They even helped Vi, when she gathered strength enough to stand up, to get Kerrie’s things together in the suitcases, asking questions all the way like two jabbering jays until Vi swore at them and threatened weepily to bang their sleek heads together.
Finally she managed to escape with Kerrie’s bag and the aid of a policeman. One of the two newspaper-women said: “Nuts,” with disgust, and they followed the course of empire southward, to Centre Street.
Vi reached her hotel with her hat over one ear. When she walked through the lobby she thought two men looked at her in a hard, suspicious way. She locked herself in her room.
Then the telephone began ringing. After a half-hour she told the operator not to ring her at all. So people began knocking at her door. She rang the hotel operator again and threatened to call the police if the pests didn’t stop knocking.
The operator said: “Yes, Madam — hold on a minute,” and then said: “Sorry, Madam — it is the police,” and Vi opened the door, and one of the two men who had looked at her hard and suspiciously said not to try any funny stuff but just stay put, sister, see?
“Stay put?” screamed Vi. “You think you’re hanging that rap around my neck, too, you wall-eyed flatties?”
“We’re not sayin’ nothin’,” said the other man. “Just take a little friendly advice, see, blondie?”
Vi slammed the door, locked it.
After that, her telephone did not ring and her door was not knocked upon. And she stayed put.
Beau burst into Inspector Queen’s office at Police Headquarters, roaring mad.
“What the hell’s the idea, pop! What was I picked up for?” Then he saw Kerrie. He said slowly: “What’s this?”
Kerrie looked at him with eyes of liquid pain.
“I wanted to talk to you,” said Inspector Queen. He seemed a little shrunken through his spare, wiry body. “As for Miss Shawn, we’ve decided to hold her for — well, technically as a material witness. But we all know what for.”
There were three other men present. Beau recognized them all. One was a stenographer. The other two were assistants of District Attorney Sampson’s.
“She’s innocent,” said Beau. “She told you how it really happened. The real killer was in 1726. He shot Margo through the window across the angle of the court, then tossed in the roscoe. Kerrie picked it up; she was dazed.”
“Is that all you’ve got to say?” asked the Inspector in a queer tone.
“Isn’t the truth enough for you?” snarled Beau.
“One moment.” Kerrie’s voice was calm, low-pitched. “Inspector Queen, you’ve accused me of murdering my cousin, and I admit the circumstances—”
“Don’t admit anything!” yelled Beau. “Let me handle—”
“Please.” She looked at him, and he turned away. “I admit the circumstances are against me. But if I shot Margo, I must have had a motive. What was my motive?”
“We know your motive,” said the Inspector.
“I couldn’t possibly have any! You mean I hated her, I was — jealous of her on account of... my husband? But if I were, wouldn’t I have shot her before I was married? I had nothing to be jealous about, Inspector. We were married. Would I have waited until after my marriage to kill her?”
The Inspector did not reply. The stenographer was quietly recording the conversation, and the two men from the District Attorney’s office were listening in a strained silence.
“Or you might say,” Kerrie went on, “that I wanted to put Margo out of the way in order to gain financially. But that can’t be so, either, you see, because my marriage cut me out of Uncle Cadmus’s will. I couldn’t possibly inherit Margo’s share; in fact, I’d even forfeited my own. So don’t you see how silly this charge is? There isn’t a reason in the world why I should have wanted to kill Margo!”
“But there is,” said the Inspector in a flat tone.
“What could it possibly be?”
“Something like twenty-five hundred dollars a week for life.”
“But I just told you,” said Kerrie, bewildered. “Mr. Goossens — Mr. De Carlos will confirm — the will—”
“Yeah,” mumbled Beau. “What’s the matter with you, pop?”
“It’s true,” said the Inspector in a tired voice, “that this girl has no gain-motive if she were married at the time of the murder.” He paused, then repeated: “If she were married.”
Kerrie sprang to her feet. “What do you mean?”
“It won’t do you the least good to put on an act,” replied the old man gruffly.
“Ellery!” Kerrie ran to Beau, shook him. “What is your father talking about? Tell me!”
Beau said nothing. But Kerrie saw his eyes, and let go of him with a sudden gesture of revulsion. She stood still where she was, the last drop of color draining from her face.
“I received a wire this afternoon,” said the Inspector, “which amounted to an anonymous tip. We weren’t able to trace the tipster, because the message had been telephoned into the telegraph office from a midtown pay-station. But the tipster wasn’t nearly as important as the tip. We followed that up right away, and it was right. Miss Shawn—”
“Miss Shawn?” whispered Kerrie.
“Miss Shawn, you weren’t married last night. The marriage was a fake. It was an attempt to lay a clever smoke-screen down so that it would look as if you had no motive to kill your cousin Margo. You still share in your uncle’s estate; you still take over Margo’s share. What do you say now?”
“Not married last night... Why, that’s simply — that’s simply not true! We were. In Connecticut. Near Greenwich. By a Justice of the Peace named — named Johnston. Weren’t we? Ellery, weren’t we?”
A frenzy took possession of her. She seized Beau’s arm, shaking him, her eyes wild and wide with horror.
“And that isn’t all!” shouted the Inspector suddenly, growing crimson. “This man isn’t my son — his name’s not Ellery! It isn’t even Queen! His name is Beau Rummell, and he’s my son’s partner in a confounded private detective agency!”
“Beau — Rummell?” whispered Kerrie. She stumbled back to her chair and sat down, fumbling in her bag for a handkerchief. She remained that way, her eyes on her bag, her fingers fumbling inside aimlessly.
“For God’s sake, pop,” said Beau in a small voice.
“It’s no use, Beau! There’s no record of a marriage license. There’s no record or trace of the Justice of the Peace who’s supposed to have married you. If there is — let’s have it. Produce him! And let’s see your license and your marriage certificate! Why, even the address is a phony — it’s a house that was just rented for one night! Otherwise it hasn’t been occupied for years!”
Scenes flashed across Kerrie’s brain... the ramshackle building, the weeds, the dust, the odd Mr. Johnston...
Beau said miserably: “All right, it’s true! We weren’t married. It was an absolute phony. But Kerrie didn’t know anything about that, pop! She thought it was on the level. I rigged the whole thing up myself, I tell you!”
She should have known; if she hadn’t been such a blind, trusting fool... The marriage license. She hadn’t signed. “Pull,” he had said. He hadn’t shown it to her. In that house, the “Justice” was going to marry... marry! — them without a second witness. The whole thing, the whole sickening...