“The three children of the Old Woman’s first marriage — the offspring of Cornelia and the ‘teched’ and vanished Bacchus Potts — are crazy,” Charley continued.
“Did you say ‘crazy’?” Ellery looked startled.
“You heard me.” Charley reached for the decanter.
“But Thurlow—”
“All right, take Thurlow,” argued young Mr. Paxton. “Would you call him sane? A man who spends his life trying to hit back at people for imaginary insults to his name? What’s the difference between that and a mania for swatting imaginary flies from your nose?”
“But his mother—”
“It’s a question of degree, Ellery. Cornelia’s passion for the honor of the Potts name is kept within bounds, and she doesn’t hit out unless she has a vulnerable target. But Thurlow spends his life hitting out, and most of the time nothing’s there but a puzzled look on somebody’s face.”
“Insanity is a word neurologists don’t like, Charley,” complained Ellery Queen. “At best, standards of normality are variable, depending on the age and mores. In the Age of Chivalry, for example, Thurlow’s obsession with his family honor would have been considered a high and virtuous sign of his sanity.”
“You’re quibbling. But if you want proof, take Louella, the second child of the Cornelia-Bacchus union... I’ll waive Thurlow’s hypersensitivity about the name of Potts; I’ll accept his impractical extravagant nature, his childish innocence on the subject of business values or the value of money, as the signs of merely an unhappy, maladjusted, but essentially sane man.
“But Louella! You can’t argue about Louella. She’s forty-four, never married, of course—”
“What’s wrong with Louella?”
“Louella believes herself to be a great inventor.”
Mr. Queen looked pained.
“Nobody pays much attention to Louella, either,” growled Charley. “Nobody except the Old Woman. Louella’s got her own ‘laboratory’ at the house and seems quite happy. There’s an old closet in the Potts zoo where the Old Woman throws Louella’s ‘inventions.’ One day I happened to catch the old lady sitting on the floor outside the closet, crying. I admit,” said Charley, shaking his head, “for a few weak seconds I felt sorry for the old she-pirate.”
“Don’t stop now,” said Ellery. “What about the third child of the first marriage?”
“Horatio?” The lawyer shivered. “Horatio’s forty-one. In many ways Horatio’s the queerest of the trio. I don’t know why, because he’s not at all the horrible object you might think. And yet... I never see him without getting duck bumps.”
“What’s the matter with Horatio?”
“Maybe nothing,” said Charley darkly. “Maybe everything. I just don’t know. You’ll have to see and talk to him in his self-made setting to believe he really exists.”
Ellery smiled broadly. “You’re very clever. You’ve already learned that my type of mind simply can’t resist a mystery.”
Paxton looked sheepish. “Well... I want your help.”
Ellery stared at him hard. “Charley, what is your interest in this extraordinary family?” The lawyer was silent. “It can’t be merely professional integrity. There are some jobs that aren’t worth any amount of compensation, and from what I’ve seen and heard already, being legal adviser to the Pottses is one of them. You’ve got an ax to grind, my friend, and since it doesn’t seem to be made of gold... what is it made of?”
“Red hair and dimples,” said Charley defiantly.
“Ah,” said Mr. Queen.
“Sheila’s the youngest of the three children who resulted from the marriage of Cornelia and Steve. They’re rational human beings, thank God! Robert and Mac are twins — a sweet pair — they’re thirty.” Charley flushed. “I’m going to marry Sheila.”
“Congratulations. How old is the young lady?”
“Twenty-four. Can’t imagine how Sheila and the twins got born into that howling family! The Old Woman still runs the Potts Shoe business, but Bob and Mac really run it, with the help of an old-timer who’s been with Cornelia for I don’t know how many years. Nice old Yank named Underhill. Underhill superintends production at the plants; Robert’s vice-president in charge of sales, Mac’s vice-president in charge of advertising and promotion—”
“What about Thurlow?”
“Oh, Thurlow’s vice-president, too. But I’ve never found out what he’s vice-president of: I don’t think he has, either. Sort of roving nuisance. And, speaking of nuisances, how are we going to prevent Thurlow from doing something silly?”
Ellery lit a cigaret and puffed thoughtfully. “Assuming that Thurlow meant what he said when he threatened to get a revolver, have you any idea where he’d go to buy one?” he asked.
“Cornwall & Ritchey, on Madison Avenue. He has a charge there — keeps lugging home sports equipment he never uses. It’s the logical place.”
Mr. Paxton was handed the telephone. “Call Cornwall & Ritchey and make discreet inquiries.”
Mr. Paxton called that purple house of commerce and made discreet inquiries. When he set the telephone down, he was purple, too. “He meant it!” cried Charley. “Know what the wack’s done? He must have hotfooted it down there right from the Supreme Court Building!”
“He’s bought a gun?”
“A gun? He’s bought fourteen!”
“What!”
“I spoke to the clerk who waited on him. Fourteen assorted pistols, revolvers, automatics,” groaned Paxton. “Said he was starting a collection of ‘modern hand weapons.’ Of course, they know Thurlow well down there. But see how cunning he’s becoming? Knew he had to give an extraordinary excuse for purchasing that number of guns. Collection! What are we going to do?”
“Then he must have had a license,” reflected Ellery.
“Seems he came magnificently prepared. He’s planned this for a month — that’s obvious now. Must have got his wind up in that last libel suit he lost — the one before Cliffstatter. He does have a license, a special license he snagged by pull somewhere. We’ve got to have that license revoked!”
“Yes, we could do that,” agreed Ellery, “but my father was right this morning — If Thurlow’s denied the legal right to own a gun, he’ll get one somewhere illegally.”
“But fourteen! With fourteen guns to play with, he’s a menace to the public safety. A few imaginary insults, and Thurlow’s likely to start a one-man purge!”
Ellery frowned. “I can’t believe yet that it’s a serious threat, Charley. Although obviously he’s got to be watched.”
“Then you’ll take over?”
“Oh, yes.”
“White man!” Charley wrung Ellery’s hand. “What can I do to help?”
“Can you insinuate me into the Potts Palace today without getting everybody’s wind up?”
“Well, I’m expected tonight — I’ve got some legal matters to go over with the Old Woman. I could wangle you for dinner. Would tonight be too late, do you think?”
“Hardly. If Thurlow’s the man you say he is, he’ll be spending the afternoon fondling his fourteen instruments of death and weaving all sorts of darkly satisfactory dreams. Dinner would be splendid.”
“Swell!” Charley jumped up. “I’ll pick you up at six.”
3
She Didn’t Know What to Do