“Yeah?” said the Inspector. “Why?”
“Simply because there doesn’t seem to be any.”
Glücke looked annoyed. Ty suddenly sat down and lit a cigaret. His eyes did not leave Ellery’s face. “Go on. You’ve got an idea about this thing.”
“He’s a crazy galoot,” growled Glücke, “but I admit he’s got something besides sand in his skull.”
“Well, look.” Ellery put his elbows on his knees. “Let’s begin in the proper place. Among the things I’ve observed in the past few weeks, Ty, is that your father never drank anything but Sidecars. Is that right?”
“Brandy, too. He liked brandy.”
“Well, of course. A Sidecar is nothing but brandy with Cointreau and a little lemon juice added. And as for your mother, Bonnie, she seemed exclusively fond of dry Martinis.”
“Yes.”
“I seem to recall, in fact, that she recently made some disparaging remark about Sidecars, which would indicate she disliked them. Is that true?”
“She detested them.”
“And dad couldn’t stand Martinis, either,” growled Ty. “So what?”
“So this. Some one — obviously the murderer; it could scarcely have been coincidence; the exact means of murder wouldn’t have been left to chance — some one sends Blythe and Jack a going-away hamper and lo! inside are two thermos bottles and lo! in one of them is a quart of Sidecars and in the other an equal quantity of Martinis.”
“If you mean,” said Butch with a frown, “that in sending those bottles the murderer betrayed an intimate knowledge of Blythe’s and Jack’s liquor preferences, Ellery, I’m afraid you won’t get far. Everybody in Hollywood knew that Blythe liked Martinis and Jack Sidecars.”
Inspector Glücke looked pleased.
But Ellery smiled. “I didn’t mean that. I’m attacking Ty’s accident theory, improbable as it is, just to get it out of the way. It lends itself to logical disproof.
“For if, as seems indisputable, the donor of that hamper knew that Blythe liked Martinis and Jack Sidecars, then the dosing of each bottle of heavenly dew with a lethal amount of morphine means that each drinker — Jack, the drinker of Sidecars, Blythe, the drinker of Martinis — was intended to be poisoned. Had only Blythe been marked for death, only the bottle of Martinis would have been poisoned. And similarly if Jack were to be the sole victim.” He sighed. “I’m afraid we’re faced with no alternative. Neither your father, Ty, nor your mother, Bonnie, was intended ever to come out of that plane alive. It’s the clearest case of a deliberate double-killing.”
“And where does all this folderol get you?” scowled Glücke.
“I’m sure I don’t know. One rarely does at this stage of the game.”
“I thought,” put in the Boy Wonder shortly, “you began to talk about motive.”
“Oh, that.” Ellery shrugged. “If the same motive applied to both of them, as seems likely, it’s even more mystifying.”
“But what could it be?” cried Bonnie. “Mother wouldn’t have harmed a fly.”
Ellery did not reply. He looked out the window at the swirling darkness.
The Inspector said suddenly: “Miss Stuart, is your father alive?”
“He died when I was an infant.”
“Your mother never remarried?”
“No.”
“Any...” The Inspector hesitated. Then he said delicately: “Did she have any... romantic attachments?”
“Mother?” Bonnie laughed. “Don’t be absurd.” And she turned her face away.
“How about your father, Royle? Your ma’s dead, too, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Well, from all I’ve heard,” said the Inspector, clearing his throat, “your dad was sort of a lady’s man. Could there be some woman floating around who had — well, who thought she had good reason to get sore when Jack Royle announced he was going to marry Blythe Stuart?”
“How should I know? I wasn’t dad’s nursemaid.”
“Then there could be such a woman?”
“There could,” snapped Ty, “but I don’t think there is. Dad was no angel, but he knew women, he knew the world, and underneath he was a right guy. The few affairs I know about ended without a fuss. He never lied to his women, and they always knew exactly what they were letting themselves in for. You’re a million miles wrong, Glücke. Besides, this job was pulled by a man.”
“Hmm,” said the Inspector, and he slumped back. He did not seem immovably persuaded.
“I suggest,” said Ellery, “we eliminate. The usual attack in theorizing about motive is to ask who stands to gain by the murder. I believe we’ll make faster progress if we ask who stands to lose.
“Let’s start with the principals, you, Ty, and you, Bonnie. Obviously, of every one involved you two have sustained the greatest possible loss. You’ve lost your sole surviving parents, to whom you were plainly tremendously attached.”
Bonnie bit her lip, staring out the window. Ty crushed the burning tip of his cigaret out in his fingers.
“The studio?” Ellery shrugged. “Don’t look so startled, Butch; logic knows no sentiment. The studio has suffered a large monetary loss: it has lost forever the services of two popular, money-making stars. To bring it closer home, your own unit suffers a direct and intimate loss: the big production we’ve been working on together will have to be abandoned.”
“Wait a minute,” said Glücke. “How about a studio feud? Any contract trouble with another studio, Butcher? Know anybody who wouldn’t mind seeing Magna’s two big stars out of pictures?”
“Oh, don’t be a fool, Inspector,” snapped Butch. “This is Hollywood, not mediaeval Italy.”
“It didn’t seem likely,” grunted Glücke.
“To continue,” said Ellery, glancing at the Inspector with amusement. “The agency holding contracts for Jack’s and Blythe’s personal services — I believe it’s Alan Clark’s outfit — also loses.
“So that, in a sense, every one connected with Jack and Blythe personally and professionally stands to lose a great deal.”
“You’re a help.”
“But good Lord, Ellery,” protested Butch, “it stands to reason somebody gains by this crime.”
“From a monetary standpoint? Well, let’s see. Did Jack or Blythe leave much of an estate?”
“Mother left practically nothing,” said Bonnie lifelessly. “Even her jewels were paste. She lived up to every cent she earned.”
“How about Jack, Ty?”
Ty’s lip curled. “What do you think? You saw those IOU’s.”
“How about insurance?” asked the Inspector. “Or trust funds? You Hollywood actors are always salting it away in insurance companies.”
“Mother,” said Bonnie tightly, “didn’t believe in insurance or annuities. She didn’t know the value of money at all. I was always making up shortages in her checking account.”
“Dad took out a hundred-thousand-dollar policy once,” said Ty. “It was in force until the second premium came due. He said to hell with it — he had to go to the racetrack that afternoon.”
“But for Pete’s sake,” exclaimed the Inspector, “there’s got to be an angle somewhere. If it wasn’t gain, then revenge. Something! I’m beginning to think this guy Park better be tagged right away, at that.”
“Well,” said Ty coldly, “how about Alessandro and those IOU’s?”
“But they turned up in your father’s possession,” said Ellery. “If he hadn’t paid up, do you think Alessandro would have returned the IOU’s?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” muttered Ty. “All I ask is: Where would dad get a hundred and ten thousand?”
“You’re absolutely sure,” said Glücke slowly, “he couldn’t lay his hands on that much, huh?”