Murder in the Madhouse

by Jonathan Latimer

  “I’m Andrew,” repeated the old man. “I watch at night.”

  “Well, let’s see you watch this guy,” said Joe.

  “He will be well in a little time.”

  “All right, all right,” said Joe; “but what about the patient?” The word had a proud sound on his tongue.

  “He is expected. The doctor is waiting for him.” The old man moved closer to the ambulance. He blinked his eyes excitedly. “What kind is he?”

  “What d’ya mean, what kind is he?” Joe snarled at the old man.

  The old man licked his lips. His eyes were like oysters in the moonlight. “Is he violent?”

  “Naw,” said Joe. “No more ’n yer old lady.”

  The old man was disappointed. He slid slowly over to where the driver sat on the running board and reached over his head for the leather package of keys dangling from the ignition switch. He carried these gingerly to the back of the ambulance and inserted one of the keys in the lock. “All right,” he said. “We will take him.”

  Joe swung down from his seat. “Open ’er up,” he ordered.

  With a protesting groan, the doors opened. Crane looked out at the yard. There was an undertone of cricket noise and a heavy exotic odor of flowers. It was as though his sense of hearing and of smell had suddenly returned.

  “All right, Doc,” said Joe.

  “I am not a doctor,” said William Crane.

  “You’re telling me?” said Joe. He climbed into the back. “Come on.”

  Crane tried to stand. His muscles refused to hold him, and he sank back on the leather bench. Joe seized his collar and swung him out the door, almost upon the pale face of the old man. Rolling, Crane hit the gravel on his back and finally came to a halt with his hands thrust under him, crusted with pebbles. He managed to gain his feet.

  Joe jumped after him, fastening onto his handcuffed arms. “Which way?” he asked the old man.

  “This way.” The old man’s voice trembled with excitement. He had retreated to a safe distance.

  “Wait!” It was the driver. He stood, one arm hooked to the ambulance, watching the three. “We gotta remove handcuffs.”

  “O. K.,” Joe said. “But let’s get going.”

  The driver unlocked the handcuffs. His breath was sour in Crane’s face. The old man started up the steps, Crane and Joe followed, and the driver staggeringly brought up the rear.

  The screen door was unlatched, and they entered the long hall. Red carpet covered the floor, and on wall brackets shaped like candles two yellow bulbs gleamed, casting hungry shadows along calcimined walls. At the first door the old man knocked timidly.

  A thick man stood in the doorway. Bunchy muscles pulled his black eyebrows into a scowl. He had on pants and an undershirt.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  The old man said, “A patient.” His voice cringed.

  William Crane pulled against Joe, trying to see into the room. The man put a palm against his face, raised his right shoulder, and shoved. Crane’s head hit the other wall of the hall hollowly: he put out his hands to keep from falling. On the calcimine, his fingers, torn from the gravel, left bright red stains.

  “Lord Almighty!” The old man ran a tongue across violet lips. “They look like nail marks.…” His voice faded. He stared at the blood and then at Crane.

  “Dr. Livermore’s in his office,” said the thick man, He closed his door.

  The last door in the hall was also closed. The old man knocked a second time. There was the sound of an inner door being closed. After a long time the hall door was opened by a hand with a diamond ring on the third finger. The diamond was the largest Crane had ever seen.

  Dr. Livermore wore a black beard like Gen. Italo Balbo and Sir Hubert Wilkins. His brown eyes were cunning and indirect. There was powder on his coat. He smiled a welcome.

  “Do come in,” he said. He nodded dismissal to the old man.

  “Thish the gent’man from Bellevue,” announced the driver. He leaned against the door jamb. His face was ash gray.

  Darkly stained wood ran under oriental rugs, and there were lamps with Chinese bases and brocaded shades about the room. A large walnut desk was beside a closed door at the opposite end. Dr. Livermore sat down behind the desk. He pushed a button.

  “You are Mr. Kassuccio?” Dr. Livermore looked at Joe.

  “Yeah,” said Joe. He still had hold of Crane.

  “Mr. Campbell will see that you are given dinner. After that, I would like to have you come back to my office.”

  Mr. Campbell appeared to be the driver. He thrust himself from the wall. “C’m’on,” he said. He ushered Joe out, slamming the door behind him.

  “This is an outrage,” said William Crane loudly. “I demand an immediate explanation.” He glared at the doctor.

  Dr. Livermore spread both hands, palms downward, on the polished surface of the desk. He leaned forward confidentially.

  “Mr. Crane.” The doctor’s voice was muted like a trumpet. “Mr. Slater has been so anxious about you.”

  Crane evinced surprise. “Mr. Slater? My uncle?”

  “Yes.” Dr. Livermore brought his hands together so that fingers and thumbs were touching but not palms. “Mr. Slater was worried about your health. He determined to have you brought out to this quiet spot for a nice rest.” Dr. Livermore clasped his fingers. “He was afraid you might refuse to come, so he took this unusual method of sending you to us.”

  “You’re damn right it’s unusual to kidnap a man.” Crane was furious. “Particularly one doing the important work I am.”

  The door to the hall opened, and the thick man came in. He was wearing a white jacket.

  “What is it?” he asked sullenly.

  Crane scowled at him. He returned the scowl.

  “Is this another of them?” Crane demanded.

  “Another what?” asked Dr. Livermore.

  “Another of those thugs of yours.”

  “Why, Mr. Crane!” Dr. Livermore was very hurt. “This is my colleague, Dr. Eastman. He is here to help you regain your health.”

  “He looks like a thug,” Crane said.

  There was a knock at the door. Dr. Livermore said, “Come in,” and a pretty girl entered. A nurse’s cap perched on her black hair. She took a seat beside the desk. Dr. Livermore handed her a large printed form.

  Dr. Eastman pulled an overstuffed chair close to the built-in couch by the three long windows at the side of the room. Crane noticed two of the black cushions were flat on the couch, while the third sat at an angle. The two flat cushions were wrinkled and on one a blond hair caught the light.

  “Now, my dear sir, you must know that health comes first of all,” said Dr. Livermore.

  “My work means everything,” said William Crane. “I am a very important man.”

  “But to have your work go on, your health must be preserved,” said Dr. Livermore. “That is why your uncle asked us to care for you.”

  “But this is an asylum. I am as sane as anybody.”

  “Certainly,” said Dr. Livermore quickly—too quickly. “But those here are merely suffering from a temporary—let us say—attack of nerves.”

  “You mean nobody here is insane?”

  “Exactly. There is no such thing as insanity. Some people are merely suffering from brief periods when their rationality is in abeyance. It is like a nightmare, only it occurs during waking hours. With proper care anyone can be made rational again.”

  “But I am perfectly rational.”

  “Of course,” said Dr. Livermore, bringing his fingers together again. “Of course. But your uncle felt that a nervous breakdown might be imminent if you kept up your work.”

  Crane appeared to come to a decision. “As long as I am here,” he said, “I might as well make the best of it.”

  “That’s the attitude we like to see.” Dr. Livermore put his hands behind his head and swung back in his chair. “Now, we must ask you some questions. Miss Clayton will make a few notes.�
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  Crane noticed that Dr. Eastman seemed to be asleep. Heavy lids shrouded his eyes; his face was as expressionless as a death mask. On either side of him were vases filled with ferns. The windows behind him, Crane saw, were backed with a very fine cheesecloth next to the screens.

  “First we shall have to inquire into your past life,” said Dr. Livermore cheerfully. “Are you married?”

  Crane thought for some time. “No,” he said.

  “Have you ever had any serious illnesses?”

  “Scarlet fever, whooping cough, and boils.”

  Dr. Livermore said: “Please do not joke, Mr. Crane.”

  “Have you ever had boils?” asked William Crane.

  Miss Clayton uttered a giggle which, when Dr. Livermore turned to her, suddenly became a sneeze.

  “Do you have nocturnal headaches?”

  “No,” said Crane. “Most of my headaches come in the morning.”

  “Ah,” said Dr. Livermore. “You drink, then?”

  “Sure, don’t you?”

  Dr. Livermore glanced at his colleague. One of Dr. Eastman’s eyelids moved upward in an acknowledging blink.

  “How old are you?” asked Dr. Livermore.

  “Thirty-two.”

  “What church do you belong to?”

  “None.”

  “Can you say Methodist Episcopal?”

  “Methodist Episcopal.”

  Dr. Livermore exchanged another glance with Dr. Eastman. Miss Clayton wrote something on a slip of paper.

  “How do you sleep?”

  “Alone.”

  Miss Clayton seemed to think this was funny.

  Dr. Livermore was very patient. “I mean, how well do you sleep?”

  “Fine.”

  “When is your birthday?”

  “October 3.”

  “Can you remember where you were on your thirtieth birthday?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I wouldn’t care to say,” William Crane said.

  “We can’t help you if you won’t help us.” Dr. Livermore’s beard quivered indignantly.

  “Then you better ask me about some other birthday.” Crane winked at Miss Clayton, who pretended to be interested in the point of a pencil.

  “Never mind.” Dr. Livermore swung his body against the desk. “What did you have for your last meal?

  “It’s been so long,” said Crane, “that I hardly remember.”

  “Come, now,” said the doctor firmly. “Your last meal.”

  “That must have been breakfast,” said Crane. “You know, I think it’s nice of you to ask me what I had for breakfast. I like to tell people about my breakfasts. I had a glass of orange juice to start out with; then some soft-boiled eggs, buttered toast, coffee, and some swell marmalade. Of course, on some mornings I have——”

  There was a strange noise in the garden outside the windows. The three medical persons in the room froze with attention, like listening statues. There was a tense silence, undertoned with hushed breathing and the susurrant tones of crickets.

  Then the sound came again. It was like the sniffing whine of a hound dog hot on the scent of some animal, excited and impatient and immediate. But it was not the sound of a dog. It was not the sound of any animal.

  The black pupils of Dr. Livermore’s eyes widened. “Quick,” he shouted. “Get Charles.” Dr. Eastman was already on his way out the door. “Miss Clayton, you stay here.” Dr. Livermore pulled a pistol and another object from his desk. Crane saw that it was a baseball catcher’s mask. A heavy chain was attached to it, and this Dr. Livermore swung around his arm as he hurried out.

  “What the hell!” said Crane. Miss Clayton held a finger to her lips. She was pale, but he could not tell whether it was because of the sound or because she was left alone with him. He walked over to the window.

  Outside, the moonlight poured silently on the garden. Hedges precisely circled a fountain in the distance and, in orderly beds, flowers peacefully slept. A great moth, attracted by the reflection of the moon in the pool, fluttered above a nimbus of spray around the fountain. The garden was serene, laved in quiet and light, until, suddenly, the weird whining resumed. It was louder this time, and in its direction Crane saw a dark object moving behind a hedge. It was heading for the pool.

  A second later it was out in the open, and Crane saw that it was a man running on his hands and feet. His gait was a wolf-like trot, the more abnormal because of its seeming naturalness. At the pool’s edge he raised his head in a swift backward glance and then began to drink. The noise of his lapping reached the window in liquid rhythm. While William Crane watched in surprise, the man finished drinking and again made that swift, furtive scrutiny of the garden. Suddenly he stiffened, crouched flat on the ground. Then, with a smooth outthrust of legs, he leaped in the air and deftly caught the cream-colored moth with a metallic snap of his teeth.

  “He’s eating it!” Miss Clayton was standing beside Crane. Her face was bleached with horror. “Why don’t they stop him?”

  Crane was first to see them. He pointed out the creeping shadows to Miss Clayton. Two men were crawling up to the pool from the direction of the window, and two others, much closer, were emerging from behind a clump of small plants. As these two were about to close in, the man saw them and snarled defiance with bared teeth. One attempted to seize his neck; there was a click, and that one drew back with a cry of pain. At the same time the wolf-man wheeled and came loping on hands and feet toward the window and the men hidden just below it. At the edge of the zone of light cast by the windows, the two men leaped upon him.

  Uncanny snarling and yelping awoke a hubbub of frightful echoes in the garden, which, duplicated, seemed to be the voices of an entire wolf pack. Once during the struggle the creature nearly got free and, in so doing, his head came within a few inches of the window. It was a head of so inhuman an aspect, with animal cries coming from foam-flecked lips, and mad eyes showing more white than pupils, and sweat and blood and dirt on naked cheeks, that Crane leaped back into the room, seized a chair, and prepared to defend his life.

  But in a moment the fantastic noise failed, and in its place came a howling, sad and lonely and tragic. Presently it moved into remoteness and vanished with the closing of a distant door.

  Crane looked at the chair in his hand and then at Miss Clayton. “I hope I never run into that alone.” He grinned foolishly. He put the chair back on the floor.

  Miss Clayton’s nice brown eyes widened with interest. “I don’t believe you’re crazy,” she said.

  “Sure I am,” said William Crane. “Mad as a temper ance worker.”

  He walked over to Dr. Livermore’s desk. A drawer was open, and in it Crane could see the handle of another automatic pistol.

  “These are interesting buttons,” he said. “What are they for?”

  “They call the servants,” said Miss Clayton. She was powdering her nose.

  “What’ll they do with that fellow they just caught?”

  “They’ll put him in detention.”

  “Anybody else in detention?”

  “Only Miss Van Kamp.”

  “What’s she done?” William Crane looked curiously at the nurse.

  “She thinks she’s had something stolen. She keeps breaking into places looking for it. They’ve just got her in there for a day or two.”

  “How do you get in detention?”

  “Just get rough and see.”

  “Oh!”

  Dr. Livermore and Dr. Eastman came into the room from the hall door. There were scratches on Dr. Eastman’s face. Dr. Livermore’s eyes went to the closed door beside the desk. They were at first anxious and then relieved. He took his seat.

  “I think, perhaps, in view of tonight’s events,” he said, “we might defer this examination to a more seasonable time.” He looked inquiringly at the other doctor. Dr. Eastman’s face was impassive.

  “There are just a few other questions we should ask now,”
Dr. Livermore continued. “What is your occupation?”

  William Crane leaned toward the desk. “My outward or my secret occupation?”

  “Why, both.”

  “To the world I am a simple bond salesman,” Crane announced. “But actually I am a great detective.”

  “But your uncle’s note says nothing about detective work,” objected Dr. Livermore.

  “He does not know of it,” Crane whispered. “No one knows save a few criminals.”

  Dr. Livermore looked at Dr. Eastman, who seemed interested for the first time. Miss Clayton was taking rapid notes.

  “You don’t believe me?” William Crane spoke with indignation. “You don’t believe I am a detective?”

  “Now, Mr. Crane, it’s quite all right.” Dr. Livermore spread out his fingers. “We are naturally surprised.”

  “Surprised, hell!” said Crane. “You don’t believe me. But I’ll show you. What do you do for your hay fever, Dr. Livermore?”

  Dr. Livermore’s eyes expressed genuine surprise.

  “It’s too bad to love gardens and not be able to walk through them except at night when the pollen is settled,” said Crane. “And now you don’t even dare walk outside alone at night for fear someone will attack you. That’s bad, too.”

  Dr. Livermore arose from his chair, but Crane held up his hand melodramatically. “Stop! Who was it you had in here a half an hour ago while I was imprisoned in that ambulance?”

  Dr. Livermore did not answer, and Crane turned to Dr. Eastman. “You are engaged, I believe, to one of the nurses?”

  Dr. Eastman stared at him.

  “It might interest you to know that your Miss Evans is the one who was in this room.”

  Dr. Livermore looked away from Dr. Eastman.

  “But that isn’t all.” Crane was talking to Dr. Eastman. “It was not upon professional business that she was here.”

  “Be silent, you madman,” shouted Dr. Livermore, pressing the buttons on his desk.

  “Let him talk,” Dr. Eastman said. He moved closer to Crane. “Go ahead.”

  “They did a little necking,” said Crane. “Right on that couch over there.” Dr. Eastman was no longer looking at Crane. “You son of a bitch,” he said to Dr. Livermore.

  “Be careful of your language,” said Crane. “There are two ladies present.” He walked to the desk and pulled open the door beside it. Miss Evans was standing there. She had on a wine-colored velvet dress, and her blond hair was mussed. “You should have a back door to your bedroom,” said Crane to Dr. Livermore.