“How,” said Val, “are the gentleman’s morals?”
“Who, me? I’m practically sexless.”
“Not,” retorted Val, “that it would do you any good if you weren’t. I just wanted to avoid possible unpleasantness.”
“Go on, get going, both of you,” said Fitz benevolently.
“I’ll have my first story,” said Val, “ready for the rewrite desk tonight, Fitz.”
“Not in this man’s trade, you won’t,” grinned Fitz. “We’ve got a daily paper to get out. Besides, it’s all written.”
“What!”
“Now don’t fret yourself,” soothed Fitz. “You don’t have to pound out the grind stuff. I’ve got people here who can make up a better human-interest yarn out of their heads than you could out of facts. You’ll get your byline and your grand just the same.”
“But I don’t understand.”
“Part of your value to me is your name. The other part is that clue you’re battin’ about. Don’t worry about the writing, Val. Follow up that clue, and if you pick up any special slants, ’phone ’em in. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Mr. King,” said Val, eying the apparition. “For whom are you working — Fitz or me?”
“The answer to a dame,” said Mr. King, “is always yes.”
“Hey!” shouted Fitz.
“Now that you’ve learned your catechism,” said Val with a kindly smile, “come along, Mr. King, and learn something else.”
XII
The Affairs of Anatole
“The first thing I crave,” said Hilary “Scoop” King as they paused on the sidewalk before the Independent building, “is lunch. Have you eaten?”
“No, but we’ve got an important call to make—”
“It can wait; most everything can in this world. What would you suggest?”
Val shrugged. “If you’re a stranger here, you might like the Café in El Paseo.”
“That sounds hundreds of miles away, to the south.”
“It’s in the heart of the city,” laughed Val. “We can hoof it from here.”
Ellery politely took the outside position, noting that a black sedan was following them slowly. Val led him up Main Street through the old Plaza, pointing out the landmarks — Pico House, the Lugo mansion plastered with placards displaying red Chinese ideographs, Marchessault Street.
When she took him into El Paseo, it was like turning a corner into old Mexico. Booths ran down the middle of the street displaying black-paper cigarillos, little clay toys and holy images, queer cactus plants, candles. The very stones underfoot were alien and fascinating. Along both sides of the narrow thoroughfare were ramadas, ovens of brick and wooden tables where fat Mexican women patted an endless array of tortillas. At the end of the street there was a forge, where a man sat pounding lumps of incandescent iron into cunning Mexican objects.
Ellery was enchanted. Val indicated their destination, La Golondrina Café, with its quaint over-hanging balcony.
“What are those scarlet and yellow dishes I see the señoritas carrying about?”
They sat down at one of the sidewalk tables and Val ordered. She watched with a secret mischievousness as he bit innocently into an enchilada.
“Muy caliente!” he gasped, reaching for the water-jug. “Wow!”
Val laughed aloud then and felt better. She began to like him. And when they got down to the business of serious eating and he chattered on with the fluency of a retired diplomat, she liked him even more.
Before she knew it, she was talking about herself and Rhys and Pink and Winni Moon and Walter and Solly Spaeth. He asked guileless questions, but by some wizardry of dialectic the answers always had to be factual in order to be intelligible; and before long Val had told him nearly everything she knew about the case.
It was only the important events of Monday afternoon — Rhys’s alibi, Walter’s taking of Rhys’s coat, the fact that Walter had really been inside his father’s house at the time of the crime — that Valerie held back. Consequently there were gaps in her account, gaps of which her companion seemed casually aware — too casually, thought Val; and she sprang up and said they would have to be going.
Ellery paid the check and they sauntered out of El Paseo. “Now where?” he said.
“To see Ruhig.”
“Oh, Spaeth’s lawyer. What for?”
“I have reason to believe that Ruhig had an appointment with Spaeth on Monday afternoon for five or five-thirty. He told Glücke he got there after six. You won’t blab!”
“Cross my heart and hope to die a pulp-writer,” said Ellery. “But suppose it’s true? He could merely have been late for the appointment.”
“Let’s hope not,” said Val grimly. “Come on — it isn’t far to his office.”
They made their way past the fringe of Chinatown into the business district, and after a while Ellery said in a pleasant voice: “Don’t be alarmed, but we’re being followed.”
“Oh,” said Val. “A big black sedan?”
Ellery raised his brows. “I didn’t think you’d noticed. All the earmarks, incidentally, of a police car.”
“So that’s what it is! It followed me all morning.”
“Hmm. And that’s not all.”
“What do you mean?”
“No, no, don’t look around. There’s some one else, too. A man — I’ve caught a blurred glimpse or two. Not enough for identification. He’s on our trail like a buzzard.”
“What’ll we do?” asked Val in panic.
“Keep right on ambling along,” said Ellery with a broad smile. “I hardly think he’ll attempt assassination with all these potential witnesses around.”
Val walked stiffly after that, glad that she had given in to Fitzgerald, glad that Hilary “Scoop” King, leading citizen of Evansville, was by her side. When they reached the Lawyers’ Trust Building she dodged into the lobby with an exhalation of relief. But Mr. King contrived to pause and inspect the street. There was the black sedan, snuffling like a trained seal across the street; but the man on foot was nowhere to be seen. Either he was hiding in a doorway or had given up the chase.
Mr. Ruhig’s office was like himself — small, neat, and deceptively ingenuous. It was apparent that Mr. Ruhig did not believe in pampering his clients with an atmosphere. There was a gaunt, worried-looking girl at the switchboard, several clerks and runners with flinty, unemotional faces, and a wall covered with law books which had an air of being used.
There was no difficulty getting in to see the great man. In fact, he came bustling out of his office to meet them.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” he cried, bobbing and beaming. “Shocking about your father, Miss Jardin. What can I do for you? If it’s advice you want, I’m completely at your service, although I’m not in the criminal end. Gratis, of course. I feel like an old friend of the family.”
And all the while he eyed Ellery with a puzzled, unobtrusive interest.
“Mr. Ruhig, Mr. King,” said Val crisply, sitting down in the plain office. “I hope you don’t mind Mr. King’s being with me, Mr. Ruhig. He’s an old college chum who’s volunteered to help.”
“Not at all, not at all. What are friends for?” beamed Mr. Ruhig. Apparently the Joseph’s coat reassured him, for he paid no further attention to Mr. King.
“I’ll come right to the point,” said Val, who had no intention of doing any such thing. “I’m not here as Rhys Jardin’s daughter but as an employee of the Los Angeles Independent.”