The Devil To Pay (13 page)

“I need lots of money, Fitz. If you won’t give it to me, some other paper will.”

“Have a heart, Val—a story a day! This thing may drag on for months.”

Val rose, “I know what you’re thinking. They’ve got pop dead to rights, no sensational news angle can come out of the case, it will be cut-and-dried, the usual story of a guilty man brought to trial. If you think that, Fitz, you’re a long way off.”

“What d’ye mean?”

“Do you believe pop’s guilty?”

“Sure not,” said Fitz soothingly. “Sit down, Val.”

“I tell you he isn’t.”

“Sure he isn’t.”

“I
know
he isn’t!”

Val walked to the door. Fitz shot out of his chair and ran to head her off. “Don’t be so damned hasty! You mean you’ve got information—”

“I mean,” said Val, “that I have a clue that will lead to the real criminal, Friend Scrooge.”

“You have?” shouted Fitz. “Look, Val mavourneen, come here and sit down again. What is it? Tell old Fitz. After all, I’m an old friend of your father’s—”

“Do I get my thousand a story?”

“Sure!”

“You’ll let me work my own way?”

“Anything you want!”

“No questions asked, and I work alone?”

“That’s not fair. How do I know you’re not sandbagging me? How do I know—”

“Take it or leave it, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“You’ve got the instincts of an Apache!”

“Goodbye,” said Val, turning again to go.

“For God’s sake, hold it, will you? Listen, Val, you haven’t any experience. You may get into trouble.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Val sweetly.

“Or you may ruin a great story. Let me assign one of my men to double up with you. How’s that? Then I’ll be protected, and so will you.”

“I don’t want any spies or story-stealers around,” frowned Val.

“Wait a minute! I give you my word it’ll be on the level, Val. You can’t gang up on me this way! A good man who knows his stuff won’t blab and will steer you right.”

Val stood thinking. In a way, Fitz was right. She had no idea where her investigation might lead. An experienced newspaperman to advise and assist and even provide physical protection in the event of danger was a wise precaution. “All right, Fitz,” she said finally.

Fitz beamed. “It’s a deal! Be back here at two o’clock and I’ll have my man ready. We’ll give you a press card, put you on the payroll, and you’ll be all set. You’re sure you’ve got something?” he asked anxiously.

“You’ll have to take your chances,” said Val. Sure? She didn’t even know what the clue was!

“Get out of here,” groaned Fitz.

When Valerie emerged into the city room Walter was standing in the aisle, waiting. Val tried to pass him, but he moved over to block her path. “Please,” said Val.

“I’ve got to talk to you,” said Walter in a low voice.

“Please!”

“I’ve got to, Val.”

Val eyed him coolly. “Well, if you must I suppose you must. I don’t care for an audience, though, so let’s go into the hall.”

He took her arm and hurried her through the city room. Val studied him covertly. She was shocked by his appearance. His cheeks were sunken; there were leaden hollows under his eyes, which were inflamed. He looked ill, as if he were in pain and had not slept for days. He backed her against the marble wall near the elevators. “I’ve read about Rhys’s arrest,” he said feverishly. “It muddles things for me, Val. You’ve got to give me time to think this over—”

“Who’s stopping you?”

“Please have patience with me. I can’t explain yet—”

“Nasty habit you have,” said Val, “of not being able to explain. Please, Walter. You’re hurting me.”

Walter released her. “I’m sorry about Monday night. Getting drunk, I mean. The things I said. Val, if you’d only have a little faith in me…”

“I suppose you know,” said Val, “that some one planted the rapier and pop’s coat in our closet, and tipped off the police that they were there. Or don’t you?”

“Do you believe
I
did that?” said Walter in a low voice.

Val stirred restlessly. Nothing could come of this. “I’m going,” she said.

“Wait—”

“Oh, yes. I’ve just taken a job here. Special features on the case. I’m going to do a little investigating of my own. I thought you’d like to know.”

Walter grew paler under his two-day growth of beard. “Val! Why?”

“Because trials cost money and lawyers are expensive.”

“But you’ve got that money I gave you. I mean—”

“That’s another thing. Of course we can’t accept that, Walter. Pop has it in a bank, but I’ll have him write out a check for the full amount.”

“I don’t want it! Oh, damn it. Val! Don’t start something that might—that might bring you—”

“Yes?” murmured Valerie. Walter was silent, gnawing his lower lip. “Yes?” said Val again, with the merest accent of contempt. But she could not prevent a certain pity from creeping into her voice, too.

Walter did not reply. Val pressed the elevator-button. The door slid open after a while. She got in and turned around. The operator began to pull the door shut. Walter just stood there.

F
ITZ
sauntered into the reception room of Magna Studios and said to the man at the desk: “Hullo, Bob. Is Ellery Queen in?”

“Who?” said the man.

“Ellery Queen.”

“Queen, Queen. Does he work here?” said the man, reaching for a directory.

“I believe he’s under that impression,” said Fitz.

“Oh, yes. Writer. Writers’ Annex, Room 25. Just a second.” He picked up his telephone.

Fitz stuck a cigar into the man’s mouth, said: “Cut the clowning. What d’ye think I am, a trade-paper ad salesman?” and went through. He strolled along the cement walk before the open-air quadrangle of executive buildings, past the bootblack stand, and into the alley marked “‘A’ Street” alongside Sound Stage One. At the end of the alley cowered a long, lean, two-story building with a red-gabled roof and stained stucco walls. Fitz mounted the steps to the open terrace and searched along the terrace until he found an open door with the number 25 on it. It was a magnificent room, with two magnificent desks, a magnificent rug, a magnificent central fixture, magnificent draperies, and magnificent art on the walls. And it was magnificently empty. A typewriter stood on a mahogany worktable opposite the door; a chair with polished arms magnificently etched into curlicues by some one’s penknife lay overturned on the floor before the table. From the carriage of the typewriter jutted a sheet of heavy bond paper, with words on it. Fitz went in and read them. The words were:

“If a miracle should happen and somebody should walk into this hermit’s lonely desert cell, I am currently in the office of His Holiness Seymour A. Hugger, Grand Lama of the Writers’ Division of Magna Pictures, giving him a piece of what is left of my mind. For God’s sake, pal, wait for me.

E
LLERY
Q
UEEN.”

Fitz grinned and went out. On the way to the terrace steps he caught sight through a window of a long-legged literary person in slacks and a yellow polo shirt. The gentleman seemed fiercely intent on a toothpaste advertisement in
Cosmopolitan
. But then Fitz saw that he was asleep. He returned to the Administration Building and hunted through the polished corridor until he discovered a door which proclaimed the presence of Mr. Hugger. Opening the door, he found himself in a sort of glorified cubbyhole containing three large desks at which three beautiful young women sat buffing their fingernails, and a worried-looking young man who clutched a sheaf of yellow papers marked “Sequence A” which he was reading nervously.

“Yes?” said one of the young women without looking up, but Fitz opened the door lettered “Private” and strolled into Mr. Hugger’s domain without stooping to conversation. Ensconced in a throne-like chair behind a dazzling cowhide-covered desk sat a chubby young man with thin hair and a benign demeanor. The room, the rug, the desk, the radio, the draperies, the bookcases, and the
objets d’art
were even more magnificent than their generic cousins in Room 25, Writers’ Annex. Moreover, Mr. Hugger was magnificent in his happiness. Mr. Hugger seemed to want every one to know that he was happy. Particularly the bearded, purple-visaged maniac who was waving his arms and scudding up and down the room like a Sunday yacht.

“If you’ll calm down for a minute, Mr. Queen,” Mr. Hugger was saying in avuncular accents as Fitz walked in.

“I’ll be damned if I will!” yelled Mr. Queen. “What I want to know is—why can’t I see Butcher?”

“I’ve told you, Mr. Queen. He’s
very
temperamental, Mr. Butcher is. He takes his time. Patience. Just have patience. Nobody’s rushing you—”

“That’s just the bloody trouble!” shouted Mr. Queen. “I want to be rushed. I want to work day and night. I want to hear a human voice. I want to engage in debates about the weather. What did you bring me out here for, anyway?”

“Excuse me,” said Fitz.

“Oh, hello,” said Ellery, and he sank into a ten-foot divan and plunged his hands into his beard.

“Yes?” said Mr. Hugger with an executive look.

“Oh.” Ellery waved his hand wearily. “Mr. Hugger, Mr. Fitzgerald. Fitz is managing editor of the
Independent
.”

“Newspaperman,” said Mr. Hugger, becoming happy again. “Have a cigar, Mr. Fitzgerald. Would you be kind enough to wait outside for a moment? Mr. Queen and I—”

“Thanks, I’ll wait here,” said Fitz genially, licking the end of Mr. Hugger’s cigar. “What’s the trouble, Master-Mind?”

“I ask you,” cried Ellery, bouncing up. “They brought me out here to write for the movies. They gave me twenty-four hours to get ready in New York, and they couldn’t even wait for me to get off the train. I didn’t have time to take a bath. Get him right down to the studio! they told my agent. So I hurried down here, full of alkali, with a running nose and a sore throat, and they gave me the Doge’s Palace to work in, a mountain of foolscap, a whole school of pencils, and the offer of a beautiful stenographer, which I refused. And what do you think happened?”

“I give up,” said Fitz.

“Sick as I’ve been, I’ve hung around here and hung around and hung around, waiting to be called into conference by his Lordship, Jacques Butcher, the producer I’m supposed to go to work for. You know what? After all that haste, I’ve sat in that damned lamasery for two solid weeks and the man hasn’t so much as telephoned me. I’ve called him, I’ve haunted his office, I’ve tried to waylay him—nothing. I’ve just sat on my rump praying for the sight of a human being and slowly going mad!”

“Mr. Queen doesn’t understand the Hollywood way of doing things,” explained Mr. Hugger quickly. “Mr. Butcher in his own way is a genius. He has peculiar methods—”

“Oh, he has, has he?” bellowed Ellery. “Well, let me tell you something, Your Majesty. Your genius has spent the past two weeks playing golf during the day and Romeo during the night with your ingénue star, Bonnie Stuart, so what do you know about that?”

“Come on out,” said Fitz, lighting the cigar, “and I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Yes, go on,” said Mr. Hugger hastily. “You need something to quiet your nerves. Mr. Butcher will get in touch with you very shortly, I’m’ sure.”

“You
and
Mr. Butcher,” said Ellery, impaling Mr. Hugger with a terrible glance, “are from hunger.” And he stamped out, followed by Fitz.

Over the third Scotch-and-soda at Thyra’s, across the street from the studio, Fitz remarked: “I see you’ve got your voice back.”

“The sun fixed that, when he got around to it.” Ellery seized his glass. “God,” he said hollowly, and drained it.

“Sick of this racket already, hey?”

“If I didn’t have a contract I’d take the first train out of the Sante Fe station!”

“How’d you like to get mixed up in some real excitement, not this synthetic lunacy?”

“Anything. Anything! Give me that bottle.”

“It’s right smack down your alley too,” murmured Fitz, obliging as he puffed at Mr. Hugger’s perfecto.

“Oh,” said Ellery. He put down the bottle of Scotch and looked at Fitz over the siphon. “The Spaeth case.”

Fitz nodded. Ellery sat back. Then he said: “What’s up?”

“You know Rhys Jardin’s in the can charged with Spaeth’s murder, don’t you?”

“I read the papers. That’s the only thing I’ve had to do, by God.”

“You met his daughter, Valerie? Swell trick, eh?”

“Economically useless but otherwise a nice girl, I should say. Possibilities.”

Fitz leaned on his elbows. “Well, they’re up against it for
dinero
, and Val came to me this morning and asked for a job. I gave it to her, too.”

“Nice of you,” said Ellery. He wondered what had become of Walter’s money, but not aloud.

“Not at all. Rhys and I boned Lit together at Harvard and all that, but the hell with sentiment. It’s a business proposition. She’s got something to sell, and I’m buying.”

Ellery said suddenly: “Think Jardin killed Spaeth?”

“How should I know? Anyway, the kid says she’s got something hot—a clue of some kind. She won’t tell me what it is, but I’m playing a hunch on this one. She’s going to do byline stories for me daily and meanwhile run down the clue.”

“And exactly where,” said Ellery, marching his fingers along the checkered cloth, “do I come in?”

Fitz coughed. “Now don’t say no till you hear me out, Queen. I admit it’s a screwy idea—”

“In the present state of my emotions,” said Ellery, “that’s in its favor.”

“I told her I’d put an experienced man on with her—show her the ropes, steer her right.” Fitz refilled his glass carefully. “And you’re it.”

“How do you know she’ll work with me? After all, you spilled the beans about me at
Sans Souci
Monday.”

“No, she mustn’t know you’re a detective,” said Fitz hurriedly. “She’d tighten up like a wet rawhide in the sun.”

“Oh,” said Ellery. “You want me to spy on her.”

“Look, Queen, if I wanted to do that I’d put one of my own men on with her. But she needs somebody familiar with murder. She ought to think her partner’s just a legman, though; I don’t want to scare her off.”