Charles Ardai - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 102, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 618 & 619, October 1993

“I’ll need the car on Sunday. To take Mother to Santa Barbara.”

“I can’t let you have it.”

“This is important.”

“Rent one.”

“I haven’t the money to rent a car. You know that.”

“Then get a better job.”

He stood for a full minute, watching her, while the light through the window changed. “You want me to vanish?”

“What else is new?”

He was not always sure what she was talking about. “I’ll think about it.”

This was no time to pack and leave. But if the Sunday encounter worked out, then everything would change. Roy went to Connie’s desk, opened a lower drawer, and took out his script. He switched on the angle-poise lamp and sat down inside its glow. Then, slowly, he read An Air That Kills from start to finish, turning each page the way the minister used to do with the giant Bible on the lectern back when Roy was a choirboy. Two services every Sunday.

Clara Hunter Flagg came through the arrival gate with a young man carrying her hand luggage. He was some sort of business executive, the jacket of his expensive suit draped over his arm. Roy watched from the crowd gathered to meet the flight, saw the way his mother was charming this man, and felt one down. The guy was not doing a good deed for an old lady. He was enjoying her company.

Roy came forward and there were first-name introductions and one of those salesman handshakes. He was glad when the guy peeled off to join his wife. She was a neat little creature who liked to sit with her legs crossed. Roy had been inspecting her for the past half-hour.

“This way, Mother. Your luggage is through here. Then we go and board the shuttle.”

“Where is the car, Royal?” She looked smart in her pale blue suit. Her hair was very short and brushed forward, a stylish silver crown.

“It’s in the garage for a new transmission.” He was not about to admit that Connie had cut him off. Or even that he went about in somebody else’s car.

“But how will we get to Santa Barbara tomorrow? How will I keep my date with the president?”

He acknowledged her whimsy by putting an arm around her shoulder and dragging her against him so they walked off balance for a couple of steps. “You’ll be staying at Hal Chatterton’s place. Hal’s going to lend me his car.”

An hour later, they were at Chatterton’s building. Roy had visualized the famous radio personality watching for their arrival, coming outside to lay on the greeting. But it was nothing like that. As Roy bullied the matching suitcases through the lobby door, a guard behind a desk studied him intently.

On the fifth floor, Chatterton made jocular noises letting them in. But it was hollow. He was doing a number. He seemed to think he would get dirty if he stood too close to Roy Flagg. Perhaps he had been listening to Connie’s negative perceptions. He led them to the guest room, but within minutes he excused himself and left the apartment, having given Clara a key to the front door.

“Your friend is a strange man,” she said. “All that hair.”

“I hardly ever see him. He’s Connie’s friend.”

It was much better with Connie. She got on with Clara Hunter Flagg from the first moment. The ladies sat together in the backseat, with Roy given permission to drive the car. He took them on a tour of Beverly Hills, then swept around to the Chinese Theater on Hollywood Boulevard so that Clara could fit her tiny shoes into the concrete footprints of the stars.

Finally, they got onto Sunset Boulevard and drove west as far as they could go, racing at last down the winding hillside road to the ocean. Here, they dined at a beachfront restaurant with gulls hovering outside their window.

Connie took the wheel on the return journey. Roy ran his mother inside when they got to Chatterton’s building. Hal was home but unapproachable, the back of his head showing over the top of a tall swivel chair. He was facing a blue screen, rattling the keys on his computer.

“It’s all right,” Clara whispered in the hallway. “I’m tired, I’d like to rest. Thank you for a lovely day and an excellent dinner.”

He kissed his mother good night, crept out of the apartment, and hurried back to Connie. She said, as soon as the car was rolling, “Will you be abandoning me, too, once you strike it rich?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The way you make use of people. As if they were rungs on a ladder.”

He waited one full traffic light, red to green. As they moved off, he spoke the words he had decided might cool her out. It was worth a try. “You want to get married?”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

“Isn’t that what this is about?”

“Your wife and daughter would hate it if you married me.”

Speeding cars are great places for domestic fights. Nobody can leave the room and slam the door. “I never told you about them because it would serve no purpose.”

“Perfect,” she said to herself.

“When did you find out?”

“This afternoon. A nice old man came to the station. I thought private detectives look like Humphrey Bogart. Your wife is trying to find you. And now she has. He said you can run but you can’t hide. He thinks you should straighten up and fly right.”

“I’m too old to change.”

“She needs money, Roy. To feed and clothe and educate your daughter.”

“I don’t have any money,” he whined. “I can’t even buy a new pair of shoes.”

“Because you’re drifting and dreaming, pretending you’re going to sprout wings and turn into Tennessee Williams.” Connie’s anger was diminishing, she was gliding into persuasion. “You should get yourself into a job with a future. You’re a bright guy, you could earn money. This script thing is never going to happen.”

She could not hurt him now by putting down his script. He was too close. This time tomorrow, he would have had his conference with Mike Linford. “I’m curious. What did the detective tell you about Sharon?”

“That she hired him to trace you. That he’s sure we’re both nice people. And now that I’m informed, I’ll persuade you to do the right thing.”

“No problem. Linford will listen to me tomorrow. He’ll talk to Ellis Temple. Temple will option An Air That Kills. It’s not impossible, they pick up hundreds of scripts every year. I’ll get money up front and everybody will get paid.”

Connie adopted a studious tone of voice. “There’s a wife and child back in Louisiana. What other secrets am I unaware of?”

“Cut it out.”

“Sharon is a nice name. Mrs. Sharon Flagg. What’s your daughter’s name?”

Roy drew a blank. He had to reach around in the dark at the back of his mind. Finally he was able to say, “Jennifer.”

On Sunday, Roy was too proud to ask Connie if she would change her mind about the car. He showered and shaved and put some mousse on his hair. He dragged out his three-piece dark blue suit from the end of the closet and drew off the plastic garbage bag that served as a dust cover. He was stunned to discover a moth hole on one side of the vest, near a button. He thought about leaving the vest off, but he had always believed he looked substantial with it on. If he got close to anybody, he could button the jacket and the hole would be concealed.

A coat of polish had brought his old leather shoes back to life. Roy did some mirror time; his grin and the white shirt were dynamite together.

Connie always slept interminably on a Sunday. The taxi pulled up outside, he found his wallet, and pocketed some change. As he opened the front door, he heard her voice from the bedroom. “Roy?” But he closed the door and kept on going without a word.

At Chatterton’s place, his mother let him in. She was dressed in a white linen suit and a pink pillbox hat. She looked crisp and ready for anything. Roy drew confidence from her. The Flagg family was about to whip the world. “All set to take on that Linford kid?” he asked.