The Dragon’s Teeth (4 page)

“If he keeps up this pace,” thought Mr. Queen grimly, “that million-dollar legacy will collapse under the weight of its own mortgages!”

Edmund De Carlos was the son of a Brazilian father and an English mother, born in the Brazilian interior on a coffee plantation in the year 1889. That made him fifty years old, ruminated Mr. Queen from his lofty exile; in his pictures the pirate seemed younger.

Mr. Queen decided suddenly that Mr. De Carlos would bear watching.

MEANWHILE, Beau was scampering along a cold spoor.

Beginning with a clue twenty-one years old—the knowledge that Monica Cole Shawn's husband had died in a Chicago hospital—Beau followed a trail that led to a Chicago tenement, then to a secretarial school, where, apparently, the young widow had enrolled to learn a practical means of sustaining her life and her daughter's when Cadmus Cole refused financial assistance.

St. Louis, Minneapolis, New York—cheap rooming houses, small apartments, a draughty theatrical hotel, a dancing and “dramatic” school for children. Eagerly Beau haunted Broadway. Finally, in the curling files of a theatrical agency, he unearthed an old photograph of a beautiful girl-child named Kerrie Shawn. But then he lost the trail.

During his New York investigation Beau learned from Lloyd Goossens that the Surrogate had been satisfied with the proofs of Cadmus Cole's testamentary signature. There were plentiful examples of Cole's handwriting for comparison purposes—on checks, on legal documents, on records in foreign and American banks dating back almost twenty years. Captain Angus's signature was likewise authenticated through the
Argonaut's
log (in which. Mr. Rummell was interested to learn, the details of Cole's last illness and death were meticulously recorded, agreeing to the letter with the verbal account given by De Carlos).

“Almost ready,” Goossens told Beau. “Assets, for the size of the estate, are in a very fluid condition. The fourth citation is to be published in a few days, Queen—so where do you stand with the hunt for those two girls?”

Beau dug in again. He found a new clue which led westward. But in Cincinnati he came up against a dead end.

“I can't understand why this femme Kerrie Shawn hasn't answered the personals I've published,” Beau complained to Ellery over the long-distance telephone. “Unless she's left the United States, or is dead. As far as that's concerned, there's been enough newspaper publicity to call her back from Africa, or from the dead.”

Mr. Queen pondered. “There's a clear record that Monica Shawn was giving her child dancing and dramatic lessons, isn't there? So, working from the professional angle—”

“Listen, Big Brain,” snarled Beau, “I've badgered agents and managers in New York so much they're threatening to have me pinched if I so much as show my pan again. That theatrical lead is strictly from hunger, I tell you!”

“Where,” inquired Mr. Queen mildly, “does every aspiring American mama with a beautiful child of real or fancied talent eventually, and inevitably, wind up?”

“Am I a dope!” roared Beau. “Goodbye!”

Ten days later Ellery received a wire from Hollywood:

“
HAVE FOUND KERRIE WOO WOO EXCLAMATION POINT BEAU
”

III.
Mr. Santa Claus

At the central casting Bureau in Hollywood Beau had found no Shawns, but three Kerries. He examined their portraits. Kerrie Acres was a Negro. Kerrie St. Alban was an aged character actress. Kerrie Land was a young girl.

Her face was nice. Light-colored eyes looked straight at him; they fizzed, like champagne. A chin-cleft, a turned-up nose, soft dark rolls of hair … nice, nice.

Beau compared Kerrie Land's face with the photograph in his possession of Kerrie Shawn as a child. There was an unmistakable resemblance. But he had to be sure.

He wormed an Argyle Avenue address and telephone number out of a Bureau attendant and called the number.

A woman answered. He identified himself in a raspy voice as “Central Casting” and asked for Kerrie Land. The woman said Kerrie Land had been on location somewhere for two months, and how come? She was expected back within a few days. She slammed the receiver.

Beau returned to his hotel, looked himself over, decided his clothes were shabby enough to lull the suspicions of even a Hollywood landlady, checked out and, carrying one ragged handbag, walked to the Argyle Avenue address.

It was a stucco rooming house which had long since burst its seams—discolored, down at the heel, one of? row of similar dreary, dowdy dwellings.

Beau began to feel like Santa Claus.

He rang the front doorbell and was admitted by a shapeless woman wearing an ancient dinner-gown and carpet-slippers.

“I want a room,” he said.

“Extra?” She looked him over without friendliness.

“I'm looking for a job in the movies,” Beau admitted.

“Six dollars in advance. Your own soap and towels.” The landlady did not stir until he let her inspect the bulging interior of his wallet. “Oh, new in town. Well, I'll show you what I got. Throw parties?”

“I don't know anyone in Hollywood,” said Beau.

“With that roll, you'll know plenty soon enough.”

“I'm respectable, if that's what you mean, beautiful,” grinned Beau.

“See you don't forget it. I run a decent house. Name?”

“Queen. Ellery Queen.”

She shrugged and shuffled upstairs. Beau was very critical of the rooms she indifferently displayed. He watched the little cardboard name-plates on the doors. When he saw one that said:
KERRIE LAND
—
VIOLET DAY,
he chose the nearest room on the same floor, paid a week's rent in advance, and then settled down to await the return of Cadmus Cole's niece.

THAT night he stole into the dark bedroom shared by Kerrie “Land” and Violet Day and callously explored it.

It was a mean room, like his own: a rickety dressing table covered by a cheap linen runner smeared in one corner with lipstick and powder; an open closet hung with a faded calico curtain, and inside dozens of flimsy wire hangers; a lame bureau; walls hung with unframed 8 x 10 “still” photographs of Kerrie and a grim blonde with long shanks and an air of world-weariness; two low, lumpy, iron beds.

One bed exhaled strong perfume: Violet Day, Beau decided unchivalrously. The other gave out a sweet, clean odor—obviously Kerrie's.

Poor kid.

Beau mumbled angrily to himself. Getting soft about a perky little brunette with delusions of stardom and come-hither eyes! Why, she stood in line for more dough than he'd see in his whole lifetime!

And he began to look forward to his first sight of Kerrie Shawn with a fierce, insatiable excitement.

He saw her four days later. He heard a taxi pull up outside, a merry voice, light footsteps. Instantly he was out of his room and at the head of the stairs, his heart racing.

The tall grim blonde appeared downstairs, handling two huge pieces of luggage like a stevedore. She was followed by the brunette, who was laughing as she lugged a suitcase. And suddenly there was warmth and happiness in those dingy halls.

“Come on, Vi!” cried Kerrie, flying up the stairs.

At the top there was Beau, staring.

“Oh,” said Kerrie, bumping into him in the semi-darkness. “Hello!”

“Yourself.”

“You're new, aren't you?”

“Absolutely reborn!”

“What? Vi, it's a funny man! My name's Kerrie Sh—I mean, Kerrie Land. This is my roomie, Violet Day.”

“Do. Queen. Ellery Queen.” Beau stared and stared.

“It talks,” said the blonde, peering at him. “Next thing you know it'll touch you for five bucks. Kerrie, come on. My feet are yelling bloody murder.”

“It's nice, though,” said Kerrie, smiling at him. “What lovely hair, Vi! Looks like Bob Taylor, don't you think?” And they left Beau grinning in the gloom.

Ten minutes later he rapped on their door.

“Come in!” called Kerrie.

She was in a house-coat. Red flowers and a zipper. Her small feet were bare. Tousled hair—nice. The suitcase lay open on the bed—the sweet-smelling bed, Beau noted with an obscure satisfaction—and she was stowing black panties away in a bureau drawer.

“It's in again,” said Violet Day, asprawl on the perfumed bed, her naked toes wiggling with ecstasy. “Kerrie, have you no shame? Giving away all your girlish secrets.”

“Hi,” said Beau, still grinning. He felt good, he didn't know why. As if he had had five drinks.

“Go away,” said the blonde. “This gal here was born
with
the soul of a Girl Scout, and I was placed on earth just to protect her from hungry-looking hombres who think they look like the Taylor man.”

“Vi, shut up,” said Kerrie. “Come in, Queen—we won't bite you! Got any Scotch?”

“No, but I know where to find some,” said Beau.

“Make mine apple. Say! I take it all back,” said Vi, sitting up in bed. “Where?”

“I'm sort of new in Hollywood,” said Beau. “You know. Lonesome.”

“It's lonesome!” giggled the blonde. “But it knows where the Scotch is. Kerrie, it does look like Taylor, you know that?”

Beau ignored her. “Miss Land, how about joining me in a little supper with that Scotch?”

Vi hugged her knees. “Lonesome—supper—Scotch! What is this,
The Merry Widow?
I bet he'll have you feeling his muscle before the night's over, Kerrie.”

“We'd love to,” said Kerrie, stressing the “we” the least bit. “I know just how you feel, Queen. It's a date!—the three of us.”

“The three of us?” said “Mr. Queen” damply.

“But we pay our own way.”

“Utsnay! What do you take me for?”

“Dutch, or you eat by yourself,” said Kerrie positively. “Your bankroll won't last forever—Ellery, was it?—and we've just had two months of steady extra work being Hawaiians. Wasn't it Hawaiians, Vi?”

“I dunno,” said Vi.

“So give us a half-hour to shower and change,” said Kerrie, and as she said it a dimple appeared from nowhere and transfixed Mr. Rummell like an arrow, “and we're your gals, Ellery.” And she came and stood close to him at the door, smiling.

Something happened to him. As if he had a sudden heart-attack. What the hell? He found himself in the dark hall leaning against the wall.

He stood there for several minutes, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Whew! Then he ran downstairs to the pay-telephone and sent the telegram to Mr. Queen which ended with
EXCLAMATION POINT
.

THEY dined—at Mr. “Queen's” expense—in the Cocoanut Grove at the
Ambassador.

Beau took turns dancing with Kerrie and Vi. Vi just danced. Kerrie floated. She made herself part of him. He actually enjoyed dancing for the first time in his life.

Suddenly Violet Day developed a headache and, over Kerrie's protests, left them.

Kerrie laughed. “You're accepted, Mister. Did you know that?”

“How come?”

“Vi turns her headaches on and off like a faucet. Since she left me to your mercies, it's because she thinks you're a regular guy.”

“How about you?” Beau leaned forward hungrily.

“I'm not so naive. You're a nice-looking cover, but what's in the book? I'll know better when you take me home.”

Beau looked disappointed. “Tell me about yourself.”

“There isn't much to tell.”

“Have you and Vi been friends long?”

“I met her in Hollywood.”, Kerrie turned the glass of vermouth slowly in her long fingers. “Vi took me under her wing when my mother died last year. Just like a hen. And I guess I was a pretty hopeless sort of egg.”

“Say, I'm sorry. Your mother, huh?”

“She died of pleurisy-pneumonia. No resistance. She burned herself out trying to make a Garbo out of a cluck.” Kerrie said abruptly: “Let's talk about something else.”

“You seem to have led a pretty tough life.”

“It hasn't been all honey-and-almond cream. Monica—”

“Monica?”

“My mother. Monica Cole Shawn. My real name's Shawn. Monica slaved all her life to see me become somebody, and I'm a little bitter about … How did we ever get on this subject, anyway? You see, I have an uncle who's a first-class rat. He's really responsible for my mother's suffering and hardships. But I don't see why you—”

“Monica Cole Shawn,” said Beau. “You know, that's funny. Was your uncle's name Cole?”

“Yes, Cadmus Cole. Why?”

“His name's been in the papers. So you're his niece!”

“Papers? I haven't seen a paper in two months. What's he done now—turned a machine-gun on the Marriage License Bureau?”

Beau looked straight at her. “Then you didn't know your uncle just died?”

She was silent for some time, a little paler. “No, I didn't know. I'm sorry, of course, but he treated my mother abominably, and I'm afraid I can't shed any tears. I never even saw him.” She frowned. “How did he die?”

“Heart-attack on a Caribbean cruise. He was buried at sea. His own yacht, you know.”

“Yes, I'd read about him occasionally. He was supposed to be a rich man.” Kerrie's lip curled. “And all the while he was spending his money on yachts and mansions, my mother was slaving to death, living in hall bedrooms, cooking Sunday breakfasts over gas-burners—if there was anything to cook.… I took a job when I was sixteen because I couldn't bear seeing her work her life away for me. But she did, just the same, and when she died last year at fifty-two she was an old woman. Dear Uncle Cadmus could have saved her all that—if he hadn't been a lunatic on the subject of marriage. When mother married, and my father died, she wrote Cadmus—and I still have his reply.” Kerrie's mouth quivered. “Now, look here, Mr. Snoop, that's quite enough. I'll be crying on your shoulder, next thing I know.”