He hurried down the hall to the master bedroom, straining under the weight of the body. He laid the body on the bed, pulling the blanket free.
In the bathroom off the bedroom he shook crystals of cyanide into the flowered blue tumbler, added water and poured most of the contents down the sink. He rinsed the sink carefully and returned to the bedroom. Placing the glass next to the dead woman’s hand, he allowed the last drops of the mixture to spill on the spread. Her fingerprints were sure to be on the glass. Rigor mortis was setting in. The hands were cold. He folded the white blanket carefully.
The body was sprawled face up on the bed, eyes staring, lips contorted, the expression an agony of protest. That was all right. Most suicides changed their minds when it was too late.
Had he missed anything? No. Her handbag with the keys was on the chaise; there was a residue of the cyanide in the glass. Coat on or off? He’d leave it on. The less he handled her the better.
Shoes off or on? Would she have kicked them off?
He lifted the long caftan she was wearing and felt the blood drain from his face. The swollen right foot wore a battered moccasin. Her left foot was covered only by her stocking.
The other moccasin must have fallen off. Where? In the parking lot, the office, this house? He ran from the bedroom, searching, retracing his steps to the garage. The shoe was not in the house or garage. Frantic at the waste of time, he ran out to the car and looked in the trunk. The shoe was not there.
It had probably come off when he was carrying her in the parking lot. He’d have heard it fall in the office, and it wasn’t in the medicine closet. He was positive of that.
Because of that swollen foot she’d been wearing those moccasins constantly. He’d heard the receptionist joke with her about them.
He would have to go back, search the parking lot, find that shoe. Suppose someone picked it up who had seen her wearing it? There would be talk about her death when her body was discovered. Suppose someone said, “Why, I saw the moccasin she was wearing lying in the parking lot. She must have lost it on her way home Monday night”? But if she had walked even a few feet in the parking lot without a shoe, the sole of her stocking would be badly soiled. The police would notice that. He had to go back to the parking lot and find that shoe.
But now, rushing back to the bedroom, he opened the door of the walk-in closet. A jumble of women’s shoes were scattered on the floor. Most of them had impossible high heels. Ridiculous that anyone would believe she had been wearing them in her condition and in this weather. There were three or four pairs of boots, but he’d never be able to zip a boot over that swollen leg.
Then he saw them. A pair of low-heeled shoes, sensible-looking, the kind most pregnant women wore. They looked fairly new, but had been worn at least once. Relieved, he grabbed them. Hurrying back to the bed, he pulled the one shoe from the dead woman’s foot and slipped her feet into the shoes he had just taken from the closet. The right one was tight, but he managed to lace it. Jamming the moccasin she had been wearing into the wide loose pocket of his raincoat, he reached for the white blanket. With it under his arm he strode from the room, down the hall, through the den and out into the night.
By the time he drove into the hospital parking lot, the sleet and rain had stopped falling but it was windy and very cold. Driving to the farthermost corner of the area, he parked the car. If the security guard happened to come by and spoke to him, he’d simply say that he’d received a call to meet one of his patients here; that she was in labor. If for any reason that story was checked, he’d act outraged, say it was obviously a crank call.
But it would be much safer not to be seen. Keeping in the shadow of the shrubbery that outlined the divider island of the lot, he hurried to retrace his steps from the space where he’d kept the car to the door of the office. Logically the shoe might have fallen off when he’d shifted the body to open the trunk. Crouching, he searched the ground. Quietly he worked his way closer to the hospital. All the patients’ rooms in this wing were dark now. He glanced up to the center window on the second floor. The shade was securely down. Someone had adjusted it. Bending forward, he slowly made his way across the macadam. If anyone saw him! Rage and frustration made him unaware of the bitter cold. Where was that shoe? He had to find it.
Headlights came around the bend into the parking lot. A car screeched to a halt. The driver, probably heading for the emergency room, must have realized he’d taken the wrong turn. He made a U-turn and raced out of the lot.
He had to get out of here. It was no use. He fell forward as he tried to straighten up. His hand slid across the slippery macadam. And then he felt it: the leather under his fingers. He grabbed it, held it up. Even in the dim light he could still be sure. It was the moccasin. He had found it.
Fifteen minutes later, he was turning the key in the lock of his home. Peeling off the raincoat, he hung it in the foyer closet. The full-length mirror on the door reflected his image. Shocked, he realized that his trouser knees were wet and dirty. His hair was badly disheveled. His hands were soiled. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes, always prominent, were bulging and wide-lensed. He looked like a man in emotional shock, a caricature of himself.
Rushing upstairs, he disrobed, sorted his clothing into the hamper and cleaning bag, bathed and got into pajamas and a robe. He was far too keyed up to sleep, and besides, he was savagely hungry.
The housekeeper had left slices of lamb on a plate. There was a fresh wedge of Brie on the cheese board on the kitchen table. Crisp, tart apples were in the fruit bin of the refrigerator. Carefully he prepared a tray and carried it into the library. From the bar he poured a generous whiskey and sat at his desk. As he ate, he reviewed the happenings of the night. If he had not stopped to check his calendar he would have missed her. She would have been gone and it would have been too late to stop her.
Unlocking his desk, he opened the large center drawer and slid back the false bottom where he always kept his current special file. A single manila expansion file was there. He reached for a fresh sheet of paper and made a final entry:
February 15
At 8:40 P.M. this physician was locking the rear door of his office. Subject patient had just left Fukhito. Subject patient came over to this physician and said that she was going home to Minneapolis and would have her former doctor, Emmet Salem, deliver her baby. Patient was hysterical and was persuaded to come inside. Obviously patient could not be allowed to leave. Regretting the necessity, this physician prepared to eliminate patient. Under the excuse of getting her a glass of water, this physician dissolved cyanide crystals into the glass and forced patient to swallow the poison. Patient expired at precisely 9:15 P.M. The fetus was 26 weeks old. It is the opinion of this physician that had it been born it might have been viable. The full and accurate medical records are in this file and should replace and nullify the records at the Westlake Hospital office.
Sighing, he laid down the pen, slipped the final entry into the manila envelope and sealed the file. Getting up, he walked over to the last panel on the bookcase. Reaching behind a book, he touched a button, and the panel swung open on hinges, revealing a wall safe. Quickly he opened the safe and inserted the file, subconsciously noting the growing number of envelopes. He could have recited the names of them by heart: Elizabeth Berkeley, Anna Horan, Maureen Crowley, Linda Evans—over six dozen of them: the successes and failures of his medical genius.
He closed the safe and snapped the bookcase back into place, then went upstairs slowly. He took off his bathrobe, got into the massive four-poster bed and closed his eyes.
Now that he was finished with it, he felt exhausted to the point of sickness. Had he overlooked anything, forgotten anything? He’d put the vial of cyanide in the safe. The moccasins. He’d get rid of them somewhere tomorrow night. The events of the last hours whirled furiously through his mind. When he had been doing what must be done, he’d been calm. Now that it was over, like the other times, his nervous system was screaming in protes
t.
He’d drop his own cleaning off on the way to the hospital tomorrow morning. Hilda was an unimaginative housekeeper, but she’d notice the mud and dampness of his trouser knees. He’d find out what patient was in the center room on the second floor of the east wing, what the patient could have seen. Don’t think about it now. Now he must sleep. Leaning on one elbow, he opened the drawer of his night table and took out a small pillbox. The mild sedative was what he needed. With it he’d be able to sleep for two hours.
His fingers groped for and closed over a small capsule. Swallowing it without water, he leaned back and closed his eyes. While he waited for it to take effect, he tried to reassure himself that he was safe. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not push back the thought that the most damning proof of his guilt was inaccessible to him.
♦3♦
“If you don’t mind, we’d like you to leave through the back entrance,” the nurse said. “The front driveway froze over terribly, and the workmen are trying to clear it. The cab will be waiting there.”
“I don’t care if I climb out the window, just as long as I can get home,” Katie said fervently. “And the misery is that I have to come back here Friday. I’m having minor surgery on Saturday.”
“Oh.” The nurse looked at her chart. “What’s wrong?”
“I seem to have inherited a problem my mother used to have. I practically hemorrhage every month during my period.”
“That must have been why your blood count was so low when you came in. Don’t worry about it. A D-and-C is no big deal. Who’s your doctor?”
“Dr. Highley.”
“Oh, he’s the best. But you’ll be over in the west wing. All his patients go there. It’s like a luxury hotel He’s top man in this place, you know.” She was still looking at Katie’s chart. “You didn’t sleep much, did you?”
“Not really.” Katie wrinkled her nose with distaste as she buttoned her blouse. It was spattered with blood, and she let the left sleeve hang loosely over her bandaged arm. The nurse helped her with her coat.
The morning was cloudy and bitterly cold. Katie decided that February was getting to be her least-favorite month. She shivered as she stepped out into the parking lot, remembering her nightmare. This was the area she had been looking at from her room. The cab pulled up. Gratefully she walked over to it, wincing at the pain in her knees. The nurse helped her in, said goodbye and closed the door. The cabdriver pressed his foot on the accelerator. “Where to, lady?”
From the window of the second-floor room that Katie had just left, a man was observing her departure. The chart the nurse had left on the desk was in his hand. Kathleen N. DeMaio, 10 Woodfield Way, Abbington. Place of Business: Prosecutor’s office, Valley County.
He felt a thrill of fear go through him. Katie DeMaio.
The chart showed she had been given a strong sleeping pill.
According to her medical history, she took no medication regularly, including sleeping pills or tranquilizers. So she’d have no tolerance for them and would have been pretty groggy from what they’d given her last night.
There was a note on the chart that the night nurse had found her sitting on the edge of the bed at 2:08 A.M. in an agitated state and complaining about nightmares.
The shade in the room had snapped up. She must have been at the window. How much had she seen? If she’d observed anything, even if she thought she’d been having a nightmare, her professional training would nag at her. She was a risk, an unacceptable one.
♦4♦
Shoulders touching, they sat in the end booth of the Eighty-seventh Street drugstore. Uneaten English muffins had been pushed away, and somberly they sipped coffee. The arm of her teal-blue uniform jacket rested on the gold braid on his sleeve. The fingers of his right hand were entwined with those of her left hand.
“I’ve missed you,” he said carefully.
“I’ve missed you too, Chris. That’s why I’m sorry you met me this morning. It just makes it worse.”
“Joan, give me a little time. I swear to God we’ll work this out. We’ve got to.”
She shook her head. He turned to her and with a wrench noticed how unhappy she looked. Her hazel eyes were cloudy. Her light brown hair, pulled back this morning in a chignon, revealed the paleness of her usually smooth, clear skin.
For the thousandth time he asked himself why he hadn’t made the clean break with Vangie when he was transferred to New York last year. Why had he responded to her plea to try just a little longer to make a go of their marriage when ten years of trying hadn’t done it? And now a baby coming. He thought of the ugly quarrel he’d had with Vangie before he left. Should he tell Joan about that? No, it wouldn’t do any good.
“How did you like China?” he asked.
She brightened. “Fascinating, completely fascinating.” She was a flight attendant with Pan American. They’d met six months ago in Hawaii when one of the other United captains, Jack Lane, threw a party.
Joan was based in New York and shared an apartment in Manhattan with two other Pan Am attendants.
Crazy, incredible, how right some people are together from the first minute. He’d told her he was married, but also was able to say honestly that when he transferred from the Minneapolis base to New York he had wanted to break with Vangie. The last-ditch attempt to save the marriage wasn’t working. No one’s fault. The marriage was something that never should have happened in the first place.
And then Vangie had told him about the baby.
Joan was saying, “You got in last night.”
“Yes. We had engine trouble in Chicago and the rest of the flight was cancelled. We deadheaded back. Got in around six and I checked into the Holiday Inn on Fifty-seventh Street.”
“Why didn’t you go home?”
“Because I haven’t seen you for two weeks and I wanted to see you, had to see you. Vangie doesn’t expect me till about eleven. So don’t worry.”
“Chris, I told you I put in an application to transfer to the Latin American Division. It’s been approved. I’ll be moving to Miami next week.”
“Joan, no!”
“It’s the only way. Look, Chris, I’m sorry, but it’s not my nature to be an available lady for a married man. I’m not a home wrecker.”
“Our relationship has been totally innocent.”
“In today’s world who would ever believe that? The very fact that in an hour you’ll be lying to your wife about when you got in says a lot, doesn’t it? And don’t forget, I’m the daughter of a Presbyterian minister. I can just see Dad’s reaction if I tell him that I’m in love with a man who not only is married but whose wife is finally expecting the baby she’s prayed for for ten years. He’d be real proud of me, let me tell you.”
She finished the coffee. “And no matter what you say, Chris, I still feel that if I’m not around, there’s the chance that you and your wife will grow closer. I’m occupying your thoughts when you should be concerned about her. And you’ll be amazed how a baby has a way of creating a bond between people.”
Gently she withdrew her fingers from his. “I’d better get home, Chris. It was a long flight and I’m tired. You’d better get home too.”
They looked directly at each other. She touched his face, wanting to smooth away the deep, unhappy creases in his forehead. “We really could have been awfully good together.” Then she added, “You look terribly tired, Chris.”
“I didn’t sleep very much last night.” He tried to smile. “I’m not giving up, Joan. I swear to you that I’m coming to Miami for you, and when I get there I’ll be free.”
♦5♦
The cab dropped Katie off. She hurried painfully up the porch steps, thrust her key into the lock, opened the door and murmured, “Thank God to be home.” She felt that she’d been away weeks rather than overnight and with fresh eyes appreciated the soothing, restful earth tones of the foyer and living room, the hanging plants that had caught her eye when she’d visited this house for the first t
ime.
She picked up the bowl of African violets and inhaled the pungent perfume of their leaves. The odors of antiseptics and medicines were trapped in her nostrils. Her body was aching and stiff, even more now than it had been when she got out of bed this morning.
But at least she was home.
John. If he were alive, if he had been here to call last night . . .
Katie hung up her coat and sank down on the apricot velvet couch in the living room. She looked up at John’s portrait over the mantel. John Anthony DeMaio, the youngest judge in Essex County. She could remember so clearly the first time she’d seen him. He’d come to lecture to her Torts class at Seton Hall Law School.
When the class ended, the students clustered around him. “Judge DeMaio, I hope the Supreme Court turns down the appeal on the Collins case.”
“Judge DeMaio, I agree with your decision on Reicher versus Reicher.”
And then it had been Katie’s turn. “Judge, I have to tell you I don’t agree with your decision in the Kipling case.”
John had smiled. “That obviously is your privilege, Miss . . .”
“Katie . . . Kathleen Callahan.”
She never understood why at the moment she’d dragged up the Kathleen. But he’d always called her that, Kathleen Noel.
That day they’d gone out for coffee. The next night he’d taken her to the Monsignor II restaurant in New York for dinner. When the violinists came to their table, he’d asked them to play “Vienna, City of My Dreams.” He’d sung it softly with them: “Wien, Wien, nur Du allein . . .” When they finished he asked, “Have you ever been to Vienna, Kathleen?”
“I’ve never been out of the country except for the school trip to Bermuda. It rained for four days.”