The Origin of Evil by Ellery Queen

Author:Ellery Queen
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Published: 2012-01-15T12:11:16+00:00

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ALFRED WALLACE CAME in with a smile, the immaculate man unaffected by the Fahrenheit woes of lesser mortals. His white hair had a foaming wave to it; he carried a debonair slouch hat; there was a small purple aster in his lapel.

“Mr. Queen,” said Wallace pleasantly. “So you’re the reason Lieutenant Keats has kept me waiting over an hour.”

“I’m afraid so.” Ellery did not rise.

But Keats was polite. “Sorry about that, Mr. Wallace. Here, have this chair . . . But you can’t always time yourself in a murder investigation.”

“You mean what may be a murder investigation, Lieutenant,” said Wallace, seating himself, crossing his legs, and setting his hat precisely on his knee. “Or has something new come up?”

“Something new could come up, Mr. Wallace, if you’ll answer a few questions.”

“Me?” Wallace raised his handsome brows. “Is that why you’ve placed this chair where the sun hits my face?” He seemed amused.

Keats silently pulled the cord of the Venetian blind.

“Thanks, Lieutenant. I’ll be glad to answer any questions you ask. If, of course, I can.”

“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble answering this one, Mr. Wallace: Where do you come from?”

“Ah.” Wallace looked thoughtful. “Now that’s just the kind of question, Lieutenant, I can’t answer.”

“You mean you won’t answer.”

“I mean I can’t answer.”

“You don’t know where you come from, I suppose.”

“Exactly.”

“If that’s going to be Mr. Wallace’s attitude,” said Ellery from his corner, “I think we can terminate the interview.”

“You misunderstand me, Mr. Queen. I’m not being obstructive.” Wallace sounded earnest. “I can’t tell you gentlemen where I come from because I don’t know myself. I’m one of those interesting cases you read about in the papers. An amnesia victim.”

Keats glanced at Ellery. Then he rose. “Okay, Wallace. That’s all.”

“But that’s not all, Lieutenant. This isn’t something I can’t prove. In fact, now that you’ve brought it up, I insist on proving it. You’re making a recording of this, of course? I would like this to go into the record.” Keats waved his hand. His eyes were intent and a little admiring.

“One day about a year and a half ago―the exact date was January the sixteenth of last year―I found myself in Las Vegas, Nevada, on a street corner,” said Alfred Wallace calmly. “I had no idea what my name was, where I came from, how I had got there. I was dressed in filthy clothing which didn’t fit me and I was rather banged up. I looked through my pockets and found nothing―no wallet, no letters, no identification of any kind. There was no money, not even coins. I went up to a policeman and told him of the fix I was in, and he took me to a police station. They asked me questions and had a doctor in to examine me. The doctor’s name was Dr. James V. Cutbill, and his address was 515 North Fifth Street, Las Vegas. Have you got that, Lieutenant ?

“Dr. Cutbill said I was obviously a man of education and good background, about fifty years old or possibly older.

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