Pushing Murder Read Free Page A

But Henry’s hired a private detective who’s sitting outside your door right now. His name is Dan Schenck, and it seems you knew his grandfather.”
    â€œSchenck!” Memories flooded back, almost drowning baleful thoughts. “Oh, the times that he and Henry Gamadge—”
    â€œNostalgia later, please. Right now, Clara, you must realize that either you help us or you’re dead. Literally. And that would be a pity because your family would miss you and I’d lose a pied-à-terre in New York City.”
    â€œSadd—”
    â€œBe quiet. Sal asked you the obvious question. And by the way, she and Dwight and Dr. Cullen are the only persons other than us who know about the second poisoning attempt. So let me repeat Sal’s question. Whose business have you been messing in lately that might result in somebody else turning killer?”
    â€œAnd let me repeat my answer. Nobody’s. That’s my point.” While Sadd was talking, I’d gone from bewilderment to terror to anger and was now back to bewilderment. “You heard what I said. It’s over a year since anybody has asked me to ‘mess’ in their business.”
    â€œYou’re not involved in anything that’s proving … unpropitious?”
    â€œNot remotely.” I swallowed rather hard. “Was it—was it arsenic again?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat was it in? Who found it?”
    â€œSchenck found it.” Sadd stood up. “It was in the sugar packet on the saucer of your coffee cup. He noticed a tear across the top and took it with him to be analyzed when he went off duty. His wife spells him—it seems they’re in business together.” He moved to the door, which I now realized was always kept closed. “Do you want to thank him? He probably saved your life.”
    â€œOf course I want to thank him. And talk to him about his grandfather. We won’t tell him that I don’t take sugar in my coffee. I take saccharin.”
    It was feeble, in poor taste, and I was instantly ashamed, but the whole business was incomprehensible. I didn’t need this grotesque puzzle along with an aching ankle. The last year of my life had been singularly uneventful. I’d not had even one request for the kind of help or advice that my apprehensive family knows so often leads to trouble. It was all an insane dream. Surely I’d wake up presently in my brownstone on Sixty-third Street and regale my friends with an account of it.
    A dark-haired young man with a mustache followed Sadd into the room.
    â€œDan Schenck!” I held out my arms, and he came straight to the bed and kissed me. “You even look like your grandpa!”
    â€œHe thought the world of you, Mrs. Gamadge.” His brown eyes were troubled. “I felt terrible when your son called me, but I’m glad it was me he called.”
    â€œSo am I. Where do you live, Dan? Do you have a family?”
    â€œYep. My wife works with me, and we have a little boy. We live on West Fifty-ninth in an old building where the rents are frozen, thank God.”
    Sadd pulled up another chair. “It seems you’re following in your grandfather’s footsteps.”
    â€œWell, sort of. He was with the FBI. I’m in business for myself.”
    â€œSo was he, practically, when he worked with Henry Gamadge.” I smiled at the boy fondly. “I remember my husband saying, ‘Schenck claims I’ll get him fired yet.’ During the war when there was gas rationing, Henry had the poor man chasing suspects because he had a government car. Once he sent him up to Connecticut, and your grandpa said, ‘You’d better be able to tie this in to Bureau business,’ and Henry said, ‘I can—I’m certain it’s murder.’”
    Murder. The word hung there, and we stopped smiling. Dan said, “What can you give me to go on, Mrs. Gamadge?”
    â€œNothing,”