After a while Ellery remarked to Laurel’s profile: “You said something about Roger Priam’s ‘never’ leaving his wheelchair. You didn’t mean that literally, by any chance?”
“Yes. Not ever. Didn’t Delia tell you about the chair?”
“No.”
“It’s fabulous. After Roger became paralyzed he had an ordinary wheelchair for a time, which meant he had to be lifted into and out of it. Daddy told me about it. It seems Roger the Lion-Hearted couldn’t take that. It made him too dependent on others. So he designed a special chair for himself.”
“What does it do, boost him in and out of bed on mechanical arms?”
“It does away with a bed altogether.”
Ellery stared.
“That’s right. He sleeps in it, eats in it, does his work in it ― everything. A combination office, study, living room, dining room, bedroom and bathroom on wheels. It’s quite a production. From one of the arms of the chair hangs a small shelf which he can swing around to the front and raise; he eats on that, mixes drinks, and so on. Under the shelf are compartments for cutlery, napkins, cocktail things, and liquor. There’s a similar shelf on the other arm of the chair which holds his typewriter, screwed on, of course, so it won’t fall off when it’s swung aside. And under that shelf are places for paper, carbon, pencils and Lord knows what else. The chair is equipped with two phones of the plug-in type ― the regular line and a private wire to our house ― and with an intercom system to Wallace’s room.”
“Who’s Wallace?”
“Alfred Wallace, his secretary-companion. Then ― let’s see.” Laurel frowned. “Oh, he’s got compartments and cubbyholes all around the chair for just about everything imaginable ― magazines, cigars, his reading glasses, his toothbrush; everything he could possibly need. The chair’s built so that it can be lowered and the front raised, making a bed out of it for daytime napping or sleeping at night. Of course, he needs Alfred to help him sponge-bathe and dress and undress and so on, but he’s made himself as self-sufficient as possible ― hates help of any kind, even the most essential. When I was there yesterday his typewriter had just been sent into Hollywood to be repaired and he had to dictate business memoranda to Alfred instead of doing them himself, and he was in such a foul mood because of it that even Alfred got mad. Roger in a foul mood can be awfully foul... I’m sorry, I thought you wanted to know.”
“What?”
“You’re not listening.”
“I am, though not with both ears.” They were on Mulholland Drive now, and Ellery was clutching the side of the Austin to avoid being thrown clear as Laurel zoomed the little car around the hairpin curves. “Tell me, Laurel. Who inherits your father’s estate? I mean besides yourself?”
“Nobody. There isn’t anyone else.”
“He didn’t leave anything to Priam?”
“Why should he? Roger and Daddy were equal partners. There are some small cash bequests to people in the firm and to the household help. Everything else goes to me. So you see, Ellery,” said Laurel, soaring over a rise, “I’m your big suspect.”
“Yes,” said Ellery, “and you’re also Roger Priam’s new partner. Or are you?”
“My status isn’t clear. The lawyers are working on that now. Of course I don’t know anything about the jewelry business and I’m not sure I want to. Roger can’t chisel me out of anything, if that’s what’s in your mind. One of the biggest law firms in Los Angeles is protecting my interests. I must say Roger’s been surprisingly decent about that end of it ― for Roger, I mean. Maybe Daddy’s death hit him harder than he expected ― made him realize how important Dad was to the business and how unimportant he is. Actually, he hasn’t much to worry about. Dad trained a very good man to run things, a Mr. Foss, in case anything happened to him... Anyway, there’s one item on my agenda that takes priority over everything else. And if you won’t clear it up for me, I’ll do it myself.”
“Because you loved Leander Hill very much?”
“Yes!”
“And because, of course,” remarked Ellery, “you are the big suspect?”
Laurel’s little hands tightened on the wheel. Then they relaxed. “That’s the stuff, Ellery,” she laughed. “Just keep firing away at the whites of our eyes. I love it. ― There’s the Priam place.”
The Priam place stood on a private road, a house of dark round stones and blackish wood wedged into a fold of the hills and kept in forest gloom by a thick growth of overhanging sycamore, elm, and eucalyptus. Ellery’s first thought was that the grounds were neglected, but then he saw evidences of both old and recent pruning on the sides away from the house and he realized that nature had been coaxed into the role she was playing. The hopeless matting of leaves and boughs was deliberate; the secretive gloom was wanted. Priam had dug into the hill and pulled the trees over him. Who was it who had defied the sun?
It was more like an isolated hunting lodge than a Hollywood house. Most of it was hidden from the view of passers-by on the main road, and by its character it transformed a suburban section of ordinary Southern California canyon into a wild Scottish glen. Laurel told Ellery that the Priam property extended up and along the hill for four or five acres and that it was all like the area about the house.
“Jungle,” said Ellery as Laurel parked the car in the driveway. There was no sign of the cream Cadillac.
“Well, he’s a wild animal. Like the deer you flush occasionally up behind the Bowl.”
“He’s paying for the privilege. His electric bills must be enormous.”
“I’m sure they are. There isn’t a sunny room in the house. When he wants ― you can’t say more light ― when he wants less gloom, and air that isn’t so stale, he wheels himself out on that terrace there.” To one side of the house there was a large terrace, half of it screened and roofed, the other open not to the sky but a high arch of blue gum eucalyptus leaves and branches which the sun did not penetrate. “His den ― den is the word ― is directly of! the terrace, past those French and screen doors. We’d better go in the front way; Roger doesn’t like people barging in on his sacred preserves. In the Priam house you’re announced.”
“Doesn’t Delia Priam have anything to say about the way her house is run?”
“Who said it’s her house?” said Laurel.
A uniformed maid with a tic admitted them. “Oh, Miss Hill,” she said nervously. “I don’t think Mr. Priam... He’s dictatin’ to Mr. Wallace. I better not...”
“Is Mrs. Priam in, Muggs?”
“She just got in from shoppin’, Miss Hill. She’s upstairs in her room. Said she was tired and was not to be disturbed.”
“Poor Delia,” said Laurel calmly. “I know Mr. Queen is terribly disappointed. Tell Mr. Priam I want to see him.”
“But, Miss Hill―”
A muffled roar of rage stopped her instantly. She glanced over her shoulder in a panic.
“It’s all right, Muggsy. I’ll take the rap. Vatnos, Ellery.”
“I wonder why she―” Ellery began in a mumble as Laurel led him up the hall.
“Yours not to, where Delia is concerned.”
The house was even grimmer than he had expected. They passed shrouded rooms with dark paneling, heavy and humorless drapes, massive uncomfortable-looking furniture. It was a house for secrets and for violence.
The roar was a bass snarl now. “I don’t give a damn what Mr. Hill wanted to do about the Newman-Arco account, Foss! Mr. Hill’s locked in a drawer in Forest Lawn and he ain’t in any condition to give us the benefit of his advice... No, I won’t wait a minute, Foss! I’m running this business, and you’ll either handle things my way or get the hell out!”