A Pinch of Poison by Frances Lockridge Page A

man who had been summoned, a little later, to the living-room by a detective. After the girl had collapsed and been carried there. He was a dark, rather good-looking young man, rather slight.
    Weigand nodded.
    â€œAnd that was all you saw?” he asked. No. 67 shook his head. There was, he said, something else.
    â€œAfter the young lady was—was carried in here,” he said, “the young man went back to the table. He—well, I assumed he picked up the note.”
    â€œWhy do you assume that?” Weigand asked. No. 67 looked a little confused.
    â€œI suppose you looked, and there wasn’t any note?” Weigand said. The waiter nodded. “Touch anything?” Weigand wanted to know. The waiter shook his head.
    â€œRight,” Weigand said. “I’ll see that the manager doesn’t mind. And thanks.”
    The waiter went away, still looking worried.
    â€œIs it something?” Mrs. North said eagerly. “Is it a clue, or something?”
    Weigand nodded slowly.
    â€œAnyway,” he said, “it was Mr. Randall Ashley doing something at his sister’s table.” He thought it over. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that I’m going to have to break in on Mr. Ashley’s sleep.”
    He looked at his watch. It was a little after eleven. There was a knock at the door and a detective handed in a long sheet with names typed on it. Whoever needed to had approved the surrender to the police of a copy of the reservation list of the Club Plaza, on the roof of the Ritz-Plaza Hotel, for the evening of Tuesday, July 28.
    Weigand looked at the Norths and Dorian without seeing them. Then he saw Dorian and smiled. It was warming to see a smile answer him.
    â€œBill,” Dorian said, suddenly, “I hope you catch him.”
    It was surprising from Dorian, who so hated all pursuit, all “hunting,” and who had such excellent reason for hating it. Weigand was conscious of delighted astonishment and for a moment was puzzled by it. Then he realized that, for the first time, Dorian had abandoned the separation she had always maintained between Weigand as Weigand, and Weigand as police lieutenant. She had, and quite consciously, come over to his side and he felt very contented about it. He looked at Dorian appreciatively, and it occurred to him that he was beaming at her even before Pam North spoke.
    â€œLieutenant Weigand,” Pam said. “Remember there are Norths present.” She paused until he looked at her. “And murderers to catch,” she added.
    Weigand looked back at Dorian and they shared contented laughter with a glance. Then Weigand sighed and returned to duty. He went to the door and called Mullins and Mullins came.
    The boys, Mullins reported, were asking questions around, without getting much of anywhere that he could see. Mullins was pessimistic. The dishes from Lois Winston’s place had been salvaged from Frank Kensitt’s locker. Half an inch of liquid in the bottom of a glass which apparently had contained a Cuba Libre had been bottled and labeled, as had what remained in a water glass. The glass from which, according to McIntosh’s account, she had drunk iced coffee apparently had been returned to the kitchen when the drinks were served, as had the plates on the table. The bottles had been dispatched to the city toxicologist at Bellevue for analysis. Weigand nodded, checking off.
    â€œI think we’re finished here,” he said then. “For now, anyway. We’ll leave the boys to go on with their questioning for a while. Tell them to report at the division later. You and I’ll be moving, Mullins.”
    â€œWhat,” Mrs. North wanted to know, “about us? Do you just throw us back?”
    â€œWell,” Mr. North said, “we could always go home and—play three-handed bridge.”
    Mrs. North looked at him coldly and said, “Bridge!
    â€œBridge after murder!” she said.