Silence. Then Val said: “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
“Yes,” said Walter.
What could you do with a creature like that? Val snatched the envelope on which he was sketching out of his hands, crumpled it, threw it at him, and flounced away.
Walter picked up the envelope and absently pocketed it.
“There you are,” said a bass voice, and Walter looked up.
“Hullo, Fitz. How are you?”
Fitzgerald sat down, wheezing. “Lousy. I thought California would stop these sinus headaches of mine, but I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if they aren’t worse.” Fitz had been in California over ten years and he complained about his sinusitis on the average of a dozen times each day. “Where’s the drawing?”
“Which one?”
“Today’s — yesterday’s — any day’s,” growled Fitz. “What do you think I’m paying you for — your good looks? With all this Ohippi dirt in the air, you go on a bat!”
“I was busy.”
“I haven’t had a cartoon for a week — I’ve had to fill in with old ones. Listen, Walter... Say what’s going on here?”
“As if you didn’t know, you long-eared jackass.”
“I heard outside somebody stampeded the works.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your nose, either.”
Fitz was a bulky Irishman with eyebrows like birds’ nests, imbedded in which were two very glossy and restless eggs. He was also unpredictable. He left Walter like a genie.
“Hullo, Rhys. Say, Rhys, I’m damned sorry about everything. Would have come over sooner, but I thought you’d rather not jaw about it.”
“Good of you.” Jardin looked around; the room was getting bare. “You’re in at the death, anyway,” he said grimly.
“Tough break.” Fitz shot sidewise glances at the bearded young man, who was watching his men calmly. “Who’s the buyer? Hullo, Valerie.”
Just then the young man turned his bearded face toward them, and Fitz’s eyebrows almost met his puffy cheeks.
“Hello, Mr. F-Fitzgerald,” said Val, watching a commode sail by. There was still a deep scratch in one leg where she had kicked it the time Mrs. Thomson had whacked her for printing “Thomson is a turkey” in yellow crayon on the drawer.
But Fitz ignored her. He lumbered over to the bearded young man and said: “Hey, you’re somebody I know.”
“Yes?” said the young man politely, and he moved off.
Fitz followed him. “Name’s Queen, isn’t it? Ellery Queen?”
“Sharp eyes,” said the young man. He moved off again.
Fitz seized his arm. “Know who bought your stuff, Rhys?” he bellowed. “Ellery Queen, the master-mind!” But the master-mind was gone with a single twist. Fitz thundered after him, leaving a bewildered group behind. As he passed Walter he snapped: “Report to the office, damn you. Queen! Hey!”
He caught up with Ellery outside the house. Several of the vans had filled up and were gone; the men were packing the last two.
“Now don’t be unpleasant,” sighed Mr. Queen.
“I’m Fitzgerald of the Independent,” said Fitz briskly, grasping Ellery’s arm like a grappling-iron.
“You’re an ass.”
“What’s that?”
“If I’d wanted my identity known, Mr. Fitzgerald, don’t you think I’d have advertised it myself?”
“So that accounts for the phony brush!”
“Not at all. I broke out in a nasty facial rash a few months ago — probably an allergy — and I couldn’t shave. Now that the rash is gone I’m so pleased with my appearance I’ve kept the beard.”
“With me it’s sinus,” said Fitz. “However, it still smells. How about the voice? Got a rash on your vocal cords?”
“Very simple, my dear Watson. The moment I stepped off the train into your balmy California rains I caught a laryngitis, and I’ve still got it. I should be in bed,” said Ellery bitterly.
“Why aren’t you? What’s the gag? What are you doing in Hollywood? Where’d you get the dough? Are you getting married and furnishing your love-nest?”
“If this is an interview,” said Ellery, “I’m a deaf-mute overcome by complete paralysis.”
“Say, who do you think you are? Managing editors don’t leg it.” Fitz eyed him keenly. “It isn’t if you say so.”
“I say so.”
“Now how about satisfying my layman’s curiosity?”
“It’s no gag. I’m in Hollywood on a writing contract to Magna — God knows I don’t know anything about writing for the screen, but they don’t seem to care, so I don’t either. And no, I’m not being married.”
“Wait a minute! Why are you buying the Jardin stuff?”
Ellery watched the last two vans drive off. He moved out from under the porte-cochère into the drizzle and stepped hastily into his rented car. “Goodbye, Mr. Fitzgerald,” he said amiably, waving. “It’s been nice seeing you.” And he drove off.
The Jardins and Walter and Pink stood in silence in the denuded living-room. “Are the — are the trunks gone?” asked Val at last in a small voice. “And... everything else?”
“Yes, Val.”
“Then I don’t suppose there’s anything—”
“Come on, let’s get going,” growled Pink, “before I bust out crying.”
They marched out of the empty house in a body, close together, like condemned criminals on their way to the wall. Outside Val picked a rose off a bush and absently pulled it to pieces.
“Well! Here we go,” said Rhys in a cheery voice. “It’s goodbye to all this. I think we’re going to have a lot of fun, puss.” He put his arm around her.
“All the common people have fun,” said Pink. “Perk up, squirt.”
“I’m all right,” protested Valerie. “Of course, it’s a little strange...”
“Let’s go,” said Walter in a low voice.
He preceded them down the private drive toward the pillbox at the gate, hands jammed into the pockets of his topcoat. He did not look back at either the Jardin house — or that other.
A crowd was waiting in the road beyond the gate, making mob noises; but the noises stopped as the little procession came toward them. Frank, the day man, his empty left sleeve flapping, hurried from the pillbox toward their two cars, which were parked near the gate.
It became more and more difficult to keep that steady pace. Val felt a little faint. It was like the French Revolution, with the mob of citoyens waiting greedily for the victims, and the guillotine looming ahead...
Frank held the door of Jardin’s small sedan open — the only car they had kept.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jardin. I’m awfully sorry,” said Frank. In getting into the sedan Rhys had caught his coat on the door-handle, and the camel’s-hair fabric just below the right pocket ripped away in a triangular flap.
Pink said: “You tore your coat, Rhys,” but Jardin paid no attention, groping blindly for the ignition-key. Valerie crept into the rear seat and slipped far down on her spine; she avoided Walter’s eyes as he closed the door behind her. Pink jumped in beside Jardin.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Frank again, in a weepy voice.
“Here.” Jardin leaned out and pressed a large bill into the gateman’s hand. “Split it with Walewski, Frank. Goodbye.”
“Thanks, thanks!” Frank scuttled off to the gate.
“Well,” smiled Rhys, starting the car, “what shall it be? A snack at the Troc?”
“It’s too expensive there, pop,” murmured Val.
“How about Al Levy’s? Or the Derby?”
“Better get going,” remarked Pink dryly, “before that mob out there starts yipping for blood.”
Rhys fell silent and shifted. Val looked back. Walter was getting into his coupé, slowly. Then he stopped and stepped back and looked across the lawns toward the Spaeth house. Far away, Solomon Spaeth stood alone, in motion. He was waving and his mouth was open. Apparently he was shouting something, but his voice did not carry.