The Four of Hearts (24 page)

And the man in the bed dropped the Indian blanket with the swiftness of desperate purpose and reached for the shotgun which stood close to his hand. But Ellery was swifter.

‘No,' he said, handing the gun to the Inspector, ‘not yet, sir.'

‘But I don't understand,' cried Bonnie, her glance wavering between the old man and Ellery. ‘It doesn't make sense. You talk as if … as if this man weren't my grandfather.'

‘He isn't,' said Ellery. ‘I have every reason to believe that he's a man supposed to have committed suicide – an old and desperate and dying man known to the Hollywood colony of extras as Arthur William Park, the actor.'

If Inspector Glücke had seen the revelation coming, at least he had not seen it in its entirety, for he gaped at the cowering old man in the bed, who covered his face with his wrinkled hands.

‘Because of that sandwich and iced drink,' continued Ellery, ‘I saw that it was possible Tolland Stuart was being impersonated. I began to put little bits together; bits that had puzzled me, or passed me by, but that coalesced into a significant whole once my suspicions were aroused.

‘For one thing, an imposture was not difficult; in this case it was of the essence of simplicity. The improbability of most impostures lies in the fact that doubles are rare, and that even expert make-up will not stand the test of constant inspection by people who knew the one impersonated well.

‘But –' and Ellery shrugged ‘– who knew Tolland Stuart well? Not even his daughter, who had visited him only two or three times in the last ten years. But granting that Blythe might have seen through an imposture, Blythe was dead. Bonnie? Hardly; she had not seen her grandfather since her pinafore days. Only Dr. Junius of the survivors. Dr. Junius saw Tolland Stuart every day and had seen him every day for ten years … No, no, Doctor; I assure you that's futile. The house is surrounded, and there's a detective just outside the door.'

Dr. Junius stopped in his slow sidle towards the door, and he wetted his lips.

‘Then there was the incident last Sunday, when we flew up here after the discovery of the bodies in Ty's plane on that plateau. I thought I heard the motors of a plane during the thunder-and-lightning storm. I went out and, while I couldn't see the plane, I did see this man, now in bed, crouching outside the house with a
flyer's helmet
on his head. At the time it merely puzzled me; but when I suspected an imposture I saw that the explanation was simple: this man had just been landed on the Stuart estate by an aeroplane, whose motors I had heard. Undoubtedly piloted by Lew Bascom, who had departed from the plateau that Sunday before we did in an Army plane. Lew flew a plane, as I knew because he offered to pilot the wedding plane when the original Royle-Stuart wedding stunt was being discussed; moreover, he even offered the use of his own plane. So Lew must have returned to the airport with the Army pilot, picked up Park at his rooms, landed Park on this Estate, and returned quietly to Los Angeles. You
are
Park, aren't you?'

The old man in the bed uncovered his face. Dr. Junius started to cry out, but closed his mouth without uttering the cry.

‘You aren't Tolland Stuart.'

The old man said nothing, did nothing. His face was altered; the sharp lines were even sharper than before, but no longer irascible, no longer lines of evil; he merely looked worn out, like an old stone, and weary to death.

‘There's a way of proving it, you know,' said Ellery with a sort of pity. ‘In the desk in the study downstairs there's Tolland Stuart's will, and that will is signed with Tolland Stuart's signature. Shall we ask you, Mr. Park, to write the name Tolland Stuart for comparison purposes?'

Dr. Junius said: ‘Don't!' in a despairing burst, but the old man shook his head.

‘It's no use, Junius. We're caught.' He lay back on the pillows, closing his eyes.

‘And there were other indications,' said Ellery. ‘The way Dr. Junius acted last Sunday. He put up a colossal bluff. He knew there was no Tolland Stuart upstairs. He was expecting Park; our sudden appearance must have made him frantic. When we finally came up here and found Park, who must have blundered about after sneaking into a house he's never been in before, found Stuart's room, and hastily got into Stuart's nightclothes, Junius was so surprised he fled. He hadn't heard those aeroplane engines. Oh, it was all cleverly done; Mr. Park is an excellent actor, and he was told everything he must know to play his part perfectly. After Sunday, of course, he was given further instruction.'

‘Then the doctor here was Bascom's confederate?' asked the Inspector, open-mouthed.

‘Of course. As was Mr. Park, although he's the least culpable, I suspect, of the three.

‘Now, convinced that Tolland Stuart was being impersonated, I could find only one plausible reason for it. Lew's plans depended on Stuart's remaining alive until after the murder of Blythe and Bonnie; if Tolland Stuart was being impersonated, then it could only mean that Tolland Stuart was dead. When had he died? Well, I knew Stuart had been alive four days before the murder of Jack –'

‘How did you know that?'

‘Because on that day, when Blythe and Jack visited here, she saw him, for one thing; she might have spotted an impersonation. But more important, he gave her a cheque for a hundred and ten thousand dollars, which she turned over to Jack. Would Stuart's bank have honored Stuart's signature if it had not been genuine? So I knew that four days before the murders Stuart had still been in the land of the living.

‘Apparently, then, Stuart had died between that day and the following Sunday. Probably Saturday night, the night before the crime, because we know Lew got hold of Park Sunday, hurried him up here under the most difficult and dangerous conditions – something he would not have done Sunday had he been able to do it before Sunday. So I imagine Dr. Junius telephoned Lew Saturday night to say Tolland Stuart had suddenly died, and Lew thought of Park, and instructed the doctor to bury his benefactor in a very deep hole, and immediately got busy on the Park angle. Park left a suicide note to efface his trail and vanished – to turn up here the next day as Bonnie's grandfather.'

‘This is – extraordinary,' said Jacques Butcher, staring from Junius to Park. ‘But why? What did Park and Junius hope to get out of it?'

‘Park? I believe I can guess. Park, as I knew from Lew himself long ago, is dying of cancer. He's penniless, has a wife and crippled son back East dependent on him. He knew he couldn't last long, and for his family a man will do almost anything – a certain type of man – if there's enough money in it to ensure his family's security.

‘Dr. Junius? I have the advantage of you there; I've read Tolland Stuart's will. In it he engaged to pay the doctor a hundred thousand dollars if the doctor kept him alive until the age of seventy. From the wording of the will and its date – it was made out at the age of sixty and was dated nine and a half years ago – it was obvious that Stuart had died at the age of
sixty-nine and a half
. Dr. Junius had spent almost ten years of his life in a living hell to earn that hundred thousand. He wasn't going to let a mere matter of a couple of murders stand in the way of his getting it. Nevertheless, he wouldn't have risked his neck until he felt reasonably certain Stuart wouldn't live to reach the age of seventy. Consequently, I was convinced that, far from being a healthy man, Stuart was really a very sick man; and that Junius was putting on an act when he claimed his patient was just a hypochondriac. I was convinced that Stuart, who I knew had died suddenly, had died probably of his illness – not accidentally or through violence, since violence was the last thing Lew wanted in the case of the old man.'

‘There's something,' whispered Dr. Junius, ‘of the devil in you.'

‘I imagine the shoe fits you rather better,' replied Ellery. ‘And, of course, it must have been you who supplied Lew Bascom with the morphine and the sodium allurate in the proper dose – no difficult feat for a physician.'

‘I went into it with Bascom,' said Dr. Junius in the same whisper, ‘because I knew Stuart wouldn't survive. When he engaged me nine and a half years ago he had a badly ulcerated condition of the stomach. I treated him faithfully, but he developed a cancer, as so often occurs. I felt … cheated; I knew he probably wouldn't live to reach seventy. When Bascom approached me, I fell in with his scheme. Bascom knew, too, that the old man was dying. In a sense our – interests lay in the same direction: I wanted Stuart to live to seventy, and Bascom wanted him to live until after Blythe and Bonnie Stuart were …' He stopped and wetted his lips. ‘Bascom had got the cooperation of Park, here, in advance, just in case the old man died prematurely, as he did. Park had plenty of time to study his physical role.'

‘You animal,' said Bonnie.

Dr. Junius said nothing more; he turned his face to the wall. And the old man in the bed seemed asleep.

‘And since Park had a cancer, too,' said Ellery, ‘and couldn't live very long, it was just dandy all around, wasn't it? When he died, there'd be nobody to suspect he wasn't Stuart; and even an autopsy would merely have revealed that he died of cancer, which was perfectly all right. And by that time, too, he'd have grown real hair, instead of the false hair and spirit gum he's got on his face now. Oh, an ingenious plan.' He paused, and then he said: ‘It makes me feel a little sick. Do you sleep well at night, Dr. Junius?'

And after a moment Glücke asked doggedly: ‘But Bascom didn't know exactly when Stuart would die. You still haven't answered the question of how he could control the old man before he died, how he could be sure the old man wouldn't make out a new will.'

‘That was simple. The old will, the present will, existed; all Lew had to do was see – probably through Junius – that the old man didn't get his hands on his own will. Then, even if he did make out a new will, they could always destroy it, leaving the old will in force.

‘When Stuart died prematurely, it was even simpler. There would be no question of a new will at all. Park, playing Stuart's role, couldn't make out a new one, even if he wanted to. The old will would remain, as it has remained, the will in force.

‘Incidentally, I was sure Lew would fall for our trap today. With Park dying of cancer, his survival for even a short time doubtful, Lew couldn't permit Bonnie and Ty to vanish for an indefinite period. If Park died while they were off on their honeymoon at an unknown place, Lew's whole scheme was nullified. His scheme was based on Bonnie's dying before her grandfather, to conceal the true motive. If he killed Bonnie – and Ty, as he would have to – after the death of Park-acting-as-Stuart, his motive would be clearly indicated. So I knew he would take any risk to kill Bonnie and Ty before they went away and while Park was still alive.'

Ellery sighed and lit a fresh cigarette, and no one said anything until Inspector Glücke, with a sudden narrowing of his eyes, said: ‘Park. You there – Park!'

But the old man in the bed did not answer, or move, or give any sign that he had heard.

Ellery and Glücke sprang forward as one man. Then they straightened up without having touched him. For in his slack hand there lay a tiny vial, and he was dead.

And Dr. Junius turned from the wall and collapsed in a chair, whimpering like a child.

CHAPTER 23

END OF THE BEGINNING

When Ellery turned the key in his apartment door Sunday night, and let himself in, and shut the door, and flung aside his hat and coat, and sank into his deepest chair, it was with a spent feeling. His bones ached, and so did his head. It was a relief just to sit there in the quiet living-room thinking of nothing at all.

He always felt this way at the conclusion of a case – tired, sluggish, his vital energies sapped.

Inspector Glücke had been gruff with praises again; and there had been invitations, and thanks, and a warm kiss on the lips from Bonnie, and a silent handshake from Ty. But he had fled to be alone.

He closed his eyes.

To be alone?

That wasn't quite true. Damn, analysing again! But this time his mind dwelt on a more pleasant subject than murder. Just what
was
his feeling for Paula Paris? Was he sorry for her because she was psychologically frustrated, because she shut herself up in those sequestered rooms of hers and denied the world the excitement of her company? Pity? No, not pity, really. To be truthful about it, he rather enjoyed the feeling when he went to see her that they were alone, that the world was shut out. Why was that?

He groaned, his head beginning to throb where it had only ached dully before. He was mooning like an adolescent boy. Tormenting himself this way! Why think? What was the good of thinking? The really happy people didn't have a thought in their heads. That's why they were happy.

He rose with a sigh and stripped off his jacket; and as he did so his wallet fell out. He stooped to pick it up and suddenly recalled what was in it. That envelope. Queer how he had forgotten it in the excitement of the last twenty-hour hours!

He took the envelope out of the wallet, fingering its creamy vellum face with appreciation. Good quality. Quality, that was it. She represented a special, unique assortment of human values, the tender and shy and lovable ones, the ones that appealed mutely to the best in a man.

He smiled as he tore the envelope open. Had she really guessed who had murdered Jack Royle and Blythe Stuart?

In her free, clear script was written: ‘Dear Stupid: It's inconceivable to you that a mere woman could do by intuition what it's taken you Siegfriedian writhings of the intellect to achieve. Of course it's Lew Bascom. Paula.'

Damn her clever eyes! he thought angrily. She needn't have been so brash about it. He seized the telephone.

‘Paula! This is Ellery. I've just read your note –'

‘Mr. Queen,' murmured Paula. ‘Back from the wars. I suppose I should offer you the congratulations owing to the victor?'

‘Oh, that. We were lucky it all went off so well. But Paula, about this note –'

‘It's hardly necessary for me to open your envelope now.'

‘But I've opened yours, and I must say you made an excellent stab in the dark. But how –'

‘You might also,' said Paula's organ voice, ‘congratulate
me
for having made it.'

‘Well, of course. Congratulations. But that's not the point. Guessing! That's the point. Where does it get you? Nowhere.'

‘Aren't you being incoherent?' Paula laughed. ‘It gets you the answer. Nor is it entirely a matter of guesswork, O Omniscience. There was reason behind it.'

‘Reason? Oh, come now.'

‘It's true, I didn't understand why Lew did it – his motives and things; the murder of Jack didn't fit in … you'll have to explain those things to me –'

‘But you just said,' growled Ellery, ‘you had a
reason.'

‘A feminine sort of reason.' Paula paused. ‘But do we have to discuss it over the phone?'

‘Tell me!'

‘Yes, sir. You see, I did know the kind of person Lew was, and it struck me that Lew's character exactly matched the character of the crime.'

‘What? What's that?'

‘Well, Lew was an idea man, wasn't he? He conceived brilliantly, executed poorly – that was characteristic not only of him but of his work, too.'

‘What of it?'

‘But the whole crime, if you stop to think of it, as I did, was exactly like that – brilliantly conceived and poorly executed!'

‘You mean to say,' spluttered Ellery, ‘that
that
sort of dishwater is what you call reasoning?'

‘Oh, but it's so true. Have you stopped,' said Paula sweetly, ‘to think it out? The playing-card scheme was very, very clever – a true Lew Bascom idea; but it was also fantastic and devious, and wasn't it carried out shoddily? Lew all over. Then the frame-up of Jack, followed by the frame-up of Ty … two frame-ups that didn't jibe at all. And that clumsy device of filing those typewriter keys! Poor execution.'

‘Lord,' groaned Ellery.

‘Oh, dozens of indications. That hamper with the bottles of cocktails. Suppose it hadn't been delivered? Suppose, if it were delivered in that crush, it weren't taken along? Or suppose Jack and Blythe were too wrapped up in each other, even if it were taken along, to bother about a drink? Or suppose only one of them drank? So awfully
chancy
, Ellery; so poorly thought out. Now Jacques Butcher, had he been the criminal, would
never
–'

‘All right, all right,' said Ellery. ‘I'm convinced – yes, I'm not. You saw a clever idea with fantastic overtones and poor craftsmanship, and because Lew was that way you said it was Lew. I'll have to recommend the method to Glücke; he'll be delighted. Now, Miss Paris, how about paying off that bet of ours?'

‘The bet,' said Paula damply.

‘Yes, the bet! You said I'd never catch the criminal. Well, I have caught him, so I've won, and you've got to take me out tonight to the Horseshoe Club.'

‘Oh!' And Paula fell silent. He could sense her panic over the wires. ‘But … but that
wasn't
the bet,' she said at last in a desperate voice. ‘The bet was that you'd bring him to justice, into court. You didn't. He committed suicide, he tried to escape and his parachute didn't open –'

‘Oh, no, you don't,' said Ellery firmly. ‘You don't welsh on me, Miss Paris. You lost that bet, and you're going to pay off.'

‘But, Ellery,' she wailed, ‘I
can't
! I – I haven't set foot outside my house for years and years! You don't know how the very thought of it makes me shrivel up inside –'

‘You're taking me to the Club tonight.'

‘I think … I'd faint, or something. I know it sounds silly to a normal person,' she cried, ‘but why can't people understand? They'd understand if I had measles. It's something in me that's
sick
, only it doesn't happen to be organic. This fear of people –'

‘Get dressed.'

‘But I've got nothing to wear,' she said triumphantly. ‘I mean, no evening gowns. I've never had occasion to wear them. Or even – I've no wrap, no – no nothing.'

‘I'm dressing now. I'll be at your house at eight-thirty.'

‘Ellery, no!'

‘Eight-thirty.'

‘Please! Oh, please, Ellery –'

‘Eight-thirty,' repeated Mr. Queen inflexibly, and he hung up.

At eight-thirty precisely Mr. Queen presented himself at the front door of the charming white house in the Hills, and a pretty young girl opened the door for him. Mr. Queen saw, with some trepidation, that the young lady was star-eyed and pink-cheeked with excitement. She was one of Paula's elfin secretaries, and she regarded his lean, tuxedo-clad figure with a keenness that made him think of a mother inspecting her daughter's first swain come a-calling.

It was absurd, too absurd, blustered Mr. Queen inwardly. Out of my way, wench.

But the wench said: ‘Oh, Mr. Queen,' in an ecstatic whisper, ‘it's simply
wonderful
! Do you think she'll
do
it?'

‘Why, of course she'll do it,' pooh-poohed Mr. Queen. ‘All this blather about crowd phobia. Nonsense! Where is she?'

‘She's been crying and laughing and – oh, she looks
beautiful
! Wait till you see her. It's the most marvellous thing that's ever happened to her. I do hope nothing …'

‘Now, now,' said Mr. Queen brusquely. ‘Less chatter, my dear. Let's have a look at this beauty.'

Nevertheless, he approached Paula's door with a quaking heart. What was the matter with him? All this fuss and nervousness over a little thing like going to a night-club!

He knocked and the secretary, looking anxious, faded away; and Paula's voice came tremulously: ‘Come … come in.'

Mr. Queen touched his black tie, coughed, and went in.

Paula was standing, tall and tense, against the closed glass doors of the farthest wall, staring at him. She was wearing elbow-length red evening gloves, and her braceleted hands were pressed to her heart. She was wearing … well, it shimmered and crinkled where the light struck it – cloth of gold? What the devil was it? – and a long white fur evening cape over her shoulders, caught at the neck with a magnificent marcasite brooch, and her hair done up in – well, it looked like the hair of one of those court pages of the time of Elizabeth; simply exquisite. Simply the last word. Simply – there was no last word.

‘Holy smoke,' breathed Mr. Queen.

She was white to the lips. ‘Do I – do I look all right?'

‘You look,' said Mr. Queen reverently, ‘like one of the Seraphim. You look,' said Mr. Queen, ‘like the popular conception of Cleopatra, although Cleo had a hooked nose and probably a black skin, and
your
nose and skin … You look,' said Mr. Queen, ‘you look like one of those godlike beings from Aldebaran, or some place, that H. G. Wells likes to describe. You look swell.'

‘Don't be funny,' she said with a little angry glance. ‘I mean the clothes.'

‘The clothes? Oh, the clothes. Incidentally, I thought you said you didn't have any evening clothes. Liar!'

‘I didn't, and don't; that's why I asked,' she said helplessly. ‘I've had to borrow the cape from Bess, and the dress from Lillian, and the shoes from a neighbour down the street whose feet are as big as mine, and I feel like the original Communist. Oh, Ellery, are you
sure
I'll do?'

Ellery advanced across the room with determined strides. She shrank against the glass doors.

‘Ellery. What are you …'

‘May I present the loveliest lady I know,' said Mr. Queen with fierce gallantry, ‘with these?' And he held out a little cellophane box, and in the box there lay an exquisite corsage of camellias.

Paula gasped: ‘Oh!' and then she said softly, ‘That was sweet,' and suddenly she was no longer tense, but pliant, and a little abstracted, and she pinned the corsage to her bodice with swift, flashing, red-swathed fingers.

And Mr. Queen said, wetting his lips: ‘Paula.'

‘Yes?'

Mr. Queen said again: ‘Paula.'

‘Yes?' She looked up, frowning.

Mr. Queen said: ‘Paula, will you … May I … Oh, hell, there's only one way to do it, and that's to
do
it!'

And he seized her and pulled her as close to his stiff shirt as the shirt would permit and clumsily kissed her on the mouth.

She lay still in his arms, her eyes closed, breathing quickly. Then, without opening her eyes, she said: ‘Kiss me some more.'

And after a while Mr. Queen said thickly: ‘I think – Let's not go out and say we did. Let's sort of – stay here.'

‘Yes,' she whispered. ‘Oh, yes.'

But there was iron in that man's soul, after all. He sternly put aside temptation. ‘No, we
are
going out. It's the very soul of the treatment.'

‘Oh, I can't. I mean … I don't think I can.'

Mr. Queen took her by the arm and marched her straight across the room to the closed door.

‘Open that door,' he said.

‘But I'm .. now I'm all messed!'

‘You're beautiful. Open that door.'

‘You mean … open it?'

‘Open it. Yourself. With your own hands.'

The twin imps of fear peered out of her wide, grave eyes. She gulped like a little girl and her red-gloved right hand crept forward to touch the knob. She looked at Ellery in distress.

‘Open it, darling,' said Mr. Queen in a low voice.

Slowly her hand turned the knob until it would turn no more. Then, quickly, like little Lulu about to swallow her cod-liver oil, Paula closed her eyes and jerked the door open.

And, her eyes still closed, stumbled blindly across the threshold into the world.