The Scarlet Letters by Ellery Queen Page B

to make him swallow his own words. When Fields printed it, there was a fact behind it somewhere. And Ellery had heard of numerous targets of other columnists whom Fields had spared because they were victims of circumstances. He was as quick to defend as to condemn, and some of his most vicious manhunts had been undertaken in the interests of the helpless and the wronged. He had once written in his column: “Last week a Certain Nobody called me a son-of-a-you-know. Thanks, pal. My mother was an underdog. What was yours?”
    The possibility that Leon Fields was on the trail of Van Harrison lowered Ellery’s body-temperature with great rapidity.
    He watched anxiously.
    And suddenly Harrison was on his feet, fists waving. He said something to Fields, and the thin man’s smile vanished. The columnist’s hand reached for the sugar bowl. Harrison began to shove the table aside.
    The floor-show was on and all eyes were on the performers. No one seemed to notice what was happening.
    Ellery looked around. He could not afford to be seen by Harrison. But unless he could avert a brawl …
    â€œQuick!” He grabbed the sleeve of the passing maître. “Break that up if you don’t want trouble!”
    The startled maître got there just as Van Harrison’s arm came up with a fist at the end of it. He caught the fist, stepped between the two men, and said something very quickly. A large man in a tuxedo appeared from nowhere. In a moment the group had left the floor and two waiters were clearing Harrison’s table.
    Ellery shoved a ten-dollar bill into his waiter’s hand and hurried after them.
    They were in a milling huddle at the checkroom, Harrison being held ungently by the large man in the tuxedo. Ellery walked up behind Harrison and handed the girl his check and a quarter.
    â€œLet go of me,” he heard Harrison say in a strangled baritone. “Take your hands off me.”
    â€œLet him go,” said the columnist. “He’s harmless.”
    â€œOkay if you say so, Mr. Fields,” said the large man.
    â€œJust let me pay my check,” the actor raged. “If you’re not a yellow dog, you’ll be waiting for me outside.”
    Fields spun on his heel and walked out.
    A crowd was gathering. The large man began to disperse them.
    Harrison flung a bill at the headwaiter, jammed his Homburg on his head, and strode out. His cheeks were gray and they were quivering.
    Ellery followed.
    The sidewalk under the marquees was deserted; plays along 46th Street had just settled down to their second acts. The columnist was waiting under the marquee of a darkened theater ten yards up the street.
    Harrison broke into a run. Toward Fields.
    Ellery quickened his pace, looking back over his shoulder. A knot of people had formed at the entrance of the Diamond Horseshoe, craning. As he looked, they began to move toward him in a body. Somebody across the street turned to shout something. A man wearing a camera on a leather strap appeared, stared, began to cross on a long diagonal run. A cruising cab shot by, jammed on its brakes, and backed up to the dark theater.
    When Ellery turned around, Harrison and Fields had disappeared.
    He lowered his head and sprinted.
    â€œThey’re in the alley.” The cab driver was leaning out. “What is it, a fight?”
    â€œFor God’s sake, don’t go away!” Ellery dashed into the alley.
    They were rolling up and down in the darkness. The actor was cursing and sobbing, Fields was silent. He’s slighter and shorter than Harrison, thought Ellery, and thirty pounds lighter. He hasn’t a chance.
    Ellery groped toward the commotion, shouting, “Stop it, you fools! Do you want the police in on this?”
    A tangle of arms and legs jarred him, and he staggered back to bang his shoulder blades against the brick wall of the theater.
    Something flashed at the head of the alley and his arm instinctively came up to