You meet a lot of screwy people when you
do police work. Like the guy who popped up in
a murder job. Offered to solve the case with—
Dalrymple's Equation
By Paul W. Fairman
Illustrated by W. E. Terry
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
June 1956
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It's the not knowing that gets you. The wondering. Thinking sometimesone way and sometimes the other. But never knowing for sure. Beingsuckered is bad enough but wondering whether you've been suckered isrougher. Or whether you've let the biggest thing since fingerprintsslide right by you.
Someday the case may be solved. Then we'll know for sure—one way orthe other—Donovan and I. What case? Wait 'til I tell you. It won'ttake long.
The thing started with as crazy a murder as two Homicide cops evergot called in on. In a bar on Tenth Avenue near Grand—you probablyknow the place and you probably read about the case. It was in all thepapers. But the whole story never saw print.
We were rung into it by a call from the squad car boys who got therefirst. We walked in and a cop I didn't know pointed a thumb at a youngguy lying with his head on the bar and said, "Deader than a lamp postfor my money."
A young lad—around twenty-three or four—lying there as though he'dhad one too many and was sleeping it off. He had downed one too many.And he would spend all eternity sleeping it off.
He was all through.
The barkeep stood there with his apron hanging out and a baffled lookon his face. A look that had all the earmarks of being genuine. I said,"Kennedy—Homicide. What happened?"
The barkeep shrugged and licked his dry lips. "I dunno. He just keeledover. I got scared and called the cops."
The kid certainly looked like a morgue job, as I said, but wedon't take things like that for granted. The squad car boys hadcalled General Hospital and now a couple of internes came in with arespirator. They didn't use it, though. One of them put his nose closedown to the kid's mouth and then looked at the barkeep. "You served hima drink?"
The barkeep nodded. "That's what he came in for."
"Let's see the bottle."
The barkeep gave that a little thought and then took a bottle off therack and pushed it over the bar. The interne sniffed it, made a faceand said, "There's enough arsenic in there to depopulate New Jersey."
"Arsenic!" the barkeep croaked. "You're crazy! We don't serve nobody noarsenic here!"
The interne looked at Donovan and me and said, "Call your meat wagon,lads. This one is beyond us."
He had identification—an Arthur Davis, with nothing at all sinisterin his wallet. The lab men came and there was a lot of activity foran hour or so and then we padlocked the joint and took the barkeepdowntown with us. His on-the-spot story was simple. Davis had come inand ordered a drink. The barkeep served it up. Davis knocked it off.The drink, in turn, knocked Davis off.
The barkeep's name was Timothy Garver. He was a middle-aged cork pullerwho had been in the business most of his life. We ran him through R andI and found him clean. Then we sat him down in the interrogation roomand started digging into him.
"What did you have against Davis?"
Garver looked like a flabby-jowled ghost. His hands shook. "Nothing. Sohelp me. I never seen the guy before."
"You think we'll swallow that?" Donov