Free Cold Poison by Stuart Palmer

coincidence. That same killer must be at work again out there!”
    “It could be,” admitted the schoolteacher. “What next, Oscar?”
    He thought about it. “And I had to go and get you into a thing like that,” he said ruefully, with real worry in his voice. “Poisoners are the worst of all, because they’re sneaky. This is mean stuff, a good deal out of your class, and you might easily get hurt. I think—” He hesitated again.
    “ You think? Are you really equipped for it, Oscar?”
    “Stop trying to be funny. I was about to say that I think I can talk the commish into okaying a trip west for me, since he is as anxious as I am to get to the bottom of the Bard case. I’ll take the next plane for Los Angeles and straighten out the whole thing for you. Meanwhile, do nothing until I get there, understand?”
    “I understand, but do not agree,” said the schoolteacher with her usual firmness. “You don’t see the entire situation, Oscar. I am in the midst of a series of four murders, one down and three to go, as I told you. The time to solve a murder is before it happens. But, of course, I’ll be glad to have your help if they let you off the hook. Wire me when to meet you.”
    Remembering her driving, Oscar Piper said hastily, “No thanks, Hildegarde. I’ll not trouble you to drive all that distance. I can take a taxi from the airport.”
    She sniffed again. “Very well. Good night, Oscar. And for heaven’s sake remember to put out that cigar before you go back to bed, for your own safety.” She hung up, feeling slightly encouraged about it all; poison ivy had been used at least once as a method of murder. And murderers, as she knew from bitter experience, had a tendency to repeat themselves until caught; it was like that first salted peanut. But there was also the story of the pitcher which went once too often to the fount …
    Miss Hildegarde Withers gave her graying hair its requisite one hundred strokes and then sought her maidenly couch, hoping that in her sleep her subconscious mind would come up with a hint or two about the problem which plagued her. She slept—finally—but her dreams were only a photomontage of cracked pitchers and half-done water colors, of clowning poodles floating from balloons and bottles of mineral oil and shoes and ships and sealing wax, all to the accompaniment of the tuneless maniacal laughter of a dying penguin….
    Back in New York City, Inspector Oscar Piper, one of the three people who could get the police commissioner up out of bed at this hour, did so. “I’m going out to California,” he said.
    “Huh?” The commissioner was still half-asleep. “Okay, but why?”
    “Zelda Bard.”
    “She’s there? Oh no, she’s dead, isn’t she? You got something?”
    “Hildegarde Withers has. I threw a case to her, just to keep her from brooding, and it turns out to be something. Same deal—the poison-ivy stuff. I don’t mind these murders we get with knives and guns, but when they start using new stuff—”
    “Exactly.” The commissioner was wide awake now. “Go ahead. Swarthout can take over your office while you’re gone. You want a plane?”
    The air wing of the New York police department consists of two Bell D-47 helicopters, capable of no more than a modest one hundred miles an hour with favorable winds. “No thanks,” said Piper hastily. “I’ll go by regular airline—I’ve gotta get out there before Hildegarde gets herself into trouble. Because I’m fairly sure that he’s at work again out there in California….”
    “He?” said the commissioner.
    “Maybe she . Zelda Bard could have been killed by a jealous rival, but I always had a hunch it was one of her multitudinous boy friends who sent her the poison-ivy brandy. We’ll see.”
    “Okay, Oscar. Take all the time you need—take two or three days if necessary.”
    “Thank you, sir,” said the Inspector and hung up. He looked ruefully and wistfully at the rumpled bed in which he had had