Ellery stared out the window at the flooring of cloud they were gliding over, and he nodded. “It’s much likelier we’re dealing with Miss Smarty Pants. Who lifted something belonging to the other two and deliberately left all the articles — her own included — on the scene in order to spread the inevitable suspicion and so, so to speak, distribute her guilt. She knew that she and the other two ex-wives were the natural — in fact, the only viable — suspects. Since all three had identical motive, opportunity, and access to the weapon — in effect, making herself one-third of a suspect instead of a standout individual.”
“Unless it was a conspiracy,” Inspector Queen mused. “The three of them, recognizing they were all in the same boat, ganging up on Benedict.”
“That’s the one situation in which they wouldn’t have left clues to themselves at all,” Ellery retorted. “No, it was just one of them.”
“But you aren’t satisfied.”
“Well, no,” Ellery said, “I’m not.”
“What’s bugging you?”
“The whole thing.”
The plane hummed along.
“And another thing,” the Inspector said. “Why did I let you con me into promising Newby I’d follow through on this Laura woman? God knows I carry a heavy enough case load as it is! And suppose we find her — so what? I can’t see how she could possibly be implicated.”
“Unless Johnny told her something.”
“Like what? Spell it out for an old illiterate.”
“You also weren’t cut out to be a comedian! She has to be found, dad, you know that, long shot or not. It shouldn’t be too hard. He must certainly have been seen with her in public. Marsh can tell you Johnny’s favorite haunts.”
“Newby also asked me to check out the three exes,” his father grumbled.
“Noblesse oblige. Some day Anse may be able to help you out on a tough Manhattan homicide.”
“And you’re the lousy comic’s son,” the Inspector said tartly; after which they flew in silence.
But not all the way. Because ten minutes out of Kennedy Ellery suddenly said, as if they had never stopped talking, “Of course, this is all on the assumption that Johnny was slugged by Marcia, or Audrey, or Alice. Suppose he wasn’t.”
“You suppose,” his father retorted. “My supposer is all tired out. Who else could it have been?”
“Al Marsh.”
The Inspector swerved in his seat. “Why in hell should Marsh have knocked Benedict off?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s independently wealthy, or if he’s in financial trouble he certainly didn’t stand to gain anything under Benedict’s wills. He was also Benedict’s personal attorney, confidant, closest friend — what earthly reason would Marsh have to splash Benedict’s brains all over the place?”
“I told you, I don’t know. But we do know he had the same opportunity and access to the weapon that the three women had. So all he lacks is motive to be as suspect as they are. If you’re going to lend Newby a hand, dad, I suggest you dig into Marsh and see if you can come up with a possible motive. My offhand guess would be women.”
“Laura?” the Inspector said instantly.
Ellery looked out the window.
“I love the way you assign the work,” his father said, sinking back. “Any other little thing?”
“Yes.” Ellery’s nose wrinkled. “And this one makes me feel like a heel.”
“No kidding. Let me in on it.”
“Leslie Carpenter. It’s a thousand-to-one shot, but... check out her alibi for last Saturday night.”
And so, with the jet touching down on a runway in the Borough of — by coincidence — Queens, their vacation came to an end and one of Ellery’s queerest cases began.
2. The Second Life
WRIGHTSVILLE, April 9 (API) — The nationwide search for “Laura Doe” has turned up 48 Laura Does who claim to be the mysteriously missing fiancèe of the late John Levering Benedict III, millionaire playboy murdered on the night of March 28–29 on his hideaway estate in New England.
Anselm Newby, chief of police of Wrightsville, where the crime took place, believes that there has been a misunderstanding on the part of the public. “Doe is a name given by the law to people whose last names are not known,” Chief Newby said in a statement issued today. “We do not know the missing Laura’s family name. It is almost certainly not Doe. That would have to be a miracle.”
Sergeant Thomas Velie: Your name is?
Claimant: Laura-Lou Loverly.
Sgt. V.: Beg pardon?
Cl.: It used to be Podolsky. But it’s Loverly now.
Sgt. V.: Address?
Cl.: It’s that big apartment house on West 73rd and Amsterdam. I can never remember the number.
Sgt. V.: New York City.
Cl.: Where else?
Sgt. V.: Your letter claims you’re the Laura that John Levering Benedict the Three promised to marry. Tell me the circumstances, Miss Podolsky.
Cl.: Loverly. Notice how close it is to Levering?
Sgt. V.: How long you been calling yourself Loverly?
Cl.: Since way before, don’t worry.
Sgt. V.: Since way before when?
Cl.: Before I met this john.
Sgt. V.: Okay. The circumstances of your meeting.
Cl.: Well, this particular evening he was up in my apartment, see?
Sgt. V.: Doing what?
Cl.: What do johns usually do in a girl’s apartment?
Sgt. V.: You tell me, lady.
Cl.: I don’t believe I care for your tone of voice, Officer. You can’t talk to me like I’m some ten-dollar trick.
Sgt. V.: How did he happen to be in your apartment?
Cl.: A girl can have relationships with people, can’t she? Johnny phoned me. For like an appointment.
Sgt. V.: Did he identify himself as John Levering Benedict Three?
Cl.: Are you kidding? Who listens to names in my set?
Sgt. V.: Where did he get your phone number?
Cl.: We had mutual friends.
Sgt. V.: Like for instance.
Cl.: Oh, no. You ain’t got — haven’t some pigeon here. I don’t drag my friends into fuzzyland.
Sgt. V.: All right. Describe this Johnny.
Cl.: Dressed?
Sgt. V.: I’m not interested in his wardrobe. I mean color of eyes, hair, height, weight, build, scars, birthmarks, and etcetera.
Cl.: To tell the truth, it’s kind of hazy. With all the men-friends I got. I mean, but it was the same john, believe you me. I recognized him right off from the news photos. Look, Sarge, he was sloshed to the eyebrows that night. So he wants to know — like they do — how I got into the life. You know. So I give him the usual sob story and, so help me, he starts crying on my bozoom. “You poor, poor kid,” he says, “what a lousy bitch of a break. You deserve better. Every girl does. So you know what, Laura-Lou? I’m going to marry you.” Just like that, so help me. Of course, I didn’t take him serious, you understand. Not until I read—
Sgt. V.: Date.