A Pinch of Poison by Frances Lockridge

Mrs. Kenneth Ashley who—” Then he stopped and looked annoyed. He looked around for Mullins and sighed. He emerged from the chair and sought Mullins at the door and returned with Mullins, who beamed at the Norths and Dorian.
    â€œHello, Mrs. North,” Mullins said, pleased. “And Mr. North. And Miss Hunt! Sorta like old times, ain’t it?”
    â€œHello, Mr. Mullins,” Pam said. “It’s nice—” She stopped and looked at him more intently. “By the way,” she said, “I’ve been meaning to ask. Have you got a first name? To call you by, I mean.”
    Mullins suddenly looked sheepish and looked hurriedly at Lieutenant Weigand. Weigand nodded, remorselessly.
    â€œTell her, sergeant,” he ordered. Mullins swallowed.
    â€œAloysius,” he said, his voice suddenly booming. “Aloysius Clarence.”
    He looked at the Norths and Dorian defiantly. Mrs. North looked rather blank.
    â€œOh!” she said. “Oh—all right, Mullins.” She looked at him gently. “I’m sorry,” she said.
    â€œThanks, Mrs. North,” Mullins said, warmly. “The times I—”
    Weigand broke in, told him to save it.
    â€œGet on the phone,” he instructed, “and find out if Kenneth Ashley—the father of the squirt who was just here—is alive. Or what.”
    â€œO.K., Loot,” Mullins said. He looked around for a telephone book, mutely indicated its absence, and exited.
    â€œListen,” Pam said, “we’ve got something.” She turned to Mr. North. “Where is he?” she demanded. “I thought you were going to bring him.”
    â€œLook, Pam,” Mr. North said, anxiously, “you’re not going to get into this one, are you?” His voice was pleading, but not very hopeful. “He’s outside. I left him with a detective. But I don’t really think—”
    â€œWho,” Weigand wanted to know, “is outside with a detective?” He looked at Pam, and his expression oddly mirrored that of Mr. North. “Please, Pam,” he urged. “After all, I’m working here.”
    Pam looked a little indignant, and then softened. She said all she wanted was a chance. She said it was a waiter who had seen something.
    â€œWe got to talking while we waited,” Pam said, “and then we sort of talked to our waiter, because maybe he had seen things.” She looked at Mr. North, who was shaking his head. “Well,” she said, “anyway, I did. And Dorian did, too. And it turned out he had seen something at—at the murder table.”
    â€œListen, Pam,” Mr. North said, “have you got to be so tabloid?”
    Nobody paid any attention to him. Weigand looked interested and went to the door. He returned with a waiter, who looked worried.
    â€œThe lady,” the waiter said, doubtfully. “She thought I ought—”
    â€œRight,” Weigand said. “You saw something?”
    The waiter, a No. 67 by the disk on his coat, had seen something. Nothing, he supposed, important. But he had been near the table at which McIntosh and Miss Winston were sitting and had been looking around idly, with nobody to serve at the moment and a waiter’s glance for the tables. The man and the girl who, somebody said, was dead—well, they had got up to dance. And while they were dancing, a man had come to their table from another table some way off and bent over it.
    â€œI thought he seemed to be sticking something, perhaps a note, under the lady’s plate,” the waiter explained.
    â€œAnd would you know the man?” Weigand asked. His tone was quick with interest.
    â€œYes, sir,” the waiter said. “I—but perhaps I should speak to the manager, sir.” He looked for advice.
    â€œJust speak to me,” Weigand directed. “You knew him, I gather?”
    No. 67 looked rather unhappy, and nodded. He was the young