The Golden Goose (11 page)

“He was a wealthy man, I understand.”

“To you and me, yes. Wealth is relative, isn't it? Inherited it from the widow he married. Quite the lady's man in his day. I suspect Slater made a good thing out of more than one gullible female.”

“You drew up his will?”

“That's right. It's in my safe there.”

“Funny sort of will, I understand.”

Fish said quickly, “Why do you say that? Who told you about it?”

“The family. They all seem to think it was a dirty trick for him to split his estate up among so many heirs.”

“Oh,
that.”
Selwyn Fish laughed, and he sounded like Basil Rathbone doing the Witch in
Hansel and Gretel
. “That was no will. It was a fraud.”

“What!” said Grundy.

“O'Shea had a fine time over it. A joke on his free-loading family, he called it. He had me draw it up, but he never signed it. It has no legal standing at all.”

“The hell you say.”

“Whatever else he may have been, old Slater was nobody's fool. He didn't want his money scattered among a lot of relatives he didn't give a damn for and who certainly didn't give a damn for him.”

Grundy was thinking acidly, This complicates an already complicated mess. “I take it O'Shea left another will? A secret one that's legal? Who inherits, Fish?”

“Well, now,” demurred the Little Giant, making a steeple out of his conical fingers, “I don't know that I can tell you that, Lieutenant. As a matter of ethical practice.” Grundy suppressed a snort. “I'd have to have the family's consent.”

“Counselor, this is a police inquiry.”

“Why should the police be interested?” asked Fish innocently. “Is there something suspicious about Slater O'Shea's death?”

Grundy briefly considered coming clean, then decided against it.

“It's just something that's come up,” he said. “Let's not get technical, Counselor. I'll know shortly, anyhow. How about it?”

“Well … I always do prefer to cooperate with the police … All right, Lieutenant. The truth is that Slater O'Shea left his entire estate to his next of kin, his sister.”

“The one they call Aunt Lallie?”

“That's right. Lallie O'Shea.”

“Does she know this yet?”

“No, indeed. I follow the custom in such matters. I shall read the will to the family after the testator is properly interred.”

“Any chance that O'Shea might have told his sister about this beforehand?”

“Slater? No, no. That would have given away the show—the fake will. I'm quite certain not a soul knows about the real will except myself. And now you, of course.”

Grundy rose abruptly. “Thanks, Counselor.”

Fish waved pooh-poohingly. “Happy to be of assistance. In any way short of betraying a client's interests, Lieutenant. Everyone knows Selwyn Fish's reputation.”

“And that,” said Grundy, “is a fact.”

Walking back, he went over the ground in the light of Fish's information. That the “will” Slater O'Shea had told his relatives-in-residence about had been an invalid joke did not surprise Grundy in the least; the whole crew were lunatics, in his opinion. What did surprise him was O'Shea's secret choice of heir. Even on slight acquaintance, Grundy would have guessed the heir to be Prin, not her aunt.

Aside from that, if he accepted Selwyn Fish's assurance that the existence of the valid will was unknown to the family, then the motive-situation remained unchanged. Murderers were motivated not by what is the fact, but by what they think is the fact. If the five freeloaders still thought that on Slater O'Shea's death his estate would be divided into twenty-two equal parts, none of them had a credible gain-motive to hasten his death; on the contrary, all had a vested interest in keeping him alive.

But suppose Selwyn Fish had been mistaken? In that case, it was quite possible that Lallie O'Shea had learned about the will by accident, or even by chicanery. The likeliest theory, Grundy ruminated, was that Slater himself had let the secret out when he was well into the bottle. Lallie O'Shea's foreknowledge that she was her brother's heir had to be considered.

Aunt Lallie as the poisoner did not tax Grundy's credulity in the slightest. He could easily visualize her in the role of, say, Lady Macbeth, a Lady Macbeth who would have fewer dreams about it afterward (the pretty little lady's large, hairy hands helped a great deal). If she were Lady Macbeth, she had a collaborator; and Grundy immediately thought of several prospects—Twig, Brady, Peet; it was even conceivable that they were all in it together, every damn one of them. Or was it? On second thought, it was doubtful that Lallie O'Shea would have let into her plot several potential blackmailers. One confederate would have been likelier; and in that case, Grundy thought reluctantly, the logical nominee was Princess O'Shea, because she worked in a drug store. He could not see Peet O'Shea as having knowledge of any drug more sinister than aspirin; and, while her brother Twig and Princess's brother Brady could have the knowledge, they lacked Prin's opportunity.

Unless, Lieutenant Grundy thought suddenly, one of the trio was a diabetic. A diabetic would surely keep up with the latest developments relating to diabetes, especially one that offered the oral advantage of the synthetic substitute for hypodermic-injected insulin. True, a diabetic known to be using the drug would be taking a monstrous chance to use it to commit murder. On the other hand, poisoners almost invariably expected their crimes to go undetected (and Grundy knew perfectly well the statistical estimate of the proportion of poisonings that did go undetected); so a diabetic murderer was not so far-fetched as it seemed.

In fact, the lieutenant decided, he had better check that theory at once; and, consulting his watch and finding the time to be well within office-hour probability, he headed for Dr. Horace Appleton's abattoir.

9

Dr. Horace Appleton's consulting room had not changed in forty years. Its most conspicuous furnishings were a rolltop desk; two aged armchairs covered with wrinkled black leather, on one of which the good doctor sat; and a sectional bookcase with cracked glass doors containing, among other ancient medical volumes, a copy of Gray's
Anatomy
—Grundy would not have been surprised to learn that it was a first edition. The lieutenant sat in the other chair looking up at a number of yellowed diplomas and licenses framed on the wall. There was also a studio portrait, hand-tinted, of a rather glassy-eyed young man in a frock coat which Grundy recognized with a start as Dr. Appleton.

“Well, Grundy,” old Dr. Appleton snorted, “and how are you making out with that zooful of O'Sheas?”

“It's a little early to say, Doctor.”

“They're crazy, every last one of 'em. Were you able to have the autopsy done on Slater O'Shea?”

“Yes.”

“How did you manage it?”

“We found evidence and got an order.”

“Aha,” said the old man, rubbing his hands. “Where did you find it? In the bottle?”

“That's right.”

“I knew it! I knew it from the beginning! I'm an old fool, am I? Who poisoned O'Shea?”

“I'm still working on that.”

“I don't envy you your job. By God, everywhere you look in that infernal family there's a logical suspect. You must have a notion, though.”

“No, Doctor. All I have is a question.”

“For me? What?”

“Did Slater O'Shea suffer from diabetes?”

“Eh? Certainly not!” Dr. Appleton seemed to be infuriated by the question. “I've said over and over that Slater O'Shea had nothing wrong with him except a mild corruption of the kidneys from too much alcohol. By God, Grundy, are you trying to impugn my competence as a doctor?”

“Of course not. I ask because of the way Slater O'Shea died.”

“What's that? I'd appreciate it, Grundy, if you'd be more explicit! What way?”

“He died of a fatal dose of a synthetic substitute for insulin. The bottle was loaded with it, and so was he.”

“By God, that's exactly what you'd expect from an O'Shea. No garden variety drug for
that
crew. No, sir.”

“Of course,” remarked the lieutenant, just to see what the old fire-eater would say, “it mightn't be murder at all.”

The old ears pricked up. “Eh? What's that? What d'ye mean?”

“Maybe it was self-administered.”

Dr. Appleton glared. “You're talking through your hat, Grundy! Slater O'Shea had too much drinking and living left to do. Anyway, why would he put the stuff in the bottle? Why not just in the drink? And why this fancy drug instead of something easier to get hold of? I don't discount the fact that all O'Sheas are loony and might do anything, but old Slater commit suicide? Ridiculous!”

Grundy nodded. He had reached the same conclusion. “Ever treat any of the O'Sheas besides Slater?”

“Are you kidding? Think those vultures would go to a doctor they'd have to pay? Of course I'm their doctor, because I'm Slater's—or was—and he paid the bills. Trouble is, they're all so damn healthy. They never seem to have anything wrong with 'em, drat the luck.”

“Then none of them has diabetes?”

“Diabetes? Them? No.”

Grundy scowled. It was getting more and more complicated. “Tell me. This insulin substitute, would it be available to anybody?”

“Anybody with a prescription. It's manufactured by a number of pharmaceutical houses, under different trade names, but they're all essentially the same.”

“I see.” Grundy rose, and in the act belched softly. “Say, Doc, what's good for gas?”

“See a doctor.”

Grundy thanked him.

“You're entirely welcome. We'll see who's an old fool!”

Outside, Grundy thought how wonderful it would be for his gas if he dropped in at the nearest bar and lowered his nose into several seidels of beer. But duty was duty, so instead he walked over to Free's Drug Store. He went reluctantly, because what he dreaded most of all was to turn up evidence that Slater O'Shea had been plowed under by Princess O'Shea who, as things now looked, stood almost alone in the field, with Aunt Lallie O'Shea possibly skulking behind, ready to lend a hand. Grundy was unmarried, but it had occurred to him on several occasions recently that if he were ever crazy enough to consider committing matrimony, Prin O'Shea could easily become the cause of the crime.

The lieutenant sighed, rubbed his taut belly and entered the air-conditioned precincts of Free's Drug Store. He made his way to the rear of the store, where Orville Free was busy with the mysterious ingredients of a prescription. Grundy told a clerk smelling of hair tonic that he would wait until Mr. Free was free; and while he waited for Mr. Free to be free he looked around for Prin, who should have been there but wasn't. Apparently she meant to goof off from work until her uncle was properly disposed of. He felt rather relieved.

Free emerged from his druid's cubicle. He was a small red man wearing a starched white jacket, and the expressions of his face and voice were measured to the requirements of the occasion—as if they also, like the contents of his jars and bottles, were prescriptive ingredients. The pharmacist and Grundy had gone to school together at South Cibola City High. Grundy had beaten him up regularly during recess, he recalled with guilty satisfaction.

“Sherm,” Orville Free said with a precise nod. “What can I do for you?”

“Hello, Orv. I'm after information about a drug. It's a synthetic substitute for insulin used in the treatment of diabetes.”

“And put out under various trade names. Yes? What about it?”

“You carry the stuff in stock? Dispense it?”

“Of course. On prescription. You have diabetes, Sherm?” Orville, too, remembered the beatings.

“No, gas. I'd like to see your prescription file.”

The pharmacist looked shocked. But then he braced himself and said coldly, “Come on around in here.”

Grundy followed him into the holy of holies, and Free hauled down his prescription file for Grundy's examination. Almost an hour later he was still at it.

“Do you fill all prescriptions for the Slater O'Shea family, Orv?”

“I would think so,” replied Free, “seeing that Slater had a charge here and they buy-and-charge with me all the time.”

Grundy went back two years. There was no O'Shea on record as having had the substitute for insulin prescribed. There were other drug stores in Cibola City, of course, and he would have to check them all, but Grundy had the glum feeling that results elsewhere would be no more fruitful.

The pharmacist was looking inquisitive as Lieutenant Grundy finished. “What's up, Sherm?”

“Official,” Grundy said. “Top secret.” He hesitated before asking what he wanted next to ask. But he could discover no way to ask it without asking it. “Orv … could some of this stuff have been swiped from your supply without you missing it?”

“What an idea!” Orville Free said indignantly. “Certainly not.”

“Well,
have
you missed any?”

“Of course not!”

“How do you know?” Lieutenant Grundy asked with morbid pleasure. “Have you checked what you've dispensed against your inventory of supply?”

“No,” the pharmacist said, drawing himself up like an offended potentate. “I don't mind telling you, Sherman, I don't care for your line of questioning.”

“Never mind that, now. Princess O'Shea works for you, I believe?”

“You know darn well she does.”

“Then where is she?”

“Don't you know her uncle, Slater O'Shea, died suddenly? She's home, mourning. What kind of police brutality are you up to, Sherm Grundy? Why do you bring that lovely child's name into this … this third degree!” Orville Free was completely off-balance now, Grundy noted sadistically. In a way, it was like the old fine days of the school playground beatings.