Something flashed at the head of the alley and his arm instinctively came up to protect his face. The man with the camera... There was a crowd on the sidewalk, blocking the exit. Then the darkness fell again, darker than before.
Suddenly he heard Leon Fields cry out. There was a scrambling sound, and all sound stopped.
“Where are you, damn it!” Ellery snarled. “What did you do to him?”
Harrison stumbled by, still cursing. The camera flashed again. The actor lowered his head like a bull, charged, and scattered the crowd.
A woman screamed, “Don’t let him get away!”
A man jeered, “Okay, lady. You stop him.”
Nobody came into the alley but the cameraman. Ellery heard him swearing; he had dropped his case of bulbs.
Ellery found Fields lying face down on the cement, unconscious. He felt swiftly for blood, but could locate none. He slung the little columnist over his shoulder and lumbered up the alley, keeping his head down.
“It’s all right,” he kept saying. “One side, please. Just a brawl... Cab!”
The last thing Ellery heard as the taxi shot away from the curb was the cameraman, still swearing.
“Who was that other guy, Gorgeous George?” asked the cab driver. “Is he still out?”
“He’s coming to now.”
“Too bad it was dark in the alley. I bet it was a pip. Where to, bud?”
“Just get out of Times Square.”
Leon Fields groaned. Ellery chafed his hands, slapped his cheeks.
He was thinking: Dirk doesn’t know what he accomplished tonight. If Martha had been there... He could see the tabloids clearly, and he shut his eyes. As it was, the story would break with a roar. ACTOR SLUGS FIELDS. With action pictures...
Fields said: “Who the hell are you?”
“Your fairy godmother,” said Ellery. “How’s your jaw?”
“Fields feels lousy.” The columnist tried to peer through a rapidly swelling eye. “Say, I know you. You’re Inspector Q’s little boy. Did you rescue me from the bad man?”
“I picked up the remains.”
“He fights dirty. Gave me the knee and when I doubled up beat the hell out of my face. Am I dreaming, or did somebody take pictures?”
“You’re awake.”
“Who was it?”
“Some news photographer on roving assignment, I think.”
“Great,” growled Fields. “What they’ll do to this.” He was silent, then he said, “What’s your hatchet?”
“No hatchet.”
“I’ll bet.”
“You’d lose.”
Fields grunted. “Anyway, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Know who he was?”
“Yes.”
“Who?” Fields peered again.
“V.H.”
“Give me a cigaret. I seem to have lost mine in the scuffle.”
He smoked silently, thinking. His jaw was swollen as well as his eyes; he smoked sidewise, wryly. His dinner clothes were a mess.
“Look, my friends,” said the voice from the driver’s seat, “I don’t mind cruising around on the clock, but would you at least give me a clue where I’m going to wind up?”
Fields said in a swift undertone, “Does he know who—?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Don’t tell him. I want to play this coy tonight. I’ve got to clear my head. Can I trust you?”
“How should I know what you can do?”
“Okay. Tell him Park and 86th. Where are we now?”
“Third Avenue around 60th, I think.”
“Tell him.”
Ellery told the driver and dropped his voice still lower. “What’s the idea? Don’t you live at Essex House?”
“That’s for my public. I’ve got a few hideouts around town under different names. I don’t think I’m up to answering my phone tonight. Where I’m going, the calls are from hipsters.”
“Just what did you say to our friend,” asked Ellery with innocent curiosity, “that aroused his ire?”
The columnist grinned.
They got out at Park and 86th and stood on the corner until the taxi was out of sight.
“Now where?” asked Ellery.
“You’re sticking, I see.”
“I don’t give a damn where you hole up. You need first aid.”
Fields stared at him out of his one usable eye. Suddenly he said, “All right.”
They walked up Park Avenue to 88th Street and turned west. At Madison they crossed over.
“It’s this one here.”
It was a small, quiet-looking apartment house between Madison and Fifth. Fields unlocked the street door and they went in. The elevator was self-service; there was no doorman.
He led the way to a rear apartment on the ground floor, used his key again. The name panel over the bell button said: GEORGE T. JOHNSON.
“I like ground-floor apartments,” Fields said. “You can jump out of a window in an emergency.”
The flat was furnished in surprisingly good taste. The columnist saw Ellery looking around, and he laughed. “Everybody thinks I’m a slob. But even a slob can have a soul, hm? If I told any of the wolf pack that I’m queer for Bach, they’d turn pale. I’ll tell you a secret — I can’t stand boogy. Makes my stomach turn over. What do you drink?”
They had a couple of quick ones and then Ellery went to work on him. An hour later, bathed, cuts cleansed, swellings down, and in pajamas and robe, Fields looked human again.
They had a couple of slow ones.
“I don’t drink when I’m working,” said the columnist, “but you’re company.”
“I don’t, either,” said Ellery, “so I’m breaking my rule.”
Fields pretended not to understand. He talked charmingly on a dozen subjects as he kept refilling Ellery’s glass.
“It won’t do you any good,” said Ellery an hour later, “because while most times three drinks can put me under, I have a hollow leg when I put my mind to it. Well, maybe not quite — that sounded like a mixed metaphor. The point is, Leon, how come?”
“How come what?”
“How come you know what.”
“Let’s have some Bach.”
Ellery listened to Landowska’s brittle beauties for another hour. Under other circumstances he would have enjoyed it. But his head was beginning to dance and Fields’s battered face was dancing with it. He yawned.
“Sleepy?” said the columnist. “Have another.” He turned off the record player and came on with the bottle.
“Enough,” said Ellery.
“Aw, come on.”
“More than enough,” said Ellery. “What are you trying to do to me?”
The columnist grinned. “What you wanted to do to me. Tell me, Ellery: What tomahawk are you polishing?”
“Let’s call it a draw. Are you feeling all right?”
“Sure.”
“I’m going home.”
Fields took him to the door. “Just tell me this: Are you working on Van Harrison?”
Ellery looked at him. “Why should I be working on Van Harrison?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Who’s telling?”
They collapsed in each other’s arms, overcome by their wit. Then Fields put his arm around Ellery and said, “You’re okay, chum. So you’ve got something on that bastard. Maybe I know it and maybe I don’t—”
“Maybe you’re talking through your father’s mustache, Leon.”
“Let’s stop horsing around.” The columnist’s chopped-up face was grim. “If I gave you some of the dirt I’ve got stashed away on Harrison, would it help you?”
Ellery took a long time before he answered. Then he said: “Maybe.”
“Okay, I’ll think about it.”
They embraced again, and Ellery staggered out into the night.
E· F· G·
Ellery crawled out of bed on Saturday morning to find that it was almost noon and that the life of a private eye was composed of lows as well as highs. His head felt rotten clear through and he bore it gingerly from the bathroom to the kitchen. Here he found the morning newspapers neatly waiting. On the top one, the Daily News, his father had drawn an arrow in red crayon over the figure of a man in a full front-page photo, and he had scrawled above it: “Is this resemblance coincidental, or are you the copyright owner?”