Joan grinned at him.
“The stewardess must have brought us in.” It was an old airline gag.
“Or at least was doing a little lap time.”
They were silent as the plane taxied over to the gate. People meeting passengers had to wait past the security gate. But Chris was not surprised to see the two detectives who had been at the house after he found Vangie waiting for him.
“Captain Lewis. Miss Moore.”
“Yes.”
“Please come with us.” Ed’s voice was formal. “It is my duty to inform you that you are a suspect in the death of your wife, Vangie Lewis, as well as in several other possible homicides. Anything you say may be used against you. You are not required to answer questions. It is your right to call a lawyer.”
Joan answered for him. “He doesn’t need a lawyer. And he’ll tell you everything he knows.”
♦59♦
Molly settled back as the orchestra began the few bars of music that signaled the beginning of Otello. Bill loved opera. She liked it. Maybe that was part of the reason she couldn’t relax. Bill was already totally absorbed, his expression serene and thoughtful. She glanced around. The Met was packed as usual. Their seats were excellent. They should be. Bill had paid seventy dollars for the pair. Overhead the chandeliers twinkled, glistened and then began to fade into silvery darkness.
She should have insisted on going to see Katie in the hospital tonight. Bill didn’t, couldn’t understand Katie’s dread of hospitals. No wonder. Katie was ashamed to talk about it. The awful part was that there was a basis for her fear. Daddy hadn’t gotten help in time. The old man who was in the room with him had told them that. Even Bill admitted that a lot of mistakes were made in hospitals.
With a start she heard applause as Placido Domingo descended from the ship. She’d heard nothing of the opera so far. Bill glanced over at her, and she tried to look as though she were enjoying herself. After the first act, she’d phone Katie. That would help to reassure her. Just hearing Katie’s voice that she was all right. And by God, she’d be at that hospital early in the morning before the operation and make sure Katie wasn’t too nervous.
The first act seemed interminable. She had never realized it was so long. Finally, intermission came. Impatiently refusing Bill’s suggestion of a glass of champagne from the lobby bar, she hurried to a phone. Quickly, she dialed and jammed in the necessary coins.
A few minutes later, white-lipped, she rushed to Bill. Half sobbing, she grabbed his arm. “Something’s wrong, something’s wrong . . . I called the hospital. They wouldn’t put the call through to Katie’s room. They said the doctor forbade calls. I got the desk and insisted the nurse check on Katie. She just came back. She’s a kid, she’s hysterical. Katie’s not in her room. Katie’s missing.”
♦60♦
He left Katie’s room and a smile of satisfaction flitted across his face. It was going very well. The pills were working. She was beginning to hemorrhage. The finger proved that her blood was no longer clotting.
He went down to the second floor and stopped in to see Mrs. Aldrich. The baby was in a crib by her bed. Her husband was with her. He smiled aloofly at the parents, then bent over the child. “A handsome specimen indeed,” he proclaimed. “I don’t think we’ll trade him in.”
He knew his attempts at humor were heavy-handed, but sometimes it was necessary. These people were important, very important. Delano Aldrich could direct thousands of dollars of research funds to Westlake. More research. He could work in the laboratory with animals, report his successes. Then, when he publicly began to work with women, all the experimentation of these years would make immediate success inevitable. Fame deferred is not necessarily fame denied.
Delano Aldrich was staring at his son, his face a study in awe and admiration. “Doctor, we still can’t believe it. Everyone else said we’d never have a child.”
“Everyone else was obviously wrong.” It was her anxiety that had been the main problem. Fukhito had spotted that. Muscular dystrophy in her father’s family. She knew she might be a carrier. That and some fibroid cysts in her womb. He’d taken care of the cysts and she’d become pregnant. Then he’d done an early test of the amniotic fluid and had been able to reassure her on the dystrophy question.
Still, she was a highly emotional, almost hyperactive personality. She’d had two early miscarriages over ten years ago. He’d put her to bed two months before the birth. And it had worked.
“I’ll stop in in the morning.” These people would be fervent witnesses for him if there was any question that Katie DeMaio’s death was suspicious.
But there shouldn’t be any question. The dropping blood pressure was a matter of hospital record. The emergency operation would take place in the presence of the top nurses on the staff. He’d even send for the emergency-room surgeon to assist. Molloy was on tonight. He was a good man, the best. Molloy would be able to tell the family and Katie’s office that it had been impossible to stop the hemorrhaging, that Dr. Highley had headed a team working frantically.
Leaving the Aldriches, he went to Nurse Renge’s desk. He had carefully manipulated the schedule so that she was on. A more experienced nurse would check on Katie every ten minutes. Renge wasn’t that bright.
“Nurse Renge.”
“Doctor.” She stood up quickly, her hands fluttering nervously.
“I am quite concerned about Mrs. DeMaio. Her blood pressure is in the low normal limit, but I suspect the vaginal bleeding has been heavier than she realizes. I’m going out for dinner, then will come back. I want the lab report on her blood count ready. I did not want to distress her—she has a lifelong fear of hospitals—but I should not be surprised if we have to operate tonight. I’ll make that judgment when I come back in about an hour. I persuaded her not to eat dinner, and if she requests any solid food, do not give it to her.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Give Mrs. DeMaio the sleeping pill, and do not in any way intimate to her that emergency surgery may be necessary. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Very well.”
He made a point of speaking to several people in the main lobby. He’d decided to have dinner at the restaurant adjacent to the hospital grounds. It wasn’t bad. One could get a quite decent steak, and he wanted to be able later to present the image of a conscientious doctor.
I was concerned about Mrs. DeMaio. Instead of going home, I had dinner next door and went directly back to the hospital to check on her. Thank God I did. At least we tried.
And another important point. Even on a dismal night like this, it would not be unusual to walk over to the restaurant. That way no one would be quite sure how long he’d been gone.
Because while he was waiting for coffee to be served, he’d take the last necessary step. He had left Katie at five past seven. At quarter of eight he was in the restaurant. Katie was going to be given the sleeping pill at eight o’clock. It was a strong one. Thanks to her weakened condition, it would knock her out immediately.
By eight thirty it would be safe for him to go up the back stairs to the third floor, go into the living room of the suite, make sure Katie was asleep and give her the shot of heparin, the powerful anticoagulant drug, which combined with the pills would send her blood pressure and blood count plummeting.
He’d come back here and finish coffee, pay his bill and then return to the hospital. He’d take Nurse Renge up with him to check on Katie. Ten minutes later Katie would be in surgery.
She had made it so easy by not having visitors tonight. Of course, he’d been prepared for that possibility. He’d have slipped the heparin into the transfusion she’d be receiving during the operation. That would have been just as effective, but riskier.
The steak was adequate. Odd how hungry he became at times like this. He would have preferred waiting until after it was over to eat, but that would be almost impossible. By the time Katie’s sister was reached it would be well after midnight, since she was
at the opera. He’d wait at the hospital for her, to console her. She’d remember how kind he’d been. He wouldn’t get home until two or three. He couldn’t fast that long.
He permitted himself one glass of wine. He’d have preferred his usual half-bottle, but that was impossible tonight. Nevertheless, the one glass warmed him, made him more alert, helped his mind to rove over the possibilities, to anticipate the unexpected.
This would be the end of the danger. His bag had not shown up. It probably never would. The Salem threat had been eliminated. The papers reported his death as “fell or jumped.” Edna was buried this morning. Vangie Lewis had been interred yesterday. The moccasin in Edna’s drawer would mean nothing to the people who disposed of her shabby belongings.
A terrible week. And so unnecessary. He should be allowed to openly pursue his work. A generation ago artificial insemination was considered outrageous. Now thousands of babies were born that way every year.
Go back hundreds of years. The Arabs used to destroy their enemies by infiltrating their camps and impregnating their mares with cotton soaked with the semen of inferior stallions. Remarkable genius to have planned that.
The doctors who had performed the first successful in vitro fertilization were geniuses.
But his genius surpassed them all. And nothing would stand in the way of his reaping the rewards due him.
The Nobel Prize. Some day he would receive it. For contributions to medicine not imagined possible.
He had single-handedly solved the abortion problem, the sterility problem.
And the tragedy was that if it were known, like Copernicus he would be considered a criminal.
“Did you enjoy your dinner, Doctor?” The waitress was familiar. Oh, yes, he had delivered her some years ago. A boy.
“Very much indeed. And how is your son?”
“Fine, sir. Simply fine.”
“Wonderful.” Incredible this woman and her husband had met his fee, giving him the money saved for a down payment for a home. Well, she’d got what she wanted.
“I’d like cappuccino, please.”
“Certainly, Doctor, but that will take about ten minutes.”
“While you’re getting it, I’ll make some phone calls.” He’d be gone less than ten minutes. Now the waitress wouldn’t miss him.
Through the window he noticed that the snow had stopped. He couldn’t, of course, take his coat from the checkroom. Slipping out the side door near the hall-way with the telephones and rest rooms, he hurried back across the path. The cold bit at his face, but he scarcely noticed it. He was planning every step.
It was easy to keep in the shadows. He had his key to the fire exit in the rear of the maternity wing. No one ever used those stairs. He let himself into the building.
The stairway was brightly lighted. He turned off the switch. He could find his way through this hospital blindfolded. At the third floor he opened the door cautiously, listened. There was no sound. Noiselessly he stepped into the hall. An instant later he was inside the living room of Katie’s suite.
That had been another problem he’d considered. Suppose someone accompanied her to the hospital: her sister, a friend? Suppose that person asked to stay overnight on the sofa bed in the living room? The Westlake Clinic openly encouraged sleeping in if the patient desired it. By ordering this living room repainted, he’d effectively blocked that possibility.
Planning. Planning. It was everything, as useful and necessary in life as in the laboratory.
This afternoon he had left the needle with the heparin in a drawer of an end table under the painter’s drop cloth. The light from the parking lot filtered the window, giving him enough visibility to find the table at once. He reached for the needle.
Now for the most important moment of all. If Katie woke up and saw him, he’d be exposed to danger. Granted, she would probably fall back asleep immediately. Certainly she’d never question the injection. But when he returned with Nurse Renge later, if she was by some chance still conscious, if she said anything about the shot, it would be easy enough to explain: she was confused; she meant when I took the blood samples. Even so. Better if she didn’t wake up now.
He was in the room, bending over her. He reached for her arm. The drapery was partly open. Faint light was coming into the room. He could see her profile. Her face was turned from him. Her breathing was uneven. She was talking in her sleep. He could not catch the words. She must be dreaming.
He slipped the needle into her arm, squeezed. She winced and sighed. Her eyes, cloudy with sleep, opened as she turned her head. In the dim light he could see the enlarged pupils. She looked up at him puzzled. “Dr. Highley,” she murmured, “why did you kill Vangie Lewis?”
♦61♦
Scott Myerson was more tired than angry. Since Vangie Lewis’ body had been found Tuesday morning, two other people had died. Two very decent people—a hard-working receptionist who deserved a few years’ freedom after supporting and caring for aged parents and a doctor who was making a real contribution to medicine.
They had died because he had not moved fast enough. Chris Lewis was a murderer. Scott was sure of that. The web drawing around Lewis was unbreakable. If only they had realized immediately that Vangie Lewis’ death was a homicide. He’d have brought Lewis in for questioning immediately. They might have cracked him. And if they had, Edna Burns and Emmet Salem would be alive now.
Scott couldn’t wait for the chance to get to Lewis. Any man who could murder his pregnant wife was capable of any cold-blooded murder. Lewis proved that. He was the worst kind of criminal. The one who didn’t look or sound the part. The one you trusted and turned your back on.
Lewis and his girlfriend were landing at seven. They should be here by eight. Lewis was cool, all right. Knew better than to run. Thought he could brazen it out. Knows it’s all circumstantial. But circumstantial evidence can be a lot better than eyewitness testimony when properly presented in court. Scott would try the case himself. It would be his pleasure.
At seven fifty, Richard walked into Scott’s office. He did not waste time on preliminaries. “I think we’ve uncovered a cesspool,” he said, “and it’s called the Westlake Maternity Concept.”
“If you’re saying that the shrink was probably playing around with Vangie Lewis, I agree,” Scott said. “But I thought we decided that this afternoon. Anyhow, it’s going to be easy enough to find out. Get blood samples from the fetus and we’ll bring Fukhito in. He can’t refuse to have his blood tested. If he does, it’s an open admission of guilt, and he’d be finished with medicine if another paternity case was proved.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Richard broke in impatiently. “It’s Highley I’m after. I think he’s experimenting with his patients. I just spoke to the husband of one of them. There’s no way he’s the baby’s father, but he was present at the birth. He’s been thinking that his wife agreed to artificial insemination without his permission. I think it goes beyond that. I think Highley is performing artificial insemination without his patients’ knowledge. That’s why they’re able to produce miracle babies under his care.”
Scott snorted. “You mean to say you think Highley would inject Vangie Lewis with the semen of an Oriental father and expect to get away with it? Come on, Richard.”
“Maybe he didn’t know the donor was Oriental. Maybe he made a mistake.”
“Doctors don’t make mistakes like that. Even allowing your theory to be true . . . and frankly, I don’t buy it . . . that doesn’t make him Vangie’s murderer.”
“There’s something wrong with Highley,” Richard insisted. “I’ve felt it from the first minute I laid eyes on him.”
“Look, we’ll investigate Westlake Maternity. That’s no problem. If there’s any kind of violation there, we’ll find it and prosecute it. If you’re right and he’s inseminating women without their consent, well get him. That’s a direct violation of the Offense Against the Person Act. But let’s worry about that later. Right now Chris
Lewis is my first order of business.”
“Do this,” Richard persisted. “Go back further with the check on Highley. I’m already looking into the malpractice suits against him. Some woman, a Mrs. Horan, will be here shortly to tell why she pressed a suit. But the Newsmaker article says he was in Liverpool, in England, before he came here. Let’s phone there and see if we can find any trace of impropriety. They’ll give you that information.”
Scott shrugged. “Sure, go ahead.”
The buzzer on his desk sounded. He switched on the intercom. “Bring him in,” he said. Leaning back on his chair, he looked at Richard.
“The bereaved widower, Captain Lewis, is here with his paramour,” he said.
♦62♦
Dannyboy Duke sat in the precinct house hunched miserably forward in a chair. He was perspiring; his nerves were on edge. His arms were trembling. It was hard to see. In another thirty seconds he’d have been away. He’d be in his apartment now, the blissful release of the fix soaring through his body. Instead, this steamy, sweaty hell.
“Give me a break,” he whispered.
The cops weren’t impressed. “You give us a break, Danny. There’s blood on this paperweight, Danny. Who’d you hit with it? Come on, Danny. We know it wasn’t the old lady whose pocketbook you grabbed last night. You pushed her down. She’s got a broken hip. That’s pretty lousy when you’re seventy-five, Danny. Odds are she’ll end up with pneumonia. Maybe die. That makes it murder two, Dannyboy. You help us, we’ll see what we can do for you, you know?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Danny whispered.
“Sure you do. The doctor’s bag was in your car. So was the pocketbook. The wallet you just grabbed in Alexander’s was in your pocket. We know you stole the bag last night. We’ve got the call right here. The doorman saw you do it in front of the Carlyle Hotel. He can identify you. But who’d you hit with that paperweight, Danny? Tell us about it. And what about that shoe, Danny? Since when do you save beat-up shoes? Tell us about that.”