by Jerry eBooks
“Not until I talk with my lawyer,” Lew laughed.
“If you could wriggle outa this mess,” Costigan muttered, jabbing his ribs good-naturedly, “you don’t need no lawyer.”
“Thanks, Costigan,” Lew said. He turned to Martin Thentic. “Come on, Martin, don’t take it so hard. Secrets are made to be discovered. Besides, this may be the end of ambulance chasin’, an’ it may make you realize that the more you look down on people, the less you see above. Let’s go.”
THE END
RX TO HOMICIDE
John A. Saxon
It might have been an accident, but Druggist Ken Thomas knew better!
KEN THOMAS groaned wearily, fighting back from the depths of sound sleep. Confound Alexander Graham Bell and everybody else who ever had anything to do with the development of the telephone.
“Br-r-r-r! Br-r-r-r!”
It had been his employer’s idea, having the ‘phone in Ken’s bedroom connected with the one in the drug store so that they both rang together. “In case of emergency,” Grandin had said.
As if it were not enough to put in fourteen hours a day in Grandin’s Inter-City Company, without being awakened in the middle of the night every time somebody’s kid got a tummy-ache.
Ken rolled over, the rickety bed creaking under his weight. Fifteen years a pharmacist. He guessed he was getting old.
He shoved his fingers through graying hair, sat on the edge of the bed and bent over a proturberant stomach to grope for a pair of slippers that eluded his grasp.
He put his bare feet down on the cold floor, shivered a little, and uncradled the ‘phone.
“Inter-City Drug,” he said, sleepily. “Confound it, Ken, wake up!” The voice was Grandin’s. The boss himself.
Ken swallowed hard. He had thought it was some physician wanting an emergency prescription filled.
“Y-yes, sir,” he stammered. “Is anything wrong?”
“Plenty,” Grandin snapped. “Grace Merrill died an hour ago. Right after she took a dose of a prescription you compounded for her on Dr. Dolan’s Rx, She died of an over-dose of atropin. Get your clothes on and hurry down to the store. The Chief of Police wants to get a look at that prescription.”
The fear that hangs constantly over every pharmacist of some day misreading the scribble of a doctor and compounding a lethal dose instead of a benign and helpful one, gripped at Ken’s vitals.
“Yes, sir,” he said, unsteadily, and hung up the ‘phone.
He remembered that prescription—or did he? He had been pretty tired when he filled it. It had been a hard day, and that was the last thing he had done before leaving the drug store.
Ken Thomas didn’t like Dr. James Dolan, although the young physician had always acted very friendly toward him. He guessed the reason why he felt as he did toward the doctor was because of the way Dr. Dolan had come into town and taken over most of the high-priced practice from men who had been physicians while Dolan was still in swaddling clothes. That was particularly true of Mrs. Merrill, one of the richest women in town—and a physician’s dream. As a hypochondriac she took all the prizes.
Then too, Ken guessed he didn’t exactly approve of the way Dr. Dolan had taken over with Jean, the old lady’s attractive daughter Jean was just a kid—too young for Dolan.
HE JUMPED into his clothes, got his old Chewy out of the lot back of the house and was on his way to the store in less than five minutes. The lights were on when he got there and the place was full of people.
In one glance he recognized Chief of Police Hudson, Dr. Dolan, Grandin, Ken’s boss, Tom Merrill, the old lady’s son by a former marriage, Fred Batson, the Merrill attorney, and Jean.
“Where’s that prescription file, Thomas?” Grandin shot at him the minute he came in the door. “We can’t find it.”
“I was late getting away,” Ken answered, “and I didn’t put it in the safe. It’s under that bunch of papers on the lower shelf.”
“Fine place for it,” Grandin barked. “Damned carelessness—”
“Carelessness is right,” Tom Merrill said. “The old fool—”
Tom Merrill was about twenty-five, sallow cheeked and anemic in appearance.
Ken Thomas looked at the prescription over Dr. Dolan’s shoulder. He wondered if he could have misread it. It called for one-eighth of a grain of atropin, but the symbol wasn’t exactly clear.
“Suppose you tell us just what happened at the time you filled the prescription,” Chief of Police Hudson directed.
Ken’s throat felt dry. “Miss Merrill came in just at closing time,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “She was in a hurry, said her mother had had another attack of stomach trouble and that Dr. Dolan had written the prescription. Dr. Dolan was outside, she said, waiting for her, in his car.”
“Dr. Dolan did not come inside?” Hudson asked.
“Mo.”
“Anybody else in the store?”
“No.”
“You talk to Jean while you filled the prescription?”
“Some. I filled the prescription and gave it to her; she put it in her coat pocket and went out.”
“Suppose you take it from there, Jean,” Hudson ordered.
Jean Merrill was about nineteen. Her pretty face was tear stained and her usually sleek blonde hair in disarray.
“Dr. Dolan took me home, told me to give my mother a dose of the medicine immediately. He didn’t come in. I went directly upstairs. My room is next to my mother’s. I gave her a tablespoonful—and—that’s all I know—until—”
Her voice broke and she began crying again.
Dr. Dolan patted her shoulder. There was something in the gesture that Ken resented. Why, he didn’t know.
“Was there anyone in the house other than you and your mother?” Hudson insisted.
She shook her head. “The servants live in a separate house on the grounds, as you know. Tom was out for the evening. Mr. Batson had been there, I was told, but left immediately without seeing my mother.”
ATTORNEY BATSON cut in. “I called to talk with Mrs. Merrill about some legal matters,” he said, his double chins bobbing, “but I was informed that she was indisposed and left without seeing her.”
“Was that after Jean had left for the drug store?”
“Yes. One of the servants came from the rear of the house and told me.”
“Isn’t it possible,” Ken Thomas asked, his voice husky, “that she died of something else? That she—”
“A preliminary test shows that the bottle contained approximately six or seven times the amount of atropin that it should have,” Hudson countered. “Instead of a simple stomachic, there was enough atropin in the bottle to kill several people. We realize, Thomas, that you made an unfortunate mistake but—”
“I didn’t make a mistake,” Ken asserted. “I’ve filled thousands of prescriptions and I—”
“Partly my fault, I suppose,” Grandin said in a loud aside to Hudson, “for keeping a man of his age—”
That riled Ken Thomas.
“Because you couldn’t get anybody else to work the hours I did for the money you pay,” he shot at Grandin.
“You won’t have to complain about that any longer,” Grandin shouted, testily. “You’re fired—as of now.”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Grandin,” Hudson cut in. “There is more than that to be considered. Even though it was a mistake, the district attorney may file a charge of involuntary manslaughter.”
Ken’s heart sank. Manslaughter! He would go to jail. He’d never be able to get another job—
“I tell you I didn’t make a mistake,” he said. “Somebody tampered with that bottle—”
Tom Merrill’s face blazed with anger. “That’s a rotten thing to say, Thomas,” he blurted. “Who could have tampered with it—and why? My mother had no enemies who would desire her death.”
Ken Thomas didn’t answer; he wasn’t so sure about that. Old lady Merrill held mortgages on half the property in town. She
even held one on both of Grandin’s drug stores, and Ken knew Attorney Batson had been pressing Grandin for payment, even threatening foreclosure.
“We can’t do anything more until we have the autopsy report,” the chief said. “I’m not going to arrest you, Thomas—yet. But don’t try to leave town.”
Dawn was breaking when the group reached the curb.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Thomas,” Jean said, kindly. “I know you didn’t mean—”
She sobbed and got into Dolan’s car.
Tom Merrill got in with them, saying something that sounded like “stupid old fool.”
For a long time Ken Thomas stood on the curb watching the disappearing lights of the cars as the group broke up. He was wondering why anybody would want to kill Grace Merrill.
He had heard lots of gossip—a druggist always does. Mrs. Merrill had been married twice. Tom Merrill was the issue of her first marriage; Jean of the second. Common rumor was that upon her death the children would divide the estate equally. That, he thought, let both of them out as suspects.
BUT supposing Dr. Dolan wanted to marry Jean for the inheritance she would get from her mother? She wouldn’t get it until her mother died. It was hard to believe Dolan would have engineered Mrs. Merrill’s death. He could have tampered with the prescription on the way to the Merrill house—but that was pretty far fetched.
He couldn’t fit Tom Merrill into the picture either, What would have been the motive, and what opportunity had he had? It was common knowledge that he was never home at night, and undoubtedly he would have an iron-clad alibi covering the entire evening.
Grandin? Well, no doubt the druggist had more reason than most to want her out of the way. The probating of the estate would take months and that would give him time to try and raise the money to pay off the mortgage.
Batson? That old fogey? He had almost as much money as Mrs. Merrill.
Yet some one of that group, he felt sure, had accomplished Mrs. Merrill’s death. Who, and why, he had to find out or else—He walked the streets for hours, pondering the question and getting nowhere.
The morning paper made quite a spread of the affair, but referred to it only as an “unfortunate error.”
At nine o’clock Ken called old Dr. Johnson who had been Mrs. Merrill’s physician for years. He asked just one question. “Doctor, did you ever hear of a fatal case of atropin poisoning?”
“A few,” the medico said. “Atropin isn’t usually fatal unless complicated with some other condition. Ordinarily the system throws atropin off almost as fast as it can be absorbed by the stomach. The books have cases where people have recovered from an overdose up to two grains, But, it’s pretty powerful stuff. Why?”
Evidently he hadn’t read the morning paper, Ken made some excuse and hung up the ‘phone.
He dialed the number of the Merrill home. When one of the servants answered he asked first for Jean and then for Tom, They were both out. The servant said she thought they had gone to the undertaker’s.
There was no better place to start his investigation, Ken thought, than where Mrs. Merrill had died. That remark of Dr. Johnson had started a train of thought. He remembered the various prescriptions he had filled for Mrs. Merrill—mostly anodynes and diuretics.
He drove to the neighborhood of the Merrill home, left his car a block away and approached on foot.
He could see Wendover, the gardener, and his wife Mary, who was the housekeeper, out in the back yard, He jumped the hedge, went through an open window on the side of the house. It was his first experience at entering unlawfully and he felt like a burglar. He knew where Mrs. Merrill’s room was. He went straight to it. There was just one thing he wanted to find out—those other prescriptions!
He felt a little queer about going into the room where Mrs. Merrill had died. It seemed sort of creepy. The bed was in disarray, just as it had been left when the undertaker removed the body.
But Ken went straight to the bathroom and opened the medicine closet.
He caught his breath when he saw what he was looking for—the diuretic eliminative prescription which he himself had compounded.
He picked up the bottle with fingers that trembled, pulled the cork and touched the compound to his tongue, Water!
Mrs. Merrill had died not because of the prescription he had compounded the night before and which she had taken—but because of the one he held in his hand—which she had not taken. The killer had made a slip.
HE SLIPPED the bottle into his hip pocket and went out into the hall. He went downstairs and through the library, intending to leave by a different door.
He never got to it, Something crashed against the side of his head and he went out. Stars danced before his vision in brilliant blues and greens. He seemed to be falling into an abyss of darkness and he remembered nothing more.
When he regained consciousness he was bound securely and a piece of tape was over his mouth. His head felt as if he would never again be able to wear a hat.
As-far as he could tell, he was in a closet. He worked himself around so that he could get his heels against the door and kick at the paneling, but decided against it. The killer might still be around.
Whoever had put him where he was, had done so only as a temporary measure. He might be back any moment.
He heard voices. He recognized them as those of Jean and Dr. Dolan, Dolan was urging the girl to take something, a sedative perhaps.
Dolan was saying: “But Jean, if you are going to help me go through with this thing—”
Go through with what?
A third voice came into the conversation. It was Ken’s.
“What are you trying to give my sister,” the boy protested, “By God, Dolan, I believe you are the one—” Ken knew he had to risk it now, His feet banged against the door. He heard Jean scream: “What’s that?”
“Well soon find out,” Dolan said, “Oh no you won’t,” Tom shouted. “You killed my mother. You tampered with that prescription on the way home with Jean, You’re not going to marry my sister. Keep away from that door until the police come or I’ll shoot—”
It was Jean who opened the door while Dolan and Tom struggled for the gun.
She ripped loose his bonds and the tape from his mouth.
“Ken Thomas! What in the world—”
Ken threw himself into the fight, but he fought with Dolan against Tom Merrill.
“You fool,” Tom shouted, “Don’t you realize he—”
There were heavy steps in the hall and Chief Hudson pounded into the room.
“So, you’re here all right,” he said to Ken. “You were seen entering the house. I’ve got a warrant for you—”
“Wait a minute,” Ken interrupted. “Jean, when you came home last night did you stop anywhere before you went to your mother’s bedside?”
“Why, yes,” she answered, a puzzled look creeping over her face. “I stopped to hang my coat up in the downstairs closet. I always do that. Then I came upstairs and I remembered—”
“You remembered that you had left the prescription in your coat pocket and went back?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because that was just long enough for somebody to open that prescription and put in six or eight grains of atropin,” Ken said slowly. “Somebody who knew you would put your coat in that closet and who took a chance that you might forget the bottle. If you hadn’t he would have waited until another time—”
“He’s crazy,” Tom shouted. “Dolan could have done it on his way home with Jean.”
A POLICE officer came up behind Hudson and handed him something. Ken recognized it for what it was.
“Where did you find it officer?” he asked.
“In the glove-box of Tom’s car. We had to break the lock—”
“Dolan could have, but he didn’t.” Ken went on. “You did, Tom. You took a chance that Jean would forget that bottle just long enough for you to get at it. You killed your mother, Tom. Why?”
“I didn’t—”
>
“Yes, you did, and you planned it pretty carefully. You studied up on atropin because you knew Dr. Dolan used it in his prescriptions. You found out hew it acted and you wanted to be sure it would be fatal. So you emptied the bottle that contained the eliminative she had been taking, and filled it with water. You blocked the natural action of the body in protecting itself against poisons—but you forgot to remove the bottle when you worked the switch on the prescription Jean brought home last night, That bottle—and I have it in my pocket—will have three sets of fingerprints on it. Yours, your mother’s and mine.”
“All right,” Tom shouted, almost beside himself. “I did do it. She kept me on a niggardly allowance. She wouldn’t let me do anything I wanted to do. And it was my father’s money—not hers. Then when I found out Jean was going to marry Dolan—”
Jean and Dolan both looked blank. “That’s not true,” Jean said. “Dr. Dolan is going to marry a girl from the east next week. I’ve been helping him arrange for it—”
Somehow Ken was glad of that.
Tom jerked away from the officer holding him and made a break for it down the hall. There was a shot, and the footsteps ceased.
“How’d you figure out about those fingerprints?” Hudson asked Ken.
“I didn’t,” Ken answered. “I was darned fool enough to wipe the bottle before I put it in my pocket. A druggist always does that from force of habit—”
“But you told him—”
“I know I did; that’s what broke him, I’m sorry he tried to get away—”
A FEW days later Ken Thomas was trying to find another job. He knew he’d never work for Grandin again under any circumstances.
He met Lawyer Batson and Jean Merrill on the street.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Thomas,” Jean said. “We were just talking about you. Mr. Batson is going to have to foreclose on the Grandin stores, He isn’t satisfied with the management. You know a lot about those stores. Do you think you could run them for us?”
“I’d like to, Miss Merrill,” Ken said, “but—I’m pretty old—”
