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

“There’s no sense in giving in, Sheila lambie,” he was saying as the Queens stole in. “Mac’s dead. All right, he’s dead. M-murdered. What are we supposed to do — commit suicide? Curl up and d-die? Sheila, we’ll fight back. We’re not alone, baby. The p-police are our friends. Charley’s on our sis-side... Aren’t you, Charley?” Old Steve dug Charley sharply in the ribs.

“I love you, darling,” was all Charley could say as he chafed Sheila’s cold hands.

“Don’t lie there that way, Sheila,” old Steve said desperately. “Do you want a doctor?”

“No.” Sheila’s voice was faint.

“If you don’t snap out of this, I’ll call one. I’ll call two. I’ll make your life miserable. Sheila honey, don’t go under. Talk to me!”

“Never would have believed it of the old duck,” muttered the Inspector as he and Ellery left, unobserved. “Of all these people, he’s the one with guts. Where’s that sucker Gotch?”

“Taking a nap in his room, Velie told me.” Ellery seemed pained by the memory of that white, frozen face.

“Taking a nap!”

“Steve sent him to bed. It seems,” growled Mr. Queen, “that the worm has turned and, coincidentally with the illness of his mate and the murder of his second son, has developed hair on his chest. I like that little man.”

“Like — dislike!” raved his father. “Who cares how wonderful they are? I want to see this case solved and get the kit and caboodle of ’em out of my hair! What did he send Gotch to bed for?” he asked suspiciously.

“Gotchie-boy has been ‘worrying’ about him too much, it appears. Hasn’t had his proper rest. Stephen Brent Potts version.”

“Gotchie-boy has been hitting the bottle too much, that’s what Gotchie-boy’s been doing,” rasped the Inspector. “If this ain’t all a smoke screen. I don’t get that old pirate at all.”

“It’s very simple, Dad — he found snug harbor, and he’s dug in like a barnacle. By the way, have you had a report on the Major yet?”

“Not yet.”

They hunted Louella in her ivory tower, they took wing and visited Horatio in his house in the clouds, they returned to the Palace and looked in on Thurlow. Louella was still creating sea slime in her porcelain pans. Horatio was still wielding a quill on the greater Mother Goose — wielding it even more zestfully. And Thurlow was sleeping like a just man who has offered to do the honorable thing and been absolved by forces beyond a chevalier’s control. An aroma of alcohol hovered over his pillow, like angel’s wings.

Nothing had changed except that, as Horatio Potts put it, looking up from his versifying, “One person less lives in the house.”