The Four of Hearts by Ellery Queen Read Free Book Online

the flesh, thought Ellery; the merest child knew that famous profile.
    â€˜Jack, here’s a guy named Ellery Queen,’ grunted Lew. ‘Give him your autograph and lemme get back to the wheel.’
    â€˜Mr. Queen,’ said the famous baritone voice, and the famous moustache-smile appeared. ‘Don’t mind this lack-brain; he’s probably drunk as usual. Rudeness runs in the Stuart line. Excuse me a moment.’ He said to Alessandro: ‘It’s all right, Alec. I’m filthy with it tonight.’ The little fat man nodded curtly and walked away. ‘And now, Mr. Queen, how do you like working for Magna?’
    â€˜Then Butcher’s told you. Do you know how hard I’ve tried to see you in the past three days, Mr. Royle?’
    The famous smile was cordial, but the famous black eyes were roving. ‘Louderback did say something … Three days! Three, did you say? Lord, Queen, that’s a hunch. Pardon me while I break Alessandro’s heart.’
    And he hurried off to the cashier’s cage to exchange a fistful of bills for a stack of blue chips. He dived into the crowd at the roulette table.
    â€˜Five hundred on number three,’ Ellery heard him chortle.
    Fascinated by this scientific attack on the laws of chance, Ellery permitted Lew to wriggle away. Number 3 failed to come up. Royle smiled, glanced at the clock on the wall, noted that its hands stood at nine-five, and promptly placed stacks on number 9 and 5. The ball stopped on 7.
    Blythe Stuart swept in, magnificent in a black evening gown, followed by a tall Hindu in tails and a turban, with a brown impassive face. Instantly she was surrounded.
    â€˜Blythe! Who’s the new boy-friend?’
    â€˜I’ll bet he’s a prince, or a rajah, or something. Leave it to Blythe.’
    â€˜Introduce me, darling!’
    â€˜Please,’ protested the actress, laughing. ‘This is Ramdu Singh, and he’s a Swami from India or some place, and he has second sight or something, I’ll swear, because he’s told me the most amazing things about myself. The Swami is going to help me play.’
    â€˜How thrilling!’
    â€˜Lew darling!’ cried Blythe, spying him. ‘Get out of the way and let me show you how to lick that thing. Come along, Mr. Singh!’
    Lew looked the Swami over blearily and shrugged. ‘It’s your cashee, Blythe.’
    A Russian director gave the actress his chair and the Swami took his place behind it, ignoring the stares of the crowd. The croupier looked a little startled and glanced at Alessandro who shrugged, smiled, and moved off.
    â€˜Place your bets,’ said the croupier.
    At this moment, across the table, the eyes of John Royle and Blythe Stuart met. And without a flicker they passed on.
    With an enigmatic expression Royle placed a bet. The Swami whispered in Blythe Stuart’s ear and she made no move to play, as if he had advised lying low until his psyche could smell out the probabilities. The wheel spun, the ball clacked to a stop on a number, the croupier began raking up the chips.
    â€˜I beg your pardon,’ said John Royle politely, and he took the outstretched rake from the croupier’s hand and poked it across the table at the Swami’s turban. The turban fell off the Swami’s head. His skull gleamed in the strong light – hairless, polished, pinkish-white.
    The ‘Hindu’ dived frantically for the turban. Someone gasped. Blythe Stuart gaped at the naked pink scalp.
    Royle handed the rake back to the croupier with a bow. ‘This,’ he said in an amiable tone, ‘is Arthur William Park, the actor. You remember his Polonius, Sergei, in the Menzies Hamlet in 1920? An excellent performance, then – as now.’
    Park straightened up, murder in his eyes.
    â€˜Sorry, old man,’ murmured Royle. ‘I know you’re down on your luck, but I can’t permit my … friends to be