The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo)
- Автор: Куин (Квин) Эллери
- Серия: Ellery Queen #6
- Год: 1933
- Язык: английский
- Год: Frederick A. Stokes Company
- Жанр: Классические детективы
Электронная книга - «The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo)». Краткое содержание книги:
Ellery wandered about quietly. He sought Wild Bill Grant, and could not find him. A word with Mars on the side elicited the information that Grant had politely declined; he was tired and had the next night’s opening to think about. But Curly was present, and Kit Horne — a most unenthusiastic and bright-eyed young woman, smiling when smiled to, talking when talked to, and for the most part watching Julian Hunter as if he were a monstrous curiosity who both repelled and fascinated.
The room roared with noise — the popping of corks, the banging of glasses, the shouting of people. The hilarity centered about Black, and was led by Mara Gay, who looked ethereally beautiful in her scanty gown. She was magnificently drunk — more drunk with admiration of Black, his success, his physique, his animal magnetism — than with liquor. The forty members of Grant’s troupe, amazed at the freedom with which wine and whisky flowed, made merry and drank, grateful for these favors. Drank until one would say the human stomach could hold no more. But except for heightened mahogany complexions and slightly slurred tongues, they showed few effects. Woody, prominent with his one arm, stood on his chair and bellowed: “Le’s give ’em The Cowboy’s Lament, boys!” And after that the night was rent with hoarse and raucous sounds that were intended to convey certain sad sentiments in song. Dan’l Boone, overcome by the tragedy of it all, sank to the floor and wept bitter tears. The newspapermen for the most part drank silently.
Ellery continued to wander about.
In the small hours the party broke up into small groups. Ellery saw Kit, very sober, rise with a queer little gesture of impatience, say something to Curly, and then make for the cloakroom. Curly meekly followed. Ellery did not see them again.
Black, freed from the compulsion of training, ignored the protests of his manager, a small fat perspiring man, and imbibed freely of excellent champagne. It was amazing how so little wine went so quickly to the head of the athlete. In ten minutes he was royally drunk. By this time he had ceased to be the lion of the evening, for the excellent reason that none of his admirers remembered any event older than a half-hour. Tommy Black’s manager, apparently despairing of keeping his champion sober, had tucked a small black bottle under his arm and retired to a corner to get quietly drunk by himself.
So Ellery went over to Black’s table and sat down. Mars was there, steadily drinking. All about them swirled the mad noise.
“Look who’s here,” growled Black, fixing Ellery with a wavering and ferocious glare. “Li’l policeman. Tell your ol’ man he better watch his gab, boy, better watch it. But Tommy Black don’t hold no hard feelings. Have drink, boy, have drink.”
Ellery smiled. “I’ve guzzled my quota, thanks. Well, how does it feel to be champion of the world?”
“Good!” roared Black enthusiastically. “Damn goo’, boy! Hey!” he bellowed. The bellow was drowned in the greater thunder of hilarity. “Aw hell, can’ talk here. C’mon over som’res, you, an’ I’ll tell you the story of m’life.”
“Delighted,” said Ellery amiably. He looked around. Hunter and Mara Gay had disappeared somewhere. He thought he knew where. “Let’s amble over to one of those alcoves, Tommy, and you can tell me all about the trials and vicissitudes of your rise to fame. Want to come, Mr. Mars?”
“I’ll come,” said Mars dully, Except for a certain hesitancy in his voice he might have been sober.
The three men made their way laboriously through the crowd to the left wall, where stood rows of booths intended for private parties. Ellery adroitly steered his companions toward a certain one. When they sat down he was sure he had been right. There were familiar voices from the next booth.
Black began: “Tell y’. M’ol’ man was a tinsmith in Pas’dena an’ m’ol’ lady—” And then, very abruptly, he stopped. His name had been mentioned in the adjoining cubicle. “Who in hell—?” he began to shout, and stopped again. This time his eyes narrowed and he sat very quietly, most of the liquorish color draining from his cheeks.
Mars sat up tensely. Ellery did not move a muscle; experimenting scientists must preserve their equanimity.
“Yes, and I’ll say it again, damn your soul!” came the low voice of Julian Hunter. “You and this Black gorilla. Making a laughing-stock of me. When I married you, you common chippie, I elevated you — d’ye understand? I’m not going to have you drag my name through the muck of the tabloids just because you get a hankering for gorilla meat — d’ye understand? Lyons hinted you were having an affair with Black; and, by God, I believe the filthy scoundrel!”
“It’s a lie,” shrieked Mara Gay. “Julian, I swear — I tell you I didn’t! He’s just been nice to me...”
“I admire your conception of ‘nice,’” said Hunter coldly.
“Julian, don’t look at me that way! Why, I wouldn’t... I wouldn’t dream—”
“You’re lying, Mara,” said Hunter without emotion. “You’re lying to me about Black, as you’ve lied to me for years about others. You’re nothing but a dirty, common—”
Black’s big fists doubled on the cloth before him, and his dark skin became stony with passion.
Ellery grew rigid; and yes, calculating, too. The even unhurried voice of Julian Hunter went on, cutting down the actress’s pleas, ignoring her mounting hysteria, excoriating and reviling her in words that burned in the hazy air. But it was what he said...
“I’ve got more on you, Mara, than just being unfaithful to me with every brute who’s got hair on his chest,” said Hunter quietly. “A lot more. Oh, I’ll admit that exploitation of your weakness for men wouldn’t hurt you much; the publicity would probably help that fine, sensitive artist’s ‘career’ of yours—”
“Go to hell!” she screamed.
“—but there’s something else about you, my dear, that not even your reputation for cinema wickedness could outlive. If I should... Well, suppose I went out into the middle of the floor this moment and announced to the reporters out there that Mara Gay, the Orchid of Hollywood, is nothing but a plain d—”
“For God’s sake, stop!” she screeched. And then Tommy Black, without so much as a muscular tightening of his body as warning of his intention, flashed out of his chair and sprang to the next booth.
Ellery and Mars scrambled to their feet and dashed after him, putting restraining hands on his taut arms. He shook them off without bothering even to look around; so savagely that Mars staggered backward and fell, hurting his head on the floor, and Ellery was flung, stunned, against a pillar.
In a haze he saw the prizefighter, crouched as in the ring, the cloth of his black evening coat stretched like mail across his wide back, grasp Hunter by the throat, yank him out of his chair, shake him as he would have shaken a child, and then set the man down softly. Mara Gay, white-faced, had her mouth open, paralyzed, unable even to scream. Hunter seemed dazed.
And then Black’s immense right fist swished up and struck Hunter on the point of the chin. Hunter fell to the floor without a sound.
Perhaps it was the spark which was required to set the tinder aflame. The next thing Ellery knew the Club Mara was a bellowing bedlam, a nightmare of whirling, staggering, fighting figures, of flying crockery and hurtling chairs.
In the confusion he managed to slip away, capture his coat from a frightened cloakroom girl, and gain the sweet fresh air.