“I . . .” Miss Crump’s face clouded. “My dear, you don’t think that perhaps he wasn’t a real police . . .?”

“To me,” said Iris, “everyone’s a Blodgett until proved to the contrary.”

“Oh, dear,” said Miss Crump.

Nothing else happened. By evening Iris and I were back in our part of the house. Poppy had hated to see us go. We had hated to leave her. A mutual crush had developed between us.

But now we were alone again, the sinister Blodgetts did not seem very substantial. Iris made a creditable Boeuf Stroganov from yesterday’s leftovers and changed into a lime green negligee which would have inflamed the whole Pacific Fleet. I was busy being a sailor on leave with his girl when the phone rang. I reached over Iris for the receiver, said “Hello,” and then sat rigid listening.

It was Miss Crump’s voice. But something was horribly wrong with it. It came across hoarse and gasping.

“Come,” it said. “Oh, come. The French windows. Oh, please . . .”

The voice faded. I heard the clatter of a dropped receiver.

“It must be Poppy,” I said to Iris. “Quick.”

We ran out into the dark patio. Across it, I could see the light French windows to Miss Crump’s apartment. They were half open, and as I looked Poppy squirmed through to the patio. She bounded toward us, whining.

“Poppy’s all right,” said Iris. “Quick!”

We ran to Miss Crump’s windows. Poppy barged past us into the living room. We followed. All the lights were on. Poppy had galloped around a high-backed davenport. We went to it and looked over it.

Poppy was crouching on the carpet, her huge muzzle dropped on her paws. She was howling and staring straight at Miss Crump.

Poppy’s paid companion was on the floor too. She lay motionless on her back, her legs twisted under her, her small, grey face distorted, her lips stretched in a dreadful smile.

I knelt down by Poppy. I picked up Miss Crump’s thin wrist and felt for the pulse. Poppy was still howling. Iris stood, straight and white.

“Peter, tell me. Is she dead?”

“Not quite. But only just not quite. Poison. It looks like strychnine . . . .”

We called a doctor. We called the police. The doctor came, muttered a shocked diagnosis of strychnine poisoning and rushed Miss Crump to the hospital. I asked if she had a chance. He didn’t answer. I knew what that meant. Soon the police came and there was so much to say and do and think that I hadn’t time to brood about poor Miss Crump.