Because there was nothing in what he was displaying to make a man cringe.
It was simply a wallet, a man’s wallet of breast pocket size made of alligator leather, beautifully grained and dyed forest green. There were no hideous stains on it; it had no history; it was plainly brand-new. And high-priced; it was edged in gold. Ellery flipped it open. Its pockets were empty. There had been no note or card in the box.
“Let me see that,” said Keats.
Nothing to make a man cower, or a woman grow pale.
“No initials,” said Keats. “Nothing but the maker’s name.” He scratched his cheek, glancing at Priam again.
“What is it, Lieutenant?” asked Laurel.
“What is what, Miss Hill?”
“The maker’s name.”
“Leatherland, Inc., Hollywood, California.”
Priam’s beard had sunk to his chest.