Had she been wrong after all? Maybe it was an illusion, built on the substructure of her loathing for Delia and that single, startling look on Delia’s face as Ellery had held up the green wallet.
But suppose it wasn’t an illusion. Then the fact that it wasn’t where she would ordinarily have kept such a thing might be significant. Because Delia had hurried out of Roger’s den immediately. She might have gone directly upstairs to her bedroom, taken it from among the others, and stowed it away where it was unlikely to be found. By Muggs, for instance.
Where might Delia have hidden it? All Laurel wanted was to see it, to verify its existence...
It was not in the brassbound teak chest at the foot of the bed. Laurel took everything out and then put everything back.
After conquering three temptations to give it up and go home and crawl into bed and pull the bedclothes of oblivion over her head, Laurel found it. It was in the clothes closet after all. But not, Laurel felt, in an honest place. It was wedged in the dolman sleeve of one of Delia’s winter coats, a luxurious white duvetyn, which in turn was encased in a trans-parent plastic bag. Innocent and clever. Only a detective, Laurel thought, would have found it. Or another woman.
Laurel felt no triumph, just a shooting pain, like the entry of a hypodermic needle; and then a hardening of everything.
She had been right. She had seen Delia carrying one. Weeks before.
It was a woman’s envelope bag of forest green alligator leather, with gold initials. The maker’s name was Leatherland, Inc., of Hollywood, California.
A sort of Eve to the Adam of the wallet someone had sent to Roger Priam. A mate to the fourth warning.
“I suppose I should have told you yesterday,” Laurel said to Ellery in the cottage on the hill, “that Mac and I were down to Farmers’ Market on the trail of the green wallet. But we didn’t find out anything, and anyway I knew you’d know about it.”
“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.”
Chapter Twelve
But Ellery’s 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 f 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.