Fourth Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  And, having done that, he tramped gloomily into the kitchen, hoping to find the makings of a prodigious sandwich that might relieve his depression.

  Detective Brian Estrella was also thinking of food. Since his wife, Meg, had been in the hospital and nursing home, he had been baching it and hating every minute. He was unused to solitude, and a real klutz when it came to cooking and household chores.

  He had what he considered a brainstorm: He called Sylvia Mae Otherton on Friday night and suggested, with some diffidence, that they have dinner together. He would find a Chinese take-out joint and buy enough food for both of them. All Sylvia would have to supply would be hot tea. She thought it was a marvelous idea.

  Estrella bought egg rolls, barbecued ribs, noodles, wonton soup, shrimp in lobster sauce, fried rice, sweet-and-sour pork, fortune cookies, and pistachio ice cream. Everything was packed in neat cardboard containers, and they even put in plastic forks and spoons, paper napkins.

  It was like a picnic, with all the opened containers on the cocktail table along with cups of hot tea Sylvia provided. They agreed it was just the kind of spicy, aromatic food to have on a cold winter night with a hard wind rattling the windows and flurries of snow glistening in the streetlight.

  The detective didn’t neglect to compliment Sylvia on how attractive she looked, and indeed she had done much to improve her appearance. Her hair was washed and coiffed in a loose, fluffy cut. The excess makeup was gone, and the garish costume replaced by a simple shirtwaist.

  More important, her manner had undergone a transformation. She seemed at once confident and relaxed. She smiled and laughed frequently, and told Estrella she had gone out that afternoon and spent two hours shopping, going from store to store—something she hadn’t done since Dr. Ellerbee died.

  “That’s wonderful,” the detective said. “See, you can do it. You should try to get out of the house every day, even if it’s only for a few minutes.”

  “I intend to,” Otherton said firmly. “I’m going to take charge of my life. And I owe it all to you.”

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “You cared. You have no idea how important that was to me.”

  They finished everything and cleared away the empty containers. Then Sylvia asked about Estrella’s wife, and he told her the doctors didn’t hold out much hope, but Meg was in good spirits and spoke optimistically of coming home soon.

  “I think she knows she’s not going to do that,” the detective said in a low voice, “but she tries to keep cheerful so I don’t get depressed.”

  “She sounds like a wonderful woman, Brian.”

  “Yes. She is.”

  Then, before he knew it, he was telling Sylvia all about Meg, their life together, the child they had lost (leukemia), and how sometimes Estrella wondered how he was going to get through the rest of his life without his wife.

  He poured it all out, realizing now how lonely he had been and how he had been hoping to tell someone how he felt. It was a kind of tribute to Meg: public acknowledgment of the happiness she had given him.

  Sylvia listened intently, only asking sympathetic questions, until Estrella was done. They were sitting close together on the couch and, halfway through his recital, she took his hand and held it tightly.

  She wasn’t coming on to him; he knew that. Just offering the comfort of her physical presence, and he was grateful. When he had finished, he raised her hand and lightly kissed her fingertips.

  “Well …” he said, “that’s the sad story of my life. Forgive me for making you listen to all this. I know you have your own problems.”

  “I only wish I could help you,” she said sorrowfully. “You’ve helped me so much. Now let’s have an after-dinner drink.”

  She rose to bring the decanter from an ornate Korean cupboard.

  “Oh,” she said, “pardon me a moment; I have to make a short phone call.”

  The reproduction of a fin de siècle French phone was on a small, marble-topped Victorian stand. She dialed a three-digit number.

  “Charles?” she said. “This is Sylvia Mae Otherton. How are you tonight? … Good … Fine, thank you … Anything for me today? … Thank you, Charles. Good night.”

  She came back to Estrella with the sherry.

  “No mail today,” she said lightly. “Not even a bill.”

  He stared at her. Then he glanced at his wristwatch. Fourteen minutes after nine. He put his pipe aside.

  “Sylvia,” he said in a strained voice, “was that the guy at the lobby desk you were talking to?”

  “Yes, that was Charles. He works nights. I called to ask if there’s any mail in my box. It saves me a trip downstairs. My agoraphobia again!”

  “You call him every night to check on your mail?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “You always call about this time?”

  “Usually. But why—”

  She stopped, her eyes widened, her mouth fell open. One hand flew to cover it.

  “Oh, God!” she gasped.

  “You told us you hadn’t made any phone calls that night.”

  “I forgot!” she wailed. “It’s a regular habit, a routine, and I forgot. Oh, Brian, I’m so sorry. But I’m sure I called Charles that night.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Estrella said. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

  He went down to the lobby, identified himself, and talked to Charles for almost five minutes. The clerk swore that Sylvia Otherton called about her mail between 9:00 and 9:30 every weekday evening.

  “A lot of the tenants do that,” he said. “Especially the older ones. Saves them a trip downstairs. And I don’t mind. Things are slow around here at night, and it gives me someone to talk to, something to do.”

  “Does Otherton ever miss calling you?”

  “Not that I remember. Every night during the week, like clockwork.”

  “Between, say, nine and nine-thirty?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you remember her calling on a Friday night four weeks ago—the night of that terrific rainstorm?”

  “I can’t remember that particular night. All I know is that she hasn’t missed a night since I been working here, and that’s almost three years now.”

  “Thank you, Charles.”

  Upstairs again, Estrella said, “Sylvia, as far as I’m concerned, you’re cleared—and that’s what I’m going to put in my report.”

  He thought that would please her, but instead she looked like she was about to cry.

  “Does that mean I won’t be seeing you anymore?”

  He touched her shoulder. “No,” he said gently, “it doesn’t mean that.”

  “Good,” she said happily. “Brian, would you like to try the Ouija board again? Maybe it will help you find out who did it.”

  “Sure,” he said, “let’s try.”

  They sat as they had before, the board between them on the cocktail table. Sylvia put her fingers lightly on the planchette and closed her eyes.

  “Doctor Ellerbee,” Detective Brian Estrella said in a hollow voice, “was the person who killed you a stranger?”

  The planchette did not move.

  Estrella repeated his question.

  The planchette jerked wildly. It spelled out KGXFTD, then stopped.

  “Doctor Ellerbee,” the detective tried once more, “was the person who killed you a stranger?”

  The planchette moved slowly. It pointed to N and then to I. NI. Then it stopped.

  “Sylvia,” Brian said softly, “I don’t think we’re getting anywhere. It spelled out NI. That doesn’t mean anything.”

  She opened her eyes. “Maybe he’s just not getting through to me tonight. His spirit may be busy with another medium.”

  “That could be it,” Estrella acknowledged.

  “But we’ll try again, won’t we, Brian?” she asked anxiously.

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  On Saturday afternoon, Delaney, Boone, and Jason held a council of war. The
y shuffled through all the reports that had come in during the week and discussed reassignments.

  “Estrella says Otherton is clean,” Delaney said. “You willing to accept that?”

  “I am, sir,” Jason said promptly. “He did a thorough job on her—checked all her friends and neighborhood stores. It was just by luck that he got onto the phone call to the lobby clerk. I think she’s clean.”

  “Boone?”

  “I’ll go along with Jase, sir.”

  “What’s this Ouija board nonsense in his report? It’s the second time he’s mentioned that. Is the man a flake?”

  “No, sir,” Jason Two said. “He’s a steady, serious kind of guy. But his wife is very sick, and maybe he’s got that on his mind.”

  “Oh,” Delaney said. “I didn’t know that and I’m sorry to hear it. Does he want a leave of absence?”

  “No, he says he wants to keep on working.”

  “Probably the best thing,” Delaney said. “All right, let’s clear Otherton. She may be a nut case, but I can’t see her as a killer. Now about this report from Detective Venable … That is interesting. Sounds to me like Mrs. Yesell has been leading us up the garden path.”

  “Her story sure needs work,” Sergeant Boone said. “If Otherton is cleared, how about switching Estrella to Joan Yesell? He can work with Helen on finding the members of Mrs. Yesell’s bridge club.”

  “Yes,” Delaney said, “let’s do that. Boone, you’re working with Calazo on Ronald J. Bellsey?”

  “Every chance I get.”

  “And, Jason—you and Keisman are covering Harold Gerber?”

  “That’s right, sir. Nothing new to report.”

  “And Konigsbacher has nothing new to report on Symington. But I’ve got something new that may interest you.”

  He told them about Detective Parnell’s report—that Dr. Simon Ellerbee’s will had specifically canceled all his patients’ outstanding bills.

  “Now what the hell do you suppose that means?” he asked the two officers.

  They both shook their heads.

  “Beats me,” Boone said.

  “Probably nothing,” Jason said.

  “Probably,” Delaney said, sighing. “We’ve sure got a lot of probabilities in this case and damned little we can sink our teeth in. Well, what can I tell you except to keep plugging and pray for a break.”

  After they left, he returned to the study to paw through the scattered reports again. He was in a sour, dispirited mood. “Keep plugging.” That was stupid, unnecessary advice to give his aides. They were experienced police officers and knew that plugging was the name of the game.

  What always bemused Delaney in cases like this was the contrast between the grand passion that incited the murder of a human being and the pedestrian efforts of the police to solve it.

  In a crazy kind of way, it was like solving the mystery of a Rembrandt by analyzing pigments, brushstrokes, and the quality of the canvas, and then saying, “There! Your mystery’s explained.” It wasn’t, of course. Mystery was mystery. It defied rational explication.

  Even if the Ellerbee homicide was closed, Delaney suspected the solution would merely be a resolution of the facts. The enigma of human behavior would remain hidden.

  19

  TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, and the city had never been more enchanting. The “city” being Manhattan, and more particularly midtown Manhattan, with streets glowing with lights and tinsel. Amplified carols rang out everywhere, along with the jingle of bells and cash registers. The annual shopping frenzy was in full swing, stores mobbed, the spending fever an epidemic. “Take my money, miss—please!”

  But downtown, on Seventh Avenue South, there were no lights, no tinsel, no carols. Just some foul remains of the last snowfall, clotted with garbage and dog droppings. Harold Gerber’s tenement showed no festive trappings. Paint peeled, plaster fell away, the bare, lathed walls oozed a glutinous slime that smelled of suppuration.

  “O little town of Bethlehem,” Detective Robert Keisman sang.

  “How about ‘Come, All Ye Faithful’?” Jason suggested.

  The two detectives were lounging around Gerber’s ruinous pad, working on a six-pack of Schaefer. The two black officers were wearing drifter duds, and all three men were bundled in down jackets, with caps and gloves. It was damp, and cold enough to see their breath.

  “Let’s go through it once more,” Jason Two said.

  “Ahh, Jesus,” Gerber said, “do we have to?”

  “Sure we have to,” Keisman said lazily. “You’re aching to get your ass locked up, aren’t you? Spend a nice warm holiday in durance vile—right? You say you snuffed Doc Ellerbee. Well, yeah, that may be so, but on the other hand you may just be jerking us around.”

  “See, Harold,” Jason said, “we run you in, and it turns out you’re just a bullshit artist wasting everyone’s time—well, that don’t look so good on our records.”

  “Shit,” Gerber said, “you write out any kind of a confession you like—put anything in it you want—and I’ll sign it.”

  “Nah,” the Spoiler said, “that’s not how it’s done, Harold. You got to tell us in your own words. You say you took a cab over to Ellerbee’s townhouse on that night?”

  Gerber: “That’s right.”

  Jason: “What kind of cab? Yellow, Checker, gypsy?”

  Gerber: “I don’t remember.”

  Keisman: “How long did it take you to get there?”

  Gerber: “Maybe twenty minutes.”

  Jason: “Where did the cabby drop you?”

  Gerber: “Right in front of Ellerbee’s office.”

  Keisman: “How did you get in?”

  Gerber: “Rang the bell. When he answered, I told him I was in a bad way and had to see him. He let me in.”

  Jason: “You were carrying the hammer?”

  Gerber: “Sure. I carried it with me for the express purpose of killing Ellerbee. It was a premeditated murder.”

  Keisman: “Uh-huh. Now tell us again where you got the hammer.”

  Gerber: “I boosted it from that hardware store near Sheridan Square.”

  Jason: “Just put it under your jacket and walked out?”

  Gerber: “That’s right.”

  Keisman: “We checked with them. They lose a lot to shoplifters, but no ball peen hammers.”

  Gerber: “They don’t know their ass from their elbow.”

  Jason: “All right, now you’re inside Ellerbee’s townhouse, carrying a hammer. What did you do next?”

  Gerber: “Walked upstairs.”

  Keisman: “You were wearing your boots?”

  Gerber: “Sure, I was wearing boots. It was a fucking wet night.”

  Jason: “You see anyone else in the townhouse?”

  Gerber: “No. Just Ellerbee. He let me into his office.”

  Keisman: “He was alone?”

  Gerber: “Yeah, he was alone.”

  Jason: “Did you talk to him?”

  Gerber: “I said hello. He started to say, ‘What are you doing—’ and then I hit him.”

  Keisman: “He was facing you when you hit him?”

  Gerber: “That’s right.”

  Jason: “How many times did you hit him?”

  Gerber: “Two or three. I forget.”

  Keisman: “Where did you hit him? His brow, top of his head, temples—where?”

  Gerber: “Like on the hairline. Not on top of his head. High up on the forehead.”

  Jason: “He went down?”

  Gerber: “That’s right.”

  Keisman: “On his back?”

  Gerber: “Yeah, on his back.”

  Jason: “Then what did you do?”

  Gerber: “I saw he was dead, so I—”

  Keisman: “You didn’t hit him again when he was down?”

  Gerber: “What the hell for? The guy was fucking dead. I’ve seen enough stiffs to know that. So I got out of there, walked over to York, and got a cab going south.”

  Jason: “A
nd what did you do with the hammer?”

  Gerber: “Like I told you—I pushed it in a trash can on Eighth Street.”

  Keisman: “Why did you kill him, Harold?”

  Gerber: “Jesus, how many times do I have to tell you? He was a nosy fucker. After a while he knew too much about me. Hey, let’s have another brew; I’m thirsty.”

  The three sat there in silence, the two officers staring at the other man’s wild, flaming eyes. As usual, Gerber needed a shave, and uncombed hair still spiked out from under his black beret.

  “You going to take me in?” he asked finally.

  “We’ll think about it,” Jason Two said.

  “I did it. That’s God’s own truth. I’m guilty as hell.”

  They didn’t reply.

  “Hey, you guys?” Gerber said brightly, straightening up. “I’m moving. A city marshal showed up with an eviction notice. I’ve got to vacate the premises, as they say.”

  “Yeah?” the Spoiler said. “Where you moving to?”

  “Who the hell knows? I’ve got to look around. I want another place as swell as this one.”

  “Need any help moving?” Jason offered.

  “Moving what?” Harold Gerber said with a ferocious grin. “I can carry all my stuff in a shopping bag. I’m going to leave a lot of shit right here. You guys want any books? I’ve got a pile of paperbacks over there under the sink. Some hot stuff. You’re welcome to any or all.”

  “Yeah?” Jason said. “Let’s take a look. Maybe there’s something my wife would like. She’s always got her nose in a book.”

  He squatted down at the sink, began to inspect the jumble of books. He pulled out a thick one.

  “What’s this?” he said. “A Bible?”

  “Oh, that …” Gerber said casually. “I fished it out of a garbage can. I flipped through it. A million laughs.”

  Jason inspected the book.

  “Douay Version,” he read aloud. “That’s a Catholic Bible, isn’t it? You a Catholic, Harold?”

  “I was. Once. What are you?”

  “Baptist. Mind if I take this along?” Jason Two asked, holding up the Bible.

  “Be my guest,” Gerber said. “Read the whole thing. I won’t tell you how it comes out.”

  They sat around awhile longer before the two officers left, promising Gerber they’d tell him the next day whether or not they would arrest him.