“I don’t know what else I can say or do to prove I’m Margo Cole, but if you want to hear the story of my life—”
“We’d like to very much,” said the lawyer politely; but he glanced at Beau, and Beau’s left eyelid drooped. In Goossens’s desk there was the copy of a compendious report submitted by the French agency Beau had engaged weeks before.
The report carried Margo Cole’s history from infancy in Paris through the year 1925, where — they had been puzzled by this — the trail ended. But now the two men realized what had happened. Margo Cole’s change of name in that year to Ann Strange had brought the French operatives up against the back wall of a blind alley.
Margo described her life in detail from the time her mother took her from Paris as a baby until her mother’s death. After that she had drifted back to Paris and become a mannequin.
Margo looked demure. “I earned enough, and had sufficiently kind and rich friends,” she murmured, “to enable me to... retire, so to speak, in ’32. Since then I’ve been drifting about — the Riviera, Cannes, Deauville, Monte Carlo, Capri, the usual dull places in Europe. It hasn’t been too exciting.”
“Then somebody missed a bet,” said Beau. “Ever been married, Miss Cole?”
“Oh, no! It’s so much more fun having your freedom, don’t you agree, Mr. Queen?”
“Mr. Queen” grinned, and Goossens said: “Glad you think so, Miss Cole, because your uncle’s will... Of course, to complete the check-up, we’ll have to cable our French friends to verify your movements since 1925—make sure about your state of single blessedness...”
In two weeks everything was complete. The French agency reported that Margo Cole’s account of her activities since 1925, under the name of Ann Strange, was true in every detail. She had never been married. The French report also went into corollary matters concerning Miss Strange-Cole’s career in “the usual dull places in Europe,” but Goossens discreetly ignored them; he was responsible for facts, not morals.
Miss Cole, upon hearing the conditions of her uncle’s will, did not hesitate. She accepted, and to the accompaniment of an admiring press and public curiosity moved regally into the mansion at Tarrytown.
“Now that your work is done,” she murmured to Beau, “you won’t desert poor little me? I feel so lost in this strange, big country. You’ll come to see me — often?”
And she squeezed his hand ever so lightly.
They were in one of the formal gardens on the estate. No one was about, but Beau had caught the flicker of a curtain in a window of Kerrie’s Shawn’s bedroom.
He took the smiling woman in his arms suddenly and kissed her, She was still smiling when he released her.
“And what makes you think, Mr. Queen,” said Margo, “that I wanted you to do that?”
“I’m psychic,” said Beau. He watched the curtain. It fluttered violently and then was still.
“You clever man,” murmured Kerrie’s cousin. “And the dear little thing is so jealous. Do come again — soon.”
In the office of Ellery Queen, Inc., Confidential Investigations, Mr. Ellery Queen surveyed his partner sympathetically. Back from the Adirondacks, Mr. Queen, while leaner than usual, was browned and fit; but his partner was haggard, and two creases, like quotation marks, separated his gloomy eyes.
“I always knew you were mercenary,” said Mr. Queen, “but I didn’t think you were a quitter.”
“It isn’t the dough, I tell you! All right, it wasn’t much of a job, and Goossens and De Carlos insist Cole’s retainer of fifteen grand, plus expenses, was ample to cover it—”
“Princely,” agreed Mr. Queen.
“But the job’s over! Our agreement was that we’d find the two women. That’s what we were hired to do, we’ve done it, and we’re through. What more do you want?”
“I want,” replied Mr. Queen calmly, “to know why Cadmus Cole was so mysterious about the nature of our assignment. I want to know why he didn’t tell us the simple truth. I want to know what was at the back of his head.”
“Go see a medium!”
“Did he expect to be murdered? Was he murdered? And if so, who murdered him? And why? Cole may have hired us primarily to answer these questions, and for some obscure reason chose not to say so. But if that’s the case, we’re not through—”
“And fifteen grand doesn’t begin to pay for the job,” growled Beau, “and try to get more out of Goossens and De Carlos. You feeling like John D. these days?”
Mr. Queen said abruptly: “Beau, this isn’t like you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“There’s a reason for your unwillingness to go on with this investigation, and I don’t think it’s money. What is it?”
Beau glared at him. “All right, Master-Mind. There’s a reason, and it’s not money, it’s a dame. So what?”
“Ah,” said Mr. Queen. “Miss Shawn?”
“I’m not saying!” shouted Beau. “Anyway, I think she — sort of took a shine to me, and I can’t hang around and ball up her life, that’s all! She — this girl can’t afford to fall in love!”
“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Queen. “Deplorable situation. Well, then, make it plain you’re not in love with her — or are you?”
“None of your business,” snapped Beau.
“Hmm. Well, sir, since you’re in love with her, sooner or later you’re going to crawl back, you know. So you may as well do it now. I can’t take over, because you’re supposed to be Queen, and exposing our little fraud would mean, for one thing, having to give back that fifteen thousand, for another possibly alarming some one who’d be better off unalarmed.”
“But what excuse would I have to keep going back there?” Beau looked sullen. “Goossens and De Carlos gave me the bum’s rush yesterday, Kerrie’s sore at me... Of course, there’s Margo—”
“Of course there is,” said Mr. Queen. “A female who apparently enjoys your society. There’s no law against a young man calling on a female for social reasons. Just keep your eyes open. Hang around. Watch. I have a compelling feeling,” said Mr. Queen reflectively, “that there’s going to be trouble.”
“Trouble? There’s plenty now! Say...” Beau looked alarmed. “What d’ye mean — trouble?”
Mr. Queen smiled. “Beau, has it occurred to you that this whole thing arose out of a man named Cadmus?”
Beau stared. “Cadmus? Cadmus Cole? So what?”
“Don’t you remember the legend of Cadmus, or Kadmos, King of Sidon, who founded Thebes and brought the sixteen-letter alphabet to Greece?”
“No,” said Beau. “I don’t.”
“Where were you educated?” sighed Mr. Queen. “At any rate, mythology tells us that Cadmus went on a quest — those old mythological boys were always going on quests — and suffered many hardships and perils, and one of the silly things he had to do was sow the dragon’s teeth.”
“Look, friend,” said Beau. “I’ve gotta amble on up—”
“The dragon’s teeth,” repeated Mr. Queen thoughtfully. “Quite. Quite. Cadmus sowed the dragon’s teeth, and out of each tooth sprang — trouble. Trouble, Beau!”
“Oh,” said Mr. Rummell quietly.
“Our own Cadmus sowed a few dragon’s teeth himself when he wrote that will,” said Mr. Queen. “So watch, Beau. Everybody — especially De Carlos.”
“De Carlos!” Beau grew angry. “Yeah, De Carlos. I don’t like the way that baboon looks at Kerrie. And living in the same house... Maybe you’re right. Maybe I ought to stick around.”
Mr. Queen smiled. “And now that that’s settled, what have you heard from Santiago de Cuba?”
“No progress so far. Angus and the Argonaut’s crew have simply disappeared... Excuse me,” said Beau, preoccupied. “I think I’ll mosey on up to Tarrytown to see — Margo.”