Cold Poison by Stuart Palmer

without a qualm began to search it. Miss Withers long ago had come to the conclusion that a man’s office desk—like a woman’s handbag—is the key to his character.
    Rollo Bayles, she thought, must be rather a messy type; he kept no order whatever and seemed to have spilled ink and paints rather freely about, even for an artist. There were no knickknacks, no personal letters, but in one bottom drawer was a pile of ancient Saturday Reviews . For a moment the schoolteacher beamed, thinking that she and Mr. Bayles had similar tastes. Then she discovered that most of the magazines were open to the personal columns, with a neat check mark against such choice items as “Is there a Costals for this lonely Solange, fond of outdoor sports and Existentialism? Write Box 233B.”
    “Dear me!” murmured Miss Withers, shaking her head. “He’s one of those .” But there were no evidences that Rollo Bayles had ever actually answered any of the lonely-heart ads. Probably, she thought, he had simply gloated over them, toyed with the idea of actually writing to one of those itching, waiting females; he had dreamed of wonderful new friendships and romances and at the same time had realized somewhere in the back of his mind that fairy princesses do not have to advertise for suitors.
    As a last resort the schoolteacher looked under the blotter—men, she knew, always tucked things away under desk blotters—but there she found only a clipping from Time about a supposed new way to restore fading hair by means of a vitamin-complex pill, her own name and address and phone number on a scribbled bit of paper, and a print of the justly famous calendar pin-up picture posed for by a certain young movie star in the altogether.
    But in spite of these sad, lonely indications of “the dreams of fair women” there was nothing at all to indicate any connection between Bayles and the late lamented Larry Reed—or any connection with the other recipients of the cross-eyed valentines. The thing just didn’t fit together; Miss Withers felt somewhat like the audience at a magician’s show, sitting back and watching things that weren’t where you thought they were.
    “Misdirection,” she decided. And then her musings were interrupted by the sound of scuffling in the room behind the closed door, and she hastily withdrew from the vicinity of the desk and tried to look as if she weren’t there. It was none too soon, for the door of the color lab burst open and a pretty auburn-haired lass of perhaps eighteen came loping through. She wore the blue uniform of a studio messenger, and she giggled as she ran. Close behind her but losing ground steadily was Rollo Bayles, already a bit winded.
    The girl made the front door with a lead of five lengths, scooped up a pouch of still-undelivered mail, and slipped out into the sunshine with a last peal of merry laughter. Bayles stopped short, staring after her with an extremely odd expression on his face. He looked, Miss Withers thought, like a thwarted child—a tormented, unhappy problem child who might stamp his feet or smash something any minute. Then he turned and saw that he had an audience.
    “ Mister Bayles!” said Miss Withers dryly. “At this hour of the morning!”
    The man regained control of himself quickly. “I suppose you think—” he began. “Well, it isn’t like that at all. You see, I was only blending some colors to show her the exact shade of lipstick she should wear with that hair, and one thing led to another and—”
    “And that isn’t the point, young man. I’m not interested in your extra-curricular activities, if any. I just came here to return something of yours.”
    “Mine?” Bayles stared blankly at the statuette of the sacred bird. “You’re mistaken, ma’am.”
    “The mistake was made by the person who hurled it through my window last night.”
    Bayles stiffened warily. Searching his face, Miss Withers thought that she saw guilt there. But then people could feel