So I said goodbye to my grandfather and his town forever, and went back to the city to grow into manhood.
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I said a moment ago that this was a memoir and not a mystery and as such would offer no solution to the death of Jim Tweller, And yet—I would not be honest either as a writer or a man if I failed to set down here some thoughts that came to me one evening not long ago, as I sat sipping a cocktail in the company of a particularly boring group of friends.
I suppose it was the sight of cocktails being poured from an icy pitcher that made me remember that other occasion, when the beer had passed down the line of speakers. And remembering it, as the conversation about me droned on, I went over the details of that day once more. I remembered especially the pitcher of beer, and the pouring of Tweller's drink from it. I remembered how he drank from the glass almost immediately, and commented on the bad taste. Certainly no poison was dropped into the glass after the beer had been poured. And yet it was just as impossible to believe that the poison had gone into the glass with the beer, when others had drunk unharmed from the same pitcher. No, there was only one possibility—the poison had been in the glass before the beer was poured in.
I imagined a liquid, colorless as water, lying in the bottom of the glass. Just a few drops, perhaps, or half an ounce at most. The chances were that Jim Tweller never noticed it, or if he did, he imagined it to be only water left from washing out the glass. He would pour the beer over the waiting poison, in all likelihood, or at worst empty the glass onto the grass first. In any event, there was no danger for the poisoner, and the odds for success were in his favor.
And I remembered then who had occupied the speaker's position immediately before Tweller. I remembered Grandfather with the empty glass before him, the empty beer mug with its thickness of glass to hide the few drops of liquid. I remembered Grandfather with his little bottle of cough medicine, dear cough medicine that usually was gin. Remembered his reluctance that day to give Frank Coons a drink from it. Remembered that I hadn't seen the bottle again later. Remembered most of all Grandfather's devotion to the party, and his friendship with Tweller, which must have warned him earlier than most of the man's political ambitions. Remembered, finally, that of all the people at the picnic, only Grandfather had known that Tweller was the winner of the award, that Tweller would be on the speaker's platform that day. Grandfather, who called out to Coons for the pitcher of beer. Grandfather, the only person with the motive and the knowledge and the opportunity. And the weapon, in a bottle that might have been cough medicine or gin—or prussic acid.
But that was a long time ago, a generation ago. And I remember him best standing at the station, waving goodbye. . . .
©1963 by Edward D. Hoch. First published in The Saint Mystery Magazine, November 1963
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