“What was in the box, Mrs. Priam?”
“I haven’t any idea.”
“A dead dog,” said Laurel. “Another dead dog!” Laurel looked something like a little dog herself, nose up, testing the air. It was remarkable how meaningless she was across from Delia Priam. As sexless as a child.
“It would have to have been an awfully small one, Laurel. The box wasn’t more than a foot square, of cardboard.”
“Unmarked?” asked Ellery.
“Yes. But there was a shipping tag attached to the string that was tied around the box. ‘Roger Priam’ was printed on it in crayon.” The beautiful woman paused. “Mr. Queen, are you listening?”
“In crayon. Yes, certainly, Mrs. Priam. Color?” What the devil difference did the color make?
“Black, I think.”
“No address?”
“No. Nothing but the name.”