Ellery Queen - The Origin of Evil

“Do you think so?”

The voice came from another part of the room.

Everyone turned.

Laurel Hill stood inside the screen door to Priam’s terrace.

Her face was white, nostrils pinched. Her murky eyes were fixed on Delia Priam.

Laurel wore a suede jacket. Both hands were in the pockets.

“That’s the end of that, is it?”

Laurel shoved away from the screen door. She teetered for an instant, regained her balance, then picked her way very carefully half the distance to Delia Priam, her hands still in her pockets.

“Laurel,” began Crowe.

“Don’t come near me, Mac. Delia, I have something to say to you.”

“Yes?” said Delia Priam.

“When that green alligator wallet came, it reminded me of something. Something that belonged to you. I searched your bedroom while you were in Montecito and I found it. One of your bags ― alligator, dyed green, and made by the same shop as the wallet. So I was sure you were behind all this, Delia.”

“You’d better get her out of here,” said Alfred Wallace suddenly. “She’s tight.”

“Shut up, Alfred.” Roger Priam’s voice was a soft rumble.

“Miss Hill,” said Keats.

“No!” Laurel laughed, not taking her eyes from Delia. “I was sure you were behind it, Delia. But Ellery Queen didn’t seem to think so. Of course, he’s a great man, so I thought I must be wrong. But these stock certificates belong to you, Delia. You put them away. You knew where they were. You’re the only one who could have sent them.”

“Laurel,” began Ellery, “that’s not the least bit logical―”

“Don’t come near me!” Her right hand came out of her pocket with an automatic.

Laurel pointed its snub nose at Delia Priam’s heart.

Young Macgowan was gaping.

“But if you sent this ‘warning’ ― whatever in your poisoned mind it’s supposed to mean ― you sent the others too, Delia. And they won’t do anything about it. It’s washed up, they say. Well, I’ve given them their chance, Delia. You’d have got away with it if only men were involved; your kind always does. But I’m not letting you get away with killing my father! You’re going to pay for that right now, Delia! ― right n...” Ellery struck her arm as the gun went off and Keats caught it neatly as it flew through the air. Crowe made a choking sound, taking a step toward his mother. But Delia Priam had not moved. Roger Priam was looking down at his tray. The bullet had shattered the bottle of wine two inches from his hand.

“By God,” snarled Priam, “she almost got me. Me!”

“That was a dumb-bunny stunt, Miss Hill,” said Keats. “I’m going to have to take you in for attempted homicide.”

Laurel was looking in a glazed way from the gun in the detective’s hand to the immobile Delia. Ellery felt the girl shrinking in his grip, in spasms, as if she were trying to compress herself into the smallest possible space.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Priam,” Keats was saying. “I couldn’t know she was carrying a gun. She never seemed the type. I’ll have to ask you to come along and swear out a complaint.”

“Don’t be silly, Lieutenant.”

“Huh?”

“I’m not making any charge against this girl.”

“But Mrs. Priam, she shot to kill―”

“Me!” yelled Roger Priam.

“No, it’s me she shot at.” Delia Priam’s voice was listless. “She’s wrong, but I understand how you can bring yourself to do a thing like this when you’ve lost somebody you’ve loved. I wish I had Laurel’s spunk. Crowe, stop looking like a dead carp. I hope you’re not going to be stuffy about this and let Laurel down. It’s probably taken her weeks to work herself up to this, and at that she had to get drunk to do it. She’s a good girl, Crowe. She needs you. And I know you’re in love with her.”

Laurel’s bones all seemed to melt at once. She sighed, and then she was silent.

“I think,” murmured Ellery, “that the good girl has passed out.”

Macgowan came to life. He snatched Laurel’s limp figure from Ellery’s arms, looked around wildly, and then ran with her. The door opened before him; Wallace stood there, smiling.

“She’ll be all right.” Delia Priam walked out of the room. “I’ll take care of her.”

They watched her go up the stairs behind her son, back straight, head high, hips swinging.

By the night of July thirteenth all the reports were in.

“If I’m a detective,” Keats said unhappily to Ellery, “then you’ve got second sight. I’m still not sure how you doped this without inside information.”

Ellery laughed. “What time did you tell Priam and the others?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“We’ve just got time for a congratulatory drink.”

They were in Priam’s house on the stroke of eight. Delia Priam was there, and her father, and Crowe Macgowan, and a silent and drained-looking Laurel. Roger Priam had evidently extended himself for the occasion; he had on a green velvet lounging jacket and a shirt with starched cuffs, and his beard and hair had been brushed. It was as if he suspected something out of the ordinary and was determined to meet it full-dress, in the baronial manner. Alfred Wallace hovered in the background, self-effacing and ineffaceable, with his constant mocking, slightly irritating smile.

“This is going to take a little time,” said Lieutenant Keats, “but I don’t think anybody’s going to be bored... I’m just along for atmosphere. It’s Queen’s show.”

He stepped back to the terraceward wall, in a position to watch their faces.

“Show? What kind of show?” There was fight in the Priam tones, his old hairtrigger belligerence.

“Showdown would be more like it, Mr. Priam,” said Ellery.

Priam laughed. “When are you going to get it through your heads that you’re wasting your time, not to mention mine? I didn’t ask for your help, I don’t want your help, I won’t take your help ― and I ain’t giving any information.”

“We’re here, Mr. Priam, to give you information.”

Priam stared. Of all of them, he was the only one who seemed under no strain except the strain of his own untempered arrogance. But there was curiosity in his small eyes.

“Is that so?”

“Mr. Priam, we know the whole story.”

“What whole story?”

“We know your real name. We know Leander Hill’s real name. We know where you and Hill came from before you went into business in Los Angeles in 1927, and what your activities were before you both settled in California. We know all that, Mr. Priam, and a great deal more. For instance, we know the name of the person whose life was mixed up with yours and Hill’s before 1927 ― the one who’s trying to kill you today.”

The bearded man held on to the arms of his wheelchair. But he gave no other sign; his face was iron. Keats, watching from the sidelines, saw Delia Priam sit forward, as at an interesting play; saw the flicker of uneasiness in old Collier’s eyes; the absorption of Macgowan; the unchanging smile on Wallace’s lips. And he saw the color of life creep back in Laurel Hill’s cheeks.

“I can even tell you,” continued Ellery, “exactly what was in the box you received the morning Leander Hill got the gift of the dead dog.”

Priam exclaimed, “That’s bull! I burned that box and what was in it the same day I got it. Right in that fireplace there! Is the rest of your yarn going to be as big a bluff as this?”

“I’m not bluffing, Mr. Priam.”

“You know what was in that box?”

“I know what was in that box.”

“Out of the zillions of different things it could have been, you know the one thing it was, hey?” Priam grinned. “I like your nerve, Queen. You must be a good poker player. But that’s a game I used to be pretty good at myself. So suppose I call you. What was it?”