HUGH CALLINGHAM Wheeler (1912-1987) and Richard Wilson Webb (1901-1970?) collaborated on the series featuring Peter and Iris Duluth, but both authors were part of a coterie of writers that mixed and matched on many other books published as by Q. Patrick, Patrick Quentin, and Jonathan Stagge. It was when Wheeler and Webb moved to the United States in the 1930s that they created the Duluth series, which changed their books from a recognizably British style to American in speech and tone.
Wheeler and Webb created the Patrick Quentin byline with A Puzzle for Fools (1936) which introduced Peter Duluth, a theatrical producer who stumbles into detective work by accident, and Iris Pattison, an actress suffering from melancholia who he meets at a sanitarium where he has gone to treat his alcoholism and eventually marries her. Iris is irresistibly curious about mysteries and draws her husband into helping her solve them.
The highly successful Duluth series of nine novels inspired two motion pictures, Homicide for Three (1948), starring Warren Douglas as Peter and Audrey Long as his wife Iris, and Black Widow (1954), with Van Heflin (Peter), Gene Tierney (Iris), Ginger Rogers, George Raft, and Peggy Ann Garner. Webb dropped out of the collaboration in the early 1950s and Wheeler continued using the Quentin name but abandoned the Duluth series to produce standalone novels until 1965.
Oddly, all the Duluth novels were published using the Patrick Quentin nom de plume but the short stories were originally published as by Q. Patrick—until they, as well as non-series stories, were collected in The Ordeal of Mrs. Snow and Other Stories (1961), which was selected for Queen’s Quorum.
“Puzzle for Poppy” was originally published in the February 1946 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine; it was first collected in The Puzzles of Peter Duluth by Patrick Quentin (Norfolk, Virginia, Crippen & Landru, 2016).
By Patrick Quentin
YES, MISS Crump,” snapped Iris into the phone. “No, Miss Crump. Oh, nuts, Miss Crump.”
My wife flung down the receiver.
“Well?” I asked.
“She won’t let us use the patio. It’s that dog, that great fat St. Bernard. It mustn’t be disturbed.”
“Why?”
“It has to be alone with its beautiful thoughts. It’s going to become a mother. Peter, it’s revolting. There must be something in the lease.”
“There isn’t,” I said.
When I’d rented our half of this La Jolla hacienda for my shore leave, the lease specified that all rights to the enclosed patio belonged to our eccentric cotenant. It oughtn’t to have mattered, but it did because Iris had recently skyrocketed to fame as a movie star and it was impossible for us to appear on the streets without being mobbed. For the last couple of days we had been virtually beleaguered in our apartment. We were crazy about being beleaguered together, but even Héloise and Abelard needed a little fresh air once in a while.
That’s why the patio was so important.
Iris was staring through the locked French windows at the forbidden delights of the patio. Suddenly she turned.
“Peter, I’ll die if I don’t get things into my lungs—ozone and things. We’ll just have to go to the beach.”
“And be torn limb from limb by your public again?”
“I’m sorry, darling. I’m terribly sorry.” Iris unzippered herself from her housecoat and scrambled into slacks and a shirt-waist. She tossed me my naval hat. “Come, Lieutenant—to the slaughter.”
When we emerged on the street, we collided head on with a man carrying groceries into the house. As we disentangled ourselves from celery stalks, there was a click and a squeal of delight followed by a powerful whistle. I turned to see a small girl who had been lying in wait with a camera. She was an unsightly little girl with sandy pigtails and a brace on her teeth.
“Geeth,” she announced. “I can get two buckth for thith thnap from Barney Thtone. He’th thappy about you, Mith Duluth.”
Other children, materializing in response to her whistle, were galloping toward us. The grocery man came out of the house. Passers-by stopped, stared and closed in—a woman in scarlet slacks, two sailors, a flurry of bobby-soxers, a policeman.
“This,” said Iris grimly, “is the end.”
She escaped from her fans and marched back to the two front doors of our hacienda. She rang the buzzer on the door that wasn’t ours. She rang persistently. At length there was the clatter of a chain sliding into place and the door opened wide enough to reveal the face of Miss Crump. It was a small, faded face with a most uncordial expression.
“Yes?” asked Miss Crump.
“We’re the Duluths,” said Iris. “I just called you. I know about your dog, but . . .”
“Not my dog,” corrected Miss Crump. “Mrs. Wilberframe’s dog. The late Mrs. Wilberframe of Glendale who has a nephew and a niece-in-law of whom I know a great deal in Ogden Bluffs, Utah. At least, they ought to be in Ogden Bluffs.”
This unnecessary information was flung at us like a challenge. Then Miss Crump’s face flushed into sudden, dimpled pleasure.
“Duluth! Iris Duluth. You’re the Iris Duluth of the movies?”
“Yes,” said Iris.
“Oh, why didn’t you tell me over the phone? My favorite actress! How exciting! Poor thing—mobbed by your fans. Of course you may use the patio. I will give you the key to open your French windows. Any time.”
Miraculously the chain was off the door. It opened halfway and then stopped. Miss Crump was staring at me with a return of suspicion.
“You are Miss Duluth’s husband?”
“Mrs. Duluth’s husband,” I corrected her. “Lieutenant Duluth.”
She still peered. “I mean, you have proof?”
I was beyond being surprised by Miss Crump. I fumbled from my wallet a dog-eared snapshot of Iris and me in full wedding regalia outside the church. Miss Crump studied it carefully and then returned it.
“You must please excuse me. What a sweet bride! It’s just that I can’t be too careful—for Poppy.”
“Poppy?” queried Iris. “The St. Bernard?”
Miss Crump nodded. “It is Poppy’s house, you see. Poppy pays the rent.”
“The dog,” said Iris faintly, “pays the rent?”
“Yes, my dear. Poppy is very well-to-do. She is hardly more than a puppy, but she is one of the richest dogs, I suppose, in the whole world.”
Although we entertained grave doubts as to Miss Crump’s sanity, we were soon in swimming suits and stepping through our open French windows into the sunshine of the patio. Miss Crump introduced us to Poppy.
In spite of our former prejudices, Poppy disarmed us immediately. She was just a big, bouncing, natural girl unspoiled by wealth. She greeted us with great thumps of her tail. She leaped up at Iris, dabbing at her cheek with a long, pink tongue. Later, when we had settled on striped mattresses under orange trees, she curled into a big clumsy ball at my side and laid her vast muzzle on my stomach.
“Look, she likes you.” Miss Crump was glowing. “Oh, I knew she would!”
Iris, luxuriating in the sunshine, asked the polite question. “Tell us about Poppy. How did she make her money?”
“Oh, she did not make it. She inherited it.” Miss Crump sat down on a white iron chair. “Mrs. Wilberframe was a very wealthy woman. She was devoted to Poppy.”
“And left her all her money?” I asked.
“Not quite all. There was a little nest egg for me. I was her companion, you see, for many years. But I am to look after Poppy. That is why I received the nest egg. Poppy pays me a generous salary too.” She fingered nondescript beads at her throat. “Mrs. Wilberframe was anxious for Poppy to have only the best and I am sure I try to do the right thing. Poppy has the master bedroom, of course. I take the little one in front. And then, if Poppy has steak for dinner, I have hamburger.” She stared intensely. “I would not have an easy moment if I felt that Poppy did not get the best.”
Poppy, her head on my stomach, coughed. She banged her tail against the flagstones apologetically.
Iris reached across me to pat her. “Has she been rich for long?”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Wilberframe passed on only a few weeks ago.” Miss Crump paused. “And it has been a great responsibility for me.” She paused again and then blurted: “You’re my friends, aren’t you? Oh, I am sure you are. Please, please, won’t you help me? I am all alone and I am so frightened.”
“Frightened?” I looked up and, sure enough, her little bird face was peaked with fear.
“For Poppy.” Miss Crump leaned forward. “Oh, Lieutenant, it is like a nightmare. Because I know. I just know they are trying to murder her!”
“They?” Iris sat up straight.
“Mrs. Wilberframe’s nephew and his wife. From Ogden Bluffs, Utah.”
“You mentioned them when you opened the door.”
“I mention them to everyone who comes to the house. You see, I do not know what they look like and I do not want them to think I am not on my guard.”
I watched her. She might have looked like a silly spinster with a bee in her bonnet. She didn’t. She looked nice and quite sane, only scared.
“Oh, they are not good people. Not at all. There is nothing they would not stoop to. Back in Glendale, I found pieces of meat in the front yard. Poisoned meat, I know. And on a lonely road, they shot at Poppy. Oh, the police laughed at me. A car backfiring, they said. But I know differently. I know they won’t stop till Poppy is dead.” She threw her little hands up to her face. “I ran away from them in Glendale. That is why I came to La Jolla. But they have caught up with us. I know. Oh, dear, poor Poppy who is so sweet without a nasty thought in her head.”
Poppy, hearing her name mentioned, smiled and panted.
“But this nephew and his wife from Ogden Bluffs, why should they want to murder her?” My wife’s eyes were gleaming with a detective enthusiasm I knew of old. “Are they after her money?”
“Of course,” said Miss Crump passionately. “It’s the will. The nephew is Mrs. Wilberframe’s only living relative, but she deliberately cut him off and I am sure I do not blame her. All the money goes to Poppy and—er—Poppy’s little ones.”
“Isn’t the nephew contesting a screwy will like that?” I asked.
“Not yet. To contest a will takes a great deal of money—lawyers, fees and things. It would be much, much cheaper for him to kill Poppy. You see, one thing is not covered by the will. If Poppy were to die before she became a mother, the nephew would inherit the whole estate. Oh, I have done everything in my power. The moment the—er—suitable season arrived, I found a husband for Poppy. In a few weeks now, the—the little ones are expected. But these next few weeks . . .”
Miss Crump dabbed at her eyes with a small handkerchief. “Oh, the Glendale police were most unsympathetic. They even mentioned the fact that the sentence for shooting or killing a dog in this state is shockingly light—a small fine at most. I called the police here and asked for protection. They said they’d send a man around some time but they were hardly civil. So you see, there is no protection from the law and no redress. There is no one to help me.”
“You’ve got us,” said Iris in a burst of sympathy.
“Oh . . . oh . . .” The handkerchief fluttered from Miss Crump’s face. “I knew you were my friends. You dear, dear things. Oh, Poppy, they are going to help us.”
Poppy, busy licking my stomach, did not reply. Somewhat appalled by Iris’s hasty promise but ready to stand by her, I said:
“Sure, we’ll help, Miss Crump. First, what’s the nephew’s name?”
“Henry. Henry Blodgett. But he won’t use that name. Oh, no, he will be too clever for that.”
“And you don’t know what he looks like?”
“Mrs. Wilberframe destroyed his photograph many years ago when he bit her as a small boy. With yellow curls, I understand. That is when the trouble between them started.”
“At least you know what age he is?”
“He should be about thirty.”
“And the wife?” asked Iris.
“I know nothing about her,” said Miss Crump coldly, “except that she is supposed to be a red-headed person, a former actress.”
“And what makes you so sure one or both of them have come to La Jolla?”
Miss Crump folded her arms in her lap. “Last night. A telephone call.”
“A telephone call?”
“A voice asking if I was Miss Crump, and then—silence.” Miss Crump leaned toward me. “Oh, now they know I am here. They know I never let Poppy out. They know every morning I search the patio for meat, traps. They must realize that the only possible way to reach her is to enter the house.”
“Break in?”
Miss Crump shook her tight curls. “It is possible. But I believe they will rely on guile rather than violence. It is against that we must be on our guard. You are the only people who have come to the door since that telephone call. Now anyone else that comes to your apartment or mine, whatever their excuse . . .” She lowered her voice. “Anyone may be Henry Blodgett or his wife and we will have to outwit them.”
A fly settled on one of Poppy’s valuable ears. She did not seem to notice it. Miss Crump watched us earnestly and then gave a self-scolding cluck.
“Dear me, here I have been burdening you with Poppy’s problems and you must be hungry. How about a little salad for luncheon? I always feel guilty about eating in the middle of the day when Poppy has her one meal at night. But with guests—yes, and allies—I am sure Mrs. Wilberframe would not have grudged the expense.”
With a smile that was half-shy, half-conspiratorial, she fluttered away.
I looked at Iris. “Well,” I said, “is she a nut or do we believe her?”
“I rather think,” said my wife, “that we believe her.”
“Why?”
“Just because.” Iris’s face wore the entranced expression which had won her so many fans in her last picture. “Oh, Peter, don’t you see what fun it will be? A beautiful St. Bernard in peril. A wicked villain with golden curls who bit his aunt.”
“He won’t have golden curls any more,” I said. “He’s a big boy now.”
Iris, her body warm from the sun, leaned over me and put both arms around Poppy’s massive neck.
“Poor Poppy,” she said. “Really, this shouldn’t happen to a dog!”
The first thing happened some hours after Miss Crump’s little salad luncheon while Iris and I were still sunning ourselves. Miss Crump, who had been preparing Poppy’s dinner and her own in her apartment, came running to announce:
“There is a man at the door! He claims he is from the electric light company to read the meter. Oh, dear, if he is legitimate and we do not let him in, there will be trouble with the electric light company and if . . .” She wrung her hands. “Oh, what shall we do?”
I reached for a bathrobe. “You and Iris stay here. And for Mrs. Wilberframe’s sake, hang on to Poppy.”
I found the man outside the locked front door. He was about thirty with thinning hair and wore an army discharge button. He showed me his credentials. They seemed in perfect order. There was nothing for it but to let him in. I took him into the kitchen where Poppy’s luscious steak and Miss Crump’s modest hamburger were lying where Miss Crump had left them on the table. I hovered over the man while he located the meter. I never let him out of my sight until he had departed. In answer to Miss Crump’s anxious questioning, I could only say that if the man had been Henry Blodgett he knew how much electricity she’d used in the past month—but that was all.
The next caller showed up a few minutes later. Leaving Iris, indignant at being out of things, to stand by Poppy, Miss Crump and I handled the visitor. This time it was a slim, brash girl with bright auburn hair and a navy-blue slack suit. She was, she said, the sister of the woman who owned the hacienda. She wanted a photograph for the newspapers—a photograph of her Uncle William who had just been promoted to Rear Admiral in the Pacific. The photograph was in a trunk in the attic.
Miss Crump, reacting to the unlikeliness of the request, refused entry. The red-head wasn’t the type that wilted. When she started talking darkly of eviction, I overrode Miss Crump and offered to conduct her to the attic. The girl gave me one quick, experienced look and flounced into the hall.
The attic was reached by the back stairs through the kitchen. I conducted the red-head directly to her claimed destination. There were trunks. She searched through them. At length she produced a photograph of a limp young man in a raccoon coat.
“My Uncle William,” she snapped, “as a youth.”
“Pretty,” I said.
I took her back to the front door. On the threshold she gave me another of her bold, appraising stares.
“You know something?” she said. “I was hoping you’d make a pass at me in the attic.”
“Why?” I asked.
“So’s I could tear your ears off.”
She left. If she had been Mrs. Blodgett, she knew how to take care of herself, she knew how many trunks there were in the attic—and that was all.
Iris and I had dressed and were drinking daiquiris under a green and white striped umbrella when Miss Crump appeared followed by a young policeman. She was very pleased about the policeman. He had come, she said, in answer to her complaint. She showed him Poppy; she babbled out her story of the Blodgetts. He obviously thought she was a harmless lunatic, but she didn’t seem to realize it. After she had let him out, she settled beamingly down with us.
“I suppose,” said Iris, “you asked him for his credentials?”
“I . . .” Miss Crump’s face clouded. “My dear, you don’t think that perhaps he wasn’t a real police . . .?”
“To me,” said Iris, “everyone’s a Blodgett until proved to the contrary.”
“Oh, dear,” said Miss Crump.
Nothing else happened. By evening Iris and I were back in our part of the house. Poppy had hated to see us go. We had hated to leave her. A mutual crush had developed between us.
But now we were alone again, the sinister Blodgetts did not seem very substantial. Iris made a creditable Boeuf Stroganov from yesterday’s leftovers and changed into a lime green negligee which would have inflamed the whole Pacific Fleet. I was busy being a sailor on leave with his girl when the phone rang. I reached over Iris for the receiver, said “Hello,” and then sat rigid listening.
It was Miss Crump’s voice. But something was horribly wrong with it. It came across hoarse and gasping.
“Come,” it said. “Oh, come. The French windows. Oh, please . . .”
The voice faded. I heard the clatter of a dropped receiver.
“It must be Poppy,” I said to Iris. “Quick.”
We ran out into the dark patio. Across it, I could see the light French windows to Miss Crump’s apartment. They were half open, and as I looked Poppy squirmed through to the patio. She bounded toward us, whining.
“Poppy’s all right,” said Iris. “Quick!”
We ran to Miss Crump’s windows. Poppy barged past us into the living room. We followed. All the lights were on. Poppy had galloped around a high-backed davenport. We went to it and looked over it.
Poppy was crouching on the carpet, her huge muzzle dropped on her paws. She was howling and staring straight at Miss Crump.
Poppy’s paid companion was on the floor too. She lay motionless on her back, her legs twisted under her, her small, grey face distorted, her lips stretched in a dreadful smile.
I knelt down by Poppy. I picked up Miss Crump’s thin wrist and felt for the pulse. Poppy was still howling. Iris stood, straight and white.
“Peter, tell me. Is she dead?”
“Not quite. But only just not quite. Poison. It looks like strychnine . . . .”
We called a doctor. We called the police. The doctor came, muttered a shocked diagnosis of strychnine poisoning and rushed Miss Crump to the hospital. I asked if she had a chance. He didn’t answer. I knew what that meant. Soon the police came and there was so much to say and do and think that I hadn’t time to brood about poor Miss Crump.
We told Inspector Green the Blodgett story. It was obvious to us that somehow Miss Crump had been poisoned by them in mistake for Poppy. Since no one had entered the house that day except the three callers, one of them, we said, must have been a Blodgett. All the Inspector had to do, we said, was to locate those three people and find out which was a Blodgett.
Inspector Green watched us poker-faced and made no comment. After he’d left, we took the companionless Poppy back to our part of the house. She climbed on the bed and stretched out between us, her tail thumping, her head flopped on the pillows. We didn’t have the heart to evict her. It was not one of our better nights.
Early next morning, a policeman took us to Miss Crump’s apartment. Inspector Green was waiting in the living room. I didn’t like his stare.
“We’ve analyzed the hamburger she was eating last night,” he said. “There was enough strychnine in it to kill an elephant.”
“Hamburger!” exclaimed Iris. “Then that proves she was poisoned by the Blodgetts!”
“Why?” asked Inspector Green.
“They didn’t know how conscientious Miss Crump was. They didn’t know she always bought steak for Poppy and hamburger for herself. They saw the steak and the hamburger and they naturally assumed the hamburger was for Poppy, so they poisoned that.”
“That’s right,” I cut in. “The steak and the hamburger were lying right on the kitchen table when all three of those people came in yesterday.”
“I see,” said the Inspector.
He nodded to a policeman who left the room and returned with three people—the balding young man from the electric light company, the redheaded vixen, and the young policeman. None of them looked happy.
“You’re willing to swear,” the Inspector asked us, “that these were the only three people who entered this house yesterday.”
“Yes,” said Iris.
“And you think one of them is either Blodgett or his wife?”
“They’ve got to be.”
Inspector Green smiled faintly. “Mr. Burns here has been with the electric light company for five years except for a year when he was in the army. The electric light company is willing to vouch for that. Miss Curtis has been identified as the sister of the lady who owns this house and the niece of Rear Admiral Moss. She has no connection with any Blodgetts and has never been in Utah.” He paused. “As for Officer Patterson, he has been a member of the police force here for eight years. I personally sent him around yesterday to follow up Miss Crump’s complaint.”
The Inspector produced an envelope from his pocket and tossed it to me. “I’ve had these photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Blodgett flown from the files of the Ogden Bluffs Tribune.”
I pulled the photographs out of the envelope. We stared at them. Neither Mr. or Mrs. Blodgett looked at all the sort of person you would like to know. But neither of them bore the slightest resemblance to any of the three suspects in front of us.
“It might also interest you,” said the Inspector quietly, “that I’ve checked with the Ogden Bluffs police. Mr. Blodgett has been sick in bed for over a week and his wife has been nursing him. There is a doctor’s certificate to that effect.”
Inspector Green gazed down at his hands. They were competent hands. “It looks to me that the whole Blodgett story was built up in Miss Crump’s mind—or yours.” His grey eyes stared right through us. “If we have to eliminate the Blodgetts and these three people from suspicion, that leaves only two others who had the slightest chance of poisoning the hamburger.”
Iris blinked. “Us?”
“You,” said Inspector Green almost sadly.
They didn’t arrest us, of course. We had no conceivable motive. But Inspector Green questioned us minutely and when he left there was a policeman lounging outside our door.
We spent a harried afternoon racking our brains and getting nowhere. Iris was the one who had the inspiration. Suddenly, just after she had fed Poppy the remains of the Stroganov, she exclaimed:
“Good heavens above, of course!”
“Of course, what?”
She spun to me, her eyes shining. “Barney Thtone,” she lisped. “Why didn’t we realize? Come on!”
She ran out of the house into the street. She grabbed the lounging policeman by the arm.
“You live here,” she said. “Who’s Barney Stone?”
“Barney Stone?” The policeman stared. “He’s the son of the druggist on the corner.”
Iris raced me to the drugstore. She was attracting quite a crowd. The policeman followed, too.
In the drugstore, a thin young man with spectacles stood behind the prescription counter.
“Mr. Stone?” asked Iris.
His mouth dropped open. “Gee, Miss Duluth. I never dreamed . . . Gee, Miss Duluth, what can I do for you? Cigarettes? An alarm clock?”
“A little girl,” said Iris. “A little girl with sandy pigtails and a brace on her teeth. What’s her name? Where does she live?”
Barney Stone said promptly: “You mean Daisy Kornfeld. Kind of homely. Just down the block. 712. Miss Duluth, I certainly . . .”
“Thanks,” cut in Iris and we were off again with our ever growing escort.
Daisy was sitting in the Kornfeld parlor, glumly thumping the piano. Ushered in by an excited, cooing Mrs. Kornfeld, Iris interrupted Daisy’s rendition of “The Jolly Farmer.”
“Daisy, that picture you took of me yesterday to sell to Mr. Stone, is it developed yet?”
“Geeth no, Mith Duluth. I ain’t got the developing money yet. Theventy-five thenth. Ma don’t give me but a nickel an hour for practithing thith gothdarn piano.”
“Here.” Iris thrust a ten-dollar bill into her hand. “I’ll buy the whole roll. Run get the camera. We’ll have it developed right away.”
“Geeth.” The mercenary Daisy stared with blank incredulity at the ten-dollar bill.
I stared just as blankly myself. I wasn’t being bright at all.
I wasn’t much brighter an hour later. We were back in our apartment, waiting for Inspector Green. Poppy, all for love, was trying to climb into my lap. Iris, who had charmed Barney Stone into developing Daisy’s films, clutched the yellow envelope of snaps in her hand. She had sent our policeman away on a secret mission, but an infuriating passion for the dramatic had kept her from telling or showing me anything. I had to wait for Inspector Green.
Eventually Iris’s policeman returned and whispered with her in the hall. Then Inspector Green came. He looked cold and hostile. Poppy didn’t like him. She growled. Sometimes Poppy was smart.
Inspector Green said: “You’ve been running all over town. I told you to stay here.”
“I know.” Iris’s voice was meek. “It’s just that I wanted to solve poor Miss Crump’s poisoning.”
“Solve it?” Inspector Green’s query was skeptical.
“Yes. It’s awfully simple really. I can’t imagine why we didn’t think of it from the start.”
“You mean you know who poisoned her?”
“Of course.” Iris smiled, a maddening smile. “Henry Blodgett.”
“But . . .”
“Check with the airlines. I think you’ll find that Blodgett flew in from Ogden Bluffs a few days ago and flew back today. As for his being sick in bed under his wife’s care, I guess that’ll make Mrs. Blodgett an accessory before the fact, won’t it?”
Inspector Green was pop-eyed.
“Oh, it’s my fault really,” continued Iris. “I said no one came to the house yesterday except those three people. There was someone else, but he was so ordinary, so run-of-the-mill, that I forgot him completely.”
I was beginning to see then. Inspector Green snapped: “And this run-of-the-mill character?”
“The man,” said Iris sweetly, “who had the best chance of all to poison the hamburger, the man who delivered it—the man from the Supermarket.”
“We don’t have to guess. We have proof.” Iris fumbled in the yellow envelope. “Yesterday morning as we were going out, we bumped into the man delivering Miss Crump’s groceries. Just at that moment, a sweet little girl took a snap of us. This snap.”
She selected a print and handed it to Inspector Green. I moved to look at it over his shoulder.
“I’m afraid Daisy is an impressionistic photographer,” murmured Iris. “That hip on the right is me. The buttocks are my husband. But the figure in the middle—quite a masterly likeness of Henry Blodgett, isn’t it? Of course, there’s the grocery apron, the unshaven chin . . .”
She was right. Daisy had only winged Iris and me but with the grocery man she had scored a direct hit. And the grocery man was unquestionably Henry Blodgett.
Iris nodded to her policeman. “Sergeant Blair took a copy of the snap around the neighborhood groceries. They recognized Blodgett at the Supermarket. They hired him day before yesterday. He made a few deliveries this morning, including Miss Crump’s, and took a powder without his pay.”
“Well . . .” stammered Inspector Green. “Well . . .”
“Just how many charges can you get him on?” asked my wife hopefully. “Attempted homicide, conspiracy to defraud, illegal possession of poisonous drugs . . . . The rat, I hope you give him the works when you get him.”
“We’ll get him all right,” said Inspector Green.
Iris leaned over and patted Poppy’s head affectionately.
“Don’t worry, darling. I’m sure Miss Crump will get well and we’ll throw a lovely christening party for your little strangers . . . .”
Iris was right about the Blodgetts. Henry got the works. And his wife was held as an accessory. Iris was right about Miss Crump too. She is still in the hospital but improving steadily and will almost certainly be well enough to attend the christening party.
Meanwhile, at her request, Poppy is staying with us, awaiting maternity with rollicking unconcern.
It’s nice having a dog who pays the rent.