Beau said: “Who, me?”
The Inspector shrugged. “Anyway, the evidence doesn’t begin to bolster the story.”
“But it’s true,” said Kerrie slowly. “I tell you—”
Beau shook his head at her.
The Inspector stroked his mustache with an agitated forefinger. “I’ll have to hold you,” he said.
XV. The De Carlos Entente
When the inspector had left, hurriedly and with a murderous glance at Beau, Goossens coughed and said: “Mrs. Queen, as — as co-executor of the Cole estate it’s my duty to inform you that your marriage today eliminates you from further participation in the income from your uncle’s estate. There are certain matters, papers... If there’s anything I can do in the way of legal advice, of course... Dreadfully sorry...”
He left, like the Inspector, in a sort of flight.
Kerrie was sobbing on Beau’s shoulder, and Vi was tearing a handkerchief methodically to pieces by the window.
“What are you hanging around for, pop-eyes?” demanded Beau, eying De Carlos with angry dislike.
De Carlos smiled nervously. “I’d like... I’d like to speak to you alone, Mr. Queen.”
“Scram.”
“I must. It’s a private matter—”
“It’ll have to wait. Beat it, will you?”
De Carlos said in a soft voice: “But it’s quite urgent.”
Beau glared at him. The man made a weird picture with his brushlike hair, his beard, his glittering teeth and spectacles, a certain air of mingled intentness, triumph, and anxiety.
“Meet you in my office in Times Square in half an hour,” said Beau on impulse. “I’ll leave word with the night man to let you in.”
“Thank you.” De Carlos bowed to Kerrie, smiling or seeming to smile in his beard, and scurried out.
“Ellery. Don’t go,” said Kerrie tiredly. Her arms were dead weights about his neck.
“I’ve got to, funny-face.” Beau signalled to Vi over Kerrie’s head. “Vi won’t leave you. Will you, Vi?”
“What do you think I am? Of course not!” said Vi with an attempt at cheerfulness. “I don’t like the dump I’m in, anyway.”
“You get the doc to give you a shot of something,” Beau told Kerrie gently. “You need a pocketful of sleep.”
She hung on to him, whimpering.
“Kerrie. You know I love you, don’t you?” She hugged him. “You don’t believe a single word of what — she told you tonight, do you?” Kerrie shook her head violently. “You know I’m in there batting for you a thousand percent, don’t you?” She nodded, empty of words. “Then leave everything to me, and don’t worry.”
He kissed her and rose. Kerrie twisted her body on the bed and buried her face in the pillow. Beau cracked his knuckles in a sort of baffled agony. Then he kissed her again and ran out.
Beau stopped on the sidewalk outside the hotel to cup his hands around a cigaret.
He glanced swiftly about. The street was deserted. An occasional cab cruised by. By his wristwatch it was almost four o’clock. He tossed the match away and began to walk briskly towards Broadway. The night air had a chilly touch; he turned the collar of his jacket up.
He slipped into an all-night drug store, went into a phone booth, shut the door tightly, and called Mr. Ellery Queen’s home telephone number.
Ellery answered almost at once.
“It’s Beau. Weren’t you in bed?”
“I’ve been thinking. What’s up?”
“Plenty. Listen, El, De Carlos showed up at the Villanoy and says he’s got to have a private chin with me. I played a hunch and told him to meet me at the office right away. You want to sit in?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” said Mr. Queen with a certain grimness. “Any idea what’s stirring?”
“No. Grab a cab and get down here fast as you can.”
“I’ll be there in time. How’s Kerrie?”
Beau hung up.
He strode to Times Square, crossed the street, pounded on the door of his office-building.
A yawning watchman admitted him. “Hey, Joe. I expect a man by the name of De Carlos to blow in soon. Let him in. He’ll ask for Mr. Queen. Take him up to our office.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Rummell. Say, don’t you ever sleep?”
“Don’t answer any questions. Get me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Beau let himself into the Queen office, switched on the lights, threw open the windows, and took a bottle from a desk-drawer.
Ten minutes later there was a knock at the reception-room door. He put the bottle down and went out.
The knocker was De Carlos, alone.
“Come in,” said Beau. He locked the door. “You’re early. I’ve telephoned my partner to come down; he’ll be here soon.”
“Your partner?” De Carlos did not look pleased.
“Yes. Uh — guy by the name of Beau Brummell — I mean, Rummell. We’re like that.” Beau rubbed his eyes and led the way to the inner office. “Have a snifter?”
“But I wanted to speak to you privately.”
“No secrets between Beau and me,” growled Beau. He waved towards the bottle as he lit a cigaret. De Carlos licked his red lips, looking about for a glass. There was none in sight, and Beau did not offer one. De Carlos tilted the bottle. Beau watched him cynically. The man drank and drank. When he set the bottle down his gray cheek-bones had turned pink.
He smacked his lips and said: “Now—”
“Not now,” said Beau. “Have another.”
De Carlos waved gaily. “Don’t mind if I do.”
He picked up the bottle again.
De Carlos was drunk when Mr. Queen unlocked the front door and entered the inner office.
The bearded man lay sprawled in the “client’s chair,” waving the bottle and leering glassy-eyed at Beau.
“Ah, the pardner,” said De Carlos, trying to rise. He fell back in the chair. “’Do, Mis’er Rummell. Lovely night. I mean sad. So sad. Have seat, Mis’er Rummell.”
Ellery glanced at Beau, who winked. “This is Mr. Edmund De Carlos, Rummell,” said Beau to Ellery in a voice loud enough to pierce the clouds of alcohol on Mr. De Carlos’s brain. “One of the trustees of the Cole estate, you know.”
“Siddown, Mis’er Rummell,” said Mr. De Carlos cordially, waving the bottle. “Pleasure, ’m sure. Siddown!”
Ellery sat down behind the desk. “I understand you’ve something important to say to us, Mr. De Carlos.”
De Carlos leaned forward confidentially. “Impor’nt an’ worth money, Mis’er Rummell. Pots o’ money, y’un’erstan’.”
“Go on, spill,” said Beau.
“We’re frien’s. We’re all frien’s here. An’ we’re men of the worl’, hey?” De Carlos giggled. “Know what it’s all about. Now I know de... de-tec-tive a’ncies, gen’l’men, an’ I know de-tec-tives. Bought — can all be bought. Jus’ a madder o’ price, I say. Jus’ a madder o’ price... tha’sh all.”
“Do I understand that you want to engage us to investigate a case for you, Mr. De Carlos?” asked Ellery.
De Carlos stared at him owlishly, then burst into laughter. “Very good, Mis’er Rummell. I wanna ’ngage you not to inveshtigate a cashe!”
Beau and Ellery exchanged glances. Then Beau said: “You want what?”
De Carlos grew immediately serious. “Now look, Mis’er Queen. Le’s shpread cardsh on table, huh? I know you married li’l Kerrie tonight ’caush you wash in a deal wi’ Margo. You marry Kerrie, she loshes income from eshtate, Margo gets it, you share with Margo — nishe work, Mis’er Queen, nishe work. But wha’ happensh? Your wife goesh and shpoilsh it all. Putsh three bulletsh in Margo. Woof! Margo’sh dead.” He wagged his head solemnly. “An’ then where are you, Mis’er Queen? Holdin’ the bag, Mis’er Queen, hey?”