I had ticked them off on my fingers as I named them. “A grand total,” I finished, “of 27 poisons. With one or two exceptions you can buy them all in quantity at any photographic supply house and no questions asked. Arnold won’t have ’em all, but if it’s a respectable darkroom, he’s got well over half. Throw in the scopolamine and morphine and you’ve got the nice fat sum of 29 deadly poisons!”
“An expert on women’s wear and a pharmacologist,” said Merlini. “Do you give a course of lectures on the curious marriage rites of the Kwakiutal Indians?”
“Sure,” I cracked back. “All marriage rites are, concerned with the same fundamental—”
“Opportunity,” interrupted Gavigan. “And means!”
Captain Malloy picked that moment to stick his head in at the door and announce with some excitement, “Rappourt just pulled a fast one, Inspector. She gulped down a couple more sleeping tablets before I could stop her, and she’s going to sleep on me.”
“Luminal,” I said under my breath. “Thirty!”
“Hesse!” Inspector Gavigan’s voice had thunder in it.
“Go look at her. And pull her out of it. Use a stomach pump if necessary. She can’t get away with that. Coming, Merlini? I’m going to look at that darkroom.”
Chapter Fourteen:
THE BLUE MAN
INSPECTOR GAVIGAN HAD THE door at the head of the basement stairs open half a foot when he quickly and silently pulled it to again. He looked at us over his shoulder, his hand still on the knob.
“Malloy,” he whispered. “Arnold’s still in the living-room up front, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. Quiet. And stand pat.” He pushed the door in again, slowly this time, just far enough to let himself through.
The rest of us, crowding at the entrance, watched him move softly down the steps. Over Quinn’s shoulder I could see that the basement was fitted out as a game room, a ping-pong table in its center and a dart board on one wall. There was a red-lacquer and chromium-trimmed bar at the further end and, in one corner, a desk with typewriter and letter files.
But what attracted the Inspector was a door in the right-hand wall that was just barely ajar and from which a thin streak of light issued, and, now and then, the faint, almost furtive, rattle of glassware.
He reached the door, listened a moment, and then quickly jerked it open.
Dr. William Gail jumped. The glass-stoppered brown bottle which his outstretched hand was about to replace on a shelf above his head nearly slipped from his fingers. His left hand, darting out automatically, just saved it, and his head jerked around toward the door. He stood there for a half-instant, startled, his eyes wide. Then he smiled slowly, and calmly put the bottle on the shelf. “Oh, hello, Inspector. I was thinking it was about time you got on to this darkroom.”
Without answering, Gavigan reached up and took the bottle down again.
The rest of us surged forward through the door and down the stairs.
Arnold’s darkroom was a 14K honey. The long stainless-steel-sink with its fitted trays, the film-developing bench with electric agitator and built-in negative-viewing box, the print-washing and contact-printing machines, the enlarging table, the dry-mounting press, the supply drawers, cabinets, shelves, storage racks, negative files, even the trimming board, were all neatly designed to fit the space and placed so as to allow maximum operating efficiency. He had the whole works, even a baby refrigerator for cooling solutions, foot-switch operation of lights, and a light-trap ventilator with exhaust fan. I wanted to roll up my sleeves and go to work. If Gavigan only hadn’t appropriated the roll I’d shot the night before, I’d have turned out a set of 11 x 14 enlargements with deckle-edged mounts.
A glance at the chemical supplies indicated that I hadn’t been too enthusiastic about the poisons; there were plenty of the red danger labels in evidence.
I noticed one oddity on a shelf in the corner by the towel rack whose photographic use I couldn’t guess — a jar of cold cream.
The Inspector looked at the bottle he held and read the label. “AgNO3, Silver Nitrate. What are you up to, Gail?”
“I was wondering,” Gail said easily, “if Arnold has a supply of potassium or sodium cyanide, and if so, whether he keeps it out in the open, or under lock and key.”
The Inspector ran his eye over the shelves. “And you found out?”
“That all his other poisonous chemicals, some of them cyanides, are easily accessible. But the potassium and sodium salts seem to be missing. Some photographers avoid their use as far as possible because they’re so dangerous, and yet—”
He pointed to a formula tacked with several others on the walclass="underline"
“As poisonous a formula as I ever saw,” Gail said. “It contains just about 100 lethal doses of bichloride of mercury, 100 of cyanide, and perhaps half a dozen of silver nitrate. Definitely not recommended as a tonic.”
The Inspector put the silver-nitrate bottle down rather suddenly, I thought, as if it might jump up and bite him. “Everybody clear out of here,” he commanded sharply. We backed out into the larger room and waited, watching Gavigan through the door. The Inspector scowled heavily as he noted the proportion of red poison labels on the array of bottles. Then he gave the place a rapid, thorough examination, pulling out all the drawers and investigating the cupboards.
Finally he called, “Merlini. Job for you. Padlock on one of these cupboards. See what you can do.”
Merlini stepped quickly in, took a brief look, and said confidently, “Ross. Paper clip. Desk.”
“Sorry you have to use such makeshift tools,” Gavigan apologized. “I’ll get you a burglar’s kit for Christmas.”
“Thanks,” Merlini said as he caught the clip I tossed him. “Don’t need it. Rather have a police pass. Several shows around town I’d like to see.” He straightened the paper clip, put a few new kinks in it, and began on the lock.
Gavigan came out from the darkroom and faced Gail. “Empty your pockets, please,” he ordered.
Gail, seated on the ping-pong table, was holding a match to his cigarette. He took the cigarette from his mouth, stood up and looked steadily at the Inspector, the match flame, forgotten, burning on. Then he flicked it out and without a word started laying the contents of his pockets on the table.
Dr. Hesse appeared at the head of the stairs, just then, asking, “Do you want Rappourt now?”
Gavigan looked up at him surprised. “Fast work, Doc. How’d you do that?”
“Stomach pump, enema, emetic. I just mentioned them and she began to wake up. Thought that would do it. She didn’t swallow any sleeping tablets. That was an act for Malloy. Some symptoms you can’t fake. Hunter’s watching her.”
“Good. See her in a minute.” Gavigan turned back to Gail, slapped his now empty pockets in a practiced manner, looked for a moment at the innocent-appearing collection of keys, change, handkerchief, pencil, pen, billfold, letters, and clinical thermometer on the table, and said, “Okay.”
As Gail began to refill his pockets, Gavigan added, “You fancy yourself as a detective, is that it?”