Free A Pinch of Poison by Frances Lockridge Page A

“I’m glad you told me. But I wouldn’t worry about it—” He paused. “What is your name?” he asked.
    â€œMary,” the girl said. “Mary Holden. But it doesn’t matter.”
    Then, while he still looked at her curiously, she was through the door and had closed it behind her.
    â€œWell,” Mullins said, “what d’y know?”
    â€œThat Randall and his girl friend have hurried things a bit,” Weigand told him. “And that Randall stands to lose a lot of money if it comes out. And that there is a chance his sister knew about it. What do you know, Mullins?”
    â€œThat this girl Mary is crazy about our Buddy,” Mullins told him. “Is, or was. Right?”
    â€œRight,” Weigand said.
    It necessitated a change of plan, Weigand decided, riding down in the elevator. He had planned to send the detective who had been trailing Randall Ashley to get the papers in Lois’s desk, and take them to Headquarters. But now he wasn’t sure; he thought it might be worth while keeping an eye on Ashley. He looked speculatively at Mullins, and nodded to himself. Mullins caught the nod and interpreted it.
    â€œListen, Loot—” Mullins began. Weigand stopped him.
    â€œYou’d better go back and get those papers, Mullins,” Weigand said. “Take them to Headquarters and sit on them. We’ll keep Conroy on Buddy.”
    The elevator stopped at the ground floor. Weigand got out. Mullins looked resigned and stayed in, reascending. Outside, Weigand spoke a word to the loitering detective. Then Weigand, after a glance at his watch, found a telephone. He called Bellevue Hospital, asked for the Pathology Building and got it. He asked for Dr. Jerome Francis and, after a pause, got him.
    â€œWell,” said Weigand, “how’re you coming?”
    â€œListen,” Dr. Francis said. His voice sounded tired. “Did you ever do an autopsy?”
    Weigand asked him what he thought.
    â€œWell,” Dr. Francis said, “did anybody ever tell you it takes time? Or that analysis takes time? Call me tomorrow afternoon. Or Thursday morning. Maybe I’ll have something.”
    â€œNo,” said Weigand, “I can’t wait that long. What have you got now?”
    â€œShe’s dead,” Dr. Francis said, with heavy sarcasm. “I cut her up and she was dead. Thirty minutes for the autopsy, which is damned fast going, if you want to know.” He paused. “Except for the head, of course,” he added, honestly.
    â€œWhat killed her?” Weigand wanted to know.
    â€œI’m telling you I don’t know yet.” Dr. Francis’ voice tried patience. “She didn’t die naturally, so far as I can tell. The organs are perfectly normal. Her pupils were dilated. So I think she got a parasympathetic poison—probably belladonna or atropine. But that’s what I told you before.”
    â€œI want to know definitely what killed her,” Weigand said. “Isn’t there any way you can tell? How long will a chemical analysis take?”
    â€œAbout two days,” Francis told him.
    â€œAny other way of telling?” Weigand wanted to know. Dr. Francis hesitated.
    â€œWell,” he said, “I can run a biological test. It won’t be decisive, but it will tell something. And I guess we can spare a guinea-pig. Call me in the morning.”
    â€œNo,” Weigand said. “I’ll come down and see you. And the guinea-pig. And you can tell me what it means.” He hung up. Francis would be there; grumbling but there. Weigand got the Buick and rolled downtown toward Bellevue. He was thinking. He tried to tell himself he was thinking about the case, and tried really to think about the case. But Dorian kept coming in.
    At Bellevue he walked through the morgue, nodding to an attendant and not looking at the cupboards of the dead. In one of them, he supposed, was what remained of