Эллери Куин - The Devil To Pay

“I’m sure we’ll love it,” said Val.

“Oh, and your stuff came, too,” said Miss Austin. “I watched myself. They didn’t break a single thing.”

“Stuff?” echoed Val. “What stuff? Oh, you mean the trunks. Thanks, Mibs; we’re terribly grateful for everything.”

They took the wheezy elevator to the third floor, rear — it was thirty dollars a month cheaper in the rear — leaving Miss Austin behind to stare. Trunks? Who said anything about trunks?

Rhys pushed the key slowly into the lock of 3-C, and slowly opened the door, and Val slowly went in and said: “Oh!”

The pseudo-modern furniture, the noisy drugget, the questionable prints — all, all had vanished. In their places were the things the moving men had carried out of Sans Souci under the mysterious Mr. Queen’s vigilant eye only a few hours earlier.

Rhys said: “I’ll be double-damned.” He dropped his coat onto his own sofa and sank into his own leather chair.

Val flew to the telephone. “Mibs! Who brought our furniture here? I mean, how did—”

“Wasn’t it supposed to be? The man said—”

“Mibs! Who?”

“The movers. They just brought the van loads and dumped ’em. We had orders to take out the hotel furniture this morning.”

“Oh,” said Val. “And who was it ordering that? ”

“Why, the gentleman in 4-F. What’s his name? That Mr. Spaeth. Oh! Miss Jardin, is that the Spaeth—?”

“Hello,” said Walter from the doorway, and Val dropped the ’phone to find him grinning at her like some friendly mugwump.

“Walter, you fiend ,” sobbed Valerie, and she ran into her bedroom and slammed the door.

“Was it you?” asked Rhys.

“It’s all here,” said Walter gruffly. “I mean everything we could cram into five rooms. Here’s the warehouse receipt for the rest, Mr. Jardin.”

“Warehouse receipt?” said Rhys in an odd voice.

“I’ve put the leftovers in storage for you.”

Rhys laughed a little blankly and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m afraid what’s happened today is getting to be a little too much for my primitive brain. And that Queen fellow — who was he?”

Walter dropped his hat and coat on the sofa and sat down to light a cigaret. “Funny thing. He’s just come to the Coast on a movie-writing contract — he’s a writer as well as a detective, you know — and an old school chum of mine in New York told him to look me up. So I asked him to act as my proxy. He did it well, don’t you think?”

“But, Walter, why?” asked Rhys gently.

Walter scowled at his smoke. “Well... I know how stiff your neck is. You wouldn’t have accepted money. So to avoid arguments...”

Jardin rose and went to the window and pulled up the Venetian blinds and threw the windows open; the drizzle had stopped and the sun was trying to shine again. Traffic noises roared into the room from the rear street below. He closed the windows at once and turned around, a little shrunken.

“It’s wonderfully decent of you, Walter. But I simply can’t accept it. Besides, Val has told me about your father cutting you out of his will.”

“I’ve some money of my own from my mother’s father — plenty more left.”

Rhys smiled sadly. “I’ve deposited the cash, and it’s too late today to draw it out again. But, Walter, the first thing—”

“Forget it.”

“Walter, you make it awfully difficult.”

They eyed each other in silence, at an impasse. Then Val sobbed from the bedroom: “The least you could do, you swine, is come in here and console me!”

Walter rose with a foolish grin.

“I think,” murmured Rhys, “I’ll go out for some air.” He picked up his hat and left as Walter went into the bedroom.

A little later the telephone rang and Val ran into the living-room, fussing with her hair, to answer it. All trace of tears had vanished. Walter followed, looking even more foolish, if that was possible, than before.

“Yes,” said Val. “Just a moment. It’s for you, Walter. The telephone operator wants to know if you’re up here.”

Walter said: “Hullo,” still looking foolish, then he said nothing at all as he listened to a voice, the foolish look slowly turning grim. Finally he muttered: “I’ll be right over,” and hung up.

“What’s wrong?”

Walter reached for his hat and coat. “My father.”

Valerie went cold. “Don’t go, Walter.”

“I’ve got to settle this thing once and for all.”

She flew to him, clinging. “Please, Walter!”

Walter said gently: “Wait for me. I’ll be back in half an hour and we’ll drive out Wilshire to the beach for dinner.” And he pushed her away and went out.

Val stood still for a long minute. The old half-quenched fears began to burn brightly again. She picked up the coat left on the sofa and took it into the foyer, hardly aware of what she was doing.

But as she was hanging the coat in the foyer closet awareness returned. She held the coat up and looked at it more closely. It was Walters! He had taken Rhys’s by mistake — they were both tan camel’s-hair of the same belted style, of a size.

And as she turned the coat over in her hands, something fell out of one of the pockets and struck her foot.

It was an automatic, very black and shiny.

Val recoiled in instant reflex. But after the first horrible moment she pounced on it and thrust it hastily back into Walter’s coat, unreasonably glad her father was not there to see it. Then she took it out of the pocket and, handling it as if it were a scorpion, carried it into her bedroom and buried it in the deepest bureau drawer, her heart pounding.

A gun, Walter... She was so frightened she sat down on her bed to keep from recognizing the weakness in her knees. Walter had never had a gun. Walter hated guns, as he hated war, and poverty, and injustice...

She rose a little later and began to unpack her trunks, trying not to think.

Rhys returned in ten minutes, smoking a cigar and looking calmer. He called out to Val: “Where’s everybody?”

“Walter’s had a call from his father,” said Val in a muffled voice from the bedroom.

“Oh... Where do I put my hat?”

“In the foyer closet, silly. And be sure from now on you hang things up. This is going to be a co-operative joint.”

Jardin chuckled, put away his hat, and went into his bedroom to unpack.

By 5.30 their clothes were hung and there was nothing left to be done.

“I wonder where Walter is,” said Val worriedly.

“He’s only been gone a half-hour.”

Val bit her lip. “He said — Let’s wait in the lobby.”

“It’s raining again,” said Rhys, at the closet. “Val, this isn’t my camel’s-hair.”

“Walter took it by mistake.”

Jardin put on a tweed topcoat and they went downstairs. Val stared at the clock over the desk. It was 5.35.

She said nervously: “I’m going to call him.”

“What’s the matter with you, puss?” Jardin sat down near the potted palm and picked up a newspaper; but when he saw his photograph on the front page he put the newspaper down.

“Get me Solomon Spaeth’s residence,” said Val in a low voice. “I think it’s Hillcrest 2411.”

Mibs plugged in. “Hillcrest 2411... Nice guy, Walter Spaeth. Lovely eyes, Miss Jardin, don’t you think so?... Hello. Is that you, Mr. Spaeth?... This is Mr. Walter Spaeth, isn’t it? I thought I recognized your voice, Mr. Spaeth. Miss Jardin’s calling... Take it right here, Miss Jardin.”

Val snatched the telephone. “Walter! Is there any trouble? You said—”

Walter’s voice sounded queerly thick in her ear. “Val. I’ve got no time now. Something awful — something awful—”