“Me?” said Lucy faintly. “Me? A million dollars?”
“You’re sure of that, Mr. Finch?” De Jong leaned forward in an eager attitude. “You’re not just making that up to throw dust in my eyes?”
“I suppose,” said Finch coldly, “I shouldn’t bridle at anything. I assure you I have nothing against Mrs. Wilson, whom I’ve never even seen before tonight and who is, I feel certain, the victim of a terrible misunderstanding. On the other hand, if I am to argue the point, I should think ‘making it up’, as you put it, would be quite stupid of me. The National is an institution above personalities or the possibility of individual machination.”
“Talk United States.”
Finch stared. “Nor do I see the necessity for your insulting manner. However, to proceed, the records exist, and no one, not I nor Hathaway, President of the National, nor anyone on this earth could falsify them. Besides, you will find Joseph Kent Gimball’s application, in his verifiable handwriting, both in our photostatic files and in his own policies, wherever they may be — his office safe, or his bank vault.”
The policeman nodded impatiently; his eyes were on Lucy, pinning her to her chair with a remorseless calculation. Lucy shrank back, her fingers fumbling with a button on her dress.
“That was beastly of Joe,” cried Mrs. Gimball passionately. “This... this creature his beneficiary, his wife... I simply refuse to believe it. It’s not the money. But the callousness, the bad taste—”
“Hysterics won’t help, dear lady,” observed Ellery. He had removed his pince-nez and was scrubbing the lenses with an absent vigor. “Tell me, Mr. Finch; you haven’t breathed a word of this beneficiary change to anyone?”
“Naturally not,” growled Finch, still offended. “Joe asked me to keep quiet about it, and I did so.”
“Of course, Gimball himself wouldn’t have told anyone,” mused Ellery. “He stood apparently at some emotional crossroad; he had taken action and was making up his mind how to break the news. You know, it all tenors snugly. Bill Angell received a wire from Wilson — I suppose we should continue to differentiate between his personalities — yesterday morning, requesting him to come here last night on a matter of extreme urgency. He was in trouble, he wired. It’s obvious he meant to tell Bill the whole story, make a clean breast of his predicament, and ask his advice as to future procedure. I don’t doubt his own mind was made up, for he had changed his beneficiary to Lucy. But he was probably uneasy about how she would take the revelation that he was another man altogether. What do you think, Bill?”
“I’m past thinking,” said Bill dully. “But I imagine you’re right enough.”
“And that bulky envelope he left with you Friday? Has it occurred to you that it may contain the eight policies?”
“It has.”
“Well, it won’t take genius to determine that—”
“Mrs. Wilson,” said De Jong rudely. “Look at me.”
Lucy obeyed as if mesmerized; the bewilderment, the pain, the shock had not yet drained away from her sweet, strong features.
Bill growled: “I don’t like that tone of yours, De Jong.”
“Then lump it. Mrs. Wilson, did you know that Gimball was insured?”
“I?” she faltered. “I knew? No, really I didn’t... Joe didn’t carry any insurance. I’m sure he didn’t. I once asked him why, and he said he didn’t believe in such things.”
“Not the reason at all, of course,” drawled Ellery. “Insurance as Joe Wilson meant a medical examination, the signing of documents. And a man living constantly in the fear that his double life might be exposed would avoid signing his name whenever possible. That explains why he didn’t carry a checking account — a remote risk, but he must have been in the last stages of nervous exhaustion over the constant strain of maintaining the deception. I daresay he wrote as little as he could get by with.”
“You not only knew he carried insurance, Mrs. Wilson,” snapped De Jong, glaring at Ellery, “but maybe you persuaded him to change his beneficiary from Mrs. Gimball to yourself, hey?”
“De Jong—” warned Bill, stepping forward.
“Keep quiet, you!” The three people from New York were frozen. All at once something menacing had invaded the shabby room. De Jong’s face was very red, and the arteries in his temples bulged.
“I don’t know what you mean,” whispered Lucy. “I’ve told you I didn’t know he was anybody... I mean, anybody but Joe Wilson. How could I know about this lady?”
De Jong sneered, his nostrils derisive. Then he stepped to the side-door, opened it, crooked his finger. The small brown man who had brought Lucy to the shack came in, blinking a little in the light. “Sellers, tell me again for the benefit of these good people what you did when you drove up to Mrs. Wilson’s house in Philly last night.”
“I found the house, all right, got out of my car, and rang the bell,” replied the detective in a tired voice. “No answer. House dark. Just a private house, see? I waited on the porch a while, then I thought I’d take a look around. The back door was locked, like the front; cellar, too. I nosed around the garage. Doors shut. Iron staple across the door rusted and broken, no lock there at all. I opened the doors and switched on the light. Two-car garage, empty. Closed the doors again and went back to the porch and waited until Mrs. Wilson came—”
“That’s all, Sellers,” said De Jong; and the brown man went out. “Well, Mrs. Wilson, you didn’t drive into town to see that movie; you said yourself you took the trolley. Then where’s your car?”
“My car?” echoed Lucy feebly. “Why, that can’t be. He — he must have looked in the wrong garage. I was out driving by myself a bit yesterday afternoon and got back in the rain and put the car into the garage and closed the door myself. It was there. It is there.”
“Not if Sellers says it isn’t. Don’t know what happened to it, do you, Mrs. Wilson?”
“I just told you—”
“What make and year is it?”
“Not another word, Lu,” said Bill quietly. He strode forward until he stood chest to chest with the big policeman, and for a moment they glared into each other’s eyes. “De Jong, I don’t like the damned nasty implications in those questions of yours, d’ye understand? I forbid my sister to say another word.”
De Jong considered him in silence; then he smiled crookedly. “Now, hold your horses, Mr. Angell. You know this is just routine stuff. I’m not accusing anybody. Just trying to get at the facts.”
“Very laudable.” Bill turned abruptly to Lucy. “Come on, Lu; we’re getting out of here. Ellery, I’m sorry; but this bird’s just impossible. I’ll see you tomorrow here in Trenton — if you’re still with us.”
“I’ll be here,” said Ellery.
Bill helped Lucy into her coat and then led her like a child to the door.
“Just a moment, please,” said Andrea Gimball.
Bill stood still, the tips of his ears reddening. Lucy looked at the young girl in ermine as if she were seeing her for the first time, with a dazed curiosity. Andrea went to her and took her large soft hand. “I want you to know,” she said steadily, avoiding Bill’s eyes, “that I’m frightfully sorry about... everything. We’re not monsters, really we’re not. Please forgive us, my dear, if we’ve — we’ve said anything to hurt you. You’re a very brave and unfortunate woman.”
“Oh, thank you,” murmured Lucy. Her eyes filled with tears and she turned and ran out.
“Andrea!” said Mrs. Gimball in a shocked, furious voice. “How dare you — how can you—”
“Miss Gimball,” said Bill in a low voice. She looked at him then, and for a time he did not speak. “I won’t forget this.” He turned on his heel and followed Lucy. The door banged, and a moment later they heard Bill’s Pontiac puffing off in the direction of Camden. There was a defiant snort to the exhaust, and De Jong was white with rage. He lit a cigar with a trembling hand.