Carlosâs relationships, real or imagined, with other women. Either Glory Guild had been unaware of his woman-chasing or she had chosen to ignore it, at least for the record.
There was no clue in the entries to what she might have meant by âface.â Nor any mention of a veiled woman; nor even of a veil, violet or any other color.
Close examination of her memoirsâthe typed parts and the notes on which they were basedâproved equally barren of any references that might remotely connect with the singerâs death.
A glance at Inspector Queenâs reports advanced nothing; they told less than both men already knew. The Inspectorâs detectives had turned over some stones and discovered various crawly thingsâArmandoâs renewed alliance with ex-wife Number Three, Ardene Piggyback Vlietland, her of the Newport catastrophe; his affairs with his wifeâs secretary, Jeanne Temple, and with her physician, Dr. Susan Merckell; his duet with the opera singer, Marta Bellina. But there were no reports on Number Four, the Back Bay alcoholic, Daffy Dingle, or on Number Seven, Gertie Hodge Huppenkleimer, Glory Guildâs immediate predecessor.
Or, significantly, on the veiled woman.
âWeâll get after her first off,â the Inspector said, âand Iâll give Boston a call about the Dingle woman. Iâm most interested in this purple-veil dameââ
âViolet,â said Ellery gravely. âIt could make all the difference.â
âGet off my leg,â his father snapped. âIâm not much interested in Mrs. Huppenkleimer. Sheâs the only wife Armando wasnât able to take for anything. I canât see a woman like that committing murder for him.â
âStill, according to Kipley, sheâs been going out with him again. Why?â
âWho knows why women do what they do? Maybe sheâs been overcome by fond memories. You chase after her if you want.â
âWhich is exactly,â said Ellery, âwhat Harry and I are going to do.â
They tracked Gertie Huppenkleimer that night to a charity ball at the Americana. She stood out like an atom bomb in the New Mexico desertâa towering mushroom of a woman who dominated most of the thousand glittering people in the ballroom.
âSuppose I make the approach,â murmured Burke. âGertie has a thing for Englishmen.â
âYouâre a Scotsman.â
âBelieve me, old chap, she wonât know the difference.â
Ellery watched Burke maneuver his broad shoulders toward the punch table, where Mrs. Huppenkleimer was bellowing into the ear of a captive African diplomat. A few minutes later the Scotsman was dancing with her, fitting neatly under her hat. And a few minutes after that he was back.
âNothing to it, Ellery. We have a breakfast appointment with her for tomorrow morning. She was charmed.â
âBy what?â
Burke grinned. âI told her weâd met at the Queenâs garden party. I could have had her bra after that. Although, come to think of it, what the hell would I use it for?â
âA hammock,â said Ellery glumly, eyeing her awesome proportions.
They were admitted to the Beekman Place duplex at 11:00 oâclock Sunday morning by an English butler who actually sported sideburns. Madam, it appeared, was awaiting them; they followed the butler to a glassed-in terrace, where Mrs. Huppenkleimer was enthroned in an enormous basket chair before a breakfast table set for three.
âMr. Burke, how very nice!â their hostess roared. âAnd this is your friend. Iâm so happy to meet any friend of Mr. Burkeâs; ⦠Ellery Queeg, did you say? ⦠Queen. How gauche of me! Please sit down, Mr. Queen! And, of course, you, Mr. Burke â¦â
Burke launched into British social chitchat skillfully while the butler served from a king-sized steam table. Mrs. Huppenkleimer ate on the same enormous scale as