Ellery broke it open. The chambers were all occupied by their deadly tenants, high-speed .22 Long Rifle cartridges.
He was not happy. It was a disagreeable discovery that Van Harrison also owned a shooting iron, although not exactly a surprise. Men who made love to other men’s wives would understandably feel the need of a more emphatic protector than a wide eye or an earnest tongue. It was true that great differences existed between a .45 automatic, such as Dirk’s weapon, and a .22 revolver, such as Harrison’s, but these might be considered to disappear, for all practical purposes, within the confines of the average hotel bedroom.
Ellery replaced the weapon in the drawer as he had found it.
The two upper drawers of the three at the right side of the desk turned up nothing of importance. But in the rear compartment of the bottom drawer he found a sheaf of letters, without envelopes, held together by a thick rubber band.
The handwriting looked familiar. Ellery extracted the topmost letter and turned to the end.
It was signed, Martha.
He began to read it:
Tuesday, 1 A.M.
My dearest — I know it’s a silly time to be writing a letter — and in the bathroom, too! — and I suppose in my position I shouldn’t be writing at all. But darling, I guess I never learned how to be a lady except in unimportant things.
Every woman wants to feel that she’s important to a man for herself, not for what she can give him or do for him. You’ve made me feel that I’m important to you in that way. I think that’s the main reason — and I say this knowing no woman ever should — that I can bring myself to tell you, over and over, how madly in love with you I am. I never thought it would happen to me this way. Or at all. Because I’ve been hurt so terribly many times.
That was the end of the first page. Ellery turned the page and read some more; and then he stopped in the middle of a sentence and went through the other letters quickly. They were all the same — a day, an hour, a salutation of endearment, an outpouring of passion and hurt and loneliness. And all the time he was reading, Ellery saw between him and the closely written pages the dent in Harrison’s hat and the lipstick mark under his ear. And suddenly he rebound the letters with the rubber band and replaced them at the back of the drawer and shut the drawer violently.
He got up, moved the chair back to where he had found it, and went to the other end of Harrison’s bedroom. Two big doors stood side by side, and he opened them. They were closets. One contained nothing but men’s clothes — an immense wardrobe of custom-tailored suits and coats, running the fashion gamut from country casuals and sportswear to tails and — Ellery gaped — a black cape lined with red silk. The other wardrobe was filled with women’s clothes.
Ellery recognized at least two summer dresses of Martha’s and a blue suede sports coat of a distinctive shade which he had seen Martha wear on several occasions. He remembered Nikki’s remarking once, with the awe of the budgeted working girl, that Martha had bought the coat at Jay Thorpe. He looked at the label of the blue coat: it said Jay Thorpe.
On the shelf lay several handbags, one with a solid gold monogram: MGL.
He noticed a white garment on the floor of the closet, evidently tumbled from a hanger. He stooped. It was a nylon novelty slip with the name Martha embroidered above the hem.
Before he left the bedroom, on an impulse he did not stop to probe, Ellery searched Harrison’s bureau and the drawers of his makeup table, a heroic affair in ebony and white leather, with a triple mirror. He found them — a set of toupees, and two corsets.
Harrison came in rubbing his hands. “It’s turned brisk out tonight. I should have laid a fire.”
“How is your friend’s husband?” asked Ellery.
“Blotto. I just heaved him onto his bed and departed. Was I too long? — Here, you haven’t touched your drink. I’ll get some more ice.”
“Not for me, thanks,” said Ellery. “And, if you don’t mind, I’d like to say what I have to say and get out of here.”
“Fire when ready,” said the actor. He squatted at the fireplace, crumpling paper and fishing for kindling in a leather scuttle.
“Those may be prophetic words, Harrison.”
“What?” Harrison’s head twisted, astonished.
“Dirk Lawrence has an Army .45 automatic, and he’s recently taken to practicing with it. I might add that he has several medals for marksmanship in his bureau drawer.”
The actor tossed a length of firewood on the kindling and put a match to the paper. The fire flared up. He rose and turned around.
He was grinning.
“You find that amusing?” said Ellery.
Harrison poured himself a refill from the warm contents of the pitcher. Then he stretched out comfortably in a great leather chair.
“You know, of course, Queen, that what I ought to do is take you by the scruff of the neck and toss you into Long Island Sound. Who do you think you are, Anthony Comstock? What business is it of yours whose wife I take for a hayride? Martha’s over twenty-one, and I certainly am. We know just what we’re doing. And I’ll tell you a little secret, Queen — we like it.”
“Is that the line Martha told you to take with me over the phone just now?”
Harrison blinked. Then he laughed and tossed his drink down.
“I doubt it. I doubt that Martha likes it, Harrison. The Lawrence-apartment part of it, anyway. You’re typical of the successful tom-about-town — love ’em and leave them the labor pains. But you’re asking for a pain of your own. How well do you know Dirk Lawrence?”
“I don’t know him at all.”
“Martha’s certainly told you about him.”
“His jealous streak? They’re all that way, old fellow. I’d be myself if I were married. In fact, I was that way when I was married. All four times. That’s why I’m not married any more. Let the other gent wear the horns.” Harrison reached over and upended the pitcher over his glass. A few drops slid down, and he frowned.
“Harrison, you’re not dealing with the average husband. Dirk’s a moody customer. Hopped up one minute and in the dumps the next. Manic-depressive. And he’s been through the war. He’s killed men in cold blood. How hard would it be for a man like that to kill with his blood heated up?” Ellery rose. “You don’t interest me at all, Harrison, except as a case history. I don’t care a hoot whether you live or die. I do care about Martha and, incidentally, Dirk. You’re playing with TNT. If Dirk gets wind of this filthy business, you won’t have the time to think up a bad exit line. They’ll have to put you together for the morticians like a jigsaw puzzle. Dirk’s a mean man.”
“You scare the hell out of me,” said Harrison. He tossed off the dregs in his glass. “Look, my friend. I’m no more anxious to get a bullet through my loins than the next man. I am very, very careful about Mr. Harrison’s health. Mrs. Lawrence and I will not be bosom companions forever. You know how these things are... By the way, don’t waste your time repeating that to Martha. She won’t believe you. Where was I?... Oh, yes. At the first sign of danger, Queen, I assure you I’ll run like a hare. That may leave Martha holding a rather voluminous bag, but after all, those are the chances we girls take, aren’t they? Meanwhile, it’s fun. Can you find your way to the door?”
He caught Harrison at the side of the jaw with a right cross that knocked the actor’s chair over backwards and landed him on the hearth of his fireplace.
But as Ellery drove away, he felt no righteous flush. Of even small victory. He had achieved exactly as much as a man can with his bare hands.