Boone had finished his sandwich. He sat back, lighted a cigarette.
“I’d like to get a lead on that ball peen hammer,” he said. “We didn’t ask Isaac Kane if he had one.”
“Don’t worry,” Delaney said. “We’ll be getting back to that lad again. I can’t see the two women owning a hammer like that—but you never know. We’ll have to lean on the four men. Maybe one of them is a do-it-yourself nut or does his own car repairs or something like that.”
“How do you get rid of a hammer?” Boone said. “You can’t burn it. The handle maybe, but not the head. And the first crew on the scene checked every sewer, catch basin, and garbage can in a ten-block area.”
“If I was the killer,” Delaney said, “I’d throw it in the river. Chances are good it’d never be found.”
“Still,” Boone said, “the perp might have—”
But just then the phone rang, and Delaney rose to answer it. “I hope that’s Suarez,” he said.
“Edward X. Delaney here … Yes, Chief … Uh-huh. That’s fine … Monday will be just right … Of course. Maybe you and I can get together next week … Whenever you say … Thank you for your help, Chief.”
He hung up and turned to Boone. “He didn’t sound too happy about it, but six warm bodies are coming in Monday morning. I’ll want you there; maybe you know some of those guys. More coffee?”
“Please. I’m just getting thawed.”
“Well, drink up. Then we’ll descend on Sylvia Mae Otherton. Sure as hell no woman with agoraphobia is going out on a day like this.”
She lived in an old battleship of an apartment house on East 72nd Street between Park and Lexington Avenues. Boone drove around the block twice, trying to find a parking space, then gave up. He parked in front of the marquee, and when an indignant doorman rushed out, the Sergeant flashed his shield and quieted him down.
The cavernous lobby was lined with brownish marble that needed cleaning, and the steel Art Deco elevator doors obviously hadn’t been polished in years. The carpeting was fretted, and the whole place had a musty odor.
“A mausoleum,” Delaney muttered.
There was a marble-topped counter manned by an ancient wearing an old-fashioned hearing aid with a black wire that disappeared into the front of his alpaca jacket. Boone asked for Miss Sylvia Mae Otherton.
“And who shall I say is calling?” the gaffer asked in sepulchral tones.
The Sergeant showed his ID again, and the white eyebrows slowly rose.
The lobby attendant picked up the house phone and punched a three-digit number with a trembling forefinger. He turned his back to them; all they could hear was murmurs. Then he turned back to them.
“Miss Otherton would like to know the purpose of your visit.”
“Tell her we want to ask a few questions,” Boone said. “It won’t take long.”
More murmurs.
“Miss Otherton says she is not feeling well and wonders if you can come back another time.”
“No, we cannot come back another time,” Boone said, beginning to steam. “Ask her if she prefers to see us in her home or should we take her down to the station house and ask the questions there.”
The white eyebrows rose even farther. More murmurs. Then he hung up the phone.
“Miss Otherton will see you now,” he said. “Apartment twelve-C.” Then, his bleary eyes glistening, he leaned over the counter. “Is it about that doctor who got killed?” he asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
They turned away.
“She was devastated,” he called after them. “Just devastated.”
“Damned old gossip,” the Sergeant said angrily in the elevator. “By tonight everyone in the building will know Otherton had a call from the cops.”
“Calm down,” Delaney said. “Everyone loves a gruesome murder—especially an unsolved one. They’d like to think the perp will get away with it.”
Boone looked at him curiously. “You really believe that, sir?”
“Sure,” Delaney said cheerfully. “It feeds their fantasies. They can dream of knocking off wife, husband, boss, lover, or that pain in the ass next door—and walking away from it scot-free.”
Boone pushed the buzzer at the door of apartment 12-C. They waited. And waited. Finally they heard sounds of bolts being withdrawn, and the door opened a few inches, held by a chain still in place.
A muffled voice said, “Let me see your identification.”
Obediently, the Sergeant passed his ID wallet through the chink. They waited. Then the door closed, the chain came off, and the door was opened wide.
“Wipe your feet on the mat,” the woman said, “before you come in.” They obeyed.
The apartment was so dimly lighted—heavy drapes drawn across all the windows—that it was difficult to make out much of anything. Heavy furniture loomed along the walls, and they had a muddled impression of an enormous overstuffed couch and two armchairs placed about a round cocktail table.
Delaney smelled sandalwood incense, and, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw vaguely Oriental wall hangings, a torn shoji used as a room divider.
The woman who faced them, head bowed, wadded tissue clutched in one hand, seemed as outlandish as her overheated apartment. She wore a loose garment of black lace over a lining of deep purple satin. The pointed hem came to her ankles, and her small feet were shod in glittery evening slippers.
She wore a torrent of necklaces: pearls and rhinestones and shells and wooden beads. Some were chokers and some hung to her shapeless waist. Her plump fingers were equally adorned: rings on every finger, and some with two and three rings. And as if that weren’t enough, stacks of bracelets climbed both arms from wrists to elbows.
“Miss Sylvia Mae Otherton?” Sergeant Boone asked.
The bowed head bobbed.
“I wonder if we might take off our coats, ma’am. We won’t stay long, but it is warm in here.”
“Do what you like,” she said dully.
They took off their coats, and, holding them folded, hats on top, took seats on the couch. It was down-filled, and unexpectedly they sank until they were almost swaddled.
The only illumination in the room came from a weak, blue-tinted bulb in an ornate floor lamp of cast bronze shaped like a striking cobra. In this watery light they strained to see the features of Sylvia Mae Otherton when she folded herself slowly into one of the armchairs opposite them. They could smell her perfume; it was stronger than the incense.
“Miss Otherton,” Boone said gently, “as I suppose you’ve guessed, this concerns the murder of Doctor Simon Ellerbee. We’re talking to all his patients as part of our investigation. I know you’ll want to help us find the person responsible for Doctor Ellerbee’s death.”
“He was a saint,” she cried. “A saint!”
She raised her head at this last, and they got a clear look at her for the first time.
A fleshy face, now riddled with grief. Chalky makeup, round patches of rouge, and lips so caked with lipstick that they were cracked. Her black hair hung limply, uncombed, and long glass pendants dangled from her ears. Under brows plucked into thin carets her eyes were swollen and brimming.
“Miss Otherton,” Boone continued, “it’s necessary that we establish the whereabouts of Ellerbee’s patients on the night of the crime. Where were you that Friday evening?”
“I was right here,” she said. “I very, very rarely go out.”
“Did you have any visitors that night?”
“No.”
“Did you see any neighbors—in the lobby or the hallways?”
“No.”
“Did you receive any phone calls?”
“No.”
Boone gave up; Delaney took over.
“How did you spend that evening, Miss Otherton?” he asked. “Read? Watch television?”
“I worked on my autobiography,” she said. “Doctor Simon got me started. He said it would help if I tried to recall everything and write it down.”
“Yes. And we’d discuss it. He was so sympathetic, so understanding. Oh, what a beautiful man!”
“You saw him twice a week?”
“Usually. Sometimes more when I—when I had to.”
“How long had you been seeing Doctor Ellerbee?”
“Four years. Four years and three months.”
“Did you feel he was helping you?”
“Oh, yes! My panic attacks are much less frequent now. And I don’t do those—those things as often. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me with Doctor Simon gone. His wife—his widow—is trying to find another therapist for me, but it won’t be the same.”
“What things?” Boone said sharply. “You said you don’t do those things as often. What were you referring to?”
She raised her soft chin. “Sometimes when I go out, I hit people.”
“Have they done anything to you?”
“No.”
“Just anyone?” Delaney said. “Someone on the street or in a restaurant?”
“Men with beards,” she said in a husky voice, her head slowly bowing again. “Only men with beards. When I was eleven years old, I was raped by my uncle.”
“And he had a beard?”
She raised her head and stared at him defiantly. “No, but it happened in his office, and he had an old engraving of Ulysses Grant on the wall.”
It’s Looney Tunes time, Delaney thought, and was vaguely ashamed they had dragged that confession from this hapless woman.
“But your assaults on bearded men became less frequent after you started seeing Doctor Ellerbee?”
“Oh, yes! He was the one who made the connection between bearded men and the rape.”
“When was the last time you made an attack on a stranger?”
“Oh … months ago.”
“How many months?”
“One or two.”
“It must have been very painful for you—when Doctor Ellerbee told you the reason for your hostility toward bearded men.”
“He didn’t tell me. He never did that. He just let me discover it for myself.”
“But that was painful?”
“Yes,” she said in a whisper. “Very. I hated him then, for making me remember.”
“Was this a recent discovery?”
“Months ago.”
“How many months?”
“One or two,” she said again.
“But earlier you called Doctor Simon a saint. So your hatred of him didn’t last.”
“No. I knew he was trying to help me.”
Delaney glanced at the Sergeant.
“Miss Otherton,” Boone said, “did you know any of Doctor Simon’s other patients?”
“No. I rarely saw them, and we never spoke.”
“Do you know Doctor Diane Ellerbee?”
“I met her twice and spoke to her once on the phone.”
“What do you think of her?” Boone asked.
“She’s all right, I guess. Awfully skinny. And cold. She doesn’t have Doctor Simon’s personality. He was a very warm man.”
“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm him? Anyone who threatened him?”
“No. Who would want to kill a doctor? He was trying to help everyone.”
“Did you ever attack Doctor Simon?”
“Once,” she said and sobbed. “I slapped him.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I don’t remember.”
“How did he react?”
“He slapped me back, not hard. Then we hugged each other, laughing, and it was all right.”
She seemed willing enough to continue talking—eager in fact. But the sandalwood incense, her perfume, and the steamy heat were getting to them.
“Thank you, Miss Otherton,” Delaney said, struggling out of the depths of the couch. “You’ve been very cooperative. Please try to recall anything about Doctor Simon that might help us. Perhaps a name he mentioned, or an incident. For instance, do you think his manner or personality changed in, say, the last six months or year?”
“Strange you should ask that,” she said. “I thought he was becoming a little quieter, more thoughtful. Not depressed, you understand, but a little subdued. I asked him if anything was worrying him, and he said no.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” Boone said. “We may find it necessary to come back and ask you more questions. I hope you won’t mind.”
“I won’t mind,” she said forlornly. “I don’t have many visitors.”
“I’ll leave my card,” the Sergeant said, “in case you remember something you think might help us.”
In the elevator, going down, Delaney said, “Odd. She says he was such a warm guy. That’s not the feeling I got from that private office of his.”
“I wonder what was bothering him,” Boone said. “If anything was.”
“The question is,” Delaney said, “did she hate him enough to dust him? She says she hated him after he made her recall the rape. Maybe he dredged up something else out of her past that really set her off.”
“You think she’s strong enough to bash in his skull?”
“When the adrenaline is flowing, a flyweight could do that, and she’s a hefty woman.”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m going home and shave. I don’t want to take any chances!”
That night, after dinner, Delaney told Monica about his day. She listened intently, fascinated.
“Those poor people,” she mourned when he had finished.
“Yes. They’re not exactly demented, but neither Isaac Kane nor Sylvia Mae has both oars in the water. And there are four more patients I want to meet.”
“It depresses you, Edward?”
“It’s not exactly a million laughs.”
He had started a small fire in the grate and turned off the living room lamps. They sat on the couch, close together, staring into the flames. Suddenly he put his arm about her shoulders.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “But it’s cold out there, and dark.”
12
“IT’S GOING TO BE a mixed-up weekend,” he warned Monica on Saturday morning. “I want to brace the other four patients before the new boys report in on Monday morning. And Jason called; he’s coming by this afternoon.”
“Don’t forget to ask Boone and Jason about Thanksgiving dinner.”
“I’ll remember,” he promised.
He went into the study to scribble a rough schedule, consulting the patients’ addresses on Dr. Diane Ellerbee’s list. He decided to hit Ronald J. Bellsey and L. Vincent Symington on Saturday and Joan Yesell and Harold Gerber on Sunday.
He and Boone would have to return to the brownstone to hear Jason’s report, and it was possible some of the patients wouldn’t be home. But if all went well, Delaney could spend Sunday evening bringing his files up to date in preparation for briefing the six new detectives.
By the time Boone arrived, Delaney had the weekend organized. Everything but the weather. It was a miserable day, with lowering clouds, sharp gusts of rain, and a mean wind that came out of the northwest, whipping coattails and snatching at hats.
Bellsey lived on East 28th Street. They drove south on Second Avenue, windshield wipers working in fits and starts, and the ancient heater fighting a losing battle against the windchill factor.
“I keep hoping someone will steal this heap,” the Sergeant said. “But I guess even the chop shops don’t want it. One of these days I’ll hit the lottery and get a decent set of wheels. By the way, I talked to the dick who checked out Bellsey. The subject claims he was home on the night Ellerbee got snuffed. His wife confirms. Not much of an alibi.”
“Not much,” Delaney agreed. “Did you find out what Bellsey does for a living?”
“Yeah. He’s manager of a big wholesale butcher on West Eighteenth Street. They handle high-class meats and poultry, and sell only to restaurants and hotels.”
“That reminds me,” Delaney said. “Would you and Rebecca like to come over for Thanksgiving Day dinner? We’re having roast goose.”
“Sounds good to me,” Boone said. “Thank you, sir. But I’ll have to check with Rebecca first in case she’s made other plans.”
“Sure. Either way, why don’t you ask her to give Monica a call.”
Ronald J. Bellsey lived in a new high-rise on the corner of Third Avenue. They found a parking space on 29th Street and walked back through the windswept rain, holding on to their hats. They were then told by the lobby attendant that Mr. and Mrs. Bellsey were not at home, having gone shopping no more than fifteen minutes earlier.
“Shit,” the Sergeant said as they plodded back to the car. “Well, I guess we can’t expect to win them all.”
“We’ll try him again this afternoon,” Delaney said. “No one’s going to spend all day shopping in this weather. Let’s give L. Vincent Symington a go. He lives in Murray Hill; Thirty-eighth Street east of Park. Did you get any skinny on him?”
“He’s a bachelor. Works for an investment counseling outfit on Wall Street. On the night of the murder, he says he was at a big dinner-dance at the Hilton. Some of the other guests remember seeing him there, but it was such a mob scene, he could easily have ducked out, murdered Ellerbee, and gotten back to the Hilton without anyone noticing he was gone. It’s never neat and tidy—is it, sir?”
“Never,” Delaney said. “Always loose ends. You know what they call them in the navy? Irish pennants. That’s what this case is—all Irish pennants.”
Symington lived in an elegant townhouse with bay windows on the first two floors, fanlights over the upper windows, and a mansard roof of greened copper. A lantern of what appeared to be Tiffany glass hung suspended over the front door.
“Money,” Delaney pronounced, surveying the building. “Probably all floor-throughs.”
He was right; there were only five names listed on the gleaming brass bell plate. L. VINCENT SYMINGTON, printed in a chaste script, was opposite the numeral 3. Boone pressed the button and leaned down to the intercom grille.
Fourth Deadly Sin Page 11
