“You bad girl!” cried Kinumé, her slanted eyes flashing.
“You shut up!”
“Please,” said Dr. MacClure; and the white girl took fright again and fled. The Loo-choo jay squawked again. “Take the damned thing out of here,” said the doctor wearily.
“Birds,” said Terry Ring; he looked disgusted.
“You may go,” said Ellery to Kinumé; and she bowed humbly and took the caged bird away.
Ellery was just smoothing out the ball of Japanese stationery on the writing-desk when a fat little man in a crushed linen suit and carrying a briefcase bustled in, mopping his bald spot.
“I’m Morel,” he announced in a squeak. “Miss Leith’s lawyer. Hello, Inspector. Hello, Miss MacClure. Ah, tragedy. The work of some madman, no doubt. And you — I’ve seen your picture — Mr. Ellery Queen, of course.” He offered a wet hand.
“Yes,” said Ellery. “I think you know everyone, then, but Mr. Ring.”
“Mr. Ring,” said Morel, squinting. “How do.” Terry Ring looked at the wet hand. “Uh... now, Mr. Queen, just what—”
“Have you read this letter?”
“Yesterday. Odd that she didn’t finish it. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she was — I mean, before she could finish—” The lawyer coughed.
“Then who crumpled it?” said Terry Ring disdainfully.
Ellery glanced at him and then read the letter. It was written in a small, almost scientifically precise script, and it was dated Monday afternoon.
“Dear Moreclass="underline"
“My records show that I have certain moneys outstanding in Europe in payment for foreign rights. The largest item is in Germany, as you know, chiefly because since the Nazi law went into effect German publishers may not send money out of the country. I want you to check over the whole list at once, thoroughly and completely — there’s something due from Spain, Italy, France, and Hungary on book royalties, and a few odd newspaper and serial items from Denmark, Sweden, and so on — and try to effect immediate payments. See if you can’t make some sort of reciprocal arrangement between Hardesty and Fertig; I understand a paper exchange of credits has been effected by some authors as between their English agents and German publishers.”
“How is it,” asked Ellery, looking up, “that Miss Leith asks you to check up on her foreign royalties, Mr. Morel? Didn’t she have a literary representative?”
“Didn’t believe in them. Trusted me absolutely. I’ve been her attorney and agent and heaven knows what else.”
Ellery went on to the second paragraph:
Morel, I want you to do something for me. It is a matter of the utmost importance, and extremely confidential. I know I can trust you never to expo—”
“Hmm,” said Ellery. “Stopped before she explained. I think Terry’s right. She simply changed her mind.”
“It’s important to know what she was referring to,” squeaked Morel. “I want most definitely to know.”
“Who doesn’t?” growled Terry; and Dr. MacClure and Eva went to the writing-desk to read the letter together.
The big man shook his head. “The only thing I can think of that’s important and confidential is a will.”
“No, sir. No, sir. Miss Leith told me only last week that she was eminently satisfied with her will as it stood.”
“She died testate, then?” demanded Ellery.
“Yes. She willed her estate on liquidation to be split into literary endowments for the benefit of several institutions of learning—”
“Colleges,” said Terry, interpreting. He seemed to dislike Morel.
“One endowment,” proceeded the lawyer stiffly, “goes to the Imperial University of Tokyo. She taught there, you know, after her father died.”
“So Dr. MacClure has told me. How about personal bequests?”
“None.”
“But didn’t she intend to change her will in view of her coming marriage with Dr. MacClure?”
“She did not, sir.”
“Wasn’t necessary,” said the doctor tonelessly. “My own income is considerably larger than hers, and she knew it.”
“Just screwy, the whole thing,” decided Terry.
“But didn’t anyone — I mean, any individual — stand to gain by her death?”
“Not a living soul,” squeaked Morel promptly. “Miss Leith had a large annual income from the estate of a long-deceased paternal relative — a great-aunt, I think. Under the terms of the aunt’s will Miss Leith was to receive the income until she attained the age of forty, after which the principal also became hers.”
“Then she died a wealthy woman?”
“Depends,” said the lawyer, “what you mean. Wealth — ha, ha! — is a comparative term. Well-cushioned, I should say.”
“But I thought you said she had inherited a fortune?”
“Oh, not yet! Fact is, she died before the stipulated age for the turning over of the fortune. That is, she died before forty — her fortieth birthday was to have been in October. Missed it by a month, b’George!”
“That’s... interesting, to say the least.”
“Or rather unfortunate. You see, the aunt’s will provided against that contingency, too. If Miss Leith died before she reached the age of forty, the entire aunt’s estate was to go to Miss Leith’s nearest blood-relative.”
“Who is?”
“No one at all. She hadn’t any. Absolutely alone in the world. Told me so herself. And so now the aunt’s estate goes to certain charities specifically provided for in the aunt’s will.”
Inspector Queen scratched his jaw. “Dr. MacClure, was there any disappointed suitor in Miss Leith’s life?”
“No. I was her first — and last.”
“Mr. Morel,” said Ellery, “do you know anything about Miss Leith’s private affairs which might give us a clue to her murder?”
Morel swabbed his bald spot again. “Does this answer you? She told me not long ago that she hadn’t an enemy in the world.”
Terry Ring said: “That’s what she thought.”
Morel looked at him with two bright little eyes, murmured something Delphic, bobbed, and took himself and his briefcase off without ever having opened it. Eva wondered rather hysterically why he had brought it at all.
And Ellery said: “You know, that’s strange. Here’s a woman with everything to live for, to whom death could only have been the cruelest misfortune. She was famous — she had just achieved one of the highest honors possible to an American author. She was potentially — almost immediately — very rich: in a month she was to have inherited a fortune. She was happy, and had every prospect of becoming happier — in a short time she was to have been married to the man of her choice... And suddenly, in the midst of all this beatitude, she’s struck down by an assassin.”
“It’s beyond me,” muttered Dr. MacClure.
“Why do people commit murder? For gain? But no one stood to gain a single penny by her death, except a few public institutions which can scarcely be suspected of homicide. For jealousy? But there was obviously no love-entanglement in her life — this was not a crime passionel. For hate? But you heard what Morel said — she hadn’t an enemy. It’s certainly strange.”
“I wish I knew what to suggest,” said the doctor. There was a stiffness about him that made Eva avert her face.
“That lawyer mightn’t have been so far wrong at that,” said Terry Ring suddenly. “A lunatic.”
And they were silent
Finally Ellery said: “Sit down, Miss MacClure. This is brutal for you people, I know. But I may need you. Sit down.”
“Thank you,” said Eva faintly. “I... I believe I will.” She sat down on the edge of the low bed.