Read Online The Simple Way of Poison by Leslie Ford - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie Ford
Tags: Crime, OCR-Editing
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three o’clock. I remembered my children.
“Don’t go,” Iris said.
“I must. They’re at the age when they don’t approve of me being out after two-thirty.”
“Why don’t you phone and see if they’re in?—My child ought to be in in a moment,” she added with a smile at Steve Donaldson. “There’s a phone in the library.”
I hesitated.
“Nobody wants to go home, Mrs. Latham,” Steve said with a grin.
I glanced at Colonel Primrose and got up. He came with me into the hall. The green shaded lamp on the library desk was still on. I pulled up the chair behind the desk and dialed my number. Then, as I waited, my eyes got used to the dark outer rim of the light. And as the book-lined walls and the mahogany mantel became visible, something else became visible too… just as I heard Lilac’s sleepy voice at the other end. I put the telephone down without speaking, staring in silent terror at the thing on the floor.
When I said “Colonel Primrose!” the first time I couldn’t have more than whispered it, for he didn’t come. The second time he came quickly. I saw him in the door, saw the alarmed anxious expression on his face as he stopped abruptly and stood looking down at me. I pointed to the floor, my throat too paralyzed to speak. In an instant he was there, down on one knee, his hand on Randall Nash’s limp wrist, then moving under his coat to his heart.
Then I realized that that second time I must have screamed, for Iris Nash was there in the room, with Steve Donaldson behind her. I saw Steve reach back to the switch beside the door, and the room was full of light. Colonel Primrose got to his feet, his head cocked down, his bright black eyes moving intently about the room. It seemed an incredible time to me before they came to Iris Nash, staring down in horror at the prone figure, its dead glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling, its teeth bared in a sardonic grin, as if the last laugh was Randall Nash’s… and a bitter one too.
Steve Donaldson was behind her, holding both her arms close to her, steadying her, giving her his own strength. She seemed unaware of him or of us—only of the dreadful grinning figure of her husband on the floor.
Colonel Primrose came to the desk and took up the telephone.
“I’m going to call the police, Iris,” he said gently.
She looked silently at him, her wide-set green eyes dazed and uncomprehending. It was almost as if she had not heard him speaking at all.
Colonel Primrose put the telephone down. He hesitated a moment, and turned toward her again.
“Where is the glass he was drinking from, Iris?” he asked quietly.
Something sharp and sudden cut through the blank dazed expression in her eyes and caught the breath in her bare throat. The words were scarcely audible as her blanched lips moved: “I… washed it, and put it away.”
5
I can’t believe that any of us then—except perhaps Colonel Primrose, used to this sort of thing and prejudiced against Iris Nash from the beginning—realized the full appalling significance of what she had said. If her voice sounded like a death knell in the horrible silence of that room there was reason enough, Heaven knows, in Randall Nash’s lifeless figure lying there on the oriental carpet, grinning glassy-eyed into eternity.
It was Steve Donaldson, knowing about the law, who saw the potential danger of her position quicker by far than I did. He released his hold on her arms slowly, looking at Colonel Primrose, his eyes sharpened with a sort of vigilant wariness, his lean jaw set. We all stood there silently for a moment, Colonel Primrose’s black parrot eyes deliberately—I thought—not meeting Iris’s.
And it was Iris, oddly enough, who broke the silence at last. She raised one hand to her forehead and smoothed back her copper-colored hair, looking frail and tired suddenly, like a hothouse tiger lily exposed too long to the sun.
“What do I do?” she asked, in a dazed unreal voice.
“You don’t do
“Don’t go,” Iris said.
“I must. They’re at the age when they don’t approve of me being out after two-thirty.”
“Why don’t you phone and see if they’re in?—My child ought to be in in a moment,” she added with a smile at Steve Donaldson. “There’s a phone in the library.”
I hesitated.
“Nobody wants to go home, Mrs. Latham,” Steve said with a grin.
I glanced at Colonel Primrose and got up. He came with me into the hall. The green shaded lamp on the library desk was still on. I pulled up the chair behind the desk and dialed my number. Then, as I waited, my eyes got used to the dark outer rim of the light. And as the book-lined walls and the mahogany mantel became visible, something else became visible too… just as I heard Lilac’s sleepy voice at the other end. I put the telephone down without speaking, staring in silent terror at the thing on the floor.
When I said “Colonel Primrose!” the first time I couldn’t have more than whispered it, for he didn’t come. The second time he came quickly. I saw him in the door, saw the alarmed anxious expression on his face as he stopped abruptly and stood looking down at me. I pointed to the floor, my throat too paralyzed to speak. In an instant he was there, down on one knee, his hand on Randall Nash’s limp wrist, then moving under his coat to his heart.
Then I realized that that second time I must have screamed, for Iris Nash was there in the room, with Steve Donaldson behind her. I saw Steve reach back to the switch beside the door, and the room was full of light. Colonel Primrose got to his feet, his head cocked down, his bright black eyes moving intently about the room. It seemed an incredible time to me before they came to Iris Nash, staring down in horror at the prone figure, its dead glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling, its teeth bared in a sardonic grin, as if the last laugh was Randall Nash’s… and a bitter one too.
Steve Donaldson was behind her, holding both her arms close to her, steadying her, giving her his own strength. She seemed unaware of him or of us—only of the dreadful grinning figure of her husband on the floor.
Colonel Primrose came to the desk and took up the telephone.
“I’m going to call the police, Iris,” he said gently.
She looked silently at him, her wide-set green eyes dazed and uncomprehending. It was almost as if she had not heard him speaking at all.
Colonel Primrose put the telephone down. He hesitated a moment, and turned toward her again.
“Where is the glass he was drinking from, Iris?” he asked quietly.
Something sharp and sudden cut through the blank dazed expression in her eyes and caught the breath in her bare throat. The words were scarcely audible as her blanched lips moved: “I… washed it, and put it away.”
5
I can’t believe that any of us then—except perhaps Colonel Primrose, used to this sort of thing and prejudiced against Iris Nash from the beginning—realized the full appalling significance of what she had said. If her voice sounded like a death knell in the horrible silence of that room there was reason enough, Heaven knows, in Randall Nash’s lifeless figure lying there on the oriental carpet, grinning glassy-eyed into eternity.
It was Steve Donaldson, knowing about the law, who saw the potential danger of her position quicker by far than I did. He released his hold on her arms slowly, looking at Colonel Primrose, his eyes sharpened with a sort of vigilant wariness, his lean jaw set. We all stood there silently for a moment, Colonel Primrose’s black parrot eyes deliberately—I thought—not meeting Iris’s.
And it was Iris, oddly enough, who broke the silence at last. She raised one hand to her forehead and smoothed back her copper-colored hair, looking frail and tired suddenly, like a hothouse tiger lily exposed too long to the sun.
“What do I do?” she asked, in a dazed unreal voice.
“You don’t do
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