A Pinch of Poison (26 page)

“Yes,” Graham said. “This gets me, Lieutenant.”

“Does it?” Weigand inquired, only interest in his voice. “I'm sorry, Mr. Graham. Now—did she say anything more about Miss Winston? Did she, for example, say where Miss Winston was going that evening?”

“What on earth,” Graham wanted to know, “would I care where Miss Winston was going to dinner?”

“Right,” Weigand said. “Why should you? Was anything said about it?”

“No,” Graham said. “Of course not.” He spoke emphatically, staring at Weigand.

“Right,” Weigand said. “Now—did you tell Mrs. Graham where you were taking Miss Hand to dinner? No—wait a minute. You explained about that, didn't you? It was a last-minute decision—you'd planned to go somewhere else, but the other place was too hot or something. Wasn't that it?”

“Yes,” Graham said. “That was it.”

“Right,” Weigand said. “We have to keep things straight, you know. Now—I gathered from Miss Hand that your position is a fairly important one at your office, Mr. Graham—that you're more than an office manager; that you're something of a sales manager, in addition, and that you occasionally act as a purchasing agent, too. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Graham said. “Approximately.”

“Yes,” Weigand said. “You've made quite an impression on your secretary, Mr. Graham. Did you know that? She thinks the work you do is out of proportion to your position—and to your salary. She thinks you ought to be a member of the firm.”

“Does she?” Graham did not seem much interested. “I'm doing all right.”

“Of course,” Weigand said. “But you would buy into the firm if—if you had the capital, wouldn't you, Mr. Graham? It would make quite a difference in your income, I suppose? And you wouldn't mind that, of course.”

“Who would?” Graham said. “Listen, Weigand—I don't see—”

“Right,” Weigand said. “You don't have to answer these questions, of course. But we like to get a clear picture. Now—I talked to your father and Mrs. Graham yesterday, and I gathered there is a rather queer situation about his money—something about your not having children, because of his belief that there is insanity in the family? I'd like your version of that, Mr. Graham.”

“There's no version,” Mr. Graham said. His voice was worn, irascible. “It's rot. He feels that way, but it doesn't mean a damn thing.”

“Still,” Weigand argued, “he could make it stick, couldn't he? If you did have a child, I mean? He could fix it so you didn't get any money, couldn't he?”

“The courts would have something to say about that,” Graham said.

“Would they?” Weigand asked. “Even if your father
isn't
insane, Mr. Graham? And from what I saw of him, he isn't—not in any way that would invalidate a will. The courts are inclined to follow a testator's expressed wishes pretty closely, Mr. Graham—if he isn't insane, and the conditions aren't peculiar in any legal way. You know that, don't you?”

The last question came while Weigand was standing. As he spoke he moved toward the window and stood by it for a moment. Then he turned back to Graham.

“Your wife will be along any minute, now, Mr. Graham,” he said. “Is there anything you want to tell me before she comes?”

“What the hell?” Graham said. His voice was hoarse, grating. “What would I have to—”

Weigand broke in. His voice now was level, and rather hard.

“Well,” he said, “suppose you tell me this, Mr. Graham. What does your firm, Henri et Paulette, manufacture? Face creams? Scent? Face powder? Lipsticks? Things like that?”

“Yes,” Graham said. “Things like that.”

“And,” Weigand said, “
eye-lotion
—something for women to put in their eyes before parties to make them bright and beautiful? How about eye-lotion, Mr. Graham?”

Graham stared at the Lieutenant, and his own eyes were bright and hard. Weigand waited a moment, but Graham merely stared.

“An eye-lotion, Mr. Graham?” Weigand repeated. “An eye-lotion—with atropine sulphate in it?”

He waited for Graham's gaze to falter. It seemed about to; then Graham was looking beyond Weigand to the door, where Mrs. Graham stood, holding Michael to her and with Pam North and Dorian behind her.

“Margaret!” Graham said. There was excited relief in his voice, and he started to cross toward her. “Margaret! You're all right?”

Margaret Graham did not move. She stood with the child, looking at her husband. When she spoke her voice held nothing.

“Yes, John,” she said, “I'm all right.”

Her tone seemed to stop John Graham. Then he turned, sharply, toward Weigand.

“What have you done to her, Weigand?” he demanded. His voice had a snarl in it. “What have you made her—”

Weigand shook his head, slowly.

“Why don't you say hello to your son, Graham?” he said. “Why aren't you glad to see Michael?”

The words had a harmless sound as Weigand spoke them. But they brought a strange change to John Graham's face; it grew hard and bitter, and a kind of blankness of fear spread over it. Graham stood motionless for an instant; then, with convulsive speed, he moved. Even as Weigand's hand reached toward his police automatic, it was too late. Graham was across the floor. His charging shoulder sent Mrs. Graham staggering to the side, clutching the child. His hand wrenched at Pam's arm, sending her against a chair. He had Dorian, who had stood behind Pam, in his arms for a moment; then, as she struggled, he was behind her, his left forearm against her throat, forcing her head up and back. And his right hand held a gun long enough for them to see it. Then the gun was pressing hard against Dorian's side.

Graham's voice was high, cracking, as he spoke. Across the few feet he seemed to be screaming at them.

“Don't any of you move!” he screamed. “She'll get it, if you do. Don't try to stop me!” His voice rose high, and broke.
“Any of you!”
he cried.
“Don't move!”

He was backing into the hall, pulling Dorian in front of him. Weigand saw her eyes widening in a white face.

“Drop it!” Weigand said. “Drop the gun, Graham. You can't make it.”

But Weigand's hand had dropped from the butt of his own gun. Fear was singing in Weigand's mind.
“He's crazy,”
Weigand thought.
“In a moment he'll break—and kill!”

Graham was moving away from them still, into the hall. His eyes were bright, hysterical.

“
You won't burn
—” he was screaming. Then the scream went out in a choking sound, and there was a soft, muffled sound. Weigand was moving as Graham's right hand wavered, and the pistol began to spill from it. He was in time to catch Dorian as, released, she staggered away from Graham. Weigand seized her by the shoulders; he was shaking her and talking and he seemed to be very angry.

“You!” he said. “You—why can't you stay out of things?—Why do you have—” Then, suddenly, he stopped speaking, because she was looking at him and smiling faintly. He said nothing for a moment, and then drew her to him. She followed his eyes down to Graham, crumpled on the floor. Mullins was kneeling behind him, and fitting a blackjack into his hip pocket. Dorian's fingers closed on Bill Weigand's wrist.

“Is—is he dead?” she asked. The words came gaspingly.

Mullins stood up slowly. He was smiling, but the smile faded slowly. An expression of mild affront replaced it.

“Dead?” Mullins repeated, incredulously. “Dead, Miss Hunt?” He looked at her darkly. “Do you think I'm an amachoor, lady?” he inquired, with dignity. “Do you think I don't know how hard to hit a guy?” Mullins was a craftsman, insulted in his craft. It was clear that, for Mullins, the savor had departed, leaving ashes in the mouth.
“Dead!”
he repeated, dully. “Huh!”

But Graham was already stirring. Within five minutes, during which Pam sat with Margaret Graham and Michael at the end of the living-room, John Graham was conscious again; ready to be told that he was under arrest for the murders of Lois Winston and of Eva Halstead. He did not look at anybody when Weigand told him, but stared at the floor, dully. When Mullins clicked handcuffs about his wrists, he transferred his stare to them.

When Weigand told Graham, Margaret Graham's head dropped to her arms on a table beside the chair. Even when little Michael tugged at her arms and tried to see her face, she did not seem to know it.

19

T
HURSDAY

6:15
P.M.
TO
7:20
P.M.

Mr. and Mrs. North were on hands and knees on the living-room carpet when Martha let in Dorian Hunt. Dorian looked at them with only moderate surprise, but she said, “What on earth?”

“Pete,” Mrs. North told her. “Pete's back.”

She and Mr. North regarded Pete. Pete, a black and white cat lying comfortably stretched out between them, regarded Pam distantly over his left shoulder.

“I tell you,” Mrs. North said, “he does look shorter. Whatever you say, he's not as long as he used to be.”

“I know he isn't,” Mr. North said, argumentatively. “I never said he
was
as long as he used to be. I merely said that, for all practical purposes, he
looks
as long. Hello, Dor. Do you notice any difference?”

Dorian got down on her knees to look at Pete. Pete shifted his gaze to Dorian, putting his head flat down on the carpet and looking at her upside-down.

“You have to get to one side of him to see properly,” Mrs. North said. “Perspective.”

Dorian moved to one side of Pete. She looked at him carefully.

“I can't see any difference,” she said. “He looks about the same to me.” She looked up at Mrs. North. “Is he supposed to have shrunk?” she said.

“Oh,” said Mrs. North. “Didn't we tell you? I suppose with the murder and everything. He lost some tail.”

“With the murder?” Dorian said, lost. “I don't see how.”

“Not
because
of the murder,” Mrs. North said. “Because of the murder we didn't tell you. He lost his tail in the door up at camp. He was sitting in it.”

“In the doorway,” Mr. North explained. “The wind blew it.” He regarded this statement darkly for a moment. “Blew the doors, I mean,” he said. “French doors, you remember. It blew them together. And Pete's tail was in between.”

“Oh,” said Dorian. “How dreadful, Pete.”

She looked at Pete sympathetically. Pete stretched out a paw, consolingly, and touched her hand.

“It was dreadful,” Mrs. North agreed. “Poor kitty. At first he was just mad and hissed at the door and then he looked at his tail and began to yell. You know how cats can yell?”

“Yes,” Dorian said. “Cats can yell.”

“So,” Pam said, “we took him to the vet's and had it bandaged, but the bandage came off and the tail itched or something and Pete went crazy. He ran all over, yelling and biting at his tail. So we had to take him to the vet's again and leave him until it was healed. That's where he's been. Now it's well, only he looks shorter, of course. Why wouldn't he?”

She directed this to Mr. North.

“It's a matter of proportion,” Mr. North said. “He is shorter, of course. But he doesn't look shorter, that I can see. Have you heard from Bill?”

By common consent they got up as Mr. North said this. Pete, chagrined at this withdrawal of attention which he had approved as a cat's natural right, spoke unpleasantly about it. Mrs. North said, “Nice kitty,” abstractedly.

“Yes,” she said. “What about Bill? Is he coming to dinner?”

“Yes,” Dorian said. “He'll be along. He telephoned me a little while ago. He said it was all over.” Animation died from her face. “I keep thinking of poor Mrs. Graham,” she said. “And wondering what it's all about and what will happen about her and Michael, don't you, Pam? I keep remembering how awful—how broken—she looked when they took Graham out, and how set her face was when Bill said they would have to take Michael back to the Foundation. Did you see Bill's face when he said it?”

“Yes,” Pam said. “It—it must be tough to be a cop, sometimes.”

“But he couldn't help it,” Dorian told her. There was something like a challenge in the words. Pam's lips almost smiled, and then the smile withdrew.

“I know he couldn't, Dorian,” she said. She let the smile show. “You don't have to defend him to me, Dor. I think he's swell, too.”

Dorian and Pam looked at each other.

“All right,” Mr. North said. “Break it up. Break it up. Especially you, Pam. Standing there mooning over Bill—” He grinned at them. “A heel if there ever was one,” he added.

“Why—!” Pam began indignantly. Then she saw Jerry's face. “All right,” she said. “You're just jealous, that's all. Isn't he, Dor?”

Dorian was saying “of course” when the doorbell rang and Martha crossed to click the downstairs door open. A moment later, Bill Weigand stood in the door of the living-room. His face was tired, but there was no strain in it. He answered the inquiries in the three faces.

“Yes,” he said. “All over, including the shouting. Graham's spilled the whole business. A bullet fired from his gun matches one of the bullets that killed Mrs. Halstead. We've found the boy he sent out late Tuesday to get a package from a wholesale drug company—a package of atropine sulphate, to be sent along to the factory. The boy didn't know what it was; he just had a note. And the drug concern didn't report it when our men inquired, of course. It was a perfectly legitimate transaction. He's admitted making reservations for McIntosh at both the roof and the Crescent Club and—”

“Look,” Mr. North said, “you're starting in the middle. The middle for me, anyway. Don't I count? All I know is that John Graham killed Lois Winston and this Mrs. Halstead, and that Michael is really his own son. And his wife's?”