Эллери Куин - Halfway House

For a moment there was silence; and then Mrs. Gimball said with a gasp, “But, Ducky—”

“Ducky!” cried Andrea. “Are you mad?”

Finch smiled. “My duty, of course, is first to the company. The merest routine would dictate that we thoroughly investigate this murder. The amount at stake is considerable. If Gimball was murdered by his beneficiary proof of that would mean that the National and the seven other companies are liable only for the money he invested, plus accumulated dividends and interests — over a period of only five years — especially when the cash-surrender value is taken into consideration, a negligible sum compared with the million-dollar face of the policy.”

“By God,” exclaimed De Jong, “don’t tell me an outfit like the National Life can’t stand paying out three hundred grand.”

The tall man looked shocked. “My dear man! That’s not the point at all. Under the law it is virtually impossible for any company insuring lives to be in a precarious financial position. As for the National... Preposterous! It’s a matter of principle, that’s all. If insurance companies didn’t protect themselves by such investigations, it would invite every morally unbalanced beneficiary to murder the insured.”

“And who,” asked Ellery, “ is Gimball’s beneficiary?”

The same two uniformed men who had appeared hours before with their stretchers clumped in. They dropped the stretcher by the body.

Mrs. Gimball suddenly buried her stern face in her hands and began to sob. From the expressions of stupefaction on the faces of Grosvenor Finch and Andrea it was evident that the spectacle of Jessica Gimball weeping was as rare as rain in the Sahara.

“Jessica,” said Finch in a troubled voice. “Jessica! Surely you don’t think—”

“Don’t touch me, you — you Judas!” sobbed the middle-aged woman. “To accuse me of — of...”

“Mrs. Gimball is Gimball’s beneficiary?” remarked Ellery. He watched them without expression.

“Jessica, don’t, please. I’ve been an ass... Look here, Queen, of course I’m not accusing Jessica Gimball of the murder. That’s...” He could not find an adequate word to express the ridiculousness of the thought. “I meant to explain than Jessica Gimball was the beneficiary of Joe Gimball. She isn’t any more.”

The weeping woman stiffened. Andrea drew her slender figure to its full height, her blue eyes sparkling with indignation. “Hasn’t this gone far enough, Ducky? We all know that Mother was Joe’s beneficiary — it was Grandfather who suggested his taking the insurance in the first place, with his old-fashioned ideas about the ‘responsibilities’ of a husband. Not that Mother needs it! You can’t be serious.”

“But I am,” said Finch miserably. “I was in no position to tell you, Jessica, or I should have. These matters are confidential, and when I discovered that Joe had arranged for a change of beneficiary, he swore me to silence. What could I do?”

“Let’s get this straight,” said De Jong, his predatory eyes glittering. “Start from the beginning. When did he come to you?”

“He didn’t come to me. About three weeks ago — it was on May tenth — I was informed by Miss Zachary, my secretary, that a request had been received in the mail from Gimball for a change-of-beneficiary form. I was surprised that Joe hadn’t spoken to me about it, because I had always handled his policy — with a select few others — personally. However, it didn’t make any difference, because all Gimball policy matters automatically reached my desk. Of course, the requested forms were immediately sent out, and then I telephoned Joe at his office.”

“Hold it,” rasped De Jong. “Hey, you guys, get that stiff out of here, will you? What the hell you rubbernecking for?” The uniformed men stopped gaping and hastily departed with their covered burden.

“Joe,” faltered Lucy, staring at the closed door; and then she fell silent. Mrs. Gimball glared at the door with resentment, as if she could never forgive what the dead man had done. Her jeweled fingers were twitching.

The tall man said quickly, “I ’phoned him for a confirmation. I couldn’t understand why Joe should want to change his beneficiary. Of course, strictly speaking, it was none of my affair; and I told him so at once. But Joe wasn’t angry; just nervous. Yes, he said, he meant to change his beneficiary for reasons too involved to go into at the time. He did say vaguely that Jessica was independently wealthy, didn’t need the protection of the policy, or some such rot; and he asked me to keep his intention a secret, at least until he could talk to me alone and explain.”

“And did he?” murmured Ellery.

“Unfortunately, no. I hadn’t seen or talked with him since our telephone conversation three weeks ago. I’ve the feeling he was avoiding me, perhaps to escape the necessity of explaining as he had promised. When I saw the name of the new beneficiary on the application it meant nothing at all to me, of course. And I’m afraid that after the first reaction of worry over the implication of a rift between Jessica and Joe I quite forgot the whole matter.”

“What happened after your talk?” demanded De Jong.

“He filled out the forms and mailed them to me with the policies a few days later; it took a couple of weeks to handle the matter with the other companies, but the altered policies were returned to him last Wednesday; and that’s the last of it. Until tonight.” Finch frowned. “And tonight he’s dead by someone’s hand. It’s deucedly odd.”

“We seem to be arriving at the crucial point,” said Ellery patiently, “by the most circuitous route. Will you please—?”

Finch stared from face to face. “You will understand,” he said uneasily, “that what I am about to tell you is merely a statement of fact. I’ve not made up my mind, and I shouldn’t care to have my position misconstrued... The significance of this change of beneficiary didn’t strike me until I walked into this hovel tonight and discovered...” He paused. “When Gimball returned his applications and policies, he indicated in the proper places that his beneficiary was to be changed from Jessica Borden Gimball to... Mrs. Lucy Wilson. Mrs. Lucy Wilson, I repeat, giving a specific address in Fairmount Park, Philadelphia!”

“Me?” said Lucy faintly. “Me? A million dollars?”

“You’re sure of that, Mr. Finch?” De Jong leaned forward in an eager attitude. “You’re not just making that up to throw dust in my eyes?”

“I suppose,” said Finch coldly, “I shouldn’t bridle at anything. I assure you I have nothing against Mrs. Wilson, whom I’ve never even seen before tonight and who is, I feel certain, the victim of a terrible misunderstanding. On the other hand, if I am to argue the point, I should think ‘making it up’, as you put it, would be quite stupid of me. The National is an institution above personalities or the possibility of individual machination.”

“Talk United States.”

Finch stared. “Nor do I see the necessity for your insulting manner. However, to proceed, the records exist, and no one, not I nor Hathaway, President of the National, nor anyone on this earth could falsify them. Besides, you will find Joseph Kent Gimball’s application, in his verifiable handwriting, both in our photostatic files and in his own policies, wherever they may be — his office safe, or his bank vault.”

The policeman nodded impatiently; his eyes were on Lucy, pinning her to her chair with a remorseless calculation. Lucy shrank back, her fingers fumbling with a button on her dress.

“That was beastly of Joe,” cried Mrs. Gimball passionately. “This... this creature his beneficiary, his wife... I simply refuse to believe it. It’s not the money. But the callousness, the bad taste—”