The Origin of Evil by Ellery Queen Read Free Book Online Page A

of lean distinction. His voice was strong and thoughtful, with the merest touch of … superiority? Whatever it was, it was barely enough to impress, not quite enough to annoy. Wallace might have stepped out of a set on the MGM lot labelled High Society Drawing Room ; and, in fact, ‘well-preserved actor’ had been Ellery’s impulsive characterization — Hollywood leading-men types with Athletic Club tans were turning up these days in the most unexpected places, swallowing their pride in order to be able to swallow at all. But a moment later Ellery was not so sure. Wallace’s shoulders did not look as if they came off with his coat. His physique, even his elegance, seemed home-grown.
    â€˜I should think you’d be smitten, Laurel,’ said Ellery as they waited. ‘That’s a virile character. Perfectly disciplined, and dashing as the devil.’
    â€˜A little too old,’ said Laurel. ‘For me, that is.’
    â€˜He can’t be much more than fifty-five. And he doesn’t look forty-five, white hair notwithstanding.’
    â€˜Alfred would be too old for me if he were twenty. — Oh. Well? Do I have to get Mr. Queen to brush you aside, Alfred, or is the Grand Vizier going to play gracious this morning?’
    Alfred Wallace smiled and let them pass.
    The man who slammed the phone down and spun the steel chair about as if it were a studio production of balsa wood was a creature of immensities. He was all bulge, spread, and thickness. Bull eyes blazed above iron cheekbones; the nose was a massive snout; a tremendous black beard fell to his chest. The hands which gripped the wheels of the chair were enormous; forearms and biceps strained his coat sleeves. And the whole powerful mechanism was in continuous movement, as if even that great frame was unable to contain his energy. Something by Wolf Larsen out of Captain Teach, on a restless quarter-deck. Beside that immense torso Alfred Wallace’s strong figure looked frail. And Ellery felt like an underfed boy.
    But below the waist Roger Priam was dead. His bulk sat on a withered base, an underpinning of skeletal flesh and atrophied muscle. He was trousered and shod — and Ellery tried not to imagine the labour that went into that operation twice daily — but his ankles were visible, two shrivelled bones, and his knees were twisted projections, like girders struck by lightning. The whole shrunken substructure of his body hung, useless.
    It was all explicable, Ellery thought, on ordinary grounds: the torso over-developed by the extraordinary exertions required for the simplest movements; the beard grown to eliminate one of the irksome processes of his daily toilet; the savage manner an expression of his hatred of the fate that had played such a trick on him; and the restlessness a sign of the agony he endured to maintain a sitting position. Those were the reasons; still, they left something unexplained … Ferocity — fierce strength, fierce emotions, fierce reaction to pain and people — ferocity seemed his centre. Take everything else away, and Ellery suspected it would still be there. He must have been fierce in his mother’s womb, a wild beast by nature. What had happened to him merely brought it into play.
    â€˜What d’ye want, Laurel? Who’s this?’ His voice was a coarse, threatening bass, rumbling up from his chest like live lava. He was still furious from his telephone conversation with the hapless Foss; his eyes were filled with hate. ‘What are you looking at? Why don’t you open your mouth?’
    â€˜This is Ellery Queen.’
    â€˜Who?’
    Laurel repeated it.
    â€˜Never heard of him. What’s he want?’ The feral glance turned on Ellery. ‘What d’ye want? Hey?’
    â€˜Mr. Priam,’ said the beautiful voice of Alfred Wallace from the doorway, ‘Ellery Queen is a famous writer.’
    â€˜Writer?’
    â€˜And detective, Mr.