Free Face to Face by Ellery Queen

two-timing her?”
    â€œYour arithmetic stinks, Charlie. Two times whatever he can lay his itchy hands on, which is every broad within reach. He even gets nostalgic every once in a while.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œGoes back to one of his rejects. For instance, he’s been spotted recently in some night spots with Number Seven on his hit parade—the wife before GeeGee, the Chicago meatpacking dame who got the goods on him while he was giving it to the upstairs maid and kicked him out without a dime, which was a real switch. You know, Mrs. Gertie Hodge Huppenkleimer—she dropped the Armando when she got the divorce. Gertie’s living in New York now, in a fifty-thousand-a-year pad on Beekman Place, and somehow he’s managed to shinny his way back into her good graces. Don’t ask me how he does it. Of course, there isn’t a woman who can see beyond the end of her panty-girdle; even so, life isn’t all beddy-bye. What do they see in that jock? Unless he’s found a way Krafft-Ebing or Kinsey missed.”
    â€œThe question is, what does Armando see in Mrs. Huppenkleimer?” Harry Burke put in. “While I was still on duty for the Yard, Ellery, I saw her at one of the Queen’s garden parties. She has the physique of a Beefeater, topped with three-foot hats. Perhaps it’s a matter of professional pride with Armando—I mean, not having succeeded in tapping her the first time round.”
    â€œThat could be his weakness,” Ellery nodded. “Who else, Kip?”
    â€œI’m not through with his ex-wives. He’s been seen squiring Numbers Three and Four—Three was Mrs. Ardene Vlietland, the one they call Piggyback, who divorced Hendrix B. Vlietland, the banker, to marry Armando— that one broke up after that brawl in Newport where the guests were swinging from the crystal chandeliers and throwing horseshoes at everything breakable, including two Picassos. Four was that Boston dame, the alcoholic with the race horses, Daffy Dingle; she went AA and stayed on the wagon four years, and Armando’s been seen in Boston bistros here and there buying her vodka martinis by the quart—just for the hell of it, I guess.”
    â€œNice chap,” Burke muttered.
    â€œThe best,” said Kipley.
    â€œThe Huppenkleimer, Piggyback, Daffy,” said Ellery. “Three ex-wives. I take it you haven’t exhausted the inventory, Kip?”
    â€œGet set for this one,” said Kipley.
    â€œI’m quivering all over.”
    â€œGeeGee’s secretary,” said Kipley. “What’s-her-name—Jeanne Temple.”
    â€œAh, me,” said Burke.
    â€œOh, my,” said Ellery. “This one is rancid. And damned dangerous for him. Or is he the complete fool? Under Glory’s nose, Kip?”
    â€œNo, this he’s played cosy. He’s got a kind of animal cunning that pops out once in a while. With Jeanne Temple it’s been hideaways around town. Not too often. Only a dirt-hound like me would have nosed it out.”
    â€œI haven’t met the Temple woman. Is she anything to look at?”
    â€œA pair of boobs surrounded by the usual number of arms and legs. With a face like a stepped-on egg. According to my information, he’s got her tongue hanging out.”
    â€œOur mammary culture,” murmured Ellery. “The poor European infected with the American disease. Anyone else?”
    The columnist said, “I’ve hardly started.”
    â€œI’d better take notes!” He actually produced his notebook and began writing.
    â€œA two-bit would-be actress named Roberta West.” Burke paled slightly. “No money in her, but she’s young and pretty—I guess the count needs relief every once in a while from the dogs. But he hasn’t been seen with the West number for six, seven months, so that one’s probably broken off.” Ellery and Harry Burke exchanged