The Dragon’s Teeth (23 page)

Beau told him exactly what had happened while Ellery listened in a gloomy silence. “Well,” he said at last, “we have some time—these things go slowly, and we need a complete case. Did you check up on De Carlos yesterday?”

“I found some old-timers in the Street who remembered him. They all think De Carlos was a weak sister. Big ideas, but no follow-through. With Cole dominating him from the background, planning the campaigns, De Carlos pulled the big deals in actual practise. By himself, as a planner, De Carlos was useless. As a matter of fact, he's been in the market since Cole's death—did you know that? And he's lost his shirt.”

Ellery was thoughtful “And then, too, he's been spending that million Cole left him like a gob on shore-leave. He must be pretty nearly flat, if they cleaned him in Wall Street.”

“He is,” said Beau.

“Any trace of his ever having been married?”

“What do you think I am, a Houdini? Far as I could check, no.”

“Well, I've been doing some checking myself. For some time. There's always the possibility, but it seems fairly certain, and from the reports I've been receiving, we may assume De Carlos never married. Now, how about Cole's personal belongings?”

“Checked. Lots of duds, odds and ends of jewelry—some pretty valuable stuff, I'd say, watches, rings, studs—and a bunch of personal papers. Nothing to interest us, though.”

“Did you find a fountain-pen?”

“No, nor an automatic pencil.”

“False teeth?”

“No.”

“Eyeglasses, toupee, wig?”

“No.”

Miss Penny came in with a telegram. Beau tore it open and began to jig, waving the yellow slip. “I don't know what you've got,” he yelled, “but I've got plenty!”

“You can be very annoying at times,” said Mr. Queen. “What is that?”

“A wire from our man on the Coast. He's located Captain Angus!”

“What?”

“Absolutely. And he'll be in with him tonight. That clinches it, you sockeroo! That's all I needed to clean up this case!”

“Oh,” said Mr. Queen slowly. “You have a theory?”

“Theory? Nuts! I've got the answer!” And Beau began to explain, chattering like a machine-gun. Mr. Queen listened in silence, nodding glumly every once in a while. “What's the matter? You don't look very happy about it!”

“It all points that way, I confess,” said Mr. Queen. “I can't disprove your theory—in fact, I can add to it and strengthen it considerably. There's only one point that bothers me, Beau.”

“What's that?”

Mr. Queen waved his hand. “It's a small discrepancy—too small at the moment to worry about.”

“Then the hell with it! What do you say—do we go to town?”

Mr. Queen sighed. “I suppose we may as well.”

They put their heads together, going over Beau's case, checking it, re-examining, working out the details of a plan. Beau's eyes gleamed at certain contributions of Mr. Queen's; his spirits steadily rose, and he looked happy for the first time in months.

And then the telephone rang and Miss Penny said. “It's your father, Mr. Queen.”

Beau sat down, losing his grin.

“Well, dad?” said Ellery.

He listened; and as he listened he stiffened. When finally he set down the instrument he laughed aloud. “What do you know about that?”

“Know about what? Talk, you brass monkey!”

“It's the beginning of the end now, Beau.” Mr. Queen rose and shook himself a little, like an athlete before running out to meet his opponent. “Dad just tipped me off. Margo Cole—hold your chair, now!—was
NOT
the daughter of Huntley and Nadine Cole. She was
NOT
Cadmus Cole's niece, or Kerrie's cousin. In fact, she was
NOT
Margo Cole.”

Beau's jaw sagged. “She wasn't—Then who the devil was she?”

“One of the coolest impostors on record!”

And Mr. Queen hustled his speechless partner out of the office and downstairs, bound for a taxicab and Police Headquarters.

XVIII.
Enter Miss Bloomer

They took a cab down town.

“How'd pop ever dig that one up?” demanded Beau, when he had recovered from the shock.

“I didn't like her.”

“Talk sense!”

“I am. I got to thinking about the woman who presented herself as Mar go Cole, and there was something about her and her story that made me think in terms of flies and honey, if you know what I mean. She seemed too much the woman of the world.”

“That's reasoning, all right,” grunted Beau. “Lucky guess!”

“Certainly.” Ellery laughed. “Except for the little detail of the ‘partner' she mentioned to Kerrie just before she was murdered. A partner suggested a plot, and a plot—” He shrugged. “At any rate, I merely suggested to dad that he have the dead woman's fingerprints taken. He did, and sent photos of them by radio to Scotland Yard and the Sûreté. Scotland Yard came through.”

“Who was she? I'm still winded!”

“A woman named Ann Bloomer. A London slum product—drunken father, sluttish mother—lived by her wits from adolescence. When she was 19 she was caught by the British police in some blackmailing scheme and sent to clink for a year. When she was released in 1925 she disappeared from England. 1925, remember, was the year the real Margo Cole's mother died in France.”

“But the French police checked this woman!”

“We've all been neatly taken in. Don't you see what happened? When the Bloomer woman appeared in this country, claiming to be Margo Cole, she told a certain story. Well, that story was a consolidation of two stories. That is,
she told the history of the real Margo Cole up to the year 7925; from
7925
on, the story she told was her own history.
That means the real Margo disappeared in 1925—or, at least, there's no record of her existence after that year.”

“You mean this business goes back that far?” Beau whistled. “Murder as far back as 1925?”

“Don't know.” Mr. Queen gazed somberly out of the taxi window. “Dad's news opens up a new field of speculation and inquiry, however. Anyway, we know Ann Bloomer, who said she had changed her name from Margo Cole to Ann Strange, was actually an English adventuress with no possible relation to the Cole family. Dad checked that, too. And it's that woman who tried to murder Kerrie and was murdered herself for her pains!”

“Say, how'd she get hold of Margo Cole's proofs of identity? Do you suppose—”

“Dad's called Goossens to bring down all those proofs.”

Beau told the driver to stop at the Tombs.

When Kerrie saw him she gave a little cry and ran into his arms. After a while Mr. Queen coughed.

“You might introduce me to the lady, Beau.”

Beau did the honors and, from the safety of his arms, Kerrie eyed Ellery in a puzzled way. “I'm terribly happy to meet the man I
thought
I'd married. So you're Ellery Queen!”

“And you're Kerrie Shawn.”

“A little the worse for wear, I'm afraid,” sighed Kerrie. “Mr. Queen, haven't we met somewhere?”

“It's one of those annoying probabilities,” replied Mr. Queen quickly, “that it's so much better not to bother oneself about. Now that we meet in fact, Miss Shawn, and I've an opportunity of seeing for myself, I don't wonder you've upset Beau's whole self-centered life!”

“I'm not very much to look at these days,” said Kerrie with a sad smile. “A little slap-happy from all these flattering attentions from life.… Darling.” She pressed Beau's hand.

“Look, kid.” Beau was embarrassed. “I had to stop in and sort of put my arms around you again. You know. See that you weren't sore at me. But we've got to beat it.”

“So soon?” Kerrie cried.

“Some day we'll knock off for a thousand years and go away together and just hold hands the whole damn' time. But right now Ellery and I have work to do.”

“All right, Beau.” She kissed him. “That's really a nice name. Beau Rummell. Why, do you know—”

“No cracks,” said Beau hastily. “Kerrie, you all right? They're treating you okay?”

“Yes, Beau.”

“Anything I can get you before I leave?”

“Vi's been here. She brought me a few things she knew I'd need. Beau … the police are watching Vi, too.”

“Aw, that's just a matter of form,” muttered Beau. “They wouldn't earn their pay if they didn't look smart.”

“Have you—have you hired a lawyer for me yet?”

“What's the matter with me? I'm a lawyer!”

“Oh, darling, I know, but—”

Beau kissed her. “We won't need one. Ellery and I'll have this case cracked in one more day.”

Kerrie's eyes grew round. “You mean you've found out—”

“Just a little more patience, funny-face. We'd try to spring you, only with that murder rap hanging over your head it's no use trying. They've got to work fast, anyway. Either release you or change the charge—” Beau's face darkened, then he grinned at her. “You'll just have to stay here a little while longer.”

“Make it a very little while,” Kerrie whispered.

“Miss Shawn, did you know that Margo Cole really wasn't Margo Cole?” asked Mr. Queen suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?” gasped Kerrie.

“Never mind.” Mr. Queen smiled in a satisfied way.

“Beau, what does he mean?”

Beau told her. She was bewildered. “But I don't—”

Mr. Queen took her hand. “Don't try. While you're here don't answer too many questions and have a nice rest. Jails are really awfully good places to rest in.”

She smiled back faintly. “I'll remember that—the next one I'm in.”

“I promise you you won't be in this one long!”

“Thanks, Mr. Queen.”

“The name is Ellery, Miss Shawn.”

“Kerrie, Ellery.”

“Charmed! By the way, Beau and I have a lot of explaining to do. Do you think you can wait?”

“Whatever Beau says.”

Beau kissed her again, and they left quickly.

“Such faith,” observed Mr. Queen, “should be deserved.”

Beau did not reply in words. But his eyes and jaw said something that silenced Mr. Queen.

THEY found Inspector Queen with Lloyd. Goossens, elbow-deep in records. Both men seemed worried.

“Well, they're in order,” said the Inspector disgustedly. “Every last one of 'em genuine. I don't understand it at all!”

“Nor do I,” said Goossens, sucking nervously on his empty pipe. He stared from Beau to Ellery. “Which is which, Inspector?”

“There's the real Ellery Queen,” snapped the Inspector, “and this varmint who passed himself off as Queen is Beau Rummell, my son's partner. I wouldn't blame you if you took a poke at both of 'em, Mr. Goossens.”

“I'm afraid it's too late for that now,” said Goossens sadly, shaking hands with Ellery. “Some day you gentle men must tell me why you deceived me. At the moment this business about Margo Cole, or rather Ann Bloomer, has me rather floored.”

“You're sure the identification papers are in order?”

“Positive. See for yourself. I've brought Miss Shawn's along, too, for comparison.”

“How do we know she isn't an impostor, too?” demanded Inspector Queen suddenly.

Beau bridled. “In her case the record's clear! Besides, there's a photo of her when she was a kid of ten or so—”

“I don't like it,” growled the old man. “It upsets the whole cart.”

“My heart bleeds for you,” said Beau with a grin.

The Inspector eyed him peculiarly. “Oh, I don't mean about the case against her. Finding out that the woman who claimed to be Margo Cole was an impostor doesn't really change Kerrie Shawn's motive, if Kerrie Shawn
thought
the woman was Margo Cole. Or even if she knew, the motive still holds. In that case she'd rely on the woman's imposture never coming out. It's not that.”

“Then what is it?”

The Inspector failed to reply.

“What bothers me,” said Goossens, “is my position as executor and trustee in this matter. And being paired with this man De Carlos doesn't—ah—improve matters.” He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “All that money handed over to this Bloomer woman out of Cole's estate—”

“You can't be held responsible for that,” said Mr. Queen. “We all made the same mistake. Because the proofs of identity were genuine, we assumed the person presenting them was their owner.”

“Oh, I'm safe enough legally,” said the lawyer. “It isn't that, Mr. Queen. There will be lots of newspaper talk, a scandal—it won't do my firm's reputation any good, you know; may very well scare away future clients. Well, that's my problem, not yours.”

“Talking about legal considerations,” remarked Beau, “there's the estate itself, Goossens. The real Margo Cole must be searched for. Kerrie's back in the picture as an heiress—with a charge of murder hanging over her. The Surrogate won't like these little developments—”

Goossens looked unhappy. “Yes, yes, I'm aware of that.” He frowned. “By the way, Mr. Queen, you know that technically you disobeyed the testator's instructions in having Mr. Rummell impersonate you. You had no right to give Mr. Rummell a job to do which you were personally hired to accomplish.”

“If you mean,” said Beau, “that we'll give back the fifteen grand, my friend—take another whiff!”

“No, no,” said the lawyer with a nervous smile. “I shan't press the point. But under the circumstances, I think the firm of
Ellery Queen, Inc.
will have to bow out of the case.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Mr. Queen.

“The Surrogate won't like that little business, Mr. Queen. I imagine he'll insist on my engaging a new firm, or doing the job myself.”