face.
You believed me dead. Killed, murdered. For over a score of years I have looked for you â for you and for him. And now I have found you. Can you guess my plan? Youâll die. Quickly? No, very slowly. And so pay me back for my long years of searching and dreaming of revenge. Slow dying ⦠unavoidable dying. For you and for him. Slow and sure â dying in mind and in body. And for each pace forward a warning ⦠a warning of special meaning for you â and for him. Meanings for pondering and puzzling. Here is warning number one.
Laurel stared at the notepaper.
âThat,â said Crowe Macgowan, taking the sheet, âis the unfunniest gag of the century.â He frowned over it.
âNot just that.â Laurel shook her head. âWarning number one. Murder. Revenge. Special meanings ⦠It â it has a long curly moustache on it. Next week Uncle Tomâs Cabin .â She looked around with a laugh. âEven in Hollywood.â
âWhyâd the old scout take it seriously?â Crowe watched Laurel a little anxiously.
Ellery took the sheet from him and folded it carefully. âMelodrama is a matter of atmosphere and expression. Pick up any Los Angeles newspaper and youâll find three new stories running serially, and one of which would make this one look like a work by Einstein. But theyâre real because theyâre couched in everyday terms. What makes this note incredible is not the contents. Itâs the wording.â
âThe wording?â
âItâs painful. Actually archaic in spots. As if it were composed by someone who wears a ruff, or a tricorn. Someone who speaks a different kind of English. Or writes it. It has a ⦠bouquet, an archive smell. A something that would never have been put into it purely for deception, for instance ⦠like the ransom-note writers who deliberately misspell words and mix their tenses to give the impression of illiteracy. And yet â I donât know.â Ellery slipped the note into his pocket. âItâs the strangest mixture of genuineness and contrivance. I donât understand it.â
âMaybe,â suggested the young man, putting his arm carelessly around Laurelâs shoulders, âmaybe itâs the work of some psycho foreigner. It reads like somebody translating from another language.â
âPossible.â Ellery sucked his lower lip. Then he shrugged. âAnyway, Laurel, thereâs something to go on. Are you sure you wouldnât rather discuss this â?â
âYou mean because it involves Roger?â Laurel laughed again, removing Macgowanâs paw. âMac isnât one of Rogerâs more ardent admirers, Ellery. Itâs all right.â
âWhat did he do now?â growled Roger Priamâs stepson.
âHe said he wasnât going to be scared by any âghost,â Mac. Or rather roared it. And hereâs a clue to someone from his past and, apparently, Leander Hillâs. âFor you and for him â¦â Laurel, what do you know of your fatherâs background?â
âNot much. Heâd led an adventurous life, I think, but whenever I used to ask him questions about it â especially when I was little â heâd laugh, slap me on the bottom, and send me off to Madâmoiselle.â
âWhat about his family?â
âFamily?â said Laurel vaguely.
âBrothers, sisters, uncle, cousins â family. Where did he come from? Laurel, Iâm fishing. We need some facts.â
âIâm no help there. Daddy never talked about himself. I always felt I couldnât pry. I canât remember his ever having any contact with relatives. I donât even know if any exist.â
âWhen did he and Priam go into business together?â
âIt must have been around twenty, twenty-five years ago.â
âBefore Delia and he got married,â said Crowe. âDelia â