The Four of Hearts (10 page)

‘What's he got to say for himself?'

‘He says he was stopped near the hangar – he's a page, or steward, or something, at the municipal field – by a tall thin man bundled up in flying clothes, wearing goggles.' The Inspector's tone was amiable, but he kept glancing from Bonnie to Ty and back again. ‘This man held up a piece of paper with typewriting on it in front of the kid's nose. The paper said for him to tell Miss Stuart Mr. Royle wanted her in the hangar.'

‘The come-on,' muttered Ty. ‘That was the plot, all right. What a clumsy trick!'

‘Which worked nevertheless,' remarked Ellery. ‘You're positive the boy's on the level, Inspector?'

‘The airport people give him a clean bill.'

‘How about the typewritten note?'

‘The kid never got his hands on it. It was just shown to him. Then the disguised pilot faded into the crowd, the kid says, taking the paper with him.'

Bonnie rose, looking incensed. ‘Then how can you believe one of us had a hand in those horrible crimes?'

‘I'm not saying you had,' smiled Glücke. ‘I'm saying you could have had.'

‘But if we were held up and tied!'

‘Suppose one of you hired that tall fellow to fake the hold-up – to make you look innocent?'

‘Oh, my God,' said Butch, throwing up his hands.

‘You're a fool,' said Ty curtly. He sat down on the settee and cupped his face in his hands.

Inspector Glücke smiled again and, going to his coat, fished in one of the pockets. He came back to the fire with a large manila envelope and slowly unwound the waxed red string.

‘What's that?' demanded Ellery.

Glücke's big hand dipped into the envelope and came out with something round, thin, and blue. He held it up.

‘Ever see one of these before?' he asked of no one in particular.

They crowded about him, Dr. Junius nosing with the rest. It was a blue chip, incised with a golden horseshoe.

‘The Horseshoe Club,' exclaimed Bonnie and Ty together. In their eagerness they bumped against each other. For a moment they were pressed together; then they drew apart.

‘Comes from Jack Royle's pocket,' said the Inspector. ‘It's not important.' Nevertheless, Ellery noted the careful manner in which he handled it, holding it between thumb and forefinger on the thin edge of the disc, as if he were afraid of smudging a possible fingerprint.

He dropped the plaque back into the envelope and pulled out something else – a sheaf of ragged pieces of paper held together by a paper-clip.

‘This clip is mine,' he explained. ‘I found these torn scraps in Royle's pocket, too.'

Ellery seized them. Separating the scraps, he spread them on the settee. It took only a few minutes to assemble the pieces. Reassembled, they constituted five small rectangles of linen memorandum paper, with the words: T
HE
H
ORSESHOE
C
LUB
, engraved in blue over a tiny golden horseshoe at the top of each sheet.

Each sheet bore a date; the dates covered roughly a period of a month, the last date being the second of the current month. In the same-coloured ink, boldly scrawled, were the letters I O U, a figure preceded by a dollar-sign, and the signature
John Royle.
Each I O U noted a different sum. With a frown Ellery totalled them. They came to exactly $110,000.00.

‘Know anything about these things?' asked the Inspector.

Ty studied them incredulously. He seemed baffled by the signature.

‘What's the matter?' asked Ellery quickly. ‘Isn't that your father's signature?'

‘That's just the trouble,' murmured Ty. ‘It is.'

‘All five?'

‘Yes.'

‘What d'ye mean trouble?' demanded Glücke. ‘Didn't you know about these debts?'

‘No. At least I didn't know dad had got in so deep with Alessandro. A hundred and ten thousand dollars!' He plunged his hands into his pockets and began to walk up and down. ‘He was always a reckless gambler, but this –'

‘You mean to say he was that broke and his own son didn't know it?'

‘We rarely discussed money matters. I led my life and –' he sat slowly down on the settee, ‘he led his.'

He fell into a deep inspection of the fire. Glücke gathered the scraps together, clipped them, and in silence stowed them away in the manila envelope.

Someone coughed. Ellery turned round. It was Dr. Junius. He had quite forgotten Dr. Junius.

Dr. Junius said nervously: ‘The rain's stopped, I think. You ought to be able to fly out safely now.'

‘Oh, it's you again, Doctor,' said the Inspector. ‘You
are
in a fret to get rid of us, aren't you?'

‘No, no,' said the doctor hastily. ‘I was just thinking of Miss Stuart. She must have a night's rest.'

‘And that reminds me.' Glücke looked at the staircase. ‘While I'm here I think I'll have a talk with the old man.'

‘Dr. Junius doesn't think that would be wise,' said Ellery dryly. ‘Are you impervious to buckshot? Tolland Stuart keeps a shotgun by his bed.'

‘Oh, he does, does he?' said Glücke. And he strode towards the staircase.

‘Be careful, Inspector!' cried Junius, running after him. ‘He doesn't even know his daughter's dead.'

‘Go on,' said Glücke grimly. ‘That shy kind have a cute habit of listening at keyholes and at the top of stairs.'

He strode on. Ellery, remembering the face of the old man in the downpour outside the house, silently applauded Glücke's shrewdness. That livid old man had known the facts of death; there was no question about that.

He followed the two men up the stairs.

The lights of the downstairs chamber faded as they ascended, and by the time they reached the landing upstairs they were in iced and murky darkness.

Glücke stumbled on the top step. ‘Aren't there any lights in this blasted morgue?' Dr. Junius brushed hurriedly and sure-footedly by.

‘Just a moment,' he whined. ‘The switch is –'

‘Wait,' said the Inspector. Ellery waited. But, strain as he might, Ellery heard nothing but the hiss of the fire downstairs and the murmur of Butcher's voice soothing Bonnie.

‘What's the matter?'

‘Thought I heard someone scramble away. But I guess I was wrong. This place could drive a man nuts.'

‘I don't think you were wrong,' said Ellery. ‘Our aged friend has probably been ensconced up here for some time, eavesdropping, as you suggested.'

‘Switch those lights on, Junius,' growled Glücke, ‘and let's have a look at the old turkey.'

The magic of sudden light after darkness materialized a wide draughty hall, thickly carpeted and hung with what seemed to Ellery a veritable gallery of old masters – lovely pictures with the rich brown patina of the Dutch period and uniformly framed in a dust no less rich and brown. There were many doors, and all were closed, and of Tolland Stuart no sign.

‘Mr. Stuart!' cried Junius. There was no answer. He turned to the Inspector piteously. ‘There you are, Inspector. Can't you come back tomorrow? He's probably in an awful state.'

‘I can, but I won't,' said the Inspector. ‘Which one is his cave?'

The doctor made a despairing gesture and, crying out: ‘He'll probably shoot us all!' led the way to a double door at the farthest point in the corridor. Trembling, he knocked.

An old man's voice quavered: ‘Keep out!' and Ellery heard scuttling sounds, as if the possessor of the voice had scrambled away from the other side of the door.

Dr. Junius yelped and fled.

Glücke chuckled: ‘The old guy must have something at that. Chicken-hearted mummy!' And he thundered: ‘Come on, open up there, Mr. Stuart!'

‘Who is it?'

‘The police.'

‘Go away. Get off my grounds. I'll have no truck with police!' The quaver was a scream now, with a curious lisping quality to the syllables which could only be effected by a toothless mouth.

‘Do you know, Mr. Stuart,' shouted the Inspector sternly, ‘that your daughter Blythe has been murdered?'

‘I heard ‘em. I heard you! Get out, I say!'

Bonnie came running up the hall towards them, crying: ‘Grandfather!'

Dr. Junius sidled after, pleading: ‘Please, Miss Stuart. Not now. He isn't – pleasant. He'll upset you.'

‘Grandfather,' sobbed Bonnie, pounding on the door. ‘Let me in. It's Bonnie. Mother – she's dead. She's been killed, I tell you. There's only us now. Please!'

‘Mr. Stuart, sir,' whined Dr. Junius, ‘it's your granddaughter, Bonnie Stuart. She needs you, sir. Won't you open the door, talk to her, comfort her?'

There was no reply.

‘Mr. Stuart, sir. This is Dr. Junius. Please!'

Then the cracked, lisping voice came. ‘Go away, all of you. No police. Bonnie, not – not now. There's death among you. Death! Death …' And the shriek was choked off on its ascending note, and they distinctly heard the thud of a body.

Bonnie bit her fingers, staring at the panels. Butcher came running up, Glücke said gently: ‘Stand aside, Miss Stuart. We'll have to break the door in. Get out of the way, Junius.'

And Ty came up, too, and watched them from narrowed eyes as he stood quietly at the other end of the hall.

The Inspector hurled himself at the juncture of the two doors. Something snapped inside; the doors flew open. For a moment he stood still, breathing hard. The moment seemed interminable, with the infinitude of some arrested moments.

The room was vast and gloomy and filled with solid pieces like the great chamber downstairs; and the four-poster English bed of hand-carved antique oak, with its red fustian tester, was dishevelled; and, surely enough, there stood a heavy shotgun by its side, handy to a reaching arm. And on the floor, before them, lay the crumpled body of the old man Ellery had glimpsed outdoors, clad in flannel pyjamas and a woollen robe, thick socks, and carpet slippers over his bony feet. The only light came from a brown mica lamp near the bed; the fireplace was dark.

Dr. Junius hurried forward to drop on his knees beside the motionless figure.

‘He's fainted. Fear – venom – temper; I don't know what. But his pulse is good; nothing to worry about. Please go now. It's useless to try to talk to him tonight.'

He got to his feet, and stooped, and with a surprising strength for a man of his sparse physique and evident years, lifted the old man's body and bore him in his arms to the bed.

‘He's probably shamming,' said Inspector Glücke disgustedly. ‘Crusty old termite! Come on, folks, we'll be riding the air back to Los Angeles.'

CHAPTER 8

TWO FOR NOTHING

‘Where to?' asked the pilot.

‘Municipal airport, L.A.'

The plane was not large, and they sat about in a cramped silence while the pilot nosed his ship sharply northwestwards. He sought altitude; and soon they were flying high above a black valley, splitting the breeze to a hair-line above and between the San Bernardino and San Jacinto ranges.

‘What's happened to my plane?' asked Ty, his face against a drizzle-misted window.

‘It's probably in Los Angeles by this time,' replied the Inspector. He paused. ‘Of course, we couldn't leave them – it – there.'

Bonnie stirred on Butcher's motionless shoulder. ‘I was in a morgue once. It was a movie set. But even in make-believe … It was cold. Mother didn't like –' She closed her eyes. ‘Give me a cigarette, Butch.'

He lit one for her and stuck it between her lips.

‘Thanks.' She opened her eyes. ‘I suppose you all think I've been acting like such a baby. But it's just that it's been … a shock. It's even worse, now that I can think again.… Mother gone. It just isn't possible.'

Without turning, Ty said harshly: ‘We all know how you feel.'

‘Oh! Sorry.'

Ellery stared out at the stormy dark. A cluster of lights far below and ahead began to mushroom, resembling loose diamonds strewn on a black velvet cushion.

‘Riverside,' said the Inspector. ‘We'll pass over it soon and after that it's not far to the airport.'

They watched the cluster glow and grow and shrink and fade and disappear.

Ty suddenly got up. He blundered blindly up the aisle. Then he came back. ‘Why?' he said.

‘Why what?' asked the Inspector, surprised.

‘Why was dad knocked off? Why were they both knocked off?'

‘If we knew that, son, it wouldn't be much of a case. Sit down.'

‘It doesn't make sense. Were they robbed? He had a thousand dollars in cash on him. I gave it to him only this morning as a sort of – sort of wedding gift. Or – Bonnie! Was your mother carrying much money?'

‘Don't talk to me,' said Bonnie.

‘It's not that,' said Glücke. ‘Their personal belongings weren't touched.'

‘Then why?' cried Ty. ‘Why? Is he a lunatic?'

‘Sit down, Ty,' said the Boy Wonder wearily.

‘Wait!' His bloodshot eyes narrowed. ‘Could it have been an accident? I mean, could it have been that only one of them was meant to be killed, that the other one was a victim of some –'

‘Since you're discussing it,' drawled Ellery, ‘suppose you discuss it systematically.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I think motive is the keystone of this case.'

‘Yeah?' said the Inspector. ‘Why?'

‘Simply because there doesn't seem to be any.'

Glücke looked annoyed. Ty suddenly sat down and lit a cigarette. His eyes did not leave Ellery's face. ‘Go on. You've got an idea about this thing.'

‘He's a crazy galoot,' growled Glücke, ‘but I admit he's got something besides sand in his skull.'

‘Well, look.' Ellery put his elbows on his knees. ‘Let's begin in the proper place. Among the things I've observed in the past few weeks, Ty, is that your father never drank anything but Sidecars. Is that right?'

‘Brandy, too. He liked brandy.'

‘Well, of course. A Sidecar is nothing but brandy with Cointreau and a little lemon juice added. And as for your mother, Bonnie, she seemed exclusively fond of dry Martinis.'

‘Yes.'

‘I seem to recall, in fact, that she recently made some disparaging remark about Sidecars, which would indicate she disliked them. Is that true?'

‘She detested them.'

‘And dad couldn't stand Martinis, either,' growled Ty. ‘So what?'

‘So this. Someone – obviously the murderer; it could scarcely have been coincidence; the exact means of murder wouldn't have been left to chance – someone sends Blythe and Jack a going-away hamper and lo! inside are two thermos bottles and lo! in one of them is a quart of Sidecars and in the other an equal quantity of Martinis.'

‘If you mean,' said Butch with a frown, ‘that in sending those bottles the murderer betrayed an intimate knowledge of Blythe's and Jack's liquor preferences, Ellery, I'm afraid you won't get far. Everybody in Hollywood knew that Blythe liked Martinis and Jack Sidecars.'

Inspector Glücke looked pleased.

But Ellery smiled. ‘I didn't mean that. I'm attacking Ty's accident theory, improbable as it is, just to get it out of the way. It lends itself to logical disproof.

‘For if, as seems indisputable, the donor of that hamper knew that Blythe liked Martinis and Jack Sidecars, then the dosing of
each
bottle of heavenly dew with a lethal amount of morphine means that
each
drinker – Jack, the drinker of Sidecars, Blythe, the drinker of Martinis –
was intended to be poisoned.
Had only Blythe been marked for death, only the bottle of Martinis would have been poisoned. And similarly if Jack were to be the sole victim.' He sighed. ‘I'm afraid we're faced with no alternative. Neither your father, Ty, nor your mother, Bonnie, was intended ever to come out of that plane alive. It's the clearest case of a deliberate double killing.'

‘And where does all this folderol get you?' scowled Glücke.

‘I'm sure I don't know. One rarely does at this stage of the game.'

‘I thought,' put in the Boy Wonder shortly, ‘you began to talk about motive.'

‘Oh, that.' Ellery shrugged. ‘If the same motive applied to both of them, as seems likely, it's even more mystifying.'

‘But what could it be?' cried Bonnie. ‘Mother wouldn't have harmed a fly.'

Ellery did not reply. He looked out the window at the swirling darkness.

The Inspector said suddenly: ‘Miss Stuart, is your father alive?'

‘He died when I was an infant.'

‘Your mother never remarried?'

‘No.'

‘Any …' The Inspector hesitated. Then he said delicately: ‘Did she have any … romantic attachments?'

‘Mother?' Bonnie laughed. ‘Don't be absurd.' And she turned her face away.

‘How about your father, Royle? Your ma's dead, too, isn't she?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, from all I've heard,' said the Inspector, clearing his throat, ‘your dad was sort of a lady's man. Could there be some woman floating around who had – well, who thought she had good reason to get sore when Jack Royle announced he was going to marry Blythe Stuart?'

‘How should I know? I wasn't dad's nursemaid.'

‘Then there could be such a woman?'

‘There could,' snapped Ty, ‘but I don't think there is. Dad was no angel, but he knew women, he knew the world, and underneath he was a right guy. The few affairs I know about ended without a fuss. He never lied to his women, and they always knew exactly what they were letting themselves in for. You're a million miles wrong, Glücke. Besides, this job was pulled by a man.'

‘Hmm,' said the Inspector, and he slumped back. He did not seem immovably persuaded.

‘I suggest, said Ellery, ‘we eliminate. The usual attack in theorizing about motive is to ask who stands to gain by the murder. I believe we'll make faster progress if we ask who stands to lose.

‘Let's start with the principals. You, Ty, and you, Bonnie. Obviously, of everyone involved you two have sustained the greatest possible loss. You've lost your sole surviving parents, to whom you were plainly tremendously attached.'

Bonnie bit her lip, staring out of the window. Ty crushed the burning tip of his cigarette out in his fingers.

‘The studio?' Ellery shrugged. ‘Don't look so startled, Butch; logic knows no sentiment. The studio has suffered a large monetary loss: it has lost forever the services of two popular, money-making stars. To bring it closer home, your own unit suffers a direct and intimate loss: the big production we've been working on together will have to be abandoned.'

‘Wait a minute,' said Glücke. ‘How about a studio feud? Any contract trouble with another studio, Butcher? Know anybody who wouldn't mind seeing Magna's two big stars out of pictures?'

‘Oh, don't be a fool, Inspector,' snapped Butch ‘This is Hollywood, not medieval Italy.'

‘It didn't seem likely,' grunted Glücke.

‘To continue,' said Ellery, glancing at the Inspector with amusement. ‘The agency holding contracts for Jack's and Blythe's personal services – I believe it's Alan Clark's outfit – also loses.'

‘So that, in a sense, everyone connected with Jack and Blythe personally and professionally stands to lose a great deal.'

‘You're a help.'

‘But good lord, Ellery,' protested Butch, ‘it stands to reason somebody gains by this crime.'

‘From a monetary standpoint? Well, let's see. Did Jack or Blythe leave much of an estate?'

‘Mother left practically nothing,' said Bonnie lifelessly. ‘Even her jewels were paste. She lived up to every cent she earned.'

‘How about Jack, Ty?'

Ty's lips curled. ‘What do you think? You saw those IOUs.'

‘How about insurance?' asked the Inspector. ‘Or trust funds? You Hollywood actors are always salting it away in insurance companies.'

‘Mother,' said Bonnie tightly, ‘didn't believe in insurance or annuities. She didn't know the value of money at all. I was always making up shortages in her checking account.'

‘Dad took out a hundred-thousand-dollar policy once,' said Ty. ‘It was in force until the second premium came due. He said to hell with it – he had to go to the race-track that afternoon.'

‘But for Pete's sake,' exclaimed the Inspector, ‘there's got to be an angle somewhere. If it wasn't gain, then revenge. Something! I'm beginning to think this guy Park better be tagged right away, at that.'

‘Well,' said Ty coldly, ‘how about Alessandro and those IOUs?'

‘But they turned up in your father's possession,' said Ellery. ‘If he hadn't paid up, do you think Alessandro would have returned the IOUs?'

‘I don't know anything about that,' muttered Ty. ‘All I ask is: Where would dad get a hundred and ten thousand?'

‘You're absolutely sure,' said Glücke slowly, ‘he couldn't lay his hands on that much, huh?'

‘Of course not!'

The inspector rubbed his jaw. ‘Alessandro's real handle is Joe DiSangri, and he's been mixed up in a lot of monkey-business in New York. He used to be one of Al's hoods, too, ‘way back.' Then he shook his head. ‘But it doesn't smell like a gang kill. Poisoned drinks! If Joe DiSangri wanted to rub out a welsher, he'd use lead. It's in his blood.'

‘Times have changed,' snarled Ty. ‘That's a hell of a reason to lay off the skunk! Do I have to look him up myself?'

‘Oh, we'll check him.'

‘At any rate,' said Ellery, ‘did Joe DiSangri, alias Alessandro, also kill Bonnie's mother because your father welshed on a gambling debt?'

Bonnie said passionately: ‘I knew it would only lead to trouble. I knew it. Why did she have to do it?'

Ty coloured and turned aside. Glücke gnawed a finger-nail. And kept looking at Bonnie and Ty.

The pilot opened his door and said: ‘We're here.'

They looked down. The field was blackly alive, heaving with people.

Bonnie blanched and groped for Butch's hand. ‘It … it looks like a – like something big and dead and a lot of little black ants running all over it.'

‘Bonnie, you've been a trump so far. This won't last long. Don't spoil it. Keep your chin up.'

‘But I can't! All those millions of staring eyes –' She held on to his hand tightly.

‘Now, Miss Stuart, take it easy,' said the Inspector, getting to his feet. ‘You've got to face it. We're here.'

‘Are we?' said Ty bitterly. ‘I'd say we were nowhere. And that we'd got there damned fast.'

‘That's why I pointed out,' murmured Ellery, ‘that when we found out why Jack and Blythe were poisoned – when we got a clear line on the motive – we'd crack this case wide open.'