“What do you think he’s going to say when he finds out you’ve brought a detective around?”
“Oh, dear,” said Delia. Then she brightened. “Why, darling, you’re bringing Mr. Queen around, don’t you see? Do you mind very much? I know it’s yellow, but I have to live with him. And you did get to Mr. Queen first.”
“All right,” said Laurel with a shrug. “We’ll give you a head start, Delia. You take Franklin and Outpost, and I’ll go around the long way, over Cahuenga and Mulholland. Where have you been, shop-ping?”
Delia Priam laughed. She got into her car, a new cream Cadillac convertible, and drove off down the hill.
“Hardly a substitute,” said Laurel after a moment. Ellery started. Laurel was holding open the door of her car, a tiny green Austin.
“Either car or driver. Can you see Delia in an Austin? Like the Queen of Sheba in a rowboat. Get in.”
“Unusual type,” remarked Ellery absently, as the little car shot off.
“The adjective, yes. But as to the noun,” said Laurel, “there is only one Delia Priam.”
“She seems remarkably frank and honest.”
“Does she?”