She looked at the row of books on the shelf — tide and current tables, the Atlantic Coast Pilot, a stack of Yachting — and then suddenly she had a wholly unreasonable but unmistakable thrill. American Practical Navigator, Bowditch, 1943, United States Navy Department, Hydrographic Office. Miraculously, but surely, she knew that Bowditch, whoever he was, had spoken to her.
She took the book off the shelf, opened it, and riffled through the pages. Nothing. She turned the book back up and shook it fiercely. A printed sheet of paper fluttered out. It was page 713 and 714 of a medical handbook. It had been cut cleanly from its binding and the type was set in beautiful German Gothic.
She sat down at the chart table and copied it, translating as she wrote, leaving the proper names in German or in Latin as the case might be. Her hand shook a little but she forced herself not to hurry, to be precise and careful. The margin of one paragraph had been marked but she copied every word on both sides of the page, returned it to her dear friend, Bowditch, and returned him to his place on the shelf. She closed the forward hatch and latched it, blew the horn three times, closed the after hatch and locked it. As the launch approached she lit a cigarette, drew hard, and blew out a deep breath.
“I wasn’t long, was I, Captain Wood?” and she gave him a dazzling smile that warmed his old bones to the marrow. As he helped her onto the dock and took the key, he wished that this lovely vision would linger; but she ran up the ramp and through the Clubhouse to her car. He was a nice old man, but she couldn’t get away fast enough.
She parked again on a quiet country road, took out her paper and read it carefully. She had not needed to copy it all. The marked paragraph was it. Marking passages was a habit of Walter’s. It was efficient if one needed the passage again. “Digitonin is a harmless though expensive drug, almost identical with saponin which, at far less cost, performs the same function as a heart depressant or sleeping draught. Digitonin, like its antithesis, digitalis, is extracted from the leaves of the foxglove. As far as has been determined, the only difference in the action of digitonin and saponin is in the former’s use together with pseudaconitine, the most lethal of poisons. Pseudaconitine is extracted from the root of aconitum ferox, native to Nepal and Cuba. It is so violent in its action that anything larger than the most minute dose attacks the whole system, involving vomiting and pain so great that the injection of the poison is immediately apparent and the victim may be, but rarely is, saved. However, in conjunction with digitonin, an extremely minute dose of pseudaconitine, a thirty-second of a grain, introduced into the blood stream, will have no effect whatever upon other vital parts. But when it reaches the heart, the heart will cease to beat, from syncope.”
Well, she thought, this explained Cuba. She could imagine that it would be difficult for even Walter to purchase pseudaconitine at a drug store in New York. But where did her bad taste fit in? She would have to watch herself.
When she returned to the office at 3 she found Martha Webster unaccustomedly agitated. “What is the matter with that husband of yours? He has been here twice and telephoned at least a dozen times. He is like a wild man. He seems to think you have a secret lover.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you had gone out on errands.”
“Well, so I did. And accomplished one.”
The telephone rang and Martha answered it. “Walter,” she said, “I think you are behaving abnormally. When I hear your voice I should hang up. But your little wife is here, not in the least the worse for wear, very calm, very composed, and very beautiful. No. She thinks you are disgraceful too. She doesn’t want to speak to you. Goodbye.”
In the war of nerves, Walter knew he had sustained a defeat. A victory yesterday, a defeat today. He decided that discretion was the better part of valor.
“I’m sorry, darling,” he said as she came in the door. “After yesterday, I was upset. I irritated Martha needlessly. And was very much relieved when she told me you had returned.”
“It does not matter, Walter.”
“Where had you been?”
“As she told you. Errands. I half bad taste, remember Valter? I make drawings and do errands. Zat iss all.”
She was the picture of innocence.
“I was wrong yesterday about your money. I will deposit it in your name in the morning.”
“It iss my money.”
“What would you like to do tonight?”
“I vould like to go to the house of friends. But ve haff no friends.”
“You know I am not the gregarious type. Most of the human race is too stupid to live.”
“And I am too stupid to liff, eh, Valter?”
“I don’t know what’s got into you. I don’t know what gave you the idea of running away. You have everything and you know how I need you.”
“Yes. You have use for me.”
“We will go to the Copacabana. Jimmy Durante is there.”
“Fine, Walter. It will be good to laugh.”
She decided, while she was laughing, to attack. She drank less than usual and, in the ladies’ room, asked the attendant if she had benzedrine.
“Of course, Madame.”
It was the first time she had tried it, and she found that it did invigorate her. And knowing the weapons to be used against her, she could make him fight on her own ground.
At 3 o’clock in the morning she got out of bed and turned on the bathroom light. He was awake instantly. “What are you doing?”
“I can’t sleep,” she answered. “Haff we no sleeping pills in the house?”
“I never needed a sleeping pill in my life.”
“I need one now. There was too much noise all night and my head goes round and round.”
He was fully awake now and there was a timbre in his voice that both chilled and thrilled her. “Take a couple of aspirins,” he said, “and come to bed. Tomorrow I will get you sleeping pills.”
The next evening he did bring her the drug — not pills but a whitish liquid in a green bottle.
“It was highly recommended,” he said, “as being nonhabit forming and they said it induced a restful sleep in minutes rather than an hour. This little half-gram top is the dose and you drink it just before you want to sleep.”
That night she put on her loveliest white satin nightgown and sat at the mirror brushing her hair. Would the nightgown be her shroud? Perhaps. A thirty-second of a grain of pseudaconitine — surely hardly a drop — and she would die in her sleep. She was resigned to it. One does not win a battle without incurring risks. With half-closed eyes he watched her take up the bottle, fill the cap with a steady hand, and then swallow the drug.
“Good night, Valter,” she said, turning out the lamp and lying back. In five minutes he could tell that she was fast asleep.
She was not surprised to wake up and find the sun streaming through the windows. A sudden unexplained heart attack would have seemed strange to Mrs. Webster who knew how healthy and strong she was.
“Your sleeping medicine was wonderful, Walter. I have never had a better night’s rest. It is all right to take it every night?”
“Perfectly safe, they assured me.”
“Good! Then I will do that.”
“It’s just as well, because you will be alone for a week or so. I must go to the west coast to look at a rosewood secretary and a few other things.”
“Oh?”
“That one of ours in the living room is too small and unimportant.”
“I thought you liked it.”
“It’s a good piece. I have nothing but good pieces. But the one being offered at private sale in San Francisco is reported to be fabulous. I will pick out something for you to sew while I am away.”