Free Dead as a Dinosaur by Frances Lockridge

slowly.
    â€œIt is, Bill,” she said. “It’s more as if he—as if he had some sane reason for wanting to appear persecuted.” She paused. “Publicity?” she asked.
    Jerry North shook his head at that. Dr. Preson had always been opposed to publicity which involved him personally. He had protested each interview arranged on the publication of the first volume of his book; after two television appearances had refused to make others, declined to become a “chattering ape.” He has also insisted that what he was, and how he behaved, was of no importance to anyone. If people wanted to read his book, that was fine. If they wanted to write about his book, that was fine. In so far as was possible, Dr. Preson, as a man with a beard, as a person, was to be left out of it.
    â€œSo far as I could tell, he meant it,” Jerry told them. “Very funny-type author, of course.”
    â€œAnyway,” Pam said, “if he wanted to get publicity out of all this, he’d have got it, wouldn’t he? Called up people and told them? Had a press conference? Couldn’t he have done that?”
    Jerry thought he could have; he was well enough known for that. If people were sticking pins—or midgets or bushelmen—into Dr. Orpheus Preson, author of The Days Before Man , the newspapers would find it of interest. It had the news advantage of the bizarre.
    â€œIt’s much simpler,” Bill Weigand told them, “merely to settle for the good doctor as a crackpot. Much simpler. Probably, much truer, too. Let’s let a psychiatrist work it out.”
    â€œBill’s tired,” Dorian told them. “Hard day at the morgue.”
    â€œI—” Bill began, with summoned energy, the Norths stood up to go and the telephone rang. Bill reached for it. He said, “Right.” He listened. The Norths started toward the foyer, Dorian with them. Bill cupped the transmitter and said, sharply, “Wait!” They stopped. Bill said, “Go ahead.” He listened again.
    Weigand said “yes” several times, and “right” twice, and then, “Hasn’t Anstey put a report through?” He listened after that, for a minute or more, finally said, once again, “Right” and added, “since that’s the way he wants it.” He replaced the receiver. He looked at his wife and the Norths. He said, “Well, the little man’s certainly persistent.” They waited.
    â€œDr. Preson has taken an overdose of a barbiturate,” Bill told them. “Apparently he had some left and thought he might as well go through with it after all.” He shook his head. “Poor little guy,” he said. “I guess he’ll end up in Bellevue after all.”
    â€œBad?” Jerry North asked, and Bill Weigand shrugged as he answered.
    â€œHe’s in a coma,” Bill said. “At the hospital. Probably they’ll bring him out of it. Unless he got more than they think or is particularly sensitive. Live for the observation ward, probably. For a sanatorium.”
    â€œWhy you?” Dorian asked, and again Bill shrugged.
    â€œCrossed wires, as much as anything,” he said. “That was a relay from the inspector. He’s working on the first premise—that somebody’s persecuting Dr. Preson. So this looks like attempted murder, maybe. Something we should look into. Anstey’s later report—that the doctor was his own persecutor—is still somewhere in channels. So the inspector says, ‘Get Weigand over there for a look around’ and—end of an evening. I’ll find another bottle of milk with phenobarbital in it, one glass gone out of it and into Dr. Preson. When Dr. Preson comes around tomorrow, the story will be that somebody got in while he was taking his sister home this afternoon and provided another bottle of drugged milk, from which he dutifully drank.”
    â€œHe