Free Halfway House by Ellery Queen

involved. She’s as good—”
    “Bill,” said Ellery. “We’ll get nowhere with these childish recriminations. On the other hand, common sense demands a clarification of the situation. This place confirms the dual-personality theory. Here we find the two personalities intermingled. Wilson clothes and Gimball clothes, a Wilson car and a Gimball car. This was, in a manner of speaking, neutral territory. Undoubtedly he stopped here periodically on his way to Philadelphia to change into his Wilson outfit and take the Wilson Packard; and stopped again on his return journey to New York to change back into his Gimball clothes and take the Gimball Lincoln. Of course, he never did sell this cheap jewelry; he merely told Mrs. Wilson he did… And by the way, Mrs. Gimball, what makes you think your—this man was conducting a tawdry tabloid affair with Mrs. Wilson?”
    The woman’s lip curled. “What would a man like Joe Gimball want with a woman like this but one thing? Oh, I suppose she’s attractive enough in a coarse way”—Lucy blushed to the cleft between her breasts—“but Joe was a man of breeding, of taste. It wouldn’t be more than the most passing fancy. Husband! Fiddlesticks. It’s a plot.” Her brittle eyes examined Lucy with a corrosive hatred that melted the clothes away and left her victim naked. Lucy flinched as the acid bit; but her eyes glittered. Bill checked her with a whisper.
    “Mrs. Gimball—” began Ellery frigidly.
    “No! Do something about these people, Ducky, please. You can see that this woman is paid hush-money, or whatever it is they call it. Anything! I’m sure a cheque will keep her quiet; it always does.”
    “Jessica,” said Finch angrily. “Please.”
    “I’m afraid it won’t be as simple as that, Mrs. Gimball,” snapped Ellery. “Lucy… Lucy!”
    Lucy’s black eyes went smoking to his face. “Yes?”
    “Did you ever go through a marriage ceremony with the man you know as Joseph Wilson?”
    “He married me. I’m not a—a… He married me!”
    “Married you,” sniffled the society woman. “A likely story!”
    “Where were you married?” asked Ellery quietly.
    “We got our license in the Philadelphia City Hall. We were—we were married by a minister in a midtown church.”
    “Have you your marriage certificate?”
    “Oh, yes, yes.”
    Mrs. Gimball moved restlessly. “How long,” she demanded, “do I have to submit to this intolerable situation? It’s quite obvious this is a plot. Ducky, do something! Marriage certificate…”
    “Can’t you see, Mother,” whispered Andrea, “that Mrs.. Wilson isn’t—isn’t what you said? Please, Mother. This is more serious than—Oh, you must be reasonable!”
    Bill Angell asked in a strangled tone: “When did you marry Joseph Kent Gimball, madam?”
    The elderly woman tossed her head, disdaining to reply. But Grosvenor Finch said in a worried voice: “They were married at St Andrew’s Cathedral in New York on June tenth, 1927.”
    Lucy cried out, in something so much like triumph that the cold woman opposite her started. They faced each other, separated by five feet of empty space, the stark legs of the dead man beyond and between them, like rails of a fence. “Sunday. Fifth Avenue,” said Lucy in a throbbing murmur. “The Cathedral. High hats, limousines, jewelry, flower girls, society reporters, the Bishop himself… Oh, my God!” She laughed. “I suppose it was cheap when Joe courted me in Philadelphia, hiding behind the name of Wilson because he was afraid, I suppose, to become involved under his right name. I suppose it was cheap when he fell in love with me and married me.” She sprang to her feet, and in the shocked silence her voice rang. “For eight years the cheapness has been all on his side and yours. Cheap, am I? For eight years you’ve lived with that man with no more right than—than any woman of the streets!”
    “What,” whispered Andrea, “do you mean, Mrs. Wilson?”
    Bill said