The Origin of Evil Read Online Free Page A

can’t come into it. I’ve asked Roger to tell them what he knows — knowing that what he knows would be enough for them to go on — and he laughed and recommended Arrowhead or Palm Springs as a cure for my “pipe dream,” as he called it. The police point to the autopsy report and Dad’s cardiac history and send me politely away. Are you going to do the same?’
    Ellery turned to the window. To get into a live murder case was the last thing in the world he had bargained for. But the dead dog fascinated him. Why a dead dog as a messenger of bad news? It smacked of symbolism. And murderers with metaphoric minds he had never been able to resist. If, of course, there was a murder. Hollywood was a playful place. People produced practical jokes on the colossal scale. A dead dog was nothing compared with some of the elaborations of record. One he knew of personally involved a race-horse in a bathroom, another the employment for two days of seventy-six extras. Some wit had sent a cardiac jeweller a recently deceased canine and a fake Mafia note, and before common sense could set in the victim of the dog-play had a heart attack. Learning the unexpected snapper of his joke, the joker would not unnaturally turn shy. The victim, ill and shaken, summoned his oldest friend and business partner to a conference. Perhaps the note threatened Sicilian tortures unless the crown jewels were deposited in the oily crypt of the pterodactyl pit in Hancock Park by midnight of the following day. For three hours the partners discussed the note, Hill nervously insisting it might be legitimate, Priam reasonably poohing and boshing the very notion. In the end Priam came away, and what Laurel Hill had taken to be fear was probably annoyance at Hill’s womanish obduracy. Hill was immobilized by his partner’s irritation, and before he could rouse himself his heart gave out altogether. End of mystery. Of course, there were a few dangling ends … But you could sympathize with the police. It was a lot likelier than a wild detective-story theory dreamed up by deceased’s daughter. They had undoubtedly dismissed her as either a neurotic girl tipped over by grief or a publicity hound with a yen for a starlet contract. She was determined enough to be either.
    Ellery turned about. She was leaning forward, the forgotten cigarette sending up question marks.
    â€˜I suppose,’ said Ellery, ‘your father had a closetful of bony enemies?’
    â€˜Not to my knowledge.’
    This astonished him. To run true to form she should have come prepared with names, dates, and vital statistics.
    â€˜He was an easy, comfortable sort of man. He liked people, and people liked him. Dad’s personality was one of the big assets of Hill & Priam. He’d have his moments like everybody else, but I never knew anyone who could stay mad at him. Not even Roger.’
    â€˜Then you haven’t the smoggiest notion who could be behind this … fright murder?’
    â€˜Now you are laughing.’ Laurel Hill got to her feet and dropped her cigarette definitely into the ashtray. ‘Sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time.’
    â€˜You might try a reliable agency. I’ll be glad to —’
    â€˜I’ve decided,’ she smiled at him, ‘to go into the racket personally. Thanks for the avocado —’
    â€˜Why, Laurel.’
    Laurel turned quickly.
    A tall woman stood in the doorway.
    â€˜Hello, Delia,’ said Laurel.

2
    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 grey-feathered hennypenny, preening herself emptily in corners, one of Bullock’s elderly barnyard trade