Carefully, he placed the Webley in Nick Vermeyer’s cooling hand and closed it around the butt of the revolver. Then he lifted the hand with the gun and fired a second bullet into the floor beneath the desk, ensuring that there would be a cordite smell on the corpse’s fingers. Suicides had to pull the trigger themselves, after all…
Just one thing remained to be done. Mr. Vanish opened the desk drawer and found the suicide note he’d typed earlier. He inserted it into the typewriter, carefully lining up the edge of the page with the mark he’d used while typing the note. Then he stepped back with a faint smile of satisfaction.
There. He’d done what he’d been paid to do. Now he could tie up a couple of nagging loose ends named Dooley and DiGianni.
He stripped off the surgical gloves he’d been wearing, removing them and turning them inside out at the same time, then stuffed them into his pocket. From another pocket he took a fresh pair of gloves and put them on. Cordite could be explained in the study, even on the suicide note, but not on the handle to the back door.
So they figured they had him pegged, did they? he thought savagely as he let himself out of the house. They thought they’d identified his M.O. from Bert Waldron’s files. Well, they had a surprise in store for them…
At Toronto Mercy Hospital, the shifts changed at 3:00 p.m. Although there were twice as many nurses and orderlies as usual from 3:00 to 3:15, they were generally unavailable.
Keys were being handed over, rosters were being signed, the incoming staff were being brought up to date on the patients who would be in their care. And gossip was exchanged, particularly about the behavior of a certain police detective who had brought an impressive bouquet to the young lady in room 921 the previous evening, and had hung out a Do Not Disturb sign on her door for fully half an hour that morning.
Miss Foote, the day charge nurse, had frowned mightily when she heard about this. That young woman had been brought to her floor after emergency surgery; she’d been in only fair condition, with strict instructions from the attending surgeon as to her recuperation. Nowhere on the list of recommended therapy did the words necking or petting appear.
Obviously, this detective would bear close watching whenever he visited the patient. Miss Foote passed a strong recommendation along to the evening charge nurse, Mrs. Conway, along with her deep reservations about the wisdom of allowing a confessed murderer to occupy an ordinary hospital room not far from his second intended victim. Granted, the patient was comatose, and granted, there was a police officer guarding the door, but he paced and fidgeted and grumbled to himself a great deal. He never stood at attention beside the door, the way a police guard ought to stand.
Miss Foote warned Mrs. Conway to keep the extension number for Hospital Security close at hand during her shift, and Mrs. Conway solemnly promised to do so. As the elevator doors closed on the departing Miss Foote, Mrs. Conway smiled and shook her head indulgently.
By 3:45, the shift was well under way. They were going to be a little shorthanded this evening, Mrs. Conway noted. Well, she didn’t mind doing the same work as her nurses—unlike some charge nurses she knew—and she was rather looking forward to the next instalment of the soap opera that seemed to be unfolding in room 921.
She didn’t have long to wait. Just after 4:00 p.m., she looked up from her paperwork and found a white-clad young orderly leaning across the counter of the nurses’ station. He was blue-eyed, stood medium height, and wore his light brown hair slicked up in a pompadour.
He had said something to her. “I beg your pardon?” she asked.
“I said, I’ve come up to check on the gunshot wound that came through the Trauma Unit night before last. I was on duty in the ER,” he explained, “and I saw how scared she was. I wanted to make sure she’s okay and maybe say hello to her. A little bit of public relations, you might say,” he added with a grin.
Involuntarily, she smiled back. “I don’t recall seeing you around, Mr.—” She glanced at the name tag pinned to his shirt, “—Storm.”
“No, ma’am,” Allen Storm replied. “I’m permanently assigned to the Trauma Unit downstairs. I don’t usually visit the floors. But I wanted to see this patient again. Is she allowed visitors yet?”
“That depends. Do you know her name?”
“Alessandra DiGianni.”
“Ah, yes—the little girl in 921. I might have known,” mumbled Mrs. Conway to herself, and she pulled a chart out of the rack and opened it while the orderly craned his neck farther over the desk—trying to read the doctor’s scribblings upside down, no doubt. Well, good luck. Dr. Marley had the worst handwriting in the entire hospital.
“Nobody but her family and the police,” she said, slamming the chart shut and sliding it back into its slot. Then, seeing the disappointed look in the orderly’s eyes, she added, “The patient seems to be making a rapid recovery from surgery, so Dr. Marley may change that order after rounds this afternoon. Why don’t you try again later on?”
“Maybe I will,” he said with a broad grin. And he winked knowingly at her before stepping into the down elevator.
The pain was back, but not as strong as before. Sandy wanted to wait until it was unbearable before asking for more medication. The shot she’d received just before lunch had made her dizzy and a little queasy, so she hadn’t been able to finish her meal.
Dinner would be served in an hour, if she could hang on until then. Sandy could hardly wait to see what color jelly would be on her tray.
“How are you feeling this afternoon, dear?” The nursing shift must have changed again. This Mrs. Conway was a new face, at any rate. She took Sandy’s blood pressure and pulse rate. “Would you like something for pain?” she asked as she rearranged Sandy’s pillows.
Smiling, Sandy shook her head. “I want to stay alert.”
“In case that handsome detective drops by again?” teased the nurse.
“I don’t think he’ll come back again today,” said Sandy, trying to sound casual. She was hoping he would return, but she knew how much paperwork was involved in wrapping up an investigation.
“Oh, and speaking of gentlemen callers, there’s a young man outside waiting to see you. Dr. Marley says you can have visitors now, if you’re feeling up to it. Shall I send him in?”
Suddenly tense, Sandy asked, “Who is he? Did he say?”
“His name is Allen Storm, and he’s an orderly from the Emergency Room. He says you were admitted during his shift.”
Sandy uttered a little gasp of recognition. “That Storm!” Her memories of Sunday morning were vague and elusive, but she did recall the sympathetic presence and strong, warm hand of the orderly who had taken her to Radiology and remained with her while her arm was being X-rayed. Sandy owed him a debt of gratitude for helping her through the worst of it. Even though she was weary and in pain, she couldn’t just turn him away.
“I’d like to talk to him,” said Sandy.
Mrs. Conway left the room, and a moment later a shy-looking young man in a white uniform walked in behind a blue crystal vase containing an enormous bouquet of yellow roses and red carnations.
“Oh,” breathed Sandy, “those are beautiful. Is there a card?”
He set the flowers down carefully atop the low dresser opposite the foot of her bed. Then he came slowly toward her, wiping his palms on the sides of his trouser legs.
“They’re from me,” he said, his voice sounding nervous and hopeful and exhilarated, all at once.
Suddenly her skin began to prickle a warning. He was gazing at her the same way a thief might admire a priceless diamond just before tucking it into his pouch. Ted had instructed her to be alert for things that didn’t feel right, and the look in Storm’s eyes certainly fit that description, but there wasn’t much Sandy could do right now except keep her hand close to the call buzzer and try to get rid of him.
“I asked the nurse to let you co
me in because I wanted to thank you for your kindness when I was admitted, Mr. Storm,” she began stiffly. “Of course, I realize that you were just doing your job—”
“No, ma’am,” he interrupted in a husky voice. “From the first moment I saw you I knew you deserved special treatment.” Suddenly his eyes were so filled with adoration that Sandy found herself groping uncomfortably for words.
“Mr. Storm,” she almost exclaimed, desperately pinning on a sympathetic smile, “I really appreciated your warmth and skill when I was hurt…”
He seemed to grasp for her arm, and Sandy flinched and pulled away, her alarm rising.
“Mr. Storm, please! I’m grateful for the kindness you showed me earlier, but I really need to rest. Please understand,” she begged him.
He shrugged and wiped his hands on his pants legs again. Distractedly, she noticed that his nameplate was crooked.
“Maybe I’ll drop in later, then,” he said, in a voice that forced her heart up into her throat. He looked so young, like a kid with a crush.
“That’s fine,” she said doubtfully.
“And would you do me a favor? Don’t throw out my flowers,” he pleaded. “Just keep them here in your room and…kind of think of me sometimes, okay? Please?”
He looked so pathetic that she couldn’t bear to say no. “All right, Mr. Storm, I’ll keep your flowers if you want.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” she sighed wearily.
And he blew her a kiss and strutted out the door as if he’d just won the lottery.
Tuesday, June 19
Sandy sat on the edge of her bed, trying to do the initial set of hand exercises which had been prescribed for her by the physiotherapist earlier that morning, but completely unable to concentrate.
After much internal debate, she had decided not to make a big deal out of her strange encounter with Mr. Storm. There was nothing intrinsically dangerous or evil about the man, surely. There was just something in his eyes…and the relief she’d experienced as he finally left the room. The possibility that he might come back hung over her mood like a blanket of smog. She really wanted to discuss this with Ted, but she hadn’t heard from him since his visit yesterday morning.
And if Miss Foote, the puritanical day charge nurse, had anything to say about it, she wouldn’t see him unchaperoned again. Miss Foote had marched into Sandy’s room right after Ted had left and quoted her chapter and verse of the hospital regulations regarding police contacts with patients. There would be no scenes of unbridled passion in room 921 as long as she was on duty, thank you!
Unfortunately Miss Foote tended to impose her presence on nearly everything Sandy did. She constantly felt the nurse’s stiff-lipped disapproval, like a cold draft stealing into the room through an unseen crack in the wall, and it made her angry and uncomfortable, and all the more determined to get well and get home as soon as possible.
Sandy turned to lean back on her bed, and her gaze went immediately to Storm’s flowers. She wanted to get well and get home, she amended, without any unfinished business from the hospital following her there. She would have to confront Mr. Storm—if he came again—and make it quite clear to him that she did not want him to try to contact her at any time in the future.
“Lunch,” caroled the nurse’s aide as she brought in something that looked more like a meal, now that Sandy was nearly on solid food. It was an optical illusion, of course. Nothing that came on a hospital tray really tasted like food.
Half an hour after the tray had been collected, Sandy heard the ding of the elevator, and at once her breathing quickened. Was it Ted? Oh, please, let it be Ted. Hastily, she slid herself off the bed, shoved her feet into her slippers, tightened the belt of her robe, and opened the door of her room just a crack.
Allen Storm was standing at the nurses’ station. After a second, he nodded to the nurse behind the desk, then wheeled and headed down the other hallway, past the elevators.
Sandy gnawed her lower lip thoughtfully. She was being discharged the day after tomorrow. If she didn’t confront him soon, she would lose her opportunity. And as long as he was up here anyway… She decided to follow him.
Storm was at the far end of the corridor, making a left turn. Sandy hurried as quietly as she could, past patients’ rooms on her right, and showers and a small kitchen and a supply room on her left. Just before she reached the end of the hall, she stopped and peered cautiously around the corner.
He was standing in front of room 943 chatting with a uniformed police officer who Sandy deduced was Sergeant Michaels. The officer was just past middle age, lined and leathery and carrying a bit of a paunch, and he didn’t look or sound very happy with his current assignment.
“…babysitting. I mean, this guy’s in a coma,” he was saying. “If there was any chance at all he could escape, they’d have put him under lock and key to start with, right?”
“So, think of it as a paid vacation,” said Storm with a shrug.
“I don’t need a vacation right now,” grumbled the officer. “I’m six months from retirement and I want to go out with a bang, you know what I mean? Listen, Allen, I really appreciate your taking the time to come and visit with an old warhorse like me. The prisoner doesn’t talk much, and the nurses are all too busy…”
Sandy pulled back carefully from the corner and returned thoughtfully to her room. So Dooley was in 943, and Allen Storm was cultivating the police officer who’d been assigned to guard him. There was nothing sinister about that, really—was there?
Could it be just an unsettling coincidence? Was Storm in the habit of checking up on patients who had come through Emergency during his shift? Perhaps, but Sandy decided not to take the chance. She picked up the telephone and called the office number on the business card Ted Gaine had left her.
As she’d half expected, neither Gaine nor Wegner was in. She left a message with Sergeant Andover for either of the detectives to call her back. Then she hung up and waited impatiently.
Twenty minutes later, her telephone rang. It was Sergeant Wegner. “What can I do for you, Miss DiGianni?” he asked.
Sandy told him about the Allen Storm situation, and about the orderly’s disturbing interest in both her and Dooley.
“You were right to bring this to our attention,” he said, “but you mustn’t let yourself get all upset over it. Sergeant Gaine and I will look into this Allen Storm right away, and if there’s anything to worry about, we’ll take care of it, all right? You just relax and enjoy your flowers.”
Sandy hung up, feeling a strange mix of emotions. It was reassuring to know that the two detectives were following up so quickly, and at the same time disquieting that she hadn’t been able to talk to Ted Gaine. This Mr. Vanish investigation must be turning her paranoid. She had clearly heard patronizing undertones in Wegner’s voice, as though he thought she was blowing things out of proportion. Maybe she was. Maybe being hurt and in the hospital was warping her perspective. And if it was, how would she know?
Eleanor Vermeyer had come home after a long weekend at the family cottage to find her husband dead of a gunshot wound to the head. There was a suicide note in his typewriter. She had immediately called the police.
Now she sat, pressing a white silk handkerchief to a face flushed and swollen from weeping, refusing all comfort as the detectives conducted their investigation.
“Nick became so depressed after Lou was killed,” she sobbed. “They were very close, you know, like brothers. When he didn’t want to come up to the cottage with me this weekend, I knew something was wrong. But I had no idea he was planning to—”
Suddenly she’d dissolved into fresh tears, and Sergeant Wegner closed his notepad and murmured to his partner, “Let’s make this quick. The widow’s obviously a basket case, and this was obviously a suicide.”
Ted sighed heavily. “I’m not so sure it was, Joe,” he re
plied as they walked back to the study where the body had been found.
Joe glanced at him in disbelief. “You’re not sure? How cut and dried does the situation have to be for you? I’ve got a hundred dollars says Ballistics matches the gun we found in Vermeyer’s hand with the slugs that killed Parmentier and Blass.”
“And the slug we pulled out of the floor?”
Joe shrugged. “There could be any number of reasons for that. You’re trying to second-guess a man who’d already slipped over the edge, remember. Who knew what was going through his mind?”
“It just doesn’t feel right, Joe. I say we call it questionable for now.”
“Nielsen likes evidence, not feelings,” Wegner pointed out, pulling a surgical glove from his pants pocket. “I’d better get that note out of the typewriter for Forensics.”
“No, wait a minute. There’s something we should check out.” Ted pulled on his own glove, pressed the carriage return and proceeded to type a few characters.
Joe’s jaw dropped. “What are you doing, Ted? That’s evidence!”
But his partner was staring intently at the page in the typewriter. “Look at the left margins—the margin of the note and the place where I just typed,” he said.
Joe looked, and his jaw dropped even farther. The margins were slightly, but visibly, different.
“No matter how careful you are, once you’ve taken a page out of a typewriter, you can never put it back in exactly the same place,” said Ted with grim satisfaction. “If Vermeyer typed this note, he obviously didn’t do it just before killing himself. And if he’d typed it earlier, why would he bother putting it back in the typewriter? More and more, this feels to me like murder, Joe.”
“I don’t believe this,” Wegner muttered to himself. “Next you’ll be telling me that Mr. Vanish did it.”
“That’s not as far-fetched as you may think. When we were discussing the Parmentier case last week, what was your only objection to my theory that a lookalike might have attended that party? The Vermeyers would have spotted a ringer. But what if Nick didn’t really get a good look at the guy, only said it was Parmentier because it was inconceivable to him that anyone would have been impersonating Parmentier? Or what if Nick was out-and-out lying to us? What if the killer realized this and became nervous that, over time, Vermeyer might have second thoughts, and he decided to eliminate the witness before he could change his statement?”
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