“I’d say, knowing Mac,” said Ellery, “San Juan Capistrano or La Jolla, seeing that they lie in the opposite direction.”
They were both misty-eyed on the New York State champagne which Ellery had traitorously provided for the California nuptials, and they wound up on a deserted beach at Malibu with their arms around each other, harmonizing “Ten Little Fingers and Ten Little Toes” to the silver-teared Pacific.
After dinner one night in late September, just as Alfred Wallace was touching off the fire he had laid in the living room, Keats dropped in. He apologized for not having phoned before coming, saying that only five minutes before he had had no idea of visiting Ellery; he was passing by on his way home and he had stopped on impulse.
“For heaven’s sake, don’t apologize for an act of Christian mercy,” exclaimed Ellery. “I haven’t seen any face but Wallace’s now for more than a week. The lieutenant takes water in his Scotch, Wallace.”
“Go easy on it,” Keats said to Wallace. “I mean the water. May I use your phone to call my wife?”
“Wonderful. You’re going to stay.” Ellery studied Keats. The detective looked harassed.
“Well, for a while.” Keats went to the phone.
When he came back, a glass was waiting for him on the coffee table before the fire, and Ellery and Wallace were stretching their legs in two of the three armchairs around it. Keats dropped between them and took a long sip. Ellery offered him a cigaret and Wallace held a match to it, and for a few moments Keats frowned into the fire.
“Something wrong, Keats?” Ellery asked finally.
“I don’t know.” Keats picked up his glass. “I’m an old lady, I guess.