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!”