A dram of poison

by Charlotte aut Armstrong; Internet Archive

  No sound, no sign of life came from this building.

  Mrs. Boatright rapped smartly.

  Without sound, the door swung inward. They could see directly into a huge room and the north and opposite wall was glass, so that this space was flooded with clear and steady light. The first thing Mr. Gibson saw was a body.

  The body was that of a female in a long flaring skirt of royal blue and nothing else. It was lying on a headless couch. As he blinked his dazzled eyes, it sat up. The naked torso writhed. It was alive.

  A man's living voice said, "What have we here? Mary Anne Boatright! Well! Is this a club?"

  The torso was pulling on a loose white T-shirt, slightly ' ragged at the shoulder seams. It went strangely with the rich silk of the skirt and the skirt's gold-embroidered hem.

  "This is important," said Mrs. Boatright, "or I wouldn't disturb you, Theo."

  "I should hope it is," said the voice. "It better be. Never mind. I'm tired. I just decided. Put your shirt on, Lavinia."

  "I didj already," said the girl or woman on the couch

  who was sitting there like a Imnpj now. She turned her

  bare feet until they rested pigeon-toed, one over the other.

  Her eyes were huge and dark and placid as a cow's.

  Mr. Gibson tore his gaze away from her to see this man.

  "Theodore Marsh," said Mrs. Boatright formally, but rapidly. "This is Mrs. Gibson, Miss Severson, Mr. Gibson, Mr. Townsend, Mr. Coffey."

  "You don't look like a club," said the painter. "What are you? I've surely seen several of you before, somewhere."

  He was tall and skinny as a scarecrow. He wore tweed trousers, a pink shirt, and a black vest. His hair was pure white and it looked as if it had never been brushed but remained in a state of nature, like fur. His face was wizened and shrewd, his hands knobby. He must have been seventy.

  He was full of energy. He moved, flipperty-flop, all angles, beckoning them in. He had yellow teeth, all but three, which were too white to match the rest, and obviously false. His grin made one think of an ear of com peculiarly both white and golden. He certainly had not been poisoned.

  "Did you find a bottle of olive oil?" Rosemary attacked in a rush.

  "Not I. Sit," he said. "Explain."

  Mr. Gibson sat down, feeling weak and breathless. The nurse and the bus driver sat down, side by side. Paul remained standing, for his manners. His eyes avoided the sight of the model's bare feet.

  Mrs. Boatright, standing, her corsets firm, told the painter the story succinctly and efficiently. Rosemary, by her side, punctuated all she said with wordless gestures of anxiety.

  Theo Marsh subdued his energy long enough to listen quickly, somehow. He got the situation into his mind, whole and fast.

  "Yes, I was on a bus. Took it in front of the public library late this morning. You the driver? I did not study your face."

  "Few do." Lee shrugged.

  "Can you help us?" interrupted Rosemary impatiently. "Did you see a green paper bag, Mr. Marsh? Or did you see who took it?"

  The artist took his gaze off the bus driver and put it upon Rosemary. He leaned his head sharply to the right

  as if to see how she would look upside down. "I may have seen it," he said calmly. "J see a lot. I'll tell you, in a minute. Let me get the pictures back."

  Mrs. Boatright took a throne. At least she deposited her weight upon a chair so regally that it might as well have been one.

  "You, with the worries and the graceful backbone," the painter said, "sit down. And don't wiggle. I despise vviggling women. I must not be distracted, mind."

  Rosemary sat down in the only remaining place, on the couch beside the model. She sat . . . and her spine was graceful ... as still as a mouse.

  (Mouse, thought Mr. Gibson. Oh, how have we come here, you and I, who surely meant no harm?)

  Six of them, plus the model Lavinia, all stared solemnly at Theo Marsh. He enjoyed this. He didn't seat himself. He moved, fiippety-fiop, all elbows and angles, up and down.

  "G-green," stammered Mr. Gibson.

  "Green?" the painter sneered. "Look out the window."

  Mr. Gibson looked, blinked, said, "Yes?"

  "There are at least thirty-five different and distinct greens framed there. I know. I counted. I put them on canvas. So tell me, what color was the bag?"

  "It was a kind of . . ." said Mr. Gibson feebly. "—well, greenish . . ."

  "They have eyes and see not," mourned the painter. "All right." He began to act like a machine gun, shooting words.

  "Pine green?"

  "No."

  "Yellow green? Chartreuse? You've heard of that?"

  "No. It wasn't—"

  "Grass green?"

  "No."

  "Kelly green?"

  "Theo," said Mrs. Boatright wamingly.

  "Am I showing off, Mary Anne?" The painter grinned.

  "Yes," said Mrs. Boatright.

  "Well then, truce to that." The painter shrugged. "Well then, gray green?"

  "Y-yes," said Mr. Gibson, struggling. "Palish, dullish . . ."

  "In other words, paper-bag green," said the painter, amiably. "Of course." He rambled to the left and stopped still and looked blind. "I sat on the left side of the bus," he said dreamily. "For the first ten minutes I examined a hat. What blossoms! Watermelon shade. Nine petals, which is W7Zlikely. Well, to proceed. I saw you . . . the man there with the good eyes. That can't tell one green from another."

  "Me?" squeaked Mr. Gibson.

  "A man of sorrows, thought I," the painter continued. "Oh yes, you did have in your left hand a gray-green paper bag."

  Mr. Gibson began to tremble.

  "I watched you a while. How I envied you your youth and your sorrow! I said to myself, this man is really liv-ing!"

  Mr. Gibson thought one of them must have gone mad!

  The artist's eyes sHd under half-drawn lids. "I saw you put the paper bag down on the seat." The eyes were nearly closed now, and yet watched. "You took a small black-covered notebook out of your pocket . . ."

  "I . . . did?"

  "You produced a gold ball-point pen, about five inches long, and you wrote—brooded—wrote . . ."

  "I did!" Mr. Gibson began to feel all his pockets.

  "Then you got to brooding so bad you forgot to write. I lost interest. Nothing more to see, you know. Besides, I discovered an ear without a lobe, two seats ahead of me.

  Rosemary had jumped up. She stood over Mr. Gibson as he drew his little pocket notebook out and flipped the pages. Yes, pen marks. He looked at what he had written on the bus. "Rosemary . . . Rosemary . . , Rosemary." Nothing but her name three times. That was all.

  "Trying ... a letter to you," he stammered, and looked

  up.

  Rosemary's eyes were enigmatic . . . perhaps sad. She shook her head slightly, walked slowly back to the couch and sat down. Lavinia changed her feet, and put the top one underneath.

  "I saw you, Mary Anne," the painter said, "and pretended not. I lay low. Forgive me, but I didn't want to be snared and exhibited."

  "I saw you, you know." said Mrs. Boatright calmly, "or we wouldn't be here. Had nowhere to exhibit you, profitably, at the moment."

  "You lay low?" The painter sighed. "Ships in the night. I am a vain man, amn't I? Well, let's see. Let's see.

  "The paper bag?" pressed Rosemary.

  "Quiet, now," the painter's eyes roved. "Ah yes, the heart-shaped face. Saw you."

  "Me?" said Virginia.

  "On the right side, well forward?"

  "Yes."

  "Where you could turn those gentle eyes where you liked," said the painter, mischievously.

  Virginia's face turned a deep soft pink. Lee Coffey's ears stood up.

  "I didn't try to see whether he was looking sly at you. Perhaps in the mirror?" said the painter and swung to the driver. ''Were you?"

  "Me!" exploded Lee, and then softly, "Me?"

  "Theo," said Mrs. Boatright severely, "you are showin
g off again. And behaving like a bad little boy."

  "I don't care to have her embarrassed," said the bus driver stiffly. "Got on to the subject, the poison."

  The painter flapped both hands. "Don't mind me," he said irritably. "I see things. I can't help it." (The bus driver picked up the nurse's hand in his, although neither of them seemed aware of this or looked at each other.) The painter clasped his hands behind him and arched his thin ribcase and teetered on his toes. "There was that ear ..."

  ''Whose ear?" demanded Rosemary fiercely.

  "Can't say. All I noticed was the ear. We could advertise. Wait a minute . . . Didn't Mary Anne say your name is Gibson?"

  "Yes."

  "Then somebody spoke to you."

  "Did they? Why, yes," said Mr. Gibson. "Yes, that's true. Somebody said my name, twice. Once while I waited. Once, just as I was getting off. Somebody knew me" He was suddenly excited.

  "Who, Kenneth? Who?"

  He shook his head. "I . . . don't know," he said with shame. "I paid no attention."

  "He was sunk," said the painter nodding vigorously, looking like a turkey cock, his wattles shaking. "He was sunk. I noticed that."

  "Did you notice who spoke to him?" Rosemary demanded.

  The painter looked dashed. "Darned if I did," he said with chagrin. "I'm so eye-minded. Oh, I heard. But I made no picture of the speaker. I did not connect. However ..." He paused in vanity until all of them were waiting on him. "I believe I did see somebody pick up the paper bag."

  "Who?"

  "Who?"

  "Who?"

  They exploded like popcorn.

  "A young woman. A mere girl. A very handsome young female," the painter said. "I was looking at her face. But I do believe she picked up that greenish paper bag and carried it off the bus. Yes."

  "When?"

  "After he got off, just after. I was driven back to the ear by default."

  "Who was she?"

  The painter shrugged. "I'd know her," he said, "but I'd have to see her. Names, labels, mean nothing to me."

  "Where did she get off?"

  "Oh, not many blocks after . . ." Distance meant nothing to him, either.

  "Was she dark?" said Paul Townsend, tensely.

  "I suppose you mean ... to put it, crudely . . . was her hair of a darkish color? Yes."

  "Jeanie! cried Paul. "Oh Lord, oh God, it could have been Jeanie. Where's your telephone?"

  "No telephone," said Mrs. Boatright. "Who is Jeanie?"

  Paul had moved into the center somehow. He was tall and angry. He glared at everyone. He was a raging lion.

  "But Paul," said Rosemary, "what makes you think it could be Jeanie?"

  "Because she went to her music lesson, just about then. Her teacher is out on the Boulevard. She could have got on as he got off. She knew him. She would have spoken. She might have taken his empty seat. Jeanie l" Paul's handsome face contorted.

  "Who is Jeanie?" the painter wanted to know.

  "My daughter!" yelled Paul. "My daughter!"

  "But if Jeanie saw him . . ." Rosemary frowned and concentrated.

  "How could she know where he'd been sitting? How could she know it was himI' said Paul, losing control of his grammar in his agitation, "who left the poison? Maybe she . . . Oh, no!" Paul groaned. "Jeanie's got sense. Jeanie's a darned sensible kid. You all know that," he appealed pitifully. "But I got to call home. If anything's happened to Mama! Oh no, oh Lord . . . I've got to get to a phone. She was pretty, you say?"

  The painter said, "She was lovely." His eyes were watching. "Not quite the same thing."

  "Jeanie is lovely. That's sure. I'm getting out of here." Paul was beside himself. "Listen, Mama likes her supper early. Jeanie will be fixing Mama's supper too soon now. It's getting on to five o'clock. I got to call. If Mama were to get that poison, what would I do?"

  "Mama?" Mrs. Boatright raised her brows at the Gibsons.

  "His mother-in-law," said Rosemary rather awesomely. "An old lady ... a crippled old lady . . ."

  "She may be old but she's lived long enough to know something," raved Paul, as upset as anyone had ever seen him. "She's raised my Jeanie—raised me, if you want to know the truth. She's a wonderful old lady, God love her. . . . The whole house depends on her. I could never have gone on without her, when Frances died . . . Listen, I'm very sorry but I have to get going and it's my . . . well, my car."

  "Mr. Marsh," said Rosemary, springing up, "could it possibly be his daughter?"

  "Could be," said Theo Marsh. "No resemblance."

  "Jeanie looks like her dead mother," cried Paul. "Not a bit like me. Listen, I'll take you all back into town, but you'll have to come now."

  "I'll drive, said Lee Coffey with instant sympathy. ''You're kinda upset and I'm faster. I suppose this is possible?" he said to the rest of them.

  "Is there a phone at the junction?" cried Paul.

  "Yes, a phone," said Virginia, her hand still in Lee's hand.

  "Oh yes," said Theo Marsh, "at the gas station. IJp,

  Lavinia." The model stood up in her weird garb. The rest of them were streaming to the door.

  "Wait for us," said the painter.

  "Are you coming?" said the bus driver curiously.

  "Certainly, rm coming. If you think I'm not going to be on hand to see how this works out! I'm not a man who misses much. Snap it up, Lavinia. We dump her at the junction. Her father runs the gas station."

  Mr. Gibson had time to marvel at this, as they streaked for the car.

  Lee, Virginia, and Paul were in the front, as before. In the back, Mrs. Boatright's broad beam occupied the center solidly. On her left, Theo Marsh held Lavinia on his lap, and on the right, Mr. Gibson held his wife, Rosemary. He felt tumbled and breathless, but fallen into a warm and lovely place, in the lee of Mrs. Boatright's good and warm and solid flesh, with Rosemary's physical being pressing upon his thighs and his arm holding her.

  The car flew down the hill. It stopped. Everybody swayed. Paul was out and at the telephone. Lavinia kicked the long blue skirt about with her bare feet and got out clumsily. Mr. Gibson heard her say, "Hi, Paw."

  "I suggest you get some pants on," a man's voice said without passion, "and take over the pumps, Lavinia. Mother's been announcing dinner the last five minutes and I'm famished."

  Mr. Gibson heard Paul shouting that the line was busy. That something terrible could have happened.

  Theo Marsh bellowed back, "Look here, you at the telephone. Let Lavinia get on the telephone. She's absolutely reliable. I guarantee that." He was leaning over the side waving his long skinny arms.

  "No nerves, Lavinia," said the unseen father complacently.. "What's up?"

  "Let her keep calling," bawled the artist. "While we get there."

  "I'll tell them," said Lavinia. "Don't touch any olive oil and youse guys is on the way."

  "No nerves, no diction," said the sad voice of the gas station man, with a shudder, unseen by but nevertheless divined by Mr. Gibson.

  "Yes, do it." Paul was hoarse. "I can't stand here." He beat the telephone number out three times. (Lavinia got it the first time.) Then Paul climbed back into the car.

  "All right, Lee," said Virginia to the bus driver.

  "Off we go," howled the painter in joy. 'So long, Lavinia. Good girl," he told them. "She understands one hell of a lot about art."

  "She does?" said Rosemary breathlessly. The car lurched and Mr. Gibson hung on to her.

  Rosemary leaned to see around Mrs. Boatright. "Of course, as an artist, Mr. Marsh," she said in suspiciously sweet tones, "you live way out here to retreat from reality."

  "The hell I retreat from reality," said the artist angrily. "Who told you that?" Mrs. Boatright contrived to shrink her bosom back against her backbone, somewhat, as they talked across her. " I see more reality in half a minute than any one of you can see in a day," raved the artist. "I don't even drive a car. I . . ."

  "Because of your eyesight?" piped up Mr. Gibson promptly.

&
nbsp; "Right," said Theo grumpily. "Cxood for you, Gibson, if it was Gibson speaking." The artist retreated into silence. Mr. Gibson felt as if he had just won a thrust.

  "Hey?" said the bus driver over his shoulder. "What's this?"

  "He sees too much," explained Mr. Gibson. "An ear, for instance. He'd be in the ditch."

  "I bet he would." Rosemary actually chuckled in her old Rosemaryish way. Mr. Gibson was exhilarated. He pressed his cheek secretly against her sleeve, not wishing to laugh. After all, he was still a criminal. But with mirth rumbling inside of him, just the same.

  "Pretty keen, this Gibson," said the bus driver to the blonde. "Mighty lively corpse he makes, hey?"

  Paul said tensely, "Drive the car."

  Virginia said soothingly, "He is. He will."

  "Don't worry, Paul," said Rosemary, rather gaily. "Jeanie is a sensible girl."

  "I know that." Paul turned and swept them with a harassed look. He put both palms swiftly over his hair, not quite holding his head, but smoothing it on, as he turned to yearn ahead once more.

  "I've got the rest of you sorted out, but who is Paul?" asked the painter, reducing his volume. ''He wasn't on the bus."

  "He's a neighbor of theirs," said Mrs. Boatright. "This

  is his car. We ought to have called the police, you know."

  The painter said under his breath to the back seat, "i doubt very much it was his daughter who took the green paper bag. She was distinguished. Whereas he . . ." The painter made an unspellable noise. It meant Big Deal!

  "Paul," said Rosemary rather drowsily, "is as good as he is beautiful."

  "And perishing dullI' said Marsh. "Am I right?".

  Rosemary's arm came around Mr. Gibson's neck, to hang on, of course, for they were speeding. "Well, he is conventional," she said softly. "He's nice, but . » . everybody can't be interesting, like you." She leaned from Mr. Gibson's breast to peer at the painter.

  "Oh ho, rm interesting all right," said Theo Marsh.

  Mr. Gibson felt furiously jealous. This conceited ass was seventy if he was a day.

  "And deeply interested, too. Same thing, you realize. Say, what's-your-name-Gibson . . . why did you plan to kill yourself in the first place?" asked Theo Marsh. "No money?"

  "Money!" shrieked Rosemary.

  "Why not?" said the artist. "Money is something I take care to have about me. Believe me. I'm a shrewd moneymaker. Am I not, Mary Anne?"