Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 5, No. 19, November 1944

“It started,” she went on, “one afternoon when I was waiting for him in the car outside the House of Commons. He stayed behind on the steps, talking interminably to that dreadful Labour man What’s-his-name. He simply wouldn’t come on, no matter how many gestures I made. When he did condescend to join me, he looked at me in a queer way, and asked the chauffeur to stop at the nearest newsagents. There he got out and bought a copy of that paper.”

She pointed.

“I couldn’t tell what he was looking at. But I knew there was something wrong with him. I asked him if he couldn’t take any interest in what I was doing for him. Even in the concert of chamber music I’d arranged for that night, where Julio’s Trio was to render selections from the modern masters. And he said—”

“Yes?” prompted Colonel March.

“He said ‘Damn and blast the modern masters.’ It was too utterly tiresome, when Julio is all the rage this season.”

“Indeed?”

“Then I caught him cutting out that advertisement from the paper. That wouldn’t have mattered, and I forgot all about it. But only a week ago I caught him cutting it out again, this time out of The Times. So,” explained Lady Patricia, “I decided to find out who this ‘William and Wilhelmina Wilson’ really were. I paid them a visit yesterday.”

Her eyes took on a shrewd, speculative look.

“Whoever they are,” she said thoughtfully, “they’ve got pots of money. I expected to find the office some dreadful little place: you know. But it wasn’t. My dear man, it’s in a big new block of offices opposite the Green Park. So business-like: that’s what I can’t understand. You go up in a lift, and there’s a big marble corridor and a ground-glass door with ‘William and Wilhelmina Wilson’ on it.”

Her expression was now one of active fury, which she tried to conceal. As though remembering to be maternal, she lifted the Pekingese, shook it in the air, and cooed to it with pouted lips. The dog sneezed the hair out of its eyes, and looked bored.

“I opened the door,” she said, “and there was a big waiting-room. Empty. Some rather good bronzes and etchings, too. I called out. I rapped on the table. But nobody answered. Just when I was wondering what to do, Flopit here... izzums, precious!... Flopit found another door, and began to bark.”

She drew a deep breath.

“I opened that door. It was a big office, like a secretary’s office. In the middle was a big flat-topped desk, with a swivel-chair behind it. In the chair sat Frankie, my Frankie. And on his lap, with her arms round his neck, sat a horrible red-haired hussy, about nineteen years old.”

This time it was a near thing.

Colonel March’s cough was so prolonged and strangled that a blind man would have noticed something wrong. Lady Patricia’s hard eye noted it, and hated it. But she had to speak now.

“Well, really! I mean to say! I hope I’m broad-minded, but—! My dear man, I was boiling; positively boiling. I didn’t say anything. I just picked up Flopit by his precious neck, and walked out, and slammed the door. I walked across the waiting-room, and out into the hall.

“But I didn’t go any farther. After all, I have Frankie’s good at heart. And Frankie is awfully rich, and it didn’t seem right that she should get his money, whereas I... I mean, when you’ve worked and slaved for a man, as I’ve worked and slaved for Frankie... well, it’s rather thick.

“I waited in front of the door. Finally, I decided to go back and have it out with them. Back I marched into the waiting-room; and there I met somebody I hadn’t seen before. A well-dressed elderly man. Rather distinguished-looking: bald except for white hair at the back of his head, curling down nearly to his collar.

“He said, ‘Yes, madam?’

“I said, ‘Who are you?’

“He said, ‘I am William Wilson. Have you an appointment?’

“I just froze him. I asked to see Mr. Hale. He had the nerve to raise his eyebrows and say that Frankie wasn’t there: that he had never heard of any Mr. Hale and didn’t know what I was talking about. I said I also supposed he didn’t know anything about a red-haired girl either? He looked surprised and said he imagined I must mean Miss Wilhelmina Wilson, his niece and secretary — think of it! — but he still knew of no Mr. Hale.

“Well, really, that was too much! I just walked past him and opened the door to the office where I’d seen Frankie before. Frankie wasn’t there; but the red-haired girl was. She was standing in front of another little door, which led to a kind of cloakroom, and looking disgustingly guilty. I simply pushed her out of the way, and looked in. But...”

Lady Patricia Mortlake gulped.

“Yes?” prompted Colonel March.

“Frankie wasn’t there,” she said.

“He wasn’t in the cloakroom?”