“Well... I always do prefer to cooperate with the police... All right, Lieutenant. The truth is that Slater O’Shea left his entire estate to his next of kin, his sister.”
“The one they call Aunt Lallie?”
“That’s right. Lallie O’Shea.”
“Does she know this yet?”
“No, indeed. I follow the custom in such matters. I shall read the will to the family after the testator is properly interred.”
“Any chance that O’Shea might have told his sister about this beforehand?”
“Slater? No, no. That would have given away the show — the fake will. I’m quite certain not a soul knows about the real will except myself. And now you, of course.”
Grundy rose abruptly. “Thanks, Counselor.”
Fish waved pooh-poohingly. “Happy to be of assistance. In any way short of betraying a client’s interests, Lieutenant. Everyone knows Selwyn Fish’s reputation.”
“And that,” said Grundy, “is a fact.”
Walking back, he went over the ground in the light of Fish’s information. That the “will” Slater O’Shea had told his relatives-in-residence about had been an invalid joke did not surprise Grundy in the least; the whole crew were lunatics, in his opinion. What did surprise him was O’Shea’s secret choice of heir. Even on slight acquaintance, Grundy would have guessed the heir to be Prin, not her aunt.
Aside from that, if he accepted Selwyn Fish’s assurance that the existence of the valid will was unknown to the family, then the motive-situation remained unchanged. Murderers were motivated not by what is the fact, but by what they think is the fact. If the five freeloaders still thought that on Slater O’Shea’s death his estate would be divided into twenty-two equal parts, none of them had a credible gain-motive to hasten his death; on the contrary, all had a vested interest in keeping him alive.
But suppose Selwyn Fish had been mistaken? In that case, it was quite possible that Lallie O’Shea had learned about the will by accident, or even by chicanery. The likeliest theory, Grundy ruminated, was that Slater himself had let the secret out when he was well into the bottle. Lallie O’Shea’s foreknowledge that she was her brother’s heir had to be considered.
Aunt Lallie as the poisoner did not tax Grundy’s credulity in the slightest. He could easily visualize her in the role of, say, Lady Macbeth, a Lady Macbeth who would have fewer dreams about it afterward (the pretty little lady’s large, hairy hands helped a great deal). If she were Lady Macbeth, she had a collaborator; and Grundy immediately thought of several prospects — Twig, Brady, Peet; it was even conceivable that they were all in it together, every damn one of them. Or was it? On second thought, it was doubtful that Lallie O’Shea would have let into her plot several potential blackmailers. One confederate would have been likelier; and in that case, Grundy thought reluctantly, the logical nominee was Princess O’Shea, because she worked in a drug store. He could not see Peet O’Shea as having knowledge of any drug more sinister than aspirin; and, while her brother Twig and Princess’s brother Brady could have the knowledge, they lacked Prin’s opportunity.
Unless, Lieutenant Grundy thought suddenly, one of the trio was a diabetic. A diabetic would surely keep up with the latest developments relating to diabetes, especially one that offered the oral advantage of the synthetic substitute for hypodermic-injected insulin. True, a diabetic known to be using the drug would be taking a monstrous chance to use it to commit murder. On the other hand, poisoners almost invariably expected their crimes to go undetected (and Grundy knew perfectly well the statistical estimate of the proportion of poisonings that did go undetected); so a diabetic murderer was not so far-fetched as it seemed.
In fact, the lieutenant decided, he had better check that theory at once; and, consulting his watch and finding the time to be well within office-hour probability, he headed for Dr. Horace Appleton’s abattoir.
9
Dr. Horace Appleton’s consulting room had not changed in forty years. Its most conspicuous furnishings were a rolltop desk; two aged armchairs covered with wrinkled black leather, on one of which the good doctor sat; and a sectional bookcase with cracked glass doors containing, among other ancient medical volumes, a copy of Gray’s Anatomy — Grundy would not have been surprised to learn that it was a first edition. The lieutenant sat in the other chair looking up at a number of yellowed diplomas and licenses framed on the wall. There was also a studio portrait, hand-tinted, of a rather glassy-eyed young man in a frock coat which Grundy recognized with a start as Dr. Appleton.
“Well, Grundy,” old Dr. Appleton snorted, “and how are you making out with that zooful of O’Sheas?”
“It’s a little early to say, Doctor.”
“They’re crazy, every last one of ’em. Were you able to have the autopsy done on Slater O’Shea?”
“Yes.”
“How did you manage it?”
“We found evidence and got an order.”
“Aha,” said the old man, rubbing his hands. “Where did you find it? In the bottle?”
“That’s right.”
“I knew it! I knew it from the beginning! I’m an old fool, am I? Who poisoned O’Shea?”
“I’m still working on that.”
“I don’t envy you your job. By God, everywhere you look in that infernal family there’s a logical suspect. You must have a notion, though.”
“No, Doctor. All I have is a question.”
“For me? What?”
“Did Slater O’Shea suffer from diabetes?”
“Eh? Certainly not!” Dr. Appleton seemed to be infuriated by the question. “I’ve said over and over that Slater O’Shea had nothing wrong with him except a mild corruption of the kidneys from too much alcohol. By God, Grundy, are you trying to impugn my competence as a doctor?”
“Of course not. I ask because of the way Slater O’Shea died.”
“What’s that? I’d appreciate it, Grundy, if you’d be more explicit! What way?”
“He died of a fatal dose of a synthetic substitute for insulin. The bottle was loaded with it, and so was he.”
“By God, that’s exactly what you’d expect from an O’Shea. No garden variety drug for that crew. No, sir.”
“Of course,” remarked the lieutenant, just to see what the old fire-eater would say, “it mightn’t be murder at all.”
The old ears pricked up. “Eh? What’s that? What d’ye mean?”
“Maybe it was self-administered.”
Dr. Appleton glared. “You’re talking through your hat, Grundy! Slater O’Shea had too much drinking and living left to do. Anyway, why would he put the stuff in the bottle? Why not just in the drink? And why this fancy drug instead of something easier to get hold of? I don’t discount the fact that all O’Sheas are loony and might do anything, but old Slater commit suicide? Ridiculous!”
Grundy nodded. He had reached the same conclusion. “Ever treat any of the O’Sheas besides Slater?”
“Are you kidding? Think those vultures would go to a doctor they’d have to pay? Of course I’m their doctor, because I’m Slater’s — or was — and he paid the bills. Trouble is, they’re all so damn healthy. They never seem to have anything wrong with ’em, drat the luck.”
“Then none of them has diabetes?”
“Diabetes? Them? No.”
Grundy scowled. It was getting more and more complicated. “Tell me. This insulin substitute, would it be available to anybody?”
“Anybody with a prescription. It’s manufactured by a number of pharmaceutical houses, under different trade names, but they’re all essentially the same.”