The Dragon’s Teeth (32 page)

“Not at all.”

“And besides,” said Beau angrily, “what d'ye mean I'm through! Whose dough is it, anyway, in this dump? You're one hell of a guy. I never thought you'd—”

Kerrie patted her husband's swelling biceps gently. “Can't you see the gentleman has something up his sleeve? Be quiet and listen, Beau!”

“You see,” said Mr. Queen dreamily, while Beau gawped at him, “I sat here after your wedding in a perfect dither of thought, and the main thought ran: What can I give those two idiots for a wedding present?”

Kerrie laughed. Beau blushed.

“Shall it be,” continued Mr. Queen, “a First Folio, or the 1856 British Guiana number thirteen, or one of the crown jewels of some illustrious potentate, or a ten-room house completely furnished, with interior murals by Rivera? No, I said to myself, too common, too mundane. My gift to Mr. and Mrs. Rummell must be of the essence, gargantuan,
crème de la crème,
epical. And, do you know, I've hit it?”

Kerrie clapped her hands. “What is it? I know I'll just love it!”

“I believe,” murmured Mr. Queen, “you will.”

“Come on, give, you exasperating stand-in for Madam Chairman!” roared Beau.

“I have decided,” said Mr. Queen, beaming, “to present you with a gift worthy of myself. I have decided to give you,” said Mr. Queen, and then he darted off into one of those conversational bypaths he was so fond of treading, “—I haven't ascertained the exact figure, of course; you'll have to be patient with me, chickadees, but I should say it will come to—oh, let's be conservative. Let's say almost fourteen million dollars.”

“Fourteen—” Kerrie blinked.

Beau said hoarsely: “Come again?”

“Don't hold me to that figure,” said Mr. Queen hastily. “It may come to no more than a paltry thirteen millions.”

“Oh, he's joking,” groaned Kerrie.

“Listen, you ape!” bellowed Beau. “What is this?”

Mr. Queen chuckled. “My talents have been chiefly engaged, since your nuptials, in trying to dope out a way to break old man Cole's will. You two
would
be married, and that meant, under the will, that Kerrie lost a very helpful five thousand a week for life … now that Margo Cole's death has been established.”

“You mean you've—broken it?” asked Beau in an awed voice.

“We're getting there, getting there. It revolves about a delicate point, but the best legal authority seems to be on our side. You're a lawyer, or you were. What is the law's purpose in requiring that a testator's signature to a will be attested by witnesses?”

“Why,” said Beau, scratching his newly-shaven cheeks, “to make sure there's no fraud, I suppose. To have proof that the signature of the testator was his legal signature, and was set down on a specific will at a specific date. Same idea as lies behind the notarization of contracts—proof of signature.”

“Well, the legal technicality on which the will is probably going to be broken involves the attestation of the witnesses.

“According to Captain Angus's story he and the radio operator signed in attestation of the testator's signature
before
the testator's signature was put down on the will. As a matter of fact, the radio operator, in not signing in Cole's presence, not only attested a signature which still did not exist, but he can't even say truthfully that what he signed was a will; or if it was a will, the specific will the testator intended. And then even Captain Angus left the cabin before De Carlos wrote down Cole's name, so he can't testify honestly when that signature was written.

“There are other points, but I fancy those will suffice. The Surrogate will probably be only too happy to grasp at the legal technicality and declare the will invalid—it's an awfully screwy and unfair testament. At any rate, with the will broken, Cole will be considered, as you know, to have died intestate. And since Margo Cole died leaving no issue, and Miss Kerrie Shawn, now Mrs. Beau Rummell, is the only living heiress of the testator—well, you can imagine!

“What do you think of my modest little wedding present, Mrs. Rummell?”

But Mrs. Rummell only began to sniffle, and Beau stood there alternately scowling and grinning like a lunatic.…

IN the course of time Mr. Queen received letters from Paris, Monte Carlo, Cairo, Bali—very obese letters they were, written on the lush stationery of disgustingly wealthy people, and designed to bring a beam to the sourest countenance. There were even letters from a certain Miss Violet Day who, it appeared, had been re-engaged by Mrs. Rummell to act as secretary-companion and spent most of her time beating the pants off Mr. Rummell at ping-pong, a fact which kept Mr. Rummell in a state of constant rage.

But Mr. Queen only smiled vaguely and proceeded about his business, which was to worry himself to a shadow over another case.

Which case?

Well, that's another story.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1939 by Frederick A. Stokes Company

Copyright renewed by Ellery Queen

Cover design by Kat Lee

ISBN 978-1-5040-1663-6

This 2015 edition published by
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