Kitty smiled, but said nothing.
“I left word at his office for him to get in touch with me. Would you tell him when you see him? I don’t want to have to send out a tracer for him.”
“Of course.”
“Mrs. Land, did you hear the man entering your house?”
“No.”
“Are you a heavy sleeper? Pregnant women don’t sleep good.”
“This one does.” Kitty slipped her hands under the bedcover in order to conceal their trembling from Karpinski. “What was I supposed to hear?”
“A heavy-set man forcing open a pantry window. Then jumping through it, avoiding a whole bunch of obstacles. All this in a strange house. And they tell me that it’s not the neatest house in the world.”
“It’s not. I assumed he had a flashlight. I only wish Ralph or I had heard him downstairs. It would have saved us a lot of grief.”
“You’d have called the police at once?”
“Of course.” Avoiding his gaze, Kitty fixed her eyes on the shaving line around his naked Adam’s apple. Why didn’t he wear a tie? And how had she allowed such a sullen brute of a man to entrap her so easily, only moments after she had asserted that Ralph wanted neither publicity nor police?
“Mrs. Land, don’t it strike you funny that he should force a window, push through all that piled-up stuff, climb a flight of stairs, and attack your husband—without waking up the dog?”
Kitty laughed in relief. “Oh, Lieutenant, poor old Sasha isn’t good for much, I’m afraid. He’s more dead than alive.”
Harold Karpinski gazed at her unblinkingly. “That’s not the way he behaved when I stopped by your house this morning. He barked from the minute I hit the front steps until I got back into the squad car. Besides, when I rang the bell he jumped up against the inside of the door and started clawing. Some reception. Maybe he’s half dead, but I’m glad it wasn’t me coming in that window at two A.M.”
While she stared at him in fear, he arose, stooping to retrieve his hat from the floor.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll be on my way. I promised the doctor I wouldn’t tire you out.”
The glass of ice water rattled in her hand. “I’m afraid,” she said. “Lieutenant, I—”
Karpinski chose to misunderstand her. He gestured reassuringly with the straw hat. “I wouldn’t worry. Lafarge is in no shape to hurt anybody right now.”
I wonder, she thought. But she did not say it aloud.
“And we’ll get to the bottom of it soon.”
Now she asked what before she had not dared to: “Do you have any theories?”
The detective’s peasant face contracted. It was as though she had asked him how he felt about atheism. He said deliberately, in his high-pitched, coarsely-accented voice, “I don’t go in for theories. If you stick to the evidence and steer clear of the high-brow stuff, you get results. That’s been proved.”
He took a step toward the door and stopped, as if he had just thought of something. “Folks like yourself, that don’t get in trouble with the law, can’t imagine what people will do. I could tell you about some, they’d make your hair stand on end. And it isn’t the psychiatrists that crack them, it’s the cops that go by the evidence.”
“For example?”
“Last year I had one, it was in a new house in Happy Valley. The whole family was practically wiped out. When I got there I found the father dead, the mother dead, the little daughter dead, the young son beat up and bleeding. Fine people, all the neighbors said so. They were scared a maniac was at large, so we had to post a detail around the development.
“When we checked out the case, I saw there was holes in the boy’s story. How come all his injuries were on the front? We went over his medical history. A-one. The school psychologists had him down for brilliant, top student, no problems. He never yelled in the neighborhood, never made trouble, went to Sunday School like clockwork. So the highbrows started in with race theories, politics theories. Me, I followed the book. I went over the boy’s story with him twenty-six times. The twenty-seventh time, he cracked.”
“You mean he did it?”
“On his sixteenth birthday he got his driver’s license, like they all do. Then he bought one of those motor scooters on credit. He was afraid he’d get bawled out, so he took down the twelve-gauge, waited till they were all asleep, and while his father was laying on his back with his mouth open he shoved the gun down his throat and pulled the trigger.”
Kitty put her hand to her mouth. She wanted to stop him, but she could not speak.
Karpinski went on remorselessly, “The mother woke up with her husband’s brains all over the pillow next to her. The boy said she got crazy and he had to knock her down with the butt of the shotgun and then shoot her too, although he hadn’t meant to. His little sister came running in and started to cry. He was afraid she’d disturb the neighbors—that’s just the way he told it to me—so he shot her too. After he signed a statement, he took me out to the creek to show where he’d thrown the shotgun in, weighted down with an old truck battery.
“As soon as we had the case sewed up, the psychiatrists came up with all kinds of theories to explain it. Maybe they were right. But why didn’t they predict what he was going to do before he wiped out his family instead of after? I never heard a dirty word out of that boy’s mouth. The only thing was, he didn’t have any feelings about it when he described the killings to me. So you go figure it out.”
Karpinski demanded rhetorically: “Who knows what goes on inside a family? Just because the neighbors never heard bottles breaking, does that prove anything? I had a case, they were the happiest family on the block. The old man mowed the lawn while the old lady knitted on the porch. Sundays they took their old-maid daughter for a ride. Except that the man and wife didn’t talk to each other, not one word, for seven years. They used their daughter for a go-between. ‘Tell him to pass the butter,’ ‘Tell her I won’t be home till late.’ One night they had a suicide pact, turned on the gas. The daughter saved herself by jumping out the attic window and breaking both legs. She was the one who told me, and I believed her—but not till she proved it. So who knows? I just go by the evidence.”
He smiled at her in farewell, a fleshy, unfriendly smile; what made it horrible was that it was obviously the best he could manage. “That way I’m prepared for anything.”
After he had gone, Kitty found that she was shivering, as though the sun had gone behind a cloud. But in fact the sun continued to pour through the window, and the piping, unquenched children’s voices arose reassuringly from the courtyard. Of one thing Kitty was more certain now than she had ever been: Ralph had not confided in her as she had had the right to expect.
Just the same, he had accepted her pregnancy. That overbalanced everything else—especially since she had violated a pledge. He acknowledged the speck that clung precariously to the wall of her womb. Nothing else really mattered.
She did not resent his staying away from her bedside. In fact, it rather pleased her to lie here quietly and feel his passion—whatever it was, whether love, hatred, or shame-even in his absence. Ralph might plunge ahead blindly without consulting her, but he would always be hers, without being merely a husband, merely stuffy, merely dull. Regardless of what he would do next, Kitty knew now, more than she had known during the highest moments of their shared passion, that she and Ralph were henceforth committed to each other—and as they had never been before. Quite simply, therefore, she would have to do everything humanly possible to help and protect her husband. Fortified and calmed by these reflections, she dozed off, briefly.
When she awoke she discovered to her relief that she had not dreamed at all; what had disturbed her was yet another knock.
“Come in!”
The door was opening already. Dr. Stark padded in as silently as old Sasha.
“I thought I’d find you here,” he said. Despite his grin, he looked disheveled and weary, as though he had been up all night. Everything hung on
him, more than ever. His pendulous earlobes, his wiener of a nose, the bags under his eyes, the jacket pocket from which his stethoscope dangled.
“Don’t ever bank on me,” she said. “You never know.”
Solomon Stark laughed his dry, old man’s laugh. For all his vivacity and sophistication, he was old. “Even if you don’t care about yourself, I’m sure you do about the baby.”
“I’m a little more wicked than you give me credit for.”
The doctor had seated himself on the sole chair, at her side. He regarded the boxy toes of his wrinkled leather shoes for a moment, then folded his arms and stared at her frankly.
“I knew you didn’t really think you were losing the baby. But from a medical point of view you were well advised to check in here anyway, after all the excitement and the exercise that you indulged in.”
“Do you think Ralph was needlessly brutal?”
“I think he lost his head.” The doctor paused, and then added deliberately, “I don’t think you did.”
“I was frightened,” Kitty said in a rush.
“Who wouldn’t have been? But you didn’t phone the police very fast.”
“Ralph told me not to. In fact he knocked the phone out of my hand.”
“Later you phoned, though.”
“I couldn’t stand to see anyone get killed, no matter what Ralph had ordered me not to do.”
“Perfectly understandable. As I said, you didn’t lose your head. Still, I expect that’s what the cops wanted to talk to you about. I gave a detective named Karpinski permission to see you briefly.”
“He’s already been here. But he never even raised the question of my phoning.”
“Sometimes those guys are devious.”
“He did want to know how somebody could get in without Sasha’s barking his head off.”
“A good question. I was struck by the same thought myself. Weren’t you?”
Kitty was disconcerted by his gaze and decided against meeting the issue head-on. “How is that man?”
“His mother wouldn’t recognize him. He looks like he walked into a meat grinder. Fortunately he can be patched up.”
“Ralph was sick about it. That’s why he was so insistent that you treat the man.”
“Is that why?” the doctor said innocently. “I didn’t know he cared.”
“Cared about him, or about you?”
“Oh, I’m sure he was upset about the beating he administered. Who wouldn’t be, if he had any human feelings at all? Your visitor is going to be weeks having his head grow together again. Also he’s got a deviated septum, and he’ll need work on the nasal cartilage. No, it was me I was thinking about. Do you really believe Ralph trusts me that much?”
“Why else would we have called you? You’re always the first one he thinks of, from my pregnancy to this thing.”
“As I recall,” the doctor said dryly, “it was you who came to me about being pregnant, before Ralph got the good word.”
Kitty felt herself flushing.
“I can think of other reasons why he’d turn to me. For one thing, I’m handy. Ralph never knew the other medical men who used to send their patients’ prescriptions to Leo—let’s face it, there were damn few anyway. Besides, he feels he can rely on my discretion. Faithful friend of the family and all that. You can always rely on the old boy to keep his mouth shut.”
Kitty demanded boldly, “Well, can’t we?”
Dr. Stark laughed and patted her leg. “Before strangers, yes. But among ourselves? That’s when I shoot my mouth off. After all, some advantages should accrue to the aged. You know, young women like you don’t find me so terribly decrepit, but men of Ralph’s age think of me as more dead than alive. Curious, isn’t it?”
“Not so curious. Women make more fuss about not looking old, but they don’t live in terror of death like most men. So they don’t judge men simply by their age. But the fact is that Ralph respects you.”
“Between you and me, Kitty, I think Ralph would respect me more if psychoanalysis was my profession instead of my reading matter. If I had the diploma … As it is, he figures I must be a little phony, and who am I to say I’m not? But you see, after forty years of it you get a little sick of sore throats and fractures. So the great psychiatrists have been a kind of escape valve for me. Maybe I’m getting to such a point of senility that I’d prefer Ralph’s feeling sorry for me to his looking down his nose at me.”
“But he doesn’t! He likes you a great deal.”
“That would surprise me enormously.” Slyly, he squeezed her knee. “I didn’t know that Ralph liked anybody a great deal—not even himself.”
Kitty withdrew her leg. “Now you’re just being catty, Doctor.”
“Who are your friends here in town?”
Kitty looked away. “You know we’re in an unusual situation. Ralph’s been in no position to make friends. I’ve met a few of the Happy Valley women—they’re pleasant enough.”
“Does Ralph know that you know them?”
Stubbornly Kitty compressed her lips. A man like Dr. Stark should know when his probing was taking him too far.
But the doctor did not look at all discomfited by her silence. Rummaging through the pockets of his vest for his thin gold watch, he remarked affably, “And Raymond, how is he faring? Who looks after your secret boarder now that you’re temporarily out of commission?”
“I suppose Ralph. Frankly, I’m not particularly worried about Ray’s care and feeding. Not after he didn’t lift a finger to help us when he might have made the difference between life and death.”
“I’m sure he didn’t enjoy staying up there through the whole thing. If he’s at all the boy I know, it was a very painful experience for him.”
“Painful! Compared with what his brother was going through?”
“I’m not just referring to the fact that he saved you from having to explain his presence to the cops, on top of everything else. If you spoke to Ralph about it, I expect he’d agree that Raymond was trying to do what was right, keeping himself uninvolved. For all I know, Ralph may even be feeling grateful. Ask him.”
Again Kitty was invaded by fear. She shivered convulsively and withdrew her hand from the doctor, whose fingers had been pressing the pulse at her wrist.
“O.K., O.K.,” he said. He plucked at her bedcovers. “Now if you’ll just let me have a listen, which is presumably why I’m here …”
After a moment, he arose, smiling as he stuffed the stethoscope back into his pocket. “Junior seems to be doing all right, no thanks to any of you. I think it would be wise, though, if you stayed in the hospital a few days just to be on the safe side. I’ll leave instructions that you can sit up tomorrow and maybe go into the solarium in the afternoon.”
She waited until he had reached the door before she called after him.
“Do me one favor. Tell me where Marc Lafarge is.”
The doctor swiveled in surprise, his composed countenance suddenly gone pale. He declined to answer but instead waited expectantly for her to go on.
“I want to make amends. It’s the least I can do, considering his condition.”
“He’s in no condition for fun and games, I warn you.”
“There’s been enough of that already, hasn’t there? I can’t hate him, even though he tried to murder Ralph. As you say, Ralph lost his head. But if I can make up for it, in some way, won’t you let me?”
“If you’ll promise not to start roller-skating around the hospital … He’s in A-115. That’s a flight below you, on the other side of the building. Ring for a nurse’s aide, she can deliver messages, or presents—short of arsenic. First you crown him with a vase, then you want to send him flowers. That’s hot stuff!”
Pleased with the conceit, he nodded a chuckling farewell as he pulled the door to behind him.
Kitty glanced at her watch to fix the time and picked up the morning paper. She tried conscientiously to focus on the latest military-scientific stuff about the moon and the
stars, but her eyes kept returning to an article titled “Violence At The Land Mansion.” Breathing slowly and deeply, she read Burgholzer’s piece through three more times, surprised at how little the public could understand a situation, when once you knew it yourself from the inside. Finally she permitted herself to check her watch again, and was relieved to see that the ten minutes she had allotted herself had passed. She pressed the buzzer at her side and sat up to await the nurse’s aide.
Instead it was the same Sister who had announced the arrival of Harold Karpinski. Her smooth but mannish chins creased tightly above her habit, she demanded Kitty’s pleasure.
“Do you know if Dr. Stark is still in the building?”
“You were his last for today, I’m quite sure. In fact I saw him go out to his car. I’m sorry, dear, but short of an emergency, he won’t be back before his usual hours tomorrow morning.”
“It’s all right. I’ll see him then, thank you. By the way, Sister, the detective you brought in earlier—”
“Was that man a detective?” The Sister looked at her with sublime innocence.
You know damn well he was, Kitty said to herself. Quickly she repented. Am I getting to be like Ralph, suspecting everybody of everything? But then: Is Ralph really like that, or am I allowing Dr. Stark to sway me against my own husband?
“I was just wondering if he’s left the hospital too.”
“I showed him out the moment he was through.” The Sister smiled and Kitty could see a gold molar halfway back in her mouth. “Doctor said he was only to have ten minutes—I was about to tap on the door when he came out.”
“Thank you so much.”
Puzzled and disappointed, the Sister retreated. The moment she had closed the door, Kitty swung her legs to the floor, stepped into her slippers, and reached for her dressing gown.
She was so wobbly that she had to grab hold of the foot of the bed until the dizziness subsided. Don’t panic, she urged herself, it’s nothing but nervous tension. If it had really been the baby, I simply wouldn’t be doing this, it would be unnatural. But supposing something was wrong? Supposing Dr. Stark had been trying to put it to her as gently as possible? Maybe that was really why he wanted her to stay on for several more days?
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