by Ellery Queen
She did not seem to have taken him in at all. And yet she had looked him over; up and down, as if he had been a gown in a dress shop. Perhaps he didn't interest her. As a gown, that is.
"Drink, Mrs. Priam?"
"Delia doesn't drink," said Laurel in the same warm, friendly voice. Two jets spurted from her nostrils.
"Thank you, darling. It goes to my head, Mr. Queen."
And you wouldn't let anything go to your head, wherefore it stands to reason, thought Ellery, that one way to get at you is to pour a few extra-dry Martinis down that red gullet ... He was surprised at himself. A married woman, obviously a lady, and her husband was a cripple. But that wading walk was something to see.
"Laurel was about to leave. The facts interest me, but I'm in Hollywood to do a book . .."
The shirring of her blouse rose and fell. He moved off to the picture window, making her turn her head.
"If, however, you have something to contribute, Mrs. Priam . . ." He suspected there would be no book for some time.
DELIA PRIAM'S STORY penetrated imperfectly. Ellery found it hard to concentrate. He tended to lose himself in details. The curves of her blouse. The promise of her skirt, which molded her strongly below the waist. Her large, shapely hands rested precisely in the middle of her lap, like compass points. "Mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs . . ." Right out of Browning's Renaissance.
She would have brought joy to the dying Bishop of Saint Praxed's.
"Mr. Queen?"
Ellery said guiltily, "You mean, Mrs. Priam, the same day Leander Hill received the dead dog?"
"The same morning. It was a sort of gift. I don't know what else you'd call it."
Laurel's cigaret hung in the air. "Delia, you didn't tell me Roger had got something, too!"
"He told me not to say anything, Laurel. But you've forced my hand, dear. Kicking up such a fuss about that poor dog. First the police, now Mr. Queen."
"Then you did follow me."
"I didn't have to." The woman smiled. "I saw you looking at Mr. Queen's photo in the paper."
"Delia, you're wonderful."
"Thank you, darling." She sat peaceful as a lady tiger, smiling over secrets . .. Here, Brother Q!
"Oh. Oh, yes, Mrs. Priam. Mr. Priam's been frightened—"
"Ever since the day he got the box. He won't admit it, but when a man keeps roaring that he won't be intimidated it's pretty clear that he is. He's broken things, too, some of his own things. That's not like Roger. Usually they're mine."
Delightful. What a pity.
"What was in the box, Mrs. Priam?"
"I haven't any idea."
"A dead dog," said Laurel. "Another dead dog!" Laurel looked something like a little dog herself, nose up, testing the air. It was remarkable how meaningless she was across from Delia Priam. As sexless as a child.
"It would have to have been an awfully small one, Laurel. The box wasn't more than a foot square of cardboard."
"Unmarked?" asked Ellery.
"Yes. But there was a shipping tag attached to the string that was tied around the box. 'Roger Priam' was printed on it in crayon." The beautiful woman paused. "Mr. Queen, are you listening?"
"In crayon. Yes, certainly, Mrs. Priam. Color?" What the devil difference did the color make?
"Black, I think."
"No address?"
"No. Nothing but the name."
"And you don't know what was in it. No idea."
"No. But whatever it was, it hit Roger hard. One of the servants found the box at the front door and gave it to Alfred—"
"Alfred."
"Roger's .., secretary."
"Wouldn't you call him more of a .., companion, Delia?" asked Laurel, blowing a smoke ring.
"I suppose so, dear. Companion, nurse, handyman, secretary—what-have-you. My husband, you know, Mr. Queen, is an invalid."
"Laurel's told me. All things to one man, eh, Mrs. Priam? I mean Alfred. We now have the versatile Alfred with the mysterious box. He takes it to Mr. Priam's room. And then?" Why was Laurel laughing? Not outwardly. But she was. Delia Priam seemed not to notice.
"I happened to be in Roger's room when Alfred came in. We didn't know then about . . . Leander and his gift, of course. Alfred gave Roger the box, and Roger lifted a corner of the lid and looked inside. He looked angry, then puzzled. He slammed the lid down and told me to get out. Alfred went out with me, and I heard Roger lock his door. And that's the last . . . I've seen of the box or its contents. Roger won't tell me what was in it or what he's done with it. Won't talk about it at all."
"When did your husband begin to show fear, Mrs. Priam?"
"After he talked to Leander in the Hill house the next day. On the way back home he didn't say a word, just stared out the window of the station wagon. Shaking. He's been shaking . . , ever since. It was especially bad a week later when Leander died ..."
Then what was in Roger Priam's box had little significance for him until he compared gifts with Leander Hill, perhaps until he read the note Hill had found in the collar of the dog. Unless there had been a note in Priam's box as well. But then . ..
Ellery fidgeted before the picture window, sending up a smoke screen. It was ridiculous, at his age . . , pretending to be interested in a case because a respectable married woman had the misfortune to evoke the jungle. Still, he thought, what a waste.
He became conscious of the two women's eyes and expelled a mouthful of smoke, trying to appear professional. "Leander Hill received a queer gift, and he died.
Are you afraid, Mrs. Priam, that your husband's life is in danger, too?"
Now he was more than a piece of merchandise; he was a piece of merchandise that interested her. Her eyes were so empty of color that in the sunlight coming through the window she looked eyeless; it was like being looked over by a statue. He felt himself reddening and it seemed to him she was amused. He immediately bristled. She could take her precious husband and her fears elsewhere.
"Laurel darling," Delia Priam was saying with an apologetic glance, "Would you mind terribly if I spoke to Mr. Queen .., alone?"
Laurel got up. "I'll wait in the garden," she said, and she tossed her cigaret into the tray and walked out.
Roger Priam's wife waited until Laurel's slim figure appeared beyond the picture window, among the shaggy asters. Laurel's head was turned away. She was switching her thigh with her cap.
"Laurel's sweet," said Delia Priam. "But so young, don't you think? Right now she's on a crusade and she's feeling ever so knightly. She'll get over it. ... Why, about your question, Mr. Queen. I'm going to be perfectly frank with you. I haven't the slightest interest in my husband. I'm not afraid that he may die. If anything, it's the other way around."
Ellery stared. For a moment her eyes slanted to the sun and they sparkled in a mineral way. But her features were without guile. The next instant she was eyeless again.
"You're honest, Mrs. Priam. Brutally so."
"I've had a rather broad education in brutality, Mr. Queen."
So there was that, too. Ellery sighed.
"I'll be even franker," she went on. "I don't know whether Laurel told you specifically . . . Did she say what kind of invalid my husband is?"
"She said he's partly paralyzed."
"She didn't say what part?"
"What part?" said Ellery.
"Then she didn't. Why, Mr. Queen, my husband is paralyzed," said Delia Priam with a smile, "from the waist down."
You had to admire the way she said that. The brave smile. The smile that said Don't pity me.
"I'm very sorry," he said.
'Tve had fifteen years of it."
Ellery was silent. She rested her head against the back of the chair. Her eyes were almost closed and her throat was strong and defenseless.
"You're wondering why I told you that."
Ellery nodded.
"I told you because you can't understand why I've come to you unless you understand that first. Weren't you wondering?"
>
"All right. Why have you come to me?"
"For appearance's sake."
Ellery stared. "You ask me to investigate a possible threat against your husband's life, Mrs. Priam, for appearance's sake?"
"You don't believe me."
"I do believe you. Nobody would invent such a reason!" Seating himself beside her, he took one of her hands. It was cool and secretive, and it remained perfectly lax in his. "You haven't had much of a life."
"What do you mean?"
"You've never done any work with these hands."
"Is that bad?"
"It could be." Ellery put her hand back in her lap. "A woman like you has no right to remain tied to a man who's half-dead. If he were some saintly character, if there were love between you, I'd understand it. But I gather he's a brute and that you loathe him. Then why haven't you done something with your life? Why haven't you divorced him? Is there a religious reason?"
"There might have been when I was young. Now . . ." She shook her head. "Now it's the way it would look. You see, I'm stripping myself quite bare."
Ellery looked pained.
"You're very gallant to an old woman." She laughed. "No, I'm serious, Mr. Queen. I come from one of the old California families. Formal upbringing. Convent-trained. Duennas in the old fashion. A pride of caste and tradition. I could never take it as seriously as they did . . .
"My mother had married a heretic from New England. They ostracized her and it killed her when I was a little girl. I'd have got away from them completely, except that when my mother died they talked my father into giving me into their custody. I was brought up by an aunt who wore a mantilla. I married the first man who came along just to get away from them. He wasn't their choice—he was an 'American,' like my father. I didn't love him, but he had money, we were very poor, and I wanted to escape. It cut me off from my family, my church, and my world. I have a ninety-year-old grandmother who lives only three miles from this spot. I haven't seen her for eighteen years. She considers me dead."
Her head rolled. "Harvey died when we'd been married three years, leaving me with a child. Then I met Roger Priam. I couldn't go back to my mother's family, my father was off on one of his jaunts, and Roger attracted me. I would have followed him to hell." She laughed again. "And that's exactly where he led me.
"When I found out what Roger really was, and then when he became crippled and I lost even that, there was nothing left. I've filled the vacuum by trying to go back where I came from.
"It hasn't been easy," murmured Delia Priam. "They don't forget such things, and they never forgive. But the younger generation is softer-bottomed and corrupted by modern ways. Their men, of course, have helped . . . Now it's the only thing I have to hang on to."
Her face showed a passion not to be shared or relished. Ellery was glad when the moment passed. "The life I lead in Roger Priam's house isn't even suspected by these people. If they knew the truth, I'd be dropped and there'd be no return. And if I left Roger, they'd say I deserted my husband. Upper caste women of the old California society don't do that sort of thing, Mr. Queen; it doesn't matter what the husband is. So ... I don't do it.
"Now something is happening, I don't know what. If Laurel had kept her mouth shut, I wouldn't have lifted a fingçr. But by going about insisting that Leander Hill was murdered, Laurel's created an atmosphere of suspicion that threatens my position. Sooner or later the papers will get hold of it—it's a wonder they haven't already—and the fact that Roger is apparently in the same danger might come out. I can't sit by and wait for that. My people will expect me to be the loyal wife. So that's what I'm being. Mr. Queen, I ask you to proceed as if I'm terribly concerned about my husband's safety." Delia Priam shrugged. "Or is this all too involved for you?"
"It would seem to me far simpler," said Ellery, "to clear out and start over again somewhere else."
"This is where I was born." She looked out at Hollywood. Laurel had moved over to a corner of the garden.
"I don't mean all that popcorn and false front down there. I mean the hills, the orchards, the old missions. But there's another reason, and it has nothing to do with me, or my people, or Southern California."
"What's that, Mrs. Priam?"
"Roger wouldn't let me go. He's a man of violence, Mr. Queen. You don't—you can't—know his furious possessiveness, his pride, his compulsion to dominate, his .., depravity. Sometimes I think I'm married to a maniac."
She closed her eyes. The room was still. From below Ellery heard Mrs. Williams's Louisiana-bred tones complaining to the gold parakeet she kept in a cage above the kitchen sink about the scandalous price of coffee. An invisible finger was writing in the sky above the Wilshire district: MUNTZ TV. The empty typewriter nudged his elbow.
But there she sat, the jungle in batiste and colored cotton. His slick and characterless Hollywood house would never be the same again. It was exciting just to be able to look at her lying in the silly chair. It was dismaying to imagine the chair empty.
"Mrs. Priam."
"Yes?"
"Why," asked Ellery, trying not to think of Roger Priam, "didn't you want Laurel Hill to hear what you just told me?"
The woman opened her eyes. "I don't mind undressing before a man," she said, "but I do draw the line at a woman."
She said it lightly, but something ran up Ellery's spine.
He jumped to his feet. "Take me to your husband."
Three
WHEN THEY CAME out of Ellery's house Laurel said pleasantly, "Has a contract been drawn up, Ellery? And if so, with which one of us? Or is the question incompetent and none of my business?"
"No contract," said Ellery testily. "No contract, Laurel I'm just going to take a look around."
"Starting at the Priam house, of course."
"Yes."
"In that case, since we're all in this together—aren't we, Delia?—I suppose there's no objection if I trail along?"
"Of course not, darling," said Delia. "But do try not to antagonize Roger. He always takes it out on me afterwards."
"What do you think he's going to say when he finds out you've brought a detective around?"
"Oh, dear," said Delia. Then she brightened. "Why, darling, you're bringing Mr. Queen around, don't you see? Do you mind very much? I know it's yellow, but I have to live with him. And you did get to Mr. Queen first."
"All right," said Laurel with a shrug. "We'll give you a head start, Delia. You take Franklin and Outpost, and I'll go around the long way, over Cahuenga and Mulholland. Where have you been, shopping?"
Delia Priam laughed. She got into her car, a new cream Cadillac convertible, and drove off down the hill.
"Hardly a substitute," said Laurel after a moment Ellery started. Laurel was holding open the door of her car, a tiny green Austin. Either car or driver. Can you see Delia in an Austin? Like the Queen of Sheba in a rowboat. Get in."
"Unusual type," remarked Ellery absently, as the little car shot off.
"The adjective, yes. But as to the noun," said Laurel, "there is only one Delia Priam."
"She seems remarkably frank and honest."
"Does she?"
"I thought so. Don't you?"
"It doesn't matter what I think."
"By which you tell me what you think."
"No, you don't! But if you must know , . . You never get to the bottom of Delia. She doesn't lie, but she doesn't tell the truth, either—I mean the whole truth. She always keeps something in reserve that you dig out much, much later, if you're lucky to dig it out at all. Now I'm not going to say anything more about Delia, because whatever I say you'll hold, not against her, but against me. Delia bowls over big shots especially ... I suppose it's no use asking you what she wanted to talk to you alone about?"
"Take—it—easy," said Ellery, holding his hat. "Another bounce like that and my knees will stab me to death."
"Nice try, Laurel," said Laurel; and she darted into the Freewaybound traffic on North Highland with a savage flip of her
exhaust.
After a while Ellery remarked to Laurel's profile: "You said something about Roger Priam's 'never' leaving his wheelchair. You didn't mean that literally, by any chance?"
"Yes. Not ever. Didn't Delia tell you about the chair?"
"No."
"It's fabulous. After Roger became paralyzed he had an ordinary wheelchair for a time, which meant he had to be lifted into and out of it. Daddy told me about it. It seems Roger the Lion-Hearted couldn't take that. It made him too dependent on others. So he designed a special chair for himself."
"What does it do, boost him in and out of bed on mechanical arms?"
"It does away with a bed altogether."
Ellery stared.
"That's right. He sleeps in it, eats in it, does his work in it—everything. A combination office, study, living room, dining room, bedroom and bathroom on wheels. It's quite a production. From one of the arms of the chair hangs a small shelf which he can swing around to the front and raise; he eats on that, mixes drinks, and so on. Under the shelf are compartments for cutlery, napkins, cocktail things, and liquor. There's a similar shelf on the other arm of the chair which holds his typewriter, screwed on, of course, so it won't fall off when it's swung aside. And under that shelf are places for paper, carbon, pencils and Lord knows what else. The chair is equipped with two phones of the plug-in type—the regular line and a private wire to our house—and with an intercom system to Wallace's room."
"Who's Wallace?"
"Alfred Wallace, his secretary-companion. Then—let's see." Laurel frowned. "Oh, he's got compartments and cubbyholes all around the chair for just about everything imaginable—magazines, cigars, his reading glasses, his toothbrush; everything he could possibly need. The chair's built so that it can be lowered and the front raised, making a bed out of it for daytime napping or sleeping at night. Of course, he needs Alfred to help him sponge-bathe and dress and undress and so on, but he's made himself as self-sufficient as possible—hates help of any kind, even the most essential. When I was there yesterday his typewriter had just been sent into Hollywood to be repaired and he had to dictate business memoranda to Alfred instead of doing them himself, and he was in such a foul mood because of it that even Alfred got mad. Roger in a foul mood can be awfully foul . . . I'm sorry, I thought you wanted to know."