Nothing in Laurel Hill’s carefully edited remarks had prepared him for Delia Priam. Through his only available windows — the narrow eyes of Laurel’s youth — he had seen Delia’s husband as a pompous and tyrannical old cock, crippled but rampant, ruling his roost with a beak of iron; and from this it followed that the wife must be a gray-feathered hennypenny, preening herself emptily in corners, one of Bullock’s elderly barnyard trade... a dumpy, nervous, insignificant old biddy.
But the woman in his doorway was no helpless fowl, to be plucked, swallowed, and forgotten. Delia Priam was of a far different species, higher in the ranks of the animal kingdom, and she would linger on the palate.
She was so much younger than his mental sketch of her that only much later was Ellery to recognize this as one of her routine illusions, among the easiest of the magic tricks she performed as professionally as she carried her breasts. At that time he was to discover that she was forty-four, but the knowledge remained as physically meaningless as ― the figure leaped into his mind ― learning the chronological age of Ayesha. The romantic nonsense of this metaphor was to persist. He would even be appalled to find that he was identifying himself in his fantasy with that hero of his adolescence, Allan Quatermain, who had been privileged to witness the immortal strip-tease of She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed behind her curtain of living flame. It was the most naked juvenility, and Ellery was duly amused at himself. But there she was, a glowing end in herself; it took only imagination, a commodity with which he was plentifully provided, to supply the veils.
Delia Priam was big game; one glance told him that. His doorway framed the most superbly proportioned woman he had ever seen. She was dressed in a tawny peasant blouse of some sheer material and a California print skirt of bold colors. Her heavy black hair was massed to one side of her head, sleekly, in the Polynesian fashion; she wore plain broad hoops of gold in her ears. Head, shoulders, bust, hips ― he could not decide which pleased him more. She stood there not so much in an attitude as in an atmosphere ― an atmosphere of intense repose, watchful and disquieting.
By Hollywood standards she was not beautiful: her eyes were too deep and light-tinted, her eyebrows too lush; her mouth was too full, her coloring too high, her figure too heroic. But it was this very excessiveness that excited ― a tropical quality, humid, brilliant, still, and overpowering. Seeing her for the first time was like stepping into a jungle. She seized and held the senses; everything was leashed, lovely, and dangerous. He found his ears trying to recapture her voice, the sleepy growl of something heard from a thicket.
Ellery’s first sensible thought was, Roger, old cock, you can have her. His second was, But how do you keep her? He was on his third when he saw the chilly smile on Laurel Hill’s lips.
Ellery pulled himself together. This was evidently an old story to Laurel.
“Then Laurel’s... mentioned me.” A dot-dot-dot talker. It had always annoyed him. But it prolonged the sound of that bitch-in-a-thicket voice.
“I answered Mr. Queen’s questions,” said Laurel in a warm, friendly voice. “Delia, you don’t seem surprised to see me.”
“I left my surprise outside with your car.” Those lazy throat tones were warm and friendly, too. “I could say... the same to you, Laurel.”
“Darling, you never surprise me.”
They smiled at each other.
Laurel turned suddenly and reached for another cigaret.
“Don’t bother, Ellery. Delia always makes a man forget there’s another woman in the room.”
“Now, Laurel.” She was indulgent. Laurel slashed the match across the packet.
“Won’t you come in and sit down, Mrs. Priam?”
“If I’d had any idea Laurel was coming here...”
Laurel said abruptly, “I came to see the man about the dog, Delia. And the note. Did you follow me?”
“What a ridiculous thing to say.”
“Did you?”
“Certainly not, dear. I read about Mr. Queen in the papers and it coincided with something that’s been bothering me.”
“I’m sorry, Delia. I’ve been upset.”
“I’ll come back, Mr. Queen.”
“Mrs. Priam, does it concern Miss Hill’s father’s death?”
“I don’t know. It may.”
“Then Miss Hill won’t mind your sitting in. I repeat my invitation.
She had a trick of moving slowly, as if she were pushing against something. As he brought the chartreuse chair around he watched her obliquely. When she sat down she was close enough so that he could have touched her bare back with a very slight movement of his finger. He almost moved it.
She did not seem to have taken him in at all. And yet she had looked him over; up and down, as if he had been a gown in a dress shop. Perhaps he didn’t interest her. As a gown, that is.
“Drink, Mrs. Priam?”
“Delia doesn’t drink,” said Laurel in the same warm, friendly voice. Two jets spurted from her nostrils.
“Thank you, darling. It goes to my head, Mr. Queen.”
And you wouldn’t let anything go to your head, wherefore it stands to reason, thought Ellery, that one way to get at you is to pour a few extra-dry Martinis down that red gullet... He was surprised at himself. A married woman, obviously a lady, and her husband was a cripple. But that wading walk was something to see.
“Laurel was about to leave. The facts interest me, but I’m in Hollywood to do a book...”
The shirring of her blouse rose and fell. He moved off to the picture window, making her turn her head.
“If, however, you have something to contribute, Mrs. Priam...” He suspected there would be no book for some time.
Delia Priam’s story penetrated imperfectly. Ellery found it hard to concentrate. He tended to lose himself in details. The curves of her blouse. The promise of her skirt, which molded her strongly below the waist. Her large, shapely hands rested precisely in the middle of her lap, like compass points. “ Mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs...” Right out of Browning’s Renaissance. She would have brought joy to the dying Bishop of Saint Praxed’s.
“Mr. Queen?”
Ellery said guiltily, “You mean, Mrs. Priam, the same day Leander Hill received the dead dog?”
“The same morning. It was a sort of gift. I don’t know what else you’d call it.”
Laurel’s cigaret hung in the air. “Delia, you didn’t tell me Roger had got something, too!”
“He told me not to say anything, Laurel. But you’ve forced my hand, dear. Kicking up such a fuss about that poor dog. First the police, now Mr. Queen.”
“Then you did follow me.”
“I didn’t have to.” The woman smiled. “I saw you looking at Mr. Queen’s photo in the paper.”
“Delia, you’re wonderful.”
“Thank you, darling.” She sat peaceful as a lady tiger, smiling over secrets... Here, Brother Q!
“Oh. Oh, yes, Mrs. Priam. Mr. Priam’s been frightened―”
“Ever since the day he got the box. He won’t admit it, but when a man keeps roaring that he won’t be intimidated it’s pretty clear that he is. He’s broken things, too, some of his own things. That’s not like Roger. Usually they’re mine.”
Delightful. What a pity.
“What was in the box, Mrs. Priam?”
“I haven’t any idea.”
“A dead dog,” said Laurel. “Another dead dog!” Laurel looked something like a little dog herself, nose up, testing the air. It was remarkable how meaningless she was across from Delia Priam. As sexless as a child.
“It would have to have been an awfully small one, Laurel. The box wasn’t more than a foot square, of cardboard.”
“Unmarked?” asked Ellery.
“Yes. But there was a shipping tag attached to the string that was tied around the box. ‘Roger Priam’ was printed on it in crayon.” The beautiful woman paused. “Mr. Queen, are you listening?”
“In crayon. Yes, certainly, Mrs. Priam. Color?” What the devil difference did the color make?
“Black, I think.”
“No address?”
“No. Nothing but the name.”
“And you don’t know what was in it. No idea.”
“No. But whatever it was, it hit Roger hard. One of the servants found the box at the front door and gave it to Alfred―”
“Alfred.”
“Roger’s... secretary.”
“Wouldn’t you call him more of a... companion, Delia?’ asked Laurel, blowing a smoke ring.
“I suppose so, dear. Companion, nurse, handyman, secretary ― what-have-you. My husband, you know, Mr. Queen, is an invalid.”
“Laurel’s told me. All things to one man, eh, Mrs. Priam? I mean Alfred. We now have the versatile Alfred with the mysterious box. He takes it to Mr. Priam’s room. And then?” Why was Laurel laughing? Not outwardly. But she was. Delia Priam seemed not to notice.
“I happened to be in Roger’s room when Alfred came in. We didn’t know then about... Leander and his gift, of course. Alfred gave Roger the box, and Roger lifted a corner of the lid and looked inside. He looked angry, then puzzled. He slammed the lid down and told me to get out. Alfred went out with me, and I heard Roger lock his door. And that’s the last... I’ve seen of the box or its contents. Roger won’t tell me what was in it or what he’s done with it. Won’t talk about it at all.”
“When did your husband begin to show fear, Mrs. Priam?”
“After he talked to Leander in the Hill house the next day. On the way back home he didn’t say a word, just stared out the window of the station wagon. Shaking. He’s been shaking... ever since. It was especially bad a week later when Leander died...”
Then what was in Roger Priam’s box had little significance for him until he compared gifts with Leander Hill, perhaps until he read the note Hill had found in the collar of the dog. Unless there had been a note in Priam’s box as well. But then...
Ellery fidgeted before the picture window, sending up a smoke screen. It was ridiculous, at his age... pretending to be interested in a case because a respectable married woman had the misfortune to evoke the jungle. Still, he thought, what a waste.
He became conscious of the two women’s eyes and expelled a mouthful of smoke, trying to appear professional. “Leander Hill received a queer gift, and he died. Are you afraid, Mrs. Priam, that your husband’s life is in danger, too?”
Now he was more than a piece of merchandise; he was a piece of merchandise that interested her. Her eyes were so empty of color that in the sunlight coming through the window she looked eyeless; it was like being looked over by a statue. He felt himself reddening and it seemed to him she was amused. He immediately bristled. She could take her precious husband and her fears elsewhere.
“Laurel darling,” Delia Priam was saying with an apologetic glance, “would you mind terribly if I spoke to Mr. Queen... alone?”
Laurel got up. “I’ll wait in the garden,” she said, and she tossed her cigaret into the tray and walked out.
Roger Priam’s wife waited until Laurel’s slim figure appeared beyond the picture window, among the shaggy asters. Laurel’s head was turned away. She was switching her thigh with her cap.
“Laurel’s sweet,” said Delia Priam. “But so young, don’t you think? Right now she’s on a crusade and she’s feeling ever so knightly. She’ll get over it... Why, about your question, Mr. Queen. I’m going to be perfectly frank with you. I haven’t the slightest interest in my husband. I’m not afraid that he may die. If anything, it’s the other way around.”
Ellery stared. For a moment her eyes slanted to the sun and they sparkled in a mineral way. But her features were without guile. The next instant she was eyeless again.
“You’re honest, Mrs. Priam. Brutally so.”
“I’ve had a rather broad education in brutality, Mr. Queen.”
So there was that, too. Ellery sighed.
“I’ll be even franker,” she went on. “I don’t know whether Laurel told you specifically... Did she say what kind of invalid my husband is?”
“She said he’s partly paralyzed.”
“She didn’t say what part?”
“What part?” said Ellery.
“Then she didn’t. Why, Mr. Queen, my husband is paralyzed,” said Delia Priam with a smile, “from the waist down.”
You had to admire the way she said that. The brave smile. The smile that said Don’t pity me.
“I’m very sorry,” he said.
“I’ve had fifteen years of it.”
Ellery was silent. She rested her head against the back of the chair. Her eyes were almost closed and her throat was strong and defenseless.
“You’re wondering why I told you that.”
Ellery nodded.
“I told you because you can’t understand why I’ve come to you unless you understand that first. Weren’t you wondering?”
“All right. Why have you come to me?”
“For appearance’s sake.”
Ellery stared. “You ask me to investigate a possible threat against your husband’s life, Mrs. Priam, for appearance’s sake?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I do believe you. Nobody would invent such a reason!” Seating himself beside her, he took one of her hands. It was cool and secretive, and it remained perfectly lax in his. “You haven’t had much of a life.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve never done any work with these hands.”
“Is that bad?”
“It could be.” Ellery put her hand back in her lap. “A woman like you has no right to remain tied to a man who’s half-dead. If he were some saintly character, if there were love between you, I’d understand it. But I gather he’s a brute and that you loathe him. Then why haven’t you done something with your life? Why haven’t you divorced him? Is there a religious reason?”
“There might have been when I was young. Now...” She shook her head. “Now it’s the way it would look. You see, I’m stripping myself quite bare.”
Ellery looked pained.
“You’re very gallant to an old woman.” She laughed. “No, I’m serious, Mr. Queen. I come from one of the old California families. Formal upbringing. Convent-trained. Duennas in the old fashion. A pride of caste and tradition. I could never take it as seriously as they did...
“My mother had married a heretic from New England. They ostracized her and it killed her when I was a little girl. I’d have got away from them completely, except that when my mother died they talked my father into giving me into their custody. I was brought up by an aunt who wore a mantilla. I married the first man who came along just to get away from them. He wasn’t their choice ― he was an ‘American,’ like my father. I didn’t love him, but he had money, we were very poor, and I wanted to escape. It cut me off from my family, my church, and my world. I have a ninety-year-old grandmother who lives only three miles from this spot. I haven’t seen her for eighteen years. She considers me dead.”
Her head rolled. “Harvey died when we’d been married three years, leaving me with a child. Then I met Roger Priam. I couldn’t go back to my mother’s family, my father was off on one of his jaunts, and Roger attracted me. I would have followed him to hell.” She laughed again. “And that’s exactly where he led me.
“When I found out what Roger really was, and then when he became crippled and I lost even that, there was nothing left. I’ve filled the vacuum by trying to go back where I came from.
“It hasn’t been easy,” murmured Delia Priam. “They don’t forget such things, and they never forgive. But the younger generation is softer-bottomed and corrupted by modern ways. Their men, of course, have helped... Now it’s the only thing 1 have to hang on to.” Her face showed a passion not to be shared or relished. Ellery was glad when the moment passed. “The life I lead in Roger Priam’s house isn’t even suspected by these people. If they knew the truth, I’d be dropped and there’d be no return. And if I left Roger, they’d say I deserted my husband. Upper caste women of the old California society don’t do that sort of thing, Mr. Queen; it doesn’t matter what the husband is. So... I don’t do it.
“Now something is happening, I don’t know what. If Laurel had kept her mouth shut, I wouldn’t have lifted a finger. But by going about insisting that Leander Hill was murdered, Laurel’s created an atmosphere of suspicion that threatens my position. Sooner or later the papers will get hold of it ― it’s a wonder they haven’t already ― and the fact that Roger is apparently in the same danger might come out. I can’t sit by and wait for that. My people will expect me to be the loyal wife. So that’s what I’m being. Mr. Queen, I ask you to proceed as if I’m terribly concerned about my husband’s safety.” Delia Priam shrugged. “Or is this all too involved for you?”
“It would seem to me far simpler,” said Ellery, “to clear out and start over again somewhere else.”
“This is where I was born.” She looked out at Hollywood. Laurel had moved over to a corner of the garden. “I don’t mean all that popcorn and false front down there. I mean the hills, the orchards, the old missions. But there’s another reason, and it has nothing to do with me, or my people, or Southern California.”
“What’s that, Mrs. Priam?”
“Roger wouldn’t let me go. He’s a man of violence, Mr. Queen. You don’t ― you can’t ― know his furious possessiveness, his pride, his compulsion to dominate, his... depravity. Sometimes I think I’m married to a maniac.”
She closed her eyes. The room was still. From below Ellery heard Mrs. Williams’s Louisiana-bred tones complaining to the gold parakeet she kept in a cage above the kitchen sink about the scandalous price of coffee. An invisible finger was writing in the sky above the Wilshire district: MUNTZ TV. The empty typewriter nudged his elbow.
But there she sat, the jungle in batiste and colored cotton. His slick and characterless Hollywood house would never be the same again. It was exciting just to be able to look at her lying in the silly chair. It was dismaying to imagine the chair empty.
“Mrs. Priam.”
“Yes?”
“Why,” asked Ellery, trying not to think of Roger Priam, “didn’t you want Laurel Hill to hear what you just told me?”
The woman opened her eyes. “I don’t mind undressing before a man,” she said, “but I do draw the line at a woman.”
She said it lightly, but something ran up Ellery’s spine.
He jumped to his feet. “Take me to your husband.”