by Ellery Queen
"That's right," cried Macgowan.
Laurel glared. "How did you know?"
Ellery tapped his forehead. "Never sell cerebration short. Now! What exactly have you accomplished? I look into my mental ball and I see . . , you and Mac . . , discovering a .., can of .., a can of rat poison in the Priam cellar." They were open-mouthed. "Yes. Rat poison. And you ' found that this particular rat poison contains arsenic . . , arsenic, the poison which was also found in Priam's salad. How'm I doin'?"
Laurel said feebly, "But I can't imagine how you . . ."
Ellery had gone to the blondewood desk near the window and pulled a drawer open. Now he took out a card and glanced over it. "Yes. You traced the purchase of that poison, which bears the brand name of D-e-t-h hyphen o-n hyphen R-a-t-z. You discovered that this revoltingly named substance was purchased on May the thirteenth of this year at .., let me see .., at Kepler's Pharmacy at 1723 North Highland."
Laurel looked at Macgowan. He was grinning. She glared at him and then back at Ellery.
"You questioned either Mr. Kepler himself," Ellery went on, "or his clerk, Mr. Candy—unfortunately my crystal ball went blank at this point. But one of them told you that the can of Deth-on-Ratz was bought by a tall, handsome man whom he identified—probably from a set of snapshots you had with you—as Alfred Wallace. Correct, Laurel?"
Laurel said tightly, "How did you find out?"
"Why, Red, I leave these matters to those who can attend to them far more quickly and efficiently than I—or you, Red. Or the Atomic Age Tree Boy over here. Lieutenant Keats had all that information within a few hours and he passed it along to me. Why should I sauté myself in the California sun when I can sit here in comfort and think?"
Laurel's lip wiggled and Ellery burst into laughter. He shook up her hair and tilted her chin. "Just the same, that was enterprising of you, Laurel. That was all right."
"Not so all right." Laurel sank into a chair, tragic. "I'm sorry, Ellery. You must think I'm an imbecile."
"Not a bit of it. It's just that you're impatient. This business is a matter of legs, brains, and bottoms, and you've got to learn to wait on the last-named with philosophy while the other two are pumping away. What else did you find out?"
"Nothing," said Laurel miserably.
"I thought it was quite a piece," said Crowe Macgowan. "Finding out that Alfred bought the poison that knocked Roger for a loop .., that ought to mean something, Queen."
"If you jumped to that kind of conclusion," said Ellery dryly, "I'm afraid you're in for a bad time. Keats found out something else."
"What's that?"
"It was your mother, Mac, who thought she heard mice in the cellar. It was your mother who told Wallace to buy the rat poison."
The boy gaped, and Laurel looked down at her hands suddenly.
"Don't be upset, Mac. No action is going to be taken. Even though the mice seem to have been imaginary— we could find no turds or holes . . . The fact is, we have nothing positive. There's no direct evidence that the arsenic in Priam's tuna salad came from the can of rat poison in the cellar. There's no direct evidence that either your mother or Wallace did anything but try to get rid of mice who happen not to have been there."
"Well, of course not." Macgowan had recovered; he was even looking pugnacious. "Stupid idea to begin with. Just like this detective hunch of yours, Laurel. Everything's under control. Let's leave it that way."
"All right," said Laurel. She was still studying her hands.
But Ellery said, "No. I don't see it that way. It's not a bad notion at all for you two to root around. You're on the scene—"
"If you think I'm going to rat on my mother," began Crowe angrily.
"We seem to be in a rodent cycle," Ellery complained. "Are you worried that your mother may have tried to poison your stepfather, Mac?"
"No! I mean—you know what I meant What kind of rat —skunk do you think I am?"
"I got you into this, Mac," Laurel said. "I'm sorry. You can back out."
"I'm not backing out! Seems to me you two are trying to twist every word I say!"
"Would you have any scruples," asked Ellery with a smile, "where Wallace is concerned?"
"Hell, no. Wallace doesn't mean anything to me. Delia does." Her son added, with a sulky shrewdness, "I thought she did to you, too."
"Well, she does." The truth was, Keats's information about Delia Priam and the rat poison had given him a bad time. "But let's stick to Wallace for the moment. Mac, what do you know about him?"
"Not a thing."
"How long has he been working for your stepfather?"
"About a year. They come and go. Roger's had a dozen stooges in the last fifteen years. Wallace is just the latest."
"Well, you keep your eye on him. And Laurel—"
"On Delia," said Macgowan sarcastically.
"Laurel on everything. Keep giving me reports. Anything out of the ordinary. This case may prove to be a series of excavations, with the truth at the bottom level. Dig in."
"I could go back to the beginning," mumbled Laurel, "and try to trace the dead dog ..."
"Oh, you don't know about that, do you?" Ellery turned to the writing desk again.
"About the dog?"
He turned around with another card. "The dog belonged to somebody named Henderson who lives on Clybourn Avenue
in the Toluca Lake district. He's a dwarf who gets occasional work in films. The dog's name was Frank. Frank disappeared on Decoration Day. Henderson reported his disappearance to the Pound Department, but his description was vague and unfortunately Frank had no license—Henderson, it seems, is against bureaucracy and regimentation. When the dog's body was picked up at your house, Laurel, in view of its lack of identification it was disposed of in the usual way. It was only afterward that Henderson identified the collar, which was returned to him.
"Keats has seen the collar, although Henderson refuses to part with it for sentimental reasons. Keats doubts, though, that anything can be learned from it. There's no trace of the little silver box which was attached to the collar. The receipt Henderson signed at the Pound Department mentions it, but Henderson says he threw it away as not belonging to him.
"As for what the dog died of, an attendant at the Pound remembered the animal and he expressed the opinion that Frank had died of poisoning. Asked if it could have been arsenic poisoning, the man said, yes, it could have been arsenic poisoning. In the absence of an analysis of the remains, the opinion is worthless. All we can do is speculate that the dog was fed something with arsenic in it, which is interesting as speculation but meaningless as evidence. And that's the story of the dead dog, Laurel. You can forget it."
"I'll help wherever I can," said Laurel in a subdued voice. "And again, Ellery—I'm sorry."
"No need to be. My fault for not having kept you up to date." Ellery put his arm around her, and she smiled faintly. "Oh, Mac," he said. "There's something personal I want to say to Laurel. Would you mind giving me a couple of minutes with her alone?"
"Seems to me," grumbled the giant, rising, "as a bloodhound you've got a hell of a wolf strain in you, Queen." His jaw protruded. "Lay off my mother, hear me? Or I'll crack your clavicles for soup!"
"Oh, stop gibbering, Mac," said Laurel quickly.
"Laur, do you want to be alone with this character?"
"Wait for me in the car."
Mac almost tore the front door off its hinges.
"Mac is something like a great Dane himself," Laurel murmured, her back to the door. "Huge, honest, and a little dumb. What is it, Ellery?"
"Dumb about what, Laurel?" Ellery eyed her. "About me? That wasn't dumb. I admit I've found Delia Priam very attractive."
"I didn't mean dumb about you." Laurel shook her head. "Never mind. Ellery. What did you want?"
"Dumb about Delia? Laurel, you know something about Mac's mother—"
"If it's Delia you want to question me about, I—I can't answer. May I go now, please?"
"Right a
way." Ellery put his hand on the doorknob, looking down at her cinnamon hair. "You know, Laurel, Lieutenant Keats has done some work at your house, too."
Her eyes flew to his. "What do you mean?"
"Questioning your housekeeper, the chauffeur, the houseman."
"They didn't say anything about me!"
"You're dealing with a professional, Laurel, and a very good one. They didn't realize they were being pumped." His eyes were grave. "A few weeks ago you lost or mislaid a small silver box, Laurel. A sort of pillbox."
She had gone pale, but her voice was steady. "That's right."
"From the description Mrs. Monk, Simeon, and Ichiro gave—you'd asked them to look for it—the box must have been about the same size and shape as the one you told me contained the warning note to your father. Keats wanted to quiz you about it immediately, but I told him I'd handle it myself. Laurel, was it your silver box that was attached to the collar of Henderson's defunct dog?"
"I don't know."
"Why didn't you mention to me the fact that a box of the same description belonging to you had disappeared shortly before June second?"
"Because I was sure it couldn't have been the same one. The very idea was ridiculous. How could it have been my box? I got it at the May Company, and I think The Broadway and other department stores have been carrying it, too. It's advertised for carrying vitamin tablets and things like that. There must have been thousands of them sold all over Los Angeles. I really bought it to give to Daddy. He had to take certain pills and he could have carried this around in his watch pocket. But I mislaid it—"
"Could it have been your pillbox?"
"I suppose it could, but—"
"And you never found the one you lost?"
She looked at him, worried. "Do you suppose it was?"
"I'm not supposing much of anything yet, Laurel. Just
trying to get things orderly. Or just trying to get things."
Ellery opened the door and looked out cautiously. "Be sure to tell your muscular admirer that I'm returning you to him virgo intacto. I'm sort of sentimental about my clavicles." He smiled and squeezed her fingers. He watched until they were out of sight around the lower curve of the hill, not smiling at all.
ELLERY WENT DOWN to his cold supper and chewed away. The cottage was cheerlessly silent. His jaws made sounds.
Then there was a different sound.
A tap on the kitchen door?
Ellery stared. "Come in?"
And there she was.
"Delia." He got out of his chair, still holding the knife and fork.
She was in a long loose coat of some dark blue material. It had a turned-up collar which framed her head. She stood with her back against the door, looking about the room.
"I've been waiting in the back garden in the dark. I saw Laurel's car. And after Laurel and . . . Crowe drove away I thought I'd better wait a little longer. I wasn't sure that your housekeeper was gone."
"She's gone."
"That's good." She laughed.
"Where is your car, Delia?"
"I left it in a side lane at the bottom of the hill. Walked up. Ellery, this is a darling kitchen—"
"Discreet," said Ellery. He had not stirred.
"Aren't you going to ask me in?"
He said slowly, "I don't think I'm going to."
Her smile withered. But then it burgeoned again. "Oh, don't sound so serious. I was passing by and I thought I'd drop in and see how you were getting on—"
"With the case."
"Of course." She had dimples. Funny, he had never noticed them before.
"This isn't a good idea, Delia."
"What isn't?"
"This is a small town, Delia, and it's all eyes and ears. It doesn't take much in Hollywood to destroy a woman's reputation."
"Oh, that." She was silent. Then she showed her teeth. "Of course, you're right. It was stupid of me. It's just that sometimes . . ." She stopped, and she shivered suddenly.
"Sometimes what, Delia?" "Nothing. I'm going.—Is there anything new?" "Just that business about the rat poison." She shrugged. "I really thought there were mice." "Of course." "Good night, Ellery." "Good night, Delia."
He did not offer to walk her down the hill and she did not seem to expect it.
He stared at the kitchen door for a long time.
Then he went upstairs and poured himself a stiff drink.
AT THREE IN the morning Ellery gave up trying to sleep and crawled out of bed. He turned on the lights in the living room, loaded and fired his brier, turned the lights out, and sat down to watch Hollywood glimmer scantily below. Light always disturbed him when he was groping in the dark.
And he was groping, and this was darkness.
Of course, it was a puzzling case. But puzzle was merely the absence of answer. Answer it, and the puzzle vanished. Nor was he bothered by the nimbus of fantasy which surrounded the case like a Los Angeles daybreak fog. All crimes were fantastic insofar as they expressed what most people merely dreamed about. The dream of the unknown enemy had been twenty years or more in the making...
He clucked to himself in the darkness. Back to the writer of the note.
The wonder was not that he made gifts of poisoned dogs and wrote odd notes relishing slow death and promising mysterious warnings with special meanings. The wonder was that he had been able to keep his hatred alive for almost a generation; and that was not fantasy, but sober pathology.
Fantasy was variance from normal experience, a matter of degree. Hollywood had always attracted its disproportionate quota of variants from the norm. In Vandalia, Illinois, Roger Priam would have been encysted in the community like a foreign substance, but in the Southern California canyons he was peculiarly soluble. There might be Delia Priams in Seattle, but in the houri paradise of Hollywood she belonged, the female archetype from whom all desire sprang. And Tree Boy, who in New York would have been dragged off to the observation ward of Bellevue Hospital, was here just another object of civic admiration, rating columns of good-natured newspaper space.
No, it wasn't the fantasy. It was the hellish scarcity of facts.
Here was an enemy out of the past. What past? No data. The enemy was preparing a series of warnings. What were they? A dead dog had been the first. Then the unknown contents of a small cardboard box. Then a deliberately nonlethal dose of arsenic. The further warnings, the warnings that were promised, had not yet come forth. How many would there be? They were warnings of "special meaning." A series, then. A pattern. But what connection could exist between a dead dog and an arsenic-salted tunafish salad? It would help, help greatly, to know what had been in that box Roger Priam had received at the same moment that Leander Hill was stooping over the body of the dog and reading the thin, multi-creased note. Yes, greatly. But .., no data. It was probable that, whatever it was, Priam had destroyed it. But Priam knew. How could the man be made to talk? He must be made to talk.
The darkness was darker than even that. Ellery mused, worrying his pipe. There was a pattern, all right, but how could he be sure it was the only pattern? Suppose the dead hound had been the first warning of special meaning in a proposed series to Hill, the other warnings of which were forever lost in the limbo of an unknown mind because of Hill's premature death? And suppose whatever was in Priam's box was the first warning of a second series, of which the second warning was the poisoning—a series having no significant relation to the one aborted by Hill's heart attack? It was possible. It was quite possible that there was no connection in meaning between Hill's and Priam's warnings.
The safest course for the time being was to ignore the dead dog received by Hill and to concentrate on the living Priam, proceeding on the assumption that the unknown contents of Priam's box and the poisoning of his salad constituted a separate series altogether. . . .
Ellery went back to bed. His last thought was that he must find out at any cost what had been in that box, and that he could only wait for the third warning to Priam.
&nb
sp; But he dreamed of Delia Priam in a jungle thicket, showing her teeth.
Seven
AS ELLERY WAS able to put it together when he arrived at Delia Priam's summons that fabulous Sunday morning—from the stories of Delia, Alfred Wallace, and old Mr. Collier—Delia had risen early to go to church. Beyond remarking that her church attendance was "spotty," she was reticent about this; Ellery gathered that she could not go as regularly as she would like because of the peculiar conditions of her life, and that only occasionally was she able to slip away and into one of the old churches where, to "the blessed mutter of the mass," she returned to her childhood and her blood. This had been such a morning, five days after the poisoning attack on her husband, two after her strange visit to Ellery's cottage.
While Delia had been up and about at an early hour, Alfred Wallace had risen late. He was normally an early riser, because Priam was a demanding charge and Wallace had learned that if he was to enjoy the luxury of breakfast he must get it over with before Priam awakened. On Sundays, however, Priam preferred to lie in bed until midmorning, undisturbed, and this permitted Wallace to sleep until nine o'clock.
Delia's father was invariably up with the birds. On this morning he had breakfasted with his daughter, and when she drove off to Los Angeles Mr. Collier went out for his early morning tramp through the woods. On his way back he had stopped before the big oak and tried to rouse his grandson, but as there was no answer from the tree house beyond Crowe's Brobdingnagian snores the old man had returned to the Priam house and gone into the library. The library was downstairs off the main hall, directly opposite the door to Roger Priam's quarters, with the staircase between. This was shortly after eight, Mr. Collier told Ellery; his son-in-law's door was shut and there was no light visible under the door; all seemed as it always was at that hour of a Sunday morning; and the old man had got his postage stamp albums out of a drawer of the library desk, his stamp hinges, his tongs, and his Scott's catalogue, and he had set to work mounting his latest mail purchases of stamps. "I've done a lot of knocking about the world," he told Ellery, "and it's corking fun to collect stamps from places I've actually been in. Want to see my collection?" Ellery had declined; he was rather busy at the time.