“Do you?”
Ivy was silent. Finally she said, “I’ve told the police, but they don’t believe me.” She turned and glanced into a mirror; automatically, her hand reached to her hair and gently patted it into place. Hoffman waited by the door, his hand on the knob. She withdrew her attention from the mirror. “You don’t approve of me, do you?” she asked.
Almost gently, Hoffman replied, “I neither approve nor disapprove. What I believe isn’t important, but what you believe… is.” He turned the door knob and added, “And what Cyrus March believes… is important, too.”
Stepping into the corridor, Hoffman walked down the hall and took an elevator to the lobby. As he crossed the foyer, he saw a small group clustered at the foot of the steps outside the hotel entrance. Near the center of the group was Cyrus March. In the early dusk, his face filled with pools of shadow, he looked gaunt and haggard. Although the evening coolness was descending, beads of sweat glistened across March’s forehead. The medical mind of Hoffman immediately diagnosed the perspiration: withdrawal symptoms.
Hoffman stopped, and stood inside the door of the hotel, as he listened to the rising voices. He could hear March’s voice in particular, strident and tinged with irritation.
“Stop following me,” March said. “You’re wasting your time.”
“C’mon, Cy,” one of the reporters casually replied, “what’s happened to Ivy Lorents?”
The attorney, normally courteous, now attempted to push past a large, balding reporter. Jack Barker, newly assigned to the crime run on the Los Angeles Register, shoved back. Barker was a man of mediocre ability, and had served—without distinction—for nine years on the paper before temporarily replacing Truman, the regular man on the courthouse beat. Truman, indisposed, was well known to March; the attorney did not know Barker, the replacement.
Barker stared angrily at March. “Don’t shove me around,” he warned.
March took a step backward in surprise. Swallowing his irritation, the attorney regarded the belligerent reporter. “If I shoved you, I apologize,” he said. “Now, if you’ll step out of my way, I’ll mind my business, and I suggest you do the same.”
Amusement rippled over the other newsmen as Barker flushed and involuntarily moved aside. Then catching himself, Barker stopped and planted his thick legs stubbornly. “What about Ivy Lorents?” he demanded.
“What about her?” March asked blandly.
“What’s she doing?”
“About now? Talking to her doctor I presume.”
Barker tightened at the slighting tone in March’s voice. “Where is she?”
“With her doctor… naturally.”
Barker surveyed March carefully. The attorney was standing quietly now, almost patiently, as if awaiting his next question. “You know God-damn-good-and-well what I mean! Where’s Ivy Lorents and where’s the doctor?”
“Where doctors usually are,” March replied. He ran a hand across his head. In the quickly falling light, the tremble passed unnoticed. March turned to the attentive reporters. “If you’ll check my office in the morning,” he told them, “I may have some news then.”
But Barker was not to be put off. “Is she staying here at the Claymore?” he asked.
“I suggest you check at the desk to find out.”
“If she isn’t… then what are you doing here?”
March smiled slowly. His lips drew back in a thin, cold, contemptuous grin, as he stared levelly at Barker. “Mr. Vetter, the manager, is a personal friend of mine. I’m stopping to make arrangements for a large luncheon next week at the hotel.”
Barker sneered. “What luncheon’s that?”
“The WCTU and Alcoholics Anonymous are combining,” March explained pleasantly. “From now on, they’re putting all their bottles in one basket.” Turning, the attorney walked quickly up the steps to the hotel, feeling the hot gaze of Barker’s anger on his back.
Inside the lobby, March paused wearily and leaned against an ornately carved pillar. He jammed his hands in his pockets to control his nervousness. Beside him he heard the voice of Hoffman. “That was quite a scene.”
March nodded. “It was that…” He breathed deeply, almost sighing. “That one SOB… lost my temper.” Again he wiped the perspiration from his brow. “I made a mistake. I admit it.”
“Sick?” the doctor asked, casually observing March’s face.
“I’ve been sicker, Pete,” March replied. Then he asked, “Have you talked to Ivy yet?”
Hoffman reached in his pocket and removed a small cardboard folder containing half a dozen capsules. Removing one, he handed it to March. “Can you take this without water?” March nodded, and quickly swallowed the sedative. “Yes… I’ve talked with her,” the psychiatrist continued. “Do you want to call me later?”
“No. Now. Here.” March glanced over his shoulder at the door, through which he could see Barker and a few lingering reporters. “If the boys decide to come in, they’ll see me talking to you and probably’ll think you’re Vetter.” He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. “What’s your opinion about her, Pete?”
“She’s perfectly in control of herself. What her condition was the night of the shooting, I can’t say. Too much time has elapsed to form a judgment,” Hoffman replied.
“That’s not much help.”
“Put it this way. She told me that she couldn’t remember much from the moment she pointed the gun until after the police arrived and took her downtown. She claims that she was so filled with terror that she didn’t know what she was doing, and can’t recall what she said afterwards. This could be considered a normal reaction. Certainly, it gives you some leeway if she changes her story. I could support that.”
March thought a moment. “Were you able to reach any… personality conclusions?”
Hoffman considered March silently before replying. “Why do you ask that? This isn’t a personality… or beauty contest, is it?”
The attorney shrugged impatiently. “I have to have some yardstick to evaluate her story. I haven’t heard it yet.” He took another deep drag from his cigarette, slipping away, lost in thought. Hoffman waited patiently. After some seconds March aroused himself and returned to the conversation. “What kind of a witness would she make for herself? Could she hold up under a tough cross examination?”
“From what she’s told me, and from her past activities such as modeling and acting, I’m inclined to believe that she is a narcissist.”
“You mean she’s proud… vain of her own looks?”
“Yes, and over interested in her own self-comfort. But it also goes deeper than that. Of course with only this one visit, it’s ridiculous to infer that I’ve made any kind of a psychoanalysis.” Hoffman firmly grasped March’s arm and led him to a large chair in the lobby. The attorney’s face was white and sallow, and his hands were clenched tightly. “Sit down, Cy,” Hoffman urged. “Breathe deeply. Take deep breaths, as deep as you can.”
March sprawled in the chair, following Hoffman’s quiet instructions. In a few minutes, the attorney relaxed and opened his eyes. “All right, Pete,” he said. “I feel better. Keep going…”
“About Ivy Lorents?”
“Yes. What else about a narcissist?”
“In general the term narcissism has another meaning—arrested or regressive sexual development.”
“In love with herself?”
“Possibly… that’s one way of expressing it.”
“Frigidity?”
“That also can be present.”
“What else? So far we have vanity, indulgence, self-love and frigidity. What’s next?”
Hoffman continued, “A true narcissist also has two other consuming interests, as a rule. An excessive interest in his, or her, own importance… and a great pride in his ability… or talent.”
March stirred in his chair. His attention was focused on Hoffman. “But these are pretty common frailties, or faults, or what have you… aren’t they, Pete?” He took another breath from an inhaler H
offman had given him and slipped it in his pocket. “I feel that’s a pretty good description of myself, as a matter-of-fact.”
“Everyone, I suppose, has certain narcissistic traits. A person would have to, in order to live in this world,” Hoffman agreed. “It’s only when these traits are developed to excess that they can damage a personality.”
“For instance…?”
“Well… like when not believing that what applies to other people also applies to him.”
“You’re not saying he doesn’t know the difference between right and wrong?” March leaned forward in his chair.
“Of course not! He knows very well what’s right and wrong. The point is, he doesn’t believe that he can do wrong. He’s always right.”
“Is this true of Ivy Lorents?”
Hoffman studied the set attention on March’s face. The attorney’s eyes bored feverishly at the psychiatrist. The thought flashed to the doctor that he should suggest that March go to a hospital, rest for a few days, recover his health before starting this new case. But, from past experience with the lawyer, Hoffman dismissed the thought, knowing the suggestion would be disregarded. Instead, he replied to March’s question. “I don’t know how much I’ve said—in full or in part—applies to her,” he told March frankly. “I’ve merely scratched the surface. She is an exceptionally beautiful woman. Intelligent. Seemingly well educated. And regarding her capacity as a witness—I have a hunch that she is highly emotional, although she conceals it well.”
“Is there any point in seeing her again?”
Hoffman replied thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t accomplish much. There isn’t enough time. To find all the answers might take… years.”
March mused, “A lesser face than hers once launched a thousand ships.”
The doctor rose to his feet and glanced down at March sprawled in his chair. “Yes,” Hoffman agreed, “and Odysseus was an old man when he returned home after the trip.” Straightening his suit jacket, he studied March for a moment. “I’m going now. If you want me, give me a call…”
After the doctor had gone, March remained in deep thought. All that March had really wanted from Hoffman was the necessary help to throw doubt on Ivy Lorents’ competency at the time she gave her first account of the shooting to the police. In this, despite his expertise, Hoffman had been able to cooperate only to a limited extent.
It was the doctor’s other observations concerning Ivy, which now gave March speculation. Hoffman’s remarks bothered him, March admitted to himself wryly, in a personal way more than in his professional role.
But, the attorney told himself hopefully, Hoffman had admitted that everyone possessed some of the traits he had attributed to Ivy Lorents. Unconscious exaggeration, through Hoffman’s own over-interest in the subject of psychiatry, could result in a distortion of opinion. To some extent, Hoffman had acknowledged this when he admitted that his examination of Ivy had been too brief.
March turned in his chair to look in the direction of the front door. The reporters were no longer in sight. He hoisted himself to his feet, and started across the lobby to the elevators.
CHAPTER NINE
As I stood before 1104 and stared at the door of Ivy Lorents, a great feeling of expectancy swept me up. The door! Life has seemed to be a great corridor stretching through the years, and from the corridor open many doors. You open each—one by one, and you find—whatever is behind it. Always something is there—hope or despair, happiness-misery, beauty-ugliness, wealth-poverty. Of course a man has a choice—he may open them or not. But he walks the corridor only once. And once you pass a door—leaving it closed—you can’t go back.
And, in a way, my life with Beatrice had been composed of many doors—opening onto many vistas. As she had opened them, I had looked beyond the doors, over her shoulder, and I had seen a new world through her eyes. A man is made up of the women he has known, or he has failed to know, and in Beatrice I had found many women. And through her I had discovered many things worth discovering. The glow of colors, the ache of beauty, the delight of sound, the mystery of scent. And, of course, the touch of love—enveloping, unbearable, and exquisite. It was as if I’d possessed a second pair of eyes, another mind.
After she had opened the doors and we had enjoyed them, they had been slammed shut forever. I could only remember the old joys. It is said that all men are born with a memory of the Lost Garden. But I had acquired mine in my own lifetime, and I remembered it too distinctly after losing it.
Raising my hand, I knocked at the door. Ivy Lorents opened it. “Come in,” she said.
I walked into the small living room. From it extended a bedroom. It was typical—a pleasant, impersonally decorated hotel suite. “Are you comfortable?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” she replied, closing the door. She followed me and pointed to a great bouquet of jonquils. “Mr. Vetter sent them up,” she explained.
“They’re nice,” I told her.
“I love them!” she exclaimed.
Suddenly I felt my hands were too large, and my feet mismated. Words evaded me with ease. Finally I said, “The flowers are the same color as your robe.”
She was pleased. “Yes. Aren’t they.”
There was a silence. Finally, I heard my own voice saying, “We have a lot to do. Shall we get started?”
Nodding, she seated herself on a small sofa. I drew up a chair across from her, separated by a coffee table. She folded her hands in her lap, her eyes fixed on my face, waiting. Again I felt the reluctance to bring up the subject which we both had to discuss. She broke my indecision by saying, “Dr. Hoffman was here…”
“Yes. I met him in the lobby.” I was remembering with a start, that I knew very little, actually, about the case. Only what I had read from the newspaper clippings and Taylor’s hurried notes. My reluctance vanished and it was replaced with urgency. I wanted to listen to her story. To hear it from her own lips. “Will you tell me what happened… that night?” I asked.
She lifted a delicate hand from her lap and touched a knotted handkerchief to the corner of her lips. “Now?” she asked without emotion.
“Yes. The sooner I know the facts, the sooner I can start my job.”
The greenness of her eyes again surprised me. She turned them from my face. “I’d been out that night with Robert…” she began.
“Robert Knox?”
“Yes. We’d been to a play at the Hartford. When it was over, we went to have… a late supper… when we returned to my apartment I left Knox at the door and entered alone.
“I was wearing a stole, and I dropped the fur on an occasional chair right near the door. I was too tired to hang it up. Then I switched on a light… just one little lamp. Next, I turned on some music… the apartment sounded… so terribly quiet that time of night.” After showering she returned to turn off the light and the radio. It was then she saw the strange figure at the window.
“Did you call out?”
“I was too frightened to make a sound!” She stopped, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue before she went on. “There was a revolver in a drawer right beside me. I picked it up and pointed it… and just pulled the trigger.” She lowered her head, and I could see her shoulders tremble. “That’s all…”
“There’s more,” I urged her. “Keep talking. You’re doing fine… and you’ll have to do it many more times.”
Ivy caught her breath sharply; she continued. The police arrived and then the events became a matter of record.
After that, we were quiet for some time. I thought over what Ivy had told me, while she sat motionless on the sofa. Finally, I took up the questions again. “I’m going to have to ask you some definite and perhaps repetitive questions,” I warned her, “questions regarding certain points. Try to recall as distinctly as you can.” Ivy silently gestured a hand in agreement. “First, you had no idea that the figure you saw by the window was Arthea Simpson?”
“Not the slightest.”
“How did she get
in?”
“I can’t guess how.”
“Was there a chain on the door?”
“There isn’t any chain. But I’m pretty sure… well, at least I think I am… that I heard the door click… the lock click, that is.”
“How well did you know Arthea Simpson?”
“Only… fairly well…”
“She wasn’t a close friend of yours?”
“Not really.” Ivy’s hands began to work the knotted handkerchief. “I met her… about a year ago.”
“What would have brought, say… a casual friend… to your apartment at two o’clock in the morning?”
Tears welled in her eyes. Their sudden appearance surprised me. I remembered Hoffman’s observation that she was emotional, but after all, I couldn’t blame her. Most women, under the circumstances, would’ve been crying their eyes out. “I told you… I didn’t know her very well. I don’t know why she came…”
Often, a defense attorney works on instinct alone… or instinct mixed with a little understanding of human nature. Perhaps it was my own nerves, or possibly my mind wasn’t working too clearly, but I felt an empathy for Ivy Lorents that I had never felt for any other client; and certainly I felt her magnetic pull as a woman. Her explanation was simple enough, and straightforward. But I still couldn’t quite grasp it. Partly, I blamed my lack of comprehension on my hangover. The other part could be attributed to Ivy’s own state of mind. Her thoughts were still fuzzy from the shock of her experience. I’d seen it happen before, with other clients; occasionally, it took a long time to get a clear understanding of what had really happened.
I stood up and walked restlessly to a table on which a thermos stood. I poured myself a glass of water. “I have some brandy,” Ivy offered, watching me. “Would you like a drink?”
A thousand small needles punched holes all over my body, and from each hole, a nerve end sprang out like a coiled spring. Each nerve was twanging “Yes!” I managed to gulp down the water without spilling it over my shirt. “No, thanks,” I mumbled.
“Anyway,” I told her while putting together a theory, “we’ll have to assume that when she arrived, she found your door ajar—and she came in. She heard you in the shower… and decided to wait. With the radio on, she didn’t hear you come into the room.”
Not I, Said the Vixen Page 4
