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

20

The Old Woman’s Tale

Inspector Queen bounded across the room. “Give me that envelope!” He snatched it and held it fast, glaring about as if he expected someone to try to take it away from him.

“She knew,” said Sheila in a wondering voice.

“She knew?” cried her father.

Major Gotch rubbed his jaw agitatedly.

Thurlow grasped the arms of his chair.

At the door Mr. Queen had not stirred.

“Hold that blasted Board meeting right now!” the Inspector yapped. “Can’t do a thing without that Board meeting. Come on, get it over with. I want to open this envelope!” He chuckled and peered at the envelope. “She knew,” he chortled. “The old harridan knew all along, bless her.” Then he growled to Charley: “Did you hear what I said? Get it over with!”

Charley stammered something ridiculously like “Y-yes, sir,” and then he shook his head. “I’ve got nothing to do with the Board, Inspector. No power and no authority.”

“Well, who has? Speak up!”

“I should imagine if anyone has to take charge, it’s Thurlow. Cornelia was President — she’s dead. Bob and Mac were Vice-presidents — and they’re dead. Thurlow’s the only officer left.”

Thurlow rose, frightened.

“All right, Mr. Potts,” said the Inspector testily. “Don’t just stand there. Call your Board to order and start nominating, or whatever it is you’re supposed to do.”

Thurlow drew himself up. “I know my duties. Charles — I’ll sit at that desk, if you please.”

Charley shrugged and went over to sit with Sheila, who took his hand in hers but did not look at him.

Thurlow edged behind the desk, picked up a paperweight, and rapped with it.

“The meeting will come to order,” he said, and harrumphed. “As we all know, my dear mother has passed on, and—”

“Kindly omit flowers,” said Inspector Queen.

Thurlow flushed. “You make this difficult, Inspector Queen, most difficult. Things must be done decorously, decorously. Now the first question is the question of—” Thurlow paused, then continued in an acid, querulous tone, “Simon Bradford Underhill. He has not been a member of this Board—”

“Least I can do, Thurlow.” The speaker was Underhill, and he was smiling very sadly. “Cornelia’s request, you know.”

Thurlow frowned. “Yes. Yes, Underhill, I know.” He cleared his throat again. “Wouldn’t dream of having it otherwise.” He sat down suddenly in the chair behind the desk; it might almost be said that he fell down. He looked longingly at the bottle of cognac, which he had left behind him in the other chair. Then he harrumphed a few more times and said sternly: “I believe we have a quorum. I will accept nominations for the Presidency of the Board of Directors of the Potts Shoe Company.” And now Thurlow did an extraordinary thing: he rose, circled the desk, faced the unoccupied chair, said: “I nominate myself,” nodded defiantly, then went round the desk again and reseated himself. “Any other nominations?”

Sheila sprang to her feet, her dimples plunging deep. “This is the last straw! Everybody here knows you haven’t the ability to manage a peanut stand, let alone a business that earns millions every year!”

“What’s that? What’s that?” said Thurlow excitedly.

“You’d ruin the company in a year, Thurlow. My brothers Bob and Mac ran this business, and you’ve never had a single constructive thing to do with it! All you ever did was make ridiculous mistakes. And you’ve got the nerve to nominate yourself President!”

“Now Sh-Sheila,” stuttered her father. “Don’t upset yourself, d-dear...”

“Dad, you know yourself that if the twins were alive, one of them would have become the new head of the firm to take Mother’s place. You know it!”

Thurlow found his voice. “Sheila, if you weren’t a female—”

“I know, you’d challenge me to a duel,” said Sheila bitterly. “Well, your dueling days are over, Mr. Potts. And you’re not going to ruin the company. I’d nominate Daddy if he were a member of the Board—”

“Stephen?” Thurlow gazed with astonishment at his stepfather, as if he had never contemplated the possibility of such a watery character’s usurping his prerogatives.

“But since I can’t I nominate Mr. Underhill,” cried Sheila. “Mr. Underhill, please. At least you know the business, you know how to make shoes, you’re the oldest employee, you own stock in the company—”

Thurlow now turned his astonishment upon the lean old Yankee.

But Underhill shook his head. “I’m very grateful, Sheila. But I can’t accept the nomination. I’m an outsider. You know how set your mother was about keeping the firm in the family—”

Thurlow nodded vigorously. “That’s right. Underbill’s got no business sticking his nose in at all. I won’t let him be President. I’ll discharge him first—”

Color stained the old man’s cheeks. “Now that makes me mad, Thurlow. That makes me real mad. Sheila, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll accept that nomination, by Godfrey!”

The Inspector stamped. “My envelope!” he cried. “For Joe’s sake, get this musical comedy over with!”

Thurlow looked desperate. Suddenly he shouted: “Wait!” and scuttled out of the library.

The delay caused by Thurlow’s disappearance almost reduced the Inspector to tears. He kept looking at the sealed envelope piteously, looking at his watch, sending Sergeant Velie “to see what that oakum-headed fool Thurlow’s up to,” and occasionally berating Ellery in a bitter undertone for standing there and doing nothing.