“The play? Well... to the best of my recollection, two Athenians talk the Birds into building an aerial city, in order to separate the Gods from Man.”
“That helps.”
“What did Aristophanes call his city in the air? Cloud... Cloud-land... Cloud-Cuckoo-Land.”
“That’s the first thing I’ve heard in this case that rings the bell.” Keats got up in disgust and went to the window.
A long time passed. Keats stared out at the night, which was beginning to boil and show a froth. But the room was chilly, and he hunched his shoulders under the leather jacket. Young Macgowan snored innocently in the club chair. Ellery said nothing.
Ellery’s silence lasted for so long that after a time Keats, whose brain was empty and wretched, became conscious of its duration. He turned around tiredly and there was a gaunt, unshaven, wild-eyed refugee from a saner world staring back at him with uninvited joy, grudgingly delirious, like a girl contemplating her first kiss.
“What in the hell,” said the Hollywood detective in alarm, “is the matter with you?”
“Keats, they have something in common!”
“Sure. You’ve said that a dozen times.”
“Not one thing, but two.”