Эллери Куин - The Door Between

On Friday night the MacClures were shepherded by Terry Ring into a swanky place in the East Fifties and had a dinner which did not “smell,” as Terry put it with characteristic candor, “of the East Side.”

They were subdued, and for the most part dined with only monosyllabic conversation. The doctor looked tired, and Eva positively exhausted.

“Thing about you,” said Terry at last, “is you need a rest. Change. Vacation. Something to take your mind off things. Now you can go off and marry this Park Avenue guy.”

“Didn’t Eva tell you?” asked Dr. MacClure subtly. “She’s returned Scott’s ring.”

“No!” Terry set his fork down and stared. “Well, what do you know about that,” he said, staring some more.

Eva flushed. “It was a mistake, that’s all.”

“Well, say,” mumbled Terry. “That’s swell — I mean too bad.” And he seized his fork and attacked his filet with such zest that Dr. MacClure hid a smile behind his napkin.

“Why didn’t Mr. Queen come?” asked Eva hastily, to change the subject.

“He’s got a headache or something,” said Terry. He flung his fork down again, to the horror of the hovering waiter. “Look, gorgeous. How about you and me...” He picked it up again. “Forget it.”

“I think,” said Dr. MacClure, rising, “you two will have to suffer along by yourselves. I’m going.”

“No,” cried Eva. “Don’t go, daddy.”

“No, really,” said the doctor, “you’ll have to excuse me. I’d expected to see Queen this evening. I haven’t really thanked him properly for all he’s done.”

“Then I’ll go, too,” said Eva, beginning to push back from the table. “I owe him more than anyone.”

“You’ll stay right here,” growled Terry, hauling her back. “Go on, Doc, scram. I’ll fix her wagon.”

“Daddy,” wailed Eva.

But Dr. MacClure shook his head and smiled and left.

“Look,” said Terry eagerly, leaning far across the table. “I’m not much — I know that. But if you—”

“Poor daddy,” said Eva. “He looks simply awful. All this suspense and worry have aged him ten years. He looks worse to-night than he looked yesterday. He—”

“He’s a swell guy,” said Terry heartily. “Say, he’s got tact! We’ll get along all right. Eva, would you...”

“I’m worried about him,” frowned Eva, poking at her chop. “He’s going to plunge right into work at that Foundation of his like a madman. I know him . He really ought to go away again.”

“You and him and me, too,” cried Terry. “We could all go together!”

“Why, what do you mean?” asked Eva, widening her eyes.

“I mean — say we all... Look.” Terry bellowed at her. “The first thing I’m going to do is hie me up Park Avenue a way and take a poke at that palooka who ran out on you!”

“Terry!”

“Well, all right, I won’t if you say so,” grumbled Terry. His brown features twisted desperately; he took a deep breath and leaned forward again. “Eva, what say you and I—”

“ Pardon ,” whispered a firm voice. They looked up. It was the headwaiter. “ Pardon, pardon, Monsieur, mais vous faites trop de bruit! ”

“Huh?” said Terry blankly.

“ Monsieur will be so kind!”

“Go away, Lafayette,” said Terry, seizing Eva’s hands. “Look, hon, what I mean was—”

“He says,” said Eva faintly, pulling away, “that you’re making too much noise.”

“And if Monsieur does not abate the tone,” added the headwaiter even more firmly, “I shall ask him to depart!”

Terry stared up. Then he said flatly to Eva: “Stay right where you are.” He got to his feet and faced the Gallic gentleman spread-legged. “Did I understand you to say,” he asked in a gentle voice, “that I’m making too much bruit for this dump?”

The headwaiter took a backward step. “Philippe! Antoine!” Two large and swarthy garçons came up. “Escort Ma’m’selle and Monsieur —”

“Hold everything, Antoine,” said Terry.

A silence fell. All over the restaurant people were staring, shocked. Eva felt herself grow hot and cold by turns. She could have crawled under the table.

“Please, Terry,” she whispered. “Don’t forget where... Please don’t—”

“Proceed, Antoine,” said the headwaiter nervously.

Antoine’s brawny fist reached for Terry. Terry crouched a little, and Eva shut her eyes. She knew what was coming. A brawl. In a nice restaurant. Where did he think... It would be in the newspapers... The last straw!

“I said hold it,” she heard Terry say, in such a peculiar tone that she opened her eyes quickly.

Terry was hanging on to Antoine’s fist almost imploringly. And he was perspiring. “Listen, Antoine,” he said, licking his lips. “You ever been in... love?”

Antoine gaped. He looked at the headwaiter. The headwaiter paled. He said, quavering: “Perhaps Monsieur does not feel well? Perhaps a doctor—”

“Love! Love!” said Terry tensely: “You know what love is, don’t you? A - mour! Kitchy-koo! L-o-v-e!”

“He is cra-zee,” muttered Antoine, carefully retreating.

“Sure I’m crazy!” shouted Terry, waving his long arms. “I’m off my nut trying to figure out a way to propose to my girl, and he tells me I’m making too much noise!”

Eva thought she knew what Joan of Arc had gone through at the stake. Her cheeks felt burned to crisps. She had never been so humiliated in her life. The restaurant was in an uproar. Everybody was laughing. Even the headwaiter smiled, definitely relieved.

“You oaf! ” panted Eva, jumping up. “After all I’ve been through!”

And she fled, pursued by bellows of delight from all sides. It was like a nightmare. How could he— The... the—

But she got only as far as the rubber mat under the canopy outside. There, inexplicably, she found Terry facing her.

“Listen, kid,” he said hoarsely. “Marry me and put me out of my misery!”

“Oh, Terry,” sobbed Eva, putting her arms around his neck. “I’m so happy. You’re such a fool. I love you so much.”

There was an enthusiastic huzza behind them, and they wheeled to find the restaurant doorway thronged and the headwaiter bowing gallantly in their direction.

“ Vive la France ,” said Terry feebly, and he kissed her.

Dr. MacClure’s ring was answered by Djuna, who looked first surprised, then angry, and finally philosophical. Djuna was accustomed to people who appeared, hat in hand, at the conclusion of a case.

“Hello,” said Ellery slowly, getting out of the arm-chair before the fireplace. “Come in, Doctor.”

“I won’t keep you long,” said Dr. MacClure. “I felt that I hadn’t thanked you properly, and of course—”

“Oh, that.” Ellery seemed embarrassed. “Sit down, Doctor. Dad’s at Headquarters cleaning up the last details and satisfying the reporters. So I’m rather alone.”

“Terry says you aren’t feeling especially well,” remarked the doctor, accepting a cigaret. “I suppose it’s the reaction. Really wonderful piece of rationalization. You don’t look well. How do you feel exactly?”

“Low. It’s funny, but it struck me that you’re rather peaked yourself.”

“Oh, I.” The doctor shrugged over his cigaret. “Well, I’m human. No matter how calloused the human temperament becomes, there are some things that penetrate it. One is danger to someone you love. Another is shock — there was Esther, and finding out she was alive, only to find out she was dead after all. And there was,” he added quietly, “Karen.”