Queens Full (7 page)

“About an eighth of an inch from the edge.”

“Yes. Oh, thanks.” Ellery took the test knife from Roger and gave it to Joan. “I want you to take two bites. First with your front teeth about an eighth of an inch from the edge, as in the other one.” He looked at her. “Go ahead, Joan.”

But Joan stood painfully still.

“The moment of truth, Joan?” Ellery said with a smile. “Then try the Method. You're a pirate and you're boarding the fat Spanish galleon with a knife in your teeth, like any self-respecting buccaneer.” He said sharply, “Do it.”

Joan breathed in, placed the haft to her mouth, and bit into it firmly. Ellery took it from her at once and examined the marks. “Good! Now I want you to take a second bite—well clear of the first, Joan, so the two don't overlap. This time, though, make it a full bite.”

When she returned the knife Ellery ran to the window. “May I have the other one, Chief?” He was already studying the test impressions through his lens. Newby, quite pale, brought the murder weapon, Odham at his heels.

Joan and Roger remained where they were, in a dreadful quiet.

“See for yourselves.”

The police chief peered, squinted, compared. He went back to his desk for a transparent ruler. He made a great many deliberate measurements. When he was through examining the upper surfaces of the hafts he turned the knives over and did it all again.

Finally he looked up. “I guess, Mr. Odham,” he said in a rather hollow voice, “you'd best check these yourself.”

The Prosecutor seized knives and lens. Afterward, there was a glint of anger in his eyes. “No impressions of any two adjoining teeth, either in the matching bite or the full set, are identical with the impressions on the murder knife. Same sort of marks, all right, but entirely different in detail—not as wide, not the same spacing—there can't be any doubt about it. You have a lot to thank Mr. Queen for, Miss Truslow. And so do we, Anse. I'll be talking to you later.”

Not until Odham was gone did Joan's defenses crumble. She sank into Roger's arms, sobbing.

Ellery turned to the window, waiting for Newby's explosion. To his surprise nothing happened, and he turned back. There was the slender little chief, slumped on his tail, feet on desk, looking human.

“I sure had it coming, Queen,” he said ruefully. “What gripes me most is having put all my eggs in one basket. Boom.”

Ellery grinned. “I've laid my quota of omelets. Do you know anyone in this business who hasn't?”

Newby got to his feet. “Well, now what? Between Benedict's putting the finger on this girl and your removing it, I'm worse off than when I started. Can you make any sense out of this, Queen?”

“To a certain point.”

“What point's that?”

Ellery tucked his lens away. “I know now who did the job on Benedict and why, if that's any help.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

“No, I mean it.”

“I wish I could appreciate the rib,” Newby sighed, “but somehow I'm not in the mood.”

“But it's not a rib, Chief. The only thing is, I haven't a particle of proof.” Ellery rubbed his nose as Newby gaped. “Though there
is
a notion stirring … and if it should work …”

ACT III. Scene 3.

The following morning's
Record
shouted:

LOCAL GIRL CLEARED IN KILLING!

The lead story was earmarked “Exclusive” and began:

Joan Truslow of the Wrightsville Playhouse company was proved innocent yesterday of the Foster Benedict murder by Ellery Queen, the
Record
learned last night from an unusually reliable source.

Miss Truslow, allegedly Chief Anselm Newby's main suspect in the Broadway star's sensational killing, was cleared by the New York detective in a dramatic session at police headquarters. A secret demonstration took place in the presence of Chief Newby and Prosecutor Loren Odham of Wright County. The exact nature of the test was not disclosed, but it is said to have involved the knife that slew Benedict.

Chief Newby would neither affirm nor deny the
Record
's information.

“I will say that Miss Truslow is not a suspect,” Newby told the
Record
. “However, we are not satisfied with some of her testimony. She will be questioned further soon.”

Asked whether he was referring to strong rumors around headquarters last night, Chief Newby admitted that Miss Truslow is believed to be withholding testimony vital to the solution of the murder.

By press time last night Miss Truslow had not been located by newsmen. She is said to be hiding out somewhere in town.

Prosecutor Odham could not be reached,
etc
.

The
Record
story's “Exclusive” tag was an understandable brag. Wire service and metropolitan newspaper reporters had invaded Wrightsville at the first flash of Foster Benedict's slaying, and the war for news raged through the town. The
Record
disclosure almost wrecked Scutney Bluefield's plans to take up his personal war with Wrightsville's Philistines where mere murder had broken it off.

Scutney had sent out a call for his entire company. They converged on the Playhouse the morning the
Record
story broke to find the forces of the press drawn up in battle array. In a moment the surrounded locals were under full-scale attack; and Scutney, purple from shouting, sent to police headquarters for reinforcements.

A wild fifteen minutes later Chief Newby laid down the terms of a truce.

“You people have one hour out here for interviews with Mr. Bluefield's company,” the chief snapped. “Nobody gets into the theater after that without a signed pass from me.”

As it turned out, the newsmen retired from the field in less than half their allotted time. One of their two chief objectives was not present: Ellery had slipped out of the Hollis early in the morning and disappeared. Their other target, Joan, who showed up at the Playhouse with Roger, had refused to parley. To every question fired at her about “the testimony vital to the solution” she was reported to be withholding, Joan looked more frightened and shook her head violently. “I have nothing to say, nothing,” she kept repeating. Nor would she reveal where she was staying. On being attacked in his turn, Roger became totally deaf. In the end, he had charged into the theater with her, and the press beat a disgusted retreat shortly after, to bivouac at various High Village bars.

Chief Newby stationed police at the stage entrance, fire exits, and in the lobby, and left for an undisclosed destination.

So it was with slightly hysterical laughter that the company greeted Scutney Bluefield's opening words: “Alone at last.”

They were assembled onstage under the working lights. Scutney had hopped up on a set chair.

“You'll all be happy to hear that we're going right ahead with
The Death of Don Juan
.” He raised his little paw for silence. “With due respect to the late Foster Benedict, he saw fit to make a farcical joke out of our production. We're going to do it
properly
.”

Someone called out, “But, Mr. Bluefield, we don't have a Don Juan.”

Scutney showed his teeth. “Ah, but we will have, and a good one, too. I shan't disclose his name because I haven't completed the business arrangements. He should be joining us the day after tomorrow.

“I spent most of yesterday making cuts and line changes and revising some of the business, especially in Act One, where I think we've been in danger of wrong audience reactions. Today and tomorrow we'll go over the changes, so we ought to be in good shape when our new Don Juan gets here. Meanwhile, as a favor to me, Mr. Manson has kindly consented to walk through the part for us. Does anyone need a pencil—?”

They plunged into the work with relief.

The day passed quickly. Sandwiches and coffee were brought in twice. There was only one interruption, when a tabloid photographer tried to get into the theater by stretching a ladder across the alley between a window in the next building and the Playhouse roof. But he was intercepted, and an extra policeman was assigned to the roof.

It was almost ten o'clock when Scutney called a halt.

The company began to disperse.

“Not you, Miss Truslow!”

Joan stopped in her tracks. It was Chief Newby.

“I haven't wanted to interfere with Mr. Bluefied's working day. But now, Miss Truslow, you and I are going to have a real old-fashioned heart-to-heart talk. Whether it takes five minutes or all night is up to you. I think you know what I'm talking about.”

Joan groped for one of the set chairs. “I have nothing to tell you! Why won't you let me alone?”

“She's out on her feet, Chief,” Roger protested. “Can't this wait?”

“Not any more,” Newby said quietly. “You stay where you are, Miss Truslow, while I get rid of those newspapermen outside. I don't want the papers in on this just yet. I'll come back for you when the street's clear.”

The theater emptied. Lights began winking out. One harsh spotlight remained onstage. Joan cowered in its glare.

“Roger, what am I going to do? I don't know what to do.”

“You know what to do, Joanie,” Roger said gently.

“He won't let go of me till …”

“Till what? Till you tell him what you're hiding?” Roger pushed a curl of damp blond hair back from her forehead. “I know you've been hiding something, darling. I've known it longer than Newby. What is it? Can't you tell even me?”

Joan's hands quivered in her lap.

“He's bound to get it out of you tonight.”

“Rodge—I'm afraid.”

“That's why I want you to share it with me, baby. Look, Joan, I love you. What good would I be if I didn't share your troubles?”

“Rodge …”

“Tell me.”

She swallowed twice, hard, looking around nervously. The deep silence of the theater seemed to reassure her.

“All right. All right, Rodge … The other night—during the intermission—when I was in my dressing room feeling so hurt by Foster's not remembering me …”

“Yes?”

“I decided to go down to his dressing room and—and … Oh, Rodge, I don't know why I wanted to! Maybe to tell him what I thought of him …”

“Hurry it up,” Roger urged her. “The reason doesn't matter! What happened?”

“I was about to step onto the ladder from the landing when I heard Foster's dressing-room door open below, and …
I saw him
.”

“The murderer?” Roger cried.

Joan nodded, shuddering. “I saw him sneak out … and away.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“Yes.”

“But my God, Joan, why didn't you tell Newby?”

“Because he'd accuse me of making it up. At that time the chief was sure I'd done it.”

“But now he knows you didn't!”

“Now I'm just plain scared, Roger.”

“That Benedict's killer will come after you? He's not getting the chance!” Roger cupped her chin fiercely. “You're ending this nightmare right now, young lady. Let me get out of these work clothes, and then you're going outside to tell Newby who murdered Benedict—and the more reporters hear it the better. Don't move from here, Joanie. I'm only going as far as the prop room—I'll be right back!”

The darkness swallowed him. His rapid footsteps died away.

Joan found herself alone on the stage.

She was perched stiff-backed on the edge of the big Spanish chair at the base of the light cone formed by the spot. There was no other light anywhere. The dark surrounded and held her fast, like walls.

The dark and the silence. The silence that had reassured her before now made her uneasy.

Joan began to move her head. They were small, jerky movements. She kept probing here and there with furtive glances, over her shoulder, toward the invisible wings, out into the blackness crouching beyond the dead footlights.

“Rodge?” she called.

The quaver of her own voice only brought the silence closer.

“
Roger?
”

Joan curled up in the chair suddenly, shut her eyes tight.

And as if drawn to the place of her imprisonment by her fear, a bulky blob of something detached itself from the murky upstage formlessness and crept toward the light.

It began to take stealthy shape.

The shape of a man.

Of a man with something gripped at chest level.

A knife.

“
Now!
” Ellery's roar dropped from the catwalk far over the stage like a bomb.

Quick as Chief Newby and his men were, Roger was quicker. He hurtled out of the wings and launched himself at the man with the knife like a swimmer at the start of a race. He hit the man at the knees and the man went over with a crash that rattled the stage. The knife went skittering off somewhere. The man kicked out viciously, and Roger fell on him and there was a sickening
crack!
and the man screamed, once. Then he was still.

As soon as he could, Chief Newby hurried to the set chair. “That was as good an act as Broadway ever saw! And it took real guts, Miss Truslow.” He bent over the chair, puzzled. “Miss Truslow?”

But Miss Truslow was no longer acting. Miss Truslow had peacefully passed out.

ACT III. Scene 4.

One of the waitresses in the Hollis private dining room was clearing the table as the other poured their coffee.

“I hope you didn't mind my choice of menu, Joan,” Ellery was saying.

Under the cloth her fingers were interwoven with Roger's. “How could I mind such a lovely steak?”

“I was commemorating the steak knife he lifted from the Hollis in your honor.”

“In case I forgot?” Joan laughed. “That was the longest dream of my life, Ellery. But I'm awake now, and that's even lovelier.”

“Queen, where's the dessert you promised?” Chief Newby asked. “I've got a lot to do at headquarters.”