A Pinch of Poison by Frances Lockridge Page B

“You do think of the dullest things sometimes, Jerry.”
    She looked hopefully at Weigand, who shook his head.
    â€œNo, Pam,” he said. “I’m not taking the three of you. Or even one of you. You’re big boys and girls; you’ll just have to think of something.”
    â€œWell,” Pam said, “I think we’ll go out and have another drink. I want a Cuba—” She broke off. “Or,” she said, “perhaps a very weak brandy and soda. Come on.”
    She went and Mr. North went after her. Mullins, after a glance, went after them. Bill Weigand and Dorian stood and looked at each other.
    â€œHello, Dorian,” Bill said, softly. She smiled.
    â€œHello, Bill,” she said.
    â€œShe was about my age, Bill, or just a little older,” Dorian said. “Wasn’t she?”
    â€œYes,” Weigand said. “About that.”
    â€œShe must have wanted to do so many things,” Dorian said slowly. “She must have thought there was time for a lot of things.”
    Weigand merely nodded. There seemed to be nothing much to say. Lois Winston was probably two or three years older than Dorian, he thought, and he wondered whether, a few hours ago, she had stood and moved as Dorian did.
    â€œWell,” Dorian said, “it sounds funny from me, Bill, but—good hunting.”
    There wasn’t anything to say to that, either. It was merely something which stretched back between them to a day when she had had a good deal to say about men who were, professionally, hunters. But there was nothing which needed to be said about it.
    â€œWell,” she said, and paused, “I must be in the way.” She looked at him. “Take care of yourself,” she said, only half lightly.
    Then, moving with that singular, balanced grace of hers, she was gone from the room. Police Lieutenant Weigand replaced Bill Weigand. The lieutenant went to the door and said, crisply:
    â€œMullins!”
    Mullins reappeared.
    â€œHe’s dead,” Mullins said. “Airplane crash.”
    â€œWhat?” said Weigand. “Who’s dead?”
    Mullins looked hurt.
    â€œThis guy Ashley,” he said. “This guy Ashley’s father. The guy you were asking about.”
    â€œOh,” said Weigand. “So Kenneth Ashley’s dead, is he?” He wondered vaguely why he had wanted to know. Then he roused himself. “Right,” he said. “Now we’re going places.”
    Mullins said, “O.K., Loot.”

6
    T UESDAY
    11:25 P.M. , TO W EDNESDAY , 1:40 A.M .
    The Buick stopped outside the apartment house in East Sixty-third Street and a man sauntered over, looking vaguely as if he were going to give advice on parking and offer to wash her off. Weigand nodded to him.
    â€œUpstairs,” the man said, jerking his head toward the building. “He came right along, with the dame.”
    â€œRight,” Weigand said. The detective drifted off, to loiter in low visibility. It was convenient that Randall Ashley had come home and brought the girl—something Ormond, Weigand recalled—with him. Weigand slid from behind the wheel and Mullins joined him on the sidewalk. They went in and up, ignoring an attendant who was disposed to announce them. A slight, blond maid in uniform answered their ring, and Weigand told her they had come to see Mr. Ashley. The girl, he thought, looked pale, and as if she had been crying.
    Neither Ashley nor Madge Ormond appeared to have been crying. Both had glasses. They sat together on a sofa in the long living-room and had, Weigand felt, been talking intently when they were interrupted. Ashley twisted to face them, frowned and stood up.
    â€œWell, Lieutenant?” he said, coldly and with a little too much dignity. Weigand nodded to him; to the girl, who was also blond, but neither pale nor weeping. She was the sort of girl for whom almost any man could imagine himself going. Weigand observed with