The King is Dead

5

Karla’s apartment was on another planet, a gentle world of birds and flowers, with casements overlooking the gardens and a small fireplace burning aromatic logs. Water-colors splashed the walls, glass winked in the firelight, and everything was bright and warm and friendly.

A maid, not a flunky in livery, served coffee and brandy. Karla took neither; she sipped an iced liqueur.

“Coffee keeps me awake. Brandy—” she shrugged — “I find I have lost my taste for it.”

“Your brother-in-law’s influence?” suggested the Inspector delicately.

“We can do nothing with Judah.”

“Why,” asked Ellery, “does Judah drink?”

“Why does anyone drink?... Rest your feet on the footstool, Inspector Queen. Dinner was exhausting, I know. Immanuel Peabody is a fascinating raconteur, but he has never learned that the pinnacle of brilliance in story-telling is knowing when to stop. Dr. Storm is a pig. One of the world’s great internists, but a pig nevertheless. Am I being dreadful? It is such a relief to allow myself to be a woman on occasion, and gossip.”

The sadness in her eyes interested Ellery. He wondered how much Karla Bendigo knew of the threats against her husband’s life, if she knew anything at all.

The Inspector was apparently wondering, too, because he said, “Your husband bowled me over, Mrs. Bendigo. One of the most dynamic men I’ve ever met.”

“That is so characteristic, Inspector!” She was pleased. “I mean, your feeling that. It is the invariable reaction of everyone who meets Kane.”

“Who meets whom?” Ellery asked.

“Kane.”

“Kane?”

“Oh, I forgot,” she laughed. “Kane is my husband’s name. K-a-n-e.”

“Then the name King—”

“Is not properly his name at all. We are playthings of the press, n’est-ce pas? The newspapers referred to Kane so long and so often as ‘the Munitions King’ that he began to use the word ‘king’ as a name. In the beginning it was a family joke, but somehow it has hung on.”

“Does his brother Judah address him as King?” asked Ellery. “I don’t believe I heard Judah utter a word all evening.”

She shrugged. “Judah took it up with as much enthusiasm as he ever shows for anything. Judah’s affinity for cognac often leads him into childish irony. He uses ‘King’ as if it were a... a title. Even Abel has fallen into the habit. I am the only one who still addresses my husband by his given name.”

Ellery began to perceive a ground for the sadness in her eyes.

She told the story of how she and her husband had met.

It was in an ultra-fashionable restaurant in Paris under characteristic Bendigo circumstances. They were at adjacent tables, each in a large dinner party. She had noticed the big, dark, Byronic-locked man with the flashing black eyes when his party entered; it included two members of the French cabinet, a high British diplomat, a famous American general, and Abel Bendigo — there were no women — but it was on the Munitions King that all eyes fastened.

The buzz that filled the restaurant caused Karla to inquire who he was.

She had heard of him, of course, but she had always discounted the stories about him as the inflated gossip of the bankrupt society from which she came. Now, seeing him in the flesh, she was equally sure the stories must be true. In the world in which she lived, men were either cynical petrifactions in high places or useless, usually impecunious, exquisites. Among these people he stood out like a Roman candle. He was all radiant energy, heating and exciting the pale particles among which he moved.

Being a woman, Karla had immediately turned her glance elsewhere.

“I remember feeling thankful that my better profile happened to be turned toward his table,” Karla said, smiling. And wondering if it were possible to make a conquest of such a man. He was said to have very little to do with women. That, of course, is a challenge to any woman, and I was bored to death by my friends and my life.

“I suppose some of this showed in what was visible to him. Which was a great deal, I fear,” she added, “for this was immediately after the war and I was wearing a particularly shameless creation of Feike-Emma’s. Still, I was surprised when the Baroness Herblay, who was called behind her back ‘Madame Roentgen’ because nothing escaped her eye, whispered to me behind her lorgnette that Monsieur le Roi had been staring at me for some time with the most insulting intensity — ‘insulting’ was the word she used, hopefully.”

The Baroness explained at Karla’s raised brow that “Monsieur le Roi” was what the leftist French press had taken to calling Mr. King-of-the-Munitions Bendigo.

“I looked around,” Karla murmured, “and met Kane’s eye. Mine was very cold, intended to freeze him into an awareness that I was not some modiste’s mannequin to be looked over with insolence. Instead, I met such a heat in his...

“I looked away quickly, feeling myself blush. I was not a convent girl. The war had made us all a thousand years old. Still, at the moment, I was feeling exactly like one. He was so... uniquely attractive... And then I howled like a chambermaid, which was the effect Baroness Herblay sought, I am sure, for she was a wicked old woman and she had stabbed my ankle with the stiletto she wore in place of a heel. So I looked up through tears of pain to find him, very darkly imperious and amused, stooping over my chair.

“‘Pardon me, if I startled you,’ he said in schoolboy French. ‘But I had to tell you that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.’

“Of course, in American English it sounds — how do you say? — corny,” continued Karla with a twinkle, “but there is something about the French language which gives this sort of sentiment a tone of ever-fresh glamor. And expressed — no matter how awkwardly — in Kane’s deep, rich American voice, it sounded as if it had never been said before.

“My cousin, Prince Claudel, was at the head of our table. Before I could find my tongue, Claudel rose and said frigidly, ‘And I must tell you, Monsieur, that you are a presuming boor. You will please retire immediately.’”

“There was a brawl,” chuckled Inspector Queen.

“A duel,” guessed Ellery.

“Nothing of the sort,” retorted Karla, resting her shining head on the back of her chair, “although either would have delighted the Baroness. Baron Herblay, who had grown old in the intrigues of Europe, whispered in Claudel’s ear, and I saw my cousin go amusingly pale. It was Bendigo money which had supported Claudel in exile while he plotted the destruction of the revolutionary régime in our country and his return there, which would mean eventually his elevation to the overturned throne. Claudel had never laid eyes on Kane Bendigo; it was a minor matter to the Bendigos, handled through agents and bankers in Paris.

“Meanwhile, Kane stood over me paying no attention whatever. It was a cold-blooded display, and the restaurant had fallen silent — that horrible public silence which undresses you and leaves you no place to hide.

“Claudel said nervously, ‘Monsieur, I spoke hastily, perhaps. But you must realize, Monsieur — you have not been presented—’

“And, without looking up at him, Kane said, ‘Present me.’

“Whereupon, even paler, Prince Claudel did so.”

“Since this is a romance,” grinned Ellery, “I suppose you slapped his face and swept out of the restaurant.”

“No,” said Karla dreamily, “for this was a realistic romance. I knew the source of our family’s support and I had undergone too much privation during the war to jeopardize it over a breach of etiquette. Besides, he was so handsome. And his breach had, after all, been committed over me... But then he made it very difficult for me to remain flattered.”

“What did he do?” asked the Inspector.

“He ordered all non-red-haired women out of the restaurant.”

“He what?”

“He passed a law, Inspector Queen. Only red-haired women, he decreed in a penetrating voice, should be allowed. And he summoned the maître and ordered the poor man to escort all brunette, blonde, and gray-haired ladies from the premises. The maître wrung his hands and hurried off, while Kane stood by my chair with perfect calmness. The restaurant, of course, was in an uproar.

“I was furious with him. I was about to rise and leave when the Baroness dug her claws into my arm and hissed at me, whispering something about the Prince. I glanced at my cousin and I could see that he was about to do something suicidally heroic. Poor Claudel! He’s had such a hard time of it. So I had to pretend to be amused, and I smiled up at the tall author of the scene and acted as if I were enjoying myself. As, secretly, I was.”

Karla laughed again, from deep in her throat. “The maître returned with the manager. The manager wrung his hands, too. Monsieur was obviously jesting... it was of a truth impossible... these distinguished personages... But Monsieur very calmly said that he was not jesting in the least. There was room in the planetary system, he said, for only one sun, which at its most beautiful, he reminded the manager, was of the color red. All non-red-haired women must leave at once.

“The manager threw up his hands and sent for the owner of the restaurant. The owner came and he was adamant. It could not be done, the owner said with respect but firmness. Such an act would be not merely immoral and unprecedented, it would be commercial suicide. He would instantly lose the patronage of the most elevated diners in Paris. He would be sued, wrecked, ruined...

“At this point Kane looked over at Abel, and Abel, who had been quietly listening, rose from their table and came to his brother. They conferred for a moment, then Abel took the owner aside and there was another inaudible conference. While this was going on, Kane said to me soothingly, ‘A thousand apologies for this annoyance. It will be over in a moment.’ I had to smile up at him again to keep Claudel in hand...

“Then the owner rejoined us, and he was paler than my cousin. If Monsieur Bendigo and his guests would be so gracious as to retire to a private suite, for a few moments only... Monsieur Bendigo smiled and said that would be agreeable to him — if I joined his party.”

“And you did?”

“I had to, Mr. Queen, or Prince Claudel would have assaulted him where he stood. I went to Claudel and whispered that I was being most terribly diverted — leaving Claudel speechless — and then I permitted Kane to escort me from the room. The last thing I remember,” laughed Karla, “was Baroness Herblay’s open mouth.

“Fifteen minutes later the owner of the restaurant presented himself to Kane in the private suite, informed him that all ladies who were not so fortunate as to possess red hair had been ‘removed from the premises,’ and bowed himself out again. At this Kane nodded gravely, and he said to me, ‘I am reasonably sure you were the only red-haired woman present, but if we find that I’ve made a mistake, I will take appropriate action on some other ground. Will you do me the honor of dining with me and my friends?’ And we went back into the restaurant, and not a woman was there — just a few men who had remained out of curiosity. Needless to say, Claudel, the Herblays, and the others had all left.”

“But what on earth made the owner change his tune?” asked Ellery. “I assume he was well paid for it, but it seems to me no amount of money, after a stunt like that, would keep his business solvent.”

“It was no longer his, Mr. Queen,” said Karla. “You see, on the spot, on Kane’s instructions, Abel had purchased the restaurant!”

Four days later — four of the most exciting days in her life, Karla said — they were married. They spent a prolonged honeymoon on the continent, to the despair of Abel. But Karla was overwhelmingly in love, and it was not until two months later that her husband brought her in state to Bendigo Island.

“Where you’ve been ever since?” asked the Inspector. “Must get pretty lonely for a woman like you, Mrs. Bendigo.”

“Oh, no,” protested Karla. “I could never be lonely with Kane.”

“But doesn’t he work very hard?” murmured Ellery. “Late hours, and all that? From what I’ve gathered, you don’t see much of your husband.”

Karla sighed. “I have never felt that a woman should stand between her husband and his work. It is probably my European training... We do have our interludes, however. I often accompany Kane on business trips, which take him all over the world. We spent most of last month, for example, in Buenos Aires, and Kane says we will be going to London and Paris soon.” She refilled their brandy glasses, her hand shaking slightly. “You must not feel sorry for me,” she said in a light tone. “It is true, I sometimes miss the company of women of my own class, but one must sacrifice something for being married to a phenomenon... Did you know that my husband was a famous athlete in his day?”

It was all rather pathetic, and when Karla insisted on showing them her husband’s trophy room they followed her like tourists into what looked like a museum. The room was sternly Greek in spirit, an affair of pure-line marble and slender columns, and it was full of athletic trophies won, Karla Bendigo said, by her extraordinary husband in his youth.

“This is a phase of the great man that never gets into the magazine articles,” remarked Ellery, glancing about at the plaques and scrolls and cabinets containing memorial footballs, baseballs, skis, statuettes, cups, lacrosse sticks, foils, boxing gloves, and a hundred other testimonials to athletic prowess. “Did Mr. Bendigo actually win all these?”

“We rather discourage magazine writers, Mr. Queen,” said Karla. “Yes, these were all won by Kane at school. I don’t think there’s a sport he didn’t excel in.”

Ellery paused to study one silver cup for water polo, on whose surface the name Kane appeared brighter than the other engraving.

“That one,” observed the Inspector over Ellery’s shoulder, “looks as if the name Kane’s been re-engraved.”

Karla looked, too, and nodded. “Yes, it has. I asked Kane about that myself when I first saw it.”

“Abel. Judah.” Ellery turned suddenly, “I wondered why the Biblical influence didn’t extend to the other brother. It did, didn’t it, Mrs. Bendigo? Kane — K-a-n-e — isn’t his name, either. It was...”

“C-a-i-n. That is right, Mr. Queen.”

“Can’t say I blame him.”

“Yes, for obvious reasons he always loathed it. When he entered private school — some military school, I think — even as a boy he insisted on changing it. He told me he had won this water-polo trophy in his Genesis phase, as I always call it, so he had it re-engraved later to read K-a-n-e.”

“From his appearance, Mrs. Bendigo,” said the Inspector, “your husband must keep up a lot of these sports. When does he get the time?”

“He doesn’t. I have never seen him do anything but wrestle and box a little with Max.”

“What?” The Inspector looked around the trophy room.

“He takes no exercise to speak of,” laughed Karla. “I told you Kane is unique! He keeps his figure and muscles in trim by massage twice a day. For all his stupidity, Max is a skillful masseur and Kane, of course, is Max’s religion. Careful food habits — you saw how sparingly he ate tonight — and a constitution of steel do the rest. Kane has so many facets to his personality! In many things he is a little boy, in others a peacock. Did you know that for years now he has been judged one of the world’s ten best-dressed men? I will show you!”

King’s wife dragged them to another room. It was a large room; it might have been an exclusive men’s shop. Closet after closet, rack after rack, of suits, overcoats, sportswear, dinner-jackets, shoes — he had everything, in wholesale lots.

“He can’t possibly find the time to wear all of these,” exclaimed the Inspector. “Ellery, take a gander at that line-up of riding boots! Does he ride much, Mrs. Bendigo?”

“He hasn’t been on a horse for years... Isn’t it fabulous?

Kane comes in here often, just to admire.”

They were inspecting this kingly wardrobe with appropriate murmurs when a deep voice said behind them, “Karla, why would our guests be interested in my haberdashery?”

He was in the doorway. His handsome face was fatigued. His voice held a cross, raspy note.

“You would not deprive your wife of the pleasure of boasting about her husband?” Karla went to him quickly, slipped her arm about his waist. “Kane. You are very tired tonight.”

She was frightened. There was no trace of it in her expression or attitude, and her voice was merely anxious, but Ellery was sure. It was almost as if she had been caught in the act of treason, discovery of which meant merciless punishment.

“I’ve had a long day, and some of it was trying. Would you gentlemen join me in a nightcap?” But his tone was icy.

“Thank you, no. I’m afraid we’ve kept Mrs. Bendigo far too long as it is.” Ellery took his father’s arm. “Good night.”

Karla murmured something. She was smiling, but her face was suddenly bloodless.

Bendigo stood aside to let them pass. The Inspector’s arm jerked. A security guard stood at attention just outside the door. They were about to step into the corridor when Bendigo said, “One moment.”

They stopped, alert to some new danger. It was puzzling and annoying. Every word this man uttered seemed full of traps.

King Bendigo, however, sounded merely absent. “Something I was to show you. Abel told me not to forget. What the devil was it, now?”

Blocking the corridor at the turn loomed the ape, Max’l. He was holding up a wall as he smoked a long cigar. He eyed them with a grin.

“Yes?” Ellery tried to relax.

“Oh.” King’s hand went to his breast pocket. “Another of those letters came tonight. By the late plane. It was in the general mail.”

He dropped the envelope into Ellery’s hand. The envelope had been slit open. Ellery did not remove its contents; he was looking at Bendigo’s face.

He could see nothing there but weary indifference.

“You’ve read this, Mr. Bendigo?” asked Inspector Queen sharply.

“Abel insisted. Same brand of garbage. Good night.”

“Kane, what is it?” Karla was clinging to him.

“Nothing to concern you, darling—” The door shut in their faces.

Max’l followed them at a distance of six feet all the way to the door of their suite. Then, to their alarm, he closed the gap in a bound.

“Here!” The Inspector backed up.

Maxie’s sapper of a forefinger struck Ellery in the chest, staggering him.

“You ain’t so tough. Are you?”

“What?” stammered Ellery.

“Na-a-a.” Max’l turned on his heel and rolled contemptuously away.

“Now what in hell,” muttered the Inspector, “was that for?”

Ellery bolted the door, rubbing his chest.

The third note was almost identical with its predecessors. The same elegant stationery, the same type — of a Winchester Noiseless Portable — and virtually the same message:

You are going to be murdered on Thursday, June 21—

“June twenty-first,” said the Inspector thoughtfully. “Adds the date. Less than a week from now. And again he ends up with a dash, showing there’s more to come. What the devil else can he say?”

“At least one other thing of importance.” Ellery was scanning, not the enclosure, but the envelope. “The exact hour, maybe the exact hour and minute, on Thursday, June twenty-first. Have you noticed this envelope, Dad?”

“How can I have noticed it when you’ve hoarded it like a miser?”

“Proves what we suspected all along. King says it was found with the mail brought in by tonight’s mail plane. That ought to mean that it went through somebody’s post office. Only, it didn’t. Look.”

“No stamp, no postmark,” mumbled his father. “It was slipped into the pouch on arrival.”

“An inside job, and no guesswork this time.”

“But this is so dumb, Ellery. Doesn’t he care? A school kid would know from this envelope that the origin of these notes is on the island. I don’t get it at all.”

“It’s pretty,” said Ellery, with a faraway look. “Because they don’t need us, Dad. Not the least bit. And right now I don’t care a toot if they do hear all this in their spy room.”

“What are you going to do, son?”

“Go to bed. And first thing in the morning — assert myself!”