“He’s dead. He’s dead!”
Collier hurried to her. “No, no, daughter. Just scared. Now you go upstairs. We’ll take care of Roger.”
“He’s not dead? Then why―? How do these―?”
“Delia.” The old man stroked her hand.
“Don’t touch anything. Anything!”
“No, no, daughter―”
“Nothing must be touched. It’s got to be left exactly as you found it. Exactly.” And Delia stumbled up the hall to the household telephone and called Ellery.
When Ellery pulled up before the Priam house a radio patrol car was already parked in the driveway. A young officer was in the car, making a report to headquarters by radio, his mouth going like a faucet. His mate was apparently in the house.
“Here, you.” He jumped out of the car. “Where you going?” His face was red.
“I’m a friend of the family, Officer. Mrs. Priam just telephoned me.” Ellery looked rather wild himself. Delia had been hysterical over the phone and the only word he had been able to make out, “fogs,” had conveyed nothing reasonable. “What’s happened?”