“Jungle,” said Ellery as Laurel parked the car in the driveway. There was no sign of the cream Cadillac.
“Well, he’s a wild animal. Like the deer you flush occasionally up behind the Bowl.”
“He’s paying for the privilege. His electric bills must be enormous.”
“I’m sure they are. There isn’t a sunny room in the house. When he wants ― you can’t say more light ― when he wants less gloom, and air that isn’t so stale, he wheels himself out on that terrace there.” To one side of the house there was a large terrace, half of it screened and roofed, the other open not to the sky but a high arch of blue gum eucalyptus leaves and branches which the sun did not penetrate. “His den ― den is the word ― is directly of! the terrace, past those French and screen doors. We’d better go in the front way; Roger doesn’t like people barging in on his sacred preserves. In the Priam house you’re announced.”
“Doesn’t Delia Priam have anything to say about the way her house is run?”
“Who said it’s her house?” said Laurel.
A uniformed maid with a tic admitted them. “Oh, Miss Hill,” she said nervously. “I don’t think Mr. Priam... He’s dictatin’ to Mr. Wallace. I better not...”
“Is Mrs. Priam in, Muggs?”
“She just got in from shoppin’, Miss Hill. She’s upstairs in her room. Said she was tired and was not to be disturbed.”
“Poor Delia,” said Laurel calmly. “I know Mr. Queen is terribly disappointed. Tell Mr. Priam I want to see him.”