Margaret Millar - The Devil Loves Me

“And just who is Dennis?” he asked.

Mrs. Shane turned and regarded him bleakly. “Who is anybody, for that matter? He’s a young man whom I rather dislike; he’s going to marry my niece; he seems to have enough money. And even if he hasn’t, Dinah has.”

“But he’s your guest, isn’t he?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Of course. I enjoy having people around me. But I don’t ask them for their registration cards. Dinah wanted an invitation for the young man and I sent one. She is—”

She stopped suddenly as the door of the room across the hall opened and Hilda catapulted out toward the kitchen. The inspector materialized in the doorway.

“Oh, Mrs. Shane,” he said softly. “Would you mind answering another question?”

Her smile was gracious and friendly as she walked toward him. “Of course not.”

“Your daughter tells me you use eyedrops,” Sands said. “May I see them please?”

“You may certainly. I haven’t used them for some time. They’re in the bathroom between my room and my sister’s.”

“No,” Sands said, “they’re not. Your daughter thought you kept them there and I looked for them. You have no further information to give me?”

“Why?” She turned to Pry. “Why eyedrops?”

Prye gave her a wry smile. “Why anything for that matter? But I suspect it’s because the lab analyzed Duncan’s pillowcase and sheet and found traces of atropine.”

Sands silenced him with a small movement of his hand.

“What has Duncan’s pillowcase to do with my eyedrops or Jane’s poisoning?” Mrs. Shane demanded.

“It seems obvious,” Sands said, “that Duncan was the intended victim. His sister drank some of the water that was in the pitcher beside his bed. I’d like to find this Duncan.”

“Why?” Mrs. Shane said again.

The inspector smiled gently. “To prevent him from being murdered.”

Mrs. Shane made a queer sound in her throat, walked back into the drawing room, and shut the door firmly behind her.

Sands looked at Prye, half smiling. “How did Duncan behave when he saw his sister collapse in the church? Was he puzzled, anxious, frightened?”

“Frightened,” Prye said.

“Interesting. There is a possibility then that he realized she had gotten the poison intended for him and that he has gone into hiding to protect himself. How does atropine taste?”

“Pure atropine is slightly bitter. It depends on the solution whether the taste would be noticeable.”

“The amount of muscarin used as an antidote was about one fiftieth of a grain. The doctor guessed at the amount, but it must have been a close guess. Miss Stevens is recovering rapidly. So we can estimate one fiftieth of a grain of atropine as the amount she took.”

Prye frowned. “Not nearly a lethal dose. Have you phoned Mrs. Shane’s doctor and found out how many grains of atropine were in the eyedrops?”

“One twentieth,” Sands said.

“Still not enough, under the circumstances.”

“The circumstances being that when the poison took effect he would be surrounded by people who would get him to a hospital? You’re sure that one twentieth of a grain wouldn’t have killed him?”

“No, I’m not,” Prye said. “But I think it’s unlikely. Duncan is still young — people become progressively more intolerant to atropine as they grow older — and his physical condition is good. Aside from his drinking habits he takes extremely good care of himself. Suppose the poison was intended to give him a really fine scare.”

Sands studied the ceiling. “The scare theory would account for one thing which has been worrying me, the anonymous telephone call. The poisoner intended to scare Duncan, poisoned Jane by mistake, and phoned the hospital to make sure that the poison was identified and the proper antidote administered.”

Sands went into the library and came back carrying his hat and topcoat. Prye followed him to the door.

“One more point,” he said. “One twentieth grain of atropine in that pitcher of water would have only a slightly bitter taste. But a bottle of eyedrops is a different matter. The antiseptic alone would flavor the water strongly, I think.”

“Miss Stevens mentioned the flavor,” Sands remarked. “But Duncan, in hangover condition, would perhaps not have noticed anything. The poisoner probably depended on the morning-after taste. By the way, what time do you dine here?”

“Seven.”

“If Duncan Stevens appears let me know immediately.”

He was putting on his gray topcoat when Nora came running down the stairs.

“Inspector!” she called. “Wait.”

Sands watched her approach, calm, unsurprised. Women, he thought, have good memories. They keep adding to their stories until they’re almost complete. He said, “You’ve thought of something else?”

Nora passed Prye with a cold stare and smiled at the inspector.

“It just occurred to me. Jane is coming home before dinner so she couldn’t have had very much poison. And Duncan is still missing.”

The inspector was patient. He was becoming accustomed to the tortuous ways by which the Shane family arrived at their points.

“Meaning?” he prompted.

“Meaning that Duncan might have poisoned her.”

“Any one of us might have,” Prye said. “Why Duncan?”

“To stop the wedding,” Nora said sweetly. “You see, Duncan asked me to marry him last night.”

Prye said “Phew!” and let out his breath. “Rather tardy, wasn’t it?”

“He’d asked me before, several times. I always said no.” She looked distantly at Prye. “I have since wondered if I wasn’t a little hasty. Duncan has his faults but he doesn’t maltreat defenseless women.”

“I didn’t touch Dinah,” Prye said violently.

“Gorilla.”

“It was the taxi driver.”

“I suggest,” Sands interrupted mildly, “that you settle the gorilla question after I’ve gone. While we’re on the subject, however, is Mr. Dennis Williams’ black eye a result of — ah, the machinations of Mrs. Revel?”

Prye grinned. “Oh yes. And speaking of Dennis—”

“Yes?” The inspector’s voice was alert.

Prye related the scene in the drawing room, Aspasia’s prediction of disaster, and Dennis’ subsequent behavior.

“Keep an eye on Williams,” Sands said, frowning. “I have a murder case on the books right now and can’t stay myself.” He buttoned his coat and put on his gray fedora.

They watched him go down the stone steps of the veranda and walk along the flagstones to his black sedan, his shoulders hunched against the raw autumn wind.

Nora shivered and closed the door. “I wonder where Duncan is. He shouldn’t stay away like this.”

Only one man in the world knew where Duncan was. He was a colored redcap at the Union Station. He didn’t come forward at the inquest to give his evidence because it might have cost him his job. But later he told his wife about it.

About four o’clock in the afternoon George Brown went down to the basement of the station. George was getting too old for his job, and he knew of a small storage room where he could go for a nap between trains.

Halfway down the stairs he caught sight of a man at the bottom. He was quite a young man, rather short and fat, and he wore a silk hat and striped pants and a wilted carnation in the buttonhole of his coat. In one hand he carried an imitation-leather knitting bag. With the other he clung to the brass railing of the stairs.

George classified him instantly as a big tip and hurried down to take the knitting bag from his hand. But the young man turned out to be very drunk, and with the tenacity of the very drunk he clutched the bag with both hands.