Gavigan’s next question was offhandedly casual, but his eyes watched Sigrid carefully. “Who gets Linda’s money now?”
Her reply seemed offhand. “Arnold and Floyd, I suppose.”
“Just a guess, or do you know?”
“No. I don’t know. But, well, they would, wouldn’t they? Doesn’t Arnold know? Didn’t you ask him?”
“I asked him. After you left Merlini, what did you do?”
“It was almost five then. I went to 65th Street and met Bill — Dr. Gail. We had dinner at the Plaza. He went back to work, and I came out here at 8:30.”
“Did you tell Gail that Merlini was coming out?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing, until the séance at 10.”
Merlini inserted a question. “It’s time we heard about that, Inspector. Would you give us a round-by-round description, Sigrid?”
“She began as usual,” Sigrid said, “by going into her trance state. She does a very special one, everything but froth at the mouth. She takes a pill of some sort — a drug she says, that helps to—” Sigrid stopped uncertainly, wondering at Merlini’s sudden strange behavior. His lax, lazy manner had abruptly vanished, and he was staring at her as if she had just completed a strip tease, his professional magician’s calm definitely askew.
The Inspector raised an interested eyebrow and waited.
“Now why,” Merlini exclaimed, “did I have to forget that? Excuse me a moment.”
He shot out through the door. We heard him go into Linda’s room.
We waited, and then, just as Gavigan was asking Sigrid to continue, Merlini returned. He carried a book open near the back; and his forefinger moved down the page.
“Here we are,” he said excitedly, “Trances: Crandon, Stainton Moses, Rappourt, pages 212-14.” He thumbed rapidly. “The Colonel’s book. Modern Mediums. The last quarter of it is exclusively about Rappourt. Listen: ‘Of the many trance mediums, genuine and fraudulent, that I have encountered in 20 years intensive psychic research, Madame Rappourt is by far the most interesting. If her trance state were only investigated and studied with one-tenth the interest and thoroughness which scientists give to the diseases of the flea, psychology might and psychic research certainly would discover much. She has discovered that the ordinary trance state can he greatly intensified through the use of certain drugs which increase the disassociation of the conscious personality and allow a smoother, more receptive channel for the play of psychic forces.’ And so on. Then he has inserted a most interesting footnote which I’d completely forgotten until just now: ‘Several of the capsules, one of which she takes before each entry into the trance state, I have had analyzed. Since the dose contains two highly dangerous drugs whose use is definitely not recommended except under the strictest medical supervision, I obviously cannot go into detail on this point. The medical fraternity will no doubt understand me when I say that the drugs are one of the related alkaloids of the atropine group and a well known narcotic.’ ”
Merlini’s voice had been quietly matter of fact, but the small explosive crack as he snapped the book shut added the needed exclamation point.
“Hesse,” Gavigan snapped, “it’s your turn. What’s he hinting at? What are the related alkaloids?”
“Hyoscyamine and the ‘Truth Drug,’ scopolamine,” Hesse answered gravely. “The last is the one you want, I think. Used to be used with morphine to produce twilight sleep. If she’s been dosing herself with that on her own, however, she’s a damned fool. They’re both deadly poisons. And you never know just how much will be lethal. The fatal dose of morphine varies according to the individual, and that of scopolamine never has been exactly determined.”
“Twilight sleep anything like a trance state?” Gavigan wanted to know.
“That’s what it amounts to. Scopolamine depresses the central nervous system. The pulse is rapid and the respiration deepened at first. Symptoms of fatigue and stupor set in. Those are trance symptoms. But if you get just a spot too much — the lethal dose of the closely related atropine is only one 20th of a grain — then the subconscious is freed even further of inhibitory control, hallucinations and delirium set in, the respiration and pulse are greatly depressed, numbness, paralysis of the limbs, convulsions, and unconsciousness supervene. Followed by death.”
“Rappourt show those symptoms?” Gavigan asked, turning to Sigrid.
“Yes. She seemed to get awfully sleepy, breathing deeply at the same time. Then she talked deliriously in a rapid-fire stream, most of which didn’t mean anything until the psychic control took over. She even had the paralysis — her arms would stiffen and her hands clench so you couldn’t move them — and the convulsions. It wasn’t pretty to watch.”
“Rappourt in a new role,” Merlini said cryptically, “Rappacini’s daughter and Mithradata.”
“What?” asked the Inspector, not following.
“The poison maids,” Merlini explained. “Hawthorne’s and Garnett’s. Raised on poison diets. Dangerous gals. You couldn’t kiss them and tell, because dead men don’t tell. Rappourt should have some interesting answers for us. I hope she has all of them ready.”
Gavigan turned to Hesse.
“Sure it was cyanide, Doc?”
“No. I won’t swear to anything until after the autopsy. I doubt very much if it was scopolamine or morphine, but I’ll test for all three.”
“Malloy, get Rappourt in here. In a hurry. You may go, Miss Verrill, and if you please, you’ll not mention this to the others.”
She nodded in a scared way and went out after Malloy.
“This case is getting to be a toxicologist’s nightmare,” the Inspector muttered irritably. “More damn poisons than we know what to do with.”
And right there is where yours truly pulled the bomb-rack release and blew up the ammunition dump. I’d been waiting for a good spot for the last half hour or so, ever since I’d got to thinking about those photographs. This was it.
“Inspector,” I said placidly, “you don’t know the half of it. Less in fact.” Gavigan jumped at the sound of my voice as if he had completely forgotten I was there. I got attention from several quarters.
Pointing to a framed photograph on the wall below one of the pirate flags, I asked,
“Have you noticed that? Rather good shot of the East River at twilight. Toned in blue.”
He stared at it dubiously.
“So what?”
Merlini watched me quizzically, one eyebrow lifted. Hesse gave the photo a quick glance and then threw a penetrating one at me.
“There’s a print downstairs that’s a honey,” I went on, enjoying the limelight. “Sailboats. It’s in sepia. There are some others around, here and there, and all signed Arnold Skelton. Yesterday, when Linda died, he was working in the basement. Says he has a workshop there, but carefully avoids saying what kind. If you ask me, it’s a photographic darkroom, and I’d like to get a good close look at it.
Gavigan began to get the idea now. “Yes. Maybe you’ve got something there.”
Merlini was frankly baffled.
“Hey, what goes on here?”
“Photography,” I explained, mimicking his own lecture manner, “is as poisonous a hobby as you can find, short of toxicology itself. The toning formulas use the ferricyanide and oxalate of potassium, oxalic acid, hydrochloric acid, copper sulphate, gold chloride, the acetate and nitrate of lead, borax, and the potassium and ammonium alums — all toxic. Developer ingredients include pyro, formaldehyde, and paraformaldehyde. In reducing, potassium permanganate and sulphuric acid are recommended; for fine-grain developing, paraphenylenediamine, a poisonous dye.” I paused briefly, well satisfied with the startled looks I was getting, drew another lungful of non-toxic oxygen, and dropped the remaining bombs. “Intensification is achieved through the use of that old favorite, bichloride of mercury, and potassium bichromate, silver nitrate, and potassium and/or sodium cyanide! I may have left out a few, but — oh, yes — mercuric iodide, nitric acid, boric acid, and wood alcohol and alcohol propyle.”