Keats read it slowly. Then he examined the notepaper, front and back.
“That’s Hill’s handwriting, by the way. Obviously a copy he made. I found it in a slit in his mattress.”
“Where’s the original of this, Mr. Queen?”
“Probably destroyed.”
“Even if this were the McCoy.” Keats put the sheet down. “There’s nothing here that legally connects Hill’s death with a murder plot. Of course, the revenge business...”
“I know, Lieutenant. It’s the kind of case that gives you fellows a hard ache. Every indication of a psycho, and a possible victim who won’t co-operate.”
“Who’s that?”
“The ‘him’ of the note.” Ellery told Keats about Roger Priam’s mysterious box, and of what Priam had let slip during Ellery’s visit. “There’s something more than a gangrenous imagination behind this, Lieutenant. Even though no one’s going to get anywhere with Priam, still... it ought to be looked into, don’t you agree?” The detective pulled at his unlit cigaret.
“I’m not sure I want any part of it myself,” Ellery said, glancing at his typewriter and thinking of Delia Priam. “I’d like a little more to go on before I commit myself. It seemed to me that if we could find something in Hill’s past, and Priam’s, that takes this note out of the ordinary crackpot class...”
“On the q.t.?”