“Only one important thing happened — Blythe buried the hatchet, gave up her long feud with Jack; in fact, announced her intention to marry him, and did so.
“But how could Blythe’s marriage have forced Lew to kill not only Blythe but the man she married? Well, what was behind his whole scheme? To get for himself the entire Stuart estate. Who were his obstacles? Blythe and Bonnie. But when Blythe married Jack Royle, then Jack Royle became an obstacle, too! For by the terms of Tolland Stuart’s will half the estate went to Blythe, if living, or to Blythe’s heirs if dead; and her heirs in that case would be her daughter Bonnie and her husband Jack. Only if Jack Royle died, too, before the estate passed would Jack cease to be an heir; living, he would inherit, but if dead his own estate would collect nothing and Bonnie, Blythe’s only heir, would consequently get everything.
“So Lew killed Jack, too. Now he must kill Bonnie. But what happened before he got the opportunity to kill Bonnie? History repeated itself: Bonnie announced her intention to marry Ty. Therefore Ty became an obstacle in the way of Lew, for if Bonnie married Ty and Lew killed only Bonnie, Ty would get the entire estate, since according to the will if Bonnie predeceased her grandfather her portion would go to her heirs... or Ty, her surviving husband.
“Therefore Lew tried to prevent the marriage because if he could scare Bonnie into not marrying Ty he would have to kill only Bonnie; whereas if she did marry Ty he would have to kill both of them; and one murder was preferable to two for obvious reasons.”
“That’s all very well,” muttered Glücke, “but what I can’t understand is how Bascom expected to be able to control Mr. Stuart’s will. How could he be sure Mr. Stuart, when he saw his daughter murdered, wouldn’t write a new will which would make it impossible for Lew ever to collect a cent, murders or not?”
“Ah,” said Ellery. “A good point, Glücke. In discussing that, and Mr. Bascom’s good fortune, I’m forced to refer again to my invaluable friend, Paula Paris. A pearl, that woman! The very first time I met her she painted an interesting word-picture of Tolland Stuart. She told me of his hypochondria, of his pamphlets inveighing against the evils of stimulants, even unto coffee and tea; of his drinking cold water with a teaspoon, obviously because he was afraid of what cold water would do, drunk normally, to his stomach — chill it, I suppose; of his diatribes against white bread.”
“But I don’t see what that—”
“That’s quite true,” said Dr. Junius unexpectedly, clearing his throat. “But I, too, fail to see the relevance—”
“I imagine, Doctor,” said Ellery, “that you’re due for a nasty shock. Your faith in humanity is about to be destroyed. Can you imagine Tolland Stuart being inconsistent in a matter like that?”
Dr. Junius’s face looked like a yellow paste. “Well, now, of course—”
“That disconcerts you, naturally. You’re amazed to learn that Tolland Stuart could be inconsistent in his hypochondriasis?”
“No, really, it happens. I mean I don’t know what you’re referring to—”
“Well, Doctor,” said Ellery in a hard voice, “let me enlighten you. Friday afternoon Miss Stuart and I, as you will recall, came up here to visit her grandfather. You were away — shopping, I believe? Too bad. Because when we came upon Mr. Tolland Stuart lying in this room — yes, in this very bed — what was he doing? The man who had a horror of white bread was eating a cold meat sandwich made of white bread. The man who sipped cold water from a teaspoon because he was afraid of chilling his stomach, the man who avoided stimulants as he would the plague, that man was gulping down quite callously large quantities of iced tea!”
The old man in the bed whimpered, and Dr. Junius shrank within himself like a withering weed. As for the others, they stared in perplexity from Ellery to the old man. Only Inspector Glücke looked aware; and he gave a signal to one of his men. The detective went to the bed and motioned Bonnie away. Ty jumped forward to grasp Bonnie’s arm and draw her from the bed.
And the man in the bed dropped the Indian blanket with the swiftness of desperate purpose and reached for the shotgun which stood close to his hand. But Ellery was swifter.
“No,” he said, handing the gun to the Inspector, “not yet, sir.”
“But I don’t understand,” cried Bonnie, her glance wavering between the old man and Ellery. “It doesn’t make sense. You talk as if... as if this man weren’t my grandfather.”
“He isn’t,” said Ellery. “I have every reason to believe that he’s a man supposed to have committed suicide — an old and desperate and dying man known to the Hollywood colony of extras as Arthur William Park, the actor.”
If Inspector Glücke had seen the revelation coming, at least he had not seen it in its entirety, for he gaped at the cowering old man in the bed, who covered his face with his wrinkled hands.
“Because of that sandwich and iced drink,” continued Ellery, “I saw that it was possible Tolland Stuart was being impersonated. I began to put little bits together; bits that had puzzled me, or passed me by, but that coalesced into a significant whole once my suspicions were aroused.
“For one thing, an imposture was not difficult; in this case it was of the essence of simplicity. The improbability of most impostures lies in the fact that doubles are rare, and that even expert make-up will not stand the test of constant inspection by people who knew the one impersonated well.
“But—” and Ellery shrugged “—who knew Tolland Stuart well? Not even his daughter, who had visited him only two or three times in the last ten years. But granting that Blythe might have seen through an imposture, Blythe was dead. Bonnie? Hardly; she had not seen her grandfather since her pinafore days. Only Dr. Junius of the survivors. Dr. Junius saw Tolland Stuart every day and had seen him every day for ten years... No, no, Doctor; I assure you that’s futile. The house is surrounded, and there’s a detective just outside the door.”
Dr. Junius stopped in his slow sidle toward the door, and he wet his lips.
“Then there was the incident last Sunday, when we flew up here after the discovery of the bodies in Ty’s plane on that plateau. I thought I heard the motors of a plane during the thunder-and-lightning storm. I went out and, while I couldn’t see the plane, I did see this man, now in bed, crouching outside the house with a flyer’s helmet on his head. At the time it merely puzzled me; but when I suspected an imposture I saw that the explanation was simple: this man had just been landed on the Stuart estate by an airplane, whose motors I had heard. Undoubtedly piloted by Lew Bascom, who had departed from the plateau that Sunday before we did in an Army plane. Lew flew a plane, as I knew because he offered to pilot the wedding plane when the original Royle-Stuart wedding stunt was being discussed; moreover, he even offered the use of his own plane. So Lew must have returned to the airport with the Army pilot, picked up Park at his rooms, landed Park on this estate, and returned quietly to Los Angeles. You are Park, aren’t you?”
The old man in the bed uncovered his face. Dr. Junius started to cry out, but closed his mouth without uttering the cry.
“You aren’t Tolland Stuart.”
The old man said nothing, did nothing. His face was altered; the sharp lines were even sharper than before, but no longer irascible, no longer lines of evil; he merely looked worn out, like an old stone, and weary to death.