Ed McBain - Eighty Million Eyes

“Was the autopsy conducted?” Nelson asked Meyer.

“Yes, sir.”

“May I ask what the results were? Or are they classified?”

“Mr. Gifford was killed by a large dose of strophanthin,” Carella said.

“Strophanthin?” Nelson looked honestly surprised. “That's rather unusual, isn’t it?”

“Are you familiar with the drug, Dr. Nelson?”

“Yes, of course. That is, I know of it. I don’t think I’ve ever prescribed it, however. It's rarely used, you know.”

“Dr. Nelson, Mr. Gifford wasn’t a cardiac patient, was he?”

“No. I believe I told that to Detective Meyer last night. Certainly not.”

“He wasn’t taking digitalis or any of the related glycosides?”

“No, sir.”

“What was he taking?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was he taking any drugs?”

Nelson shrugged. “No. Not that I know of.”

“Well, you’re his personal physician. If anyone would know, it’d be you, isn’t that so?”

“That's right. No, Stan wasn’t taking any drugs. Unless you want to count headache tablets and vitamin pills.”

“What kind of headache tablets?”

“An empirin-codeine compound.”

“And the vitamins?”

“B-complex with vitamin C.”

“How long had he been taking the vitamins?”

“Oh, several months. He was feeling a little tired, run-down, you know. I suggested he try them.”

“You prescribed them?”

“ Prescribed them? No.” Nelson shook his head. “He was taking a brand called PlexCin, Mr. Carella. It can be purchased at any drugstore without a prescription. But I suggested it to him, yes.”

“You suggested this specific brand?”

“Yes. It's manufactured by a reputable firm, and I’ve found it to be completely relia—”

“Dr. Nelson, how are these vitamins packaged?”

“In a capsule. Most vitamins are.”

“How large a capsule?”

“An O capsule, I would say. Perhaps a double O.”

“Dr. Nelson, would you happen to know whether or not Mr. Gifford was in the habit of taking his vitamins during the show?”

“Why, no, I…” Nelson paused. He looked at Carella and then turned to Melanie, and then looked at Carella again. “You certainly don’t think…” Nelson shrugged. “But then, I suppose anything's possible.”

“What were you thinking, Dr. Nelson?”

“That perhaps someone substituted strophanthin for the vitamins?”

“Would that be possible?”

“I don’t see why not,” Nelson said. “The PlexCin capsule is an opaque gelatin that comes apart in two halves. I suppose someone could conceivably have opened the capsule, removed the vitamins, and replaced them with strophanthin.” He shrugged again. “But that would seem an awfully long way to go to…” He stopped.

“To what, Dr. Nelson?”

“Well…to murder someone, I suppose.”

The terrace was silent again.

“Did he take these vitamin capsules every day?” Carella asked.

“Yes,” Nelson answered.

“Would you know when he took them yesterday?”

“No, I—”

“ I know when,” Melanie said.

Carella turned to her. She was still sitting on the low stool, still hugging herself, still looking chilled and lost and forlorn.

“When?” Carella asked.

“He took one after breakfast yesterday morning.” Melanie paused. “I met him for lunch in town yesterday afternoon. He took another capsule then.”

“What time was that?”

“Immediately after lunch. About two o’clock.”

Carella sighed.

“What is it, Mr. Carella?” Melanie asked.

“I think my partner is beginning to hate clocks,” Meyer said.

“What do you mean?”

“You see, Mrs. Gifford, it takes six minutes for a gelatin capsule to dissolve, releasing whatever's inside it. And strophanthin acts immediately.”

“Then the capsule he took at lunch couldn’t have contained any poison.”

“That's right, Mrs. Gifford. He took it at two o’clock, and he didn’t collapse until about eight-fifty-five. That's a time span of almost seven hours. No, the poison had to be taken while he was at the studio.”

Nelson looked thoughtful for a moment. “Then wouldn’t it be wise to question—” he began, and stopped speaking abruptly because the telephone inside was ringing furiously, shattering the afternoon stillness.

David Krantz was matter-of-fact, businesslike, and brief. His voice fairly crackled over the telephone wire.

“You called me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How's Melanie?”

“She seems fine.”

“You didn’t waste any time getting over there, did you?”

“We try to do our little jobs,” Carella said dryly, remembering Meyer's description of his encounter with Krantz, and wondering whether everybody in television had such naturally nasty tone of voice.

“What is it you want?” Krantz said. “This phone hasn’t stopped ringing all morning. Every newspaper in town, every magazine, every cretin in this city wants to know exactly what happened last night! How do I know what happened?”

“You were there, weren’t you?”

“I was up in the sponsor's booth. I only saw it on the monitor. What do you want from me? I’m very busy.”

“I want to know exactly where Stan Gifford was last night before he went on camera for the last time.”

“How do I know where he was? I just told you I was up in the sponsor's booth.”

“Where does he usually go when he's off camera, Mr. Krantz?”

“That depends on how much time he has.”

“Suppose he had the time it took for some folk singers to sing two songs?”

“Then I imagine he went to his dressing room.”

“Can you check that for me?”

“Whom would you like me to check it with? Stan's dead.”

“Look, Mr. Krantz, are you trying to tell me that in your well-functioning, smoothly oiled organization, nobody has any idea where Stan Gifford was while those singers were on camera?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What did you say? I’m sure I misunderstood you.”

“I said I didn’t know. I was up in the sponsor's booth. I went up there about fifteen minutes before airtime.”

“All right, Mr. Krantz, thank you. You’ve successfully presented your alibi. I assume that Gifford did not come up to the sponsor's booth at any time during the show?”

“Exactly.”

“Then you couldn’t have poisoned him, isn’t that your point?”

“I wasn’t trying to establish an alibi for myself. I simply—”

“Mr. Krantz, who would know where Gifford was? Would somebody know? Would anybody in your organization know?”

“I’ll check on it. Can you call me later?”

“I’d rather stop by. Will you be in your office all day?”

“Yes, but—”

“There are some further questions I’d like to ask you.”

“About what?”

“About Gifford.”

“Am I a suspect in this damn thing?”

“Did I say that, Mr. Krantz?”

“No, I said it. Am I?”

“Yes, Mr. Krantz, you are,” Carella said, and hung up.

On the way back to the city, Meyer was peculiarly silent. Carella, who had spelled him at the wheel, glanced at him and said, “Do you want to hit Krantz now or after lunch?”

“After lunch,” Meyer said.

“You seem tired. What's the matter?”

“I think I’m coming down with something. My head feels stuffy.”

“All that clean, fresh suburban air,” Carella said.

“No, I must be getting a cold.”

“I can see Krantz alone,” Carella said. “Why don’t you go on home?”