The Murderer is a Fox (4 page)

"Worried? Certainly
not. Why should I be? It wasn't my case. I mean—" the
Prosecutor spread his hands. "See here. If there's been a
mistake-a miscarriage of justice-go easy, will you, old boy?"

"May I sit down?"

"Sorry! Here, Queen,
here."

“I'm afraid,"
said Ellery, crossing his legs, "that friend Dakin's been
premature. Did you tell Hendrix I'd cracked the case, Dakin?"

"Well, sure. Didn't you
just say on the phone—"

"I said I knew why
Bayard's will was stolen last night, and who stole it."

"But—"

Ellery shook his head.
"Let's go back," he said. "I've now established beyond
a doubt the facts about that locked drawer. I've checked them. After
phoning you, Dakin, I phoned Bayard at his brother's house. When I
mentioned the word 'will,' Bayard suddenly remembered. And he
confirms Judge Eli Martin's account. He'd locked the will in the top
drawer of his secretary, a drawer otherwise empty, and he was
positive he hadn't opened the drawer again. We have no reason to
doubt that statement. Wills are made out and put away. Bayard made
his out and put it away. I think we can reasonably conclude that
Bayard's will lay in that locked secretary drawer for twelve and a
half years."

"And then all of a
sudden somebody comes along lookin' for it," cried Chief Dakin.

"Not necessarily."

Prosecutor Hendrix demanded:
"Now what do you mean by that, Queen?"

"I mean that the fact
that the housebreaker took the will doesn't prove he broke into the
house to
look
for the will. As a matter of fact, the most
cursory consideration of the data at our disposal shows that, on the
contrary, the prowler didn't want the will
as a will
at all"

The two men looked
bewildered.

"For what conceivable
use could that will have been to anyone-anyone on earth?" Ellery
went on. "It was Bayard's will, disposing of his estate in the
event of his death and naming his wife sole legatee. But look at this
peculiar pair of circumstances: The wife is dead, and has been dead
for twelve years!—she predeceased the testator, as you lawyers
say, Hendrix. What does that do to the will?"

"Makes it obsolete, of
course."

"What does a testator
usually do when his will becomes obsolete by virtue of the
beneficiary's prior death and the will moreover has not provided for
a-what do you call it, Hendrix?-a contingent beneficiary?"

"Why, if testator
doesn't want to die intestate, he'll make out a new will naming a
new, living beneficiary."

"Exactly. Did testator
do that? The fact is—our second circumstance—he's done
better than that.
He disposed of his estate before his death—gave
up all title to it during his lifetime.
Bayard Fox, shortly after
he went to prison, signed legal papers turning his whole estate over
to his son, in trust until Davy should come of age.

"So today—last
night, when that 1931 will was stolen—the will was not only
obsolete as a legal instrument, it was also
meaningless
. The
whole question of Bayard's estate was a settled and dead issue years
and years ago.

"Consequently I say:
The thief could not have stolen the will for its significance as a
will—it has none. Therefore he stole it for a different reason
entirely."

Dakin was shaking his head.
"I can't even imagine a different reason, Mr. Queen."

"And yet, Dakin, a
different reason must exist, since the thief did steal that document.
Well, let's see. If the will was not stolen as a will, what
could
it have been stolen for? For the paper it was typed on?"

Hendrix laughed. "You're
not serious."

"No, because Judge
Martin told me the paper was the most ordinary type. If not for the
paper, then for what?"

'The date?" asked the
Prosecutor doubtfully.

"But the date, too, is
obviously meaningless. It was dated December something, 1931—months
before the people and the events resolved themselves into the
tragedy. But what else appears in every will?"

"The witnesses' names?"
suggested Chief Dakin.

"But Judge Martin told
me—and Bayard confirmed this over the phone just now—that
the witnesses were Amos Bluefield, Wrightsville Town Clerk at the
time, and Mark Doodle, a notary. Why should the thief have wanted
those witnesses' names? For some obscure reason to discover who the
witnesses had been? But then he'd merely have had to look at the
will, he wouldn't have taken the will away with him. Then did he want
a

sample of the witnesses'
names, their autographs? He'd scarcely have to resort to
housebreaking and theft if that was his purpose. There must be
thousands of documents extant bearing the name of the Town Clerk, and
of course a notary's name would appear in hundreds of very ordinary
papers. So the witnesses can't have any significance in the theft.
What's left?"

"The only other thing
on a will," shrugged Hendrix, "is the name of the testator,
but that certainly can't be—"

"Why can't it be?"
asked Ellery.

"The name Bayard Fox?"
ejaculated the Prosecutor.

"It's not just a name,
Mr. Hendrix," said Ellery gently.
"It's a signature."

"Signature?"

"Bayard Fox's
signature?" said Dakin blankly.

Ellery nodded. "Bayard
Fox's signature. What's more, Bayard Fox's indisputably authentic
signature. If there's one place a man would be careful to have a
good, clear, unimpeachable specimen of his signature, it would be in
his will."

And there was silence.

"I don't understand.
Queen," said the Prosecutor finally.

"Me neither,"
groaned Dakin.

"But it's so simple!"
cried Ellery, leaping from his chair. "Doesn't Bayard Fox's
signature have a significance in this case? Dakin, you ought to be
able to answer that! Because we found Bayard Fox's signature in a
certain place today, everyone's given up!"

"The Bayard Fox
signature in Garback's record-book of prescription renewals!"
said the Chief slowly.

"Of course.
Now
re-examine the facts. Last night, after twelve years, someone broke
into Bayard Fox's house and stole an obsolete document whose only
possible value to the thief, as we've just seen, was the authentic
signature Bayard Fox signed to it twelve and a half years ago.
That
was last night. And what happens this morning? A piece of new
evidence comes to light, the crux of which is a Bayard Fox signature!
Coincidence, would you say, Mr. Hendrix?"

"The thief wanted a
specimen of Fox's signature," gasped the Prosecutor, "in
order to forge a Bayard Fox signature in Garback's old record-book!"

"Yes, Mr. Hendrix. If
you'll have that entry in Garback's ledger examined by an expert, I'm
sure he'll find that a previous, authentic entry in that space was
eradicated and the Bayard Fox prescription-renewal entry cleverly
written in over it. A palimpsest, by thunder! I never thought I'd
find
that
in Wrightsville!"

"Then the note about
the prescription number in Garback's handwriting," muttered
Hendrix, "must be a forgery, too."

"Undoubtedly. For that
the thief needed to look no farther than the ledger itself—it
contains hundreds and hundreds of samples of Garback's writing. But a
sample of Bayard Fox's signature was another matter. He decided the
old residence of Bayard Fox, which had remained untouched since the
murder, would be a likely place to find one. So he broke in and
ransacked it, starting with the breakfront and drum-table in the
livingroom, being unsuccessful, and hunting further. In the study he
tackled the desk. Unsuccessful there, too, he tackled the secretary.
And then he came across a locked drawer. He could scarcely have
resisted forcing it to see if the drawer might not contain what he
was looking for. And he was lucky—he found an old will."

“'He'-'he'!â€