Tugging on the leash of Djuna’s impatience, Inspector Queen and Ellery were constrained to “go early; come on!” Consequently, they were the first of the Mars party to arrive for the performance. Mars’s box was on the south side of the arena near the eastern curve of the oval. The Colosseum was already half full; and hundreds were streaming without cessation into the building. The Queens sat back in plush-covered chairs; but Djuna’s sharp chin was thrust over the rail, and his eyes smoked as they hungrily engulfed the broad terrain below, where workmen were still packing the hard earth of the arena’s core, and the cameramen on Major Kirby’s platform were still busy with their apparatus. He barely noticed the entrance of the great Tony Mars, a fresh derby on his poll and a fresh cigar clenched by his brown teeth.
“Glad to see you again, Inspector. Oh, Mr. Queen!” He sat down, his small eyes roving about the vast scene as if he felt the necessity of keeping a vigilant eye on all details at once. “Well, it’s a new thrill for old Broadway, hey?”
The Inspector took snuff. “I’d say,” he remarked benevolently, “for Brooklyn, the Bronx, Staten Island, Westchester, and every place but Broadway.”
“Judging by the provincial manners of your audience, Mr. Mars,” grinned Ellery. For the vendors were already busy hawking, and the characteristic sound of cracking peanut-shells filled the amphitheatre.
“You’ll get plenty of Broadway wisenheimers here tonight,” said Mars. “I know my crowds. Broadway’s filled with a hard-boiled bunch, an’ all that; but they’re all saps an’ suckers at heart, and they’ll come an’ chew goobers an’ raise hell just for the kick they’ll get out of actin’ like hicks. Ever watch a morning crowd of hard guys at the State when they put on an old-time Western? They whistle an’ stamp their feet an’ all that, and they love it so much they’d cry if you took it away from ’em. Old Buck Horne’ll get a good hand tonight.”
At the magic name Djuna’s prominent ears twitched, and he turned and slowly surveyed Tony Mars with a kindling respect.
“Buck Horne,” said the Inspector with a dreamy smile. “The old galoot! Thought he was dead and buried long ago. Good stunt getting him here, all right.”
“Ain’t a stunt, Inspector. It’s a build-up.”
“Eh?”
“Well, y’see,” said Mars reflectively, “Buck’s been out of pictures for nine-ten years. Did a movie three years ago, but it didn’t pan out so well. But now with the talkies goin’ full blast... He an’ Wild Bill Grant are buddies. Grant’s a good business man to boot. Now the pay-off is this: if Buck goes over in the big time here, if his appearance makes a splash in New York, it’s — well, rumored that he’ll make a screen come-back next season.”
“With Grant, I suppose, backin’ him?”
The promoter looked at his house. “Well I ain’t sayin’ I’m not interested in the proposition myself.”
The Inspector settled more comfortably in his seat. “How’s the big fight coming along?”
“Fight? Oh, the fight! Swell, Inspector, swell. Advance sales are way beyond my expectations. I think—”
There was a little flurry at the rear of the box. They all turned, and then rose. A very lovely and feminine creature in a black evening gown and ermine wrap stood smiling there. A press of young men with hard eyes and cocked snap-brims were behind her, talking fast; some of them held cameras. She entered the box, and Tony Mars gallantly handed her to a front seat. There were introductions. Djuna, who had turned back to devour the arena once more after a single brief look at the newcomer, suddenly shuddered.
“Miss Horne — Inspector Queen, Mr. Ellery Queen...”
Djuna kicked his chair aside, his lean face working. “You,” he gasped to the astonished young woman, “you Kit Horne?”
“Why — yes, of course.”
“Oh,” said Djuna in a trembling voice, and retreated until his back pressed against the rail. “Oh,” he said again, and his eyes grew enormous. Then he licked his lips and croaked: “But where — where’s your six-shooter, ma’am, an’ your — your bronc, ma’am?”
“Djuna,” said the Inspector weakly; but Kit Horne smiled and then said in a very serious tone: “I’m frightfully sorry, but I had to leave them home. They wouldn’t have let me in, you see.”
“Gee,” said Djuna, and spent five minutes staring at her radiant profile in fierce concentration. Poor Djuna! It was almost too much, this proximity to an idol. The great Kit Horne had spoken to him, to Djuna the Magnificent, by — by Buffalo Bill! That lovely wraith who had flitted over an impersonal screen, riding like a Valkyrie, shooting like a man, roping the dastardly villain... And then he blinked and slowly, reluctantly, turned his head toward the rear of the box.
It was Tommy Black.
There were two others with him — another radiant vision, to whom all the males instantly deferred, Mara Gay; and Julian Hunter, impeccably dressed — but Djuna forgot everything, even the great Kit Horne, as he gulped the bubbling, incredible elixir so casually offered to him. Tommy Black! Tommy Black the fighter! Cripes! He retreated to his feet, overwhelmed by shyness; but from that moment no one in Tony Mars’s box existed for him but the beetle-browed giant who shook hands all around and then, with easy possessiveness, slipped into the chair next to Mara Gay’s and began to talk softly to her.
To Ellery it was faintly amusing. The reporters buzzing about; Djuna’s speechless worship; the cool self-possession of Kit Horne and Mara Gay’s supercilious condescension toward her; Julian Hunter’s smiling silence and tight lips; Mars’s nervous watch on the jammed bowl; Black’s fluid movements and snaky gestures — as usual when a group of personalities gathered, Ellery reflected, there were undercurrents and crosscurrents; and he wondered what made Hunter smile so tightly and what made Kit Horne so suddenly silent. But most of all he wondered what was the matter with Mara Gay. This darling of Hollywood, one of the most highly paid screen personalities in the world, was something less than the pure and glamorous beauty she appeared on the magic screen. Yes, she was daringly dressed, as usual, and her eyes were also as extraordinarily bright as they always seemed in her films; but there was a thinness, an emaciation about her features that he had never been conscious of before; and her large eyes did not seem quite so large. Besides, here — where her gestures where unschooled by a watchful director — she was vividly nervous, almost quicksilver-ish. A thought came to him, and he studied her without seeming to do so.
There was polite conversation.
And Djuna, his heart big in his throat, jerked his head from side to side as the celebrities gathered in surrounding boxes. And then, of course, things began to happen in the arena; and from that instant he was insensible to the coarser realities and devoted his whole earnest attention to the spectacle below.
The bowl was packed with a boisterous, good-natured crowd. Society was out en masse, rimming the rail above the arena with an oval panel studded with glittering jewels. In the arena there was flashing activity; from the smaller entrances horsemen had appeared, each a whirling smear of color — red bandanas, leathery chaps, fancy vests, dun sombreros, checkered shirts, silvery spurs. There was roping and thunderous riding, and the steady crackle of pistol-shots. The cameramen were busy on their platform. The whole bowl was filled with a prodigious drumming of horses’ hooves on the tanbark... A tall slender young man gayly caparisoned in cowboy regalia stood in the center of the arena. The overhead arcs gleamed on his curly hair. Little puffs of smoke surrounded him. He operated a catapult with his foot and with nonchalant skill caused little glass balls to disappear as he twirled his long-barreled revolver. A shout went up. “That’s Curly Grant!” He bowed, doffed his Stetson, caught a brown horse, vaulted lightly into the saddle, and began to trot across the arena toward the Mars box.