by Ellery Queen
Ellery saw Rosemary sign Steve Polaris’s receipt book and go back into the house. Steve slouched down the walk grinning¯Steve had the most wolfish eye, Pat said, in all of Low Village.
“Pat,” said Ellery urgently, “do you know this truckman well?”
“Steve? That’s the only way you can know Steve.”
Steve tossed his receipt book on the driver’s seat of his truck and began to climb in.
“Then distract him. Kiss him, vamp him, do a striptease¯anything, but get him out of sight of that truck for two minutes!”
Pat instantly called: “Oh, Ste-e-e-eve!” and tripped down the porch steps. Ellery followed in a saunter. No one was in sight anywhere on the Hill.
Pat was slipping her arm through Steve’s and giving him one of her quick little-girl smiles, saying something about her piano, and there wasn’t a man she knew strong enough to move it from where it was to where she wanted it, and, of course, when she saw Steve . . .
Steve went with Pat into the Wright house, visibly swollen.
Ellery was at the truck in two bounds. He snatched the receipt book from the front seat. Then he took a piece of charred paper from his wallet and began riffling the pages of the book . . .
When Pat reappeared with Steve, Mr. Queen was at Hermione’s zinnia bed surveying the dead and dying blossoms with the sadness of a poet. Steve gave him a scornful look and passed on.
“Now you’ll have to move the piano back,” said Pat. ”I am sorry¯I could have thought of something not quite so bulky . . . Bye, Stevie!” The truck rolled off with a flirt of its exhaust.
“I was wrong,” mumbled Ellery.
“About what?”
“About Rosemary.”
“Stop being cryptic! And why did you send me to lure Steve away from his truck? The two are connected, Mr. Queen!”
“I had a flash from on high. It said to me: ‘This woman Rosemary doesn’t seem cut from the same cloth as Jim Haight. They don’t seem like brother and sister at all¯’ “
“Ellery!”
“Oh, it was possible. But my flash was wrong. She is his sister.”
“And you proved that through Steve Polaris’s truck? Wonderful man!”
“Through his receipt book, in which this woman had just signed her name. I have the real Rosemary Haight’s signature, you’ll recall, my dear Watson.”
“On that charred flap of envelope we found in Jim’s study¯the remains of his sister’s letter that he’d burned!”
“Precisely, my dear Watson. And the signature ‘Rosemary Haight’ on the flap of the letter and the signature ‘Rosemary Haight’ in Steve’s receipt book are the work of the same hand.”
“Leaving us,” remarked Pat dryly, “exactly where we were.”
“No,” said Mr. Queen with a faint smile. ”Before we only believed this woman was Jim’s sister. Now we know it. Even your primitive mind can detect the distinction, my dear Watson?”
* * *
The longer Rosemary Haight stayed at Nora’s, the more inexplicable the woman became. Jim was busier and busier at the bank; sometimes he did not even come home to dinner. Yet Rosemary did not seem to mind her brother’s neglect half so much as her sister-in-law’s attentions. The female Haight tongue was forked; more than once its venom reduced Nora to tears . . . shed, it was reported to Mr. Queen by his favorite spy, in her own room, alone. Toward Pat and Hermione, Rosemary was less obvious. She rattled on about her “travels”¯Panama, Rio, Honolulu, Bali, Banff, surf riding and skiing and mountain climbing and “exciting” men¯much talk about exciting men¯until the ladies of the Wright family began to look harried and grim, and retaliated.
And yet Rosemary stayed on.
Why? Mr. Queen was pondering this poser as he sat one morning in the window seat of his workroom. Rosemary Haight had just come out of her brother’s house, a cigarette at a disgusted angle to her red lips, clad in jodhpurs and red Russian boots and a Lana Turner sweater. She stood on the porch for a moment, slapping a crop against her boots with impatience, at odds with Wrightsville. Then she strode off into the woods behind the Wright grounds.
Later, Pat took Ellery driving; and Ellery told her about seeing the Haight woman enter the woods in a riding habit.
Pat turned into the broad concrete of Route 16, driving slowly. ”Bored,” she said. ”Bored blue. She got Jake Bushmill the blacksmith to dig her up a saddle horse from somewhere¯yesterday was her first day out, and Carmel Pettigrew saw her tearing along the dirt road toward Twin Hill like¯I quote¯one of the Valkyries. Carmel¯silly dope!¯thinks Rosemary’s just too-too.”
“And you?” queried Mr. Queen.
“That panther laziness of hers is an act¯underneath, she’s the restless type and hard as teak. A cheap wench. Or don’t you think?” Pat glanced at him sidewise.
“She’s terribly attractive,” said Ellery evasively.
“So’s a man-eating orchid,” retorted Pat; and she drove in silence for eight tenths of a mile. Then she said: “What do you make of the whole thing, Ellery¯Jim’s conduct, Rosemary, the three letters, the visit, Rosemary’s staying on when she hates it . . . ?”
“Nothing,” said Ellery. But he added: “Yet.”
“Ellery¯look!”
They were approaching a gaudy bump on the landscape, a one-story white stucco building on whose walls oversized red lady-devils danced and from whose roof brittle cut-out flames of wood shattered the sky. The tubing of the unlit neon sign spelled out vie carlatti’s Hot Spot. The parking lot to the side was empty except for one small car.
“Look at what?” demanded Ellery, puzzled. ”I don’t see anything except no customers, since the sun is shining and Carlatti’s patrons don’t creep out of their walls until nightfall.”
“Judging from that car on the lot,” said Pat, a little pale, “there’s one customer.”
Ellery frowned. ”It does look like the same car.”
“It is.”
Pat drove up to the entrance, and they jumped out.
“It might be business, Pat,” said Ellery, not with conviction.
Pat glanced at him scornfully and opened the front door.
There was no one in the chrome-and-scarlet leather interior but a bartender and a man mopping the postage-stamp dance floor. Both employees looked at them curiously.
“I don’t see him,” whispered Pat.
“He may be in one of those booths . . . No.”
“The back room . . . ”
“Let’s sit down.”
They sat down at the nearest table, and the bartender came over, yawning. ”What’U it be, folks?”
“Cuba Libre,” said Pat, nervously looking around.
“Scotch.”
“Uh-huh.” The bartender strolled back to his bar.
“Wait here,” said Ellery. He got up and made for the rear, like a man looking for something.
“It’s over that way,” said the man with the mop, pointing to a door marked he.
But Ellery pushed against a partly open red-and-gold door with a heavy brass lock. It swung noiselessly.
The room beyond was a gambling room. In a chair at the empty roulette table sprawled Jim Haight, his head on one arm on the table. A burly man with a cold cigar stub in his teeth stood half turned away from Ellery at a telephone on the far wall.
“Yeah. I said Mrs. Haight, stoopid.” The man had luxuriant black brows which almost met and a gray flabby face. ”Tell her Vic Carlatti.”
“Stoopid” would be Alberta. Ellery stood still against the red-and-gold door.
“Mrs. Haight? This is Mr. Carlatti of the Hot Spot,” said the proprietor in a genial bass. ”Yeah . . . No, I ain’t making no mistake, Mrs. Haight. It’s about Mr. Haight . . . Now wait a minute. He’s settin’ in my back room right now, cockeyed . . . I mean drunk . . . Now don’t get bothered, Mrs. Haight. Your old man’s okay. Just had a couple of shots too many and passed out. What’111 do with the body?”
“Just a moment,” said Ellery
pleasantly.
Carlatti slewed his big head around. He looked Ellery up and down. ”Hold on a second, Mrs. Haight . . . Yeah? What can I do you for?”
“You can let me talk to Mrs. Haight,” said Ellery, crossing over and taking the phone from the man’s furry hands. ”Nora? This is Ellery Smith.”
“Ellery!” Nora was frantic. ”What’s the matter with Jim? How is he? How did you happen to¯”
“Don’t be excited, Nora. Pat and I were driving past Carlatti’s place, and we noticed Jim’s car parked outside. We’re in here now, and Jim’s all right. Just had a little too much to drink.”
“I’ll drive right down¯the station wagon¯”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind. Pat and I will have him home in half an hour. Don’t worry, do you hear?”
“Thank you,” whispered Nora, and hung up.
Ellery turned from the telephone to find Pat bending over Jim, shaking him. ”Jim. Jim!”
“It’s no use, girlfriend,” growled Carlatti. ”He’s carrying a real load.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, getting him tight!”
“Now don’t get tough, babe. He came in here under his own steam. I got a license to sell liquor. He wants to buy, he can buy. Get him outa here.”
“How did you know who he was? How did you know whom to call?” Pat was fizzing with indignation.
“He’s been here before; and besides, I frisked him. And don’t gimme that fishy eye. Come on, pig. Blow!”
Pat gasped.
“Excuse me,” said Ellery. He walked past Carlatti as if the big man were not there, and then suddenly he turned and stepped hard on Carlatti’s bulldog toe. The man bellowed with pain and reached swiftly for his back pocket. Ellery set the heel of his right hand against Carlatti’s chin and pushed. Carlatti’s head snapped back; and as he staggered, Ellery punched him in the belly with the other hand. Carlatti groaned and sank to the floor, clutching his middle with both hands and staring up, surprised.
“Miss Pig to you,” said Ellery. He yanked Jim out of his chair and got him in a fireman’s grip. Pat picked up Jim’s crushed hat and ran to hold the door open.
* * *
Ellery took the wheel going back.
In the open car, with the wind striking his face and Pat shaking him, Jim began to revive. He goggled glassily at them.
“Jim, whatever made you do a silly thing like this?”
“Huh?” gurgled Jim, closing his eyes again.
“In midafternoon, when you should be at the bank!”
Jim sank lower in the seat, muttering.
“Stupefied,” said Ellery. There was a deep cleft between brows. His rear-vision mirror told him a car was overtaking them rapidly¯Carter Bradford’s car.
Pat noticed and turned. And turned back, very quickly.
Ellery slowed down to let Bradford pass. But Bradford did not pass. He slowed down alongside and honked his horn. A lean gray Yankee with a red face and jellyfish eyes sat beside him.
Obediently, Ellery pulled up at the side of the road; and Bradford stopped his car, too.
Pat said: “Why, hel/o, Cart,” in a surprised voice. ”And Mr. Dakin! Ellery, this is Chief Dakin of the Wrightsville police. Mr. Ellery Smith.”
Chief Dakin said: “How do, Mr. Smith,” in a polite voice, and Ellery nodded.
“Anything wrong?” asked Carter Bradford, a little awkwardly. ”I noticed Jim here was¯”
“Well, that’s extremely efficient, Cart,” said Pat warmly. ”Practically Scotland Yardish, or at the very least F.B.I. Isn’t it, Ellery? The Public Prosecutor and the Chief of Police¯”
“There’s nothing wrong, Bradford,” said Ellery.
“Nothing that a bicarbonate of soda and a good night’s sleep won’t fix,” said Chief Dakin dryly. ”Carlatti’s?”
“Something like that,” said Ellery. ”Now if you don’t mind, gentlemen, Mr. Haight needs his bed¯badly.”
“Anything I can do, Pat . . . ” Cart was flushed. ”Matter of fact, I was thinking of calling you up¯”
“You were thinking of calling me up.”
“I mean¯”
Jim stirred between Pat and Ellery, mumbling.
Pat said severely: “Jim, how do you feel?”
He opened his eyes again. They were still glassy, but something behind the glaze made Pat look at Ellery with a swift fear.
“Say, he’s in a bad way, at that,” said Dakin.
“Relax, now, Jim,” soothed Ellery. ”Go to sleep.”
Jim looked from Pat to Ellery to the men in the other car, but he did not recognize any of them. The mumble became intelligible: “Wife my wife damn her oh damn wife . . . ”
“Jim!” cried Pat. ”Ellery, get him home!”
Ellery released his hand brake quickly. But Jim was not to be repressed. He pulled himself up and his cheeks, pale from sickness, grew scarlet.
“Rid of her!” he shouted. ”Wait’n’ see! I’ll get rid of the bas’ard! I’ll kill ‘a bas’ard!”
Chief Dakin blinked, and Carter Bradford looked immensely surprised and opened his mouth to say something.
But Pat pulled Jim down savagely, and Ellery shot the convertible forward, leaving Bradford’s car behind. Jim began to sob, and in the middle of a sob he suddenly fell asleep again.
Pat shrank as far from him as she could. ”Did you hear what he said, Ellery? Did you?”
“He’s crazy blind.” Ellery stepped hard on the gas pedal.
“It’s true, then,” moaned Pat. ”The letters¯Rosemary . . . Ellery, I tell you Rosemary and Jim have been putting on an act! They’re in cahoots to¯to¯And Cart and Chief Dakin heard him!”
“Pat”¯Ellery kept his eyes on the road¯”I haven’t wanted to ask you this before, but . . . Has Nora any considerable sum of money, or property, in her own right?”
Pat moistened her lips very slowly. ”Oh . . . no. It couldn’t be . . . that.”
“Then she has.”
“Yes,” Pat whispered. ”By my grandfather’s will. Pop’s father. Nora automatically inherited a lot of money when she married, held in trust for her if and when. Grandfather Wright died soon after Lola eloped with that actor¯he’d cut Lola off because of that and divided his estate between Nora and me. I get half when I marry, too¯”
“How much did Nora get?” asked Ellery. He glanced at Jim. But Jim was stertorously asleep.
“I don’t know. But Pop once told me it’s more than Nora and I could ever spend. Oh, Lord¯Nora!”
“If you start to cry,” said Ellery grimly, “I’ll dump you overboard. Is this inheritance to you and Nora a secret?”
“Try to keep a secret in Wrightsville,” said Pat. ”Nora’s money . . . ” She began to laugh. ”It’s like a bad movie. Ellery, what are we going to do?” She laughed and laughed.
I i Ellery turned Pat’s car into the Hill drive. ”Put Jim to bed,” he muttered.
Chapter 11
Thanksgiving: The First Warning
The next morning Mr. Queen was knocking at Nora’s door before eight.
Nora’s eyes were swollen. ”Thanks for¯yesterday. Putting Jim to bed while I was being so silly¯”
“Rubbish,” said Ellery cheerfully. ”There hasn’t been a bride since Eve who didn’t think the world was going under when hubby staggered home under his first load. Where’s the erring husband?”
“Upstairs shaving.” Nora’s hand trembled as she fussed with the gleaming toaster on the breakfast table.
“May I go up? I shouldn’t want to embarrass your sister-in-law by prowling around the bedroom floor at this hour¯”
“Oh, Rosemary doesn’t get up till ten,” said Nora. ”These wonderful November mornings! Please do¯and tell Jim what you think of him!”
Ellery laughed and went upstairs. He knocked on the master-bedroom door, which was half open; and Jim called from the bathroom: “Nora? Gosh, darling, I knew you’d be my sweet baby and forgive¯” His voice blurred when he spied Ellery.
Jim’s face was half shaved; the shaved half was pasty and his eyes puffed. ”Morning, Smith. Come in.”
“I just dropped by for a minute to ask you how you were feeling, Jim.” Ellery draped himself against the bathroom jamb.
Jim turned, surprised. ”How did you know?”
“How did / know! Don’t tell me you don’t remember. Why, Pat and I brought you home.”
“Gosh,” groaned Jim. ”I wondered about that. Nora won’t talk to me. Can’t say I blame her. Say, I’m awfully grateful, Smith. Where’d you find me?”
“Carlatti’s place on Route 16. The Hot Spot”
“That dive?” Jim shook his head. ”No wonder Nora’s sore.” He grinned sheepishly. ”Was I sick during the night! Nora fixed me up, but she wouldn’t say a word to me. What a dumb stunt!”
“You did some pretty dumb talking on the ride home, too, Jim.”
“Talking? What did I say?”
“Oh . . . something about ‘getting rid of’ some bastard or other,” said Ellery lightly.
Jim blinked. He turned back to the mirror again. ”Out of my head, I guess. Or else I was thinking of Hitler.”
Ellery nodded, his eyes fixed on the razor. It was shaking.
“I don’t remember a damn thing,” said Jim. ”Not a damn thing.”
“I’d lay off the booze if I were you, Jim,” said Ellery amiably. ”Not that it’s any of my business, but . . . well, if you keep saying things like that, people might misunderstand.”
“Yeah,” said Jim, fingering his shaved cheek. ”I guess they would at that. Ow, my head! Never again.”
“Tell that to Nora,” laughed Ellery. ”Well, morning, Jim.”
“Morning. And thanks again.”
Ellery left, smiling. But the smile vanished on the landing. It seemed to him that the door to the guest room was open a hands-breadth wider than when he had gone in to talk to Jim.
