23-The Tenth Life

by Lockridge, Richard

  The partly empty vial marked “Lilly, Iletin (R) 40 U. Regular” was where it had been yesterday, which was a considerable relief to Inspector M. L. Heimrich. Its presence did not absolve him from carelessness, from failure to take the obvious precautions; the precautions even the least tangible of suspicions should have made inevitable. Well, no harm done. Except in his own mind.

  The other vials and bottles were where they had been in the refrigerator. The same number as before? He hadn’t counted them before. Any rookie trooper would have counted them before. Slipshod, Heimrich thought. Probably the result of advancing years.

  Roger King had followed Heimrich as far as the door of the operating room. He stood in the doorway, watching. “A box, son?” Heimrich said. “Big enough to hold these little bottles?”

  The boy looked doubtful. He said, “You want to take them somewhere, sir? I don’t know whether—”

  “It’ll be all right, Roger. I’ll give you a receipt.”

  The promise obviously relieved the faithful guardian. He got a box which was a little larger than it needed to be but would serve. Heimrich took the bottles and vials out of the refrigerator, starting with Dr. Barton’s own supply of insulin; starting with the partly used vial. There were three other vials with the same labels, but with their snap-on red aluminum caps in place. Then: “Distemper vaccine (tissue culture),”

  “Canine hepatitis vaccine,”

  “Two-way vaccine.” Clear enough, except for the last. Carol Arnold could clarify when she got back from wherever she had gone. “Modified measles vaccine.” He hadn’t known dogs and cats got measles.

  There were several bottles of each of these medicines. There was also a half pint of heavy cream. It had not been opened. Heimrich flipped it open. Heavy cream, from the looks of it and from the smell and, finally—riskily?—from the taste of it. He left the cream in the refrigerator.

  “There are some other things in that drawer,” Roger King said. He pointed to the drawer. Heimrich opened it. Bottles of pills and capsules. “Filariasis tablets.” Filariasis? Capsules marked for hookworm, roundworm, pinworm. You can’t inject a capsule or a tablet by hypodermic needle. On the other hand, you can dissolve them. Put into the box. Chloramphenicol. Whatever that might be. Barbiturates. Short-acting and long-acting. Simple enough. Into the box.

  And where was the trooper to pick up the box? Well, it was a Sunday afternoon. Plenty of speeding cars to flag down. Plenty of drunk drivers to be got off the roads. And miles and miles of roads to cover in the southern counties of New York, where the responsibility of Troop K ran. Not that Inspector Heimrich’s authority was so limited.

  “You were expecting Miss Arnold back soon, son?”

  “Before now, Inspector. It was around eleven when she came down from the house and got the cat. Asked me to stick around for half an hour or so.” Roger looked at the watch on his wrist. “Hour and a half’s more like it,” he said. Heimrich looked at his own watch. An hour and three quarters was even more like it, if they counted from eleven.

  “Got the cat, Roger?”

  “One of Mrs. Cummins’s Siamese. Off her feed a little, and Doctor was observing. Nothing serious, he told me. Sometimes they eat and sometimes they don’t, he said. And sometimes there’s no telling why, he told me. Of course, Mrs. Cummins has to be careful about her cats. They’re her business, you know. I mean, to her they’re not just cats. I guess you’d call them stock in trade.”

  “And I suppose that, with Dr. Barton out of the picture, Mrs. Cummins decided to take this cat back to the—the cattery?”

  Roger King guessed so. Or maybe to another vet.

  “Mrs. Cummins’s place, cattery, far from here, son?”

  “Couple of miles. Take maybe five minutes, Inspector. Maybe not that long, way Miss Arnold drives. Not that she’s not a good driver, sir. She just goes pretty fast sometimes. She’s—well, she’s great, Inspector.”

  She was also an exceedingly pretty young woman. Too old for young Roger by several years. Which did not mean that Roger King would think her so. Roger was male; Carol Arnold evidently female. These facts can supersede chronology. Which did not mean, either, that Carol Arnold was not “great,” sex aside.

  “You’ve got to know Miss Arnold fairly well the last couple of months, Roger?”

  Roger guessed so; guessed you could put it that way. And Dr. Barton? So far as Roger knew, Dr. Barton had been an all-right guy. He hadn’t had much contact with the doctor. Hadn’t really seen much of him; the doctor had usually gone up to the house by the time Roger King came on duty as—well, he guessed night watchman was what it was. Two dollars an hour just for sleeping here, Inspector. Seeing the animals were all right and that nobody broke in. “Looking for drugs, maybe.”

  Also, Barton had played a good game of tennis. Roger had played with him once. Couldn’t give him a game.

  “I guess Carol, I mean Miss Arnold, couldn’t either. Although she’s better than I am.”

  “Dr. Barton and Miss Arnold were on friendly terms, from what you gathered?”

  Roger guessed so. He hadn’t thought much about it. “Only, I think she and this doctor from White Plains have got a thing going, Inspector. I’m just guessing, you know. And it’s no business of mine, anyway.”

  “Nobody’s business but their own,” Heimrich agreed. It wasn’t, conceivably, that simple. But it was as far as this still awkward, possibly wistful and very young man went.

  Did the inspector want the box carried out to his car? The solicitude of the very young for the presumably doddering old?

  Heimrich did not want the box of veterinary medicines, which weighed rather less than a pound, carried to his car for him. A trooper would be along to pick it up. Roger could go back to his shaded chair and to his book. To his study of marine biology.

  “Actually,” Roger said, “I was reading an old Stout. It being Sunday.”

  “Good writer, Stout was,” Heimrich said. “Lived not too far from here, you know.”

  Roger said, “Did he, sir?” without too great a display of interest. “If Miss Arnold comes back to the house, I’ll tell her you’d like to see her, shall I?”

  That would be fine. And where the hell was the trooper? Nothing to do but wait, obviously. Eventually, call the barracks and ask what the hell. Not all that hurry yet. He had a murder, but murders are seldom solved in a day. Murder by curare. He’d never come across that before. He doubted that many had.

  He went into the waiting room and sat on the green sofa. He reached in his jacket pocket for cigarettes, and was thankful that the hospital was air-conditioned. For the sake of the penned animals, of course. But the comfort could be shared by an inspector of the New York State Police.

  His groping fingers did not come on the package of Kents they sought. They came on the edge of something larger than a pack of cigarettes. Of course, the copy of The American Cat Fancy magazine he had thrust into the pocket and forgotten; the copy Charley Forniss had unintentionally walked away with—walked away with from here. Heimrich took the magazine out of his pocket and put it on the side table, where it belonged.

  He got Kents out of the pocket and lighted one. He wished the trooper would show up. And that Carol Arnold would. More than two hours, now, on an errand she had expected to need only a quarter of that time. Perhaps Mrs. Grace Cummins, owner of the Linwood Cattery, had invited Carol to stay to lunch. Mrs. Cummins had looked like a woman whose invitation would be hard to refuse.

  He picked up The American Cat Fancy idly and opened it. The issue for the preceding January. Evidently veterinarians were no more inclined to keep their reading matter up to date than, say, dentists.

  He leafed through the small magazine. There were a good many advertisements of catteries in it. One offered “Spring kittens, beginning in April. CFA registered. Show Quality.” This advertisement had a photograph of a white cat with long hair. A very beautiful cat, who looked a little bored.

  There were a good many cats pictured in
the magazine. Most of them had the words “Grand Champion” in front of their names, which, in Heimrich’s judgment, tended to be fanciful. Who would want to call Lawnside’s Princess Sapphire of Kensington, ACA registered, to come to have dinner? Not that it was often necessary to call Mite. He was usually there already, waiting. If he happened to be afield, “Hey, Mite!” would fetch him at a run.

  Heimrich had started at the back of the magazine and worked toward the front, as was his custom. He was about to return it to the table when he saw the title of the leading article, “Seal Point Best of Year.” The article was by C. Braithwaite Lumbarton, who would also be a little hard to call to dinner.

  Heimrich read:

  A seal-point Siamese, Linwood’s Prince Ling Tau, became best cat of the past year by going best of show in Fort Lauderdale in December. The show was that of the Lauderdale Fanciers Club, a Cat Fanciers Association affiliate. Prince Ling Tau is CFA registered.

  The best opposite sex at the show was Brunt’s Lady Lakewood of Lamour.

  During the year, the Linwood cat, Mrs. Grace Cummins, R.N., breeder, amassed 461 points in shows throughout the United States and Canada. Judges chose him over twelve other grand champions in the various shows.

  It has been several years since a Siamese won this coveted honor, and—

  Heimrich stopped reading. He turned the page. There was an advertisement on the page following. It took up half the page. It had a picture of a Siamese cat, who was handsome and alert and looked to Heimrich much like other Siamese he had seen. Of course, he has not seen very many. Not many roam at large in Putnam County.

  A caption introduced the Siamese cat. “Linwood’s Prince Ling Tau. Grand Champion of Grand Champions. Best cat of year.”

  Underneath this caption was, “At stud to approved females.”

  And, under that, “Apply to Linwood Cattery, Rt. 5, Cold Harbor, N.Y. Stud fee $200. Impregnation guaranteed.”

  Well, Prince Ling Tau was being well paid for a simple, and to two cats probably enjoyable, activity. Not, of course, as much as Secretariat. But Secretariat was bigger, and could run faster.

  “Breeder, Mrs. Grace Cummins.” A telephone number was also included.

  The “fancy,” to Heimrich, seemed extremely fancy. But if someone wanted a Siamese cat, presumably a grand champion in her own right, serviced for $200, it was no concern of his. Pleasant cats can be come by more easily. Big dogs can bring them home.

  Heimrich tossed the copy of the little magazine for the fancy onto the end table and looked at his watch. Almost two thirty now. And so almost five times the period Carol Arnold had allowed herself for delivery of a cat to Mrs. Grace Cummins and return from the errand.

  And where the hell was that trooper?

  The crunch of car tires on the gravel coincided with Heimrich’s irritated wondering. He went to the door and opened it. Finally. A uniformed state trooper was getting out of a cruise car. He wasn’t a trooper Heimrich knew. He was getting to know a decreasing number of the men in the uniformed branch.

  This trooper was tall and lean and erect. He walked like a soldier to the opened door. He said, “Inspector Heimrich?” and, when Heimrich nodded his head, stood at attention and said, “Trooper Brown, sir. Reporting as instructed.”

  Heimrich said, “All right, Brown. What I want—”

  But Trooper Brown was still talking.

  “Should have been here anyway an hour ago, sir. Not a mile away when I saw this accident. Figured that came first, Inspector. Because this fool woman was still in the car, you see. Trying to turn off into a side road and didn’t have sense enough to slow down for it. Banged into a tree. I’m to pick something up and take it to the lab, way I get it.”

  “Yes, Brown. This accident. About a mile from here, you say?”

  “About that. Side road off the highway. Linwood Court, the sign says. And there’s another sign. ‘Something Cattery.’ I didn’t know cathouses put up signs, did you, sir? Way I figured it—”

  The expression on Heimrich’s face stopped him. “This woman in the car. Badly hurt? And—did you get her name?”

  “Out cold, sir. Not cut up that I could see. Maybe just banged her head against the windshield. But she was still out when the ambulance showed up. Had to wait for it, Inspector. And for the Purvis tow truck. Reason it took me so long, sir.”

  “Her name, Trooper—did you get her name?”

  “From her driver’s license, sir. Not from around here. Address is in Ithaca.”

  “Her name, Brown. What’s her name?”

  But Heimrich was certain what the name would be before the trooper fumbled his notebook out of a uniform pocket and read from it. It was the name Heimrich had known it would be.

  He said, “Cold Harbor Hospital, Brown?”

  The answer to that was inevitable. Brown said, “Sure.” He even forgot the “sir” because of the urgency in Heimrich’s voice. Heimrich started for his car.

  “This whatever-it-is I was to pick up, Inspector?” the trooper said.

  “On the green sofa in there,” Heimrich said. “To the lab. Then come back to the hospital. There’ll be some things I’ll want to ask you.”

  Heimrich’s car was on the hardtop of Barton Lane by the time the trooper came out with the box. It was going fast. Inspectors can be nuts like anybody else, Trooper Brian Brown thought, as he drove the cruiser down the lane, not as fast as Heimrich had driven.

  6

  Heimrich used the car telephone on his way to Cold Harbor and the hospital there; to the emergency ward, with Carol Arnold probably still in it and perhaps still “out cold.” And quite possibly a “fool woman” who hadn’t slowed properly for a sharp curve—a curve onto a road which led up to the Linwood Cattery. Anything is possible, even coincidence.

  One of the Purvis boys answered at the garage. Yeah, they had picked a car up at Linwood Court and NY 11F. A big Pontiac, lodged off the road against a tree. No, not too badly mashed up. Left front fender bashed in. Yes, Pontiac, year before last. Not much mileage on it. All right, he wouldn’t mess with it until the Inspector got there. Wouldn’t have, anyway, since he was alone at the garage. It being Sunday.

  The Purvis Garage in Van Brunt offers twenty-four-hour wrecking service, seven days a week, to the discomfort of the Purvis boys, who are numerous and all of whom bear Biblical names. Heimrich has given up trying to tell them apart, except, of course, for Corporal Asa Purvis, New York State Police.

  The ambulance was parked in front of the emergency entrance of the Cold Harbor General Hospital. Heimrich pulled the Buick up behind it, near a sign which read NO PARKING, EMERGENCY VEHICLES ONLY.

  A resident was on duty in the emergency ward along with an orderly and a nurse’s aide. None of the three knew Inspector M. L. Heimrich. He produced identification.

  Arnold, Carol? Yes, such a patient had been brought in about an hour ago. Concussion, apparently mild. Held for observation; transferred to Room 212, second floor. Yes, Inspector Heimrich could try to see her. Up to the second-floor resident.

  Heimrich did know the resident physician who had the second-floor duty—Dr. Francis Armstrong.

  Armstrong said, “Yes. Hell of a pretty girl. Lucky she was wearing a seat belt. Got quite a bump as it was. Against the windshield, apparently. But going to be all right, far’s we can tell. Concussion, but apparently mild. X ray negative. No reason you shouldn’t see her, if you want to. Find her a little fuzzy, probably. Just an automobile accident, wasn’t it?”

  And, if so, why the concern of an inspector BCI? The question was not asked. It remained implicit.

  A nurse took Heimrich to Room 212 and knocked on the door of it. The knock was perfunctory; the nurse opened the door without waiting for an answer. She said, “We have a visitor, dear,” and Heimrich followed her into the room.

  Carol Arnold was propped high in the hospital bed. She was not bandaged; a rather large bump on her head began at the hairline and extended into the blond hair. The blue eyes were o
pen. They seemed even larger than Heimrich had remembered them. Carol said, “Hello, Inspector. Are you going to say ‘You women drivers’? Something like that?” But she smiled as she spoke.

  Heimrich had not planned to talk about women drivers. He does not share that prejudice. It is his belief that Susan drives at least as well as he does, possibly better. He said, “No, Miss Arnold. They’re taking good care of you, I believe?”

  “Fussing about me,” she said. “Have to observe me, is the way they put it. But I just bumped my head and I feel all right. Almost all right, anyway. Did I wreck the Bartons’ car? And what about Lady Bella, Mrs. Cummins’s cat?”

  “Not too much damage to the car,” Heimrich told her. “I don’t know about the cat. You were taking it to the cattery when you had this accident?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Cummins called and asked me to. Her, not it,” Carol said. “I had her in a carrying-case box on the seat beside me, Inspector. So I could answer when she yelled. They resent being in boxes, so they yell. I had the seat belt around her box, as well as I could get it, anyway. I do hope she’s all right. She’s a nice little cat. One of Ling’s get. I hope somebody got her out.”

  “A trooper found you,” Heimrich said. “Perhaps he sal—I mean rescued the cat. You had your own seat belt on, apparently?”

  “Of course. I always wear it. I’m really a very careful driver, Inspector. In spite of what I suppose you think.”

  Accidents can happen to anybody, even the most careful. He told her that. He added that Roger King had said she was a very good driver.

  “He’s a nice child,” she said. “Very interested in fish, but nice.”

  “He also said that sometimes you drive fast.”

  “I suppose I do, sometimes. Doesn’t everybody? But if you mean today, no, I was going very slowly. So as not to jounce Lady Bella. Also—well, I’m still alive, Inspector. And you say I didn’t smash the car up too badly.”