“Pressure, say.”
“In the war on Priam’s nerves.”
“If he’s got an iron nerve himself.” Keats rose. “Well, this isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“Anything yet on Hill and Priam?”
“Not yet.” Keats slowly crumpled his cigaret. “It might be a toughie, Mr. Queen. So far I haven’t got to first base.”
“What’s holding you up?”
“I don’t know yet. Give me another few days.”
“What about Wallace?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Late that afternoon ― it was the twenty-first, the day after the Shriners parade ― Ellery looked around from his typewriter to see the creamy nose of Delia Priam’s convertible in profile against his front window.