Ellery Queen - The Origin of Evil

“In everything?”

“Give me an example.” Her laugh was soft.

He wanted to say, I’d be glad to specify if you’d drop in on me, say, this afternoon. Instead, he said innocuously, “Who’s questioning whom?”

“You’re such a careful man, Mr. Queen.”

“Well, I haven’t taken the case ― yet, Mrs. Priam.”

“Do you suppose I could help you make up your mind?” There’s the nibble. Reel ‘er in...

“You know, Mrs. Priam, that might be a perilous offer... Mrs. Priam?... Hello!”

She said in a low voice, quickly, “I must stop,” and the line went dead.

Ellery hung up perspiring. He was so annoyed with himself that he went upstairs and took a shower.

Laurel Hill dropped in on him twice in the next twenty-four hours. The first time she was “just passing by” and thought she would report that nothing was happening, nothing at all. Priam wouldn’t see her and as far as she could tell he was being his old bullying, beastly self. Delia had tried to pump her about Ellery and what he was doing, and as a matter of fact she couldn’t help wondering herself if...

Ellery’s glance kept going to his typewriter and after a few moments Laurel left abruptly.

She was back the next morning, recklessly hostile.

“Are you taking this case, or aren’t you?”

“I don’t know, Laurel.”

“I’ve talked to my lawyers. The estate isn’t settled, but I can get the money together to give you a retainer of five thousand dollars.”

“It isn’t the money, Laurel.”

“If you don’t want to bother, say so and I’ll get someone else.”

“That’s always the alternative, of course.”

“But you’re just sitting here!”

“I’m making a few preliminary inquiries,” he said patiently.

“From this ― this ivory tower?”

“Stucco. What I’ll do, Laurel, depends entirely on what I find out.”

“You’ve sold out to Delia, that’s what you’ve done,” Laurel cried. “She doesn’t really want this investigated at all. She only followed me the other day to see what I was up to ― the rest was malarkey! She wants Roger murdered! And that’s all right with me, you understand ― all I’m interested in is the case of Leander Hill. But if Delia’s standing in the way―”

“You’re being nineteen, Laurel.” He tried not to let his anger show.

“I’ll admit I can’t offer you what she can―”

“Delia Priam hasn’t offered me a thing, Laurel. We haven’t even discussed my fee.”

“And I don’t mean money!” She was close to tears.

“Now you’re hysterical.” His voice came out sharp, not what he had intended at all. “Have a little patience, Laurel. Right now there’s nothing to do but wait.”

She strode out.

The next morning Ellery spread his newspaper behind a late breakfast tray to find Roger Priam, Leander Hill, and Crowe Macgowan glaring back at him. Mac was glaring from a tree.

Denying that he has received a threat against his life, Roger Priam, wealthy wholesale gem merchant of L.A., barred himself behind the doors of his secluded home above Hollywood Bowl this morning when reporters investigated a tip that he is the intended victim of a murder plot which allegedly took the life of his business partner, Leander Hill, last week...

Mr. Priam, it appeared, after ousting reporters had issued a brief statement through his secretary, Alfred Wallace, repeating his denial and adding that the cause of Hill’s death was “a matter of official record.”

Detectives at the Hollywood Division of the L.A.P.D. admitted this morning that Hill’s daughter, Laurel, had charged her father was “frightened to death,” but said that they had found no evidence to support the charge, which they termed “fantastic.”

Miss Hill, interviewed at her home adjoining the Priam property, said: “If Roger Priam wants to bury his head in the sand, it’s his head.” She intimated that she “had reason to believe” both her father and Priam were slated to be murdered “by some enemy out of their past.”

The story concluded with the reminder that “Mr. Priam is the stepfather of twenty-three year old Crowe Macgowan, the Atomic Age Tree Boy, who broke into print in a big way recently by taking off his clothes and bedding down in a tree house on his stepfather’s estate in preparation for the end of the world.”

Observing to himself that Los Angeles journalism was continuing to maintain its usual standards, Ellery went to the phone and called the Hill home.

“Laurel? I didn’t expect you’d be answering the phone in person this morning.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide.” Laurel laid the slightest stress on her pronoun. Also, she was cold, very cold.

“One question. Did you tip off the papers about Priam?”

“No.”

“Cross your heart and―?”

“I said no!” There was a definite snic―!

It was puzzling, and Ellery puzzled over it all through breakfast, which Mrs. Williams with obvious disapproval persisted in calling lunch. He was just putting down his second cup of coffee when Keats walked in with a paper in his pocket.

“I was hoping you’d drop around,” said Ellery, as Mrs. Williams set another place. “Thanks, Mrs. W, I’ll do the rest... Not knowing exactly what is leaking where, Keats, I decided not to risk a phone call. So far I’ve been kept out of it.”

“Then you didn’t feed the kitty?” asked Keats. “Thanks. No cream or sugar.”

“Of course not. I was wondering if it was you.”

“Not me. Must have been the Hill girl.”

“Not she. I’ve asked her.”

“Funny.”

“Very. How was the tip tipped?”

“By phone call to the city room. Disguised voice, and they couldn’t trace it.”

“Male or female?”

“They said male, but they admitted it was pitched in a queer way and might have been female. With all the actors floating around this town you never know.” Keats automatically struck a match, but then he shook his head and put it out. “You know, Mr. Queen,” he said, scowling at his cigaret, “if there’s anything to this thing, that tip might have come... I know it sounds screwy...”

“From the writer of the note? I’ve been dandling that notion myself, Lieutenant.”

“Pressure, say.”

“In the war on Priam’s nerves.”

“If he’s got an iron nerve himself.” Keats rose. “Well, this isn’t getting us anywhere.”

“Anything yet on Hill and Priam?”

“Not yet.” Keats slowly crumpled his cigaret. “It might be a toughie, Mr. Queen. So far I haven’t got to first base.”

“What’s holding you up?”

“I don’t know yet. Give me another few days.”

“What about Wallace?”

“I’ll let you know.”

Late that afternoon ― it was the twenty-first, the day after the Shriners parade ― Ellery looked around from his typewriter to see the creamy nose of Delia Priam’s convertible in profile against his front window.

He deliberately forced himself to wait until Mrs. Williams answered the door.

As he ran his hand over his hair, Mrs. Williams said: “It’s a naked man. You in?”

Macgowan was alone. He was in his Tree Boy costume ― one loin-cloth, flame-colored this time. He shook Ellery’s hand limply and accepted a Scotch on the Rocks, settling himself on the sofa with his bare heels on the sill of the picture window. “I thought I recognized the car,” said Ellery. “It’s my mother’s. Mine was out of gas. Am I inconvenient?” The giant glanced at the typewriter. “How do you knock that stuff out? But I had to see you.” He seemed uneasy. “What about, Mac?”