“It’s in again,” said Violet Day, asprawl on the perfumed bed, her naked toes wiggling with ecstasy. “Kerrie, have you no shame? Giving away all your girlish secrets.”
“Hi,” said Beau, still grinning. He felt good, he didn’t know why. As if he had had five drinks.
“Go away,” said the blonde. “This gal here was born with the soul of a Girl Scout, and I was placed on earth just to protect her from hungry-looking hombres who think they look like the Taylor man.”
“Vi, shut up,” said Kerrie. “Come in, Queen — we won’t bite you! Got any Scotch?”
“No, but I know where to find some,” said Beau.
“Make mine apple. Say! I take it all back,” said Vi, sitting up in bed. “Where?”
“I’m sort of new in Hollywood,” said Beau. “You know. Lonesome.”
“It’s lonesome!” giggled the blonde. “But it knows where the Scotch is. Kerrie, it does look like Taylor, you know that?”
Beau ignored her. “Miss Land, how about joining me in a little supper with that Scotch?”
Vi hugged her knees. “Lonesome — supper — Scotch! What is this, The Merry Widow? I bet he’ll have you feeling his muscle before the night’s over, Kerrie.”
“We’d love to,” said Kerrie, stressing the “we” the least bit. “I know just how you feel, Queen. It’s a date! — the three of us.”
“The three of us?” said “Mr. Queen” damply.
“But we pay our own way.”
“Utsnay! What do you take me for?”
“Dutch, or you eat by yourself,” said Kerrie positively. “Your bankroll won’t last forever — Ellery, was it? — and we’ve just had two months of steady extra work being Hawaiians. Wasn’t it Hawaiians, Vi?”
“I dunno,” said Vi.
“So give us a half-hour to shower and change,” said Kerrie, and as she said it a dimple appeared from nowhere and transfixed Mr. Rummell like an arrow, “and we’re your gals, Ellery.” And she came and stood close to him at the door, smiling.
Something happened to him. As if he had a sudden heart-attack. What the hell? He found himself in the dark hall leaning against the wall.
He stood there for several minutes, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Whew! Then he ran downstairs to the pay-telephone and sent the telegram to Mr. Queen which ended with EXCLAMATION POINT.
They dined — at Mr. “Queen’s” expense — in the Cocoanut Grove at the Ambassador.
Beau took turns dancing with Kerrie and Vi. Vi just danced. Kerrie floated. She made herself part of him. He actually enjoyed dancing for the first time in his life.
Suddenly Violet Day developed a headache and, over Kerrie’s protests, left them.
Kerrie laughed. “You’re accepted, Mister. Did you know that?”
“How come?”
“Vi turns her headaches on and off like a faucet. Since she left me to your mercies, it’s because she thinks you’re a regular guy.”
“How about you?” Beau leaned forward hungrily.
“I’m not so naive. You’re a nice-looking cover, but what’s in the book? I’ll know better when you take me home.”
Beau looked disappointed. “Tell me about yourself.”
“There isn’t much to tell.”
“Have you and Vi been friends long?”
“I met her in Hollywood.”, Kerrie turned the glass of vermouth slowly in her long fingers. “Vi took me under her wing when my mother died last year. Just like a hen. And I guess I was a pretty hopeless sort of egg.”
“Say, I’m sorry. Your mother, huh?”
“She died of pleurisy-pneumonia. No resistance. She burned herself out trying to make a Garbo out of a cluck.” Kerrie said abruptly: “Let’s talk about something else.”
“You seem to have led a pretty tough life.”
“It hasn’t been all honey-and-almond cream. Monica—”
“Monica?”
“My mother. Monica Cole Shawn. My real name’s Shawn. Monica slaved all her life to see me become somebody, and I’m a little bitter about... How did we ever get on this subject, anyway? You see, I have an uncle who’s a first-class rat. He’s really responsible for my mother’s suffering and hardships. But I don’t see why you—”
“Monica Cole Shawn,” said Beau. “You know, that’s funny. Was your uncle’s name Cole?”
“Yes, Cadmus Cole. Why?”
“His name’s been in the papers. So you’re his niece!”
“Papers? I haven’t seen a paper in two months. What’s he done now — turned a machine-gun on the Marriage License Bureau?”
Beau looked straight at her. “Then you didn’t know your uncle just died?”
She was silent for some time, a little paler. “No, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, of course, but he treated my mother abominably, and I’m afraid I can’t shed any tears. I never even saw him.” She frowned. “How did he die?”
“Heart-attack on a Caribbean cruise. He was buried at sea. His own yacht, you know.”
“Yes, I’d read about him occasionally. He was supposed to be a rich man.” Kerrie’s lip curled. “And all the while he was spending his money on yachts and mansions, my mother was slaving to death, living in hall bedrooms, cooking Sunday breakfasts over gas-burners — if there was anything to cook... I took a job when I was sixteen because I couldn’t bear seeing her work her life away for me. But she did, just the same, and when she died last year at fifty-two she was an old woman. Dear Uncle Cadmus could have saved her all that — if he hadn’t been a lunatic on the subject of marriage. When mother married, and my father died, she wrote Cadmus — and I still have his reply.” Kerrie’s mouth quivered. “Now, look here, Mr. Snoop, that’s quite enough. I’ll be crying on your shoulder, next thing I know.”
“Can you guarantee that?” said Beau. “Kerrie, I’ve got a confession to make.”
“This seems to be Aching Hearts night!”
“I’m a heel.”
“Mister Queen! Thanks for the warning.”
“I mean I’m a phony. I’m not an extra. I’m not in Hollywood looking for a job. I’m here for only one purpose — to find you.”
She was puzzled. “To find me?”
“I’m a private detective.”
She said: “Oh.”
“The Queen agency was employed by your uncle before (his death. Our job was to find his heirs when he died.”
“His... heirs? You mean he died and left — me — money?”
“That’s the size of it, Kerrie.”
Kerrie gripped the table. “Did he think he could buy me off — pay me conscience-money for having killed my mother?”
“I know how you feel.” Beau put one of his paws over her icy hands, and squeezed. “But don’t do anything foolish. What’s done is done. He’s dead, and he’s left a lot of money — to you and to a cousin of yours, Margo Cole, your uncle Huntley’s daughter, if she can be found. That money belongs to the two of you.”
She was silent.
“Part of the money should have been your mother’s while she was alive, anyway. Then what’s wrong in taking it now? You can’t bring her back, but you can enjoy your own life. Do you like Hollywood?”
“I hate it,” she said in a low voice. “Because this is a place where only talent counts, and I haven’t any. I might work my way up to talking bits, but I’m not an actress. I’m not kidding myself. I face a life like Vi’s — cheap boarding houses, a starvation diet, mending the runs in my stockings because I can’t afford new ones...” She shivered.
“Do you want to hear more?” asked Beau.
She smiled all at once and withdrew her hand. “All right, Dick Tracy — shoot the works.”
“Kerrie, your uncle Cadmus died a multimillionaire.”