Inspector Queen’s Own Case

“It was my impression they’d be ready on delivery of the child.”

“My people aren’t magicians,” the fat man said, smiling. “Don’t you trust me?”

“I have very little choice.”

“That’s right, Mr. Humffrey,” Finner said, still smiling. “But you’ll get them. And they’ll be regular works of art.”

“Register the envelope to me, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Humffrey did not stir until the Chevrolet was gone. Then he walked back to the limousine slowly. The chauffeur was holding the tonneau door open, and Mrs. Humffrey’s arms were reaching through.

“Give him to me, Alton!”

Her husband handed her the baby. With trembling hands she lifted the flap of the blanket.

“Miss Sherwood,” she gasped, “look!”

The buxom nurse with the pretty nose had transferred to the tonneau. “He’s a little beauty, Mrs. Humffrey.” She had a soft impersonal voice. “May I?”

She took the baby, laid it down on one of the jump-seats, and opened the blanket.

“Nurse, he’ll fall off!”

“Not at this age, Mrs. Humffrey,” the nurse smiled. “Mr. Humffrey, is that the bag that came with the baby? May I have it, please?”

“Oh, why is he crying?”

“If you were messed, hungry, and only one week old, Mrs. Humffrey,” Nurse Sherwood said, “you’d let the nasty world know about it, too. There, baby. We’ll have you clean and sweet in no time. Henry, plug the warmer into the dashboard and heat this bottle of formula. Mr. Humffrey, you’d better shut that door while I rediaper Master Humffrey.”

“Master Humffrey!” Sarah Humffrey laughed and cried alternately while her husband peered in. He could not seem to take his eyes from the squirming little body. “Alton, we have a son, a son.”

“Sarah, you’re actually excited.” Alton Humffrey was pleased.

“Nurse, let’s not use the things from that bag, shall we? All the wonderful new things we’ve brought for you, baby!” Mrs. Humffrey zipped open a morocco case. It was full of powders, oils, sterilized cotton, picks, and other nursery necessities. The nurse took a bottle of baby oil and a tin of powder from it silently. “The first thing we’ll do is have him examined by that paediatrician in Greenwich, check his formula... Alton.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Suppose the doctor finds it — him... not as represented?”

Humffrey frowned. “He looks sound enough to me, Sarah.”

“Yes, but dealing with a lawyer like this Finner—”

“There you go again,” her husband said with a trace of irritation. “Finner is reliable, Sarah. I’ve been assured of that. And you read the case histories yourself.”

“But not knowing who his people are—”

“Must we go back to that, my dear?” her husband said patiently. “I don’t want to know who his people are. In a case like this, knowledge is dangerous. This way there’s no red tape, no publicity, and no possibility of repercussions. We know the child comes of good Anglo-Saxon stock, and that the stock is certified as having no hereditary disease on either side, no feeble-mindedness, no criminal tendencies. Does the rest matter?”

“I suppose not, Alton.” His wife fumbled with her gloves. “Nurse, why doesn’t he stop crying?”

“You watch,” Miss Sherwood said over the baby’s furious blats. “Henry, the bottle should be ready.” The chauffeur hastily handed it to her. She removed the aluminum cap and shook some of the milk onto the back of her hand. Nodding, she popped the nipple gently into the little mouth. The baby stopped in mid-blat. He seized the nipple with his tiny jaws and began to suck vigorously.

Mrs. Humffrey stared, fascinated.

Alton K. Humffrey said almost gaily, “Henry, drive us back to the Island.”

The old man turned over in bed and his naked arms flew up against the light from somewhere. It was the wrong light or the wrong direction. Or wasn’t it morning? Something was wrong.

Then he heard the surf and knew where he was and squeezed his eyelids as hard as he could to shut out the room. It was a pleasant room of old random furniture and a salt smell, with rusty shrimp dangling from bleached seaweed on the wallpaper. But the pale blue wavery water lines ran around and around like thoughts, getting nowhere, and they bothered him.

The night air still defended the room coolly, but he could feel the sun ricocheting off the sea and hitting the walls like waves. In two hours it would be a hotbox.

Richard Queen opened his eyes and for a moment looked his arms over. They’re like an anatomical sketch of a cadaver, he thought, worn-out cables of muscle and bone with corrugated covers where skin used to be. But he could feel the life in them, they could still hold their own, they were useful. He brought his hands down into focus, examined the knurls of joints, the rivuleted skin, each pore like a speck of dirt, the wiry debris of gray hairs; but suddenly he closed his eyes again.