Питер Ловси - Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose [Stories]

“Yes, he’s here. He arrived early this morning, just after 8.15.”

She said, “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Someone told me he was down with ’flu.”

To prove his point, the security man showed her Mark’s overcoat in the staff locker-room. She knew Mark’s camel-hair coat with the leather buttons and the shoulder-flaps. There was no question now that what she had seen was true.

She asked the security man about Ben and Zena. They’d arrived together at their usual time, 9.50 — which was odd, not to say suspicious, considering how late the grotto had opened.

She decided to have it out with them. The grotto closed between 1.00 and 2.00, so she found them out of costume in the staff canteen. They’d finished lunch and Ben had his arm protectively around Zena’s chair. They looked up like two choirboys on a Christmas card, innocence personified.

She warned them that she’d been checking downstairs. “I want a straight answer. Why weren’t you ready to open the grotto at ten this morning?”

“There’s no mystery, darling,” answered Zena. “We had to wait ages for the lift.”

A reasonable explanation. The lift was their only means of access to the grotto. Pauline had to accept it for the moment. She said, “I’m going to make a search of the grotto.”

Ben said affably, “Fine. Let’s all make a search.”

They had twenty minutes. Pauline had hoped to find bloodstains on Santa’s throne, but it was painted red. She went behind the scenery, where it was supported on wood and chicken-wire. “There’s something under here.”

It was a wooden packing-case. Ben dragged it out and pulled off the lid. There was a layer of the small white chips of polystyrene used in packing. Ben dug into them with his large hands.

Zena screamed as a tuft of dark hair was revealed. It didn’t take much more digging to confirm that Mark’s body had been crammed into the packing-case.

“I suppose all three of us are imagining this!” Pauline said pointedly.

“We’d better report it,” said Ben in a shocked voice. Reassuringly, he and Zena gave every sign of being genuinely surprised at the discovery.

“Before we do,” said Pauline, “would you mind looking in his pockets?”

“Why?” asked Zena, but Ben was already starting a search. In one of the inside pockets was the note that Pauline hoped to find. Something must have lured Mark to his death in the grotto early that morning.

It was a short, typed message: See what Santa has for you, darling. Tuesday morning, 8.45.

“I’ve seen that typestyle recently,” said Ben.

“On our letter of appointment,” said Zena.

“Sylvia?” said Ben, frowning. “Mr Beckington’s secretary?”

Pauline and Zena exchanged a long, uncomprehending look.

They covered the body and took the lift to the management floor above. On the way up, Pauline said, “I’ve thought of something terribly important. Did you find out why you had to wait so long for the lift this morning?”

“Not for certain,” Ben answered. “The usual cause is a storeman delivering goods.”

Pauline said, “I believe it was the murderer, jamming the lift-door open at our floor so that no one would interrupt the killing. When it finally arrived, did you see a storeman?”

“No,” said Zena, “it was empty.” She hesitated. “But we smelt cigar smoke.”

There wasn’t time to reflect on that, because the lift-doors opened at the top floor and Mr Beckington was waiting there, a cigar jutting from his mouth. At the sight of the three of them together, his features twisted in alarm. He turned and made a dash for the emer-gency stairs.

“Ben!” shouted Zena.

Ben set off in chase.

The commotion brought people from their offices, among them Sylvia. Pauline grabbed her arm and drew her into the lift. Zena pressed the button for the ground floor and the three women started downwards.

“Mr Beckington,” Zena blurted out. “He murdered Mark.”

Sylvia’s hand went to her mouth.

“But why?” said Pauline.

Sylvia said in a small, shocked voice, “He was jealous. Silly man. He was forever trying to start something with me, but I wasn’t interested. I mean, he’s married, with a daughter my age. Then last week Mark started taking an interest in me. I always thought him dishy, and... well, on Friday evening we spent a little time together in the grotto.”

“By arrangement?”

Sylvia nodded. “When everyone else was gone.”

Pauline showed her the note they’d found in Mark’s pocket.

“I didn’t type this!” said Sylvia.

“Mr Beckington did,” Pauline explained, “on your typewriter, to make sure Mark turned up this morning. He killed Mark in the grotto and he must have still been in there when the child sneaked in. He must have been hiding behind the scenery when I came in. I raised the alarm, and while I was standing outside like a lulu, he hid the body in a packing-case. I just hope Ben catches him.”

“My man’s strong,” said Zena, “but fast he isn’t.”

The lift gave a shudder as they reached the ground floor. When the doors opened, a police sergeant was waiting. Two constables were nearby, standing at the foot of the stairs.

“All right, girls,” said the sergeant. “Just stand over there, well out of the way.”

In a moment, there was the clatter of footsteps on the stairs, then Mr Beckington ran straight into the arms of the waiting policemen. He offered no resistance.

Pauline felt a tug on her skirt and looked down at the small girl. “You?” she said. “You called the police?”

The child smiled smugly and nodded.

“And you believed her?” Pauline said to the sergeant.

“She’s my daughter, miss. The way I see it, if my little girl tells me Santa’s snuffed it, I’ve got to be very, very concerned.”

Poison, perhaps.

Quick-acting, if you choose the right sort. No mess. Simple to administer.

The problem with a poisoning is that science has progressed so far that you can’t expect to get away with it any more. The police bring in people who make a whole career out of finding symptoms and traces.

Poison is not practical any more.

“I’m putting on the cocoa, blossom,” Rose calls from the kitchen. “Did you switch on the blanket?”

“Twenty minutes ago, my love,” answers Albert, easing his old body out of the armchair.

“And I thought you were day-dreaming. I ought to know better. My faithful Albert wouldn’t forget after all these years. Is my kettle filled?”

He puts his head around the door. “Yes, dear.”

“And the hottie — is it emptied from last night?”

“Emptied, yes, and waiting by the bed.”

“You’re a treasure, Albert.”

“I do my best, sweetpea.”

“I sometimes wonder how I ever got through the night before we bought the electric blanket. I’ve always felt the cold, you know. It isn’t just old age.”

“We had ways of keeping warm,” says Albert.

“You’ve always had a marvellous circulation,” says Rose for the millionth time. “You don’t know how lucky you are.”

Perhaps suffocation is the way. The pillow held firmly over the face. No traces of poison then. How do they know it isn’t a heart attack? Mental note: visit the library tomorrow and find out more about suffocation.

“Nearly ready, honeybunch,” says Rose, in the kitchen stirring the milk in the saucepan. “We’re a comical pair, when you think about it: I make the cocoa to send us to sleep. You make the tea that wakes us up.”

And wash up your sodding saucepan. And the spoon that you always leave by the gas-ring, coated in cocoa. And wipe the surface clean.