The Poisoned Pen
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Craig Kennedy’s suit-case was lying open on the bed, and he was literally throwing things into it from his bag, as I entered after a hurried trip up-town from the Star office in response to an urgent message from him.
“Come, Walter,” he cried, hastily stuffing in a package of clean laundry without taking off the wrapping-paper, “I’ve got your suit-case out. Pack up whatever you can in five minutes. We must take the six o'clock train for Danbridge.”
I did not wait to hear any more. The mere mention of the name of the quaint and quiet little Connecticut town was sufficient. For Danbridge was on everybody’s lips at that time. It was the scene of the now famous Danbridge poisoning case, a brutal case in which the pretty little actress, Vera Lytton, had been the victim.
“I’ve been retained by Senator Adrian Willard,” he called from his room, as I was busy packing in mine. “The Willard family believe that young Dr. Dixon is the victim of a conspiracy or at least Alma Willard does, which comes to the same thing, and…well, the senator called me up on long-distance and offered me anything I would name in reason to take the case. Are you ready? Come on, then. We’ve simply got to make that train.”
As we settled ourselves in the smoking-compartment of the Pullman, which for some reason or other we had to ourselves, Craig spoke again for the first time since our frantic dash across the city to catch the train.
“Now let us see, Walter,” he began. “We’ve both read a good deal about this case in the papers. Let’s try to get our knowledge in an orderly shape before we tackle the actual case itself.”
“Ever been in Danbridge?” I asked.
“Never,” he replied. “What sort of place is it?”
“Mighty interesting,” I answered; “a combination of old New England and new, of ancestors and factories, of wealth and poverty, and above all it is interesting for its colony of New Yorkers…what shall I call it? A literary-artistic-musical combination, I guess.”
“Yes,” he resumed, “I thought as much. Vera Lytton belonged to the colony. A very talented girl, too…you remember her in The Taming of the New Woman last season? Well, to get back to the facts as we know them at present.
“Here is a girl with a brilliant future on the stage discovered by her friend, Mrs. Boncour, in convulsions…practically insensible with a bottle of headache-powder and a jar of ammonia on her dressing-table. Mrs. Boncour sends the maid for the nearest doctor, who happens to be a Dr. Waterworth. Meanwhile she tries to restore Miss Lytton, but with no result. She smells the ammonia and then just tastes the headache-powder, a very foolish thing to do, for by the time Dr. Waterworth arrives he has two patients.”
“No?” I corrected, “only one, for Miss Lytton was dead when he arrived, according to his latest statement.”
“Very well, then…one. He arrives, Mrs. Boncour is ill, the maid knows nothing at all about it, and Vera Lytton is dead. He, too, smells the ammonia, tastes the headache-powder, just the merest trace and then he has two patients, one of them himself. We must see him, for his experience must have been appalling. How he ever did it I can’t imagine, but he saved both himself and Mrs. Boncour from poisoning…cyanide, the papers say, but of course we can’t accept that until we see. It seems to me, Walter, that lately the papers have made the rule in murder cases: When in doubt, call it cyanide.”
Not relishing Craig in the humor of expressing his real opinion of the newspapers, I hastily turned the conversation back again by asking. “How about the note from Dr. Dixon?”
“Ah, there is the crux of the whole case…that note from Dixon. Let us see. Dr. Dixon is, if I am informed correctly, of a fine and aristocratic family, though not wealthy. I believe it has been established that while he was an intern in a city hospital he became acquainted with Vera Lytton, after her divorce from that artist Thurston. Then comes his removal to Danbridge and his meeting and later his engagement with Miss Willard. On the whole, Walter, judging from the newspaper pictures, Alma Willard is quite the equal of Vera Lytton for looks, only of a different style of beauty. Oh, well, we shall see. Vera decided to spend the spring and summer at Danbridge in the bungalow of her friend, Mrs. Boncour, the novelist. That’s when things began to happen.”
“Yes,” I put in, “when you come to know Danbridge as I did after that summer when you were abroad, you’ll understand, too. Everybody knows everybody else’s business. It is the main occupation of a certain set, and the per-capita output of gossip is a record that would stagger the census bureau. Still, you can’t get away from the note, Craig. There it is, in Dixon’s own handwriting, even if he does deny it: ‘This will cure your headache. Dr. Dixon. That's a damning piece of evidence.”
“Quite right,” he agreed hastily; “the note was queer, though, wasn’t it? They found it crumpled up in the jar of ammonia. Oh, there are lots of problems the newspapers have failed to see the significance of, let alone trying to follow up.”
Our first visit in Danbridge was to the prosecuting attorney, whose office was not far from the station on the main street. Craig had wired him, and he had kindly waited to see us, for it was evident that Danbridge respected Senator Willard and everyone connected with him.
“Would it be too much to ask just to see the note that was found in the Boncour bungalow?” asked Craig.
The prosecutor, an energetic young man, pulled out of a document-case a crumpled note which had been pressed flat again. On it in clear, deep black letters were the words, just as reported:
This will cure your headache.
Dr. Dixon
“Come, Walter,” he cried, hastily stuffing in a package of clean laundry without taking off the wrapping-paper, “I’ve got your suit-case out. Pack up whatever you can in five minutes. We must take the six o'clock train for Danbridge.”
I did not wait to hear any more. The mere mention of the name of the quaint and quiet little Connecticut town was sufficient. For Danbridge was on everybody’s lips at that time. It was the scene of the now famous Danbridge poisoning case, a brutal case in which the pretty little actress, Vera Lytton, had been the victim.
“I’ve been retained by Senator Adrian Willard,” he called from his room, as I was busy packing in mine. “The Willard family believe that young Dr. Dixon is the victim of a conspiracy or at least Alma Willard does, which comes to the same thing, and…well, the senator called me up on long-distance and offered me anything I would name in reason to take the case. Are you ready? Come on, then. We’ve simply got to make that train.”
As we settled ourselves in the smoking-compartment of the Pullman, which for some reason or other we had to ourselves, Craig spoke again for the first time since our frantic dash across the city to catch the train.
“Now let us see, Walter,” he began. “We’ve both read a good deal about this case in the papers. Let’s try to get our knowledge in an orderly shape before we tackle the actual case itself.”
“Ever been in Danbridge?” I asked.
“Never,” he replied. “What sort of place is it?”
“Mighty interesting,” I answered; “a combination of old New England and new, of ancestors and factories, of wealth and poverty, and above all it is interesting for its colony of New Yorkers…what shall I call it? A literary-artistic-musical combination, I guess.”
“Yes,” he resumed, “I thought as much. Vera Lytton belonged to the colony. A very talented girl, too…you remember her in The Taming of the New Woman last season? Well, to get back to the facts as we know them at present.
“Here is a girl with a brilliant future on the stage discovered by her friend, Mrs. Boncour, in convulsions…practically insensible with a bottle of headache-powder and a jar of ammonia on her dressing-table. Mrs. Boncour sends the maid for the nearest doctor, who happens to be a Dr. Waterworth. Meanwhile she tries to restore Miss Lytton, but with no result. She smells the ammonia and then just tastes the headache-powder, a very foolish thing to do, for by the time Dr. Waterworth arrives he has two patients.”
“No?” I corrected, “only one, for Miss Lytton was dead when he arrived, according to his latest statement.”
“Very well, then…one. He arrives, Mrs. Boncour is ill, the maid knows nothing at all about it, and Vera Lytton is dead. He, too, smells the ammonia, tastes the headache-powder, just the merest trace and then he has two patients, one of them himself. We must see him, for his experience must have been appalling. How he ever did it I can’t imagine, but he saved both himself and Mrs. Boncour from poisoning…cyanide, the papers say, but of course we can’t accept that until we see. It seems to me, Walter, that lately the papers have made the rule in murder cases: When in doubt, call it cyanide.”
Not relishing Craig in the humor of expressing his real opinion of the newspapers, I hastily turned the conversation back again by asking. “How about the note from Dr. Dixon?”
“Ah, there is the crux of the whole case…that note from Dixon. Let us see. Dr. Dixon is, if I am informed correctly, of a fine and aristocratic family, though not wealthy. I believe it has been established that while he was an intern in a city hospital he became acquainted with Vera Lytton, after her divorce from that artist Thurston. Then comes his removal to Danbridge and his meeting and later his engagement with Miss Willard. On the whole, Walter, judging from the newspaper pictures, Alma Willard is quite the equal of Vera Lytton for looks, only of a different style of beauty. Oh, well, we shall see. Vera decided to spend the spring and summer at Danbridge in the bungalow of her friend, Mrs. Boncour, the novelist. That’s when things began to happen.”
“Yes,” I put in, “when you come to know Danbridge as I did after that summer when you were abroad, you’ll understand, too. Everybody knows everybody else’s business. It is the main occupation of a certain set, and the per-capita output of gossip is a record that would stagger the census bureau. Still, you can’t get away from the note, Craig. There it is, in Dixon’s own handwriting, even if he does deny it: ‘This will cure your headache. Dr. Dixon. That's a damning piece of evidence.”
“Quite right,” he agreed hastily; “the note was queer, though, wasn’t it? They found it crumpled up in the jar of ammonia. Oh, there are lots of problems the newspapers have failed to see the significance of, let alone trying to follow up.”
Our first visit in Danbridge was to the prosecuting attorney, whose office was not far from the station on the main street. Craig had wired him, and he had kindly waited to see us, for it was evident that Danbridge respected Senator Willard and everyone connected with him.
“Would it be too much to ask just to see the note that was found in the Boncour bungalow?” asked Craig.
The prosecutor, an energetic young man, pulled out of a document-case a crumpled note which had been pressed flat again. On it in clear, deep black letters were the words, just as reported:
This will cure your headache.
Dr. Dixon