The Topless Tulip Caper

“Indeed. You gave her a jar of wheat germ?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Have you any reason to assume this is other than the jar you gave her?”

“How the hell do I know?” Haig glared at him. “Okay,” he said. “It’s probably the same jar.”

Haig nodded, satisfied. “Miss Wolinski. Was Mr. Henderson in the habit of gifting you with health foods?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you do with them?”

Tulip lowered her eyes. “I didn’t do anything with them,” she said.

“You didn’t eat them?”

“No.” She shrugged, and when you’re built like Tulip a shrug is a hell of a gesture. “I know that kind of food is supposed to be good for you,” she said, “but I just don’t like it I like things like hamburgers and french fries and beer, things like that.”

“If you would just try them—” Henderson began.

“Mr. Henderson. Had Miss Wolinski tried the wheat germ she would be dead.” Henderson shut up. “Miss Wolinski,” Haig went on pleasantly. “You did nothing with the health foods? You merely put them aside?”

“Well, I used to feed the wheat germ to the fish some of the time. It’s a good conditioner for breeding.”

“It is indeed. I employ it myself. What else became of the health foods Mr. Henderson was considerate enough to give to you?”

“Sometimes Cherry ate them.”

“Indeed,” Haig said. He got to his feet. “At this point things begin to clarify themselves. The strychnine was introduced into the aquarium not by the murderer but by Miss Wolinski herself. And it was added to the wheat germ not in an attempt to kill fish but in an attempt to kill Miss Abramowicz. Oh, sit down, Mr. Henderson. Do sit down. I am not accusing you of presenting Miss Wolinski with poisoned wheat germ. You are neither that stupid nor that clever. The strychnine was added to the wheat germ after it had come into Miss Wolinski’s possession, added by someone who knew that Miss Abramowicz rather than Miss Wolinski was likely to ingest it. Sit down!”

Haskell Henderson sat down. I decided Haig was wrong on one point. Old Haskell was stupid enough to do almost anything. Anybody who would discontinue making love to Althea simply because she had less than the usual number of breasts didn’t have all that much going for him in the brains department.

Haig turned to Tulip once more. “Miss Wolinski” he said. “I first made your acquaintance approximately forty-eight hours ago. They have been eventful hours, to be sure. When did you decide to consult me?”

“Tuesday. The day after I got the lab report. That was when I decided, and then I thought it over for a while, and then I came here.”

“Who knew of your decision?”

“Nobody.”

“No one at all?”

“I didn’t tell anyone after I saw you. You told me not to. Oh, wait a minute. I said something to Cherry that morning, that I was going to see you and you would find out how it happened.”

“So you told Miss Abramowicz. And she might have told anyone.”

“Cherry wasn’t very good at keeping things to herself.”

“She may have told anyone at all,” Haig went on. “What we do know for certain is that she told her murderer. He realized that I would rapidly determine that the poisoning of the scats constituted a misdirected attempt at Miss Abramowicz’s life. He had to act quickly.”

Haig cleared his throat and let his eyes take a tour of the audience. I don’t know what he was looking for so I don’t know whether or not he found it. What I saw was Rita Cubbage picking at a cuticle, Buddy Lippa scratching his head, Gus Leemy frowning, Vincent Gregorio picking lint off his lapel, Simon Barckover glancing at his watch, Maeve O’Connor licking her lower lip, Glenn Flatt cracking his knuckles, Jan Remo rubbing her temples with her fingertips, Wallace Seidenwall yawning, and Leonard Danzig sitting in perfect repose, giving Leo Haig every bit of his attention.

Whatever Haig was looking for and whether he found it or not, he evidently decided that the Rasboras were more interesting to look at than the eleven of them. He swung his chair around and stared into the fish tank, presenting his audience with a great view of the back of his head.

That’s it, I thought. That’s all he’s got. I decided it was still pretty good, better than the police had managed to come up with, but why blow it by putting the show together prematurely? Unless he expected one of them to crack, but could you count on that happening? I decided you couldn’t.

Haig swiveled his chair around again. “Mr. Flatt,” he said. “Mr. Glenn Flatt.”

There was a lot of head-turning as our customers tried to figure out which of them was Glenn Flatt. They finally took a cue from Haig and looked where he was looking, and the boyish Ivy Leaguer frowned back at Haig.

“Yes, I was hoping you’d get around to me,” Flatt said. “I came here to help Tulip. I used to be married to her and we’re still good friends and you said you were working for her. I didn’t know I was going to be part of a carnival.” He stood up. “I told you I had work to do. I came here as a favor to Tulip but this is ridiculous. I’m leaving.”

“You are not. You will stay where you are. If you attempt to leave Mr. Harrison will knock you down and return you to your chair. Sit down, Mr. Flatt.”

Flatt sat down, which took a load off my mind, believe me. If you think I was all that confident of my ability to knock him down you don’t know me very well.

“Mr. Flatt. You came here because last evening I told you that I knew you were at Treasure Chest on the evening when Miss Abramowicz was murdered. That is why you are present this afternoon. When I told you I had a witness placing you at the scene you elected to cooperate.”

“Where’d you get a witness?” Gregorio wanted to know. “And why did you hold that out?”

Haig made a face. “I had no witness,” he said. “I merely said I had one.”

“You were lying,” Flatt said. It was a pretty dumb thing to say, and he sounded pretty dumb saying it.

“You might put it that way,” Haig allowed. “Or you might say that I was bluffing. I trust you’re conversant with the term, Mr. Flatt. You gamble quite a great deal, do you not?”

“Sometimes I’ll make a bet on a horse.”

“Indeed. Or on an athletic event, or on an election, or on the turn of a card. Would you say you are a compulsive gambler, Mr. Flatt?”

“Not in a million years,” Flatt said. He looked somewhat less boyish now. “I like a little action, that’s all. So I gamble. There’s no law against it.”

“Tommyrot. There are innumerable laws against various forms of gambling. The fact that such statutes are absurd does not wipe them from the criminal code. But we are not assembled here to convict you of gambling, Mr. Flatt. Rest assured of that.”

“Look, I don’t—”

Haig put his pipe back together again and tapped the bowl on the top of the desk. “I would be inclined to label you a compulsive gambler,” he said. “The evidence seems clear enough. Your marriage to my client dissolved largely because you kept going into debt as a result of your gambling. Your debts have increased considerably over the years. A friend of mine was in a position to make inquiries among various bookmakers on Long Island. You are well known to several of them. You gamble heavily. You almost invariably lose.”

“I don’t do so badly.”

“You do pay your debts,” Haig said. “According to my information, in the past four months you paid an amount to bookmakers slightly in excess of your salary during the same period.”

“That’s ridiculous. And you couldn’t possibly prove it.”

“I don’t have to. I told you I don’t intend to convict you of gambling. And your gambling doesn’t interfere with your ability to earn a livelihood, does it? You continue to be gainfully employed in a responsible position.”

Ratt eyed him warily. “So?”

“As a pharmaceutical chemist, I understand.”

“That’s right.”

“A position which would give you ready access to any number of interesting compounds. Such as strychnine