Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowsy Mosquito

Velma sat on the edge of the bed, giving Dr. Kenward the comfortable chair, saying nothing until he had settled back with the first deeply relaxing drag of cigarette smoke, exhaling it with what was almost a sigh.

It was a tense period of waiting, similar to that which she had shared with Dr. Kenward on innumerable nocturnal vigils. He had, for the moment, done everything that medical science could do. But before going home, he waited for the turn of the tide, for the treatment to develop its full efficiency. During such periods, he was relaxed in the sense that a pugilist is relaxed between rounds. His mind, keyed up to racing efficiency, could not relax, but he could somewhat lessen the nerve strain by stretching out in a chair and relaxing his muscles as much as possible.

“There was fried chicken?” Dr. Kenward asked abruptly.

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Sims has some sort of contract by which the people are boarded?”

“That’s right. I don’t know just what the arrangement is. I think Mr. Clarke makes up whatever deficit remains after she collects the board allowance from the various people. It’s a peculiar arrangement, but the whole household is peculiar.”

“There was plenty of fried chicken?”

“Plenty.”

“All on one platter?”

“No. There were two platters.”

“One at the end of the table where Mrs. Bradisson and her son were seated?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Kenward said thoughtfully, “The fried chicken probably accounts for it.”

“You mean the poisoning?”

“No. The length of time after the ingestion of the poison and before the development of symptoms. Greasy food delays the appearance of symptoms. Now the question is, how could the food have been poisoned without poison being administered to others at the table. You’re certain the plates weren’t served individually with food on them?”

“No. Everything was taken from dishes which were passed around.”

Dr. Kenward said, “They’re both insisting they didn’t eat a thing after dinner. It must have been administered in some liquid, then.”

“It’s arsenic?”

“Undoubtedly. Mrs. Sims checked up on all the others. No one else was sick. Therefore, it must have— You checked up on Banning, didn’t you?” Ken ward’s voice was sharp with anxiety.

“Yes. I tiptoed out to the cactus garden. He and Salty were snoring peacefully away in their sleeping bags.”

“They ate dinner at the table?”

“No, they didn’t. They eat out there about half the time. Salty is quite a camp cook.”

Dr. Kenward said, “Not exactly the sort of treatment you’d prescribe, and yet it seems to be doing the work, which is all one can ask of any treatment. I give it my frowning disapproval, which makes the pair of them feel something like a couple of schoolboys who have sneaked out for an adventure. That’s half of the battle — gives them that mental stimulus which comes of doing something they shouldn’t be doing. Now, is there any possible way that you can think of—” He broke off at the sudden flash of expression which crossed her face. “Yes? What is it, Velma?”

“The salt shaker.”

“What about it?”

The words were coming quickly now, rushing from the tip of her tongue as she suddenly realized the full import of the idea which had occurred to her.

“The salt shaker — Jim and his mother are both great salt eaters. They’ve developed such a taste for it that they pile salt on everything in sight, and Mrs. Sims finally gave them a special salt shaker. Every piece of chicken they ate they salted liberally, and I’ll bet they’re the only ones at the table that put salt on it. It was seasoned just right as it was.”

Dr. Kenward ground out the half-smoked cigarette, was on his feet. “Let’s go take a quiet look at that salt shaker.”

They tiptoed through the corridors of the big, silent house, down the stairs, and into the dining-room. Velma finally located the saltcellar on the huge sideboard. Dr. Kenward spilled out some of the salt in the palm of his hand, took a small magnifying glass from his pocket, inspected it carefully, rubbed the salt around in his hand, then abruptly slipped the saltcellar into his pocket. “I think that does it,” he said. “It will take an analysis to make certain. You had a bright idea there, Velma. It was the saltcellar — an easy way to eliminate the others. Don’t say anything about it for the moment. I suppose we’ve got to go to the District Attorney with this, and I’d like to find out just a little more about it before I notify him. Of course, Jim Bradisson will accuse Banning Clarke of trying to administer poison. — How do these two rate with the others here?”

“Jim is all right,” Velma said somewhat dubiously. “He has a repertoire of nineteen-thirty-four jokes. The polite ones are insipid, the impolite ones are strained, heavy — just aren’t clever. But on the whole, he tries to be affable and agreeable, and if it weren’t for that assumption of infallible superiority, he’d be popular.”

“How about his mother?”

Velma shook her head. “She’s vain, selfish, and so completely enraptured with that son of hers that she’s absolutely impossible. She’s full of little tricks — cheating on herself, announcing what she’s going to do in regard to diet, what she’s going to eat and what she isn’t going to eat; then pretending that she’s forgotten all about it until after she’s taken the second helping. Or surreptitiously taking a second piece of cake when she thinks we’re not looking — as though that, somehow, would make it less fattening. She’s fifty, admitting thirty-eight, pretending twenty-eight.”

“Enemies?”

“I suppose so.”

“But mostly, the situation revolves around this mining proposition?”

“Yes. And that fraud suit.”

“What do you know about that?”

“Nothing much. Naturally, they don’t discuss their business matters before me. There’s friction. Pete Sims salted a claim and sold the string of mines to Jim Bradisson. I guess he really salted them. He’s an old reprobate, a periodical drunkard. Does things and tries to blame them on a split personality. Then there’s some trouble over control in the corporation. It’s not at all a happy household, but they try to keep up appearances — in front of me, at any rate.”

“How about this mining man?”

“Hayward Small? He’s a live wire all right, but I wouldn’t trust him. He’s personally magnetic — a good salesman. Incidentally, he’s paying a lot of attention to Nell Sims’ daughter, Dorina — and he must be twelve or fifteen years older than she is.”

“He has some sort of business hookup with Bradisson?”

“He’s been scouting mines for the corporation.”

Dr. Kenward said, “Well, I’ve got to notify the authorities. I think I’ll wait until morning and get in touch with the District Attorney personally. In the meantime, you keep an eye on things. I’ll take this salt shaker with me as evidence. I’ll leave it to you to see that the patients eat absolutely nothing until I advise you. And that will be after the District Attorney has been notified — perhaps around eight o’clock.”

When Dr. Kenward had left, Velma looked in on the patients to make certain they were resting easily, and then went back to her room and stretched out on her bed. Almost immediately she became drowsy. “Strange,” she reflected; try to sleep and she couldn’t. But once let her get hold of a case where she might have to take her sleep in little cat naps and she could stretch out on the bed and almost instantly start dozing — sleeping with one eye open — senses alert underneath a veneer of relaxation. No trouble now to drift off to sleep... Only thing to guard against was too deep a slumber... Just drift halfway into unconsciousness then stop, resting, but ready at the slightest... noise... noise... Not a noise connected with a patient, just a... a mosquito noise. That was it. Neglected to find that mosquito... Somewhere in the room... peculiar mosquito... doesn’t come closer... buzzes for a second or two, then seems to light... there he goes again... perhaps the mosquito’s sleepy too... Do mosquitoes sleep?... Why not?... But this mosquito is drowsy... tired...