Ellery Queen - The Origin of Evil

Laurel threw herself back on the platform, blowing smoke to the appliqued sky.

“Don’t you feel you have to act like the heroine of a magazine serial?” Laurel did not reply.

“Laurel, drop it. Now.”

She rolled her head. “I don’t care what Daddy did. People make mistakes, even commit crimes, who are decent and nice. Sometimes events force you, or other people. I knew him ― as a human being ― better than anyone in creation. If he and Roger Priam got into a mess, it was Roger who thought up the dirty work... The fact that he wasn’t my real father makes it even more important. I owe him everything.” She sat up suddenly. “I’m not going to stay out of this, Ellery. I can t.’

“You’ll find, Queen,”, scowled young Macgowan in the silence that followed, “that this is a very tough number.”

“Tough she may be, my Tarzanian friend,” grumbled Ellery, “but this sort of thing is a business, not an endurance contest. It takes know-how and connections and a technique. And experience. None of which Miss Strongheart has.” Lie crushed his cigaret out on the platform vindictively. “Not to mention the personal danger... Well, I’ll root around a little, Laurel. Do some checking back. It shouldn’t be too much of a job to get a line on those two and find out what they were up to in the Twenties. And who got caught in the meat-grinder... You driving me back to the world of fantasy?”

The next morning Ellery called the Los Angeles Police Department and asked to speak to the officer in charge of the Public Relations Department.

“Sergeant Lordetti.”

“Sergeant, this is Ellery Queen... Yes, how do you do. Sergeant, I’m in town to write a Hollywood novel ― oh, you’ve seen that... no, I can’t make the newspapers believe it and, frankly, I’ve given up trying. Sergeant Lordetti, I need some expert advice for background on my book. Is there anyone in, say, the Hollywood Division who could give me a couple hours of his time? Some trouble-shooter with lots of experience in murder investigation and enough drag in the Department so I could call on him from time to time?... Expose? So you fell for that, too, haha! Me, the son of a cop? No, no, Sergeant, nothing like that, believe me... Who?... K-e-a-t-s. Thanks a lot... Not at all, Sergeant. If you can make a little item out of it, you’re entirely welcome.”

Ellery called-the Hollywood Division on Wilcox below Sunset and asked to speak to Lieutenant Keats. Informed that Lieutenant Keats was on another phone, Ellery left his telephone number with the request that Lieutenant Keats call back as soon as he was free.

Twenty minutes later a car drew up to his house and a big lean man in a comfortable-looking business suit got out and rang the bell, glancing around at Ellery’s pint-sized garden curiously. Hiding behind a drape, Ellery decided he was not a salesman, for he carried nothing and his interest had something amused in it. Possibly a reporter, although he seemed too carefully dressed for that. He might have been a sports announcer or a veteran airline pilot off duty.

“It’s a policeman, Mr. Queen,” reported Mrs. Williams nervously.

“You done something?”

“I’ll keep you out of it, Mrs. Williams. Lieutenant Keats? The service staggers me. I merely left a message for you to phone back.”

“Sergeant Lordetti phoned and told me about it,” said the Hollywood detective, filling the doorway. “Thought I’d take the shortcut. No, thanks, don’t drink when I’m working.”

“Working―? Oh, Mrs. Williams, close the door, will you?... Working, Lieutenant? But I explained to Lordetti―”

“He told me.” Keats placed his hat neatly on the chartreuse chair. “You want expert advice for a mystery novel. Such as what, Mr. Queen? How a homicide is reported in Los Angeles? That was for the benefit of the Mirror and News. What’s really on your mind?”

Ellery stared. Then they both grinned, shook hands, and sat down like old friends.

Keats was a sandy-haired man of thirty-eight or forty with clear, rather distant gray eyes below reddish brows. His hands were big and well-kept, with a reliable look to them; there was a gold band o*i the fourth finger of the left. His eyes were intelligent and his jaw had been developed by adversity. His manner was slightly standoffish. A smart cop, Ellery decided, and a rugged one.

“Let me light that for you, Lieutenant.”

“The nail?” Keats laughed, taking a shredded cigaret from between his lips. It was unlit. “I’m a dry smoker, Mr. Queen. Given up smoking.” He put the ruin on an ashtray and fingered a fresh cigaret, settling back. “Some case you’re interested in? Something you don’t want to get around?”

“It came my way yesterday morning. Do you know anything about the death of a wholesale jeweler named Leander Hill?”

“So she got to you.” Keats lipped the unlit cigaret. “It passed through our Division. The girl made a pest of herself. Something about a dead dog and a note that scared her father to death. But no note. An awfully fancy yarn. More in your line than ours.”

Ellery handed Keats the sheet of Leander Hill’s stationery.

Keats read it slowly. Then he examined the notepaper, front and back.

“That’s Hill’s handwriting, by the way. Obviously a copy he made. I found it in a slit in his mattress.”

“Where’s the original of this, Mr. Queen?”

“Probably destroyed.”

“Even if this were the McCoy.” Keats put the sheet down. “There’s nothing here that legally connects Hill’s death with a murder plot. Of course, the revenge business...”

“I know, Lieutenant. It’s the kind of case that gives you fellows a hard ache. Every indication of a psycho, and a possible victim who won’t co-operate.”

“Who’s that?”

“The ‘him’ of the note.” Ellery told Keats about Roger Priam’s mysterious box, and of what Priam had let slip during Ellery’s visit. “There’s something more than a gangrenous imagination behind this, Lieutenant. Even though no one’s going to get anywhere with Priam, still... it ought to be looked into, don’t you agree?” The detective pulled at his unlit cigaret.

“I’m not sure I want any part of it myself,” Ellery said, glancing at his typewriter and thinking of Delia Priam. “I’d like a little more to go on before I commit myself. It seemed to me that if we could find something in Hill’s past, and Priam’s, that takes this note out of the ordinary crackpot class...”

“On the q.t.?”

“Yes. Could you swing it?”

For a moment Keats did not reply. He picked up the note and read it over again.

“I’d like to have this.”

“Of course. But I want it back.”

“I’ll have it photostated. Tell you what I’ll do, Mr. Queen.” Lieutenant Keats rose. “I’ll talk to the Chief and if he thinks it’s worth my time, I’ll see what I can dig up.”

“Oh, Keats.”

“Yes, sir?”

“While you’re digging... Do a little spadework on a man who calls himself Alfred Wallace. Roger Priam’s secretary-general.”

Delia Priam phoned that afternoon. “I’m surprised you’re in.”

“Where did you think I’d be, Mrs. Priam?” The moment he heard her throaty purr his blood began stewing. Damn her, she was like the first cocktail after a hard day.

“Out detecting, or whatever it is detectives do.”

“I haven’t taken the case.” He was careful to keep his voice good-humored. “I haven’t made up my mind.”

“You’re angry with me about yesterday.”

“Angry? Mrs. Priam!”

“Sorry. I thought you were.” Oh, were you? “I’m afraid I’m allergic to messes. I usually take the line of least resistance.”