The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo)

16: IOU

“...And scored his second kayo of the evening, this time his distinguished opponent being the Great Kazoo himself, Julian Hunter. What fun! There were magnums of champagne...”

Mr. Ellery Queen read Ted Lyons’s column through in silence at the breakfast table the next morning. Although Ellery could not remember having seen the tabloid columnist at the Club Mara the previous evening, Lyons’s latest eruption in The Lowdown was presumptive evidence that he had been present. He described in snatches the hilarity, the cast of characters, and the dramatic highlights of the evening. He gave the stars their due, and did not neglect to comment on the subtier phases of the piece. Ellery himself was mentioned as “one of the victims of the new champ’s muckety-amuck.” And then Ellery’s eyes narrowed. For at the end of the piece there was a startling insinuation — startling even when one considered the electrical source.

What hold, demanded Lyons in not so many words, had Hunter over his famous wife, Mara Gay — a hold not by any stretch of the imagination connubial? “The ’sipers will tell you (if you aren’t hep already) that this precious pair lead a cat-and-dog life, with hubby putting on the dog and wifey meowing like the queen of tabbies herself.” Was it just domestic infelicity which made Mara so nervous and highstrung, her eyes so alternately brilliant and dull? demanded Lyons. “There’s TNT in that little nest, folksies; and does hubby know it? And does wifey know what it would do to her career if it came out in the wash? Yes, he and she does or do!”

Ellery dropped the paper and helped himself to more coffee.

“Well, what do you think of it?” asked the Inspector.

“I’ve been stupid,” said Ellery. “Lyons, of course, like all rodents, has keen eyes. The woman is a drug addict.”

“Should ’a’ known,” grumbled the old man. “That dame’s always looked queer to me. Gives you the willies. Cokey, hey? So that’s what Hunter was threatening her with last night! — What are you’ grinning about?”

“Grinning? I’m grimacing. Over the possibilities.”

“What possibilities? Oh, you mean her being on the hop! Say, I’ve got some news for you.”

“News?”

“It’ll be news in the late morning editions. I got a tip from Tony this morning over the phone. Know what’s happening?”

“I haven’t the faintest notion. For heaven’s sake, what is it?”

The Inspector rather deliberately took his morning’s first ration of snuff. When he had sneezed the prescribed three times and vigorously wiped his little nose, he said: “Last-minute decision. Wild Bill Grant’s show has a new trouper.”

“You mean for the reopening tonight?”

“Yep... Guess who it is.”

“I’m the world’s poorest guesser.”

“Kit Horne.”

“No!” Ellery stared. “She’s really joining the rodeo troupe?”

“That’s what Tony Mars told me over the phone. He says it’s a new build-up — cash in on the murder publicity and all that. I don’t believe that.”

“Nor do I,” said Ellery with a frown.

“I think,” smiled the Inspector, “that the poor kid’s got a — what d’ye call it? — revenge complex. Why the devil else should she want to join a rodeo when she’s a movie star in her own right? I tell you, it’s plain as the nose on your face. I bet this gets her into trouble over her movie contract.”

“If I judge the young woman correctly,” said Ellery, “a mere contract won’t stand in her way. So...”

“And then again, maybe it’s because of this Grant boy,” said the old man. “I’d say there was more than a professional bond between those two. Because—”

The doorbell rang. Djuna ran into the foyer. When he reappeared it was to usher into the Queen’s living room Kit Horne herself.

Ellery sprang to his feet. “My dear Miss Horne!” he exclaimed. “This is a surprise. Come on in and join us in a cup of coffee.”

“No, thank you,” she said in a low voice. “Good morning, Inspector. I’ve dropped in for just a moment. I... there’s something I want to... well, tell you.”

“Now, isn’t that nice,” said the Inspector heartily, setting a chair for her. She dropped into it limply. Ellery offered her a cigaret and she declined it. He lighted one himself and stood by the window, smoking. One glance into the street below assured him that the detective set to follow the girl was oh duty; the man was leaning against an iron fence across the street. “What is it, my dear?”

“It’s a queer story.” She twisted her gloves in a knot. She was nervous; her eyes were shadowed by huge violet arcs and there was a drawn look about her. “It has to do with Buck.”

“With Mr. Horne, hey?” said the Inspector sympathetically. “Well, well, we can certainly use every scrap of information, Miss Horne. Just what is it?” and his small bright eyes examined her very keenly indeed. Ellery smoked quietly by the window. Djuna, who knew his place, had disappeared — notwithstanding his first worshipping glance — into the culinary regions.

“Frankly,” she began, fumbling with her gloves, “I... I don’t know how to begin. It’s so very difficult.” Then her hands stilled and she looked up at the Inspector fearlessly. “Perhaps I’m creating a tempest in a teapot. But to me it seems — well, important, if not significant.”

“Yes, Miss Horne?”

“It concerns — Julian Hunter.” She paused.

“Ah.”

“Not long ago I went to see him — to the Club Mara, alone.”

“Yes, my dear?” said the Inspector.

“It was at his own request. I—”

“He telephoned you, sent you a note?” said the Inspector sharply, envisioning carelessness on the part of his operative.

“No.” She seemed surprised at the purposelessness of the question. “He managed to get me aside one evening at the Club and asked me to call the next night, alone. He wouldn’t say what for. Of course, I went.”

“And?”

“I saw him in his private office. At first he was very polite. Then his mask came off. He told me a terrible thing. You know he runs a gambling house, Inspector?”

“Indeed?” said the Inspector. “What’s that to do with it?”

“Well, it seems that about a week before — before Buck died, just after we came East and Tony Mars introduced us to Hunter, Buck visited the gambling house Hunter runs — above the Club Mara. Buck played.”

“Poker? Craps?”

“Faro. And he lost a lot of money.”

“I see,” said the Inspector softly. “You know, we’ve been checking up on your foster-father’s finances, Miss Horne. Not here. I mean in Wyoming. And we found that he had withdrawn every cent he had — before he came to New York.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” said Ellery sharply, from the window.

“You didn’t ask me, my son. How much did Horne lose, Miss Horne?”

“Forty-two thousand dollars.”

Both men whistled. “That’s a heap of money,” murmured Inspector Queen. “Too much money, in fact.”

“What do you mean?” snapped Ellery.

“He had only eleven thousand and some-odd in his Cheyenne bank altogether, Ellery.”

“He withdrew it all?”

“Every cent. Except for his ranch property, that was all he had in the world. Not much, hey?... So, Miss Horne, he lost over forty thousand dollars! I think I see what’s coming.”

“Yes,” she said, and lowered her eyes. “He didn’t lose it all in one session. I think Hunter said he lost it over a period of four days. And he gave Hunter IOU’s.”

“He didn’t give Hunter any cash at all?” frowned the Inspector.

“Hunter said no.”

“That’s funny! But he must have bought chips?”

Kit shrugged. “A few hundred dollars’ worth, said Hunter. Hunter told me he gave Buck credit for the rest. It seems, according to Hunter, that Buck pleaded temporary poverty.”

“Hmm. There’s something screwy somewhere,” muttered the Inspector. “Horne came to New York with eleven grand, deposited five in a bank, withdrew three a few days later — what the deuce happened to all his money if he didn’t give Hunter any cash? That visitor, eh, son?”

Ellery was silently contemplating his cigaret. Kit sat very still. The Inspector took a turn about the room.

“And what did Mr. Hunter want from you?” asked the old man abruptly.

“Hunter said now that Buck was dead and he could never collect on the IOU’s, that I should pay him the amount of the debt!”

“Why, the dirty crook,” murmured the Inspector. “You told him to go plumb, I suppose?”

“I certainly did.” She raised her head again, and her eyes flashed blue-gray lightning momentarily; “I’m afraid I lost my temper. I didn’t even believe him, and I demanded to see the IOU’s. So he brought them out of his safe and showed them to me. Oh, they were genuine enough! And when I said that Hunter must be running his game crookedly, that Buck would never have lost that much at his own old game, faro, if the game was on the square, he grew angry and began to threaten me.”

“Threaten you? How?”

“He said he’d make me pay.”

“How did he propose to do that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“And then you walked out on him?”

She said with spirit: “Not before I told him what I thought of him! And I left with a promise to pay Buck’s debt.”

“You did?” The Inspector was shocked. “But, my dear girl, you didn’t have to—”

“A debt,” she said, “is a debt. But I play poker myself, Inspector, and I had a little card up my sleeve. I said: ‘Mr. Hunter, I’ll hold myself personally responsible for discharging my foster-father’s indebtedness to you.’ He became very nice to me at once. ‘But not,’ I went on, ‘until Buck’s murder is cleared up and it’s demonstrated that you’re in no way involved.’ And with that I flounced out.”

The Inspector coughed. “A tall order, Miss Horne. Are you financially able to keep that promise? It seems like a lot of money.”

Kit sighed. “It is a lot of money. I’d never be able to do it if not for — for Buck’s insurance. He’s carried a large policy for many years — a hundred thousand dollars. And since I’m the sole beneficiary...”

“I wonder if Hunter knew—” the Inspector began to mutter.

“He had no unusual expenses — aside from the gambling — since your arrival in New York?” asked Ellery.

“I’m sure he didn’t.”

“Hmm.” Ellery stood bent in thought; suddenly he threw back his shoulders. “Oh, come now,” he said cheerfully, “these things will undoubtedly explain themselves when we know all the truth. Let’s change the subject. I hear you’re joining Grant’s show, Miss Horne. Sudden decision?”

“Oh, that.” Her little brown chin hardened. “Not entirely. I think it’s been in the back of my mind ever since the night Buck was shot. But I’m not really taking Buck’s place as an attraction, Mr. Queens I didn’t want the thing announced at all, but for some reason Mr. Grant insisted on it, and he was supported by Mr. Mars. I’m just being one of the troupe.”

“May I ask what you hope to accomplish?” asked Ellery gently.

She rose and began to pull on her gloves. “Mr. Queen,” she snapped, “I shall never stop looking for Buck’s murderer. I know it sounds melodramatic, but that’s the way I feel about it.”

“Ah, then I take it you believe the murderer of Horne is dangling about the fringes of the rodeo and the Colosseum crowd?”

“It would seem so, wouldn’t it?” she said with a grim little smile. “And now I must be going.” She walked toward the foyer. “Oh yes!” she said suddenly, coming to a stop in the foyer archway. “It almost slipped my mind. The troupe are having a little celebration this afternoon shortly before the opening tonight. I think you ought to be there, Mr. Queen.”

“Celebration?” Ellery was genuinely surprised. “Isn’t that in — ah — slightly bad taste?”

“You see,” she sighed, “it’s a very special occasion. Today’s Curly’s thirtieth birthday, and according to some legacy from his mother he comes into a good deal of money. Curly didn’t want any fuss made under the circumstances, but Wild Bill asked me if it would be all right, and of course I said yes. I don’t want to be a spoil-sport, especially where — Curly’s concerned.”

Ellery coughed. “In that case I’ll be very happy to come. At the Colosseum?”

“Yes. They’re rigging up some tables and things in the arena. I’ll expect you, then.”

She offered her hand, man-fashion, and he took it with a reassuring smile. Then she shook hands with the Inspector, grinned frankly, and left the apartment. They watched her run lightly down the stairs.

“Nice filly,” said the Inspector as he closed the door.

The Inspector had his coat on and was about to leave for Centre Street when the doorbell rang again. Djuna ran to answer it.

“Now who the deuce could that be?” grumbled the Inspector. Ellery, who was at the window watching the operative swing briskly into action as Kit Horne strode off down the street toward Broadway, turned quickly.

Major Kirby stood smiling in the foyer archway.

“Ah, come in, Major!” said Ellery.

“Always seem to have the knack of coming places at the wrong time,” said the Major. He was glittering in freshly pressed clothes, he carried a jaunty stick, his velour was perfectly brushed, and there was a gardenia in his lapel. “Sorry, Inspector — I see you’re ready to go out. I shan’t be a minute.”

“That’s all right,” said the Inspector. “Have a cigar?”

“No, thanks.” Major Kirby seated himself and carefully hitched his trousers up. “Met Miss Horne on the stairs as I was coming up. Little social visit, eh?... Just dropped in to see if I could be of further service, you know. I’ve sort of fallen into the habit of co-operating with the police, and damn it if it isn’t a pleasant feeling!”

“For people with milk-fed consciences,” grinned Ellery.

“I’m officiating at the Colosseum again tonight,” said Kirby. “My old job presiding over the news cameras. I wanted to find out if you and Inspector Queen had anything special in mind for me.”

“Special?” The Inspector frowned. “What d’ye mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It will be sort of — funny, going over the same routine as a month ago.”

“You think somethin’s going to happen?” snapped the Inspector. “We’re having men all over the place, but—”

“Oh, no, no, really. I’ve nothing like that in my noodle. But I can film special things, you know, in case—”

The Inspector looked puzzled. Ellery smiled and murmured: “Decent of you, Major. But I’m sure tonight’s will be all good clean wholesome fun. At any rate, I’ll see you at the arena this evening.”

“Sure enough.” The Major rose, adjusted his cravat, sniffed his gardenia, and shook hands. On the way out he patted Djuna’s head. He was still smiling when the door closed upon his neat little figure.

“Now what the devil,” growled the Inspector, “did that mean?”

Ellery chuckled and slipped into an armchair before the early fire. “Que diable alloit-il faire dans cette galère, eh?” The Inspector snorted. “You’re the most suspicious doyen! Always smelling the blood of an Englishman and ferociously growling fe, fi, fo, fum! Go on down to your Bastille. The man was just being friendly.”

“Nosey, I call it,” asserted the Inspector with a snap of his jaws, and slammed the door on his way out.