Cold Poison Read Free

principle of the siphon. “And have you any idea as to the identity of the culprit?”
    “I have. I can’t prove anything, but it’s just the sort of thing that Larry Reed would think of. He’s a very brilliant artist or he wouldn’t stay on the payroll, but he’s erratic and temperamental and always pulling fast ones.”
    “Such as?”
    “Well, one year we had an efficiency expert on the lot, not very popular with our personnel, as you can imagine. Reed took it upon himself to insert a newspaper ad on the twenty-sixth of December, giving this poor chap’s home address and offering a dollar apiece for used Christmas trees. All over greater Los Angeles gullible people saw the ad and pulled off the decorations and the tinsel and hauled their trees out to his house, and when they found it was a false alarm some of them became rather violent. They also dumped the unwanted trees in his front yard; I believe he wound up with several hundred of them.”
    “How gay and delightful,” murmured Miss Withers. “But not very.”
    “And Larry Reed pulled another gag,” Cushak went on in an aggrieved tone. “He’d had a slight run-in with Tip Brown, one of the other top artists at the studio, and got even with him by filling out a phony change-of-address slip at the post office. Brown didn’t get any mail at all for weeks. He missed his bills, and had his utilities cut off for nonpayment. He also, I believe, missed certain important letters of a romantic nature. Finally he checked and found that everything had been forwarded to Horsecollar, Arizona, to be held until called for. Of course, Brown got all his mail eventually, but he was somewhat bitter about it at the time.”
    “I see,” said the schoolteacher thoughtfully. “Practical jokes—and they’re usually most impractical, too. Like pulling a chair out from somebody about to sit down, and perhaps fracturing a pelvis.”
    He nodded. “The artistic temperament, blowing off steam. Sometimes I feel like the keeper in a snake pit. But I still don’t see how Reed could have had anything to do with our present problem, because as it happened he checked out of the studio early yesterday morning, pleading illness. Probably just another of his hangovers, but he certainly wasn’t around where he could have planted those nasty valentines.”
    Miss Withers said nothing, but she looked very thoughtful. “Anyway,” the studio executive said firmly, “the big boss wants very much to find out who is responsible for this latest and most unfunny gag—if it is a gag. And it’s clearly an inside job; it must be attacked from inside. My instructions are to hire you, to add you to our staff on some plausible pretext or other, and get you inside the gates where you can have a free rein.
    “You actually mean that you want me to pass as a regular studio employee?” She brightened. “I used to paint china in my girlhood days; perhaps I could make like one of your artists?”
    Mr. Cushak looked politely dubious; “There is,” he said, “a considerable difference between china-painting and drawing cartoons. Do you happen to play any musical instrument? We often hire outside musicians. And sometimes we hire actors too—but no, I don’t think your voice would do even for Wilma Wombat. We’ll have to hit on something else—” He broke off, looking toward the patio door. “What on earth,” he gasped, “is that thing?”
    Something large and brownish, rather resembling a bear that had got caught in a buzz saw, was standing outside on its hind legs and trying to twist the doorknob with its teeth. After a moment the creature succeeded and came scampering in, a great, galumphing beast; on closer view it was a dog, but a dog fearfully and wonderfully made. It was about to hurl itself upon the visitor when Miss Withers spoke sharply. “Talley, mind your manners! This is Mr. Cushak—Mr. Cushak, this is Talleyrand, my Standard French poodle.”
    The dog, a sworn friend of the