The Four of Hearts Read Free

a small portable bar beside the desk stood open, crowded with bottles, and accessible to a nervous elbow, as a bar should.
    â€˜Ripped out all the junk,’ said the Boy Wonder cheerfully. ‘You should have seen it. Sit down, boys. Drink?’
    â€˜It isn’t fair,’ moaned Mr. Queen, getting into a chair and cowering.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜He says he needs some air,’ said Alan Clark hastily.
    â€˜Shouldn’t wonder, after the raw deal he got,’ said the young man, throwing open all the windows. ‘Have a slug of Scotch, Queen. Do you good.’
    â€˜Brandy,’ said Mr. Queen faintly.
    â€˜Brandy!’ The Boy Wonder looked pleased. ‘Now there’s a man with discriminating boozing habits. It gets your ticker after a while, but look at all the fun you have waiting for coronary thrombosis. Tell you what I’ll do with you, Queen. I’ll crack open a couple of bottles of 125-year-old Napoleon I’ve been saving for my wedding. Just between friends?’
    Mr. Queen wavered between the demon of prejudice and the Boy Wonder’s grin. While he wavered, the tempter tilted a sun-scorched bottle and poured golden liquid.
    It was too, too much. The would-be avenger accepted the fat glass and buried his nose in the seductive vapours of the aged cognac.
    â€˜Here – here’s to you,’ said Mr. Queen one bottle later.
    â€˜No, no, here’s to you ,’ said Mr. Butcher.
    The friendly sun was beaming on the Magna lot outside, the friendly room was cloistered and cool, the friendly brandy was pure bliss, and they were old, old friends.
    Mr. Queen said fervently: ‘My m’stake, Butchie-boy.’
    â€˜No, no.’ said Butchie-boy, beating his breast ‘ My m’stake, El ole cock.’
    Clark had gone, dismissed by the Boy Wonder. He had departed with anxiety, for the magic of Butchie-boy’s executive methods was legend in Hollywood and as a good and conscientious agent Clark had misgivings about leaving his client alone with the magician.
    Not without cause. Already his client was prepared to do or die for dear old Magna. ‘Don’t see how I could’ve mis-misjudged you, Butch,’ said Mr. Queen, half in tears. ‘Thought you were a complete an’ absolute louse. ‘Pon my word.’
    â€˜I yam a louse,’ said Butch. ‘No won’er people get the wrong impression ‘bout Hollywood. A yarn like that! I’ll be a laughing – a laughing-stock.’
    Mr. Queen grasped his glass and glared. ‘Show me the firsht man who laughsh – laughs an’ I’ll kick his teeth in!’
    â€˜My pal.’
    â€˜But nob’dy’ll spread the story, Butch. It’s jus’ b’tween us an’ Alan Clark.’ Mr. Queen snapped his fingers. ‘Curse, it, he’ll talk.’
    â€˜Cer’nly he’ll talk. Di’n’t you know all agents are rats? Down with agents!’
    â€˜The dirty shkunk,’ said Mr. Queen ferociously, rising. ‘Id’ll be all over Variety t’morrow morning.’
    Mr. Butcher leered. ‘Siddown, ole frien’. I fixed his wagon.’
    â€˜No! How?’
    â€˜Gave the shtory to Variety m’self jus’ before you came!’
    Mr. Queen howled with admiration and pounded the Boy Wonder’s back. The Boy Wonder pounded his back. They fell into each other’s arms.
    The First Secretary discovered them on the floor half a bottle later among sheets and sheets of yellow paper, planning with intense sobriety a mystery picture in which Ellery Van Christie, the world-famous detective, murders Jacques Bouchère, the world-famous movie producer, and pins the crime with fiendish ingenuity on one Alan Clarkwell, a scurvy fellow who skulked about making authors’ lives miserable.

CHAPTER 2
    STORY CONFERENCE
    The First Secretary conferred with the Second Secretary and while the Second Secretary ran for raw eggs,