Inspector Queen’s Own Case

There had been other reasons, of course; Marrying a Stiles was very nearly as desirable as being a Humffrey. Sarah Stiles had family, taste, and breeding; and she was plain, foreshadowing a proper attitude toward marriage. He was almost as comfortable with her as when he was alone. She respected tradition and shared his horror of vulgarity. And she placed the same high value on the name of Humffrey. Even her neurotic tendencies could be charming; they made him feel forgiving toward her.

Forgiveness was necessary. In one thing she had failed him — unfortunately, in the most important thing. The fault was hers; he had never doubted it. Nor had she. Still, they had subjected themselves to the distasteful corroboration of medical science. It was true; Sarah Stiles Humffrey would never bear a child. Divorce being out of the question, they were doing the next best thing.

So Alton K. Humffrey patted his wife’s hand.

It was her left hand, and his right. He withdrew his quickly. Tolerant as he could be toward her imperfections, he could not forgive his own. He had been born without the tip of his little finger. Usually he concealed the offending member by curling it against his palm. This caused the ring finger to curl, too. When he raised his hand to hail someone the gesture looked Roman, almost papal. It rather pleased him.

“Alton, suppose she changed her mind!” his wife was saying.

“Nonsense, Sarah.”

“But suppose she did?”

“I’m sure we can rely on that lawyer fellow to see that she did not.”

“I wish we could have done it in the usual way,” she said restlessly.

His lips compressed. In crucial matters Sarah was a child. “You know why, my dear.”

“I really don’t.”

He decided to indulge her. “Have you forgotten that we’re not exactly the ideal age for a legal proceeding?”

“Oh, Alton, you could have managed it.” One of Sarah Humffrey’s endearing qualities was her unconquerable conviction that her husband could manage anything.

“This way is safest. No ghost to come haunting us five or ten years from now. And no publicity.”

“Yes.” Sarah Humffrey shivered. Alton was so right. He always was. If only people of our class could live like ordinary people, she thought.

Mrs. Humffrey leaned forward and said into the speaking-tube, “Henry, won’t you drive a little faster?”

“No, ma’am,” the white-haired chauffeur said firmly.

The buxom nurse beside him stared straight ahead, hands quietly in her lap, as if they were waiting.

When the girl came out of the hospital the fat man was on the steps to greet her, smiling.

“Good morning!” he said. “All checked out okay?”

“Yes.” She had a deep, slightly hoarse, voice.

“No complications or anything?”

“No.”

“And our little arrival is well and happy, I hope?” Finner started to raise the flap of the blue blanket from the face of the infant the girl was carrying, but she put her shoulder in the way.

“Don’t touch him,” she said.

“Now, now,” the fat man said. “I’ll bet he’s a regular lover-boy. How could he miss with such a doll for a ma?” He was still trying to get a look at her baby. But she kept fending him off.

“Well, let’s go,” Finner said curtly.

He took the rubberized bag of diapers and bottles of formula from her and waddled to his car. She dragged after him, clutching the blanketed bundle to her breast.

The fat man had the front door open for her. She shook his hand off and got in.

Finner shrugged. “Where do you want I should drop you? ” he asked as he heaved his blubber up and over.

“I don’t care. I guess my apartment.”

He drove off cautiously. The girl held the blue bundle tight.

She wore a green suède suit and a mannish felt pulled down over one eye. She was striking in a theatrical way, gold hair greenish at the scalp, big hazel eyes, a wide mouth that kept moving around. She had put on no make-up this morning. Her lips were pale and ragged.

She lifted the blanket and looked down at the puckered little face with tremendous intentness.

“Any deformities or birthmarks?” the fat man asked suddenly.

“What?”

He repeated the question.

“No.” She began to rock.

“Did you do what I told you about his clothes?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure there are no identifying marks on the clothes? ” he persisted.

“I told you!” She turned on him in fury. “Can’t you shut up? He’s sleeping.”

“They sleep like drunks. Had an easy time, did you?”

“Easy?” The girl began to laugh. But then she stopped laughing and looked down again.

“Just asking,” Finner said, craning to see the baby’s face. “Sometimes the instruments—”

“He’s perfect merchandise,” the girl said. “They’re getting their money’s worth.”

She began to croon in a sweet and throbbing contralto, rocking the bundle again. The baby blatted, and the girl looked frantic.

“Darlin’, darlin’, what’s the matter? Don’t cry... mama’s got you...”

“Gas,” the fat man said. “Just bubble him.”

She flung him a look of pure hate. She raised the baby to her shoulder and patted his back nervously. He burped and fell asleep again.

A. Burt Finner drove in delicate silence.

All at once the girl burst out, “I can’t, I won’t!”