A Shot in the Arm

by Richard Deming

  “She’s only missing?” I asked Day. He moved his skinny head up and down, watching me suspiciously.

  “When’d you take over the missing persons bureau?”

  “Now listen here, Moon,” the inspector started to say.

  “She’s dead,” I said flatly.

  Everyone but Claude Banner looked at me, startled. Banner wet his lips and looked at Warren Day. He didn’t seem particularly upset. Vivian’s mouth drew into a thin line.

  “You speak when you’re spoken to!” Day exploded. “I’m directing this investigation!”

  “Sure. And you’re chief of homicide. I don’t know what you’re pulling, but you wouldn’t be interested unless you had a body.”

  Vivian said: “It’s true. My mother’s dead.” She began to sob quietly.

  “Hannegan!” Day shouted at his right hand man, nearly blasting him over, since he stood only a foot from the inspector’s desk. “Clear everybody out but Moon! Keep ’em outside till I call for ’em.”

  Hannegan shooed the startled group from the office, and Warren Day glared at me furiously. “Why can’t you keep your big mouth shut?”

  Relaxing in a chair next to his desk, I reached into his cigar humidor, but jerked back empty fingers when he snapped down the lid.

  “If you’d take me in on your plans, I wouldn’t blow them up,” I said reasonably. “How was I supposed to know you had secrets?”

  “I didn’t want that bunch to know what’s going on till I had their stories,” Day growled. Dropping his dead cigar in the ash tray, he fished out another butt. “What were you doing at Mrs. Rand’s house?”

  “Just a social call.”

  He glared at me over his glasses. “Don’t want to cooperate, eh?”

  “Sure I do. Soon as you tell me what’s going on.”

  Day chewed his cigar while he examined me with distaste. “All right, Manny,” he said finally. “I know if I gave you the rubber hose, I’d get nothing, so I’ll save time for both of us. I’ll bring you up to date, if you’ll unload what you know to me.”

  “Fine,” I said, and managed to snake out one of his cigars without losing a finger.

  “The body showed up at Bakersville, ten miles down the river, about an hour before Banner reported his wife missing. She had a bullet in her and had been dead about a week. We called Banner in late last night to identify the body, and told him to keep his mouth shut until we released the news ourselves. He’s the only one who knew she was dead.”

  “Why the secrecy?”

  “Wanted to see their reactions. Got to start somewhere, and there’s not a sign of a clue.”

  “How about the bullet?”

  “Hit a bone. .45 caliber, but the lab can’t tell us whether it came from a gun or a pea-shooter.”

  I asked: “Think Banner himself did it?”

  Day snorted. “Mrs. Rand’s chauffeur and that fat guy, Sheridan, both saw Mrs. Banner wave goodbye. After that Banner wasn’t out of the chauffeur’s sight till he boarded a plane for Mexico City.”

  “Maybe he flew back again.”

  Day shook his head. “We had the airlines check passenger lists for that. Just to make sure, we’re also making a checkup by Mexico City police, but I think Banner’s clear. He makes regular trips to Mexico City every month. Operates an importing business, and does all the buying himself. Says he always stays at the same hotel, so it should be easy enough for the Mexico City police to verify his alibi.”

  He didn’t seem inclined to pass on anything else, so I asked: “That the whole story?”

  “Yeah. Now, what were you doing at Mrs. Rand’s place?”

  “Just a social call,” I said, snaking another cigar from the ash tray.

  * * * *

  In spite of her aunt’s and stepfather’s arguments that Vivian’s treatment be postponed until she got over the shock of her mother’s death, Vivian insisted on going ahead with original arrangements. Her insistence was fanatical rather than merely determined, for she was obviously terrified at the agony she thought she would go through. As the day of the court session drew near, she developed an air of numb fascination resembling that of an early Christian preparing to throw herself in the flames in pursuit of an ideal. I saw her only twice, and both times she was drugged to the eyebrows.

  The murder remained a mystery, at least to me. What progress the homicide department was making, I didn’t know, since Warren Day stopped speaking to me after our last session together. And since I was engaged by Mrs. Rand only to keep Vivian away from morphine, and not to solve incidental murders, I made no attempt to check up.

  Now that it’s all over, and I can look back at the complete picture in all its details, I can see I might have saved Vivian’s life if I had done something about her mother’s murder. Even if I had merely thought about it seriously, I might have drawn some significance from the casual happenings during the tea party where I met Vivian’s mother. Not enough to solve the case, probably, but perhaps enough to stir an awareness of danger in Vivian and place me on guard.

  It bothers me still when I think about it, but actually I had no reason to concern myself. In the first place no one asked me to do anything about Mrs. Banner, and I get in enough trouble sticking my nose where I’m hired to stick it, without prying into murders for free. In the second place no one in the family, including Vivian, who was so completely obsessed by her approaching ordeal that she hadn’t even time for grief, so much as mentioned the matter. And just because you’re a private investigator, you don’t tactlessly choose a murdered relative as a conversational subject when you talk to people, unless somebody pays you to pry.

  When I thought about it at all, it was to idly wonder if it had been a lunatic murder, one of those tough ones where a nut with no motive except desire to kill picks a victim he never saw before. Those happen, you know, and happen frequently. And the killer is rarely caught until he butchers two or three.

  In any event, I left the investigation of Mrs. Banner’s murder to the homicide squad and continued to spend most of my time on my back waiting for Judge Crawford to get around to convening court in order to consider the competency of the murdered woman’s daughter. The days dragged by one by one and my bank account shrunk to zero, and I started a charge account at my favorite restaurant.

  But even Judgment Day will arrive if you wait long enough, and nine days after my conversation with Inspector Day, Judge Crawford held a closed session in his chambers. When Alex Carson, Mrs. Rand, Vivian and I left the courtroom together, I bore a document naming me the temporary committee of Miss Vivian Banner, aged 24, declared legally incompetent by court order. The document emphasized in several places that my appointment was temporary, and named a date seven months away at which time the court would again consider evidence of my charge’s competence and take such additional action it deemed appropriate.

  Mrs. Rand also carried a document, one carefully prepared by Alex Carson and to which my witnessed signature was affixed. In it I declared that I had been employed by the family for the sole purpose of preventing Vivian Banner from obtaining or taking drugs during the next seven months, that by general family agreement I had been chosen as the proper temporary committee for that purpose only, that I had no interest nor claim in Miss Banner’s estate and in the event of her death. I waived all rights of inheritance and/or administration of her estate.

  Alex, in spite of his recommendation that I was “scrupulously honest,” was taking no chances.

  All four of us squeezed into the rear seat of Mrs. Rand’s Packard. I offered to sit with Harry, but Mrs. Rand chilled the suggestion as though it were improper. Alex Carson and I drew small folding seats and rode backward, facing the two women.

  During the ride to Mrs. Rand’s home Alex tried to make light conversation. He looked every inch the distinguished barrister as he sat erect but easily on the uncomfortabl
e drop-down seat, his gaunt, intelligent features carefully holding a poised smile. Narrow, snow-white sideburns which merged into dark, gray-flecked hair, added to the effect of mature integrity. “What an honest looking guy,” I thought, feeling to see if I still had my wallet.

  Mrs. Rand answered Carson’s conversational attempts with monosyllables, and Vivian and I made no attempt to answer at all.

  Once Vivian said to me: “How does it feel to be a father, Daddy?”

  I scowled at her, expecting to meet a mocking expression. Her lips smiled, but in her eyes was an almost incredible fright. I let my scowl fade into an encouraging grin.

  Dr. Yoder was waiting for us in the drawing room when we arrived at the Rand home. With him was a middle-aged nurse in a starched uniform. Dr. Yoder rose from his chair.

  “Good afternoon,” he said affably in all-inclusive greeting. He introduced the nurse as Miss Livingston, then said to Vivian: “Ready to become a patient?”

  “Today? Are we going to start today?” She looked from one to another of us, and I could see a pulse begin to beat in her throat. Nobody said anything.

  “I mean, it’s been such a trying day already…” Her voice trailed off and she gave a nervous laugh. “Whatever you think best, Doctor. It’s just that I didn’t expect to start today.”

  Mrs. Rand said: “I asked Doctor Yoder to be here when we returned from court. There’s no point in delay.”

  The doctor made his voice patronizingly hearty. “Sooner you get to bed, young lady, sooner we’ll have you up. Go on upstairs and Miss Livingston will be up in a minute.”

  Vivian summoned a ghastly smile and left the room without a word. Dr. Yoder immediately dropped his jolly manner and turned professional.

  “Nurse has her orders,” he said to Mrs. Rand. “Be relieved by a night nurse at eleven. You understand, of course, the nurse is in complete charge of patient when I’m not here. Please give her any help she needs.” He glanced at me. “Afraid not much for you to do next two weeks, Moon.”

  I asked: “What’s this treatment involve?”

  He drew down his brows in fair imitation of Lionel Barrymore in a Dr. Gillespie role. “We gradually withdraw the drug. Otherwise too great a shock, you see. Same time we administer cathartics and use hyoscine as an antidote. End of two weeks, hope to shut off medical treatment and let her system rebuild itself. That’s when your main problem starts. Meantime, wish you’d stay close by to help the nurse, case Miss Banner becomes violent. Don’t anticipate that, but always a possibility.”

  I said: “I’ve already moved in. I’ll be sleeping in the room right next to her.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Fine arrangement. Be handy if nurse needs you.”

  I turned to Mrs. Rand. “You have those locks installed?”

  “Yes,” she said, rummaging in her purse and producing three keys. “They’re numbered one, two and three. One is the connecting door to your room, two the hall door and three the key to my bedroom.”

  I said: “Keep yours,” took the other two and handed the hall key to Miss Livingston. “You can pass this on to the other nurses as they change shift. There are no extras, so don’t lose it.”

  Accepting the key, she started from the room, but I stopped her. “When Vivian’s ready for bed, have her put on a robe and come back downstairs,” I told her.

  By the time the nurse returned with Vivian, Dr. Yoder and Alex had gone, Mrs. Rand had disappeared into the rear of the house, and I was alone in the drawing room. Vivian wore a flowered wrap-around housecoat over green nylon pajamas. Clenched fists were thrust into the housecoat pockets.

  I went over to her, took her wrists and gently pulled her hands from her pockets. She raised them palm upward and looked at me questioningly.

  Smiling at her, I thrust my own hands into the pockets. One held a lace handkerchief and the other was empty.

  “Any pajama pockets?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “What are you doing? Searching me?”

  I said: “You catch on quick. Wait right here,” and went right on up to her room.

  I wasted fifteen minutes going over every inch of the bathroom and bedroom before I finally found it under a hat in a hat-box on the closet’s rear shelf. It was a compact little outfit neatly assembled in a small tin box; an alcohol lamp of the type found in toy chemistry sets, a small test tube, two teaspoons, a bottle of innocent looking pills and an hypodermic syringe with several extra needles.

  Returning to the drawing room, I handed the box to Miss Livingston. “Better turn this over to Dr. Yoder.”

  Vivian’s eyes burned at me with sudden anger. “What right have you to search my room?” she demanded in a high voice.

  I said: “We fathers make our own rules. Go on up to bed.”

  * * * *

  Except for one or two incidents, the next two weeks was a period of utter boredom for me. I had literally nothing to do but sit in my room and wait for the nurse to call me if Vivian grew violent, which she never did. She grew irritable, and her complexion turned muddy and oily from constant sweating. Her eyes reddened and streamed gallons of water, her fingers twitched and occasionally she sobbed with pain in her body joints, and she lost weight until her cheeks were gaunt. But she kept her mind.

  To me she seemed pretty sick, but Dr. Yoder seemed pleased with her progress. He stopped by every day, examined Vivian, boomed a few hearty jests and went away with an air of satisfaction.

  Norman Sheridan came every day too, asked if Vivian were well enough to have visitors, and nodded understanding when the nurse informed him she was not. Whereupon he would retire to the drawing room with Mrs. Rand, drink a cup of tea and devour a prodigious amount of sugared cookies.

  The first incident to break the boredom was when Nellie, the ancient housekeeper, let Vivian out of her room. She only got as far as her aunt’s bedroom, because I discovered it almost at once. When no answer came to my rap on Vivian’s door. I unlocked it found the room empty and the door to Mrs. Rand’s room open.

  When she heard me enter, Vivian slammed shut the bureau drawer she was rifling, turned her back to the bureau and crouched like a cornered animal, her red-ringed eyes spitting hate at me and her lips pulled back from her teeth.

  “What are you looking for, Vivian?” I asked gently.

  “A handkerchief.” Her voice was a sullen whine.

  “I’ll have the nurse bring you one. Better get back to bed.”

  Mrs. Rand’s key lay on her dressing table. I picked it up, looked at it, laid it down again and left it there. After seeing Vivian safely relocked in her room, I went downstairs to give Mrs. Rand a verbal blast.

  “But I know nothing about it,” Vivian’s aunt protested. “The key was on my dresser.”

  “It’s still on the dresser,” I said. “You simply left the door unlocked.”

  “I most certainly did not,” Mrs. Rand denied. “I tried it very carefully before I came downstairs.”

  We questioned the servants then, and Nellie readily admitted her guilt. “Can’t clean Miss Vivian’s room less I open the door, can I?” she asked belligerently. “Can’t walk through no closed door.”

  “You have the nurse let you in and out,” I said. “If Vivian gets out again, I’ll skin you alive.”

  She sniffed disdainfully. “Bigger fellers than you tried that and got set on their haunches.”

  “And you keep that key in your possession,” I told Mrs. Rand. “Don’t leave it lying on your dresser again.”

  The second incident occurred not more than an hour later, when Alex Carson made his single visit during Vivian’s illness. It was his sole visit because I afterward told him if he stuck his nose inside the house again, I’d break it off even with his face.

  I was in the back yard when he called. Every afternoon I spent a half hour there getting some fresh air in my lungs while
Mrs. Rand took over my watch. When I came back into the house Mrs. Morgan, the 7:00 A.M. to 3:00 P.M. nurse, met me with fire in her eyes.

  “A man named Carson was here and got into Miss Banner’s room,” she announced indignantly.

  “He was?” I asked, mildly irked, but not particularly disturbed.

  “Come look at our patient.”

  I followed her indignant back up the stairs to Vivian’s room. Thrusting her key into the door, Mrs. Morgan flung it open and dramatically pointed to the patient, who sat upright in bed talking to Mrs. Rand, who was seated in a bedside chair, Vivian’s complexion was no longer muddy, and there was even a touch of color in her cheeks. Her eyes were still red-ringed, but they were clear and waterless, and the pupils were contracted to points.

  She waved at me gaily. “Hello, Daddy.”

  “Take her in my room,” I told Mrs. Morgan. “Search her while you’ve got her there. If she won’t let you, call me.”

  Vivian docilely allowed herself to be led through the connecting door. Mrs. Rand watched silently while I went over every inch of the bedroom, bathroom and closet.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked, when I finally gave up.

  I ignored her question. “How did Carson get in here?”

  “I let him in. Vivian asked to see him. Why?”

  “Were you here all the time?”

  “No. Vivian asked to see him alone. Why are you asking this?”

  “Because your niece is doped to the heels. Starting right now all visitors will be referred to me. No one uses your key but yourself.”

  She put her nose in the air and tried to curdle me through her distorting eyeglasses. “Alex Carson wouldn’t give Vivian morphine. The whole idea’s ridiculous.”

  “Did you give it to her?”

  “Of course not!”

  “That leaves Alex,” I said.

  Mrs. Morgan brought Vivian back into the room and shook her head before I could ask if her search had turned up any drug on Vivian. I told her to throw her patient back in bed and went downstairs to phone.