Эллери Куин - The Devil To Pay

“You two,” said the Inspector. “Keep on ice.” He nodded to the third man and they followed the others.

Pink stood still in the middle of the living-room, blinking and blinking as if the sun were in his eyes.

He didn’t do it.

Val stumbled to the door and watched Rhys go down the hall towards the elevator, walking steadily in the midst of his guard.

He didn’t do it! He has an alibi!

She tried to get the words out.

Prison. Some grubby cell. Fingerprints. Arraignment. Rogues’ gallery. Reporters. Sob sisters. Keepers. Trial, Murder...

Please. Please.

It would be Walter marching down the hall. If she spoke it would be Walter. If she didn’t... Oh, wait, wait, please.

Walter or pop. Pop or Walter. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t a choice. He didn’t do it, I tell you. He has an alibi. Stop!

But nothing came out, and the elevator swallowed the marchers, leaving the corridor bleak and empty.

Valerie did not sleep well Monday night. The apartment was dark and cold and full of whispering voices. She tossed open-eyed on her bed until the first grilles formed through the Venetian blinds; then she dozed.

Pink pounded at the door at seven, and she crept out of bed to let him in. When she reappeared later in an old tweed sports outfit he had breakfast ready. They ate together in silence. She washed the dishes and Pink, whose broad shoulders seemed to have acquired a permanent droop, went out for the morning papers.

It occurred to Val, scrubbing the pots with aluminium wool, that she had spoken her last word aloud the night before. It had been “Goodbye,” and in retrospect it seemed darkly prophetic. She said to the dripping pan: “Hello,” and was so startled at the sound of her voice that she almost dropped the pan.

When Pink got back with the papers he found her powdering her nose, which had a suspiciously pink tinge.

And there it was in cold print. The coarse-screen halftone of Rhys made him look like Public Enemy Number 1. “Sportsman Held As Material Witness. Arrest on Murder Charge Hinted by Van Every. Spaeth Partner Refuses to Talk... Rhys Jardin, 49, ex-millionaire and prominent Hollywood society man, is in Los Angeles City Jail this morning held as a material witness in the sensational murder yesterday of Solomon Spaeth, Jardin’s business partner in the ill-fated Ohippi Hydro-Electric Development...”

Val pushed the paper away. “I’m not going to read it. I won’t read it.”

“Why don’t he hire a mouthpiece?” exclaimed Pink. “It says here he won’t open his trap except to say he’s innocent. Is he nuts?”

The buzzer jarred and Pink opened the door. He tried to shut it immediately, but he might have been pitting his strength against the Pacific Ocean. He vanished in a wave of arms, legs, cameras, and flash bulbs.

Val fled to her bedroom and locked the door.

“Out!” yelled Pink. “Out, you skunks! Paid parasites of the capitalist press! Get the hell out of here!”

“Where’s the closet where that sword was found?”

“Is this it, punk?”

“Where was the camel’s-hair coat?”

“Get that homely ape out of the way!”

“Miss Ja-a-ardin! How about a statement — Daughter Flies to Defense of Father?”

“This way, Pincus my boy. Look tough!”

Pink finally got them out. He was panting as Val cautiously peeped out of her bedroom.

“This is terrible,” she moaned.

“Wait a minute, I smell a rat.” Pink sneaked into Rhys’s bathroom and found a knight of the lens gallantly photographing Rhys’s tub. When the cameraman saw Val he hastily put a new plate into his camera.

Val bounded back to her bedroom like a gazelle.

“Funny thing about me. Either I like a guy,” Pink said, knocking the photographer down, “or I don’t. Scram, you three-eyed gorilla!”

The photographer scrammed.

Val peered out again. “Are they all gone now?”

“Unless there’s one hiding in the drain,” growled Pink.

“I’m going,” said Val hysterically, clapping on the first hat she could find. “I’m getting out of here.”

“Hey — where you going?” demanded Pink, alarmed.

“I don’t know!”

Val ducked down the emergency stairway, preceded Indian-wise by Pink, who flailed through the crowd in the lobby and executed a feint by loudly warning Mibs Austin, who was barricaded behind the switchboard, to keep her mouth shut or he would break her neck, and then challenging every newspaperman in Los Angeles to a fist-fight.

He won his desire, en masse ; and while Mibs shrieked encouragement to her red-haired gladiator and the lone policeman on duty prudently backed into the elevator, Val escaped unnoticed through the side-exit of the La Salle .

She almost stripped the gears of Rhys’s sedan getting away from the curb.

A long time later she became conscious of the fact that the sedan was bowling along the Ocean Speedway, near Malibu Beach, the spangled Pacific glittering in the sunshine to her left and the stinging breeze lifting her hair.

The taffy sand, the chunky Santa Monica Mountains, the paintbox blue of the ocean, the salt smell and white road and warming sun did something to her; and after a while she felt quieted and comfortable, like a child dozing in its mother’s lap.

Back there, in the haze-covered city, Rhys gripped gray bars, the papers whooped it up in an orgiastic war-dance, Walter sat steeped in some mysterious liquid agony of his own fermentation. But here, by the sea, in the sun, one could think things out, point by point, and reach serene, reasonable conclusions.

Oxnard slipped by, the flat white miniature Mexico of Ventura, the grove-splashed orange country where occasional fruit glowed in the trees, yellow sapphires imbedded in crushed green velvet.

Valerie drew a deep breath.

At Santa Barbara she headed for the hills. And when she got to the top she stopped the car and got out and slipped into the silence and coolness of the old Mission. She was there a long time.

Later, feeling hungry, she drove down into the sunny Spanish town and consumed enchiladas .

When she returned to Hollywood, in the late evening, she felt regenerated. She knew exactly what she had to do.

The Wednesday morning papers bellowed news. Inspector Glücke had decided, after a long conference with District Attorney Van Every, the Chief of Police, the Chief of Staff, and the Chief of Detectives, to charge Rhys Jardin with the premeditated murder of Solomon Spaeth.

Val drove the ten miles into downtown Los Angeles and left her sedan in a parking lot on Hill Street, near First. It was only a few steps to the City Jail. But she did not go that way. Instead, she walked southeast, crossed Broadway, turned south on Spring, and stopped before a grimy building. She hesitated only a moment. Then she went in.

The elevator deposited her on the fifth floor, and she said firmly to the reception clerk: “I want to see the managing editor.”

“Who wants to see him?”

“Valerie Jardin.”

The clerk said: “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” and babbled into the telephone. Ten seconds later the door opened and Fitzgerald said eagerly: “Come on in, Val. Come in!”

Fitz led the way with hungry strides through the city room. Inquisitive eyes followed Val’s progress through the room. But Val did not care; her lips were compressed. One man, sitting over a drawing board in a far corner, got half out of his chair and then sank down again, gripping a stick of charcoal nervously and adjusting his green eyeshade. Val suppressed a start and walked on. Walter back at work! She did not glance his way again.