Read Online Face to Face by Ellery Queen - Free Book Online Page B

Kipley’s.”
    Ellery set his cup down and grabbed the newspaper. He knew the Broadway columnist well; on numerous occasions Kipley had given him valuable tips. This morning’s column was devoted almost entirely to the late Glory Guild’s count; Ellery could imagine Armando baring his magnificent choppers. “Most of this is pretty much public property, Harry, but I have an idea Kip’s holding back the real pay dirt for later developments. It gives me a thought.”
    He consulted his address book and dialed Kipley’s unlisted number. “Kip? Ellery Queen. Did I get you up?”
    â€œHell, no,” said the columnist’s famous piping voice. “I’m in the middle of breakfast. I was wondering when you’d get around to me, Charlie. You’re in this GeeGee business up to your belly button, aren’t you?”
    â€œJust about. Kip, I’d like to see you.”
    â€œAny time. I keep open house.”
    â€œPrivately.”
    â€œSure. One o’clock at my place?”
    â€œYou have a date.” Ellery hung up. “You never know,” he said to Harry Burke. “Kipley’s like that wine horn of Thor’s, inexhaustible. Give me twenty minutes, Harry, and we’ll have brunch and hit Kip for the inside scoop.”

13
    The columnist was a tiny dark vibrant man with the profile of a doge, dressed in a heavy silk kimono of authentic manufacture. “Excuse the negligee.” Kipley said, shaking Ellery’s hand limply. “I never get dressed before four o’clock. Who’s this?”
    Ellery introduced Burke, who submitted to a quick examination by a pair of birdy black eyes. Then he was dismissed with, “Harry Burke? Never heard,” and Kipley nodded toward the elaborate bar, where his Puerto Rican houseman was hovering—because of Kipley’s column, Felipe was probably the most advertised houseman in Manhattan. The penthouse apartment was almost sterile, unfeminine to the bone; Kipley was a notorious hypochondriac and woman-dodger, with a housewife’s passion for order. “What’ll you have to drink?” He was also a non-drinker.
    â€œToo early for me, thanks,” said Ellery; and Burke, sensing a clue, declined as well, although he eyed the Johnnie Walker Black Label longingly. Kipley nodded to Felipe, and the houseman vanished. It seemed to Burke that the columnist was pleased.
    â€œPark it, gentlemen. What do you want to know?”
    â€œWhatever you’ve got on Carlos Armando.” Ellery said. “And I don’t mean that warmed-over rehash you ran this morning.”
    The columnist chuckled. “It’s all in the timing, Charlie; I don’t have to tell you. What’s in it for me?”
    â€œNothing I can think of.” Ellery said, “at the moment. Because as yet I don’t know a thing. If I come up with anything I can let you have, Kip, you’ll get your quid pro quo.”
    Kipley looked at him. “I take it Mr. Burke here is all right?”
    â€œHarry’s a private detective from London. He’s connected with the case in a peripheral sort of way.”
    â€œIf you’d rather, Mr. Kipley, I’ll leave,” Burke said without rancor. He half rose.
    â€œSit down, Charlie. It’s just that when I spill my girlish secrets I like to know who-all’s on the bugging end. So this thing has a British tie-in? Who?”
    â€œWho’s spilling whose girlish secrets?” Ellery asked, laughing. “Come on, Kip, open up. I told you we have a deal.”
    â€œArmando.” Kipley pulled his Venetian nose. “The guy is strictly a no-goodnik. A sex-crazy maniac. And greasy as the top of a one-arm short-order cook’s stove. The way he slimed up GeeGee’s nest for over five years—with that stupid middle-age canary never suspecting a thing, as far as I know—is enough to make even me puke.”
    â€œHe’s been