Free Face to Face by Ellery Queen Page B

Carlos’s 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 “face.” Nor any mention of a veiled woman; nor even of a veil, violet or any other color.
    Close examination of her memoirs—the typed parts and the notes on which they were based—proved equally barren of any references that might remotely connect with the singer’s death.
    A glance at Inspector Queen’s reports advanced nothing; they told less than both men already knew. The Inspector’s detectives had turned over some stones and discovered various crawly things—Armando’s renewed alliance with ex-wife Number Three, Ardene Piggyback Vlietland, her of the Newport catastrophe; his affairs with his wife’s 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 Guild’s immediate predecessor.
    Or, significantly, on the veiled woman.
    â€œWe’ll get after her first off,” the Inspector said, “and I’ll give Boston a call about the Dingle woman. I’m most interested in this purple-veil dame—”
    â€œViolet,” said Ellery gravely. “It could make all the difference.”
    â€œGet off my leg,” his father snapped. “I’m not much interested in Mrs. Huppenkleimer. She’s the only wife Armando wasn’t able to take for anything. I can’t see a woman like that committing murder for him.”
    â€œStill, according to Kipley, she’s been going out with him again. Why?”
    â€œWho knows why women do what they do? Maybe she’s been overcome by fond memories. You chase after her if you want.”
    â€œWhich is exactly,” said Ellery, “what Harry and I are going to do.”
    They tracked Gertie Huppenkleimer that night to a charity ball at the Americana. She stood out like an atom bomb in the New Mexico desert—a towering mushroom of a woman who dominated most of the thousand glittering people in the ballroom.
    â€œSuppose I make the approach,” murmured Burke. “Gertie has a thing for Englishmen.”
    â€œYou’re a Scotsman.”
    â€œBelieve me, old chap, she won’t know the difference.”
    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.
    â€œNothing to it, Ellery. We have a breakfast appointment with her for tomorrow morning. She was charmed.”
    â€œBy what?”
    Burke grinned. “I told her we’d met at the Queen’s 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€œA hammock,” said Ellery glumly, eyeing her awesome proportions.
    They were admitted to the Beekman Place duplex at 11:00 o’clock 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.
    â€œMr. Burke, how very nice!” their hostess roared. “And this is your friend. I’m so happy to meet any friend of Mr. Burke’s; … Ellery Queeg, did you say? … Queen. How gauche of me! Please sit down, Mr. Queen! And, of course, you, Mr. Burke …”
    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