“Buy one in any hardware store in town. Then throw it in a trash can when you’re finished with it.”
“No, no, no!” Joan Yesell screamed, raising a tearstreaked face.
“It wasn’t like that at all.”
“You stop this!” Mrs. Blanche Yesell said indignantly.
“You stop it this instant. You’re upsetting my Joan.”
“No, madam, I will not stop,” Delaney said stonily.
“Your Joan was having an affair with a married man who was found murdered. We’re going to get the truth if it takes all night.” He whirled on the daughter. “You were there, weren’t you? The night he was killed?”
She nodded, tears starting up again.
“What time did you get there?”
“A little before nine o’clock.”
“Why so late?”
“It was raining so hard I couldn’t get a cab. They were all on radio call.
So I had to take a bus.”
“What bus?”
“Across town to First Avenue. Then up First.”
“Did you call Ellerbee to tell him you’d be late?”
“Yes.
“What did he say?”
“He said he’d wait.”
“You got up to East Eighty-fourth Street and got off the bus. You walked over to his office?”
“Yes.
“What were you wearing?”
“A raincoat.”
“Boots?”
“Yes, I was wearing rubber boots. And I had an umbrella.”
“All right, now you’re at the townhouse. Then what?”
“The downstairs door was open.”
“Which door? Outer? Inner?”
“Both. The outer door is always open. But this time the inner door was open, too.”
“How far? Wide open? A few inches?”
“A few inches.”
“Then what did you do?”
“Before I went in, I rang his bell. He always told his late patients to give three short rings. So that’s what I did. But he didn’t buzz back.”
“And you went in anyway? Through the opened door?”
.”Yes.
“Did you see tracks on the carpet? Wet footprints?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Then what?”
“I went upstairs, calling his name. No one answered.”
“And when you got to his office?”
Her head sank down again. She shuddered. Her mother slid an arm around her shoulders.
“Then what?” Delaney insisted.
“When you got to his office?”
“I found him. He was dead.”
“Where was he?”
“In the outer office. Where the receptionist sat.”
“What was his position?”
“I beg your pardon?” she said.
“Was he in a chair, lying on the floor, or what?”
“Don’t you know?” Blanche Yesell said.
“Shut up!” Delaney snarled at her.
“He was on the floor,” Joan said, trembling.
“Face up. All bloody.”
“What did you do then?”
“I screamed.”
“And then?”
“I turned and ran.”
“Did you touch anything in the room?”
“No’ “Did you bend over him, feel for his pulse?”
“No, no, no!”
“Then how did you know he was dead?”
“I just knew it. His eyes were all …”
“Why didn’t you call the police?” Sergeant Boone asked.
“I don’t know. I panicked. I wanted to get out of there.”
“Where’s the book?” Delaney said.
“What book?”
“The billing ledger. That you took from the top drawer of the receptionist’s desk.”
“I didn’t! I swear I didn’t! I didn’t touch a thing.”
“What did you do then?”
“I ran out of the office, down the stairs, out of the building.
“Did you see anyone in the townhouse?”
“No’ “Hear anything-like someone might be in one of the other offices?”
“No.
“Smell anything-any unusual odors?”
“No.
“Then what?”
“I ran over to York Avenue. It was still raining. I finally got a cab and came home.”
“What kind of a cab?” Jason asked.
“What color?”
“One of the big ones with those fold-up seats.”
“A Checker?”
“Yes, a Checker cab.”
“What time did you get home?” Delaney asked.
“A little before ten o’clock. I think.”
“And you, madam,” Delaney said, turning to Mrs. Yesell.
“When did you get home? Let’s have the truth this time.”
She lifted her wattled chin.
“About eleven-fifteen.”
“And your daughter told you what had happened?”
“Yes. My Joan was crying. Almost hysterical. I thought I’d have to call a doctor for her.”
“Did you?”
“No. I gave her some aspirin and a nice cup of hot tea.”
“And then you concocted the fake alibi to lead us astray.”
“I didn’t think we should get involved. Joan had nothing to do with the death of that man.”
Delaney groaned and looked at the officers with a hopeless shrug.
“She didn’t think they should get involved. How do you like that?” He turned back to Joan Yesell.
“All right,” he said, “let’s go through it again.”
This time he was even more demanding, pressing her ferociously for details.
Were there other passengers on the buses she took uptown on the murder night? Could she describe the drivers? Did she see anyone when she walked over to the townhouse from First Avenue? What time had she called Ellerbee to tell him she would be delayed? Could she describe the driver of the cab she took home?
Then: When, precisely, had her affair with Ellerbee started? (In March.) How often did they meet? (As often as they could-two or three times a month.) Did he say he wanted to divorce his wife and marry her? (Yes.) When did he first speak about getting a divorce? (About three months ago.) Did he give her money? (No, but he gave her gifts.) Like what? (Jewelry, occasionally. A silk scarf. Things like that.) Did Mrs. Yesell know of her daughter’s liaison? (Yes.) Did you object, madam? (Uh … not exactly.) Did Ellerbee say his wife was aware of his infidelity? (He didn’t say.) But he did say he was going to ask her for a divorce? (Yes.) But you don’t know if he ever did? (No.) During the whole interrogation, Delaney was at his ruthless best, alternately threatening and conciliatory, roaring and then speaking in the gentlest of tones. He would bully both women to tears, then slack off to give them time to recover. When Joan came close to hysteria, he would switch to the mother, keeping them both off-balance with unexpected questions.
Finally, when it had gone on more than two hours, and neither Delaney nor the three officers had sat down or removed their coats, he said suddenly: “All right, that’s enough for now. Keep yourself available, Miss Yesell. There will be more questions. Don’t even think of leaving town; you’ll be watched.”
He began to lead the procession from the apartment.
Detective Venable said hesitantly, “May I stay awhile?”
Delaney looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.
“Yes,” he said, “you do that. Have a nice cup of tea.”
Jason drove them uptown. Boone and Delaney sat in the back seat.
“That place smelled of cats,” the Sergeant said.
“I don’t care how often you change the litter box; you got cats, your apartment is going to smell of cats.”
They discussed how they were going to check the buses and cab Joan Yesell claimed to have taken on the murder night. Probably an impossible task, involving bus schedules, drivers’ time cards, and taxi trip-sheets, but it had to be done.
“You men write up reports on tonight’s questioning,” Delaney ordered. “I’ll do the same. Between the three of us, we should be able to recall everything.”
They pulled up in front of Delaney’s brownstone, but he made no movement to get out.
“All right,” he said, “let’s take a vote. Jason, was she telling the truth?”
“I think she’s clean, sir,” the officer said.
“Mostly because I can’t see her having the muscle or the guts to pound in the skull of a guy she loved.”
“Sergeant?”
“I think she was telling the truth. The second go-around was a replay of the first. Either she’s one hell of an actress or she’s telling it like it was.”
“Yes,” Delaney said morosely, “I’m afraid both of you are right.”
“And besides,” Boone added, “when we were up in Brewster, Samuelson said he doubted if a suicidal type would go for a homicide.”
Delaney slowly stiffened. He turned to stare at the Sergeant.
“Lardy, lardy,” he said with a wobbly smile.
“I do believe you just uttered the magic words.”
He got out of the car without further comment and trudged up the steps to the front door. He put his homburg and overcoat in the hall closet, then went into the living room. The girls were at the theater with Peter and Jeffrey, but Monica was home, simultaneously watching television and meticulously checking her Christmas card list against those they had received in return. He stooped to kiss her cheek.
“How did it go?” she asked him.
“Okay,” he said.
“Tell you about it later. I’ve got a call to make and then some things to look up. I never get to see you anymore,” he complained.
“And whose fault is that?” she demanded.
It took him almost thirty minutes to locate Dr. Murray Walden, including a call to Deputy Thorsen to get the police psychiatrist’s unlisted number. He finally tracked down Walden at a big dinner-dance at the Americana. The doctor had to be paged.
“This better be important, Delaney,” the psychiatrist said.
“You dragged me away from the best tango New York has seen since Valentino.”
“It is important. One question, but it’s crucial. And I’d like a yes or no answer.”
“That I can’t guarantee. I told you, in my business nothing is definite.”
You guys are as bad as lawyers. All right. I’ll try anyway.
We’ve got a subject with a history of suicide attempts. Four, to be exact. Is such a person capable of homicide?”
Silence.
“Hello?” Delaney said.
“Walden? Are you there?”
“Yes, but let me get this straight. Is a suicidal type capable of homicide? Is that your question? The answer is yes. Under certain circumstances, anyone is capable of murder. But if you’re asking me if it’s probable, the answer is no. In fact, I’ve never heard of a suicidal type turning to homicide. That’s not to say it’s not possible.”
“Thank you very much, doctor,” Delaney said.
“Go back to your tango.”
He spent another half-hour pulling certain reports and notes from the file cabinet. He laid all the documents on his desk, edges aligned and touching. He stared down at them with grim satisfaction, noting how they resembled pieces of that jigsaw puzzle, finally coming together and fitting.
He opened the door to the living room.
“Monica,” he called, “could you come in for a while?”
She looked up.
“Oh-ho. Feeling guilty for neglecting me, are you?”
“Sure I am,” he said, smiling.
“Also, I want your take on something.”
She came into the study and took the club chair facing his desk.
“My,” she said, “you look solemn.”
“Do I? Serious maybe, not solemn. Listen, this may take some time.” He hunched forward, forearms on his desk and told Monica of the night’s events.
“What do you think?” he asked after he had related Joan Yesell’s story.
“The poor girl,” Monica said slowly.
“Were you hard on her, Edward?”
“As hard as I had to be. Does it sound to you like she’s telling the truth?”
“I can believe it. A vulnerable woman like that. Not getting any younger.
A good-looking man telling her that he loves her. Edward, it was a romance, like she’s watched on TV. Maybe her last chance to have a close relationship with a man. And sex. If he didn’t offer to divorce his wife and marry her, I don’t think she would have insisted or even objected.
Just being with him was so important to her.”
“That’s the way I see it,” he said, nodding.
“And you’ve got to remember he was her doctor, giving her sympathy and understanding and confidence. A real father figure.”
“Transference,” Monica said.
“That’s what they call it.”
“Whatever,” Delaney said.
“Anyway, I think she’s innocent of the murder, and so do Boone and Jason. So that puts us back to square one-right? And we’ve still got the problem of the other set of footprints. But then, just before I got out of the car, Boone said something that triggered a memory. He reminded me that when we were up in Brewster, Samuelson had said that he didn’t think a suicidal personality was capable of homicide.”
“I don’t remember him saying that.”
“You were in the kitchen cleaning up when we were talking about it. Boone’s mentioning it reminded me of something.
That call I made was to Doctor Murray Walden, the Department’s psychiatrist, a very brainy guy. He substantiated Samuelson’s comment: that it was extremely unlikely a potential suicide would turn to homicide.”
“Edward, why is that so important? It’s added evidence that Joan Yesell is innocent, isn’t it?”
“It’s more than that. Because when the Sergeant mentioned it, I remembered the meeting I had with Diane Ellerbee when she gave me the names of six of her husband’s patients-all presumably capable of murder. She said she was including Joan Yesell because suicide, when tried so often, often develops into homicidal mania. Just to check my memory, I dug out my notes on that conversation. And here it is.” He held up a sheet of paper.
“That’s what she said. Now Diane is an experienced psychologist. Why should she say something like that when Samuelson and Walden say it’s a crock of shit?”
He looked at Monica steadily, seeing how her face tightened as she began to understand the full import of what he had just told her.
“Edward, are you suggesting..
“I’m not suggesting anything; I’m stating it flatly with no doubts whatsoever: Diane Ellerbee knocked off her husband.”
“But you don’t-“
“Wait a minute,” he interrupted, holding up a palm.
“Before you tell me I’m nuts, let me give you some background on this. Let’s start with my own stupidity in not seeing it sooner. About seventy-five percent of all murders are committed by the spouse, relatives, or friends of the victim. I’ve known that since the day I got my gold shield. But I forgot the percentages in this case. Why? Probably because Diane Ellerbee was so beautiful, so intelligent. She overwhelmed me.