Where Is Bianca? by Ellery Queen Page B

Frances Weatherly in the silence, “you’d better make a second call to a hospital.”
    After the patrol car and the ambulance took off, Fran Weatherly followed them into the hall. “I’m sorry about those three, Captain Corrigan. They crashed the party. I’d never seen them before in my life.”
    â€œAnd I’m sorry, Miss Weatherly,” Jean said to the playwright. She looked about to cry, and Corrigan felt a glow in his chest. A hint of tears, and he was ready to melt! He was amused and irritated with himself. “My father doesn’t act this way when he’s sober.”
    Carlton Ainsley made a sweeping bow and almost fell on his face. Corrigan caught him. “Her father’s keeper,” Ainsley said. “My little Jeanie. What an albatross I am.…”
    â€œShe ought to spit in your albatross eye, Carlton,” the Weatherly woman said. “Don’t hold this against me, Captain. My parties aren’t all this wild. Try another one some time.”
    â€œI’ll do that, Miss Weatherly.”
    When they reached the street Ainsley began to pout. “I’m in the doghouse, I see. Well, daughter, deliver your lecture and get it over with.”
    â€œWould it do any good?” Jean said, almost inaudibly. “Has anything ever done any good?”
    The note of old sadness in Jean’s voice pierced Ainsley’s haze. His broad shoulders sagged. He made a groping gesture, like a child reaching for a strong hand. “Jeanie.…” he said, and tried to say more; but he did not, and lapsed into silence.
    â€œWe’d better get into the car,” Jean said. “We can’t monopolize Captain Corrigan all night.”
    Ainsley slumped in the rear seat and fell asleep. Jean got in beside Corrigan.
    â€œWhere’s he staying?” Corrigan asked her.
    â€œAt an apartment on East Seventy-first Street.”
    The drive uptown was made without talk. Jean looked so grimly miserable that Corrigan ached for her, and again wondered at himself. If this was the way liking a girl affected a man, what was all the shooting about? Or, he thought, am I too damned case-hardened to open myself up to what other men accept as natural? For one of the rare occasions of his life he felt confused.
    Corrigan turned off Park Avenue and stopped Car 40 at the sidewalk canopy of the stately apartment building. The doorman glanced into the car and quickly opened the door. “Good evening, Mr. Ainsley. Mr. Ainsley?”
    The actor woke up. He got out wobbling.
    â€œI’ll see you upstairs,” Jean said, “if Captain Corrigan doesn’t mind waiting.” To Corrigan she added: “I’ll only be a minute, Tim.”
    â€œTake your time.”
    â€œGood night, sir,” Ainsley said, beginning to bow and thinking better of it. “You have restored my faith in the horse marines. Or something.”
    â€œGood night.” Corrigan watched father and daughter disappear into the building. He rubbed his nonexistent eye; it itched. It always itched when he was upset. The thought was disturbing; the fact that it was about Jean Ainsley’s father also made it unpleasant.
    Bianca Fielding Lessard lived just a few blocks from here. A few blocks east a manhole cover had been raised five nights ago and a dead girl disposed of in a sewer. Tonight Ainsley had been the guest of the woman whose adulterous relationship with Vincent Lessard had caused Bianca to walk out.…
    When Jean returned to the car, she said, “Now you know all about me.”
    Corrigan started the car. Maybe there were a few skeletons she didn’t know about. “Don’t worry about it. Where to?”
    â€œHow about a nightcap? I mix a mean drink if you like Scotch on the rocks or bourbon with branch.”
    â€œI’m a nonmixer myself.”
    â€œI live across the park,” Jean said. “On Central Park West.”
    Her apartment was as he