“The more you mulled, the more feasible Wallace’s elimination became. His death would remove the only outside knowledge of your guilt; as your wife’s lover he ought to die to satisfy your peculiar psychological ambivalence; and, dead, he became a perfect Charles Adam. Wallace was within Adam’s age range had Adam lived; Wallace’s background was unknown because of his amnesic history; even his personality fitted with what we might have expected Adam to be.
“If you could make us flush Alfred Wallace from the mystery as Charles Adam, you’d be killing three birds with one stone.
“And so you arranged for Wallace’s death.”
Roger Priam raised his head. Color had come back into his cheekbones, and his heavy voice was almost animated.
“I’ll have to read some of your books,” Priam said. “You sure make up a good story.”
“As a reward for that compliment, Priam,” said Ellery, smiling, “I’ll tell you an even better one.
“A few months ago you ordered Alfred Wallace to go out and buy a gun. You gave Wallace the money for it, but you wanted the gun’s owner-ship traceable to him.
“Tonight you buzzed Wallace on the intercom, directly to his bedroom, and you told Wallace you heard someone prowling around outside the house. You told him to take the gun, make sure it was loaded, and come down here to your room, quietly―”
“That’s a lie,” said Roger Priam.
“That’s the truth,” said Ellery.