Chapter 5
Gone with the Wind
Paula Paris’s column gave the news to a palpitating world on Saturday morning, and on Saturday afternoon the Magna Studios doubled the guards at the main gate. The hounds were baying outside Jack Royle’s mansion in Beverly Hills; Blythe had shut herself up in her mosque of a house in Glendale, its door defended by the loose-chested, tight-lipped Clotilde; and Ty and Bonnie, playing their strange roles, granted a joint interview to the puzzled press in which they said nice things about each other and were photographed smiling into each other’s eyes.
“It’s all set,” said Sam Vix to Ellery at the end of a furious day. He wiped his face. “But, boy, oh, boy — tomorrow!”
“Isn’t Bonnie going along?” asked Ellery.
“She wanted to, but I discouraged her. I was afraid that when Ty flew her back from Reed Island, they’d strangle each other in midair.”
“It’s wonderful how cooperative Jack and Blythe have been,” beamed the Boy Wonder. “And with Ty piloting ’em — is that a story, Sam?”
“Sweet mama,” grinned Lew Bascom. “Gimme that bottle.”
“Boys will handle the jamboree tomorrow at the field, Butch,” said the publicity man. “I’m hopping off for Reed Island to direct the preparations for the reception. See you tomorrow night.”
“Not me,” said Butcher hastily. “I hate these Hollywood shindigs. I’ve told Jack and Blythe my doctor advised a rest, and Bonnie understands. Driving out to Palm Springs tomorrow morning for a day in the sun. Conference Monday morning.”
At noon on Sunday Ellery and Lew Bascom drove out to the airport in Ellery’s coupe. Los Feliz Boulevard was jammed with cars crawling bumper to bumper. They wasted an hour getting to the turn-off at Riverside and another along the Los Angeles River drive through Griffith Park to the field. After fifteen minutes of trying to park his car, Ellery abandoned it and they shouldered their way through the mob.
“Too late,” groaned Lew. “There’s Erminius doing his stuff!”
Ty’s brilliant red-and-gold cabin monoplane, gleaming in the sun, was surrounded by a cordon of cursing police. The Royles and the Stuarts, arms locked about one another, bowed and smiled in the vortex of a maelstrom of photographers, radio men, and friends screaming above the blare of a brass band. Dr. Erminius, his sleek black whiskers flowing fluently in the wind, beamed on every one over his prayer-book and sidled closer to the crowded spot on which the cameras were trained.
“Swell work, Doc!” shouted some one.
“Boy, was that a ceremony?”
“Neat, neat. How about a snifter, Doc Erminius?”
“He’ll never marry me!”
“It’s like the Judgment Day,” grinned Lew. “Hey, lemme through here! Come on, Queen. Jack! Blythe!”
The band stopped playing Here Comes the Bride and swung into California, Here I Come.
“Lew! Mr. Queen! It’s all right, officer!”
“Bonnie — Bonnie Stuart! This way, please. Smile at Ty!”
“Won’t you say a few words to the radio audience, Jack?”
“Dr. Erminius, how about a few shots?”
“Yes, my son,” said the good man hastily, and stepped in front of Jack Royle.
“Jack! Blythe! Let’s take a shot of clasped hands showing those wedding rings!”
“Get those people away from that plane, damn it!”
“Miss Blythe! Miss Blythe!” shrieked a feminine voice, and a primly attired French lady of middle age elbowed her way through to the wall of police, waving an envelope frantically.
“Clotilde!” screamed Blythe. She was radiant, her arms full of flowers; her hat askew on her head. She ran over; and as she saw the envelope she gasped aloud, going pale. Then she snatched it from Clotilde’s hand over a policeman’s shoulder and tore it open. Ellery saw her close her eyes, crumple the envelope convulsively. She hurled it away.
Then she put on a smile and returned to the group before the plane.
Ellery picked his way through the fruit and flower baskets littering the ground and managed to pick up the envelope unnoticed. It was another of the post-office-written envelopes, this time sent by special delivery. Inside were the torn halves of a horseshoe-backed playing-card, the eight of spades.
Torn in half. Blythe had not torn it, Ellery was certain. Queer... He frowned and pocketed the envelope, looking about. The Frenchwoman had vanished in the mob.
“Ty! Kiss Bonnie for the newsreel!”
“Jack! Jack! Go into a clinch with the blushing bride!”
“What’s this?” yelled some one, holding aloft a handsome wicker hamper.
“Somebody sent it!” roared Jack Royle.
“Open it!”
Bonnie straightened up with two enormous thermos bottles from the hamper. “Look what I found, people!”
“Sidecars!” bellowed Jack, unscrewing the cap of one of the bottles and sniffing. “Thanks, anonymous friend. How’d you know my weakness?”
“And mine? Martinis!” screamed Blythe over the other bottle. “Isn’t that the loveliest going-away gift!”
“Toast to the bride and groom!”
The thermos bottles were hurled from hand to hand; for a few moments they were all laughing and struggling for a drink. Lew battled desperately with a large stout lady, rescued both bottles, and poured out another round in a nest of paper-cups which appeared from somewhere magically.
“Hey, save some for us,” growled Jack.
“Can’t you get drunk on love?”
“An old buck like you — d’ye need a stimulant?”
“Love — Marches — on!”
“I said save some!” howled Jack, laughing.
Lew reluctantly dropped the thermos bottles into the hamper, screwing on the caps. The hamper lay beside a pile of luggage near the plane.
Lew and Ellery were squeezed, pummeled, pushed, and mauled, stumbling over the luggage. Ellery sat down on the hamper and sighed: “No wonder Butch went to Palm Springs.”
“Who swiped my helmet?” yelled Ty Royle. “Mac! Rev ’em while I get another!” And he darted into the crowd, fighting towards the nearby hangar.
“What’s going on here, the Revolution?” panted a voice. Ellery, trying to save his hat from being crushed, turned to find Alan Clark, his agent, grinning down at him.
“Just a quiet Sunday in Hollywood, Alan. They’re almost ready to take off.”
“I gotta kiss the bride, for gossakes,” shouted Lew frantically. He grabbed at Blythe, caught her, and bussed her heartily while Jack Royle, grinning, began to toss things into the cabin of the plane. Bonnie, heart-stopping in a knee-length leopard coat and Russian leopard hat, was obviously his next victim, but just then a man ran up.
“Miss Bonnie Stuart! Mr. Tyler Royle wants to see you in the hangar.”
Bonnie made a face, smiled for the benefit of the staring public, and slipped after him.
Bonnie looked around inside the hangar. It seemed empty. She turned to question the man who had brought Ty’s message, but he was gone.
“Ty?” she called, puzzled. Her voice echoed from the high roof.
“Here I am!” She followed the sound of Ty’s voice and found him behind a tarpaulined biplane, rummaging in a steel locker.
Ty stared at her. “What do you want, pest?”
“What do I want! What do you want?”
“Me? Not a thing — from you.”
“Look here, Ty Royle, I’ve stood enough from you today without playing puss-in-the-corner. You just sent a messenger to me. What do you want?”
“I sent a messenger? The hell I did.”
“Ty Royle, don’t stand there and be cute!”