“Ah,” said Mr. Queen. “That brings up an important question, Miss Brent.” He fingered his ear. “Would you — uh — consider that I come under the heading of enjoyable occupations?”
“You?” Sheila looked blank.
“How would you like to come to work for me?” Ellery added hastily: “On a salary, of course. That’s understood. I’m not trying to take advantage of your millions.”
“Work for you?” Sheila propped one elbow on her knee and put her fist under her chin and stared at him thoughtfully. “Tell me more, Mr. Queen.”
“You’re not offended? Wonderful woman!” Ellery beamed. “Sheila, forget the past. Break every tie you’ve ever had. Except with your father, of course. But even in that case I think you should live alone. Change everything. Surroundings, way of living, clothes, habits. Pretend you’ve been born all over again.”
Sheila’s eyes had begun to sparkle. But then they clouded over. “Listens good, Ellery, but it’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible.”
But Sheila shook her head. “You forget I’m a marked woman. I’m Sheila Potts, or Sheila Brent — it doesn’t matter; they know both names.” They as she uttered the word sounded ugly. “I’d only mess your life up with a lot of notoriety, and I’d never be allowed to forget who I was... who my mother was... my half brother Thurlow... o the man I almost married...”
“Nonsense.”
She looked curious. “But it’s true.”
“It’s true only if you let it be true. There’s a perfectly simple way of making it not true.”
“How?” she cried. “Anything — tell me how! You don’t know how I’ve wanted to lose myself in crowds and crowds of ordinary, decent, sane people... How Ellery?”
“Change your name,” said Ellery calmly. “And with it your life. If Mr. Queen, the scrivener of detective stories, suddenly hires a secretary named Susie McGargle, a nice young woman from, say, Kansas City—”
“Secretary,” whispered Sheila. “Oh, yes! But...” Her voice became lifeless again. “It’s out of the question. You’re a dear to make the offer, but I’m not equipped, I don’t know how to type, I can’t take shorthand—”
“You can learn. That’s what secretarial schools are for.”
“Yes... I suppose...”
“And I think you’ll find me an understanding employer.”
“But I’d be a liability for such a long time!”
“Six weeks,” said Ellery reflectively. “Two months at the outside — to become as efficient a stenographer as ever drew a pothook or made a typewriter sing for its supper. I give you two months, no more.”
“Do you think I... really could?”
“Shucks.”
Almost rapturously, Sheila said: “If I could... a new life... It would be fun with you! If you really meant it—”
“I really mean it,” said Mr. Queen simply.
“Then I’ll do it!” She jumped from the sofa. “By golly, I’ll do it!” In her excitement she began to race up and down, flying from place to place. “Is this where you work? Is it hard? Doesn’t anyone ever clean this desk? That’s a terrible photo of you. Light’s bad in here. Where’s your typewriter? Maybe I could start today. I mean, the school... Oh, gosh, a new life, a new name, working with Ellery Queen... A new name,” she said damply. “But I don’t like Susie McGargle.”
“That,” said Ellery, watching her skim about with a delight that surprised him, “that was a low inspiration of the moment, chosen merely for illustration.”
“How you talk!” Sheila laughed and for the first time in a long time Mr. Queen thought how delicious can be a woman’s laughter. “Well, then, what’s my name going to be? It’s your idea — you baptize me.”
Ellery closed his eyes. “Name... Pretty problem. Pretty problem for a pretty subject. Red hair, dimples...” He sat up, beaming. “D’ye know, here’s a remarkable coincidence!”
“What, Ellery?”
“The heroine of my new book has red hair and dimples!”
“Really? What’s her name? Whatever it is — even if it’s Grimalkin — or Pollywog — I’ll take it for my own!”
“You will?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, you’re in luck,” said Ellery, grinning. “It’s a darned sweet name, if I do say so as shouldn’t.”
“What is it?”
Mr. Queen told her.
“Nicky?” Sheila looked doubtful.
“Spelled N-i-k-k-i.”
“Nikki! Oh, wonderful, wonderful. That’s a beautiful name. Nikki... Mr. Queen, I buy it!”
“As for a last name,” murmured that gentleman, “I can’t give you my heroine’s... it’s Dempsey... perfectly good name, but inappropriate for you, somehow. Let me see. What would go well with ‘Nikki’ and you?”
“Nikki... Nikki Jones? Nikki Brown? Nikki Green—”
“Heavens no. No poetry. Nikki Keats? Nikki Lowell? Nikki Fowler?... Fowler. E-r ending. Er. Yes, that would be good. An er ending in a two-syllable name. Parker. Farmer. Porter... Porter! Nikki Porter!” Ellery sprang to his feet. “That’s it,” he cried. “Nikki Porter.”
“Yes,” said Nikki Porter, all soft and tender and merry and grateful at once. “Yes, Mr. Queen.”
“Ellery to you, Miss Porter,” beamed Mr. Queen.
“Nikki to you... Ellery.”