“Sit down again.”
She betrayed herself by the quick way in which she came back to the pony-skin chair, by the way she folded her tense hands and waited.
“How exactly, Laurel, did a dead dog ‘kill’ your father?”
“It murdered him.”
He didn’t like the way she sat there. He said deliberately, “Don’t build it up for me. This isn’t a suspense program. A strange dead hound is left on your doorstep and your father dies. What’s the connection?”
“It frightened him to death!”
“And what did the death certificate say?” He now understood the official hilarity.
“Coronary something. I don’t care what it said. Getting the dog did it.
“Let’s go back.” Ellery offered her one of his cigarets, but she shook her head and took a pack of Dunhills from her green pouch bag. He held a match for her; the cigaret between her lips was shaking. “Your name is Laurel Hill. You had a father. Who was he? Where do you live? What did he do for a living? And so on.” She looked surprised, as if it had not occurred to her that such trivia could be of any interest to him. “I’m not necessarily taking it, Laurel. But I promise not to laugh.”
“Thank you... Leander Hill. Hill & Priam, Wholesale Jewelers.”