The Origin of Evil

by Ellery Queen

  "That's the most elementary logic, Mr. Priam. Now will you tell us what happened?"

  Nothing in Priam stirred, not even the hairs of his beard.

  "Then I’ll have to tell you. In 1927, you and Hill appeared in Los Angeles and set up a wholesale jewelry business. What did you know about the jewelry business? We know all about you and Hill now, Mr. Priam, from the time you were born until you signed on the Beagle for its one and only voyage. You both went to sea as boys. There was nothing in either of your backgrounds that remotely touched jewels or jewelry. And, like most sailors, you were poor men. Still, two years later, here you both were, starting a fabulous business in precious stones. Was that what you couldn't have concealed had you come back as Adam's crew? Because the authorities would have said, Where did these two poor seamen get all this money—or all these jewels? And that's one question, Mr. Priam, you didn't want asked—either you or Hill.

  "So it's reasonable to conjecture, Mr. Priam," said Ellery, smiling, "that the Beagle didn't go down in a hurricane after all. That the Beagle reached its destination, perhaps an uninhabited island, and that in exploring for the fauna and flora that interested him as a naturalist, Adam ran across something far afield from his legitimate interests. Like an old treasure chest, Mr. Priam, buried by one of the pirate swarms who used to infest those waters. You can find descendants of those pirates, Mr. Priam, living in the Bahamas today ... An old treasure chest, Mr. Priam, filled with precious stones. And you and Hill, poor sailors, attacked Adam, took the Beagle into blue water, sank her, and got away in her dinghy.

  "And there you were, with a pirate's fortune in jewels, and how were you to live to enjoy it? The whole thing was fantastic. It was fantastic to find it, it was fantastic to own it, and it was fantastic to think that you couldn't do anything with it. But one of you got a brilliant idea, and about that idea there was nothing fantastic at all. Bury all trace of your old selves, come back as entirely different men—and go into the jewelry business.

  "And that's what you and Hill did, Mr. Priam. For two years you studied the jewelers' trade—exactly where, we haven't learned. When you felt you had enough knowledge and experience, you set up shop in Los Angeles . . , and your stock was the chest of precious stones Adam had found on his island, for undisputed possession of which you'd murdered him. And now you could dispose of them. Openly. Legitimately. And get rich on them."

  Priam's beard was askew on his chest. His eyes were shut, as if he were asleep.., or gathering his strength.

  "But Adam didn't die," said Ellery gently. "You and Hill bungled. He survived. Only he knows how he nursed himself back to health, what he lived on, how he got back to civilization, and where, and where he's been since. But by his own testimony, in the note, he dedicated the rest of his Ufe to tracking you and Hill down. For over twenty years he kept searching for the two sailors who had left him for dead—for his two murderers, Mr. Priam. Adam didn't want the fortune—he had his own fortune; and, anyway, he was never very interested in money. What he wanted, Mr. Priam, was revenge. As his note says.

  "And then he found you."

  And now Ellery's voice was no longer gentle.

  "Hill was a disappointment to him. The shock of learning that Adam, against all reason, was alive—and all that that implied—was too much for Hill's heart. Hill was rather different from you, I think, Mr. Priam; whatever he'd been in the old days at sea, he had grown into the semblance of a solid citizen. And perhaps he'd never been really vicious. You were always the bully-boy of the team, weren't you? Maybe Hill didn't do anything but acquiesce in your crime, dazzled by the reward you dangled before his eyes. You needed him to get away; I think you needed his superior intelligence. In any event, after that one surrender to you and temptation, Hill built himself up into what a girl like Laurel could learn to love and respect . . , and for the sake of whose memory she was even willing to kill.

  "Hill was a man of imagination, Mr. Priam, and I think what killed him at the very first blow was as much his dread of the effect on Laurel of the revelation of his old crime as the knowledge that Adam was alive and hot for revenge.

  "But you're made of tougher material, Mr. Priam. You haven't disappointed Adam; on the contrary. It's really a pleasure for Adam to work on you. He's still the scientist— his method is as scientifically pitiless as the dissection of an old cadaver. And he's having -himself a whale of a time, Mr. Priam, with you providing the sport. I don't think you understand with what wonderful humor Charles Lyell Adam is chasing you. Or do you?"

  But when Priam spoke, he seemed not to have been listening. At least, he did not answer the question. He roused himself and he said, "Who is he? What's he calling himself now? Do you know that?"

  "That's what you're interested in, is it?" Ellery smiled. "Why, no, Mr. Priam, we don't. All we know about him today is that he's somewhere between fifty-two and sixty-four years of age. I'm sure you wouldn't recognize him; either his appearance has been radically changed by time or he's had it changed for him by, say, plastic surgery. But even if Adam looked today exactly as he looked twenty-five years ago, it wouldn't do you—or us, Mr. Priam—any good. Because he doesn't have to be on the scene in person, you see. He could be working through someone else." Priam blinked and blinked. "You're not precisely a well-loved man, Mr. Priam, and there are people very close to you who might not be at all repelled by the idea of contributing to your unhappiness. So if you have any idea that as long as you protect yourself against a middle-aged male of certain proportions you're all right, you'd better get rid of it as quickly as possible. Adam's unofficial accomplice, working entirely for love of the job, you might say, could be of either sex, of any age .., and right here, Mr. Priam, in your own household."

  Priam sat still. Not wholly in fear—with a reserve of desperate caution, it seemed, even defiance, like a treed cat.

  "What a stinking thing to say—I"

  "Shut up, Mac." And this was Keats, in a low voice, but there was a note in it that made Delia's son bring his lips together and keep them that way.

  "A moment ago," said Ellery, "I mentioned Adam's sense of humor. I wonder if you see the point, Mr. Priam. Where his joke is heading."

  "What?" said Priam in a mumble.

  "All his warnings to you have had not one, but two, things in common. Not only has each warning involved an animal—but each animal was dead."

  Priam's head jerked.

  "His first warning was a dead lamprey. His second warning was a dead fish. His third consisted of dead frogs and toads. The next a dead alligator. The next—The Birds—a little symbolism here, because he mutilated and destroyed the book . . , the only way in which you can physically 'kill' a book! Even his last warning—the 'cats and dogs'—connotes death; there's nothing quite so 'dead' as the stock of a company that has folded up. Really a humorist, this Adam.

  "Right up the ladder of evolution—from the lowest order of vertebrates, the lamprey, to one of the highest, cats and dogs. And every one, in fact or by symbol, was delivered dead.

  "But Mr. Priam, Adam isn't finished." Ellery leaned forward. "He hasn't climbed Darwin's ladder to stop at the next-to-the-last rung. The top rung of that ladder is still to be put in evidence. The highest creature in the class of Mammalia.

  "So it's perfectly certain that there's an exhibit yet to come, the last exhibit, and by inference from the preceding ones, a dead exhibit. Charles Lyell Adam is going to produce a dead man, Mr. Priam, and there wouldn't be much point to his Darwinian joke if that dead man weren't Roger Priam."

  Priam remained absolutely motionless.

  "WE'VE GONE ALL over this," said Lieutenant Keats sharply, "and we agree there's only one thing to do. You’re tagged for murder, Priam, and it's going to come soon— tomorrow, maybe tonight, maybe an hour from now. I've got to have you alive, Priam, and I want Adam alive, too, if possible, because the law likes us to bring 'em back that way. You're going to have to be guarded night and day, starting right now. A man in this room. One on t
he terrace there. A couple around the grounds—"

  Roger Priam filled his chest.

  A roar came out that set the crystals in the chandelier jangling.

  "Criminal, am I? On what evidence?" He brandished a clublike forefinger at Lieutenant Keats. "I'm not admitting a thing, you can't prove a thing, and I ain't asking for your protection or taking it!—d'ye get me?"

  "What are you afraid of?" jeered the detective. "That we will lay our hands on Adam?"

  "I've always fought my own scraps and, by God, I’ll fight this one!"

  "From a wheelchair?"

  "From a wheelchair! Now get out of my house, you ------, and stay out!"

  Fifteen

  THEY STAYED OUT. Anyone from the outside would have said they were finished with Roger Priam and all his works. Daily Lieutenant Keats might have been seen going about his business; daily Ellery might have been seen staring at his—a blank sheet of paper in a still typewriter —or at night dining alone, with an ear cocked, or afterwards hovering above the telephone. He rarely left the cottage during the day; at night, never. His consumption of cigarets, pipe tobacco, coffee, and alcohol gave Mrs. Williams a second subject for her interminable monologues; she alternated between predictions of sudden death for the world and creeping ulcers for Ellery.

  At one time or another Laurel, Crowe Macgowan, Alfred Wallace, Collier—even Delia Priam—phoned or called in person, either unsolicited or by invitation. But each hung up or went away as worried or perplexed or thoughtful as he had been; and if Ellery unburdened himself to any of them, or vice versa, nothing seemed to come of it.

  And Ellery lit another cigaret, or tormented another pipe, or gulped more hot coffee, or punished another highball, and Mrs. Williams's wails kept assailing the kitchen ceiling.

  THEN, ONE HUMID night at the beginning of the fourth week in July, just after midnight, the call came for which Ellery was waiting.

  He listened, he said a few words, he broke the connection, and he called the number of Keats's house.

  Keats answered on the first ring.

  "Queen?"

  "Yes. As fast as you can."

  Ellery immediately hung up and ran out to his car.

  He had parked the Kaiser at the front door every night for a week.

  He left it on the road near the Priam mailbox. Keats's car was already there. Ellery made his way along the bordering grass to the side of the house. He used no flashlight. In the shadow of the terrace a hand touched his arm.

  "Quick." Keats's whisper was an inch from his ear.

  The house was dark, but a faint night light was burning in Roger Priam's room off the terrace. The French door was open, and the terrace was in darkness.

  They got down on their knees, peered through the screening of the inner door.

  Priam's wheelchair was in its bed position, made up for the night. He lay on his back, motionless, beard jutting obliquely to the ceiling.

  Nothing happened for several minutes.

  Then there was the slightest metallic sound.

  The night light was in an electric outlet in the wainscoting near the door which led into the hall. They saw the doorknob clearly; it was in motion. When it stopped, the door began to open. It creaked. Came to rest.

  Priam did not move.

  The door opened swiftly.

  But the night light was beyond the doorway and when the door swung back to the farther wall it cut off most of the slight glow. All they could make out from the terrace was a formless blackness deeper than the darkness at the rear of the room. This gap in the void moved steadily from the doorway to Roger Priam's chair-bed. A tentacular something projected before it. The projection swam into the outermost edge of the night light's orbit and they saw that it was a revolver.

  Beside Priam's chair the moving blackness halted.

  The revolver came up a little.

  Keats stirred. It was more a tightening of his muscles than a true movement; still, Ellery's fingers clamped on the detective's arm.

  Keats froze.

  AND THEN THE whole room exploded, motion gone wild.

  Priam's arm flashed upward and his great hand closed like the jaws of a reptile on the wrist of the hand that held the revolver. The crippled man heaved his bulk upright, bellowing. There was the blurriest of struggles; they looked like two squids locked in battle at the bottom of the sea.

  Then there was a soggy report, a smart thud, and quiet.

  When Ellery snapped the wall switch Keats was already on his knees by the figure on the floor. It lay in a curl, almost comfortably, one arm hidden and the other outstretched. At the end of the outstretched arm lay the revolver.

  "Chest," Keats muttered.

  Roger Priam was glaring at the two men.

  "It's Adam," he said hoarsely. "Where did you two come from? He came to kill me. It's Adam. I told you I could handle him!" He laughed with his teeth, but at once he began to shake, and he squinted at the fallen figure and rubbed his eyes with a trembling hand. "Who is he? Let me see him!"

  "It's Alfred."

  "Alfred?" The beard drooped.

  Keats rose to go around Priam's chair. He plucked one of Priam's telephones from its hook and dialed a number.

  "Alfred is Adam?" Priam sounded dazed, stupid. He recoiled quickly, but it was only Ellery removing his top blanket.

  Ellery dropped the blanket over the thing on the floor.

  "He's ... ?" Priam's tongue came out. "Is he dead?"

  "Headquarters?" said Keats. "Keats, Hollywood Division, reporting a homicide. The Hill-Priam case. Roger Priam just shot Alfred Wallace, his secretary-nurse-what-have-you, shot him to death . . . That's right. Through the heart. I witnessed the shooting myself, from the terrace—"

  "To death," said Priam. "To death. He's dead! ... But it was self-defense. You witnessed it—if you witnessed it . . . He pussy-footed into my room here. I heard him come in. I made believe I was sleeping. Oh, I was ready for him!" His voice cracked. "Didn't you see him point the gun at me? I grabbed it, twisted his hand! It was self-defense—"

  "We saw it all, Mr. Priam," said Ellery in a soothing voice.

  "Good, you saw it. He's dead. Damn him, he's dead! Wallace . . . Try to kill me, would he? By God, it's over. It's over."

  "Yes," Keats was saying into the phone. "When? Okay, no hurry." He hung up.

  "You heard Mr. Queen," Priam babbled. "He saw it all, Lieutenant—"

  "I know." Keats went over to the blanket and lifted one corner. Then he dropped the blanket and took out a cigaret and lit it. "Well have to wait." He inhaled.

  "Sure, yes, Lieutenant." Priam fumbled with something. The upper half of his bed rose, the lower sank, to form the chair. He groped. "A drink," he said. "You join me? Celebration." He guffawed. "Besides, I'm a little wobbly."

  Ellery was wandering around, puling at an ear, rubbing the back of his neck. There was a ridge between his eyes.

  Keats kept smoking and watching him.

  "I've got to hand it to him," Priam was saying, busy with a bottle and a glass. "Alfred Wallace . . . Must have had his nose fixed. I never recognized him. Smooth, smooth operator. Gets right on the inside. Laughing up his sleeve all the time! But who's laughing now? Here's to him." He raised the glass, grinning, but the wild animal was still in his eyes. He tossed the whisky off. When he set the glass down, his hand was no longer shaking. "But there he is, and here I am, and it's all over." His head came down, and he was silent

  "Mr. Priam," said Ellery.

  Priam did not reply.

  "Mr. Priam?"

  "Hey?" Priam looked up.

  "There's one point that still bothers me. Now that it's over, would you straighten me out on it?"

  Priam looked at him. Then, deliberately, he reached for the bottle and refilled his glass.

  "Why, Mr. Queen, it all depends," he said. "If you expect me to admit a lot of guff—with maybe a stenographer taking it all down from my terrace—you can save your wind. All right, this man was after me.
No idea why, friends, except that he went crazy. On that voyage. Absolutely nuts.

  "On the Beagle he went after me and my shipmate with a machete. We were off some dirty island and we jumped overboard, swam to the beach, and hid in the woods. Hurricane blew up that night and swept the Beagle out to sea. We never saw the ship or Adam again. Shipmate and me, we then found a treasure on that island and we finally got it off on a raft we made.

  "Reason we laid low and changed our names to Hill and Priam was so Adam could never come back and claim one third of the treasure—he'd been exploring that island. And maybe he'd still try to kill us even if he didn't claim a third. That's my story, friends. Not a crime in a cargo load." He grinned and tossed off the second glassful. "And I'm sticking to it."

  Keats was regarding him with admiration. "It's a lousy story, Priam, but if you stick to it we're stuck with it."

  "Anything else, Mr. Queen . . ." Priam waved genially. "All you got to do is ask. What's the point that's been giving you such a bad time?"

  "The letter Adam sent to Leander Hill," said Ellery.

  "The letter—?" Priam stared. "Why in hell would you be worrying about that?"

  Ellery took a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket.

  "This is a copy of the note Hill found in the silver box on the beagle's collar," he said. "It's been some time and perhaps I'd better refresh your memory by reading it aloud."

  "Go ahead." Priam still stared.

  "You believed me dead," read Ellery. "Killed, murdered. For over a score of years I have looked for you —for you and for him. And now I have found you. Can you guess my plan? You'll die. Quickly? No, very slowly. And so pay me back for my long years of searching and dreaming of revenge. Slow dying . . , unavoidable dying. For you and for him. Slow and sure—dying in mind and in body. And for each pace forward a warning .., a warning of special meaning for you—and for him. Meanings for pondering and puzzling. Here is warning number one."

  "See?" said Priam. "Crazy as a bug."

  "Killed, murdered," said Keats. "By a hurricane, Mr. Priam?" But he was smiling.

  "That was his craziness, Lieutenant. I remember when he was steaming after us on deck, waving the machete around his head, how he kept yelling we were trying to murder him. All the time he was trying to murder us. Ask your brain doctors. They'll tell you." Priam swung about. "Is that what's been bothering you, Mr. Queen?"