‘Rosemary Haight’ in Steve’s receipt book are the work of the same hand.”
“Leaving us,” remarked Pat dryly, “exactly where we were.”
“No,” said Mr. Queen with a faint smile. ”Before we only
* * *
The longer Rosemary Haight stayed at Nora’s, the more inexplicable the woman became. Jim was busier and busier at the bank; sometimes he did not even come home to dinner. Yet Rosemary did not seem to mind her brother’s neglect half so much as her sister-in-law’s attentions. The female Haight tongue was forked; more than once its venom reduced Nora to tears . . . shed, it was reported to Mr. Queen by his favorite spy, in her own room, alone. Toward Pat and Hermione, Rosemary was less obvious. She rattled on about her “travels”?Panama, Rio, Honolulu, Bali, Banff, surf riding and skiing and mountain climbing and “exciting” men?much talk about exciting men?until the ladies of the Wright family began to look harried and grim, and retaliated.
And yet Rosemary stayed on.
Why? Mr. Queen was pondering this poser as he sat one morning in the window seat of his workroom. Rosemary Haight had just come out of her brother’s house, a cigarette at a disgusted angle to her red lips, clad in jodhpurs and red Russian boots and a Lana Turner sweater. She stood on the porch for a moment, slapping a crop against her boots with impatience, at odds with Wrightsville. Then she strode off into the woods behind the Wright grounds.
Later, Pat took Ellery driving; and Ellery told her about seeing the Haight woman enter the woods in a riding habit.
Pat turned into the broad concrete of Route 16, driving slowly. ”Bored,” she said. ”Bored blue. She got Jake Bushmill the blacksmith to dig her up a saddle horse from somewhere?yesterday was her first day out, and Carmel Pettigrew saw her tearing along the dirt road toward Twin Hill like?I quote?one of the Valkyries. Carmel?silly dope! ?thinks Rosemary’s just too-too.”
“And you?” queried Mr. Queen.
“That panther laziness of hers is an act?underneath, she’s the restless type and hard as teak. A cheap wench. Or don’t you think?” Pat glanced at him sidewise.
“She’s terribly attractive,” said Ellery evasively.
“So’s a man-eating orchid,” retorted Pat; and she drove in silence for eight tenths of a mile. Then she said: “What do you make of the whole thing, Ellery?Jim’s conduct, Rosemary, the three letters, the visit, Rosemary’s staying on when she hates it . . . ?”
“Nothing,” said Ellery. But he added: “Yet.”
“Ellery?look!”
They were approaching a gaudy bump on the landscape, a one-story white stucco building on whose walls oversized red lady-devils danced and from whose roof brittle cut-out flames of wood shattered the sky. The tubing of the unlit neon sign spelled out vie carlatti’s
“Look at what?” demanded Ellery, puzzled. ”I don’t see anything except no customers, since the sun is shining and Carlatti’s patrons don’t creep out of their walls until nightfall.”
“Judging from that car on the lot,” said Pat, a little pale, “there’s
Ellery frowned. ”It does look like the same car.”
“It is.”
Pat drove up to the entrance, and they jumped out.
“It might be business, Pat,” said Ellery, not with conviction.
Pat glanced at him scornfully and opened the front door.
There was no one in the chrome-and-scarlet leather interior but a bartender and a man mopping the postage-stamp dance floor. Both employees looked at them curiously.
“I don’t see him,” whispered Pat.
“He may be in one of those booths . . . No.”
“The back room . . . ”
“Let’s sit down.”
They sat down at the nearest table, and the bartender came over, yawning. ”What’U it be, folks?”
“Cuba Libre,” said Pat, nervously looking around.
“Scotch.”
“Uh-huh.” The bartender strolled back to his bar.
“Wait here,” said Ellery. He got up and made for the rear, like a man looking for something.
“It’s over that way,” said the man with the mop, pointing to a door marked he.
But Ellery pushed against a partly open red-and-gold door with a heavy brass lock. It swung noiselessly.
The room beyond was a gambling room. In a chair at the empty roulette table sprawled Jim Haight, his head on one arm on the table. A burly man with a cold cigar stub in his teeth stood half turned away from Ellery at a telephone on the far wall.
“Yeah. I said Mrs. Haight, stoopid.” The man had luxuriant black brows which almost met and a gray flabby face. ”Tell her Vic Carlatti.”
“Stoopid” would be Alberta. Ellery stood still against the red-and-gold door.
“Mrs. Haight? This is Mr. Carlatti of the
“Just a moment,” said Ellery pleasantly.
Carlatti slewed his big head around. He looked Ellery up and down. ”Hold on a second, Mrs. Haight . . . Yeah? What can I do you for?”
“You can let me talk to Mrs. Haight,” said Ellery, crossing over and taking the phone from the man’s furry hands. ”Nora? This is Ellery Smith.”
“Ellery!” Nora was frantic. ”What’s the matter with Jim? How is he? How did you happen to?”
“Don’t be excited, Nora. Pat and I were driving past Carlatti’s place, and we noticed Jim’s car parked outside. We’re in here now, and Jim’s all right. Just had a little too much to drink.”
“I’ll drive right down?the station wagon?”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind. Pat and I will have him home in half an hour. Don’t worry, do you hear?”
“Thank you,” whispered Nora, and hung up.
Ellery turned from the telephone to find Pat bending over Jim, shaking him. ”Jim. Jim!”
“It’s no use, girlfriend,” growled Carlatti. ”He’s carrying a real load.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, getting him tight!”
“Now don’t get tough, babe. He came in here under his own steam. I got a license to sell liquor. He wants to buy, he can buy. Get him outa here.”
“How did you know who he was? How did you know whom to call?” Pat was fizzing with indignation.
“He’s been here before; and besides, I frisked him. And don’t gimme that fishy eye. Come on, pig. Blow!”
Pat gasped.
“Excuse me,” said Ellery. He walked past Carlatti as if the big man were not there, and then suddenly he turned and stepped hard on Carlatti’s bulldog toe. The man bellowed with pain and reached swiftly for his back pocket. Ellery set the heel of his right hand against Carlatti’s chin and pushed. Carlatti’s head snapped back; and as he staggered, Ellery punched him in the belly with the other hand. Carlatti groaned and sank to the floor, clutching his middle with both hands and staring up, surprised.
“Miss Pig to you,” said Ellery. He yanked Jim out of his chair and got him in a fireman’s grip. Pat picked up Jim’s crushed hat and ran to hold the door open.
