Ellery Queen
The Four of Hearts
Part One
Chapter 1
God’s Gift To Hollywood
It is a well-known fact that any one exposed to Hollywood longer than six weeks goes suddenly and incurably mad.
Mr. Ellery Queen groped for the bottle of Scotch on the open trunk.
“To Hollywood, city of screwballs! Drink ’er down.” He guzzled what was left of the Scotch and tossed the bottle aside, resuming his packing. “California, here I go — unwept, unhonored, and unsung. And do I care?”
Alan Clark smiled that Mona Lisa smile by which you may know any member of the fraternity of Hollywood agents, fat or thin, tall or short, dewy-eyed or soiled by life. It is the sage’s, the saint’s, the cynic’s smile of pure wisdom.
“All you wacks act this way at first. Them that can take it snaps out of it. Them that can’t — they turn yellow and go squawking back East.”
“If you’re trying to arouse my ire,” growled Ellery, kicking his prostrate golf-bag, “desist, Alan. I cut my eyeteeth on the tactics of scheming agents.”
“What the hell did you expect — a Class A assignment your first week on the lot and a testimonial dinner at the Coconut Grove?”
“Work,” said Ellery unreasonably.
“Phooey,” said his agent. “It isn’t work here; it’s art. Rembrandt didn’t get his start knocking out the Sistine Chapel, did he? Give your-self a chance to learn the ropes.”
“By burying myself in that mausoleum of an office they gave me and sucking my thumbs?”
“Sure, sure,” said Clark soothingly. “Why not? It’s Magna’s dough, isn’t it? If the studio’s willing to invest six weeks’ salary in you, don’t you think they know what they’re doing?”
“Are you asking me?” said Ellery, flinging things into the trunk. “Then I’m telling you. No!”
“You’ve got to get the feel of pictures, Queen, before you can wade into a script. You’re not a day-laborer. You’re a writer, an artist, a... a sensitive plant.”
“Flapdoodle, with onions on the side.”
Clark grinned and tipped his hat. “Pleased to meet you... Just the same, what’s the rush? You’ve got a future out here. You’re an idea man, and that’s what they pay off on in Hollywood. They need you.”
“Magna gives me a six-week contract with an option for renewal, the six weeks expire today, they don’t take up the option, and that means they need me. Typical Hollywood logic.”
“They just didn’t like the contract the New York office wrote. Happens out here all the time. So they let your contract lapse and now they’ll offer you a new one. You’ll see.”
“I was brought out here to do the story and dialogue on a horse opera. Have I done a single thing in six weeks? Nobody’s paid the slightest attention to me, I haven’t been able to see or talk to Jacques Butcher even once... Do you know how many times I’ve called Butcher, Alan?”
“You’ve got to have patience. Butch is the Boy Wonder of Hollywood. And you’re just another lous — another writer.”
“You can’t prove it by anything I’ve written, because I haven’t written anything. No, sir, I’m homeward bound.”
“Sure, sure,” said the agent. “Here, you left out this wine-colored polo shirt. I know how you feel. You hate our guts. You can’t trust your best friend here; he’ll use the back of your neck for a stepladder the minute you turn your head. I know. We’re twerps—”
“Illogical!”
“No art—”
“Synthetic!”
“Throw our dough around—”
“Dog eat dog!”
“Just the same,” grinned Clark, “you’ll learn to love it. They all do. And you’ll make a hell of a lot more money writing for pictures than you ever will figuring out who wrapped a meat-cleaver around Cadwallader St. Swithin’s neck in Room 202. Take my advice, Queen, and stick around.”
“The way I figure it,” said Ellery, “the incubation period lasts six weeks. After that a man’s hopelessly infected. I’m taking it on the lam while I still have my sanity.”
“You’ve still got ten days to pick up your tickets to New York.”
“Ten days!” Ellery shuddered delicately. “If it hadn’t been for the Sperry murder I’d have been back East long ago.”
Clark stared. “I thought there was something screwy in the way Glücke’s been pinning medals on himself!”
“Ouch, I’ve let the cat out. Keep it under your hat, Alan. I promised Inspector Glücke—”
The agent pulled a gust of indignation up from his shoes. “Do you mean to stand there and tell me you cracked the Sperry case and didn’t have the brains to get your pan smeared over the front page?”
“It doesn’t mean anything to me. Where the devil can I put these spiked shoes?”
“Why, with that publicity you could have walked into any studio in Hollywood and written your own ticket!” Clark became quiet, and when Ellery looked up he saw the old Mona Lisa smile. “Look,” said Clark. “I’ve got a sweet idea.”
Ellery dropped the shoes. “Now wait a minute, Alan.”
“Leave it to me. I absolutely guarantee—”
“I gave Glücke my word, I tell you!”
“The hell with that. Well, okay, okay. I found it out somewhere else. You’ll still be the white-haired boy—”
“No!”
“I think,” mused the agent, pulling his lip, “I’ll try Metro first.”
“Alan, absolutely no!”
“Maybe I can ring Paramount and Twentieth Century in on it, too. Play ’em off against each other. I’ll have the Magna outfit eating out of my hand.” He slapped Ellery’s shoulder. “Why, man, I’ll get you twenty-five hundred bucks a week!”
In this moral crisis the telephone rang. Ellery fled to it.
“Mr. Queen? Hold the line, please. Mr. Butcher calling.”
Ellery said: “Mr. who?”
“Mr. Butcher.”
“Butcher!”
“Butcher!” Clark yanked his hat over his ears. “See, what did I tell you? Butcho the Great! Where’s your extension? Don’t mention dough, now. Feel him out. Boy, oh, boy!” He dashed into the bedroom.
“Mr. Queen?” said a sharp, nervous, young man’s voice in Ellery’s ear. “Jacques Butcher speaking.”
“Did you say Jacques Butcher?” mumbled Ellery.
“Tried to locate you in New York for four days. Finally got your address from your father at Police Headquarters. What are you doing in Hollywood? Drop in to see me today.”
“What am I do—” Ellery paused. “I beg your pardon?”
“What? I say, how is it you’re on the Coast? Vacation?”
“Excuse me,” said Ellery. “Is this the Jacques Butcher who is executive vice-president in charge of production at the Magna Studios in Melrose, in Hollywood, California, United States of America?” He stopped. “The planet Earth?”
There was a silence. Then: “Beg pardon?”
“You’re not the gag man?”
“What? Hello! Mr. Queen?” Another dead moment in Time, as if Mr. Butcher were fumbling with a memorandum. “Am I speaking to Ellery Queen, Queen the detective-story writer? Where the hell — Madge. Madge! Did you get me the wrong man, damn it?”
“Wait,” said Ellery hollowly. “Madge got you the right man, all right, all right. But my brain isn’t functioning at par these days, Mr. Butcher. I’m slicing ’em into the rough on every drive. Did I understand you to ask if I’m in Hollywood on a vacation?”
“I don’t get this.” The edge on the sharp voice was badly blunted. “We seem to have our wires crossed. Aren’t you feeling well, Queen?”
“Well?” howled Ellery, growing red in the face. “I feel terrible! Why, you incomparable nitwit, I’ve been employed by your studio for six interminable weeks now — and you ask me if I’m here on a vacation?”