The Four of Hearts (16 page)

CHAPTER 14

MR. QUEEN, MISOGAMIST

At ten minutes before one o'clock Bonnie scudded into the Brown Derby, looked about in panic, and made for Ellery's booth with a queer little rush. She sat down and pushed herself into a corner, breathing hard.

‘Here, what's the matter?' said Ellery. ‘You look scared to death.'

‘Oh, I am. I'm being followed!' She peeped over the partition at the door, her eyes wide.

‘Clumsy,' mumbled Ellery.

‘What?'

‘I mean, it's probably your imagination. Who would want to follow you?'

‘I don't know Unless …' She stopped inexplicably, her brows almost meeting. Then she shook her head.

‘You're looking especially lovely today.'

‘Yet I'm
positive
… A big black car. A closed car.'

‘You should wear bright colours all the time, Bonnie. They do remarkable things to your complexion.'

Bonnie smiled vaguely, removed her hat and gloves, and passed her hands over her face like a cat. ‘Never mind my complexion. It isn't that. I just won't wear mourning. It's – it's ridiculous. I've never believed in mourning. Black things are like a …
poster.
I keep fighting with Clotilde about it. She's simply horrified.'

‘Yes,' said Ellery encouragingly. She was carefully made up, very carefully indeed, to conceal her pallor and certain tiny fine lines around her eyes; her eyes were large and dark with lack of rest.

‘I don't have to go around advertising to the world that I've lost my mother,' said Bonnie in a low voice. ‘That funeral … it was a mistake. I hated it. I hate myself for having consented to it.'

‘She had to be buried, Bonnie. And you know Hollywood.'

‘Yes, but – ‘ Bonnie smiled and said in a sudden gay tone: ‘Let's not talk about it. May I have a drink?'

‘So early in the day?'

She shrugged. ‘A daiquiri, please.' She began to explore her handbag.

Ellery ordered a daiquiri, and a brandy-and-soda, and watched her. She was breathing hard again, under cover of her activity. She took out her compact and examined her face in the mirror, not looking at him, not looking at what lay plainly revealed in her open bag, picking at non-existent stragglers of honey-hued hairs, pursing her lips, applying a dab of powder to her nose. And suddenly, without looking at it, she took an envelope out of her bag and pushed it across the table to him.

‘Here,' she said in a muffled voice. ‘Look at this.'

His hand closed over it as the waiter brought their drinks. When the waiter went away Ellery opened his hand. In it lay an envelope. Bonnie studied him anxiously.

‘Our friend's renounced the post-office pen, I see,' said Ellery. ‘Typewritten address this time.'

‘But don't you
see
?' whispered Bonnie. ‘It's addressed to
me
!'

‘I see quite clearly. When did it arrive?'

‘In this morning's mail.'

‘Hollywood-posted last night, élite type, obvious characteristics three broken letters – b and d and t this time. Our friend had to use a different typewriter, since Jack's portable has been in my possession since yesterday afternoon. All of which tends to show that the letter probably wasn't written until last night.'

‘Look … at what's in it,' said Bonnie.

Ellery withdrew the enclosure. It was the seven of spades.

‘The mysterious “enemy” again,' he said lightly. ‘History seems on its way to being a bore … Oh.' He thrust the envelope and card into his pocket and rose suddenly. ‘Hello, Butch.'

The Boy Wonder was standing there, looking down at Bonnie with a queer expression.

‘Hello, Bonnie,' he said.

‘Hello,' said Bonnie faintly.

He stooped, and she turned her cheek. He straightened up without kissing her, his sharp eyes veiled. ‘Having lunch here,' he said casually. ‘Happened to spot you two. What's up?'

‘Bonnie,' said Ellery, ‘I think your estimable fiancé is jealous.'

‘Yes,' said the Boy Wonder, smiling, ‘I think so, too.' He looked ill. There were deep circles about his eyes, and his cheeks were sunken with fatigue. ‘I tried to get you this morning, but Clotilde said you'd gone out.'

‘Yes,' said Bonnie. ‘I – did.'

‘You're looking better, Bonnie.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Will I see you tonight?'

‘Why … Why don't you sit down with us?' said Bonnie, moving an inch on her seat.

‘Yes, why don't you?' echoed Ellery heartily.

Those sharp eyes swept over him for an instant, stopping only long enough to touch on the pocket in which Ellery had thrust the envelope. ‘Thanks, no,' smiled Butcher. ‘I've got to be getting back to the studio. Well, so long.'

‘So long,' said Bonnie in a low voice.

He stood there for a moment more, as if hesitating over a desire to kiss her; then suddenly he smiled and nodded and walked away. They saw the droop of his shoulders as the doorman held open the door for him.

Ellery sat down and sipped at his brandy-and-soda. Bonnie jiggled her long-stemmed glass.

‘Nice chap, Butch,' said Ellery.

‘Yes. Isn't he.' Then Bonnie set down her glass with a little bang and cried: ‘Don't you see? Now that the cards have started coming to
me
…'

‘Now Bonnie –'

‘You don't think,' she said in a shaky little voice, ‘you don't think … I'm … to be next?'

‘Next?'

‘Mother got the warnings, and she – Now I'm getting them.' She tried to smile. ‘I'm scared silly.'

Ellery sighed. ‘Then you've changed your mind about Jack Royle's having sent those previous letters?'

‘No!'

‘But, Bonnie, surely you're not afraid of a dead man?'

‘No dead man mailed this letter last night,' said Bonnie fiercely. ‘Oh, Jack Royle sent those other letters to mother. But this one to me …' Bonnie shivered. ‘I have only one enemy, Mr. Queen.'

‘You mean Ty?' murmured Ellery.

‘I mean Ty. He's taking up where his father left off!'

Ellery was silent. He was powerfully tempted to demonstrate to Bonnie how unfounded her suspicions were; he would have given a good deal to dispel that look in her eyes. But he steeled himself. ‘You'll have to be careful, Bonnie.'

‘Then you
do
think –'

‘Never mind what I think. But remember this. The most dangerous thing you can do is give yourself to Ty Royle.'

Bonnie closed her eyes as she gulped down the dregs of her cocktail. When she opened them they were full of fear. ‘What shall I do?' she whispered.

Inwardly, Ellery cursed. But he merely said: ‘Watch your step. Care – care. Take care. Don't talk to Ty. Don't have anything to do with him. Avoid him as you would a leper.'

‘A leper.' Bonnie shuddered. ‘That's what he is.'

‘Don't listen to his love-making,' continued Ellery, not looking at her. ‘He's liable to tell you anything. Don't believe him. Remember, Bonnie.'

‘How could I forget?' Tears sprang into her eyes. She shook her head angrily and groped for her handkerchief.

‘That car,' muttered Ellery. ‘The one that's been following you. Don't worry about that. The men in it are protecting you. Don't try to get away from them, Bonnie.'

But Bonnie scarcely heard him. ‘What good is my life?' she said dully. ‘I'm left alone in the world with a crazy beast after me, and – and –'

Ellery bit his lip, saying nothing, watching her pinch her nostrils with the handkerchief. He felt very like a beast himself.

After a while he ordered two more drinks, and when they came he urged one upon her. ‘Now stop it, Bonnie. You're attracting attention.'

She dabbed at her reddened eyes very quickly then, and blew her little nose, and got busy with her powder-puff; and then she took up the second cocktail and began to sip it.

‘I'm a fool,' she sniffled. ‘It seems all I do is weep, like some silly heroine in a movie.'

‘Fine, fine. That's more like it. By the way, Bonnie, did you know that your mother and Jack Royle paid a visit to your grandfather Tolland Stuart a week ago Wednesday?'

‘You mean just before their engagement was announced? Mother didn't tell me.'

‘That's odd.'

‘Isn't it.' She frowned. ‘How do you know?'

‘Paula Paris told me.'

‘That woman! How did
she
know?'

‘Oh, she's really not so bad,' said Ellery lamely. ‘It's just her job, Bonnie. You ought to be able to see that.'

For the first time Bonnie examined him with the naked concentration of a woman seeking beneath the surface the signs of male weakness. ‘Oh, I see,' she said slowly. ‘You're in love with her.'

‘I?' protested Ellery. ‘Absurd!'

Bonnie clothed the nakedness of her glance and murmured: ‘Sorry. I suppose it's immaterial where she found out. I do seem to recall now that mother was away all that day. I wonder why on earth she went to see grandfather. And with … that man.'

‘What's so surprising about that? After all, she'd decided to be married, and he
was
her father.'

Bonnie sighed. ‘I suppose so, but it seems queer.'

‘In what way?'

‘Mother hadn't visited or spoken to grandfather – oh, more than two or three times in the past dozen years. I myself hadn't been in that awful house in the Chocolate Mountains before last Sunday in at least eight years – I was wearing hair-ribbons and pinafores, so you can imagine how long ago that was. Why, if I'd passed grandfather on the street before Sunday I wouldn't have recognized him. He never came to see us, you see.'

‘I've meant to question you about that. Just what was the reason for the coldness between your mother and your grandfather?'

‘It wasn't coldness exactly. It was … well, it's just thatgrandfather's naturally a selfish person, all wrapped up in himself. Mother used to tell me that even as a little girl she never got much affection from him. You see, my grandmother died in childbirth, when mother was born – she was an only child – and grandfather sort of … let go after that. I mean –'

‘Cracked up?'

‘He had a nervous breakdown, mother said. He was never quite the same after. He took grannie's death very hard, sort of blamed mother for it. If she hadn't been born –'

‘It's not an uncommon masculine reaction.'

‘I don't want you to think he was brutal to mother, or anything like that,' said Bonnie quickly. ‘He always had a sense of obligation towards her financially. He had her brought up very well, with governesses and nurses and heaps of clothes and European trips and finishing schools and all that. But when she grew up and went on the stage and got along very well by herself – why, I suppose he thought his duties as a father ended right there. And he's never paid the slightest attention to me.'

‘Then why did your mother visit him last Wednesday?'

‘I'm sure I don't know,' frowned Bonnie, ‘unless it was to tell him about her and Jack Royle getting married. Although certainly grandfather wouldn't care
what
she did; he took no interest in her first marriage, so why should he take any in her second?'

‘Could it have been because your mother needed money? You said the other day she was always stony.'

Bonnie's lip curled. ‘From him? Mother always said she'd beg before she'd ask him for a cent.'

Ellery sat rubbing his upper lip with the tip of his finger. Bonnie finished her cocktail.

‘Bonnie,' said Ellery suddenly, ‘let's do something.'

‘What?'

‘Let's get ourselves a plane and fly down to the Chocolate Mountains.'

‘After the horrible way he acted Sunday?' Bonnie sniffed. ‘No, indeed. Not even going to his own daughter's funeral! That's carrying eccentricity a bit
too
far, at least for me.'

‘I have the feeling,' said Ellery, rising, ‘that it's important to find out why your mother and John Royle visited him nine days ago.'

‘But –'

Ellery looked down at her. ‘It may help, Bonnie, to clear away the fog.'

Bonnie was silent. Then she tossed her head and got up. ‘In that case,' she said firmly, ‘I'm with you.'

CHAPTER 15

MR. QUEEN, SNOOP

In the light of blessed day the Law of Dreadful Night reversed itself and Tolland Stuart's eyrie from the sunshot air lay revealed in all its sprawling, weatherbeaten grandeur – a more fearsome scab upon the knife-edged mountain landscape than it had ever been invisible under darkness.

‘It's a simply hideous place,' shivered Bonnie, peering down as the hired aeroplane circled the landing-field.

‘It's not exactly another Shangri-La,' said Ellery drily, ‘even though it does resemble the forbidden city at the roof of the world. Has your worthy grandfather ever visited Tibet? It might explain the geographical inspiration.'

The gloomy pile crouched lifeless beneath them. And yet there was an illusion of life in the silent stones and turrets, lying still in the centre of a web of power lines and telephone cables descending airily the slopes of the mountain.

‘Is it my imagination,' said Bonnie, ‘or does that thing down there look like a spider?'

‘It's your imagination,' replied Ellery quickly. When they trundled to a stop on the tiny field, he said to the pilot: ‘Wait for us. We shan't be long,' and took Bonnie's arm in a casual but precautionary way. He helped her to the ground and hurried her towards the rift in the woods. As they passed the hangar he noted that its doors stood open and its interior was empty.

Bonnie noticed, too. ‘Do you suppose grandfather's flown off somewhere? I'd always understood he rarely left the estate.'

‘More likely it's Dr. Junius. I imagine the good leech has to do the shopping for cabbages and such. Picture yourself running a household up here!'

‘And flying down to the grocer's for a bottle of olives,' giggled Bonnie nervously.

The tree-canopied path was deserted. And when they emerged into the clearing where the house stood they saw that the front doors were shut.

Ellery knocked; there was no answer. He knocked again. Finally, he tried the knob. It turned.

‘The obvious,' he chuckled, ‘has a way of eluding me. Enter, Bonnie. The house, at least, won't bite you.'

Bonnie looked doubtful; but she squared her boyish shoulders and preceded him bravely into the dim interior.

‘Grandfather?' she called.

The syllables tumbled back, smothered and mocking.

‘Mr. Stuart!' roared Ellery. The echo had a sneer in it. ‘Damn. That old man's exasperating. Do you mind if I shake some life into him?'

‘Mind?' Bonnie looked angry. ‘I'd like to do some shaking myself!'

‘Well,' said Ellery cheerfully, ‘we'll have to find him first,' and he led the way.

The living-room was empty. The kitchen, although there were bread-crumbs on the porcelain-topped table and the odour of freshly brewed tea, was also empty; so Ellery took Bonnie with him to the staircase, looking grim.

‘He's up there sulking again, I'll bet a million. Mr. Stuart!'

No answer.

‘Let me go first,' said Bonnie firmly, and she ran up the stairs.

They found the old man lying in bed, the table by his side loaded with pill-boxes, medicine bottles, atomizers, and iron-stained spoons. His toothless jaws were doggedly munching on a cold meat sandwich, and he was gulping iced tea as he glared at them quite without surprise.

‘Grandfather!' cried Bonnie. ‘Didn't you hear us?'

He glowered at her from under his hairy grey brows, munching without a sign he had heard her.

‘Grandfather!' Bonnie looked scared. ‘Can't you hear me? Are you
deaf?'

He stopped munching long enough to growl: ‘Go away,' and then he took another swallow of tea and another bite of the white bread.

Bonnie looked relieved and furious. ‘How can you treat me this way? Aren't you human? What's the
matter
with you?'

The hair on his cheeks and chin stopped wiggling as his jaws suddenly clamped together. Then they wiggled again as he said curtly: ‘What d'ye want?'

Bonnie sat down. ‘I want,' she said in a low voice, ‘a little of the affection you never gave my mother.'

Studying that aged, bitter physiognomy, Ellery was astonished to see a soft expression creep into the veined and rheumy eyes. Then the expression vanished. The old man said gruffly: ‘Too late now. I'm an old man. Blythe should have thought of that years ago. She never was a daughter to me.' The lisp grew more pronounced as his voice rose. ‘I don't want anybody! Go away and let me alone. If that fool Junius wouldn't hop in and out like a jack rabbit, blast him, maybe I'd get some privacy!'

Bonnie made two tight little fists of her gloves. ‘You don't scare me one bit with your bellowing,' she said evenly. ‘You know the fault was yours, not mother's. You never gave her the love she had a right to expect from you.'

The old man banged down his glass and hurled the remains of the sandwich from him. ‘You say that to me?' he howled. ‘What do
you
know about it? Did she ever bring you to me? Did she ever –'

‘Did you ever show her you wanted her to?'

The bony arms wavered, then fell to the coverlet with a curious weakness. ‘I'm not going to argue with a snip of a girl. You're after my money. I know what you want. My money. That's all children and grandchildren ever want!'

‘Grandfather,' gasped Bonnie, rising. ‘How can you say such a thing?'

‘Get out, get out,' he said. ‘That fool Junius! Going off to Los Angeles and letting this house become a wayside inn. Lord knows what germs you've brought in here, you and this fellow. I'm a sick old man. I'm –'

‘Goodbye,' said Bonnie. And she made for the door blindly.

‘Wait,' said Ellery. She waited, her lips trembling. Ellery faced the old man grimly. ‘Your life is your own to lead as you see fit, Mr. Stuart, but a capital crime has been committed and you can't shut yourself away from
that.
You're going to answer some questions.'

‘Who are you?' demanded the old man sourly.

‘Never mind who I am. A week ago Wednesday – that's nine days ago – your daughter and John Royle paid you a visit. Why?'

It seemed to him that for an instant the old man showed astonishment; but only for an instant. ‘So you found that out, too, did you? You must be from the police, like that idiot Glücke who was up here early in the week. Police!'

‘I asked you, Mr. Stuart –'

‘You want to know why they came here, hey? All right, I'll tell you,' said the old man unexpectedly, hitching himself up in bed. ‘Because they wanted money, that's why! That's all anybody ever wants.'

‘Mother asked you for money?' said Bonnie. ‘I don't believe it!'

‘Call me a liar, do you?' said the old man venomously. ‘I say she asked me for money. Not for herself, I admit. But she asked me. For that good-for-nothing Royle!'

Bonnie looked at Ellery, and Ellery looked at Bonnie. So that was it. Blythe had come to her father against all her instincts – not for herself, but for the man she loved. Bonnie looked away, staring out of the window at the cold sky.

‘I see,' said Ellery slowly. ‘And you gave it to her?'

‘I must have been out of my mind that day,' grumbled the old man. ‘I gave Royle a cheque for a hundred and ten thousand dollars and I told Blythe not to bother me again. Good-for-nothing! Something about gambling debts. She wanted to marry a gambler. Well, that was her hard luck.'

‘Oh, grandfather,' sobbed Bonnie, ‘you're an old fraud.' She took a step towards him.

‘Don't come near me!' said the old man hastily. ‘You're not sterile. Full of germs!'

‘You did love her. You wanted her to be happy.'

‘I wanted her to let me alone.'

‘You just pretend to be hard –'

‘It was the only way I could get rid of her. Why can't people let me alone? Blythe said it would be her money some day, anyway, and all she asked was part of it before …' His hairy lips quivered. ‘Get out and don't come back.'

And Bonnie's hardened. ‘You know,' she whispered, ‘I believe you did give it to her just to get rid of her. Don't worry, grandfather. I'll get out and I'll never come back. I'll never speak to you again as long as you live.'

The old man waved his arms again, his sallow face livid. ‘I won't die for a long time!' he yelled. ‘Don't worry about
that
! Get out, the two of you!'

‘Not yet,' said Ellery. He glanced at Bonnie. ‘Bonnie, would you mind going back to the plane? I'll join you in a few minutes. I'd like to talk to your grandfather alone.'

‘I can't get away from here fast enough.' Bonnie stumbled out. Ellery heard her running down the stairs as if someone were after her.

He did not speak until the front door slammed. Then he said to the glowering old man: ‘Now, Mr. Stuart, answer one question.'

‘I told you why Blythe and that gambler came up here,' replied the old man in a sulky voice. ‘I've got nothing more to say.'

‘But my question has nothing to do with Blythe's visit.'

‘Eh? What d'ye mean?'

‘I mean,' said Ellery calmly, ‘what were you doing last Sunday night outside this house in an aviator's helmet?'

For a moment he thought the man would faint; the eyes rolled alarmingly, and the large bony nose twitched with a sort of nausea, ‘Eh?' said the old man feebly. ‘What did you say?'

And as he said it the faintness and alarm disappeared, and his grey beard came up belligerently. Game old cock, thought Ellery, with a grudging admiration. For all his years he absorbed punishment very quickly.

‘I saw you outside in the rain with a flying helmet on your head. At a time when Junius said you were up here behind a locked door.'

‘Yes,' nodded the old man. ‘Yes, I was outside. Because I wanted to breathe God's clean air. I was outside because there were strangers in my house.'

‘In the rain?' Ellery smiled. ‘I thought you had certain fears about pneumonia and such.'

‘I'm a sick man,' said the old man stolidly. ‘But I'd rather risk pneumonia than be mixed up with strangers.'

‘You almost said “a murder”, didn't you? Why should you be so timid about being mixed up in this one, Mr. Stuart?'

‘Any one.'

‘Your own daughter's? You don't feel – I almost made the mistake of calling it “natural” – you don't feel a desire for vengeance?'

‘I want only to be let alone.'

‘And the helmet on your head – that had nothing to do with … let us say … aeroplanes, Mr. Stuart?'

‘There are a few helmets about. They're good protection against rain.'

‘Ah, amiable now. I wonder why? People who have something to conceal generally are anxious to talk amiably, Mr. Stuart. Just what are you concealing?'

For answer the old man reached over and snatched the shotgun from its position beside the testered bed. Without speaking, he placed the shotgun in his lap. He looked at Ellery steadily.

Ellery smiled, shrugged, and strolled out.

He made a deliberate clatter as he went down the stairs, and he set one foot loudly after another on the floor of the living-room as he went to the front door. The door he banged.

But he remained inside, listening. There was no sound from above. Frowning, he looked about. That door … Tiptoeing, he crossed the living-room, opened the door carefully, glanced in, nodded, and slipped through, shutting the door behind him with the same caution.

He stood in a library, or study, vast and raftered and gloomy, like all the rooms in the house. This one, too, had a brooding atmosphere, as if it had stood too long untenanted. There was a thick layer of dust over everything, mute reflection on Dr. Junius's housekeeping talents.

Ellery went without hesitation to the huge flat-topped desk in the centre of the room, a piece of solid carved oak with an ancient patina. But he was not interested in the antiquity of Tolland Stuart's desk; he was interested in its contents. A rapid glance about had convinced him there was no safe in the room; and the desk seemed the most likely repository for what he was seeking.

He found it in the second drawer he opened, sepultured in an unlocked green-painted steel box, although a lock with a key in it lay beside the box.

It was Tolland Stuart's will.

Ellery read it avidly, one ear cocked for sounds from the old man's room above.

The date on the will was nine and a half years old, and the paper was a sheet of heavy bond bearing the imprint of an old, solid banking house in Los Angeles. It was a holograph will, handwritten in ink by a crabbed fist – Ellery could visualize the old terrorist twisting his tongue in his withered cheek and refusing to allow any one at his bank to catch a glimpse of what he was writing. The will was signed with Tolland Stuart's signature, which had been witnessed by names meaningless to Ellery, obviously employees of the bank.

The will said:

‘I, Tolland Stuart, being this day sixty years of age and of sound mind, make my last will and testament.

‘The sum of one hundred thousand dollars in cash or negotiable bonds is hereby left to Dr. Henry F. Junius, of my employ, but only on the following conditions:

‘(1) That until my death Dr. Junius shall have been continuously in my employ for not less than ten years from the date of this will, except for periods of illness or other such interruptions in his service to me which shall be reasonably beyond his control; at all other times he is to act as my physician and exclusive guardian of my health; and

‘(2) That I, Tolland Stuart, shall have survived this ten-year period; that is to say, that my death shall have occurred after my 70th birthday.

‘In the event of my death before the age of 70 from any cause whatsoever, or in the event that Dr. Junius shall have left my employ either voluntarily or by dismissal before the expiration of the ten-year period noted above, my bequest to him of $100,000.00 shall be considered cancelled; and my estate shall then go free and clear of any participating bequest to my legal heirs.