She spoke calmly, with careful spacing as if breath had to be apportioned for each word. “These policemen have not done anything. They said they had to wait for you. My son is dead. My only son. My only child. What are you going to do?”
“Why—” Damon stammered, “I know how you feel, Mrs. Pomfret—”
“You do not know how I feel.” She closed her mouth, and her jaw twitched. She turned and gestured with her hand. “These people were in my house, invited here, and one of them killed my son.” She leveled her eyes at Adolph Koch. “You.” At Hebe Heath. “You.” At Garda Tusar. “You.” At Felix Beck …
Damon moved in front of her. “See here, Mrs. Pomfret,” he said bluntly, “you ask what I’m going to do. First I’m going to find out what happened and how it happened. I can’t just snap my fingers and truth jumps out of a box. All I know now is that your son drank something and died. This will be—”
“He cried out.” Mrs. Pomfret’s jaw twitched again, “He called to me. He started to come to me, with his face—he staggered and fell down and got up on his knees and fell again—”
She stopped.
“I can get this from someone else,” Damon offered “I don’t want—”
“No. I prefer to tell you myself. We were all in there except my husband and that man.” She pointed: “Tecumseh Fox.” She pointed again: “That is my husband.” Again: “That is Dora Mowbray.” She completed the roster, pronouncing the names clearly and precisely, excepting four men in uniform—two policemen and two servants. “We had all been in this room, and left my husband and Mr. Fox here and went to the yellow room. That is in front, the other side of the reception hall—”
“I just came from there.”
“Then you—you’ve seen him—”
“Yes, I saw him. You understand, Mrs. Pomfret, it will be necessary—the body must be taken for an examination—”
“Taken? Away from here?”
“Yes. I have given the order—”
“I don’t want that!”
“Naturally you don’t. But you asked me what I’m going to do, and that’s one of the things we do, and it’s going to be done. However painful—Now here! Mrs. Pomfret!”
She was marching for the door. One of the two detectives who had entered with Damon was there, backed against the knob; she gestured him away, but he stood fast. The inspector was speaking:
“You can’t go in there, Mrs. Pomfret!”
She turned, and he saw her eyes again. “I intend,” she said, “to be present when my son’s body is taken away.”
Damon gave up. “All right,” he said to the man at the door, “go along with her and tell Craig.” The man nodded and opened the door. When it had closed behind them Damon turned and surveyed the field. Even disregarding the two policemen, the detective, and the two servants, there were so many of them.… He frowned at Tecumseh Fox and inquired:
“So you weren’t there when it happened?”
Fox, seated at a corner of the table, shook his head. “I was in here with Mr. Pomfret. When I got there Dunham was dead.”
The inspector’s eyes moved to a young man standing the other side of Fox’s chair with his hands thrust into his pockets. “Your name is Theodore Gill?”
Ted nodded. “That’s right.”
“Where were you?”
Ted wet his lips and swallowed. “I was in there. Drinking a highball and talking with Miss Mowbray and Mr. Beck.”
“Where was Dunham?”
“I don’t know. I mean I didn’t notice. He had been talking with his mother, but I suppose he had left to pour himself a drink. The first I knew, when he made a choking noise and cried out, he was in the alcove where the drinks were. He tottered a few steps and collapsed, and struggled to his knees and went down again—just as Mrs. Pomfret said. The first one to get to him was Mr. Zorilla.”
“I was already there.” Diego Zorilla’s bass came from the other side of the room, and Damon turned to look at him. “I was getting Scotch and sodas for Miss Heath and myself when Perry came and poured his drink. I was right there when he poured it and drank it.”
“Did he take it from the same bottle that you got yours from?”
“No, mine was Scotch. He always drank bourbon.”
“Did he use the same soda bottle that you used?”
“He didn’t use any. Drank it straight, right down. He often did that, with water for a chaser.”
“Was Miss Heath in the alcove with you?”
“Not at that moment. I had gone to get a drink for myself, and she was there starting to mix one, and I offered to do it, and she went to a chair and sat down.”
“What were you doing at the moment Dunham swallowed his drink?”
“I had picked up the two glasses and was putting them down again to close a window. Someone had opened a window in the alcove and the curtain was blowing, and Mrs. Pomfret called to me to close it. I never got it closed. While I was putting the glasses down I saw a peculiar look on Perry’s face just as he gulped his drink—or just after—and he made a sort of a strangled noise. It didn’t seem more than three seconds before he cried out and his face twisted up and he went into a stagger. If that drink did it, it was incredible how swift it was—”
“Why do you say ‘If that drink did it?’ Had he had one before that?”
Diego shook his head. “Not that I know of. I’m pretty sure he hadn’t. He had been talking with his mother, at the divan at the end of the room.”
“Then the glass he poured his drink into was clean? Not previously used?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so. There was an assortment of them there on the traveling bar.”
“And you were already there making Scotch and soda when he came up to pour his drink?”
“Yes.”
“Right there facing him, watching him?”
“Watching him? Why would I be watching him?”
“Well, you were right there. If he had put anything in his drink from a vial or a box or an envelope, you would have seen him. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I would.” Diego’s eyes flickered and his lips twisted wryly. “And God knows I’d like to say I did. But I didn’t.”
“Why would you like to say you did?”
“I should think that’s obvious. Though I wasn’t especially fond of Perry Dunham, I wouldn’t have regarded his suicide as a pleasant thing to happen. But it would have been a lot pleasanter than what seems to have happened.” Diego slowly looked around. “One of us. Including me.” He met the inspector’s gaze. “I wasn’t ‘watching’ him, as you put it. But unless he used sleight of hand, he didn’t put anything in his glass except what he poured from the bottle.”
“And that was from the bottle of bourbon there on the bar?”
“Yes.”
Damon turned to the two menservants, standing side by side at the far wall. “Did either of you men take that bar in there?”
One of them spoke. “Yes, sir, I did.” He appeared startled at the loudness of his own voice, and repeated four tones down, “I did, sir.”
“What’s your name?”
“Schaeffer, sir.”
“When did you take it in?”
“When Mrs. Pomfret told me to. She rang—”
“Were these people already there?”
“Yes, sir.” The man darted a glance around. “That is, most of them were.”
“And you wheeled the bar in with the bottles and glasses already on it?”
“Yes, sir, and the ice, the bitters—”
“Including the bourbon?”
“Yes, sir. There is always Blue Grass bourbon, because that is the only kind Mr. Dunham will drink. I beg your pardon.”
“What for?”
“I mean, the only kind Mr. Dunham did drink.”
“Oh. How much was in the bourbon bottle? Do you know?”
“Yes, sir.” Schaeffer allowed himself to look pleased. “I have been considering that point. I have expected to be as
ked that. The Blue Grass bourbon bottle was slightly less than half full.”
“How do you know? Did you drink some?”
“No, sir. On serving the bar, if any bottle is less than half full, a full one is added. But I remember deciding that the bourbon would do, since no one drank it but Mr. Dunham.”
“How did you know no one else would drink it?”
“It was known, sir. To the household. To everyone. That Mr. Dunham drank nothing else. Most people take Scotch or rye or Irish. You would call it a deduction, sir.”
“I would like hell.” The inspector flushed. One of his weaknesses was that he never got along with trained menservants. He turned back to Diego Zorilla. “Did you drink any of that bourbon?”
Diego shook his head. “As I said, I drank Scotch.”
“Any of you?” Damon looked around. “Did any of you drink bourbon? You, Mr. Koch?”
“No.” Adolph Koch was seated across the room by the big screen, near Garda Tusar. Apparently there was an obstruction in his throat, and he cleared it out. “I had gin and bitters.”
“Did you go to the bar and get it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“You, Miss Tusar? What did you drink?”
“Vermouth cassis,” Garda said promptly and clearly. “I went to the bar with Mr. Koch and he poured it for me.”
“Miss Mowbray?”
“I had a glass of sherry.” Dora’s voice squeaked and she too had to clear her throat. “I poured one for myself and one for Mrs. Pomfret and took it to her.”
“Mr. Beck?”
“I do not drink!” Beck declared explosively. He was seated in a chair backed up against the table, rubbing his knees with his palms. “I went to that—bar if you call it that—and poured a glass of water and put lemon juice in it and drank it!”
“Mr. Gill. What was in your highball?”
“Rye,” Ted said succinctly.
“And Miss Heath, Mr. Zorilla says he took you Scotch and soda. You drank no bourbon?”
Hebe didn’t get to answer. Felix Beck’s voice, with a ring of accusation in it, forestalled her:
“Certainly she didn’t! She knew better! She picked the bottle up and threw it out of the window!”
Chapter 8
Hebe Heath clutched her breasts and tilted her chin to stare blue-eyed defiance up at the inspector. Adolph Koch half rose from his chair, muttering something, and sank back again. Ted Gill stepped across, put his hand on the back of Hebe’s chair, stood there as a protector, and sighed heavily. Damon’s gaze slanted down to the brave glory of Hebe’s matchless eyes, and then he took a step toward her and inquired:
“Well?”
“Well,” she whispered.
“Did you throw that bottle out of the window?”
She nodded.
“You did?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
Her hands abandoned their clutch on her breasts and flew straight for the inspector in appeal, to the length of her outstretched arms. “Oh,” she cried softly, “it was an ungovernment impulse!”
Tecumseh Fox stirred in his seat and looked away from her. The others stared at her in soundless fascination, then transferred to Henry Pomfret when a noise came from him—a spasmodic tremoloso titter. He looked around abashed, and said pugnaciously to no one, “I’m sorry,” and caught his lip with his teeth. Ted Gill spoke at Damon in a patient and determined voice:
“She means ungovernable. Miss Heath is sensitive and high-strung. She is emotionally unstable. She is impetuous, mercurial, galvanic. She is an artist—”
“I’m not asking her for a character analysis,” said Damon. “Or you either, Mr. Gill. I’m asking her why she threw that bottle out of the window.”
“And I’m telling you. You are dealing with an extraordinary person. She becomes seized with an irresistible desire to do something, and she does it. It’s a kind of trance. Then it goes out of her mind. She does not now actually remember picking up that bottle and throwing it—”
Damon snorted. “She just admitted it!”
“She admitted it because three of us saw her do it and have—mentioned it to her. Miss Mowbray, Mr. Beck, and myself. At the moment she did it, Mrs. Pomfret was kneeling beside her son, Koch and Miss Tusar were bending over her, and Zorilla had gone after Fox. I was standing with Miss Mowbray and I said the bottle he drank out of ought to be corked but I didn’t know which one, and she said he always drank bourbon. I reached for it, but Miss Heath grabbed it and made one of her—made a gesture, a dramatic gesture, and hurled it out of the window. When Fox came I told him, and I also told the first policeman who appeared. But I knew by the look on her face, a kind of, uh, exaltation, that she didn’t know what she was doing—”
“Bah!” Felix Beck was out of his chair, trembling with indignation. “Her an artist! Not know what she was doing? Hah! She’s a Circe! An evil witch! First Jan, I warned him about her, and now this—”
“Oh, can it!” Ted snapped at him. “It’s bad enough without a lot of yapping—”
“Both of you can it,” Damon commanded sharply. He confronted Hebe. “I’ll talk with you later, Miss Heath, but I’ll ask you now, is Mr. Gill correct? Do you do things and forget about them?”
“Oh,” she breathed.
“Well, do you?”
“I don’t know.” Her lovely hands were clasped tight and pulled against her shape. “Oh, I don’t know!”
“Do you become seized with an irresistible desire to do something, and do it? Did you become seized with such a desire to put something into that bottle of bourbon?”
“To put …” She goggled at him. Her hands unclasped, and tension left the muscles of her face. “Put something in the bottle?” she demanded incredulously, in an entirely new tone. “Don’t be a damn fool!”
Damon grunted, and regarded her in silence. He raised a hand to scratch the back of his neck, and still gazed at her.
“May I suggest—” Tecumseh Fox began.
“No,” Damon said shortly. His eyes swept an arc around the faces, around to the left, slowly, and back to the right. “It is my duty to inform you,” he said in a tone of displeasure, “that there is a presumption that Perry Dunham was murdered. I’ll have to talk with each of you separately before you’re allowed to leave here, and that will take a long time. May I have a room to use, Mr. Pomfret?”
“Certainly. My wife …” Pomfret hesitated. “But of course. Or we’ll go somewhere else and you can use this.”
“That will do fine. You and your wife will go where you please. In your house. But the rest of you will stay together in one room, with law officers present. I have the right to enforce that under the circumstances, but I would appreciate it if you will co-operate. I ask you to consider the possibility that the murderer of Perry Dunham is among you. If you don’t like that idea, neither do I. Now one thing. If there was poison in that bourbon, it could have been put there at any time since somebody last drank from it. It wasn’t necessarily put there in that room this afternoon. But it might have been. If it was, the container that held the poison is probably somewhere around, unless it was thrown out of the window the way the bottle was. That room is being searched, and the whole house will be. Each of you will be questioned about your movements. But there is a chance that the container is concealed on the person of someone. I think it would be a good plan if you would all allow yourselves to be searched. I think you should agree to that. For the ladies, I can have a policewoman here in five minutes.”
They shrank. They glanced at each other, and back at the inspector, and away. If the murderer was there, he had no reason to fear exposing himself by a unique reluctance, for reluctance and distaste were on all faces except that of Tecumseh Fox. He nodded at Damon:
“Good here. That’s sensible. Though probably futile.”
“It is an indignity,” Felix Beck growled.
Hebe said, “It’s horribly revolting.”
The door opened, and eyes
went to it. A man entered and spoke across the room to Damon: “Craig wants you, Inspector,” and Damon nodded and tramped out. Everybody decided all at once that their muscles were cramped and shifted to new positions in their chairs or on their feet. Low-voiced mutterings started. Adolph Koch asked Fox if they could be legally compelled to submit to a search, and Fox said no, and Ted Gill said they might as well submit anyway. Beck folded his arms and paced up and down, and a policeman yawned. Schaeffer, who had served the bar, expounded something lengthily to his colleague in an undertone. Tecumseh Fox leaned far backwards and stared at the ceiling, and was still in that position five minutes later when the door opened again and the inspector entered. He walked across to the end of the big table, which was about the geographical center of the assemblage, and held up an object in his hand for all to see.
“Do any of you recognize this?”
“Certainly.” Henry Pomfret spoke up. “It’s my Ju Chou incense bowl. Please don’t drop it!”
“I won’t.” Damon’s big hand had an adequate grip on the beautiful little bowl of red and misty pearly green. “How long has it been kept on that stand in that room?”
“A long time. A couple of years.”
“Is it used to drop things into? Like an ash tray?”
“Not if I know it, it isn’t. Sometimes some ass drops a cigarette in it.”
“Well, this time it wasn’t a cigarette.” There was a note of grim satisfaction in the inspector’s voice. He put the bowl down on the table, and took from it, with his thumb and forefinger, a ball of crumpled paper; and displayed it as a prestidigitator displays a coin he has plucked from the air. “It was this. I’m not going to open it out. One of my men did, part way. It’s a piece of ordinary bond paper, and clinging to it are particles of white powder. He dampened a little of it, and it smells like cyanide. So I withdraw my request that you permit yourselves to be searched.”
There was a stir, a rustle, and dead silence. It was broken by Henry Pomfret.
“Christ,” he muttered incredulously. “In the incense bowl. Then …”
“Then what, Mr. Pomfret?”
“Nothing.” Pomfret shook his head as in disbelief. “Nothing.”
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