A Pinch of Poison by Frances Lockridge Page A

quantities, in several commercial eyewashes. Makes the eye bright and glowing. See advertisements.”
    â€œReally?” said Weigand.
    â€œSure,” said Francis. “Doesn’t do any great harm, probably. Or much good, of course.”
    Weigand thought it over.
    â€œHow much is a grain?” he asked. “I mean, as to bulk. A table-spoonful?”
    Francis looked at him in surprise.
    â€œThe things you people don’t know!” he said, sadly. “You could pick it up on the tip-end of an after-dinner coffee spoon. You could hold it between your thumb and forefinger.”
    â€œSo,” said Weigand gently, “the medical profession naturally refers to it as a ‘massive’ dose. Very illuminating, Doctor.”
    But the doctor, he decided as he left the Pathology Building, had been illuminating enough. He thought it wearily and looked at his watch. It was after one o’clock. He thought of things he might do tonight and thought he might do them, also, in the morning. He telephoned Headquarters and conferred with Mullins. The detectives who had questioned customers at the roof had made reports but Mullins thought there was little in them. Mullins was sitting on the papers. The laboratory had not reported on the contents of the glasses taken by young Kensitt from Lois’ table.
    â€œWell,” Weigand said, “call it a night. But get in early.”
    He turned from the telephone and drove across and uptown to his apartment in the West Fifties. The telephone was ringing. Weigand scooped it up and said, “Yes? Weigand speaking.”
    â€œPam North speaking,” she told him. “I couldn’t sleep and neither could Jerry. What? No, of course I won’t.”
    â€œWait a minute, Pam,” Weigand said. “What won’t you?”
    â€œJerry says to tell you the only reason he can’t sleep is that I keep talking,” Pam said. “Only I won’t, of course.”
    â€œNo, Pam,” Weigand said, “I wouldn’t. What is it, Pam?”
    â€œWell,” said Pam, “have you found out who?”
    â€œNo, Pam.”
    â€œOr how?”
    â€œWell,” Weigand said, “as to that, yes. Somebody gave her something called atropine sulphate. A parasympathetic drug.”
    â€œOh, yes,” Pam said. “Paralyzes the nerve endings of the sympathetic system. How awful!”
    Weigand restrained his gasp.
    â€œHow—” he began, and thought better of it. “Somebody gave it to her in a drink,” he said. “It would only take about a grain, the M.E. says.”
    â€œWell,” Pam said, “how would they carry it around in a restaurant?”
    He had her there, Bill Weigand decided. He said he was afraid she didn’t realize how small in bulk a grain of atropine sulphate would be. One could carry it, he told her, between thumb and forefinger.
    â€œOh,” said Mrs. North. “I see. You mean a pinch.”
    â€œWhat?” Weigand said. He was too tired to keep up, he decided.
    â€œA pinch,” Mrs. North told him. “Like a pinch of salt. Only in this case, a pinch of poison.”

7
    W EDNESDAY
    8:45 A.M. TO 11:30 A.M .
    Routine awaited Lieutenant Weigand Wednesday morning at Headquarters. Mullins also waited, reading the morning newspapers. He held one up and shook it as Weigand entered.
    â€œThe Herald-Trib got your name wrong again, Loot,” Mullins told him. “I before E.”
    â€œWell,” said Weigand, who was grumpy and whose mouth tasted of coffee and last night’s cigarettes. “Well, think of that.” He spoke without pleasure. Mullins looked at him, and decided the point had better be waived.
    â€œIt’s a very popular crime, Loot,” he said. “Very popular. Except the war sorta gets in the way, of course.”
    â€œAll right,” Weigand said. He looked at his desk, which held papers in neat piles. “All right,