Yes, Grace Clarke had been a nurse at the hospital. A surgical nurse at first. Then a private nurse, her name on the list of those available for private duty. “Before my time, actually,” Nurse Klein had told Forniss. Nurse Clarke had then been in her middle thirties, at Nurse Klein’s guess.
It wouldn’t have been Heimrich’s guess, thinking of the stocky, dominating woman who now ministered to cats instead of humans; who was a devout, and apparently fundamentalist, Baptist. Middle forties, twenty years ago, would have been Merton Heimrich’s guess. However—
“So, M. L., Miss Clarke married one of her patients. A Randolph Cummins. A good deal older than she, apparently. Somewhere in his sixties, Nurse Klein thinks. But it’s all something she’s just heard about. A nurse who, well, hit it big. Something nurses think about happening, since sometimes it does. Marry a rich man who is grateful to you, indebted to you, and wants—well, to take you home with him. Way it worked out for Miss Clarke, anyway.”
About then, Nurse Klein had begun to freeze up. She had pointed out that nurses, like doctors, have their code and that she shouldn’t be repeating gossip about former patients at her hospital. Even if they had not been her patients.
But Forniss, like all good detectives, can be persuasive on occasion. Well, he must remember it was all gossip. Probably no truth in it. Just a story going around.
The story was that Randolph Cummins had been a cardiac patient and had left the hospital under strict recommendations as to his activities for the rest of his life, if he expected to have much rest left to it. Very circumscribed activities, they would have to be. No violent exercise, of course. Getting out of bed in the mornings very slowly, one movement at a time. Walking slowly, and resting at the first feeling of fatigue. “The usual things, Lieutenant. No sexual activity, of course.”
“What his doctor told him?” Forniss had asked and, jumping ahead, had asked the name of the doctor. The doctor had been named Koenig. Alexander Koenig. Only he was dead now; had died, actually, a year or so before Cummins died, which had been about three years after his marriage. The way Miss Klein got it, but it was merely the story going around. The lieutenant must understand that. And probably she had talked too much already. Forniss had told her that the police protect their sources.
Well, the story, for what it was worth, was that Randolph Cummins had died very suddenly, apparently while engaged in the sexual activity which had been forbidden him. And because Dr. Koenig was dead, and no other doctor had treated him recently, the question of a death certificate had come up. Which, as the lieutenant probably knew, meant the medical examiner and an autopsy.
“But that just proved it had been his heart, as everyone had known, Lieutenant.”
“You check with the M.E.’s office, Charley?”
Charley had not. They could if they decided it was necessary. But one other thing Nurse Klein had told him, as, remember, only gossip. Randolph Cummins had not been as rich as everyone supposed he was. Nobody knew how much Grace Cummins had inherited, but the prevailing guess had been not more than fifty thousand dollars.
“About enough to set her up in the cat-breeding business,” Heimrich said. “Twenty years or so ago, she might have got the house for twenty. I’ve no idea what beginning cats would have cost her.”
Neither had Charles Forniss. Neither had Susan.
“Although,” Susan said, “I wouldn’t think there was all that much money in breeding cats. Even very pedigreed cats.”
Merton Heimrich wouldn’t have thought so, either. Still, a stud fee of two hundred dollars might well add up.
“Depending,” Susan said, “on the durability of the tomcat.”
Heimrich said no to a second drink, and so, after a quick glance at him, did Susan. Forniss, after a thoughtful moment, joined them in abstention. A waitress came from the main dining room, and they ordered. They had finished lunch and were drinking coffee when the bar telephone rang. The barman answered it and then held up the receiver. He said, “For you, Inspector.”
Heimrich took his last swallow. He crossed the room to the telephone. He spoke his name into it. He said, “Yes, Doctor,” to Latham Rorke, M.D. He said, “Yes, we do leave word where we’ll be.”
Miss Carol Arnold had regained consciousness. Yes, an overdose of a barbiturate had caused her to lose it. A resident at the Cold Harbor Hospital had confirmed that. She would be all right. They had caught her in time.
“Just in time,” Rorke said, with bitterness as well as relief in his voice. “She’s willing to talk to you, and the resident says she can. For a few minutes, anyway. And, well, she’s his patient. So I guess what I think doesn’t matter.”
“We’ll make it as easy for her as we can, Doctor,” Heimrich promised. “We’ll be along in half an hour or so. Yes, I’ll be bringing another officer with me. Oh, because two memories can be better than one. Yes, I’d expect you to, Doctor.”
“We can talk to Miss Arnold now,” Heimrich told Forniss, back at their table. “Her doctor thinks it will be all right. Rorke doesn’t, and wants to be with us when we talk to her.”
“And holding her hand,” Susan said. “I can’t say I blame him. The two of you are so big and she’s so little.”
They would drop Susan off at home. They would use both cars. Neither the Buick nor the car Forniss had driven down from the barracks was marked as a police vehicle.
It was a little more than half an hour before they reached the hospital. They had had, briefly, to commune with Colonel, who had been sitting at the door of the house when they reached it. He had looked very neglected, and his woof had been reproachful. But it often was, particularly when everybody went away and left him. Mite had stepped out—through the feline exit.
Carol Arnold was in the room she had been in before. Rorke was sitting by her bed. He was not actually holding her hand. A nurse was doing that, taking her pulse. “We’re doing very well indeed, aren’t we, dear?” the nurse said. “Only we do need rest, don’t we?”
Carol was very pale, her eyes were very large. She did not audibly concur in the nurse’s estimate of their condition. She did say, “Hi, Inspector.” Her voice was very small.
The room was large enough so that Forniss could sit several feet from the bed. He got out a notebook.
13
“Do you feel up to a few questions, Miss Arnold?” Heimrich said. “We’ll try not to make them too many.”
She raised her voice a little when she answered. It was, Heimrich thought, an effort for her to raise her voice.
“Tired,” she said. “And I guess a little woozy. But all right, really. What do you want to ask me, Inspector?”
“Anything you can tell us about this morning. About going to Mrs. Cummins’s place.”
Her eyes seemed to grow even larger. She moved her head from side to side on the pillows which propped it.
She said, “This morning? I don’t seem to remember this morning much. I said I’m woozy. Oh, something about the telephone and trying to call Lathe at the hospital. Not this hospital. The one at White Plains. Only I didn’t get him. Something happened. I don’t seem to remember what. Wasn’t I cut off, or something?”
“Yes,” Heimrich said. “I meant, going to Mrs. Cummins’s place this morning. Asking her to take you in because somebody was after you. Because ‘they’ were trying to find you. Wasn’t it that way? Quite early this morning?”
“You’ve got it wrong, Inspector. I went there last night. After Lathe took me back to Dr. Barton’s hospital. When I got to worrying about the poor little cat. The one she calls Lady Bella. The one I—I was taking to her as she asked me to. Last night I went there. Wasn’t it last night?”
Heimrich shook his head.
“No, Miss Arnold. It must have been night before last—Sunday evening. That was when Dr. Rorke drove you back from here. You had been brought here, you remember, because the car you were driving Sunday morning ran into a tree. Today is Tuesday, Miss Arnold.”
She turned
her head on the pillows and looked at Latham Rorke. He said, “Yes, dear. It was night before last, not last night.” Then he said, “She’s not up to this, Inspector. Can’t you see that?”
“Perhaps you’re—” Heimrich said, but the girl interrupted him. Her voice seemed to be stronger.
“No,” she said. “I want to get things straightened out. So they’re not all muddled. Maybe it wasn’t last night. Maybe it was Sunday night. Anyway, it was a couple of hours after Lathe got me to the Bartons’. I had a headache. I remember that. I’d bumped my head somehow. Hadn’t I?”
“Yes, Miss Arnold. In the car accident. That evening. Do you remember that evening?”
“Of course. It was Sunday morning she called and asked if I’d bring Lady Bella over. So I borrowed the Pontiac and put the little cat in a case and drove over and—and had that accident. The carrying case was on the seat beside me with the cat in it. I told you that before, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Miss Arnold. Only—”
“Nobody had told me what happened to Lady Bella. I—well, I kept thinking maybe she’d been hurt in the accident. Killed, even. So, I was worried. And my head ached. I went into Dr. Barton’s office bedroom and lay down, while I was trying to think what to do. But I was too worried to stay there. I thought maybe Mrs. Cummins had gone down to the car—the one I smashed up—and carried the little cat back home. So, well, I borrowed Mrs. Evans’s car and drove over to see.”
“Yes. You went to the cattery. Then?”
“She came to the door. She had a glass in her hand. I said, ‘Is Lady Bella all right?’ And she said, ‘Of course, dear,’ and how had I bumped my head? I told her what had happened, and she was—oh, very sympathetic and insisted I come in and sit down, and that I needed a drink and that she’d get me one. And, well, I was feeling pretty pooped and it seemed like a good idea, and she brought me a drink. And I drank it and—”
The girl closed her eyes. “I guess I’m really very tired,” she said, and the voice was small again.
“Too tired, Inspector,” Rorke said, and his voice was strong and hard. “You can’t go on with this.”
Carol opened her eyes again and turned her head toward Latham Rorke. She said, “Please, dear. I’ve got to get things straight. Where was I, Inspector?”
“Mrs. Cummins said the cat was all right, and that you needed a drink. And she got you one. All right, Doctor. I’ve almost finished bothering Miss Arnold. After you finished the drink, Miss Arnold? Then?”
“I was still worried about the little cat. I think I asked Mrs. Cummins if I could see Lady Bella. Just so I wouldn’t be so worried. Feel so guilty about her. And she said, ‘Of course,’ and took me to the place where she keeps the cats. There’s a section built onto the house—”
“Yes, Miss Arnold. I know the setup there. She showed you this Lady Bella. She’s a rather small seal-point Siamese, isn’t she?”
“Yes. Most female Siamese cats are small.”
“You knew it was the right cat? The one you had been taking back when this accident happened? I mean, they must all look pretty much alike. Same markings, I gather?”
“Yes. All seal points do look pretty much alike. Clear markings, pointed faces—if they’re show cats, that is. Long tails, with no kink in them. There used to be kinks, but they’ve been breeding that out for generations. Cat generations, I mean. And no crossed eyes, of course. Most of them used to have crossed eyes, they say. The kink and the crossed eyes used not to matter. To people who show cats. I don’t know that either thing ever mattered much to the cats. Except for lack of depth perception, of course. From the crossed eyes, that is.”
“Yes, Miss Arnold.”
“Anyway, a cross-eyed Siamese hasn’t a chance of winning a ribbon nowadays. Or cats with tabby markings on their back legs. Or with round faces. Cat judges are very particular about such things. And they are recessive characteristics in Siamese cats. But being Siamese is recessive too, of course. I’m giving a lecture about cats, aren’t I? You should hear me on horses.”
“It’s very interesting, Miss Arnold,” Heimrich said, with some insincerity. “You did make sure the cat Mrs. Cummins showed you was Lady Bella?”
“I spoke to her. By name. And she answered. They’re great talkers, you know.”
“You made sure about the cat, Miss Arnold. And then?”
She raised herself against the pillows and looked at him with very wide eyes.
“Then it just stops, Inspector. The whole thing just stops. It’s absurd, really. But then I was here. It couldn’t have been as long ago as Sunday. It couldn’t have been.”
Rorke stood up then. He said, “That’s enough, Heimrich. More than enough. And I am a doctor.”
Heimrich stood up. Forniss put away the notebook he’d been jotting in and stood up too. Rorke did not stand up. He reached out a hand and took one of Carol’s, which was given him readily. Rorke leaned toward the girl and spoke softly. Heimrich did not hear what he said, or try to.
At the door, Heimrich stopped to let the nurse in. She smiled brightly. “We’re doing just fine, aren’t we?” the nurse said. “We’re going to be perfectly all right very soon now, aren’t we?”
Heimrich said he was sure they were, and he and Forniss went down to their cars. At Heimrich’s they stopped.
“Well, M. L.,” Forniss said, “we certainly know a good deal about Siamese cats, don’t we? More than we need to know, seems to me.”
“Could be, Charley. Still, Siamese cats are pretty much in the middle of things, aren’t they? One Siamese cat, anyway.”
“O.K., M. L. And I’ll get along back to the barracks.”
Heimrich shook his head. “Not yet, I think,” he said. “We’ll have your car picked up. I’d like you to come along with me. To a cattery, Charley.”
Forniss, who somewhat prefers dogs but is not rabid about it, said “Jesus!” But he got into the Buick.
“Discrepancies, Charley,” Heimrich said as he started the Buick rolling out of the hospital parking lot. On their way to the Linwood Cattery he filled Charles Forniss in. What it came to, Forniss agreed, you can’t believe anybody. Not if you’re a cop.
Mrs. Grace Cummins, R.N., was sitting on the front porch of the white house which was the Linwood Cattery when Heimrich and Forniss reached it. She still wore the pants suit with the smock over it. The costume looked warm for so hot a day, but the porch was shaded. She stood up when the Buick stopped in front of the house. She looked at the Buick and then sat down again. If she had been waiting for something, it was evidently not the police.
“I thought you were the man about the telephone,” she said as the two large policemen got out of the car. “They never come when you need them, do they? And I’m cut off from—from everything. You did call the repair department, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Cummins. They’ll be along.”
“And,” Mrs. Cummins said, “I did want to call the hospital and see how that poor child is. I’m worried about her. Concussion can be such a tricky thing, you know. Or perhaps you don’t. Not the way I do. Not the way a nurse does.”
“Miss Arnold seems to be doing very well,” Heimrich said. “She’s regained consciousness. But she’s still a little confused about things.”
The stocky woman nodded her head.
“The poor child,” she said. “It happens that way so often with concussion. Sometimes they never do get things straight afterward, you know. There’s always a blank space left for some of them.”
“Yes,” Heimrich said, “I do understand, nurse. Miss Arnold is still worried about that little cat of yours. Lady Bella. The one she still seems to think was in the car with her when she ran into the tree. While you were at church last Sunday.”
“The poor, poor child. But I told her Lady Bella was all right. That I’d brought her home from Dr. Barton’s when I brought the other one. The one he’d operated on.”
“I know,” Heimrich said. “But she’s still confused and worried a
bout—the cat you call Lady Bella.”
“Her call name, Inspector. The name they answer to. Think of themselves as, I suppose. Their registered names—well, they’re sometimes too long for a cat to remember.”
Heimrich said he saw.
“The thing is,” he said, “Miss Arnold still isn’t sure. Confused, as you say. She asked me to—well, come here and have a look at Lady Bella. I promised her I would. So, I’d like to, Mrs. Cummins. Take the worry off her mind. Will it be all right if I have a look?”
“Well,” the stocky woman said, “I suppose so. If you can’t take my word for it. If you think it’s a load on the poor child’s mind.”
“It’s not a question of not taking your word, Mrs. Cummins. But it is on her mind. Very much on her mind, I’m afraid. And I did promise I’d look at the little cat.”
“All right,” Mrs. Cummins said. “Although I don’t really see what good it will do her. All purebred Siamese cats look pretty much alike to an outsider. I mean to a person who doesn’t know anything about them. And if they’re not purebred, they don’t look like Siamese cats at all, of course. But come on.”
She led the way into the house. Heimrich went after her. Inside the door, Forniss said, “M. L.?”
“Yes, Charley, I think so,” Heimrich said. So both tall detectives followed Grace Cummins down a long corridor and then, when she opened it for them, through a door on the left.
The corridor floor they had walked on had creaked a little under their feet, the protesting whines of an old frame house. The room they went into was different. The carpeted floor was firm under their feet; there was a neutral grass-cloth covering on the walls. It was cooler than the rest of the house had been.
It was an oblong room, thirty feet or more long; half as wide. Along the walls on either side, at floor level, there were enclosures, faced by wire-mesh doors. There were five such pens along either wall, and there were cats in eight of the pens, which were too ample to be called cages. Three of the cats were curled in cushioned beds in their quarters; each pen had a litter pan, and there were pans of water in all the occupied pens.
23-The Tenth Life Page 15
