The Convivial Codfish (24 page)

“Very,” said Max. He took his hat and gloves from the affable Oko, thanked Durward for his invitation to drop in again soon and hear the tree toads, promised to give Jem all sorts of wishes for a speedy recovery, and at last managed to pry himself loose.

The walk back was every bit as bad as Max had expected it would be. By the time he got back to Tulip Street, he was covered with snow and Sarah was having fits.

“I thought you were freezing to death out in the wilds of Bexhill. Here, give me that coat. I’ll hang it over the bathtub so it won’t drip all over the floor. Brooks is hanging the last curtain and we’re going to have a drink. Want one?

“Drink to me only with thine eyes.”

Max pulled his wife tight against him and beguiled a satisfactory few minutes forgetting the cares of the day. “Okay,” he said at last, “what are we waiting for? Where’s the hooch?”

“In the bottle,” Sarah told him. “Pour one for yourself and Brooks, and a sherry for me. I have a few things to do in the kitchen.”

“Aren’t we eating with the gang?”

“No, do you mind? Two of Mrs. Gates’s nieces popped in from Delaware for a surprise visit. She wanted to invite them to dinner at the house since she’s really too frail to go out in this weather, and you know that dining room doesn’t seat more than ten comfortably. I told Theonia we’d come another night.”

“Fine with me. I’m sure we can find some way to entertain ourselves.”

Pleased by this agreeable turn of events, Max went to get the drinks and greet his particular favorite among the cousins-in-law. “What ho, Brooks. Thanks fordoing my chores for me. How about a restorative?”

“Splendid suggestion.”

Brooks was a chipmunk of a man, spruce and sleek and quick for his age. He took the drink, gave Max a brisk nod, and sat down in one of the chairs Sarah had arranged around the gas log that had mercifully escaped being renovated out of existence any time during the last seventy or eighty years.

They liked the gas log. Sarah, after years of cleaning out fireplaces both at the old Tulip Street house and the place at Ireson’s Landing, was as well pleased not to have the bother of firewood and ashes. Max, the least domestic of men, found those neat little rows of blue-flame teeth quite cozy enough for practical purposes. Furthermore, gas didn’t pollute the air quite so much as unburned wood particles, as Brooks pointed out. They toasted their feet, sipped at their drinks, ate the cheese and crackers Sarah put out, and were happy.

“Anybody go over to see Jem this afternoon?” Max asked after a while.

“Theonia was there about three o’clock,” Brooks told him. “The therapist had Jem up in the walker. She said it was heart-wrenching.”

“Was Jem in terrible pain?”

“No, he was in excellent voice.”

“Oh. Tough. Did Theonia find out when they’re going to let him out?”

“As soon as possible is what the doctor said, and I’m sure he meant it. I only hope Jem’s not going to be subjected to any further shenanigans when he gets there. Max, what do you think of that colchicine business? You’re not swallowing that Russian plot to destroy the capitalist caviar consumers?”

“Would you? I’m not sure I swallow the gout medicine, either. I’ve been nosing around among Jem’s gardener friends all afternoon to see if I can find one who grows colchicums. None of them has admitted it, naturally.”

Brooks emitted a gentlemanly snort. “Bless you, my boy, anybody on earth can grow a colchicum. In fact, given a bulb, there’s no way you can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“The colchicum, unlike the crocus which it resembles but isn’t related to, has the peculiar habit of growing when it gets ready to grow, regardless of whether you bother to plant it or not. You know how an onion, for instance, will sprout if you keep it around the kitchen too long? Well, a colchicum bulb looks something like an onion, and it not only sprouts but it blooms. Basically, all you have to do is not throw it away.”

“Where do you get these bulbs?”

“Garden shops, places where they sell plants, maybe even in the five-and-ten. They’re not hard to come by.”

“Are the flowers poisonous as well as the bulb and seeds?”

“Oh yes. According to my reference, all parts of the plant are toxic.”

“What would happen if you crumbled one up and mixed it in with the egg yolk?”

“You’d make people sick. Good thinking, Max. And I suppose you could chop up the bulb and mix that with the onion. I have no idea what colchicum tastes like and no wish to find out. One assumes the strong flavor of the caviar was sufficient to mask it. You know, Max, I think that must have been how it was done. Egg yolk and onion would be the perfect camouflage, just as that silver chain was an ideal disguise for the poisoner.”

“What do you mean?” Sarah asked him.

“By showing up dressed as a wine steward, he must have looked impressive and somehow official. Without it, he might have come in for some embarrassing questions from the caterers. They might even have gone to ask Mrs. Tolbathy if they had to take orders from him, and of course that would have ruined his plan even if it didn’t get him into serious trouble. As to poisoning the garnishes, that would be a snap once he’d got his hands on them. I could do it like nothing at all.”

“But you’re a magician,” Sarah objected. She meant that literally. In his leaner days, Brooks had often eked out his income doing magic tricks at children’s parties.

“This fellow was a magician, too. Rather a good one, in my opinion. By wearing that chain, he made a trainful of people see a wine steward who didn’t exist. By taking it off, he made the wine steward disappear. By making a great show of proving the caviar itself couldn’t have been tampered with after it left the cannery, he distracted attention from the garnishes. It’s simply misdirection, you know. He could have poisoned the dishes in full sight of the passengers, though I suspect he did it while he was carrying the tray from the caboose to the dining car. Did anyone go with him to hold the door, Max?”

“No. The women were busy and the tray wasn’t large. There was also a lavatory he could have ducked into.”

“He wouldn’t have had to,” said Brooks. “It was a piece of cake. He’d have had the doings ready in little plastic bags, no doubt, palmed them before he picked up the tray, and dropped them into the dishes while his back was turned to the women in the caboose, just before he went into the dining room. As he set the dishes on the epergne, I expect he stuck in little silver serving spoons. That’s when he’d have stirred the poison in. A quick fluffing would do it.”

“If it didn’t get thoroughly stirred, that would account for the fact that some passengers got sicker than others,” said Sarah, “even if they ate the same amount of caviar.”

“Oh yes, no question. Apparently he didn’t care who got sick or died as long as somebody did, which is a charming thought. As for himself, he’d be counting on the fact that plant poisons usually take a while to start working. That would mean the dishes would probably be cleared away, as in fact they were, before the effects began making themselves felt. Colchicine would normally take a fair while longer than it did in this case, I believe, but the fact that people had had nothing else to eat and a fair amount to drink probably speeded up the process. Not to mention the shock of that jolting stop, and no doubt the chain-reaction effect of seeing others get sick. It was a terrible thing to do, Max, but you must admit it was cleverly done. Is that your oven timer, Sarah, or the telephone?”

“It’s the phone,” said Max. “I’ll get it. I’m expecting a couple of calls.”

“When were you ever not?” Sarah asked, giving him a pat in passing.

It was Gerald Whet reporting on Obed Ogham. Max listened, scowled, said, “Thanks,” got a dial tone, and called Egbert.

“Hi, how did you make out? She did? You dog, you! About Ashbroom, did she—she’s positive? I see. Where are you now? Oh, Christ! No, it’s okay. Stay where you are. I’ll get back to you later.”

He put down the receiver and headed for the bathroom to get his wet overcoat.

“Sorry to run out on your dinner, kid, but I think I’ll take a run down and see Jem before the storm gets any worse. He sent Egbert home as soon as it began to snow.”

“But Max,” Sarah protested, “it’s absolutely beastly out. You can’t even see the sidewalk, I just looked. It won’t kill Uncle Jem to stay alone for one evening.”

“Want to bet? Stay with her, will you, Brooks?”

“No he won’t,” said Sarah. “If you must go, I’m going with you.”

“So am I,” said Brooks. “I’ll just step next door to get my galoshes and make my apologies. Meet you downstairs in precisely forty-five seconds.”

M
AX WASTED NO TIME
trying to argue them out of going. He just crammed Sarah into her coat and boots and hustled her downstairs. They collected Brooks two seconds before the appointed time and set a pace as fast as the horrendous walking would allow: Max keeping a tight hold on Sarah and lifting her over the drifts when she floundered, Brooks pretending he was stalking a snowy owl in flight.

Though the distance wasn’t much, they were all worn out when they got to the hospital. They wasted no breath on talking but pounded the snow off each other’s clothes and grabbed the first elevator they could get.

“Max, what’s the matter?” Sarah managed to gasp as they were getting off at Jem’s floor.

“I’ve set your uncle up for the murderer, that’s all. Look, there he is!”

Sarah emitted a half-hysterical giggle. A figure wearing a long coat, a vast red-and-white striped muffler with the ends trailing halfway to his knees, and a Lincolnesque stovepipe hat was emerging from the men’s room and scuttling along the corridor ahead of them.

“But that’s Scrooge. Oh, Max!”

“Sh-h.”

They must look like a chorus from
The Pirates of Penzance,
Sarah thought wildly as the three of them tiptoed after the bundled-up caricature. The evening meal was over by now, and visitors were being kept away by the storm. There was nobody else in sight at the moment except a ward maid stacking used supper trays on a trolley. Intent on her work, she didn’t even glance up at the strange procession.

Scrooge didn’t look around, either, but strode briskly, straight to Jeremy Kelling’s room. As he turned in at the doorway, those behind him caught sight of a face too Scrooge-like to be real.

Max beckoned his cohorts on at a rush, but held them outside the door. There at the foot of Jem’s bed stood Scrooge. Jem, who must have been taking a postprandial snooze, opened his eyes, goggled up at the apparition, and beamed.

“Bah, humbug, Comrade!”

The tall hat bobbed in acknowledgment of Jem’s greeting, but Scrooge didn’t speak. A gloved hand came out of the right overcoat pocket and tossed a brightly wrapped package on the bed. It fell with a heavy clank. Jem reached out for the gift, but the glove was sternly pointed at a big label that read, “Do Not Open Until Christmas.”

The other glove came out of the left-hand pocket, bringing forth two more presents. One was small and labeled, “Eat me.” The other was gurgly and labeled—quite superfluously, it would seem, in Jem Kelling’s case—“Drink me.” Scrooge laid these on the bed table and, still without speaking, turned to go. That was when Max grabbed him. He was not easy to hold.

“My God, he’s strong! Brooks, get that scarf off and pin his arms. Watch out for a karate chop.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Jem was bellowing. “Stop it, Max, that’s one of the Comrades.”

“Which one?”

“How the hell do I know? Let him go. He’s only joking.”

“I’m not. Don’t touch those packages.”

“But they’re for me.”

“Damn right they are. I want them analyzed. Quit kicking, damn you,” he barked at his captive. “Brooks, take my belt and strap his legs together.”

Scrooge struggled ferociously but Max was powerful, Brooks was wily, and Sarah was inspired to bop the captive over the head with a jugful of ice water. They got him down on the floor, crudely but thoroughly trussed, while Jem pounded on his call button with might and main.

“My God, Max, do you mean this was another try at killing me?”

“Oh yes. Couldn’t resist a shot at a sitting duck. Could you, Durward?”

Max ripped off the latex mask that covered the attacker’s head. Even then, Jem was unconvinced.

“What do you mean Durward? That can’t be Quent. He’s not wearing glasses. Quent can’t see without them.”

“He couldn’t see with them either, according to you and your Comrades. In fact, he sees plenty now that he’s got contact lenses. And a cute little dingus to wash them in, that he forgot about when he let me use his bathroom a while ago.”

By now two nurses, an intern, and the ward maid were crowding into the room. “Call the police,” Max told them. “This man was trying to kill my wife’s uncle.”

“I’ll get Security.” One of the nurses flew out to the desk.

“I’ll get a mop.” The ward maid sensibly began coping with the slippery puddles of water and ice on the floor.

The intern obligingly sat down on Durward to hold him still until the security guard arrived a couple of minutes later.

“What’s this about a murder?”

“This jokester here,” said Max, “has already been responsible for Mr. Kelling’s broken hip. This time, he evidently meant to do a more thorough job. I want those packages analyzed right away, and I want the prisoner held until we get a report.”

“What would you say is in the packages?”

“The largest one contains a silver chain stolen from Mr. Kelling this past week. It’s probably booby-trapped in one way or another, and should be handled very carefully. The other packages are obviously food and drink of some sort. Both should be tested first for colchicine, since he’s already used that successfully. His name is Quent Durward, he lives just over the way,” Max gave the address, “and he has a houseman I want picked up immediately as a material witness. The man is probably Durward’s karate instructor, among other things. Got that?”

“I get it,” said the guard. “Anything else?”

“Yes. After you get Durward stowed away, call up the Bexhill police chief and give him a nice, fat raspberry for me.”