The Player on the Other Side (11 page)

‘Did she discuss this with you at all?'

‘Well, of course I picked it up and said, “What on earth, Emily —?” and she' — the young smooth one behind the bleached old eyes puckered with remembered hurt — ‘and she was sharp, quite sharp, with me. What she said was, “Let me alone! — please.” And it wasn't a very big “please,” so I knew she was already sorry for being sharp, that she wasn't troubled about the card, only annoyed with it.'

‘Then why did you keep it?' he asked, because he had to.

‘Oh … that's me all over,' Miss Sullivan laughed. ‘Always pick up a glove because one day I might find the mate. That card isn't a thing, Inspector, if you really look at it. It's a
piece
of a thing, strikes me. So the other piece must be around somewhere.'

‘You ought to meet my son,' said the Inspector suddenly, heartily. Then before she could answer he asked, ‘And so Miss York didn't even attempt to guess what this might be?'

‘I mentioned it at lunch,' she said, her voice infused with the shyness she had felt all the time, ‘and all she said was, “Oh, it's a ridiculous advertising teaser,” and I could see she didn't want to talk about it. It could be a puzzle of some kind, don't you think?'

‘Could be,' said the Inspector, and he slipped the card into the envelope and the envelope into his pocket, not hurrying, not asking permission. Her eyes followed it, but she made no protest. He rose and said flatly, ‘I'm coming back.'

‘Oh, dear, Inspector. Surely you've squeezed out the last possible drop?'

‘I mean, Miss Sullivan,' said the Inspector, ‘I'm coming back when this is over.'

‘Oh! Please do,' and the one inside twinkled unabashed in Miss Sullivan's clean-wash eyes. ‘Please
do.
'

12

Divergent Attack

They met in the park at young Nathaniel York's memorial plaque. It was quite dark. Tom Archer, for all that it was a warm night, without a threat of rain, carried a trench coat.

‘Hello, guardian angel.'

‘Tom!' said Ann Drew. They no longer opened their conversations with, ‘How's yours?'

‘Sorry I'm late. I had to go pick up a girl friend.'

‘Oh?'

‘How's Miss Myra?'

‘About the same. Sometimes I think she doesn't realize about Robert, even though she went to the funeral. What girl friend?' Something said
Yeep!
in a high soprano. Unnoticing, Tom said, ‘I get so
dog
-gone sorry for her.'

‘Sorry for whom?'

Yeep!

‘Miss Myra, of course. I wonder what she was like — before.'

‘Tom Archer, will you answer my question? What girl friend?'

Yeep!
This time it was loud and clear. She clutched his free arm. ‘What was that?'

‘What was what?'

‘Didn't you hear it?'

‘I didn't hear anything.'

‘Something went … yeep,' she said.

‘Went what?'

‘Yeep!' she repeated angrily.

‘Honey,' Archer said, ‘do you feel all right?'

Yeep! Yeep!

‘There!' she said triumphantly. Then she said, ‘Tom Archer, are
you
making that noise?'

‘On my honor as a non-philandering philosophic philatelist,
I
am making no noise.'

Yeep!

‘Then who is?'

‘Beelzebub, I presume.'

‘
Who?
'

‘Beelzebub,' said Tom Archer, ‘meet Ann. Ann, meet Beelzebub.' So saying, he swept back the coat rolled on his left forearm and extracted a squirming, yeeping German Shepherd puppy with unstarched ears and enormous feet.

‘Oh,
Tom
, he's
sweet
! Oh, oh, oh!' she cried and crooned, nuzzling the puppy. ‘Isn't he the softest, funniest —'

‘Isn't
she
the softest, funniest,' Tom corrected her.

‘I thought you said his — its — her name is Beelzebub.'

‘Quite so. I'm not the first sage to observe that the devil is a female.'

‘
Most
humorous,' Ann sniffed, rubbing her cheek against the puppy's silk coat and making it whimper with pleasure. ‘Beelzebub! Why did you give the poor little thing a name like
that
?'

At which Tom Archer whispered an explanation in her ear that turned it lobster-shell red.

‘So some of those “gentlemen” are hopelessly loyal to Emily York?' Ellery mused aloud. ‘Do anything for her? Anything at all?'

‘That's what Miss Sullivan said.'

‘And would it be out of order to hypothesize that some of the aforesaid gentlemen might be equally loyal to Miss Sullivan?'

The Inspector regarded his son with shock and, very nearly distaste. ‘If you're hinting that Miss Sullivan is capable of hiring some soup moocher to pull a murder in order to increase Emily York's share in the estate, Ellery, you have an evil mind. Why, that woman could no more do such a thing than — than I could!'

‘Don't jump salty, Dad,' Ellery grinned. ‘What's with this old lady? You sound as if you've fallen in love.'

‘I've talked to her,' his father mumbled. ‘You haven't.

‘Exactly. Therefore my judgment remains unimpaired. And besides,' Ellery said, holding up a peace-making palm at the glint in his father's eyes, ‘the kill might have been made without her knowing a thing about it. Just for the sake of argument: Let's suppose somebody's planning big things for that village of theirs. Let's say further that the ladies know nothing about it — and so that we won't be detoured, let's not speculate just now about who's sending the cards. Now then: What do we have?'

“I don't know what we have,' said the Inspector irritably, ‘but I damn well know what we don't have. We don't have an earthly reason — assuming all this is being done to make that dream village come true — for
Emily's
life to be threatened. Because Nathaniel York, Senior's, will specifically calls for equal shares or all to survivor. That means that when Robert got his head blotted out, his share went into the family stew. And if Emily should be murdered,
her
share would have to follow Robert's into the pot —
not
into a personal estate which she could will to the building of the village. So Miss Sulliv — I mean, the village project can't possibly be the motive behind Robert's death and Emily's getting the second card.'

‘Oh, but it can,' said the son.

The Inspector shoved his jaw out. ‘You show me how!'

Ellery began to push the two cards around on the coffee table. ‘Why,' he murmured, ‘have we been calling the H-card Emily's card?'

‘What?' the old man said blankly.

‘I said, Why do we assume this card-H is meant for Emily?'

‘Because — because' — the Inspector spluttered — ‘what in time kind of question's that? — because the envelope it came in was
addressed to her
! Because when you set the card with the H right side up — with that off-center crossbar in the high position, the way it's meant to be — it gives you the house due north of Robert's, and that's Emily's.'

‘You mean like this?'

The Inspector stared down at the way Ellery arranged the cards:

‘Certainly!'

‘But suppose the sender of the cards,' said Ellery, his silvery eyes tarnished no longer but polished to a glitter, ‘suppose he's one of those very clever coots you read about in detective stories —'

‘Especially yours,' muttered the old man.

‘— especially mine,' nodded his son, ‘and Rex's, and John's, and Miss Christie's, and other practitioners of the delightfully improbable. And suppose he's playing a game with you — us. And he says to himself: Let's see how good they are. Let's play ducks and drakes and fat red herrings. Let's see if they can figure out — before the event — that I really meant the H-card to be in
this
position.'

And, swiftly, Ellery's long fingers turned the H-card upside down and shifted it from the northwest corner of the hypothetical square to the southeast corner:

‘My God,' breathed the Inspector. But then he shook his head. ‘No,' he said. ‘When you turn the card upside down this way, it makes the crossbar of the H come below-center instead of above. And that's wrong.'

‘Usually,' agreed Ellery. ‘But I've seen it below-center. And in some fonts dead-center.'

‘But the address on the envelope — “Miss
Emily
York” —'

‘That's where our opponent gets to laugh. Deliberately throwing a threat at one house when he intends it for another, knowing how we'll have ourselves in the morning.'

‘But in that position it's
Myra
York's house!'

‘Myra York's house,' nodded Ellery, and the silver clouded. ‘Myra York, who's feeble and of no use to anybody except possibly this Helen of Troy who takes care of her — Myra York, who wouldn't begin to know what to do with all those bushels of money. And with Myra York out of the way, there'll be even more bushels for somebody who does know what to do with 'em. Somebody like Emily York, say — who in this hypothesis would still be alive, remember. Emily York, or, by extension, her — and your — Miss Sullivan, whose motive has to be construed as identical with Emily's. So you see why you can't rule out that unbuilt village as being behind this game, Dad?'

Inspector Queen was thinking doggedly: Not-Miss-Sullivan-I-don't-care-what-you-say. But aloud he muttered, ‘Maybe Myra York, hmm? … Well, we can't chance it. I'll phone headquarters.'

‘No riot squads,
please
.' Ellery called from the foyer, where he was shrugging into his topcoat. ‘I'll see to Myra's safety. Dad — this once — let's see if we can't catch our quarry instead of scaring it away?'

‘Very funny,' snorted his father. ‘No, no riot squads, just a stake-out of watchful pedestrians. And what's this I-we-our stuff?' The old gentleman grinned suddenly. ‘I thought you were through with case work.'

‘Get thee behind me,' growled Ellery. ‘And while I'm in that territory — may the player on the other side be damned! He's crazy, and that puts him way outside the competence of chemistry and the computers.'

‘What d'ye mean crazy?' shouted the puzzled Inspector. But he had only an eagerly slammed door and happily sprinting footsteps for an answer.

13

Tactics

The blonde (they have surprising sensibilities, some of them) made a little
moue
when her eye fell on the Gideon Bible. She picked it up and slid it into a drawer, out of sight. ‘But, Poochie,' she said, ‘you're just no
fun
right now.'

‘Don't take it personal,' said Percival York, from the bed. He opened his mouth to its widest with an audible
yawp!
, and with his thumbnail and forefinger he went hunting for a piece of steak caught between a lower left bicuspid and a molar. After a brief struggle he captured it, glared at it redly, then ate it. ‘I'm living through the longest six months in my whole entire life. The longer it gets, the worse it gets, and the worse it gets, the more time it takes.'

‘Yes, and that awful thing about your brother, too.'

‘My
cousin
. And you can't say that is so altogether awful.'

‘
Poochie!
'

‘Oh, God, lemme for once in my life say what I want to say like I want to say it without some bluenose bastid telling me how I should say it!'

‘Are you calling me a bluenose bas —'

‘No-no-no — not you — no,' Percival York said hurriedly. ‘I just get mad sometimes, is all. You can say anything you want if you say it some way special. Like my cousin's head was
struck
by a stone block — all right; but my cousin's head was
squashed
by a stone block — oh, no. Like you can say lady of the evening to anybody, you can say
prostitute
to a lot of people, but if you say
whore
everybody gets mad.'