Ellery Queen - There Was an Old Woman

SERGEANT THOMAS VELIE, of the Homicide Department

INSPECTOR RICHARD QUEEN, of the New York Police Department, Ellery’s father

CHARLES HUNTER PAXTON, who represents the Pottses

CORNELIA POTTS, the choleric Old Woman

THURLOW POTTS, her eldest son, a most insultable little man

DR. WAGGONER INNIS, her doctor, the Pasteur of Park Avenue

MR. JUSTICE CORNFIELD, who meant to see justice done

CONKLIN CLIFFSTATTER, who didn’t care a tittle

SHEILA POTTS, slim and red haired, a girl of inoffensive insolence

LOUELLA POTTS, who believed herself to be a great inventor

STEPHEN BRENT, Cornelia’s second husband, seemingly sane

MAJOR GOTCH, the companion of his Polynesian youth

HORATIO POTTS, who never grew up

ROBERT POTTS, Vice President in Charge of Sales

MACLYN POTTS, his twin and the other businessman of the family, Vice President in Charge of Advertising and Promotion

HESSE, FLINT, PLGGOTT, JOHNSON, of the Inspector’s staff

DR. SAMUEL PROUTY, Assistant Medical Examiner of New York County

CUTTINS, the Potts butler

MR. UNDERHILL, the plant manager

DR. CRITTENDEN, who was amazed

The pearl-gray planet of the Supreme Court building, which lies in Foley Square, is round in shape; whereby you may know that in New York County, Justice is one with universal laws, following the conscience of Man like the earth the sun. Or so Ellery Queen reflected as he sat on the southern extremity of his spine in Trial Term Part VI, Mr. Justice Greevey not yet presiding, between Sergeant Thomas Velie of Homicide and Inspector Queen, waiting to testify in a case which is another story.

“How long, O Lord?” yawned Ellery.

“If you’re referring to that Gilbert and Sullivan pipsqueak, Greevey,” snapped his father, “Greevey’s probably just scratching his navel and crawling out of his ermine bed. Velie, go see what’s holding up the works.”

Sergeant Velie opened one aggrieved eye, nodded ponderously, and lumbered off in quest of enlightenment. When he lumbered back, the Sergeant looked black. “The Clerk says,” growled Sergeant Velie, “that Mr. Justice Greevey he called up and says he’s got an earache, so he’ll be delayed two hours gettin’ down here while he gets — the Clerk says ‘irritated,’ which I am, but it don’t make sense to me.”

“Irritation,” frowned Mr. Queen, “or to call it by its purer name ‘irrigation’ — irrigation, Sergeant, is the process by which one reclaims a dry, dusty, and dead terrain... a description, I understand, which fits Mr. Justice Greevey like a decalcomania.”

The Sergeant looked puzzled, but Inspector Queen muttered through his ragged mustache: “Two hours! I’d like to irrigate him. Let’s go out in the hall for a smoke.” And the old gentleman marched out of Room 331, followed by Sergeant Velie and — meekly — Ellery Queen; and so barged into the fantastic hull of the Potts case.

For a little way down the corridor, before the door of Room 335, Trial Term Part VII, they came upon Charley Paxton, pacing. Mr. Queen, like the governor of Messina’s niece, had a good eye and could see a church by daylight; so he noted this and that about the tall young man, mechanically, and concluded [ a ] he was an attorney (brief case); [ b ] his name was Charles Hunter Paxton (stern gilt lettering on same); [ c ] Counselor Paxton was waiting for a client and the client was late (frequent glances at wrist watch); [ d ] he was unhappy (general droop). And the great man, having run over Charles Hunter Paxton with the vacuum cleaner of his glance, made to pass on, satisfied.

But his father halted, twinkling.

INSPECTOR: Again, Charley? What is it this time?

MR. PAXTON: Lèse-majesté, Inspector.

INSPECTOR: Where’d it happen?

MR. PAXTON: Club Bongo.

SERGEANT VELIE ( shaking the marble halls with his laughter ): Imagine Thurlow in that clip joint!

MR. PAXTON: And he got clipped — make no mistake about that, my friends. Clipped on the buttonola.

INSPECTOR: Assault and battery, huh?

MR. PAXTON (bitterly ): Not at all, Inspector. We mustn’t break our record! No, the same old suit for slander. Young Conklin Cliffstatter — of the East Shore Cliffstatters. Jute and shoddy.

SERGEANT: Stinking, I bet.

MR. PAXTON: Well, Sergeant, just potted enough to tell Thurlow a few homely truths about the name of Potts. ( Hollow laugh. ) There I go myself — “potted,” “Potts.” I swear that’s all Conk Cliffstatter did — make a pun on the name of Potts. Called ’ em “crack-Potts.”

ELLERY QUEEN ( his silver eyes gleaming with hunger ): Dad?

So Inspector Queen and Charley-Paxton-my-son-Ellery-Queen, and the two young men shook hands, and that was how Ellery became embroiled — it was more than an involvement — in the wonderful case of the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe.

A court officer plunged his bald head into the cool of the corridor from the swelter of Room 335, Trial Term Part VII.

“Hey, Counselor, Mr. Justice Cornfield says Potts or no Potts he ain’t waitin’ much longer for your cra... your client. What gives, in God’s good name?”

“Can’t he wait another five minutes, for goodness’ sake?” Charley Paxton cried, exasperated. “They must have been held up — Here they are! Officer, tell Cornfield we’ll be right in!” And Counselor Paxton raced toward the elevators, which had just discharged an astonishing cargo.

“There she is,” said the Inspector to his son, as one who points out a clash of planets. “Take a good look, Ellery. The Old Woman doesn’t make many public appearances.”

“With the getup,” chortled Sergeant Velie, “she could snag a job in the movies like that.”

Some women grow old with grace, others with bitterness, and still others simply grow old; but neither the concept of growth nor the devolution of old age seemed relevant to Cornelia Potts. She was a small creature with a plump stomach and tiny fine-boned feet which whisked her about. Her face, like a tangerine, was almost entirely lacking in detail; one was surprised to find embedded in it two eyes, which were as black and hard as coal chips. Those eyes, by some perverse chemistry of her ego, were unwinkingly malevolent. If they were capable of changing expression at all, it was into malicious rage.

If not for the eyes, seeing Cornelia Potts in the black taffeta skirts she affected, the boned black lace choker, the prim black bonnet, one would have thought of her as a “Sweet old character,” a sort of sexless little kobold who vaguely resembled the Jubilee pictures of Queen Victoria. But the eyes quite forbade such sentimentalization; they were dangerous and evil eyes, and they made imaginative people — like Ellery — think of poltergeists, and elementals, and suchlike creatures of the unmentionable worlds.

Mrs. Cornelia Potts did not step sedately, as befitted a dame of seventy years, from the elevator — she darted from it, like a midge from a hot stream, followed by a widening wake of assorted characters, most of whom were delighted ladies and gentlemen of the press, and at least one of whom — palpably not a journalist — was almost as extraordinary as she.

“And who,” demanded the astonished Mr. Queen, “is that?”