Kaleidoscope (5 page)

“The daggers,” broke in Pruden. “Epworth had a collection of daggers on the wall.”

“—and she pushes it into the he-person's back.”

“Impossible,” protested the chief. “Impossible.”

Madame Karitska paid him no attention. “The man falls forward, facedown on the floor—is this true? Did he? The child—Jenny—throws herself across his bleeding back, making guttural moaning sounds, pulling and tugging at him to bring him back to the couch, not understanding. I feel her shock and grief. This she-person—this woman—pulls her to her feet, places the knife in the child's now-bloody hand, then drops it on the floor and pulls her to the door, where she is forced to turn the knob with her bloody hand. The she-person mouths a word the child can't hear but knows she's being shoved out, the door closes behind her and, bewildered and frightened the girl runs down the stairs—many, many stairs—into darkness. Is it the basement? She hides there, in the darkness.”

There was a long and incredulous silence following this until the chief said, “What woman? There was no woman except—”

“Except Mrs. Epworth,” Swope said in a stunned voice. “You're implying that Mrs. Epworth killed her husband and deliberately used a helpless child to conceal it?”

“Could this possibly be true?” demanded the chief. “You've met her, what's she like?”

Swope nodded. “I've met her—under the worst of circumstances, of course—when completely hysterical. Attractive, younger than I expected—mid-forties, I'd guess. Mrs. Hobson at the Home for Disabled Children said she was very charming, devoted to her husband and enthusiastic about his charity work.”

Pruden said, “If it
should
be true you've got to admit it would be a damn clever murder, using a witness like Jenny who can't tell anyone what she saw, or protect herself if accused.” He frowned. “Swope, look at your notes again; didn't you say that Mrs. Hobson, the director at the Home for Disabled Children, told you that Mrs. Epworth specifically asked for Jenny to stay that weekend? She
insisted
on Jenny, didn't she?”

Swope nodded. “That's true. My God, if that's why— But how fiendish if . . . if—”

Madame Karitska said, “Fiendish, yes.”

Frowning, the chief said, “If we believe this, surely there had to be another woman there, a maid, a cook? I can't believe—”

Swope interrupted him to say, “We checked all that, sir. Maid left at five, the cook at six. Mrs. Epworth . . .” He took out his notebook again. “She was in the kitchen—she said—at the counter, making out recipes to give the cook for a party later in the week. A party planned,” he added dryly, “to elicit more contributions for the Home for Disabled Children.”

“But this is unbelievable,” said the chief. “Why would Mrs. Epworth—what possible motive could she have?”

Swope shook his head. “We never looked into that, sir, never dreamed—it was taken for granted, assumed— I mean, there was all that blood and Mrs. Epworth distraught, hysterical, the blood on the doorknob, the child gone and leaving a trail of blood in the hall.”

“If this is true,” said the chief, looking dazed, “if this
should
be true, deliberately using a disabled child to cover her crime, she would deserve to be hanged.” Startled, he added, “Sorry, damn it; forget I said that.”

“Forgiven,” said Madame Karitska with a smile.

Pruden said slowly, “But if true—how clever, how shrewd. It would be the perfect crime, wouldn't it? Absolutely the perfect crime.”

“Swope,” said the chief in a hard voice, “drop everything you're working on, and start checking out Mrs. Epworth's past; check Epworth's will, see if Mrs. Karitska—sorry,
Madame
Karitska's right, impossible as it seems, damn it. Start from the beginning, a fresh inquiry.” To Madame Karitska he said angrily, “If you're wrong—”

“That,” said Pruden, “is for us to find out, isn't it?”

Madame Karitska rose from her chair to say quietly, “I'll go now, but I do hope, in the meantime, the child Jenny can be given happier surroundings while you investigate.” Picking up her purse she nodded to Pruden and Swope and left the chief to cope with his confusion and his shock. But he was a good man, Pruden had always said so, and she could be certain that he would be thorough.

4

Pruden, joining Swope the next morning for their new assignment, said, “The hell of it is, if Madame Karitska should be right about Mrs. Epworth, how can there be any possibility of proving her guilty and the child innocent, with Jenny's bloody fingerprints all over the dagger and door?”

Swope nodded. “I've had time to realize that, too. A lot of footwork ahead, and dare I add that it comes down to a test of Madame Karitska's clairvoyance? She's been right about a helluva lot of things but can anyone be a hundred percent right all the time? I can't, just can't believe—”

“Let's just get started,” Pruden said grimly. “It's not going to be easy.”

They decided it was best not to approach Epworth's lawyer about the will yet, there being no rational explanation to give him for any inquiry. Not yet, at least, with Mrs. Epworth still under a doctor's care. City Hall first, maiden name at marriage, hopefully an old address or two . . . “Married how long?” asked Pruden.

“Eight years.”

By noon they'd learned that Mrs. Epworth's maiden name was Joanna Warren, and at the time of her marriage she'd lived at 29 Cozzen Street in Trafton. In the basement of the
Trafton Times
they pored over accounts of the wedding; the bride was a native of New York City, and private secretary to Mr. Epworth's partner at the Epworth-Bartlett Company. With birth date and birthplace established they repaired to computers at headquarters but learned very little, except for the fact that she'd been ticketed twice for speeding, and was born in Brooklyn.

About Joanna Warren Epworth as a living, breathing person they learned nothing. Apparently once she married a well-known and successful financier the personality became obscured, decided Pruden, and what they needed was to learn who she had once been, and hope to meet the present Joanna in a day or two.

This left 29 Cozzen Street, where someone might possibly remember her, even after so many years. “Highly doubtful,” Swope agreed.

Twenty-nine Cozzen Street was a modest apartment house on a tree-lined street at the edge of town, and here they met with a modicum of luck. The superintendent had been there for years, and he did remember her.

“Stunning blonde,” he said. “Attracted men like flies. But nice.”

“And would there be anyone in the building now who knew her when she lived here?”

He thought a moment, frowning. “It being rent-controlled, most tenants have been here a long time. Miss Jacoby would be the one to see . . . Miss Abby Jacoby. Lived next to her, and close friends, if I remember rightly.”

“Would she be here now? What apartment number?”

“Thirty-two,” he said. “She comes and goes, what you call a buyer. New York. The department stores, you know? Think she came back last night.”

“Thanks,” said Pruden, and they headed for apartment 32 and rang the buzzer.

Abby Jacoby opened the door to them in pajamas and a robe, a vivacious-looking fortyish woman, slim as a reed, her shingled hair an attractive and unembarrassed silvery gray. “Oh, limey,” she said with a grin, “the police, and me in pajamas in daylight!”

It was impossible not to smile back at her.

“Come in, come in,” she said. “I always take a day off after a week in New York . . . nobody in the fashion business seems to go to bed until the sun comes up.”

Without the slightest self-consciousness she sat herself on the arm of a chair and said, “Okay, what have I done?”

Swope grinned. “Strictly a routine inquiry, Miss Jacoby. Have you happened to see the Trafton newspapers since you returned?”

“Just call me Abby,” she told them, and then, “Oh my gosh, Joanna's husband! I came in last night and turned on the news . . . only the tail end of it. Eulogies, and all that about him, I suppose that means he's dead?” Swope nodded. “Poor Joanna.”

“Have you remained friends?” asked Pruden.

“Are you kidding? No, we were good friends when she lived here, but she went her merry way. I have to admit I was startled when I read of her marrying Mr. Epworth.”

“Why?” asked Swope.

She looked from one to the other and said, “Look, what's this all about?”

Pruden weighed his words carefully. He could think of several subterfuges but decided that none of them would fool this woman. “Mrs. Epworth is under sedation and can't be interviewed yet. In the meantime we're making inquiries into everyone who knew the couple. Mr. Epworth, you see, was murdered.”

“Good heavens,” she said, shocked, and then, “I can tell you right now if Joanna's a suspect you'd be barking up the wrong tree. Marriage to Mr. Epworth would have been just what she wanted—I don't mean that in any nasty way—but it made absolute sense for her.”

“Can you explain that?” asked Swope.

Abby Jacoby shrugged. “You'd have to know her, of course. She was quite fun, and we double-dated a lot. . . . Enviably beautiful, of course.” She sighed. “And I admit she knew how to use it. She'd been a model but she wanted something more
useful
. She was tremendously efficient and wasn't
using
herself, she said, which is why she moved uptown. And then there was Rick, of course,” she added, frowning.

“Rick?”

She nodded. “Rick O'Hara.” She sighed. “I
know
she cared about him, and he adored her and wanted to marry her. What a handsome couple they were, but you know how opposites attract? She was all ambition and he was . . . well, easygoing. An accountant, dreaming of a ranch out west.” She smiled, remembering. “She couldn't persuade him to become a CPA—certified public accountant—or
anything
to get ahead. He just laughed. I think marrying him scared her.”

“Scared her?”

She nodded. “She said, growing up poor, it scared her. She always seemed to have this picture in her mind of how it had been growing up, her mother scrubbing floors for a living, pinching pennies. When I think about it, I wasn't
that
surprised when I read about her marriage to Mr. Epworth. She did everything so well, she would have been great, cutting ribbons and heading committees. I think that's why she broke it off with Rick. I
know
she cared about him, but—I know it wasn't easy for her, but Rick wasn't . . . well, ambitious at all. Just easygoing, charming, and happy as he was.”

“You've not seen her since she left?”

She shook her head. “I could understand her cutting me off; I would have reminded her of Rick. I don't know whether she ever got over it, but . . .” She smiled wryly. “At least she didn't have to pinch pennies. And she would have been a very efficient and faithful wife, I'm sure.”

“And what happened to Rick?” asked Swope curiously.

“I think it broke his heart when they split. I heard he did a lot of drinking and then he pulled his life together, married, and moved out west somewhere.”

Swope snapped his notebook closed. “You've been very frank and open with us, Miss Jacoby, and we appreciate it.” With a glance at Pruden, “Time we go now, isn't it?”

Pruden nodded. “Thank you very much, Miss Jacoby. Or Abby,” he added.

She rose from her seat and said, “Look, when Joanna's over the shock, tell her Abby says hello and sends her sympathies, will you?”

Very gravely Pruden assured her that yes, they would deliver her message, and they left, but still with no idea or clue as to who or what Mrs. Epworth had become eight years later.

Pruden didn't usually talk about his work with Jan, but that afternoon he visited her at the Settlement House where she worked, and he confided to her their dilemma.

His very dear fiancée was always perceptive. “What you
really
need,” she told him, after hearing his story, “is reassurance that Marina Karitska's bizarre description of what happened is true.”

He admitted to this. “But we're up against a child who can't defend herself, or explain anything that happened, or what she heard.”

“It's not hopeless,” said Jan firmly. “We've a child psychologist on call at the Settlement House, Lou Devoe, who does things with pictures and dolls. She's very good; I'll phone her. Her office is downtown; there's even a window through which you can watch what she does if the child, Jenny—you said her name is Jenny?—could be taken there.”

“Jan,” he said, his spirits lifting, “you continue to be a miracle in my life.”

She said with a smile, “Doubt Marina Karitska if you must, but try to keep in mind just who it was who predicted that we'd meet—and long before we did.”

“Touché,” he said with a grin. “I'll take this up with the chief at once. Give me this psychiatrist's address and phone number, and could you call and tell her we just may get clearance for this?”

For her trip to the psychiatrist someone had given Jenny a shabby dress that hung on her unbecomingly. She was escorted to the office by a policewoman who had mercifully forsworn her uniform lest it frighten the child. Dr. Louise Devoe was all warmth, greeting Jenny, and the matron was banished behind the one-way glass window with Pruden and Swope. From here they could observe what looked more like a playroom than an office, and for Jenny there were dolls of all shapes and sizes, and several stuffed animals to hold.

It was tiresome, watching, but it rested Pruden to see the tense and frightened child slowly relax and embrace dolls while Dr. Devoe smiled, nodded, and gave her an occasional affectionate hug. After a while the matron left, asking them to call when the appointment was over.

They had been at the window for over an hour before Dr. Devoe brought out two small doll-like figures—a man and a child—and then a miniature couch. She set the father figure on the couch, the child next to him, and for the first time Jenny smiled. Jenny patted the man, and moved the child-doll a little closer to him, pleased. Dr. Devoe nodded encouragingly— she seemed capable of relating to Jenny on some subconscious level—and waited before she introduced the figure of the doll in a dress. Seeing the woman-doll Jenny stopped smiling. Dr. Devoe handed it to her with an understanding nod, as if to ask where to place the woman in this family scene. Jenny hesitated and then stood the woman behind the tiny couch. After a moment, with an angry guttural sound, she grasped the doll-woman and with it struck the man, and sending him to the floor she burst into tears. Her sobs racked her; she picked up the fallen man-doll and hugged it closely as Dr. Devoe put her arms around her to comfort her.

“It wouldn't stand up in court,” Dr. Devoe told Pruden and Swope later, “but I'd say that she definitely re-created the scene you'd come to expect—or to investigate as possibility.”

Madame Karitska, then, could be believed, thought Pruden, and this very much relieved and satisfied him. It was time to learn who represented the Epworths legally, he decided, and change the direction of their inquiries.

The Epworths' lawyer, they discovered, was Everett Harbinger of Benson and Harbinger on State Street, and the next morning, with their appointment made, they waited in two chairs, a table of magazines between them, before they were ushered into Mr. Harbinger's office. He proved to be a tall thin man with a tired face but penetrating eyes as he looked them over.

“So,” he said, glancing at the two cards they had sent in to him. “Detective Lieutenant Pruden, and Detective Swope. How can I help you?”

“We're investigating the death of John Epworth,” Pruden told him.

“Investigating?
Still?
” he said dryly. “You surprise me.”

Very politely Pruden said, “Detectives, like lawyers, want to be thorough. To poke and pry, so to speak, into the ‘why' of this tragedy. You knew John Epworth well?”

“
Very
well. We've been good friends for a long time,” he said. “Especially when Jean was alive. His first wife,” he explained. “Lovely woman. Her death was a great shock to him—to us all—and of course the child was in the car, too.”

Pruden nodded. “Like many people in Trafton I admired him but we know so little of the situation, Mrs. Epworth being under a doctor's care and unapproachable. You've met his second wife, of course.”

He shrugged. “Only at social affairs. She shone at those.”

Pruden, with what he hoped sounded like normal curiosity, said, “I take it that she is not very much like Mr. Epworth's first wife?”

“Good God, no,” said Harbinger.

Pruden smiled. “I take it you don't appreciate her.”

“I thought her much too interested in John's money. And in spending it,” he added. “When we golfed together John would joke about it but he didn't seem to mind; he was always generous. No, I thought that marriage a big mistake. No warmth in her.”