The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

Chapter XXVI

Murder in the Abstract

As I left the building and hurried to my car, yes, hurried, I thought to myself: There, let Michelle Gorgon count up the tricks in the game, and laugh that one off.

There was nothing to do now, of course, but tip O’Rourke off that Eddie Gorgon’s body could be picked up and carted away, for Michelle Gorgon to deliver the envelope to.

Michelle Gorgon was some boy. He had a way of getting at you, a convincing way. I thought of Colonel McBride, and more than half wished that I had gone through with the thing and sunk fingers into that white, delicate skin of Michelle Gorgon, until he told me where Colonel McBride was. And then, there was The Flame. I didn’t try to think overmuch on that. I didn’t want to think about that.

There was also the guy who had something on Michelle Gorgon, knew who his first wife was, if there was a first wife. At least, knew enough to put fear into Michelle Gorgon. It looked as if, for once in his younger days, Michelle Gorgon had gone in for a bit of murder that wasn’t in the abstract, after all. But enough of that.

One other dominant thought. Michelle Gorgon’s crack about “a bride and a living wife,” and his crack about having psychic power. I entered a subway station and found a telephone booth, decided to pass up the hospital as a call at that hour, but buzzed O’Rourke at home. His wife answered my jingle. She was not reassuring.

“The Sergeant,” Mrs. O’Rourke always called him that, “hasn’t been home. But he called a little while ago, saying he wouldn’t be home tonight at all. And him only a Sergeant, with the worries of an Inspector.” And after a few more natural complaints, she told me, “He said, if you called him, Mr. Williams, for you to come straight to — to some hospital. I don’t mind the name of it, but—.

And I hung up on the good lady, dashed from the station, sprang into my car and made monkeys out of the few traffic lights which were still operating.

O’Rourke was the first lad I saw when the cop by the door of the hospital stood aside for me to enter. O’Rourke didn’t wait, or couldn’t wait. Anyway, he led me smack into a little room and chirped it out.

“She’s dead, Race. Yes, I know, with a cop in the alley and me at the door — in the hall, mind you.”

“Shot?” I said.

“No.” His laugh wasn’t pleasant. “I’m not as bad a cop as that.” He clasped his hands together. “Poisoned. Murdered by her husband, just the same as if he stuck a knife in her chest and turned the blade. But you won’t get a verdict on it, not a chance. There ain’t a jury in the country, nor the medical examiner for that matter, but will call it suicide.”

“What sort of poison?”

“There was no label on the bottle, but the smell of burnt almonds was strong. Prussic acid. I guess we all agree on that.”

“And how— Who do you think gave it to her?”

“She gave it to herself, you fool. I tell you I was at the door, Donnelly under the window. Michelle Gorgon left it for her. I can swear to that. But who’s to believe it? Not the doctors. Not the medical examiner. And certainly no twelve men in a jury box. There’s enough evidence to disprove that Michelle Gorgon brought it here. Listen!” And O’Rourke gave me the whole show.

“Most of the time I heard Madame moving in the bed. Then she sort of cried out. Miss Agnes, who was writing right across from me, on the other side of the door, went in to her. I went as far as the door, and looked in. Madame waved us out. She spoke too, said she was all right. She was holding a book very tightly closed in her hand, but she didn’t want anything, wouldn’t take anything. And Miss Agnes came out and closed the door. Madame asked that the door be closed, when we left it open a crack.

“She was restless, Race, very restless. And I couldn’t swear that she didn’t get out of that bed and crawl across the room. But I would swear to that if it would roast Michelle Gorgon.

“The whole thing seemed silly, my sitting there like that, when I ought to be out on the McBride hunt, and I was just about to call it a night and put another lad on the door, when... well... it’s almost funny. I didn’t hear anything, unless you can hear a sudden quiet. But Madame wasn’t restless any more, hadn’t been for some time — hadn’t—. And I called to Miss Agnes. Not because I was alarmed at the quiet, but because I just wanted to have a last look at Madame before I left.

“And,” O’Rourke’s hand went under his collar, “she was dead, Race, and in one hand was the empty bottle that had held the poison, and in the other withered hand— Well, make a guess.”

“The book of love stories,” I tried.