By Isaac Asimov
Each person knew that Ralph Neufeld used to be a cautious younger chemist, specially his professor, Lou Brade. that is why Ralph's unintended loss of life because of a confusion of chemical compounds struck Brade as hugely not going. The police agreed.
Someone on campus had switched bottles on negative Ralph and the end result used to be as lethal as were deliberate. the difficulty used to be all of the correct suspects have been within the incorrect locations whilst it happened...all the inaccurate suspects had the correct motives...and the single individual such a lot certified to unravel the crime was once already being known as the killer!
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Additional info for A Whiff of Death
I don't care if it is murder. I don't want you stirring up any scandal. You're not to risk your tenure. " The telephone rang a sudden summons. It was at Doris' hand and she took it. She looked up at him, hand over mouthpiece. " Brade whispered in surprise. " She shook her head, and put a finger to her lips. " Brade put the receiver to his ear. " The other's voice, as it always did, brought up his face in clear and etched detail—its ruddy coloring, ruddier for the topping of pure white hair, the broad soft-jowled face, chin and nose equally smooth and equally bulbous (as though the creating angel in a momentary desire to save time had used the same mold for both) and white-fringed china-blue «yes.
He closed the small notebook in which he had been writing and put it in his inner jacket pocket. " "That's it, then. " "I'll consider it," said Brade, diplomatically. "Oh, and by the way, Ralph had a key to this laboratory. " "Sure. Well, take care of yourself, Professor. Watch out for those labels on the bottles. " "I'll try not to," said Brade. And now Brade could stand alone in the laboratory once more, stare at his own face in the lenses of his glasses and look at Death's face everywhere else in the room.
From the movement of the curtain at one living room window as his car moved into the driveway, Brade knew she had been watching for him. He should have called, he thought, guiltily. Of course, he was late at times; it was no catastrophe in itself. Still— As a matter of fact, he had (consciously, at that) tried to avoid talking to her. What did he say now, for God's sake? Apologize for not calling? Talk rapidly on neutral subjects? Ask for Anson? What? It was like the time they had driven frozenly home from a department gathering of students and faculty at which he had been markedly attentive to one of the student's wives, one who obviously strove by dimples and decolletage to better her husband's chances.