The Todd Dossier

by Robert Bloch

I told him I didn’t want a divorce. If the worst came to worst, we could run off to Pago Pago together and eat papayas on the beach. He said this was no time to make jokes and I told him I wasn’t joking. “You’ve never understood what mattered to me and what didn’t, Charlie,” I said. And then I couldn’t help it, I started to cry. Then I told him exactly what had happened that night. All of it.

  Charlie held my hand, and suddenly everything was all right again. We didn’t even have to talk about it anymore. Then Charlie said, “But now I want you to listen, because I’m going to tell you something that matters to me.”

  Continued Extract From the Statement of Charles Everett, M.D.

  Q. What did your wife tell you, Dr. Everett?

  A. Is that necessary? I don’t really think it’s relevant.

  Q. Off the record, then. If it made you change your mind about telling her your suspicions, it might be helpful.

  A. Well—all right. It was embarrassing, but it wasn’t Natalie’s fault. Natalie told me she quit her job because this Dorshka woman, her employer, made a pass at her. I won’t go into any details, but apparently this had been building up for quite some time without my wife really being aware of the situation. That evening she was at the studio alone, finishing up some work, when her employer came in. Natalie was feeling depressed, she needed someone to talk to, and I gather this woman encouraged her. One thing led to another and this—this incident—occurred. My wife ran out, it was about one-thirty in the morning, she said, and spent several hours driving around before returning to our apartment. Ever since then she’d felt guilty, ashamed to tell me. When she did break down and tell me, it cleared the air, and I felt free to tell her what had been bothering me.

  Q. Precisely what did you tell your wife, Dr. Everett?

  A. Pretty much what I’ve told you, though I didn’t go into any details. I told her what I’d seen on Tony Polanski’s body, how I examined it. I told her where I’d been that night, about my conversation with Dr. Geiger. How I’d gone up to Polanski’s house and talked to the old man, Vacek . . .

  Q. Please continue.

  A. Well, first of all you’ve got to realize at this point I wasn’t too clear about things in my own mind. I was tired, I hadn’t been getting enough rest, and the operation itself would have been enough to knock me out. And then all these other things on top of it. I’d started out reaching pretty far to begin with, just the idea that Polanski’s death wasn’t an accident, it was murder. Only there was no evidence that this man Sandoz had any reason to kill him—even if I could prove he had the same blood type I’d discovered in my examination of the body, it didn’t prove murder. Because I had to admit that what Geiger told me about Polanski clawing or biting in a convulsive spasm made perfectly good sense. It could have happened that way very easily, and I knew it. But Geiger mentioned Hollis Todd and this threw me—Todd did have a motive, no doubt about it. And that made it murder again. The trouble here was how to imagine the way such a thing could be set up. I admit it had crossed my mind at first but I couldn’t see any connection that made sense. So when Geiger said what he did, it only confused me more. It wasn’t until I talked to Tadeuz Vacek that I found what might be a logical answer.

  Q. Which was?

  A. The woman. The woman he saw with Tony Polanski at the top of the hill. Suppose she twisted his scarf, tightened it around his neck from behind, then released the brakes on his wheelchair and sent it down. He’d be grabbing at his throat, trying to loosen his scarf so he could breathe. And by the time he did, it was too late for the brakes, he was out in the street just at the moment that car happened to be passing the intersection. He crashed into it and then everything happened exactly the way Geiger said. Mr. Sandoz jumped out to help him and Polanski clawed at him and bit his hand before he lost consciousness. Nobody saw the woman at the top of the hill—she ran for it the moment Polanski started down. She’d have no way of knowing he’d hit a car, of course, but it was still intent to murder.

  Continued Extract From the Statement of Eva Veillier

  . . . Why did I go to the boy’s funeral? I went because I wanted to. I went because the boy’s heart was in Hollis’ body. That’s a silly question. It was a sad funeral, rain, dead leaves among the wreaths, many poor people, many young people. A boy’s funeral is always sad. Crosby and Dr. Mantle didn’t come—by this time, you understand, we had moved to suites at the Ambassador, close to the hospital. But they didn’t come to the funeral with me and I felt like an intruder. I was glad to see Dr. Everett there. I offered him a ride into town in the limousine. Later it occurred to me that he must have had a car, he had gotten out there by himself. But he accepted a ride in mine. He asked if I could wait a moment, he wanted to see someone. So we waited while all the young men filed by. There was a machine on the hill, digging graves. I have never seen such a machine before. I could have wept, all the young men, the dead leaves, that machine, the boy in the ground without a heart. Then came a man who was not so young. Dr. Everett shook his hand. He called the man “Mr. Sandoz” and I knew it must be the man involved in the accident. “It was thoughtful of you to come,” Dr. Everett said, and he squeezed the man’s hand. The man seemed to jump, as if with pain, and he pulled his hand away. There was some kind of wound, a few stitches. “I see you had it treated,” Dr. Everett said. “Better take care of that.” Mr. Sandoz told him it was all right, there was no need. And then he left, and we went to the limousine.

  Q. And did you talk about anything in particular in the car?

  A. How was Mr. Todd, he wanted to know. Of course he had called in to the hospital earlier for the report, the bulletins, but he wanted to know what I thought. I told him Hollis was doing well, very well. And that I would be happy now if it wasn’t for that boy. He said a strange thing then. “But the boy had to die in order for Hollis Todd to live,” he said. “You realize that, of course. So there was really no choice, was there?” I told him if it was a matter of the boy or Hollis I could only give one answer. But in this case I was glad my choice was not involved, it was something beyond anyone’s control.

  Q. What did Dr. Everett say then?

  A. He asked would it have made any difference if I had known the boy. I thought this question morbid, in bad taste. I told him so. I told him what he must already have known, that none of us knew the boy, Hollis or Crosby or Dr. Mantle, there was no point in dwelling upon such things. He apologized to me.

  Q. Please continue, Mrs. Veillier.

  A. By this time we were arriving at the hospital. He thanked me and got out and I told the chauffeur to take me on to the Ambassador. I expected Dr. Everett to go directly inside after leaving me, but he did not. As we drove away I saw him walking over to a cab parked near the entrance.

  Extract From the Statement of Duncan Colden

  . . . That’s right, the Shangri-Lodge. Not Shangri-“La”—“Lodge.” I’m the desk clerk. And what you’re asking about, it happened in the afternoon, not morning. The reason I know is because it wasn’t raining anymore and it was still coming down pretty good at twelve when Effie relieved me and I went across the street for a hamburger. I’d been back at the desk maybe half an hour when he walked in. Drove up in a cab, it was still waiting.

  Q. Did he identify himself to you?

  A. No, he just asked could he see Mr. and Mrs. Sandoz. At first I figured him for fuzz, they’d come in yesterday to take some kind of statement about that accident. But he didn’t flash an I.D. and there was this cab waiting, so I thought maybe a reporter, you know, looking for a story, like an interview. They’d been around yesterday too, in and out you might say, and Mr. Sandoz slipped me and Becker—he’s the night man—Mr. Sandoz slipped us each ten bucks to say they were out. Which they were, most of the time, but when they were in they didn’t want to be bothered. Can’t hardly blame him for that, seeing as how he and his wife were so shook up after what happened. Helluva thing, just starting out on a vacation and then something like this. I remember one time me and Effie w
ere on our way up to Big Bear, just driving along—

  Q. Mr. Colden.

  A. Sorry. Anyway, I thought he was maybe from one of the papers and I asked him. He said no, just a friend, he’d read about what happened and wanted to get in touch. Well, it didn’t matter who he was now so I told him the truth. I told him they’d checked out, the Sandozes, first thing this morning. He asked what time, I said about eight-thirty, they’d been in 212 and some fella from Cleveland, salesman, moved right in after the room was cleaned up. In this business they come and go. So then he looked kind of disappointed and said what about a forwarding address where he could contact them. I said they didn’t leave any, they were just driving up the Coast on vacation. They took off in a new Chev, not the one they drove when the accident happened, this was from another agency. After the police checked it over they turned the old car back in on account of it being banged up. So he wanted to know what agencies? Questions people ask, they’ll talk your ear off if you let ’em. Anyhow I said I didn’t know about the Chev but the old car came from Kitz, over on La Brea. He told me much obliged and went out to the cab.

  Continued Extract From the Statement of Charles Everett, M.D.

  . . . I hadn’t really expected to get any information from Mrs. Veillier, and I didn’t. That left Sandoz. When he pulled his hand away from me at the cemetery I saw the stitches, and the wound did look like a bite. Of course he could have gotten it just the way Geiger suggested, but I wanted to be sure. I promised myself if we had a talk, if Sandoz told me how he got the wound, I’d be willing to forget the whole thing. I really meant it. Then when I went to the motel Sandoz mentioned in the accident report and learned he’d checked out in such a rush, I started seeing them again.

  Q. Seeing what?

  A. The windmills. The ones I was tilting at. Why the hurry to take off in the rain? Why no forwarding address? Again there could be a perfectly natural explanation, but I still wanted to hear it. I went over to the car rental agency hoping to get Sandoz’ home address so that at least I could get in touch with him later. He’d have to give them identification before taking a car out. There was no one in the office but a girl, a secretary, and I told her the same story I’d told the clerk at the motel—I was a friend, how could I contact Sandoz? She gave it to me.

  Q. The address?

  A. That’s right. A post office box number in St. Louis. Apparently it was on his credit cards, too, and that was good enough for them. But I could see another windmill turning. I told the girl I was sorry, I’d read about the accident and wanted to see him, make sure he was all right. She said she thought so, the only damage was to the car, the whole right side was banged in. I asked her what they did in such cases, junk it? She told me no, it was being repaired. They’d taken it over to a refinishing place, Herman’s Body Shop out on Sepulveda. I asked if they were any good, because I’d had some bad experiences on body work with my own car. She was very helpful. She said they were excellent and gave me one of their cards. So I went out there.

  Q. To see the car?

  A. What you’re really asking is, what did I have in mind? I don’t know. Have you ever tried to call a public utility company or a government agency and gotten the busy signal half a dozen times? And then the call goes through, and all you get is a recording telling you to hang on, the lines are busy? Finally you manage to get through and tell them what you want. But they just give you another number, another department to call. So the whole thing starts all over again. You know you’re being pushed around, but by this time you can’t give up. You’ve got to see it through. Well, I suppose that’s how I felt. I had to see it through until I came up with some kind of answer. Promise you won’t go to the police, Geiger said. Work it out for yourself.

  Q. What did you find at the body shop?

  A. A big garage setup. Open on one side. Drafty. Half a dozen wrecks. Mechanics with masks and welding torches, paint-sprayers. Lots of noise and nobody around to give you the time of day. So when I spotted the Buick Riviera over in one corner I walked up and took a look. The right door panel was smashed and dented. The left door was unlocked. I opened it and slid under the wheel. No one paid any attention. I opened the glove compartment, thinking perhaps something had been left there. A note, a piece of paper with an address on it. There was a filling-station map of Los Angeles, half a pack of pocket-size Kleenex. Nothing else. Then I saw a litter bag hanging under the dash. It was halffull. I removed it and got out of the car. I carried it outside to the cab I had waiting. The banging and pounding went on. No one noticed me or tried to stop me. I told the cab driver to take me to the cemetery. I picked up my own car there. During the ride out I sorted out the contents of the litter bag.

  Q. What did it contain?

  A. The usual assortment. Gum wrappers, toothpicks. A crumpled cigarette package. Used cleansing tissues. Near the bottom was a small empty plastic prescription bottle. The lower portion of the label, the part that would show the name of the patient and the prescribing physician, had been torn off. I couldn’t find it. But the top of the label was still on the bottle. It carried the printed name and address of a local pharmacy, the phone number, and the typed-in number of the prescription. So after getting my car at the cemetery I stopped at a gas station and called the pharmacy for information. Then I drove into town. I knew where I was going.

  Continued Extract From the Statement of George Mantle, M.D.

  . . . It was sometime between four and five in the afternoon that he came into the Ambassador bar. I had left word at the desk and with the switchboard as to where I could be reached, of course, so he had no difficulty locating me. But I was surprised to see him. Certainly neither he nor Dr. Geiger had extended themselves to be particularly cordial to me since Mr. Todd had arrived at the hospital. Merely as a matter of professional courtesy one might think I would have been invited into surgery as an observer rather than view the operation from a distance in Dr. Geiger’s office. Nor was I presently being consulted in any way concerning Mr. Todd’s regimen during convalescence. Although I was his personal physician, my only source of information regarding his condition and progress came from the regular bulletins. Mind you, I am neither stating nor implying any unethical conduct or procedure. I only wish to emphasize that I had not been sought out by Dr. Everett at the hospital and I had not expected him to seek me out here. He came directly over to my table and asked if he could join me. I told him by all means, and a waiter came to take his order. I don’t remember what he asked for, it’s not important. But when the waiter left, Dr. Everett took what I recognized to be a small prescription bottle from his pocket. He placed it on the table before me without speaking, and I had the impression he expected some sort of reaction from me. All I said to him was, “Well?” He picked up the bottle—it was empty, by the way—and said, “Tetracycline. An antibiotic prescribed for open wounds.” I told him I was quite aware of that, I had gone to medical school. His stare, his whole manner, was irritating. “Why did you write this prescription?” he asked. I told him I hadn’t. “The Barone Pharmacy on North Figueroa says you did,” he insisted. I did my best to control my temper but it wasn’t easy. “They’re mistaken,” I said. “What’s the meaning of this?” He then informed me that the medication in question had been prescribed for Samuel Sandoz—the driver in the accident which resulted in the death of Anton Polanski.

  Q. What did you say?

  A. I told him I didn’t know what he was getting at, but it had better end right here. That I was not accustomed to being cross-examined and for his information I wanted to make one thing very clear—I did not write that prescription. And then I got up and left.

  Q. Did you mention this conversation to anyone?

  A. I could hardly avoid doing so. As I came out into the lobby I found Crosby McCullen waiting. I had the distinct impression that he had been observing Dr. Everett and me in the bar. He wanted to know what Dr. Everett had been talking about. I told him.

  Continued Extract From the Statement
of Charles Everett, M.D.

  I no sooner walked into the hospital when I heard myself being paged. I was told to report immediately to Dr. Geiger’s office. Geiger was furious. He’s got a temper like an acetylene torch. He can peel the paint right off the walls. I’ve seen him dismiss an intern from surgery right in the middle of an operation. Well, this time it was directed at me. McCullen had made a complaint. In no uncertain terms, Geiger told me to lay off. He told me I was smearing the entire medical profession by implying that Dr. Mantle was somehow implicated in the death of Tony Polanski. And then he showed me the prescription.

  Q. Prescription?

  A. The original prescription used by Sandoz to obtain the Tetracycline from the Barone Pharmacy. Geiger must have ordered it sent over right away, the moment McCullen called him. And he said, “You know the incidence of stolen prescription blanks, Doctor. Now can’t you get it through your head that Dr. Mantle’s handwriting does not match the handwriting on this prescription?” He had a sample of Mantle’s writing on his desk and he insisted I look at it and compare it with the prescription. Well, I’m no graphologist, but it didn’t take an expert to see that Dr. Mantle’s handwriting was entirely different from what was on the prescription blank. I had to admit that.

  Q. You told this to Dr. Geiger?

  A. Yes. But I also pointed out that it seemed coincidental that the prescription wound up with Sandoz.

  Q. What was his reaction?

  A. He really hit the ceiling then. He said yes, it did seem like coincidence, and that coincidence was all I had been able to come up with in my paranoid fixation. He had extended himself to be patient with me, but now I’d gone too far. I was tarnishing my own reputation, his, and the hospital’s. He said, “Your reputation is yours to ruin, but I will not allow you to endanger the integrity of this hospital or that of the medical profession.” I just stood there and took it. “Is that all, Doctor?” I said when he finished. “That’s all,” he said. “And I mean all.”