Dead as a Dinosaur (7 page)

Homer Preson looked quickly at his sister, who regarded him steadily, who seemed, Anstey thought, to be waiting for something she expected. Preson turned back to Anstey.

“From the way you say that,” Preson said, “I gather you—made progress?”

Anstey looked from one to the other of the older Presons. It occurred to him that he was not going to surprise them.

“I'm afraid,” he said, “that your brother has been putting the advertisements in himself. At least, it looks like that.” He produced the clipping of the midget advertisement. He showed it to them, and let them read it. Each read it, word by word.

“What is it?” Emily Preson said suddenly, sharply. She moved further into the room and held out her hand. “I want to see it,” Emily said. Her tone was still urgent, demanding. Her aunt handed the clipping to her, and she read it.

“It's crazy,” Emily said. “Completely crazy.”

“I'm afraid,” Homer Preson said, “that that is what Detective Anstey is saying, my dear. More politely.” He looked at Anstey.

“You don't seem particularly surprised, Mr. Preson,” Anstey said. He looked at Laura Preson, then at her niece. “None of you seems much surprised,” he said.

Again, Homer Preson and his sister exchanged glances, quickly, as if they sought counsel. Then Preson slightly raised his shoulders.

“It's very disturbing,” he said. “In a way we're—”

“What's the point of this, Homer?” Laura Preson demanded. “No, we're not surprised, as you put it.”

“I wish we could be,” Preson said. “For about a year now—frankly, Anstey, we've been concerned about him.” He faintly shrugged. “Little things,” he said. “Intangible things. Nothing like this, of course.”

“All of you?” Anstey said. “I mean, you've talked it over, I gather? You and Miss Preson? Your niece too? You've all felt that Dr. Preson was—what did you think, precisely?”

Laura Preson left it to her brother. Emily Preson crossed the room as if she rejected all of them, were seeking escape. She looked out of a window, into the darkness. Yet Anstey could feel the intensity of her attention, and a kind of impatience in her listening.

Homer Preson spoke slowly, with care. He did not want Anstey to jump to conclusions, or to think that, before the advertisements started, they had jumped to conclusions. He said that they had realized that Dr. Orpheus Preson was not an ordinary man and that, realizing this, they did not apply ordinary standards. Dr. Preson was engrossed in his work and his work, of course, was not ordinary. That, Anstey must understand, they had realized.

Emily did not turn from the window, but she spoke suddenly.

“You did, father,” she said. “Do you think Aunt Laura did?”

“Really, Emily,” Laura Preson said. She turned to Anstey. “She means, I suppose, that I did not share brother Orpheus's belief in the importance of—of what he was doing,” she said. “I never concealed that. But I am not an ignorant woman, Mr. Anstey. Even by my niece's—high standards.”

It was not clear to Anstey what the Presons were getting at.

“Do you mean, Miss Preson,” he said, to Emily Preson's back, “do you mean you didn't think your uncle was becoming eccentric? As your father and aunt, I gather, did?”

“Does it matter?” the girl asked, without turning. But then she did turn. “All right,” she said, “maybe I did. It's just that—” She stopped. “Leave me out of it,” she said.

“You are saying,” Anstey said, “that recently your brother has been behaving—has not been behaving normally?”

He said it to either of the older Presons who wanted to answer. Homer Preson, after a moment, did answer.

“I'm afraid so,” he said. “Nothing so—so overt as these advertisements, this tampering with food.” He looked at his sister suddenly. “You're all right now?” he asked.

“Certainly,” she said. “Don't be ridiculous, Homer.”

“It might have been serious, nevertheless,” Homer Preson said. “That's true, isn't it, Mr. Anstey?”

“Well,” Anstey said, “in a way, certainly. However, the dosage was not concentrated at all. It isn't often that anyone drinks a quart of milk at one time. At least, I don't suppose so.”

“But all of it—” Homer said, and waited.

“Would have been serious,” Anstey agreed. “Depending, of course, on how soon the person was found.”

Homer Preson shook his head.

“Did you tell Orpheus you were coming?” he asked his sister. She shook her head. He looked, then, at Anstey.

“It is meaningless, then,” he said.

“Yes,” Anstey said. “I'm afraid it is. From any sane point of view.”

“But even if my brother isn't—isn't entirely sane,” Homer said. “It is still difficult to understand.”

Anstey shrugged to that.

“All you're saying,” Emily Preson said from her window, “is that the irrational aren't rational. Aren't to be understood by the rational.” Her tone was impatient.

“I suppose so,” Homer Preson said. He spoke slowly. He nodded. “I suppose so,” he repeated. “You don't know about the other advertisements, Mr. Anstey? Whether he inserted those, also?”

“No,” Anstey said. “I don't know. It seems probable, don't you think? We could check.”

“Poor Orpheus,” Laura Preson said. But her tone seemed, to Anstey, to reveal detachment. “What are the police going to do?”

“This, for the moment,” Anstey said. “Tell you. Dr. Preson's relatives.”

“And leave it to us?” Homer Preson asked.

As it now stood, Anstey told him; the answer was “yes.” On what they had now; on what his instructions were now.

“You see,” he said, “there are a good many people around who are—well, eccentric. In New York, everywhere. Most of them aren't dangerous. It doesn't seem that Dr. Preson is, except maybe to himself. Probably a psychiatrist can fix him up. Maybe a good rest will do it. Privately. Without fuss. When relatives are in a position to take care of these things—well, it's better all around to do it that way than to have us move in. Particularly with a man of Dr. Preson's standing.” He paused. “Of course,” he said, “if you wanted to make a complaint, Miss Preson, we'd have to act. I suppose we would, anyway. I don't know what the complaint would be, precisely. Technically, you went to his apartment uninvited and took something out of his icebox. Perfectly natural, of course. But—”

He shrugged again. He smiled at Laura Preson. She did not smile in return, but she did nod, briefly.

“However,” Anstey said, “I suppose you could get him before a magistrate. I suppose he'd be committed for observation. Probably you don't want it that way?”

Homer Preson appeared for a moment to think it over. Then he said, “Certainly not.”

“Then,” Anstey said, “I'd try to get him to see a doctor, if I were you. The right kind of doctor.”

There was another moment of hesitancy. Emily turned from the window and looked at her father; Laura also looked at Homer Preson. Preson tapped his lips with an index finger.

“I suppose so,” he said. “I suppose that's what we'd better do.” He looked at Anstey. “You're certain about this? I mean, that he is doing it himself?”

“I think he is,” Anstey said. “There's not much doubt about the identification. I'm pretty sure the want-ad blank was typed out on a machine in your brother's apartment. Of course, I didn't see him hand the blank in. I didn't see him type it out. However—I don't think there's much doubt.”

“You're having the typing compared?” Homer asked. He hesitated. “You see,” he said, “I—I suppose I keep hoping. We're all fond of Orpheus and—well, you understand. I'm afraid you're right, but still—”

Anstey knew how Preson felt, and told him so. There wasn't, he added, any great hurry. It would be an idea to wait, at least, until experts had compared the typing, gone over the blank for Orpheus Preson's fingerprints. In addition, Anstey would talk to Dr. Preson, and see what explanation the mammalogist had. “Maybe,” Anstey said, “he had a double. Maybe I'm wrong about the typing.”

“You don't think so,” Homer Preson told him.

“No,” Anstey said, “I don't.”

He left a few minutes later. He left the Presons. Emily was still at the window, looking out into darkness. He walked to the bus and waited, the cold wind from the northwest biting him; he rode to the subway station and waited on a cold platform. But he said to himself, well, that's that. A stop at the precinct to see if a report had come through—then he'd get home, finally. It could have been worse, he supposed.

The report had come through: samples matched, both typed on an Underwood Noiseless manufactured 1946; probably rebuilt since. Identifiable fingerprints on the blank did not include those of Dr. Orpheus Preson. The last meant nothing, of course; the blank had been handled freely by a good many people; earlier prints would have been smudged and overlaid.

Anstey reported orally and his report was approved. He could write it up the next day. Anstey, at long last, went home. It was too bad about Dr. Orpheus Preson, who was a nice enough guy, but it was just one of those things. Anstey got home a little after eleven and his wife had waited up. At least, although she had gone to sleep, she had gone to sleep on the living room sofa.

5

W
EDNESDAY
, 11:30
P
.
M
.
TO
T
HURSDAY
, 5:35
P
.
M
.

The Norths and the Weigands had not hurried over dinner, and afterward had gone to the Weigands' apartment for a nightcap. They had talked of a variety of things, but at the end had reverted to the troubled times of Orpheus Preson, Ph.D.—and, as simplified by Pamela North, “extinct mammalogist.” It was Pam, a little after eleven, who led them back to him. She said she kept thinking about Dr. Preson and his bones. She said she had the strangest feeling that there was something wrong with everything about it.

Bill Weigand was afraid that what was wrong was wrong in the brain of Dr. Orpheus Preson, and said that for such things there was no accounting.

“No,” Pam said, “that's just it. What's
wrong's
wrong.” She looked at the other three. “The wrong wrongness,” she explained.

“Now,” Jerry said, “wait a minute.”

“Because,” Pam said, “he has delusions of not being persecuted enough. He must have. And that's a crazy kind of delusion. Don't you see?”

It was Dorian who saw, or admitted seeing. She said it was mixed up.

“Here,” Pam said, deciding to make it very clear, “here is what you think's happened. You and this Mr. Anstey. By the way, where's Mullins?”

“At home, probably,” Bill told her. “Anstey's not a Homicide man. This isn't a Homicide case. Nothing to do with Mullins or me.”

“Where was I?” Pam enquired. She looked around for guidance.

“You were summing up,” Jerry said. “At least, I think so. What Bill thinks happened.”

“Of course,” Pam said. “First, Dr. Preson persecutes himself by putting advertisements in newspapers asking for things and people. Then he puts sleeping stuff in a bottle of milk, presumably with the idea of drinking some of it and being found unconscious. Only his sister gets it first. But, he doesn't
imagine
these things are happening. He makes them happen himself. Is he supposed to have—” She paused to figure it out. “A delusion he has a delusion of persecution? It's a crazy kind of craziness, isn't it?”

She paused for reply. Again it was Dorian who, after a moment, nodded slowly.

“It is, Bill,” she said. “It's more as if he—as if he had some sane reason for wanting to appear persecuted.” She paused. “Publicity?” she asked.

Jerry North shook his head at that. Dr. Preson had always been opposed to publicity which involved him personally. He had protested each interview arranged on the publication of the first volume of his book; after two television appearances had refused to make others, declined to become a “chattering ape.” He has also insisted that what he was, and how he behaved, was of no importance to anyone. If people wanted to read his book, that was fine. If they wanted to write about his book, that was fine. In so far as was possible, Dr. Preson, as a man with a beard, as a person, was to be left out of it.

“So far as I could tell, he meant it,” Jerry told them. “Very funny-type author, of course.”

“Anyway,” Pam said, “if he wanted to get publicity out of all this, he'd have got it, wouldn't he? Called up people and told them? Had a press conference? Couldn't he have done that?”

Jerry thought he could have; he was well enough known for that. If people were sticking pins—or midgets or bushelmen—into Dr. Orpheus Preson, author of
The Days Before Man
, the newspapers would find it of interest. It had the news advantage of the bizarre.

“It's much simpler,” Bill Weigand told them, “merely to settle for the good doctor as a crackpot. Much simpler. Probably, much truer, too. Let's let a psychiatrist work it out.”

“Bill's tired,” Dorian told them. “Hard day at the morgue.”

“I—” Bill began, with summoned energy, the Norths stood up to go and the telephone rang. Bill reached for it. He said, “Right.” He listened. The Norths started toward the foyer, Dorian with them. Bill cupped the transmitter and said, sharply, “Wait!” They stopped. Bill said, “Go ahead.” He listened again.

Weigand said “yes” several times, and “right” twice, and then, “Hasn't Anstey put a report through?” He listened after that, for a minute or more, finally said, once again, “Right” and added, “since that's the way he wants it.” He replaced the receiver. He looked at his wife and the Norths. He said, “Well, the little man's certainly persistent.” They waited.