Where Is Bianca? by Ellery Queen

it?—a disappointment. But I refuse to worry about her, Captain, dead or alive. Whether she comes crawling back or not.”
    â€œIf she’s alive, you think she’ll crawl back?”
    â€œThat worm?” Fran Weatherly said contemptuously. “You can bet your old man’s straw benny on it, brother. As soon as this new man she’s hooked onto is through with her. Stupid little pot! Big-Man-in-Theater-Going-to-Make-Star-out-of-Her. Imagine falling for a line like that in this day and age!”
    â€œAny idea who the man is?”
    â€œNo, and I don’t give a four-letter word. Alive or dead, Noreen Gardner no longer exists in my dramatis personae . I’m sick of the little tart—of the pleading, the demanding, the scenes. She’ll have to find somebody else to hammer a sense of dedication into her. When I think of all the talent lurking behind that vaginal mind … it infuriates me!”
    â€œWhen did you see her last?”
    â€œTwo Sundays ago, I think it was. I tried to show her that the man was just looking for an easy tumble. I saw soon enough that she couldn’t see beyond the end of his genitals. So I told her to get the hell out and forget to come back. She’s apparently taken me at my word—unless the Simpson creature was right and she’s lying in your morgue.”
    Fran glanced past Corrigan as new arrivals joined the party. She patted his hand. “Don’t go ’way, Captain.” She left him.
    Travers Proehl had captured Jean Ainsley. He was talking to her and glancing over at Corrigan now and then.
    Corrigan moved aside as several people came up to the bottle-littered table. He found himself beside the fireplace. There were fire tools—poker, tongs, shovel, brush, a screen—but the fireplace itself was naked. Apparently Fran Weatherly’s taste for the romantic did not run to cuddling before an open fire. Corrigan wondered where her tastes did run. Something far-out, he was sure.
    He edged his way toward Jean. Proehl saw him coming and abruptly left her to join Frances Weatherly, who was chatting with a pair of beatniks near the door.
    Jean failed to notice Corrigan. She was moving toward the other side of the room. From the tension in her figure, he was sure she had found her father.

10
    Corrigan managed to intercept her by shoving some people aside. Jean threw him a look of despair and apology for what was taking place near the French doors.
    The argument going on was between Carlton Ainsley and a powerfully built, shag-blond young man wearing a black turtleneck knit shirt and tight cotton pants. Ainsley was gripping his walking stick. The hero of innumerable TV late shows was purple-faced with alcohol and fury.
    â€œYou rutting old goat,” the young man was saying. “You don’t know modern theater from your own fossilized rear end. Why don’t you totter back to the Old Folks’ Home?”
    Ainsley raised the stick. “How do you dare,” he said thickly. “How do you dare! I’ve forgotten more about the theater than you’ll ever know. You deserve a thrashing, by heaven, and if you don’t think I’m man enough to give it to you—”
    â€œCool it, dad,” the young man sneered. “You hit me with that cane and I’ll cram it up you know where.”
    Ainsley cursed and struck. But the blow never reached its target. Corrigan caught the stick in mid-descent and twitched it out of the actor’s hand. Ainsley staggered and almost fell. Corrigan grabbed him.
    â€œRelease me, sir! I’m going to teach this degenerate some manners!”
    â€œAh, let him go, man,” the blond boy said. “We’ll see like who’ll teach who what.”
    â€œLet—me— go! ”
    â€œOld Man History,” the boy laughed. “You can’t turn the clock back, dad. If this one-eyed do-gooder will turn you loose, I’ll rub your nose in your own