The Dishonest Murderer Page 26
“And said it was murder?” Weigand asked.
Again she had to guess, to temporize.
“Did I?” she said. “I don’t remember. I—I suppose I did.”
Weigand said, “You did. If you made the call, Miss O’Brien. And you made it—”
And then the door of the little library opened suddenly, and Brian Halder stood in it, his height making it seem small.
“All right, Liza,” he said. He looked down at her. He managed to smile. “I guess it’s no go, darling,” he said, and then he spoke to Weigand.
“She telephoned me,” he said. “I don’t know quite what she’s said. I suppose she’s been keeping me out of it. She telephoned me, I went down, got her out of it, telephoned the police myself after I’d put her in a cab. About four-thirty, I’d guess. Does that fit?”
“Better,” Bill Weigand said. “And you said it was murder?”
“Yes,” Brian Halder said. “I guess I did.”
Bill Weigand looked at the tall young man slowly, carefully.
“How did you know, Mr. Halder?” he said. “You are Brian Halder?” Brian nodded. “How did you know it was murder?” Weigand asked, again, and his voice was oddly soft. “So long before we did? Because, you see—we don’t know that yet. As far as we can tell, it could have been suicide. How did you know?”
They all looked at Brian Halder then, and to Liza, hoping desperately for an answer which would be simple, would wipe away the uneasy trouble in her mind, it seemed that his eyes grew blank. But, after that second, he seemed surprised and startled, and then almost angry.
“My God,” he said. “Didn’t you see him?”
“Oh yes,” Weigand said. “We saw him. The medical examiner saw him. The medical examiner assumes poison. But—there’s nothing to indicate how administered.”
“You saw where his body was?” Brian Halder demanded.
“I saw where it was,” Weigand said. “But—your father was eccentric, Mr. Halder. Very eccentric.”
“That’s what they say,” Brian Halder said, and moved his head toward the door of the library, indicating (Liza realized) the others in the house. Weigand shook his head.
“What everybody will say,” he told Brian Halder. “What they said even in the old days, you know. And now—he had millions, owned this house. He kept a pet shop in the Village, on an out-of-the-way street; I doubt if he ever encouraged anybody to buy one of the animals; he lived in a little room behind the shop. You’ve seen the room? But of course you have. You saw it today, didn’t you? Your brother—”
“Half-brother,” Halder said.
“Half-brother,” Weigand said. “He says your father liked animals so much that—well, that he would have seen all of you die if that would have saved—well, that sick boxer pup at the shop.”
“That’s absurd,” Brian said. Now he seemed more convinced, was more convincing. “The old man didn’t have to mean all he said. He didn’t mean half of it.”
“Even half,” Weigand said. “Your father was eccentric. Perhaps bitter; perhaps more. He may have been ill, decided to kill himself, arranged these bizarre circumstances—to point up, somehow, his feeling about animals and people. And—to make the family ridiculous.”
“You’ve got quite an imagination, Lieutenant,” Brian Halder said.
“Is it easier to imagine somebody killing him and putting him in the pen to die?”
“It cer—” Halder began, and stopped abruptly. Liza could almost see his mind working. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. But didn’t he realize Weigand would see what she saw?
Weigand merely looked at the tall young man for a moment. Then he spoke mildly. “It may be that—yes, Sergeant?”
Sergeant Mullins was at the door. He moved his head back, summoning Weigand. Weigand went out of the room and closed the door behind him. Then Halder looked at the Norths, seemed to see them for the first time. Quickly, Liza introduced him. He narrowed his eyes, then opened them. “Don’t you—?” he said. “Aren’t you often involved in—?”
“Too often,” Jerry North said. He shook his head. “Ever since—” He looked at Pam North.
“We had one of our own, or sort of,” Pam said. “And met Bill. But I don’t think involved’s the word. It’s just that—” But now she stopped and looked at Jerry, who told her the word would do. But then Weigand returned. He looked at Brian Halder for a moment.
“Your father died of strychnine,” he said. “Hypodermically injected. Presumably from a syringe which he must have kept in his shop to destroy hopelessly sick animals. And—only his prints are on the syringe.” And then Weigand stopped, and waited for Brian Halder; waited obviously for the tall young man to speak.
Halder shook his head slowly, his expression shocked.
“But isn’t that horrible—painful?” he asked. “Would anyone—?”
“A good many have,” Weigand told him. “It’s much more frequently used by suicides than by murderers. I agree it’s odd. But there it is. Unless you can think of some better reason, Mr. Halder? Had you some better reason for deciding it was murder?”
“But Bill—” Pam North said, and he shook his head at her and waited for Halder.
“I guess I just—just jumped at it,” Brian Halder said, slowly. “It just—seemed likely. I—”
“Bill,” Pam North said. “Listen to me. You say Mr. Halder had the hypodermic there? Did he have strychnine, too?” Bill Weigand nodded, and now he did not try to stop her. “And you think he had it to destroy sick animals?”
“Well?” Bill said.
“Then he was murdered, of course,” Pam said. “Because he liked animals. Don’t you see?”
“Go on, Pam,” Bill said.
“He never would have used strychnine,” Pam said. “Not for the animals. It’s—they say it’s horrible. He would have used—what is it, Jerry?”
“A barbiturate,” Jerry said. “Injected, probably. A shot to put the animal to sleep. Then another, stronger, to—well, to finish the job.”
“Of course,” Pam said. “But never strychnine. Don’t you see, Bill? Never anything so cruel.”*
And now Bill Weigand nodded, and said, slowly, “Right.” And then he smiled faintly.
“But there’s a better reason,” he said. “If he got into the pen, injected strychnine—well, death from strychnine isn’t easy. There’re spasms, you know; convulsions. He—well, probably he would have kicked the pen apart.” Then, quickly, he turned on Brian Halder. “Is that what you knew?” he demanded.
Now Halder shook his head quickly, without hesitation; now the expression of shock, of horror, was unmistakable on his face. Weigand saw it; Liza saw him see it.
“Didn’t you know about strychnine, Mr. Halder?” Weigand asked, and now his voice was quiet again. “Didn’t you know how a man dies from it?”
* Pam is only partly right. Some veterinarians use strychnine to destroy animals, but only by injecting it directly into the heart. So used, it causes almost instantaneous death, and is thought to be relatively painless. Administered by a layman, such as Halder was, strychnine would almost inevitably bring about slow and agonized death.
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Frances and Richard Lockridge were some of the most popular names in mystery during the forties and fifties. Having written numerous novels and stories, the husband-and-wife team was most famous for their Mr. and Mrs. North Mysteries. What started in 1936 as a series of stories written for the New Yorker turned into twenty-six novels, including adaptions for Broadway, film, television, and radio. The Lockridges continued writing together until Frances’s death in 1963, after which Richard discontinued the Mr. and Mrs. North series and wrote other works until his own death in 1982.
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