The Origin of Evil (16 page)

‘But you don't come into the wholesale jewellery business from outer space,' protested Ellery. ‘Isn't there a record somewhere of previous connections in the industry? At least of one of them?'

‘The N.J.A. records don't show anything before 1927.'

‘Well, have you tried this? Certainly Hill, at least, had to go abroad once in a while in connection with the firm's foreign offices — Laurel told me they have branches in Amsterdam and South Africa. That means a passport, a birth certificate —'

‘That was my ace in the hole.' Keats snapped a fresh cigarette to his lips. ‘But it turns out that Hill & Priam don't own those branches, although they do own the one in New York. They're simply working arrangements with established firms abroad. They have large investments in those firms, but all their business dealings have been, and still are, negotiated by and through agents. There's no evidence that either Hill or Priam stepped off American soil in twenty-three years, or at least during the twenty-three years we have a record of them.' He shrugged. ‘They opened the New York branch early in 1929, and for a few years Priam took care of it personally. But it was only to get it going and train a staff. He left it in charge of a man who's still running it there, and came back here. Then Priam met and married Delia Collier Macgowan, and the next thing that happened to him was the paralysis. Hill did the transcontinental hopping for the firm after that.'

‘Priam's never had occasion to produce a birth certificate?'

‘No, and in his condition there's no likelihood he ever will. He's never voted, for instance, and while he might be challenged to prove his American citizenship — to force him to loosen up about his place of birth and so on — I'm afraid that would take a long, long time. Too long for this merry-go-round.'

‘The war —'

‘Both Priam and Hill were over the military age limit when World War II conscription began. They never had to register. Search of the records on World War I failed to turn up their names.'

‘You're beginning to irritate me, Lieutenant. Didn't Leander Hill carry any insurance?'

‘None that antedated 1927, and in the photostats connected with what insurance he did take out after that date his place of birth appears as Chicago. I've had the Illinois records checked, and there's none of a Leander Hill; it was a phony. Priam carries no insurance at all. The industrial insurance carried by the firm, of course, is no help.

‘In other words, Mr. Queen,' said Lieutenant Keats, ‘there's every indication that both men deliberately avoided leaving, or camouflaged, the trail to their lives preceding their appearance in L.A. It all adds up to one thing —'

‘That there was no Leander Hill or Roger Priam in existence before 1927,' muttered Ellery. ‘Hill and Priam weren't their real names.'

‘That's it.'

Ellery got up and went to the window. Through the glass, darkly, he saw the old landscape again.

‘Lieutenant.' He turned suddenly. ‘Did you check Roger Priam's paralysis?'

Keats smiled. ‘Got quite a file on that if you want to read a lot of medical mumbo-jumbo. The sources are some of the biggest specialists in the United States. But if you want it in plain American shorthand, his condition is on the level and it's hopeless. By the way, they were never able to get anything out of Priam about his previous medical history, if that's what you had in mind.'

‘You're disgustingly thorough, Keats. I wish I could find the heart to congratulate you. Now tell me you couldn't find anything on Alfred Wallace and I'll crown you.'

Keats picked up an inkstand and offered it to Ellery. ‘Start crowning.'

‘Nothing on Wallace
either
?'

‘That's right.' Keats spat little dry sprigs of tobacco. ‘All I could dig up about Mr. Alfred W. dates from the day Priam hired him, just over a year ago.'

‘Why, that can't be!' exploded Ellery. ‘Not three in the same case.'

‘He's not an Angeleno, I'm pretty well convinced of that. But I can't tell you what he
is
. I'm still working on it.'

‘But … it's such a short time ago, Keats!'

‘I know,' said Keats, showing his teeth without dropping the cigarette, ‘you wish you were back in New York among the boys in the big league. Just the same, there's something screwy about Wallace, too. And I thought, Mr. Queen, having so little to cheer you up with today, I'd cut out the fancy stuff and try a smash through the centre of the line. I haven't talked to Wallace. How about doing it now?'

‘You've got him here?' exclaimed Ellery.

‘Waiting in the next room. Just a polite invitation to come down to the station here and have a chat. He didn't seem to mind — said it was his day off anyway. I've got one of the boys keeping him from getting bored.'

Ellery pulled a chair into a shadowed corner of the office and snapped, ‘Produce.'

Alfred Wallace came in with a smile, the immaculate man unaffected by the Fahrenheit woes of lesser mortals. His white hair had a foaming wave to it; he carried a debonair slouch hat; there was a small purple aster in his lapel.

‘Mr. Queen,' said Wallace pleasantly. ‘So you're the reason Lieutenant Keats has kept me waiting over an hour.'

‘I'm afraid so.' Ellery did not rise.

But Keats was polite. ‘Sorry about that, Mr. Wallace. Here, have this chair … But you can't always time yourself in a murder investigation.'

‘You mean what
may
be a murder investigation, Lieutenant,' said Wallace, seating himself, crossing his legs, and setting his hat precisely on his knee. ‘Or has something new come up?'

‘Something new could come up, Mr. Wallace, if you'll answer a few questions.'

‘Me?' Wallace raised his handsome brows. ‘Is that why you've placed this chair where the sun hits my face?' He seemed amused.

Keats silently pulled the cord of the Venetian blind.

‘Thanks, Lieutenant. I'll be glad to answer any questions you ask. If, of course, I can.'

‘I don't think you'll have any trouble answering this one, Mr. Wallace: Where do you come from?'

‘Ah,' Wallace looked thoughtful. ‘Now that's just the kind of question, Lieutenant, I can't answer.'

‘You mean you won't answer.'

‘I mean I can't answer.'

‘You don't know where you come from, I suppose.'

‘Exactly.'

‘If that's going to be Mr. Wallace's attitude,' said Ellery from his corner, ‘I think we can terminate the interview.'

‘You misunderstand me, Mr. Queen. I'm not being obstructive.' Wallace sounded earnest. ‘I can't tell you gentlemen where I come from because I don't know myself. I'm one of those interesting cases you read about in the papers. An amnesia victim.'

Keats glanced at Ellery. Then he rose. ‘Okay, Wallace. That's all.'

‘But that's not all, Lieutenant. This isn't something I can't prove. In fact, now that you've brought it up, I insist on proving it. You're making a recording of this, of course? I would like this to go into the record.'

Keats waved his hand. His eyes were intent and a little admiring.

‘One day about a year and a half ago — the exact date was January the sixteenth of last year — I found myself in Las Vegas, Nevada, on a street corner,' said Alfred Wallace calmly. ‘I had no idea what my name was, where I came from, how I had got there. I was dressed in filthy clothing which didn't fit me and I was rather banged up. I looked through my pockets and found nothing — no wallet, no letters, no identification of any kind. There was no money, not even coins. I went up to a policeman and told him of the fix I was in, and he took me to a police station. They asked me questions and had a doctor in to examine me. The doctor's name was Dr. James V. Cutbill, and his address was 515 North Fifth Street, Las Vegas. Have you got that, Lieutenant?

‘Dr. Cutbill said I was obviously a man of education and good background, about fifty years old or possibly older. He said it looked like amnesia to him. I was in perfect physical condition, and from my speech a North American. Unfortunately, Dr. Cutbill said, there were no identifying marks of any kind on my body and no operation scars, though he did say I'd had my tonsils and adenoids out probably as a child. This, of course, was no clue. There were some fillings in my teeth, of good quality, he thought, but I'd had no major dental work done. The police photographed me and sent my picture and a description to all Missing Persons Bureaus in the United States. There must be one on file in Los Angeles, Lieutenant Keats.'

Keats grew fiery red. ‘I'll check that,' he growled. ‘And lots more.'

‘I'm sure you will, Lieutenant,' said Wallace with a smile. ‘The Las Vegas police fixed me up with some clean clothes and found me a job as a handyman in a motel, where I got my board and a place to sleep, and a few dollars a week. The name of the motel is
The 711
, on Route 91 just north of town. I worked there for about a month, saving my pay. The Las Vegas police told me no one of my description was listed as missing anywhere in the country. So I gave up the job and hitch-hiked into California.

‘In April of last year I found myself in Los Angeles. I stayed at the Y, the Downtown Branch on South Hope Street; I'm surprised you didn't run across my name on their register, Lieutenant, or haven't you tried to trace me? — and I got busy looking for employment. I'd found out I could operate a typewriter and knew shorthand, that I was good at figures — apparently I'd had business training of some sort as well as a rather extensive education — and when I saw an ad for a secretarial companion-nurse job to an incapacitated business man, I answered it. I told Mr. Priam the whole story, just as I've told it to you. It seems he'd been having trouble keeping people in recent years and, after checking back on my story, he took me on for a month's trial. And here,' said Wallace with the same smile, ‘here I am, still on the job.'

‘Priam took you on without references?' said Keats, doodling. ‘How desperate was he?'

‘As desperate as he could be, Lieutenant. And then Mr. Priam prides himself on being a judge of character. I was really glad of that, because to this day I'm not entirely sure what my character is.'

Ellery lit a cigarette. Wallace watched the flame of the match critically. When Ellery blew the flame out, Wallace smiled again. But immediately Ellery said, ‘How did you come to take the name Alfred Wallace if you remembered nothing about your past? Or did you remember that?'

‘No, it's just a name I plucked out of the ether, Mr. Queen. “Alfred,” “Wallace” — they're very ordinary names and more satisfying than John Doe. Lieutenant Keats, aren't you going to check my story?'

‘It's going to be checked,' Keats assured him. ‘And I'm sure we'll find it happened exactly as you've told it, Wallace — dates, names, and places. The only thing is, it's all a dodge. That's something I feel in my bones. As one old bone-feeler to another, Mr. Queen, how about it?'

‘Did this doctor in Las Vegas put you under hypnosis?' Ellery asked the smiling man.

‘Hypnosis? No, Mr. Queen. He was just a general practitioner.'

‘Have you seen any other doctor since? A psychiatrist, for example?'

‘No, I haven't.'

‘Would you object to being examined by a psychiatrist of — let's say — Lieutenant Keats's choosing?'

‘I'm afraid I would, Mr. Queen,' murmured Wallace. ‘You see, I'm not sure I want to find out who I really am. I might discover, for example, that I'm an escaped thief, or that I have a bow-legged wife and five idiot children somewhere. I'm perfectly happy where I am. Of course, Roger Priam isn't the easiest employer in the world, but the job has its compensations. I'm living in royal quarters. The salary Priam pays me is very large — he's a generous employer, one of his few virtues. Old, fat Mrs. Guittierez is an excellent cook, and even though Muggs, the maid, is a straitlaced virgin with halitosis who's taken an unreasonable dislike to me, she does keep my room clean and polishes my shoes regularly. And the position even solves the problem of my sex life — oh, I shouldn't have mentioned that, should I?' Wallace looked distressed; he waved his muscular hand gently. ‘A slip of the tongue, gentlemen. I do hope you'll forget I said it.'

Keats was on his feet. Ellery heard himself saying, ‘Wallace. Just what did you mean by that?'

‘A gentleman, Mr. Queen, couldn't possibly have the bad taste to pursue such a question.'

‘A gentleman couldn't have made the statement in the first place. I ask you again, Wallace: How does your job with Priam take care of your sex life?'

Wallace looked pained. He glanced up at Keats. ‘Lieutenant, must I answer that question?'

Keats said slowly, ‘You don't have to answer anything. You brought this up, Wallace. Personally, I don't give a damn about your sex life unless it has something to do with this case. If it has, you'd better answer it.'

‘It hasn't, Lieutenant. How could it have?'

‘I wouldn't know.'

‘Answer the question,' said Ellery in a pleasant voice.

‘Mr. Queen seems more interested than you, Lieutenant.'

‘Answer the question,' said Ellery in a still pleasanter voice.

Wallace shrugged. ‘All right. But you'll bear witness, Lieutenant Keats, that I've tried my best to shield the lady in the case.' He raised his eyes suddenly to Ellery, and Ellery saw the smile in them, a wintry shimmer. ‘Mr. Queen, I have the great good luck to share my employer's wife's bed. As the spirit moves. And the flesh being weak, and Mrs. Priam being the most attractive piece I've yet seen in this glorious state, I must admit that the spirit moves several times a week and has been doing so for about a year. Does that answer your question?'