Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 25, No. 7, July, 1980

Take One at Bedtime by Jeffry Scott

The tiny bottle of liquid could kill half of Manhattan...

Stella was either restless or deliberately provocative. Either way she was making Crispin sweat. Her breasts kept moving fractionally so that the satin blouse furrowed, billowed, became suddenly shadowed, or took on polished highlights. He missed her remark and felt foolish.

“Tasteless, odorless, colorless,” she repeated. “It’d kill you stone dead in five seconds. All the symptoms of a massive heart attack, I heard them saying.”

She pouted and her absurdly, long silvered fingernails scrabbled at the little purse. Crispin burnt his thumb in the scramble to light her cigarette. She noted his haste with a spark of smug amusement.

“Anyway, lover, that’s why I was late. We can’t leave until Professor Michele signs the log to confirm that the stuff’s locked up. It’s crazy, two ways at once.” She yawned prettily, like a green-eyed blonde kitten, and arched her spine.

For once, Crispin failed to respond. “How d’you mean?” he asked casually, hardly seeing her.

“Well, the key goes in my drawer along with the rest, so what’s the big deal about signing a book? And who’s going to steal old Prof’s cocktail, anyway? Only a maniac who’d get a buzz out of killing somebody. Believe me, they’re all nuts at the lab, but not that crazy.”

Crispin started at a touch on his sleeve, gaping up with a sly, guilty expression. It was only the waiter, saying that their table was ready.

Stella enjoyed the meal, but then she always liked luxurious things at someone else’s expense. Crispin wasn’t aware of what he ate and drank. He was wondering about Stella. She was, he thought, super in bed. Also greedy, mercenary, totally without ethics. So why not ask her?

Then he remembered Dr. Custis, and scowled. He could see that shrewd man, one of the unchallenged tribal elders of Barlerville. In Crispin’s mind, Custis stared speculatively at him — those yellowish goat’s eyes and the wisp of grey beard making the doctor look even more of a crafty, seasoned old animal. Dr. Custis always knew, and what he didn’t know he guessed. His opinion of Crispin was low.

Crispin’s scowl deepened. He was remembering his last visit to his hometown, visiting Grandfather Barler.

He’d managed to wheedle $1,500 out of the ashen-faced, blue-lipped old man. But Dr. Custis had appeared as Crispin bounded away to his car, already daydreaming the cash away on Stella and a dizzying ration of cocaine.

“Hello, Crisp. Been hittin’ my friend agin fer yer mad money?” Goat’s eyes stripping and dwindling him. Dr. Custis’ smiles and sneers were interchangeable. “Ye’re a worthless young pup, Crispin.”

Crispin gulped imported hock, making faces as if it was vinegar. The guy had a nerve! Acting as if he owned Grandfather’s house and business just because he’d been running both ever since Crispin was a kid. He’d virtually given up general practice in Barlerville after Crispin’s parents had died in the plane crash, to tend Grandfather and help him invest and deploy his money.

All that would change, Crispin decided savagely — and not for the first time — once Grandfather died and he inherited.

But when would that be? Crispin had expected to hit the jackpot by the time he graduated, and here he was, past thirty. That was Dr. Custis again — coddling the old man, keeping him alive.

Colorless, odorless, tasteless. Heart attack symptoms. Well, heart trouble ran in the family. Grandfather would die from one when he had the common decency to succumb. Crispin himself was vulnerable, he thought self-pityingly. Rheumatic fever when he was in school had left him — or so he had insisted, especially to his draft board — an invalid.

Take one at bedtime, he thought. How many times had he read that on the label of the bottle of Grandfather’s capsules?

Stella finished a sickly looking concoction, heavy on brandy, meringue, and whipped cream. “Run that past me again, darlin’?”

Crispin shook his head. “Nothing.”

It was nearly a week before he raised courage to say to her, “Stella, don’t refuse before you’ve thought it through. How would you like to make a very, very great deal of money?”

It took Stella even longer to agree. At first she rejected the proposal in panic. “Hey, doll, this is heavy stuff you’re layin’ on me! I’ve done some weird stuff, but I’ve never been in the slammer.”

Crispin reasoned, lured, nagged. “You’re only a secretary,” he argued bluntly. “If they ever did miss the stuff they’d never suspect you.” He was never sure whether she was genuinely fearful or simply pushing the price up.

In the end, he had to sell the car and the stock portfolio left by his father to meet Stella’s demand. It got him a bottle smaller than his thumb, and only half full at that.

Stella looked hag-ridden when she came to his apartment to deliver the bottle. “You could kill half Manhattan with that!” she said shrilly. “It only takes a drop, you know.” Then she had burst into tears and — extraordinary for her — offered to repay the money if he’d give up the scheme. Whatever it was, she added quickly. She didn’t want to know.

In fact, she was going to Florida for a month, starting tonight...

To Crispin’s relief, Dr. Custis was away on vacation too — a short one in the mountains — when Crispin arrived at Barlerville.

Grandfather seemed weary but glad to see him. Business was bad. Even Dr. Custis’ advice hadn’t prevented some doomed and costly projects.

Crispin melted for all of five minutes. Why not let Grandfather live out his natural span? But then he remembered how much money he was spending on cabs without a car, and how expensive nose candy was getting. And how, now that Stella had deserted him, a new woman was unlikely to be any less expensive. Incredible blondes didn’t take naturally to Crispin. Youth must be served, he thought self-righteously.

He waited for Grandfather to doze.

The capsules in the bottle within reach of the wheelchair were large and brown. Crispin unscrewed the jar soundlessly and removed one before padding up to his bedroom.

It took no time at all to nick the capsule with a razor, squeeze out the contents, and inject far more than a single drop from Stella’s little bottle. Throwing the syringe on the open fire, he hid the bottle back in his valise and went downstairs again.

This time he emptied all the capsules into his palm, dropped the deadly one in, and poured the rest back on top of it.

Taking one at bedtime, Grandfather would have his heart attack in more or less twenty days.

They were the longest days of his life. The first week lasted a year. After two weeks he was at breaking point.

Then, on Day Twenty, his phone rang. “Crisp, it’s bad news.” Dr. Custis’ voice cracked. “It’s yer Grandpop, boy. Ye’d better get here fast.”

Crispin went to his boss, explaining the circumstances. Four hours later he was taking the front steps of the mansion two at a time. The servants looked at him oddly and he froze a bereaved, confused expression onto his face.

Dr. Custis was waiting in the drawing room. “Shut the door, boy.” Custis stared at him piercingly. “Well, it’s happened. This morning, soon after he woke up.”

Crispin looked away from those terrible eyes. He forced a sob, smeared his hands across his face. “No, no! Grandfather!” He flung himself onto a chair and made his shoulders heave. “I loved him so!”

“Maybe I misjudged yer.” Custis sounded sheepish as well as shaken. “Hey, come on, young Crispie, get a grip on yerself.” He hauled Crispin back into the chair. “Take this.”

Blubbering, Crispin swallowed obediently. He blew his nose, shook his head helplessly.

“That’s better.” The other man spoke moodily, his big freckled hands twisting between his knees. “They always calmed your Grandpop, Crisp. Lucky he had one left before—” Dr. Custis didn’t finish the sentence. He simply held up the now empty, recognizable jar.

It took a moment before Crispin took in the implication. “How did he die?” He could barely whisper it.

“Die?” Dr. Custis’ wisp of goat-beard wagged as he chuckled, his expression changing. “He hasn’t died, boy. He broke a small bone in his foot gettin’ out of bed. Not good fer a man his age, but I’ll get him back to rights.”

Grandfather wasn’t dead.

The capsule hadn’t killed him.

Dr. Custis had just given him the last capsule.

Crispin felt awful. His lungs refused to function. His cheeks flamed. His heart tried first to beat through and then squeeze past his ribs. He croaked something and staggered to his feet.

“Colorless, odorless, tasteless,” Dr. Custis sneered, and then he cackled. “Crisp, my boy, that fishing vacation was a blind. I went to Vegas with my sister’s child. Name of Stella. Always wanted to blow a bundle at the tables with a pretty girl.”

Crispin wasn’t listening. “The antidote! Save me!”

Dr. Custis shook his head regretfully, crossed his legs, lit a foul black cheroot, and puffed luxuriously. Crispin started out of the room, then yelled a curse as agonizing pain skewered through his chest. He fell on the carpet, then lay irrevocably still.

Dr. Custis gazed down at him, clicked his tongue, and drew on the cheroot. He liked Crispin’s grandfather, and he liked embezzling the dotard’s fortune even more. Crispin had posed a problem. But it was a problem Crispin himself had solved beautifully all on his own.