George Harmon Coxe Read online

  She hesitated and said: “Maybe she looked at that marriage the same way I would if he actually asked me. She’d given it a try. She at least had a child. She must have figured out there was no future in it any longer. Why should there be for me? I don’t mean that Ralph couldn’t still make it. He’s good. He always has been. He had a lot of drive.”

  “He still has.”

  “He doesn’t have Bobby Hackett’s tone,” she said as though she had not heard, “but who has? Maybe Ruby Braff’s lower-register work is a little better but Ralph is an all-around trumpet man. Anyone who ever worked with him can tell you that. He can do anything. Also he’s a pretty fair country arranger. No Neal Hefti maybe, but sound. You know? But—where does he go from here?

  “Maybe,” she added, very earnest now, “Ralph wasn’t tough enough. I mean, in any part of the entertainment business, you have to learn to be tough. You do what you have to do, and never mind who gets hurt. If you don’t everybody will push you around and you’ll wind up wondering what happened to all your dreams.”

  Standish knew what she meant and thought she had expressed herself very well. He also remembered something that Estey had told him Friday night. “He told me the other night that he had some things lined up.”

  “Good horn players like Ralph always have things lined up, according to them. He said he had a couple of record dates on tap for this summer and I know he’s been talking with a couple of jazz buffs in Boston. Rich kids—you know, amateurs—who are thinking about opening a spot up there. I don’t know whether it’s supposed to be a new place or whether they hope to buy out another club. The idea is to put in someone to handle the food and let Ralph take over the band and the entertainment. . . . I don’t mean to say I’d never marry Ralph,” she said. “But right now—I mean, the way things are—I wouldn’t, no. I don’t think he expects me to. . . . What are we stopping here for?”

  Standish had pulled up in front of the remodeled brick house that served as offices for him and four other doctors.

  “This is where my office is,” he said, and grinned at her. “Across the hall you’ll find a pediatrician and a urologist. Upstairs two psychiatrists.”

  “But—I thought you were going to take me home.”

  “I am. But first I want to give you a couple of capsules that will relax you a little. . . . Come on,” he said, walking round the car and opening the door on her side. “I’d like you to meet my girl Friday, Mary Hayward. It won’t take but a minute or two and after that we’ll take you home. Okay?” Mary Hayward was sitting behind her desk in a comer of the reception room which was set apart on one side by a glass partition. She stood up when she spotted Standish and said, formally: “Good morning, Doctor.” At the same time and before Standish could make any introduction, she took a quick but all-inclusive look at Sheila Keith that seemed to assess her from head to toe.

  “Mary, this is Sheila Keith—Mary Hayward. . . . You remember Sheila from Hennessey’s, don’t you?”

  “Certainly,” Mary said, and offered a guarded smile. “How are you?”

  “Hello, Mary. I’m not quite sure I know how I am,” Sheila said, returning the smile. “The doctor seems to think I need some sort of tranquilizer. At least that’s what he said.” Standish had left the office before Mary Hayward came on duty but he had talked to her over the telephone and she knew about the autopsy he had performed as well as the essential facts of the murder of the night before.

  “The police have been looking for Ralph Estey,” Standish said. “You know, the trumpet player that leads the band at Hennessey’s.”

  “Oh?” Marys brow furrowed slightly as she looked again at Sheila. “Because they think he had something to do with the murder?”

  “They don’t know,” Standish said. “They just want to question him. So far they haven’t been able to locate him. . . . Estey’s a friend of Sheila’s, and Lieutenant Ballard’s had her down at his office most of the morning.”

  “They insist on thinking that Ralph must have had something to do with it,” Sheila said. “I keep telling them he didn’t but they’re awfully hard to convince.”

  She continued to add to her own denial while Standish excused himself and went into his examining room, where he opened a glass cabinet and found a bottle of capsules. He tipped two into his hand and replaced the bottle. He put one capsule into a small envelope and kept the other in his palm while he got a glass of water.

  “Take this one now,” he said when he went back to Sheila. “You can take the other before you go to work.” He handed her the envelope. “Or maybe you don’t feel like working tonight. Is there anyone who could take over for you?”

  “Madge Kane could handle it, I guess. She’s been helping me out Saturday nights the last couple of months, but— no, I don’t think so.” She shook her head to give emphasis to her decision. “I’d rather work. It’s a lot better than sitting home and doing nothing.”

  “I told Sheila I’d run her home, Mary,” Standish said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Mary Hayward frowned and this time she was the one who shook her head. When on duty she was very jealous of the doctor’s time, his prerogatives, and possibly his affections. The reminder she now gave him was pleasant but firm.

  “You have appointments starting at one, Doctor.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s twelve-thirty now. Have you had anything to eat?”

  “Well”—the directness of this reminder flustered him momentarily and he hesitated—“no. I can order a sandwich sent over from the corner drugstore.”

  “Yes,” Mary said. “You do that and I’ll run Miss Keith home.”

  “Nobody has to run me home,” Sheila said. “No, I mean it,” she added to forestall any protest. “I only live two blocks from here.” She looked at Standish and smiled. “As a matter of fact, my place is on the street in back of you. Don’t you keep your car in that row of garages in the alley between the two streets?”

  “Yes,” Standish said, having no idea until now where the girl lived.

  “So do I. I thought I’d seen you drive out of there.” She buttoned her coat and tucked her handbag under her arm as she backed toward the door. “It’s a nice day and I could use the exercise. I’ve done nothing but sit ever since that police car came to get me. . . . Good-by, Miss Hayward.” She nodded and now she gave Standish the practiced smile he had noticed so often at Hennessey’s. “And thank you, Doctor. I’m beginning to feel better already.”

  7

  MARY HAYWARD stood for a moment watching the door Sheila Keith had closed. She was clad in nurse’s white, since Standish could not yet afford a nurse and a secretary, but the uniform detracted not at all from her firmly rounded figure that was more slender than buxom but definitely not boyish. Her legs were trim and shapely and her complexion could stand on its own, with or without makeup. She had medium-brown hair, gray eyes, and a no-nonsense manner while on duty. But this could change when the occasion demanded, making her a softly feminine and altogether charming young lady who would be twenty-four on her next birthday.

  Now, turning, the gray eyes speculative as she watched Standish, she said: “She’s very attractive, isn’t she?” Standish sensed some challenge here but he was not sure why. “Well—yes. I think so.”

  “Smart too, I’ll bet.”

  “She’s been around, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Then maybe ‘experienced’ is a better word. Did she talk much on her ride over?”

  “Quite a lot.” Standish grinned and decided it might be wise to change the subject. “What about my sandwich?”

  “I’ll order it right now,” she said, and reached for the telephone. “What kind?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not too hungry. A tuna-fish on white, I guess. Milk. Have you eaten?”

  “No.” She smiled ingenuously. “I thought I’d wait for you —I mean, in case you decided to have something sent in.” She dialed a number, gave Standish’s order, asked for a ham-on-rye and coffee for h
erself. This told Standish he was in for an inquisition of sorts, a confidential chat during which the normal doctor-nurse relationship was suspended as if by mutual consent. He smiled inwardly at the thought. He was glad that there would not be much time, and he was ready when she laid out the sandwiches and poured his milk.

  For it was Mary’s custom to take a specified hour for lunch, usually in the company of some friends who worked in the neighborhood. Normally she kept her curiosity in hand regarding his patients. She did not ask improper questions or attempt to discuss their problems, ailments, or treatment. This lack of curiosity did not always apply to Standish’s duties as a medical examiner even though she was outspoken in her disapproval of such activities. At such times she contrived, for one reason or another, to decide on a sandwich in the office. The way she managed it was always quite fortuitous and there was never any suggestion that she was deliberately making the opportunity for confidential sessions.

  This time she had heard about the murder and wanted to know more. The appearance of Sheila Keith had apparently whetted her appetite for information, and as Standish answered her opening questions he found himself mentally comparing the two girls.

  From what Sheila had told him, she was about a year older than Mary. Each girl was most attractive in her own way, though Mary’s prettiness, perhaps because of her background, was less artificial and more wholesome. It occurred to him that Sheila might be more exciting but since this was only conjecture on his part he did not dwell on it now.

  Mary had come from New Hampshire. By the time she finished high school, her father, a widower, was a semi-invalid and Mary had worked in the town library so she could contribute to the family income and at the same time keep house for her father. A small-town lawyer, he had been a long-time friend of Dr. Lathrop’s, and when he died it was Lathrop who suggested that Maty might try nursing as a career.

  Taking his suggestion, she had come to Union City. She had had one year as a student nurse when an attack of hepatitis which was unusually persistent forced her to drop out. By the time she had fully recovered, Standish was about to open his office and again it was Lathrop who recommended Mary for the one-woman job, all that Standish could afford at the time.

  Now, having learned the details of last night’s murder and the altercation over Sheila Keith that had preceded it on Friday night, she gathered the wax paper from the sandwiches and stuffed it into the cardboard containers. When she had discarded them and made sure there were no crumbs about, she glanced at her watch.

  “Mrs. Davis is first,” she said. “She wanted to discuss her hypertension with you.”

  Standish nodded, but his recent recital of details involving the Flemming murder had revived his interest and his doubts and now, deciding he would take one more unofficial step, he said:

  “When you get a chance, and the sooner the better, Mary, I want you to set up an appointment for me in my office at the morgue. Make it between four-thirty and five if you can. I’d like to see Mr. and Mrs. Warren Choate. You can try their residence for her and his office for him. Choate & Tremaine. Elm Street, I think. The City National Bank Building.” He waited while she made the notation on her pad. “Also Mrs. Robert Tremaine. I think her first name is Evelyn. And Donald Tremaine. He’s a C.P.A. with Roberts & Waterman. You’ll find them in the book.”

  Mary had it all down before she looked at him and suddenly there was a glimmer of doubt and suspicion in the gray eyes.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Oh what?”

  “I think I remember the names. Weren’t some of those people involved in that accident outside Hennessey’s last December?”

  “They were. Mrs. Tremaine’s husband was run down and killed.”

  “By a man named Flemming.” Her eyes were suddenly startled and intent. “You’re not saying this is the same Flemming that—”

  “The same, Mary.”

  She was still watching him but she seemed to have trouble digesting this new discovery and finding a proper reply.

  “But what—” She tried again. “I mean—do you think there’s any connection between that accident and—”

  “‘I don’t know.”

  “But you must think something like that.”

  “Not think, Mary. I’m just wondering. I’d sort of like to see them again.”

  “You can’t ask them officially, can you?”

  “Probably not. But they don’t know that.”

  “Suppose I can’t locate all of them?”

  “Then do the best you can.”

  “But what can I say to them?” she said, still resisting. “What excuse do I give?”

  It was a good question and because Standish had no ready answer he had to feel his way along.

  “Just say I’m reviewing the case before filing it. Or that 1 want corroboration on one or two points before closing the case. Something like that. Make it sound as if they’re doing me a favor.”

  Mary straightened her shoulders and smoothed down her uniform but her own uncertainty still showed in her face.

  “All right, Doctor,” she said, formal once more. “But would you mind telling me why? That case is already closed. You said so yourself. It was your testimony at the hearing that made it possible.”

  Standish had not mentioned the chloral hydrate to Mary and he did not do so now.

  “Maybe Flemming’s death reopened it,” he said evenly. “I don’t think that murder is as cut and dried as Ballard would like to believe. There was considerable insurance money involved in Robert Tremaine’s death. I remember something about it because the insurance adjusters questioned me. Let’s just say I’d like to refresh my memory.”

  He glanced at his watch, making the gesture obvious and deliberate to stop any further questioning.

  “Who did you say was first on the book? Mrs. Davis? You might see if she’s here.”

  Mary knew when she was dismissed but she did not give up easily. She stopped at the door to consult her notebook.

  “All right, Doctor,” she said primly. “But you’ll not forget the Jordan boy’s throat, will you? I told his mother you’d stop in sometime later this afternoon.”

  “Okay, I’ll see him.”

  “And Mrs. Lathrop.”

  “Mrs. Lathrop,” he said with some exasperation.

  “She’s very wealthy,” Mary Hayward said. “She has wealthy friends. She’s complaining about some new pain around her heart.”

  “And shortness of breath. Because she stuffs herself and won’t exercise or follow the diet I gave her.”

  “You’ll go see her, though. I told her you would. And Mrs. Naylor called again this morning.”

  “No, Mary, I will not.”

  “But, Doctor.”

  Standish grinned crookedly. “There’s nothing wrong with her stomach. What she needs is a psychiatrist and I told her so. Her trouble is nothing more than an ingrown streak of jealousy combined with a guilt complex that crops up when she misbehaves. If she calls again tell her you’ll make an appointment for her with Dr. Mason upstairs. . . . Will you ask Mrs. Davis to step in, please?”

  8

  THE MORGUE in Union City was a small red-brick building with a granite-trimmed entrance. Two and a half stories high and built like a cube with no distinguishing features, it stood adjacent to the hospital complex. A ramp discreetly located at the back gave access to the basement, which was half aboveground, and stone steps with wrought-iron railings led to the main floor, where the city had provided offices for the medical examiner and his official files. To the left of the entrance hall was a seldom-used record room, and stairs led to the second floor, which was divided between the autopsy rooms and the city chemist’s laboratory.

  Paul Standish’s principal domain was on the right, a modest two-room suite no different from thousands of other small business enterprises. The outer office, occupied at present by a middle-aged spinster secretary, had a solid wall of green-metal filing cabinets and now, at ten minutes to fiv
e, Standish, having seen both the Jordan boy and Mrs. Lathrop, stopped in front of her desk.

  “Mrs. Tremaine, Donald Tremaine, and Mr. Choate are inside.”

  “Have they been here long?”

  “Just a few minutes. . . . Oh, yes, and Mary phoned to say she had been unable to locate Mrs. Choate.”

  Standish discarded his hat and coat, and as he turned to the door of his private office, he recalled his earlier conversation with Mary Hayward and remembered her look of shock and surprise when he told her what he had in mind. Until now he’d been too busy to wonder what he was going to say or what he expected to prove, and for the first time a definite sense of doubt and uncertainty made itself felt.

  At the moment, had there been a chance, he would have backed away from this meeting. One part of his brain told him to forget the whole thing but the other part, the medical-examiner part, kept telling him that it was his job to know the truth no matter where the search took him. There was perhaps another factor. This, although he probably did not recognize it, was a perverse desire to ignore the simple facts of murder as Ballard had them. There was a second or two when it occurred to him that this desire was ill-founded, but even as such thoughts undermined his determination, he realized he no longer had any alternative. And so, taking a small breath and putting on what he hoped would be a bland and businesslike expression, he opened the door.

  He saw at once that Evelyn Tremaine and Warren Choate had appropriated the one leather divan that stood opposite the windows. Donald Tremaine had a matching chair diagonally across from them. They all looked up as he entered and he nodded politely and said good afternoon.

  They said: “Good afternoon, Doctor,” almost in unison as he went round the desk and sat down.

  He had taken the Tremaine file from the other room early that morning after he had finished the post-mortem. He had glanced through it briefly before putting it in the center drawer of the desk. Now, as he spread the papers before him, he took a second, all-inclusive glance at the trio.