“I certainly do deny it,” replied the lawyer hoarsely. “I never saw the woman before she showed up on the Normandie. I was taken in just as the rest of you were. You can’t make me the goat, Queen! I thought she was really Margo Cole!”
“Ah,” said Mr. Queen; and his quiet sigh was so fat with satisfaction that Goossens stiffened and grew still. “You really thought she was Margo Cole.” Mr. Queen turned swiftly. “You heard that statement, Sampson? That’s the killer-diller. That’s a demonstrable lie!”
“What do you mean?” whispered Goossens.
“In this manila envelope,” replied Mr. Queen, handing it to the District Attorney, “is the plain evidence of your lie. It’s the third and completely incriminating article of evidence I promised to produce against you.
“It explains how you knew all about Margo Cole even before the Cole will was delivered to you. It explains how you happened to have in your possession all the proofs of Margo Cole’s identity. Shall I explain how that was?
“In 1925, when Margo Cole’s mother died in France, Margo left that country and came to the United States. She was penniless and probably too angry with Cadmus Cole to look him up. She drifted out to California — Mr. Rummell, who has been exceedingly busy in the past eight hours, and being instructed what to search for, has found the evidence and uncovered a good deal of the story. Margo Cole became a waitress in a Los Angeles restaurant.
“And-that’s where you met her, Goossens — while you were attending college in Los Angeles in 1926. You were twenty-five years old and already gorging wild oats. You got drunk one night and married Margo Cole! You kept that marriage secret even from your father. Your wife, the true Margo, died in Los Angeles shortly after, and you had her buried quickly and quietly, no doubt heaving a great sigh of relief at her having considerately got you out of a bad hole.
“In this manila envelope,” cried Mr. Queen, “are the photostats of two documents: Margo Cole’s death-certificate, in which she is recorded as Margo Cole Goossens, and your 1926 marriage license — wired East by radio at the behest of our invaluable Mr. Rummell, who must be pretty tired by this time.
“Of course, since I knew that Ann Bloomer’s partner must have furnished her with the proofs of Margo Cole’s identity, it was an alluring possibility that he possessed those proofs through the most plausible means in the world — marriage to Margo Cole. And it was this conjecture of mine that sent Mr. Rummell on his successful all-night, transcontinental telephone, telegraph, and radio-photographic mission. Satisfied, Goossens?”
But Goossens only sank into his chair, as if the weight of his body were suddenly insupportable, and he covered his face with his trembling hands.
And thus it came to pass that on a certain improbably glorious day in late September Mr. Beau Rummell said to Miss Kerrie Shawn: “Well, funny-face, where do we go from here?”
“First,” said Miss Shawn, “we clean up our affairs — I mean mine. You know, the estate, and all that poky business. Who’s running it now, darling? Of course, Mr. De Carlos and Mr. Goossens—”
“The Surrogate will probably appoint some bank to act as trustee for the estate.”
“It doesn’t make much difference.” Kerrie sighed. “As soon as that’s settled, and the... the trial is over, we’ll find ourselves forgotten, ignored, and poor as church-mice.”
“Poor? You’re barmy!”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? We’re going to be married. And then we’ll live unhappily ever after. Beau Rummell, you need a shave!”
“Are we back on that marriage theme again?” growled Beau. “After all the trouble I went to to save that beautiful boodle of dough for you. Kerrie, I simply won’t—”
And so, after Lloyd Goossens’s trial and conviction, Mr. Rummell and Miss Shawn were married, and they began to live unhappily ever after. It was an authentic marriage this time, complete with accredited parson, verified license, the proper number of witnesses, and half the reporters in the world, who were curious to see a young woman in this crass age so out of tune with the spirit of man that she would give up “a fortune,” as they unanimously expressed it, “for love.”
Of course, there were gifts. Inspector Queen, who felt he owed Kerrie something, sent a set of handsome Swedish silver cutlery. Violet Day sent — silently — a beautiful Lalique flower-bowl. It took her last cent. The gifts from Hollywood were modest but legion.
Strangely, Mr. Ellery Queen sent nothing. Mr. Rummell was hurt.
“It’s not the idea of the gift, y’understand,” he complained to Kerrie, “but after all—”
“Perhaps he’s sick, Beau.”
“Say, I never thought of that!” Beau became alarmed. “I haven’t seen him for days—”
They took a cab to the Queen apartment. Mr. Queen was out. Mr. Queen was at the office of Ellery Queen, Inc.
“Office?” exclaimed Beau. “He must be sick!”
But they found Mr. Queen ensconced in his swivel-chair the veritable mirror of health and spirits.
“Ah, the newlyweds,” said Mr. Queen, hastening to bestow a partner’s kiss on the bride. “How’s married life?”
“Never mind that,” snapped Beau. “Where you been keeping yourself? You ducked out after the wedding—”
“I’ve been sitting here in this lonely tomb,” murmured Mr. Queen, “reflecting. On life’s little ironies. By the way, why aren’t you two in a nice, expensive place for your honeymoon?”
“Because we can’t afford it,” said Kerrie. “And Atlantic City was so lovely.”
“Yeah, I’m still getting that taffy out of my teeth,” said Beau. “I’d have been around sooner, El, only you know how it is. Just married, have to scout around for a flat—”
“Atlantic City — flat!” Mr. Queen looked horrified. “What are you thinking of?”
“The old budget,” said Beau. He wore the faintly hang-dog look of the hopelessly married man. “I can’t afford to kid around, Ellery. As soon as we get settled, I’ll come back to the office and start peddling the old personality again. You know. Confidential Matters Handled Confidentially? Give Us a Try — We Never Fail. The old grind—”
“Not a bit of it,” said Mr. Queen firmly. “I’m scouting around myself. For a new partner.”
“What?” yelled Beau. “Hey, what is this? What’s the matter with me?”
“My good man, you’re through — fini.”
Beau looked stricken. “But, Ellery... for the love of Mike... I’ve got to make a living, don’t I?”
“Not at all.”
“And besides,” said Beau angrily, “what d’ye mean I’m through! Whose dough is it, anyway, in this dump? You’re one hell of a guy. I never thought you’d—”
Kerrie patted her husband’s swelling biceps gently. “Can’t you see the gentleman has something up his sleeve? Be quiet and listen, Beau!”
“You see,” said Mr. Queen dreamily, while Beau gawped at him, “I sat here after your wedding in a perfect dither of thought, and the main thought ran: What can I give those two idiots for a wedding present?”
Kerrie laughed. Beau blushed.
“Shall it be,” continued Mr. Queen, “a First Folio, or the 1856 British Guiana number thirteen, or one of the crown jewels of some illustrious potentate, or a ten-room house completely furnished, with interior murals by Rivera? No, I said to myself, too common, too mundane. My gift to Mr. and Mrs. Rummell must be of the essence, gargantuan, crème de la crème, epical. And, do you know, I’ve hit it?”