“I wouldn’t know about that. Maybe the elevator boy. I guess his gin would be safest. Say, Dick Cotton’s crying his head off wanting to see you. Want to talk to him?”
“Yeah, though I don’t know what for.”
“Well, come back in a couple of minutes.”
I went out and rang for the elevator. The boy–he had an age-bent back and a long yellow-gray mustache–was alone in it.
“Sweet said maybe you’d know where I could get a gallon of the white,” I said.
“He’s crazy,” the boy grumbled, and then, when I kept quiet: “You’ll be going out this way?”
“Yeah, in a little while.”
He closed the door. I went back to Sweet. He took me down an inclosed walk that connected the court house with the prison behind, and left me alone with Cotton in a small boiler-plate cell. Two days in jail hadn’t done the marshal of Quesada any good. He was gray-faced and jumpy, and the dimple in his chin kept squirming as he talked. He hadn’t anything to tell me except that he was innocent.
All I could think of to say to him was: “Maybe, but you brought it on yourself. What evidence there is is against you. I don’t know whether it’s enough to convict you or not–depends on your lawyer.”
“What did he want?” Sweet asked when I had gone back to him.
“To tell me that he’s innocent.”
The deputy scratched his Adam’s apple again and asked:
“It’s supposed to make any difference to you?”
“Yeah, it’s been keeping me awake at night. See you later.”
I went out to the elevator. The boy pushed a newspaper-wrapped gallon jug at me and said: “Ten bucks.” I paid him, stowed the jug in Fitzstephan’s car, found the local telephone office, and put in a call for Vic Dallas’s drug-store in San Francisco’s Mission district.
“I want,” I told Vic, “fifty grains of M. and eight of those calomel-ipecac-atropine-strychnine-cascara shots. I’ll have somebody from the agency pick up the package tonight or in the morning. Right?”
“If you say so, but if you kill anybody with it don’t tell them where you got the stuff.”
“Yeah,” I said; “they’ll die just because I haven’t got a lousy pillroller’s diploma.”
I put in another San Francisco call, for the agency, talking to the Old Man.
“Can you spare me another op?” I asked.
“MacMan is available, or he can relieve Drake. Whichever you prefer.”
“MacMan’ll do. Have him stop at Dallas’s drug-store for a package on the way down. He knows where it is.”
The Old Man said he had no new reports on Aaronia Haldorn and Andrews.
I drove back to the house in the cove. We had company. Three strange cars were standing empty in the driveway, and half a dozen newshounds were sitting and standing around Mickey on the porch. They turned their questions on me.
“Mrs. Collinson’s here for a rest,” I said. “No interviews, no posing for pictures. Let her alone. If anything breaks here I’ll see that you get it, those of you who lay off her. The only thing I can tell you now is that Fink’s being held for the bombing.”
“What did Andrews come down for?” Jack Santos asked.
That wasn’t a surprise to me: I had expected him to turn up now that he had come out of seclusion.
“Ask him,” I suggested. “He’s administering Mrs. Collinson’s estate. You can’t make a mystery out of his coming down to see her.”
“Is it true that they’re on bad terms?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t he show up before this–yesterday, or the day before?”
“Ask him.”
“Is it true that he’s up to his tonsils in debt, or was before the Leggett estate got into his hands?”
“Ask him.”
Santos smiled with thinned lips and said:
“We don’t have to: we asked some of his creditors. Is there anything to the report that Mrs. Collinson and her husband had quarreled over her being too friendly with Whidden, a couple of days before her husband was killed?”
“Anything but the truth,” I said. “Tough. You could do a lot with a story like that.”
“Maybe we will,” Santos said. “Is it true that she and her husband’s family are on the outs, that old Hubert has said he’s willing to spend all he’s got to see that she pays for any part she had in his son’s death?”