The third Deadly Sin exd-3

by Lawrence Sanders

  The description of the person "wanted for questioning" was sparse. It said only that the suspect could be male or female, approximately 5' 5" to 5' 7" tall, wearing a wig of black nylon.

  "Not much to go on," Pinckney said. "If we grabbed every man and woman wearing a black nylon wig, we'd really be in the soup. Can you imagine the lawsuits for false arrest?"

  "Yes," Zoe said.

  "Well," Mr. Pinckney said, studying the notice, "the two murders happened around midnight. I'll make sure Joe Levine sees this when he comes on at five tonight. Then I'll leave it on my desk. If I miss Barney McMillan in the morning, will you make sure he sees it?"

  "Yes, sir," she said.

  When he was gone, she sat upright at her desk, spine rigid, her back not touching her chair. She clasped her hands on the desktop. Knuckles whitened.

  The black nylon wig didn't bother her. That was a detail that could be remedied. But how had they come up with the correct height?

  She went over and over her actions during her two adventures. She could recall nothing that would give the police an accurate estimation of her height. She had a shivery feeling that there was an intelligence at work of which she knew nothing. Something or someone secret who knew.

  She wondered if it might be a medium or someone versed in ESP, called in by the police to assist in their investigation. "I see a man or woman with-yes, it's black hair. No, not hair-it's a wig, a black nylon wig. And this person is of average height. Yes, I see that clearly. About five-five to five-seven. Around there."

  That might have been how it was done. Zoe Kohler nodded, convinced; that was how.

  On Thursday night, she went down to Wigarama on 34th Street. She tried on a nylon, strawberry blond wig, styled just like her black one. She looked in the mirror, pulling, tugging, poking it with her fingers.

  "It'll make you a new woman, dearie," the salesclerk said.

  "I'm sure it will," Zoe Kohler said, and bought it.

  Madeline Kurnitz called and insisted they meet for lunch. Zoe was wary; a lunch with Maddie could last more than two hours.

  "I really shouldn't," she said. "I'm a working woman, you know. I usually eat at my desk."

  "Come on, kiddo," Maddie said impatiently. "You're not chained to the goddamned desk, are you? Live a little!"

  "How about right here?" Zoe suggested. "In the hotel dining room?"

  "How tacky can you get?" Maddie said disgustedly.

  When she showed up, twenty minutes late, she was wearing her ranch mink, so black it was almost blue, over a tight sheath of brocaded satin. The dress had a stain in front; a side seam gapped. She couldn't have cared less.

  She led the way grandly into the Hotel Granger dining room.

  A wan maitre d' approached, gave them a sad smile.

  "Two, ladies?" he said in sepulchral tones. "This way, please."

  He escorted them to a tiny table neatly tucked behind an enormous plaster pillar.

  Maddie Kurnitz opened her coat and put a soft hand on his arm.

  "You sweet man," she said, "couldn't we have a table just a wee bit more comfortable?"

  His eyes flicked to her unholstered breasts. He came alive.

  "But of course!" he said.

  He conducted them to a table for four in the center of the dining room.

  "Marvelous," Maddie caroled. She gave the maitre d' a warm smile. "You're a perfect dear," she said.

  "My pleasure!" he said, glowing. "Enjoy your luncheon, ladies."

  He helped Maddie remove her mink coat, touching her tenderly. Then he moved away regretfully.

  "I made his day," Maddie said.

  "How do you do it?" Zoe said. She shook her head. "I'd never have the nerve."

  "Balls, luv," Maddie advised. "All it takes is balls."

  As usual, her hair seemed a snarl, her makeup a blotch of primary colors. Her feral teeth shone. Diamonds glittered. She dug into an enormous snakeskin shoulder bag and came out with a crumpled pack of brown cigarillos. She offered it to Zoe.

  "No, thank you, Maddie. I'll have one of my own."

  "Suit yourself."

  Maddie twirled a cigarillo between her lips. Instantly, a handsome young waiter was hovering over her, snapping his lighter. She grasped his hand to steady the flame.

  "Thank you, you beautiful man," she said, smiling up at him. "May we have a drink now?"

  "But of course, madam. What is your pleasure?"

  "I'd tell you," she said, "but it would make you blush. For a drink, I'll have a very dry Tanqueray martini, straight up, with two olives. Zoe?"

  "A glass of white wine, please."

  The waiter scurried off with their order. Maddie looked around the crowded room.

  "Never in my life have I seen so many women with blue hair," she said. "What's the attraction here-free Geritol?"

  "The food is very good," Zoe said defensively.

  "Let me be the judge of that, kiddo." She regarded Zoe critically. "You don't look so bad. Not so good, but not so bad. Feeling okay?"

  "Of course. I'm fine."

  "Uh-huh. Have a good time at our bash the other night?"

  "Oh yes. I meant to thank you before I left, but I couldn't find you. Or Harry."

  "Never did meet David something, did you? The guy I told you about?"

  "No," Zoe said, "I never met him."

  "You're lucky," Maddie said, laughing. "He was picked up later that night with a stash of coke on him. The moron! But you didn't leave alone, did you?"

  Zoe Kohler hung her head.

  The waiter came bustling up with their drinks and left menus alongside their plates.

  "Whenever you're ready, ladies," he said.

  "I'm always ready," Maddie said, "but we'll order in a few minutes."

  They waited until he moved away.

  "How did you know?" Zoe asked.

  "My spies are everywhere," Maddie said. "What's his name?"

  "Ernest Mittle. He works for your husband."

  Madeline Kurnitz spluttered into her martini.

  "Mister Meek?" she said. "That nice little man?"

  "He's not so little."

  "I know, sweetie. He just looks little. Didn't try to get into your pants, did he?"

  "Oh Maddie," she said, embarrassed. "Of course not. He's not like that at all."

  "Didn't think so," Maddie said. "Poor little mouse."

  "Could we order, Maddie? I really have to get back to work."

  Zoe ordered a fresh fruit salad.

  Maddie would have the fresh oysters. Bluepoints weren't her favorite, but they were the only kind available. On each oyster she wanted a spoonful of caviar topped with a sprinkling of freshly ground ginger.

  Then she would have thin strips of veal sauteed in unsalted butter and Marsala wine, with a little lemon and garlic. Cauliflower with bacon bits would be nice with that, she decided. And a small salad of arrugola with sour cream and chives.

  The ordering of her luncheon took fifteen minutes and required a conference of maitre d', headwaiter, and two waiters, with a busboy hovering in the background. All clustered about Maddie, peered down her neckline, and conversed volubly in rapid Italian. Other diners observed this drama with bemuse-ment. Zoe Kohler wished she were elsewhere.

  Finally their meals were served. Maddie sampled one of her oysters. The waiters watched anxiously.

  "Magnified" she cried, kissing the tips of her fingers.

  They relaxed with grins, bowed, clapped each other on the shoulder.

  "So-so," Maddie said to Zoe Kohler in a low voice. "The oysters are a bit mealy, but those dolts were so sweet, I didn't have the heart… Want to try one?"

  "Oh no! Thank you."

  "Still popping the pills, kiddo?"

  "I take vitamins," Zoe said stiffly. "Food supplements."

  Maddie finished the oysters, sat back beaming.

  "Not bad," she admitted. "Not the greatest, but not bad. By the way," she added, "this is on me. I should have told you; maybe you'd have ord
ered a steak."

  "We'll go Dutch," Zoe said.

  "Screw that. I have a credit card from Harry's company. This is a business lunch in case anyone should ask." She laughed.

  She had another martini while waiting for her veal. Zoe had another glass of white wine. Then their entrees were served.

  "Beautiful," Maddie said, looking down at her plate. "You've got to order for color as well as taste. Isn't that a symphony?"

  "It looks nice."

  Maddie dug in, sampled a slice of veal. She closed her eyes.

  "I'm coming," she said. "God, that's almost as good as a high colonic." She attacked her lunch with vigor. "Sweetie," she said, while masticating, "I never asked you about your divorce. Never. Did I?"

  "No, you never did."

  "If you don't want to talk about it, just tell me to shut my yap. But I'm curious. Why the hell did you and what's-his-name break up?"

  "Kenneth."

  "Whatever. I thought you two had the greatest love affair since Hitler and Eva Braun. That's the way your letters sounded. What happened?"

  "Well… ah…" Zoe Kohler said, picking at her salad, "we just drifted apart."

  "Bullshit," Madeline Kurnitz said, forking veal into her mouth. "Can I guess?"

  "Can I stop you?" Zoe said.

  "No way. My guess is that it was the sex thing. Am I right?"

  "Well… maybe," Zoe said in a low voice.

  Maddie stopped eating. She sat there, fork poised, staring at the other woman.

  "He wanted you to gobble ze goo?" she asked.

  "What?"

  "Chew on his schlong," Maddie said impatiently.

  Zoe looked about nervously, fearing nearby diners were tuned in to this discomfiting conversation. No one appeared to be listening.

  "That was one of the things," she said quietly. "There were other things."

  Maddie resumed eating, apparently sobered and solemn. She kept her eyes on her food.

  "Sweetie," she said, "were you cherry when you got married?"

  "Yes."

  "After all I told you at school?" Maddie said, looking up angrily. "I tried to educate you, for God's sake. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Well, how was it?"

  "How was what?"

  "The wedding night, you idiot. The first bang. How was it?"

  "It wasn't the greatest adventure I've ever had," Zoe Kohler said dryly.

  "Did you make it?"

  "He did. I didn't, no."

  Maddie stared long and thoughtfully at her.

  "Have you ever made it?"

  "No. I haven't."

  "What? Speak up. I didn't hear that."

  "No, I haven't," Zoe repeated.

  They finished their food in silence. Maddie pushed her plate away, belched, relighted the butt of her cigarillo. She looked at Zoe with narrowed eyes through a plume of smoke.

  "Poor little scut," she said. "Sweetie, I know this wonderful woman who treats women like-"

  "There's nothing wrong with me," Zoe Kohler said hotly.

  "Of course there isn't, luv," Maddie said soothingly. "But it's just a shame that you're missing out on one of the greatest pleasures of this miserable life. This woman I know holds classes. Small classes. Five or six women like you. She explains things. You have discussions about what's holding you back. She gives you exercises and things to do by yourself at home. She's got a good track record for helping women like you."

  "It's not me," Zoe Kohler burst out. "It's the men."

  "Uh-huh," Maddie said, squashing the cigarillo butt in an ashtray. "Let me give you this woman's name."

  "No," Zoe said.

  Maddie Kurnitz shrugged. "Then let's have some coffee," she suggested. "And some rich, thick, fattening dessert."

  She was conscious of other things happening to her. Not only the acceleration of time, and the increasing intrusion of the past into the present so that memories of ten or twenty years ago had the sharp vividness of the now. She was also beginning to see reality in magnified close-ups, intimate and revealing.

  She had seen the pores in Maddie's nose, the nubby twist of Mr. Pinckney's tweed suit, the fine grain of the paper money in her purse. But not only the visual images. All her senses seemed more alert, tender and receptive. She heard new sounds, smelled new odors, felt textures that were strange and wonderful.

  All of her was becoming more perceptive, open and responsive to stimuli. It seemed to her that she could hear the sounds of colors and taste the flavor of a scent. She twanged with this new sensitivity. She saw herself as raw, touched by life in marvelous and sometimes frightening ways.

  She wondered that if this growing awareness increased, she might not develop X-ray vision and the ability to communicate with the dead. A universe was opening up to her, unfolding and spreading like a bloom. It had never happened to anyone before, she knew. She was unique.

  It had all started with her first adventure, a night of fear, anguish and resolve. Then, when it was over, she was flooded with a warm peace, an almost drunken exaltation. When she had returned home, she had stared at herself in a mirror and was pleased with what she saw.

  It seemed to her that, for self-preservation, she could not, should not stop. She was rational enough to recognize the dangers, to plan coldly and logically. But logic was limited. It was not an end in itself, a way of life. It was a means to an end, to a transfigured life.

  The gratification was not sexual. Oh no, it was not that, although she loved those men for what they had given her. But she did not experience an orgasm or even a thrill when she- when those men went. But she felt a thawing of her hurts. The adventures were a sweet justification. Of what, she could not have said.

  "It's God's will," her mother was fond of remarking.

  If a friend sickened, a coffee cup was broken, or a million foreigners died in a famine-"It's God's will," her mother said.

  Zoe Kohler felt much the same way about what she was doing. It was God's will, and her newfound sensibility was her reward. She was being allowed to enter a fresh world, reborn.

  Dr. Oscar Stark, an internist, had his offices on the first floor of his home, a converted brownstone on 35th Street just east of Park Avenue. It was a handsome five-story structure with bow windows and a fanlight over the front door said to have been designed by Louis Tiffany.

  The suite of offices consisted of a reception room, the doctor's office, two examination rooms, a clinic, lavatories, storage cubicles, and a "resting room."

  All these chambers had the high, ornate ceilings, wood paneling, and parquet floors installed when the home was built in 1909. The waiting room and the doctor's office were equipped with elaborate, marble-manteled fireplaces. There were window seats, wall niches, and sliding oak doors.

  Dr. Stark and his wife of forty-three years had found it impossible to reconcile this Edwardian splendor with the needs of a physician's office: white enameled furniture, stainless steel equipment, glass cabinets, and plastic plants. Regretfully, they had surrendered to the demands of his profession and moved their heavy antiques and gloomy paintings upstairs to the living quarters.

  Dr. Stark employed a receptionist and two nurses, both RNs. His waiting room was invariably occupied, and usually crowded, from 9:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. These hours were not strictly adhered to; the doctor sometimes saw patients early in the morning, late in the evening, and on weekends.

  Zoe Kohler had a standing appointment for 6:00 p.m. on the first Tuesday of every month. Dr. Stark had tried to convince her that these monthly visits were not necessary.

  "Your illness doesn't require it," he had explained with his gentle smile. "As long as you keep on the medication faithfully, every day. Otherwise, you're in excellent health. I'd like to see you twice a year."

  "I'd really prefer to get a checkup every month," she said. "You never can tell."

  He shrugged his meaty shoulders, brushed cigar ashes from the lapels of his white cotton jacket.

  "If it makes you feel better," he said. "What is it, exactly
, you'd like me to do for you every month?"

  "Oh…" she said, "the usual."

  "And what do you consider the usual?"

  "Weight and blood pressure. The lungs. Urine and blood tests. Breast examination. A pelvic exam. A Pap test."

  "A Pap smear every month?" he cried. "Zoe, in your case it's absolutely unnecessary. Once or twice a year is sufficient, I assure you."

  "I want it," she said stubbornly, and he had yielded.

  He was a short, blunt teddy bear of a man in his middle sixties. An enormous shock of white hair crowned his bullet head like a raggedy halo. And below, ruddy, pendulous features hung in bags, dewlaps, jowls, and wattles. All of his thick face sagged. It waggled when he moved.

  His hands were wide and strong, fingers fuzzed with black hair. He wore carpet slippers with white cotton socks. Unless a patient objected, he chain-smoked cigars. More than once his nurse had plucked a lighted cigar from his fingers as he was about to start a rectal examination.

  He was, Zoe Kohler thought, a sweet old man with eyes of Dresden blue. He did not frighten her or intimidate her. She thought she might tell him anything, anything, and he would not be shocked, angered, or disgusted.

  On the first Tuesday of that April, the first day of the month, Zoe Kohler arrived at Dr. Stark's office a few minutes early for her 6:00 p.m. appointment. Mercifully, there were only two other patients in the waiting room. She checked in with the receptionist, then settled down with a year-old copy of Architectural Digest. It was 6:50 before Gladys, the chief nurse, came into the reception room and gave Zoe as pleasant a smile as she could manage.

  "Doctor will see you now," she said.

  Gladys was a gorgon, broad-shouldered and wide-hipped, with a faint but discernible mustache. Zoe had once seen her pick up a steel cabinet and reposition it as easily as if it had been a paper carton. Dr. Stark had told her that Gladys was divorced and had a twelve-year-old son in a military academy in Virginia. She lived alone with four cats.

  A few moments later Zoe Kohler was seated in Dr. Stark's office, watching him light a fresh cigar and wave the cloud of smoke away with backhand paddle motions.

  He peered at her genially over the tops of his half-glasses.