“Something’s happened down here, Mr. Priam,” said Wallace soothingly.
“Happened! What now?”
Ellery and Keats were watching Priam closely. The library desk and a big chair stood between the wheelchair and the fireplace; Priam had not seen the burned book.
“Somebody broke into your library here tonight, Mr. Priam,” rasped Keats, “and don’t think I’m happy about it, because I’m as sick of you as you are of me. And if you’re thinking of blasting me out again, forget it. Breaking and entering is against the law, and I’m the cop on the case. Now you’re going to answer questions about this or, by God, I’ll pull you in on a charge of obstructing a police investigation. Why was this book cut up and burned?”
Keats stalked across the room carrying the charred remains. He thrust the thing under Priam’s nose.
“Book... burned?”
All his rage had fled, exposing the putty color beneath. Priam glared down at the twisted cinder in Keat’s hand, pulling away a little.
“Do you recognize this?”
Priam’s head shook.
“Can’t you tell us what it is?”