by MK Alexander
I laughed and gave her a squeeze. “So far, my tongue hurts from biting it so much.”
I heard Percy talking loudly, slurring a bit:
“I can’t say that I like that Perkins woman, she’s a blatant socialist… Think of it, limiting the work week to less than fifty hours? Nothing will get done at all.”
Drummond seemed to take notice of this. “Who are y’all talking about?”
“The new Secretary of Labor, Frances Perkins,” Percy replied. “Imagine, a woman in the cabinet.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and all those policies about workers’ insurance, welfare and public pensions… it’s dreadful. Social security, indeed…”
“Well, she did come up with the new child labor laws. That’s gotta be a good thing,” Higgins said.
“You object to socialism, Mr Mayor?” Doctor Burtan asked.
“Please, call me Percy.”
“Socialism is just a stepping stone towards a more pure form of communism,” Burtan continued.
“Damn the godless bolshies...”
“Communism is self serving, and illusionary, just like democracy,” Professor Mallinger interrupted. “So long as the status quo remains more or less intact, it matters little what political system it’s under… Keeping civilization going is the task at hand.”
“You think there’s some danger that it won’t?” Valenti asked, a bit surprised.
Mallinger turned and gave him a desolate smile. “I would say the last war clearly demonstrated how precarious civilization can be. It teetered on the edge and very nearly collapsed.”
“Surely that’s an exaggeration.”
“Not for the untold millions in Europe,” Mallinger replied. “Perhaps this country fared a bit better...”
“Well, Mr Drummond here is the true patriot. He’s a founding member of the American Liberty League,” Mears said.
“What’s that?” Higgins asked.
“An organization dedicated to protecting the constitution.”
“That sounds pretty noble. Protect it against who though?”
“Enemies.”
“Which enemies? Fascism, communism, Wall Street?”
“Enemies from within, my good sir,” Drummond replied. “I reckon the government itself is the problem.”
“That’s quite a bold statement. Do you mean some kind of conspiracy?” Higgins asked.
“Ha, conspiracy…” Mallinger scoffed loudly. “Such a thing hardly exists except in people’s imagination. More often than not it’s a blundering combination of short-sightedness and greed… driven along by the laws of unintended consequence.”
“What makes you say that, Professor?”
“Few people have the insight to initiate a conspiracy, and even fewer have the foresight to see where it might lead.” Mallinger turned towards Higgins. “We can always rely on human nature— this is what shapes history.”
“What part of human nature?”
“Greed, fear, anger, brutality.”
“That’s pretty cynical.”
“Sadly it’s true.”
“What about generosity and hope, compassion?”
“Minor constituents of the human personality— self-serving delusions for the most part.”
“Who does history belong too then?”
“Whoever holds the keys to greed and fear… but offers hope and generosity to the masses.”
“Sounds diabolical.”
“I’ve found most people live somewhere between fear and hope,” Mallinger observed.
“But ultimately it’s the people that will decide history,” Valenti said.
“Another fallacy, my good Doctor. Whatever choice you lay before the masses, it’s safe to say one third of the populace is passionately for it, one third is passionately against, and the remaining third could care less. They go on with their lives as if nothing were afoot.”
“How can you say that?”
“Such has been my experience… and I’ll go further. It’s the oblivious third who are the most dangerous lot.”
“Why is that?”
“Ha, for them to do nothing… take no action, take no stand one way or the other… They might as well not exist.”
“Maybe they can be swayed?”
“I suppose…” Mallinger waved his hand dismissively.
“Like that fellow, Hitler… he was elected with less than a third of the vote,” Percy commented.
“Hitler, Stalin, Gandhi, Mussolini… Mark my words, in a few years all these men will be called to task,” Doctor Burtan remarked.
“Not so sure I’d put Gandhi on that list,” Higgins said.
“You might add Roosevelt. He’s already behaving like a dictator.”
“If he is, then he’s quite a benevolent one. I think the guy’s a pragmatist. He’s trying everything and anything, just to see if it sticks. And I don’t blame him for it,” Higgins replied with a fair amount of passion.
“Oh, a Franklin lover, eh?” Drummond glared at him.
“I heard that the First Lady said, If you succeed, you'll go down as one of the greatest presidents ever. Franklin replied, If I fail, I’ll be remembered as the last one.”
“What are you implying? The end of democracy?” Valenti asked.
“Well Doc, you’ve seen what’s happened in your old country.”
“Are you suggesting fascism could spread here?”
“Might not be a bad thing,” Drummond said. “So long as we still respect the holy constitution.”
“Hang on a second… The holy constitution? It’s a fine document, but it was written by men, not gods,” Higgins burst out angrily.
“And there are all those various amendments to contend with,” Percy added.
“I’m all for defending the Bill of Rights,” Higgins persisted.
“Well, that’s a secondary consideration to my way of thinking,” Drummond said in his drawl.
“And what’s that exactly— your way of thinking?”
“People have to fend for themselves, that’s all. No coddling, no favorites, no quarter for weakness.”
“Whoa… you make it seem like people are responsible for their own misfortune.”
“Surely they are?”
“Surely they’re not,” Higgins spat back. “If you get sick or something— are you responsible for that?”
“Yes, I am responsible for maintaining my own good health. I’m sure Doctor Valenti won’t disagree with that.”
“What about an accident, or bad luck, or circumstances?”
“What circumstances?”
“Poverty, oppression, injustice… and all the things they lead to: ignorance, lack of opportunity, despair.”
“It’s up to the individual to rise above his circumstances,” Drummond replied.
“What part of oppression am I missing?” Higgins asked. “These people, their weakness— they’re not just going to magically disappear. There’ll always be vulnerable folks.”
“Such as?”
“Children, the elderly, the sick, the infirm…”
“Then what should be done with them?” Drummond sneered.
“Be done with them?” Higgins sputtered. “Exactly what religion do you represent, Reverend?”
“And you expect the government to help them?” he asked.
“I do, we are all part of the same society.”
“You there, what do you think?” Drummond called out and looked in my direction.
“Me?” I asked.
“Yes, as the man on the street… what would you say, ranchero?”
“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”
“Well, that’s mighty sage coming from a waiter.”
“It’s a quote from Edmund Burke.”
“Is it now? And who was he?”
“Irish guy, father of conservatism, some would say.”
“Gentlemen, I must object to this line of conversation— no politics tonig
ht, eh?” Valenti tried to reign things in.
“That doesn’t leave us much else to talk about,” Percy commented and made the table laugh.
“Lovely home, Doctor Valenti,” Mr Mears spoke up.
“Thank you for saying so. It’s an old captain’s house, I’ve been told…”
“A pirate more likely, or a privateer,” Doctor Burtan said in a bit of a slur.
***
The first course was served, cold soup. Elsie and I loitered by the sideboard again.
“Ah, gentlemen, before we have our soup, a small word of explanation. It is called gazpacho… I might suggest a bit of freshly ground pepper before you start… And, I would like to see that it is properly chilled…” Valenti tasted the soup with some satisfaction and began to slurp with relish. I saw Percy eating as well. The others at the table seemed a bit hesitant.
After several mouthfuls though, an odd expression came to Doctor Valenti’s face. He smacked his tongue several times as if something tasted off, and tried another spoonful. Then he gagged loudly, clutched at his own throat in panic and stared off across the room with an unfocused gaze. He sputtered and coughed, then fell head-first into his own soup bowl.
I rushed over to help, lifting his head back, but it would not stay up on its own. I felt for a pulse and could tell his heart was racing wildly. He broke out into a heavy sweat. He grabbed my lapel and pulled me close, “B-flat,” he whispered. I checked his pulse again. I’m pretty sure he was dead. His place setting was filled with red soup, though it could have just as easily been blood. I shouted to Elsie, “Call nine-one-one.”
“What?” she asked from across the room.
“Call Daisy, get Sheriff Durbin here.”
Elsie came running over after hanging up and spoke in a whisper: “He’s not there.”
“What do you mean?”
“Daisy called the station, but no one answered.”
“What? How can he not be there? Where the heck is he?”
“I don’t know,” Elsie said nervously. “Daisy’s trying everyone in town as we speak… she’ll find him if anyone does.”
“What should we do till then?”
“Yes, what shall we do?” Mallinger repeated. Apparently he had excellent hearing and came up beside me.
“We should call an ambulance and have the body taken to the hospital morgue. That would be a start,” Doctor Burtan said.
“Yes, and you can send the rest of us home,” Drummond added.
“I can’t do that. Doctor Valenti has been murdered. I can’t let you all just leave.”
“And who put you in charge? Mr Mears is County Commissioner, he has the authority to—” Drummond started but was interrupted.
“Percy here is the Mayor, he out-ranks you,” Higgins spoke up and then conferred with his partner.
“That’s right,” Percy said loudly. “I am a duly elected official. You sir, are merely an appointee.”
“Wait a second, please, one of us here is a murderer. We have to wait for the police.”
“Perhaps it’s not murder at all. Perhaps Doctor Valenti fell ill and died— albeit rather suddenly.”
“No, it’s pretty obvious his soup has been poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” Percy asked.
“That much seems clear enough,” Higgins agreed.
“Everyone here is a suspect now, including myself, and even Elsie…” I stammered. “And whoever it is, they seemed ready to kill everyone tonight.”
“Everyone having soup, you mean. That makes you rather suspect as the waiter,” Mallinger pointed out.
“I had the soup and I’m fine,” Percy said.
We were saved from further thinking by the sound of Durbin’s jalopy arriving outside on the driveway. Two men got out of the car and followed him to the door. One I knew well; Inspector Fynn was by his side. The other man loitered by the car. Most of the guests crowded by the front entrance with anxious faces.
“Look who I just found at the station,” Durbin said with a grin. “Sorry we’re late.”
“Who’s the other guy?”
“Secret Service,” Durbin said to me. “What did you say your name was again?” he called out.
“Hank, Agent Bigelow. I’m here to talk to Doctor Valenti,” he replied as he walked towards us.
“Too late.”
“What do you mean, too late?”
“He’s dead.”
“How?”
“Poison soup, I think.” I paused then whispered to Durbin and Fynn alone. “Someone here is a murderer.”
Fynn led me inside without a word. Durbin called out to his new colleague, “Tell you what, Hank. Why don’t you wait out here and make sure nobody leaves.”
I noticed Agent Bigelow glanced at Burtan through the door and it struck me as odd.
“Alright… I’ll stay here for now.”
***
Inspector Fynn began by calling for calm and asked everyone to avoid the dining room, requesting that we gather elsewhere. Most of the guests lingered near the bar. Elsie seemed particularly upset. “Ah, Miss Everest… are you all right?” Fynn asked in a comforting tone. “I’m sure this is a terrible shock to you.”
She was sobbing now. The inspector took Elsie to the living room and sat her on the sofa. He poured a brandy and helped her drink it until she seemed to calm. I looked on a bit helplessly, then watched Durbin eyeing the guests one by one. He could hardly mask his suspicious glances. Higgins and Percy walked over to him— finally he gave off a grin.
Fynn took me aside. “What can you tell me, Patrick?”
I immediately looked over at Mortimer. “The cane,” I said.
“Yes, I noticed, and I’m restraining against every instinct to simply snatch it and run off,” Fynn replied with a tight smile.
“I have a lot to say about what goes on at the hospital,” I whispered. “I found the Brigadier, Murray and Edmund…”
“Indeed… But it must wait for the moment. What has happened here tonight? Tell me how the evening unfolded.”
“The gazpacho you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Well, when Elsie and I first arrived, Doc Valenti tried the soup, about two o’clock… It was absolutely fine. He put it in the ice box.”
“Who had access to the kitchen?”
“Everyone… but no one went near it— out of the guests, I’m mean. Wait a second, I did catch Drummond in there by himself… said he was looking for the bathroom.”
“How was the soup served?”
“Gretchen ladled it out and Elsie and I brought the bowls to the serving board.”
“Gretchen?”
“Doctor Valenti’s housekeeper.”
“Was anyone nearby?”
“Well, Mallinger was.”
“Who else?”
“Higgins and Percy… everyone was just kind of hanging around— it’s right next to the bar there.”
“I see… Anything else?”
“The telephone rang. Valenti went to answer it.”
“Who called?”
“A wrong number, I think.”
“Who was sitting next to Doctor Valenti?”
“Drummond to his left and Mears to his right.”
“Did you notice anything else?”
“I saw Valenti grind some pepper into his soup.”
Fynn took the pepper mill from the table and began twisting it. Then he opened the whole apparatus and studied it closely. “Seems fine to me.” He gently moved Doctor Valenti’s head from his bowl and pushed him back in his chair. He closed his lifeless eyes as well. The inspector examined the soup, and then the bowl. Curiously, he put a spoon to the bottom and pushed down, listening. There was a very soft grinding noise.
“What?”
“I’ve seen this sort of thing before in the Orient.”
“What sort of thing is that?”
“Ground glass introduced into this meal.”
“Is that what killed him?”
; “No.”
“As far as I know, ground glass has never killed anyone… It’s largely a myth.”
“What killed him then?”
“Difficult to be certain without a thorough examination. But the killer may be more clever than we give him credit for. The glass could be used to initiate internal bleeding, so a poison may do its work more rapidly.”
“What poison?”
“Unknown… I wonder if anyone knew the menu in advance,” Fynn muttered as an afterthought.
“Is that important?”
“I suppose if one slurps a cold soup and swallows, he may not notice the grittiness, the glass in his meal.”
“Horrible.”
“What can you tell me about his last moments?”
“His heart was racing… and he was sweating a lot.”
“Did he say anything before he died?”
“Yes: B-flat.”
“How odd.”
“Percy ate the soup and he’s fine…”
Fynn did his spoon test on the remaining bowls still in place at the table. He listened for a soft grinding, or to feel a subtle grit at the bottom. He turned to me and said, “All these other bowls seem to be untainted.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’d like to talk to Gretchen.”
“She’s still in the kitchen,” I said and led the way.
“Tell me, Gretchen—” Fynn began.
“That’s Miss Rogers to you.” She sneered at the inspector, then laughed. “My friends call me Ginger.”
Fynn barely managed a smile. “Please tell me about the soup.”
“What about it?”
“Did you tamper with it in anyway?”
“No.”
“Perhaps someone paid you to look the other way?”
“No.”
“Did you have any soup yourself?”
“It’s not something I’d ever eat, poison or not… Ask them two, they were here when Doc Valenti was making it.”
Fynn took the ladle and smashed it down to the bottom of the large serving bowl. He listened closely. “It seems fine.” He took a mouthful as well. “Oh, and rather tasty.” Fynn smiled at my horrified expression. “Whatever was added, was added elsewhere.”
On the way back to the living room, Fynn stopped me. “Patrick, forgive me, I must ask about Elsie…”
“Trust me on this, Inspector… she had nothing to do with it. Besides, she adores Valenti.”