Kill as Directed (6 page)

“He's dying to meet you,” Kurt Gresham said.

“Why?”

Tony Mitchell said, “Maybe he thinks you're grist for his mill.”

“What's his mill?”

“He's director of the Taugus Institute.”

“What's that?”

“It's charity,” Karen Gresham said.

Tony Mitchell said, “Maybe he's heard of
you
, Harry. Wants to pluck you from the ranks and institutionalize you.”

“Nonsense,” Karen Gresham said. “These jokers are giving you the business, Harry.”

“No, really,” Kurt Gresham said. “Dr. Stone's been asking about Harry ever since I mentioned his name.”

Dr. Alfred McGee Stone was tall, wire-thin and bald, with a good sunburn, wolfish teeth, an Arab's nose and rimless glasses which kept slipping down his beak. He acknowledged his introduction to Harry heartily: his clasp was powerful and a little impatient. The rest had been golf. Dr. Stone played a whale of a game, all in silence.

But at the bar in the clubhouse afterward, they had been alone for a while and Stone said, “Harrison Brown. I've heard about you.”

Harry squinted. “From whom?”

“Dr. Peter Alexander Gross. The astonishing Pete Gross. I understand you were one of his wonder kids.”

“Dr. Peter Gross! How is he?”

“As always. Indestructible.”

Dr. Peter Alexander Gross had been his professor of surgery, one of those legendary teachers who inspire worship. Harry had never forgotten their many wonderful nights of talk.

“I love that man,” Harry said simply.

“He thinks a lot of you, Brown.”

“That's very kind of him.” I wonder, he thought, what Dr. Peter Alexander Gross would think of his
wünderkind
now.… Harry said abruptly, “What's this all about, Dr. Stone?”

Stone used a bony middle finger to push his glasses up on his bridgeless nose. “Dr. Gross and I have been discussing you …” But just then Kurt Gresham, showered, shaved and pinkly cherubic, came ambling toward them. “Look,” the physician said. “We need a talk, a long talk, and this is neither the time nor the place. I come into New York every Tuesday. May I drop in on you?”

“Of course, Doctor.”

“This Tuesday?”

“Certainly.”

“One o'clock all right? At your office?”

“One o'clock will be fine.”

Then Kurt Gresham was upon them. “Tony and Karen are outside on the patio. Let's join them, gentlemen.”

“Why wasn't Mr. Mitchell your fourth, Kurt?” Dr. Stone asked.

“Tony doesn't play golf, Doctor.”

“Then why is he here?” Dr. Stone seemed puzzled.

“He likes my wife,” chuckled the millionaire, “among other females. And he likes my money, and he and Harry are old friends. Those are three pretty good reasons on a beautiful day, even if he doesn't like golf. Oh, there they are …”

In the warm yellow sunshine, over a glass-topped table, the four men and Karen Gresham had cocktails.

“See here,” said Dr. Stone suddenly. “Why don't you all stay up here and make an evening of it as my guests? We'll have dinner …”

“How sad,” said Gresham. “I can't, Doctor. I have a business appointment in the city at seven.”

“On a Sunday?” exclaimed Stone.

Karen said, “Always on a Sunday.”

“Well, at least let's have luncheon,” said Dr. Stone. “The chef extends himself for me. He needs a gallstone operation …”

They were back in the city, at the Gresham apartment, by six o'clock. Kurt Gresham went immediately to change, the others to freshen. They met again in the drawing room at six-thirty, Gresham in business suit and carrying a brief case. “I should be back by nine or ten.” He kissed his wife's cheek. “Have fun.”

When he was gone, Karen Gresham said, “Now we'll narrow it down further. You two have fun. I'll attend to the servants.” She smiled without prejudice, a sweet smile for the doctor, a sweet smile for the lawyer, and left the room.

“Attend to the servants?” said Dr. Harry Brown. “I don't get it, Tony.”

“Do you have servants, Doctor?” asked Tony Mitchell solemnly.

“No servants, Counselor.”

“So you don't get it. Servants need attending to.”

“Like how?”

“Like do you know how many servants there are in this palatial dump?”

“I know there's a cook. And there's the Filipino houseman.”

“Also m'lady's personal maid. Also a chambermaid.”

“What attending do they need?”

“Quitting time is seven o'clock.”

“You mean they don't live in?”

“They don't live in.”

“But I know some of them have quarters here—”

“They stay over only when there's a formal dinner or a late party.”

“That's an odd arrangement.”

“Karen prefers it that way. They make her feel uncomfortable, especially when she's left alone here with them, as she so often is. You've got to remember that Karen wasn't to the manor born. She's only been Karen of Gresh for a couple of years. She's still not used to being married to a fat cat.”

She came back in skintight green slacks and a low-cut green blouse.

She did a pirouette. “Like?” she said.

“Wow,” said Tony Mitchell.

“Thank you, kind sir.” She turned her smile on Harry. “No comment, Doctor?”

“I don't have Tony's line.”

“Wouldn't fit you, kid,” the lawyer grinned. “You're the deep-think, stern-type character the women go overboard for. They just ride along with me.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Karen teased. “There's
something
underneath that glossy veneer. What do you think, Harry?”

“I've never been able to dig deep enough to find out.”

“Lay off the scalpel,” said Tony.

“But I
am
inclined to think all that lightness is surface stuff. Underneath—” Harry smiled, “who knows? Whatever it is, our friend the counselor is mighty careful not to let it show.”

“Will you kindly let me off the operating table?” Tony said. “Karen, I'm hungry.”

She kissed each of them lightly on the lips. “Coming up. And while mamma whips up some Canadian bacon and scrambled eggs and gobs of toast, and daddy's off somewhere making another million, my two beaux can go into the dining room and set the table.”

Later, they had Irish coffee in the drawing room, an inspiration of Tony Mitchell's.

“Delicious,” said Karen Gresham. “What's the recipe, Counselor?”

“You start, not surprisingly, with good hot black coffee. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pour the steaming brew into the mug. Sugar to taste, stir well. Add a jigger of Irish whisky, stir likewise. Plop a voluptuous blob of thick whipped cream on top and do not stir at all. Lick and love. So how come you haven't mentioned Lynne Maxwell to us, Harry?”

Dr. Harrison Brown, sipping through the cool whipped cream, suddenly scalded his throat. He choked and set his cup down and fumbled for his cigarettes.

“How come—
what
?”

“Baby, I've had experts trying to stall me. Hell, it's more than a month now and we haven't said a word, waiting for you to open up. There's a time limit on everything, pal. We're dying of curiosity.”

“Lynne Maxwell,” said Dr. Harrison Brown, smoking rapidly.

“It's at least four weeks since that cop came to us. Galivan. Good cop, Galivan. One of the best.”

“Oh, you know him?” Harry said fatuously. Of course they must have been wondering. He had forgotten that Galivan had checked his alibi.

“Sure I know him. We work the same beat, except that we're on opposite sides of the street.” Mitchell looked at his watch. “It's ten minutes to nine, buddy. I'm going to keep chattering for another five minutes to ease you up, then, wham! Cross-examination—” The lawyer was scrutinizing Harry with an anxiety that belied his tone. He said quietly, “Of course, Harry, you don't have to say a damned thing about it if you don't want to.”

Karen had her knees crossed high, and her huge green eyes were intent over the coffee cup.

“Why haven't you told us, Harry?” Karen asked.

“Because I didn't think it was anyone's business but mine.”

“Surly beggar, isn't he?” murmured Tony.

“Tony, I didn't want to drag you and Karen—”

“But you did, Harry, when you told Lieutenant Galivan about being with me and Karen that night. Didn't you think he was going to check your story out?”

“I know,” said Harry ruefully. “I guess I just wanted to put the whole thing out of my mind. But how did you find out the girl's name? Did Galivan tell you?”

“Sure he did,” said Tony Mitchell. “Remember, this is my kind of racket. When he asked for a written statement from this lady, this lady was smart enough to insist on consulting her lawyer. Imagine Galivan's surprise when her lawyer turned out to be the very gent he wanted to question along with her. Said lawyer wouldn't give his own statement, or authorize a statement from his client, the lady, unless he was informed what it was all about. So the lieutenant, for whom I've done a favor or two in my time, told me the story in confidence. Incidentally, Harry, if you're still worried, you don't have to be. You cleared all the way—except with us.”

Harry Brown looked from Tony Mitchell to Karen Gresham and back again. Neither was smiling. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you were in trouble, weren't you?”

“Yes.”

“And we're supposed to be your friends.”

“Yes.”

“And we were involved as your witnesses.”

“Well—”

“Well, what, Harry? I'd have spoken to you immediately, but Karen didn't think we should pry. She felt you were disturbed about it, that in time you'd come around to talking to us.”

Karen said, “I don't think, Tony, you should have brought it up.”

“The hell with that,” Mitchell said. “I'm his friend. And a lawyer. Harry, what's this all about?”

What could he say? What could he tell them but lies?

He felt trapped in his chair, and he stood up awkwardly and began to walk around on stiff legs.

“There's very little I can add to what Lieutenant Galivan told you, Tony—”

“Did he tell you the cause of death?”

“Overdose of heroin.”

“That's right. Did you have anything to do with that, Harry?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, was she a patient of yours, or what?”

“Not a patient.”

“Then what?”

Harry did not look at Karen ‘“A … friend.”

“She must have been a pretty good friend.”

Karen said, “Don't, Tony.”

“Yes,” said Harry Brown. “She was. Once.”

“All right. How'd she wind up in your apartment?”

Harry Brown filled his lungs and suddenly sat down again. “Once she had a key to my place. It was a long time ago, it was over, I'd forgotten all about it. Then, that night, with an overdose in her, she came to my flat. Who knows why a drug addict does anything? Anyway she must have let herself in, and when I came home I found her there. Dead.”

“What about the key?” the lawyer asked.

“It was in her hand. I took it.”

“Why did you do a damn fool thing like that?”

“Actually I don't know. I remember feeling sort of numb. We can't predict, can we, how any of us will react to a totally unfamiliar crisis? I suppose I didn't want to be involved … intimately involved.”

“But man, her body was there, right there in your apartment! How intimately involved can you get?”

“I did it, it was done.”

“And the police?”

“I simply told them I didn't know who she was or how she'd got into the apartment. I knew I had nothing to do with it and I knew I could prove that I hadn't been home …”

The doorbell rang.

Harry sprang to his feet as though released and went to the door with Karen following him, and in the little entrance-foyer she threw her arms around him and clung.

“You're a liar,” she whispered.

“Karen …” He could feel her body vibrating with passion and anxiety.

“You were lying about Lynne Maxwell. I know.”

“Karen …”

“You're in terrible trouble, Harry. I know that, too. I love you.”

And then she opened the door for her husband.

FIVE

Dr. Harrison Brown woke from a night-mare and could not sleep again. He touched the button of the night lamp and saw that it was three o'clock. He snapped off the light, got out of bed, pushed a window up another inch and stood in the darkness looking out. But then he became aware of the sweat-soaked pajamas. He lowered the Venetian blind, tilted it for privacy, put on the light again and went to the bathroom and took a shower.

Ever since that day he had talked with Kurt Gresham in Gresham's office, he had been clogged with fright—oppressive, a weight interior. But now it was out. It had been a fright of circumstance, of self and conscience, a fright of future, all internal: but now it was even worse, because it had to be examined for cause.

And Karen … she had known he was lying about Lynne Maxwell last night. How could she possibly have known? And what had she meant?—“You're in terrible trouble, Harry. I know that, too.”

With Gresham home, the evening had turned gay. Friends had been telephoned and invited; there had been music and drinks, dancing and games—flirtations; and, of course, no further talk about Lynne Maxwell.

Harry Brown put on fresh pajamas and made coffee and drank it in the living room, chain-smoking all the while.

He had to admire them. They could turn it off and on at will; he could not. They laughed and joked, and played and danced, and flirted and told outrageous stories; but he knew that Tony Mitchell had concealed offense, and perhaps Karen also.