Dead as a Dinosaur by Frances Lockridge Read Free Book Online

minutes or so later, had become very sleepy and gone to sleep. She had awakened, very surprised, in St. Vincent’s Hospital.
    â€œThe bottle was still there,” Anstey said. “We took it along, naturally. Full of phenobarbital. If anybody drank all of it, he wouldn’t wake up.”
    â€œQuart bottle?” Bill asked.
    It had been. Anstey seemed puzzled for a moment. Then he nodded.
    â€œHadn’t thought of that,” he said. “You wouldn’t figure anybody’s drinking a quart of milk at one time.”
    â€œRight,” Bill said.
    â€œThat fits, of course,” Anstey said. “It’s still the same screwy business. Whoever put the stuff in the milk didn’t plan to do Preson in. Just to knock him out for a while.”
    Bill merely nodded.
    â€œFor one thing,” Anstey said, “it wasn’t the old boy’s milk. So he says, anyway. He does drink milk—drinks warm milk every night. Finished off what was in the only bottle he had early this morning sometime, after he got through working on the bones. I told you about those damned bones?”
    â€œYes,” Bill said.
    â€œSo,” Anstey said, and finished his coffee, and pushed the empty cup toward the counterman, “so—somebody brought him a nice fresh bottle of milk, filled with nice fresh phenobarbital. But not, probably, planning to kill him. Too much milk and, of course, there are better things than phenobarbital. That is—worse things.”
    It was, Bill Weigand pointed out, apparently very easy to get in and out of Preson’s rooms at the hotel—to get in and out unnoticed.
    â€œOne elevator,” Anstey said. “The desk’s off at the other side of the lobby, and kind of around a corner. The stairs are handy.” He drank from the new cup of coffee. “It’s a pretty run-down place,” he said. “Clerk, girl at a switchboard—she’s clear out of sight of everything. One elevator operator, on in the daytime. The thing’s automatic and there’s nobody on it at night. They don’t make much effort to keep people from going upstairs if they want to. But what hotel does, if you come to that? Anyway, I don’t suppose many of the people who live there have a lot worth stealing.”
    Bill Weigand nodded again. He asked whether Dr. Preson didn’t lock his door.
    â€œSure,” Anstey said. “And half the keys that fit closet doors would unlock it. They do put Yales on if asked, but Preson didn’t ask. I suppose he figured nobody would want a lot of old bones.”
    â€œRight,” Bill said. “About the midgets?”
    The arrival of the midgets, although rather dramatically inopportune, was merely another part of the pattern. There had been an advertisement that morning in the New York Times . It had carried Dr. Preson’s name and address. It had—
    â€œHere, read it,” Anstey said, and produced a clipping from his billfold. “Under ‘Help Wanted, Male.’” He handed it to Bill Weigand. It read:
    â€œMIDGETS. Five midgets needed connection product exploitation. Temporary; unusual remuneration. Apply O. Preson, Greeley Apartment Hotel. West Twenty-second Street.”
    The first two midgets had applied while Dr. Preson had been attempting to awaken his sister. Six more had applied later. All eight, incidentally, had been incensed; one had threatened action for damages.
    â€œRather academic phrasing,” Bill said, and handed the clipping back to Anstey. “Why not just ‘high pay,’ if that’s what was meant?”
    â€œWell,” Anstey said, “he’s a professor or—but no, he didn’t put it in, did he? Could have been another professor. You think—”
    â€œI don’t know,” Bill Weigand said. “You’ll have to try to trace it down now, of course.”
    That Anstey knew. Had he not, as a good policeman, known it