Face to Face by Ellery Queen

something?” she exclaimed as the Scot pulled himself up beside her and began fussing with the lap robe. “In all the time I’ve been in New York, I’ve never taken a ride in one of these things.”
    â€œDo you know something?” Burke mumbled. “In all the time I’ve been in London, I never have, either.”
    â€œYou mean you’ve never been in a hansom cab?”
    â€œNever.”
    â€œHow wonderful!”
    Later, while the carriage was clopping along in Central Park, being whooshed at by passing cars, Harry Burke’s hand fumbled under the robe and found Roberta’s.
    Her hand was correctly cold, but she let him hold it.
    Still later, on the return swing of the journey, he leaned over and, in an act of sheer desperation, pecked about for her lips and ultimately located them. They felt like rubber gaskets.
    â€œCan’t you do better than that, Miss West?” Burke muttered.
    In the dark he heard her giggle. “Under the circumstances, Harry, don’t you think the least you could do is call me Roberta?”
    Only when he had left her outside her apartment building—she was quite firm about his not escorting her upstairs—did Burke realize that she had failed to demonstrate whether she could or could not do better.
    He sighed not unhappily. He rather thought she could, and he rather thought she would.
    In time.

18
    It is universal police procedure to stake out detectives at the funeral in a murder case, on the magnetic theory that the murderer will be drawn to his victim for the last possible time. Inspector Queen dutifully had his men at the Long Island cemetery. Ellery passed the departmental rites up; he lacked the traditional police mentality. As far as he was concerned, he knew the murderer—if not in deed, then in inspiration; besides, he had no stomach for Armando’s playacting this morning. And it was beyond belief that the woman in the violet veil would put in an appearance. Armando would see to that.
    â€œHe might have telephoned to warn her off,” Harry Burke said over their late breakfast. “Haven’t I heard rumors about an occasional discreet official wiretap in your marvelous country?”
    â€œI see no evil and I hear no evil,” proclaimed Ellery from behind a mouthful of scrambled eggs and Canadian bacon. “Besides, I doubt Armando would be so careless. If I gauge our boy correctly, Violet Veil has had her orders for a long time. I’m much more interested in today’s will reading.”
    â€œWho’s going to be there?”
    â€œThe only one we haven’t met is Selma Pilter, Glory’s old manager. Which reminds me, Harry. We’d better try to get a make on her.”
    He reached for the extension phone on the cupboard and dialed a number.
    â€œFelipe? Is there any chance that Mr. Kipley is out of the hay? This is Ellery Queen.”
    â€œI go see,” said Felipe noncommittally.
    â€œMarvelous country,” Burke murmured, glancing at his watch.
    The columnist’s voice shrilled in Ellery’s ear. “God damn it, man, don’t you ever sleep? What’s with the Guild case? A break?”
    â€œI’m afraid not. I just need some information.”
    â€œSome more information, you mean. When do I get my pro quo?”
    â€œIn time, in time, Kip,” Ellery soothed him. “Do you have anything on Glory’s manager? Selma Pilter?”
    â€œDo I have anything on the Sphinx? Not a speck of dirt, if that’s what you’re after. And if you think the count’s been tossing Selma around, forget it. Even he draws a line. She’s an Egyptian mummy.”
    â€œHow old is she, Kip?”
    â€œFour thousand, if you’ve got twenty-twenty. In her sixties, if you’re blind. She used to be a singer herself. A long time ago. Never made it, quit, and turned to the percentage racket. Damned good at it, too. She made Glory a