“Excuse me,” said Fitz.
“Oh, hello,” said Ellery, and he sank into a ten-foot divan and plunged his hands into his beard.
“Yes?” said Mr. Hugger with an executive look.
“Oh.” Ellery waved his hand wearily. “Mr. Hugger, Mr. Fitzgerald. Fitz is managing editor of the Independent.”
“Newspaperman,” said Mr. Hugger, becoming happy again. “Have a cigar, Mr. Fitzgerald. Would you be kind enough to wait outside for a moment? Mr. Queen and I—”
“Thanks, I’ll wait here,” said Fitz genially, licking the end of Mr. Hugger’s cigar. “What’s the trouble, Master-Mind?”
“I ask you,” cried Ellery, bouncing up. “They brought me out here to write for the movies. They gave me twenty-four hours to get ready in New York, and they couldn’t even wait for me to get off the train. I didn’t have time to take a bath. Get him right down to the studio! they told my agent. So I hurried down here, full of alkali, with a running nose and a sore throat, and they gave me the Doge’s Palace to work in, a mountain of foolscap, a whole school of pencils, and the offer of a beautiful stenographer, which I refused. And what do you think happened?”
“I give up,” said Fitz.
“Sick as I’ve been, I’ve hung around here and hung around and hung around, waiting to be called into conference by his Lordship, Jacques Butcher, the producer I’m supposed to go to work for. You know what? After all that haste, I’ve sat in that damned lamasery for two solid weeks and the man hasn’t so much as telephoned me. I’ve called him, I’ve haunted his office, I’ve tried to waylay him — nothing. I’ve just sat on my rump praying for the sight of a human being and slowly going mad!”
“Mr. Queen doesn’t understand the Hollywood way of doing things,” explained Mr. Hugger quickly. “Mr. Butcher in his own way is a genius. He has peculiar methods—”
“Oh, he has, has he?” bellowed Ellery. “Well, let me tell you something, Your Majesty. Your genius has spent the past two weeks playing golf during the day and Romeo during the night with your ingénue star, Bonnie Stuart, so what do you know about that?”
“Come on out,” said Fitz, lighting the cigar, “and I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Yes, go on,” said Mr. Hugger hastily. “You need something to quiet your nerves. Mr. Butcher will get in touch with you very shortly, I’m’ sure.”
“You and Mr. Butcher,” said Ellery, impaling Mr. Hugger with a terrible glance, “are from hunger.”
And he stamped out, followed by Fitz.
Over the third Scotch-and-soda at Thyra’s, across the street from the studio, Fitz remarked: “I see you’ve got your voice back.”
“The sun fixed that, when he got around to it.” Ellery seized his glass. “God,” he said hollowly, and drained it.
“Sick of this racket already, hey?”
“If I didn’t have a contract I’d take the first train out of the Sante Fe station!”
“How’d you like to get mixed up in some real excitement, not this synthetic lunacy?”
“Anything. Anything! Give me that bottle.”
“It’s right smack down your alley too,” murmured Fitz, obliging as he puffed at Mr. Hugger’s perfecto.
“Oh,” said Ellery. He put down the bottle of Scotch and looked at Fitz over the siphon. “The Spaeth case.”
Fitz nodded. Ellery sat back. Then he said: “What’s up?”
“You know Rhys Jardin’s in the can charged with Spaeth’s murder, don’t you?”
“I read the papers. That’s the only thing I’ve had to do, by God.”
“You met his daughter, Valerie? Swell trick, eh?”
“Economically useless but otherwise a nice girl, I should say. Possibilities.”
Fitz leaned on his elbows. “Well, they’re up against it for dinero, and Val came to me this morning and asked for a job. I gave it to her, too.”
“Nice of you,” said Ellery. He wondered what had become of Walter’s money, but not aloud.
“Not at all. Rhys and I boned Lit together at Harvard and all that, but the hell with sentiment. It’s a business proposition. She’s got something to sell, and I’m buying.”
Ellery said suddenly: “Think Jardin killed Spaeth?”
“How should I know? Anyway, the kid says she’s got something hot — a clue of some kind. She won’t tell me what it is, but I’m playing a hunch on this one. She’s going to do byline stories for me daily and meanwhile run down the clue.”
“And exactly where,” said Ellery, marching his fingers along the checkered cloth, “do I come in?”
Fitz coughed. “Now don’t say no till you hear me out, Queen. I admit it’s a screwy idea—”
“In the present state of my emotions,” said Ellery, “that’s in its favor.”
“I told her I’d put an experienced man on with her — show her the ropes, steer her right.” Fitz refilled his glass carefully. “And you’re it.”
“How do you know she’ll work with me? After all, you spilled the beans about me at Sans Souci Monday.”
“No, she mustn’t know you’re a detective,” said Fitz hurriedly. “She’d tighten up like a wet rawhide in the sun.”
“Oh,” said Ellery. “You want me to spy on her.”
“Look, Queen, if I wanted to do that I’d put one of my own men on with her. But she needs somebody familiar with murder. She ought to think her partner’s just a legman, though; I don’t want to scare her off.”
Ellery frowned. “I’m not a newspaperman, and she knows what I look like.”
“She wouldn’t know a newspaperman if she fell over one. And how well does she know you?”
“She’s seen me twice.”
“Hell,” said Fitz, “we can fix that.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ellery, alarmed.
“Keep your pants on. The set-up’s perfect, that’s why I doped this out. You told me you don’t normally wear a beard. So if you shaved it off Val wouldn’t recognize you, would she?”
“Shave off this beautiful thing?” said Ellery in dismay, caressing it.
“Sure! It’s old-fashioned, anyway. Show a clean mug, comb your hair on the side instead of straight back the way you’ve got it now, dress a little differently, and she’ll never get wise. Even your voice will fool her — she’s only heard that croak you were using Monday.”
“Hmm,” said Ellery. “You want me to stick to Miss Jardin, find out what she knows, and crack the case if her father’s innocent?”
“Right.”
“Suppose he’s guilty?”
“In that case,” said Fitz, taking another drink, “let your conscience be your guide.”
Ellery drummed for some time on the cloth. “There are other objections. I can hardly pose as a Los Angeles reporter; I’ve never been here before.”
“You’re new from the East.”
“I don’t know the lingo, the habits, the hangouts—”
“Oh, my God,” said Fitz. “You’ve been reading about reporters in your own stories. Believe it or not, newspapermen talk just like anybody else. Their habits are the same, too — maybe a little better. As far as hangouts are concerned, this is a funny town. L.A.’s the largest city in area in the United States — covers four hundred and forty-two square miles. After we go to press the boys scatter to the four winds — Tujunga, Sierra Madre, Altadena, Santa Monica Canyon, Brentwood Park. Hangouts? You don’t hang out anywhere when you’ve got to drive sixty miles to get home to the wife and kids.”
“I’m convinced. How about a name?”
“Damn. That’s right. Let’s see. Ellery—”
“Celery...”
“Pillory...”
“Hilary! That’s it. Hilary what? Queen—”
“King!”