“She’s home.” Crowe hesitated. “I don’t know what’s the matter with her. She’s tossed of! about eight Martinis and I couldn’t do a thing with her. I’ve never seen Laurel act like that. She doesn’t take a drink a week. I don’t like it.”
“Well, a girl’s entitled to a bender once in a while,” jeered Keats. “Your mother in?”
“Yes. I’ve told her. What did you find out?”
“Not much. The wrappings and box were a washout Our friend likes gloves. Did you tell Priam?”
“I told him you two were coming over on something important. That’s all.”
Keats nodded, and they went to Roger Priam’s quarters.
Priam was having his dinner. He was wielding a sharp blade and a fork on a thick rare steak. Alfred Wallace was broiling another on a portable barbecue. The steak was smothered with onions and mushrooms and barbecue sauce from several chafing dishes, and a bottle of red wine showed three-quarters empty on the tray. Priam ate in character: brutally, teeth tearing, powerful jaws crunching, eyes bulging with appetite, flecks of sauce on his agitated beard.
His wife, in a chair beside him, watched him silently, as one might watch a zoo animal at feeding time.
The entrance of the three men caught the meat-laden fork in midair. It hung there for a moment, then it completed its journey, but slowly, and Priam’s jaws ground away mechanically. His eyes fixed and remained on the box in Ellery’s hands.
“Sorry to interrupt your dinner, Mr. Priam,” said Keats, “but we may as well have this one out now.”