A Pinch of Poison (14 page)

“Women want them,” Weigand translated, more or less for his own benefit. “It seems to be very natural.”

Old Graham nodded his head.

“Ought to have their own, though!” he said.

“Really, Father,” Mrs. Graham said, “that's an odd way for you to talk.”

Graham looked at her, and his manner softened.

“Don't cry about it, Margaret,” he said. The tone was kinder than the words. “Not your fault. Except marrying a Graham. Somebody should have told you.”

“There wasn't anything to tell,” she said. “It just isn't true. Everybody's told you that. The doctor told you that.”

“People are fools,” old Graham said. “Look at my father. Look at his father. Don't tell me it isn't so.”

Mrs. Graham looked at Weigand appealingly.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't know he would get off on this.”

“Well—” Weigand began. But the old man broke in.

“May as well know,” he said. “No secret about it.” He pointed a long finger at Weigand. “Crazy,” he said. “That's what it is. Crazy.” He waggled the finger. “Not me,” he said. “It skipped me. But all the rest of them. My father. His father. So I decided to stop it. What do you think of that?”

“I don't know,” Weigand said. “I don't entirely understand you, Mr. Graham.”

“Fool!” Graham said. “Perfectly simple. Insanity in the family. In all the Grahams. Except me, of course. Even John's a little off.”

He looked at Margaret Graham as he said this.

“Father!” she said. The tone was shocked, protesting.

“Not bad, yet,” the old man said. “Nobody sees it except me. You wait!”

Weigand wished he were out of this. But, nevertheless, it was interesting.

“Told them they couldn't have children,” Graham said, this time to Weigand. “Not and get my money. My son's smart, whatever I say. Knows money is better than kids. Humors me.”

He laughed again, wheezingly.

“Not going to pass it on,” he said. “Or I don't pass the money on. Got him, eh?”

“Yes,” Weigand said. “Only it isn't generally believed that insanity can be inherited, you know.”

“Fools,” Graham said, positively. “Think I don't know about that? And whose money is it?”

“Yours, I assume, Mr. Graham,” Weigand said. “Will you feel the same about an adopted son?”

“Of course not!” the old man said. “Why should I? No taint. They can adopt a dozen! A hundred! Nothing to me, as long as they're not under foot.”

“Well,” Weigand said. This time he really moved to go. Mrs. Graham stood up. Old Graham looked at them.

“Hope you catch him,” Graham said. “She was a nice girl, for nowadays. Catch him and hang him.”

“Right,” Weigand said. “We'll try, anyway. Goodbye, Mr. Graham.”

The old man wasn't looking at them any more. He was staring out at the street. He seemed to have forgotten them. Neither spoke until they were outside again. Then Mrs. Graham said she was sorry.

“I didn't know he would be like this,” she said. “He is unpredictable.”

Weigand looked at her, feeling sympathy.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “It must be difficult for you. That is true, I gather—what he said about children?”

“Oh yes,” she said. Her voice sounded tired, and without spirit. “That's true enough. If we have children we don't get his money. And John feels we need it. That's why we are adopting Michael. And none of it is true, of course. His father wasn't insane, nor his grandfather. Just as he is—explosive and odd, but quite sane. We found out. Even if insanity is hereditary, there isn't any to be inherited. But what can we do?”

Weigand didn't know. He admitted he didn't know.

9

W
EDNESDAY

1:15
P.M. TO
3:30
P.M.

Downstairs, George Benoit was standing by a window, looking out at the hot street. The elder members of the family seemed to like looking out of windows. Benoit turned as his daughter and Weigand entered and smiled at Margaret Graham's helpless, half-amused shrug.

“Difficult, I see,” Benoit said. “Poor old Cyrus.” He seemed gently amused. “And now, my dear, I'm off,” he said. “Since I can't see Craven until tomorrow, I may as well see Smith today.” It sounded a little like a riddle to Weigand, but evidently not to Mrs. Graham. She said, “But it's so hot, Father. And that long ride in the subway. If you insist on not driving.”

He would, Benoit told her, rather ride the subway than try to park on Forty-second Street.

“Wouldn't you, Lieutenant?” he said to Weigand, smiling. He was a pleasant man, Weigand decided. Then he remembered that Benoit had met Lois Winston the day before.

“I'm going downtown from here,” he said. “I can give you a lift if you like.”

It was very good of him, Benoit said. He'd appreciate it. He repeated his appreciation when he sat beside Weigand in the Buick. Weigand U-turned and headed toward the Parkway.

“Good of you,” Benoit said. “Beats the subway. But I don't know anything, if you had that in mind.”

He smiled at Weigand, wisely. Weigand smiled back.

“Right,” Weigand said. “Always a cop. But it's nothing, really. I wondered what you thought of the girl—the girl who was killed—when you met her yesterday. I suspect you think about people.”

“I liked her,” Benoit said. “I was sorry to hear of what happened. And it disturbed my daughter, of course—she thinks it will complicate matters about the boy. I don't suppose it will?”

Weigand said he shouldn't think so.

“You didn't notice anything odd about her?” he pressed. “She didn't seem under a strain? Anything like that?”

Benoit shrugged.

“I didn't notice anything,” he said. “But I'd never seen her before. I don't know how she was usually, of course. My daughter would be a better person to ask.”

Naturally, Weigand agreed. He had asked. Mrs. Graham had noticed nothing.

“Nor did I,” Benoit repeated. “I wasn't paying much attention, actually. I was—well, not in a settled frame of mind, particularly. I was thinking of my own affairs and of a cop in Danbury. Or should I say policeman?”

It didn't matter, Weigand told him. “Cop” was all right.

“Traffic, I suppose?” he said, not caring.

They were talking idly, wheeling toward the Parkway. Traffic, of course, Benoit told him. And a three-hour delay, where it would do the most harm, while he paid a five-dollar fine to a judge.

“I was driving down from Hartford,” he said. “I live there, you know. Going to Washington to see a man. And so I get held up in Dan-bury until it's too late to make it. I decided to stop in New York overnight and go on to Washington by train this evening. I was feeling annoyed about the whole business when I saw Miss Winston, so I didn't notice much about her.”

Weigand agreed it was annoying. Although, he added, anything which would keep a man out of Washington in weather like this wasn't an unmixed evil. Benoit smiled.

“It's hot enough here,” he said. “It's hot in Hartford.”

A fascinating discussion, Weigand told himself, broodingly. And probably as valuable for his purpose as any other he had had that day. He had, he suspected, merely given himself a few irrelevancies to think about; merely cluttered his mind. “The trouble with me as a cop,” he told himself, “is that I get interested in people. People who are none of my business.” He sighed, and drew up behind another car which had stopped for a red light. O'Malley was, after all, a better cop. He stuck to the main issue—he stuck to Randall Ashley which, nine chances in ten, was the place to stick.

“Light's changed,” Benoit said, half to himself.

Weigand pulled the gear lever toward him into low and let his foot relax on the clutch. Then he pushed it down again and waited while the car ahead jumped the light.

“I've got to be legal,” he told Benoit. “At least, when there's no hurry. Our friend in front doesn't have to be, he figures. So he goes while it is still red both ways, which would make the traffic detail a little annoyed if they saw it.”

“Oh,” Benoit said. “I didn't notice. We have a different system in Hartford.”

What he would do after he dropped Benoit and checked at Headquarters, Weigand decided, was to get back on the Randall Ashley angle. It might, he decided, be worth while to talk to Ashley's girl friend—Miss Madge Ormond, who sang in night clubs. It would be interesting to see what she did when he called her Mrs. Ashley. He turned onto the Parkway and picked up speed. It was only fifteen minutes later that he wheeled off at Forty-fourth and delivered Benoit to city traffic.

“This will be fine,” Benoit said. “No use dragging you across town. I'll get a taxicab.”

He was, Weigand explained, going across town about here in any case. He went across town, patient of the lights. He dropped Benoit and found a telephone.

Mullins had reports of three unknowns who had purchased atropine sulphate during the past week, all to make eyewash. The eyewash business must be good, Mullins thought.

“It's all a lotta eyewash, Loot,” he said, cheerfully.

It was hot in the booth.

“Is it?” Weigand said. “Did you plan to mean something, sergeant?”

His voice was not encouraging. Mullins remained tolerant.

“O.K., Loot,” he said. “We got a wire from the Veterans Hospital in Arizona. They never heard of any Richard Osborne. Have we gotta be surprised?”

“No,” Weigand said. “We don't have to be surprised. What else?”

Detective Stein had turned in a funny-looking list of words which he said the lieutenant wanted. Something about an encyclopædia?

“Right,” Weigand said. “Hold it. I'll be down.”

Mullins had had a check made on Madge Ormond, who was, unless somebody had slipped up, safely at home in her apartment in the Forties. She was in the money, it seemed like. In the field of night club singing, she rated.

“Zori's,” Mullins said. “Only it's closed, now, for redecoration. And she's been in a coupla shows.”

“Right,” Weigand said. “And?”

A man was on his way to keep an eye on Mrs. Halstead. Randall Ashley had not left the apartment; a middle-aged woman, identified as Mrs. Ashley, had gone in. So had a man with a black bag. (The lounging detective apparently had made friends with an elevator operator, Weigand decided.) David McIntosh had gone to his office about ten, gone out to lunch about one. He was still out to lunch, and Detective Hildebrandt was practically sitting in his lap. Young Frank Kensitt was, as he had indicated, a ward of the Foundation. Lois Winston had taken special trouble with him, and got him his job at the Ritz-Plaza. He was now doing a little floor scrubbing at the Ritz-Plaza.

Weigand ticked off detail.

“Right,” he said. “There's no use your taking root there. Get onto the Ashley lawyer, or whoever knows. Find out the precise conditions of the will.”

“What will?” said Mullins.

It was, Weigand decided, a sound question.

“Both wills, come to think of it,” he said. “The will under which young Ashley gets his money, if he does. Lois Winston's will. Any other wills you run across.”

Mullins said that would be O.K. And then what?

“Come in,” Weigand said. “We'll see what you've got. Then, if you've been a good boy, I may take you to the Norths'.”

Mullins was cheerful.

“O.K., Loot,” he said. “I'll dig around.”

Weigand went to lunch. It was, he realized after he had thought of it, high time. He absorbed a Tom Collins which was only fair and some cold salmon which tasted of nothing. He returned to the car, circled the block and pulled up in front of an elderly building which had a window card saying “Vacancy.” Inside the vestibule he pushed a bell marked Ormond and the door clicked. On the third floor a colored maid said that Miss Ormond was dressing.

“She isn't seeing nobody,” the maid said.

“She wasn't seeing nobody,” Weigand corrected. “Now she
is
seeing somebody.”

He showed his badge and the maid's eyes enlarged.

“Yessir,” she said. “I'll tell her.”

She went, leaving the door open. Weigand followed her in.

It was a surprisingly pleasant living-room, he decided, with light walls and unobtrusively modern furniture. The maid went through a door at the side and after a little while Madge Ormond came out the same door. She was wearing a pale yellow negligée and was stimulating to look at. Her eyes were wary and her voice had no particular intonation. It was low and husky and she laid it out flat on the air.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” she said.

She had decided, Weigand observed, not to be the tough little girl that she had been at their first meeting. Her new manner seemed to fit better.

“How long have you and Randall Ashley been married?” Weigand said.

She looked at him without answering for a moment and, still looking, sat down. Weigand sat down opposite her. The negligée opened as she crossed her knees and Weigand observed that she had very nice legs.

“'Bout six weeks,” she said. She didn't ask how he knew. She closed the small rift in the negligée, without making a point of it.

“You know,” he said, “it means that Ashley doesn't get his money. Only the interest.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” she said. “We both knew that.”

“And so tried to keep it secret,” Weigand said.

She wasn't rising.

“Naturally,” she said. “Not being fools. Wouldn't you, if it came to that?”

“No,” Weigand said. “I don't think so.”

She looked at him and smiled.

“But you are so upright, Lieutenant,” she said. “And I'm just a night club singer. That's why the lady is a tramp.”