Slow Poison
Murky sunlight filtered through the mini blinds that hung limply over the
dusty window, shadowing the fedora and sculptured chin with distinct lines.
Music rumbled softly from the ancient radio on the chaotic desk. The only
other sound in the unkempt room was the steady tick-tock-tick-tock of the
grandfather clock that had been haphazardly stuffed into a niche on the far
wall.
Jack Maxwell reclined lazily in his archaic leather chair, from which the
mildewed stuffing was leaking at the seams. His work-hardened hands moved
gracefully, polishing his favorite revolver until the gleaming barrel shone
in the soft light. His languid movement suddenly ceased to exist as his
muscles tensed and the gun went behind his back. His hands did not tremble
as the door of his office sluggishly creaked open.
There stood Mrs. Cuthbertson, Maxwell's secretary, who was easily as old as
dirt. "Mr. Maxwell, hate to disturb you, but there's a lady here who needs
to see you, she says it's urgent," she quivered, watching Jack's blank
face.
"Send her in," instructed a rough, tenor voice, harsh over the noise of
the radio. Mrs. Cuthbertson stepped aside and in walked a lady, her
high-heels clickety-clacking on the battered hard wood floor. She was petite
and blonde, shocks of platinum falling obstinately over her eyes. Her neck
dripped with pearls and her long fingers were coated in diamonds.
"Mr. Maxwell?" she inquired, in the low, sultry voice of a smoker.
Maxwell spun around in his chair, but did not look up. "Yeah?"
She extended a bejeweled hand, "Delilah Turner." Maxwell took her hand
solemnly, eyes still not meeting hers.
"What can I do for you Ms. Turner?" he asked, motioning for her to have a
seat in the rickety wicker chair on the opposite side of his desk.
"Got a light?" Delilah pulled out and pack of cheap cigarettes and
proceeded to shake them vigorously.
At this inquiry, Maxwell pushed the faded fedora up and raised an eyebrow
suspiciously. "Do you know what are in those things?"
She laughed good-naturedly, "I'll take that as a no. But in answer to your
question; nicotine, cyanide, arsenic, tar, the list goes on."
A shadow of suprise flicked across Maxwell's face, but if Delilah noticed,
she gave no outward sign. She simply settled into her new surroundings and
tucked the cigarettes back into her purse. Mazwell returned to his shifty,
cunning detective persona and sat waiting for her to speak.
Seeing his intent gaze, she began again, "Oh, yes, of course. What I am
here about." Her emerald eyes danced with sudden panic. "I need your help.
I have reason to believe that someone is trying to poison my brother. "
A grin suddenly split across Maxwell's sly, handsome face. "I see. Well,
Ms. Turner, here is where we get into my area of expertise."
Delilah pushed the hair out of her sparkling eyes and gazed distantly out
the dirty window. "When Fredrick and I were only ten, our parents died in a
tragic car accident. We were then put into the custody of our Grandpa, who
is (or I should say was) the most caring, courteous man to ever walk the
earth. About this time last year, he suffered a heart attack and died.
Although I was greatly distraught, Freddy took it real hard; he's been
drinking too much and staying out late every night of the week. He's taken
up with this... this girl, and he's been getting a bit, well, looney. He's
sick all the time and it disturbs me. You know, Grandpa left us both a
rather large inheritance, I'm thinking that Freddy's new girl may have
ulterior motives."
Maxwell fiddled with his fountain pen, dipping and writing as she spoke.
When she had finished, he raised his head; "Those are some pretty serious
accusations, Ms. Turner. So, you think this dame is trying to poison your
brother?"
She nodded nonchalantly, but Maxwell saw fury in her riveting eyes. "Where
does your brother reside?"
"In a small flat in the Bronx. Why do-"
Maxwell cut her off; "Take me there," he instructed. She smiled and got
up, watching as the detective tucked the revolver into his trench coat in a
single movement.
¥ ¥ ¥
The door of the flat loomed at the end of the hall like a final gate into
oblivion. The hallway was narrow and damp, a single light bulb flickered
sparatically near the elevator. Maxwell and Delilah crept silently to the
entry, where the both knocked loudly. When no response came, Maxwell
readied himself to bust through the crumbled wood. Delilah held up a hand
to halt his movement as she plucked a bobby pin from her perfect caramel
hair. Twisting and rotating in the keyhole, the pin eventually found its
mark and the door creaked open easily. The sparse light of the corridor
spilled into the blackened quarters of Delilah's brother.
"Fredrick?" she called tentatively, entering and flicking on a light.
There was no acknowledgment even as plastic wall sconces came to light,
casting an eerie glow over the walls and ceiling. "I guess he's out," she
whispered.
Maxwell need no further encouragement, but suddenly began conducting a
methodic search of the tiny dinette. Delilah followed cautiously as Maxwell
open and closed cabinets, looking for something, anything that could be the
cause of Fredrick's strange symptoms. Tools and measuring devices found
their way out of a belt that the investigator wore at his waist and onto
counters, stove, and table, testing for anything unusual.
Delilah grew gradually bored with the lack of results and sat in the living
room on a plaid couch, chain smoking and pouring over a trashy romance
novel. Maxwell, at last exhausted plopped down next to her and sighed.
"Nothing?" she wanted to know.
He simply shook his head. His gaze shifted from the leaking ceiling to the
decayed sideboards where an oddly shape box was perched on a shelf. It was
covered in a layer of translucent plastic, and unlike the rest of the joint,
no dust had settled on it due to a long period of sitting untouched.
Maxwell approached it and lifted the flimsy cover. Across a long, deep box
were suspended a row of glass plates that gradually grew larger in diameter.
A layer of what seemed to be water lined the base.
"What is this?" inquired Maxwell curiously.
Delilah rose and knelt at his side, "Freddy got this from granddad. It's
very old, over a hundred years even. Very rare. Very expensive," she
informed the private-eye matter-of-factly.
"Yes, but what is it?" Maxwell asked in exasperated tones.
"It's an instrument called a glass armonica. Benjamin Franklin invented
them, believe it or not. Fredrick's rather obsessed with the thing, when
he's not with his girl, he's playing the armonica," she spat disgustedly,
as if she obviously thought her sibling had no life.
"How-" began Maxwell, but Delilah was already dipping her fingers in the
colorless liquid and running them over the plates to produce clear, resonant
tones. A heavenly melody sprung forth from her fingers, the intoxicating
sounds filling the room, entrancing the stupefied Maxwell. When the harmony
faded at last, Maxwell snapped to attention.
Remembering his mission he obtained a small sample of the liquid and
returned to the gas stove. After igniting the range, he used the earpiece
of his reading glasses to ration out a bit of the sample and conduct a crude
flame test. There was an initial orange flash of sodium, but then there
came no change in the flame. Plucking various other chemical agents from
his many-pocketed coat, he checked for parcipitates, but again the results
were negative. In addition the clear substance boiled at approximately 100
degrees Celsius. So, in a final leap of faith, the fearless detective put
the vial to his mouth and carefully tasted it.
"It's tap water," he announce finally. Delilah rolled her eyes, putting a
cigarette out on the grimy kitchen table. Maxwell shifted, putting his
hands on his hips, "Maybe he's dying of second-hand smoke inhalation. I've
always said those things will kill you."
"Oh, shut up. At least I am still sane, my wacky brother however is as mad
as a hatter. I can't believe I'm paying you ten bucks an hour-" Maxwell
clapped his hand over her mouth, afraid that the idea that desired to be
brought into existence at the back of his head would be squelched by her
incessant chatter. When he let her go, she risked a look up at him, but his
eyes had glazed over as though everything but the gears in his mind had
ceased to function.
"Mad as a hatter.... mad as a hatter...." he whispered over and over.
After what seemed like hours, he snapped his fingers. "I've got it!"
Rushing over to the glass armonica, he beckoned the flabbergasted Delilah.
"How old did you say this thing was?"
"Over a century... Why?" she demanded.
"Glass," lectured Maxwell, "used to be made with trace amounts of lead."
The truth then dawned on Delilah as well, and a huge grin lit up her face,
"Lead poisoning! It's been leeching into his bloodstream. That gal of is
ain't trying to kill him, he's slowly committing suicide, perhaps without
even his own knowledge!"
"Precisely! And speaking of slow, painful death..." said Maxwell slyly,
pulling an unlit cigarette out of Delilah's hand.
She simply laughed however and looked at Maxwell in a new way for the first
time that long, rainy day. "Hey, do you want to grab some dinner?"
"I don't date clients," Maxwell stated squarely.
"Oh, that's too bad," Delilah replied, crestfallen.
Maxwell beamed, "But fortunately, this case is closed."