Where Is Bianca? by Ellery Queen Page A

drool.”
    Corrigan thought that Ainsley was going to have a stroke. He shoved the blond young man back without turning around; the boy staggered against the people crowding around and slid to the floor, where he sat with a foolish look on his face.
    â€œYou could use a lesson in manners, at that,” Corrigan said to the boy. “It’s all over, Mr. Ainsley.… Would some of you people please get Strong Boy out of here? Hold his hand or something. Mr. Ainsley?”
    Ainsley went limp in his arms. “No man can talk to me that way—humiliate me—and get away with it,” he muttered. “There must be some respect left in this world. Jean, what are you doing here?”
    Jean had managed to push through. “Daddy, look at you.”
    â€œJeanie.”
    She took the handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiped the spittle off his lips. He made a feeble attempt to get out of Corrigan’s grip. “Remove your hands, sir!”
    â€œDad, this is Captain Tim Corrigan of the Police Department. He’s been helping you. Daddy?”
    â€œHe’s a gendarme?” Carlton Ainsley said. He blinked at Corrigan. “They’re making them altogether different these days. You don’t look like one, Captain—what was it?”
    â€œCorrigan,” said Corrigan. “I think you’d better call it a day, Mr. Ainsley. What do you say?”
    â€œThat foul creature is fortunate,” the actor said, glowering owlishly at the blond boy, who was being assisted to his feet by two cronies with identical long blond hair and apparel. “How does it feel to be saved by the law for a change, scum gullion?” he shouted to the youth. “Actor? You disgrace a noble profession!”
    â€œDad, you’re making a spectacle of yourself.” Jean was pulling at his arm. “Please. Let’s get out of here.”
    Corrigan sensed the trio closing in on him. He let go of Ainsley’s arm, feeling himself go quite cold. He did not turn around. A voice in his ear said softly, “Do yourself a favor, fuzz. Turn the old square loose, take a walk, and I’ll forget the shove. You hear me?”
    Strong Arm pushed him. Without turning around, Corrigan said, “One more contact and I’ll run you in for assault.”
    He was struck from behind. But he was ready for it. As he ducked, the blow glanced off his head. He staggered deliberately and went down on one knee. The blow had been delivered by the youth he had felled. The trio were standing shoulder to shoulder, grinning. In the right fist of the troublemaker gleamed a switchblade knife. His two companions took a half step forward.
    Corrigan came up whirling, like a discus thrower. The discus was the edge of his left hand. It performed double duty on the throats of Strong Boy’s two friends. They flew over backward, each clutching his throat as if it had been cut. Then Corrigan was facing the troublemaker.
    A hush had come over the long room. The only sound came from the other end of the room, where Frances Weatherly was calmly lifting the telephone from its cradle.
    â€œCome on, Strong Boy,” Corrigan said. “Let’s see how good you are against a one-eyed do-gooder nearer your own age.”
    The youth was quite pale. His lips were curled back from his strong white teeth. He held the switchblade in the classic fighting position, blade up.
    He lunged.
    Corrigan felt sorry for him. He always felt sorry when he had to go into action. That was because he had long ago recognized the icy blood lust in himself at such times, a clear joy of combat. He had to watch himself closely, exercise a discipline that came hard to him.
    He swiveled his hips like a dancer and caught the powerful young wrist in his two hands and broke it across his knee. The youth screamed and went down, and the switchblade fell to the floor, making music.
    â€œIf you’re calling the police,” Corrigan said to