Dr. Samuelson opened the door to his office himself; there was no visible evidence that he employed a receptionist. He took their wet coats and hats and hung them away. He ushered them into a cluttered inner office in which all the furnishings seemed accumulated rather than selected. The place had a fusty air, and the few good antiques were in need of restoration. A stuffed barn owl moldered atop a bookcase.
In addition to an old horsehair patient’s couch, covered with an Indian blanket, there were two creaky Morris chairs in the office. These Samuelson pulled up facing his massive desk. He sat behind it in a wing chair upholstered in worn maroon leather.
Sergeant Boone displayed his ID, introduced Delaney, and explained his role in the investigation.
“Oh, yes,” Samuelson said in a high-pitched voice, “after you called last night I thought it best to make some inquiries. You both are highly recommended. I am willing to cooperate, of course, but I have already told the police everything I know.”
“About the events of that Friday night,” Delaney said, “when Ellerbee was killed. But there are things we need that are not included in your statement.”
“For instance,” Boone said, “how well did you know the victim?”
“Very well. Ever since he was my student in Boston.”
Delaney: “Did you know his wife as well?”
“Of course. We visited frequently here in New York, and I was often their houseguest up in Brewster.”
Boone: “Do you think a patient could have killed Ellerbee?”
“It’s possible. Unfortunately, assaults on psychiatrists are not all that uncommon.”
Delaney: “Was it a happy marriage?”
“The Ellerbees’? Yes, a very happy, successful marriage. They loved each other and, of course, had an additional link in their work.”
Boone: “What kind of patient would attack Ellerbee?”
“A psychopath, obviously. Or someone temporarily deranged by the trauma of his analysis. It is sometimes an extremely painful process.”
Delaney: “You said his analysis. You believe the killer was a man?”
“The nature of the crime would seem to indicate it. But it could have been a woman.”
Boone: “Was Diane Ellerbee also your student?”
“No, she was Simon’s student. That’s how they met—when he was teaching.”
Delaney: “Did he convince her to start her own practice?”
“He persuaded her, yes. We often joked about their Pygmalion-Galatea relationship.”
Boone: “You mean he created her?”
“Of course not. But he recognized her gifts, her talents as a therapist. Before she met him, I understand, she was somewhat of a dilettante. But he saw something in her he thought should be encouraged. He was right. She has done—is doing—fine work.”
Delaney: “How do you account for those two hammer blows to the victim’s eyes?”
Samuelson exhibited the first signs of unease at this fusillade of rapid questions. He fiddled with some papers and they noted his hand trembled slightly.
He was a wisp of a man with narrow shoulders and a disproportionately large head balanced on a stalky neck. His complexion was grayish, and he wore wire-rimmed spectacles set with thick, curved lenses that magnified his eyes. Surprisingly, he had wavy russet hair that appeared to have been carefully blown dry.
He sipped his coffee and seemed to regain his poise.
“What was your question?” he asked.
Boone: “Those two hammer blows to the victim’s eyes—could they have been a symbolic attempt to blind the dead man?”
“It is a possibility.”
Delaney: “Do you think Simon Ellerbee was faithful to his wife?”
“Of course he was faithful! And she to him. I told you it was a happy, successful marriage. There are such things. I really don’t see how all this is going to help you find the person who committed this despicable act.”
Boone: “Diane Ellerbee was younger than her husband?”
“By about eight years. Not such a great gap.”
Delaney: “She’s a very beautiful woman. But you’re certain she was faithful?”
“Of course I’m certain. There was never any gossip about them, never a rumor. And I was their closest friend. I would have heard or noticed something.”
Boone: “Did you notice any change in Simon Ellerbee in the last six months or a year?”
“No, no change.”
Delaney: “Nervousness? Fear? Sudden fits of silence or outbursts of anger? Anything like that?”
“No, nothing.”
Boone: “Did he ever say he had been threatened by any of his patients?”
“No. He was an extremely competent man. I’m sure he would have known how to handle such threats—if any had been made.”
Delaney: “Have you ever been married?”
“Once. My wife died of cancer twenty years ago. I never remarried.”
Boone: “Children?”
“One son killed in an automobile accident.”
Delaney: “So the Ellerbees were the only family you had?”
“I have brothers and sisters. But the Ellerbees were very close friends. Two beautiful people. I loved them both.”
Boone: “They never fought?”
“Of course they fought occasionally. What married couple doesn’t? But always with good humor.”
Delaney: “When you went over to the Ellerbees’ townhouse that Friday night and went upstairs, did you hear anything? Like someone might still be in the house, moving around?”
“No, I heard nothing.”
Boone: “Did you smell anything unusual? Perfume, incense, a strong body odor—anything like that?”
“No. Just the damp. It was a very wet night.”
Delaney: “There were no signs of forced entry, so we assume the victim buzzed the door open for someone he was expecting or knew. Now we’re back to the possibility of one of Ellerbee’s patients putting him down. We want Doctor Diane to go through her husband’s caseload and select those she thinks might be capable of murder.”
“Yes, she told me that. Last night.”
Boone: “She relies on your opinion. Will you advise her to cooperate?”
“I have already so advised her. The law prevents her from giving you her husband’s files, but I think that here the public good demands she at least name those parties she thinks might be capable of violence. You have the complete list and I assume will run a basic check on them all.”
Delaney: “Checking that many alibis is almost impossible, so I’m glad you’ve encouraged Mrs. Ellerbee to cooperate. She obviously respects your opinions. Are you a father figure?”
Dr. Samuelson, confidence regained, relaxed. His enlarged eyes glittered behind the heavy glasses.
“Oh, I doubt that,” he said softly. “Diane is a very independent woman. Her beauty warms the heart. But she is very intelligent and capable. Simon was a lucky man. I told him that often, and he agreed.”
“Thank you for your help,” Delaney said, rising abruptly. “I hope we may consult you again if we need more information.”
“Of course. Anytime. You think you will find the person who did this thing?”
“If we’re lucky,” Delaney said.
Outside, they dashed across Madison to a luncheonette that had not yet filled up with the breakfast crowd. They ordered black coffee and jelly doughnuts and took them to a small, Formica-topped table alongside the tiled wall.
“I’m proud of you,” Delaney said.
“How so?”
“You knew about Pygmalion and Galatea.”
Boone laughed. “Blame it on crossword puzzles. You pick up a lot of useless information.”
“Funny thing,” Delaney said, “but just last night I was talking to Monica about the fact that so many beautiful women make a career out of just being beautiful. But from what Samuelson said, Simon was the one who convinced Diane she had a brain in addition to looks.”
> “I think the good doctor is in love with her.”
“That wouldn’t be hard. But what chance would he have? Did you see the photos of Ellerbee in the file? A big, handsome guy. Samuelson looks like a gnome compared to him.”
“Maybe that’s why he snuffed him,” Boone said.
“You really think that?”
“No. Do you?”
“I can’t see it,” Delaney said. “But there’s a hell of a lot I can’t see about this thing. For instance, I asked Samuelson if Simon had fits of silence or outbursts of anger. Now that was an almost word-for-word quote from Diane. She said her husband was a lovely man, but occasionally had fits of silence and outbursts of anger. Samuelson, supposedly a close friend, says he never noticed anything like that.”
“Maybe he thought it was of no consequence, or maybe he was trying to protect the memory of a dead friend.”
“Right now, I’d say we can scratch Diane and Samuelson,” Delaney said, “unless Parnell or Jason can come up with something. That leaves the victim’s patients as our best bet. Will you call the widow and set up a meet to get the list of possibles from her?”
“Sure. I also better check in with Suarez’s crew and find out how many of the patients they’ve already tossed.”
“Right. You know, so far this whole thing is smoke—you realize that, don’t you?”
“No doubt about that.”
“Nothing hard,” Delaney said fretfully, “nothing definite. It’s really the worst part of a case—the opening, when everything is mush.”
“No great hurry to clear it,” the Sergeant said. “Is there?”
Delaney didn’t want to tell him there was—that it had to be closed by the end of the year if Deputy Thorsen wanted that third star for Michael Suarez, but the Sergeant was a sharp man and probably aware of the Departmental politics involved.
“I’d just like to tidy it up fast,” he said casually, “or admit failure and get back to my routine. Can you drop me?”
“Of course,” Boone said, “if I can get that clunker started.”
The Sergeant was driving his personal car, an old, spavined Buick he had bought at a city auction of towed-away cars. But the wheels turned, and he delivered Delaney to his brownstone.
“Give you a call, sir,” he said, “as soon as I set up something with Doctor Diane.”
“Good enough,” Delaney said. “And brief Suarez on our talk with Samuelson. I promised to keep him in the picture.”
Monica was in the living room, watching a women’s talk show on television.
“What’s the topic this morning?” Delaney inquired pleasantly. “Premature ejaculation?”
“Very funny,” Monica said. “How did you make out with Samuelson?”
He was tempted to tell her about the doctor’s comments about the Ellerbees’ Pygmalion-Galatea relationship, but he didn’t mention it, fearing it would sound like gloating.
“We got nothing you can hang your hat on,” he said. “Just general background stuff. I’ll tell you about it tonight.”
He went into his study, sat at his desk, and wrote out a full report on the interrogation of Dr. Julius K. Samuelson, doing his best to recall the psychiatrist’s exact words.
There was something in that interview that disturbed him, but he could not for the life of him think of what it was. He read over his report of the questioning, and still could not pinpoint it. But he was convinced something was there.
His vague disquiet was characteristic of the entire case, he decided. So far, the investigation of the murder of Dr. Simon Ellerbee was all obscure overtones and subtle shadings. The damned case was a watercolor.
Most homicides were oils—great, bold slashings of pigment laid on with a wide brush or palette knife. Killings were generally stark, brutal affairs, the result of outsize passions or capital sins.
But this killing had the whiff of the library about it, something literary and genteel, as if plotted by Henry James.
Perhaps, Delaney admitted, he felt that way because the scene of the crime was an elegant townhouse rather than a roach-infested tenement. Or maybe because the people involved were obviously educated, intelligent, and with the wit to lie smoothly if it would serve their purpose.
But murder was murder. And maybe a delicate, polite case like this needed a lumbering, mulish old cop to strip away all the la-di-dah pretense and pin an artful, perceptive, refined killer to the goddamned wall.
9
“WE OUGHT TO START thinking about Thanksgiving,” Monica said at breakfast. “It’ll be here before you know it. A turkey, I suppose …”
“Oh … I don’t know,” Delaney said slowly.
“How about a goose?”
“A roast goose,” he said dreamily. “Maybe with wild rice and brandied apples. Sounds good. You do the goose and I’ll do the apples. Okay?”
“It’s a deal.”
“Are the girls coming down?”
“No, they’re going to a friend’s home. But they’ll be here for Christmas.”
“Good. Would you like to invite Rebecca and Abner for Thanksgiving dinner? We can’t eat a whole goose by ourselves.”
“That would be fun. I think they’d like it. How about Jason and his family?”
“That guy could demolish a roast goose by himself. But if I ask Boone, I’ll have to ask Jason. I suspect he’ll want to have Thanksgiving dinner at home with his family, but I’ll check and let you know.”
“What are your plans for today, Edward?”
“I want to stick around in case Abner calls to tell me when we’re going to meet with Doctor Diane. Where are you off to?”
“More Christmas shopping. I want to get it all done and out of the way so I can relax and enjoy the holiday season.”
“Until the bills come in,” he said. “Have fun.”
He went into the study to read the morning Times and smoke his breakfast cigar. He was halfway through both when the phone rang. He expected it to be Boone, but it was not.
“Edward X. Delaney here,” he said.
“Good morning. This is Detective Charles Parnell.”
“Oh, yes. How are you?”
“Fine, sir. And you?”
“Surviving,” Delaney said. “You probably don’t remember, but you and I have met. It was at a retirement party for Sergeant Schlossman.”
“Sure,” Parnell said, laughing. “I remember. I tried to chug-a-lug a quart bottle of Schaefer and upchucked all over Captain Rogers’ new uniform. I haven’t had a promotion since! Listen, Abner Boone said you wanted these financial reports on the people in the Ellerbee case as soon as possible.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got them already?”
“Well, I may not be good, but I’m fast. I’ve got a single typed page on each of them. It’s not Dun & Bradstreet, but it should give you what you want. I was wondering if I could bring them by and go over them with you. Then if there’s anything else you need, you can steer me in the right direction.”
“Of course,” Delaney said promptly. “I’ll be in all morning. You have my address?”
“Yep. Be there in half an hour.”
Delaney relighted his cigar and finished the Times. It was perfect timing; he had put the newspaper together neatly and was taking it into the living room to leave for Monica when the front door bell chimed.
The detective they called Daddy Warbucks was wearing a black bowler with a rolled brim, and a double-breasted topcoat of taupe gabardine. He carried an attaché case of polished calfskin.
Seeing Delaney blink, Parnell grinned. “It’s my uniform,” he explained. “I work with bankers and stockbrokers. It helps if I look like I belong to the club. Off duty, I wear cord jeans and a ratty sweatshirt.”
“Haven’t seen a derby in years,” Delaney said admiringly. “On you it looks good.”
After his hat and coat had been hung away in the hall closet, the detective was revealed in all his conservative elegance: a three-piece suit of navy flannel wi
th muted pin-stripe, light blue shirt with starched white collar and cuffs, a richly tapestried cravat, and black shoes with a dull gloss—wingtips, of course.
“Sometimes I feel like a clown in this getup,” he said, following Delaney back to the study, “but it seems to impress the people I deal with. Beautiful home you’ve got here.”
“Thank you.”
“You own the whole house?”
“That’s right.”
“If you ever want to rent out a floor, let me know. The wife and I and two kids are jammed into a West Side walk-up.”
But his comments were without bitterness, and Delaney pegged him for a cheerful, good-natured man.
“Tell me something,” he asked Parnell, “that suit fits so snugly, where do you carry your piece?”
“Here,” Daddy Warbucks said. He turned, lifted the tail of his jacket, and revealed a snub-nosed revolver in a belt holster at the small of his back. “Not so great for a quick draw, but it’s a security blanket. Do you carry?”
“Only on special occasions,” Delaney said. “Listen, can I get you anything—coffee, a cola?”
“No, but thanks. I’m up to my eyeballs in coffee this morning.”
“Well, then,” Delaney said, “why don’t you sit in that armchair and make yourself comfortable.”
“I smell cigar smoke,” Parnell said, “so I guess it’s okay if I light a cigarette.”
“Of course.”
While the detective lit up, Delaney studied the man.
Crew-cut pepper-and-salt hair. A horsey face with deep furrows and laugh crinkles at the corners of the eyes. A good set of strong choppers. A blandly innocent expression. A rugged ugliness there, but not without charm. He looked like a good man to invite to a party.
“Well …” Parnell said, leaning over to snap open his attaché case, “how do you want to do this? Want to read the stuff first or should I give you the gist of it?”
“Suppose you summarize first,” Delaney said. “Then I’ll ask questions if I’ve got any.”
“Okay,” Parnell said. “We’ll start with Doctor Julius K. Samuelson. His net worth is about one mil, give or take. Moneywise, he’s a very cautious gentleman. CDs, Treasury bonds, and tax-free municipals. He owns his co-op apartment and office. Keeps too much in his checking account, but like I said, he’s a mossback financewise. No stocks, no tax shelters, no high-fliers. He’s made three irrevocable charitable trusts—all to hospitals with major psychiatric research departments. Nothing unusual. Nothing exciting. Any questions?”
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