by Ellery Queen
"I've had a full report from Keats." Ellery looked at Laurel quizzically. "We had no trouble identifying Tree Boy from the salesgirl's description, and it stood to reason you'd put him up to it."
"Well, there's something else you don't know."
"The lifeblood of this business is information, Laurel. Is it very serious? You look depressed."
"Me?" Laurel laughed. "It's probably a result of confusion. I've found out something about somebody in this case that could mean . . ."
"Could mean what?" Ellery asked gravely, when she paused.
"That we've found the right one!" Laurel's eyes glittered. "But I can't quite put it into place. It seems to mean so much, only . . . Ellery, last night—really in the early hours of this morning—I did something dishonest and—and horrible. Since Roger was poisoned Alfred Wallace has been locking the doors at night. I stole a key from Mac and in the middle of the night I let myself in, sneaked upstairs—"
"And you went into Delia Priam's bedroom and searched it."
"How did you know!"
"Because I caught the look on your face day before yesterday when you saw the look on Delia's face. That man's alligator wallet meant something to her. She either recognized it or something about it reminded her directly of something like it. And her start of recognition produced some sort of recognition in you, too, Laurel. Delia left the room at once, and before we went away we made sure of where she'd gone. She'd gone right up to her bedroom.
"She left for Santa Barbara yesterday afternoon, and last night—while you were luring the key out of young Macgowan, probably—I pulled a second-story job and gave the bedroom a going-over. Keats, of course, couldn't risk it; the L.A, police have had to lean over backwards lately, and if Keats had been caught housebreaking there might have been a mess that would spoil everything. There wasn't enough, of course, to justify a warrant and an open search.
"I left Delia's alligator bag in the sleeve of the white coat, where I found it. And where, I take it, you found it a few hours later. I hope you left everything exactly as it was."
"Yes," moaned Laurel. "But all that breast-beating for nothing."
Ellery lit a cigaret. "Now let me tell you something you don't know, Laurel." His eyes, which had not laughed at all, became as smoky as his cigaret. "That green alligator pocketbook of Delia's was a gift. She didn't buy it herself. Luckily, the salesgirl who sold it remembered clearly what the purchaser looked like, even though it was a cash sale. She gave an excellent and recognizable description, and when she was shown the corresponding photograph she identified it as the man she had described. The purchase was made in mid-April of this year, just before Delia's birthday, and the purchaser was Alfred Wallace."
"Alfred—" Laurel was about to go on, but then her teeth closed on her lower lip.
"It's all right, Laurel," said Ellery. "I know all about Delia and Alfred."
"I wasn't sure." Laurel was silent. Then she looked up. "What do you think it means?"
"It could mean nothing at all," Ellery said slowly. "Coincidence, for example, although coincidence and I haven't been on speaking terms for years. More likely whoever it is we're after may have noticed Delia's bag and, consciously or unconsciously, it suggested to him the nature of the fourth warning to Priam. Delia's suspicious actions can be plausibly explained, in this interpretation, as the fear of an innocent person facing a disagreeable involvement. Innocent people frequently act guiltier than guilty ones.
"It could mean that," said Ellery, "or .. ." He shrugged. "I'll have to think about it."
Twelve
BUT ELLERVS THOUGHTS were forced to take an unforeseen turn. In this he was not unique. Suddenly something called the 38th Parallel, half a planet away, had become the chief interest in the lives of a hundred and fifty million Americans.
Los Angeles particularly suffered a bad attack of the jitters.
A few days before, Koreans from the north had invaded South Korea with Soviet tanks and great numbers of Soviet 7.63-millimeter submachine guns. The explosive meaning of this act took some time to erupt the American calm. But when United States occupation troops were rushed to South Korea from Japan and were overwhelmed, and the newspapers began printing reports of American wounded murdered by the invaders, conviction burst. The president made unpleasantly reminiscent announcements, reserves were being called, the United Nations were in an uproar, beef and coffee prices soared, there were immediate rumors about sugar and soap scarcities, hoarding began, and everyone in Los Angeles was saying that World War III had commenced and that Los Angeles would be the first city on the North American continent to feel the incinerating breath of the atom bomb—and how do we know it won't be tonight? San Diego, San Francisco, and Seattle were not sleeping soundly, either, but that was no consolation to Los Angeles.
It was impossible to remain unaffected by the general nervousness. And, absurd as the thought was, there was always the possibility that it was only too well grounded.
The novel, which had been sputtering along, coughed and went into a nose dive. Ellery hounded the radio, trying to shut out the prophecies of doom which streaked up from his kitchen like flak in wailing Louisiana accents from eight to five daily. His thoughts kept coming back to Tree Boy. Crowe Macgowan no longer seemed funny.
He had not heard from Lieutenant Keats for days.
There was no word from the Priam establishment. He knew that Delia had returned from Montecito, but he had not seen or heard from her.
Laurel phoned once to seek, not give, information. She was worried about Macgowan.
"He just sits and broods, Ellery. You'd think with what's happening in Korea he'd be going around saying I told you so. Instead of which I can't get him to open his big mouth."
"The world of fantasy is catching up with Crowe, and it's probably a painful experience. There's nothing new at the Priams'?"
"It's quiet. Ellery, what do you suppose this lull means?"
"I don't know."
"I'm so confused these days!" Laurel's was something of a wail, too. "Sometimes I think what's going on in the world makes all this silly and unimportant. And I suppose in one way it is. But then I think, no, it's not silly and it is important. Aggressive war is murder, too, and you don't take that lying down. You have to fight it on every front, starting with the picayune personal ones. Or else you go down."
"Yes," said Ellery with a sigh, "that makes sense. I only wish this particular front weren't so .., fluid, Laurel. You might say we've got a pretty good General Staff, and a bang-up army behind us, but our Intelligence is weak. We have no idea where and when the next attack is coming, in what form and strength—or the meaning of the enemy's strategy. All we can do is sit tight and keep on the alert."
Laurel said quickly, "Bless you," and she hung up quickly, too.
THE ENEMY'S NEXT attack came during the night of July 6-7. It was, surprisingly, Crowe Macgowan who notified Ellery. His call came at a little after one in the morning, as Ellery was about to go to bed.
"Queen. Something screwy just happened. I thought you'd want to know." Macgowan sounded tired, not like himself at all.
"What, Mac?"
"The library's been broken in to. One of the windows.
Seems like a case of ordinary housebreaking, but I dunno."
"The library? Anything taken?"
"Not as far as I can see."
"Don't touch anything. Ill be over in ten minutes."
Ellery rang up Keats's home, got a sleepy "What, again?" from the detective, and ran.
He found young Macgowan waiting for him in the Priam driveway. There were lights on upstairs and down, but Roger Priam's French windows off the terrace were dark.
"Before you go in, maybe I'd better explain the setup ..."
"Who's in there now?"
"Delia and Alfred."
"Go on. But make it snappy, Mac."
"Last couple of nights I've been sleeping in my old room here at the house—■
"What? No more tr
ee?"
"You wanted it presto, didn't you?" growled the giant. "I hit the sack early tonight, but I couldn't seem to sleep. Long time later I heard sounds from downstairs. Seemed like the library; my room's right over it. I thought maybe it was Gramp and I felt a yen to talk to him. So I got up and went down the hall and at the top of the stairs I called, 'Gramp?' No answer, and it was quiet down there. Something made me go back up the hall and look in the old gent's room. He wasn't there; bed hadn't been slept in. So I went back to the head of the stairs and there was Wallace."
"Wallace?" repeated Ellery.
"In a robe. He said he'd heard a noise and was just going to go downstairs." Macgowan sounded odd; his eyes were hard in the moonlight "But you know something, Queen? I got a queer feeling as I spotted Wallace at the head of those stairs. I couldn't make up my mind whether he was about to go down .., or had just come up."
He stared at Ellery defiantly.
A car was tearing up the road.
Ellery said, "Life is full of these dangling participles, Mac. Did you find your grandfather?"
"No. Maybe I'd better take a look in the woods." Crowe sounded casual. "Gramp often takes a walk in the middle of the night. You know how it is when you're old."
"Yes." Ellery watched Delia's son stride off, pulling a flashlight from his pocket as he went.
Keats's car slammed to a stop a foot from Ellery's rear.
"Hi."
"What is it this time?" Keats had a leather jacket on over an undershirt, and he sounded sore.
Ellery told him, and they went in.
Delia Priam was going through the library desk, looking baffled. She was in a brown monkish negligee of some thick-napped material, girdled by a heavy brass chain. Her hair hung down her back and there were purplish shadows, almost welts, under her eyes. Alfred Wallace, in a Paisley dressing gown, was seated comfortably in a club chair, smoking a cigaret.
Delia turned, and Wallace rose, as the two men came into the library, but neither said anything.
Keats went directly to the only open window. He examined the sash about the catch without touching it.
"Jimmied. Have any of you touched this window?"
"I'm afraid," said Wallace, "we all did."
Keats mumbled something impolite and went out. A few moments later Ellery heard him outside, below the open window, and saw the beam of his flash.
Ellery looked around. It was the kind of library he liked; this was one room in which the prevailing Priam gloom was mellow. Leather shone, and the black oak paneling was a friendly background for the books. Books from floor to ceiling on all four walls, and a fieldstone fireplace with a used look. It was a spacious room, and the lamps were good.
"Nothing missing, Delia?"
She shook her head. "I can't understand it." She turned away, pulling her robe closer about her.
"Crowe and I probably scared him off." Alfred Wallace sat down again, exhaling smoke.
"Your father's stamp albums?" Ellery suggested to Delia's back. He had no idea why he thought of old Collier's treasures, except that they might be valuable.
"As far as I know, they haven't been touched."
Ellery wandered about the room.
"By the way, Crowe tells me Mr. Collier hasn't been to bed. Have you any idea where he is, Delia?"
"No." She wheeled on him, eyes flashing. "My father and I don't check up on each other. And I can't recall, Mr. Queen, that I ever gave you permission to call me by my first name. Suppose you stop it."
Ellery looked at her with a smile. After a moment she turned away again. Wallace continued to smoke.
Ellery resumed his ambling.
When Keats returned he said shortly, "There's nothing out there. Have you got anything?"
"I think so," said Ellery. He was squatting before the fireplace. "Look here."
Delia Priam turned at that, and Wallace.
The fireplace grate held the remains of a wood fire. It had burned away to a fine ash. On the ashes lay a heat-crimped and badly charred object of no recognizable shape.
"Feel the ashes to the side, Keats."
"Stony cold."
"Now the ashes under that charred thing."
The detective snatched his hand away. "Still hot!"
Ellery said to Delia, "Was there a wood fire in this grate tonight... Mrs. Priam?"
"No. There was one in the morning, but it burned out by noon."
"This object was just burned here, Keats. On top of the cold ashes."
The lieutenant wrapped a handkerchief around his hand and cautiously removed the charred thing. He laid it on the hearth.
"What was it?"
"A book, Keats."
"Book?" Keats glanced around at the walls. "I wonder if—"
"Can't tell any more. Pages all burned away and what's left of the binding shows nothing."
"It must have been a special binding." Most of the volumes on the shelves were leatherbound. "Don't they stamp the titles into these fancy jobs?" Keats prodded the remains of the book, turning it over. "Ought to be some indication left."
"There would have been, except that whoever burned this indulged in a little vandalism before he set fire to it. Look at these slashes on the spine—and here. The book was mutilated with a sharp instrument before it was tossed into the grate."
Keats looked up at Delia and Wallace, who were stooping over them. "Any idea what this book was?"
"Damn you! Are you two here again?" Roger Priam's wheelchair blocked the doorway. His hair and beard were threatening. His pajama coat gaped, exposing his simian chest; a button was missing, as if he had torn at himself in a temper. His chair was made up as a bed and the blankets trailed on the floor.
"Ain't nobody going to open his mouth? Man can't get any shut-eye in his own house! Alfred, where the hell have you been? Not in your room, because I couldn't get you on the intercom!" He did not glance at his wife. "Something's happened down here, Mr. Priam," said Wallace soothingly.
"Happened! What now?"
Ellery and Keats were watching Priam closely. The library desk and a big chair stood between the wheelchair and the fireplace; Priam had not seen the burned book.
"Somebody broke into your library here tonight, Mr. Priam," rasped Keats, "and don't think I'm happy about it, because I'm as sick of you as you are of me. And if you're thinking of blasting me out again, forget it. Breaking and entering is against the law, and I'm the cop on the case. Now you're going to answer questions about this or, by God, I'll pull you in on a charge of obstructing a police investigation. Why was this book cut up and burned?"
Keats stalked across the room carrying the charred remains. He thrust the thing under Priam's nose. "Book .., burned?"
All his rage had fled, exposing the putty color beneath. Priam glared down at the twisted cinder in Keats's hand, pulling away a little. "Do you recognize this?" Priam's head shook. "Can't you tell us what it is?"
"No." The word came out cracked. He seemed fascinated by the binding.
Keats turned in disgust. "I guess he doesn't know at that. Well—"
"Just a moment, Lieutenant." Ellery was at the shelves, riffling through books. They were beautiful books, the products of private presses chiefly—handmade paper, lots of gold leaf, colored inks, elaborate endpaper designs, esoteric illustrations, specially designed type fonts; each was hand-bound and expensively hand-tooled. And the titles were impeccable, all the proper classics. The only thing was, after riffling through two dozen books, Ellery had still to find one in which the pages had been cut.
The books had never been read. It was likely, from their stiff pristine condition, that they had not been opened since leaving the hands of the bookbinder.
"How long have you had these books, Mr. Priam?"
"How long?" Priam licked his lips. "How long is it, Delia?"
"Since shortly after we were married."
"Library means books," Priam muttered, nodding. "Called in a fancy dealer and had him measure the running f
eet of shelf space and told him to go out and get enough books to fill the space. Highbrow stuff, I told him; only the best" He seemed to gain confidence through talking; a trace of arrogance livened his heavy voice. "When he lugged them around, I threw 'em back in his face. 'I said the best!' I told him. Take this junk back and have it bound up in the most expensive leather and stuff you can find. It's got to look the money or you don't get a plugged nickel.' "
Keats had dropped his impatience. He edged back.
"And a very good job he did, too," murmured Ellery. "I see they're in the original condition, Mr. Priam. Don't seem to have been opened, any of them."
"Opened! And crack those bindings? This collection is worth a fortune, Mister. I've had it appraised. Won't let nobody read 'em."
"But books are made to be read, Mr. Priam. Haven't you ever been curious about what's in these pages?"
"Ain't read a book since I played hooky from public school," retorted Priam. "Books are for women and long-hairs. Newspapers, that's different. And picture magazines." His head jerked up with a belligerent reflex. "What are you getting at?"
"I'd like to spend about an hour here, Mr. Priam, looking over your collection. I give you my word, I'll handle your books with the greatest care. Would you have any objection to that?"
Cunning pinpointed Priam's eyes. "You're a book writer yourself, ain't you?"
"Yes."
"Ever write articles like in the Sunday magazine sections?"
"Occasionally."
"Maybe you got some idea about writing up an article on the Priam Book Collection. Hey?"
"You're a shrewd man, Mr. Priam," said Ellery with a smile.
"I don't mind," the bearded man said with geniality. There was color in his cheekbones again. "That bookdealer said no millionaire's library ought to be without its own special catalogue. 'It's too good a collection, Mr. Priam,' he says to me. 'There ought to be a record of it for the use of bib- bib-' "
"Bibliophiles?"
"That's it. Hell, it was little enough, and besides I figured it might come in handy for personal publicity in my jewelry business. So I told him to go ahead. You'll find a copy of the catalogue right there on that stand. Cost me a lot of money—specially designed, y' know, four-color job on special paper. And there's a lot of technical stuff in it, in the descriptions of the books. Words I can't even pronounce," Priam chuckled, "but, God Almighty, you don't have to be able to pronounce it if you can pay for it." He waved a hairy hand. "Don't mind at all, Mister—what was the name again?"