The Devil To Pay

IX Lady of the Press

Valerie did not sleep well Monday night. The apartment was dark and cold and full of whispering voices. She tossed open-eyed on her bed until the first grilles formed through the Venetian blinds; then she dozed.

Pink pounded at the door at seven, and she crept out of bed to let him in. When she reappeared later in an old tweed sports outfit he had breakfast ready. They ate together in silence. She washed the dishes and Pink, whose broad shoulders seemed to have acquired a permanent droop, went out for the morning papers.

It occurred to Val, scrubbing the pots with aluminium wool, that she had spoken her last word aloud the night before. It had been “Goodbye,” and in retrospect it seemed darkly prophetic. She said to the dripping pan: “Hello,” and was so startled at the sound of her voice that she almost dropped the pan.

When Pink got back with the papers he found her powdering her nose, which had a suspiciously pink tinge.

And there it was in cold print. The coarse-screen halftone of Rhys made him look like Public Enemy Number 1. “Sportsman Held As Material Witness. Arrest on Murder Charge Hinted by Van Every. Spaeth Partner Refuses to Talk... Rhys Jardin, 49, ex-millionaire and prominent Hollywood society man, is in Los Angeles City Jail this morning held as a material witness in the sensational murder yesterday of Solomon Spaeth, Jardin’s business partner in the ill-fated Ohippi Hydro-Electric Development...”

Val pushed the paper away. “I’m not going to read it. I won’t read it.”

“Why don’t he hire a mouthpiece?” exclaimed Pink. “It says here he won’t open his trap except to say he’s innocent. Is he nuts?”

The buzzer jarred and Pink opened the door. He tried to shut it immediately, but he might have been pitting his strength against the Pacific Ocean. He vanished in a wave of arms, legs, cameras, and flash bulbs.

Val fled to her bedroom and locked the door.

“Out!” yelled Pink. “Out, you skunks! Paid parasites of the capitalist press! Get the hell out of here!”

“Where’s the closet where that sword was found?”

“Is this it, punk?”

“Where was the camel’s-hair coat?”

“Get that homely ape out of the way!”

“Miss Ja-a-ardin! How about a statement — Daughter Flies to Defense of Father?”

“This way, Pincus my boy. Look tough!”

Pink finally got them out. He was panting as Val cautiously peeped out of her bedroom.

“This is terrible,” she moaned.

“Wait a minute, I smell a rat.” Pink sneaked into Rhys’s bathroom and found a knight of the lens gallantly photographing Rhys’s tub. When the cameraman saw Val he hastily put a new plate into his camera.

Val bounded back to her bedroom like a gazelle.

“Funny thing about me. Either I like a guy,” Pink said, knocking the photographer down, “or I don’t. Scram, you three-eyed gorilla!”

The photographer scrammed.

Val peered out again. “Are they all gone now?”

“Unless there’s one hiding in the drain,” growled Pink.

“I’m going,” said Val hysterically, clapping on the first hat she could find. “I’m getting out of here.”

“Hey — where you going?” demanded Pink, alarmed.

“I don’t know!”

Val ducked down the emergency stairway, preceded Indian-wise by Pink, who flailed through the crowd in the lobby and executed a feint by loudly warning Mibs Austin, who was barricaded behind the switchboard, to keep her mouth shut or he would break her neck, and then challenging every newspaperman in Los Angeles to a fist-fight.

He won his desire, en masse; and while Mibs shrieked encouragement to her red-haired gladiator and the lone policeman on duty prudently backed into the elevator, Val escaped unnoticed through the side-exit of the La Salle.

She almost stripped the gears of Rhys’s sedan getting away from the curb.

A long time later she became conscious of the fact that the sedan was bowling along the Ocean Speedway, near Malibu Beach, the spangled Pacific glittering in the sunshine to her left and the stinging breeze lifting her hair.

The taffy sand, the chunky Santa Monica Mountains, the paintbox blue of the ocean, the salt smell and white road and warming sun did something to her; and after a while she felt quieted and comfortable, like a child dozing in its mother’s lap.

Back there, in the haze-covered city, Rhys gripped gray bars, the papers whooped it up in an orgiastic war-dance, Walter sat steeped in some mysterious liquid agony of his own fermentation. But here, by the sea, in the sun, one could think things out, point by point, and reach serene, reasonable conclusions.

Oxnard slipped by, the flat white miniature Mexico of Ventura, the grove-splashed orange country where occasional fruit glowed in the trees, yellow sapphires imbedded in crushed green velvet.

Valerie drew a deep breath.

At Santa Barbara she headed for the hills. And when she got to the top she stopped the car and got out and slipped into the silence and coolness of the old Mission. She was there a long time.

Later, feeling hungry, she drove down into the sunny Spanish town and consumed enchiladas.

When she returned to Hollywood, in the late evening, she felt regenerated. She knew exactly what she had to do.

The Wednesday morning papers bellowed news. Inspector Glücke had decided, after a long conference with District Attorney Van Every, the Chief of Police, the Chief of Staff, and the Chief of Detectives, to charge Rhys Jardin with the premeditated murder of Solomon Spaeth.

Val drove the ten miles into downtown Los Angeles and left her sedan in a parking lot on Hill Street, near First. It was only a few steps to the City Jail. But she did not go that way. Instead, she walked southeast, crossed Broadway, turned south on Spring, and stopped before a grimy building. She hesitated only a moment. Then she went in.

The elevator deposited her on the fifth floor, and she said firmly to the reception clerk: “I want to see the managing editor.”

“Who wants to see him?”

“Valerie Jardin.”

The clerk said: “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” and babbled into the telephone. Ten seconds later the door opened and Fitzgerald said eagerly: “Come on in, Val. Come in!”

Fitz led the way with hungry strides through the city room. Inquisitive eyes followed Val’s progress through the room. But Val did not care; her lips were compressed. One man, sitting over a drawing board in a far corner, got half out of his chair and then sank down again, gripping a stick of charcoal nervously and adjusting his green eyeshade. Val suppressed a start and walked on. Walter back at work! She did not glance his way again.

Fitz slammed the door of his office. “Sit down, Val. Cigaret? Drink? Tough about the old man. What’s on your mind?”

“Fitz,” said Val, sitting down and clasping her hands, “how much money have you?”

“Me?” The Irishman stared. “I’m busted — Ohippi. Do you need dough? Maybe I can scare up a few C’s—”

“I didn’t come here for that.” Valerie looked him in the eye. “Fitz, I want a job.”

Fitz rubbed his black jowls. “Look, Val, if you’re broke, why—”

Val said with a faint smile: “I’m a special sort of person right now, isn’t that so?”

“What’s the point?”

“Daughter of a famous man charged with a front-page murder?”

Fitz got out of his chair and, still rubbing his face, went to the dust-streaked window. When he turned around his bird’s-nest brows almost completely concealed his eyes.

“I’m listening,” he said, sitting down again.

Val smiled once more. Fitz was a little transparent. A nerve near his right eye was jumping.

“I couldn’t write a news story, but you’ve got plenty of people who can. On the other hand, I can give you information you’d never get without my help.”

Fitz flipped a switch on his communicator. “Bill. I don’t want to be disturbed.” He sat back. “I’m still listening.”

“Well, I’m the daughter of the accused. The byline alone will sell papers.”

Fitz grinned. “Oh, you want a byline, too?”

“Second, I’ll be able to predict the defense before it comes out in court.”

“Yes,” said Fitz. “You certainly will.”

“Third, I’ll have inside information no other paper in town could possibly dig out. Where it won’t hurt my father, you’ll have an exclusive story.”

Fitzgerald began to play with a paper-knife.

“And last, you can play up the human-interest angle — rich gal loses all her money, goes to work in defense of accused father.” Fitz leaned forward toward his communicator again. “Wait a minute, darling,” said Val. “I’m no philanthropist. I’m proposing to do something that nauseates me. It’s going to take a lot of money to cure that nausea.”

“Oh,” said the Irishman. “All right, how much?”

Val said bravely: “A thousand dollars a yarn.”

“Hey!” growled Fitz.

“I need lots of money, Fitz. If you won’t give it to me, some other paper will.”

“Have a heart, Val — a story a day! This thing may drag on for months.”

Val rose, “I know what you’re thinking. They’ve got pop dead to rights, no sensational news angle can come out of the case, it will be cut-and-dried, the usual story of a guilty man brought to trial. If you think that, Fitz, you’re a long way off.”

“What d’ye mean?”

“Do you believe pop’s guilty?”

“Sure not,” said Fitz soothingly. “Sit down, Val.”

“I tell you he isn’t.”

“Sure he isn’t.”

“I know he isn’t!”

Val walked to the door. Fitz shot out of his chair and ran to head her off.

“Don’t be so damned hasty! You mean you’ve got information—”

“I mean,” said Val, “that I have a clue that will lead to the real criminal, Friend Scrooge.”

“You have?” shouted Fitz. “Look, Val mavourneen, come here and sit down again. What is it? Tell old Fitz. After all, I’m an old friend of your father’s—”

“Do I get my thousand a story?”

“Sure!”

“You’ll let me work my own way?”

“Anything you want!”

“No questions asked, and I work alone?”

“That’s not fair. How do I know you’re not sandbagging me? How do I know—”

“Take it or leave it, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“You’ve got the instincts of an Apache!”

“Goodbye,” said Val, turning again to go.

“For God’s sake, hold it, will you? Listen, Val, you haven’t any experience. You may get into trouble.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Val sweetly.

“Or you may ruin a great story. Let me assign one of my men to double up with you. How’s that? Then I’ll be protected, and so will you.”

“I don’t want any spies or story-stealers around,” frowned Val.

“Wait a minute! I give you my word it’ll be on the level, Val. You can’t gang up on me this way! A good man who knows his stuff won’t blab and will steer you right.”

Val stood thinking. In a way, Fitz was right. She had no idea where her investigation might lead. An experienced newspaperman to advise and assist and even provide physical protection in the event of danger was a wise precaution.

“All right, Fitz,” she said finally.

Fitz beamed. “It’s a deal! Be back here at two o’clock and I’ll have my man ready. We’ll give you a press card, put you on the payroll, and you’ll be all set. You’re sure you’ve got something?” he asked anxiously.

“You’ll have to take your chances,” said Val. Sure? She didn’t even know what the clue was!

“Get out of here,” groaned Fitz.

When Valerie emerged into the city room Walter was standing in the aisle, waiting.

Val tried to pass him, but he moved over to block her path.

“Please,” said Val.

“I’ve got to talk to you,” said Walter in a low voice.

“Please!”

“I’ve got to, Val.”

Val eyed him coolly. “Well, if you must I suppose you must. I don’t care for an audience, though, so let’s go into the hall.”

He took her arm and hurried her through the city room. Val studied him covertly. She was shocked by his appearance. His cheeks were sunken; there were leaden hollows under his eyes, which were inflamed. He looked ill, as if he were in pain and had not slept for days.

He backed her against the marble wall near the elevators. “I’ve read about Rhys’s arrest,” he said feverishly. “It muddles things for me, Val. You’ve got to give me time to think this over—”

“Who’s stopping you?”

“Please have patience with me. I can’t explain yet—”

“Nasty habit you have,” said Val, “of not being able to explain. Please, Walter. You’re hurting me.”

Walter released her. “I’m sorry about Monday night. Getting drunk, I mean. The things I said. Val, if you’d only have a little faith in me...”

“I suppose you know,” said Val, “that some one planted the rapier and pop’s coat in our closet, and tipped off the police that they were there. Or don’t you?”

“Do you believe I did that?” said Walter in a low voice.

Val stirred restlessly. Nothing could come of this. “I’m going,” she said.

“Wait—”

“Oh, yes. I’ve just taken a job here. Special features on the case. I’m going to do a little investigating of my own. I thought you’d like to know.”

Walter grew paler under his two-day growth of beard. “Val! Why?”

“Because trials cost money and lawyers are expensive.”

“But you’ve got that money I gave you. I mean—”

“That’s another thing. Of course we can’t accept that, Walter. Pop has it in a bank, but I’ll have him write out a check for the full amount.”

“I don’t want it! Oh, damn it. Val! Don’t start something that might — that might bring you—”

“Yes?” murmured Valerie.

Walter was silent, gnawing his lower lip.

“Yes?” said Val again, with the merest accent of contempt. But she could not prevent a certain pity from creeping into her voice, too.

Walter did not reply.

Val pressed the elevator-button. The door slid open after a while. She got in and turned around. The operator began to pull the door shut.

Walter just stood there.

X A Star Reporter Is Born

Fitz sauntered into the reception room of Magna Studios and said to the man at the desk: “Hullo, Bob. Is Ellery Queen in?”

“Who?” said the man.

“Ellery Queen.”

“Queen, Queen. Does he work here?” said the man, reaching for a directory.

“I believe he’s under that impression,” said Fitz.

“Oh, yes. Writer. Writers’ Annex, Room 25. Just a second.” He picked up his telephone.

Fitz stuck a cigar into the man’s mouth, said: “Cut the clowning. What d’ye think I am, a trade-paper ad salesman?” and went through.

He strolled along the cement walk before the open-air quadrangle of executive buildings, past the bootblack stand, and into the alley marked “‘A’ Street” alongside Sound Stage One. At the end of the alley cowered a long, lean, two-story building with a red-gabled roof and stained stucco walls.

Fitz mounted the steps to the open terrace and searched along the terrace until he found an open door with the number 25 on it.

It was a magnificent room, with two magnificent desks, a magnificent rug, a magnificent central fixture, magnificent draperies, and magnificent art on the walls. And it was magnificently empty.

A typewriter stood on a mahogany worktable opposite the door; a chair with polished arms magnificently etched into curlicues by some one’s penknife lay overturned on the floor before the table. From the carriage of the typewriter jutted a sheet of heavy bond paper, with words on it.

Fitz went in and read them. The words were:

Fitz grinned and went out. On the way to the terrace steps he caught sight through a window of a long-legged literary person in slacks and a yellow polo shirt. The gentleman seemed fiercely intent on a toothpaste advertisement in Cosmopolitan. But then Fitz saw that he was asleep.

He returned to the Administration Building and hunted through the polished corridor until he discovered a door which proclaimed the presence of Mr. Hugger.

Opening the door, he found himself in a sort of glorified cubbyhole containing three large desks at which three beautiful young women sat buffing their fingernails, and a worried-looking young man who clutched a sheaf of yellow papers marked “Sequence A” which he was reading nervously.

“Yes?” said one of the young women without looking up, but Fitz opened the door lettered “Private” and strolled into Mr. Hugger’s domain without stooping to conversation.

Ensconced in a throne-like chair behind a dazzling cowhide-covered desk sat a chubby young man with thin hair and a benign demeanor. The room, the rug, the desk, the radio, the draperies, the bookcases, and the objets d’art were even more magnificent than their generic cousins in Room 25, Writers’ Annex. Moreover, Mr. Hugger was magnificent in his happiness. Mr. Hugger seemed to want every one to know that he was happy. Particularly the bearded, purple-visaged maniac who was waving his arms and scudding up and down the room like a Sunday yacht.

“If you’ll calm down for a minute, Mr. Queen,” Mr. Hugger was saying in avuncular accents as Fitz walked in.

“I’ll be damned if I will!” yelled Mr. Queen. “What I want to know is — why can’t I see Butcher?”

“I’ve told you, Mr. Queen. He’s very temperamental, Mr. Butcher is. He takes his time. Patience. Just have patience. Nobody’s rushing you—”

“That’s just the bloody trouble!” shouted Mr. Queen. “I want to be rushed. I want to work day and night. I want to hear a human voice. I want to engage in debates about the weather. What did you bring me out here for, anyway?”

“Excuse me,” said Fitz.

“Oh, hello,” said Ellery, and he sank into a ten-foot divan and plunged his hands into his beard.

“Yes?” said Mr. Hugger with an executive look.

“Oh.” Ellery waved his hand wearily. “Mr. Hugger, Mr. Fitzgerald. Fitz is managing editor of the Independent.”

“Newspaperman,” said Mr. Hugger, becoming happy again. “Have a cigar, Mr. Fitzgerald. Would you be kind enough to wait outside for a moment? Mr. Queen and I—”

“Thanks, I’ll wait here,” said Fitz genially, licking the end of Mr. Hugger’s cigar. “What’s the trouble, Master-Mind?”

“I ask you,” cried Ellery, bouncing up. “They brought me out here to write for the movies. They gave me twenty-four hours to get ready in New York, and they couldn’t even wait for me to get off the train. I didn’t have time to take a bath. Get him right down to the studio! they told my agent. So I hurried down here, full of alkali, with a running nose and a sore throat, and they gave me the Doge’s Palace to work in, a mountain of foolscap, a whole school of pencils, and the offer of a beautiful stenographer, which I refused. And what do you think happened?”

“I give up,” said Fitz.

“Sick as I’ve been, I’ve hung around here and hung around and hung around, waiting to be called into conference by his Lordship, Jacques Butcher, the producer I’m supposed to go to work for. You know what? After all that haste, I’ve sat in that damned lamasery for two solid weeks and the man hasn’t so much as telephoned me. I’ve called him, I’ve haunted his office, I’ve tried to waylay him — nothing. I’ve just sat on my rump praying for the sight of a human being and slowly going mad!”

“Mr. Queen doesn’t understand the Hollywood way of doing things,” explained Mr. Hugger quickly. “Mr. Butcher in his own way is a genius. He has peculiar methods—”

“Oh, he has, has he?” bellowed Ellery. “Well, let me tell you something, Your Majesty. Your genius has spent the past two weeks playing golf during the day and Romeo during the night with your ingénue star, Bonnie Stuart, so what do you know about that?”

“Come on out,” said Fitz, lighting the cigar, “and I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Yes, go on,” said Mr. Hugger hastily. “You need something to quiet your nerves. Mr. Butcher will get in touch with you very shortly, I’m’ sure.”

“You and Mr. Butcher,” said Ellery, impaling Mr. Hugger with a terrible glance, “are from hunger.”

And he stamped out, followed by Fitz.

Over the third Scotch-and-soda at Thyra’s, across the street from the studio, Fitz remarked: “I see you’ve got your voice back.”

“The sun fixed that, when he got around to it.” Ellery seized his glass. “God,” he said hollowly, and drained it.

“Sick of this racket already, hey?”

“If I didn’t have a contract I’d take the first train out of the Sante Fe station!”

“How’d you like to get mixed up in some real excitement, not this synthetic lunacy?”

“Anything. Anything! Give me that bottle.”

“It’s right smack down your alley too,” murmured Fitz, obliging as he puffed at Mr. Hugger’s perfecto.

“Oh,” said Ellery. He put down the bottle of Scotch and looked at Fitz over the siphon. “The Spaeth case.”

Fitz nodded. Ellery sat back. Then he said: “What’s up?”

“You know Rhys Jardin’s in the can charged with Spaeth’s murder, don’t you?”

“I read the papers. That’s the only thing I’ve had to do, by God.”

“You met his daughter, Valerie? Swell trick, eh?”

“Economically useless but otherwise a nice girl, I should say. Possibilities.”

Fitz leaned on his elbows. “Well, they’re up against it for dinero, and Val came to me this morning and asked for a job. I gave it to her, too.”

“Nice of you,” said Ellery. He wondered what had become of Walter’s money, but not aloud.

“Not at all. Rhys and I boned Lit together at Harvard and all that, but the hell with sentiment. It’s a business proposition. She’s got something to sell, and I’m buying.”

Ellery said suddenly: “Think Jardin killed Spaeth?”

“How should I know? Anyway, the kid says she’s got something hot — a clue of some kind. She won’t tell me what it is, but I’m playing a hunch on this one. She’s going to do byline stories for me daily and meanwhile run down the clue.”

“And exactly where,” said Ellery, marching his fingers along the checkered cloth, “do I come in?”

Fitz coughed. “Now don’t say no till you hear me out, Queen. I admit it’s a screwy idea—”

“In the present state of my emotions,” said Ellery, “that’s in its favor.”

“I told her I’d put an experienced man on with her — show her the ropes, steer her right.” Fitz refilled his glass carefully. “And you’re it.”

“How do you know she’ll work with me? After all, you spilled the beans about me at Sans Souci Monday.”

“No, she mustn’t know you’re a detective,” said Fitz hurriedly. “She’d tighten up like a wet rawhide in the sun.”

“Oh,” said Ellery. “You want me to spy on her.”

“Look, Queen, if I wanted to do that I’d put one of my own men on with her. But she needs somebody familiar with murder. She ought to think her partner’s just a legman, though; I don’t want to scare her off.”

Ellery frowned. “I’m not a newspaperman, and she knows what I look like.”

“She wouldn’t know a newspaperman if she fell over one. And how well does she know you?”

“She’s seen me twice.”

“Hell,” said Fitz, “we can fix that.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ellery, alarmed.

“Keep your pants on. The set-up’s perfect, that’s why I doped this out. You told me you don’t normally wear a beard. So if you shaved it off Val wouldn’t recognize you, would she?”

“Shave off this beautiful thing?” said Ellery in dismay, caressing it.

“Sure! It’s old-fashioned, anyway. Show a clean mug, comb your hair on the side instead of straight back the way you’ve got it now, dress a little differently, and she’ll never get wise. Even your voice will fool her — she’s only heard that croak you were using Monday.”

“Hmm,” said Ellery. “You want me to stick to Miss Jardin, find out what she knows, and crack the case if her father’s innocent?”

“Right.”

“Suppose he’s guilty?”

“In that case,” said Fitz, taking another drink, “let your conscience be your guide.”

Ellery drummed for some time on the cloth. “There are other objections. I can hardly pose as a Los Angeles reporter; I’ve never been here before.”

“You’re new from the East.”

“I don’t know the lingo, the habits, the hangouts—”

“Oh, my God,” said Fitz. “You’ve been reading about reporters in your own stories. Believe it or not, newspapermen talk just like anybody else. Their habits are the same, too — maybe a little better. As far as hangouts are concerned, this is a funny town. L.A.’s the largest city in area in the United States — covers four hundred and forty-two square miles. After we go to press the boys scatter to the four winds — Tujunga, Sierra Madre, Altadena, Santa Monica Canyon, Brentwood Park. Hangouts? You don’t hang out anywhere when you’ve got to drive sixty miles to get home to the wife and kids.”

“I’m convinced. How about a name?”

“Damn. That’s right. Let’s see. Ellery—”

“Celery...”

“Pillory...”

“Hilary! That’s it. Hilary what? Queen—”

“King!”

“Hilary King. Ingenious.”

“Then it’s all set,” said Fitz, rising.

“Wait a minute. Aren’t you interested in the financial aspect of the deal?”

“Are you going to blackjack me, too?” growled Fitz.

Ellery grinned. “I’ll take it on for nothing and expenses, you lucky dog.”

Fitz looked suspicious. “Why?”

“Because I’m sick of Messrs. Butcher and Hugger. Because there are things about the Spaeth case that positively make my mouth water. Because I like the people most directly involved. And because,” said Ellery, jamming on his hat, “I’ve got a score to settle with the High Hocus-Pocus of the Homicide Detail!”

“An idealist, b’gorra,” said Fitz. “Be in my office at two o’clock.”

XI Cards Under the Table

When Val left the Los Angeles Independent building, she hunted up a shop, spent a few minutes there, hurried out, and made her way to the City Jail.

There was a great deal of concealed official emotion when she announced her identity. Val, holding her package casually, pretended not to notice.

It was all rather worse than she had imagined, but somehow things were different this morning. Lovelace’s lines popped into her mind — what a fanatic Miss Prentiss had been on the subject of “recitations” in the ancient pigtail-and-governess days! “Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage.” No, stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.

A uniformed man said to her: “You’ll have to empty your pockets and purse, Miss,” and Val obeyed, raising her smooth brows. He seemed disappointed at finding no revolver underneath the vanity-case.

“What’s in that bundle?” he asked suspiciously.

“Bombs,” said Val.

He opened the package, glaring at her. “Okay,” he said shortly.

Val gathered her purchases up and said with a sweet smile: “You have to be so careful with these desperate criminals, don’t you?”

Another man, in an unpressed business suit, trailed along, as a guard conducted her to a remote cell block. Val’s brows went up again.

And there he was, sitting on his pallet playing solitaire with a fuzzy, dirty old deck of cards which looked as if they had been used by four generations of prisoners. He did not notice their approach and Val studied his profile for a moment, trying to adjust her own expression. He was so calm, so unconcerned; he might have been lounging in his club.

“Here’s your daughter,” said the guard, unlocking the barred door.

Rhys looked around, startled. Then he bounced to his feet and held out his arms.

The keeper locked the door again and said to the shabby man who had followed Val: “Come on, Joe, let ’em alone. Man’s got a right to talk private, ain’t he?”

“Sure,” said Joe heartily. “That’s right, Grady.”

It seemed to Val that both had spoken in unnecessarily loud voices. She looked up at her father and he grinned in answer. The keeper and the shabby man marched ostentatiously away.

“Don’t you think,” began Val, “that they—”

“Darling,” said Rhys. He pulled her over to the pallet and sat her down. The greasy cards he pushed carelessly aside, and Val put her package down. “How’s nay puss?”

“How are you, pop? Like it here?” said Val, smiling.

“I don’t know what those literary-minded convicts who write memoirs keep kicking about. A place like this is perfect for resting the tired business man.”

“I thought those two—” began Val again.

Rhys said easily: “I do miss decent cards, though. These things must have come into California with Porciúncula.”

“I’ve brought you a new deck,” said Val, undoing her package again. She knew suddenly that he did not want her to discuss anything of possible interest to an eavesdropper. She glanced at him and he motioned meaningly toward the wall behind his pallet. So some one was planted in the next cell! Probably, thought Val, with a dictograph.

“Thanks, darling,” said Rhys, as she handed him a new deck of cards with brilliant blue backs showing a schooner in full sail. “It’s hell playing with fifty-two dishrags. And what’s this — cigars!”

“I bought you die king size — they last longer, don’t they?”

“You’re simply wonderful.” Rhys gathered up the old cards and began to pat them into a neat pile. “I was beginning to think you’d run out on me. In durance vile for thirty-six hours, and not a peep out of you!”

“I tried last night, but they wouldn’t give you a telephone message.”

“Nasty of them. Here, take these damned shingles and burn ’em.” He handed her the old deck of cards and she furtively put it into her purse.

Rhys leaned back with a long sigh. Valerie closed her purse with a snap. “Did they — did they do anything to you that—”

He waved his hand. “They’re cooking up an arraignment or indictment or whatever they call it, and I suppose I’ll have to attend. There’s been a good deal of questioning, of course.”

“Questioning,” said Val in a faint voice.

“Nothing brutal, you understand. You really should meet Van Every — charming fellow. I must say I like him better than that ogre Glücke.”

Chit-chat, inconsequentials, to deceive the man in the next cell. To deceive her, too? To deceive her, too? Val suddenly leaned over and kissed him. They were both silent for a moment.

Then Val said: “I’ve got something to tell you.”

He shook his head in warning. But Val reassured him with a glance and went on: “I’ve taken a job with Fitz.”

“A job?”

She told him the story of her interview with Fitzgerald. “It’s... well, it’s money, pop. We’ve got to have some.” He was silent again. “And don’t you think we ought to pay back — that other money we owe?”

“Yes. Of course.” He knew which money she meant, but somehow neither seemed to want to mention Walter’s name. “But not now. It can wait. Naturally I won’t touch it.”

“Naturally.” Val understood. To return Walter’s money now would raise all sorts of questions. Walter’s sympathy with Jardin was better kept secret — for Walter’s sake. For Walter’s sake! Everything, everything was for Walter’s sake.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” asked Val.

“No, Val. I’m really quite comfortable.”

They looked deeply into each other’s eyes. Val kissed him again. Then she rose and said hurriedly: “I’ll see you later,” and ran to the door and began shaking the bars like a young female monkey.

“Guard!” called Rhys with a curious smile, and the keeper came running. “It’s a funny feeling, isn’t it, puss?”

“Goodbye, darling,” said Val without looking around, and she followed the man out with her head held high but seeing very little of the massive masonry and ironwork that escorted her to the very street.

Val had taken no more than twenty steps on First Street when she knew she was being followed.

To make sure, she headed for the lot where she had parked her car. There, while the attendant hunted through the rows. Val became busy examining her face in her mirror and incidentally watching the street. Yes, there was no doubt about it. A long black sedan with two men in it had inched away from the curb across the street from the Jail and had followed her walking figure at five miles an hour. Now it was waiting unobtrusively before the parking lot, as if held up by traffic. But there was very little traffic.

The attendant brought up her car and Val got in, feeling her heart beat fast. She clutched her purse tighter and drove out of the lot with one hand.

The black sedan began to crawl again.

Val set her bag down and began to dodge in and out of traffic.

Fifteen minutes later, after a circuitous route, she found herself on Wilshire Boulevard near LaFayette Park — and the big sedan was still fifty feet behind her.

There was only one thing to do, and Val did it. She sped west on Wilshire, bound for home. North on Highland, past Third, Beverly, Melrose, Santa Monica, Sunset... the sedan followed grimly, maintaining its distance.

Val drove up to the La Salle, parked the car, snatched her purse from the seat, slipped into the lobby by the side-entrance and dodged up the stairway to 3-C. She locked her door with shaking fingers.

She flung her hat aside and sat down for a moment to catch her breath. The apartment was quiet, the Venetian blinds tipped down. She rose and went to the breakfast-room window and peered out. There, in the back street, stood the sedan; its two occupants were still sitting in it, smoking.

Val hurried back to the living-room and tore open her purse. In her nervousness the cards cascaded to the floor. She sat down cross-legged and picked them up.

She began quickly to separate the suits — clubs, diamonds, hearts, spades. When all the clubs were in one pile, she arranged them in descending order — ace on top, then king, queen, jack, down to the deuce. She repeated this curious procedure with the three other suits. When this was finished she took up the thirteen spades, then the hearts, then the diamonds, and finally the clubs.

Val turned the rearranged deck over in her hands, frowning. Something was wrong. Along both sides appeared pencil marks — dots, dashes, and on some card-edges nothing at all. It looked like a telegraph code. But that couldn’t be.

Oh, she was stupid! Some cards were turned one way, the rest the other. She would have to turn each card so that its marked edge coincided with the marked edges of the cards above and below it. That was what she had had to do as a little girl, when Rhys amused her with what had then seemed a fascinating trick of secret communication.

There! The thing was done. All the marked edges lay one way, and the pencilled dots and dashes became parts of an intelligible message written in simple block letters over the tightly compressed side of the deck.

There was not enough light on the floor. Val scrambled up and ran to the breakfast-room window, careful to remain invisible to the watchers below.

She breathed a little harder as she read the clear, tiny letters. The message said:

Val slowly sat down on the breakfast-nook bench. SS — that stood for Solomon Spaeth. AR — Anatole Ruhig. Solomon Spaeth had telephoned Anatole Ruhig Monday morning to call at the Spaeth house between five and five-thirty Monday afternoon on an urgent matter?

So that was the clue. Rhys had gone over to Spaeth’s house Monday morning; they had had their argument in Spaeth’s study. It must have been during this visit that Spaeth had telephoned his lawyer, and Rhys had overheard.

Between five and five-thirty Monday afternoon. But Spaeth had been murdered at five-thirty!

Val clenched her hands under her chin. What had Ruhig told Glücke? Yes, that he had appeared at Sans Souci a few minutes past six Monday afternoon. But that must have been true, otherwise Walewski would have called him a liar. Unless Walewski...

Val frowned. Spaeth had commanded his lawyer to appear between five and five-thirty, and Ruhig had simply been more than a half-hour late for the appointment. That was the reasonable explanation. Besides, had Ruhig really been on time, wouldn’t Frank — on duty at the gate — have seen him and reported his visit to Inspector Glücke? Unless Frank...

Val was so disappointed she flung the cards from her and glowered at them as they lay strewn about the kitchen floor. She could have wept for sheer chagrin.

But she did nothing of the sort. She got down on her hands and knees and picked the cards up one by one, getting a run in one stocking in the process; and when she had them together again she rose and went into her bedroom and stowed them away in the bureau under the chemises.

Then she undressed, washed her face and hands, changed her stockings, made up, put on her black silk print with the magnolia-petal design and the last expensive hat she had bought — the one that looked so fetchingly like a modernistic soup plate — transferred her vanity and key-case and money to the alligator bag, and departed, a lady with a mission.

The information about Counselor Anatole Ruhig was the only clue she had; and, for better or worse, it had to be traced to its bitter end.

At two o’clock precisely the door of Managing Editor Fitzgerald’s office flew open and an apparition appeared, making Mr. Fitzgerald choke over a hooker of eighteen-year-old whisky which he was in the process of swallowing.

“Hi, Chief,” said the apparition, swaggering in.

“Who the hell do you think you’re impersonating,” spluttered Fitz, “a burlycue comic?”

The apparition was a tall lean young man with a clean-shaven face and features just a trifle too sharp to be handsome. But Fitzgerald was examining the costume, not the face. The young man was attired in shapeless slacks of a dingy gray hue and the loudest sport coat Fitzgerald, who had seen nearly everything, had ever laid eyes on. It was a sort of disappointed terra cotta, with wide cobalt stripes slashing through an assortment of brown plaid checks. His shoes were yellow brogues. His red-and-blue plaid socks curled around his ankles. On his head he wore a tan felt hat with the fore part of the brim sticking straight up in the air. And his eyes were covered by blue-tinted sun-glasses.

“Hilary ‘Scoop’ King, the demon of the city room,” said the apparition, leering. “Hahzit, Fitz?”

“Oh, my God,” groaned Fitz, hastily shutting his door.

“What’s the matter? Don’t I look the part?”

“You look like a hasheesh-eater’s dream of heaven,” cried Fitz. “That coat — jeeze! It must have come down to you straight from Joseph.”

“Protective coloration,” said Ellery defensively.

“Yeah — your own father wouldn’t know you in that get-up. And with the beaver gone you don’t look the same man. Only for cripe’s sake don’t go around telling anybody you work here. I’d be laughed out of the pueblo.”

The door opened a little and Val said timidly: “May I come in?”

“Sure,” said Fitz in a hearty voice, and he glared at Ellery, who hastily got off the desk.

Val slipped in, and Fitz shut the door behind her. “Don’t let the get-up scare you, Val. This is Hilary King, the man I told you about. He’s new to L.A. and he thinks the local men dress like a shopgirl’s conception of Clark Gable relaxing. King, Miss Valerie Jardin.”

“How do you do,” said Val, trying not to giggle.

“Hi,” said Ellery, removing his hat. But then he remembered that newspapermen in the movies never remove their hats, so he put it on again.

“I decided not to use a local man after all, Val,” said Fitz, “because the boys would know him and get wise to what’s going on. King’s just in from — uh — Evansville; great record out there, especially on police work.”

He bustled to his desk and Val eyed her new colleague sidewise. He looked like a perfect idiot. But then Fitz was smart, and appearances weren’t always to be trusted. She also thought she had seen the creature before, but she couldn’t decide when or where.

“Here are your credentials,” said Fitz, “and yours, too, King.”

“Does the gentleman from Evansville know what his job is?” asked Val.

“Oh, sure,” said Ellery. “Fitz told me. Keep an eye on you, give you fatherly advice. Don’t worry about me — baby.”

“How,” said Val, “are the gentleman’s morals?”

“Who, me? I’m practically sexless.”

“Not,” retorted Val, “that it would do you any good if you weren’t. I just wanted to avoid possible unpleasantness.”

“Go on, get going, both of you,” said Fitz benevolently.

“I’ll have my first story,” said Val, “ready for the rewrite desk tonight, Fitz.”

“Not in this man’s trade, you won’t,” grinned Fitz. “We’ve got a daily paper to get out. Besides, it’s all written.”

“What!”

“Now don’t fret yourself,” soothed Fitz. “You don’t have to pound out the grind stuff. I’ve got people here who can make up a better human-interest yarn out of their heads than you could out of facts. You’ll get your byline and your grand just the same.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“Part of your value to me is your name. The other part is that clue you’re battin’ about. Don’t worry about the writing, Val. Follow up that clue, and if you pick up any special slants, ’phone ’em in. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Mr. King,” said Val, eying the apparition. “For whom are you working — Fitz or me?”

“The answer to a dame,” said Mr. King, “is always yes.”

“Hey!” shouted Fitz.

“Now that you’ve learned your catechism,” said Val with a kindly smile, “come along, Mr. King, and learn something else.”

XII The Affairs of Anatole

“The first thing I crave,” said Hilary “Scoop” King as they paused on the sidewalk before the Independent building, “is lunch. Have you eaten?”

“No, but we’ve got an important call to make—”

“It can wait; most everything can in this world. What would you suggest?”

Val shrugged. “If you’re a stranger here, you might like the Café in El Paseo.”

“That sounds hundreds of miles away, to the south.”

“It’s in the heart of the city,” laughed Val. “We can hoof it from here.”

Ellery politely took the outside position, noting that a black sedan was following them slowly. Val led him up Main Street through the old Plaza, pointing out the landmarks — Pico House, the Lugo mansion plastered with placards displaying red Chinese ideographs, Marchessault Street.

When she took him into El Paseo, it was like turning a corner into old Mexico. Booths ran down the middle of the street displaying black-paper cigarillos, little clay toys and holy images, queer cactus plants, candles. The very stones underfoot were alien and fascinating. Along both sides of the narrow thoroughfare were ramadas, ovens of brick and wooden tables where fat Mexican women patted an endless array of tortillas. At the end of the street there was a forge, where a man sat pounding lumps of incandescent iron into cunning Mexican objects.

Ellery was enchanted. Val indicated their destination, La Golondrina Café, with its quaint over-hanging balcony.

“What are those scarlet and yellow dishes I see the señoritas carrying about?”

They sat down at one of the sidewalk tables and Val ordered. She watched with a secret mischievousness as he bit innocently into an enchilada.

“Muy caliente!” he gasped, reaching for the water-jug. “Wow!”

Val laughed aloud then and felt better. She began to like him. And when they got down to the business of serious eating and he chattered on with the fluency of a retired diplomat, she liked him even more.

Before she knew it, she was talking about herself and Rhys and Pink and Winni Moon and Walter and Solly Spaeth. He asked guileless questions, but by some wizardry of dialectic the answers always had to be factual in order to be intelligible; and before long Val had told him nearly everything she knew about the case.

It was only the important events of Monday afternoon — Rhys’s alibi, Walter’s taking of Rhys’s coat, the fact that Walter had really been inside his father’s house at the time of the crime — that Valerie held back. Consequently there were gaps in her account, gaps of which her companion seemed casually aware — too casually, thought Val; and she sprang up and said they would have to be going.

Ellery paid the check and they sauntered out of El Paseo. “Now where?” he said.

“To see Ruhig.”

“Oh, Spaeth’s lawyer. What for?”

“I have reason to believe that Ruhig had an appointment with Spaeth on Monday afternoon for five or five-thirty. He told Glücke he got there after six. You won’t blab!”

“Cross my heart and hope to die a pulp-writer,” said Ellery. “But suppose it’s true? He could merely have been late for the appointment.”

“Let’s hope not,” said Val grimly. “Come on — it isn’t far to his office.”

They made their way past the fringe of Chinatown into the business district, and after a while Ellery said in a pleasant voice: “Don’t be alarmed, but we’re being followed.”

“Oh,” said Val. “A big black sedan?”

Ellery raised his brows. “I didn’t think you’d noticed. All the earmarks, incidentally, of a police car.”

“So that’s what it is! It followed me all morning.”

“Hmm. And that’s not all.”

“What do you mean?”

“No, no, don’t look around. There’s some one else, too. A man — I’ve caught a blurred glimpse or two. Not enough for identification. He’s on our trail like a buzzard.”

“What’ll we do?” asked Val in panic.

“Keep right on ambling along,” said Ellery with a broad smile. “I hardly think he’ll attempt assassination with all these potential witnesses around.”

Val walked stiffly after that, glad that she had given in to Fitzgerald, glad that Hilary “Scoop” King, leading citizen of Evansville, was by her side. When they reached the Lawyers’ Trust Building she dodged into the lobby with an exhalation of relief. But Mr. King contrived to pause and inspect the street. There was the black sedan, snuffling like a trained seal across the street; but the man on foot was nowhere to be seen. Either he was hiding in a doorway or had given up the chase.

Mr. Ruhig’s office was like himself — small, neat, and deceptively ingenuous. It was apparent that Mr. Ruhig did not believe in pampering his clients with an atmosphere. There was a gaunt, worried-looking girl at the switchboard, several clerks and runners with flinty, unemotional faces, and a wall covered with law books which had an air of being used.

There was no difficulty getting in to see the great man. In fact, he came bustling out of his office to meet them.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” he cried, bobbing and beaming. “Shocking about your father, Miss Jardin. What can I do for you? If it’s advice you want, I’m completely at your service, although I’m not in the criminal end. Gratis, of course. I feel like an old friend of the family.”

And all the while he eyed Ellery with a puzzled, unobtrusive interest.

“Mr. Ruhig, Mr. King,” said Val crisply, sitting down in the plain office. “I hope you don’t mind Mr. King’s being with me, Mr. Ruhig. He’s an old college chum who’s volunteered to help.”

“Not at all, not at all. What are friends for?” beamed Mr. Ruhig. Apparently the Joseph’s coat reassured him, for he paid no further attention to Mr. King.

“I’ll come right to the point,” said Val, who had no intention of doing any such thing. “I’m not here as Rhys Jardin’s daughter but as an employee of the Los Angeles Independent.”

“Well! Since when, Miss Jardin? I must say that’s an unlooked-for development.”

“Since this morning. My father and I need money, and it was the only way I knew of earning a great deal quickly.”

“Fitzgerald,” nodded Ruhig approvingly. “Great character, Fitzgerald. Heart as big as all outdoors. Hasn’t stopped agitating for Mooney’s release in ten years.”

“Now that I’ve got a job, I’ve got to earn my keep. Has anything come up on your end, Mr. Ruhig, that might be construed as news?”

“My end?” smiled the lawyer. “Now that’s putting it professionally, I’ll say that. What would my end be? Oh, you mean the will. Well, of course, I’ve filed it for probate. There are certain unavoidable technicalities to go through before it’s finally probated—”

“I suppose,” said Valerie dryly, “Wicious Winni is simply prostrated with grief over the necessity of taking that fifty million dollars.”

Ruhig clucked. “I should resent that remark, Miss Jardin.”

“Why should you?”

“I mean the — ah — disparaging references to Miss Moon.” He clasped his hands over his little belly and smiled suddenly. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Suppose I start your newspaper career off with a bang, eh? Then you’ll feel a little more charitable towards Anatole Ruhig.”

Mr. King lounged in his chair studying Mr. Ruhig. Beneath that bland exterior he fancied he saw a considerable equipment for sculduggery. No, Mr. Ruhig was not doing anything out of pure kindness of heart.

“I was going,” went on the lawyer paternally, “to call in the press this afternoon and make a general announcement, but since you’re here I’ll give you an exclusive story. That ought to put you in solid with Fitzgerald! You know,” he coughed and paused to take a drink of water from the chipped bronze carafe on his desk, “Miss Moon on the death of Solly Spaeth lost a dear friend — a dear friend. One of the few friends she had in the world. A dear friend.”

“That,” said Val, “is putting it mildly.”

“Now I’ve always admired Miss Moon from afar, as you might say — the dry man of the law worshipping at the feet of unattainable beauty, ha-ha! But with Spaeth’s death attainment, so to speak, becomes possible. I’m afraid I’ve taken advantage of dear Winni’s grief-stricken condition.” He coughed again. “In a word, Miss Moon has consented to be my wife.”

Val, torn between astonishment and nausea, sat silent. Spaeth not even buried, and that horrible creature already accepting the advances of another man!

“If I were you, Val darling,” said Mr. King in an old-college-chummy way, “I’d pick up that telephone and relate this momentous intelligence to your editor.”

“Didn’t I tell you it was news?” beamed Ruhig.

“Yes, yes,” said Val breathlessly. “May I use your ’phone? When are you going to be married? I mean—”

A cloud passed over Mr. Ruhig’s rubicund features. “Obviously there is a certain decorum that must be preserved. We haven’t thought of a — ah — a date. It will not even be a formal engagement. Merely — what shall I say? — an understanding. By all means use the ’phone.”

Mr. King ruminated while Val seized the instrument. Such a public announcement now would hardly endear Mr. Ruhig, already disliked, to a citizenry whose money Mr. Ruhig was proposing to marry. Obviously, then, Mr. Ruhig in making it had an important object in mind. What?

“Oh, damn,” said Val into the telephone. “Fitz isn’t in now. Give me...” She bit her lip. “Give me Walter Spaeth!.. Walter? Val... No... Now, please. I’ve called Fitz but he isn’t in, and you’re the only other one... It’s a story... Yes! Anatole Ruhig has just told me confidentially he and Winni Moon are going to be married, date uncertain... Walter!” She jiggled the telephone, but Walter had hung up.

Mr. Ruhig breathed on his fingernails. “And now—” he said in the tone of a man who would like to prolong a delightful conversation but must regretfully terminate it.

Val sat down again. “There’s something else.”

“Something else?”

“I’m sort of checking up the day of the murder.”

“Monday? Yes?”

“Did you say,” asked Val, leaning forward, “that you got to Sans Souci a little past six Monday?”

Mr. Ruhig looked astonished. “My dear child! Certainly.”

He was going to deny it. He had to deny it. Or perhaps it all wasn’t true. Val inhaled like a diver and took the plunge. “What time did Spaeth set for your appointment with him?”

“Between five and five-thirty,” said Mr. Ruhig instantly.

Ellery, quietly watching, felt a backwash of admiration. No hesitation at all. Between five and five-thirty. Just like that.

“But you just said you — you got there after six!”

“So I did.”

“Then you were late? You didn’t get there between five and five-thirty at all?”

Mr. Ruhig smiled. “But I did get there between five and five-thirty... How did you know?” he asked suddenly.

Val gripped her alligator bag, trying to keep calm. As for Mr. Hilary King, he saw the point. Mr. Ruhig was an old hand at questions and answers. If he was being questioned about the exact time of his arrival, then he knew Val had reason to ask the question. If she had reason, it might be based on evidence. If there was evidence, truth was safer than fiction. Mr. King’s admiration for Mr. Ruhig waxed.

“Let’s get this straight,” said Val. “You got to Sans Souci when?”

“At five-fifteen, to be exact,” replied Mr. Ruhig.

“Then why didn’t you tell Inspector Glücke—”

“He didn’t ask me when the appointment was for. And I merely said I drove up a bit after six, which is true. Except that it was the second time I drove up, not the first.”

“A minor technicality,” commented Mr. King.

“The legal training,” said Mr. Ruhig with a modest downward glance. “Answer the question as asked, and don’t volunteer information.”

“Then you were in the house during the crime,” cried Val, “and Atherton Frank lied about no one coming in but—”

“My dear child, you’ll learn as you grow older never to jump at conclusions. I drove up the first time at a quarter after five, but that doesn’t mean I entered the grounds.”

“Oh,” said Val.

“Ah,” said Mr. King.

“Frank wasn’t around,” continued the lawyer conversationally. “You might question the one-armed gentleman, because he testified he was on duty all afternoon. But when I got there at five-fifteen the gate was locked and he wasn’t in his booth, so I drove off and returned a bit after six, at which time Walewski was on duty. That’s all.”

“Is it?” murmured Val.

“As a matter of fact,” said Ruhig, “I’ve been debating with myself whether to tell the Inspector about Frank’s absence or not. It puts me in rather a spot. I forgot to mention it Monday night, and when I recalled it later it occurred to me that Glücke might become — uh — troublesome over my lapse of memory. However, I think now I’d better tell him.”

You didn’t forget anything, Mr. Ruhig, thought Mr. King. And you don’t want Inspector Glücke to know even now. You’re bluffing.

“No,” said Val quickly. “Please don’t. Just keep it to yourself for a while, Mr. Ruhig.”

“But it’s a criminal offense!” protested Mr. Ruhig.

“I know, but it may come in handy in the defense if — when pop goes to trial. Don’t you see? They couldn’t be so sure, then, that he was the only one—”

“You’d make a persuasive advocate,” beamed Mr. Ruhig. “I’ll think it over... No, I shan’t, either! Friendship is friendship. I won’t talk until you give the word.”

Well done, friend.

“Thank you,” said Val, rising. “Uh... Hilary, let’s go.”

“Why not?” said Ellery-Hilary, and he uncoiled his legs from under Mr. Ruhig’s uncomfortable chair.

He had scarcely got out of it when Ruhig’s office-door flew open and Walter Spaeth strode in, hatless and panting, as if he had run all the way from Spring Street.

“What’s this,” he demanded of Ruhig, “about you and Winni?”

“Ah, Walter!”

Walter’s right fist smashed down on Ruhig’s desk. “So that’s the game,” he said in a hard voice. “All right, Ruhig, I’ll get into it, too.”

“What are you talking about?” asked the lawyer brusquely.

“You aren’t satisfied with the hundreds of thousands you collected from my father in fees in that crooked Ohippi operation. Now that he’s dead you want the big money — the millions. And you’re marrying that damned empty-headed fool of a woman to get them!”

“Get out,” said Ruhig. “Get out of here.”

“I’ve been thinking it over for some time. Ruhig, there’s something rotten about that will!”

“You will find,” said Mr. Ruhig with a dangerous softness, “that your father had full testamentary capacity.”

“I’ll spike your little scheme. I’m getting a lawyer to file a protest. I’ll break that will, Ruhig. You’ll never live to see it probated.”

“Your father,” snapped Ruhig like a tormented little badger, “was entirely able to comprehend the nature and extent of his property, his relationship to the natural objects of his bounty, and the scope and effects of the contents of his will. Will you get out, or do I have to have my clerks put you out?”

Walter actually smiled. “So it’s a fight, is it? By God, Ruhig, I’ve been itching for one.”

And he strode out with no more than a passing glance at Val and Mr. King — an absent glance that sharpened momentarily and then grew absent again.

“Goodbye,” said Val in a small voice.

They left Mr. Ruhig sitting still behind his desk, no longer smiling. In fact, Mr. Ruhig was immersed in thought — half-drowned in it, Mr. King would have said.

XIII Winni the Pooh et Cetera

“There’s that man again,” said Ellery, as they walked down the street.

“Where?”

“Somewhere behind us. I’m psychic about these things. Where’s your car parked?”

“N-near Hill.”

“Head for it and I’ll drop behind. Let’s see if we can’t bag this squirrel.”

Val stepped off the curb and nervously crossed the street. She was just mounting the sidewalk on the other side when she heard an outcry behind her. She whirled about.

Mr. Hilary King was struggling with a medium-sized, broad-shouldered man whose bellow could be heard as far as City Hall.

“Stop!” cried Val, racing back across the street. She yanked Ellery’s arm, which was engaged in a futile-seeming maneuver that looked like ju-jutsu, and was, and then shook the other man, who had just caught Ellery flush on the nose with his freckled fist.

“Pink!” she screamed. “Mr. King, stop! It’s Pink!”

“I’m ready to call it quits,” panted Mr. King, feeling his nose with his free sleeve, “if this wildcat is.”

“Who is this guy?” stormed Pink. “I spotted him for a ringer right away! Did he force you, Val? I’ll tear his gizzard out!”

“Don’t be an ass,” said Val irritably. “Come on, they’ll have the riot squad out in a minute.” And indeed Old Faithful, the black sedan, had stopped and its two occupants were hastily getting out.

The three of them looked at the sedan, the gaping crowd about them, the approaching detectives, and ran. They ran all the way to Hill Street, pursued, grabbed Val’s car, and shot away into the late afternoon traffic.

“There’s one consolation,” said Mr. King, still caressing his nose. “We’ve lost our escort.”

Pink slumped back in the rear, trying to compress himself into the smallest possible space.

“You’re an idiot,” snapped Val, driving furiously. “Was it you who was following us? Pink, if you don’t stop wet-nursing me—”

“How should I know?” whined Pink. “This guy looked like a phony to me. And Rhys told me to take care of you.”

“That’s no excuse. This is Mr. King, a... an old school chum. He’s helping me on my job.”

“Job!” Pink goggled.

Val told him about the events of the day, concluding with the Ruhig incident.

“Say!” exclaimed Pink. “I know why Ruhig admitted being at San Susie Monday at five-fifteen.”

“You do?”

“I’ve been doin’ a little snooping myself,” said Pink proudly. “I got to thinking about this Ruhig menace, and I says maybe he’s hiding something, so I goes up to his office this morning and I get palsy with the switchboard gal and pretty soon she spills. Ruhig and two of his gorillas left the office Monday a little past four-thirty in Ruhig’s car!”

“Pink, I retract the arm-lock,” said Ellery warmly. “A good job. Ruhig discovered the girl had been talking, assumed you told Valerie, and therefore came out with the truth the instant she questioned him.”

“I think,” murmured Val, “we’ve got something.” She frowned, examining the road behind her in the mirror. Then she swung off the boulevard and headed the car northwest.

“Where you going now?” demanded Pink.

“To Sans Souci. I want to talk to Frank, and I simply must interview dear, dear Winni — the damned Pooh!” And she stepped viciously on the accelerator.

A detective sat dozing in the pillbox, while Frank crouched disconsolately on an empty orange-crate near the gate.

The detective opened one eye at the sound of Val’s klaxon, then quickly got up and came out to the gate.

“Can’t go in,” he said, waving his hand. “Orders.”

“Oh, dear,” said Val. “Look, Lieutenant, we’re not—”

“I ain’t, but you can’t come in.”

Ellery nudged her. “Have you forgotten? You represent the massed power of the press.”

“Dag my nab, yes,” said Val. “Here, Captain, look at this. Press. Newspaper. Reporter.”

She waggled her press card. He examined it suspiciously through the grille. “All right, you come in. But the two men stay here.”

“Time,” said Mr. King. “I, too, gather the news.” And he exhibited his credentials. “It looks as if you’re stuck, Pink.”

“Not me. Where she goes, I go!”

“No, you don’t,” said the detective sourly; and Pink found himself back on the curb, where he had sat Monday night, glaring at the iron gate.

“Frank, come here,” said Val. The one-armed gateman looked startled; the detective scowled. “Interview,” said Val with a bewitching smile.

The two men were properly bewitched, and Frank followed Val some little distance from the pillbox, Ellery ambling behind lazily. But his eyes were sweeping the terrain. The place looked deserted.

“Frank,” said Val sternly, when they were out of earshot of the gate, “You deliberately lied Monday night!”

The gateman paled. “Me, Miss Jardin? I didn’t lie.”

“Oh, didn’t you? Didn’t you tell Glücke no one but Miss Moon and a man wearing my father’s coat entered the grounds between the time the auction ended and the time Walewski came on?”

“Sure I said that. It’s the God’s honest truth.”

“You’re a blaspheming, wicked old man!” said Val. “You weren’t at that gate all Monday afternoon, and you know it!”

The one-armed man grew even paler. “I... I wasn’t?” he faltered. Then, fearing he had given himself away, he said loudly: “I was so!”

“Come, come,” sneered Val. “Where were you at a quarter past five?”

The man started. He crouched a little and peered anxiously at the detective in the distance. “Not so loud, Miss Jardin. I didn’t mean nothing wrong. I just—”

“Speak up,” said Ellery in an authoritative voice. “Were you at that gate, or weren’t you?”

“I just sneaked down the hill a ways to Jim’s Diner for a cup of coffee. I was getting awful hungry — I always do late afternoons — I got something wrong with me...”

“What time was this, Frank?” asked Val excitedly.

“You won’t tell nobody? I went down the hill a little after five. Maybe eight, ten after. I was back just about half-past five. Just about.”

“Did you leave the gate locked?” demanded Ellery.

“Yes sir, I did, sir. I wouldn’t go away and leave—”

“Twenty minutes,” breathed Val, her eyes shining. “That means any one could have... Frank, not a word about this, do you understand?”

“Oh, no, ma’am, not me. I won’t say anything. If the people at the bank found out I’d lose my job. I only been on it a couple of months. I’m a poor man, Miss Jardin—”

“Let’s go, babe,” said “Scoop” King, bravura. And he linked Val’s arm in his and marched her up the drive toward the Spaeth house.

Val hurried along, trying to match his long stride. “That man Ruhig is a liar,” she panted. “He got here at five-fifteen, he says, couldn’t get in, went away. And came back a few minutes past six. That’s simply unbelievable. If you knew Solly Spaeth. He didn’t like to be kept waiting. And Spaeth had said it was urgent. Oh, Ruhig didn’t go away!”

Ellery strode on, head down, silent.

“Do you know what I think?” whispered Val.

“Certainly.” Ellery lit a cigaret. “You think that when Mr. Ruhig found the gate locked but unguarded, he climbed over the fence and visited Mr. Solly Spaeth per appointment.”

“Yes!”

“I’m inclined,” said Ellery, “to agree.” And he walked on, smoking like a demon.

“In the house. In the house between five-fifteen and five-thirty!”

“That’s only theory,” warned Ellery.

“I’m sure he was! The car could have been parked on the other side of Sans Souci so that when he left, nobody — not even Frank — would have seen him. Climbed over the fence again. Got out the way he got in—” She stared at Ellery with a feverish absorption. “That means — that means—”

“Let us,” murmured Mr. King, “interview the glamorous bride-to-be.”

Miss Moon opened the door herself.

“So you’re afraid to hire servants, too,” said Val.

“What do you want?” said Miss Moon. She was flushed with anger.

“We want in, as they say,” said Val, and she slipped by Miss Moon with a winning smile and skipped toward the study. Miss Moon glared at Mr. King, who spread his hands apologetically.

“After you, Miss Moon,” said Mr. King. Miss Moon stamped off to the study.

“What is this, anyway?” she stormed, withering Val with one devastating look. “Can’t a lady have any pwivacy?”

“Mr. King, Miss Moon,” murmured Val, unwithered and undevastated. “We won’t take too much of your time.”

“I don’t talk to murdewews!”

“If I wasn’t a woiking goil,” said Val, “I’d scratch those mascaraed eyes of yours out, dearie. I’m writing for a Los Angeles newspaper, however, and I want to know: Is it true what they say about you and Anatole Ruhig?”

Winni raised her pale plump arms dramatically. “I’ll go mad!” she cried. “I told that nasty little— I told Anatole to keep his twap shut! You’re the second one; a reporter was just here fwom the Independent!”

“Are you going to marry Anatole?”

“I’ve got nothing to say — especially to you!”

“I wonder what the secret of her success is, Mr. King,” sighed Val. “Would you say it was charm, or manners?”

“Miss Moon,” said “Scoop” King, taking out pencil and paper and pretending to write. “What are you going to do with Solly Spaeth’s fifty million dollars?”

“I’ll talk to you,” cooed Miss Moon, calming magically and fussing with her wheat-colored hair. “I’m buying and buying and buying. It’s wonderful how the shops give you cwedit when you’re an heiwess, isn’t it?”

She swept Val’s neat costume with a scornful glance.

“And is your aunt buying and buying and buying, too?” asked Mr. King, still scribbling doodads.

Miss Moon drew herself up. “My awnt isn’t here any more. My awnt has gone away.”

“When do you expect her back?”

“Nevaw! She deserted me in my hour of distwess, and now she can go lump it.”

“Apparently,” remarked Val, “she didn’t hear about the fifty million soon enough. Well, thank you, dear Miss Moon. I hope your new pearls choke you to death.”

And she went out, followed meekly by Mr. King and a female glare that had the glitter of knives in it.

Mr. King grabbed Miss Jardin’s arm and pulled her stealthily into the doorway of a room off the corridor. He kept peering out and back toward the study.

“What’s the idea?” whispered Valerie.

He shook his head, watching. So Val watched, too. In a few moments they saw Miss Moon flounce out of the study, lifting her beige hostess-gown and scratching her naked left thigh in an inelegant manner, and mumbling crankily to herself. She clumped up the stairs, her hips rising and falling like a watery horizon in a monsoon.

Ellery took Val by the hand and tiptoed back to the study.

“There,” he said, closing the study door. “Now we can reconnoiter a bit, unknown to the Presence.”

“But why?” asked Val blankly.

“Sheer nosiness. This is where the last rites were administered, isn’t it? Park your pretty carcass in that chair while I snoop a bit.”

“You’re a funny sort of newspaperman,” said Val, frowning.

“I’m beginning to think so myself. Now shut up, darling.”

Val shut up and sat down, watching. What she saw puzzled her. Mr. King lay down on the floor near the ell in which Mr. Solomon Spaeth had been sitting so quietly Monday night. He nosed about like Mickey’s Pluto; Val could almost hear the sniffs. Then he rose and examined the wall of the alcove. After a moment he stood off and looked up at the wall above the fireplace. Then, shaking his head, he went to Solly’s desk and sat down in Solly’s chair and thought and thought and thought. Once he looked at his wrist-watch.

“It’s an impressive act,” said Val presently, “but it conveys absolutely nothing to my primitive mind.”

“How do you get the gateman’s booth by telephone?” he asked in reply.

“Dial one-four.”

He dialed. “This is that reporter again. It’s five after six, so Walewski ought to be there. Is he?”

“So what?” rasped the detective’s voice.

“Put him on. What’s your name?”

“David Greenberg. Say, listen, pal, if—”

“I’ll remember that, Dave. Put Walewski on.” He waited, saying meanwhile: “That’s the hell of these post-mortem investigations. If there was any clue in this room, the police have ruined it... Walewski? I’m a reporter. You remember Monday a few minutes past six, when Mr. Ruhig drove up to the gate?”

“Yes, sir, yes, sir,” came Walewski’s quavering voice.

“Was he alone in his car? Or were there two men with him?”

Val jumped. She ran to the desk, listening for the answer.

“No, sir,” said Walewski. “He was all alone.”

“Thanks.”

Ellery hung up and Val stared at him. Then he rose and said lightly: “What’s out here? Ah, a terrace. Let’s imbibe some fresh air.”

The study wall facing the terrace was completely glass. They went out through the glass doors. The terrace was deserted, and its gaily striped awning, bright furniture, cushions, rattan, wrought-iron chairs, and pastel flagstones looked a little forlorn.

Ellery handed Val gallantly into the slide-swing and stretched himself out in a long summer chair.

“I think, my brave colleague,” he said, settling himself comfortably and gazing out over the rock gardens and the empty pool below, “we have our Mr. Ruhig neatly figured.”

“He was alone when he came back, Walewski says!”

“Exactly. Let’s see what we have. Pink discovers that Ruhig left his office around four-thirty Monday afternoon, in his car, accompanied by two assistants. This checks with other facts — that the previous week when he drew up, and Spaeth signed the will which cut Walter Spaeth off, Ruhig also came with two assistants, to serve, as he himself said, as witnesses to the signature.”

“How do you know that?” frowned Val. “You weren’t present when he told that to the Inspector Monday night.”

“I — uh — I read it in the papers. Now. From Ruhig’s office to Sans Souci is a good forty-minute drive through traffic; so Ruhig probably told the truth when he said he reached here at five-fifteen Monday. With, mind you, his two assistants. He says he couldn’t get in and drove away and returned at six-five or so. Why? Obviously, if he hadn’t got in at five-fifteen, then he still had to handle the change of will for Spaeth. But when he returned at six-five, presumably for this purpose, his two men weren’t with him! What does that suggest?”

Val wrinkled her brow. “I can’t imagine.”

“Obviously that he no longer needed them. But why had he brought his assistants in the first place? To witness a new will. Then if he no longer needed them at six-five, it seems to me highly indicative that the assistants had already served their purpose by six-five. In other words, to reduce it to specifies, that they had witnessed a new will between five-fifteen, when Ruhig first came, and five-thirty-two, when Spaeth died.”

“A new will!” cried Val. “Oh, lord. Then that means—”

“Hush! We don’t want Winni hearing this. We don’t know exactly what this means in terms of the will. But we can be pretty sure Spaeth signed a new will before he died, and that Ruhig and his men were in this study at approximately the murder-period.”

Val sat thinking furiously. It did sound logical. And it changed everything. Any new will would have affected Winni Moon’s gigantic legacy. Where did Walter enter the picture? Did he find that will? Was he... was he protecting Winni? What real part did that oily little Ruhig play?

“What’s that?” asked Ellery sharply, sitting up.

“What’s what?” asked Val in an absent way.

Ellery pointed. Fifty yards from where they sat, directly beyond the pool, was the rear terrace of the old Jardin house. Something was winking there, flashing prismatic colors in the rays of the sinking sun.

“I can’t imagine,” said Val. “That’s the terrace of our old house. We didn’t leave anything there except an odd piece or two or porch furniture we didn’t want.”

Ellery rose. “Let’s go look-see.”

They stole down the stone steps and made their way without noise across the rock garden, around the pool, to the Jardin house. The awning still hung over the terrace, which was largely in shadow; but the sun illuminated an area several feet deep along the entire length of the terrace; and in this sunlit area stood an old wrought-iron porch table.

They saw at once what had caused the fiery flashes. A pair of battered binoculars lay on the table, its lenses facing the sun.

“Oh, shoot,” said Val, disappointed. “It’s just that old pair of binoculars.”

“Here!” said Ellery sharply. “Don’t touch that table.” He was crouched over, studying its surface with narrowed eyes. “You mean you left them here when you moved?”

“Yes. One of the lenses is cracked.”

“Did you leave it on this table?”

“Why, no,” said Val, surprised. “It wasn’t left here at that. We went over a lot of stuff — pop likes the races, and we have several pairs of binoculars — and we just threw this one out.”

“Where did you leave it?”

“There’s a pile of junk in the gym.”

“Then what is it doing here?”

“I don’t know,” said Val truthfully. “But what difference does it make?”

Ellery did not reply. He indicated the glass doors which led to the vacant study; they stood slightly ajar.

“That’s funny,” said Val slowly. “Those doors were locked when we left. Unless the landlord had some one come in and—”

“If you’ll look closely, you’ll find the lock broken,” said Ellery, “indicating a basic disrespect for the rights of property.”

“Oh!” cried Val, pointing to the table. “Those marks!”

She bent over the table and Ellery smiled faintly. The surface was covered with mottled dust. There seemed to be two layers of dust, deposited at different times. Val was studying two oval marks — they were more like smudges — under the upper dust-stratum. One was larger than the other, and they were separated by several inches.

“Damn those rains,” said Ellery. “The table didn’t get the full force of it, being under the awning, but it did get a fine spray, enough to remove any fingerprints that may have been here.”

“But those marks,” said Val. “They look like fingerprints. Like the marks of two fingers — a thumb and a little finger.”

“That’s what they are. They were deposited on an already dusty surface. Then more dust settled, and the rain messed things up, but they’re still visible because the dust-layer is thinner where they are than on the rest of the table. However, there don’t seem to be any distinguishing whorls — probably the rain.”

He took out a handkerchief and carefully lifted the binoculars. Where they had lain was a slightly dusty surface, lighter than the surrounding surface. “Binoculars and fingermarks made at about the same time.” He wrapped the binoculars in the folds of the handkerchief and calmly dropped the whole thing into the pocket of his sport-jacket.

Val did not notice. She was striding excitedly up and down. “I’ve got it! It was still light at the time of the murder, and the glasses show some one stood right here on this terrace watching what was going on in Spaeth’s study! He could easily see, because of the glass walls, like these here. There was a witness to the murder!”

“Excellently spoken,” said Ellery. “I mean — you said a mouthful there, baby.” But he was still studying the two finger-smudges on the table in a puzzled way.

“Then some one knows who killed Spaeth. Some one saw!”

“Very likely.” Ellery looked around. “Did you say a lot of junk was left in the gym? Where’s the gym?”

“A few doors down,” said Val, hardly knowing what she was saying. Then she took a deep breath. “Here, I’ll show you.”

She led him along the terrace to the door of the empty gymnasium. This door, too, had been forced. “There it is,” said Val.

Ellery went over to a small pile of débris and poked it apart with his foot. But there was nothing of interest in the pile. He was about to return to the terrace when he spied a small closet set into one of the walls. The closet-door was closed. He walked over and opened it. Inside, on a rack, hung a lone Indian club. He took it out, frowning, and examined it. It was cracked.

“Funny,” he said. “Very funny.” He weighed the club thoughtfully, glancing over at the pile of débris.

“What is it? What’s the matter now?” asked Val, waking from her trance.

“This Indian club. Indian clubs come in pairs, weighed and matched. Why on earth should you have taken along the mate to this, when this cracked one was left behind?”

“The mate?” Val wrinkled her forehead. “But we didn’t. We left them both here in the closed closet.”

“Really?” said Ellery dryly. “Well, one of them is gone.”

Val stared, then shrugged. Ellery replaced the cracked club in the rack and, frowning, shut the closet-door.

“And another thing,” said Val, as they returned to the terrace. “Whoever it was who watched, it was somebody with only two fingers on his left hand — a two-fingered man! That is a left-hand marking, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Two fingers!”

Ellery smiled the same faint smile. “By the way, I think you’d better telephone police headquarters.”

“What for?”

“To tell them about this table. Shocking neglect on the part of Glücke — not examining your old house!”

“Why, the binoculars are gone!” cried Val.

“Only as far as my pocket. I’d put the table in there, too, only it won’t fit comfortably. Call Glücke. He ought to send a fingerprint man down here right away on the off-chance that some prints are left.”

They went quietly back to the Spaeth house and Ellery sat down on the terrace again while Val tiptoed into the study to telephone. He heard her get her connection and ask for Inspector Glücke, but he was not listening too closely. Those marks...

He jumped at a choking sound from the study. He ran in and found Val staring at the telephone, her face a pale, pale gray.

“All right,” she said weakly. “I’ll be right down,” and she replaced the instrument on its base with a thud, as if it were too heavy for her.

“What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

“It’s Walter. Walter,” said Val. It was always Walter. Whenever anything happened, it was Walter. “You know — I told you about — him. The one who ran into Ruhig’s office—”

“Well, well?”

“Inspector Glücke just told me...” She shivered suddenly and drew her coat more closely about her. “He says Walter has cleared my father. Walter’s — cleared — pop!”

She began to giggle.

Ellery shook her violently. “None of that! What do you mean — cleared your father?”

Val giggled and giggled. It became a laugh, and then a shout, and finally it choked up and turned into a whisper. “He — just — confessed to Glücke that — he was the one — who wore my father’s coat Monday afternoon... that he was the one — Frank saw... Oh, Walter!”

And she buried her face in her hands.

Ellery pulled her hands way. “Come on,” he said gruffly.