The Late Clara Beame by Taylor Caldwell Page B

things, but never things inspired by malice. He had not even trusted the boyish Sam Bulowe, nor Alice, not even his partners, and he had especially, even from boyhood, mistrusted David Gates. David was one man whose motives seemed always in doubt, whose words invariably carried a double meaning.
    Henry remembered reading, somewhere, that lawyers are born, not made, and they have built-in distrusts. He had smiled when reading that, for he knew it to be true. And now, what was going on around here? Who was John Carr? Men don’t come on social visits, as house guests, carrying guns. A man carries a gun for a reason.
    What had Carr said yesterday? “Or, a warning.” Henry rubbed a little spot in the frozen window. The snow was much deeper. No one could walk to the main road. They were all prisoners in this house, until the plows could get to the private road. If only the phone were in order and he could call the police.
    In the meantime, he had, as his house guest, a man who had tried to kill him.
    Putting on a careful expression and a determined smile, he went into his wife’s room. She held out her arms to him, and he caught her slight body to him and held her tightly.
    “Tell me you’re all right, darling.” He held her off a little. “What was wrong? What did you eat?”
    “It was the water. David said everyone got a little sick from it.”
    “The water?” Absently he smoothed her rumpled hair.
    “I told him about the water, the taste. You know, like metal. Didn’t you notice it, Henry?”
    “I believe I did, a little,” he answered vaguely.
    “That’s all. Ptomaine. Or bot — I don’t know the word. Don’t worry, darling. You look awful, and you need a shave, and there isn’t any electricity.” She tried to be gay. “You’ll just have to use your old razor.”
    He stood up, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Henry?” Laura asked. But his mind was engrossed, and he did not hear her. The door opened and David entered with a tray. “Here we are.” He stopped when he saw Henry.
    “Well,” he said flatly, “and how are you this morning?”
    “Feeling hellish,” Henry told him. “Do you think Laura should have food?”
    “Why not? I want to see how it lies on that delicate stomach. Here you are. Coddled eggs, toast, tea. How does it look?”
    “Very good,” she said, trying to please him, though her stomach lurched a bit. David placed the tray on her knees. “I’ve asked Laura not to drink anything, not even water, or eat anything at all, or take any medicine, until I’ve examined it.”
    “Why?” Henry asked quickly.
    “Why? I want to taste it. To see if it’s okay. Any objection?”
    “Why should I object?” Henry retorted.
    “Just don’t give her anything, yourself, not even water, no matter how thirsty she is. Until I’ve tasted it. You understand, don’t you?” David’s black eyes were serious.
    “Well, if you put it that way.”
    “I damned well do,” David replied. “How does breakfast taste, Laura?”
    “Not too good.”
    David said, very slowly, “Well, I can guarantee it won’t make you sick.”
    “I’d like to talk to you a minute, alone,” Henry told him.
    “Won’t you stay?” Laura asked.
    “After all, I want breakfast, too, and that food smells good.” Henry ruffled her hair. He went to the door and looked back at David, who seemed to be absorbed in watching Laura eat. Then David turned to him, nodded, and they went out together.
    Henry shut the door behind them and, when they were in his room, turned to David abruptly. “Look, don’t tell me any fairy stories. Laura was poisoned last night, wasn’t she?”
    “She was.” David leaned against a chest of drawers.
    “Then, what is all this about the water? She said you told her there was something wrong with it.”
    “She must have gotten the poison in the water, before dinner.”
    “How could it have gotten in the water she drank?”
    David was silent for a moment. “Someone in this house