Read Online Halfway House by Ellery Queen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ellery Queen
Tags: General Fiction
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death of Monstelle—Mrs. Joseph Kent Gimball. The young lady is Joseph Gimball’s stepdaughter Andrea, Mrs. Jessica Gimball’s daughter by her first husband.”
“You may spare us,” remarked Ellery, “the genealogical details.”
Finch’s clear and honest gray eyes did not waver. “I’ve known Joe Gimball for over twenty years, ever since his undergraduate days at Princeton. I knew his father, old Roger Gimball of the Back Bay branch of the family; he died during the War. And his mother, who died six years ago, a Providence Kent. For generations the Gimballs have been—” he hesitated—“one of our more prominent families. Now do you see how impossible it is for this man to have been your husband, Mrs. Wilson?”
Lucy Wilson uttered a curious little sigh, like the breath of an expiring hope. “We’ve never been anybody. Just working people. Joe was, too. Joe couldn’t have been—”
“Lucy dear,” said Bill gently. Then he said, “You see, the funny part of it is that we’re just as certain he’s Joe Wilson, of Philadelphia, itinerant peddler who made his living selling cheap jewelry to middle-class housewives. We’ve got his car outside, and his peddler’s stock. We have the contents of his pockets, samples of his handwriting—all evidence that he was Wilson the peddler, not Gimball the society man. Impossible, Mr. Finch? You can’t really believe that.”
The tall man returned his gaze; there was something reluctant and stubborn in the set of his handsome jaw.
Jessica Gimball said, “A peddler ?” in a voice sick with loathing.
Andrea was staring at Bill with a horror in her eyes that had not gone away since she set foot in the shack.
“The answer,” said Ellery from the doorway, “is obvious enough. Of course you’ve guessed it, Bill.” He shrugged. “This man was both.”
De Jong burst in, bug-eyed with triumph. He stopped short. “Oh, getting acquainted?” he asked, rubbing his hands. “That’s the stuff; no sense getting the wind up. It’s just too bad all round, just too bad.” But he kept rubbing his hands. There was a continuous sound of departing motors from the road.
“We have just come to the conclusion, De Jong,” said Ellery, walking slowly forward, “that this is not some fictional case of twins, or impersonation, but a sordid one of deliberately assumed double identity. More frequent than people realize. There can’t be any doubt about it. You have positive identification on both sides. Everything fits.”
“Does it?” said De Jong pleasantly.
“We know that, as Joseph Wilson, this man for years spent only two or three days a week in Philadelphia with Lucy Wilson; you yourself, Bill, were disturbed by this peculiarity in his behaviour. And I am sure Mrs. Gimball can tell us that her husband spent several days each week away from the Gimball home in New York.”
The middle-aged eyes were haggard, red with lacquered resentment that made them glow from her bony face. “For years,” she said. “Joe was always… Oh, how could he have done such a thing? He used to say he had to be by himself or he would go mad. The beast, the beast!” Her voice was choked with passion.
“Mother,” said Andrea. She placed her slim hands on the trembling woman’s shoulders. “Joe said he had a hideaway somewhere not far from New York. He would never tell mother or anyone where, saying that a man was entitled to his privacy. We never suspected because he never liked the social life.…”
“I can see now,” cried Mrs. Gimball, “that it was just an excuse to get away and be with this—this woman!”
Lucy quivered as if she had been struck. Grosvenor Finch shook his head at Mrs. Gimball in disapproval and warning. But she plunged on. “And I never suspected. What a fool!” Her voice was savage. “Cheap. Cheap. To do such a cheap thing… to me.”
“Cheapness is a point of view, Mrs. Gimball,” said Bill coldly. “Please remember that my sister is
“You may spare us,” remarked Ellery, “the genealogical details.”
Finch’s clear and honest gray eyes did not waver. “I’ve known Joe Gimball for over twenty years, ever since his undergraduate days at Princeton. I knew his father, old Roger Gimball of the Back Bay branch of the family; he died during the War. And his mother, who died six years ago, a Providence Kent. For generations the Gimballs have been—” he hesitated—“one of our more prominent families. Now do you see how impossible it is for this man to have been your husband, Mrs. Wilson?”
Lucy Wilson uttered a curious little sigh, like the breath of an expiring hope. “We’ve never been anybody. Just working people. Joe was, too. Joe couldn’t have been—”
“Lucy dear,” said Bill gently. Then he said, “You see, the funny part of it is that we’re just as certain he’s Joe Wilson, of Philadelphia, itinerant peddler who made his living selling cheap jewelry to middle-class housewives. We’ve got his car outside, and his peddler’s stock. We have the contents of his pockets, samples of his handwriting—all evidence that he was Wilson the peddler, not Gimball the society man. Impossible, Mr. Finch? You can’t really believe that.”
The tall man returned his gaze; there was something reluctant and stubborn in the set of his handsome jaw.
Jessica Gimball said, “A peddler ?” in a voice sick with loathing.
Andrea was staring at Bill with a horror in her eyes that had not gone away since she set foot in the shack.
“The answer,” said Ellery from the doorway, “is obvious enough. Of course you’ve guessed it, Bill.” He shrugged. “This man was both.”
De Jong burst in, bug-eyed with triumph. He stopped short. “Oh, getting acquainted?” he asked, rubbing his hands. “That’s the stuff; no sense getting the wind up. It’s just too bad all round, just too bad.” But he kept rubbing his hands. There was a continuous sound of departing motors from the road.
“We have just come to the conclusion, De Jong,” said Ellery, walking slowly forward, “that this is not some fictional case of twins, or impersonation, but a sordid one of deliberately assumed double identity. More frequent than people realize. There can’t be any doubt about it. You have positive identification on both sides. Everything fits.”
“Does it?” said De Jong pleasantly.
“We know that, as Joseph Wilson, this man for years spent only two or three days a week in Philadelphia with Lucy Wilson; you yourself, Bill, were disturbed by this peculiarity in his behaviour. And I am sure Mrs. Gimball can tell us that her husband spent several days each week away from the Gimball home in New York.”
The middle-aged eyes were haggard, red with lacquered resentment that made them glow from her bony face. “For years,” she said. “Joe was always… Oh, how could he have done such a thing? He used to say he had to be by himself or he would go mad. The beast, the beast!” Her voice was choked with passion.
“Mother,” said Andrea. She placed her slim hands on the trembling woman’s shoulders. “Joe said he had a hideaway somewhere not far from New York. He would never tell mother or anyone where, saying that a man was entitled to his privacy. We never suspected because he never liked the social life.…”
“I can see now,” cried Mrs. Gimball, “that it was just an excuse to get away and be with this—this woman!”
Lucy quivered as if she had been struck. Grosvenor Finch shook his head at Mrs. Gimball in disapproval and warning. But she plunged on. “And I never suspected. What a fool!” Her voice was savage. “Cheap. Cheap. To do such a cheap thing… to me.”
“Cheapness is a point of view, Mrs. Gimball,” said Bill coldly. “Please remember that my sister is
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