The New Adventures of Ellery Queen (30 page)

“What happened to Lachrymose Katie last night?” demanded Mr. Queen.

“Oh, I got her to go back to the ranch. She left me a little after ten, a very miserable little girl. What did you do with Hankus-Pankus?”

“I oiled him thoroughly and then took him home. He'd hired a room in a Hollywood boardinghouse. He cried on my shoulder all the way. It seems old John also kicked him in the seat of his pants, and he's been brooding murderously over it.”

“Poor Hankus. The only honest male I've ever met.”

“I'm afraid of horses, too,” said Mr. Queen hurriedly.

“Oh, you! You're detestable. You haven't kissed me once today.”

Only the cooling balm of Miss Paris's lips, applied at various points along U.S. Route 66, kept Mr. Queen's temper from boiling over. The roads were sluggish with traffic. At the track it was even worse. It seemed as though every last soul in Southern California had converged upon Santa Anita at once, in every manner of conveyance, from the dusty Model T's of dirt farmers to the shiny metal monsters of the movie stars. The magnificent stands seethed with noisy thousands, a wriggling mosaic of color and movement. The sky was blue, the sun warm, zephyrs blew, and the track was fast. A race was being run, and the sleek animals were small and fleet and sharply focused in the clear light.

“What a marvelous day for the Handicap!” cried Paula, dragging Ellery along. “Oh, there's Bing, and Dean Martin, and Bob Hope!… Hello!… And Joan and Clark and …”

Despite Miss Paris's overenthusiastic trail-breaking, Mr. Queen arrived at the track stalls in one piece. They found old John Scott watching with the intentness of a Red Indian as a stablehand kneaded Danger's velvety forelegs. There was a stony set to Scott's gnarled face that made Paula cry: “John! Is anything wrong with Danger?”

“Danger's all right,” said the old man curtly. “It's Kate. We had a blow-up over that Halliday boy an' she ran out on me.”

“Nonsense, John. I sent her back home last night myself.”

“She was at your place? She didn't come home.”

“She didn't?” Paula's little nose wrinkled.

“I guess,” growled Scott, “she's run off with that Halliday coward. He's not a mon, the lily-livered—”

“We can't all be heroes, John. He's a good boy, and he loves Katie.”

The old man stared stubbornly at his stallion, and after a moment they left and made their way towards their box.

“Funny,” said Paula in a scared voice. “She couldn't have run off with Hank; he was with you. And I'd swear she meant to go back to the ranch last night.”

“Now, Paula,” said Mr. Queen gently. “She's all right.” But his eyes were thoughtful and a little perturbed.

Their box was not far from the paddock. During the preliminary races, Paula kept searching the sea of faces with her binoculars.

“Well, well,” said Mr. Queen suddenly, and Paula became conscious of a rolling thunder from the stands about them.

“What's the matter? What's happened?”

“Broomstick, the favorite, has been scratched,” said Mr. Queen dryly.

“Broomstick? Santelli's horse?” Paula stared at him, paling. “But why? Ellery, there's something in this—”

“It seems he's pulled a tendon and can't run.”

“Do you think,” whispered Paula, “that Santelli had anything to do with Katie's … not getting … home?”

“Possible,” muttered Ellery. “But I can't seem to fit the blinking thing—”

“Here they come!”

The shout shook the stands. A line of regal animals began to emerge from the paddock. Paula and Ellery rose with the other restless thousands, and craned. The Handicap contestants were parading to the post!

There was High Tor, who had gone lame in the stretch at the Derby two years before and had not run a race since. This was to be his comeback; the insiders held him in a contempt which the public apparently shared, for he was quoted at 50 to 1. There was little Fighting Billy. There was Equator, prancing sedately along with Buzz Hickey up. There was Danger! Glossy black, gigantic, imperial, Danger was nervous. Whitey Williams was having a difficult time controlling him and a stablehand was struggling at his bit.

Old John Scott, his big shapeless body unmistakable even at this distance, lumbered from the paddock towards his dancing stallion, apparently to soothe him.

Paula gasped. Ellery said quickly: “What is it?”

“There's Hank Halliday in the crowd. Up there! Right above the spot where Danger's passing. About fifty feet from John Scott. And Kathryn's not with him!”

Ellery took the glasses from her and located Halliday.

Paula sank into her chair. “Ellery, I've the queerest feeling. There's something wrong. See how pale he is.…”

The powerful glasses brought Halliday to within a few inches of Ellery's eyes. The boy's glasses were steamed over; he was shaking, as if he had a chill; and yet Ellery could see the globules of perspiration on his cheeks.

And then Mr. Queen stiffened very abruptly.

John Scott had just reached the head of Danger; his thick arm was coming up to pull the stallion's head down. And in that instant Mr. Hankus-Pankus Halliday fumbled in his clothes; and in the next his hand appeared clasping a snub-nosed automatic. Mr. Queen very nearly cried out. For, the short barrel wavering, the automatic in Mr. Halliday's trembling hands pointed in the general direction of John Scott, there was an explosion, and a puff of smoke blew out of the muzzle.

Miss Paris leaped to her feet, and Miss Paris did cry out.

“Why, the crazy young fool!” said Mr. Queen dazedly.

Frightened by the shot, which had gone wild, Danger reared. The other horses began to kick and dance. In a moment the place below boiled with panic-stricken thoroughbreds. Scott, clinging to Danger's head, half-turned in an immense astonishment and looked inquiringly upwards. Whitey struggled desperately to control the frantic stallion.

And then Mr. Halliday shot again. And again. And a fourth time. And at some instant, in the spaces between those shots, the rearing horse got between John Scott and the automatic in Mr. Halliday's shaking hand.

Danger's four feet left the turf. Then, whinnying in agony, flanks heaving, he toppled over on his side.

“Oh, gosh; oh,
gosh
,” said Paula biting her handkerchief.

“Let's go!” shouted Mr. Queen, and he plunged for the spot.

By the time they reached the place where Mr. Halliday had fearfully discharged his automatic, the bespectacled youth had disappeared. The people who had stood about him were still too stunned to move. Elsewhere, the stands were in pandemonium.

In the confusion, Ellery and Paula managed to slip through the inadequate track-police cordon hastily thrown about the fallen Danger and his milling rivals. They found old John on his knees beside the black stallion, his big hands steadily stroking the glossy, veined neck. Whitey, pale and bewildered-looking, had stripped off the tiny saddle, and the track veterinary was examining a bullet wound in Danger's side, near the shoulder. A group of track officials conferred excitedly nearby.

“He saved my life,” said old John in a low voice to no one in particular. “He saved my life.”

The veterinary looked up. “Sorry, Mr. Scott,” he said grimly. “Danger won't run this race.”

“No. I suppose not.” Scott licked his leathery lips. “Is it—mon, is it serious?”

“Can't tell till I dig out the bullet. We'll have to get him out of here and into the hospital right away.”

An official said: “Tough luck, Scott. You may be sure we'll do our best to find the scoundrel who shot your horse.”

The old man's lips twisted. He climbed to his feet and looked down at the heaving flanks of his fallen thoroughbred. Whitey Williams trudged away with Danger's gear, head hanging.

A moment later the loud-speaker system proclaimed that Danger, Number 5, had been scratched, and that the Handicap would be run immediately the other contestants could be quieted and lined up at the stall barrier.

“All right, folks, clear out,” said a track policeman as a hospital van rushed up, followed by a hoisting truck.

“What are you doing about the man who shot this horse?” demanded Mr. Queen, not moving.

“Ellery,” whispered Paula nervously, tugging at his arm.

“We'll get him; got a good description. Move on, please.”

“Well,” said Mr. Queen slowly, “I know who he is, do you see.”

“Ellery!”

“I saw him and recognized him.”

They were ushered into the Steward's office just as the announcement was made that High Tor, at 50 to 1, had won the Santa Anita Handicap, purse $100,000, by two and a half lengths … almost as long a shot, in one sense, as the shot which laid poor Danger low, commented Mr. Queen to Miss Paris,
sotto voce
.

“Halliday?” said John Scott with heavy contempt. “That yellow-livered pup try to shoot me?”

“I couldn't possibly be mistaken, Mr. Scott,” said Ellery.

“I saw him, too, John,” sighed Paula.

“Who is this Halliday?” demanded the chief of the track police.

Scott told him in monosyllables, relating their quarrel of the day before. “I knocked him down an' kicked him. I guess the only way he could get back at me was with a gun. An' Danger took the rap, poor beastie.” For the first time his voice shook.

“Well, we'll get him; he can't have left the park,” said the police chief grimly. “I've got it sealed tighter than a drum.”

“Did you know,” murmured Mr. Queen, “that Mr. Scott's daughter Kathryn has been missing since last night?”

Old John flushed slowly. “You think—my Kate had somethin' to do—”

“Don't be silly, John!” said Paula.

“At any rate,” said Mr. Queen dryly, “her disappearance and the attack here today can't be a coincidence. I'd advise you to start a search for Miss Scott immediately. And, by the way, send for Danger's gear. I'd like to examine it.”

“Say, who the devil are you?” growled the chief.

Mr. Queen told him negligently. The chief looked properly awed. He telephoned to various police headquarters, and he sent for Danger's gear.

Whitey Williams, still in his silks, carried the high small racing saddle in and dumped it on the floor.

“John, I'm awful sorry about what happened,” he said in a low voice.

“It ain't your fault, Whitey.” The big shoulders drooped.

“Ah, Williams, thank you,” said Mr. Queen briskly. “This
is
the saddle Danger was wearing a few minutes ago?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Exactly as it was when you stripped it off him after the shots?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has anyone had an opportunity to tamper with it?”

“No, sir. I been with it ever since, and no one's come near it but me.”

Mr. Queen nodded and knelt to examine the empty-pocketed saddle. Observing the scorched hole in the flap, his brow puckered in perplexity.

“By the way, Whitey,” he asked, “how much do you weigh?”

“Hundred and seven.”

Mr. Queen frowned. He rose, dusted his knees delicately, and beckoned the chief of police. They conferred in undertones. The policeman looked baffled, shrugged, and hurried out.

When he returned, a certain familiar-appearing gentleman in too-perfect clothes and a foreign air accompanied him. The gentleman looked sad.

“I hear some crackpot took a couple o' shots at you, John,” he said sorrowfully, “an' got your nag instead. Tough luck.”

There was a somewhat quizzical humor behind this ambiguous statement which brought old John's head up in a flash of belligerence.

“You dirty, thievin'—”

“Mr. Santelli,” greeted Mr. Queen. “When did you know that Broomstick would have to be scratched?”

“Broomstick?” Mr. Santelli looked mildly surprised at this irrelevant question. “Why, last week.”

“So that's why you offered to buy Scott's stable—to get control of Danger?”

“Sure.” Mr. Santelli smiled genially. “He was hot. With my nag out, he looked like a cinch.”

“Mr. Santelli, you're what is colloquially known as a cock-eyed liar.” Mr. Santelli ceased smiling. “You wanted to buy Danger not to see him win, but to see him lose!”

Mr. Santelli looked unhappy. “Who is this,” he appealed to the police chief, “Mister Wacky himself?”

“In my embryonic way,” said Mr. Queen, “I have been making a few inquiries in the last several days and my information has it that your bookmaking organization covered a lot of Danger money when Danger was five to one.”

“Say, you got somethin' there,” said Mr. Santelli, suddenly deciding to be candid.

“You covered about two hundred thousand dollars, didn't you?”

“Wow,” said Mr. Santelli. “This guy's got idears, ain't he?”

“So,” smiled Mr. Queen, “if Danger won the Handicap you stood to drop a very frigid million dollars, did you not?”

“But it's my old friend John some guy tried to rub out,” pointed out Mr. Santelli gently. “Go peddle your papers somewheres else, Mister Wack.”

John Scott looked bewilderedly from the gambler to Mr. Queen. His jaw muscles were bunched and jerky.

At this moment a special officer deposited among them Mr. Hankus-Pankus Halliday, his spectacles awry on his nose and his collar ripped away from his prominent Adam's apple.

John Scott sprang towards him, but Ellery caught his flailing arms in time to prevent a slaughter.

“Murderer! Scalawag! Horse-killer!” roared old John. “What did ye do with my lassie?”

Mr. Halliday said gravely: “Mr. Scott, you have my sympathy.”

The old man's mouth flew open. Mr. Halliday folded his scrawny arms with dignity, glaring at the policeman who had brought him in. “There was no necessity to manhandle me. I'm quite ready to face the—er—music. But I shall not answer any questions.”