“Now this is something like,” Delaney said approvingly, “Little Old New York. 0. Henry lived somewhere around here, didn’t he?”
“East of here, sir,” Boone said.
“In the Gramercy Park area. The bar where he drank is still in business.”
“in your drinking days, Sergeant, did you ever fall into Mcsorley’s Old Ale House?”
“I fell into every bar in the city.”
“Miss it?” Delaney asked curiously.
“Oh, God, yes! Every day of my life. You remember the highs; you don’t remember wetting the bed.”
“How long have you been dry now-four years?”
“About. But dipsos don’t count years; you take it day by day.”
“I guess,” Delaney said, sighing.
“My old man owned a saloon on Third Avenue-did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t,” Boone said, interested.
“When was this?”
“Oh, hell, a long time ago. I worked behind the stick on afternoons when I was going to night school. I saw my share of boozers. Maybe that’s why I never went off the deep end -although I do my share, as you well know. Enough of this.
What have you got on Joan Yesell?”
“One of Suarez’s boys checked her out. Lives with her widowed mother. Works as a legal secretary in a big law firm up on Park. Takes home a nice buck. Never been married.
Those three suicide attempts Doctor Diane mentioned proved out in emergency room records. She claims that on the evening Ellerbee was killed she was home all night. Got back from work around six o’clock and never went out. Her mother confirms.”
“All right,” Delaney said, “let’s go through the drill again.
The last time-I hope.”
The ornate wood molding in the vestibule had been painted a hellish orange.
“Look at this,” Delaney said, rapping it with a knuckle.
“Probably eighteen coats of paint on there. You strip it down and there’s beautiful walnut or cherry underneath. You can’t buy molding like that anymore. Someone did a lousy restoration job.”
There were two names opposite the bell for apartment 3-C: Mrs. Blanche Yesell and J. Yesell.
“The mother gets the title and full first name,” Delaney noted.
“The daughter rates an initial.”
Boone identified himself on the intercom. A moment later the door lock buzzed and they entered. The interior was clean, smelling faintly of disinfectant, but the colors of the walls and carpeting were garish. The only decorative touch was a plastic dwarf in a rattan planter.
The ponderous woman waiting outside the closed door of apartment 3-C eyed them suspiciously.
“I am Mrs. Blanche Yesell,” she announced in a hard voice, “and you don’t look like policemen to me.”
Sergeant Boone silently proffered his ID. She had wire-rimmed pince-nez hanging from her thick neck on a black silk cord. She clamped the spectacles onto her heavy nose and inspected the shield and identification card carefully while they inspected her.
The blue-rinsed hair was pyramided like a beehive. Her features were coarse and masculine. (Later, Boone was to say, “She looks like a truck driver in drag.”) She had wide shoulders, a deep bosom, and awesome hips. All in all, a formidable woman with meaty hands and big feet shod in nononsense shoes.
“Is this about Doctor Ellerbee?” she demanded, handing Boone’s ID back to him.
“Yes, ma’am. This gentleman is Edward Delaney, and we’d Re to—2’ “I don’t want my Joan bothered,” Mrs. Yesell interrupted.
“Hasn’t the poor girl been through enough? She’s already told you everything she knows. More questions will just upset her.
I won’t stand for it.”
“Mrs. Yesell,” Delaney said mildly, “I assure you we have no desire to upset your daughter. But we are investigating a brutal murder, and I know that you and your daughter want to do everything you can to help bring the vile perpetrator to justice.” Bemused by this flossy language, the Sergeant shot Delaney an amazed glance, but the plushy rhetoric seemed to mollify Mrs. Yesell.
“Well, of course,” she said, sniffing, “I and my Joan want to do everything we can to aid the forces of law and order.”
“Splendid,” Delaney said, beaming.
“Just a few questions then, and we’ll be finished and gone before you can say Jack Robinson.”
“I used to know a man named Jack Robinson,” she said with a girlish titter.
A certified nut, Sergeant Boone thought.
She opened the door and led the way into the apartment.
As overstuffed as she was: velvets and chintz and tassels and lace and ormolu, and whatnots, all in stunning profusion. Plus two sleepy black cats as plump as hassocks.
“Perky and Yum-Yum,” Mrs. Yesell said, gesturing proudly.
“Aren’t they cunning? Let me have your coats, gentlemen, and you make yourselves comfortable.”
They perched gingerly on the edge of an ornate, pseudovictorian love seat and waited until Mrs. Yesell had seated herself opposite them in a heavily brocaded tub chair complete with antimacassar.
“Now then,” she said, leaning forward, “how may I help you?”
They looked at each other, then back at her.
“Ma’am,” Sergeant Boone said softly, “it’s your daughter we came to talk to. She’s home?”
“Well, she’s home, but she’s lying down right now, resting, and I wouldn’t care to disturb her. Besides, I’m sure I can answer all your questions.”
“I’m afraid not,” Delaney said brusquely.
“Your daughter is the one we came to see. If we can’t question her today, we’ll have to return again until we can.”
She glared at him, but he would not be cowed.
“Oh, very well,” she said.
“But it’s really quite unnecessary. Oh, Joan!”
si7e caroled.
“Visitors!”
Right on cue, and much too promptly for one who had been lying down, resting, Joan Yesell entered from the bedroom with a timid smile. The men stood to be introduced.
Then the daughter took a straight-back chair and sat with hands clasped in her lap, ankles demurely crossed.
“Miss Yesell,” Boone started, “we know how the murder of Doctor Simon Ellerbee must have shocked you.”
“My Joan was devastated,” Mrs. Yesell said.
“Just devastated.” Another one! Delaney thought.
Boone continued: “But I’m sure you appreciate our need to talk to all his patients in the investigation of his death. Could you tell us the last time you saw Doctor Simon?”
“On Wednesday afternoon,” the mother said promptly.
“The Wednesday before he died. At one o’clock.”
The Sergeant sighed.
“Mrs. Yesell, these questions are addressed to your daughter. It would be best if she answered.”
“On Wednesday afternoon,” Joan Yesell said.
“The Wednesday before he died.
At one o’clock.”
Her voice was so low, tentative, that they strained to hear.
She kept her head down, staring at her clasped hands.
“That was the usual time for your appointment?”
“Yes.
“How often did you see Doctor Simon?”
“Twice a week.”
“And how long had you been consulting him?”
“Four years.”
“Three,” Mrs. Yesell said firmly.
“It’s been three years, dear.”
“Three years,” the daughter said faintly.
“About.”
“Did Doctor Ellerbee ever mention to you that he had been attacked or threatened by any of his patients?”
“No.” Then she raised her head to look at them with faraway eyes.
“Once he was mugged while he was walking to his garage late at night, but that happened years ago.”
“Miss Yesell,” Delaney said, “I have a question you may feel is too personal to answer. If you prefer not to reply, we’ll understand completely.
Why were you going to Doctor Ellerbee?”
She didn’t answer at once. The clasped hands began to twist, “I don’t see – 2’ Mrs. Yesell began, but then her daughter spoke.
“I was depressed,” she said slowly.
“Very depressed. I attempted suicide.
You probably know about that.”
“And you feel Doctor Simon was helping you?”
She came briefly alive.
“Oh, yes! So much!”
She could not, in all kindness, be called an attractive young woman. Not ugly, but grayly plain. Mousy hair and a pinched face devoid of makeup. She lacked her mother’s bold presence and seemed daunted by the older woman’s assertiveness.
Her clothing was monochromatic: sweater, skirt, hose, shoes-all of a dull beige. Her complexion had the same cast.
She looked, if not unwell, sluggish and beaten. Even her movements had an invalid’s languor; her thin body was without shape or vigor.
“Miss Yesell,” Boone said, “did you notice any change in Doctor Simon recently? In his manner toward you or in his personality?”
“No “I Mrs. Blanche Yesell said.
“No change.”
“Madam,” Delaney thundered, “will you allow your daughter to answer our questions -please.” Joan Yesell hesitated.
“Perhaps,” she said finally. “The last year or so.
He seemed-oh, I don’t know exactly. Happier, I think. Yes, he seemed happier. More-more lighthearted. He joked.”
“And he had never joked before?”
“No.”
“You have stated,” Boone said, “that on the night Ellerbee was killed, you returned home directly from work and never went out again until the following day. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
Delaney turned to Mrs. Yesell with a bleak smile.
“Now is your chance, ma’am,” he said.
“Can you confirm your daughter’s presence here that night?”
“Of course.”
“Did you have any visitors, see any neighbors, make or receive any phone calls that night?”
“No, we did not,” she said decisively.
“Just the two of us were here.”
“Read? Watched television?”
“We played two-handed bridge.”
“Oh?” Delaney said, rising to his feet.
“And who won?”
“Mama,” Joan Yesell said in her wispy voice.
“Mama always wins.”
They thanked the ladies politely for their help, reclaimed coats and hats, and left. They didn’t speak until they were back in the car.
“I can understand why the daughter’s depressed,” Delaney remarked.
“Yeah,” Boone said.
“The old lady’s a dragon.”
“She is that,” Delaney agreed.
“The only time the daughter contradicted her was about Ellerbee’s manner changing. The mother said no.”
“How the hell would she know?” Boone said.
“She wasn’t seeing him twice a week.”
“Exactly,” Delaney said.
“Could you drop me uptown, Sergeant? Let’s call it a day.”
Just before Delaney got out of the car in front of his brownstone, Boone said, “If you had to make a wild guess, sir, which of the six would you pick as the perp?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Delaney said thoughtfully.
“Maybe Ronald Bellsey. But only because I don’t like the guy. Who’s your choice?”
“Harold Gerber-for the same reason. We’re probably both wrong.”
Delaney grunted.
“Probably. Too bad. there’s not a butler involved. See you tomorrow morning, Sergeant. Give my best to Rebecca.”
Monica was in the kitchen, cutting up chicken wings. She had four prepared bowls before her: Dijon mustard, Worcestershire sauce, chicken broth, flavored bread crumbs. She looked up when he came in, and he bent to kiss her cheek.
“Just one sandwich,” he pleaded.
“I haven’t had a thing all day, and we’re not eating for hours. One sandwich won’t spoil my appetite.”
“All right, Edward. Just one.”
He rummaged through the refrigerator, saying, “I really deserve this. I’ve had a hard day. Did you know that psychiatrists have a very high suicide rate? The highest of all doctors except ophthalmologists.”
He was standing at the sink, but turned to face her, sandwich clamped in one big hand, a glass of beer in the other.
“Don’t tell me you think Doctor Ellerbee crushed in his own skull with a hammer?”
“No, I just mentioned it because I’m beginning to understand what shrinks go through. No wonder they need a month a year to recharge their batteries. These patients of Ellerbee’s are wild ones. It’s hard to get a handle on them. They don’t live in my world.”
Monica nodded.
“Do you think women are more sensitive than men?” he asked her.
“Sensitive?” Monica said.
“Physically, you mean? Like ticklisht.”
“No, not that. Sensitive to emotions, feelings, the way people behave. We’ve been asking everyone if they noticed any change recently in Doctor Ellerbee’s manner. The reason is to find out if he was being threatened or blackmailed or anything like that. All the men we asked said they saw no change. But so far, three women have said yes, they noticed a change. They don’t agree on how he changed, but all three said there was a difference in his manner in the last six months. That’s why I asked you if women are more sensitive to that sort of thing than men.”
“Yes,” Monica said, “we are.”
Five hours later, when Delaney had finished bringing his files up to the minute and Monica had long since cleaned up the dinner dishes, he came out of his study and asked, “Do you know anyone who’s under analysis?”
She looked up at him.
“Yes, Edward, I know two or three women who are in therapy.”
“Well, will you ask them how they pay? I mean, do they fork over cash or a check after every session or does the doctor bill them by the month?
I’m just curious about how the shrink’s money comes in.”
“You think that has something to do with Ellerbee’s murder?”
“I don’t know. There’s so much I don’t know about this case. Like how does a psychiatrist get patients? Referrals from other doctors? Or do patients walk in off the street or use the Yellow Pages? I just don’t know.”
“I’ll ask around,” Monica promised.
“I suspect every case is different.”
“I suspect the same thing,” he grumbled.
“Makes it hard to figure percentages.”
And, four hours later, when they were in their upstairs bedroom preparing for sleep, he said, “I haven’t even looked at the Sunday Times. Was there anything on the Ellerbee case?”
“I didn’t notice anything. But there’s an interesting article in the magazine section about new colors for women’s hair.