Devers said, “For Christ’s sake, Parker, don’t you get it. She’s talking about her analyst!”
At the sound of the word Ellen tensed again, but she kept her eyes closed and continued to sag against Parker’s chest. Over her shoulder Parker said to Devers, “Why?”
“She told him the whole dodge,” Devers said. “Don’t you see? Not to set up anything against us, but because it was shaking her up. She figured she could trust him, it was like going to confession, she spilled the whole thing to the son of a bitch.”
“You know where he lives?”
“I know where his office is.”
“Where’s a phone book?”
“Unlisted,” Ellen said. It was a near-whisper, almost a sigh.
Parker held her out where he could look at her lolling face and closed eyes. He said, “What’s the home address?”
“I don’t know, he won’t tell, he doesn’t want patients bothering him late at night.”
Parker shoved Ellen over to Webb, saying, “Tie her.” To Devers he said, “Get dressed.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We’ve got till first light, if we’re lucky, to get it back and get ourselves out of sight.”
Devers reached for his clothing.
2
The plate beside the door read: Monequois Professional Building. On the other side was a white painted board with a list of the tenants in black lettering: doctors, lawyers and a firm of accountants. Dr Fred Godden’s name was fourth from the top.
The building was of fairly recent construction, red brick with white trim, built in a neighborhood gradually changing over from expensive homes to expensive offices. Air conditioners stuck their squared-off crenelated black rumps out of most of the windows, and there were bushes planted across the front of the building, plus a small well-kept lawn extending out to the street. And more than enough illumination; in addition to the streetlight just across the way, a pair of carriage lamps bracketing the front entrance were kept burning all night.
There was a blacktop driveway beside the building. Webb had switched his headlights off three blocks ago, and when he reached the building now he kept them off as he turned the Buick into the driveway and aimed for the blackness beside the building. Brick wall went by on their left, a high hedge on their right, both unseen. When the tires left blacktop and crunched on gravel Webb hit the brakes and cut the ignition.
They were all three in the front seat, Devers in the middle. Parker opened the door and got out and Devers slid out after him. Webb left the car on the other side. No interior light went on when the car doors were open. Leaving them open, they moved away through almost perfect darkness to the brick rear wall of the building and felt their way to the rear door
If they’d had to go through without leaving any marks it might have taken half an hour or more, but now they didn’t care about marks, only about time. They went through the door in three minutes and moved quickly up the stairs to the second floor.
The office doors had frosted glass in their upper panels names on the glass in gold letters. Behind the one that read DR FRED GODDEN, small yellowish red light glowed.
Standing against the wall out of direct line of the doorway, Parker tried the knob. When he pushed, the door gave. It was unlocked.
All three had revolvers in their hands. Devers had left his at the lodge to be disposed of, but Parker had brought it back to him.
Parker pushed the door slowly. There was no pressure wanting to close it, but it didn’t swing loosely, probably because it needed oiling or adjusting. It opened willingly as far as Parker would push it, but no more.
When it was halfway open, Parker eased his head over until he could look one-eyed through the opening. He saw a pie wedge of outer office, a corner of Naugahyde sofa, a part of a desk, a partially open door across the way. The light was coming from that inner room.
There was no sound. Parker pushed the door open the rest of the way, hesitated, stepped inside. Nobody here, not in this outer room.
Devers and Webb followed him in. They came cautiously at the next door and again Parker leaned into it from the side, the revolver ready in his hand, his other hand flat against the wall behind him to lever him back out of the way if it was needed.
Another pie slice. A desk again, this one larger. Patterned carpet. Glass-fronted bookcases. The light came from a table lamp with an orange shade, sitting on one corner of the desk.
Again no sound, nothing moving. Parker entered as carefully as before, and still nothing happened.
Now he could see the rest of the room. A sofa along the left wall, an armchair at its far end. A couple more lamps, a library table, a filing cabinet, a coffee table in front of the sofa.
A sound. From behind the desk.
Parker dropped. He lay on the rug, listening, and when he turned his head and looked across the carpet into the darkness under the desk and beyond the desk, near where the wheeled legs of the office chair came down, he saw a pair of eyes, blinking whitely.
Sideways. Someone lying on his back, head turned this way, eyes slowly opening and closing.
Parker got to his feet. Behind him to the left was a wall switch. He hit it, and indirect lighting filled the room from troughs along the top of the walls. He went around behind the desk as Webb and Devers came in.
The man on the floor was tall, muscular with an overlay of flab. He was wearing scuffed brown oxfords, baggy brown trousers, a bulky dark-green sweater frayed here and there. The sweater was caked and smeared dark brown in two places over his chest and stomach. A dark slender ribbon glinted along his cheek from his mouth, disappeared into his hair beneath his ear. He must have been lying with his head tilted a little the other way for a while. Maybe he’d heard Parker and the others coming in, had managed to turn his head. He wasn’t moving now.
Devers had come around the desk from the other side, stood with his shoes near the guy’s head. He said. “Dead?”
“Not yet. You know him?”
“I don’t think so. I can’t see his face.” Parker went on one knee beside the wounded man, put his hand on the guy’s chin, turned his head so Devers could see it. Blood had started to trickle out the other side of the mouth now. His eyes were open again. They blinked, very slowly, shut and then open. They did it again. When they were open the eyes didn’t focus on anything, just looked straight ahead at the ceiling. They kept blinking at the same slow steady rhythm.
Devers looked sick. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t know who he is.”
”You never saw him at all?”
“Never. I’d remember.”
Parker let the chin go, and the head stayed where he’d left it. Some blood was on the first finger of Parker’s left hand He cleaned it on the guy’s sweater, then pushed the body partway over to get at the hip pocket, where the wallet should be.
It was there. Parker opened it, found a driver’s license read the name aloud. “Ralph Hochberg. Mean anything?”
“Nothing,” Devers said.
Hochberg’s head was facing front again, his eyes staring at the ceiling, blinking slowly without let-up. He began to gurgle in his throat, a small damp choking sound.
Devers said, “He’s strangling on his blood.”
Parker pushed Hochberg’s face to the side, so the blood could flow out, and got to his feet. “They were here,” he said, more to himself than Devers. “Godden and this one. Just the two of them? They’ve started to doublecross each other.”
“Godden wouldn’t try it with just one other man,” Devers said. “Not going up against three pros, even with surprise on his side. He’d want to make it three against three at least. More, if he could find the people. You suppose this guy’s a patient of his?”
Webb came over, an envelope in his hand. He’d been searching the room and going through the filing-cabinet while Parker and Devers concentrated on the wounded man. Webb said, “Nobody else. The cases are over there, past the sofa. Empty.”
“I found this,” Webb said, handing out the envelope.
Parker took it. It was addressed to Dr Fred Godden, 16 Rosemont Road, West Monequois, New York. That wasn’t the office address.
Parker handed the envelope to Devers, saying, “You know this town. Would that be a residence?”
“Sure,” Devers said. “West Monequois, that’s high class.”
Webb said, “Let’s go there.”
3
Rosemont Road curved gracefully back and forth among brick ranches and frame split levels, each on its own grassy lot, with its wide driveway, attached garage, TV antenna and sloped roof. It was almost three-thirty in the morning now, and every house they passed was completely dark, except that every now and then a night light showed faintly through a window.
Number sixteen was on the right, a split level with the garage in the lower part of the two-storey section. It was as dark as the rest of the neighborhood, a white frame house built up on a rise of land above the road, with a steep rock garden at the front of the lawn, a broad driveway that angled upward sharply, and a look of innocence and sleep.
Webb drove on until the curve of the road hid them from the Godden house, and then he parked. All three got out and walked back along the sidewalk, cutting across the lawn of the house next door in order to come at the Godden house from the back, on the garage side.
There was a door at the back of the house, leading into the garage. They approached it slowly, the darkness as deep as velvet all around them, the house a vaguely seen pale shape looming up in front of them. They were silent, moving on grass. They reached the rear wall and slid along it to the door.
Parker tried the knob. It clicked faintly, but the door was locked.
A voice said, “Roger?”
Parker flattened against the house.
The voice was above him, somebody in a second-storey window. It said, “I don’t want to hurt you, Roger.” It Was a male voice, but womanish and trembling with fear. Parker waited.
The voice said, “I have a gun. You’d better get away from here.”
Moving slowly, Parker turned his head. He could see that Webb was no longer there behind him, which was good. Devers, a few feet away, was pressed close to the wall just as Parker was.
The voice said, “You’ve got all the money, what more do you want?”
Whispers don’t have much individuality. Making his shrill, Parker whispered, “Ralph is still alive!”
“What do you want me to do about it?” The voice was getting shrill itself, the tension in it twanged like a plucked zither string.
“Help him,” Parker whispered.
“Help him! Why shoot him? What’s the matter with you?”
“I need your help,” Parker whispered. “Let me in.”
“So you can kill me, too?”
“Why would I kill you?”
“Why did you shoot Ralph? Roger, I’m sorry, I can’t trust you. Maybe tomorrow. What are we going to do about Ralph? I thought he was dead. I though I’d have to go back later and take him out and leave his body somewhere. But if he’s alive, I—” With sudden suspicion, the voice said, “Is he alive? How do you know?”
“I went back.”
“How did you know where to find me? Roger? Is that Roger down there?”
“Yes.” If Devers was right, that Godden’s partners were probably patients of his, a little hysteria might be in order now. Parker suddenly rattled the doorknob loudly, whispering, “Let me in! I threw the gun away, I don’t want to kill anybody any more! Let me in! I need your help!”
“That isn’t Roger!”
Where the hell was Webb? “Help me!” Parker whispered, flapping his arms against the door, moving around like someone too agitated to stand still. Or like someone trying to be a bad target.
There was a sudden light from above, and Parker was in the middle of it. A flashlight. Parker dove for the darkness and above him a rifle sounded, loud and flat.
Parker landed on his shoulder, rolled, got to his feet in darkness, with the flashlight aimed out past where he was. He ran in close again, against the wall, and suddenly the flashlight dropped from the window and landed on the grass. It lay there, still lit, shining with great precision and clarity on a cone of green grass.
Parker saw the outline of Devers on the other side of the light, moving toward it. He whispered, “Keep away!” and Devers faded back again.
Nothing happened for almost a minute, and then Webb’s voice came from up above, softly, saying, “Clear.”
“There’s got to be other people in the house,” Parker said, speaking just as softly. “Cover them.”
“Right. I came in the garage window on the side of the house. People never lock that one.”
Parker and Devers went around to the side where there was a smallish window, now standing open. They climbed through, landing in a mass of garden hose, edged around some kind of long broad car, and went through a doorway and up a half-flight of stairs to a kitchen.
There was light now, filtering from another part of the house. Moving toward it, they left the kitchen through an arched doorway, turned right down a short hall, and went up another half-flight of stairs. There was another short hall up here, with light spilling from a doorway on the right.
It was a bedroom, done in colonial, with a canopy bed. Webb was standing by the foot of the bed, revolver in his hand. Sitting on the floor was a balding man of about forty-five, dressed in pajamas. There was a gash on the side of his head, bleeding slightly. He’d touched it at one point, and now there was blood on his fingertips. He looked frightened, and calculating.
When Parker and Devers came into the room, Webb said, ”Nobody else here. Empty kid’s room across the way.”
Parker said to the man on the floor, “Where’s your family?”
“I’m remarried. My children live with my ex-wife.”
“Where’s your new wife?”
“Visiting her brother. I didn’t want her around during—” He gestured vaguely.
Webb nodded and said, “Didn’t want to have to tell her where he was going at two o’clock in the morning.”
Parker said, “You’re Godden?”
The man nodded wearily. “Of course.”
“Ellen Fusco told you the caper.”
“Yes. And I tried to steal the money away from you.” He looked up, squinting. “I almost made it, too,” he said. “Except Roger went crazy.”
“Roger who?”
“Roger St Cloud. A local boy.”
“Like Ralph?”
“Is he really still alive?”
“He was when we were there. Maybe he isn’t now. Were they both patients of yours?”
“Yes. I didn’t have anything to do with killing your friends.”
Parker said, “It was all Roger.”
“He swore one of them reached for a gun. The tall thin one. He was guarding them while Ralph and I put the money cases in the car.” Godden shook his head, frowning. “I don’t know how he could have been reaching for a gun,” he said. “We’d already searched them all, we had their guns.”
Parker said, “What happened at the office?”
“We’d been arguing. I said he didn’t have to shoot all three of them, even if one did reach for a gun. We got to the office, and split up the money. We had suitcases there, we’d already each brought a suitcase and left it in the office. Everything was fine, and then Roger started up again, about how he’d been given the dangerous job, how I’d known those were dangerous men and they’d try something and he’d have to kill them. Blaming me, you see. And then deciding what I meant to do was turn him over to the police for murder, and then Ralph and I would split his share between us. It was all very obvious, justifying what he meant to do by blaming us in advance.”
Devers said, “Cut out the shoptalk, Doc. What happened?”
“Yes,” Godden said, and nodded wearily. “Ralph said somethin
g. I don’t know, something innocuous, Ralph was never anything but innocuous. Something about how Roger didn’t really mean all that. And Roger didn’t say a word. He just went over to the sofa and picked up the rifle and shot Ralph. Ralph came staggering back by the desk, still on his feet, and Roger shot him again. That’s how I got away. Without the money.”
Godden seemed done. Parker prodded him, saying, “What next!”
“I got the car and drove home. I didn’t think Roger would be able to find out where I lived, at least not tonight. I didn’t know if anyone had heard the shots, so I came home and put the car away and got ready for bed. In case the police showed up, you know, to say there was somebody dead in my office. So I wouldn’t know anything about it. But I couldn’t sleep, I kept prowling around in the dark in here, and then I heard you people at the back door. I thought it was Roger.”
Parker said, “You soured a very sweet operation tonight, Doctor.”
Godden peered up at him again. “You’re Parker, aren’t you?” he said. “Ellen described you very well.”
“Time for you to describe your boy Roger,” Parker said. “I want to know what he looks like, where he lives, and what he’s going to do next.”
“How should I know what he’s going to do next?”
“You’re his analyst. Analyze him.”
Godden managed a nervous smile. “It’s not that simple,” he said.
Parker turned to Webb. “You two look the place over. In case this bird got the boodle after all.”
”I really didn’t.”
As Webb and Devers left the room, Parker sat down on the edge of the bed. “Roger St Cloud,” he said. “Tell me about him.”
Godden licked his lips, touched again the still-oozing wound in his forehead. He sighed. “Roger’s twenty-two, about six feet tall, very thin. Acne on his face, very bad. His father’s a banker in town.”
“Address?”
“Uhhhh, 123 Haines Avenue.”
“Will he go there?”
“I don’t know. He’s very erratic, very unreliable. You see how badly I misjudged him tonight. I thought I could control him, but I couldn’t. He’d never had power before, you see. And there he was, standing there with the rifle in his hand and three men in front of him, completely in his power. He had to use it, he had to try it out.”
The Green Eagle Score p-10 Page 13