“I theorize a typewriter with a broken key. Do we know of a typewriter ― in this case ― which wasn’t in perfect working order?
“Strangely enough, Mr. Priam, we do.
“On my way to your house for the first time, in Laurel Hill’s car, I asked Laurel some questions about you. She told me how self-sufficient you’ve made yourself, how as a reaction to your disability you dislike help of the most ordinary kind. As an example, Laurel said that when she was at your house ‘the day before’ you were in a foul mood over having to dictate business memoranda to Wallace instead of doing them yourself ― your typewriter had just been sent into Hollywood to be repaired.”
Priam twisted. Keats stood by his wheelchair, lifting the attached typewriter shelf.
Priam choked a splutter, glancing painfully down at the shelf as Keats swung it up and around.
Ellery and Keats bent over the machine, ignoring the man in the chair.
They glanced at each other.
Keats tapped the T key with a fingernail. “Mr. Priam,” he said, “there’s only one key on this machine that’s new. It’s the T. The note to Hill was typed right here.” He spread his fingers over the carriage of Priam’s typewriter, almost with affection.
A sound, formless and a little beastly, came out of Priam’s throat. Keats stood by him, very close.
“And who could have typed a note on your machine, Mr. Priam?” asked Ellery in the friendliest of voices. “There’s no guesswork here. If I’d never seen this typewriter shelf I’d have known the machine is screwed on.