by Clark Howard
“Miss Daniels,” the Psychiatrist said professionally, “prior to the session during which her remarks were tape recorded, had been injected with a sodium ethyl—thiobarbiturate solution, which is an intravenous hypnotic used in the treatment of mental disorders. It is sometimes called sodium pentothal. Its affect on the human mind makes it physically impossible for anyone so injected to tell anything but the truth.”
“Does that answer your question, Mr. Keyes?”
Keyes swallowed and said nothing.
“Very well then,” the Examiner said, “we will adjourn for the evening.”
The six men at the panel table rose, quickly collected their papers, and filed out of the room through a door behind Keyes which he could not see. The Examiner followed them, leaving Keyes alone in the blue room.
A moment later, a lean, wiry Oriental wearing a chauffeur’s uniform entered the room. He adjusted a lever beneath Keyes’ chair, turned the chair completely around, and wheeled it out on silently rolling casters.
Five
When Devlin entered the plain walnut door marked J. WALTER KEYES ENTERPRISES, he found himself in a small but smartly furnished reception room, at one side of which was a modern, decorative desk occupied by a very pretty young blond with upswept hair.
“Good morning. May I help you?”
“Mr. Keyes, please,” Devlin said.
“Whom shall I say is calling, sir?”
“Mr. Devlin.” He watched the girl open a key on her interoffice board.
“Mr. Devlin to see Mr. Keyes,” she said formally into the speaker.
“Have him come in, please,” a female voice answered. Closing the key, the blonde smiled brilliantly at Devlin and said, “It’s the first door down the hall, Mr. Devlin.”
“Thank you.”
Devlin stepped past the reception desk to a carpeted hallway. He entered the first door, into a private secretary’s office. A woman of perhaps thirty looked up from her desk.
“Good morning. Mr. Devlin?” Her voice was pleasant but businesslike; there was no dazzling smile such as the blonde had given him, just the usual brief, curious glance at his halfmoon scar. “I’m sorry but Mr. Keyes isn’t in. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“When do you expect him?” Devlin asked, curious to see how Keyes’ absence was being explained.
“Not at all today, I’m afraid,” she answered. “Mr. Keyes is ill.”
“Oh? Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Just a touch of the flu, I believe.” She brushed a truant strand of hair back where it belonged in her severe Spanish hairdo that was drawn tightly over her ears into a dark bun. “Perhaps I can help you,” she offered again.
“Perhaps,” Devlin said. He showed her a black leather case containing his identification card and badge. “I’m with the attorney general’s office. We are trying to determine the whereabouts of Abigail Daniels. I believe she was employed here a short time ago.”
“Why—yes, yes she was. I’m afraid she isn’t with us any longer, however.”
“I’m aware of that, Miss Lund,” Devlin said, glancing at a name-plate on her desk which read: EVELYN LUND. “If you can tell me where she was living while employed here—”
“I’m not at all certain that we still have her address,” Evelyn Lund said. “It’s been quite a while—”
“Only three months,” Devlin said, deciding to stop her evasive tactics at the outset. Referring to the notes he had made at the bank, he added, “As a matter of fact, she received her last paycheck here on July eighteenth, and this is only October tenth.”
The secretary’s face tightened slightly but she maintained her exterior demeanor of business—like pleasantness. “We don’t keep records of our former employees very long, Mr. Devlin,” she explained.
“I’m sure you must keep them until the end of the calendar year, Miss Lund,” Devlin replied. “If not, how would you know where to mail a former employee’s withholding tax form? You do make federal deductions from salaries here, don’t you?”
“Why, yes, we certainly do, Mr. Devlin,” she answered, forcing into her voice a deliberately syrupy tone that almost made Devlin smile. “If you’d care to sit down, I’ll see if I can find the information you want.”
She rose from her desk, a tall, lithe woman, perhaps just a shade too thin, but with trim, evenly sculptured legs; lovely legs, Devlin decided.
He watched as she left the room, then stepped quickly to an open door leading to a much larger, executive-type office which, he presumed, belong to Keyes. It was a richly done office, with obviously expensive furnishings, thickly carpeted, heavily draped, dominated by an oversized mahagony desk behind which hung a large oil painting of Jennifer Jordan. Devlin stared at the canvas looking deeply into the life-like eyes he recalled so vividly, thinking of the emotion she had stirred within him, and he within her—
He turned away from the office and sat down just as Evelyn Lund returned. She carried a manila file folder in her hand. Resuming her chair, she opened the folder on the desk before her.
“Abigail Daniels lived at 9112 Miles Avenue when she left here in July, Mr. Devlin,” the secretary said. She closed the file and folded her hands on top of it. That, thought Devlin, is obviously supposed to mean that our interview is over. He suppressed another smile while entering the address in his notes.
“Would you mind giving me her date of birth?” he said, pen poised.
Evelyn Lund’s face tightened slightly again, and her eyes, Devlin was certain, flashed him a brief, angry look. She opened the folder again and read off a birthdate. Devlin, jotting it down, frowned.
“You’re sure that’s correct?” he asked. “She would have been only nineteen years old when she started here—”
“I’m quite sure it’s correct,” Evelyn Lund said coolly, making no effort now to conceal her hostility. “As a matter of fact, I took her application for the position at the time Mr. Keyes hired her.”
“What was her job here?”
“She was our receptionist.”
“You mean the job out there,” Devlin nodded over his shoulder, “where the little blonde is?”
“Yes, Mr. Devlin, where the little blonde is, exactly.” Her voice was almost icy. Devlin put away his notebook and stood up.
“Thank you for your help, Miss Lund.” She said nothing, and he paused at the door. “I suppose you’ve been told this before,” he said; “you have very beautiful legs.”
Evelyn Lund’s mouth dropped open and she looked at him with unconcealed surprise.
“Goodbye, Miss Lund,” Devlin said, leaving quickly before she could recover.
The 9100—block of Miles Avenue, Devlin found an hour later, was a quiet upper-class residential block of neat, well-kept duplexes. The one in which he was interested, the one with the number 9112 directly between the two front entrances, was a tan stucco affair with dark brown wood trim, setting back before a manicured, postage stamp lawn split down the middle by a short concrete walk. On the double front porch Devlin found two mailboxes; one bearing the name Rankin, the other with the name Hoskins. He turned to the Rankin door on the left and rang the bell. The door was opened a moment later by a plump young woman in a maternity smock.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Devlin said, “but I’m looking for Miss Abigail Daniels. I didn’t see her name on either of the mailboxes.”
She doesn’t live at this number,” the woman said. “Are you sure you have the right address?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“We’ve only been here about three months. Maybe she lived here before we moved in. Mrs. Hoskins next door might know.”
“I’ll try her, then.” Devlin thanked the young mother-to-be and crossed the porch to the opposite door. He rang that bell and waited. Momentarily the door opened and he faced a prim, whitehaired little woman who peered at him through the screendoor.
“Mrs. Hoskins?”
“Yes?”
“I’m trying to
get some information on a girl named Abigail Daniels—”
“Oh, you’re from the hospital, aren’t you?” Mrs. Hoskins declared, unlatching the door for Devlin. “They said you’d probably be around to get a statement. Come in, please—”
Devlin stepped inside and the elderly little lady showed him into a tidy living room.
“I was about to have my tea,” she said, moving over to a silver service that held a steaming pot. “Would you like a cup?”
“Why, yes, I believe I would,” Devlin said. “Very kind of you to ask.” He sat on the couch and took out his notebook. “Who did you say told you to expect me?” he asked casually.
“I don’t remember his name; I just remember he was from the hospital. He came around the day after they took that poor girl away.”
“I see.” Devlin accepted the cup of steaming tea from her. “Were you told what kind of statement you’d be asked to give?”
“Well, not exactly. I told him I didn’t know much about the girl personally; I only called the police that night because it sounded like she was being attacked by someone. I mean, the way she was screaming and crying, and the sounds of things being broken; I never dreamed she was doing all that herself.”
Mrs. Hoskins took a chair opposite him and placed her teacup on the coffee table between them.
“Why don’t you tell me about that night,” Devlin suggested, “and then we can expand your statement from there. ”
“All right.” She smoothed out her dress and straightened up somewhat, as aging women are inclined to do when they are the center of attention. “It was about eight o’clock, just getting dark because that was back in July, you see. I was watching my television, when I heard the Daniels girl’s telephone ring; our living rooms are right next to each other, you see—” she indicated the wall behind Devlin, “—and I could always hear her telephone ring. Well, ordinarily I couldn’t hear any of her conversation, at least not when she was speaking in a normal voice; but on this particular night she was speaking very loudly, even shouting now and again—”
“What was she saying, do you remember?” Devlin asked.
“Yes, I remember very well; I don’t understand it, but I remember. The first time she raised her voice she said, ‘No, no, no, I won’t let you!’ Then a moment later she said, ‘I’m tired of being an animal!’ She said that several times, three or four, I think. And finally she said, ‘If you do, I’ll kill myself! I swear, I’ll kill myself!’ ”
“That was all you heard?”
“Yes, that was all.”
“All right, tell me what happened next.”
“Well, everything was quiet for about an hour then. I kept watching my television until about nine o’clock when I turned it off to get ready for bed. I was heating water for my tea a few minutes after nine when I heard her doorbell ring. It rang several times and then stopped. Then all the racket began. I heard something break; it sounded like a dish had been dropped and shattered. She screamed once or twice, and there was the sound of more things breaking. Then she began yelling. She yelled, ‘No, no, no!’ The noise became louder, like furniture being smashed, mirrors being shattered, things being thrown against the walls. It was terrible. ”
“Is that when you called the police?”
“Yes. As I said, I had no idea she was alone; I thought she had opened the door for whoever had been ringing the bell; I was certain she was being beaten or attacked—”
“Did the police come right away?”
“Oh, yes, in just a few minutes. They broke down her door.”
“That’s when you found out she was alone?”
“Yes. She was having a fit of some kind; the poor child, you can’t imagine what she looked like. And her apartment, why it was a complete shambles; everything smashed, pictures, lamps, dishes; furniture cut open—she had a butcher knife in her hand when the policemen finally got to her; after the ambulance arrived, they had to put her in one of those strait jackets—”
Devlin felt all his preconceived theories about Abigail Daniels disintegrating. He had started out looking for a calculating woman who had nerve enough to blackmail a businessman for some three years or so, and possibly even have a part in abducting that same businessman for purposes of further blackmail through his clients. But, as often happened with the best, the most logical of theories, things were not working out as he had projected. First he had learned that the calculating woman had been only nineteen years old when she went to work for Keyes; hardly of the experience or maturity to back a man of Keyes’ reputation into a corner. And now, from Mrs. Hoskins, his mental image of Abigail Daniels had been further misshapen by a word picture of a young girl apparently suffering an emotional breakdown of some kind; certainly not the ideal person to take part in an elaborate scheme of abduction and blackmail.
“I notice you aren’t writing any of this down,” Mrs. Hoskins commented, glancing at his notebook. “I thought I would have to sign a formal statement of some kind.”
“You may,” Devlin told her, “however, that will be handled by another department. As a matter of fact, you might be getting another visitor about this same matter. Sorry for the inconvenience; government red tape, you know how it is.” He smiled charmingly at the old lady. “Incidentally, you make a wonderful cup of tea; best I’ve had in years.”
“Why, thank you,” Mrs. Hoskins beamed. “It’s the orange pekoe that gives it the flavor.”
“Is that so.” Devlin took another sip. “Tell me, Mrs. Hoskins, how long did Abigail Daniels live next door to you?”
“Three years,” Mrs. Hoskins answered without hesitation. “Almost to the month. I remember because she moved in the last time my sister Grace visited me. Grace has married again, that’s why she never visits me anymore. Too busy, I suppose.”
Devlin finished his tea and put away his notebook.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Hoskins; you’ve been most helpful.”
“Why, you’re more than welcome, young man. I feel so sorry for that poor girl; she was all alone, you know—no family at all. Will they keep her in the hospital permanently, do you think?”
“I couldn’t say,” Devlin told the old lady. “That will depend on her condition, I imagine.” He paused at the front door. “Thank you again for the tea; it was very enjoyable.”
“Do come again,” Mrs. Hoskins smiled, “if I can be of any more help.”
Devlin walked away from the house, his face thoughtfully disturbed.
Later that afternoon, Devlin stood at the main counter of the police department’s Records and Identification section, filling out a request form for a records check. He put down Abigail Daniels’ name and age, the Miles Avenue address, and the approximate date of her arrest. Handing the form to a section clerk, he showed his identification and was given a plastic disc with a call number etched into its face. He walked over to one of the chairs against the wall and sat down to wait.
It took two minutes for the clerk to run the name Abigail Daniels through an IBM machine and come up with a coded letter-number combination that pinpointed the location of the file; and then ten minutes to walk half a block into the recesses of the huge record vault to pull the file and bring it back to the counter. Devlin, when he heard his number called, went back up to the counter, turned in the plastic disc, and was given the file on Abigail Daniels. He took it to one of the reference tables and sat down.
The first thing that surprised him was the police photograph of Abigail Daniels; she closely resembled the blonde receptionist he had seen earlier that day in Keyes’ office. Even with her hair disarranged and the stark expression with which she looked at the camera, even with the blank, unseeing eyes, the lips slightly parted languorously; even with all that, she nevertheless instantly reminded Devlin of the young blonde with the upswept hair—
He stared at the two photos; the portrait and the profile; and as he stared he felt the remainder of his preconceived notions about Abigail Daniels completely dissolve and flow
out of his mind. The face of the girl in the photo did not, he decided, look like the face of a blackmailer and an accessory to kidnapping. It did not look like a criminal face, he thought; there was no slyness, no evil or strength that invariably was to be found—one of them, at least—in the face of every criminal. Instead, in her face, the face of Abigail Daniels, he saw only abject weakness; complete and total weakness, devoid of even the most token strength.
She looks like she’s been used, Devlin suddenly thought. Like she’s been a puppet for someone who was responsible for Keyes now being missing. Like someone—he had no idea who—had attached strings to her and manipulated them with such precision that she eventually broke down, collapsed mentally, went wild—
Devlin tore his eyes and thoughts away from the photo and quickly read the brief file. The routine arrest report was on top; it described in crisp police language the answering by two radio car officers of a general disturbance complaint telephoned in by a Julia Hoskins of 9112 Miles Avenue. Upon arrival at the scene, after forcing entrance, the officers had found the subject Abigail Daniels in a violent, incoherent condition. They determined that she was alone, observed that she had caused extensive damage within her apartment, and concluded that she was not responsible for her actions and therefore should be take into custody. While one officer restrained her, the other radioed the jail ward of the county hospital for an ambulance and strait jacket. Abigail Daniels subsequently was turned over to a jail matron and two ambulance attendants for transfer to the hospital.
Beneath the arrest report, Devlin found a photostat of a hospital admittance form showing that the girl had been checked into the jail ward, confined to a padded cell and given an intravenous sedative to make her sleep. The following morning, when her violent spell had subsided sufficiently, she was photographed, fingerprinted, and scheduled for preliminary medical and psychiatric examinations.