American Gun Mystery (22 page)

“According to the official announcement after the boys weighed in this afternoon Black tipped the scales at one ninety-two and the champion weighed. …”

“They’re coming into the ring hear that terrific uproar that’s the champ the good old champ himself Jack Harker coming into the ring bundled up in his famous old striped bathrobe with his manager Johnny Aldrich and his handlers Jack’s looking fine tonight his face is deeply tanned and a little drawn trained up to the minute he’s freshly shaved you know that’s a superstition of his and yes there’s Tommy Black there’s Tommy Black coming and what an ovation he’s getting ladies and gentlemen of the radio audience what an ovation. … do you hear that thunder that’s just the crowd roaring for Tommy ha ha. … he’s a popular boy looks fit as a fiddle he’s wearing a new black satin robe and his bandaged hands look like two hunks of steel you know the betting has been funny on this fight at the last minute the odds on the challenger to win came down and now I understand they’re quoting even money. … wait wait wait there’s old Jim Steinke ready to make an announcement. …

“Well folks it’s all set the boys are in the center of the ring taking their final instructions from the referee Henry Sumpter old Henry the Eagle-Eye they call him you know yes they just touched gloves. … both boys look confident. … Tommy looks especially so even though he’s scowling he looks more and more like the old Mauler every day you know he even weaves in the famous Dempsey style and he packs a punch they say almost as hard as—

“There’s the gong the seconds are out of the ring Tommy comesoutfirstfightinghardhe’slikeaflashthereitgoesleftt’ thejawrighttotheheartandcoverup. … nothing important or serious Jack’s smiling they’re dancing around the champ hasn’t struck a blow yet they’re feeling each other out Tommy makes another lunge. …Therehe goeslikelightninglikelightning. … two lefts to the chin like a pile driver Jack made a face at those they hurt although he seems all right. … wow what a fighter that Tommy Black is the champ still hasn’t landed a blow. … therehegoeswithaterrificrighttoTommy’shead which would have meant curtains had it landed. … but it didn’t Tommy’s head just wasn’t there and. …

“Ooooo!
Wait a minute wait a minute there’s. …
Ooooo!
ladies and gentlemen Tommy Black just landed eight straight lefts in a row to the Champ’s chin and topped it off with a vicious short right hook to Jack’s jaw on the button on the button Jack’s groggy his knees are buckling. … he’s covering up he’s hanging on. … the referee is trying to separate the two boys Tommy is willing enough he looks like a killer now but the champ’s hanging on like a leech. … they’re apart they’re sparring Tommy’s teeth are showing in a snarling grin he won’t stop he rushes in cool and murderous and there. …
Yes!
another left and a right and a left and a right and a left and. …

“Jack’sdownhe’sdown!
… two three four five six seven he’s trying to get up eight ni. … he’s up in a crouch dancing away Tommy’s after him the referee Henry Sumpter is following closely and. …

“OOOF
the champ’s down again hear that terrific noise that’s the crowd they’re going crazy. … five six seven eight nine. …
TEN!
He’soutandthere’sanew heavyweightchampionoftheworldtheworld. … ladies and gentlemen a new heavyweight champion is crowned in the most sensational one-round knockout in the history of the ring and. …

“Tommy Tommy boy come here and say a few words into the microphone! TOMMY!”

It was an auspicious beginning for a new round of events. They improved as they succeeded each other. Ellery, to whom the brutality of the prize-ring meant little except a faintly disgusting exhibition of savagery, had kept his attention more on his companions than upon the gladiators in the ring. And so he alone of the hundreds pressed closely around the ring saw the bitter scowl of Julian Hunter, the cold calculating glint in Tony Mars’s eye, and the ecstatic and hoydenish frenzy on the beautiful face of Mara Gay when the champion lay twitching on the canvas and Tommy Black, indeed murderous and cool—as the garrulous announcer had pronounced him—danced up and down in a neutral corner, never taking his tigrish eyes off his opponent’s prone body.

He hung around. There was something to hang around for. With his genius for capitalizing a situation, Tony Mars immediately after the first clamor died down, announced that he was “throwin’ a big party” for the successful fighter at the
Club Mara
that very night. Perhaps the fact that a threatened double-cross, in which for the benet of the gamblers Tommy Black was to throw the fight to the champion, had been averted, moved Mars to this lavish display, for he was a notoriously careful man where money was concerned, although generous at impulsive moments; at any rate, it was to be open house. Representatives of press associations, well-known sporting editors, promoters, the Grants, Kit Horne, the entire rodeo troupe (who had been present in the wildly excited flesh at the battle)—all were invited.

Midnight found the
Club Mara
in the grip of a strange ecstasy. The doors were closed. The immense room was festooned with flowers and trophies of the prize-ring. Mars, cold and cordial as of old, presided. Liquor flowed freely. At the central table, like a muscular Silenus, sat Tommy Black, smiling, unruffled, unmarked, in evening clothes that were moulded like plaster to his big body.

Ellery wandered about quietly. He sought Wild Bill Grant, and could not find him. A word with Mars on the side elicited the information that Grant had politely declined; he was tired and had the next night’s opening to think about. But Curly was present, and Kit Horne—a most unenthusiastic and bright-eyed young woman, smiling when smiled to, talking when talked to, and for the most part watching Julian Hunter as if he were a monstrous curiosity who both repelled and fascinated.

The room roared with noise—the popping of corks, the banging of glasses, the shouting of people. The hilarity centered about Black, and was led by Mara Gay, who looked ethereally beautiful in her scanty gown. She was magnificently drunk—more drunk with admiration of Black, his success, his physique, his animal magnetism—than with liquor. The forty members of Grant’s troupe, amazed at the freedom with which wine and whisky flowed, made merry and drank, grateful for these favors. Drank until one would say the human stomach could hold no more. But except for heightened mahogany complexions and slightly slurred tongues, they showed few effects. Woody, prominent with his one arm, stood on his chair and bellowed: “Le’s give ’em
The Cowboy’s Lament,
boys!” And after that the night was rent with hoarse and raucous sounds that were intended to convey certain sad sentiments in song. Dan’l Boone, overcome by the tragedy of it all, sank to the floor and wept bitter tears. The newspapermen for the most part drank silently.

Ellery continued to wander about.

In the small hours the party broke up into small groups. Ellery saw Kit, very sober, rise with a queer little gesture of impatience, say something to Curly, and then make for the cloakroom. Curly meekly followed. Ellery did not see them again.

Black, freed from the compulsion of training, ignored the protests of his manager, a small fat perspiring man, and imbibed freely of excellent champagne. It was amazing how so little wine went so quickly to the head of the athlete. In ten minutes he was royally drunk. By this time he had ceased to be the lion of the evening, for the excellent reason that none of his admirers remembered any event older than a half-hour. Tommy Black’s manager, apparently despairing of keeping his champion sober, had tucked a small black bottle under his arm and retired to a corner to get quietly drunk by himself.

So Ellery went over to Black’s table and sat down. Mars was there, steadily drinking. All about them swirled the mad noise.

“Look who’s here,” growled Black, fixing Ellery with a wavering and ferocious glare. “Li’l policeman. Tell your ol’ man he better watch his gab, boy, better watch it. But Tommy Black don’t hold no hard feelings. Have drink, boy, have drink.”

Ellery smiled. “I’ve guzzled my quota, thanks. Well, how does it feel to be champion of the world?”

“Good!” roared Black enthusiastically. “Damn goo’, boy! Hey!” he bellowed. The bellow was drowned in the greater thunder of hilarity. “Aw hell, can’ talk here. C’mon over som’res, you, an’ I’ll tell you the story of m’life.”

“Delighted,” said Ellery amiably. He looked around. Hunter and Mara Gay had disappeared somewhere. He thought he knew where. “Let’s amble over to one of those alcoves, Tommy, and you can tell me all about the trials and vicissitudes of your rise to fame. Want to come, Mr. Mars?”

“I’ll come,” said Mars dully, Except for a certain hesitancy in his voice he might have been sober.

The three men made their way laboriously through the crowd to the left wall, where stood rows of booths intended for private parties. Ellery adroitly steered his companions toward a certain one. When they sat down he was sure he had been right. There were familiar voices from the next booth.

Black began: “Tell y’. M’ol’ man was a tinsmith in Pas’dena an’ m’ol’ lady—” And then, very abruptly, he stopped. His name had been mentioned in the adjoining cubicle. “Who in hell—?” he began to shout, and stopped again. This time his eyes narrowed and he sat very quietly, most of the liquorish color draining from his cheeks.

Mars sat up tensely. Ellery did not move a muscle; experimenting scientists must preserve their equanimity.

“Yes, and I’ll say it again, damn your soul!” came the low voice of Julian Hunter. “You and this Black gorilla. Making a laughing-stock of me. When I married you, you common chippie, I elevated you—d’ye understand? I’m not going to have you drag my name through the muck of the tabloids just because you get a hankering for gorilla meat—d’ye understand? Lyons hinted you were having an affair with Black; and, by God, I believe the filthy scoundrel!”

“It’s a lie,” shrieked Mara Gay. “Julian, I swear—I tell you I
didn’t!
He’s just been nice to me. …”

“I admire your conception of ‘nice,’” said Hunter coldly.

“Julian, don’t
look
at me that way! Why,
I
wouldn’t. … I wouldn’t
dream
—”

“You’re lying, Mara,” said Hunter without emotion. “You’re lying to me about Black, as you’ve lied to me for years about others. You’re nothing but a dirty, common—”

Black’s big fists doubled on the cloth before him, and his dark skin became stony with passion.

Ellery grew rigid; and yes, calculating, too. The even unhurried voice of Julian Hunter went on, cutting down the actress’s pleas, ignoring her mounting hysteria, excoriating and reviling her in words that burned in the hazy air. But it was what he said. …

“I’ve got more on you, Mara, than just being unfaithful to me with every brute who’s got hair on his chest,” said Hunter quietly. “A lot more. Oh, I’ll admit that exploitation of your weakness for men wouldn’t hurt you much; the publicity would probably help that fine, sensitive artist’s ‘career’ of yours—”

“Go to hell!” she screamed.

“—but there’s something else about you, my dear, that not even your reputation for cinema wickedness could outlive. If I should. …Well, suppose I went out into the middle of the floor this moment and announced to the reporters out there that Mara Gay, the Orchid of Hollywood, is nothing but a plain d—”

“For God’s sake,
stop!
” she screeched. And then Tommy Black, without so much as a muscular tightening of his body as warning of his intention, flashed out of his chair and sprang to the next booth.

Ellery and Mars scrambled to their feet and dashed after him, putting restraining hands on his taut arms. He shook them off without bothering even to look around; so savagely that Mars staggered backward and fell, hurting his head on the floor, and Ellery was flung, stunned, against a pillar.

In a haze he saw the prizefighter, crouched as in the ring, the cloth of his black evening coat stretched like mail across his wide back, grasp Hunter by the throat, yank him out of his chair, shake him as he would have shaken a child, and then set the man down softly. Mara Gay, white-faced, had her mouth open, paralyzed, unable even to scream. Hunter seemed dazed.

And then Black’s immense right fist swished up and struck Hunter on the point of the chin. Hunter fell to the floor without a sound.

Perhaps it was the spark which was required to set the tinder aflame. The next thing Ellery knew the
Club Mara
was a bellowing bedlam, a nightmare of whirling, staggering, fighting figures, of flying crockery and hurtling chairs.

In the confusion he managed to slip away, capture his coat from a frightened cloakroom girl, and gain the sweet fresh air.

His nose was wrinkled as if a bad odor lingered in his nostrils. And his eyes were very thoughtful.

“. …A
ND SCORED HIS SECOND
kayo of the evening, this time his distinguished opponent being the Great Kazoo himself, Julian Hunter. What fun! There were magnums of champagne. …”

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

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