The Dragon’s Teeth (19 page)

“Yes? What did she say, exactly?”

“As far as I remember, she said Ellery saved my life by marrying me. ‘If you hadn't been lucky,' she said, ‘you'd have been dead long before now.' And she went on to say that the visit to my room that night, the accident to my horse, my being locked in the garage and nearly gassed, were not accidents at all. When I said I suspected all along she was responsible, she laughed and said: ‘But it wasn't only I who planned those attacks. It was I—and somebody else.' And just as she was about to tell me who the other one was—the shots …”

She stopped, her chin quivering.

“Ah, the shots,” said the Inspector politely. “But I thought you two were alone in the sitting room.”

“We were,” she said in a faint voice. “The shots came across the court, through my window, over my head, striking Margo who was standing behind my chair. That other window, my window, I, Margo, were all in one straight line.”

The Inspector glanced pityingly at Beau. But Beau was lighting a cigaret with shaking hands.

“Suppose you show me just how it happened,” the old man sighed.

Beau jumped forward to help Kerrie off the bed. Her fingers coiled tightly in his. The inspector looked away, and Sergeant Velie opened the door for them. They all went into the sitting room.

Inspector Queen spent some time over Kerrie's story. He had her sit in the armchair as she claimed to have sat at the moment of the shooting. He checked the position of the body. He made Kerrie retell her story four times.

“A hand threw the gun in through my window, I tell you!” moaned Kerrie. “Why won't you believe me?”

“But you don't seem to know whether the hand was a man's or a woman's.”

“I was in the light, and the court and that room there were in darkness. I could hardly see. But I made out the flash of a hand. How could I tell whether it was a man's or a woman's?”

The Inspector grunted. The doctor gave him a warning look and insisted on Kerrie's returning to the bedroom to lie down again. The old man nodded and, glancing at Sergeant Velie, who winked, went outside without explanation.

But Beau knew he had gone to examine Room 1726. He went back into the bedroom with Kerrie and sat down on the bed, and she curled up in his arms and closed her eyes. Neither said anything.

LLOYD GOOSSENS arrived shortly after the Inspector went out, and considerably later, Edmund De Carlos marched in.

Goossens was smoking his pipe with nervous embarrassment, rubbing his unshaven cheeks; he had apparently, been roused from his bed by the Inspector's summons. De Carlos's skin was leaden, his beard gaunt. But there was a queer sparkle in the wide eyes behind his spectacles.

The Sergeant kept them in the sitting room, where they occupied themselves chiefly in endeavoring to avoid the blood-stained spot on the rug as they paced in aimless circles.

Beau came out of the bedroom and the two men bombarded him with questions. He told them what had happened and then took Goossens aside, to De Carlos's annoyance. “What do you think?”

Goossens shook his head. “It looks bad, Mr. Queen. A hard story to believe. Especially without evidence to confirm it. If I were you, I'd engage the best lawyer in New York. In fact, if you'd like me to suggest counsel for Mrs. Queen—”

“Thanks. Don't you think it's a bit premature?” said Beau curtly.

When the Inspector returned, he conferred with De Carlos and the lawyer for some time in the sitting room. Finally they all went into the bedroom.

It was a bad moment, De Carlos and Goossens hanging back, avoiding Kerrie's staring eyes. But the Inspector was brisk.

“I'll be frank with you,” he said to Kerrie and Beau. “There's no evidence of 1726 having been occupied tonight except a cigaret butt, a burnt match-stick, and some ashes. The maid on duty says she prepared the room late this evening, and there's a record of a wired reservation. But the maid isn't sure she mightn't have overlooked the cigaret, and there's a clear record that no one showed up tonight to occupy the room. Beau.”

“Well?”

“There was a light in 1726 this evening. Is that where you went? Is that your cigaret butt in there?”

Beau said: “Who, me?”

The Inspector shrugged. “Anyway, the evidence doesn't begin to bolster the story.”

“But it's true,” said Kerrie slowly. “I tell you—”

Beau shook his head at her.

The Inspector stroked his mustache with an agitated forefinger. “I'll have to hold you,” he said.

XV.
The De Carlos Entente

When the inspector had left, hurriedly and with a murderous glance at Beau, Goossens coughed and said: “Mrs. Queen, as—as co-executor of the Cole estate it's my duty to inform you that your marriage today eliminates you from further participation in the income from your uncle's estate. There are certain matters, papers … If there's anything I can do in the way of legal advice, of course … Dreadfully sorry …”

He left, like the Inspector, in a sort of flight.

Kerrie was sobbing on Beau's shoulder, and Vi was tearing a handkerchief methodically to pieces by the window.

“What are
you
hanging around for, pop-eyes?” demanded Beau, eying De Carlos with angry dislike.

De Carlos smiled nervously. “I'd like—I'd like to speak to you alone, Mr. Queen.”

“Scram.”

“I must. It's a private matter—”

“It'll have to wait. Beat it, will you?”

De Carlos said in a soft voice: “But it's quite urgent.”

Beau glared at him. The man made a weird picture with his brushlike hair, his beard, his glittering teeth and spectacles, a certain air of mingled intentness, triumph, and anxiety.

“Meet you in my office in Times Square in half an hour,” said Beau on impulse. “I'll leave word with the night man to let you in.”

“Thank you.” De Carlos bowed to Kerrie, smiling or seeming to smile in his beard, and scurried out.

“Ellery. Don't go,” said Kerrie tiredly. Her arms were dead weights about his neck.

“I've got to, funny-face.” Beau signalled to Vi over Kerrie's head. “Vi won't leave you. Will you, Vi?”

“What do you think I am? Of course not!” said Vi with an attempt at cheerfulness. “I don't like the dump I'm in, anyway.”

“You get the doc to give you a shot of something,” Beau told Kerrie gently. “You need a pocketful of sleep.”

She hung on to him, whimpering.

“Kerrie. You know I love you, don't you?” She hugged him. “You don't believe a single word of what—she told you tonight, do you?” Kerrie shook her head violently. “You know I'm in there batting for you a thousand percent, don't you?” She nodded, empty of words. “Then leave everything to me, and don't worry.”

He kissed her and rose. Kerrie twisted her body on the bed and buried her face in the pillow. Beau cracked his knuckles in a sort of baffled agony. Then he kissed her again and ran out.

BEAU stopped on the sidewalk outside the hotel to cup his hands around a cigaret.

He glanced swiftly about. The street was deserted. An occasional cab cruised by. By his wristwatch it was almost four o'clock. He tossed the match away and began to walk briskly towards Broadway. The night air had a chilly touch; he turned the collar of his jacket up.

He slipped into an all-night drug store, went into a phone booth, shut the door tightly, and called Mr. Ellery Queen's home telephone number.

Ellery answered almost at once.

“It's Beau. Weren't you in bed?”

“I've been thinking. What's up?”

“Plenty. Listen, El, De Carlos showed up at the
Villanoy
and says he's got to have a private chin with me. I played a hunch and told him to meet me at the office right away. You want to sit in?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” said Mr. Queen with a certain grimness. “Any idea what's stirring?”

“No. Grab a cab and get down here fast as you can.”

“I'll be there in time. How's Kerrie?”

Beau hung up.

He strode to Times Square, crossed the street, pounded on the door of his office-building.

A yawning watchman admitted him. “Hey, Joe. I expect a man by the name of De Carlos to blow in soon. Let him in. He'll ask for Mr. Queen. Take him up to our office.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Rummell. Say, don't you ever sleep?”

“Don't answer any questions. Get me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Beau let himself into the Queen office, switched on the lights, threw open the windows, and took a bottle from a desk-drawer.

Ten minutes later there was a knock at the reception-room door. He put the bottle down and went out.

The knocker was De Carlos, alone.

“Come in,” said Beau. He locked the door. “You're early. I've telephoned my partner to come down; he'll be here soon.”

“Your partner?” De Carlos did not look pleased.

“Yes. Uh—guy by the name of Beau Brummell—I mean, Rummell. We're like that.” Beau rubbed his eyes and led the way to the inner office. “Have a snifter?”

“But I wanted to speak to you privately.”

“No secrets between Beau and me,” growled Beau. He waved towards the bottle as he lit a cigaret. De Carlos licked his red lips, looking about for a glass. There was none in sight, and Beau did not offer one. De Carlos tilted the bottle. Beau watched him cynically. The man drank and drank. When he set the bottle down his gray cheek-bones had turned pink.

He smacked his lips and said: “Now—”

“Not
now,” said Beau. “Have another.”

De Carlos waved gaily. “Don't mind if I do.”

He picked up the bottle again.

DE CARLOS was drunk when Mr. Queen unlocked the front door and entered the inner office.

The bearded man lay sprawled in the “client's chair,” waving the bottle and leering glassy-eyed at Beau.

“Ah, the pardner,” said De Carlos, trying to rise. He fell back in the chair. “'Do, Mis'er Rummell. Lovely night. I mean sad. So sad. Have seat, Mis'er Rummell.”

Ellery glanced at Beau, who winked. “This is Mr. Edmund De Carlos, Rummell,” said Beau to Ellery in a voice loud enough to pierce the clouds of alcohol on Mr. De Carlos's brain. “One of the trustees of the Cole estate, you know.”

“Siddown, Mis'er Rummell,” said Mr. De Carlos cordially, waving the bottle. “Pleasure, 'm sure. Siddown!”

Ellery sat down behind the desk. “I understand you've something important to say to us, Mr. De Carlos.”

De Carlos leaned forward confidentially. “Impor'nt an' worth money, Mis'er Rummell. Pots o' money, y'un'erstan'.”

“Go on, spill,” said Beau.

“We're frien's. We're all frien's here. An' we're men of the worl', hey?” De Carlos giggled. “Know what it's all about. Now I know de—de-tec-tive a'ncies, gen'l'men, an' I know de-tec-tives. Bought—can all be bought. Jus' a madder o' price, I say. Jus' a madder o' price … tha'sh all.”

“Do I understand that you want to engage us to investigate a case for you, Mr. De Carlos?” asked Ellery.

De Carlos stared at him owlishly, then burst into laughter. “Very good, Mis'er Rummell. I wanna 'ngage you
not
to inveshtigate a cashe!”

Beau and Ellery exchanged glances. Then Beau said: “You want what?”

De Carlos grew immediately serious. “Now look, Mis'er Queen. Le's shpread cardsh on table, huh? I know you married li'l Kerrie tonight 'caush you wash in a deal wi' Margo. You marry Kerrie, she loshes income from eshtate, Margo gets it, you share with Margo—nishe work, Mis'er Queen, nishe work. But wha' happensh? Your wife goesh and shpoilsh it all. Putsh three bulletsh in Margo. Woof! Margo'sh dead.” He wagged his head solemnly. “An' then where are you, Mis'er Queen? Holdin' the bag, Mis'er Queen, hey?”

“You can that kind of talk,” said Beau in a hard voice. “You might get hurt. You heard the story!”

“Nishe shtory, Mis'er Queen,” leered De Carlos, “but it won't go. No, shir, it'sh fan—fantastic. Sure she killed Margo—she'sh guilty ash hell, Mis'er Queen. Whadda you care, anywaysh? Tha'sh not the point. Tha'sh—”

Beau spanned the space between him and De Carlos in a split second. He grabbed De Carlos by the throat.

Ellery said: “Hold it, Brains,” and Beau relaxed his grip sheepishly. De Carlos stared up at him, frightened.

“No sense in going off half-cocked,” said Ellery smoothly. “You'll have to excuse my partner, Mr. De Carlos. He's had a trying night.”

“Got no call shtrangling people,” muttered De Carlos, feeling his Adam's-apple.

“You were about to say?”

De Carlos struggled out of the chair, eying Beau warily. “You gen'l'men been jockeyed out of a lot o' money by Kerrie—by shome one killing Margo.” He shook his forefinger at Ellery. “'S a shame, I shay. Y'oughta be recom—recompenshed, I shay. An' Edmund De Carlos's the man to do it! Good frien's, huh? I make it up to you, huh?”

“Huh,” said Beau. “The piece of cheese. And we're the rats. I didn't get it, and I still don't. What's the gag, Blackbeard?”

“No gag, gen'l'men! Oh, coursh if I do somethin' for you, you gotta do somethin' for me. Tha'sh on'y fair, hey?” He peered anxiously at them. “Hey?”

“Hey, hey,” said Ellery, with a warning glance at Beau. “I should say. Now, as I understand it, you're worried over our loss in the Margo deal, and you'd like to make it up to us financially. In return for your little contribution to our agency account you want
us
to do something for you in return. And what might that be, Mr. De Carlos?”

De Carlos beamed. “'S a pleasure to do bushiness with you, Mis'er Rummell. Why, you gotta do nothin', shee. Tha'sh what I shaid before. I'm payin' you
not
to inveshtigate a cashe! You shtep out. 'Way, way out. You forget you ever heard of Cadmus Cole, or the Cole eshtate, or—or anything. Shee what I mean?”