Эллери Куин - The Devil To Pay

Walter shook his head. “I told you, Inspector, on Monday night that I didn’t enter the Sans Souci grounds. That’s not true. I did enter. I had a key to the gate, and Frank was in his booth reading a paper, so I let myself in and walked up the drive—”

“And he spotted you from the back and thought you were Rhys Jardin because you were wearing Jardin’s torn coat. You’ve told me that already,” said Glücke impatiently. “Answer some questions. So you weren’t hit on the head as you got out of your car?”

“No. I was attacked after—”

“Walter!” Val put her palm over his mouth. He shook his head at her, but she kept her hand where it was. “Inspector, I want to talk to Mr. Spaeth.”

Walter removed her hand gently. “Let me clear this damned thing up, Val.”

“Walter, you zany! You darling idiot... I insist on speaking to Walter alone, Inspector.”

Glücke and the District Attorney exchanged glances, and Glücke waved his hand.

Val pulled Walter out of the chair and drew him off to a far corner. The Inspector’s large ears twitched as he leaned forward, and Pink looked from Walter and Valerie to the Inspector and back again with a confused but hopeful air. But the thin man and Ellery did not stir.

Val linked her arms about Walter’s neck, pressing her body close to him, her mouth an inch from his ear. Her back was toward them and they could not see her face; but they saw Walter’s. As she whispered, the lines of his face stretched and vanished, as if a hot iron had passed over wrinkled damp cloth.

Val stopped whispering, and for a moment she remained pressed to him. He turned his head and kissed her on the mouth.

They came forward side by side. “I want to see Rhys Jardin.” His voice was fresh and untroubled.

“Jardin?” The Inspector was astonished. “What for?”

“Never mind what for. I want to talk to him.”

“Quit stalling and go into your dance!”

“I don’t talk until I’ve seen Jardin.”

“I’ve had just about enough of this playing around,” rasped Glücke. “You walked in here of your own free will with a yarn that, if it’s true, cracks this case wide open. Now that you’re here you’ll talk — and talk fast!”

“I think,” said the thin man smoothly, “that Mr. Spaeth’s story will keep for an hour, Inspector. If he wants to see Jardin — why not?”

Glücke opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. His brilliant eyes suddenly became cunning. “All right. Tell you what I’ll do. You go down to the City Jail—”

Val surreptitiously jerked Walter’s jacket.

“No,” said Walter. “Have him brought here.”

“Listen!” roared Glücke. “Are you going—”

“Here,” said Walter.

Glücke looked baffled. He turned aside and again his eyes sought the District Attorney, and again the District Attorney made a small, clear sign.

The Inspector pressed a lever of his communicator. “Boley. Have Rhys Jardin brought to my office right away.”

Val looked triumphant, and Walter grinned.

Rhys Jardin appeared between two detectives, blinking as if he were unaccustomed to strong light. He stopped short on seeing Valerie and Walter but gave no other sign of recognition.

“Yes?” he said to Inspector Glücke.

The two detectives left the room and Glücke said quickly: “Just a moment, please.” He hurried to District Attorney Van Every and bent over him, speaking in a vehement undertone. Ellery strolled across the room, pushed his preposterous hat back on his head, and sat down behind Glücke’s desk.

“Jardin,” said Glücke. “Walter Spaeth has come in with a funny story, but before he talks he wants a private confab with you.”

“Story?” said Rhys, looking at Walter.

“He claims that he was the man in the camel’s-hair Frank identified as you Monday afternoon.”

“Did he say that, now?” said Rhys.

“Now of course,” continued Glücke in a friendly way, “this is important testimony and it changes a lot of things. But we don’t want to put on the squeeze. So suppose you three straighten yourselves out, and then we’ll all sit down like sensible people and get to the truth, once for all.”

“I have literally nothing to say,” said Rhys.

“Pop,” said Val. He looked at her then.

“I’ll tell you what,” the Inspector went on, growing more friendly with every word. “We’ll clear out of here and leave you folks alone. When you’re ready, sing out.” He nodded to Van Every and went to one of the several doors leading out of his office. “We’ll be waiting in here.”

Ellery produced a cigaret, lit it, and coughed out a volcano of smoke. He leaned over Glücke’s desk in a spasm.

“If you don’t mind,” said Walter politely, “I think we’d rather talk somewhere else.” And he opened another door, looked in, nodded, and beckoned Val and her father.

The Inspector’s ears flamed. Nevertheless he said amiably: “All right. It doesn’t make any difference.”

Rhys Jardin crossed the room and the three of them entered the room Walter had selected. He shut the door very carefully.

“Would you gentlemen mind waiting outside?” said the District Attorney suddenly. “Inspector Glücke and I—”

“I get it,” said Ellery. He rose. “Your mouth is open, Pink. Come on.” He slouched over to the door at which the Inspector was standing. Pink scratched his head and followed. They entered a small room which contained four walls, three chairs, and one desk; and Ellery loudly banged the door shut.

The next instant he was at the desk opening drawers. “Transparent as cellophane,” he said gleefully. “Glücke wanted them to gabble in the big office so that he could overhear their conversation. Dictograph, of course. And since this is the room he seemed so eager to wait in... Ah!” Pink heard the click of a switch.

He sprang about in a left-handed fighter’s crouch as Van Every’s voice came out of thin air. “Can you hear anything?” And then Glücke’s voice, similarly disembodied: “Not a ripple. He must have smelled a rat.”

Pink looked foolish. “How the hell—”

“I saw through the trick and managed to locate the machine,” chuckled Ellery. “There’s a switch under his desk, and it was open. Now shut up and let’s hear what they ’ re saying.”

“Say, you’re a cute finagler,” growled Pink suspiciously. But Ellery was crouched over the desk, paying no attention. So Pink sat down and listened, too.

The instrument was so clear they could hear Glücke’s footsteps as he walked up and down his office.

“I don’t know what you gave me the high sign for, Van,” said Glücke fretfully. “It’s a funny way—”

“Don’t be dense, Glücke,” said Van Every. “This isn’t an ordinary investigation. In fact, I’m beginning to think we’ve made a mistake in rushing matters.”

“How come?”

“There’s some secret relationship among those three,” said the thin man thoughtfully, “we’re not aware of. It’s painted all over them. And until we know, I’m afraid—”

“Afraid what?”

“That we’ll have to go slow. I won’t bring Jardin to trial until I’ve got him tied up in knots.”

The Inspector cursed impotently and for a while nothing came through the transmitter. Then they heard him say: “Damn them! They’re talking so low I can’t hear a word through this damn’ door. Cagy punks!”

“Watch your blood-pressure. Who’s this man King?”

“Legman for Fitzgerald of the Independent . He’s new to L.A.”

“Any idea what he’s turned up?”

“Go on, he’s bluffing to get a story.”

“Let’s talk to him anyway. By the way.”