“I’m working,” the Inspector said bitterly.
“I’m not,” Ellery said.
“Les?”
“No, thanks,” Benedict’s heir said with a shudder.
“I mean,” Ellery went on, “there are no regulations on my job. Sorry, dad. Irish and soda, Al. Did you know that the Irish invented whiskey? The English didn’t find out about it till the twelfth century, when Henry the Second’s boys invaded the sod and came back with a few stolen hogsheads. Thank you, sir. To Henry the Second’s boys.” When he had drunk a healthful draught Ellery said, “What does Tallulah want?”
“If you mean Audrey, she didn’t call this meeting, I did.” Marsh lit a menthol cigaret. “I’ve dug out some information on this paternity claim of hers. While we’re waiting — did you know that Alice Tierney’s in town?”
“We know,” the Inspector said, sourly this time. “Is it a fact that she’s visiting New York to see you?”
“Let’s see, this is Monday... I saw her Friday, Inspector,” the lawyer said. “I didn’t tell you people about it because I knew I’d be seeing you today.”
“I hope you aren’t going to pull one of those ‘this is a lawyer-client confidence’ things,” Ellery said.
“Not at all. Miss Tierney has come up with what the Little Flower used to call a ‘beaut.’ She had the gall to claim — get this — that Johnny promised her the Wrightsville property, the buildings and the land, as a gift.”
“Oh, dear,” Leslie said. “She sounds desperate.”
“No proof, I take it.”
“You’re so right, Ellery. She has no evidence of any kind to back up her story. It isn’t plausible on the face of it — did she expect me to swallow it? Anyway, I told her as politely as I could to stop wasting my time and hers. Yes, Miss Smith?”
Miss Weston and Sanford Effing had arrived, the blonde nervous, Effing narrow-eyed and sniffy, searching for clues like a bloodhound. When they were seated and everyone had got over the strain of being polite, Marsh (who had restored his wall before their entrance to its lawbook look) said, “Take this all down, Miss Smith. Is your tape recorder on, Effing? Good. I’ve done some poking into your client’s allegation that she had a child by John Levering Benedict the Third whom she placed for adoption.”
“And found that her allegation is true,” Audrey’s lawyer said severely.
“And found that her allegation — as it legally affects the disposition of the Benedict estate — is false,” Marsh said. “There was and is a child, a male child named Davy Wilkinson — I have his adoptive surname as well, but in the child’s protection I am keeping it confidential — but Davy is not John Benedict’s son.”
“He is, he is!” Audrey cried.
“Miss Weston, may I handle this?” Effing asked in a pained way. “My client says that he is, Marsh, and she ought to know.”
“She ought to, but in this case Miss Weston seems confused. I have the date of birth from the records of the hospital where Davy was born. That date is eleven months and three days after the date of the divorce. Manifestly we have a marital impossibility. I think, Mr. Effing, you’ll have to agree that there’s no point to pursuing this further. Unless Inspector Queen wishes to do so?”
“If you’re implying that there’s attempted fraud here, Counselor,” Sanford Effing stated icily, “I not only resent the implication on Miss Weston’s behalf, but on my own as an attorney. I wouldn’t have taken this case if I didn’t have every reason to believe my client’s claim to be the substantive truth. I do think she’s been unwise to insist—”
“Ah, we get down to the old bippy,” Marsh said, smiling. “To insist what, Effing?”
“About the dates. Please clear up that date situation, Miss Weston, here and now. You have no choice.”
Audrey went into an elaborate hand-twisting routine. “I didn’t want anyone to know... I mean, it was like — like stripping myself naked in public...”
“Come on, Miss Weston,” Effing said sternly, “it’s too late for modesty.”
“I said we were intimate for the last time before the divorce because I was ashamed to admit that Johnny and I had sex on a number of occasions after the — after the decree.” The North Sea-water eyes began to look stormy. “But that’s the truth, Al, so help me Almighty God. We did. It happened mostly at my apartment, but once in his car... oh, it’s too embarrassing! Anyway, on one of those intime occasions little Davy was conceived. My poor, poor...” And the seas heaved and sloshed, drowning Ellery’s hopes that the blonde would insert before the noun “baby” the traditional adjective “fatherless.”
A general cloud of discomposure moved in to overhang the office. Even Miss Smith, whose mouth had been imitating a fish while she stenographed the proceedings, shut it and kept it shut with considerable compression.
Marsh permitted the nor’easter to blow itself out.
“Audrey. If your attorney won’t tell you this I’ll have to, for old times’ sake if for no other reason. Even if you can show that you and Johnny engaged in sexual intercourse after your divorce, that would not in itself prove that he was the father of your child. You know that; or, if you don’t, Mr. Effing certainly does.
“It’s my belief that you’ve made up the whole story, post-marital coitus and all. I’m reasonably sure I’d have known from Johnny if you and he were sleeping together after the divorce. From some things he confided in me — which I won’t divulge publicly unless you force me to — your story is highly suspect. It simply doesn’t tally with his feelings about you — do I have to say it? — especially sexually.”
“You have no right to make a judgment before all the facts are in!” her lawyer shouted.
“I have every right to my personal opinion, Effing. At any time. However, I see no point in denying it: that’s going to be my professional opinion as well, unless you come up with legal proof of your client’s claim that Mr. Benedict was the father of her child.”
Audrey howled, “You haven’t heard the end of this, you shyster!” She was all the way off-stage now, being Arlene Wilkinson.
Effing rushed her out.
“Bad,” Ellery said. “Very bad.”
“I thought it turned out very well myself,” Marsh said. “Certainly for old Les here.”
“I’m speaking of Audrey’s performance.”
“Oh, I can’t help feeling sorry for the poor thing,” Leslie said. “Call me a square, but she is a mother—”
“A mother,” Marsh said dryly, “who’s trying a con game.”
“You don’t know that, Al. Johnny might have—”
“Not a chance, dear heart. See here, do you want this estate or don’t you? I thought you had all sorts of socially progressive plans for the money.”
“I do!” And the pools blazed from their depths. “What I want to do first—”
“Excuse me, Miss Carpenter,” Inspector Queen said, jumping up. “The New York City police department has all sorts of progressive plans for my services. Mr. Marsh, from now on how about you don’t call me, I’ll call you? Okay? Ellery, you coming?”
“You go on ahead, dad,” Ellery said. “I have all sorts of socially progressive plans myself. May I see you home, Leslie? Or wherever you’re bound?”
But Inspector Queen’s anxiety to get the Benedict case off his back was not yet to be relieved. Nothing was going anywhere — his staff was bogged down in the Faulks investigation, weltering in leads to enemies of Marcia Kemp’s late husband whose name (as predicted) proved to be legion — and the old sleuth had hopes that there it would exhaust itself, so that he could get back to earning his salary for legitimate services rendered the City of New York.
Besides, it was impossible to live with Ellery these days. He went about with a fixed, almost wild, look, something like an acid head on a bad trip, frequently making noises that conveyed little but confusion. When his father asked him what was upsetting him, he would shake his head and become mute. Once he delivered himself of an intelligible reply; or at least a reply composed of intelligible components: “It’s the women’s clothes, and something else. Why can’t I remember that something else? How do you remember what you’ve forgotten? Or did I forget it? You saw it, too, dad. Why can’t you remember?”