The Devil To Pay by Ellery Queen Page A

and pulled him around. “Show me that.”
    “It’s nothing I tell you!” said Pink, but his tone carried no conviction.
    Val thrust her hand into his pocket. He tried to dodge, but she was too quick for him. Her hand emerged with a flat, small, hard-covered pamphlet. “Why, it’s a bankbook,” she said. “Oh, Pink, I’m dreadfully sorry—” But then she stopped and little schools of goose-pimples rose to the surface of her flesh. The name on the bankbook was Rhys Jardin.
    “Pop deposited Walter’s money,” she began, and stopped again. “But this is a different bank, Pink. The Pacific Coastal. Spaeth’s bank.”
    “Don’t bother your head with it, squirt,” muttered Pink; he began to stir beans with a ladle as if his life depended on their not sticking to the pan. “Don’t look inside.”
    Val looked inside. There was one deposit listed, no withdrawals. But the size of the deposit made her eyes widen. It was impossible. It must be a mistake. But there were the figures. $5,000,000.00.
    She seized Pink’s arm. “Where did you get this? Pink, tell me the truth!”
    “It was this morning,” said Pink, avoiding her eyes, “in the gym over at San Susie . I was packing the golf-bags. I found it hidden under a box of tees in a pocket of that old morocco bag of Rhys’s.”
    “Oh,” said Val, and she sat down in the breakfast nook and shaded her eyes with her hand. “Pink,” she went on in a muffled voice, “you mustn’t—well, don’t say anything about this. It will look as if… as if what those people said about pop not really being broke is true.”
    Pink stirred with absorption. “I didn’t know what the hell to do, Val. There was a chance some nosey, thievin’ express-man might find it. I had to take that stuff Rhys gave away over to the Museum, so—well, I just put it in my pocket.”
    “Thanks, Pink,” said Val from stiff lips. And neither said another word as the gas hissed and Pink stirred and Val sat at the table and looked at the bankbook.
    The front door banged. Rhys called out: “Val?” Neither made a sound. Rhys came into the kitchen smoking a cigar and shaking his wet hat. “It’s raining again. Pink, that smells wonderful.” He stopped, struck by the silence. The yellow-covered bank book lay on the maple table in full view. He glanced at it, frowned, and then studied the two stony faces. “Is it Walter?” he asked in a puzzled way. “Wouldn’t he talk?”
    “No,” said Val.
    Rhys sat down in his soggy coat, puffing at the cigar. “Don’t go off half-cocked, puss. I watched him. He’s concealing something, it’s true, but I have the feeling it isn’t what you think. Walter’s always been close-mouthed—after all, he never had the benefits of a normal upbringing—he’ll always depend on himself, keep things to himself. I’ve studied him, and I’m sure he’s incapable of viciousness. I couldn’t be wrong in him, darling—”
    “I wonder,” said Val tonelessly, “if I could be wrong in you. ”
    “Val.” He examined her with surprise. “Pink, what’s the matter? Something’s happened.”
    “Don’t you know?” muttered Pink.
    “I know,” he said a trifle sharply, “that you’re both being childishly mysterious.”
    Val pushed the bankbook an inch toward her father with the very tip of one fingernail. He did not pick it up at once. He continued to look at Val and Pink. As he looked, a curious pallor spread under the brown of his flat cheeks. He took the bankbook slowly, stared at his name on the cover, opened the book, stared at the figures, stared at the date, the cashier’s initials. … “What is this?” he asked in a flat voice. “Well, don’t look at me like sticks! Pink, you know something about this. Where did it come from?”
    “It’s none of my business,” shrugged Pink.
    “I said where did it come from?”
    Pink flung the ladle down. “Damn it, what do you want from me, Rhys? Don’t put on an act for my benefit! It’s a