by Henry, Kane,
He took her out, along the corridor, through the waiting-room. He stood in the doorway with her until the taxi came.
“Good-by, Mrs. Martin.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
She got into the cab, said, “Hotel Everett.” After a block, she tapped the window. “Change that, please. Make it Madison Avenue and Twenty-Eighth Street.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Done. Finished. Over. She sat back in the cab, fear rising in her like the fever of illness. Now, in this quiet moment, alone in a corner of a taxicab, riding through the streets of the fog-silent city, she wanted to scream, to tear at her hair, to throw herself to the floor, to kick her feet and beat her fists until the violence and the physical pain would exorcise the torment of her thinking. She wanted to scream, huddled in the corner of the taxi. She put her hands over her mouth, holding, until it passed, spreading her hands to her cheeks, her fingers pressing into her temples, her mouth squeezed open, shapeless, her breathing dry and choked.
Done. Finished. Over. But there was something. Something! As the panic subsided, easing; as she loosened out of her corner; as she rubbed her hands over her face, thinking, thinking—she knew there was something, something she had learned, something that could help—something—inside of her—but it wouldn’t come, it wouldn’t come.
She tried.
She began fresh. She began where she had left Captain Brophy’s office. She concentrated, reviewing everything, everything she did, every word she said, every word she heard, every step she took—sitting beside the Lieutenant in the car, going through the lobby, the apartment, the radio, the medicine bottle, the walk through the streets, the drugstore, the conversation with Alonzo, the conversation with the pharmacist, something he had said, something the doctor had said, the phone book, the phone book—
“Stop! Stop!”
The cab screeched to the curb. The cabbie turned his head slowly, raising his lip against his teeth as though he had bitten into a wormy apple. “Cut it out, lady.”
“Take me back. Take me back, please.”
“Back? Back where? Back someplace special? A block back? A mile back? Back where, lady?”
“Back where we came from. Eighty-Ninth.”
“All right, lady, only don’t yell. I’m right up front here, right near you. Yelling, it don’t get you no place. You want we should go back, okay, we go back. You’re the fare. Only don’t yell, lady. It makes me nervous.”
“I’ m sorry.”
“It’s all right, lady. It’s only I don’t like yelling. I’m a married man, myself. Yelling, it drives me a little nuts. When I’m up front here, pushing my hack, I don’t expect no yelling, it’s peaceful. Home—well, home, it’s different, you understand. But up here in front…” His grumbling dwindled away. He swung around in a U turn, looked at the meter, started back. “Don’t care if you want to shuttle up and back all night, honest I don’t, long as the flag is down. Only the yelling, it upset me for a minute. I wish to beg your pardon, lady—”
“No,” she said. “I don’t want to go back.”
Dryly he said, “What’s that, lady?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet, what? Do you wish to go back or do you not wish to go back? For crying out loud, lady.”
“I’d like to use a phone first. Will you take me somewhere where there’s a phone?”
“Certainly, lady. Right up here on the next block we got a cafeteria. No la-di-da special-type bistro. A cafeteria. A greasy-spoon. A coffee-pot. Inside they got a phone booth. No special-type phone booth. A phone booth. Will that be all right with you, lady?”
“Yes, please.”
He drew over in front of the pale lights of a one-window restaurant. He pulled the brake rasping angry. She opened the door, stepped out, closed her coat about her, put her head in over his rolled-down window. “You’ll wait, please?”
“You bet your sweet life I’ll wait.” He tapped the meter. “When there’s a tab run up on this here clock, I wait, a derrick can’t move me. I’ll be right here, lady.”
The cafeteria smelled of sauerkraut. There was a short counter, a tall coffee urn, and a brown-faced attendant wrapped inside of a spotted apron. He looked up from the intricate charts of a racing form, smiled with broken teeth. “What’ll you have, miss?”
“I’d like to use the phone.”
“Right there. Can’t miss it.”
The phone booth was enormous in the tiny restaurant. She went in, closed the door, a small bulb lighting over her head. She didn’t know the number, but she didn’t want to go out again for the phone books. She searched for a nickel in her bag, got Information, asked for Earl, E. H. Earl, a doctor, Thirteen West Eighty-Ninth Street. She put the nickel back and dialed. She kept most of her left hand over the mouthpiece. A lady answered.
“Hello?”
“May I speak to Dr. Earl, please?”
“Hold on.”
She waited.
“Hello?”
She spoke in a whisper, her mouth against her hand. “Harry?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Joyce.”
“Who? I can’t hear you.”
“Joyce.”
“Oh. Where’ve you been? Why don’t you speak louder?”
“Can’t. There are people around me.”
“I’ve been worried about you. And your friends—at the hotel—”
“Love me, Harry?”
“I don’t like you to talk to me like that over the—”
“Love me, Harry?”
“Of course I do. You know I do.”
“Want me to come to your party, Harry?”
“It’s been terrible here without you. Please come, please—” His voice changed. “Yes. I would like that very much.”
“What’s the matter, Harry? Somebody there?”
“Yes.”
“All right. See you soon.”
“Fine. Excellent.”
“’By, Harry.”
“Good-by.”
She hung up, faint in the heat of the closed booth. She opened the door, wiped her face with her handkerchief. She stopped at the counter. “May I have a glass of water?”
“What’s the matter, miss? You don’t look so good.”
“I don’t feel well.”
“Women,” he said. “I’m glad I got sons.” He gave her the water, watched her drink it. “Lousy night, ain’t it? Figures for a wet track tomorrow.”
She put the glass down. “Is there any charge?”
“Now, look, miss. Water’s free. Are you kiddin’?”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
She stood in the doorway, breathing deeply, then she went to the cab. “Now we can go back to where you picked me up. Dr. Earl’s office.”
“Wonderful guy, the doc. A gentleman.”
“Yes.”
“Make your call all right?”
“Yes.”
“Swell.”
He drove rapidly. She rolled down the window and closed her eyes, wet air cooling her face. She kept her eyes closed until the cab stopped. “All right, lady,” he said. “Right back where we started from. If you need me again, Doc’ll tell you where to reach me.” She paid him, tipped him, got out.
“Thanks, lady. I’m sorry I acted like a crab back there. Nerves.”
Light showered wavering into fog from the barred windows. She pressed the button, waited. Dr. Earl opened the door. “Oh.” His smile was stiff. “Oh. Come in. I thought—”
“It’s very important, Doctor.”
He took her through quickly. He didn’t ask her to take her coat off. He didn’t ask her to sit down. He walked up and back in the small consulting-room, barely looking at her.
“Joyce Anderson didn’t call you, Doctor.”
“What?”
“I think you had better close the door.”
He went to the door, closed it. He turned the key in the lock. He went to his desk,
sat down, looked up at her. “I don’t understand, Mrs. Martin.”
“Joyce Anderson didn’t call you.”
“How do you know—? I mean—”
“I did.”
“What’s that?”
“I called you.”
“What? Now, please—”
“Joyce Anderson—has been murdered.”
He kicked back, standing up, the chair falling. He went to her quickly, his hands pulling at her shoulders. “What? What are you saying?”
“She was murdered. This afternoon. At about five o’clock this afternoon.”
“Murdered? My God, what are you talking about? Who are you?”
“I’m Mrs. Harry Martin. I am the wife of the man who is accused of murdering her.”
His hands dropped. He shook his head slowly. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. You say you called me—but it was Joyce—”
“May I sit down?”
“Please.” He pulled a chair close to the desk. He righted the chair that had fallen. They sat, looking at each other, silently, for seconds.
“The lady I talked with,” he said, “at her place—”
“Detectives. Female detectives. Checking on your prescription. Cleaning up details.”
“But—nobody told me. Why not? If she was murdered, is it a secret? I can’t believe—”
“Please listen, Doctor. They think they know who did it. Everything else is incidental—unless it points to someone else, someone other than Harry Martin, and nothing points to anyone else. They have not released it to the newspapers, they have not mentioned it to anyone, because they feel that they can end it tonight, that they can, as was told to me, ‘present a solved case to the public.’”
“But, Mrs. Martin, do you know what you’re—”
“I saw her, Doctor. Dead. Terribly, horribly, insanely beaten—” She sobbed loudly, her hands a shield at her face. He came around the desk, standing over her, his hand touching her shoulder. She twisted out of the chair, grasping at him, pulling at his lapels, her face turned up to him. “Listen. Did you? Did you have anything to do with this? Listen, did you, did you?”
“No. No.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
She slipped from him into the chair.
“Mrs. Martin, if there’s anything—”
“My husband is accused of this murder.”
“But—”
“He was there, at her place, at approximately the time it happened. He was—intoxicated. There was an argument. There was a brawl—”
“Do they have him, Mrs. Martin?”
“No.”
“Then, what is it—?”
“I don’t believe that he did it. There is evidence—I don’t know—it appears that he himself thinks he did. I don’t know. I don’t know. Perhaps he did. I can’t believe it, that’s all. I can’t believe it. And there’s this thing, this other thing, this item of evidence—a diary. Did you know she kept a diary, Doctor?”
“No.”
“My husband’s name is Harry, Doctor. The diary reports a love affair, a recent love affair, involving a man named Harry. What’s your name, Doctor?”
He didn’t answer.
“The police think he is that Harry. He isn’t. I know that, and you do. Will you help me, Doctor?”
He didn’t answer.
“E. Harrington Earl. What is the E for, Doctor?”
“Emerald. My mother’s favorite stone. It has been E, only E, since I’ve been old enough to do anything about it.” He looked directly at her. “My friends call me Harry. How did you know?”
“You told me it wasn’t serious, it wasn’t an emergency. Yet you yourself brought the prescription to the drugstore—at half-past three in the morning. What were you doing at her place in the middle of the night if there was nothing wrong, no emergency, a woman with a slight cold? I was following everything, trying, chasing every possibility. The police let me into her apartment. When I saw the medicine bottle and the date, I brought it to the drugstore and inquired. I checked you in the phone book. E. Harrington Earl. I talked to you. You yourself told me it wasn’t anything serious. It didn’t come to me at first. But it did, later, riding down in the taxicab. Will you help me, Doctor? Please, will you help?”
He lit a cigarette, blew smoke at a match. He passed a hand down over his mouth. He said, softly, “You realize, Mrs. Martin—”
“Yes, yes. of course. But it might mean a man’s life, Doctor. They’ve tied the Harry of the diary—to him—to give it reason—lover’s quarrel—motive… Please, please, Doctor, please—”
He smoked. They looked at each other.
“Mrs. Martin, you know what you’re asking.”
“You can’t deny me, Doctor.”
“No.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think I can.”
“Thank you.” She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. She smiled at him, blurred. Humbly she said, “I thank you from the bottom of my heart. We’re a family, sir. There’s a child, a little boy of five. My husband is a good man, he is not a murderer—perhaps, now, we shall begin to break this—meaningless pattern—this—”
He held up his cigarette, turning it in his fingers, observing it. “Each of us has his problems. I am a good man too, Mrs. Martin, I assure you. I have a child too, a grown daughter. We have our foibles, all of us, and Joyce—Joyce Anderson was—well—” He crushed the cigarette in an ash tray. “In the circumstances, Mrs. Martin, you’re right. I can’t deny you. If only it can be accomplished in confidence—yet—even if it can’t—”
“Why not? There’s no reason for publicity. The diary speaks only of Harry—among others. There are no last names. I don’t see why they should want to involve you, especially since you come voluntarily. You didn’t—I mean you had nothing to do with—?”
“No. I had nothing to do with it, I promise you.”
“Please, sir. I want to say—I want to thank you—”
“All right. What is the procedure?”
“Will you come downtown with me? The man in charge is a Captain Brophy.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now. If you please.”
He went to the door, stood very still for a moment, turned the key. “I’ll make my apologies. I’ll say it’s an emergency. Please come with me.”
She waited near the open door, looking out on the fog, the sounds of the party a dim background to her thoughts. Then he came, in a hat and topcoat, touched her arm, and then someone called, “Harry. Harry.”
It was Mrs. Earl, carrying his black bag. “You forgot this. A doctor without his bag. That’s quite—improper.” She smiled, reached up and kissed him. “Try not to be too long.”
They drove down in his car. He smoked many cigarettes. He sat straight and tall. He turned his head to her occasionally, smiling each time.
She said, “I know just what you’re doing for me and I deeply appreciate it—”
He said, “It isn’t, exactly, for you that I’m doing it. I think you expressed it perfectly before. In the circumstances, in these particular circumstances, I cannot deny you—”
They came to Centre Street, parked, walked through the fog and up the stairs into the cold lobby. She said, “Captain Brophy’s office,” to the elevator man. She led him through the corridor, knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
Brophy sat behind his desk, eating a sandwich and drinking coffee from a cardboard container. He said, “Ah, Mrs. Martin,” nodded at the doctor, shook the sandwich. “Knockwurst on rye. Ambrosia. Is this Harry, Mrs. Martin? Doesn’t look at all like the pictures we picked up in your apartment.”
“This is Harry, Captain Brophy.”
His hand, bringing up the sandwich, stopped. He put it down, wiped his hands and mouth with a paper napkin, stood up. “Harry, is it? Harry who?”
“My name is Earl, sir. E. Harrington Earl.”
“Well, E. Harrington Earl—and what the deuce have you got
to do with this?”
“Dr. Earl,” she said, “was Joyce Anderson’s physician. His name was on the bottle of medicine—”
“Oh. Oh, yes. I’m sorry.” He moved around the desk, arm outstretched. They shook hands. “Glad to know you, Doctor. I’m Brophy. I don’t quite—”
“I’d like to speak to you, sir, alone, if you please. There’s a statement I believe I should make on this—this matter.”
“Statements are made on paper, Doctor, and under oath, whenever possible. Next door we have a sort of squad room, with available paraphernalia, including stenographers. Will you step this way, please?” At the door he said, “Make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Martin.”
She took off her coat, alone in the gaunt room. She walked up and back, her lips moving as though she were thinking the words of a song, her hands tapping her thighs. She sat down in the hard chair, opened her bag, looked at herself in the mirror. Metallic noise broke from the box on the desk. “Captain Brophy. Captain Brophy.” Then again: “Captain Brophy.” Then it was silent. She closed her bag, put it on the desk. A sharp rap on the door made her jump. A dark man looked in. “The Captain—?”
“He’s next door.”
“Thanks.” He turned his head to someone behind him. “In here, please.”
A woman in an evening gown looked about the room nervously. She smiled, tentatively. “It’s the first time in my life I have ever been in a police station.”
The dark man said, “Headquarters.”
“Headquarters, then.”
The dark man smiled. “Well, you made it, the first time. If you’ll have a seat, Miss Landry, I’ll see about the Captain.”
The woman took a cape off her shoulders, sat down, spread the cape carefully over her knees. “It makes you jittery, just being here. Are you—connected with the Department?”
“No.” She tried to be pleasant. She couldn’t think of anything polite to say. “No, I’m not.”
The woman took a cigarette case from her pocket-book, offered it. “Cigarette?”
“No. No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”
“Jittery. And how.” She inhaled deeply, smoke blowing through her words. “Makes you jittery just being here, simply jittery.”