Bonnie moved then and looked, not at the paper specimens, but directly at the keys. She poked the b and examined the key, and the d, and the t. And then she said: “I see.”
“Little doubt about it. This envelope and the one that came yesterday were both addressed on this machine.”
“How did you know?” she asked, looking at him with that same queer, questioning gaze.
“It seemed likely.”
“Then there ought to be a carbon copy of the yellow code sheet, too. It wouldn’t be complete without that.”
“Clever girl.” Ellery rummaged through the table drawer. “And here it is, too! Looks like a third or fourth carbon.” He offered it for her inspection, but she kept looking at him.
“What are you going to do?” Bonnie’s voice was chill. “Expose Ty to Inspector Glücke?”
“No, no, that would be premature,” said Ellery hastily. “No real evidence for a prosecutor.” She said nothing. “Bonnie, don’t say anything about this to any one. And keep away from Ty. Do you hear?”
“I hear,” said Bonnie.
“As far away as you can.” Bonnie opened the door. “Where are you going now?” Bonnie did not answer. “Be careful!” She looked at him, once, a long hard look that had in its depths a gleam of — that was strange — fright.
Her stride lengthened. Half a block away she was running.
Ellery watched her with grim eyes. When she vanished around a corner he closed the door and sank into the chair.
“I wonder,” he thought miserably, “what the penalty is for murdering love.”
Chapter 17
“Danse Amoureuse”
Mr. Queen sat in Ty’s cool room and cogitated. He sat and cogitated for a considerable time. In many ways things were satisfactory; yes, quite satisfactory. In one important way, however, they were unquestionably not satisfactory. The most important way.
“Same old story,” reflected Mr. Queen. “Find the nut and there’s nothing to crack it with. Is it possible there’s nothing to do but wait? Think, man, think!”
Mr. Queen thought. An hour passed; another. Mr. Queen kept on thinking. But it was no use.
He got to his feet, stretching to iron the kinks out of his muscles. It all gelled; the case lay smooth and shiny and whole before his critical appetite. The problem, which he found himself unable to solve, was how to wrap his fingers around it without causing it to disintegrate into a sticky, ruined, quivering mess.
Hoping fervently for an inspiration, Mr. Queen left the bungalow and the studio and took a taxi back to his hotel. In his apartment he called the desk clerk and instructed him to have his coupe brought around from the garage. While he was gathering the various letters in his collection and placing them under the lid of John Royle’s portable typewriter, the telephone rang.
“Queen?” bellowed Inspector Glücke. “You come down to my office right away! Right away, d’ye hear?”
“Do I hear? I can’t very well help myself, Glücke.”
“I’m not saying anything now. You just get down here as fast as those smart legs of yours can carry you!”
“Mmm,” said Ellery. “Shall I take a toothbrush and pajamas?”
“You ought to be in clink, damn you. Step on it!”
“As a matter of fact, I was on my way, Glücke—”
“You’d double-cross your own father,” roared the Inspector. “I give you a half-hour. Not a minute more!” He hung up.
Ellery frowned, sighed, snapped down the lid of the typewriter, went downstairs, got into his coupe, and headed for downtown Los Angeles.
“Well?” said Mr. Queen, precisely a half-hour later.
Inspector Glücke sat behind his desk blowing out his hard cheeks and contriving to look both vexed and wounded at once. Also, he breathed hard and angrily.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” he growled, pointing to the typewriter.
“I asked first,” said Ellery coyly.
“Sit down and don’t be so damned funny. Did you see Paula Paris’s paper today?”
“No.”
“Can’t you read English, or aren’t our newspapers classy enough for you? After all, you are a literary man.”
“Ha, ha,” said Ellery. “That, I take it, was meant to positively gore me. You see how much I love you, darling? I even split an infinitive with you! Come on, spill.” Glücke hurled a newspaper at Ellery. Ellery caught it, raising his brows, and began to read a passage marked in red pencil in Paula Paris’s column.
“What you got to say for yourself?”
“I say she’s wonderful,” said Ellery dreamily. “My lady Paula! A woman with brains. Glücke, tell me truthfully: Have you ever met a woman who combined intellect, beauty, and charm so perfectly?”
The Inspector smote his desk with the flat of his hand, making things jump and tremble. “You think you’re damned cute — you and that pest of a newspaperwoman! Queen, I don’t mind telling you I’m raving mad. Raving! When I read that piece I had a good mind to issue a warrant for your arrest. I mean it!”
“Looking for a goat, eh?” said Ellery sympathetically.
“Collecting all those letters! Holding out on me all week! Posing as a Headquarters dick!”
“You’ve worked fast,” said Ellery with admiration. “All she says here, after all, is that Blythe Stuart was receiving anonymous letters and that they were mailed through the agency of a mailing service. Good work, Glücke.”
“Don’t salve me! There’s only one mailing service in town, and I had this guy Lucey on the carpet just a while ago. He told me all about you — recognized you from his description. And you left your name and hotel phone number with him. The cheek of it! That proved his story. I suppose the other two were Ty Royle and Lew Bascom, from Lucey’s description.”
“Wonderful.”
“I’ve been having the Stuart house searched — no letters — so I know you have ’em.” The Inspector looked as if he were about to cry. “To think you’d pull a lousy trick like that on me.” He jumped up and shouted: “Fork over!”
Ellery frowned. “Nevertheless, the inevitability of secrets finally coming to rest in Paula’s column is beginning to give me the willies. Where the devil does she get her information?”
“I don’t care,” yelled Glücke. “I didn’t even call her this morning on it — what the hell good would it do? Listen, Queen, are you going to give me those letters or do I have to slap you in the can?”
“Oh, the letters.” Ellery kicked the typewriter between his legs. “You’ll find them in here, with the cards and the machine the scoundrel used to type his code sheet, and his letter to International Mailers.”
“Cards? Code sheet?” gaped Glücke. “Machine? Whose machine?”
“Jack Royle’s.”
The Inspector sank back, feeling his brow. “All right,” he choked. “Let’s have the story. I’m just in charge of the Homicide Detail. Just give me a break, a handout.” He bellowed: “Damn it, man, give!”
Ellery gave, chuckling. He launched into a long exposition, beginning at the beginning — the very beginning, which was his acquisition of the first two cards from Blythe Stuart herself in Jack Royle’s house — and concluding with the story of the new series of letters sent to Bonnie.
The Inspector sat glowering at the typewriter, the yellow sheets, the cards, the envelopes.
“And when I found that the two letters to Bonnie were typed on Ty’s machine,” shrugged Ellery, “that was the end of it. Honestly, Glücke, I was on my way to give you all this stuff when you phoned me.”
The Inspector rose, grunting, and took a turn about the room. Then he summoned his secretary. “Take all this stuff down to Bronson and have him check it, along with the fingerprint detail.” When the man left, he resumed his pacing.