The Player on the Other Side (20 page)

‘He certainly may,' said. Ellery. ‘But not just ends.'

His father swallowed. Then he leaned back in an exhausted way. ‘Spit it out. What's that supposed to mean?'

Ellery reached over and took a scratch pad and a pencil and began to draw. ‘Look at the three cards the victims received.

‘Arranged like the houses in York Square, granted? They read in order, from lower left, clockwise: Robert's, Emily's, Myra's. Corresponding to the three murders … So that leaves Percival.'

‘So what, for the love of Mike? The three cards have Walt's three initials.'

‘Yes. But it still leaves Percival, doesn't it? And who profits by the three murders?'

‘I don't give a hoot if Percival profits,' the Inspector said wearily. ‘These just aren't murders for profit, that's all. Or even if they are! We know Walt pulled off at least one of them, don't we? — and maybe before we're finished we can prove he pulled off all three, which I'm sold on right now. So what's all the hassle?'

‘Well,' said Ellery, ‘suppose Walt's been framed.'

‘Been
what
?'

‘Framed.'

‘By who? —
whom
?'

‘Percival.'

The word ‘framed' had made the old man grip the edge of his desk. The word ‘Percival' made him let go and lean back, grinning.

‘You've avoided the obvious for so long, Ellery, you don't even see it any more. If I understand you, it's not Walt who committed the three murders, but Percival?'

‘All I'm asking you to do,' said Ellery doggedly, ‘is to try it on for size.'

‘Glad to oblige,' the old man said dryly. ‘Robert's kill? Yes, Percy could have pushed that block off. Myra's? A lot less likely, even if we ignore the case against Walt. But for the sake of argument, I'll concede that while Walt was in Myra's bathroom, and the policewoman and Ann Drew were in Ann's bedroom with Myra, Percy could have slipped into the bedroom and dropped the rat-killer into Myra's gin jug. But the middle murder, Emily's, the one practically anybody in New York could have committed — that one Percival did
not
do. Couldn't have. Not possibly.'

‘His alibi.' Ellery was crestfallen. ‘I'd forgotten that. Although alibis …' he began hopefully.

But the Inspector was head-shaking. ‘Not this one, son. This one is copper-riveted.' Ellery was beginning the long, loping pacing that characterized a crisis in his relations with a mystery. ‘Stop flogging it, Ellery,' the Inspector said with kindness. ‘It was Walt. He planned to wipe out all four Yorks. We stopped him after number three.'

Now Ellery was head-shaking as he loped. ‘I don't buy it,' he muttered. ‘No …'

‘For Pete's sake, Ellery,' exploded the Inspector, ‘you were the one who was bothered by Walt from the start!'

‘And he still bothers me. But, Dad.' Ellery stopped loping and faced around. ‘If it was Walt who did the murders, who sent the cards?'

‘The cards? Walt, of course.'

‘You think Walt has the perception, the creative intelligence to have planned all this? Including those cards?'

‘That's a question for the psychiatrists to answer.'

‘You think that, having conceived the idea of the cards, and executed the idea of the cards, he could also have fooled an old police dog like you, and an experienced squad?'

‘Fooled us about
what
?' cried the Inspector, out of temper at last.

‘The toy printing outfit he's been using —
if
he's your man. You didn't find it, did you? And you searched, you and your men — how many times did you say?'

They looked at each other, the Inspector no longer angry.
He
had forgotten about
that
.

‘Dad,' Ellery said suddenly.

‘What, Ellery?'

‘Your search warrants. Are they still valid?'

‘Why?'

Ellery said, ‘Come on.'

23

Pawn

‘But, Poochie,' pouted the blonde, ‘I never heard you talk like this before.'

‘I can talk lots of ways,' said Percival York. ‘You said so yourself.'

‘Did I do something?' she asked plaintively.

Percival looked her over. There was a glitter in his lemuroid eyes, a steadiness of purpose subtly different from the wayward wildness usual to him. For the first time in the blonde's experience he appeared to be a man with a load off his back, and very great plans.

‘You did plenty,' Percival said with appreciation. ‘Most of it pretty good. But let us not forget the fact, my maple cream, that you got plenty, too. And had fun, and it hasn't cost you. Out of it you got flowers and candy and clothes and jewelry and you haven't had to worry about rent too much, right?'

‘Poochie, I never wanted —'

‘And knock off the Poochie bit. This is a public place.'

She glanced about. It was a shadowed, discreet, out-of-the-way public place, but a public place nevertheless. ‘How about that. Why, Poo — I mean honey? We could've gone to the hotel again.'

‘I didn't feel like it. I felt like coming here. You want to make something of it?'

She slowly sucked in her lower lip, and bit it. It left lipstick on her teeth. ‘Now you listen to me, Perce. If you think for one minute after all we been through, and I never asked you for a single thing hiding around all the time like I was a I don't know what, and I never did a single thing to you and now you're treating me like dirt, well!' And she picked up her fork and thrust it five times furiously into the heart of her filet mignon. The impact seemed to bring her to a primitive awareness; she took her hand away and stared glumly at the fork handle, sticking up out of her plate like a rocket on its launching pad.

Percival whinnied. ‘You want me to tell you what to do with it? Cheese!'

She was frowning with puzzlement, anger and hurt, yet she bravely tried to whinny with him. But then she said, as if to herself, ‘Day before yesterday it was so
nice.
'

‘Ah, well,' said Percival happily. ‘Things happen.'

‘
What
happened?'

‘A twenty-to-one shot came in, there's hell to pay in the Middle East and I went down to police headquarters.'

‘Police head — Perce! What for?'

‘They've got the lad who murdered my cousin Myra.'

‘They did? It wasn't in the papers. Who is it?'

‘Walt.'

‘Who?'

‘Walt. Can you imagine that?'

‘You mean that bug-eyed creep that walks like on tracks? But
why
?'

‘Y is a crooked letter. And so is his head. What difference does it make, O my darlin'? They got him is enough for me.'

She sucked in her lip again and bit it again. ‘Perce. Is this why you're so — so whatever you are?'

‘That's it.' Percival filled his lungs to the full, which in his case represented an expansion of about three-quarters of an inch. ‘Sure I'm so whatever I am. 'Cause who do you s'pose was next on his hit parade?'

Intelligence dawned in the blonde's eyes. ‘My poor, poor Poochie! Why, Poochie, you must've been just —'

‘You know that off, you witless itch,' Percival said with such sudden and savage fury that she squeaked and fell back in her chair, her beringed hands instinctively raised in self-defense. ‘Look, Maybelline, this is your last free ride on my bus, so you better enjoy it while you can!'

‘My name ain't Maybelline, and this is my last
what
?'

Percival shut off his fury and turned his attention daintily to his steak.

‘You're kissing me off?'

He pointed a bottle of Tabasco at her gaily. ‘You're the one said that.'

‘I don't have to sit here and take this!'

‘Right,' Percival said in a cheerful tone.

She made an explosive sound, quite dangerous. But then she took refuge in female helplessness, dabbing piteously at her lips and eyes and leaving her napkin a mess of tangerine and silver-gray. ‘Oh, what's happening to us?' What's happening, Percival?'

‘What's happening to me,' said Percival, chewing briskly, ‘is I got lots to do from here on out and I can take my pick with who to do it. It's been great, dearie, so don't let's spoil it and you got your western hemisphere in the Russian dressing.'

This was a clearly visible untruth. Nonetheless, the blonde sat up straight and patted herself with the napkin. And said with slitted glance, ‘You can't do this to me, you slug.'

‘Wrong,' said Percival York.

‘You wait mister. You know what I can do to you?'

‘You,' Percival said, unmoved, ‘can't do a bloody damn thing, and you want to know why? Because I got too much money, that's why. I got so much money coming to me, why, God couldn't do anything to me.'

She jiggled to her feet, death and tears in her eyes, and snatched up her bag and a mink stole made of dyed beaver, and ran blindly toward the door. As she reached it, she screamed over her shoulder, ‘You'll be sorry the day you laid eyes on me!'

‘I already am!' he bellowed joyously, while quiet diners and silent-footed waiters, a hand-polished cashier and a jointed-at-the-waist maitre-d' stiffened with shock. ‘So get lost, you rancid broad! Drop dead!'

The blonde departed and Percival returned to his plate, chuckling. A waiter wrung his hands, then glided up to him. ‘Everything all right, sir?' he asked, evidently by reflex.

‘Everything's just peachy-keen,' said Percival, still laughing. ‘My compliments to the cow,' he gurgled, ‘and bring me a bottle of Irish stout.'

At Ellery's suggestion they stopped first at a toy store. He picked up a toy printing set, like the set established as having been used to print the J, H and W on the cards; then they proceeded to York Square.

Unexpectedly, it was Mrs. Schriver who answered the Inspector's ring at Percival's castle. The housekeeper seemed to have dwindled since Myra York's death — all but her jaw, which was harder set than ever. The red-penciled perimeter of her eyes widened with welcome at sight of the Queens.

‘Inspector, Mr. Ellery — come in, come in.'

They stepped inside, conscious of her grief. She stood before them uncertainly, looking from one to the other. ‘Now what is it?'

‘Nothing, Mrs. Schriver,' said the Inspector gently. ‘Is Mr. York home?'

She shook her head. ‘I am by myself alone, cleaning him.'

‘Do you know when he'll be back?'

‘After the cleaning I am finished and out, I hope it,' the doughty little housekeeper said angrily.

‘Oh?' said Ellery. ‘Then you don't like Mr. York?'

‘No-no-no.' Her head vibrated like a plucked string, she shook it so rapidly. ‘Cleaning he wants, cleaning I do. Only for myself I do it, not for
him
. A
Schwein
, so dirty he is.'

‘He asked you to clean his house?'

‘Yah. “You clean up my house,” he says, “while me, I clean up my life,” and he gives me a yoomp.'

‘A yoomp,' said the Inspector uncertainly.

Mrs. Schriver suddenly executed a caper. Neither Queen smiled; there was too much deadly fury in her clumsy imitation. ‘And he says, “All now I need is a good woman. How about you, cookie?” And then on the excuse me
Sitzplatz
he
schwumps
me, and he goes away. So mad I am, I got to fight. The
Schwein
I cannot fight, so this
Schweinestall
I fight until better I feel. Ach, the dirt in this house you would not believe!'

‘What can you expect from a
Sitzplatz-schwumper
?' murmured Ellery; and, in spite of herself, Mrs. Schriver laughed. He took advantage of her laughter to shuck the paper off his parcel. ‘Mrs. Schriver, have you ever ran across a toy like this one while you were cleaning here?'

The housekeeper peered, frowned, then shook her head. Ellery lifted the lid and showed her the wood-handled rubber stamps and the ink pad. She kept shaking her head.

‘You're sure, Mrs. Schriver?'

‘When a house I clean,' she said emphatically, ‘I clean. No such thing in this house is.'

‘We'd like to be absolutely sure. Would you help us look?' said the Inspector; and in the next seventy-five minutes he learned to wish devoutly that he might have the likes of Mrs. Schriver under his command. The little castle concealed no corner, nook, shelf or cranny safe from her probing eye. She even helped them explore the hot-air ducts coming up from the cellar.

At last — dusty, dry, lugubrious — Ellery conceded that the only toy printing set in the house was the one he had brought with him. Mrs. Schriver extorted from them a promise that one day they would allow her to glut them with her strudel, shoofly pie and Dutch beer; and they left her attacking Percival York's dining room rug as if it were, like its owner, her favorite enemy.