The Golden Goose by Ellery Queen

nap. Aware after a while that something more than simple drowsiness was overcoming him, he had got off the bed, taken a step or two, and collapsed. There, on the floor, he had shut his eyes and taken his nap at last, or his last nap, which in his case came to the same thing.
    What Grundy disliked most about his reconstruction, aside from its homicidal indications, was its fanciness. He had known on contact that nothing simple or sensible could be expected from the O’Sheas, but he had at least hoped for an ordinary, decent poison, something you might buy at a hardware store in a can of weed killer or insecticide. He would really have preferred another kind of weapon altogether, such as a gun or a knife or a blunt instrument. But a synthetic substitute for insulin, for God’s sake! Grundy was not at all sure he was up to it.
    Cursing softly, the lieutenant put his mind to the problem of fancy murder. Even plain murder had been a rarity in his professional experience, Cibola City being a singularly docile community.
    It took little experience, however, considering the O’Shea tribe even as he slightly knew them, to come to an immediate conclusion: profit, or the hope of it, must be the motive. The trouble was that damn will of Slater O’Shea’s his heirs-in-residence had subsequently told him about. With the modest fortune divided among almost two dozen O’Sheas, how could the testator’s death greatly profit any one of them? Especially the five who lived with him and off him? Of course, profit was a relative thing; what seemed small at one time might seem large indeed at another, depending on circumstances. Still, Grundy was uneasy. Perhaps, he thought, brightening, no such will existed. Brother, let us pray!
    Digging a directory from his drawer, Grundy located the telephone number of the O’Shea residence. This done, he dialed the number and waited for a response, which was finally made by Mrs. Dolan. Mrs. Dolan, audibly disappointed at not being asked to relay a message, summoned Miss Lallie O’Shea. Miss Lallie O’Shea, sounding far more alert to the ear than she appeared to the eye, demanded to know when the police department was going to let Slater O’Shea’s family have him back for decent disposal—“that is,” said deceased’s sister, “if there is anything left of him to dispose of.”
    â€œYou may have the body back immediately, Miss O’Shea,” said Grundy. “I assure you it is almost entirely in one piece.”
    â€œThank you,” said Aunt Lallie coldly. “I have never in my born days heard of anything more disgusting. I suppose you found that that old fool of a doctor should be committed to a mental institution?”
    â€œWe’re not ready with our findings yet,” lied Grundy. “By the way, Miss O’Shea, can you tell me the name of your brother’s lawyer?”
    â€œHis lawyer? Why do you want to know that?”
    â€œRoutine,” said the lieutenant, resorting to the magic word. “His name, Miss O’Shea?”
    â€œIt seems to me you’re being terribly evasive, Lieutenant.”
    â€œSo are you!”
    Aunt Lallie chuckled unexpectedly, “Too-shee.”
    â€œI can get the information the hard way, Miss O’Shea. Why not be cooperative and save us a little trouble?”
    â€œI don’t see why I should. However, I suppose it can’t do any harm. Slater’s lawyer was Selwyn Fish.”
    â€œOh. Thank you very much.”
    Grundy hung up and pulled his long nose longer. He might have known, he reflected bitterly, that an oddball client like Slater O’Shea would go for an oddball attorney like Selwyn Fish like a fly for an open garbage pail. Professionally, Fish gave off a mephitic aroma. Everything about him—his person, his office location, his methods—offended the nostrils. He was an expert in the art of marginal dealing, said art consisting