Something made Ellery turn and look at Jack Royle. The actor still sat at the bar, motionless, as if he had not heard a word of the quarrel behind him.
But in the mirror Ellery caught a glimpse of his lips. They were twisted into a bitter smile.
Chapter 4
Battle Royle
The seven days following that quiet evening at Alessandro’s whistled by Mr. Ellery Queen’s ears with the terrifying intimacy of bullets; it was like being caught out in No Man’s Land between two blasting armies. By the end of the week he had not only collected a smoking mass of notes but several lesions of the nervous system as well.
He was entangled in a mass of old Royle-Stuart clippings in the studio library, trying to unsnarl his notes, when he was summoned by page to Jacques Butcher’s office.
The Boy Wonder looked gaunt, but triumphant. “Mirabile dictu. We’re sitting on top of the world.”
“Peace, it’s wonderful,” grinned Lew. “It sure is.”
“They’ve agreed?” asked Ellery incredulously. “Absolutely.”
“I refuse to believe it. What did you use — hypnosis?”
“Appeal to their vanity. I knew they’d fall.”
“Blythe put up a battle,” said Lew, “but when I told her Jack didn’t want her but was holding out for Cornell, she got tongue-tied trying to say yes.”
“How about Jaunty Jack?”
“A pushover.” Lew frowned. “It was hooey about Cornell, of course. Looked to me almost as if he wanted to play opposite Blythe.”
“He has looked peaked this week,” said Ellery thoughtfully.
“Hell, he ain’t had a drink in five days. That would poop up any guy. I tell you something’s happened to Jack!”
“Let’s not pry too deeply into the ways of Providence,” said the Boy Wonder piously. “The point is — they’re in.”
“I shouldn’t imagine, Butch, you had quite so smooth a time winning the youngsters over.”
The producer shuddered. “Please... Ty finally gave in because I convinced him his public was demanding a real-life role from him — biography’s the vogue, following the Muni hits — and what could Ty Royle’s public like better than Ty Royle’s own life on the screen? Know what he said? ‘I’ll show ’em real life,’ he said, ‘when I get my hands around your fiancée’s lily-white throat!’”
“Sounds bad,” said Ellery.
“Doesn’t sound good,” chortled Lew.
“Bonnie,” said the Boy Wonder sadly, “Bonnie was even worse. The only condition on which she’d give in was that the script must include at least one scene in which she had to slap, scratch, and punch Ty into insensibility.”
“Who’s directing?” asked Lew.
“Probably Corsi. Swell Broadway background. And you know what he did last year with the human-interest situations in Glory Road. Why?”
“I was thinking,” said Lew dreamily; “it’s going to be a lot of fun. Corsi’s the most finicky retake artist in pictures. After two-three days of slapping Ty around to Corsi’s satisfaction for that one scene Bonnie’ll have had Ty’s pound of flesh — under her fingernails.”
The historic ceremony of the Great Signing took place on the 11th, which was the following Monday. From the preparations he heard and witnessed in the office adjoining his, Ellery thought whimsically of a landing-field, with a crippled plane circling above, and fire-apparatus and ambulances scurrying about below in readiness for the inevitable crack-up.
But, all things considered, the contracts were signed without the blazing wreckage the Boy Wonder apparently anticipated. Peace was achieved by a simple expedient: the signatories did not open their mouths. Jack Royle, dressed even more carefully than usual, stared out of Butcher’s windows until his turn came to sign; then he signed, smiled for the photographers, and quietly walked out. Blythe, eye-filling in a silver fox-trimmed suit, preserved a queenly silence. Bonnie, it was true, stared steadily at Ty’s throat throughout the ceremony, as if contemplating assault. But Ty, to whose better nature Butch had appealed beforehand, ignored the challenge in her eyes.
The trade-paper reporters and photographers were plainly disappointed.
“For gossakes,” said Lew disgustedly, when they had all left, “that’s a hell of a way to build up the conflict angle. Look at the chance we muffed, Butch!”
“Until they signed,” said the producer calmly, “I couldn’t risk one of them blowing up the whole business by backing out. You don’t fumble when you’re playing catch with dynamite, Lew.”
“Then it’s okay to shoot the works now, Butch?” asked Sam Vix.
“We’re rolling, Sam.”
Vix proceeded to roll. Exactly how it occurred Ellery did not discover — he suspected a conspiracy between the publicity man and Lew Bascom — but on Monday night Bonnie and Ty collided at the bar of the Clover Club. Lew, conveniently present, tried with suspicious gravity to effect a reconciliation “for dear old Magna.” Bonnie, who was escorted by a wealthy Argentine gentleman, flared up; Ty flared back; the Argentine gentleman resented Ty’s tone; Ty resented the Argentine gentleman’s tone; the Argentine gentleman pulled Ty’s nose vigorously; and Ty threw the Argentine gentleman over the bartender’s head into the bar mirror, which did not stand up under the strain. Whereupon Bonnie had Ty arrested for assault. Bailed out in the early hours of Tuesday morning by his father, Ty swore vengeance in the presence of half the newspapermen in Hollywood.
The Tuesday papers made Sam Vix look content. “Even Goldwyn,” he told Ellery modestly, “would be satisfied with that one.”
But Mr. Vix did not look so content on Friday. The very patch over his eye was quivering when he burst into the Boy Wonder’s office, where Lew and Ellery were shouting at each other in a “story conference,” while Butcher listened in silence.
“We’re sunk,” panted Vix. “Never trust an actor. They’ve done it. Paula Paris just tipped me off!”
“Who done what?” asked Butch sharply.
“The one thing that blows the Royle-Stuart picture higher than the Rockies. Jack and Blythe have made up!”
He sank into a chair. Lew Bascom, Ellery, goggled at him. Butcher swiveled and stared out his window.
“Go on,” said Lew in a sick voice. “That’s like saying Trotsky and Stalin were caught playing pinochle with J. P. Morgan.”
“It’s even worse than that,” groaned Vix. “They’re going to be married.”
“For gossakes!” yelled Lew, jumping up. “That screws everything!”
The Boy Wonder spun around and said into his communicator: “Madge, get Paula Paris on the wire.”
“Requiescat in pace,” sighed Ellery. “Anybody know the dope on the next train to New York?”
Lew was racing about, declaiming to the ceiling. “Wham goes the big idea. Conflict — huh! Feud! Build up a natural for over twenty years and then they go into a clinch and kill the whole thing. They can’t do this to me!”
The telephone rang. “Paula, Jacques Butcher. Is it true what Sam Vix says you say about Jack and Blythe?”
“They agreed to forgive and forget Wednesday night,” answered Paula. “I heard it late yesterday. It seems Jack saw the light Saturday night at the Horseshoe Club after that fuss over Park, the actor, and he’s been brooding over his own cussedness ever since. Seems to be true love, Mr. Butcher. They’re rushing plans for the wedding.”
“What happened?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Well, I’m counting on you to give it a royal send-off in your column, Paula.”