Dead as a Dinosaur by Frances Lockridge

Bill Weigand said, “it might have been attempted murder.”
    Three Preson countenances expressed incredulity. The family resemblance was enhanced. Weigand was told, by Miss Laura Preson, that what he was suggesting was nonsense. He was asked, by Homer Preson, who would want to kill a harmless man like Orpheus. Wayne Preson contented himself with a nervous gesture of rejection, but then stood up, moved to a window and looked out of it. The implication was of departure from stupidity.
    All three of these slight, wiry people were keyed up. That was, of course, understandable. Bill Weigand was soothing. All contingencies, even the most improbable, had to be taken under consideration. Death—or the threat of death—from other than natural causes had always to be looked into. There was every reason to suppose that Dr. Orpheus Preson had prepared his own sleeping draught, for reasons that—well, that he was afraid were evident. For a time, that had not been so evident. Investigation had been started; inevitably it continued for a time through momentum. Bill Weigand was, he told them, merely tidying up.
    But that it was inconceivable that anyone should desire the death of a “harmless little man”—that, academically, did not follow. Harmless little men, as well as larger and more harmful men, did die violently from time to time. Most often, they died because they had something somebody else wanted, and wanted badly. Wayne Preson turned from the window, at that, and laughed. Bill offered him a faint, receptive smile, and waited.
    â€œYou think the Broadly Institute put something in Uncle Orph’s milk?” Wayne Preson enquired. He had an unexpectedly deep voice; he clipped his words. “A committee of curators, perhaps?”
    â€œWayne,” his aunt said, “don’t talk nonsense. Don’t try to be funny.”
    â€œNot I,” Wayne said. “This gentleman.” He indicated Bill Weigand. “This gentleman” shook his head. “Oh,” Wayne said. “Then you didn’t know?”
    Bill was afraid he didn’t get it. He continued to shake his head, the faint smile still receptive. He had missed the point of the joke, the smile said.
    â€œMy brother has left his money to the Broadly Institute,” Homer Preson said. “My son refers to that. The Broadly Institute of Paleontology, with which my brother is associated.” He paused to look with disapproval at Wayne Preson, who was bland, who said, “Sorry, dad,” without any conviction in his voice. “A very poor joke,” Homer Preson told his son.
    â€œYou wanted to know who would profit,” Wayne Preson told Weigand. “In the event Uncle Orph—er—shuffled off. Isn’t that what the police always want to know? Well, there you have it. The Broadly Institute. Not his loving family.”
    â€œWayne!” Laura Preson said. “Must you be so—childish?” She turned to Weigand. “I hope,” she said, “that I do not need to tell you that we have no interest in whatever money my brother may have.”
    â€œNone,” Homer Preson said. “In any case, my brother is not a wealthy man. A few thousands.”
    â€œWhich we don’t get,” Wayne said. “In any case,” he added, his inflection faintly mimicking his father’s. He still seemed amused. But then he looked at his aunt, at his father, finally at Bill Weigand. “Of course,” he said, “they’re right. I’m afraid I was merely—” He broke off. “It struck me as amusing,” he said. “The Institute putting stuff in uncle’s milk. Don’t pay any attention to me.”
    â€œRight,” Bill said. “I won’t arrest the Institute.” His tone dismissed the subject. Wayne Preson was an intelligent young man, in contact with his elders. Flippancy resulted. But the disposition of Orpheus Preson’s