FATE AND FUTILITY

With a heroic heave Sergeant Cargo forced Andrew Morse’s library door. The aged philanthropist sat at his desk—dead. On a small table stood a whisky decanter (stopper freshly nicked), tall glass almost empty, bowl of ice cubes, bottle of spring water (no cap), stoppered with a tiny cork, and a small empty vial. On a desk was a small card bearing the typewritten words, DROWNED IN THE SEA OF FUTILITY.

The Professor toyed with his ear, then walked across to the open French doors leading to a terrace. An outside thermometer read 20 degrees above.

In the kitchen Anna, Morse’s old housekeeper, told her brief story.

“I took the master whisky at 9:30—the usual hour—but he seemed nervous and unwell, so 20 minutes ago I rapped to see if he were all right. When he didn’t answer I telephoned you, Professor.”

As Fordney descended the front steps Morse’s nephew, Ted Terry, stepped from a taxi. The time was 11:14.

“I’ve bad news for you, son. We found your uncle dead in the library—poisoned.”

“Poisoned? Poisoned? How ghastly! But why was the library door locked? Was Uncle afraid of someone?”

“No, I think not—the French doors were open. Been to the fights?”

“No. I’ve been working all evening in the office.”

“Couldn’t you get a seat?”

“Oh, yes. I had a ringside one.” Terry held out a ticket. “Up to the last minute I thought perhaps I’d make it, but…”

Fordney shivered, re-entered the house. An unpleasant task was ahead of him.

Whom did Fordney suspect? Why? Turn page for solution.