just possibly in some ways better equipped. The fact remains that she has been threatened with one of these stupid but deadly valentines, and that it behooves you of all people to keep a close eye on her.”
Slightly chastened, the young man promised faithfully that Janet would be locked in her room within the hour.
“Fine. But most murders seem to take place in locked rooms,” the schoolteacher murmured.
“That’s it!” Janet cried. “Let’s us forget all about this stuff tonight, and go lose ourselves in a crowd. Mocambo, maybe?” She did a rhumba step.
“Barney’s Beanery is just as crowded and a good deal cheaper,” Guy Fowler said.
“But yesterday was payday—”
“Yesterday was your payday,” the young man patiently reminded her. “Not mine. I have made exactly forty-eight dollars this week, and spent sixty of it. Would you settle for a drive-in movie, maybe?”
“‘Always one perfect rose …’” Jan quoted. But the schoolteacher envied the trusting way the girl took Guy’s arm as they went out and down the steps and across the lawn to the modest black sedan of elderly vintage which waited there. She also envied the way the girl was tenderly ushered into the car behind the wheel, and wished that just once Oscar Piper would remember to open doors for her.
After the young couple had left, the room was very silent, very filled with question marks. Miss Withers was thinking of washing her hair or taking another bath—her very last expedients when things refused to happen—but the New York call came through a few minutes after eleven. The voice of her old friend and ally the Inspector, skipper of Manhattan’s homicide bureau, was a bit on the testy side. “Hildegarde,” he said, “do you happen to know what time it is back here?”
“I am much too busy, Oscar, to play guessing games. You got me into this—”
“Into what? Oh, the funny valentine thing at the cartoon studio. Yeah, I met this guy who’s at the head of it—Mantz or Lantz or something like that, a cheery soul—at one of our special meetings of the Third Avenue Schooner and Pastrami Club, and beat him a few hands of stuss . Somehow we got to talking and he said he had a problem and I mentioned your name and gave you a recommend. Nothing to it, I suppose?”
“Nothing, Oscar, but one corpse—which I discovered after a bit of housebreaking. One down and three to go.”
“Judas Priest in a handbasket!” Oscar Piper came wide awake. “What in—?”
“Oscar, please listen. This is running into money, and I’m not sure if I have an expense account or not. I just called to ask you if ever in your wide professional experience you’d heard of a murder being committed with poison ivy .”
In the long silence which ensued, she could clearly hear the scratch of a match at the other end of the line. “Oscar, if you have your cheroot lighted now,” the schoolteacher said tartly, “I’ll repeat the question. Can poison ivy kill?” She waited, tapping her front teeth with a long, unvarnished fingernail. “You there?”
“Yes,” the Inspector finally said, in a very odd tone. “Yes, to both questions, I was just floored for a minute. This poison ivy stuff—”
“‘The weed of hell’ as some poet called it,” she interposed.
“It’s generally supposed to be poisonous but not deadly to the human system, but we had a case here, three, four years ago—one that’s always rankled in my craw. A night-club dancer named Zelda Bard or Ward or something like that got an anonymous bottle of brandy in the mail as a Christmas present and died a short time after from what Doc Bloom, our medical examiner, said was a concentrated extract of poison ivy or poison oak—both the same damn thing. She must have been very susceptible, for she was swelled up like—like—”
“Like a poisoned pup?” Miss Withers said gently. “Mine, too.”
“Sweet spirits of niter!” Oscar Piper cried. “This can’t be just a
Slightly chastened, the young man promised faithfully that Janet would be locked in her room within the hour.
“Fine. But most murders seem to take place in locked rooms,” the schoolteacher murmured.
“That’s it!” Janet cried. “Let’s us forget all about this stuff tonight, and go lose ourselves in a crowd. Mocambo, maybe?” She did a rhumba step.
“Barney’s Beanery is just as crowded and a good deal cheaper,” Guy Fowler said.
“But yesterday was payday—”
“Yesterday was your payday,” the young man patiently reminded her. “Not mine. I have made exactly forty-eight dollars this week, and spent sixty of it. Would you settle for a drive-in movie, maybe?”
“‘Always one perfect rose …’” Jan quoted. But the schoolteacher envied the trusting way the girl took Guy’s arm as they went out and down the steps and across the lawn to the modest black sedan of elderly vintage which waited there. She also envied the way the girl was tenderly ushered into the car behind the wheel, and wished that just once Oscar Piper would remember to open doors for her.
After the young couple had left, the room was very silent, very filled with question marks. Miss Withers was thinking of washing her hair or taking another bath—her very last expedients when things refused to happen—but the New York call came through a few minutes after eleven. The voice of her old friend and ally the Inspector, skipper of Manhattan’s homicide bureau, was a bit on the testy side. “Hildegarde,” he said, “do you happen to know what time it is back here?”
“I am much too busy, Oscar, to play guessing games. You got me into this—”
“Into what? Oh, the funny valentine thing at the cartoon studio. Yeah, I met this guy who’s at the head of it—Mantz or Lantz or something like that, a cheery soul—at one of our special meetings of the Third Avenue Schooner and Pastrami Club, and beat him a few hands of stuss . Somehow we got to talking and he said he had a problem and I mentioned your name and gave you a recommend. Nothing to it, I suppose?”
“Nothing, Oscar, but one corpse—which I discovered after a bit of housebreaking. One down and three to go.”
“Judas Priest in a handbasket!” Oscar Piper came wide awake. “What in—?”
“Oscar, please listen. This is running into money, and I’m not sure if I have an expense account or not. I just called to ask you if ever in your wide professional experience you’d heard of a murder being committed with poison ivy .”
In the long silence which ensued, she could clearly hear the scratch of a match at the other end of the line. “Oscar, if you have your cheroot lighted now,” the schoolteacher said tartly, “I’ll repeat the question. Can poison ivy kill?” She waited, tapping her front teeth with a long, unvarnished fingernail. “You there?”
“Yes,” the Inspector finally said, in a very odd tone. “Yes, to both questions, I was just floored for a minute. This poison ivy stuff—”
“‘The weed of hell’ as some poet called it,” she interposed.
“It’s generally supposed to be poisonous but not deadly to the human system, but we had a case here, three, four years ago—one that’s always rankled in my craw. A night-club dancer named Zelda Bard or Ward or something like that got an anonymous bottle of brandy in the mail as a Christmas present and died a short time after from what Doc Bloom, our medical examiner, said was a concentrated extract of poison ivy or poison oak—both the same damn thing. She must have been very susceptible, for she was swelled up like—like—”
“Like a poisoned pup?” Miss Withers said gently. “Mine, too.”
“Sweet spirits of niter!” Oscar Piper cried. “This can’t be just a
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