The Cradle Will Fall

by Mary Higgins Clark

  She was just ahead of the evening traffic, and Mrs. Krupshak was home when she rang her bell. “Now, isn’t that timing?” she exclaimed to Katie. The shock of discovering Edna’s body had begun to wear off for this woman, and clearly she was beginning to enjoy the excitement of the police investigation.

  “This is my bingo afternoon,” she explained. “When I told my friends what happened they could hardly keep their cards straight.”

  Poor Edna, Katie thought, then realized that Edna would have been delighted to be the center of an active discussion.

  Mrs. Krupshak ushered her into an L-shaped living room, a mirror image of the unit Edna had lived in. Edna’s living room had been furnished with an old-fashioned velour couch, matching straight-backed fireside chairs, a fading Oriental rug. Like Edna, the apartment had had its own innate dignity.

  The superintendent’s wife had an imitation-leather couch and club chair, an oversized cocktail table topped by an exactly centered plastic flower arrangement and an orange-toned autumnal print over the couch that picked up the wildly vivid shade of the carpeting. Katie sat down. This place is ordinary, she reflected. It’s unimaginative, yet it’s clean and comfortable and you get the feeling that even if her husband is brusque and unsociable, Gana Krupshak is a happy woman. Then Katie wondered why she was suddenly so concerned with defining happiness.

  With a mental shrug she turned to the questions she wanted to ask. “Mrs. Krupshak,” she said, “we talked last night, but of course, you were so shocked. Now I wonder if you would go over with me very carefully what happened last night: how long were you with Edna; what did you talk about; did you get the impression that when she spoke to Captain Lewis she made an appointment with him.”

  Gana Krupshak leaned back in her chair, looked past Katie, half-closed her eyes and bit her lip.

  “Now, let’s see. I went over to Edna’s right at eight o’clock, because Gus started to watch the basketball game and I thought, To hell with the basketball game, I’ll pop over to Edna’s and have a beer with her.”

  “And you went over there,” Katie encouraged.

  “I did. The only thing is, Edna had made a pitcher of Manhattans and they were about half gone and she was feeling pretty rocky. You know, like, sometimes she’d get in moods, kind of down, if you know what I mean, and I thought she was in one of those. Like, last Thursday was her mother’s birthday and I stopped in then and she was crying about how much she missed her mother. Now, I don’t mean she’d take it out on you, no way, but when I popped over there Thursday she was sitting with her folks’ picture in her hands and the jewelry box on her lap and tears rolling down her cheeks. I gave her a big hug and said, ‘Edna, I’m going to pour you a nice Manhattan and we’ll toast your maw and if she was here she’d be joining us.’ So if you know what I mean, I kind of kidded her out of the blues and she was fine, but when I went over Tuesday night and saw her under the weather I figured she really wasn’t over the lonesome spell.”

  “Did she tell you she was still depressed Tuesday night?” Katie asked.

  “No. No. That’s it. She was kind of excited. She talked in a sort of rambly way about this patient who had died, how beautiful she’d been, like a doll, and how sick she’d been getting and how she—Edna, I mean—could tell the cops a lot about her.”

  “Then what happened?” Katie asked.

  “Well, I had a Manhattan, or two, with her and then figured I’d better get home because Gus gets in a snit if I’m still out when he goes to bed. But I hated to see Edna drink much more, because I knew she’d be feeling real bad in the morning, so I got out that nice canned ham and opened it and cut off a few slices for her.”

  “And that was when she made the call”

  “Just like I told you last night.”

  “And she talked to Captain Lewis about Prince Charming?”

  “As God is my witness.”

  “All right, but one last thing, Mrs. Krupshak: do you know if Edna kept any articles of clothing of her mother’s as a sentimental keepsake?”

  “Clothing? No. She did have a lovely diamond pin and ring.”

  “Yes, yes, we found those last night. But—well, for example, my mother used to keep her mother’s old black felt hat in her closet for sentimental reasons. I noticed an old moccasin in Edna’s jewelry drawer. It was quite shabby. Did she ever show it to you or mention it?”

  Gana Krupshak looked directly at Katie. “Absolutely not,” she said flatly.

  ♦36♦

  The Newsmaker article was on the stands Thursday morning. The phone calls began as soon as he went to his office after delivering the Aldrich baby. He instructed the switchboard to ring through directly to him. He wanted to hear the comments. They were beyond his expectations. “Doctor, when can I have an appointment? My husband and I have longed for a baby. I can fly to New Jersey at your convenience. God bless you for your work.” The Dartmouth Medical School phoned. Would he consider a guest lecture? An article writer for Ladies’ Home Journal wanted to interview him. Would Dr. Highley and Dr. Fukhito appear together on Eyewitness News?

  That request troubled him. He’d been careful to give the Newsmaker reporter the impression that he worked with a number of psychiatrists, in the same sense a family lawyer might have his clients consult with any one of a dozen counselors. He had clearly suggested that the program was entirely under his control, not a joint effort. But the reporter had picked up Fukhito’s name from a number of the safe patients he’d given her to interview. Now the reporter credited Fukhito as the psychiatrist who seemed to be primarily involved with Dr. Edgar Highley in the Westlake Maternity Concept.

  Fukhito would be desperately troubled by the publicity. That was why he’d been chosen. Fukhito had to keep his mouth shut even if he ever started to get suspicious. He was in no position to allow a breath of scandal to hit Westlake. He’d be permanently ruined if that happened.

  Fukhito was becoming a distinct liability. It would be easy enough to get rid of him now. He was giving a lot of time on a voluntary basis to the clinic at Valley Pines. He could undoubtedly become staff there now. Probably Fukhito would be glad to scramble for cover. Then he could start to rotate psychiatrists; he knew enough of them by now who weren’t competent to counsel anyone. They’d be easy enough to dupe.

  Fukhito would have to go.

  The decision made, he signaled for his first patient to come in. She was new, as were the two scheduled after her. The third patient was an interesting case: a womb so tipped that she’d never be able to conceive without intervention.

  She would be his next Vangie.

  The phone call came at noon just as he was leaving for lunch. The nurse covering the reception desk was apologetic. “Doctor, it’s a long-distance call from a Dr. Emmet Salem in Minneapolis. He’s in a phone booth at the airport now and insists on speaking with you at once.”

  Emmet Salem! He picked up the phone. “Edgar Highley here.”

  “Dr. Highley.” The voice was icy cold. “Dr. Highley from Christ Hospital in Devon?”

  “Yes.” A chill, sickening fear made his tongue heavy, his lips rubbery.

  “Dr. Highley, I learned last night that you treated my former patient, Mrs. Vangie Lewis. I’m leaving for New York immediately. I’ll be at the Essex House Hotel in New York. I must tell you that I am planning to consult with the Medical Examiner in New Jersey about Mrs. Lewis’ death. I have her medical records with me. In fairness to you I suggest we discuss her case before I level accusations.”

  “Doctor, I’m troubled by your tone and insinuations.” Now he could talk Now his own voice hardened into chips of granite.

  “My plane is boarding. I’ll be checking into room 3219 of the Essex House Hotel shortly before five o’clock. You can call me there.” The connection was broken.

  He was waiting in the Essex House when Emmet Salem emerged from the cab. Swiftly he disappeared into an elevator to the thirty-second floor, walked past room 3219 until the corridor turned in a righ
t angle. Another elevator stopped at the floor. He listened as a key clicked, a bellman said, “Here we are, Doctor.” A minute later the bellman emerged again. “Thank you, sir.”

  He waited until he heard the elevator stop at the floor for the bellman. The corridors were silent. But that wouldn’t last long. Many of the delegates to the AMA convention were probably staying here. There was always the danger of running into someone he knew. But he had to take the chance. He had to silence Salem.

  Swiftly he opened his leather bag and brought out the paperweight that only forty-eight hours ago he had intended to use to silence Edna. Incongruous, impossible—that he, the healer, the doctor, was repeatedly forced to kill.

  He slipped the paperweight into his coat pocket, put on his gloves, grasped the bag firmly in his left hand and knocked on the door.

  Emmet Salem pulled the door open. He’d just removed his suit jacket. “Forgot something?” His voice trailed off. Obviously he’d expected the bellman had come back.

  “Dr. Salem!” He reached for Salem’s hand, walking forward, backing the older man into the room, slipping the door closed behind him. “I’m Edgar Highley. It’s good to see you again. You got off the phone so abruptly that I couldn’t tell you I was having dinner with several colleagues who are attending the convention. I have only a very few minutes, but I’m sure we can clear up any questions.”

  He was still walking forward, forcing the other man to retreat. The window behind Salem was wide open. He’d probably had the bellman open it. The room was very hot. The window was low. His eyes narrowed. “I tried to phone you, but your extension is out of order.”

  “Impossible. I just spoke to the operator.” Dr. Salem stiffened, his face suddenly cautious.

  “Then I do apologize. But no problem. I’m so anxious to go over the Lewis file with you. I have it in my case here.” He reached for the paperweight in his pocket, then cried, “Doctor, behind you, watch out!”

  The other man spun around. Holding the paperweight in his fist, he crashed it on Salem’s skull. The blow sent Emmet Salem staggering. He slumped against the windowsill.

  Jamming the paperweight back into his pocket, Edgar Highley cupped his palms around Emmet Salem’s foot and shoved up and out.

  “No. No. Christ, please!” The half-conscious man slid out the window.

  He watched dispassionately as Salem landed on the roof of the extension some fifteen floors below.

  The body made a muffled thud.

  Had it been seen? He had to hurry. From Salem’s suit coat on the bed, he pulled out a key ring. The smallest key fitted the attaché case on the luggage rack.

  The Vangie Lewis file was on top. Grabbing it, he shoved it into his own briefcase, relocked Salem’s bag, returned the keys to the suit-coat pocket. He took the paperweight from his pocket and placed it in his own bag with the file. The wound had not spurted blood, but the paperweight was sticky.

  He closed his own bag and glanced around. The room was in perfect order. There was no trace of blood on the windowsill. It had taken less than two minutes.

  He opened the door cautiously and looked out. The corridor was empty. He stepped out. As he closed the door, the phone in Salem’s room began to ring.

  He did not dare be seen getting on the elevator on this floor. His picture was in the Newsmaker article. Later people might be questioned. He might be recognized.

  The fire-exit stairway was at the end of the corridor. He descended four levels to the twenty-eighth floor. There he reentered the carpeted corridor. An elevator was just stopping. He got on it, his eyes scanning the faces of the passengers. Several women, a couple of teen-agers, an elderly couple. No doctors. He was sure of that.

  At the lobby he walked rapidly to the Fifty-eighth Street exit of the hotel, turned west and then south. Ten minutes later he reclaimed his car from the park-and-lock garage on West Fifty-fourth Street, tossed his bag into the trunk and drove away.

  ♦37♦

  Chris arrived at the Twin Cities airport at ten minutes of one. He had an hour to wait before his plane left for Newark. Vangie’s body would be on that plane. Yesterday, coming out here, he’d thought of nothing except that coffin in the hold of the plane. He’d held on to some semblance of normality by reassuring himself that soon it would be over.

  He had to see Dr. Salem. Why had Dr. Salem been so upset? Tonight when he got off the plane at Newark, the Medical Examiner’s office would be waiting for Vangie’s body.

  And the Prosecutor’s office would be waiting for him. The certainty haunted Chris. Of course. If they were suspicious in any way about Vangie’s death, they were going to look to him for answers. They’d be waiting to bring him in for questioning. They might even arrest him. If they’d investigated at all, they knew by now that he’d returned to the New Jersey area Monday night. He had to see Dr. Salem. If he was detained for questioning he might not be able to talk to him. He did not want to talk to the Prosecutor’s office about Dr. Salem.

  Once again he thought of Molly and Bill Kennedy. So what if Molly was Katie DeMaio’s sister? They were good people, honest people. He should have trusted them, talked to them. He had to talk to someone.

  He had to talk to Joan.

  His need for her was a hunger. The minute he started to tell the truth, Joan became involved.

  Joan, who in this sleazy world still held such inviolate principles, was about to be dragged through the mud.

  He had the phone number of the stewardess with whom she was staying in Florida. Not knowing what he would say, he went to the phone, automatically gave his credit-card number, heard the ring.

  Kay Corrigan answered. “Kay, is Joan there? It’s Chris.”

  Kay knew about him and Joan. Kay’s voice was concerned. “Chris, Joan has been trying to phone you. Tina called from the New York apartment. The Valley County Prosecutor’s office has been around asking all kinds of questions about you two. Joan is frantic!”

  “When will she be back?”

  “She’s over at the new apartment now. It doesn’t have a phone. From there she has to go to the company personnel office in Miami. She won’t be here till about eight tonight.”

  “Tell her to stay in and wait till I call her,” Chris said. “Tell her I’ve got to talk to her. Tell her . . .” He broke the connection, leaned against the phone and pushed back a dry sob. Oh, God, it was too much, it was all too much. He couldn’t think. He didn’t know what to do. And in a few hours he’d be in custody, suspected of killing Vangie . . . maybe charged with killing Vangie.

  No. There was another way. He’d get the flight into LaGuardia. He could still make it. Then he’d be in Manhattan and able to see Dr. Salem at almost the same time he reached the hotel. The Prosecutor’s office wouldn’t realize he wasn’t on the Newark flight until six o’clock. Maybe Dr. Salem could help him somehow.

  He barely made the LaGuardia flight. The coach section was full, but he bought a first-class ticket and was able to get on the plane. He didn’t worry about his luggage, which was checked through to Newark.

  On the plane he accepted a drink from the stewardess, waved away the food and listlessly thumbed through Newsmaker magazine. The page opened to SCIENCE AND MEDICINE. His eye caught the headline: “Westlake Maternity Concept Offers New Hope to Childless Couples.” Westlake. He read the first paragraph. “For the past eight years, a small privately owned clinic in New Jersey has been operating a program called the Westlake Maternity Concept which has made it possible for childless women to become pregnant. Named after a prominent New Jersey obstetrician, the program is carried on by Dr. Edgar Highley, obstetrician-gynecologist, who was the son-in-law of Dr. Franklin Westlake . . .”

  Dr. Edgar Highley. Vangie’s doctor. Funny she never talked very much about him. It was always the psychiatrist. “Dr. Fukhito and I talked about Mama and Daddy today . . . he said it was obvious I was an only child . . . Dr. Fukhito asked me to draw a picture of Mama and Daddy as I visualized them; it was fascinating. I mean it
really was interesting to see how I visualized them. Dr. Fukhito was asking about you, Chris.”

  “And what did you say, Vangie?”

  “That you worshiped me. You do, don’t you, Chris? I mean underneath that put-downy way you have with me, aren’t I your little girl?”

  “I’d rather you thought of yourself as my wife, Vangie.”

  “See, I can’t talk with you about anything. You always get nasty . . . .”

  He wondered if the police had talked to either of Vangie’s doctors.

  This last month she had looked so ill. He had suggested that she have a consultation. The company doctor would have recommended someone. Or Bill Kennedy would surely have been able to suggest someone from Lenox Hill. But of course, Vangie had refused to have a consultation.

  Then on her own she’d made an appointment with Dr. Salem.

  The plane landed at four thirty. Chris hurried through the terminal and hailed a cab. One of the few breaks of this rotten day was that he’d be ahead of the five-o’clock rush.

  “The Essex House, please,” he told the driver.

  It was just two minutes of five when he reached the hotel. He headed for a lobby telephone. “Dr. Emmet Salem, please.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  There was a pause. “That line is busy, sir.”

  He hung up. At least Dr. Salem was here. At least he’d have a chance to talk to him. He remembered he’d written Dr. Salem’s extension in his notebook, opened it and dialed “3219.” The phone rang . . . again . . . again. After six rings he broke the connection and dialed the operator. Explaining that the line had been busy only a few minutes before, he asked the operator to try it for him.

  The operator hesitated, spoke to someone, then came back. “Sir, I just gave this message to another party. Dr. Salem checked in, contacted me to say that he expected an important call and be sure to reach him and then apparently stepped out. Why don’t you try again in a few minutes?”