Wife or Death by Ellery Queen Page B

once or twice a year, sometimes—not always—getting an answering note. If the Koblowskis did come, it would be strange meeting his in-laws for the first time at his wife’s funeral.
    But no stranger, he thought, than everything else involving Angel.
    Denton walked over to Gerard’s Funeral Home.
    Nelson Gerard was an impeccable little plump man with the universal gravity of his profession. He always made the mourners feel that their loss was equally his. He had also the rather disconcerting habit of referring to the dead in his embalming parlor as if they were still breathing: “Your mother was so cooperative , bless her,” or “We did have a little fight on our hands, Mrs. Jones, but your husband’s calmed down beautifully.” It was impossible to think of Nelse Gerard in terms of ordinary human behavior—eating, sleeping, getting drunk or making love to the impeccable little plump woman with the virginal name of Parthenia to whom he was married. Only a small coterie knew that he was a regular patron of the whorehouse on Bath Street and that he played the most reckless game of poker in town.
    Gerard greeted Denton like an understanding father. He took Denton’s hand in both of his, pressed lightly and warily and said. “Now Jim, I don’t want you to worry about anything . We will do it all. If she were my own daughter—”
    â€œYou’d be off getting drunk somewhere,” said Denton. “Look, Nelse, don’t give me the treatment—I know where your body is buried. When can I get this over with? Augie Spile tells me the county pathologist will release the body on Monday.”
    â€œJim, Jim,” sighed the mortician. “Always the maverick. Why, if that’s the case,” he said briskly, “how about Tuesday morning?”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œChurch service?”
    â€œRight here’ll be fine.”
    â€œSt. John’s Episcopal is your church, isn’t it? Father Ireson to conduct the service?”
    â€œI guess so.”
    Nelse Gerard made a precise little note on a pad. “Now. Are there any out-of-town relatives of Mrs. Denton’s who should be notified?”
    â€œJust her parents. They live in Titusville, Pennsylvania. I don’t know the street address, but it’s a small town.”
    â€œThe name?”
    â€œMr. and Mrs. Stanislaus Koblowski.”
    â€œHow do you spell that?”
    Denton spelled it.
    The funeral director wrote it down. “Relatives on your side to be informed?”
    â€œOh, hell, Nelse, forget it. I have an aunt in Los Angeles, but she never met Angel and I’m sure she couldn’t care less.”
    â€œShe might wish to send flowers,” Gerard said reprovingly. “Her name and address, please?”
    Denton shrugged and told him. The pen scurried across the pad.
    â€œWe will, of course, sign your name to the wires. Now.” The little man drew the corners of his mouth down; for an absurd moment Denton thought he was going to cry. “The unfortunate question of costs. We relieve the bereaved of having to worry over financial details by placing an all-over figure on the funeral. The chief determining factor is, of course, the casket. Do you have any idea, Jim, of how much you wish to spend?”
    â€œI carried a thousand-dollar insurance policy on her. Make it an even thousand dollars.”
    Denton had thought that question out on his walk over. The insurance policy on Angel’s life answered it beautifully. Without the policy he would have named a more moderate figure; he felt no obligation to lay away a wife expensively who had got herself murdered in the act of running away with another man. On the other hand, the thought of making a profit on her death was distasteful.
    â€œOne thousand,” Gerard wrote down delicately, but Denton could see that he was pleased. “Would you care to select the casket now?”
    â€œGood God, no.