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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:
The physician shrugged again. “I’m through trying to make people around here do what they ought to do. Every medical sign indicates that absolute rest and freedom from excitement are called for. I can only ask that you take as little time with her as possible.”
“Fair enough.”
“She’ll live forever,” said Sheila wildly. “She’ll be alive when we’re all dead.”
Dr. Innis glanced at Sheila oddly as they went to the door of Cornelia Potts’s apartment. He began to say something, but then Inspector Queen knocked softly, so he refrained. When there was no answer the Inspector opened the door and they went into the sitting room, and Dr. Innis opened the door to the bedroom.
“Mrs. Potts,” said Dr. Innis.
The Old Woman lay in her incredible bed, rather high on two fat pillows, as usual, with her eyes open and her mouth open and the lace cap a trifle askew on her head.
Sheila screamed and ran, and Charley, crying out, ran after her.
“It’s the good Lord’s gospel,” wept old Bridget. “She rings for me not an hour and a half gone, and she says I’m not to come blunderin’ in, may she rest in peace, because seein’ as how she wants to be alone, poor soul — alone with the good Lord and His heavenly saints, as it turns out, but how was a miserable sinner like me to know that? That’s all I know, sir, so help me God...Dead — the Old Woman dead! It’s like the end of the world, it is.”
Inspector Queen said harshly: “Don’t monkey with that body, Doctor.”
“I’m not monkeying,” shrilled Dr. Innis. “You asked me to examine her, and I am. This woman was my patient, and she died while under my care, and it’s my right to examine her, anyway! I have to sign the death certificate—”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Ellery in a weary voice. “Did Cornelia Potts die in the conventional manner, Dr. Innis, or was she assisted into the hereafter? That’s what I want to know.”
“Death from natural causes, Mr. Queen. Heart gave out, that’s all. She’s been dead about one hour.”
“Normal death.” The Inspector gnawed his mustache, eyeing that silent, pudgy corpse as if he expected it at any moment to gush blood.
“Excitement and the strain of the past week have been too much for her. I warned you this was coming.” Dr. Innis picked up his hat, bowed frigidly, and left.
“Just the same, Dr. Innis,” said the Inspector under his breath, “old Doc Prouty’s going to check your findings, and Jehovah help you if you’re covering something up! Ellery, what are you doing?”
“It might be called,” grunted Ellery, “looking over the scene of the crime, except that there seems to have been no crime, so let’s call it simply finding out what the hell Cornelia Potts had been writing when the Dark Angel paid her his long-overdue visit.”
“Writing?” The Inspector came over swiftly.
Ellery indicated the portable typewriter on its stand, beside the bed. Its case was on the floor, as if the machine had been used and death had come before the cover could be replaced. On the night table stood a large box of varisized notepapers and envelopes, its hinged lid thrown back.
“So what?” frowned the Inspector.
Ellery pointed to the dead woman’s right hand. It was almost buried in the bedclothes, and the Inspector smoothed them a little to see better. What he saw made his brows huddle together over his eyes.
In Cornelia Potts’s right hand lay a large sealed envelope, undoubtedly one of the envelopes from the box by her bed.
The Inspector snatched the envelope from the stiff hand and held it up to the light. The face bore the typewritten words: LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. Beneath this was the scrawled signature, in the broad strokes of the soft-leaded pencils the Old Woman affected: Cornelia Potts.
“I’ve got Sheila quiet,” said Charley Paxton distractedly, running. “What is it? Murder, Ellery?”
“Dr. Innis pronounces it a natural death.”
“I won’t believe it till Doc Prouty tells me so,” said Inspector Queen absently. “Charley, here’s what we just found in Cornelia’s hand. I thought you said she had a will.”
“Yes.” Charley took the proffered envelope with a frown. “Don’t tell me she’s made a new will!”
“I hardly think so,” said Ellery. “Tell me, Charley. Did she have possession of the original of her will?” “Oh, yes.”
“Where did she usually keep it, do you know?”
“In the night-table drawer. Right by her bed.”
Ellery looked into the drawer. It was empty.
“Was it in an envelope, or loose?”
“Not in an envelope the last time I saw it.”
“Well, this is a fresh one, and the typing and signature look fresh, too, so I’d say she felt herself going, took the old will from the drawer, pulled over the portable, typed an envelope, scrawled her signature, and sealed the will in the envelope just before she died.”
“I wonder why,” mused the Inspector.
Ellery raised his brows.
The Inspector raised his shoulders. “Well, we’ll find out when the will’s opened after the funeral.” He handed Charley Paxton the sealed envelope for safekeeping, and they left the Old Woman alone in her bed.
And so Cornelia Potts was dead, and that was the end of the world, as old Bridget Conniveley had sobbed, for a number of servants, many of whom had never known another mistress; it was the end of a dynasty for certain others whose memories were yellow-tinged; and for those who had been closest to the stiffly dead it was... as nothing.
This was the remarkable thing about the Old Woman’s death. It seemed to concern none of her children — not those she loved, nor Sheila whom she hated. Sheila after that first scream had felt a weight slip from her heart. She was ashamed, and frightened — and relieved.
Sheila remained in her quarters, resting and alone. Outside her door Detective Flint smoked a five-cent panatela and read a racing form.
As for the bereaved husband, he called quietly to his crony, Major Gotch, and the two men went into Steve Brent’s room with two virgin fifths of Scotch and two whiskey glasses and shut themselves firmly in. An hour later they were singing Tahitian beach songs at the tops of their voices, uproariously.
18
Who’ll Be Chief Mourner? “I!” Said The Dove
Dr. Prouty said that this was getting to be a personal affair and perhaps he had better resign from the Medical Examiner’s office and become private mortician to the Pottses. “I’m getting to know ’em intimately,” said Doc Prouty to Ellery, on the morning when he handed Inspector Queen his official post-mortem finding in re Cornelia Potts, deceased. “Now take the Old Woman. A fighter. She gave me a battle all the way. Not like those two fine sons of hers, Bob and Mac. She was a hell-raiser, all right. Could hardly do a thing with her.”
Ellery, who was at breakfast, closed his eyes and murmured: “But the report, Prouty.”
“Aaaa, she died of natural causes,” said the Inspector before Prouty could reply. “At least that’s what his old poop’s report says.”
“What are you so grumpy about, you cantankerous fuddy-duddy?” demanded Doc Prouty. “Haven’t you had enough murders at that address? Are you disappointed?”
“Well, if she had to die,” grumbled Inspector Queen, “I wish she’d done it in such a way as to leave some clue to this screwy business. Natural death! Go on, get back to your boneyard.”
Dr. Prouty snarled and went out, muttering something about O base ingratitude thou are a viper’s fang.
Now you must believe a wonderful thing, you who have read of the Pottses and their Shoe and their duels and their laboratories and their boys who never grew up and the improbable house they all lived in.