The Dragon’s Teeth (31 page)

There was an altercation in the corridor. Sergeant Velie hurried to the door and opened it.

“Oh, there you are!” said Beau Rummell cheerfully. “Velie, tell this floogie I'm one of the best people.”

“Come in, Beau, come in!” called Mr. Queen. “You couldn't have timed your entrance more dramatically.”

Beau ran in and stopped short when he saw Goossens, on his feet and pale with anger, in the center of the room. “Oh,” he said. “The third act, hey? Well, here's curtains!”

And, with a yearning glance towards Kerrie, Beau drew Ellery aside, handing him a large manila envelope. Ellery quickly extracted from the envelope what looked like a photostat, while Beau whispered in his ear for some time. And as Mr. Queen both looked and listened, an expression of beatitude overspread his lean countenance.

He advanced towards Goossens, waving the photostat.

Goossens frowned. “It's all very dramatic, as you say, but is it legal?” He laughed shortly. “Don't forget, Mr. Queen, I'm a lawyer. If you're foolish enough to take this before a court, I'll make you wish you'd never been born—any of you! Your so-called evidence can be blown to bits—teeth-marks. Pen and pencil. An old pipe.… Why, no jury in the world would swallow that sort of stuff!”

“Possibly not,” murmured Mr. Queen, “but we're now in possession of a third item of evidence that a jury
will
swallow.

“So far I've shown that you own the pencil found on the scene of the crime—proving opportunity; and that you could have tipped off the police about the faked marriage—your second error, by the way. Now I'll prove
you had motive
—that you, and you alone, fulfill the third requirement of Ann Bloomer's murderer!

“This third proof will implicate you directly, Mr. Goossens. It will indicate that you were Ann Bloomer's silent partner. It will indicate that the plot, from the beginning, was your brain-child—the plot to palm off an impostor as Margo Cole. In fact, I think I know
when
you conceived and executed that part of the plot, Mr. Goossens!”

“Indeed?” sneered the lawyer.

“You got your first flash of inspiration when De Carlos, pretending to be Cole, delivered Cole's sealed will. You opened that will, Goossens, and you had a reason for opening it—a reason that will be clear to these people when I reveal the nature of my last proof.

“You opened the will, digested its conditions, and saw your opportunity. You left very suddenly on what purported to be a ‘business trip'—and where did you go? To Europe, Goossens! Your own secretary gave me that information when I telephoned your office a few days after De Carlos's visit as Cole … in fact, I remember it especially well because just as I set down the telephone my appendix burst. A pathological commemoration of an important event, Goossens! The only trouble was that I didn't appreciate its significance at the time.

“And why did you go to Europe suddenly? Because you knew that Margo Cole had lived in France. Because you knew so much about Margo Cole's history that it was evident to your quick, clever, and harried intelligence that an impostor would have to come from France, too. Somehow during that business trip you ran across Ann Bloomer, exactly the type of woman your plan required. And she agreed to go in with you.”

Goossens bit his lip. His cheeks were chalky now.

“You had the proofs of Margo Cole's identity in your possession. You didn't give them to the Bloomer woman in France. You probably coached her in Margo Cole's history then, but you held back the proofs until the last moment—fearing, very justly, a possible doublecross. You handed Ann Bloomer those proofs as she was leaving the
Normandie
in Quarantine! For it was you, and you alone, brief-case in hand, who boarded the
Normandie
ostensibly to greet ‘Margo Cole' and escort her to the cutter in which the rest of us were waiting. Those proofs of Margo Cole's identity were in
YOUR
brief-case when you boarded the
Normandie.
But they were in Ann Bloomer's bag when you escorted her to the cutter a few minutes later.

“But Ann Bloomer doublecrossed you after all. Entrenched here as Margo Cole, she backed out of her bargain with you. Also, she had probably investigated you undercover, in her canny way, and discovered that you were in a stew of trouble, Mr. Goossens—oh, a veritable salmagundi! You've been quite a rounder in your time—you live with your azure-blooded wife for polite reasons only; your real life is replete with women, champagne, gambling parlors, and the like. Your father left you a respectable practise in the administration of estates, but you went through his money quickly … and then you began to race through the moneys entrusted to your stewardship as trustee of estates.

“And so now you had started a vicious circle—constantly stealing from one estate to cover a shortage in another, and you had reached a point where you could conceal your peculations no longer without fresh sources of funds. You were desperate, and that was your motive for leaping at the chance to make a fortune quickly when fate dropped the Cole estate into your lap.

“Somehow Ann Bloomer, I believe, found all this out, and knew she had a powerful weapon against you. One word from her to arouse suspicion that you were fraudulently administering the estate in your trusteeship, and you were ruined. That was the weapon she held over you as she wriggled out of her pact to split the Margo Cole income with you.

“You were probably clever enough not to show your rage. You saw another way: to remove the menace you yourself, a modern Frankenstein, had created—this female monster—and at the same time—your third and last and most important motive—
to gain absolute control over the Cole millions!

“Because it was in line with your new goal, you even fell in with Ann's pleasant little scheme to murder Kerrie. She may have forced you to become her accomplice, using her threat of exposure as a lever; I don't know; it would be the logical thing for her to do, because as an accomplice you wouldn't be able to expose her as a murderess.

“At any rate, when the attacks failed, and Ann visited this hotel-room to taunt Kerrie, you shot the woman dead. By doing this you accomplished at one swoop a number of purposes: to revenge yourself on her, to prevent her from revealing your identity as her partner, to be rid of her permanently, to frame Kerrie Shawn for the murder and be rid of
her;
and the ultimate goal of all—to be free then to administer the Cole estate for charity, since the will provided that if the heirs died, you were still to administer the estate for charitable purposes! In that capacity, you would have a peculative field-day lasting years. And you reasoned—accurately, I think—that you could easily persuade Mr. Edmund De Carlos, your co-trustee, to swing in with you.

“While I may be slightly off in some of the details, I fancy I've roughly covered the subject, Goossens?”

Goossens stammered: “You—you talked about a proof of motive.” Then he got a grip on his nerves and deliberately smiled. “And I've listened and heard nothing but the ravings of a fantastic imagination. Where's this wonderful proof of yours?”

“Admirable, Goossens, admirable,” applauded Mr. Queen. “You could have been a great trial lawyer; quite the dramatic flair. Do you deny,” he snapped, “that you put Ann Bloomer up to posing as Margo Cole?”

“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?”