by Lee Roberts
Lee Hoyt called happily, “It’ll be a big funeral, Clint. I’m gonna have hymns at the cemetery when they lower him in.”
Shannon stopped and turned, his hand on the railing. “There will be no burial,” he said evenly. “It was Lew’s wish that he be cremated.”
“What?” Hoyt started as if he’d been shot.
“That’s right. He told me yesterday.”
“But this is not a crematory,” Hoyt wailed. “I don’t have the facilities!”
“Arrange them.”
“But—but the nearest furnace is in Toledo, and I’ll have to have authorization from the next of kin, and—”
“That’s your job.” Shannon continued up the stairs, carrying his bag. He called Chad Beckwith, gave him a brief report of his findings, and then went out to his car and drove to his office.
As he entered by a rear door his nurse, Lucille Sanchez, trim in her white uniform, looked up from a steaming sterilizing tray and smiled at him. “Good morning, Doctor. You’re late.” In spite of Shannon’s protests, she insisted upon addressing him formally as “Doctor,” because she had been trained that way. Lucille Sanchez went by the book. She was a good nurse, devoted to her work, and to her a doctor was a person to be respected, M.D., that is. She was pretty in a dark Latin way, slim and small-boned, but as far as Shannon knew she had no gentlemen friends. Sometimes he worried about her love life.
“Things came up at the hospital,” he said, deciding not to tell her of the morning’s events, at least for the present. “Any calls?”
“Three,” she said. “They’re on your desk. And a man is waiting to see you. I told him that you did not have office hours until the afternoon, but he said it was important and that he’d wait.” Lucille Sanchez spoke with a faint accent.
“Who is he?”
The nurse lifted a hypo needle from the boiling water with steel tongs and laid it on a sterile towel. “I do not know—a young man.”
“Thanks, Lucille.” Shannon passed through his office and opened the door to his waiting room.
A young man sitting there, a stranger to Shannon, laid aside a magazine and stood up. He said pleasantly, “Dr. Shannon?”
“Yes,” Shannon said, noting that his visitor was tall, wide-shouldered, tanned, with clear blue eyes and a firm cleft chin. His black hair curled a little over his ears and his heavy black brows almost joined over the bridge of his nose. He wore light gray slacks, a gray tweed jacket and a dark blue shirt open at the neck.
“My name is Richard Barry,” he said. “I understand you treated my wife.”
“Your wife?” Shannon’s eyes were puzzled. “I have no patients named Barry.”
“You did yesterday, at the hospital. I’m sure you remember.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t.”
“The woman,” the man said softly, “the one they found out on that island in the lake.”
“Oh,” Shannon said.
The man waited, watching Shannon with a careful, expectant expression, as if he expected the doctor to say more. When Shannon did not speak, the man said, “My wife has been missing since Saturday afternoon. She went out alone in our cabin cruiser and did not return. I reported it to the coast guard, and they notified the Island County sheriff—we’re staying at our place at Erie Cliffs. Last night they told me that the boat had been found cracked up on the beach near Catawba—but my wife wasn’t aboard. Then I read in this morning’s paper that a woman had been found on an island in the lake and taken to Memorial Hospital, Her description answered my wife’s and I immediately phoned the hospital. They told me that you had treated her, but that she had left during the night. I—I don’t understand it, Doctor.”
“Neither do I,” Shannon said. “She went out a window, and unless someone brought her some clothes she was wearing only a night gown and a blanket—and maybe a bathing suit.”
“Out a window? Then you didn’t discharge her?”
“No, but I think she was sufficiently recovered.”
“Was—she hurt?”
Shannon shook his head. “Just a few scratches. She was suffering from fatigue, shock and exposure.” He gazed at the man curiously. “Are you sure she is your wife?”
“The description fitted her exactly.”
“But she was an older woman, in her forties, I would guess.”
“Karen is forty-three. I’m much younger, but—”
“When did you say you last saw her?”
“Saturday afternoon. I really shouldn’t have let her go out in the boat alone. She hasn’t been—well.”
“She seemed healthy,” Shannon said, “physically, anyhow. Do you mean she’s mentally ill?”
The man nodded. “Yes, Doctor. Not bad, though, and she has been greatly improved these last few months. Up until the time we came here for the summer she had been receiving psychiatric treatment in Cleveland. She has, well, spells, if you know what I mean.”
“What kind of spells?”
The man moved his hands. “She imagines things, Doctor, has—what do you call it?—hallucinations?”
“I see. And she hasn’t returned home?”
“No. I just came from Erie Cliffs. And she’s not at our place in Cleveland—I phoned there.”
“I’m sorry,” Shannon said, “but what do you want of me?”
“I’d hoped you could help me. You talked to her, didn’t you?” Shannon’s visitor gazed at him intently. “What did she say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Didn’t she tell you what happened to her? I mean, how she came to be on the island?”
“No. Apparently she was unable to even tell me her name. It may have been amnesia, brought on by shock.”
“But she must have told you something!”
Shannon shook his head. “Not a thing. I’m sorry.” He gazed at the man curiously. “Why are you so concerned about what she might have told me?”
The man’s eyes shifted for a second, away from Shannon’s steady stare. “I—I hoped that she had told you something about where she was going, what she intended to do. What time did she leave the hospital?”
“I don’t know, exactly. Sometime during the night. I suspect that someone picked her up in a car, because she made a phone call from the hospital before she left.”
“Phone call?” the man blurted.
“It must have been an out of town call. She borrowed twenty-five cents from one of the nurses.”
The man said in a low intense voice, “I think she told you something—maybe something about me. But she imagines things.”
“You said that before,” Shannon said evenly. “She didn’t tell me anything, imaginary or otherwise.”
“Doctor, if you’re lying…”
“I’m not,” Shannon snapped. “The police have your wife’s description, but I suggest that you talk to them yourself.” He turned toward his office door.
“Wait,” his visitor said.
Shannon paused.
“I’m sorry. I want to pay you for your services, and the hospital, too. And the nurse who gave her the quarter. How much?”
“Twenty dollars will cover it. I’ll see that the nurse is repaid.”
The man took a wallet from an inside pocket of his tweed jacket and handed Shannon two bills, a twenty and a five. “The extra five is for you.”
“Twenty is enough.” Shannon took one bill. “I hope you find her soon.” From the inner office the phone began to ring.
“Thanks.” The man sighed. “I’m afraid she’ll have to be committed to a—a mental institution.”
“I’m sorry,” Shannon said. From behind him he heard Lucille Sanchez answer the phone. In a moment she called to him, “Telephone, Doctor. It’s Chief of Police Beckwith.”
“Goodbye,” the man said. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“No bother. I hope you find your wife.”
The man smiled, nodded, and went out. Shannon turned and entered his office. As he pick
ed up the phone from his desk he glanced out of the window facing the street and saw his visitor get into a yellow Chevrolet Corvette and drive away. “Yes, Chad,” he said into the phone.
“Clint, we’ve got Lew Sprang’s murderer.”
“What?”
“That’s right.” Beckwith sounded smug. “He hasn’t confessed, but he will. It was George Yundt. You know—works in the State Bank?”
Shannon frowned. “I know who you mean—he was with Lew yesterday, on Mort Watson’s boat. But why would he—?”
“Plenty of motive,” Beckwith broke in. “George was stealing money from the bank, from customers’ savings accounts by forging withdrawals, and he had three thousand dollars of Lew’s money. Yesterday Lew told George that he was going to close out his account, all of it—George has admitted that. So the boy got panicky, sneaked into the hospital last night and killed Lew, to keep from being found out. Then this morning he tried to put the money back—just Lew’s money, see?—because he knew the shortage would show up when they settled Lew’s estate. He was in the clear, he thought, but Henry Swann caught him at it.”
“Henry Swann?”
“Assistant cashier at the bank where George works.”
“But if Yundt killed Lew last night, he’d certainly be smart enough to know that a savings deposit signed by Lew would be questioned. How could a dead man put money in a bank?”
“He was scared and didn’t think straight. He knew he had to put the money back right away, before they checked Lew’s account. He wasn’t worrying about dates. And he would have gotten away with it if Henry Swann just hadn’t happened to snoop. I’ve got George locked up on a charge of murder. No bail. In his room at the Y we found over four thousand dollars he took from other accounts. He’s confessed to that, but not the murder. But he’ll crack.”
“It’s circumstantial,” Shannon said.
“I know, I know,” Beckwith said irritably. “You sound as if you don’t want Lew’s killer caught.”
“You know better, Chad. Listen, there may be a man to see you—name of Richard Barry. He just left here. Claims he’s the husband of that woman found on Snake Island. He’s pretty upset, and from what he said she may be a mental case. Anyhow, I told him he’d better see you.”
“All right. What’s his name again?”
“Richard Barry—a young fellow, much younger than the woman. I told him about her making the phone call from the hospital last night. If you want a lead, you might start with that.”
“Thanks,” Beckwith said dryly, “but I’m more interested in the murder of Lew than I am with a balmy female who lams out of the hospital in the middle of the night without any clothes.”
“Will you check the call?” Shannon asked. “This fellow acted a little queer, as if he was afraid the woman had told me something he didn’t want anyone to know. And call me back, will you? As far as I know I’ll be here until five.”
“Okay. I’ll have the call checked. Right now I’m going to talk to George Yundt some more.”
“Third degree?” the doctor said mockingly.
“No rubber hose—just a friendly conversation. He’ll break down.”
“Maybe. Goodbye, Chad.”
Shannon had lunch in a small restaurant nearby, returned to his office and called his home. Celia and little Jack were going to the beach, along with two other neighborhood mothers and their children. Would he be home for dinner? Shannon told her that he would, unless something came up. “You’d better,” Celia said. “Do you realize that I haven’t seen you since five o’clock this morning? Did Ed Malone’s wife have a boy or girl?”
“A boy. That’s five boys and five girls.”
“That’s nice. We don’t even have one and one.”
“We can keep trying. How about trying tonight?”
“Clint? We’re on the phone.”
He laughed, and then said soberly, “I suppose you’ve heard about Lew Sprang?”
“Yes. It’s—terrible. You liked him, didn’t you?”
“He was a fine old man.”
“Do they know who did it?”
“Not yet. Listen, we’ll talk about it tonight. Have a good time at the beach.”
“We will, but come home as soon as you can.”
“If it’s a girl, what’ll we name her?”
“Clinton Shannon, if you—”
“Goodbye, honey.” Shannon hung up, grinning, but the grin went away as he thought once more about Lewis Sprang. He went to the small lavatory off his office, washed his face and hands, shaved with the electric razor he kept at the office, put on a starched white jacket and was ready for his first patient of the afternoon.
At two o’clock Chief of Police Beckwith called to say that the long distance phone call made from the hospital pay booth the night before had been to the residence of Mr. Richard Barry, in Cleveland.
“Was it completed?” Shannon asked. “I mean, did someone answer?”
“Yes. So what? Are you satisfied?”
“No, but thanks anyway. Has George Yundt confessed?”
“I’m working on him,” Beckwith said. “He will.”
“Good luck.” Shannon replaced the phone and sat staring at it for a moment. Why had the woman telephoned Cleveland, he asked himself, when she might have reached her husband at the summer place at Erie Cliffs, only sixteen miles away? And why had she left the hospital as she had? Had she been afraid of something, or someone?
And suddenly a thought came to him, unbidden. The man who claimed to be Richard Barry had said, I read in this morning’s paper that a woman had been found on an island in the lake and taken to Memorial Hospital. Shannon compressed his lips. There were no morning papers published in Harbor City, just two evening ones. Of course, Barry might have seen the item in a Cleveland paper, perhaps the morning Plain Dealer. It was possible. Still…
His office door opened and Lucille Sanchez said, “Doctor, Mrs. Knight is next.”
Shannon nodded absently. “Send her in.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Karen Barry awoke at noon in a sun-filled room and immediately sat up, remembering. It had been three in the morning when Maggie, in response to Karen’s phone call, had arrived at the rear of the hospital in Harbor City where Karen had been waiting in the darkness by the thick shrubbery. Maggie had brought the station wagon, as Karen had instructed, and as they headed back toward Cleveland Karen dressed in the clothes Maggie had brought—underthings, sweater, slacks, moccasins. Maggie had asked no questions; she had been with Karen for many years, since Karen’s first marriage, and nothing surprised or shocked her. She was a tall, angular woman in her late fifties, neat and gray-haired with a strong chin and calm blue eyes. She was married to Albert, the combination chauffeur and gardener. They were the only servants at the big house in Cleveland during the summer months.
Karen had simply said, “Thank you for coming, Maggie. I can’t explain this right now. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Maggie stared straight ahead at the road illuminated by the headlights. She was an expert driver.
“I depend upon you, Maggie, you know that.”
“Yes, ma’am. By the way, the mister telephoned last night. He—”
“Richard?” Karen asked sharply.
“Yes, ma’am. He was worried about you.”
“Indeed?”
“He said you went out in the boat alone yesterday and didn’t come back. He made me promise to call him if you came to the house in Cleveland.”
“Did you call Richard—after you heard from me, I mean?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Good. Now, listen, Maggie; you’re not to call him, not under any circumstances. And if he calls again, you haven’t seen me or heard from me. I—I have a—a problem.” Karen’s voice broke for an instant. “Something I must think about.”
“I understand,” Maggie said, not understanding at all, but her protective feeling for her mistress compelled her to add reprovingly, “Y
ou shouldn’t go out in the boat alone. You know you can’t swim.”
“But I can swim,” Karen said quietly. “Quite well, in fact. I took lessons at home and completed them at the Y pool in Harbor City. Richard didn’t know about it. I—I wanted to surprise him.”
“He’ll be pleased,” Maggie said.
“I’m sure he will be.” Karen’s voice held a sudden bitter edge.
Maggie shot her a swift, uneasy glance and then returned her gaze to the road. Off in the east the sky was turning gray. It would soon be dawn. The car rushed through the night and the two women sat silently, each thinking her own secret thoughts. By the time they reached the lake shore boulevard leading into the city the sun was glinting on the lake below them and casting a yellow glow on the Terminal Tower. There wasn’t much traffic yet and they arrived at the big house on the lake before six o’clock. Maggie offered to make coffee but Karen declined, saying that she would sleep first.
“Will you be home long?” Maggie asked.
“I don’t know. I—I’ll see.”
“If you are, I’ll want to get some food in. All Albert likes is meat and potatoes and pie.”
“Don’t worry about it. And don’t tell anyone I’m home, especially Richard, if he should call again. I—I have a surprise for him.”
“Another surprise—on top of the swimming?”
“Yes,” Karen said, more sharply than she’d intended. Then she smiled at Maggie. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m a little—upset.”
“I can see that, ma’am. If I can help…?”
“Nobody can help,” Karen said gently, touched by the honest-concern in Maggie’s eyes. “It’s just something I must work out for myself. Is my room ready?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Karen took two sleeping capsules before she went to bed in the room adjoining Richard’s and slept until noon. When she awoke, she had a slight, fuzzy headache, and her body was still stiff and sore, but she felt quite rested. She tried not to think of Richard and talked with Maggie about household affairs as she drank coffee and ate toast and a soft boiled egg. Afterward she put on a bathing suit and walked over the green soft lawn to the private beach. She lay on the sand there in the sun, her face cradled in the crook of an arm, and her thoughts circled interminably, as they had circled since she’d regained consciousness in the hospital. Why had he telephoned here? As far as he knew, she could not swim. He had left her drowning, dead. And yet he had called, the worried husband. And he had lied to Maggie. She, Karen, had not been in the boat alone. Richard had been with her. He had thrown her overboard, deliberately…