A Pinch of Poison by Frances Lockridge Page B

sergeant. What’s here?”
    There was, Mullins told him, a lotta junk. There were reports from the detectives who had asked questions of late diners at the Ritz-Plaza roof after the murder. “Nothing in ’em,” Mullins reported. There was the stenographer’s transcript of the questions asked by Weigand himself. There was a copy of the formal, interim report, made by the offices of the Medical Examiner. Weigand knew more than it contained.
    â€œAnd then there’s the Inspector,” Mullins added, glumly. Weigand nodded. There was always the Inspector. He looked at his watch and decided the Inspector could wait, for a few minutes. He read the transcript of the questions he had asked McIntosh, Buddy Ashley, Nicholas and the rest. He read fast, knowing his way, but exactly, looking for things missed.
    At one point he said, “Huh!” and made a note. Mullins, watching, made sounds of inquiry.
    â€œSomething we missed?” Mullins wanted to know.
    â€œNo,” Weigand said. “I got it at the time. I was just checking to see whether I was right. As I was, Sergeant Mullins.”
    Weigand’s voice was, Mullins decided, thawing.
    â€œYeh?” Mullins said.
    â€œThe reservation,” Weigand told him. “At the roof. McIntosh says he didn’t have one—at least, that seems clear from what he said. He didn’t know where he was taking the girl until they got in the cab. But the headwaiter says there was a reservation for McIntosh and the list shows it was made at”—he consulted the list—“six-fifteen that evening.”
    â€œScrewy,” Mullins said. He thought. “Say,” he said, “this guy McIntosh ain’t telling all he knows.” He paused and looked at Weigand hopefully. “Maybe we ought to bring him in, Loot?” he said. “You know. Just ask him some questions, sort of?”
    Weigand shook his head, and said they didn’t know enough. It was, Weigand pointed out, merely something to keep in mind. There might be a perfectly harmless explanation. Mullins looked doubtful.
    â€œLike what?” he said.
    Weigand shook his head.
    â€œYou think of it, Mullins,” he said. He went on through the transcript. It ran about as he remembered it. It was all clear enough, as far as it went—clear, at any rate, as to what people said had happened. But neither the people nor what they meant was entirely clear. Lois Winston was not entirely clear herself.
    Weigand said, “Um-m-m,” thoughtfully, and the telephone rang on his desk. He said, “Yes?” and then, quickly, “Right, Inspector.” Mullins drew his face down dolefully and Weigand looked at him darkly. Then Weigand replaced the telephone, smiled.
    â€œWe’ve got to have them,” he said. “It’s regulation. Now—”
    Mullins was to get things rolling. He was to hurry the office of the City Toxicologist, in so far as was politic, for a final report on the poison which had killed the girl. The police laboratories, less diplomatically, were to be hurried in their reports on the contents of the identified flasks which contained the dregs of Lois Winston’s glasses at the roof. And, because there was not really much doubt as to the poison, Mullins was to get men working on that. Briefly, Weigand told Mullins of the assistant medical examiner’s guess about atropine sulphate, and his speculation as to how it might have been obtained.
    â€œSo,” Weigand said, “we’ll have to cover all the wholesale drug houses. It may be a job. What we want is a list of atropine sulphate purchases in the past few days. Where a purchase was made by a man they didn’t know, we want all the details we can get.”
    â€œO.K., Loot,” Mullins said.
    â€œAnd,” said Weigand, “we want it this afternoon. So get them started.”
    â€œListen, Loot,” Mullins started, but stopped when the