Эллери Куин - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 47, No. 4. Whole No. 269, April 1966

“Dr. Mehallah relies on his own powers in attaining the mystic state, not on any of the usual trappings,” said Estrella stiffly. Then she flashed her dimples at him. “Shame on you for making fun of me. I only did it because I missed you so. I would have given anything for a sign from you.”

She had grieved, really. Why, that first night she was beside herself. Tenny had to call the doctor to give her a sedative. Someone had suggested travel as a therapeutic agent, so she had signed up for a cruise, any cruise. And that was where she met Dr. Mehallah.

Strange, strange how fate had woven its pattern; she had felt from the first that Dr. Mehallah’s coffee-brown eyes were piercing to her very soul and drawing it out of her body, had heard in his high-pitched voice the cadence of unearthly music, had known beyond all question that in the furtherance of his work she had found her true mission in life. But how explain this to Byron? She sighed.

“Never mind, Mother. There must be plenty of other bone-fide spirits for Dr. Mehallah to concentrate on, now that I’m out of the running. No need to drop the guy on my account.”

Her temper snapped. That indulgent, superior smile of his! “I have no intention of dropping Dr. Mehallah. Ever. Naturally you wouldn’t understand what it means to me to be able to help a man of his gifts. Neither does Mary Ethel, not that it’s any of her business—”

He straightened up, alert now, a hound on the scent. “Help? What kind of help were you planning to give him?”

“I’m still planning it! And you can’t stop me!” But he could. She jumped to her feet, in clattering, chattering agitation. “Tenny’s agreed to it — oh, I know you’ve always belittled him, but at least he doesn’t close his mind the way some people I could mention; and another thing, he’s got a little feeling for his mother, and if your father were alive he’d be the first to say go ahead. So it’s three against one — four, counting Dr. Mehallah — so what right have you to stop us?”

“Stop you from doing what?”

“It’s not as if there weren’t other institutions for those delinquent boys every bit as good as Hawley Farm. Better, in fact, and bigger. Your father admitted himself that it’s only a drop in the bucket. Why, there’s only room for twenty. What’s the good of a place that small? It’s not worthwhile.”

“Dad thought it was,” said Byron, in an ominously mild voice. “So do quite a few other people. Mother, are you planning to turn Hawley Farm over to Dr. Mehallah?” He was on his feet now too; he actually took her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake.

“I have a right,” she wavered. “It’s in my name.”

“It’s in yours and Tenny’s and mine. And you may have conned Tenny into making hash of what Dad wanted, but you won’t con me. You know as well as I do that Dad would never in the world consent to any such deal. And neither will I. Believe me, if you hand over Hawley Farm to this phoney mystic of yours, it’ll—”

“He’s not! You take your hands off me!”

“—be over my dead body.”

The words throbbed,’ eerily amplified, echoing and re-echoing. Over his dead body She had thought that was how it was. Yes. She had believed she was safely beyond the reach of his voice that would not agree, his hand that would not sign, his will that would not bend to hers. Not of course that she had ever wished him dead—

She did now. For once in her life Estrella looked truth in the eye. It wasn’t fair for him to be alive when they said he couldn’t be. It was as if he had played a monstrous practical joke on her, pretending to give her freedom, only to pull her up sharp just when she was making the most of it. He was her favorite son — and she wished the swamp had swallowed him. She did not want him alive, with the power to block her.

She wanted him dead. Dead.

Horror-struck, she stared into his haggard face.

“Over my dead body,” he repeated, and released her — just let his hands drop and abandoned her. He picked up his trench coat and slung it over his shoulder. “Unfortunately, I’m still alive. I’ll be back for your party. Try to bear up until then.”

“Byron! Don’t leave me—” she wailed, and she burst into the more or less genuine sobs that had stood her in such good stead so many times in the past. But the door was already closing behind him. Her breath caught in a spasm of shock and fury. The nerve of him! To drop this bombshell on her and then simply walk away from the wreckage, simply stroll calmly off to — to whoever was next on his list. Mary Ethel? Or had he already seen her?

Oh, she didn’t know. She didn’t know what to do. She covered her face with her plump little hands and whimpered.

Once he recovered his power of speech, Tennyson said, with such vehemence that he hardly recognized his own voice, “No, not at a bar. Come on back to the office. We can talk there.”

“Okay,” said Byron cheerfully. He, Byron, didn’t sound any different. His greeting had been so nonchalant, and the way he had swung into step, so poised and ease, as if only a fusspot like Tenny would see anything momentous about this meeting — typical of him, typical. His limp (which women would like as not think romantic) was new, and he was skinny as a stray cat. Otherwise he was the same old Byron, and Tenny was the same old—

No. Absolutely not. He had changed, and Byron was, by gad, going to find it out. He was going to have to get used to playing second fiddle himself, for a change. Tenny lifted his solemn, fleshy face to the wind-driven sleet, squared shoulders, and inwardly pledged allegiance to the new man he had become, was now, and forever would be, world without end, amen.

“I figured you’d probably still be at the office,” Byron was saying. “You always were a great one for overtime.”

“And still am. More so, in fact. What I say is, a real executive can’t expect to stick to a nine-to-five schedule. He’s got to forget about watching the clock and concentrate on getting the job done. Personally, I find I accomplish more after five than during office hours. You don’t get the interruptions. No phone calls, et cetera. You can buckle right down and think a problem through.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Byron, whose own attitude toward his executive responsibilities had been light-hearted, to say the least. They would get around to that little matter, among others, before they were through.

The lobby of the office building was deserted except for the elevator starter, new since Byron’s time, so they were spared a goggle-eyed reunion scene. Tenny gave the man a preoccupied nod, as became the head of Hawley Enterprises; and after the self-service elevator had borne them smoothly upward, he led the way, keys in hand, past the switchboard where a night light glowed and into the hushed darkness of the President’s office.

To Tenny’s secret relief, Byron sat down on the green leather couch, leaving the chair behind the massive desk for its rightful owner. Not that Tenny would have insisted on making an issue of it; but this way the question did not arise.

Ensconced in the security of his big chair, Tenny felt in control of himself and of the situation. His legs stopped their nervous trembling, now that they were planted firmly under the desk, which stretched like a bulwark between him and his brother.

But then Byron reached over and slid open the right-hand door of the bookcase. “Ah! Glad to see you still file the bourbon in the same place. Join me?”

“Here, let me. I’m sorry, I should have offered—” Yes, he should have. It disturbed the balance, to have Byron pouring out the drinks as if he owned the place. It put Tenny at a subtle disadvantage. Why hadn’t he thought of it! Inwardly fuming, he sipped and listened, with half an ear, to Byron’s account of his hairbreadth escape. He was rather flippant about it. Trust Byron.-