“When we met he’d just been given a rather thorough going-over by a pair of quack ‘specialists’ who’d got hold of him and were milking him for thousands in fees. They told him he had cancer of the stomach, scared him into believing he had only a year or two at the most to live.”
“You mean a deliberately false diagnosis?”
“I imagine so. I suppose they were afraid the sacred cow would stop giving milk sooner or later and thought they’d get much more out of him by concentrating their ‘services’ over a short period than by trying to pander to his hypochondria over a longer one. Anyway, some one recommended me to him, and I examined him and found he merely had ulcers. I told him so, and the quacks discreetly vanished.”
“But I still don’t see—”
“I told you you don’t know Tolland Stuart,” said the doctor grimly. “He was suspicious of them, but he couldn’t get it out of his mind that perhaps there was a cancer in his stomach. My insistence that he hadn’t, and that I could cure his ulcers very easily — he was in perfectly sound condition otherwise — gave him an idea. He remembered what the quacks had said about his having only a year or so to live. So, in view of my confidence, he engaged me to keep him alive for a minimum of ten years — he liked my honesty, he said, and if I kept him in reasonably good health five times longer than the other men had claimed he would live, I was entitled to a large fee.”
“The Chinese system. You collect during the good health of your patient.”
“Good health!” snorted Dr. Junius. “The man’s as sound as a nut. It took me only a short time to heal the ulcers, and he hasn’t had so much as a cold since.”
“But all those medicines and pills by his bed—”
“Colored water and sugar-coated anodynes. It’s a disgusting but essential therapy. I haven’t used a legitimate drug from my little pharmacy in there in eight years. I’ve got to treat him for his imaginary ailments or he’d kick me out of the house.”
“And then you wouldn’t collect your hundred thousand when he dies.”
The doctor threw up his hands. “When he dies! As far as I can tell, he’ll live to be ninety. The chances are all in favor of his surviving me, and I’ll get for my long years of martyrdom up here just two lines in an obituary column.”
“But isn’t he paying you a yearly retainer besides?”
“Oh, yes, quite handsome.” The doctor shrugged. “But unfortunately I haven’t any of it. I’d go crazy if I didn’t sneak down into L.A. once in a while. When I do, it’s only to lose money at roulette, or at the racetrack — I’ve dropped some in the stock market...”
“Not Alessandro’s?” said Ellery suddenly.
The doctor scowled at the jagged skyline. “Did you ever want something very badly?”
“Often.”
“I recognized early in my career that I wouldn’t make a go of medicine. Haven’t the proper temperament. What I’ve always wanted more than anything else, and couldn’t have for lack of money, was leisure.”
“Leisure? To what purpose?”
“Writing! I’ve got a story to tell the world. Lots of stories!” He tapped his breast. “They’re locked up in here, and they won’t come free until my mind is relieved of financial worry and I’ve got time and a sense of security.”
“But up here—”
“What about up here?” demanded Junius fiercely. “Security? Time? I’m a prisoner. I’m on my feet, from morning to night, catering to that old fool, cooking for him, wiping his nose, running his errands, cleaning his house... No. Mr. Queen, I can’t write up here. All I can do up here is run my feet off and hope he’ll break his neck some day while he’s out rabbit-hunting.”
“At least,” murmured Ellery, “you’re frank.”
The doctor looked frightened. He said hastily: “Goodbye,” and plodded off towards the tree-masked house.
“Goodbye,” said Ellery soberly, and he climbed into the waiting plane.
Chapter 16
Mr. Queen, Rat
Ellery was sitting at his kitchenette table Saturday morning clad in pajamas and robe and giving his divided attention simultaneously to a sooty slab of toast, the morning paper announcing the latest developments, which were nil, in the Royle-Stuart case, and a paperbacked book entitled Fortune Telling by Cards, when his telephone rang.
“Queen!” Ty’s voice was eager. “What did she say?”
“What did who say?”
“Bonnie. Did you fix it up for me?”
“Oh, Bonnie.” Ellery thought furiously. “Well, now, Ty, I’ve got bad news for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“She won’t believe a word of it. She’s still convinced your father wrote those notes to her mother.”
“But she can’t!” howled Ty. “It’s not reasonable. Didn’t you tell her about that mailing company and the rest of it?”
“Oh, certainly,” lied Ellery. “But you can’t expect reasonableness from a woman, Ty; a man of your experience ought to know that. Why don’t you give Bonnie up as a hopeless job?”
Ty was silent; Ellery could almost see him grinding his teeth together and sticking out his lean jaw. “I couldn’t be mistaken,” said Ty at last, in a sort of stubborn despair. “She gave herself to me too completely. She loves me. I know she does.”
“Pshaw, the girl’s an actress. Every woman has something of the mime in her, but when it’s also her profession—”
“Since when do you know so much about women? I tell you she wasn’t acting!”
“Look, Ty,” said Ellery with simulated impatience, “I’m a sorely harassed man, and I’m not at my best at this hour of the morning. You asked me, and I told you.”
“I’ve kissed too many girls in my time,” muttered Ty, “not to recognize the real thing when it’s dished out to me.”
“Thus spake Casanova,” sighed Ellery. “I still think you ought to take a vacation. Hop an Eastern plane. A whirl around Broadway’s hot spots will get Bonnie out of your system.”
“I don’t want her out of my system! Damn it, if it’s that bad I’ll face the music in person. I should have done it in the first place.”
“Wait,” said Ellery, alarmed. “Don’t go looking for trouble, Ty.”
“I know if I talk to her, take her in my arms again—”
“Do you want a knife in your back when you do? She’s been receiving letters again.”
“More?” said Ty incredulously. “But I thought we bagged the whole batch in that mailing office!”
“She showed me one that came yesterday. Addressed to her.”
“To her?”
“Yes, and with the seven of spades enclosed. ‘An Enemy.’”
“But if it was mailed Thursday night — and we know it couldn’t have come from the fellow Lucey’s office — why, that proves dad couldn’t have sent it!”
Ellery said desperately: “Oh, she knows your father couldn’t have mailed this one. It’s worse. She thinks you sent it.”
“I?” Ty sounded dazed.
“Yes, she’s convinced now the whole series of card messages has been inspired by the Royle family. The ones to Blythe by your father and now this one, apparently the first of a fresh series, by you.”
“But that’s... why, that’s mad! By me? Does she actually think I ...?”
“I told you she was past reasoning with. You’ll never rehabilitate this affair, Ty. Stop wasting your time.”
“But she mustn’t think I’m hounding her! I ought to be able to do something to convince her—”
“Don’t you know that the only truly inert material in the universe is an idea rooted in a woman’s skull? The winds do blow, but to no avail. I don’t want to seem to be changing the subject, but do you own a typewriter?”