St. Louis, Minneapolis, New York — cheap rooming houses, small apartments, a draughty theatrical hotel, a dancing and “dramatic” school for children. Eagerly Beau haunted Broadway. Finally, in the curling files of a theatrical agency, he unearthed an old photograph of a beautiful girl-child named Kerrie Shawn. But then he lost the trail.
During his New York investigation Beau learned from Lloyd Goossens that the Surrogate had been satisfied with the proofs of Cadmus Cole’s testamentary signature. There were plentiful examples of Cole’s handwriting for comparison purposes — on checks, on legal documents, on records in foreign and American banks dating back almost twenty years. Captain Angus’s signature was likewise authenticated through the Argonaut’s log (in which. Mr. Rummell was interested to learn, the details of Cole’s last illness and death were meticulously recorded, agreeing to the letter with the verbal account given by De Carlos).
“Almost ready,” Goossens told Beau. “Assets, for the size of the estate, are in a very fluid condition. The fourth citation is to be published in a few days, Queen — so where do you stand with the hunt for those two girls?”
Beau dug in again. He found a new clue which led westward. But in Cincinnati he came up against a dead end.
“I can’t understand why this femme Kerrie Shawn hasn’t answered the personals I’ve published,” Beau complained to Ellery over the long-distance telephone. “Unless she’s left the United States, or is dead. As far as that’s concerned, there’s been enough newspaper publicity to call her back from Africa, or from the dead.”
Mr. Queen pondered. “There’s a clear record that Monica Shawn was giving her child dancing and dramatic lessons, isn’t there? So, working from the professional angle—”
“Listen, Big Brain,” snarled Beau, “I’ve badgered agents and managers in New York so much they’re threatening to have me pinched if I so much as show my pan again. That theatrical lead is strictly from hunger, I tell you!”
“Where,” inquired Mr. Queen mildly, “does every aspiring American mama with a beautiful child of real or fancied talent eventually, and inevitably, wind up?”
“Am I a dope!” roared Beau. “Goodbye!”
Ten days later Ellery received a wire from Hollywood:
“HAVE FOUND KERRIE WOO WOO EXCLAMATION POINT BEAU”
III. Mr. Santa Claus
At the central casting Bureau in Hollywood Beau had found no Shawns, but three Kerries. He examined their portraits. Kerrie Acres was a Negro. Kerrie St. Alban was an aged character actress. Kerrie Land was a young girl.
Her face was nice. Light-colored eyes looked straight at him; they fizzed, like champagne. A chin-cleft, a turned-up nose, soft dark rolls of hair... nice, nice.
Beau compared Kerrie Land’s face with the photograph in his possession of Kerrie Shawn as a child. There was an unmistakable resemblance. But he had to be sure.
He wormed an Argyle Avenue address and telephone number out of a Bureau attendant and called the number.
A woman answered. He identified himself in a raspy voice as “Central Casting” and asked for Kerrie Land. The woman said Kerrie Land had been on location somewhere for two months, and how come? She was expected back within a few days. She slammed the receiver.
Beau returned to his hotel, looked himself over, decided his clothes were shabby enough to lull the suspicions of even a Hollywood landlady, checked out and, carrying one ragged handbag, walked to the Argyle Avenue address.
It was a stucco rooming house which had long since burst its seams — discolored, down at the heel, one of? row of similar dreary, dowdy dwellings.
Beau began to feel like Santa Claus.
He rang the front doorbell and was admitted by a shapeless woman wearing an ancient dinner-gown and carpet-slippers.
“I want a room,” he said.
“Extra?” She looked him over without friendliness.
“I’m looking for a job in the movies,” Beau admitted.
“Six dollars in advance. Your own soap and towels.” The landlady did not stir until he let her inspect the bulging interior of his wallet. “Oh, new in town. Well, I’ll show you what I got. Throw parties?”
“I don’t know anyone in Hollywood,” said Beau.
“With that roll, you’ll know plenty soon enough.”
“I’m respectable, if that’s what you mean, beautiful,” grinned Beau.
“See you don’t forget it. I run a decent house. Name?”
“Queen. Ellery Queen.”
She shrugged and shuffled upstairs. Beau was very critical of the rooms she indifferently displayed. He watched the little cardboard name-plates on the doors. When he saw one that said: KERRIE LAND — VIOLET DAY, he chose the nearest room on the same floor, paid a week’s rent in advance, and then settled down to await the return of Cadmus Cole’s niece.
That night he stole into the dark bedroom shared by Kerrie “Land” and Violet Day and callously explored it.
It was a mean room, like his own: a rickety dressing table covered by a cheap linen runner smeared in one corner with lipstick and powder; an open closet hung with a faded calico curtain, and inside dozens of flimsy wire hangers; a lame bureau; walls hung with unframed 8 x 10 “still” photographs of Kerrie and a grim blonde with long shanks and an air of world-weariness; two low, lumpy, iron beds.
One bed exhaled strong perfume: Violet Day, Beau decided unchivalrously. The other gave out a sweet, clean odor — obviously Kerrie’s.
Poor kid.
Beau mumbled angrily to himself. Getting soft about a perky little brunette with delusions of stardom and come-hither eyes! Why, she stood in line for more dough than he’d see in his whole lifetime!
And he began to look forward to his first sight of Kerrie Shawn with a fierce, insatiable excitement.
He saw her four days later. He heard a taxi pull up outside, a merry voice, light footsteps. Instantly he was out of his room and at the head of the stairs, his heart racing.
The tall grim blonde appeared downstairs, handling two huge pieces of luggage like a stevedore. She was followed by the brunette, who was laughing as she lugged a suitcase. And suddenly there was warmth and happiness in those dingy halls.
“Come on, Vi!” cried Kerrie, flying up the stairs.
At the top there was Beau, staring.
“Oh,” said Kerrie, bumping into him in the semi-darkness. “Hello!”
“Yourself.”
“You’re new, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely reborn!”
“What? Vi, it’s a funny man! My name’s Kerrie Sh — I mean, Kerrie Land. This is my roomie, Violet Day.”
“Do. Queen. Ellery Queen.” Beau stared and stared.
“It talks,” said the blonde, peering at him. “Next thing you know it’ll touch you for five bucks. Kerrie, come on. My feet are yelling bloody murder.”
“It’s nice, though,” said Kerrie, smiling at him. “What lovely hair, Vi! Looks like Bob Taylor, don’t you think?” And they left Beau grinning in the gloom.
Ten minutes later he rapped on their door.
“Come in!” called Kerrie.
She was in a house-coat. Red flowers and a zipper. Her small feet were bare. Tousled hair — nice. The suitcase lay open on the bed — the sweet-smelling bed, Beau noted with an obscure satisfaction — and she was stowing black panties away in a bureau drawer.