Ellery Queen - The Origin of Evil

He found himself searching for her out of the corners of his eyes as he strode down the hall. The place was overcrowded with shadows; she was certainly waiting in one of them. With the shades of her eyes pulled down but everything else showing.

The hall was empty, too...

Slit to the knee! That one was older than the pyramids. And how old was his stupidity? It probably went back to the primordial slime.

Then he remembered that Delia Priam was a lady and that he was behaving exactly like a frustrated college boy, and he slammed the front door.

Laurel was waiting for him in the Austin. She was still white; smoking with energy. Ellery jumped in beside her and growled, “Well, what are we waiting for?”

“He’s cracking,” said Laurel tensely. “He’s going to pieces, Ellery. I’ve seen him yell and push his weight around before, but today was something special. I’m glad I brought you. What do you want to do now?”

“Go home. Or get me a cab.”

She was bewildered. “Aren’t you taking the case?”

“I can’t waste my time on idiots.”

“Meaning me?”

“Not meaning you.”

“But we found out something,” she said eagerly. “He admitted it. You heard him. A ‘ghost,’ he said. A ‘certain somebody’ ― I heard that on my way out. I wasn’t being delirious, Ellery. Roger thinks Daddy was deliberately shocked to death, too. And, what’s more, he knows what the dog meant―”

“Not necessarily,” grunted Ellery. “That’s the trouble with you amateurs. Always jumping to conclusions. Anyway, it’s too impossible. You can’t get anywhere without Priam, and Priam isn’t budging.”

“It’s Delia,” said Laurel, “isn’t it?”

“Delia? You mean Mrs. Priam? Rubbish.”

“Don’t tell me about Delia,” said Laurel. “Or about men, either. She’s catnip for anything in pants.”

“Oh, I admit her charms,” muttered Ellery. “But they’re a bit obvious, don’t you think?” He was trying not to look up at the second-story windows, where her bedroom undoubtedly was. “Laurel, we can’t park here in the driveway like a couple of adenoidal tourists―” He had to see her again. Just to see her.

Laurel gave him an odd look and drove off. She turned left at the road, driving slowly.

Ellery sat embracing his knees. He had the emptiest feeling that he was losing something with each spin of the Austin’s wheels.-And there was Laurel, seeing the road ahead and something else, too. Sturdy little customer. And she must be feeling pretty much alone. Ellery suddenly felt himself weakening.

“What do you intend to do, Laurel?”

“Keep poking around.”

“You’re determined to go through with this?”

“Don’t feel sorry for me. I’ll make out.”

“Laurel, I’ll tell you what I’ll do.”

She looked at him.

“I’ll go as far as that note with you ― I mean, give you a head start, anyway. If, of course, it’s possible.”

“What are you talking about?” She’ stopped the car with a bump.

“The note your father found in that silver box on the dog’s collar. You thought he must have destroyed it.”

“I told you I looked for it and it wasn’t there.”

“Suppose I do the looking.”

Laurel stared. Then she laughed and the Austin jumped.

The Hill house spread itself high on one of the canyon walls, cheerfully exposing its red tiles to the sun. It was a two-story Spanish house, beautifully bleached, with black wrought-iron tracery, arched and balconied and patioed and covered with pyracantha. It was set in two acres of flowers, flowering shrubs, and trees ― palm and fruit and nut and bird-of-paradise. Around the lower perimeter ran the woods.

“Our property line runs down the hill,” Laurel said as they got out of the car, “over towards the Priams’. A little over nine additional acres meeting the Priam woods. Through the woods it’s no distance at all.”

“It’s a very great distance,” mumbled Ellery. “About as far as from an eagle’s nest to an undersea cave. True Spanish, I notice, like the missions, not the modern fakes so common out here. It must be a punishment to Delia Priam ― born to this and condemned to that.”

“Oh, she’s told you about that,” murmured Laurel; then she took him into her house.

It was cool with black Spanish tile underfoot and the touch of iron. There was a sunken living room forty feet long, a great fireplace set with Goya tiles, books and music and paintings and ceramics and huge jars of flowers everywhere. A tall Japanese in a white jacket came in smiling and took Ellery’s hat.

“Ichiro Sotowa,” said Laurel. “Itchie’s been with us for ages. This is Mr. Queen, Itchie. He’s interested in the way Daddy died, too.”

The houseman’s smile faded. “Bad ― bad,” he said, shaking his head. “Heart no good. You like a drink, sir?”

“Not just now, thanks,” said Ellery. “Just how long did you work for Mr. Hill, Ichiro?”

“Sixteen year, sir.”

“Oh, then you don’t go back to the time of... What about that chauffeur ― Simeon, was it?”

“Shimmie shopping with Mis’ Monk.”

“I meant how long Simeon’s been employed here.”

“About ten years,” said Laurel. “Mrs. Monk came around the same time.”

“That’s that, then. All right, Laurel, let’s begin.”

“Where?”

“From the time your father had his last heart attack ― the day the dog came ― until his death, did he leave his bedroom?”

“No. Itchie and I took turns nursing him. Night and day the entire week.”

“Bedroom indicated. Lead the way.”

An hour and a half later, Ellery opened the door of Leander Hill’s room. Laurel was curled up in a window niche on the landing, head resting against the wall.

“I suppose you think I’m an awful sissy,” she said, without turning. “But all I can see when I’m in there is his marbly face and blue lips and the crooked way his mouth hung open... not my daddy at all. Nothing, I suppose.”

“Come here, Laurel.”

She jerked about. Then she jumped of! the ledge and ran to him.

Ellery shut the bedroom door.

Laurel’s eyes hunted wildly. But aside from the four-poster bed, which was disarranged, she could see nothing unusual. The spread, sheets, and quilt were peeled back, revealing the side walls of the box spring and mattress.

“What―?”

“The note you saw him remove from the dog’s collar,” Ellery said. “It was on thin paper, didn’t you tell me?”

“Very. A sort of flimsy, or onionskin.”

“White?”

“White.”

Ellery nodded. He went over to the exposed mattress. “He was in this room for a week, Laurel, between his attack and death. During that week did he have many visitors?”

“The Priam household. Some people from the office. A few friends.”

“Some time during that week,” said Ellery, “your father decided that the note he had received was in danger of being stolen or destroyed. So he took out insurance.” His finger traced on the side wall of the mattress one of the perpendicular blue lines of the ticking. “He had no tool but a dull penknife from the night table there. And I suppose he was in a hurry, afraid he might be caught at it. So the job had to be crude.” Half his finger suddenly vanished. “He simply made a slit here, where the blue line meets the undyed ticking. And he slipped the paper into it, where I found it.”

“The note,” breathed Laurel. “You’ve found the note. Let me see!”

Ellery put his hand in his pocket. But just as he was about to withdraw it, he stopped. His eyes were on one of the windows.

Some ten yards away there was an old walnut tree.

“Yes?” Laurel was confused. “What’s the matter?”