Beau jumped at her. Her head flapped on her shoulders as he shook her.
“Don’t you see?” he cried. “It’s a frame-up! Someone shot her and is trying to frame you with the gun! Get up! We’re getting out of here.”
“What?” She didn’t understand. She was trying to, her face twisted with the effort.
He lifted her to her feet, slapped her cheeks hard. “Kerrie! For God’s sake get a grip on yourself! I’ve got to get you out of here before—”
“Stand still”
Beau stood still, Kerrie limp in his arms, the revolver dangling from her fingers.
Hadn’t even taken the gun out of her hand. Couldn’t do anything now. Her gun-hand was in full view of the doorway. You dope. You damned dope. Hadn’t even shut the door.
“I’ve got you covered.”
They were blocking the doorway. One was the hotel manager — Beau recognized him by the tuxedo, the aster, and the half-moon sacs under his eyes. Suspicious-looking guy. Husky. The other was the house dick. Big boy with an iron hat and a .38 in his fist.
No dice. Think of something else.
The windows... Seventeen floors from the street. Escape. Screwy idea, anyway. They were registered. Think. You’ve been a prize poop so far. Think this through.
The house detective came in on a straight line, his eyes on the revolver in Kerrie’s hand. His right hand trained the cannon on them, his left went into his pocket and came out with a handkerchief.
He knew his business. He didn’t try to take the gun from her himself.
“Drop that heater.”
Kerrie looked blank.
“Drop it,” said Beau in her ear. “The gun.”
“Oh.” She dropped it.
“You. Big guy.” The detective shifted his eyes from Kerrie’s hand to Beau’s hands now. “Just push it with your toe. Gentle, Mister. In my direction.”
Beau pushed it. It slid three feet across the rug and stopped by the detective’s large feet. He stooped without looking at it and spread the handkerchief over it, fumbling.
Beau whispered in Kerrie’s ear: “Kerrie, you listening?”
Her head against his breast stirred slightly. She held on to him.
“I’m going to make a break for it. Understand?”
Her arms tightened about him in a convulsive rebellion.
“Say nothing. Not a syllable. Whatever they ask you, say you don’t know. The cops’ll be here in a few minutes. But you don’t know anything till I come back and say it’s all right to talk. Savvy?”
He felt her head wag over his heart, faintly.
“What you two whisperin’ about?” demanded the detective. He was on his feet again, the .22 swathed in his handkerchief.
“Is it all right to move now, Commissioner?” asked Beau. “I’m getting stiff standing still like this.”
“Come here. Leggo the dame. Hold your hands up.” Shrugging, Beau obeyed. Kerrie stumbled over to the armchair and fell into it. The hotel manager moved over quickly and shut the window beside her; he stood there looking down at her.
The house detective slapped Beau all over, grunted. “Okay. Stand over there and be a good boy.”
He dropped to his knees beside Margo’s body and put his ear to her chest. “I guess she’s dead, Mr. O’Brien. You better ’phone Police Headquarters while I—”
The door to the hall slammed. Both men whirled. Beau was gone.
The detective cursed and leaped for the door, while the manager put his hands on Kerrie’s shoulders and held her down with all his strength, as if he expected her to try to escape, too.
“Please,” said Kerrie. “You’re hurting me.”
The manager looked abashed. He grabbed the telephone and shouted a description of Beau to the hotel operator.
“Don’t let that man get out of the hotel!”
Kerrie hugged herself. She felt cold and hungry.
Beau took the emergency stairway four steps at a stride, going up. They would expect him to go down.
He scaled his hat into a corner of the twentieth floor landing and slipped into the main corridor. No one in sight. He walked over to the nearest elevator and pressed the Down button. The operators coming down couldn’t have heard the alarm.
An elevator stopped, and he got in. There were three passengers in the car, looking sleepy. The operator paid no attention to him.
He got off at the mezzanine floor.
From the balcony he could see the lobby seething. The house detective was down there yelling to a patrolman. The cop looked startled and ran out into the street.
Beau slipped into a telephone booth and dialed a number.
“Yes?” said a sleepy voice.
“Ellery! This is Beau.”
“Well?” Mr. Queen’s voice became alert.
“Can’t talk. I’m at the Villanoy, with the whole hotel on my tail.”
“Why? What’s the trouble?”
“Murder—”
“Murder!”
“Margo’s been shot to death.”
“Margo?” Mr. Queen was speechless, but only for an instant. “But how did she— Who shot her?”
“Don’t know.” Tersely Beau recounted the story of the evening, and how he had found Kerrie, and what Kerrie had told him before they were interrupted by the manager and the detective.
Mr. Queen muttered: “Where’s Kerrie now?”
“Upstairs in 1724. In a daze. El, you’ve got to come over.”
“Of course.”
“Nobody knows about that other room except you, Kerrie, me, and the killer. And I told Kerrie to keep her mouth shut. We’ve got to search that room before the cops!”
“What’s the number of the room?”
“It’s just around the corner of 1724, in the transverse corridor. I think it’s 1726. Can you get into the hotel without being collared?”
“I’ll try.”
“Step on it. I think they’re searching the mezzanine now—”
“How are you and Kerrie registered?”
“As Mr. and Mrs. Ellery Queen.”
Mr. Queen the First groaned. “Do you realize that an old gent by the name of Queen is going to have to take charge of this homicide?”
“My God,” said Beau. He hung up slowly.
After a moment he stepped out of the booth and strolled over to the marble railing, lighting a cigaret. The house detective and the patrolman Beau had seen dart out of the lobby were hurrying from writing desk to writing desk, scanning the startled features of the correspondents. They were on the opposite side of the mezzanine.
Beau sauntered towards them and said: “Can I be of service, gentlemen?”
The detective’s heavy jaw dropped. He screeched: “That’s him, Fogarty!” and the two men jumped on Beau.
He stiff-armed the policeman and caught the house man’s gun-hand at the wrist. “Why the rough stuff? I gave myself up, didn’t I?”
They looked baffled. A crowd had collected and Beau stood there grinning at them in an apologetic way.
“All right, wise guy,” panted the detective, shaking his hand free. “What was the idea of lamming?”
“Who, me?” said Beau. “Come on, boys. We mustn’t keep the lady waiting.”
“Who’re you? What’s your name?”
“Queen. Ellery Queen. Want to make something of it?”
“Queen!” The policeman gaped at him. “Did you say Ellery Queen?”
“That’s the ticket, Officer.”
Fogarty looked awed. “Sam, you know who this is? Son of Inspector Queen of the Homicide Squad!”
“Mistakes will happen, boys,” said Beau grandly. “And now, shall we return to the scene of the crime?”
“Inspector Queen’s your old man?” demanded Sam.
“You heard Fogarty.”
“Well, I don’t give a damn,” said Sam doggedly. “Fogarty, this is the guy was in 1724 with the dame when O’Brien and me busted in. She was holdin’ the rod, but how do we know he ain’t a, now, accomplice?”