by Ellery Queen
Then I know who designed it." Ellery's step quickened. "Walt Disney!"
It was a fairy-tale house. It had crooked little turrets and a front door like a golden harp and windows that possessed no symmetry at all. Most of it was painted pink, with peppermint-striped shutters. One turret looked like an inverted beet—a turquoise beet. The curl of smoke coming out of the little chimney was green. Without shame Ellery rubbed his eyes. But when he looked again the smoke was still green.
"You're not seeing things," sighed Charley. "Horatio puts a chemical from his chem set on the fire to color the smoke."
"But why?"
"He says green smoke is more fun." "The Land of Oz," said Ellery in a delighted voice. "Let's go in, for pity's sake. I must meet that man!"
Charley played on the harp and it swung inward to reveal a very large, very fat man with exuberant red hair which stood up all over his head, as if excited, and enormous eyes behind narrow gold spectacles. He reminded Ellery of somebody; Ellery tried desperately to think of whom. Then he remembered. It was Santa Claus. Horatio Potts looked like Santa Claus without a beard.
"Charley!" roared Horatio. He wrung the lawyer's hand, almost swinging the young man off his feet. "And this gentleman?"
"Ellery Queen—Horatio Potts."
Ellery had his hand cracked in a fury of welcome. The man possessed a giant's strength, which he used without offense, innocently.
"Come in, come in!"
The interior was exuberant, too. Ellery wondered, as he glanced about, what was wrong with it. Then he saw that nothing was wrong with it. It was a perfect playroom for a child, a boy, of ten. It was crowded with large toys and small—with games, and boxes of candy, and construction sets, and unfinished kites, with puppies and kittens and at least one small, stupid-looking rabbit which was nibbling at the leg of a desk on which were piled children's books and scattered manuscript sheets covered in a large, hearty hand with inky words. A goosequill pen lay near by. It was the jolliest and most imaginatively equipped child's room Ellery had ever seen. But where was the child?
Charley whispered in Ellery's ear: "Ask him to explain his philosophy of life to you."
Ellery did so.
"Glad to," boomed Horatio. "Now you're a man, Mr. Queen. You have worries, responsibilities, you lead a heavy, grown-up sort of life. Don't you?"
"Well.., yes," stammered Ellery.
"But it's so simple!" beamed Horatio. "Here sit down— throw those marbles on the floor. The happiest part of a man's life is his boyhood, and I don't care if he was brought up ¡n Gallipolis, Ohio, or Hester Street, New York." Ellery wiggled his brows. "All right, now take me. If I had to make shoes in a factory, or tell other men to make 'em, or write advertising, or dig ditches, or do any of the tiresome things men have to do to be men—why, I'd be like you, Mr. Queen, or like Charley Paxton here, who always goes around with a worried look." Charley grinned feebly. "But I don't have to. So I fly kites, I run miniature trains, I build twelve-foot bridges and airplane models, I read Superman and Hairbreadth Harry, detective stories, fairy tales, children's verses ... I even write 'em." Horatio seized a couple of highly colored books from his desk. "The Little Old Dog of Dogwood Street, by Horatio Potts. The Purple Threat, by Horatio Potts. Here are a dozen more boys' stories, all by me."
"Horatio," said Charley reverently, "publishes 'em himself, too."
"Right now I'm writing my major opus, Mr. Queen," roared Horatio happily. "A new modern version of Mother Goose. It's going to be my monument, mark my words."
"Even has his meals served there," said Charley as they strolled back to the main house. "Well, Ellery, what do you think of Horatio Potts?"
"He's either the looniest loon of them all," growled Mr. Queen, "or he's the only sane man alive on the planet!"
Dinner was served in a Hollywood motion-picture set by extras—or so it seemed to Ellery, who sat down to the most remarkable meal of his life. The dining-room ceiling was a forest of rafters, and one had to crane to count them. Everything was on the same Brobdingnagian scale— a logical outgrowth, no doubt, of the giant that was Pottsism. Nothing less than a California redwood could have provided the one-piece immensity of the table. The linen and silver were heavier than Ellery had ever hefted, the crockery was grander, and the stemware more intricate. The credenza groaned. If the Old Woman was hen of a batty brood, at least she did not make them scratch for their grub. This was the board of plenty.
The twins, Robert and Maclyn, had not appeared for dinner. They had telephoned their mother that they were held up "at the office."
Cornelia Potts was a not ungracious hostess. The old lady wanted to know all about "Mr. Queen," and Mr. Queen found himself talking when he had come to listen. If he was to gauge the temper and the sanity of Thurlow Potts, he could not distract himself with himself. So he was annoyed, deliberately. The Old Woman stared at him with the imperial surprise of a woman who has lived seventy years on her own terms. Finally she rejected him, turning to her children. Ellery grinned with relief.
Sheila ate brightly, too brightly. Her eyes were crystal with humiliation. Ellery knew it was for him, for being witness to her shame. For Cornelia ignored her, as if Sheila were some despised poor relation instead of the daughter of her flesh. Cornelia devoted herself almost wholly to Louella, who bothered not at all to respond to her mother's blandishments. The skinny old maid looked sullen; she ate wolfishly, in silence.
Had it not been for Stephen Potts and his friend Major Gotch, the dinner would have been intolerable. But the two cronies chattered away, apparently pleased at having a new ear to pour their reminiscences into, and Ellery had some difficulty extricating himself from Papuan paradises, Javanese jungles, and "the good old days" in the South Seas.
Thurlow had come to the table bearing two books. He set them down beside his service plate, and once in a while glanced at them or touched them with a glowering pleasure. From where Charley Paxton sat he could read the titles on their spines; Ellery could not.
"What are those books, Charley?" he mumbled.
Charley squinted. "The History of Dueling—"
"History of dueling!"
"The other is A Manual of Firearms."
Mr. Queen choked over his melon.
During the soup course—an excellent chicken consommé—Ellery looked about and looked about and finally said in an undertone to Charley: "I notice there's no bread on the table. Why is that?"
"The Old Woman," Charley whispered back. "She's on a strict diet—Innis has forbidden her to eat bread in any form—so she won't have it in the house. Why are you looking so funny?"
Thurlow was explaining to his mother with passion the code of duello, and Major Gotch interrupted to recall some esoteric Oriental facts on the broader subject; so Mr. Queen had an opportunity to lean over to his friend and chant, softly:—
"There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, She had so many children she didn't know what to do, She gave them both broth without any bread . . ."
Charley gaped. "What are you talking about?" "I was struck by certain resemblances," muttered Ellery. "The Horatio influence, no doubt." And he finished his broth in a thoughtful way.
Suddenly Louella's cricket-voice cut across the flow of table talk. "Mother!"
"Yes, Loueila?" It was embarrassing to see the eagerness in the old lady's face as her elder daughter addressed her.
"I need some more money for my plastic experiments."
"Spend your allowance already?" The corners of the Old Woman's mouth sank, settled.
Louella looked sullen again. "I can't help it. It's not going just right. I'll get it this time sure. I need a couple of thousand more, Mother."
"No, Louella. I told you last time—"
To Ellery's horror the forty-four-year-old spinster began to weep into the puddle in her consommé cup, weep and snuffle and breathe without restraint. "You're mean! I hate you! Some day I'll have millions—why can't you give me some of my own money now? But no—you're
making me wait till you die. And meanwhile I can't finish my greatest invention!"
"Louella!"
"I don't care! I'm sick of asking you, asking you—"
"Louella dear," said Sheila in a strained voice. "We have guests—"
"Be quiet, Sheila," said the Old Woman softly. Ellery saw Sheila's fingers tighten about her spoon.
"Are you going to give me my own money or aren't you?" Louella shrieked at her mother.
"Louella, leave the table."
"I won't!"
"Louella, leave the table this instant and go to bed!"
"But I'm hungry, Mother," Louella whined.
"You've been acting like an infant. For that you can't have your supper. Go this instant, Louella."
"You're a horrible old woman!" screamed Louella, stamping her foot; and, bouncing up from the table, she stormed from the dining room, weeping again.
Mr. Queen, who had not known whether to rise for the woman or remain seated for the child, compromised by assuming a half-risen, half-seated posture; from which undignified position he murmured, but to himself:—
"And whipped them all soundly and put them to bed... ."
After which, finding himself suspended he lowered himself into his chair. "I wonder," he wondered to himself, "how much of this a sane mind could take."
As if in answer, Sheila ran from the dining room, choking back sobs; and Charley Paxton, looking grim, excused himself after a moment and followed her. Steve Potts rose; his lips were burbling.
"Stephen, finish your dinner," said his wife quietly.
Sheila's father sank back in his chair.
Charley returned with a mumble of apology. The Old Woman threw him a sharp black look. He sat down beside Ellery and said in a strangled undertone: "Sheila sends her apologies. "Ellery, I've got to get her out of this lunatic asylum!"
"Whispering Charles?" Cornelia Potts eyed him. The young man flushed. "Where is Sheila?"
"She has a headache," muttered Charley.
"I see."
There was silence.
5 . . . There Was a Little Man and He Had a Little Gun
From the moment Robert and Maclyn Potts entered the dining room to be introduced to the guest and seat themselves at table, a breath of sanity blew. They were remarkably identical twins, as alike in feature as two carbon copies. They dressed alike, they combed their curly blond hair alike, they were of a height and a thickness, and their voices had the same pleasant, boyish timbre.
Charley, who introduced them, was obviously at a loss; he made a mistake in their identities at once, which one of them corrected patiently. They tackled their broth and chicken with energy, talking at a great rate. It seemed that both were angry with their eldest brother, Thurlow, for having interfered in the conduct of the business for the hundredth time.
"We wouldn't mind so much, Mother—" began one, through a mouthful of fried chicken.
"Yes, Robert?" said the Old Woman grimly. She, at least, could distinguish between them.
"If Thurlow'd restrict his meddling to unimportant things," continued the other. Ergo, he was Mac.
"But he doesn't!" growled Robert, dropping his fork.
"Robert, eat your dinner."
"All right, Mother."
"But Mother, he's gone and—"
"One moment please," said Thurlow icily. "And what is k I'm supposed to have done this time, Maclyn?"
"Climb off it, Thurl," grumbled Mac. "All right, you're a vice-president of the Potts Shoe Company—"
"You pretend you're running a God-knows-how-many-million-dollar firm," exploded Robert, "and that's okay as long as you pretend—"
"But why in hell don't you stick to wasting the family's money on those silly lawsuits of yours—"
"Instead of canceling our newspaper-advertising plans for the Middle West, you feeble-minded nitwit?"
"Robert, don't speak to your eldest brother that way!" cried their mother.
"How you protect your white-haired boy, Mother," grinned Robert. "Although there isn't much of it left.... You know Thurlow would ruin the business if—"
"Just—one—moment, if you please," said Thurlow. His fat nostrils were quivering. "I've got as much to say about running the company as you two have—Mother said so! Didn't you, Mother?"
"I won't have this disgraceful argument at the dinner table, boys."
"He said I'd ruin the business!" cried Thurlow.
"Well, wouldn't you?" asked Bob Potts with disgust
"Bob, cut it out," said his twin in a low voice.
"Cut nothing out, Mac!" said Robert. "We always have to sit by and watch old fuddy-pants pull expensive boners, then we've got to clean up his mess. Well, I'm damned good and tired of it!"
"Robert, I warn you—!" shouted Thurlow.
"Warn my foot. You're a nice fat little bag of wind, Brother Thurlow," said Bob Potts angrily, "a fake, a phony, and a blubbering jerk, and if you don't keep your idiotic nose out of the business—"
Thurlow grew very pale, but also a look came into his eyes of cunning. He snatched his napkin, jumped up, ran over to where Robert was watching him with a puzzled expression, and then whipped the napkin over his younger brother's face with an elegance—and a force—that caused Bob's mouth to open.
"What the devil—"
"You've insulted Thurlow Potts for the last time," choked the chubby little man. "Brother or no brother, I demand satisfaction. Wait here—I'll give you your choice of weapons!" And, triumphantly Thurlow stalked out of the dining room.
Surely, thought Ellery Queen, this is where I wake up and stretch.
But there was the doorway through which Thurlow Potts had passed, here was the long board with its congress of amazed faces.
"Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle," said Mac, looking blank. "Thurlow's gone clean off his chump at last! Pop— did you hear that?"
Steve Potts rose indecisively. "Maybe if I g-go speak to Thurlow, Mac—"
Mac laughed. "He's stark, raving mad!"
Bob was feeling his cheek. "Why don't you face the facts. Mother? How can you sit by and let Thurlow have anything to do with the business? If Mac and I didn't countermand every stupid order he gives, he'd run us into bankruptcy in a year."
"You baited him, Robert Deliberately!"
"Oh, come, Mother—"
Suddenly the air was windy with recriminations. The only member of the household who seemed to enjoy it was Major Gotch, who sat back puffing a pipe and following the play of words like a spectator at a tennis match.
"That book, Ellery," exclaimed Charley Paxton under cover of the argument. "Reads The History of Dueling and challenges Robert to a duel!"
"He can't be serious," muttered Ellery. "Can't be."
Thurlow popped in, his eyes shining. Ellery rose like a released balloon. Thurlow was brandishing two pistols.
"It's all right, Mr. Queen," said Thurlow gently. "Sit down, please."
Mr. Queen sat down. "What interesting-looking little guns," he said. "May I look at them, Mr. Potts?"
"Some other time," murmured Thurlow. "From now on, we must do everything according to the code."
"The code?" Ellery blinked. "Which code is that, Mr. Potts?"
"The code of duello, of course. Honor before everything, Mr. Queen!" And Thurlow advanced upon his brother, who sat transfixed. "Robert, take one of these. The choice is yours."
Bob's hand came up in a mechanical motion; it fell grasping a shiny nickel weapon which Ellery recognized as a Smith & Wesson, "S. & W. .38/32," a .38-caliber revolver. It was not a large weapon, being scarcely more than half a foot long, yet it hung like a submachine gun from Robert's paralyzed hand. Mac sat by his twin with an identical expression of stupefaction.
Thurlow glanced down at the weapon remaining—a Colt "Pocket Model" automatic pistol of .25 caliber, a flat and miniature gun which looked like a toy beside the small revolver in Robert's hand, for it was only 4Vi inches long. Thurlow with a flourish put the little automatic into his pocket
. "Mr. Queen, you're the only outsider here. I ask you to act as my second."
"Your—" began Ellery, finding the word stick to his gums.
But Charley Paxton whispered frantically to him: "Ellery, for Pete's sake! Humor him!"
Mr. Queen nodded wordlessly.
Thurlow bowed, a not inconsiderable feat; but the action had a certain dignity. "Robert, I'll meet you at dawn in front of the Shoe."
"The Shoe," said Bob stupidly.
Ellery caught a clairvoyant glimpse of the two brothers in the coming dawn approaching from opposite directions that ugly bronze on the front lawn, and he almost laughed. But then he glanced at Thurlow again, and refrained.
"Thurlow, for the love of Mike—" began Mac.
"Keep out of this, Maclyn," said Thurlow sternly, and Mac glanced quickly at his mother. But the Old Woman simply sat, a porcelain. "Robert, each one of these weapons has one bullet in it. You understand?"
Bob could only nod.
"I warn you, I'll shoot to kill. But if you miss me, or just wound me, I'll consider my honor satisfied. It says so in the book."
It says so in the book, Ellery repeated to himself, dazed.
"Dawn at the Shoe, Robert." A huge contempt came into Thurlow's penny-whistle voice. "If you don't show up, I'll kill you on sight." And Thurlow left the dining room a second time, prancing, like a ballet dancer.
Sheila came running into a thickly inhabited silence. "I just saw Thurl go up to his bedroom with a little gun in his hand—" She stopped, spying the glittering nickel in Bob's hand.
The Old Woman simply sat
Charley got up, sat down, got up again. "It's nothing, Sheila. A—joke of Thurlow's. About a duel at dawn at the Shoe on the front lawn, or some such nonsense—"
"A duel!" Sheila stared at her brother.
"I still think it's some weird gag of Thurl's," Bob said with a shaky smile, "although God knows he's never been famous for a sense of humor—"