“Is it for Roger Priam?”
“It is,” said Macgowan. “A pretty big package this time. It was left on top of the mailbox. Queen, I’m not giving Roger a hold over Laurel. I took it and that’s that.”
“Have you opened it, Mac?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“Your house.”
“Wait there and keep your hands off it.” Ellery hung up. “Number six, Keats!”
They found Laurel and Macgowan in Ellery’s living room, hovering hostilely over a package the size of a men’s suit box, wrapped in strong Manila paper and bound with heavy string. The now-familiar shipping tag with Priam’s name lettered on it in black crayon ― the now-familiar lettering ― was attached to the string. The package bore no stamps, or markings of any kind.
“Delivered in person again,” said Keats. “Miss Hill, how did you come to get hold of this?”
“I’ve been watching for days. Nobody tells me anything, and I’ve got to do something. And, darn it, after hours and hours of hiding behind bushes I missed her after all.”