The Dragon's Teeth, page 15
“Well?”
“There was a light in 1726 this evening. Is that where you went? Is that your cigaret butt in there?”
Beau said: “Who, me?”
The Inspector shrugged. “Anyway, the evidence doesn’t begin to bolster the story.”
“But it’s true,” said Kerrie slowly. “I tell you—” Beau shook his head at her.
The Inspector stroked his mustache with an agitated forefinger. “I’ll have to hold you,” he said.
Chapter XV. The De Carlos Entente
When the inspector had left, hurriedly and with a murderous glance at Beau, Goossens coughed and said: “Mrs. Queen, as—as co-executor of the Cole estate it’s my duty to inform you that your marriage today eliminates you from further participation in the income from your uncle’s estate. There are certain matters, papers . . . If there’s anything I can do in the way of legal advice, of course . . . Dreadfully sorry . . . “
He left, like the Inspector, in a sort of flight.
Kerrie was sobbing on Beau’s shoulder, and Vi was tearing a handkerchief methodically to pieces by the window.
“What are you hanging around for, pop-eyes?” demanded Beau, eying De Carlos with angry dislike.
De Carlos smiled nervously. “I’d like—I’d like to speak to you alone, Mr. Queen.”
“Scram.”
“I must. It’s a private matter—”
“It’ll have to wait. Beat it, will you?”
De Carlos said in a soft voice: “But it’s quite urgent.”
Beau glared at him. The man made a weird picture with his brushlike hair, his beard, his glittering teeth and spectacles, a certain air of mingled intentness, triumph, and anxiety.
“Meet you in my office in Times Square in half an hour,” said Beau on impulse. “I’ll leave word with the night man to let you in.”
“Thank you.” De Carlos bowed to Kerrie, smiling or seeming to smile in his beard, and scurried out.
“Ellery. Don’t go,” said Kerrie tiredly. Her arms were dead weights about his neck.
“I’ve got to, funny-face.” Beau signalled to Vi over Kerrie’s head. “Vi won’t leave you. Will you, Vi?”
“What do you think I am? Of course not!” said Vi with an attempt at cheerfulness. “I don’t like the dump I’m in, anyway.”
“You get the doc to give you a shot of something,” Beau told Kerrie gently. “You need a pocketful of sleep.”
She hung on to him, whimpering.
“Kerrie. You know I love you, don’t you?” She hugged him. “You don’t believe a single word of what—she told you tonight, do you?” Kerrie shook her head violently. “You know I’m in there batting for you a thousand percent, don’t you?” She nodded, empty of words. “Then leave everything to me, and don’t worry.”
He kissed her and rose. Kerrie twisted her body on the bed and buried her face in the pillow. Beau cracked his knuckles in a sort of baffled agony. Then he kissed her again and ran out.
* * *
BEAU stopped on the sidewalk outside the hotel to cup his hands around a cigaret.
He glanced swiftly about. The street was deserted. An occasional cab cruised by. By his wristwatch it was almost four o’clock. He tossed the match away and began to walk briskly towards Broadway. The night air had a chilly touch; he turned the collar of his jacket up.
He slipped into an all-night drug store, went into a phone booth, shut the door tightly, and called Mr. Ellery Queen’s home telephone number.
Ellery answered almost at once.
“It’s Beau. Weren’t you in bed?”
“I’ve been thinking. What’s up?”
“Plenty. Listen, El, De Carlos showed up at the Villanoy and says he’s got to have a private chin with me. I played a hunch and told him to meet me at the office right away. You want to sit in?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” said Mr. Queen with a certain grimness. “Any idea what’s stirring?”
“No. Grab a cab and get down here fast as you can.”
“I’ll be there in time. How’s Kerrie?”
Beau hung up.
He strode to Times Square, crossed the street, pounded on the door of his office-building.
A yawning watchman admitted him. “Hey, Joe. I expect a man by the name of De Carlos to blow in soon. Let him in. He’ll ask for Mr. Queen. Take him up to our office.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Rummell. Say, don’t you ever sleep?”
“Don’t answer any questions. Get me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Beau let himself into the Queen office, switched on the lights, threw open the windows, and took a bottle from a desk-drawer.
Ten minutes later there was a knock at the reception-room door. He put the bottle down and went out.
The knocker was De Carlos, alone.
“Come in,” said Beau. He locked the door. “You’re early. I’ve telephoned my partner to come down; he’ll be here soon.”
“Your partner?” De Carlos did not look pleased.
“Yes. Uh—guy by the name of Beau Brummell—I mean, Rummell. We’re like that.” Beau rubbed his eyes and led the way to the inner office. “Have a snifter?”
“But I wanted to speak to you privately.”
“No secrets between Beau and me,” growled Beau. He waved towards the bottle as he lit a cigaret. De Carlos licked his red lips, looking about for a glass. There was none in sight, and Beau did not offer one. De Carlos tilted the bottle. Beau watched him cynically. The man drank and drank. When he set the bottle down his gray cheek-bones had turned pink.
He smacked his lips and said: “Now—”
“Not now,” said Beau. “Have another.”
De Carlos waved gaily. “Don’t mind if I do.”
He picked up the bottle again.
* * *
DE CARLOS was drunk when Mr. Queen unlocked the front door and entered the inner office.
The bearded man lay sprawled in the “client’s chair,” waving the bottle and leering glassy-eyed at Beau.
“Ah, the pardner,” said De Carlos, trying to rise. He fell back in the chair. “ ‘Do, Mis’er Rummell. Lovely night. I mean sad. So sad. Have seat, Mis’er Rummell.”
Ellery glanced at Beau, who winked. “This is Mr. Edmund De Carlos, Rummell,” said Beau to Ellery in a voice loud enough to pierce the clouds of alcohol on Mr. De Carlos’s brain. “One of the trustees of the Cole estate, you know.”
“Siddown, Mis’er Rummell,” said Mr. De Carlos cordially, waving the bottle. “Pleasure,’m sure. Siddown!”
Ellery sat down behind the desk. “I understand you’ve something important to say to us, Mr. De Carlos.”
De Carlos leaned forward confidentially. “Impor’nt an’ worth money, Mis’er Rummell. Pots o’ money, y’un’-erstan.
“Go on, spill,” said Beau.
“We’re frien’s. We’re all frien’s here. An’ we’re men of the worl’, hey?” De Carlos giggled. “Know what it’s all about. Now I know de—de-tec-tive a’ncies, gen’l’men, an’ I know de-tec-tives. Bought—can all be bought. Jus’ a madder o’ price, I say. Jus’ a madder o’ price . . . tha’sh all.”
“Do I understand that you want to engage us to investigate a case for you, Mr. De Carlos?” asked Ellery.
De Carlos stared at him owlishly, then burst into laughter. “Very good, Mis’er Rummell. I wanna ‘ngage you not to inveshtigate a cashe!”
Beau and Ellery exchanged glances. Then Beau said: “You want what?”
De Carlos grew immediately serious. “Now look, Mis’er Queen. Le’s shpread cardsh on table, huh? I know you married li’l Kerrie tonight ‘caush you wash in a deal wi’ Margo. You marry Kerrie, she loshes income from eshtate, Margo gets it, you share with Margo—nishe work, Mis’er Queen, nishe work. But wha’ hap-pensh? Your wife goesh and shpoilsh it all. Putsh three bulletsh in Margo. Woof! Margo’sh dead.” He wagged his head solemnly. “An’ then where are you, Mis’er Queen? Holdin’ the bag, Mis’er Queen, hey?”
“You can that kind of talk,” said Beau in a hard voice. “You might get hurt. You heard the story!”
“Nishe shtory, Mis’er Queen,” leered De Carlos, “but it won’t go. No, shir, it’sh fan—fantastic. Sure she killed Margo—she’sh guilty ash hell, Mis’er Queen. Whadda you care, anywaysh? Tha’sh not the point. Tha’sh—”
Beau spanned the space between him and De Carlos in a split second. He grabbed De Carlos by the throat.
Ellery said: “Hold it, Brains,” and Beau relaxed his grip sheepishly. De Carlos stared up at him, frightened.
“No sense in going off half-cocked,” said Ellery smoothly. “You’ll have to excuse my partner, Mr. De Carlos. He’s had a trying night.”
“Got no call shtrangling people,” muttered De Carlos, feeling his Adam’s-apple.
“You were about to say?”
De Carlos struggled out of the chair, eying Beau warily. “You gen’l’men been jockeyed out of a lot o’ money by Kerrie—by shome one killing Margo.” He shook his forefinger at Ellery. “ ‘S a shame, I shay. Y’oughta be recom—recompenshed, I shay. An’ Edmund De Carlos’s the man to do it! Good frien’s, huh? I make it up to you, huh?”
“Huh,” said Beau. “The piece of cheese. And we’re the rats. I didn’t get it, and I still don’t. What’s the gag, Blackbeard?”
“No gag, gen’l’men! Oh, coursh if I do somethin’ for you, you gotta do somethin’ for me. Tha’sh on’y fair, hey?” He peered anxiously at them. “Hey?”
“Hey, hey,” said Ellery, with a warning glance at Beau. “I should say. Now, as I understand it, you’re worried over our loss in the Margo deal, and you’d like to make it up to us financially. In return for your little contribution to our agency account you want us to do something for you in return. And what might that be, Mr. De Carlos?”
De Carlos beamed. “ ‘S a pleasure to do bushiness with you, Mis’er Rummell. Why, you gotta do nothin’, shee. Tha’sh what I shaid before. I’m payin’ you not to investigate a cashe! You shtep out. ‘Way, way out. You forget you ever heard of Cadmus Cole, or the Cole esh-tate, or—or anything. Shee what I mean?”
Beau growled deep in his throat, but Ellery rose quickly and came forward to step between the two men. He kicked Beau’s shin not gently with his left heel and took De Carlos’s arm.
“I think we understand, Mr. De Carlos,” he said with a leer to match their visitor’s. “You feel we’ve been snooping about a bit too freely, and you’d breathe more easily if we directed our agency energies elsewhere. How much did you say our stepping out was worth to you?”
“I didn’t shay.” De Carlos peered up at him with a bleary shrewdness. “Shall we shay—ten thoushand dollars?”
“Come, come, Mr. De Carlos. We’d have made a good deal more than that in the Margo Cole deal.”
“De Carlos-boy’sh bein’ held up, held up,” De Carlos grunted. “Now don’ hoi’ me up, gen’l’men. Fifteen.”
“Now you’re bruising my feelings, Mr. De Carlos.”
“Aw ri’,” grumbled De Carlos, “shall we shay twen’y thoushand?”
“Shall we rather say twenty-five, Mr. De Carlos?”
De Carlos muttered to himself. Finally he growled: “‘S a deal. Twen’y-fi’ thoushand. Robbersh!”
“Just business,” Ellery assured him. “Now how is this little payment to be made? Cash, I trust?”
“Cash! I don’t carry that mush cash aroun’ me,” said De Carlos irritably. “Give you a sheck.”
“Checks bounce,” reflected Mr. Queen.
“Well, thish one won’t! An’ if it doesh, you’re protected. You don’t have to go through with our ‘gree-ment.”
“Before that logic we bow. A check it shall be. Chair, Mr. De Carlos?”
He helped the reeling man around the desk and sat him down in the swivel-chair, reaching over to switch on the powerful desk-lamp.
De Carlos fumbled in his clothes and brought out a checkbook. He opened it, stared at the last stub morosely, then groped in his pockets again. Finally his hand emerged with a fountain-pen.
He unscrewed the cap, pushed it onto the other end of the pen, leaned over and, tucking his tongue in one cheek, began laboriously to write out a check.
If he had taken a bomb from his pocket Mr. Queen and Mr. Rummell could not have been so startled.
Their eyes fixed in a fascinated amazement at the pen in De Carlos’s lax, blundering fingers.
It was a black hard-rubber fountain-pen, fat and scarred, and it was trimmed in gold.
On the cap, etching-sharp in the bold light of the lamp, there were certain curious scratchy marks and dents in an arced pattern—a familiar pattern, a pattern Messrs. Queen and Rummell had seen twice before . . . once earlier that evening in Room 1726 at the Villanoy on the pencil they had found behind the radiator, and once months before in that very office, at that very desk.
The identical pen.
Under the identical circumstances.
It was Cadmus Cole’s fountain-pen!
PART FIVE
Chapter XVI. The Empty Mouth
Cadmus Cole’s fountain-pen! What was it doing in De Carlos’s possession?
Ellery raised his eyebrows to Beau. They drifted off to a corner of the office as De Carlos, at the desk, struggled to control his hand.
“You’re sure it’s the same one?” whispered Beau.
“Positive, although we’ve always got a check-up against those microphotographs.”
“Cole’s pen!” mumbled Beau. “The same pen he used to write out that check for fifteen grand when he originally hired us. It might have a simple explanation, El. Maybe De Carlos just appropriated it after Cole cashed in.”
Ellery shrugged. “There’s one way of finding out. De Carlos is just drunk enough to be off guard, and if we asked him he’s apt to tell the truth. Let me handle this.”
He went back to the desk and rested his palms on it, smiling down at the writing man.
“There!” said De Carlos with a bubbly sigh. “Twen’y-fi’ thoushand dollarsh, Mis’er Rummell.” He sat back limply in the swivel-chair, waving the check like a flag to dry the ink. “Shay! How’d I know you’ll keep your wor’, gen’l’men?”
“You don’t,” replied Ellery with a smile.
“You doublecrosh me,” said De Carlos furiously, reeling to his feet, “an’ I’ll—I’ll—”
Ellery took the check gently from the man’s slack fingers. “Is that friendly? We’re a reputable agency, Mr. De Carlos. Word’s our bond. Yes, twenty-five thousand, signed Edmund De Carlos—correct, Mr. De Carlos, and thank you!”
“ ‘S all ri’,” said De Carlos, forgetting his suspicions and trying to bow. He almost fell on his face. Beau caught him and straightened him up none too carefully. “Thanksh, Mis’er Queen. ‘S mighty rocky weather we’re having. An’ now I’ll be on my way.”
He put the black fountain-pen back into his pocket. Beau watched it disappear with the expression of a fox watching a rabbit vanish in a hole.
Ellery grasped De Carlos’s other arm and he and Beau began to steer the bearded man to the door.
“By the way, Mr. De Carlos,” said Ellery respectfully, “you’re just the man to help me out.”
De Carlos stopped short, weaving. “Yesh?” he said, blinking at Ellery.
“Mr. De Carlos, I have a hobby—you know, hobby? I collect little personal mementoes of famous people. Not expensive things, you know—the homelier and more personal the better I like them.”
“1 like t’collect the ladies, bless ‘em,” chuckled De Carlos. “Blon’s, brunettes—any kind, I shay, ‘s long’s they’re beau’ful.”
“Every man to his own hobby,” smiled Ellery. “Well, I’ve often thought no collection of the sort I own would be complete without some memento of Mr. Cadmus Cole.”
“Should think sho,” said De Carlos warmly. “Great man, Mis’er Cole. Great man. Gen’l’men, give you Mis’er Cole!”
“I meant to ask him for some little thing when he hired us a few months ago, but he was in such a hurry that I thought I’d wait for a more propitious time. And then,” Ellery sighed, “he passed on, and I’d missed my chance. Do you think you could help me out, Mr. De Carlos? I mean, you were probably the closest friend he had.” .
“On’y frien’,” said De Carlos. “Give you my wor’. On’y frien’ he had in the worl’. Lemme think. Le’ shee. Pershonal—”
“What happened to his personal belongings after his death, Mr. De Carlos—his clothing, fob, studs, things like that? Anything of that nature, you see—”
“Oh, they were all packed in a bunsh o’ trunksh, an’ I shipped ‘em North from Cuba,” said De Carlos, waving his hand. “They’re in the housh in Tarry town ri’ now, Mis’er Rummell. I’ll shee what I can fin’—”
“I shouldn’t want to put you to all that trouble. Didn’t he give you anything before he died? Or perhaps you took something from his effects to remember him by—his watch, his ring, his fountain-pen, something like that?”
“Di’n’ take a thing,” said Mr. De Carlos sadly. “Hon-esht shteward—tha’sh Edmund De Carlos, gen’l’men. Give you my word Di’n’ take so mush as a shteel pin!”
“Oh, come,” protested Mr. Queen. “You must have taken something, Mr. De Carlos. Some little thing. His fountain-pen, for instance. Didn’t you take that?”
“I beg your par’on,” said De Carlos, offended. “Di’n’ take his fou’n’-pen, di’n’ take anything!”
“Such epic honesty,” said Mr. Queen with a gleam in his eye, “deserves a substantial reward.” He snatched off Mr. De Carlos’s spectacles suddenly, leaving the man blinking.
“Mis’er Rummell . . . “ began De Carlos with a gurgle.
Ellery waved the silver spectacles at Beau. “Give the gentleman his reward.”
“Huh?” said Beau.
“Mr. Queen,” said Mr. Queen, “the floor is yours. I suggest you stretch Mr. Edmund De Carlos out on it.”
Beau’s mouth closed. “It would be sort of taking advantage, wouldn’t it? He’d fall apart.”
De Carlos stood gaping and squinting from one to the other.
