“I don’t want any spies or story-stealers around,” frowned Val.
“Wait a minute! I give you my word it’ll be on the level, Val. You can’t gang up on me this way! A good man who knows his stuff won’t blab and will steer you right.”
Val stood thinking. In a way, Fitz was right. She had no idea where her investigation might lead. An experienced newspaperman to advise and assist and even provide physical protection in the event of danger was a wise precaution.
“All right, Fitz,” she said finally.
Fitz beamed. “It’s a deal! Be back here at two o’clock and I’ll have my man ready. We’ll give you a press card, put you on the payroll, and you’ll be all set. You’re sure you’ve got something?” he asked anxiously.
“You’ll have to take your chances,” said Val. Sure? She didn’t even know what the clue was!
“Get out of here,” groaned Fitz.
When Valerie emerged into the city room Walter was standing in the aisle, waiting.
Val tried to pass him, but he moved over to block her path.
“Please,” said Val.
“I’ve got to talk to you,” said Walter in a low voice.
“Please!”
“I’ve got to, Val.”
Val eyed him coolly. “Well, if you must I suppose you must. I don’t care for an audience, though, so let’s go into the hall.”
He took her arm and hurried her through the city room. Val studied him covertly. She was shocked by his appearance. His cheeks were sunken; there were leaden hollows under his eyes, which were inflamed. He looked ill, as if he were in pain and had not slept for days.
He backed her against the marble wall near the elevators. “I’ve read about Rhys’s arrest,” he said feverishly. “It muddles things for me, Val. You’ve got to give me time to think this over—”
“Who’s stopping you?”
“Please have patience with me. I can’t explain yet—”
“Nasty habit you have,” said Val, “of not being able to explain. Please, Walter. You’re hurting me.”
Walter released her. “I’m sorry about Monday night. Getting drunk, I mean. The things I said. Val, if you’d only have a little faith in me...”
“I suppose you know,” said Val, “that some one planted the rapier and pop’s coat in our closet, and tipped off the police that they were there. Or don’t you?”
“Do you believe I did that?” said Walter in a low voice.
Val stirred restlessly. Nothing could come of this. “I’m going,” she said.
“Wait—”
“Oh, yes. I’ve just taken a job here. Special features on the case. I’m going to do a little investigating of my own. I thought you’d like to know.”
Walter grew paler under his two-day growth of beard. “Val! Why?”
“Because trials cost money and lawyers are expensive.”
“But you’ve got that money I gave you. I mean—”
“That’s another thing. Of course we can’t accept that, Walter. Pop has it in a bank, but I’ll have him write out a check for the full amount.”
“I don’t want it! Oh, damn it. Val! Don’t start something that might — that might bring you—”
“Yes?” murmured Valerie.
Walter was silent, gnawing his lower lip.
“Yes?” said Val again, with the merest accent of contempt. But she could not prevent a certain pity from creeping into her voice, too.
Walter did not reply.
Val pressed the elevator-button. The door slid open after a while. She got in and turned around. The operator began to pull the door shut.
Walter just stood there.
X
A Star Reporter Is Born
Fitz sauntered into the reception room of Magna Studios and said to the man at the desk: “Hullo, Bob. Is Ellery Queen in?”
“Who?” said the man.
“Ellery Queen.”
“Queen, Queen. Does he work here?” said the man, reaching for a directory.
“I believe he’s under that impression,” said Fitz.
“Oh, yes. Writer. Writers’ Annex, Room 25. Just a second.” He picked up his telephone.
Fitz stuck a cigar into the man’s mouth, said: “Cut the clowning. What d’ye think I am, a trade-paper ad salesman?” and went through.
He strolled along the cement walk before the open-air quadrangle of executive buildings, past the bootblack stand, and into the alley marked “‘A’ Street” alongside Sound Stage One. At the end of the alley cowered a long, lean, two-story building with a red-gabled roof and stained stucco walls.
Fitz mounted the steps to the open terrace and searched along the terrace until he found an open door with the number 25 on it.
It was a magnificent room, with two magnificent desks, a magnificent rug, a magnificent central fixture, magnificent draperies, and magnificent art on the walls. And it was magnificently empty.
A typewriter stood on a mahogany worktable opposite the door; a chair with polished arms magnificently etched into curlicues by some one’s penknife lay overturned on the floor before the table. From the carriage of the typewriter jutted a sheet of heavy bond paper, with words on it.
Fitz went in and read them. The words were:
“If a miracle should happen and somebody should walk into this hermit’s lonely desert cell, I am currently in the office of His Holiness Seymour A. Hugger, Grand Lama of the Writers’ Division of Magna Pictures, giving him a piece of what is left of my mind. For God’s sake, pal, wait for me.
ELLERY QUEEN.”
Fitz grinned and went out. On the way to the terrace steps he caught sight through a window of a long-legged literary person in slacks and a yellow polo shirt. The gentleman seemed fiercely intent on a toothpaste advertisement in Cosmopolitan. But then Fitz saw that he was asleep.
He returned to the Administration Building and hunted through the polished corridor until he discovered a door which proclaimed the presence of Mr. Hugger.
Opening the door, he found himself in a sort of glorified cubbyhole containing three large desks at which three beautiful young women sat buffing their fingernails, and a worried-looking young man who clutched a sheaf of yellow papers marked “Sequence A” which he was reading nervously.
“Yes?” said one of the young women without looking up, but Fitz opened the door lettered “Private” and strolled into Mr. Hugger’s domain without stooping to conversation.
Ensconced in a throne-like chair behind a dazzling cowhide-covered desk sat a chubby young man with thin hair and a benign demeanor. The room, the rug, the desk, the radio, the draperies, the bookcases, and the objets d’art were even more magnificent than their generic cousins in Room 25, Writers’ Annex. Moreover, Mr. Hugger was magnificent in his happiness. Mr. Hugger seemed to want every one to know that he was happy. Particularly the bearded, purple-visaged maniac who was waving his arms and scudding up and down the room like a Sunday yacht.
“If you’ll calm down for a minute, Mr. Queen,” Mr. Hugger was saying in avuncular accents as Fitz walked in.
“I’ll be damned if I will!” yelled Mr. Queen. “What I want to know is — why can’t I see Butcher?”
“I’ve told you, Mr. Queen. He’s very temperamental, Mr. Butcher is. He takes his time. Patience. Just have patience. Nobody’s rushing you—”
“That’s just the bloody trouble!” shouted Mr. Queen. “I want to be rushed. I want to work day and night. I want to hear a human voice. I want to engage in debates about the weather. What did you bring me out here for, anyway?”