“How thrilling!”
“Lew darling!” cried Blythe, spying him. “Get out of the way and let me show you how to lick that thing. Come along, Mr. Singh!”
Lew looked the Swami over blearily and shrugged. “It’s your cashee, Blythe.”
A Russian director gave the actress his chair and the Swami took his place behind it, ignoring the stares of the crowd. The croupier looked a little startled and glanced at Alessandro, who shrugged, smiled, and moved off.
“Place your bets,” said the croupier.
At this moment, across the table, the eyes of John Royle and Blythe Stuart met. And without a flicker they passed on.
With an enigmatic expression Royle placed a bet. The Swami whispered in Blythe Stuart’s ear and she made no move to play, as if he had advised lying low until his Psyche could smell out the probabilities. The wheel spun, the ball clacked to a stop on a number, the croupier began raking up the chips.
“I beg your pardon,” said John Royle politely, and he took the outstretched rake from the croupier’s hand and poked it across the table at the Swami’s turban. The turban fell off the Swami’s head. His skull gleamed in the strong light — hairless, polished, pinkish-white.
The “Hindu” dived frantically for the turban. Some one gasped. Blythe Stuart gaped at the naked pink scalp.
Royle handed the rake back to the croupier with a bow. “This,” he said in an amiable tone, “is Arthur William Park, the actor. You remember his Polonius, Sergie, in the Menzies Hamlet in 1920? An excellent performance, then — as now.”
Park straightened up, murder in his eyes.
“Sorry, old man,” murmured Royle. “I know you’re down on your luck, but I can’t permit my... friends to be victimized.”
“You’re riding high, Royle,” said Park thickly, his cheeks muddy under the make-up. “Wait till you’re sixty-five, unable to get a decent part, sick as a dying dog, with a wife and crippled son to support. Wait.”
Alessandro signalled to two of his men.
“Come on, fella,” said one of them.
“Just a moment,” said Blythe Stuart in a low voice. Her hazel eyes blazed like Indian topaz. “Alessandro, call a policeman.”
“Now, take it easy, Miss Stuart,” said Alessandro swiftly. “I don’t want any trouble here—”
Park cried out and tried to run; the two men caught him by his skinny arms. “No! Please!”
Royle’s smile faded. “Don’t take it out on this poor fellow, just because you’re angry with me. Let him go.”
“I won’t be publicly humiliated!”
“Mother! What’s the matter?” Bonnie Blythe, dazzling in an ermine cape, her golden curls iridescent in the light, appeared on Jacques Butcher’s arm. She shook it off and ran to Blythe.
“Oh, darling, this beast put this man up to pretending to be a Swami, and he brought me here and — and the beast unmasked the Swami as an actor or something,” sobbed Blythe, melting into tears at the sight of a compassionate face, “and I’ve never been so humiliated in my life.” Then she stamped her foot. “Alessandro, will you call a policeman or must I? I’ll have them both arrested!”
“Darling. Don’t,” said Bonnie gently, her arm about her mother’s shoulders. “The man looks pretty much down in the mouth to me. I don’t think you’d enjoy seeing him in jail.” She nodded to Alessandro over her mother’s sleek coiffure, and the gambler sighed with relief and signalled to his men, who hurried the man out. “But as for Mr. John Royle,” continued Bonnie, her glance hardening, “that’s — different.”
“Bonnie,” said the Boy Wonder warningly.
“No, Butch. It’s time he was told—”
“My dear Bonnie,” said Royle with a queer smile, “I assure you I didn’t put Park up to his masquerade. That was his own idea.”
“Don’t tell me,” sobbed Blythe. “I know you, John Royle. Oh, I could kill you!”
And she gathered her sweeping skirts about her and ran out of the gaming room, crying bitterly. Bonnie ran after her, followed by the Boy Wonder, whose face was red with embarrassment.
Royle shrugged with a braggadocio that did not quite come off. He pressed some bills into Lew Bascom’s hand, nodding toward the door. Lew waddled out with the money.
“Place your bets,” said the croupier wearily.
Lew came back after a long absence. “What a night! It’s a conspiracy, damn it, to keep me from cleanin’ up the joint. Just when I was goin’ good!”
“I trust,” sighed Ellery, “all’s well that ends well? Nobody’s murdered anybody?”
“Damn near. Bumped into Ty Royle outside, just comin’ in. Alec’s gorillas told him what happened and he tried to make Park take some dough. That kid gives away more dough to broken-down actors than half the relief-agencies in Hollywood. The old guy took it, all right. They’re all outside now, raisin’ hell.”
“Then it wasn’t a put-up job?”
“Hell, no. Though I’ll bet Jack’s sorry he didn’t think of it.”
“I doubt that,” said Ellery dryly, glancing at Royle. The actor was sitting at the bar before a row of six cocktail glasses filled with Sidecars, his broad back humped.
“Park’s got cancer or somepin’, hasn’t had more’n extra-work for two-three years. What’d he want to come around here for?” Lew made a face. “Spoiled my whole evening. Stiff old devil! I took him around the corner and bought him a couple. He wouldn’t take Jack’s dough, though.”
“Curious ethics. And I can’t say Blythe Stuart’s spent a very enjoyable evening, either.”
“That wacky dame! Sucker for every phony in the fortune-telling racket. She won’t even take a part till she’s read the tea-leaves.”
Bonnie came stalking back, her face stormy. The Boy Wonder clutched her arm, looking harassed. He was talking earnestly to her; but she paid no attention, tapping the rug with her toe, glancing about. She caught sight of Jack Royle sitting Buddha-like at the bar and took a step forward.
“Hold it, me proud beauty,” drawled a voice, and she stopped as if she had stepped on an electric wire.
A tall young man in evening clothes, surrounded by four beautiful young women, loomed in Alessandro’s doorway. Alessandro looked positively unhappy, Ellery thought.
“You again?” said Bonnie with such colossal contempt that, had Ellery been in the young man’s shoes, he would have made for the nearest crack in the wall. “You can spare that alcoholic breath of yours. He’s got it coming to him, and he’s going to get it.”
“If this is going to be a scrap,” said Ty Royle in a cold voice, “how about mixing it with me? I’m closer to your age, and dad’s getting on.”
Bonnie looked him up and down. “At that,” she said sweetly, “he’s a better man than you are. At least he doesn’t flaunt his harem in decent people’s faces.”
The four young ladies surrounding Ty gasped, and for a moment Ellery thought there would be a general engagement in which the destruction of expensive coiffures would be the least of the damage.
“Ty. Bonnie,” said the Boy Wonder hurriedly, stepping between them. “Not here, for the love of Mike. Here—” he glanced about desperately. “Queen! What luck. Darling, this is Ellery Queen. Queen — will you?” and Butcher dragged Ty Royle aside.
“If Butch thinks I’m going to let that conceited housemaid’s hero,” said Bonnie, her magnificent eyes smoking, “talk me out of giving his father a piece of my mind—”
“But would it be wise?” said Ellery hastily. “I mean—”
“Poor mother’s positively ashamed! Of course, it’s her fault for listening to every charlatan in a Hindu make-up, but a decent person wouldn’t expose her that way in front of all the people she knows. She’s really the dearest, sweetest thing, Mr. Queen. Only she isn’t very practical, and if I didn’t watch her like a nursemaid she’d get into all sorts of trouble. Especially with those detestable Royles just watching for a chance to humiliate her!”