by Ed McBain
“Why was it necessary for Eileen to take a furnished room? Why couldn’t she come back here? Why couldn’t she come home?”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“Did Claire arrange for the abortion?”
Silence.
“She’s dead, Mrs. Glennon. Nothing you say can hurt her any more.”
“She was a good girl,” Mrs. Glennon said.
“Are you talking about Claire or your daughter?”
Silence.
“Mrs. Glennon,” Carella said very softly, “do you think I like talking about abortion?”
Mrs. Glennon locked up at him but said nothing.
“Do you think I like talking about pregnancy? Do you think I like invading your daughter’s privacy, your daughter’s dignity?” He shook his head tiredly. “A man murdered her, Mrs. Glennon. He slaughtered her like a pig. Won’t you please help us find him?”
“And do you want more killing?” Mrs. Glennon asked suddenly.
“What?”
“Do you want someone else to be killed?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve met my son.” She nodded her head and fell silent again.
“What about him?”
“You see what he did to this fellow here, don’t you? And that was only because the man was questioning me. What do you think he’d do if he found out Eileen was…was—”
“Who are you afraid for, Mrs. Glennon?”
“My son. He’d kill him.”
“Who would he kill?”
“The…the baby’s father.”
“Who? Who is he?”
“No.” She shook her head.
“Mrs. Glennon, we’re cops,” Meyer said angrily. “We’re not gonna go telling your son—”
“I know this neighborhood,” Mrs. Glennon said wisely. “It’s like a small town. If the police know, everyone will know. And then my son will find the man and kill him. No.” She shook her head again. “Take me to jail if you want to; hold me as an access… whatever you called it. Do that. Say that I murdered my own daughter because I was trying to help her. Go ahead. But I won’t have more blood on my hands. No.”
“Did Claire know all this?”
“I don’t know what Claire knew.”
“But she did arrange for your daughter to—”
“I don’t know what she did.”
“Wouldn’t this guy marry your daughter, Mrs. Glennon?” Meyer asked.
Silence.
“I’d like to ask one more question,” Carella said. “I hope you’ll give us the answer. I want you to know, Mrs. Glennon, that all this embarrasses me. I don’t like to talk about it. I don’t like to think about it. But I know you have the answer to this question, and I want it.”
Silence.
“Who performed the abortion?”
Silence.
“Who?”
Silence.
And then, out of the silence, suddenly, “Dr. Madison. In Majesta.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Glennon,” Carella said softly.
In the car on the long drive to Majesta over the Majesta Bridge, spanning two parts of the city, a bridge as old as time, black and sooty against the sky, squat and somber in contrast to its elegant rivals, Meyer and Carella speculated on what it all meant.
“The thing I still can’t understand,” Carella said, “is Claire’s involvement.”
“Me neither. It doesn’t sound like her, Steve.”
“But she sure as hell rented that room.”
“Yes.”
“And she made plans to meet Eileen, so she obviously knew Eileen was going to have an abortion.”
“That’s right,” Meyer said. “But that’s what’s so contradictory. She’s a social worker—and a good one. She knows induced abortion is a felony. She knows if she has anything to do with it, she’s involved as an accessory. Even if she didn’t know it as a social worker, she certainly knew it as a cop’s girlfriend.” Meyer paused. “I wondered if she ever mentioned this to Bert?”
“I don’t know. I think we’re gonna have to ask him, sooner or later.”
“I’m not looking forward to it.”
“So…damn it,” Carella said, “most social workers encourage unwed mothers to have the babies and place them for adoption. Why would Claire…?”
“The son,” Meyer reminded him. “A hot-tempered little snot who’d go looking for the father of the child.”
“Claire’s boyfriend is a cop,” Carella said flatly. “She could have prepared us for that eventuality. We could have scared hell out of young Glennon with just a warning to keep his nose clean. I don’t understand it.”
“Or, for that matter,” Meyer said, “why didn’t Claire try to contact the father—arrange a marriage? I don’t get it. I can’t believe she’d get involved in something like this. I just can’t believe it.”
“Maybe our doctor friend can shed a little light on the subject,” Carella said. “What’d the phone book tell us?”
“A. J. Madison, MD,” Meyer said. “1163 37th, Majesta.”
“That’s near that park where they found the girl, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You think she’d just come from the doctor’s office?”
“I don’t know.”
“That doesn’t sound likely. She was supposed to meet Claire in Isola. She wouldn’t have hung around Majesta. And I doubt if she was sick that soon. Jesus, Meyer, I’m confused as hell.”
“You’re just a lousy detective, that’s all.”
“I know. But I’m still confused as hell.”
Thirty-seventh Avenue was a quiet residential street with brownstone houses approached by low white stoop fronts and shielded from the sidewalk by low wrought-iron fences. The impression was one of serenity and dignity. This could have been a street in Boston or Philadelphia, a subdued street hidden from the ravages of time and the pace of the twentieth century. It wasn’t. It was a street that housed Dr. A. J. Madison, Abortionist.
1163 was in the middle of the block, a brownstone, indistinguishable from the brownstones flanking it, the same low iron fence in black, the same white steps leading to the front door, which was painted a subtle green. A rectangular brass plate was set over the brass bell button. The plate read “A. J. Madison, M.D.” Carella pushed the button. This was a doctor’s office, and he didn’t have to be told the door would be unlocked. He twisted the huge brass knob and he and Meyer stepped into the large reception room. There was a desk set in one corner before a wall of books. The other two walls were done in an expensive textured wallpaper. A Picasso print hung on one wall, and two Braques were on the other. A low coffee table carried the latest issues of Life, Look, and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.
“Doesn’t seem to be anybody home,” Carella said.
“Nurse is probably in back with him,” Meyer said.
They waited. In a moment they heard cushioned footsteps coming down the long hall leading to the reception room. A smiling blonde entered the room. She wore a white smock and white shoes. Her hair was held tightly at the back of her head in a compact bun. Her face was clean-chiseled, with high cheekbones and a sweeping jawline and penetrating blue eyes. She was perhaps forty years old, but she looked like a young matron, the pleasant smile, the alert blue eyes.
“Gentlemen?” she said.
“How do you do?” Carella said. “We’d like to see Dr. Madison, please.”
“Yes?”
“Is he in?” Carella asked.
The woman smiled. “You don’t have an appointment, do you?”
“No,” Meyer said. “Is the doctor in?”
The woman smiled again. “Yes, the doctor is in.”
“Well, would you tell him we’re here, please?”
“Can you tell me what this is in reference to?”
“Police business,” Meyer said flatly.
“Oh?” The woman’s light eyebrows moved ever so slightly. “I see.” She paused. “What…sort
of police business?”
“This is a personal matter we’d like to discuss with the doctor himself, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m afraid you’re talking to ‘the doctor himself,’ “ the woman said.
“What?”
“I’m Dr. Madison.”
“What?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “What is it you want, gentlemen?”
“I think we’d better go into your office, doctor.”
“Why? My nurse is out to lunch, and my next appointment isn’t until two o’clock. We can talk right here. I assume this won’t take long, will it?”
“Well, that depends…”
“What is it? An unreported gunshot wound?”
“It’s a little more than that, Dr. Madison.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Carella took a deep breath. “Dr. Madison, did you perform a criminal abortion on a girl named Eileen Glennon last Saturday?”
Dr. Madison seemed mildly surprised. Her eyebrows moved up an eighth of an inch, and the smile came to her mouth again. “I beg your pardon,” she said.
“I said, Dr. Madison, did you perform a criminal abortion on—”
“Yes, certainly,” Dr. Madison replied. “I perform criminal abortions every Saturday. I have special rates for weekend curettage. Good day, gentlemen.”
She was turning on her heel when Carella said, “Hold it right there, Dr. Madison.”
“Why should I?” Dr. Madison said. “I don’t have to listen to these insults! If this is your idea of a—”
“Yeah, well, you’re liable to be a little more insulted,” Meyer said. “Eileen Glennon is dead.”
“I am very sorry to hear that, but I have no idea who the girl is or why you should possibly connect me—”
“Her mother gave us your name, Dr. Madison. Now she didn’t pick the name out of a hat, did she?”
“I have no idea where she picked it—or why. I don’t know anyone named Eileen Glennon, and I have certainly never performed a criminal abortion in my life. I have a respectable practice and I wouldn’t endanger it for—”
“What’s your speciality, Dr. Madison?”
“I’m a general practitioner.”
“Must be pretty tough, huh? For a woman doctor to make a living?”
“I do very well, thank you. Your solicitude is wasted. If you’re finished with me, I have other things to—”
“Hold it, Dr. Madison. Stop running for that back room, huh? This isn’t gonna be that easy.”
“What do you want from me?” Dr. Madison asked.
“We want you to tell us what happened here Saturday morning.”
“Nothing. I wasn’t even here Saturday morning. Office hours start at two.”
“What time did Eileen Glennon arrive?”
“I have no idea who Eileen Glennon is.”
“She’s the girl you operated on last Saturday,” Meyer said. “She’s the girl who dropped dead of a uterine hemorrhage in the park six blocks from here. That’s who she is, Dr. Madison.”
“I performed no operation last Saturday.”
“What time did she get here?”
“This is absurd, and a waste of time. If she wasn’t here, I’m certainly not going to say she was.”
“Did you know she was dead?”
“I didn’t even know she was alive. I’m sure she was a very nice little girl, but—”
“Why do you call her little, Dr. Madison?”
“What?”
“You just called her a nice little girl. Why?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. Wasn’t she a nice little girl?”
“Yeah, but how did you know?”
“How did I know what?” Dr. Madison said angrily.
“That she was only sixteen years old.”
“I didn’t, and I don’t. I never heard of Eileen Glennon until just a few moments ago.”
“Didn’t you read yesterday’s paper?”
“No. I rarely have time for anything but the professional journals.”
“When’s the last time you did read a newspaper, Dr. Madison?”
“I don’t remember. Wednesday, Thursday, I don’t remember. I just told you—”
“Then you didn’t know she was dead.”
“No. I told you that already. Are we finished now?”
“What time did you operate on her, Dr. Madison?”
“I didn’t. Nor do I see how you can possibly show that I did. You just told me the girl is dead. She can’t testify to having had an abortion, and—”
“Oh, she came here alone then, huh?”
“She didn’t come here at all. She’s dead, and that’s that. I never saw her or heard of her in my life.”
“Ever hear of Claire Townsend?” Carella snapped.
“What?”
He decided to take a chance. She had just told him she hadn’t seen a newspaper since the middle of last week, before Claire was killed. So, out of the blue, and knowing it was a wild gamble, he said, “Claire Townsend’s still alive. She told us she arranged an abortion for Eileen Glennon. With you, Dr. Madison. Now how about it?”
The room went silent.
“I think you’d better come downtown and discuss this with Claire personally, huh?” Meyer said.
“I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think Claire would tell us, huh? Well, she did. Now how about it?”
“I had nothing to do with the girl’s death,” Dr. Madison said.
“No. Then who committed the abortion?”
“I had nothing to do with her death!”
“Where’d you perform the operation?”
“Here.”
“Saturday morning?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“She got here at ten.”
“And you operated when?”
“At about ten-fifteen.”
“Who assisted?”
“I don’t have to tell you that. There was a nurse and an anesthetist. I don’t have to tell you who they were.”
“An anesthetist? That’s a little unusual, isn’t it?”
“I’m not a butcher!” Dr. Madison said angrily. “I performed the kind of operation she could have got from a gynecologist in a hospital. I observed every rule of proper aseptic surgical technique.”
“Yeah, that’s very interesting,” Carella said, “since the girl had a septic infection in addition to the goddamn hemorrhage. What’d you use on her? A rusty hatpin?”
“Don’t you dare!” Dr. Madison shouted, and she rushed at Carella with her hand raised, the fist clenched in a hopelessly female attack, her eyes blazing. He caught her arm at the wrist and held her away from him, trembling and enraged.
“Now take it easy,” he said.
“Let go of me!”
“Take it easy.”
She pulled her wrist from his grasp. She rubbed the wrist with her left hand, glaring at Carella. “The girl had proper care,” she said. “She was under general anesthesia for the dilatation and curettage.”
“But she died,” Carella said.
“That wasn’t my fault! I told her to go directly to bed when she left here. Instead, she—”
“Instead she what?”
“She came back!”
“Here?”
“Yes, here.”
“When was this?”
“Saturday night. She told me Miss Townsend hadn’t met her where she was supposed to. She said she couldn’t go back home, and she begged me to take her in for the night.” Dr. Madison shook her head. “I couldn’t do that. I told her to go to a hospital. I gave her the name of a hospital. They would have treated her.” Dr. Madison shook her head again.
“She didn’t go to any hospital, Dr. Madison. She was probably too frightened.” He paused. “How sick was she when she came here Saturday night?”
“She didn’t seem ill. She only seemed confused.”
“Was she hemorrhaging?”
“Of cour
se not! Do you think I’d have let her go if—I’m a doctor!”
“Yeah,” Carella said dryly. “Who happens to perform abortions on the side.”
“Have you ever carried an unwanted child?” Dr. Madison said slowly and evenly. “I have.”
“And that makes everything all right, does it?”
“I was trying to help that little girl. I was offering her escape from a situation she didn’t ask for.”
“You gave her escape, all right,” Meyer said.
“How much did you charge for her murder?” Carella said.
“I didn’t murder!”
“How much?”
“Fi…five hundred dollars.”
“Where would Eileen Glennon get five hundred dollars?”
“I…I don’t know. Miss Townsend gave me the money.”
“When did you and Claire arrange all this?”
“Two…two weeks ago.”
“How’d she get onto you?”
“A friend told her about me. Why don’t you ask her? Didn’t she tell you all this?”
Carella ignored the question. “How long was Eileen pregnant?” he asked.
“She was in her second month.”
“Then…since the beginning of September, would you say?”
“Yes, I would guess so.”
“All right, Dr. Madison, get your coat. You’re coming with us.”
Dr. Madison seemed suddenly confused. “My…my patients,” she said.
“You can forget all about your patients from now on,” Meyer said.
“Why? What did I do wrong? Try to save a little girl from unwanted misery? Is that so wrong?”
“Abortion is against the law. You knew that, Dr. Madison.”
“It shouldn’t be!”
“It is. We don’t write them, lady.”
“I was helping her!” Dr. Madison said. “I was only—”
“You killed her,” Meyer said.
But his voice lacked conviction, and he put the handcuffs on her wrists without another word.
FIRST COUNT
The Grand Jury of Majesta, by this indictment, accuse the defendant, Alice Jean Madison, of the crime of abortion, in violation of Sections 2 and 80 of the Penal Law of this state, committed as follows:
The defendant, on or about October 14 at 1163 37th Avenue, Majesta, did unlawfully, feloniously, and willfully use and employ a certain instrument on Eileen Glennon with intent thereby to procure the miscarriage of said Eileen Glennon, the same not being necessary to preserve the life of the said Eileen Glennon or the life of the child with which she was then pregnant.
