“All that may be true, Queen,” said Pollinger. “But if it is, why the devil did he commit bigamy with this society woman?”
“Ambition, perhaps. The Bordens are multi-millionaires. And while Gimball came of blooded stock, I seem to recall that of late years they’ve been comparatively impoverished. And then old Jasper Borden has no sons. A weak but ambitious man might not be able to resist the temptation — possibly the pressure laid on by a mother of the type he had. Old lady Gimball was a virago; she used to be called by the boudoir gossips the Old Battle-Axe of the Republic. I shouldn’t be surprised if, unaware of the mess he was in, she pushed him into the bigamous marriage.”
The two Trenton men glanced at each other. “Probably true,” remarked the prosecutor. “I talked with Mrs. Gimball this morning and from all indications it was one of those marriages of convenience — at least on Gimball’s side.”
Bill Angell stirred. “I don’t see what all this has to do with me. May I go now?”
“Wait a minute, mister,” said De Jong. “How about Wilson? I mean, as Wilson did he make a will?”
“I’m sure he didn’t. If he had, he would have come to me.”
“Everything’s in your sister’s name?”
“Yes. Both cars, the house — he owned that free and clear.”
“And the million.” De Jong sat down in his swivel-chair. “And the million. Nice wad for a good-looking young widow.”
“One of these days, De Jong,” smiled Bill, “I’m going to ram that damned hyena grin of yours down your filthy throat.”
“Why, you—”
“Now, now,” said Pollinger hastily. “There’s no need for this sort of thing. You’ve brought your sister’s marriage certificate, Mr. Angell?”
Glaring at the policeman, Bill threw a document on the desk. “Hmm,” said Pollinger. “We’ve already checked with the Philadelphia records. No question about it. He married Lucy Angell two years before his marriage with this Borden woman. It’s a mess.”
Bill snatched back the certificate. “Damned right it’s a mess — with my sister on the receiving end of the swill!”
“Nobody is—”
“Furthermore, we want custody of that body. He was Lucy’s husband and it’s our legal right to bury him. There’s going to be no argument about that. I’m getting a court order tomorrow. There’s not a judge in this State who wouldn’t award the burial right to Lucy on this evidence of marriage priority!”
“Oh, now, look here, Angell,” said Pollinger uneasily. “After all, isn’t that rubbing it in? These New York people are rather powerful; and he was Joseph Kent Gimball, you know. It wouldn’t be right—”
“Right?” said Bill grimly. “Who’s thinking of my sister’s rights? Do you think you can wipe out ten years of a woman’s life with one smear? Do you think I’m afraid of that crowd just because they’ve got position and money? I’ll see ’em in hell first!” And he stamped out, his mouth working. The three men remained silent until the clatter of his footsteps on the stairs ceased.
“I told you,” remarked Ellery, “that Bill Angell was a man of parts. And don’t underestimate his ability as a lawyer, either.”
“Now what do you mean by that?” snapped the prosecutor.
Ellery picked up his hat. “To garble Cicero a little — prudence is the knowledge of things to be shunned as well as those to be sought. Beware the Ides of March, and all that sort of thing. ’Voir.”
It was nine-thirty on Monday morning when Ellery, in natty olive gabardine and Panama, presented himself at the executive offices of the National Life Insurance Company in its handsome house on lower Madison Avenue in New York. He had spent a cloistered Sunday at home, mulling over the case between the alimentary ministrations of Djuna and the rather cynical comments of his father the Inspector; and despite the vernal gaiety of his costume he was far from cheerful.
A brisk young woman with a toothpaste smile, in the anteroom to the office lettered Office of the Executive Vice-President, raised her brows at his card. “Mr. Finch wasn’t expecting you so early, Mr. Queen. He isn’t down yet. Wasn’t your appointment for ten?”
“If it was, I wasn’t informed. I’ll wait. Any notion what your precious Mr. Finch wants to see me about?”
“Ordinarily,” she smiled, “I should say no. But since you’re a detective, I suppose there’s no point in dissembling. Mr. Finch telephoned me at home yesterday afternoon and told me all about it. It’s about this frightful business in Trenton, and I believe Mrs. Gimball is to be here, too. Won’t you wait in Mr. Finch’s private office?”
Ellery followed her into a palatial blue-and-ivory room that looked like a motion-picture set. “I seem to be moving in golden circles these days,” he observed. “That’s metaphoric, not literal, Miss Zachary — isn’t that the name?”
“However did you know? Have a seat, Mr. Queen.” She hurried to the oversized desk and brought back a box. “Cigaret?”
“No, thanks.” Ellery sank into a blue leather chair. “I believe I’ll smoke my pipe.”
“Would you like to try some of Mr. Finch’s tobacco?”
“That’s one invitation no confirmed pipe-smoker turns down.” The young woman brought him a large jar from the desk, and he filled his pipe. “Mmm. Not bad. Very good, in fact. What is it?”
“Oh, dear, I don’t know; I’m stupid about these things. It’s a special blend, foreign or something, sold by Pierre of Fifth Avenue. Would you care to have me send you some?”
“Oh, now, really—”
“Mr. Finch won’t mind. I’ve done it before. Oh, good-morning, Mr. Finch.” The young woman smiled again and went out.
“Bright and early, I see,” said Finch as they shook hands. “Well, well, this business becomes more sickening by the hour. Have you seen the morning papers?”
Ellery grimaced. “The usual orgy.”
“Frightful.” The tall man put away his hat and stick, sat down, fiddled with his mail, lit a cigaret. Suddenly he looked up. “See here, Queen, there’s no point in beating around the bush. I talked to Hathaway and some of the directors early yesterday. We’ve agreed that, from the company’s standpoint, action must be taken.”
“Action?” Ellery raised his brows politely.
“You must admit that on the surface the thing looks suspicious. We’re making no accusations, but... Excuse me. That must be Jessica.” Miss Zachary opened the door to admit Mrs. Gimball, Andrea, and two men.
In thirty-six hours Andrea’s mother had become an old woman, Ellery saw at once. She leaned heavily on her daughter’s arm, and the eyes she raised in greeting were lifeless. In the clear light cleaving Finch’s windows Ellery read the strangulation of a narrow, proud, and inhibited spirit. She could barely walk, and in silence Finch led her to a chair.
When he straightened, his face was troubled. “Mr. Queen, meet Senator Frueh, the Borden attorney.” Ellery shook the flaccid hand of a florid, paunchy little man whose shrewd eyes appraised him coldly from a face chiefly remarkable for its beard. Frueh was well-known to him by reputation: an ex-Senator of the Federal Congress, his private practice was arrogantly gilt-edged, and his bearded face was constantly being displayed in the news columns. It was an Olympian brush of the bifurcated variety, reddish in color, and reaching to his chest. He seemed proud of it; his fat hand played with it incessantly. “And this is Burke Jones, Miss Gimball’s fiancé. I didn’t expect to see you today, Burke.”
“I thought I might be of service,” said Jones in what Ellery thought was a peculiar diffidence. He was a large young man with calfish empty eyes, a skin burned walnut by the sun, and a slouch. His right arm was trussed in a sling. “Hullo. So you’re Queen, eh? I’ve been reading your books for years.” He said it as if Ellery were one of the better-known monstrosities of a freak show.