All-Story Detective, October 1949 — page 116: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Detective 116 All-S tory When she sat down, Barnaby asked, “Do you live here, Mrs. Hulbert ?” “Oh, no.” Her voice had a soft, dove- like quality. “I do have a room upstairs, though. Sometimes I stay overnight, but not often.” “How long have you known Mac- Gregor ?”’ “Our glorious Eagle?” There was al- most a worshipful note in the soft voice, so the words didn’t sound as silly as they look. “More than two years. I helped him, in a small way, to build this magni- ficant place.” “How, exactly ?” “T have a little money.” She added quickly, “Oh, it was worth ten times as much as I gave him. I had never known real happiness before I met him.” “Just what do you mean, happiness ?” If she thought the question was im- pertinent, she didn’t say so. “I had never known my real self, all my potentialities, until he taught me how to find them. He—” She looked to be all set to recite us a chapter from the Eagle’s bible, but Barnaby held up a restraining hand. “Some other time,” he said. ‘Since you admired him so much, you must be deeply affected by his death?” “His spirit,” she proclaimed, “‘is still alive. Grief will do no good. He didn’t want us to feel grief.” “Didn’t want vou to? You mean he suspected he might die?” “We all die sometime,” she said simply. Either this lady was a very dim bulb, or she was very expert at keeping the brightness hidden. CHAPTER TWO Quoth the Raven noon, had last seen the Eagle at dinner (I wondered whether they ate bird seed) and had noticed nothing Se said she had been there all after- unusual about him or any of the others. After dinner she had spent some time in the aviary on the top floor, and had then gone to her room. She told us all this with that same air of misty rapture. _ Barnaby showed her the note and asked her about the handwriting, but she just looked at it dreamily and said she couldn’t imagine whose it might be. He asked her what kind of medicine the Eagle took, but she gave us the same answer the Raven had—he never touched the stuff. “Where can I reach you if I want you again?” Barnaby asked. “Tl stay here tonight,” she said. “TI want to be close to his spirit as it soars upward.” Barnaby managed not to snort, which was quite a tribute to his upbringing. As the door closed behind her he said, “Could anybody be that giddy?” Then he got up and went out to the bird-cage room. When he came back he wagged his head mournfully and said, “You would think once in a while somebody else in Homicide would draw one of these crackpot killings, but it always has to be me.”’ Which was just so much noise, because this was the kind of case he always pretends to dislike violently, while as a matter of fact he has the time of his life probing into these off- base personalities. I said, ‘‘I could follow the scenario bet- ter if you'd tell me just how this bird got it. What’s all this double talk about medicine ?”’ “Oh, that. I was just talking to the M.E. again. The guy died from strychnine —which he was carrying in capsules in a little box in his pocket. That won’t be definite until after an autopsy and an analysis of .the capsules, but it’s good enough for a working theory.” “T thought you said rat poison. I never heard about rats going in for taking capsules.” “That’s what it was, though. They’ve COMiICcloOO@ (©