Kill and Tell

by William Kienzle

  “Our technologists,” Koznicki continued, “using a technique involving washing with distilled water, early this morning discovered the toxic substance used in the drink. It was nicotine.”

  “Nicotine! As in cigarettes? I agree with the surgeon general that smoking can be dangerous to one’s health, but that takes a while. Emma just collapsed and died.”

  “I must confess, Father, that as a result of this case, tonight I and some of my officers know a great deal more about nicotine than we did last night.

  “As it happens, nicotine is one of the most toxic of all drugs. It can be as potent and fast-acting as cyanide.”

  Koesler’s mind immediately focused on a number of the war movies he’d seen. When the spy was about to be interrogated, more often than not under torture, if the spy were lucky—lucky for purposes of the film’s plot, that is—he or she would slip a pill into his or her mouth and promptly drop dead. Koesler, as the police had been, was impressed.

  “The reason,” Koznicki continued, “that the nicotine in cigarettes, cigars, and pipe tobacco does not have this effect is that the toxic elements are burned up before they are ingested. In a manner of speaking, the deadly poison goes up in smoke.

  “But when we come to pure nicotine, a single drop is sufficient to cause death.”

  Koesler, still deeply impressed, considered this. “But where does one get pure nicotine? If I tried to find some, I wouldn’t know where to look.”

  “But Father, it is so powerful one does not need to find it in some pristine condition.”

  “Still . . . where?”

  “That is where our technicians were particularly helpful. You see, when we are looking for something toxic, we do not first search for some exotic substance. Usually, there will be general household products that will serve very well as a poison of one sort or another. With nicotine, we were told to look for some sort of insecticide. And that is precisely what Detectives Ewing and Papkin did today as they visited with our five suspects.” Koznicki took another small sip of sherry.

  “And—?”

  “It turns out that nicotine in one form or another was available to all of them.”

  “All? Isn’t that rather odd?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed, Father. But in this case somewhat explainable, through the good offices of your friend and house guest, Bishop Ratigan.”

  “Mike? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “You will know that, in his youth. Bishop Ratigan worked for a number of years for a plant nursery.”

  “He never lets me forget it.”

  “Insecticides are very important to those who work with flora. Some would say they are, not to speak in contradictions, vital. There is a product called Black Leaf 40 that is very powerful as well as very popular, although its sale is now restricted. It seems that the Chases and the Hoffmans, as well as the Mercurys, all have greenhouses. And each greenhouse held a supply of Black Leaf 40.

  “To give you some idea of how potent this chemical is, users are directed to dilute the substance by one teaspoonful to one gallon of water, or one pint to 100 gallons of water. Our technicians tell us that only a few drops of Black Leaf 40 can be fatal to a human.

  “They also tell us it has a very bitter taste. Mrs. Hoffman very probably would have caught that taste in the drink if she had not downed it so quickly. One gulp, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Koesler would never forget the incident, nor the look on Emma’s face after she downed her husband’s drink. “It seemed as if she was hit by two very powerful blows, first the drink, then, as it turns out, the poison.

  “But what has Mike Ratigan got to do with all those people having—what was it?—Black Leaf 40 around?”

  “He supplied it.”

  “He supplied it!” It sounded to Koesler’s ears as if Ratigan had been involved in some sort of conspiracy.

  “You see, Father, in 1976, Black Leaf 40 became a restricted substance and, by law, only certified pesticide applicators could buy the drug and only from specific wholesalers.”

  “What if someone were to break that law?” Koesler had a vision of his friend the bishop behind bars.

  “A high misdemeanor.”

  Still the same vision.

  “But you see, Father, Bishop Ratigan had purchased a large supply of Black Leaf 40 prior to 1976 and had given some to the Hoffmans for use in their greenhouse. Mrs. Hoffman, in turn, gave some of her supply to Mrs. Mercury and Mrs. Chase. None of them, apparently, was aware that they were in possession of a restricted substance.

  “Not that many urban people are acquainted with Black Leaf 40 nowadays. And, of those who are, few know it is a restricted substance. Unless they try to purchase it now.

  “The thing we must keep in mind, Father, is the significant toxic effect of nicotine. Black Leaf 40 is called ‘40’ because the substance contains 40 percent nicotine and that, as I have noted, is, even in a very small quantity, extremely poisonous to humans. Whoever chose a nicotine product to place in Mr. Hoffman’s drink could depend on its being fatal.”

  “So, Mike gave the Hoffmans a supply of this insecticide while it was still legal to do so. And Emma Hoffman gave it to her friends probably not realizing that it had become restricted. So far, there seems to be a good bit of invincible ignorance going on. But what about Mike? You haven’t mentioned anything about his having been found with any of this Black Leaf 40.”

  “That is correct. But the bishop was found in the possession of something even more potentially powerful—nicotine bombs.”

  Koesler recalled the sign Ratigan had placed at the door of the greenhouse in the rectory. And of Ratigan’s warning of how dangerous was the insecticide he was using.

  “Now that you mention it,” said Koesler, “I recall seeing the things around Mike’s greenhouse. But they’re canisters, not in liquid form.”

  “That is true. Father. But now we are dealing with the principle that anything that has been put into a compound can be removed again. Along with other substances, nicotine, of course, is prominently present in a nicotine bomb. And a press applied to the canister can extract a liquid nicotine more potent even than Black Leaf 40. And, since Bishop Ratigan remains on good terms with his one-time employer, he has access to as much of this as he wants.”

  Their waitress returned. They quickly consulted the menu. Koesler, as he almost always did, ordered chopped sirloin; Koznicki ordered scrod.

  As the waitress took their order, Koesler studied her as if seeing her for the first time. As she left the table, Koesler said, “My God! The waiter! I forgot the waiter—the one who brought the drink to Frank Hoffman. How could I have overlooked him? He’s so obvious!”

  “A little too obvious.” Koznicki smiled. “For one thing, Father, the waiter passed a polygraph test. Which does not prove very much, but it is an indication in his favor. The investigating officers do not consider him a suspect. He appears to be one of those jacks-of-all-trades. A waiter at the Collegiate Club and many other local restaurants, some local stage and nightclub work, managed a hotel, night watchman, that sort of thing. It is, of course, possible, but very unlikely. We are keeping an eye on him. Father, but not an extremely sharp eye.”

  “That leaves Miss LeBlanc, I guess. Don’t tell me she had some of that Black Leaf 40? If so, how did she get it?” Koesler nibbled on a breadstick.

  Koznicki finished the sherry and with his index finger pushed the empty glass across the table. “No, no Black Leaf 40. No greenhouse. No garden. She lives at 1300 Lafayette.”

  Koesler of course recognized the address.

  “Here again, Father, we are faced with the process of extracting something from a substance of which it is a component part. In this case, cigarettes.”

  “I thought you said that the nicotine is burned up when cigarettes are smoked.”

  “That is correct, Father. But the nicotine is part of a cigarette. Most cigarette advertising notes the nicotine content. Since the nicotine is a part of the tobacco,
it is possible to extract this extremely potent poison. Although it is not a simple process, it is entirely feasible.” Koznicki took a notepad from the inside pocket of his jacket and consulted several pages. “One needs an aqueous alkali such as sodium carbonate, sodium bicarbonate, or lime. Then some benzene ether, or some other suitable water-immiscible solvent.” He returned the notes to his pocket. “It is by no means impossible to acquire these elements. After that, a scientific treatise available in any public library and some considerable chemical expertise, and,” he spread his hands, palms upward, “voila! One has an extremely toxic nicotine with which one might kill someone.”

  The waitress brought their tossed salad. Each had selected the creamy garlic dressing.

  Koesler speared a morsel of lettuce and dabbed it in the dressing. “And in Miss LeBlanc’s case?”

  “The detectives found half a carton of cigarettes in her apartment.”

  “That’s unusual?”

  “Miss LeBlanc does not smoke. A number of her friends can testify that to the best of their knowledge, she has never smoked. She herself admitted as much.”

  “Then—?”

  “She claims that she has been so nervous of late that she has taken up the practice for the first time. That, or,” Koznicki paused with a forkful of lettuce in mid-air, “she got them in order to extract a lethal substance.”

  “And she has the skill to do that?”

  “A brilliant student all the way through school. And an accomplished chemist throughout college.”

  Koesler absently let his fork rest in the salad dish as he pondered all he had just heard.

  “Then each of your suspects had motive, means, and opportunity to kill Frank Hoffman.”

  “That would appear to be correct.”

  “What happens next?”

  “Detectives Ewing and Papkin have made a rather comprehensive list of the suspects under the factor of probability. They will continue their investigation, heavily concentrating on those they feel are the more likely suspects.”

  As Koesler finished the salad as well as his drink, it occurred to him that his friend had been giving him more of the details of this investigation than Koesler had any right to expect. They had discussed homicide investigations in the past, but never in this great detail.

  “Inspector, is there a reason you’ve gone into such great detail in telling me about this investigation?”

  Koznicki allowed himself a brief smile. “It is admittedly rare that we have a homicide investigation that interests or involves you. But when we have, you have a history of being very helpful, to understate your past contributions. This is another of those times when you have some involvement, since, with the exception of Miss LeBlanc, you know everyone connected with this investigation. Indeed—again with the exception of Miss LeBlanc and, of course, Bishop Ratigan, who is in residence with you—all are your parishioners.

  “With that in mind, I would like you to be informed of everything involved in this investigation. Frankly, in hopes that you may shed a little light on it.

  “In any case, as you are wont to remind me from time to time, more things are wrought by prayer than this world knows of.”

  “What does that have to do with this?”

  “Pray for us.”

  Cindy Mercury offered the two detectives coffee. Ewing declined, Papkin accepted.

  The Mercurys were ill at ease. They were not used to having police officers in their home. And they knew that these detectives were investigating Emma Hoffman’s murder. These same two detectives had been here just yesterday when, under the soft allaying spell spun by Ray Ewing, Angie had let the officers “just browse around.” It was while browsing that they had found the Black Leaf 40. The fact that they had returned today seemed not to bode well.

  Cindy placed the cup of coffee—black—on the occasional table near Papkin. Her hand was trembling sufficiently to rattle even the full cup in its saucer.

  Papkin took a cautious sip of the steaming coffee. “Could I trouble you for an ashtray, ma’am?”

  For a moment, Cindy could not remember where she kept the ashtrays. She hesitated, then went to the kitchen to get one.

  Ewing shook his head. He didn’t care whether his partner smoked. But he knew Papkin was trying to quit. Ewing wished he would do it cold turkey.

  “So,” said Angie, “what brings you back so soon?”

  Ewing flipped open his notepad and smiled one of his winning smiles. “We just need a little more information. Just a few more questions we need cleared up. Nothing for you to be concerned about.”

  “But we answered all your questions yesterday,” Cindy protested. She was twisting the small dish towel as if to wring it out. “We let you go all through our house. We didn’t demand that you have a search warrant or anything. We’ve been very cooperative. What more do you want?”

  Ewing turned his smile to her. “You have been very cooperative, ma’am. And don’t think it isn’t appreciated. But you’ve got to remember that less than two days ago, someone made an attempt on your brother’s life. That attempt failed. But whoever was responsible is still out there somewhere. You want to do everything you can to help us apprehend the guilty party, don’t you?”

  Cindy nodded. She appeared to be emotionally drained.

  “OK,” Angie said, “what do you need to know?”

  Ewing turned a few pages of his notepad. “Let’s just go over the events of Monday evening again. Just the part when Frank Hoffman’s third drink was delivered. Now, you got that drink for him, didn’t you, Mrs. Mercury?”

  “No. Yes. Well, sort of. Frank was standing there with an empty glass. He wanted another drink. Usually, the club waiters are more attentive. If a regular member has an empty glass they usually automatically replace it with a fresh drink. If the member doesn’t want the new drink, the waiter simply returns it to the bar.

  “But Monday, there were so many guests, it was almost impossible for the waiters to attend to everyone. And Frank was getting peeved. So I went to get a waiter. The waiter followed me back to our group. He took Frank’s empty glass—I guess that had been his second drink—and then the waiter placed the fresh drink in Frank’s hand—I guess that would have been his third drink.”

  “And then you stayed at your brother’s side for the rest of the evening?” Ewing added a couple of words to his notes as Cindy recounted her actions.

  “Well, until Em collapsed. Then things got pretty chaotic.”

  “Of course.”

  Papkin finished both coffee and cigarette. “Now then, Mr. Mercury, for your actions during the same period?”

  Angie smiled—a bit nervously, Papkin thought.

  “Well,” he began, “I’ve told this all before . . . Monday night to one of the officers.”

  “Again, please, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well, I was standing there with—let’s see, Frank, Cindy, Em, Father Koesler, and Bishop Ratigan. Cindy got the waiter, just as she said. Bishop Ratigan was explaining some kind of church doctrine or practice. To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t paying much attention.”

  “And why was that, Mr. Mercury?” Papkin was successfully fighting the urge to light another cigarette.

  “Well, in the next group over was Jeanne Findlater, of Channel 7. I have a chance of getting a show on her channel and I wanted to talk to her about it.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “You know,” Mercury said apologetically, “Monday evening is kind of a long time ago. I know this is only Wednesday, but it’s hard to remember every little detail clearly.”

  “Do your best.”

  “OK. Well, Frank and Em were kind of bristling at each other. Then, I think Bishop Ratigan left the group. I think he went to talk to Joe McCarthy. I suppose he really wanted to get away from the group until Frank and Em cooled off. Then, I got a chance to talk to Mrs. Findlater, and I left the group.”

  “And then what happened?” Papkin leaned forward.

&nb
sp; A thin line of perspiration was forming on Angle’s upper lip. “Well, I talked to Jeanne about the show—you know, the program I may get on Channel 7.”

  “Didn’t you leave Mrs. Findlater to get her a drink?”

  Mercury seemed to be searching his memory. “Yeah . . . yeah, I guess I did.”

  “So, you went to the bar.” Papkin made it sound as if going to the bar were a crime.

  “I . . . I don’t think I went to the bar.”

  “Suppose I tell you I know that you brought a drink to Mrs. Findlater?”

  “I . . . I must have . . . gotten it from a waiter . . .”

  “Suppose I tell you I have a waiter who saw you at the bar.”

  “Well . . . I must have forgotten. It’s been a couple of days . . .”

  Papkin looked at his notepad. “You have a convenient memory, Mr. Mercury. Monday night you also forgot you were at the bar. According to the statement you made to Officer Henderson, you weren’t anywhere near the bar all evening.”

  “I think it’s time we called our lawyer!” Cindy was angry as well as agitated.

  “There’s no need for that, Mrs. Mercury.” Ewing’s voice had a calming tone. “Nobody’s being charged with anything. We’re just trying to get some things straight.” He turned to Angie. “Do you want to clear up this little inconsistency, Mr. Mercury?”

  Angie was rubbing his hands together forcefully. “Look, I went to the bar to get Jeanne a drink. When I got back with it, Frank and Em were really going at it. It wasn’t that I was all by myself in eavesdropping on them. Everybody in the vicinity was watching and listening to the battle. I saw the waiter replace the glass in Frank’s hand and then Em grabbed it, drank it, and collapsed. In a little while, it was obvious she was dead and pretty evident that she’d drunk poison that had been meant for Frank.

  “I panicked. I knew that the way Frank and I feel about each other isn’t exactly a secret. I didn’t want to be placed anywhere near that bar. But I swear, I didn’t put anything in Frank’s drink! I couldn’t do anything like that! Think it, maybe. Do it, no.

  “Besides,” he looked at the two officers beseechingly, “how could I possibly bring myself to kill somebody Cindy loves so much?”