The Case of the Drowsy Mosquito

Chapter 4

Velma Starler, R.N., had been troubled of late with insomnia. Nurselike, she fought against taking drugs, particularly as she realized that her sleeplessness was due to an inner conflict.

She knew what “Rinkey” would say. Rinkey was her brother, a year younger, supercharged with the spirit of adventure, his head filled with a lot of definite ideas — new, unconventional ideas about people, about property, and about human rights. Rinkey would think she was wasting her time being tied by a golden chain to a pampered millionaire whose life was of no great importance. Rinkey was flying a plane somewhere in the South Seas. The Army needed nurses. Why didn’t Velma get in where she could do some good, he kept writing.

That was one side of the picture. The other was Velma’s mother. Her mother said, “Velma, you aren’t like Rinkey. He’s restless. He can’t stay still for a minute. He’ll always be in danger. He loves it. That’s his nature. I wouldn’t change it, even if I could. I’ve known ever since he was a boy that I must prepare myself for the shock, that someday they’d come to break the news to me — perhaps bluntly, or perhaps stumbling around trying to break it easy. A speeding automobile and a blown-out tire. Trying some new stunt in that airplane of his. I always knew it would be something swift and sudden; and that’s the way he would want it, and that’s the way I would want it. But you’re different, Velma. I can depend on you. You’re steady. You look ahead. You have a sense of responsibility... Oh, please don’t go, darling. After all, one in the family’s enough. I couldn’t stand to be left all alone. The world’s in such a hurry, it pushes you to one side and rushes on past you if you haven’t some anchor to hold you to the current of life.”

Then there was Dr. Kenward, tired, patient, overworked, knowing that he was no longer physically robust enough to stand the strain of night calls. Day after day he coped with an endless procession of sick people constantly crowding his office, with the same old symptoms, with the same old ailments, only the patients being new. Dr. Kenward had said, “Velma, you’re the only one I can depend on. The good ones have all gone. You won’t have to do much, just be there with the hypodermic in case he needs it. But don’t think what you are doing won’t be important. Keep him quiet, let him build himself up, and he’ll snap out of this. But the trouble with him is that the minute he begins to get well he’ll think he’s cured. He’ll crowd too much strain on that tired muscle, and then — well, that’s when you’re going to have to be there with the hypodermic — and minutes will be important. The way things are now, they won’t be able to get me in time. You’ll have to be on the job. A man of a different type could go to a hospital or a sanitarium. With him, it would be fatal. Remember, Velma, I’m counting on you to stand by me.”

And so Velma Starler lived in the big red-tiled house, had a spacious room which looked out over the ocean, her professional duties being virtually nil, more psychological than physical. Her patient had moved out of the house, sleeping under the stars, eating an unbalanced diet, scorning advice — and thriving on the treatment.

The one concession he had consented to make was to have the push-button call bell wired to an extension so that a mere pressure of his thumb would summon Velma at any hour of the day or night.

Velma fought against a desire to turn over in the bed. Once give away to that twisting and turning and the cause was lost. She also knew better than to try to go to sleep. Trying to sleep was a mental effort. Sleep won’t come when it’s summoned; only when one is indifferent and completely relaxed... There was a mosquito somewhere in the room... Velma frowned annoyance.

A part of her mind was trying to concentrate on restful relaxation, another part was definitely irritated at the intermittent buzzing of that mosquito. She tried to locate the sound — apparently over in that far corner— Well, she’d have to get up, turn on the light and kill him. She simply couldn’t sleep with a mosquito in the room, not the way her nerves were now.

She reached up and switched on the bed lamp over the head of the bed.

Almost instantly the mosquito ceased buzzing. Velma thrust her legs out of the side of the bed, kicked her delicate pink feet into sturdy slippers, and frowned at the corner of the room. She had known it would be like that. Turn on the light and the dratted mosquito would play possum somewhere — hiding in the shadows behind one of the pictures, probably. By the time she found him, she’d be wide awake for the rest of the night... Oh well, she was awake now anyway.

Velma picked up a fly swatter from the table near the bed, the table on which various articles were arrayed with professional efficiency. A little alcohol lamp for boiling the water, the hypodermic, the five-cell flashlight, a little notebook in which she kept track of the activities of the patient — a supervision which Banning Clarke would have bitterly resented had he known of it.

The mosquito simply wouldn’t start again. Velma switched out the light, sat on the edge of the bed waiting.

Still the mosquito wouldn’t buzz.

Knuckles sounded gently at her door.

“What is it?” Velma asked.

Velma could never hear the sound of a knock on her door at night without having a thoroughly professional reaction. What was it this time? Had a spell hit Banning Clarke so suddenly that he couldn’t even give that one convulsive press to the call button—? “What is it?” she called, again.

The voice of Nell Sims, sounding almost surreptitious, asked, “Are you all right, Miss Starler?”

“Why yes, of course. Why?”

“Nothing. I saw your light go on and I just wondered. Jim Bradisson and his mother are sick.”

Velma was throwing a robe around her. “Come in. What’s wrong with them?”

Nell opened the door. Attired in a somewhat dilapidated dressing gown, and broad shapeless slippers, her stringy, colorless hair wrapped in curlers, her eyes swollen with sleep, she came shuffling across the room, dragging her feet. “They say it’s something they ate.”

“Are any of the others sick?”

“That’s what I wanted to find out. I saw your light go on. You sure you’re all right?”

“Why, yes, of course. What are their symptoms?”

“Just ordinary symptoms — nausea, burning sensation. Something they ate! Bosh! That’s all stuff and nonsense. They ate too much. Look at Mrs. Bradisson — keeps talking about her weight, never does a lick of work, picks out all the rich things to eat, can’t ever pass up dessert, usually has a second helping if she can get it. Know what I said to her just the other day when she was struggling with her dress?”

Velma was hardly listening. She was debating whether to let the situation rectify itself, or to see what could be done. One thing was definitely certain: she mustn’t let them get alarmed and call Dr. Kenward at this hour of the night.

“Know what I said to her?” Nell Sims repeated.

“What?” Velma asked, her mind far away.

Nell chuckled. “I spoke right up to her. I says, ‘You’ve got to remember, Mrs. Bradisson, you can’t eat your cake without having it too.’”

“How long has she been ill?”

“I don’t know. I imagine about half an hour, from what she said.”

Velma said, “I guess I’d better see if there’s anything I can do.”

Velma followed Nell Sims down the long hallway to her suite of rooms in the north wing, where Lillian Bradisson and her son James had a private sitting-room with bedrooms opening off from it.

Velma could hear the sound of retching, followed by groaning. The door to Mrs. Bradisson’s room was open, and Velma, walking in with professional competence, said, “They told me you were ill, Mrs. Bradisson. Is there something I can do?”

Mrs. Bradisson, weakened by her retching, dropped back against the pillows, regarding the nurse with bloodshot, watering eyes. “I’ve been poisoned. I’m going to die. I’m simply burning up.” She stretched forth a trembling hand to a glass about a third filled with water, drained it eagerly, said, “Would you mind filling that for me again?”

Nell Sims took the glass to the bathroom, held it under the tap. “Nonsense,” she said. “It wasn’t what you ate. It was how much you ate. No one else in the house is sick.”

“My son and I have both been poisoned.”

“Nonsense!”

Mrs. Bradisson said, “I’m so glad you came down, Miss Starler. I just telephoned Dr. Kenward. He said to have you look in, and if you thought it necessary, he’d come right over. I think you’d better get him here.”

“Oh, I think we’ll do all right,” Velma said cheerfully. “Whatever it is that’s causing the gastric upset, you’re getting rid of it, and you should be feeling all right within fifteen or twenty minutes. Perhaps we can find something that will sort of settle that stomach. I understand your son is ill?”

“He isn’t as bad as I am. He— He—” Her face twisted with pain for a moment. Then she lay back limply against the pillows, utterly exhausted.

Velma said, “I’ll look in on Jim and see how he is.”

Jim Bradisson was apparently having the same symptoms as his mother, but he was stronger and more lucid. “Look, Velma,” he said, “I think you’d better get Dr. Kenward up here right away.”

“He’s so overworked now,” Velma explained, “I don’t like to bother him with night calls unless it’s very urgent. Quite frequently a person gets acute digestive upsets from food poisoning.”

Jim Bradisson lowered his voice. “I’ve had food poisoning before. This isn’t food poisoning. This is some other form of poison. My mouth seems to be full of metal filings — and I’m burning with thirst. It’s a terrible burning thirst, which doesn’t seem right to me, and my stomach and abdomen are sore. I can hardly touch them. I–I tell you, Velma, I think we’ve been poisoned.”

Velma tried to make her voice sound casual. “Any cramping of the muscles?” she asked.

Bradisson showed surprise. “Why yes, now that you speak of it, I’ve had cramps in the calves of my legs — but that wouldn’t have anything to do with this other. I suppose I walked a little too much this afternoon. You know, Mother and I climbed up around the hills. She’s really determined to take off some weight.”

Bradisson smiled. Keenly devoted to his mother, he recognized, nevertheless, the utter futility of her sporadic attempts to take off weight. “About all she did,” he said, “was to work up a terrific appetite, and, of course, she gave me one too. It was a lot of exercise. And then Nell Sims had fried chicken. Mother and I certainly went to town on that fried chicken. I’m afraid I’m going to have another spell. Good Lord! This is worse than seasickness.”

Velma said, “Well, I’ll telephone Dr. Kenward. Perhaps he’d better run over.”

“I wish you would.”

Bradisson dashed in the direction of the bathroom. Velma went downstairs to telephone Dr. Kenward. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to come,” she told him.

“The ordinary gastric disturbance in a violent form?” he asked over the telephone.

She placed her lips close to the mouthpiece. “The symptoms of arsenic poisoning, completely typical cases even down to the muscular cramps in the calves of the legs.”

Velma always marveled at the way Dr. Kenward would seem half asleep over the telephone, and then suddenly, when confronted with an emergency, could become as wide awake as though he had been fully dressed and waiting for this particular call. “It will take me about twelve minutes,” he said. “Watch the symptoms. I don’t suppose you have any dialyzed iron?”

“No I haven’t.”

“All right. Give stomach washes, and stand by. I’ll be there.”

Dr. Kenward made it in just a little better than ten minutes, and for the next forty minutes Velma was as busy as she had ever been in her life. Dr. Kenward wasted no time in conversation. He simply went to work with stomach washing, the introduction of iron oxide to form the sparingly soluble ferric arsenite, and then washing out the iron compounds. The patients responded rather quickly to treatment. By two o’clock they were resting easily, and Dr. Kenward, with an all but imperceptible jerk of his head, summoned Velma Starler to a conference in her room.

Velma sat on the edge of the bed, giving Dr. Kenward the comfortable chair, saying nothing until he had settled back with the first deeply relaxing drag of cigarette smoke, exhaling it with what was almost a sigh.

It was a tense period of waiting, similar to that which she had shared with Dr. Kenward on innumerable nocturnal vigils. He had, for the moment, done everything that medical science could do. But before going home, he waited for the turn of the tide, for the treatment to develop its full efficiency. During such periods, he was relaxed in the sense that a pugilist is relaxed between rounds. His mind, keyed up to racing efficiency, could not relax, but he could somewhat lessen the nerve strain by stretching out in a chair and relaxing his muscles as much as possible.

“There was fried chicken?” Dr. Kenward asked abruptly.

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Sims has some sort of contract by which the people are boarded?”

“That’s right. I don’t know just what the arrangement is. I think Mr. Clarke makes up whatever deficit remains after she collects the board allowance from the various people. It’s a peculiar arrangement, but the whole household is peculiar.”

“There was plenty of fried chicken?”

“Plenty.”

“All on one platter?”

“No. There were two platters.”

“One at the end of the table where Mrs. Bradisson and her son were seated?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Kenward said thoughtfully, “The fried chicken probably accounts for it.”

“You mean the poisoning?”

“No. The length of time after the ingestion of the poison and before the development of symptoms. Greasy food delays the appearance of symptoms. Now the question is, how could the food have been poisoned without poison being administered to others at the table. You’re certain the plates weren’t served individually with food on them?”

“No. Everything was taken from dishes which were passed around.”

Dr. Kenward said, “They’re both insisting they didn’t eat a thing after dinner. It must have been administered in some liquid, then.”

“It’s arsenic?”

“Undoubtedly. Mrs. Sims checked up on all the others. No one else was sick. Therefore, it must have— You checked up on Banning, didn’t you?” Ken ward’s voice was sharp with anxiety.

“Yes. I tiptoed out to the cactus garden. He and Salty were snoring peacefully away in their sleeping bags.”

“They ate dinner at the table?”

“No, they didn’t. They eat out there about half the time. Salty is quite a camp cook.”

Dr. Kenward said, “Not exactly the sort of treatment you’d prescribe, and yet it seems to be doing the work, which is all one can ask of any treatment. I give it my frowning disapproval, which makes the pair of them feel something like a couple of schoolboys who have sneaked out for an adventure. That’s half of the battle — gives them that mental stimulus which comes of doing something they shouldn’t be doing. Now, is there any possible way that you can think of—” He broke off at the sudden flash of expression which crossed her face. “Yes? What is it, Velma?”

“The salt shaker.”

“What about it?”

The words were coming quickly now, rushing from the tip of her tongue as she suddenly realized the full import of the idea which had occurred to her.

“The salt shaker — Jim and his mother are both great salt eaters. They’ve developed such a taste for it that they pile salt on everything in sight, and Mrs. Sims finally gave them a special salt shaker. Every piece of chicken they ate they salted liberally, and I’ll bet they’re the only ones at the table that put salt on it. It was seasoned just right as it was.”

Dr. Kenward ground out the half-smoked cigarette, was on his feet. “Let’s go take a quiet look at that salt shaker.”

They tiptoed through the corridors of the big, silent house, down the stairs, and into the dining-room. Velma finally located the saltcellar on the huge sideboard. Dr. Kenward spilled out some of the salt in the palm of his hand, took a small magnifying glass from his pocket, inspected it carefully, rubbed the salt around in his hand, then abruptly slipped the saltcellar into his pocket. “I think that does it,” he said. “It will take an analysis to make certain. You had a bright idea there, Velma. It was the saltcellar — an easy way to eliminate the others. Don’t say anything about it for the moment. I suppose we’ve got to go to the District Attorney with this, and I’d like to find out just a little more about it before I notify him. Of course, Jim Bradisson will accuse Banning Clarke of trying to administer poison. — How do these two rate with the others here?”

“Jim is all right,” Velma said somewhat dubiously. “He has a repertoire of nineteen-thirty-four jokes. The polite ones are insipid, the impolite ones are strained, heavy — just aren’t clever. But on the whole, he tries to be affable and agreeable, and if it weren’t for that assumption of infallible superiority, he’d be popular.”

“How about his mother?”

Velma shook her head. “She’s vain, selfish, and so completely enraptured with that son of hers that she’s absolutely impossible. She’s full of little tricks — cheating on herself, announcing what she’s going to do in regard to diet, what she’s going to eat and what she isn’t going to eat; then pretending that she’s forgotten all about it until after she’s taken the second helping. Or surreptitiously taking a second piece of cake when she thinks we’re not looking — as though that, somehow, would make it less fattening. She’s fifty, admitting thirty-eight, pretending twenty-eight.”

“Enemies?”

“I suppose so.”

“But mostly, the situation revolves around this mining proposition?”

“Yes. And that fraud suit.”

“What do you know about that?”

“Nothing much. Naturally, they don’t discuss their business matters before me. There’s friction. Pete Sims salted a claim and sold the string of mines to Jim Bradisson. I guess he really salted them. He’s an old reprobate, a periodical drunkard. Does things and tries to blame them on a split personality. Then there’s some trouble over control in the corporation. It’s not at all a happy household, but they try to keep up appearances — in front of me, at any rate.”

“How about this mining man?”

“Hayward Small? He’s a live wire all right, but I wouldn’t trust him. He’s personally magnetic — a good salesman. Incidentally, he’s paying a lot of attention to Nell Sims’ daughter, Dorina — and he must be twelve or fifteen years older than she is.”

“He has some sort of business hookup with Bradisson?”

“He’s been scouting mines for the corporation.”

Dr. Kenward said, “Well, I’ve got to notify the authorities. I think I’ll wait until morning and get in touch with the District Attorney personally. In the meantime, you keep an eye on things. I’ll take this salt shaker with me as evidence. I’ll leave it to you to see that the patients eat absolutely nothing until I advise you. And that will be after the District Attorney has been notified — perhaps around eight o’clock.”

When Dr. Kenward had left, Velma looked in on the patients to make certain they were resting easily, and then went back to her room and stretched out on her bed. Almost immediately she became drowsy. “Strange,” she reflected; try to sleep and she couldn’t. But once let her get hold of a case where she might have to take her sleep in little cat naps and she could stretch out on the bed and almost instantly start dozing — sleeping with one eye open — senses alert underneath a veneer of relaxation. No trouble now to drift off to sleep... Only thing to guard against was too deep a slumber... Just drift halfway into unconsciousness then stop, resting, but ready at the slightest... noise... noise... Not a noise connected with a patient, just a... a mosquito noise. That was it. Neglected to find that mosquito... Somewhere in the room... peculiar mosquito... doesn’t come closer... buzzes for a second or two, then seems to light... there he goes again... perhaps the mosquito’s sleepy too... Do mosquitoes sleep?... Why not?... But this mosquito is drowsy... tired...

Abruptly Velma wakened. Definitely, she was going to put that annoying mosquito out of the room. She reached for her flashlight, waited to hear the mosquito once more.

She heard the peculiar buzz and snapped on the flashlight. The low-pitched buzzing noise abruptly ceased.

Velma was up out of bed with a start. That mosquito was acting peculiarly. Mosquitoes usually buzzed around in concentric circles, coming closer. This one didn’t seem to like light. Perhaps she could locate him again if she switched out the light and waited in the dark.

Velma turned off the flashlight, walked over to stand at the window.

It would be daylight within an hour or two. A big moon hung low in the west, suspended over the reflecting surface of the calm ocean — a moon that was just past the full, shining in Velma’s face, making a golden path to Fairyland along the ocean, flooding the grounds of the estate with a light that radiated tranquility. Somewhere across that ocean Rinkey would be flying. Not a breath of air was stirring — just the calm, limpid moonlight, the glassy surface of the ocean far below, the dark splash of shadows where... Something moved down in the yard.

Velma’s eyes hardened into searching scrutiny of a dark patch of shadow that wasn’t a shadow. It was an object. It had moved. It — it was a man crouched over, motionless now, apparently trying to escape attention by making it seem he was merely one of the dark shadows. But there was nothing at that spot to cast such a shadow.

The window was open. Almost without thinking, Velma released the catch on the screen, flung it back, swung her five-cell flashlight into position and pressed the button.

The beam of the light was a vivid white against the soft gold of mellow moonlight. Concentrated by the big lens into a spot of brilliance, the pencil of light just missed the crouching man. Velma swung it toward him.

Two orange spots of light centered with bluish brilliance winked at her from the darkness. Two crisp, businesslike explosions rudely ripped apart the moonlit tranquility. Two bullets crashed through the window just over Velma’s head.

Involuntarily, Velma jumped back. The instinctive realization that the flashlight made her a perfect target caused her to thumb back the catch as a purely reflex action.

The man was running now — across the strip of white moonlight into the shadows, down the hedge, around by the end of the stone wall...

Two thoughts flashed through Velma Starler’s mind. One was concern for the safety of her patient. The man was running toward the cactus gardens. If he came on Banning Clarke, the shock wouldn’t do Clarke’s heart any good. The other thought was definite annoyance that her hair was full of the glass splinters which had rained down on her head when the bullets had crashed through the window above her.

Velma could hear sounds in the house now — bare feet thudding on the floor, voices raised in question. She’d have to get down to reassure Lillian Bradisson and her son... Just a minute more...

Banning Clarke’s voice, high-pitched and querulous, yelled, “Hey!”

From the shadows down near the lower gate came another spurt of orange flame, the sound of another shot.

Almost instantly there were two answering flashes from the cactus gardens. The pow-w-w-ie... pow-w-w-ie of a big-caliber gun. That would be Clarke’s forty-five.

Velma saw the skinny figure of Banning Clarke, attired in long underwear and nothing else, running awkwardly out of the cactus gardens toward the place where the fugitive had disappeared.

Instantly she forgot her fright. Her professional instincts came at once to the surface. “You stop that running,” she called authoritatively. “That’s dangerous. Go back to bed. I’ll call the police. Where’s Salty?”

Banning Clarke looked up at her. “What’s happened? Some son-of-a-gun took a shot at me.”

“He shot at me, too — shot twice — a prowler. Where’s Salty?”

“Here,” Salty Bowers said, emerging into the moonlight, struggling with the belt on his overalls. “Better get dressed, Banning.”

For the first time, Banning became conscious of his wearing apparel, such as it was. “Oh, my gosh!” he said, and scuttled off into the cactus like a startled rabbit.

“Quit running,” Velma shouted, her voice sharp with exasperation. “I’ve seen underwear before.”