by Ellery Queen
"You can give up," growled Crowe, reaching for his Double-Dip Giant Malted. "Me, I'm not letting a couple of hundred frogs throw me. I'll go it alone tomorrow."
"I'm not giving up," snapped Laurel. "I was only going to say that we've gone at this like the couple of amateurs we are. Let's divide the list and split up tomorrow. That way we'll cover twice the territory in the same time."
"Functional idea," grunted the giant. "Now how about getting something to eat? I know a good steak joint not far from here where the wine is on the house."
Early next morning they parceled the remaining territory and set out in separate cars, having arranged to meet at 6:30 in the parking lot next to Grauman's Chinese. At 6:30 they met and compared notes while Hollywood honked its homeward way in every direction.
Macgowan's notes were dismal. "Not a damn lead, and I've still got a list as long as your face. How about you?"
"One bite," said Laurel gloomily. "I played a hunch and went over to a place in Encino. They even carry zoo animals. A man in Tarzana had ordered frogs. I tore over there and it turned out to be some movie star who'd bought two dozen—he called them 'jug-o'-rums'—for his rock pool. All I got out of it was an autograph, which I didn't ask for, and a date, which I turned down."
"What's his name?" snarled Crowe.
"Oh, come off it and let's go over to Ellery's. As long as we're in the neighborhood."
"What for?"
"Maybe he'll have a suggestion."
"Let's see what the Master has to say, hey?" hissed her assistant. "Well, I won't wash his feet!"
He leaned on his horn all the way to the foot of the hill.
When Laurel got out of her Austin, Crowe was already bashing Ellery's door.
"Open up, Queen! What do you lock yourself in for?"
"Mac?" came Ellery's voice.
"And Laurel," sang out Laurel.
"Just a minute."
When he unlocked the front door Ellery looked rumpled and heavy-eyed. "Been taking a nap, and Mrs. Williams must have gone. Come in. You two look like the shank end of a hard day."
"Brother," scowled Macgowan. "Is there a tall, cool drink in this oasis?"
"May I use your bathroom, Ellery?" Laurel started for the bedroom door, which was closed.
"I'm afraid it's in something of a mess, Laurel. Use the downstairs lavatory . . . Right over there, Mac. Help yourself."
When Laurel came back upstairs her helper was showing Ellery their lists. "We can't seem to get anywhere,"
Crowe was grumbling. "Two days and nothing to show for them."
"You've certainly covered a lot of territory," applauded Ellery. "There are the fixings, Laurel—"
"Oh, yes."
"You'd think it would be easy," the giant went on, waving his glass. "How many people buy frogs? Practically nobody. Hardly one of the pet shops even handles 'em. Canaries, yes. Finches, definitely. Parakeets, by the carload. Parakeets, macaws, dogs, cats, tropical fish, monkeys, turkeys, turtles, even snakes. And I know now where you can buy an elephant, cheap. But no frogs to speak of. And toads—they just look at you as if you were balmy."
"Where did we go wrong?" asked Laurel, perching on the arm of Crowe's chair.
"In not analyzing the problem before you dashed off. You're not dealing with an idiot. Yes, you could get frogs through the ordinary channels, but they'd be special orders, and special orders leave a trail. Our friend is not leaving any trails for your convenience. Did either of you think to call the State Fish and Game Commission?"
They stared.
"If you had," said Ellery with a smile, "you'd have learned that most of the little fellows we found in Priam's room are a small tree frog or tree toad—Hyla regilla is the scientific name—commonly called spring peepers, which are found in great numbers in this part of the country in streams and trees, especially in the foothills. You can even find bullfrogs here, though they're not native to this part of the country—they've all been introduced from the East. So if you wanted a lot of frogs and toads, and you didn't want to leave a trail, you'd go out hunting for them."
"Two whole days," groaned Macgowan. He gulped what was left in his glass.
"It's my fault, Mac," said Laurel miserably. But then she perked up. "Well, it's all experience. Next time we'll know better."
"Next time he won't use frogs!"
"Mac." Ellery was tapping his teeth with the bit of his pipe. "I've been thinking about your grandfather."
"Is that good?" Mac immediately looked bellicose.
"Interesting man."
"You said it. And a swell egg. Keeps pretty much to himself, but that's because he doesn't want to get in anybody's way."
"How long has he been living with you people?" "A few years. He knocked around all his life and when he got too old for it he came back to live with Delia. Why this interest in my grandfather?"
"Is he very much attached to your mother?" "Well, I'll put it this way," said Crowe, squinting through his empty glass. "If Delia was God, Gramp would go to church. He's gone on her and she's the only reason he stays in Roger's vicinity. And I'm not gone on these questions," said Crowe, looking at Ellery, "so let's talk about somebody else, shall we?"
"Don't you like your grandfather, Mac?" "I love him! Will you change the subject?" "He collects stamps," Ellery went on reflectively. "And he's just taken to hunting and mounting butterflies. A man of Mr. Collier's age, who has no business or profession and takes up hobbies, Mac, usually doesn't stop at one or two. What other interests has he?"
Crowe set his glass down with a smack. "Damned if I'm going to say another word about him. Laurel, you coming?"
"Why the heat, Mac?" asked Ellery mildly. "Why the questions about Gramp?" "Because all I do is sit here and think, and my thoughts have been covering a lot of territory. Mac, I'm feeling around."
"Feel in some other direction!"
"No," said Ellery, "you feel in all directions. That's the first lesson you learn in this business. Your grandfather knew the scientific name of those spring peepers. It suggests that he may have gone into the subject. So I'd like to know: In those long tramps he takes in the foothill woods, has he been collecting tree frogs?"
Macgowan had gone rather pale and his handsome face looked pained and baffled. "I don't know."
"He has a rabbit hutch somewhere near the house, Mac," said Laurel in a low voice. "We could look."
"We could, but we're not going to! I'm not going to!
What do you think I am?" His fists were whistling over
their heads. "Anyway, suppose he did? It's a free country,
and you said yourself there's lots of these peepers around!"
"True, true," Ellery soothed him. "Have another drink.
I've fallen in love with the old gent myself. Oh, by the way, Laurel."
"Do I brace myself?" murmured Laurel.
"Well," grinned Ellery. "I'll admit my thoughts have sauntered in your direction too, Laurel. The first day you came to me you said you were Leander Hill's daughter by adoption."
"Yes."
"And you said something about not remembering your mother. Don't you know anything at all about your real parents, where you came from?"
"No."
"I'm sorry if this distresses you—"
"You know what you are?" yelled Macgowan from the sideboard. "You're equally divided between a bottom and a nose!"
"It doesn't distress me, Ellery," said Laurel with a rather unsuccessful smile. "I don't know a thing about where I came from. I was one of those storybook babies—really left on a doorstep. Of course, Daddy had no right to keep me—a bachelor and all. But he hired a reliable woman and kept me for about a year before he even reported me. Then he had a lot of trouble. They took me away from him and there was a long court squabble. But in the end they couldn't find out a thing about me, nobody claimed me, and he won out in court and was allowed to make it a legal adoption. I don't remember any of that, of course. He tried for years afterwards to trace my par
ents, because he was always afraid somebody would pop up and want me back and he wanted to settle the matter once and for all. But," Laurel made a face, "he never got anywhere and nobody ever did pop up."
Ellery nodded. "The reason I asked, Laurel, was that it occurred to me that this whole business . . , the circumstances surrounding your foster father's death, the threats to Roger Priam . . , may somehow tie in with your past." Laurel stared.
"Now there," said Macgowan, "there is a triumph of the detectival science. How would that be, Chief? Elucidate." "I toss it into the pot for what it's worth," shrugged Ellery, "admitting as I toss that it's probably worth little or nothing. But Laurel," he said, "whether that's a cockeyed theory or not, your past may enter this problem. In another way. I've been a little bothered by you in this thing. Your drive to get to the bottom of this, your wanting revenge—"
"What's wrong with that?" Laurel sounded sharp.
"What's wrong with it is that it doesn't seem altogether normal. No, wait, Laurel. The drive is overintense, the wish for revenge almost neurotic. I don't get the feeling that it's like you—like the you I think you are."
"I never lost my father before."
"Of course, but—"
"You don't know me." Laurel laughed.
"No, I don't." Ellery tamped his pipe absently. "But one possible explanation is that the underlying motivation of your drive is not revenge on a murderer at all, but the desire to find yourself. It could be that you're nursing a subconscious hope that finding this killer will somehow clear up the mystery of your own background."
"I never thought of that." Laurel cupped her chin and was silent for some time. Then she shook her head. "No, I don't think so. I'd like to find out who I am, where I came from, what kind of people and all that, but it wouldn't mean very much to me. They'd be strangers and the background would be .., not home. No, I loved him as if he were my father. He was my father. And I want to see the one who drove him into that fatal heart attack get paid back for it."
WHEN THEY HAD gone, Ellery opened his bedroom door and said, "All right, Delia."
"I thought they'd never go."
"I'm afraid it was my fault. I kept them."
"You wanted to punish me for hiding."
"Maybe." He waited.
"I like it here," she said slowly, looking around at the pedestrian blond furniture.
She was seated on his bed, hands gripping the spread. She had not taken her hat off, or her gloves.
She must have sat that way all during the time they were in the other room, Ellery thought. Hanging in midair. Like her probable excuse for leaving the Priam house. A visit somewhere in town. Among the people who wore hats and gloves.
"Why do you feel you have to hide, Delia?"
"It's not so messy that way. No explanations to give. No lies to make up. No scenes. I hate scenes." She seemed much more interested in the house than in him. "A man who lives alone. I can hardly imagine it."
"Why did you come again?"
"I don't know. I just wanted to." She laughed. "You don't sound any more hospitable this time than you did the last. I'm not very quick, but I'm beginning to think you don't like me."
He said brutally, "When did you get the idea that I did?"
"Oh, the first couple of times we met."
"That was barnyard stuff, Delia. You make every man feel like a rooster."
"And what's your attitude now?" She laughed again. "That you don't feel like a rooster any more?"
"I'll be glad to answer that question, Delia, in the living room."
Her head came up sharply.
"You don't have to answer any questions," she said. She got up and strolled past him. "In your living room or anywhere else." As he shut the bedroom door and turned to her, she said, "You really don't like me?" almost wistfully.
"I like you very much, Delia. That's why you mustn't come here."
"But you just said in there—M
"That was in there."
She nodded, but not as if she really understood. She went to his desk, ignoring the mirror above it, and picked up one of his pipes. She stroked it with her forefinger. He concentrated on her hands, the skin glowing under the sheer nylon gloves.
He made an effort. "Delia—"
"Aren't you ever lonely?" she murmured. "I think I die a little every day, just from loneliness. Nobody who talks to you really talks. It's just words. People listening to themselves. Women hate me, and men ... At least when they talk to me!" She wheeled, crying, "Am I that stupid? You won't talk to me, either! Am I?"
He had to make the effort over again. It was even harder this time. But he said through his teeth, "Delia, I want you to go home."
"Why?"
"Just because you're lonely, and have a husband who's half-dead—in the wrong half—and because I'm not a skunk, Delia, and you're not a tramp. Those are the reasons, Delia, and if you stay here much longer I'm afraid I’ll forget all four of them."
She hit him with the heel of her hand. The top of his head flew off and he felt his shoulderblades smack against the wall.
Through a momentary mist he saw her in the doorway.
"I'm sorry," she said in an agonized way. "You're a fool, but I'm sorry. I mean about coming here. I won't do it again."
Ellery watched her go down the hill. There was fog, and she disappeared in it.
That night he finished most of a bottle of Scotch, sitting at the picture window in the dark and fingering his jaw. The fog had come higher and there was nothing to see but a chaos. Nothing made sense.
But he felt purged, and safe, and wryly noble.
Nine
JUNE TWENTY-NINTH WAS a Los Angeles special. The weather man reported a reading of ninety-one and the newspapers bragged that the city was having its warmest June twenty-ninth, in forty-three years.
But Ellery, trudging down Hollywood Boulevard in a wool jacket, was hardly aware of the roasting desert heat. He was a man in a dream these days, a dream entirely filled with the pieces of the Hill-Priam problem. So far it was a meaningless dream in which he mentally chased cubist things about a crazy landscape. In that dimension temperature did not exist except on the thermometer of frustration.
Keats had phoned to say that he was ready with the results of his investigation into the past of Hill and Priam. Well, it was about time.
Ellery turned south into Wilcox, passing the post office.
You could drift about in your head for just so long recognizing nothing. There came a point at which you had to find a compass and a legible map or go mad.
This ought to be it.
HE FOUND KEATS tormenting a cigaret, the knot of his tie on his sternum and his sandy hair bristling.
"I thought you'd never get here."
"I walked down." Ellery took a chair, settling himself. "Well, let's have it."
"Where do you want it," asked the detective, "between the eyes?"
"What do you mean?" Ellery straightened.
"I mean," said Keats, plucking shreds of tobacco from his lips—"damn it, they pack cigarets looser all the time! —I mean we haven't got a crumb."
"A crumb of what?"
"Of information."
"You haven't found out anything?" Ellery was incredulous.
"Nothing before 1927, which is the year Hill and Priam went into business in Los Angeles. There's nothing that indicates they lived here before that year; in fact, there's reason to believe they didn't, that they came here that year from somewhere else. But from where? No data. We've tried everything from tax records to the Central Bureau fingerprint files. I'm pretty well convinced they had no criminal record, but that's only a guess. They certainly had no record in the State of California.
"They came here in '27," said Keats bitterly, "started a wholesale jewelry business as partners, and made a fortune before the crash of '29. They weren't committed to the market and they rode out the depression by smart manipulation and original merchandising methods. Today the firm of Hill & Priam is rated on
e of the big outfits in its line. They're said to own one of the largest stocks of precious stones in the United States. And that's a lot of help, isn't it?"
"But you don't come into the wholesale jewelry business from outer space," protested Ellery. "Isn't there a record somewhere of previous connections in the industry? At least of one of them?"
"The NJ.A, records don't show anything before 1927."
"Well, have you tried this? Certainly Hill, at least, had to go abroad once in a while in connection with the firm's foreign offices—Laurel told me they have branches in Amsterdam and South Africa. That means a passport, a birth certificate—"
'That was my ace in the hole." Keats snapped a fresh cigaret to his lips. "But it turns out that Hill & Priam don't own those branches, although they do own the one in New York. They're simply working arrangements with established firms abroad. They have large investments in those firms, but all their business dealings have been, and still are, negotiated by and through agents. There's no evidence that either Hill or Priam stepped off American soil in twenty-three years, or at least during the twenty-three years we have a record of them." He shrugged. "They opened the New York branch early in 1929, and for a few years Priam took care of it personally. But it was only to get it going and train a staff. He left it in charge of a man who's still running it there, and came back here. Then Priam met and married Delia Collier Macgowan, and the next thing that happened to him was the paralysis. Hill did the transcontinental hopping for the firm after that."
"Priam's never had occasion to produce a birth certificate?"
"No, and in his condition there's no likelihood he ever will. He's never voted, for instance, and while he might be challenged to prove his American citizenship—to force him to loosen up about his place of birth and so on—I'm afraid that would take a long, long time. Too long for this merry-go-round."
"The war—"
"Both Priam and Hill were over the military age limit when World War II conscription began. They never had to register. Search of the records on World War I failed to turn up their names."
"You're beginning to irritate me, Lieutenant. Didn't Leander Hill carry any insurance?"
"None that antedated 1927, and in the photostats connected with what insurance he did take out after that date his place of birth appears as Chicago. I've had the Illinois records checked, and there's none of a Leander Hill; it was a phony. Priam carries no insurance at all. The industrial insurance carried by the firm, of course, is no help.