As a routine matter we have checked out Leslie Carpenter’s whereabouts on the night of Saturday — Sunday, March 28–29. She has an airtight alibi for the general time-period of the crime. She was in Washington, D.C., from late afternoon of Friday, March 27, to the evening of Sunday, March 29, attending a two-day Urban Corps conference. Every hour of Miss Carpenter’s time during those two days is accounted for.
There is nothing further to report on Audrey Weston and Marcia Kemp. Both are keeping pretty much to their Manhattan apartments. If they have seen an attorney about the will situation we do not have any information. I assume there is similarly nothing from your end on Alice Tierney.
I will soon be sending you a background report on Al Marsh, per your request. Best personal regards.
Richard Queen,
“On Marsh?” Ellery said, reaching across the Inspector’s desk.
Inspector Queen ignored the hand. “You can look at it later. There’s nothing in it you don’t know about him except you never mentioned that Al isn’t his real name.”
“I never mentioned it because, if you were a friend of Al’s in our Harvard days, you were quickly conditioned not to. I suppose the report notes that he was christened Aubrey, as in C. Aubrey Smith, rest his stiff-upper soul. Anyone who called Al Aubrey like as not wound up with a shiner or a bloody nose.”
“According to one source,” the Inspector said, “‘Aubrey’ was an inspiration of his mama’s. I can’t say I blame him. It’s a hell of a tag for a grown man to have to tote around.”
“Al once told me that when he was in grammar and prep school — private, of course, about which he was surprisingly bitter — he had to lick every kid in his grade before he made the ‘Al’ stick. ‘Al’ doesn’t stand for Albert, or Alfred, or Aloysius, by the way — for just Al, period.”
“His fancy ancestors must be swinging in their graves.”
“By the time he got to Harvard he was too big to tackle even in fun. He was a varsity back and he won the Ivy League wrestling title in his weight class. I doubt if anybody in the Yard knew his name was Aubrey except his most intimate pals, and we had more sense than to bring it up. But I never did learn much about his family background. Al didn’t talk about it.”
The Inspector scanned the report. “His father came from a line of international bankers and high society. His mother, it says here, was a Rushington, whatever that is. Marsh Senior was killed in the crash of his private plane just after Al was born.”
“That might explain something,” Ellery said. “He used to talk about his mother all the time. Never about his father.”
“Mrs. Marsh never remarried, even though she was a young woman when her husband died. She devoted the rest of her active life to Aubrey, and when she became an invalid he returned the service — looked after her like a nurse. The feeling among his friends is that that’s why he never got married. And by the time his mother kicked off he was a confirmed bachelor.”
“His mother left everything to him, of course.”
“What else?”
“How much?”
“Loads. Marsh isn’t as rich as Benedict was, but after the first few millions is there any difference?”
“Then Al is rock-solid financially.”
“Like the Chase National Bank.”
“No trouble? Gambling, bad investments, anything like that?”
“No. He’s pretty much a conservative where money is concerned. He doesn’t gamble at all.”
“So there’s no motive.”
“Not a whimper. He doesn’t gain from any of Benedict’s wills, he wouldn’t need it if he did, and every source we’ve tapped indicates that he’s a topflight attorney with a reputation for absolute personal honesty as well as professional competence.”
But Ellery persisted. “That kind of conclusion depends on the reliability of the source. Have you been able to investigate his handling of Johnny’s affairs?”
“Yes, and as far as we can tell it’s all legal and above-board. Granted we couldn’t be sure without a plant inside, what could Marsh hope to accomplish by diddling with Benedict’s funds? It could only be for a financial reason, and we’re absolutely positive Marsh has no money worries whatsoever. Anyway, most of Benedict’s capital is under the management of Brown, Brown, Mattawan, Brown, and Loring, that old-line law firm, and not under Marsh’s at all.”
“How about women?”
“How about them?”
“I mean a possible romantic rivalry.”
“Nothing. What we’ve dug out indicates that Marsh has never been involved with any number on Benedict’s hit parade except, on occasion, in his legal capacity, when Benedict wanted to pay some girl off or make some sort of settlement on her to close the book when he’d got tired of her.”
“And the ex-wives?”
Inspector Queen shook his head. “Nothing there, either. Marsh got to know them through Benedict, except the Kemp girl, and his contacts with them were strictly as Benedict’s friend and, in the course of time, as Benedict’s attorney. Anyway, Marsh’s preference in women is the opposite of Benedict’s. Marsh goes for small, feminine-type females.”
Ellery grinned. “Al once showed me a photo of his mother. She was a small, feminine-type female.”
His father frowned. “Will you clear out of my office and let me do some of my own work?” The Inspector had an old-fashioned sense of propriety, and cracks about possibly unhealthy mother-son relationships did not amuse him. As Ellery was opening the door the old man asked, “Where you off to now?”
“I thought of something I want to ask Al about Johnny. I’ll tell you about it later.”
Mr. Marsh, Miss Smith said, was tied up with a client and could not under any circumstances be disturbed. Anyway, Mr. Marsh never saw anyone except by appointment. Unless, her hostile glance suggested, it was the kind of snoop business that experience had taught her to associate with the presence of one Ellery Queen? Miss Smith’s tone and demeanor were such that, had she been barefoot, love-beaded, and unkempt, she would have spat the word “pig” at him, with an appropriate modifying obscenity; as it was, being a lady and the product of a no doubt Victorian mother, she could only resort to the subtleties of eye-and vocal cord-play to express her loathing.
Mr. Queen, ever the gentleman in the presence of a lady, scribbled a few words and asked with utter politesse that Miss Smith in her secretarial capacity convey the note to Mr. Marsh, client notwithstanding.
Miss Smith: I can’t do that.
Mr. Queen: You astonish me, Miss Smith. It may be that you will not do that, or that you may not do that, but that you cannot do it — since you seem normally ambulatory and otherwise in unimpaired possession of your physical faculties — I do not for an instant believe.
Miss Smith: How you do go on. You think you’re smart. You’re the kind who makes fun of people.
Mr. Queen: I’m emphatically nothing of the sort. I simply feel it my duty to the cause of semantic hygiene never to allow a grammatical slovenliness to go uncleansed.
Miss Smith: You must have a real dandy time all by yourself listening to the radio and TV commercials pollute the English language.
Mr. Queen: Miss Smith, how marvelous! You have a sense of humor! Now will you take that note in to Al, like I asked you?
Miss Smith: You made a booboo! You said ‘like’ instead of ‘as’!
Mr. Queen: Alas, so I did. Demonstrating the fallibility of even the purest purist. The note, Miss Smith?