“So that gives us Charles,” Shayne said with satisfaction. “After you left the filled thermos on the dining table, what then?”
“I went upstairs. I think Anita and her brother were in the study. Henrietta came out of her door and met me in the hall and reminded me I was going to lend her a book I had from the library. She went up with me to the third floor and sat and visited in my room until we heard Mrs. Rogell screaming that John was taken sick. We both ran down together and Marvin and Mr. Peabody came up from downstairs.”
“Did Henrietta leave your room at all during that hour?”
“No. We just sat and talked.”
“And the thermos jug was downstairs all the time. You wouldn’t have heard anybody going up or down the stairs during that time?”
“I didn’t, and I don’t think I could’ve.”
“While you were in your room with Henrietta, was your door open or closed?”
She considered this thoughtfully, compressing her lips and blinking her eyelids. “The door was shut. I’m sure it was. I can see Henrietta coming in behind me and closing it.”
“So you were really shut off from the second floor and the other people in the house.”
“That’s right.” She regarded him steadily across the kitchen table.
“This medicine of Mr. Rogell’s that has been mentioned so often. Tincture of digitalis. Did he always take exactly the same amount?”
“Twelve drops out of a medicine dropper,” she replied promptly. “For two or three years now.”
“And everyone in the house knew about it? Where it was kept in the bathroom?”
“In the medicine cabinet there. It surely wasn’t any secret.”
“And was it common knowledge that an overdose would be dangerous?”
“It certainly was.”
“Do you know exactly what effect a large overdose might have had?”
Mrs. Blair hesitated a long moment before replying, giving the impression that she was trying hard and honestly to give a correct reply.
“I think I remember… I’m pretty sure I do now… that when Dr. Evans took over the case he gave us a lecture about it. About how careful we must be in measuring it out. That even a double dose might bring on a heart attack that would take him off.” An acid note crept into her voice as she added, “That’s when his wife said she’d see to it that he got his medicine every night… intimating that I wasn’t to be trusted any more to measure it careful enough.”
“Then all of you knew that an overdose might cause him to die… exactly as he did die,” pressed Shayne.
“Are you saying that’s what did happen, Mr. Shayne?” There was outraged horror in the housekeeper’s voice.
“I’m not saying anything. I’m pointing out that if someone in the house did want Rogell to die… and hoped it would appear a natural death… that the means was ready to his hand.”
“Did somebody put extra digitalis in his milk that night?”
Shayne shrugged. “If they did, Dr. Evans can’t be blamed for believing it was a natural death. And I understand the widow has refused to allow an autopsy which might have proved different.”
“I see what you’re driving at.” Mrs. Blair’s voice was grim. “And I stood up for her when she said she couldn’t stand having John’s body cut up like a dog or a rat in a laboratory. I felt just the same way. But now I wonder.”
Shayne said, “All we can do at this point is to wonder, Mrs. Blair. Let’s jump, now, to the evening when Daffy died.”
“What about it?” She settled herself heavily in an attitude that indicated she was prepared to defend herself against accusations.
Shayne said, “Harold Peabody was here for dinner.”
She nodded. “First time since Mr. Rogell died.”
“Who planned the dinner menu that night?”
“I did,” she told him defiantly. “Mrs. Rogell didn’t bother very often with things like that.”
“Then it was wholly your own idea to have a separate dish of creamed chicken for Henrietta?”
“What’s wrong in that? The others were having shrimp casserole and any kind of seafood made her deathly sick.”
“Nothing wrong with it in principle. I suppose everyone present knew of her allergy, and that there would be a special dish for her?”
“They did if they had ears to hear by. Always harping on it, she was.”
“And there were two separate chafing dishes on the sideboard from which you served dinner?”
“A chafing dish of creamed chicken, and the covered casserole on an electric warming plate.”
“Sitting there how long before dinner was served?”
“The chafing dish for maybe twenty minutes. I made the chicken in that, and gave it a stir now and then while I set up the table.”
“I understand that Mr. Rogell’s death was discussed before dinner.”
“There was hell to pay,” said Mrs. Blair succinctly. “Henrietta raving about how she knew John had been murdered and she was going to prove it if she had to go to the governor of the state of Florida to get an autopsy on John before he was cremated. And all the others trying to shush her, and her ranting louder than ever the more they shushed.”
“Suppose someone had decided to put strychnine in her chicken,” said Shayne quietly. “Who had the opportunity?”
“Any one of them. They were milling around in the dining room with drinks in their hands… all talking to Henrietta at once.”
“Including Charles?”
“Oh, no. He was here in the kitchen while that was going on.”
“Then we can eliminate Charles if something was put into her chicken?”
“Well, I… I don’t know as I’d say that. He’s always good about helping at the table beforehand. Like putting ice in the glasses and pouring water. He might have been in and out once or twice.”
“Did you see Henrietta give the dog a saucer of her chicken?”
“I certainly did not,” sniffed Mrs. Blair. “For my money, I don’t believe she ever did it. I think it was just something that came to her when the poor little thing got sick like she did. Accusing me of serving her with poisoned food!”
“Who suggested that you dispose of the remaining chicken and wash out the dishes before the detectives got here?”
“Nobody. I was that upset and mad when she started screaming her chicken was poisoned that I snatched up the plate and dish and carried them out and dumped them.” She glared at him angrily. “Make something out of that if you want to. Like those other detectives tried to. But suppose you’d been cooking for other folks for thirty years and suddenly got accused of putting poison in a dish. Wouldn’t you be mad and upset?”
“I probably would,” Shayne soothed her. “If someone around this house wanted strychnine, Mrs. Blair, where would he go for it?”
“The same place Marvin went last night, I guess. Right out in the garage where gardener kept it for moles.”
“And I suppose everyone here knew about that, too,” sighed Shayne.
“Except, maybe, Mr. Peabody. And I wouldn’t have been sure Marvin knew either because he was generally so soaked in alcohol he didn’t know much that was going on right around him.”
Mrs. Blair glanced up at the electric clock on the wall behind him and gasped, “Mercy me! I only got twenty minutes to get ready for the funeral.”
Shayne left the kitchen and was striding down the wide hallway toward the front door when he heard his name spoken faintly and hesitantly from behind him. He turned and saw Anita posed on the winding stairway, about half-way down. A black-gloved hand rested lightly on the railing, and she wore a simple black suit unrelieved by any ornaments or jewelry whatsoever. She had very little make-up on, and beneath a black, velvet beret her golden-silk hair was tucked in carefully, giving her a wanly appealing little-girl look.
