"I was hoping you might give me a few minutes of your time. Some questions have come up that only you can answer."
"Gee, I don't know," she said hesitantly.
"Ever since my name was in the papers, I've been getting crazy calls.
Real weirdos-you know?"
"I can imagine. Miss Judd, may I suggest you call Doctor Diane Ellerbee and tell her that you have received a call from me and that I'd like to ask you a few questions. I'm sure she'll tell you that I am not a weirdo. I'll give you my number and you can call me back. Will you do that, please?"
"Well… I guess so. It may take some time getting through to her if she has a patient."
"I'll wait," Delaney said and gave her his phone number.
He cleared the clutter from his desk, replacing all the records back in their proper file folders. He kept out the time schedule and read it over again. That three-hour gap in Ellerbee's activities still intrigued him, and he hoped Carol Judd could supply some answers.
It was almost twenty minutes before she called back.
"Doctor Diane says you're okay," she reported.
"Fine," he said.
"I wonder if I could come over now; I'm not too far from where you live."
"Right this minute? Gee, you better give me some time to straighten up this place; it's a mess. How about half an hour?"
"I'll be there. Thank you."
That gave him time for a Michelob and a "wet" sandwich, eaten while leaning over the kitchen sink. It consisted of meat scraped off the bones of leftover chicken wings, with sliced tomatoes and onions and Russian dressing-all jammed into an onion roll as big as a Frisbee.
Then, donning his hard black homburg and heavy overcoat he set out to walk down to East 73rd Street.
It was the kind of day that made pedestrians step out: cold, clear, brilliant, with sharp light dazzling the eyes and a wind that stung.
The city seemed renewed and glowing.
He strode down Third Avenue, mourning the passing of all those familiar Irish bars, including his father's saloon. There was now a health food store where that had been. It was change all right, but whether it was progress, Delaney was not prepared to say.
Carol Judd lived in a fourteen-story apartment house that had glass doors, marble walls in vestibule and lobby, and a pervasive odor of boiled cabbage. Delaney identified himself on the intercom and was buzzed in immediately. He rode up to apartment 9-H in an automatic elevator that squeaked alarmingly.
If she had spent the last half-hour tidying up, Delaney hated to think of what her tiny studio apartment had been before she started. It looked like a twister had just blown through, leaving a higgledy-piggledy jumble of clothing, books, records, cassettes, and what appeared to be a collection of Japanese windup toys: dancing bears, rabbits clashing cymbals, and somersaulting clowns, "Pardon the stew," she said, smiling brightly.
"Not at all," he said.
"It looks lived-in."
"Yeah," she said, laughing, "it is that. Would you believe I've had a party for twenty people in here?"
"I'd believe it," he assured her, and thought, The poor neighbors!
She lifted a stack of fashion magazines out of a canvas sling chair, and he lowered himself cautiously into it, still wearing his overcoat, his homburg on his lap. Unexpectedly, she crossed her ankles and scissored down onto the floor without a bump, an athletic feat he admired.
In fact, he admired her. She was tall, lanky, and in tight denim jeans seemed to be 90 percent legs. She was not beautiful, but her perky features were vivacious, and her mop of blond curls-an Orphan Annie hairdo-had an outlandish charm. She wore a T-shirt that had a portrait of Beethoven printed on the front.
"Miss Judd," he started, "I'll try to make this as brief as possible; I don't want to take up too much of your time."
"I've got plenty," she told him.
"I've been looking for a job, but no luck yet. When I spoke to Doctor Diane before, she said she's looking for me, too, and thinks she may be able to get me something with a shrink she knows who's opening a clinic for rich alcoholics."
"How long did you work for Doctor Simon Ellerbee?"
"Almost five years. Gee, that was a dreamy job. Good hours and very little work. No pressure-you know?"
"I assume you handled his appointments, took care of the billing, and things of that nature?"
That's right. And I could use their kitchen for lunch. They even invited me and Edith Crawley-she's Doctor Diane's receptionist-up to their Brewster home for a weekend every summer. That's a dreamy place. And, of course, I got the whole month of August off every year."
"Did you like Doctor Simon?"
"A wonderful, wonderful man. Swell to work for. I had eyes for him, but I knew that would get me nowhere.
You've seen Doctor Diane? Too much competition!" She laughed merrily, clasping her knees with her arms and rocking back and forth on the floor.
"What hours did you work?"
"Nine to five. Usually. Sometimes he would ask me to come in a little earlier or stay a little later if a hysterical was scheduled. You know, some of those crazy ladies woman could scream rape-it's possible."
"Did it ever happen-that a woman patient screamed rape?"
"It never happened to Doctor Simon, but it happened to a friend of his, so he was very careful."
"Let's talk about the Friday he was killed. Did anything unusual happen that day?" She thought a moment.
"Noo," she said finally, "it was ordinary. Lousy weather; it poured all day. But nothing unusual happened in the office."
"What time did you leave?"
"A few minutes after five. Right after Mrs. Brizio arrived."
"Ah," he said, "Mrs. Lola Brizio… She was the last patient listed in his appointment book."
"That's right. She came in once a week, every Friday, five to six."
"Tell me about her."
Mrs, Brizio? Gee, she must be sixty-at least. And very, very rich. That dreamy chinchilla coat she wears -I could live five years on what she paid for that. But a very nice lady. I mean, not stuck-up or anything like that. Real friendly. She was always telling me the cute things her grandchildren said."
"What was her problem?"
"Kleptomania. Can you believe it? With all her loot. She'd go in these stores, like Henri Bendel, and stuff silk scarves and costume jewelry in her handbag. Been doing it for years.
The stores knew about it, of course, and kept an eye on her.
They never arrested her or anything because she was such a good customer. I mean, she bought a lot of stuff in addition to what she stole. So they'd let her swipe what she wanted and just add it to her bill. She always paid. She came to Doctor Simon about three years ago."
Carol Judd burst out laughing.
"The first session she had, she stole a crystal ashtray off Doctor Simon's desk, and he didn't even notice until she was gone. Can you imagine?"
"Sixty years old, you say?"
"At least. Probably more."
"A big woman?"
"Oh, no! A little bitty thing. Not even five feet tall. And fat. A roly-poly."
"All right," Delaney said, tentatively eliminating Mrs. Lola Brizio as a possible suspect, "after she arrived at five o'clock, you left a few minutes later. Is that correct?"
"Right."
"Did Doctor Simon tell you he was expecting a late patient?"
"No, he didn't."
"Wasn't that unusual?"
"Oh, no, it happened all the time. Like maybe in the evening he'd get a panic call from some patient who had to see him right away. The next morning he'd just leave a note on my desk telling me to bill so-and-so for a session."
"Did Doctor Diane ever have late patients?"
"Oh, sure. They both did, all the time."
"Apparently, after six o'clock, when Mrs. Lola Brizio was gone, Doctor Simon told his wife that he was expecting a late patient, but didn't tell her who or when. Isn't that a little surprising?"
; "Not really. Like I said, it happened frequently. They'd tell each other so it wouldn't interfere with their plans for the night-dinner or the theater, you know-but I don't think they'd mention who it was that was coming in. There was just no need for it."
Delaney sat silently, brooding, and somewhat depressed.
As explained by Carol Judd, the mystery patient now seemed no mystery at all. It was just routine.
"And you have no idea who the late patient was on that Friday night?" he asked her.
"No, I don't."
"Well, whoever had the appointment," he said, trying to salvage something from his inquiries, "was probably the last person to see Doctor Simon alive. And may have been the killer. But let's suppose the late patient arrived at seven and left at eight. Would it-"
"Fifteen minutes to eight. Patients got forty-five minutes."
"What did the doctor do in those fifteen minutes between patients?"
"Relax. Return phone calls. Look over the files of the next patient.
Maybe have a cup of coffee."
"All right," he said, "let's suppose the late patient arrived at seven and left at fifteen minutes to eight. Do you think it's possible that sometime during the evening Doctor Simon got a phone call from another patient who wanted to see him? A second late patient?"
"Of course it's possible," she said.
"Things like that happened all the time."
Which left him, he thought, nowhere.
"Thank you very much, Miss Judd," he said, heaving himself out of the silly canvas sling and putting on his hat.
"You've been very cooperative and very helpful."
She rose from her folded position on the floor without using her hands-just unflexed her limber body and floated UP.
"I hope you catch the person who did it," she said, suddenly solemn and vengeful.
"I wish we had the death penalty.
Doctor Simon was a dear, sweet man, and no one deserves to die like that. I cried for forty-eight hours after it happened. I Still can't believe he's gone."
Delaney nodded and started for the door. Then he stopped and turned.
"One more thing," he said.
"Did Doctor Simon ever mention to you that he had been attacked or threatened by a patient?"
"No, he never did."
"In the past year or six months, did you notice any change in him? Did he act differently?"
She stared at him.
"Funny you should ask that. Yes, he changed. In the last year or so. I even mentioned it to my boyfriend. Doctor Simon became, uh, moodier. He used to be so steady. The same every day: pleasant and kind to everyone.
Then, in the last year or so, he became moodier. Some days he'd really be up, laughing and joking. And other days he'd be down, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders."
"I see."
"About a month ago," she added, "he wore a little flower in his lapel.
He never done that before. He really was a dreamy man."
"Thank you, Miss Judd," Delaney said, tipping his homburg.
When he came outside, he found the day transformed. A thick cloud cover was churning over Manhattan, the wind had taken on a raw edge, the light seemed sourish and menacing.
The gloom fitting his mood exactly.
He was disgusted with himself, for he had been trying to bend the facts to fit a theory instead of devising a theory that fit all the facts.
That kind of thinking had been the downfall of a lot of wild-assed detectives.
It was those two sets of footprints soaked into the Ellerbees' carpet that had seduced him. That and the gap in the victim's time schedule. It seemed to add up to two late patients on the murder night. But though Carol Judd said it was possible, there wasn't a shred of evidence to substantiate it.
Still, he told himself stubbornly, it was crucial to identify Ellerbee's late visitor or visitors. One of them had been the last person to see the victim alive and was a prime suspect.
Plodding uptown, he remembered what he had said to Monica about assembling a jigsaw puzzle. He had told her that he had found some straight-edged pieces and was putting together the frame. Then all he needed to do was fill in the interior pieces of the picture.
Now he recalled that some puzzles were not pictures at all.
They were rectangles of solid color: yellow, blue, or blood red. There was no pattern, no clues of shape or form. And they were devilishly hard to complete.
When he entered the brownstone, he heard the phone ringing and rushed down the hallway to the kitchen. But Monica was there and had already picked up.
"Who?" she said.
"Just a minute, please." She covered the mouthpiece with her palm and turned to her husband.
"Timothy Hogan," she reported. "Do you know him?"
"Hogan? Yes, he's one of the new men. I'll talk to him."
She handed him the phone.
"I couldn't get a hold of Jason or Boone," Hogan whined, "so that's why I'm calling. I'm at St. Vincent's Hospital."
"What happened?"
"I started checking out that Joan Yesell. She didn't report to work today.
Okay? So I go down to her place in Chelsea.
She ain't home, and her mother ain't home. So I start talking to the neighbors. Okay? This Joan Yesell, she tried to do the Dutch yesterday afternoon, but blew it. Just nicked her left wrist with a kitchen knife.
A lot of blood, but she's okay. They kept her here overnight, under observation. Her mother is signing her out right now. You want I should question them?"
"No," Delaney said promptly, "don't do that. But them go home. You can catch up with them tomorrow. Do you know what time yesterday she cut herself?"
"They brought her into St. Vincent's Emergency about four-thirty, so I guess she sliced herself around four o'clock.
Okay?"
"Thank you, Hogan. You did exactly right to call me. Pack it in for the day."
He hung up and turned to Monica. He told her what had happened.
"The poor woman," she said somberly.
"If she tried suicide yesterday at four o'clock, it couldn't have been more than an hour after Boone and I had questioned her. I hope to God we didn't trigger it."
"How did she seem when you left?"
"Well, she's a mousy little thing and suffers from depression. She was very quiet and withdrawn. Dominated by her mother. But she sure didn't seem suicidal. I wonder if it was anything we said."
"I doubt that. Don't worry about it, Edward."
"This morning I was happy that things were beginning to happen, that we were nwking them happen. But I didn't figure on anything like this."
"It's not your fault," she assured him.
"She's tried before, hasn't she?"* '-Ibree times."
"Well, there you are. Don't blame yourself."
"Son of a bitch," he said bitterly.
"I just don't get it. We talk to her, very politely, no arguments, we leave, and she tries to kill herself."
"Edward, maybe it was just talking about the murder that pushed her over the edge. If she's depressed to start with, reminding her of the death of someone who was trying to help her might have made her decide life wasn't worth living."
"Yes," he said gratefully, "it could have been that. I'm going to have a slug of rye. Would you like one?"
"I'll have a white wine. We're having linguine with clam sauce tonight.
I added a can of minced clams and a dozen fresh cherrystones."
"Very good," he said approvingly.
"In that case, I'll have a white wine, too. By the way, Chief Suarez is stopping by later. I don't know what time, but he'll call first. I'd like you to meet him. I think you'll like him."
After dinner, Delaney went into the study to write out a report on Carol Judd. Suarez called around eight o'clock and said he was on his way uptown. But it was almost nine before he arrived. Delaney took him into the living room and introduced him to Monica.
"What can I get you,
Chief?" he asked.
"You look like you could use a transfusion."
Suarez smiled wanly.
"Yes, it has been that kind of a day.
Would a very, very dry gin martini on the rocks be possible?"
"Of course. Monica, would you like anything?"
"A small Cointreau would be nice."
Delaney went into the kitchen and made the drinks. He put them on a tray along with a brandy for himself.
"Delightful," Chief Suarez said, when he tasted his.
"Best martini I've ever had."
"As I told you," Delaney said, shrugging away the compliment, "I have no good news for you, but I wanted you to know what we've been doing."
Rapidly, concisely, he summarized the progress of his investigation to date. He omitted nothing he thought important, except the lifting of the ball peen hammer from Ronald Bellsey's Cadillac. He expressed no great optimism, but pointed out there was still a lot of work to be done, particularly on those vague alibis of the six patients.
Monica and the Chief listened intently, fascinated by his recital. When he finished, Suarez said, "I do not believe things are as gloomy as you seem to suggest, Mr. Delaney.
You have uncovered several promising leads-more, certainly, than we have found. I commend you for persuading Doctor Diane Ellerbee to furnish a list of violence-prone patients. But you should know, that lady and the victim's father continue to bring pressure on the Department, demanding a quick solution."
"That's Thorsen's problem," Delaney said shortly.
"True," Suarez said, "and he handles it by making it my problem."
He glanced around the living room.
"Mrs. Delaney, you have a lovely home.
So warm and cheerful,"
"Thank you," she said.
"I hope you and your wife will visit us, A social visit-no talk of murder."
"Rosa would like that," he said.
"Thank you very much."
He sat a moment in silence, staring into his glass. His long face seemed drawn, olive skin sallow with fatigue, the tic at the left of his mouth more pronounced.
"You know," he said with his shy, rueful smile, "since the death of Doctor Ellerbee, there have been perhaps fifty homicides in the city.
Many of those, of course, were solved immediately. But our solution rate on the others is not what it should be; I am aware of that and it troubles me. I will not speak – to you of our manpower needs, Mr.
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