“Sorry. Please forgive me. I did it on a — on a bet. Very stupid of me.”
“I’m sure you did.” She kept looking at her quiet hands.
“It’s the detective in me, I suppose. I mean, this clumsy leap into analysis—”
“Tell me, Mr. Queen,” she said abruptly, tamping out her cigaret. “How do you like the idea of putting the Royles and the Stuarts into a biographical film?”
Dangerous ground, then. Of course. He was an ass. “How did you know? Oh, I imagine Sam Vix told you.”
“Not at all. I have deeper channels of information.” She laughed then, and Ellery drank in the lovely sound. Superb, superb! “I know about you, you see,” she was murmuring. “Your six weeks’ horror at Magna, your futile scampering about the lot there, your orgy the other day with Jacques Butcher, who’s a darling—”
“I’m beginning to think you’d make a pretty good detective yourself.”
She shook her head ever so slowly and said: “Sam said you wanted information.” Ellery recognized the barrier. “Exactly what?”
“The Royles and the Stuarts.” He jumped up and began to walk around; it was not good to look at this woman too long. “What they’re like. Their lives, thoughts, secrets—”
“Heavens, is that all? I’d have to take a month off, and I’m too busy for that.”
“You do know all about them, though?”
“As much as any one. Do sit down again, Mr. Queen. Please.”
Ellery looked at her then. He felt a little series of twitches in his spine. He grinned idiotically and sat down.
“The interesting question, of course,” she went on in her gentle way, “is why Jack Royle and Blythe Stuart broke their engagement before the War. And nobody knows that.”
“I understood you to know everything.”
“Not quite everything, Mr. Queen. I don’t agree, however, with those who think it was another woman, or another man, or anything as serious as that.”
“Then you do have an opinion.”
The dimple again. “Some ridiculous triviality. A lovers’ spat of the most inconsequential sort.”
“With such extraordinary consequences?” asked Ellery dryly.
“Apparently you don’t know them. They’re reckless, irresponsible, charming lunatics. They’ve earned top money for over twenty years, and yet both are stony. Jack was — and is — a philanderer, gambler, a swash-buckler who indulges in the most idiotic escapades; a great actor, of course. Blythe was — and is — a lovely, electric hoyden whom every one adores. It’s simply that they’re capable of anything, from breaking an engagement for no reason at all to keeping a vendetta for over twenty years.”
“Or, I should imagine, piracy on the high seas.”
She laughed. “Jack once signed a contract with old Sigmund calling for five thousand a week, to make a picture that was scheduled to take about ten weeks’ shooting time. The afternoon of the day he signed the contract he dropped fifty thousand dollars at Tia Juana. So he worked the ten weeks for nothing, borrowing money from week to week for tips, and he gave the most brilliant performance of his career. That’s Jack Royle.”
“Keep talking.”
“Blythe? She’s never worn a girdle, drinks Martinis exclusively, sleeps raw, and three years ago gave half a year’s salary to the Actors’ Fund because Jack gave three months’ income. And that’s Blythe.”
“I suppose the youngsters are worse than their parents. The second generation usually is.”
“Oh, definitely. It’s such a deep, sustained hatred that a psychologist, I suspect, would look for some frustration mechanism, like Love Crushed to Earth”
“But Bonnie’s engaged to Jacques Butcher!”
“I know that,” said Paula calmly. “Nevertheless — you mark my words — crushed to earth, it will rise again. Poor Butch is in for it. And I think he knows it, poor darling.”
“This boy Tyler and the girl aren’t on speaking terms?”
“Oh, but they are! Wait until you hear them. Of course, they both came up in pictures about the same time, and they’re horribly jealous of each other. A couple of months ago Ty got a newspaper splash by wrestling with a trained grizzly at one of his father’s famous parties. A few days later Bonnie adopted a panther cub as a pet and paraded it up and down the Magna lot until Ty came off a set with a gang of girls, and then somehow — quite innocently, of course — the cub came loose and began to chew at Ty’s leg. The sight of Ty running away with the little animal scampering after him quite destroyed his reputation as a he-man.”
“Playful, aren’t they?”
“You’ll love all four of them, as every one else does. In Blythe’s and Bonnie’s case, it’s probably an inheritance from Blythe’s father Tolland — that’s Bonnie’s grandfather.”
“Vix mentioned him rather profusely.”
“He’s a local character — quite mad. I don’t mean mentally. He was sane enough to amass a tremendous fortune in oil. Just gaga. He spent a million dollars on his estate on Chocolate Mountain, and he hasn’t even a caretaker to hoe the weeds. It cost him forty thousand dollars to blast away the top of a neighboring mountain peak because he didn’t like the view of it from his porch — he said it looked like the profile of a blankety-blank who had once beaten him in an oil deal.”
“Charming,” said Ellery, looking at her figure.
“He drinks cold water with a teaspoon and publishes pamphlets crammed with statistics crusading against stimulants, including tobacco and coffee and tea, and warning people that eating white bread brings you early to the grave.”
She talked on and on, and Ellery sat back and listened, more entranced by the source than the information. It was by far the pleasantest afternoon he had spent in Hollywood.
He came to with a start. There was a shadow on Paula’s face, and it was creeping higher every minute.
“Good Lord!” he said, springing up and looking at his watch. “Why didn’t you kick me out, Miss Paris? All those people waiting out there—”
“My girls take care of most of them, and it’s a relief to be listened to for a change. And you’re such a splendid listener, Mr. Queen.” She rose, too, and extended her hand. “I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.”
He took her hand, and after a moment she gently withdrew it.
“Help?” said Ellery. “Oh, yes. Yes, you’ve been of tremendous service. By the way, can you suggest the surest means of treeing those four?”
“Today’s Friday. Of course. You go down to the Horseshoe Club on Wilshire Boulevard tomorrow night.”
“Horseshoe Club,” said Ellery dutifully, watching her mouth.
“Don’t you know it? It’s probably the most famous gambling place in Los Angeles. Run by Alessandro, a very clever gentleman with a very dark past. You’ll find them there.”
“Alessandro’s,” said Ellery. “Yes.”
“Let’s see.” She turned her head a little, trying to avoid his questioning eyes. “There’s no opening tomorrow night — yes, they’ll be there, I’m sure.”
“Will they let me in? I’m a stranger in town.”
“Would you like me to arrange it?” she asked demurely. “I’ll call Alessandro. He and I have an understanding.”
“You’re simply wonderful.” Then he said hastily: “I mean, so — Look, Miss Paris. Or why not Paula? Do you mind? Would you — I mean, could you bring yourself to accompany—”
“Goodbye, Mr. Queen,” said Paula with a faint smile.
“But would you do me the honor—”
“It’s been so nice talking to you. Drop in again.”
That damned phobia!