Fletcher Flora - The First Golden Age of Mystery & Crime MEGAPACK™ - 26 Stories by Fletcher Flora

In the beginning, the highball had been a mild thing, mostly water; but it grew stronger as time passed, and currently it was quite the other way round, mostly bourbon in a water tumbler with one small ice cube and a quick pass under the tap. It was enough, indeed, to blow the top off an ordinary man’s head, but Grandfather had approached it slowly for a long time, and I suppose he had sort of immunized himself to it by small and regular increases of the dosage, as Mithridates is said to have done with poisons.

“The thought has crossed my mind,” I said. “As you remarked, it affords altogether such a beautiful opportunity that I could hardly fail being tempted.”

“Why have you never done it?”

“Poison is so treacherous. It has a way of getting found in the innards.”

“Only if there’s an autopsy.”

“Poison has a nasty way of leaving various signs that arouse suspicions and make autopsies inevitable.”

“Not always. Buster, you simply haven’t taken the trouble to inform yourself sufficiently, that’s all.”

“Perhaps you would care to inform me sufficiently now.”

“I’d be delighted. You simply lace his nightcap with chloral hydrate. In brief, you slip him a gigantic Mickey Finn. A large dose would be fatal, I assure you, and it would have definite advantages from our point of view. He would merely pass out and die without recovering consciousness, which would have the virtue of making him appear to have died in his sleep — surely not an uncommon occurrence with men so old. Moreover, besides being merciful, the drug disappears from the system quickly and is extremely difficult to detect.”

“That last point is particularly important. You are well informed, aren’t you, darling? I’m happy, I must say, that you aren’t devising a scheme for murdering me. Or are you?”

“Don’t be absurd, Buster. How could I dream for an instant of murdering someone I’ve been so friendly with? You must think I’m a perfect monster.”

“Haven’t you been friendly with Grandfather?”

“That’s different. Grandfather and I have hardly been friendly in the same way.”

“I should hope not. Returning to your plan, however, it seems to me that it would be difficult, as well as risky, to acquire a lethal dose of chloral hydrate.”

“You needn’t concern yourself with that. My contacts in Chicago are rather diversified, to say the least. I’m always getting interested in all sorts of odd people who have access to lots of things. I happen to have some chloral hydrate in my possession.”

“Here?”

“Yes, here.”

“Where, exactly?”

“Never mind that. If you decide sensibly to put it in Grandfather’s nightcap, I’ll get it for you at once.”

“Your service is excellent, darling. I’ll have to give you that.”

“I try to be helpful.”

“Your plan, so far as I can see, is flawless. Simple and direct. No fancy complications.”

“Will you do it?”

“Maybe.”

“Tonight?”

“Maybe.”

“Darling, it would be so easy.”

“Damn it,” I said, “I’ve got mud between my toes.”

When the time came, it wasn’t. Easy, that is.

We were in the library, Grandfather and Connie and I. Grandfather was dozing in his chair. Connie was listening to muted jazz. I was playing solitaire. The library clock struck ten, and Grandfather stood up.

“I’ll say good night, children,” he said. “Buster, my boy, will you bring my nightcap?”

He pranced out. I looked at Connie, and Connie looked at me. Turning away, I went out to the kitchen and made Grandfather’s nightcap according to recipe. When I turned around, Connie was in the doorway watching me. We stood there looking at each other for a long minute. She was excited. She was filled with the strange, contained excitement she had felt on the veranda when the thunderheads rolled over.

“Now?” she said.

I didn’t answer. Carrying the nightcap, I went upstairs to Grandfather’s room.

When I came down, Connie had disappeared.

The next day there was another thunderstorm. It came early in the afternoon, just after lunch. Grandfather had withdrawn to the library to put in his daily labor on the county history, and I was on the veranda to watch the black roistering masses roll overhead to the deafening detonations of the thunder and the forked flashes of lightning and the great rush of wind-blown rain.

The storm, this day, was brief. Fifteen minutes after the rain began it was all over. I kept waiting for Connie to join me on the veranda, but she never did. Not, that is, while the storm lasted.

She came out afterward and down the steps into the yard. She was wearing a pair of white shorts and a white cotton blouse, and her feet were bare. She didn’t look at me or speak, and I went over to the steps and down into the yard after her.

“Where have you been?” I said.

“Upstairs in my room,” she said.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Poor boy. Waiting is a tedious business, isn’t it? One gets so sick of it after a while.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“Not at all. A little disappointed in you, perhaps. It is perfectly clear that nothing extraordinary can be expected of you.”

“You must give me a little more time, that’s all.”

“Take all the time you want. Take forever.”

She had turned to face me, and now she turned away again and started across the yard. I followed a few steps behind.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going for a walk.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, thanks. I don’t care to have you.”

“Why not?”

“Life is dull enough around here at best. You’d only make it worse.”

“You never seemed to find me so dull before.”

“I thought you were better than nothing, darling. Now I’m not so sure.”

I stopped where I was and watched her go. She had broad shoulders and a narrow waist and long golden legs. For a moment, watching her, I had a hard and hurting sense of intolerable loss. Then I turned back to the house and went inside and upstairs to my room.

I opened my windows and lay down on the bed, and the cool wet air blew in across me. I could hear the dripping of rain and the chittering of birds and the rustling of leaves in what was left of the wind. After a while I sank into a strange sort of lassitude, a passive submission to fragmentary dreams between waking and sleeping, and then, some time later, I went to sleep soundly and slept through the afternoon, and when I woke it was after five o’clock. I washed my face and went downstairs and found Grandfather, after a brief search, standing behind the house looking off in the direction of the slope beyond the garages.

“There you are, Buster,” he said. “I’ve hardly set eyes on you all day long. Where have you been keeping yourself, my boy?”

“I went upstairs after lunch and fell asleep. I slept longer than I intended.”

“Where’s Connie?”

“She went for a walk right after the storm. Isn’t she back yet?”

“Can’t find her. Can’t find her anywhere.”

“Maybe she’s in her room.”

“Knocked. Got no answer.”

“Well, she wasn’t in a very good humor. Probably she’s off sitting somewhere until she recovers. She’ll be along in good time.”

“I walked to the cemetery. Didn’t see her along the way.”

“Perhaps she’s over by the creek.”

“I’m a bit concerned, my boy. Can’t deny it. She may have hurt herself. Sprained an ankle or something. May be out there waiting for help.”

“If it will make you feel better, Grandfather, I’ll go look for her.”

“Do that, my boy. Relieve your old grandfather’s anxiety.”