The New Adventures of Ellery Queen (35 page)

“Sorry!” said Paula, rising briskly. “Because directly after you've filled your bottomless tummy with plum pudding we're going Christmas calling on the great man.”

“No!” said Mr. Queen with a shudder.

“You want to see the Rose Bowl game, don't you?”

“Who doesn't? But I haven't been able to snag a brace of tickets for love or money.”

“Poor Queenie,” purred Miss Paris, putting her arms about him. “You're
so
helpless. Come on watch me wheedle Pop Wing out of two seats for the game!”

The lord of the château whose towers rose from a magnificently preposterous parklike estate in Inglewood proved to be a flat-bellied youngster of middle age, almost as broad as he was tall, with a small bald head set upon small ruddy cheeks, so that at first glance Mr. Queen thought he was viewing a Catawba grape lying on a boulder.

They came upon the millionaire seated on his hams in the center of a vast lawn, arguing fiercely with a young man who by his size—which was herculean—and his shape—which was cuneiform—and his coloring—which was coppery—could only be of the order
footballis
, and therefore Mr. Wing's future son-in-law and the New Year's Day hope of the Trojans.

They were manipulating wickets, mallets, and croquet balls in illustration of a complex polemic which apparently concerned the surest method of frustrating the sinister quarterback of the Carolina eleven, Ostermoor.

A young lady with red hair and a saucy nose sat cross-legged on the grass nearby, her soft blue eyes fixed on the brown face of the young man with that naked worshipfulness young ladies permit themselves to exhibit in public only when their young men have formally yielded. This, concluded Mr. Queen without difficulty, must be the daughter of the great man and Mr. Roddy Crockett's fiancée, Joan Wing.

Mr. Wing hissed a warning to Roddy at the sight of Mr. Queen's unfamiliar visage, and for a moment Mr. Queen felt uncomfortably like a spy caught sneaking into the enemy's camp. But Miss Paris hastily vouched for his devotion to the cause of Troy, and for some time there were Christmas greetings and introductions, in the course of which Mr. Queen made the acquaintance of two persons whom he recognized instantly as the hybrid genus
house-guest perennialis
. One was a bearded gentleman with high cheekbones and a Muscovite manner (pre-Soviet), entitled the Grand Duke Ostrov; the other was a thin, dark, whiplike female with inscrutable black eyes who went by the mildly astonishing name of Madame Mephisto.

These two barely nodded to Miss Paris and Mr. Queen; they were listening to each word that dropped from the lips of Mr. Percy Squires Wing, their host, with the adoration of novitiates at the feet of their patron saint.

The noble Trojan's ruddiness of complexion, Mr. Queen pondered, came either from habitual exposure to the outdoors or from high-blood pressure; a conclusion which he discovered very soon was accurate on both counts, since Pop Wing revealed himself without urging as an Izaak Walton, a golfer, a Nimrod, a mountain climber, a polo player, and a racing yachtsman; and he was as squirmy and excitable as a small boy.

The small-boy analogy struck Mr. Queen with greater force when the Perennial Alumnus dragged Mr. Queen off to inspect what he alarmingly called “my trophy room.” Mr. Queen's fears were vindicated; for in a huge vaulted chamber presided over by a desiccated, gloomy, and monosyllabic old gentleman introduced fantastically as “Gabby” Huntswood, he found himself inspecting as heterogeneous and remarkable an assemblage of junk as ever existed outside a small boy's dream of Paradise.

Postage-stamp albums, American college banners, mounted wild-animal heads, a formidable collection of matchboxes, cigar bands, stuffed fish, World War trench helmets of all nations … all were there; and Pop Wing beamed as he exhibited these priceless treasures, scurrying from one collection to another and fondling them with such ingenuous pleasure that Mr. Queen sighed for his own lost youth.

“Aren't these objects too—er—valuable to be left lying around this way, Mr. Wing?” he inquired politely.

“Hell, no. Gabby's more jealous of their safety than I am!” shouted the great man. “Hey, Gabby?”

“Yes, sir,” said Gabby; and he frowned suspiciously at Mr. Queen.

“Why, Gabby made me install a burglar-alarm system. Can't see it, but this room's as safe as a vault.”

“Safer,” said Gabby, glowering at Mr. Queen.

“Think I'm crazy, Queen?”

“No, no,” said Mr. Queen, who meant to say “Yes, yes.”

“Lots of people do,” chuckled Pop Wing. “Let 'em. Between 1904 and 1924 I just about vegetated. But something drove me on. Know what?”

Mr. Queen's famous powers of deduction were unequal to the task.

“The knowledge that I was making enough money to retire a young man and kick the world in the pants. And I did! Retired at forty-two and started doing all the things I'd never had time or money to do when I was a shaver. Collecting things. Keeps me young! Come here, Queen, and look at my
prize
collection.” And he pulled Mr. Queen over to a gigantic glass case and pointed gleefully, an elder Penrod gloating over a marbles haul.

From his host's proud tone Mr. Queen expected to gaze upon nothing less than a collection of the royal crowns of Europe. Instead, he saw a vast number of scuffed, streaked, and muddy footballs, each carefully laid upon an ebony rest, and on each a legend lettered in gold leaf. One that caught his eye read: “Rose Bowl, 1930. USC 47-Pitt 14.” The others bore similar inscriptions.

“Wouldn't part with 'em for a million dollars,” confided the great man. “Why, the balls in this case represent every Trojan victory for the past fifteen years!”

“Incredible!” exclaimed Mr. Queen.

“Yes, sir, right after every game they win the team presents old Pop Wing with the pigskin. What a collection!” And the millionaire gazed worshipfully at the unlovely oblate spheroids.

“They must think the world of you at USC.”

“Well, I've sort of been of service to my Alma Mater,” said Pop Wing modestly, “especially in football. Wing Athletic Scholarship, you know; Wing Dorm for varsity athletes; and so on. I've scouted prep schools for years, personally; turned up some mighty fine varsity material. Coach is a good friend of mine. I guess,” and he drew a happy breath, “I can have just about what I damn well ask for at the old school!”

“Including football tickets?” said Mr. Queen quickly, seizing his opportunity. “Must be marvelous to have that kind of drag. I've been trying for days to get tickets for the game.”

The great man surveyed him. “What was your college?”

“Harvard,” said Mr. Queen apologetically. “But I yield to no man in my ardent admiration of the Trojans. Darn it, I did want to watch Roddy Crockett mop up those Spartan upstarts.”

“You did, huh?” said Pop Wing. “Say, how about you and Miss Paris being my guests at the Rose Bowl Sunday?”

“Couldn't think of it—” began Mr. Queen mendaciously, already savoring the joy of having beaten Miss Paris, so to speak, to the turnstiles.

“Won't hear another word.” Mr. Wing embraced Mr. Queen. “Say, long as you'll be with us, I'll let you in on a little secret.”

“Secret?” wondered Mr. Queen.

“Rod and Joan,” whispered the millionaire, “are going to be married right after the Trojans win next Sunday!”

“Congratulations. He seems like a fine boy.”

“None better. Hasn't got a cent, you understand—worked his way through—but he's graduating in January and … shucks! he's the greatest fullback the old school ever turned out. We'll find something for him to do. Yes, sir, Roddy's last game …” The great man sighed. Then he brightened. “Anyway, I've got a hundred-thousand-dollar surprise for my Joanie that ought to make her go right out and raise another triple-threat man for the Trojans!”

“A—how much of a surprise?” asked Mr. Queen feebly.

But the great man looked mysterious. “Let's go back and finish cooking that boy Ostermoor's goose!”

New Year's Day was warm and sunny; and Mr. Queen felt strange as he prepared to pick up Paula Paris and escort her to the Wing estate, from which their party was to proceed to the Pasadena stadium. In his quaint Eastern fashion, he was accustomed to don a mountain of sweater, scarf, and overcoat when he went to a football game; and here he was en route in a sports jacket!

“California, thy name is Iconoclast,” muttered Mr. Queen, and he drove through already agitated Hollywood streets to Miss Paris's house.

“Heavens,” said Paula, “you can't barge in on Pop Wing that way.”

“What way?”

“Minus the Trojan colors. We've got to keep on the old darlin's good side, at least until we're safely in the stadium. Here!” And with a few deft twists of two lady's handkerchiefs Paula manufactured a breast-pocket kerchief for him in cardinal and gold.

“I see you've done yourself up pretty brown,” said Mr. Queen, not unadmiringly; for Paula's figure was the secret envy of many better-advertised Hollywood ladies, and it was clad devastatingly in a cardinal-and-gold creation that was a cross between a suit and a dirndl, to Mr. Queen's inexperienced eye, and it was topped off with a perky, feathery hat perched nervously on her blue-black hair, concealing one bright eye.

“Wait till you see Joan,” said Miss Paris, rewarding him with a kiss. “She's been calling me all week about
her
clothes problem. It's not every day a girl's called on to buy an outfit that goes equally well with a football game and a wedding.” And as Mr. Queen drove off towards Inglewood she added thoughtfully: “I wonder what that awful creature will wear. Probably a turban and seven veils.”

“What creature?”

“Madame Mephisto. Only her real name is Suzie Lucadamo, and she quit a dumpy little magic and mind-reading vaudeville act to set herself up in Seattle as a seeress—you know, ‘We positively guarantee to pierce the veil of the Unknown'? Pop met her in Seattle in November during the USC-Washington game. She wangled a Christmas-week invitation out of him for the purpose, I suppose, of looking over the rich Hollywood sucker field without cost to herself.”

“You seem to know a lot about her.”

Paula smiled. “Joan Wing told me some—Joanie doesn't like the old gal nohow—and I dug out the rest … well, you know, darling, I know everything about
everybody
.”

“Then tell me,” said Mr. Queen. “Who exactly is the Grand Duke Ostrov?”

“Why?”

“Because,” replied Mr. Queen grimly, “I don't like His Highness, and I do like—heaven help me!—Pop Wing and his juvenile amusements.”

“Joan tells me Pop likes you, too, the fool! I guess in his adolescent way he's impressed by a real, live detective. Show him your G-man badge, darling.” Mr. Queen glared, but Miss Paris's gaze was dreamy. “Pop may find it handy having you around today, at that.”

“What d'ye mean?” asked Mr. Queen sharply.

“Didn't he tell you he had a surprise for Joan? He's told everyone in Los Angeles, although no one knows what it is but your humble correspondent.”

“And Roddy, I'll bet. He did say something about a ‘hundred-thousand-dollar surprise.' What's the point?”

“The point is,” murmured Miss Paris, “that it's a set of perfectly matched star sapphires.”

Mr. Queen was silent. Then he said: “You think Ostrov—”

“The Grand Duke,” said Miss Paris, “is even phonier than Madame Suzie Lucadamo Mephisto.
His
name is Louie Batterson, and he hails from the Bronx. Everybody knows it but Pop Wing.” Paula sighed. “But you know Hollywood—live and let live; you may need a sucker yourself some day. Batterson's a high-class deadbeat. He's pulled some awfully aromatic stunts in his time. I'm hoping he lays off our nostrils this sunny day.”

“This,” mumbled Mr. Queen, “is going to be one heck of a football game, I can see that.”

Bedlam was a cloister compared with the domain of the Wings. The interior of the house was noisy with decorators, caterers, cooks, and waiters; and with a start Mr. Queen recalled that this was to be the wedding day of Joan Wing and Roddy Crockett.

They found their party assembled in one of the formal gardens—which, Mr. Queen swore to Miss Paris, outshone Fontainebleau—and apparently Miss Wing had solved her dressmaking problem, for while Mr. Queen could find no word to describe what she was wearing, Mr. Roddy Crockett could, and the word was “sockeroo.”

Paula went into more technical raptures, and Miss Wing clung to her gridiron hero, who looked a little pale; and then the pride of Troy went loping off to the wars, leaping into his roadster and waving farewell with their cries of good cheer in his manly, young, and slightly mashed ears.

Pop Wing ran down the driveway after the roadster, bellowing: “Don't forget that Ostermoor defense, Roddy!”

And Roddy vanished in a trail of dusty glory; the noblest Trojan of them all came back shaking his head and muttering: “It ought to be a pipe!”; flunkies appeared bearing mounds of canapés and cocktails; the Grand Duke, regally Cossack in a long Russian coat gathered at the waist, amused the company with feats of legerdemain—his long soft hands were very fluent—and Madame Mephisto, minus the seven veils but, as predicted, wearing the turban, went into a trance and murmured that she could see a “glorious Trojan vic-to-ree”—all the while Joan Wing sat smiling dreamily into her cocktail and Pop Wing pranced up and down vowing that he had never been cooler or more confident in his life.

And then they were in one of Wing's huge seven-passenger limousines—Pop, Joan, the Grand Duke, Madame, Gabby, Miss Paris, and Mr. Queen—bound for Pasadena and the fateful game.

And Pop said suddenly: “Joanie, I've got a surprise for you.”