The Origin of Evil

by Ellery Queen

  KEATS INSISTED ON driving Ellery home. The detective drove slowly through the five o'clock traffic.

  Neither man said anything.

  He had seen them for that moment in the Priam hallway, the day he had come at her summons to investigate the plague of dead frogs. Wallace had been standing close to her, far closer than a man stands to a woman unless he knows he will not be repulsed. And she had not repulsed him. She had stood there accepting his pressure while Wallace squeezed her hand and whispered in her ear . . . He remembered one or two of Wallace's glances at her, the glances of a man with a secret knowledge, glances of amused power . . . "I always take the line of least resistance . . ." He remembered the night she had hidden herself in his bedroom at the sound of her son's and Laurel's arrival. She had come to him that night for the purpose to which her life in the Priam house had accustomed her. Probably she had a prurient curiosity about "celebrities" or she was tired of Wallace (And this was Wallace's revenge?) He would have read the signs of the nymph easily enough if he had not mistaken her flabbiness for reserve—

  "We're here, Mr. Queen," Keats was saying.

  They were at the cottage.

  "Oh. Thanks." Ellery got out automatically. "Good night."

  Keats failed to drive away. Instead he said, "Isn't that your phone ringing?"

  "Yes. Why doesn't Mrs. Williams answer it?" Ellery said with irritation. Then he laughed. "She isn't answering it because I gave her the afternoon off. I'd better go in."

  "Wait." Keats turned his motor off and vaulted to the road. "Maybe it's my office. I told them I might be here."

  Ellery unlocked the front door and went in. Keats straddled the threshold.

  "Hello?"

  Keats saw him stiffen.

  "Yes, Delia."

  Ellery listened in silence. Keats heard the vibration of the throaty tones, faint and warm and humid.

  "Keats is with me now. Hide it till we get there, Delia. We'll be right over."

  Ellery hung up.

  "What does the lady want?" asked Keats.

  "She says she's just found another cardboard box. It was in the Priam mailbox on the road, apparently left there a short time ago. Priam's name handprinted on it. She hasn't told Priam about it, asked what she ought to do. You heard what I told her."

  "Another warning!"

  Keats ran for his car.

  Ten

  KEATS STOPPED HIS car fifty feet from the Priam mailbox and they got out and walked slowly toward it, examining the road. There were tire marks in profusion, illegibly intermingled. Near the box they found several heelmarks of a woman's shoe, but that was all.

  The door of the box hung open and the box was empty.

  They walked up the driveway to the house. Keats neither rang nor knocked. The maid with the tic came hurrying toward them as he closed the door.

  "Mrs. Priam said to come upstairs," she whispered. "To her room." She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door of Roger Priam's den. "And not to make any noise, she said, because he's got ears like a dog."

  "All right," said Keats.

  Muggs fled on tiptoe. The two men stood there until she had disappeared beyond the swinging door at the rear of the hall. Then they went upstairs, hugging the balustrade.

  As they reached the landing, a door opposite the head of the stairs swung in. Keats and Ellery went into the room.

  Delia Priam shut the door swiftly and sank back against it.

  She was in brief tight shorts and a strip of sun halter. Her thighs were long and heavy and swelled to her trunk; her breasts spilled over the halter. The glossy black hair lay carelessly piled; she was barefoot—her high-heeled shoes had been kicked off. The rattan blinds were down and in the gloom her pale eyes glowed sleepily.

  Keats looked her over deliberately.

  "Hello, Ellery." She sounded relieved.

  "Hello, Delia." There was nothing in his voice, nothing at all.

  "Don't you think you'd better put something on, Mrs. Priam?" said Keats. "Any other time this would be a privilege and a pleasure, but we're here on business." He grinned with his lips only. "I don't think I could think."

  She glanced down at herself, startled. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I was up on the sun deck before I walked down to the road. I'm very sorry." She sounded angry and a little puzzled.

  "No harm done, Delia," said Ellery. "This sort of thing is all in the eye of the beholder."

  She glanced at him quickly. A frown appeared between her heavy brows.

  "Is something wrong, Ellery?"

  He looked at her.

  The color left her face. Her hands went to her naked shoulders and she hurried past them into a dressing room, slamming the door.

  "Bitch," said Keats pleasantly. He took a cigaret out of his pocket and jammed it between his lips. The end tore and he spat it out, turning away.

  Ellery looked around.

  The room was overpowering, with dark Spanish furniture and wallpaper and drapes which flaunted masses of great tropical flowers. The rug was a sullen Polynesian red with a two-inch pile. There were cushions and hassocks of unusual shapes and colors. Huge majolicas stood about filled with lilies. On the wall hung heroic Gauguin reproductions and above the bed a large black iron crucifix that looked very old. Niches were crowded with ceramics, woodcarvings, metal sculptures of exotic subjects, chiefly modern in style and many of them male nudes. There was an odd bookshelf hanging by an iron chain, and Ellery strolled over to it, his legs brushing the bed. Thomas Aquinas, Kinsey, Bishop Berkeley, Pierre Loti, Havelock Ellis. Lives of the Saints and Fanny Hill in a Paris edition. The rest were mystery stories; there was one of his, his latest. The bed was a wide and herculean piece set low to the floor, covered with a cloth-of-gold spread appliquéd, in brilliant colors of metallic thread, with a vast tree of life. In the ceiling, directly above the bed and of identical dimensions, glittered a mirror framed in fluorescent tubing.

  "For some reason," remarked Lieutenant Keats in the silence, "this reminds me of that movie actor, What's-His-Name, of the old silent days. In the wall next to his John he had a perforated roll of rabbit fur." The dressing room door opened and Keats said, "Now that's a relief, Mrs. Priam. Thanks a lot. Where's this box?"

  She went to a trunk-sized teak chest covered with brasswork chased intricately in the East Indian manner, which stood at the foot of the bed, and she opened it. She had put on a severe brown linen dress and stockings as well as flat-heeled shoes; she had combed her hair back in a knot. She was pale and frigid, and she looked at neither man.

  She took out of the chest a white cardboard box about five inches by nine and an inch deep, bound with ordinary white string, and handed it to Keats.

  "Have you opened this, Mrs. Priam?"

  "No."

  "Then you don't know what's in it?"

  "No."

  "You found it exactly where and how, again?"

  "In our mailbox near the road. I'd gone down to pick some flowers for the dinner table and I noticed it was open. I looked in and saw this. I took it upstairs, locked it in my chest, and phoned."

  The box was of cheap quality. It bore no imprint. To the string was attached a plain Manila shipping tag. The name "Roger Priam" was lettered on the tag in black crayon, in carefully characterless capitals.

  "Dime store stock," said Keats, tapping the box with a fingernail. He examined the tag. "And so is this."

  "Delia." At the sound of his voice she turned, but when she saw his expression she looked away. "You saw the box your husband received the morning Hill got the dead dog. Was it like this? In quality, kind of string, tag?"

  "Yes. The box was bigger, that's all." There was a torn edge to the furry voice.

  "No dealer's imprint?"

  "No."

  "Does the lettering on this tag look anything like the lettering on the other tag?"

  "It looks just like it." She put her hand on his arm suddenly, but she was looking at Keats. "Lieutenant, I'd like to speak to Mr. Queen pri
vately for a minute."

  "I don't have any secrets from Keats." Ellery was glancing down at his arm.

  "Please?"

  Keats walked over to one of the windows with the box. He lifted the blind, squinting along the slick surface of the box.

  "Ellery, is it what happened the other night?" Her voice was at its throatiest, very low.

  "Nothing happened the other night."

  "Maybe that's the trouble." She laughed.

  "But a great deal has happened since."

  She stopped laughing. "What do you mean?"

  He shrugged.

  "Ellery. Who's been telling you lies about me?"

  Ellery glanced again at her hand. "It's my experience, Delia, that to label something a lie before you've heard it expressed is to admit it's all too true."

  He took her hand between his thumb and forefinger as if it were something sticky, and he dropped it.

  Then he turned his back on her.

  Keats had the box to his ear and he was shaking it with absorption. Something inside rustled slightly. He hefted the box.

  "Nothing loose. Sounds like a solid object wrapped in tissue paper. And not much weight." He glanced at the woman. "I don't have any right to open this, Mrs. Priam. But there's nothing in the statutes to stop you .., here and now."

  "I wouldn't untie that string, Lieutenant Keats," said Delia Priam in a trembling voice, "for all the filth in your mind."

  "What did I do?" Keats raised his reddish brows as he handed the box to Ellery. "That puts it up to you, Mr. Queen. What do you want to do?"

  "You can both get out of my bedroom!"

  Ellery said, "I'll open it, Keats, but not here. And not now. I think this ought to be opened before Roger Priam, with Mrs. Priam there, and Laurel Hill, too."

  "You can get along without me," she whispered. "Get out."

  "It's important for you to be there," Ellery said to her.

  "You can't tell me what to do."

  "In that case I'll have to ask the assistance of someone who can."

  "No one can."

  "Not Wallace?" smiled Ellery. "Or one of his numerous predecessors?"

  Delia Priam sank to the chest, staring. "Come on, Keats. We've wasted enough time in this stud pasture."

  LAUREL WAS OVER in ten minutes, looking intensely curious. Padding after her into the cavelike gloom of the house came the man of the future. Young Macgowan had returned to the Post-Atomic Age.

  "What's the matter now?" he inquired plaintively.

  No one replied.

  By a sort of instinct, he put a long arm about his mother and kissed her. Delia smiled up at him anxiously, and when he straightened she kept her grasp on his big hand. Macgowan seemed puzzled by the atmosphere. He fixed on Keats as the cause, and he glared murderously from the detective to the unopened box.

  "Loosen up, boy," said Keats. "Tree Ufe is getting you. Okay, Mr. Queen?"

  "Yes."

  Young Macgowan didn't know. Laurel knew—Laurel had known for a long time—but Delia's son was wrapped in the lamb's wool of mother-adoration. I'd hate to be the first one, Ellery thought, to tell him.

  As for Laurel, she had glanced once at Delia and once at Ellery, and she had become mousy.

  Ellery waited on the threshold to the hall as Keats explained about the box.

  "It's the same kind of tag, same kind of crayon lettering, as on the dead dog," Laurel said. She eyed the box grimly. "What's inside?"

  "We're going to find that out right now." Ellery took the box from Keats and they all followed him up the hall to Priam's door.

  "Furl your mains'l," said a voice. It was old Mr. Collier, in the doorway across the hall.

  "Mr. Collier. Would you care to join us? There's something new."

  "I'll sit up in the rigging," said Delia's father. "Hasn't there been enough trouble?"

  "We're trying to prevent trouble," said Keats mildly.

  "So you go looking for it. Doesn't make sense to me," said the old man, shaking his head. "Live and let live. Or die and let die. If it's right one way, it's right the other." He stepped back and shut the library door emphatically.

  Ellery tried Priam's door. It was locked. He rapped loudly.

  "Who is it?" The bull voice sounded slurry.

  Ellery said, "Delia, you answer him."

  She nodded mechanically. "Roger, open the door, wont you?" She sounded passive, almost bored.

  "Delia? What d'ye want?" They heard the trundling of his chair and some glassy sounds. "Damn this rug! I've told Alfred a dozen times to tack it down—" The door opened and he stared up at them. The shelf before him supported a decanter of whisky, a siphon, and a half empty glass. His eyes were bloodshot. "What's this?" he snarled at Ellery. "I thought I told you two to clear out of my house and stay out." His fierce eyes lighted on the box in Ellery's hand. They contracted, and he looked up and around. His glance passed over his wife and stepson as if they had not been there. It remained on Laurel's face for a moment with a hatred so concentrated that Crowe Macgowan made an unconscious growling sound. Laurel's lips tightened.

  He put out one of his furry paws. "Give me the box."

  "No, Mr. Priam."

  'That tag's got my name on it. Give it to me!"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Priam."

  He raised the purplish ensign of his rage, his eyes flaming. "You can't keep another man's property!"

  "I have no intention of keeping it, Mr. Priam. I merely want to see what's inside. Won't you please back into the room so that we can come in and do this like civilized people?"

  Ellery kept looking at him impassively. Priam glared back, but his hands went to the wheels of his chair. Grudgingly, they pushed backwards.

  Keats shut the door very neatly. Then he put his back against it. He remained there, watching Priam.

  Ellery began to untie the box.

  He seemed in no hurry.

  Priam's hands were still at the sides of his chair. He was sitting forward, giving his whole attention to the untying process. His beard rose and fell with his chest. The purple flag had come down, leaving a sort of gray emptiness, like a foggy sky.

  Laurel was intent.

  Young Macgowan kept shifting from foot to naked foot, uneasily.

  Delia Priam stood perfectly still.

  "Lieutenant," said Ellery suddenly, as he worked over the last knot, "what do you suppose well find in here?"

  Keats said, "After those dead frogs I wouldn't stick my chin out." He kept looking at Priam.

  "Do you have to take out the knots?" cried Crowe. "Open it!"

  "Would anyone care to guess?"

  "Please." Laurel, begging.

  "Mr. Priam?"

  Priam never stirred. Only his lips moved, and the beard around them. But nothing came out.

  Ellery whipped the lid off.

  Roger Priam threw himself back, almost upsetting the chair. Then, conscious of their shock, he fumbled for the glass of whisky. He tilted his head, drinking, not taking his glance from the box.

  All that had been exposed was a layer of white tissue.

  "From the way you jumped, Mr. Priam," said Ellery conversationally, "anyone would think you expected a hungry rattler to pop out at you, or something equally live and disagreeable. What is it you're afraid of?"

  Priam set the glass down with a bang. His knuckles were livid. "I ain't afraid," he sputtered. "Of anything!"

  His chest spread. "Stop needling me, you ------1 Or I

  swear—"

  He brought his arm up blindly. It struck the decanter and the decanter toppled from the shelf, smashing on the floor.

  Ellery was holding the object high, stripped of its tissue wrapping. He held it by its edges, between his palms.

  His own eyes were amazed, and Keats's.

  Because there was nothing in what he was displaying to make a man cringe.

  It was simply a wallet, a man's wallet of breast pocket size made of alligator leather, beautifully grained and dyed forest gree
n. There were no hideous stains on it; it had no history; it was plainly brand-new. And high-priced; it was edged in gold. Ellery flipped it open. Its pockets were empty. There had been no note or card in the box.

  "Let me see that," said Keats.

  Nothing to make a man cower, or a woman grow pale.

  "No initials," said Keats. "Nothing but the maker's name." He scratched his cheek, glancing at Priam again.

  "What is it, Lieutenant?" asked Laurel.

  "What is what, Miss Hill?"

  'The maker's name."

  "Leatherland, Inc., Hollywood, California."

  Priam's beard had sunk to his chest.

  Paler than Priam. For Delia Priam's eyes had flashed to their widest at sight of the wallet, all the color running out of her face. Then the lids had come down as if to shut out a ghost.

  Shock. But the shock of what? Fear? Yes, there was fear, but fear followed the shock; it did not precede.

  Suddenly Ellery knew what it was.

  Recognition.

  He mulled over this, baffled. It was a new wallet. She couldn't possibly have seen it before. Unless . . . For that matter, neither could Priam. Did it mean the same thing to both of them? Vaguely, he doubted this. Their reactions had thrown off different qualities. Lightning had struck both of them, but it was as if Priam were a meteorologist who understood the nature of the disaster, his wife an ignorant bystander who knew only that she had been stunned. I'm reading too much into this, Ellery thought. You can't judge the truth of anything from a look . . . It's useless to attempt to talk to her now . . . In an indefinable way he was glad. It was remarkable how easily passion was killed by a dirty fact. He felt nothing when he looked at her now, not even revulsion. The sickness in the pit of his stomach was for himself and his gullibility.

  "Delia, where you going?"

  She was walking out,

  "Mother."

  So Crowe had seen it, too. He ran after her, caught her at the door.

  "What's the matter?"

  She made an effort. "It's all too silly, darling. It's getting to be too much for me. A wallet! And such a handsome one, too. Probably a gift from someone who thinks it's Roger's birthday. Let me go, Crowe. I've got to see Mrs. Guittierez about dinner."

  "Oh. Sure." Mac was relieved.