“Happens this way every time,” said Inspector Queen from the top of the courthouse steps.
“If she’s smashed one camera, she’s smashed a hundred,” said Sergeant Velie, shaking his head.
“But why,” wondered Ellery, “do the cameramen keep trying? Or do they make a profit on each transaction? I noticed two rather impressive-looking greenbacks being flung at the victim down there.”
“Profit is right,” grinned his father. “Take a look. That fella who had his camera broken. Does he look in the dumps?”
Ellery frowned.
“Now,” instructed his father, “look up there.”
Ellery sighted along the Inspector’s arm to a window high in the face of the courthouse. There, various powerful camera eyes glittered in the sun, behind them human eyes intent on Thurlow Potts and Charley Paxton on the sidewalk before the courthouse.
“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Velie with respect, “when you’re dealing with the Old Woman you just naturally got to be on your toes.”
“They caught it all from that window,” exclaimed Ellery softly. “I’ll bet that smashed camera was a dummy and Joe a rascally, conniving stooge!”
“My son,” said the Inspector dryly, “you’ve got the makings of a detective. Come on, let’s go back upstairs and see if Mr. Justice Greevey’s over his irrigation.”
“Now listen, boys,” Charley Paxton was shouting on the sidewalk. “It’s been a tough morning. What d’ye say? Mr. Potts hasn’t one word for publication. You better not have,” Charley said through his teeth three feet from Thurlow’s pink ear, “or I walk out, Thurlow — I swear I walk out!”
Someone applauded.
“You let me alone,” cried Thurlow. “I’ve got plenty to say for publication, Charles Paxton! I’m through with you, anyway. I’m through with all lawyers. Yes, and judges and courts, too!”
“Thurlow, I warn you—” Charley began.
“Oh, go fish! There’s no justice left in this world — not a crumb. Not a particle!”
“Yes, little man?” came a voice.
“No Justice, Says Indignant Citizen.”
“Through with all lawyers, judges, and courts, he vows.”
“What a break for all lawyers, judges, and courts.”
“What you gonna do, Pottso — protect your honor with stiletti?”
“You gonna start packing six-shooters, Thurlow-boy?”
“Thurlow Potts, Terror of the Plains, Goes on Warpath, Armed to the Upper Plates.”
“Stop!” screamed Thurlow Potts in an awful voice; and, curiously, they did. He was shaking in a paroxysm of rage, his small feet dancing on the sidewalk, his pudgy face convulsed. Then he choked: “From now on I take justice in my own hands.”
“Huh?”
“Say, the little guy actually means it.”
“Go on, he’s hopped to the eyeballs.”
“Wait a minute. Nuts or no nuts, he can’t be left running around loose. Not with those intentions, brother.”
One of the reporters said, soberly: “Just what do you mean — you’ll take justice in your own hands, Mr. Potts?”
“Thurlow,” muttered Charley Paxton, “haven’t you raved your quota? Let me get you out of here—”
“Charles, take your hand off my arm. What do I mean, gentlemen?” said Thurlow quietly. “I’ll tell you what I mean. I mean that I’m going to buy myself a gun, and the next person who insults me or the honorable name I bear won’t live long enough to hide behind the skirts of your corrupt courts!”
“Hey,” said a reporter. “Somebody better tip off Conk Cliffstatter.”
“This puffball’s just airy enough to do it.”
“Ah, he’s blowing.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe he’ll blow bullets.”
Thurlow launched himself at the crowd like a little ram, butting with his arms. It parted, almost respectfully; and he shot through in triumph. “He’ll get a bullet in his guts, that’s what he’ll get!” howled the Terror of the Plains. And he was gone in a flurry of agitated little arms and legs.
Charley Paxton groaned and hurried back up the steps of the courthouse.
He found Ellery Queen, Inspector Queen, and Sergeant Velie emerging from Room 331. The Inspector was holding forth with considerable bitterness on the subject of Mr. Justice Greevey’s semicircular canals, for it appeared that the justice had decided to remain at home sulking in an atmosphere of oil of wintergreen rather than venture out into the earacheless world; consequently the case which had fetched the Queens to court was put off for another day.
“Well, Charley? What’s happening down there?”
“Thurlow threatened to buy a gun!” panted the lawyer. “He says he’s through with courts — the next man who insults him gets paid back in lead!”
“That nut-ball?” scoffed the Sergeant.
Inspector Queen laughed. “Forget it, Charley. Thurlow Potts hasn’t the sand of a charlotte russe.”
“I don’t know, Dad,” murmured Ellery. “The man’s not balanced properly. One of his gimbals out of socket, or something. He might mean it, at that.”
“Oh, he means it,” said Charley Paxton sourly. “He means it now, at any rate. Ordinarily I wouldn’t pay any attention to his ravings, but he’s been getting worse lately and I’m afraid one of these days he’ll cross the line. This might be the day.”
“Cross what line?” asked Sergeant Velie, puzzled.
“The Mason-Dixon line, featherweight,” sighed the Inspector. “What line do you think? Now listen, Charley, you’re taking Thurlow too seriously—”
“Just the same, don’t you think we ought to take precautions?”
“Sure. Watch him. If he starts chewing his blanket, call Bellevue.”
“To buy a gun,” Ellery pointed out, “he’ll have to get a license from the police department.”
“Yes,” said Charley eagerly. “How about that, Inspector Queen?”
“How about what?” growled the old gentleman in a disgusted tone. “Suppose we refuse him a license — then what? Then he goes out and buys himself a rod without a license. Then you’ve got not only a nut on your hands, but a nut who’s nursing a grudge against the police department, too. Might kill a cop... And don’t tell me he can’t buy a gun without a license, because he can, and I’m the baby who knows it.”
“Dad’s right,” said Ellery. “The practical course is not to try to prevent Thurlow from laying hands on a weapon, but to prevent him from using it. And in his case I rather think guile, not force, is what’s required.”
“In other words,” said the Sergeant succinctly, “yoomer the slug.”
“I don’t know,” said the lawyer with despair. “I’m going bats myself just trying to keep up with these cormorants. Inspector, can’t you do anything?”
“But Charley, what d’ye expect me to do? We can’t follow him around day and night. In fact, until he pulls something our hands are tied—”
“Could we put him away?” asked Velie.
“You mean on grounds of insanity?”
“Whoa,” said Charley Paxton. “There’s plenty wrong with the Pottses, but not to that extent. The old girl has drag, anyway, and she’d fight to her last penny, and win, too.”
“Then why don’t you get somebody to wet-nurse the old nicky-poo?” demanded Inspector Queen.
“Just what I was thinking,” said the young man cunningly. “Uh... Mr. Queen... would you—?”
“But definitely,” replied Mr. Queen with such promptness that his father stared at him. “Dad, you’re going back to Headquarters?”
The Inspector nodded.