A Shot in the Arm

by Richard Deming

  “Actually, I think the place for the girl is a locked ward in a sanitarium. Told the family so, but Mrs. Rand has this room fixed up, and insists on home treatment. Says they’ve tried sanitariums.” He snorted. “The girl’s been in three as a voluntary patient. Damn-fool family refused to commit her, and all she had to do was walk out.” He shrugged. “But it’s their money, and if I don’t treat her, someone else will.”

  He glanced at me slyly, as one confederate to another in on a soft touch. I kept my face expressionless.

  “Then the treatment’s a phony?”

  “Oh, no,” he protested quickly. “If Miss Banner were actually kept from morphine for several months, she’d probably be cured. But how you going to keep it away from her?” He glowered at me from beneath down-drawn brows. “Judas, man, you don’t know what a morphine addict without drugs is like. Twenty-four hours a day she’ll have only one thing on her mind…Morphine. She’ll do anything for it. And I mean literally anything. She’ll lie, bribe, steal. She may even try to kill you. If you block all that, she’ll try ducking out of your sight. And you can’t possibly keep her in sight for six months.”

  I said: “Why not?”

  He looked exasperated. “You going to accompany her to the shower bath? You going to sleep in the same room?” One fist pounded softly on his desk. “Watch the door and she’ll be out the window. Watch the window, and she’ll be out the door.”

  I stood up. “You take care of your end, Doc, and I’ll take care of mine. She won’t get any dope.”

  He said skeptically: “Think not?” Then he shrugged. “All we can do is try. After all, if I don’t treat her, they’ll just go to another doctor, and if you don’t take the case, they’ll just hire another private detective. Might as well be us getting the fees.”

  “Sure,” I said. “But just for the record, I’m intending to earn mine.”

  * * * *

  As a matter of course, the Rand home had been built on Lindell Boulevard, for of all streets in the city, only Lindell was as socially distinguished as the name “Rand”. A pleasant, but oversized structure of rose granite, it somewhat resembled a public library. Wide lawns kept the neighboring houses on either side a sedate two hundred feet away, which, in a city, is isolation.

  A dour-faced housekeeper pushing seventy answered my ring and examined me with eyes bitter at the world.

  I said: “What’s the matter? Boyfriend jilt you?”

  She said: “What you want?”

  “Mrs. Rand. And a kind smile.”

  She muttered: “At that face, who could smile?” and stepped aside. “You must be that detective. She said you was ugly, but she missed it by half.”

  I’m not sensitive about my face. The one I was born with wasn’t too bad, but in my early youth before I learned to duck, a set of brass knuckles gave me a drooping eyelid and a bent nose. Still, I don’t think I’m repellent. A maudlin woman once told me I resembled a battered Saint Bernard.

  I followed the old woman into a drawing room, where a tea party seemed to be in progress. On the surface it was an innocuous tea party. Only weeks later, when little bits of evidence began to fall into place, did I understand I had viewed the prologue to the first murder, and even contributed to its necessity without realizing it.

  Mrs. Rand, a saucer expertly held in her left hand, glanced up as we stopped in the doorway, and thick-lensed glasses, behind which her eyes were magnified out of proportion, glinted as she dismissed the housekeeper with a cold nod of annoyance.

  On a sofa next to Mrs. Rand’s chair sat a plump woman and a tall, gaunt man who was a male version of Mrs. Rand. Relaxed in an easy chair which seemed to have been specially built for him, with the crook of a heavy cane lying in his lap, was a giant fat man whose quantities of excess flesh could only be described as oozing. His head was a melon, smooth and white and benevolent, and as hairless as the sole of my foot. He was gesturing with a sugared cookie, while he discoursed on the subject of ants. I learned that red ants had a much more efficiently organized civilization than humans before Mrs. Rand cut him off by introducing me around.

  “These are Vivian’s mother and stepfather, Mr. Moon,” she said, indicating the couple on the sofa. “My brother, Claude Banner, and my sister-in-law, Martha.” To the man she said: “Claude, this is Mr. Manville Moon, the private detective I told you about.”

  I shook hands with Claude Banner and murmured something polite to his wife.

  “And this is Mr. Sheridan,” Mrs. Rand said, indicating the obese giant. “Norman Sheridan, the entomologist, you know.”

  Her tone suggested that of course I had heard of Norman Sheridan.

  “Oh, yes,” I said, never having heard of him, and having only a vague notion that entomology somehow concerned bugs.

  His hand gobbled up mine as though I had thrust it into a bucket of dough. I got mine back as quickly as I could.

  “Will you have some tea?” Mrs. Rand asked.

  I said: “No, thanks.”

  “Tea is a ritual in this house,” she said with a curious air of defensiveness, as though she thought I might not approve. “I think it a shame most Americans have let the custom lapse.”

  “Delightful custom,” rumbled Norman Sheridan, heaving his bulk forward to reach another sugared cookie.

  I found myself a chair and prepared to wait patiently for Sheridan to leave so that Vivian’s parents, Mrs. Rand, and I could discuss our highly private business. But apparently Mrs. Rand kept no secrets from her fat friend.

  “Dr. Yoder phoned that you were coming,” she said. “When can you start?”

  I glanced at Sheridan and hiked my eyebrows.

  “You may speak freely before Mr. Sheridan. Norman is one of my oldest friends, and he knows all about Vivian. He spends nearly as much time here as I do.”

  “A case of unrequited love,” Norman explained. “The drone hovering about the queen bee.” His gelatinous body shook at his own jest.

  I said: “I can start as soon as we agree on terms.”

  Mrs. Rand drew in her chin and examined me suspiciously. “We have agreed on terms.”

  “I don’t mean financial. I mean concerning my responsibility and authority. Particularly my authority.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  I said: “Dr. Yoder tells me your niece is pretty far gone. Possibly incurable. He seems to think keeping her from dope for six months after she’s allowed out of the house will be a difficult job. If I’m to keep her from it, I want absolute authority over her actions. I want her declared legally incompetent and committed to my care for a period of seven months.”

  Claude Banner said: “That’s ridiculous. Vivian’s not incompetent.”

  “Of course not. You’re just hiring a doctor, three nurses, and a private detective because she gets lonesome.”

  He turned a faint red. “My stepdaughter is a capable and intelligent young woman, Mr. Moon. I regard her condition as a disease, just as though she had diabetes or heart trouble, and I’ll thank you not to refer to her as though she were some kind of moron.”

  “Stop kidding yourself,” I said. “Vivian’s a dope addict and has no more right to exercise her own judgment than a two year old. Maybe I didn’t make myself clear, so I’ll put it in the form of an ultimatum. We’ll do things exactly the way I want them done, or you can hire another watchdog.”

  Banner said: “In that case, we won’t need you.”

  “I’ll decide that.”

  It was the first time Vivian’s mother had spoken, and although her voice was quiet, an underlying chord of decisiveness ran through it.

  All eyes swiveled toward her. I was surprised at the immediate attention she drew, for she had not impressed me as an imposing personality. Mrs. Banner swept her gaze around the circle in a gesture of what almost seemed defiance, then turned to me.

>   “Do I understand you want to be appointed Vivian’s guardian, Mr. Moon?”

  “Her committee,” I said. “Guardianship applies only to minors, and they call you a committee instead of a guardian when your charge is an adult incompetent. Amounts to the same thing.”

  “Why do you think this necessary?”

  I explained why bluntly. “First, I don’t want well-meaning interference from you people. Second, I make it a point to finish what I start. Once I take the case, I’ve no intention of letting anyone fire me. And you can’t fire me if a court commits Vivian to my care.”

  Mrs. Rand said: “That would involve administration of her funds.”

  “So what? You’ve checked me so thoroughly, you probably know which cheek I shave first in the morning. Think I’d steal your niece’s money?”

  Mrs. Banner said: “I think we’d better do as Mr. Moon wishes.”

  Mrs. Rand’s thick glasses glinted as she peered estimatingly at her sister-in-law. Then, with an expression which seemed to ask, “What else can we do?” she said to her brother: “Alex Carson told me I’d find Mr. Moon stubborn, blunt and—ah—tyrannical. But he also recommended him as scrupulously honest and the only person he knew who might accomplish what Dr. Yoder says is necessary. It rather looks like we won’t get along with Mr. Moon, but we can’t get along without him either.”

  “Alex Carson is your lawyer, isn’t he?” Mrs. Banner asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Have him make the necessary arrangements then.” Her tone made it almost an order, and again I was surprised, because she didn’t look like an imperious person. She turned to me. “I’m sure that between you and Dr. Yoder Vivian will be in excellent hands. You do think this treatment will work, don’t you?”

  I shrugged. “Possibly. Dr. Yoder told me he advised you people to commit her to a sanitarium and leave her there till she’s well, but you prefer home treatment. If Vivian were my daughter, I’d follow the doctor’s advice. Of course you might not be able to keep it quiet, but I assume your primary objective is to get Vivian well.”

  Mrs. Banner glanced sharply at her husband. “You didn’t tell me this, Claude.”

  Banner raised an appeasing hand. “Now, dear, don’t get upset. It seems to me Grace has things well organized, and I see no reason to have Vivian committed if we can accomplish the same end without danger of publicity. If this doesn’t work, we’ll talk about another sanitarium.”

  His wife continued to look at him coldly without saying anything, until his face turned a faint red. Fumbling out a gold pocket watch, he dropped his eyes to it, looked surprised and rose.

  “My plane leaves in an hour and I have to stop at home for my bag. Guess I’ll have to borrow your car, Grace.”

  “Certainly, Claude,” Mrs. Rand said. She rose from her chair and pulled a cord hanging against the wall.

  Claude Banner said something about getting their coats, and disappeared into the hall. As he passed through the door, the ancient housekeeper entered.

  Mrs. Rand said: “Send Harry in, will you, Nellie?”

  Nellie nodded grumpily, turned around and left.

  Banner returned wearing a light topcoat and carrying a short fur jacket, which he held while his wife slipped info it.

  “Pleasant to have met you, Mr. Moon,” Mrs. Banner said, and held out her hand.

  I returned the compliment, wondering again at her previous flash of decisiveness. She looked like the average housewife, plump and good-natured and inclined to consider her husband the head of the house.

  A quiet voice from the doorway said: “You wanted me, Madam?”

  I glanced that way and there in a neat chauffeur’s uniform stood Harry Gusset. My last sight of Harry was when he stood before a judge receiving a two-year sentence for extortion, largely as a result of my testimony. He had been standing on crutches, which was also my fault, since he had broken a leg trying to prevent me from arresting him.

  He saw me the same moment I saw him, and he literally seemed to wilt.

  Mrs. Rand said: “What’s the matter, Harry?”

  I don’t believe in hounding ex-convicts who try to go straight. Harry’s uniform indicated he was trying to make an honest living, and I had no intention of spoiling his chance. Keeping my face expressionless, I gave him a wink.

  Straightening his back, he looked sickly at Mrs. Rand and said: “Nothing’s the matter, Madam.”

  She peered at him through her glasses. “You look frightened to death.”

  I said: “He bumped his elbow on the door coming in.”

  For a moment Harry stared at me blankly. Then he got it. “Yes. The crazy bone. I’ll be all right in a minute.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Rand, losing interest. “Is the car out front?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Drive Mr. and Mrs. Banner home and then take Mr. Banner to the airport.”

  Claude Banner shook my hand and said: “Glad I met you, Moon. Won’t see you for about a week because I’m flying south on business tonight. In the meantime Grace can go ahead with incompetency proceedings and I’ll sign any necessary papers when I get back.”

  Norman Sheridan, who had sat beamingly silent for a long time, gripped his cane handle with both fists and heaved his huge body from its chair. “I’d better run along too, Grace. May I hitch a ride, Claude?”

  Banner indicated that he could, and Sheridan, his cane ornamentally hooked over a fat forearm, now that it had served what seemed to be its sole function—helping him erect—lumbered out.

  In the doorway, Mrs. Banner smiled back at me over her shoulder.

  I never saw her again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  No Body at All

  “Where’s Vivian?” I asked Mrs. Rand. “In her room?”

  She shook her head. “Beauty appointment.”

  “Then I’d like to look at this room you’ve prepared.”

  Mrs. Rand led me upstairs and down a hall to the right wing of the house. The room was an ordinary bedroom with private bath, and with doors connecting it to other bedrooms on either side. The only “preparations” consisted of three-quarter inch steel bars at the two bedroom windows and the across bath windows.

  “Dr. Yoder says the initial treatment may leave Vivian temporarily irrational,” Mrs. Rand said, indicating the bars. “Of course, it’s unlikely she’ll become so irrational as to attempt suicide, but we’re taking no chances.

  “That’s my bedroom,” she said, pointing to the right connecting door. “Yours is the other. I’m sorry you won’t have a private bath, but there’s a general bath down the hall.”

  “I’ll live,” I said.

  I examined the locks of the hall door and of the connecting doors into Mrs. Rand’s and my bedrooms.

  “I want special locks put on all these,” I said. “Locks making it impossible to open the door from either side without a key. And have only one key made for each lock.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Do you think that really necessary?”

  “Yes.”

  She frowned and said in a prim voice: “Very well. Anything else?”

  “Not at the moment. You can start incompetency proceedings immediately. Tell Alex he can reach me at my flat.”

  Alex phoned me the following afternoon.

  “Take about two weeks to put everything through,” he said. “But I don’t contemplate any hitches. Explained the whole situation to Judge Crawford this morning, and he’ll go along if we get proper medical statements and so forth. Yoder will take care of the medical end, and it makes things less complicated that Vivian herself is making no fight.”

  “She isn’t?”

  “Think the idea intrigues her. Being ordered around by a Saint Bernard. That’s what she calls you.”

  “I’ve been called one before,” I said. “Bri
bed any witnesses lately?”

  “Aw, don’t you ever forget?”

  “No,” I said.

  The following week I spent mainly on my back, listening to my bank account dwindle and allowing my stump blister to heal. It was past the danger of re-irritation when I had a caller.

  Lieutenant Hannegan, neat and dapper in his perennial blue serge suit, and looking exactly like a cop in plain clothes, brought an invitation from Inspector Warren Day.

  “For what, he didn’t say,” Hannegan told me. “All I know is he wants you.”

  Since it was only eleven o’clock in the morning, he had caught me in bed. He waited passively while I shaved and dressed, then drove me over to headquarters.

  Several people sat around in the chief of homicide’s office. Aside from Warren Day were Mrs. Rand, Vivian, Claude Banner, Norman Sheridan, and Harry Gusset. Banner seemed worried, Vivian seemed upset, but the rest looked only puzzled.

  Inspector Warren Day ducked his skinny bald head to peer at me over his glasses and said with heavy irony: “Sorry to disturb your rest, Manny. I know it’s tiring to lean against a bar every night.”

  “Always glad to come down and solve any cases you can’t handle,” I said courteously.

  Fishing through his littered ash tray, Day found a cigar butt which satisfied him, stuck it in his mouth without lighting it and leaned back in his chair to view the assemblage.

  “I called you people together because you were the last to see Mrs. Banner.”

  The others waited quietly for him to proceed, but I broke in: “Wait a minute. What’s happened to Mrs. Banner?”

  Day swiveled his head to peer at me coldly. “She’s missing. Hasn’t been seen since Mrs. Rand’s car dropped her at her home a week ago.”

  I asked Mrs. Rand: “The day I was at your house?”

  She nodded and Claude Banner said: “Harry ran us home and I stopped in just long enough to pick up my bag. Norman was with us, if you remember, and the last any of us saw of her, she was waving from the porch. Harry dropped Norman at his house, and then ran me to the airport. When I got back last night, the house was locked, the fire out and Martha had simply disappeared. I inquired everywhere I could think of and learned no one had seen her since the day I left, so I reported it to the police.”