The Four of Hearts

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It is a well-known fact that any one exposed to Hollywood longer than six weeks goes suddenly and incurably mad.

Mr. Ellery Queen groped for the bottle of Scotch on the open trunk.

“To Hollywood, city of screwballs! Drink ’er down.” He guzzled what was left of the Scotch and tossed the bottle aside, resuming his packing. “California, here I go — unwept, unhonored, and unsung. And do I care?”

Alan Clark smiled that Mona Lisa smile by which you may know any member of the fraternity of Hollywood agents, fat or thin, tall or short, dewy-eyed or soiled by life. It is the sage’s, the saint’s, the cynic’s smile of pure wisdom.

“All you wacks act this way at first. Them that can take it snaps out of it. Them that can’t — they turn yellow and go squawking back East.”

“If you’re trying to arouse my ire,” growled Ellery, kicking his prostrate golf-bag, “desist, Alan. I cut my eyeteeth on the tactics of scheming agents.”

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