I knew Phil, had never met his wife before. They were apparently both new to Maltravers. As we both rose to our feet with the courtesy practiced at that time, the actor said, “Delighted, Mrs. Devine.”
“It’s Sophie. I must say I’ve always enjoyed your work on the screen.” She said it like she meant it.
“You are very kind.” He kissed her hand, being of the age and elegant manner that could get away with that, then turned to her husband. “Young man, you’re vaguely familiar, and I’m sure I should recognize your name, but my memory is not what it was.”
“Maybe you know the name A.P. Windsor,” I said helpfully.
“I do indeed,” the actor said. “I devour detective novels, and yours are some of the best.”
“That’s gratifying,” said Devine, “but I’m afraid A.P. Windsor is retiring. My partner and I had what they call an amicable parting of the ways.”
“Phil got a nice contract to write scripts on his own, and not just mysteries,” Sophie said with some pride. She added under her breath, “And don’t tell anybody, but it wasn’t all that amicable.”
“Sure it was. Nobody doubts Aaron Wimbush will land on his feet. But I think it’s a great opportunity for me. You’ve heard of Boulevard Pictures?”
The phrase “Poverty Row” immediately came to mind.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Phil said, and he didn’t have to be a mind reader. “Ben Weintraub wants to raise it up to major status, and he has the money to do it.”
“That’s what they say,” Max agreed.
Sophie mentioned to Maltravers a part she’d seen him in, one of his better ones as a Barbary Coast pirate, and the two fell into intense conversation. Hoping she could keep the old fellow off the war, past or future, I offered her my chair and drifted away with her husband and our host.
“Aaron is coming today,” Max said to Phil in a low voice. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” Devine said with slightly unconvincing casualness. “Why should I?”
“Sophie seems to think you guys are mad at each other.”
“There may have been a few harsh words. But now that we’ve officially split, the pressure is off, right? We’ll both do better on our own. Two-man collaborations never work over time.”
Unable to resist stirring the pot, I said, “What about Ellery Queen?”
Phil seemed to find the reference irritating. “Yeah, I know all about them, but they’re a special case, not to mention a burr under my saddle. Aaron always held those guys up to me as an example of what we could be doing, but he was overestimating our abilities. Aaron’s talents and mine are too similar. If we’d had a real puzzle-spinner’s brain between us, we could have been Ellery Queen, but we didn’t and so we weren’t. We did our best, but let’s face it, A.P. Windsor will never sit on the upper shelf of detective fiction.”
“What’s Aaron doing these days?” I asked.
Before Devine could say anything, the question answered itself. Aaron was making a racket while making an entrance, and all he was doing was greeting his friends. At the edge of the producer’s large back garden, Aaron Wimbush’s powerful voice boomed out over all other sound. Though not much taller than his writing partner, he had the looks and presence of a matinee idol. I never saw him without musing that he’d missed his calling, should have been an actor. He was as against type as a writer as Max Ferguson was as a producer. Adding to the effect was the gorgeous young woman on his arm. I think I’d seen her in a bit part in a Universal horror pic. Aaron was always seen with beautiful women and seemed to have the world by the tail, but I always thought he was a bit insecure under the bombastic manner. An Adonis like that shouldn’t have to try too hard.
Phil Devine looked briefly annoyed at his former partner’s loud entrance. Then he appeared to decide there had to be a gesture to show everyone present that the A.P. Windsor team were still the best of friends. He walked past the pool and across to where Wimbush had entered, stuck out his hand with a cry of “Aaron!” The two embraced in best show-biz fashion. Aaron introduced his date, giving Phil what was probably a more enjoyable hug. To me it looked patently insincere on both their parts, but maybe some were fooled. Ferguson and I had followed, and Wimbush shook Ferguson’s hand vigorously. “Delighted to be invited, Max. Your parties are the best.” He introduced us to his date, the “future star” Bernice Gail. “I hate to show up empty-handed, so I brought a gift, not just for the host but for everybody here. If that’s okay.”
“I don’t know what you’ve got, Aaron,” Ferguson said, “but if it’s legal and safe and not disgusting, bring it on.”
“No, quite harmless and really worthwhile. You’ll be interested in this, Phil,” he said to his erstwhile partner. “And our fellow wordsmiths will be as well.”
“There’s a mob of them hanging out in the library,” said Max. “Maybe I better ask them to come out before you unveil your surprise.”
As Max and Aaron went off to bring the whole party outdoors, Phil asked Bernice casually, “What’s he up to?”
She shook her head. “I got no more idea what’s in that box than you do.”
When the party was complete, Wimbush signaled to a white-coated servant stationed unobtrusively by a tree at the edge of the house. The servant with some ceremony carried over a large cardboard box. Wimbush raised his arms and, somewhat unnecessarily, his already dominant voice. “Can I have everybody’s attention for a moment. Gather around, right over here. I brought plenty of these. But first a few words of introduction. Can everybody hear me?”
“How could they help it?” Devine muttered. “Didn’t know my old partner was the guest of honor.”
I glanced at Ferguson. The look I got in return told me he had no idea what Wimbush was up to.
“Everybody knows how important it is to diversify,” Aaron began. “Have more than one string to your bow, am I right? That’s why I have so admired a couple of men you’ve all heard of, though maybe not under their real names, who worked in this town and this industry for a time, who have become synonymous with professional and artistic success, who have spread their wings in fresh directions, and have kept to their agreement with each other. I’m talking about the Ellery Queen team.”
Everybody seemed to have something to say then, mostly admiration for their work. But Bernice Gail said, “Hey, one of them got killed in a car accident.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Sherry Kendall asked. “It’s not true.”
“But I heard it on Walter Winchell,” she said.
“Fred did have an awful accident,” Gus Fischburn said, “but he recovered.”
“And I have evidence of that,” Wimbush said, trying to win back his audience. “I want to show you the latest example of what such a successful collaboration can do.” Now he nodded to the well-prepared servant, who reached into the box and handed him a small digest-sized magazine. “The team of Fred Dannay and Manny Lee, a fine pair of first-rate gentlemen, have conquered the book market with novels and anthologies, the magazine market with brilliant short stories, the radio market with inventive and original programs both quiz and dramatic, the motion-picture market with films based on their books, and now have achieved what may be their greatest achievement, one I predict will glow with brilliance for many years to come. Please accept as a gift from me the first issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.”
The servant started handing them out, and it appeared the supply would take care of everybody present. The stricken expression on Phil Devine’s pale face suggested he did not see this as a harmless gesture. He’d always seemed a mild and even person, but now he looked angry.