“May I question your right to ask, young man?”
Bill’s eyes flashed. “I’m Bill Angell, attorney, of Philadelphia. Mrs. Wilson’s brother.”
“Mrs. Wilson’s brother. I see.” Finch glanced at Ellery, nodding in an interrogatory way. Ellery, who had not stirred from the door, muttered something; and Finch rounded the table and stooped over the body. He did not touch it. For a moment he stared at the frozen, upturned face; then he said in a low voice: “Andrea, my dear, do you think you could bring yourself—?”
Andrea swallowed; she looked sick. But she set her smooth jaw and came forward and stood at his shoulder, forcing herself to look down. “Yes.” Andrea turned away, ashen. “That’s Joe. Joe, Ducky.”
Finch nodded, and Andrea went to her mother’s chair and stood behind it rather helplessly. “Mrs. Wilson,” continued the distinguished-looking man, “you must understand you’ve made a horrible mistake.”
“I haven’t!”
“A mistake, I repeat. I sincerely hope it’s that — and nothing more.” Lucy’s hands fluttered in protest. “I assure you once more,” the tall man went on soberly, “that this gentleman on the floor is Joseph Kent Gimball of New York, the legally wedded husband of the lady in the chair, who was Jessica Borden, then Mrs. Richard Paine Monstelle, and then — after the early death of Monstelle — Mrs. Joseph Kent Gimball. The young lady is Joseph Gimball’s stepdaughter Andrea, Mrs. Jessica Gimball’s daughter by her first husband.”
“You may spare us,” remarked Ellery, “the genealogical details.”
Finch’s clear and honest gray eyes did not waver. “I’ve known Joe Gimball for over twenty years, ever since his undergraduate days at Princeton. I knew his father, old Roger Gimball of the Back Bay branch of the family; he died during the War. And his mother, who died six years ago, a Providence Kent. For generations the Gimballs have been—” he hesitated — “one of our more prominent families. Now do you see how impossible it is for this man to have been your husband, Mrs. Wilson?”
Lucy Wilson uttered a curious little sigh, like the breath of an expiring hope. “We’ve never been anybody. Just working people. Joe was, too. Joe couldn’t have been—”
“Lucy dear,” said Bill gently. Then he said, “You see, the funny part of it is that we’re just as certain he’s Joe Wilson, of Philadelphia, itinerant peddler who made his living selling cheap jewelry to middle-class housewives. We’ve got his car outside, and his peddler’s stock. We have the contents of his pockets, samples of his handwriting — all evidence that he was Wilson the peddler, not Gimball the society man. Impossible, Mr. Finch? You can’t really believe that.”
The tall man returned his gaze; there was something reluctant and stubborn in the set of his handsome jaw.
Jessica Gimball said, “A peddler?” in a voice sick with loathing.
Andrea was staring at Bill with a horror in her eyes that had not gone away since she set foot in the shack.
“The answer,” said Ellery from the doorway, “is obvious enough. Of course you’ve guessed it, Bill.” He shrugged. “This man was both.”
De Jong burst in, bug-eyed with triumph. He stopped short. “Oh, getting acquainted?” he asked, rubbing his hands. “That’s the stuff; no sense getting the wind up. It’s just too bad all round, just too bad.” But he kept rubbing his hands. There was a continuous sound of departing motors from the road.
“We have just come to the conclusion, De Jong,” said Ellery, walking slowly forward, “that this is not some fictional case of twins, or impersonation, but a sordid one of deliberately assumed double identity. More frequent than people realize. There can’t be any doubt about it. You have positive identification on both sides. Everything fits.”
“Does it?” said De Jong pleasantly.
“We know that, as Joseph Wilson, this man for years spent only two or three days a week in Philadelphia with Lucy Wilson; you yourself, Bill, were disturbed by this peculiarity in his behaviour. And I am sure Mrs. Gimball can tell us that her husband spent several days each week away from the Gimball home in New York.”
The middle-aged eyes were haggard, red with lacquered resentment that made them glow from her bony face. “For years,” she said. “Joe was always... Oh, how could he have done such a thing? He used to say he had to be by himself or he would go mad. The beast, the beast!” Her voice was choked with passion.
“Mother,” said Andrea. She placed her slim hands on the trembling woman’s shoulders. “Joe said he had a hideaway somewhere not far from New York. He would never tell mother or anyone where, saying that a man was entitled to his privacy. We never suspected because he never liked the social life....”
“I can see now,” cried Mrs. Gimball, “that it was just an excuse to get away and be with this — this woman!”
Lucy quivered as if she had been struck. Grosvenor Finch shook his head at Mrs. Gimball in disapproval and warning. But she plunged on. “And I never suspected. What a fool!” Her voice was savage. “Cheap. Cheap. To do such a cheap thing... to me.”
“Cheapness is a point of view, Mrs. Gimball,” said Bill coldly. “Please remember that my sister is involved. She’s as good—”
“Bill,” said Ellery. “We’ll get nowhere with these childish recriminations. On the other hand, common sense demands a clarification of the situation. This place confirms the dual-personality theory. Here we find the two personalities intermingled. Wilson clothes and Gimball clothes, a Wilson car and a Gimball car. This was, in a manner of speaking, neutral territory. Undoubtedly he stopped here periodically on his way to Philadelphia to change into his Wilson outfit and take the Wilson Packard; and stopped again on his return journey to New York to change back into his Gimball clothes and take the Gimball Lincoln. Of course, he never did sell this cheap jewelry; he merely told Mrs. Wilson he did... And by the way, Mrs. Gimball, what makes you think your — this man was conducting a tawdry tabloid affair with Mrs. Wilson?”
The woman’s lip curled. “What would a man like Joe Gimball want with a woman like this but one thing? Oh, I suppose she’s attractive enough in a coarse way” — Lucy blushed to the cleft between her breasts — “but Joe was a man of breeding, of taste. It wouldn’t be more than the most passing fancy. Husband! Fiddlesticks. It’s a plot.” Her brittle eyes examined Lucy with a corrosive hatred that melted the clothes away and left her victim naked. Lucy flinched as the acid bit; but her eyes glittered. Bill checked her with a whisper.
“Mrs. Gimball—” began Ellery frigidly.
“No! Do something about these people, Ducky, please. You can see that this woman is paid hush-money, or whatever it is they call it. Anything! I’m sure a cheque will keep her quiet; it always does.”
“Jessica,” said Finch angrily. “Please.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be as simple as that, Mrs. Gimball,” snapped Ellery. “Lucy... Lucy!”
Lucy’s black eyes went smoking to his face. “Yes?”
“Did you ever go through a marriage ceremony with the man you know as Joseph Wilson?”
“He married me. I’m not a — a... He married me!”
“Married you,” sniffled the society woman. “A likely story!”
“Where were you married?” asked Ellery quietly.
“We got our license in the Philadelphia City Hall. We were — we were married by a minister in a midtown church.”
“Have you your marriage certificate?”
“Oh, yes, yes.”
Mrs. Gimball moved restlessly. “How long,” she demanded, “do I have to submit to this intolerable situation? It’s quite obvious this is a plot. Ducky, do something! Marriage certificate...”
“Can’t you see, Mother,” whispered Andrea, “that Mrs.. Wilson isn’t — isn’t what you said? Please, Mother. This is more serious than — Oh, you must be reasonable!”