A Pinch of Poison (11 page)

“I'm a very sick man, Miss,” he had told Miss Crane. From his description, he was indeed a very sick man. He had contracted tuberculosis and, in addition, had a serious heart condition. Those things were, he said grimly, in addition to an eye ailment he had had, off and on, for years. The upshot was that he had been accepted for care at a Veterans Hospital. Because of his lungs, they were sending him to Arizona. But they were not hopeful.

“I am going to die very soon,” he said. He said it matter-of-factly, Miss Crane remembered. Before he died, he wanted to make provision for Michael. He could no longer pay board to Mrs. Halstead, but he believed she would keep the child in any case. She had, he said, grown attached to Michael. But she was an old woman and, he had recently decided, a difficult one. “Cantankerous,” he said. “I've heard—”

He had, he explained, heard indirectly that Mrs. Halstead was severe with Michael and irritable. He was sure that this was only on the surface; that at bottom the woman was deeply attached to the little boy. But she was too old to take permanent charge of him as Osborne suspected she now wanted to do. What he hoped was that the Foundation could take the boy under care and arrange, eventually, for his adoption by a couple nearer the right age.

“I don't want him brought up by an old woman,” Richard Osborne had insisted. “And I can't care for him. I'm not going to live long enough.”

He had, he said, somebody in mind. When he had heard that Mrs. Halstead was irritable with the child, he had gone to a park in which he knew Michael and the boarding mother went for walks. He had watched, and seen Mrs. Halstead pull at the child's arm, and snap at him irritably. And he had seen Michael run to another, much younger woman, who called him by name. Michael had run to this woman and it had seemed to the man, watching, that there was a flow of affection between them which was what he wanted for his son.

It was that woman, or someone like her, he wanted for his child, he explained. Possibly that very woman, who had somehow got to know Michael in the park, and perhaps to care for him. He didn't know, of course, whether she would want to adopt the boy—so far as he knew she might have children of her own. But seeing her with his boy had made him realize more acutely than ever what the child should have. And it was that he wanted the Foundation to find for Michael. He wanted, he said, to surrender the child to the agency and have him cared for.

“I told him we could not accept a child without seeing him,” Miss Crane explained. “We have to know whether children are suitable for adoption; sometimes, for various reasons, it is hopeless to try to find permanent, private homes for them. We told him that we would see the child and investigate conditions and let him know.”

But he had insisted that that would not do. He was leaving for the hospital, he said, the next day; his transportation had already been arranged. He wanted things settled for the child before he went; doggedly, he kept insisting that he would die soon and that delay was impossible.

“It seemed to me a special case,” Miss Crane said. “Finally I agreed on a compromise. Since he insisted, he could sign a release at once and authorize Mrs. Halstead to turn the child over to us. We would not be bound by it unless we found the child suitable for placement. If we did not, we would communicate with him and, if he could do nothing—I meant, really, if he was dead—we would have to turn the case over to the Department of Welfare. Finally he agreed to that and we let him sign the surrender, making us the guardians of the child.”

It was interesting, Weigand found. It had nothing to do with him, but it was interesting—interesting and worrying to think of this gaunt, dying man sitting in that room, trying to provide in some way for a little boy.

“Now,” Miss Crane went on, “we go back—and this is coincidence. Checking up, we found that that was not the first time we had heard of little Michael Osborne.”

A couple of weeks before Osborne came with his story about the child, Miss Crane said, a woman in her early thirties had come to the agency and had asked to see Miss Crane. She had come about a little boy she had met with an old woman—a strange old woman, she said—in a park in Riverdale. She had met the two often and, because he was a charming little boy and she was childless, she had talked to him and petted him. “I've always wanted children,” she said to Mary Crane, simply.

She had discovered, through talking to the woman, that the child was not related to the elderly woman; that she had been caring for him on a boarding basis, but had grown very fond of him and was beginning to think she might adopt him. It made the younger woman suddenly think that perhaps she might have the little boy for her own.

“The woman is too old to take care of him,” the visitor had told Miss Crane. “She is cross with him—rough. I don't think he ought to be living there, in that dark old house.”

The woman, who said she was Mrs. Graham, had gone home with the old woman and the little boy, once, and seen the house. “All run down,” she said. “A strange, dark barn which must have been there on the hill for ages. Awful for a little boy.”

Mrs. Graham wanted the agency to do something; to investigate and to take the child from the old woman and the strange, dark house. And then, if they thought it advisable, let her have the child. But that last was only if they thought best; in any case, the child must be got out of that house.

Miss Crane had told her, gently, that there was nothing they could do, directly. They might—or she might—take the matter up with the authorities, although it was not likely that the authorities would intervene. The Placement Foundation was a private charity and, although it worked closely with the Department of Public Welfare, had no official standing. So it could do nothing. Mrs. Graham had showed disappointment but had seemed to understand and had said she would think it over. Perhaps, if it finally seemed to her best, she might go to the authorities herself. Then, as she was going, she had stopped, suddenly, and asked whether the Foundation could get her a child.

“We told her, of course, that we were always glad to get applications from possible foster parents,” Miss Crane said. “I had Miss Winston come in and she talked it over with Mrs. Graham and eventually took her application. It was on file when Michael's father came to us and wanted to surrender the child. Then—”

Miss Crane stopped suddenly, and looked at Mrs. North in a surprised way.

“You know, Mrs. North,” she said, “perhaps you were right, all along. Perhaps there
is
a connection.”

Miss Winston, Miss Crane said, had gone to see the child at Mrs. Halstead's and found conditions much as the child's father and Mrs. Graham had described them. The child's situation was not good, the environment, including Mrs. Halstead herself as part of it, definitely unsuitable. She had also reported that Michael was a nice, alert little boy, almost certainly suitable for adoption. As a result, the Foundation had decided to take the child from Mrs. Halstead's, acting on the strength of the father's surrender and his note to Mrs. Halstead. Miss Winston had gone alone first to get the child, and had run into a tirade of abuse from Mrs. Halstead, who refused to give him up. There had been nothing to do, then, but to bring the police in and in the end the child had to be removed almost forcibly.

“Mrs. Halstead was a strange old woman, apparently,” Miss Crane said. “She was almost frantic. She railed at Miss Winston and threatened her and only calmed down when the police officer proposed to take her into magistrate's court with a view to having her committed to Bellevue for observation.”

Weigand said “Hm-m-m” and then:

“What kind of threats, do you know?”

It might, Miss Crane said, be on Miss Winston's report. She turned back through the sheaf of papers, found a place and read:

“June 3. Agent went to Mrs. Halstead's to remove Michael, accompanied by a patrolman, since Mrs. Halstead had been abusive on a previous visit. She was again abusive, threatening agent violently and screaming, ‘You're going to pay for this!' and other abuse. The child was removed and taken to boarding home in Queens.”

Weigand said “Hm-m-m” again.

“Right,” he said. “And the child is still in Queens?”

“Yes,” Miss Crane said.

“No,” Mrs. North said, at about the same time. She shook her head at Miss Crane and added: “He's right here. Seeing the doctor or something. I saw him when I came in. Wait.”

Nobody tried to stop her, which was as well. She went out and down a corridor, leaving Weigand and Miss Crane to look at each other, slightly baffled. Mrs. North returned with a small, blond boy who was riding in her arms and trying to catch a watch, shaped like a little silver ball, which dangled from her neck. He grabbed it and examined it carefully. He turned it over and beamed at it and made appreciative sounds. At the back, a rounded crystal left the busy works visible.

“Wheels!” said Michael Osborne, quite clearly and in evident ecstasy. He pulled at the watch as Mrs. North put him down.

“No, Michael,” she said. “Break. You mustn't break my watch.” She cast an eye around. “Here,” she said, dangling the red purse. “Pretty.”

Michael looked and was not interested.

“He doesn't seem to like purses,” Mrs. North said. She looked at the purse. “Of course,” she said, “he's perfectly right, really. There's nothing in it.”

Michael was diverted, with some effort, by the offer of Weigand's sturdier wrist-watch. He shook it briskly, said, “Ticks” with enjoyment, and then suddenly put it down on the floor.

“Go, now,” Michael said, and walked firmly to the door. There was no diverting him this time. Convoyed by Mrs. North, Michael went.

Weigand and Miss Crane smiled after him. He was, they agreed, an amiable child. One could see why he had instantly attracted Mrs. Graham and why she had wanted to get so much small sunniness out of a dark house. Weigand was rising again as Mrs. North returned. Then he remembered something and took from his pocket the reservation list Nicholas had given him. Would Miss Crane, he asked, run down it and see whether she recognized any names as connected with Miss Winston? She looked doubtful.

“There's always a chance,” he said.

Miss Crane looked down the list, shaking her head. She was almost at the bottom before she stopped and reread a name. Then she held it up so that Weigand could see and pointed. Weigand read.

“Well,” he said. “Now that
is
interesting.”

“What?” said Mrs. North.

Weigand showed her the name well down on the list.

“Barton Halstead,” she read.

She looked at Weigand, without surprise.

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. North, gently, “this will teach you to pay some attention to what I tell you.”

8

W
EDNESDAY

11:30
A.M. TO
1:15
P.M.

Before he left Mary Crane's quiet office at the Foundation, Weigand sought a more precise description of Michael's father—always assuming, he thought, that the man who had introduced himself as Richard Osborne
was
the father of Michael. He did this on the theory of cleaning up, so far as possible, as he went along. He still could not believe, in spite of Mrs. North, that Michael would prove to have much to do with his problem. And even if Michael did, Weigand realized after Miss Crane had done her descriptive best, Michael's father was apt to remain nebulous.

When Osborne had complained of his eyes, Miss Crane said, she had had her secretary switch off the overhead lights, so that only a desk light and shadowy illumination from a window which opened on a court had remained. As a result, it had never been particularly clear what Osborne looked like. He was youngish, she thought, but his hair was beginning to show gray. His face was thin and shadowed; he hadn't shaved for a day or so, apparently. The dark glasses effectually hid his eyes, and with them those telltale lines which gather around eyes, telling of age and health and, often, of disposition. He was shabbily dressed, but it was hard to put a finger on the shabbiness—a blue suit, rather worn; run-down brown shoes; a tie which had been knotted too often. Miss Crane reviewed her description privately and said she was sorry.

“He looked ill and he looked thin,” she said. “He might have been almost any age from the middle twenties to the middle thirties. I'm sorry; there was nothing about him that stood out, except that he was obviously ill. You could tell that from the way he moved.”

“Or, of course,” Weigand pointed out, “that he wanted you to think so. An uncertainty of movement could be assumed. Even a day's growth of beard makes any thin man look unhealthy.”

“Yes,” Miss Crane said. She was vexed with herself. “I should have observed more closely, but of course I expected further information. We are waiting for a report on him from the Veterans Hospital.”

She had no reason, Weigand told her, to think it was particularly important. Probably, as a matter of fact, it would turn out not to be particularly important.

Pam North walked to the elevator with him and rode down. She said why didn't he come to dinner, and that they would have Dorian if they could.

“And Mullins,” she said. “I miss Mullins.”

Weigand said it would have to be left open, and that he would bring Mullins if possible.

“Don't forget Michael,” Mrs. North said, and waved eagerly at a taxicab.

“What?” said Weigand.

“Important,” Mrs. North told him, leaning from the window of the cab as it started up. “I think it's Michael—”

Mrs. North and the taxicab went around a truck and vanished. Weigand found a telephone and got Headquarters. Things were going along. Mullins was assisting, personally, in the search for a man who had bought atropine sulphate. A report on the contents of the glasses from which Lois Winston had drunk at the Ritz-Plaza roof had come in. One of the glasses had contained water. The contents of the other was more complicated. Headquarters read over the report to Weigand. It was detailed and confusing.