail Doorn’s spouse? When did he shuffle off the mortal coil? I don’t keep in touch with the society editors, you know.”

“About fifteen years ago,” put in Morehouse. He continued heatedly, “Now see here, Queen, what did you mean by your nasty insinuation that—?”

“My dear Morehouse,” smiled Ellery, “it is a bit odd, isn’t it, that astonishing difference in age between mother and daughter? You can scarcely blame me for politely raising my eyebrows.”

Morehouse looked disturbed. The Inspector broke in, “Here! We’re getting nowhere. I want to hear things about this Fuller woman in the gallery outside... What was her official position in the Doorn household? I’m not clear on the point.”

“Abby’s companion — she’s been with her for a quarter of a century, more or less. And a queer character, too. Crotchety, domineering, a religious fanatic, and I’m certain heartily disliked by the rest of the house — I mean the servants... As for Sarah and Abby, you wouldn’t think they’d been together for so many years. They were always quarreling.”

“Quarreling, hey?” growled the Inspector. “What about?”

Morehouse shrugged. “Nobody seems to know. Just bickering, I guess. I know Abby has often said to me in a fit of pique that she was going to ‘let that woman go,’ but somehow she never did. Matter of habit, I suppose.”

“And the servants?”

“The usual batch. Bristol the butler, a housekeeper, a tribe of maids — nothing of interest for you there, I’m sure.”

“We seem to have arrived,” murmured Ellery, crossing his legs and sighing, “at that dreadful stage in every murder investigation when it becomes necessary to ask questions about the — God save us! — the will... Get out your best brand of Will Talk, Morehouse. Let’s have it.”

“I’m afraid,” retorted Morehouse, “it’s all duller than usual. Not a thing sinister or mysterious. All absolutely aboveboard and regular. No bequests to long-lost relatives in Africa, or any of that brand of tripe...