A Pinch of Poison

by Frances Lockridge

  “Homicide,” Weigand said. “Lieutenant Weigand. You’re the house man?”

  “Yeah,” the house man said, heavily. “I called Missing Persons. The kid’s in twelve-nine. What is it? A snatch?”

  “It could be,” Weigand told him. “Which way’s twelve-nine?”

  The short man waved a short arm.

  “Couple your guys around here, somewhere,” he said. “You gonna do any shooting?”

  “Why?” said Weigand. “Who’d we want to shoot?” He looked at the fat man. “Go look in some keyholes, brother,” he advised. “Keep it clean.”

  “Listen—” the fat man started.

  “Right,” Weigand said. “You gave us a buzz. We’ve got it in the books. A nice gold star for Mr. Zepkin, house detective. The Police Department appreciates it. But we’ll take it from here.”

  “Sure,” Mr. Zepkin said. “Sure you will, Lieutenant. We don’t want anything funny going on at the Fairmount.”

  “Sure you don’t,” Weigand said, cordially. “Not at a high-class house like the Fairmount.” He paused a moment. “We’ll be seeing you, I wouldn’t wonder,” he said. He started down the hall toward twelve-nine; stopped.

  “Let’s borrow your key,” he said to Zepkin. “I’d just as soon not knock. I’ll leave it at the desk.”

  Zepkin handed over his pass-key. He looked knowingly at Weigand, who returned the look blankly. Mr. Zepkin pressed the signal button on the elevator grill.

  “It’s a suite,” he said. “Two rooms. Twelve-nine and twelve-ten.”

  “Right,” Weigand said. They moved along the hall. At the end of the hall there was a window and a man was looking idly out it. He turned when he heard the steps of Weigand and Mullins. Weigand nodded to him.

  “Keep an eye on twelve-ten,” Weigand directed. “We wouldn’t want anybody leaking out.” He saw the man’s hand move, instinctively, toward a holster. Weigand smiled. “You won’t need it,” he said. “Not if I’m right.”

  Quietly, Weigand slipped the pass-key into the keyhole of Room 1209. He waited for movement inside and heard none. He turned the key and pushed the door open. A small, pleased voice said, “Man!” Weigand stepped through the door. He looked at the woman and the little boy sitting by the window, the child in the woman’s lap.

  “Well,” Weigand said, “I will be damned!”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Bill,” Pam North said, over Michael Osborne’s blond curls. “Not if you learn to knock at doors and say your prayers every night. How are you, Bill?”

  “Well,” said Mullins, looking over Weigand’s shoulder. “What d’yuh know?”

  “I thought,” Pam said, “that you two would never get here. We—I, that is—I’ve been here hours. It doesn’t seem to me that the police are very efficient.”

  Weigand looked at her darkly.

  “So you were the women,” he said. “Out in Queens, prowling around, asking questions, getting in policemen’s way.”

  “Women?” Mrs. North repeated, wonderingly. “How could I be ‘women,’ Bill? Even if I was out in Queens, asking the other little boy—Andy—where Michael was. When he came home from school for lunch, because it’s only around the block. I’m still not plural, Bill.”

  “Sometimes,” Weigand said, “I wonder.”

  Mrs. North looked at him.

  “Somehow,” she said, “I’m not sure I like the way that sounds.”

  Bill Weigand smiled at her.

  “Right, Pam,” he said. “It was bright of you. And I suppose the other little boy—Andy—knew right away that Michael was at the Fairmount. All by himself, of course.”

  “I think,” Pam said, “that there’s something confusing about that sentence. Who all by himself?”

  “Michael,” Weigand said. “Michael, all by himself at the Fairmount. I suppose Michael just walked over here and registered and asked for a two-room suite? And so you just came over and looked at the register and telephoned up that you’d like to see him. And they let you come, even if they don’t allow men to entertain women in their rooms.” He waited.

  “Sarcasm,” Pam North said, sadly. “Just sarcasm. There was a woman, of course. The kidnaper. A large, dark woman with—with a wart. But she’s gone, now.”

  “Pam,” Weigand said. “Pam North.” His voice sounded hopeless. “I—”

  Then he turned, because he heard a door open. Dorian Hunt stood in the doorway.

  “All right, Pam,” Dorian said. “She won’t go. She says she’s going to stay where Michael is.” Dorian looked at Weigand. “And anyway,” she said, “there’s probably a man outside the other door. You wouldn’t slip up on that, would you, Bill?” Her voice was faintly scornful. Weigand wished it weren’t, but his own tone was equable.

  “No, Dor,” he said. “I wouldn’t slip up on a little thing like that. Tell Mrs. Graham to come out and—” He broke off. “No,” he said, “wait a minute. Let’s get this straight. You and Pam were the women over in Queens. Whose idea was that?”

  “That was my idea,” Pam said. “I didn’t know, then. I thought—that is, I was afraid—something would happen to Michael. And I wanted to help. I thought Dor would want to help too, so I called her. And she did.” She paused. Her voice was serious, now. “I was terribly frightened, Bill. About Michael—after all those awful things.”

  She looked at Michael, who was studying the dangling watch around her neck. Michael was having a really good look at the watch, now. He thought that if you picked at the back it might come open, so that you could feel the wheels. Pam, looking at him, thought he might be right.

  “Look, Mike,” she said. “How about the purse?” She reached the purse from the floor near her and dangled it before Michael. He looked at it, frowned slightly and returned to the watch. Pam shook her head.

  “A phobia,” she said, “that’s what it is. A phobia against purses. He’s going to be a socialist.”

  “Listen, Pam,” Weigand said, “you thought Michael was in danger. So you got Dorian and went out to find him. You started in Queens. Then what?”

  “Then,” Pam said, “we found that Andy—he’s the other little boy Mrs. Konover boards—had just come home from school. So we asked him where Michael was. You see, the detectives had asked Mrs. Konover everything they could think of, and gone away, and none of them thought of Andy. And Andy, just as he was going to school, had seen Michael go away in a taxicab with a ‘pretty lady.’ The taxicab came up where Michael was playing and the lady got out and called to him, and Michael ran to her and they both got in and the taxicab went away. And so we asked Andy if he heard the lady say anything and he did.”

  “What?” Weigand said.

  “He said the lady was sort of crying and laughing and saying, ‘Oh, baby! Oh, baby!’ over and over. Andy said it was a lot of slush. And then, just as Andy came up to see what it was all about, the lady said something to the man who was driving the cab and they went off. Andy yelled after them, because he wanted to go for a ride, too, but they didn’t stop. So we asked what the lady said to the man who was driving the cab. Andy said she said ‘Fairmount’ and something about a street, so we looked it up and came here. And here they were.”

  “Well,” Weigand said, “that was simple.”

  “But I knew,” Pam went on, “that you and Mullins would find the place, eventually, and I thought—well, I didn’t want Mrs. Graham to get into trouble. So Dorian and I tried to persuade her to go home and promised to take care of Michael, but she wouldn’t. Dorian was in the other room trying to persuade her, because we thought that if she was away from Michael it might be easier. But it wasn’t.”

  Weigand looked at Dorian and then at Pam, and smiled.

  “No,” he said. “It wouldn’t be. What did Mrs. Graham say—besides saying she wouldn’t go?”

  Pam started to speak, but Dorian stopped her.

  “Bill,” she said, “have you got anything against her? Against Mrs. Graham? Is she—the one you’re hunting?”

 
The voice was very quiet. It seemed to come from a good way off. Weigand looked at her.

  “What did she say, Dor?” he said. “What do you think from what she said?”

  Dorian looked at him for almost a minute before she answered. When she spoke her voice was tired, uncertain.

  “She can’t be, Bill,” she said. “She simply can’t—wait until you talk to her. She’s—she’s almost hysterical. She thinks you’re going to take the little boy away from her. She—oh, talk to her, Bill. Before you do anything!” There was emotion in Dorian’s voice. “You can’t do anything to her, Bill—you can’t! She’s so—so unhappy it breaks your heart!”

  “I’m sorry, Dor,” Bill said. “I’m sorry, God knows. But I didn’t start it, Dor. You’ve got to remember that.”

  Dorian’s answer was a helpless spreading of the hands. Then, quickly, she turned.

  “Mrs. Graham!” she called. “Mrs. Graham!”

  There was a pause and Mrs. Graham came to the door. Her face was pale and she had been crying; even now her lips were working and her eyes were dark and—yes, Weigand thought, frightened.

  “Come in, Mrs. Graham,” he said. He spoke gently. But she was not looking at him. She was staring, with a kind of frightened eagerness, at little Michael. The child looked up and stretched out his arms to her.

  “Margie,” he said. “Pick me up, Margie!”

  Mrs. Graham was across the room, kneeling, with her arms around the child.

  “You can’t take him!” she said. “You can’t!” Her voice was anguished. Her body half cut off the child from Lieutenant Weigand. “He’s mine!” she said. “He’s my boy—you can’t take him away from me. It’s been so long—so long!”

  Her blond head went down against the little boy, while her arms held him. Michael’s face puckered.

  “Margie,” he said. “Don’t twy, Margie.”

  Dorian’s gaze was on Weigand. He felt its demand before, slowly, he turned from Mrs. Graham and the little boy. He met the challenge in Dorian’s eyes and his shoulders slowly lifted.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes—but what can I do, Dor?” He paused. “How much have you guessed, Dor?” he said, more quietly.

  Her eyes looked puzzled, for a second.

  “Guessed?” she repeated. She seemed to think a moment. “That her heart’s breaking for the little boy,” she said. “That she’s—hysterical with fear that he’ll be taken away from her; that all this has spoiled everything, so that she can’t have him. What is there to guess?”

  Weigand nodded slowly, without answering. He motioned to Pam to give the child to Mrs. Graham and, when she had—when Michael sat on Margaret Graham’s lap, with his arms around her, and when her arms had fastened around him as if they would never let go—Weigand drew Pam toward him with a motion of his head.

  “And you, Pam?” he said. “How much have you guessed? What Dorian has—or, something else?”

  Pam was very quiet, now, as she looked into Weigand’s eyes—very quiet and thoughtful.

  “I don’t know, Bill,” she said. “She—she didn’t say anything more. Just about wanting the boy and being afraid he would be taken from her. But—”

  “What did you guess, Pam?” Weigand insisted.

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t know, Bill,” she repeated. “It’s all confused—but—” She paused again. “It hooks up somehow, doesn’t it, Bill? So that you can’t be sure about her—about her and Michael?”

  Weigand nodded, slowly.

  “I’m afraid it does, Pam—Dor,” he said. “I’m afraid—” He broke off, hesitated a moment, and then crossed to Mrs. Graham. His touch on her shoulder roused her; her arms closed more desperately around the child.

  “You hurt me, Margie,” Michael said. He wriggled a little. “You hold me too hard, Margie,” he explained.

  “I’m going to have to take you home, Mrs. Graham,” Weigand said, gently. She shook her head.

  “Yes,” Weigand said. “You’ll have to come home, now.” He hesitated. “We’ll all go with you,” he said. “It’s almost over, Mrs. Graham.”

  She did not seem to understand what he said, or only a little of it.

  “Michael?” she said. “Michael goes too?”

  “Yes,” Weigand said. “Michael goes too. For now, anyway.” He looked down at her, trying to command her attention. “There are things to be worked out, Mrs. Graham,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Her eyes grew wide. She was trembling.

  “Michael?” she said, desperately.

  “I don’t know,” Weigand said. “I can’t tell you about that, Mrs. Graham. That’s—that’s outside anything I can control, Mrs. Graham.”

  He looked at her steadily, his eyes grave. He waited.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll go home. But I won’t let Michael go! I’ll never let Michael go!”

  Weigand did not answer, directly. He motioned to Mrs. North, who took the little boy again and dangled the fascinating watch for him. Mrs. Graham stood up.

  “I’ll get my things,” she said, dully. “I’ll go with you.”

  Weigand nodded.

  “There’s one thing before we go, Mrs. Graham,” he said. “One question. Is there something the matter with your father’s eyes?”

  Mrs. Graham stared at him, her own eyes opening.

  “Oh!” she said. “How—how did you guess?”

  He looked at her.

  “Try not to be afraid, Mrs. Graham,” he said. “And how did I guess? Oh, a light of course. It just had to be put together.” He waited for her to say something, but her eyes were devouring Michael. “Was that the way Miss Winston found out, Mrs. Graham?” he said. His voice was still gentle, but the texture had somehow changed. She did not answer, but he thought she heard.

  As he turned, as Mrs. Graham went to the other room for her things, he found Pam’s eyes upon him. There was a question in them and, as he watched her, Pam’s eyes went, involuntarily it seemed, to little Michael and to the purse on the floor and then back to Weigand. Pam’s eyes widened and after a second she said, “Oh!” There was fear in the syllable.

  18

  THURSDAY

  3:05 P.M. TO 3:50 P.M.

  After the others were in the car, Weigand left them for a minute and found a telephone booth. Headquarters told him that all was under control; that the man he wanted was where he wanted him. Then, with Mullins at the wheel, they drove through Forty-eighth, swung back west and rolled uptown. Although Mullins was at the wheel, their movement was considered. Lights were observed; speed was no more excessive than convention allowed and motorcycle policemen tolerated. It was close to three-thirty when they swung to the curb in front of the Graham house in Riverdale.

  Mrs. Graham, sitting by a window in the rear with Michael on her lap, had not moved or spoken. Her arms were around Michael; she stared out unseeingly over his tousled blond head. Pam North, between Margaret Graham and Dorian, had stared at the back of Mullins’ neck and thought, not about the back of Mullins’ neck. Dorian’s eyes, fixed on nothing outside the window, saw, or seemed to see, no more than Mrs. Graham’s. After the car stopped there was a little pause, and then Mrs. Graham stirred.

  “Home,” she said. She said it dully, with a kind of dull bitterness. Pam reached across her to open the door.

  “No,” Weigand said. “I want you three to wait here with Mullins for a few minutes. He’ll tell you when to come in.” Pam started to speak. “No,” Weigand said, “I’ve got something to do, first.”

  A maid opened the door of the Graham house. Her eyes passed incuriously over the car.

  “Mr. Graham,” Weigand said. “Lieutenant Weigand, tell him. I have some news about Mrs. Graham.”

  Graham came to the living-room door as Weigand spoke.

  “News?” he said. He spoke hurriedly, eagerly. “Is she all right?”

  Weigand told him she was all right. He said it flatly, without expression and, watching Weigand’
s face, an odd expression came into Graham’s.

  “She’s all right,” Weigand repeated. “You’ll be seeing her—soon. She’s on her way here. But while we wait I’ve a few questions to ask.”

  “Questions?” Graham repeated. “What questions? Has something new happened?”

  “No,” Weigand said. “Nothing new. I just—well, say I want to check a few things. There seems to be a few discrepancies I’d like you to clear up. For example—I understood you to say that you telephoned your wife Tuesday afternoon?”

  Graham seemed to be puzzled.

  “Oh,” he said, “that! What about that? Yes, I telephoned her.”

  Weigand’s voice was mild. He said it was no doubt some mistake.

  “However,” he said, “Miss Hand says that Mrs. Graham telephoned you. She says that you had planned to telephone Mrs. Graham, but that she telephoned you first. Which is right?”

  “Oh,” Graham said. He seemed to be thinking. “I guess she is, as a matter of fact,” he said. “Does it make any difference? I can’t see—”

  “Well,” Weigand said, “it might, you know. Say your wife had something to tell you—then it might be interesting to know that she had called first. Did she have anything to tell you, particularly?”

  “No,” Graham said. “I don’t recall that she had. I had said that I might be tied up that evening and she was going out and thought she might be away when I called and so she called me to make sure. Something like that.” He looked bewildered. “I still don’t see what difference it makes,” he said. He looked hard at Weigand. “You’re sure Margaret’s all right?” he said.

  Weigand nodded.

  “She’s quite all right,” he said. “Now, to get back. Did she tell you anything about Miss Winston’s visit when she telephoned? I’d like you to remember—did she, say, mention that Miss Winston had been here, or anything like that?”

  “Well,” Graham said, after a pause, “I think she did, just that Miss Winston had been here.”

  “She didn’t,” Weigand said, “say anything about Miss Winston’s having met your father-in-law, Mr. Graham?”