by Ellery Queen
“What did Rogers say when you questioned him?”
“He was gone before I learned about it. I—I’m afraid I was out of things for a day or two.”
“You mean unconscious?” Ruth gasped.
“Well—under sedation,” Simon said reluctantly. “I hadn’t been sleeping well and—”
“What does your doctor say?” Adam demanded. “I mean your own doctor, not that collar-ad quack.”
Simon bristled a bit. “Dr. Jordan is my doctor. I’ve never needed one before.”
“Obviously you need one now,” I said. “The best you can find.”
“Dr. Jordan’s a specialist in my type of gastric problem. He has his own sanitarium in the east.”
“But if you’ve always been in perfect health—” Edna Norton began.
Simon shrugged. “I’m not getting any younger. It’s only natural that my wicked ways should begin to catch up with me.”
“Oh, nonsense, you—”
Simon spoke with a quiet but definite firmness. “Please. I appreciate your concern—very much. But for the first time in my life I have someone of my own to worry about me. It’s a good feeling. Rick’s the only family I’ve got left now, and I don’t want to do anything that might offend—” He winced. “Oh, let’s get off this deadly subject. Mix your drinks and we’ll have some fun.”
We tried our best, but it wasn’t the jolliest of evenings. Simon tired early. We didn’t want to leave him alone, so we lingered until we heard the Bentley pull in. We missed seeing Rick and his whatever. They must have slipped in the back door as we went out the front.
The next day I got a temporary job driving a rig, filling in for a guy on vacation. That kept me out of town for a couple of weeks, but my first day back I gave Simon a ring. Rick answered.
“This is Rod Wilson,” I said.
“Who?”
“One of the regulars at the monthly parties.”
“Oh—yes.”
“Can I speak to Simon, please?”
“No. He’s resting.”
“How is he?”
“Much better. He’ll be glad to hear you called.”
“But when—”
Too late, Rick had already hung up. So I sat down and wrote Simon a chatty letter, mentioning the play I was trying to write in my off hours on the road. The temporary job was developing into a permanent one, I told him, but I’d be home again for our end-of-the-month shindig.
I was wrong. They kept me hustling cross-country for a whole four weeks this time. I was so beat when I got back that I quit. The money was good but what’s the point, I reasoned, if it left me with no time or energy for my work? I decided to gamble on myself, for the umpteenth time, and live off my savings till they ran out.
When I dragged myself home from the truck terminal, I found a big depressing stack of mail. Probably all bills. I shuddered, flopped on the couch with a beer, and began browsing through the mountain of newspapers I’d forgotten to cancel. (I can never bear to throw out an unread paper. It’s a quirk of mine. I always fear I might be missing that one wonderful little fact I could use in a play sometime.)
Three beers later I’d caught up to two Sundays ago. For a newspaper addict like me, even the Real Estate section is worth at least a quick glance. I love to drool over all the “luxurious alternatives to my present lifestyle.” Hah!
Suddenly my boots hit the floor. My eye was riveted on a picture with the heading:
Former Navarro Estate Offered
It was Simon’s place all right. The ad was placed by a real-estate agency and the photo said the asking price was $500,000. No mention of Simon.
What the devil had happened? I grabbed the phone and called Simon. But before it started to ring, the operator cut in with that “disconnected service” jazz. My mind was in a turmoil. All my vague uneasiness of the past couple of months suddenly hardened into chilling suspicion.
If I phoned the real-estate agency, maybe they could tell me where Simon was. Not so easy. The girl at Maisons et Jardins, Inc. was a haughty one.
“Our Mr. Parkinson who handles that listing won’t return from his luncheon for half an hour. And in any case we don’t give out our clients’ addresses over the telephone.”
Half an hour. Just the time it would take me to drive to their Brentwood office. I hopped in the old love bug and headed north.
Not until I pulled up in front of a small-scale French chateau did it occur to me that I should have changed from my dirty work clothes. When I approached his Louis Quatorze desk, our Mr. Parkinson flared his nostrils. I guess he didn’t like my Eau de Budweiser cologne.
I thrust out the newspaper. “I want to ask you about this.”
Which was nastier, the five-second pause or the supercilious little simper?
“You were thinking of the Navarro property for yourself?”
“Oh, no,” I said grandly, “I’m quite happy in the old Tyrone Power house.”
(That’s a bit of Hollywood snobbery: once a movie star has lived somewhere, even for a three-month sublet, it’s forever after called the “so-and-so house.” Believe it or not, I even know people who live in the “Eve Arden apartment.”)
“I’m a friend of the owner,” I went on, “and I—”
“You?” The old eyebrows climbed a few rungs. “A friend of Rick Atherton’s?”
Rick. So it wasn’t my lurid imagination.
“The owner,” I snapped. “Simon Atherton.”
“For the purposes of the sale young Atherton is the owner,” sniffed Parkinson. “He’s acting on his uncle’s power-of-attorney.”
Oh, poor Simon. What the hell was going on?
“They’re not still living in the house?”
“Mercy, no. All the furnishings have been removed for sale at auction next week.”
“Then where—”
“I’m afraid that’s all I’m going to tell you.” Mr. Parkinson’s beady eyes were clamped on a particularly large grease stain on my T-shirt.
“Not quite,” I said. “I want their address.”
“Out of the question.” An airy little laugh. “Unless of course you wish to enter purchase negotiations? We’d need a small deposit. Shall we say, $25,000? In cash.”
I told him what he could do with the $25,000 and I stormed out.
My first impulse was to rush to the police. But with what? No evidence, just a horrible suspicion. A man has a right to get sick, they’d tell me, and to sell his house, and to give power-of-attorney to his nephew. No, I would need some definite proof, or maybe another person to back me up.
The group! But how to find any of them? I didn’t know the name of Edna’s parents. Ruth had mentioned once that she had an unlisted number. And Adam probably couldn’t afford a phone. Wait a minute. Adam! His shop aboard the Queen Mary!
Like most locals who ignore their own tourist attractions, I’d never visited the beached whale. She loomed majestically over a phony English “village” of shops in the parking area. And two full decks of Her Majesty had been converted to more shops.
When I finally popped in Adam’s door, I don’t know who was more surprised—me to find Edna and Bill with him, or the three of them to see me. The Nortons, I discovered, were shooting a film about past and present transportation versus the energy crisis, and naturally the Queen Mary symbolized the past. Poor Adam’s cluttered cubicle was bursting with all their camera gear and our four bodies. It was like that classic Marx Brothers scene in the ship cabin.
I cut the chitchat by whipping out the newspaper story. They were equally shocked. Their letters to Simon had also been ignored, and their phone calls got the same brushoff from Rick. But since they hadn’t tried in a couple of weeks, the disconnected service was news to them.
“Show Rod the picture!” Adam said.
They handed me an 8 by 10 glossy. It was an enlargement, Bill explained, of a single movie frame—a traffic scene, cars waiting for the light to change, a Chevy, a Toyota—and a Bentley. Even blur
red, you could make out SIMON on the license plate and identify Rick and Dr. Jordan in the car.
I was confused. “What—how—?”
“We were shooting some random traffic scenes last weekend from a high rooftop,” Bill continued. “We used one of those super-zoom lenses which swoops you in real close, and it wasn’t till we ran the film last night that we spotted this.”
“We hoped it meant that Simon’s better,” Edna said doubtfully. “They look so happy.”
“There could be another explanation for that,” I said grimly.
“You really think—”
“Look. Rick’s ‘career’ is a disaster, isn’t it? But there’s that fat inheritance! Very conveniently his doctor buddy appears on the scene to start administering drugs—to a man in perfect health. They dump good old Rogers, they isolate Simon, they force the power-of-attorney out of him—”
“But why wouldn’t they just—just kill him right away?” Edna stammered.
“Rick would, but Jordan is smarter. They bide their time. They sell the house and furniture for their first installment while they figure out the safest way to haul in the big prize.”
“Then they’re holding Simon somewhere like a prisoner?” asked Bill.
I nodded. “My first thought was Jordan’s sanitarium. But this picture would indicate they’re incognito out here instead.”
“In a small town nearby,” Adam breathed eerily. “A grieving boy and his fatally ill uncle—nobody knows them—and then one day the poor man dies quietly—and nobody will question what Jordan writes on the death certificate.”
Edna almost screamed, “Lordy, we’ve got to take this picture to the police right away!”
I shook my head. “It’s not enough. It only proves that they’re still around. And no one has questioned that.”
“But—”
“Let’s be honest,” I argued. “Aren’t we a fairly crumby-looking crew to go barging in yelling murder just because our millionaire Daddy Warbucks got bored with us?”
“That’s utterly ridiculous!” Adam said. “You know very well Simon would contact us if they’d let him!”
“I’m only telling you what the cops would say. We must have something more concrete.”
Adam turned to his bookshelves. “I wonder if Ruth has had a line on Rick lately?” He pulled out a ratty volume. “She’s never mentioned the name of that man she works for, but maybe if we phoned around—” He handed it to me. “Here’s a directory of all the major studios and agents.”
“Oh, dandy,” I groaned. “1952 Edition!”
Adam was still miffed at me. “They can’t all be dead and gone,” he said testily. “Do your thing, Ameche.”
Two hours later my dialing finger was numb, my head was aching, and my throat was parched. Nobody seemed to know “a very fat girl” (sorry, Ruth) “with lovely brown eyes” (you’re welcome, Ruth). Edna and Bill were back from some shooting and Adam was cooing over some lonely old nut who wanted a picture of Nita Naldi. It was nearly five and I’d just about given up hope. Then it happened.
“You mean that real big dame who works for Sam Cutler?” said the voice. “In Century City. Here’s the number—”
Before calling Cutler’s office, I had a good thought.
“I feel like company tonight,” I announced. “Why don’t we all buy some steaks and go back to my pad?”
They were delighted. They didn’t want to be alone with their thoughts either. So I started dialing.
“I warn you, my digs are a far cry from Simon’s, but—hello, Ruth?”
She was happily surprised. I sketched in the bare bones of the crisis, but suggested we’d all hash it out over dinner at my place if she was free. She told me not to buy the dessert, she’d pick up a chocolate torte.
I had a last notion. “Ruth, did you throw out Rick’s composite?. . .Still on the bulletin board? Well, bring it along. We just might have to show it to the cops. . .Okay, about seven. The gray bungalow on the corner of Oakwood, and watch out for the broken front step.”
My usual method of tidying up consists of piling all the miscellaneous debris from every chair onto one chair. But with my guests being so unexpected, naturally I hadn’t done it. There were newspapers all over the joint, beer cans, laundry on the dining-room table—
Adam stared with glazed eyes.
“Gracious, we’re not exactly Craig’s Wife, are we?”
“Don’t flaunt your ignorance,” I chided him. “This is the old Three Stooges’ house.”
Edna steered me into the bedroom. “Stay there for twenty minutes, you slob. When you come back, you won’t recognize this room.”
They scurried around like three of the Seven Dwarfs while I made like Snow White. I emerged in a clean sports shirt and chinos to find the dump looking almost presentable.
Edna pointed apologetically. “I hope you don’t mind. I moved all the stuff from all the chairs onto one chair.”
I grinned. “Why don’t you get rid of Bill and marry me?”
She’d doused the lights and had flattering candles glowing around the room. Judging by the savory aromas wafting in from the kitchen, Adam was in superb command out there, and Bill was making himself useful over the drinks. We had ourselves a very good atmosphere.
From the front steps came a horrendous thud.
“Ah, here’s Ruth now!” I said.
All that was missing was one of us, a very dear one of us. We choked a little when we raised our glasses and Bill said softly, “Here’s to Simon.”
Ruth had been just as worried as we were, and feeling just as helpless. No, Rick hadn’t been around the office for weeks. We looked at the composite and while it had sounded funny before, now it made us kind of sick. Adam flipped it over to read the personal note Rick had scribbled on the back: “Height 6′2″, weight 190, hair blond, eyes blue—the same shade as Paul Newman’s. Experience: H.S. Senior Class Play, They Knew What They Wanted.” Adam looked grim. “Don’t they though!” Then he snorted. “And did you ever see such moronic handwriting? Pigeon tracks!”
Edna’s eyes widened.
“That’s odd—I said the same thing myself a half hour ago!”
Ruth was puzzled. “But you’re just seeing this now for the first time.”
“It was the same handwriting! I’m sure it was. On a letter for you, Rod—in that mess on the chair.”
“For me—from Rick?” I yelped. In a minute I undid all of Edna’s work. Bills, junk mail, bills—there it was! Sure enough, the same immature, almost illegible scrawl. No return address. Postmarked the fifteenth, two weeks ago Saturday, the day before the newspaper story appeared.
I ripped it open as we huddled around the table. There were three pages inside, on one a note from Rick, and on the others—hallelujah!—two pages in Simon’s hand. Rick’s note was brief:
“Dear Mr. Wilson:
Tell your freinds [sic] not to worry if you don’t hear from Simon for a while. Dr. Jordan says he can give him better treetment [sic] back east, so we’re all leaving tomorrow. Simon is very cheerful and he’s been keeping busy writing you.
Yours truly,
Rick Atherton”
“He was lying!” Edna cried. “‘Back east’! That was just to throw us off the track!”
But Simon’s letter provided a surprise:
“Dear All:
How I wish we could have another one of our good evenings together soon! But I agree completely with Rick and Dr. Jordan about the care I need, so I’ll do what they advise. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine!
I hope these game questions I’m enclosing will amuse you. It’s been fun composing them. Have yourselves a party and see if you can get all 22 answers!
My fond regards until???
Simon”
And there was more:
“P.S. to Rod:
I still cherish the delight on your face when you won the Oscar. Remember how? Maybe next time we should make it tougher for you by using first names only
!
S.”
We stared at each other, fighting a sense of anticlimax. Simon was okay after all. We’d let our imaginations run berserk.
“Wouldn’t we have felt like idiots,” Edna said, “if we had rushed to the police and then found this!”
But Ruth wasn’t completely sold. “Rick says they’re taking Simon back east”—she picked up the enlargement—“but they’re here.”
“Simple enough,” reasoned Bill. “They flew him to the sanitarium the next day, left him in good hands, and then flew back to L.A. to be around for the sale of the house and the furniture.”
“That’s another thing though—why would Simon be selling his beautiful home?”
Adam said gently, “He may know he’s much more seriously ill than he wants to tell us.”
That sobered everybody.
Then Bill said, “You know our trouble? We dislike that kid so much we wanted to think the worst.”
I was rereading Simon’s letter. His P.S. touched me. Imagine his remembering my screwy little triumph of two years ago—typical Simon thoughtfulness. On an impulse I grabbed Oscar from the mantel and centerpieced him between two candles on the dinner table. Then I held up the third page for everybody to see. It was Simon’s list of twenty-one Movie Trivia questions.
“What do you say? Shall we play Simon’s game now?”
Adam was aghast. “Over the cook’s dead body. My potatoes are done and I just need to turn the steaks once more. We’ll eat first, and then play The Game over coffee.”
“And dessert,” Ruth added.
So it was that half an hour later we filled our coffee mugs and sliced the luscious chocolate torte.
We decided that I should read the questions aloud and we’d each write our own answers. But after the first five or six we paused in dismay. Had Simon lost his marbles? The questions were far too easy for us hard-core fanatics. From him we’d expected sticklers about the likes of Luis Alberni, Nat Pendleton, Halliwell Hobbes. But these—!
