The Fourth Deadly Sin exd-4

by Lawrence Sanders

  "On who killed Doctor Simon?"

  "It's slow going," the detective admitted.

  "No good leads that I know of, but a lot of people are working on it.

  We'll get the perp." :"Perp?"

  "Perpetrator. The one who did it."

  "Oh. Well, I hope you do. It was an awful, awful thing."

  They talked about the apartment they might one day share.

  They talked about their mothers, about clothes, and foods they liked or hated. They recalled incidents from their girlhood, giggled about boys they had known, traded opinions on TV stars and novelists.

  It was not a rare occurrence, this closeness between detective and suspect.

  For did they not need each other? Even a murderer might find the obsession of his pursuer as important to himself as it was to the hunter. It gave meaning to their existence.

  "Gotta work late on Friday night, dear," Venable told her target.

  "Reports and shit like that. I'll call you on Saturday and maybe we can have dinner or something."

  "I'd like that," Joan said with her timid smile.

  "I really look forward to seeing you and talking to you on the phone."

  "Me, too," Helen said, troubled because she was telling the truth.

  On Friday night at seven o'clock, Helen was slouched down in her Honda, parked two doors away from the Yesells' brownstone. She could watch the entrance in her rearview mirror, and kept herself alert with a little transistor radio turned to a hard-rock station.

  She sat there for more than an hour, never taking her eyes from the doorway. It was almost 8:15 when Blanche Yesell came out, bundled up in a bulky fur coat that looked like a bearskin. There was no mistaking her; she was hatless and that beehive hairdo seemed to soar higher than ever.

  Venable slid from the car and followed at a distance. It didn't last long; Mrs. Yesell scurried westward and darted into a brownstone one door from the corner. The detective quickened her pace, but by the time she got there, the subject had disappeared from vestibule and lobby, with no indication of which apartment she had entered.

  Helen stood on the sidewalk, staring up, flummoxed. If Calazo had been faced with the problem, he probably would have rung every bell in the joint, demanding, "Is Mrs. Blanche Yesell there?" And within an hour, he'd have statements from the other bridge club members and know if Mrs.

  Yesell was or was not at home on the murder night and could or could not testify as to her daughter's presence.

  But such direct action did not occur to Helen. She pondered how she might identify and question the bridge club members without alerting the Yesells that Joan's alibi was being investigated.

  She went back to the Honda and sat there a long time, feeling angry and ineffective because she couldn't think of a clever scam. Finally, taking a deep breath, she decided she better write a complete report on Mrs.

  Yesell's Friday night bridge club and dump the whole thing in Sergeant Boone's lap.

  It was a personal failure, she acknowledged, and it infurated her. But the fear of committing a world-class boo-boo and being bounced down to uniformed duty again was enough to convince her to go by the book. It turned out to be a smart decision.

  If Helen was suffering from doubts, Detective Ross Konigsbacher was inflated with confidence, convinced he was on a roll' On the same night Helen was brooding unhappily in her Honda, the Kraut was rubbing knees with L. Vincent Symington at a small table at the Dorian Gray.

  Symington had insisted on ordering a bottle of Frascati, served in a silver ice bucket. The detective had made no objections, knowing that Symington would pick up the tab. That was one thing you could say for the creep: There were no moths in his wallet.

  "A dreadful day," he told Konigsbacher.

  "Simply dreadful.

  This is a nice little wine, isn't it? One crisis after another. I'm on Wall Street, you know-I don't think I told you that-and today the market simply collapsed. What do you do, Ross?"

  "Import-export," he said glibly, having prepared for the question.

  "Plastic and leather findings. Very dull."

  "I can imagine. Are you in the market at all?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  "Well, if you ever decide to take a flier, talk to me first; I may be able to put you into something sweet."

  "I'll do that. But my wife has been nagging me about a new fur coat, so I won't be able to take a flier in stocks or anything else for a while."

  "What a shame," Symington said.

  "Women can be such bitches, can't they?

  Are you still working out, Ross?"

  "Every morning with the weights."

  "Oh, my!" the other man said, laughing brightly.

  "You're getting me all excited. And what does your wife do while you're exercising in the morning?"

  "She snores."

  "Now that is dull. Here, let me fill your glass. This goes down easily, doesn't it?"

  "Like some people I know," the Kraut said, and they both shook with silent laughter.

  "Vince, have you had any more visits from the cops about the murder of your shrink?"

  "Not a word. But I'm sure they're investigating me from A to Z. Let them; I have nothing to hide."

  "I hope you have a good alibi for the time it happened."

  "I certainly do," Symington said virtuously.

  "I was at a very posh affair at the Hilton. My company was giving a birthday dinner for the founder. A dozen people saw me there."

  "Come on, Vince," Konigsbacher said, smiling.

  "Don't tell me you were there all night. I know how boring those things can be. Didn't you sneak out for a teensy-weensy drink somewhere else?"

  "Oh, Ross," the other man said admiringly, "you are clever. Of course I split for a while. Simply couldn't endure all that business chitchat. I found the grungiest, most vulgar bar in the city over near Eighth Avenue. It's called Stallions.

  How does that grab you? Rough trade? You wouldn't believe!

  I just sat in a corner, sipped my Perrier, and took it all in.

  What a spectacle' You and I must drop by there some night just for laughs. I've never seen so much black leather in my life! "

  "Meet anyone interesting?" the detective asked casually.

  "Well, if you must know…" Symington said coyly, twirling his wineglass by the stem, "there was one boy… I bought him a drink-he was having banana brandy; can you imagine!-and we talked awhile. His name was Nick. He was one Of those dese, demand dose boys, and said he wanted to be -fleff I asked, but it went right over his head! I an actor.

  "Han spent a fun hour there, and then I went back to the party at the Hilton. I'm sure not a soul noticed I had been gone."

  "Oh, Vince," the Kraut said seriously, "I hope you weren't gone during the time your psychiatrist was killed. The cops aren't dummies, you know. They're liable to find out you left the party and come around to question you again,"

  "You think so?" the other man said, beginning to worry.

  "Well, as a matter of fact, I was away from the Hilton from about nine to ten o'clock or so, but I can't believe the cops could discover that."

  "They might," Detective Konigsbacher said darkly.

  "They have their ways."

  "Oh, God!" Symington said despairingly.

  "What do you think I should do?

  Maybe I'll look up those two cops who came to question me and tell them about it. That would prove I have nothing to hide, wouldn't it?"

  "Don't do that," the Kraut said swiftly.

  "Don't volunteer anything. Just play it cool. And if they dump on you for not telling them about being away from the party, tell them you forgot. After all, that boy-what was his name?"

  "Nick."

  "Nick can back up your story."

  "If they can ever find him," the other man said dolefully.

  "You know what those kids are Re-here today, gone tomorrow.

  "Well, don't worry about it," Konigsbacher advised.

 
"As long as you're innocent, you have nothing to fear. You are innocent, aren't you, Vince?"

  "Pure as the driven snow," Symington said solemnly, and both men laughed immoderately.

  "Ross, have you had dinner yet?"

  "As a matter of fact, I haven't. You?"

  "No, and I'm famished. I know absolutely the chicest French bistro in town; their bouillabaisse is divine. Would you care to try it? My treat, of course."

  "Sounds like fun," Konigsbacher said.

  "It's got to be better than my wife's cooking, She can't boil water without burning ice, "Ross, you're a scream!"

  Symington paid the bill and they left for the chicest French bistro in town.

  The detective told himself he was living high' off the hog, and plotted how he might make this cushy duty last.

  Incomplete reports to Sergeant Boone and Delaney would help.

  Delaney himself was sinking in a swamp of incomplete data. He couldn't get a handle on the alibis of Otherton, Bellsey, Yesell, or Symington, and Harold Gerber's confession was still neither verified nor refuted.

  Other than eliminating Kane as a suspect, little hard progress had been made.

  Delaney found most bothersome about this puzzle wasn't the factual alibis but the enigmas that showed no signs of yielding to investigation. In his dogged, methodical way, he made a list of what he considered the key mysteries that seemed to defy solution: Major riddles: 1. Who was the late patient Dr. Ellerbee was expecting on the night he was killed?

  2. Why were there two sets of wet footprints on the townhouse carpeting?

  3. What was the meaning of the hammer blows to the victim's eyes after he was dead?

  4. Who stole the billing ledger-and for what reason?

  5. What was the cause of Ellerbee's change of personality during the past year?

  Minor riddles: 1. Did L. Vincent Symington's sighting of Dr. Ellerbee driving alone on a Friday night have any significance?

  2. Why did Joan Yesell attempt suicide immediately after she was questioned about the case?

  3. What was the real purpose of Dr. Diane Ellerbee's visit to the Delaneys' home-and her unexpected friendliness?

  He hunched over his desk, studying the list with the feeling-a hope, really-that finding the answer to one riddle would serve as a key, and all the others would then give up their secrets in a natural progression, the entire case suddenly revealed as a rational and believable chain of events.

  It existed, he was convinced, and remained hidden only because he hadn't the wit to see it.

  He was rereading his list of conundrums when the phone rang.

  "Edward X. Delaney here."

  "This is Detective Charles Parnell, Mr. Delaney. How are you, sir?"

  "Fine, thank you. And you?"

  "Having fun," Daddy Warbucks said, laughing.

  "I'm assdeep in numbers, trying to put away a guy who was running a Ponzi scam in Brooklyn. Took his relatives, friends, and neighbors for about a hundred big ones. Interesting case. I'll have to tell you about it someday. But the reason I called… I promised you I'd follow up on Simon Ellerbee's will. It's been filed for probate, and I can give you the scoop."

  "Excellent," Delaney said.

  "Wait a minute until I get pen and paper… Okay, what have you got?"

  "Everything goes to his wife, Diane, except for some specific bequests.

  Twenty thousand to his alma mater, ten to his father, five to Doctor Samuelson, one thousand to his receptionist, Carol Judd, and small sums to the super of the townhouse, the Polish couple who work for the Ellerbees up in Brewster, and a few others. That's about it. Nothing that might be the motive for murder that I can see."

  "Doesn't sound like it," Delaney said slowly.

  "The widow's got plenty of her own. I can't see her chilling him for a little more."

  "I agree," Parnell said.

  "The only thing interesting in the will is that Ellerbee specifically cancels all debts owed to him by his patients. Apparently some of the screwballs were strictly slow-pay, if not deadbeats.

  Well, Ellerbee's will wipes the slate clean. That was decent of him."

  "Yes," Delaney said thoughtfully, "decent. And a little unusual, wouldn't you say?"

  "Oh, I don't know," Daddy Warbucks said.

  "Everyone says he was a great guy. Always helping people. This sounds right in character."

  "Uh-huh," Delaney said.

  "Well, thank you very much.

  You've been a big help, and I'll make sure Chief Suarez knows about it."

  "It couldn't hurt," Detective Parnell said.

  After Delaney hung up, he stared at the notes he had jotted down. He pondered a long while. Then, sighing, he reached for his "agony list" of unsolved puzzles. He added -a fourth item under Minor riddles: Why did Dr. Ellerbee cancel his patients' debts?

  And, having done that, he tramped gloomily into the kitchen, hoping to find the makings of a prodigious_ sandwich that might relieve his depression.

  Detective Brian Estrella was also thinking of food. Since his wife, Meg, had been in the hospital and nursing home, he had been baching it and hating every minute. He was unused to solitude, and a real klutz when it came to cooking and household chores.

  He had what he considered a brainstorm: He called Sylvia Mae Otherton on Friday night and suggested, with some diffidence, that they have dinner together. He would find a Chinese take-out joint and buy enough food for both of them. All Sylvia would have to supply would be hot tea. She thought it was a marvelous idea.

  Estrella bought egg rolls, barbecued ribs, noodles, wanton soup, shrimp in lobster sauce, fried rice, sweet-and-sour pork, fortune cookies, and pistachio ice cream. Everything was packed in neat cardboard containers, and they even put in plastic forks and spoons, paper napkins.

  It was-like a picnic, with all the opened containers on the cocktail table along with cups of hot tea Sylvia provided.

  They agreed it was just the kind of spicy, aromatic food to have on a cold winter night with a hard wind rattling the windows and flurries of snow glistening in the streetlight.

  The detective didn't neglect to compliment Sylvia on how attractive she looked, and indeed she had done much to improve her appearance. Her hair was washed and coiffed in a loose, fluffy cut. The excess makeup was gone, and the garish costume replaced by a simple shirtwaist.

  More important. her manner had undergone a transformation. She seemed at once confident and relaxed. She smiled and laughed frequently, and told Estrella she had gone out that afternoon and spent two hours shopping, going from store to store -something she hadn't done since Dr. Ellerbee died.

  "That's wonderful," the detective said.

  "See, you can do it.

  You should try to get out of the house every day, even if it's only for a few minutes."

  "I intend to," Otherton said firmly.

  "I'm going to take charge of my life.

  And I owe it all to you."

  "Me? What did I do?"

  "You cared. You have no idea how important that was to me. They finished everything and cleared away the empty containers. Then Sylvia asked about Estrella's wife, and he told her the doctors didn't hold out much hope, but Meg was in good spirits and spoke optimistically of coming home soon.

  "I think she knows she's not going to do that," the detective said in a low voice, "but she tries to keep cheerful so I don't get depressed."

  "She sounds like a wonderful woman, Brian."

  "Yes. She is."

  Then, before he knew it, he was telling Sylvia all about Meg, their life together, the child they had lost (leukemia), and how sometimes Estrella wondered how he was going to get through the rest of his life without his wife.

  He poured it all out, realizing now how lonely he had been and how he had been hoping to tell someone how he felt. It was a kind of tribute to Meg: public acknowledgment of the happiness she had given him.

  Sylvia listened intently, only asking sympathetic questions, until Est
rella was done, They were sitting close together on the couch and, halfway through his recital, she took his hand and held it tightly, She wasn't coming on to him; he knew that. Just offering the comfort of her physical presence, and he was grateful.

  When he had finished, he raised her hand and lightly kissed her fingertips.

  "Well…" he said, "that's the sad story of my life. Forgive me for making you listen to all this. I know you have your own problems,"

  "I only wish I could help you," she said sorrowfully.

  "You've helped me so much. Now let's have an after-dinner drink." She rose to bring the decanter from an omate Korean cupboard.

  "Oh," she said, "pardon me a moment; I have to make a short phone call."

  The reproduction of a fin de siicle French phone was on a small, marble-topped Victorian stand. She dialed a three-digit number.

  "Charles?" she said.

  "This is Sylvia Mae -Otherton. How are you tonight?… Good… Fine, thank you… Anything for me today?… Thank you, Charles. Good night."

  She came back to Estrella with the sherry.

  "No mail today," she said lightly.

  "Not even a bill."

  He stared at her. Then he glanced at his wristwatch. Fourteen minutes after nine. He put his pipe aside.

  "Sylvia," he said in a strained voice, "was that the guy at the lobby desk you were talking to?"

  "Yes, that was Charles. He works nights. I called to ask if there's any mail in my box. It saves me a trip downstairs. My agoraphobia again!"

  "You call him every night to check on your mail?"

  "Yes. Why do you ask?"

  "You always call about this time?"

  "Usually. But why-" She stopped, her eyes widened, her mouth fell open.

  One hand flew to cover it.

  "Oh, God!" she gasped'you told us you hadn't made any phone calls that night."

  "I forgot!" she wailed.

  "It's a regular habit, a routine, and I forgot. Oh, Brian, I'm so sorry.

  But I'm sure I called Charles that night."

  "I'll be right back," Estrella said.

  "Keep your fingers crossed.

  He went down to the lobby, identified himself, and talked to Charles for almost five minutes. The clerk swore that Sylvia Otherton called about her mail between 9:00 and 9:30 every weekday evening.